#i used to have an even older (and nicer looking) typewriter but when i was in like grade four i gave it to my friend??

[inactive20011968]

i have a typewriter and it’s very cool and i love it a lot but holy shit are the keys sticky it is such a pain and it’s so sad i wanna use it and feel cool but it hurts my fingers so much how did people do this

[babyjamiebarnes]

Build-A-Bear

Part Ten

Featuring: Bucky x Stark!reader, dad!Tony, Peter Parker, Steve, Sam

Warnings: mentions of smut (bondage, anal play, breeding kink, slight voyeurism), language, mentions of arson

Summary: Now that reader is stuck back at her apartment, she can finally feel safe again — until that safety is completely compromised. And more than her physical safety is put on the line.

Author’s Note: I’m so fucking stoked for this chapter!!! This is when it starts to get wild!! I hope you all like it! If you even read this, you should let me know who you think the person in question is (you’ll know what I mean when you read it lol). And as always, feel free to buy me a coffee if you want!

Tags: @amourmarvel @fangirlvoice @kennedywxlsh @devilswaldorf @what-the-hap-is-fuckning @alyispunk @fredweasleysbitchh @wearegroot @sunflowerbebe107 @prestigious-tea @brckenmemories @angelbabymed

Series Masterlist

Spending the next two weeks sequestered in your apartment wasn’t terrible, but it just cemented your assumption that you couldn’t even pretend to be normal anymore. At least when you were at the Tower, you felt like another face in the crowd compared to the Avengers.

Accommodating your work from home setup wasn’t easy, but you all made it work. Peter worked with you when he was back for a weekend. He even helped you go through more of your fan mail, if you could even call it that. There were some parcels that were genuine fan mail, people wishing you well and young girls saying you inspired them to pursue STEM careers; there were some death threats that you had to send to local law enforcement to investigate; there were mostly creepy letters from men you could only assume were older than your father. One man wrote that he wanted to find out if you smelled as beautiful as you looked. Cringe. Another wrote about how he wanted to suck on your toes until they were wrinkly. Gag. The worst was a man who said he wanted to be sandwiched between you and your dad. Barf.

Steve and Sam used the scanner your dad made to check all your mail before it was even brought upstairs. None had been poisoned or set to explode, but some contained explicit items that you were more than happy to not see.

It was still slightly traumatizing when Steve waltzed in with a package in his arms and said, “Hey [Y/N], I didn’t toss this one because it doesn’t look like it’s from a person. Did you order something from… Romantix?”

You paused mid-chew as you, Bucky, and Sam all sat in your living room enjoying a nice Saturday lunch. Bucky wasn’t fazed, continuing to eat his food; Sam, however, busted out laughing.

“What’s in it, Steve?” Sam asked loudly, clearly trying to rile you up.

“Uh, all the scanner showed was a couple small golf balls -- I think -- and what looked like a top? And a remote.”

Sam kept giggling to himself, Bucky and Steve both looked confused as hell. You moved to grab the box from Steve but Sam beat you to it, tutting at you as you reached for it again.

“Uh-uh. We should open it to make sure everything is safe,” Sam teased.

“Everything in there is safe, I promise,” you swore. When you tried to steal the package back, Sam yoinked it further from your grasp with a devious smile. Your cheeks were burning hot at the thought of the inevitable. Sam was going to open your box, Steve was going to turn red as a tomato, and Bucky was… well, hopefully he was going to take you to your room for the rest of the day.

And before you could try to snatch the box away again, Sam ripped the packing tape off and pulled out the first item: kegel balls.

“What are those?” Steve asked.

“Don’t worry about it!” you shouted, grabbing the vacuum-packed, heavy silver balls from a still giggling Sam. He reached back into the box and you realized you may just have to suck it up and let him have his show-and-tell.

“Here’s that ‘top’ you were talking about,” Sam joked. And in his hands sat… the butt plug.

“Sam, stop! Literally no one here needs to see this except me and Bucky,” you whined.

“In that case, I’m curious. What else is in there?” Bucky asked, leaning forward to peek inside.

“Bucky! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

Sam shrugged and handed the box to Bucky so he could rummage through it instead. You couldn’t really complain as much now that your boyfriend was doing the snooping instead.

“What the -- oh,” Bucky said as he lifted the next item: a remote… tied to a pair of thin black panties.

“Why would those come together?” Steve asked. You weren’t sure if he was serious or not because he may have been born in the early 1900s, but he would’ve had to have checked out modern porn and kinks by now, right?

“Do you want to tell him or should I?” Sam asked with raised eyebrows. His lips were quirked in an annoying smirk. Bucky sat with a similar expression; at least you knew he had brushed up on modern sex.

“They’re vibrating panties,” you deadpanned. Steve fortunately didn’t look too surprised, he just raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“What’s next, Buck?” Sam prompted him to continue unpacking.

