#pretty sure ive done this one already a few weeks ago

[redclercs]

DELICATE✰ CHARLES LECLERC.

iv. you and me would be a big conversation

— the one where both of you have big reputations.

warnings: this one got a little long sorry, bashing towards charles and y/n (i love them ok), taylor swift references,2.6k words.

masterlist ✢ next

FROM DATF1GURL ON TIKTOK: "IS Y/N Y/LN AFTER CHARLES LECLERC NOW?"

[female voiceover]: ❝(...) while it is true she has a contract with Elix the new MAJOR sponsor for Ferrari—horrible drink by the way—rumor has it y/n's actual goal is to get the monegasque driver to spare a glance her way... Like, okay girl, but you left a 3-year relationship five minutes ago, chill.❞

IN pure Taylor Swift fashion, y/n y/ln has found her own ‘Getaway Car’ in none other than the 25-year-old Monegasque Formula 1 pilot, Charles Leclerc.

While nothing’s been confirmed, (come on now, what celebrity will just confirm rumors of their own free will in this day and age? Screw you, PR agents) the actress has been seen at two Grand Prix and the Elix contract gives her good camouflage for being constantly photographed with her new beau.

No matter how much sex-appeal these two exude, let’s not forget that we have a victim here: Aidan Kim. How can you leave a three year relationship with the man that gave you everything and not even two months later you’re already with someone else?

Is it a rebound or are we looking at something serious? In your humble writer’s opinion it’s most likely the former. And let’s not forget what Taylor Swift, in her infinite wisdom, said: “Nothing good starts in a getaway car”, it doesn’t matter if it’s a Ferrari.

SEE ALSO:

→ Aidan Kim buys new home in Sherman Oaks.

→ Every celebrity present at the Miami Grand Prix.

→ Is y/n y/ln really done with RomComs?

May 13th, Los Angeles, California.

“ARE you sure this is who you want as your rebound, babe?” Victoria places the magazine down and turns her head to look at you, using the precise force and tilt for her sunglasses to slide down to the tip of her nose.

“Stop reading that garbage,” you warn, not bothering to change your position in the chaise-longue, you don’t even look away from the script in your hands.

The day started pretty well, sunny Los Angeles made you feel hopeful for the first time in a while as you opened the script Mildred sent you when you got back from Miami. A drama about a young widow. You can work with that.

“I just mean—” Vic shifts her whole body in your direction, “—You have options, what about Timothée? I’m pretty sure the Kylie thing is fake. And he wouldn’t say no to you.”

“Stop that, Vic,” this time you do look her way for emphasis, you mean it. “I’m not looking for a rebound, or anything else for that matter. I want a job.”

“Fine,” Vic makes a show of capturing her lip between her teeth to pronounce the “F” and lies back in the chair. “I’m just saying…”

You’re glad to be wearing sunglasses, so she can’t see the way your eyes rollback. To be fair, you’re at Vic’s house so she has every right to occupy the same space as you at any given minute. Which is all the time.

After the breakup you ran to Vic’s Los Angeles home and left the SoHo apartment to Aidan. Vic's house is amazing, with eight rooms, five bathrooms, a black granite kitchen and of course, the pool. But you miss New York, even if you can fit your own room two times in one of Vic's. At least, according to rumors, Aidan is moving out of the apartment so you might be able to return to it soon.

“I think it’s bullshit that they see me breathing near a guy and suddenly we’re dating,” you drop the stack of papers on your legs, startling Vic with the sound. “Bullshit.”

“It’s just tabloids, babe.” Vic goes quiet, knowing she’s annoyed you and now you feel guilty about that too.

“I know,” you sigh, picking the script back up. Suddenly you don’t like it that much anymore.

Of course you know it’s just tabloids. People talk shit just for fun, but you’ve been their main target for a few weeks now and you cannot wait for them to move on. Which seems unlikely.

You've never been more glad about turning down a Yankees game invite.

Following Ferrari’s disappointing Sunday and the respective mandatory Elix pictures, you hung around the Suite a little longer in aims of gathering your thoughts and the will to leave to meet Vic at another after-party.

“Hola y/n! I thought you’d left,” Carlos carried his bag in one hand as he struggled to put his sunglasses with the other.

“I’m about to,” you smiled at him, locking your phone. “You too?”

“Yep, going straight to the airport. See you in Italy?” he asked, running his now free hand through his black hair, all set.

“See you there, Carlos.” you waved him goodbye before leaning back on the couch.

Vic had apologized for the shenanigans she'd pulled the previous night, saying she knew she should have asked you instead of just running with things. So you were looking forward to the after-party, it would be fun to hang out with your best friend after making up.

It wasn’t even five minutes before Charles came out too, hanging up a call in his half-destroyed iPhone.

“Oh hey!” He greeted cheerfully, the bad aftertaste from the race wasn't evident in his demeanor anymore. They had their debrief and Charles was willing to let go of the negativity momentarily.

“Hi Charles,” your not-as-cheerful tone didn’t bother him one bit. “Are you flying back today too?”

You couldn’t picture yourself in an eight hour flight after everything they’d done today, but they’re not really regular humans.

“We’re driving to New York, actually,” his hand hovered over the refreshment table, until he picked one of the leftover Elix. Charles examined the black can he chose before speaking again, “We’re going to a Yankees game tomorrow.”

“That’s very nice, Charles.”

He hates Elix as much as the next person so you can't help but wonder why he drinks them even when the cameras are off. Carlos and you never do.

“Would you like to join us?” He offered, the last word deafened by the click of the can as he opened it.

You took a few seconds to process the question, long enough for Charles to down about half the can in one gulp.

“Thank you, but I’m flying back to L.A. tomorrow.”

Charles' mouth went down in one corner and you were uncertain whether it was your answer or the taste that caused it. He tilted the can making the remaining liquid dance.

“Maybe another time,” he added, downing the rest of the blueberry flavored Elix. “Don’t worry.”

“Thanks for asking me, though,” you smiled, grabbing your purse from the couch. You had recovered enough energy already, and you didn't want to miss the DJ set at the party. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“Thanks y/n,” his mouth was still frozen in that slight wince and you shook your head gently at the sight of the empty Elix. “I'll see you in Italy, right?”

“I’ll be there.” you assured, although you hoped not. But a week didn’t seem like enough time to secure a gig.

YOU land in Italy the day the Grand Prix gets canceled. Which is very much just your luck. It’s for the better, though, safety must always come first.

It makes no sense to run back to America when you have nothing else to do, so you resolve to stay in Rome and catch up with a few friends you have around. Matilde Bassi being the best among them, and she would rather die than let you stay in a hotel instead of her house.

"I said no," she repeats, and her accent—although barely even there— reminds you of Charles for a split second, before your brain lets go of the image. "I've told you a million times to come visit, I won't let you stay in a hotel."

You give up after that because you don't want to annoy her. Matilde has quite the strong character, which is the reason she got to Broadway in the first place. After years of being in New York, where you met her, she decided to move back to Italy. Mati, still pursuing her passion, is currently the European public's favorite Juliet.

The fact that all of this goes down in a phone call gives you time to pick up what little stuff you've gotten out of your suitcase and check-out of the hotel before Matilde gets there to take you to her house.

─────────

"So, how are you doing?" she asks, refilling your wine before moving back to the stove, where she's cooking your favorite Italian meal.

"I'm fine, I've told you," you chuckle, sipping the drink. Her house is beautiful too, and spacious, but it feels homey compared to Vic's. "Taking it easy."

One thing you tend to forget about Matilde is how she is able to see right through your bullshit, and that's exactly what she's doing now.

"You never take it easy, y/n. And I mean how are you really? How do you feel? A lot has changed for you lately." she flips her head back to remove a stray curl of hair out of her eyes, "You can be honest."

"I'm fine, seriously, Mati," you know drinking so fast will make the wine go straight to your head but you'll do anything to avoid really talking about this. Which is unfair, Matilde is being genuine.

"You moved from one coast to the opposite and you're fine? What are you working on right now?"

You sigh, managing to smell your own alcoholic breath. "I'm with Victoria, and I've lived in Los Angeles before, while filming, it's not a big deal. As for work... I'm just– picking some stuff out, seeing the best options."

Matilde nods and turns around to grab two plates from the sky blue cupboards behind her. "Are you planning on going back to New York?"

"Yeah, hopefully," you get up to help her and she gestures for you to take a seat again. "My name was on the lease and Aidan is moving out of the apartment, according to People Magazine, anyway so..."

"Your apartment was amazing," Matilde smiles, reminiscing the girls' nights you spent together while she worked in New York, it was always so much fun to be with Mati. "I hope you can go back. If that makes you happy, that is."

She manages to carry both steaming plates and the bottle of wine to the table, and finally sits down. "Well, enjoy!"

"Thank you, Mati, this smells amazing," you missed Mati's cooking so much because no matter how many Italian restaurants you visit, nothing compares to hers, and you're also glad to have something on your stomach that will make the effects of the wine go away.

Or that's what you hoped for anyway, because you're halfway through another cup of wine, almost done with your food, when you drop the grenade you've left unpinned in your brain for 2 months.

"I don't miss him," you whisper, resting the fork gently on the edge of the plate, between two of the yellow flowers painted on it. "Am I a horrible person because I don't miss him?"

You gave it a lot of thought ever since you took the plane from New York to L.A. the night you said no. You thought—still think—there's something wrong with you because the feeling that something was ripped out of your life and the hole that it left would never be filled never even appeared. There was no hole, it was a scar already, and you picked at it trying to make it bleed. But nothing happened. Nothing ever happens.

"You're not a horrible person, y/n don't say that."

You're glad Mati doesn't let silence fall between you, it would have made you regret everything that left your mouth, but she's already reaching for your hand and you feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

Mourning the idea of someone is worse than mourning their absence. And you had missed Aidan for a long time, even when he was with you.

"I just feel awful for leaving and not wanting to go back, I hate myself for being okay."

The rejected proposal is something you keep close to you still. You love Mati, and you trust her, but you cannot bring yourself to touch that subject.

Mati squeezes your hand, her food forgotten as well. "I'm glad you're okay. I liked Aidan, too. But you're my friend, and I love you and all I want is for you to be better than okay."

"Thank you Mati," it's her words that actually get the tears flowing, and you wipe them quickly with your free hand. "Sorry for dumping this on you so suddenly." you give a choked laugh before clearing your throat.

"I did tell you you could be honest," she laughs, giving your hand a last squeeze before letting it go. "How about we just go straight to dessert?"

You nod, grateful that she leaves to get the tiramisu you bought on the way home from the fridge so you can pull yourself together.

MONACO welcomes you the Sunday before the Grand Prix. Which you are excited about, for the first time in a while.

Matilde proves to be the best company once again, knowing her way around Monaco like it's her own home. You're glad she's attending the Grand Prix too and you were able to get her into the Ferrari Suite with you, unlike your failed attempt at Miami with Vic.

One thing you find out about Monaco pretty soon, is that they're obsessed with Charles Leclerc. He's in buses and billboards and you can see people waiting to catch a glimpse of him outside grocery stores. It warms you up inside that he's so loved in his own country, not many people can relate.

You don't love, however, that the articles online have brought attention to your presence in Monaco too. And although it’s far less than the one Charles gets for obvious reasons, the heat that comes from it is closer to ire than affection.

Still, you take photos with those who ask on your way back from dinner with Mati and ignore the “you’re here for your boyfriend, huh?” Questions that come from people with their cameras millimeters away from your face. Saying “it’s not like that” isn’t worth the effort because it won’t work.

May 23rd Montecarlo, Monaco.

Mati is introducing you to other celebrities that attended the All-Stars game, when Charles comes back from signing autographs to the part of the stadium where you are. He's messy, dirty and all dimples—again— which you start to find annoying. Although it's mildly sweet how he always smiles at you when your eyes meet, you cannot allow yourself to think of that too often. He's a nice guy, he's being nice.

"Hi y/n, I thought I'd see you until the weekend," he greets you, still drying off the sweat from the back of his neck.

You shrug, making way for a couple of guys who give Charles a bro hug, joke about the several mistakes he made during the match and then leave, acknowledging you in the form of a quick scan.

"Good game," you can't help the small laugh that follows the compliment, but Charles only smiles wider.

"I'm a natural," he replies, but takes his hand to the place he hit when he face planted. "Don't you think?"

"Definitely," you laugh again, raising both eyebrows. "I'm just glad you stick to racing."

"Me too," it's his turn to shrug, and run a hand through his damp hair.

“How was New York?” You look over your shoulder to Mati, who’s holding her own conversation a few steps away. “Did you have fun?”

“It was really fun, noisy, big. It’s a shame you couldn’t come.”

“Thank you again for inviting me. I do miss New York, but i had things to do.” You let the air out of your lungs hoping, albeit stupidly, he can’t see in your face that the things you did was read stuff on the internet about the two of you together.

“Oh you live in New York? That’s wonderful, so you know your way around. Lorenzo and I got lost.”

You chuckle gently. “It happens to the best of us.”

“Ready to go?” Mati puts an arm around you, smiling. “Hello, Charles.”

So it is true everyone knows each other in these circles.

“Hello Matilde,” Charles smiles back at her, “I won’t keep you any longer, y/n.”

“No worries, it was nice seeing you.”

“I’ll see you soon, maybe I can show you a place or two in Monaco.” Charles is very casual, but his eyes don’t leave yours for a heartbeat.

Matilde tilts her head and her ponytail falls into your shoulder, the small hairs tickling your ear.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks Charles.” You shake your head away from Mati’s and wave Charles goodbye as he walks by you.

“My advice,” Mati is still holding you by the shoulder. “If I may be nosy… You don’t want to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Charles Leclerc. You don’t wanna do that, y/n.”

You roll your eyes but Mati is unbothered by the gesture. “I’m not doing anything, Mati. He’s being nice, we see each other every weekend.”

“He is a homie hopper, trust me, run don’t walk.”

You tsk, making her shake her head this time. “If it makes you feel better, I’m not doing that, never, ever.”

And although you intend to keep your promise, the first thing you do once your phone is hooked to the hotel’s wifi, is google Charles and his reputation.

Even if you know better than anyone that the internet is full of lies.

─── team principal radio: ❝hello! i really enjoyed creating this chapter, especially the fake media so i hope you've enjoyed it too. thanks for reading!♡❞

✰ paddock club members: @majx00

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #cl16 x reader #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x you #cl16 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 imagines #f1 x reader #formula 1 imagines #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #f1 x y/n #cl16 fanfic #charles leclerc fanfic #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x you #f1 x you

[mp3chan]

plz reblog/follow if u enjoy!

pairing: felix x afab!reader

tw: hair pulling, oral (reader receiving), MINORS DNI

wc: 1.1k

an: ive never written an afab! receiving oral scene before so im so sorry T~T

-> kinkmas 22’ masterlist!

© copyright mp3chan 2022 (don’t repost, steal, or translate!)

“you want me to what?” you blurted out in surprise, panting heavily as felix pulled away in embarrassment.

“…pull my hair…” felix mumbled again, his cheeks turning a bright red, a color you only saw when he was either absolutely mortified or very out of breath, or completely aroused.

you were honestly kind of confused by his request. felix was so gentle and wanted sex to be tender and loving, he never understood why people liked it so rough anyway. so felix wanting you to be so seemingly rough with him all of a sudden was out of character from him.

“lixie…are you sure?” you double checked, wondering what would have caused this sudden change in what he wanted in bed. then it dawned on you.

felix came pouting into your apartment a few weeks ago out of the blue, immediately sinking into your lap. he told you that the boys were talking about their sex lives, again, and teased him, again, about how soft felix was. but felix never said anything other than that and never brought it up again.

“lixie is it because the boys teased you?” you asked him, wondering if you were gonna have to knock the boys heads together and have a stern talking to with them about this.

“no! no!” felix quickly denied, knowing you were thinking of talking to the boys about this. “something else happened…” he admitted.

you tilted your head and watched felix silently gather the courage to tell you what happened, thinking maybe one of the boys tugged his hair and some other teasing happened.

“well…we were getting our hair done and my stylist pulled my hair a couple times…..and when i looked down …” felix was stuttering at this point and somehow redder than when he started speaking.

“was your stylist -“ you started to ask if felix thought his stylist was pretty, which deep down you knew wasn’t true.

felix was a lover but never showed any real interest in anyone other than you. something all of his friends told you almost immediately after meeting him.

“no! i mean yes but not like you are…it was just the feeling of it and i was already thinking of you and then-“ felix started to nervously ramble away and would have kept on doing so unless you stopped him.

you kissed him deeply, hearing him gasp as you pulled away. “you got hard just thinking of me pulling your pretty hair?” you smirked, giggling when felix eagerly nodded.

“how do you want to do this baby?” you asked him, watching felix shimmy out from under you and then sit between your legs.

“can i eat you out?” felix was blushy all over again, you adored his freckles would almost get lost in his blushed cheeks.

“no need to ask lixie.” you smiled, slipping off your underwear and laying back on felix’s pillow and spreading your legs from him.

felix was quick, lips attaching to your thighs, kissing and biting his way up to your cunt. “so pretty.” he mumbled against your pelvis, shifting upwards so he could kiss above your core as well.

you sighed contentedly, snaking your fingers into felix’s long locks, tangling the strands around your fingers and gripping gently.

felix gasped against your core and looked up at you with wide eyes, silently begging you to keep going. you tightened your grip on him just a little, just enough to get the initial sting of hair being pulled in felix’s scalp.

just enough to get a whine out of him. felix immediately lurching forward, tongue pressing between your folds to lick over the expanse of your cunt.

“fuck…” you groaned, your other hand slipping into the mess of felix’s hair, using his locks as handles to hold him against your pussy.

felix mumbled something against your skin, assuming you understood it, and repeatedly licking up and down your cunt.

you were panting, barely able to make out the fact felix even said something. “lix…repeat….” you panted, pushing him away just enough for him to speak properly.

“harder….” felix panted himself, breathless from having his face shoved between your legs, though he was not complaining at all.

“sure?” you double checked, petting his head gently, curling your fingers into a fist with his locks inside them. waiting for felix to nod or say yes but tugging him back to your cunt.

“positive.” he smiled up at you, whining loudly when you tug his head roughly back to your pussy.

felix was more eager than usual, immediately shoving his tongue inside your entrance, earning a loud moan and harsh tug on his hair from you.

felix knew how to work you up quickly, pressing his tongue on those certain spots inside you that he knew drove you crazy. his lips rubbing against your clit, somehow pushing all the buttons now.

“oh god…felix…” you moaned, biting your lip to try to muffle yourself, not wanting to give the boys any other reasons to tease felix.

felix moaned loudly against your cunt, it been muffled by your flesh, but vibrating everything his mouth touched, exactly what you needed to finish.

“fuck!” you cursed, tugging felix’s locks roughly, hips bucking against his face as it was slicked over with your release.

felix moaned quietly against you once more as you began to calm down, his hands rubbing your thighs gently, trying to relax your muscles.

you held onto his hair for a bit, immediately letting go when you realized you were still holding onto to felix. “sorry…” you panted, hearing felix laugh above you, having already stood.

you managed to lift yourself up on your elbows to look at him, gasping quietly when you noticed his stomach stained with his own cum. you honestly hadn’t expected him to just get off solely on that alone.

“you came from just that?” you asked, not meaning to come off so blunt, but you were just surprised.

felix blushed bright red again, just like when he was telling you that he liked his hair being pulled in the first place.

“yeah…” he crawled over you, holding himself above you now. “you just taste so good and you somehow knew exactly how hard and where to pull my hair. it felt so good.” he muttered against your shoulder, placing a gentle kiss against your skin.

“im glad lix….i was worried i went too hard.” you whispered, guiding his face back to yours, kissing his lips softly.

“love you.” felix muttered, completing laying on top of you, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck, content to just fall asleep there.

“love you too.” you groaned, not even trying to shove him off. you were pretty much too tired to do so. “and your pretty hair.” you chuckled.

“shut upppp!” felix whined dramatically trying to nuzzle further into you and sending you into a fit of giggles.

#mp3chanwrites #felix x y/n #felix x reader #felix smut #felix imagines #felix scenarios #stray kids x y/n #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #skz smut #skz x reader #skz imagines #kpop smut #stray kids smut #skz x y/n #skz scenarios

[copiass]

What's In A Name?

Papa Emeritus IV x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 10,218

Warnings: nsfw, light dom/sub, oral sex, glove kink, dirty talk, office sex

"It was undeniably, inarguably, most definitely fucked up. You had never meant for it to get this far - really. It had just been a mistake, and not even your own at that, just a stupid slip-up that had sparked something sick and wicked right in the pit of your stomach."

AKA: Whilst harbouring a secret crush you use your boss’ last name without him knowing. (I know nothing about tax returns or identity fraud, deal with it.)

Can also be read on ao3

Other fics here

It was undeniably, inarguably, most definitely fucked up. You had never meant for it to get this far - really. It had just been a mistake, and not even your own at that, just a stupid slip up that had sparked something sick and wicked in the pit of your stomach. An urge to fulfil some long-dormant, base need that had somehow started to form in the deepest part of your gut. An urge that had, admittedly, spiralled out of control weeks ago. An urge that currently had you pacing towards Copia’s office, pretty sure you were about to get fired.

You’d been Papa’s Personal Assistant for about six months, and up to now it had been going just swimmingly. The promotion had been a surprise, the latest Sister handing in her notice red-faced and vexed after being summoned to Copia’s office for yet another lecture. She had managed to last 2 months, admittedly his longest up to that point. But his PA’s always ended up the same, pacing and ranting endlessly in Imperators' office, notice in hand, begging to be moved elsewhere to spare his ‘incessant micromanaging’. You had been fairly new to the clergy, eager to make a good impression with a secret soft-spot for the newest Papa. With, unsurprisingly, few takers for the role all it had taken was a short interview with some of the higher members of the clergy and you were in, your own desk, a stripe of Papa’s blue added to your uniform and even an extra half-day off in the week (though, admittedly, you rarely saw it). 

It hadn’t taken you long to realise that Copia was not, in-fact, an insufferable asshole, a particularly cruel employer, or a dictatorial micro-manager. He just appreciated when things were done a certain way. And - oh - you’d made the effort to learn, how he liked his papers filed and tabs colour-coded, how he preferred his stationary ordered at his desk, the exact temperature he liked his afternoon tea. It became easy, placing things on his desk before even he realised he needed them, slipping his old books back to the library without him asking, making sure his reading glasses were sat right where he would reach for them while he absent-mindedly flicked through paperwork. It just worked. The more time you spent with him the more you understood what he wanted, what he needed, just intuitively. Yes, Copia ran a tight ship, with little to no room for slip ups, but you soon realised it’s because it had to be that way. His keen attention to detail sometimes seeming like the only thing keeping the whole ship afloat and fully functional. 

Not that he had made it easy for you. It was like he had already resigned you to failure that first morning you showed up in his office, eyes flicking over you briefly before he looked back down his nose through his glasses, examining spreadsheets with a displeased hum. It had only pushed you, the more unmoved he appeared at your presence the harder you worked to get it right. The more paperwork he pushed through your desk without comment, the quicker you filed it. The more he complained about his tea not being right the longer you kept it brewing. The louder he scoffed under his breath at his ink running dry, the sooner you were there to refill his pen. Not with Ministry issued ink, no, but Copia’s favourite ink. The one imported from Italy in a gilded case, kept in the top right-hand drawer, behind his ‘secret’ chocolate stash. And it was worth it - so - worth it when he would give you that look. Like you had pleased him, that he understood what you had done, that he appreciated it, deeply.  

And it felt perversely intimate. Knowing someone so well when you barely knew them at all. You quickly learned Copia was not a morning person and did not like to chit-chat before at least 9.30am. His favourite lunch was on Fridays when the kitchens brought up a small charcuterie board paired with an expensive red to finish off the work week. He preferred the black olives to the green ones, even though you insisted they were the same just to wind him up and watch the smirk pull at his painted lips. You learned how he bit away at those same lips when he was expecting a phone call from Saltarian, and how he rubbed at his temples when he had been working too long, the both of you sprawled across the desks working into the early hours of the morning. 

