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

[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

[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."

[thebunnybabyblog]

"Tear you apart" 18+ Snape x reader

This is just pure smut so be warned! No one under the age of 18 should venture any further! Run away now you are not welcomed to read this please go play roblox or something :)

Age is not told in this but reader is 18+, Snape is whatever age your headcanon prefers. This is a female oriented one shot so specific terms will be said here that apply to that! Also don't even say a thing about her nickname this is soooo not a shamless insert for myself, def not 👀

the song "tear you apart" by she wants revenge is what inspired me to write this. please listen bc god it makes my head go brrrrrrrrr when i listen to it lol with that please enjoy and tell me what you thought! lots of love! 💕

Potions had always been your best subject. There was just something about the skill and craftsmanship that made you feel so compelled to learn as much as you could. It was like art and science all in one. The precision and dedication that it took to make something with so much value to the wizarding world was vastly impressive to you, but what really sealed the deal was the man that had taught you all that you knew.

Severus Snape was a god to you. The poised mysterious genius who seemed to be able to look death right in his eyes and laugh in annoyance. The way he just glided around school with so much power and command sent shivers down your spine. Always wanting to be in his good graces and never a means of annoyance like most students. You wouldn’t call yourself a know it all teacher's pet who would tattle acting as the school yard spy but truly as an admirer and helping hand.

You made it clear that you admired, appreciated and respected him and his immense wealth of knowledge. It’s not like you didn’t respect all of your professor's knowledge because you really did but he was just different? Part of it was how bad you felt from the vast amount of disrespect he received. Of course you understood that kids are difficult to look past tone and attitude but if you did your work and listened when he spoke and spoke only kind words to him, he was kind to you.

Over the 7 years at Hogwarts you grew a pretty decent relationship with him. Of course it wasn’t like you skipped down the hall hand-in-hand but he had gained a level of trust and mutual respect for you. To the point he had offered you to be an assistant of sorts to him, nothing major but since you had expressed after graduation you wanted to work at being a professional potioneer and owning your own shop one day, he let you come two to three days a week and help him with different tasks. It would always be a surprise that day on what you were doing. It could be organizing and taking stock of the store room, observing and taking notes of class projects of lower grades that were brewing (as some potions could take days or weeks to brew) or even grading first to third year assignments. All the while you'd be free to ask questions and just chat really.

You had really cherished these meetings but your social group really never understood why you were even wanting to be there. For them it seemed like a punishment.

“You had to organize the storeroom?!? What did you do wrong to have to do that??” They’d exclaim in shock and then be in total disbelief when you said,

“It wasn't a punishment, it was actually quite fun! He showed me some rare ingredients that you can only get on a full moon on the tallest mountain in the Himalayas every 6 1/2 years!”

None of it ever seemed like a chore; it was an honor. This man, with such great skill, had taken you even the tiniest bit under his wing. I guess people just couldn’t understand how such a bright and bubbly person would want to spend time in a dark gloomy dungeon with the dungeon bat himself. But you knew he was just misunderstood and it didn’t help that you found him to be the most beautiful man you had ever laid your eyes on.

To you he was the definition of tall, dark and handsome. His tall looming body, dark midnight eyes that looked straight to your core, chiseled features that seemed to be carved out of the most precious white marble. He was more than just looks, he was powerful, knowledgeable and what people didn’t seem to see but he was quite funny and gentle. The way he treated his work as if he was Michelangelo diligently and painstakingly painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling upside down on his back. He was just brilliant to be around and absorbing even a speck of him was a gift.

You couldn’t lie to yourself though, you were down bad. The type of bad that made you find yourself absentmindedly drifting off to space only to come back down to earth and see you had doodled all over your notes with little drawings of hearts with SS in them and sketches of his striking features or kicking your feet and going red when he pops into your mind while in class because he said something that just rolled off his tongue in just the right way that made you fantasize scenarios in your head.

A crush was truly an understatement at this point. If he asked you to be his pet you would be at his feet curled up in an instant. Never making it too apparent though as to never show him any type of actions that would threaten your ability to continue this precious opportunity to learn and just be around him, or so you thought.

Friday was your easy day and your most favorite day of the week. You only had one class and that was of course advanced potions at the end of the day and a day where you always stayed after to help out. Today was especially good because it was a day when everything just went well. Snape had shown the class how to brew amortentia, the most powerful love potion. Not only was it an exciting lecture and potion to brew but it got your head to brew all sorts of things as well.

“Gods I wish I could give him a drink of mine! I’d do anything for him to feel even a slight bit like me, the way I do for him!” You thought into the void of your mind. You couldn’t help to doodle while you waited for the last few minutes of the class to count down, not like you were leaving but just waiting for your afternoon Friday treat to roll around. Your little delusions were helped by the fact he had actually praised your work when he was making his way around the classroom before the class was over.

“Very good work Miss [last name], excellent pearl color and the smell is just right. You will make a fine potion master one day” he said in a smooth silky voice. You were lost in every word that rolled off his sharp tongue. It felt as if you had drank this entire cauldron, gulping it down like a man who was stranded in the desert who finally found water.

“Thank you sir!” You squeaked out, kicking your feet enthusiastically underneath your table. If only people could understand how good his praises felt, the chokehold they held on her heart.

“Alright class it seems our time is up, most of you really need to pay more attention when I’m up here teaching… this is a powerful potion that needs to be respected and I saw many glaring mistakes that certainly should have been avoided… I will expect a report on my desk about the history of amortentia by Monday morning sharp. If I didn’t tear your potion to shreds in my walkthrough you are excluded.” The class filled with annoyed groans and frustrated sighs and a few looks were shot your way since they knew the “dungeon bunny” (your unofficial nickname your friend would poke fun at you with) was exempted once again. It wasn’t your fault you enjoyed potions, that's what Hogwarts was for, to find your passions and excel and it did help when you were in love.

The class cleaned up their areas and one-by-one filed out of the room looking a bit defeated by the sudden addition of weekend homework but you stayed behind ready for whatever task he was willing to give you today.

“Great lecture as always professor!” You said looking up to him with a soft smile.

“Thank you Miss. [last name], it’s a shame not everyone is as devoted to potions as you and I.” he replied back to you in a smooth tone. For him to put you and him into the same category made your heart thump in your chest. His praises made your hair stand on end as if caught in an electrical storm. A blush was surely visible on your face when your brain was able to comprehend his kind words.