“Oh -- oh -- oh yeah. We can have some fun with this,” Bucky laughed as he lifted up the collar and ball gag.

“Damn, [Y/N]. You’re a freaky freak,” Sam laughed. Bucky didn’t even deny this; he just laughed with his friend before continuing with the last items.

“And…” Bucky started to explain. He quickly cut himself off when he saw what was in his hands -- and covering the bottom of the package. Dozens of pieces of lingerie, from skimpy little lace pieces to a loose-fitting satin teddy to a sheer black robe. “Oh, that’s for my eyes only,” he finally said.

Sam and Steve grumbled in response but didn’t push it. They probably realized getting a full reveal of the shit you and Bucky wanted to mess around with was more than they would’ve gotten if you had your way.

And just as you hoped, Bucky took you to your bedroom for a few hours. You found out you didn’t love the plug and the ball gag made you drool, but the collar had a little leash Bucky was able to pull on while hitting it from the back... you liked that one.

From that day on, you made sure to tell the boys when you’d have a package coming in. Bucky definitely perked up at the mention of more mail like that coming his way.

•

Two weeks after the Romantix debacle, Peter was back in town and stoked to help you go through mail again. He didn’t like all the creepy letters, but he was really good at making you laugh at them instead of constantly cringing and gagging. Bucky and Steve even sat to help, but Sam said if he was going to keep cooking for everyone, he didn’t have to sort through mail. And none of you wanted to pass up on his classic New Orleans recipes.

You all sat around your dining room table with your small dining TV playing old episodes of “Criminal Minds” as background noise. The amount of mail you received definitely dropped with time, but you’d still have a hefty pile at the end of the week. The creepy letters were shredded but you liked responding to the nicer letters, so there was a “shred” pile and a “respond” pile on either side of the “open next” pile.

You were all working in near-silence aside from the quiet dialogue on the TV and the occasional clink of pans from Sam in the kitchen. With four of you working, you’d be able to read through everything in about half an hour. As you neared the bottom of the pile, you grabbed a large manilla envelope and felt the weight of whatever was inside. It couldn’t have been dangerous because the boys scanned everything, but you carefully tugged it open nonetheless. You held it upside down and gently shook out the contents: a letter, a smaller envelope, and a DVD. A few people sent mix CDs or fan videos on DVDs and flash drives, so you were initially excited about this one… until you started reading the letter. The choppy typewriter print quickly turned muddled as your blood froze in your veins.

My darling [Y/N],

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? No, I don’t think I shall. I’ll cut to the chase instead: I’m the reason the world knows who you are. Guess I’m a little loose-lipped. Oops! But I needed you to know I’m serious somehow. Or else you wouldn’t see this as a true threat.

I know your little secret. I’ve seen more than I originally planned, but you gave me plenty to work with in my free time. You look beautiful while you sleep; you look even more beautiful in the throes of passion. But I’m not looking to have your body.

Unless you get $2,000,000 to your little doorman Matthew to bring to me by the end of the week, the enclosed pictures will make their way to the desk of daddy dearest. And we both know he won’t appreciate seeing who is penetrating his daughter.

And if that $2,000,000 doesn’t find me by the end of next week, the video on the DVD will be released to the world.

I look forward to our next interaction.

Your hands shook as you tore open the envelope to see what pictures this person allegedly had of you. At first, they were just creepy candids of you walking down the street, nothing the paps wouldn’t have. Then they turned into photos of Bucky escorting you through crowds… and then photos of you in your apartment.

You were sleeping in your bed in one. Then standing in your kitchen making breakfast in one of Bucky’s shirts. And then a shirtless Bucky was cradling your face and kissing your forehead.

The next picture was of Bucky standing behind you in the kitchen. His pajama bottoms — the pair you got him for his birthday — were pooled at his feet. One hand was pressing you to the counter, the other was hoisting your leg up to the granite as he drove into you.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, unable to speak. As you frantically flipped through the rest of the photos, your eyes flooded with tears and your breathing grew more erratic, grabbing Bucky’s attention, then Peter’s, then Steve’s.

But their concern meant nothing to you as you processed the images before you.

You on your knees with Bucky’s dick clearly between your lips. Bucky on his knees with his face pressed between your thighs. Your legs wrapped around Bucky’s torso as he moved you on his cock. Bucky’s hand wrapped around your throat as you rode him on the couch.

All the images looked like they were taken through your windows, like someone was somehow standing outside your apartment despite being stories above the ground.

“What’s wrong, doll?” Bucky asked softly. He gently touched your arm, drawing your view from the distressing imagery to his attempted comfort, though it unfortunately did nothing to calm you down. Not this time.