Copia learned too. He learned that when you were stressed you’d chew on the end of his, frustratingly, expensive pens as you worked, brow furrowed as you read over his work. He learned that if he voiced his distaste for green olives for long enough you would eventually slink over to the other side of his desk and steal them off of his plate, neglecting to use cutlery, giving him the chance to watch your oil slicked fingers slip them gently into your mouth. He learned that you were eager, so eager, for every challenge he presented to you. Eager to prove him wrong, eager to impress him. He also learned that you liked to poke at him, test the waters, push his buttons just to tease. 

“Ai! This stress will be giving me even more greys, Sister.” He’d complain, whining and smoothing at the silver hair at his temples, checking his reflection in the gilded mirror in his office. 

“Oh, I do hope so, Papa.” You’d sigh back with a wink, savouring the way he would look over to you, eyes burning in the candlelight of his office, eyebrows raised in a mock warning.

And there it was. The fine line that you both danced around in the confines of his office. You initially made a point of not seeing him outside of work, intentionally ignoring the pointed silence that had started to emerge everytime Copia announced he was retiring to his rooms for the evening, avoiding his offices on your days off, only seeing him at Masses with the rest of the clergy. But soon enough it just became easier to spend your lunch breaks together, whispering clergy gossip over a now shared pot of tea. And then it was just easier to eat dinner together over paperwork, the kitchens bringing two dishes instead of the one. And then it was just easier to have a quick shared nap on the couch in his office when trying to meet a particularly challenging deadline, the weight of your head pressed nicely into the warm meat of his thighs as his gloved hand rubbed at your temple lightly. 

It was inevitable really. To be so close to a Papa, to be so close to him and have him seep into every crack, every crevice of your subconscious. It was funny, to see behind the facade, to witness him as just a man at his desk every day, swearing under his breath at his “horseshit” brothers who couldn’t balance out a spreadsheet to save their lives, and yet also see that he was objectively not just a man. The confidence with which he carried himself, the way he unashamedly let his gaze linger, his reluctance to ever speak indirectly or without purpose. And if you had to finish off most evenings alone with your fingers between your thighs and his name falling from between your lips, that was your prerogative. Copia didn’t have to know. You were driven, determined even, to not let it distract you. To prove to him you could work well, help him achieve his vision without getting preoccupied with something else. 

So, naturally, when the postman responsible for delivering your mail made a mistake, just a tiny, minor mistake, it should have been an easy fix, a laughable offence. When the postman dropped off the usual letters and packages with a warm smile, and a casual ‘Mrs Emeritus, I take it?’ you should have laughed politely and corrected him as you took the mail. You should have clarified your position, maybe even offered up your own name instead. You should have taken the mail to Copia and offhandedly mentioned the exchange so you could both laugh at just how ridiculous that concept was. 

Yet, before you could even think, before logic even had the chance to enter the equation you found yourself nodding, smiling as you took the mail with a surprisingly confident;

‘Yeah - that’s me.’ 

Any sense of professionalism, common sense or even decency were outweighed by the sudden, sick satisfaction at the implication not just of being his assistant, but his wife. Copia fucked around, you knew that, gathered as much from the gossip around the ministry. Not that you’d dared to ever ask him personally, though due to embarrassment or jealousy you weren’t really sure. You knew he had a reputation, that was just part of being Papa, it came with the job. When the urge took him he had any number of Siblings to choose from to satisfy him for the night. But being his wife. That was different. 

You’d shut the door, letting your back hit the dark wood as you grinned to yourself, cheeks still flushing at an implication you’d never considered before. You let the fantasy wash over you, picturing what it could be like, how he would hold you, how he would adore you, how he would fuck you. For a moment you weren’t just his assistant, who tidied his desk and sorted his mail and served his tea, but his partner. His equal. Your head had felt dizzy with it, the words of the delivery man still buzzing in your ears, pulse racing, cheeks flushed. You’d thrown the letters down on Copia’s desk a little more hurriedly than usual, rushing back to your own desk pointedly avoiding his gaze. If he noticed anything he did not comment, choosing instead to sort through the post with just a soft glance your way. 

That’s when it started. This problem. This perverse little game you’d been playing only with yourself. You’d tried to forget it, laugh it off as a joke and nothing more, just a mistake that caught you off guard. But that seed had burrowed down, deep into your gut where even you couldn’t remove it. Then it spread, reaching even into your dreams, filling them with images of dishevelled greying hair and slick leather gloves. It had appealed to some base nature deep within you, eager and possessive. Yes, the first time had been a mistake - but offhandedly signing a receipt with that same name certainly had not been. Neither had the second receipt. Nor had the third. Or that new email signature to an outside agency. Or the rooms booked under your name on the last tour. 

Who would know? You’d reasoned to yourself, knowing that the only person checking the paperwork was, by default, you. Copia was none the wiser, more important things to think about than receipts for minor purchases or email signatures. You’d never use that name inside the ministry, it was a dangerous game after all - playing with the Emeritus name. You’d seen what had happened to those who played games the Ministry didn’t approve of and you did not intend to join that list. It wasn’t even about the name, not really - just him. The fantasy that you were someone that was important to him, someone he was attracted to. Theoretically, it was foolproof. It was harmless, no one would ever find out anyway. It just gave you a thrill - the risk of being caught weighed up against the kick of using his name. 

Theoretically. 

It wasn’t until Copia pulled you aside one evening as you were aimlessly fiddling with his diary for the next day that your heart dropped into what felt like your ass. 

“We may need to be breaking into Terzo’s coffee supply the next few days, eh Sister? Hehe.” He’d chuckled to himself, leaning back in his chair. 

You flicked your eyes over to him, taking in the way the leather waistcoat lifted as he stretched, pulling up his black undershirt with it, revealing the dark, greying hairs on his lower stomach. Satanas - you’re sure he did it intentionally half the time, just enjoying making you look. Realising you had absolutely no idea what he just said you shook your head.

“What?” 

He smiled at that, flicking his eyes away as he tried to repress it . 

“Tax Returns, Sister. We have a lot of paperwork to get through together.” 

“I thought we got … someone else to do that?” 

You blanched, your stomach flipping as you thought about the stack of paperwork in your locked top draw, signed with a name that is most definitely not your government name. 

“Ai - I am not paying someone to do what we are perfectly capable of doing ourselves.”

 Papa moved to stand behind you, hands coming down to squeeze at your shoulders reassuringly. You absolutely do not think of the size, or weight, of them as they cover most of your frame. 

“And we will do an excellent job as always, Sorella. Nighty night!” 

“Goodnight, Papa.” 

You had sighed in reply, your eyes following him as he moved down the hallway to his private quarters, knowing he’d used your favourite nickname to try and soothe you.

Shit. 

That is how you’ve found yourself pacing to your shared office, praying to any deity that will hear you that Copia does not, for probably the first time in his life, need to see every single detail and scrap of paper that has ever passed through the Ministry. After spending the night tossing and turning and triple checking the receipts just to make sure they definitely didn’t look like he had signed them, you had formulated a game plan. Realistically a few minor receipts would be fine going under the radar. You had made sure to never sign for something important, something there would need to be a paper trail for. You also knew that Papa, being the way that he is, had kept all of his most important paperwork with him, collated in colour coded folders next to his desk, obviously. There is no reason that he would suspect something is amiss, there is no reason for him to suspect you have a hidden stash of, probably illegal, receipts and invoices currently stashed in your bag ready to burn. And there is absolutely no reason for Copia to already be in his office before you get there. 

It seems that no deities have decided to take pity on you. 

You know he’s in a shit mood the second you open the door to the office. The first indicator is that he’s already drinking coffee - which he hates doing. The second is that he’s got an already well-used ashtray on his desk and a cigarette in his mouth, meaning he’s cracked open his also ‘secret’ emergency ‘stress-relief’ smokes. Those usually only make an appearance when he’s got those big annual budget meetings with the upper clergy. Shit. 

Doing your best to look objectively not guilty you sweep over to your desk, flipping your laptop open to check your emails. He’s on the phone, you notice, that stupid ancient phone holder balancing between his shoulder and his ear, cigarette balanced between his full lips. Whoever’s talking is clearly pissing him off, his brow is furrowed and he’s tapping his fingers against the desk. He also hasn’t acknowledged your presence yet which is unlike him, unnervingly unlike him. Unsure of what to do or say you just continue mindlessly tapping keys and clicking on already opened emails, doing anything to look busy and avoid drawing too much attention to yourself. 

“Pah!-” 

Copia spits out, slamming the phone down on the holder in response to whoever was on the other end of the line. You startle and look over to him as he finishes his cigarette with a deep drag. Now that you’re looking at him you can see the extent of his stress. Even under the paint you can see the heaviness under his eyes, the way the waxy pigment has started to crease with the tension in his brow, the way it’s started to rub away a little where he must have been rubbing at his jaw. His hair is just the right side of dishevelled where he’s been running his hands through it, the greys threatening to fall into his face as he talks. His scarf has been pulled loose, hanging somewhere near his chest rather than up near his ruffled collar. His desk is a wreck, different piles of papers stacked and stapled, different mugs strewn in between, an unlidded highlighter cast aside near the phone. He’s been at this all morning. He takes a breath, emptying his lungs of smoke and rolling his neck. 

“Sit.”  

You startle, jumping in your seat. He is not asking. 

“Regretting not getting someone else to do it yet?” 

You joke, trying to save it, though your delivery and flat half chuckle don’t quite manage to sell it. Copia doesn’t bite. 

“That was my brother on the phone.” 

Papa starts, you try not to think about how rough his voice is after taking a drag, much deeper than it usually is. You don’t have to guess which brother, that would explain his sour mood.

“You see, Sister, I am missing paperwork. Some receipts, some invoices - you know-” He motions with his hand as he talks, eyes scanning the papers at his desk, not looking at you just yet.

“So, I call my idiota brother, these things are usually his fault, si?” 

And shit, he’s definitely stalling, he’s getting at something here and you’re hoping, praying it isn’t what you think it is. You force your bouncing knee to still itself, willing your face to be straight and empty of anything that he can pick up on. 

“And yet he says, it is not him. So I do the checking, and he is right-” He scoffs, “for once.” 

You nod, patiently, obediently. Waiting for him to make his point. He turns to look at you, really look at you, the white of his eye somehow more intense than it usually is, stark against the deep paint on his eyes.

“I do not miss paperwork. Sister.”

And there it is. He’s giving you an out. Copia doesn’t give second chances, and this is going to be his only offer at a first. You don’t speak, a million excuses coming to mind at once, each one as equally pathetic as the last. You know how you must look sitting there in front of him. Lying was never one of your strong suits, especially under pressure, especially when it’s to him. Yet it’s like you can’t speak, can’t even begin to think of how to get your mouth to move and formulate words. 

“Do understand, Sister, that we do not take this sort of thing lightly. If you were hoping to be fiddling or moving extra money in some way-” 

“Woahwoah-”

You interject without thinking, room spinning a little as your brain catches up to what he’s actually accusing you of. 

“Of course, I would have hoped that you would have told me if-” 

“It’s not that!” 

You hiss at him, suddenly a little offended that he thinks so lowly of you and your intentions. The room is still tilting as you try to save yourself from whatever the fuck is happening. You suddenly realise you’ve just handed yourself a shovel and started digging, Copia’s eyes narrow suspiciously, and fucking hell why does he look so good when he’s mad. 

“Then what is it.” He asks, patience clearly wearing thin, the coffee and nicotine only working to rile him up more. 

You decide if any deities are still listening they should most certainly just open the ground, swallow you whole and just have done already. At this point you honestly don’t know if it would be less embarrassing to just admit to some sort of fraud and risk being excommunicated permanently on grounds of financial criminality. Lucifer - your habit has started sticking to you and your throat feels like it’s closing up, panic setting in. You’re just about to throw the towel in, admit to being some sort of crook when you decide to look at Copia again. 

And it’s devastating. Under the paint, under the mask, under the guise of cold professionalism is worry. Genuine unease sitting in the all too familiar lines of his face. Your chest pulls as you look at him, his eyes threatening to become wet and glassy. You realise that he’s not pissed, but hurt at the idea of you admitting to this, at the notion that his assistant has been dishonest with him. It’s right about then you decide then you would rather suffer any amount of personal embarrassment over hurting him. Without speaking you reach into your bag and pull out the stack of papers you’d been hoping to get rid of. He looks away, immediately wounded at the implication. 

“Just read them.” You breathe out as you throw them onto the desk, eyes fixed on the floor. 

“Sister, You cannot expect me to believe-” 

Copia starts, then pauses once his eyes have scanned over the first few scraps of paper. He stops. He looks up at you. His eyes flick down again, then over the next piece of paper, and then the next. For the first time in six months you think you may have just rendered him speechless. You swear he must be able to hear your heart beating in your chest as you wait for his reply, only just realising that you’ve handed him a metaphorical loaded gun. Satanas, you really must have been stupid, handing over signed proof of your … feelings for him. Copia still hasn’t reacted, not really, choosing to sit further back in the chair and flick through the papers like some sort of sick flipbook.

“Ah.” 

He finally sighs out, dropping them onto the desk, one hand coming to comb through his hair.  

Unable to move your mouth you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Papa doesn’t speak either, reaching for his pack of smokes before lighting one and taking a long, drawn out drag. If you’re being honest his reaction to your confession isn’t exactly inspiring. You hurt a little at that, realising perhaps you had misread the ease between the two of you. Realising that there might have been a reason he’d never propositioned you on those long, late nights alone.

“Which one is it?” 

He finally asks, his voice again deepened by the smoke, his tone one you can’t quite place, sitting somewhere between annoyance and disappointment. 

“What?” 

Granted it comes out a little ruder than you were aiming for, but you’ve been thrown so many curveballs in the last five minutes you’re honestly just grateful to still be sitting upright on the chair. 

“Do not test my patience, Sister. You do not have to hide it now. So - which one is it?” 

Fucking hell Papa could be petulant when he tried. He takes another drag, moving his eyes away from you again, like he can’t bear to look at you. You immediately decide you hate that more than anything else. 

“Copia, I can assure you, I have no fucking idea what you are talking about.” 

You’re not sure if it’s because you used his name or the language, or his clear lack of sleep, but either way he bristles at that, eyes fiery turning to look right into yours. Shit, he really is something to look at when he is like this, the logical part of his brain lagging behind his emotion for once. He’s surprisingly menacing, the pupil in his white eye unable to dilate with the other, unbalancing his features. This is the Copia that secured his own place in the lineage. 

“Do not play stupid with me Sister, I will not tolerate it - not from you. This is the Emeritus name, is it not, Sister?” 

“It is, Papa.” 

“And here it sits with your own name, does it not, Sister?” 

“Yes, Papa.” 

“Then, I can only be assuming, Sister, that you have found yourself a considerably comfortable spot in one of my brothers’ harems.”

Your brain completely taps out. You go to open your mouth, in an attempt to say anything. 

“Ah-ah!” 

Copia stops you, taking a moment to calm himself, finishing the cigarette and shoving it into the ashtray. You’ve not seen him like this before, so unpredictable, so wiry. You’d almost have considered it exciting had he not just accused you of fucking one of his brothers. 

“That is … fine, Sister. I just feel I would like to know which brother that is all? It is selfish I know, I just … need to know.” 

Taking a second to process what he just said you lean back in your chair, counting on the ornate backing to catch your fall. You close your mouth, noting you don’t actually know how long it’s been open. It baffles you, faced with the realisation that the man that you have seen write speeches; balance spreadsheets, translate texts, compose music, and recite spells and incantations with ease, is a fucking idiot. Copia notices your lack of a response and shakes his head. 

“Ai - forgive an old man, Sorella. I pry too deeply. I just did not expect that you had-” 

“There is no one else.” You interrupt quietly, for his sake. “Just you.” 

It’s like you can see his brain working, cogs turning behind his eyes as it’s his turn to play catch up. He looks down to examine the papers again, jaw working in that way it always does when he’s thinking. He’s rubbing his fingers together, the room so quiet now you can hear the leather working against itself. Suddenly, you feel even further out of your depth, gooseflesh rising as he finally brings his gaze back up to you. It’s been a long six months, you’d dealt with worried Copia, pissed Copia, unbearably, sickeningly sweet Copia - but never this Copia. The one that’s looking at you like you’re a rabbit in his headlights. Like he can smell you already. 

“Up. Come. Now” 

He snaps his fingers suddenly moving his chair back a little as he taps the top of his desk. Copia does not ask twice. Surprised that your legs are even able to move, you stand slowly, hoping you’ll make it to the desk without embarrassing yourself even further. His eyes don’t leave you as you walk around to his side of the desk,so close you can practically feel the warmth radiating off of him. He opens his legs for you to stand between them, making a point of shifting his hips up as he does so. It’s at that minute you decide you absolutely cannot look at anything else but the knot in his loose tie, for the sake of your own self-preservation. 

“Do you know how we got this name, Sorella?” 

Hells his voice is so deep now you’re close it’s almost like a purr, the thrill of it settling right between your thighs. There’s a softness to it but it’s far from kind, far from being anything but mocking. He starts to adjust the sleeves to his black poet shirt and you mentally curse him, it’s like he knows down to the minute how many sleepless nights you’ve spent thinking about those godforsaken sleeves. 

“Now, now Sister. You are usually so talkative, no?” He teases, though again it’s not entirely kind.  

“It was a gift, Papa. From Him” and fuck it’s embarrassing how breathless you are already, thighs clenching just at being this near to him like this. 

He moves quicker than you can react. Before you can process it, he kicks one of your legs from under you, knocking it so you stand wider, legs open in between his own. 

“Errato.”

And just like that he’s standing in front of you, much taller than you remembered, much broader than he seems from where you sit at your desk across the room. You can’t help but shrink back, lean further back into the wood only to be devastated when he follows there too, eyes examining your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. He breathes you in and you can’t help but follow, eyes closing as you take in the smell of him, all incense and smoke and something that must just be him. 

And oh, perhaps those deities had been listening after all. His hands come to cradle your head, holding it as he fiddles with something at the back of neck. With a gentle pull your veil falls away somewhere onto the cluttered desk, exposing you to him. Papa’s eyes flick up to examine you fully now you’re without your veil, like he’s got to squeeze one more look at you in before he’s moving again. His hands wander to find your own, pinning them down the desk under his as he carries on his, frankly lewd, inspection of you. You can’t help but gasp out, surprised that the gloves are warm, and that he’s strong, and that he’s actually touching you. He lowers himself until his face is right next to yours and you can’t bear to look, it's too much, being this close to him. He doesn’t seem to mind, taking the chance to breathe you in again, nuzzling as close to your neck as he can get without actually touching you. 

“Gifts are given freely, Sorella. Without reason, without obligation.” 

He lets his lips brush against the shell of your ear. 

“Try again. How did we get this name?” 

Fuck, it was one thing hearing whispers in the hallways about his talent, all hushed giggles and filthy conspiracy. It’s an entirely different thing to see it in practice, to be the object of his attention when it’s so all-consuming. Your thighs are already wet, you can feel it as they rub against each other. You can feel where the front of his waistcoat is pressed up against your chest as he crowds you into the desk, sure now that he can feel where your nipples are hard against him. His hands snake their way up your arms, before one comes to settle in the back of your hair. Your eyes open as he pulls on it, seeming to relish in the gasp you let out. 

“Say it.” 

He speaks again, nodding mockingly, eyes flicking over your face lingering on your lips as you part them to speak. 

“You earned it, Papa.” 

“Brava Ragazza, Sister. Well done.” 

And Oh - he’s giving you that look, the one that got you into this fucking mess in the first place. Like he’s proud of you, like he sees you. He disappears from view as his lips press against your hairline. 

“You’re always so smart, hm?” 

And you really can’t tell if he’s being genuine or mocking you but you couldn’t care less as his warm, wet lips traced across your forehead, the fingers of his other hand coming to cup your chin and keep you still. It’s barely a kiss, just the press of his lips against your skin but it is singularly the least chaste thing you have ever experienced.

“It is a Sacred name, Sister.” His lips are trailing down the sides of your face as he speaks, lips catching against your skin as he talks. 

“Given to my bloodline by Satan himself.”

Copia finds that spot that sits just behind your ear and chuckles as you shudder against him. You’d put good money on the probability of him mentally logging that away for later. 

“I have worked for this name, I have bled for this name-” 

He pulls away and you’re almost embarrassed that you whine and try to follow, so caught up in the heady way he’s been touching you, you think it might actually kill you if he stops. 

Cruelly, he pulls away completely then, leaving you giddy and off-balance as you look up at him helplessly. 

“I would kill for this name.” 

Papa finishes, his gloved thumb coming to pull at the full flesh of your bottom lip. His face hardens and you understand that he isn’t lying. It’s not a warning, not really, more a confession. Not that you would have ever doubted it anyway. Abruptly, he chooses to sit down again, legs spread open on the seat as he lays his arms down on the rests. You fight back a mewl at the loss of him, thighs twisted together to try and keep some semblance of self-control. His hands come together under his nose as he thinks, calculating his next move, thoughtfully, carefully. 

“This - is where you have overstepped, Sister. You are using a name you have not earned. We must all earn our place, earn our name, dolce.” 

Ah. It all clicks into place then. Here he is again, giving you another out. Giving you a chance. Here it was, that instant knowing, what was wanted, what was needed - just intuitively. You started to lower yourself down, neatly folding up the habit at your thighs as you did, knowing Copia was nothing if not a sucker for reverence. The greying hair at his temples fell forward a little as he bent his head, gaze following you down to his floor. You made sure to grab at his thighs for leverage as you did so, half for your own satisfaction and half acting on intuition. It paid off you realised, as he chokes out a moan and pushes his hips upwards. You log that away for later. 

“Let me earn it, Papa.” 

It’s merely a whisper, bowing your head as you speak, another show of reverence for him. You let your head rest in his lap, cheek pressed against his thigh, a sick imitation of the last time your head was resting there. His hands come to stroke at your hair, just as he had done before, and you take the chance to capture his hands in your own. Eager to please him, to elucidate. You start to kiss his palms, mouthing along his fingers with delicate presses of your lips, the action itself chaste and devout.

“Let me never stop earning it”

Oh, he likes that. The rumble in his chest gives him away, the way his fingers follow your lips revealing him. You run with it, eager as always to impress him. Flicking your eyes up towards him, looking through your lashes you wrap your lips around a single finger, welcoming it along the length of your tongue to rest near the back of your mouth before sucking it gently. It’s odd, the sensation of leather in your mouth, but it’s warm, rough and him, and you can’t help but moan through it. If the stress of tax returns hadn’t already ruined him enough you’re more than making up for it now, his chest is heaving, pulling at the fabric of his waistcoat as his eyes lock onto where your mouth is around him. His hips have pushed out and thighs opened around you, letting you shift closer to him. He nods his head, showing his consent, his approval of your actions. 

“Fammi vedere, Sorella.” He nods, voice even deeper than when it was laced with smoke. 

Your Italian is patchy at best, Copia likes to remind you of that daily, but you find yourself positively unable to care, the gist of what he’s saying suddenly very clear. You gently place his hands back up onto the rests for him, kissing the knuckles on each hand as you do so. Savouring the feel of him you move your own hands to his thighs again, digging in to feel the strong muscle underneath. So much wasted time spent staring, as he moved around his office gesticulating or bounced his legs around on stage in those obscenely tight trousers. 

You carry on massaging him, each time your hands getting closer and closer to the now, completely strained fastenings of his jeans. Completely beyond sense now you move on impulse, muscle memory, letting your legs slip open, pressing yourself against the cold tile floor as your face falls forward to lick at his seam. He’s hard, and hot, and it’s twisted that it’s taken you this long to be in this position. It’s degenerate really, finding some relief working yourself against the cool floor, the heat of him on your tongue. You can see his hands move to grip the arms out of the corner of your eye, a smirk pulling at your lips. 