“Oh! I am nothing compared to your dedication, you are a god compared to me!” You spouted back not even thinking, making you blush harder.

“Oh. My. Gods. I did not just say that, what a loser, I must seem like such a fangirl. He's your professor, not an idol.” You barked in your head, now thoroughly embarrassed. Pulling yourself out of your thoughts when you heard a soft chuckle escape from his throat.

“I guess I should take my place up in the heavens then” he said as he made his way back around to his desk “today if you can, I would appreciate a walk through of the storeroom and make a list of anything that is running low. Will that be something you can help take off my plate today?” He asked in a way that sounded like silk.

“Of course professor you don’t even need to ask!” Gods you were pathetic and you knew it but you didn’t care an ounce. It felt so good to be of service, to do anything he asked of you. You were his devoted little bunny and hopped when he said hop. You’d never admit it to your friends but you loved being called his dungeon bunny because gods it really was so fitting for how you felt. And if it meant spending ages looking through every tiny vial in that room you would do it on your hands and knees to be around him.

Making your way into the room you began to look through the endless rows of ingredients. You knew this was going to take a long time but it was worth it. You had been working for only about 15 minutes when you felt a cold rush of air against your back behind you, not thinking much of it, only that it was just a draft, you didn’t even turn to look. It wasn’t until you heard the door click shut behind you locking you in the small room.

“Umm professor, did you close the door?” You said still bent over looking at vials in the cabinet below you before turning around.

“Yes” he replied

You jumped at the sound of him right behind you. He glides and somehow makes no noise when he walks, some people think he casts a charm on his shoes to keep them silent. You spin around and are now in very close proximity to him. Your breath is stuck in your throat and you push yourself up against the shelf. The vials behind you raddle as your back hits the wood. You look up to his looming figure and he looks down at you with his sparkling black eyes and his equally raven black hair falling around his face.

“I’m quite sorry, did I frighten you?” He says with a sly smile.

“Oh umm no hehe of course not.” You say with your eyes closed with an embarrassed smile slapped across your face.

“Oh good I would be awfully sad to scare off my little dungeon bunny.” His words slapped you across your face.

You look up to him in shock, eyes wide and heart pounding out of your chest, “d… dungeon bunny?!? How does he know about the nickname my friends call me?” You think in a panic.

“You scream it quite loud in your head all the time. It’s not hard to miss.” He replies to your thought. As if your eyes weren’t wide enough they were bigger now, you now understood he had the ability to use legilimency. The thought of every embarrassing little thing you have thought about him over the last 7 years bounced around in your mind. You were in utter shambles over how embarrassing you had been without your knowledge. Especially since you never were shy to let your daydreams run amok in the dirtiest ways you could think of.

“You enjoy being my bouncing little bunny don’t you?” He questioned as if he was a predator circling and taunting its prey.

“I….. I umm… I-“ was all that you were able to stutter out. A deep chuckle rumbled up through his chest and you felt his cool breath on your face as he loomed over your shanking frame. You couldn’t help to smell the smooth smell of spearmint and honey on his breath sending your head spinning.

“Does cat have your tongue, little bunny? Usually you have so much to say up here.” He said as he tapped a finger melodically against your temple. You felt your knees wobbling under you and you couldn’t help to just look up at him like a deer caught in headlights as you white knuckled the counter behind you.

“You're usually such a good girl and speak when spoken to”, grabbing your chin and squeezing your cheeks with his long slender fingers. “Now I will only repeat myself once more,” his tone stern and filled with authority. “I said you enjoy being my little. Bouncing. Bunny. Don’t you y/n?”

“Y… yes” you shyly mustered out.

“Yes what?” He commanded as he squeezed harder

“Yes sir!” You practically shouted, trembling in his grasp.

“See that wasn’t hard was it?” Leaning down to be eye level with you all the while still holding on to you tight.

“N… no sir.” You couldn’t help but feel like putty in his grasp. You wanted to be devoured, like you said before, if he said hop you would hop and you meant it.

“You know even if I couldn’t hear your detailed perversions every time you laid eyes on me you are quite obvious and oblivious to your surroundings.” He released your face and leaned in close to your ear. His hair tickled your skin as it cascaded over your cheek.

“Your little love doodles are very cute, you think I don’t notice them as I walk around the room? You’re lucky I don’t punish you for being off task so frequently but you are always such a good girl I can’t bring myself to punish you.”

You were overheating with your skin flushed pink, you felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of your forehead.

“Hmmm It is getting pretty hot in here, why don’t you take off your coat?” He hummed, pulling back from your ear. His fingers found their way under your lapels and slid your jacket off your shoulders onto the floor.

“T..thank you.” Not even sure why you were thanking him but it felt so good too.

“Such a polite girl, seems like someone needs a treat.” Taking your chin back into his grasp, he leaned down and planted a soft kiss onto your lips. Still in utter shock and disbelief from what was happening you just looked at him wide eyed but in an instant you shut them and sunk your weight into his hand. You grabbed onto the side of his robe for support and let out a moan that shocked you both. You could feel him smile against you and his left hand sneak to your waist and pulled you close into him.

Your eyes shot open when you felt him hard against your stomach taken aback by just how large he felt under all of those dark clothes. “Gods his cock is huge!” You couldn’t help but scream in pure lust loud in your head, immediately looking up to him in terror as you might as well have just said that out loud. Somehow his eyes grew darker than they naturally were and you knew it was game over. He was about to devour you whole.

You looked away fast in utter embarrassment but his hand snaked its way through your hair and pulled your face back to his and whispered once more into your ear, “I want to fucking tear you apart.” He said, so sharp it pierced through your body like flying arrows across the battlefield. Before you knew it the hand in your hair pulled you to the ground and you were on your knees faced with the serpent trapped behind his wool trousers.

“Now be the good little bunny you are and set your God free” he said as the hair he had in his fist fell free from his grasp.

Filled with nerves, your trembling fingers slowly reached up and skated across the black wool, hesitating for a moment once they touched the cool metal buckle of his belt. You looked up as if making sure it really was alright. He returned your wordless question with a light smile of reassurance. You slowly slid the leather belt out of the metal and grasped the button that was behind it and slipped it through the hole and pulled the zipper down. He sprung free from his prison and slapped his stomach with a snap.