You looked up at him with tear-filled eyes but couldn’t bring yourself to speak. All you could do was shake your head and push the letter to him. You watched his eyes quickly scan the words before reaching for the photos. He didn’t snatch them away from you or even try to take them. He just held his hand out and let you shakily hand them over.

And then you saw the pacific blue of his eyes turn dark and stormy, his jaw clenching as he flipped through the pictures of you — you and him. His breathing grew more and more ragged the more he saw, until he threw the photos to the table with a loud, “Fuck!”

Seconds later, Sam dashed into the room as Steve sifted through the photos. Even Steve grew irritated at the sight. Peter and Sam quickly followed suit, only glimpsing a few pictures before getting the gist of the rest.

The room was silent aside from your quiet sobs. You and Bucky both stared at the disc lying between you until your eyes met. His usually pale blue irises were nearly black.

“I’m scared,” you whimpered. Despite being scared himself — and angry and frustrated and confused — he reached out to pull you into his lap and hold you. Keeping you close always made him feel better, even when it felt like the world was crashing around him.

“Close the curtains,” he demanded gruffly. Steve and Peter immediately jumped up and started pulling all your curtains shut, throwing your usually bright apartment into near darkness.

Bucky held your face between his palms, forcing you to look in his eyes.

“I know you’re scared, but we need to see what’s on that DVD.”

“I can already guess what it is,” you said through your tears.

“Yeah, me too,” Bucky agreed. “But we have to make sure.”

You simply nodded. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, helping your breathing slow at the reassuring gesture. He led you into the living room with the DVD in hand. Steve and Sam stood in the living room, Peter sat on the couch. They all looked concerned for you, but tried not to show pity. You could tell they were all upset about this too.

“You can leave the room if you don’t want to see what I’m sure we all know is on this,” Bucky said. His voice was deep and gravelly, almost like his morning voice, but… mean.

You and Bucky sat together on the sofa across from Peter, all eyes trained on the TV as the screen faded from black to a slightly fuzzy shot of your bed. Seconds later, you and Bucky came on screen. And there was audio.

You giggled as Bucky’s body pushed yours to the mattress. “What are you gonna do to me?” your voice sounded.

“I’m gonna put a baby in you,” Bucky’s voice growled. “I’m gonna cum inside this tight pussy until you can’t take it anymore.”

“Jesus,” Sam grumbled. You would’ve laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious.

Bucky only let it play until clothes started coming off. That’s when he knew they actually had a sex tape of you two, especially considering the nearly two-hour time frame on it. Sending explicit pictures of you and Bucky to your dad was one thing, but releasing a non-consensual sex tape of you two was something else entirely.

“What are we gonna do?” Peter asked quietly. Your tears had finally stopped, but the concern in his voice almost sent you over the edge again. He was such a sweet kid and he didn’t deserve to deal with the stress of this with you. But you also knew he was your best friend — practically a brother — and he wasn’t going to let you fend for yourself through this, even with Bucky by your side.

“We have to give them the money,” Sam replied. “We can find out who the door guy gives it to and arrest them or track the bills, but we have to get the money.”

“I don’t have the money,” you confessed. Everyone except Bucky seemed surprised. “I make $200,000 before taxes. Before I got this new role, I made half that. Even if we don’t deduct taxes and the expenses I do pay for, I wouldn’t have even close to two million.”

Everyone went silent again until Steve finally spoke up.

“We need to talk to the doorman.”

•

Bucky stormed out of the elevator, rushing ahead of everyone with murder in his eyes. He gripped the front of Matt’s suit and shoved him against the wall, shaking the letter in his face.

“What the fuck is this?” Bucky was seething.

“What?” Matt squeaked. His eyes were wide as saucers. He was clearly not expecting this confrontation. Bucky just shook the letter again to draw the doorman’s attention.

“Wait. You got one too?” Matt asked. Bucky’s grip loosened as he stared at the shorter man in confusion. You instinctively looked at Peter, who looked just as baffled as you. “I-I got a letter like that. In my locker. This morning.”

“Show us,” you demanded. Bucky released him but Matt’s eyes saw the posse of Avengers behind you (save for Peter, who he probably assumed was either a friend or boyfriend — secret identity and all that) and he rushed all of you to the locker room.

It was a small room since there were only a dozen doormen in your building, if that. He opened his locker and revealed a letter that was nearly identical to yours, but with no mentions of his looks and a much different threat.

“They’re threatening arson?!” you nearly shouted. Bucky and Steve read the letter before handing it to Sam and Peter to check out as well.

“They included pictures of my mom and sister,�� Matt explained, clearly scared of what might happen to him and his loved ones. “They know where I live and they know who I live with. I-I would’ve taken this to th-the police but I didn’t want to risk it.”

“They have the later date listed for him,” Sam said. “You had one week to get the money or they’d tell Tony, two weeks or they release the tape. Now we have two weeks to save his family.”

