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trentknd · 2 years ago

Note

can you do more trent x reader fluff with like maybe something spicy in the mix

"It's all you, it's all you, Trent." Your voice resonated in a cheerful exclamation through the Anfield hallways when you ran up to him. Before he even had the time to react, your arms had already wrapped around his torso from the back, eagerness coursing through your entire being.

Liverpool had earned yet another victory in a historic treble and your Scouser's assists had a lot to do with it. He turned around to properly greet you, the sole sight of your excitement prompting a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth.

"I'd say it's all you." A smirk finally erupted on his face when he lifted up the lanyard around your neck. "Community managing isn't easy, innit?" He scowled when his teasing was welcomed with a slap on his chest.

When your slap landed on his chest, you grazed the medal shining brightly and almost proudly around his neck. "I can't compete with this, can I?" You rhetorically asked before retracting your fingers from the surface of the metal, scared of tampering with its preciosity.

Your small bubble burst when more players and staff passed by the hallway you were both in. In a cacophony of cheers, handshakes, and whopping, they all congratulated each other and especially Trent for the match they have had. You could clearly see his strained discomfort at being the center of attention at the instant but he secretly relished in the appreciation of his efforts.

You stood back, not wanting to ruin his spotlight and avoiding anyone discovering your relationship. You played off the predicament they had found you in by pretending to take photos for the club's social media and you sheepishly smiled at Robbo when he threw you a suspicious glance.

After a few more minutes of celebratory chants in the hallway adjacent to the locker, you decided it was time for you to leave so he could properly enjoy his victory with the rest of his team. "Wait." You heard Trent's ushered word when he jogged up to you, his mates still engrossed in their celebrations. He wrapped his hand around the skin of your wrist, preventing you from going any further.

In a parallel to your previous interaction, he had lead you to an empty room next to the locker room before you even had the time to react. Your mouth gaped open, unsure of what he was doing when he turned around to lock the door.

You looked around the small room you'd guess was intended for administrative work. A lone wooden table rested in the middle of the space, papers, and pens lathering the surface in what seemed like an organised clutter. Facing the desk was a single chair and a window with a view of the hallways and you were almost grateful that the rectangular window was bedecked by a pair of smart blinds.

"What are we doing here?" You titled your head in puzzlement when you saw the way his eyes attentively scanned the room. Your question was met with a low nonsensical hum as he lead you toward the desk, his fingers still laced around your forearm. With a quick effort, he pushed you up the table so he could stand between your dangling legs.

His hands came up behind your hair, stripping you of the lanyard you were wearing to replace it with the medal that previously sat on his chest. "You easily compete with it." His claim came in a low whisper, serving as an answer to your earlier question.

Your eyes fall on the piece of gold around your neck and back up to meet his stare. A glaze was cast over his eyes when they caught yours, akin to pure and utter admiration.

He eventually leaned down, his lips hovering over yours. His eyes scanned yours, awaiting your consent and you quietly nodded and brought your own lips to connect with his. His hands came up to craddle your face, deepening the kiss and wrapping his fingers around the medal to hold your body flush to his.

You took this opportunity to bring your hands down to the hem of his t-shirt, motioning for him to help you remove it. “They are probably wondering where and why you’re gone.” You mumbled in the kiss, your words contradicting your movements at the moment.

He nodded, his chest heaving “And they’ll probably wonder why you’re not out there taking pictures as well.” He smiled, still not ever leaving the position you were both in. Your reasonings fell on deaf ears as your movements became sloppier, your parts tangling with each other.

His breathing hitched once you removed your top, revealing a lacy bra and the medal still adorning your chest as a sort of necklace. His gaze slightly turned dark at the vision of the gold stuck between your breasts, and you brought your legs around his middle to bring him back to you and out of his trance.

His kisses became sloppier and peppered across your skin, his lips eventually landing on the skin of your neck. A subdued moan escaped your puffy lips when his teeth marked their territory on the zone, your skin slightly bruising at the impact. "Trent..."

"Yes, baby?"

"I need you," Your request was quieted down by his continuous coddling, his hands grasping at any part of your body they could find and his lips still preying on yours. "I'm on the pill."

Your last murmur halted his movements temporarily, his cock slightly twitching at the sole thought of taking you right there on the desk of this random room in Anfield. He selfishly rejoiced at the notion of anyone being able to barge in and finally find you marked as his, his cock buried deep in you.

His gestures became more hurried, careful to remove your last pieces of clothing whilst leaving the medal wrapped around your bruised neck. Your hands came up, in exchange, to bring down his shorts and briefs in one single move, his cock springing out straight against his lower stomach.

Your fingers grazed the tip that was glistening with pre-cum and your hands eventually fell down his length to pump it purposefully. His breath hitched at your sudden jerking motions, his next words coming out in a guttural groan "Spit on it."

Upon seeing your hesitation at his request, he spat on his dick to help you lubricate it and leaned down toward your mouth. "Open." His smirk was short-lived as his spit now landed on your tongue, you immediately swallowing the liquid and smiling up at him in bewilderment.

After sucking off his cock and pulling your mouth out in a loud 'pop', Trent took this as a signal to align himself to your pussy and steady your hips on the desk with his two hands. His strokes were harsh and fast, the sound of his balls hitting the back of your thighs made more evident by the creaking of the wood.

Your entire being was too over-stimulated to react to anything at that moment, even when one of his lands left the comfort of your hip to draw circles on your clit. Your back arched involuntarily, and your head lolled back in bliss.

This sight prompted him to fasten his movements, the tip of his cock almost visible at the surface of your stomach. You were most definitely certain that anyone outside of the room with ears and common sense figured out that Trent was defiling and fucking you out of your mind in that room.

His own moans were quieter, lewder as he felt his own release coming. The last sound of the medal slapping the skin between your breasts sent him overboard as his cum coated your insides.

Before you both even had time to simmer down, Trent's lips once came to a rest next to your ears in an obscene whisper, "Next time, I want you to wear my jersey when I fuck you."

#trent alexander arnold imagine #trent alexander arnold x reader #footballer x reader #footballer fanfiction #trent alexander arnold x y/n #trent alexander arnold #football imagines #trent alexander x you #trent alexander imagines #trent alexander arnold one shot #trent alexander-arnold

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uzi-doormn · 7 months ago

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i hav an art quest can you draw the drone i rp as ive been trying to make a better ref but i keep getting executive dysfuctioned

(cat has the right tail and the drone is the only picture ive managed to draw) its a solver infected worker with retractable bat wings like uzi but the tail is not retractable its short and doesnt have a set outfit exept for a cabin fever collar/choker but prefers things like short sleeves skirts or shorts and is pretty childish with scratch marks on its legs and it has a lanyard with its lab information (013 tiny) that it carries it in its tail clamp

(aa no pressure to draw this btw!!!!!! i really like your artstyle so i wanted to ask ^^ feel free to make little redesigns or things)

Tell me if I messed anything up so I can fix it!!/gen/srs

#art requests #murder drones fanart #murder drones #Mod Vix's Art

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holly-fixation · 9 months ago

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Three... Guards? Ch13

Summary: Tifa finds Cloud at the train station in Sector Seven. It’s the first time she’s seen him in seven years. But he’s not alone. Three silver haired boys protected him. Three silver haired boys that triggered memories of her hometown. Of steel through her chest. Of SOLDIER First Class. Of Him.

They must escape while they still can.

Please Enjoy!

Inspired by the prompt by @im-totally-not-an-alien

Chapter 13: City Escape

The elevator rang as the party entered the second highest floor of Shinra HQ. Without hesitation, Genesis and Strife sprung into action, knocking every receptionist and security guard unconscious, and Barret destroyed the security cameras.

