#Fuck you I was assigned lawyer at prologue

[the-hittite]

[hcazj]

made a cover for my whack af mchanzo nanowrimo 2019 novel. u can find it on ao3 via “finding you in the buckass of nowhere” lmao. prologue under the cut but after this i will be exclusively posting on ao3

PROLOGUE

The sun rises high into the sky, casting shadows on everything residing on the surface. Jesse gives a loud yawn before scratching his scrappy goatee and turning the page on a health textbook he was given by Angela by instruction of his residing commander. He didn’t know how the conversation had started, but during a debriefing on the latest mission in one of the meeting rooms, one of the punks on the Blackwatch team had decided to give Gabriel Reyes a run for his money and ask if he had a soulmate waiting back home. Gabe, of course, had laughed in that guy’s face. He laughed like it was the funniest thing in the entire world.

And just as he was laughing, something miraculous happened. The team was visited by none other than Overwatch’s Strike Commander, who not only served as a face for publicity stunts, but also was the head of operations. And the strike teams, hence the title.

“He better not.” Soldier: 76, better known as Jack Morrison, said as he practically kicked the meeting room door open with his boot. He looked pissed. And also had a stack of papers on him. It looked like someone forgot to get their morning coffee. “He’d have some serious explaining to do.”

There were a couple whispers across the table, a couple agents trying to understand the implications of what had just transpired. Jesse swore he saw some of his teammates starting to sweat. The band of Blackwatch agents saw Gabriel Reyes flash his most charming smile. The rascal could look good when he wanted to.

“Jackie, you’re backie. Not in blackie, though. I’m happy you’re openly talking about this, but didn’t we agree not to tell anyone? Also, hey, dinner at 8 in my room.” And then Gabe winked at Jack. Ew.

Jack sighed, crossing his arms, and not so subtly cueing to the assortment of medals pinned to the lapel of his cornflower blue coat. Subtle. He addressed Gabe. “Remember last night? Well, I’ve decided to become the possessive bastard you always wanted.” He gave an intimidating glance at everyone in the room. “How are you kids doing? I’m sure you’ve met me around. Though you probably didn’t think I’d be so involved with Gabe. Like, probably never expected in a million years that I was his soulmate. But yeah. That’s classified information, not a peep out of this room unless you want your life to being an even more visceral piece of hell.”

Someone gulped in anxiety. Someone sneered in ennui. But if Blackwatch owned anything, it was a pile of troublemakers.

Now, Jesse hadn’t been part of Blackwatch too long, but it never took him that long to make friends. Genji--Jesse’s best friend and second best troublemaker in Blackwatch history--decided it was his turn to say something. (Jesse liked to think of himself as the best troublemaker, but that was an entirely different discussion).

“And how are you going to do that exactly? Your boyfriend already has us running laps across the Mediterranean.” Genji sat proudly with his feet resting on the table, and Jack gave him a look of disgust.

Jack excused the moment of insubordination, and walked right past the table and into the arms of his lover. They shared a quick kiss after a moment of lingering in each others arms, much to the dismay of everyone else in the meeting room. And if Jack was good at anything, it was playing games with new recruits.

“What’s up, marido ? What makes my darling husband so sad?” Gabe said, combing his hair through the tufts of Jack’s pale blond hair. It was thin, very much unlike his own, but he liked to try.

Jack laughed, trying to materialize every ounce of theatrics he had stored in his body for this very moment. “My sweet love, I just don’t know how I’m going to live if you don’t assign your soldiers 50 more pushups each every morning before breakfast. They’re not super soldiers like us, but we must make sure they are raised right. They’re like our kids, to me.” Jack lifted a leg off the floor, like he was swooning for real.

Groaning broke out around the table, and Jesse wasn’t sure if his teammates were groaning at the obviously satirical display of affection, or at the thought of actually being assigned even more pushups every morning.

It was Gabe’s turn to laugh. “Aw, Jack. We’re going to have a conversation later on why you’re so touchy today. Let me kiss you goodbye, though.” He planted another kiss on his husband’s nose before resuming business as per usual. Jack begrudgingly peeled himself off of his husband, but not without greeting their personal pet project. He smacked the stack of autopsies in front of Jesse and gave him a wink, before ruffling through the kid’s hair.

Gabe cleared his throat, as the door shut. Radio silence. He looked at Genji, who was making paper triangle footballs to send flying across the room. Genji looked up at him and discarded the paper football into the recycling bin. Gabe swore, some of the people on this team had the attention span of gnats.

“Ok, amigxs. Before we get into the details of the upcoming mission abroad, Jack was serious about our relationship being confidential. Think of the absolute horror you would cause if the UN caught winding that I’m fucking their Strick Commander. Like, maybe it’s funny. Actually, that’s pretty fucking funny. Can I get a laugh track going here?”

Jesse was the first to start hooting and hollering. A round of applause followed. If Gabe getting laid meant a happy Gabe, who cared, really? Sure, it could cause an international scandal, but Jesse liked to take it a day at a time.

“Thanks, caballero. Ok. It might be the funniest thing ever, but let’s be serious. I don’t want to fire any of you, but if wind caught that I’m soulmates with Jack, that would probably raise some suspicions of nepotism. Now we all know that I’m a very accomplished man, with a great piece of ass too, but it could potentially mean getting the pink slip from the higher higher ups. And all of you would probably also be out of the job, since Blackwatch technically does not exist. Really. So please don’t, if you value your paycheck.

“Alright, anyways. Any questions before we begin reviewing these autopsy reports like a pack of lawyers from a video game?” Gabe asked.

Jesse McCree had a question.

He partially raised his hand like a kid in a classroom, but then put it back down as he was contemplating if he should ask it at all, but then fully raised his hand as he thought ‘fuck it’.

“Hey, son. What’s bothering you? No, I don’t have any Nature Grain bars to feed you right now, please wait until after the meeting,” Gabe said. That aroused another short round of laughter from the people at the meeting.