Everyone in the room fell silent once again. Eyes fell on you as Peter quietly repeated his earlier question: “What are we gonna do?”

Despite all eyes on you, you turned to Bucky, who continued to study the letter. His jaw flexed as he thought and if this had been any other time, you would’ve kissed the tension away.

“We’re gonna tell Tony.”

[sunflowerspecter]

haley (a.h.)

summary: hotch doesn’t know if it’s time to move on. then he meets you, and your daughter haley. 

warnings: canon-typical violence, canon-typical mentions of murder, canon-typical mentions of drugs 

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

words: 3.6k

note: hey? i’m back! with another fic! after like four months! woo. i’m also almost at 400 followers which is pretty wild so cool cool. this is absolutely unedited and i’ve been working on it for literally ever, but i doubt you expected more from me anyways (the plot is also kind of sketch) anywayss, here it is my loves! 

~~~oOo~~~

“JJ!” you yell, crossing the bullpen quickly. She turns to face you and smiles widely, throwing her arms open. 

“Y/n!” she calls as you fall into her arms. “Oh my god, it’s so good to see you! What are you doing here?” 

“My team’s going to be working with your team for the next couple of cases!” As the communications liaison for Operations Support Branch (OSB), you and JJ used to collaborate often, until she was transferred and changed positions. You and her don’t get to see each other half as often as you want, but sometimes you bring your daughter, Haley, to spend time with Henry. 

“Wait, really? Why weren’t we alerted?” she asks. Behind her, a tall man with dark hair steps towards you, and you already know who he is. SSA Aaron Hotchner. 

“Because the decision was just made this morning,” he says. He offers his hand and you shake it. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner.” 

“We all call him Hotch,” JJ adds quickly. 

“Y/n Y/l/n,” you say to him. “I’m the communications liaison for the OSB. I’m the only one here right now, my team is heading up as we speak.” You turn to the elevator, where your boss, Sam Holmestead, is standing, talking to Derek Morgan, someone JJ had introduced you to. “Holmes is over there.” 

“Great,” Hotch says, “excuse me.” He nods at you and begins his way over to your boss, and you watch the entire way. 

“Ooh,” JJ sings, giving you a friendly laugh. 

“Oh, shut up,” you say, but you’re laughing too. “Now, I heard there’s a case.” 

She nods. “Come up to the conference room, we’ll introduce your team to my team and give you all of the details.” 

In the room, you, Holmes, and the two others from your team that were joining you— Gary Long and John Wilson— stand at the back, while the BAU all gathered in their seats. 

“These four are from the OSB,” Hotch says. “Strauss wants our team to collaborate with some members of the OSB on the next few cases, so they’ll be travelling with us,” Hotch says. “JJ, want to make introductions?” 

She nods, then says, “Sam Holmestead leads the team, and this is Y/n Y/l/n, Gary Long, and John Wilson.” She turns to her team, then, and says, “This is Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia, and David Rossi.” 

Greetings are exchanged, and then it’s back to business. “Two young women were kidnapped and then killed in Tallahassee, Florida,” Garcia says. “Each one was taken from a parking lot, then held captive for a week, and then killed. A week after the first girl was killed, the second one went missing. She was found dead yesterday. Other than their throats being slashed, they were otherwise unharmed.” 

You blink down at the pictures. You’ve seen things before, awful things, but this was just… so much worse. You feel better about your squeamishness when you look over and see that Wilson is as white as a ghost. 

“So, what does this guy get from the kill?” Morgan says, one elbow on the table. 

“It’s rather clean, as far as murder goes,” Prentiss quips. “No stabbing, no bruising. Even the cut is clean.” 

“How long did it take her to die? This could be seen as merciful,” you say, glancing at Holmes, who nods at you. 

“I’m guessing just a few seconds,” Reid said, looking through his file and finding the coroner’s report, then nodding and glancing up at you. 

“Garcia, do these girls have anything in common?” Hotch asks, and your attention goes straight to him (because he’s talking, and you’re polite, obviously). 

“They both attended Florida state and now work in insurance. Different companies,” Garcia says. 

Hotch nods at her, then says, “Wheels up in 30.” 

~~~oOo~~~

The jet is larger than you expected. And nicer, too. You take a seat between JJ and Morgan, and see Garcia on Skype on the table. The rest of the group files in, and you begin discussing the case. 

“So, what’s this guy's deal? What’s he doing with these girls for a week?” Morgan says. 

“There aren’t signs that they’re tied up, or that he blitz-attacked them,” Prentiss adds. 

“Maybe he kept them locked in a sort of cellar. He wouldn’t need to tie them up.” 

“Did he drug them?” Holmes asks. Reid looks over the report, then nods. 

