#i know i kind of said nothing precise here but it would feel so bad to just list random countries without really understanding them

[callsign-rogueone]

Heyyy idk if you will do it or not because it might be a little weird request but I hope you do it!

Soo I would love to see how they would be like if their girl was being a little insecure cause she’s a little chubby(chubby girl requesting this))and like how would they comfort etc.I hope you really do it and I hope you don’t find it very weird😅

it's not weird! fellow chubby girl here to declare to you that none of our boys would mind if their girl is a little extra soft. some of them might even prefer it... I'm getting ahead of myself.

if you have doubts, my points are three;

they are all beautiful human beings inside and out, and see you for who you are (and also do not give a fuck what society thinks)

they are all gigantic and therefore all of them could still feel like the strong manly protector even if their partner isn’t Violet-sized

when I started this reply I had a third thing in mind. that was an hour ago, and it’s gone now. I’ll replace it with “and because I said so.”

now, moving on. the kind of scenario that I had in mind is that they hear you say something negative about yourself. and today’s categories are:

1) it would be upsetting how logical they’re being about this if they weren’t so cute while doing it:

I have a whole scene written for Dain and love of him being so sweet to her when she’s upset that her pre-Basgiath clothes don’t fit anymore. the TLDR of that is that she’s still the girl he fell in love with years ago, regardless of her looking different now. he reminds her of that, and that it’s for a good reason, that it means she’s healthy, and that it's part of a natural process. so while that isn't exactly the same scenario, I imagine him still being his logical self.

I know I lump Dain and Brennan together all the time, but he is also going in the logical category because he is also a nerd (affectionate), and the thought of you ever being insecure about anything just never crossed his mind. he does have some experience in the reassurance category via Violet, who is on the other end of the spectrum, but it works the same way. he has the whole "you are more than your physical presence and also there is nothing wrong with looking the way you do" speech down pat.

2a) gives you a very sweet speech about how much they love you

Bodhi owns this category. he might actually cry if you say mean things about yourself, because it genuinely breaks his heart to hear that the person he loves most in the world doesn’t love themself. he’s so sweet and loving to you, but also manages to know precisely how you want to be comforted. for example, and maybe I'm just weird, but when I'm having a "bad body image day" I don't want to be touched. I won't elaborate because I don't want to be negative or triggering. but my point stands that Bo would know exactly what you want in that scenario, and does it automatically.

Sawyer is also in this category, though he'd be a little bit more awkward than Bodhi. him and insecurity are old friends, and while his are much different than yours, he knows how it feels to be embarrassed by just existing. he starts by saying what he wishes someone would have told him two years ago, but nobody was around to (wrong. Love was there for him. as much as she could be, anyway.) and when he gets past the general stuff (promising he loves you, etc etc) and into the specifics, he trips over his words a little, and is definitely blushing a little (a lot) but it's so cute and you can tell it's 100% genuine.

2b) listens quietly to everything you have to say, and THEN gives you the speech:

Cam is rather quiet and aloof, from what we've seen in the books. he's not very chatty, probably because he's trying not to give himself away, but also I think that's just in his nature from being the ignored last-priority son... ANYWAY. he sits there listening, and once you finally run out of steam and stop talking, and you see him there, not having said a word, your heart breaks a little, because does that mean he agrees with you? nope. he was just listening and waiting his turn to speak. he knows the pressure to keep up appearances from being part of the Royal Family, so while he doesn’t agree with the statements you’re making about yourself, or the idea that pretty = thin, he understands that there’s outward pressure to look a certain way, and also rants a teeny bit about how much that's bullshit. (as an aside, should I keep calling him Aaric in these posts? or make the switch to Cam? I like Cam better. idk.)

Liam is an observer through and through. he's also sitting there listening, though he's easier to read -- you can always tell his emotions from the way he looks at you. there's so much softness and genuine sadness in those lovely blue eyes, because like Bodhi, he's so saddened that his favorite person feels this way about themself. I also see him as more touchy than Cam, so maybe your eyes just catch his mid-rant, and you see how he's looking at you, and just break... and he's there to hold you and help you glue yourself back together, holding you if/when you cry, and speaking to you so gently...

3) is more playful about it

Garrick is immediately offended — excuse you, how dare you say those things about my beautiful girlfriend. gets handsy, presses kisses everywhere he can reach, and even proves to you that he can still throw you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. holds you like that, upside down with your legs hanging in the air, until you're dizzy and giggling, your mood thoroughly lightened. if you're up for it, he'll continue demonstrating the extent of his attraction to you long after he sets you back down.

Ridoc is also in this category, to nobody’s surprise. while he's not tossing you around, his approach is similar to Garrick's -- lightening the mood, providing a distraction, and proving to you that you're fucking sexy, and not despite of your appearance, but because of it. of course, both he and Garrick know when to fuck around and when to be serious, so if this was a genuine breakdown on your behalf, he's choosing the 2a or 2b approach instead. he's incredibly emotionally intelligent. and I think his constant joking is partially because he wants to provide others a distraction from all the shit going down at Basgiath.

bonus category: 4) immediately assumes that someone else put these ideas in your head. "who said that to you? I just want to talk to them." (no he doesn't)

Xaden is not tolerating any kind of slander about his partner. but when you tell him it wasn't anyone in particular, it was just your own head, he softens. his response is kinda a mixture of all of the above. we know that he's a speech-giver, but also very physically affectionate with his partner... so expect speech followed by the both of you clearing your calendars for the next hour so that he can kiss every inch of you.

[ramenwithbroccoli]

Sending YOU the question back ... Where has Giewont went in her travels . what places does she like the best

hmmmmmm *pulls out world map**pulls out history books* i'll try to make as little unforgivable mistakes as i can

so after the II world war, Poland as well as other countries ended up under the influence of USSR, separated from the rest of the world with so-called iron curtain. travelling outside of it was pretty hard, so she just tried to get through the ones in it. that's how she ended up in Yugoslavia - which distanced itself from the soviets in 1948.

after that, the country started to gain interest in mexican culture because of movies that were imported from there. from the first one shown in 1950, the trend was on the raise, resulting in creation of a genre called Yu-Mex. seeing how influential the culture was, it being both something new, foreign, but also extremely interesting, Giewont decided that she needs to see Mexico for herself.

after getting there she would hang around for a bit, and then head south. she enjoys witnessing different cultures, but the most important thing to her is witnessing biodiversity of different parts of the world

i don't have a set list of countries she visited (especially considering the changes that happened to the world map after the war. i really need to go back to history textbooks) but i think they would at least try to see as much of the world as they can. the only thing that is 'set in stone' is the poland->yugoslavia->mexico pipeline because i just think it's funny and also fairly possible considering the history of the world

as for the favourite places? they feel like they should enjoy the tough climate of the mountains - both due to their name and because they're so sparsely inhabited. it would feel fitting with her personality. however, she found herself to enjoy the seas and oceans and waves, once so hated because of the memories they brought. when travelling by ship they found a purpose, when travelling by land she missed the gentle swaying beneath her feet and the smell of salty water. oceans bring that weird sense of belonging with them, a space that is outside of anyone's influence. nobody owns them, they're the literal meaning of nowhere. and when you live believing you have nowhere to go, then you accept it with open arms when the 'nowhere' comes to you

[natsaffection]

Redline. (Bonus 2) | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha × Younger Racing!Driver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), Fluff, Fluff, Fluff, 18+! MINORS DNI! Thigh riding, begging, multiple orgasm, oral (N and R receiving)

Word count: 8,1k

A/N: Here we are again!! Here, we focused more on Natasha. This isn’t everything I have in mind because it would probably explode Tumblr’s word limit. And once again, this is filled with a lot of requests! Thank you all for keeping the series alive. <3

The rumble of engines thrummed against Natasha’s chest like a comforting rhythm. Outside the control room, your car carved through the track, tires biting into the asphalt with a grace Natasha could only describe as beautiful. It was pure instinct fused with practice, the kind of skill that couldn’t be taught, only sharpened.

“Uh, boss. She’s…She’s got her music on again. Radio’s not gonna work.” Someone said cautiously, not quite meeting her gaze.

Natasha’s fingers paused over the radio switch, a smirk pulling at her lips. She didn’t snap or scold him for pointing out something she was already well aware of. “I know.” Her voice was calm, the words deliberate.

She’d tried before, many times, to convince you to ditch the habit. Music while driving? A distraction, a dangerous one, especially on her track. But then Natasha saw how you moved when the music was on. Saw how your shoulders relaxed, how your steering smoothed out. How your eyes gleamed with that familiar spark of determination mixed with reckless joy.

It was frustrating at first. Maybe even a little insulting that you ignored her safety advice for something so…unprofessional. But Natasha had come to understand it. More than that, she respected it. Even if she’d never outright say it.

Her pen scratched softly against the notepad, notes forming in neat, clinical handwriting. Adjust braking patterns. Smoother transition into turn eight. Minor correction on corner five. And yet, her eyes kept drifting to the live feed of your car. The way it sliced through the track like it was a natural extension of your body. Wild. Precise. Almost hypnotic.

The music had become part of your ritual. Natasha didn’t know what song was blasting in your ears, but she’d caught glimpses of your playlists before. Everything from classic rock to synthwave. The music wasn’t just noise. It was your heartbeat. Your pulse. So, Natasha had stopped fighting it. She’d even found herself curious, more often than not, about what you were listening to. What melody accompanied your fierce concentration and artful control.

Even now, Natasha’s hand hovered over the radio, a pointless gesture. Habit, more than anything. It made her feel like she was still part of the process. Even if you couldn’t hear her, Natasha’s gaze followed your every move, eyes narrowing whenever she detected the slightest flaw. She wrote down pointers, things to work on. But nothing about the music. Never about the music. Not anymore.

You guided the car into the garage. Your adrenaline was still high, heartbeat synced to the last few beats of your music. You let out a satisfied breath, fingers loosening around the steering wheel. The moment you unbuckled and started to climb out, a hand reached around you and plucked one of the earbuds from your ear.

“Still distracting yourself, I see.” Natasha’s voice was low, even, but there was a hint of exasperation underneath. You startled, not expecting Natasha to be there, your face a mix of amusement and irritation. “Nat! You scared the crap out of me!”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, ignoring the flustered tone. “I’ve told you before. The music is a distraction. You could miss something critical. A sound, a warning. And then what?”

You chuckled, rubbing the back of your neck. “You know me. It helps me focus. Just…makes the world feel smaller when I’m out there. Nothing but me and the car.”

“I know.” Natasha admitted, her gaze softening despite her words. “But it’s still a bad habit. One that could get you hurt.”

You tilted your head, your lips curving into that playful smile Natasha couldn’t stay mad at. “And yet, you’re not exactly telling me to stop.”

Natasha’s jaw tightened for a moment before she sighed. “Because you’re good at what you do. But just because it works now doesn’t mean it’s perfect. And I can’t always be around to make sure you’re okay.”

There. That hint of worry she tried so hard to hide under professionalism. Your gaze softened. “But you’re here now. And I’ll be fine.”

Natasha’s lips twitched. “Let’s go over your run. And next time, maybe consider turning the music down just a little?”

“Maybe..” you replied, your grin returning. “If you ask nicely.”

You leaned in, pressing your lips against Natasha’s, feeling the warmth and tension melt away for just a second, until Natasha pulled back, scrunching her nose with exaggerated disgust. “You stink.”

You blinked, a little stunned. “What?”

“Like sweat, motor oil, and whatever bad decision you made for lunch.” Natasha folded her arms, smirking. “Go shower before you try that again.”

You chuckled, your eyes gleaming with amusement. “You could always join me, you know?”

“Tempting.” Natasha admitted, her voice dropping slightly, “But some of us actually have work to do.”

You pouted but found yourself smiling at the genuine warmth that slipped through Natasha’s cool professionalism. “Fine, fine. But don’t miss me too much, okay?”

“Just go, before I change my mind and lock you out of the track.”

The hot shower did wonders for your sore muscles, washing away sweat, grime, and the lingering adrenaline from the track. After drying off, you slipped into a clean shirt and some comfortable sweatpants. Fresh, relaxed, and still grinning from your earlier exchange with Natasha, you made your way to Natasha’s office.

Just outside the door, Natasha’s secretary, Emma, looked up from her computer and frowned. “Y/n, I wouldn’t! She’s…well, she’s in one of her moods.”

You chuckled, unbothered. “When isn’t she?”

“I’m serious.” Emma pressed, her gaze worried. “She’s been on a call for some minutes. Some contract negotiations fell through, and she’s been ripping people apart..”

“Thanks for the warning, but…” You gave her a reassuring wink. “I know the drill.”

Before Emma could protest, you slipped through the door. Natasha was pacing behind her desk, phone pressed to her ear, eyes blazing with frustration. Her words were sharp, precise, the kind of tone that could make anyone on the other end of the call shrink in terror.

But when Natasha’s gaze landed on you, the smallest flicker of relief washed over her features. Her shoulders eased, but her expression remained tense as she continued her conversation, barely acknowledging your presence.

You leaned against the wall, waiting patiently. You’d learned by now that there was no point trying to speak when Natasha was in business mode. Instead, you just studied her. Noticed the tiredness etched into her features, the stiffness in her posture.

The call finally ended with Natasha’s usual clipped goodbye, her phone clattering against the desk as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Idiots. The lot of them.” Natasha muttered.

“Hey..” you said softly, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around Natasha’s shoulders from behind. Your warmth pressed against Natasha’s back, “You’re working yourself into the ground again.”

Natasha sighed, her head tilting slightly toward your touch, but she didn’t pull away. “It’s called doing my job.” she replied, the snap in her voice dulled by exhaustion.

“And you’re doing too much. Way too much.” Your voice was a soothing murmur. “You need to take care of yourself. The world won’t fall apart if you take a break, you know.”

Natasha huffed, her fingers grazing your arm as if trying to keep you there. “Feels like it might.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just because you’re so used to fixing everyone’s messes. But even you need a breather.”

Natasha closed her eyes, leaning back into your warmth. She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just let herself exist in the quiet, inhaling the faint scent of shampoo still clinging to your skin.

“I’m serious, Nat. You’ve got me here, okay? Let me take care of you for once.”

Another beat of silence. Then, finally, Natasha’s shoulders relaxed. “You know, if you keep talking to me like that, I might start getting used to it.”

“Good. Because I’m not planning to sto-”

The shrill ring of Natasha’s phone cut through the calm like a knife. Natasha groaned, her hand twitching towards the receiver, her fingers already itching to strangle whoever dared to interrupt her moment of peace. But before she could react, you reached over and snatched the phone from its cradle, pressing it to your ear with a casualness that bordered on infuriating.

“What the hell are you doing?” Natasha’s voice was sharp, but you just shot her a smug grin.

“Hello, Natasha Romanoff’s office. She’s currently unavailable and very much not interested in whatever business disaster you’re trying to dump on her right now. Thanks. Byee.”

And just like that, you hung up, your thumb slamming down on the button with finality. Natasha’s jaw dropped, her eyes narrowing as she stared at you, torn between amusement and disbelief. “Did you seriously just-”

“Yep.” You placed the phone down like it was nothing, then made your way around the desk. “Because you need a break, remember? And honestly, I don’t think you care all that much about whoever was on the other end.”

“Whether I care or not is irrelevant. You just…took my call.” Natasha’s eyes glinted with something unreadable. “You’re either really brave or really stupid.”

“Or maybe I’m just good at prioritizing your sanity over unnecessary stress.”

Before Natasha could argue further, you slipped into her lap, straddling her thighs and cupping her face. Natasha’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing in mock irritation.

“You’re impossible.” Natasha murmured, but her hands instinctively found their way to your waist.

“And yet, you still love me.” you replied, leaning in to press your lips against Natasha’s, slow and gentle.

Natasha’s resolve crumbled, her fingers tightening around your hips as she melted into the kiss. The stress, the frustration, the endless noise of business and responsibility…all of it faded under the warmth of your touch.

“Alright, fine..” Natasha whispered against your lips, voice laced with reluctant amusement. “You win. But only this once.”

“Oh, I plan to win way more than just once.” you quipped before kissing her again. The kiss deepened, Natasha’s grip tightening, her mouth moving against yours in a way that made your entire body feel like it was humming. But then..

The door swung open, and both of you froze. “Well, this is an interesting way to spend a workday.” Melina’s voice cut through the charged air like a whip.

Natasha jerked back, her eyes wide, cheeks flushed. You had never seen your girlfriend look so caught off guard. The always-calm, always-composed Natasha Romanoff looked like she’d just been doused with ice water.

“Mother. I- What are you doing here?” Natasha’s voice was tight, her posture suddenly ramrod straight.

“I thought I’d drop by. Business meeting in town.” Melina’s eyes flicked to you, still very much perched on Natasha’s lap. “But clearly, you two are…occupied.”

“Can you give us a minute?” Natasha said, her tone clipped but her gaze pleading.

“Of course, darling.” Melina’s smile was almost too innocent. “But don’t take too long. I would hate to miss out on the rest of the show.”

And with that, she strolled out, shutting the door with a little too much force to be accidental. You burst out laughing, your forehead dropping to Natasha’s shoulder. “God, I think my soul just left my body.”

Natasha’s hands were still resting on your hips, her fingers gripping just enough to betray the lingering frustration. “That woman…” Natasha muttered, eyes fixed on the door like she could will her mother to disappear. “Of course, she’d show up unannounced.”

“Maybe she missed you?” you offered with a grin, fingers tracing along Natasha’s shoulder, the warmth of your earlier kiss still lingering between you.

“More like she wants something.” Natasha sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “She’s been pestering me about dinner since last week. I told her I was busy.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And now she’s here. Guess she’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Clearly.” Natasha’s hands slipped from your hips to rest on your thighs, her touch still gentle despite the tension in her jaw. “I should’ve known. She’s been talking about how I’ve been ‘hiding you away’ from her ever since she figured out we were together.”

You glanced back at the door, then down at Natasha, your fingers brushing against Natasha’s jawline. “You’re really worked up about this, huh?”

“I just…” Natasha’s lips tightened before her shoulders slumped a little. “I wanted it to be perfect. Introducing you as, you know. Not just my racer. But it’s Melina. She’s like a bloodhound when she wants something.”

“Hey.” you murmured, tilting Natasha’s chin up to meet your gaze. “It’s okay. I’m not expecting perfection. I’ve already survived her first impression when I joined your team, remember? If anything, I think this time will be easier.”

“Maybe.” Natasha’s voice was quieter, but the tension in her expression was slowly melting.

“Definitely.” You kissed her again, just a gentle press of lips meant to calm. “Now, what do you say we go out there and deal with your mother before she barges in here again?”

Natasha groaned. “She would, too.”

“Exactly. So, let’s face the music.” You slid off Natasha’s lap but kept a firm hold on her hand, coaxing her to stand.

“Alright. But I swear, if she starts making comments about us..” Natasha shook her head, but there was a hint of affection beneath her grumbling.

You laughed. “She’s definitely going to. And you’re just going to have to deal with it.”

Natasha’s lips twitched, fighting back a smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still holding my hand.” you teased, swinging your entwined fingers lightly.

“I guess I am.” Natasha’s voice softened, the warmth returning to her eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”

You walked through the track, the cooling evening air swirling around you. Natasha’s hand was still clasped tightly in yours, but the nerves buzzing under your skin were becoming harder to ignore.

“If you had joined me in the shower earlier, you wouldn’t be heading out like this..” you said with a crooked smile, trying to lighten your own mood.

Natasha’s lips twitched, amusement briefly crossing her features. “You know I was tempted. But I had a call and…well, here we are.”

“Yeah. Here we are..” you mumbled, your gaze dropping for a moment as your nerves caught up to you. Natasha noticed instantly, her thumb rubbing slow circles against your hand. “You okay?”

“I mean, sure, if you count being a little terrified as ‘okay.’” you admitted, your voice light but your smile faltering. “It’s just…this feels different. Melina knowing we’re together. Officially.”

“She already likes you. You know that.” Natasha’s voice was steady, the cool confidence that always drew you in. “This dinner thing is just…her being her.”

“Yeah, but what if she doesn’t like me like this?” You said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “As…your girlfriend?”

Natasha’s expression softened, the tension from earlier easing into something far gentler. “I wouldn’t be with you if I thought she’d be a problem. And besides, you can handle her.”

You exhaled slowly, nodding. “Alright. If you say so.”

The sound of a car door opening snapped your attention forward. Melina stood beside her sleek, black Mercedes, arms folded and an amused smile already on her lips. “Get in, both of you.”

You swallowed and climbed into the backseat, your nerves flaring as Melina’s attention lingered just a moment too long. Natasha slid in beside you, her presence reassuring but still carrying that undercurrent of tension.

The car ride was quiet at first, Melina’s gaze occasionally flicking to the rearview mirror, catching your eyes before turning her attention back to the road. You could feel your heart racing, your hands fidgeting with the fabric of your pants. This felt different. More important. Because you weren’t just a driver on Natasha’s team now. You were the woman dating Natasha Romanoff. And Melina’s approval felt like a much bigger challenge to earn.

“Relax.” Natasha whispered, her hand finding your knee, her touch warm and grounding. “You’ve already won her over. Just be you.”

You managed a small, grateful smile. “Easier said than done.”

“Trust me.” Natasha replied, her voice low and sincere. “You’ve got this.”

The restaurant Melina had picked was cozy but sophisticated, with low lighting and quiet jazz humming in the background. A place that screamed exclusivity without trying too hard. Natasha was clearly unimpressed, her jaw tight as they were led to their table. You couldn’t tell if it was the ambiance or her mother’s intrusion earlier that had her in a mood. Maybe both.

The table was already set, the polished silverware gleaming under the soft, amber glow of overhead lights. Three elegant flutes of champagne stood waiting, the bubbles rising lazily in each glass.

“Seems the restaurant knows us well.” Melina commented smoothly as she took her seat, her eyes flicking between Natasha and you with that same, all-knowing smile. You reached for one of the glasses, the chill of the glass refreshing against your slightly clammy palm. But before you could even lift it to your lips, Natasha’s hand shot out and gently plucked the glass away.

“No. That’s only for the podium.” Natasha said with a smirk, her voice carrying the kind of playfulness you were slowly getting used to. The kind of protectiveness that masked itself as nonchalance.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile. “You’re seriously gatekeeping champagne from me now?”

“Tradition is tradition.” Natasha replied, settling the glass out of your reach with an irritatingly smug look. Melina chuckled, her amusement only adding to your embarrassment. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m sure the waiter can bring you something more to your taste.”

True to her word, Melina flagged down a server and ordered you a glass of the restaurant’s finest Wine. The smooth, amber liquid arrived quickly, poured over ice that clinked gently against the glass.

“Now..” Melina began, leaning forward with her eyes focused keenly on you. “Congratulations are in order. I heard you clinched the championship. Well-deserved, I’d say.”

“Thanks..!” you replied, a flush creeping up your neck at the praise. “Couldn’t have done it without your daughter kicking my ass in training every day.”

“An understatement.” Natasha muttered, sipping her wine with a sly smile.

“And the two of you…” Melina’s gaze darted between you. “How exactly did this happen?”

Your eyes darted to Natasha, silently pleading for her to start. But Natasha only tilted her head and lifted her glass of wine, gesturing for you to begin. Of course, she would make you do the talking.

“Well, um…” you started, your fingers tightening around your glass. The whiskey suddenly felt like liquid courage, warming you from the inside out. “I guess it was…a slow thing. I didn’t even realize it at first.”

Natasha’s eyebrow arched, amused. “That so?”

You let your thoughts drift back, the memory unfurling like an old photograph. “It was after the championship photoshoot. The one where the whole team was crammed into that little studio. And you…” You looked at Natasha, your eyes turning soft. “You looked so…powerful. All eyes on you, telling the photographer what to do, how to make the shots perfect. It was like you controlled the whole damn room. And when you finally stepped in front of the camera, there was this… ease. Like it was effortless.”

Natasha’s gaze remained on you, a flicker of surprise breaking through her cool exterior.

“And I remember just…staring. At you. At how confident and unbothered you were. And thinking..I’m done for.”

Melina’s lips quirked upward in obvious satisfaction, but she stayed quiet, watching the two of you with a curiosity that seemed to border on approval.

“But you weren’t exactly subtle either.” Natasha cut in, a glimmer of amusement coloring her voice. “I remember you practically vibrating with nerves when we had to take those team photos. Couldn’t even stand still without fidgeting.”

You flushed, the embarrassment made worse by the knowing smirk on Natasha’s face. “Okay, yeah. Because the photographer made me stand beside you. And I could barely think straight, let alone smile for the damn camera.”

“That bad, huh?” Natasha teased, but there was warmth in her tone, her eyes softening as she took in your embarrassed expression.

“Pretty bad..” you admitted with a chuckle. “But somehow, you made me feel like it was okay to be nervous. And then I figured out why.”

“So you’ve been harboring this little crush since then?” Natasha mused, leaning back in her chair with her fingers delicately circling the rim of her wine glass.

You shrugged, but your smile was honest. “Pretty much. And you’ve been dealing with me ever since.”

“More like tormenting me.” Natasha corrected, but there was something impossibly fond in her expression.

Melina, who had been watching with quiet amusement, spoke up. “Well, I have to say…the way you two interact is rather delightful. I’m almost impressed.”

“Almost?” you joked, trying to mask your nerves.

Melina’s smile was genuine. “You’ve survived my daughter’s training, her schedule, and apparently her mood swings. And yet, you’re sitting here like you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“Can’t imagine being anywhere else.” you said, your voice a little quieter but no less certain. Melina’s eyes flickered with approval, the smile now softer. “Good. Now, may I see this infamous photo?”

You blinked. “What photo?”

“The one where Natasha apparently looked so powerful that it made you fall for her.”

“Oh.” You bit your lip, suddenly feeling stupid. “Uh, yeah. I actually have it..” You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone, scrolling quickly through your gallery before finding the image.

You handed the phone over, the photo showing Natasha standing with that impossible confidence, arms folded, eyes locked on the camera like she owned the world. It was a little blurry, but the intensity of her expression was all that mattered.

Natasha’s eyes widened as she glanced at the screen. “You…kept that?”

You shrugged, feeling your cheeks heat up. “It’s kind of my good luck charm. I look at it when I need to feel, I don’t know…inspired.”

Melina chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with something approving and almost fond. “Well, Natasha. Looks like you’ve managed to find someone who actually sees you. All of you.”