“Tie them up,” Strife ordered as he aided in the task he commanded. Red and Barret looked at each other and shrugged. Tifa stepped up, Loz following and helping as they collected wires. Aerith watched Yazoo with a hand placed on his shoulder, the engraved nameplate still firmly within his grasp.

“We need to find a way down,” Red mentioned, almost leaning toward the glass elevators.

“Gotta go up to go down,” Barret explained. “The president's keycard’s the perfect way to do it.”

“Then let’s not waste any time.” Their leader stepped forward, moving the staff members to the center of the hall with his right hand, the smallest silver child still supported by his left. “What do you know about the president’s office?”

“It's a large waste of space with one desk near the helipad,” Genesis answered first.

“Oh good, it didn’t change-” The older blond cut himself off, blue eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?”

“...Let’s find out,” Strife avoided the question as he, Tifa, and Loz tied the employees together for one final measure. Once again, Strife and Genesis led the group, Barret at the ready to block out visuals. Though in all honesty, they didn’t have too much extra time. Security would only be delayed with their preparation, not prevented. Someone would notice the camera malfunctions. It was only a matter of time.

The group climbed up the final staircase, red carpet muffling their steps. Strife pushed open the double doors at the top, revealing the massive office decorated with thick pillars and black tile. At the far window sat the president’s desk, President Shinra shocked and scrambling the moment he caught sight of them.

Genesis practically flew across the room, grabbing the president around the neck and forcing him to step away from the desk. “Ah ah ah, can’t have you grabbing any weapons, can we? Or maybe trigger the silent alarm?”

Bullets destroyed the security cameras. The party stepped forward.

“Genesis Rhapsodos. What a surprise. Aren’t you supposed to be in the gutter with all the other failed lab rats?” The commander in chief feigned strength but failed to contain the fearful crack in his voice.

“Good to see you too, Mr. President. How’s your son doing? Still trying to learn how to fight? Say, do you think he can take on a former First? I’d love to see him try.”

“We didn’t get to talk much last time,” Barret joined in. “Feelin’ like listenin’ now?”

As the group zeroed in on the Shinra, Strife glanced between the man and the doors repeatedly.

“Pathetic,” President Shinra huffed, trying to wriggle out of the SOLDIER’s grip. With Tifa’s encouragement, Loz hopped behind the desk and searched through the drawers.

“Look. I’ll let you off easy today. Make a simple statement about how Shinra knows it’s killin’ the planet, and get us a car to get outta here. Sound good?”

The silver child handed the redhead two computer cables.

“Perfect. Thank you.” Genesis immediately restricted gilded hands. The extra silence the president.

Loz turned back to the group, holding up a retractable lanyard with an ID slipped in a plastic pouch. “Found his keycard…” his voice was still shrouded in grief.

“Thank you, Loz,” Tifa gave an attempt at a smile. Luckily the boy reacted with the same fluttering confusion as always. At least that was still effective.

“This is wrong,” Strife stated, nearly in shock.

“What is?”

“He’s supposed to be dead already.”

“Who kills him?” Strife’s young self questioned immediately, and if Strife was in his shoes, he would do the same.

“Sephiroth.”

“Who disappeared after Mother did…” Yazoo finished at barely a whisper, clutching the metal closer.

“But what would that change?” Aerith asked. “He's only one person.”

Strife thought for a moment, wishing he could word his next statement softly. “...This is the president that approved the fall of the Sector Seven Plate. And the Sector Five Plate. Just because we stopped them doesn't mean they won't try anything like it again. Keeping him in charge is…dangerous. The current Vice President won't allow plans of mass casualties. Trust me.”

“He's more useful alive than dead,” Barret countered. “He can at least shut down a few reactors!”

“We don't have enough time.” Cloud adjusted the boy in his arms. “We need to get out of here before security arrives.”

The president grunted before attempting to open his mouth, but the wire muffled his voice.

“But who's going to do it…?” Tifa realized softly. “I mean, even in AVALANCHE, killing the president wasn't the goal. It's not going to stop the other directors from running the same reactors…”

“I'll do it,” The Crimson Soldier volunteered, though the cat-like playfulness vanished from his voice.

“Hold on a minute-”

“This man allowed the science department to ruin the lives of everyone I knew, including myself. I've done many horrible things, but as they say, you regret the things you didn't do too, yes? And I regret letting you live just as much as all I did.”

The group looked at each other. The flower girl that cherished life found herself turning away, guiding the long haired boy who followed her every caring command. The bartender held the largest boy's hand and led him down the stairs of the desk. The gun armed man glanced at the red furred creature they rescued from the labs. The beast shrugged, a pitiless stare given to the Commander in Chief. The smallest silver boy balled his hands in the purple SOLDIER sweater. The blonds nodded to each other before nodding at the Crimson Soldier.

“To become the dew that quenches the land

To spare the sands, the seas, the skies

I offer thee this silent sacrifice.”

With a swift slash of a crimson blade, the gilded corpse fell to the ground.

“Now how are you planning to get out of here?” Genesis questioned casually.

“In my time, we used the Hardy Daytona and three wheeled pick-up truck in the lobby,” Strife explained before glancing around. “...Shoot…”

The group looked at each other. There were simply too many of them for one truck and one motorcycle.

“I can take one of you, but I’m afraid one is my passenger limit.” The man in red mentioned.

“We won't have to get far with all of us…” Cloud thought aloud, his hand absently trailing the child's medical robe. “If I can get one of security's motorcycles…”

Aerith turned to Genesis, her bow bobbing with a tilt of her head. “Can you take any of us? Any at all?”

“Of course.”

The girl in pink glanced at the man with a gun for an arm.

There was a pause. “Oh hell no.”

Tifa perked up. “She's right. Barret, if space is the issue-”

“I don't know this guy! Why can't he just take the boys?”

Genesis glanced up, almost reminiscent. “It would be a very rough ride. Especially once Shinra starts firing on us.”

“Ride on what?”

Even Strife didn't know the answer to that question.

The Crimson Soldier let out a small sigh before extending his arm, a massive crooked wing expelling from his back. Ebony feathers gently glided through the air.

Everyone stepped back. The two older boys nearly hissed.

“What the hell?!” Barret's question boomed through the office.

“Strife found me in a secret underground lab and you’re still surprised? Shinra's experiments did this to me. I'll explain when we are not actively running out of time. According to Strife, you ran to Kalm after escaping Shinra in his time. I'll fly west to divert the army and we'll meet you in Kalm when things die down.”

“Barret, you don't let anyone talk down to you either. You’ll keep him in line,” Cloud mentioned, softening the father's resolve.

“If you try any funny business, pretty boy, I'll blow your head clean off.”

Genesis brushed his hair into place. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Cloud and Strife glanced around the room. There were still so many of them. Cloud, Red, and the three boys would barely fit in the truck. But it would have to do until they could steal another vehicle.

Loz opened his mouth, but Yazoo grabbed him, silencing him with stern eyes.

“Let's put this keycard to use,” Tifa held up the item as she spoke. See you in Kalm, Barret.”

“Good luck,” Barret grumbled as Genesis opened the doors to the helipad. The rest of the group claimed both elevators and rushed down to the lobby, half ahead and half waiting behind to catch Shinra’s forces off guard.

* * *

The first group obeyed the command to freeze at the bottom level of the lobby, completely surrounded by troops ready to fire. The head of security walked straight through the defenses and mocked the escapees. The team stood at the ready, waiting for Strife’s entrance.

“Tell me, what is this ragtag group of misfits I see before me?”

“Ex-SOLDIER.”

“Local florist.”

“Lab-rat dog.”