Jesse chuckled too, because he had actually asked for a Nature Grain before in the middle of a mission. But he had a question to ask, and that was very important. “Hey, so, uhhhhh. I don’t know if this is relevant, or important enough, but what in tarnation’s a soulmate again?”

And Jesse kind of knew too, but only vaguely, like the word ‘esoteric’.

Of course, ‘esoteric’ is a word that is used to describe when something is only understood by a small set of people. Like you could call string theory ‘esoteric’, because who the fuck knows what string theory is? But it comes around often enough that people have heard of string theory, if only by name. You could even consider the word ‘esoteric’ esoteric. That was kind of funny. But Jesse was raised in the pit of the South with a single mother, before he found himself living a life of crime. He reconsidered how esoteric the word ‘soulmates’ was.

Like ‘esoteric’, ‘soulmates’ was not a word that came up when Jesse was robbing trains for a living, nor running from the police after a shooting with an opposing gang, nor in the middle of jewelry heists in the heart of Santa Fe. ‘Soulmates’ wasn’t necessary by any means of the word, that word, necessary. But maybe while he had only heard it a handful of times, with no definition to attach to the word, maybe everyone else had.

He felt like he was the odd duck out, and that was hard to do in a group of mother fucking misfits. Like, come on, Genji was basically a fucking cyborg. Gabe had gone through that freak of a soldier enhancement program that probably fucked with his biology in ways Jesse would never understand. Moira, their resident evil scientist, shot floating orbs out of her hands in the middle of combat. What the fuck was that about? Did she hone the essence of Orbeez for the inspiration behind her primary weapon? Jesse had some real mother fucking questions.

And a lot of the times, he asked them too.

But out of all of the unprofessional and obscure questions he had asked in his life, and even just in his short stay at Blackwatch where he could ask some pretty weird things, he had never asked a question that just about floored so many different people all at once. It’s like, he asked the question about soulmates, and the question took the cake. It took the cake and ran away with the spoon and like, eloped with the dish. And fucked the moon. Jesse didn’t think there was a reason for everyone to look so scandalized, though.

Because questions didn’t take cakes, or run with spoons, or elope, or fuck.

Gabe had a face that betrayed emotions Jesse knew Gabe didn’t show often: remorse. Of course, ‘remorse’ kind of sounded like ‘Morrison’ and that was funny for 2 seconds. But it was downright scary. Jesse was the type of person that was always starting something.

2 days ago, he had snuck into the mess hall at 3:30AM to steal a bag of doritos. Last week, he got captured on a mission and had to be rescued from an abandoned warehouse. Yesterday, he accidentally passed a stink bomb so bad, Gabe started coughing and moved their weekly recap meeting outside. And it was raining, too.

“Kid, did you ever take a health class before dropping out of school?” Gabe asked.

Jesse didn’t know how to answer that. “Well, I know how my body works, thank you. Uh, but t’answer your question…. No. What’s that got t’do with soulmates?”

Gabe scrunched his lips, wondering how he could quickly remedy the situation. This is why they paid him the big bucks. Not the biggest bucks, but more than large enough bucks. “Ok, everyone settle down for a hot second. Jesse, I’m going to comm Angela for a textbook you can read. And you probably need some one-on-one lessons on other stuff--yeah, I know you know what sex is but what about STIs? That’s half the battle. How about taking a break this week and just getting through health class?”

“But boss--”

“Trust me, this is way more important.”

Gabe took out one of his comms, one that only a limited amount of people on base had access too. It was mostly used for emergencies, but other times, was used as a quick way to contact anyone on base.  

“Hey Angela! How are you? It’s Gabriel Reyes. I’m great and so is Jack-o’-Lantern thanks for asking. Do you have a this week to give some health lessons to one of our agents? I know you’re friends with our little Jesse. Great. Yeah? Perfect, please put that textbook on reserve. I’ll send Jesse down soon. Ok. Awesome. Over.” Gabe clipped the comm back into his belt. “Ok, anyone else skip health class?”

The room, for once, was a resounding silence. Moira raised her hand.

“You didn’t take health class, O’deorain? Aren’t you a doctor?” Gabe asked.

“Very funny, commander. I was wondering why you did not just ask me to prepare some lessons and generic information for Jesse, and instead contacted Angela Zeigler.” She brought a hand up to her face, and rested her cheek on her long purple nails that looked like talons.

“Hey, doc. You’re coming with us on this mission. You can help out later if Jesse wants.” Gabe sighs and turns to Jesse. “Alright, cowboy. Sorry to do this to you, and don’t let this go to your head, but I can’t just let you go gallivanting into a foreign country with no knowledge about your own body parts. Trust me. Soulmates isn’t something to mess around with. I know you’re stressed about it. Consider yourself on hourly while you lax away while hitting the books this week, ok?”

Jesse sighed and pulled his cowboy hat off of his head. He was disappointed he wouldn’t be going to Japan, but there would definitely be more opportunities for travel in the future. Filling the cracks in his education wasn’t something that he would have completely expected out of Blackwatch.

In fact, he was still reeling over getting fed 3 square meals a day. Being treated with any semblance or respect. Being valued not because he was probably the greatest sharpshooter of his generation, but for his personality and interests. Though playing old Hollywood flicks on movie night annoyed his teammates to no end, people stuck around and watched with him. And that was more valuable than ransacking a jewelry store.

“You can stick around, but I suggest getting around early since the textbook Angela has for you is several hundreds of pages long.” Gabe grinned, trying to whisk away Jesse’s problems.

Jesse replaced the hat on his head, and yawned as he stretched his arms above his head. “See y’all later, suckeroonies. Y’all hear that? I’m being paid to stay on base this week!”

More laughter from the gallery. Jesse got a few pats on the back. Genji flicked a paper football in his direction, and it smacked Jesse straight in the forehead.

“Text me” Genji said with a salute. Gabriel cleared his throat and held out his hand.

Genji sighed as he was caught red handed, and surrendered his stash of paper footballs. A beat passed, and Gabriel remained focused on Genji. Genji took the paper footballs out of the pockets of his sweatpants and handed those over too.