You gulped hard, this was the first time you had ever seen a man in this way. You had seen one once before when a Gryffindor boy got a little too drunk at a party and thought it would be a good idea to whip it out as a laugh but it was nothing like this. Snape's cock was powerful and hot with desire, just as dominating as the man it was attached to. You could feel the slickness building between your legs as you looked up to him practically drunk.

“You look so beautiful down on your knees for me I wish you could see just how beautiful you look, all flushed and doe eyed looking up at me.” His words poured over you like honey. You craved his praise and you’d do anything he wanted to get it.

“Thank you professor! I… I’d do anything for you!” You cried out to him bouncing on your knees. You were passed the embarrassment, hell the embarrassment was fueling you. You didn’t care what you looked like, you just wanted to do whatever he wanted, that's all you’ve ever wanted to do for him.

“Oh I know I’ve heard you so many times lost in thought wondering how I looked under my robes,” his hand began to work the many buttons of his coat and he slipped it off onto the floor with yours. His white linen shirt flowed free around him as he worked up that as well. Soon his torso was bare and you eyed the pale skin that hid under it. You could see his scars that scattered around his smooth form and wondered how they felt.

He reached down, holding out a hand to yours. With a slight hesitation you placed them in his and he placed your hands on his stomach. Your fingers began to wonder, exploding the milky smooth skin you had dreamed about. A soft moan escaped him as your warm touch moved around his cold body. You couldn’t help but look up at him in amazement.

“Gods you’re just so pretty.” He said looking down at you with hooded eyes. You just couldn’t take it any more. You needed to touch his cock that had been staring you in the face far too long. You moved your hands down past his belly button following his little happy trail down to the base. Looking up to him one last time for permission, he nodded a gentle yes.

Grabbing the base, he was rock solid in your grasp. A huff escaped him and he slightly pumped into your hand. This sent your body into overdrive losing all sense of your humanity; you were just his slave to his desire. You worked your hand up and down his shaft not even able to touch your fingertips together as you pumped him slowly.

He reached out a hand and placed it on the top of your head and looped some hair around his fingers and pulled your face close to him. He smelt a mix of smoky body wash and sweat. He filled your nose with his scent and it made your eyes roll in the back of your head as you sniffed him in.

“Open that pretty little mouth of yours I can’t take this anymore.” He growled in pure need. Without hesitation you opened yourself for him and his tip was past your threshold before you had time to process. The precum that had began to gather on his tip spread across your tongue as he snaked himself into you. You couldn’t help but moan as your senses were attacked with him.

“Fuck your sweet little mouth feels better than I could have imagined.” He spit out. Your arms wrapped themselves around his thick thighs for support as he filled your mouth with his needy cock.

“You don’t even know how long I’ve waited for this moment. Fuck…. Take my cock. Just like that, you're such a good bunny for me.” You practically cried out in pleasure to the praise and the vibration only sent him into a craze. He began to frantically assault your throat, making you gag around him. The room filled with the sounds of your complete surrender to the man that now laid claim in your throat.

Tears filled your eyes and fell over your flushed cheeks, he reached a hand down and his fingers moved gently over them wiping away at your tear stained face. He pulled them to his mouth and took a long lick of his fingers, humming as he did so. You were practically crossed eyed looking up at him.

He pumped himself in you a few more times and released your mouth with a loud pop. You coughed out desperately for air but were sad that he had released your throat.

“As much as I’d love to cum down that pretty throat of yours it would be such a waste to put it there our first time.” “First time?” You thought. That implied this wasn’t going to be some one time event that you would think about over and over for the rest of your life on a loop.

“Oh you sweet little thing. You think I’d let you get away from me that easily? I’ve waited so long fighting with myself for a very long time. There is no way I’m letting you escape me.” His voice deep and raspy you trembled below him. Grabbing the collar of your shirt he pulled you back to your feet and placed his hands firmly around your waist and lifted you to sit upon the counter. You were practically face to face now, though he still had a bit of height on you even at this level.

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip and he pulled you back into a deep kiss. You found your arms sneaking in under his shirt and wrapping around his back pulling him close in. This kiss was pure sex and filled with fire. He pressed his body between your legs and his cock rubbed hard against your cotton panties. You could help but moan into his mouth with the sudden sensation shocking your wet core.

His right hand left your face and he made the journey down between your thighs. The feeling of his fingertips brushing against your soaking wet pussy made you jump. He pulled away from the kiss and now looked you in your eyes the way you asked his consent with yours earlier. You couldn’t help but look away for a moment embarrassed but you quickly moved your gaze back to him and nodded with the most precious lust filled face.

Before you knew it his slender fingers were hooked into your panties and he slid them all the way down in one large motion. The air was chilled against the sopping wet mess you had under your skirt. He slipped your panties into his back pocket.

“You're never getting those back by the way” he chuckled out. “Now since it’s only fair I think it’s time we take this tight little top off?” He backed away and looked at you. It only took you a moment to understand he wanted to watch you do this part.

Your shaking hands made their way up to the top button and began to slowly slip them out. He hummed in anticipation as you revealed yourself and the pretty baby pink bra you had hidden underneath your shirt. The shirt joined the pile of accumulating clothes on the stone floor below you. His hands reached up and began to wonder around your plush supple skin. His touch made your skin send goosebumps over your body. You let out soft whimpers as his nail softly scraped along your bra's edge.

“Please” you moaned out

“Oh she speaks? Please what my dear?” He says against your neck.

“Please sir, I can’t take it please just touch me!” With your desperate cries he sunk his teeth into your neck kissing and sucking soon to be deep red hickies into your skin. You cried out in a mix of pleasure and pain as he sneaked his hands behind you and made your bra fall to the floor where it belonged. Your breasts were exposed to him and the air and the mix of that made your nipples rock solid. His large hands began to knead into them with vigor and equal desperation. He easily found your nipple with his mouth and sucked and nipped. His deep moans filled the air and mixed with your high pitched squeals.

As his mouth sent attacks to your left breast and his left hand tweaked your right, his free hand found its way to your soaked pussy. It’s like he knew exactly how to curl his fingers around your clit to send shocks through your body. Your hips rolled desperately against his hand to feel him as much as you could.

“If only you could see how desperate and needy you are right now. Humping your dripping little cunt against me. Does your god feel good against your pretty pussy? Hmmm?” His words cut through you like a knife. All you could do is crumble under him in pleas and desperation.