Natasha’s expression softened, her eyes never leaving yours. “Yeah. I guess I have.”

Dinner continued with Melina throwing occasional questions your way, her eyes keen and voice deceptively casual. But it was clear she was interested. Genuinely so. She even offered you advice on handling certain sponsors, advice Natasha tried to cut off with a sharp glare but didn’t entirely disagree with.

The teasing, the conversations, the occasional moments where Natasha’s hand found yours under the table…It all felt surprisingly warm. Comfortable. Like maybe, this whole ‘meeting the parents’ thing wasn’t so terrifying after all.

Eventually, Melina’s phone buzzed and she checked her messages with a grimace. “I hate to cut this short, but I have a meeting I can’t miss. Duty calls.”

“That’s alright!” you said, your smile a little shy but genuine. “I’m just glad we got to catch up.”

“Likewise, darling.” Melina replied, her smile too genuine to be anything but sincere. Her gaze flicked to Natasha. “Take care of her, Natasha. She’s too good for you.”

Natasha’s jaw clenched for a second before she relaxed. “Yeah. I know.”

Melina gave you one last approving look before gathering her things and heading out, leaving the two of you alone in the dimly-lit restaurant.

“She likes you.” Natasha murmured, a little stunned herself by how well the evening had gone.

“Seems like it.” you said, grinning. “She was practically rooting for us by the end of it.”

“She has an interesting way of showing approval.”

You shared a look, both of you breaking into quiet laughter. But as the laughter faded, a sense of calm settled over you. The night had gone better than either of you expected.

Natasha had already booked an Uber for your way back, her arm draped loosely over your shoulder as you walked out to the curb. The ride was quiet, the city lights flashing past the windows like lazy streaks of color. It wasn’t until you were both comfortably settled in the backseat, the hum of the car providing a soothing backdrop, that you spoke.

“So…” you began, your tone hesitant but curious. “You know how I told you about when I first fell for you. The whole photoshoot thing.”

“Yeah?” Natasha’s voice was soft, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your knee.

“I was just…wondering. When did you fall for me?”

Natasha went still for a moment, her hand pausing before resuming its slow, gentle tracing. Her gaze stayed forward, eyes unfocused as if the memory played just beyond the darkened streets.

“You were so damn stubborn.” Natasha started, her lips curving slightly. “Always talking back, always challenging me on the track. You drove me insane most days.”

“Sounds about right.” you chuckled. “But that’s not when you fell for me, is it?”

“No. It’s not.” Natasha’s eyes flicked toward you, the usual sharpness dulled by something softer. “That night after Training. You were exhausted, barely keeping your eyes open, but you were still so damn determined to get better.”

“I remember that.” You smiled, your voice lowering as the memory floated back. “I fell asleep on the couch in the break room.”

“You did. And I found you there at like…three in the morning. You were dead to the world, curled up with your phone still playing some playlist you must have put on to stay awake.”

“Sounds like me.”

“But then I saw it. Your phone screen.” Natasha’s gaze softened, the memory clearly etched into her mind. “It was a photo of me. Smiling. And you were just…holding onto it like it meant something.”

Your cheeks flushed. “You never mentioned that.”

“Because I wasn’t sure if I was ready to admit what it meant. That someone was willing to see me, care about me, in a way that had nothing to do with the racing world. You weren’t just in it for the glory. You wanted…me.”

“Natasha…” your voice was barely above a whisper. Natasha’s hand slipped from your knee to your hand, fingers lacing together. “That’s when I realized I was falling for you. And I’ve been falling ever since.”

You squeezed her hand, your chest tightening in the best possible way. “You know, you’re not so bad at this whole feelings thing.”

Natasha smiled, genuine and free. “Only for you.”

Natasha’s phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with yet another email notification. She groaned, clearly considering ignoring it before finally checking the message. You watched her, expecting Natasha to launch into work mode at any second.

Instead, Natasha’s gaze softened as she scrolled through her phone. Then, she leaned forward, her voice calm but firm as she addressed the driver. “Change of plans. Take us to my place.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Nat, you’ve got work tomorrow. Meetings, training sessions, all that important stuff.”

Natasha’s gaze shifted to you, her expression somehow both determined and gentle. “It’s just business. Nothing that can’t be pushed a day or two.”

You blinked, your mouth opening and closing for a second. “Are you serious?”

“Completely.” Natasha replied, her lips curving into a fond smile. “I’ve spent all day trying to juggle business, family, and…us. And I’d rather spend the rest of the night and tomorrow with you. Away from everything else. Just us.”

The words settled between you, soft and sincere. You felt your heart do a little flip in your chest, your hand squeezing Natasha’s just a bit tighter.

“You’re really throwing work away for me?” you asked, your voice disbelieving but warm.

“Not throwing it away.” Natasha corrected. “Just..prioritizing better. And right now, you’re my priority.”

Your cheeks flushed with happiness, your grin breaking free and unstoppable. “You’re way too good to me..”

Natasha shook her head, her eyes never leaving yours. “If anything, I’m still making up for lost time.”

The rest of the drive was silent, but it was a warm, comfortable silence. Your hands stayed clasped, and every now and then, Natasha’s thumb would trace gentle circles against your skin. It was perfect.

Days later, the garage was bustling with the usual chaos, engineers running between workstations, mechanics barking orders, and the occasional clang of metal meeting metal. But somehow, it all seemed to hush when Natasha walked in. Her presence demanded attention, her sharp gaze enough to make everyone double-check their work.

You trailed beside her, clearly enjoying the view of everyone’s attempts to impress the Boss. The engineers were quick to gather their notes, practically tripping over each other as they prepared to present the latest upgrades to your car.

“Alright, what have you got for me?” Natasha’s voice was firm, steady, her eyes fixed on the nervous-looking group.

Alex, an engineer cleared his throat, his hands shaking slightly as he adjusted his notes. “So, uh, based on your feedback, Y/n, we adjusted the weight distribution and refined the suspension. Should give you better control during high-speed cornering. Also, we reinforced the front wing for more stability.”

Natasha nodded, her gaze sharp and analyzing. “And the braking system?”

“We upgraded the hydraulic system, boosted response time by about twenty percent.” Alex continued, his voice growing steadier under Natasha’s relentless focus. “It should shave a few milliseconds off the braking reaction.”

Natasha’s nod of approval was almost imperceptible. “Good. Schedule a test run. I want telemetry by the end of the day.”

Your fingers began their playful dance along Natasha’s forearm. Soft, barely-there touches, your fingertips tracing delicate lines over Natasha’s skin. It was subtle enough that no one would notice. No one except Natasha.

Natasha’s jaw tightened for a split second, her eyes flickering downward before snapping back to the papers. “What about the suspension?” she repeated, her voice crisp, though there was a noticeable edge to it.

“Yes.” Alex continued, oblivious to the silent war happening right beside him. “We recalibrated the system to better absorb the pressure during sudden braking. The responsiveness has increased by approximately fifteen percent.”

“Good.” Natasha managed, her voice steady, though your touch was starting to feel anything but innocent. “But I want you to run simulations for all weather conditions. No point boosting control if it’s only effective on dry tracks.”

“Understood.” Alex nodded quickly, making a note on his clipboard. “We also adjusted the front wing. Reinforced it to improve stability during high-speed turns.”

While Alex spoke, your fingers slid down Natasha’s wrist and circled her knuckles, your touch light and almost soothing. Then your thumb brushed the sensitive skin just above Natasha’s pulse point, applying gentle, rhythmic pressure. Natasha’s entire body stiffened for half a second, her eyes narrowing as she fought to keep her focus. “And the braking system?”

“Hydraulic system’s been boosted. Should improve response time by twenty percent,” Alex replied, nodding along like he had no idea his boss was currently fighting a losing battle against distraction.

“Mm-hmm..” Natasha hummed, her eyes shifting to you just long enough to shoot you a pointed look. The kind of look that said, Stop it. Now. But you just smiled sweetly, your fingers now lightly squeezing Natasha’s hand before continuing their playful dance over her knuckles.

Natasha’s hand twitched, her nails pressing briefly into her palm before she forced herself to relax. “Good. Make sure to get me the telemetry results before the end of the day. I want a full comparison between the old setup and the new adjustments.”

Far away, a group are discussing the work, “Yeah, the new adjustments should give her better control on those sharper turns..” one of them, was saying. “But if you ask me, it’s all about the driver’s guts. Not the specs.”

“Maybe so..” another engineer laughed, “But you know who’s gonna have the final say. If the Boss likes it, it stays. If not…”

Someone snorted. “The Boss, huh? I think she’s mellowed out a bit. You saw her the other day with Y/n, right? Almost sweet. Which is wild, considering it’s Romanoff.”

“Guess love does that to people.”

“Yeah, makes me think maybe she’s not so terrifying after all.” The group laughed, clearly feeling safe enough to crack jokes now that Natasha wasn’t breathing down their necks. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at their bravado, even if a tiny part of you was relieved that they were easing up around Natasha.

At least, until Natasha’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “If you’re all done gossiping about my personal life, perhaps you could focus on actually doing your jobs?”

The group went dead silent, the laughter dissolving into a collective tension so thick it felt like the temperature had dropped ten degrees. Natasha’s eyes were hard, her arms folded across her chest as she stared down the group with the kind of intensity that made even the most confident man feel like a scolded child.

“Or did you all forget that I’m the one who signs your paychecks?” Natasha continued, her voice like ice. “Because if you think being friendly with her gives you a free pass to slack off, I can assure you, it doesn’t.”

“No, Boss. Sorry, Boss.” They stumbled over their words, their face pale. “We were just…talking.”

“Talking, sure.” Natasha’s gaze swept over the group with chilling precision. “But if I hear one more word about me ‘softening up’ because of my relationship, you’ll all be reassigned to parts inventory. Understood?”

A chorus of hurried “Yes, Boss” and “Absolutely” followed, everyone looking properly terrified. They scattered like ants, heads down and energy now fully directed at their work.

You couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, shaking your head as you walked over to Natasha, whose expression still held that cold, steely edge.

“And you! What the hell was that?” Natasha asked, her voice low and almost dangerous.

“What?” you replied innocently, though your grin was anything but. “I was just…keeping you focused.”

“Focused?” Natasha scoffed, but her lips were twitching. “More like you were trying to completely derail me in the middle of a meeting.”

“And did I succeed?” You tilted your head, your smile growing wider.

“Barely.” Natasha’s hand shot out, catching your wrist with a grip that was both firm and possessive. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

The track tests later were underway. You had already done a few laps, the new upgrades working smoothly. But as always, Natasha wanted more data. More details. More everything. And you were more than willing to keep providing…just not always in the way Natasha intended. Whenever you were talking strategy, you would lean too close. Whisper suggestions in her ear with a voice just low enough to be suggestive. When Natasha handed you a water bottle, your fingers brushed her hand just a little too deliberately.

“Your focus is slipping, Romanoff..” you teased when Natasha’s fingers trembled slightly under your touch.

“Enough teasing, detka. You know what will happen if you continue pushing my buttons.” Natasha threatened, though the slight blush on her cheeks betrayed her usual control. You just laughed, your playful energy never dimming.

By the end of the day, the team was packing up. Natasha’s office was quiet, the soft hum of the building’s power the only background noise as Natasha finished her reports. But you were there, leaning against her desk, fingers tracing over Natasha’s arm in those infuriatingly light patterns you’d been taunting her with all day.

Natasha’s hand finally slammed down on her desk, her eyes blazing as they met yours. “You’ve been driving me insane all day, detka.”

“That was the plan..” you replied, your smile triumphant. “Is it working?”

“Oh, it’s working.” Natasha’s voice was low, dangerous, but laced with amusement. “You think you can keep pushing my buttons without consequences?”

“Maybe I want the consequences..” you whispered, your fingers trailing along Natasha’s jaw now, your touch still gentle but clearly challenging.

Natasha’s hand caught your wrist, her grip firm but not harsh. “Well, in that case…I think it’s time I give you the attention you’ve been begging for.”

You were straddling her lap, knees pressing into the cushioned leather chair, hands cupping her jaw, your lips fused to hers. Her fingers gripped your hips, her tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that left you breathless, needy, desperate.

And fuck, you loved this. Being pressed so close to her, feeling the way her muscles tensed and relaxed beneath you. Feeling the way she made you feel like the only thing that mattered.

But then..She pulled back. And you whined, the sound breaking embarrassingly from your throat.

“Nat-”

“As much as I enjoy having you in my lap, sweetheart..” she murmured, her smirk both adoring and smug. “I actually have work to do.”

You blinked, momentarily dazed, your head spinning from the kiss. “Then why’d you let me get this close?” you muttered, trying to regain some of your dignity.

Natasha’s fingers traced slow circles against your hips. “Because I needed a little motivation to get through the rest of the evening.”

She shifted slightly, her thigh pressing up against you, the friction igniting a spark of heat. Your breath hitched. And Natasha noticed. Of course, she did.

“Now..” Natasha continued, her eyes flickering back to her laptop, her fingers still firmly on your waist. “I need you to be a good girl and get off by yourself.”

Your eyes widened. “W-What?”

Natasha didn’t look away from her screen, fingers already clicking through files, typing like nothing was out of the ordinary. “You heard me.” she murmured. “I have work to do. So, go ahead. Make yourself come on my thigh.”

Your entire body went rigid. “Nat-”

“You wanted to be here, didn’t you?” she continued, her voice so infuriatingly calm. “So needy. So desperate for my attention.”

Her thigh shifted beneath you, pressing up against your core, making you shiver. “Go on.” Natasha urged, her eyes flicking up to meet yours for just a second. “Be a good girl for me.”

You stared at her, your chest rising and falling too quickly, your mind struggling to process her words. But her hands were on your hips, guiding you, encouraging you. And fuck, the way she was looking at you, with challenge, with possession, with something that made your stomach twist into knots.

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

You bit your lip, your cheeks burning. “I-I don’t usually…”

“Oh, baby..” Natasha cooed, her hands sliding down to your hips, pressing you firmly against her thigh. “You can do it. I’ve got you.”

You shuddered as she kissed you again, her mouth warm, her tongue coaxing yours, her lips moving with a confidence that made your head spin. Her fingers gripped your waist, guiding you, making you move. And you did.

Slow, hesitant rolls of your hips, the pressure building where you needed it most, the heat coiling low in your stomach. But Natasha kept kissing you, her voice a low purr between your lips.

“That’s it.” she whispered. “Just like that. You’re doing so good.”

Your breath was already ragged, your body already craving more. Natasha’s lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, pressing kisses that made you shiver.

“Feel good, baby?” she murmured, her breath warm against your ear.

“Mhm..yeah-” you gasped, your fingers digging into her shoulders.

“Then don’t stop.”

After a moment, Natasha’s hands slid away from your hips, her gaze burning into yours. “Keep moving for me, sweetheart.” she urged, her voice turning into a low, encouraging hum. “Show me how much you want it.”

Your hips kept moving, desperate, needy, rubbing against her thigh, but.. It wasn’t enough. It was like chasing something just out of reach. You tried to keep going, your breath hitching, your thighs shaking. But it was useless.

Natasha watched you, her expression knowing, her smirk growing with every passing second.

“What’s wrong?” she taunted, her tone still laced with that infuriating gentleness. “You can’t get off like that, can you?”

You whimpered, your forehead dropping against her shoulder. “Natasha, please..”

“Please, what?”

“I-I can’t-“

“Can’t what, baby?” she teased, her hands finding your thighs again, fingers digging in just enough to make you squirm. “Can’t come all by yourself?”

Your breath shuddered, your body practically vibrating with frustration. “You need me to help you, don’t you?”

“Yes-fuck..please-”

Natasha sighed, a low, mocking sound of pity and amusement. “Guess I’ll have to help you, then.” she murmured, her fingers sliding up your thighs.

The next thing you knew, your back hit the cool surface of her desk, your legs parting automatically as she lowered herself between them. Your eyes widened, your body already shaking from anticipation.

Natasha’s gaze was dark, hungry, completely locked on you. “You’re so fucking desperate, baby.” she groaned, her hands gripping your thighs, her lips pressing kisses along the inside of your thigh, teasing, devouring.

“You couldn’t even do it yourself, could you?”

Your chest heaved, your fingers grasping at nothing, your body already losing control.

“Natasha, please..”

“Pathetic little thing.” she continued, her breath hot against your skin. “Can’t even get off without me.”

Her mouth finally reached your core, her tongue pressing against you with slow, devastating precision. You cried out, your body jerking, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

But there was nothing. Just the smooth, cool surface of her desk, nothing to ground you, nothing to keep you steady. And fuck, the sensation of having nothing to cling to made you fall apart even faster.

Natasha groaned, the sound vibrating through you, her tongue working you over with a relentless, sinful hunger. Your thighs trembled, your body arching off the desk, your hands still clawing uselessly at the air.

“Fuck- Nat, p-please!!”

“Come for me.” she commanded, her voice low and demanding, her tongue circling your clit with deadly precision.

And then..You shattered. Your body convulsed, pleasure crashing over you with violent intensity, your voice breaking into a wrecked, helpless cry.

Natasha’s mouth stayed on you, drawing every last bit of pleasure from your body, refusing to let you come down. Your fingers clawed at the air, your body completely hers.

And the way you broke apart for her, the way you looked so wrecked and helpless and beautiful..Made Natasha’s own arousal surge.

She couldn’t stop herself. Seeing you so vulnerable, so desperate, so completely hers..It made her fucking feral. Her own arousal was pounding through her veins, her breath coming out in ragged gasps, her body burning with a need she could no longer ignore.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” she growled, her fingers tightening on your thighs, her eyes dark with hunger. “You’re so fucking beautiful. So fucking perfect.”

Her mouth never left you, her tongue continuing to lick and suck and devour, even as your body twitched from the overstimulation.

“N-Nata-..!” you whimpered, your hands still searching for something to cling to, still finding nothing. The sight of you reaching for her, so helpless, so needy, It made Natasha’s own arousal skyrocket.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Natasha taunted, her voice breathless, wrecked, completely lost in you. “You can’t handle it? You can’t even keep your hands still, can you?”

Her lips curled into a dark smirk, her fingers trailing down your inner thighs, her eyes locked onto yours. “Maybe I should just keep you here.” she continued, her voice rough with desire. “Tied to this desk, begging for me. Completely fucking mine.”

Your eyes widened, your body already responding to her words, your thighs clenching instinctively. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Natasha purred, her hands still holding you down, refusing to let you pull away.

“Would you like me to make you come over and over until you can’t even speak? Until you’re just a desperate, helpless little thing?”

Her tongue is circling your clit with deadly precision again, till you shattered. Your body convulsed, pleasure crashing over you with violent intensity, your voice breaking into a wrecked, helpless cry.

You lay sprawled out on Natasha’s desk, your chest heaving, your legs trembling, your skin slick with sweat. Every nerve in your body felt like it had been set on fire, burning under Natasha’s relentless, brutal touch.

And fuck, she looked so damn smug. Natasha slowly rose to her feet, her lips slick, her breathing just as ragged as yours, but her eyes.. God, her eyes were still dark.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her chest rising and falling in steady, slow breaths. “You’re incredible, Y/n..” she murmured, her voice wrecked, but smooth. “Completely fucking beautiful when you fall apart like that.”

You tried to form a sentence, but it came out as a shaky, breathless whimper. Natasha smirked, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh, her fingers brushing over your trembling skin.

“I think you need a moment to catch your breath.” she teased, her gaze locking onto yours. But as she started to pull away, you moved. Your legs still felt weak, your body still trembling, but there was a determination building inside you.

You pushed yourself up on shaky arms, your eyes not leaving Natasha’s as you slid off the desk. Natasha’s eyebrows rose, her smirk deepening. “What do you think you’re doing?”

But you didn’t answer. Instead, your hands found her waist, fingers fumbling with the buckle of her belt, your breath still coming out in uneven gasps.

Natasha’s eyes darkened instantly. “Oh?” she purred, her voice still heavy with arousal. “You want to return the favor, huh?”

You nodded, your fingers finally getting her belt undone, tugging it from the loops with desperation you couldn’t hide. “Fuck, baby.” Natasha groaned, her voice dropping even lower, her hands gripping the edge of the desk for balance.

But you weren’t done. You pushed her back, making her fall heavily into her office chair. “Now, it’s my turn.”

Her legs spread slightly, her chest heaving, her gaze completely locked onto you. “You sure you’re up for this?” Natasha taunted, her voice filled with mocking affection. “You’re still shaking, sweetheart.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to steady myself.” You whispered, your hands already working to pull down her pants. Natasha let out a low, shaky breath, her smirk slipping as her eyes grew darker.

Your knees hit the cold floor, the chill biting against your skin, but you didn’t care. You were too focused. Too lost in the way Natasha’s eyes had darkened the moment you pushed her into her chair, the way her lips parted with a mix of surprise and raw hunger.

Your mouth pressed against her, your tongue licking a broad, slow stripe that made Natasha’s head drop back against the chair. “Oh, fuck-”

Her voice was wrecked, strained, the sound of her falling apart already making your thighs clench. You swirled your tongue again, your lips closing around her clit, sucking just hard enough to draw a deep, shuddering moan from her chest.

“Fuck, just like that, Y-Y/n..” she groaned, her fingers twitching against the armrests. You could feel her muscles tensing, her breathing already turning ragged. But you weren’t going to let her get away so easily.

Your tongue continued its relentless pace, your lips kissing, sucking, devouring her, determined to make her come completely undone. And Natasha?

She was already crumbling. “You’re so good at this..!” she panted, her voice shaking, her body already struggling to stay steady.

You smirked against her, the vibration making Natasha’s hips twitch, her breath hitching in her throat. “Fuck- Oh, God, yes!”

Your hands gripped her thighs, your fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, your mouth working her over like you couldn’t get enough.

But then, Natasha’s fingers sank into your hair. Her grip was rough, desperate, her head tossed back as a wrecked gasp tore from her throat.

“Fuck, baby! Just like that!!”

The sudden pull on your hair sent pain radiating down your scalp, but it only made you more determined. You groaned against her, the sound deep, wrecked, raw. The vibration made Natasha’s hips jerk violently, her entire body tightening under your touch.

“Fuck, o-oh fuc-” Her fingers tangled deeper into your hair, her nails digging into your scalp as she held you against her.

Your tongue flicked over her clit, your mouth sucking with ruthless precision, driving her closer and closer to the edge. Natasha’s legs trembled, her chest heaving, her face contorting in pure, raw pleasure.

And then..She came. Her body arched, her head snapping back, her mouth dropping open in a silent scream as her orgasm tore through her.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she chanted, her fingers pulling at your hair, her body shaking violently.

You didn’t stop. You kept licking, sucking, devouring her, determined to drag her through every last second of pleasure.

Natasha’s thighs clenched around your head, her breathing coming out in ragged, desperate gasps.

Her fingers tightened in your hair and she yanked you away.

“N-Nuh uh.” Natasha rasped, her voice still shaking, her chest still heaving. Your eyes widened, the sudden pain of her grip making you shudder.

“But-”

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Natasha murmured, her gaze heavy, her eyes dark and gleaming with something you couldn’t quite place.

You swallowed, your breathing uneven, your lips still slick from her release. “I was just-”

“Trying to overstimulate me?” she interrupted, her fingers still tangled in your hair, her voice dripping with amusement and challenge.

You stared at her, unsure of what to say. Because yes, you had been trying to wreck her. You had been trying to make her feel as desperate, as ruined, as completely destroyed as she’d made you feel.

But now? Now you were the one feeling completely undone. Natasha smirked, her fingers tightening their grip, pulling you up so you were kneeling between her legs.

“Nice try, sweetheart.” she taunted, her voice low, breathless, but still so completely in control.

“But you don’t get to win this one.”

You tried to fight back, tried to push yourself forward, to resume what you had been doing. But Natasha’s grip was iron-strong, relentless, unyielding.

“Natasha-”

“No.” she whispered, her voice turning into something darker, something that made your stomach twist in both fear and excitement.

Her hand cupped your cheek, her thumb tracing over your lips, her smirk turning almost cruel. “You did good, baby. Real good.”

Her other hand slid down your neck, her touch gentle but possessive. “But now?”

She leaned forward, her lips brushing against yours, her breath warm, her eyes completely locked onto yours. “Now, you’re done.”

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening, your entire body burning with frustration and need. But the way she was looking at you, the way her fingers traced over your skin, the way her smirk never faltered- You couldn’t fight back. You were completely at her mercy.

-

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[sutorus]

Hello! Can you do jjk men reaction when y/n said their safe word during sex? Only if you're not busy! Thank you! 😘

JJK MEN’S REACTIONS TO YOU USING YOUR SAFE WORD

FEATURED: gojo, geto, toji

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI. fem reader, afab terms, use of safe word, descriptions of anxiety. please mind individual tws for each scene. proceed with caution and don’t read if it’ll make you feel bad! take care bbs

A/N: my first request i hate it but i hope you love it anon!!! 😊 also sorry i couldn’t do nanami or choso if i’m inspired another time i’ll add em to this LMAO

GOJO SATORU

warnings: reader is blindfolded and bound (wrists), use of safe word, unprotected sex, crying, descriptions of anxiety

you’ve done it a ton but it still makes you nervous. 

one sense is kind of a lot to lose when you only have five of them, as a non sorcerer. but the relinquishing of control, entrusting your safety and pleasure and entire body to someone else… it turns you on beyond belief. 

so here you are, tonight, blindfold tight over your eyes and hands bound behind your back as satoru fucks you, pace languid, fingers running all over your body. 

any other day, it would be just what you needed to relax. any other day you’d be squirming in pleasure, hips bucking wildly against him as your nails claw at your own palms. 

but today, for whatever reason, it’s uncomfortable. maybe you’ve had too much caffeine, maybe it’s the stress of his most recent mission, the first one to ever have you worrying your lip all night long thinking, maybe he’s not coming back this time. 

his wandering hands feel foreign, the pleasured moans coming from his mouth sounding distant and wrong. your arms tingle from the position you’re in, your sweaty skin itches and you can’t reach to scratch at it. 

you furrow your brows. 

“satoru…” you whine softly, still unsure of what to ask for. 

“mmm?,” he grips your waist, his strokes deep and precise. “my pretty baby looks so good like this. so mine.”

you whine, wriggling in search for comfort. satoru must mistake that for pleasure because he fucks you just a little bit harder, puffing out hot breaths into the crook of your neck. 

