#And why would he pay for AC after office hours that's too expensive

[eudikot]

Psychic Service Required - Page 1 | 2

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[dickwheelie]

okay so the other day this gorgeous comic by @tijela crossed my dash and I couldn’t stop thinking about a sequel to it where Jon and Martin actually get to go on their date. so. this is that. set sometime nebulously in season 3. also there is ace jontent (jon content) because against my better judgment I absolutely refuse to shut up about jon being ace. anyway I love you (yes, you) enjoyyyyy

___________

It’s only two minutes after nine in the morning when Jon appears in the doorway of Martin’s cubicle, holding two steaming mugs in his hands. Martin pauses in the act of taking off his coat, eyes wide, and for a moment all they do is stare at each other.

“I—brought you tea,” says Jon at last, as though it’s something he does for Martin every morning. He makes a strange kind of abortive movement with his arm, half-offering one of the mugs. What is happening, thinks Martin. And why is it happening before I’ve even switched my laptop on.

He decides to roll with it. “Thanks,” he says, keeping his voice carefully neutral, as he sits down at his desk and takes one of the mugs. Jon’s hand shakes almost imperceptibly as he passes it over. Martin takes a sip. It isn’t very good. He smiles at Jon anyway. “Ta,” he says again.

Jon doesn’t appear as though he heard him. His brow is furrowed, distractedly, and Martin notices that he doesn’t even drink from his own mug before setting it down on the edge of Martin’s desk. A twinge of anxiety lances through him. “Alright, Jon?”

Jon’s eyes snap to his, and his expression softens. “Yes. Um. Well. Not entirely.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he looks it, tired and frayed at the edges as he always does these days, but there’s a softness in his eyes and regret in his lines of his face. “About what happened yesterday—I am so, so sorry, Martin. I let my guard down and I shouldn’t have . . . compelled you—”

Martin shakes his head. “It’s alright.” He’d just as soon put the whole thing behind him; being rejected is embarrassing enough on its own, never mind the rest of it. “You . . . you didn’t mean to.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Jon says, insistent.

“I—yeah. I know,” Martin sighs. It’s too early for this.

“And . . . I. Um. I would, actually.”

Martin pauses with the mug halfway to his mouth, and blinks up at Jon. “You would . . . what?”

“I . . . I would be happy to go out with you.”

Jon’s posture is ramrod straight, as it so rarely is, as though this is a speech he’s been rehearsing for.

“Oh! Um.” As the words sink in, Martin feels heat rise to his cheeks. He puts the mug down. “Really?”

Jon nods, once. “Yes.” Some of the confidence leaves his voice. “I-If you still want to, that is. Of course I—I understand if you’ve changed your mind.”

“No, I—or I mean, yeah, I’m . . . I’d love to, yeah.” At least it’s good to know that they’re both being articulate.

“Oh.” Jon looks genuinely relieved. “Good, then.”

Martin’s about to say something resembling a thank you, when Jon barrels onward.

“I was thinking we could get dinner.” Then, almost apologetically: “Is that alright?”

Martin would laugh if the whole thing wasn’t making him blush. “O-Okay. Yeah. Sure. Sounds good. When are you . . . ?”

“Tomorrow is Friday, yes?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“Then . . . tomorrow night? A-After work? Or—” Jon winces slightly, slowing down. “I-It doesn’t have to be right after work. Would seven o’clock be alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s . . . that’s good for me.”

“Okay.” And Jon smiles, just the tiniest bit. “Okay, yes. Seven on Friday. For dinner. I’ll send you the details.”

“Sure.” Martin allows himself a grin, around the rim of the mug, and flashes Jon what he hopes is an appealing glance. “See you then, Jon.”

“Yes. Alright.” Jon stands there, staring at him for a second more, then turns around on his heel and disappears down the hallway.

It takes half an hour before Martin can actually focus enough to start work. It takes another full hour after that for Martin to notice that Jon forgot to take his mug of tea with him.

***

Jon taps his water glass pensively as he waits for Martin to arrive. The restaurant he’s invited Martin to is an Italian place in central London that Jon has never stepped foot in before today, but it seems romantic enough, with candles at every table and soft music playing in the background and lighting that makes reading the menu a chore, even with his reading glasses on. The table for two he’s reserved is minuscule, which he supposes must be a good thing. For . . . some reason.

He’s nervous. Which is ridiculous, given his life, but there it is. It feels less like a first date than it should; he knows Martin so well, and cares for him, and trusts him, but still, there’s that nagging anxiety. He just really doesn’t want to mess this up more than he already has.

Jon isn’t sure what he’s expecting Martin to look like when he arrives at the restaurant. He knows he’ll look nice, of course; Martin always looks nice, with his ties tucked neatly into his soft-looking sweaters, with his hair, and his smile . . . Jon gives himself a shake and stares daggers at the drink menu. He, himself, has worn one of the nicest outfits he owns, which he imagines is doing little to combat the bags under his eyes and the numerous scars. Still, he’s made an attempt with his hair, and traded in his usual square frames for horn-rimmed spectacles that, he’s been told, look nice on him.

When Martin shows up, though, fashionably late where Jon had been a quarter of an hour early for their reservation, he puts Jon to shame. He’s wearing a pale blue suit, with a lightly-patterned button-up that Jon can’t quite make out in the restaurant’s dim light, his hair nicely coiffed, his earrings catching the light and sparkling with every step. He approaches the small table where Jon can only sit and stare, already mumbling an apology for making Jon wait, and even after everything that’s happened Jon’s still incapable of filtering himself, so he says, “You look lovely.”

Martin beams at him as he pulls out the chair across from Jon and sits down. Inwardly, Jon winces; he should probably have offered to pull it out for him, shouldn’t he. “Thanks, Jon,” Martin says, happily. He gives Jon a once-over, but in an admiring way, which is not an experience Jon has had in a very, very long time. “You don’t look so bad, yourself.”

“Ah,” Jon says, “thank you,” and he dives back into the menu before Martin can notice that he’s blushing.

They make small talk as best they can, avoiding any topics relating to fears, until a waiter comes by. Neither of them want wine, as it turns out, Martin because of the tannins and Jon because he wants to maintain every bit of control he has to not say or do anything stupid that could ruin all of this.

As they wait for their food, Martin looks askance at Jon’s right hand, squinting curiously. Jon glances down, and his stomach sinks; he’d forgotten he was wearing it. It’s his ace ring, the simple black band he wears outside of work, when he can remember where he’s left it last. He’d put it on earlier in a fit of unearned confidence when he’d seen how his hair looked, and now he’s paying the price.

“Is that—?”

“Yes,” Jon sighs, twisting it around on his finger instinctively. “My ace ring.”

“Didn’t know you had one. I’ve never seen you wear it around the office.” Martin’s voice is soft and uninquisitive, offering Jon the option to drop the topic.

Jon doesn’t take it, because again, he lost his filter sometime in the nineties and he’s never gotten it back. “Yes, well, it’s a bit . . . unprofessional, isn’t it.”

Martin shrugs, his earrings swinging with the motion. “I mean, not really. Tim and I have pride stickers on our laptops and stuff. And—now I think of it, you do too, Jon.” Martin huffs a laugh, but the way he looks at Jon, he can tell it isn’t at his expense. “I don’t get why this is any different.”

“I—you—” Jon flounders for a moment before giving up. “You make a compelling argument. But—I don’t know. The ring feels . . . different.” His voice weakens slightly, along with his resolve. “Somehow.”

“More personal,” Martin says, softly.

“Yes.” Jon’s chest grows warm. “Yes, that’s . . . that’s exactly it.”

“I get it. I mean, I’m not ace, but—I get it.” Martin runs his thumb along the rim of his water glass. “Took me a long time to get that trans sticker up on my laptop.”

Jon nods. There’s a beat of silence, and then Martin leans forward in his chair slightly. They’re already in pretty close quarters, and in the candlelight, Jon can almost count Martin’s freckles.

Martin inches his hand toward Jon’s. “Can I . . . ?”

Jon really hopes his blush isn’t visible, but his luck has never been the best. “Um . . . yes. I-If you want to.”

Slowly, like he’s trying not to scare him off, Martin takes Jon’s hand in his, dwarfing it in his broad palm and wide fingers. The contrast, Jon thinks for a strange moment, is beautiful.

Almost immediately, Martin startles. “Jeez, Jon, your hand is so cold,” he says, and he takes both of Jon’s hands between his, rubbing warmth back into them. Jon’s hands, in fact, had been rather cold, though he hadn’t noticed until now, and they’re certainly not cold anymore, along with Jon’s face and chest, which are rapidly warming up by extension.

He manages to get out, “Ah—sorry. I, um, have bad circulation.”

“Don’t apologize,” Martin says, almost absentmindedly, still staring down at their hands. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Jon wants to protest, and probably ruin the mood by bringing up topics that shouldn’t be discussed on a date, but at that moment Martin looks back up at him, meeting his eyes with a smile that makes him look even lovelier. “I like it,” says Martin, out of nowhere. Jon blinks at him. “Your ring.” He holds up Jon’s hand for him, demonstratively. “It looks right on you. It fits. You know?”

“Ah. Thank you,” Jon says. It doesn’t feel like the right thing to say, but he can’t find any other words, at the moment. He feels . . . he’s not sure what he’s feeling. His chest feels a bit full, but not necessarily in a bad way.

Martin is casually glancing around the restaurant, as though he isn’t actively taking Jon apart piece by smitten piece. “This place is posh,” he says. “You come here often?”

“All the time,” Jon says, mustering up some humor. “I’m only in the head archivist business for the salary.”

That makes Martin laugh, at least. “Thanks for asking me out, by the way,” he says.

“Oh,” Jon says, and his hands are still warmly pressed between Martin’s own, and he can see now that Martin’s shirt is dotted with tiny sunflowers, and for a moment he has no idea why Martin is the one thanking him. “Well, you, ah . . . sort of beat me to it.”

Martin laughs. “I mean, sort of.”

“It’s the thought that counts, anyway,” Jon says, borderline nonsensically, grasping at well-worn words and phrases, because it’s all starting to sink in now that he’s on a date with Martin, and it’s going well.

It’s at that moment that their food arrives, and Martin has to let go of his hands, but the warmth remains for a good long while afterwards.

The rest of the date is, as much as Jon has come to both loathe and cherish the word over the past two years, uneventful. Nothing is ruined, not even a tablecloth, and Martin seems genuinely, actually happy in Jon’s company, and Jon feels calmer and safer than he’s felt in a long, long time. They walk back to the Tube station hand in hand, and even in the chill autumn air, Jon feels absolutely warmed down to his bones.

[harley-sunday]

The Draw - Epilogue

Summary: The whirlwind starts at the 2018 ACE Comic Con in Phoenix but you’re not sure where it will end…

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x reader (unnamed OFC)

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 1.9k

AN: This it. It’s done. I don’t really know what to say other than that I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. The ending (part 17) was supposed to be something completely different up until last week, when eL convinced me to take the angsty-route. I’m glad she did, because it allowed me to include a piece in the epilogue I wrote a long time ago but never really got to use until now. Thank you, sweets! Here it is, guys, enjoy! ♥

Masterlist

His collar is up and his hands are tucked deep into the pockets of his jacket because it’s cold, much colder than it usually is this time of year anyway. He looks up at the dark sky and wonders if there’s any snow in the clouds that slowly drift by, trying to remember if he’s heard anything about it on the news earlier that day but not recalling a weather warning going out. 

He’s on his way home after another meeting with his lawyer, who, for some reason, always insists they meet in a restaurant rather than his office. It’s never during normal business hours either but always late at night, and always somewhere else. At first he was fine with the arrangement but it’s starting to annoy him that the restaurants have become increasingly more expensive and he’s always the one that ends up footing the bill. As if he doesn’t pay his lawyer enough to help him come out of this messy divorce as unscathed as possible. 

He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the guilt that he feels about wasting three years of his life in a loveless marriage that never had a chance of succeeding in the first place. His therapist tells him to look at it as personal growth, but he doesn’t agree, not really, anyway. At least the court date has been set, he thinks, and this should all be over and done with two weeks from now.

He quickens his pace as he lets his mind wander, taking long strides, looking straight ahead and not paying much attention to the few people that are out this late. Most of them ignore him too. It’s New York after all. For a moment he debates the option of hauling a cab to get him out of this cold but he dismisses the idea quickly. He likes the walk home from downtown, it gives him an opportunity to clear his head and helps with the insomnia that sometimes bothers him. 

Crossing the street absentmindedly there’s something on the other side that catches his eye. He does a classic double take and then shakes his head, not quite believing what he sees. He must have walked by these storefronts at least a dozen times and tries to recall if the art gallery has always been there, but he simply can’t remember. The black canvas that’s displayed in the window is illuminated from above by a single light bulb, highlighting the various brush strokes going from left to right and top to bottom. He knows it’s called ‘Love’ before even looking at the little card pinned to the bottom right corner, and it’s like someone’s punched him in the gut. He first saw it a few years ago, when it was still a work in progress, standing on an easel in her guest bedroom in Charlotte, the paint still wet, and the black somehow less black. 

It’s then he notices the lights inside the building are on and it’s like his body has a mind of its own and before he knows it he’s on his way in. A bell chimes above his head as he enters and he hears a chair being pushed back in response somewhere. The space he’s in is long and narrow, only about fifteen feet wide, but the ceiling’s high and makes it feel more spacious than it is. There’s a wall about forty feet in, with a door that’s slightly ajar, and music flowing in from the back room, some song he thinks he recognizes but hasn’t heard in a long time. 

“I am so sorry but we are closed,” the voice is soft, coming from behind the door, but he would recognize it anywhere and he chokes up a little at the familiarity of it all. The door opens a little more then and all of sudden she’s there, exactly like he remembers her, “I must have forgotten to-” but she doesn’t finish her sentence because it’s then she sees him. Her eyes widen in shock and she actually drops the paintbrush she’s holding, her eyes never leaving his.

“Hey,” he says with a foolish grin, because never in a million years did he expect to run into her again, not here, and definitely not tonight.

“Hey,” she mimics, her eyes softening and the hint of a smile on her lips.

He takes the few steps needed to get to her, and for a moment he hesitates, unsure if she’d let him, but then he throws his arms around her and pulls her in for a hug. He can feel her smile against his shoulder, and he presses a kiss into her hair, because God, does it feel good to hold her again. 

“Here you go,” 

He takes the beer she hands him and waits until she’s uncapped hers before he raises it in a toast. She clinks her bottle against his and takes a swig and he follows suit. 

They’re sitting on the floor of what turns out to be her art gallery, their backs against the far wall, looking out on the dark street on the other side of the window. She turned the lights off before she brought him his beer, except for the lone bulb illuminating ‘Love’, and it feels like they’re in a little bubble, shielded from whatever’s going on outside and if someone told them he’d have a way of making this little moment in time last forever, he’s sure he would. 

He’s taken his jacket off, using it as something to sit on after she admitted she’s only got one chair here, his legs stretched out in front of him and his head resting against the bare brick wall. He’s got a million questions for her but he’s not sure where to begin and so he takes another sip of his beer instead, letting the silence settle between them.

She’s sitting next to him, close enough that her arm brushes against his whenever she takes a drink and it feels like there are little electric currents running through him every time she does. She looks up at him then, her eyes narrowed, almost as if she’s studying him, “You ok?”

He wants to tell her he’s fine, great even, but the way she looks at him tells him she’ll see straight through any bullshit answer he’ll try to give and so shakes his head, “Not really.” 

“Talk to me,” 

He opens his mouth to say something but then decides against it. They haven’t seen each other in four years and so much has happened but none of it they went through together and-

“It’s ok if you don’t want to,” her voice is soft and kind. She clears her throat then, “It’s just- I’ve read the articles about your divorce and- Well, the accusations she's made and- I don’t know, Seb, I figured maybe it has something to do with why you’re out this late.” 

“Yeah,” 

“I’m sorry.” 

He lets out a heavy sigh because he doesn’t want to bother her with everything that’s going on in his life, not really, but he also knows she’s a good listener and there’s no one he’d rather talk to than her right now. Looking down he plucks at the edge of the label on his beer bottle, deciding then to be honest with her, “I guess I should have fought harder, should have made it work, I-” another sigh, “They say you never know what you got ‘till it’s gone, right?” 

He sees her nod out of the corner of his eye, and then her hand’s on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze and it’s like a bolt of lightning runs through him, “Then why don’t you?”

His eyebrows knit together in confusion, “Why don’t I, what?”

“Fight,” she explains. “Try to make it work. If that’s really how you-” 

“Would you let me?”

“I-” she hesitates and pulls her hand back then, “What?” 

“I wasn’t talking about her,” he confesses quietly and when he looks up at her he sees her eyes are wide in shock. He tries to smile, “It’s always been you.” 

“Oh,” she breathes, her eyes a little glossed over now. She doesn’t say anything else and he doesn’t really know how to go from here so he keeps quiet too. But then she puts her beer down and stands up, holding out her hand to him, “Come on, I wanna show you something.”

He takes her hand and lets her pull him to his feet. She doesn’t let go when she leads him to the front of the gallery, her hand warm against his, and when he gives it a gentle squeeze she smiles at him from over her shoulder and it warms his heart in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

She stops in front of a painting, reaching behind it to turn on the searchlight, the warm light casting a golden glow on the canvas. “I made this one right after we broke up,” she says, her voice a little rough, “took me forever to finish because I couldn’t stop crying.” His heart breaks a little, but she dismisses her statement with a wave of her hand, “I got there in the end. It was like therapy.” A smile then, “I submitted it to a local art competition and I don’t know-” she shrugs but he can tell it’s important, “People seemed to really like it. Someone actually wanted to buy it but I couldn’t- I would never.” 

She gestures around her then, “This is all because of that.” He must look confused because she continues, “I kept painting, had some of my work on display in local art galleries, but it wasn’t until I decided to quit my job after Deb retired last year and Mark got appointed as her successor that things really took off. More art shows meant I sold quite a few pieces, enough so I could open my own art gallery anyway.” She looks up at him, “I don’t really know how I ended up in New York, but,” another shrug then, “here I am.”

“Here you are,” he agrees quietly. He doesn’t know how these things work, if it’s karma or faith or destiny he has to thank for this, but he likes to believe that her coming back into his life at this exact moment was meant to be and he vows right then and there to never let her go. There’s still so much he wants to tell her, has to tell her, and he’s sure the same goes for her, but it doesn’t matter. Not now anyway. Now he just says, “If you’ll let me, I’m willing to fight.” He squeezes her hand, “For you.”

“Me too,” she whispers. “For you,” she looks at him then, “and for us.” She lets go of his hand a little, only so she can intertwine her fingers with his, leaning into him, her other hand on his arm. She nods towards the painting, “Do you like it?”

He looks at it then, really looks at it, taking in the different shades of green she’s used, which, even when they’re on opposite sides of the canvas, seem to pull towards each other, always meeting or almost meeting in the middle, and somehow he just gets it. “I do.”

“It’s called ‘The Draw’.” 

[hoseoksactualass]

illicit episodes

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: smut 

word count: wtf it’s ltrly almost a 10k pwp im sick

warning/s: sex during office hours (and a phone call kinda) // oral (male and female receiving) // blindfold use // just very nsfw 

summary: dream boy, chief executive officer Jeon Jungkook is someone you go way back with until every fibre of your being becomes his entire fetish.

author’s note: ceo jjk for @taespired

after reading this bitch’s recs I’ve gathered inspiration to write this per her request

have the cliche that nobody asked for but everybody wants: ceo!jk and sec!oc and some other filthy endeavours (also,, jk talks a lot and is cocky here)

It’s a crisp night. Evidently and especially in Jeon Corp. where Chief Executive Officer Jeon Jungkook’s office is astood. Full glass walls that point into a corner so the Big Boss himself can choose what side of the city to overlook. After all, whatever he sees fit is what he gets, and that includes an eagle-eye’s peer over where the sun rises and sets when he feels like turning his back on stacked paperwork on his desk—something the majority doesn’t see someone with such a youthful, handsome face as Jungkook’s tending to, but he does, and aces it, too.

What he doesn’t get, unfortunately, is why he ponders an unusual amount of time about the length of your pencil skirt. Certainly enough, earlier in the day, he swore they were longer than they are tonight. Somewhere above your knees, so like paperwork, he almost demands an explanation why he can see your mid-thighs now and the mesh he wished were some panty hose.

It’s hard to be hard in dress pants, too, and Jungkook has that noted to think about again when he sees you bend over for the umth time in front of him to… tend to the coffee table? For longer than an average amount of time?

That night, you say something in admiration to the hard, sturdy, thick wood of the coffee table, and it’s the same night Jungkook fingers you on it until his fingers are wrinkled wet. The first night of many.  

“I’ll have my secretary send you an email.”

In his office, well, his quarter of the floor, Jungkook liked to let you take his blazer and let it grace the coat hanger for the whole day. It was 8:28 in the evening, and city lights, any light, is good to his veneer. Rolled shirt sleeves, expensive belt, and whatnot. Tonight was one of the rather torpid nights, twiddling a pen in his fingers, mind tranced into his phone call with the Chairman of the Board, and you’d hate for the tight of your suspender belts to go unnoticed. You’re three buttons away from an undone blouse.

“Estimates for the next month?,” this is where he looks at you from the listless loll of his head on his office chair. You nod, not missing the way he eyes at the open crevice of your blouse. He doesn’t bat an eye anyway, instantly averts and gets back into the call. “_____ has a summary of that.”

You roll your eyes, knowing full well he wouldn’t see it anyway. You walk closer.

“The marketing manager in—,” he looks up at you, looks back down only to bring his eyes up at you again, at your proximity. “—Japan has a what? Sorry, a problem?,” he has grace in his voice, but his eyes remain stern as if his attention hadn’t been solely caught by the way you dragged your fingers on the surface of his desk, making your way around towards him. “What does she need?,” he speaks to the phone in the same way he tugs at the sleeve of your blouse, pulling you steps closer so he can ogle at you in the comfort of leaning on his office chair. You flash him a smile, but you know it would come artlessly, what with the handsome part in his hair and the softening of his face when he finally gets that front seater view of the lace on the underboob of what Jungkook could make out as an… open front bra. “Uh—huh, should I—,” he nods as if Mr. Park could see him from his end. He tugs more at your blouse, shuffling you to his lap. “—call this a phone call and handle that then?,” he speaks with a tighter breath, and you send him a glare, aware that his impatience was evident and that he’d make you make the phone call in fluent Japanese after whatever he was growing impatient for. You shake your head, threatening to scoot off his lap before you feel his free hand cup at the small of your back. “Ah, that,” he nods again, pushing his lower lip into a small pout, and you roll your eyes again, but this time he sees it, and it’s with a smile. “_____ had that finalised since last week. She’s my—She’s a really sharp secretary,” he bites white at his lip, teeth sliding swiftly at his lip balm, and you watch every second blood rushes back into it. He palms at your chest, feeling for the opening until he can play his fingers onto your skin. “She’s emailing you on those March sales as we speak,” he boasts, pride in his lie and the way he cranes his neck where you offer to kiss. “I’d love to, I’d love to,” he sounds chipper. You assume it’s about drinks, dragging the tip of your nose across his jugular. His hand leaves the warmth of the inside of your blouse, and you feel it move to the mound of your ass. Just soft petting like it’s on his schedule. You don’t rut your hips; work clothes make way too much sound to be this close to a phone call.

The way you’re sat on his lap makes your skirt hike up your thighs, enough that Jungkook sees the straps of the suspender belt latched onto your stockings. You look at him, eyes still buzzed in an attempt to focus on the call while his fingers played with the mesh, gradually going up to the strips of the garter belt.

“I’m assuming it’s just Japan who has an issue,” his head perks up at you, amused by the way you followed his every gesture. He gives your thigh a squeeze before mouthing the word off. “Great, no attempt to contact was made yet?,” he watched as you slipped off your skirt.

You knew this would get him. To see you undone, undressed this way, a garter belt, just a garter belt that matched the revelation of your bra.

“I—I understand,” you see his chest rise high and fall. Lethargic. You make your way towards him again. He fishes for something on his desk, and then you figure out it’s the remote for the blinds when you hear a significant beep, and the room starts to grow dimmer. “You can—,” he gestures for you to turn around. “—leave that to me,” you comply only to turn to face him again. He bites down on his lip. “Ah—no, sir, it’s a late night for me.”

He gestures for your blouse’s buttons. You undo them slowly.

“For _____?,” you both perk up, meeting eyes, his dark, possessive. “Why do you ask? I believe she’s finalising that email at this second,” there’s a grit to his teeth, but he manages to smug it down. You smirk at him, and he takes it like a challenge to his competence. You’re a button away. “Mm, very well,” then he cuts his attention span, paying full to the phone call more because he was in a hurry to end it. “See you tomorrow.”

He ponders for a bit, recollecting everything Mr. Park had rambled through those lines before he looks back up at you. “You get better at lying by the day, sir,” you grin. “Part of the job?”

“What I know is that you—,” and he eyes you up and down for the effect. “—should keep my secrets,” he leans back on his chair, fingers hooking to the knot of his tie, then he pulls.

He’s lit by the filter of his blinds, bleeding with the blur of city lights; there’s a good reason behind the stigma that rings around the youngest CEO-Secretary duo and how good they look (and perform). “And I do,” you reach for your heels in an attempt to slip off the pain in your feet.

“Keep them on,” he cuts you off, the tip of his index finger running slowly over his lips. “What? I like them.”

“They hurt.”

“Fine. Off, then,” he sighs as you giddily kick your heels off then finally make your way to him again, bending down to brush the surface of your lips against his. The feeling’s addictive, scandalous but it only makes you more avid for it. You feel him take your blouse off before you wave it away, leaving you in lingerie an easy bite off his own credit card. Rich, and you could sniff it off him.

You kiss down his neck, his chest and abdomen through his dress shirt, and then undo his belt like it’s practice.

“You dress like this under everyday?,” he coos, watching as you get on your knees. 

“Not everyday, but I will if you make it dress code.”

“Feel like I should,” he raises an eyebrow, confident but you still see the blazing excitement in his eyes. You tease a hot kiss on his lower abdomen, unzipping his pants. “Who are you looking this good for?”