That Genji.

Jesse snuck out the door as the team started talking about the autopsy reports, and was off to find Angela.

And not to say he wasn’t disappointed at not being able to travel with the rest of the team this time, but he tried to stick to the silver lining: gorging on breadsticks. Sometimes they were stale, but hit those babies with an unearthly and disgusting amount of ranch dressing, and Jesse would eat them like there was no tomorrow. Being paid also wasn’t half bad. And getting his question answered certainly wasn’t that bad.

He walked past the kitchen, one of the larger living rooms, and some of the barracks before taking an elevator up a few floors to the right area. Why wasn’t the med bay in the middle of the building?

Angela “Mercy” Zeigler was one of Overwatch’s doctors. She was at the top of her field at a young age, and a dear friend of Jesse’s. While the two could not have come from more different worlds, they bonded over some obscure things like miniature scented soaps. Besides, Jesse got injured so much on missions, they practically had to become friends. Angela was huge on doctor patient confidentiality, but that didn’t stop her from chewing Jesse out every single time he came back needing a cast.

If taking health classes was urgent enough for Gabe to kick him off of the latest mission, it had to be some level of important. How important could the whole soulmates thing be ? The elevator dinged and he followed the path he knew by heart to Angela’s office. He knocked on her door.

“Come in!” someone called from the other side.

He stepped inside. The examination room was just like he remembered it. White walls, with neat stacks of papers and books sitting in the corners by a computer desk. He was always impressed by how Angela worked, nothing seemed to get by her despite the clear lack of organization she subjected her belongings to. “Angie! Reckon you have a moment to spare for an old cowboy?”

She looked up from the paper she was reading and instinctively scanned the length of his body. “What appears to be the problem, Jesse? Ah. You’re here so early. Health lessons?”

“Correcto-mundo.”

She stifled a laugh and motioned to the examination table. “Feel free to take a seat, I’ll set up one of the projects. I have time to give you a quick lesson today, but otherwise believe you are just going to have to read a textbook and call me with any pertinent questions. We should also have a quick quiz at the end of the week just to see if you have retained any information. Where would you like to start?”

Jesse started swinging his legs back and forth, and took his hat off to get comfortable. This would be the closest he’d ever gotten to college. “What the hell’s a soulmate, Angela?”

“Ah, yes. That is a fun topic. Let us begin.”

And that is how Jesse finds himself reading through what has got to be the densest book he’s ever laid his pretty brown eyes on. Reading this thing is like trying to breath in a chunky soup. There’s just too much going on for it to be possible, but some find a way to make it happen. Not many, but some. The sun, now past noon, has travelled lower into the sky during the course of the afternoon. He sits on a cliff by the Overwatch base in Gibraltar, after thoroughly being lectured this morning by Dr. Zeigler.

Jesse rolls over, book in hand, and takes a moment to look over the cliff he’s been sitting at the whole time. The sea beneath him crashes into the crook of the precipice, leaving sparkling moisture behind to glitter in the sun. Who needed to go to Japan for a mission anyways? He sighed.

He glanced back down at his textbook. Jesse swears he’s never read so much in his life.

The connection between soulmates has not yet been properly explained by the lengths of modern medicine .

Great. Just what Angela said.

However, there is one documented process that occurs between a pair of soulmates. When an individual instigates skin-to-skin contact with their soulmate for the first time, their touch will leave a mark in the shape of the touch. For example, if a person accidentally bumps into their soulmate and the two touch shoulders, the initiator of the touch (IOT for short) will leave a shoulder shaped imprint on the receiver of the touch (ROT for short). Though the receiver may not see the mark form on their skin automatically, they will automatically feel a connection to their soulmate. However, the IOT will not feel anything short of some shoulder discomfort during this exchange.

Individuals in Markwell’s case study report that a forming soulmate connection feels like being “stuck in a movie montage” (Markwell 40). The ROT will automatically reel through a selection of events from the IOT’s life, and thus, gaining a better understanding of their fated person .

Hm.

When someone first receives their soulmate marking, Markwell reports, “it is common to freeze up as the memories are being transferred from person to person” (Markwell 41). In order to seal the bond and make it permanent, the ROT must then instigate skin-to-skin contact with the original IOT. Otherwise, any received soulmate marks will slowly fade over time, though never completely disappear.

Soulmates do not have to be romantic couples. Some opt for friendship, or other types of relationships. However, the majority of soulmates do end up spending the rest of their lives together in some form, due to the depth of their unique connection.

It is possible for soulmates to never meet, because before initial skin-to-skin contact, there are currently no medical tools available that accurately predict the existence of a soulmate connection between two people. The next section is a photo gallery of soulmate marks .

Ok.

Some of these were pretty funny. There’s an image of someone with a neon purple pair of lips, indicating that their first contact with their soulmate was a kiss. It was so embarrassing Jesse laughed. On another page, someone just had an imprint of a dark yellow hand on their shoulder. That looked kind of cool. 

Next page.

Soulmate pairs with an incomplete set of soulmate marks are another story. Individuals that have received a soulmate marking, but whom are unable to reciprocate the marking on their respective soulmate, have a greater chance of developing anxiety or depression. Individuals studied have repeatedly reported feeling listless. This has not yet been thoroughly studied. Psychiatrists predict that this is due to a mixture of reasons.

Scary.

Jesse hoped that this would never happen to him. He hoped to god, the gods, the sky, the flowing rivers and the tall mountains. He hoped this would never happen. But fate had other plans for young Jesse McCree.

[parkeraul]

B L O O M — F I R S T

a/n: welcome to bloom’s 1st chapter. the prologue wasn’t very self-explanatory but we’re going to see everything from the very beginning and i promise you that i’m gonna develop the concept through the chapters to make it clear. i’d be very grateful to receive feedbacks on my askbox, i wanna know what you’re thinking of it and if anyone’s interested on joining/leaving the taglist, let me know as well.  the format is going to be a little different from what i usually do to my imagines, so you can also warn me if these elements are working out. 

warnings: drinking & smoking.  words: 3,902.

