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after-witch · 3 years

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Baby Mine [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Baby Mine [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: The first time you laid eyes on your child, you knew: You had to get out. Set in the ‘White Picket Fence’-verse.

For request: Something with Overhaul + the reader’s children and manipulation (I’m sorry I accidentally deleted the original message so I don’t remember the exacting wording!)

Word Count: 3328

notes: yandere, stockholm syndrome, abuse

From the instant you laid eyes on your daughter, the moment your gaze took in her fresh, wet skin and her small, blinking, uncomprehending eyes, you knew: you had to get the fuck away from Chisaki Kai.

The realization was instant, like a flash, peeling away years of manipulation and training and forced self-acceptance of your situation. Years of justifications and excuses that had wormed their way under your skin, forcing you to see the bright side, to see his side, and let yourself get wrapped up in its candy-coated, fluffy cotton bullshit--gone, ripped away with brutal, exacting force. All that was left was the stark realization, a single driving force shoving you forward: you and your daughter were going to get out.

That was four years ago.

Four years of agonizing pretending. Of forcing yourself to put back on the coat you'd worn before, the false version of yourself that loved him and accepted him and excused everything he ever did to you. It was hard. It was harder to pretend that you accepted this than to actually accept it, to indulge in his control. But every time your resolve weakened, it only took a glance at your child to remind you of why you couldn't just give in.

You had to get out, not for yourself, but for her. To give her a normal life. A life where she could be free, where she could have friends, where she could run outside and not be limited to the house or, if the weather was nice, the secure, high-fenced backyard that Kai had only built within the last year.

Four years of pretending. Four years of planning. And, most difficult of all, four years of waiting. Trust was not easily given by Chisaki Kai, even to the mother of his child.

So you waited.

You waited for Kai to move you two--no, three now--into a house, a real house; not in a populated suburb (another broken promise that you swallowed deep, deep down) but an offshoot of some protected compound in a remote area, where it could be secure and guarded. But what mattered is that its doors connected to the outside, not to some unknown underground bunker. You could manage, if you were connected to the outside.

You waited for Kai to ease up on the restrictions that built up around you during your pregnancy, rules to keep you under a far more watchful eye, rules that made it harder to find a way out. Inches of trust, gradually earned, which made it possible for you to think concretely about escape.

You waited for your daughter to get old enough to run, old enough to survive without needing to be fed every few hours, old enough to know how to stay quiet when told. Watching her grow up only made you want to leave, more. She had a personality now. Stubborn but accepting when she knew she wouldn’t win; sweet in her own way, an unusual way, likely one that came from a lack of interaction with anyone but her parents and a handful of trusted Shie Hassaikai members.

It was one of those trusted members--you never have learned their name, a secret Kai (nor they) were willing to give--that would be your key to escape.

They loved your daughter, too, in time. They were drawn in by her precociousness, her insistence on formalities and pleases and thank-yous. But it was her bubbliness and inherent interest in the world and people around her that made them decide to love her, too.Her big eyes and bubbling laugh when you two were allowed in the yard, sometimes under this member’s supervision.

To your daughter’s delight, they didn’t simply watch you like the handful of others did; they joined in the fun. Just a few weeks ago, she’d convinced him to push her so high on the swing set that she’d gone all the way around--even your heart briefly froze until she’d emerged on the other side, cackling with delight, safe and sound.

They were loyal to Overhaul. Of that there was no doubt. Had they killed for him? Maimed? Tortured? You tried not to think about the things that were done in Overhaul’s name.

Yet they’d betrayed him, all for the sake of your daughter. Part of you feels bitter that they wouldn’t betray him for the sake of you--but then, what was that saying? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was with their help that you were finally able to secure that last necessary piece of the puzzle for your escape: getting out of the secured, monitored gate surrounding the house unnoticed. He told you in hushed, intense tones that he would be on watch duty the night of your escape, that he would take care of the other member assigned that night, and that all you had to do was get out the door at the agreed time with your bag, your daughter, and a good pair of walking shoes. He would drive you as far as he could, and then you two would run, run, run after that.

It was going to work. Your daughter was going to live her life, a real life, not one carefully constructed in captivity. What would you do first, once you were free? The thoughts sometimes made you so giddy that you pinched yourself to calm down. So close, so close to the finish line, and you must be vigilant.

Tonight. You and your daughter are going to leave tonight.

Your daughter is in her bed, tucked in safe and secure. Her eyes are already closed, and Kai is sitting at the edge of the mattress, as always, smoothing down her hair and pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead. You watch from the doorway with your arms casually crossed, a small, tired, end-of-the-night smile on your lips. It's all so normal, so domestic, isn't it.

"Good night," he says, so soft and sweet that, if you hadn't been pulled out of your deluded coping mechanism, you might find it endearing. Instead, your thoughts scream: This will be the last time you ever see her, you fucked up piece of shit bastard. Oh, do you have a potty mouth when your 'husband' can't hear you...

He leaves your daughter to her dreams and clicks off the little lamp on her nightstand. When he crosses the doorway, you make room and he lets you slide your arm around his, linking yourselves together for the walk to your shared bedroom.

"Tired?" He asks, and you nod. You are tired. Not for the reasons he thinks, and not for the reasons you'll give, but the telltale darkness under your eyes belies the stress of planning your escape from a years-long ordeal.

You sigh, as soft and sweet as his voice was earlier. "Mmhmm. She didn't want to focus on her lessons today. I got a bit frustrated. Sometimes I don't think I'm cut out to be a teacher." By now you're in your bedroom and you casually take off your day clothes, dropping them in the labeled hamper in front of the closet. Your stomach twinges with the memory of how he used to look away when you took off your clothes.

But that was long ago, and now he continues the conversation casually as the pair of you strip and change into your respective pajamas. You slip a pink nightie with ruffled bottom over your head as he

"You just need more practice. Are you reading the lesson books before you start class?"

I wouldn't have to read any lesson books if you let her out of this house, if you let her out of school, if you weren't--you stop your thoughts, afraid that they might show on your face. Afraid that you might lose everything at this last, crucial moment.

But you know you look frustrated, so you roll with it. "Yes," you say, voice just the right amount of annoyed in retort. "But if she doesn't want to sit down and focus, me reading the lesson beforehand isn't really going to help, is it?"

He stares at you, and you wonder in a flash if you went too far. But in the next moment, he's simply continuing to button up his shirt. "Is it going to help our daughter learn if you take out your bad day on your husband?" His voice is dripping with the natural condescension that once had you questioning whether or not it was okay to be upset that he'd kidnapped you, and you hate it. But at least it's a sign that he bought your excuses.

You feel a warm flush of shame at the way his condescension still makes you feel less-than. You slide yourself into bed, under the covers, instinctively grabbing the book on your end table and staring down into it like you could simply disappear inside the pages. You can't mess up anything right now. The weight of what you need to do tonight feels so heavy and you can't stop your hands from trembling slightly.

"Sorry," you whisper, voice thick with emotion. "It's just hard sometimes. I feel in over my head."

It's Kai's turn to slide under the covers, though he doesn't bother grabbing his own book. Instead he gently pushes on your hands until you set the book on the covers. You know he wants you to look at him, so you do. He looks so gentle, so calm. Did he kill anyone today? Did he insult some hapless victim who crossed his organization, spewing venom with his words, before kissing your daughter goodnight hours later?

His gloved hands tip your chin up and it's a familiar feeling, an intimate feeling, when he pulls you in for a kiss. When he pulls away, he's smiling softly, indulgently. You aren't in trouble. You're good.

"I'll come home for lessons tomorrow and see what I can do. Would you like that?"

I'd like you to drop dead and make this easier on us, you think.

"Yes, Kai."

You smile. You nod. You let out a shaky sigh and lean your shoulders against his, picking up your book and signaling an end to the crisis. He lets you read quietly for a while before turning off the lamp on his side of the bed; it's a wordless signal that you already know: time to sleep. You're a dutiful wife and you put your book away and turn off your lamp and then turn back to your husband and whisper,

"Good night, Kai."

You wait until he's deep asleep to ease your way out of the bed. Every step you take in your padded socks makes you cringe. Will the floor creak? Will you make too much noise? Will you have to come up with a half-assed excuse as he comes to, groggily asking what you're doing? You feel like you can't breathe, but you do breathe, soft and shallow as you make your way to the bedroom door.

You didn't dare keep anything related to your escape in your shared bedroom. The door feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as you ever-so-slowly open it, keeping your head turned towards the man sleeping on the bed all the while. He doesn't stir. He simply continues to snore, even as the door opens enough for you to slip out.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as you cross the hallway and into the spare room that you used as a playroom and, lately, a makeshift school. The bag you packed is in the closet, tucked behind bags of school supplies that you'd asked Kai to pick up in order to make sure that your escape bag didn't stand out. You grab it swiftly, along with your daughter's outdoor shoes, and make your way to the most dangerous element of your escape: your daughter's room.

She did so well. You remind yourself to praise her once you're away from the house, once you're in a car and making noise isn't a life or death dilemma. You built up the idea of your escape bit by bit over the past few weeks. You couldn't tell her that her father was a monster who kidnapped you, but you could prey on her desire to see more, to go beyond the rules established in her father's domain.

Don't you want to meet other kids? Go to the beach, feel the sand underneath your feet? Meet... your grandma? We'll just take a secret trip, you and me, and then come back to Papa when we're done. Then he'll see that it's safe to leave and come with us next time. But you have to keep it a secret. You can't tell him a thing, or we won't be able to go. You can keep a secret, can't you?

You kneel next to your daughter's bed and gently wake her up, whispering her name and stroking her hair, so she slowly opens her eyes in confusion before her gaze lands on your face and ah, a smile--it's just mom.

"Mama?" She asks, a bit too loudly for your liking.

"Shh baby," you say. "Yes, it's mama. Are you ready to go?" You see the tentativeness, the childish confusion in the way she nods. She doesn't know what real life is yet, she doesn't have an inkling of the freedom that she's lost, but she will.

You don't bother changing. You have a pair of clothes in the bag and you'll change when you're in a safer space. For now, you take her hand and lead her down the staircase, your chest tightening with every step. You can't help but glance back at the still-open doorway leading to your bedroom. You pray to whatever is listening that he won't wake up. Each step is a step closer to freedom. Each step is a terrifying risk that you or she might slip, might make noise, might wake him up.

Your spirits lift when you reach the bottom of the stairs. All you have to do is get out the door and he'll be waiting there with the key and a getaway car and freedom.

You clutch your daughter's hand, your own palm now sweaty; you nearly trip on a toy you forgot to pick up earlier, but thankfully the light in the entryway was turned on (you must have forgotten to turn it off) and you see it just in time to avoid disaster. You squeeze your daughter hand and turn the corner that leads to the entryway of your home--

Where Chisaki Kai is standing, waiting for you, his eyes practically illuminated by the glowing lamp light.

You drop the bag.

"No," you say. "No." Your mind suddenly feels fuzzy, like its buzzing, drowning out all of your thoughts with a pure denial of what you see in front of you.

"How--how did you--" you sputter, unable to continue voicing your question. It was all planned. It was all practiced. You pretended, you waited, you planned--for four years. How? How did he know?

He doesn't have to answer. You know the moment that your daughter's grip slips out of your hand and she runs up to her father, feet thumping on the floor. She clings to his side and doesn't look at you, and he runs a hand through her hair without taking his eyes away from your shaking form.

Of course she told him. Of course she told her papa that you wanted to leave. She loved him. Why wouldn't she? It was all she'd ever known. You were breaking the rules, breaking the structure that dominated her life since she could remember.

"Please don't be mad at me, mama." Your daughter whimpers against Kai, and you can hear the tears in her little voice, and your heart aches for her in so many ways.

"I'm not," you whisper. "I'm not mad at you, baby." You're just sad, so sad. It hurts. All of it.

"Sweetheart," Kai says, voice surprisingly calm despite the events, "go back to bed while I help your mother unpack your things, all right?"

Your daughter nods and suddenly she's against you, hugging you in a tight, childish way; you only have enough energy to pull your arm around her, limp and heavy, patting her back without really feeling it before she scampers up the stairs.

You're left alone. With him.

He approaches you slowly and you feel like an animal. There's wildness hammering in your heart and the thought comes up, unwillingly: could you still run? Escape on your own? And hope that some day, your daughter escapes and finds you? But the thought of leaving her behind is impossible to indulge in for more than a second, and you know that without her, your life isn't worth living. The thought of abandoning her to Kai Chisaki brings up an immediate sense of revulsion and guilt and shame.

"What were you thinking?"

You aren't looking at him, but you don't have to be looking at him to know that he's glaring at you. Looking down on you with his gaze filled with righteous justifications. You glance and--yes, he is, but there's something darker, something you’d forgotten, underneath. Your stomach suddenly feels loaded with weights and your legs move backwards, pulling you away from him, away from the anger that feels like it's radiating off him in waves.

He suddenly grips your chin with brutal force and yanks your jaw forward, forcing you to look at him.

"I had to kill one of my most trusted men today because of your..." His eyes dart back and forth for a moment, before he spits out the apparently perfect description of your escape attempt. "Hysteria. An absolute waste of potential, all because of your ridiculousness."

Your mouth is dry. Your voice is hoarse. But you speak up, anyway. You've already lost everything.

"It's not ridiculous to want to get out of here."

The weight of the years seems to press down on your shoulders, pounding into your bones, screaming in your ears.

"It's not ridiculous to--to want to take my daughter away from the man who kidnapped me and forced me to pretend like I was happy here, like I was happy living in some--" you cough, needing moisture, but not daring to stop to swallow lest you lose your courage. "--glorified dollhouse while you tell me what to do and what to wear and how to act and when to fuck you and when to have a baby and fuck you, fuck you, just fuck you Kai. I hate you. Oh I fucking hate you."

You don't notice as your voice gets louder, emboldened by the adrenaline that's been crashing through you since you opened the bedroom door, until his hand is gripping your upper arm in a show of brute, vise-length strength.

"Lower. your. voice."

His grip strengthens until you cry out, and then it gradually loosens without letting you go completely.

For the next few moments, you do nothing but stare at one another. Your mind feels hazy, darting from thought to thought. It was all for nothing. The last four years, all for nothing. But you think about your daughter, about what she may have been able to accomplish outside of these walls, and even the fantasy of a free life for her made it worth something--didn't it?

It's his voice that lowered, now, as he lets you go completely and straightens himself up. All business now. But what business will he engage in, this time?

"Perhaps you do need a vacation," he says, finally. Firmly. He's made a decision.

You wonder if he's lost his mind and you're about to ask as much before he continues.

"Did you know this house has a secret room? It's nice and quiet. The perfect place for you to recuperate until you've regained your senses."

The room, the room, the room.

Your hand instinctively claps against your mouth as you cry out.

After all, you don't want to wake your daughter up with your screams.

#yandere overhaul #yandere chisaki kai #yandere x reader #overhaul x reader #afterwitch writes

527 notes · View notes

author-k · 4 years

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Clueless Together

Levi Ackerman x Reader

Summary: The reader is clueless about their feelings towards Levi until Hanji points it out to the reader. (gender-neutral)

Even though you always seemed to be at each other's throats, in some weird way Levi found it comforting to be around you even though he found your attitude and witty remarks annoying. However today you were unusually quiet and it put him on edge.

No matter the order or chore he gave you, you had obediently complied without a single complaint and a dazed expression, you had also been avoiding eye-contact. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask what was bothering you.

he was seated in his office, you seated across from him helping him out with some paperwork. The air was quiet the only sound meeting their ears were that of pens scribbling and papers being flipped over. This was new and much different to the loud and bubbly atmosphere you brought wherever you went.

He finally decided to speak “ Cat got your tongue today?” he didn’t need to look up at you to know you had thrown a glare in his direction, “you're quiet today”, his eyes still turned toward the papers in front of him as he spoke to you. “ are you trying to provoke me?” you answered curtly, the venom dripping from your tone almost unnoticeable. He knew you better than that and he knew that even if you weren’t entirely yourself today there were things about that would never change.

“ you’re just acting out of character is all.” he played off his concern like he wasn’t interested but in reality, he was trying to understand why you were behaving this way. “why? miss my witty attitude? afraid you’ll never find someone to challenge your sarcasm?” you smirked at him.

your subtle flirting wasn’t new either and occasionally you'd throw in a flirty comment now and then but with your current state today he honestly wasn’t expecting it. Levi was very good at controlling his emotions and although he never gave in to your flirting he couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it.

“of course not, its been peaceful” he brushed off your comment. you narrowed your eyes at him, him not making eye-contact before continuing with your assigned duties. An awkward silence had fallen between you two but it seemed Levi was the only one who was affected by it.

you continued to work in silence until the sun began to set turning the sky an orange hue. Levi had dismissed you for the night and he was left alone in his office to gather his thoughts. Yet even with all that thinking he still couldn’t understand what could be wrong with you, it was like you had changed overnight.

He let out a frustrated sigh and decided to take a walk to clear his head. On his way back however he noticed you from afar having a serious conversation with Hanji, although he couldn’t hear what you were saying, from what he knew about you there was no doubt you were complaining about something.

You and Hanji spent a lot of time together it wasn’t even farfetched to say you two were best friends. He knew you confided in Hanji a lot more then you confided in him, so he wouldn’t be surprised if they knew things about you that he didn’t. It made him quite nervous, he was afraid that Hanji might have accidentally told you about his fondness for you, he didn’t want to cause complications.

You had suddenly gasped raising your hands in defence and shaking your head and rushed off to bed. The event puzzled him, had he done something wrong? He eventually decided that he wasn’t going to figure out what was wrong with you tonight and he’ll just ask you tomorrow.

The previous night's thoughts went out the window when he saw you the next morning, he greeted you as usual but when he turned to you, you made an expression he’d never seen you make.

Your cheeks were dusted pink and your eyes were glued to the floor as you quietly returned the greeting. Genuinely concerned for your health he took a step towards you and placed the back of his hand against your forehead to check your temperature. “ are you sick?” he asked concerned. It would explain the sudden change in your behaviour but your cheeks only reddened at his actions. Even more flustered then before you knocked his hand away from your forehead “n- n- no” you were a stuttering mess. unsure how to react or handle the situation you bolted out the door leaving him more confused then yesterday.

He hadn’t seen or heard from you all day. Even if he didn’t show it he was worried about you and your lack of communication with him was pissing him off. Anybody who came into contact with him was either death-glared or reprimanded.

While he was doing training drills with the newer scouts you and Hanji passed by his field of vision, he quickly issued them with laps and went in the direction he last saw you. He was fed up with the current situation. Just as he was about to turn the corner he heard you talking to who he presumed to be Hanji. He wasn’t one for eavesdropping and he never really cared what you two spoke about but he just wanted to understand what in the world was going on.

“What do I do now Hanji...?” you wined causing him to roll his eyes, this was so typical of you always causing trouble and then wining about the consequences. “ well what exactly is going on?” his assumption correct when he heard Hanji’s voice. “ I don’t know Hanji ever since you said that ridiculous thing to me last night I get this weird feeling around Levi, I feel this anxious feeling in my chest and I feel really hot but I don't have a fever” Hanji’s chuckle rang through his ears and his heart rate picked up. “ You have feelings for shorty” “ Jeez Hanji!” you began to shush them “Not so loud if people hear you they’ll spread rumours” Levi was shocked beyond compare his thoughts were messy and his mind jumped into every scenario under the sun “ Are you sure is not a heart condition or something because...” the conversation seemed to continue but he didn’t stay to hear anymore as he was sure him being the topic of that conversation wasn’t meant for his ears.

Later that day when the sun was just about ready to start setting. A knock on his door pulled Levi’s attention away from the paperwork he was drowning his thoughts out with. “come in” he muttered. He was astonished to see you slip into the room, he didn’t expect to see at all for the rest of the day.

You awkwardly stood quite a distance from his desk. He put his pen down to focus on you. he vividly remembered Hanji’s words from earlier and grimaced at the distasteful nickname they'd given him.

He spoke first as it didn’t seem you were going to say anything anytime soon. “ where were you today ?” he questioned his eyes trained on you as you looked everywhere except him.

You took a deep breath before answering “ The doctors... turns out I may have an underlying heart condition” you nervously laughed. He stared at you deadpanned not sure if you were being serious or trying to be funny. Either way your words warmed his heart and he’d never let you know but he had the same underlying heart condition except you were the root of his.

#levi ackerman #aot #snk #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #hanji #hange zoe #hanji zoë #hange #levi attack on titan #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #levi imagine #levi fanfiction

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yelenasdog · 4 years

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𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 (𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐖𝐈 𝐁𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: wherever they go, it seems they can’t escape each other

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6.09k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smoking, drinking, kissing, getting ~steamy~, but nothing explicit.

𝐚/𝐧: this kinda feels melodramatic at times, but over all i think this is an alright fic that took me forever LOL! i hope you enjoy it! btw,

this can be read as ben!rog or just rog, i just was thinking of ben!rog when i wrote it

also if u wanna listen to kiwi while listening, the vibes would be immaculate and i reccomend it :D kk enjoy

✺🎬✺

Her footsteps were mute as she padded forward on the concrete, searching furiously through her crochet bag. The box in her hands stayed tightly gripped though, Roger noted. He waited a bit until he was certain she had no chance of finding what he thought she was looking for, and that he would be her last resort.

“Need a light?”

He watched with careful eyes as the girl next to him fumbled about to pick out a cigarette from the nearly emptied box, probably just some cheap ones from the gas station near the dorms.

“Yes, thanks.”

The brunet nodded, bringing his forward to her’s and inhaling, a few loose embers falling to the ground in a sparkling orange flurry.

Roger observed the way her chipped nails on ring adorned fingers shakily held the cigarette as she brought it to her lips, taking a very long drag.

It was windy out that night (which was the reason he was telling himself he decided not to bother with his Zippo), her silky black dress doing barely a thing to keep her covered from the chilly temperatures. He noticed the blue tint to her formerly painted lips, only a pale stain of color left behind. He also happened to notice the goosebumps that graced her exposed arms and legs, and her slight shiver that came with it.

The girl nervously adjusted the twisted strap to her purse, sending a glance in Rog’s direction every once in a while, but mostly she kept her gaze fixed on the stars above. She seemed to be mesmerized by the way they twinkled so brightly, even in the polluted sky. The bottles of liquor in her purse clinked together, and she cringed visibly at the sound, a shiver being sent through her bones.

He smiled at her behavior, oddly endeared by it, perhaps even enchanted.

“What’s your name?”

She turned, taking the stick from between her lips. Roger kept his eyes glued to the plump flesh momentarily despite the movement away from the area.

“That’s none of your business, Roger.” She smiled, a playful look set ablaze in her eyes.

He looked down, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“How do you know my name, then?” He questioned curiously, slanting his eyes and quirking a brow.

“Your band.” Her voice seemed softer, almost a fond tone set within it.

“You’ve seen us play?”

“Yeah, you guys are good.”

“You’re a fan then?”

She chuckled, looking to her feet.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

He laughed, nodding yet again.

They stayed together for some time, silently and mutually agreeing that enough had been said. They finished off their smokes, and with that, she turned to go.

“Bye, Roger.”

He bit his lip, feeling the sting shoot through him. He was conflicted on if to make a move, not wanting to diminish his confident and cool reputation he believed he had built for himself. He settled for shouting something along the lines of “will I see you around?” (which upon thinking back over it, maybe it wasn’t that cool), to which she only shrugged and kept walking.

He could hear the bottles loudly clanking together as she sauntered off, lord knows where to. He watched her go until she turned the corner, tossing one final look in his direction before continuing on, leaving him in deep thought.