“Myself,” you respond, palming his crotch, and he takes it with a smile.

“Gonna suck my dick for yourself, too?,” he smirks, moving his foot between your thighs and nudging them open wider from where you kneel. “Don’t think so.”

You make sure you do it languidly when you take his length out, half hard in anticipation for the heat of your mouth. You tease your tongue on the head of his cock, wetting it before you wrap your lips around it just to release with a pop. “What makes you think I’m doing this for anyone other than myself?,” you stroke him dry. 

“You’re doing it for everyone you—fuck—want would get hard or wet for you,” he speaks with a voice coming more from the tightening of his chest. 

You like feeling him like this, gradually becoming solid at the mercy of your mouth, hearing every hitch of his breath, and looking at him not as someone of power but as someone you can take the power out of. You let up after a particularly deep suck. “Tell me more,” you place a tight fist around his cock. “You mean yourself?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, moans coming out in forms of consecutive heavy exhales you could feel in your spine. “And others.”

You gather a decent amount of saliva in your mouth, straighten up on your knees, and make sure he sees clearly when you let your spit drip on his dick. It’s easier to stroke him. “Others?”

“Fuck, ugh—you’re making a mess,” he leans his head back like the rest of the chair was a magnet, just to bring his line of sight back to you. 

“Who is others, sir? Who else do you think would get hard or wet for me?,” you mock. 

He hisses at the play of honorific but more because you knew exactly what you were doing with your hand. He smirks, though, scoffs almost. “Mr. Park. If I put that call on loud speaker, you would have heard how many times he’d mentioned you.” 

“Jealous?”

“No—fuck, keep going—,” he pets at your hair, gently caressing his fingers over the neat of your low updo. “Was just thinking if—he’d seen you in those already.”

You chuckle, up to play his game though fucking Jungkook was admittedly becoming pretty exclusive. Even for him. “You’re my first audience. Always,” you chaff, finally taking him in your mouth to avoid saying anything else. He takes it like it’s the same thing that puts him to sleep and keeps him up at night, head digging into the backrest, back arching at the feeling. You’ve done this too many times to not know exactly what makes his body twitch; it’s easy enough to tighten your cheeks around his cock.

“Mr. Park hasn’t one idea what you do to me,” he as if boasts, tucking stray hair behind your ear lest he wanted it caging the view of your lingerie clad body. “What you’re doing to me—now,” his breath gets cut into a tight moan, a kick of his hip hitting the back of your throat. He moans again at the sound you make. You listen to him like it’s plugged to your ears. “That—filthy rich son of a bitch thinks he has it all,” he huffs, eyes closed when he blissfully loafs his head back before looking at you again. You look at him, only feeling the moulding of your insides more. “What he doesn’t have—,” he thumbs at your cheek, dragging it across the skin of your face to the corner of your lips where he can see his cock plunge in. He bites his lip before speaking again. “—is this mouth, right?”

“Mm,” you hum. Something about how competitive he felt around his own chairman of the board made your body churn harder than it was supposed to. You were supposed to be zipping rich off traffic on your way home by now, but now, your boss’s dick is part of your schedule. You won’t question it. 

“Get up,” he forces, watching the way you let up leave a glisten on his dick, and he finds it pretty. He tugs you to his lap, manspreads when you’re sat on him, so he can touch you where he sees fit. “And what he doesn’t have—,” he continues, eyes lingering over the swell of your lips. You feel his finger feel down, all the way straight to your core. “—is this,” he smirks when he sees your face shudder. He smears his finger across the lips, rubbing too sensitive against your clit, you make a soft ah at each caress. He easily dips a finger inside, watching his hand’s work. 

You like looking at him like this, his hair curtained over his eyes when he’s tranced by how you can make parts of him disappear inside you, i.e. his finger in your cunt, his breaths shallow, cock hard and red against his abdomen. You can pretend it feels good for now, his finger prodding at the wrong place, but his visual turns you on enough that pretending doesn’t feel like a chore. Until you don’t have to. It’s one curl of his finger and the right pressure that makes your hips roll like reflex. 

“That’s it,” he leans before continuously pressing his finger against the spot. “Fuck yourself on my finger,” he would’ve asked you if you were up for it first, but he knows you’ll give in. What he doesn’t know is how hot it gets him. He watches you, in the congratulation of nature for the broad of your hips that rock on his finger, the water from your cunt that’s starting to soil your inner thighs, and the glisten reflecting colours of the city outside. You’re filthy art. 

Another thing you like is making a mess on him and seeing him welcome it. He lets you pull on his tie rough enough, his head jerks before your lips crash. It’s almost an unkempt kiss, too—mouthing at each other like you’re trying to drink each other up, but his tongue is always so soft against your bottom lip. He kisses you like it’s ecstasy—what he feels on his finger. Then it’s near endgame when you whimper on his lips. 

“Look at me,” he mutters, swiping his tongue over his lips. But you’re in too deep that his voice is nothing but radio noise. All you do is rock your hips harder in request for more and make sure he sees when your body shudders. “Please open your eyes, and look at me,” it’s like he begs for it, too, and it’s always him to plead for something he’s greatly smitten by. Until you don’t comply. He nearly rips his tie off when he undoes it, leaving you empty and snapped out of your reverie. “If you’re not gonna look at me, you’re not gonna look at anything,” he almost growls, foaming at the mouth when he ties his necktie around your eyes, forcing nothing but a dark shade of blue until all you can do is hear, feel, smell, and taste. You wince when you feel the tip of his dick against your entrance, two firm hands on your waist. You hear it when he yanks at a drawer, shuffling through envelopes and whatnot before the ripping of plastic and just the enticing, perfect roll of rubber over his dick.

There’s a burn under your body, but you sit on the fire as if you like the way you simmer on it. With your eyes covered, your other senses are sharper, but you doll yourself into submission, not having to see to know full well how hard that made Jungkook not twitch in his dress pants. You feel his lips against your ear.

“What were you thinking of when you bought these?,” when he asks, you hear how young he is. The little postgrad boy with stars in his eyes and a gift for numbers, slack-jawed for girls in expensive lingerie he’d only ever seen in... well, much higher levels of living such as that of your lives now. You feel him pull at your garters before snapping back on your skin.

You bite your lip. Jeon Jungkook, the Computer Science major you had been pining for in your younger years, was now your boss, fingers digging into your hips like the scandal of it all blows his pupils into nothing but black. You have him right where you want him. And although you roll your hips like you’re begging, and he’s grimacing into your skin with authority, you know you’re the one in control. “You. I was thinking of showing it to you,” you whisper, voice more velvety than intended.

“Just showing?”

You crane your neck, give him more skin to nip on while he speaks through his teeth. “More than that.”

“Say it,” he presses a kiss to the juncture where your head meets your neck. “Please.”

“Thinking of making you fuck me in them,” you finger through his hair, messing the do in it, but it’s always nice to feel the silk of his roots. You have him somewhere between making and fuck. It’s only fitting you hear the noise he makes clearer. “I thought of you bending me over your desk and fucking me silly.” After that, all that rung in Jungkook’s mind was a string of I want to fuck her I want my cock inside her I want to hear her cry for it.

“You had this whole nasty act planned then, huh?,” he’s lost, the colour in his eyes a thin ring around his pupils. “Bending over every time I’m on the phone, you do this to Mr. Park, too?”

You hold back a smirk. “I had this act planned just for you.”

You could be smoldered into his skin at this rate, keening where he touches and throbbing where he doesn’t. In his pulse you hear him feeling just the same way, chest tight, sweat on his hairline. He goes a little quiet until you feel him grip at your hips, lifting you slightly, and then the glory of his cock teasing at your entrance. “Shit.”

You make a tiny whimper, and his head would have shot up if it wasn’t for the rather wet visual you had prepped for him.

“You should stop making me want to fuck you every time I’m trying to work—fuck,” he twinges when you sit on him, sinking down, and a long, raspy breath leaves his chest. “Like it just the same when you’re on top of me like this?”

You like how he mumbles this way, as if whispering small mercies and sweet nothings to his own ear, just a breathier, whinier, filthier way of him uttering things to himself when work has the best of him.

You don’t analyze it over; you just want his cock hitting the right place, so you take charge and start with a slow bounce. Enough that you can say the pressure inside you feels good. You know he’s sat back despite being deprived of his visual, with the way you feel him holding his chair in place and the tense of his thighs every time you make him bottom out, and the sounds of his breaths, leaving in ropes of heavy pants and tight groans. You feel a thumb to your clit.

“Oh, fuck,” you almost throw your head to the side. The feeling sends the pair of you into a fucking frenzy—you picking up your pace as you bounce and him trying to match with his finger on your clit. “Ugh—nngh, oh my god—Sir,” the honorific is something you don’t intend. You know, you’re used to it rolling off the tongue just right. With the kick of his hips, you know he’d reveled in that more than you knew.

“Fuck—fucking say that again.”

You shiver, gripping on the arm rests for leverage, head tilted up as if in praise. When you speak, your throat’s a little dry, but it comes off in a husky, light “Sir.”

Why do I find that so fucking hot is all Jungkook thinks of, but he’s biting his lip before he makes a sound more choked than yours.

He doesn’t ask again, but by now, you have a mental note of it. And if there’s something you’re known for as a secretary besides being astonishingly younger than most and unusually giddy around her boss, you were quick at picking up on everything, so you say “Sir, it feels so fucking good” like you were programmed to.

You feel his cock do a thing inside you, and you almost laugh. Quickly replaced by a strangled moan, though, feeling him press down harder as he rubs you. He’s all noise and no words, breathy and tickly in all the good ways until he’s formed a considerable sentence. “Yeah? Fill me in,” one thing that shocks you is his spontaneity in knowing just exactly how to play. Fill me in is the exact same thing he says when asking for minutes, and you tremble as you ride him without intending to. “You like this better than getting your back blown from behind?,” you hear the grimace on his lips. His voice drops, not lower, just softer, more silky, dangerous almost when he says “You like being blindfolded?”

It’s not only the way he says it; it’s all the context behind it. Something about him scribbling down in his head what made your pussy clench around him and what put you off; it was almost... intimate. All you could muster is a faltering “Y-Yeah.”

“Tell me what you like about it,” he prods. 

There’s another thing about responding to this that might ignite your skin where it meets him. As if giving in to him, making him feed off the fetish inside you that is him and every hot thing he does that makes you putty, and you don’t want to splay the evidence before him, but when he asks with a soft plead, “Tell me how this makes you feel”, you find your lips parting. “I—,” you choke when he draws circles on your clit faster as if intending to make you sputter. “I want to see you, but—I like—fuck, I like—how filthy this is.”

He groans, doesn’t mean to. Your thighs are feeling sore. 

He doesn’t ask you to continue, but you do. “S-Somehow, I can—I like that all I can do now is—is hear and feel you,” you’re getting lost in it, stars in your eyes though he doesn’t see. Everything’s starting to fall into the right place, and you don’t know whether the object of his dick in and of itself feels good, or whether that was because he was doing wonders for your clit, or maybe because Jungkook was just hot. You play into it like you’re trained to and ask, voice in a choked whimper, “I just need to—taste you now.”

His thighs flex to a tense. “M-Motherfuck—,” he brings the office chair low, awkward when you slowly descend, but your feet’s weight finds home on the ground, so at least you can bounce on him without rolling on a chair around the office. He doesn’t need to hold onto the desk now, too, so he brings two fingers to your lips and faintly prods. “Ah,” he groans, a low hum when he asks you to open your mouth. “B-Be a good girl,” he almost hisses. “—and taste me like this, hm?”

It’s like your blood ascends to a boil and is stunned right under your skin when you feel him stroking at your mouth. You obey, keeping your tongue a plump bed when you take his fingers inside your mouth. 

When you lightly moan, Jungkook rubs a harsh circle on your nerves before collecting his pace again. “This what you wanted?,” he asks, chest heaving harder, and you almost whine that you don’t get to see him in his glory. “Can you taste me like—like this f-for now?”

You twitch at his tone, hum to it, inner thighs burning at the sore, but you don’t give a single fuck. You bathe in it, feel the way your pupils dilate to try and collect light, but all you’re getting is a more refined version of everything but. He’s moaning for it, eyes switching between the way your lips were wrapped sloppily around his twiddling fingers and down where he was stroking you fast. He tastes of sweat and fading lotion, and every inch and twinge in your body is a second closer to ripping yourself to shreds. 

It’s not like you haven’t thought about it. Establishing an unintentionally exclusive sexual connection with your boss was downright absurd, but it can’t be helped when every sensation was a fucking astral projection. You felt like you were evolving, above everyone else, and it was all because of this man’s energy. His eyes are in a haze. You tongue around his fingers, zoned out yourself, until he moans again. “If—If you’re gonna keep this up, I’m gonna—,” you feel him shudder under you. “Oh, fuck—I’m gonna—”

You’d have a mouth to your face in shock if you were looking at yourselves from a third perspective, or maybe the build up was coming too fast; you’d almost want to push him away and veer off the feeling. It’s still something he pressed harder on you, until your cunt makes squelching noises, and that’s where his head snaps. “Shit—oh, god—keep talking, please—”

“Yeah? Keep going,” he says through his tongue’s sputter. “Keep yourself on—on that cock, you fucking—ugh—,” You don’t long to plague yourself on the thought that he’d like to use your body to overwhelm himself this way, let you milk him until none of you can take it, but it plagues you anyway. He takes his fingers out of your mouth, drags the wet of his down your moving torso, makes sure he’s smearing it just right. You mewl. “Fuck—keep going.”

“Shit, fuck, I’m so close,” you squeak, the lower portion of your body quivering slightly. This is what fucking Jungkook was like—bedevilling yourself into nothing but sex and filth. “God, fuck, I wanna cum so bad—”

“Fucking—take it, please,” his hand goes down your waist, planted there like he’s hesitating whether to control your motions or not. “Keep going until you can’t take it, slut—fuck—”

“Oh my god,” you shrivel. But now, your thighs are jelly and knees are trembling; it becomes a supercut—the way he latches on to your hips, lifts you like you weigh nothing and props you on his desk atop messily swiped away papers, and it doesn’t take a minute before your toes curl, and your body itself withers into a weak hold around his dampening body, blinded from everything but the feeling of him taking it away and your own tight shrieks. Then you’re palming at his chest, his shoulders; the feeling’s making your hips buck. “Sir—fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck—”

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so good,” he growls, loses control, leans over your body and pulls off the tie from your eyes only to groan yet again at the sight of your dilated pupils, the twitch of your face and body with every thrust closer to deathly overstimulation. Then his mind-to-mouth filter is nothing but barren territory. “Holy shit, you’re getting—fucking tighter,” he bites, and he’s not done. “That’s a good slut, that’s my good slut,” not done. “So you’ll take it, okay? Take this in your tight cunt until I’m done with you?,” not done. “You’re gonna make me finish, o-okay?”

You almost beg for it, still exactly aware of what strings of his to play with even if a second longer was one step closer to insanity. For now, it’s a whimpery mantra of “Sir, Sir, Sir—”.

“Oh my fuck,” then he loses it, holding back with a tight strain in his chest and all the pull in his abdomen, silent but taut pants until he lets loose with a string of airless groans, slowing down after. He curses a silent “Shit” to himself before pulling out and releasing himself of the soiled rubber. 

Jeon Jungkook is a gentleman, taking your hand and pulling the wear and use of your body to his lap, this time with your back pressed to his front. It’s a story for another time, but when you’d just started out these particular endeavours with Jungkook, you had to acclimate to him treating you like you were married after sex, now the situation being him stroking your tummy as he embraced you and taking up your scent with his nose to your back. “You like being called sir.”

You can’t see him, but you know his eyes are closed. The skin where he sniffs gets cold. “I guess so,” he mumbles. His arms tighten around you, and that’s when you declare you haven’t adjusted to him holding you this way at all, especially with his dick done being inside you. 

“I’ll put that to good use.”

“You already did, miss,” he laughs up your skin, sending two small taps to your hip to tell you it’s time to get off, and you hate it when you feel upset it didn’t last. “Anyway, I have to work from home tomorrow. Need you with me by...,” he brings his wrist up after you get off him, already in the process of pulling your skirt back up. 

At the same time, you glance at the wall clock. Just struck 9. 

“By seven.”

“In the evening?,” you toe your heels on. 

He smiles. “Better if you’re early.” 

You don’t know why, but you feel awkward when you smile back and respond with a soft “Right.”

At most at this second, you were a coffee girl, and you’d love to get out of this tight blouse that’s digging where you sweat. “Anything else?,” you stand next to Jungkook, graced but unfazed by the glory of him working on opening a new sales firm in Japan while wearing pyjamas.

It’s only now he gains sight of the restless on your face. “I didn’t really need you here, you know.”

You felt that make a section in your brain twitch, but you’ve mastered the art of sucking it up years ago. “I’m your secretary after all. We never know,” cue your signature simper, but he knows you too well by now.

“Oh, I know,” he smiles, flatting out papers on his desk and his fingers swipe dangerously close enough to knock his new cup of coffee over. “Called you here to gift you something, actually. I knew you’d be… exhausted.”

You feel the unshakeable use in your loins yet again; it’s like home was phoning you. Turns out you could get enough of your hot boss’s antics. “Oh?”

“I’d let you plan an opening shower for this firm and get that gift for you myself, but I’d figured you’ve had enough of work today,” he leans on the desk, resting his chin on the back of his palms adorably, blinking at you with the still audacity to flirt. “It’s on the bed. In my room.”

It can’t be helped. You smile at him, still in the middle of trying to oil the gears in your head to come up with a thank you or an apology for looking so fucked out.

“And can you turn on my Nintendo Switch while you’re at it? It’s on the bedside. And you can take a shower if you want.”

You laugh, nodding, to turn on your heel and make your way, the implication of him joining you to thumb at a Nintendo device heavy on your mind.

Your heels are still obnoxiously loud by the time you’re at the hall to the left despite trying. You kick them off politely before entering, and when you do, a cityscape view meets you. Someone forgot to turn down the blinds, but it’s perfect like this. A privilege to feel on top of the world by being on top of the world. The ache in your feet’s wearing off already, and the second thing you see is the beige paper bag that sits on the foot of his bed. You don’t bother switching any light on, seeing it sits bright in the contrast of the dimlit room and his dark bed sheets.

Your soles feel like they have balls under them when you walk, but you swerve and flick on his Switch first, its supposedly vivid colours toned in the night’s lighting. On the bedside table was also his watch, ticking an uncertain 8:29 and signifying you had been working on the clock for more than twelve hours. Your work hours tended to always get this rowdy when international boards like that of Japan’s had problems, so you worked like a flint striking stone, though Jungkook… was rather tranquil this evening. As if he had something planned altogether. You won’t question it.

It takes just a peek for you to decide how predictable of a gift this was, an elegant bundle of black silk and lace at the bottom of the bag. You take the bag by your fingers and walk your way to the bathroom, an inevitable smirk on your lips.

Walking in on the luxury of his bathroom will never be customary, already looking warm before you even switch on a light. When you do, you feel like you’ve stepped into a magazine altogether, the golden glow of the vanity giving the perfect accent to the dark, granite finish of the counters and big-tiled walls. For some reason, you don’t lock the door. 

“Huh?” is something you don’t say to yourself out loud while facing yourself in the mirror, but the way the black chemise drapes over the parts you’d use to provoke Jungkook has you raising your brows. 

The pair of you are for window undies and garters and lace and mesh upon lace and mesh, but an opaque, painfully lustrous slip was prettily uncalled for. Your hair’s still wet, but it’s something you ignore when you twist your body for a bit for the mirror as if not used to how concealed all your curves, slopes, and lines were. At least when around Jungkook. 

You hear the doorknob jiggle, and you’re not supposed to, but you feel jittery, on your toes. 

He greets you with a tapping foot, a flustered blush, and a bit lip. 

“You’re taught to knock,” you smile, hands smoothing the silk down your hips. You feel like a wife on her anniversary night, and he’s in careless pyjamas, too, barely allowing you to make out the more intricate lines of muscle.

“You’re taught to lock,” he mumbles through a bitten lip, and you’d expect him to eye you all the way down by now, but he’s fixated on your eyes. “Kidding.”

It’s not entirely carnal, but you feel obligated to act a certain way at this moment, what with how the pair of you are dressed for rewiring your brain into being on your toes like a wedded couple’s honeymoon. “Should I address the elephant in the room?,” you break eye contact. 

“Huh?,” but he’s already turning on his heel, feet leaden and ready to throw his weight where his bed waits for him. He catches on what you mean swift though, and responds with a huffy “You mean my present? Different, right?” as he crashes down. 

You turn off the bathroom light and close the door behind you after grabbing the beige bag now containing your work clothes. “...Sort of,” you wiggle your toes. “I was just trying it on,” you say that rather louder than intended, and it makes him chuckle.

“Nah, tell me what you really think about them,” he pushes himself up, propped on his elbows. You give a good eye at the fabric smoothing over his chest. “I think you look hot, honestly.”

“I feel like I’m about to do nothing but literally sleep with you.”

It makes him guffaw, a bit too hard you would say if you were in his shoes; you almost speculate the slack in his jaw and the wrinkle in his eyes too much and wonder if just sleeping with you had ever crossed his mind. “It’s not like you never have.”

“I have, but it’s always after we fuck,” you raise your brows slightly.

Then it’s now you discern he gives you a sly, once-over and licks his lips. It’s almost like it gives you a spritz of energy in your bones. “Well, do you want to?,” he pulls on his collar before flicking one button of his top open, then toned, honey skin is all you think of. “Just sleep with me, I mean?”

You pull a distasted face, apples of your cheeks twitching into a scrunch when you scoff “‘Course not.”

“Good. Come here,” he pats the space next to him. A smirk on your face can’t be helped when you comply. If you were alone, the instant feel of sheets would have you in an abrupt power nap, but Jungkook handles you like he couldn’t care any less. He throws a leg over you, in a kneeled crouch above you just close enough for you to feel his breath. “Just sit back for me, hm?”

You’re not used to it. The lax in your body, how unmoving you are, clad in bold silk and lace, and Jungkook can see nothing of you but the processing in your eyes and how you wait as if calculating—Why is he

touching me like I’m about to break?

“Do me a favor,” he stills before biting white on his lip. “Tonight, I—,” then you catch his eyes follow down your body, how the silk leaves nothing and yet everything to his imagination. You’re waiting, pulse in sync with the watch on his desk. “I’m not your boss, okay?,” he as if proposes like he’s unsure you’ll confide in him. All you do is search his eyes. “I’m not a CEO, I’m just—,” his shoulders go slump, and for a minute, he zones out. “Just Jungkook.”

You blink. “I—,” honestly don’t know what to say, not when you have outstanding employee plaques on your walls telling you to treat Jungkook exactly how he says not to at this moment. “—but, Sir—“

He groans, leaning down and keeping you caged between his knees, pressing an open-mouthed kiss below your ear. “Have to stop calling me that now, or I’ll snap,” he mutters. You feel his eyelashes on your skin, every edge of his close to you boosted by the touch. For some reason, the whole idea of the pair of you in bed just like teens, with no hectic schedule or firms to attend to, has your breath hitching and even more so when he sucks your skin.

Your hands find his hair, letting the strands sprout through the spaces between your fingers when you faintly tug, and he groans in response. You’ve rarely called him this ever since college, but somehow, your tongue finds it rolls off just as right at this second—he nibbles, and you sigh, “Jungkook.” His name tastes sweet.

Then his pupils blow up, and a soft growl accumulates from his throat, his body reacting at the use of his name before his mind can even grasp it. The use of his name from your lips. “I just—,” he shivers, one hand palming at your chest. Another kiss on your collarbone. “—want to be good to you.”

His voice comes from all kinds of alluring and almost desperate. His lips rose around the bone of your collar and suck, granting himself a soft hiss he realises he’s looking for his name in. Your eyes long to flitter shut, but how Jungkook stops to eye at the marks he’s left can’t be any more admirable. You hear him sniff down your chest, his nose gliding against the fabric before another near chaste kiss on your womb. 

“You’re not wearing anything else,” he utters, keeping himself level with your crotch when he slides slow hands from the back of your knees and higher. 

“’Course I’m not.”

“Good,” he exhales, languid when he pushes your knees into a bend, feet flat on the bed, enough that the chemise curtains over your arousal. You grab a pillow, stuff it under your head lest you want a strain over gaping at him too much. He knows what he does to you. Keeps his eyes on you when he bites on the hem of your slip and leisurely pulls it up where he can see more skin, breathing, turning red in a glow, panting, waiting. Lost in some new inhibition and more when he whispers “Smell so good,” he kisses the mound of your crotch. “So sweet.”

You’re throbbing for it—a prelude for Jungkook wrapping wet lips around your nerves only to stay immobile. All he does is take a deep inhale against your heat; his eyes flutter shut involuntarily, and as if that hazed him, he opens his eyes into dark, lust-ridden hoods. You’re rendered speechless, the way he touches you almost convincing you you’ll break. He kisses against you, tongue licking right under the hood and lips tightening with every stroke. You make a sound he groans to, feeling a jump in the pit of your stomach before it starts to sear in your toes. “Oh, god,” you whisper, grabbing soft hold on the back of your thighs. 

It’s not scarce he hears you like this, laboured breathing and whatnot, pressure on your fingertips wherever you hold on to, but your endeavors preceding that of now’s clearly showed you had the upper hand. Whether it be getting your hair tugged on, your ass squeezed to a bruise, or getting thrown against a wall, he’a always a glare away from being at your total mercy. Not now. And you don’t figure that out just yet.

He mouths at your pussy before pulling free with the shudder in your chest. He takes one arm from where he holds you and brings it to a fold near him, so his fingers play along your wetness. Your lip finds comfort bitten.

What’s so fun about this is the role Jungkook’s getting too good by the second at playing. Your eyes show puzzlement at his feigned love-struck ones, and he has you exactly where he wants. Vulnerable, anticipating something strangely erotic and intimate. The upper hand is his, and he uses its fingers to spread the lips of your cunt apart. “You okay?”, he keeps his eyes on your core. He’s not going to make any snarky comments on how your pussy looks like fresh fruit, but you feel how wet it is anyway, down your ass and all. He pushes a bit with his fingers, watching when the slick drips. He doesn’t spare your eyes a glance, bites his lip to the visual.

