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ellieluvr420 · 8 months

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We meet again, darling pt.9 (detective Abby Anderson x criminal reader)

Synopsis: Abby Anderson is a skilled detective that's never let a criminal escape her grasp, until you. You've infiltrated every part of her life and she still can't get you. As she grows more and more intrigued by you she finds herself descending further into darkness until there's no way back. She takes your hand and follows you as if your presence is the only thing giving her life knowing that you are the most dangerous thing for her. Her life will never be hers again and she will stop at nothing to keep following you down your path of corruption.

SMUT, mdni please xox

After you had kicked Abby out Saturday morning, she spent basically her whole weekend in bed. She had been so anxious about Ellie, you, her job, everything, she felt sick to her stomach. It was Sunday evening when you knocked on her door.

"So you do know how to knock?"

"I knew you were in and I didn't want to reveal how I get in when you aren't."

"Right."

"You going to help me out and let me in or leave me standing out here all night?" You were holding Abby's suit which you had had dry cleaned, some takeout and your bag, you were sure you had about 2 minutes before everything crashed to the floor.

"Sorry." She opens the door and grabs the suit and takeout from you before stepping aside to let you in. She kicks the door shut behind you and puts the suit down to lock the door. "You brought food?"

"Yeah I figured you might want a taste of the outside world since I've had you cooped up for the weekend. If you're good I might take you on a walk later." She can't see your face but she knows you're smiling to yourself.

"You're hilarious. Food smells good though, thank you."

"It's okay." You sit down on her couch and wait for her to join you with the food. As you're waiting you look around the room. The walls were a bright off white colour and there was a warm light lamp with a simple grey shade standing in the corner next to the tv on the opposite wall to where the couch sits. She had a black wooden coffee table in front of the couch with a grey rug that matched the lamp. The couch was comfortable, squishy and black with grey accent cushions. You expected the monotone colour scheme from her really but you did notice the plants and decorations that added colour to the room. Her apartment was nice, clean and homey, you felt comfortable there.

"You judging my interior design?"

"The opposite actually, I had never really noticed it but your apartments very nice."

"Oh, thanks." You nod and start ripping open the takeout bag and laying all the food on the table. You waste no time in digging in as between all of the things you've had to do over the weekend you haven't had a chance to eat a proper meal since your dinner with Abby.

"Holy fuck this is good." Abby sighs and leans back as she continues eating.

"Mhmm" You agree through a mouth full of food. She chuckles at you and you laugh with her but you decide now is the time to address the elephant in the room.

"I'm sorry for blowing up at you like that yesterday."

"It's okay, really."

"No please let me finish, I planned my speech and everything." Abby nods her head, signalling you to continue. "I panicked. I'm used to hiccups, that's life. But I'm not used to hiccups involving the cops and it scared me. Regardless, accidents happen and I know you weren't being careless, I forget that not everyone is used to how careful you have to be with these things so I hold everyone to my standard and that isn't fair on you. So I'm sorry. Forgive me?"

Abby stays quiet for some time, pretending to contemplate whether she should until she smiles and pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. "You know for a second there you actually seemed human."

"Don't insult me." Your words came out muffled as she is still firmly holding you to her chest. You slap her shoulder as you start struggling to breathe. She laughs and lets you go. "But Abby, this cannot happen again. I dealt with the problem this time but it might not be so easy to fix next time. I mean I don't even know for sure if the problems fixed. Depends how smart your little friend is."

"Williams? What do you mean?"

"I paid her a visit."

"Andddd?"

"I didn't hurt her. Just threatened everyone that she loves and paid her for her silence."

"Oh my god."

"What?! It had to be done."

"So she knows about all of this?" She points a finger between you two.

"Errr not exactly. She knows we're... associates and that you're working for me but she doesn't know what we're doing, although I'm sure it won't take her long to figure it out when we start mission take over." Abby rolls her eyes at the use of the name and then raises an eyebrow.

"I work for you? I thought we were partners."

"I don't have partners, Abby. But if I did you'd be pretty close."

"Gee, thanks."

"That was a compliment darling."

"Your compliments don't often sound like compliments." She leans into you, looking you up and down and stopping to stare at your lips.

"I can only be so nice." You lean in further, tucking a piece of hair behind Abby's ear as your other hand threads its way through her soft, blonde waves, tugging a little. Abby presses her lips to yours in a sweet kiss that soon turns hungry and rough as she slips her tongue in your mouth to dance with yours. She tugs on the top of your thigh to pull you down as she climbs on top of you while pressing a strong thigh to your core. You close your legs around it and immediately start grinding down into it. Tonight is nothing like Friday night, its rushed and filled with need instead of want. You're both consuming each other as all the pent up emotions are released through your touches.

"Fuck this. I need more room for what I'm about to do to you." Abby's voice is low and raspy, it leaves you so entranced you don't feel her strong arms wrapping around your waist and under your bum as she hoists you up to carry you to her bed. As she reaches the foot of her bed, she throws you down with enough force that you bounce a little. "Strip."

"Make me." She had turned her attention away from you but the look she gave you as she whipped her head around was enough to make you comply. She chuckled at your reaction and said over her shoulder. "Good girl." You roll your eyes knowing she can't see and continue stripping. As you sit on the bed waiting for her you watch her strip her clothes off painfully slowly still facing away from you. You take a second to admire the firm curve of her muscley ass and thighs as you see her fitting a harness around her hips. You gulp knowing what's to come and lick your lips at the sight of her back profile and the way each muscle contracts and relaxes with each movement. She turns and your mouth falls open at the sight of the red appendage strapped to her hips.

"Don't worry, it's new, saw the colour and thought of you."

"How sweet." Your face is deadpan but in a weird way your heart swells at her words. "I don't think that thing is going to fit inside of me. That is a monster dick."

"Oh I'll make it fit. On your knees, hands behind your back and face the back wall." You whimper a little at her words but move quickly to listen to her. You hear a metallic clanking and before you have time to react you feel handcuffs being attached to your wrists.

"Woah Abby."

"Tell me you want me to stop." You huff and stay silent. "That's what I thought." She runs her hands down your back and squeezes each cheek hard enough to leave a bruise then one hands laces itself into your hair and starts pushing you forward while the other presses on your upper back to arch you as much as possible. "You are unreal." Your face is being pushed into her pillows and she knows that, so she doesn't expect a reply. You hear the sound of her spitting into her hand and your crane your neck inwards to see her lubing up the strap on. "I know you don't need this, you're already dripping but I thought I'd be nice. Don't get used to it though." She lands one harsh slap to your pussy and laughs as you jolt and moan and with a faux, sweet, sympathetic tone she says "You tell me if you need to stop okay?" She was mocking you but you knew she meant it as you made eye contact.

At the feel of her slowly easing the dick into you, you moan and push back onto her "Oh fuck," you've never felt this full before, it makes you feel like the airs been knocked out of you. As she bottoms out, you sigh and she lets you get used to the size for a minute. You're shocked as it doesn't match her previous demeanour but when she pulls out and starts drilling you into the bed you understand why she did that. You bury your face into the pillow to stop yourself from screaming but she doesn't like that at all. She pulls you up by your hair and then wraps an arm around your neck and grabs and squeezes your boob with the other. She's kissing your neck, your shoulder blades, anywhere she can and then she leans her head on your shoulder and bites down, hard. You gasp at the feeling of her licking the wound. She grabs your face with the hand that had been squeezing your boob and brings you in for a desperate kiss. You can taste your blood on her tongue and you groan into her mouth. You can barely breathe from all the ecstasy you're feeling but you manage to rasp out: "You're just as fucked up and insane as me, doll, you can't deny it," she growls at your statement and grabs at your chin with the hand of the arm that had been round your neck, you gasp only to feel her middle and ring finger being shoved into your mouth so hard you gag.

You whine and cry around her fingers as you feel yourself getting close. You lean your head back on her shoulder and she plants small kisses on your cheek and temple. "You close love?" You nod as your eyes fall shut until you feel her other hand that's unoccupied snaking down to rub tight fast circles on your clit. You screamed around her fingers as tears fell down your cheeks and you came so hard you thought you died for a second. She keeps pumping in and out of you slowing down to a stop. She lowers you gently down to the bed and kisses a line down your back. "I'm gonna pull out." She pulls out quickly get gently and discards of the strap. You feel her weight shift as she grabs the keys for the handcuffs and undoes them . She rubs each wrist gently and leans down to press a kiss to both afterwards. She lays down next to you and brushes your hair out of your face and laughs as she sees your giddy smile and tired eyes. "You okay?"

"Mhm all good."

"You gotta get up and pee."

"No." You slam your face down into the bed and take no notice of Abby standing up until you feel her large hands grabbing your hips and lifting you up. "No, no, no." You claw at the bed but it's no use. She plops you on your feet and keeps her hands on your hips

"Come on, you know I'm doing you a favour." You huff and walk off to the ensuite as she goes to the kitchen to get some water for you both. When you walk in she's already laying in bed and you climb on top of her and entangle your legs with hers. You lay a hand on her chest without a word.

"Do I want to know what happened to your hand?"

Your eyes are closed and you look asleep but you reply quietly and bluntly. "I killed Luke."

"Oh."

"It had to be done."

"Yeah I know. Was it hard?"

"No. He screamed and cried like a little bitch but I expected nothing less. It doesn't make it harder for me, it does Johnny, but not me. I like it when they fight."

Abby strokes your hair and realises she didn't even have a reaction to what you just said. She didn't care, she didn't feel sorry for Luke, she didn't feel scared of you. She only cared that you were back in her arms. You both fell asleep together and for the first night since Dan she didn't have any nightmares. She slept soundly holding the monster she should be having nightmares about.

#abby anderson x fem!reader #abby the last of us #abby x reader #abby anderson tlou2 #abby anderson x you smut #abby anderson fanfic #abby anderson tlou #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x reader

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wehaveagathering · 3 months

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🌪🌺🎧 okay?

🌪what brings you joy in life?

god anything really im a glass half full kinda person... my partner. my cat. a clean rug. a clean desk. the birds. making music w my friends. my friends! a good joke. a good book. a funny shaped pear. success in creation. my hockey OCs. connecting with a stranger and thinking about it all day. public transit. weird makeup. putting on a record and hearing the first crackle. drinking iced coffee at home through a straw. the smell of a new notebook. my favorite used bookstore. big bodies of water. caterpillars. stickers. a weird album. keeping a houseplant alive (an uncommon occurrence for me). looking back at the work i did and saying fuck yeah. limeade & lemonade. a really good bagel sandwich. that's mostly it i think

🌺sweet or salty?

SWEET

🎧3 songs that pop up on your Spotify shuffle

Please please please - Sabrina Carpenter

Mansa Musa - Anderson .Paak feat Dr. Dre and Cocoa Sarai

Arcadia - The Kite String Tangle

thanks for the ask!!!

#me when i interact

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muldxr · 2 years

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fics i wrote in 2022

Ground Control to Major Tomlinson (T, 3k)

What if Space Oddity's Major Tom was Major Louis W. Tomlinson, on his first endeavor to the moon?

stay hydrated! (NR, 637)

Where Louis drinks too much water during a show and is grateful he has a break during Fearless.

two much water (E, 3k)

Louis still has his regularly scheduled pee break, but it’s harder to handle. That is, Harry makes it harder.

dark blue (T, 5k)

Two nights before MITAM is released, Harry has an unusual dream. But it might be more than that.

Figs (M, 55)

An ode to the wank.

Hill Country (E, 11k)

Louis is a farmer. His family gives him hell for it, only because it’s not a nine to five job and he should set a better example for his siblings. When he’s invited (scratch that, required) to pay a visit for a will reading, he has to double down on his work chores in advance. But spring break is just around the corner in Austin, which means Harry’s free and he really, really wants to hang out.

heart meet break (NR, 1k)

A large, looming living room with half its belongings packed up. A kitchen, sink barely cleaned and two plates set on the table. And a skinny twenty-something on the middle of the rug, a hot phone pressed to a cheek so tear-stained it might cause an electrical shock.

after hours (E, 16k)

Harry moves like lightning as he slides the books off the shelves into the open, waiting abyss of his bag. Then, as Louis clears the other end of the exhibit just as quickly, he moves on to the display case next to it and the one after that. One flimsy book practically flies open as he picks it up, the paper held together by feeble strings on the spine. He leaves it behind. Not worth selling.

A crime au set in 1980s Chicago.

I-80 (T, 250)

A gas station, an itinerary, and incorrect MapQuest directions.

Fangs Yells (T, 500)

A vampire rock band au.

god, i hope i get it (M, 250)

Two Broadway swings have a little bit of fun.

your perfect date (T, 250)

All of the times Louis and Harry have perfect dates.

see-see (G, 250)

“Movie tonight? I know you kissfist Wes Anderson.”“Only if we use the free vouchers.” A deaf au.

i am easy to find (M, 4k)

Where two people try to follow their dreams but time isn’t on their side.

there’s a house in english bond (somebody planned to stay) (T, 666)

The Hotel dates back to the mid-17th century, and the owners have invested dearly to make it a home away from home. Please mind our building rules written below in order to have an exceptional stay.

greased lightnin’ (NR, 1k)

After Louis mentions on an interview that he still has the jacket from his Grease days, Harry knows just the thing to wear for Halloween.

empty (NR, 900, tw for major character death)

I didn’t know where to go. I only thought of you, and then I was here.

Ho Ho Hopefully (T, 5k)

The one where Harry is an elf in Santa’s workshop, and Louis is one of the humans he’s been assigned to.

#trackinghappily #trackinghome #2022 fics #*

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marafilmblog · 11 months

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On Set Production

SDSA Article

Link: https://www.setdecorators.org/?art=SetDecor_Film_THE_FRENCH_DISPATCH

THE FRENCH DISPATCH

Set Decorator: Rena DeAngelo SDSA

Production Designer: Adam Stockhausen

‘The French Dispatch’ (2021) is set in a fictional town named Ennui-Sur-Blasé. The town represents but a sootier, dirtier, seedier version of Paris with beautiful architecture, just not scrubbed clean. The film was shot in the town of Angoulême.

Sourcing:

The set decorator was given 6 weeks of prep time with her team after arriving in Paris spending time in flea markets, prop houses and out-of-the-way country shops where they found their incredible set dressing.

Denis Gargolie, a local estate liquidator had an enormous warehouse where the set dressing team was able to source many things including antiques, rugs, tableware and lighting. This was a great resource as it was much easier to source things locally. Similarly, Rena visited the Chartre and Le Mans flea markets once a month.

“The greatest part of this job was shopping in France for 6 months, going to flea markets and out of the way country shops, weekend brocantes, all full of the most wonderful French things.”

Black & white:

The scenes that are in black and white were decided prior to shooting, and were shot with black and white stock. So, it was important to take colours into account and use colours that work well together in black & white as well as in colour. The set dressing department wanted the sets to look good both on the black and white film but to the crew and Wes Anderson whilst shooting.

As seen above, the scenes of The Cadazio Gallery were shot in black and white. Due to the large amount of dressing in this room it was difficult to ensure it looked good in black and white, so, Rena used black and white filters on her phone to see the progress as she was working on it, to make sure it all worked together. There were also some camera tests which would also help other departments to understand how the scene would look in black and white.

The Felt Factory:

There was a local felt factory just outside of the town the film was being shot in, this was used as offices, stages, set dressing storage and carpentry mill paint shop. All of the sets were built there, and some were even staged there, including the police dining room, the dockside bar and the artists garret. Only the interior of the prison wasn’t built there but was built in another empty factory nearby.

As the director Wes Anderson had every frame of the movie storyboarded ahead of time and settings were included with a lot of detail in the script, so there was no question of what he wanted to shoot.

The set of The Roebuck Wright police dolly shot was built in the old felt factory and was the entire length of one of the stages. Each of the pieces of this segment were meticulously described in the script. The crew managed to build it in a very short 2 weeks and dressed it in 2 days.

During shooting, Rena notes that they always had at least 6 giant sets going at once, and once one was finished, it would be pulled down to make room for more.

The Cadazio Gallery:

All the artwork, tapestries and armor were sourced from Paris prop houses. The furnishings and other objects and rugs were either from the prop houses or the flea markets. There are 5 different categories of art represented on the walls.

The Barricade:

The barricade set was on a residential street. 2 cafés were built on the set and they cobblestoned the street. The cobblestones in the piles and used for throwing in the scenes were made by sculptors out of rubber. The ‘Dr Seuss-style trees’ exist all over Angoulême, however, a few were built to be able to move them to the camera.

The car barricade was built by the art dept from actual scrapped car parts. The other was scripted as a ‘barricade built from school desks and chairs, globes and typewriters.’ The set dressing department bought every globe, typewriter, and school chair and desk they could find, built the barricade in in 2 pieces on wheels so it could be easily moved.

The Dispatch Offices:

Each office was made to depict the personality of each writer, in one frame. Each character was based on actual writers from the New Yorker magazine, as was the editor inspired by iconic figures in the magazine’s history.

Sazerac’s Cycling Tour:

Sazerac’s sequence, although short and exteriors only, was as massive an undertaking as the rest. A lot of what you see in the shots of Sazerac cycling through the streets was just Angoulême. However, there was a lot of set dressing that took place to make it what it is, including graphics sign painters and faux cobblestone street.

#on-set production

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meraxes-of-new-albion · 1 year

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18, 22, 30?