“P…please please please, I need you, please fill me up I can’t take it anymore.” Tears filling your eyes again.

“Well if you beg me so nicely how could I say no to that?” With no warning his cock was pressed against your slit and plunged deep inside you. You cried out in pain as he was still against you.

“Shhh I’m right here I won’t move until you’re ready ok?” He said in between kissing away even more tears on your cheeks.

You were a mess under him but this was the only place in the entire world you wanted to be. For seven years you dreamed about him and wanting him so desperately to fill you up and here you were getting exactly that. You clutched onto his back sending your nails deep into his flesh. He couldn’t help but move forward slightly into you from the sensation. You let out a moan and tightened around him that made him moan into your neck.

“Please move” you breathed out. You didn’t have to ask him twice; his hips moved with a sudden urgency that even shocked him. As if on autopilot he moved in a primal need into your center and filled the room with sounds of him slapping against you. His hands gripped your waist hard, unbeknownst to you both, would leave behind bruises the next day.

His pace was slow at first but over time with the growing moans that escaped your mouth he began to move faster and more erratic.

“Fuck your pussy feels so good around me. Your cunt is sucking me in so eagerly.” He said through gritted teeth. His words made you clench harder around him. “Tell me how does my big cock feel inside you?”

“Hmgmmhh-“ is all your mouth manages to get out between his powerful thrusts. He grabbed the hair in the back of your head, snapping you back to look him deep in his eyes. “What did I tell you about speaking when spoken too? Don’t make me have to punish you when you’ve been so good for me.” He growled down at you.

“You feel so good! Y..you make me feel so full, I’ve n..never felt like this down there before.”

He paused and looked at you, you whined at the sudden stop. “Is this the first time you’ve had someone inside you?” He asked in disbelief. You panicked afraid that he would want to stop with your lack of experience.

“I’m sorry! Is that a problem? I don’t want to disappoint you!” You said, shaken. His eyes widened and immediately placed your face in his hands.

“Oh gods no! I’m just shocked someone as breathtakingly beautiful as you hadn’t had a line of boys trying to take you to bed with them.” A soft smile looked down on you and you nuzzled yourself into his touch.

“I have always just waited in hope that ummm it would be you.” You said looking away.

You could feel him throb in you as that escaped your lips. Without warning his hips snapped in you at a frantic pace once more.

“What a sexy little nymph you are. I am going to truly lose my mind.” He grunted as he pumped you deeper and deeper with each passing thrust. His fingers slipped down and found their way to your clit once again. Your moans filled his ears like prayers. Begging for a release that you were desperately in need of.

“Please sir I-I’m so close.” Your face found its way to his shoulder as you cried out.

“D-does my pretty bunny want to cum for me? Have you been a good girl? Should I allow you to cum all over my big cock?” He asked into your hair.

“God please, please let me cum! I’m begging you please!” You screamed out.

“Fuck, cum on my cock while I fill you deep with mine!” He shouted back at you. He plowed into you at dangerous speeds, hitting your cervix with every lightning crack of his hips. Circling faster around your clit with his thumb. You could feel yourself on the edge so close to your sweet release. With one final snap of his hips you lost all control coming undone around his throbbing cock. Squirting all around him unaware you were even able to do that.

When he felt you release around him that’s all he needed, “Fuck fuck fuck take my cum, fuck!”and shot load after load of his hot cum deep into your pussy. Grunting like an animal as he reached his glorious climax that he has dreamed of for so long.

You both stayed in this wrapped position for what seemed like an eternity panting and gasping for air. When you both found your breath he planted sweet gentle kisses all over you. You giggled with each one he bestowed upon you.

“Gods I’m going to keep you locked down here forever.” He said between kisses.

“You’d have to pull me out of here to get me to leave.” You replied back and planted a gentle kiss on his swollen lips.

“Well that would never happen,” he said looking over you sweetly.“Now let’s get you in my chambers so we can get you right in the bath because you are one dirty bunny.”

“Yeah your dirty little bunny.” You giggled into his ear and with that you were whisked out of the store room and through his chamber door off for more of your wildest dreams to play out before you.

[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.

[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

[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

[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.

[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.

[liminalpebble]

Lock and Key: Part 1 of 2 (A Professor Pine Story)

Part 2 link

AN: Part 1of 2, older/ instructor/Jonathan Pine x student/agent/femme reader

CW: Minors DNI. Smut in the next part, my loves.

“Again,” said Pine, glaring down at you through the dark frame of his glasses.

You slammed down the lock and picks in frustration, then rubbed at your temples where a headache was creeping in. Your hands reeked of metal and WD40. You'd been at this, stuck in his office, all afternoon.

“It took 10 minutes, Pine! That's not half bad.”

“Professor Pine...and it's not half good either. Ten minutes is too long in field work.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, as he simply stared you down.

Silences never felt awkward for him, never seemed to make him the least bit uncomfortable. He had a way of observing so closely and quietly that it was absolutely preternatural.

“Do you ever blink?”

That actually did make him laugh, a tiny puff of a thing under his breath, the slightest flex of a smile on his unbearably handsome face. He fidgeted with his glasses; one of his few tells. It communicated, without a word, that the stoic Jonathan Pine was deeply concerned.

The addition of lenses to his face was a recent, not to mention reluctant, one. He told himself that was the cause of his frustration, his unease; just that annoying little touch of plastic against his skin, a tiny chafe reminding him that he was older now. He told himself that's all it was, that it had nothing to do with you. He wasn't fooling himself.

Pine didn't think you'd notice, but you did.

You noticed a good deal more than he thought.

He moved toward the stopwatch again, then neatly and precisely placed the utensils back in front of you. His deft, practiced, fingers reset the lock in no time. He raise an eyebrow, his finger hovering over the button, silently asking if you're ready yet again.

You sighed and stretched your neck and back, rolling out a few sharp creaks and pops. You wiggled your fingers and took a deep breath. He tried not to notice the curve of your throat and collarbones as you moved, the way your deep breaths raised and lowered your soft chest in a mesmerizing rhythm.

“Can I at least talk to you this time? It might make it easier to get out of my head...find some kind of flow. I'm overthinking and I'm panicking...maybe...I don't know.”

He grimaced. Ideally, this should be silent. It would have to be on an assignment and he worried about that; about you.

That's why you were here, after all. Pine demanded your attendance in office hours because he was concerned for you...more than he ought to be, more than he had any right to be as your instructor. It had grown into much more than a professional interest.