“Yeah, I’m—,” he pushes a finger in. It’s limp, and you feel nothing off it, so you know it’s just for feelers. “—fine,” you squeak.

“Want you to feel good, though,” he still doesn’t look at you when he twists his hand so his palm faces the ceiling, curling the plunged finger inch by inch and waiting for that one twitch. He finds it, warm and frilly against his prod. “Do you feel good?”

“There—I—feel good,” you lick your lips and swallow before realising how parched your throat was. He pecks a kiss on your clit before repeatedly pressing his finger against your spot, earning himself almost a shrill whimper from you. “Oh, god.”

“Yeah?,” he pushes a second digit in, the stretch sudden but easy. “Want to make you feel good, want you to cum on my tongue and fingers,” he as if confesses, stiffening his fingers when he slowly pulls in and out to push at your sweet spot again. He feels your hips buck, eyes breaking contact with your pussy just to see your abdomen clench. “You make me so hard, though, I can’t let you just cum now.”

You moan at his words, stupified by whatever persona he’s acquired, youthful and dirty and whipped. “F-Fuck,” is all you can muster.

He speeds up. “What I mean is—,” he stripes his tongue up where you throb for it, and you flinch. “—I want you to cum on my cock. I want to feel this tight, wet pussy cum around my cock, hm?,” his breath proves shallow, fucking you harder with his fingers. A little harder, and you’ll unravel. “I want you—,” his cock’s too much of a strain in his pyjamas by now, and his face feels too muggy. Then he admits, “—to fall apart,” pulling his fingers free and leaving you into a bloodshot, panting grime on his sheets before he proceeds towering over you. His fingers almost slip with your slick when he pulls his shirt off. He’s cruel enough to watch himself when he pulls the waistbands of his pj’s and boxers off, his cock springing up and twitching to a stand against his abdomen. You pulsate in anticipation.

He lazily strokes himself, propping himself in a kneel above you again. He stares at you, the curve of your body and how you wait wet for him. A breath leaves him in a shiver. You attempt getting up and taking his cock in your own hand, but he groans, pushes you down with his other hand and uses it to pull the hem of your chemise all the way above your breasts. Looks for the red undertone of your arousal, your breath and its evident heaving; he squeezes himself before picking up his pace. “Jungkook, let me touch you,” you mutter, on your elbows.

He can’t resist. He lets go and shrivels under the feel of your own hand, pumping him just as he had been. He hums, tilts his head to catch the spread of your cunt, still wet, swollen almost. You make sure your thumb glides over the curtain of the head of his cock, and he bucks. Subsequent to his almost falling apart, he breaks free of your touch and finally props himself down, eyes level with yours, length rubbing on the lips of your heat. You make a whimper of some sort. “Hm?,” he rocks his hips like this. His ears are red.

You can wait. Enamored by how much of a fetish you had become for him. Everything you do or say turns a switch on, and then he’ll want his dick inside you. And now that you had made this revelation, he has you at a blind spot, just waiting, even if one mention of his name will have him by his knees. You whisper, “Jungkook.”

“God,” he ruts, wetting himself with you. “I wanna fuck you so bad,” he makes a choked exhale, a scrunch on his nose leaving none of his struggle to your imagination. It’s excruciating already. Almost a wine sommelier made to watch before she gets a taste, and every second feels like she’s not getting it so soon. His hair’s falling over his eyes, but you won’t have his head for it. He makes it look painfully sexy, in his crazed element. “It’s—fuck,” he laughs, shaking hair from his vision, licking his lips into a bite when his hips stutter. “Fucking everything about you,” he fakes pressure on your hole, enough to give you a pre-launch on how he’s gonna feel getting in you, but he slides his cock yet again, a shrill groan leaving his throat like he’s annoying himself. “—makes me wanna fuck you so bad.”

Accordingly, you think it’ll drive him crazier if you slowly snake your arms from his back to his neck, and it does. He jerks forward and bites his lip a bit too hard, it’s blood red by the time his teeth give. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, si—Jungkook.”

With that, he caves, sparing you silent, awkward seconds to yank at the bedside drawer, and the familiar plastic ripping and rubber rolling plays like a montage again. With what vigor he had to tease you into a puzzle, he uses when he pounds you. You pull at his hair a bit too hard but this time with the awareness anything you do conjures some type of scourged reaction from him. This time, it’s a “Yeah—fucking make me feel it,” he growls, breath light already, and you feel the sheets tighten by your nape where he fists. Your nails almost spade through his scalp, and he only asks for more. Your skin sounds like cheap porn, like a fake audio overlay to appeal to those who craze over slapping skin. “Harder,” there’s a grit to his teeth. Biting down on whatever filth he has before he lets loose.

He’s fucking you hard enough. CEO Jeon Jungkook will look at who he is at this second and frown at his stripped dignity but fawn over how he knows exactly how to move. He knows your body. He’ll know exactly what skin to pinch to make a limb twitch. And he’ll learn fast when the waters haven’t been tested. In this context that he wants to fucking hear you. Are you gonna speak in tongues over dick like this? Are you gonna beg? Scream? Bleat?

“Tell me how you feel.”

Your hands go for his biceps. “I—ohhhfuck so good— fuken’—so hard, Jungkook.” Speak in tongues.

He leans down, totally snogs your ear while he’s at it, biting at skin you’ll put a pain patch over to hide. “Come on, make me hear you,” he pleads, proving lust for more. You never miss how his voice gets tight. He slows for a second, props his knees again; the sheets are starting to sting and stick to his sweat. Then he thrusts back in, fuller, deeper where his fingers have been, and your back archs the way he knows. Somehow, it’s still new. “Right—fucking there, huh?,” then cue—he goes faster. And your hips buck awkwardly, feet leaden, ankles stabbing the foam, abs flexing, and—

“J-Jungkook—more, more—.” Beg. “—More—fuck!” Scream.

And he prides himself with it. Smiles, even. “Yeah, baby?,” is in character with it. You won’t have his head now for anything even if he calls you his fucking sweetheart. Crisis talks. He’ll fuck you and won’t stop until you’ll think about him at night like he’d broken your heart.

If you clench hard enough, you feel the sensation burn but your muscles give out. Something just quite the bargain should be something that’ll fuel you. Make your eye sockets smolder. You ask for it. “Sp-Spit on me. In my mouth.”

“Shit—you fucking harlot,” there’s a glow to his chest. You almost see where his voice leaves, mouth slack when he’s not speaking; he might as well fucking moan. “Open up, baby.”

You lick your lips before you do, make sure you push on the muscle so it’s more plump, red, enough for him to make a bull’s eye when he spits. Your eyes almost roll back into your head. You can taste him. Warm, hint of mouth wash, but mostly warm, foamy, fucking hot. Your gut twists, and you swear you’ll indulge in the feeling before an orgasm starts at your door. “Nnnggh—Jung—kook,” Bleat.

“Yeah, she likes that, you like that,” he mutters before huffing hard, abdomen contracting even more before he goes silent, save for the tiny pants he gives out. Pays attention, wraps his head around your sounds, more pornographic because the both of you are nearing, and your filter has gone to hell. Your lower extremities have thrown a twitching fit, caught between shutting close and keeping them broad open for him. Your right hand lets free from his assaulted skin, traveling down your front to press down on the pit of your stomach, almost so you can feel his dick moving from outside. He makes a cursed growl when he sees you do so. “Look at you,” he hisses through his teeth’s rattling mettle. If he bites down on them, they’ll break. “You know I love your pussy,” he laughs only for it to get choked into a groan. “Getting it even tighter for me.”

Your attempt at a growl turns into almost a cough, dragging out from the blooming of your chest. You’re hot, convulsing, cells expanding and breaking at the heat. Each twinge is like a snap of thunder. You scrunch your face, choosing to show struggle to hold back over sticking your tongue out with rolled back eyes like a cadaver. “Fucking me so good, it feels so good—,” you choke, body curled at his mercy, trusting and praying to his stamina to throw you over the edge, and he’ll prove success with no fail. You have your eyes closed, but his breaths are hot and hard enough that you can pretend to see it in colour. You can write something entirely about the sounds he makes. There’s a pinch in it, each take for air like a sip of helium. “Jungkook, I’m close,” you pant.

“Yeah? Fuckyeah, give it to me.” Skin slaps. His thighs are aching, but he uses its last against your core, fucking the pair of you over it. He’ll hold it back or come to a release with a strangled groan, so he’ll beg for it like you’re gonna forget. “C-Cum, babe, I’m gonna—cum with you,” he groans, pays heed to every bounce and twinge and buck in your body to get off to.

“Fuuuck—there, there, there—“

“Gonnacum—jesus fuck,” he spasms, digs his hips into yours when he unravels and watches when your body twitches into tune. Almost like an instrument played back on track when your body softens with his and your breaths are evidently loud in the air, mouths parched. “Shit,” he exhales, crashing on you, scorching his face with your body warmth where he buries his head.

It takes seconds for you to remember you hadn’t even pulled off your chemise.

It’s a crisp night. Evidently and especially in a Jeon Corp service limo. Full tinted, glass windows that meet by the sides so the Secretary herself can choose what side of the city to overlook. After all, whatever she sees fit is what Jeon Jungkook gets for her, and that includes an eagle-eye’s peer over the roots of the city on the way home when he feels like he’s fucked her hard enough to tick something off his fetish bucket list—something the majority doesn’t see someone with such a youthful, handsome face as Jungkook’s tending to, but he does, and aces it, too.

You go home with Jeon Jungkook’s blazer over your crumpled chemise, a calculated step off the vehicle like in the films. What you don’t expect is Sang-hyuk, designated driver, handing you another beige bag, similar to where your slip had come from just about an hour ago. You peek in, enough to make out a gaping card with a Wear this next before you even find out what it is.

[lavenderlattaes]

txt as high school au tropes

⇒ summary: txt in a high school au setting.

⇒ [ high school! au ]

⇒ pairing: txt x reader

⇒ word count: 2.5k words

⇒ genre: fluff

⇒ warnings: cursing, mentions of fighting, parties, making out

⇒ note: hello,, yeonjun’s cover got me so emo last night that i knew i just HAD to finish this so i can finish the bad boy au i had started writing for him sksks. Also i only had a bad boy fic planned for yeonjun, but if you guys think i should write for the other members too, please send me an ask! ignore mistakes bc im a bit of a blind bat and enjoy!  ＼ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ／

choi yeonjun:

↳ the bad boy

YES.

C’mon guys, this is badboy!!!! Yeonjun!!!!

okay, so yeonjun’s definitely the leather jacket wearing, motorcycle riding kind of badboy

the one that gets into all the fights (ง’̀-‘́)ง

the one that smokes and drinks and punches his way around bc he cannot, for the life of him, control his emotions and feelings ‾͟͟͞(((ꎤˋ⁻̫ˊ)—̳͟͞͞o

he’s also hardly at school

but on the rare days that he’s actually at school, he’s always punching someone or he’s all bloodied and bruised

like,,, dude do you wanna die N O W???

the first time you met was at the nurse’s office

oh wow i wasn’t expecting that

the nurse wasn’t around but you volunteered there frequently, so you were the only one there

the door opens and you’re surprised to see someone you’re not familiar with??

he wasn’t wearing your school’s uniform,,,

who is this dude and why is he heRE

but he looked like shit and like he was gonna die

so even if he may be part of some sketchy gang

you had no choice but to patch him up pspspsps

he was covered in scratches and bruises and his lip and eyebrow were bleeding

ffs man

you told him to go sit on a bed while you went around looking for all the supplies you needed

yeonjun was being a lil shit too, bc he wouldn’t cooperate right away but eventually after threatening him that he might die if he was being choosy about who’s gonna patch him he gave in

so you started to patch him up and he was just

s t a r i n g 

like 

⊙﹏⊙

D U D E

he’s really attractive if he just wasn’t into fighting all the time y’know

girls still occasionally wanna try “breaking his badboy rep” 

all that cliché stuff

you get really conscious under his gaze and then he asks for your name and you ask him what happened instead psksks

he goes (◕︵◕)

so you give him your name fAM AND HE SAYS, “I’m Choi Yeonjun”

pspspspp

and then he tells you that he’s friends with two other choi dudes who are also really well known in your school

and then it hits you

HE’S THE BADBOY EVERYONE’S TALKING ABOUT

damn y/n you’re so lost fam 

lmao so he does go to your school but you’ve never seen him before????

you finally finish patching him up and you wrap his knuckles in a gauze and his arm as well

hIS ARM HAD A HUGE ASS CUT btw

“what kind of fight did you even get into?” (´･(´･(´･(´･(´･(´･д･`) ･`)･`)･`)･`)･`)

“the kind where I almost die???” (￣ω￣;)

eye-

after getting him all patched up, you take a good look at him and whew he’s all better now

he doesn’t look like he’d die any minute 

then you smile at him like (✿◠‿◠)

AND HE SAYS 

“I like your smile, can I call you sunshine?”

PSPSPSPSPSPSP

yeonjun’s about to leave when you’re still bothered by the large cut on his eyebrow

“Wait!”

you pull out a cute rubber ducky cartoon band-aid from your pocket and place it on top of the cut sKSKSKKS

after he finally leaves and says goodbye, yeonjun suddenly can’t stop thinking about you

and maybe, just maybe, you can’t stop thinking about him too.

choi soobin:

↳ the rich kid

okAY so remember how badboy! yeonjun was friends with 2 other chois

Well duh who would those other two be (●´ω｀●)

so soobin’s the riCH KID!!

like, he be drippin in finesse yo

(okay that was bad)

he wears gucci, channel, louis vuitton, armani, all that shit

tO SCHOOL

jk you guys had uniforms

but there’s always something expensive on him

whether it be his shoes, or his bag, or maybe a ring

AND EVERYONE LIVED FOR RICH KID CHOI SOOBIN WEARING HIS ROLEX 乂❤‿❤乂

but he isn’t exactly the friendly type (๑◕︵◕๑)

he’s the quiet one out of the three of them and he always keeps a straight face

＼| ���ヘ￣|／

Like that ^^^^

despite having literally no emotion on his face whatsoever, his lips always seem to be upturned in a pout ksskskksks

and despite his cold personality, that doesn’t stop the girls from swooning over him lol

so,, y/n you’re a pretty clumsy simpleton

dID I JUST USE SIMPLETON

and you somehow,,, idk 

the world hates u

you accidentally bump into him like really hard when he was adjusting his precious Rolex on his wrist and the collision caused his Rolex...to...fly…

basically you broke his watch.

sKSKSKSKSKSKKSKS DUDE

Y/N YOU BETTER RUN AWAY NOW FAM

and everyone that was there was like :000

And soobin is just ( •̀ω•́ )σ

And you’re ಥ_ಥ

but he just sighs, picks up his broken watch and slips it into his pocket and walks away as if nothing happened

HNGGGGG o(╥﹏╥)o

you’re so guilty that you started to come up to him everyday asking how you could repay him and if you could,,, you know,, pay for it in six months time or some shit

and after a few days soobin’s had enough of you following him around

and (￣ｰ￣)ﾉ

“can you stop annoying me? It’s an expensive watch, you can’t possibly pay for it”

wOW OKAY :///

“But i feel really bad for breaking it...( ˃̣̣̥ω˂̣̣̥ )”

so soobin decides to make you his “servant”

and you know it’s stupid ,,, just bc he’s rich as hell doesn’t mean he can treat you like that

but he wasn’t giving you any options so you had no choice

you followed him around now and well, somehow

you got to know the real choi soobin hiding under all that expensive clothing and jewelry

the choi soobin that built his walls up so high that no one saw except his other two friends

and now, you.

choi beomgyu:

↳ the heartbreaker

YES CHILDREN

THIS BOY

steals hearts left and right

or: also known as the fuckboy

skskskksksks

he slept around and girls always fell victim to his charms

aside from the fact that he was just really really good looking and handsome and gorgeous and-

he was also really friendly and funny

you’d see him at parties all the time, and sometimes with soobin and yeonjun too 

there’s always a random girl on his arm too lmao

beomgyu’s never brought a girl to bed more than once before

it’s always just making out for like hours and one night stands here n there

and flings here and there

never had a serious relationship ever

and all the girls at school are fighting to be the one he decides to “do” more than once

(・_・ヾ

i mean,, who wouldn’t want to be the first girl choi beomgyu ever fucks more than ONCE 

but you just can’t seem to share the same sentiment with the other girls at school

shouldn’t they be fighting over who gets to be his first serious girlfriend or sumth? the girls in your school r weird tbh

besides,, you’re too busy looking for new memes or something and aren’t fuckboys supposed to be the type to do one night stands anyway???

but you know, you’re the mc in this world y/n

and you caught beomgyu’s eye bc he’s always noticed you on your phone laughing at something or bopping your head to some cool new song

he can’t stop smiling every time he sees you do that

BC YOU’RE JUST SO CUTE AND OMFG IS CHOI BEOMGYU CATCHING ACTUAL FEELINGS

and get this,,, beomgyu’s never been the type to be all shy and flustered bc that’s just so not him

but then you get partnered up for a project and suddenly you’re approaching his desk with a bright smile on your face and 

sKSKSK heLP HIM SOMEONE P L E ASE

“hi! I’m y/n!” you extend your hand out for him and he just

ฅ(*°ω°*ฅ)

seeing beomgyu all flustered makes you giggle and he breaks out of his trance and goes back to his old self

“Hey, y/n. Let’s have a great time together(づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ”

so that’s how you and beomgyu become friends

even after the project ended you still hung out and you even became somewhat friends with yeonjun and soobin

you sometimes went to parties with him too

and whilst beomgyu fell deeper for you

you remained clueless as ever

you just thought it was him being friendly and stuff bc that’s what he does

what you did notice though

beomgyu hardly made out or slept with anyone at parties now

he hung out with you and played games with you and with soobin and yeonjun

and he didn’t usually go to parties now if you couldn’t make it!!!

and everyone can clearly see how much he LIKES?? LOVES?? you 

so yeah, maybe beomgyu’s gotten rid of his fuckboy ways bc of you.

kang taehyun:

↳ the valedictorian

name a smarter guy in your school than kang taehyun. Go

jk never gonna happen HE’S the smartest

literally breezes through his subjects like it’s nothing

idk how it works for you guys but in my school, we don’t have GPAs and stuff but anyway

he has like, an average grade of 99 (*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑ (and that’s a 4.0 GPA right????) 

PSPSPPS WHAT THE HECKITY HECK

and all the teachers love him ofc

he doesn’t have to sit in front to be THIS smart

he can sit at the back row and be all emo with choi yeonjun if he wanted to and he’d still ace a test

h o w ⊂•⊃_⊂•⊃

and not only that

he’s got a really good voice?? he’s in choir omg

no,,

he has the voice of an angel ★~(◡‿◡✿)

he hits high notes like how he breezes through his subjects

he’s the type of guy you bring home to meet your parents after one (1) date bc they’ll love him anyway

aND if he could get any more perfect,,,, he’s captain of your football team AND class president

AND I SAY WHAT

yUP

kang taehyun best boy _へ__(‾◡◝ )>

and you?

HAH

you guys are a match made in heaven

you’re his vice president, and while he’s in choir, you’re part of your school’s journalism club

plus, you’re smart enough to go against him but you like slacking off lmao

also

“you have all the glory in high school tae, i’ll kick your ass in college” PSSPPS

And if taehyun’s the captain of the football team, you’re captain of the volleyball team just bc

goals? I think so too (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

but sigh,,, yunno

as smart as taehyun is, he’s a bit dumb when it comes to matters of the heart

THIS IS THE ONLY TIME WE CAN CALL KANG TAEHYUN DUMB!! BECAUSE!! HE!! CAN’T!! SEE!! HOW!! MUCH!! YOU!! LOVE!! HIM!! (;¬_¬)

you’ve always loved him, but you realized it only when you guys won the science quiz bee the year before ⊂( ◜◒◝ )⊃

basically, you’ve loved him for more than a year now,, sigh

and you’re just trying to find the right opportunity to confess

wHEN BOOM you suddenly remembered you’re on the school paper!!!! ⌒°(❛ᴗ❛)°⌒

v-day is right around the corner and since you’re editor in chief, you decided that it would be nice to have a lil fun in preparation for the event

so you got the whole school dropping anonymous love notes for their crush!!

and the club went around pasting them on lockers for the students so they don’t risk the chance of getting caught pspsps

totally smart idea huh !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑

all for the sake of confessing your feelings for your best friend.

hueningkai:

↳ the popular guy 

this boi

loved by everybody

and i mean everybody

even yeonjun and soobin who seem like they don’t give two flying fucks about anything

like literally everybody wants to be his friend !!!

there’s nothing people have to hate him for honestly

he’s in choir with taehyun 

he follows no crowd bC THE CROWD FOLLOWS HIM SKSKS

“hey, kai!”

“ey, wassup! I like your top!”

(▰˘◡˘▰)

he’s a cute babie too oomf

the girls that aren’t swooning over yeonjun or beomgyu or soobin are definitely swooning over him

(with taehyun they’ve lost all hope bc they know his best friend’s the only one that’s supposed!! to!! stand!! next!! to!! him!!)

kai’s also really sweet and nice to everybody,, and i mean everybody

he talks to everyone, even those emo kids who sit at the back row

and even they can’t resist smiling :) 

he’s that kind of popular guy that’s really preppy and fun to be around

he’s the type to help girls carry their books, or help guys plan on how to ask their crushes out

everyone knows a lot about him bc he doesn’t hesitate to share and talk about his life bc he literally has no trust issues whatsoever

not in a bad way, tho!! he’s just really honest n stuff

but

the one thing that everyone doesn’t know about him is that he can play piano sksk ♫꒰･◡･๑꒱

they know he can sing, but they didn’t know he played piano like???

he’s never brought it up before

but one time you find him playing the piano in the music room

you’re in the art club and you guys usually stayed behind after school to work on your paintings and stuff when you were feeling like it

and it just so happened that you were staying behind bc you entered into an art competition and you had only two weeks left to complete your painting

but lately you’ve been running out of inspiration and decided to clear your thoughts first before going back to your painting

what’s that beautiful melody??? 

【・_・?】

and it led you to him and you were surprised to see mr. popular in the room

(*ﾟﾛﾟ)

and you didn’t mean to, but the door was ajar and you push it open even further to hear the song better

DUMB MOVE

a chair was resting behind the door and it screeched on the floor spsps

Kai turned around and saw you

“oh! Hey y/n”

he stopped playing and you could see a faint blush on his cheeks ≧◡≦

“you play piano? i never knew” you decided to just step inside bc he wouldn’t mind right? rIGHT???

yeah,, if he didn't have such a big PHAT CRUSH ON YOU

“uh yeah, it helps me to clear my mind sometimes”

“i was taking a break too, i couldn’t finish my painting”

sKSKSK AND KAI FOUND THAT PERF OPPORTUNITY TO SPEND TIME W YOU BY OFFERING YOU HIS COMPANY TO GO AROUND

he’s always liked you, ever since you were lab partners for an entire year,,

you occasionally talked, but since he was on the more popular side and you had a smaller group of friends it was hard for him to find proper alone time with you

but life’s good to this baby and he finally got to spend his time with you.

[calmlftv]

burlesque!sos - chapter 2

description: your first rehearsal, and the introduction of everybody’s favorite roommates!

word count: 2.8k

warnings: a bit of yelling/chastising from sierra!

taglist: @spicycal​ @castaway-cashton​ @irwinkitten​

***

The next morning came much too quickly, your first alarm ringing bright and early and startling you awake. You groaned, reaching over to turn off the alarm, your eyes cracked open just enough to see your phone screen as you did so. You were just about to snuggle back into bed when Sierra’s warning against being late played in your mind, your blankets immediately being pushed off of you while you jumped to your feet. 

Seeing as you were up earlier than you anticipated you took your time getting ready, even taking a moment to hang up some clothes and put together a rehearsal bag before you checked the time again. With half an hour left you grabbed your water bottle from the fridge and left, your room key secured to the same ring as your car keys as you made your way to the stage. 

The sound of your heels clicking on the floors was incredibly satisfying, an almost euphoric chill running down your spine when you stepped out on the stage. You took a deep breath and looked around, the entirely empty club as eerie as it could be as you climbed down and set your bag in a corner. Popping in a pair of earbuds, you turned on your favorite high-energy playlist and started stretching, using the edge of the stage to focus on your legs. 

With your music blasting loudly in your ears, you didn’t hear Michael at the bar, a dolly full of alcohol cases rolling by before he saw you. He paused, staring at you as you worked on your stretches and warm-ups. He smiled, eyes wandering over your figure as he took in your outfit - a pair of high waisted black athletic shorts and a loose tank top. He went back to his work, wheeling the alcohol into the stockroom while you wrapped up your exercises. Clicking heels echoed as Sierra walked in.

“Someone’s early.” 

You startled, jumping and ripping your earbuds out as you twirled around. Sierra stood near the bar, smiling at you as she started to walk over. 

“Sorry for scaring you, petal, thought you heard me,” she said, smiling as she set her bag down next to yours. “Did you stretch already?” 

“Yes I did,” you answered, shoving your earbuds back into your bag. “I wasn’t too sure if we would do it together.” 

Sierra waved you off. “No no, it’s better you do it on your own. We do a warm up and dive into routines so stretch away.”

You smiled and nodded, the loud chatter of other girls moving closer to the two of you as they stepped into the club. A grin quickly grew when you saw the other girls, all of them giggling as they tossed their bags down. Once all the girls had arrived Sierra called you all to attention, each of you moving into positions as you ran through the entire night's performance. As you were wrapping up the opening number, the blonde from last night strutted in, sunglasses still on her face and her eyes on her cell phone. 

The music faded out, the girls all staring at the woman as she set her bag in the pile, tossing her sunglasses down with it as Sierra and everyone just stared at her. 