You find the end of the ties with your tongue and manoeuvre it between your teeth, pulling it back as you flick your eyes up to his face again. Copia chuckles at your trick, looking at you like that again as you undo the strings to work him free. You burn with the need to impress him again, and bring your hands to pull him from his jeans. The first thing you notice is that he’s not wearing underwear, the warm pink of his flesh very apparent once you’ve worked the fastening open. The second is that Copia is fucking hung, thick and throbbing in your hand as his cock springs back against the greying hairs on his stomach. 

You’re pretty sure your eyes must bug out of your head at the sight of him, mouth watering in anticipation. You’d certainly heard things about Copia and his endowments, but well, Siblings were prone to exaggeration, especially when it came to the Papas. In this case they frankly hadn’t done enough. In the back of your mind you question how he’s still conscious with the lack of blood that now can’t currently be flowing to his head. You laugh lightly in spite of yourself, at your stupid internal monologue, at the situation, giddy with the size and smell of him. 

“Mi fai aspettare?” Copia asks, his voice thick and rough as it comes out. 

“My deepest apologies, Papa.” 

You immediately lick from the base, right above where his balls are still covered, to the tip - uncut and almost purple. His reaction is instant, making a noise like the air has been punched out of him, fingers gripping the arms even tighter. It’s maddening, having him throb beneath your tongue, and you carry on, just single licks against him, marvelling at the size of him as you go. Unable to help yourself, you take the tip of him into your mouth, positioning your head to take him down. 

Copia loses what little control he has, snapping his hands away from the rests and bringing them to wind in your hair, directing you down onto his cock. You moan in thanks, grateful for his guidance once again. He’s not being rough, you’re guessing he could do far worse, but he is being thorough, making sure your lips hit the bottom of him before pulling you back up. You find a rhythm in it, following his lead, not having to think about anything but keeping your lips sealed around him and your throat open. There it is again, that balance of what you both wanted, what you both needed, the unspoken instinct you seemed to share. 

Your scalp burns with it but it’s just so good, the way he’s started to fuck his hips up to meet you, using your mouth like you’d wanted him to for six fucking months. He manages to slip out a few times in his thoroughness, the wet of him slicking up your face and lips, and you wonder what you must look like. Your eyes are watering, your mouth flushed and wet and open for him, hair still tangled up between his gloved fingers. Not that he’s faring much better, head thrown back as he fucks your mouth, broken Italian and Latin and nonsense spilling from his mouth, undershirt shoved up around his waist, exposing his stomach. Copia notices you looking and his gaze hardens, teeth gritted as you take him particularly roughly.

“Puttana.” He grunts, and you have no problem translating that one. 

But there’s no malice in it, no spite, just that tone you recognise from when he’s impressed with you, his own warped reverence in return for yours. It only pushes you further, even more eager to please. As you take him down the next time you stay there, even as his own hand tries to pull you back up. You warm him with your mouth, keeping him as deep as you can while your lips meet the bottom of him and your nose is pressed up against the greying hairs at his base. You feel him push up against you, his legs lifting off the seat, getting as deep as he can while he cradles your head. He keeps you there for as long as you’re able, fucking your throat gently, before bringing you back up with a groan when you start to push at his thighs. He doesn’t let you sink back down, not immediately, just keeps your hair firm in his hand as he holds your head up - so he can look at you. Savour how your mouth is pink and slick and swollen with use. 

You whine at him, pathetically, asking him to let you go, mouth still open for him. He guides you down again, only this time he’s shoving his fastenings out of the way, guiding you down to suck at his balls. That rips a noise out of him, loud and unashamed as he presses your face harder into him, grinding against your tongue. You are nothing if not eager to please, laving your tongue over his balls, his thighs, even venturing further down toward his ass. Copia makes a frenzied noise at that, involuntarily lifting up in the seat to grant you better access to him. And it’s obscene, the way he tries to grind against your tongue, fucking himself on your face. He grabs your head again, only this time to stop you. 

“N-no-no …non posso. I won’t- I won’t last, Sister.” 

He breathes out between gasps, body sagging as he relaxes into the chair. Smirking, you raise an eyebrow, noting that one for later. Copia catches you smiling, managing to look over at just the right time, like he always does. The look in his eyes makes it apparent you’re going to regret that. 

“You have earned nothing yet, dolce. Up.” 

He’s demanding, shucking down his trousers a little more so he can widen his legs. You stand, hands pulling at your skirts, eager to pull your habit over your head before he stops you. 

“If you could keep it on, Sister, the habit, I mean. I- I quite like you in it.” 

You must beam at him, you can feel it, the warmth in your face and the swell of your smile, so big it almost hurts your cheeks. It’s the fact it’s your uniform, the uniform that identifies you as his, that special blue stripe singling you out as his own. He’s watched you everyday in this habit, liked you everyday in this habit. Nodding, you start to stand, hiking it up as you go but slow enough to tease. Papa’s eyes flick down to your legs, his normal pupil blown so wide it’s almost black as his licks at his lips, splotches of pink peeking through the paint. He’s fucking his hand as he watches, balls bouncing a little, glove tightening as he nears his tip. You flush as you think about how many times he’s touched you with those gloves, you wonder briefly how often he washes them. 

Suddenly, now you’re standing, underwear kicked down and flicked off your ankles, you feel a little shy. It’s odd, considering moments before you’d had his cock in the back of your throat, but somehow sitting into his lap without his request, without his permission would be just the wrong side of intimate. You’ve napped in his lap, just once, but sitting in it, taking him like this almost feels like too much. He notices, like he always does, his eyes and mind too fast for his own good. He softens a little.

“Please, Sorella.” 

And it’s deep, and demanding and yet his voice breaks a little along the way, and it’s just too Copia for your own good. Now unable to stop yourself you lurch forward, bracing your legs on either side of his own, relishing in the strong muscle of his thighs underneath you, holding you up. One of his arms comes around the back of your waist, balancing you out as he lines himself up against you. It was intoxicating being so close to him, where he was warm and soft and smelled of smoke and whatever expensive shampoo he used. Your arms find the rest on the chair and the back of his neck, fingers toying with the few strands of hair that curl into his nape. It’s nice being close to him like this, seeing the fine lines in his face, the mix of greens in his eye, the slight shadow on his face where he’s neglected to shave. It’s almost too much, the smell of him, the feel of him, the idea of him and you doing this. It’s then that he breeches you, just the first part of him and your stomach drops at the realisation that everything up to this point had been nothing. 

“You think you have earned this yet, Sister?”

Copia is talking, you’re sure of it, somewhere outside of the bubble of just feeling him. Somewhere where he sounds drowned out and far away. Satanas, he won’t stop pushing into you, splitting you like he was made to do it, each ridge and vein dragging you open with a slick sound, the heat oh him almost unbearable. 

“Think you can take my cock?” 

And fucking hell he’s a talker. As if it couldn’t get any more ruinous he was going to talk you through it as he ravaged what was left of you. All you can do is mewl back, legs open and hips pushed forward to take him. 

“Others have tried, Sister.” 

He slides home, his hips coming to sit neat against your ass as he bottoms out. If you thought that had been devastating enough, it was nothing compared to the drag of him as he pulled out again, lighting up your insides as he moved, nerve endings singing with it as he warms you up. He lets out his own sigh then, rumbling deep in his chest and oh - you realise you’d spend your life trying to earn him, if it meant hearing him do that everytime you sank down onto his cock. Copia seems to remember himself then, sucking air through his teeth before he starts talking again.

“Yes - they try their best. Wailing with their legs open for me.” 

It’s simply deviant how that makes you throb, the image of him fucking some Sibling in his quarters after spending the day cooped up in his office with you. He starts to build a rhythm, balls starting to slap up against you as he fucks up into you, his feet planted on the floor for leverage. You brave a look at him and whine when you see how he looks, his eyes fixed on where he’s fucking you, his mouth hanging open, slack as he watches. His hair is fucked, paint starting to bleed just a little with the exertion of it, sweat threatening to leak through. 

“Yes - I fucked them. I made them come-”

It’s like it’s intentional at this point, that he says that as he finds that spot inside you, the one that has your mewl turning into something far more embarrassing, something more guttural, more animalistic in nature. He chuckles, and it’s sinister as he re-adjusts himself to fuck up against that spot again. You suddenly don’t doubt him, or the matter of fact way he says it. You’re fairly confident that you’re not far off already, your cunt clenching around him as he speaks. He comes to grab at your ass, hands squeezing into the meat of it as he bounces you on his cock. 

“I send them back with their legs shaking and their holes full, Sister.” 

He growls right into your ear, back to his monologue, like it’s a threat, like it’s a promise. You start to clench around him, hips working without even thinking about it, letting his strong hands pull you down onto cock. Half for leverage and half for comfort, your hand at his nape starts to twist into his hair, savouring the feel of it between your fingers. 

“And did they presume to have some ownership of me? Did they feel so brazen as to take my name - the name I fucking earned?” 

You can barely even think straight with how he’s fucking you. But you realise, somewhere in the haze, that you’d been so caught up in the idea of being his, the daydream of being so owned by him, that you’d neglected to realise your own claim over him. Taking his name, making it and himself your own by definition. 

“But you - you have the nerve, to sit every day in my fucking office, to flash me that sweet fucking smile, acting so eager, so useful, so innocent, like you aren’t making a perversion of my own name, hm?” 

And he is still hitting that spot, sparks flying to every nerve ending you have every time he hits it, his hips snapping up faster as he riles himself up. 

“You see fit to play and tease, like you don’t rush back to your room at night to play with this tight pussy at the idea of me using you like this.”

He knew, of course he knew he always fucking does, two steps ahead of everyone else. 

“It is my turn to take now, Sister.” 

Before you can help yourself you’re seizing up, muscles locking around him with nowhere to go as you bounce on him, the noise of it becoming downright indecent. The wet suck of you as you take him filling your ears. Copia senses that you’re straining, just missing that extra something you needed to tip over the edge. Your eyes actually start to tear up you’re so desperate to come around his cock, to let him take what he wants. He moves his hand to grab at your face, cheeks pushed together in his firm grip as he looks at you. It’s humiliating, his eyes flicking to your mouth once more as his face twists into a smile that’s almost threatening. He brings his other hand up to his own face, spitting and sucking on his own fingers, moaning at the feeling of it. Fuck his lips looked sinful stretched around his own fingers, swiping at the paint as the coated them. 

Papa nods at you, almost mockingly, letting you know he’s going to help you, he’s going to make it all okay. His fingers leave his mouth and he swipes them directly over your swollen clit, making you cry out and work his cock deeper into you. 

“And I will take it.” 

And his voice is fucked, broken and gravelly like he’d been awake for 3 days straight. You couldn’t have stopped it if you had tried, the way he was fucking you right where you needed it, the rough, wet leather against your clit, the idea of him taking rather than you giving it freely. You shut your eyes as you worked through it, wave after wave as you clench around him, throat raw as you groaned into the hand that was still holding your face. Fuck, you would work to earn it, work for it every day if he could make you come like this. It’s far too slick between you now, the way you’ve leaked onto him, coating the both of you in it. Copia is glowing with satisfaction, lips pulled into a smirk as he just watches.

“Acqua santa, hm?” 

He snickers, more to himself than to you. You can’t help but whimper at his pun, grinding down on him as if to coat him further, like it’s a gift for him. He grunts at the feel of it, head thrown back for a second as he revels in the feel of you, the tight, wet grip of you around him. He moves the hand that’s been holding your face to rest at your waist, his other still lazily rubbing at your cunt, helping you ride it out. He brings his now sticky fingers to his mouth, sucking them onto his tongue with a groan. You should be embarrassed, the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s taking you, but it feels right. Like you’re earning something. 

Copia is clearly giving you time to rest, reclining back in the seat, letting you balance your hands on his chest as you grind out the last of your orgasm for him. Rest isn’t exactly something you had in your plans for the foreseeable future, content to pay back the favour tenfold. He’s quiet now, a little out of breath with his effort, looking up at you as he savours the way your face looks, flushed and bright. You sit yourself up, ready to start bouncing for him again and he kicks his knees up, ready to angle himself to start fucking you again. 

“No no, Papa.” 

You smirk, choosing instead to push him further into the chair with your hands, stilling his movements as you start to fuck him. Speaking seems to be beyond him at this point, he just nods as you ride him, letting you fuck him into the seat of his pretentious office chair. You mentally curse yourself for not choosing to go to the gym more often, the burning in your legs threatening to become a problem. Just looking at Copia underneath you immediately throws that idea under the bus, his head thrown back as you work him. His mouth open with broken gasps leaving his lips with each bounce, eyes heavy-lidded now. The chair starts to scrape across the tiles with the force of it, the low squeak mixing with your own moans. 

It sends a dangerous thrill through you, knowing this was Papa, head of the fucking Ministry, signature powerhouse on the stage, knowing he could snap his fingers and have done with you whenever he felt like it. This is who they all wanted, the fans, the followers, the clergy, the Siblings. But it’s also Copia, your Copia, your boss who lets you steal his green olives and nice wine, and likes you in your uniform, and your chest just swells. Moving your hands to cover his own you move them to cup your neglected tits as you ride him, guiding him to your covered nipples. The kick his cock gives inside you is some indication that he likes that, though his frequent ‘subtle’ glances when you neglect to wear a bra to work had already proven that theory. 

“I mean it, Papa.” 

You move your own hands to cup his face, brushing his hair from where it’s falling into your eyes. The capacity to form words is still out of his reach he just watches, eyes flicking between your face, your nipples pinched between his fingers, and where you’re fucking him. 

“Let me never stop earning it”

You repeat your promise from before, almost hiccuping at the end of it as you manage to angle his cock at that one spot again, savouring the sticky, slick drag of your skin against his. 

“I would spend my life earning it, earning you.” 

Copia is objectively a wreck. All he can do is sit and take you on him, tweaking and twisting your nipples, tilting his own hips to make sure you can work his cock how he’s already learned you like. It’s laughably unrealistic really, his good he feels, like something out of one of those shitty vintage VHS pornos Copia keeps in his ‘locked’ drawer. You feel him throb inside you as he lets out a strained groan and you’re convinced that the only thing you’ve ever wanted was to make him feel good, however he would let you. You didn’t know it could be like this, just an endless feedback loop of pleasure, giving and taking and fucking like you can hear what he’s thinking, and he can hear you. Somewhere in the back of your mind you can hear Copia grunting, choking out a mindless, “You’re s’fuckin’ tight, fuck” as he tilts his hips up for you.

Sitting up tp to lean back, you open your legs to him, so he can see where he’s fucking you. You know how it must look, your cunt wet and swollen, taking his cock so deep you’re sure you can feel it in your throat. He grunts in approval, bringing his gloves to smack lightly at your clit as you bounce, biting at his lips when you stutter around him, shocked at the feel of it. Keen to stay even, to impress him with your efficiency, your efficacy, you bring your fingers to your mouth, spitting onto them as you keep your eyes locked on his. Copia knows what you’re going to do before you even move to do it, already whining so loud it’s almost pathetic. You can’t help but smile sweetly as you reach your slicked up fingers behind you, massaging and squeezing his balls as he buries himself into your cunt. 

“Sister, I need- Can I-”

You’re almost surprised he has the wherewithal to ask, his thrusts turned shallow and stuttered as he tries to keep himself from filling you too soon. It’s all you can do to gasp out a raspy ‘please’ before he’s grabbing your hips once more. It’s a done deal after that, a few broken, sloppy thrusts into you before he’s spilling himself inside, pulling you down onto him with a string of broken curses, using you to come. You’re not far behind, the throbbing of his cock, the feeling of him filling you up kicking off your own orgasm, softer and sweeter than the first. Copia fucks you through it, his capacity for thoroughness making sure you’ve milked him completely, making sure you’ve used him more than well enough. 

It takes you a second to come back to yourself, lost somewhere in that bubble of pleasure and Copia, not knowing where slick, sweat and spend started or began. Bordering on something tantric, something spiritual, you slowly move together as you each catch your breath, his hands coming to soothe at your thighs, strong fingers working the muscles there. It’s quiet, that familiar, comfortable silence you so often shared filling the office. He pulls himself out from you with a wince, tucking himself back into his pants, and lazily tugging the ties shut.

Copia pushes your legs open, gently admiring the way he leaks out of you. He takes his hand and moves to swipe at his come as it drips, his eyes filled with something that looks suspiciously like devotion. Licking his lips, he pushes it back into you with his fingers, his pupil dilating as he watches for your reaction, ever the eager learner. You smirk before reaching down to save your underwear. You go to stand, unsure of where this really leaves you, unsure of what to say - of how to say it.

“There was never anything to earn, tesoro.” 

Copia speaks before you have the chance to overthink, his clever eyes watching your mind tick over. He is giving you that look again, the one he seemingly saves up just for you. 

“Whatever you want - it has been yours for a while.” 

It’s simple, it’s direct, it’s all encompassing, it’s Copia. You feel like maybe you should kiss him but flush with the idea of it, cheeks heating up as he watches the thought pass through your mind. He smiles despite himself, averting his eyes for just a second. Although his paint is still mostly intact you’re sure he blushes underneath it, you can tell, intuitively.

Plenty of time for that later, you reason, remembering there was a desk full of receipts to file and sort before Saltarian decides to come chew Copia’s ear off about his tax returns. 

“Though Sister-” Papa starts as he neatens himself up, slicking his hair back into place, “maybe, for now, we will hide those, hm?” 

He nods towards the stack of crinkled papers. You understand what he’s doing, putting his own ass on the line to cover you. Risking his reputation for complete competence just for you. 

“Yes, Papa.” You nod earnestly in thanks, wanting him to understand that you appreciate the gravity of what he’s doing for you. 

“And maybe for now, though mine certainly suits you, use your own name, hm? At least let me take you to dinner first.”

#the band ghost fanfiction #ghost fanfic #cardinal copia x reader #papa emeritus iv x reader #popia x reader #papa emeritus x reader #copia fic #copia fanfic #copia fanfiction #smut #nfst #cardinal copia #copia #papa emeritus iv

[chaiandsage]

Heyo!

I just wanna say i finally finshed your trust life fic after, admittedly, a long time (I struggle with long fics and typically hate reading them) it was really great I actually had a lot of fun reading it! Im really glad your fic could be the first lobg fic ive read in a really long time and encouraging me to step outta my confort zone for that kinda stuff :} anyways I did actually have a question belive it or not, I was wondering if you had any tips on writting in character for them (them being the traffic games characters) and for writting longer fics?

Hi! Thank you!!

I’m not surprised it took you a while. When I went back to read it all myself, it took me literal weeks to finish, lol. But thank you for giving this one a try anyway. It’s great to know that you still enjoyed it even though it was out of the norm for you

For your question, I think a small, but effective way to achieve that would be to make sure a character’s dialogue includes phrases or words that they usually use often. Same goes for their tone too. So like, I know that people like Joel and Bdubs are usually loud talkers whereas Etho and Lizzie are more on the quiet end. So maybe just try to reflect that and keep things consistent unless the situation calls for something else? I’ll also just try to read things over in that character’s voice and if it feels wrong coming out of their mouth, then I change it according to what feels more accurate

Aside from dialogue tho, you could also try seeing how others seem to write them most often and work off of that? Sorry for the vagueness. I’m not sure I’m the best person to give advice on that subject 😅

Longer fics however… If you’re asking how to stretch a fic out, I think one way to kind of cheat at that would be to have the story take place from more than one perspective. That way there’s twice or more the amount of potential thoughts, problems, backstory, and development to cover (learned this the hard way)

—But if you’re asking how to write a GOOD long fic… I mean, I’d say it’s very important to have the gist of what you expect to happen be already established front and center in an outline. That way you’re not unprepared for anything and have already gotten one of the most difficult parts of writing it done (imo). That’s not to say that straying from your outline is a bad thing. If anything, depending on your story, it could kind of function as a safety net for that sort of thing. So no matter how much you decide to change, you at least know what direction you’re meant to be going in (I really hope I’m making sense here…)

ALSO—keep around a journal, or a notepad, or a log on your phone, or whatever so you can jot down any random ideas that you think would be cool to put in your story that might come to you whenever. Don’t trust yourself to remember to add them in once you start writing, because you won’t/lhj

If your fic has a lot of characters in it, then also make sure to write down and keep track of their relationship or current standing with other characters. For example, it wouldn’t make sense for two people who had beef three chapters ago to suddenly be cool or indifferent around each other the next time they meet up without there having been some kind of resolution (internal or otherwise) in the middle of all that. If someone gets into an argument with another person and then doesn’t see them again for a few chapters, their immediate thought upon seeing them for the first time again, in my opinion, shouldn’t be a cheery or neutral one. Maybe they cooled down a little between those chapters, but I don’t think the problem should have just fixed itself with time alone. That goes for a lot of other situations too

So, yeah, that’s pretty much what came to mind for me. I don’t consider myself an expert on any of this so please feel free to take it with a grain of salt. Regardless, I do hope you’re able to write out what you had in mind :)

#asks

[wreywrites]

Tiger Shark

Part 7: The Sail

Chapter 44

I wake up in a room that is definitely not 2138, or 2110, or 2109, or 2289, or 405. It’s also not my room at home in Four. Any of my homes in Four. The house from so long ago when I was so little I barely remember it, the old house on Mako’s street, the Victor’s Village house, Finnick’s house across the street. I can’t be sure it’s not my room in the house Finnick has built in his mind.

The door opens.

“Annie?”

“That’s me,” I rasp. How long has it been? I sound like I haven’t used my voice for a week.

The woman chuckles. “You must be feeling okay then. I just need to run a couple quick tests and ask you a few questions, and then we can get you moved to a real room.”

A real room? Is this not a real room? Maybe I am in Finnick’s imaginary house.

The woman begins examining the machine I am hooked up to. “Do you know where you are?”

“I was in the Capitol. Close to Snow’s mansion. Am I still in the Capitol?”

She doesn’t answer, just goes to her next question. “Who are you?”

I thought I already answered that. I frown. “Annie Cresta. Odair. Maybe I should change that. Legally. Or maybe it’s already done.”

She chuckles again but looks at me like she wants more of an answer.

I go on. “I won the Seventieth Hunger Games. They called me the Tiger Shark of Four. I was reaped for the Quarter Quell. We broke out and some of us went to Thirteen. Then we went to the Capitol to fight. Actually, we went to the Capitol because we were recognizable and pretty, so we were a good propo squad.” I trail off. Alvan and Cashmere are running from the lizard mutts. Boggs’s legs are blown across the block. Gloss paces endlessly. Where is Gloss?

The woman is checking my IV. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

I stare through the opposite wall.

When I finally speak, ten years or three seconds later, my voice is quiet. “The Capitol dropped parachutes. Bombed those kids, and then everyone who went to help them. And-” I sit straight up. “Where’s Cassia?”

The woman frowns, actually looking at me. “Who?”

“Cassia! Cassia Vickers! The little girl who was with us! Finnick and me! On the street!” Panic is rising in my chest. Cassia trusted us, and the first thing the rebels did was leave her? And now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t even know that this woman is with the rebels.

She shakes her head. “They only brought me you two.”

I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

“Whoa!” The woman grabs my shoulders, forcefully but gently. “Annie, you’re safe. I can’t have you running off yet. We haven’t even swept the whole mansion for traps yet.”

I feel like a netted fish. I am breathing too fast but still not getting enough air. My gaze darts from side to side, looking for an exit.

“Annie,” she says. “Annie, if you will wait for five minutes while I check in with the main doctor, then we can get you moved to your new room. Finnick will be there. I promise.”

I nod.

Promises, promises. Round and round we go, and either we’ll prove ourselves honorable, or we’ll prove ourselves liars, and all of it out of our control.

But five minutes later, the woman comes back in with a smile, unhooks my IV and the other machine, and leads me out into the hallway, all the way to the end, and up two flights of stairs. At the end of that hallway, she opens the last door on the right. There is a bed against the far wall, a very comfy looking chair in the corner, and a desk against the near wall. On the desk sits a box. Our box from Thirteen. Katniss’s mother is in the Capitol.