The boys didn’t even answer, Loz clutching the vial of ashes as Yazoo tightened the headplate. Kadaj barely moved, only tightening in Cloud’s hold.

“And the ‘Sephiroth Remnants’ Hojo wants back,” Heiddiger spoke for them. “Where are the others?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, meanie!” Loz shouted.

“Adorable. Very mature.” The director barked a laugh before ordering his men, “Capture the children and the Ancient. Feel free to kill the rest.”

Aerith took Loz’s right hand and Yazoo’s left, blocking the clear path forward. The director scowled at her sacrificial display before a rumble suddenly rang through the room. With a rev of the engine, Strife sprang into action on the Hardy Daytona, knocking down all units as he maneuvered the bike like an extension of himself. Each troop fell to his sword and skills as Tifa started the truck. Only the director remained standing when Strife turned away.

“Get in!” Tifa yelled once she was close, throwing the door open. The largest child launched into the bed, but the middle one was taken by the red beast by the scruff of his clothes. Both boys sat against the glass to protect what they could of Mother.

The flower girl took the passenger seat before holding out her arms. “Let me take him, Cloud. He’ll be safer up front.”

Kadaj strained the fabric of Cloud’s sweater, his breath strained and audible.

“Just until we’re home free. I promise,” The ex-SOLDIER quickly but carefully lowered the boy into Aerith’s lap, deliberately removing the child’s hands. She swiftly moved the boy between her and Tifa on the seat and slammed the door. Cloud hopped into the bed as Kadaj shivered, curling into the tightest ball the boy could manage.

They barely fit, but for now, it was enough.

Strife led the charge, knocking back the last security officers and shattering the glass with the fusion sword. Red and Cloud tried to shield the boys from the shatter as they launched through the air and roughly landed on the abandoned expressway.

“Everyone okay?” Aerith turned back.

“Can’t complain,” Red answered immediately. “No one is injured.”

“We’re not in the clear yet. Take a breather but be ready.” Cloud watched the skies and the onramps. Drivers kept their eyes on the road, but passengers adjusted within the larger vehicle.

Yazoo slowly placed the headplate into Loz’s lap. At the protest and surprise, he simply lifted his pistol and glanced at the road.

“Are you sure?”

“I have better aim and we both know it… Keep it safe…”

Loz nodded softly, holding both of Mother’s remains to his chest. Red gave the boys a curious, sorrowful look, but when turning to Cloud for an answer, none was given. The ex-SOLDIER remained on watch.

In the front cabin, Aerith slowly revealed a green materia to the child at her side.

Once mako blue eyes caught the orb, he shook his head frantically, squeezing into himself.

“Just a small, normal healing spell, okay?”

Another shake of silver hair.

“I can control this spell way better than the other one. You’ll be safe. And I’ll stop it right away if something happens, alright?”

Kadaj ducked, holding his head against his knees.

“One cure,” She pushed. “Just one and if you even feel a little itchy I’ll stop, okay?”

The boy didn’t move. Three seconds passed without a proper response before the orb in the flower girl’s hand began to glow, and a soft green swirled into the boy’s heart. The driver cringed in preparation, but the boy did not make a sound.

He glanced at the girl in pink, silent and confused.

“See? Now we can heal you up once we’re out of here. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

Tifa sighed in relief, but Kadaj looked down.

“We've got company!”

Drivers checked their mirrors, and passengers turned back, watching Shinra approach on multiple motorcycles and fully armed trucks. Helicopters whirred in the distance, out of sight but certainly on the hunt.

Fusion Sword and Buster Sword at the ready, anyone who could prepared for the fight as the drivers stepped on it. Beyond the capacity limit, the pickup truck could not accelerate as quickly or maintain as high of a velocity as the Hardy Daytona, and Strife needed to fall back in order to protect them.

“I'll keep them away,” Strife shouted as officers drove up from behind. “Focus on the road!”

Bullets shot through the air, Strife weaving and drifting through the expressway to take down every last enemy on the road. The occasional shot from the long haired Sephiroth remnant no doubt aided their escape. Everything was the same until the helicopters caught up with them, launching explosives to catch their party in the blast. Tifa swerved repeatedly, trying to avoid the fires while maintaining top speed.

It was only a matter of time before flames surrounded them for a moment, most occupants yelling in pain and bracing for impact.

“Tifa, get close to one of the troops,” Cloud commanded.

“What?! Are you crazy?!”

“Too much is going on. You need to keep everyone safe. We can draw their attention. They won't have the manpower to aim for all of us.”

Strife knocked another troop off of a Shinra sanctioned motorcycle and caught the handlebars with his blade. “Get on!”

Cloud launched, the truck jostling as if hitting a bad pothole from the force alone.

“Be careful, Big Brother!” Loz shouted from his spot next to the red creature before ducking under a new wave of bullets.

The blond landed on the vehicle and Strife swiftly removed the blade. Every second they wasted on this transition meant more firepower focused on the truck. Cloud grabbed the handlebars with his left hand and the Buster Sword with his right. Together they swept through Shinra's ground forces, men knocked off their vehicles and rolled on the unforgiving pavement.

Yet again, the company adapted.

“Brace!” Red yelled, pinning the two boys against the cab with his body. Tifa tried to swerve, but the rockets landed in an impenetrable line on the road.

Everyone screamed as they ran through the fire.

“Tifa!” Cloud shouted first, barely acknowledging his own pain from the flames.

“We're okay! For now… I don’t know how many more hits this thing can take!”

Cloud turned to his future self. “Can you reach those helicopters?”

Strife scanned the curved walls of the expressway and tightened his grip on his sword. Not enough. “Stay in the back. I'll disperse the fires.”

“That won't be enough.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

He didn't. With multiple helicopters communicating attacks at once, each reload threatened everyone's lives. They couldn't turn back. No exits existed on this decommissioned highway. They needed a miracle. A guardian angel.

Bullets rained down upon the circling aerial blades, one helicopter colliding with the other before another attack launched. The team looked up, searching for the source. A man in red with one black wing carried a one armed man through the air.

“Long time no see!”

“Barret!” Tifa couldn’t help but look.

“We couldn’t just leave you with these assholes!”

“You looked like you required assistance.” Genesis flapped his wing and the two rose in the air, ready for the next strike.

From both above and below, their party was unstoppable. From the smallest troop to the latest and greatest in weapon technology, the team shook Shinra’s defenses and met in the plains beyond the city of mako.

To be continued…

Three Guards Chapter List

Author’s Note: Well, this is the end of Remake! I made a plan long before Rebirth launched and I plan on continuing it. Some Rebirth elements will appear, but the whole ending just does NOT fit with my plan. …for now at least. I won’t go into spoilers without warning at the beginning of a chapter. For now, you’re all safe! I hope you’re enjoying this story. It’s a lot of fun.

I’m starting my first real job soon! I won’t be able to update as much but I’m very excited to enter the workforce. I won’t be abandoning any of my current stories. I promise.

Thanks for reading!

#ffvii #final fantasy vii #ff7 #final fantasy 7 #cloud strife #ff7 kadaj #kadaj ff7 #advent children #tifa lockhart #yazoo #aerith gainsborough #barret wallace #red xiii #genesis rhapsodos #three guards

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thatgoblin · 1 year ago

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141 Office Crack Drabble

Price: *hears a *thwap!* followed by an OW!, leans in his chair out of his office* Y/N?

Y/N: *wearily leans out of their cubicle* Yes, Sir?

Price: Did you smack yourself in the face with your retractable name badge again?

Y/N: . . . It got caught on my desk. . .

Price: Maybe get a lanyard so that doesn't happen.