“I’m telling you, mate, she was drop dead gorgeous. And I have no idea who she is, no name or anything!”

Brian rolled his eyes, tossing his notebook across the room onto the yellow sofa Roger was resting on, turning his full attention to his distraught friend.

“Well, did you ask her for her name?”

He shook his head, rolling his eyes in a similar manner to Bri. “Yes, I did. She said it was ‘none of my business’.” He scoffed, twirling a single drumstick between his fingers while tapping his foot repeatedly, annoying Brian to no end (per usual). The curly headed man only barked out a laugh, finding the entire situation quite humorous, if he was being honest.

“But she knew the band! Said that she thought we were good. S’ like she couldn’t make up her damn mind.” He grumbled, slumping forward.

“Wait, she knows the band?”

The drummer looked at him like he had two heads nodding slowly.

“Yeah, what about it?”

Brian stood up and sighed, grabbing his guitar and headed to the edge of the bar’s stage, resting behind the curtain briefly.

“You really are thick, Roger.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” He joined him by the curtain, noticing Tim had come up behind the pair.

“What’s all this about, then?”

“Nothing.” Brian and Roger replied in unison. Tim huffed, making his way onto the stage where the growing crowd was waiting. Cheers could be heard for the frontman as he introduced himself, saying something about how the rest of the band would be out in a second, and that they were just having some “sound issues”.

“Rog, if she’s a fan, she’s probably here tonight, yes?”

His eyes widened, and he suddenly began to feel quite dumb, not that he would admit it.

“Yeah, I suppose so…but she said she wasn’t a fan?” He trailed off, confused.

“She probably was just saying that for some reason. I don’t know, women are odd, they like to play hard to get.” Brian commented, oddly flippant for how conflicting his statement was.

Roger stood in place for a moment, still greatly confused what Brian was trying to get at. He shook his head and furrowed his brows, trying to put together the puzzle of this mess in his mind.

“Roger, for God's sake, don’t think about it, just go.”

Following his advice, Roger did his best to disregard any previous thoughts of confusion, a switch flipping in his mind. He stood taller, saying, “You know what Bri, maybe you’re right.”

“Great, go on then.” He watched as Roger bounded out with a newfound adrenaline and a smile plastered on his face, rolling his eyes for what wouldn’t be the final time that night at his bandmate’s antics.

As soon as he had made it behind his kit, he was scanning the crowded room, trying to locate the girl from last night. He watched the door throughout the performance, trying to see if she might have just come in a bit late. He held the hope she would somehow show up with him in his mind, but all to no avail.

The entire night, he couldn’t shake the thought of her lips from his mind, or the way the skin of her neck was so open and exposed, practically begging for him to attack it with his own lips. And with the way things were going thus far, he was sure that pretty face of her’s would be the death of him, he was certain, in fact.

“Find her?” Bri had questioned almost as soon as they had ended for the night, the lot of them now working on cleaning up.

“Nah. She never showed up.”

“I’m sorry, Rog. Maybe you’ll see her again soon, the campus isn’t that huge, you know.” Roger’s mouth formed a thin line as he raised his eyebrows, not convinced in the slightest that the situation proposed would occur.

“At this point I’m wondering if she’s even a bloody student here.” Roger grumbled, obviously no longer feeling the initial electric adrenaline of the night's performance.

Brian frowned, placing a sympathetic hand on his friend's shoulder and patting it once or twice before standing to go finish packing up.

It was later now, and the boys were finally leaving the bar, bidding their goodbyes to those around them. Roger walked out the front (in what Tim and Brian joked was a ‘moping manner’), hearing the bell jangle above his head, ringing annoyingly in his ear. The cold air hit him like an arctic breeze (or a ton of bricks, he wasn’t sure which description was more fitting). He shook his head and blinked a few times, as if that would rid his body of the frigid feeling. He sighed dramatically and pulled his corduroy jacket tighter around himself, watching as his breath made a small cloud in front of him.

“Roger?”

He turned, recognizing the voice immediately.

“Having a pity party, are you?” She giggled out, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“It’s only me, so no. Not a party.”

She “ahh”-d in understanding, her mouth forming into a sly grin. Her lips were a pale pink color that night, her eyes a bright blue shade. And similarly to the night previous, she was graced with only a brown fringed dress, her matching boots in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other.

“Then what would it be if I joined you?”

He stood in thought, tilting his head. “I think then, yeah, it would be a party.”

“Do you not get cold, ever?” He added after a beat of silence, observing her ill outfit choice for the frosty climate. She rolled her eyes, muttering out a brief “ha, ha.”

Roger couldn’t help but bite his lip, holding back a laugh.

“I do on occasion get a little bit chilly. But I like the feeling.”

He tilted his head, walking over to where she was leaning against the brick wall of the dive bar. He turned to face her, not that she noticed, putting his weight on the rough surface behind him.

“It makes me feel,” she hesitated, struggling to find the right word, although she felt it was right on the tip of her tongue.

“Alive?”

She finally met his eyes after what seemed like forever, softly nodding. To him, she looked like an angel in that moment, the street light so beautifully illuminating her locks like a halo around her. He reached a cautious hand forward, dragging it against her cheek, down to her bottom lip.

Her mind was screaming at her to leave while she still could, to somehow not fall in the mix of the infamous campus player that was Roger Taylor.

But her heart? Well, as cliche as it sounds, her heart was telling her to disregard any reasonable thoughts and just kiss the bastard, for God’s sake.

And if anyone knew Y/n Y/l/n, they knew that most times, she would listen to the latter mentioned, rather than the former. And so after several moments of unbearable silence, she decided she would. Catching on relatively fast, Roger took her flush against him, Y/n able to feel his breath fanning over her face.

She leaned forward with a small smile, placing her hands on either side of his face. Her eyes wandered to his plump and rosy lips, adrenaline pumping through her veins. But before she could make the final leap, so to say, Brian, of all people, called out her name in a confused nature, squinting, believing that it might have been his eyes deceiving him. The girl from his 9 a.m. lecture could not possibly be about to snog his bandmate.

Impossible.

Her eyes widened, head turning immediately when hearing her name fall from his lips.

“Brian, hey!”

“Wait, you two know each other?”

Ignoring Roger’s (panicked) question, Brian walked over, a look of amazement still prevalent in his features. She moved from Roger’s side over to Brian, giving him a side hug, Bri’s arm resting on her shoulders.

“I see you’ve met Y/n. She’s in my astronomy class.”

She smiled brightly as the neon signs lining the downtown district of bars and restaurants alike, meeting Brians gaze.

“Yup, got to love Dr. Martin’s lectures.” She chuckled, the tall man next to her doing the same.

Picking up on Roger’s absolutely bewildered appearance, still taking in the situation unfolding in front of him, Brian took the liberty of initiating another conversation.

“So, Y/n, did you see the show tonight?”

She frowned, crossing her arms.

“Wanted to, but no, got caught up in the library. I have my final for statistics on Thursday, or else I would have been there.” She locked eyes with Roger, giving him a soft smile. Suddenly changing her demeanor, she reached into her bag she always seemed to have with her, pulling out those cheap cigarettes and her Zippo. She lit one of the sticks, inhaling.

“In fact, I heard your drummer was incredible, so I thought I would try to see him in action tonight.” Her gaze never left Rogers as she conversed, her mouth pressed in a line, the rest of her face completely neutral.

“But you’ve seen us before Y/n, he’s been with the band for quite some time.”

“I mean, I wanted to see him with a fresh pair of eyes, a different perspective, I guess.”

Still mildly confused, Brain shook his head and muttered something like “Right, okay” to which Y/n softly smiled at before dropping the cigarette from her hand. Barefoot, she couldn’t reach down to step on it, have the sparks die out under her toes.

“Could one of you get that, please?”

Roger nodded immediately, his boot finding its way quickly, the toe of it making a circular motion. His eyes stayed on Y/n, as had hers before. And despite the bustling city around them, Hell, even despite Brian’s perplexed stare, it felt oddly intimate, as if they were locked onto each other’s view (not that they were complaining).

But they weren’t, as she proved mere seconds later, abruptly bidding them goodbye and heading the opposite direction.

The pair of boys watched her as she went, heads tilted and jaws dropped to where if their mothers were present, they would be scolded to “close their mouths before they catch flies in there!”.

“That’s her, you know.” Roger commented bluntly, slightly shaking his head and then popping his lip.

Brian took a moment, turning toward his friend, stuttering.

“As in, her, her? Y/n is mystery girl?” He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah, well, good luck with that, Rog.”

“Why would I need that, Brian?” He challenged, putting his hands on his hips, lifting his chin. Brain kept his assumed position, moving his hand to scratch at his neck.

‘Well, I’m sure if you hang out around her enough, you’ll find out.”

Rather than shouting out at him, asking him what the Hell he meant, as he really wanted to, Roger paid Bri no attention, not even giving him a second look before under his breath saying “I’ll see you later”, and in what Brian considered to be a quite shocking turn of events, bolting off in the direction Y/n had gone.

He ignored the shouts from Brian, ignored the judgmental stares and loud whispers of those who recognized him from the band. He no longer cared about keeping his ‘cool reputation’, not when she was so close.

“Is that Roger Taylor?”, “Oi, isn’t that the drummer from the band at the pub?”, “Hey, why’s he buggin’ out?” all flooded his ears, usually followed by what seemed to be snickering, making a desperate attempt to cloud his mind from his self-assigned mission. But it was no use, as he was set on catching up to her. In fact, she was so close he swore he could smell the mixed scent that was uniquely her, smoke and her perfume.

He hollered her name, God, he yelled it till his throat was hoarse, just ‘cause he could. He loved the way it rolled off his tongue, he loved the fact he even had learned it to begin with, and that alone was probably why he adored it so much.

She heard his cries, turning where she stood and tilting her head.

“Roger? What on Earth are you doing?”

He finally met her, bent over on his hands and knees, breath lost in totality. She placed a concerned hand on his sweaty head, combing through his chocolate locks. He would have shivered at the feeling, if he had the energy. Rather, he looked up with the goofiest smile she’d ever seen, resembling a golden retriever, or german shepherd perhaps, in human form.

‘D’you wanna go somewhere with me? Hang out a bit?”

She nodded, holding out a hand.

“Lead the way.”

“Mom and Dad want me to be some kind of a scientist, study the stars.”

“Yeah? And what do you think about that.”

She tilted her head, shifting her position.

“I’m not quite sure. I wouldn’t be against it, that I know. The stars are beautiful, but they aren’t where my heart lies, I guess.”

He turned to face her, their noses almost touching. She could feel his breath fanning over her face, and the proximity sent butterflies through her stomach.

“I want to be an actress.” She all but whispered, turning her attention back to the full night sky and the wonders that hung in it.

“An actress, huh?”

She only hummed a confirmation, moving her left hand to pick at the cool grass under her palms.

“I could see that. You, I mean, on the big screens.”

She turned, and Roger swore he had never seen anyone smile so big before in his life.

“Really?”

His own smile grew, and she nodded vigorously, the two of them beginning to laugh. He pulled her closer by her shoulders, unaware of where the conversation would lead.

“I’ll go to New York. You’ll see me on billboards in Times Square.”

“Well, that’s nice to know. I’ll just be a lone dentist somewhere, while you forget all about me, having lavish parties and such. Whatever it is that famous people do.” His voice was obviously joking, melodramatic was written all over him, yet Y/n couldn’t help but still feel a sliver of guilt.

She hit his arm, rolling back over to face him. She still had a smile glued onto her lips, both of their eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Oh, shut up, will you? Smile will make it big, and we’ll meet again, when you’re on tour. Or perhaps if I’m filming where you’re performing! We’ll have those nights to ourselves, It’ll be a secret rendezvous.”

She turned to her back again, finding his hand on the damp green, her heart beating a million miles a second as she reached for it, slowly entangling her fingers in his.

“The papers will write about us, Rog, when they find out. ‘Famous actress Y/n Y/l/n seen leaving a hotel with renowned drummer Roger Taylor’ is what the headlines will say. God, what a scene we’ll cause.” Her eyes were full of excitement as she spoke, her heart feeling like it was so filled with glee that it could soar out of her chest.

“Well, I wanna know the specifics.” Roger sat up, pulling her up with him, she giggled, and the brunette wrapped a hand around her waist. She sat beside him, the streetlight by the backroad she had led them on illuminating her like a silhouette. She bit her lip and grinned, tilting her head up to better exam Rogers angelic features.

“Are you gonna have some bloke waiting for you at home, hmm? Waiting for you while you conquer the world, only for you to break his poor heart?”

“Nah.” Her answer was immediate, her eyes honest as she spoke. “Only a cactus. He’ll be my only friend. I hear it’s lonely in Hollywood, Roger.” He raised his eyebrows briefly at this, choosing his next words.

“You’ll have me?”

His head turned to look at her, admiring the way the pale moonlight illuminated her, the artificial light from the streetlamps not doing her neverending beauty and justice, in his opinion. Their eyes seemed sporadic, searching each other's faces for signs of what they were doing, possibly being wrong, but they found nothing, as expected.

The yearning had become all too much for the inspired pair, and it felt like at last, all they could do, the only thing they could do, was kiss.

So they did. Roger took her face in his hands, closing his beautiful eyes, his eyelashes barely brushing against hers. He leaned forward, joining them together, finding that they immediately moved in a perfect synchronization. They were like two sides of the same coin, and that seemed to be particularly evident in that moment. By the contrast of their lips, or perhaps the aspirations of their careers becoming somehow just a little bit clearer.

But it didn’t matter, none of it did. Not in the long run. So they pulled apart, chests heaving and faces painted with childish grins.

It was quiet then, only the crickets and the howling wind could be heard. But she liked it that way, preferred it, actually. So quiet, in fact, that Roger was able to fall fast asleep, Y/n lying comfortably in his arms. She stared at the stars, then back to his sleeping figure, her mind unable to come to a consensus on what on God's green Earth she was to do.

She settled for placing a kiss on his jaw, closing her eyes. His eyes only fluttered, never waking completely. She muttered something like “See you, rockstar.” against it, before standing up and walking away, only turning back once to see his sleeping form one more time.

That was the last time for 6 years that he would see Y/n Y/l/n. See her in person, at least.

When he woke up the next morning, he was confused to say the least, wondering why Y/n didn’t wake him, mostly wondering where she had even gone. He looked around himself, patting the green grass beneath him, as if she somehow was invisible and he had missed her upon initial glance. He had shouted for her, his throat still hurting from when he did the same thing only 12 hours previous.

He had felt out of control, like the one he had been chasing had just slipped through his fingers (which it had). He had remembered asking Bri, day after day, if he had seen her in class, even just seen her around in general. Everytime the answer was the same.

“No Roger”, “I’m sorry, Roger”, “Not today, Roger”. It was a horrible, predictable pattern, that he had enough of. He was supposed to recover from it quickly, bounce back from her almost immediately, as there was basically nothing to bounce back from.

But he couldn’t, and due to such reasons, he supposed he finally understood what Brian had said, or warned, that night before he had gone chasing after her. He got it, in his own sad way.

And over the years, she slowly faded to the back of the drummer's mind, behind groupies, and songs, and shows, and such, just for her to resurface again any time he saw her on a billboard, just as she had promised. But he never let it show, outwardly at least.

He had made Brian swear not to tell the others, never to breathe a word of it to Deaky or Fred. He was embarrassed by it, for some reason, and that’s why he guessed he forbade him from speaking of it. But how long can you keep a silly college secret from your nosy bandmates? Apparently 6 years, tops, for Roger Taylor.

“Alright, everyone. Gather ‘round, I’ve got a surprise.” Freddie had said, his grumbling bunch of friends tired from their day’s work. Though, they usually had grown to appreciate and look forward to Fred’s “surprises”, today everyone was just a tad bit too grumpy to try (a certain Roger Taylor in particular, let’s call it foreshadowing).

“Oh, stop your moaning and whining, please, I promise this will be good!” the eccentric frontman had said, something hidden behind his back in his left hand.

Rog ran a hand through his, now, blond hair, exhaling in such a way that made Freddie slant his eyes, before giving in and rolling them at his flippant behavior.

“What’s going on, Fred?” Brian had been the brave soul to ask, stepping forward and then looking away momentarily to place his guitar onto a stand waiting not so far away.

“I thought you’d never ask.” He replied, jumping down from his place on the risers, removing his hand from his back and holding out what seemed to be 4 tickets to something. He walked down the loosely formed line of men, putting one in each of their extended palms. Roger, at the end of their formation of sorts, became concerned when Brian had burst out laughing, looking to his right, being met with Roger’s face of confusion.

Freddie, possibly more confused than Roger, pressing the piece of thick paper into his hand, his gaze falling onto Brian, who now had tears in his eyes.

“Bri, what’s so… funny. Shit.” He had looked down to the slip, the only words he needed to read to know he was absolutely screwed, being “Jaws” and “Premiere”.

Now, anybody who knew anything, knew that Y/n Y/l/n was going to be in the film that was said to become the blockbuster of the summer, playing the role of Ellen Brody (though a few had said she was far too young for the job). She had been an overnight success in the film industry, gaining popularity from the 1973 film, ‘The Sting’, playing Billie.

And Roger had watched ‘The Sting’, and you can imagine his surprise when Y/n had sauntered onto screen, red lipped and fresh faced. (He had to admit, she looked great in a suit.)

After that, the assault on Roger’s fragile heart was never ending.

Billboards began to pop up even more frequently as she was to star in more films, and it seemed no matter where he was touring, he couldn’t escape her. Whether it was posters, her face printed on newspapers, adverts in about every place business was done for one of her films, he felt like he was being followed. He had even seen an article about her in a magazine, and when he had flipped the page he was greeted with Queen’s smiling faces.

He had stopped watching them after ‘American Graffiti’.

So, he figured that this one wouldn’t be any different, and he simply planned on ignoring said film until he caved, doing his best to avoid her on the silver screen and anywhere else, which hadn’t been too difficult until this point (not).

But this? This was a whole new level of being royally fucked.

“Brian, Rog, something you want to share with the rest of the class?” John had asked, cocking his head and propping his legs up on the coffee table in front of him. Brian began to speak, wrapping an arm around Roger’s shoulders, the shorter man looking up at him with angry fire burning in his eyes.

“Well, I’m honestly quite excited. The film industry has always seemed very intriguing, actually, and I’m looking forward to meeting new people. Rog?”

“No.”

“No?” John repeated, “No, what?” He waved a hand around, trying to understand what Roger’s problem was.

“I just- I don’t- I knew-”

“Roger had a fling with Y/n Y/l/n and she broke his heart.” Brain blurted out, Roger turning and immediately smacking him upside his curly head of hair. He regarded an “Ouch!” before him and the rest of the boys burst out laughing, the drummer not included in that demographic, fuming.

“Rog, darling, when was this? How did we not know?” Freddie managed to breathe out, sitting down next to Deaky on the studio sofa. He crossed his hands and ankles, his full attention turned towards Roger who really, really didn’t wanna have to do this, and who really, really was gonna get Brian back for this later. Would he untune all his guitars? Unplug his amp during rehearsals, perhaps put hair remover in his shampoo? But, that would have to wait until after he was forced to spill his 6 year secret.

“It was in 69-”

“69?!” Freddie had cried out. “It’s been 6 bloody years? And you didn’t think to tell us?”

“Well I didn’t really see a reason it would be necessary to tell you all! In fact, I probably wouldn’t have told you ever if this bloke didn’t have such a big mouth!”

“Hey, watch it.” Brian weighed in, crossing his arms and fluttering his eyes.

“Look, Roger I really don’t see the issue here. We go to the premiere, you just keep a low profile and ignore Y/n, problem solved.” John cut in, trying to be helpful.

Keyword: trying.

“And how exactly will I do that?”

“We will behave, I promise.” Freddie added, though Roger seemed to be having a difficult time believing him or his claim for the others. So Roger only scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will.”

Cameras were flashing brightly, reporters and such were shouting loudly, and Y/n was already exhausted.

Her red lips were painted like DeAngelo had done it himself, and her hair was styled just the way she liked. The heels she was wearing per request of her stylist, though, were horrible. They looked lovely, yes, but they were digging into her poor ankles, and she still had to wear them for who knew how long. She didn’t complain, though, she wouldn’t dream of it.

She would just continue her slow walk down the carpet, a sultry smile on her face. The black fabric of the gown she was wearing fit her beautifully, snug in all the right places.

She sure hoped it was, at least. Especially because she knew that he would be there.

Roger Taylor, the blessed drummer that managed to make a home in the backburner of her mind, his success coming as no surprise to the actress. She had loved every one of their records, and rather than running from his work like Roger had, she opted for going straight to the record shop, purchasing any and every Queen album in her sight. When she had checked out, the very shocked cashier had made some remark, asking something about “you a fan?”

She had thought about it for a moment, thinking back to all those years ago when Roger had asked the same thing. She smiled, shrugging.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

So when she had worked up the courage to invite the entire band to the premiere (on behalf of Spielberg, of course) she was a nervous wreck to find out they had accepted. Really, ask anyone who had any contact with her in the time from then to the premiere, they could testify that her moodiness had risen like a hot air balloon.

Now, though, she was kind of regretting that she had invited them, looking over to the sharp looking bunch, all dressed to the nines. She scanned her eyes over them, catching a wave from Brian, which she gladly returned with an enthusiastic smile. Bri then tapped Roger on the shoulder to alert him of Y/n’s acknowledgment, which resulted in Y/n’s eyes widening to the size of moons.

She turned her head, and worked to finish up her walk of the carpet just a tad bit faster. It all seemed to be for nothing, though, as in the dark of the theater for the premiere itself, she saw the seat next to her be filled, a presence filling her senses.

“Miss me?”

Their hands were all over each other, not truly caring if the tabloids caught a glimpse, just needing to make up for lost time.

They had stumbled into the golden hotel both her and Queen were staying in, the swinging doors of the New York establishment blowing a cool gust of wind in their direction.

They merely laughed at the minor interruption, their teeth clashing as they both smiled momentarily. It was soon forgotten, though, both of them having much more pressing matters in their minds.

They only came to a cease in the elevator, some old couple who most definitely did not care about whatever pressing issue the two of them felt they had, standing off to the side. (Y/n could swear she saw the older woman smirk and wink at her, to which she cocked her head and smiled.)

Once back into the safe confines of Y/n’s suite, they resumed like they had never even stopped, hands gravitating towards the others form as if they were opposite magnets, unable to be separated for too long.

“You’ve driven me crazy, you know that, right? “

She giggled and bit her lip, looking up into his eyes, their foreheads pressed together.

“Mmm? I’d hope so.”

He pulled away, shaking his head, blond locks following suit.

“Really, you have no idea. I haven’t been able to shake you from my head. You’re everywhere.”

Her excitement could barely be contained at his confession of sorts, chest heaving, trying to stay calm.

“Yeah, that was the plan.”

Roger shook his head with a dry chuckle, looking to his feet and back to her when she had tilted his head up, her finger resting on his jaw.

“Well, are you into it?” She questioned, grabbing his hand and pulling their clasped fingers in between their chests, her eyes hazy with hope.

“Yeah.” He titled his head, feigning a pondering look. “You could say I’m kinda into it.”

“Shut it!”

“Make me.”

She rolled her eyes at his stupidly provocative suggestion, and he only laughed, the two of them falling onto the plush comfort of the bed in a meshed flurry for the remainder of the night.

And if you couldn’t guess what could have possibly happened next, the black dress ended up in a pooled up pile next to the bed that night, right next to the heels that finally she had the pleasure of discarding.