I turn around to say something to the woman, but she is already halfway back to the stairwell, and much closer is someone much more important.

“Finnick!”

I crash into him and he wraps me in a bone-crushing hug.

~~~                               ~~~                               ~~~

No one seems to know where Cassia is. Katniss’s mother, who walked Finnick up to our room in Snow’s mansion, knows only that one of the medics who arrived after the second round of bombs recognized Finnick and me, laying unconscious where the force from the blast had knocked us against the building behind us. He and a few others brought us in. No one mentioned a little girl.

I add her to the list of people I have to mourn now that the war is over. Cassia, Prim, the Preps, Marius, Dalia, Titus, Boggs, Jackson, Homes, Mitchell, Castor, Pollux, Cashmere, Alvan.

Cressida and the Leegs come visit that afternoon. Leeg 2 and Gloss did indeed lose Katniss and Gale, but Leeg 2 realized they’d never find the rest of us, so she got Gloss to a safe spot and the two of them holed up the same way Finnick and I had with Cassia in the bakery.

Cressida tells us that our concern—which is a nice way of putting it—for Cassia has reached Plutarch’s ears. Plutarch knew Titus Vickers, so he’s concerned as well, and is using his connections to launch an under-the-table manhunt for Cassia.

She also tells us Katniss and Peeta were much closer to the bombs than we were. Both were badly burned, but the doctors say they have survived the worst of it and should pull through. The road to recovery will be long and painful though.

That almost makes me laugh. That’s just what being a victor is.

Since there is really nothing else they can do with us, the powers that be decide to put us up in Snow’s mansion until it is time for us to leave the Capitol. Finnick hates it because one hallway is set up exactly how he wanted to do part of our house, but now he can’t stomach the design.

“I hate it, Annie. I’m not building you a house that reminds me of him.”

I hate it because there aren’t enough people here. Johanna and Cecelia are still in Thirteen. Gloss is here, but his mind isn’t. He wanders aimlessly through the hallways. He hasn’t spoken since that day in the sewers. Cashmere isn’t here for her laugh to brighten the place. Alvan isn’t here to make her laugh anyway. Haymitch is drunk. Katniss and Peeta are still in the burn unit.

No one knows what to do with us while we wait. So we wait. We play cards. I draw a marble board and we use some chess pieces as marbles. Finnick still wins most of the time.

Johanna and Cecelia and Beetee arrive the next afternoon. Beetee attends lots of important meetings. The rest of us do not. We play half-hearted games of cards and catch each other up on life. The only good news anyone has, other than the war being over, is that Commander Paylor met Cecelia when she was getting off the hovercraft and told her that Mark and the kids all made it. They will be joining us in the Capitol in a few days, on a hovercraft scheduled to bring in more supplies from Thirteen that will stop in Eight along the way.

We spend the next morning wandering the mansion. I find myself in an office that looks vaguely familiar. It takes a long time to realize it’s because I’ve seen it on TV. This is Snow’s personal office.

I sit down at the desk, open one drawer after another, until, in the bottom left-hand drawer, I find seventy-five files. They are numbered, with 1 in the back and 74 in the front, and each has a name on it. I flip through them. 10 – Lucy Gray Baird, 11 – Mags Flanagan, 25 – Beauregard Farrier, 27 – Beck Sheer, 50 – Haymitch Abernathy, 65 – Finnick Odair, 67 – Augustus Braun, 69 – Megary Fallon, 70 – Annie Cresta, 71 – Johanna Mason, 74 – Katniss Everdeen & Peeta Mellark.

Cecelia, Gloss.

Mags, Alvan, Cashmere.

I pull out my file, remove the piece of paper from the envelope. There is a rose stamped at the bottom. At the top is typed my father’s name. Jade. Coral. Mags has been crossed out. So has Beck. And Megary and Augustus. And so has Finnick. I frown. Then I see the line through my name on the envelope. They crossed us off when they thought we were dead.

I grab Finnick’s next. His parents, Mags, me. All crossed off. It’s weird to see my own name marked to show that I can’t be used to threaten anyone to play nice anymore. Like it was weird to hear Caesar Flickerman talk about me in the past tense and see my Quarter Quell picture on Capitol TV like they would have showed in the arena if I died.

I stare at the stack of files.

~~~                               ~~~                               ~~~

Johanna finds me surrounded by smashed vases and broken decorations. The files are scattered around the desk. I read them all. Gloss had two names in his: Cashmere and Augustus. Megary had over a dozen, all crossed off. Johanna had only her mother, also crossed off. I can’t explain it, but something about seeing the lists did more damage than the Hunger Games ever could have. The knowledge that after everything we went through, the Capitol was willing, prepared, to put us through more, just for their own selfish ends. How many people did Finnick sleep with to keep them from crossing my name off that list? How casually did they kill all fourteen people on Megary’s list, before deciding they just needed to kill her? And the real genius of the Quarter Quell finally hits me. Yes, it was about getting rid of Katniss and Peeta, but rebellion had been brewing among victors long before they joined our ranks. And all the people whose names were drawn were the loudest in their dissent. Johanna, Finnick, Beetee, Katniss. I, in my madness, who was of no real use to the Capitol, would serve their aims better by dying in the arena, so my name was drawn. Peeta, whose death would be useful to destroy Katniss, so his name was drawn. Haymitch volunteered, but I doubt the Capitol would have seen that as a huge loss. Those lists, those precious, horrible lists, weren’t enough, so they designed the perfect way to get rid of their most troublesome victors all at once.

Johanna picks up a few of the papers. “I guess you read them.”

I nod. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

“Me too.” She takes a deep breath. “Sometimes I wish I would have just done what they wanted. But I couldn’t have lived with myself. And that was never what she wanted me to do.” She flips through the papers. “I didn’t realize how many kids got reaped because they were on someone’s list.”

“Me neither.”

Merritt was on Alvan’s list, Cashmere on Gloss’s, Cally on three of Ten’s victors’ lists, and no doubt there are many more that I don’t know simply because their Games were too long ago or they died too early on for their names to find a permanent place in my memory.

Johanna sits down next to me. She is holding my list. “You know what this means though?” She points at my father, Jade, and Coral. “As far as the Capitol knew, and I imagine they were thorough, these three are still alive.”

Finnick slumps in. “Had to go get Gloss again,” he says. The doctors send him after Gloss when he starts wandering into places he shouldn’t. Gloss hasn’t been violent, he’s just a big guy, and the doctors found pretty quickly that he’ll listen to Finnick. “He was all the way…” Finnick trails off, looking at the destroyed décor on the floor and the scattered files, then looking at me. “So,” he says after a pause, “you’ve seen your list.”

I nod. “You were right.” The words are surprisingly hoarse, raspy with emotion. “It was one of the longer ones.” My voice cracks as I hold it up. “They hadn’t crossed off Dad. Or Coral and Jade. Maybe-” I haul in a breath. “Maybe they’re-”

“They’re alive,” Finnick says. “Snow is nothing if not thorough.”

Johanna nods. “He crossed you off based on video evidence. If they’re not crossed off, that means he didn’t even have flimsy proof they were dead. And you know he’d be watching.”

