#but surprise surprise it invariably looks like shit

[hellotailor]

Instead of resembling the carefully researched ships of something like Master and Commander, the Revenge's deck is a wide, uncluttered stage that rarely moves unless it's caught in a storm. In a relationship-driven sitcom, there's no need to literally rock the boat. Storms exist purely for emotional punctuation, with weather and scenery acting as a kind of mood ring. So when Blackbeard hits rock bottom, his ship becomes a dark, roiling embodiment of inner torment. These emotive scenes are when OFMD's use of the Volume really stands out, suggesting a different philosophy from that of the shows and movies that use it as a catch-all replacement for location filming. In OFMD, it's one of many visual tools that bolsters the larger-than-life tone. For instance, during Lucius and Pete's reunion this season, the LED backdrops display a luminously sentimental peach-pink sunset. And on several occasions the show makes judicious use of a CGI moon, carefully placed above Stede and Blackbeard's heads during romantic moments. How big is the moon in Our Flag Means Death? As big and as close as it needs to be. A real moon just wouldn't work as well.

After complaining incessantly about The Volume (ie. LED backdrops) making Star Wars shows look ugly and fake, I've come to realize that it's best used in contexts where "looking fake" is a feature, not a bug.

[izzystizzys]

the thing about being the highest-ranked and most-decorated officer in any GAR/Guard capacity, fox thinks, is that unsurprisingly nobody could give less of a shit or listen to anything he says. it’s not like he earned those medals and recognitions and perfect test scores or anything, now is it, kote?

or, after the zillo beast disaster, the coruscant guard medbay just so happens to be much closer than the GAR one, and surprise surprise, senators don’t want meatdroids to be treated in their facilities after they’ve just protected them with their lives. fox tries to reason against this. fox is unsuccessful, because no one listens to fox.

which is how he finds himself crammed into a corner along with cody, ponds, bly, rex and their jedi, looking out across a medbay which is quite frankly a goddamn disaster rivalling the fight with the zillo beast in proportions. skywalker tries to step out towards one of the medics, and has to be pulled back by the collar of his shirt by amidala, squawking loudly when he’s nearly rammed over by mauler, crucifix and a shrilly screaming crash cart.

it’s not like fox said this would be a bad idea or anything.

“um, vod”, cody begins, unsure, “what’s - is that guy sewing wooley up with thread?!”

meathook, who is in fact sewing wooley up with thread, and looks about as happy about it as his patient, and who fox honestly thought was going to cry when he announced the influx of patients about to descend on them, snaps something about triage over his shoulder at hound, whose arm is decidedly bent in a way it shouldn’t be, jerking his head to gesture at the rickety cot next to cody’s ARC. fox is pretty sure they salvaged the thing from a dumpster. he slaps a bandage on the stitches that fox fears might be from the same dumpster.

“putting those advanced reconnaissance training skills to use, kote”, says fox, who invariably turns into the worst possible version of himself whenever cody opens his mouth within a klick of his vicinity.

skywalker harrumphs, evidently at the end of his impressive patience. “well, why?! hey, trooper! these men need bacta!”

“do they, now? i’m sorry, i hadn’t noticed”, a low voice hisses angrily behind them, and fox is the only one who doesn’t jump on account of he’s too dead inside to be scared of his CMO anymore. a grave error, he’s sure. “i guess i’ll just go pull some out of my ass along with a tank and painkillers, then! hadn’t thought of that yet!”

warcrime, whose eye is twitching and who is holding a bloody saw in visible consideration of using it, pins skywalker with a look that has had shinies all over the guard peeing themselves. “we don’t have any fucking bacta, you absolute numbskull.”

“but that can’t be right”, cody pipes up again, next to a very troubled looking generals kenobi and windu. fox sympathises very much with the patented migraine-glare on windu’s face. “why do you not have any bacta?”

“because i like to smear meiloorun juice all over my patient’s stab wounds, commander”, warcrime says. “it’s a homeopathic medicine thing. because the chancellor refuses to give us any, genius.”

“what?!” skywalker says, bristling. “that can’t be true! he wouldn’t -“ he’s cut off by his comm pinging loudly over the moaning and crying in the medbay, and warcrime leaning close enough to be heard with a whisper.

“well, he would, and if you don’t believe me, there’s a holorecording of him telling marshal commander fox why biological weapons on the homefront have lower priority and therefore half rations of everything. now get out of my medbay or find out why they named me warcrime, sir.”

amidala, the collective braincell holder for both her husband and the senate combined (on occasion), tugs him out of the way of warcrime’s bonesaw and ire. fox, who very much enjoys not being the primary target of a medic for once, unfortunately also has to be the adult in the room. “sirs, a transfer to the GAR barracks medbay might be a preferable- AH, MOTHERFU-“

“get him, stabby!”, rabid whoops from where he’s resetting thire’s nose, who echoes a much more nasal and muffled, “go, ftabby!”

“get kriffing FUCKED, stabby, you absolute-“, fox seethes, trying to swipe for the medic’s head and nearly planting one on cody instead by accident, who unfortunately manages to evade the swing fox is admittedly projecting very obviously on account of the sedation hypo jammed into his flank.

“medbay rules, sir”, stabby calls, dancing away towards mauler and his crash cart, while someone bumps something solid and flat against the backs of fox’s thighs that he can’t help but tumble back on, already seeing two codys and blys dancing around his vision. “commander fox protocol dictates he is to be helped to sleep as often as possible, sir.”

“a desperate but well-founded measure, i’m sure”, kenobi of all people agrees, and fox waves an unsteady hand in what might be the general’s direction to the sound of cody’s scandalized gasp. “as you were, officer… stabby.”

“traitors”, fox slurs, just as his com-unit begins to ping with an urgent notification. before he can try and answer it, warcrime has ripped it off his arm and flung it somewhere out of his sight. eh, it probably wasn’t anything THAT important, fox thinks. and if he wakes up two days later to a near-hysteric meathook kissing the glass casing of the guard’s brand new bacta tank over and over again, he decides to just roll over and go back to sleep.

[cerastes]

Bro any time I think about Valkyria Chronicles I laugh my nipples off, the game is fundamentally flawed gameplaywise but, simultaneously, it's stupidly fun, which is the recipe for any club banger, it has a story that weaves flawlessly between "that's pretty poignant" and "this is some goofy goober shit", it's got the horrors of war but also this fucking pig piece of shit mascot, Hans,

It's an amalgam of white and black without any gray: It exists on extremes, and it never intersects, it's playing two parallel lines and coming to terms with the fact that you'll never see cohesion but that somehow enhances the end product in ways evidently no one intended. You have narrative comparisons with the persecution of jews and, at the same time, the game ends with the bad guy getting German Suplexed.

But I think the funniest aspect of Valkyria Chronicles The First is that the main character is the farthest thing from a war hero they could possibly muster with the expertise of a stoic Japanese swordsmith from the mountains crafting a god-cleaving blade: Welkin.

This Scout From TF2 Put Through An Anime Filter looking mother fucker was chilling in his hometown talking about how much he wanted to be a teacher and showing people his really good sketches of animals because he's also a gifted artist, when suddenly, the Dudes attack, and his reaction to the Dudes attacking is "hang on, I recall my dad hiding his actual service tank in the shed in the back" so he goes and, yeah, his dad's tank from a previous war is just there, chilling, so he takes it for a joy ride while the town baker, Alicia, armed with a rifle and infinite action economy due to the afore mentioned flawed gameplay, sweeps the entire god damn platoon of heavily armed machine gun troops.

The entire game is Welkin using his love for nature and his baker love interest to inflict insane personnel and materiel damage to an entire empire: Welkin and Alicia will come across a heavily fortified bridge, and the dialogue will go something like

"Welkin! They will pulverize us with the heaviest machine guns known to man if we step one foot in that bridge! They practically developed wooden low-orbit bombardment stations! What's the plan!"

"Well... Look at that duck over there. It's flying from the east to the west, right? Well, YOU SEE, that duck is known as a Balkunese Socioduck, and those, during this season, migrate from west to east, and they only exhibit this irregular flight path if a Matrisgel Weasel family is molting by the juniper berry bushes, their favorite food. Matrisgel Weasels only ever molt if they are put under the exact amount of stress caused to them by the sound of distant tank threads on the road, and they are known to hide in sturdy, stable soil."

"Welkin, SIR, what the fuck does this all mean?"

"If we follow the smoldering shrieking of the molting weasels, we'll find a SECRET PATH that will, as always, let us ambush, flank, and surprise our foes! Alicia, you know what to do."

"Ogggeyyyyy"

and then, invariably, no matter the level, thanks to Welkin's impressive knowledge of fauna and flora, and Alicia's literally infinite action economy in a game that wasn't properly beta tested in-house during development, they combine their powers like a piss poor Captain Planet and kill the absolute shit out of an entire Empire's worth of dudes, and it's legitimately one of the most fun and charming games you'll ever touch if you remember to not take it too seriously. I fucking hate Hans but I love this game.

[sevenop]

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: I've been havin' dreams

A/n: I've been stuck in this goddamn dream for like a month now, and you're bordering between the concept of God's blessing and sin's curse. I cling to your scarlet satin shirt like it's my last and only salvation, nearly ripping it off you, and you don't even mind.

Written on Billie's point of view, I'm just interested in experimenting with the presentation of the text.

"'BITTERSUITE'? Well, it sounds delicious just from the name alone," you purr in my ear, and I nearly jump two feet up in my chair in surprise, scattering all the thoughts and melodies going around in my head to dust. Shit.

Your short laugh, the palm of your hand that gently outlines my shoulder - that's all you are. And it's impossible to take offense at you, because you immediately draw a sincere "I'm sorry" in the air with just one lips, sitting down on the table, and I know you didn't do it on purpose, it just happened. A brief glance at you instantly turns into an uncompromising infinity.

"Finneas told me to tear you away from the monitor, and I fully support it." - You're slipping your leg over your foot, which in those straight-cut black pants is a total crime against my peace. - "You've both already done an incredible amount today, and it's barely lunchtime."

Nod silently in response, but my eyes only go higher. Past the supposedly aged eco-leather belt, I meet the expensive sheen of scarlet satin. The slightly carelessly arranged collar and neckline hiding the glitter of the pendant and, more importantly, your tantalizing collarbones.

"What, you like it that much, Eilish?" - the smirk on your face puts an intimate stroke on my heart, and I realize I've been staring at you too openly, for too long.

"Sometimes I wish I could erase all my pictures from the covers and put you in there, my girl," I cling to my desk with my hand (but wish I could cling to your damn collarbones) to pull myself up and move closer along with the office chair.

"Don't talk me into it, honey. Get away from the monitor and give yourself a well-deserved rest."

"Already ripped off, thanks for your presence," - the chair is a thing of the past, with the new tactic coming in. I come as close to you as possible, hands resting on either side of you. Behind you is a plethora of music equipment, in front of you is me. You're trapped, Y/n. - "And do you really think my compliments aren't sincere?"

The corner of your lips twitch as the smirk that was cheekily painted on your beautiful face is replaced by an embarrassed smile, and you look away. My hand touches your chin, bringing eye contact back. Be brave to the end, girl. Not like me.

"You can be expected to do anything when it comes to music."

"Only music?" - my fingers feel a pleasant coolness touching the collar of your shirt. A smile appears on face. It's invariable when you're around.

"Okay, me too," you chuckle warmly. You watch my movements with undisguised interest as I remove a few rings from my fingers.

"And yet what is the reason? Suddenly, the Met Gala was announced, and neither I nor my managers are aware?".

"Shut up!" - You cluck funny and ruffle my hair, wanting to hide the growing embarrassment. - "Your mom asked me to help her with a deal regarding a charity stock package."

"'Support And Feed'?" - I methodically slip my rings onto your fingers, one by one. The finishing touch is to intertwine our fingers into a lock, creating perfect symmetry.

"Absolutely right." - You bring our interlocked hands to your lips, showering them with short kisses. So trembling. - "И... Thanks for the compliments, really."

"Will you kiss me for this?" - I raise an eyebrow, catching the sparkle in your eyes.

And you kiss. Just because we both want it, other reasons are crumpled sheets of paper, something empty and unnecessary. Nibbling on your lower lip, pulling it back a little, pressing you closer to me when the only obstacle is only our clothes - this is my ambrosia. You throw your arms around my neck, burning yourself against the cold of the massive silver chain even through the thin satin, and I just grab your hips, tearing a ragged exhale from your hot lips. A pathetic plea for more in front of the eyes of affairs and circumstances.

"I have to go, Eilish..."

"Do you know I'm always crazy short of you?" - I take a moment to leave the hot touch of my lips on your neck. A new hitched exhale. The knot below your stomach slowly tightens, fiering.

"I know." - You hug me so tightly, completely disarming me with a feeling of all-consuming comfort. - "Still, try not to stay up too, okay? I'll be back late."

You disappeared out the door of my home studio half an hour ago, and I can still see the air trembling between us before you say it and I steal another hungry kiss. I lean back tiredly in my chair and shield my eyes from the blue light of the monitor while my fingers touch the keys of the midi keyboard in a half-sleep and your lips form an eloquent "love you" over and over again. Do you love my fears, too?

×××

The huge tiered chandelier was blinding, and the staircase in front of me twisted into a labyrinth with an incalculable number of ebony steps and equally incalculable meters of carpeting. Everything is as it should be: fabulously expensive carpeting, wood paneled walls, complete with ornate bas-reliefs, and as if that weren't enough - stained glass gilded lamps on the walls. The white light is irritating to the point of grinding teeth, and even if you try to cover your eyes - everything is absolutely useless.

I don't even try to get up from my knees, knowing that any effort will come to nothing. Something presses me so hard to the ground that there is no point in resisting: hundreds of attempts have yielded no result, so why resist, knowing the outcome? The only thing that gives an imaginary feeling of freedom is the feeling of baggy clothes on the body. Sneakers, long-sleeved shirt, pants, all white. And that only adds fuel to the furnace of irritation. The helplessness and the maddening whiteness. And your figure staring down at me, unreachably perched on the steps.

I've been stuck in this goddamn dream for like a month now, and you're bordering between the concept of God's blessing and sin's curse. Everything is unchanging, chiseled with detail in my memory, but not today. Your perpetually naked silhouette, taut as a string in a Stradivarius violin, today is swathed in the red satin of a weightless shirt and raven wing pants. My gaze clings to the silver glint playing on your devilish fingers: not magic, but my rings.

If things aren't the same today, will you be my long-awaited salvation?

"Open up the door for me." - mechanically and without a second thought. I know what I'm going to say, I know what you want to hear. I am but a defenseless lamb before you, a bowed-down bigot.

"Why should I?" - the flames of madness dance in your eyes. Your ringed hand touches the cold, spotless lacquered railing.

"'Cause I'm still on my knees, I'm stayin' off my feet."

And you descended lower, shaking the ghostly silence of the foyer with the stern sound of the heels of your shoes. Step by step, step by step. You keep your eyes on me, but I'm not lagging behind, looking at you as if I'm going to take you into my storm, the blue shards of my exhausted eyes. The closer you get, the higher I have to lift my head, just until you grab my chin imperiously. I catch a reflection of myself in your eyes: blue shards sharper than ever, ready to surrender to you at any moment, just say the word. I see the way you want me, I wanna be the one.

"Just want you to touch me..."

"Anything else?" - you snap your fingers and my throat immediately begins to tear with pain. You're depriving me of oxygen, it'll be over soon. The rings on your hand still glow hungrily. My rings.

"I've been overseas." - Like someone dragging a rusty chain across the floor, a wheeze cutting through my hearing, pushing the words out on the last volume of oxygen. - "I don't need to breathe when you look at me, all I see is green."

"So tell me for real." - Something you've never said before.

Click! And you disappear, a hazy haze dissipating into the air. I clutch at my throat, as if that will help me hold on to the last bits of oxygen. My eyes blur and pure panic runs through my veins.

"Billie!"

The foyer becomes a huge mosaic, disintegrating into a network of many cracks. Concrete crumbs are falling from the ceiling, and the gigantic chandelier is shaking to an outrage, wanting to fly down, glass fragments spread across the floor.

"Billie!"

And I finally take my first loud breath.

×××

I jerk out of bed, clutching at your scarlet satin shirt like it's my last and only salvation, almost tearing it off you, and you don't even mind. You wrap your arms around me like a lost child, stroking my head, whispering something, and I can't focus. I can't piece together the stained glass of my dreams and reality, so I just tearfully snuggle into your chest, seeking refuge like you're Noah's Ark.