It weighed on his conscience. In this line of work, he knew better than anyone how fatal attachments could be. You were a firecracker and he watched you in splendid wonder, even though you could burn him to the ground. His feelings for you were his deepest secret, and he kept it guarded like Fort Knox.

Jonathan combed a hand through his curls. They were growing quickly, getting unruly and it irked him. Pine wasn't used to wearing the styles and trappings of another man's life yet; he was a spy...the spy that took down Richard Roper, and now he was a man behind a desk, lecturing to future agents. It felt strange to be replaced in the field. He missed the adrenaline, the pumping blood, the danger...all things he was now beginning to associate with you.

Finally, after the deafening silence of his ruminations, he put his hands on his hips and huffed out a, “sure, okay. But just this once.”

He pushed the button and the clicking began; the regular, measured ticks of the watch versus the more firm and frenzied clicks of metal against metal as you finessed the pins.

“Gently!” he advised placing a hand on your shoulder. The sound of his crisp baritone and his proximity were doing nothing to help your focus. “I'm going to start calling you Attila the Hun!”

“What?”

“You work in a frenzy, you know? You're whip-smart but you're...reckless.”

click....click click

“Hrmm. Well, Director Burr seems to remember a time when you could be reckless too.”

He frowned and stopped his pacing. “She told you that?”

Click. Click. Tick tick tick.

“Hrrmm...not in so many words. I read between the lines. Do you like this new life? Are you less...reckless...*click* these days?”

Pine crossed his arm and resumed his slow journey to nowhere.“We're not here to talk about me, we're here to make you a competent field agent.”

You shrugged. “Well, that's going swimmingly, isn't it? *click click* I don't see why you're so obsessed with this analog stuff. I can bring a Fortune 500 company to its knees with a few keystrokes and you think this is something that I'll need to do?”

“Hacking can't help you if you're beaten and locked in a cellar.”

“Come on, that doesn't happen anymore.”

A needle-sharp, blue-eyed glare met yours.

“Does it? Did it happen to you?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Time” he declared, ending the conversation, to his great relief and your frustration.

You gave a cocky little twitch of your head, meeting his appraisal with a smirk. You gestured to the lock.

“There. Open in five. Acceptable?”

He sat down next to you and brought it closer to his face.

“You've stripped it completely though. You might as well have used a bolt cutter.”

“So?”

“So, it's best not to leave evidence.”

“No one would notice that!,” you argued indignantly.

“I did.”

“You're....you're...an evolutionary anomaly.”

He chuckled, really chuckled this time, and it startled you. “What? I beg your pardon?”

“You're...different, Jonathan. You're too...everything...”

Your mentor sat, scooting closer. You could smell his aftershave. You could see that his pullover was not, in fact, black, but a subtle navy blue...fine and soft. Fine and soft as that vulnerable skin peaking out at the collar, the milky, pale, dip between his throat and his chest.

God, you wanted to touch him, wanted to run you tongue along that valley and devour him, feel his deep groans through the skin and sinew of his long neck as you'd kiss it...suck on it.

Your throat went dry and you cleared it to speak quietly, more uncertain than he'd ever heard you.

“You...you're perfect. You can't understand what it's like to struggle like this.”

“I assure you, I am very far from perfect...If you only knew.” He shook his head sadly, recalling some scar of a memory you couldn't discern.

You turned to face him, mere inches from each other.

“If I only knew what, Professor Pine?”

His Adam's apple bobbed with a swallow and he forced his breathing to slow. “That I am very...very...far from perfect. I'm only human. I make mistakes.”

Those lovely ocean eyes flicked from your eyes to your lips.

“And I think I may be about to make another one.”

@smolvenger and @muddyorbs and @gruftiela this is for you! I don't know who else might give a fuck, but feel free to share if you like it! Thank you for reading! Part 2 (the last one) coming soon. I promise not to leave you hanging too long.

[emmanuellececchi]

Crazy Decorator Éomer meets surly electrician Gimli - Chapter 2

(link to read on AO3)

dividers coming from this awesome blog - thanks to @lucifers-legions for the edit and suggestions.

---

Gimli arrived at precisely 7:55 AM. Punctuality was important to him, especially for this job. He wanted to finish as soon as possible, even if he knew it would take a Christmas miracle to actually finish it before the holidays. Like in one of those sappy movies.

He sighed. It would take a week and a half if everything went smoothly, but Gimli knew well enough that things never happened that way. Besides, this was an old house that had been left to itself for too long. He remembered the face of the owner, Éomer Éomundson, when he had to break the news: a complete rewiring of the house.

Gimli grabbed his toolbox and locked his truck. He paused on the front steps and looked up at the historic home with a web of wires that hadn’t been looked at in… thirty years? Maybe more? He shook his head. He wasn’t into Christmas decorations but, really, he pitied the guy.

“Hi there!”

Startled, Gimli turned towards the sound of the voice. It was the guy he had seen yesterday; the neighbor. He walked onto Éomer’s driveway, with a smile that grated on Gimli’s nerves. He knew these kinds of guys, who thought they owned everyone and everything. And, as expected, the guy came and leaned against the truck. Gimli’s truck. He felt a twinge of irritation and tightened his grip on the handle of his toolbox.

“Yes?”  The man smiled sheepishly which only aggravated Gimli even more.

“I was wondering if I could… borrow you… for a job in my house?”

“I already have an appointment.  And you’re about to make me late for it.”

“Oh. It would be after your work here.”

“Never heard anything from my boss.”  The man gaped at him, and Gimli enjoyed it immensely.

“No. It would be a… side job, you understand?”

“I don’t do side jobs.”

“It won’t take long. Just a few things to fix… here and there,” the man pressed.

“I don’t fix here and there. Make an appointment.”  He turned on his heel, but the shrill tone of the man’s voice stopped him.

“But there’s no one else available before Christmas!”

“Guess you won’t be able to add more inflatables then.”  Gimli didn’t even look to see the other guy’s reaction. He climbed the steps, ready to ring the bell when the door opened suddenly. Éomer was furious.  “Sorry I’m…”

But Gimli never finished. He realized the man’s anger was directed elsewhere.

“Neighbor.”

“Hey, neighbor. I was just leaving.”  Gimli looked back, and the smirk he saw made him hate the guy even more.  “Good luck with your lights.”