They’re right, of course. But I don’t want to get my hopes up. I know how Cecelia felt, all those weeks ago, in the hospital when she first got to Thirteen. She spent weeks not knowing about her family. And now the war is over and I still don’t know about mine.

~~~                               ~~~                               ~~~

We have been there for another two days when we are sitting on a second-floor balcony, bundled in blankets against the frigid cold, watching the continued chaos of the very end of the war and the cleanup around the mansion. Johanna is in an appointment with her head doctor. Cecelia is waiting at the landing pad for Mark and the kids. Finnick and I are shivering in the cold, but can’t bear to go back inside. Inside is where the ghosts are. The ghosts and the lists.

The ground is pockmarked with small craters from the bombs. Pockmarked like our skin after the fog. Two people are staggering across the middle, just like Johanna hauling Nuts and Volts out of the jungle.

The jabberjays scream and the buffalo stampede.

Finnick leaps to his feet.

One of the people has fallen. The other tries to get them back up on their feet, then to pick them up and carry them, but they take two steps and collapse.

Finnick is moving.

I follow, trying to see what he sees, what is so important. I feel like I’m looking through thick morning fog and moving through chest-deep water.

“Let them through!” Finnick shouts.

I see now the dozen guards forming up in front of the two, who look about as threatening as Cassia Vickers.

I wonder what has happened to Cassia Vickers. If we’ll ever know. If the rebels got ahold of her and just killed her.

“Let them through!”

And then I see it. It’s like the fog has burned off and I can swim like a swordfish.

I pass Finnick, who is laughing as he bounds down the stairs that lead to the front garden. One of the guards steps into my path but I shove past him. I am the Tiger Shark.

I drop to my knees next to them, and I am laughing too as tears stream down my cheeks and I want to ask a million questions but all that comes out is “How?”

Cashmere smiles weakly, puts a hand on Alvan’s shoulder where he lays next to her, and slumps forward against me.

****

****

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Tag List:

@avoxrising @snow-dragon-rider @anakins-ride-or-die

#wrey writes #the hunger games #thg: tiger shark #annie cresta #finnick odair #ptsd #dissociation #mentions of character death #PSYCH #couldn't bring myself to actually kill my boy #ten's generational trauma stops HERE #cally was on three lists because her parents and grandpa are victors #which was my beta's idea and i am actively bullying her to write the story of ten

[minkkumaz]

HI OMIIII!!! im skipping out a few extra days of school, i know the stress is gonna catch up to me once i get back (hopefully not.) but!!

ive been using my notes app alot recently.. i had to lock them cause it was just full of ideas abt bonedo ^^;

before i get into that,, someone stopped me in one of my classes and asked me abt the woonhak pc i had in my school ID. i got a bit nervous and i waved them off and gatekept them on accident.. i was literally abt to say “the loml” but i felt like that’d be too absurd to say to someone i just met..

i have another friend in one of my classes who also wanted to know who was on my lockscreen (it was taesan!!) but i told them i wouldve rambled and we wouldnt get our work done.. hopefully we have a freeday in that class so i can introduce them to boynextdoor LMAO

ive just been zoning out in class looking at my woonhak PC.. i love love love woonhak so much id give my soul and anything just to see more content of him being happy w the other members :(

but at the same time ive just been thinking abt woonhaks gf privileges.. >> (starts sobbing)

woonhak who slowly falls inlove with the pretty student in his class and does his best to appeal to her.. 💔

woonhak who overheard the reader and her friends talk about their types in guys.. smart guys? he’ll volunteer to answer every question the teacher asks. athletic guys? funny, cause he’ll 100% become a tryhard during gym… cute guys? his members already compliment him on his cuteness!

woonhak who tries keeping his crush a secret, but fails when jaehyun finds his notesapp open to see a list of ways to woo the reader over..

woonhak who dedicates writing the WHO album about the reader.

woonhak who finally has the courage to ask the reader out.. but when the day comes he finds out he has rehearsals. but no fret!! reader would love to watch him practice his singing & dancing.

bonedo members who love to steal glances at the reader and tease woonhak as much but as quietly as they could

bonedo members who easily warm up to the reader and starts inviting her whenever they could to hang out

jaehyun who remembers how woonhak forbade him from touching his sideburns.. but to his surprise he sees the reader twirling them and playing with his hair.

sungho who remembers how woonhak would get annoyed if someone were to notify him even if he was on do not disturb.. he walks by woonhaks phone to see it light up continuously with messages from the reader, he soon finds out woonhak has a special setting on his phone for the reader to bypass the do not disturb feature.

leehan who stumbles upon woonhak and the reader taking a nap on the couch wrapped in a blanket, her body resting on top of his.. but he swears he recalls woonhak exclaiming his distaste for people sharing (stealing as what he would call it) his blanket.

riwoo who hears a genre of music he’s never heard woonhak listen to in all his life.. when he questions it he finds out the reader recommended it… riwoo scoffs jokingly, reminiscing on how he recommended he exact same song months ago

taesan who once asked woonhak to run to the convenience store late at night for some movie night snacks, but was met with refusal. a week later he spots woonhak putting on a coat to head out around 10PM.. “Y/N wants to take a walk together!” he says.

bonedo boys who watch the reader and woonhak slowly fall inlove as they continued to show their endless support (despite the fact woonhak has never given them such privileges..)

GRGRGGRGRHR I LOVE U WOONHAKK :((((

-🍉

HELLO MELONN its nice to hear from you always hehe. please get so much rest on your time away from school, you deserve it! if you get a lot of homework make sure to space it out :)

and omg if someone asked me about kpop at school id probably die. theres this kid in one of my classes that mocks me and my friend for liking kpop and its so annoying!

but yes, your woonhak thoughts are always welcome here :3 at the beginning of the year when teachers had us do 'about me's' i always put yungyu as one of my favorite things LOLL

woonhak would 100% give so much gf privilege its actually crazy. he can act like hes not cute all he wants but he will always be readers cutie patootie! AND HIM DOING THE ABSOLUTE MOST IS SO TRUEE his favorite subject is yn<3

also leehan catching them cuddling it up is so adorable wtf i need me some woonhak cuddles><

youre so cute melon anon seeing how in love with woonhak you are HEHE i love hearing ur thoughts ^_^

#∞ ₒ ˚ omi's chats #༊*·˚ anonymous peoples #🍉 anon ·˚ ༘ ✎

[haeroniel-doliet]

A lil updates and thoughts going on rn! Mostly about art again :') putting it under read more tho bc it got away from me again all rambly lmao

Hooo wheee! Life has been a little busy huh. Finally going to work again even if it is pretty much part time, other hobbies im keeping up with, trying to keep up on life admin and its going almost well! Shame im realizing i havent worked on my drawings in well over a month now 😅

Part of me is slightly dreading going back to them rn bc ive spent hours and hours on them already and they still need many hours before i post them....

You know that one guy on like tiktok/youtube shorts whos a really friendly old artist with a hobbit hole studio and does like 1hr paintings that look incredible? Obviously i dont expect myself being rusty and also not with years and years of experience to do the same but wouldn't that be the dream? To be able to just create and be done and happy with it in just an hour or a few and move on. How sad it is how many things i have started and not finished, outting in hours and hours where it doesnt really make even a super significant difference.

Also its that dinluke positivity week thing (god i hope this doesnt show up in the tag lmao sorry) i was really hyped months ago thinking its great prompts and great time to partake in my favourite fandom especially before february 2023 inevitably changes the scene in some way! But all of a sudden mid november is here and thats kinda terrifying! I have no clear idea for any of them, nothing im like desperate to draw and my current drawing doesnt really fit them either. Im thinking maybe i should try like, giving myself idk 2 hrs max to just make something beginning to end and if i hate it its ok i dont have to post it. But maybe i will and it could be fun! Sure i am too tired to properly do anything but idk, even making one post could give me excitement and hype for things i used to enjoy and something that isnt just real life and like job related.

To be fair i could also go for the much more guaranteed dopamine boost and play a video game ive been thinking of playing again for months. Sure i dunno which to choose and im not like super inclined to anything even tho i would like to play multiple of them again, just playing alone is a little boring i guess.

The more i spend just overthinking the quicker my sunday will be over and ill have to do next week and god knows ill be busy!! I should try drawing bc its there floating in my mind and could be easier to slip in into the day routine to do a little here and there rather than like, playing skyrim for 30 mins loll. Or oblivion bc for some reason ive been missing it. Or battlefront, even tho that is really hard to play without really trying my hardest and getting readjusted to the pace of it

Alright ok im gonna set up my digital art stuff, im gonna challenge myself to sketch something on theme for all the prompts and see what ends up catching my attention. If i can do 1 or even a couple of them thatd be really really neat!

[laurianasshit]

thin

sunday 19th june 2022 7.52pm 

im starting my journey, properly. ive been cutting my calories for a few days now, 12 days to be exact. a bit about me is, on here im gonna go by lauriana, im 15 and pretty thin already. i used to have a super fast metabolism and was super active and fit. but two summers ago, one of my friends starting starving herself, and i starting doing it as well. i was already so thin, but got thinner and thinner as well as messing my metabolism up. later in the year physically, i healed. but mentally, i could never quite do it. now, 1 and a half years later, im starting again. it feels like whatever i eat i feel like my stomach gets to full. the past 12 days its been hard, ive had around 900 calories per day. my best day was the second day, 8th june, i had 500 cals, the worst day was the 15th of june, i had 1800. i felt so horrible after and tried to make myself purge. i was so close, but mentally i couldnt do it. its hard because i have a pretty full on job. i go to school for 35 hours a week, as well as working twenty. i work as a kitchen hand, i love working and standing on my feet for 5 hours on most days must help me stay thin right? sometimes i use that to justify my eating, but i have no clue if it actually is burning calories. sometimes when i stand up i feel dizzy, or things go black. but its never enough, its not just about being skinny, i want to be seen and heard. i want to go live in the hospital and everyone to worry and care about me. i want too look, feel and be sick. there are people who used to care, who dont anymore. i want them to think of me and wonder if there is more they couldve done. i want them to feel guilty for leaving me and worry about me. i want to be skinny and i want to look beautiful and feel happy and confident. i want to be the skinniest thinnest girl in every photo. i want everyone to see me as inspiration and a goal. i want people to ask what i ate today so i can find new ways and cover ups on what i “ate” or why im not eating. so this is my new journey, my new project. i dont have scales so im not sure how much i currently weigh, but im hopefully going to buy some soon. my gw is 40kg (88 pounds), ugw 35kgs (77 pounds). ill update when i can, and i hope i have some people who i can take on this journey with. 

bye! ily 

8.20pm  

#proana #tw #tw ed vent #ed #eating #pr0 ana diary #an0rex1a #anorexia #tw ed #skinny #thin #diet #calorie #caloric restriction #weight #disordered eating thoughts

[lvstfv1]

★ | A special gift;

> Ada x afab gn!reader

warnings: smut, fluff, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering, praising, vanilla with a little rough sex, confession, dom!ada and sub!reader, afab reader.

sypnosis: As Ada's secretary, you've encoutered several problems and error in the files she handed over to you the day before she went on that long mission. When she came back, she notices the mistake and made it up to you by giving you a special gift.

word count: 1,969 words

note: -

more info here | masterlist

As Ada's secretary, you've encoutered several problems and error in the files she handed over to you the day before she went on that long mission.

She had always given you the easiest work and tasks, and handling all the difficult and complicated ones herself like a responsible and oddly kind delegate. She takes good care of you as your employer, although sometimes she would want something for return, but you've never really known what she wanted. She'd often gift you store-bought goods and even souvenirs (usually from her horror-striking missions that she thinks isn't that big of a deal, more like a vacation with free pay), and when you need assistance, she was always willing to offer them.

Ada has a soft spot for you. Although she's usually cold-hearted and almost emotionless, especially around others, she uncontrollably smiles brightly with her teeth out when she sees your pretty face, when she hears your sweet voice, and even just by looking at your adorable pictures. She doesn't talk much, but she often expressed her emotions through her actions and behaviour.

She's not usually verbal, regardless if it was just a mission or on a casual day at work. She would put her lips together, only voicing if necessary or in a significant conversation. However with you, she'd speak up, mostly wanting to impress you or let her angelic voice stuck in your head from the darkness where you just got off work to the early dawn with sunlight shining on your silky bedsheets; she wants to be something you think about all day.

On this particular weekday, work was harder than you've expected. You were fuming, often breaking down or putting your hand into a fist and punch the cluttered table like it did something to upset you, because of how hard this task was, and the fact that Ada had already traveled overseas a few days ago, and that you knew damn well it would be a long mission. You were alone with dealing the workload. You've tried several ways on organizing and planning, but it didn't seem to work out.

It had been a week since Ada left, and you stay in your bed, basically devastated from the work.

You hear a sudden doorbell. You sat up lazily, strolling your legs and bringing them to the front door.

"Ada!" You called out in excitement as you see her face, arms thrown out pulling her into a tight hug. As you hid your face in the crease of her neck, her face coverered in warmth, her hands slowly caressing your back.

You pulled away from her, a bright, charming smile present on her face. "How is my favourite person doing?" Ada questioned as she grabbed both of your hands gently after closing the opened door behind her. "You're already done with your mission? I thought it's gonna be a big one."

"Ah, the work was really hard. Are you sure you had given me the right one?" You give her a distressed look, her fingers brushing yours as she lets go. She checked the papers on the table. She raised her eyesbrows as she read through the documents, her movement stopping in between. "Oh, I'm so sorry sweetheart, I got them messed up." She sighed lightly, giving you a gentle pat on the shoulder.

Not to mention, Ada calls you various pet names — sweetheart, dear, honey, bunny, kitty, and way more, using them for different occasions. But one thing is for sure: all of them gets you weak in the knees.

As she arranged them nicely, she looked at you again, in your eyes, delivering a warm smile. "Ive got a gift for you." The smile turning into a mischievous smirk, she turned your body around, leading you to your room, her hands placed on your waist as she walked you there. They fit your curves just perfectly, as if they were made for just for her and only for her.

Certainly, her touch got you screaming inside, although your face showed no emotion, your jaw clenching tightly together as your heart raced like it's trying to win a marathon, you two walked very slowly to your room, which those minutes felt like hours on end.

Ada sat you down as she goes to lock the door, her hips swaying under her dress as she moved, her head turning back with a playful smile once she found out that you were checking her out; it was painfully obvious.

Perhaps she liked that you were focusing on her in every scenario; from her working in that office, too busy to give you a response so your eyes traced the features on her face under that desk lamp; from that one hangover night where Ada slept on the same bed with you, and you played with her hair as she sinks into the thick mattress, her head on your chest as it lifted and fell on every breath you take while she listens to your heartbeat and soft humming, her soft silky hair radiating under the streetlights through the opened window: you were always admiring her, and she knows that.

Before you realized, she was already on top of you, her body hovering. She gently sat on your lap, her chest pressing against yours, her face just an inch away. "Are you ready?" Her sweet breath coating your face as she whispered breathily.

You don't reply due to your nervousness, her red lips forming a curve, as if she knew you were, her fingers running up from your arm to your shoulder, finally on your cheek. Her thumb caress your soft lips and she stared into it.

"Yes Ada." Your late reply caught her off guard, however she responded with a mischevious smirk. Her own lips leaned into yours, embracing it like a gentle caress as you felt her hair brushing your cheeks. The moment felt like hours on end, especially when she crashed her lips into yours, her cherry lipstick smeared all over your lips. She pulled away with a soft groan, her hands still on your back, a tingling sensation traveling all across the nerves in your body.

"This shade suits you," she said, an intentional grin forming on her face as she wiped away some of the lipstick smudged beside your lips. You noticed her smug face, and her lips parted slightly thinking of the right words to say. All you could feel was how her body kept pressing onto yours, a warm and fuzzy feeling inside your chest as her hands slide behind your head.

And the only reason for that was to pull you into another kiss, this time longer. Her intentions weren't as simple as a little affectionate peck on the lips, rather something that you've never knew you would have wanted. An intoxicating taste of her perfume and lipstick was the only distraction, yet it wasn't enough to get you to look away from her. "Eyes on here, sweetie," her quiet alluring voice echoed in your ear, as her sharp sight caught your eyes lingering elsewhere on her hovering body.

That soothing touch of Ada's made you crave more from her, yet she pulled away just in time to keep you begging for more. You adore the way her lips press onto yours, whether it was violently or tenderly, her fingers on your scalp and her tongue intertwining with yours gave you the sensations you needed to get on your knees for her. Which... we would not talk about until later.

As soon Ada kissed you with her full lips, her body pressed onto yours, leaving you whining for more attention. A satisfied smirk lurked under the kiss between you two. Her body pressed further, and her lips invaded yours deeper in connection, leaving no gaps between the both of your bodies.

"Mine." Ada whispered sensually after a gentle pull away from your lips, smudged with her lipstick, a subtle marking of you being hers. Your heart had the pulse quicker than a race car, pounding and about to burst out of your chest in a swift second. Your body trembled nervously, her smooth touch on your curves already overwhelming you in advance, "this is just the start", her expression said.

You felt those butterflies building up, as if they were stacked on top of each other in your abdomen, a warm and fuzzy feeling all over your almost bare body as she stripped you down slowly after your hesitant nod of consent. Your body again trembled with embarassment. "Ada..," she soon sensed your reluctance and leaned in closer to you to rest her lips on your ear. That gentle gesture made your legs spread open ever the slightest, yet she noticed that instinct of yours in a split second.

Her lips parted, quivering with excitement at your sensitive response before softly whispering to you, pressing onto your cold ear, "your body.. it's.. so beautiful and perfect..", and you couldn't comprehend exactly how you felt at that moment. Your mixed emotions were quickly brushed away as her frail thigh slide up to rub against your clothed clit, leaving you gasping for more of her gentle touch, perhaps even more rougher to your liking.

"Please," you muttered with desperation. Thirty minutes, what started with an affectionate kiss led the both of you here on your bed. With the both of you undressed, bare bodies exposed to the cold air as your gaze seldom stayed on the lace red lingerie of Ada's just lying on the ground. Ada caught you almost most of the time, fixing your sight on her amber eyes by forcing you to look at her as the edge of her knee rubbed roughly onto your clit, now that your panties are not there making you reaction more sensitive than ever.

A smirk of lust hid behind Ada's plump lips as her fingers dipped low into your dripping hole, blocking it up and deep inside of you, a loud moan escaping your kiss swollen lips. "That's it baby," she cooed, knowing that her smooth voice drives you absolutely insane especially at such an intimate timing like this. And the feeling of her fingers deep in you causing your weakened legs to jolt, hips jerking forward.

Ada loved every second of seeing you weak in her grip. Curling her fingers, hitting that spot that makes you squirm, she would've done anything to have this interaction with you. Occasionally praising you, knowing you definitely needed more of her words yet teasing you by rejecting your request with a playful chuckle. "So good for me," her voice barely above a whisper as her fingers plunged deeper and making you cum as that spongy spot of your inner walls were overstimulated by her.

You thought things were settled, this was her gift for you but she must've thought she haven't given enough to you. Locking your hips in place and sharing a wet heated kiss with you, Ada soaked your clit for another time, then wetting your slicked folds with her tongue by sliding it between them, with pressure. "Doing so well, dear." Your whines and whimpers gave her drive and desire to push you over the edge, her tongue pumping into you at a more gentle pace than before, yet causing you to react just as sensitively as before.

One final thrust and Ada savoured every drop of your juices. "Open wide," she demanded while your lips parted and forming an 'o' shape as she shoved her slick coated fingers onto your tongue. The way you swirled it around her fingers caused her to groan and bite her lip, your quivering legs holding you up just enough to obey Ada's command.

"Your special gift." Ada whispered sensually, pulling her fingers out of your mouth before giving it a tender peck.

#lvstfv1 #ada wong #fanfiction #resident evil #fanfic #ada wong x reader #smut #resident evil smut #wlw #wlw smut #Spotify

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #614

Top Ten Scenes of People Using Computers in Movies

This week is one of those lists that I’ve had bubbling away for quite a while. Initially it was just going to be “scenes of people typing” but then I realised that most of them were funny because it was a visual thing that didn’t really translate very well into me writing them out into a list. So it has evolved into what you see before you.

I think before we begin there are two very big and obvious “people on computers” movies that aren’t here: Wargames and Hackers. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen both of them but so long ago now I don’t really remember. But I’m always up for cheesy computer scenes, as this list ably demonstrates.

So what do I think makes a good “someone’s using a computer” scene? Well, essentially, I think it has to be really, really daft. That’s what most of these have in common; they just don’t look at all like somebody really using a for-real computer. Usually it’s an actor who you feel has never even been in the same room as a keyboard jabbering away at the keys whilst talking gobbledegook whilst some kind of pseudo-magical thing entirely unrelated to the computer takes place at the same time. Done right, these scenes are gold dust; hilarity of the highest order. Sometimes you sense the filmmakers are in on the joke. Sometimes not.

One thing that I was pretty keen on here, though, was that this was people using computers in a more-or-less recognisable way. So, for instance, I’ve avoided something like the Stellar Cartography scene in Star Trek: Generations as, whilst Picard and Data are technically using a computer, to all intents and purposes it’s two people sat in a planetarium. Similarly, Tony Stark and Bruce Banner create Ultron in Age of Ultron, but it basically amounts to a holographic lightshow. Very reluctantly, I also vetoed Harrison Ford’s photo analysis in Blade Runner; I want to see people typing, y’know? So whilst very few of these are “realistic”, at least they’re – more or less – recognisable.

Right, it’s already late, so let’s type “run” and get on with this.

Hugh Jackman in Swordfish (2001): “The best crackers can do this in sixty minutes. I need someone who can do it in sixty seconds.” So speaks John Travolta as a weirdo bell-end crypto-terrorist (or something) who forces ex-con computer hacker Jackman to diddle with a laptop whist receiving, er, downstairs assistance from a lady. It’s so shitting stupid. It’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen almost every Michael Bay film. And, I dunno, “crackers”? Do people say “crackers”? I mean, it is crackers, so there’s that. It’s so camp, so silly, so unrealistic, they’ve got to have been in on the joke? Surely?

Jonathan Pryce in Tomorrow Never Dies (1997): what Pryce is actually doing here – creating newspaper front pages – isn’t really that ridiculous. It’s just how he types. He’s got a tiny laptop and he seems to just randomly jerk his fingers around in the direction of the keyboard. It’s the most fascinating typing in human history.

Whoopi Goldberg in Jumpin’ Jack Flash (1986): we’re staying Pryce-adjacent but it’s Whoopi who’s the star here, in this beautiful celebration of 1980s VD-Usage. Big monitors, chunky keyboards, low-res fonts: it’s lovely. It’s also, interestingly, quite a good way of visualising somebody in a chatroom, as Goldberg inexplicably ends up in convo with spy-in-hiding Pryce, their relationship playing out entirely via cursor but always seeming dynamic and interesting with some good direction and a lovely, vibrant performance from Goldberg herself.

James Doohan in Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (1986): Scotty and Bones inventing “transparent aluminium” in 1986 is very funny in and of itself, but it’s Doohan’s attempts to use a 20th Century computer that elevates this scene. Dismissing as primitive the inability to just spit instructions into thin air, he picks up the mouse to use as a microphone. Trust me, it’s funny.

Ariana Richards in Jurassic Park (1993): “A Unix system! I know this!” Yes, teenage computer hacker Lex saves the day and gets Jurassic Park back online without Dennis Nedry, thanks to her ability to very slowly navigate a painful first-person interface by holding a mouse incredibly strangely. Look, it was the nineties; everyone just assumed some sort of bad VR was how we were going to interact with computers in the future.

Jeff Goldblum in Independence Day (1996): this is one of the most famous (infamous?) scenes of computer misuse in a movie, and the only reason it’s so low is because the actual use of the computer isn’t that bad, it’s more the implications of it. Because, yes, Goldblum hacks into an advanced alien mothership using (if I recall) a mid-nineties MacBook, and is able to transmit a virus. He gives them a cold! Don’t ask any questions.

Vanessa Redgrave in Mission: Impossible (1996): the most famous scene of computer use in this movie is undoubtedly the bit where Tom dangles off the ceiling at Langly and barely drops a bead of sweat. But I prefer the moment later on, when Redgrave’s Max is trying to upload the NOC list to the internet, via a mobile connection, on a train, in 1996. Wow! What’s kinda great is, in a semi-fantastical spy-adventure-action series (that, moments later, has Cruise jumping off a crashing helicopter onto a train inside a tunnel), the actual use of the computer here is relatively realistic, shockingly so back in the day when accurate depictions of operating systems were few and far between. Even Redgrave’s frustration seems believable.

Richard Pryor in Superman III (1983): another superb, sublime bit of silicone silliness, the only reason this is so low is because I really don’t like this movie. Or, rather, I don’t like any of the stuff with the villains – the film is almost saved by Clark’s new relationship with Lana Lang, and the big where he goes all Tyler Durden in a junkyard. But! Pryor is an unemployed guy who’s never used a computer who – the first time he uses one – discovers to his shock that he’s a savant who can program and hack anything. His hands move with a will of their own. He literally does not know how he knows what to do. It’s still less stupid than Swordfish.

Harrison Ford in Clear and Present Danger (1994): this is one of the sorta-realistic ones, as Ford’s Jack Ryan is trying to get evidence of Henry Czerny’s naughtiness, looking at his files on the computer but hoping his snooping is undiscovered. The OS looks real, it feels genuine, and the most tense moment comes when Ford realises he’s out of printer paper. I’m not even kidding, this draws true stress from whether Ford’s secretary popped to Staples that morning.

Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail (1998): outside of the relatively nice quirk that big corporate dude Hanks uses an IBM PC laptop and flowery arty Ryan uses a MacBook, this is another one that has to represent email and chatroom dialogue visually. And it does an okay job, even if it is rather mawkish and schmaltzy. But more or less it does look like they’re using computers, even if they verbalise and visualise their email writing more than most.

I’ve just realised I’ve got two 1986 films and then two 1996 films back-to-back. What can I say? We didn’t know how to use computers back then.

#top ten #computers #movies #films

[austinpanda]

Dad Letter 052222

22 May 2022

Dear Dad--

I never sent last week’s email, on account of never having finished it. Upon review, however, I did get a good two-thirds into it, so I might as well provide it here, as well as some new content, and attempt to assuage the anguish of your bereavement over having no letter last week by providing an extra-long, extra-juicy one this week. Enjoy. 

I’ll begin by posting what I wrote last Sunday. Here you go:

Yesterday was hot! It was bullshit. It was over 90 degrees outside, and we saw it coming in the weather forecast, so Zach made sure both our air conditioners were installed. We had one portable unit, which is the white thing that I covered with butterfly and flower stickers last year, and a new small-ish window unit that Zach’s parents got us, because when it’s 90 degrees outside, it helps having two zones of comfort in the house, instead of just one. It’s 100% more comfort zones. It’s for the bedroom! It works wonderfully.

Since I got paid, I blew $17 on a pair of hummingbird feeders from Amazon. By the time I realized they were out for delivery, a day earlier than expected, and thought to check outside, they were already here. I whipped up a pitcher of hummer chow and filled the feeders, after first rinsing them thoroughly. I deployed them outside, and waited for a hummingbird to show. And I waited. Checked a few times, after once or twice forgetting that they’re out there when walking by the front door, through which they are visible. Then Zach comes out of the back and I tell him to come look, and he sees the feeders. And RIGHT THEN a ruby throated hummingbird flew up and stopped to feed for a bit. Those things are just so ridiculously pretty and wee! Now it’s raining outside, but I’m still checking every time I walk past the front door, because hummers don’t stop flying around and feeding and doing shit because of the rain, and there are few things cuter than a soggy hummingbird. 

Thanks to my new schedule, my days off are now Sunday and Monday, so…today and tomorrow. Now Sunday is my Saturday, and Monday is my Sunday. Since Monday is now the second day of my weekend, Monday is going to feel weird as shit. Sunday already feels weird as shit. But tomorrow I’ll be home for most of the day by myself, while Zach takes the car to HVAC school and learns about how to make hundos. All the chores will be done by then; not sure what I’m going to do. It’s a small town. Perhaps I’ll walk to the movie theater and see if they’re showing any Viking revenge epics. (They are.) I predict, however, that I’ll stay in, and watch “The UFO Incident” again on YouTube. Mama always said, “That boy’s going to grow up with an unhealthy fixation on Estelle Parsons.” She plays Betty Hill in the movie. Later, historically speaking, she plays Roseanne’s mom. Her voice is distinctive. 