“Crystal,” Sierra snapped, the blonde suddenly looking up from her phone. She seemed unfazed by the woman’s tone. “You’re late. Give me a good reason why or you’re out of the opening number.” 

The blonde - Crystal, you now knew - rolled her eyes, setting her phone down on a table. “Sisi, traffic was a nightmare-” 

Before she continued Sierra held up a hand, effectively stopping the blonde from speaking any further. “Not a good reason,” she stated simply, turning and pointing at you. “Rory, you’re taking over Crystal’s lead in the opening.” 

“Alright hang on-”

“No, you hang on,” Sierra snapped, the blonde shutting up immediately. “You are one of my oldest and best dancers and you should be holding yourself to a higher standard than this. Walk in late to another rehearsal and I’ll replace you for your spotlight number.”

Crystal’s eyes were wide, the woman blushing deeply. She simply nodded, silently climbing on the stage as Sierra called for everyone to start from the top. You adjusted to your new role in the opening rather quickly, catching Crystal staring daggers at you whenever she had the chance. 

The rest of the rehearsal passed without incident, everyone quickly adjusting to having you around and even becoming friendly; everyone except for Crystal, of course. She seems to have a vendetta against you already, something that made you anxious to think about but was quickly forgotten as you received notes. 

At the end of rehearsal Sierra dismissed you all, all of the girls falling into chatter immediately as they all gathered their things. 

“Rory!” One girl called as you began to walk back to your room, bag in hand. You spun around, a smile on your face as she recognized the curly red-head bouncing towards you. 

“Hey!” You greeted, keeping your smile. “You’re...Georgia, right?” 

The woman smiled, a giggle escaping her. “You got it! I’m very impressed that you remembered,” she teased, causing you to chuckle a bit. A thick Southern drawl coated her voice, something that made you all the more interested in what she was saying. “Some of us are gonna go out for lunch, do you want to join us?” A look of anxiety must have crossed your face, because Georgia gave you a kind smile and rested a hand on your shoulder. “I can cover you.” 

You let out a breath of relief and nodded. “I’d love to, then. But I’m definitely paying you back once we get paid.” 

Georgia laughed, linking her arm with hers as she guided you back to a group of girls that were waiting. “You’re sweet, Rory. I am the only person in this ensemble that would never ask you to pay her back.” 

You smiled, the girls ahead of you waving you and Georgia on to hurry up. “Who said you had a choice in the matter?”

Georgia laughed. “Girls, we got ourselves a funny one!”

The other girls all burst into giggles, all of you walking out together and carpooling to the nearest favorite. 

** 

Luke sighed in frustration, his teeth gripping a pen cap as he drew a black ‘x’ through another help wanted listing in the newspaper in his hand. His back slammed against the concrete building behind him, his hand lifting to pull the pen cap from between his lips as his eyes closed. The 5th rejection definitely still stung more than the first 4 did, his pride and ego taking blow after blow as every job he walked into turned him around and kicked him out. 

Another sigh escaped the man, his fingers plucking at the olive green v-neck he had on. The sunlight hitting his black jeans was warming his legs to the point of it being uncomfortable, his legs starting to move as he joined the flow of foot traffic. 

Walking out of his last job really sounded like a good idea when Luke did it; the shitty management at the restaurant he had worked at for two years had finally agitated him enough to take off his apron and drop it on the floor, leaving a good portion of the floor without waitstaff when he walked through the doors. The constant lack of communication and misogynistic attitudes towards the female employees - who always did a better job than Luke did, he’d admit - had broken him. When his best friend and coworker Lucy had come to him crying for the upteenth time about what the management had said to her, Luke lost it; storming into the office and letting the managers there have an earful before he dropped his apron and collected his tips. 

Now, though, Luke was struggling. His final paycheck wasn’t nearly enough to help him afford expenses, and even with his years of experience, places kept showing him the door. With his spirit broken and head hung low, he walked down the street, his free hand in his pocket as his blue eyes counted the cracks in the sidewalk. When he passed a garbage can he shoved the newspaper in it, the pen finding a home in his back pocket next to his cell phone. 

He wandered for what seemed like hours, walking a great distance until he finally ducked into an alley to collect his thoughts. He leaned against a corner of the nearest building, not entirely paying any mind to the red letters spelling the name of the establishment while he pulled out his phone and answered some texts. The sound of a door scraping open jolted him, the loud laughter and chatter of a gaggle of girls spilling out from them as they waltz right past the man. His eyes were glued to them, the man finally stepping on to the sidewalk and noticing the name of the lounge he was leaning against. His eyes lowered to the Help Wanted sign in the front window, a smile appearing on his face as he caught the door and walked inside. 

The blonde ran a hand through his hair, following the clattering sound of bottles as he walked into the main lounge. A woman with dark hair and ripped jeans stood talking to a tall man with slicked dark hair at a table, neither of them paying Luke any mind as they looked over a stack of papers. 

Luke tore his eyes away from them as another blonde walked out from a side door, a rag in his pocket and a clipboard in his hands. He looks like someone important, Luke thought, putting both of his hands in his pockets as he walked up to the stranger. 

“Excuse me?” He asked, swallowing hard as the man turned to him. “I saw the help wanted sign in your window. Are you guys looking to hire waiters, by any chance?” 

The stranger grinned, setting the clipboard down on the bar top. “As a matter of fact, we are,” he said, his voice coated in excitement. He paused, pulling the rag out of his pocket and wiping his hands on it. “Oh, sorry, I’m Michael, the lead bartend here. What’s your name?” 

“Luke. Luke Hemmings,” he greeted, holding out a hand and shaking Michael’s. “Are you the hiring manager too? Could I possibly get an interview now?” 

Michael chuckled a bit, gesturing to the couple standing at the table. “You just aced your interview with me. Go over to Sierra, the tall woman there, and tell her I sent you over. You got a resume on you?” 

Luke shook his head. “I uh, I don’t. I could write everything down though?” 

Michael laughed a bit, grabbing the clipboard and flipping over the sheet of paper he had on it. “Just your name, phone number, and work experience. I’ll walk you over after.” 

Luke nodded, giddy at the idea of another interview. He quickly scribbled everything down and handed it back to Michael, the man looking it over as he led Luke over to the couple. 

“Hey Sisi,” Michael greeted, the woman spinning at the sound of her name. “Got a lad here with...5 years of waiting experience. Got time for an interview?” 

The woman - Sisi - grinned as her eyes took Luke in, the two brown circles traveling over his body before meeting his eyes. She held a hand out as she spoke. “Of course I do, for such an adorable specimen,” she said, a blush appearing on Luke’s cheeks. “What’s your name, cutie?” 

“Luke Hemmings.” 

“Luke Hemmings,” she repeated, her smile sweet on her lips. Michael handed her the clipboard and she took it in one hand, her eyes quickly taking in the information. “You worked at Chateau de Paris?” 

Luke nodded. “Yeah, I started as a host there and moved up to waiter.” 

Sisi took in the information and handed the board back to Michael, her smile returning to Luke. “Well, you’re certainly qualified for the position. How soon can you start?” 

Luke’s eyes got wide, a smile slowly spreading across his lips. “Really?” When Sisi nodded he grinned. “Uh, I can start right now if you want.” 

Sisi laughed lightly, one hand leaning against the table beside her. The man that was with her didn’t seem to be paying attention to this conversation, his eyes glued to a phone in his hand. “Well, follow Ashton and I to my office and let’s get some paperwork going.” 

Luke nodded enthusiastically, Michael grinned as he met Luke’s eyes. “Welcome to the team, Luke. When you’re done with Sisi come find me, alright?” 

Luke nodded again, shaking Michael’s hand and thanking him profusely as he followed Sisi and the man with the phone. 

As they left Michael chuckled, sending a thank you to whatever god was listening before returning to his work. 

** 

After his quick round of training from Michael, Luke jumped in an Uber and went home, practically dancing into his apartment and tossing his keys in the dish by the door as he walked in. 

His roommate Calum was laying on the couch, a book in his hands and his eyes glued to the page as he read. 

“Calum,” Luke stated, the man on the couch grunting in response. Luke rolled his eyes, his foot nudging his roommate's leg. Calum groaned and marked his page, the book closing as he looked at his blonde friend. 

“Luke,” he stated back, sitting up on the couch. 

“What are you doing tonight? Hopefully nothing.” 

Calum rolled his eyes. “As much as I hate admitting it, I have nothing going on tonight. Why? How are we going to get arrested this time?” 

Luke sat beside Calum, shoving his shoulder. “We’re not getting arrested again,” he stated, laying back against the couch as his arm extended along the back of it. “Just thought you might want to come see me at my new job tonight.” 

Calum paused at Luke’s words, his eyes going wide as he grinned. “You got a job?” When Luke nodded Calum laughed, standing and opening his arms as Luke did the same,the two enveloping each other in a hug. “Congrats, man! Are we celebrating tonight too? Maybe find some cute girls at a bar?” Cal wiggled his eyebrows as he pulled away, Luke laughing and grinning. 

“Well, I’m glad you said that,” Luke said, his hands going back into his pockets. “My job is waiting on people at Express.” 

Calum raised an eyebrow, his hands hiding in the pocket of his green hoodie. “The burlesque lounge on Vine? You’re serious?” 

Luke nodded. “Sat with the owners and was trained by the lead bartender. I was told I’d meet the girls tonight.” 

“The girls. You mean the dancers?” 

“Yup. Apparently I just missed them when I walked in.” 

Calum looked at his roommate, trying to figure out if this was a prank before he decided Luke was telling the truth. “You know, burlesque isn’t really my thing.” 

Luke rolled his eyes and groaned, walking to the kitchen as he spoke. “You also said commitment wasn’t your thing until you met Nia,” he said, opening the fridge and pulling out a beer. He twisted the cap off and tossed it in the trash before leaning against the entrance and taking a swig. Calum was glaring at him and Luke rolled his eyes again. “I’m just saying, dude, you’ve got to get over her at some point. Maybe seeing some dancing girls will help.” 

“No way,” Calum said, shaking his head. “I don’t think dancing girls will help me get over my ex-fiancee.”

Luke groaned, walking back to Calum as he plopped back down on the couch. Luke set his beer on the end table and pulled up the coffee table, sitting on it as he rested his elbows on his knees as Calum dragged his hands down his face. “C’mon, man, you’ve got to move on. You always say that life doesn’t stop for anybody.”

Calum groaned, falling back against the couch. “Yeah, but that was before a pretty girl cheated on me. Multiple times.”

Luke laced his hands together and sighed. “Just...humor me, then. Come to Express with me tonight, you can sit at the bar the whole time and wallow in self pity if you want to. But I need my best friends' support.” 

“You’re a big boy, you can do this on your own.” 

“I know I can, but having you there would help.” Luke met Calum’s eyes. “Please?” 

Calum groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, his hands covering them a moment later. “God, fine, but only because you’re being so annoying.” 

Luke grinned, standing and letting out a ‘woo.’ “Thanks, brother. C’mon, I need to pick out my uniform for tonight.” 

Luke grabbed his beer and launched himself over the couch, Calum standing and following him. The man sighed, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he did so. It was going to be a long night for both of them. 

[sukorakurai]

Phoenix Wright Ace Barista

A/N: Okay this was written by me and my son for his creative writing assignment when he was in his freshman year. I was so Proud of him. I thought I would had to post it for the fond Memories. I hope you enjoyed it.

***---***---***---***---

May 12th, 1:45 p.m. Court No.3. What a beautiful day in sunny California. Everyone is up and charged for the day, everyone but one tired and exhausted defense attorney. Phoenix Wright drags himself from the courtroom to the lunch counter. “How was your day Mr. Wright?” Phoenix looks over his shoulder to see Apollo, his young and cheerful junior lawyer, standing behind him holding a half eaten blueberry muffin in his hand.

 “Hello Apollo, do you have to be so cheerful?”

 “Sorry?” the young lawyer looked to his boss in question.

 “Never mind. To answer your question, I have not been having a good day.” Phoenix growled as he pushed his lonely doughnut and coffee to the cashier.  Lucky for him he managed to have enough change for the meager lunch.

 “Really, Mr. Wright, what happened?” Apollo followed Phoenix to an empty table and sat across from the tired attorney.

 “Well my young friend I will tell you. Be warned this story is not for the faint of Heart. It all started this morning when my Alarm clock went off waking me up at 5am. A whole hour before it was supposed to go off. It pissed me off so much I knocked it off the side table. The impact with the wall rendered it unusable for the foreseeable future. Since I didn’t have an alarm there was no point to going back to sleep other wise I would oversleep. So I got into the shower where I got a rude awakening. Turns out my building shut the hot water off so that the boiler could be repair. It would have been nice to have warning but the sign in the Lobby was too small to notice. So after a lovely shower under a freezing rain I got around to making breakfast. Well, it would have been breakfast had the milk not expired. I guess it had been awhile since I went to the store but I didn’t think it had been that long. I mean there were chunks of milk in my cereal. Anyway skipping breakfast I headed out to my First Job of the day.”

 “Wait, First Job? Mr. Wright you already have a job. You are the top defense Attorney in the city! Why would you need more than one job!?”

 “Well, I might be the top Defense Attorney in San Francisco but that doesn’t mean a thing when my clients only pay me IOU’s. Now to keep our office afloat I’ve had to pick up an odd job or two. I managed to get a part-time job at the Local coffee shop near the courthouse, it saves on the commute.”

 “Oh, you mean you are the manager?”

 “Not, Exactly.”

 “Hey Wright, next time I order my Venti Caramel Macchiato try not to drown it in foam. It totally watered down the espresso!” shouted Miles Edgeworth the lead Prosecutor in San  Francisco.

 “Don’t worry I won’t forget.” Phoenix gritted his teeth not wanting to start a shouting match in the cafeteria.

 “See that you don’t and don’t be late for court. I have a solid witness, that you can’t break, you need to be ready for me to put your client away.” Edgeworth smirked leaving the two attorneys to finish their lunch.

 “I really hate that guy. Anyways like I was saying I got a job as a Barista.”

 “Oh, I see. I take Mr. Edgeworth was a customer today.” Apollo said understanding the strife his employer was under.

 “You got it, but I’m getting ahead of myself. So I went to work this morning at 7 a.m. I got there just in time to see the line forming out the door and around the block. I was put work right away and about five customers into my shift disaster struck.”

 Flashback

 “Oh Nick! I didn’t know you worked here!”

 “Morning Maya, What can I get you?” I sighed. Not that I don’t like my Client/assistant but she could be a little chatty.

 “How funny is that, you are working here of all places? Well I should have seen it coming. Hey, since you’re the barista can you make mine EXTRA special? As in better than EVERYONE else’s you’ve made for so far? Because I’m a very close friend.”

 “No. Besides you didn’t even order any-”

 “Aww, why not?”

 “Doing that might lose my job. And you still haven’t ordered somethi-”

 “But, Niiiiiick.”

 “No means no. Are you even going to get anythi-”

  “Pleeeeeeaaaaase?”

 “No.

 “Niiiiiiiiiick.”

 It went on like that for five minutes before I finally got her to order a hot green tea with extra lemon. The next few customer went too happy after having wait so long to get their orders in. eventually things smoothed out until Edgeworth decided to “grace” me with his presences.

 “Oh how the mighty have fallen. Nice, apron Wright.”

 “Morning Edgeworth ,what can I get you?”

 “I’ll have a Venti Caramel Macchiato easy on the foam.”

 “Fine, that will be $6.50.”

 “You know Wright, we’re up against each other in court today. I have put together a rock solid case. Not only is your client guilty but I’m going to make sure he gets the maximum sentence.”

 “The minimum sentence is the death penalty. How can you get worse than that?”

 “WRIGHT STOP ARGUING WITH THE CUSTOMERS AND GET BACK TO WORK!” our discussion was cut short do to the manager yelling at me.

 “Yes, sir! Here’s your change now go wait for you name to be called.”

 “Very well, see you in court, Wright.”

 After Lord High Mighty left Things didn’t get any easier. Two of our five coffee/espresso machines broke. This caused a huge delay in service but there wasn’t anything we could do about it.

 “Next.” I said asking for the next person in line. The next person walked to the counter.” Good morning sir, what would you like to-...JUDGE!?”

 “Nothing right now, I start judging at noon though.”

 “Since when did you ever leave the courtroom!”

 “Actually pretty often, just the other day I went to get some groceries.”

  “And why are you in your robes? It’s only 8:30.”

 “These are also my pajamas.”

 “TMI.”

 “What?”

 “TMI, Too Much Information. I did not need nor want to know that. Anyways, what would you like to order?”

 “Just plain old black coffee.”

 “That will be $4.75. Go and wait for your name to be called. What is your name? I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.”

 “Judge.”

 “Your name is Judge?”

 “Yes I had it legally changed when I took to the bench.”

 “What was it before?”

 “Prosecutor.”

 End Flashback

 “That was when I felt like ramming my head against the nearest brick wall but there was none to be had so I finished out my shift and barely made it to court. Then before opening Statements the Judge addresses the courtroom and tells them I make a damn fine cup off coffee and everyone should go to the coffee shop tomorrow to try my coffee.”

 “Hey Mr. Wright?” Apollo looked to Phoenix with hope in his eyes.

 “Yeah?” Now the older attorney looked at his junior lawyer wearily.

 “When are your shifts everyday?”

 “7:00 a.m. to 10 a.m. Why do you ask?”

 “I was hoping to get something that I believe only you can make.”

 “What, No!” Phoenix reared back in horror. He couldn’t believe it, even Apollo wanted coffee from him.

 “Please, Sir? I this a Venti Salted Caramel Mocha Frappuccino with whipped cream Caramel Syrup and Chocolate Truffle shavings on top. I’ve been saving for two whole months to get it.” The young attorney practically drooling just at the thought of the expensive treat.

 “Is this why you haven’t been helping pay rent for our office?”

 “Well you seemed to have it covered I didn’t think you that you mind.” Apollo wilted under the Famous Wright Glare.  “So will you make it for me?”

 “No.” Phoenix had all he could take of this conversation and started to head back to court.

 “Come on sir, Please! I promise I’ll Start paying rent!” Apollo scrambled to follow his mentor.

 “NO! You better start paying rent anyways!” and that was the last as the courtroom doors closed locking Apollo out.

  THE END

[ohblackdiamond]

little t&a (paul/gene, nc-17) (part 3 of 29)

          Paul fretted and complained ad-nauseum. He didn’t want to see the psychic this soon; it was too much pressure. He didn’t have any clothes. Or rather, he had clothes, just nothing he wanted to wear. Gene knew he had at least two dresses—the black floral with the bell sleeves from his drag birthday party back in January, and a black polka-dot number from another party—and a substantial assortment of women’s blouses. What he didn’t have, and what Gene knew for a fact he didn’t have, was anything that fit correctly. No pants that would’ve worked. All Paul’s blouses and dresses were cut far too widely at the shoulders for him now. He’d be drowning in them.

           “Look, Paul, you can’t run around in a bathrobe all day,” Gene countered, although he suspected that was what Paul had been doing for most of the last five days. “What did you wear to Peaches?”

           “The dress from my birthday. It’s in the washing machine.”

           “Are you even wearing underwear?”

           At any other time, with a girl that looked like Paul, the question would’ve been a teasing come-on. Right now, it was a serious indictment of his hygiene.

           “I have on boxers.” Paul shot him an aggrieved look as he said it. “What’s it matter to you, anyway?”

           “They’re probably about to fall off, is why it matters.” Gene grunted, trying to think. “What shoes did you wear out?”

           “I stuffed some heels with tissue paper.”

           That was a start, at least. Gene sighed.

           “You’ll feel better with real clothes on. And I’ll feel better when your tits aren’t falling out of your bathrobe.”

           Paul glanced down reflexively and bit his lip, untying and then retying the robe a little more snugly.

           “I’ll get the other dress,” he mumbled, padding out of the kitchen without a backwards glance. Gene watched him retreat, waiting until he heard the bedroom door shut before he got up and opened Paul’s pantry door again, pushing past the groceries he’d already shelved.

           He didn’t really expect to find anything good in there. Paul was almost pathologically afraid of gaining weight. He was always at his worst about it right before tours, too. Gene would catch him at the pool, staring at his chest and stomach like they’d personally offended him just by existing at all. He honestly seemed to think he could starve his way into a set of abs. The burden of being the band’s sex symbol, Gene supposed, pushing aside some packages of instant ramen and TVP (weird, if Paul was trying vegetarianism, that’d just add another expense to their tour budget—not that they’d have a tour if he didn’t get fixed) to find a small, shameful stack of Hershey’s chocolate bars.

           He deserved something after the stress and frustrated arousal of the last hour or so. Gene took the entire stack of candy back to the kitchen island. He hadn’t even sat down before tearing into the first chocolate bar, and he’d only gotten two rows of it down his throat before Paul reemerged, in the black polka-dot dress from the drag party.

           For a minute, Gene forgot he was eating.

           Oh, the dress didn’t fit right. Too baggy in the shoulders, as expected, and the style was frumpy, not really showing off his figure much, besides his chest, still not contained with a bra. But Paul looked… pretty good. Definitely better than he had in the bathrobe. His curly hair was a lot less matted, and it seemed like he was standing a bit straighter.

           “Cute.”

           Paul shifted uncomfortably.

           “I still don’t want to see the psychic today.”

           “I haven’t made an appointment yet. It’s fine.” It was late afternoon, anyway. Gene didn’t know what hours psychics kept—if Ace was their clientele, chances were good they weren’t nine to five—but something kept him from trying Suzie’s number yet. He wasn’t sure if it was just not wanting to put Paul through more discomfort than he had to today, or if it was something else. Something like wanting to spend some time with him.

           “You’re eating my candy.”

           Gene snapped a clean row off the chocolate bar, holding it up to Paul like an offering. Paul shook his head.

          “I’ll pay you back with dinner, then, how’s that?”

           “Will you?”

           “Dinner and a movie.”

           “Oh, come off it, Gene—”

            “Takeout and a movie. How about it?”

           “Only if it’s on Masterpiece Theatre.”

           “No. You’re fucking miserable. I’m getting you out of the house at least for the movie bit.” Gene started to smile, reaching over and sticking the last bit of chocolate in Paul’s mouth on impulse. Paul looked embarrassed, but he took it, licking his lips after he swallowed. It was more distracting than Gene had expected. “Have you seen Smokey and the Bandit yet?”

           “No.”

           “I haven’t, either. C’mon. You can drive us to the movie theater.” In what he hoped might be the clincher, Gene added two words he’d rarely spoken. “I’ll pay.”

           “But it’s like you said. I don’t have a license right now.”

           “You’re also an ex-cabbie. I’m not too concerned.”

           Paul’s brows were still furrowed. But it looked like he was considering it.

           “Then what about getting recognized? Maybe I don’t need to worry about that right now, but you do, and—”

           “So let me worry about that, okay? Just relax.” He was trying too hard, maybe. Shrugging off legitimate concerns. If Paul did get pulled over, chances were pretty good the officer would look the other way at his lack of a matching license. Gene could play the celebrity card if he had to in order to evade any real trouble. He was loath to do that under normal circumstances, and he didn’t enjoy the thought of breaking the law, if only by a supernatural technicality, but if it got Paul out of the house, then he’d go for it.

           Getting recognized at the movie theater was the problem—Gene didn’t know how Paul would react to cameras flashing in his face when he was like this—but he was prepared to risk it anyway. Besides, half of being recognized lay in dressing the part of a rockstar, and that went for whoever he had on his arm, too. The blue jeans and polyester button-down he was wearing right now were toned-down enough from his usual fare, and Paul’s dress was oversized and out of style. Hopefully, all that would let them go to the movies unnoticed.

           “Okay.”

           “You’ll go?”

           “Yeah. I’ll go.”

           “Good.” The corner of Gene’s mouth lifted up. “Cheapest date I’ve had in years, Paul.”

           Paul flipped him off and snatched the rest of the stack of chocolate bars back. It was, Gene thought, a small price to pay to watch Paul flush all the way to his neck.

--

           They didn’t get pulled over, and they didn’t get recognized. Paul opened the door for Gene into the theater, the way he always did, which afforded him some weird looks from the other moviegoers, but that was about it. Smooth sailing.

           Gene got takeout from a Chinese restaurant nearby afterwards. They ended up eating it in the car on the drive back, Paul picking out eggrolls from the boxes and stuffing them in his mouth guilelessly. Gene got the impression he hadn’t eaten all day. He even tried to eat the fried rice while he drove, with the box in his lap, but Gene put a stop to that, and after awhile he started sticking forkfuls of rice in front of Paul’s face as a compromise. Apart from nearly missing a turn a few miles from his house, it didn’t seem like it distracted Paul too badly. If he’d noticed Gene’s pants tenting with every forkful, he never mentioned it.

           In fact, it seemed like Paul was in better shape now. The only time he really faltered was when he turned on the radio, to check on the traffic, only for “Rock and Roll All Nite” to come blaring in. He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders slumped, and he turned it off so quickly, and so hard, Gene was almost afraid he’d broken the radio button.

           “We’ll get you fixed, Paul, I promise.”

           “What if we can’t?”

           “We’ll do it.” Gene didn’t want to think of the alternative. Paul had probably thought enough about it for both of them. They’d never be able to keep the band going with a girl fronting. Their image wasn’t right for that. Maybe Paul could keep writing songs, or Gene could pull some strings and get him signed to Casablanca as a solo act… no, that’d kill him. All of that would just kill him. Despite all the cracks forming in the band, Paul wanted to go solo about as much as Frank Sinatra wanted to join the Beach Boys. “Trust me.”

           Paul nodded dully, before glancing up at the rearview mirror. He seemed to only just then realize he was pulling into his own driveway.

           “Oh, shit. Did you want me to take you home? I forgot.”

           “Nah, it’s fine.”

           “You sure? I don’t mind driving.”

           “I’m sure.”

           “Then use my phone and call your chauffeur.” Paul parked the car, automatically trying to put the keys in a pocket the dress didn’t have. Gene shook his head, getting out of the car.

           “It’s past eleven. I’ll just stay at your place.” That was better for both of them. More convenient than Gene having his driver take him home, and then back the next day. Plus, he figured Paul could use the company. He had the feeling the kid who’d brought his groceries and Peter were the only other people Paul had spoken to since he’d been cursed. “Hell, I’ll even shower.”