Y/N: I tried that and it just gives me whiplash or tries to choke me out if it gets stuck. *whines*

Price: *stares at them incredulously* How are you still alive?

Y/N: Pure dumb luck probably.

Price: *sighs heavily*

Master List

Tag List: @sebbytheraccoon

(Comment if you wanna get tagged)

#cod 141 #cod mw2 #cod mwii #captain john price #captain price #captain price/reader

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homokeiju · 2 months ago

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be the butch w/ the retractable lanyard n carabiner keyring u wanna see in this world

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dollsonmain · 4 months ago

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Eh still in a rambling mood I guess.

I've talked to just about anyone that will listen about my frustrations regarding how the gas station is being run (I keep talking about problems when I can't fix them) and literally anyone with retail or retail management experience has been just as confused as I am.

Scott, who has managed at Waffle House, said that not ordering bread correctly was always a sign to him that the manager he was filling in for was bad at their job.

I think the best thing I can do is not try too hard, really. I won't be able to work to my own standards because that's not possible due to the way the store is being managed.

I don't feel like I'd be able to convince her to do things differently (though I did catch her watching me wrap sandwiches as though they were cheese and later reheated one for a customer that I know wasn't wrapped by me because it was very loose, but was wrapped in a similar way), or at least not so soon after being hired.

I do think she's also been annoyed by me finding so much expired product everywhere and that's brought to her attention both how much stuff isn't selling, how badly she's misordered bread, and how infrequently expiration dates are being checked. The things that are being ordered properly are things being ordered by the vendors.

By properly, of course, I mean ordering as much as is needed and only as much as is needed instead of having 30 bags of small dinner rolls 20 of which went bad before they could be used and then running out because no more were ordered, and only ordering enough burger buns to last two days.

I don't know if anyone was told not to use the bread I'd set aside because it was expired and I didn't think to leave a note on the bins. I don't have phone numbers for anyone that works there other than Manager and she's not there, and I know calling won't matter since no one answers the phone.

Will find out tomorrow. If they were put back on the shelf, I'll just have to pull them again and leave a note this time.

Will also find out if the cooler is still covered in rotten milk and if that Monster spill got moldy.

I did find my old name tag retractable lanyard from Walmart, which still works because stuff made a mere 20 years ago was drastically better made than stuff like that now, and I know every generation says that which really says something about how shitty things are being made now, and put the store key on it.

It's a little sticky, though, and the deco sticker is yellowed, so the plastic it's made of is certainly degrading.

Multiple people have told me I'm pretty at work and I'm an absolute gremlin with goofy hair at the time (I get little hair tufts around my glasses), so I'm not sure what they're on about.

That Guy says the dude that tried to convince me I need to get drunk wanted sex and I'm like bro, I don't think so. He said that's the only reason any guy would try to convince a woman she really should drink alcohol. Who knows.

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orchidsncrake · 10 months ago

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and watch them fall

chapter 1, 2

pairing: joe goldberg/rhys montrose

rating: explicit (preemptive)

tags: au - canon divergence, s4 rewrite, obsession, strangers to lovers, POV Joe Goldberg, murder, bookstore owner Joe Goldberg, Rhys Montrose is a real person, developing relationship, slow build, eventual relationship, eventual smut, tags to be updated

word count: 5,332

chapter 3/?

ao3 link and fic under the cut :)

The door chimes as a short, bright figure rushes in. A long, yellow coat hitting midcalf obscures their body and face, the neckline like plumage. All Joe can see besides the blindingly bright statement outerwear are black tights, almost entirely opaque, and black kitten heels. The figure spins around, and Joe almost recoils at the brightness of their – her – smile, realization dawning on her face. Joe’s ashamed to admit it’s one-sided. She’s pretty, with a sharp, hooked nose and curved lips painted with a light nude stain. When Joe doesn’t move from his place beside the counter, she shimmies over. The walk is a bit ridiculous because she’s moving as if her knees are tied together, little heels clicking quickly against the floor. She smells of CK Eternity when she plants herself before Joe, extending a bony hand. Joe glances at her rings. All gemstones and gold. They must be worth as much as a public education. An American one, at that.

“Joe!” She chimes, then retracts her hand to quickly unbutton her coat, revealing an amber dress – a sheath one, Joe remembers; Dottie had owned a few. Brushing her coat to her sides, she thrusts it forward again. Her spirit, instead of being invigorating, is making him nervous. Too much quick movement. “It’s Irene! It’s such a pleasure to meet you in person. I must thank you again, and properly, for accepting our last-minute invitation. It’s most appreciated, and I must say, the Yelp photos of this little place do not do it justice!” Joe shakes her hand mechanically, eyes already threatening to glaze over. He doesn’t have time to go through all the gilded insults in that one rant, so he decides to forget them entirely.

“Ms. Crosby,” he says, smiling welcomingly. He knows his appearance contrasts hers starkly, what with his dusty professor aesthetic of sweaters and chinos. Never mind his dark hair compared to her honey-golden locks that curl ever so slightly against her shoulders like Lesley Gore’s. “It is a pleasure. I’m glad you still find it to your liking.” He releases her hand gently, silently hoping he hasn’t soaked her palm with nervous sweat.

“Oh, no need for formalities, dear,” she croons, definitely younger than him. “We’re all friends, aren’t we?” She turns around to look at the sea of monochromatic busybodies armed with balloons and banners now flowing through the door. The set-up crew, he assumes. Either that or a band of very casual, lanyard-clad robbers. She turns back around, her face slightly tensed. It melts away into a smile. “So, it’s just after 9 now, and the crew will have the table, chairs, and decor up within the half hour. Mr. Montrose will be here just after that, so we ought to get things up and running, hm?”

Joe opens his mouth to ask her to elaborate, or slow the hell down, or, again, Xanax, but she whirls around and shimmies away. Her coat is deposited onto the coat rack, looking absurdly like a beacon of holy light in his brown book kingdom, and then she’s whizzing around the room. Joe watches, astonished, as she straightens already level pictures and licks her thumb to clean nonexistent blemishes, pantomiming actual work. He doesn’t miss the few sneers from the workers at her when they think she isn’t looking. Joe suspects she may be a personality hire, then realizes she works in PR. They’re all personality hires.

Not wanting to get in the way of the crew or, worse yet, Irene, Joe busies himself sweeping the corners that no one will see. After a few crew members start lurking about the counter, wringing their hands, he starts doling out uneconomic amounts of tape to save them the discomfort of opening unfamiliar drawers. Fingers covered in the stuff, they hang banners of Rhys’ face and multitasked cookie-cutter campaign slogans. Really, Rhys. You couldn’t do a bit better than “Giving London to the people?”

Nope, nuh uh. Not his business. Joe doesn’t know him well enough to give him campaign advice, nor does he know anything about campaigning. It’s his building, sure, and those are his walls they’re plastering Rhys’ face over, but he’s only loaning the space, as it were. That’s the extent of their relationship: subletting and scotch tape.

A crescendoing purr makes Joe look up from his useless sweeping and crane his neck to see out the front window. He quickly recognizes it as an engine, and in the next moment, a black luxury car creeps in front of his bookstore. Joe furrows his brows at it. He doesn’t recognize the model, but he knows enough about cars to not question anything with a hood ornament. It has limo tint, and no light passes the windows. What, or who, is inside remains a mystery – save for some logical presupposition – until the driver’s side door opens. A brown Oxford steps out, then another, leading up to long legs clad in navy slacks. The slacks lead to a neatly tucked-in light blue button-down with no tie or breast pocket. It’s crisp and simple and answers his lifelong question of what the hell business casual is.