In order to make this letter long enough, I guess it's time I acknowledge a huge secret that I've kept from everyone for years now: I occasionally smoke reefer. I know this comes out of nowhere, but it's true. And it happens that about two and a half years ago, we accidentally slipped and fell into a state where, as long as you don't grow warehouses full right next to the schoolyard, it is legal to buy and consume it. (Growing booze and guns next to schools presumably still A-OK.) Maine only recently (like in the last year) figured out how to get recreational weed shops up and running, and they’re still overpriced. Once we’d settled here, it became apparent that a medical card was the way to go. It would (a) grant me access to medical dispensaries, and (2) that’s cheaper, and © there’s one a stone’s throw from the trailer, and (iv) I might qualify, just by telling them a bunch of TRUE shit!!

So I arranged for a card online, then had a video chat on my phone with a nurse practitioner who asked me about the problems I hoped to address with it. Got the depression! She asks, doing anything about it, like therapy? I’m all, no, take antidepressants. She’s like, what else? I’m like, got the insomnia. She’s like, take anything for that? I’m like, one of the antidepressants happens to help with that, just not as much as I’d like. And she’s like, what else? And I’m like, how about pain? I’m in pain almost every day from my ankles. I think it’s collapsed arches combined with a left ankle that’s overpronating painfully, and a right ankle that’s overpronating really really painfully. She’s like, okay, card for you. 

Turns out that needn’t have been stressful at all for me, because the part about whether I’d receive the card was decided, essentially, the moment I decided I deserved one for medical reasons. Originally, the law that allowed medical marijuana in Maine was more strict, but by the time we got here, a medical marijuana card could be issued for any reason a nurse practitioner would agree to. It could be anything. As long as you derived medical benefit, and didn’t say something like, “I want to get high till my face floats off. You know, by the schoolyard," then that’ll be $40 please, and the card’s in the mail. I went through two years that way, renewing after the first year. Now here’s where it gets…numerical. 

If you want to buy a large amount, that’s enough to last a while, but a small enough amount to be legal and affordable, you can get, say, one ounce. That's like getting 12-pack instead of a single can of soda. At our local recreational dispensary, called FIRESTORM, an ounce can cost up to (I just checked) $360. 

…Okay, that’s all I wrote from last week. I obviously had more story to tell there, but my weekend ended, I was thrown headlong into a busy work week, and it languished until now. To get to the happy conclusion of the ganja epic I was dispensing, the cheapest I ever found ounces of mary jane was for $80. I found a place called Acadia Cannabis that had ounces on sale every week. When I decided I needed to get a new medical marijuana card, I knew that Acadia could provide one at a different location from the one where I’d gone in the past. I went to the different Acadia location. I made sure to go on a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday between 10 am and 4 pm. I filled out the card application. I went into the practitioner’s little office, with her periodic table of marijuana strains poster, and her salt lamp, and her radio playing Midnight at the Oasis, and we chit-chatted. Since I was getting the card in person, I was not given a temporary one, I was given a permanent card, right then and there. 

Then, as I was at the counter waiting to speak with someone about purchasing some completely legal and morally-upbeat drugs, thinking, “Ermahgerd, this experience has been five-star so far, I’m loving it here. I just really, really need them to have inexpensive ounces. This is another bill to pay, like groceries or the electricity bill, and it’s in my interest to keep the cost down wherever I can.” So I look over, and I see a sign they have sitting on a nearby countertop, and it says “EVERY FRIDAY IS FLOWER FRIDAY! …OUNCES FOR $80!” (I was there on a Friday.) 

Needless to say, while remaining outwardly stoic, inwardly I was doing the Snoopy happy dance. I got my ounce, a strain with a dry, innocuous, and clinical sounding kind of name, like (I will check)...Strawberry Bubba Diesel (good lord) and it seems to work. My ankles are thanking me for it as we speak. 

Since another week has gone by, I should have another week’s worth of entertaining social commentary and witty bullshit, but I’m not sure that I do. I did my audit work, five times, and returned home five times. I think the state government is going to send us a bonus state tax refund this year because of surpluses--which is a thing that can happen in a non-red state where the taxes are sufficient to pay the bills and there’s an occasional surplus, which the state government, not being dominated by conservative buttholes, returns to the state population as an additional tax refund to those who paid their state taxes, to circulate it back into the state economy and allow everyone to buy themselves a steak dinner once or twice a damn year--sorry, lost my train of thought there. We should get a few extra hundos back from the state gubmint in a few weeks. Our plan is for me to get (no shit) a chicken fried steak at the Texas Roadhouse, and Zach wants to get himself a steak. The rest of the refund money will be thrown into the volcano of bills, where it will quickly evaporate, to no effect at all. But I haven’t had a chicken fried steak since I left Texas, and this is the only place that sells them here, and they’re called “country fried steak” here, because reasons.

I think that’s enough letter for now! If it were Dune, I would spit on your table and leave, and you’d like it, because I gave you the gift of my body’s moisture. So there.

[theaussietimelord]

Rules: Tag people you want to get to know better.

Tagged by: @brokenbluedoors  (thanks bro!)

Top 3 ships:

Thoschei, Villaneve, Catadora 

Last song:

Fair Play by Lucy McWilliams ft. Malaki

Last movie:

Ummmm I think it might have been Mr Poppers Penguins 

Currently reading:

Only fanfics atm

What food am I craving:

Jelly. Always jelly. And apple juice but it’s not a food

I tag: @v4n1r-artattack @becauseseaotters @i-was-bored-so-this-happened

#only if you want to #pretty sure ive done this one already a few weeks ago #but whatever #wow i defs have a ship type #lol #tag game

[twodimecastle]

fifty bucks & six months.

spencer reid x gender neutral reader new relationship, secret keeping nonsense, 4.5k words, ao3 a/n; turns out i love writing texting fic but tumblr destroys the formatting rip

zero months.

You smile conspiratorially, extending a pinkie towards Spencer and he gives you a skeptical look.

“You know the odds of being found out immediately are-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“Astronomical, I know. I know. But don’t you think it’ll be fun to see how long we can push it?” you wheedle, not caring that your voice sounds more like begging than is strictly dignified because seeing the way Spencer’s nose crinkles in amusement at your heavy handed persuasion is too adorable to pass up. You scoot closer on the couch, tapping the end of his nose with your pinkie finger, letting him catch your hand between his as you continue “I think we’ve got a good shot at hiding it for a little while. It would be like a game.”

Spencer draws your captive hand to his lips, brushing them across your knuckles and watching fondly as you forge ahead in your campaign to persuade him, enjoying the show and the attention too much to tell you he’s already on board. Your eyes are shining with the prospect of the caper, and you’ve made no move to take your hand back from him, and Spencer’s pretty sure he’d be more than happy to sit with you in this moment forever. “I mean-” you go on, gesturing animatedly with your free hand, “you’re like-a really good liar when you want to be. And everyone else always forgets how good you are at it.”

He snorts at that and the sound makes you light up, eyes tracking the arch of his brows, the warmth in his soft brown eyes, memorising the way he looks like this; utterly unbothered, completely at ease. It might be your favourite version of him, but that race has always been a tight one with no clear winner in sight. You have lots of favourite versions of Spencer. Twisting your hand in his, you tangle your fingers together, savouring the way you feel his thumb glide delicately along your skin and the unhidden joy in his face at the simple show of affection.

Time to play your trump card.

“$50 says we can hide it from the whole group for at least six months. If everyone figures it out before then, you win. But if not everyone has worked it out by then, I win.”

The mischievous shine in your eyes is irresistible, and Spencer smiles, disentangling one of his hands from yours to extend his own pinky finger.

“You’re on.”

The words barely make it out of his mouth before you’re colliding with him, pressing your lips to his.

two months.

“So, how long has this whole thing been going on?” Derek’s question catches Spencer off guard, and, based on the way he can see you freeze in his peripheral vision, takes you by surprise as well. Sliding into the driver's seat of the SUV, Derek continues “I hope you didn’t think you were gonna be able to keep me in the dark for long, pretty boy. You should know better than that.”

Following mechanically after him, Spencer takes the passenger seat, trying to frame his next statement as carefully as possible as he hears your door close and the car start. “We were-going to tell you guys-” he begins uncomfortably, glancing back to you for support, but you look just as on edge as he feels. “We were just gonna-keep it to ourselves for a while-before telling Hotch and everything-” he tries again, the mounting tension levering his shoulders higher and higher with every passing moment, but then Derek just laughs, shaking his head.

“Hey, I’m happy for you, kid. For both of you.” He spares a look at you in the back seat through the rear view mirror, and you can feel the tension in your jaw relax, the furrows in your brow straightening out at the note of approval in Derek’s voice. “I’m glad you two finally figured it out,” he says, fondly, and you laugh.

“I bet Spence we could keep it from you guys at least six months,” you explain, reaching forwards through the centre console to link your pinky with Spencer’s, and the touch of your hand releases the last of the tension he had been harbouring as he covers your hand with the other one of his own. He knows Derek clocks the motion, filing it away in his mind somewhere, but he doesn’t care about the scrutiny so much right now. Not when your hand is so warm and comfortable in his.

Derek reaches for the dial on the radio and flicks through the channel, thinking about something, and as you watch, a slow mischievous smirk spreads across his face a moment later before he glances first at Spencer and then at you.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says to you, and Spencer can feel a familiar grin tugging at his own lips as he watches a plan take shape in his friend’s eyes. “I’m happy to sit on this information for a while for a cut of the winnings from whichever one of you comes out on top.” He snorts good naturedly as he continues “I have my own bet to win with Prentiss, so if you two help me win that one, I’ll cut you in too.”

“A quid pro quo of sorts,” Spencer says slowly, and he feels your fingers tighten around his, as you snort softly, and he knows instinctually you’re grinning the same way you always do when you’re winning a game. “I think we can do that.”

Derek grins, turning the music up as he nods, eyes on the road. “Then you two love birds have got yourselves a deal.”

two months and two weeks.

PG: youre not as slick as you think you are ;)

YN: ???

PG: ;))))))))) you should invest in some concealer for your work bag sweetness or tell the good doctor to pay more attention to whats visible in your work clothes

YN: oh my fucking god wait how do you even know thats how that happened

PG: im all knowing and all seeing im like the omnipotent goddess of the fbi

YN: derek blabbed

PG: he sang like a canary but also im an omnipotent goddess im also totally clued in on the whole bet situation with em so for the low low price of every single juicy detail about how this adorableness went down you can buy my silence :)

YN: im getting derek decaf coffee on all coffee runs from now on >:( traitors dont get caffeine

PG: darling sweet angel i need deets all of them like immediately

YN: >:( fine ok so. after that case down in georgia a few months ago? the weird one? with the creepy mother son thing?

PG: omg yuck pls dont remind me im here for the CUTENESS not the MURDER

YN: sorryyyyyyy anyway so spence was like being super weird about it all on the plane and whatever but he was doing that super annoying thing where he ignores it and says hes fine so everyone leaves him alone

PG: YEAH why does everyone here do that ALL THE TIME its SO annoyingggg

YN: ikr its insufferable and like super not subtle ANYWAY. spence was being weird and whatever and i just. refused to let him sulk on his own or whatever like i could tell there was something bothering him and so after work i insisted that we were gonna get like shitty diner food or whatever and watch a movie and he knows better than to say no to me

PG: smart boy

YN: so we got fries and milkshakes and then went back to his place to watch a movie and he was still like weird and silent and like brooding yknow? but whatever just figured hed talk about it when he was ready so i put on a movie and offered to make popcorn and then he was just staring at me and he looked so SAD and TIRED and i thought id done something wrong like the poor guy looked like he was gonna cry and i was panicking over fucking popcorn and then he says ‘why are you always so nice to me?’

PG: oh my god hes like if a sad victorian orphan was actually a triplicate phd holder

YN: i was SO thrown off i was like spencer. spencer were best friends. ive been forcing you to hang out with me for years now why do you THINK im being nice to you its bc i care about you asshole and then. like after another million years after letting me sweat it out over whether hes about to cry for like fucking years the asshole grabs my hand and says. i shit you not. ‘you know im in love with you, right?’ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PG: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YN: anyway hes my boyfriend now :’) dont tell anyone tho gotta win the bet

four months.

Lingering by the elevator, you glance around at the uncharacteristically silent office building, waiting for Spencer to leave the bullpen. The sound of his footfalls drawing nearer makes you smile and you mentally applaud yourself for suggesting the two of you remained behind after disembarking from the plane, taking advantage of the manufactured privacy to take the same car home, back to his apartment.

When he sees you waiting for him, he can’t help the soft fond smile that tugs at his face, as he reaches for your hand, sliding his fingers into yours with a gentle squeeze, the quiet of the building allowing him to indulge in the show of affection. You return the squeeze, leaning your head on his shoulder with a yawn and as he presses a fond kiss to your temple he’s rewarded by a sleepy hum of approval from you that sends a rush of quiet joy shooting through him.

“At least we won’t be sleeping in hotel beds again tonight,” you say, voice weary, and Spencer nods as he shuffles you into the elevator. The doors slide shut and the elevator starts to move and in the moment of absolute privacy, you steal a kiss, tilting your chin up to catch his lips with yours, revelling in the soft huff of surprise he lets out, even as he smiles against your mouth. Even after months, the simple act of kissing Spencer still feels new and thrilling somehow, like you can’t quite believe it’s something you’re allowed to do.

His nose brushes yours and he breathes “unless something big comes up, we get a sleep in tomorrow too,” and the way you beam at him sends his heart racing in his chest, unable to look away from the fondness shining in your eyes.

As the two of you exit the elevator and make your way through the Bureau car park, you tuck yourself against his side, wedging yourself under his arm with a happy sigh, eager to get yourself horizontal and asleep as fast as possible. Spencer brushes his lips against your temple again as the two of you close in on his car, almost free and clear of the office when a voice behind the two of you brings you up short.

“Reid?”

Spencer is reacting before his mind catches up, turning on his heel towards the sound of Hotch’s voice echoing through the parking lot, conscious of the incriminating way you’re still tucked against his side, even as his brain is rifling frantically through any possible excuses for the current circumstances.

“Hotch-” you step away from Spencer, cheeks flaming, not wanting to chance a look at him. “I-we-thought everyone else had gone home,” you trail off lamely, trying your hardest not to balk under Hotch’s ominously impassive scrutiny. A second passes, then another, and the short silence feels like months, or years even as the three of you stand locked in a stalemate.

“I take it the two of you would prefer to keep this under wraps?” He asks, finally, and it registers with Spencer, somewhat belatedly, that Hotch’s tone isn’t admonishing. It isn’t enough to dissipate the tension coiling in Spencer’s muscles just yet, but he spares a glance at you as he nods, and a moment later, Hotch gives the two of you a curt nod of his own. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, a shade of irony colouring his voice. “If you two fill out the paperwork for in-team relationships for me, I’ll keep it to myself. I understand privacy is hard to come by in our office.”

The words take a while to fully sink in, and you’re conscious that you’re standing there blinking and gaping at your boss like a bemused fish for a good few seconds before you’ve composed yourself enough to say “absolutely, sir. Of course. Thank you.”

Hotch nods again, heading towards his own car, and as he passes the two of you, a brief smile flashes across his face.

“Congratulations, you two. Get some sleep.”

four months and three weeks.

Spencer isn’t sure how late it is, but he knows you’re not asleep yet, the faint glow of your phone screen casting faint distorted shadows across his room as your free hand rests lightly on his chest. In the dark blue twilight of his room, the space feels undefined and dream like somehow, the line between his mind and his surroundings blurry or indistinct somehow, and as you huff out a near silent laugh at something on the screen in your hand, a thought rises to the surface of his thoughts like flotsam on an unwanted tide.

The more clinical part of his mind notes the autonomic response in his body, the way his heart lurches unpleasantly in his chest, heart rate rising with an influx of cortisol through his nervous system, automatically rifling through ways to control the anxiety response. Age old instinct surges forwards, starting to push his spiralling anxiety down out of sight so as not to bother you with it, but then your hand shifts infinitesimally on his chest, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his pyjama shirt, and for once his body is miles ahead of his brilliant mind, your name is leaving his lips before he’s really aware of it happening.

Your gaze flashes up from your phone at the sound of his voice, soft and hesitant, and you let the screen go dark as you set it down. You can feel Spencer’s heart hammering against his ribs under your palm, and your brows knit together in concern as you shift closer to his side, tracing gentle circles over his shirt with your fingertips, the repetitive motion intended to soothe, though you’re not sure if it’s for his benefit or yours.

“Yeah, baby?” You ask softly, working hard to keep the rising worry from your voice. After three years of friendship and almost six months of dating, you know him well enough to sense when his propensity for overthinking and catastrophizing is slipping out of his control. You can feel his chest rise as he inhales sharply, whatever he’s about to say cut off by second guessing, doing nothing to pacify your concern. “Spence? Is everything okay?” You ask again.

“This-bet-hiding our relationship-it’s-” he trails off, throat tight as he rolls onto his side, facing away from you, and smushing his face into the pillow, already wishing he hadn’t said anything. You’re the kindest person he’s ever met, but offering up this kind of raw insecurity feels like pulling teeth. Even if it’s you. Especially if it’s you. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to find out if you care about him enough to stay when his racing mind gets the better of him. The pillow muffles his voice as he says “never mind.”

You feel your own heart rate tic up in response to that, matching the wild beat of Spencer’s that you could feel under your palm only a second ago. “Baby, talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

He shakes his head, face still hidden in the pillow. “It’s stupid.”

He can feel the rush of your breath on his back as you sigh, and your voice is almost achingly patient as you say softly “it’s not stupid if it matters to you.” There’s a long pause, and you press yourself against his back, settling close and letting your hand slide over his side to rest on his chest, the heat of his skin sinking into yours even through his thin shirt. In spite of his height, he feels so small as you wrap yourself around him, drawing closer, trying to reassure him without yet knowing what he needs to be reassured of. “Spence?”

“Are you ashamed of-being with me? Is that why you want to hide it?” The words are almost whispered, the sound almost lost against his pillow and your heart sinks, plummeting faster and further than if you’d dropped it off the side of a skyscraper. You should’ve known he might worry about that, should have realised it might have felt that way. Remorse rises hot and bitter in your throat and you swallow it down, trying to steady your voice.

“Spencer. Sweetheart. No. Never. I could never be ashamed. I love you. I’m so sorry.” Your arms wrap more tightly around him and you bury your face against the crook of his neck, the tension you can feel in every inch of his body making you feel more cruel and short-sighted than you already do. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise it might feel like that. I could never be ashamed of being with you, Spence. You’re my favourite person.” He takes the kind of shaky, shallow breath that comes with trying not to cry and your heart breaks a little more as one of his hands slowly moves to cover yours where it rests against his chest, just over his heart.

As his hand rests over yours, his thumb strokes lightly along your knuckles, and he knows you know him well enough to notice the way his hand trembles, just a little, because then your hand is shifting against his, turning to clumsily tangle your fingers with his, holding tighter to him as he tries to collect himself, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes squeeze shut. He can hear the contrition in your voice as you say softly “I’ve never really liked having people know everything about what’s going on in my life. And I love our friends but-something like this, that’s so-special? So new? I wanted to be able to keep it to just us for a while.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice comes out a little shaky, scarcely more than a whisper, and it’s more than you can take as you pull back and gently force him to roll over to face you. He’s not crying, but his eyes are glassy and you recognise the fight to keep the tears unshed in the tight set of his jaw and the hard line of his lips. Leaning on your elbow, you lift your free hand to gently smooth out the furrows of his brow, letting your fingers linger along the planes of his face.

“Why are you sorry,” you ask gently. “You don’t need to be sorry, baby. Not for talking to me about things that bother you. We can tell everyone else tomorrow, if you want? We can call off the bet. Derek will live. If he’s got a problem with it I’ll turn all his shirts into crop tops.”

He can tell the joke is a last bid attempt to make him smile, to ease his fear, and it works. In spite of the anxious weight in his chest that feels like it’s pressing him into the mattress, Spencer laughs weakly, meeting your eyes, and he watches as a relieved smile breaks across your face, releasing your lower lip from where you’d trapped it worriedly between your teeth. The unmitigated affection that floods into your eyes renders him momentarily breathless as he takes in the moment. You’re still here, still trying to take care of him. Just as kind and steadfast as ever.

“No,” he says eventually, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you down on top of him like a living weighted blanket, letting your warmth chase the bulk of the tension from his body and luxuriating in the way you curl into him, one hand sliding into his hair. “We shouldn’t call off the bet. We still have to take Emily’s money, remember?”

Your sleepy laugh is the last thing he hears before his eyes close and the feel of your body wound around his lulls him to sleep.

five months.

SR: Can I talk to you about something?

DM: you dying or something? that’s a really fuckin ominous text to recieve out of the blue

SR: I’m not dying, why would that be what you assumed? I just have a question.

DM: just a figure of speech but what’s up?

SR: It’s about your bet with Emily. What’re the terms for it?

DM: wym?

SR: What exactly did you two make the bet about? What needs to happen in order for you to win the bet?

DM: does this count as collusion?

SR: Technically yes, but calling it collusion implies a certain degree of illegality.

DM: whatever anyway the terms i made with em were that you’d make some kind of move before your birthday but she reckoned you were gonna need some kind of near death experience to do anything about your crush why?

SR: I’m just making sure I have all the information.

DM: what’s going on pretty boy? you planning something?

SR: Maybe.

DM: not a helpful answer reid is everything good?

SR: Everything’s fine. We’re just figuring some stuff out. Nothing to worry about.

DM: is there something you’re not telling me?

SR: Don’t worry about it.

five months, three weeks and six days.

In the chaos that was the scramble from the briefing room to the jet, you haven’t yet had the chance to speak to Spencer about the outcome of his most recent thesis defence panel. By the time you’ve got a moment to breathe, the jet is underway, coasting across the country towards Montana, the whole team settled in for the six hour flight. You corner him in the tiny kitchen area of the jet as he’s making a mug of mediocre coffee, fingers tapping out an absent minded rhythm on the countertop as the coffee machine whirs, clearly not paying attention to anything outside of his head.

“Hey, boy genius.” He jumps, whirling around, eyes wide with surprise, and you smile fondly. “So?” You demand, and Spencer raises an eyebrow in confusion. You snort, rolling your eyes as you elaborate. “Your defence panel. Did it go okay?”

You’re shifting your weight and fidgeting restlessly with the belt loops on your pants and as he studies you for a moment, it occurs to Spencer that you’re nervous for him over this outcome. The thought brings an almost giddy smile to his face.

“You know this isn’t my first thesis defence panel, right?” He says mildly, deliberately burying the lede, enjoying the way you scowl in irritation too much to answer your question right away, too enamoured with this display of concern on his behalf.

“Don’t be difficult, Doctor Reid. It’s still a big deal.” He just shrugs noncommittally, and you huff, swatting his arm lightly. “So did it go well?” You ask again, eyes narrowing as you try to dissect his microexpressions, trying to discern the answer he seems determined to keep from you for yourself. A few seconds later, he relents.

“I can now add degree number six to my wall.” He confirms. Getting degrees doesn’t hold the same rush of pride for him now, the accomplishment feeling somewhat less exceptional as he acquires more of them, but the way your face lights up with pride for him reminds him how special the things he’s capable of can be. You’ve always made him feel like more than the sum of his parts somehow, like something infinitely more precious than he always assumed he is.

“I fucking knew it. That’s amazing, Spence,” you say, chest warm and full with pride and love, and his almost shy smile in return is enough to make a decision for you in a split second. Your hand dips into your back pocket, drawing something out, and you carefully hide it from view in your palm as Spencer tracks the motion curiously with his eyes.

Your eyes are shining with affection and something that looks like mischief and the way you’re smiling at him is more than enough to divert his attention as you step closer, just barely noticing as you slip something into his hand. You’re dangerously, distractingly close now, and he’s conscious, if somewhat distantly, that neither of you is concealed from the rest of the team, scant meters away in the seating area of the jet. But you’re smiling and close enough for him to feel your breath on his face and suddenly your lips are on his, and even after nearly seven months of being able to touch you like this, it’s enough to make him forget everything else as he melts into the contact, savouring the warmth of your skin and the faint smell of your shampoo.

You pull back a second later, the kiss over almost as soon as it started, but it’s enough to attract attention, and you can hear a belated ‘oh SHIT’ from Emily in the main cabin of the jet. In your peripheral vision, you can see money changing hands, your friends scrambling to react, but you don’t look at them, choosing to enjoy the bemused, affectionate look on Spencer’s face as his brain catches up to the events unfolding around the two of you.

“I was tired of keeping it a secret,” you say fondly, loud enough only for him to hear. “You win.”

Blinking in confusion, he finally tears his gaze away from yours, fingers uncurling to reveal the fifty dollar bill you had pressed into his palm right before you kissed him. The penny drops and he snorts with laughter, shaking his head in half hearted indignation as his other arm loops around you, pulling you in, letting you rest your head on his shoulder, hiding your face from the rest of the team as he kisses your temple, revelling in the way you wind yourself around him in response.

“I was gonna do this in like two days. I wanted you to win,” he murmurs against your hairline, and he can feel your faint laughter.

“Too bad, baby. I’m used to getting my way,” you say, pulling back to steal another quick kiss before peeling yourself out of his arms with a wink, turning to face the onslaught of ‘care to fucking explain that’ and ‘I fucking told you so’ from the rest of your friends, tugging him with you by your joined hands.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid/you #spencer reid/reader #reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #dr spencer reid #my writing #spencer reid fluff

[giorno-plays-piano]

Vicious

Part IX

Pairing: Steve x reader, Bucky x reader, Thor x reader, Loki x reader, Peter x reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, stalking, possessiveness, theft, all characters are adults.

Words: 1574.

Summary: Transferring to Stark Academy that has only allowed to take in female students last semester, you realize you are just one of three young women among hundreds of students. Your things are constantly being stolen, and soon you begin fearing for your safety.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V |  Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII

________

You didn't know what else to say, feeling ashamed. Who cared about your family circumstances? Definitely not Steve Rogers, a man you met just a couple of weeks ago and who knew nothing about you. Why did you say something like that in the first place?

You didn't wanna look at his face and see him feeling guilty because he didn't know how to comfort you. You didn't need to be comforted. You didn't need anything at all. It was just a simple cold, right?

Despite that, you suddenly started talking from beneath your blankets, "I have a younger brother. When he was born, we found out he was having severe asthma. His childhood was terrible, he had constantly been sick, I remember him being in and out the hospital all the time. Of course, because of his condition, my parents spent most of the time with him. He was just a little sick kid."

You hated yourself for talking, for showing something to Steve he shouldn't have known because he wasn't your friend, but you couldn't force yourself to stop.

"On the other hand, I am lucky to have good health. I didn't really got very sick, so, well, I didn't need help like my brother. So, I'm used to taking of myself. I'm a big girl, I don't need my mom to dance around me just because I have a cold."

Of course, you didn’t. You were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and even of Steve didn't show up, you'd be alright by yourself. You'd just take your acetaminophen, and then everything would be ok.