           “You’d better.” Paul unlocked the door, letting him in. Gene stepped inside, expecting Paul to point him toward the guest bedroom. Instead, he hesitated, taking off the tissue-stuffed heels and sticking them on a shoe rack without a word.

           “I will.”

           “Would you stay with me?” Paul burst into the words all of a sudden, then added, “Not like that. I don’t wanna fuck you.”

           That made one of them, Gene thought dryly. God. Someone as self-conscious as Paul couldn’t be completely oblivious to the effect his new form was having on Gene. Couldn’t think Gene was just teasing him. Gene wasn’t sure if it was denial on Paul’s part or what. Sleeping in the same bed as Paul, when Paul was a shade under six-foot, hairy-chested, and guaranteed to be prickly-faced by noon had never been an enticing prospect, just something he’d had to deal with every so often over the years. Sleeping in the same bed as Paul now that he was a chick…

           “I’m the same person, you know.” So he wasn’t oblivious. Gene didn’t know if that was reassuring, as he followed Paul into his bedroom. The bed was unmade, and the whole room smelled like Aramis cologne. “Just don’t wake me up with a hard-on. I’ll make it up to you later.”

           “Sounds promising.”

           “Shut up.” Paul opened one of the dresser drawers, thumbing through the contents. “You still sleep in pajamas?”

           “Only if I’m spending the night alone.”

           Paul tossed a pair of pajama bottoms in his face.

           Paul generally slept naked or in boxers, as far as Gene remembered from the times they’d shared a hotel room. Selfishly, he was hoping that wouldn’t have changed. The glances he’d gotten of Paul’s breasts earlier were mostly too brief for proper appreciation.

           Instead, after Gene had showered and put on the borrowed pajama bottoms, Paul got a t-shirt and another pair of boxers out of the dresser and headed off to the bathroom, returning with them on, the hem of the shirt nearly lined up with where the boxers ended. Disappointing, but not surprising.

           “You don’t have to cover up because of me.”

           “If I thought you couldn’t keep your hands off me, I wouldn’t have asked you to stick around.”

           Gene didn’t know how to answer that.

           Paul tossed and turned that night, which wasn’t abnormal for him, but kept Gene up. At one point, the twitchy way he kept moving around made him tempted to ask Paul where his hand was, but he bit back the comment, reaching over instead to find Paul facedown against the mattress. Gene grasped his shoulder.

           “You’re making the bed creak,” he mumbled out, and felt Paul still against him for a few gratifying seconds before he fell asleep.

--

           The truth was, Paul had been trying to get off.

           He had been every night for the last three nights, once the initial horror had worn off enough for him to be dejectedly curious. It hadn’t ever worked, and not just because he’d get spooked before he got very far. Every time he slipped a finger inside—not even a full finger, just barely past the first knuckle—it honestly hurt. Even tracing a finger across his clit wasn’t some quick-trigger to pleasure the way he’d always assumed. Everything just felt sore and tender.

           He knew it couldn’t be a virginity thing. A regular chick could get off on her own without a problem. He’d seen that plenty. He was just stuck. It figured, really, to get trapped in a body that couldn’t even orgasm properly. No distractions from how damn miserable he was, with his life caving in on him, Gene totally unable to hide how much he wanted to fuck him—and the worst part was, Paul couldn’t find the dignity or the self-respect to call him out on it. Some pathetic part of him was actually enjoying the flickers of want that kept crossing Gene’s face. He’d never garnered Gene’s attention as a guy, not that he’d expected to, but—

           He was thinking too much. He hadn’t been able to call up Hilsen since this shit had started, which didn’t help at all. But what could a therapist say to him now, anyway? Could he self-help his way into getting his dick back? With the way things were going, nothing was going to happen. He’d thought Peter’s coke habit was what would put them all out on their asses. But instead it looked like Paul was the one who was about to destroy the band just as they’d gotten a top-ten hit. He’d never get to play for another audience again. In a couple of weeks, he’d have to leave his own house and be assumed missing or dead, with all his assets taken by his parents. Then he’d probably be living on Gene’s dime for as long as it took for Gene to quit feeling pity for him, and that was if he was lucky. That was if Gene and the other guys didn’t take all matters into their own hands and get another frontman. Probably use one of his abandoned makeup designs for him, too. Paul exhaled softly against the pillows, too sickened by the thought to want to pursue it further.

           But something had happened. Just for a little bit, when Gene had touched him. Paul’s hand was between his thighs, furtively searching for a little warmth, and then he’d felt Gene’s fingers curve around his shoulder. Not rough, and not tender, just there, firm and steadying. Paul’s hips twitched almost on their own at the touch, and all of a sudden, something hot burst deep within him, and he felt his own fingers actually sliding briefly against his folds. Just briefly. For the first time, he’d gotten wet.

           He lay there a long time, past when Gene’s hand slipped away as Gene fell asleep, caught between trying to will that feeling back and fearing he’d only wake Gene up in the process. In the end Paul compromised, shamefully, scooting up close enough that he could smell the faint tinges of Chinese food on Gene’s breath as he slept. He’d forgotten to offer him a toothbrush before bed.

           Paul couldn’t remember daring to touch him, but he must have, at least in his sleep, because he woke up early the next morning with his face pressed against Gene’s bare arm, and drool pooling on the sheets.

[haikyuu-and-more-haikyuu]

For your Tsukkiyama friendship head canon. What is Tsukki’s reaction to finding out Yamaguchi eats alone most nights and is basically poor. Is Yamaguchi up front about it or ashamed? How about when they grow up and are in high school? Is Yamaguchi family financial situation better or are there still struggles?

Thanks for the comment :D It makes my day! LONG POST COMING UP ;)

I have some HC about the Yamaguchi Family. 

Yamaguchi Kanami divorced from Tadashi’s father before Yama was born. He was just not good for neither of her and Kanami didn’t want to bring in her unborn baby to a man that didn’t want anything to do with him. She has it much better without them, Tadashi too. 

Kanami got pregnant at a young age, when she had just started uni. She had to drop out, but managed to get work afterwards. Also, she and Tadahsi lived in a pretty small apremtnemt together. They had to pull out their futons each night and sleep next to each other in the common room (search Clannad, Tomoya apartment).

Before she divorced, she worked as a home-nurse (those who help disabled, old etc people at home or nursing homes.) and one office job. 

I imagine they lived in Osaka or Tokyo before they moved. Kanami got a promotion for her office job in Sendai and she and Tadashi packed their things and moved to Miyagi. 

They got a bigger apamrntet. Two bedrooms, for the first time in his life, Tadashi had his own room. Kanami had to lie with him every night for two weeks before he managed to sleep by himself. 

Kanami takes on a lot of evening and late night shift, sometimes even night shifts if money is tight or she want’s to earn a little bit more, becuse they pay more than just regular hours. Her office job pays ok, she wishes it was more. But as for now, they managed just fine. 

Also, I feel like since Yamaguchi and his mother were so close when he was little, they are still very close when he grow up and reach adolescence. Of course they argue and such, that is what family do. But Tadashi never brings up his living conditions as an argument. He understands that for them to be able to  live like they do now, his mother has to work like she does. it sucks sometimes. especially since she sometimes have to work on important days like his birthday, or holidays. He grows up, and maybe he gets a part time job in the end of junior high or even at Shimadas shop to make it easier. As Kanami said, Tadashi is too easy to deal with sometimes. 

It does get better. Eventually. Kanami gets promoted at her office job, but still works as a home-nurse. But she isn't so tired and has a little  more time for her son. They stay in the small apartment, because they both feel  like that is their home. And getting help from the Tsukishima’s helped too. She is not so stressed over Tadashi’s well being when he is home alone- because he will always be at his best friends house when he would be alone home. It’s rescuing that he has someone other than her when she can’t be there for him. 

Now, to the actual ask :D

Yamaguchi’s and Tsukishima’s friendship started small. They would pair up in Volleyball practice, spend lunch together and walk to and from school- meeting at an intersection were their paths crossed. 

It wasn’t until a week after the bully-incident, that the topic of dinner came. 

“We are going to have pork curry. I love it.” Tsukishima said. While they approached the the intersection. 

“Thats sound good.” Yamaguchi said, looking up at his friend. “I am just going to have instant noodles since Ka-chan are working late.”

“Do-do you eat alone often?” 

Yamaguchi nodded. And that was all it took. Suddenly, Yamaguchi was being dragged the other way, away from his home. He tried to get his friend to stop, but Tsukki was too tall for him to have any impact. I don’t want to be an intrusion. Yamaguchi had muttered once they approached a big house. It looked like a small castle. You are not, I am sure of it. 

“Oka-san, Tou-san, Tadaima.” Tsukishima had yelled out load into the big house.  

A lady, with a long bob came out from what Tadashi though was the common room. She smiled warmly at them, although she looked a little surprised to have a guest. Kei, is this your friend? Yamaguchi stepped forwards body trembling. He managed to choke out his name and a decent greeting of his name. He bowed for the woman. 

“Yamaguchi was going to eat noodles for dinner since his mother aren't home.”

“Well, then. Nice to meet you, Yamaguchi-kun.” She smiled warmly at him. Dinner would be ready in half an hour. As the thirty minutes wen buy, Kei showed him his room. It was big, filled with books, dinosaurs and other toys. A big bed and even a big desk and a small table. They started their homework, but in the middle of it; they were called for dinner. 

Yamaguchi walked slowly down the stairs, behind Tsukishima. “Where is Nii-Chan?” He asked. Tsukshima’s anaki was still at practice and would be home later. His father had arrived and greeted him politely too. Yamaguchi greeted him back and sat beside Tsukishima.

They talked about school and Yamaguchi explained that his mother worked a lot and wasn’t much home when he were. But it was okay, since Ka-chan works hard for the both of us. Not entirely knowing the weight of those words. It caused the Tsukishima’s parents to glance at each other, but Mrs. Tsukishima gave him another serving of pork curry when he finished his first plate. It was really good. Much better than microwave ready food. 

By the time Yamaguchi needed to get home, Akiteru had come home too. The oldest boy ruffled his hair as Tsukishima drowned him in questions about his practice and more. Akiteru was really tall! And nice too. Yamaguchi got the see an ace!

Just when he was about to go out of the door, Mrs. Tsukishima came out. “Yamaguchi-kun, you can come and eat with us everyday if you want to.”

“I-I don’t have to, since it yours food and all that.” he stammered back, but beside him; Tsukishima agreed with his mother. 

“Don’t worry about that, Yamaguchi, but if it’s okay for your mother; just come by whenever.” She too gave his hair a small ruffle and smiled to warmly at him. “It’s a pleasure to have you here. Every friend of Kei is welcome here.” 

And then it was set. Each day Tsukishima would ask if his mother was home or not, and if she weren’t, Tadashi would eat with them. The two of them spent the rest of the day doing homework, trying to get Akiteru to play volleyball with them if he was up to it and playing in Kei’s room. 

Sometimes Kanami would walk over and get Tadashi when it was time to go home of the evening and bring a small gift for the family. Mrs. Tsukishima tells her every time that she doesn’t need to; but you are there for my son when I can’t be, so this is the least I could do for you. 

Tsukishima slowly understood that Yamaguchi’s life was a lot different from his own when the months went buy. Yamaguchi told him that his clothes were mostly bought used at stores or hand me downs. Kanami, always looked a little tired and worn out, but was kind to the both of them. 

One evening, he went up to his own parents and asked; why can’t Tadashi and his mother live in a house like ours when she works two jobs? His parent places at each other, weighing their words. 

“Yamaguchi-san loves and cares for Tadashi really well, and she does it all alone too; which can be hard at times.”

“Kei, Yamaguchi-san works hard for Tadashi-kun, but-but still, sometimes different types of jobs don’t pay the same; but that doesn't mean she cares any less than someone who has a bigger apartment. Do you understand?”

“I think I do.” 

Tsukishima didn’t understand right way, but  a few years later he did understand more. He understood that Yamaguchi barley saw his grandparents. He received a card on his birthday. Traveling was expensive and their apartment had little room for sleep over guests. Yamaguchi would spend most weekdays at Kei’s after school, since Kanami was working so much. Tsukishima could see that his friend missed his mother, a lot. And he could see that Kanami misses her boy too. But he hoped that the small make shift family they provided him were enough. 

When he would grow out of his volleyball shoes, Yamaguchi went back to the shoes provided from the school until Kanami could afford new ones. Tsukishima stopped using his brothers old shoes when he got out of elements school and each time he needed knew one; his parents could provide it for him and new ones would be bough in a few days. 

It was privilege, Tsukishima understood after a few years. He were simply more privilege than Yamaguchi, but he never though less of his friend becuse of that.

But Tsukishima respect Kanami for the life she has created for Tadashi and herself. He is loved, cared for and she support him in every way possible. Despite being busy, their home is warm and homey. There is always food in the fridge and more for Tadashi. It’s easy to see where Tadashi got his values and kindness from, because it came from a woman that knew the value of family. 

Hope you liked it. Actually, the asks box is open for all kinds of asks and prompts about Haikyuu!! Feel free to send more :)

[pokermalaysia-blog]

Judi Online Malaysia

If you ask players on the tournament circuit who they think are the best poker players in the world, T. J. Cloutier’s name always conies up.

Not because he’s won the Big One: He hasn’t… yet, although he’s come mighty close to winning it several times.

And not because he’s made the most money at the World Series … he hasn’t, although he was the first player to make more than $1 million at it without winning the main event.

T. J. Cloutier’s name is always mentioned because he is the player that they all respect and fear.

T. J. is one of the last of the legendary road gamblers whose numbers are, unfortunately, dwindling each year. He brings a wealth of experience, card skill, and natural ability to every game that he plays.

But more importantly, he always brings along his knowledge of the thousands of players that he has faced head up in the 21 years that he has made his living as a professionalpoker player.

And that sixth sense about what makes his opponents tick … that innate ability to put a player on a hand … is why his opponents fear him.

It is as though he is looking at you through an invisible microscope, knowing what you are thinking, detecting you tells, delving into the inner spaces of your mind … you know that he knows you, knows what you’re going to do next.

And he’s going to use his encyclopedic memory of how you play to beat you.

I got to know T. J. first through hearsay, then by talking with him and Tom McEvoy while we were working on this book, and finally by observing him in action. All three encounters have been awesome.

While T. J. and I were recording his life’s story, I somehow had the feeling that I was sitting at the feet of a master … a master of people.

And I knew that there was much that I could learn from the man whom Mansour Matloubi has called “the greatest living no-limit holdem player in the world.”

Here is his story.

T. J. Cloutier graduated from Jefferson High School in Daly City, CA, where he was a three-letter man. At 6'3" tall, he was the center on the basketball team, played football, and still holds the home run record in baseball.

So, were all the girls waiting in line for a date with him?

Well… when I was a senior, I dated Pat Kennedy, who later won the Miss California title,“ he modestly admits. We had a study group of 10 or 15 kids that ran around together, and high school came very easy to me.

It was when I got into college that I found out that you had to study.” T. J. entered the University of California at Berkeley on a baseball and football athletic scholarship and played for Cal in the Rose Bowl in 1959 as a sophomore.

But when his mother became ill, he dropped out of college to go to work and help his father pay some of her medical bills.

Then the army snapped him up, since he no longer was a draft-deferred student.

T. J. gained his first experience playing poker when he was a caddy at the Lake Merced and San Francisco Country Clubs. When he and the other caddies came in from taking their loops (caddying), they played a form of poker in the caddy shack.

One day, somebody passed around some “lucky bucks” from Artichoke Joe’s, a cardroom in San Francisco. For $15, he received a $20 buy-in for the lowball game. So, at the age of 17 years, T. J. started playing poker in a public cardroom and by the time he was 19 years old, he was playing head-up draw poker against Artichoke Joe himself.

“When I began playing, all the games were no-limit, including no-limit lowball without the joker and no-limit high draw poker,” he reflects.

“Then when I entered college, I played poker at the Kappa Alpha house with Joe Capp, the Cal quarterback who later played in the NFL, and Bobby Gonzalez, who became a supervisor in San Francisco. I found out that I had a knack for the game, although I lost everything I had at the time. I was honing my skills at observation and getting to know people. I’ve always had a sort of photographic memory for how people play their hands in certain situations. If you and I had played poker together five years ago, I wouldn’t remember your name, but I would remember your face and how you played your hands in different situations, your tendencies. It’s a visual memory thing; I’ve always been very observant throughout my entire life,”

So, you keep a book on players, I asked?

“No, it’s nothing that formal. It’s more like pages opening in a book in my mind. And that helps … especially in no-limit games.”

He then went on to play poker in the army, where he furthered his training at cards. When T. J. got out of the army, he walked into the office of the Montreal Allouettes and asked if he could try out with them.

After checking out his record at Cal, the general manager told him, “We’ll put you up for two weeks, and then you can come out and show us what you have.”

He went to one workout and made the team, after not having played any football for two years. The team paid his expenses until the training camp began, and he played first string tight end for the Allouettes until he was traded to the Toronto Argonauts.

Canadian football was a lot different from American football in those days. Thirteen Americans were suited up, along with 17 Canadians.

“My value was that my father was born in Canada, so I could play as a Canadian — an American - trained Canadian was just what they were looking for,”

The team had only 12 players going each way, leaving just six reserves, including the kickers and other special players. So, in addition to playing first string tight end, T. J. also was first backup to the defensive ends.

“It’s a rugged brand of football, wide open. When I was playing, you couldn’t block for a pass receiver once he caught the ball past the line of scrimmage. The field was 110 yards long, the end zones were 20 yards deep, and the field was wider. You had to make a first down in the first two downs or else kick the ball, since there were only three downs. It was a real fast game, and everybody was in motion all the time.”

Another different facet was that you couldn’t block for a punt receiver; once he caught the ball, he was on his own.

“You had to give the punt receiver five yards to catch the ball. So, the other team would circle him like the Indians circling the settlers, and as soon as he caught that ball, he was dead, flatter than a pancake,”

T. J. played Canadian football for five years … until his knees gave out. Then he received a call from Victoria when they were trying to form the Continental Football League.

Victoria offered him its coaching job, but he also would have to play.

“Are you kidding?” he asked. “If I could still play, I’d be playing for Montreal or Toronto.

“Of course, football wasn’t the only game in town: A cardroom in Vancouver, B.C., spread a poker game called “sousem,” a form of five-card stud. In sousem, a four-card straight or a four-card flush beats one pair, so it puts a lot of action into the game,“ T. J. explained.

“It was quite a game, no-limit. The only other game we played was no-limit ace-to five lowball.” And even that game wasn’t the only one in town. In Montreal, the Hebrew Businessmen’s Club spread five card studs. I was getting whipped pretty good, but it was all a part of the learning process,“ T. J. admits.

When he left Canada, T. J., his father, and his brother-in-law started Bets Quality Foods, an acronym for Bill, Ed, and Tom (T. J.’s first name), and later brought T. J.’s brother in with them.

“We used the money that I had left from football and my dad’s retirement to start the business. Our slogan was ‘Your Best Bet in Quality Foods.’ We bought a huge freezer from Foster’s, a big cafeteria chain in San Francisco, when they went out of business and rebuilt it in our warehouse to handle our frozen food. We had a big egg business, too, although you don’t make much money from eggs. But when you’re serving big hotels, you have to give them the eggs at a good price to keep their other business. I was working 16 hours a day — I would take orders, load trucks, and pick up and deliver products. Later, we merged with A & A Foods, and they stole us blind. My dad won an 11 -count court case against them, but the owners left the country.”

After suffering this bad beat, T. J. began delivering bread for Toscana and eventually wound up as night manager for Wonder Bread in San Francisco.

“My first wife and I split up about that time, and I ended up heading for Texas with $100 in my pocket,” he remembers.

That was in 1976. “I went to work for six months as a derrick man on the oil rigs down there. On my off days, I was playing poker. Pretty soon, I was making more money at poker than I was on the rigs… and I’d been freezing up there, anyway… so that’s how I moved into playing poker full time.”

He played no-limit hold'em in Longview, Texas, and pot limit hold'em in Shreveport, Los Angeles, 51 miles away.

T. J. had only played hold'em a few times before that. While he was playing lowball at the Cameo Club in Palo Alto, CA, a club across the street tried three times to start a hold'em game, but the police came in and busted them every time.

Because of the good games in Shreveport, T. J. moved mere to play poker every day at the Turf Club.

“The games much smaller than we’re playing now. On Sundays, they would have a big game run by an old gambler named Harlan Dean who was well known in all the gambling places. He used to be George Barnes’ partner in the bridge tournaments in Vegas, and he was one of the original holdem players. I ended up selling the chips, and if I got broke or something, he’d call up on a Sunday and ask, ‘Well, we’re broke, are we, or partner?’ And I’d say, ‘Well, Mr. Dean, I know you’re not broke, but I am.’ Then he’d say, ‘Well, you come on by today and I’ll give you some chips.’ And if I got loser in the game, I could have the chip rack because he didn’t want the game to end. That’s when I started playing real serious poker.”

In 1978, T. J. made his first trip to the World Series of Poker, although he didn’t play in the championship tournament until 1983 (the year that Tom McEvoy won it).

But the third year that he played for the World Championship (in 1985), he finished second to Bill Smith, with Berry Johnston taking third.

“When it got down to three-handed, Berry Johnston had the best hand, an A-K. I had an A-J. The flop came K-J little and we got it all in. On the turn, I caught a jack and drew out on him to put him out of the tournament. Then it got to two-handed and I had the lead against Bill,”

“But the key hand of the whole match happened when I had two nines and he had two kings. He moved in and I called him with my nines. He won the pot and doubled up. Now he had a big lead, and I started chopping back at him,”

There were 140 players that year, so there was $ 1,400,000 in chips; I got back to $350,000.

Then Bill came in with a little raise, and I looked at an ace in my hand … didn’t even look at the other card, but made it look like I had.

I just went over the top of him with the whole $350,000. I knew that he had to decide… if he made the wrong one, I’d be back even with him again.

He had started drinking, and he gave away money when he was drinking. He called. When I looked back at my hand, my kicker was a three. And Bill had two threes. They held up and he won the title.

He was one of the greatest players of all time, Bill Smith was. Bill was the tightest player you’d ever played in your life when he was sober.

And when he was halfway drunk, he was the best player I’d ever played with. But when he got past that halfway mark, he was the worst player I’d ever played with.

And you could always tell when he was past the halfway point because he started calling the flop. Say a flop came 7-4-10 — he would say, ‘21!’ or some other remark like that.

When he got up to take a walk, he would have a little hop in his step, a ‘git up in his getting’ we used to call it. And then you knew he was gone.

But he had such great timing on his hands when he was younger and wasn’t drunk… he was out of this world. He knew when to lay down three of a kind, when to call with a baby under pair with two or three over cards on the board.

He was a fabulous player, but he became an alcoholic and that was that. You never worried about Bill when he was sober because you knew that he played A-B-C — tight — and you knew where he was all the time.

The only time that you worried about him was when he was about halfway drunk, and then he’d play all the way to ‘H’. He’d make some fabulous plays, plays you couldn’t believe.

Bill Smith was a truly great player.

In those days, T. J. was living in Shreveport, playing poker every day. “In fact,” he said, “I was having a gay old time. I was single then and would go to the Louisiana Downs 100 out of the 105 days of the meet, and then go out and play poker every night. I learned more about poker in Shreveport than anywhere else in the world.”

There was a real good game on Sunday and a guy named Jim “Little Red” Ashee used to P% in it. He’s bigger than I am — about 6'5” tall and 300 Pounds, but they called him Little Red because he started playing there when he was about 16 or 17 years old.

“I learned more from just watching him play than any other way. It was like sitting at the feet of the master, except that the master was not instructing T. J.”

“I was actually absorbing what Red did, and then suiting those moves to my own style, which was aggressive at times and passive at other times. You can’t let them pigeon hole you, you know.”

“A lot of people think that Sarge Ferris was the best five card stud player in the world … well, when Red was 17 years old, he was playing with Sarge, Corky McCorquodale, Homer Marcotte … all the big names in five-card stud used to play in Shreveport. And Little Red beat them all the time.”

Marcotte was killed in Dallas. “He was called 'The Louisiana Man’ because wherever he went, he would say, “I’m the Louisiana Man.” He was shot dead by some guy about 5'5” tall in a Dallas bar back around 1978 over a $50 bar bill.

The little guy kept dunning Marcotte for the $50 and Homer kept saying, 'Don’t you know me? I’m the Louisiana Man. You don’t dun me for $50.’

Finally, this little guy had heard enough, went out to his car to get his gun, came back in, and shot Marcotte.

Anyway, when Sarge went out to Vegas and won all that money, he put up a bankroll for Red while the World Series was on so that if Red came out, he’d have the money to play against anybody that wanted to play him.

The only person I know of that they ever got a game on with was George Huber, and he didn’t last two hours against Red. Lost about $40,000 to him.

Of course, Red didn’t come out very often because he hated to fly. You’d almost have to give him a shot like Mister T on the old A-Team show just to get him on an airplane.

Red liked horses and sports betting, so all his money went there, and after he got into that, poker wasn’t fast enough for him. But at one time, he was very well respected in poker, especially in the South.

A lot of good holdem players came from the South, from the Sun Belt states. T. J. is one of the best of them.

“While I was living in Shreveport, I found out about a real good game in Dallas that was run by a man that I will call The Big Texan. It was a $5-$10-$25 no-limit holdem game with either a $500 or a $ 1,000 buy in. I used to drive the 200 miles from Shreveport three days a week to play in that game.”

The first 12 times that he played in the game, he won. Then, on his next visit, the Big Texan told T. J., “I’m dropping the latch on you. If you don’t give me half your play, you can’t play here anymore,”

So, T. J. gave him half his action for his next 10 visits … and he won all 10 times.

“Then one day I went down there and out of the blue, the Big Texan said to me, 'I’m out today.’ That rang a warning bell in my head. I knew that there was something going on, something was wrong. There were two new players in the game, so I just bought in for $500 in chips, played for about an hour, and hardly ever got into a pot. Then I left.”