"Shh, I'm right here, Billie, it was a dream." - You smell like night and street and ink. Wrapping my arms and legs around you, just so you don't leave again.

You don't ask me what I was dreaming about, just rocking me in your arms like a baby, telling me over and over that it's just a dream, offering me water. It's only when the two of us are on the bed, right on the blanket that was knocked over in the panic of the nightmare, that I tell you everything. You remain silent, listening intently, while I undo the buttons of your shirt. One by one, like a meditation.

"Who am I to you?" - A whisper in the dark when you are left completely unclothed. - "Who am I, along with all my fears?"

"L'amour de ma vie," - you whisper confidently as you gently touch your lips to my forehead.

L'amour de ma vie...

[candlewaxandp0lar0ids]

jealousy, jealousy || Han x Reader

Summary: You and Han have been dancing around your feelings for each other for… a while, if you're being honest. It doesn't help that your self-doubt makes it hard to make any move, that you're mean enough to scare most people away and oh, yeah, that his ex hates your guts. So when the three of you are at a party together and there are drinking games involved, what could possibly go wrong?

Word count: 4.2k

Genres: college AU, friends to lovers

Warnings & Tags: implied past bullying/ostracizing of the reader, jealousy (duh), kissing (rating T on the verge of rating M, so it remains fairly tame), mentioned alcohol, drinking games, self-deprecating narrator, language.

series masterlist

A/N: this took forever because I was almost done with it when I realized what I'd written didn't work with the theme, so I had to start all over again. This is also my first time writing Han, so I hope you'll enjoy it!

As usual, you hear Jisung before you see him. It's not all that surprising, the boy’s pretty loud, and, if you didn’t have a misanthropic reputation to uphold, you might even admit that you like hearing his laugh when you walk across campus, or when you catch him mid rant as you walk into the cafeteria.

Thing is, it also means that he’s around people, and you don’t… do… people. So, even though seeing him is invariably a highlight in your day, when you hear his voice, you find yourself debating whether you should head in another direction. If you don’t, you’ll have to talk to him, and as a result, them, whoever they are, because it would be weird not to, right, and you’re just not sure you have the energy for that right now.

Or ever.

Today, as isn’t uncommon, you freeze for a second, take a step back, then decide to push on. If anyone noticed that, you probably just looked extremely weird, but it’s likely that no one was paying attention, and so you keep going with a minimal amount of mortification, for now anyway. You might ruminate over it later today, like you will if there’s any hitch in the conversation that's coming, but that’s a problem for 2 a.m. you.

You’re somewhat relieved to find that Jisung’s chatting with Chan and Changbin. You’re not close with them, but you kinda get along with Changbin, and though you find Chan intimidating, your interactions with him so far have been fine, which is high enough of a bar to clear as far as you’re concerned.

Jisung notices you almost immediately, which fills you with pleasant warmth, and he waves at you with a bright smile. You choose to take that as an invitation to come closer and an indication that you wouldn’t be interrupting anything — if it’s not, that’s on him because it was unclear — and make your way over to them.

“On your way to an exam?” Jisung asks you once you’ve reached them.

“Do you think I would make myself late to talk to you?” you reply with a frown.

It makes him laugh. Sometimes it worries you, how funny Jisung seems to find you when you’re being mean. If it was when you’re being a dick to someone else, why not, but to him too? Is he okay?

“I can’t tell if this is you being a good influence on him or not,” Chan says, tilting his head. There’s an amused glint in his eyes too. Okay, that means you’re not doing too bad.

“Are you guys done with classes?” you ask. “Were you heading to the studio?”

“No,” Jisung is quick — maybe a little too quick — to answer. “We were just talking about a track we’re working on.”

Four eyes narrow on him, and Changbin grins.

“Yeah, ‘cause Jisung here’s been feeling all romantic lately, right?”

Jisung throws him a horrified look.

“You’ve been turning in very sappy lyrics lately, hm?” Chan keeps going.

“I’m the draught, you’re rain, I’m paper, you’re a poem, wasn’t it?” Changbin quotes from memory, a wide, shit-eating grin on his face.

“Do you want to die?” Jisung asks, eyes so wide they look like marbles.

The two guys exchange a knowing look, both grinning. It’s not that often they get the drop on Jisung and can tease him, for a change. They obviously find that to be a nice change of pace, but you’re not sure where that leaves you.

Because, okay, you’re not completely clueless. The lyrics could be about you. Jisung’s expressed interest in you before. He’s kissed you. Remains the question of whether that interest was romantic or just sexual.

But the thought that the lyrics are not about you? That he feels that way about another person? It fills your stomach with stones and makes it sink to the bottom of the ocean. Just thinking about it make tears spring to your eyes and you glance to the side to will them to go away.

This is bad. You’re way too far gone. What a fucking dumbass you can be, for someone who’s as academically gifted as you are.

“At least it’s not about cheating, hm?” Jisung says, staring at Chan who seems to find the ground very interesting all of a sudden.

“That’s an uncharitable interpretation of the lyrics,” he mumbles, but he appears quite eager to drop the subject after that. You find that a bit suspicious and you’d kinda like to find out what the golden boy on campus might be trying to hide, but Jisung seems relieved to be able to drop the subject as well.

“Hey,” Jisung says the second the topic’s been let go of, attention snapping to another idea so fast it sometimes makes your head spin, “I’ve been meaning to ask—”

“Oh right,” Changbin says, glancing at his phone, “there’s Sana’s party tonight. You guys coming?”

Jisung pulls a face, but you’re not sure why. It’s not like he doesn’t get regularly interrupted — and it’s not malicious either, it’s just that he, uh, talks a lot. Sometimes people end up cutting him off. In Changbin’s case, you suspect he didn’t even notice.

“I already told her we would,” Chan says, and Jisung’s face gets longer. You suspect he’d completely forgotten about it.

“Are you coming too?” he asks you, a hint of pleading in his voice.

See, even this is a dilemma. Going to a party means you’ll be forced to be in the presence of people who dislike you and who you find fundamentally uninteresting, especially since Seungmin’s been a no-show to most of these now that he’s dating. Even if you go only to see Jisung, you know people will be trying to get his attention all night, and you’ll be lucky if you get to spend ten minutes alone with him before midnight — maybe you’ll get him to yourself for a whole half-hour at around four am though. On top of that, there’s a significant risk that people will talk to him while he’s standing next to you and completely ignore you, and you’ll spend the whole time praying for a hole to open under your feet.

On the other hand, you can’t refuse him anything, and it would be far more devastating to pass on the chance to spend some more time with him.

So you just say “Sure”.

After spending more time on your outfit than you feel comfortable admitting — this isn’t a date, dammit — you show up at the sorority Sana’s a part of. Though your dress feels too short, you’re relieved to feel self-assured on your high heels. Yes, it took practicing walking in them, but it’s paying off in confidence, and it’s a price you’re willing to pay.

People are already there when you arrive, gathered on the porch, filling the house, spilling out on the balconies. You get a few looks, but it’s not like you’re not used to them. At least you’re not pretending that you don’t give a fuck. Many of them don’t like you, and you don’t like them either.

Walking in, you find yourself hesitating. Would it be weird if you just tried to find Jisung right away? Should you try to socialize, spend a few minutes talking to the rare people you know and get along here?

You may not particularly care about what people think, most of the time, but you do care about what he thinks. And the thing is, you know people talk, especially about him, especially since 3racha’s popularity blew up last year. The last thing you want is for him to think that you’re some desperate, embarrassing idiot who’s been misreading—

Enough with the line of thinking. If he’s not interested, he shouldn’t have kissed you. And, okay, the first time was a week after the break-up with his girlfriend, and he was crying, and you don’t think it meant anything to him, but the second time, this summer? It had to have meant something. He wasn’t cruel like that�� You didn’t think.

You’re still grateful to make eye contact with Changbin, because it makes things a little easier. You go up to him, exchange a few words, he introduces you to some of the people who’ve flocked to him, they pretend to be interested, and once you decide that you’ve made enough of an impression, you leave them with a polite, though forced, smile.

Finding Jisung isn’t all that hard, you just have to follow the laughter.

You know that he likes his peace and quiet, too, but on a night like that, he’ll be prepared to entertain. Someone else might think that it comes naturally to him, the jokes, the antics, the comedy, but you know better. You know that there’s a surprising amount of work that goes into how good he is at this, how easy he makes it look. You know that, when he’s around you, he’s actually fairly quiet, that he sometimes hangs out on your couch, on his phone, while you’re reading, but pouts if you leave the room.

When you find him, it seems him and the group he’s with are in the middle of some drinking games. You hesitate, again. You recognize some of the girls there as part of the girls’ swimming team, the one whose captain is Jisung’s ex. Who’d hated your guts since first year, independently from Jisung, and then, uh, dependently from Jisung, you’re pretty sure. She was single-handedly responsible for half of campus thinking you were a bitch, a feat that even you find somewhat impressive.

You’d almost respect it, if, you know. It hadn’t made your life hell until you managed to stop giving a fuck.

But Jisung spots you. He always does. You don’t know how he does it, half suspect that he’s on some Spiderman shit, but he finds you in the crowd, and his eyes widen, and his smile brightens, and God, it’s not fair, how he makes you feel when he’s not even yours.

Having Jisung’s undivided attention is— one of the best feelings in the world. Genuinely. He just has a way of making you feel like you matter. It’s a bunch of things he does, one of them being the way he makes people laugh. He always— caters his jokes to the person around him. That means he pays attention, means he remembers, means he cares. That’s already a lot.

“You made it,” he says, a soft edge to his tone, when you reach him. His hand reaches for your arm, pulling you into the circle, then hovers at your elbow, sometimes brushing against your skin. This is another one of the changes that have happened since the summer. He’s more— tactile, and it does all sorts of things to you.

You don’t mind. You don’t mind at all.

“You look good,” he adds, voice low enough that you’re the only one to hear it. You do your best to repress the shiver it sends down your spine.

“Thanks,” you reply, your usually sharp tongue unable to find something to reply.

“Jisung!” some voice calls, and you manage at the last second not to roll your eyes — thank God, ‘cause there’d be hell to pay if you had.

Because it’s Jihyun. Because of course it is. If there’s one thing you can’t take away from her, it’s that she always has impeccable timing. Not for you, naturally, for herself.

If it was just you, you’d be out the door in seconds, leaving the scene before risking any kind of confrontation. Being with Jisung right now means that she won’t directly be a bitch to you, she’s never done it upfront in front of him. She instead goes the passive-agressive route which, bless his precious heart, he basically never picks up on.

You also never spoke about it with him. At first because she was his fucking girlfriend and he clearly adored her, even if there was so much that set them apart, and since then because, well, you’re still afraid you’ll come off as some jealous bitch or he won’t believe you or, worse, take her side. Tell you that you were every bit the bitch she says you are, and that she was right for the shit she put you through.

You only have seconds to brace for impact. But as you compose yourself, not bothering to smile, Jisung’s hand settles on the small of your back.

Which, hmmm, you’d be happy about in pretty much any other circumstances, but right now? Right now it might not be the best thing for you.

“It’s been a while,” she tells Jisung with a stunning smile. “How have you been doing?”

Jisung smiles too, though somewhat tighter. They’re on good terms, from what you’ve heard, but that’s not really something you’ve discussed with him. You force yourself to tune them out quickly, letting your eyes wander in the room. Just being around her makes your chest tighten. You feel on edge, feel the need to watch all of your gestures and anything that leaves your mouth in fear that it will be used against you.

Fuck, you were supposed to be over that.

Whatever Jisung answers, it makes her laugh. She leans forward, puts her hand on his arm. She makes it looks so easy, so natural. Same with how she pushes her hair behind her ear, keeps her voice at the right pitch, even laughs the right way, light and airy. If you tried to flirt the way she does, you’d only embarrass yourself. You'd look delusional. There’d be nothing sexy or attractive about it.

You’re just bad at making people like you.

It’s impossible not to be reminded of the fact that this is who Jisung went for. You don't know if you can go as far as to say she’s his type, but he did choose to date her, and you know how much he cared for her.

With her around right now, it’s really fucking hard to think that he would go for someone like you and that you haven’t been letting yourself get carried away.

On a related note, are you going to have an emotional break down in the middle of the room?

“…and things are looking pretty good for the team, we think we’ll get to the nationals this year,” Jihyun concludes cheerfully.

Wow, that’s impressive! Shouldn’t she be training for that then?

Maybe she has a point. You are a bitch.

“That’s cool,” Jisung says. “Well, it was nice running into you again.”

Her smile falters, just barely, but you don't miss it. She’s good at hiding things, but you’re better at noticing them. Know your enemy and all that.

You’d almost feel bad for her. If you’d had Jisung’s undivided time and attention, and you lost it? Yeah. You don’t know how you’d cope.

But then her eyes light up again, and again, she’s really fucking good at that shit.

“What are you guys playing?” she asks. “I’d love to join.”

You’re not unaware of the way Jisung’s hand closes slightly on your back. As he turns around, he ends up pulling you a little closer to him and your stomach tightens. Less because of his proximity, though obviously that affects you too, and more because you have the sinking feeling that this is about her. Is he— using you to make her jealous?

No. There’s no way. He would never do that.

Right?

“Just some never have I ever for now,” Sana chirps in answer. She gives the three of you a warm smile, and you think she means it. You’ve never gotten shit from her, and that says a lot. Normally you’d argue that people shouldn’t be neutral or anything, but in your case, neutral seems to be too much to ask for, in most cases.

“Alright!” Jihyun grins, lifting her cup as if to signal that she’s ready to enter the game. “Never have I ever… had sex with someone at a party.”

She drinks almost immediately, a cute giggle slipping past her lips, and so do a bunch of other people.

“None of you get close to my room,” Sana warns sternly, and several people laugh.

It’s not until you feel Jisung moving to drink from his cup and catch a glance of his burning red ears that you realize what Jihyun’s point was. With someone else, it might be self-centered to assume you were the intended target. With her, you don’t doubt it a second. Just a little reminder that he used to be hers.

There are a few whistles at Jisung’s attention, but he keeps his eyes down. It doesn’t surprise you that it would make him uncomfortable. It kinda surprises you that she wouldn’t care, though. She’s evil incarnate, but she seemed to care about him, in her own way.

“Aw,” she says, staring straight at you with her sweetest smile, “don’t worry, we’ll find you someone.”

There was a time where that might have upset you, but right now you won’t give her the satisfaction. You let your gaze flicker over her, face-shoes-face, and then glance away with a scoff. It makes you look like a haughty bitch, but, well, you’re already known for being a haughty bitch, so who cares.

Jisung chuckles discreetly next to you. That makes it worth it.

The game goes on without catching much of your interest after that. Jihyun’s sentences remain pointed — either towards Jisung or you, you’re pretty sure, though you doubt anyone notices. At least Jisung doesn’t move away from you for most of it, chin sometimes coming to rest on your shoulder, fingers running gently over your arms, the occasional whispered comment in your ear.

Heat pools in your stomach the whole time, and you’re unable to focus on anything but him. His firm body’s pressed against your back, his proximity overwhelming. You feel that you should drag him away and finally talk about what’s going on between the two of you, but you’re afraid you’ll break the spell if you do.

Eventually, he’s the one who does, peeling himself away from you when Chan shouts from downstairs to get his attention.

It feels cold when he’s gone.

It feels colder when Jihyun’s eyes zero in on you.

Hm. Maybe flight would be the better option right now.

You’re not sure how it happens, but the game shifts not long after Jisung’s left. A bottle appears on the floor, and you tilt your head. Aren’t you all too old for that?

Apparently not, or at least not when so many people are that drunk and giggling at the idea. Soon, some are making out. Others excuse themselves and find a more private spot — Sana reminds everyone that her room should not be that spot, but you’re not sure how efficient that is.

You’re thinking about retreating when you hear someone call your name and again, of course, it’s Jihyun. She gives you a warm smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“It’s your turn!”

There’s tension in the air as you just stare. You don’t want to—

“C’mon, it will be fun!”

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care about what she makes you out to be. But in that moment, you’re back to your first-year self who was still trying to fit and figure out how to make people like you.

So you lean forward and spin the bottle.

It takes you less than a second to realize that that was some dumb fucking decision making. You don’t want to kiss anyone here. The idea vaguely nauseates you, actually, but less than the uncomfortable realization that no one here wants to kiss you. You might be seconds away from facing a harsh, unpleasant rejection. That was probably her point, actually. You fold your arms over your chest, but you still feel your shoulders sink. You know you’re unwanted. You don’t need—

The bottle’s grinding to a stop when a hand shoots out to grab it.