“kiss me,” you ask, hoping it’ll make it better, but it does nothing to calm you down. with no stimuli but touch, your brain starts to go into overdrive, and you feel tears begin to trickle down your face.

satoru notices, but not in the right way. 

“is it that good?” he teases, like he always does, but today it sends a chill down your spine. “i could do anything i wanted to you right now and you wouldn’t even know. wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

that does it for you, a wrecked sob leaving your lips along with your safe word. 

satoru stills immediately. you can feel him softening inside you and for some reason that only makes you cry harder. 

gently, he reaches behind your head to unhook the blindfold, his worried gaze searching your face for answers. 

he lifts your back and unties your wrists, rubbing them to soothe the friction from the ropes. 

“baby…” his tone is careful and guilty. “sweetheart, is everything okay? did i do something, what did i do?”

you sniff. the first words that come out of your mouth are, “i’m sorry.”

you’ve never had him so doting, so tense, all that confidence vanishing and it makes you chuckle, this big lanky man handling every limb of yours like they’re made out of snowflakes. 

“satoru, i’m okay. i just…” you inhale deeply. “i just got overwhelmed, is all.”

he lays down beside you, visibly unsure about touching you. you grip his hand firmly in yours, offering him a wavering smile. 

“i’m okay, i promise. you’re good,” you lean over to peck his lips.

satoru looks regretful, but he relaxes at the gesture, caressing the side of your face softly. 

“i love you so much. i’m sorry if i, like, went too far or something—“

“you did nothing wrong,” you assure him. “i think i’m just having a bad day. just wanted to see your face to feel better.”

at that, he smirks. he kisses you slowly, adoringly, unspoken apologies every time your lips touch. 

“i am sorry, by the way,” you say. satoru looks back at you with a confused expression on his face. you continue sheepishly, “for having to use the word.”

“huh?” he exclaims, his incredulity so earnest that it rips a hearty laugh from you. “nah, hell no. thank you for saying it, actually.”

“yeah? you’re not upset?”

“of course not. i completely understand,” he traces a line down your body. “not being able to see my handsome face would make anyone cry.”

you slap his hand away playfully and he pulls you into his chest, cuddling you.

you stay like that until you fall asleep, reassured that the most powerful sorcerer in the world is indeed fit to take care of you; heart, body and soul. 

GETO SUGURU

warnings: overstim, degradation/humiliation and dirty talk, use of safe word, reader’s discomfort is brief but descriptive

you don’t know how long it’s been. 

maybe ten minutes. maybe twenty. maybe ninety. 

you don’t know how many times you came. 

your entire body is covered in sweat, the top of your thighs and the bottom of your ass soaked in your own arousal. 

suguru holds the wand to your clit almost disinterestedly, eyes glazed over and locked on your cunt. 

he fucking loves it, making you cum over and over again, thrash against his body, make a mess on his sheets. and you love it just the same. 

the undivided attention, the devotion, the seconds right after when the stimulation doesn’t stop and it hurts so bad before it gets mind-numbingly good again. 

“hahh,” you breathe out, voice cracking. “i—i’m gonna—“

“oh, you’re gonna?” suguru mocks you. “shocking.”

you moan at his words, his tone. by now, your body barely has any energy left to react. all you can feel is the release of an unbelievable pressure in your core as wetness gushes out of you uncontrollably when you cum. 

your puffy clit is throbbing, thoroughly abused, your spread legs quivering in pleasure. you sigh in anticipatory relief at the incoming break suguru is bound to give you after your orgasm. 

except this time, the break doesn’t come. 

“ahh!” you scream — honest to god yell — as the buzzing continues, suguru pressing the wand down hard on your pussy. 

he chuckles, playing with the toy, lifting it up just slightly before bringing it back down on you, over and over again. 

“can’t—i can’t, suguru, i can’t cum right now—“

“of course you can, baby,” he says in a sickeningly sweet voice, getting off on your desperation. 

usually you’re just as much into it as he is, but this time it’s for real. it’s painful and not in the nice way, you’ve hit your limit but you can hardly talk, can’t do much more than try to wiggle away from your boyfriend’s ministrations. 

“how can you say that when you have such a slutty pussy?” he runs his fingers through your slick folds, and every clench of your cunt makes it hurt even more. “so greedy…”

you’re clawing at his hands, but he’s so much stronger than you, his forearms and thighs holding you down, leaving you entirely to his mercy — of which he has none. 

“please please fuck please no more—“

it’s something he’s heard you say a thousand times, in a thousand different scenarios, and never truly mean it, which is why you even have a safe word in the first place. 

oh right. the safe word. 

you pull it out from the depths of your fucked out, mushed up brain and blurt it, digging your heels into the mattress. 

it all happens so fast, after that.

suguru all but tosses the wand to the side, switching to lightly stroking your pussy. it makes you jolt; even a gush of air right now could probably make you cry in overstimulation. 

“oh fuck, shit,” he removes his hand and you whine. “what do you need baby, what can i do?”

“s-suguru…” you’re still trying to catch your breath, your legs spasming erratically. 

“i’m here, i’m here,” suguru starts to move towards you but stops halfway. “do you want me to be here?”

you let out a croaky laugh, opening your arms because you’re too far gone to use words. 

hesitantly, he lays his head on your chest. when he feels how fast your heart is beating, his own sinks to his stomach. 

“i’m so sorry honey. i thought you were into it.”

you swallow, taking a few beats to regain your composure. 

“i was, it was just… a lot, all of a sudden.” 

suguru turns his head to look up at you. 

“i get it,” he wipes away a stray tear you hadn’t even noticed you’d shed. “i’m sorry. i love you, i'm so sorry—”

“it’s okay,” you offer him a weak smile. “it’s what the word is for, right?”

“right…” he sounds unsure. that makes you frown. 

you two lay there for a while, until your breathing has evened out, until your thighs have stopped shaking. 

you can practically hear the hear the cogs in his brain turning, certain that his brain chastising himself.

“hey, suguru?” your voice rips him right out of his thoughts.

“hmm?”

“can you promise me something?”

he sits up in attention, instinctively reaching for your hand. “of course.”

“promise me you’re never gonna stop fucking me like that," he gulps, audibly, visibly relaxing. "and i promise to always let you know if i need to stop.”

it takes a beat, but suguru finally loosens up, pressing his smile into your lips over and over again and mumbling all sorts of promises of his own against them.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

warnings: knifeplay, cnc (sort of), roleplaying, pretty graphic descriptions of anxiety and panic, oral (m! receiving)

“what’s a pretty lil’ thing like you doin’ here this late at night?”

you roll your eyes to yourself before putting on your best innocent look to turn around and face the man. 

he’s smirking down at you, the streetlight lamps casting dark shadows on his features. 

if you were being honest with yourself, you’d never really been interested in roleplaying in your previous relationships. it was always so awkward and you never truly felt any incentive to stick to the script no matter how much the scenario excited you. 

until you met toji, that is. 

he was always so into it, played his parts convincingly well, which should probably worry you considering he would always opt to play the sleazy delivery guy, the pervy doctor, the horny stranger in a bar. 

as for you, acting the part of the ditzy student or the clumsy maid or whatever the fuck toji wanted you to be that particular day… yeah, that was embarrassingly hot too. 

tonight, he’s playing creepy guy in a dark alleyway. he’d texted you in advance, a very romantic meet me in that alley between the tracks and the highway. dress slutty. 

“i was just looking for the station and got lost…” you mumble, looking up at him through your eyelashes. he pouts in a fake display of pity, twirling something inside his jacket pocket. 

“oh, what a coincidence! i was just on my way there. care to accompany me?”

you smile sweetly, linking arms with him. 

soon enough, you find yourself being shoved past toji’s apartment door, his pocketknife prodding at the small of your back. 

you have to contain your giggles to stay in character, letting him toss you onto his bed. you also have to fight your anger when he slashes through your top, a sleazy smile on his face as he breaks character to say he’ll get you a new one. 

he’s so goddamn hard that it should concern you, holding your jaw open while he feeds you his cock. 

“god—shit, that’s right, such a slutty little mouth,” you moan around his length, hands resting primly on top of your thighs. “you were just begging for it, weren’t you, slut?”

you bob your head up and down, putting on a fake grimace while squeezing your legs together at the same time. 

you hear something click in the distance, the sound barely registering in your brain as you get lost in the scent of him. he’s beginning to push into your throat now, laughing like a maniac when you choke on it. 

“c’mon now, open up that throat for me, girl,” you inhale in preparation. but your breath gets caught in your throat when you feel something cold and sharp poke you. “or maybe i’ll just to do it for ya with this.”

toji’s pressing his switchblade to your neck, grazing it delicately up and down. 

he’s not going to hurt you. you know that.

the blade is probably too dull to pierce skin even if he tried, but he would never, you know this, you know he won’t. 

and yet despite that, your heart is jackhammering in your ribcage, uncontrolled and wild as your eyes widen around tears. 

toji takes your inaction as a sign to just start fucking your mouth a little more, but your attention is zeroed in on that pocketknife. 

suddenly colors are sharper, like it’s bright as day inside his dimly lit bedroom. a headache begins to bloom and you start choking in earnest now, not because toji’s going too hard but because you can’t coordinate your breaths. 

he starts tracing your throat with the blade. “feel me right here sweetheart? fuck.”

you’re clearly struggling but it’s hard to distinguish your real reactions to the character you’re supposed to be playing. that only serves to make you panic even further, hands coming up to push on toji’s thighs. 

“hands to yourself, whore,” he grunts, pressing the knife a little too hard, a little too close for comfort, and you hit your breaking point.

you start garbling wildly around his dick, repeating your safe word over and over again until a very confused toji finally makes out what you’re saying. 

he rips himself out of your mouth, instantly dropping to his knees and grabbing your chin in his hand. 

“oh fuck, did i cut ya sweetheart?” he moves your face from side to side, examining you. 

you swallow around the lump in your throat, willing your heart to calm down. 

“uh, n-no. just got a bit too real there, for a moment.”

he sighs, partially relieved, reassessing the situation. you’re gulping in air, blowing it out of your mouth in calculated puffs. 

toji waits until you're visibly calmer before he gets up. 

“wait here,” he orders. 

you sit down on the floor, hands wrapped around your knees and mentally repeating to yourself that you’re okay, it wasn’t real, you’re not in danger. 

toji returns with a glass of water, sitting down in front of you and waiting until you’ve drank most of it. 

“you okay?” he asks. 

you take a beat before you can honestly say you are. you nod. 

“that knife on your throat was a bit too far, huh, babe?”

“yeah,” you garble out, tracing circles on his knees. “could’ve warned me of that particular detail. asshole.”

he laughs but his body language isn't nearly as carefree. 

there’s a long drag of silence before he speaks again. 

“i’m sorry, honey. really.”

and toji, as amazing as he can be, is usually way too prideful to admit guilt. so the fact that he apologizes is what finally gets you to fully relax, knowing he does realize the situation you were in and feels bad about it. 

“honestly we can stop with all the roleplaying bullshit, it’s getting kinda old anyways. you know i don't need you playing a slut to get you acting like one on my co—“

“toji,” you hiss, and he puts his hands up in mock surrender. “it’s fine. i think i have a better idea, anyway.”

that seems to spark his interest. he rises his eyebrows, prompting you to go on. 

“because there’s a few roleplays we haven’t tried yet. and if you genuinely feel so bad—“ he says your name sternly but just you ignore him, “then i know the perfect thing you can do to make it up to me.”

“babe…” he bemoans like a chastised child, with a hint of resignation at what awaits him. 

when he sees that you’re beaming he just takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair defeatedly. 

“when?” is all he asks. 

impossibly, your smile grows even wider. 

“i already ordered the costume! and the cat ears should be here next week,” you kiss his forehead, propping yourself on his shoulders to stand up. 

you hear him groan in the distance as you skip to the bathroom, turning on the faucet. 

he stalks after you almost immediately, wrapping his arms around your waist and honest to god pouting at you in the mirror. 

“are ya really going to do this to me now?”

you grin. 

“don’t you mean meow, kitty?”

a/n: yayyy my first somewhat wholesome post i am so bad at this but i hope it was readable! bye now!

[sanguineterrain]

Ahhhh yes I'm so excited that you're writing spencer! Could I request something with a reader who's also considered "weird" by people (aka neurodivergent) and it gets them down but spencer doesn't think they're weird obviously and maybe they bond over that? I hope this makes sense 🩷 love ur fics!!

hope this is okay :) spencer reid x gn!reader. rude cop alert, reader feels down about not picking up on invisible social expectations/cues, Spencer comforts them. ty for requesting!

****

New crime scenes make you lock in and hone your attention. You've always done that. Ever since you started at the BAU, that's meant that you break some invisible rule more often than not.

You approach the cop who called in the case from behind. "When did you find the—

He flinches, dropping his clipboard. Immediately, he rounds on you, annoyance palpable.

"Jesus, knock much?" he asks, brow low with frustration. "Sneaking up on people in this line of work is a bad habit."

"I'm sorry," you say, not quite sure what you're apologizing for. "When did you—"

"And who are you, exactly?" he interrupts, looking you over. "Selling cookies?" He laughs at his joke.

You push through, showing your badge and saying your name. The cop snorts.

"FBI, huh? Wouldn't have guessed. You don't act like it. You know you're supposed to sign in, right?"

"Yes, I know. I've been here for ten minutes," you say. You can't pinpoint exactly what you sense, but you recognize the tone someone gets when they're making fun of you.

"Ten minutes?" The cop looks past you. "I didn't see you."

"I signed in at 8:14."

You've learned that being precise is very important because it makes people more likely to believe you. Sometimes your precision puts people off, but you have to show them that you pay attention, lest they have any doubts.

"Uh-huh. Look, is your supervisor here? Someone in charge? I need to give this report to someone."

"You can give it to me. I was assigned to this case," you say.

He snorts. "Right. First time sniffing around a murder case, rookie?"

You blink, confused. "No. This is my thirty-third case."

He's about to respond when Derek interrupts. He flashes his badge, says his name, and the cop clearly respects him, straightening up.

"What have we got here?" Derek asks, and the cop launches into the explanation you've been wanting since you started the conversation.

You get that prickling sensation on your neck, that feeling of humiliation when you've missed some cue. Your first thought is that maybe the cop doesn't respect younger agents, but it's more than that. It's always more.

It's always something you've done.

You slink away, and Derek doesn't even glance at you, which is fine. He's busy. You won't take it personally.

You drift over to Hotch and Spencer instead. Hotch is talking to a witness who heard the gunshots. Spencer is supplementing his questions with information about how bullets splinter different types of wood. He looks at you as you approach and that instantly makes you feel better. Spencer never ignores you.

"Thank you very much," Hotch finally says, touching the witness on her arm briefly. "We'll call you if we have more questions. Someone will drive you home. If you'll follow me out."

She follows Hotch and then it's you and Spencer.

"What do you think?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Too early to tell. The witness said she heard sounds after the shots that she didn't recognize. What did the officer say?"

You shrug. "I don't know. Derek's taking his statement."

"I thought you were," Spencer says in confusion.

"I tried to, but he wouldn't talk to me. He said I don't act like an FBI agent. Called me a rookie."

It's part of the job, these kinds of interactions. Not every government worker is the nicest.

"I don't understand what's wrong with me," you say before Spencer can say anything. It's too honest for a crime scene. Anyone else would be annoyed by your whining.

Spencer shakes his head. "Nothing's wrong with you."

"I feel like there is," you say quietly.

Spencer's the only one who understands. He's been called every name under the sun. He's so smart, and you're always in awe at how smart he is, but, according to Hotch, some people get intimidated rather than awed and say mean things as a result.

You're not a genius like Spencer, though. You're just an agent. You're fine at your job, but sometimes you don't even get the chance to demonstrate that. You have no idea what makes you fumble simple interactions like taking a statement.

"So he made it seem like you're inexperienced," Spencer says.

You nod. "I don't know why. I went to him, about to ask a question, but I guess I startled him. He snapped at me to not sneak up on people. Then I apologized. People like when you apologize, right?"

Spencer shrugs thoughtfully. "Sometimes. Apparently, it's a very fine line between when you should and when you shouldn't. Did you introduce yourself?"

You frown. "Later, I did."

He hums. "Apparently, people don't respect our authority unless we're flashing it obnoxiously. That's what Penelope told me. Take a page out of Derek's book."

You both look at Derek, who's got his hands on his hips, posturing like he's in a procedural drama. Spencer shares in your laughter. It's like drinking the sweetest, richest cup of hot chocolate when Spencer looks at you like that.

"Do you do that?" you ask, smiling.

"Ah, apparently, I haven't quite nailed it. I'm the least approachable agent on the team, according to a DEA agent."

Your face falls. "I think you're approachable."

Spencer lifts his hands as if to say, what can you do? Maybe you should be the same. It's just so hard.

"I can't do anything right," you blurt, sobering up. "There's so many rules, Spencer. I just want to solve cases. Isn't that why we're here? That's why I went to the cop in the first place."

You feel babyish for complaining. You know what someone else would say: suck it up. But this job sometimes feels like you're on the field playing baseball, and everybody else is playing chess. No one else seems to struggle with the invisible rules of being an agent. No one except...

"Yeah, but to that officer, it's also an assertion of power," Spencer says. "He's the kind of person who only responds to perceived authority. He didn't perceive authority from you, even though you have it, because you wouldn't be here if you didn't. So, he thinks you should've cowed to him and flattered him with inane niceties to get the information that you deserve to know to begin with."

You blink. "Really? All that?"

Spencer nods. "I've known lots of people like him. Classic law enforcement personality. For the record, I think it's stupid. You're smart, and you're good at your job. You shouldn't have to make yourself smaller to get people to do what's expected of them."

"I wish I could do something quiet," you say morosely. "Do autopsies or something. Stay out of the way."

Being quiet is easier. You work in a place where some talking is necessary, but it's also not strange to think quietly for periods of time. And people can't get mad at you when you're quiet.

But then, you really love the BAU. You'd hate to be transferred. You'd hate to be away from Spencer Reid.

"I don't want you to be quiet. You're good at what you do here," he says. "Don't let an insecure person make you doubt yourself. Also, you're not inexperienced: you've solved thirty-three cases."

You grin. There's nothing quite like being seen.

"Tell me more about bullets and different wood types," you say.

Spencer's face lights up, and you suddenly feel more sure that this is exactly where you're meant to be.

[hoejosatoru]

Off Limits

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Bonten!Ran Haitani

Summary: Your older brother, Mikey, forbids any of his subordinates from putting their hands on you. Naturally, Ran takes that as a challenge.

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: Alcohol mentioned, drugging mentioned (reader not drugged), oral (fem! receiving), fingering, raw sex, cream pie, Mikey is an over protective brother, guns, pet names like angel, sugar, pretty girl, etc I think that's it? kind of an abrupt ending bc I'm silly like that

It was a boring day for Ran Haitani. Well, if you consider hunting rival gang members down and beating information out of them dull like Ran does. As much as he loves his job, the thrill of seeing another man's fear, feeling his fist connect with deadly precision, sometimes it was a bit monotonous. All work and no play makes Ran Haitani a dull boy and such.

He thought he'd fix this with a trip to Bonten's strip - no gentlemen's club. He could hear Koko yelling at him in his head for, 'lessening the value of their asset' by not using some euphemism. Ran didn't think it mattered much. Men just wanted to see women take their clothes off; they didn't care what it was called.

Usually going to the gentlemen's club made him feel better, but even this was feeling dull to him today. He's already fucked all the girls he had an interest in. Some of them multiple times. And they were great, sure, but he nothing that could spark his interest now. He needed fresh blood, so to speak.

Then you walked in. Ran had been idly drumming his fingers along the dark mahogany of the bar top, half listening to Rindou and Sanzu drone on about the days' events. His fingers halted the moment he saw you, straightening up and zeroing in. He'd never seen you before, he would have remember that face... that body. Were you a new hire? He wondered... No it couldn't be. The execs ran background checks on all the women in the club, which fell to Ran or his brother to do. No way you slipped through the cracks.

A prickle of anger flared through him as he wondered if you were dating one of the execs. He couldn't image one of the guys dating a woman like you and not bragging about it though. Maybe a patron's girl? You seemed to be looking for someone. Ran smiled. He could be a helpful guy, take you to your boyfriend... and then put a hit out on him. He didn't play fair, but he always played for keeps.

"Shit, who's that?" Rindou piped up behind him. Ran stifled a wave of possessiveness rushing through him. If he made it too obvious how bad he wanted you, this would become a contest he didn't want. At least Rindou's response to you confirmed that he didn't know you, so you couldn't be a dancer.

"Dunno," Ran shrugged, "But looks like she could use some help."

Sanzu rolled his eyes. "Since when do you care about helping random women."

Ran knocked back the rest of the whisky in his glass. "What can I say, I am a feminist." Sanzu and Rindou groaned at him, but his back was already to them making a beeline towards you. The closer he got, the more he was taken by you. You were so beautiful, but you also looked more nervous that he originally appraised. Maybe you were truly just lost. Wrong place, right time - for Ran at least.

"Hi," Ran said, mustering all the calmness in his voice he could manage. You looked him up and down, your pulse quickening - and not because you were nervous. The man standing before you was one of the finest you'd ever laid eyes on. But you couldn't let that distract you from your purpose here. "Haven't seen you around here before, are you lost?"

You shook your head. "No, I'm... looking for someone." You were vague, not sure of who this man was and not willing to trust anyone but who you were looking for.

"Oh? Well I'm one of the owners here," Ran replied casually, though he was dying to know who you were here for. "Maybe I could help you out?" His words sparked recognition in you, he could see it in how your eyes widened.

He's an owner? That mean he must know... "My brother, I'm looking for my brother." You felt the tiniest rush of relief that you bumped into someone who could truly help you.

Brother. Ran couldn't help but smile. This was the best case scenario; there was not issue of competition there. "And who's that, sweetheart?"

"Mikey."

"Mikey?" But it wasn't his own voice that verbalized his surprised. He whipped around, irritated to find Sanzu and Rindou followed him. Sanzu was shocked by the mention of the boss's name. Ran couldn't deny he was surprised too; he had no idea Mikey had a sister.

"Since when did Mikey have a sister?" Rindou questioned.

Sanzu scowled. "I knew it," he snapped, "But I didn't know it was her." Of course Sanzu, Mikey's little dog, would be privy to that information. But even he had never laid eye on you before, he simply was just aware a sister existed. "You're not supposed to be here," his comment pointed right at you.

"I know, I know," you replied quickly. Mikey was very clear to you that you were supposed to stay far away from his... line of business. "But it's an emergency. These guys came to my job and I- they were looking for me." You shivered at the memory of your close call.

Sanzu's eyes widened. Ran could practically hear the gears turning in his head: how was he going to use this as an opportunity to further win Mikey's favor? Ran rolled his eyes, as if Sanzu needed to do any more ass kissing.

"Did anyone follow you here?" Sanzu demanded.

"No - I don't think so," you replied. "Please can't I just talk to Mikey?"

"C'mon Sanzu, you're scaring the poor girl," Ran interjected. If Sanzu could use the situation to his benefit, so could he. "Even if someone did follow her, we'll handle it. Let's just get her to Mikey." He gave you an assuring smile that caused a blush to rise in your cheeks. Ran didn't miss it, of course, savoring the soft little smile you returned to him.

Sanzu didn't argue, telling you to follow him instead. He led the way, weaving through the tables where patrons sat. Ran and Rindou took up the rear behind you, following to Mikey's private room at the club. Ran gave a particularly nasty look to one man who stared at you a beat too long.

"Did you know Mikey had a sister?" Rindou whispered to Ran.

"No."

"Interesting."

Ran smiled, this was exactly the type of fun he needed. "Very."

Sanzu opened the door to Mikey's office. He was sitting alone at his desk, a whiskey in his hands as he looked through a pile of papers. His eye flicked up, annoyed at the intrusion until he saw you. He jumped out of his seat. "Y/n, what are you doing here?" he was half between anger and concern.

You rushed past Sanzu to your brother. Ran leaned against the closed door, eager to see how this played out. "I'm so sorry Mikey I- I know I'm not supposed to be here," the words tumbled out of you. "But there were men looking for me. I got scared."

Mikey's eyes darkened. "Tell me exactly what happened."

You sat down, realizing how badly you were shaking. You'd come here on pure adrenaline and now it was wearing off. You explained to Mikey how you had been in the back of the bakery where you work, when you heard a gruff voice asking for you. Well, it was really more like demanding. At first you had been afraid you fucked up someones order, but when you caught a peak at the 2 men looking for you you knew instantly they were not looking costumers.

Thankfully, they hadn't seen you and your coworker had the good sense to insist you were not working today. It took some convincing, but they finally left. You lied to your coworker and said you had a crazy ex. But really, you knew the symbol on their jackets was one your brother warned you of. A rival gang. And somehow, despite Mikey's best efforts to keep you far away from his lifestyle, they found you.

"You swear you weren't hurt?" Mikey questioned, softening now that he understood why you were here.

"I'm okay I promise, just a little shaken up," you replied, "I don't know what I'm gonna do about work."

"You're going to quit," Mikey state, shooting you a look when you balked. "I should have known something like this would happen. You got really fucking lucky today, y/n. If they had gotten to you... I don't even want to think about it. You have to stay close to me. Under my protection, there is no other way."

"But my coworkers could be in danger," you replied, sad at the thought of never getting talk shit about rude costumers while kneading dough again.

"I'll have my guys watch the shop for a few weeks to make sure it's safe. And tell me the name of the girl who had your back. I'll make sure she gets compensated," Mikey replied. Before you could protest, Mikey returned his attention to the men behind you. "Sanzu, get everyone to the meeting room. We need to discuss this immediately."

Sanzu slipped out obediently. Mikey eyed the two remaining men suspiciously, particularly the taller one. "And who do I have to thank for finding her?"

The taller one, Ran you believed his name was, smiled. "That would be me boss."

Mikey's jaw tightened. "Of course." He didn't express gratitude as you expected, but Mikey was not the most warm and fuzzy person. "You two can go wait in the meeting room. I'll be there shortly." They both nodded and slipped out wordlessly. You noticed, though, Ran eyes scan you one last time, which made your heart stutter in your chest.