I ramble so I'm gonna answer this under a readmore lmao

Thank you for the ask!!!!! :D

18. Do you like reading? If yes what's your favourite book?

I read a lot when I was younger - my mom's joke was that I was 13 going on 30, she handed me A Game Of Thrones before the TV show came out lol... interesting parenting choice looking back but I really enjoyed reading them. My favorite book is probably Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson; tws apply but they're spoiler-y so I won't get into them here. It's got a really dry gallows sense of humor through the whole book that resonates with me to this day, and I've gone back and reread it a couple times, which I can't think of another book I've done that with.

(Actually, I can, it's Brave New World by Adlous Huxley. IMO it's the best of the older era of dystopian novels insofar as it's actually fun to read. Sorry, Fahrenheit 451, I find your narrative less immediately compelling, although you're probably more important.)

22. Best memory you could think of?

When i was a wee baby intern, I was shadowing an education keeper at a small zoo 5 days a week for the whole summer. A month or so before I started, that zoo had gotten a Harris hawk from another zoo. I spent the first two months of that internship watching my supervisor build a relationship with that bird, helping clean, and train, and desensitizing her to all sorts of things.

Then one day, said supervisor handed me the glove, and told me "go get Maya". And there is something deeply, instinctually, absolutely incredible about having three pounds of apex predator standing on your fist, understanding that you're both trusting each other across whole taxonomic clades and without sharing anything more than time and the fact you're both vertebrates.

It's been four years and I miss that bird every day of my life. She was magnificent.

30. What are your hobbies?

Anything to do with fibercrafts, I dabble in (or intend to... i have a lot of embroidery supplies I haven't dug into yet...). I'm really big on trying to use everything you can, so I have a huge box of fabric scraps I like to make into things - I made myself a Switch case, I'm trying to make a stuffed animal leopard gecko, I'm halfway through a t shirt quilt for my mom, kind of thing. I'm trying to learn how to knit - I'd like to make myself a Doctor Who scarf someday, but I want to make sure I'm putting out consistent quality before I start in on 12 feet of scarf I'll be keeping for the rest of my life. We go through a lot of hay at work, so I've been saving the twine from that and I'm trying to make rugs. They're turning out better than I expected, although the stuff is killer on my fingers, so I can't do too much at once.

On the other side of things, hi I'm a massive nerd, so I play a lot of video games - mostly narrative RPGs, I love Mass Effect, the Half Life franchise, I'm planning on playing the Metro games next after I finish my replay of the Mass Effect trilogy - but I also like my roguelites, I've been getting back into Loop Hero, but Rogue Legacy is always solid, as is FTL. I really loved Subnautica and at some point I need to pick up the DLC for it. Recently I also got into Warhammer 40k, so I've been building an army of Tyranids, and I've been finding that really satisfying; building the minis is methodical, painting is definitely one of those things where the skill floor is pretty low and the skill ceiling is really high, and I've won more games than I've lost; nobody expects you to charge in and eat their face and so it's been a ton of fun doing that >:3

Thanks for the ask!!!!!!!!!!!! :D

#i always was too anxious to reblog these before #so it's nice to have the positive reinforcement <3 #ask games #i appreciate you!! i see you in my notes a lot and you're a really cool mutual <3

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brccmelbourne · 3 years

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Rug Cleaning Anderson| Rug Repair & washing| Best rug cleaners Anderson

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#Rug Cleaning Anderson

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all-rock-and-roll-is-homosexual · 2 years

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A Guide to Suede

For @rises-vagrant and anyone else who might want it. Buckle up because this bitch is long.

Update: 8/7/2022

Update: 10/21/2022

Update: 2/20/2023

Introducing the Band

L-R: Mat Osman, Brett Anderson, Bernard Butler, Simon Gilbert (first and second album lineup)

L-R: Simon Gilbert, Richard Oakes, Brett Anderson, Mat Osman, Neil Codling (Post BB lineup)

These are the two main lineups of the band you should remember. Previous members include Justine Frischmann of Elastica and Alex Lee of Strangelove.

Bernard Butler left the band in 1994 before their second album Dog Man Star was completed and was replaced with Richard Oakes who was just seventeen at the time. Simon Gilbert's cousin Neil Codling later joined for the album Coming Up.

Mat Osman: Bass. REALLY FUCKING TALL. Met Brett in high school, Brett has never let him forget that he was a goth when they met. Has a younger brother who is also ridiculously tall and is a TV presenter. Has written two novels!

Brett Anderson: Vocals. Slut. Once infamously referred to sex and drugs as his hobbies. Got into the heavy stuff in the late 90s but is now thankfully clean and sober living with his wife and kids out in the country.

Bernard Butler: Guitar '89-'94. Prickly like a cactus. Undoubtedly brilliant guitarist but hard to work with. Seems happier doing producing work. Very dedicated to his craft, sadly lost his father during the recording of DMS which affected him really deeply and was one part of the issues that came to the surface between him and the rest of the band.

Simon Gilbert: Drums. The punk one. Despite Brett's flirtations with androgyny and homosexual imagery, it's actually Simon who's gay. Quiet, but super cool and documents everything with a handy camcorder.

Richard Oakes: Guitar post-BB '94-'03 '10-present. Literal angel. Had big shoes to fill and more than rose to the occasion. Really fantastic guitarist who heavily favors arpeggiated riffs over BB's sort of fuzz-laden wall of sound insane solos. A little more stripped back but still great and IMO doesn't get enough recognition.

Neil Codling: '96-'99 '10-present. Keyboards, rhythm guitar, backing vocals, literally everything else. Master of looking cool and bored on stage. Simon's cousin. Actually kind of an eccentric type? He popped into the studio to borrow a suit for a job interview from Simon, then Brett found out he could play just about every instrument ever and he was absorbed into the band.

Albums

Suede- their debut! This is the one that got people's attention with its sort of sleazy glamor. Full to the brim of stories about the lives of average people but steeped in a sort of seedy romance. Like a faded and moth eaten Persian rug.

Dog Man Star - A little more proggy and I recommend listening to it in some sort of altered state or at least giving it a few listens. A lot of people consider it their best. Much more than what it appears to be. A true piece of art, imo. Has to be listened to as it's really hard to describe but trust me when I say it has some of Brett's best vocal performances on it.

Coming Up - Suede's pop album. Rejuvenated after BB left and Richard and Neil joined, Suede decided to go for a much more simple pop effort. Spawned five top ten singles and is absolutely ridiculously catchy. Despite being pretty straight forward pop it's still a little weird and seedy compared to the sort of thing most people might consider pop. At least in comparison to what America considers pop.

Head Music - Suede tries electronica. Whether the effort was any good is highly subjective and may take a while for you to decide whether you like it or not. This is around the time that Brett started to slide downhill into heavy drugs - whether that shows in the final product is up for debate.

A New Morning - Suede tries to reinvent themselves in a new more positive light. Neil left the band after Head Music and Alex Lee from Strangelove joined. Understandably traumatized by his heavy drug use, Brett attempted to reinvent himself after he got clean - spawning the dreaded Blonderson. The band went for a much softer and acoustically driven sound on this album but unfortunately the toll of dealing with Brett's prior addiction was too much and the band split after the album flopped. A lot people's least favorite due to it being so very different from everything else in their catalogue and also because it was 2003 and the New Wave revival/Emo thing was well underway.

Bloodsports - Their first album in seven years after they split in 03! Straight forward sort of guitar driven pop rock vs the slightly weirder Coming Up. Catchy as hell and fun to dance to, but nothing ground breaking.

Night Thoughts - A little darker than Bloodsports, and had a full movie to accompany it! Seems to draw on more post punk and new wave influences and dips into almost outright goth on Outsiders. A damn good album. Lots of themes revolving around family and parenthood and the fears of repeating the same mistakes as your own parents are thread throughout it.

The Blue Hour - Delving deeper into the themes explored on Night Thoughts, the Blue Hour is partially a concept album with a story seeming to revolve around a child witnessing the infidelity of one of his parents and then going missing just as night is falling. Goes into some pretty weird and nightmarish territory and I, for one, absolutely love it. Themes also include the darker aspects of the countryside like dead animals as well as the aforementioned themes of family and fears of parenthood. A sort of sister album to Dog Man Star.

Autofiction - This is their latest album! It was released September 16. Brett has referred to it as "Suede's punk album", but this is not a punk album. If anything, it's very post-punk with Richard's guitar work echoing the likes of the Cult or the Mission and having Mat's bass feature prominently. Shadow Self, in particular, I still say could absolutely do numbers on a goth club dance floor if given the chance. I listened to this album on a loop for weeks when it came out and have been returning to it frequently, so I might be biased but I think this is absolutely a killer album. The songs are sort of back to basics in that it's just them and stripping back the experimental aspects they flirted with on Night Thoughts and The Blue Hour. Brett experiments with sprechgesang vocal stylings in the vein of Dry Cleaning or Working Men's Club on some of the songs, and he does it well! The album manages to feel both fresh and stand amongst the rest of their catalogue as if it's always been here.

Noteworthy songs

Suede are one of those bands where even the b-sides are absolutely amazing, so first is their best of collection which is honestly a really good primer which is aptly called "Beautiful Ones". Second is their b-sides compilation, "Sci-fi Lullabies". (Sci-fi Lullabies is apparently not available in the US under "The London Suede" - Which oh yeah, i didn't even go into all that...jesus christ.)

There's just so much good stuff they've released. I really recommend listening to the full albums because they provide sort of context for some of the songs that you just don't get when listening to them divorced from that. However, I will make a list of some of their most noteworthy songs.

The Drowners

Animal Nitrate

My Insatiable One

Pantomime Horse

He's Dead (if you see gifs of Brett more or less bellydancing you can almost guarantee it's from performances of this song)

We Are the Pigs

The Wild Ones

The Asphalt World

The Living Dead

Trash

Beautiful Ones

Electricity

Everything Will Flow

She's in Fashion

Positivity

Obsessions

Astrogirl

Simon

Attitude

Golden Gun

Barriers

Hit Me

It Starts and Ends With You

Sabotage

Outsiders

Life is Golden

Fuck it, go listen to Autofiction. The whole thing.

There's literally so much. Like all things considered this is a long list and if I'd included everything I wanted to it would be even longer. I know this is probably so much but there is just so much ground to cover with them.

Here's a handy link to my spotify playlist of personal faves.

#Suede #suede band #brett anderson #mat osman #simon gilbert #bernard butler #richard oakes #neil codling #about suede