The next morning, it was unlike the one 6 years ago, as when Roger woke up, he was overjoyed to find a sleeping Y/n, laying on his chest with hair splayed around her. And he had to say, he usually wasn’t much of a cuddler, but for some reason he felt so incredibly endeared, that anything else wouldn’t have sufficed.

He ran small circles on the exposed skin of her bare shoulder, the comforter concealing the rest of her limbs that were tangled up with Roger’s.

When she stirred, Roger sat up, fondly watching as her eyes fluttered open and her tongue ran across her dried lips, still carrying a hint of last night's red pigment. She looked next to her, her eyeline matching up with the covered skin of Roger’s lap.

She sighed, shifting her head to rest on his thighs as her feet dangled off of the bed. One of Roger’s hands came up to softly massage the top of her head, the other against the headboard, behind his neck. She stared at the ceiling, an unreadable expression creeping its way to her features.

“We were jacked up last night.” Roger’s voice cut through the silence they shared, deeper in the late morning than she had heard before.

“Correction, you were jacked up.”

“Whatever.”

They laughed, silence soon taking over once again. Roger sighed, closing his ever tired eyes.

“Are we gonna pay for this?”

She scoffed, inhaling deeply before reaching over to the nightstand, grabbing her carton of cigarettes. He noticed they were the same brand from college, a small smile making its way to his face at the thought.

She first lit hers, then lighting a second one for the man occupying her king sized bed (though she wasn’t even slightly upset by this, quite the opposite). She handed it to him, sticking her own between her lips and sitting up, straddling where her head had been minutes before.

She leaned forward, so close their noses were to the point where they were nearly touching. She took the cigarette from her lips, blowing the smoke to the left of Rog in the direction of the large balcony overlooking Times Square. She turned her attention back to him, though it had never really left, tilting her head.

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” The answer came immediately, no careful consideration or pondering needed.

“Right.” She removed herself from him, standing and taking the sheet with her, letting it cover her like a renaissance dress. She walked over to the balcony, leaning against the frame of the double doors. She took another drag, an adoring smile spreading across her face.

“Then there’s your answer.”

She paused, Roger tilted his head, his brows lifting.

“Of course we will.”

✺🎬✺

if u liked that hot mess pls like and rb!! mwah ily go eat protein and drink water if ur able. xx hj

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there-must-be-a-lock · 4 years

Text

Night Crawling

Sam x Reader

Word Count: ~3350

Warnings: Some explicit smutty goodness in a dive bar bathroom, some recreational drug use, some Sam feels.

A/N: I really thought I was going to write PWP for once. As usual, some feels snuck in. Set at some vague point in Season 5.

I’ve had the new Miley Cyrus album on repeat all day; inspiration, title, and bathroom graffiti quote all came from “Night Crawling.” Listen to that and “Gimme What I Want” if you want maximum ~atmosphere~ or whatever while reading.

“Another?” Sam asks, leaning in to make himself heard over the music. He gives me a twisted, wicked version of his usual dimpled smile. There’s a drop of tequila clinging to his lip, and I want to lick it off. He’s so close.

My head is still spinning from the last shot and from his attention. I shake it off.

“Bathroom, I’ll be back,” I tell him.

Sam’s in a fucking mood tonight. Not that I blame him. Time is ticking away, faster by the day it feels like; if Lucifer was after me, I’d take whatever escape I could get.

Dean’s at the motel, hopefully putting some ice on his twisted ankle or maybe sleeping, and normally Sam would be fussing over him like an overgrown fucking mother hen. Instead, he suggested that we go “blow off some steam,” looking at me with this glint in his eyes, like he was daring me.

So… here we are, getting fucked up in a grimy rock club, watching some Nine Inch Nails wannabes wail like a porn soundtrack over a dirty industrial bassline.

Sam fucking Winchester. Always full of surprises.

It’s one of those single-occupancy dive bathrooms where I don’t want to touch anything or, like, inhale too hard. It’s impossible to tell what color the walls originally were under the layers of concert flyers and graffiti. There’s probably enough cocaine residue on the chipped porcelain sink counter to get an elephant high. That kind of place.

He wants me almost as much as I want him, I’m pretty sure, but I never thought either of us would act on it. Too many complications, too many ways to fuck it all up… now, though? The entire world is fucked. Might as well get laid before it all goes to shit.

Two lines of red Sharpie scrawl next to the mirror grab my attention: night crawling, sky falling, gotta listen when the Devil’s calling.

Yeah. Well.

I don’t think either of us will make it out of this alive, but he doesn’t want to. That’s what this is all about, really. He started this apocalypse. He’ll never forgive himself if he lives through it. I’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t.

I wash my hands and splash some water on my cheeks, bracing myself. I can feel the chemicals kicking up my spine, now.

If Sam fucking Winchester needs to indulge his self-destructive streak and get out of his head for a night, I’ll keep him company. Fuck knows I’ll never say no to him. I’ll stay with him til the end, if he lets me.

It hits me again: this is the end. The world is about to end, and that sweet, sexy, puppy-eyed motherfucker out there is at the center of all of it. Heaven, hell, good, evil… and Sam. If tonight is what we’ve got — if this is all we’ll ever get — I’ll take it. I’ve always wanted more, but… this’ll do. It’ll have to do.

He’s slouching against the wall, right outside the bathroom hallway. He gives me this dark, hungry grin when he sees me, and maybe whatever was in that pastel blue pill is making itself known, or maybe it’s just Sam that’s sending a wave of prickly heat over my skin… either way, it feels good.

“C’mon,” he says, passing me a cup of ice water, and then he’s gripping me by the wrist, pulling me into the crowd.

Sam doesn’t dance, and he sure as hell doesn’t dance with me, but he’s not fucking around: hands on my waist, hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at me, cheeks flushed, moving with the beat. I rest my free hand on his upper arm, right where the swell of his bicep flexes against the soft cotton sleeve of his t-shirt, and I can’t help but squeeze slightly, feeling hot skin and muscle under my palm. I swallow hard.

Sam leans in closer. I can smell him, the natural scent of his sweat under the spice of his deodorant, and it’s so overwhelming that I shiver.

He gets his lips right up against my ear, the deep rumble of his voice a physical thing that I can feel as well as hear: “Ever just get sick of being yourself?”

Jesus.

“Yeah,” I mumble, mouth dry. I don’t know if he hears me but it doesn’t really matter.

“I think too much. I don’t want to think tonight. Is that okay?”

I suck in a breath. “Don’t need to explain, Sam. I get it.”

“Yeah?” he asks, heavy-lidded, golden skin shining with sweat in the flecks of light coming off the disco ball. “Dance with me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Sam, anything you want.”

I toss back the cup of water, gulping it down, too eager; some of it trickles down my chin. I don’t care. I drop the cup and run my hand up Sam’s chest. His eyes flutter closed and he licks his lips, sinful, gorgeous. For a moment I think he might say something but instead he spins me around and hauls me closer, my back to his chest.

The song is filthy, all thudding funk hooks and wild drums. There’s this frantic heat behind it that has me sinking under the surface, swimming through the riff, and the pulse of it wriggles down my spine and works itself out through my hips as I toss my head. It’s the kind of rhythm that’s made for sweating all over a stranger.

Sam might as fucking well be a stranger right now. I never knew he could move like this.

His hips swivel and twist, and his hands slide down to my thighs, pinning me against the solid muscled heat of his body. I feel reckless. I feel high and overstimulated and utterly fearless, and I can feel his touch echoing through me, inside me, throbbing down my belly to where I’m empty and suddenly aching.

As soon as I think about it, the emptiness hits me hard. My cunt is clenching around nothing in time with the gritty slap of percussion. I arch my back and rub myself against Sam shamelessly.

He’s hard against my ass, hard and getting harder with every shrieking lick of guitar, and the awareness of it sends a thrill down through the core of me, like a bolt of lightning striking between my legs. My breath catches and hisses out of my lungs like I’m a punctured balloon. I feel dizzy.

It’s all so intense right now. Every inch of my skin is fizzing, and the simple curl of his fingers around my wrist has me shuddering like he’s stroking something much more intimate.

On any other night I would try to step back, to get myself under control… I’d start thinking, and I wouldn’t be able to stop, and I’d get stuck in my head instead of giving in to the mind-blowingly intimate thrill of his fingertips pressing into my pulse.

We’re not thinking tonight. I couldn’t think straight even if I wanted to.

The beat changes, segueing into something low and slinking and goddamn obscene. I’m dripping with sweat — mine or Sam’s? I can’t tell — and my skin is on fire, and I want Sam in this awful, all-consuming way that I’ve never wanted anything or anyone.

So I don’t think about it; I just turn, twisting in his arms until we’re face to face, or rather, face to chest. He’s biting his lip, expression almost pained as he grips my waist and slots a thigh between mine. I snake my arms around his neck and roll my hips, feeling the seam of my jeans dragging up the sensitive spot between my legs, and I’m absurdly grateful for the way the music drowns out any embarrassing noise I might make.

There’s a drop of sweat sliding down the corded muscle of his neck. It trickles to a glittering halt right at eye level, in the hollow of his throat, and I can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. I could fall down and worship whatever god invented the v-neck.

I don’t fall to my knees, but I do lean forward and taste his skin. Salt floods my tongue.

Sam’s hand runs up my back, cups the nape of my neck, and he doesn’t so much guide me as yank, tilting my head to meet the rough urgent sting of his teeth and the soft slide of his tongue. I groan into his mouth, and his hands flatten at the small of my back, pulling me impossibly closer. I want to shove myself against him until I can burrow under his skin.

His mouth. He nips and sucks and explores, lips on mine with crushing force one second, whisper-sweet the next.

I’m melting. I must be melting.

I hold on for dear life, delirious, drunk on the way he’s kissing me. I’ve imagined this before, but I never imagined it like this.

We’re still dancing, or something like it anyway; his hips swivel, and I rut against him, my entire body throbbing with animalistic need. Sam shifts his weight, grinding against me, and I can feel the fat stiff length of him right up against my center. I whimper, desperate and wanton.

One hand slides up my back, around my ribs, up, until he can trace the curve of my breast with his thumb and then pinch my nipple through my bra. When I buck against him, he does it again. My knees don’t want to support me any more.

I’m a half-second away from coming just like this. I’m shaking.

“The fuck are we doing?” Sam says roughly. He nips my earlobe.

“Not thinking, remember?” I snap, and then I’m stumbling back, almost falling, tugging him by the wrist as I start to weave through the crushing press of bodies. My heart is pounding. Everything blurs together. My skin feels too cold without him all over it.

There’s one open bathroom, no line, no reason to hesitate. The heavy door closes behind us and the deadbolt slides home with a metallic echoing thud.

He’s already crowding me back, hands on my cheeks, tip of his nose brushing mine. I grab at the front of his shirt, fingers twisting in the sweat-damp fabric. My ass hits the counter and I surge up clumsily to kiss him. The angle’s off; our teeth clack together.

We laugh and fit ourselves back together, bodies like puzzle pieces in that fucking song Sam would never admit he loves, and I could cry with relief at the way he feels under my hands. I can feel him breathing, the harsh rise and fall of his chest, and I can feel the heat of him, blood and sweat and bone, solid and real and here and mine, at least for tonight.

He fumbles with the button of my jeans and kisses me like he’s drowning. Then he curls two long fingers up and into me, grinding the heel of his hand against my clit. I lean back, heels skidding on the dirty tile as I try to brace myself and rock my hips up all at once.

“Need you to fuck me,” I bite out, remarkably steady considering the way I’m trembling.

“You gonna regret this tomorrow?” Sam asks. He twists his fingers, knuckles stretching me open, so good my eyes roll back in my head.

Tomorrow… we’re not going to think about tomorrow.

“Might regret waiting this long,” I groan. Understatement of the century.

“You ‘n me both. You sure?” He’s staring down at me and he looks wrecked: pupils blown, lips swollen, hair clinging to his temples where his skin is streaked with sweat.

“Do you feel how close I am?” I grab his wrist with one hand, holding him there, fucking myself on his fingers as I try to pull my jeans down with the other hand.

Sam’s mouth drops open and his eyes go unfocused for a second. Whatever self-control he had left is gone. He pulls his hand away, and I whine at the loss, but together we get my pants down, and I kick them off as he gets his belt open. He’s just as big as I always imagined, proportional to those sinfully long elegant fingers, and my mouth fucking waters as I watch him stroke himself.

He bites his lip, chest heaving, and tugs me up onto the very edge of the grimy sink counter. Before I can find my balance he’s right there, hooking an arm under my knee so that he can spread my legs wider, and he’s guiding the hot velvety head of his cock down my center and in, and the slick blunt pressure of it makes me claw at his back, trying to get him closer even though I can barely handle how good that first thick inch feels.

“Fuuu - unnhhhhh - fuck, Sam, I need…” I choke out, and then all I can do is pant breathlessly, incoherent, as he rocks his hips and starts to stretch me open. I’m helpless like this, no leverage to do anything but sit there and take it, and he moves so maddeningly slow that I’m going out of my skull.

“God, look at you,” he breathes. “So fucking good. Always wondered what you’d look like taking my cock. Always imagined you begging. Are you gonna beg for me?”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up and give it to me, Sam, I swear —��

“Yeah?” he growls. He grips my hips hard enough to bruise.

I wrap my legs around his waist, hooking my ankles together, leaning back on my hands, and then I can arch my back and pull him deeper, working myself onto his cock.

“Sam —” I start, but before I can say anything else he slams home, grinding in hard and fast, and my voice cracks on a stuttering, incoherent whine. It’s blindingly good. He’s steely-hard and so goddamn thick I feel like I’m about to split open, like one wrong move is going to pull me apart. His first rolling thrust sparks this wrenching wave of pressure that fills me up and shakes me down to the tips of my toes, my entire body rippling with feverish heat.

“That’s my girl,” he pants. He pulls me against him and twists up, rough and filthy, and I shudder against him, writhing, mindless and overwhelmed.

“Sam,” I choke out. My voice is high-pitched and squeaky-thin, and the next sharp thrust makes me forget whatever I was going to say beyond, “Nnnnhhhhhyesohgod.”

“There?”

“Fuck. Yes.”

He moans, low and broken, and finds that perfect spot again, grinding into it with eye-popping force.

I can feel it, pleasure cramping through me with every movement, coiling up, building around the deep throbbing ache where he’s fucking into me. I feel like a wild animal, primal and lost.

“Good girl. Fuck, feels so good.”

I clutch at his shoulders, muscles quaking, burying my face in his neck as all that white-hot pressure peaks inside me. I let out an ugly, anguished sob, can’t hold it back, and then all I can feel is the all-consuming spasm of my orgasm, tension rocketing through every inch of me, sending me out into space for a long paralyzed moment. The first pulse of it is so scary-intense that I can’t breathe, can’t control myself, can’t keep track of my own body…

Then it all comes back at once, and I’m exquisitely aware of Sam against me as he fucks me through it, hips surging forward as I squeeze around him and urge him deeper.

“Thought about this so many times,” he’s confessing, ragged and raw.

“Me too,” I gasp.

He sucks in a shaky breath, moving slower as I start to come down, and I can feel him holding back now. “Think about you so fucking much, I can’t —”

“Me fucking too, Sam.”

He kisses me, gentle in a way that could very easily destroy me.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” he whispers, forehead sweaty where it rests against mine.

“Fuck, Sam, don’t — this is —”

I feel so strange and strung-out, caught between the shivery aftershocks in my belly and the startling tenderness in his voice as he mumbles, “Wanted to take my time.”

“Sam.”

“Wanted to take my time with you,” he repeats. He moves against me with this slow, snakelike undulation. “Wanted to lay you out and kiss you everywhere and fucking worship you.”

“We can. We can — I want that.”

“Never gonna be enough,” he chokes out. “I knew — I knew, if I did this, I’d never want to stop.”

My skin is lit up with the feel of him, liquid heat gathering in my gut as my body responds to every perfect touch, but I’m afraid my ribcage is about to split open with the way my heart is hammering.

We’re in a goddamn dive bar bathroom, for fuck’s sake, and I’m fucked up, and maybe this will feel cheap and tawdry and silly in the morning, but… somehow I don’t think it will. Somehow this feels like the most important thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Why’d we wait this long?” I ask. There’s an embarrassing wobble in my voice.

“Because I’m a fucking idiot,” he grits out. “Because I was scared.” Before I can respond, he kisses me, all teeth and desperation, twisting his hips and swallowing my moan. He slides his hands under my shirt, sliding them up my back, and drags his fingernails down in trails of stinging heat. It’s pleasure and pain and fucking obliteration, and the sensory overload has me spiraling out again.

“Fuck that,” I half-laugh. My back arches and my voice breaks, and I bite his lip hard enough that I taste copper.

He groans, full-throated and shameless, and ducks his head, sinking his teeth into the sweat-slick curve of my neck. He sucks, nibbles, and it sets off fireworks behind my eyelids.

“Close, Sam. So close,” I babble, breathing harsh and heavy. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull, and I can feel him moan. “Never thought it’d feel like this. It’s — this is so much better —”

He shudders against me, lets out this long, guttural sound, and then he shifts and pounds into me harder, and all I can do is cling to him, pulling him closer like I’m never going to let go. “C’mon, then. Fuck. Tell me what you want.”

“Please, Sam. Just — please. Please.”

“I’d do anything for you,” he growls. “You know that, right?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t leave me,” I blurt out, as the unbearable tension starts to crest. “Don’t leave me, Sam. Please.”

I know he hears it. He gasps like I punched him. I can feel him jerk, twitch, fingers clawing at my back, cock twitching and swelling inside me as he starts to come. I bite down on the meat of his shoulder as I let go. My orgasm feels like it’s ripping something loose, an earthquake in my core, and I don’t trust myself not to say exactly what’s on my mind. There’s a surge of pleasure, one glowing wave of it then another, and I’m dimly aware of shuddering against Sam as he rocks into me one more time, clutching him close… as if I could get close enough to keep him here with me.

It’s impossible to be sad right now. I’m chemically incapable of sadness, still soaring high, but this is so much bigger than sadness anyway. I just feel like I’m about to break.

“That,” he says, with an ugly sound, half-laugh, half-sob. “That’s what I was afraid of. That I wouldn’t ever want to leave.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Let’s just — let’s not think about it. Okay? Can we go back to the motel and — can we do that again? Take our time?”

“Just for tonight?” he asks raggedly.

“Just for tonight. We’re not going to think about what comes next.”

He nods. We both know it’s a lie.

#sam winchester smut #sam x reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader smut #supernatural #spn fic

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latenightdecaf · 3 years

Text

Entry 6 - of light gaze and worrisome face

part of let the pile of good things grow series - series masterlist

previous entry here

Yoongi x reader

Ft. nonidol!bts

Producer!yoongi, roommate!yoongi, soft!yoongi

slow burn romance, friendship, slice of life

series of drabbles/one shots

no warnings for now

A/N: starting to get the hang of this again, it’s been a while so i’m just going where my imagination takes me. So i’ll probably be posting another one for tomorrow before the motivation leaves me. Hope you all like it.

Word count: 1,953

Pacing back and forth in the living room as you’re having this conversation with your friend and also editor, Hye Jin. Talking you out into the possibility of taking in another project that would put an indefinite pause to your own book.

“I couldn’t possibly say no, she had this whole speech on how she wanted to make this book for her baby. To read to her when she’s old enough. Words from a loving mother for her newborn child, my goodness.” You stopped and sighed. “I know, but having to accept this means also putting your book on hold, you’ve been working on that for months now—is that really something you are willing to do?” Hye Jin reminded you on the other end. You stopped on your tracks, not saying a word and just looking blankly over the view from your living room. Thinking to yourself, ‘I can’t believe it’s summer already.’

Yoongi who have just woken up and is getting himself some water in the kitchen and were just looking intently at your back not particularly eavesdropping in your conversation, but just looking. You haven’t even realized he walked in.

“I know you, you’re just running away from this. You’ve been so scared of finally publishing something that is yours and yours only. So when a small window of opportunity presents itself you immediately took the ticket to leave.” Hye Jin, your editor who has became a good friend to you throughout these years, has always been good to you—she can so easily read you, too.

“You know for someone who’s actually trying to get pregnant for months now, you don’t seem to understand her feelings. Of course, I’m just here to help.” Weak argument on your end, you know she’s right when she said that you were running away. “You’re always there to help. But what about you? You know for someone who doesn’t want to have kids. I’m surprised you’re too adamant to do this.” Her statement made you laugh. “Have you changed your mind?” She added.

“I may not want kids, but I’m not heartless.”

And those were the last phrase Yoongi heard from you as we backed to his room.

Your conversation with Hye Jin went on for a couple more minutes only to end up with some sort of a compromise.

“You’ll need minimum 3-4 months, and probably maximum 6/7 months to wrap this all up? You need to get this done more quickly. That’s my only deal.” You sighed in defeat. “I’ll try.” Ending the call and waving the white flag. You too were also not sure of what you’re getting yourself into. Is it just you running away? Or is this the small part of you feeling guilty again.

Weeks later, Yoongi’s packing up for their fishing trip that his friend, Jin insisted they would come. He felt like he has no choice but it might be good reason to go our for a change.

“Hey, I thought you said you guys were going camping? Why do you have your equipments with you… you poor corporate slave.”

He laughed at your remark. You’re still looking at his stuff all puzzled and confused by how heavy it all looks. You leaned on the kitchen counter as you watch him put his stuff out from his room.

You asked again, “Dont you think it’s a little too much? Cant you leave some stuff? Do you even have clothes in there? How bout food? Not important? Music is life?” He laughed. You’re good at making him laugh.

He finds all of your worrisome-sarcastic remarks endearing. He looked at you and said, “Look, it’s like you—you not taking your ipad everywhere you go. Or that small sketchbook you have. You draw every chance you get, you draw in the middle of lunch or while waiting for someone. And if not your ipad, you draw even on table napkins and ask the waiter for more. It’s the same for me.”

You let out a smile at his comparison.

“Okay okay, point taken mister. Point. Taken. But my ipad wont break my back—just saying.” You teasingly replied.

“Maybe i can leave some.” Looking at his bags and talking to himself as he puts some of his stuff back in his room and minutes later he’s done preparing for their camping tomorrow.

“All done?” You asked as you look over to a now somehow reduced luggage. “I’ll help you put some of it in your car.”

You carried with him some of his bags as he is the type to have everything ready before leaving.

As you walked down the stairs, just carrying the lightest possible baggage you could ever find. “You sure you have enough food in here?” Lifting the bag and shaking to hear whats inside. “I mean i know you can certainly whip anything and turn it into a meal but this looks like there’s just ramen in here.”

He finds you cute when you worry.

“We’ll do grocery tomorrow on our way, no worries.” That statement puts you at ease. You reached the ground floor and towards his car. “That sounds good. I mean—just incase the fishing thing wont work out. You know, like last time? There might be a lot of fish in the sea and then suddenly there’s none for you—i mean that in the most literal sense. Not just in women, you know—just incase.” Teasing him again and bringing up the time he went home from a fishing trip. He was so tired, they didn’t caught a single fish. And the trip was cut short and they all immediately went home. He declared then to never go with Jin again but I guess, he love that Hyung of him a lot to be packing all these for yet another fishing trip.

There’s a good sense of companionship between the two of you. The way you can always make him smile without even trying. The way you always tease him lightly. He’s known you for a while, has seen you with your friends and he knows that you’re just the warmest person—to everyone, not just to him. But it looks like something has been bothering you lately, he even offered if you wanted to go with him on their fishing trip, assuring you that Jin and Hoseok are good people and nothing bad will happen. But you respectfully declined. Not just because you don’t eat fish but because you just need some time alone. Not that Yoongi has ever been a bother to you in any way too but just alone would be nice, you thought.