1st: Take a trip into my garden.  Musical Inspiration: Bloom — Troye Sivan | Recorded At Spotify Studios NYC

“Is it too tight?” She feels her head being gently squeezed by the two pieces of satin holding the black mask on her face.  “No, it’s good,” Answering flatly, she turns around when Ginger’s arms are away from her to lean against the wall and fix her mask, feeling the pressure of the object just to make sure it won’t fall off. “It’s very cliché, though.”  Ginger laughs softly, staring at her like she’s just helped her daughter get ready to her first date.  “It’s what they do to introduce the new girls,” She explains and starts playing with the strands of the other girl’s hair. She looks at Ginger and feels kind of jealous of her confidence, not to mention the way her chest flutters everytime their eyes meet. Ginger’s not even trying to wear an alluring attitude, it’s just natural and, by the way her heart is threatening to explode inside her chest, she wishes they could switch places. “They think that, like this, you can all feel less intimidated by all these guys.” She finishes her explanation and peeks through the blind to look around the place, bringing those new eyes semi-covered by the mask to follow her and take a glance from where they were standing. 

Don’s office is huge enough to keep all the girls inside of it and both Ginger and the new girl think that this is probably one of his wildest kinks. All the girls are out there, already acting seductively towards the men taking over the big hall and, even though they went inside the office only to fix the mask, they’re still inside the room rambling as much as they can before stepping out. 

The desk is covered by different types of whiskey, wine and vodka with glasses half-empty resting atop of it and the smell of alcohol is taking over the whole room, making her stomach twist in its place a little due to the combination of nervousness and the unavoidable scent invading her nostrils with no further warnings. “Have you picked a codename already, sweetheart?” Ginger grabs her attention back, letting go of the blind to show her blue eyes widening under her red mask as she takes a cigarette out of the pocket of her leather jacket. “Not really,” She watches Ginger pulling the cigarette next to her lips to light it. “I don’t think I’m gonna do it, honestly.” “M-Mm, darling, trust me,” Ginger takes a pause to take a pull, offering the cigarette to her and exhaling the smoke away from her face. “It’s the best thing to do,” She takes her time while smoking, looking for that relief she’s been searching for in these few seconds. “We already had trouble with stupid rich men stalking the girls everywhere and I’m not talking only about social media,” She finishes and reaches a glass of whiskey behind her, not taking her eyes off the new girl for a minute. “You see, being in this position makes it harder to decide anything for ourselves but that doesn’t mean we can’t think selfishly sometimes. And by selfish I’m not talking about being mean… It’s self-care.” “And why do you care so much?” An eyebrow arches towards Ginger and she passes the cigarette back, releasing the smoke through her nose. “It’s not like you’re getting in trouble if something happens to me.” She knows she’s being edgy, but that’s how she learned to defend herself. No one would be there for her besides herself. Specially men. Dealing with this new universe in front of her with so many unpredictable possibilities seemed to be scary — no wonder why the extreme parts of her body are getting cold while her chest is hotter than hell because of the anxiety — but that’s not the first time she’s playing with fire and it’s certainly not going to be the last. She would rather having time to plan things out and follow her specific directions to avoid any chances of fucking things up, but right now the only option left is to channel her impulsive side in the calmest way she can, if that’s even possible. Relying on people is a mistake, she thinks. If you’re walking alone, then no one can disappoint you but yourself. Trust is an inexistent word on her vocabulary. Trust is a fantasy. It’s always better to develop your own independence instead of waiting for someone to get your job done. She would never do this for someone, so it makes no sense for her to expect people to babysit her and tell her that everything’s gonna be fine. With that being said to herself over and over again during life, she sees no reason to give Ginger any credits. “I’m only telling you this because I’ve been there before,” She holds the cigarette and finishes her whiskey in the middle of her sentence. “It’s just a friendly advice for you to think about in case you’re planning to ride the rollercoaster without throwing up at the end,” Ginger says and swallows thickly to ease the burning sensation on her throat. “Don isn’t the good guy you think he is, sweets. These bitches are all inside their own little worlds,” She points to the other girls hanging outside the office, some of them fixing their outfits while speaking to someone and some others scrolling their phone screens. “So, you better lose the attitude and get some tips if you’re interested in keeping your spot as his newest favourite girl.” She glances at Ginger’s blue eyes with a bold smirk, switching sometimes to study some other details on her face: seeing the freckles across her cheeks and nose, her red lips slightly parted nearly matching with the soft orange tone of her hair in front of her shoulders. She dares to inch closer enough to smell the scent of her skin and brush the tips of their noses, locking the redhead between the desk and her own body in front of the window. Ginger feels surprised but doesn’t move at all, facing whatever she’s about to do. “I really, really appreciate your words, Gin,” She still plays with her own devilish smile, bringing her right hand to tuck a strand of Ginger’s hair behind her ear, making her close her eyes and choke on her air lightly. “But I don’t need a mom, I know how to take care of myself.” She lets her hand caress across her jawline and finds her chin, tilting down to plant a kiss on it without breaking eye-contact with her eyelids covered in red eyeshadow, waiting for her to finally reciprocate the affection. The loud sound of the girls talking to each other muffled the noise of the doorknob being twisted to the side, so none of them noticed when Don walked in. He had to clear his throat strongly to snap everyone’s attention. “Girls, I love what you’re doing but I’d love even more if you could save this to the party,” Don says snapping his fingers towards Ginger and the new girl, giving them a dirty grin and making them pull away. “But good to know that you’re already in the mood, people are looking forward to it.” Don closes the door behind him and they immediately pull away because being the owner of an entire building makes it all easier for him to boss not only the lawyers working for him, but also the girls he hired to compose his side-business. He’s looking at the women from head to toe, searching for any aspect out of place to quickly warn them before starting the celebration. “As you know, this Sunday is the anniversary of our office,” The man licks his lips before starting, not moving his sight away from the bodies for a split second. “And you, my girls, are all gathered here to have some fun with my co-workers,” He explains like it isn’t obvious, trying to ease the tension he knows it’s present in the new people.  “And I don’t want anything to ruin this night. Is that clear?” Manipulated, the girls nod together without even thinking twice. “Great! We’ve got some new toys for you too since we had to assign some fresh contracts, so I trust you all to make your best moves that I know you can.” Don’s smile is devilishly widening, probably due to the memories coming up to his mind. She wonders with how many of those women he’d been with before “setting them free”. 