Mikey instructed you to stay in his office while he went into the next room to have a meeting with his executives. "Don't worry, the club is guarded by my men, you're safe here. I'm gonna make sure everything works out, okay y/n?"

You nodded. You trusted your brother completely. Mikey squeezed your arm in attempt to be comforting before exiting the room. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the headache that was dealing with subordinates.

Despite the short amount of time lapsed, all his executives were there waiting. At least they knew their place, he thought. Dogs who come when called. The room was much more cramped than their board room back at HQ, but it worked for when they needed it. Mikey took his spot at the head of the table.

"Most of you don't know this, but I have a sister," Mikey began, his eye shifting around the room. All the men, besides those you had already met, looked surprised and confused. Sanzu was the only person who knew of your existence prior to this. Being he was Bonten's number 2, he had to ensure someone would look after you should anything happen to him.

"I've kept her secret from everyone because I didn't want her to be in danger. But somehow our rivals have found out about her," Mikey stopped, swallowing his anger as the weight of the situation hit him. "We are going to find the men looking for her and we are going to fucking kill them. All of them. Destroy their gang one member at a time if we have to."

The men nodded along, Sanzu particularly eagerly. He always excited at the thought of bloodshed.

"You're all to guard her with your life," Mikey continued, "I'll be working on a schedule for everyone to take turns keeping an eye on her while the rest of us continue work as usual."

"What if you bring her to work?" Koko asked. Mikey's brow furrowed, but he continued. "Our headquarters is secret and there always a bunch of us around. That's gotta be safer than just one of us at an apartment. And then you don't have to worry about shifts."

Leave it to Koko to find a way to be more efficient. Mikey debated it. On one hand he had a good point; it was probably safer to have you surrounded by more people. And then Mikey would alway be around at work and when you went home. Because he was definitely making you move in with him, at least until he was sure there weren't any active threats against you. But at HQ you'd in the middle of his business and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Plus there were other concerns he had...

"I think that's a good idea," Ran piped up.

"I agree," Takeomi said, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Of course they like the idea. Mikey wasn't an idiot, he knew you were a pretty girl. He's seen the way men look at you and being a man himself, he knows what those looks mean. It makes him sick to his stomach. It's not that he is some control freak that would say you're not allowed to date anyone, but he has high standards when it comes to who should be allowed to date you. And this lot of men don't even come close. They were great employees, cunning and devious, but he wouldn't want their hands on you. Having you around would be like throwing blood in shark infested waters.

Still, he couldn't deny it HQ would be the safest place for you to be. Mikey sighed. "Alright, you're right Koko," he replied, acknowledging only his white haired subordinate. Had it been anyone else who suggested it he may have said no, but Mikey trusted Koko not to have ulterior motives. He wasn't so obsessed with getting women in his bed like the others. "But there will be rules. Her safety is the number one priority. I'll expect you all to take a bullet for her if needed."

No one objected. Signing on to Bonten meant being willing to take a bullet for Mikey. What was one more person?

"And no one fucking touches her," Mikey stated, looking every single one of them in the eyes so they'd recognize the weight of his words. "If you do, I'll put a bullet in you."

Ran's lips twitched ever so slightly. He couldn't say he was surprised, but he was still amused. He was a man who loved a challenged and Mikey just made this all the more fun for him.

***

Moving in and working with Mikey was not as bad as you thought it would be. Mikey's "apartment" was more like a penthouse and did not make you miss your shabby little apartment at all. You had been worried about privacy, but you had your own room and bathroom down the hall and he gave you space when you needed it. You were actually liking the arrangement, getting to spend more time with your brother than you had in a while.

Even going to work with him wasn't so bad. At first he expected you to just sit around all day, but you insisted on doing something while you were there. He was very wary of it, not wanting you to get too involved in his way of life, but eventually allowed you to do some small stuff. You cleaned up a bit, made coffees, helped organize some old files. Simple stuff.

Then you discovered the HQ had a kitchen. It was little, but Mikey was more than happy to buy all the gadgets you needed to make it functional. Since then you spent your days baking, the thing you missed most. It worked out perfectly, it kept you busy with work Mikey deemed safe and the guys got fed delicious pastries. Everyone was happy.

In fact, you were surprised by how much you were enjoying this. There was still an element of fear knowing that the bad guys knew who you were and sure you got frustrated you couldn't go out with friends, but you did like going to work Mikey.

There was another reason you enjoyed going to Bonten HQ with Mikey so much. Ran Haitani. The attraction you felt towards him the first time you saw him has only grown. He charmed you with ease, like he wasn't even trying. Ran, of course, was trying. Specifically he was trying to make his flirtatiousness seem as casual as possible, as to not upset Mikey. He loved testing the limits, seeing what he could get away with.

"What're you making, sugar?" Ran asked as he entered the kitchen. He'd started calling you that nickname after you started supplying the execs with endless sweets. From anyone else you would think it was corny, but from Ran and it made your heart skip.

"Peanut butter brownies," you replied, taking in his appearance. He was always dressed well, but today he looked particularly good in an immaculate lavender pinstripe three piece suit. You reckoned no other man could pull it off.

He looked you up and down, a sly smile on his face. "Can't wait to get a taste." Your cheeks colored. You knew he was talking about the brownies, but the way he looked at you...

"You sure do have a sweet tooth, Ran."

"Well you're certainly hard to resist. Your baking, that is," he said with an innocent smile.

"Is there something specific you'd like to try?" you asked, returning his faux innocent banter.

Ran grinned, "I could think of something." It was then you realized the two of you had gravitated towards each other. Ran towered over you, his rich, warm scent filling your lungs.

Before you could speak, your brother's voice shattered the tension between the two of you. "Am I interrupting something?"

Ran turned, a calm smile on his face. "Nothing, boss. Y/n here was just telling me about the brownies she made. Was hoping she'd let me try 'em." He spoke so casually, nothing like the low simmer in his voice that had been pulling you in just seconds ago.

"Yeah, I bet," Mikey replied flatly. "A word alone, Ran." Mikey left without another word.

"Save a corner piece for me, they're my favorite," Ran smiled at you before slipping out of the room.

"I thought I made myself clear," Mikey stated when they were alone.

"I don't know what you're talking about, boss," Ran replied, that stupid smile still on his face. Mikey wanted to punch it off him.

"Do you think I'm stupid Haitani?" Mikey asked, his jaw tightening.

"Not at all, boss."

"Then you know that I know what you're up to," his eyes narrowed.

"I just wanted to try some bro-" Mikey cut him off by pounding the wall next to his head. Ran didn't even flinch.

"If you touch my sister you're a dead man," Mikey snapped.

Ran smiled again. "Wouldn't dream of it."

But dream he did. Hell he straight up fantasized about it. What you'd look like bent over those counters you constantly worked at, looking up at him with those pretty eyes while on your knees, how sweet you'd taste... He thought about it all. But more importantly, he planned.

Later that evening Mikey addressed the incident in the kitchen with you. "I don't like you talking to Ran."

"What? What's wrong with him?"

Mikey almost laughed. What wasn't wrong with him. "He's just..." he searched for the right word, not wanting to scare you. "An idiot."

You laughed. "All men are idiots." Mikey gave you a look, but couldn't help but smile.

"I'll ignore that comment," Mikey replied, "But he's just involved in bad shit. I don't want you getting close to people in my line of work, even the one's I trust. Plus, he only wants one thing."

You rolled your eyes. "Why do I feel like I'm about to get the birds and bees talk."

"I'm serious."

"Oh, I know you are," you half sighed, half laughed. "Like I said, all men are idiots. I know what men want, I've dealt with plenty of guys like that. I'm sure I can handle myself. Plus, he doesn't seem that bad."

"Well he is. So stay away from him," Mikey said with finality.

"What're you gonna do, kill him?" you asked, half joking.

"If I have to," Mikey replied so casually you couldn't tell if he was joking or not. You knew he would never hurt you, but you weren't blind to what your brother was capable of.

"You're way over thinking this," you replied, realizing that it would not be worth it to argue over this. "I don't see Ran like that. He's just another weirdo you work with. I'm not interested in him."

That seemed to appease Mikey. You were a better liar than you thought.

Since the day Mikey found you in the kitchen with Ran, the two of you were never alone together. Neither of you address what was going on between the two of you, but you knew he felt it. You could tell by the way he looked at you. You were certain it was not a one-sided crush. However, you were smart enough to know it could not be openly pursued.

Then, one day Ran appeared to you in the kitchen. Alone. "Mikey's out on errands."

For a half second you wondered why he was telling you this, but then it hit you. "Oh." Mikey was gone. That meant...

There was nothing more to be said. You were on each other in an instant, as if taken over by autopilot. Ran's hands felt so good on your body, already wrapping around your waist. You pulled him in by the back of his neck, desperate for more.

Ran wasn't patient in the best of times, but today? He couldn't wait another second to have you. He lifted you up on the counter with ease, pulling a half giggle half gasp from your lips. He moved skillfully, stripping your lower half without ever breaking away from the kiss until he dropped to his knees in front of you.

"Been dreaming about tasting you," he hummed against your thighs. He licked a stripe up your pussy and groaned. "So sweet. Knew you would be."

Ran buried his face between your legs. He knew he didn't have a ton of time and wasn't going to waste a second of it. His plush lips attached to your clit, making you gasp. You knotted your fingers through his lilac hair, needing something to steady yourself. His teased you, pressing against your aching entrance.

"Fuck Ran," you gasped, hooking your thighs over his shoulders and locking him against. Ran loved it, the feeling of your plush thighs pressed against him, how desperate you sounded. He needed to see you completely fall apart.

Ran slipped a finger into your throbbing hole and returned to sucking at your clit. You gripped his hair so tightly it made his scalp ache, but that only egged him on more. The feeling of his fingers curling inside you and his tongue lapping at your clit was too much for you. Your body shuddered as came, moaning his name. Ran savored every second, not pulling away until he was sure you were completely finished.

He stood up, about to kiss you again when his phone went off. He checked it, cursing when he saw Rindou's message. "Mikey's on his way back," He practically groaned. Ran almost laughed at how you pouted.

"I want you so bad."

"I know sugar, believe me," his eyes flicked down to the tent in his pants, making your eyes widen. "But if you're brother kills me before I get to fuck you then we're both shit outta luck." He gave a quick kiss. "Promise I won't make you wait too long." And with that he was gone.

***

It had only been two weeks, but it felt like an eternity. You thought there had been a lot of tension before you hooked up, but now it was down right unbearable. You both seemed to be avoiding each other, not because you didn't want to see each other, but because you couldn't trust yourselves not to pounce on each other. The few times you were in the same room together were a true test of endurance.

The way Ran looked at you drove you wild. His eyes would scan your body in a way that would seem casual to anyone else, but you could feel him undressing you, thinking of all the ways he would ravish you. It made your heart race and your knees buckle. Ran had one hell of a poker face, but the glint in his eyes told you that he too was dying to get his hands on you.

By the time a month passed, you were wondering if Ran was ever going to make a move. Then, on a Thursday night just as you were about to head to bed you got a text.

Ran: Come get the door. Quietly

Your heart raced, wondering if you were reading it right. The door? As in the front door where you lived with Mikey? He wouldn't dare come here, not with Mikey at home. But you had to check. Your crept out of your room, pausing to listen for any signs of Mikey being awake. His room was on the opposite side of the house from yours, but you didn't dare get to close and risk waking him.

When you finally opened the door, you were shocked to see Ran standing there with a calm smile on his face, despite his text.

"What're you-"

Ran held a finger up to his lip, silencing you. "Let's talk somewhere private, yeah?" The way his eyes flicked over you, smirking at the tiny shirts and tight little tank top you wore told you he wasn't looking to just talk. This was a bad idea, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

The next thing you knew, Ran was in your room. It was weird to see him there, in your private space. It made your stomach churn with anticipation.

"What're you doing here?" you tried again.

Ran sat on your bed, making himself comfortable. "I couldn't stay away from you any longer."

"But here? With Mikey at home?" you questioned.

"Mikey and Sanzu hang out and drink every Thursday night," Ran replied, "They always come in Friday with hangovers. I was feeling generous and bought them a few bottles of their favorite whisky for this evening. I imagine they'll both be sleeping well with how much they drank tonight." Your eyes widened as you processed his words. Ran didn't tell you that he slipped some sleeping pills in their drinks. You didn't need to know that; all you needed to know was that Mikey was very unlikely to disturb you two tonight."

"Are you saying-"

"I'm saying, if you can be quiet for me sugar, we can have some fun tonight," Ran smiled wickedly. "Whaddya say? Can you be a good girl and be quiet?"

"Yes." The words were barely past your lips when Ran pulled you on to his lap. Your straddled him, your bodies easily fitting together. You replayed Ran's kiss countless times since hooking up, but feeling it again blew your imagination away. His lips and tongue moved expertly, intoxicating you. Any concerns of getting caught fell to the wayside as your hips rolled against him, feeling hims harden under you.

In a flash, Ran had you flipped over, your hands pinned above your head. He licked his lips as he looked down at you. "God the things I would do to you if we had time." He kissed at your neck, nipping it lightly. He was careful to not leave a mark, but couldn't resist the way it made you gasp. "Promise one day I'll be able to do everything I want to you. But for now I just gotta be inside you."

You nodded eagerly, wanting to feel him in you so badly it ached. Ran practically tore your clothes off as you pawed at his. His fingers slipped between your legs, grinning smugly as he felt how slick you were. He toyed with your clit before sliding two fingers inside your tight pussy. He watched as your wriggled and gasped at him pressing your g spot.

He drank in this sight, relished the rush of having you splayed out and needy for him in Mikey's own home. Fucking you like this was the ultimate fuck you to Mikey. He could practically get off on the power trip of it alone.

Ran continued to finger you as he sucked on your tits. Your fingers tangled in his hair, scraping his scalp. He hummed in pleasure as he took your nipple in his mouth. His tongue flicked over the sensitive bud as he played with your clit. The sensation grew too intense, pushing you over the edge.

You let out a moan and Ran's free hand clamped over your mouth. He secretly loved that you couldn't keep yourself quiet, but couldn't risk getting caught before he got to fuck you.

"Thought you were gonna be quiet for me?" Ran teased as you came down from your high.

"Fuck I'm sorry Ran, just felt so good," you replied breathlessly. He couldn't even pretend to be mad.

"That okay pretty girl," he replied, "But I'm gonna fuck you even better than that, so you better keep that pretty little mouth shut." You nodded eagerly, anything to get Ran inside you.

Ran stroked his long, hard cock as he spread your thighs apart more. He admiring how slick your pussy looked, his cock aching to feel you wrapped around him. He lined himself up to you, pushing in. His held fell back as his bit his lip, trying to stifle a groan.

"Fuck, angel, prepped you and you're still so fucking tight." He kept his voice low. He rolled his hips, feeling your pussy suck him. "Feels so fucking good."

You didn't trust yourself with a reply. The way Ran thrust into you made your entire body flutter with pleasure. You felt him so deep it left you breathless, his cock hitting spots in you you didn't know existed. You grabbed the back of his neck, burying your face into it. You sucked and nipped at his neck, trying to prevent yourself from crying out. The more Ran fucked you, the hotter it was to keep quiet. Your teeth sunk into the junction of his neck and shoulder and Ran relished in the sting of your bite.

"Fuck Ran," you whined against his skin as pleasure consumed your senses. Your pussy throbbed around him as you came, making his thrusts falter.

"Shit baby so good," Ran panted. His cocked twitch as he finally released, filling you with his cum. He slid out, a smug grin on his face as he watched his cum leak out of you and make a mess of your bed. He was debating if he should risk a picture when he heard the familiar metallic click of a gun cocking.

"Mikey what the fuck!" you gasped, covering yourself in your sheets, though he wasn't even looking at you. His dark, cold stare was solely on Ran as he point his gun at the lilac haired man's head.

"You're fucking dead Haitani."

[bixbythemartian]

This is About Oceangate

...kind of. Like, heads up for people who are sick of hearing about it or are too disturbed by this, just scoot on by, that's fine.

Like everybody else my age who had a middle school special interest in the Titanic that was further fueled by the James Cameron movie (and that sounds very specific, but I absolutely know I'm not alone), I've been following this story fuckin voraciously.

I think everybody I know IRL and online is fucking sick of me talking about it. I have been actively trying not to blog much about it here because I'm so obsessed with it that I'm annoyed with myself. I would like to not be this interested in it.

But a lot of the stuff I can think of to say has been said by a lot of people already, I don't want to add to an already noisy environment if I've got nothing new to say.

So, instead, I want to talk about what I haven't seen very many people talking about- something that's stood out to me about the way the media has been handling this story from the get-go. So, finally, I'm inflicting my days long media binge on you.

The media's handling of this was bad. Like, comprehensively fucked.

For the uninformed, a primer on the situation- feel free to skip down if you know all this, there's a bulleted list right after I get done with this part, look for that. But some of this is important to the terms I use, so I wanted to lay it out. (Also I just want to get a lot of this out of my system, please just let me have this.)

The Titan is a 'cyclops-class' submersible. As far as I can tell, 'cyclops-class' is unique to the people who made this submersible, it's not a widely recognized thing.

The Titan can carry up to five passengers. It was supposed to be rated to reach depths of up to 4000 meters below sea level.

The Titan is/was owned and operated by a company known as Oceangate. There's a lot of questions regarding the safety of the submersible, where the math came from on their depth rating, and- basically everything about the Titan is in question, at this point. There's a lot of questions, but that's not what I want to talk about.

Right now. Maybe later.

A submersible is distinct from a submarine in that it requires a surface support ship for many things- the Titan moved too slow to leave port under its own power and go to the site, it didn't have enough life support to do that kind of thing, etc. A submarine is self-supporting and can operate independently. Kind of pedantic, I know, but the Titan is a submersible, not a submarine.

The Titan had a planned expedition to the wreck of the Titanic on June 18, 2023- this past Sunday, at the time of writing. The expedition was supposed to last around 10 hours. It chartered a ship- the Polar Prince- to act as mother ship, the on the surface support that the Titan requires. (The Polar Prince is owned and operated by a different company than the Titan.)

1 hour and 45 minutes into the expedition, as the Titan was still making its way to the sea floor, the Polar Prince lost all contact with the submersible.

The Titanic wreck is at just under 4000 meters deep, right around 2.5 miles.

Now, my understanding is that the Titan was not fully at the ocean floor at the point contact was lost, but it's not clear how deep the Titan was at that time. We may not ever know this for certain.

When the Titan was reported as missing to the coast guard is kind of unclear, to me- I heard 6 hours after they lost contact, I heard 12 hours after they lost contact, I saw something that indicated they reported it missing immediately- I don't know for sure. When the coast guard report comes out, I'm hoping we'll get a more accurate timeline.

However, as soon as it was reported missing, a massive search and rescue operationg was started. Complicating the search efforts were the fact that the submersible seemed to have no type of emergency distress locator beacon (I'm not sure what the precise nautical terminology would be for this).

The search included visual searching of the surface, dropping buoys with microphones, and ROVs (unmanned remote operated vehicles, deep sea robots operated by crew on ships at the surface) searching the floor, and probably some other stuff I'm forgetting. Deep sea radar etc etc, every tool they had access to.

The search and rescue concluded on Thursday (June 22, 2023) around midday, when they definitively found pieces of the destroyed submersible's pressure vessel (the part of the submersible that held pressure and kept the people safe and alive) in a debris field, approximately 1600 feet away from the Titanic.

The destroyed pressure vessel and reports from the Navy on hearing sounds consistent with implosion at the time the Titan lost contact indicates that the submersible underwent what is being called a 'catastrophic implosion'.

It is now an investigation and recovery operation, while they try to figure out what exactly went wrong.

The five men in the sub are dead. In all likelihood, they died so quickly that their nervous system didn't have time to process what happened. What happened to their bodies during this was probably gory and kind of horrifying, but it's unlikely they experienced any awareness of this.

There were five extremely wealthy men on the submersible- they were not all billionaires, but those that weren't were worth hundreds of millions of dollars. If you want a rough sketch of their biographies, there's a link here. Other than them being pretty wealthy, who they are doesn't play that much into what I want to talk about, so I don't feel the need to go into it right now. (Again, as more information comes out, I may come back for another swing.)

So, my complaint. The number of times I saw a news interview with an expert that went like this is not small:

news host interviews deep ocean expert of some variety (who is not involved in rescue)

host asks expert what chances are that the dudes are alive and will be recovered alive

expert, being honest, says something like 'slim to none'

host responds with some amount of sincere-seeming disappointment, then after interview, pivots to the ongoing search for the definitely still alive people

There were news programs with clocks counting down how much theoretical oxygen was left. There were frequent updates to news stories with nothingburgers of additions, just to pad it out. It was, if they were alive at that moment, fucking ghoulish. That they were dead makes it even more horrible.

And I cannot emphasize enough how many experts said, to generalize and paraphrase here: "Unless they are found bobbing on the surface in the next n hours, they are dead. Even if they are alive right this minute, on the bottom of the ocean, there is no hope to rescue them in time."

This is not a failure of any of the rescue entities involved, by the way. The environment they were presumed to be in- 4000 meters under sea level- is so extreme that there are very few vehicles in the world with the capability of even getting to that depth. Like, 10 or less. As far as I know, none of them are designed to do any kind of deep sea rescue- which would have involved carefully scooping up or netting the Titan and hauling it up very slowly. There's no way to transfer personnel between ships at this depth, and the Titan had the largest passenger allowance at this depth, afaik. Like, the odds were incredibly, vanishingly small that these men would live.

The media, at large, never ever really allowed that to change the way they talked about this story or treated the participants in the story. At around 11 am or noon (central daylight time) on Thursday I saw them talking about how 'oxygen is critical'.

Oxygen was critical 24 hours prior. Even by the most generous of expectations, they were out of breathable air. Given how, to put it mildly, janky the submersible seemed to have been, there was absolutely no guarantee that they had even the 96 hours that Oceangate claimed.

Their likelihood of being rescued alive from the ocean floor was minimal on Monday. By Thursday, they were dead- again, unless they were found on the surface somewhere and had managed to carefully preserve their air somehow, they were already dead.

The media didn't really allow for the reality of the situation to be clear until Oceangate and the USCG came out and said 'yeah, they're dead'.

"Well, what's the problem with that?" you might ask. "The United States Coast Guard was the one who was saying it was a rescue up until that point."

Sure. That's their job. Their job is to treat it like an urgent rescue until it is certain that it is not. A significant amount of what they do is to rescue people from doing damnfool things in the water, and keeping hope alive until they find bodies, or evidence thereof. They were doing exactly what they should be doing.

(Whether they do this to this extent for everybody lost at sea is another conversation that's absolutely worth having, as well as their role in border patrol, but I have no bone to pick with the USCG in this particular instance. They did their all until they could do no more, that's the whole point of them, this is how they're supposed to operate.)

The media was not doing what they should be doing. There's an old quote somewhere that I think is just a journalism truism (everyone I've heard talk about it says their journalism professor said it)- if someone tells you it's raining, and someone else tells you it's not, your job isn't to report that, your job is to go outside and see if it's wet.

James Cameron- director of the aforementioned Titanic movie, as well as being a Titanic and deep sea submersible expert, knew they were dead on Monday.

He reached out to some people, he found out that the mother ship lost contact with the crew as well as their location at the same instant, and that the Navy heard a sound consistent with an implosion at around that time.

The information that the Navy heard the implosion was not classified information- they heard it via a listening system that was declassified in the 90s, I believe. Like, I knew about the system just kind of casually because I know random Navy stuff. (My dad was in the Navy, it's mostly osmosis.)

The people on the scene were informed as soon as the Navy knew. (When that was, I'm not sure, except it was before Monday. Probably they had someone go back and listen to it and weren't actively monitoring it, but it's hard to say.)

The deep ocean submersible community knew, well enough that James Cameron could call a buddy and find out. He was telling people on Monday to raise a glass to them.

The media could have had this information, if they did not have it. Either they didn't want to know, or did know, and didn't say it. And I can't say for certain they were suppressing information, but I do know that they frequently downplayed any evidence that these people were dead.

I know on CNN they ran a story about FADOSS- the FlyAway Deep Ocean Salvage System- that was shipped out to Newfoundland. It arrived Wednesday afternoon. Description in the alt text, link here.

At the time this story was published, the people in the sub would have theoretically had less than 24 hours of breathable air. They hadn't even chartered a ship for the FADOSS, at this point. And the port in Newfoundland is hundreds of miles from the site. I'm not sure how many hours away but, like, hours away. I think I heard it's a 6 hour trip, but I'm not certain on that.

This system was referenced in the news as if it was going to be part of the rescue process. Very clearly, this was never going to happen. The quote, 'a process which can take a full day' is a mild understatement, here.

It could, theoretically, be done in 24 hours, but was much more likely to take longer, unless they had enough crew in Newfoundland to do round-the-clock welding.

The response to the question about recovering someone alive is a polite way of saying 'that's not what we do'. They were not part of the rescue operation and were never intended to be, as far as I can tell.

(If you're wondering what part the FADOSS is going to take in the recovery and investigation process, it's not. It's used to lift heavy objects off the floor, and the Titan broke into small enough pieces that the ROVs are believed capable of handling it. FADOSS is on its way back to wherever it is kept. I suspect it was brought out in the edge case that the submersible was found intact with dead crew, to retrieve the vessel whole, so that the families would have bodies to bury.)

Setting aside the 'oh they definitely blew up' news that seems to have been available the whole time, every single piece of evidence and expertise pointed to these people being dead, and yet the news persisted in sort of breathlessly (sorry) talking about the rescue efforts and how much time was left. They persisted in talking about how definitely still alive these people were until they could not do that anymore.

Other examples of this issue are the knocking thing. There were reports of some of the buoys picking up something that could be described as 'knocking'. Some said it was 'every thirty minutes' but we don't know how precise a measurement that was. As soon as they started talking about the knocking, I looked into it.

As it turns out, this is just a thing that happens. The sea is very noisy, and it's hard to determine the source of a sound. Some geological things sound manmade, vice versa. They had a lot of ships cooperating together to work the search area, it's possible that they were hearing noise from those, or something from an oil platform a jillion miles away, because noise travels far and is hard to pinpoint. They had this issue while searching for the sunken USS Thresher and it was one of the ships doing the searching. Given how many different moving parts there were in this search operation, it's hard to say what the knocking was. This is just a thing in the ocean, there's a lot of fuckin noise and experts can't always pinpoint it down in location or even what it might be.