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arlenejp · 2 years

Text

Those Men

He had to say that being a copper on the street also made one a toughened soul and reinforced the soles of one’s feet. That wasn’t the end goal for him, though. Being only a street cop. The monotony of the everyday bureaucratic paperwork, the reality that it was primarily small shit, tore at his brain and left him antsy. He wanted more and understood his objective was to reach detective status. To chase after hard-core criminals. To solve crimes. That was something that got deep inside him and kept him going. His goal was a promotion – a promotion to Detective Inspector. Someday. Soon. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This day is no exception as his car has stopped at Water Street, and he and his associate Anderson break open the already half-smashed wooden door and enter, badges on display. Lying on rags, rugs, and bare concrete are the tattered wrecks of humanity, some barely alive, snoring, moaning, and sniveling. Each is a bundle of unwashed humanity with narcotics or alcohol in their bellies. To Sargeant Gregory Lestrade, they are only nuisances to be swept up, cataloged, and sent to rehab as quickly as possible. He gags as the stench of unwashed bodies and the chemical smell of various narcotics invade his senses. He swears he'll never get used to it no matter how often they raid these forsaken places. He constantly questions the why of it. Why is it necessary? Why do they spend the time and money to clean out the vagrants only to find them or their ilk back within the week? What does it accomplish? His partner, Phil Anderson, explains that maybe we can hope that a few of these shitheads might – just might – change and better themselves. Greg has to snort. Skeptical? You bet! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “You take the ones over in the corner,” he says, pointing with one hand and holding his other arm over his nose. “I’ll look in the other room.” Stepping gingerly over and around various human forms lying sprawled on the floor, Greg is always aware of his desire to get a promotion. And if it means picking up the dregs of London, then that is what he will do – but not without great reluctance. Trying to enter the other room is almost impossible. Why? Because a body lies across the portal, with knees tucked up to his chest, his great black coat surrounding most of him. A crop of mangy curls peeks out. Greg's lip curls and flinches back, his disgust held only by the fact that he is just doing his job. He nudges the body, and it turns a chalky, shallow cheekboned face at him and moans. It is a man who opens his eyes and blearily stares at the detective. “Wha-and you are?” his head dangles over his shoulder and then drops to the floor with a faint thump. This stranger's deathly pale cheekbones stood apart like rocks on the seashore's edge, and his lips formed a perfect bow. Topped by scraggly, unwashed curls that flop onto his forehead, Greg is charmed. Greg is – in a split second – charmed – no – captivated. That’s the best he could come up with – intrigued. Whether it is the stranger's vulnerability and the look of torment in his eyes–his greyish blue ones – whose lids barely open – it doesn’t make any difference to Greg. It’s as if this unknown drug addict had infected Greg with a concoction that compelled him to act – to do more than throw this man’s body indiscriminately into an ambulance. Greg bends down and gently plucks the frail body off the floor and into his arms without waiting for the medics. He is stunned at this man’s fragility and rapidly runs him to his car while shouting to the others that he is going to the clinic with this one. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The young man, seemingly in his twenties, has been semi-awake and almost aware of his whereabouts throughout the ride. The hospital is bustling with the usual Monday afternoons’ emergencies as Greg transports himself and his bundle inside. With Greg's help, the man's limp body sags into a chair while Greg steps to the desk to check him in. A tall slim man walks to the desk and states in an uncompromising tone to a wide-mouthed Greg, “I have a private room prepared, and he will have the best care. You may leave now, Sargent Lestrade.” Greg suddenly becomes incensed at being brushed off so quickly, “Wait a minute, who the shit are you?” grabbing the stranger’s coat sleeve to halt his progress. The man’s face drops to look at Greg's hand clutching the material, then cooly brushes it away as if swatting at a fly, then directs a steely-eyed gaze at Greg. Greg shudders at the chill in the man's dark eyes – his very dark grey eyes. Greg would like to leave. However, he hates individuals who think they own him. He holds onto the gaze and, with a quiet determination, runs his eyes down the man's length, attempting to balance the uncomfortable feeling of inferiority he gets. A black pinstripe suit and grey shirt and a grey and white pinstripe tie make him look like the privileged imbeciles that Greg loathes. The opposite is this person's features as they remain wooden, giving no hint that he’s intimidated by Greg. “I am Mycroft Holmes, and this–” pointing his gloved hand, “ is my young brother Sherlock.” He spits out the last as if he would rather not recognize who is presently folded up in the seat, head down on his chest, gasping. Sherlock attempts to lift his head from his chest and plops it onto the pillow again, muttering, “get out, Mycroft. You're not needed here.” He can barely push the words out as he crosses his legs, shifting his body away from the two older men. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sherlock is wheelchaired into a private room, and both men follow. Two male nurses settle Sherlock in the bed, attach the necessary devices, nod, and leave. No one speaks during this time. Greg closes the space between himself and the bed, folds his arms, and looks straight at Mycroft, saying sternly, “I have no intention of leaving him until – .” Mycroft’s eyebrows raise, and he says, “Sargent Lestrade. While I appreciate your concern –.” “Don’t bother,” the Sargeant interrupts him, digging his heels in, unconsciously leaning away from the older brother. Mycroft shows that he is a hard man to manage, and Greg needs to get the advantage. In a tone that leaves no room for argument, he orders Mycroft, “go get coffee for us –now.” Sherlock snickers, “Never heard anybody cut down my sibling as well as you--Lestrade, is it?” Mycroft walks out the door, astounding Sherlock and Greg, and comes back with a cup in each hand. Mycroft pushes a chair close to the bed and, with one hand, straightens the crease in his trousers, “I truly believe I owe you an apology, Sargeant. I'm obliged to thank you for safeguarding Sherlock and staying with him.” It sends a shivering sensation over Greg's spine when he understands Mycroft's sharp eyes are missing nothing. Instead, he likely has investigated Greg's personal life ahead of time, down to what he eats for breakfast. When his mobile phone sounds from his pocket, Greg sucks in a breath, trying to gather himself together. Greg steps out of the room. When the phone call is over, he strides back to lean closer to Sherlock's ear, “I have to go. Will be back as soon as I can.” Mycroft reaches out and impedes his further movement, “Let me invite you to supper tomorrow night to show my appreciation. My vehicle will be at headquarters at six. I believe tomorrow is your early day.” The force of Mycroft’s gaze has the heat rising to Greg's cheeks, and “alright,” is the only response he can make. How the hell does Mycroft even have a clue of his schedule? Greg pats Sherlock's arm and scratches his head at the complexity of Mycroft. He’s outside before becoming conscious that the rain is pelting down in a typical London way. He rushes towards his car and jumps in but doesn’t start the motor. Mycroft Holmes is absolutely out of Greg’s league, but something is compelling about this man who moves in the world with such surety. He leaves Greg breathless and with the urge to know him better. Mycroft is stately with steel grey eyes, hair slicked back, whose mouth is more often than not pursed tight. Greg leaves for home, confused and tired. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg wakes to the patter of rain on the window and sighs. Another dreary day. But what does he expect from London? He showers and looks at his face in the mirror. He is still young, but time on the streets has etched a certain quality in his cheeks and forehead. Almost as if every felon scratched his name onto his face. His hair shows traces of grey, as his fathers did at an early age. Everyone has always commented on his eyes. Although a syrupy brown, they tend to glisten. He advances toward his closet and, because of the nature of his dinner date, chooses his tuscan brown suit and light grey shirt and carefully folds a brown speckled tie into his jacket pocket. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Inside headquarters, he first walks to the lounge area and pours coffee. He’s never been one for tea. Wrapping a paper towel around the burning ceramic mug, he walks to his desk and nods to the others. Greg purses his lips, takes the first sip and sits down to reconstruct his so-called adventure of yesterday. What a mess! He can’t get over the fact that he drove someone to the hospital even though an ambulance was waiting at the scene. And to make matters worse, he stayed in the emergency room when he should have gone back on the job. He knew what he did was against the rules, but he had given it no thought. So, instead, he acted in pure – stupidity –. But, no, it wasn’t the stupidity that drove him. The deep gutted feeling he had was that this was someone screaming, trying to get back at the world but failing. Sherlock's coat and Mycroft’s suit all spoke of wealth, but while one was so composed about himself, the other, Sherlock, seemed so chaotic. Greg realizes that Mycroft has now entered his brain, and with a dopey sigh, he finds it hard to concentrate. He shifts paper, casually signs some, and throws some in the bin. He thinks the clock will not move, and finally, the clock reads five of six, and he pushes off from the desk. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A black limo? Why doesn’t that shock Greg? This man Mycroft, who wears designer suits, would undoubtedly have a limo at his disposal. The driver holds open the rear door as if Greg were some famous actor. He has to hold down his giggling. Greg slides in, feeling the luxurious leather seat squish softly beneath him, and nods his hello to Mycroft simultaneously as Greg’s heart rate picks up. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Before dinner, Greg wonders what it is about this man that drives Greg to anticipate –? The – what is– he’s not sure right now, but–. “Good evening,” Mycroft nods, his hands crossed atop the cherry handle of a black umbrella. Greg has never had a problem with easy conversation but now sits tongue-tied as the car speeds through the London traffic, his fingers drumming a tune on his trousers. Apparently, Mycroft is not interested in dialogue but stares ahead, backbone stiff against the dark grey seat. Greg squirms uneasily and takes in Mycroft's polished dark shoes, his navy blue pinstriped outfit, and the signet ring on his pinky. Ducking his head, Greg makes a sound as if to speak yet can't think of anything fabulous to say. Whatever comes to mind has nothing to do with decency but is more along the lines of depravity. Clasping his hands, he does the same as his companion. Stares ahead. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- An inaudible murmur of relief runs through Greg’s head as they stop. Greg swings open the door before the driver can assist him and steps into the cool night air. He waits for Mycroft to go in front of him to the restaurant. Mycroft nods to the maitre de as a server seats them in a corner that conceals them from the other patrons. Greg glances furtively around a world he has never before encountered. Waiters with gloves, white bow ties, and tuxedos seem to float by, their steps tip-toe-like. The walls are scattered with artwork of garden scenes, while the tables are discreetly far enough away so no one cannot hear anyone else's discussion. Mycroft instructs the waiter about their dinner meal, the specific temperature of the meat, and the particular wine for each course, without inviting Greg’s opinion. Greg is increasingly uncomfortable but refuses to allow his inner feelings to show. Instead, he grips his hands in his lap and unblocks his mind, struggling to ask, “How did you have any idea about what I would want to eat, let alone how I like it cooked?” Mycrofts lips curve as he says, “There are relatively few things that get away from my consideration, Gregory. A steak is an extravagance for yourself. You are the kind of individual who prefers his rare,” scarcely able to hold in a grin. As the meal unfolds in front of him, Greg is overwhelmed by the restraint of elegance. While Mycroft stays collected, he wiggles in his seat like a cat on hot bricks. The wine is silken and easy down the throat, and before Greg acknowledges it, he's had three glasses and is smiling broadly. He even attempts to move his fingers towards Mycroft’s hand, covering it for the smallest of seconds before dropping his hand in his lap. Mycroft quietly relishes the experience. Gregory Lestrade has fallen into the trap. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They step out of the restaurant, and Greg’s legs are unsteady under him as he tumbles into the car before Mycroft. Greg thinks to himself– damn! He knows he’s gotten carried away with the wine and must be cautious about what he says to his companion. “Gregory,” Mycroft says, “I'm mindful that you are somewhat intoxicated. However, I should concede that I am additionally so. Nevertheless, it allows me the boldness to ask, with deepest respect, mind you, as to whether it would be an insult to ask you to my bed?” Did Greg hear that, right? So is Mycroft proposing to this lowly Sargeant that they have sex? Paralyzed at this idea, Greg seems outwardly quiet, yet his entire body has gone numb. Except for his member, which rises and responds in the affirmative to Mycroft’s question. His power of speech disappears upon seeing in his mind the multitude of scenes offered to him, the answers for issues that haven't sprung up yet. Greg thinks that speech is required as he figures out how to erase a picture of Mycroft lying on sheets of black. “Hmm,” he stumbles out, “bed is good,” feeling like a young boy about to venture into the world of sex for the first time. Is it to happen now? Are they headed to Mycroft’s house? These and numerous other questions get stuck in the back of his throat. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They arrive at Mycroft’s house, and Greg is still tipsy from the drink. Mycroft’s tight bum sways before him as they ascend the steps to the bedroom. It will not be long now. A door is swung open, and Mycroft indicates that they should enter. Does Greg really want to do this? Would he be paralyzed as he is now? He wants to run. Down the steps, out the front door, and into–? However, as he inches forward, he is aware he is stepping into and across a boundary line. And in doing so, visits another world. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hours later, Greg’s hands are under his head, gazing at the ceiling in his flat, waiting for the alarm to buzz. Greg has been spending a large part of the dark hours doing the exact thing he is doing now. Lying in his bed–recalling. Was it good? Yes! It was euphoric, however, for a brief time. Mycroft is silent but intense in achieving his objective – a climax for the both of them. After those brief moments of afterglow, he shifts to his remote self and shoos Greg out. Greg has to admit to feeling enraged, ashamed, and utilized. After thinking more about it, he can be sure this will not be the only meetup between them. Of course, he can't say how he understands this. But it's his hunch, a suspicion that will not disappear. Mycroft Holmes is his, he thinks, grins as the ding of his alarm goes off, and rises to begin his day. While the shower's hot water rinses off the soap on his body, he thinks–Greg Lestrade, the next time, it will not include only a one-two-three and a thank you. Turnabout is fair play, and considering Mycroft was the lead during their first encounter, it is his move the next time. It astounds and disappoints him when Mycroft doesn’t answer his calls, texts, or messages. So Mycroft thinks he can lead this parade, does he? He's not by any means the only one with an itch to be scratched. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gregory Lestrade is a man’s man. Mycroft respects his strength, whether mental or physical. An attractive man with a fast mind, albeit modest. Dinner was a simple thank you for Gregory’s consideration in caring for Sherlock. But Mycroft’s interest peaked when Gregory stood his ground and wouldn’t leave the clinic. It never occurred to Mycroft that he might bed Gregory until one particular moment at dinner. That was as Gregory flirted with him, his fingers outstretched mere inches from his hand. Watching Gregory's long fingers edge closer was hypnotizing, and Mycroft felt his face and body respond. He promptly lifted his glass, devoured the alcohol, then poured another and downed it quickly. Intoxicated with the wine and the closeness of this individual with whom he has had no other association. Sherlock is the only tie between them. Mycroft has permitted himself the extravagance of allowing Greg’s touch, the luxury of this slight physical contact. In reality, he wanted more than that. In any case, this man, this Gregory Lestrade, could satisfy Mycroft in many ways. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Greg was putting on his other shoe, ready to leave for work, when he heard his mobile ding and figured it was his partner. “What the fuck? I’m coming.” “I would like to think not without me, Gregory.” Greg's heart falls to his toes, jumping degrees up in beats, “Shit, Mycroft, I’m sorry. Didn’t expect –.” Greg’s hand shakes so much that the rest of the conversation barely registers. Mycroft is inviting him to dinner at his home. Greg knows he doesn’t want to wear jeans and drops them to the floor, picking instead black trousers topped by a light green shirt and a black tie which he loosely knots. No briefs. Not going to be needed. He drops his favorite cologne in his pocket and hastens off to work with the daunting thought of keeping a specific muscle contained during the day. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Greg is apprehensive while sitting opposite Mycroft in the parlor of his house after the breathtaking sex they had and the mouthwatering dinner that followed. Greg has an excellent brandy at hand, and the glow of the fire is sparking in the fireplace. Would it be advisable for him, Mycroft thinks, to express his genuine thoughts and ruin tonight? Should he? Mycroft coughs and decides to go ahead. “Gregory. As you are aware, my brother Sherlock has been badgering your office as of late.” Greg smiles at the liquid in his glass. He tells Mycroft, “Sherlock has turned into a genuine annoyance. Because he believes I should give him cold cases to deal with. Is there a problem with me doing this?” Mycroft trusts it's anything but an issue since a more extraordinary arrangement is brewing in his mind. “No! You will also have authorization from your superior to permit him access to murder or burglary calls. The one condition is that he avoids any substance abuse.” Greg replies, “that’s not easy. But I can’t stop him from showing up. And–he is great at seeing things we can’t.” Mycroft rises and moves toward the fireplace. He takes up the poker and shuffles the logs around, mindful that he is dallying. “I have one more request. Sherlock needs a companion.” He grips the poker as though dropping it would take his life and continues, “knowing that you have a certain–how to say it without offending,--a certain admiration for him,” he puts the metal iron back in its place. Mycroft’s dark eyes drill an invisible hole in Greg's chest. “What Sherlock lacks is stability.” Greg shifts in his seat and says with uncertainty, “ he is challenging, as you know. And taking him to a pub–well–.” Mycroft replies with a surety he does not feel, “ I'm proposing both of you live together.” Before Gregory can reply, he drops the rest of the bomb, “become Sherlock's husband. Marry him.” Gregory jumps out of his seat, his glass dropping to the floor. He doesn’t realize that his mouth is wide open, “what the fuck? What the shit?” The room sways–or is it him, Gregory Lestrade, rocking? The crackling of the burning wood in the chimney, the ticking of the pendulum clock, and his breath are all sounds that float to Greg. Seconds-minutes-who knows how long? “What the fuck gave you the idea for this? And why?” No words can come out of his mouth, and he laughs as if nothing is clear. Well, it isn’t. “Okay, spell this out for me in simple syllables,” Greg’s squeaky sound echoes around the room. He plops into a chair, inclining his head back, hesitating to trust himself to see what the other man is doing. Mycroft needs to take full breaths. This won't be simple. To persuade Gregory. He has one secret weapon and will utilize it. But this–this is something Greg never expected to hear. He thought he would get another shot of more sex before going home. Or–maybe even sharing the bed for the night. But this? Mycroft's voice seems to come from a distance, “Sherlock agrees.” It required two days of Mycroft watching the young man throw fits of rage and whatever else he could lift before Sherlock acquiesced. Mycroft explains, "I’ve arranged a three bedroom flat in the center of London for both of you. Your monthly payment will be taken care of by me. You and Sherlock will handle the everyday items such as electricity and food.” Pausing, he drops his voice, “I will enter a sizeable amount in a bank account for your personal use, and you, Gregory Lestrade, will be advanced to Detective Inspector. Greg’s voice sounds croaky as a frog, “three–three–means we each have our own–beds? In our own rooms?” “The third room is a laboratory for Sherlock,” Mycroft says, contemplating his nails and waiting for the opportunity to proceed. “ First of all, your intimacy with him depends upon you two and no business of mine.” At that point, Mycroft gazes straight toward Greg to give him the full effect of his following words, “and–you will have access to me.” It seems like hours before Gregory says, with some mockery, “and what the shit does,” he air-quotes, “access mean? And be very precise in this, please.” “Access means what I infer it to be. I will give myself to you consistently as our timetables agree.” Greg looks up, the corners of his mouth turn in a sneer, and he spits out, “oh, so you are willing to sacrifice yourself for your brother–is that it? How noble of you!” “Thoroughly consider this–without sentiment clouding your thinking. You have a–certain fascination for me, and I–need you to stabilize my brother. So this admirable plan functions for all of us.” “And DI in London? Right? Not some grubby little town–right?” All Mycroft does is tap the arm of the seat, and Greg comprehends that he will have his dream job. But it comes at a high price. Marrying Sherlock. Living with Sherlock. Fuck it all! Mycroft, as usual, is right! Greg is thoroughly down the rabbit hole when it comes to Mycroft. Did the man plan it this way? Is this a calculated move? Greg doesn’t know and, in a way, doesn’t care. But nevertheless, he gets to have a piece of Mycroft–even if only his body. “Can I have some time to think this over? Greg says quietly. “After all, it is my life we’re discussing.” “Two days, Gregory.” ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dropping his coat, wallet, and clothes on the floor of his meager one-bedroom flat, Greg makes himself a quick meal and turns on the telly. He can’t concentrate on what is showing, so he turns it off. Ah, what the hell! Might as well hit the bed even though it’s early. But sleep is not on the menu for tonight. Restless as hell, he plants his feet on the cold wood floor, scratches his head, and walks to the kitchen area to heat water for his tea. If he must be awake, he might as well think about this weird proposal from Mycroft. He positions the pot and cup in his hands and sets them on the metal table close enough to the sofa to reach out and grab them. If he doesn't do anything and doesn’t make some sort of move, he’s stuck here until his next promotion, whenever the higher-ups decide that is to be. So, to have that as a caveat is like holding a giant lollipop out to a kid. Plus, he realizes he has a specific weakness for Mycroft Holmes. It’s not just the sex–although that plays a big part–it’s his breeding, savvy, meticulousness, behavior, appearance, and–oh, let’s face it–his everything! However, living with Sherlock Holmes won't be that simple. On a scale of one to ten, Sherlock’s irritating propensity for ceaselessly being correct is tiring and annoying. Concerning Sherlock’s working with the police–well–giving him not only retired cold cases but dragging him to new ones–that might be to Greg’s advantage. However, Greg’s colleagues despise Sherlock. But Greg doesn’t care about that. A minor glitch. Having someone who deduces scenes within minutes and sees things the ordinary person cannot is a real boon. But why live with him? Put up with him on a daily basis? Fact--he feels for Sherlock but like an older brother caring for his younger brother the same way Mycroft thinks about Sherlock. Fact--he is perpetually drawn to Mycroft. Not romantically-- but more on the physical end. Mycroft is a wonder in bed. He is a constant surprise with his finesse and capacity to be unendingly entertaining. But, well, perhaps it's more than that. Could it be, Greg thinks, that Mycroft may be somewhat charmed by him? Mycroft is brilliant, well versed in many fields--besides sex--and, just--and. Why shouldn't he take up this offer? If he can have bed time, wall time, floor time-- giggling inside while imagining sex acts on Mycrofts desk. Gregory Lestrade--marry the man you will. And of course, one significant benefit–he will be Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade! He can scarcely keep his eyes open and takes the teacup and pot to the kitchen. He’ll deliberate more tomorrow as he rearranges his tired body under the sheets. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Why the fuck does it have to be one of those nothing to write home about days? Through many cups of coffee and lots of drawn-out administrative work this entire day, Greg occasionally attempts to envision his new life. He reclines, rocking in his chair, to the extent that he almost tips back. He glares at the ceiling, expecting it to have an overview of his circumstance written across the yellowed ceiling panels. “Hey, Lestrade,” Anderson yells across the room, “want to do lunch?” Shit, no, he thinks to himself. Don’t need him digging around and hounding him. “Thanks, I’ll take a pass,” he waves across as the man leaves with the others. He pulls a half-eaten sandwich from this morning’s breakfast out of the bottom drawer and opens the can of pop that has become warm. So let’s see–for starters, assuming he proceeds with this dumb plan, his bank account would be brimming, plus there's that expensive three-bedroom flat with rent paid. But to marry Sherlock? For what goddamn reason is he still going back and forth? Last night he was proceeding with this undertaking, and today he's back to vacillating. Sighing deep into the space around him, he knows he will do this. The phone on his desk rings, and after paying attention to the person on the other end, he hops up to grab his coat. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kneeling on the steps of a four-story building beside a woman draped in an orange crisis blanket, Greg attempts to be patient and benevolent as he pays attention to her story. Everybody has a story to tell, and now and again, it tries Greg's patience. Especially today. But right now, he has to stay focused on this immediate issue. He hands the crying woman a tissue while genuinely attempting to comfort her and get information about what happened. She wipes her eyes and drops the used hanky in her lap, “he was so–kind–so good,” hiccuping and shrugging her shoulders, she cried. “Did you have any reason to think he would do this?” adjusting his notebook on one knee, while in it with his pencil, “anything that could be useful to us?” “You see,” her blonde ponytail wagging, her face wrinkling up. She prepared to cry once more, “Ralph married me because it would benefit both of us. It gave Ralph,” she belched, “excuse me,-- someone to look after him, and as for me, it was–well, sort of a good deed,” she wiped her hands on her wrinkled blue shirt. “How so?” “When we met, he was a recovering alcoholic. That was two months before we married, and he guaranteed he was going straight this time. And so–” turning her face to look into his eyes, sort of daring him to question, “I proposed. The thought was I would, you know, keep him straight, cook his dinners, and so on. He would not touch any alcohol.” Then, seeing the emergency vehicle conveying her dead spouse, she screams. It takes a while until she's sufficiently quiet to proceed, “Everything was going so well, and we were talking about our second anniversary, and then he–he,” she dissolves into tears. Greg closes the book. A case of alcohol poisoning. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- He’s occupied into the early evening hours as two more calls keep him on the street and, at long last, into the station to wrap up the events. Stepping out of the building, dodging around individuals, he keeps wavering on his decision. Perhaps he shouldn't. Perhaps he ought to. The evening moon is dimmed behind clouds and is essentially as shrouded as this venture idea of Mycroft's. It’s not been an easy path for Greg since he left home at sixteen. Ran away was more like it. His parents have never forgiven him for that night–how stressed they were until the police found him. He ran more than just that once. In his last year in school, one teacher took the time to listen. Because the teacher's son was a cop, Greg decided to try his hand at it. And going to the police academy was just the push he needed. But to this day, his relationship with his parents is still strained. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sitting on his lap is a late dinner of takeaway– Chinese noodles and a can of beer. Dressed in loose-fitting pajamas, his feet on the ottoman, the telly converts his brain from self-analysis to mush. And for that, he is extremely grateful. He places the leftovers in the fridge next to the other portions of Italian. He pees and brushes his teeth, inspects his face in the mirror, and finally, burnt out, he shuffles to his bed. He pulls the bedsheet towards his chin and grips it with one hand while coming to terms with the fact that he’s going to go through with this crazy-assed scheme. No matter how often he tries to change his mind, it always wanders back to a new life, a good life, and sex times with Mycroft. Fuck it, Gregory Lestrade! Go for it! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It’s the three of us. That’s Mycroft, Sherlock, and himself standing before the justice of the peace in the registrar's office. Within fifteen minutes, it’s over and done. Married. Sherlock has been very strangely quiet. No snarky remarks, twists of his mouth, or any of his usual attitude. In a way, Greg almost wishes that Sherlock would step away and vanish out the door. But it doesn’t happen. Instead, the older one vanishes without a nod or word to either of us. “How about–,” both in sync as we agree on lunch at the local diner. Sherlock listens as Greg goes on about a case he had yesterday but curiously, at least to Greg, Sherlock remains tight-lipped. “Sherlock–Greg,” again in sync with one another. Greg gives in, and Sherlock leans back, “You will go your way, and I’ll go mine.” Shaking his head in the affirmative, Greg states emphatically, “ we are to live together, but I agree we will have individual lives. If I want to–.” Sherlock pushes his back against the booth, “I assumed that. Try not to upset me with your–dalliances, and on the off chance that you insist on bringing them to our–.” his eyes sparkle with mischief, “ and, yes, that includes my brother.” “I get the drift,” Greg is irritated that he understands the goings on between Mycroft and himself. Bending closer to Greg, Sherlock’s eyes are wide with interest as he boldly demands, “now I want you to divulge all the fine points of the Florentine case, and don’t hold anything back.” ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Our flat is on the tenth floor of the recently built fifteen-floor building in the city's heart, and Mycroft has done it up so beautifully he is astonished. Cool greens and muted browns cover the walls of the three-bedroom suites, each with its own bathroom. What could be better than king-sized beds and the bathrooms with whirlpool tubs? The kitchen is well-equipped with all the necessities. The sophistication of the furnishings is well in keeping with Mycroft's sense of good taste. There is nothing forgotten and nothing that Greg can scoff at. The third room is a research facility for Sherlock's use. Nothing has been neglected, and everything has its place. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Mycroft, you fucker, you shithead. It’s been almost two months, and not once have you answered my calls. You seem to have forgotten we had a deal. You conned me. You dick–you–,” hanging up the call for the zillionth time, murmuring into his hand as it wipes across his face. The nerve! The gall! Gullible, bird-brain, you are! Succumbing to his song and dance! To figure Mycroft would give of himself wholeheartedly is the level of stupidity. Greg, you let your cock lead and not your brain! Stupid! Stupid you! Sherlock taunts him, hearing that last attempt to gain Mycroft’s attention, “What did you think would be the outcome? Did you think my brother would willingly–” as Greg enters the parlor. Sherlock’s legs are folded under as he sits in his dark cowhide seat, and he chortles, “my brother plays by his rules and no one else's. Least of all yours.” Nonchalantly Sherlock tosses the manila folder he had perched on his lap into the air, and it lands at Greg’s feet. The newly-promoted detective picks it up and flings it with a flourish on the heap of papers that lay on the table. Of course, he’s upset. Sherlock isn't making it any simpler as he proceeds with his tirade, “He pulled you in and subsequently, when he achieved his goal, he took off, didn't he?” Greg sighs and plops into the vacant seat, not knowing what to do. Sherlock says, “Husband of mine, I'll message Mycroft and have him revoke this travesty of a marriage, and we can both go our separate ways.” His mobile is already in hand. “Wait,” Greg holds his hand over Sherlock’s phone and states, “let’s think this through.” “What do you propose we do?” Sherlock impassively glances at the only file left untouched and drops his mobile in his lap with a decisive snap. “What if we leave it status quo? Our situation is not bad. We have adapted very well. How about it?” since Greg knows he has no other choice and envisions Sherlock as similarly situated. Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it, before moving himself to the kitchen. Greg joins him and bends over the sink to wash the few dishes left from a recent meal. Sherlock has no sense of preserving a clean, well-kept place, and it generally falls to Greg to maintain their flat. He doesn’t mind, though. A sense of self-satisfaction goes along with it. Sherlock turns the burner on the stove and places the teapot on top. Greg inwardly has to sigh because he knows he’s been used. He has been outwitted by a man who is far superior in intellect to him. But how he will miss those occasional moments in time with Mycroft! Hearing the sniff from Sherlock means that Sherlock has surmised what is boiling in Greg’s brain. Shit man! Greg rattles his mug against the counter, pours water, drops the tea bag in, and kicks at the table leg, removing himself to his room. Can’t do this, he thinks. But – he’s trapped! -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shrill chiming of his mobile startles him awake within how long of dropping to sleep? Leaning over to pick the phone off the floor, it lights, and Greg groans. Three–sixteen am. He states, “Detective Inspector Lestrade here,” with a cracked and dry voice. “ Wilcox, sir. You’re needed at Bradshire and Essex. Two men dead,” and the call ends. Upon hearing that brief declaration, Greg springs up and drags his clothing to him. The same clothing he had worn earlier. A quick splash of water over his face, and he’s off to headquarters. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Once at headquarters, he runs for a vehicle, shouting orders but notices the idiot already waiting. Sherlock! How does he know about this? Does he never sleep? Sherlock hops in the back while Sargeant Wilcox takes the passenger seat. Greg hears the slight humph from the sergeant knowing how a large portion of the police dislikes this person who tackles so many of their unsolvable cases – and solves them. The night is crisp, and the overhead clouds forecast the downpour yet to come later this day. Greg drives north to their victims ' location, turning on the light bar and alarm from the squad car. His adrenaline surges, and goosebumps jump out on his arm. “Two men,” Sherlock says, the excitement bumping his voice up. He says, “ A region regularly abandoned during the evening. So what were they doing there? Or – ohhh, so much better yet–” his delight, his grin lopsided as he collects data from who knows what part of his brain. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Curls flopping over his temple and into his eyes, Sherlock glides effortlessly under the police tape and advances on the two dead men. He inches around them, noticing the bodies and how they are positioned in the alleyway between two one-story structures. Stooping to one knee, he removes a pencil from his coat and slides it under the jacket of the bigger of the two men. “Button missing. Torn off. Struggle. He and the other were not resisting very hard. Ah, yes, a gun was directed at them. Identification on them?” Sherlock turns his head to the other cops. Greg asks the closest officer, “Did anyone remove anything from their pockets? Did you find any ID on either of them?” “No, sir. Nothing has been touched,” the youngest of the officers' volunteers. “Judging by the wounds,” Sherlock announces, “ it was an Asian knife. I would say a Santoku. Kitchen knife utilized for cutting poultry.” Shifting around to the following body, he stands, “ Look for the nearest Asian butcher–,” removing his mobile, enthusiastically tapping it, and drawing nearer to Greg so he can also see the screen. Sherlock continues, “Most likely, the killer is someone from this shop. Revenge killings.” His eyes widen abruptly, and he steps back, struggling to find the words, “oh, no, no, no, not that simple. The bodies would be in the river, assuming that it is someone from this shop.” Sherlock downs on one knee and shouts at the officer standing near, “Get me gloves,” excitedly shooing the young man away, “and hurry.” “I have some,” says Greg, pulling gloves from his coat pocket,” and slaps them into Sherlock's hand. Greg watches him meticulously search each body, opening their clothing and sniffing them like a canine. “Lestrade. The killer was a loner and knew what he was doing. He took wallets and jewelry to make it look like a robbery. And you won’t find fingerprints.” He was still hovering over the bodies but occasionally turning to gaze at Greg. “So, what is your guess– uh– perception of this?” Greg squats next to the consulting detective, Sherlock. Greg is half irritated that he allows this man to assume command. But, on the other hand, the half respects his capacity to deduce so quickly. “Professional at work. Not tied to any Chinese organization but rather has made it seem as though it would be them,” he stood up and extended his whole body length. “We ought to talk with the owner of the closest butcher shop, which–” tapping vigorously on his phone, “by the time shown will have the owner on the premises. He will have noticed the knife missing from his inventory,” and he hurries away, leaving Greg to pursue him. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The two perpetrators were in custody within two days, and Greg’s men and Sherlock were wrapping things up at headquarters. Sherlock is bouncing, sighing, and being an all round pest. “Too simple, Lestrade. Too simple,” Sherlock said, walking out, his coat swirling around him. Greg inwardly cringes, and even though he respects Sherlock's capabilities, he can't stand his hissy fits. “Not so simple for us. The cocky prick,” Sargent Ridgewood says, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Leave him alone. Ignore his idiocy. It would have taken us a lot more hours on our own to sort it out,” says Greg patting her on the back, “go and take a break.” ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Damn this constant London rain! Greg has dragged himself through a heavy rain-soaked mid-afternoon, and his temper is short. His thoughts are about a warm cup of tea and dry garments. He still has three more hours on his shift and is on his third cup of coffee in the last hour. Have to stop this – the caffeine. Too much never really makes a difference. Removing his shoes, he opens the bottom desk drawer searching for the other socks he keeps there, and slams it shut in frustration. He previously utilized the last pair and neglected to bring one more in. So he'll need to manage with soggy ones for the time being. Damn shit! He attempts to unwind as he's watching the clock from the corner of his eye. “Hey, Sherlock.. I'll be home in about an hour. Order pasta? If it's not too much trouble? Put my robe on the seat in the parlor. I’ll walk in, strip, and jump into a hot shower,” Greg said, shutting off the call. The clock will not move any quicker. Damn shit! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When he gets home, relief floods his body as he walks in the door and sheds his jacket and shirt; however, there is no indication of a robe, much less the scent of fragrant hot Italian food. What's more, there is no sign of Sherlock anywhere. “Sherlock,” Greg calls out stridently, “where the fuck are you?” He walks, no, he stomps, down the hall but is met halfway down by a disheveled-haired Sherlock. Sherlock is wearing his stained leather apron, and one gloved hand is holding some sort of glass beaker. Sherlock gazes at Greg in shock. “Oh, is it that time already?” Sherlock says wide-eyed, twirling around. He strolls back to his lab, failing to remember Greg is there. “Stop,” Greg shouts, “what are you doing?” his fury overrides the rumbling of his stomach. “Let me divest myself of this equipment,” Sherlock yells back, “and I’ll call for our meal.” Greg snarls low in his throat, “don't bother. I'll do it,” shuffling into the bathroom and keeping his cool while letting the hot water of the shower drain off the last of his temper. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sitting in the kitchen eating the hot pasta finally delivered, Greg savors the warmth of his fuzzy robe and the feeling of satisfaction. Just that! Satisfied with this moment, this second, and nothing else. Greg looks at Sherlock, who sits perusing one of twelve science books he has lying on the floor close to his seat. “Look, Sherlock. I know you have your own things that you do, but – it would be nice if once – just once you could look to cleaning the kitchen – or cooking something or –.” “Greg. You would not like my cooking.” “Okay, I grant you that. But you have to take on something here. I do all the work in the house.” Sherlock’s fork stays lifted while he contemplates the strands of pasta and the sauce that covers it. Sherlock looks up and states, “Of what use is making one's bed when one only musses it again? Or setting a book here instead of there when one will only pick it up to read again?” “Stop!” Greg calls out, becoming furious at Sherlock's attempt to be rational. Lifting his fork to his mouth, Greg chews slowly, tries to control his temper, and cautiously sets the fork down on the table. There has to be a way he can get through to this man. “Sherlock Holmes–my husband. You tell me what you expect to do around here besides your—” almost saying damn stupid tests, but stopping short, “experiments.” “I’ve always had an interest in the science of food” –, Sherlock replies, although his reply is grumpy. Before he goes further, Greg stands and snatches Sherlock’s empty plate, “Aha!” pointing his finger toward Sherlock, “you have put yourself on the hook. Why not apply that to actual cooking–and see if you can come up with some sort of meals for us? I’ll be your guinea pig.” Greg sees Sherlock's eyes light, and Greg breaks into an evil smile, “if you mess up the kitchen, it’s your cleanup.” “You have seen before you the beginnings of a culinary expert, ” Sherlock says, jumping up, and Greg sees Sherlock opening and slamming cabinet doors. And damn that kid! Anything Sherlock takes on, he masters, and now besides hearing him boast about his criminal investigator abilities, Greg might have to listen to raptures of his cooking prowess. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mycroft is mindful that it's been three years and twenty-five days since he touched London’s soil. He steps off the plane into a faintly sprinkling rainy day. But his heart is thumping fiercely. He's in the same city as – him. He who has haunted his subconscious, his essence, since the day they met. He had an assignment that left him without a choice. He was in a world of intrigue and international concerns that didn't permit any outside relationships. And that included one Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft sniffs the air, fancying he can catch the scent of the minty toothpaste and the lemony aroma of cologne that is Greg's. Sliding onto the dark cowhide seat in the limo, he lifts his mobile phone to call but stops while his finger is still mid-air. First, he should invigorate himself with a back rub from his masseuse and a hot shower. A quick meal that will consist of a clear broth and wheat bread, and when he’s enveloped in his Egyptian cotton robe, satiated and unhurried, he’ll make that all-important call. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mycroft’s voice comes through the mobile as soft and luxurious as silk. “My car will pick you up at 7:30 this evening,” and he hangs up as Greg stares incredulously at his mobile. He almost didn’t answer it because it gave no name, and thought it was a spam call. “Problem?” says the officer who steps into his office and sees Greg staring at his mobile. Greg must dive out of the unbelievable confusion and hysteria claiming him and into the present moment. But – that was – Mycroft Holmes! What the fuck? After all this time? Letting go of the instrument, Greg clears his throat and attempts to gather some semblance of normalcy as he has to address his collegiate Holloway. “No. No problem at all,” holding out his hand and letting Holloway reach over to shake it. “You did a great job. Thanks,” and Greg sits still until Holloway leaves. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- So what now? Over three years have gone by, and now – this unexpected call. It leaves Greg stymied. What does Mycroft want or expect now? “Hmm,” he murmurs out loud to rid himself of the anxiety he feels. He taps in his home number, and Sherlock answers. Greg says, “Hey there. I won’t be–.” Sherlock replies, speaking over him, “My reptile of a brother is back in London, isn’t he? He calls his lackey immediately. That’s you – and you will hurry to him, won’t you?” and Sherlock hangs up. Greg sits – sits – tapping his fingers on the desk. And continues to sit. He’s immobile. But his heart, pulse, and reasoning, which wind in and out of the corridors of memory, are beating like drums in the jungle. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Greg doesn't leave the station immediately at seven-thirty, which makes him sort of late – by Mycroft’s accounts – because anything more than a moment is late to Mycroft. Greg avoids asking the driver where he’s being taken as he ducks into the back of the limo. He fumbles with his coat, phone, and jacket – anything to keep his hands still. His thoughts, however, refuse to calm down. He doesn’t know what to expect from Mycroft after all this time. Whatever it is, Greg is not prepared to crumble under pressure from Mycroft Holmes. Not anymore. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The car stops, the door opens, and the driver speaks two words to him, “top floor,” and before Greg can change his mind, the vehicle is gone. Well, in reality, he could hop into a taxi or take the tube, and he’s gone. But his curiosity has gotten the best of him, so there’s no turning away. He takes king-size breaths and tries to shake off the nerves attacking him. The lift door slides open, and he gulps more air as he is taken aback at the room in front of him. Its three walls are floor-to-ceiling windows that give a view of London's skyline. Bookshelves line any blank wall spaces. The brown leather sofa and immense cushioned chairs sit on a floral carpet. What holds his attention is the prodigious desk of carved mahogany wood with the man himself leaning on the front of the desk – as though posturing for a magazine The lord of all he reviews! His legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting behind him on the desktop, his face a mask of pure nothingness. Mycroft Holmes! He doesn’t look much different from years past. Greg can feel the aura of wealth radiating from the grey three-piece suit matched by the shirt and tie the man is wearing. Mycroft’s face is noncommittal, neither frown nor smile as he moves forward, advancing to within a hands distance of Greg. Tentatively Mycroft reaches out with one hand, and with grave misgivings, unsure of his acceptance, he lays his palm on the front of the detective's jacket. Greg doesn't have the foggiest idea where to go, what to do, or how to do whatever he thinks he is expected to do. So he waits like a child, not sure if he will be scolded or embraced. Embraced? No! But that's what Mycroft’s arms are doing; that has Greg so stiff, afraid to move. It isn’t until Mycroft closes in on him and nips his neck that Greg finally emerges from his daze and pushes Mycroft away. Greg shoves Mycroft hard enough to hit the desk with the rear of his knees, and Mycroft almost topples backward. “What the fuck are you doing?” says Greg as he lurches forward, and with two hands, he seizes Mycroft's lapels and shakes him. Mycroft pushes Greg away from him, creating some space, and brushes his clothing as though something filthy had dirtied them. As though nothing has happened, Mycroft sits, crosses his legs, and in a voice without inflection, “good to see you once more, Gregory.” Is it conceivable, Greg thinks, that Mycroft Holmes does not notice how upset he is? Greg sets his feet apart, places his hands in his jeans pockets, and waits. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mycroft collects himself, tamping down his emotions. Regardless of the time elapsed, he still feels attracted to the Inspector. But the vibes are not right. Something is off. Having to wait all these years was as intolerable as the relentless secret meetings and endless travel he had to finish before he could get back home to London. “Mister Lestrade. Happy to see you once more. I was–.” “It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade to you. And by the way, I’ve earned that title.” Hearing the snarl in Greg's voice sends shivers throughout Mycroft. While walking in circles and throwing his arms around wildly, Greg states, “You mother fucker. You absolute shithead! Did you think you could waltz back into my life after – after – .” “Three years and twenty-six days, by my reckoning,” Mycroft utters, making a solid attempt to gather his thoughts and rebuild their relationship. “Shut the fuck up,” Greg points a finger toward Mycroft without a thought other than anger, “ this is no joke. Asshole.” Greg is currently so enraged he doesn't have the foggiest idea of what to say or how to voice it. So all that comes out is swear words. Words that don’t convey the utter ridiculousness of this moment. And this man. Greg can’t stop pacing as he tries to unthink the notion of putting two hands around Mycroft’s throat and –. “You–you–control freak. You think you can have the upper hand in everything or every person around you. Is that it? We’re only mere mortals – while you – you –,” pulling at his hair, his legs finally giving out, and Greg falls into the nearest chair. He can’t look at Mycroft without wanting – needing some physical retaliation. “ Well, you see, not this time, Mycroft. You don't get to have your way,” surprised at the strength in his voice. Greg stands and closes the space between them until there's no room for another person to squeeze in between. “Yeah,” pointing his finger and shaking it vigorously, “this is no longer your business. You have no say or right to dictate to Sherlock or myself.” Mycroft is so taken aback by the ferocity of the detective that he has to step back. Then, feeling the solidity of the desk behind him, he turns and moves behind his desk, creating a barrier. Mycroft lifts the lid of his laptop, and his fingers tap, tap while he looks at the screen. “Over the last year, you've enjoyed sexual congress with--one,” Mycroft begins but stops abruptly when the cover is sharply shut on his hand. “Keep out of my--out of our personals. And I do mean Sherlock’s also,” Greg replies. Greg is more mindful of what is essential to him now than all those years ago when he thought Mycroft would figure prominently. And now, Mycroft is not a part of his life anymore. Greg then reiterates, “no, don't speak. Don't,” waving his hand around as he tries to come to terms with his true feelings. “Do you know, Mycroft Holmes, that I would have done anything you asked at one time in the past? Been anything you wanted me to be?” Greg’s shoulders slump as his breath is taken out of him. Well, that’s a truth he realizes is as old as stale bread, and he lets out half a laugh, “ yeah. I actually would have, wouldn't I?” More to himself than to Mycroft. Gathering himself, stretching, and breathing deep, Greg continues, more honest and open to the truth than ever. “This is my show now. And I'm living a life I love. Which is–” and now Greg dares to look Mycroft square in the eyes. “Nope. Not going there. My life and Sherlock's life is now none of your fucking business.” He about faces, stiff as a soldier, head held high, walks to the door, opens it, and shuts it behind him. What's more, it leaves Mycroft sitting frozen stiff, his eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