Yoongi will be gone for the whole weekend and possibly be returning on Sunday afternoon. You don’t have any particular plans just work and then some more work. As soon as you’re both back into the apartment you asked, “You’re leaving tonight? At midnight?”

“Yeah around that time, why?” Yoongi confirmed.

“Nothing.”

“Are you okay?” He asked, as you stopped in front of the refrigerator to get yourself some coffee.

“Yeah, why won’t I be?”

“You do know you say that a lot.” Yoongi grabbed himself a glass and grabbed the pitcher in your hand and you just smiled. “There’s not much meat left in the fridge, couple of things are missing too. You want me to go to grocery before I leave?” Leaning in the kitchen sink and drinking your coffee. You let out a deep sigh unknowingly. “No, I’ll go. Don’t worry.” You left your empty glass onto the sink. “I’m just saying, I can go if you’re not up for it.” You shake your head to reassure him, “I don’t mind, okay? I’m going to be fine.” You walked passed him as you went to your room.

Yoongi definitely knows that something’s been bothering you for days. He doesn’t want to pry, if you don’t want to talk about it. He just keeps looking at you, just in case you want to talk—these days your mind has always been elsewhere and there’s just so much work to be done.

You wanted to say goodbye before he left but you fell asleep in the middle of the evening and woke up half past one. You went outside to check and it looks like he already left. You got yourself some water from the kitchen and there’s a post-it left in the fridge that says, “Got you some groceries, call me if there’s anything.” You opened fridge and he even refilled your ice creams. You know you couldn’t have a more thoughtful cat. Even when he went away for almost a week for work and you were dying from a sky high fever, you never really called him for anything. But he constantly reminds you that you always can.

Yoongi volunteered to drive this time for some odd reason. It’ll be an almost 2 hour drive from Seoul to Daejeon, he actually doesn’t mind driving and quiets enjoy it more than he’d ever admit. Everything is set, their fishing trip as orchestrated by his hyung, Jin and Hoseok who had no choice but to be dragged unto this trip. They’ve been his friends for the longest time, being in the same company who also works in the industry. Hoseok, a renowned choreographer and Jin, one of the company directors in his agency. He never would’ve agreed to yet another fishing trip if only Jin didn’t promised to have everything paid for and ready to go. He held Hoseok hostage though and so he has no choice but to go as well. Sleeping at the passenger’s seat they both drifted away as Yoongi drives.

They have gone to multiple fishing trips over the years, some where even overseas during their vacation and something wrong always turn out like the time they have to cut the trip short because they have been sitting in the boat for hours and they haven’t caught a single thing. The owner of the boat found it odd too.

But to Yoongi’s surprise everything’s turning out smoothly, on their second day of camping they were able to caught a lot of salmon and have it for dinner. Stuck in his own thoughts while grilling some salmon, Jin shouted. “Yoongi-ah! You’re burning it.” Immediately going back to reality, and thankfully saving the precious fish from burning. “What are you thinking about so deeply?”

“No it’s nothing, Hyung.” He replied as he kept tending to his almost burnt fish.

Once grilling is done they all gathered to have their dinner with some drinks. Soju and beer is always present and with Hoseok around to play some games. In the middle of all the silliness that is Jin and Hoseok and taking the game way too seriously for their own good. Jin asked Yoongi, “Why are you always staring at your phone?” He immediately hide it and said, “No nothing, hyung.”

“What are you thinking of again?” Knowing how Yoongi is sometimes, Jin pried as Yoongi kept looking distracted the entire trip. “Nothing, Hyung. Really.”

“Okay, it’s your turn.” Giving him his Nintendo, he eventually added “If this is about Hyuna, just let me know if you don’t want to work with her again. Maybe we can do something about it.” Yoongi let out a chuckle and drank a shot of soju. “Hyung it’s nothing really, it’s not about her either. The work is fine, we actually finished it sooner than I thought. You must have heard it already.” Jin eventually took the game from Yoongi replied, “I did, you guys were really professional about all this.”

“Of course.” Yoongi proudly replied as he sneaked a peek into his phone again. Unconsciously waiting for some call.

moodboard sr: x x x

#bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts imagine #bts scenarios #yoongi x reader #yoongi scenarios #yoongi fics #yoongi fluff #yoongi imagine #bts roommate au #roommate!yoongi #producer!yoongi

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hufflepuffhollander · 4 years

Text

5 times it didn’t, 1 time it did: tom holland imagine

a/n | this is my first submission for @hollandsrecs 1k bingo event! the prompt was “5 times, 1 time”, a concept you’ll soon understand! I really enjoyed writing this and got really in my Feelings™ listening to Mean it by Gracie Abrams (give it a listen).

summary: Tom keeps missing his chance to make things right with you after rumors spread about an affair with one of his costars.

tom x fem reader | contains angst for days, language, and resolution fluff | word count: 2.2k | enjoy!

“I can’t believe you.”

“What, what can’t you believe?”

“You told me you’d never let the tabloids come in between our relationship.”

“As far as I’m concerned, they haven’t. You’re still sitting here, aren’t you?”

“In our apartment? Seriously?”

“What do you want from me?”

“To call your publicist or your manager or whoever the hell will be able to shut all this shit down.”

“It’s the internet, y/n. You can’t ‘shut it down’. What’s out there is out there.”

“Why are you being so apathetic about this?”

“Why is it such a big deal?”

“Half the country thinks you’re dating your costar and that I’m a desperate sidepiece.”

“You know you’re not.”

“But they don’t.”

“So?”

“Is it so hard to come out and say that it’s not true?”

“People will think what they want regardless of what I say.”

“You know what, fuck this.”

You got off the couch, throwing your hands up in defeat.

“I don’t know why I have to try so hard to convince you to make this relationship a priority.”

Tom sighed heavily, starting to get off the couch and follow you out of the room, but receded and stayed planted. He wanted to say something that would make you turn around and come back, something to figure it out. To tell you that you were a priority, really his first one. But he didn’t know how to say that, and he stayed silent.

He could’ve apologized, and he didn’t. This was the first time you’d ever walked out of an argument without resolving the problem and ending it with a hug and mutual I-love-you’s. It took all of your gathered strength to keep facing forward and walk further and further away from him, instead of running back, folding into his arms and seeking out the comfort that was his body heat. It epically sucked that he had the power to make you both the angriest and happiest you ever knew how to feel.

You and Tom went to sleep that night silently, staying a hundred feet apart in your queen sized bed, backs turned towards each other. You hated feeling the draft between your loose shirt and bare back — he hated not being able to fall asleep inhaling your shampoo with his head against the back of yours. You stayed awake listening to the silence, hoping he’d speak. Hoping he’d say he was sorry, that he’d fix it. But all he did was yawn, or sigh, or stretch out and pull his hand back like it had been burned when he accidentally grazed your arm. You were both miserable, but he still didn’t apologize, second opportunity to fix things passing by as soon as it had come.

The next morning, you woke up later than you meant to and couldn’t avoid Tom waking up next to you, making inevitable eye contact as you’d naturally shuffled closer together in your sleep, like your bodies were ready for a closure your minds weren’t ready to come to.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Your phone buzzed and you made the mistake of checking it. More and more notifications poured in from friends asking if you and Tom were still together, “who this costar bitch thought she was”, seeing how you were handling it. You realized still nothing had been done about it, and the same nasty feelings from the day before resurfaced anew. Tom saw your face drop and rolled onto his back, pretending to be interested in the ceiling.

“Plans today?” he asked.

“Just doing damage control and convincing infinite circles of friends that I’m not suddenly single and in a downward spiral behind closed doors,” you responded, sounding harsher than you meant to.

He put his hands over his face. “If they really were your friends they wouldn’t have to ask,” he said bluntly. Your belly filled with a dull fire.

“Is that really the angle you’re gonna take right now?” you said, trying to ignore the tears preemptively pinpricking the corners of your eyes. Tom realized he had played the asshole card when he turned to see your face painted with hurt, and again, tried to spit out the words that he was sorry. But he didn’t, and his third chance flew out the open window. You shivered at the draft, and Tom went to instinctively wrap his arms around you, but stopped himself when you looked at him puzzled, as he couldn’t handle doing really anything when he saw how gray your eyes looked.

“y/n, I think this has gotten-“

“Save it,” you said, swiftly getting out of bed. You didn’t care to be insulted another time before 9 am, or feel your attachment to the love of your life sever a little more before you’d even brewed your coffee. You threw on the first thing you found, tied your hair up, grabbed your bag and then your keys.

“I’ll see you before the interview later.”

Truthfully, Tom’s talk show interview tonight was hours and hours away, but you wanted to avoid another emotional hit from him as long as possible.

Tom felt his chest sink as he heard the lock click after you. Why couldn’t he just apologize? Was it that hard? Sure, he didn’t agree with you. The tabloids always blew any gossip they could create out of proportion, turning every friendly hug between friends into a lover’s affair. But addressing it to the public only ever just fanned the fire. He didn’t want to give in to the pressure, but could see how it was starting to break you.

You walked into your flat with barely enough time to get ready after a long, tiring day of thinking and overthinking, wanting nothing more than to come home and be with your best friend, to cry to him about your problems and let him kiss and cuddle the pain away. Never before had he actually been the problem, though. That was uncharted territory, and you were afraid to see him tonight and face either inevitable fighting or excruciating silence. You met at the car and got in wordlessly. Only once you’d pulled onto the highway did Tom decide to speak.

“I think we need to talk about what’s been going on, yeah?”

“I guess so.”

“I just want you to understand that my not saying anything publicly doesn’t mean I’m not denying the rumors being spread. Staying silent is taking a stand, in a way.”

“In a way,” you said quietly. You really didn’t want to ruin your makeup before the show and hoped staying soft would keep the emotional floodgates from breaking open.

“I’m trying not to add fuel to the fire, love,” he said, placing a hand on your thigh. You stared down at that hand you loved and didn’t respond.

“I feel like I have no dignity left.”

He exhaled and frowned.

“Do you know what people are saying about me?” you squeaked without meaning to.

“I’ve told you to stop reading all those articles.”

“Right, because that’s the problem.” You rolled your eyes and moved your leg away from under his hand. He awkwardly placed it on the gear shift and didn’t dare to look at you for fear of breaking down himself.

“I just wish you’d stand up for me.”

“I’m doing it in my own way,” he trailed off. But that wasn’t good enough for you.

“And you can’t see that maybe that’s not enough?”

“I-“ He was about to say sorry — you could’ve sworn you hear the first syllable. But a car in front changed lanes and cut him off.

“Fucker.”

After that wise remark, silence. Fourth chance to apologize up in smoke. You looked out the window and said nothing until you pulled up to the studio entrance. You saw lines of flashing bulbs of cameras, news trucks and reporters. Why did everything have to be such a thing? Tom cleared his throat and turned to you.

“y/n, love, go ahead and get out here and I’ll meet you inside.”

You looked back at Tom blankly.

“We’re not going in together?”

“I don’t want to subject us to all the paps out there,” he said, refusing to make eye contact. “If you go alone, my security team can cover you. They can’t cover us both.”

Your whole body felt cold. “Are...are you serious?”

It looked like telling you to face the crowd without him was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. So why was he doing it?

“I’ll meet you inside-“

You cut him off by loudly undoing your seatbelt and putting your heels on, shooting daggers at him the whole time.

“I should’ve stayed home.” You opened the car door and got out.

“y/n, I’m-” You slammed the door shut before you could hear the rest of his words. Five chances he had to make it right, five times he absolutely blew it. You weren’t sure this was something you even wanted anymore. How could you clearly mean so little to him when he was your everything?

“...and give it up for Tom Holland!” the audience cheered wildly at the sight of your boyfriend walking out on stage, shaking the host’s hand and waving with a bright-eyed and cheery smile at the crowd. You’d chosen a smart seat in the back so as to hide from anyone who might recognize you — you were not in the mood to socialize, and frankly, if Tom didn’t currently have the only set of car keys, you would’ve driven yourself home. You could see him scanning the audience until his eyes landed on you, and you stared at him with an expression completely unfeeling, blinking slowly until he turned away.

He continued to woo the host and the crowd with his heartfelt answers and funny anecdotes, but even you were immune to his charm tonight. You felt detached, alone. You wondered how you’d spent so long with this boy who had no respect for you or how you felt.

“So, not to put you on the spot, but-”

“Uh oh,” Tom laughed, the audience along with him.

“No, no, bear with me,” the host chuckled. “I’m sure you’re no stranger to all the rumors going around about this relationship you’ve gotten into with your costar in the new Spiderman movie coming out next year, can you give us any inside scoop on that?”

Tom shuffled in his chair looking uneasy, running a hand through his already messy hair, a telltale sign that he was nervous. You hated how well you knew him.

“I mean, I don’t like to give into all the gossip,” he said, trying to play it off. “But if you want to talk about the movie-”

“We will, we will! But you know what we all really care about...” the host laughed, pushing Tom to keep talking.

“Look, we’ve all grown close on set, like a little family. And I can’t believe I even have to say this, but no, I’m not an item with any one of my costars, or fellow actors, or anyone famous for that matter,” his face started to splotch pink, and you sat up in your seat. What was he doing?

“Well sorry to pry-” the host started, but Tom kept talking, now faster, lips not able to keep up with his brain.

“The amount of stress all the rumors have put on me and the people I care about is insane and unfair, and nobody has taken it harder than my actual girlfriend, who is right there in the audience,” he said, and you cursed him for causing a hundred chairs to squeak as heads swiveled towards you. “It all has her constantly feeling hated and unimportant and questioning our relationship, which I can’t stand, because I love her more than anything, I do, and I hate to see her so upset when there’s just nothing I can do about people gossiping.” You hear scattered “aww”s come from around you.

“I’ve been quiet for too long about it, which I thought was the right thing to do. But I was wrong. She deserves to hear me tell the world that I am with her, and only her, and that’s not changing,” he says, finally taking a breath. Tom looks at you, eyes watery, and sighs, as the audience coos and applauds. He mouths a clear “I’m sorry” that only you see, and you feel that cold draft start to melt, letting yourself give him a small smile in return. He finishes the interview and you meet him backstage at the end.

When he sees you walking towards him, Tom picks up speed and pulls you into a hug immediately, both arms underneath yours, almost picking you up off the ground. You hate to admit it, but it feels so good to be back where you rightfully belong. You lean into his body and hug him back. He kisses your cheek and rests his face against yours. “You know how much I love you, right?”

“I know. You finally apologized.”

“I know.”

“Took you long enough.”

He pulled back and smiled at you, leaning in and kissing you softly. He cupped your face with both of his hands and wiped away a small tear that was harbored between your eyelashes.

“I’ll go on a million more talk shows and do it again if it means you’ll forgive me.”

“That’s a start,” you both giggle and he kisses you again. “Can we go home?”

“Of course, love.”

#hrficbingo1k #hollandsrecs #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland imagines #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland one shot #tom holland one shots #tom holland x reader #tom holland blurb #tom holland blurbs

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toastedclownery · 4 years

Text

Hey so uh, I finally finished the bit I wanted to write based on this scene by @mintyfrosty!! I changed some things according to my version of them but it’s basically the same Gonna put in under a Read More. TW for anxiety attack and passing out of exhaustion ovo”

He looked at the board in front of him. Hours of work put into it, papers full of notes and reminders, calculations, timetables and floor plans. And yet, he couldn't remember one thing he had written on it. He couldn't read, couldn't think clearly.

He had to get this heist right. Had to plan out every single detail, every possibility. That's what he was for. Think ahead, be prepared for anything that could go wrong, and create a way to avoid it. He was particularly good at that, it was easy for him to consider different scenarios where things could meet with disaster. However, it came at a cost.

Still staring at the bunch of papers pinned on his wall, he blinked slowly, unable to focus on anything. His mind was tired, and so was body, even if he himself didn't feel it. He took another sip of the cup of coffee he was holding, deciding to push his sleepiness away for one more night.

This one has to be perfect, they couldn't have any more mishaps. Terrence' last raid was the last straw. They had lost too many people to it. There had to be a stop to that de iure leader's wreckless nature. Reg thought if he proposed a calculated enough and totally safe plan, maybe the elites would listen to him. Maybe he could get a seat at their table. Maybe…

His head almost drooped and he quickly had to readjust himself, his eyes now wide open, heavy bags under them. His body was fighting against him. Why? He didn't feel tired. In fact, he wasn't feeling anything at all. He felt fine.

Rising his hand in order to reach for the cup again, he noticed the trembling waves inside the container. His hand was shaking. He frowned, shut his eyes in frustration and downed all the remaining coffee in one go. Two or three seconds later, he realized that might not have been the best idea.

No, it was okay. He didn't need to worry, he was fine. He looked at different points of the board rapidly, trying to take anything in. Nothing went through. His breathing became unsteady, and the corners of his vision were beginning to become blurry and dotted.

It has to be perfect, he thought.

Realizing he was getting dizzy, he had to remind himself to breathe. He felt like he was choking. Why wasn't he getting any air?

We've lost too many people already, were the repeating thoughts drumming in his mind.

He was too out of it to notice his hand had given out, dropping the ceramic cup and letting it shatter. Startled by the loud noise, he tried taking a step back, only to notice his legs had turned wobbly, barely keeping him on his feet.

With one last glance at the board, all the papers were now a mess of smears and black spots. The room started tilting… and tilting… He was out before he even hit the floor.

Night patrol. It had to be night patrol. He would have preferred to have some rest tonight, but he had to be chosen for taking a walk around the base at ungodly hours of the night. He would have complained, but knew he couldn't speak against the Chief. He went along with it, knowing nobody else would do it anyway. Right thought Terrence usually cut the other elites too short, himself included. He felt like he could do more than just night patrol, but on second thought, he was the one that fit best for the job.

He was passing through the corridors, reaching a series of doors that led to the Toppat members' rooms. Unlike his fellow elite's bedrooms, these were smaller and had thinner walls. He remembered the time he had to sleep in one of those rooms. It was nearly impossible, any noise was able to get through those walls made of cardboard.

Just thinking about it made him tired. He was about to let out a yawn, but was stopped by a loud noise coming from one of the dorms ahead. It sounded like a glass-shattering noise, followed by a light thud.

He saw a stream of light under one of the doors. Who in their right mind was still awake at this late hour of the night? He looked at the name on the door. "R. Copperbottom" It read. That name was familiar. He gave the door a couple of knocks.

"Oi, is everything alright in there?"

He waited about ten seconds, no response.

"Can I get in?"

Again, silence.

Right opened the door and stepped into the room. He didn't know what he was expecting to see, but it definitely wasn't a collapsed man in the middle of the floor. He cursed under his breath and went to check if he was okay.

He gently turned him to face upward. He drew a few hairs back and was able to see his face. And then he recognized him. The smooth mane of hair that was usually collected in a ponytail was now a frizzy mess of ties and knots. There was also his familiar curled mustache, which seemed to get the same treatment, and a pair of dark circles around his eyes.

He knew this one. He hadn’t spent that much time in the Clan, yet he had jumped up the ranks in no time. He ascended to his current position much faster than he had seen anyone do it in his time as an elite. There was a reason for that. The guy was a working machine.

Ever since the day he was recruited, he would show interest in what the Clan’s next big heist was going to be. Even if he wasn’t part of it. Right had started to see his face more often around the higher positions. He shone with curiosity and initiative when robbery plans were finally handed to him for the first time, adding thousands of tweaks and details that would stun the field operatives. He would go on his way to arrange every minute of a heist, and then proceed to explain each new bit to his superiors.

Needless to say they were surprised with this new guy appearing out of nowhere and before they knew it he was suddenly giving them lectures like a teacher rants to a bunch of toddlers. If he was met with any kind of criticism, he would come back the very next day with a new refined version of the plan. The team of elites were intrigued, they shared their recognition of his potential, whereas the Chief… Would usually butt heads with him.

"I think you worry too much, pipsqueak"

Right hated to agree on that, currently looking at said pipsqueak laying on the floor, most likely passed out from exhaustion. He doubted he got enough sleep when making all those schemes, and the scene before him proved his theory to be correct.

He examined the room. Next to the unconscious prodigy were broken pieces of a ceramic mug. He must have dropped it before falling along with it. His hat was still on his head but tipped to the side. In front of them was a wide corkboard, filled with papers and post-its hung on it left, right and center. Right blinked twice before regaining his focus on the other man.

"Hey, Reginald? Can you hear me?"

He shook him by the shoulders a little bit. Maybe he would be able to wake up momentarily so he could go to bed on his own. Seeing how that wasn't the case, he sighed, and decided to do it himself.

He drew the bed sheets back, scooped him up carefully and held him in some kind of bridal style, his head resting on his shoulder. He was light as a feather, so he was pretty easy to carry around. The smallest yelp came out of Reg’s mouth at the feeling of being picked up, but he relaxed again when leaning on Right's chest. Right slowly put him down on the bed and tucked him in.

It was weird, seeing him like this. The only times he would see him were quickly running through the corridors or giving his presentations on schemes. Always full of energy and enthusiasm. Right noticed a certain spark in his eyes when he talked. He noticed the way he would smile while telling his favorite parts of a plan. How he would sometimes motion rapidly while nervously rambling things under his breath. Now, he was laying limp on the bed, looking a mess, a strong fatigue visible on his features. Right chuckled. He would not want to be seen like this. Suddenly, he blinked, and found himself sitting on the side of the bed, hypnotized by the rhythmic breath of his sleep longer than he would have liked to admit.

He shook his head and got up. He had completely forgotten about the ceramic shards still on the floor. He picked the broken pieces one by one. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be a lot of small bits, just five big shapes that fit neatly like a puzzle. He chose not to throw them away, thinking of putting them back together if possible. He grabbed the dark gray fedora that had rolled off his head and left it on the bedside table.

He saw an alarm clock, set to chime three hours from now. He turned it off. There was no way he was gonna let him sleep so little. He would let him sleep in, have the day off. He could make up something not to make the others suspicious. He’d ask him about that jungle of papers another time. He needed rest now.

He turned off the lights and shut the door, the pieces of the coffee cup still in his right hand.

#not tagging as the main tag sorry #copperright #also not tagging my writing as art after last time-#tag #mintyfrosty #toasted texts #I GUESS

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basicjetsetter · 4 years

Text

Part V

♡ Pairing: Peter Parker x Black!FemaleReader

▹ Warnings: Fluffy scenes, anxious moments, cliff-hanger

▹ Words: 3.3k

▹ A/N: We are reaching the eye of the storm. Happy reading!

“ ‘Kay, so there’s no way they’re gonna win this game without him turning into the Wolf, right?”

“Finish watching it, Peter.”

Peter musingly shakes his head, mouthful of his fourth slice of pizza. “There’s no way.”

You level a patient smirk at him and point to the television, wordlessly telling him to see for himself.

The screen’s brightness fills your otherwise dark living room, casting shadows along the angles of Peter’s concentrated face. His body is sloped forward, and if he didn’t possess the body control of an enhanced being, he’d fall face-first into your carpet.

Tonight’s movie selection was your choice, and you didn’t want to disappoint. So when Peter said he’d never seen Teen Wolf, you were over the moon. Usually, you’d watch every single second of the classic film, but with Peter sitting cross-legged next to you, his hip pressed against yours as your crossed leg rests on top of his, you spent the entire time covertly peeking at his fascinated expressions.

Well into the third month of your friendship, Peter’s presence in your apartment remains to be an odd sight in a good way. Out of your ordinary. His first time in your apartment came on a day you both chose to escape the sun’s sweltering heat with A/C and ice cream, and like your first conversation in Hal’s, he never made it weird.

It was effortless. Every moment with Peter was like breathing.