This is why, even though they heard sounds that were consistent with implosion, at the time that the Titan lost total contact with the mother ship, it was still treated as if there was a live rescue operation. Because they couldn't be certain.

But the odds were extremely poor that these men were alive, and almost everybody involved knew that fairly early on. Again, the rescue operation had to go forward like they were looking for someone alive because that's how that works. The media, on the other hand, handled this in a very irresponsible way.

And, like, I know, news media is bad at being news is not some like hot new thing, I've just been building up frustration for days and so it had to come out somehow.

I'm not sure how much of this was just because they're very wealthy men- only one of whom I've ever heard of before- and how much of it was because it was a very bizarre and unique ongoing situation, how much of it was the intersection of that.

But pretty much everybody with enough knowledge to be worth talking to about this knew, like, Monday that even if they weren't dead right then, they were very unlikely to make it out alive, and watching the news wind a bunch of people up over the hopeful outcome was revolting.

Okay. We'll see if I can go 24 hours without talking about this. If you made it to the end of this absolute fucking novel, congratulations and/or I'm sorry.

[bruisedboys]

hi hi!! i have a req for u, if u fancy :) i hope it is not too specific. reader takes best friend!remus swimming or to yoga or smth to help him with his joint pain and he can’t even remember to be grumpy because he feels so loved and he is besotted

you always always nail the mood in your writing. somehow the scene is so precise and immersive, but with room for interpretation and imagination in the right places

angel thank you!! you’re too kind, that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said about my writing 😭 I love you this is for you <3

remus lupin x fem!reader .. in which you (lovingly) trick remus into going to yoga with you 1.2k

“Remus?”

Remus looks up from his book. You’re standing in the doorway, altogether too shy for his liking. As if you’re not over at his place more than half the days of the week, as if you’re not fully aware that his space is yours and you can come and go as you please.

He turns his page idly. “Yeah, dove?”

“Um, can I ask you something?”

Remus looks up. You’re nervous and he doesn’t know why. Either you’re putting on an act because you want something from him really really bad, or you actually are nervous, which is far more unusual.

“Sure you can,” Remus smiles at you and puts his book down. “If you come sit next to me to ask it.”

You smile back and trudge across the carpet in your socks to sit next to him on the sofa. There’s plenty of room yet you squeeze yourself right up next to him like there isn’t. He gets his arm over your shoulders and rubs your bicep.

“What is it, babe?”

You fiddle with a fray in your jeans. “Well. I want you to come do something with me tomorrow.”

Remus hums. You ask him to do things with you all the time, errands and appointments, random shopping trips. He always says yes when he can. “Yeah? What is it? Nothing dangerous, I hope.”

“No.” You shake your head and then look up at him, eyes full of a strange sort of hope. “It’s, uh, this new yoga place? James told me about it. They opened down the road from the library and I wanted to try it out. But I’m too nervous to go alone. Would you go with me?”

Remus has his answer before you’ve even finished. If you’re too scared to do something by yourself he’ll go with you, of course he will. Even if it’s yoga.

“Sure I will,” Remus says, smiling big.

You perk up, obviously pleased by his answer. “You will?”

Remus looks down at you, at the bright hope on your eyes and your pretty smile, and thinks, How could I ever say no to you? He rubs your shoulder, not rough but definitely not gentle, and dots a smiling kiss to your forehead. “Of course I will. What made you think I’d say no? Have I ever?”

You shrug, melting under his affections, practically a puddle in his arm. “Well, it’s not really your thing. You don’t like exercise.”

“Because it sucks. But I’ll do it for you if you need me to.”

You melt further, looking as though you’ll slide right out of his arms and off the couch onto the floor. He’d catch you before you did.

-

The next day you and Remus arrive at the yoga studio five minutes early. You’re bubblier than yesterday, very clearly excited about your activity and excited that Remus is here with you. He’s happy you’re happy. He doesn’t care that he’ll probably hate it and be sore for days afterwards. It’s worth it if it makes you this cherry.

You practically buzzing with energy as you drag him through the glass doors and up to the reception. The desk is empty so you hit the little bell, and while you’re waiting you turn to Remus.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, a pinch between your brows that Remus would rub away with his thumb if he was brave.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

You shrug with one shoulder. “I dunno. I’d be anxious if I were you.”

He is a little. But you make him forget it so quickly it’s barely there. He shakes his head and smiles at you. “I’m not. I’m good, dove.”

The receptionist turns up with a smile and asks for your names. You give them to her, scan your card and then lead the way into the studio. It’s mostly older women, a handful of younger girls and a two men in the back corner. You must realise the lack of people like Remus, because you take his hand before you go in, dragging him in as if he’s been forced to come with you. He doesn’t care much about how he’s perceived, especially here, but he appreciates your effort.

The instructor comes in not long after you and Remus have. Everyone rolls out their mats and the instructor puts on a soft, spacey sort of instrumental on over the speakers. She starts with stretches, and while you and Remus are both in twin cross-legged positions, you lean over to him.

“Remus,” you whisper. The room is quiet but for the music, so you have to keep your voice down for fear of being heard by the rest of the class. “I have to tell you something.”

Remus brushes hair from his forehead. “What?”

“Uh, don’t be mad, okay?”

Remus raises his eyebrows at you. Why you’re bringing up something that could potentially make him mad at you in the middle of a yoga class, he doesn’t know. He gestures for you to go on.

“I didn’t really book this for me. I just told you that so you’d come. It’s for you.”

Remus blinks at you, totally confused and forgetting to change his stretch position as the instructor directs them to switch. “What?”

You fluster under his hot gaze. “I— well, I know you have a hard time with your joint pain,” you mumble, curling in on yourself shyly. “When James told me about this place, I thought it might help you. This is the only way I knew you’d actually agree to taking a class.” You search his eyes, teeth sunk into your bottom lip, clearly worried. “Don’t be mad, Rem.”

“I—“ Remus’ words catch in his throat. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s half annoyed that you managed to bribe him into taking a yoga class, of all things. The other half (the better half) is stupidly in love with you and your kind heart. “Sweetheart. I couldn’t ever be mad at you.”

You go completely shy on him, ducking your head bashfully. “I’m sorry for lying,” you say quietly. “And— if it’s awful we don’t ever have to come back again. I just … I wanted to help, ‘cos you’re always helping me, you know?”

Remus feels so much for you at that moment that he thinks his heart might fall right out of his chest. It beats and beats, pounding at his ribcage like it wants out. He doesn’t blame it.

He swallows. “Dove, I—“

Before the conversation can get any further the instructor indicates the end of the stretching portion and the start of the actual exercises. You both snap to attention, following the rest of the class as they stand up to get ready for the first exercise.

Remus would love to say more to you. Love to tell you how much it means to him that you’re doing this for him and with him. But the instructor has everyone moving into the downward dog position, and Remus doesn’t think he has enough energy to both fold his lanky body in half and tell you how much he loves you all at once. It’ll have to wait til the class is over.

[jessicaloons]

Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince:

Chapter 2

Masterlist - Previous - Next

The Heartbreak Prince

September 2022:

Back on the podium in Monza. Finally. The Tifosi were screaming for Charles as he lifted his trophy into the sky, slapping the Ferrari logo above his heart. He soaked in the atmosphere, waving at the fans. A second place was usually nothing he would be happy with, but after the last weeks and the development of his car stagnating, he was happy to be back on the podium.

Back to back to be precise after last week’s P3 in Zandvoort. He chatted with Max and George, before he left towards his garage, where his mechanics celebrated him. Charles was surprised seeing Joris nowhere, but he couldn’t think too much of it when Mia, his PR manager, dragged him towards the media pen and then the post race press conference. He was still buzzing and giddy when he returned to his team, ready to celebrate his podium a little when he finally spotted his best friend. By the look on his face, Charles’ good mood was gone in an instant and he walked over, pulling his childhood friend into a quiet corner.

"What happened? Is everyone okay?" the Ferrari driver asked, feeling his heart almost beating out of his chest.

"Please tell me you use a condom when you have a one night stand." Joris said and Charles took a step back.

"What the fuck did you just ask?"

"I asked you, if you use fucking protection when you have sex with a random girl…" Joris whisper shouted.

"Okay first off, you’re my best friend, yes, but there are boundaries to what we’re talking about still. And second, I don’t have one night stands, does that answer your question?"

"Okay, let me rephrase that. Did you use protection when you dropped off that cute girl from the club couple of weeks ago and then had sex with her roommate after the French GP?"

"What? Why? Of course I did? I mean-… I was drunk but yeah… I think I did…" Charles stuttered, trying his best to think back to the night 6 weeks ago.

"I sure hope so because that girl, Alessia is her name by the way, she contacted you, and when you didn’t reply, me, on Instagram…-"

"Why? What does she want? Does she have a STD?" the Monegasque driver panicked, ruffling his hair, looking around to make sure no one listens to their conversation.

"Well no… unless you want to call a pregnancy a STD a-…"

"WHAT?" Charles almost shouted and some heads turned his way "She’s lying, right? It can’t be? I mean… no. No! It’s impossible!"

"Well, I don’t know. She said she wants to talk to you. She needs your help…"

"How do we even know that’s the girl I had sex with? She could be just some random girl who saw me leaving the club with the roommate and now pretends to be her?" Charles was grasping any straw he could find.

"That was my first thought but she told me the story how you brought home her friend and then well you and her… I don’t want to go into detail here… it’s her Charles… and she wants to see you."

"When?"

"As soon as possible."

"Fuck. This is bad Joris. So freaking bad. This can’t be happening… I mean, why does she think that I’m the father? She saw me taking home her friend and still flirted with me and kissed me, had sex with me? What kind of friend does that? Who’s saying she’s not having a different guy every night?" he began to ramble, ruffling his hair only further.

"Charles…" Joris sighed.

"I know. I shouldn’t have said that… it’s not fair… but- fuck. This could destroy everything."

"I’d say you talk to her first, then we’ll see?"

"I need you to come with me, Joris, I can’t do this alone. Please. Please come with me…"

"Okay, I set up a meeting with her. It’s going to be fine. You’ll see."

"I hope you’re right."

It only took five minutes to turn total euphoria into total devastation.

Charles nervously tapped his foot on the floor, looking at the door of the little café in downtown Milan, his coffee ice cold by now.

"Stop it." Joris put his hand on his best friend’s thigh of his bouncing leg "You’ll make me lose my mind."

"Sorry…" Charles mumbled, fiddling with his cuticles, his eyes wandering between the door and his hands.

"And stop that too! How old are you?" Joris rolled his eyes and Charles groaned, putting his hands on the table, grabbing his mug.

"What if she’s not coming? What if that all was just a stupid joke?"

"Then we’ll leave, for now she’s only 3 minutes late, so relax…"

"Relax? Relax? How the hell am I supposed to relax Joris?" Charles hissed.

"Okay, maybe relax wasn’t the right word… calm down a little, okay? We’ll figure it all out." Joris tried to reassure him.

"Yeah? I honestly don’t see how. This is going to ruin my career. My life." the driver leaned back into his chair, closing my eyes "How could I be so stupid? I swear I’ll never drink alcohol again…"

"Are you done now? Because I think she’s coming…"

Charles sat up in an instant, looking out of the big windows of the café, the memories in his mind starting to replay like a film clip when he spotted the girl.

"Fuck… it’s really her." he mumbled and Joris looked at the door, when the bell rang and the girl walked in.

"It’s going to be okay, just breathe…" Joris squeezed his shoulder and got up, walking over to the girl.

Charles felt his heart beat outside of his chest, his breathing ragged and he felt the bile rise up his throat. With sweaty hands he grabbed the glass in front of him, gulping it down, hoping the cold water would fight down the urge to vomit. He could already see the headlines, the disapproving look of Silvia. But above all he could see his mother’s disappointed face. He felt hot, short breathed, the buzzing inside his head getting louder and louder. With one last look at Joris, who talked to the girl, he got up, almost running to the bathroom. He didn’t even lock the door, he just flung open the toilet lid, ignoring the clattering sound it made, when it smashed into the wall, and emptied his stomach’s content into the toilet bowl. He got up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and flushed the toilet, when there was a knock on the door.

"Charles? Are you okay?" Joris.

Charles shook his head, leaning against the wall, no, he wasn’t okay.

"Charles?"

"I can’t do it… I just-… can you talk to her? I can’t do it…" he mumbled, looking into the mirror, his pale self staring at him. Sweat beads on his forehead, dark circles around his eyes. Deep down he knew that he had to talk to her. It was his problem. He had to own up to it.

"Charles this is a conversation I can’t have for you…"

"I know…" Charles mumbled, taking a deep breath, rinsing his mouth, splashing cold water in his face "I messed up… I have to take responsibility…" he dried his face with a paper towel and opened the door "I’ll talk to her." he swallowed hard, following his best friend back to their table.

After confirming that she was indeed the girl he had slept with, they decided to do the talking somewhere more private. Out of earshot. This was nothing he wanted to be heard by anyone and then plastered around gossip pages. Back at his apartment he offered the girl something to drink and then sat down in front of her, Joris to his right. Charles listened to the girl, how she found out she was pregnant and how she immediately knew that it must’ve been his child she carried. How she was scared and alone because of her conservative, traditional family who would disown her if they found out about the pregnancy.

"You’re the only option that I have…" she whispered, looking down in her lap and Charles swallowed hard.

He almost felt numb, as if his mind was trying to disassociate from the situation. He didn’t know what to do, how he could help the girl, what she expected from him.

"Do you need money?" he asked after a moment of complete silence and for the first time she looked him straight in the eyes "To umm-… to get rid of it?"

"An abortion?" her eyes widened in shock "I can’t do that. I just-… my belief… I can’t do that. I can’t kill an innocent soul."

Cells. At this time there was nothing but a clump of cells in her stomach. No innocent soul. No baby. Just cells.

"So what? You want to have the baby? What about your family? I thought they would disown you if they found out?" Charles knew he was too harsh, too straight forward, but deep down he still hoped this was all just a bad joke. Or a nightmare from that he woke up any moment.

"I know. They will do it. Definitely. But-… I can’t terminate the pregnancy… but maybe-…"

Maybe what? You want me to marry you? Say we’re happy and in love and you carry the fruit of that love? Play pretend for your family to think that you did not have premarital sex? He wanted to blurt it out, thinking that this was, what was ending his career.

"Maybe you can help me? I just need a place to stay. Away from my parents, I’ll have the baby and then we can give it up for adoption. It’s gone. Forever. And then I can go back to my life and you can go back to yours?" her voice was thin, laced with emotion and Charles looked at her.

"How old are you?" he asked out of the blue, wondering about the girls age.

She looked younger than he remembered and for a moment he was scared of the answer.

"23? Why?" she replied and Charles let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in "Do you agree with my plan?"

"You think it’s that easy? Giving away a child you carried for 9 months?" he asked and she nodded.

"I don’t want a baby. Not now. And not with someone-… someone like you! I know who you are. I know that you have a new girl by your side every other week. That you are always away. Always rushing from one country to the next. You are not someone I would want to have as a partner and father of my child…" she let out.

"Didn’t stop you from having sex with me. After I dropped off your drunk friend." what she said had stung for some reason and he was feeling his hands start to tremble.

"Yeah well, you didn’t have to sleep with me either!" she spat out.

"Why not? You just said that I have a new girl every other week. Maybe it was time for the new one right then!"

"Okay stop. Both of you. Enough." Joris said loudly and they both looked at him "Look. It is what it is. You guys slept with each other. There is a baby. You Charles, you don’t want the media and basically everyone find out. You Alessia, you don’t want your family and well yeah also basically everyone you know find out. You both have the same goal. I say let’s work toward it. Together."

He looked at his best friend and then the girl his best friend knocked up, hoping he could knock some sense in them.

"I have an extra apartment in Monaco. It’s empty, you can live there… and when it’s possible and safe, I want a paternity test." Charles said after thinking about it for a moment and Alessia nodded slowly.

"If you insist and don’t trust my words…" she said, her voice almost malicious.

"I have to protect myself…" he began.

"Whatever. As soon as they can do one, I’m doing it." the girl rolled her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her, leaning back.

"See? Baby steps…" Joris smiled and then bit his lip, holding up his hand at the glares the other two just shot him "Sorry. Wrong wording… but we can figure this out. As long as you both are on the same side…"

"Okay…" Charles mumbled, looking at the girl.

"Yeah… okay…" she replied and he nodded.

"Then let’s figure out the rest."

October 2022:

Charles grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles white. He looked around, checking every mirror constantly.

"No one is here, relax." Alessia groaned, opening the door.

"Wait! What am I supposed to do now?"

"Stay? Leave? I don’t know? I’ll text you when I’m done…" she slammed the door shut and Charles looked around one last time before he put on the baseball cap and the way too big sunglasses.

He got out of the car, following the girl into the doctor's office.

"Whoa! What are you doing?" she stopped, looking at him.

"I don’t want to wait in the car like a sitting duck!"

"Then go for a walk?" the girl was annoyed.

"And run into someone who recognises me? Yeah no thanks. Don’t worry, I’ll just sit in the waiting area…" Charles shrugged his shoulders, making his way towards the door, holding it up expectantly.

"Unbelievable." the girl muttered underneath her breath, following the driver into the doctor’s office.

Charles looked around. Everything looked sterile and clean, but still comfy. Tame colours, nothing too intimidating. It was bright and open and under different circumstances Charles would’ve liked it here. He sat down in the waiting area, watching the other people who were waiting. A young mother to be, sporting a prominent baby bump, reading in the newest gossip magazine. A slightly older woman, smaller baby bump and a toddler next to her, talking about his day at the elementary school, while his mother smiled at him lovingly. And a young couple, the man cradling a baby, not older than a couple of weeks, to his chest. The way he looked at his little bundle of joy, full of love and adoration, kissing his wife’s temple, whispering some sweet nothings into her ear, making her blush. Watching this young couple, obviously on cloud 9, made his heart ache. He always wanted to be a young father, to make sure he would be able to spend as much time as possible with his children. He always wanted to have his own little family, a loving wife or girlfriend who would support him as much as he would support her in anything that she would do. A bunch of kids, products of their love, running around. He always imagined how he would hold his first born child for the very first time in his arms, swearing to the little wonder that he would do everything to protect it from any harm coming its way. But none of that happened so far and now his first child would be born and given away, growing up without him, not even knowing that he existed. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind when he realised that Alessia walked towards one of the examine rooms and he sighed, as the girl shut the door behind her. Charles looked around, his eyes always returning to the little family. He would never even hold his first child in his arms. He got up, deciding to wait in the car, being in here made him sick, when the door opened and he froze. Valentine, his ex-girlfriend Charlotte’s sister, walked through the door, talking loudly with a friend, not noticing him for now and if it were for Charles, it could stay that way. Before even thinking what he was doing he followed Alessia through the door she had vanished through, closing it behind him.

"Ahh, Daddy made it in time, sit down and let’s have a look at your little one, shall we?" the doctor said and Charles turned around, watching how she looked at the screen searching for a trace of the baby.

Alessia looked at him with wide eyes, a mix of annoyance and something he couldn’t quite place when the doctor cheered a little.

"There it is. Look at this healthy, tiny human. And what a steady heartbeat, here, I’ll turn up the volume for you…" she began and Charles followed her look, watching on the screen where the doctor was pointing at his unborn child.

Charles stared at the ultrasound screen, his eyes widened at the rhythmic flicker of the tiny but strong heartbeat. Despite his initial reluctance of having this baby, his demanding job, constant travel, his fear of what the public would say, his team or his family. Something inside him shifted, his eyes darting between the screen and the young girl. She might carry his child, but that was it, there was no love, no feelings between them, nothing. He didn’t know what was happening, thoughts about how he pictured becoming a father for the very first time, and the steady, rapid pulse on the screen stirred something deep within him. This very moment changed everything. Right in this instant, he felt a profound, overwhelming love for the life growing inside the girl in front of him. It was as if the heartbeat echoed a promise of his new purpose. With his heart now full and resolute, he vowed to embrace the new challenge and be the best father he could possibly be for his precious child. He wiped away a stray tear, emotions threatening to boil over when he looked at Alessia. But what he saw in her face was the exact opposite of what he felt. She looked almost disgusted, hateful, at the screen. Her lips pressed into a thin line, hands gripping tightly onto the sides of the stretcher she was lying on.

"Alright. I’m going to print out your first picture of your baby and then you can go back to the reception and ask for an appointment to draw some blood samples to check that everything is alright with Maman and child." the doctor wiped the stomach clean, while the machine in the back rattled, printing the pictures of the little wonder. As soon as she was done, the girl sat up, pulling her blouse down, looking at her feet.

"Here you go." the doctor handed her the pictures and she took them, not even looking at them "Take your time." she left and the girl threw the pictures on the stretcher next to her.

Charles got up, picking them up with shaking hands, looking at his unborn child.

"We need to talk…" he began and the girl looked up.

"About what?"

"This-… this changes everything… I don’t want to-… I want to keep it. I want to keep the baby." his voice more steady with every word "I know how it happened, it’s all unconventional… but I don’t want-… no I can’t give away my child, knowing that it will grow up somewhere without me?"

"We had a deal, Charles. I’ll have the baby, we give it up for adoption. We’ll never talk about it ever again. We’ll never see each other again. What happened between us… it never happened!" she jumped off the stretcher, looking at him "I don’t want to be a mother. I don’t want to fake a relationship for the child’s sake… no. I don’t want it."

"Then I’ll keep it. You follow through with our plan…"

"What? Are you even listening to yourself? You’re crazy!"

"No. I just-… I can’t explain, okay? But to think that I won’t be a part in my own child’s life? I can’t do it, Alessia."

"Yeah well then good luck as a single father, because I’m not staying out of guilt or whatever. I don’t want this child. You want to keep it? Let it ruin your life? Do it. But without me." and without another word she walked out, leaving Charles behind.

He looked at the ultrasound pictures in his hand, feeling almost overwhelmed with the utter love he already harboured for the little creature.

"I won’t give up on you, little one. You’re mine."

Chapter 2 - … and that was Charles first chapter 🙈 the cat’s out of the bag, there is a little one coming soon. Dad Charles for the win 🤗 I would love to hear from you how you liked it.

Please leave a comment/ like/ reblog/ message and tell me how you liked it! I'm dying to hear your thoughts!

If you want to be added to the taglist, drop a comment!

Last but not least, English is not my first language and although I tried my best: please excuse any mistakes I made!

Taglist:

@glitterquadricorn @lottalove4evelyn @janeh22 @itsjustkhaos

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

Style and Error

Summer of Bad Batch 2024 | Week 7 | Prompt: Getting a Haircut

Summary: Omega finally gets her first hairstyle change after leaving Kamino - and her brothers get a crash course in human adolescent female hairdos. POV: Hunter, Omega (Word Count: 2700)

Read on Ao3

Notes: This prompt finally convinced me to turn this headcanon into a proper fic! Also, my fic last week ended up being a LOT sadder than I had originally intended (sorry about that, all, the story just kept going that direction and I couldn't stop it), so just a heads up that this story is a lot more relaxed and fun!

            “We need to do something about your hair,” Hunter said.

            At this, Omega glanced up from the datapad from which she was dutifully studying the history of Coruscant.

            “Really, it’s fine, Hunter,” she said, absently removing her left hand from her hair to steady the datapad on her knee. Her bangs fell into her eyes, obstructing her view, and she automatically brought her hand back up to scoop the unruly hair off her forehead and hold it in place.

            Hunter shook his head even as his lips twitched into a smile. “Doesn’t your arm get tired holding your hair back all the time?”

            “Well…” Omega hesitated.

            “Hunter’s right, Omega. If nothing else, you need both hands and unobscured vision to handle your energy bow properly,” Echo said firmly as he entered the Marauder, having apparently heard the conversation from outside where he had been double checking the ship’s landing gear. “Besides, we don’t need a repeat of what’s happened on the past two missions.”

            Omega wasn’t nearly as successful as Hunter was in hiding a grimace at the reminder. Just a few days after escaping a destroyed Kamino, Hunter – his thoughts still full of Crosshair and wondering what he could have said differently to convince his estranged brother to rejoin the squad – had suddenly noticed that Omega was needing to brush her hair out of her face a lot more often than usual. After a few weeks of this, Hunter had finally suggested that she try wearing a headband.

            “Really?” Omega had said excitedly. “I get my own headband?”

            “It’s just to keep your hair out of your eyes,” Hunter had replied. If it worked for him, it would work for her.

            It had not, in fact, worked for her.

            If Hunter knew anything at all about different hairstyles, he might have conjectured that Omega’s unevenly grown out layers were one factor hindering the efficacy of using a headband at this time; but he did not know anything at all about different hairstyles. What he did know was that when Omega wore the headband farther back on her head in a way that actually kept the band secured, it didn’t help hold her bangs off her forehead; and when she wore it on her forehead as Hunter did… Well, even Tech was sensitive enough to not tell Omega that the layer of bangs sticking up in wild disarray behind the bandana made her bear a striking resemblance to a frilled zarco lizard, but Hunter had a feeling Cid would not be so kind if she ever saw it. And anyway, this style had ended up causing near-catastrophe when the headband had slipped down over Omega’s eyes at the precise moment she had been taking a shot at an errant masador chasing them down on one of their most recent missions.

            So the headband had been quickly abandoned; but given that Omega’s hair was growing ever longer and more uneven, the problem still remained, and had led to the second accident Echo had just referred to, when Omega’s bangs flying in her face meant she hadn’t seen the tree root as she was sprinting along with her brothers back to the Marauder. Here they were a week later, and her scraped hands and a bruised forehead had only barely healed.

            “I don’t know what to do about my hair, though,” Omega sighed now. “Nala Se made sure I got my hair cut every four standard weeks on Kamino, but I didn’t really pay attention to how they did it.” Suddenly she brightened. “Hunter, you cut your own hair. Maybe you can do mine the way the droids on Kamino did it?”

            Hunter had no idea how to tell Omega that he cut his own hair only because he didn’t really care if his ends were even, but he did care if Omega’s were and he was not going to be responsible for whatever insult Cid would come up with to describe Hunter’s barbering skills in relation to Omega’s hair. Besides, he had no idea how to work with bangs, and he didn’t want to just chop hers off.

            Deciding to keep his explanation simple, he said, “I don’t know how to do whatever the Kaminoans did for your haircut, Omega.”