You frown, glance up.

And it’s Jisung. He flashes you a bright smile, then winks.

“Wanna make out?”

Jihyun laughs lightly, tells you to ‘go get it’. But even you can see her heart breaking in her eyes.

None of it matters when Jisung strides over to you and takes your hand in his to pull you away. More people than you’d have expected cheer.

He pulls you into some random room, closes it behind him, and then hesitation appears in his eyes when he looks at you.

“We don’t have to— I mean, I wasn’t trying to make you— If you want to go kiss someone else—”

It sounds like he is down to kiss you, and even if you hadn’t wanted to kiss him before that, you think that little knight in a rock band t-shirt moment would have gotten you going anyway. So you shut your brain up, grab him by his t-shirt, and in the stunned silence that follows, an extremely rare occurence with Jisung, you pull him down towards you.

His lips crash against yours, warm and soft, and after the first few seconds of surprise, during which you see him blinking at you with impossibly wide eyes, he kisses you back like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. One of his hands comes up to cup your face while the other’s at your waist, squeezing and bringing you closer, not quite daring to make the move to your ass. Yet, anyway.

There’s urgency in the way he tilts his head to get better access to your mouth. Your hands trail from his shirt to his arm, feeling his toned biceps underneath you fingers, and you feel him grin against you.

“Find something you like?” he teases, before kissing you again.

This time his tongue brushes against yours, and a moan escapes you. You could feel self-conscious about it, but you don’t, not with him. If anything, it only seems to spur him on further, and he gets closer, his toned thigh pushing between yours. You feel hot all over, anywhere he touches you set ablaze, and oh, do you want this. One of his hands slides up your leg, hitching your dress higher.

“Have I told you I really like this dress?” he asks, because apparently he can’t shut up even in moments like that.

He doesn’t let you answer though, and again he’s kissing you, making your head spin. You can’t figure out what to focus on. The softness of his lips, the warmth of his mouth, how his hand is slowly making its way higher up your thigh, setting your skin ablaze, probably intentionally teasing you. Whatever it is, you’re melting under his hands. You want more, undeniably so.

He pulls away for just a second, catching his breath. His chest is heaving quickly, his lips swollen, and you can’t help but think that this is your doing, a thought that somehow turns you on even further. Dark, dilated pupils meet yours, and you think you see a desire that mirrors your own. He licks his lips briefly, glances at the bed in the room. Then his eyes meet yours again. He swallows.

“Do you—”

You jump away when someone tries to open the door.

“Is someone in there?”

Shit. Shit.

It’s Sana.

“No one better be in there,” she says threateningly.

You exchange a panicked look. She’s the sweetest person in the world, but you don’t want to cross her.

In a second, Jisung steps away from you and he’s at the window. He opens it, looks out, and then he throws one leg over the edge.

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

“Saving our lives,” he replies very seriously, stepping out fully on what you assume is the roof over the porch. “Come on,” he adds, “I’ll help you out.“

You roll your eyes, walk over to him and close the window, shooing him away with a gesture of the hand. Then you open the door, and though Saya eyes you suspiciously, you think she believes your story about being tired and wanting a rest and not having realized you’d locked the door.

Then you walk downstairs and let yourself fall on a couch, right next to Jisung, who seems to be all pouty that you refused to escape with him. His thigh brushes against yours, and your stomach does a somersault, but neither of you says anything about— well. About the thing you should be talking about. The moment’s passed, and self-doubt is assaulting you all over again.

Still, right now, you’re the person who gets to let your head fall on Jisung’s shoulder, and it’s your hand he intertwines his fingers with.

In that moment, you’re sure that the two of you will be alright eventually. It’s probably going to take a while, ‘cause you’re too much of a coward and Jisung’s— well, you’re not quite sure what his deal is, but there’s definitely something there.

But, eventually, you’ll be alright.

And there is no space in your brain, at that moment, to spare a single thought for Jihyun, because she’s lost him a long time ago.

Even if neither of you seem to be able to admit it, in all the ways that matter, he’s already yours.

okayyy, again, there's kinda Lore there. i don't know if i'll end up writing it, but in case you're wondering, OC was paired with Jihyun for a class during their first year. essentially, Jihyun was pretty busy due to being on the swimming team and other personal stuff. OC ended up constantly doing all the work for the both of them, and sometimes Jihyun would say she'd do stuff and not do it. eventually, after OC was forced to complete stuff in one night and abandoned for a group presentation, there was a nasty altercation with Jihyun and the teacher became aware of the situation, resulting in a bad outcome for Jihyun. lots of people felt that OC was unfair and should have been more understanding, and OC still doesn't know if that was the right thing, but felt used and upset during the situation. Jihyun also vilifies OC when talking about it, a lot, and OC ended up being kinda ostracized after that. so yeah.

if you read all this, uh, thank you, i hope you enjoyed this, it's my first time writing Han and I love him dearly and I hope this works. it would mean the world if you could reblog this, leave a comment or anything like that! as an author, this is really the only way we get to see that our work is appreciated and it's trully what keeps me writing so it's super important :) thank you for reading and i'll see you later for Hyunjin!

[storiesbyjes2g]

3.50 Be a man about it

Another overcast morning darkened my room, causing me to look at my phone to see the time. I tried to sleep in, but I always woke up at the same time every day. I didn't hear many cars speeding past our house, so I figured school was still out and offices were closed and gave myself a day off too. No one would likely be at the spa anyway after gorging themselves with turkey and holiday goodness. Besides, they had rude girl now. I closed my eyes and attempted to return to my dreams, but the sounds of Dad opening and closing doors and shower water striking the tub interrupted me. Soon, he'd turn the TV on, so I gave up and got out of bed.

I had such a nice chill spot in my room and never used it, so I sat on the couch and thought about what to do with my free day. All week, I thought of my sister and aimed to call her, only to be distracted by everything. With nothing to steal my attention, I called her on SimTime before life invariably threw something else at me. It was so good to see her face. I didn't fully realize how much I missed her until I saw her bright blue eyes and heard the sass in her voice. But to my surprise, she didn't look happy, and my big brother alarm system booted up.

She said she didn't like the family she lived with because she felt like they were always talking about her. I let out a tiny sigh of relief because, honestly, she always felt like someone was talking about her, so this was the status quo for dear Less. I imagined not speaking the language increased her paranoia, and for that I sympathized with her. But despite her issues with the family, she said she's still happy to be in Mt. Komorebi, and that was all I needed to hear to initiate the shutdown protocol. Life was not without its trials, so I didn't expect she'd go over there and live in a bed of roses. She went to find happiness, and as long as she remained happy, I was good.

I rarely had idle time, but when I did, my mind often drifted to Sophia, and that morning was no different. No matter what I did or who I was with, she always lived somewhere in the periphery. I missed her so much and owed her a date as well. I sighed and sank into the couch, running my hand through my hair and wondering what was wrong with me. I had this gorgeous woman who waited patiently for me to get my shit together. She was the only one who wanted what I wanted, yet I spent more time cultivating relationships that went nowhere. At the time, it made sense to me. But now, it all seemed kind of pointless, especially after getting clarity about what they all wanted.

When I was in high school, Mama told me something I never forgot. Two things, in fact. She said to be honest about how I felt, and to find someone I could not live without, and I'd been trying to do that ever since. Despite my thoughts and what I've done, the honest truth was this. No matter who I met, no matter what I did, my thoughts were always on Sophia. And when I thought of her, my sentiments were always long term. That clearly sounded like someone I could not live without. It's just like what they said: the heart wants what the heart wants. But I behaved like a scared little boy, hiding from the monsters under his bed. I already felt like I was behind in life, and I didn't need anything else stunting my growth. It was time for me to overcome my fears and create the life I truly desired. I didn't have to jump into a relationship right away, but I needed to accept that I had already found what I wanted, quit messing around with my other friends, and let Sophia know what she meant to me.

After thinking of ways to convey this message without making it sound like a proposal or even asking her to be my girlfriend, I decided to take her to dinner at the fanciest restaurant I could find and spent the next few hours scouring the Internet for locations and reading menus and reviews. Yasmine called during all of this and asked me out again.

Memories of her bouncing boobs danced in my head again, tempting me to accept. Sophia didn't know what I had planned, so I could cancel without penalty and get an encore of the other night. But I didn't want to. I owed Sophia my time, and I wanted her to have it. And as anxious as I was to woohoo again, I was reluctant to risk losing her for a few hours of fun with someone who didn't care about me. Besides, at some point, woohoo will be an option for us, and it will be a thousand times better because I... Because we cared for each other. I sincerely appreciated our night together and would never forget Yasmine because of it. But frankly, I didn't need her anymore. When the time was right, I'll find a way to let her know.

[thetrashbagswasteland]

Character Cuddle Scale

How-to: Rate your OCs based on how they handle cuddling/being cuddled.

Tagged by @outpost51 tyyyyy So let's go through the list look you're getting the extended OC list I have many thoughts about hugs from my characters ok

Kuris: 999999999/10 His hands wander, he's respectful but he is still incredibly xeno and being 125-odd does not change that. The flipside is that he's incredibly snugglycuddly - he learned to love physical contact as part of his healing from the shit he went through as a kid and... never looked back. Loves hugs, never lets go first, always warm and remarkably soft actually.

Venna: 2/10 This would be a 0/10 or into the minuses but quite frankly nobody could spend as long as she has living with Kuris without learning to grudgingly accept cuddles. And then she let him knock her up and shit what a surprise, the kid expects physical intimacy too. Both say it's very much like hugging a former stray animal - stiff and awkward but urgh, if they have to.

Tykse: 8/10 Genuinely, she's shy! She's baby still! She does, however, take after her dad in so much as she loves cuddles. Very soft, very harmless, major fan of casual intimacy with people she trusts. Tyke is just babygirl ok.

Des: -1000000/10 This child bites. Even his own parents aren't safe from being bitten if touched when he doesn't wanna be hugged sometimes and anyone aside from them and his grandpa are getting mauled on sight, no exceptions.

Seia: 10/10 Mom cuddles, enough said. Who's her children? Why, everyone who looks vaguely sad in her presence congrats you're now one of the kids thems the rules 7 bio kids and a(n eventual) herd of grandkids ain't enough she'll take in anyone and everyone and WILL include free hugs as part of that. She smells nice, she's gentle and she'll invariably only let go if she knows her prey fellow participant really wants space. That or insist on feeding them instead.

Rems: 5/10 Look, she CAN be cuddly no doubt about that but there's definite time and space limits as well as a limited pool of people she wants to cuddle up to. Her family get a free pass, of course, but they understand her boundaries in a way few others do.

tagging @aceouttatime @sparatus and anyone else who wants to play

[angel-inrealtime]

November F1c Prompts Day 4

Day 4 - Sound (Music)

When people ask you when you knew (that he was it for you, that he accidentally ruined you for anyone else, that someone needed to take a sledgehammer to the stupid self-protective walls he built around himself so it might as well be you) the answer is easy, and they’re always surprised by it.

Maybe because they seem invariably to know how drawn out the whole thing had been, then. Almost a year to get your collective shit together, which seems like a waste from the outside, you’re sure. Privately you think of that extra time as a key contributor to the solid foundation beneath your relationship now, even if some of it was fraught.

But the fact of the matter is, Daniel started a playlist sometime after that first New Year’s Eve and has been adding to it for the last four years. And while casual proximity comes as easy as breathing to him, you know his love language is music. Not in the ways that come immediately to mind – he’s far too impatient to learn an instrument, and can only carry a tune just enough to be an unashamed karaoke partner – but in the ones where he’s the person trusted with the AUX cable and to make playlists for every event from a rare Friday night gathering all the way up to weddings.

Daniel’s playlists are carefully curated and flawlessly matched to the occasion, almost perfect reflections of the people he makes them for, and the seeming imperfections are suggestions he thinks they might appreciate (he has a 99% success rate, and she’s sure Blake withholds the 1%  just because he thinks Daniel’s reaction is funny).

All except yours.

Yours is like a story with no linear narrative, an explosion of the last 4 years with a loose thread woven through it. And you like it like that. To you, every jump from wistful country to Fleetwood Mac to sad indie rock means he thought of you (as an individual or a collective) and went to the trouble of adding it.

Sometimes he sends you little explanations, and for your second anniversary you fished out your favourites, screenshotted from your text thread, and put them into a collage with the album artworks, enlisted a designer friend to help. The print sits pride of place in his study at home.

Others are self-explanatory; you danced to Take it to the Limit by The Eagles at a cousins wedding, not long after you made it official, there’s a photo of the two of you backstage at a Gang of Youths show, mid dance to Let Me Down Easy. You’re the One that I Want from Halloween karaoke when you went as Danny and Sandy.

Sometimes you catch it in the corner of your music app, the innocuous text saying he’s listening to that playlist, and the soft, smitten part of you hopes he’s enjoying it, that it’s giving him what he needs, what he’s looking for.

[mariacallous]

Is liking Ayn Rand a personality defect? Before she was the godmother of American libertarianism, Rand was a writer known for insisting on the virtue and beauty of self-interest. To her admirers, her books, including “The Fountainhead” and “Atlas Shrugged,” celebrate exceptional men and women who make their own flourishing a moral imperative. To her detractors, Rand’s novels, as Lisa Duggan writes in her 2019 study “Mean Girl: Ayn Rand and the Culture of Greed,” glamorize rapacity and violence; they grant happy endings to characters who showcase “contempt for lesser beings and a cool indifference to their suffering”; and they “provide a structure of feeling—optimistic cruelty—that . . . underwrites the form of capitalism on steroids that dominates the present.”

Since Rand’s death, in 1982, she has been embraced by tech billionaires (Peter Thiel, Steve Jobs, Elon Musk), free-market politicians (Ronald Reagan, Clarence Thomas, Rand Paul), and their acolytes. Elsewhere, she has become a pop-cultural bogeyman, ridiculous but unkillable. Find her on “The Simpsons” (“Russian weirdo Ayn Rand”), “Parks and Recreation” (“a terrible writer”), “Girls,” “Watchmen,” and “The Mindy Project,” invariably dressed as a menace or a punch line. The presence of “Atlas Shrugged” or “The Fountainhead” on a bedside table or Tinder profile is a waving red flag—reliable shorthand for latent sociopathy. A friend, in order to lend me a copy of “Atlas Shrugged” for this piece, stowed the paperback in a manila folder that she then stapled shut and handed off to my partner at their mutual workplace. He smuggled it down the hall and into his bag. “I didn’t think I’d get fired” if anyone saw the book, he explained, “but it wouldn’t look great.”

In “The Book of Ayn,” a novel by Lexi Freiman, Rand takes on a new role: North Star for the cancelled. Anna, a mid-career writer who comes from money, has just published a “contrarian” novel about the opioid epidemic, a satire of the rural poor full of “bad haircuts,” “misspelled tattoos,” and pants-shitting. “I had honestly believed I was writing a book so good it metabolized its own badness,” Anna explains, somewhat touchingly. Instead of the acclaim she expects, Anna gets dropped by her publisher and ghosted by her friends; even her old prep school rejects a last-ditch job application. On Twitter, she is enjoined to jump off the balcony of her pied-à-terre on Madison Avenue and to use her novel as a parachute.

Worst of all, a review in the New York Times suggests that Anna is that current-day bête noire, a “narcissist.” Devastated, Anna borrows a friend’s book on narcissism and reads that narcissists are “selfish, arrogant, and insecure,” “grandiose and fragile and incapable of handling any threat to their identity,” and that they “saw themselves reflected back everywhere, made grand narratives of their lives, but felt at their core that they were empty.”

To Anna’s horror, the descriptions remind her of herself. She is empty, she realizes. She doesn’t believe in anything; all she can do is make fun of people. Seeking a counternarrative, Anna gloms on to a tour group discussing Ayn Rand in a coffee shop and, soon after, orders a bundle of her works. She’s immediately enthralled. The books argue that “selfishness was a form of care” and that “wealth was a beautiful thing.” They claim that “true freedom lived . . . in the breaking of bonds and severing of ties.” As Anna reads, she feels her weaknesses becoming strengths. Her selfishness, she realizes, is radically ethical. She may not get invited to parties anymore, but she wouldn’t enjoy them anyway—she’s too radiantly liberated.