Notes:For more of my fics my user name on Archive is arlenejp

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sensei-aishitemasu · 4 years

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2020 Black-Owned Gift Guide!

It’s that time again! Our SIXTH ANNUAL BLACK-OWNED GIFT GUIDE IS HERE!!!! This Black Friday, try and support a Black-owned business for all your gift-giving needs. For last years gift guide, click here. For the 2018 gift guide, click here. For the 2017 gift guide, click here. For the 2016 gift guide, click here. For the 2015 gift guide, click here.

Similar to previous lists, I kept every individual item listed under $100! Click on the links to be taken to the websites in order to peruse more yourselves: all businesses listed are Black-owned, and many are run by Black women, Black Americans specifically, manufactured here in the United States, and/or sustainably and ethically sourced with philanthropic causes attached to sales! Check them out.

In addition, this year there are THREE NEW CATEGORIES! Check out items for the ‘Goth/Kawaii,’ for your ‘Activist Bae,’ and for the ‘Esoteric’ down below.

[As always, this guide has been split into categories to make it easier to get through, but feel free to mix and match for the person in your life that fits all of (or none of!) these categories!]

For the Homebody:

Lettie Gooch Small Safety Matches, $18 Lettie Gooch Amber & Moss Soy Candle, $20 Lettie Gooch White Concrete White Tea & Ginger Candle, $28 Lettie Gooch Planetarium Throw Blanket, $68 Lettie Gooch Soleil Throw Blanket, $68

Debra Cartwright ‘Bike’ Watercolor Print, $38 Debra Cartwright ‘Aura’ Watercolor Print, $87 Debra Cartwright ‘Astro Millennial Ladies in Quarantine’ Coloring Book, $5

Harlem Candle Company ‘Brownstone’ Luxury Candle, $45 Harlem Candle Company ‘Lenox’ Luxury Room Spray, $30 Harlem Candle Company ‘Langston’ Luxury Room Spray, $30

Jungalow Genie Vase, $89 Jungalow Handwoven Peach Planter, $49 Jungalow Azul Face Pillow by Justina Blakeney X Loloi, $89 Jungalow Soft Mint Pillow, $89 Jungalow Aja Wallpaper in Green by Justina Blakeney, $5 (per sheet) Jungalow Tigris Wallpaper in Onyx by Justina Blakeney, $5 (per sheet) Jungalow Cream Looped Wool Rug, $99.00 Jungalow Silvia Teal & Berry Rug by Justina Blakeney X Loloi, $69.00 Jungalow Striped Orange Outdoor Rug, $59.00 Jungalow Reindeer Games Hook Pillow by Justina Blakeney, $60.00 Jungalow Peace Vase by Justina Blakeney, $68.00

Kashmir Viii ‘S is for Soul’ Print, $35-$45

Galerie LA Rooted Incense Holder, $45

Duchess365 358 Art Print, $23.99

Jeff Manning Art ‘Aplomb’ Art Print, $45 Jeff Manning Art ‘Pacific’ Art Print, $30

Kicky Mats ‘Get Naked’ Bath Mat, $30 Kicky Mats ‘Did You Wash Your Hands?’ Doormat, $50 Kicky Mats ‘Go Away, Come Back With Wine’ Doormat, $50 Kicky Mats ‘Did You Call First?’ Doormat, $50

228 Grant Street Candle Co. Tobacco + Patchouli Gold Travel Tin, $11 228 Grant Street Candle Co. Wild Blackberry + Absinthe Amber Jar, $21 228 Grant Street Candle Co. Oakmoss + Amber Apothecary Jar, $32

Shea Makery Strawberry Cheesecake Signature Candle, $40 Shea Makery Cinna-Bowl Signature Candle, $40

The Silver Room Cider and Cedar Leaf Candle, $34 The Silver Room Rose Water & Tea Leaves Diffuser, $28 The Silver Room Minnie Ripperton - Les Fleur Vinyl, $26

Rituals + Ceremony Anonomy Sculptures, $79 Rituals + Ceremony USB Travel Ultrasonic Essential Oil Diffuser, $25

Handcrafted Ceramic Watering Cans, $64

Fill More Waste Less Natural Loofah Sponge, $2.50 Fill More Waste Less Food Huggers, $12. 99

Ment Nelson Backwoods Baptism Print, $50 Ment Nelson Old Sheldon Print, $40

Quarantine Games!

Trading Races, $19.99

Winsults, $25

Cards For All People - Black Card Revoked (First Edition), $17.99

Trap Wars - The Urban Game Night Experience, $22.99

Lyrically Correct 90's & 2000's Hip Hop/R&B Edition, $24.99

Black Wall Street - The Black History Board Game, $49.99

Pull Your Card Music Trivia: Hip Hop Edition, $14.99

Spill It Card Game, $23

'Verified' A Party Game for Social Media Lovers (Original Edition), $19.99

For the Foodie:

Kashmir Viii ‘The Black Power’ Mixtape Coasters, $40 Kashmir Viii ‘Reclaim It’ Mug, $16 Kashmir Viii ‘I Slay.’ Clutch, $45

Galerie LA Peak and Valley Balance Blend, $30

‘The Cooking Gene,’ by Michael W. Twitty, $28.99

‘From Crook to Cook: Platinum Recipes From the Boss Dog’s Kitchen’ by Snoop Dogg, $24.95

Essie Spice Signature Sauce Collection, $42

‘Your Guide to Tasteful Manners’ with Love Cork Screw, $19.95

‘Deliciously Vegan’ Cookbook by The Chic Natural, $28.95

EAT Apron, $30

Midnight Reflections Crowned White Ceramic Mug, $19.99

The Spice Suite Utensils + Oven Mitts, $50 The Spice Suite ‘The Little Black Spice Book’ (E-book), $30

Rituals + Ceremony Circle Mug, $40 Rituals + Ceremony Agate 6pc Plate Set, $24

Blk + Grn Stainless Steel Tea Ball Infuser, $4

Fill More Waste Less Reusable Tea Strainer, $14.99

Good Thoughts Tea Co. Tea Spoon Set, $12

KazvareMadeIt Personalised Alphabet Mug Tile Print, $20.99 KazvareMadeIt Banananana Cushion, $55.80

Addie Rawr ‘Addie's Cocktail Collection’ (Cards & Prints), $3.75

For the Beauty Guru:

Lettie Gooch Blends Perfume: Earth, $30 Lettie Gooch Bloom Perfume Blend No. 586, $48

Galerie LA Hand Sanitizer, $10 Galerie LA Cream Cleanser, $16 Galerie LA Citrine Sea Tropical Exfoliator, $18 Galerie LA Botanica Rose Roller, $14 Galerie LA Botanica Lavender Roller, $14 Galerie LA Aurora Superfood Elixer (Face Serum), $27 Galerie LA Jade Eye Mask, $44 Galerie LA Rose Quartz Facial Roller, $28.00

Shea Makery Scar Healing Serum, $23 Shea Makery Cinnamon Bun Body Butter, $25 Shea Makery Glazed Donut Body Butter, $25 Shea Makery Milk + Honey + Syrup Bubble Bath, $22 Shea Makery Honeycomb Bath Set, $16

The Lip Bar Cheek and Eye Palette, $15 The Lip Bar ‘Goddess’ Lipgloss, $14 The Lip Bar ‘Bawse Lady’ Liquid Matte Lipstick, $13 The Lip Bar ‘4:00 Stuntin' Fast Face Kit,’ $99 The Lip Bar Limited Edition Easy Holiday Glam Collection, $25 The Lip Bar ‘Lip Bar Littles,’ $18.99 The Lip Bar Minimalist Lovers Bundle, $36

Auda B. Beauty Soy Polish Remover, $26

Breukelen Polished ‘Paid and Full,’ $11 Breukelen Polished ‘Get Me Right’ Treatment Set, $25

Beauty Bakerie ‘Milk & Honey’ Highlighting Brush, $18 Beauty Bakerie ‘Coffee and Cocoa’ Bronzer Palette, $38 Beauty Bakerie ‘Black Egg-cellence’ Beauty Sponges, $18 Beauty Bakerie ‘Sugar Cookies’ Palette, $28 Beauty Bakerie ‘The Butter’ Hydrasilk Primer, $24

Mented Mini Brush Trio, $10 Mented Everyday Eyeshadow Palette, $28 Mented Brush Collection, $45 Mented Holiday Faves Trio, $50

Blac Minerals Highlight Bundle, $32

Danessa Myricks Beauty Oil, $30 Danessa Myricks Waterproof Cream Palettes, $36 Danessa Myricks Luxe Cream Palettes ‘The Nudist,’ $44

Pear Nova ‘Holiday Essentials’ Nail Set, $90

Habit Cosmetics Nail Polish in Voodoo, $18 Habit Cosmetics Nail Polish in Midnight Cowboy, $18 Habit Cosmetics Nail Polish in Black Orpheus, $18 Habit Cosmetics Nail Polish in Scarab, $18

Hunny Bunny Cuticle Cream, $4.50 Hunny Bunny Grapefruit Sugar Scrub, $20

Taupe Coat in Good Fortune, $11

More Brands To Try:

People of Color Beauty

Mischo Beauty

Suite Eleven

Brown Butter Beauty

Beija Flor Naturals

Plain Jane Beauty

Ancient Cosmetics

Hue Noir

Lotus Moon Skincare

For the Fashion Conscious:

Merit ‘Fate’ Bucket Hat, $20

Chris Cardi Signature TwistDYE Tee, $33

Lettie Gooch Black Mineral Washed Jacquard Leggings, $68 Lettie Gooch ‘Smiling On The Inside’ Mask, $28

Kashmir Viii Face Masks, $16 Kashmir Viii ‘Around The Way Girl’ Clutch, $45-$60

Galerie LA Hemp Tie Button Down Sage, $90 Galerie LA Gratia Jumpsuit Tumeric, $100 Galerie LA Red Zipper Wallet, $45 Galerie LA Dopp Kitt (Makeup Bag) in Navy, $40 Galerie LA Lunar Star Earrings, $100 Galerie LA Meria Sunglasses Coral Pink, $75 Galerie LA Oda Ring, $45 Galerie LA Sabbath Cocoon Tunic, $85

Tree Fairfax Keychain, $22.50 Tree Fairfax Lois Belt, $45

LoveCortnie Polka Dot Leather Key Chain Clasps, $15 LoveCortnie Small Leather Tassel, $17 LoveCortnie ‘Color Me’ Coin Purse, $30 LoveCortnie Envelope Card Holder (Black & White), $32

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serenasoutherlyns · 3 years

Text

Not a Summer Crush Part Four

a/n: this is a long one! enjoy. this chapter features coffee, colds, cuteness, serena southerlyn, schemes, saturdays. all feedback makes me LOVE you, so please please reblog, reply, like, anything! you can always find this on ao3 as well. happy evening, and part five coming at you soon!

Part Four

"Haley," Anderson stopped you in the kitchen the next day. He was reaching into the fridge to get one of the terrible salads he always ate and you were rinsing out your French press (you figured, there were plenty of coffee shops nearby but a) you didn't need to be spending your money like that and b) the way the grounds fell as you pushed them slowly to the bottom had more than once brought you moments of enlightenment). You didn't stop to listen initially but he continued. "Haley," he said, "how do you do," he paused, gestured to your whole body, "that."

You looked at him, blinked, expecting him to clarify, but he did not. You laughed at him, gently, appropriately. "I don't know, Anderson, I was born 27 years ago," he winced, "I did some things, I'll do some more things, in fact, I spend most of my time doing," you gestured to yourself, "this."

He opened his mouth a few times, trying to think of what he meant, but said, "I mean, you work sex crimes, and you're so,"

"Exuberant?" You said.

"I was going to say bubbly."

"Hm."

"Forget I said anything."

"No," you said, taking pity on the guy. "It's ok," you patted his shoulder, "You learn to deal with it, right? I mean, I think I am."

“How do you keep it from getting to you?” His question made you laugh, then your face fell, something serious behind your eyes.

“It gets to me. I’m so sad all the time. But if I always acted how I felt, I don’t think I could do it.”

"Right," he said, not quite convinced. "Look I've been with homicide for five months and I still don't think I'm there yet."

"Give up or give it more time then," you said to him with a raise of your newly cleaned French press and a shrug. As you walked back to your office (you had banned him from having meals in there in your first week on the job) he watched the way you occasionally raised yourself up on your toes, in awe at your apparent ability to stay sunny.

Someone else noticed your little rise and lower. Alex Cabot had, today, decided to leave the blinds to her office door open. It was so she could catch moments just like this one, you bopping along in the hallway with your coffee maker, somewhere between walking and dancing.

Fuck, she thought, not even bothering to stop the grin, that's so cute.

Alex had talked to Casey. Well, Casey brought it up, actually, but Alex would have.

---

"So, I talked to Rita," Casey'd said almost before she shut the door behind her.

"Good evening to you, too, baby," Alex said, greeting her in the entranceway, kissing her sweetly. Casey smiled into it. Casey broke the kiss and walked towards their living room, her body aching for a comfortable seat. Alex walked behind her, pinching her (lovely perfect gorgeous) ass, causing her wife to yelp in the silly way she reserved for Alex alone. Casey always flopped onto the couch, which had originally annoyed Alex. She'd once insisted Alex try it, and while she did not move to change her habits, she admitted to seeing the appeal.

Alex, having followed Casey to the couch, bypassed the ample seating and chose the same side as her wife, who was sitting against the arm rather than the back, providing a perfect avenue for Alex to make her way up her body, continuing what she'd started. When Casey moaned, Alex got up and walked to the kitchen, ignoring Casey's whines. Alex picked up the plates where she'd put dinner (ok, it was carryout, but still, plates!) and joined Casey, another habit that was Casey's first, this one she was happy to go along with.

Casey and Alex sat on the floor, playing quiet music and making their usual conversation, routine and comforting.

"So, you talked to Rita?"

"Mm, mmhmm," Casey said, Alex having caught her mid-asparagus-bite. They laughed. "Yeah, I talked to Rita. She almost broke my door down to ask if I was sleeping with Caroline.”