Joe finally lets his eyes trail up to the man’s face, swallowing saliva, and almost chokes when they settle on a familiarly cut jawline. Of course, Rhys is the owner of the long legs and trim waist, and of course, he’s been watching Joe ogle him through the window. Or, at least Joe assumes he has, because he can’t see Rhys’ eyes under the polarized browlines. It seems the sun had done the event a favor today and made a rare appearance. Joe chances a polite smile, which he’s sure looks more froglike than anything, and ducks his head down, returning fervently to his sweeping. He can’t help but watch out of the corner of his eye, though.

A stout, mole-like man climbs out of the passenger seat. Slow, lumbering steps bring him over to the drivers, and Joe catches a glimpse of a clear plastic earpiece. How very official. The bodyguard lurches after Rhys in sharp contrast to the other’s long, graceful steps. Another man in an unremarkable suit matching the bodyguard pops out of the backseat and into the front, and the engine turns over. The purring engine fades off in the opposite direction. The bell above the door rings. Joe can feel Rhys’ eyes on him when he enters, but stubbornly staring at his broom washes them away. In the reflection of one of the paintings, he watches Rhys remove his sunglasses and hang them on his collar. His hair is expertly combed to the side, the one strong curl gelled into place. Is his hair naturally curly? Joe wonders, sweeping a gouge into the floor.

“There you are, Rhys, my dear!” Irene flits across the room and lands in front of Rhys, who smiles kindly down at her. Joe can’t help but notice his eyes don’t crinkle like they usually do. She must be exhausting. How can you deal with her? Irene whirls around and beams at Joe, and he genuinely considers hitting the deck, crawling behind a bookshelf, and dying there. Unfortunately, Rhys’ gaze follows Irene’s flapping hands, and his eyes lock with Joe’s and crinkle at the corners, effectively nailing Joe’s feet to the floor. Rhys’ smile is coy, unlike the normal blinding smile he gives to the press, which isn’t at all creepy to know because Joe happens to have access to the news, just like every other English citizen with a TV. Joe gulps and stands stock still, clutching his broom, but manages a closed-lipped smile. Why isn’t he saying hi or waving? Rhys cocks his head at him playfully, and Joe recognizes the gesture from the day they’d met not too long ago. The fond memory makes his lips split with a grin, showing his teeth, and his shoulders sag. His grip on the broom loosens, his knuckles flushing pink. Rhys’ chin tips down minutely, looking almost, approving? Irene’s hand wraps around Rhys’ bicep, and he’s being dragged away towards the collapsing table and chairs the crew has set up into a makeshift panel.

Joe exhales and squeezes his eyes tight, getting a hold of himself. That was… odd. Creepy, even, if he wanted to call it that, but he doesn’t. It is weird to stare at someone you’ve met once, isn’t it? Especially surrounded by bystanders, Rhys’ PR rep, no less. It should weird Joe out, and he knows that, but he’s never had the best judgment regarding interesting people. He sighs through his nose and finishes sweeping the last pile, then dumps the scant dust into the trash bin. Tucking the broom into its rightful corner, he settles behind his counter.

The press will be here in an hour. Then he’ll have to stay huddled in his corner for six hours, which seems excessively long for any kind of event, not to mention one for a book, no matter how secondarily political it is. That can’t be normal, can it? Granted, he knows nothing about PR and even less about politics, but he can’t help but feel that he’s being toyed with. If you’re going to stage a day-long event, wouldn’t you want to do it at a performance hall? Not that he can really complain; he did say yes to Irene’s – Rhys’ – request after all. His eyes drift over to the pile of books he’d placed on the countertop, and tucks back a fallen lock. Running his finger along his selection, he picks up Metamorphosis. He figures it’s insane enough to keep him occupied for half the event or so. As he opens the front cover, he looks across the room to find Rhys sat at the table with Irene settling in next to him, the crew scuttling about, neatening up the place the last little bit. Rhys catches his eye and smirks at him. It’s going to be a long day.

***

Joe tucks his bookmark between the last page and the back cover, squeezing his eyes shut. Setting it on the counter, he blinks about the building, slowly coming back to the land of reality. The existentialist cockroach was only semi-helpful to calm his nerves. Still, it was enough to stop the incessant bouncing of his leg. A glance at the clock tells him it’s been three hours, which he takes some shame in. It’s not that long of a book. Irene’s voice slowly fades back into his awareness, though he doubts it’s stopped for anything longer than a breath since she got here. Looking across the room, Joe finds he can only see half of it, as a line of fans armed with treasured copies of the memoir cleaves the store in half. The flow of people is arterial, shoe soles constantly squeaking across his floor, leaving slightly damp shoe prints despite the dry weather. Moisture has a way of clinging to old streets.

Two groups of journalists flank the panel table, differentiable by their differently colored lanyards. Joe counts four separate networks, though the names he can’t make out from here. He’s confident the impending articles will answer that question within the week. A camera shutters occasionally, interrupting the drone of Rhys’ pen on paper, scrawling signatures across books and little note cards. The camera flashes are a sterile white, but Rhys and Irene don’t so much as flinch even as it blinds them. How can you stand this publicity?

The line of patrons parts for a moment as some woman fails to notice it moving, and Joe makes eye contact with a lanky journalist. The man’s face is pale and bored, and Joe suppresses the urge to duck and hide, something insane that makes him want to see the journalist’s reaction. There is none, of course, because Jonathan Moore is a nobody. The tall man only blinks curiously at him for a moment, then diverts his attention back to his camera, boney fingers spinning knobs and pressing buttons. Joe realizes his heart is racing, thrumming heavily in his chest and ears. He exhales and returns to his pile of books before his neck tightens. Looking up, he finds Irene watching him. Her critical expression is unfamiliar and doesn’t fit her face – the squint in her eyes makes her look five years older. He furrows his brows at her, and her eyebrows lift, as if catching herself, and she directs her attention back to the next fan in line. Joe frowns slightly, unsettled, and finds Rhys looking between him and Irene, having watched the whole thing. Joe looks at him unafraid, looking for, what, comfort? Reassurance? Whatever he wants, he gets with a gentling smile from Rhys and the slightest tip of the head. Joe sighs and slouches back in his stool, finding himself mimicking the nod. Rhys’ eyes crinkle at the corner, and then a book is jutting into his face, and his attention flicks to the fan. Joe watches as he beams at the woman, signs the inner cover, and hands it back to her. He even entertains her with a short, undoubtedly pleasant conversation. What’s your name, love? Jane? That’s just lovely. You enjoyed the memoir, hm? Well, I’m very glad to hear it. The support is just fantastic. You know, if you enjoyed the novel, you should consider voting for me for mayor, which I may or may not run for. Being a novelist and a political figure are highly comparable, you know. And, politics aside, who wouldn’t want this charming smile constantly on live television?

Joe frowns and cuts off his line of thought. That was a different kind of crazy. Since when does he write dialogue? Huffing, he chooses Clockwork Orange from his selection. Sick and violent – perfect for sitting in on a press event. He flips to the first page and grabs a bookmark to trace his lines with. The constant hum of activity is beginning to get to him, he’s better acclimated to reading in silence. His leg starts bouncing again, and he glares at it like it has a mind of its own. You just have to get through this afternoon. A microwave-ready chicken and rice dinner is in your future.

Joe frowns down at the page. How sad.

***

It’s half past 4 pm, and the press has left by now. The event is survived by the remaining fans (i.e., the richest), Rhys, of course, and Irene, who is flurrying about the room again, touching things randomly. The crew is back, having emerged from the shadows and taking down whatever decorations they can with patrons still present, understandably eager to start their weekend. Joe’s long since finished his book and has taken to herding loose balloons, which he doesn’t remember being blown up or deposited about the store. It proves to be a ridiculously difficult task; every time he gets a few together, a patron opens the door to leave, and they swirl off in different directions. Like the crew, he’s concerned with being a bother and somehow, even after its official end, tarnishing the event. Corralling balloons seems, illogically, the least intrusive thing he can do. Though he imagines he looks ridiculous, no one pays him any particular mind. The gravitational field of stardom enveloping Rhys saves him any unwanted attention.