You kept silent, staring at the inside of the blanket and wishing Steve would just disappear, leaving you to your misery. You didn’t see his face, and you were glad you didn't. What he must think about you? That you were craving for his attention like a spoiled kid? Shit, it was so embarrassing. You were an adult, for goodness sake!

"I don't know about you, but when I had a flu sachet, it would make me fall asleep really quick. And when I was feeling sleepy, I would start thinking about the things I loved most because I hoped I would see them in a dream." Instead of feeling ever more ashamed, you listened to Steve's soft voice and thought you were lucky it was him being here with you now. "It actually worked, and I have been having my best dreams when I was asleep, sick. What are the things you love most?"

Surprised, you looked up at him and saw the most gentle expression on a face of a guy you had ever met. Why did he look at you like that? Why was there no pity on his face? Why was it making you cry like you were a ten year old kid? Before he could see anything, you hid beneath the blanket again and kept silent for a couple of moments to calm down.

"I love lemon pies my grandma used to make me, and her garden. She had tomatoes and cabbage and strawberries that smelled like summer. I loved watering them nearly every day because I thought I was a little forest witch who lived in her pretty cottage in the woods."

You didn't know why you were telling him this, but Steve has a strange effect on you. Or was it cold? You had no idea, but it didn’t really matter. All you were thinking about was the way fresh tomatoes smell when you'd leaned down to water them, and the sound of bees flying above strawberry's flowers. Your grandma was taking care of her cabbage - a very capricious guest in her garden - and you could hear her working, cursing grandpa for making the patches too wide in that funny voice of hers. Then she'd stood up, wiped the sweat with the back of her hand, and called you to come back to the cottage because if was time for dinner. You'd run to wash your hands in a barrel of water near the big apple tree when grandma didn't see, and soon you were sitting with her, eating her famous cabbage soup and then having a piece of a lemon pie because you worked so well today.

You could almost feel the taste on the tip of your tongue.

By the time you woke up, Steve was long gone: it was the middle of the night, and instead of him you saw a thermos with a still warm chicken soup on a chair, waiting for you. He sent you a message that you could call him at any time of the day - or night - and that he wanted you to have a bit more sleep to get better. After you had a few more sips of his soup, you fell asleep again, feeling warm and fuzzy.

_______

The weekend went fast. It was the first time in several years you spent so much time in bed. Steve kept appearing at your door from time to time with a new bags of food despite you telling him you had your own, but he always insisted you should it something fresh and warm. Surprisingly, he wasn't the only one at your door: Thor suddenly showed up with his whole team, bringing you notes for the upcoming exams they collected altogether, apparently. Loki sent you a message if you needed anything, and Peter left contacted you on Instagram, leaving you links to games you could play so you wouldn't feel bored. Even Bucky gave you a call, asking if he could come and give you a few packs of Neo Citran for your cold, but you kindly refused: Steve literally brought you a yearly supply of this.

It was strange. Of course, when you were in high school, your friends grew worried about you when you had been sick, but there was nothing else to it. Wasn't it always like this? Nobody came to see you. Nobody brought you soup or gave you meds or anything. Despite feeling embarrassed, you realized you actually liked it when somebody was close to you like that. It was comforting seeing Steve popping up and not having to worry about how pretty you looked: he laughed when he saw you getting all shy because you were in your pyjamas. He said he definitely didn't expect you laying on your bed in an evening gown.

Before you realized it, you were already getting better. It was just a cold, really. Soon your throat was no longer sore, and while you were still sneezing, your temperature dropped down to normal, so on Monday you were ready to come back to school as planned. Funny enough, you no longer cared if you passed your exams, having 100%. You didn’t talk about it with Steve, but Peter was laughing like crazy about that when you told him.

Funny. They no longer looked so scary to you. They were just a couple of boys, weren't they? Regardless all those scary rumors and stuff, they were just guys. Maybe they were weird and stupid and a little bit scary because you didn't know them, they were still alright. Thor said it to you, didn't he?

Monday was Bucky's day, so, once you were done dressing, he nocked at your door: you were feeling a bit shy, watching him in that leather jacket and torn jeans he kept wearing the whole year around, apparently. Barnes looked like a teenage girl's dream. He smelled like cigarettes - although he said he was trying to quit - and pinewood. Just like Thor, he liked to skip classes he didn't enjoy much, but he was smart enough to pass the exams. Funny enough, he had a motorcycle.

Again, you wondered how come girls weren't coming from a city on a bus just to go see him.

"Are you sure you’re feeling better?" He asked you softly. "You can stay home today."

"No, no, I'm perfectly alright, thank you! How are you?" Smiling, you closed the door and hid the key in your bag.

"I'm good, thank you."

He didn't speak much, but as you walked in silence, you thought it was comforting - not talking at all and feeling good about it. While Bucky looked like a scary biker, in fact, his calm and friendly demeanor only helped you relax around him. Besides, it was funny how students seemed to give him way whenever they saw him, and you thought if Steve was the King, then Bucky was the Knight.

Before you went into the your classroom, he suddenly stopped you, "Listen, I wanted to say I have your stuff."

You blinked, "What stuff?"

You didn't give him any of your stuff. Actually, after Steve gathered you all in the student council room, you only met Bucky this morning for the first time.

"The stuff those freaks took. Your... your clothes, I mean." He muttered under his breath, and you gaped at him.

Your underwear. He found your bra and panties those guys took from your room.

"Wait... how?" Staring at Bucky who, apparently, was feeling a bit embarrassed talking about it, you thought how on Earth he got those things.

There was only one way he could, right?

"Bucky, was it you who beat those guys?"

It took him a couple of seconds to turn his face to you and then sigh, "Yes, it was me."

_________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki  @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherub @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @buckybarnesplumwhore @jaysayey @megzdoodle @gotnofucks @lux-ravenwolf @ximebebx @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @sourpatchspinster @biiskuitx @stupendouslovegardener @iheartsebandchris @lovelydarkdaydream @soleil-dor @illyrianprincess @vampirestrawberries @goodgodimaweirdperson @frontmanash @freya-heya @yandematic @mariatietacapitu @d3monslust @maybesandohnos @ibeatuptwinks @mangobangi @nectav @whatever-happened-to-the-ducks @teabutnerdy ​ @srrymydood @crazylittlereader2474

#bucky barnes x reader #dark bucky barnes #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers #thor x reader #dark loki #loki x reader #dark thor #peter parker x reader #dark peter parker #yandere

[erin-bo-berin]

Prove It

MASTERLIST

This was an anon request of Spencer getting mad at being teased and being motivated enough to prove he’s not vanilla. This took forever from the time it was first requested for me to write and post it, so I’m so sorry to the anon who requested it. It feels like it’s been FOREVER since I’ve posted a smut too, so enjoy some smutty Spencer to start your week. Happy reading!

Spencer Reid/Reader

Rating: M (smut, rough sex)

Word Count: 4,246

“I will never understand it.”

“Understand what?” you asked.

You sat down in one of the chairs in the jet, across from coworker and teammate Derek Morgan.

You and the team you were a part of, the Behavioral Analysis Unit—BAU for short—of the FBI had just solved another case and were on the way home.

You’d seen plenty of sickos before, so another one didn’t seem to surprise you. Of course, it was disgusting and aggravating, horrifying and awful, but you never pretended to understand unsubs in the first place. So you were quite curious about what Morgan was thinking out loud about.

Spencer Reid plopped down in the chair next to you with his cup of coffee.

How the man managed to live off coffee and actually go to sleep was a mystery to you. At this point it would benefit him to just have his coffee injected into him through IV, that’s how much he consumed.

“This S&M stuff,” Morgan waved his hand, “It’s insane.”

The case they’d just recently closed had involved a guy who had taken his violent sexual desires a step too far and found himself turned on by actually murdering women. Whether it was by choking or gagging, somehow he’d discovered he got a sexual release from killing his female partners.

What started as auto erotic asphyxiation—something that was incredibly dangerous to begin with—had turned to something more sinister and even more deadly.

“When done right, it’s actually not as bad as some of these unsubs make us believe,” Spencer said.

“I’m sure you know all about it, don’t you kid?” Morgan replied, sarcastically.

“Anyway,” he continued, before Spencer could cut in again, “I’m not judging people who do it, it just seems like even when it’s done right, it’s too dangerous to even be exciting. It’d be a mood killer for me.”

“Oh don’t tell me you don’t bring out your dominant side every once and awhile,” you smirked, teasing him.

“Hey, I’m all for some good rough sex. I’m not as vanilla as pretty boy here, but I’m not about to emotionally and physically scar Savannah.”

“Hey! What’s that’s supposed to mean?!” Spencer protested.

Savannah was Morgan’s wife, now of three years. They had a son together, Hank. Being a parent according to Morgan, you didn’t get much “mommy and daddy time”, but even then, it didn’t stop him from shamelessly sharing details about his sex life. You got used to it; it was just a Derek thing anyway.

“Sure, I’ve done some tying up and spanking, but that’s mild compared to some practices in BDSM. I once asked Reid about it and unfortunately learned more than I ever wanted to about it.”

“Excuse me,” Spencer broke in, “What’s the vanilla remark supposed to mean?”

Both yours and Derek’s heads turned to see Spencer’s brows furrowed.

“Kid, vanilla ice cream is spicier than you,” Morgan teased.

“Oh come on, that’s not true!” Spencer retorted, exasperated.

“I’m sorry Reid, I just can’t imagine you being kinky. I mean do you just spout facts during sex or what?”

You held back a snicker although you heard the rest of the team chuckling.

“No, I don’t,” Spencer flushed.

You averted your eyes from his gaze.

You and Spencer had been dating for a little while, the team none the wiser to your relationship. You couldn’t quite defend him without giving it away.

It wasn’t really a secret per se, you just mutually decided not to say anything until it became more serious. You had only slept together a few times anyway, so it wasn’t like you were familiar with his sexual proclivities.

“You’re more vanilla than Vanilla Ice,” Morgan joked, making you choke on your sip of water, laughing.

“How would you know anyway?” Spencer crossed his arms, his face now a deep red, “I could be kinkier than you know.”

“Dude, when’s the last time you even slept with a girl?” Morgan asked with a raised brow, “Wasn’t it that bartender Austin from a case 11 years ago?”

Spencer pressed his lips together tightly. He wasn’t going to say anything and you knew it because it would give away yours and his personal business.

“That’s what I thought. Vanilla,” Derek laughed, standing to refill his tumbler with more whiskey, “Don’t worry Pretty Ricky, not everyone has to be an animal in bed.”

He patted Spencer’s shoulder as he walked by to head to the back of the jet—and the whiskey decanter.

You could tell by Spencer’s pursed lips that he was annoyed.

You promised yourself that when the jet landed, you would apologize.

•

You had been wrong.

Spencer wasn’t annoyed.

He was pissed.

“Spencer, I’m sorry,” you repeated for the hundredth time.

Once the jet had landed, everyone went their separate ways, so no one was the wiser when you’d climbed into Spencer’s car. You had spent more time at his place lately than your own, so you were heading back to his apartment with him.

The entire drive was filled with tense silence. His jaw stayed clenched all the way home.

“Spence, please talk to me. If I hurt your feelings, that wasn’t my intention.”

You followed him into his apartment, watching as he sat down his go bag and satchel by the door. You sat your own things near his, as well.

You didn’t miss how tense he was, indicating his anger.

“Spence-” you began, but got cut off by his sharp tone.

“Go into the bedroom, take off all your clothes and get on the bed,” he snapped.

You were taken back, unsure if you’d heard him right the first time.

“What?”

“I said, go into the bedroom, take off all your clothes and get on the bed. I won’t repeat myself. And don’t make me do it myself cause you will regret it.”

You stood frozen in place for a second, your mouth opening and closing. By the look on his face, you could tell he was serious. 

“O-Okay,” you stammered, walking backwards to the bedroom.

You had no idea what he had planned, but deep down, you could feel the tingle of excitement beginning to work its way to the surface. Maybe some rough sex would ease his anger.

You were out of your shirt and pants before you reached the bed. You pulled off your bra, letting it fall from your fingertips and then rid your underwear before climbing onto the bed like you were asked to do, laying back.

It was at least a good ten minutes before Spencer came into the room, with something in each hand.

“What’s that?”

He didn’t answer you. 

He sat what appeared to be a glass of ice on the nightstand and grabbed one of your wrists, starting to tie it to the bedpost with what you now realized was one of his ties.

You watched as he tied the opposite one before you spoke.

“Spence, I-”

“Quiet. I don’t want to hear another word from you unless I say to speak,” he growled, climbing onto the bed, hovering over you.

His face lingered above yours, his lips not far from your own. He didn’t kiss you yet, but you could feel his warm breath fanning over your face, the anticipation of his lips finally being on yours making you anxious. 

His nose nudged yours gently as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes lidded, although they occasionally flicked up toward yours. He knew how much you wanted him to kiss you and he was using that to his advantage.

Finally, it came, feather light. It was like kissing a cloud, the faint touch not nearly enough to satiate your needs. You tried to lean upwards to meet his lips again, taking what you wanted, what you needed, but he pulled out of your reach, a wicked smirk on his face.

“Oh so this is how it’s going to be?” you mock pouted.

“My bed, my rules,” he answered.

The anticipation of this kiss made your heart race and your breath hitch. If he was willing enough to deprive you this easily and this early on, what else was he capable of?

When his lips finally met yours, it was in a surprisingly gentle manner, considering you were currently tied to his bedposts. His mouth glided along with yours, the intensity picking up rather quickly. 

His hunger and anger seemed to meld into one as he kissed you roughly, pulling back enough to capture your lower lip between his, his teeth softly scraping over it. A small, satisfied sigh emitted from you, against his lips.

Your mouth parted as you continued to enjoy the feel of his mouth on yours, his tongue being both graceful and teasing at the same time, it moving swiftly over your bottom lip.

You were already struggling with your restraints, wanting to touch him as he kissed you. Normally, your touch was everywhere on him when you kissed. From his face to his shoulders and chest and in his curls, you ravished being able to touch him. But you didn’t have that luxury right now and it was absolutely killing you.

He pulled away, lips hovering over your jaw as he kissed it just slightly, ready to move on to other areas.

“By the time I’m done with you, you’ll have more than enough proof that I’m anything but vanilla,” he whispered huskily, placing a kiss against your throat.

Your thighs clamped inadvertently as you suddenly became even more turned on than you had been previously. He reached over you, towards the ice, grabbing a cube.

You watched him intently, gasping sharply when the shock of cold touched your skin, just along your collarbone.

“You gonna be a good girl and do what I say?” he asked, sliding the ice cube along your chest.

You nodded eagerly, biting down on your lip as he moved the ice over the swell of your breast and across your nipple making them tighten, both from the cold and your arousal. His lips followed the trail of ice over your breasts, tongue moving out to encircle your nipple and flick it. He repeated it on the opposite side and you gave a moan of approval at his explorations.

A trail of water was left behind on your skin as he continued on, gliding the ice down the middle of your chest towards your stomach. You felt goosebumps prickle your skin at the continuous icy cold sensation.

“You’re so hot, you’re making the ice melt quickly,” he purred.

His touch left you as he reached back towards the nightstand to grab another cube. Apparently he’d been right, as the first cube had melted completely. 

Once the coolness touched your skin again you found yourself gasping. As tantalizing as this teasing was, you were extremely turned on by it. You could feel the heat within your body, your core already starting to pulsate with arousal.

“I really hate that I can’t touch you,” you groaned, tugging on your restraints.

“But that’s what makes it fun, sweetheart,” he grinned, placing a kiss on your stomach.

The ice cube moved down one of your sides, over your hip, where he gave it a playful squeeze. Then the cold hit the top of your thighs, his other hand gliding to the top of the opposite one.

You were desperate at the point and automatically widened the space between your legs. If anything, you were going to let him get a good view of just how wet you were.

His eyes flickered downwards then back up towards your face, a satisfied smirk on his lips. You squirmed, anxious for him to do anything.

“Problem, love?” he cooed.

You glared, arching your hips in an attempt to get some sort of contact.

He chuckled, spreading your legs further. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but the ice moving over your outer lips definitely wasn’t it.

You hissed at the sudden cold, but you didn’t hate it at all. Not like you hated these fucking restraints. You cursed when he pressed it against your clit.

“Fuck, that feels good,” you moaned.

He hummed, looking up at you through his lashes. You groaned in frustration, throwing your head back against the pillow, tugging at your bound wrists again.

You wanted to push his head or his hands to your throbbing core; maybe both at this rate.

“Spencer, please,” you whimpered.

“Okay,” he relented, sitting back on his heels, “You’ve been a good girl so far.”

He reached over you, pulling the knotted ties loose from around your wrists. It was like sweet freedom to you. 

Before you could even touch him, he’d taken a hold of you, rolling you over so you were straddling his stomach.

“Ooh, I’m in control? I like,” you grinned, leaning down to kiss him.

You didn’t quite make it to his lips.

“Think again.”

He grabbed the back of your thighs, roughly pulling you up to sit on his face. This, you hadn’t suspected.

“Oh god,” you moaned lowly as his tongue slid up your outer lips.

His hands held your thighs tightly and he wasted no time diving right in. His tongue flicked your clit and you had to grab a hold of the headboard just to make sure you didn’t collapse on top of him.

Of course oral sex had been a part of your sex life with Spencer prior to this, but never in this way. He was usually more timid about it. But right now, he went for it in a very enthusiastic manner.

“Fuck, Spence.”

You groaned, his lips circling your clit to suck on it briefly before releasing it with a tiny pop of his mouth. His tongue flicked over it again, alternating in speed and pressure.

You had thought it couldn’t get any better until you felt a finger slide into you. You could’ve sworn you almost lost your mind at that point. His finger slowly pumped in and out of you, matching the now slower speed of his tongue that seemed to be licking everywhere but your clit.

“Dammit Spencer,” you groaned, slightly grinding against his mouth for some friction.

You jerked a bit, a surprised squeal coming from you when his hand came down on your ass. It wasn’t a bad reaction though, it had just excited you even more.

“Did you just spank me?!” you asked incredulously.

He hummed, sending a delicious vibration against your clit as his hand came down again on your ass making you moan loudly.

You had no idea there was this side to him.

“Fuck, Spencer, yes baby,” you whined, your hips moving back and forth over his face as his fingers and tongue drove you crazy.

The faster his fingers went, the harder his tongue moved. You were gripping the headboard so tight, your knuckles were white.

“Ah!” you squealed, at an additional spank.

It wasn’t hard enough to be too rough and painful, just hard enough to be incredibly sexy, sending a charge directly to your currently, extremely stimulated clit.

It was also incredibly appealing to you to feel the slight scratch of his facial hair against your nether regions as he ravished you. 

You could feel your entire body tensing, preparing for the rush of adrenaline and ecstasy. Apparently, Spencer could too.

He worked you until you came shattering apart above him. His name mixed with a loud moan and curses sprinkled in.

When the high had ebbed a bit, he moved you back to sit on his stomach, a wolfish grin on his face. You still felt a bit dazed since there was still a bit of buzz left tingling within you.

You noticed then that your boyfriend was way overdressed.

“It’s time to do something about these,” you mumbled, unbuttoning his dress shirt, “You’ve got too many clothes on.”

He allowed you to pull his shirt off, but his hand grabbed yours just as they reached for his belt.

“I am going to fuck you bent over my desk and only bent over my desk.”

He gave you no time to react as he’d already lifted you in his arms and stood from the bed, heading to the living room.

“Spencer, what? I-”

The words died on your lips as he entered the living room and his desk came into view. Normally, it was stacked neatly with his books, files, paperwork that he needed to complete, pens, pencils, a couple of coffee mugs, the works. But now, it was completely clear, showing off its deep, dark brown, glossy desktop.

Heat pooled in your stomach when you realized he’d planned ahead for this. He’d imagined bending you over his desk, having his way with you. You swallowed back a moan, already eager for him to be buried inside of you.

Instead of immediately pushing you over the edge of the desk, he sat you on top of it, facing him.

You bit your lip, quite literally looking up through your lashes at him. His tongue moved over his lips, his hunger for you apparent as his hands traced every inch of you.

From your breasts, down your stomach, to your thighs and around towards your bottom, squeezing it gently, his hands traveled every part of you before capturing your mouth in another kiss.

It was no innocent kiss. It was fiery and filled with the mutual hunger for one another. He was still kissing you when he slid you off the desktop, your feet touching the floor once again.

He turned you and had you bent over the edge of his desk in a matter of seconds. You heard the clink and whir of his belt as he unbuckled it, the sound alone sending a charge through you.

You shifted impatiently, much to his notice. He smirked, running a hand between your legs teasingly, as he pushed his suit pants out of the way with the other hand.

He wasted no time on gentle and loving movements. He entered you roughly and quite honestly, when you weren’t expecting it.

You whimpered. The feeling of your most intimate parts stretching just enough to accommodate him was one of the best feelings in the world to you. 

By this point, you’d lost the ability to be quiet. He’d already brought you to one earth shattering orgasm and that was after the tantalizing ice foreplay that had turned you on beyond belief.

Your constant moans filled the room as your hands gripped the edges of the desk.

Your hips were tight in his grip as he thrust into you fast and hard, your own body bouncing off his in the opposite direction. He, for one, was much louder than he normally was. Grunts, groans, mumbled curses and pants came from behind you as he had his way with you.

His lips hovered over your neck, his appraising moans ringing in your ears.

“Fucking shit, fuuuck, Y/N,” he groaned before attaching his lips to your neck.

He sucked harshly, hard enough to know that hickies would be present for the next few days.

You inhaled sharply, feeling the slight sting of his teeth bearing down into your shoulder, but coupled with your current pleasure, it was actually hot.

Your back arched as he focused on what he’d learned—quite quickly, you might add—was one of your absolute sweet spots, his hips aiding in thrusting deeply within you.

Spencer’s hand snaked up your spine, tangling in your hair, his fingers wrapping around a few strands. It surprised you when he pulled on it, firm enough to pull your head to the side. You moaned at the sensation, ready for him to do anything at this point. You were so turned on, you were a moaning, whimpering mess underneath him.

“Still. Think. I’m. Vanilla?”

Each of his words were clipped, growled into your ear and enunciated with a forceful thrust.

“No,” you rasped, quickly losing control of yourself and becoming delirious from the ecstasy he was providing you with.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he grunted, halting his movements completely.

You about sobbed in agony, wanting the feel of him back. Your hips automatically moved backwards to get some more friction, but Spencer held them still.

“Tell me,” he groaned, the slight strain in his voice indicating he was struggling with keeping still, himself.

You cursed, craving the delicious sensation of him deep within you again especially since you were on the brink of shattering like broken glass.

“Who’s not vanilla?” Spencer taunted.

He began moving once again, his motions slow and teasing. He slid in and out of you with long, lackadaisical thrusts although he made sure each move was deep enough so you could feel every inch of him within you. 

“Dammit Spencer, please,” you mewled, encircling your hips in small movements.

His low groan that came from above you was telling enough that he was trying and failing to keep his cool.

“Answer me,” he murmured huskily, his lips traveling up your back, hands reaching forward to massage your breasts in his hands.

“Answer me,” he repeated, “And I’ll fuck you like you deserved to be fucked.”

Your mouth dropped, a haggard moan escaping your throat. You weren’t used to hearing Spencer dirty talk and you’d realized that you instantly loved it.

His facial hair scratched your cheek as his mouth moved in the vicinity of it, sucking on your jaw.

“Be a good girl and answer me and I promise I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll see stars, baby girl,” his low whisper came, one hand gliding between your legs, finger ghosting your clit.

“I’ll make you cum harder than you even imagined. Until you’re dripping all over my cock. I wanna fuck my girl, good, Spencer purred.

“Oh my god,” you cried, the overstimulation of his words and his touch finally getting you to lose absolute control of your conscious mind.

“You, Spencer, you,” you moaned.

The only sounds that filled his living room were the mixed moans and the sound of your bodies moving together as he fulfilled his promise and resumed his earlier pace though more erratic this time.

Your inadvertent clenching around him with every move was making him lose control quickly. 

“Fuck, fuuuuck,” you whined, clenching the edges of the desk so hard you knew your hands would be sore later.

In the back of your mind, a small part of you registered that you most likely sounded akin to a pornstar right now, though you didn’t spend much time on the thought. The fire in your veins was igniting the growing pressure in your stomach, like a furnace growing too hot.

It took less than a few moves before you went tumbling over the cliff of ecstasy. Your eyes screwed shut, your vision going completely white behind your closed eyes as you managed out a satisfied, bliss filled cry.

It was like lightning had struck your body except the electricity had come straight from the pit of your belly. Spencer had been right, it was the most intense orgasm you’d ever experienced.

It was the body shaking, breathtaking, best kind of high ever, type of intense.

His own had soon followed as you’d tumbled down the rabbit hole of your own delirium. His hands gripped your sides and his body shuddered behind yours.

“Y/N, Y/N,” he groaned repeatedly, still moving with you, wringing every last drop of pleasure out of both of your orgasms.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck as you arched back into him, reaching behind him to grip his hair as you rode out the waves of pleasure.

It took a few moments before both of you stilled, your breathing hard, heart beating wildly. 

When your senses had somewhat turned to normal and the rushing of your blood in your ears had calmed down, you noticed your legs shaking—a definite sign of a good fucking.

You felt his breath on your neck, his breathlessness matching your own. Your body felt slick against his from all of the exertion, but it had been totally worth it. 

Spencer pushed your hair to one side of your neck, burying his face into your neck sweetly before leaving a gentle kiss there.

“My god, Spencer,” you half laughed, trying to focus the tiny bit of energy you had left on attempting to stand.

Disconnecting himself from you, he turned you to face him. He lifted you back on to the desktop to sit, not caring that your thighs were currently slick with the product of his own orgasm. Your quivering legs were thankful for the momentary reprieve though.

“I know,” he smirked, “Didn’t know I had it in me, huh?”

“Definitely not,” you smirked, lifting your face up towards his.

Your lips met his lazily. You spent a few minutes enjoying one other, mouths parting and meeting over and over, enjoying the post coital consequential kisses before getting cleaned up.

His hands splayed over the tops of your thighs, stroking gently. He may have been rough with you earlier, but you knew his gentle touch was him wordlessly assuring himself you were okay.

You were actually more than okay—you had definitely been well fucked.

“Spencer?” you mumbled against his lips.

“Hmm?”

He pulled away from you, his eyes opening, his dreamy, currently hazy, hazel eyes meeting yours. 

“Remind me to never listen to Morgan ever again.”

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#spencer reid #Spencer Reid fic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid gifs #dr spencer reid #dr spencer reid gif #dr spencer reid fic #dr spencer reid smut #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds gif #criminal minds smut #Dr Reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n

[heyitssmiller]

Clandestine: Chapter Eleven

I... about 75% of this chapter was not in the outline, and I don’t really know what to do about that fact. This completely ran away from me, but that’s ok I guess.

Characters, as always, belong to the amazing @lumosinlove and a huge thanks again to @donttouchmycarrots for proofreading!! <3

Clandestine Masterlist

CW: hospitals, injury, brief mention of blood, medical drugs

.

Leo slept. A lot.

Logan knew this was normal; their nurse had reiterated it a few times now. When he did wake up, it was only for a few dazed, confused minutes before he was pulled back under again. The confusion ebbed the more time went on, the effects of anesthesia wearing off, but the dull sheen to his eyes remained. He could fight his way through a brief conversation with him or Finn, and then he was back to sleep. It was probably for the best, Logan told himself. Better than dealing with their present situation, at least.

Finn was curled up uncomfortably in the chair beside him, also sleeping. He normally looked peaceful when he was asleep – lips slightly parted, face relaxed, on his side or stomach with one hand usually shoved under his pillow. After about a week of sharing a hotel room and a bed, Logan knew these things. It wasn’t the same now. Granted, he was in a chair instead of a bed, but still. He was curled up somewhat in a ball, with the leg in a brace stretched out and immobile – an awkward position that almost made him look like a flamingo balancing on one leg. His shoulders were tense, even in sleep, and his jaw was clenched tight. A worry line was furrowed between his eyebrows, steadfastly refusing to smooth out. Logan brushed his knuckles faintly against the bruise on his cheek, plum against porcelain, and sighed. He knew he should be doing the same thing – sleeping, that is – but every time he closed his eyes… well. It wasn’t pretty. Besides, someone needed to keep an eye out. There was only so long the nurse could delay the GSW report.

It was only a matter of time before they were on the run again.