Alex paled, “I was just talking to Serena about the same thing.”A panicked look flashed across Casey’s eyes. “Oh god, no, I don’t think you’re cheating on me. I mean, I went to Serena’s to be all emotional about Caroline.”

“I nearly cried.”

“In front of Rita Calhoun? And she didn’t melt?”

Casey scoffed, “She’s made me cry so many times.”

“I try to forget that fact,” Alex said.

“Fair enough. Anyway, apparently, her prowess in deductive reasoning led her to believe that I was having an affair.”

“A one-sided affair, that’s new.”

“Two-sided, unless both of us are only one side.”

“Two-sided implies there’s something there.”

“Isn’t there?”

“Isn’t that it.”

“Yeah.”

They both picked at their salads, wondering why Alex had bought salad. Casey looked up at the ceiling, Alex looked down, fiddled with the rug. Alex skipped a couple songs on her phone.

“Casey, what are we going to do about this. I don’t, I mean, I think, um.”

“I don’t know. I guess, our options are, pursue what we want or don’t and get over it.”

“If you put it that way,” Alex said, pausing, “I think we need to know what we want.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you. I want us both to be really happy, and I want her.”

Casey took a sip of her wine, agreeing with her fingertips, taking Alex’s hand. “You said what I was thinking.”

“What do you want, though? Serena said this thing about me being upset over a threesome we haven’t had and I kind of thought like, I don’t think I just want sex, um. I don’t know if that’s how you feel.”

“I do feel that way, actually, Lex.”

Casey held their hands up to her cheek, kissed Alex’s.

“So we’re pursuing that?”

“So we’re pursuing that.”

“What if,” Alex started. Casey responded with a shrug, and Alex thoughtfully nodded.

---

So, they were pursuing it. What that was going to mean was unclear as of the moment Alex saw you being very cute in the hallway, but they’d agreed that they wanted some kind of relationship, romantic, sexual. They wouldn’t want it if you only wanted one of them, they wouldn’t want just sex. It all would work out, Alex hoped. Casey was more confident than she was, but Alex had more of a cautious spirit when it came to relationships. They were well balanced. Alex hoped (and hoped and hoped) that you would want them. She gave herself a few more moments to smile, then turned back to her work.

Despite Anderson’s impressions and what Alex saw, you were not, in fact, feeling good. It was the middle of summer, but you couldn’t get warm. It’s just a cold, you thought, as you held your hands against the warmth of the coffee. Your cases were getting overwhelming, and you couldn’t afford to take any time off right now, not even to be sick in bed. Getting sick in the summer was exactly your luck.

A knock on your door startled you. You quickly collected your composure, turned on your peppy demeanor (you told the truth to Anderson: you learned how to seem OK a long time ago).

“Hey,” Casey said. “Are you in court at all today?”

You shook your head. “No, just paperwork, research. Why?”

Casey shrugged. “Thought you might want to have lunch or something.”

“I ate already,” you lied. You just didn’t want to request a place that served chicken soup. Your appetite had disappeared. “Sorry,” you said with an apologetic smile. “You want some coffee?” you asked, gesturing to the full pot.

“Sure, actually. The setup is a smart idea.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, getting up to pour two cups. “My apologies for the lack of sugar and cream.”

“Ah, it’s ok.” Casey said, accepting the cup and sitting down across from you in the extra chair. “No honey?”

“Alex told you,” You said, smiling, and Casey nodded. “It’s more of a special occasion thing.”

You watched her blow on the drink, her lips pursed over the top of it. They were a lovely shade of pink, you decided. She stuck her tongue out a bit when she took a sip, like a butterfly and its proboscis, you thought. You promptly scolded yourself for thinking that sort of thing at work. You had been considering Ramin’s advice, to “use your feminine wiles” on Casey and Alex, make them want you so bad that they believed it was their idea. It was sneaky and exciting. You’d resolved to start doing tiny, almost unnoticeable things around them (however convincing they could be when congested). Before you sat, you brushed your hand along your hip; as you held your mug, you ran your fingers along the handle.

“How’s your day going?” you asked her, knowing she’d had lots of tough cases recently. SVU had brought you on as a junior ADA because with the rising awareness of sexually-based crimes (a good inconvenience), the caseloads had risen to an all-time height, even after they brought Gillian back in to cover some cases. They were both very relieved that the gamble the office had taken in hiring a young person, whose experience had mostly been in property crimes, had worked out. It stood to reason, Casey had pushed for a younger lawyer, knowing first hand how much of a strength that could be; and when Alex had seen two Stanford degrees on your C.V., she felt sure too. You’d been a good choice. Still, you were all four overextended.

“Eh, it’s been fine, all things considered,” Casey replied. She watched as you fiddled with the tips of your hair. You’d begun wearing it curly more often, which had proven to be somewhat distracting for her. “How good can any day be in this line of work.”

You agreed with a nod. “I was just talking to Anderson about that.”

“What did he have to say?” Casey asked, knowing the attorney’s propensity for putting his foot in his mouth.

“I feel for the guy. I think he’s having trouble in homicide. He called me bubbly.”

“You are bubbly.”

“I’m energetic.”

“He should transfer to white collar. He’s got the attitude for it.”

You squinted your eyes scoldingly. “You would know.”

“I would.” The two of you broke into much-needed laughter. You were about halfway through your cup, but wished you were at the beginning again. “Was it hard?” you asked, “moving from white collar to sex crimes? I mean, just the level of emotional complication required, it must be so different from all that, detail.”

“It’s the hardest thing I think I’ll ever do in my professional life, yes.” Casey always looked you right in the eye, it was intense, the way she never averted her gaze. You tended to shift your gaze around rooms, taking in details, never resting on anything for too long. People sometimes wondered if you were paying attention, and explaining that looking them in the eye made it harder to listen didn’t work. Casey never cared, or at the very least never brought it up, just let you be the way you were. She set her coffee cup down. “I cried in my office my first day, in front of Olivia. I practically begged Arthur Branch to reassign me. I had wanted homicide, major cases. You know, all the glory less of the gore.”

“Have you ever regretted it since?”

“Never long enough to think about leaving. Voluntarily, that is,” she stated with a smile, referencing her suspension. You didn’t know all that much about what had happened, and you let her talk with a warm and open demeanor. “In all honesty, I needed that suspension to rewire my brain, I was drowning. And it didn’t last as long as I thought it would. That’s actually when I got together with Alex,” she said, smiling again, wider this time. “In a stupid hipster bar. She had brown hair at the time, I almost didn’t recognize her.”

“Please tell me you have pictures of brunette Alex Cabot.”

“Oh, I do, but they’re all buried deep in different camera rolls…” she trailed off in memories, “I’ll find them for you when I need to embarrass her. I, for one, liked the brown, but she can be very self-conscious.”

“You wouldn’t guess that when you meet her.”

“No, you really wouldn’t. But, Caroline,” Casey said, and hearing your name out of her mouth never failed to give you butterflies, “truly, I don’t think ‘like’ is an appropriate word for what I, what we do, but I feel called to it.”

“I think I do too.”

“Retention rates in this field are low. You’ve already outlasted them. I think that’s proof enough.”

You finished your coffee and brought your mug to the little table where you kept it. How you had such a messy desk but such a tidy coffee space evaded Casey, and probably told her more about you than you’d like. Alex walked by your office coming back from a meeting, pleased to see you and Casey conversing in the junior office. Casey finished her coffee shortly after you did. She met Alex in the hallway.

---

“Counselor, do you need a tissue?” Judge Catano said to you in an irritated tone in chambers the next day, apparently after one sniffle too many.

“Or a nap,” John Buchanan added under his breath as you pulled a nearly empty packet out of your suit pocket and wiped your nose.

“Thank you for your concern, I assure you both that I am quite alright.”

---

“Go home, get some sleep. Your cases will be there in the morning.” Alex said the evening after that, passing by the open door to your office on her way out.

“I won’t stay long,” you replied, knowing full-well that you would.

---

The day after that, Anderson got in your way at the wrong time and found himself unfortunately sneezed on.

---

You made it to Friday, and despite what you were telling yourself, you kept getting sicker. Every day was like time couldn’t decide between speeding and slowing down. Sometimes, you’d look up from what felt like ten minutes of work and an hour had passed, sometimes a meeting that felt like an hour was only ten minutes. And you still had work to do. Casey tapped on the door, unsurprised, again, to find you were the only one there. Anderson had left about a half hour ago, the other juniors often left right at 5:00.

“Hey,” she called from the doorway.

“Yeah?” You replied, looking at her over the top of your laptop.

“Come work in my office?” She asked. You’d taken to working with her or Alex or both of them in the evenings, with the general idea that many heads make light work. Or something. Really, for you, it was just a good excuse to spend time together.

“Sure,” you replied, “meet you there.” She walked off as you packed up your things. You were a bit woozy as you stood up from your desk. Oh well, that was how it went. You made yourself comfortable in Casey’s office (Alex, she explained, was off picking up some documents at the precinct).

You shivered in your seat on the couch, you blew your nose Casey eyed you, having noticed how you’d been sniffling all week. “Allergies? I have some Zyrtec somewhere in this desk,” she said, opening her drawer up to look.

“Oh, no, I’m not allergic to anything, I just didn’t,” sniff, “sleep well last night.”

This was an attitude Casey knew well.

---

Alex always liked summer evenings in the city. Yes, the smell required some getting used to, it could get noisy and crowded, but something about the way the orange light (that lasted longer than any other time of year) played off the tall buildings, the metal vendors on the sidewalk-- it just got to her, made her enjoy the walks she took from place to place. She checked her notifications on the way back from the precinct.

Casey: Caroline is sitting in my office sniffling and looking pale.

Alex: “Allergies?”

Casey: She denies them.

Alex: So the cold she’s had all week caught up to her?

Casey: Can you pick up some meds and we can make her go home?

Alex: I mean, good luck to us…

Casey: Alex.

Alex sighed and crossed the street, ducking into a Duane Reed for the requisite illness package. convincing you to take advantage of it was going to be a wholly different task.

When she arrived back at the office, she discovered a different scene than she expected. As she reached Casey’s office door with the supplies, her wife caught her eye through the window, motioning at her to be quiet when she came in. Alex was, and saw you, on Casey’s couch, deeply asleep with your fingers still on your laptop keyboard, typing endless spaces in a Word document.

“Well,” Alex whispered, coming to Casey’s side, leaning against her desk. “That’s certainly adorable.”

“I couldn’t bring myself to wake her up,” Casey said, “poor thing.” Alex looked at you, your curls flipped up over your forehead, your pink cheeks, your pile of work beside you. A warm sense of nostalgia lit up inside her.

“Remember, when we first came back to the DA’s office,” Alex said, seeing Casey smile playfully, the same feelings building in her chest.

“And there was a horrible bug going around the office,” Casey continued, telling the story for her wife.

“And I refused to admit I’d gotten it,”

“And I found you asleep, with your head on a legal pad,” Casey squeezed Alex’s hand.

“Because I was late to a meeting,” Alex tucked a strand of hair behind Casey’s ear.

“And when you lifted your head up, your forehead was covered in ink,” Casey finished the story with a grin, teasing her wife. “Yeah, I remember that. And I remember trying and failing to get you home, and I remember you getting me sick.”

“Only because you couldn’t keep yourself from kissing me,” Alex said. Casey just shrugged, acknowledging that her wife was correct. They had no need to say what they both were thinking, and, in fact, no time.

You stirred, stretching out, very sleepily. They snapped out of their reverie. “Hey, you two,” you said, your voice nasal. “You guys are so cute,” you continued, still not quite awake, you said what was on your mind. You felt a bit voyeuristic, but you didn’t mind. “Sorry for eavesdropping,” you said, waking up more fully, “sorry I fell asleep, Casey,” you said. You started to pull the notes you were looking at back up to your lap, but as you picked them up, you noticed someone else was holding the other end. Alex had a grip on them, and you were too weak to resist as she picked up all your papers and put them back in your bag.

“Laptop,” she said, holding out her hand. You gave it to her, looking to the side, embarrassed. She held out a packet containing two pills. “Take these,” she said, giving you a bottle of water as well. You wanted to protest, tell her that you were perfectly capable of getting what you had left done, but as you looked at her, then across the room to Casey, you realized that not only would any attempt be futile, you wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in your bed and stay there until you didn’t feel like this anymore. You nodded.

Casey’s voice came from behind Alex, gentle. Still raspy, but more than quiet, sympathetic, understanding-- gentle, a tone meant to be heard from close by and listened to in earnest. “Please take care of yourself.”

Who could refuse that?

---

Alex accompanied you on the cab ride home. Casey genuinely had work she had to finish, and neither of them was about to let you ride your bike or take the subway in your state. You lived in Brooklyn, but close enough to the courthouse that you didn’t feel too guilty about accepting her help when she offered. You tried to make conversation, but you were simply too tired to talk much, and as the sun finished setting, you arrived at the townhouse. Ashley and Ramin lived in the three bedroom unit on the first floor while you lived in the one bedroom unit on the second. It was really a glorified studio, the bedroom was just big enough for a queen-sized bed, the living room barely fit a couch, and the kitchen was mostly good for making tea; but that was why you had a key to your best friends’ apartment. You hesitated on the steps in the still warm air, considering if it would be a bad idea to ask Alex to come up the rest of the way with you, but she had clearly already made up her mind to do so (she had not bought all those supplies for nothing).

Your apartment was cozy, Alex thought as she placed the medicines and magazines and bottles of Gatorade in convenient spots in your tiny kitchen. You went straight for the bathroom, using what energy you had to change into pajamas, brush your teeth, and wash your face. Not much food in the fridge, lots of coffee and tea. A little table covered in papers and books; some law journals, some fantasy novels, some picture books. There were stuffed animals in a bin beside the couch, a couple clearly old enough to be yours. You had one of the fluffiest rugs she’d ever seen and enough throw pillows to drown in, and candles all over the place. Your walls were covered in art; some clearly original abstract pieces signed R.R, some prints from the MoMA, old post cards and family photos (only a couple of your siblings, but countless of Ashley and his family, dancers too), and kids’ drawings, all displayed together, given equal weight. It made no sense aesthetically, technically, but everything about the place screamed Caroline, so she found herself enamored with it.

You emerged from the bathroom with your hair tied on top of your head, wearing an oversized tee and fuzzy pants. It wasn’t your usual choice, but being sick had you feeling like everything around you needed to be soft and cuddly. Alex showed you where she placed everything she’d bought for you, but as she talked, your (maybe feverish) focus could only follow her beautiful blue eyes as they followed your own. You felt warmth, gratitude; you watched her seem concerned and adoring all at once. This whole scenario; Alex in your apartment while the stars were out, taking care of you, seeing you in your pajamas, sniffling and blushing, it made no sense when you thought about it. Yet, it seemed perfectly natural to you, having her in your place. Part of you wanted to kiss her then and there, pull her into your bed and try to get her to cuddle, but, of course, those were not thoughts you shared out loud. Instead, you expressed your gratitude as emphatically as your could manage.

“Get some sleep, Caroline.”

“I will. Alex, thank you.”

---

Alex made you take the following Monday and Tuesday off. Since she didn’t technically have that ability, you responded to her texts by telling her as much. Then, she got Jack McCoy to email you the same sentiments, and that, you couldn’t fight. You arrived at work on Wednesday refreshed, well-rested, and decidedly not sniffly, and she was only a little bit smug. She all but said “I told you so” when you said hello that morning-- but you very quickly shut her up by giving her a smile and an eye roll, taking pride and pleasure in the tiny bite of her lip you saw flash by as you returned to your desk.

That afternoon, you were happy to run into Serena Southerlyn on the courthouse steps, her leaving as you and Alex were returning (there was a case you were working together, you as second chair). She greeted Alex with a professional hug, you with a warm handshake. She had a glint in her eyes, something mischievous about her when she asked, after the usual workplace pleasantries, “you’ll both be there tomorrow, right? For drinks? Gillian said she had something to celebrate, I bet she got accepted to one of those PhD programs.”

“Casey and I will be,” Alex said, looking to you. You tucked a curl behind your ear, another habit of yours she’d noticed, when you were worried.

“I’ll certainly try,” you said, happy that you were now getting regular invitations to drinks, “I promised I’d help Ophélie’s mock trial team prepare for this weekend, she gets pretty nervous about them.”

“They have mock trial that young?” Serena asked.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cute too. A bunch of 12-year-olds in suits using legal language.” As you spoke, Alex understood a little better, Casey’s perspective on children. She chuckled lightly.

“Is she the prosecution or the defense?” asked Alex. You groaned in response.

“Don’t remind me. She chose defense specifically to spite me, and now I go to her school twice a month to teach her how to do it.”

“I think I like this kid,” Serena said. “But I really hope you can make it tomorrow.”

“I’ll do what I can,” you said, knowing you would likely be able to go, but not wanting to promise anything.

“Good,” Serena said as she started walking down the steps again. She turned around when she was struck with an idea. Alex had told her about her and Casey’s ideas, but, frankly, she felt like they were not moving fast enough, and having known them both for years, knew how they needed a push sometimes to go for what they wanted. You and Alex had only gone a few steps, so you didn’t miss the swoosh of blonde hair coming back towards you.

“I remembered,” Serena said, “ I was going to ask you, Caroline, are you going to any salsa nights again soon?” You looked taken aback as she clarified, “I’ve wanted to pick it back up for a little while. I was going to ask last time but the conversation moved too fast.”