In “The Culture of Narcissism,” his famous 1979 study, Christopher Lasch writes that the narcissist can only overcome insecurity “by seeing his ‘grandiose self’ reflected in the attentions of others.” Freiman slyly casts Rand as Anna’s “grandiose self,” the mask she pulls on over her pain and vulnerability. Anna, you might say, has suffered a narcissistic injury and is turning to Rand to preserve her positive self-image.

An elderly millennial in the shitposting era, Anna shrouds her new obsession in layers of self-protective irony. Rand’s ideas give her solace, and being a “ ‘Randgirl,’ ” in scare quotes, appeals to her contrarianism, her desire to provoke and outrage the commenters who want her to jump off a balcony. When Rand was in her late thirties, she moved from New York to Hollywood to write for the big screen. Anna decides to follow in her footsteps. She decamps for Los Angeles and reinvents herself as a television writer, pitching a sitcom, inspired by “Bojack Horseman” (although she swears it’s not), about a farm animal named Ayn Ram. Even as Anna hopes to rehabilitate her hero for a contemporary audience, she places some distance between herself and her subject by wrapping Rand in the soft wool of humor—a defense mechanism that Freiman suggests originates in a tragedy in her early life. When Anna was three, her infant brother died “for no reason” in his sleep. Provocation “smoothed the edges,” she says, a fleece that muffled the sharpness of loss.

With its undercurrent of childhood trauma, “The Book of Ayn” evokes Mary Gaitskill’s classic treatment of the Randgirl plot, “Two Girls, Fat and Thin,” from 1991. That book’s narrator, Dorothy, imprints on a Rand-like character named Anna Granite after being abused and molested by her father as a teen-ager. “By the time I was seventeen, I had a very negative view of life, and a horrific view of sex,” Dorothy tells Justine, a journalist writing an article on Granite and her fans. When she discovered Granite’s books, Dorothy says, “suddenly a whole different way of looking at life was presented to me.” Ostracized at school, she draws comfort from Granite’s depictions of “proud outcasts . . . surrounded by the cold glow of their genius and grace.” In bed with her father, she clings to a dream of “strong, contemptuous beauty . . . indifferent to anything but itself and its own growth.” Dorothy comes to believe in a philosophy called Definitism—Gaitskill’s thinly veiled version of Objectivism, the doctrine developed by Rand—and it confers on Dorothy the power and value that she believes herself to lack; Granite herself seems to nurture the girl in loco parentis. As a college student, Dorothy buys an interstate bus ticket to attend one of Granite’s speaking events and imagines her idol, how “she would look at me and know everything I’d endured.” At the lecture, she weeps uncontrollably, convinced at last that she is “damn strong,” that she is “worth something.”

“The Book of Ayn” and “Two Girls, Fat and Thin” plead for sympathy for the Randgirl. Like Freiman’s Anna, Gaitskill’s Dorothy is a case study in vulnerable narcissism and, ultimately, a figure of pity. She retreats from the world and into daydreams about Oz and Never-Never Land, epic tales in which she plays the hero. She hides behind delusions of grandeur, raging when Justine asks her “stupid” questions. These are broken people to be handled with gentleness, the novels seem to argue.

But, in fact, both books have a more subversive intent: to trouble the distinction between Randians and everyone else. In “Two Girls, Fat and Thin,” Justine, the freelance journalist who interviews Dorothy, is disgusted by Granite’s ideas. She’s identified as “neurotic” and Dorothy is not; the contrast between them conjures Freud’s dichotomy between pliable patients who obediently adopt the terminology of their analysts and difficult patients who prove too self-absorbed to undergo transference. But Justine, who, unlike Dorothy, is pretty, thin, and popular, incarnates Rand’s notion of the beautiful brute more than Dorothy does. As a girl, she picked on schoolmates who had fewer friends; at one point, transported by “swelling arrogance” and “boiling greed,” she sexually abused a weaker child with a toothbrush. The more Gaitskill reveals about her characters, the more they blur together, as both selfish and selfless at once.

In her penetrating monograph “The Selfishness of Others: An Essay on the Fear of Narcissism,” Kristin Dombek describes a narcissistic behavior called “splitting,” wherein the narcissist idealizes that which soothes him and discards that which causes him pain. “Splitting” is also the main structural mechanism of the two novels—and a mental trap that both their protagonists and their readers must resist. Like “Two Girls,” “The Book of Ayn” is built on a seemingly clean division: Part 1 tells the story of Anna’s intoxication with Rand; in Part 2, Anna, breaking violently with Objectivism, goes to a meditation camp on the Greek island of Lesbos to try to murder her ego. Freiman’s Los Angeles is a cesspit of superficiality and selfishness, but the “Beloveds,” as the cultists who run the retreat in Greece call themselves, aren’t much better. The group’s master is known for his collection of three hundred and fifty Harley Davidsons and for releasing “a vicious strain of European bee into the hostile neighboring farmland.” Other seekers at the commune steal Anna’s clothes, cheat on their partners, and neglect their children. Anna, unconsciously emulating Rand, begins a love affair with a much younger man, a refugee from an unspecified war-torn country. Life on the commune can’t heal the effects of his “hard-core trauma,” he tells her. Only Hollywood can; he longs to “try the acting.”

So is everyone a delusional, self-serving, trauma-masking Randian narcissist at heart? You could call that the lesson of the Randgirl novels, although you’d be underselling their sweetness. The books mock their characters, but they also argue that egoism can be nourishing and even generative. Gaitskill’s treatment of Anna Granite, for instance, is unexpectedly sympathetic. When Dorothy first meets her idol, the older woman models kindness and empathy. Dorothy panics, unable to speak; Granite, Dorothy says, “stood and gripped my shoulders with both hands . . . her eyes radiated the gentlest strength I had ever experienced, her tough, hot, callusy hands supported me with the full intensity of her life.” Granite tells Dorothy that she can see her suffering but also her resilience and value. She offers her a job. Because Granite has willed herself to believe in her own worth, Gaitskill hints, she is alive to the worth in others. And, in awakening Dorothy to her own inner resources, Granite awakens the young woman’s sense of her fellow-humans as sovereign selves. In the hours before Granite’s lecture, Dorothy is transfixed by passing faces: “the jowls, the eye wrinkles, the bumpy noses, the flower-petal quality of young female skin.” When Dorothy was in college, individuals had streamed together into a monolithic threat. But “as I walked among the citizens of Philadelphia,” she says, “I felt as though I occupied a compartment of personal space that they instinctively respected as I respected theirs.”

Freiman finds less to salvage in Rand’s life or work, but the novel is rightly skeptical of the wellness industry’s promises to subdue the demands of selfhood. After failing to make a TV show and then failing to kill her ego, Anna takes stock. She comes to realize that she can’t write without self-esteem—and that writing, more than being a contrarian or even a good person, is her vocation. “There was only one thing that ever helped me,” she says. “One thing that had always been there, strung up at the threshold of my mind like tiny golden lights, enchanting me into life, dangling its whimsy and warm lozenges of hope.” This thing is writing—“only writing promised me happiness, or at the very least progress”—and the type of writing Anna wants to do, voicey and spiky and singular, requires an “I.”

Unlike the self-aggrandizer, the artist, Freiman implies, uses her “I” as an alloy, creating a material both durable and porous, blending what she has felt to be true with what she imagines might be true for others. The writing that Anna intuits will save her dangles at the “threshold” of her mind because it directs her both in and out. Throughout the novel, as she flails around trying to fill her perceived emptiness, what she fills it with are the words, ideas, and lives of roommates, romantic partners, Internet commenters, friends, influencers, yoga instructors, cult members, Antifa activists, and embarrassing conservative philosophers. She reads their books, goes to their events, and stays in their homes. By the end, her “I” has been vastly expanded: other people live in her head, whether she wants them to or not, shaping the innermost contours of her self. This vision of identity as plural means that self-assertion does not necessarily come at the expense of the rest of the world. It could even be a declaration of life on another’s behalf.

Both Freiman and Gaitskill play up the Möbius-strip aspect to selfishness and selflessness—when I stand up for me, they suggest, I am also standing up for you, because we are intertwined. At their most persuasive, though, the Randgirl novels don’t applaud the morality of self-interest so much as they paint self-absorption as a useful but transient phase. Freud characterized narcissism as a form of arrested development. The narcissist, instead of sprouting healthy attachments to others, remains stranded in the oceanic self-involvement of infancy. Gaitskill and Freiman rescue this creature from a state of frozen pathology, returning her to her rightful place within a developmental stage. Dorothy and Anna, perhaps, are just passing through necessary bouts of self-infatuation on their way to maturity. Late in “Two Girls,” Justine comes to appreciate the role that Granite played for Dorothy, even as she believes that Dorothy has outgrown Granite:

When you read Granite’s work not only did she awaken your sense of beauty and pleasure in life, not only did she illustrate for you a positive use of strength and power, but she provided a springboard for you to create an internal world richer and stronger than the external world which wasn’t giving you any support at all. But she was only the departure point.

Instead of a bogeyman or a red flag, maybe Rand is just a set of training wheels, or a trellis on which characters can temporarily support their unfurling selves. “Everybody had a moment of loving Ayn Rand,” Anna’s mother tells her—it’s a low point for our Randgirl, but a reassurance to readers, who are happy to welcome this lost sheep back into the herd. ♦

[ramp-it-up]

It Takes Two

Pairing: Soft Dark!Chris Evans x Reader

Warnings:  18+, Minors DNI. Curate your own experience. Cursing, drinking, cheating, breakups, rehab, recovery, deception, lies, celibacy, manipulation, wedding planning, semi-public explicit, rough, sex, oral sex (m receiving), degradation kink, breeding kink, choking, dubiuous con (b/c of deception). Darkish! Scott Evans. This is not proofread!

A/N: @lovebittenbyevans gave me a great idea about still dealing with Chris when commenting on The One.  I thought that the Chris in that fic could really go left and get pretty Dark and dirty. And then.... 

Anonymous asked:

Imagine Chris cheating on Y/N …

That made me think up this fic. It is a sequel to The One. I hope you like it!

-----

You left him.

You flew to Montreal to surprise him on set, trench coat and lingerie and everything, and when you opened the door to his trailer, you saw Heidi on her knees giving Chris a blowjob.

You cussed him out, threw the ring back in his face and turned around and left. 

You blocked his number, moved out of his house and cut off all contact.  You were done.

The audacity of Chris being indignant about your warnings about Heidi when he was boning her all along.

You loved Scott, but you had to cut him off too after he tried to explain that Chris was drunk when you found him, and was going to rehab to deal with his issues. 

 It was classic celebrity bullshit and you didn’t have time for it.

You decided to center yourself, and swear off all relationships and sex. You wanted to purge your mind of all that weighed you down. 

You concluded that love, sex, and Chris Evans made you feel heavy as fuck. 

You moved to New York City. It was far enough away from Chris and your folks in Houston to give you some peace. 

You could still run your business and even think about a storefront.  It was the perfect location to live your best life, eat healthy, exercise, socialize and network. 

You fell in love with yourself, and you didn’t think much about Christopher Robert Evans at all.

Only every time you went on IG or Twitter, even though you blocked him and his hashtags.  And every time you went to Target, because his fucking movies and merchandise were everywhere. 

But you were cool, because you were doing you. You weren’t looking for love.

Of course, that’s when it found you.

Six months after you left Boston, you were at a natural beauty products expo in Brooklyn hawking your wares.  

Your business had taken off, with almost a half million dollars in sales, and you were being interviewed by a major news outlet of color when one of the correspondents caught your eye. 

You flirted, exchanged numbers and ended up going on a date. In another three months you were engaged to him.  

Kevin Watts made you feel safe, protected and loved. And he wasn’t just after sex. He was well off, and secure in himself and you.  It just felt right. 

When Kevin proposed, it was just you and him at your favorite restaurant. So romantic. 

Not like the rowdy family 4th of July party at which Chris asked you to marry him last year, in front of both your parents.

The laughter and the joy was just a little much. 

This was perfect. You didn’t miss Chris at all. You set about planning your wedding with a profound sense of peace and safety.  

You and Kevin were meant to be.

----

Chris was nothing without you.

Nothing but an award winning actor and producer, a multi-millionaire and founder of a major organization dedicated to bringing opposing political viewpoints together. 

All of that was cool, and it kept him going, but when he lost you, he lost his motivation.

Chris didn’t take any more roles after the sequel with Heidi, and he dumped her post haste. He did enter rehab and realized that he depended way too much on alcohol to dull his emotions. 

He got drunk off his ass when he was away from you because he missed you so much, and that led to him letting Heidi think that she could have him.

She’d had him physically, but never his heart. Or his mind. You owned those.

Chris followed your business closely, and was proud of your success. 

Of course he followed your social media on burner accounts and saw that you were doing well. 

You looked like you enjoyed being single and seemed healthy and happy.

He couldn’t ask for anything more for you.

Except to be his again. 

Chris was just biding his time for your reunion, deciding to give you a year before he made his move. 

Now he felt every emotion, and he knew that you must still love him too.

You just needed to realize that your life would be even better with him back in it.

The year apart would be just punishment for what he’d done to you, and when you came back together, it would be better than before.

Everyone speculated on his bachelorhood, wondering if he would settle down, speculating and gossiping about who he was with, but he just played coy and kept quiet.

No one would know that he was yours and yours alone, and that you were still his.  

You just didn’t know it.

But you weren’t going along with the plan that you didn’t know about. 

About seven months into his self-imposed purgatory, a complication started popping up on Chris’s feed. 

Kevin. 

And a couple of months after that, a post of a proposal, in a restaurant.

The asshole probably didn’t even ask or involve your folks.  Chris was in a rage for a week. 

He almost started drinking again, but as he got ready to drive to the liquor store, Kevin’s face flashed on his screen doing a report on the election.

Instead of making him even more angry, he smiled, elated at the thought that came to him.

Chris had a new plan, and it was going to be even better than before.

-----

The last three months had been a whirlwind, and you never thought it would turn out this way.  

You were planning your wedding with your mother, discussing the seating at the reception, and you deciding where Chris Evans and his date would sit.

What a time to be alive.

Your mother only let it slip a couple of times that you should be marrying Chris, but for the most part, she kept it cute.

You explained to her that everything was squashed between you and Chris, and that he and Kevin had a great relationship, were friends, even.  

They’d bonded over politics when Kevin interviewed him, and became buds before Chris even realized that you and he were together.

Kevin knew, but he wasn’t the jealous type, and he didn’t want to make things awkward. Surprisingly, Kevin insisted that he be at the wedding. 

You thought about it and decided it would be the ultimate closure for Chris to watch you marry someone else. 

You were pleasantly surprised at Chris. He was handling this very well. He never tried to contact you, and according to Kevin, never even mentioned you. That was growth. 

Maybe you too could be friends. 

You felt good about it. So much so that you unblocked him and started a dialogue.

-----

Hi.

Chris saw your number come across his apple watch and he practically did a dance. It was 9:24 pm.  He picked up his phone and stared at the word, forcing himself to wait and not respond.  He went to work out.

47 minutes later, he responded.

Hello?

This time, he sat and waited for your response, which came 7 minutes later. 

I just wanted to say, I appreciate the way you're handling this.

Chris bit his lip, imagining you sitting there, thinking of what to say and staring down at your phone.

I’m sorry, I don't know who this is. You may have reached a wrong number?

He grinned at the play. 

----- 

Your heart dropped. Did he no longer have your contact?  

Why would he do that?

You don’t know why you felt some kinda way; you’d blocked him. 

Maybe he had changed his number and this was no longer his. Your heart was beating fast when you texted back.

Is this Chris?  This is Y/N.  I was just texting about Kevin Watts.

You anxiously watched the thought bubbles on imessage.

----

Even though you’d texted back almost immediately, Chris kept you hanging for just a couple of minutes. His dick was hard at the thought of communicating with you. 

Fuck, you were such an aphrodesiac.

Oh shit! Y/N I’m sorry.  I got a new phone.. You know how it is…

He knew you wouldn’t believe that. That’s why he said it.

You just stared at the phone. That was bullshit. You can easily port your contacts into a new phone.  You just never believed that Chris would really move on.  And you didn’t know why. 

You had.

You took a deep breath and continued.

Lol, No worries!  Just wanna say thank you for being cool with my Boo. I’m gonna turn in now. Check you later.

You tried to keep it light.

Chris ignored the ‘my Boo’ comment and focused on the thought of you in bed. 

You usually slept in a tank top or t-shirt and panties, and the top would invariably come off because you got hot. 