It’d turned out to be a ridiculous anxiety about the press, one Joe kicks himself for now. Realistically, he’s just another face in grayscale London. Even if they did get his name, which they wouldn’t, Jonathan Moore’s identity traces smoothly back to infancy in Northern Dutchess Hospital, New York. He has nothing to worry about so long as he doesn’t run for political office. So, why is he so on edge? The press is gone, and the event is nearly finished, yet he can’t shake the dread resting at his nape and coiling down his spine. Three balloons group together as a patron scrambles out with their freshly signed copy. Fucking Sisyphusian.

Irene suddenly shrieks, and Joe’s head whips up, expecting to see her impaled with a pen only to find her whirling around. Why do joy and “I’ve just been stabbed” sound so similar in a soprano? Looking around the store, Joe finds that the one who’d rudely ruined his balloon grouping had been the last patron. The event is over. A bit dramatically, Irene celebrates behind the table, one hand squeezing Rhys’ shoulder as her head whips around, spewing compliments at the crew. Joe’s jaw clenches, and he goes back to his useless task.

“Oh, Joe!” Great . “You’ve done just an incredible job,” Irene gushes, releasing Rhys’ shoulder and rushing over to Joe. She shakes his hand again, which he assumes is a habit picked up from a disgustingly male-dominated industry. He’s never been one for handshakes himself, but he humors her. He catches Rhys grinning to himself. “Unfortunately, I must be going now. I’m due to send out summarizing press releases, you see. One before the event, then one after, and then the press must be monitored, of course. They are shifty little buggers, aren’t they?” She pauses, and Joe thinks she wants him to respond, but she only takes a gasping breath and rushes over to the coat rack, slinging her yellow overcoat back on. “It’s been lovely, Joe! And Mr. Monstrose, do let me know when you’re back at your flat so we can do a bit of reflection on today. I think it went splendidly, but there’s always room for improvement, no? That’s the beauty of performance! Ta-ta!” Joe stares, open-mouthed, at the impressive display of lung capacity. Ms. Irene Crosby opens the door, waves a hand at both of them and flutters out onto the street. The resuming silence is deafening.

Rhys’ soft laughter is what breaks it. Joe turns his head to see what he’s laughing at, but can’t find anything particularly funny. The bodyguard detaches himself from the wall and takes his heavy wool coat from where it’d rested on the chair. He shrugs it on, his swollen-knuckled hands flattening the lapels. Rhys looks up when the guard places a broad hand on his back, smiling pleasantly.

“Are you ready to go, Mr. Montrose?” The guard rasps. Rhys stands up, eyes flicking to Joe. “I think I’ll stay back, Rodrick. Thank you.” Rodrick’s heavy brow drops over his eyes, but Rhys raises his palm. “There’s no need to worry. I just want to thank Mr. Moore properly. He’s harmless. Aren’t you?” Rhys’ gaze rests on Joe, Rodrick’s beady eyes following. Joe swallows.

“Of course,” he breathes, giving a disarming smile. Rodrick furrows his brows, then shrugs and relaxes. Joe tries not to take offense.

“A’right, sir. I’ll be seeing you,” Rodrick juts out a fat hand and Rhys shakes it, patting him on the back in a friendly gesture. Rodrick lumbers across the building, puts on a flat cap, and then nods to each of them. He shoulders open the door and steps onto the street, popping his collar when the wind gusts. The bell chimes sharply when it slams the door closed, and he sighs. The crew immediately springs to life, tearing down posters and banners as quickly as possible. They remind Joe of worker bees, and he watches, intrigued, as Rhys rises from his seat, seeming the embodiment of calm despite the flurry around him. Just as soon as he’s come out from behind the table, two young men collapse it, fold it up, and take it out the door to an unseen van. Joe watches a bit dumbly as Rhys strolls over to him, and he gives up on the balloons at his feet.

“You alright, John?” Well, that wasn’t the question he was expecting. Maybe ‘Hey, what’s with the balloons?’ or ‘Why do you keep staring at me and trying to set books on fire with your mind?’ What is he even supposed to say? Yes, obviously, but what then?

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, clearing his throat. He ducks his head down, and Rhys follows him, slumping a bit and making Joe look up again. God, his face is on fire.

“You sure, mate? Listen,” he gestures outward, waving his hand at the room and then the door, “I know events can be a bit much, and Irene is – well, how do I say this kindly. An active volcano on a freight train with a penchant for vibrant primary colors.”

Joe huffs out a laugh, dropping his forehead into his palm. “I was thinking more ‘bird actively on fire,’ but I like yours.” He looks up from his shoes to find Rhys smiling at him with too much kindness. Rhys nods at him encouragingly and stuffs his hands in his front pocket. The crew lines up behind him at attention, idly awkwardly like kindergartners. Rhys follows his gaze and twists at the waist to see them.

“Are you lot done?” One of them nods – the boss, if Joe had to guess. He’s graying at the temples, and his face is wrinkled, with crevasses carved in from smiling.

“Yes, Mr. Montrose. The van’s all loaded.” He cuts himself off, eyes darting to the balloons on the floor. “Oh, we can get those.” He gestures to two of the younger crew members, who lunge forward onto one foot, but Rhys stops them.

“Don’t worry about them. We can take care of it, can’t we, John?” Rhys turns back to Joe, cocking his head to the side.

Joe flounders for a moment. Then, finding his voice, “Yeah, of course.” Simpleton.

Rhys nods once, a sharp movement, and spins back to the crew. “You heard the man. You all enjoy your weekend, yeah?”

The boss smiles at Rhys and pats the crew members as they trail out of the door. “Thank you, Mr. Montrose. You as well.” He pulls up as the caboose, giving Joe a polite wave as the door closes behind him. The line of people disappears to the right down the street towards the alley, the older man trailing behind.

Rhys turns back to him, a faint smile still playing on his lips. He bends down and picks up a balloon, then scans around the store. “Do you have a broom around here, John?”

Joe blinks at him slowly, definitely not staring at the way he’s palming the balloon, then nods. “Yeah, I do. It’s just behind the counter,” he points, then follows his direction and walks behind the counter. He returns and stands awkwardly next to Rhys, realizing how odd it is to hand the man his broom to clean up his store. Rhys laughs softly and extends a hand for it, and Joe hands it over. Rhys’ ring clinks on the handle.

“Thank you,” Rhys says, starting to bump the balloons toward each other. Joe mills about, kicking them gently, but he hits one with too much force, and it goes bounding across the store.

“Oh, goddammit,” he swears as he trails after it, nudging it back into the middle of the room. Rhys laughs and kicks one himself, dribbling it like a soccer ball. Joe watches, oddly enraptured, until Rhys stills the balloon gently with his shoe.

“You didn’t play football?” Rhys asks, going back to knocking the balloons toward each other.

Joe shakes his head. “It’s not all that popular in the States.”

Rhys purses his lips thoughtfully. “I mean what you call soccer.”

“I know. Not that popular. Actual football is,” Joe teases, feeling his uncharacteristic shyness melt away as he busies himself with the balloons.

Rhys chuckles. “Did you at least play that?”

Joe raises his eyebrows at him, finally making proper eye contact. It feels dangerous. “Do I strike you as the sports type?”

Rhys smirks and nods his head in appeasement. “Alright, maybe not. Model UN?”