The man chuckled and left, walking through the yard and knocking over a reindeer. So, this was what a decoration war looked like. It was pathetic and ugly. Gimli shook his head, but thankfully, Éomer was too caught up in his own anger to notice.

Even though he’d never admit it out loud, Gimli did feel sorry for him. After all, his decorations weren’t that bad, and he could tell that Éomer had put a lot of work into them. Especially compared to the army of inflatables across the street. Well, there was only one thing to do: try to get through this tremendous job as quickly as possible so the neighbor would have less to smirk about.

“Ignore that chump,” he said and patted Éomer’s arm. “At Aglarond Electricians, we don’t give up on the job. Soon, this house will blind everyone in the whole neighborhood!”  To Gimli’s surprise, Éomer frowned.  Had he been too forward with the arm pat?

“The goal is not to blind everyone, it’s…” Éomer pinched his nose and sighed.  “You know what, it doesn’t matter.  Let’s just get this over with.”

But the man had been nothing but professional, minus the grumbling about the decorations. He had taken the time to explain everything in detail: the age of the house, the condition of the wiring, the signs of deterioration, what the process would involve. Then, after ordering a few parts, he gave Éomer the quote.

That had been the cherry on this dreadful morning. Éomer had been tempted to call the whole thing off, but the thought of Éowyn not coming to spend Christmas with him was unacceptable. Feeling trapped, he signed the dotted line.

Éomer looked around. He noted where Gimli was working then looked again at his watch. Soon he would have to leave to meet Éowyn for lunch. He didn’t want to miss a single minute with her, even if it meant he had to help her shop for this new boyfriend of hers.

A part of him resented the guy. Éowyn needed to be protected. She had taken the death of their uncle the hardest, since she had been the one taking care of him. That was why Éomer had always tried to make Christmas as special as their uncle had; so that she would remember the good times they’d spent together and not the last months of his life.  But now she had chosen to spend Christmas somewhere else with a guy Éomer hadn’t even met before.

A sound brought him back to reality. Gimli was shifting from foot to foot, watching him.  How long had he been standing there?

“What?”

“I was going to ask if you wanted me to lock the basement door when I was done, if you weren’t back yet.”

“Right.” He had forgotten that a good part of the job would be there. With an irritated, Éomer went to unlock the door that would lead to the dreaded fuse box and its nest of old wires. “Uh… if I leave, are you going to be okay?”

Gimli arched an eyebrow in a way that made Éomer feel like an idiot. Who would ask this kind of thing to a rough and burly electrician like this guy? With his braided red beard and his muscular arms… and who hated Christmas.

“If you’re okay with leaving me alone in your house.”

“As long as you don’t tear down my decorations.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Éomer froze. Was that a joke? It was difficult to read the other man’s expression. Then Gimli rolled his eyes.

“At Aglarond Electricians, we repair things that are broken, we don’t break them.” Éomer felt ashamed. Of course he would not do anything like that. But before he could apologize, Gimli added.

“Too late to fix your taste in decorations though.” Éomer clamped his mouth shut. No way he would apologize to this… Scrooge. Gimli held out his hand. “Give me what’s necessary to navigate your house and I’ll be fine.”

Éomer nodded. The sooner he left, the better. It was impossible to stay here any longer with a man like that. Besides, he was already running late, because he lost a fair amount of time trying to find his keys. He began to swear under his breath.

Gimli was beginning to feel unnerved by the increasing agitation of the other man. He was losing precious time to advance the repairs while Éomer was struggling to find which key opened what. He grabbed the key set and Éomer looked at him startled.

“I’ll figure out the keys, myself. You’re making me nervous.” Éomer looked at him, stunned.

“You’re serious?” Gimli rolled his eyes. He didn’t know why he was acting like that. It was ridiculous. But the other man’s face lit up with a smile. And something twirled in Gimli’s stomach. “It won’t cost more, right?!”

The bubbling feelings became ice.

“No. I don’t make my client pay extra when they mix up their keys.” Éomer reddened and, seeing his eyes downcast, Gimli felt a bit mollified. “So… got a date, eh?”

Eomer shook his head.

“My sister. It has been a while…”

To his surprise, Gimli felt a rush of relief. It made him angry all of a sudden.  Why would he be relieved that Éomer wasn’t going on a date?

“’kay. Go now, I’ve got work waiting for me.”

Éomer left in a hurry, not even looking back. Gimli sighed and left for the basement. He had a job to do and he couldn’t afford to get behind…

“Can you believe that? It’ll cost me an arm and a leg, and I’ll have to deal with this… Scrooge for the next two weeks!” Éomer sighed as he took a sip of his coffee.

“You’re sure it’s not just a bad string?” Éomer rolled his eyes.

“I’m not an idiot. Of course I tested them all inside before installing them.”  Éowyn hold her hands out.

“Okay! Just wanted to make sure you didn’t need to pay big bucks…”

“Mr. Scrooge already asked me. Made me feel like a fool, but at least he’s honest.”

“Why do you keep calling him that?”

Éowyn was looking at him, but Éomer noticed how she had barely eaten. Something was bothering her. Maybe his problem with the lights? Dread began gnawing at his stomach.

“He does not like Christmas. First thing he said in the house! He had not stopped grumbling about the decorations since he arrived. It’s a nightmare.”  Éowyn smiled tightly.

“Maybe he just does not like overdecorations?”

The words made Éomer’s stomach lurch. He looked at his half-eaten plate. They had walked a good part of the afternoon, looking for gifts for her new boyfriend, this supposedly “Mr. Perfect” and his family. Éomer was merely tagging along, just to be there with her. After all, the best gift he could give her was the house fully decorated, just like when Uncle Théoden did it.

Then, after all the gifts had been bought, they sat for a quick supper… and the sky dropped on his head. Háma had told Éowyn about his light problem. Why would Háma betray him like that?

Éowyn laid a hand on his arm. He blinked.

“What?”

“Mer. Christmas is not about decorations, or how many lights or the music? It’s about… who you spend Christmas with… the people.” She was smiling tentatively. He patted her arm.

“Thank you, but I know you’re only saying that just to be nice. Don’t worry, I’ll get this problem fixed. You will get your Christmas decorations.”

“Éomer…”

“Éowyn, I promise. It’ll be perfect, like when we were kids!” She sighed and looked away.  “Háma shouldn’t have told you about this! You’re worried for nothing!”