“Actually, yes, both girls had methylenedioxy​methamphetamine and methamphetamine in their system,” Reid says. 

“MDMA and meth?” JJ says, crossing her arms. 

“Wilson, you still have contacts in Florida, right? See who’s dealing both of those these days,” Holmes says, and Wilson nods, pulling out his phone. 

“MDMA is really hard to get a hold of,” Wilson says, “I’m sure it’s easier in Florida, but still, this guy has to have some way of getting money in. Lots of it.” 

“Okay, so how does he insure he doesn’t hurt them with the drugs?” Prentiss says. 

“And what purpose does it serve? What fantasy is he living out?” Rossi adds. 

The plane hits a bit of turbulence, and your stomach flips. “Is that normal?” you whisper, and JJ laughs, nodding.

“You’ll get used to it,” Morgan says. You nod and give a short laugh. 

“The likelihood of being in a plane crash is about one to 5.4 million,” Reid says, “and even so, it’s improbable that turbulence will cause a crash. Even commercial airlines are built to withstand forces 1.5 times stronger than anything experienced in the past—” 

“Reid,” Hotch says sternly, but softly, “focus, please.” 

“I didn’t know the BAU made cyborgs,” you say, squinting your eyes at Reid. 

Prentiss nods at you, throwing her arms up. “That’s what I’ve been saying! Someone finally understands.” 

“Sorry,” he says, eyes widening. “I’m curious as to whether these girls were using these drugs before or after he took them.” 

“You think they were using before?” Hotch asks, and Reid nods. 

“I just don’t know why he would give the girls these drugs.” 

“I’ll ask the families,” JJ says. 

“When we land, Reid, start setting up a geographical profile. Prentiss and Morgan, check out the dump sights. JJ, talk to the families, and make sure the press doesn’t get the information about the drugs. Rossi, take Long and go check out the abduction sights. Wilson, reach out to your contact. I want Y/l/n and Holmestead to help me with victimology,” Hotch says, looking around. 

“Yes, sir’s” went around the group, and you flip to look at the victim pages. 

Holmes leans across the table and looks at you. “What do you think?” 

You shake your head. “It’s strange,” you say. “They hardly have anything in common. Yeah, they went to the same school, and yeah, they both work in insurance, but two very different jobs.” 

Holmes shrugs, then nods. “I agree. Were they friends?” He looks at Hotch for guidance, who shrugs. 

“We’ll have to find out. Garcia, have you made any connections?” 

Garcia looks up on the screen, then says, “Actually, another girl has just been reported missing.” 

“It’s only been a day,” JJ says, and looks at Hotch. 

“We hit the ground running,” he says, and you all nod. 

~~~oOo~~~

Working with the team goes a lot smoother than expected. Your teams bond together instantly, and you all work quickly and effectively. 

Unfortunately, even a day and a half after the third victim's abduction, you’re no closer. 

“In his comfort zone, there are 14 warehouses, 13 abandoned buildings, 25 apartment complexes, and too many residential areas to count,” you say, looking over Reid’s shoulder as he writes on the board. 

“He could be anywhere,” Hotch mutters, standing beside you. 

“What are we missing?” Rossi says, and you turn and slump into a chair, sitting at the table with the team. Hotch sits next to you, a pensive look on his face. 

“How did he choose each girl? Are these premeditated or spur of the moment? And why did he escalate his time frame?” Morgan says, looking around the table. 

JJ rushes into the room. “The third girl's body was found. And he left a note.” 

The table stands. “Reid and Y/l/n, stay here and analyze the note. JJ, keep the press occupied. No one releases the note. We don’t address it yet. Everyone else, at the crime scene.” 

You nod, finding it a little odd that he left you with Reid (sure, you aren’t a field agent, but the rest of your team is going somewhere), but you stay nonetheless. The team files out and you turn to Reid, looking down at the scan of the note. 

“The paper looks old,” Reid says, and you squint. 

“It’s not old, it was made to look that way. See how it’s not torn or wrinkled, but it’s yellowed?” 

Reid nods and looks at you, for a moment, surprised. It passes quickly, and he’s looking back at the text. “Typewriter, and it’s in third person. It just describes the crime.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, and Reid shrugs. 

“It could mean any number of things. Could be living out his fantasy, could be any number of mental illnesses.” 

You nod, crossing your arms. It’s going to be a long night. 

~~~oOo~~~

The fourth girl was taken in the wide open. There was a witness. With a description of the vehicle. 

“There are more purple Volkswagens in Tallahassee than there should be,” Garcia says, “but only one registered to someone within the comfort zone of our guy.” 

He doesn’t know you’re coming, and the arrest is smooth, and the girl is safe. 

The plane ride back is quiet—everyone is mostly asleep. You sit by Holmes, talking idly about how the court is probably going to rule on the case. Hotch is awake and across from you, but you can tell he’s listening. 