And then things would invariably get hotter if he was in bed with you….

Cool! Sweet dreams. Check you later. 😉

Chris made sure to exit your message thread and come back so that you wouldn’t see the thought bubbles that he saw when you kept staring at the text.

You  were lost in the times that Chris always used to say that to you, and when he whispered “Sweet Dreams” in your ear when he was far away, you always had wet dreams about him. 

And that wink. 

How could a fucking yellow emoji turn you the fuck on?

You reached for your bullet vibrator as you continued to stare at the interaction.

Chis had already started stroking himself when you told him you were going to bed. 

Knowing that you were thinking exactly what he wanted you to got him close, and he didn’t even have to pull up your old videos to get off. 

Not tonight.

-----

Over the next few weeks. you’d texted a few times, Chris ‘made amends’ and you accepted his apology. 

Then, you started texting more regularly, mainly joking around about sports, your Celtics/Rockets rivalry ever raging. 

From your perspective, Chris was always appropriate and respected your relationship with Kevin.  You were glad because you’d missed your friendship with him.

You felt giddy that your life was working out so well, and you traveled to your weekend getaway in the mountains for your bridal shower with a light heart.

Chris attended Kevin’s bachelor festivities with only a week to go until the wedding.

——

From Chris’s perspective, things were working out better than he’d hoped. 

Scoring an invite to the wedding was more than he’d imagined, and Kevin inviting him out to his Bachelor party was just icing on the cake.  

Maybe he could make Kevin slip up enough so that you would dump him before the wedding. Chris was hopeful.

If not, Plan B was the nuclear option. 

-------

Kevin was following the stripper’s ass like a puppy. He was lit on booze and pills (that Chris provided) and his guard was down.

Kevin considered Chris a friend. 

Chris just wanted to keep Kevin close because he was the enemy.

They were talking about you.

“She’s so fucking innocent. A sweeter angel there never was. I’ll have to teach her how to fuck.”

Chris almost choked on his water.

“I'm sorry. What now?”

Kevin just barreled on, ignoring the question.

“That's how I know I need to wife her.” He was talking to Chris, but still staring at the stripper.

“She would never chase the D. Hell, she won’t even touch mine. You know, her being celibate and all.”

Chris raised his eyebrow and smiled, which Kevin never noticed. Chris shook his head at your antics.  His little beautiful love.

“That’s why I was never pressed that you are her ex. I mean, I’m impressed you were with her as long as you were.”  

Chris just smiled and nodded, curious as to where this was leading.

“A man like you don’t have to put up with that. You must have punani lined up for days, bro.”

Chris’s heart lept. This dullard did not have access to your pussy. HIS pussy.  Never has.

Chris could fuck a lot of people a million ways from Sunday with one text. Except for you. And you were all that mattered. 

“I don’t know about all that.” Chris put on his best, ‘aw shucks’ act.

Chris was over the moon. You were still his. In every way.

Kevin kept tipping the stripper and was trying to call her over. He asked her about a private lap dance.  Chris’s eyes lit up. This asshole was making it too easy.

The stripper nodded and went back to finish up her set.  Chris walked over to the bar.

“Aye!” Chris summoned tha bartender over. 

“What can I get you, Sir.” 

“I don’t need a drink.  I wanna take care of my friend over there. He’s gonna have a lap dance with Star. It’s his bachelor party.  I need it to be extra special.”  

Chris started peeling off hundreds so the barkeep could see. 

“And I need him to have some keepsakes, so he’ll remember it always.” 

More hundreds came off. The bartender’s eyes got bigger and bigger. “That’s no problem.”

Chris flashed his famous smile.  

“Great, let me tell you where to send them. Wanna make them a wedding present.” He wrote down an address on a napkin. 

He was now on Plan C. And it was perfect.

------

A week later and the rehearsal at the church was more fun than you thought it would be.  You weren’t allowed to participate, just watch, as the result of an old wives tale.

The church secretary found you in the pews. She handed you a manila envelope.

“This was mailed here yesterday, probably an invoice of something for the wedding, I put it aside for you, sweetie.”

You smiled back at her and tucked it into your purse, not wanting to distract yourself with more wedding bills. 

Later, when you and Kevin were in the back of the car to the restaurant for the Rehearsal Dinner, you pulled it out and opened it. You couldn’t believe your eyes.

“What the ENTIRE FUCK KEVIN!”  

You threw the pictures of him fucking a stripper in his face, startling him out of staring at his phone.

He picked one up, his mouth dropped open and started talking. 

“Look, Baby, Baby! I can explain!...”

“DO NOT FUCKING LIE TO ME KEVIN!  WE HAVE OVER 300 PEOPLE HERE FOR OUR WEDDING TOMORROW MORNING.” 

Kevin was on his knees in the back of the suburban. 

“Listen to me.. Listen.  I’m a man. I have needs…”

“Kevin, I swear to god….”

“Okay, okay… I admit it…”

You listened to him and your heart went silent.  You couldn’t even absorb what he said.

When you pulled up to the restaurant, you straightened your dress and looked at him coolly.

“I am NOT going to deal with this tonight. Tonight was supposed to be a fun celebration of our wedding. I will decide later if it's still going to happen.”

Kevin was terrified.

“Right now, you and I will go into this place, greet our friends arm in arm and pretend that you are not a fucking narcissitic asshole who just ripped my heart to shreds. Got it?”

“Yes, but I-”

“Do NOT speak to me unless I speak to you first. Or it's automatically off.”

Kevin just nodded and cleared his throat.

You raised your chin and said, “Let’s go.”

-----

Two hours later, dinner was over, and you were lit on your way to TURNT.

Chris observed you, from the moment you entered holding hands with Kevin to the second you dropped his hand in disgust, to the way you held yourself away from him at dinner, but then put on a sweet face when everyone spoke, to Kevin, who was an absolute mess.

He figured you got the pictures. He suppressed the glee that was coursing through him.

But he couldn’t figure out why you were still going on with the charade.

Chris didn’t make a beeline for you like he wanted to, he just let the natural flow of the party lead you to him.  He was talking to your cousin when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around.

“Hey you.”  

You cocked your head at him in that way and looked up at him, your smile brightening your face.  Damn, he had to plant his feet. You smiling at him like that made him feel faint.

You both heard your cousin say something, but you didn’t pay attention, caught up in your own orbit.

“Hey.”  

Chris crossed his arms, and you swore that he was recalling the time when you told him your forearms made you horny. Fuck. Chris made you wet and you were fresh out of fucks tonight.

“So, I can’t have a hug?”  

Chris shook his head at your line and opened his arms to embrace you, keeping a respectable pressure and distance until you hugged him tight and pressed close.  

He couldn’t help but pick you up, but he put you down immediately, cleared his throat and backed up, looking uncomfortable.

That wouldn’t do. You wanted more of his scent, his warmth, his HIM. You pouted unconsciously in your buzzed state.

Chris’s cock stirred.  That fucking mouth had haunted his dreams for almost a year. He was pleased that you were flirting, but he had to work the plan.  Couldn’t go too fast.

“You look… great.  I can’t wait to see you tomorrow in your wedding dress. You will be a beautiful bride.”  

Chris broke his voice in just the right place to convey a wistfulness, making you think that he thought he lost you.

You felt bad.  Chris was so sweet.  You thought about him and you thought about Kevin. 

What was the difference between what Chris did and what Kevin did?  

And who did you have more chemistry with? Chris.  

Why were you even marrying Kevin?

You looked over at him looking at you and Chris like a lost dog.

You had no idea why you were marrying him.

“You look… Like Chris fucking Evans.” You two laughed.  

“I bet you’re fighting them off with a stick.”  You sideyed him.

Chris reveled in your interest in his sex life.

“Well, you know. After rehab, I’ve laid off the... physical part of my life. It only brought chaos, you know. I’m trying to be more… zen. Haven’t really had… that  for the better part of a year.”

He watched your eyes get big.  

“Word?”  You smirked. “So you…”

Chris held up his hand.  The one you knew he jacked off with.  You grabbed it and started drawing on his palm.  Chis pulled it back and cleared his throat again. 

You pouted again. Him being hard to get made you wet.

And Chris knew that.

“So… you ready to marry the love of your life?”

 Chris’s sea blues looked you deep into your cocoa browns. You were transported back in time.

“Yes.” 

 Then you snapped out of it.  

“I mean… the church is set up, the dress is bought, everyone’s here. I guess so.”

Chris laughed as if you were telling a joke.  

“I miss your sense of humor.”

You all made small talk and you caught up a little before you asked what you wanted to know.

“So what are you up to tonight?”

Chris looked at his watch.

“I’m actually about to go to my condo an turn in. I get up early to work out.” He felt your eyes sweep up and down his body, and he flexed even though he was fully dressed. It was true. Working out was a regimen. He wanted you drooling for him. 

“It’s the Marvel condo in Brooklyn?”

You nodded, remembering good times.

“So you have a car picking you up?”  Your mind was whirring.

“I actually have a rental.” 

You gulped your drink down, not daring to look in his eyes. Now, not only was your pussy wet, your nipples were hard as hell. 

“It’s in the parking garage down the block.”

“Well, I need to clear my head. I’ll walk you there, and you can drop me back?”

Chris looked down at your cute face, and then around the room, spotted Kevin and gave him a nod.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”  

You looked at Kevin, too.  You wanted to stick your tongue out, but you just took Chris by the arm and headed toward the door.

“I’m a big girl. Nobody owns me.” 

You looked up into Chris’s eyes and instantly regretted that statement. You played it off and pulled him through the door.

You didn’t talk at all the entire way, both of your heads deep in the clouds of you and him.  The chemistry was crackling the air between you.

You held on to his arm, and he let you, reveling in your touch.

When you reached the parking garage, Chris pressed the button with his knuckle and you got in, headed for the top deck.

You just stared at each other, both thinking the same thing. Chris chuckled.

“You’re dangerous, night before your wedding, you probably have cold feet, I’m here. Maybe you want to be sure that you’re sure…”

You cocked your head. “Who said I wanted to fuck you, Chris Evans?”

Chris cocked his head too, mirroring you.  “Who said ‘fuck?’ I was thinking you wanted to talk.”

He smirked and you scowled as the door opened.

Chris left you in the elevator stewing as he walked over to the black Tesla he’d rented. There was no other car on the deck.

You scoffed, and followed him out.

He was about to walk around to the driver's side door when you grabbed his arm before he made it. He stopped directly in front of the car.

“Do you mean to tell me that you don’t want me?”  You were hot, in more ways than one.

Chris leaned back against the hood.

“That’s not what we’re talking about, y/n. You’re getting married tomorrow. To someone else.”

You smiled and reached up, fingers grazing his neck and playing with the hair at his nape. You ran your fingers through his beard.  Kevin’s couldn’t compare.

“That’s tomorrow. Tonight I’m single as fuck.” 

You stood on your tip toes and brushed your lips against his, reveling in the moan that came from his throat.

Chris fought to control his urge and continued with his act. His fingers tightened around your waist and you thought this was it.  He turned you around in front of the car and then let you go, stepping back to pace back and forth.

“What? What is this? You’ve had almost a year. Kevin’s my friend. What do you want from me?”  

He advanced on you, and you had to remember to breathe.  He knew what you wanted.

“You. I want you, Chris.”

Chris attacked your lips with his own.  He took two seconds to savor them before he ravaged your mouth with his tongue.  You moaned and he broke from your mouth to re-discover your face, your neck, your cleavage.  He had to control himself not to rip the bodice of your blush pink chiffon dress.

He had a raging hard on, which you were feeling up, remembering how you always struggled to take him.  You wanted him to hurt you with it now.

“Give me this Chris… please…”

You were reaching into his pants, thumb caressing his wet, thick tip. He was leaking for you.

“Remember when you told me that I would meet you in a parking lot, and let you fuck me over the hood of your rental car? Even if I was with someone else?”  

You pulled your hand out and started sucking your thumb, closing your eyes at the taste of Chris after so long.  You pulled it out with a pop.  

“You were so right.”

Chris practically growled, grabbed your arm and spun you, pushing your back until your chest hit the hood of the Model X.  He leaned over you, pushing his covered crotch into the back of your dress, you moaned, wanting more.  His mouth was at your ear.

“Oh, so you want to be my cock whore on the eve of your wedding to someone else.”  You moaned because it was true.

“It’s been so long, Chris…”

He reached down in between you and flipped the flouncy skirt of your dress up, exposing you to the wind of New York City.  He looked at it for a minute, your ass always his favorite.

He caressed it with both hands, pressing into you with his thumbs.  

“So you want me to feel you up?”  He pulled his hand back and sucked one of them, practically jumping for joy when he tasted you. 

“You want me to pull your panties to the side….” and he did so, seeing your slick shine in the moonlight, and playing in it for a minute, tracing your lips and making you quiver around nothing.

The way you were moaning his name was everything right now.

Your face was pressed against the cool metal of the car, and it was the only thing tying you to the earth.

“Oh yes, Chris…. Please please yesss...fuck me… damn...stretch me out…”

Chris’s dick pulsed and he needed you around him. He moved close again and unzipped his pants, the sound making your knees weak.

He teased your cunt with his tip, collecting your arousal and smearing it not only around your pussy, but around your asshole.

“I know you’ve fucked him, but have you let him have your ass?  Am I still the only one…?”

Chris was still playing the game. 

“No, no, no… I haven’t let him… I haven’t given him anything. I’ve been celibate, too.  It’s still yours Chris. All of me is still yours.”

Chris almost came just hearing you say it out loud. He already knew, but hearing you say it was the shit.

He pushed into you with a grunt, and it was difficult.  He didn’t make it. Your cunt squeezed him out.

“Ffffuck, y/n. You’re practically closed down.  Is it true?”  

He started rocking his tip into your pussy slowly, both regretting and reveling in the fact that he didn’t stretch you out with his fingers beforehand.  Then he decided that he wanted you to feel this fully.

You couldn’t answer, only responding with moans has he painfully breached you. You welcomed it, though.

“Ah, ah, ah, ah… yes Chris.  Only you.. Since you and I….”  Talking about it and the fact that you were taking him again made you wetter, and eased Chris’s way, although your pussy was already stinging with his girth. Your eyes rolled back in your head.

You would never get over this and were so grateful for the feeling again.  

Chris watched you and had to grit his teeth to hold back from the reality that he was taking you again. 

He leaned over you, hot breath huffing in your ear, puffing and groaning as he fucked you slowly.  He was trying to feel every sensation. He wanted you to know that each and every millimeter of your glorious wet, tight pussy was his.

‘Ohhhh. Fuck Chris… YESSSS!”  Your voice echoed off the concrete walls, and Chris wanted you louder.

“This what you wanted?  You wanted your thick cock inside you again. Hunh?  You wanted me to stretch your walls and fuck you raw, hunh?”  He started speeding up in time with your moans.

“Such a fucking filthy cockslut for me, baby.”  Chris grabbed your neck from the back. “Why didn’t you let Kevin hit, hunh?”  

You didn’t answer, you just moaned and Chris smacked your ass, hard.

“Chris! Fuck!”  

You screamed. You missed his ruthlessness when you fucked, you missed him making sure that you knew that he knew that you knew. You belonged to him. 

 “Please!”

“I know why.” 

Chris stopped fucking you and pressed down harder on your back, reaching around to find your clit.  He swirled around it once, then started to press down slowly. 

“Because you would never beg him for that subpar dick that he has. You’re MY whore. You belong to me.”

He pressed down roughly, and you detonated around his dick.  He didn’t have to move.  Chris pulled out, leaving you cold and bereft.

You turned around and leaned up against the hood, panting and still desperate for him.  He stood there in front of you, dick sticking out of his pants, which were ruined, and still rock hard and ready. He was in a quiet rage.

“Why did you leave me?” 

You searched his face.  He sounded like he was about to cry.  You couldn’t quite see his entire face, but his eyes shone, bright with liquid.  You went toward him.

“You hurt me Chris.  I couldn’t stay. But let me take care of you now.”

You got on your knees in front of him, the hard concrete of the parking structure digging into your knees.  

Again, you welcomed the physical pain, distracting you from what you were doing to Kevin, to Chris, and to yourself.

Chris felt like he could fly.  You on your knees for him again was a dream. 

He took his cock in his hand, stroking it, while moving close to you. In no time, the back of your head was in his palm, and you opened wide to accept him, hand coming up to stroke what you couldn’t fit.

“Ah, ah. Let me.”  

You looked up at him to see an evil grin shine down on you. 