            Wrecker, his interest in the discussion having apparently reached a peak, suddenly set Gonky down and moved forward to the seat next to Omega.  “You could always try Tech’s hair gel,” he said with a shrug.

            Tech, perched in his usual spot in the pilot’s seat, was engrossed in his datapad and didn’t appear to hear Wrecker’s statement, nor notice the look of dismay that briefly passed over Omega’s face.

            “No need,” Hunter said quickly before Omega had to reply. “We’ll figure something else out.”

            Thing was, he and his brothers hadn’t even thought about visiting a barber ever since first being sent off Kamino – there had never been any time given how frequently they were sent out on missions during the war, so they had always just maintained their own hairstyles themselves. They had occasionally helped each other out with haircuts… but the best any of them knew how to do was shave to one length and cut a relatively straight line with standard clippers.

            “Do you know how to cut hair?” Hunter asked Echo now, looking hopefully at him.

            “If we had the tools, most I could do is a regulation haircut,” Echo said doubtfully, frowning in thought. “Wrecker has his standard shaver but I think we’d need more than that…”

            “I would assert that Omega may not actually want a regulation haircut, or any of our styles of haircuts, for that matter,” Tech interjected at this juncture, finally looking up from his datapad. Before anyone could say anything, he had made his way back to the others and connected his datapad to the console, displaying his research on the larger screen so the others could see. Hunter smiled a little at the sight; of course Tech had been paying attention to the entire conversation. “These are examples of current trends for human adolescent female hairstyles,” Tech continued. “Perhaps we can trial one of these.”

            “Oooh, I like that one,” Omega said, pointing to one of the images; the look of sheer relief on her face told Hunter that Tech had been right in his assertion. “That would keep my hair out of my face.”

            “An ‘overhand braid,’” Wrecker read out the description, glancing between the picture and Omega. “Uh… how do we do it?”

            “I’ll look up instructions,” Tech said promptly.

            Omega, face brightening even further, set aside her datapad and moved forward to look more closely over Tech’s shoulder, while Hunter and Echo exchanged glances.  

            “Worth a shot,” Echo shrugged, and Hunter nodded.

            Between the five of them and Tech’s unlimited information, how hard could this be?

******

            Four hours later, Hunter was slumped defeatedly in his chair, watching Tech and Wrecker as they doggedly pressed forward in trying to figure out variations of a ponytail. After the thirty minutes spent devising a reasonable substitute for standard hair ties, Hunter could understand why Tech was so determined to find a way to use them.

            He glanced over at Echo, who was currently standing a few feet away observing the proceedings, arms crossed and, Hunter was fairly certain, still muttering “Never again” under his breath. It had been almost two hours since they had finally given up on trying to figure out braids, and Hunter wasn’t sure if Echo was actually traumatized by the experience or just taking the failure personally.

            It was really saying something that Echo – with his one hand, scomp arm, and teeth – had come the closest to actually recreating a hairdo approximating an overhand braid, where Hunter and Wrecker and then Hunter and Tech with their combined four hands hadn’t even been able to make it past step two. But Echo had been rather put out when he somehow got his scomp entangled in the braid and almost took out a chunk of Omega’s hair when trying to extricate it. Omega, for all her patience during the proceedings, hadn’t been able to hold in a high-pitched yelp when Echo had finally managed to free himself, and Tech hadn’t needed any prompting to suggest turning their attention to other possible hairstyles that didn’t include braids.

            Wrecker had been very pleased with himself when he was able to put Omega’s hair into a low ponytail, but her bangs were not yet long enough to make this style very effective, and managing to get all of Omega’s hair into a high ponytail was beyond the current skills of Wrecker, Hunter, and Tech (Echo had declined making any attempt). Tech and Wrecker were currently discussing the feasibility of splitting Omega’s hair into high and low ponytails; and Omega, who had somehow been enthusiastic and happy throughout the entire ordeal, was starting to look exhausted.

            “This isn’t working,” Hunter spoke up.

            “I would guess that the current length of Omega’s hair is simply not conducive to these various styles,” Tech said thoughtfully. “Perhaps when her hair grows longer…”

            “We can’t wait that long.”

            “There is a barbershop just down the street from here. Perhaps we can seek their expertise.”

            “You couldn’t have mentioned the barbershop four hours ago?” Echo said with no small amount of exasperation.

            Tech opened his mouth to respond, but Omega piped up. “I’m glad we tried the other styles. That was fun!”

            Her cheerful sincerity made Tech’s expression soften with a smile, and Echo gave a small sigh but said no more.  

            “Have you ever cut your hair short, Hunter?” Omega asked curiously as the squad, understanding the new plan, prepped to head out for the barbershop.

            “As cadets, we always had to have the regulation haircut,” Echo put in. “We didn’t get to choose a different style until after graduation.”

            “True,” Tech added, “but for us 99s, getting a regulation haircut was… tricky. We didn’t look like the regs anyway, and our hair was different in more ways than just color. For example, my hair grows slower than is typical for clones, so oftentimes I wasn’t scheduled for a cut for months at a time.”

            Hunter nodded as he looked at Omega to answer her original question. “My hair always grew faster than the regs’ did, so the droids would cut my hair shorter than standard. A lot shorter. I… didn’t like that, so several times I just didn’t go to the appointments.”

            “They let you do that?” Omega asked in awe.

            Hunter chuckled a little. “Let me? No. I got away with it a few times – Tech would go in my place, since the droids only kept track of the number of cadets scheduled for a cut. But the trainers soon caught on and insisted I keep my hair short. But once we graduated and I could choose my own hairstyle – well, by the time we shipped out for our first mission, my hair was already this long and I was never going to get a regulation cut ever again.”

            “Crosshair was the best at cutting Hunter’s hair until Hunter figured out how to do it himself,” Wrecker put in.

            Hunter nodded again, smiling a little as he thought about all the times Crosshair had threatened to shave a bald strip down the middle of Hunter’s head if he wouldn’t stop fidgeting while Crosshair was trying to cut his hair straight… then he grew somber as he always did when he thought of his brother.

            He hoped Crosshair had at least been recovered from Kamino by now.

            “Well,” Omega was saying with quiet enthusiasm, breaking through Hunter’s thoughts, “it’ll be nice to have something different, for a change.”

            Hunter reached down and brushed Omega’s bangs back, again – though it didn’t do any good, and Omega giggled as her hair flopped back into her eyes.

            “Yeah, kid, you definitely need something different,” he quipped as they followed Tech toward the barbershop.

******

            Omega took the seat next to Wrecker, holding back a sigh. She had just completed her seventh circuit of the barbershop; by now she had pretty much memorized the layout as she looked at the various products, equipment, strange décor, and caught a glimpse of other clients receiving services from the other barber.

            It had been almost an hour, and her brothers still hadn’t settled on a hairstyle for the barber to try on her. The first style the barber had recommended had been deemed by Hunter to be too complicated for him to help with upkeep, even when the barber had patiently explained she would be more than willing to show Hunter how to maintain the cut; an inquiry into current fashion trends for more active individuals had snowballed into a lengthy discussion with Tech about hair textures, growth rates and patterns, hair health, and the impact of these factors on transitional haircuts when one wanted to switch from one style to another; and even now that Tech was currently engrossed in examining more pictures of example haircuts, Hunter and Echo were still debating feasible styles with the barber, with Hunter seeming most concerned about the fact that their lifestyle didn’t lend to committing to a consistent schedule for professional haircuts.

            Omega had never really cared what her hair looked like – she had spent over ten years with the same routine hairstyle and had never even thought about changing it, it was just part of her life. Kaminoans didn’t have hair, and even as she had seen more of the galaxy the past months, she had never really paid much attention to others’ hairdos. But when Tech had shown her the varieties of hairstyles that other human girls were wearing, it had suddenly struck Omega that she could have a different hairstyle too.

            She sighed openly now. The excitement of trying a new hairstyle had ebbed away after hours of failure. She understood the point Hunter had first made to the barber that once Omega’s hair was cut, she’d be stuck with that style for several months, minimum; but at this point, it didn’t really matter. She just needed something to keep her bangs out of her eyes so she would stop being more of a liability for her brothers.

            Wrecker apparently had noticed her mood, for he now leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “You could just be bald, like me. If we leave now, I bet I could have your head shaved before Echo notices we’re gone.”

            Omega giggled - she could only imagine the look on Hunter’s face if she took Wrecker up on his offer. It almost sounded like a good idea, even though she knew Wrecker was joking.

            The barber continued talking through all the other options, at Hunter’s and Echo’s behest. “As I said before, keeping length allows for more versatility with specific hairstyles, including braids…”

            “Never again,” Echo interjected adamantly, earning a startled look from the stylist.

            Omega almost groaned – this had gone on long enough.

            Getting up and crossing the shop with Wrecker following suit, Omega tugged gently on Hunter’s hand. “Hunter, I don’t need all this. I just need a way to hold my hair back.”

            Up close, Omega could tell the barber was reaching the end of her rope. “Have you tried hair clips?” the stylist said in near desperation.

            Echo furrowed his brows. “What are…”

            “This one will do nicely,” Tech said suddenly, gesturing for Omega to come over to give her final opinion as the other brothers looked over curiously at the sample image Tech had pulled up.

            Omega took one look at the style and grinned. It was perfect.

            “That one,” she said; and when she looked back at the others, she knew a unanimous decision had finally been made.

            She couldn’t stop grinning until long after the barber had completed her work and the team had returned to the Marauder. Her bangs were now out of her eyes, her hair felt more manageable, and – well, once or twice before she had heard other people say that they felt “pretty,” and now she knew what that meant. She felt pretty.

            Who knew it could be so exciting to get a haircut?

@summer-of-bad-batch

[oulkheir]

kaji akihiko's early behaviour

this analysis won't go very far nor in the real depths of the character, but i just wanted to talk about something i realised way too late about akihiko's behaviour.

actually, it never occurred to me that he was a jerk (talking about his old him) before he assaulted haruki. akihiko has always been flirty with haruki and it never seemed to be a problem to me. he was kind of having fun but he looks to be the flirty type with anyone in general and it didn't cause any harm to haruki. i was completely fine with it - also because he looked hot, to be honest. in fact, i was thinking all that when i was sure akihiko had no clue of haruki's feelings.

now, i rewind the assault scene (terrible) and realise that he knew all along... whenever akihiko used his charms with haruki, like giving him nicknames or touching his hair out of the blue, even pushing him to gamble on the boys with him, he knew it would always work because he was aware of haruki's feelings.

what does it change, you're gonna ask me?

well, 2 major things :

- the moment he tells haruki he knows about his feelings is an even bigger plot twist for us than it looks like. haruki let akihiko sleep at his place several times, he let him touch his hair and flirt with him because he thought he was acting like this innocently. though akihiko was already taking advantage of him because he had no intention of giving anything in return.

- it's more or less relevant, but akihiko's assault on haruki was not a sudden turning point (on a second thought), but rather the icing on the cake of all his previous behaviours. as i just said, he was drinking at night knowing he could sleep at haruki's in any case, he was messing with him knowing that he wouldn't hate him anyway. he was mad when he assaulted him, but he was still being himself : just a little more pushy than usual. that means that him being pushy doesn't come out of nowhere, he's always been the "bad guy" type at the beginning (and actually, even haruki was aware of that, this is why he's not really surprised by him having this type of behaviour afterwards, he didn't have high expectations of him).

all this may have looked obvious to many people but damn i'm so slow in the process sometimes so i wanted to share my revelation haha. and more importantly when i started watching given i was a huge fan of akihiko so it just disappointed me so much when i read the assault scene, yet now i realised there was unfortunately nothing to expect from him, and all what he did finally makes sense.

of course, it's still the key scene of their story because it's the moment akihiko realises how much of a jerk he's been with haruki all this time. and it's by this time that haruki loses hope in him because until then, he still thought that being nice to akihiko would influence his feelings.

no need to say that akihiko's redemption arc was beautifully written and that it felt as natural as refreshing. he put a lot of effort into changing for haruki, but also to become the better version of himself.

i also love the fact that they both fall in love with each other a second time, in better conditions. haruki first fell for a bad boy he thought he never had a chance with, then he fell again for a man doing his best to become someone respectable. on the other hand, akihiko first fell for a cute and funny man without looking further into him, then he fell again for the one who could always reach out to him and help him staying on the right path.

p.s. : i did not mention ugetsu here, because he's not the point of my analysis, but there's no need to precise that he played a crucial role in akihiko's damage and cold reactions towards anything involving love. maybe we'll talk about him another time cos he's my baby🎀

[charl0ttan]

As you recommend in your bio, I listened to The Glow, and have written down my thoughts, track-by-track, in order to tell you about it.

For some background, prior to this, I didn't exactly know what a "dreampop" was, if you asked me to describe it in a somewhat derogatory tone, a manor using only references to nineteenth century opera, I'd probably say "The overture to Wagner's Das Rheingold, if it was composed using a I--V--vi--IV progression."

Anyway, bad jokes aside, the album:

Can of Worms

flaI promise I wrote that Wagner joke before the opening of this song, but, it is distinctly reminiscent of the prelude to Das Rheingold, albeit more synthetic, and with a bit of talking in one ear, but that drone, with the strings above it, it's hard not to draw a comparison when you were just talking about Wagner a few pages ago.

Then, at one minuet in, my point of reference jumps forwards two hundred years, to be precise, the drums, those snare roles are distinctive, and remind me very much of Cosmo Sheldrake's first studio album The Much Much How How & I, and, I fucking love that album, so, we're off to a good start.

Intro and drums aside, to be honest, I find this quite, what's the word, uncharismatic, it doesn't feel like there's very much going on, which I say, and then the song hits three minuets and twenty seconds, and I am proven very wrong. (I'm writing as I listen, it's an unavoidable issue)

To pivot to the lyrics, normally, I'm quite, what's the phrase, discouraged, by this kind of repetitive lyrics, but, I think they work here, it's quite, what's the word, atmospheric.

But a Poem

This, it does not sound like it could be odd, but it does sound odd, hold on, words, is is conventional in performance, but, the production techniques employed, in particular, the reverb, and its alteration throughout the track, are anything but.

Open Your Eyes

You know, I didn't expect this kind of synthesiser use, there's been plenty of background electronic material so far, but, it pushing to the for was not a direction I expected it to go.

Every time I've gone to comment on one of these songs dragging a bit so far, it's always switched itself up at exactly that moment, which, I suppose is a good thing, I could say maybe this and Can of Worms could've used maybe a bit of cutting-down, to tighten them up, but, I won't, I don't think being "tight" would exactly work with this kind of music.

All in all, I quite like this one.

The Dreamers

On finally, I've been wanting a good drum-fill for a while now, and this delivers, it's no YYZ, but, it's still pretty good.

When talking about Open Your Eyes, I said I was surprised by foreground synthesiser, and now, I'm surprised by foreground guitar, it appears I know very little about a genre I know nothing about.

Grand New Spin

I'm going to be honest, I have nothing to say about this one, it's perfectly cromulent, it just blends in with the other tracks a bit much, when talking about Open Your Eyes, I said the album had managed to catch itself just when it was about to become somewhat monotonous each time so far, and this song does not, it makes no attempt to, and, that does seem quite deliberate, it does work as, shall we say, connective tissue, between the tracks on the album, but, I'm in no rush to listen to it again.

Time of Your Life

There's that guitar again, it's quite... distinctive, it does make the song stand out quite a bit.

To make a third musical reference, I'm hearing some early Ringo in those drums, or perhaps a tambourine.

This might well be my favourite track of the album so far, it, put simply, has more going on, it's distinctive, it does something the others don't, that being distorted guitar.

Pastures

I feel like I'm in a lift (Or as the Americans/Roald Dahl say: elevator) in an indie game with a mix between hand-drawn characters, extruded into three dimensions, and voxel art environments, which attempts to make a point about mental health, but the writers clearly didn't all agree on what exactly that point was, leading to it being muddled, however some claim that itself is a statement about either the inherent issues with a collaborative creative process, or a pastiche of shit indie games.

Is This What You Could Not Do?

Oh fucking finally, a slightly up-tempo, so to speak, track, I know, it's a odd complaint to make in a genera called "dreampop" but, one has to have some degree of variety.

It's even got Fun New Sounds, which I would describe, but, I fear the onomatopoeia would get far too silly.

You and I

Honestly, this is another Grand New Spin, it's fine, I liked it, I just have nothing in particular to say about it, that I haven't said about the other tracks.

On the Brink

I've got to say, after being so excited about that drum fill intro on The Dreamers, they're starting to get a little played little over done, and as I say that, the song's done

The Start of Something Beautiful

I'll say this, it's an interesting way to end an album, as a rule, one would want to end an album with a bang, this is, well, not that, it is, largely, more of the same, but, to be honest, I cannot imagine another way this album would end, other than to fade out like this.

The sampling of speak that can be heard at points is a pretty clear callback to Can of Worms, which does make the album feel somewhat circular.

The main element I didn't mention in any of those, for the sake of leaving it until the end, as I suspected it would be consistent throughout the album., is the vocals.

I won't mince words here, they were the element of the album I enjoyed the least.

I've criticise music for having nothing to say before, that is, music that attempts to have a Message, but skirts around it, or leaves itself open to broad interpretation, presumable to avoid controversy, or to broaden the commercial appeal of the music, but, The Glow does not suffer from this, I presume, as I cannot understand a word of it, without paying Very Close Attention, which, frankly, is not ideal.

This is not because it degrades the album as a whole, to be clear, I did enjoy this album, it is that it failed to elevate it, much can be said about the interplay between the lyrical and instrumental elements of a song, and here, the texture and tone of the voices are more distinct than anything they are saying.

The Glow is an album that would much benefit from having the lyrics to each track actually on the Bandcamp page. (Or from me listening to it on a platform that has the lyrics, assuming there is one)

Other than the lyrics, the one thing I feel the album could have benefited from is some reeds and brass, totally not because I'm a saxophonist, and therefore biased, but in order to, so to speak, break up the texture of the album, add more for one's brain to gnaw on.

All in all, I liked The Glow, will I be seeking out more dreampop? Maybe, which isn't what I wrote the first time, but, since then, I've started a spreadsheet, and it needs entries. (only half-joking)

(tiny bit of context for readers, this was first sent in ages ago, and had to be re-sent, as it got missed)

tysm for listeningg:) yay🫶

[rollinouttahere-writes]

@stuff6969fuckyou Also idk if two is too much but maybe (Dululu) Kuro Dark chocolate 12 & 6 for chronic illness reader maybe he kidnaps them and a bit of time passes idk or u could just do 6

Hey, so I only did the second one because I actually only write Luffy platonically. I hope you don't mind and that you enjoy this one at least!

Yandere Captain Kuro x GN!Reader

952 words

Prompts:

I know the timing isn’t ideal, but if I don’t do this now I feel like I’ll die.

I thought that going somewhere nice would have been the best thing to do today, but being at home with you has been better than any fancy dinner could have hoped to be.

With another day of tutoring Miss Kaya completed, you leisurely made your way to the foyer so you could leave. Even with how sweet and mild-mannered the girl was, you always felt exhausted by the end of the day. An unsurprising side effect of your poor health. Just being on your feet for too long was enough to leave you longing for a hot bath and your bed.

Even though you’ve been ill for most of your life, your condition seemed to be worsening as of late. There have been a handful of instances where you were forced to spend the night at the manor because of how faint you became before you could so much as make it to the front door. It was more than a little embarrassing for you, but Kaya insisted that it wasn’t a problem.

Not to mention the fact that Klahadore would consistently go out of his way to make your stay as comfortable as possible. He would run you a bath without needing to be asked, fetch clean clothes for you, and check in frequently to assess your health status.

His doting on you was a touching gesture.

“Excuse me, (Y/N)?”

Before you could leave, the soft voice of Klahadore rang out behind you. You look over your shoulder and spot him approaching you from a nearby hallway. You offer a small smile and nod, “Yes, Klahadore? Did you need something?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to speak with you in private for a moment.” His professional smile did nothing to indicate what this private matter could be about.

“Of course. Is something wrong?” The fact that he wanted to keep whatever this was away from any prying eyes made you anxious. What could be so serious that it could only be shared between you two?

“Not at all. Rest assured, everything is fine.” Klahadore’s words helped to ease your worries, but still lacked any real explanation for the subject of the coming conversation. He stationed himself at your side and held out his arm for you to hold onto, “Now, if you will come with me, I would prefer to discuss this urgently.”

Urgently? Worry bubbled in your chest, but you kept it to yourself this time. Gratefully, you latched onto his arm to steady yourself. The steps he took were slow and precise, making it easier for you to keep up with him.

The room he wished to have this discussion in wasn’t far away, lucky for you. Even still, you were beginning to feel lightheaded and clung onto Klahadore tighter to keep yourself balanced. He led you to a sofa in the sitting room and carefully eased you onto it. As concerned as you were, you couldn’t help but be somewhat soothed by how gentle he was being with you. Certainly if this was something bad he wouldn’t be so kind to you.

Klahadore readjusted his glasses with his palm before lowering himself onto one knee before you. Now that he was more at eye level with you, he took your hands into his own. The intimacy of the action made your face feel hot.

“I know the timing isn’t ideal, but if I don’t do this now I feel like I’ll die.” His thumbs lightly stroked your knuckles, and you could only stare in shock and anticipation of what was about to be said. “I must confess that I’ve grown quite fond of you since you began tutoring Miss Kaya. You’re such an intelligent and insightful individual, and I heavily admire those traits in a person. It’s because of that that I brought you here to ask: Would you allow me to court you?”

Your jaw dropped and it felt like your heart was going to pound out of your chest. Admittedly, your own fondness towards him was more than platonic, but you never could have guessed that those feelings were mutual. You averted your eyes and squeezed his hands as your mind scrambled to form proper sentences.

Of course you were going to accept, you would have to be insane not to. Klahadore was such a kind hearted and helpful man. Not to mention handsome and a perfect gentleman. Only good things could come from this.

“Yes, I would love that,” your response was simple and to the point to avoid potentially embarrassing yourself from tripping over your words.

“Excellent, I’m relieved to hear that.” Klahadore smiled at you before pressing a kiss to one of your wrists. 

You giggled and were forced to look away yet again. Yes, you’re sure that you made the right choice. Someone like him would most certainly treat you well.

—

How naive you were.

As the man that you now knew to be Kuro cradled your sickly form in his lap and forced more blue tea past your lips, you could only sit there and resign yourself to your fate. 

Kuro didn’t pull the tea cup away until it was empty. After setting it aside, he gently gripped your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye as he spoke, “I thought that going somewhere nice would have been the best thing to do today, but being at home with you has been better than any fancy dinner could have hoped to be.”

The sentence was punctuated with a kiss, one that you returned because you learned quickly that not doing so would always end poorly. 

There must have been signs before that could have told you who this man really was, but you were too blinded by how charming you thought Kuro was to see them. Now you would spend the rest of your life paying for that mistake.

[iepurasdepraf]

I have given up on editing my posts to be pretty. Here's chapter 4 of Foul by Forum.

The second door was to the right of the stairs, across from the one that had opened earlier. It looked the same as the others. Old. Heavy. Thick paint that had yellowed and cracked like varnish abandoned under a hot sun. You aimed your flashlight at the tarnished knob before glancing over your shoulder at Crane, still planted a few steps down from the landing like some kind of spindly gargoyle on sentry duty. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t said anything, but his gaze pinned you like you were a particularly odd museum exhibit.

“This one,” you announced, mostly to yourself. Saying it out loud gave it weight, made it feel less like your pulse was trying to sprint out of your skin. You turned the knob. It was cold, and for a heartbeat you were sure it would slam shut or rip itself open like some funhouse trick. But it didn’t. It only creaked open like any door this old might.

Inside: silence. No whispers. No footsteps. No slamming, no weeping, no blood trickling up the walls. Just a cramped storage closet. Maybe five feet across, likely less. Shelves sagging under rusted paint cans, dry-rotted drop cloths, a broom with a melted handle that drooped like it was ashamed to be here. A coat hook or two, bent and forgotten.

You stepped in anyway—brave, stupid, or some custom cocktail of both. Probably the latter. This was the kind of room that hadn’t seen a visitor in a decade. You told yourself that. So you stepped closer. Your flashlight passed over a collapsed box stuffed with yellowed newspaper. You didn’t want to know what had once been inside.

Shadows shifted on the walls—your own, obviously. The space was tight. One window across the hall threw moonlight in at a bad angle, and your flashlight danced with every movement. Optical illusions, that’s all it was.

Except one of the shadows didn’t match your pace. Or maybe it did, only a second too slow. Like it was trying not to be caught. It slipped between the shelves, hunched low near the back. You heard something—a scrape? A breath?

Nope.

You turned too fast, smacked your shoulder into a shelf. Something metal hit the floor behind you. You didn’t look.

You bolted from the closet like hell itself was behind you—and then immediately walked face-first into a spiderweb. Of course. Because the universe is nothing if not theatrical.

It draped over your face, clung to your eyelashes, got in your mouth, and you didn’t even realize you were crying until you were already stumbling back against the hallway wall, sleeves dragging across your face in a frantic attempt to get it off. Not sobbing. Those short, gasping breaths, lungs folding in on themselves, tears sliding hot down your cheeks without asking.

And, of course, Crane was there.

He didn’t laugh. Somehow that made it worse.

He didn’t ask what happened. Just stood there with that pale, too-still expression like he was about to follow it up with “When I was locked in the basement as a child—” even though that wasn’t how he talked. His head tilted, the sharp angle of his chin making him look like a lanky bird. Then he blinked. Slowly.

You could feel his judgment like a space heater that wasn’t fully plugged in. Still warm, but not as hot as it could be

“I saw—” Your voice came out all watery. “Something. I think. Maybe. And then the web was in my face and—” You shut your mouth before it could spiral further. Your nose was running.

He stepped closer—not comfortingly, not quite. He didn’t offer a hand or a shoulder. Didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of black medical gloves. Slid them on with the detached air of someone about to perform a dissection. Then, with surprising gentleness, he began pulling the spiderweb off your face.

His fingers—latex-wrapped, precise—lifted the sticky threads like they might detonate. He didn’t flinch when your breath hitched. Didn’t react when you squeezed your eyes shut.