“How’s the little one?” Holmes says, and you laugh. 

“As rebellious as ever,” you sigh. “She wants to be a superhero when she’s older.” 

Holmes laughs, leaning back in his seat and pushing his hand through his hair. “And that’s exactly why I didn’t have kids.” 

You elbow him. “Like you could get someone to reproduce with you, anyway.” 

He gasps, grasping his chest, feigning pain. “Low blow, Y/n, low blow.” 

“Whatever, old man,” you say, leaning back. “How long are we working with the BAU?” you ask, glancing over your sleeping teammates. 

“I’m not sure yet,” he says. Then he lowers his voice and whispers in your ear, “You’ve caught the BAU’s dear boss’s eye, I think.” 

You giggle (you giggle) and say, “No way.” 

“Yes way.” 

“I guess he’s cute,” you say in a whisper. “But that’s a conversation for the morning. I’m exhausted.” 

You look over at Hotch, writing his report and talking quietly with Rossi. You wonder what’s going through his mind. 

“You know she wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life mourning her,” Rossi says quietly. Hotch nods. 

“I know that, I do. I just, I wish there was a sign.” 

Rossi puts his hand on his friend's shoulder. “There will be.” He looks over at you, eyes shut, head on Holmes’ shoulder. “Meanwhile, you’ve been looking at her quite a lot.” 

“What?” Hotch says, taking in a shaky breath. 

Rossi chuckles, shrugging. “I think you know.” 

~~~oOo~~~

“Hey, sleep today, but tonight you should come out with us,” Garcia says as you gather your things from your makeshift desk. You landed at 4:30 in the morning, and after finishing your paperwork, you were ready to sleep for the entire day. 

You hesitate, then shrug. “Sure, why not?” 

Garcia squeals, “Yay!” You laugh and nod. 

“What time, and where?” 

“How about I pick you up?” she suggests, and you nod. 

“Actually, that would be great,” you say. She smiles, and leaves you in your office. Your daughter calls you as you're leaving the building, and you meet Hotch in the elevator. 

“Mommy!” the little girl cries happily into the phone. 

“Hi, hon! I’m on my way home right now, what are you doing up this early, baby?” 

She giggles. “Auntie and I have a surprise for you!” 

You freeze. “Haley, what did you do?” You feel Hotch stiffen beside you, but you don’t ask him about it. 

“Nothing! Bye, mommy!” she says before you can tell her no, and she’s hung up. 

“Children,” you mutter. Hotch nods. 

“What’s your kids name?” he asks, barely looking at you. 

“Haley,” you say. “She’s four next month.” He hums, and you ask, “Do you have any children?” 

“Yes,” he says. “Jack. He’s seven.” 

The elevator door opens, and you almost think you’re disappointed. 

“Can I walk you to your car?” he asks, and you nod. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

The walk is silent. 

“See you tonight?” you say. 

He shakes his head. “Probably not.” 

“Why not? Could be fun.” 

He hesitates, meeting your eyes. Then, he says, “I’ll think about it.” 

You smile, getting into your car. “Have a good one, Hotchner.” 

“You too, Y/l/n.” 

~~~oOo~~~

Haley is asleep by 8:00, your sitter is at your door by 8:15, and Garcia is at your door at 8:30. 

Black dress, red lipstick. It isn’t too fancy, but if Hotch shows up, you’ll look nice. (Not that you care, of course. As far as you know, he’s married). 

“You look so pretty!” Garcia says once you’re in her car. 

“Thank you! You too!” you say, and then she starts telling you stories from the team. How Reid will go off about Halloween, how Prentiss faked her death, how Morgan and her flirt endlessly (which you picked up on), how Hotch’s son, Jack, is doing soccer. 

You, in turn, tell Garcia about Wilson’s wife, Mary, and how Holmes once fell down a well while working on a case and was stuck for an hour and a half, and how Greg has this terrible habit of accidentally befriending the worst people. 

You reach the bar laughing, and you find the table everyone (except Hotch) is sitting at. You and Garcia join them, and conversation becomes easy. Until, a few minutes after your arrival, Hotch takes a seat beside you. 

“Hi,” he says, and everyone greets him. 

“We were just talking about how we could run off and buy a house in the woods and live a secluded life together for the rest of time,” Prentiss says, and you let out a laugh. 

“I’m sure that will work out wonderfully, especially with three children,” Hotch says. 

“And the house has to be big, there’s a lot of us,” you add. 

“And we work for the government, they’ll be suspicious if we all quit at once,” Greg says. 

Spencer shrugs. “Not to mention the cost of living would be expensive, and we’d be out of a job. Plus, there’s no one to replace us.”

You lean over and boop Spencer’s nose. “We’re irreplaceable.” 