Chris looked down on an angel trying to swallow him whole. He brushed the tears away from your eyes as you struggled to breathe. You were perfection.

Moaning around him, you relaxed your mouth and throat and let him use you.  It was difficult, because you were out of practice, but you welcomed the letting go of all thought. 

You dripped down your thighs as Chris pumped into you, ready to accept what he had to give. 

After a few minutes, he stopped, and pulled out, grabbing you up to your feet. 

Then he bent down and grabbed you by the back of your thighs and you wrapped your legs around his waist, kissing him and trying to grind down on his still-erect cock as he backed you to the car.

Your ass hit the hood, and Chris reached between you to first tear your panties off. He put them in his pocket as he swiped his dick up and down your dripping wet folds.  

He looked back up to watch your face as he pushed inside you, now, an easier path to nirvana.

He pulsed as he watched the pleasure take over your face, with your mouth slack and your eyes glassed over. This was his main purpose in life and he almost lost it.

He brought his hand up to bring you closer, breathed into your mouth as he squeezed your throat. You were high instantly, and clamped down on his cock as your body was wracked with waves of pleasure.

Chris let your body descend back down to the car as he pumped his seed into you, his mind fantasizing that he was impregnating you. 

He shook your body as the last ropes of cum spurted out of him. He ran his hand down your body as he pulled out, zipping up his pants as you came back to your senses on the hood of the car.

You stared at the stars as you realized what you had done.  You sat up and adjusted your dress, gingerly climbing back down to the ground.  

Chris kissed you on the forehead, and this time you let him get into the driver’s seat. You got in the passenger side and Chris reached into the glovebox and handed you some wet wipes.

“Fix your face. And your knees.” 

He nodded down to your legs, which were dirty from the parking structure floor.  He watched you wipe your knees off, but stopped you as you went higher.

“No. I want you to feel me all night long.”  

You wanted to be a brat, but you didn’t feel like sass right about now. You felt kinda terrible.

You got another wet wipe and fixed your makeup as best you could as Chris drove you back to the restaurant.

“Chris, I…”

“I know.  None of that meant that we’re back together.  That was for some kind of something, I dunno, something Kevin might have done?” 

You looked down, ashamed. Chris lifted your chin up with his hand.

“I want you to come to me on your own.  You’ve gotten that out of your system, and I’m glad to be of service.”  You looked up into his eyes and at his wry smile.

“But remember, you still have a choice. I’m here if you choose me.”  

He leaned over and gave you a tender kiss in front of the restaurant.

You smiled at him and climbed out of the car, watching as he drove off.

Chris’s heart was beating out of his chest as he watched you turn and go back inside. He fought the urge to turn around. It was better this way.

----

You walked in the restaurant, and pulled Kevin over to the side of the restaurant in dark alcove. 

“Listen. Do you still want to marry me?”

He looked you up and down, taking in your state, from the faint marks on your neck to your scuffed knees.  He knew exactly what was up.

You raised an eyebrow at him.  

-----

Three hours later, a sleepy Chris answered the doorbell in Brooklyn.

He smiled at you, in the Captain America t-shirt and jeans that you’d stolen from him after a photoshoot, looking like his favorite Disney princess. You.

You took him in, clad in grey sweatpants that hung off his magnificently cut body.  He blinked at you sleepily.

“The wedding is off. Chris, I….”

He reached out and grabbed you, pulling you in the brownstone and shutting the door behind you.  He had you pinned up against the wall as you tried to speak.

“Shut up and let me taste you.”  

You grinned and wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you upstairs.

--- 

The next morning, Chris was on the phone with Scott.

“Yes, tell the workers at the warehouse to dump all the products….I don’t care, the river, the landfill…. Y/N can’t find out that I bought up all her stock…. We’re going to be married..... I know what the fuck I’m doing Scott. We leave for Aruba this afternoon. Listen, I’ll call you later.”

Chris hung up and turned to find you in the doorway, frowning and rubbing your eyes.  

“We’re going to Aruba?”  

You smiled and yawned, sleepily stretching.  That was all that you’d heard of the conversation.

Chris gave you his stunner smile.  

“Yes. It was going to be a surprise.” 

He reached down and swung you up in his arms, carrying you into the bathroom bridal style.

“Now let’s get in the shower.  You’ve been very naughty, gotta get you clean for your wedding day.”

You giggled as you relaxed in Chris’s arms. “It takes two to be naughty, Chris.”

He winked at you as he turned on the shower. “Don’t I know it.”

-----

I know it’s different. Let me know if you like it. Like, comment, reblog! 

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[scurvgirl]

@lillotte17 said:  Plz show us an instance of Dorian with The Boi realizing that he is in fact morosexual 😌 like watching him walk straight into a glass door and being “oh no I love him”

Dorian Pavus, scion of House Pavus, educated by the finest instructors in Tevinter and co-developer of time-traveler magic has been with his pick of intelligent and beautiful mages and scholars throughout his homeland. He would dazzle his company with his intellect, wit, charm, and of course his amazing good looks. He in turn reveled in the intelligence of his affairs. The shared passion for the esoteric and arcane. 

Inquisitor Varas Lavellan was a good man. A kind man. A diplomatic and charismatic man who was surprisingly good at getting what he wanted by smiling and speaking calmly. He too was devastatingly handsome with long, thick black hair and bright green eyes. His long nose, high cheekbones and square jaw were all complimented by his dark green vallaslin. After Dorian did some research, he’d discovered that Varas’s vallaslin honored Dirthamen specifically, a god of knowledge and secrets. It was fitting. The Inquisitor had so many secrets after all. But knowledge?

As charismatic and kind-hearted the Inquisitor was, however, he couldn’t exactly be accused of being the cleverest sort. 

“The daggers, of course, they’re heavier than feathers,” Varas said, utterly convinced. Dorian blinked in surprise.

“Listen - ten pounds of feathers, ten pounds of daggers. They both weigh ten pounds, neither is heavier,” Dorian explained but Varas shook his head.

“Makes no sense. Have you ever held a feather? No way it weighs the same as a dagger.”

“A singular feather, of course not! But both weigh ten pounds, erego, there are a lot more feathers present than daggers.” 

“As an expert in daggers...I don’t see it.”

What was there not to get? Varas shook his head and curse him and his beautiful hair! This whole conversation was ridiculous and stupid. Dorian couldn’t even remember how they had gotten here, but they were and it was absurd Varas couldn’t get the logic. What was more absurd was that Dorian wanted to end the stupid argument by kissing the man on his stupid mouth with stupid tongue instead of making some witticism that Varas would invariably not get! 

Varas leaned forward and smiled which was of course the worst thing because his smile was incredible. “I know you’re trying to tell me something, so why don’t you just say it? Take out the guesswork.”

“You are infuriating.”

Varas chuckled, “I’m charming.” And for the first time in that entire frustrating conversation...Varas was right. Shit.

(I am currently accepting prompts! Send’em on over!)

[tenthgrove]

Can i request LS headcanons where their s/o brings them flowers but for really no particular reason? Just cuz they saw them and thought of their favorite assassin?? I just know these guys mightve not gotten either many or any flowers before and id really like to bring them some 👉👈

Sweet As A Rose

La Squadra x Reader (G/N), Romantic, SFW

Formaggio- As much as he tries to act classy around his dates, Formaggio just isn't used to flowers as a love gift. Nobody in his family did it growing up (and can you blame them? Flowers are bloody expensive) so he never got into the habit. Still, he understands the sentiment in you giving them to him so he's chuffed to pieces nonetheless. He shoves them in a drinking glass and presents them proudly on his counter.

Illuso- Gifts are a big part of Illuso's love language but flowers aren't typically what comes to his mind. However, the look of joy on your face as you present them to him is just too much to ignore. He can't help but accept them with a smile. He ruffles your hair, and holds the flowers close to smell them. Now he thinks about it, they really are wonderful. You truly know how to please him, even if he sometimes doesn't.

Prosciutto- It's no surprise that Prosciutto loves traditional dates, so he adores the use of flowers as a love gift. Invariably, your dates now begin with exchanging flowers between the two of you, putting them in the back of the car until you can get them home. His favourite are roses because of the obvious romantic connotations, particularly deep red. He wraps the flowers in beautiful gold paper, just for the extra effect.

Pesci- He absolutely loves flowers! Whether it be an extravagant bouquet or a simple daisy plucked from the field he thinks it's an adorable gesture and will be thrilled if you get him any. He wants to return the favour but often leaves it too late, so has to make do with finding some wildflowers last minute and wrapping them in gift paper. They somehow still look amazing. If you like, he can show you the fields he got them from. He has a knack for finding these things.

Melone- He's the sort of guy to know the symbolic meaning behind every type of flower. You'll pick up on this very quickly and, if it's in your price range, may want to consider customising your bouquets for a specific occasion, e.g. getting Red Carnations after a period of unavoidable separation or Goldenrods when the team is hoping for an advancement in status. It turns almost into a game of who can get weave the best story with the flowers you choose.

Ghiaccio- He literally doesn't have the foggiest clue where to start with all this romantic shit now you're together, but he's glad that at least you do. The flowers are really pretty, a beautiful burst of colour and texture. He can't help but run his hands along the soft petals. Sometimes, if you get him something particularly gorgeous, he'll freeze it with White Album so it doesn't wilt, and keep it in his room until you find something even better.

Risotto- You really are wonderful for him. He'll be in his office exhausted out of his mind, and you'll come in with a sprig of wild lavender. It might be a small gesture but it really cheers him up to know you're thinking of him. Sometimes, if you're getting him a whole bouquet, he takes out his favourite flower and slides it into your hair before kissing you. You look so sweet with flowers in your hair.

Sorbet and Gelato- At this point in their relationship Sorbet and Gelato have tested out every love language they can think of, so they're no stranger to getting flowers for each other. Unfortunately, Gelato has hayfever so Sorbet doesn't get them very often, but Gelato doesn't mind sneezing and encourages you in your special way of showing your love to him. Just don't be offended if he pulls some of the flowers apart afterwards. He doesn't mean any harm by it, it's just really fun to him.

[10millionyearsdungeon]

Praesidium

A/N: Back to our regularly scheduled bullshit...We went into this with zero plan, zero ambition, and came out the other end with something resembling a drabble featuring Hitoshi Shinsou as a hot-shit, Kennedy-esque politician trying to escape from the “family business.” I’d like to thank @dymphnasprose​ for the inspiration, the banner, and for putting up with my crazed plot bunny hunting sessions in her DMs. Proudly part of The Smut Pile Mafia Collab-- huge thanks to @pleasantanathema​ and @present-mel​ for organizing it and keeping us degenerates on time for once. You’re the real heroes.

TW: Wax play, orgasm denial, tobacco use, death threats, graphic violence

=====================================================

You were always used to protection. Your family's name and wealth brought its own Kevlar shield; whether it was the broad shouldered bodyguards flanking you and your entourage during every frivolous shopping excursion or impromptu escape to one of the many vacation homes that dotted the globe, or the mere mention of your father and the weight of his near omnipresence in the highest echelons of high society, protection was almost always guaranteed. You could hear it in the hushed voices of the real estate giants and their trophy wives when you made your grand entrance to every socialite gathering. 

"There she is, Yanai's precious pearl…" 

Dripping in envy and awe, it was no surprise to you when you caught his eye. Heir and only daughter of the wealthiest family in the country, you knew your worth among the elite and so did he. You only knew of Shinsou Hitoshi by virtue of his reputation as a newcomer to the world of national-level politics, but his charm and charisma were undersold by every inch devoted to him in the papers. By all accounts, he left you dazzled by his lazy, almost sleepy smile and the low rumble of his succinct one-liners. 

He played the part of the laid-back Playboy to the hilt, and by the night of your first fundraiser gala Shinsou had you practically eating from the palm of his hand like a hungry stray. By your second date, you could practically taste the Harry Winston hiding in his Tom Ford smoking jacket by the time dessert arrived. Back then you never questioned how he managed to afford the heirloom, four carat diamond he slid onto your finger, nor did it occur to you how he managed to slither his way into the House of Councilors. Blinded by the magnetic sway he held over you and your well-paid collection of sycophants, the how and why seemed largely irrelevant so long as he kept you on his arm. In your waking moments, you could almost catch pieces of a broken conversation from your insomniac lover. 

"Find someone else...I'm done being your enforcer. I have an image to maintain now…"

Many a night he'd stumble in reeking of sweat and sulfur, dark liquor still burning on his lips when he pressed a kiss to your warm cheek as you slept in your shared bed. Morning invariably gave way to bruised knuckles and heavy dark circles as Shinsou hid his fading scars under his slate gray Armani suit. Prior to your wedding night, you thought you caught the rip of his silk and gravel voice grunting from a crooked alley. Following those familiar thunderclap grunts was the crunch of something hard and then a pulpy squilch that made your stomach twist in on itself. The begging that followed was unintelligible from your way to the nightclub, but his voice, your Shinsou's voice snarling a loaded promise of breathing tubes and chronic pain if the offending party didn't pay their due stayed with you until your bodyguard ushered you into the safety of your car. 

"Daddy, I can't do this," you cried. Your father dabbed at your eyes and shook his head at your tantrum. He wouldn't be so blasé about the arrangement or your uproar if he was the one who heard your groom's fist shattering bones just the night before. A vision in white brocade, the four carats on your left hand felt like ten tons weighing you down the aisle as your father all but dragged you to meet your husband at the end. As the crowd rose to receive your grand entrance, you couldn't help but stifle a quiet sob at the sight of Shinsou's surrogate fathers standing in the front pew. Yamada couldn't contain his excitement for his boy, but Aizawa glared on coldly when you met his gaze. Your father kissed your cheek and gave your hands a squeeze before abandoning you before your audience. Shinsou held out his hand, and you choked back another hiccuping sob-- how could you hold those hands the same way when they were capable of such senseless violence? Knuckles cracked and discolored with aging bruises, he groped for your hands and pulled you the extra two steps onto the altar, flashing you that same lackadaisical grin. It was a blur, a bad dream you couldn't wake from. Beyond the sporadic flashbulbs blinking in the crowd, you couldn't pull away from him. 

"I do…" Your voice didn't sound like your own, even as you felt it leave your throat. Shinsou pulled closer and rasped against your lips. 

"This is only the beginning, kitten." 

Kitten...

You couldn't deny how his pet name made you shiver. The single word held a scintillating promise of the night to come, yet all you could focus on were those hands and the crunch of anonymous bones under his blows. Would he ever turn those hands on you? As he gently slid his platinum wedding band over your ring finger, the mate to the ostentatious engagement ring occupying the spot, you melted under the tenderness of his touch. Your Hitoshi couldn't be capable of such violence. Your Hitoshi was a man of change, of reform who wanted to help bring his countrymen into a golden age. Your fingers numbly slid your ring onto your husband's hand and with the action sealed your own fate. The world swam out of view when he overtook you with a blistering kiss, hungry and needy against your lips. He didn't taste like smoke and scotch this time, a flavor you had grown to appreciate the longer you entangled yourself with him. He lingered for what felt like an eternity, the roar of applause and shared joy for the union a soundtrack erasing any fears you might have had prior. 

Your bridesmaids swooned over the intensity of Shinsou’s gaze throughout your opulent reception-- your father sparing no expense when giving away his precious pearl. Shinsou’s family kept to themselves mostly, with Aizawa only stepping from their shadowy corner to address your father over travel arrangements. Hitoshi’s eyes narrowed and that same cocksure grin blossomed over his features as you inched closer, hip pulled closer by that massive hand. “Hey,” you breathed with a soft smile. He returned it in kind and squeezed your hip through the eggshell Vera Wang gown and leaned in to whisper in your ear. Hair slicked back, all that tickled you was the heat from his breath as it fanned against your skin. “I can’t wait to get you out of that, kitten. Gorgeous as you are with it on, the thought of you in nothing but your jewelry has my mouth practically watering.” Predatory gaze amplified by that sex and gravel voice had you melting. He took you by the hand and bade you follow him across the floor of the resort ballroom. Cautiously, you glanced around the room, anxious that someone from the party would notice your sudden escape. Before you had a chance to object, Hitoshi held a finger to his lips and pulled you through the crowd and out of the room. “You really think I can wait any longer when you’re looking like that?” The wait staff cast cursory glances at you and your husband as he continued to guide you away from the noise and bodies keeping him from tearing your gown off and claiming you. “Hitoshi…” you whimpered, pinned with your back to the door of your honeymoon suite. He sunk his teeth into your shoulder and nearly purred at the gasp that left your lips. Fumbling for the key, Shinsou held you from falling into the open door and nudged you over the threshold with an eagerness you couldn’t place. Words were swallowed by hungry mouths and replaced with an exchange of passion tempered only by the quiet frustration of fingering over buttons and parting fabric to unwrap the prize of feeling your skin under his fingertips. Once released from your prison of beaded white silk and delicate lace, Hitoshi pulled away, raking his ultraviolet eyes over your nearly bare frame to further appreciate his prize. 