That was around the time that Bill Smith and T. J. became friends. Bill’s wife, Cleta, was working at Mitsubishi Aircraft in New Orleans and introduced T. J. to Joy, whom he married in 1984.

“That’s the reason I moved to Dallas from Shreveport, not just because of the game but because Joy lived there. She was the personal secretary to the president of Mitsubishi,”

Joy Cloutier has one daughter from a previous marriage, whom T. J. put through Texas A & M where she received her training as a petroleum engineer.

Today, Joy travels with T. J. to most of the tournaments on the circuit.

“Joy is amazing. I don’t know what she does while I’m playing the tournaments, but the day does not have enough hours for her,”

Lyle Berman was T. J.’s first tournament backer. At the time, Berman was backing Jack Keller and another player. When the second player fell out of their arrangement, Berman asked around to find out who else he might back.

T. J.’s name was suggested, so he and Lyle spoke on the telephone and then met at the airport on their way to the Bicycle Club’s big tournament in 1989.

“He’s a super guy. At the Bike, he asked how much I needed to play the side games during the three days that we were there. 'Well, I guess about $10,000 would be plenty,’ I said. 'I’m giving you $30,000,’ he answered,”

“He wanted me to have plenty of money to play with in those ring games, so I wouldn’t be playing scared money. I’ve been lucky for him in side games and in tournaments. We’ve made a lot of money together,”

T. J.’s play at the World Series of Poker is always open to Lyle as a backer.

Lyle doesn’t get to many tournaments anymore, but he always makes it to the WSOP. As high as you’ve ever heard of in a poker game, Lyle plays it. He plays in that high game at the WSOP with Doyle and Chip and the Greek and the others.

And when they play high, Lyle’s as good a player as anyone alive. He’s one of the two or three people that play in that game who can really afford it.

But that’s not it: He’s a great card player, a brilliant poker player. He has no fear whatsoever, no matter how much you bet at him.

In fact, in the final game that he and Bob Stupak played before the Stratosphere thing, Stupak brought it in for $25,000. They were playing no-limit deuce-to-seven with no cap. Usually, they played with a $75,000 cap, which means that you can’t lose more than $75,000 on one hand, but that night they were playing the game with no cap.

Lyle called the bet with 2-3-5-7, drawing at the deuce-to-seven wheel. He drew one card while Stupak stood pat.

When all the shouting was over, Stupak had bet $390,000 on his hand, an 8-5 pat, which is a great hand in deuce-to-seven. But Lyle caught a six and made a seven on Stupak to win the pot.

“From what I understand, Stupak still owes Lyle some of that money.”

T. J. has three World Series titles, along with a lot of place wins at the WSOP. In fact, he was the first man to earn $1 million at the Series without winning the big one. When I asked which year, he won the limit Omaha title, he said:

“I’d have to go look at my bracelet. I’ve won 43 titles and I can’t keep them all straight. The only major tournament where I haven’t won the big title so far is the World Series, but I came in second to Bill Smith and placed fifth to Chan the year that he beat Eric Seidel for the championship.”

In 1994, T. J. won two WSOP tournaments during its silver anniversary, one in pot-limit hold'em and the other in Omaha high-low split.

In no-limit hold'em, you’ll recognize the faces at the final table more than in any other tournament because it’s the Cadillac of poker. I won the last $5,000 tournament held at the Stardust, the Stairway to the Stars.

That was the year that I won the last Diamond Jim Brady tournament at the Bicycle Club, and I told them before it started, 'I won the last one at the Stairway to the Stars, I won the last one at the Union Plaza, I won the last one at the Frontier … this place might blow up next week if I win the big one here, too.’

I wound up winning the Bike’s Diamond Jim Brady tournament three years in a row.

That was sort of a peak for me that I don’t think can ever be repeated.

The first year that I won the Diamond Jim Brady, Mansour Matloubi and I started head-up play with about even chips. I had played with him for about five hours that day at the final table and he never ran a bluff on anybody one time, not once.

He wanted to get down to the final two. When we got head-up, he bet me $120,000 on the final hand, and I called him with third pair in a New York split second because I knew that I had the best hand.

I’d been chipping away at him so bad that he decided to try to run a big bluff on me. And that was the end of it.

Then when Tuna Lund and I got head-up the next year at the Diamond Jim Brady, Tuna had $360,000 and I had $120,000. I chipped away at him and chipped away at him and chipped away at him.

Finally, he made a $50,000 bet on the end on one hand and I called him with a pair of nines. He said, 'You got me.’ And I answered, 'Wait a minute … before you show your hand, I’ll bet you have a Q-10 off suit.’

He turned it over and sure enough, that’s what he had. That was the key hand.

The third year I won the Diamond Jim Brady, it got down to Bobby Hoff and me, so I played a formidable player every year. But in this one, I had three-to-one chips on Hoff, not like the second year that I played when I came into the second day of the tournament with the low chips.

The key hand that year was when I had two nines against Hal Kant’s two eights, which doubled me up from $9,000 to $18,000 and then I just went from there.

While T. J. is competing in a tournament, he often plays side games, too, although there are times when he doesn’t play any side action at all. He also occasionally plays in the satellites.

“At the Hall of Fame, I had a run one year when I played in six super satellites and got a seat in four of them, and I played in six one-table satellites and won four of those. So, I won close to $35,000 on the side in the satellites,”

He loves playing satellites for big events. One year, Berman told him to play in every $10,000 one-table satellite for the WSOP that he could enter, because at that time T. J.’s record was one win for every three satellites he played.

You get some pretty weak fields in satellites, although at the big one they’re not usually as weak as they are for some of the other tournaments. In a $10,000 satellite, you get $2,000 in chips so you can play the game.

But you have only $200 or $300 in chips in the super satellites, so everybody’s just moving in all the time and you’ll get drawn out on a lot. If you only have that many chips, all of them are in jeopardy the first round that you play.

Or you’ll try to draw out on somebody else, whereas you wouldn’t try to do that with a big stack.

One year, I played in a $10,000 satellite at the Golden Nugget and five people moved in all of their chips on the first hand.

So, one guy ended up with $ 10,000 in chips after the first hand.

Some people advise limit players to play the satellites if they want to learn to play no-limit or pot-limit hold'em. T. J. disagrees with that approach.

“I disagree with that idea 100 percent. I think that you must play in a live game to learn how to play those games because satellites are played so differently from a regular game. About the only thing you get a feel for from satellites is the raise in limits,”

The thing that has made T. J. so successful at no-limit and pot-limit holdem is his observation powers.

I know what Joe Blow is going to do in this situation and in that situation. That’s what helps me. When I’m in a tournament with all strangers, after 15 or 20 minutes I’m going to know how they play.

Say what you want, but there are people who have that ability, and there are people who don’t have it. You’re either born with it or you aren’t.

I have a knack for picking up people tells and all the little things that they do. Caro has a book on tells, but I have my own book.

What about the young new breed of “scientific” players, I wondered.

There are several good players among the young bucks. Phil Hellmuth is still young and he’s a great player. Howard Lederer is another one. There’s also a kid from Los Angeles named David Oppenheimer who’s a very good limit player. Huck Seed’s a great young player, too.

He took on the best and beat them. A lot of the old timers say, 'Well, they haven’t been breaking yet. Let’s see what kind of players they are when they get broke,’

You see, all the top players have had big money and have been broke and have come back and been broke and then come back again.

They’re the top players, and that’s the nature of the game. But when your factor in how much money you have to make to meet your nut, you have to be pretty successful to just stay alive every year.

So, are these new players playing something like “formula” poker?

The guys I’ve mentioned are all very good young players. But all the rest of the new players seem to be the same type — they’ve read some books, and they all play the same way.

I don’t think that’s good, because I like to see them when they have a few moves to them, a little creativity, some moxie. But you just don’t see that among them. The old-type players like Doyle and James “Goodie” Roy and Buck Buchanan (who’s dead now), and maybe even guys like me, are dying out.

Everybody today is book-learned, but in the old days it was experience-play, where you had to learn your players. I played with a kid down in L. A. who can’t win a hand unless money is given to him.

But I’ve never seen him lose because somebody will get in the game and just give his money to him.

Any top player would see that this kid doesn’t play a hand unless it’s a huge, huge hand, so why would you even get involved with this man?

Those types of players can’t beat me out of any money unless I do it to myself.

Are these new, young players making “formula” plays and relying on what they learn from books because they don’t have the training ground available to them that the “vintage” players, the road gamblers, had?

We used to 'fade the white line,’ the white line of the highway going from game to game.

You don’t have to do that anymore because of all the cardrooms and casinos. In California, the new players learn limit poker and most of them don’t have a chance in no-limit.

They learn to play hands in limit holdem like second pair and draws, and you can get eaten alive in no-limit with that kind of play.

Plus, they only have one move when they play no-limit: They’re afraid to play out a hand. So, when they play no-limit, they just put in their whole stack in situations where an experienced player might make just a decent little raise and get more money out of a person.

You see, the whole idea in poker is to maximize the money that you can get out of a hand. But these new guys are ramming and jamming when they get a big hand, playing limit style.

They’re so afraid of the draw outs that they’re used to getting in limit that they just put in all their chips and put somebody to the test on every hand… which is not the way to do it, because people just throw their hands away.

Say that you have $10,000 in front of you. You have two queens and some guy bet $10,000 before the flop. He might have aces or kings or A-K. You’re going to throw your queens away.

Why takes the chance?

Just throw the hand away and wait to pick up another hand. These types of inexperienced bettors aren’t going to get paid on their good hands.

These are the types of things that road gamblers have learned; they aren’t things that you pick up from reading books at home.

I can remember one time in the World Series when I had two kings twice during the first two hours of the $ 10,000 championship tournament. Both times, I made a little raise and was re-raised, and I threw the kings away before the flop.

And both times, I was right: Mike Allen showed me aces on both hands. I knew the player and so I knew the kings weren’t any good. It’s very hard to lay down two kings; it’s easier to play queens because you can get away from them easier than you can two kings.

But then, I remember a time when I blew it at the Hall of Fame. There was one guy at the table that I didn’t know. It was the first hand that was dealt, and I was in the big blind with the K-9 of diamonds in an unraised pot. The flop came 7- 2-3 of diamonds.

This guy led off and bet from the number one seat, the fellow on the button called, and I raised right there. The guy in the one-seat moved all in, and the man on the button (who had turned a set) called.

Ordinarily, I would have thrown away my hand. The only player that I didn’t know was the guy who moved all in … and he had the A-J of diamonds in his hand. So, I went broke on the hand and went out first in that tournament.

Do beats like that cause players to steam, I wondered.

No, I never steam. I might steam on the inside, but I never let other players see it. But I remember one time when Phil Hellmuth got knocked out of the Diamond Jim Brady tournament.

A velvet rope was connected to two poles at each door so that people couldn’t wander into the room. Phil went on a dead sprint and tried to leap over that rope, caught his foot on rt, and went tumbling out into the room.

Another time during a limit holdem tournament at the Diamond Jim Brady, the whole room was completely packed, and you know how much noise there is in a tournament room like that.

A Mulatto girl came into the room wearing a dress with cross hatches down the back of it cut all the way down, real low. She was an beautiful woman. She walked over to talk with Jerry Buss, and the whole room went silent, totally silent.

When she finished talking with Jerry, the entire room started clapping … in the middle of the tournament. In contrast, I was in a tournament at the Normandie one time when I saw an older lady pick up her hand to look at it up closely, had a heart attack, and keeled over dead.

The two tables around her caused some commotion, but the other tables didn’t even stop playing… nobody even noticed. But this girl stopped the whole room!

Do players prepare for tournaments?

When I’m taking my shower in the morning, I think about a few things, devise a plan. Then my wife, who’s with me most of the time, gives me a kiss and says, 'I love you and good luck.’ Then she says, 'Now, concentrate and don’t do anything foolish. Catch some cards.’ It’s the same thing each time.

T. J. also plays in tournaments other than no-limit and pot-limit holdem, including seven-card stud, Omaha, Omaha high-low split, and lowball.

I never used to play stud tournaments, because being from Texas and seeing what things can be done with a deck, I never liked a game where the same person always gets the first card like they do in stud. I’ve run into enough cheats and mechanics in my lifetime who could win every pot if the right guy was dealing.

And, of course, most of the players in a stud tournament play the game every day, so I wouldn’t play in one. But we were back in Foxwoods and Phil talked me into playing the $5,000 satellite for the seven-card stud tournament, and I won it.

Then I finished fourth in the tournament, and he said, 'Now you’ve got to play in all the stud tournaments.’ So, in the first 12 stud tournaments that I played, I won one, had two seconds, two thirds, and a fourth-place finish.

Today, he no longer feels unkindly toward stud.

You that there’s nothing going on in stud tournaments like there used to be in some of the ring games. Except for the year that Larry Flynt played in the tournament at Binion’s when he tried to buy off the table. He had a big bet with Doyle, something like $1 million-to-$ 10,000 that Larry couldn’t win the tournament.

When it got down to three or four tables, Larry tried to buy off some of the players and did buy off some of them by getting them to throw off their chips to him.

But Jack Binion had gotten wind of it and he had Dewey Tomko watching the table for him from the side. He saw what was going on, and Larry Flynt was never allowed to come back and play in the WSOP. Of course, none of this poker stuff was in the movie about Flynt.

I was curious about how T. J. opened his repertoire of poker games to include Omaha and Omaha high-low split.

The first time that I ever played limit Omaha, I won the WSOP title. I had never played limit Omaha, although I had played a lot of pot-limit. But tournaments are tournaments. You use the same process in every game; you work yourself up to the final table.

Final table play is the same, no matter what the game is. So, if you have a knack for playing the final table, you have a chance to win. I know a lot of players who can get to the last table, but very few of them know how to play it once they get there.

Of the tournaments that T. J. has played over the years, there have been only two or three times when he hasn’t placed in the top three in at least one of them.

Usually, he scores at least one victory in each tournament. The Place finishes that he makes “pays the freight,” takes care of his tournament expenses

Is it difficult to maintain a stable relationship when you Play poker professionally?

My poker playing is my job, and I separate it from my life outside the poker room. I cannot understand people who can play poker three or four days in a row and then can’t wait to get right back to it again … they don’t have any other life.

https://dewa52.blogspot.com/2019/07/judi-online-malaysia.html

I used to play steady in Dallas, five days a week, strictly no-limit hold'em against the best players in the world. Players used to come from Vegas and everywhere else to play in that game.

At least once a week, we had over $100,000 on the table. This game was played every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; there was another game that was played on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You could play at noon every day, and then again at 7:00 that night.

So, I would play until 5:00 each night, go see a movie, and then go play the evening game, unless the first game was so good that I didn’t want to leave it. I followed that schedule for years; and I never played on the weekends.

When poker is your profession, you treat it like a job. But for some players, poker not only is their vocation, it’s their avocation as well. You need some balance.

When they are at their home in Dallas, T. J. doesn’t like to go out in the evenings. He enjoys golfing at the country club and then meeting his wife for dinner after he leaves the greens.

She likes antiquing and taking care of their home.

“Joy is my support. She never sits right by me at a tournament; she sits in the background. She’s right there and she knows that I know she’s there. I look over and smile at her, or if I’ve lost a hand, I’ll make a little expression that she recognizes. She doesn’t know anything about poker, but she knows that if I move all of my chips in and then get the pot back, I’ve won; but if I don’t, I’ve lost.”

She does all the book work and takes care of the business end of things.

When he and Joy went on their honeymoon, they spent a few days in New Orleans. While Joy went antiquing, T. J. went to the track and won $5,000 on the horses.

From there, they traveled to Tampa where they went to the dog races and won another $3,800.

“After all our expenses were paid, we came home $5,000 ahead,” he laughed.

In what other profession in the world, I thought, can you go out for an evening’s dinner and entertainment, play some poker along the way, and come home with more money than you started with?

“Yes, but in what other profession can you work all day long and come home losing for the day?!”

Considering that he is one the most feared players on the tournament circuit today, T. J. comes across as being quite modest about his accomplishments.

“I wouldn’t say that I’m modest, but I’m not the type to go around saying, 'I’m the Louisiana Man.’ I feel in my own bones that I can play with anyone, and I don’t fear anybody alive.”

That feeling of confidence without the drawback of ego involvement may be the combination that gives T. J. his edge at the poker table.

Like so manypoker playersand tournament winners that I have interviewed, T. J. admits that he doesn’t have that same edge in every gambling game that he has played.

Even the best has a few leaks in their gaming activities.

I’ve had a lot of holes that I’m trying to patch up. I love craps and over the years, I’ve lost a lot of money at it. I used to love to run to the crap table all the time and, of course, that hurts your side play because it’s so much faster than the poker.

But now if I play craps, I never go to the table with more than $400, no ATM card, nothing like that. I’ve made several scores of over $50,000 off of $500, but if I go to the table with $20,000, I don’t win a single bet!

So now, playing craps is a once-in-awhile thing for me,“ It’s just another of the lessons that T. J. has learned throughout his career. The rest of them, he has down pat.

[katandabbieslife]

Wednesday, December 12th, Kat Buys a Farm.

As some of you know, we like to post our stories in a chronological order. Spring semester got busy for us and unfortunately, a story was delayed in being posted. Now that school is back in and school isn’t too crazy at the moment, I am trying to post stuff I’ve had written for a while, but wasn’t posted for sake of keeping things in order. The previous story was Kat’s story about my all girls birthday/slumber party.  This story takes place a week and a half later just as our finals week was wrapping up. She or I might have mentioned in one of the stories from our Thanksgiving break about being out on the horses and running into their neighbors that own the farm on their northern property line.

 For those interested, this update is about the Wednesday, December 12th and I’m writing while we were on Winter break, visiting Kat’s parents. Many stories, I write down lots of details while they are fresh in my mind and go back to flesh out the story when I have time. This is just in case you wonder why I talk in past tense some times during stories.

For those who don’t know, Kat’s parents own a huge horse farm. Kat and Rick are also listed as part owners and employees of the family company. During our Thanksgiving break, we were on the farm. One day we went out for a ride on a couple of the horses. We were riding along a trail to the northern edge of the property and we saw a couple on ATV’s near the fence line and we rode up to check things out. It was the couple who owns the farm to the north of the property and they were only out inspecting the property line because they were getting ready to sell. They hadn’t lived on the property for the last 2 years, opting for something closer to civilization. As I’ve said before. The Closest neighbor is 8 miles away, and the house is up a 2 miles long private drive. Their house is only about 3 or 4 miles north, but since the house was vacant, there were no neighbors within 8 miles. We talked to them for a few minutes and Kat was asking questions about their farm and their kids, she went to school with them and remembered them on the bus and how they used to come across the fence and swim in one of the lakes. She asked about the Stream/Creek on their property and they said it was still flowing nicely after all these years. She asked about the house, the house is in great shape for being vacant for a few years. Then Kat gave them her number and said she’d talk to her parents. They said great since they hadn’t officially put it on the market yet and would prefer a private sale to avoid a real estate agents fee which can get pretty high when dealing with farms. Kat asked permission to check it out the next day when we had more time and daylight. They said “Sure and that they wouldn’t be there but it would be fine. Then they passed Kat a spare key to the house. On the way back to the house, Kat talked about how beautiful their place was and how she used to go over to play with their little girl when she was younger. She told me it would be awesome to add that to the farm. Around this time last year, her parents bought the slightly larger farm on their western property line and now, there was a farm slightly smaller than their original farm on the northern property line, and Kat wanted to tell her parents about it, she wanted them to put in an offer to buy it. We got back to the farm that evening and Kat mentioned it to her father who told her that he knew the place, but wasn’t sure about buying it. He wanted her to give him good, solid reasons why they should buy it. Since Kat is taking some Business administration classes, she decided she’d come up with a quick “proposal” for the purchase. She went through all the costs and fees, yearly taxes, advantages to having the extra land. She even listed reason against, just to be fair and show her father that she was seriously thinking through on all the angles. Tuesday before Thanksgiving, she actually made an appointment with him to meet in his office, a quarter of a mile from the house, in the stable barn. She gave her little proposal, they talked it over and he said ok, but she found the place, she had to do it. This was her project and as part owner and employee, she had to do the work. He told her if she didn’t want to do it, it was ok, but that he would not take over and make the deal on his own, he explained he had many other things coming, one of which was an auction for several of the Dutch Warmblood show horses. (I think they have around 80-90 horses on the farm.) She was in a bit of a panic, this was a lot of money she’d be dealing with and could hurt the company a little if things went wrong. She asked if he would help her at all and he said he’d be there for her in an advisory capacity alone, nothing more. She told him she’d think about it and give him her answer the next day, he agreed and she came home to tell me about it. She decided she would talk to the owners to get an initial sale price and decided she would tell her Dad she’d do it. I explained set your limit, negotiate and if they will not settle, she doesn’t have to buy it and the farm will not lose any money. After Thanksgiving, She was on the phone and in Skype with them several times. She asked her parents on the “wiggle room” on the price and they gave her an absolute upper limit based on what they thought would be the absolute highest price they’d pay for it. After several phone calls and actually very little negotiation since they said Kats initial offer was reasonable, only about $15,000 lower than what they finally settled on. The night before, she was in a panic mode, telling me “Omg baby, what if I fuck this up?” I kept telling her she was doing great. She talked about how the most expensive things she has ever dealt with was her car. She bought a BMW X3, for school, with her parent’s money of course, but she bought it, She haggled, she made the deal, she did everything. This girl even negotiates prices at the flea markets and rummage sales we go to. She was in hyper mode all day the next day, then we got home at night from classes and she rushed around because we’re an hour behind in our time zone. She stripped off the clothes she wore to school, got dressed in kind of a business casual look sat down and opened her laptop and stared at the screen for a good 5 minutes before placing the call. I laid on the couch a few feet away behind the laptop, played around on Twitter, and half listened in and I was so proud of her. I heard them laughing at her jokes. I heard them tell her they were impressed with her offer and how she took the lead on this from her father. They talked about how they remember her, just 10 years ago, coming over to go play with their daughter, braided pigtails and all. Now here she was, buying their farm for her parents. I may have teared up a little hearing them talk about her. I was so proud of my little one. Just proud to be the one this amazing person wants to be with.

They went over a few more details and the she told them she’d get the contracts revised with the new prices and fee’s and a couple requirements dealing with structures on the property. Keep in mind, she did all this during review and finals week and still made the Dean’s list, and managed to ace her exams. I heard her say good bye, I heard the lap top close and I heard nothing else. I looked over the back of the couch and she was staring blankly at the wall and I could see tears in her eyes. I decided to give her a minute to calm down and she came bouncing over the couch on top of me, wiping her eyes and exclaiming “OMG baby! I just bought the farm! I’m 20 years old and I bought a fucking farm!” Her smile said it all and I started crying myself. I grabbed her and wrapped my arms around her neck and held her so close. My girlfriend just bought a farm and I was so proud of her and didn’t want to let her go right then, but it was already 10pm back home and she still had to call her parents and email the revisions to their attorney. I let her go so she could do her work and I got back to studying for I think my last final. I finished studying and while she was on the phone with Mom (hers), I played around on my phone.

When everything was done, we jumped in the shower where I began kissing every inch of her gorgeous body. I let my hands slide down her sides, caressing her butt and squeezing her cheeks, spreading them slightly, as I kissed my way down her chest, over her belly. I twirled my tongue around her belly button a few times as I renewed my grasp on her butt and spread her cheeks further, letting my middle fingers on each hand tease her perfect little butthole, I felt her force outward to open slightly as I let one slip in for a light finger fuck. I began kissing her mound, letting my tongue slip down to the top of her slit and teasing her hood as I swirled around, almost digging under to tease her clit. I finally settled on my knees and grabbed her ankle to raise her leg and let her rest it on my shoulder. She leaned against the back of the shower wall and I was able to slide my tongue back to her asshole. Teasing and tonguing it a bit before running my tongue up through her slit, tasting her juices and sucking on her clit. I let go of her leg and slid my hand down to my own wet little pussy and buried two fingers deep inside as I licked out my beautiful girlfriend. She grabbed the back of my head and began to grind up and down on my mouth, letting me know I was doing well. After another 30 seconds, I felt her legs begin to shake before her back slid down the shower wall, and she was sitting in front of me, shaking, and staring me in the eye as I continued fucking myself. She grabbed my hand and replaced it with her own as she got to her knees in front of me and began kissing my neck, my forehead, and then my lips as she continued fucking my wet little slit with her fingers. I rocked my hips back and forth on her hand. As she forced more in me, I tried hard to force myself further on her hand as I rocked back and forth.  I leaned in, toward her, and gently bit her neck while I slowly bounced on her fingers.

  She was doing everything perfect and I did not want things to ends for the night, but we had finals in the morning and needed sleep. We made out for another minute or so, got out and dried each other off, and jumped in bed. I rolled over, back into my big spoon and told her how very proud I am of her, not just for the purchase of the farm for her families company, but for doing it all, during end of semester review and during finals week. She shocked her dad by moving forward so fast. He even told her she had time to get finals, and even the holidays out of the way first, but as I well know, Kat goes after what she wants. She does not give someone else the chance to jump in and make the first move, or make a better offer. She sees something she wants and she takes steps to make it hers and I love her for it, more and more each day.

[tobrodachi]

Nice! My otome game scenario is writing itself up, as expected!

Synopsis: Saito Sakura, a woman working as an author for the famous VN company “N*tr*pl*s” is currently the main writer for an otome game scenario coming up. One night, during The Crunch, she collapses and wakes up in her game world! However, she wakes up as Adelina Fugo, the main villainess/pain-in-the-butt for the commoner protagonist Petra Saenz. Worse than that, since the storyboard was never completed, she’s only got a general idea of where the story’s headed in each of the four main routes, and they all lead up to exile or death of her character!

“Well, worse comes to worse, this all serves as inspiration for when I wake up!”

Tags: Female protagonist, dense protagonist, otome isekai, her hands are rated E for Everyone, we going ham with this bois.

Chapter 01/??:

The Crunch, or how I learned to stop worrying and love coffee.