You didn’t move. Not out of fear, but from shock. No one had helped you like this before. So calm. So clinical, but not cold. Not judgmental. Observant. Processing. Like he was thinking: Noted. Prone to panic under visual anomaly and tactile disturbance. You, the new favorite lab rat.

When he finished, he peeled the gloves off and dropped them to the floor. Tilted his head the other way. “Better?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He didn’t smile, but he looked away for a second, like maybe he wasn’t used to being thanked.

You scrubbed at your face again with your sleeve. “It was nothing,” you muttered. “Shadows and spiderwebs.”

“Fear doesn’t require reason,” he said, voice flat but strangely gentle. “Only an audience.”

You squinted. “Was that from one of your lectures, or did you just make it up?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Classic.”

He glanced toward the stairs, where the closet door hung open behind you like it was sulking. “Next one,” he said, and turned, assuming you’d follow.

Of course you did.

Because even with the bedside manner of a haunted marionette, Crane made you feel safer. Somehow.

As you both moved on, the air shifted behind you. Not with a ghost or a monster. Tension bleeding away. Smoke without a fire. Fear without a face.

He moved ahead, backlit by your flashlight, scanning the closet one last time. Dust shimmered in the light as he swept it across the shelves. You could see the outline of his shoulder under the stretched old sweater—how thin he really was beneath it.

And then he flinched.

A twitch. Like something had brushed him. His shoulder jerked, and his hand retracted an inch.

You froze. Breath held.

But he didn’t pull away. He seemed to pause. Then leaned back in, slowly. Repeated the movement with eerie precision. Same angle. Same reach. Nothing.

His jaw flexed. His whole posture shifted—tighter. Sharper.

He crouched, set the camcorder on the floor with a soft clack. Slid the strap off his wrist. Then started pulling apart the bottom shelf with methodical intent, metal scraping metal.

It was surgical. And a little pissed off.

Something small and gray burst from the shadows. A hard thump against the floor.

You jumped.

A mouse flung itself out, hit the floor with a scrabble of tiny feet, then vanished into the gap under the baseboard.

Silence again.

Crane didn’t move.

He stared after the mouse like it had insulted him. Then picked up the camcorder and stood, pulling the hem of his sweater back down over a flash of pale skin like the moment had never happened.

“Not a ghost,” he said flatly.

You exhaled, almost laughed. “Thanks, boss.”

He didn’t react. Just stood there with that eerie stillness, like silence was something he curated.

He gave the closet one last look—not for safety. More like a warning.

Then he rolled his shoulder, reset something in his stance, and walked on.

You followed, trying to choke down the concern over his growing agitation. He wasn’t mad at you after all.  

The hallway ahead was short but felt too long. The floor groaned with every step, tattling on your progress. Strips of paint curled down from the walls, and the air had taken on a sharper smell—copper and mildew. Wet pennies. Something long dead.

At the far end: a door. Slightly open, like someone had stepped through and forgot to shut it. The gap between the door and frame looked too dark. A grin with too many teeth.

“This one’s the bathroom, right?” you asked, your voice low. Trying to hear something that wasn’t your thoughts.

Crane nodded, then pushed the door open with two fingers.

The bathroom was offensively normal.

Coral-pink tile, faded to something unpleasant. A cracked sink, its drain crusted with something halfway between dried blood and bad memories. A clawfoot tub crouched in the back, stained with rust or worse.

The mirror above the sink was crooked, fractured like lightning had struck it, your reflection broken into alien geometry.

You stepped inside cautiously, flashlight slicing through the gloom. “No screaming ghosts yet,” you muttered.

“Not all of them scream,” Crane said behind you, like this was an obvious fact.

You clicked the light switch. Nothing. Only the dead click of failed electricity.

The medicine cabinet gaped open. You peered in—half-expecting teeth, maybe a face. Instead: pill bottles with no names. A crusted bar of soap. Q-tips the color of old teeth.

The toilet was cracked. You didn’t want to know why.

“Why is this place so gross?” you muttered, shining your light up. Mold bloomed over the ceiling, curling through the corners like veins.

You could feel Crane behind you. Close but not too close. That quiet tension he carried like a second coat.

The camcorder clicked softly as he swept it across the room.

“Anything?” you asked.

He hesitated.

Then: “No.”

You snorted. “So a moldy bathroom that smells like a murder. Great.”

He didn’t laugh, obviously. But he shifted—a bit, slightly, like he’d filed the comment away for later.

You turned back to the mirror. Your reflection—disheveled, wide-eyed, hoodie askew—looked like it didn’t trust you either.

But nothing jumped out.

Just mildew, mold, and the hum of nerves.

You pulled the door shut behind you with a little more force than necessary. “Next?”

Crane nodded.

And somewhere in the walls, the house creaked—like it had been waiting.

Or maybe your nerves were on their way to unraveling completely.

[cheeseceli]

Proud - Bang Chan

Pairing: Bang Chan × gn!Reader

Genre: little bit of angst with fluff ending, small drabble

Warnings: reader has low self-esteem, reader's mom doesn't help at all, not proof read, and one (1) bad word i think bullshit (idk if that counts as bad word)

Request: by my inner child lmao

A/n: i thought of this last night because i relate to and admire Chan so much, so he is precisely the person that could make me feel better in a time like this. This drabble ain't supposed to be good, I just wanted some comfort and luckily you can feel some comfort as well

"Were you crying?"

You don't know why, but lately it seems like life hasn't been kind to you. You were doubting yourself and your talents (did you have any?) more than usual. Everything you did seemed wrong, seemed like it could be better. Even things you were sure about, like your potential and hard work, weren't certain anymore.

The last straw was when you were calling your mom before you went to bed. You wanted to vent, to try to understand what was wrong and how you could fix it. Instead, she said "you should give up abot that. You're not that good anyways". You doubt she was saying that out of malice, like she was praying for your downfall or something like that. She actually thought you'd be better if you settled down and just gave up in your "dreams". She was actually trying to help.

But now, past midnight, you're in bed trying to hide your tears and silence your hiccups. The overthinking, the pressure and the fact that everything you were doing this past days was collapsing made you cry. The last thing that you needed was to wake up and worry the man beside you.

Unfortunately, luck was not on your side.

"Babe, look at me" Chan said, growing worried because all he could see was your back facing him "Please."

With that being said, you felt like the worst human being to ever live. You made him worry over something that was probably just drama. He'd ask what was wrong and you would explain to just later realise that you were being dramatic. You didn't want to look at him. Not now, not like this.

So you did the most reasonable thing that came across your mind: you pretended you were sleeping. Perhaps he would believe. He didn't see you crying anyways, he just heard the hiccups. Maybe he would believe that nothing was wrong and he probably misunderstood the sounds.

When he laid back his head in the pillow, you thought it worked. You almost sighed in relieve until he hugged you closer from behind. He wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed you softly, you almost couldn't feel it, in the back of your neck going down to your shoulder.

"You know I'm here, right? It doesn't matter what it is, I'll always be here."

That was it. Now that was in fact your last straw. As comforting as it was, you couldn't handle it. Because you thought of yourself as someone who wasn't deserving of love, you forgot you were actually loved. And now you were crying even more.

As a reminder that Chan was never leaving your side, he hugged you tighter. You didn't feel suffocated. You were embraced, you were warm. For a second you believed you were safe.

"Could you tell me that you're proud of me?" was the first thing you said that night, it was almost inaudible "You can lie. Just say I'm doing good or something like that. Please."

For some moment all you could hear was the silence. You knew he was there, you could feel him. But he didn't reply. The overthinking crossed your mind once again. You aren't worth, not even in a lie.

You tried to close your eyes and forget that you even said something until you heard him

"I'm so proud of you. I'm not telling you this because you asked me to, I'm saying this because it's the truth and I should've made it clear from the moment I saw you for the first time. To be honest I'm kinda shocked that you are even doubting it in first place." He giggled silently and God, you loved that small laugh "I don't know what made you think that you're not good enough but believe me when I tell you that you are way more than just enough. You're awesome, you're amazing, I wouldn't change a thing"

You kept your eyes closed to keep back the tears. You hated feeling so vulnerable or a burden, and that was the feeling that ever showed up whenever you cried. But tonight, the feeling was slowly becoming something else. Like you were allowed to fall, cause someone, cause Chan, would catch you.

Chan made you turn around gently and placed a soft kiss on your wet cheek, making you hug him closer. Everything that you needed right now was his comfort. He happily obliged.

"I'm so so proud of you. I'll spend the rest of my life telling you this if that's what will take for you to believe it. I admire you so much, Y/n. I love the person that you are and the person that you are becoming. And no one else's opinion matters because everyone that says bulshit about you is wrong and I'm the only one who is right" you couldn't help but giggle at the last part, knowing that it was somewhat true and that made it even funnier.

"thank you"

When you thought it was impossible for him to hug you even tighter, he did it and hid his face in your neck "don't thank me for saying the obvious. Now let's sleep, mm? It's late"

You nodded, feeling way more relaxed than you were when the night began. You close your eyes only to hear Chan saying "Good night, my love."

Reblogs and feedbacks are always appreciated ❣️

[suddencolds]

Small Price to Pay | [1/1]

you know all those posts about making out with someone with a cold and the associated consequences? This is that in fic form, ~8.8k words. I'm embarrassing myself typing this, so here it is.

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves - you can read more of these two here! :)

Summary:

“So,” Brendon says. “You’re still dating him.” Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yves’s chest. Yves frowns at him. “Is that supposed to be surprising?”

Yves has a birthday party to attend and a fake relationship to prove. Vincent is nothing if not adaptable. (ft. fake dating, an argument, contagion)

—

Here’s the problem:

Francesca throws a party.

It’s a birthday party, strictly speaking, but functionally it’s more of a college reunion—Francesca invites everyone from their year who rowed crew, which means that one: Yves will be surrounded by some of his best friends from college, and two: Erika will be there.

He thinks up an entire contingency plan—if Vincent can’t make it that weekend, for one reason or another, Yves will show up, hand Francesca his gift, spend the rest of the hour avoiding Erika and Brendon, and leave early, citing some excuse or other. It’s not that he doesn’t think he could handle talking to Erika—it’s just seeing her feels like reopening a wound. A part of him is scared that he’ll see her, and feel the loss intensely all over again—or, worse, he’ll get ideas about forgiving her, about letting her into his life again, about accepting her explanations.

And Brendon, too—seeing Erika means seeing Brendon, most likely, and Yves doesn’t want to justify himself to him any more than he already has. 

The point is: the less of the both of them that he has to deal with, the better.

When he asks Vincent a week before the event, though, Vincent’s response is immediate.

V: You can fill me in on the details later. I’ll be there.

It’s a little strange, he thinks, that Vincent always agrees so readily. Vincent isn’t a fan of parties—he’d been clear about that. He doesn’t seem interested in talking much about himself, either—he’s just the kind of person, Yves is realizing, who likes to keep his personal details close unless they offer some sort of utility.

Perhaps there’s something else that Vincent is getting out of this, then.

But when Yves asks, he’s met with the same cryptic answer:

“I don’t mind it,” Vincent says. “And you have something you want to prove to your ex. Ultimately, it’s a net positive.”

“While that’s technically true,” Yves says, “this seems like an unfair arrangement. I mean, you’re only doing this because I dragged you into it.”

“If I didn��t want to be dragged into it,” Vincent says, “I would say so.” as if it’s really that simple.

It can’t be that simple, Yves thinks—there must be more to his reasoning that he’s omitting—but he doesn’t press. Vincent is right. Vincent is the kind of person who knows precisely what he wants. If he really had a problem with this arrangement, he would’ve said so.

And, besides—a little selfishly, perhaps—Yves has started looking forward to their outings as of late.

—

Nevertheless, he doesn’t think about the party again until the Friday before it, when Vincent shows up at his desk.

“Do you have a moment?” he says.

“Yes,” Yves says, saving the spreadsheet he’s been working on and shutting his laptop. “What’s up?”

When he looks up, Vincent looks a little tired, though that’s not unusual—it’s been a long week, and busy season always means long hours and little sleep. 

“We can talk later if you’re busy,” Vincent says.

“I’m very free,” Yves says. He’s decisively not—and he’s sure that Vincent knows this, too, so whatever Vincent is approaching him with now must be important. 

“Regarding Francesca’s party tomorrow,” Vincent starts. He looks a little sheepish—as if he doesn’t quite want to be the deliverer of bad news. “I can still go. But I’m…”

“If something came up,” Yves says immediately, “you don’t have to come.” “It’s not that,” Vincent says.

“Or even if nothing’s come up,” Yves backtracks, “and you’re just not feeling it anymore? Also totally fine. Seriously. I can always just go by myself.”

Vincent seems to consider this. Yves is starting to get worried that something might actually be very wrong—something that Vincent is hesitant to even bring up—when Vincent takes a generous step backwards, raising his elbow to his face as his eyes squeeze shut.

“hhih’nGKTsHuhh-!”

The sneeze sounds harsh, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve; it tears through him with little warning, loud enough to echo slightly in the confines of the office space.

That’s when it all clicks into place: the tiredness. The slight off-ness to his complexion, the tension to the way he’s holding himself, the fact that Yves hasn’t caught him in the break room at all over the past couple days. The fact that he’s currently standing so far away from Yves’s desk.

“You’re ill,” Yves says, comprehending.

“Yes,” Vincent says. His voice sounds a little off, too, now that Yves knows what to look for; it has that quality it often takes on after a long day of discussions with clients—not quite hoarse, but getting there. “I’m positive it’s just a cold. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Don’t worry about it at all, seriously,” Yves says. He feels guilty, suddenly—here he is, asking Vincent to spend his already-limited free time at a party, when Vincent probably has a high volume of important clients—and a burgeoning head cold—to deal with. “If you want to take a rain check, you should. I’m sure this week has already been rough for you as it is.”

“When is the next time you’ll be going to an event where Erika’s going to be there?”

That question makes him pause. “I don’t know. In another month, or so, if I had to guess?”

“So this event is important,” Vincent says, sniffling. It’s the kind of light, liquid sniffle that implies that whatever he’s caught, he’s just at the start of it. “In that case, I’ll go.”

“Wait,” Yves says. “That’s not what I—your health is more important than any event. You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I feel fine,” Vincent says. “No headache, no fever. It’s just a slight cold. I will be fine tomorrow if I make it a point to sleep early.” he sniffles again, his expression growing hazy for a brief moment before he blinks, rubbing his nose on one knuckle. “I just wanted to make sure you were fine with it.”

“I am completely fine with it,” Yves says, reaching for the box of tissues that’s perched on his desk. He holds it out. “I just feel bad about making you go if you’re sick.”

Vincent takes a handful of tissues out of the box, brings them up to cover his nose, just in time for—

“hh- hH’nGKT-! snf-! hH-Hhih… hh’hiHhh’iiZSCHHh-uhh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, with emphasis, pushing the entire tissue box towards him. “Times two. Seriously. I think you could use the weekend off—you know, to catch up on sleep.”

“Assuming that things haven’t changed from the event details you forwarded me, the party will be in the evening,” Vincent says, taking the tissue box from him, a little hesitantly, and tucking it under his arm. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep in.”

Yves opens his mouth to protest.

Vincent says, “I’m fine. I’ll call a rain check if I wake up with a fever.” He turns on his heels. “Otherwise, see you tomorrow.” 

—

Vincent, as Yves is coming to realize, is very good at appearing presentable, even when he’s under the weather.

“You made it,” he says. This time, they’d driven here separately. Yves had thought, initially, that it’d be easier to just drive Vincent places, so that the only thing he’d had to account for was his actual presence—but Francesca lives between them. I don’t mind driving, Vincent had said. You’d be going out of your way to pick me up, but he’d coordinated a spot a couple blocks down to meet up, so that it would look like they’d come together.

It’s cold outside still—it’s the sort of indecisive weather that seems to periodically hint at spring: a cold front, then a few warm days when all the ice thaws, a few flowers lining the grass along the road where the snow’s melted, and then another snowstorm. It’s easy enough, then, to chalk up the slight redness of his cheeks, the redness at the tip of his nose, as another effect of the not-quite-spring weather.

Yves is carrying his present for Francesca under one arm—a hardcover book—a sequel to one she’d read last year and gushed to him about liking; a couple fridge magnets, which she likes to collect; film for the polaroid camera her sister got her last year; and a letter, all wrapped up in a brown paper parcel. 

It’s nice to have an excuse to see everyone again, especially some of the members from crew whom he’s not close enough to invite to parties personally, that he knows Francesca was closer to. 

“It was a pain to find parking,” Vincent says. He’s wearing a red scarf today, and a white overcoat with black buttons and a sharply cut collar. Personally, Yves thinks it’s unfair that someone can be down with an irritating head cold and still look so good.

“No kidding,” Yves says. “You would’ve thought there’d be more than one tiny parking lot for all those shops.”

Yves asks how he is (fine, Vincent says—perfectly capable of spending a few hours at a party. Yves says, I feel like you would say that even if you were like, dead on your feet with a high fever, to which Vincent laughs, but doesn’t explicitly deny.)

Yves supposes he isn’t one to talk—he’d showed up to a crew event, near the end of the season, with the flu, just because it had been their then-captain’s last big event, and he’d been planning to give him a farewell speech. The speech had gone fine—and so had the first few hours—but then all his symptoms had hit at once—fever chills, exhaustion, a pounding headache, the likes—and Francesca and Erika had practically had to drag him home.

But that had been an important event—a once in a lifetime thing—and he’d drafted that speech for two weeks. This is so much less high-stakes. 

“I prombise I’m fine,” Vincent tells him, lifting up the side of his scarf to muffle a cough into it. “It’s just all the - hHIh-! all the annoyidg symptoms. I dod’t - snf-! - feel any worse than I did yesterday.” “Any worse?” Yves says. “Does that mean you were already feeling pretty badly off yesterday?”

“I barely even feel udwell at all,” Vincent says. “It’s just— I keep havidg to— hHih-! hihH’IIITshHHh-uuH!”

He sniffles, raising a sleeve to his face to cover the next, resounding, 

“hHih’iITTSshh’Uhh! snf-!” He buries his face deeper into his sleeve, his shoulders trembling with another gasp. “Hhih…. HIih’nNGKT—SHhuh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, laughing. “Okay. Point taken.”

Vincent lowers his arm slowly with a curt sniffle. “Are Erika and Francesca close?”

“Yeah,” Yves says. “I think they still keep in touch pretty frequently.” it’s one of the reasons why he hasn’t told Francesca—or anyone else in the friend group—about the specifics of their breakup.

It feels wrong, somehow, to paint her in a bad light, to give people reason to take sides, when it’s always been all of them together as a group. 5am practice was a hell of a bonding experience, she was part of all of that, too. He has no right to take that from her. 

“How about Brendon?”

“Brendon’s sort of an odd one out,” Yves says. “I don’t think most of us had met him until he started dating Erika during our senior year. He usually hangs out with a different crowd, so he’s only really around when Erika is.”

Perhaps that’s better, too—more merciful—that when Erika had left him for someone new, it hadn’t been one of the people he knew and deeply trusted. If Brendon had been there too, at all those 5am practices, at all those oddly timed meetings—if Yves had had that much time to look back on, to wonder when Erika’s feelings for Brendon had materialized, to watch her fall for him firsthand, to look back and know that he was losing her…

It’s better, this way, he thinks, that at least he can look back on his time rowing crew as he’d always wanted to—not like the way he feels when he looks at Erika: heartbroken, and a little betrayed.

“I guess I’m in that positiod now,” Vincent says.

“In the sense that you didn’t meet everyone through crew?”

“In the sedse that I’m an outsider.”

Yves considers this. “My friends really like you, though,” he says. “I don’t think they think of you that way.” It’s a short walk to Francesca’s doorstep. Vincent really does seem to be okay, Yves notes—aside from the frequent sniffling, and the sneezes he turns away to direct into his sleeve, he isn’t shivering under his coat, and he doesn’t look more tired than usual.

Despite everything, Yves finds himself feeling cautiously hopeful. Something about Vincent’s presence has that effect on him. Vincent is always so sure of himself, even in situations Yves thinks he can’t possibly be certain will go well.

It makes Yves want to have faith in this too. Yves will see Francesca and his friends from crew, and he won’t have to say anything to Erika and Brendon, his friends will like Vincent very much, and everything will be just fine.

“Wait,” Vincent says, right after Francesca’s let them in through the apartment buzzer. “We should look like we actually like each other.” He holds his hand out, expectant.

“Good point.” Yves takes it. Vincent’s hand is warm, and a little calloused—when Yves tugs his hand a little closer, Vincent’s fingers interlace nicely with his.

“For the record, I do like you,” he adds.

Vincent laughs. “You kdow what I meant.”

—

It’s almost a relief, seeing everyone again. Yves used to feel a little apprehensive about reunions—around the possibility for the people that he’d known and loved to have changed past recognition, to have internalized everything some way but to come back and see that everyone’s moved on in their own ways, grown a little more into themselves—and a little further from him—than he remembers them to be. 

But when he sees Francesca, she still greets him with the same hug — one arm looped around his shoulders, for a firm squeeze. He hands her her gift, and wishes her a happy birthday, and she laughs and says the only good part about getting old is having an excuse to have everyone back in her living room.

“And Vincent’s here too,” Francesca says, turning to Vincent, who—after looking caught off guard for a second—smiles back at her. “I’m so glad you were able to come!”

“It’s good to see you agaid,” Vincent says. “And happy birthday. You look great, by the way.”

“Thank you!” she says, beaming. She’s wearing a cocktail party dress which slips elegantly over her still-bare shoulders. “I needed to pick something out for the occasion. I swear, these days, half my closet is just business formal attire. It’s depressing.”

“If that mbeans that the other half of your closet is filled out with idteresting clothes,” Vincent says, with a quiet sniffle, “you’re doing a lot better than I am.” 

Francesca laughs. “It’s just for my sanity,” she says. “Can’t let the clients dictate everything I wear.”

“It’s ndice that you’re celebrating your birthday, though,” Vincent says. He lifts a hand to rub his slightly-reddening nose with one knuckle. “My coworkers are always sayidg that they’re too old to want to ackdowledge it anymore.”

“It definitely feels that way sometimes,” Francesca says. “But it’s a good excuse to have everyone here, while we still can. Speaking of which—Yves is the worst at planning things for himself, which is ironic, because he’s always the one planning things for everyone else.”

“That is not true,” Yves says.

Francesca gives him a pointed look. “Last year, you were practically banking on having everyone forget your birthday.”

That is an exaggeration. “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t let that happen, even if I wanted it to,” Yves says.

“You’re damn right.”

“The ndext time you’re planning a birthday for him,” Vincent says, clearing his throat with a quiet cough, “I’ll pitch in.”

Francesca brightens, at this. “Finally another soldier on the right side of the war,” she says. “You can definitely be part of the secret planning council.”

“Thadk god,” Vincent says, playing along. “I was starting to thidk I was going to have to do it all alone.”

“It’s not a secret if I’m right here,” Yves says. Francesca ignores him in favor of having Vincent type his number into her phone.

—

Halfway through the evening, Vincent disappears into the kitchen for a moment. When he comes back, it’s with two drinks in hand—canned cocktails, Yves realizes, judging by the cans. He hands one over to Yves.

“I actually don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before,” Yves says to him. “Even at happy hours.”

“I don’t drink very often,” Vincent says.

“Does this mean that I get to see you tipsy? I’m sure our coworkers will be jealous.” 

“If you’re expecting my personality to change,” Vincent says, “you will be disappointed.” he says it with such certainty that Yves pays closer attention to him after that. 

Vincent does hold his alcohol well, as it turns out, with the exception of the slight flush to his cheeks a few drinks later—though even then, Yves can’t be entirely sure it can’t be entirely attributed to his cold. He listens intently as Yves talks to Diane—who’s a couple years younger than Yves—about how Crew has been ever since Yves graduated (mostly the same; the new underclassmen are good at showing up to practices on time, but that’s partially because their captain this year is a little intimidating). He gives several of the crew members a candid summary of his relationship with Yves, when asked. He tells Marin how they first met and he tells Kenneth what it’s like keeping their relationship secret at work and he laughs—a little sheepishly—when Sasha says they make a cute couple. If lying so openly is difficult for him, it doesn’t show.

If there’s anything that’s off, it’s subtle. It takes some time for Yves to notice—

The next time Vincent sneezes, his breath hitches with a sharp, desperate, — “hHhiH—!” Then he turns away, craning his neck over his shoulder for an uncovered, “HIiiIKTshH-uh-!”

He blinks in the wake of it, as if a little dazed, before he seems to straighten, lifting a hand to wipe his nose on one knuckle. It’s not stifled, as it usually is, nor is it neatly pinched off into his fingers, which is unexpected.

It’s as if the sneeze has fully caught him off guard—as if all the systems he has in place to sneeze as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible are just slightly impaired by the alcohol. Not that it matters much—Francesca has put some music on, and it sits in the background now, a low thrum, all but the percussive elements muted by the chatter of conversation.

“Bless you,” Yves says, leaning over to grab a cocktail napkin from one of the neighboring tables. He hands it to Vincent, who blows his nose and emerges with a small cough. “How’s the cold?” 

“Fide,” Vincent says, with a sniffle. “Ndo worse than before.”

“Are you just saying that to get me to drop the subject?”

“I’m sayidg it because I actually mean it. It’s a very tolerable cold.”

Yves laughs, and reaches for his drink. He’s about to take a sip when he feels Vincent’s fingers close around his wrist

 It’s only a brief moment of contact, but the warmth it leaves around his wrist stays, even when Vincent lets go.

“Sorry,” Vincent says, a little panicked. He withdraws his hand. “That’s mine.”

“What?”

“The cocktail.”

“Oh.” Yves looks down to the can in his hands. He supposes Vincent might be right—they’ve both had a few drinks, so he’d lost track awhile ago. A lot of the canned cocktails taste roughly the same to him, anyways. “Is it? I can get you another one if you want.”

“No,” Vincent says. “I drank from it.” As if that explains everything. And then—a little quieter, as if he’s embarrassed to say it: “I don’t wadt you to catch this.”

Truthfully, the possibility hadn’t crossed his mind until Vincent mentioned it. It seems a little endearing that Vincent would be worried about it in the first place—Yves has certainly shared food and drinks with friends who were worse off. “I’m not worried about that,” he says. “It’s just a cold. Didn’t you say it was very tolerable?”

“It’s still…” Vincent trails off, averting his glance with a sniffle. “...an annoyance.” 