If anyone else suggested Friday-night movie nights, you’d have spared no time shutting them down. But your yes to Peter harbored no resistance.

“No way!” An excited smile spreads across Peter’s face as Scott steps to the baseline to take the game-winning free throw shots. “Is he seriously gonna make these?”

You seal your lips, choosing not to spoil the moment, but Peter doesn’t see. His eyes never stray from the screen, and his lips slightly part from the nail-biting suspense. As the last shot falls through the hoop, Peter’s whole jaw drops.

When the end credits roll, he slowly claps. “That was awesome. Like I’ve got some serious chills. How am I going to top that?”

“Eh, you probably won’t,” you reply with a boastful grin. Hidden joy thrums through your body from his excitement. “Might as well call a wrap on movie nights.”

Peter playfully nudges you with his elbow, then checks his watch. “Ah, man, it’s late. I needed to be on patrol half an hour ago.” He’s up in a flash, slipping his shoes on and chewing up the rest of his pizza.

“Do you have to go?” A hint of sadness tinges your words.

“Yeah, the city would be a mess without me,” he jokes, but you weren’t remiss of his undertone sincerity. “Oh! That reminds me. Some bad guys are out on a robbing spree lately, tailing people at night, so if you work late, can you ask Chris to walk you home? Y’know, just in case I’m not there.”

He does this every time he’s over. Each week, there’s a new thing or group to be leery of, and each time he asks, you immediately nod to erase the gut-sinking concern in his brown eyes.

You rise from the couch and follow Peter to the door. He turns just as he’s about to twist the handle, stalls for a second, then envelopes you into a small, reluctant hug, leaving his arms lax just in case you wanted to pull away.

Hugging is new, something you’ve only done about five times. The first was an unplanned disaster featuring a hard shove, repeated apologies, and a long, awkward moment of silence.

You didn’t mean to push him away. It was one of those moments where, even though the urge to reciprocate was there, you couldn’t allow yourself to find comfort in such an innocent gesture. You weren’t ready. He respected that.

You knew your rash reaction bruised Peter more than he let on, but he learned to ease his way into your comfort zone with small touches. An intentional brush of his hand against yours, scooching closer to you on the couch, hi-fives with minimally laced fingers.

It took a while for the second hug-attempt, but you were cautiously prepared when it happened.

This time around, you return the gesture, winding your arms around his middle and setting your chin on his shoulder, resisting the urge to nuzzle your nose against his warm neck. His closeness frazzles you, even more so when he diminishes the gap between you, holding you tighter to his chest before releasing you and clearing his throat.

“Be safe,” you warn softly.

He puffs out his chest. “I have nothing to fear except fear itself.”

“That confident, huh?”

“Comes with the job. You get knocked down enough times, you get pretty confident once you realize you can always get back up.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And yet you still have a fear of heights.”

“Never said I wasn’t afraid of falling. Just that it gets easier getting back up. ‘Sides, most of those petty offenders scare easy. All I gotta do is say I can plant eggs in ‘em.” He shudders at the idea himself.

“Please, Peter,” you implore, a smile sullying your stern frown.

Peter’s grin, always so wholesome and calming, blankets over your nerves. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Well, I think Spider-Man needs someone to worry about him, sometimes. Even if he can get back up. Just… let caution work alongside confidence.”

He heeds your words with a more allayed smile, curtly nodding. “Vigilance. I can do that.”

You’re tempted to wrap him back into your arms to protect him from whatever dangers lie outside of your apartment. Instead, you exchange simple goodnights and shut the door once he reaches the stairwell.

The room and your shirt preserve his crisp evergreen scent long after he’s gone. It lingers as you crawl into bed. An aromatic reminder of his caress and warm skin.

As far as friendships go, you’ve never had one quite like this. The line you drew in the sand moves. Accommodates. Shrinks. Whether he’s aware of it or not, the time you spend cracking jokes with Peter at Hal’s, listening to his adventurous feats, becoming comfortable with his physical proximity, seeing his smile and the way his eyes light up when you smile at something funny or interesting he’s said, you fall just an inch.

He's growing on you. His presence. His laughter. His beaconing smile. His tentative touch. His uncanny ability to endear himself to your foreclosed heart.

It was easier to deny the connection when you didn’t know Peter. But now that you do, every moment you’re with him intensifies what you’ve painstakingly tried to avoid.

You’re falling in love with your Soulmate.

✦ ✧✦ ✧

Once again, it’s the Saturday brunch rush, and once again, Hal’s is up to its neck in bloodthirsty customers. All the booths are packed, as well as the stools. Some of the parties compact a seat meant for two with four people, and the aisle clogs with those who just came to grab a cup of coffee and conversation.

Chris is in his element, swinging from one booth to the next like a controlled tornado collecting orders, while you and Wendy are the unfortunate bunch who have to clean up desecrated tables and feed the greedy.

“If someone asks me what the specials are one more time, I’m going to rip my hair out,” Wendy grouses behind the counter as she puts away five menus.

You grumble back the same sentiments. Menus exist for a reason. And most of these people aren’t new to Hal’s, so the fact that they always have to ask grinds your gears.

11:30 a.m. is your saving grace. If you can hold on until Peter gets here, you’ll be fine.

Chris stops by the bar, pocketing what appears to be a twenty-dollar bill. “Lighten up, ladies. At least you’re off tomorrow.”

Wendy, in her 5’3’’ stature, looks feral. “I want to be off now.”

A rowdy group of high-schoolers sitting in the farthest booth is holding a contest to see who could drink a milkshake the fastest, and the two unlucky contestants shriek like banshees from self-inflicted brain-freeze. All three of you wince.

“We don’t get paid enough for this.”

Hal shouts from the back. “Order up! And stop slackin’ off out there!”

Wendy’s eye twitches as she marches to the back to pick up the orders. You’d have acted the same way if you didn’t have something to look forward to.

“They’re not going to tip me. I just know it,” Chris says to you, despondently looking over at the teens’ table again.

“They’ll come around. No one can resist this moneymaker.” You lightly bump him on the chin to indicate his smile. Heck, his whole chiseled face is a moneymaker, but that exuberant smile sells it all.

Over the last three months, just like your friendship with Peter, your friendship with Chris has improved. Even with Wendy. You aren’t at each other’s throats nearly as much as you used to be. Last week, she complimented your hairstyle, though it was immediately followed up with a snide comment: progress, either way.

Chris laughs. “And here I thought my friendly personality racked up all the tips.”

“It’s a bonus.”

He chuckles again, then blows out a hesitant breath. “So, Y/N…”

“So, Chris…”

“There’s, um, there’s gonna be another music festival in Cunningham Park tonight, and I was wondering if, y’know, you and Peter might want to come and hang?”

You and Peter… As if you were a pair. An item. A couple. To unsuspecting eyes, you knew you and Peter seemed to be just really good friends. Not even Hal questioned why you spent half an hour talking to him every weekday. If he had an inkling of who Peter actually was to you, he’d have confronted you by now.

Chris, on the other hand, kept a sharp eye on you when Peter was around. As meticulous as you were about keeping up pretenses in public, sometimes you’d slip. Your smile would be a tad too bright when Peter walked through the door and took his usual seat. You’d giggle at his jokes too loud. You’d stare into his eyes too long. Signs too blatant for Chris to miss.

You’re just waiting for him to put the last piece in the puzzle.

“I’d… I’d have to ask Peter.” You take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “But, yeah, I’ll go.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Sure. Sounds like it’ll be fun. What time is it?”

Chris lays a hand on your forehead. “Temp seems fine. Pupils aren’t dilated. How many fingers am I holding up?”

You swat his hand down with a laugh. “Shut up.”

“Look, I know you probably don’t want me saying this out loud, but I’m glad you met Peter. We all are.”

“Why?” Evidently, you’re not that great at hiding your feelings as you thought.

Chris leans against the bar top, keeping an eye on the door just in case customers walked in. “Well, for starters, you literally just agreed to hang out with me for the first time since you started working here, which was—what—two years ago. And… you… I don’t know. You’re more open, y’know? Smiling and such.”

“I smiled before,” you say, a little defensive.

“Not like you do now. Before, it was all—,” Chris screws his mouth up. It’s strange. Alienated and wire-tight. The corners of his lips don’t fully come up, and it barely reaches his eyes. You instantly recognize it—the smile you hid behind.

Did you really smile like that? How is it that you never noticed how off-putting it was? If a server ever smiled at you like that, you’d assume they wished you disappeared off the face of the earth. Is that the smile people saw? More importantly, when did you stop putting it on?

“Two more strawberry milkshakes over here!” shouted one of the brain-freeze victims.

Chris hops to it. Always the perfect server. On his way to make the shakes, he says, “7 p.m.”

“I’ll be there.”

You weren’t going to confirm for Peter until he was there to answer for himself, but he doesn’t show. 11:30 a.m. and the rest of your shift flies by without a sight of him, which is strange, but not uncommon. Homework might have him tied up. September is a pretty busy month for schoolwork, and mid-terms are approaching, so he might be buried in assignments.

Worry doesn’t settle in until you’re getting ready for the music festival at 6:30 p.m., and Peter still hasn’t sent so much as a voicemail.

Evening summer sunlight filters in through your open window, the active sounds of Queens’ busy streets and subway station not allowing your room to fall quiet. Nights like this are perfect for outdoor festivals because it’s warm enough to sit in the grass and not bring a jacket.

Rather than enjoy the idea of getting out for the first time in years, your mind remains hooked on Peter.

It’s not like him not to leave a text if he’s caught up in other things. He’d make sure to tell you where he is, how far away. Since the beginning of this friendship, starting with his little notes, Peter’s constant communication wasn’t something you expected. But now that you do, this behavior just doesn’t match what you’re used to.

You pace the floor of your small bedroom, back and forth, wall to wall, abusively chewing your lower lip and turning your phone around in your hand, working up the nerve to call him, summoning up the will to voice your concern if he did answer.

When you do call, you get his voicemail. Trying again, you end up with the same result. Okay. He’s not picking up his phone.

Fear foregrounds your frustration. It bleeds into your words as you leave your fifth message. One after the other, they morph from mild concern to despairing panic. As the sun dips lower and lower on the horizon and the orange sunlight dwindles, so does your desire to go out.

Because… maybe you shouldn’t go. Maybe you should search for Peter. Finding any trace of him at all would be a stretch, and Chris might be upset about you ditching your plans the next time you see him, but you can’t possibly go out knowing something may be horribly wrong with Peter.

No. No, you won’t cancel plans like that. Peter is fine. Of course, he’s fine. He’s Spider-Man. His duties as a hero come first, no matter what. And he wouldn’t want you to stress so much about him.

Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, he is okay. He’s alive. You feel it.

Somehow, you break the trance of your pacing and convince yourself to grab a cab ride to the park. When you arrive, the festival appears to be at a content standstill. It’s not as crowded as you assumed it would be for a Saturday night. Many of the attendants, ranging from all ages, are sitting on the grass, soaking up the fading rays of the sun while the bands finish up prepping. You’re greeted by the distinctive smell of hotdog vendors intermingled with ripening leaves.

There is nothing truly scenic about Cunningham Park, aside from the interspersed trees and trails. You’d been here a handful of times when you were younger, hanging out with friends during summer break, and one thing you loved about the park back then is how the sun shone through the leaves, casting an ethereal glow on nature.

You’re more appreciative of its beauty without the sun’s effect.

It wasn’t that hard finding Chris. All you had to do was look for the person most likely garnering friends from other groups. He’s on a blanket, seated in the center of the crowd and chatting with a group of three people.

When you’re close enough to be spotted, Chris’s face mouth out into a wide smile.

“You came!” Then his eyes roamed around. “Where’s Peter?”

You try for a carefree grin but let it fall when the effort became too much. “He couldn’t make it. School stuff.”

“Oh, well, that’s fine.” His smile drops fractionally, less joyful and more sympathetic. “I’m really glad you made it. Hey, guys. This is Y/N, my friend from work.”

You wave a little and hope for a genuine smile to grace your lips as they all scoot to make room for you on the blanket.

Chris introduces them all. He points to a buff, curly-haired guy named Dez, who you wouldn’t have guessed would be the type of guy to enjoy small park festivals. He looks like the kind of person who regularly crowd-surfs at huge concerts and somehow always winds up with a VIP pass. The next person is a slender girl named Asha, who has thick black hair knotted into a messy soccer bun and a glowing smile.

The last person Chris introduces you to is his Soulmate. You knew just by the way he said his name. Resounding. Reverent. Borderline fanatic. His name is Quint, and unlike the others, he wraps you up in a surprising hug. What’s even more surprising is you hugging back.

“Nice to finally meet you.” His voice is richly robust, exactly how you would expect someone with his Adonis-like face to sound. Two gorgeous, outgoing Soulmates just seems unfair.

“Nice to meet you, too.” You can’t help looking from Quint’s face to Chris’s, then back again, and wondering if this is what people see when they see you and Peter—a perfect match. “Chris has told me a lot about you. All great things.”

“He better,” Quint says, jokingly gazing at Chris as a blush flared across Chris’s cheeks. “And he’s told me a lot about you and Peter.”

There it goes again: people pairing you two. It’s hard not to notice how natural that sounds, as though you two were meant to be spoken about as an inseparable whole.

You brush off your startled expression as best you can and ask, “Good things, right?”

He nods, then shares a smile with Chris. “I would’ve liked to meet him.” You roughly translate that to mean, ‘I would’ve liked to meet you both.’ The blush on Chris’s face deepens into an embarrassingly bright shade of red when he catches your eye.

A plucked, low-pitched guitar string echoes out to the crowd and effectively commences the start of the music festival. You must’ve missed the band's introduction because they got right into their music, playing a melancholic pop song that sounded pretty good. You were more interested in the guitar riffs and melodic piano notes than the lyrics, but they’re no doubt about love.

Halfway into their set, your stomach growls, and you remember that you didn’t have anything to eat since you got off work. The whole thing with Peter staved off your hunger. He’s still in the front of your mind, but you’re doing your best to enjoy the night with Chris and his friends.

Standing up, you tell Chris, “I’m gonna get a hotdog.”

He tilts his chin up in acknowledgment, then goes back to swaying his head to the music.

You got up just in time to beat the line. There are only two vendors in the park, and they’d be slammed once the music hits its intermission. The one you’re at resides near the outskirts of the crowd, closest to where you left the group, and two people are in front of you.

You wish Peter were here.

Your hand touches the outline of your phone in your back pocket while you wrestle with the idea of calling him again. Maybe he’ll pick up this time.

You’re just about to unlock your phone when you hear someone calling your name—a girl.

The voice gets closer and more breathless, like they’re running at you full speed ahead and couldn’t reach you fast enough. You turn to the sound just as the body slams into you, yanking you out of line and clutching you to their frame.

“Where the hell have you been?!”

You pull away and stare straight into her face, not trusting your own eyes. “Manda?"

...

Taglist: @alexandria-euphoria

#peter parker #peter parker au #peter parker x black!reader #peter parker x reader #spider-man x black!reader #spider-man x reader #soulmate au #post endgame #pre far from home #peter parker soulmate au #peter parker angst #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fanfic #marvel fanfic #black!reader #slow burn #how to trust a heart

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heresathreebee · 3 years

Text

Waters Brackish and Briny (four)

[Ralph Lamont X Female Reader]

Summary: the first of many strange and unusual occurrences to come in your new home. Previous Masterlist Next

Tags: 15+ | 2k words | hauntings, an argument, physical intimidation 😬, secrets, crying

AN: hey remember there were ghosts in Things Seen and Heard? Personally I hate angst so sorry y'all 😔 I will NOT leave it here for long

SECOND WEEK

Ralph went back to work and the house became empty once more. Empty except for yourself and the house. And possibly a rat or two. You set up traps and finished moving the furniture in the downstairs rooms into place. The previous owners left a decently conditioned upright piano behind when they moved. A few scuffs on the legs and a toy soldier in the strings, but perfectly playable and barely out of tune. Nothing a little warm up couldn't change.

You ate lunch on the piano bench, glaring at the unfinished archway leading to the solar room. Should you sweep first or measure the windows to be fitted for panes? Do you want regular clear glass or some stained glass? Get crazy with it?

You waste a couple hours playing basic melodies and manage to squeeze in time to do all the measurements for the windows before 3 pm. You take down the paper on the floor most window holes and sweep the dust and leaves and branches outside. You mop till the hardwood floor shines but you hate the white beech wood and add varnish to the To Do list.

You ring up the Vayle boys you met the day you unloaded your furniture. "Hey Eddie! I was planning on making something for you and Cole as a thank you but I need some supplies first."

It rained in the afternoon and Ralph came home with mud on his pants. "Baby what happened? Did you fall?"

Ralph looked supremely annoyed. "One of the kids took a tumble and grabbed me for support. We both went down."

You know he's in a sour mood but you can't stifle your laughter. You coo at him, looking over the damage to his suit. He's got mud caked on the seat of his pants and flecks of it as high as the back of his neck. You help him strip as much as appropriate with guests in the house.

Your husband sniffs the vanilla scent from the air and looks at you incredulously. "Did you make cookies?"

"Yeah," you said, "for Eddie and Cole."

The boys waved at your husband from the kitchen counter. He gives a lustless wave back and trudges upstairs in his under things. You tip the boys with the rest of the cookies in an old dish and send them on their way home.

You open your bedroom door to find Ralph butt ass naked and on his knees looking for something.

"We should do this more often," you tease.

Ralph looks up and raises an eyebrow at you then notices the position he's put himself in. "Now's not the time for jokes: do you know where the luffa is?"

You cross your arms. "Well it's not under the bed…"

"Helpful." Ralph climbs to his feet and his nose bumps yours. "Where. Is. The luffa."

"Behind the bathroom door on a hook."

"Why?" Ralph takes three steps towards the bathroom, then quickly retraces them and this time his forehead collides with you none too gently. "And not saving me a cookie? Uncool."

"Open your mouth." His eyes go dark for a second and you roll yours. "Do it."

You plant the last cookie in his mouth and flop onto the bedspread. "Go. Shower. I'll clean up the kitchen."

The house creaks at night. Sometimes the sounds make the hair on your neck stand on end, but you simply squeeze Ralph and drift back to sleep. In the haze of a dream you think you hear something small and glass break a few rooms over but you can't hold onto your memories for long like this.

Except tonight there is more than sounds. Beneath the smell of your body wash on Ralph's skin, something tickles the back of your throat. It's acrid and raw pulling you from the fringes of sleep into reality fast. You sniff the air and the scent seems to grow ten times stronger. It's like… it's like…

You shake Ralph by the shoulder. He doesn't stir an inch. The smell is so strong you're choking on it. You grab Ralph and shake him like a doll until he bursts into wakefulness.

"What? What?!"

"Do you smell that?"

"What?" His eyes are completely unfocused, face pinched in annoyance.

"It smells like…" you turn on the bedside lamp much to his dismay. "It's like gasoline or something."

Ralph growls and rubs at his eyes. "Exhaust fumes maybe. Ralph! We have to get up– we have to get out!"

Somehow you manage to drag him out of bed and down the stairs. The smell gets weaker but it's still there burning in your nostrils like actual fire. Your eyes search frantically for that yellow orange flicker in every room to no avail. It doesn't ease your fear.

"Come on." You push Ralph outside and the man almost falls off the wrap-around porch. His eyes are glued shut, legs shaking as he stands, and trapped in that sleep state.

You rack your brain for ideas. Is the car on fire? Should you check the garage? Do you have a working fire extinguisher? There's one in the garage by the door but you doubt it's up to date.

"Ralph baby please wake up, I need you…"

You cling to his arm and he manages to crack one eye open. "The fuck is going on?"

"Something's wrong," you stutter, "I think he's here."

Ralph opened his other eye and looked at you. His head swiveled to and fro over his shoulders, trying to peer out into the dark cover of night to find anyone lurking in the dark. His grip on your arm is tight, almost hurts. He looks back at you, puzzled.

"Where?"

You didn't know where, in fact you don't know why you said that. He had no idea where the two of you were. For all you know he might not even be a he at all. You've never met them but you're haunted by them.

You shake your head and focus on the danger of now. "Fumes. I woke up and it smelled like exhaust fumes in our room."

"I didn't smell anything," Ralph says.

You growl. "I did. We need to call someone, we can't go back in the house. What if it's filled with gas and there is an open flame somewhere?"

Ralph looks around then tries to walk past you towards the door. You catch him with a look of disbelief.

"Did you not just hear a single word I said?!"

Ralph sweeps your bruising grip from his arm. He keeps walking but he never breaks eye contact with you. He's definitely awake now.

"If there's fumes, it's coming from the garage. Lord knows you're not going to let me look knowing that," he says stepping past the threshold into the mud closet next to the kitchen, "so we need to call someone."

He picks up the phone from its cradle and dials 9-1-1. "Unless you have some secret satelite phone hidden in the barn, I'm all ears on how we call someone…"

He's right. He's being an asshole about it but he's right. You can smell the fumes as you step in, desperate not to be far from him no matter what happens. Ralph plucks the housecoat from the hook by the door and fits it around your shoulders. You didn't realize you were shivering.

The sheriff comes out tonight and it's half past 2 am. You and Ralph are waiting outside, a reasonable distance from the house in case an explosion was imminent but it never came. Sheriff Laughton brought a fire team and they searched the house.

Travis– as he asked them to call him– asked a few meandering questions. Ralph held your hand and answered as many as he dared, looking to you for the questions you could answer better. They both noticed your thousand yard stare but said nothing.

Travis came back with the fire team and a long, befuddled face. "They checked over every inch of that house and didn't find anything except a broken lightbulb in the laundry closet."

Ralphie did not return your gaze, instead he asked. "Nothing at all?"

Travis scratched his head. "If there was something, it's gone now. I might have your cars looked at just in case, there's a mechanic about 10 miles yonder I can give you directions to."

Ralph's hand smoothed over your shoulder to try warming you up. "No, no that's OK, I have a mechanic right here."

You slap his chest for teasing you but your weak smile falls not a moment later. How can that be? They found nothing? Had you imagined the whole thing? But it had felt so real…

By the time you brought your mind back to the present, you found Ralph had moved you to the kitchen and offered Travis a cup of coffee for his troubles. The fire team was packed up and driving off the property, leaving only the sheriff's cruiser out in that empty night.

"Ralph," you whispered over the sink. "I think we should call Reagan…"

"No."

You blinked. He hadn't even taken a second to consider it, just… dismissed you out of hand like you were an annoyance. You crossed your arms over your chest and glared.

"If you won't, I will."

Ralph beat you to the phone and blocked your path, you glimpsed Travis standing awkwardly in the door but paid him no more than a passing thought.

This was about to get ugly.

"I. Am not crazy." You keep your voice low but the quiver of anger still seeps through. "I know what I smelled. It was real. If you're not going to ask for help, then fine, but do not stand in my way because of your pride."

Ralph had that look in his eyes– the dangerous look. "Oh, honey, no… I told you– we are not calling Reagan."

He kept shaking his head minutely, like it was the only thing keeping him from screaming. "That's final. I mean it, baby. I will lock you in that fucking basement if you touch that phone. I will burn this fucking house down before I let you even look at that dial."

Your jaw hit the floor but before you could protest, Ralph had your arm in a death grip as he began to drag you out into the hallway. He was probably trying to push you to the bedroom but his out of character threat had rocked you.

"Let me go," you growled, "Ralph! Stop it!"

Travis called out to you two and you tried to wipe that innate look of fear from your face. Ralph seemed to snap out of it a bit when he realized you weren't alone and he finally released your arm. It didn't stop him from bending over you until his nose brushed yours and in a growl commanded you to go upstairs.