My name is Saito Sakura, a 28 year old Visual Novel writer for N*tr*pl*s who’s currently struggling to make ends meet. Got myself a nice little apartment over at the Narita prefecture, got enough money for my daily expenses, and I love my job. But if my life is so rose-tinted, then why am I struggling?

Because, and let me be clear here, having all of those nice things means absolutely jackshit when you’re pulling a month-long work into a single week. Especially if it’s the third day of said week, with the blinds closed unless I want to invoke the Mother Of All Headaches, and haven’t slept for the past 72 hours and counting; all while subsisting on a diet based of vending machine potato chips, extra-salty tuna onigiri courtesy of my juniors, and an ungodly amount of that sweet, sweet nectar known to mankind as coffee.

Thank you, God of Coffee, for allowing us mere mortals to harvest your beans for our gain. For giving us the inspiration to think of new and innovative ways to prepare your juices, so that we can pair it up with other produce. Milk for the stomach, sugar for the heart, and cinnamon for the soul.

Mmmmm, spicy~! Just the way mama likes it.

“Excuse me, miss Saito.” a voice I couldn’t identify called out to me in the middle of my coffee break, accompanied by a hand clasping my shoulder at the same time.

Rude.

I blinked to get the fog out of my eyes, and fixed my stare at.... who was him again? All I can recall right now are names of characters and places that don’t exist (yet!), and this self-important NPC comes to talk to--

“Please, go back home and take a rest, we’ll cover for you.”

!!!!!!

I take back everything I said about you, my most favorite intern! May you be blessed by the God of Coffee for anything you may need, without suffering from stress-induced gastritis until you’re late in your 40′s~

“Thank you, but I still need to finish at least some sort of idea for the Childhood Friend route, and I’m still struggling to find ideas for that.” My mouth replied still in auto mode, while brain-me was still off in lala land----

Saito Sakura, you utter and absolute fool! How dare you let your heart dictate what your mouth says!? Apologize to me, dammit!

“As expected of our senior! Please, keep doing your best!” My most hated intern cheerfuly replied as he waved and went back to his work station.

Noooooooo~! Please come back and give me back my well-earned freedooooom~!

As I took another sip of coffee in disappointment, my mind went back to think about the southern regions of the Patagonia, while my fingers started moving on their own to an invsible script.

After what felt like hours, I look at the clock hands, and they’re still at 10. Is it morning? Night? I lost count of the pass of time after my 20th cup (and trust me, I kept count), with my own sleepiness never quite leaving the edges of my mind. And now, even the center.

Can’t.

Think.

The only thing keeping me awake is that burning sensation in at the lower part of my chest that seems to be coming from my stomach, and the sheer sensation of my heart wanting to grow legs and jump out of me. What’s worse is that the burning sensation isn’t even calming down, but rather going up; but I’ll take this over not finishing near the deadline.

My sight blurs once again, and I try to focus back to the screen.

The screen stays blurry.

It’s alright, I can still type, even if I can’t see the keystrokes, it’ll just be that intern’s job to figure out what I wanted to write~

Except, well, my hands stopped moving. Huh, fancy that. I can’t feel my hands anymore drumming their beat against the keyboard, so at least I’m assuming so.

I look back at the still blurry monitor, and I can see it’s coming closer to my face, aaaaaand it just went up and above my head, and ow, now besides having this really annoying burning feeling in my chest, I now also have a killer headache.

But on the flip side, now I’m also feeling really, really, warm and fluffy and wonderful.

Maybe I’ll stay like this for a few more minutes....

______________

“-o sorry, I didn’t mean to do that!” A mop of brown curled hair doing its best impression of a person apologizing actually said to me while bowing down.

Wait, that’s actually a human person. Nevermind, carry on.

I scoffed and resisted the urge to yawn. Who does this girl think she is? Queen Anne? Puh-lease! Not with those clothes!

“Excuses, as expected of someone who doesn’t even know their place.” I replied, while picking myself off the ground-?

Wait, what was I doing on the ground in the first place? I find it unlikely I was taking a nap, I was just finishing admiring the great mountainous view of this campus---

Wait, that’s not it, I was in my office and then everything became blurry before---

I looked back at the talking mop herself, and she seemed even more apologetic than before. It seems she said something else before, but I didn’t pay attention to it. I gazed at my -gloved?- hands -whenever did I put gloves on?- and saw the silk fabric sullied by the gravel from the road. Seriously, a lady shouldn’t pick up herself like this!

“So, who are you supposed to be?” My voice sounds different- I ask to little miss mop over there, what a sorry view. But at least that question made her look up into my eyes.

Good, she’s got at least a semblance of backbone.

“M-my name--” She stuttered, aaaaaand what little respect she earned went down the drain. Doesn’t she have any self-respect? “-is Petra, Petra Saenz. I’m so sorry about---”

“Keep your mouth shut, and zip up your apologies.” I said -isn’t it rude, though?- haughtily because, again, how dare this imitation for a human try to go through life without affirming her presence?

I heard giggles around me, and turned my head to find my followers -wow, even a girl posse, nice- trying to hold their laughter at the situation. A quick glare fixed it, and they stopped the noises, clearly afraid of what may come. Good, it wouldn’t do to have anything else.

Turning back to the mop, she seemed even more cowed than before, as if expecting divine retribution, which may as well be what’s happening here.

“You’re talking to-” Saito Sakura, Saito’s the family name “-Adelina Fugo. Tennis Ace, Treasurer of the Student Council, and New York’s future Best Selling Author!” Wait, where did that come from?

Oh, wait, those were my goals when I was a kid!

But while those girls were nodding and clapping at my declaration, the mop looked more lost than ever, and this time I couldn’t even fault her.

“Uhm.... what’s New York?”

I’m asking myself the same here.

The other girls stopped clapping and looked at me expectantly.

I -want to rub my eyes and drink some coffee- pick up a flower-patterned fan I had hanging on my hip, before hiding my mouth with it.

“OOOOOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!” -damn, that felt good to do, even if it WAS hammy- I laugh before fanning myself.

“If you don’t know about it, then you’re not even fit to be in this school!” Can’t let them see me hesitate after such a blunder. My father won’t let me hear the end of it if he hears I backed down after such a ridiculous claim - wait, why would he have to hear it, I live alone - No, I don’t, I’m not even of age!

This is.....

so confusing......

A/N: Well, after reading one too many otome isekai web novels, I decided to try my hand at writing my own! If the synopsis catches your attention. I don’t know when I’ll update it, but I’m aiming for a once-a-month update schedule, both depending on response and my own workload.

This is still in its rough sketches, so the setting is bound to change eventually.

My first intention is to write a “transported to another world” where the protagonist lands herself in the middle of a visual novel she’s creating targeted towards women, where you can court any of 4 romantic interests, in this case boys. That, however, doesn’t mean that those won’t be her only options (if she ends up actually courting anyone).

Since I’m still worldbuilding, I wanted to get this introductory chapter out of the way before commiting to anything in the world.

I should definitely make a blog for this down the line

[starkintrn]

heroes don’t need sick days

ao3 version here

Peter Parker learns two new things in the beginning of January, and it's that teenagers with the powers of a spider can, indeed, get sick, and that Tony Stark should never be allowed in the kitchen ever again. 

This is extremely fluffy and has nothing but good things. 

Peter’s new best friends are a box of tissues and a small bag of cherry-flavored cough drops. He woke up this morning feeling like he got hit by a truck; a runny nose, watery eyes, a headache that felt like there’s a brick strapped to his forehead, and a sore throat were all the causes of this. He barely stumbled out of bed, his senses slightly dulled, and by the time he managed to throw some clothes on, he was almost late to school and Aunt May hurried him outside, shoving an apple into his hands and kissing his forehead. Peter suspected that he didn’t look sick considering the fact that she didn’t ask him if he felt alright so he went to school regardless, the Spider-Man suit stuffed into his backpack as well so he can get started on his afternoon patrol immediately despite his condition.

If there is anything that is certainly true, it’s that getting through the school day was much more difficult than Peter originally thought it would be. By his lunch period, Peter’s headache was pounding and he could barely stand even being in the cafeteria due to all of the noises, scents, and bright lights, which is why he retreated to the bathroom and ate his apple in there. He had the money the buy something else to eat, but Peter didn’t have much of an appetite afterwards.

The rest of the day until last period was just Peter popping cough drops like candy and trying his best to power through his headache, praying that time could go by quicker.

Currently Peter is sitting in his last class, which is an incredibly boring English class that he only ever pays attention in because he’s not very good at it. This time, however, it’s different. He eyes the clock on the wall, watching as the second-hand ticks almost in slow-motion. The drawling voice of his teacher is almost enough to put him to sleep, but Ned comes through and pokes him with his pencil once he catches Peter’s eyelids slowly closing. Peter rubs his forehead against the sleeve of his shirt, trying to put pressure on it to help relieve him of some of the pain. It doesn’t work.

Nausea is what hits him first after a few more minutes of boring lecture. Then all of his senses go back to being dialed to eleven without warning and he can feel everything. His thoughts are too loud. The entire classroom is too loud. Everything is too loud. He needs to get out of here. Peter’s muscles move by instinct and he clumsily stumbles up from his chair, almost knocking his notebooks off the table in the process. He hears his teacher ask him what he needs but he’s out the door before his brain can register the words spoken to him. The last thing he hears is Ned worriedly calling his name.

By the time Peter stumbles into the thankfully empty bathroom, he rushes over to a stall and starts dry-heaving. Nothing comes out and he doubts that anything will, but he does this for about five minutes anyway, his heart pounding against his chest, tears from congestion due to sickness and possibly from feeling so distressed spilling down his cheeks. Finally, after about a few minutes that felt like hours, Peter’s throat has decided it had enough and he leans back, drawing in small, erratic breaths.

“I called Mr. Stark from your phone and also grabbed your backpack,” Peter hears Ned say, his echoing voice shattering the silence that once hung around them, and if he weren’t so exhausted, he would thank him. “He’s on his way here. Maybe we should get to the nurse’s office to wait for him there? Also, is this a spider thing? Do all superheroes go through this?”

“Stay with me.” Peter simply requests. “Quiet, please.”

Ned seems to understand and Peter focuses on keeping all of his stomach contents inside, as well as stopping his head from spinning so much. He is no longer dry-heaving and instead stays slumped against the wall of the stall, his breathing hitching every now and then. He loses track of time and at that point, he isn’t sure if Ned is still with him. Knowing his best friend, though, he probably is. Ned would never abandon him, especially in a time like this.

The silence works wonders. Peter already feels himself beginning to find his senses again, even if he isn’t one hundred percent alright yet. He feels Ned awkwardly shifting from foot to foot by the bathroom door, probably waiting for Tony to show up so he can explain everything first. What a good friend, Peter thinks in satisfaction and adoration before he returns to attempting to regain control of himself.

“I thought you stopped getting sick once you got your freaky spider powers,” A familiar voice behind him quietly remarks after a while, and Peter feels his shoulders sag in relief. He cranes his neck and sees Tony Stark hovering over his shoulder, one strap of Peter’s backpack slung over his shoulder. He is wearing a suit, the sleeves ruffled and creased as if he were in a hurry, which means that he’s been at a meeting. Peter can almost see the concern in his dark eyes, his lips etched into a frown. “You alright, kid? You look like a hot mess.”

“C-Can we just…go? Like, leave? Please? It’s kinda loud.” Peter manages to say, drawing in a shaky breath as he attempts to stand, his hand clutching the wall of the stall. His head is still pounding and protests against the sudden action, and he would have tripped and fallen into the toilet if Tony hadn’t caught his arm, pulling him backwards. Peter’s cheek is now squished against Tony’s chest and he takes another deep breath, trying to ground himself. “Hi,” he says to Tony, whose chest rattles with quiet laughter.

“Hey,” he replies, his hand ruffling Peter’s hair, who closes his eyes in contentment and lets out a small sigh. The two of them remain like that for a few minutes and Peter focuses on the sound of Tony’s heartbeat, his breathing pattern, and the low hum of the Arc Reactor. Eventually, his body starts to feel heavy and apparently Tony notices that, too, since he mentions, “As much as I appreciate you falling asleep on me, we’re both going down if you do and I don’t trust what’s possibly on this school bathroom floor. C’mon, let’s get out of here. I already signed you out and told your aunt.”

Peter nods in understanding, parting from the awkward hug they had and following Tony out the door, making sure to say thank you to Ned before he left, and eventually outside of the school building. He shivers against the brisk January air, his hands traveling up his arms to rub some warmth into them, though he feels much better now that he is outside and not boxed in.

Tony casts him a withering look, “Don’t tell me you showed up to school without a jacket or anything, even when you know damn well that spiders can’t thermoregulate. Please, my heart is weak as it is.”

“Okay, then I won’t tell you.”

Peter hears Tony loudly groan and watches as the man slips the black jacket off of his suit, tossing it to Peter, the fabric landing straight on top of his head. Peter pulls it off his face and begins putting it on, grinning as Tony mutters something about stupid teenagers. Once they get to the parking lot and enter Tony’s expensive car, Peter begins to feel dumb and like a burden.

“Uh, I’m really sorry that I interrupted you in your meeting,” Peter apologizes, his fingers toying with the hem of Tony’s jacket. “I just didn’t know who else to call since May has a busy day at work and you’re the only one who knows I can…get like this. Other than Ned.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid, it was a boring meeting anyway. I was just about to send you some cat memes before your friend called,” Tony reassures as he turns up the heat in the car, making a face at the sound of Peter sniffling. “Wait, are you sick? I thought it was just sensory overload.”

“It was sensory overload. I just have the most wicked headache right now,” Peter complains, leaning his head back against the cushioned seat of the car. His headache is somewhat better now, instead leaving him with a dull ache rather than the sharp, excruciating pain he was experiencing before. Tony seems to understand and does not ask him further questions as he drives out of the parking lot and out into the street.

The trip to the tower is short and Peter doesn’t fall asleep during it, but he does take advantage of the time to try to recover from his earlier overload. Tony drives smoothly despite New York traffic and even has his music turned all the way down, which Peter greatly appreciates. He is in no mood for AC/DC music that is loud enough to destroy his eardrums.

“What’s his temperature, Fri?” Peter hears Tony ask as they walk inside, and Peter takes a seat on the couch while Tony puts his backpack on the floor beside him.

“100.6 degrees Fahrenheit, which is classified as a low-grade fever. He seems to simply have a cold according to my scans. His vitals are all okay for now.”

“Thanks, Fri,” Tony then turns to Peter, who is already helping himself to a few tissues from the tissue box that sits on the coffee table. “Hear that, kiddo? You have a fever. If I see you get up from that couch and avoid resting, I’m gluing you there.”

Peter rolls his eyes at Tony’s threat as he blows his nose, “Look who’s talking. Aren’t you the one who always avoids resting?”

“One more crack like that out of you and I’m putting a bucket of salt into your soup.”

Mr. Stark knows how to cook? That’s a new one, he thinks as he tosses the tissues into the trash can, which is thankfully nearby. “You can make soup? No offense but I didn’t think you knew how to cook.”

Tony grins maniacally and Peter can tell that he made a mistake when he asked. “Yes, I actually have a very special Stark recipe. It’s my original recipe. Oh, you’ll love it, you can even ask Rhodey. I made this for him hundreds of times when he was sick and it works like a charm. It’ll definitely help you feel better.”

Something tells Peter that Rhodey would advise him to run for the hills and avoid the soup at all costs but at this point, Peter is too tired from the day’s events to stop Tony from his desire to cook. “I’m just gonna…close my eyes for a bit.” Peter announces to no one in particular as he curls up on the couch, bringing his knees to his chest, “G’night…”

Sleep takes him easily and the last thing he is aware of is someone tucking a warm blanket around him.

Something or someone is poking him in the cheek. Incessantly.

“Five more minuuuuuuuutes,” Peter groans, turning on his other side as if that would stop the poking. It turns out that it didn’t and Peter grabs the edge of the blanket, pulling it over his head. Since when did he have a blanket this warm and fluffy? “Stooooooooooop. It’s not a school day, Aunt May, I wanna sleep iiiiiiin.”

“Sorry it break it to you, kid, but it’s definitely not your aunt and it definitely is a school day,” A voice responds and Peter immediately recognizes it as Tony’s. Peter cracks his eyes open and turns to lie down on his back, his forearm thrown over his forehead. He feels another poke on his cheek and realizes that Tony has been poking him in the face with a spoon all this time.

Peter feels sleep gradually begin to tug him back and he murmurs lazily, “I’m going back to sleep, Mr. Stark.”

“Oh no, you don’t. I have something for you.”

“Too tired. Don’t make me sneeze on you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

This continues on for a while before Peter relents and sits up, yawning as he rubs his eyes with a hand. How long was he even asleep? Before Peter can ask, an incredibly warm bowl is place on his lap and he feels like he just got his answer. He was asleep long enough for Tony to fulfill his promise to make the soup.

“It took me a whole two hours. I almost thought I forgot the recipe since it’s been so long since I made it,” Tony explains as he sits down on the couch next to Peter, “but thankfully Rhodey still knows it so I called him and he filled in the blanks. He asked me to give you his condolences, but I think that he’s just messing around. He loves it, too.”

Oh dear God, Peter thinks, completely horrified at the sight of the “soup” in the bowl. The color is a very strange, almost greenish-white color and there is an overabundance of noodles, some of them even poking out of the broth. There are a few soggy carrots floating around in there, as well as small pieces of potatoes. Peter isn’t able to identify anything else that happens to be inside the soup, and he isn’t sure if that is a good or bad thing.

Tony is practically bouncing in his seat and Peter can tell that he’s excited for Peter to take the first bite. Peter is almost tempted to claim that he’s too nauseous to eat it and call it a day, but one look at the ecstatic expression on Tony’s face is enough to chase that thought away. Peter doesn’t have the heart to deny Tony, especially when he worked so hard on making this for him. Plus, he’s also had to deal with a lot of Aunt May’s cooking and believe him, her cooking skills are almost as terrible as Tony’s, so eating this all should be no big deal.

Well, here goes nothing. I hope Aunt May knows that I love her, just in case anything happens to me, Peter thinks before he fills up the spoon with some broth and a few carrots here and there, taking a reluctant sniff before shutting his eyes and shoveling it into his mouth.

To his surprise, it doesn’t taste as bad as it looks, but the texture is awful. Peter’s first instinct is to gag and spit it out, but he suppresses the urge and somehow manages to swallow it. When Peter looks back up, he realizes Tony is looking at him expectantly and he weakly lifts up his hand to give him a thumbs-up sign as he lies right through his teeth, “It’s really good, Mr. Stark. The best soup I’ve had in years.”

Thankfully, Tony accepts that response and puffs out his chest proudly. “I knew it! I knew that you’d love it! Rhodey always says that it’s better if I just keep the soup between us but I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him that you loved it. See? I’m definitely a genius in all areas.”

Was it really worth it? Peter wonders as Tony continues happily rambling about his cooking skills, even asking Friday to save this moment in her files so he can look back at it. He smiles as he answers his own question, Yeah, it totally was.

Peter can barely focus on the movie playing on the T.V. It’s not because he’s not interested in the movie – he actually very much is – it’s just that his symptoms came back with full force. Since Peter has mutated genetics due to the spider bite, regular medicines have zero to no effect on him and he’s had to deal with them without the help of anything other than natural healing things. To put it simply, it sucks.

Tony and Peter had been sitting on the couch – Tony’s arm slung around Peter’s shoulders and Peter’s head resting on his shoulder - for who knows how long, marathoning whatever movies that Peter was in the mood for, which so far included Interstellar and almost all of the Jurassic Park movies.

As the movie continues playing, Peter reaches for another tissue only to come back up empty-handed as the box is surprisingly empty. Tony notices and rolls his eyes, “How could you have gone through an entire box of them in less than one day? Geez, I would have bought more of them if I knew.”

He starts to stand up and Peter has to resist the urge to pathetically whine at the loss of contact. He uselessly slumps down against the couch, in Tony’s spot, murmuring something about it not being his fault that Stark Industries has a shortage of tissues. The lights emanating from the television soon begin to bring Peter’s headache back to full force so he rightfully turns away, nuzzling his head against the cushion in hopes of relieving it. Naturally, that action does absolutely nothing.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter calls as he shifts in position, nearly kicking the blanket off of him. When he gets no response, he whines again, this time much louder, “Mr. Staaaaaaaaaark. I think I’m dying. This may be the end of the line for me. Tell Aunt May that I love her. All of my Spider-Man gear goes to Ned. You can get all of my limited edition Iron Man stuff. It’s like having your own merch but not paying for it. Also, if my English teacher asks about my essay, tell her that it was so good that you buried it with me.”

“Oh, quit it, you drama king,” Peter hears the sarcastic voice of his mentor as he approaches with another box of tissues, setting it down on the coffee table beside him. “And I thought I was a hassle to deal with when sick.”

Peter frowns as he sits up, reaches over, and takes a tissue, a stone of guilt forming in his stomach. Maybe he should have told Tony back at the school that he’d be fine and he can deal with this by himself. It seems as if Tony has a lot to do today, anyway, and Peter didn’t intend on adding his own problems to that list. However, it seems as if Tony read his mind because he felt a gentle hand ruffle his hair, the owner of said hand murmuring something about just messing around, and that is enough to cause Peter’s lips to curl back into a smile.

“You wanna finish up the movie, bud?” Tony offers, and Peter vigorously shakes his head only to stop as his head starts spinning.

“No, head hurts,” Peter answers honestly and even though Tony says nothing, he can feel the worry practically washing over the man in waves.

“Hey, how long have you been sleeping lately? Estimated hours per night for this week.” Tony’s sudden question causes Peter to look up at him in confusion only to realize exactly in which direction this conversation is going to be heading in. Peter may be staying in Tony’s place for now, but he is not going to be lectured by Tony Stark again, even if his sleeping habits have something to do with the severity of his headaches and sensory issues.

“Six,” Peter lies, though a stare of blatant disbelief from Tony causes him to quietly amend, “Okay, maybe more like three. Or less. Listen, Mr. Stark, I just have a lot going on! I have a lot of projects and assignments for school, and I have to keep my grades up otherwise they’ll kick me out of there! Do you think I want to spend all night listening to some required video of a college dude talking about solving integrals?”

Tony is oddly silent for a few moments and Peter begins to think that he’s in the clear, although what the man asks next causes him to tense, “Are you sure it’s just that? There’s nothing else that’s the cause of your piss poor sleeping schedule?”

Nightmares, Peter instantly mentally answers. Ever since The Vulture incident – involving the plane crash and the building collapsing on top of him – Peter has found himself dealing with an abundance of nightmares that leave him waking up in a cold sweat or with a scream trapped in his throat. He’s been terrified of going to sleep and often left projects and essays undone until the last minute just so he can have an excuse to stay up all night doing them rather than sleeping. He just cannot go through another nightmare where he sees the Vulture’s metal wings covered in his blood, or where he’s choking on dust and his own tears as pieces of a broken building are piled on top of him, pressing him against the ground.

Peter feels his own breathing beginning to quicken so he chases those thoughts away, his hand gripping the couch in order to pull himself back into reality. Instead of claiming that nothing else bothers him like he usually would, Peter chooses to remain silent. For a while, neither of them say anything. However, he suddenly feels the couch shift as Tony plops down on it and sits beside him, and the two of them share a glance.

Eventually, Tony – a bit awkwardly - opens his arms and gestures for Peter to close the space between them, and Peter wastes no time in doing so. He immediately sinks into the embrace, warmth seeping through his aching bones.

“One time, a while ago, I had Palladium poisoning,” Tony suddenly speaks, and Peter looks up at him before looking back down at the faint blue light on the man’s chest, the Arc Reactor covered by the cotton of Tony’s white shirt. “The Reactor was saving my life but at the same time, it was killing me. I tried every single thing to make it stop but nothing worked. There was a good chance that I was going to die.”

Tony’s voice was breaking and Peter rubs his hand against his back, his eyes focused on the Arc Reactor. Peter had always admired it, considered it a symbol of strength, courage, and intelligence. However, when he saw the scarring around Tony’s chest, overheard Tony speaking in a hushed voice to Rhodey about how much it hurt sometimes and noticed how tense Tony got whenever someone he didn’t trust touched it, he realized that it also served as a constant reminder of what Tony went through in Afghanistan.

“I didn’t tell anyone. Not Happy, Pepper, or Rhodey. I didn’t want anyone to know. I tried getting through it myself,” Tony quietly admit, “and I didn’t know how I was going to get through it. I mean, I did in the end, but you get the point, kid. Some things you don’t have to go through alone. Some things you shouldn’t go through alone.”

Peter simply nods his head in understanding, resting his forehead on Tony’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. If there’s anyone who understands nightmares more than anyone, it’s Tony Stark, and Peter knows this.

“How come you went to sleep here? I don’t mean to pry, I’m just curious.”

Peter blinks at the question and realizes that he didn’t even think of nightmares when he took his nap on the couch. It barely even crossed his mind. “I, uh…” Peter began, hesitating before softly admitting, “I guess I just feel safer with you. Yeah. I feel safer with you. I didn’t think that I would have any if you were here.”

The two of them share another brief moment of silence together and Peter begins to feel as if he messed up big time by admitting something so personal and emotional to a man who didn’t do well with either things.

“I’m here,” Tony promises, and gently squeezes Peter’s body closer to his. It’s a simple promise of safety and comfort, but it means so much to Peter.

Peter lets out a small laugh in response, full of mirth and gratefulness, before he closes his eyes once again, faintly beginning to feel sleep start to drape over him like a blanket. “I know.”

[cant-icle]

you may be full up on prompts... but if not, i've been thinking about akira getting back to his hometown and just... not adjusting. he's a completely different person from who he used to be before the trauma of the arrest, before being uprooted, before the phantom thieves. his old friends abandoned him over a year ago. his parents can't even begin to understand. he's probably got more than a bit of PTSD. idk, i just want angsty "akira can't handle normalcy any more", lol

(a quick note–akira is a Scorpio and his birthday is the 21st of November and you’ll never take this headcanon away from me)

Everyone who knew Kurusu Akira before his parents transferred him out of town for the year agrees that he’s changed.