He looks like he’s about to say more when his expression goes distant, his eyebrows furrowing.

“HHih’IIIzSCH-uhh!”  It sounds so thoroughly unsatisfying, half-shielded by a hand raised a few moments too late. “hh-HIh-! Hh…” He pauses, his eyes watering, his breath still wavering, and—after a few seconds of nothing—sniffles; a forceful, liquid sniffle that practically emanates frustration. “hIiIIh’kSHhhhh! snf-!”

“Bless you!”

Vincent emerges, teary-eyed, still sniffling. “Case in point,” he says. 

—

He doesn’t see Erika when she gets there. It isn’t until she passes him in the living room, halfway in a conversation, that she makes her presence known to him.

“Hi Yves,” she says, and he looks up. Today she’s wearing a pink dress which cuts off at her knees—a strapless dress, save for a pink rose over her left shoulder which blooms into a sleeve. She is every inch as beautiful as she always is.

He smiles at her, cordial, tight-lipped. “You made it,” he says. She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to say more, and he realizes—with a flash of panic—that he doesn’t know what more to say to her. He hasn’t kept up with her over the past few months. He knows that she’s working as a quantitative analyst, at a company she’d been hired at a couple months after they’d broken up, but he doesn’t know if she likes her work, if she likes her coworkers, if it’s been busy as of late. If she works long hours, if she’s taken up any new projects. “Glad you found time. I assume work’s been keeping you busy,” he says,  

“Are you kidding? It’s Francesca,” Erika says. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

And there it is—that decisiveness. That same resolve that, back then, made everything with her seem so easy. Erika and Francesca have always been close—through college, back when they met during crew, and even after, when all of them had been still settling into their jobs or going off to grad school or moving halfway across the country; when seeing each other no longer meant just a fifteen minute walk across campus. 

“Yeah,” Yves says. “I know.”

They don’t speak, after that. Yves thinks it’s probably for the best—he doesn’t have anything to say to Erika right now. Back then, he could talk to her about anything, even if it was pointless or insignificant or of no real importance, and she’d make the conversation fun. 

These days, he only tells her things on a strict need-to-know basis, and—given that the only times he sees her these days is at events like this—there’s not really all that much to talk about. 

It had been difficult, at first. He’d wanted to share everything with her, still, back when his work schedule had settled enough for him to take long walks downtown, to start to go to concerts and bars again; when he’d redecorated his apartment, when he’d gotten someone to mentor at work, when he’d gotten back into cooking. For some time after the breakup, it still felt instinctual to turn to her, to text her about something interesting that’d happened, to ask her to try out something new that he’d found. 

But he hadn’t. Something about feigning normalcy seemed worse, even then, than accepting that she was really gone.

Perhaps her avoidance of him tonight is merciful. It’s easier, when he’s not thinking about her, to slip into the familiarity of talking to everyone, to enjoy all of it just as himself. 

It’s only when he excuses himself to get another drink that he runs into Brendon.

Yves has always been civil with Brendon. 

Brendon is—well, to say that Brendon isn’t someone he considers a friend is a vast understatement. The less of Brendon Yves sees, the better. Yves avoids him when he can, but he is good at holding up small talk, when it’s necessary, and on most days, Brendon has enough good sense to not start a fight.

Today, it seems, is not one of those days.

“So,” Brendon says. “You’re still dating him.” Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yves’s chest.

Yves frowns at him. “Is that supposed to be surprising?”

“I guess I’m surprised,” Brendon says. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting it to last.”

“Well, I’m happy to have exceeded your expectations,” Yves says. “Though it doesn’t sound like they were very high.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Brendon says, waving a hand. “It’s just—new relationships can be fairly unreliable. Especially when you’re dating around.”

“Maybe in your experience, that’s the case,” Yves says. “But personally, I tend to date people I can see myself with long term.”

“That’s the thing,” Brendon says. “I’m surprised you can see yourself with him.”

Yves sets the drink he’s holding down and turns to face him properly. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

Brendon scoffs. “It doesn’t take a genius to see that you two are very different people.”

“So people can only date their clones,” Yves says flatly. He’s already tired of this conversation. “My bad. I must’ve missed that rule somewhere in dating 101.”

“Obviously, I don’t mean it to that extent. You’re blowing it out of proportion. I just mean that you can only be so different from someone before you’re incompatible. ”

“I agree,” Yves says. “And I don’t think we’re incompatible.”

“Are you sure?” Brendon crosses his arms. “This isn’t his scene, is it? Cocktail parties? I mean, he’s practically married to his work. Does he even like parties?”

Vincent doesn’t like parties—Brendon is right about that point. But hadn’t Vincent been the one who’d agreed to come here in the first place? To imply that he’s only here because Yves has dragged him along seems somewhat disingenuous.

Yves says, “If Vincent didn’t want to be here, he wouldn’t be here.”

“Sure, but from what I’ve heard from Erika—” Yves doesn’t like this implication that Brendon and Erika talk about them behind their back, but he supposes it’s to be expected. “—he’s not exactly the type of person you’ve tended to go for in the past.”

That sounds awfully like an accusation.

“What exactly are you getting at, here?”

“I’m saying that it sort of looks like you just picked the most convenient rebound you could find,” Brendon says, quiet. “But usually people are honest with themselves when that’s the case.”

That startles a short, indignant laugh out of Yves. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Do you really not think that’s the case? Wouldn’t you say you’d usually go for someone more personable?”

“Personable?” Yves repeats. “Personable? Don’t make me laugh. Do you know how many clients I’ve seen Vincent talk down to a pleasant resolution because he’s so good at negotiating? Do you know how many conferences I’ve been in where Vincent is the one people come to after to privately compliment, because he’s so good at knowing how to talk to people?” he thinks to Joel’s housewarming party—to how compellingly Vincent had lied for him, then; to how good he had been at conjuring up a sense of history between them, of warmth. “His ability to answer difficult questions on the spot, with virtually no preparation at all, is something I can’t even begin to comprehend.”

He’s not sure why the accusation from Brendon makes him so upset, only that it does. Only that he wants to do nothing but tell Brendon just how wrong he is. “If you’re trying to imply that I’m settling for him, don’t patronize me,” he says. “Vincent is one of the smartest and most thoughtful people I know. Do you seriously believe I’d be dissatisfied with someone who holds himself to such a high standard?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in months,” he says, resolute. “Because of him.”

Through the adrenaline, Yves realizes, faintly, that he hasn’t lied about any of it. He certainly could have—after all, Brendon would be none the wiser—but everything he’s said about Vincent is something he really, genuinely believes.

“Ah,” Brendon says, knowingly, as if he has it all figured out. “I got it wrong. This whole time I thought you were the one that felt lukewarm about him. But it’s the other way around, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re so sure he’s the one that you’re willing to overlook all of your obvious differences,” Brendon says. “Have you ever stopped to consider whether he feels the same way?”

“Presumably, he does,” Yves says. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be in a relationship.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Brendon says, as if Yves should already know this from past experience, which—if Yves is being really honest—makes him want to punch him.

Instead, he takes in a deep breath, schools his expression into a smile. “Usually, people in relationships aren’t still looking for other options.”

“Yes,” Brendon says. “Unless they’re unhappy.”

“Yves!” 

When Yves turns to look, Vincent is standing in the doorway. How long has he been here? Just how much of the conversation has he overheard?

“Sorry for the wait,” Yves says sheepishly. “I was getting us drinks.” Evidently, he’s been away long enough for Vincent to come check up on him, so he’s already spent unreasonably long getting drinks, and now he doesn’t even have the drinks to show for it. “Or, I guess I got a little sidetracked, but I swear that drinks are on the w—”

Vincent leans in, unprompted, and kisses him. 

Yves’s brain grinds to a complete halt.

It’s only a moment later that Vincent pulls away, but the decisiveness with which he’s carried it out, the broad confidence on his face as he smiles, unwavering, is—

Fuck.

“Oh,” Yves all but stammers. His face is most certainly red right now, and he can’t even blame it on the alcohol. “Um. Did you need anything?”

“No,” Vincent says. There’s something telling to his expression, some sort of quiet acknowledgement. “Just wanted to see what was takidg you so long.”

Suddenly, it makes sense.

Vincent must have heard. Everything Brendon said—or at least, the last part of it; the implication that Vincent isn’t as invested in this relationship as Yves is; the implication that their attraction towards each other is somehow one-sided. Vincent is doing this to cover for him, because he wants to make it excruciatingly obvious that Brendon is wrong.

The fact that he would go to such lengths to make a point makes something settle in Yves’s chest.

“It’s actually good that you showed up,” he says, playing along. “I don’t know what kind of drink you want. I was just going to get you something generic.”

He heads over to the ice box on the other side of the kitchen, and Vincent follows.

They’re far enough that they’re separated from Brendon by the granite island—and, beyond that, the cushioned high stools lined up next to it, but not so far that Brendon can’t still see them. 

So he certainly can see, Yves thinks, this:

Yves leans in, reaching up a hand to cup Vincent’s jaw, and closes the distance between them.

It’s nothing like the kiss at the New Year’s party.

That one had been all nerves—brief, impulsive, all adrenaline. This kiss is much more involved—Yves presses in closer, so close that he can feel the heat radiating from Vincent’s skin, so close that he can smell the faint, not unpleasant smell of laundry detergent on Vincent’s shirt collar. So close that he can feel the breath that Vincent exhales, warm on his cheek; can feel the softness of Vincent’s hair as he shifts. He feels Vincent’s hand settle on his chest, feels his fingers curl inwards to rest on the fabric of his shirt, and—

On the other side of the kitchen, Brendon is watching, and Vincent is here—here, present, in the flesh, looking as put together as always, looking like someone out of a goddamn magazine—so Yves kisses him like he’s used to kissing—greedily, as if he’s been wanting this for ages. It’s been awhile since he’s kissed someone like this. Back then, there was university—the people at parties who he’d met and kissed out of momentary attraction, or out of alcohol-induced courage—though of course back then, neither party had harbored any delusions about how impermanent that connection was, or how little it meant. And then there was Erika, who, for the longest time, he thought was going to be the last person he’d ever kiss like this.

For months after they’d broken up, he hadn’t looked for anything. It felt wrong to subject others—even strangers, to which he had no allegiance—to the messy remnants of his feelings, to attempt to get into something he knew could only be half-hearted, at best, when there was a person in his mind who lingered so sharply.

But Vincent crowds up every corner of his mind, as if to say, pay attention, and Yves finds that for once, he’s not thinking about Erika at all.

When he feels the small hitch in Vincent’s breath, he thinks nothing of it.

Except, then—abruptly, and with barely any warning—Vincent is wrenching away, craning his head over Yves’s shoulder to let out a sudden, uncovered—

“hh-hIIIH’hH-IIKTshHuh!”

Their proximity to each other means he feels the way Vincent’s body jerks forward under his hands, his chest tensing. For a moment after, the rigidness of his posture doesn’t dissipate, tension still strung through the line of his shoulders.

“Bless you,” Yves says, surprised.

Then Vincent curses under his breath, drawing away with a sniffle. “I’mb sorry,” he says, sounding really, honestly panicked—a reaction which Yves finds both disproportionate to the situation and a little endearing. “That was— sorry, I should’ve—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yves says, with a laugh; “I honestly couldn’t care less.” Impulsively—and maybe to prove just how little it bothers him—he leans back in.

Vincent is less hesitant, this time around, when it seems to register to him that Yves really doesn’t mind. He’s a surprisingly good kisser—Yves probably isn’t the first person he’s kissed, and he probably won’t be the last, but the second Vincent’s mouth works around his, Yves feels himself nearly go weak in the knees.

Fuck. Yves can’t say he expected to spend this evening making out with his very attractive coworker-slash-fake-boyfriend, but at the same time, he isn’t complaining. Yves thinks he could do this for hours, given the chance. He kisses Vincent as if to say, thank you—for the New Year’s party, for going along with this, for lying on my behalf—and Vincent kisses him back as if he wants this just as much.

It registers to him, faintly—as Vincent pulls away with a sharp gasp before he pitches forward, smothering another abrupt, wrenching sneeze into the palm of his hand—that he’s probably dooming himself to Vincent’s cold ten times over. But it occurs to him, too, that if he were really dating Vincent—if, after the party, they’d head back to Vincent’s place together; if they were really close enough to share car rides and food and drinks on the regular, to see each other frequently both in the office and outside of it—he would’ve almost certainly caught this anyways.

Something about the intimacy of it, the false closeness it seems to imply, is a little intoxicating. 

When he finally pulls away, Vincent is breathing a little heavily, his glasses askew, his hair slightly unkempt from where Yves had—mid-kiss—run his fingers through it. Yves looks over his shoulder to see that Brendon has, at some point over the last few minutes, slipped off. Presumably, he’s gotten the point, then.

It’s a relief. Yves is glad to not have to talk with him for any longer than he has to. 

“God,” Yves says, with a laugh. “Where did you learn to kiss like that, anyways?”

Vincent smiles. “I’ve had some practice,” he says, which Yves thinks must be a massive understatement. “Do you think it was convincidg?”

“I don’t know what kinds of standards Brendon has,” Yves says, lowering his voice so that he’s certain no one outside of the kitchen will be able to hear. “But I’d definitely be convinced.”

“He seems strangely idvested in our relationship,” Vincent says.

Yves sighs. “I think he was just trying to make trouble. How much of our conversation did you hear?”

“Just the tail end of it,” Vincent says. “I—”

His gaze goes distant, which is the only warning Yves gets before he’s turning away, steepling his hands over his nose and mouth with a forceful:

“hH-! hhH-hH’iiKTsSHH-uhh! Hh-! Hih… HIIh’IzsSCCHh’hhh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent is quiet for a moment, his expression still hazy, the irritation evident on his features, before he’s ducking away again.

“hIiih’GKTTSHh-uhHh!”

The sneeze is loud enough to scrape against his throat. It leaves him coughing a little, his eyes watering.  

“Bless you,” Yves says, with emphasis. He takes a small stack of napkins off of the kitchen counter and hands it over to Vincent, who eyes it for a moment. There’s a slight flush to his complexion—whether it’s from the alcohol, or from embarrassment, or from slight fever, Yves can’t tell.

“I hope you dod’t regret this in a few days,” Vincent says, carefully extricating one napkin from the stack to blow his nose softly into it. “You—” His breath hitches, sharply, and then he’s pitching forward into the handful of napkins with a muffled, “hiiHh’IZSSCHh-uhh!”

He emerges, sniffling, looking a little apologetic. “You’ll almost certaidly catch this.”

Yves laughs. “It’s fine. I know what I signed up for. Besides, I’m glad you stepped in.” He kneels down, at last, to procure two drinks from the long-neglected icebox. “A cold was a small price to pay for getting out of that conversation.”

He hands Vincent a drink. “Can I have a sip of yours? Now that I’ve doomed myself to it already, I suppose you don’t have to try so hard to keep me from catching it.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Vincent says, but he lets Yves try some, nonetheless.

Brendon is suspiciously quiet for the rest of the evening. Neither he nor Erika so much as look Yves’s way, which Yves thinks is better than another confrontation. Vincent looks happy—a little tired, a little tipsy, but happy. At some point into the evening he resorts to crossing his arms as a means to keep warm (“Is it too cold in here?” Francesca asks, passing him from where he’s sitting on the couch, to which Vincent shakes his head quickly, his face flushing red. “I’mb just slightly under the weather,” he says. “The temperature’s perfect.” to this, Francesca brings over a quilt from one of the closets and drapes it over his shoulders. “Your friends are very nice,” Vincent says, pinning the quilt in place with one hand, and Yves laughs).

At some point, Francesca brings out a cake (“earl gray with buttercream,” she says, “Erika and I made a smaller one as a test run last week, and it was a little too dense, so we’ll have to see how this one turned out.” which Yves thinks is very impressive—he’s certainly better than average at cooking, but that expertise does not transfer well to baking—truly, he’s not sure he’d be confident in his ability to pipe frosting in a straight line. When he tells Vincent this, Vincent laughs and says, “I’m sure people would forgive you as long as it tasted good,” to which Yves says, “I think you’re underestimating how bad I am at decorating.”) She’s piped small blue flowers around the periphery of it, and leaves that curl around the edges of the cake. Diane says, “this is way too pretty to eat,” and “are you sure you want us to destroy it,” while Kenneth—their year’s Crew captain—helps Francesca with setting up the candles around the periphery of the cake and lighting them one by one.

Francesca laughs when Erika tells a story about a series of errors pertaining to their last grocery store run and tears up when Marin gives a speech about how Francesca is the main reason she stayed in Crew. After that, everyone sings—for a brief moment, the clamor in the living room becomes strictly unified. Then she blows out all the candles in one go, and everyone claps.

All in all, it’s a good evening.

—

It’s really not a surprise when Yves wakes up a few days later with a sore throat.

It’s not a surprise, either, when his nose starts running shortly after, or when—a couple hours later—a harsh, wrenching sneeze catches him off guard at work.

It’s as if that first sneeze has opened the floodgates. After that, he finds himself muffling sneezes into his elbow, scrambling for tissues from the rapidly depleting stash—a travel sized tissue pack that he keeps in his briefcase, just in case. The persistent tickle that settles in his nose seems impossible to appease, no matter how many times he sneezes, or how diligently he tries to ignore it. Worse, the sneezes are forceful enough to leave his throat feeling tender and painful, and violent enough that he finds himself coughing a little after.

Vincent was right. The cold isn’t particularly miserable—aside from the sore throat, he’s a little tired, but he doesn’t feel strictly worse than usual. It is irritating, though, to deal with—and irritating, too, to be at the office as it settles in.

It’s probably not worth taking a sick day for. It’s more an annoyance than a tangible inconvenience. Besides, he has only a couple days left of work before it’s the weekend, when he can catch up on sleep.

He’s scheduled himself for a morning’s worth of back to back meetings—two meetings with clients, one with a coworker he’s been working with to go over her findings, another status update meeting to review the work they’ve all done over the past few weeks.

Yves is prone to losing his voice when he’s ill. It’s one of his most embarrassing tells—it’d certainly garnered more attention than he’d wanted in college whenever he was under the weather—but in a work setting where his participation in meetings is non-negotiable, with every meeting he takes, he can feel his voice get closer and closer to unusable.

His second meeting ends a few minutes early, which is a relief. But when he heads to the break room to make himself a cup of much-needed tea, he finds that the hot water machine is out of order.

Just his luck.

He pours himself a cup of cold water and looks through some of the storage cabinets for tissues, though he has no luck with that, either.

The office is always turned a notch too cool—air conditioned to keep everyone awake in the afternoons—but today, it feels brutally, unnecessarily cold. He really should’ve dressed warmer. Yves heads to the conference room his next meeting is booked in, speaks on the material he’s prepared, and tries his best not to shiver too visibly. His meeting before lunch runs over, too, which is not uncommon, but today it just feels like insult to injury.

All in all, he’s exhausted. He eats a quick lunch in the cafeteria, downs two glasses of water, and goes through an embarrassing number of cafeteria napkins.

“Coming down with something?” Stanley, one of his coworkers, asks him.

Yves smiles at him sheepishly. “I wish it wasd’t so obvious,” he says.

“It’s just the season for it, I think. Vincent was just sick last week.”

“Oh, was he?” Yves says, feigning ignorance. His cold is definitely, most certainly not related to Vincent’s. “I was just goidg to grab a bottle of hand saditizer to keep at my desk,” he says, with a small cough. “I thidk there’s somethidg going around.”

Thankfully, the afternoon is—for the most part—just occupied with work. Still, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to focus on the financial statements in front of him, the slew of emails he has pulled up.

His nose is running fiercely, the trash can at the foot of his desk is close to overflowing, and the stack of napkins he’d taken from the cafeteria—certainly not an ideal solution, but it’s the best one he can come up with at the moment—is almost entirely gone.

He grabs one off the top of the stack—he’s only able to unfold it partially before he’s jerking forward with a wet, spraying, “hhEHh’iiiZZSCHh’EW!” 

Fuck. The napkins, while infinitely better than nothing, are not as soft as tissues would have been. Given the frequency with which he’s been using them, he’s almost positive that his nose is redder than usual.

The next sneeze nearly catches him off guard. He barely has time to lift the napkin up to his face again before his breath hitches again, sharply.

“Hhehh… HEHh—’IIDDSCHhiew! hEHH’iITSSHh’Yyew!” 

His nose is still running fiercely, and worse, the sneezes are loud enough to scrape against his throat. He thinks his voice is never going to recover if he keeps this up.

From behind him, he hears someone clear their throat.

Yves freezes. His first thought is that he’s probably being disruptive. His second thought is that even if he isn’t, whoever’s behind him must have been waiting to speak to him for some time—he’d just been too caught up with sneezing to realize, which is a little embarrassing.

His third thought is—whoever it is, he wants to face them looking at least marginally presentable. He’s almost certain that right now, he doesn’t.

He blows his nose into the napkins he’s holding, runs a hand through his hair, and pivots around in his office chair with a smile that is admittedly a little forced. “What’s up?”

He expects to see Cara, who he’s been working more with, or perhaps Laurent, who he’s been shadowing. But standing there, looking every inch as formal and as put together as he always does, is Vincent.

For a moment, Vincent just stares at him, as if he’s cataloging Yves’s appearance in silence.

Yves tries not to fidget under his scrutiny. “Did you ndeed anythidg?” 

In lieu of responding, Vincent steps past him to set a box of tissues down at the edge of his desk. 

“I figured you’d want this back,” Vincent says.

It’s the same tissue box he’d handed off to Vincent last week, he realizes, when Vincent was the one who had a use for it. Vincent has taken care to set it down at the same spot where it was initially: at the right edge, next to his monitor.

“Thadk you,” Yves says. “I’ll treasure it.”

“This, too,” Vincent says, setting a mug down in front of him. Whatever’s in there is hot enough to be steaming.

Yves muffles a cough into his hand. “What?”

“Tea,” Vincent says, as if that explains everything. “Chamomile, if it matters. I didn’t know if caffeine would keep you up.”

“Oh.” Yves stares at it. “You got the hot water machide workidg. It was broken this morning. Or maybe I’mb just really bad at using it.”

“Actually, no,” Vincent says. “I got this from the third floor.”

“You walked all the way up here from the third floor?” Yves says, a little surprised.  He’s about to say more, but then—in a progression that he should probably be used to by now—he finds himself succumbing, with little warning, to another sneeze, which he muffles into a perhaps-too-generous handful of tissues. At this rate, he might run out of them, even given Vincent’s generous contribution.

“It was just two flights of stairs,” Vincent says. 

“Still,” Yves says, lowering the tissues from his face so he can take a sip. The thought of Vincent precariously taking the tea up two flights of stairs, careful to not let it spill, just to get it to his desk is so endearing that he finds himself smiling. “Thank you.”

Vincent blinks at him, as if he wasn’t expecting to be thanked. “I don’t think it will keep you from losing your voice,” he says, at last. “But it might help with your sore throat.” 

Yves doesn’t remember mentioning that. “How did you kdow I had a sore throat?”

“How do you think?” Vincent says. “I had the same cold a week ago.”

Even so, the idea that Vincent already probably knows, and knows intimately, how he’s feeling right now, even though Yves hasn’t said anything about it, feels a little incriminating. Yves is under no illusion that his current affliction is subtle, by any means, but at the very least he’d thought that the less visible parts of it—his sore throat, the growing exhaustion, the pressure he feels building at his temples—were things that no one else would have to think about.

“Was it this bad for you?” he says. “I’d feel terrible if I mbade you talk to all my friends if your throat was already— Hh- heHh-! hHEH-heHh’iSSSchh-Iiew!”

It’s a good thing, Yves thinks, hazily, that he’s still holding onto the tissues from earlier. His nose is running again, and the tissues feel traitorously soft as compared to the napkins he’s been using all day.

“No,” Vincent says, frowning. “I think you just wore your voice out at work.”

“That mbight be the case,” Yves says. “I had a lot of meetidgs this morning. Ndow it’s pretty much just heads-down work, thankfully.” He muffles a yawn into one hand. Vincent is probably here for a reason—but Vincent is usually very conscientious about the work he passes onto others, so whatever he needs Yves to do for him, Yves doesn’t expect it should take too long. “Did you ndeed me to look over somethidg?” “I just wanted to see how you were feeling,” Vincent says, which is not the answer Yves expects.

Yves blinks at him. “How did you find out I was sick?”

“I heard from Cara.”

“Ah.” He probably owes Cara an apology—he’s sure that she’d probably prefer to work somewhere quiet, and his cold is certainly making that difficult. “Yeah, she would kdow. I’ve been like this all day—well, sidce this mording, I guess.”

“It came on quickly for me, too,” Vincent says. “Can I get you anything?”

“It’s just a cold,” Yves says with a laugh. “I’ll mbanage.” He means for it to be reassuring, but Vincent just frowns, looking off to the side.

He looks… strangely upset, Yves realizes.

“It’s ndot really all that bad,” Yves insists, backtracking. “And the weekend’s coming up soon. I’ll catch up on sleep when I get the chance.” Now is a really inopportune time to have to cough. He raises an elbow to his face to cough as quietly as he can, though the effort only seems to prolong the coughing fit—it leaves him slightly breathless, blinking away the tears that surface in his vision. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, quiet.

“For what?”

“For giving you my cold.”

“I dod’t think you can even take credit for that,” Yves says. “I was the one who kissed you.”

Vincent does smile, at that—a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Even so.”

Yves wants to tell him that he would do it again, if he had the chance to. He wants to tell Vincent how easy it had felt to kiss him, how right.

How it felt to forget about Erika, and Brendon, and all of it—even if just for a moment—to feel so perfectly grounded in someone other than himself. To let himself experience the sort of closeness he’s been scared of seeking out, after the breakup, after Erika, in fear that no one would ever fit quite the same. To lean into the warmth of someone who still, even now, continues to be kind to him for reasons he can’t quite rationalize. 

How long has it been since he’s been able to place his trust into someone, blindly, in the way he trusts Vincent to keep up this act of theirs, to lie on his behalf? Vincent is nothing if not competent, but Yves hadn’t expected that competence to extend to this arrangement of theirs. How long has it been since Yves has been able to lean on someone the way he’s leaned on Vincent, to trust someone to meet him where he is?

“For the record, I dod’t regret it,” Yves says. He finds that he really means it.