Now is not the time to cry. Crying right now feels like weakness. You're not sad– you're fucking furious with him right now. But you're not about to make a bigger scene in front of this cop, so you push past him and head for the stairs.

The blood racing in your veins is making your face hot and head pound. You can hear Ralph follow you up shortly, likely to continue the argument further but you are beyond listening at this point. You turn just in time to see him look at you funny– why are you mad?-- before slamming the door so hard you hear the wood around the lock almost splinter.

He doesn't try the door. The light of the hallway goes out and you listen to him sigh as he heads for the couch to sleep on. You throw yourself onto your bed alone and cry into your pillow until exhaustion takes you to a dreamless black sleep.

Tag list: @werwulfy @fundamentally-lazy @escape-your-grape @go-commander-kim @mimiscappinisideblog

#alex brightman #ralph lamont #ralph lamont x reader #angst #black reader insert #three bees writing #🐝🐝🐝✒#things seen and heard au #ghost house au

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cosmicbash · 3 years

Note

One the angsty prompt ideas I’ve been thinking about is Kells practicing how to cook for weeks so he can surprise Em by cooking him dinner, maybe for an anniversary or something, and on the day Kells has planned to surprise him, Em is hours late, leaving Kells alone for the evening. If you’re interested maybe you could write something like this? 🥰

3 years together. One thousand and ninety five fucking days between him and this old dorky man.

It's insane. Downright impossible to believe but Colson knows it's as real and true as the 2 year sobriety chip he's got hung around his neck on the gold chain Marshall gifted him with it this morning.

Both their relationship and his sobriety are as intertwined as their lives are now. Marshall's like the glue that holds all of his pieces together. Picking Colson back up, time and time again whenever he shattered in the beginning and filling in the gaps with his own loose pieces until it was Colson's turn to do the same. Which, by then, it only made sense to combine their puzzles and broaden the picture.

Now Marshall swoops in for Casie's PTA meetings he can’t make during tour. Holding the phone and helping him FaceTime for soccer games and school conferences when flight delays or bad luck keeps him late.

Colson tags along to Whitney's first few dates out in LA, weaving through the public spaces Marshall never could without drawing attention just to make sure she's safe and respected.

They tag team any situation involving the girls, even though Alaina and Hailey both still snicker at him from time to time, and Casie rolls her eyes at Marshall's rules. They're more than just dating now.

They're family.

And even just thinking about that brings tears to Colson's eyes.

Or maybe it's the onions. Baze said chewing gum helped mitigate this fucking problem but goddammit does it burn-

"Fuck!"

He has no idea how he got it in his mind that he could actually cook a meal, let alone a full anniversary dinner for Marshall but here he is. A pot and pan already cooking on the stove and his fingers knicked a dozen times in his rush to cut up more veggies for the sauce.

It's insane.

But Colson's following through with it anyway, because he fucking loves Marshall and that bastard cooks dinner for them every single holiday or occasion so it's about time he stepped up to the plate and did it himself.

Plus he's been secretly practicing for weeks with Baze over both FaceTime and a few in person lessons. Perfecting his simmering styles and meat seasoning to make the tastiest meal he can manage all on his own.

So far the last three times he's made the dish his bassist had given stellar reviews so there's little chance he'll somehow fuck it up tonight knowing it's for Marshall…..at least, he hopes.

The minor setbacks his butchered fingers have brought aside though, so far everything was coming along perfectly. His noodles are boiling (never over the rim, thank you wooden spoon trick), his meats marinating, and as soon as he tosses these sliced onions in his sauce will be cooking down beautifully.

All in all the night is starting to look like it just might be perfect.

Until 6 o'clock passes by and Colson's ears never pick up the click of the front door knob, or the hum of Marshall's escalade pulling up front outside.

The food's still simmering, minutes away from being actually done so he doesn't worry too much. Sure he was hoping to have a sweet moment where his boyfriend comes home and catches him cooking at the stove like a traditional housewife, but seeing his face when the food's done and plated promises to be just as cute.

Besides, Marshall has always fit the housewife role so much better than him anyway. Even the apron Colson's wearing is one of the older rapper's, stolen from his small collection in the pantry to protect his designer sweater.

Colson doesn't start to worry at 6. Traffic can be a bitch.

7 though? And then 7:30 when his texts go unread and his calls ring all the way through to voice-mail? That's when the blonde starts to fret.

He's luckily put off plating because some brief flash on uncertainty had run through him after the food finished so it's stayed warm and simmering on the stove. But even that had to come to an end before 7:30 because his sauce would singe or his noodles might squish, so now Colson's trying to keep busy by perfecting the presentation. Shaky fingers swiping around the edges of Marshall's plate to clean up a splatter of sauce. Every Chopped Judge rambling off feedback in his head until he has it looking like something he's certain even Gordon fucking Ramsey would ask for a bite of.

By 8 the dinner table is set. His plate, Marshall's, the bucket of low alcoholic wine they both love chilling as a centerpiece. Colson even lights a few candles and adds some flowers from this mornings gift exchanges to keep himself from screaming.

There's a pit in his stomach that's steadily been growing though. Every passing minute and glance to his phone where he finds no change only carving it deeper.

Marshall should be home. He never runs this late at the studio without a call, let alone without a message. He's treated his work like any other 9-5 job since before they ever even got together, always strict about his routine and careful to make up for over run hours by leaving earlier the next day. Usually Colson likes to bust his balls and insist he live a little more spontaneously but tonight isn't the one to pull that.

Especially not if it means Marshall's going to completely forget to check his fucking phone and leave him trying not to think the worst.

Colson only males it another 5 minutes before he caves and texts Paul. Fingers tapping fast across his screen to draft multiple desperate sounding messages before he finally settles on a "Em bust his phone again?" That feels just casual enough to not embarrass him in the off chance Marshall decides to burst through the front door seconds after it sends.

The door stays closed though and Paul doesn't open the message at all.

Now Colson can't even start passive aggressively eating dinner on his own if he wanted too. The pit in his stomach has torn itself open wide into a nauseous chasm. Every scary possibility he wanted to avoid thinking about spilling forth from the dark trench like ghouls.

He's dead. Some crazy fan broke into the studio and shot the whole place up. No one's gotten around to tell him yet, that's all. They're too busy dealing with the fallout.

No, Em's security is beyond top tier, and with how close Colson and his current bodyguard are he knows the guy would call him immediately. Marshall's fine.

Unless… what if he was in a car accident? Or some road rage incident gone fatal? Colson's seen Marshall's short temper flare up while driving. They've made dozens of jokes about it in the past, so is it really that unreasonable to believe?

Colson's pacing in the front haul when he calls Porter. Phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he fights his shoe laces, heart racing in his chest. Prepping to fly out of the house the second Denaun tells him what fucking hospital Marshall's staying in, praying it's at the ICU section and not some fucking morgue.

"Kelly?" The older man sounds confused when he finally answers. Voice high and tone light like he's expecting this to be a butt dial. "What's up man?"

The lack of rush or worry in Denaun's voice almost soothes Colson's panic right on the spot. Surely he wouldn't sound so casual if something had happened.

It's enough to keep Colson from immediately pleading for Marshall's safety at the least. "H-hey, uh nothing really-" Maybe Marshall is even with him right now, realizing how fucking late its gotten and how shit of a boyfriend he's been and that's why Denaun sounds awkward too. "Just uh, waiting for Marsh to get his slow ass home ya know? Sorry, aheh, I'm probably sounding like a fucking needy girlfriend right now, calling his friends and shit-" the longer Colson rambles the more embarrassed he actually feels in the moment.

God he must sound pathetic right now. Panicking over Marshall being a few hours late.

"Waiting? Didn't Marshall head out like 2 hours ago?"

"W-what?"

Colson's blood feels like actual ice in his veins.

"He isn't home? I mean, I know he was gonna stop at- fuck is it already half past 8? Marshall seriously isn't home?" Denaun's sudden panic only heightens Colson's own, but he can't get any more words to come out. Not with how a rock feels like it's jumped up his throat. "Shit, Ryan are you getting through to him? Try Paul-"

Ryan's there too?

"What? Paul's gotta fucking answer-"

They can't get ahold of Paul either?

"Kelly have you-"

Marshall's missing. Colson's been standing around making dinner for hours, worrying over the portion sizes and appearance of his plates and Marshall's been fucking missing. What kind of partner is he? What will he even tell Hailey? Alaina? And fuck Casie is supposed to be coming up this weekend so they can all go vacation together before his next tour-

The front door bumping into his shoe startles Colson out of his frozen panic. Denaun's angry shouting dropping from his ear, as he twists and meets a pair of sheepish blue eyes peeking around the hardwood.

"Hey."

Marshall's…..

"Is that my apron?"

So fucking dead.

"Is this your--" Colson's fingers are curling around the edge of the door so fast he doesn't even care that it makes his phone fly to the floor. "That's what you want to fucking say to me!?" His anger is boiling fast, replacing the cold in his veins with lava. "You fucking piece of-"

Marshall stumbling inside with the yanked door is expected, but the flash of bandages and a sling douse Colson's flames like a bucket of water. "Ow, fuck just give me a second to explain-"

He's hurt.

Now with all of Marshall visible Colson's hyperaware of dry blood splattered on his white graphic tee and scratches partially hidden within the rapper's beard along his cheek. "I got in an accident out on the M-8, it was minor but-"

Colson really can't handle all these rapid mood switches Marshall is putting him through today.

“You fucking idiot-“ Tears are bubbling up in his eyes and it’s like his hands can’t reach his partner fast enough. Pulling Marshall into his arms for a tight hug despite the pained noises his actions inspire. “Stupid, old asshole-“ Marshall’s hurt, the cars probably wrecked, but he’s home and that’s enough of a relief to finally smother that pit weighing down his stomach. “Don’t ever scare me like that again!”

A moment passes before he’s hugged back, shock more than likely freezing his partner up but when Marshall does loop his good arm around Colson he pulls him close. So close Colson is the one who’s bones feel like they might ache. “Can’t make any promises about that,” The older rapper’s palm feels warm when it climbs to cup his neck, Marshall’s face turning to press a kiss into Colson’s throat.

That brush of lips is the final crack to release the flood gates.

"I love you."

"I know."

"I really really fucking love you."

"I know baby."

"I don't care how old your ass is, you better hold out and fucking die after me like a proper goddamn boyfriend, you hear me Marshall?" He's getting snot all over the older rapper's shirt. Full on smearing it across his own cheek and the fabric with every pointless rub of his face. "I love you so fucking much. Can't do this without you."

"Told you I'm not dying after you unless you kill me first, and I'm chasing you into the afterlife once you do go too. Fuck all the marriage shit, death ain't parting us either you brat." Marshall's tone is light and his palm is doing wonders to comfort him by rubbing circles into his back. It's enough to slow his hiccupped breathing down a few notches. "I dunno if you noticed but, I'm a little obsessed with you."

That drags out a wet snort. "Y-yeah?" When Colson pulls back to meet Marshall's eyes he swears he can see a wet shimmer starting to glaze over his partner’s as well. "Prove it then."

There's a flicker of something in blue eyes, so fast that Colson almost thinks he hallucinates the emotion altogether. But then Marshall's wrapped up arm wiggles between their bodies. The dark blue of the sling catching and sliding so his scratched up fist can shimmy its way partially out. "Planned on it-" There's something clutched tight there, black peeking out from between Marshall's finger and thumb. It's got Colson's heart dropping down into his stomach all over again. "What do you think I was driving so late on the M-8 for?"

"Marshall-" It can't be.

"Colson." But his shithead of an accident victim boyfriend is pulling back, both his good arm and slung arm awkwardly flailing in the air for a moment as he drops down on one knee. The visible wince not hidden as well as Colson imagines the man wants it to be. But Marshall's eyes are softening, and the blonde feels completely cemented in place. The only part of him moving being the uncontrollable shaky quiver of his bottom lip. "I had a whole moment planned, there were flowers, balloons, and those stupidly expensive alcoholic chocolates you love, but they all got absolutely trashed in the crash. Like, half of Detroit is probably going to think the Macies Thanksgiving parade started early. Paul called to have it all replaced, and honestly some intern is probably going to come banging on the door in about 20 minutes but I don't want to wait-" There's a flash of genuine worry that's furrowing the skin between Marshall's brows as he continues. "So I'm sorry this isn't gonna be that fancy perfect proposal you've always dreamed of-"

"Shut up." Colson's voice can't go above a whisper. His tone quick and clipped from how anxious he is to hear the man finally finish. "Just- shut up, ask me. Ask me Marsh, please-"

"Fine, always need to rush me."The rapper's lip quirks at the corners. Hands transferring the small box between eachother with a bit of fumbling. "Will you, Colson Baker-" Until Marshall can finally get it open with an audible clunk. "Legally commit to being with my annoying old ass forever?"

#sorry i had to give it a happy ending #i hope thats okay #🥺🥺#kells totally snots all over Em's shirt even more #and they end up sitting there at the dinner table #Em shirtless and Kells grinning like an idiot #eating cold food and being utterly inlove until the intern finally shows up #em slipping him a good couple hundred dollar tip #emgk #asks

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im-the-punk-who · 4 years

Note

Hi! I’m new to the fandom and I’m simply curious (not trying to start a feud or anything), why don’t you like Steinberg?

Hello dear anon! And welcome to the fandom!

Oof. That’s a question. xD

I’m going to try and stay as uh. neutral as possible. Because I’ve already written the post I know I failed but, the intent in answering this is also not to start a feud or hurt anyone’s feelings.

Okay, so I got fairly negative in this chilis tonight, so I want to start by saying that even in light of the opinions I’m about to express, Black Sails is one of, if not my number one, favorite TV shows of all time. Certainly in recent memory - I’ve been hyperfixating on this show for 18 months with no sign of stopping, and I have a tremendous amount of respect for everyone who worked on the show - even Steinberg. (The one exclusion is Michael Bay, he can go twist.)

AND I think Stienberg is an incredibly talented writer. Black Sails is one of my favorite shows because it does such a wonderful job of weaving stories, creating characters, and melding things in a way that is both unexpected and makes sense narratively. I have changed as a person because of the show, and they will have to pry James McGraw and Thomas Hamilton from my cold dead knives-attached-to-them hands. None of what I’m going to say is meant to detract from that.

I will also say that a lot of these issues are not particular to Steinberg and are in fact a systemic problem with American TV + Film. And I’m not leaving Robert Levine out of my criticism, it’s just that Steinberg had the biggest hand in the pot(he wrote a full half the episodes) and a lot of what I’ve heard as far as talking about the show comes from Steinberg. So, he gets the brunt. But it isn’t that I think Steinberg was the only problematic element of the show.

Also, these are all my opinions and are colored by how I interact with my fandoms. I am not only a fandom veteran, but I work and pretty much live in the entertainment industry. I work in indie film and theatre and am surrounded by artists and creators of all walks of life, like, constantly. I know what is possible, and when I see something that can be improved, I want to note it because it is important to me to always be striving forward. Like Miranda says about Thomas, this isn’t out of malice, or out of hate. It’s because I genuinely love this show, and I love entertainment as a whole, and I think in order to get to a better, more inclusive industry we have to have hard conversations and look critically at the media we consume, and it is frustrating to me to time and again see the same faces in the room.

But if that isn’t your cuppa, that’s fine! Fandom isn’t meant to be stressful and if all you want to do is watch a show about gay pirates that is your tomato and I applaud you. Have at it you funky motherfucker.

OH! One more. At some point I’m going to talk about Silverflint. When I do, it is NOT meant as a ‘you shouldn’t/cant ship this’ or ‘this pairing is bad’ or any negative attack on the people who ship that pairing. My criticisms in this post are exclusively about what it means for Steinberg as a writer and Black Sails’ representation of gay and mlm men. While it’s not my cuppa, this is a sail your own ship blog.

OKAY! SO!

My main criticisms of Steinberg & Co boil down to:

The homozygosity of the writers and directors shows a complete lack of desire to include marginalized people in the writing of a show that is about them. Which leads to:

The centering of white men while choosing a historical setting and time period that was in fact dominated by people of color and specifically a black woman,

The gratuitous inclusion of violence against women, particularly sexual violence, and again, that the female characters are often sidelined for the central male characters.

SO.

Black Sails is a show centered around queer, female, and black leads, and yet there were only two non white-male directors (one bi-racial man and one white woman) and only 7 female writers - one of whom was Latina. The entire rest of the major creative staff was white men. I’m not going to comment on sexualities but none of the writers or directors are out as queer according to a quick google search.

Let me reiterate the important bit there.

In Black Sails, where the last two seasons specifically feature around a real, actually-happened-in-history event that shaped black history in the Caribbean, there was not a single black writer on the entire show.

This is the main difference between inclusion for inclusion’s sake, and actually centering marginalized voices. Black Sails has a ton of gay, POC, and female rep in front of the camera but practically zero representation behind it, which leads to storylines and implications that Steinberg and his writers, as white men, simply would never realize.

It’s like why Silver and Miranda never realized the true reasons James was waging war on England. They just did not have the life experiences to realize they were missing a piece of the puzzle, and so they filled in their own without even realizing they’d done so.

Because no one in the room of Black Sails was a part of these marginalized identities, nuances get lost or mistranslated, motivations get muddled through a white man’s gaze(or a straight person’s) and implications that someone within those communities might think is obvious won’t even come up.

And again, because there were no writers or directors of color in the last two seasons (the biracial man directed episodes 2x02 and 2x04 - WHICH MAKES SENSE IMO) the entirety of the historical lore that the show bases itself on in its latter half is filtered through a white man’s lens. And so there is no discussion of how changing something changes the meaning, how leaving someone out or changing their role to be more minor might affect people for whom that is their heritage. How the entire story they’re telling might change with one simple exclusion or addition.

So, how does this relate directly to Steinberg, you ask? Well, simply, because it was his show.

Steinberg(and Levine) were involved in every major decision about the show, from its conception, to the script, to choosing the writers and directors. They chose how they wanted the show to look, to think, what stories to tell and how they wanted to tell them. Their decisions(and the biases that formed those decisions) are woven into the show.

And look. I don’t for a second believe any of this was willful or malicious. I don’t think that John Steinberg and Robert Levine sat down one day and said ‘you know what would make the gays really angry? If we locked the only two canonically gay men up in a prison camp.’

But the decisions that were made in the show were based in ignorance in a way that shows more than just simple negligence or laziness(especially given the attention to detail in everything else). The things they leave out or change in the Maroon War plotline for instance are not small details easily missed. They are big, giant waving flags. They are things that are irreplaceable to still have the same events and stories and tell them respectfully.

It shows an insane amount of privilege to, for instance, write a show airing during a time when the Black Lives Matter movement was at the forefront of the American conscience, include black characters and black storylines, and yet not include a single black voice on their creative team.

In a show that centers a gay man’s love and his journey in attempting to process the horrible things done to him and his lover because of it, we are given just forty minutes of the entire show dedicated to their relationship - and just fifteen of those minutes actually feature the lover!

(Relatedly, the entirety of the gay romantic rep is two kisses, and a forehead touch. That’s the entirety of your gay intimacy representation. And yet there are in the first two seasons alone - because that’s all I’ve clocked so far - something like twenty seven minutes of scenes involving a naked or half naked woman. Five minutes of that is explicitly wlw sex.

Again, I just want to reiterate this because it’s important in recognizing bias.

There is fully twice as much female nudity in the first two seasons, as the entirety of the time the two gay characters have together on screen. )

Steinberg is a perfect example of how a lack of understanding why the diversity you are representing is important, matters. I dislike Steinberg because he, just like every other straight white cis man I have known, profited off of marginalized voices without including them or creating with them in mind.

Art does not exist in a vacuum. You cannot create something - especially something as back breakingly, intensely a labor of love as Black Sails - without putting several pieces of yourself into it. But those pieces color your narrative. They will expose things about you that you don’t even realize. And it’s in these places we are weakest, and why a diverse group of writers with a diverse group of experiences can help a piece be stronger. But for whatever reason, John Steinberg thought that he could make art with only people who looked and thought and experienced like him.

The lack of representation behind the camera in Black Sails was evident in front of it and yet Steinberg is out here getting to pretend like he created the most inclusive groundbreaking show that ever existed. It is important to me, personally, to acknowledge that. And that it kind of makes my skin crawl in the way all media made by straight white (cis)men makes my skin crawl. I wish I didn’t have to feel that way about my favorite tv show just because it was created by a man of privilege, but here we are.

SO. I hope that helped? Feel free to take what you want and leave what you don’t!

Below the cut is a more in depth look at things that I think show what I’m talking about, but that up there ^^ is the gist. <3 |D

SURPRISE!

The Maroons and the Maroon War

So the first thing I want to point out is that the Maroon War was a real thing that happened. It lasted ten years, and resulted in the most substantial victory the Maroons ever achieved against the British. Not only that, there was in fact a KICKIN’ badass female leader of the maroons named Queen Nanny, who is to this day honored as a national hero in Jamaica. While they weren’t able to drive the British out, the outcome of this war led to a mostly self-governing Maroon population in Jamaica from the mid 1700s on. This was a long term fight that had a very tangible and real outcome, even if it didn’t end in the destruction of colonialism.

And what is this war turned into in Black Sails? A white ‘madman’s revenge’ that is doomed to failure after six months.

That, my dear pirates, is a problem for me. (And those familiar with my brand of spiceyness know that I do not ascribe to the ‘Flint is a Madman’ trope, but that IS what Steinberg ascribes to, what he seems to have written the show thinking.)

There was no narrative reason to include the Maroon War in the narrative of Black Sails. The Maroon War didn’t happen until a decade after the Golden Age of Piracy, and aside from Silver’s wife being a black woman there is no mention of Silver ever having contact with them. To me, this feels like the choice of a showrunner who found a cool historical event and saw a chance to up the stakes of their white male heroes while getting in some sweet sweet POC rep.

Except that they then took the major events of the Maroon War and gave them to their white characters, Flint and Silver.

Here’s the thing. If you’re going to take a piece of culturally important history and use it for your show, you NEED to have sensitivity writers. You need to have people who are at least familiar with those events and who care about them to do them justice. Have an expert come in and read your script or go over your ideas. Or just like. Hire a black writer. Hire ONE black writer. As a treat.

The important Maroon figures, Nanny, Cudjoe, and Quao, all get sidelined or ‘sexified’ and then used as plot points for the white characters. Nanny gets split into two women - the older mother queen and Madi, the young naive warbent visionary. Quao(Mr. Scott is the closest, or Kofi possibly) gets killed off because the writers realized they didn’t exactly have a place for him in their writing. Cudjoe(Julius) gets a few scenes and one good speech but his entire role in the war gets given to Silver. And THEN. That sexy Queen Madi figure gets used as emotional bait for Silver and then has to learn he has betrayed her and destroyed the hope and freedom she had wanted to bring to her people.

Gross, pirates. Gross.

Anne Bonny/Max/Mary Read - a heads up, this section includes a semi in-depth discussion of both Max and Anne’s sexual assaults. If that bothers you, the paragraphs talking about that begin with a ***

COOL NOW LET’S TALK ABOUT LESBIANS. Words my 20 year old self would never have imagined coming out of my mouth.

Specifically, I want to talk about Max, and Anne, and their backstories both involving extreme sexual trauma at the hands of men. And then Mary Read and the once again sexification of female characters.

(Actually while I’m here another criticism I have of Steinberg is that his writing does not seem to recognize how queer people existed in the past - again, likely because he didn’t have any gay historians to be like ‘actually buddy that doesn’t make sense also why is Anne not dressing as a man? If you want to fuck with anything and insert modern day terminology and ideas into this show, make her non binary and REALLY piss off the hetties.’)