“Just when I thought you couldn’t be any more perfect.” Instead of shying away from his words, you moved with a certainty that was far from your own. Automatically reaching for his tie, you pulled him down to resume your heated devouring, earning a chuckle and a light spank on your lace-covered cheek in reply. “Impatient, kitten?”

Your fingers worked the buttons of his shirt nimbly, practically digging your nails into his chest just to feel him hiss into your mouth. Tongues waged a war to stalemate status as your husband gave your buttocks a squeeze before hoisting you up and wrapping your legs around his hips. Your sex practically drooled against his toned abs through your useless lace panties. The trail of your gyrating on the ridges of washboard muscle pulled wanton moans from your kiss-bruised lips.

“Feels like you are. Drenched for me already. Who knew my heiress was such a needy slut.” You whined under the degradation he heaped on you as he placed you on the pillow-top bed and guided your hands above your head. Shinsou pulled his tie over his head and wrapped it lovingly around your wrists, brushing his lips and teeth along the gently blushing skin along your blue-blood veins as he finished securing you to the headboard. He moved slowly, teasing every inch of exposed skin with languid grace. A panther in human skin, Shinsou sunk his teeth and sucked purple bruises along your ribs and thighs, parting your squirming legs casually. You felt the weight of his wedding band on your inner thigh and wriggled away from the cold of it. Hitoshi tsked from below, grin tugging on his lips as he pulled your panties down with his teeth. Tenderly, he rubbed a sole finger along your drenched folds. You bucked into the sensation and writhed for more, only to have your husband pull away and drag the slick-stained digit along his tongue. 

“Looks like I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson, kitten.” He blew on your clit, earning a choked moan. “You’re on my time now.” He withdrew, leaving you to whine for him to return, only to be answered by the closing of the bathroom door. You stared at the gold leaf ceiling, seconds dragging on like hours until he finally returned holding a candle, lit cigarette caught between his teeth. Hitoshi took a drag and guarded the flame from his dark red candle as he took a seat beside your whimpering form. He set the candle on the headboard and gently held your face in his hand, blowing smoke into your mouth. The intimate gesture, sharing the air in his lungs made you swoon. Distracted, you barely registered him removing your bra or how he grazed your pert nipples with scarred thumbs. You opened and melted into his attention, desperate for more. You caught his gaze, eyes glazed over with unadulterated adoration, and let out a strangled wail when the first drops of scarlet wax dripped over your shivering breasts. 

The shock of sudden warmth encasing your tender flesh in candy apple red kept you reeling into the next pour. Your Hitoshi leered above you, rapt in your reactions as he brought his free hand to rest on your bare mons. His long fingers grazing along your sopping clit and the continued dripping of hot wax on your skin had you writhing in place. His dark, rumbling chuckle made your blood sizzle under your skin as he admired his work. 

"I think she likes it," he purred, now moving with intent. Arching into the duvet, you pouted sweetly at your husband, legs gently rubbing together as if it would further entice him to continue. "Who knew my kitten was such a kinky slut?" 

"'Toshi, touch me more!" 

His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline, and he pulled his hand away from your glistening sex. Frustrated whimpers echoing through the suite, you were cut short by another trail of red wax burning down to your navel. He took another slow drag from his slow-dying cigarette and smirked. If it weren't for his hardening cock poking your hip through his tuxedo pants you would have never known how hopelessly he needed every moan and whine he pulled from your tight body. Past games, he would have blinded you, muffled his voice behind black silk and noise cancelling headphones, but tonight was different. 

"Know your place, kitten. You're in no position to make demands."

You bit your lip and stifled another whine as the wax cooled in the mold of your belly button. Shinsou kept the candle hovering just over your bound body, constantly watching you with the same, slow-simmering lust burning in his deep violet eyes. He stopped short over your dripping pussy and licked the nicotine from his lips. You could see the plan unfold in his head before he had a chance to put it in action. Anticipation had every hair tingling as you waited for his next move. Before he could act, there was a stern rap at the door. With all the petulance and frustration of a child forced to share his favorite toy, Shinsou rose from the bed and trudged to the door. 

"Little busy in here."

"Business waits for no one." The intruder's voice was black ice on a fall morning, cold and sharp as Hitoshi shrank back from the door. His shoulders tensed as he scratched the back of his neck, an anxious tic he couldn't shake from childhood. "You can play with your toy when we're done."

"I told you I've gone straight. No more back alley deals, no more blood on my hands. I'm done."

Your blood ran cold and it crept into your belly to make a new home gnawing through the viscera. Unable to make out much more than the broad back of your husband at the door, you strained to listen to the conversation before the cocking of a gun took your breath away. 

"You're done when I say you're done. Never forget who bought you those votes, how you skated into your parliament chair, high councilor." The voice's tone was harsh, mockingly so with an edge of condescension that earned a defeated growl from your Shinsou. The owner of the voice stepped closer, peering over your husband's shoulder with a frigid smirk that nearly made your heart stop. Aizawa raked his dark, abyssal eyes over your exposed body, resting hungrily on your sex drooling into the plum duvet, and turned back to his surrogate son. "Be a shame if something happened to her. All those billions siphoned away…" From your spot on the bed you could feel the noose tightening around both your necks the longer Boss Aizawa spoke. 

"...all to attend a funeral as the dutiful, lovesick widower with his wife's blood on his hands." 

"Enough! That's enough...you win."

Shinsou buttoned his shirt quickly and cast a longing glance over his shoulder at your quiet sobbing. He never wanted you to know the underworld he clawed out of to finally live in the light. It wasn't enough to want change and leave the bloody past where it belonged. Some ghosts had a way of coming back to their old haunts. Tuxedo jacket slung over his shoulder, Shinsou slicked his hair back and turned his back on you, leaving you bound to the headboard with wax, his own Jackson Pollock masterpiece drying on your skin. You could feel your heart breaking with the gentle closing of the door, and the barely audible, "I'm sorry," whispered ruefully by your retreating husband. Protection was something you used to take for granted, but as you found that night and many after, it was something few in your precarious position could do without. 

[oodlyenough]

What did you think of the Batman movie?

My short review is that I enjoyed it, but not as much as I enjoyed Telltale Batman, because nothing will ever be Telltale Batman, lol. However, I still probably enjoyed it more than any other live action Batman I've seen.

More spoilery detail:

Good stuff: Now I like a funny Batman, so I had worried this movie would be too humourless, having seen everyone go on and on about there not being a single joke. (Not true btw! eg: the Spanish thing) But also, watching from home allowed me to laugh uproariously every time Battinson looked like a pathetic wet cat, which was every time he was onscreen, or smeared kohl on his face, or said YOU'RE NOT MY REAL DAD, or when he got his shit rocked by an overpass while paragliding, etc. So I didn't find it as bleak and humourless as I was worried about actually! And it was tbh a nice change of pace from the quipfactory Marvel stuff. Bruce Wayne is a weird loser and I enjoyed seeing this film embrace that.

I've been dying for a live action Selina in a movie I don't hate and I liked her a lot in this. I thought the Batcat stuff was pretty good, mostly (thought his reaction to her maybe having slept with Falcone was a huge eyeroll that didn't get enough apology time tho). Speaking of, the Falcone daughter twist was something I was miraculously unspoiled for, somehow, and we were both like :O lol

Lots of it did look visually pretty cool. Wish we were allowed to film in daytime :( lol

I liked that Gotham is still underwater by the end lmao? Confused by the geography but I liked that Bruce wasn't actually able to stop the bad guys in this one.

Less good stuff:

3 hours is simply too long for me. Invariably in 3 hour films we hit the two hour mark and I start checking my watch, or the runtime, or whatever. This movie lost me in the midsection, especially because of my next point, which is:

I HATE that they chickened out of making the Waynes bad, and also out of killing Alfred lmao. Killing Alfred would've been genuinely shocking and ballsy, so I was disappointed by that, but not as disappointed as I was by the "don't worry ACTUALLY Thomas Wayne was a GOOD man, Alfred swears, he didn't MEAN to hurt anyone uwu". boring!!! And since we had the Selina-Falcone plot, the Bruce-Thomas stuff should/could have been a nice comparison. Comrade Telltale Alfred being like "sorry Bruce but your parents were billionaires ofc they suck" >>>

The other thing, I guess this is the nature of most Batman media, but like... I dunno, we had a 3 hour noir detective plot and one of the big "reveals" in the third act was that Carmine Falcone is a super powerful crime boss who runs Gotham. I can't even tell anymore if I was meant to be surprised by that, lmao, because anyone who is passingly familiar with Batman knows that, so... ? Okay? Again, comparatively, Thomas Wayne being implicated WOULD be a surprising deviation but... whatever...

Also I know he's Batman but Batman having his face 2 centimetres from a bomb when it detonates and not even getting a scratch or bruise on his beautiful unguarded jawline... Lmao

[stevesharrlngtons]

just a little downhill.

mickey x reader

summary: after a hard day of work, mickey comes home to a very unwelcome and unexpected guest: his little brother.

word count: 4.5k

a/n: mickey and his brother goodness! as briefly discussed, kevin’s face claim is pete davidson (: and if you’re curious, here is another discussion of mickey’s parents. i hope you enjoy and if you do, i’d love to hear it (:

Although Mickey had been out from under his parents order for years now, he never seemed to shake the responsibilities they had assigned him. 

When Mickey was old enough, with a high school diploma under his belt and not much else, he escaped two towns over to flee his parents and their needs. To, at the time, do his best to escape their overbearing asks and assumptions of him. He took very little when he fled in the night; a few articles of well worn clothing; his box of drugs and corresponding paraphernalia; an envelope of mementos of his relationship with you; and you, as well. You both escaped your grim situations with wild eyes and hearts, between flurried kisses and giggles, you made your way to your new lives. 

Now, all these years later, you both were still shacked up in your cozy ground floor apartment, with it’s warped tiles and shag carpets, and Mickey had never been happier. Sure, he worked a demanding manual labor job and he had few future prospects, but he was on his own and living with the woman he loved. To Mickey, there truly wasn’t anything better than that. He suspected he could be forsaken to any living conditions, demands or labor, but as long as he had you by his side, he would be happy as a clam. 

You were the one who kept him sane. The one who taught him how to float instead of thrashing in the water. The one who taught him the gentle caress of love. The one who was the only salve for any and all problems that were thrown his way. 

And when it came to his chaotic life, he needed your healing touch more often than he would like to admit. 

Because while the distance between him and his turbulent family offered excuses for why he couldn’t invariably swoop in and save the day, the milage didn’t often deter his parents from calling on Mickey whenever they needed something. Their expectations still held true no matter the separation.

Mickey was expected to come over and soothe tensions when their fights reached a volume to where the neighbors got involved. 

Mickey was expected to drop everything, no matter the circumstance, to help wrangle their old mutt whenever he escaped and began to terrorize the neighborhood kids.

Mickey was expected to drive the hour to their trailer whenever there was an appliance that needed fixing. Usually after his father had stormed off in frustration when he couldn’t do it himself. 

Mickey was also expected to fix a litany of other things that his parents refused to call in an expert about, but had no problem pawning it off on their son (even if he was no more qualified to fix things then they were).  

But above all, Mickey was expected to look out for his little brother. To watch out for him, and to take care of him when he couldn’t take care of himself. This had always been his most fervently requested task, and possibly the one he resented the most. 

And when he came home to find his fuck to of a little brother with his back against the brick siding of Mickey’s apartment building, a joint between his lips and his head angled toward the sun, he knew his everlasting duty to care for the kid was about to rear its ugly head once more. 

Today was just an exceptionally bad day for this to happen. 

Because before he even saw Kevin’s face, it had been a day where he had just wanted to come home, lay his head on your lap as you pressed delicate kisses to his skin. He needed to be enveloped in your soothing smell and coaxed into relaxation by your voice. He just needed you, because today had been awful. The last thing he needed was to deal with any member of his fucking family.

The day started off with the buddy he carpooled with burning a hole in his brand new seat cover on the way to work. Then it was announced that OSHA would be monitoring their site they were at for the morning, which meant nothing got done and the crew was way behind schedule. When lunch rolled around, Mickey dropped his sandwich on the ground, which caused his coworkers to start an uproar of teasing and laughter whenever he was around. And, of course, after he was already in their crosshairs, his drill decided to stop working, which only fueled the other mens mocking. 

And to make it all worse, his mother had been calling on a loop since noon. He refused to answer, not wanting to deal with her drunk ramblings or vicious criticisms, which just meant that the calls kept coming. Now that he thought of it, he was sure the sudden vibration in his pocket had been the reason he had dropped his sandwich in the first place.

Thanks mom. Fuck you.

“The fuck are you doing here, Kev?” Mickey grunted from around his cigarette as he approached his front door. 

“Didn't Ma call?” 

“I don’t answer her calls sober,” he shoved his key into the lock and pushed the door open with his shoulder.

As the door opened, Mickey cringed as Kevin quickly sprang to his feet and pushed past him into his home. He had expected it, but it still made his stomach drop as it happened. When Kevin planted himself somewhere, he was often hard to peel back up. Last time Kevin had come over to beg for money, he didn’t leave for four days, leaving a permanent lanky body print in Mickey’s couch. 

“Can’t really blame you for that,” Kevin chuckled as he collapsed onto the living room couch in a huff, “we didn’t invent The Scale for nothin’.” 

The Scale referred to the made up increment system the two invented in middle school on how high they had to be to pleasantly deal with their parents. Their mother was usually a Bill and Ted and their father was always at very least Cheech and Chong. The brothers sometimes would still refer to The Scale when they were going through a spurt of getting along. But this was not one of those times. 

Mickey hadn’t seen Kevin on an unencumbered social call in over two years. Kevin used to visit every weekend; to party, play video games or just spend time with his older brother; but now it was only under the guise of extorting money (that Mickey really didn’t have to give) or in a search of a place to crash while he was on the outs with their parents or whatever girl he was currently seeing. 

Because of his mother’s incessant calls and Kevin’s mention of her, he assumed it was the latter this time. 

“Yeah, well clearly you’ve already started,” Mickey grouched, as he tilted his head to the blunt that was still between his brother’s lips. 

Mickey was anything but a prude, but when his deadbeat brother came swaggering into his home with no humility or shame, smoking pot and bogarting his couch, Mickey suddenly turned into a stuffy Christian mother, sticking his nose up and huffing at the mention of any illicit substance. 

“Oh, I’m sorry man, you wanna hit?” Kevin asked, completely oblivious to his brother’s annoyance. 

“What are you doing here, Kev?” 

Kevin’s eyebrows raised at Mickey’s bluntness and whistled low under his breath, before settling back against the couch. 

“Take the stick out of you ass, Jesus Mick,” 

“I’m serious, Kev. What is it? Spit it out, I had a long fucking day. I don’t have the patience to deal with this.” 

“You sound like dad,” Kevin chuckled, smoke billowed from his mouth as he propped long legs onto the coffee table. 

His tolerance for Kevin running thin already, Mickey marched over to the couch and shoved his legs from the coffee table with haste. Kevin’s eyes grew wide with surprise and slight betrayal when he looked at his brother again. 

“I’m not fucking around, Kevin! (Y/N) is gonna be home any minute and I want you gone when she gets here,” Mickey raked a hand through his tousled locks and went in search of his work coat to find a new cigarette. 

“(Y/N) loves me,” 

“Yeah, because you prey on her kindness. Now tell me what it is or I’m calling dad to pick you up.” 

That seemed to scare him enough to reveal the reason for his visit.

“I need a job.” 

And there it was. Mickey let out an encompassing sigh as he turned his back to his baby brother. This wasn’t the first time Kevin had asked for a job, and Mickey doubted it would be the last. 

Others might applaud his brother’s initiative to better himself and search for personal contacts to find him work, but Mickey knew better. He had tried to help him get a job more times than he could count, and Kevin always did something to fuck it up. 