“You dance salsa?” Alex asked, blindsided. Serena nodded, an implied obviously in her expression. “When did you learn?” She asked again, knowing that Serena’s upbringing had been astonishingly similar to hers as far as old money and conservative attitudes went.

“Study abroad.”

You let it be quiet for a short moment, seeing Alex and Serena communicate with looks, something panicked in Alex’s and something scheming in Serena’s. You filed the moment away to think about later.

“Yes, actually, I think I’m going to one on Saturday, in Brooklyn as usual,” you said, testing the waters of their reactions. “Ashley’s still on tour so I was going to see if one of my old teammates would want to go with me,” you said. Alex squinted her eyes slightly, Serena knit her fingers together as you spoke. “But if you would like to, Serena,” you decided to just go for the invite, “we should go together.”

You thought you saw a flicker of jealousy from Alex when Serena enthusiastically accepted your invitation. You couldn’t be quite sure, but it was enough hope to leave another little piece of you burning.

---

@addictedtodinosaurs @nocreditinthestraightworld @sweetprentiss

remindr to sign up for my tagłist if you vvant to be tagged in these! (some of my keys are broken)

#svu #svu fanfic #law and order svu fanfic #alex cabot #casey novak #serena southerlyn #rita calhoun #casey novak x reader #alex cabot x reader #alex cabot x casey novak x reader #ofc #schemes!!!!#matchmaking #calex #calex x reader #please rb and 1ike

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amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines · 3 years

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Riverdale//eyes bright, uptight, just girls

Request: Riverdale imagine the reader older sister who is a senior and is throwing a party and stuff and the reader parents want her to date this guy who she knows is no good and the reader doesn't want a boyfriend yet but her dad wants her to date the guy and stuff like that to call him son one day and stuff and the reader and her parents argue in the kitchen and the guy is trying to force her to and her older sister won't help at all and is being smug. U can think of an ending after that w. the core 4.

hey! trigger warning: parents not listening and a bitch of a sister, as well as a very rude boy. please don’t read if you think this may upset or trigger you.

Parties have never really been your thing. They’re more more Sarah’s, if she isn’t attending one she’s throwing one, no matter if you’re parents have said she can or not. And because she’s the favourite, she always gets away with it and you’re stuck cleaning up.

You think maybe it’s because your parents are big on parties, not high school ones, but just in general. They like any excuse to show off their perfect family and their perfect house and to parade you around their friends like show dogs. It’s their way of telling their friends that they’re better off than they are.

Tonight however, it seems that luck isn’t on your sisters side. Because as soon as your parents walk through the front door, three days too early and are greeted with drunk kids spilling sticky beer all over the custom made rug, she is already scrambling to come up with an excuse as to why there are well over 150 teenagers all trying tarnish the family home.

You watch Sarah practically jump over a sofa to stop them from walking in any further and the lively party soon dies as everyone watches Sarah and your parents have a staring competition. Sarah may have the edge because of how wide her eyes are.

“Hiii, mom...dad.” She gulps and kicks a plastic cup underneath the sofa...as if that’s gonna convince them that the hasn’t invited most of the teenagers in Riverdale and let them run riot through the house.

You and Betty share a look and you feel her shuffle closer to you.

Despite it being your house, you still had to fight for a place on the couch, and when Betty turned up looking just as pleased as you were to be there, you gladly made a space for her.

Betty had stayed by your side for the majority of the night, only getting up to get both of you drinks. She knows how much you hate parties, at least ones where your sisters in attendance which is most of them, and the two of you usually spend the night gossiping about the very large friendship group your sister has amassed.

You watch your mom look around the living room and with each piece of beer stained furniture she see’s, her face falls more and more.

“Kitchen.” She stares straight at Sarah before pushing past her.

“Now.” Your dad adds before following his wife.

Sarah follows your mom and dad into the kitchen, her head hung low as she shuffles through the crowd. They part for her, patting her shoulder and giving her sympathetic looks before the three of them disappear through the door.

As soon as the kitchen door closes, the front one opens and the party spills out into the street. Drunk kids stumble back home, some laugh and some cry. Some stand at the bottom of the yard and puke while their friends rub their backs. A few of them have already passed out the grass in front of your house and you know as soon as your dads finished letting Sarah get away with murder, he’ll be turning the sprinklers on in order to get them to leave.

Betty has already started to collect the rubbish strewn around her feet and you unenthusiastically join. The two of you don’t have to say anything, you’re always there to help the other clean up after yours sisters mess. Veronica and Archie soon join in and for a few minutes it’s actually surprisingly fun.

There’s just you and your friends. Archie’s throwing rubbish at Veronica making her squeal and run away while you and Betty watch on in amusement. But every good thing has to come to an end and you hear the kitchen door creak before your dad’s head pops out around it.

“Y/n, can you come here for a minute please.” He calls.

Betty grabs the rubbish you’ve collected and sends you a reassuring smile. You let out a loud sigh before accepting your fate and pushing the door open.

Betty joins Veronica and Archie, all three of them watch the door swing a few times before shutting properly and they share a look.

“Sarah’s an ass.” Archie mumbles and the two girls nod in agreement.

When you walk through the door, the room falls silent, and you feel the eyes of your entire family on you, watching you as you slowly walk towards them.

Your mom rubs the side of her head, the migraine that made them come home early in the first place get stronger. And your dad rubs a hand over his face as he tries to figure out what to do and who to blame.

“I told you, I did all of this so Y/n and Ben could get to know each other a bit better.” Sarah argues and your eyes widen.

“What? I didn’t even know Ben was here.” You send her a glare and your parents look between the two of you.

“Aw, that’s disappointing.” Somebody says behind you and you feel your skin crawl. Your shoulders hunch slightly and you swallow the lump in your throat before turning around and facing the green eyed boy. “Because I certainly noticed you.” He whispers and you have to stop yourself from puking.

Ben.

Ben Anderson and his family are well known around Riverdale. Similar to the Blossom’s they’re crazy rich, crazy powerful and well versed in the world of criminal activity. At one point they owned half the town, but they’re slowly selling it off to private investors for a profit so they can go after Greendale next.

His mom Sophia is ‘friends’ with basically everyone in town, however she is constantly bitching about them behind their back...including your own family. And it drives you mad to watch your mom bend over backwards in order to be invited into her very exclusive book club.

And his dad, William is basically a carbon copy of your own. Business focused and a little bit absent. You only ever see William at parties, you’ve never once bumped into him at the grocery store which is very difficult to do in a town this small.

But despite all their suspected crimes, Ben is by far the worst.

Benjamin Alexander Anderson is the worst boy you have ever met. But for some reason he’s everybody’s favourite. He’s snobby, pretentious, creepy and a bully. But Sarah and her friends love him. And for some reason your parents also love him. It seems sometimes they love him more than they love you.

It’s not uncommon for you to come home from hanging out with your friends and for him to be already sat at the dining room table with a grin too wide for his face while your parents motion for you to sit beside him.

And thanks to Sarah constantly telling them how good it would be for the family if you and him were to get together, he seems to be around an awful lot more recently.

‘think of the family’

‘think of your future’

‘think of how good it would look for us to be able to call an Anderson son one day and welcome him into the family.’

“I knew she wouldn’t agree to a date with him so I thought if I threw a party they could get to know each other a bit better in more of a natural environment. It’s just word got out and more and more people turned up and I couldn’t get them to leave. Nobody ever listens to me.” She says, her tone turning sickly sweet as she stares at your mom doe-eyed.

Your mom sighs and her expression softens before she looks at her husband. Your dad looks between you, Sarah and Ben before also sighing.

“Great.” You mutter. Another one won by Sarah.

She sends you a sly smile and you glare in return but you’re soon interrupted by your dad coughing and the two of you turn your attention back to him.

“Y/n.” He starts and by the tone of his voice you already know where this is going. This is his lecture tone, the one he uses when he’s trying to convince you that he’s helping but instead he actually just wants to help himself. “Why don’t you give Ben a chance. You could do a lot worse.”

“Because I don’t want to. For the millionth time I don’t and I never will like him. I would genuinely rather stick a fork in a plug socket, be resuscitated and do it over and over again until I died a painful death, than spend more than two minutes with him.”

“Y/n!” Your mom scolds.

“Ouch.” Ben huffs and you send him a sarcastic smile.

“Why can’t you just be more like your sister?”

“What? And date anyone that gives her a hint of attention?”

“Y/n!” Your dad shouts.

“Mom!” Sarah practically screams. “Are you actually gonna let her talk to me like that.”

“Calm down Sarah. Y/n, apologise to your sister.”

“No.”

“Y/n.” Your mom hisses and you huff at her loudly.

“Fine...I’m sorry.” You say through gritted teeth. “Can I go to bed now?”

“Not until we sort this out.” Your dad says.

“I don’t and I never will want to date him.”

“Come on. One date isn’t going to hurt. You never know, you actually might like me.” Ben says, and the smirk grows on his face as he sends you wink.

“That’s very, very, very unlikely.” You deadpan and your mom tuts behind you.

“Y/n, that’s rude.”

“What’s rude is you trying to set me up with an asshole. I’ve told you before I don’t want a boyfriend. I’m only 17 and I have far more important things to focus on other than boys. So please just drop it.” You shout.

“We just want what’s best for you.” Your mom pleads and you send a look to Sarah.

She could stop all of this. She knows she could. She could convince them to think otherwise and they would. They’d drop it and you’d be able to go back to only mildly hating your family.

But that’s not how Sarah works and so instead she just shrugs before sharing a smile with Ben.

“No, you want what’s best for you.”

“Y/n Y/l/n!”

The kitchen door swings open and Veronica, followed awkwardly by Betty and Archie walk through it. Your mom opens her mouth, ready to argue some more but Veronica quickly interrupts before she can say anything rude.

“Mr and Mrs Y/l/n. Has my dad told you about the latest deal he’s made?” Veronica cuts in. A bright smile on her face as she steps between you and your parents. Instantly your dad shuts up and his eyes lighten up as he and Veronica talk about the next dodgy dealing that Hiram Lodge is involved in.

You let out a breath of relief, and send a grateful smile towards Betty and Archie, who now both look a little more confident in their abilities to deescalate the situation.

Archie directs his attention to Sarah and and Ben, both of whom looked like they’ve sucked on a lemon as they watch Veronica gracefully change the subject and bring your mom into her business conversation.

“I think your brother’s waiting for you outside.” Archie tells Ben. “And if I were you, I’d leave with them.” His voice low as he takes a step towards him. Ben looks at Sarah, and then you before lastly at you parents. Sarah’s expression hardens as she shrugs at him and starts picking at her nails.

You, Betty and Archie watch him leave, mumbling quietly under his breath, before Betty turns he attention to Sarah.

“Hi Sarah!” Her tone seems happy, and if you didn’t know her you’d think that she was genuinely greeting a friend. However there’s something lurking just behind her eyes that seems more sinister and for the first time in a long time, Sarah actually seems a little scared. “Remember I’ve known you for a long time, and I know a few things that your mom wouldn’t be too pleased to find out. So why don’t you leave Y/n alone and I won’t tell anyone that you slept wit-”

“Fine.” She says through gritted teeth. “Goodnight.” She says quickly before rushing out.

“Hey, is it okay for Y/n to stay at mine tonight. My mom’s been asking about her for forever.” Veronica asks and your dad nods quickly. “Great! Y/n, let’s pack a bag.” She says before pushing you out of the door. Betty and Archie follow the two of you up the stairs, whispering to each other as they go.

You notice Sarah standing outside of her door but she disappears as you pass and a weight lifts off your shoulders.

“Thanks guys.” You smile at your friends, happy to be in the comfort of you own room. “Betty? Who did Sarah sleep with?”

“Oh, I have no idea. I just guessed that she’s done it with someone she shouldn’t have and I suppose I was right.” She grins making you laugh. “Now come on, let’s go sneak Archie into Veronica’s so we can all have a proper sleepover.”

“It’s definitely not the first time she’s snuck him into her room.”

“Shut up!” Veronica laughs and throws a pair of socks at you. “Why don’t we invite Jughead? Where is he?”

“Do you honestly believe you’d see Jughead at a party, let alone a sleepover? He’s too busy writing or something.” Betty replies.

“Yeah, but Veronica has a lot of spare rooms.” You wiggle your eyebrows and she pulls a face.

“Come on!” She huffs, pushing you gently. Archie dumps a load of clothes in your bag and quickly zips it up before throwing at you. You’ve never left your house quicker before, and as the four of you make your way down the street, Betty making a list of snacks to buy and Archie trying to convince Jughead to join you, you feel yourself smile properly for the first time in a long time.

support my writing! if you want!

#riverdale #riverdale imagine #archie andrews #veronica lodge #betty cooper #jughead jones #archie andrews imagine #veronica lodge imagine #betty cooper imagine #jughead jones imagine #trigger warning #tw #tw abuse

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lesyasun · 4 years

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♦ Simblr Community Challenge

I was tagged by @vidcunds, @deedee-sims @keoni-chan @kooli-sims Thank you, guys!

♦ How long have you been playing the Sims - Since 2003! (I was 9) I started with the Sims 1 Superstar. I still remember that cheery intro music. My cousin brought the disc and taught me the “rosebud” cheat almost at the first day :D Oh dear! I wish I had some screenshots or diary so I could reread some of my adventures. I remember that I had my simself and bought the biggest lot in the top right hand corner of the map. The house looked like a giant box that covered the whole area where I put absolutely each item from the buy mod. I had a fountain in the bathroom, the polar bear rug. Luxury life, you know. And I had a fireplace of course, but no fire alarm... My simself died. I burst out crying and rushed to my cousin who lived opposite the street. He created my new simself, repurchased that box house and the next sims week the servo, the Butler, the maid and I were cleaning the ash. I have tones of tiny stories like these. Including my sim Pamela Anderson working in the Science career married Michael Bachelor who was making alchemist potions for her to boost her mood to get a promotion at work. Oh! And they had a poddle and three sons: Archimedes, Aristotle and Aristarchus. And not mentioning me married Vidcund in ts2... The Sims is a great part of my life <3

♦ How long have you been a Simblr, and why did you become one - I started my simblr in 2014! *waving to Deedee-sims* The person who inspired me was @vimpse. She was my first blog to follow here. I always loved the non-realistic aesthetics of the game. When I realised that there’s a whole maxis match community who loved that too. I was shocked and immediately wanted to join the party!

♦ What type of Simblr are you - I mostly share funny-cartoonish-looking sims, gameplay including some decorating when I’m in the mood, I had some sim-making challenges, screenshot taking challenges in the past, I shared some wonky recolours too. I also like using poseboxes and pose my sims to make funny stories. Bits of everything.

Which generation of Sims do you primarily play - Sims 2 ❤

Rules - Tag some people, and let the community bonding commence!

I tag @tomtoq-sims @mistysensation @rheniumsims @specixel @falkii @grilledcheese-aspiration Feel free to ignore :)

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gra-sonas · 4 years

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I'm so excited about the S4 renewal for the cast. I have faith in Jeanine when she says this season is fire. Rachel the director said her episodes were good. Nothing will be perfect and people have different opinions on what's good and what's not. But the cast seems so excited for S3. I'm just so happy for them they got another season. Now we don't have to worry about a renewal. Now that the renewal news is released CW it's time to give us our S3 premiere date and trailer.

I’m super excited, too. Like you, I have faith in Jeanine, who won’t get tired of heaping praise on Chris and Lance Anderson especially, who she calls “the world’s dreamiest collaborators” - COLLABORATORS!

I’m sure that’s a word that doesn’t exist in CAM’s vocabulary... 🙃

This makes me so fucking hopeful for S3. I love that someone like Jeanine is so excited about the new season and the team she’s working with. To me it sounds a lot, like she feels for the first time that her opinion and input is truly valued, and not brushed aside for some dumbass ~drama plot or character assassination.

I don’t expect miracles, and I don’t expect S3 to right every wrong from the previous 2 seasons. And honestly, I’d be okay with that. I’d rather the show sweeps some things under the rug, never to talk about ever again, and S3′s considered a clean slate and they build up from there.

I just hope that the writing for some of the characters vastly improves, that what Jeanine said - that S3 would focus on the friendships again - will actually happen (man, give me aaaaaall the friendships!!!), that there’s a main plot and mystery we can follow, that we’ll finally learn more about the aliens, more about the Manes family, THAT KYLE VALENTI WON’T GET PUSHED ASIDE (🤨), and of course I want Malex to happen.

And by the looks of it, they are happening, and I couldn’t be more excited.

It’s probably still a bit early for a trailer, but a release date would be much appreciated. Probably still a bit early for that, too.

While we’re waiting for that, No 1 Fanboi™ Michael Vlamis will continue to hype the shit out of Malex, he’ll rope in Tyler for some of it, and eventually we’ll make through this dreadful hiatus.

On a positive note: the later S3 starts airing, the shorter will the hiatus be until S4 airs. Since shows have now figured out how to more or less safely film during a pandemic, I expect all the fall shows to be back for new seasons this fall, and for the CW mid-season shows to return in spring 2022!

And man, do we deserve a short hiatus for a change! \0/

#rnm speculation #rnm spoilers #nonnie asks

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jbbarnesnnoble · 4 years

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The Other Girl

Summary: You’re dating Jake Anderson. Natasha’s dating Jacob Anderson. Neither of you know about the other.