“Don’t count on that, Strauss has been after my ass since the moment I stepped in that office,” Hotch says. 

Rossi mutters something into Hotch’s ear, and your stomach does backflips. JJ turns to you. “Is Haley still into dance?” 

You shake your head. “That was a short lived hobby. I think this week it’s art.” 

“Henry is the same way! He doesn’t stick with one thing for more than a few days,” she laughs. “Hotch, what about Jack?” 

“He’s stuck with soccer pretty consistently, but he also can’t decide if he likes drums or drawing on the wall more.” 

You and JJ laugh. “Where’s Will?” you ask JJ, raising an eyebrow.

“He stayed home with Henry, but he sends his love.” JJ looks over at Hotch. “I presume Jack is with Jessica?” 

“Yes,” he says, huffing a laugh, his eyes darting to yours. “I really should be paying that woman.” 

“Is Jessica not your wife?” you ask, glancing from JJ to Hotch. They share a look, and JJ turns to Spencer, picking up on his and Emily’s conversation. Your attention is now fully on Hotch, who sighs. 

“No, Jessica is my sister-in-law,” he says, and he opens his mouth to say more, but then hesitates. “My wife died a few years ago. Her name was Haley.” 

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “Oh, oh I’m so sorry.” You meet his eyes, but he shakes his head. “My husband died a few years ago too. Right before Haley was born, actually,” you say, laughing humorlessly.

He nudges your shoulder lightly, then says, “Look at us, two widowed single-parents.” 

“A pair we make, Mr. Hotchner,” you say, and he nods. 

~~~oOo~~~

As you’re leaving the conference room after a briefing, Holmes pulls you aside. He watches as everyone leaves the room, and says, “This will be our last case with the BAU.” You blink at him, disappointment filling you. 

“Why are you telling just me?” you ask, crossing your arms. 

Holmes shrugs, looking out the conference room window. You follow his gaze to where Hotch and Morgan are talking in front of Hotch’s office. “Because you might want to shoot your shot before you never see him again,” Holmes says. You try to ask him what he means, but he’s already left the room.

You sigh, picking up your things and getting your bag, going to stand beside JJ and Emily as you make your way out to the jet. You trail a step behind them, your mind racing. What did Holmes mean by that? Your heart dropped a little bit at the thought of never seeing the team you had been working with for the past six months ever again. Surely, you will. JJ and you are close friends, and you had grown close with the rest of the team too, right? 

“What’s on your mind?” You startle at the sound of his voice, looking up to see Hotch looking down at you, his brows drawn together. 

“Oh,” you say. “Nothing.” 

“You can’t lie to a profiler.” 

You laugh. “Holmes told me this is our last case together,” you tell him, looking ahead, where JJ and Emily are boarding the plane. 

“It is,” he says. His voice is even, steady, normal. There is nothing to suggest he is happy for your departure or upset about it. He is neutral. 

“Shame,” you say, “I was sort of getting used to working with you guys.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, and you board the plane. You sit in your usual seat and he sits beside you; that’s how it always is. It feels wrong, today. 

“It’s not like we’re just going to disappear, though,” Hotch says to you, just so you can hear. “You know where I work after all.” You huff a laugh, your heart rate increasing more than you’d care to admit. “On top of that, we have no idea how long this case will last. Maybe it goes horribly wrong and you’re stuck with me forever.” 

“We better solve it quickly, then,” you say, raising an eyebrow at him. He scoffs, and you shake your head. “But, really. I’ll miss working with you.” After a second, your eyes widen and you add, “All.” 

He nods, shifting in his seat. “I’ll regret no longer having your team’s expertise.” 

“Our teams are good together, for sure.” 

~~~oOo~~~ 

After the case, you try not to look too blue as you step onto the jet for the last time. You and Holmes are the first ones on the jet, and when you sit across from him instead of your usual spot, he raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Do you know where we’re going next? What our next assignment is?” you ask. He shakes his head, and you look down at your hands. 

“We won’t be travelling with the BAU,” he says, “but we will be working at headquarters for the meantime.” 

“That’s going to be an adjustment,” you say, looking over at him. “Watching the team leave, not going with them.”

He nods. “But at least you’ll get to see him.” 

“You mean them,” you say, furrowing your brow. “The team.” 

As the words leave your mouth, Hotch walks on board. He nods at the two of you, his facial expression blank. He sits in his usual spot. He looks small. 

“No, I said what I meant,” Holmes said, shrugging. “Maybe you just didn’t want to hear it.” 

You don’t reply, looking over to where Hotch is sitting. You look to Holmes for permission, and he nods at you. You make your way over to Hotch, sitting next to him. 

“Hi,” you say quietly. 

“Hi,” he says back. 

A beat. 

“So—” you both say at the exact same time. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. 