All of him exhales a big asshole energy. The beige suit he’s wearing right now can’t hide his real intentions, even though he’s looking just like another ordinary lawyer with gel on his hair and expensive accessories adorning his wrist, neck and fingers. And she remembers that when she first met him she felt like there’s something hidden in between the lines. A man like him surely knows how to convince and to approach using only his features. Who’d resist falling for his blonde hair pushed back and blue eyes? It’s as cliché as the masquerade party he’s throwing, but with that deep tone of his voice and charming smile, he could get the world spinning around his finger effortlessly. 

Don reaches the doorknob behind him and opens some space for the girls to step out. “So… Why don’t you go have some fun?” He steps aside and points to the outside where the hall is, lots and lots of men walking around the secretaries’ desks, eventually sitting on the tables to chat after a long day working. Ginger gives her one last look before handling the cigarette back to her and walking out. She follows instantly, gradually getting the look of everyone having a good time and she can’t quite understand why the girls are so happy about it — their eyes brightening and hands clapping together like they’ve just won a big prize for being good girls during the whole year instead of being closer to please men they don’t even know. She’s chosen to be here but, to be honest, she wishes she’d stayed home and looked for a simpler thing to do. Picking up the pace of her footsteps, she tries to be near the redheaded girl before being thrown at those hungry guys curiously looking at the new bodies filling the hall. “Uh-uh, babe,” Don enters the space that separates her from Ginger, dragging his palm to graze the uncovered skin of her rib. “You’re coming with me tonight.” She doesn’t even know how fast he found the space between the top cropped and high-waist pants of her leather set, but she’s hoping that he’s going somewhere cool with it. If he thought she was in the mood, then he’s dead wrong. “I want you to stay in my circle for now until you get the rhythm of it all,” He lies. Don might be thinking he sounded smooth, but she can clearly notice the lie dripping from his lips by the way he can’t stop moving his hand towards the zip on her back. She smiles weakly; bringing the cigarette to her lips for one last smoke and puts it down on the ashtray standing at the edge of his desk and releasing the air to the side, consequently turning her eyes away from his. “Wanna show you to my closest friends. Does that feel good?” She chuckles, returning to the tall blonde man standing in front of her as she toys with his tie in between her black stiletto nails. Tugging the material, she pulls him closer in a very fast and fierce movement, making Don bite on his lower lip while he watches her brown eyes travel their sight across his face under her mask. “Don, I… I feel kinda scared, I’m not gonna lie,” She says looking deep in his blue eyes and he swears he’d never seen someone so irresistible before. “I just, you know… Would rather-“ “Honey, there’s nothing you should worry about,” Another lie falls from his lips and she keeps on pretending that she’s interested on the print decorating his tie, running her digits through it slowly and her lips form the cutest pout, intensifying her innocent expression. “Listen, today I’ll introduce you to the nice guys only. I promise you, ‘kay?” She nods and takes a deep breath, trying hard to suppress a laugh because Don — the smartiest lawyer in the building — is buying her cheap theatre without even thinking twice. “But don’t get used to this, darlin’, want you to make good money and this is for you too. Young and good-looking guys aren’t the richest,” Don caresses her face and she leans like a little kitten, smiling at him sweetly. Feels so good to know that Don doesn’t need more than her basic convincing-skills to give her whatever she wants. “C’mon, I’ll take you.” He pulls back and offers his arm for her to hold with hers. And so she does.

All the girls had their pairs already, two or three with more than just one guy and she gulps, fearing that Don would force her into a threesome or maybe something worse. The hall had a darker tone, only the small lights around the roof illuminating the place contrasting with the chandeliers turned off and she started studying already which one of the men is the least disgusting. She’s seeing most of them drinking their expensive liquor, smoking their fancy cigarette and loosening their decorated ties; some of them also finding a couch to sit onto and Don takes her to the most crowded sofa. He sits and guides her by the waist to sit down on his lap, so she doesn’t really have a choice. If she wants to have the slightest chance to make a decision by herself, she must act differently. So she doesn’t tilt her head down like she wants to do — instead, she makes sure her spine is straightened and her legs are looking good, crossing the right one on top of her left thigh as all the men begin to glance at her, inching their bodies discreetly closer. “Never saw this one before,” One of them comments like she’s not even there, smirking and switching eyes from her frame to Don’s. “If I knew you’d bring a new girl, I’d take a shower before coming all the way here.” He laughs to himself and it’s clear to see that the rest is only laughing not to leave the man alone. She forces a smile, analyzing the old man with revulsion. He’s got a cigar standing in front of him and she bets the smell of the cigar is better than his right now. His suit is messed up and he’s occupying half of the couch with his legs spread open, white greasy hair on top of his head well fixed. He’s not so ugly, she thinks, but he’s definitely not someone she wants to get intimate with in her whole life. He’s got blue eyes too and a beautiful smile even, although his teeth are showing a light yellow colour, probably from smoking way too much. “Is this your dad?” She asks Don, making connection with some similiar features on both their faces. This time, everyone laughs sincerely and she feels like she’s grounding her enchantment somehow. “Not really but if you want to, he can be your daddy.” Someone else says and they laugh even louder, making her swallow thickly. No, thank you. “This is Oliver,” Don explains, holding her middle carefully on top of him and pointing to the first man who spoke. “That other one is Richard, they’re both defense lawyers in here and big mouths as you can see.” He says to her.

Another man gets closer to hang out with them, a lot younger apparently and he finds a spot next to Oliver to sit down, making the gray-haired guy close his legs to free some space. 