Features: Cheating, allusions to sex

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff/OMC; Reader/OMC; Natasha Romanoff/Reader

Notes: Based off ‘The Other Girl’ by Kelsea Ballerini ft. Halsey

I might write a smutty outtake with Nat/Reader

Word Count: 1459

It had been a long day of grading papers, having an unannounced observation, and having to cover for a colleague’s class because of a shortage of substitute teachers. You were thankful your students were on their best behavior. No cell phones, no behavior issues, everyone was engaged. Your first block class had your back. You gave them some leeway but when it came time to be the ideal students, they could snap to it and be examples of perfect students. It left you wondering why they couldn’t always be like that, before you reminded yourself that they were teenagers. Attitudes and bad days were to be expected. There was give and take, and when it came down to it, they knew you had their backs. It had been an emotionally exhausting day too, with a heavy discussion after your observation concluded because of a turn the discussion had taken in your class.

You were looking forward to kicking your shoes off, pouring a glass of wine, and watching Netflix. You had texted Jake to see if he’d want to come over. You’d been seeing him for the past year and things were going great between the two of you. He worked with the Avengers, one of the agents who wasn’t part of HYDRA when SHIELD collapsed in on itself. You weren’t surprised to see him at your apartment already, a glass of wine poured, and a bath drawn.

“Go relax, dinner will be ready in a bit,” he said. You had stayed late sitting with a student at the counselor’s office who needed the support. You kissed your boyfriend as you headed to the bathroom, stripping off your work clothes as you walked, glass of wine in hand.

Across town, Natasha Romanoff was texting her boyfriend. They met through work and had been together for the past year. He understood her job better than any civilian ever could. He got along with the team, and Clint especially liked him. Jacob Anderson was a gentleman. He was also one of the better lovers she had had.

Natasha: Can I see you tonight?

Jacob: Not tonight. Visiting my sister. She’s had a rough day

Natasha: I hope she feels better. She’s lucky to have a brother like you

“Baby? Who’re you texting so frantically? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so annoyed at your phone,” you said, glancing at where Jake stood in the doorway.

“My sister. She’s had a rough day too,” he said, slipping his phone in his pocket. He helped you out of the bath and wrapped a warm towel around you.

“Do you need to go? I know you said she’s been having a rough go of it lately,” you said, concern etched on your face. A year in and you still hadn’t met his family. He said it was a safety thing, that it was easier to keep everyone he cared about safe if they didn’t know each other, at least not so early on. You accepted it without question, but something nagged at you. It was a red flag you were willing to ignore. Jake was the first person you’d dated since Charlie Bradbury, the redhead with a love for all things nerdy who had swept in and out of your life like a hurricane. You wondered what happened to her. You hadn’t heard from her since you parted ways.

You put a robe on in your bedroom and sat down to dinner with Jake. He’d made your favorite comfort food. He was always so thoughtful and considerate. He excused himself to take a phone call, saying it was his sister, returning fifteen minutes later, after you finished cleaning up. He led you to the bedroom and had you lay on your stomach after removing the robe, distracting you from asking any questions about the phone call he’d taken.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Natasha was growing suspicious. Jacob had been checking his phone more than usual. She had her suspicions and when Bucky and Steve asked him to go over some intel with him, he left his phone. She knew she shouldn’t snoop, but she needed answers. Your name was at the top of his most recent texts, the most recent a heart with a photo of a bouquet of flowers and the words ‘thank you babe’. You certainly weren’t his sister.

Scrolling back, she found racy texts, mundane conversations, all of the typical couple things. The things he did for her. She set the phone back down on the table in the same place he left it. You were beautiful, that much she could tell. What she couldn’t tell was which one of you was the other woman. She had taken your number from his phone, saving it in her own as she battled with herself on what to do. She needed answers. If she broke up with him now, she wouldn’t get those answers.

She wanted so desperately to feel angry, with you, with the world. Jacob was a bright spot in her life. But now the rug was pulled out from under her and everything she thought she knew about him was thrown into question. Natasha never wanted to be the other woman. But she wasn’t sure she was. She wondered if you knew. It would be so easy to hate you if you knew, but something told her you didn’t. The way your messages were written, it seemed like you thought you were the only one too.

Natasha was pulled from her thoughts when Jacob re-entered the room. They had dinner plans after a long mission. The night ended with them entangled in her bedsheets and Natasha’s mind wandering to you as he got out of bed to take a phone call, returning with a distant look on his face. It had been so easy to forget about the situation at hand when she was in bed with him. Sleep didn’t come easy.

You knew. There was no way around it. You’d heard him on the phone. You’d caught sight of texts a week ago. You knew what you needed to do. You weren’t sure how to reach out to her. Were you the other woman or was she? Did it even matter when he was playing you both? It turned out you didn’t need to reach out to her. She called you.

“I know this might be hard to hear--,” she said after introducing herself. You sighed.

“I figured it out a week ago. I’ve been...I’ve been trying to decide what to do,” you said. She chuckled.

“Yeah. Me too. I have an idea,” she said. The two of you stayed on the phone for a while after talking about the plan you’d made. Jake was out of the country on a mission with some of the Avengers as back up. When he returned, he found you sitting on the couch of the Avengers living quarters with Natasha. You could see how nervous he was.

“I have to give it to you, Jacob. You managed to hide a second relationship from me for a whole year,” Natasha said.

“Tasha, baby,” he started.

“So, which one of us did you start seeing first?” you asked.

“Honey,” he said turning toward you. Clint stood by the doorway, a bowl of popcorn in hand. Sam reached over his shoulder to grab some. Sam, Bucky, Steve, and Wanda had been on the mission and had no idea what was about to go down.

“Barton what’s--,” Steve started to ask. Tony shushed him as he entered the room.

“Cap, just watch. Anderson is about to learn a very valuable lesson,” Tony said, taking a handful of popcorn. They watched as you stood up. You had a look of pure anger on your face.

“In case you didn’t get the memo, Anderson. We’re both breaking up with you,” you said. He reached for you and you took a step back.

“You don’t get to touch her,” Natasha said.

“Baby,” he said again.

“You’re off the Avengers detail, effective immediately. I already cleared it with Fury. It would be a bad look if you were to suddenly have an accident,” Natasha said, the threat barely concealed in her words. You liked to believe it was just for show, but in the few days you had known Natasha, you weren’t so sure it was. He slowly backed out of the room, stumbling when he bumped into the team gathered in the doorway and he scrambled toward the elevator.

“Now, how about you and I go get some dinner?” Natasha asked. You smiled at her.

“I’d like that,” you said.

It surprised no one when a month later, you and Natasha were practically inseparable when neither of you were working.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff/reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha romanov/reader #natasha romanov x reader #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction

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syms-things-5 · 4 years

Text

Clear The Area

Warning: Not explicit (yet); some mild language. This has been quite cathartic in a way.

Summary: 29-year-old nurse Sarah Bernette has worked hard to get where she is. Moving to Boston from a nowhere dump of a town, she’s studied hard and is grateful her stress is finally paying off. Despite being fostered repeatedly throughout her childhood, she’s since found some comfort in the form of her adopted parents, Jocelyn and Noah, and a pseudo-adoptive family of sorts in form of the Evans clan who have treated her as one of her own ever since she moved in with best friend, Shanna. Valuing them above all else, she appreciates their support even more when her long lost birth mother decides to reappear in her life after so many years, and is surprised to find out just how supportive Chris is in particular. As she struggles to maintain a firm grip on both her professional and private lives, she finds an ill-advised solace in her growing mutual attraction with him but how long before everything unravels and threatens to pull the rug out from underneath her?

Note: I have two chapters written and will post ‘Chapter Two’ at some point this weekend to get things moving. I apologise for my spelling/grammar errors. Let me know if there is something wildly incorrect here and I’ll change it. Still figuring out a few things and I expect this will be a slow burn but it’s exciting to finally get off my arse and…sit down and write.

CHAPTER ONE

Today was probably a 4 out of 10.

4.5 if she was feeling generous.

Sarah thought about the decisions she had made in the past decade that lead her right to this moment, this moment being cleaning neon-coloured vomit off her scrubs for the second time in the past hour.

“You would think people would have learned downing shots of Absinthe was not a great idea by the time they’d left their teens,” snickered Audrey before shooting her a sympathetic look and handing over another wipe. “I can’t believe how green it was. It looks like you got punked by the Marshmallow Man!”

“Thanks for that.” Sarah was scrubbing as hard as she could while internally questioning her decision to pursue Nursing all those years ago. Her History teacher once told her she could have “a decent stab” at becoming a Middle School teacher if she applied herself right. Right now, she could be knee-deep in teaching half-interested kids about the 27 Amendments without an ounce of sick in sight. Instead, she was baffled. “Fuck. It’s practically luminous…”

This must have been payback for pushing herself as a teenager. Being fostered in and out of care homes during your formative years could turn you one way or the other, and Sarah chose “the other”. She was sure the universe was telling her she should have stayed put and been happy with her lot in life, in her too-small town with no feasible job prospects, where everyone knew you and held that against you, instead of moving halfway across the country with next to no money to study at a University she couldn’t afford and would most likely be in debt to for the next twenty years. Now, however, she got to convince local drunks that climbing on to roofs was, in fact, not a great idea despite the bet they had made with their “friends”. On a good day, she got to help children pick out the colours for their plaster casts.

Or take today. Today, she got to lecture a group of young people about the trials and tribulations of playing “run the bus” with 60% proof. Every day was just a little bit different so as to keep things interesting. That, she reminded herself, was something she had to remain glad about.

She sighed and threw the last wipe in the bin. Taking a last look in the mirror, she turned to her friend for reassurance that she looked at least passable. She caught her frown before Audrey realised Sarah could see her and quickly gave her a thumbs up. She did love her Audrey which is why she decided to repay her kindness by forcing a hug on her as a thank you.

“Silver lining, though,” Audrey said, shoving her away, laughing in protest. “You’re lucky you didn’t get any in your hair.”

“Yeh bastards had a good aim at least.” Sarah dusted down her arms one last time to check for anything she might have missed and the two of them left the locker room. The place was now eerily quiet, thank god. Just run out the clock and they’d be home and dry in no time, figuratively speaking in Sarah’s case.

Audrey placed a comforting arm around her pal. “You want me to find some spare scrubs? I’m sure they’ll have some upstairs. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Nah it’s OK. I’ll be done in 20. Just gotta sign Mr. Richardson out from cubicle 5 then I’ll run home and shower.”

“OK, well, if you have to hang around, avoid triage because you-know-who is there and I don’t want you ruining your chances again.” Audrey pinched Sarah on her hip and headed back to her work.

You-know-who was Greg Anderson, an attractive 30-something medic from a hospital on the other side of town. He was up-and-coming in Paediatrics apparently and had been shadowing a Consultant for the past few weeks. He was 6ft plus with dark hair and brown eyes and his father was something big in Economics in MIT. He drove a Porsche and wore Louboutin’s on his rounds which had Audrey practically foaming at the mouth. Indeed, he hadn’t bypassed the attentions of the majority of females in the ER, as well as a few men and even a couple of patients but as always, Sarah was solely focussed on the job at hand to pay him any heed. Audrey thought she caught him staring at her the other week, though, and made it her mission to set them up. She took great pride in playing matchmaker for her friend given that she herself got locked down nine years earlier and “it’s a damn shame to let these skills go to waste.’ She had somehow also managed to get Shan and Lisa onside, too, however that had happened.

Greg was handsome, she’d agree with that, and definitely her type in the right light but something was a little too Republican for her liking. Plus, he was a Rangers’ fan and Sarah swore blind early on in her life that she couldn’t bring children up in that kind of hostile environment. Sarah briefly contemplated walking past triage with the lingering scent now clinging to her clothes but as Audrey kindly repeated to her at regular intervals during the days, Greg was her only realistic prospect right now and figured it was perhaps better to keep her options open, at least for the time being.

Mr. Richardson was gone pretty soon afterwards and, accepting defeat for another day, Sarah grabbed her bag and headed home.

There was definitely beer left in the fridge, she was sure of it. She’d bought a six-pack at the weekend and could only remember drinking two during the Bruins’ game, so…

“Oh yeh, you’re out of beer.”

Sarah turned around from the fridge to face a sheepish looking Chris holding the last frosted bottle in his hand, his ball cap low over his face attempting to hide the faint black circles under both his eyes. There was a 5 o’clock shadow forming now he wasn’t required to shave. As drained as she was, she briefly contemplated wrestling him to the ground for that last swig. He looked just as tired. She figured she could take him. At least he had the decency to look guilty about it.

“I’ll run out and get you some if you…Jesus! Why do you smell like a brewery?!” He practically recoiled holding his free hand to his nose.

Sarah rolled her eyes and grabbed a glass for some cold water instead. “Are you here to just annoy me or steal my beer as well?”

“Both now you ask but seriously, what have you been doing all day? You don’t usually smell this bad.” He joked.

“Oh, some kids took it in turns to throw up on me and I didn’t have any clean scrubs to change into.” She downed the water and went to fill the glass up again. God, she didn’t realise she was this dehydrated. Chris shot her a look of confusion. “It’s a long story. Is Shan around?” She shed herself of her scrub top and headed into her bedroom down the hallway, Chris casually following behind.

She had to pop out for something so I’m just handing here ‘til she gets back. You coming for dinner at Ma’s? She’s doing her famous lamb roast. Might wanna shower first, though.” He joked, playfully sticking his tongue out at her.

“God, I forgot how hilarious you are.” she overtly rolled her eyes at him. “No, I’m good. Just gonna head for an early night, I think.”

“OK, well, if you change your mind, we’re leaving in half an hour. You know she’ll make me drive back to get you otherwise.”

That was true. For as long as she’d known and lived with Shanna, Lisa had treated her like any other member of her family and Sarah had never fully grasped how much she had appreciated it, coming from where she did. Lisa knew Sarah’s folks weren’t as close by any more and compensated for this by inviting to every dinner night she held, every games night, school events, theatre events, and more besides. She spent Christmases with them, visited Disney with them, and had New Years with them on occasions she wasn’t working. Lisa even organised a surprise birthday get-together for her as well despite Shan’s protests that she wasn’t a birthday kind of person. Sarah had learned to stop feeling awkward or out of place soon after.

Once Shan told Lisa Sarah had wanted to start learning to play piano as a new year’s resolution, Lisa had insisted she could teach her whenever she had some spare time. There soon after followed afternoons of tea and gossip and not much playing of the piano but it felt comfortable and nice for the first time in a long time. Shan would make excuses so Sarah didn’t feel obligated to attend everything but in truth, she didn’t mind so much. It was nice to feel wanted.

Chris was lounging on her armchair with one leg over the armrest, messing on his phone. Sarah could count the number of times on one hand the nights he had spent in his own place since returning to Boston a fortnight ago. As true as it was that he rarely spoke about filming in any great detail, she could nevertheless tell he’d been left particularly drained by this particular experience and wasn’t looking forward to the reshoots scheduled for next month. There had been a rumour he’d started sleeping with his married co-star and she guessed Lisa had been mithering him about it hence him turning up on their doorstep last week. Other than one night back in his own bed, he had remained on their sofa ever since, clearly relishing in the familiar company.

“So what made those kids throw up?” Chris called out, still engrossed in his phone. A quick glance over his shoulder told her he’d been ignoring someone’s text messages.

By now Sarah was in her old yet comfy sweatpants and a Boston hoodie Shan had bought her as an anniversary present of her 5th year living there. “Um, Absinthe. The nasty kind.” She was gathering her washing together.

Chris whistled low through his teeth, a kind of “been there, done that”.

“Rookie mistake.“ he laughed to himself. He frowned at his phone before chucking it onto her bed and turned around in her chair to plant both feet on the carpet, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. He looked like he wanted to get something off his chest but was struggling to find the words. He was reluctant to drag Sarah into anything given how exhausted she looked. Despite their differences in careers, sometimes it felt like she was the only person he knew who could understand how long and tiresome the days could get. Then he would inevitably feel embarrassed he was out there only pretending to save lives when she was out there day after day actually living it for real in all of its bloody glory. And for a tiny fraction of his pay. He tried not to water than thought too much.

“I take it you know,” he asked quietly, still not looking up from her bedroom floor.

“Know what?”

“About Jenny?”

“Oh,” she paused for a brief second. He’d know straight away she was lying if she tried to play dumb. “I mean your mom might have mentioned something in passing,” she shrugged unconvincingly. He scoffed knowing she would have talk about nothing else since the rumours started gathering pace online. He knew he hadn’t done himself any favours by avoiding the conversation either but he simply couldn’t stand another lecture of disapproving look. Dinner tonight was to be his mea culpa.

Sarah was thankful when she heard the front door go and then the sound of Shan dropping her bags in the kitchen and heading towards Sarah’s room.

“I signed for this for you this morning while you were out.” she handed Sarah a brown envelope before turning to Chris with a hand on her hip, looking like she was scolding her 7-year old nephew. “Mom’s been trying to get hold of you all day. She wasn’t sure if she needed to lay an extra seat for you this evening. Sarah, she wanted me to make sure I couldn’t persuade you to come as well?” Sarah shook her head and held up her stained clothes and enjoyed Shan’s visible flinch.

“I’m not even going to ask.” She held her hands up and walked out. Chris rolled his eyes in mock imitation of Shan and Sarah smiled sympathetically, mouthing a “good luck” to him as he left trailing behind her.

Sarah was left looking down at the envelope in her hands. It looked very official; the kind you would receive if you’d been summoned to a court hearing or Jury Duty. She didn’t recognise the address or the stamp but recognised her home town almost straight away. It had been years since she’d been there. Why the hell were they dragging her back now?

#Chris Evans #Sarah Bernette #Chris Fic #Fan Fiction #Clear The Area #chris evans x original female character #Syms Writing

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