“Do not dare blame him! He only told me so that I could reassure you I would come, lights or no lights.”

“Why would you not come?”

“Éomer…”

“No. You’re not coming. Is that it?”

“I told you. Faramir invited me to spend Christmas with him and his family.” She touched his arm but he kept staring at his plate now. “And you are welcome to come, you know? It’s not even about where … it’s about who you’re spending it with!”

“No. No. Éowyn. Please, listen to me.” Éomer shook his head vehemently. It was his turn now to take her arm, to look into her eyes, to make her understand.

“I promise. I’ll fix everything! The house will be decorated like never before. There will be lights everywhere!” he added with a triumphal smile, “Faramir will not be able to compete against that.”

But Éowyn’s face darkened. She took her arm away from him and begin packing.

“You. Don’t. Listen.”  She stood and now Éomer felt panic rise, eating at him.

“Wyn?”

“Just…” She shook her head and sighed.  “Forget it. I still have a lot of things to do before Christmas. And clearly you do, too. I’m sure you don’t want to leave your Mr. Scrooge too long alone in the house.”

He was looking at her, unable to speak or move. She had her gift bags in her hands and gave him one last hard look.

“After all, you don’t want him to ruin your perfect lights, right?”  She turned on her heel and left.

Éomer watched her leave and then laid his hands on the table.  No. It wasn’t possible. Why was everything going so wrong?

Still shaking, he stood up and went to pay. That darn electrician had better solve his light problem, and fast.

[max1461]

Let me start a new post, regarding some discourse, so that we can avoid bothering OP and furthermore so that we can properly abstract away from (whatever turn out to be) the irrelevant points of the initial seed of discussion.

A woman flashed her boobs to some strangers in New York. Someone on twitter said this was sexual assault. I and other commenters contended it was no big deal. However, I added:

I do think there's a relevant distinction between simply being nude/topless/whatever in public, which I think should be regarded as perfectly socially acceptable, and flashing someone, which is kind of an inherently somewhat sexual performative act. I don't think that flashing in a context like this should probably be regarded as sexual assault, that seems a bit much. In general I think that people are (for the most part) sexual creatures, and so any free society is going to feature some amount of public display of sexuality, whatever form that takes, and there's nothing really wrong with that. It doesn't seem like any big deal to me that this girl flashed these people. But there definitely exist contexts where I think it's reasonable to consider flashing alone to be sexual assault or sexual harassment, and I don't think that should be elided. And I don't think it should be determined on crude grounds of gender or sex either; it's important to have some thoughtful and conceptually robust sense of when sexual acts, e.g. flashing people, are playful and harmless, and when they are in fact potentially threatening or boundary-violating.

Here the discussion split. In one thread, @sivavakkiyar said:

I agree with the nuance of total determination, but the applicability only makes sense now. There’s very good reason to suppose a man who took off his shirt on camera would not be considered ‘flashing’, even if he was flexing his pecs or whatever: the assumed sexual component, regardless of the intent of the woman involved, has to do with the inherent sexualization of…uh…female…presenting…nipples. We’re on the same page of ‘assault’ being ridiculous in this context, but even if you were to ask this woman ‘when you took off your shirt, you knew it was sexually suggestive, yes?’ and she said ‘yeah’, it wouldn’t really change the fundamental question—-I mean that’s obvious as a part of her joke, but—-the guy with pecs might equally be ‘yeah, I’m hot.’ You know?

And I replied:

Well yeah that's part of my point. There is totally a context in which a guy flexing his pecs at you, in some sufficiently aggressive or unwanted way, could be sexual harassment. But that doesn't mean that all men flexing in public is bad, or even all men flexing at someone in public is bad. The standards one takes up for this, whatever they are, should be gender neutral—which would unambiguously mean that women showing their bare chest in public would get vastly more accepted, not less.

In another thread, @wildgifthorses said:

It seems like this is just an area where it makes sense to have sex-asymmetric norms. Trying to make a workable sex-symmetric norm about this just leads to absurdity no matter what you do.

And added the following in the tags:

Here I would like to make my reply to wildgifthorses.

I think you have implicitly invoked, here, precisely the gender-neutral distinction which is relevant: reasonable knowledge that you are violating someone's boundaries and disregard for those boundaries in spite of the knowledge. Most men can be said to have a reasonable expectation that the average woman will be bothered by him flashing her his junk, and consider it a boundary violation. Most young women can reasonably expect that a crowd of passers-by will not feel violated by her flashing them her boobs. While there are sex- or gender-asymmetric facts about society being invoked in this sort of moral calculation, the underlying principle is fundamentally sex- and gender-symmetric. And why should it not be? I can think of plenty of contexts in which a man might be made very uncomfortable by a woman aggressively showing him her boobs, however common or not that happens to be, and in those scenarios I think it is very reasonable to say the woman is in the wrong.

We get absolutely nowhere good by making needlessly gendered distinctions in our abstract principles, as (in different ways) the last 10 years and the previous 5000 before that should make evident. I think until certain follies heretofore characteristic of human society are well behind us, we should probably err very far in the direction of absolute sex- and gender-insensitivity in our most abstract ethical principles, even if it runs us into trouble sometimes.

[ryuichirou]

Since we’re talking about butts, how about boobs? I specifically mean, what’re the genderbent twst boys’ cup size? And what kind of bra do they wear?

Anon, this is such a good question, and I think about this topic more often than I probably should lol I do have some sketches about this topic (both the size and the kind of bra the gendbent twst boys would wear), but honestly all of my genderbent sketches end up being related to this theme one way or another. Maybe I have a problem.

That being said, keep in mind that whatever is going on in my head doesn’t always translate into my sketches perfectly: I am very inconsistent for some reason lol I have the same problem with a lot of other body parts…

And just in case, here is my previous reply about the girlies as I imagine them. I’ve definitely mentioned their boob size in that post, and I’m definitely going to contradict myself in this one lol

Last disclaimer: I don’t know a lot of bra types, and it’s kind of obvious, so I’m sorry if I sound repetitive.