He was a charismatic child, a dreamer and a dancer, an ace on their tiny gymnastics team, a drama enthusiast in the school plays. No one would have thought he’d be the sort of person to assault someone; no one would have recognized him when he returned if he hadn’t had the same name.

He doesn’t look any different, except for the way he does; the Kurusu that left, all his teachers agree, moved light on his feet, faster than he should, a recipient of banged elbows and skinned knees from the time he could walk. The Kurusu that comes back…slinks. He places every foot with deliberation, with almost unnatural grace, his eyes cataloguing everything that moves behind a mask as still as stone. “A resting bitch face,” Nakayama-san might be heard to mutter, “that Kashiwagi should learn to emulate.”

He might look the same, but his demeanor has changed completely. There’s no sign of the cheerful boy that left them before the end of their first year; the one that comes back for the start of the third might as well just be wearing his face. He’s silent verging on sullen; his attention is perpetually fixed on the window instead of the chalkboard. He has a cat. The cat sits in his school bag and watches everything with unnaturally attentive eyes, and no one can figure out how to bring it up to him so that he leaves it at home instead.

The students are unnerved. The faculty are unnerved. The only one who isn’t unnerved is Kurusu himself, who parts the students in the halls like a knife wherever he goes, leaving whispers in his wake.

Rumor has it, and time proves it, that he spends every lunch on the roof, tucked over in the furthest corner rain or snow or shine. He’s always on his phone— no one ever is brave enough to eavesdrop, but a pair of eagle-eyed second years peek around the corner with a pair of binoculars and report back that, whoever he’s talking to and whatever it’s about, he’s smiling. It’s downright creepy to watch his face transform from that expressionless mask to something mobile and animated; sometimes his teachers catch flashes of it on his face when he looks down at his phone during lessons.

There’s another thing; no matter how little attention he pays during class, if you ask Kurusu a question he’ll always know the answer. That’s the only thing he’ll say, and he’ll only participate if you forcefully call him out. His grades are top-notch— top of the class, in fact, to the dismay and rabid jealousy of the former valedictorian, who now is known to spend hours after school in the library cramming.

Kurusu never spends time in the library. Kurusu spends as little time at school as humanly possible, and once the bell rings he’s out of there, come hell or high water.

As the spring turns towards summer Kurusu gets jumpy; his resting bitch face never changes, but his foot taps sometimes during class, and occasionally someone will catch him whittling his pencils down into something sharp and deadly, or fiddling under his desk with paperclips and string. He looks out the door more often, is out of class first and soonest; once he just leaves class in the middle of a lecture, and Kashiwagi is too stunned to call him back.

The weirdest thing about the new Kurusu, though, is the out-of-towners.

No one knows how many of them there are; they come in a big old beat-up van at any given holiday. For Golden Week there were only three; during the summer there are six.

The first time anyone sees them is the first time they see Kurusu emote since his return— there’s a slim brunette and a bombshell blonde waiting by the school gates, and those lucky few who were there say that Kurusu actually dropped his school bag in shock, right before he was tackled clean off his feet by another blond and sent tumbling across the grass.

Kurusu’s laugh is unexpectedly lovely, for someone who never uses it. Kurusu’s smile is the same. Kurusu with dirt on his palms and grass in his hair,  looking happy like it’s going out of style? That Kurusu is a heartbreaker, and sets several girls from every year scheming. They’re all in for disappointment; any letter that goes into Kurusu’s shoe locker never sees the light of day. He doesn’t even touch them.

During the summer no one sees Kurusu for a month or more; he disappears right out of the school yard, though one third-year says that she saw him getting into the van with several other people their age, and then popping out of a hole in the roof and yelling, arms up, as they peeled out of town. It’s an audacious claim, but she has blurry picture evidence. He shows up again at the very end of the summer, and this time the out-of-towners are all with him— several ladies, lovely in yukata of every pattern and color, a tall thin boy also in a yukata, and the blond that tackled Kurusu across the grass that one time.

Those who see him say Kurusu looks more alive than he has since he came back, suffused with vitality— they say he wins every carnival game he tries his hand at, offloading plushes onto each of the girls with him in turn, that he poses in front of the shrine for the boy in the yukata to sketch him, that he roams through the stalls and up the hill to the observatory hand-in-hand with the blond boy looking utterly at peace.

Fall begins; several official-looking cars park in front of the Kurusu household, one of them containing up-and-coming politician Yoshida-san, who’s come to Inaba to tout his platform. To everyone’s surprise, Kurusu is his assistant at the schoolwide assembly Yasogami High holds for Yoshida-san, standing up on stage like it doesn’t bother him, his neutral face giving away nothing.

But Yoshida-san speaks to him warmly, and Kurusu speaks back just as warmly— they’ve met before, clearly, and when someone in the audience asks Yoshida-san just laughs and says that Kurusu helped him quite a bit during his year in Tokyo.

Helped Yoshida-san?? With what?!

The further the fall progresses, however, the weirder Kurusu gets. In gym they do a couple lessons of self-defense; the guy partnered with Kurusu can’t so much as lay a finger on him. Kurusu moves like he’s water, like he’s dancing, like he’s weightless; when his partner gets frustrated and charges at him yelling, Kurusu barks a laugh and backflips away, parkour-ing around the gym like a goddamn bouncy ball. He ends up on top of the basketball hoop somehow, his feet planted on the rim as he sits square on the backboard, and the smile on his face as he looks down on all of them is a wild, godless slash across his mouth.

The day they learn how to disarm is the day things go south; Kurusu gets the rubber knife away from his opponent with laughable ease and turns to walk away. The teacher is out of the room for a moment, talking to Kashiwagi about something or other, which is probably why the embarrassed opponent makes a move.

He rushes Kurusu from behind, and Kurusu flips the knife in his hand and stabs backward in a single, vicious strike. He impacts the guy square in the solar plexus, sending him sprawling, gasping for breath; the entire gym goes silent, aside from his breaths.

Kurusu spins the knife across his fingers and spins on his heel, taking in the onlookers; he raises his hands as if to say “any other takers?”

There are. There have been a lot of tensions since Kurusu started dominating the room, a lot of people who don’t like the change in the pecking order. Those people step forward; anyone who doesn’t want a hand flees to the edges. No one goes to get the teacher or Kashiwagi, not until Kurusu has a pile of bodies at his feet and his hand in a boy’s hair, dragging his head back, the rubber knife pressed to his throat.

He’s not even breathing hard.

He’s suspended for three days.

The group of defeated boys get their chance for some petty revenge in late november; Kurusu’d had something delivered to the office, and comes back with a box of cupcakes that he doesn’t so much as pretend like he’s going to share; no, the bastard sits there and eats them one by one in front of everyone. They look goddamn delicious, and expensive— they’ve got the logo of a famous Tokyo bakery on them, it must have cost tons to get them shipped fresh to Inaba.

They’re doing timed races in gym that day, and the gym teacher lets everyone get a chance to fire the starting gun. When he’s out of the room, someone hollers “Hey, Kurusu!”

When Kurusu looks over, seemingly on autopilot, they point it directly at him and fire.

Kurusu…bluescreens.

That’s it— he just stands there, hands clenched, eyes empty. His breath picks up; tremors rack up and down his body, seemingly without his notice. It’s really fucking creepy, and he doesn’t respond even when the one who fired tries to brush it off as a joke.

He only really responds when someone— one of the girls— comes up and pats his shoulder to ask if he’s okay.

He flinches violently away from her touch, staggers back, and barely makes it to a trashcan before he pukes.

He’s not in class for the rest of the day. He’s not in class the day after, either. The day after that, a light-haired, dark-eyed defense attorney visits the school to talk to both the principal and the boy who fired the racing gun. The boy who fired the gun is given a three-day suspension, and the rest of the gym class is treated to an impromptu lesson on PTSD, and why you don’t fire a gun at a person who you don’t want to kill.

Which, for the savvier third years, raises a question— who pointed a gun at Kurusu? Who tried to kill Kurusu?!

Kurusu comes back after a few days, but he’s pale and wan, and makes absolutely no attempt to pay attention in class. He’s on his phone constantly, to the point where he often carries it around attached to a portable charger to bolster the battery; the teachers allow it, if only because his grades are still top of the class and he does it silently. He’s probably the least-disruptive person in class at this point. No one has heard him talk since the incident.

Two days before the winter holidays, the blond is back outside the school gates. There’s no tackling this time; Kurusu’s cat jumps out of his bag, and Kurusu just walks forward into the blond’s arms, clinging back tight enough that his knuckles are white.

They don’t move; his classmates walk by rubbernecking in clumps, but it doesn’t look like either of them notice. Kurusu’s face is buried in the blond boy’s neck, and the blond rubs his hand up and down Kurusu’s back like he’s soothing him. Kurusu’s cat winds around both their ankles, talking in its weird purry chirps.

A few of the stealthier second-years decide to trail them from a distance; the blond wraps an arm around Kurusu’s shoulder and walks him right to the train station. They don’t stop by his house or anything; Kurusu gets on in his school uniform and everything and vanishes.

He doesn’t come to class for the rest of the semester.

No one sees him over the winter break.

He’s not in class on the first day after break, either, and eventually word comes down from on high that Kurusu Akira has transferred out of Yasogami High back to his prestigious Tokyo school.

There’s a weird mood through the third-years after that. No one knows if it’s because of the guy who fired the gun— not even the guy himself, who carries some vague aura of guilt for the rest of the semester. Nobody misses him— well, nobody misses him for who he was. He wasn’t a very friendly boy, after all. Who knows how he got all of those weird out-of-towners to follow him around?

No, the only thing Kurusu Akira is missed for is the breath of fresh air he brought to Inaba when he came back, the sheer mystery of his presence. After a few weeks, few even speak his name.

[punmasterkentparson]

Pucker Up! (It’s for Charity)

Inspired by the Charlize Theron charity kiss, but with an obvious Patater twist.

(on ao3)

Sometimes, shit just comes out of Kent’s mouth.

“I’ll kiss the winner for twenty seconds!” he hollers into the mic, which does two things: one, it causes an abrupt silence to befall the charity bidders gathered in the auditorium, and two, it makes the Aces’ assistant PR rep go white and then smack her palm to her face.

But it also makes the bidding numbers on the giant overhead display rocket sky-high amid a sudden chaotic flurry of noise, so. There’s that. Throughout the crowd, heads are ducked over smartphones and fingers blur as people up their bids. Already the bidding total has jumped from five figures to six. Kent is going to focus on that instead of the fizzing in his stomach and the way his hands are going numb with sudden nerves.

He really hopes none of the rich, middle-aged and married women now eyeing him hungrily get the winning bid. If he ends up on stage with a woman whose husband is glaring up from the audience, he’s going to smooch her on the cheek and call it close enough.

But it quickly starts to look like the young up-and-coming model with legs for days sitting up front is going to have that honor, and Kent doubts she’ll settle for a chaste little peck. The bidding is almost closed and the announcer is asking if anyone else has any final bids. Kent checks the screen behind him: $105,000. Considering the time it took to get that high, he doubts anyone’s going to top that.

And then suddenly, literal seconds before the window closes, the number jumps: $200,000.

Kent’s jaw drops.

The announcer looks a little giddy with glee. “Uh, well folks, I think we have a new winner. Unless anyone else would like to bid?”

Nobody else does.  The model sits down, looking miffed.

“Then...” The announcer looks over at Kent, a clear question on his face. The Aces’ PR woman is flapping her hand at him in resigned exasperation, a clear do whatever you want, we’ll roll with it.

Well, he did promise. He takes the mic again. “You bring the lips, I’ll bring the chapstick, babe!”

The PR woman sighs and covers her face again.

Kent scans the crowd, expecting--well, a woman. But the person coming up the steps to the stage is, unless self-identified otherwise, definitely a man.

A tall man, with shoulders like a cliff and thighs thick enough to make Kent’s mouth water. Yet the smile he gives Kent is bashful, a crinkly-eyed apology that’s still smug about his win. That alone makes Kent like him, without even knowing his name.

Already, the crowd--half-drunk on champagne and the sting of defeat--are hooting and cat-calling them.

“So, where is chapstick?” asks the bidding winner. His voice is deep and friendly.

Kent laughs, half in amusement, half with nerves. “I was mostly joking.”

“Joke about kiss, too?” the man asks, and before Kent can sputter a response, he adds, “Because is okay, just kiss hand or cheek. Don’t want you uncomfortable. I wasn’t going bid again, after first, but then you make challenge. I’m hate lose, you know?” He winks, over-exaggerated and endearingly genuine.

And what’s funny is that Kent does know. He hates losing, too. “Yeah,” he agrees. “And I wasn’t joking, about the kiss. You really want it?”

The man’s smile grows to giddy proportions. “Really twenty seconds?”

Kent looks back over his shoulder at the announcer, who is watching them both like he’s witnessing gossip rag history unfold. “Hey, man, keep count for me, will you?” Then he turns back to the bidding winner--who, upon close inspection, has a nice strong jaw and an excitingly generous mouth--and helps the man put both hands on Kent’s hips. “Impress me,” he says.

There’s a laugh, a puff of warm breath on Kent’s cheek, a small mumble of, “Don’t need twenty seconds for impress,” and then Kent is being kissed.

Softly, sweetly, close-mouthed, no tongue. It’s far from perfunctory, but it is polite. It takes no liberties except for the agreed-upon press of lips. And at first that’s fine, until the announcer and the crowd are chanting, “Ten! Eleven! Twelve!” and Kent’s sides are tingling from being held, his jaw aching to open and invite this man inside. Every soft whiff of breath, every shift of tender skin on tender skin, it peels back another of his layers, and when he opens his eyes again, his gaze meets deep brown.

Then, suddenly, the hands on his sides slip up his shoulder blades and the kiss urges him backwards--the man is dipping Kent, still kissing him, and Kent’s hands come up to clutch at expensive suit jacket out of instinct.

“Nineteen! Twenty!”

Kent lets himself be pulled upright. His heart is hammering and his face is probably flushed. He feels like he just got wooed in slow-motion via lip-lock.

“You impress?” the man asks, which would sound more suave if his cheeks weren’t pink.

Somewhere in the background, the crowd is going wild. Kent guesses that videos and photos are already flooding Twitter. He licks his lips. “Not bad,” he replies, which would probably come off more unruffled if his hands weren’t still balled in the man’s clothes. He lets go and steps back.

The announcer comes up to them and pats Kent on the shoulder while addressing the crowd. “And that, folks, is how we raise money for charity! Whoo boy. Well, sir,” he adds, addressing the bidding winner, “would you say you got your money’s worth, Mr...?” He holds out the mic for a response.

“My name Alexei Mashkov,” the man says. “And I just glad support good cause. But... yes.” He smiles at Kent. “Think I get what I pay for.”

The crowd laughs and cat-calls some more.

The announcer laughs, then turns back to Kent. “How about you, Mr. Parson?”

Kent pulls the mic to himself and winks at the nearest smartphone camera. “I’m always ready to pucker up for charity!”

Which is, of course, the quote that gets spread around every news site and social media feed within twenty-four hours. 

Kent can’t hide from it in his apartment; he’s got a photo shoot for a sponsor’s ad the next day, and after that he heads to a local practice rink to show up “unexpectedly” at the Junior Aces practice. Fortunately for him, everyone at the photo shoot is professional enough not to do more than a little friendly ribbing about the charity kiss. The kids at the hockey practice aren’t old enough to have Twitter accounts, and therefore remain blissfully ignorant. Kent puts his phone on silent and ignores the Aces group chat (which he already made the mistake of checking this morning--Jesus Christ, his friends have no filter). So he gets to enjoy looking hot for the camera and being a dork for a bunch of excited, idol-worshiping ten-year-olds, and not think about what’ll get asked the next time he’s in a media scrum.

Playing with the kids helps a lot. Kids are ridiculous and hilarious without meaning to be. When the practice ends and Kent has finished up taking pictures and signing most of the equipment, he waves to the team as he skates backwards off the ice.

He’s not even out of his skates yet when the PR assistant finds him.

Kent is ready to be asked to a meeting, or given a new appointment for his already busy schedule. Instead, he gets a Post-It note handed to him.

“We got an email and a phone call to the PR office,” she says, and she looks... smug? “The ball’s in your court, so, be smart about it. But if it becomes a ‘thing’, just let us know.” With that, she leaves.

The Post-It has a phone number on it, nothing else. The area code is not for Vegas.

Kent calls.

It’s almost not a surprise when a familiar voice answers. “Hello, this is Alexei Mashkov. May I ask who is calling?”

Grinning, Kent replies, “Hi. You might remember me, I’m the most expensive twenty seconds of your life.”

There’s a pause, and then laughter. “Yes, you most expensive. I play so many games in Vegas, but I never lose so much money so fast before.”

“Well, it’s like you said. It was for a good cause.”

“Yes, good cause.” There’s a sound of tongue over lips, and--unless Kent is imagining it--the sigh of a leather sofa as a body settles into it. “Thank you for call.”

“Thanks for leaving your number with the Aces PR,” Kent replies. “Can I, uh, ask why you left your phone number with the Aces PR?”

Another wet sound too close to the mic. It wouldn’t be erotic if Kent didn’t already know how this man’s mouth feels. Mr. Mashkov says, “If I’m make you uncomfortable, is okay for you say, but--I think, was nice to meet you. I’m think, maybe I like to meet you again, have dinner? I’m stay Vegas until next week.”

Kent is sitting on empty bleachers grinning ear-to-ear at an empty rink. “Yeah,” he says. “That’d be really nice.”

[stop-klancing-around]

Lost and Found Part 1

ANNNNND WE ARE BACK WITH ANOTHER INSTALMENT OF DAILY SHIFTS.

I'm a bit excited about some of the things that Ray and I are planning for this AU and I can't wait to share them.

Thank you @raythenerdyfangirl for being my beta once again.

You can also read it here on AO3

Enjoy :)

The room was in disarray, socks that used to be in the drawers are now all over the floor. The desk that was neat with folders and notebooks was now on the bed opened and forgotten with the papers scattered over the sheets. Lance is looking for his textbooks that he somehow misplaced in the dorm. He was now looking under the bed to see if it slide off from the edge but, got up when he discovered that they weren’t sitting on the bottom of the bed.

"Hunk?" Lance called out. There a few footsteps before someone popped their head in just to see if there was an immediate danger before walking in with an apron on and a ladle in his hand.

"What happened Lance? You know not to disturb me if I am stress cooking"

"But, you're always stress cooking though?" Lance tilts his head to the side before going back to his book bag and dumping its contents to the floor.

"That is because I, Hunk Garrett, is always stressed. With all of the work, they give me in Pre-Cal and English Comp. II. PLUS, working as a security guard for the campus, PLUS, STUDYING. I’m more stressed than I was in the Garrison." Lance looks at Hunk for a bit to see that the front of the apron had been stained with some weird orange colored goop. Lance wants to ask Hunk about the stain but refrains because it wasn’t the time to wonder about it. He was panicking himself over hardcover textbooks.

"Oh calm down Hunk. I know that you will ace all of your finals and will get all of your Gen-Ed classes done on time if that was on your mind. Plus it's a security guard job. The most they made us do is break up fights and walk people to a certain point or to their car. This is a very simple job for the most part."

"But that’s still something. What if they’re armed or something and they shank one of us and dip. I am not built for speed. I barely completed the physical test." Hunk looks away from him. Lance walks up to Hunk and places a hand on his shoulder and smiles.

"But you did it. Hunk, you were determined to work with me as a security guard because you said and I quote 'I don’t want you to come back to me and Pidge dead in Miami.' Trust me. We are both lucky to be security guards. Do you know what they make campus police do?"

"No, what do they do?"

"You don't want to know. Plus, campus police are the people who are trying to get their degree in some form of criminal arts."

"Do you mean Criminal Justice or better yet, Criminology?"

"Yeah. Yeah, same shit. Shiro doing all of that and he is in the masters program in Criminology. He asked me if I wanted to join the force. I looked him dead in his eyes and said hummus."

“Wait, where did the hummus thing come from again? I can’t remember.”

“It was when you showed me what was hummus.”

“The same day where you proceeded to spill it on Pidge and they immediately said and I quote ‘hummus?’ before chucking their phone at your head?” Lance rubs the back of his head.

“The same day Hunk. Although, I never knew that a large lifeproof phone would hurt as bad as it did.” Hunk starts to giggle for a mere second before giving out a loud laugh. It gives Lance such joy that he can calm his best friend from anything.

"Man, I forgot how funny you are. You should become a comedian"

"And talk about all of the stupid shit that I’ve done from middle school to now. Including senior year of Garrison High" Lance pauses for a good minute before shaking his head. "Besides, I don’t need any more people laughing at me for the peanut butter incident." Lance shudders at the mention of the word peanut.

"Alright comedian, although, I don’t think anyone would laugh at that one. That experience rather freaked me. You should've told me about the peanut butter thing.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be like THAT.”

“That’s understandable and its okay. So, what did you need me for anyway before we broke into some sappy conversation about my stress levels and comedic relief." Lance had almost forgotten about his problems. He clasps his hands on top of his head and looks at Hunk with wide eyes.

"I LOST THE TWO MOST EXPENSIVE BOOKS FOR MY CLASS AND I AM FREAKING THE FUCK OUT"

"Wait, which books were they before we start panicking."

"It was on Health Care Dynamics and Society and on Hole’s Human Anatomy and Physiology" Hunk winces at the titles. Those books cost actual money because of how old they were.

"Okay, okay, okay. Let's calm down for a second. Lance, where was the last time you used your textbooks?"

"I was at the library a... few... days ago... UUUUGGGH FUCK MY LIFE I LEFT THEM THERE."

"Where in the library?"

"In the study section."

"Was Keith working that day?" That was a good question. Keith was the one who would sometimes call the office to be walked from the library to his car at around 6:45 PM. Lance remembers a flick of a burgundy sweater and a ponytail that day. Lance also remembers that he was talking to Keith about something very irrelevant to his studies.

"Yes, he was working that day."

"Then you should probably hit him up about the textbooks."

"Hunk, you are a damn genius." Lance leaps towards his bed grabs his phone. He locks it to realize that he gave Keith his number but did not receive his. "Hunk, I FORGOT TO TAKE HIS NUMBER."

“Are you sure about that? After the Plastic Angels incident?” Lance thinks about it for a mere second before remembering that he had called Keith the same day he received his number.

“I have his number...”

“Then call him?”

“He’s probably working right now.”

"Well, you are looking at least two hundred dollars on each of those books. So that adds up to four hundred. That is half of your paycheck right there, that if you don’t call him." Lance eyebrows could have hit the roof and the moon if they weren't attached to his forehead.

"I need the money to pay for my classes and food."

"Sorry buddy, you are screwed at this point. I would have helped you but I'm in the same boat as you with all of the expenses." Lance sinks to the ground. He was fucked if he had to repay for those books. He could always rent those books but, they were so hard to find. Plus he had notes specifically for certain pages on those books.

“I’ll make that call right now actually.” Lance looks at his phone one last time to realize that there was a voicemail message waiting to be opened.

"Good. I meant to ask you this but did Keith call you? It could have been a 57 percent chance that he did."

"Ugh, you sound like Slav. I don't want to be reminded of him." Lance calls his voicemail number and puts in his pin. There was one new voice message from Keith.

The moment Keith’s voice begins to speak, Lance could feel both his and Keith nervous energy pouring out of the message.

‘Hey, this is Keith Kogane from the Smythe’s Library, the person that you sometimes walk to their car. This is probably weird because, why am I calling you during your working hours. You left your textbooks on Health Care Dynamics and Society and on Hole’s Human Anatomy and Physiology in the library. I don’t know where you actually live or such to drop off your books so I'll hold off your textbooks until your next visit. Thank you.’ The message ended with a click and Lance is hopping around with Hunk.

“HUNK, HE HAS THE BOOKS. HE SAVED MY ASS FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS. I GOT TO CALL HIM.” Lance calls Keith immediately after to get hit with his voice mail. “I forgot he working...”

“Leave a message then. It has been three days since he called you and is probably waiting for a response.” Lance looks at Hunk and smiles.

“Hunk has anyone told you that you’re the best?”

“A couple of people, why do you ask?”

“Because you truly are the best.”

“Thank you. Now leave a message for your freckled ‘friend’” Lance wanted to ask Hunk about what he meant when he finger-quoted friend but he was mentally preparing himself to leave a message.

“THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU SO MUCH! I THOUGHT I LOST THOSE. HOLY SHIT! Those books cost too much. I’m sorry, but can you hold on for a second.”

‘Hunk, hold me really quick” Hunk looks at him for a second before speaking

“You’re getting emotional over a phone call Lance. A phone call over textbooks.”

“He just saved me money and stress Hunk, At least give me a hug and comfort please” Hunk sighs and hugs Lance. He gives a few soft taps to Lance’s back before releasing him.

“Sorry about that. I’m alright it's just that I don’t have the money to replace those. I’ll try to pick them up as soon as I can or better yet, can you drop them off? I work at the security office that’s right inside the Honvera’s Arts and Science building. Just walk in and the office is to youuuur” Lance looks at Hunk for help.

“Left, Lance”

“Left. Thanks, Hunk. Thank you, Keith!” Lance hangs up and gets up from the floor.

“Wait, I just realized, Lance you gave him the wrong building.” Lance goes a double take.

“What? Seriously!? It’s not the Lego building?” Lance rakes his hand through his hair. ‘That’s perfect’ Lance thought.

“The fact that you call it the lego building.” Hunk facepalms and shakes his head. “It’s Blaytz Hall on your right.”

“Isn’t that in front of the Lego building?”

“Yeah but it’s still a walk from the library, considering that the hall and the ‘lego building’ are located on the north campus. The library is on west campus. That’s a whole shuttle ride from west to north campus.”

“You are saying like north is further away from the west then south”

“Lance, it is. That is why they are trying to get a transit system up and running by the ending of 2018”

“Welp, hopefully, he doesn’t get lost?”

“Hopefully. Say, do you want to taste what I’m working on?”

“I thought you would never ask.” The both of them leave Lance’s room to the kitchen while talking about the goop on Hunk’s apron.