Whether it be never showing up, being high on the clock, failing drug tests or fighting with customers and coworkers, something always went wrong. Mickey had burned many a bridge to defend his brother from these employers, because no matter how insane Kevin made him, he was still his brother and he would be damned if anyone said a bad word about him. Other than him, of course. 

“Yeah? And what the fuck am I supposed to do about that?” Mickey challenged. 

“Talk to Stephen,” Kevin replied simply. 

“Fuck no!” Mickey almost laughed, “Man, I need this job, I can’t have you fucking it up for me.” 

“I won’t! I won’t fuck it up!” 

“Yeah, ok. Whatever you say, Kev.”

“I’m being serious!” 

“No, no way, dude. No, Kev. I can’t lose this job. I got bills and shit, now! Did you know you have to pay for garbage pick up at a place like this? Because I sure as shit didn’t! We can’t even bury it like dad did,” Mickey lectured, “and y’know what? I got a girl, one I’d really like to fucking keep. Which means actually keeping this stupid construction job to keep paying for fucking garbage. I can’t have you gettin’ us both canned.” 

“I’ve changed, Mick. I have!” Kevin reinforced when his brother rolled his eyes, “I’m twenty four now. I got like, perspective on stuff, and shit.” 

“Kev, -“ Mickey started, but didn’t continue as he heard a key in the front lock. 

Seconds later you appeared, hair piled high on your head and still adorning your work uniform. Even with his brother pissing him off and the weight of an awful day on his shoulders, Mickey couldn’t stop the goofy smile that spread over his face when he saw you. Worn from a hard day and in your boxy hotel maid get up, you were still the most gorgeous woman he had ever laid eyes on. 

“Hey, baby,” Mickey said as he crossed the living room quickly to greet you. 

“Hi, baby,” you looked up at him, a similar lovesick smile on your lips as Mickey wrapped you in a crushing embrace. 

You craned your head back to capture his pouted lips in a kiss. They will tinged with more nicotine than usual, and you knew something was off before you pulled apart. Your hands had begun to inch toward Mickey’s nape when you heard movement on the couch. When you pulled away, you saw him

“Oh, hey, Kev. I didn’t see you there, honey,” you offered him a kind smile as you moved to rest your cheek on Mickey’s chest.

Mickey tried to keep the scowl off his face as his brother grinned at you. 

“How ya been, (Y/N/N)? Man, it feels like it’s been ages!” his brother charmed, pushing up from the couch to come meet you for a hug. 

When you pulled away from Mickey to do so, Mickey swore you were taking a part of his resolve with you.

“It has, you don’t come ‘round like you used to,” you said, parting from Kevin to smoothe your hands over his broad, boney shoulders. As you inspected Mickey’s baby brother, you spied something new, “this a new addition?” 

You poked the ridge of black ink peeking out of his t-shirt, just below his collar bone. 

“Awh, yeah. Yeah it is,” Kevin pulled down the collar of his shirt enough for you to see the tattoo that joined the ranks of his many others, “it’s the Brooklyn Bridge.” 

“Oh,” you said, a little surprised by the choice, but admiried it nonetheless, “I like it. It’s nice linework. Can’t say the same for the rest of ‘em, though.”

“Yeah, yeah, very funny!”

You winked up at him before you removed yourself from his orbit to return to Mickey’s. Though, on your way back to your man, you saw the firm look of displeasure on his face, and that face was directed firmly at his brother. You stopped in your tracks and traded glances between the two boys, one angry and one bashful, before you spoke. 

“Alright, what’s goin’ on?” 

“What do you think is goin’ on?” “Nothin’.” the brothers spoke in unison. 

You turned your gaze hard at Mickey. He let silence hang in the air for a long beat before he spoke.

“Kev is lookin’ for a hand out. But what’s new?” Mickey scoffed. He planted a swift kiss to the crown of your head before he walked past the both of you to the kitchen. 

“Hey, fuck you man! All I was asking for was help!” Kevin shot back, he turned quickly on his heel to face his brother. 

“I can’t give you any fuckin’ help, Kev! Look what I got,” Mickey waved widley, “there ain’t shit here to give!”

“You could give me your contacts, I could start sellin’ the shit you have left from -” 

“You aren’t taking my contacts and you’re not touching the shit I got from Georgia. That’s mine to do what I please with,” Mickey bellowed, yelling louder than you’d ever heard before, “I don’t need you fucking up the relationship I have with my clients, either.” 

“Clients,” Kevin said in a mocking, posh accent, “their fucking drug addicts!” 

“Yeah? And what the fuck are you, again?” 

“What the fuck am I? What the fuck are you, man?” 

The two had slowly begun to advance toward each other in their squabble, and now were only a pace apart. You knew if they were to get any closer, fists would be thrown. It wouldn’t be a good fight, neither boy had ever been good in physical altercations. The fight would likely consist of misthrown punches and cheap shot kicks, but that didn’t matter. You didn’t want either to get hurt or take anything too far. 

“That’s enough!” you shouted over their bickering, “Mick, c’mon. Come talk to me in the bedroom, please.” 

Mickey’s angry expression faltered the moment he looked over Kevin’s shoulder at you, “Baby, I can handle this.” 

“Mickey. Bedroom. Now.” you had already started to head that way, and Mickey knew if he wasn’t right behind you, he’d be in deep shit. 

With a petulant sigh, he followed you down the hall to the bedroom and shut the door behind him when he entered. You had sat on the edge of the bed and Mickey found his place to slouch against the opposite wall. 

“I can’t deal with him, baby. I can’t deal with his bullshit anymore,” he said, defeated. 

“He’s your brother, Mick. You love him. And sometimes the people you love need more help than you do.” 

“But that’s the thing, he needs so much more. He takes and he takes and he takes, and somehow, he still needs more. I can’t give him anything else. No one can. He’s more of a fuck up than I am, and that’s saying something,” Mickey puffed. 

“You’re not a fuck up, Mick,” you frowned, your brows peaking with heartache. 

Mickey gave you a pointed look, “I kinda am. You don’t gotta sugar coat it.”

You stood from the bed and crossed the short space between you two. When you reached him, you wrapped your arms around his waist and nestled close to his chest. Mickey accepted your embrace easily and gratefully. 

“You are not a fuck up, baby. You have a good job, you have a good life. You provide for me, for our little two person family. And you make me happier than I ever thought possible... you simply aren’t a fuck up because no man I love could be,” you smiled at the tail end of your sentence. 

You propped your chin on his chest like you had minutes earlier and looked deep into his green eyes, both soft and brimming with adoration. 

“I fucking love you so much, you know that?” he smiled, little crow's feet growing by his eyes as he did. 

“I do. And I love you, too.” 

Mickey sighed, relaxation soothing his muscles at the sound of your confession. He gently pressed your cheek back to his chest and reveled in the feeling of your body against his. 

“But really, baby, what are we gonna do about Kev?” you asked after a moment of calm. 

Mickey’s brows furrowed, the pressure behind them intense and blaring. 

“He’s not our problems, baby. He’s an adult.” 

“He is. But he’s also a sweet kid with a good heart, and he just needs some extra help. And I think we should try to help, at least the best we can.” 

Mickey’s head made a thud as he collapsed to the wall behind him, “baby, we can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep bailing him out. We can’t keep bailing them out.”

The image of his parents popped behind his eyes, both fragile and gray and somehow even crueler than ever. He didn’t want to spend his life being their eternal whipping boy, cleaning up their messes when they couldn’t. And that included the mess they had made in his brother.

“This isn’t about them, alright? Fuck them, you know precisely what I think of your parents,” you frowned, and Mickey felt his heart pick up with pride at your protectiveness, “but you also know what I think about Kevin. He really is a good kid deep down. He’s talented. He just needs a little more support before he’s gonna feel comfortable jumping out on his own.” 

“He still drives me fucking insane…” Mickey retorted.

“He’s your little brother, of course he does.”

“Baby, he really does. You have no idea how much that little shit gets under my skin.”

“Oh, c’mon! You love him! He’s like, sad, high, tattooed Big Bird,” you giggled as you heard a grumble vibrate in Mickey’s chest. 

“Yeah? Well, then what am I?” 

You pulled away from him once more, but only far enough to look him in the eyes. 

“You’re like, strong, sexy, smart Big Bird,” you said, your voice a seductive purr as you placed a few chaste kisses to his jaw, “or Snuffleupagus.” 

Mickey’s face twisted in confusion and slight disgust, “why?” 

“Because he was always my favorite when I was a kid.” 

And his expression instantly extinguished into one of warmth and tenderness. Emerald eyes bathing you in liquid love. 

“You just never stop being cute, do you?” he grinned. 

“Nope,” you said, letting the work pop from your lips. 

He placed a gentle kiss to your forehead and took a deep breath of your pheromones; your sun bathed skin and your sweet smelling hair. And as he let his lips stay perched on your skull, he realized that he would do anything for you, no matter the request. He had had this feeling many times before; of his overwhelming and striking devotion to you; though it never ceased to rattle his swelling heart in his chest, and remind him the exact reason he was put on this earth: to make you happy. 

So, if you wanted him to try and help Kevin, then he would. It was the least he could do for all the happiness and love you brought to him. 

But, if he was being honest with himself, there was always going to be a part of him that wanted to nurture his baby brother in any way he could. 

Somewhere in his mind and his heart, Kevin would always be the small blushing bundle handed off to him in a dingy hospital room. It was one of his first formative memories, his little brother wrapped in a white blanket as his mother’s groggy eyes looked upon both of them. Mickey had never held a baby, let alone a newborn, and the tiny writhing creature looked very strange to him, red and angry and crying.

A month before Mickey’s mother would give birth to Kevin, their father had stormed out of the house, and by the time her water had broken he had still yet to turn. So pained and afraid, his mother had piled Mickey in the car after her and drove them both to the hospital. A cigarette in one hand, while her other gave the steering wheel a death grip. As she groaned with contractions and cursed at the traffic, she said something to him that he never forgot: 

“You are the real man of the house, Mickey-honey,” she said in her graveled voice, “this little boy is always gonna look up to you. You gotta live up to that.” 

And that message had bounced around between his ears as his mother, alone and in extraordinary agony, gave birth to his brother. Who as he had held him in his tiny spindly arms, Mickey knew that he would keep him safe forever. No matter what.

A part of that soul promise to his blood now seemed to be finding Kevin a job to keep him afloat. To keep him out of trouble and away from falling down the path their parents had. He honored past his past self in that moment, continuing on with the pledge to keep his brother safe. 

“Fine,” Mickey muttered to your skin, “we’ll help ‘im.” 

“Really?” 

Mickey simply shrugged. 

You moved your hands from where they had been secured behind his waist to come and cradle his cheeks, “you’re a good man, Mick.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he played off, eyelids fluttering. 

“The best man I know,” and you kissed him tenderly, the soft feeling of your lips electrifying him.

He hummed when you pulled away, but with more anguish than pleasure. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Mickey said. He quickly untangled himself from you and exited the bedroom before you could even process your post kiss haze. 

“Kev,” Mickey called, finding his brother laying down on the couch now, the television remote in his hand as he flipped channels, “get the fuck up.” 

“Hey, woah, listen Mickey, alright? I’m sorry! I am, I’m sorry,” Kevin began, stammering nervously. 

Mickey could tell that his brother was trying to save face. That he was trying to bargain for his help, and that he believed that Mickey was coming back to tell him to leave and never come back. But he didn’t stop him, Mickey thought Kevin deserved to squirm a bit. 

“I know I’ve fucked up, like really fucked up over and over again. But I got this this time, ok? I’m like, I’m ready for, I don’t know, a fresh start. I’m ready to do better.” 

Mickey simply crossed his arms as his brother stared up at him with heavy set brown eyes. They were flickering around the room, scared to look at his older brother who loomed over him. Mickey was sure he was searching for you, knowing he could always grovel at your feet for sympathy. 

“Fuck! What am I supposed to say, stop being such a-“ but Kevin stopped himself before he finished, knowing it likely wasn’t smart to start name calling the person he was asking a favor of. 

“No, no, continue. What am I being? Hm?” Mickey raised an eyebrow. 

Kevin’s jaw tightened, “.... a really, good guy.” 

His pained voice would have made Mickey laugh if he wasn’t wearing a stoic persona. It reminded him of when Kevin was forced to apologize as a child, their dad’s hand pulling up his ear as he spat out an apology. 

“Imma ask around, alright? Been hearing about some landscape work a buddy of mine has been talking about. I’ll call you tomorrow.” he finally said, putting his anxious brother out of his misery. 

“No shit?” Kevin asked with a suspicious lilt. 

“No shit. And if you get the fuck out of my house in the next five seconds, I might even put in a good word for you.” 

“Fuck,” Kevin exhaled, his body deflated like a balloon against the cushion, “you have no idea-“ 

“Nope, I don’t,” Mickey interjected, “and I don’t want to. Now fuck off, dude. My lady is home and I don’t need you here.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, alright!” Kevin said as he was shooed off the couch and to the door, “thank you, (Y/N/N), you hear me, babe?” 

You heard the commotion from the bedroom and popped your head out to watch Mickey escorting Kevin out. Stripped down from your uniform and now bundled in a pair of Mickey’s thread bear sweatpants and his favorite Scorpions t-shirt. 

“You look gorgeous, by the way! So good, does Mickey tell you enough?” Kevin had widened his gangly limbs in the door frame to keep his brother, who was shoving him quite hard, to stop him from leaving. 

“He does, Kev. I promise,” you grinned at the brotherly exchange as they threw jabs at each other, “I’ll see you soon, honey.” 

“Bye, (Y/N/N)!” was the last thing Kevin got out before Mickey slammed the door in his face, not worrying about if there were stray fingers left behind. 

“That fucking kid…” Mickey said under his breath, locking the deadbolt with a resound click. 

You pushed away from where you had leant against the wall and walked toward him, “my man… my sweet, strong man who has such a big heart and helps out his family.” 

You plastered yourself to his back, bringing your hands down to fiddle with the hem of his shirt, “my man who provides for me,” you pressed a kiss to his shoulder, “for the people he loves,” one to his trap, “who is the best person I’ve ever known,” one to his neck. 

Mickey whimpered under your ministrations, caught up in the whispered pleasure of your lips and nimble fingers that greedily took inventory of his torso.

“You’re really tryin’ to start something, huh?” he chuckled as you began to suck on his pulse point. 

“And if I was?” 

As soon as the last syllable left your mouth, Mickey had twisted around to take handfuls of your thighs to hitch you up around his waist. 

You couldn’t hold in the excited giggle that bubbled from your chest as he marched you both back toward your room in quick succession. His long strides getting you both back between the sheets in no time. All thoughts of  dropped sandwiches and burn holes and faulty equipment and pesky little brothers, gone. Now, there was only you, and that was just the way Mickey liked it. 

if you follow me you know that i have been going through a major writing block and a creativity dry spell, so while i don’t think this is my best work, it is fun and silly and soft and nice to write (:  if you enjoyed, i would really love it hear it <3 ‘til next time!

[inceptionficrecs]

A Thousand Ways to Say It

Main Relationships: Arthur x Eames

Summary:

Arthur loved Eames. He knew that, and he tried to tell him in his own way. Just never in so many words.

Or 5 times Arthur didn't quite say "I love you", and 1 time he didn't have to

A Peek:

Eames chuckled, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “You’re cute when you’re drunk, you know that?”

Arthur tried to cut off the giggle he could feel building up in his chest, but was only partially successful. “I’m not cute.”

“You get a couple of drinks in you and you start blushing and giggling and invariably end up on my lap like some sort of intoxicated cat. You,” Eames kissed his temple, “are an adorable drunk and you absolutely can’t convince me otherwise.”

“And what about you?” Arthur looked up. He tried to fix Eames with a serious glare but based on Eames’ grin he seemed to have failed. “You’re just as drunk as I am.”

“That’s true.” Eames raised an eyebrow. "You saying you think I'm also cute when I'm drunk?"

"No." Arthur frowned. That hadn't been what he'd been trying to say but, to be fair, he wasn't entirely sure what he had been trying to say. He searched for some sort of comeback. "You're always cute. Not just when you're drunk."

Eames stared at him for a moment, surprised, before laughing and pulling Arthur in close. "Shit, you really are drunk."

Author’s Tags: 5+1 Things, Love Confessions, DrinkingArthur is a cute and happy drunk, throwing up, though not related to the drinking weirdly enough, sick Eames, very mild and indirect descriptions of panic attacks, Arthur is bad at saying I love you

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Words: 4225

Author: 4ce_in_sp4ce

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