Riddle is a small one, almost completely flat. She probably wears a bralette or something, maybe even a cotton undershirt. She doesn’t think much about her breasts, but gets self-conscious when others (mostly Ace) point out how flat she is. But in general, she believes that she still has time to grow, and that this is an idiotic thing to care about! >(

Ace and Deuce both are between A and B cup, closer to the B. Just like with many other things in their lives, they can’t decide who is bigger. Deuce doesn’t care about it as much as Ace does (it’s honestly embarrassing for her to talk about it), because Ace always wants to either brag or complain, depending on her mood. Both of them wear sports bra, but for different reasons (I drew a sketch about this once and had such a hard time deciphering what I was trying to say there…). Basically, Ace owns some very cute and “girly” bras, even the push-ups ones, but the sports one is more comfortable. Deuce tried to wear something more “girly” but gave up, because it was way too uncomfortable; when she was a delinquent, she didn’t wear any bra at all.

Cater is a solid B and wears a lacey push-up one. But honestly she has a big collection of all kinds of bras, and sometimes thinks that it’s a shame that she can’t really show them off to anyone.

Trey is big, I guess she’s a D. She prefers to wear whatever is comfortable, so there isn’t really much to say about her: a regular bra, no lace, no nothing. Oh, she prefers a wireless one though.

Leona is somewhere around C-cup, and she either wears a black lacy one or no bra at all. No one dares to stare anyway, and if they do, bad for them.

Ruggie doesn’t wear a bra and maybe doesn’t even own a bra; she believes that this is a waste of money. But she isn’t really all that big, somewhere between A or B, so it’s not like it matters to her.

Jack is one of the biggest ones, and she always wears a sports bra. She has a variety of those. Any other type of bra is too uncomfortable and honestly embarrassing for her to wear; she’s kind of a shy tomboy.

The Octa-trio are big… Azul is honestly closer to a C, but she wears a push-up (and a very pretty lacey one at that) and makes sure that her silhouette is always well-pronounced. Jade and Floyd are one of the biggest ones out of the entire cast (maybe around E), but their bra-wearing habits are very different from each other. Jade’s style is closer to Azul’s, but she still prioritizes comfort and support. And Floyd has a lot of pretty lacey ones too, but prefers to either wear a wireless/sports bra or to wear nothing at all. She gets scolded by Azul for the second option, so she doesn’t get to do it very often. But it feels tight and uncomfortable fehhhhhh :( Azul can’t relate to that because she actually loves structure and feeling that everything is tightly in place, doesn’t bounce and looks precisely how she wants it to look.

Kalim is around B, maybe a bit bigger. It’s honestly difficult to think about what kind of bra she would wear… But it’s probably surprisingly stylish, expensive-looking, but not lacey. She might actually like cute prints. But I also think she doesn’t really think much about her underwear – Jamil picks it for her every day lol

Jamil is an A and almost exclusively wears sports bra. But she also owns some regular ones, even one kind of sexy one, but she never wears it and honestly doesn’t even know why she got it: she tried it on one time and felt stupid... Also, a majority of her bras are either black or a combination of black and red.

Vil is somewhere between A and B, on the smaller side. And sometimes it feels like Vil knows everything there is to know about bras and knows how to pick a perfect one according to anyone’s needs… She can rant about it forever… She probably also has the biggest collection (and her bra always matches her panties – it HAS to be a set), and OF COURSE she considers TPO when she picks it. Sometimes it’s a sporty one, sometimes it’s something more comfortable, sometimes it’s a sexy one (less often than one would expect though). It’s also never plain – of course she doesn’t expect people to see it, but just because it’s hidden doesn’t mean it can’t be pretty.

Rook is closer to a C, maybe even bigger, but you’d never guess it. Once again, amazing hiding skills, and also a very well-chosen set of underwear (Vil picked it for her). It’s pretty much always a sports one, but she has at least one sexier set for very special occasions. Rook can also take one look at any girl from the NRC and easily see who follows Vil’s advice regarding their bra choice and who doesn’t. She is a guru of sensing the well-being and comfort of other girls’ breasts based on their posture and attitude lol

 Epel is rather small, but she’ll probably end up being a B in a year or two. Vil got her her first bra – she didn’t even own one at first because she believed that she doesn’t need one. A lot of times she wants to complain about Vil forcing her to wear something tight and itchy and painful, but alas – it fits very comfortably and kind of gives Epel very nice support 😔 But… does it have to be this cute…?

Idia is one of the flattest girls of the cast, she doesn’t own a bra and she’s never worn one. She kind of forgets that wearing a bra is even an irl thing sometimes, and not something that artists for the gacha games invented. But she surely remembers it when she leaves her room and sees real people, especially Azul… The truth is, Idia would get too embarrassed if asked to wear a bra, and would list 1000 reasons why it’s a stupid idea and the person is stupid for even suggesting it. Maybe we should just leave her alone… (Azul won’t)

Ortho doesn’t have anything to show off! :( Neechan won’t give her boobs! But since Vil and Floyd are both influences in her life, she is usually that one person that usually brings up wearing a bra with Idia (well other than Auzl of course). She just wants to pick a perfect one for Idia, it sounds like a fun challenge!

If Ortho was a human, she would probably be a bit bigger than Idia, since she’s not that… malnourished lol And she would prefer to wear sporty ones, which would make Idia nod in agreement – functional yet cute, as expected of her Ortho.

Lilia is actually the flattest person of the cast. Her body isn’t very dissimilar to the original Lilia, and she also doesn’t usually wear a bra – she didn’t need to when she was younger, and she doesn’t feel like she needs to now. But out of every non-wearer of bras we’ve discussed so far, she is the one who could do it for funsies. And her choice of the underwear would probably be a bit…cursed lol but she knows what she’s doing.

Silver is a bit bigger than B, and she also someone who didn’t own a bra for a long time, even though her bust bouncing caused her some discomfort during her training. It was actually the reason Lilia realised that ah, right, I guess the kid needs it… And with how active Silver is, one would expect her to also be a sports bra girl, but she actually usually wears a not very flashy, but a cute one that Lilia got for her. It’s blue and pretty…

Sebek is already a bit bigger than C and growing! And her mom, unlike Lilia, is more knowledgeable about these things, so Sebek actually wears a good bra that is comfortable to move around in, so I guess it’s also a wireless one. But also very plain, she can’t even think about wearing something that is not a very strict and neutral looking underwear, it would be shameful! Or something along the lines.

Malleus is also one of the biggest ones, I don’t remember if we decided that she is bigger than the Tweels or not lol but she is indeed quite busty. And also a queen of beautiful black gothic lacey underwear that looks like the most gorgeous and expensive thing in the world. It’s probably custom-made just for her, so it has thorns-related design and stuff.