“Well that’s just mean,” Joe gripes, trailing over to get a wooden letter opener from the counter. He presents it to Rhys. “Too extreme?”

“Are you planning to kill me with it?” Rhys asks playfully. “I’d appreciate something a bit nicer, not to be pompous.” Joe rifles around and brandishes a sterling one, flowers carved into the handle. “There we go, that’s fitting for being stabbed in the jugular with.”

Joe laughs openly and approaches Rhys, handing him the sterling one and keeping the wooden one for himself. “I wasn’t in Model UN. I worked for an old man at a bookstore, and that took up most of my time.” Joe crouches down, scoops up a balloon, and presses the letter opener until it pops. Rhys copies the movement, popping his easily with the metal edge.

“I was in Model UN,” he admits, dragging over a waste bin to drop the rubber remains into.

“Figures.” Joe freezes, then brings a hand to his forehead, embarrassed. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Rhys looks over at him, his eyebrow raised with amusement.

“There you are,” he says confusingly.

“What?” Joe asks, pausing the execution of the balloon in his hand. The letter opener presses against its taut surface threateningly.

“You seemed different today,” Rhys backtracks, popping another and throwing it out. “More resigned. I understand that these things take a lot of energy. I had hoped I hadn’t… broken you, or something,” he finishes, laughing softly.

Joe rolls his eyes and fixes his hair. Rhys’ eyes follow the movement. “A PR stunt isn’t going to break me.” Or stalking, arson, or murder. Not that he needs to know that.

“What about coffee?”

Joe pauses and looks over at Rhys, who’s watching him. “What?”

“That was an odd segue, wasn’t it?” Rhys laughs self-deprecatingly. “Would you be willing to get coffee with me?”

Joe stares at him, brows furrowed. Coffee? That’s… not at all the same as a PR event. That’s just a date, isn’t it? No, not a date, wrong phrasing. Quality time, is that what it is? He starts to panic as he fails to make sense of the request. “Is something wrong with the book?” He asks, grasping for straws.

Rhys looks at him, confused for a moment, then remembers. “The book! No, the book is fine. I finished it, actually.” He clears his throat. “I know it’s an unusual request, just like asking to use your bookstore for an event – Irene will be paying you shortly, by the way – but, well, it’s not often you meet someone real around here.” Rhys watches him, seemingly oddly vulnerable. The usual film of inaccessibility is gone from his eyes.

“Real?” Joe parrots dumbly.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys says, popping the last balloon and throwing it away. He turns around to leave, and Joe lunges for him, wrapping a hand around his bicep. Rhys turns suddenly, and he recoils, worrying that he’s overstepped.

“I just – what do you mean by real?” Joe asks, lacing his fingers together. Rhys’ mouth parts a bit, and he turns back to him. Joe suddenly realizes they’re far too close, and the blinds are open. What if someone sees them? That’ll definitely get him in some online journal, and who knows what could happen then –

“Unfortunately, I’m expected to be friends with London’s elite,” Rhys cuts in, running a hand through his hair. The gel and hairspray have started weakening. “And they’re alright, but they’re all very preoccupied with clothing with metal initials or some designer drug. It’s not exactly my thing.”

“I know,” Joe blurts out, putting his foot in his mouth. Rhys raises an eyebrow at him as he trips over his tongue. “I, uh, read your book?”

That seems to really spark Rhys’ curiosity. “You read it? After we met?” He gestures around the store.

“Well, yes. I got the eBook,” he explains uselessly. He pointedly doesn’t include how he’d finished it that night. Rhys smiles warmly at him, not finding it nearly as creepy as Joe had worried he would.

“I’m flattered. Did you like it?”

Joe licks his lips. “Yeah, I did. I’m not usually one for memoirs, but you’re a good writer.” Shut up now, Goldberg. You sound like a schoolgirl.

Rhys smile broadens, all but beaming at him now. “That’s wonderful to hear. So,” he pauses, clears his throat, and hands Joe the letter opener. It catches the light, blinding him for a moment. “Coffee?”

Joe watches him for a moment, not bothering to correct the odd behavior. “Yeah, coffee would be nice. I don’t know many cafes, to be honest-”

Rhys waves his hand. “Don’t worry about it. There’s a nice one just a few blocks from here, but I’ve forgotten its name. How about,” his voice drops, conspiratorial, “I text you the name tonight once I’m back to my flat?” Joe nods. He knows this is all very forward, but he appreciates not being the driving party for once. “Now, I do have a meeting on Sunday…”

“I’m free tomorrow morning,” Joe offers too eagerly. Rhys grins toothily.

“Perfect.” He extends his hand, and Joe shakes it, surprised by the warmth. How can you have warm hands in a place like this? Rhys checks his watch. “I do have to get going now; Irene’s fit to start calling me soon if I don’t let her know I haven’t been kidnapped and murdered.”

“Is she okay with just kidnapping?”

Rhys laughs. “You know, I haven’t asked her. If I did, I think she’d assume I was planning to make a run for it and have me put on house arrest.”

Joe smiles at him. Not often do people keep up with him like this, enough that they can banter. “I’ll let you go, then, before she straps you with a new anklet.”

“That’s much appreciated, John.” Rhys leans back into the door, disturbing the bell. He waits there for a moment, types something into his phone, then nods at Joe. “Have a good night, mate. Don’t silence your phone,” he adds playfully.

Joe smiles at him as he leans out of the store. The same car from before rolls up to the curb, and Rhys climbs in, disappearing behind the tint. It rumbles off, leaving Joe in the ticking silence of his store. It looks like the event never happened, and the tables, chairs, banners, and balloons are now gone. He takes his phone from his pocket and opens it, tapping over to his call log. The unknown number becomes ‘Rhys Montrose’ in his contacts, the contact photo remaining a gray RM. He tosses it in his hand a few times, then tucks it away again. That’ll keep Rhys’ text from getting buried in the unknown senders.

Joe locks the front door and lowers the blinds, cutting out the remaining sunlight. The lamps are turned off, the broom returned to the counter, and his pile of books to the shelves. He knows, on some level, that this is insane. To welcome a stranger into his store for publicity is one thing, but to get coffee with him? Even without the coffee, hadn’t Rhys been oddly... forward? What with the watching him and lingering behind to talk. Not that it wasn’t welcome, or appreciated, even – Joe hasn’t felt so comfortable around someone since Love. He knows he should be concerned, push Rhys away, and return to having no real connections with anyone. It’s safest that way. No relationships to worry about, least of all one with a public figure.

But he doesn’t want safety, not if it means loneliness. He’s not a solitary man, as much as he tries to be one. He can’t help it – he thrives best when he’s with someone. When he has a personality to learn and habits to memorize. Someone to share minds with. Rhys, you could be that person. Intelligent and quick, you don’t stumble over your words, and you don’t sabotage yourself or me. You’re clever, aren’t you? You’re more than the press sees, or even what I do, for that matter. You’re worth pursuing, worth a bit of forward behavior. You’re you.

#my work #goldrose #you netflix #joe goldberg #rhys montrose #joe x rhys #fanfiction

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spraycontec · 1 month ago

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Applications: Ideal for welding, grinding, and coping with risky chemical substances.

Why Choose MSA Safety Equipment?

MSA Safety has set up itself as a leader inside the safety device corporation for numerous motives:

1. Uncompromising Quality

MSA products are carefully examined to fulfill and exceed safety necessities, ensuring reliability inside the maximum stressful environments.

2. Innovative Technology

The business enterprise continuously invests in studies and development to hold modern answers to the marketplace, together with wireless gas detection and smart PPE.