“And this is our babyboy,” Oliver hugs the man by his shoulder, squeezing him and making him blush a little. She watches attentively, finally glad to see someone actually attractive. “Looks like a trainee, doesn’t he?” She agrees, not able to even blink. He’s got no suit covering his broad body, only a dark shirt hugging his arms and chest tightly and she can feel the electricity sparkling in her senses. Drifting away from Oliver’s touch, he inches forward to get a glass of whiskey and eyes her, frowning right after. “I don’t think we’ve met before.” He says to her, seeing her brown hair thrown to the side getting in front of her mask partly. She opens her mouth to answer him but someone else kicks in first. “She’s new, Peter!” Richard yells. “Don is making better researches after the past 3 boring months.” He widens his eyebrows, comprehending and nodding slowly towards Richard to look back at the only woman standing among them. “What’s your name, angel?” He asks curiously and takes her palm with his free tattooed hand, smiling at her and ignoring the commentaries rising from this action of his. Oliver coos ridiculously and Richard praises him as a good boy. Don is way too distracted by his phone and all the other lawyers are laughing at the situation, not believing how fast and smooth he just spoke. She also ignores the other men and her heart races a little after listening to his words. If she didn’t wanna choose a codename before, then this is the first time she feels glad someone did a job for her. “You just shot it right.” 

The hall starts to get empty and she’s long gone from the little crew back in the sofa, hidden in the small kitchen all the way across the offices and telephones to distract herself with the post-its pinned on a board. As she looked a little bit lower, she saw all the names decorating the papers with numbers. She knows those names and she’s now recognizing them. Pepper, Sandy, Ariel, Trisha, Kitty, Ginger & Lois — Lost in between so many other familiar names and random warnings, making her gulp. Would her name eventually get stuck with a red pin in this black board? This is a possibility that she can’t avoid now. She’d need to play her cards even better to fool Don the best she can. It wasn’t hard tonight, so it shouldn’t get harder from now on. She hears steps passing behind her and her body instantly freezes. “Sorry, I’m just getting my suit…” A familiar voice says and she spins around quickly to make sure she heard correctly. “Peter!” She mumbles, more reassuring herself than actually calling him. “Hey, Angel,” He grabs the black suit from a chair and turns to face her, as surprised as she is. “You can call me Shawn, by the way. Peter is just my middle name that they use to joke around with.” She smiles in relief and it’s so delightful to hear his tone explaining such a casual unnecessary thing, like he even had to clarify something to her. Now with a better light she can see his hazel eyes looking at her so kindly, his hair full of curls being pushed back by his hand as he grins, highlighting his flushed cheeks getting redder — maybe because of the four glasses of whiskey he had before, she thinks. Shawn, on the other hand, knows that it’s because he’s feeling kind of intimidated by her beauty. She’s got her body being enfolded by leather clothes and, with the mask, she spurs his curiosity a little bit farther. Her brown eyes match with the colour of her hair and he wants to discover more than the shades he’s seeing now. Shawn wants to know what’s under the black leather. He wants to see her shape, the format of her nose and eyebrows and how her lips would look after a kiss. Would they still be glossy and red? Obviously, he feels shy now but he knows he’d blame himself later for not trying. “Going home this soon, Shawn?” She asks. “I could barely introduce myself.” She smirks and for a moment she wants to unravel all the things about herself to see if they have something in common, like a regular date is. She’s not a date, though. She’s not someone to date, someone he’ll show to his parents after a couple of months together. Just like all those men treated her, she feels like it — like an object sitting down on Don’s thighs, not inviting everyone to play around with. She knows she must make a good first impression to Don and get in someone’s bed tonight, but she doesn’t wanna make a toy out of him like people did with her before. It’s good to feel purely enticed by someone in here, she thinks. This is not the time to let an opportunity pass. “I am, actually,” Her heart drops a little. Fuck. All that she wants right now is that he can get her home even if they’re going to play chess with glasses of milk as drinks. Anything. Shawn feels a knot forming on his chest. Insecurity. “I… Uh… Work here from Tuesday to Friday…” “Right…” She confirms, getting the hint and tilting her head down to stare at her heels. So close… “So if you come home with me, we’ll have a whole day to know each other.” A lack of sanity washes over him and he can’t even notice when the invitation flies from his lips.   “What makes you think that I’m gonna spend the whole Monday getting to know you better, Shawn?” She closes the large space in between them, moving her head to the side and the strands of her hair falls to cover her shoulder, looking into his greenish eyes and softly palming his chest with both hands. A part of her is regretting her attitude now that she’s being so bold after getting what she wanted the whole night and the other part just can’t help it, getting his lower stomach sending pulsations to his member confined in his briefs. He moves his thick arms behind her and he opens his suit to cover her back, soon moving his hands — one to cup the nape of her neck and the other one to rub her jawline with his calloused thumb. “Why don’t you give me a chance to convince you, Angel?” He whispers, not breaking eye contact and she feels totally bound to anything that might eventually come out from him right now. “You won’t regret it, I swear.”

From the sofa, Shawn is seen heading towards the corridor that leads to the elevators with his feet bouncing from side to side — hiding her frame the best way he can — by Don. He inches up the glass forcefully, not minding the way the liquor invades his throat burning all the expansion of it. He looked throughout the half-crowded hall just to confirm that Angel is the one he’s taking home. Too bad he had other plans for her tonight — too bad Shawn took her first when he planned to take her instead. 

Don shuts his face as the others talk around him, pouring some more liquor so, like this, he might forget about it for tonight and reschedule his plan to some other time.

Taglist: @tnhmblive — @shawmednes — @ruinhoney — @shawns-curls

[regrettablewritings]

All the Write Words, Pt.IV (Library AU!Vladimir Ranskahov x Reader)

Prologue Part I Part II Part III Part V

For the first two years the Ranskahov brothers had been in America, the Veles Taxi & Limousine Services had been the Prohaska Cab Garage. Old Man Prohaska himself was a stubborn old man whose spit-at-your-shoes attitude hadn’t won him many companions. It did, however, win him a bizarre and rather cruel death by a bowling ball bash to the cranium. At the time, Anatoly had been one of the better options to leave the garage with and while it was highly likely that he wasn’t even in the will to begin with, the nervous lawyer who kept staring at an oddly calm and quiet Vladimir stated otherwise. And just like that, the garage was under new ownership. No questions asked.