(This same ficitonal gay dramaturg who is definitely not me has also questioned John Steinberg repeatedly about where Mary Read is, unsatisfied with the answer ‘well we wanted her to be hot so we made her a sex worker and then had Anne have to rescue her but then we realized it would be weird not to include her actual character so we gave her a five second cameo at the very end of the series and also made her like 13.’)

Anyway! So my main point in bringing up Anne and Max is the sexual trauma they are exposed to in the show, particularly being that they are the two primary wlw in the show, who Steinberg has said he views as being completely gay, and what THAT whole unexamined idea looks like.

***Max. My dear Max. There was literally no reason to have her be repeatedly r*ped(and for the love of god there was even less reason to make it that gratuitous and graphic). Max being assaulted like that did not add anything to the gravity of Eleanor’s betrayal. The traumatic event was being tossed aside by Eleanor, and that could have been just as emotionally damaging without the sexual assault. And the only reason for her to be continually assaulted was to bring her and Anne together.

***The reason imo that Max’s r*pe plot was added was because it was the only thing these white straight men could come up with that felt emotionally damaging enough to them. The act of betrayal itself wasn’t enough, the act of being thrown away, of having a lover put your life in danger because of her own ambitions wasn’t enough, they needed her to be r*ped to really drive home the point.

***Anne, on the other hand, is never shown being sexually abused, but we are given an explicit account of her own traumatic history and how Jack saved her from this vile beast who was passing her around to his friends.

But here’s the thing pirates - that never happened. According to every account we have of Anne Bonny, she chose her husband, and married him against her father’s wishes. They were probably relatively happy until her husband started being a pirate spy and Anne started cheating on him with Jack.

And yes, when they were found out. Her husband had her beat. That’s not fucking cool, and if they really wanted to go the damsel in distress route they still could have had Jack ‘save’ her from that. But at no point was she sexually abused by her husband(at least not in any accounts I’ve read.)

You know who did likely sexually abuse her or at least manipulate her and Mary for his own benefit? If you guessed our Rat man Jack Rackham, you would be correct, because when he found out about Mary and Anne’s (supposed, but probably real) relationship, it’s implied he extorted both of them into fucking him to keep their secret from the crew.

The addition of sexual abuse to Anne’s past isn’t done to be true to her character and was in fact explicitly untrue. Now of course I don’t know the reasons why they chose to do this, but I can guess. Just as with Max, the most traumatic thing a male writer can think of for a female character is for them to be sexually abused.

And the most disturbing part of this to me? The parallels it has to the real world of why straight men think lesbians exist. These characters who would be called man haters in present day are given these incredibly traumatic man-centered histories. It brings up something very uncomfortable in me about particularly wlw sexuality being viewed as a reaction to trauma at the hands of men. It’s just gross, I dont like it, and honestly there is no fucking excuse for it besides a room full of white straight men writing this bullshit. A room that Steinberg chose, because they fit his ideas.

In Fact heck, the women of Black Sails in general

***I honestly struggle to think of a single female character who I think was treated fairly in Black Sails. Miranda and Eleanor are killed for taking sides and not understanding their partners, Madi is betrayed in the worst way possible, Max is given a pseudo empowering ending but has that fucking terrible start. Idelle ends off fairly well, but tied to a man she may or may not have any actual feelings for, in what is essentially a political marriage. And Anne has her entire identity tied to a man who will be dead in two years as she is robbed of any agency whatsoever without him. (Oh, and the whole r*pe thing. And also her support for Max’s r*pe or death until she started having fee-fees. Who wrote this stuff. >_>)

Even though the characterization of each and every one of these women is PHENOMENAL - and again I will repeat that I absolutely LOVE these characters as they exist in a vacuum. I think they are well rounded, real, feeling people given motivations and drives and FEELINGS and they SHOW THEIR ANGER and i LOVE THEM.

But the show punishes them for it. Miranda is essentially fridged to move Flint’s storyline along, and to make room for Silver. Eleanor is killed for the emotional damage it will cause Rogers. Madi is placed at the center of a conflict she explicitly says she is willing to die for and then not only is her entire cause taken from her, but when she tells Silver to fuck off he - in possibly the most predictable white man move ever - says ‘no i will stay until you change your mind. I will never leave you. I don’t care about your choice in this matter, I will wait forever for you. I’m your biggest fan. I’ll follow you until you love me. papa, - paparazzi.’

And I touched on this before, but I want to talk in more detail about what is possibly my hottest take to date, the sexification of Mary Read and Queen Nanny, as they are presented in the show.

Max is to Anne what Mary Read is, historically. She is the lover that Jack Rackham discovers with Anne, and then he joins them in their bed. They form a triumvirate that upholds Jack at the expense of the women. But for some reason, Steinberg didn’t want to just include Mary Read as an actual character. For some reason he needed to make Anne’s love interest a sex worker who was in need of saving (and who, coincidentally, we never see working the brothel after she becomes lovers with Anne, because she is now a madam. :) Gross.)

And Madi. My dear sweet fucking Madi who didn’t fucking deserve any of this bullshit send tweet.

So, historically, Queen Nanny was the Queen, spiritual advisor, and the military tactician of the Windward Maroons. She would have filled both Madi and the Queen’s character roles(and Flint’s, but who’s counting. A BLACK GAY LEAD? Inconceivable. I digress.) But, I guess, because they were wishy-washing with Silver’s sexuality or felt they needed to give him a female love interest because of Treasure Island, or because they were leaning a bit too hard into the gay shit and needed to backpedal, they took Queen Nanny and split her into a character who is for all intents and purposes powerless in the war and Madi, who is young and naive and does not have any real world experience outside of the Maroon camp.

Because that’s sexy, or something. They could have had the Maroon Queen be a fucking badass lady who works and fights alongside Flint and Silver and one ups them and teaches them shit and has her own ideas about where the British can stick it, but instead they made her into the perfect caricature of a female monarch, letting the big strong men handle the dirty work or something. Because white male power fantasies.

Just let women be powerful and not nubile and let them have character arcs over fucking thirty and let them be CENTERED in their own. fucking. narratives.

God damnit Steinberg.

James Flint, mlm extraordinaire

Oh, my love. My most amazing child. The light of my life. My purest cinnamon roll.

~~And now we’ve come to the dreaded Silverflint criticism part of our programming. Please please know and remember this isn’t a criticism of people who ship Silverflint. As I said up top, Your Tomato Is Not My Tomato and that’s cool. Please don’t take this next part as an attack on Silverflint as a fandom ship.~~

My criticism of Steinberg as it relates to Flint is related to:

What a romantic/sexual relationship with Silver being the basis of the tension and plot means for Flint in particular as a gay or mostly mlm man.

Refusing to confirm Thomas and James being alive at the end and honestly the whole finale in general but like I’ll try and focus.

The major problem I have with Silver and Flint being coded as in love with each other is the implications there in terms of gay men’s relationships to other men.

From every corner, men are inundated with the idea that any close relationship between them must be gay. That intimacy cannot exist unless there are sexual feelings involved. That a relationship cannot be close, deep and soul shattering and life altering, unless one guy secretly(or not so secretly) wants to bone the other dude. That two men cannot value each other as partners or friends or truly know each other unless they are gay.

Seeing both of the meaningful relationships Flint forms with other men be sexually coded feels a bit the same way as Anne and Max’s sexual assault plotlines does vis-a-vis being wlw. (Even with Gates, Flint never spoke about Thomas or his plans - Silver is absolutely the closest person to Flint besides Thomas and Miranda.) And this is just as true for Silver. Having both Flint and Madi - the two people he trusts - both be people he’s in love with also just feels. I don’t know.

It feels like a confusion between male intimacy and male love that is so so familiar to me as a gay man I could choke on it. Where they wanted these men to have a deep and really lasting connection, but could only figure out how to do it if they were in love. Friendship wouldn’t have been enough - only romantic and sexual love is enough for the gay man(or men, at all).

Just because it isn’t queerbaiting doesn’t mean it’s good rep, and I would have liked to see truly deep male friendships that did not center on sexual attraction - particularly for Flint as a confirmed mlm(and Silver too, if you’re counting him. The same arguments for why I dislike Flint being paired with Silver are also true in the reverse.)

Even if both Flint and Silver were confirmed mlm I still would have LOVED to see a platonic relationship between them. In fact I would have loved that EVEN MORE. Men! Who fuck men! Not needing to fuck each other to be important to one another! Who made this. Very delicious.

But because there weren’t any queer writers on the show, writers who understand this kind of struggle that gay and mlm men face, they thought ‘oh, let’s also have them be in love with each other. More gay rep is better gay rep, right?’ False. THOUGHTFUL gay rep is better gay rep.

Okay and here’s my last thing. The fact that Steinberg refuses to say whether or not the explicitly mlm men are alive at the end of the show - that the words he specifically uses are ‘up for interpretation’ is. Fuck, it’s gross, okay? It’s fucking gross.

I have been around enough men, enough people in power, enough people with leverage who also know how to play the field, to know that when someone wants a group’s support but does not agree with them, their go to phrasing is that it is ‘up for debate’ or ‘up for interpretation.’

Say the gays are alive. Steinberg refusing to acknowledge the reality of the ending of his show to maintain his own sense of artistic integrity is what, honestly, really sets me off about him and I don’t care if this is a nuanced take.

Like yes, death of the author. I honestly don’t care if he thinks they’re dead or alive. What I care about is that he thinks he can get away with being clever and leaning hard into a story is true/untrue’ - doesn’t realize what the implications of that are, and didn’t when he was writing, and didn’t have anyone else in the room who would think about it either.

ANYWAY. So this is....my long drawn out explanation for why I do not like Steinberg. Uhhhhh tune in next week for more of my totally unpopular opinions!

#good....fucking lord #i am so sorry #how many opinions can milo fit in one post #i mean i have more but yknow lmao #black sails #behind the black sails #milos black sails meta #long posts #my increasingly devoted attempts to find tumblrs word limit #Anonymous #john steinberg #js critical but the js is jon steinberg

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padmerrie · 3 years

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Bookends [3k, ongoing; AO3 link here]

book·end [ ˈbu̇k-ˌend ] n. a support, one of two usually similar things that begin and end something.

Summary: Kakashi Hatake is no stranger to taking in strays. But when his former comrade and friend mysteriously disappears after the murder of his entire family, leaving behind his little brother, Kakashi learns that there's more to getting lost on the path of life when you pick up an Uchiha brat along the way.

A modern adoption AU exploring various moments in the life of Kakashi, Sasuke, eight dogs, and one vengeful cat.

a/n: Did I expect to become obsessed with Naruto in my 30s? Short answer: no. I guess you could say I got lost on the path of life. XD

It’s the same thing almost every night lately.

“I picked up dinner on the way home. Hope you don’t mind.”

He doesn’t. Kakashi knows this by now. The passive hn of acknowledgement that greets him when he steps through the door and into their apartment tells him as much. If it really bothered him, he’d have made it known by now. What Sasuke lacks in words he more than makes up for in opinions - something he’s never short of.

The dogs, at the very least, are happy to see him.

“Yes, yes, I missed you too,” Kakashi says a little exasperatedly, holding the takeout bags out of reach for their overly excitable noses and trying to return their enthusiastic welcome without the use of his hands. Sasuke stays seated at the table, pouring over a textbook, and decidedly choosing not to offer any assistance. Beside him, Pakkun, the oldest and most loyal of his four-legged companions, raises his head from his crossed front paws. Sleepy eyes meet Kakashi’s for a moment, blink, then slip shut as he lowers his head and goes back to his nap.

Loyal, indeed.

It takes Kakashi a minute to break through the wall of dogs barricading him against the door after slipping off his shoes. They follow at his heels as he crosses over to the kitchen, tossing the keys onto the counter island that overlooks the living room before setting down the bags of food.

“I thought we’d go a little greasy tonight,” Kakashi continues, starting to unpack the bags. The small apartment is quickly filled with the sinful smell of fried food and seasoned vegetables. The dogs eagerly circling his feet quickly devolve into a panting mess.

“We’ve talked about this,” Kakashi chastises Biscuit, who is not nearly tall enough to reach the counter but nevertheless tries, standing on his short hind legs and nose snuffling frantically back and forth along the edge of the counter like it's being pulled by an invisible fishing line. He’s going to have to deal with them first if there’s to be any chance of getting the food safety to the table.

“Hey, give me a hand, will ya?” he calls to Sasuke as he wades through the dogs to get to the cabinet with the cups and plates. They get impossibly more hysterical at the sound of the clinking dishes, a tell-tale sign that they’re almost close to the main event. This isn’t the first time it’s occurred to Kakashi that this apartment is too small for two people, let alone eight dogs.

“Oh, for the love of- Sasuke.”

Sasuke, it turns out, isn’t listening - or so it would appear given that Kakashi’s appearance hasn’t prompted anything but deafening nothing since he walked through the door. However, Kakashi has lived with Sasuke for a couple years and observed him for longer. He’s learned to read the subtle shifts in the boy's silences. Sasuke has so much to say if one takes the time to listen.

Sating his (and the dogs’) appetite suddenly doesn’t seem so pressing.

“Alright, have at it,” Kakashi relents, dumping the contents of one of the take-out cartons onto the plate and setting it down at his feet for the dogs to fight over. He’ll clean up the mess later. For now, he grabs the carton of udon, a pair of chopsticks, and leaves the dogs to their feast, carefully stepping over them and making his way out to Sasuke.

He sits down, looking far more relaxed than his much younger counterpart. Sasuke’s eyes remain downturned and concentrated on his homework. Kakashi lets him be and turns his attention to his food. He can multi-task after all. He breaks apart his chopsticks and opens the carton, then picks at the noodles a bit before twirling them around and raising a helping into his mouth. It doesn’t quite pack the punch he’d been fantasizing about on his walk home from the shop.

“Trouble with homework?” Kakashi eventually asks, his tone light.

The pen in Sasuke’s hand stills. Then, after a moment - and without meeting his gaze - Sasuke slides a folder across the table with his free hand.

Kakashi’s chewing slows and he looks over his carton. Sasuke is content with providing no further explanation, already pursuing his assignment like nothing happened.

Kakashi doesn’t need to read past the over-the-top swirly cursive heading to know what’s soured Sasuke’s mood. The pink and read hearts dotting the top of the single sheet of paper tucked neatly in the folder’s pocket are a dead giveaway. He shuts the folder, then picks up the carton and digs into his noodles a little more enthusiastically than before.

“So… it’s that time of year, huh?”

Sasuke makes no indication that he’s heard his question. Kakashi understands. He would have had a similar reaction at his age. But he’d like Sasuke to be different.

“Should be simple enough,” he goes on, surreptitiously glancing up from his carton, but Sasuke is stubborn. And naive. Because Sasuke has already given himself up.

In some ways, Sasuke is exceptionally mature for his age. But at the end of the day, he is still a twelve-year-old boy and not immune to acting as such. He’s not above shutting himself up in his room and blaring his music at some wholly unnecessary volume until neighbors get involved (“This is the only apartment complex in Konoha that will take 8 dogs,” Kakashi is reduced to shouting through the door in his bathrobe and slippers at 1 in the morning. “Are you trying to get us kicked out?”), or staying out much too late roaming the streets and only slipping through his bedroom window when he thinks Kakashi is in bed (He’s not. He’s (once again) in his bathrobe and slippers waiting outside his bedroom door and prepping a lecture that is sure to be ill-received.)

In other words, if he truly wanted to avoid facing Kakashi, he wouldn’t be here.

So Kakashi waits.

And waits.

Until…

“Look, Sasuke-”

“It’s so- annoying.”

Sasuke glowers at the space in front of him, refusing to look at Kakashi. It was a slip, one he quickly recovers from, however. The grip around his pen tightens and he attacks the page in front of him with conviction. He’s clearly annoyed. With himself, with the predicament Iruka has so unjustly put him in. Kakashi allows him a couple sentences to take his frustration out on his assignment before moving forward.

“I think it’s nice.”

Sasuke drops his pen and his head snaps up.

“Nice?” He says the word with such fierce disdain that Kakashi can’t help but chuckle. He merely picks at his noodles with amusement.

“Nice??” Sasuke repeats, eyes narrowing incredulously. “As if you would have ever lowered yourself to something so meaningless.”

Kakashi chews thoughtfully. He’s not wrong. Still, he simply shrugs.

“Sure, it’s a little silly. But there are very few things in life that are truly meaningless. What holds no value to one person could mean the world to another.” He pauses. The intensity of Sasuke’s stare doesn’t waver. “There’s nothing wrong with building relationships among your peers and having a little fun. A hard word for you, I know,” he adds dryly, poking at a mushroom, “But give it a shot. These opportunities won’t be around forever.”

“I don’t even like these people,” Sasuke mutters with a bitterness that most adults would find unnerving coming from a 12-year-old.

(He knows; his colleagues have told him as much.)

“That’s not true. You have Naruto and Sakura-”

“Annoying and annoying-er.”

Kakashi frowns a little at that. He sets the carton aside. “Look, I’m going to tell you what I told you last year. If you really don’t want to do this, I’m not going to make you. I’ll understand… but your friends might not. And despite what you say, when your classmates come to you with their cards, I think you’re going to realize too late that you might like to give them something in return.”

Kakashi lets the words sink in. Sasuke’s expression is unreadable. It takes some time - a long time, really - but eventually, his shoulders slump forward, and after a tense moment, he relents.

“Fine.”

“Good,” Kakashi says, satisfaction evident in his tone. “I think we still have supplies leftover from last year somewhere in here,” he muses aloud, rising from the table and disappearing into the hall that leads to their respective bedrooms. The sound of him rummaging around in the hall closet fills the air until eventually a pleased Ah interrupts the silence. When Kakashi returns cradling an assortment of craft supplies in his arms, Sasuke looks as though he’s already regretting his decision.

“Here, I’ll even do it with you,” Kakashi says in a show of solidarity once he spreads out his findings on the table. There’s still several paper heart cut-outs leftover from the previous year. Kakashi’s hand hovers thoughtfully over the pile before making his selection and pulling them towards his end of the table.

A sharp, derisive snort comes from the seat next to him. Kakashi looks up.

“Yes?”

“There’s no way you have that many people to give valentines to,” Sasuke retorts with all the bluntness of a kunai knife.

Kakashi blinks at him, then peers down at the pile, a puzzled frown tugging at his brow underneath his silver fringe like Sasuke’s right. That he’s made some sort of horrible mistake. A split-second later, his expression clears.

“Actually,” he replies, reaching across the table and grabbing an additional heart, “I missed one. How could I forget my most cherished pup?” He shakes his head somberly, giving Sasuke a meaningful look.

It takes Sasuke a moment to understand.

“You’re making valentines for the dogs.” It’s not a question, and there’s no mistaking what he thinks about that.

“Well,” Kakashi acquiesces, eyes crinkling, “I can’t play favorites.”

They hold each other’s gaze. Despite the pleasant smile Kakashi puts forward, Sasuke’s eyes remain cold and unfeeling.

In the end, Kakashi exhales a patient breath.

“Go get dinner, Sasuke.”

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

It’s when he’s sorting through his mail on Valentine’s Day that Kakashi runs into Iruka.

“Yo.” The word is barely out of his mouth before being promptly met with an angry grunt, after which Iruka slams his apartment door shut so violently that the decorative Cupid hanging there falls to the floor.

Kakashi slow-blinks down the empty hallway, hand halfway raised in greeting. With a small shake of his head, he sticks the mail under his arm and digs into his pocket for his keys.

The dogs are on him the instant he opens the door. Unfazed, he glances around the apartment expecting to hear the sounds of Sasuke’s self-imposed banishment to his room, the kind that expressly tells him that under no circumstances is he to be disturbed. Only there’s no pulsating bass. It’s quiet. And Sasuke’s not in his room but on the couch by the open sliding glass door, back propped against a slumbering Bull and a book open in his lap. He surprises Kakashi further when he deigns to look up.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Kakashi greets back, closing the door behind him. It should be a welcomed sight, but he can’t help but feel a little wary. It’s not often that he sees Sasuke so... at peace.

He walks over to the kitchen and drops the mail on the counter beside what can only be the fruits of his and Sasuke’s labor. He smiles to himself.

Popular as ever, I see.

With a sense of satisfaction, he sifts through the sizable pile of valentines, familiar names popping out at him. He pauses on one in particular. Sakura’s careful craftsmanship stands out from the rest, the evidence of her feelings clear as day. Kakashi only hopes that Sasuke didn’t say anything unkind.

Naruto’s stands out too - though, for entirely different reasons.

“I see Naruto’s scissor skills haven’t improved.” With two fingers, Kakashi picks up the pitiful thing and gives it a good once over. He can only assume that it was supposed to be a heart, though he can’t be sure. It’s a sharp contrast to Sakura’s, which Kakashi knows she probably spent days laboring over. A glob of glitter glue drips from Naruto’s abstract creation pinched between his fingers and drops onto the counter. He shakes his head and hangs it up on the fridge anyway, Sakura’s joining soon after. He lingers on them for a moment, eyes crinkling with a familiar fondness before he turns away to join Sasuke in the living room.

“I take it everything went well today,” he says, plopping down onto the adjoining couch and humming contentedly when he props his feet on the coffee table and leans back. Pakkun leaps up and settles himself next to him, a low, warm growl rumbling underneath his hand when he begins to massage his wrinkled head.

“You could say that.” Sasuke has his back to him, but Kakashi detects something in his voice.

“Meaning?”

There’s a pause before Sasuke shuts his book and looks over his shoulder at Kakashi. “Let’s just say I got what I wanted for Valentine’s Day.”

What Sasuke wanted for Valentine’s Day was for all its practices to be dismantled and done away with for the greater good of humanity - or so he claimed in a rare moment of awakeness on their way to the academy that morning. Somehow Kakashi doesn’t think exchanging a couple valentines with his classmates is responsible for this drastic - some may say, miraculous - shift in perspective.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Iruka, would it?” He jerks his thumb at the door. “I just ran into him in the hallway and he didn’t look too happy.”

The corner of Sasuke’s mouth twitches, but he only shrugs, facing forward and cracking open his book once more.

Kakashi exchanges a look with Pakkun whose doleful eyes stare up at him, equally suspicious and, if he’s not mistaken, wholeheartedly unimpressed. With some reluctance, Kakashi swings his legs off the coffee table and gets to his feet in one languid motion. He crosses the short distance to where Sasuke sits, plucking the book out of his hands as he comes up behind him.

“Hey!”

“I’d like your undivided attention for this if you don’t mind,” Kakashi says calmly, perching himself on the arm of the couch, one foot on the ground, the other propped on the seat cushion. Sasuke glares at him resentfully, but keeps his mouth shut, albeit with the air of one whose time is being profoundly wasted.

“Ok,” Kakashi starts, folding his arms across his chest. “What happened at school today?”

“Nothing.”

“Sasuke.”

“Nothing,” Sasuke repeats, drawing out the word. When Kakashi continues to stare at him, he huffs in irritation. “Tch, I didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Kakashi replies smoothly. “However, it’s not like you to take pleasure at Iruka’s expense. I thought you liked Iruka.”

There’s a pause. Sasuke averts his eyes out the window, uncomfortable. A gentle breeze rustles the overgrown jungle habitating the balcony.

“Yeah, I do,” he confirms grudgingly.

“Ok,” Kakashi continues ever so patiently, “so what’s got you in such a good mood?”

There’s another long pause. However, this time it’s Kakashi who breaks the silence. The answer hits him over the head and leaves him feeling - if he’s perfectly honest - like a fool.

“What did Naruto do this time?”

Sasuke hasn’t looked away from the window, but Kakashi sees a flicker of something cross his face.