Three. User Comfort

MSA designs its device with ergonomics in thoughts, making sure that employees can placed on their device for extended intervals with out pain.

Four. Global Trust

With a presence in over one hundred forty nations, MSA is trusted international for its willpower to safety and excellence.

Applications Across Industries

MSA Safety tool serves a big form of industries, making sure that every location has get right of entry to to tailor-made solutions:

Construction: Helmets, harnesses, and breathing gadget protect humans from falls, debris, and dirt.

Oil and Gas: Gas detectors and flame-resistant garb make sure safety in excessive-danger environments.

Mining: Respirators and head protection gadget are vital for shielding people in dangerous underground conditions.

Manufacturing: PPE, on the facet of gloves and eye protection, guarantees comfortable handling of machinery and chemical materials.

How to Choose the Right Equipment

Selecting the proper safety machine involves information the specific risks of your industry and matching them with suitable MSA merchandise. Consider factors like:

Compliance: Ensure the device meets relevant safety requirements and certifications.

Comfort and Fit: Choose gadget that personnel can located on with out a trouble for extended hours.

Durability: Invest in merchandise that would face up to harsh situations.

Ease of Use: Opt for tool that is intuitive and smooth to put in.

Conclusion

Safety need to in no manner be compromised, and with MSA Safety, industries can rest confident that they are investing within the amazing safety for his or her frame of humans. From cutting-edge fuel detection systems to long lasting helmets and harnesses, MSA’s giant type of safety system covers all components of commercial safety.

By prioritizing protection, industries no longer high-quality defend their employees but additionally decorate productiveness and foster a manner of lifestyles of responsibility. Explore MSA Safety’s products these days and take the first step in the direction of a more at ease place of job.

#msa safety #msa safety equipment

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clairdelilac · 1 month ago

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May I suggest belt lanyard? The kind you can pull out then snaps back on a retractable pulley thing, like those dog leashes you can get. But for IDs

I don't reliably wear clothes that a belt lanyard would work with but mayhaps a combo of neck lanyard and retractable attachment would work. Food for thought 🤔

#also the door tap things are up high so they're really making it hard to make one system work #ask #littlemisspipebomb

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jolinjoestar · 2 months ago

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Custom Lanyard Keychain Style and Design Ideas: Make Your Keychain Uniquely Yours

The smallest accessories often make the biggest impact. Custom keychains have become a popular and versatile way for individuals to showcase their unique style while serving a practical purpose. Whether you’re looking for custom acrylic keychains, acrylic charms, or custom keychains in bulk, this article will guide you through various styles and design ideas to create a custom lanyard keychain that enhances your everyday look.

Custom Keychain Style and Design

1. Material Matters

When designing a custom lanyard keychain, choosing the right material is essential. Traditional options like nylon and polyester are durable and widely used, but exploring alternative materials can create a unique look. For example, leather lanyards add a sophisticated touch, while paracord lanyards have a rugged, outdoorsy feel. Opting for acrylic keychains can offer a modern, lightweight, and customizable option that allows for vibrant colors and clear designs. Whether you're making a batch of custom keychains in bulk or a single piece, selecting the material that best resonates with your personality is the first step toward a personalized accessory.

2. Colorful Expressions

Color plays a major role in conveying personality and mood. With custom lanyard keychains, your color palette is almost unlimited. Choose bold and vibrant colors to make a statement, or subtle, earthy tones for a more understated look. For acrylic charms, colors can be layered or combined to create a unique aesthetic that aligns with your style. Consider colors that represent your interests, your favorite sports team, or even colors that match your brand if you’re creating custom keychains for wholesale purposes.

3. Beaded Beauty

Beads add texture and intricacy to custom lanyards, making them visually stunning and unique. Beaded custom lanyards allow for endless customization with different shapes, sizes, and colors of beads, and they bring a handmade touch that many people appreciate. Whether you prefer a minimalist design or something more elaborate, adding beads is an excellent way to express your creativity.

4. Personalized Charms

Adding personalized charms to your lanyard can make it uniquely yours. Charms like initials, birthstones, or symbols related to hobbies or interests can turn a simple lanyard into a meaningful accessory. Acrylic charms, in particular, are ideal for detailed designs and vibrant colors. They can be added to custom acrylic keychains for a durable and eye-catching result. Choose charms that reflect your personality and make your lanyard something truly special.

5. Utility Meets Style

Aesthetic appeal is essential, but so is functionality. Custom lanyard keychains can be designed with added features for convenience, such as pockets, pouches, or retractable badge holders. These additional elements make the lanyard practical without sacrificing style, which can be especially useful if you’re considering custom keychains in bulk for events or company branding. Integrating these features shows a thoughtful approach to design, making your lanyard both stylish and functional.

6. Embroidery Elegance

For a refined look, consider embroidered lanyards. You can choose a high-quality base material, then embellish it with embroidered patterns, names, or logos. Embroidery allows for intricate detailing and creates a polished finish. Whether you want a simple monogram or a bold design, embroidery adds elegance and makes your lanyard stand out.

7. Themed Treasures

Express your interests and passions through themed custom lanyards. From nature-inspired motifs like leaves and trees to designs for gamers with game controllers, themed lanyards showcase what you love. Acrylic charms can enhance this effect, allowing you to create lightweight, high-quality representations of the things that matter most to you. Not only do themed lanyards serve as a great accessory, but they also make fantastic conversation starters.

Why Choose Custom Acrylic Keychains?

Custom acrylic keychains are incredibly popular due to their versatility, durability, and aesthetic appeal. Acrylic is a lightweight, transparent material that can be easily shaped and colored, making it ideal for creating eye-catching designs and intricate details. Here are some reasons to consider acrylic for your custom lanyard keychains:

Vibrant Colors: Acrylic holds colors well, so you can choose vibrant shades or subtle hues to create the perfect look.

Detailed Design: Acrylic allows for sharp edges and precise details, ideal for custom artwork, logos, or personal symbols.

Durability: Acrylic keychains are resistant to wear and tear, which is beneficial if you’re creating wholesale custom keychains for resale or promotional events.

Customization Potential: Acrylic can be laser-cut or printed, allowing you to create complex shapes and patterns for maximum personalization.

Benefits of Buying Custom Keychains in Bulk

If you’re considering custom lanyard keychains for a group or event, buying custom keychains in bulk can be both practical and economical. Ordering in bulk is ideal for businesses, organizations, or events where you want to provide a unified accessory for participants, staff, or customers. Here are a few advantages:

Cost Savings: Buying in bulk often reduces the cost per unit, making it more affordable.

Consistent Quality: Ordering from a single source ensures consistency in quality and design.

Brand Promotion: Custom keychains are a subtle yet effective way to promote your brand or event.

Gift and Giveaway Options: Bulk keychains are perfect for giveaways, client gifts, or merchandise.

Tips for Designing Custom Acrylic Keychains

Creating the perfect custom acrylic keychain requires a bit of creativity. Here are some tips:

Keep It Simple: Simple designs often have the most impact, especially on small accessories.

Choose a Durable Design: Avoid overly intricate cutouts that could weaken the keychain.

Incorporate Your Brand: If you’re ordering for business purposes, make sure your logo or brand colors are incorporated.

Personalize with Names or Dates: Adding personal touches like names, initials, or dates makes your keychain more memorable.

Verdict Words

Custom lanyard keychains are more than practical accessories—they’re an extension of your personality and style. By experimenting with materials like acrylic keychains, colors, beads, charms, embroidery, and themed elements, you can create a truly unique accessory that reflects your individuality. Whether you’re looking for a bold statement piece or a practical, everyday item, custom lanyards and keychains provide a world of options to express your creativity and make your style unforgettable.

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