Not much had changed under the Ranskahov ruling: It had always employed an abundance of Russians, it usually had rap or cheesy Russian folk music blaring from an old boom box. The mini collage of centerfolds and pinups only changed by gaining a few more additions and business went on as it had before because generally, customers didn’t have a preference for taxi services by name. Just do the job, do it good, and they’d go on their merry way. The only apparent change was the transformation of the logo into Veles Taxi. That, and maybe – just maybe – the powerful presence of tall, scary Russian men had increased since the brothers had taken over.

Whether or not this was intended by the new owners was never outwardly addressed because at least they could offer that they wanted to give the less-than-cuddly-looking blokes chances at employment. At the very least, it didn’t seem to bother Anatoly nor Vladimir as what would be said in their employees’ baritone, chain-smoker’s Russian usually fell upon deaf ears and was more often than not just simple talk or a crude joke here or there. It was never anything that called for alertness and even rarer that they would ever feel the need to be on complete edge at all whenever they were in the garage. The fact that it took an assignment in the shape of a preschooler’s workbook for Vladimir to seek refuge in his office away from the rest of the big guys was therefore all the more amusing.

The office was never truly quiet. There was always clanging of Vladimir slamming a shot glass or bottle of vodka onto the wooden desk, the clicking of the thick clock on the wall, Anatoly sighing through his nose as he went through paperwork (Russian and English, of course). Today was no different, only it had gained more accompaniment: grunts of frustration, the rhythmic tapping of pencil onto paper, the occasional scribbling followed by frantic erasing, the rustle of a hand ruffling hair out of irritation, and the groan of a chair every time its occupant leaned back with almost every single desire to say “Fuck it” that the human body could possibly muster in this situation. But he couldn’t. Not when he had just barely started – it’d be laughable, a wound to his pride! Vladimir glanced down at what he’d accomplished: three out of five completed traces of the word “cat” written in dotted format. In the corner of the paper was a cartoon cat saying some gibberish that to the trained reader would have read “Meow-valous!” To Vladimir, it was only a mockery and it encouraged him to furiously erase at the eyes until they were faded.

Another groan of the chair sounded into the office as Vladimir leaned back and let out a nearly defeated sigh. This shouldn’t be so hard. Why was it hard? Was there a specific order to write certain letters? His eyes whipped to the unfinished alphabet sheet. He was supposed to rewrite the letters of the English alphabet atop the dotted examples below the more solid ones. He noticed that his Q was upside-down* and in his opinion, it didn’t matter; people would know what he meant, right? He thought back to earlier in the day during his rather eventful session with (Y/N) – had she said anything important about this?

“Wrong,” (Y/N) said. Vladimir grumbled in frustration. He’d already been “corrected” five times, mostly on how he’d been writing lowercase b’s and d’s (was it his fault they looked alike? No!)

“Here, let me . . .” (Y/N) eased up beside him and leaned over. Once again, a stifled sigh attempted to escape Vladimir but he instead settled to point a glare at her. Unfortunately for him the moment he turned to direct it at her, he found himself looking at the side profile of something he couldn’t really glare quite properly at. His attention had become so fixed that he didn’t even notice when his tutor took the pencil from his hand.

“I know this may sound a bit convoluted – pardon me, confusing, but growing up I just saw it as Little B wants to look forward to the upcoming letters. And Little D wants to show B respect, so they look right back at B.” As (Y/N) explained her method, she gave examples of the letters and their respective direction, making her chest jiggle ever so slightly. Vladimir didn’t hear a word of it. It was the confusion he dropped into when he realized what had just happened that (Y/N) mistook for misunderstanding her lesson. “Or,” she pulled back, “just remember that the lowercase letters of B and D face the same direction as their uppercases. Yeah, that’s much simpler, sorry for not saying that one sooner. Understood?”

It took Vladimir a strong few seconds of silence before he forced out a grunt meant to serve as a ‘yes.’ The response was met with a smile – one he detested but had grown to be too exasperated and used to – and he continued on with his work. He really wished the little suka would put the soiled sweatshirt back on because ever since its removal, the lessons had somehow proven to be worse. He was getting distracted more. Probably fulfilling her assumed belief that he was just a vodka-brained Russki bumpkin who didn’t know the first thing about school but everything there was to know about getting drunk and screwing. If it weren’t for the fact that (Y/N) could report him for it, Vladimir would have spat at the floor out of spite. He was going to show her. Show them all! Like hell was he going to let these idiot donkeys believe that he was not only on their level, but truly below them!

Unfortunately no sooner had he made this mental declaration did he happen to glare up to find (Y/N) bend over to sweep up some fallen coffee grains. Under better circumstances (one where he wouldn’t have been in this hellhole of a library to begin with), he would have loved to stare at the jean-clad roundness that greeted his sight. And also under better circumstances, he would’ve been a more studious person and would’ve committed (Y/N)’s words to memory instead of blotting them out in place of this new stimuli.

B looks backward to greet A . . . ? No, that couldn’t have been it. If that were the case, then (Y/N) needn’t have corrected him all those times. Q’s tail isn’t upside down, but then no other alphabet had a tail like that so why would it matter, people would know which one it was –

“черт побери!” the Russian roared. By then, he had already swept his arm about halfway across the desk, shoving much of his office supplies to the floor. The silence was broken completely, as was the man’s soul at this point. He somehow managed to miss the source of his frustration, however. The “Meow-valous” workbook smiled up at him with erased eyes, unfinished, nearly torn in multiple places through harsh erasing. Before any more damage could be done, the elder Ranskahov was in the office threshold, brows furrowed with confusion and concern.