“Well?”

Sasuke mulls it over, then simply relies, “Naruto was very generous with his valentines this year."

An image of the limp heart dripping with barely dried glue on their fridge comes to Kakashi’s mind. “How generous are we talking?”

“500 ryō worth.”

Kakashi can see where this is going. He suppresses a sigh.

“And where on earth did Naruto get the money for such a selfless gesture?”

Sasuke’s eyes slide to meet Kakashi’s. “Iruka.”

“Knowingly?”

A flash of annoyance flares in Sasuke’s dark eyes, again, like he’s wasting his time. In fairness, he is; the answer is obvious.

Kakashi leans his head back against the bookshelf behind him and briefly closes his eyes. A sigh falls heavily from his lips.

“Well, as long as he doesn’t come knocking on our door looking for money…” He glances down at Sasuke. “Was it worth it, at least?”

“Was what worth it?”

“Whatever it was that constituted stealing 500 ryō?”

Sasuke’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, but his reply is void of any feeling. “How should I know? I’m not Sakura. Now, do you mind? I was in the middle of something.” He holds out his hand then, waiting.

Kakashi regards him with patience, not entirely content to end the conversation there. It’s the familiar way in which Sasuke holds his hand out to him that cautions him to hold back. Patience, it whispers. Remember how you found him. Reading. At peace. At home.

He hands the book to Sasuke, who takes it without thanks, and thinks as he watches him leaf through its pages and settle against Bull that he could do with some light reading too.

#naruto #kakashi hatake #sasuke uchiha #naruto au #fic #bookends #he's like me #this is the most indulgent thing i've ever done #exactly one (1) person is going to read it

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desdemonafictional · 3 years

Text

TFA Fantasy WIP

Sentinel Prime, His Imperial Benevolence, The Auspicious and Holy Oneself, Emperor in Perpetua, entered the little farming villa like a spoiled brat waltzing into a tent of freaks. He cast his smugly disinterested eye over every dusty window and dinged up bit of furniture alike, observing the lack of bustling servants or fine hangings brought out for his arrival.

Optimus ground his jaw quietly.

“We apologize for the austerity,” he said, still standing stiffly at the door where Sentinel had shoulder-shoved past him to get inside. “The Orion House doesn’t have… much staff. I’m afraid we can’t receive you with all the honors due to a Prime.”

“Oh please,” Sentinel said, “don’t trouble yourself with a formal reception. I’ll just consider this a hunting party, how about that? Like old times, eh, Optimus?”

Bumblebee inched sidelong along the wall, leant sideways, and out the side of his mouth he said, “Y’all two know each other?”

The high ceilings of the Orion were indeed not dissimilar from the hunting lodges they had stayed in together from time to time, as junior officers in the Primal Guard. The air conditioning out here in the countryside was rudimentary, and the summers burned hot under the watchful stare of Hadeen, especially with so many bodies crowded into a single house putting off their own mechanical heat. It was, however, a manor house and not a hunting lodge. It was Optimus’ manor now, in fact, ever since he had been relegated here seven vorn earlier.

“Shall we make a room ready for you, your Benevolence?” Optimus said, ignoring the yellow car prodding at his side.

Sentinel gave the place a judgemental once over and said, “Just the one night, I think. We mustn’t trespass on your… hospitality.”

And with that, the rest of his retinue came sweeping in. Chamber attendants with berth dressings, a chef and cooks, secretaries—the Orion filled up immediately, bursting to its seams with activity. Optimus glanced through the window, and noted that out in the front of the house Sentinel’s guard was already setting up silk tents and laying camp with military efficiency.

“Bumblebee,” Optimus said, “why don’t you show the Prime’s bots where they can set his fixings for the night?”

“Uh,” Bumblebee said, “um, right—just this way, gentlemechs! You’re in good hands with me, I know everything there is to know about the Orion! Hey, stripes, you single—?”

Sentinel fell back to stand beside Optimus, not looking at him, in a parody of casual camaraderie.

“So I guess the pipsqueak isn’t your sweetspark,” Sentinel smirked. “That or you’ve developed a thing for being cuckolded?”

“I’m still single,” Optimus said. “I don’t have any sweetsparks.”

“What, not even that bulky hulk I saw out back?” Sentinel asked, grinning unpleasantly. “I bet he’s easy, rubes like that always are.”

Optimus squeezed his fist open and closed at his side, bruisingly tight, but discreetly. Sentinel was the Prime, and the Prime could say whatever nasty, petty thing he liked.

“Bulkhead is a brilliant engineer,” Optimus said, in an only slightly repressive tone. “He single-handedly designed the new extractors for the crystal fields, and the harvest is coming at 21% increased efficiency this vorn.”

“Whatever, farmer stuff,” Sentinel said. “I don’t give a scrap about that. You’re really still single? Seven vorns that you’ve been out here, and you haven’t even picked up some knobkneed crop duster for a tumble? Don’t tell me you’re still holding out for a conjunx.”

Optimus didn’t bother to point out that he’d been in mourning for most of that time, like Sentinel would have been, if he hadn’t been selected by the Matrix not one vorn after the hunting accident that took Elita from them both. Primes weren’t encouraged to mourn the loved ones from their previous lives. Just the angry edge to Sentinel’s bitter humor proved that he was still mourning, in his own way, and probably the empire would have been better off if he’d been allowed to deal with it on his own terms before being thrust into the mantle of Imperial Personage.

Optimus missed the friends they had been, before the bitterness.

“You know no decent court mech will have anything to do with a relegated bumpkin Count,” Sentinel pointed out. “Conjunxing is not in your future, Optimus. You’d be lucky to take an amica, like the peasants do.”

“There’s nothing wrong with taking an amica,” Optimus replied.

“Yeah, not for peasants and destitute washouts,” Sentinel said. “Hey, maybe you could be somebody’s subordinate conjunx, how about that? Not that you’d have any luck tempting a courtier away from Iacon with this…” he grimaced at the high ceilings and bare walls, “cabin in the mud.”

“Are you done?” Optimus asked, a little too forwardly for good manners.

“Watch it,” Sentinel said, narrowing his eyes. “If you’re not properly gracious, I’ll reconsider calling you back to court.”

“Re-?” Optimus skipped a pump beat. “Reconsider?”

Sentinel smirked again, this time with less humor and more coldness, and patted Optimus on the shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “I could use more allies in the capitol. And you would be an ally for me, wouldn’t you, Optimus?”

The fragile shoot of hope withered all at once. Whatever Sentinel wanted him back at court for, it wouldn’t be out of the goodness of his spark. He still hated Optimus too much; any gratitude would be a yolk around Optimus’ neck for the rest of their lives.

“Yes, of course,” said Optimus. “I am at the service of the Primacy, as ever.”

“I thought you would be,” Sentinel said, and his smirk turned keen, and then he said: “Alright, show us where we can do some freshening up around here. You have body servants around this slaghole? I need a deep polish before dinner.”

His Imperial Benevolence came out of the shower quite a long time later, which was fortunate for his cooks, who had hastily taken over Optimus’ kitchen and were rushing to fill it with servable fuel. Optimus had quietly pulled his own kitchen staff—all two of them—away to help clean the place up a little more for guests. Sentinel’s cooks had ransacked the house’s pantry, pulling long spools of brass and bricks of gold onto every counter, vials of soluble compounds, crystals, seasonings. The cooks kept clicking their tongues at the spread. Optimus had the feeling that he was being Disapproved of.

In the house there were two cooks, one body servant, a housekeeper, Optimus, and the engineer (Bulkhead) who was out overseeing an upgrade to the manor rain pumps this month. The house had been on the empty side, before Sentinel, and now it was crammed full in every room with someone doing something. The change was a little bit dizzying. Bumblebee seemed to be loving it, though.

“Don’t make me clean,” he was whining, a squeegee dripping unhelpfully in his hand. “I want to go out and see the soldiers, let me go out and see if the soldiers need anything.”

Optimus pressed his lips together. “If you go out there now, I won’t see you again until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay, so? Sentinel’s cooks got it covered, you don’t need me.”

Optimus wondered if there was a polite way to say “I’m more worried one of them will lean you over his saddle bag without waiting for permission.” Bulkhead might or might not be easy, it wasn’t Optimus’s place to guess, but he had a distinct feeling Bumblebee would be.

“Just go get the place settings out,” Optimus told him, “when that’s done you can gossip with anybody in the house, but don’t go outside. I might need you.”

Bumblebee thwapped his cleaning cloth against his thigh and grumbled all the way out of the room. Optimus gave it depressingly low odds that he’d be obeyed the whole night, but, well, he’d done his best. He didn’t have time to be monitoring his staff all night, not when Sentinel was lurking about the place.

Besides, what were the chances Bumblebee could even bud new sparks? Less than thirty percent of the population could do it, under the best circumstances.

There was a shout from the direction of the baths, and Optimus whirled in time to see servants roiling away from the exclamation like insecticons in a disturbed hive. He pushed his way through the aimless anxiety and then—with a deep vent to pre-emptively cool himself—let himself into the washroom, where solvent was splattered all over the floor and Sentinel was splattered across the chest with globs of polish.

“My Prime,” Optimus said, leaning his hip against the wall. He didn’t smirk. He thought about it though.

Sentinel whirled, steam all but blowing out his vents. “One of your bumbling idiots broke my washkit!” He jabbed his finger at a very complicated looking fold-out case, enameled with blue and white and utterly smashed across the floor between himself and the body servant.

“I—” the servant said, “Optimus—your Courtesy—I was setting it out for the Prime, but one of the containers was—”

“Your idiot threw it at me!”

“One of the containers—there was a springloaded compartment and—”

“And it bit you like a needle-mouthed pit beast?” Sentinel mocked, furiously. “That case was one of a kind! My concubine made that for me!”

Optimus glazed at the poor smashed object. It certainly did look one of a kind, with that complicated enameling out the outside, the nested compartments all conjoined in different ways, like a puzzle box.

“Ugh,” Sentinel said, and glared down at his abdomen. “And you got them mixed up too, look at this, my paint is peeling, everyone knows you’re not supposed to mix cosmetic chemicals.”

Actually, it was peeling. Kind of bubbling too. That was alarming enough that Optimus pushed off the wall and went to fetch a dry cloth and a jar of water from the cabinet. Plain water was usually safe to mix with chemicals, whereas solvent was… not.

“Now I need to fix my paint too,” Sentinel seethed. “I wanted to go hunting tonight! I won’t have time to go hunting once we reach the border, it’ll be nothing but handshaking and touring the facilities!”

“I’m sure we can get your paint patched with plenty of time for dinner,” Optimus said, and sat Sentinel down at the edge of the great sunken oil pit (empty, as it usually was, the budget for hot oil being very slim at Orion House). He knelt down and dragged the broken kit back towards himself, fishing through the wreckage until he came up with the little jar of touch up paint in Sentinel’s classic blue.

“Um, my lord count,” the servant said, from somewhere behind Optimus.

“Don’t worry about it,” Optimus said, without looking back, “I’ll take it from here. You go help the others with dinner.”

“And get my hunting kit out more carefully this time!” Sentinel shouted after him, leaning so far forward that Optimus had to tilt his head out of the way to avoid bonking his Prime’s chassis.

Gently, Optimus pressed a palm to Sentinel’s chest and pushed him back into his seat. Sentinel slouched back into the bench seat, letting his elbows hang over the empty tub behind him. He eyed Optimus, his face tilted away at an angle that seemed half suspicious, half uncomfortable.

“You know you’re a Count now, not a cadet,” Sentinel said. “Below your station to be scrubbing and polishing anybody, even the Prime.”

Optimus’s half smile was more irony than humor. He wasn’t about to leave poor Screwshine alone with Sentinel, after that fit of temper. He focused on lathering up the powder paint and paint-thinner into something he could work with.

Sentinel let Optimus push his leg out of the way to get a better angle at the stripped plating, but his sidelong gaze didn’t ease up. “Not angling for a spot in the Primal Harem, are you?”

Optimus nearly shuddered at the thought. What a nightmare, locked up in the harem with a mech who hated him for the rest of his functioning. No amount of luxury or status was worth that. “No, my Prime. Definitely not. I just wasn’t going to let you keep terrorizing my servant all night.”

Sentinel scowled, but he also relaxed. “I wouldn’t have to yell at your staff if they weren’t a bunch of incompetent ninnies.”

“You’re the Prime,” Optimus said, fixing his frown firmly on the paint, and not on Sentinel’s face. “You’re meant to comport yourself with more grace than that.”

“Hah,” Sentinel said, and his face twisted into an even darker configuration, “what would a washout coward like you know about any of it, anyway.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the smooth soft sound of paint applique. Eventually, Sentinel snapped, “Hand me that pill case, the pink one, it’s down in the slag pile.”

Optimus was reluctant to pause, thinking of the quick drying paint, but obeyed after only a second’s hesitation. He dug it out and handed it up, considering the esoteric pink inscriptions in the white enamel. White was the color of philosophy. Pink was the color of life. When Sentinel shook out a couple of the little capsules, in the moment before clapping them to his mouth and swallowing, their insides sloshed with a viscous magenta sludge.

“What… are those?” Optimus asked, feeling a little sick just from looking at the things.

“Mm?” Sentinel knocked back a quick swig of something from his subspace pocket and then coughed, wiping his mouth absently with the back of his hand. “Oh. Prima Materia. Divine Oneness philosophy is all the rage in Iacon right now. Guess you wouldn’t know about that out here in the boonies.”

Optimus frowned and wracked his memory storage. “An alchemical elixir?”

“Yeah,” Sentinel said, and tucked the little pill case back into his subspace pocket. “Couple a day, supposed to make you live forever. When the old chancellor came down with Zero Point Crytosis last orn, the court was hysterical. I don’t say this very often, but every once in a while, I miss soldiers.”

Optimus made a face at the idea of taking those goop capsules twice a day. “You sure that stuff is safe?”

“Please,” Sentinel said, “I’m the Prime. My alchemists aren’t grabbing any old dirt off the back of a truck and calling it gold. Anyway, one of my concubines is a chemist, and a damn good one for all she needs the smart mouth knocked off of her. She mixed the slag herself.”

Optimus continued to regard it doubtfully.

#tfa

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loverlele · 4 years

Text

Oblivious

Spencer Reid x Bi!Female Reader

Warnings: bad language, a bit of sex talk

A/N: Happy pride month! I know there’s lots of evil things going on in the world at the moment so I wanted to bring a bit of happiness back, even if it is just for a few minutes. I have a Bi!Spencer Reid x Male Reader one shot (possibly a mini series) coming soon, as well as a Lesbian!Emily Prentiss one shot in the works. Let me know if you want a part 2, possibly a smutty chapter? Who knows ;) anyways enough of my rambling, enjoy :)

Word count: 2023

“Hey good job today angel face” Morgan says from opposite me as I pack up my bags to head home. “Everyone’s going for drinks in a bit, fancy coming?”

“Since when have I ever said no to drinks with my favourite man?” I sarcastically shoot back.

“Well considering Reid hasn't asked you out for drinks, I can't comment on that one sunshine.” I pick up a piece of paper from my desk and throw it at him. Unfortunately I have a shit sense of aim, so it ended up going way to the right of Derek and hitting Emily square in the forehead.

“Oops, sorry Em!” I say, skipping over to my best friend and kissing the spot it collided with her face at. Unable to contain her laughter anymore, she erratically waved her hands in front of her face to get to back off. I do, not before messing her hair up with my fingers.

“Uhhhh, what have I walked into?” comes a voice from my left. I spin round and see Spencer stood next to my desk with a puzzled expression on my face. I sheepishly smile at him, looking at Derek for help.

“Y/N once again tried to hit me with a flying object, but her awful aim stopped that from happening and it hit Em instead” Derek laughed out. With a fake anger look on my face I kept on Derek and held him in a fake chokehold. I didn't think twice at how immature it might make me seem, but once I heard Spencer’s adorable laugh I knew I didn't need to second guess myself.

“Hey you adorable human being, get your own man” Garcia says as she walks up to the mess that has unravelled. I rub Derek’s head firmly before sliding off his shoulders, placing my feet firmly on the ground. Well, so I thought. As it seemed though, the earth hated me. As my feet made contact with the ground, my knees buckled and I fell backwards. A firm, but soft pair of hands caught me and helped me steady myself. I didn't need to turn around to look at who had caught me, I could recognise those hands from a mile away.

“Thanks you” I muttered slowly pulling myself off him.

“No problem.”

Feeling the tensions rise in the air I turn my attention back to Garcia, who is now perching on Emily’s desk with a smirk on her face. That little shit, I mutter to myself. Thankfully, my comment wasn't heard by anyone. “For your information Pen, I don't need no man thank you. I am perfectly capable of making my own bad decisions without a helping hand.”

“Amen to that girl!” Emily calls out.

“What about a woman?” Derek asks as we collectively make our way to the lifts. We all manage to fit into one life and I press the button before leaning around Spencer to whack his arm.

“Bite me Derek Morgan.”

“I’m sure Emily would happily do that” he retorts, smirking. This time it was Emily’s turn to whack Derek’s arm. The sounds of bickering between Emily and Derek fill the elevator.

As we get get down to the car park the bickering stops and a wave of realisation hits me like a gust of wind. “Fuck” I mutter, pulling out my phone to see who could come get me.

“Hey, you okay?” a quiet voices comes from besides me.

“Jesus Christ Spence, you scared me!”

“Sorry I didn't mean to. Seriously, are you okay? I don't see your car” he says, quickly scanning the car park for signs of my car.

“My car’s in the garage getting its suspension fixed. I forgot to ask my roommate to pick me up from work tonight and now its 10pm and she's probably already out. Oh my god, how am I going to get home-”

“Hey it’s okay, we’ll go to yours to grab what you need before heading to the bar to meet the others. Come on, hop in” he says, opening the passenger side door before scooting round to the drivers side and getting in. It didn't take long for me to make up my mind, I mean it was either go with him or try to find my own way home AND then my way to the bar we were all set to meet at 11. I got in, shooting him a smile and we head off.

- AT THE BAR -

“Hey! Finally you showed up, we were beginning to think you weren't coming” JJ says and we approach the booth.

“Don’t be silly, we don't do this very often anymore. I wouldn't miss it for the world” I say scooting into the booth, situating myself between Emily and Spencer. Oh great, this won't be awkward at all, I say to myself. Almost as if he'd read my mind (or, most likely, the awkwardness I was displaying) Spencer’s leg shifted slightly and met mine. I looked up at him slightly, yet his focus was on Morgan and debating on what alcohol would get them drunk the fastest.

After a few drinks everyone seems to have loosened up a bit. I mean, even Spencer was on his third drink of the night. The norm for this team is as the number of drinks consumed got higher, the more secrets (or “tea” as Penelope would sometimes put it) were revealed. And tonight proved no different that normal.

“Let’s do truth or drink guys!” Penelope half shouted. The bar we were at is one of our favourite ones to go to together and tonight was pretty loud in here. Meaning as the surroundings got louder, the louder we all became. Even though every single one of us groaned at the idea, we all knew better than to disagree with a tipsy Penelope. It started off relatively innocent and calm, until it got to Derek’s turn Derek, having been waiting for 10 minutes already, knew exactly what and who he wanted to ask. It was no surprise to me when he pointed at me.

“Little miss sunshine, ready for your question?”

“I was born ready baby, give it to me.”

“Do you have a preference of who you date?And if so, what is it.”

That fucker. Not a drinking session goes by that I don't get asked about my sexuality I mean don't get me wrong, I love educating people and I love the sight on Derek’s face when I end up getting the number of a girl he’s expressed interest in. Taking a swig of my drink, I ponder on the question for a few moments before replying,

“I have a ‘type’ of women that I find myself automatically gravitating myself towards. I mean I guess I have a type of guy I like too. I don't know, I just go with what my heart says most of the time.”

“You still need to describe it sunshine” he says, smirking into his drink. It’s not as if we haven't had this discussion before, and by ‘we’ I mean Derek and myself. He knew what it was, he just wanted to see me suffer.

“I hate you” I groan, shuffling around to get comfortable before I answer Derek’s question. I take a big swig of my drink as I go to reply “red headed girls with a quick temper.”

“And the guys?” Spencer says, breaking his silence and looking at me.

“Brown mess hair, bit of a dork, goofy, tall, thinks Halloween is the best holiday of the year” I say, drawing my lips into a small smirk and taking another sip of my drink. Spencer doesn't even blink twice at my reply. Idiot.

Everyone’s questions seemed a lot tamer than mind. For example, JJ would be asked “what's the most romantic thing Will’s ever done for you?” and Derek’s would be “so you wish you had more freedom with your work hours?”. But mine, “craziest place you've had sex?” or “one person you'd happily let jump your bones right now?” (10 points if you guess who asked that one). After a few rounds I squeezed through the crowd and up to the bar for refills, and shots. I was under strict instructions to get at least 20 shots, no less.

“Hey can I have the same again, but with 20 shots as well?” shooting the bar tender a smile and giving the name of the open tab.

“Sure things hun, what shots do you want?” she asks.

“Surprise me,” I say, not really knowing what to order. I feel a tap on my shoulder, alerting me that someone was behind me. I spin around to see the most gorgeous red head stood in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, the laughing was easing at the table and I could see the glances they were all giving in my direction. Great, an audience is just what I need.

“Hey, so I hope I’m not over stepping by saying I think you're one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen here.”

“Hi, that’s so sweet of you! You are absolutely stunning yourself” I say, feeling 5 sets of eyes on me.

“Um would it be possible for me to get your number?” she asks, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s not that I don't find you ridiculously attractive, I um” I trail off slightly, glancing back and locking eyes with the messy haired brunette at my table. He flashes me a small, yet sad smile before turning his attention to JJ. “It wouldn't be fair to either of us if I did that because my hearts already with someone else.”

“It’s cool, I get it. Whoever they are is a lucky person” she says, smiling sweetly before turning and walking away. I turn back to the bar and grab the tray of drinks, slowly making my way back to the table. This time, when I reach the table, its quiet and all eyes are on me.

“What?” I ask, as I hand out the drinks and put the shots in a circe in the middle of the table. I scoot back into the booth, regaining my seat in between Spencer and Emily.

“Why did you turn her down?” Derek asks in disbelief, “in the 5 years I've known you I have never seen you turn down someone that quickly. Especially not a smoking hot red head like that!”

“You say that as if it's a crime Derek. I wasn't interested, I said no and we parted ways. End of conversation.”

“But why?” Spencer asks, “she’s exactly your type.”

“Yeah and so are you yet you're still an oblivious fuck” I mutter. Something in the air changed the second those words fell out of my mouth. I couldn't quite figure out if it was a good change or not.

“What was that Y/N?” Derek asks, smirking.

“What I said was not meant for your ears so shut it” I ramble looking over at Spencer, who’s still staring at me and seemingly in a world of his own. I try to study his face, looking for some kind of answer or reply to what I’d just said.

Sensing the obvious tension in the air Penelope did the best thing she could think of doing, shouting out the words “SHOT TIME EVERYONE!”. That seemed to do the trick as it knocked Spencer out of whatever alternate timeline he was in. He grabs 2 shots, placing one in front of you and keeping the other in his hand.

“To friendship” JJ said, raising her shot glass to the roof.

“To friendship!” the others yelled, clinking glasses and putting back the shots.

Spencer’s hand found its way to your thigh under the table, squeezing it tightly as he muttered, “to friendship.” downing the shot. His eyes locked on mine.

“To friendship” I say, pulling my lips to the glass with a smirk and downing it. Hmm, maybe he's completely oblivious after all, I say to myself before locking hands with Spencer under the table.

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