Regulus drifted in and out on occasion, checking in on them. He seemed to be on guard, constantly walking the perimeter of the hospital and keeping an eye out for familiar faces. It put Logan on edge and calmed him down at the simultaneously. He didn’t trust Regulus, not really, but he figured if he was going to sabotage them he would’ve done so already. He’d had ample opportunity, after all.

Logan glanced at the clock. They’d been here for just shy of twenty-four hours now. The sun was starting to rise again, not bringing any answers with it. Loops had been in contact, briefly. They’d received one text message that simply said “stay put” and radio silence after that. He just hoped they had a good plan. Even better if it was safe, too, but Logan wasn’t about to push their luck… if you could even call it that.

For now, this was ok. They were together, they were alive, and they were relatively safe, for now. In that moment, listening to the steady beeps of a monitor and muffled conversations of people in the hallway outside their door and the even breathing of his partners, he couldn’t ask for much more.

***

Nate saw the scowling, intimidating group of people in the lobby and knew they were in trouble.

He had just started today’s shift, still tired from the one the day before, and was in the process of saying his usual hello to the staff working the front desk when he saw them. There were three of them – at least two of which were over six feet tall, looming and muscular and intense. One had a scar traversing down one side of his face, healed but still a beacon that screamed “don’t mess with me”. The short, scary one was right.

He’d submitted the GSW report about ten minutes ago, and here they were.

Fuck.

Nate didn’t even say goodbye to the sweet lady working the desk that day, he just backed away slowly and tried to appear normal as he pushed past the doors. As soon as they closed he broke into a run, headed straight for room 308 and stopping by the nurse’s station for a split second to grab two prescriptions before he was off again. He was almost there when he crashed into someone as he rounded a corner, only avoiding hitting the ground by two arms that snaked out to steady him. He looked up to gray eyes and a vaguely familiar face.

“Sorry.” The guy said and let go of him, frowning when he saw what was no doubt a look of panic on Nate’s face. “You ok?”

He remembered this guy now. He was with the scary short guy and the other two. He wasn’t around much, but Nate had seen him a few times when he’d been making his rounds.

“They’re here.” He blurted, hoping that he didn’t need so say anymore.

He didn’t. in the blink of an eye he was leading the way to room 308 and throwing the door open, which Nate didn’t think was the best idea. He didn’t know what these people did for a living, but it was clearly dangerous. Barging in like that probably wasn’t a good move.

Sure enough, when Nate followed Gray Eyes into the room, the short one was on his feet and had pulled a gun from somewhere, aiming it at the two of them. Gray Eyes stuck his arm out and kept Nate from going any further until Short Angry One recognized them.

Nate used to think this was a relatively safe career path. Sure he might get puked on, yelled at, mentally and emotionally eviscerated by doctors and patients and family members alike on a regular basis, but he’d never felt like his life was in danger.

Maybe he should go into accounting. Just him in an office with a bunch of numbers. Or a museum curator, surrounded by ancient artifacts and not much else. Definitely not people pointing guns at you.

Both the redhead and the blond woke up at the disturbance, one sitting up in a flash and the other just blinking sleepily and frowning in concern. Before anyone else could get a word in edgewise, Gray Eyes blurted out, “They’re here.”

The EKG readings on the monitor spiked, and then it was a flurry of motion. Short Angry One cursed under his breath and pulled Gray Eyes and Nate into the room fully, closing the door behind them. The redhead started throwing the few things they had into his pockets – a phone, some other electronic device Nate couldn’t identify, an old lock, a pen. He shoved his shoes on, unsteady on his feet, and looked to the blond, who was still in a hospital gown and watching with wide eyes. All the color that had been slowly returning to his cheeks was now gone.

Nate steeled his resolve. His job was to save lives, damnit, and that’s what he was going to do.

He jumped into action, pushing Gray Eyes out of the way and unhooking his patient from the monitors before discontinuing the IV drip and pulling the IV out, stopping the bleeding with quick pressure from his hand. “There’s an employee exit down the hall that leads to the parking garage. You guys know how to hotwire a car, by any chance? I’d offer you mine but I don’t have one.”

“I can.” Glaring down at his sling, the blond muttered, “Well. Maybe can is the wrong word.”

Nate let up on the pressure, shrugged his thin jacket off, and helped him slide his good arm through the sleeve, throwing the other side around his shoulder gently. It wouldn’t do much to help, but it was better than nothing. “Can you show someone else how to do it?”

“Maybe.” He said, moving to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and frowning when Nate stopped him. “I can walk.”

Nate smiled. Typical. “That’s what they all say. I’m going to grab a wheelchair, anyways. You’ll be faster that way.” He looked at the others in the room and continued. “I’ll lead you to the exit, but I’m afraid that’s as far as I can take you. I’ll try to find these guys and get them off your trail as best I can.”

He shoved the two prescriptions he was so glad he’d filled last night at Ginger, trying to ignore the way all of them seemed to be staring at him. “Instructions are on the labels. He needs to finish all the antibiotics. All of them.” He didn’t have time to stress the importance of preventing antibiotic resistance, but he hoped they would take his word for it. “Let me go get-”

The door opened again and they all swiveled towards it. Ginger stepped between the blond and the door while Short One raised his gun again – but he didn’t shoot. In fact he just stared for a second, then lowered his gun with a smile.

“Loops.” He said, relieved, and – what?

The three men Nate had seen earlier were ushered into the room, the tallest one slapping the brunet on the shoulder, causing him to stumble as he flipped the safety of his gun back on and stashed it in the waistline of his pants.

The one in the front with caramel colored eyes looked between their group, one eyebrow arched. “Going somewhere? I thought I told you to stay put.”

Ginger laughed incredulously, shoulders slumping. “Holy shit, Loops. We thought you were someone else.”

Gray Eyes looked at Nate, exasperation clear in his gaze. “You told me they were here.”

Nate threw his arms up in defense. “You look at those guys and tell me you wouldn’t be suspicious.” He winced and looked at the newcomers, realizing that his words might be offensive. “Sorry.”

Neither of them seemed to take it to heart. The tall one just grinned and said, in a heavily-accented voice, “We still got it, eh, Nado?”

The one with the scar – Nado, apparently – just rolled his eyes and didn’t comment, but Nate could see one side of his mouth lifting into a smile. It softened his face, made him look more like a teddy bear than the scary, intimidating guy he’d seen in the lobby.

“We’ve got a car out back.” The one called Loops said, looking to the blond with gentle, understanding eyes. “You good to go?”

He nodded firmly, no room for second-guessing. “Let’s do this.”

Now, Nate didn’t exactly think it was a good idea to move a GSW patient out of a hospital only a day after getting shot, but – judging by how the others had reacted at the thought of people coming for them – it was safer for him to leave than to stay here. His brain, after all those years of medical classes and caffeine/anxiety induced all-nighters, was screaming in horror about complications and sepsis and bone fragments, but he didn’t voice them. He just reached for a pen and paper in his pocket. He scribbled his number down and handed it to his patient. “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask, ok? I’d feel much better if you at least had a nurse with you, but this’ll have to do.”

He got a warm smile in response. “Thanks,” he said, voice and eyes serious. “For everything. Not many people would do what you did for us.”

Nate blinked. “I genuinely don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but thanks?” He still didn’t know who exactly he was helping, but then again, he guessed it didn’t really matter either way. They seemed like good people dealing with a shitty situation, and that was a good enough motive for him. “I’m going to grab that wheelchair quickly and I’ll be right back.”

He should’ve known that, by the time he got back, they’d already be gone – leaving no trace except for the disheveled sheets on the bed, two chairs next to it instead of the standard one, and the still humming machines and monitors.

Nate let himself slump against the wheelchair, forearms resting against the handles.

“What the fuck,” he said, with feeling.

***

Sirius was behind the steering wheel of a very old service van, watching six of them pile into the back and Loops slide into the passenger’s seat. His eyes didn’t stray long from Regulus, though. If he’d had enough time, he would’ve tackled his younger brother in a hug. Unfortunately, they were on a bit of a tight schedule. “Petition to never have to break someone out of a hospital again.” He said wryly, putting the van into drive and searching for the exit to the maze that was this parking garage. All the while, he was sneaking glances in the rearview mirror, unable to help himself.

“Where do I sign?” Finn deadpanned from the back row, sandwiched between Logan and Leo. They looked so tired. Leo didn’t hesitate to twist in his seat a little so that he could lean into Finn’s chest and close his eyes, looking absolutely miserable. Finn shifted just slightly, pressing a barely-perceptible kiss to a bird’s nest of curls and relaxing back into his seat.

Huh.

That was… new.

But then again, was it? Sirius thought back to the past several months of this operation and found that he really wasn’t that surprised. But then there was Logan…

“Turn left here.” Remus said, pulling him out of the thoughts, calm and in control like usual. His lips turned up into a smile as he flicked his turn signal on. He could see them doing exactly this, when all the chaos was said and done. Taking a roadtrip, Sirius behind the wheel and Remus navigating, going wherever they felt like. No worries or missions, just the two of them and the black top below them. He shelved the daydreaming for later.

“Where are we going?”

Sirius’ eyes flew back to the mirror at his brother’s voice – the first time he’d head it un-obscured by a phone or earpiece in too long. He’d missed him. He’d fought so hard for him, to get him out of that mess and keep him safe, and here he was. They’d done it.

Was he a horrible person, for feeling as relieved as he did? He’d inadvertently put the Cubs through hell for mostly selfish reasons. Sure, he wanted to take the Snakes down, but that paled in comparison to the safety of his brother. He’d let the Snakes walk away scot-free if it meant Reg was safe.

He didn’t know what kind of person that made him – he was too afraid to speculate about it.

“My family has a cabin about two hours away,” Remus replied, balancing his phone with the navigation app against the center console so that Sirius could see it. “It’s empty right now, so it’s a perfect hideout until we figure out next steps.”

Finn was asleep now, too, head pillowed on Leo’s. Logan stared sightlessly out the window beside them, stonily silent. Sirius ached for him. They were kindred spirits, he and Logan. Stubborn, fierce, bleeding hearts who cared too much and shouldered more than their fair share of the responsibility when things went wrong.

And things had really gone wrong.

“What are the next steps?” Reg asked as they left the city and headed towards the interstate. “This isn’t the only backup we’ve got, right?”

“Sleep,” Kuny told Regulus, not unkindly, “had big couple of days, yes? Plan later.”

Reg looked at the tall Russian sitting next to him for a second, then sighed and turned his gaze to the window.

Sirius drove on in silence.

Two hours and eighteen minutes later, he was pulling up on a gravel driveway to a quaint, two-story cabin. The jostling of the gravel under their tires seemed to wake everyone up, according to the grumbles and yawns Sirius could hear from behind him as he finally put the van in park. The doors opened and they were all climbing out of the van, stretching stiff muscles and groaning. The ones with bags in the trunk went to unload while Remus fished his keys out of his pocket and headed for the front door, bounding up the last two steps to the porch. He was equal parts glad and upset that they were here. He was grateful that the Cubs were safe now and that this cabin was so far off the grid that the Snakes wouldn’t find them. But bringing a bunch of coworkers to the place he went to escape work stuff… jeez. Not that he didn’t like his coworkers, but sometimes he needed a break from it all. Plus this place belonged to his family. Being here with anyone but them just felt wrong.

Remus opened the door, instantly on guard when he saw the kitchen light was on. Whoever was in there must’ve heard the door because Remus could hear the refrigerator door close, then loud footsteps headed towards them. His hand drifted to his gun and he cautiously flicked the safety off.

A head peeked out from the kitchen. All-too-familiar eyes widened excitedly. “Re?”

The safety quickly went back on. “Jules?”

He wasn’t supposed to be there. Their trip wasn’t for another week-

Remus’ younger brother beamed and launched himself towards him, leaping into Remus’ arms when he got close enough with an excited shout.

“What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t make it this trip!”

“What am I – what are you doing here?” Remus shot back, tensing up when he heard footsteps behind him. “Your trip is supposed to be next week!”

“School got cancelled because of all the snow.” Jules peered around Remus at the gathering group behind him. “Who are they?”

“Jules?” The familiar voice of their mother called from down the hall. “Who are you talking to, honey?”

Oh god, this was something straight out of Remus’ nightmares. How the fuck was he supposed to explain all this to his family? The rest of their agents were supposed to drive up here tomorrow with gear and supplies and weapons for their final stand against the Snakes. That… there was no way to explain that. At all.

Fuuuuuuck.

Hope Lupin stepped around the corner, startling when she saw the crowd on her doorstep. “Remus?”

“I’m so sorry, mom,” he blurted, the words coming out in an unfiltered rush. “I didn’t know you’d be up here or else I would’ve-”

“Oh, nonsense. We’re happy to have you and your… friends.” She said sweetly, voice raising into an almost-question at the end. Remus, flying blind, said the first thing that came to mind.

“They’re work friends. And there’s a few more coming tomorrow, if that’s ok.”

“What happened to him?” Jules interrupted, wide eyes trained on Leo, who smiled faintly.

“Shoulder surgery,” Leo said easily, taking Remus by surprise a little at how easily he responded with a textbook spy tactic: tell the truth, but only enough to not raise suspicion. He technically wasn’t lying, either. It was harder to get caught lying when you technically hadn’t.

It seemed like the rookie was no longer a rookie.

“It was recent, wasn’t it?” Hope asked, eyes sharp with observation as she ushered them all inside. When Leo looked at her a little distrustfully and both Logan and Finn stiffened beside him, she sent them all a soothing smile. “I’m a nurse, I can tell.”

“About a day and a half ago.” Leo let her lead them to a couch and sat down, answering Hope’s questions calmly now, seeming to know she could be trusted. When Remus looked around again, he noticed that Sirius and Regulus were both absent, no doubt having a much-needed talk. He was struck with a twinge of worry, but pushed it back. He shouldn’t interfere. They needed some time alone to sort through things. Sirius would talk to him about it if he felt like it. Nado and Kuny were trying to sneak their way into the kitchen, looking for whatever smelled so good in there. For spies, they weren’t very subtle.

“What kind of shoulder surgery?” Jules asked, trailing after their mom. “Re had one a few years ago, too!”

Remus winced and shot Leo an apologetic look for his over-inquisitive brother. “Not quite the same, Jules.”

“All he does is sleep now,” Finn said teasingly as he took a step back and stretched out his leg with only a slight wince. “My jacket has drool all over it from the car ride here.”

Leo shot Finn an unheated glare as he sat up and opened his mouth to shoot back a reply when all of a sudden he went pale as a sheet, eyes dazed. Everyone in the room froze, looking at him nervously.

Finn was kneeling in front of him in a flash, Logan already holding his hand too tightly from his spot beside him. “Leo?”

The blond squeezed his eyes shut and leaned into Logan heavily. “Hurts,” he managed to grit out while Logan wrapped an arm around his waist and held him close, combing his fingers through a riotous mess of curls. He locked gazes with Finn and saw a different kind of pain from Leo’s, but identical to Logan’s, reflected there as he watched helplessly.

Maybe they should’ve accepted the risks and stayed at the hospital. They’d be sitting ducks there, but at least it wouldn’t be this. Logan would take the uncomfortable chairs and the nurse who talked too much and the stress over the heavy weight pressed against him, the shaky, too-measured breaths, the soulful brown eyes that matched his own.

It felt like all the decisions he’d been making recently were the wrong ones. It would be nice to not put his partners through pain because of his poor decisions for once.

Hope was by their side then, holding out a glass of water and two pills. Logan hadn’t even noticed Finn set the prescriptions down on the entryway table. “I think it’s time to take these now.” Leo refused to move from his current spot, but he took the pills and followed them with a quick drink of water. A muffled “thank you” was murmured into the material of Logan’s shirt, quiet and a little tense.

Hope just smiled sympathetically. “You’re probably going to get really sleepy in the next thirty minutes or so,” she continued, giving the three of them a look. Like she knew something. “So if there’s any conversations that can’t wait until the morning…”

Loops came by his eerie observation skills naturally, it seemed.

Logan looked to Remus and the others, hoping that all the planning could wait until the morning. They were exhausted. Surely they’d be ok without them for a few hours.

“Go get some rest,” Loops said gently, motioning down the hallway. “There’s a guest bedroom down there, second door on the left. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Finn made a beeline for the bathroom as soon as they reached the bedroom, muttering about how he’d needed to use the restroom since they’d all piled into the van. Leo toed off his shoes while Logan hovered, unsure if he should offer to help or not, his heart still in his throat. Leo just sent him a weary, affectionate smile. It tugged viciously at Logan’s heart and made him want to pull his partner close and not let go. Ever.

“I’m ok, sweetheart.”

He could’ve cried at the relief of hearing that nickname again. “You sure?” He asked, just to be safe.

Leo’s face was inscrutable as he cautiously sat down on the bed. “If I keep telling myself that… eventually I’ll start to believe it, right?”

Logan didn’t have an answer to that, not at first. But he remembered the feeling from after missions that had gone belly-up, the few that he wasn’t sure he was going to make it out of. The disbelief that somehow, after all of that, he was still alive and ok. It felt like trying to find his way through a snowstorm when all he could see was blinding, overwhelming white.

He wasn’t about to let Leo navigate that without a guide.

He sat down next to Leo and grabbed his hand, moving down to the pulse-point at his wrist and feeling tendons flex and shift under his fingertips. It beat, steady and strong, when he pressed down lightly. He knew Leo could feel it, too.

“You’re here.” Logan said simply. It was a tactic he used on bad days, when everything got to be too much. That little pulse, a sign of life and resilience. The two of them shared that now, that resilience and refusal to die that flowed through their veins.

Leo stared at him, eyes so soft and a hue that Logan wanted to engrave into his memory. “Logan,” he said quietly, right as Finn flung the bathroom door open again. His mouth was in the process of opening to tell a joke when he saw the two of them and snapped it shut again with an audible click, unsure of what to do next.

Leo shared a look with Logan and a conversation passed between the two, silent but apparently crystal clear. Finn couldn’t quite tell if it was excitement or anxiety dancing in his stomach, but either way he wasn’t sure he liked the sensation.

He had a feeling he knew what was coming. They’d been tip-toeing around this conversation for too long now, and they’d finally reached the tipping point. However this conversation went, he knew their relationship would never be the same, and that scared him. There was comfort in things known and familiar, after all.

This felt like hanging out of a perfectly-good plane and not knowing if the parachute strapped to his back was going to work or not.

But everyone who took the jump said it was worth it, in the end. Finn desperately hoped they were right.

“I think we should talk.” Logan said quietly, patting the open spot on the bed next to him. The dreaded words. No one ever wanted to hear those words.

Finn made his way towards them, too afraid to make eye contact, and sat down gingerly. Feet firmly planted on the floor, one hand braced on the bed, tense and ready to get up and take flight if he felt like he needed to. “We’re finally going to have this conversation, huh?” he asked with a fake laugh that fell flat, finally glancing up. Looking at the two of them, side by side and seeming to just know each other in a way Finn felt like he didn’t, he wondered where he fit into all of this.

If he fit in at all.

God, he hoped he fit in.

“Look,” Leo started, voice steady and resolute like he was getting ready to rip off the proverbial bandaid. It did nothing to calm Finn down. “Logan and I talked a while ago, about us. And, um – well, we want to be together. All three of us.”

Finn blinked once, twice. The words weren’t exactly computing, not after spending so long telling himself that this would never happen, could never happen. “Oh.”

“You had to know,” Logan said, sounding confused. “You had to know how we felt. None of us were exactly subtle.”

“I… I hoped.” Finn managed to get out before he got distracted by Logan’s soft touch against the curve of his cheekbone, creating his own constellations out of the freckles there. Finn let his eyes close and focused on the point of contact. He had hoped, even if he’d tried to stamp it out most days. He’d hoped and he’d yearned and he’d ached, and now – finally, unbelievably – he might be getting exactly what he’d wanted. “I knew how the two of you felt about each other, I just… wasn’t sure where that left me.”

“Finn…” He heard the sheets rustle as Leo scooted closer and opened his eyes again.

“Can you blame me?” Finn let Leo hold his hand and slot their fingers together, a painfully delicate motion. He stared down at them, noticing faint green bruising from an IV line and deeper, purple discoloration from that one time Finn tried to catch himself before he hit the ground after a brutal punch. They matched, in a sick, twisted way.

But they were both healing – skin stitching itself slowly back together and aches fading little by little. There was a poignant symbolism there, Finn thought, musing over the words he needed to say. Talking about the doubts and the hurt and the confusion surrounding the three of them might be painful in the moment, but healing would always follow, even if it took a while.

He was thrilled that they wanted him, don’t get him wrong, but that didn’t have the ability to just wipe away the hurt of the past week. “You seemed happy together, just the two of you.” He thought of the coffee shop and watching them from his table with June. Or the hotel room the next day, the stolen glances and furtive touches. “I didn’t want to get in the way of that, not if I wasn’t wanted.”

One of the other two made a broken sound; Finn wasn’t sure who it was. The hand on his cheek moved to his chin and Logan ducked his head to meet Finn’s eyes again, fierce and sincere – a combination that encompassed the very core of the fighter.

“I’ve wanted you since that crazy New Year’s party.” He said with conviction and Finn laughed a little at the memories.

“Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?” Logan challenged, signaling a change in the winds. Finn could see the storm brewing in those green eyes. “We were partners. Adding a relationship to the mix would only complicate things.”

“So what changed?” Finn let his frustration bleed through, ignoring Leo’s squeeze to his hand. “You’re saying two completely different things right now and it’s confusing as hell.”

Logan bit back, voice suddenly loud and harsh. “You think this is how I wanted to fall in love?”

Leo and Finn stared at him. No one had mentioned love. Not yet, at least. Logan seemed to recognize the intensity of his words and his shoulders slumped, but he didn’t take them back. Finn wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that or terrified because of it.

“It’s not supposed to be this hard, is it?” the brunet asked, voice a softer murmur. “Why couldn’t the three of us be normal and meet at, like, college or a coffee shop or something?”

Silence greeted him, heavy and suffocating.

“Because these are the cards we were dealt,” Leo said finally, looking between the two of them. “And yeah, it might be a shitty hand, but don’t you think it’d be worth it? After all that we’ve been through, choosing each other instead of letting the fear pull us apart?”

“Sounds like something out of a romance novel.”

Leo shrugged his good shoulder at Logan’s words, a conscientious effort to keep the other side of his body completely still. Finn ached a little at the sight. “Love isn’t easy, not for anyone. It’s a choice you make, day after day.” Blue eyes the color of a cloudless afternoon sky were calm and free of conflict when he looked at them again. “I’ve made my choice. What about you?”

Finn stared at him for what felt like forever, then blurted, “Did you rehearse that or something? What the fuck, Nutty.”

The resulting smile on Leo’s face was a welcomed reprieve from the earlier storm, placid and radiant. How was Finn supposed to do anything else but lean over, cup his cheeks in his hands, and press his lips against that smile?

Leo kissed a little distractedly, like he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to do first. The hand not caught in a sling flitted from auburn hair to fist in his t-shirt, then migrated lower to wrap around Finn’s back, long fingers splayed against his spine. But his mouth was soft and sweet against Finn’s, returning his kisses happily, and the combination of the two were just so Leo that Finn’s stomach swooped and his heart flopped in his chest.

He pulled back for air, an unfortunate necessity, and took in the sight in front of him. Leo’s eyes were still closed and that smile still graced kiss-swollen lips as he swayed towards Finn, clearly wanting more. Finn smiled too, irrevocably charmed, and kissed his cheek, his jaw, that cute little indent in his chin, then the curve of his smile again. He could never, not in a hundred years, get enough of this.

And then Logan met his gaze from beside the blond, eyes fond and warm as he watched them and ran his fingers up and down Finn’s thigh, the motion raising goosebumps on Finn’s arms – the air dense and volatile around them like the instant before lightning struck. Finn needed to kiss him, too. To learn the difference between the way he kissed to keep up pretenses on a mission and the way he kissed when he meant it. Finn kept Leo close with a hand on his waist and tilted Logan’s head up to kiss him, deep and intense. It was thrilling and a little wild; so different from kissing Leo, but just as captivating. Always unpredictable, the kiss morphed from charged to surprisingly, achingly gentle – a thunderstorm melting into a comforting spring shower. Finn was reminded of shoving the couch up against the wall nearest to the window during storms as a kid, watching the raindrops track down the glass, and the sound of the world going silent save for the wind and the thunder and the rain hitting the roof like the pounding of drums – a symphony just for him to witness. He sighed against soft lips and sank into the kiss, listening for the intricacies of this new, unknown melody.

The rustle of clean sheets, a hitch in breath followed by a deep exhale, the steady beat of the old clock hung on the wall, a hum against his lips.

Then Leo was leaning in to kiss Finn’s pulse-point, firm enough to bruise and tender enough to make Finn’s eyelashes flutter. Finn canted his head to the side, stretching his neck to give Leo more skin to claim, and pulled Logan in again. A duet shifting to a trio and slotting perfectly into place, patching the gaps in the music that Finn didn’t even notice were there.

This was worth it. It had to be. As much as it would kill him – or any of them, really – to love them and then lose them, that would still be better than not loving them at all.

They’d wanted this for so long now, all of them. Even with all the stress and hurt and doubt, Finn couldn’t help but feel a little giddy. For fuck’s sake, he was kissing Logan. It wasn’t part of a mission. And Leo was still pressing kiss after kiss to his neck because he wanted to. They wanted each other.

Screw panicking about losing them. Finn was done missing things because he was worried about things that might not even happen. It wasn’t something he could just will away or turn off, of course, but he could actively make sure he was living in the current moment. And right then, the current moment was making out with his boys in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

He loved the current moment.

The kiss turned to simply smiling against Logan’s mouth, delirious with contentment, so Finn broke away and pulled Logan in for a hug, then gently maneuvered Leo to join them, making sure his wound was well out of the way. They stayed like that for a long time, relaxing in the closeness and adjusting to the newness of all of this. And even though it was new, it was already something they were quickly getting addicted to. The string connecting Finn’s heart to theirs cinched tighter and pulled sharply. For the first time, he didn’t mind it in the slightest. It was no longer a painful reminder of what he couldn’t have, it was an exhilarating sign that were all irreversibly intertwined, both in each other’s arms and in this crazy mess that was their lives.

Leo interrupted the moment with a yawn, blinking sleepily. Finn smiled a little at the sight – he almost felt like he was doing too much of that in the past few minutes, but sleepy Leo was simply adorable.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” Logan urged. It would be a tight squeeze, the three of them in that bed, but now they could cuddle and press close without pretending it didn’t happen the next morning. Finn sighed happily at the thought and headed for the light switch. The light from the lamp on the bedside table illuminated his way back to his boys, all soft and stretched out next to each other under a pale comforter. It was a much-needed reprieve from the chaos of their current situation that Finn was all to eager to take advantage of.

He watched as Logan propped himself up on one arm to look down at Leo, hand trailing through that tuft of gray hair and then tugging on it playfully. They shared a smile before Logan leaned down the rest of the way to kiss him, assured and familiar and unrushed. They’d done this before. The knowledge didn’t tear at Finn’s heart like it would have a week ago, because now he knew that they felt the same way about him. And he was falling for them, too. Watching the two boys he was half in love with already so comfortable and loving with each other? How was Finn supposed to handle all the emotions bubbling over in his chest? He crawled into bed next to Logan and flicked the lamp off, settling the room into darkness.

Logan settled in to sleep facing Finn and with Leo’s reassuring warmth behind him. His eyes closed and time slowed, a blessed mercy. The events of tomorrow felt years away in that still, quiet moment. But there was something prodding at the back of Logan’s mind – some strange, uncomfortable feeling that he could quite place, until he realized that everything was too still, too quiet. His mind flashed to the litany of “what ifs” that had looped in his brain like a mantra back in that hospital room and he rolled over quickly, shuffling over until his head was pillowed on Leo’s chest, far away from the bandages.

Thump-thump.

Leo’s chest rose and fell under Logan’s head as he breathed and Logan let himself relax, reaching blindly behind him until he found Finn’s arm and flung it over himself, loosely intertwining their fingers over his chest. Finn moved in closer to press against his back and tangle their legs together. He sighed before going still again, breaths deep and even.

And Logan finally, finally let himself drift off to sleep.

#lumosinlove #sweater weather #coast to coast #coops #remus lupin #sirius black #o'knutzy #finn o'hara #logan tremblay #leo knut #clandestine #cw: hospital #cw: injuries #cw: mentions of blood #cw: medical drugs