“Volodya?” his quiet Russian soothed the rough silence bit by bit. “Is . . . What have you done?” Anatoly didn’t flinch when Vladimir’s infamous glare was aimed towards him. He was far too used to his brother’s anger to be too entirely phased by it anymore.            “Nothing . . .” Vladimir huffed, “ . . . is wrong.” His nostril flared, his own jagged Russian combating his brother’s. Anatoly scoffed quietly.

“I somehow doubt that,” he muttered, entering the room. As he neared his brother’s desk, he glanced down at the surface. Maybe his brother had come upon some unfavorable paperwork – wait. Anatoly’s brows furrowed once more. Only this time, it was solely from confusion. Did . . . did he just see a pun? Did Vladimir even get English puns?

The sudden expression cued Vladimir into recognizing the situation, quickly shuffling the book under what actual paperwork remained on his desk. “What is it you want?” he demanded, trying to make himself sound quieter and calmer than what he was actually feeling. A cocktail of frustration, embarrassment, and pending horror at the very real possibility that his brother would discover just what he was being subjected to.

Anatoly wanted to keep his eyes trained on what he thought he saw, truly he did. But Maybe now just wasn’t the time to argue with one’s slightly taller, definitely bulkier and more pugnacious brother. “Nothing of great concern . . .” he said with hesitation. “We would appreciate if you would join us in garage for a little chat about how the budget has been going as far as materials. But if you are too upset with some other matter –”

“No,” Vladimir interrupted. “No. Just . . . Just wait for me down there.” The moment Anatoly left (albeit with every desire to question the situation), Vladimir rolled the work book up and shoved it into his coat pocket. He’d just have to wait until he was in the sanctity of his room to complete the damned assignment. About halfway through the threshold to leave the office, he quickly turned around and placed a half-full bottle of vodka by his coat for when he’d leave. It was highly likely that he would be needing it this evening.

[anomalysf-blog]

Prologue

Reflecting on it now, the lesson is probably that politics can made a bastard out of anyone.

The Earth is behind the horizon, and it's black and empty in all directions. The comm link is silent. I can't even hear myself breathe.

I'm charged with telling a story. It should, I am told, be true. It is the story of a man and a woman, of an invasion and an alcohol problem in a closed environment. I am told that we are grateful that everything turned out for the best. I am willing to believe this. I am willing to lie, but for my duty to the dead. For them, I will tell it how it happened, all high-blown drama and miscellaneous weird that it was.

A time comes in life when forgiving your friends' flaws becomes as essential as liking them. If you don't, you're all alone. Most people never think about this, mainly because they've never been to prison.

I think about old friends a lot, about loyalty and solitude and loneliness as only the dark side of the moon can make happen. It's odd how you can cling to it, even the memories of solitary down in that stockade in Birmingham after I stabbed that Specialist in the ass for lying to me.

I'm never alone anymore. Not up here.

I was Navy for fifteen years before being assigned (out of the stockade) to the joint international-corporate operations post creatively-named Highpoint (codename: Mogwai) Station. The chow is worse but the sex unavoidable.

Highpoint occupies a square mile of unclaimable real estate set in the Mare Australe. That's the dark side of the moon, folks. Our base consists of three domes constructed by military personnel using a special epoxy compound mixed with lunar regolith. C Dome is our residential sector, incorporating both military and civilian housing, the hydroponics garden, the cantina, infirmary and Command and Control. The civilian corporate sector is B Dome, and is mainly shared research facilities. The military occupies A Dome, which we use for H3 collection and processing, as well as all other duties under our mandate. The three domes form a triangle connected by airlock-sealed corridors. The Polaris platform is locked in a low, stationary orbit connected to the surface by a piece of tech I won't even try to spell right now. I've also heard that special projects has a hanger just beyond the uplink, but I've never been there.

Assignees to the Polaris Project are selected from a cross-section of the U.S. military to serve as the station's maintenance, security and diplomatic envoy. It is not a plum assignment.

Unofficially: it's like a nightclub in the last half hour before sunrise, when the only things left are staggered drunks, obscene chemical dependents, the lost waifs of a Midwestern town and you. The bartender's gone home and they stagger into the streets in an unfulfilled and futile rage.

I may seem unkind, perhaps even unprofessional or (God help me) unpatriotic, but every officer came here to avoid a court martial, and every enlisted man because he couldn't. This is a place for the people the military didn't need too much, but invested too much in training to just lock up or kick out.

The unofficial official term is "patriotically expatriated". We, the locals, mostly just call it being kicked off of Earth.

Still, those stationed at Highpoint do their duty, defying the expectations of their superiors, the American people, and each other. It's a drinking town, and it has a drinking town's problems.

It was three days into my tour when I saw my first murder on the moon. They're not common, but they happen. The station is mostly automated, leaving ample time for the crew's many picturesque muscle dramas. Men duel in the scrub lands of tractor-pounded regolith with tools we use to knock rocks from the miner treads. A pool is convened to assess and plunder the odds, usually by me.

Ordinarily, I just do document review and referee fights in the cantina. This base has no need for a lawyer.

So how did I end up here?

Dear Lieutenant, we of the Judge Advocate General have deemed you too volatile to keep stateside and too well-aware of things embarrassing and political to let off in one piece. How shall we vanish you? By gun or Afghani death march?

Not a very long story, to be honest...just a very classified one.

There are no MPs on Highpoint. This should not surprise, as we're unofficialy here to fuck international and maritime law. Unfortunately, the lack of MPs and the need for a military justice system, incidents requiring the attention of the courts are assigned to the station's highest-ranking officer thereof. I'll give you a guess who that is.

It should be noted for the record that when I was offered this position in parlay for my release from the Naval Consolidated Brig in Charleston, I was not briefed on this aspect of my duties. Ultimately, I remained ignorant until the day I first stood in an EVA suit, watching an Earthrise illuminate a human corpse.

My name is Lieutenant Peter Caine, Esq. US NAVY (keel-hauled). This is my report on the Aqua Luna Incident, Highpoint Station, DSoM.

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