“You go first,” he says. 

“I’m going to miss you. The whole team,” you add, “but especially you.” 

He flushes, giving a sort of smile as he shifts in his seat, nodding to you. “I’m going to miss you too.” You hold your breath, and he says, “But I figured, you know, there’s not really any reason we can’t still see each other. After this. We could get coffee sometime.” 

You grin, bumping your shoulder against his. “Are you asking me out, Hotchner?” you whisper quietly, jokingly. 

“Maybe,” he says, looking uncharacteristically unsure. “If you say yes.” 

“Well,” you say, looking up and tapping your chin. You meet his eyes, and he’s staring at you like your next words are the most important thing in the world, “I would be an idiot if I said no.” 

He smiles, big and wide like you’ve never seen and it goes straight to his eyes. “Then it’s a date.” 

“Then it is,” you say, smiling right back at him. 

taglist; let me know if you wanna be added or removed!

@quillvine @winterscaptain @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @andreasworlsboring101 @roses-and-grasses

hehe thanks for reading xx

[byorder-fanfic]

A Good Man

Summary: After all that she’s been through and all she’s done, Lizzie deserves a good man. She thought John could save her from prostitution, she hoped Tommy could see her as more than a whore. Soon she realises, she deserves better than a good man- she deserves a good man who loves her.

Word count: 1994

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of sexual abuse and harassment

Authors Note: Hi, this is my first ever fanfiction I’ve posted, so feedback would really be appreciated! Hope you enjoy it xx

Lizzie was tired. Tommy told her no more customers, no more lying down for faceless men and imagining she was anywhere else, with anyone else. She used to dream of finding a good man, one that would take her to bed with the only payment of love. So, when John proposed, she said yes. He was good. As simple as that. In truth, he didn't love her and she didn't love him. But he made her smile, and she would be a good mother. Mother. Kids in her arms and a husband at her side- it didn't seem real. But money wasn't easy to come by; her visible bones were enough to prove that. Her promise to John wouldn't pay for her meals or the rent on her leaking apartment and, as long as her last name was Stark, she would not take John's money. The only part of her flat that was safe from dishevelment was her bed, a bed she couldn't sleep on for the pain that still lingered in her memory. Bruises were easy enough to cover up (she'd learnt that young) but memories couldn't be so easily concealed with a splash of cheap powder and a cool spoon. She was a good woman, she repeated under her breath, Tommy's money still heavy in her coat, she just didn't do good things. It sounded fake, even in her thoughts. John had been calm when he broke off the engagement. She tried to leave with as much grace as she could. In different clothes, in a different life, she could've been a dancer, she thought. Her limbs were long and strong, even if she could count all her ribs when she took off her dress. But she walked with poise, a sense of dignity that had left her heart a long time ago.

Things seemed to be getting better. When Grace had left Tommy in pieces, Lizzie gave him company on lonely nights. He wasn't ever fucking her, she knew. Why else would she always be face down? She was just a thing for him to forget, but for her, she dared to dream he could save her. He was a good man, a good brother to John. Yet every night, after a smoke and a smile, he'd leave the money in her hands. She was still a whore to him. Then things seemed to get better: she traded in getting bent over the desk to being the one who types on it. It was finally her chance to make honest money, be a good woman. It was good, even if her reputation still buried its way deep into their hungry eyes. Only, this time, she could afford to say no. Then Tommy invited her to the Derby. Jeremiah had told her she looked like a proper rich lady, the type that belonged in these sorts of places. It made her smile the whole way there, as she constantly smoothed down her dress. It was nice, nicer than any she'd ever worn before, and virginial white. Maybe Tommy wasn't seeing her as a whore any more, she dared to think. Maybe he saw her as Lizzie Stark, the graceful lady in a pretty dress, who belonged at the races. Hope fell into betrayal as he pointed to the soldier behind her. No more customers, he had said. Unless it suited him, he'd forgotten that part- a fine print she skimmed over. Just as he had broken every other promise, he didn't save her. Her dress was torn, a purple bruise prominent on her thin cheek. When she waved that gun in her hand, she would've killed him. Tommy wasn't a good man, but she was a good woman. She was. Even when John cradled her face and looked at her with those sad eyes, she didn't tell him that his brother was the one who did this. He didn't have Tommy's cold eyes. John was a good man, and he had to stay around for Esme and those beautiful kids of his. She didn’t.

She didn't hand in her notice. She should've, but she didn't. Tommy finally had Grace for real now, so he wouldn't bother her. John and her were on friendly terms, and she'd even gotten close to his wife, Esme. The two dark-haired women were so similar in certain areas (i.e. hating the blue-eyed crook that they worked for), their friendship was hardly a surprise for the Shelby family. Polly still saw her as a whore, she knew, but that wasn't something she could fight. They all saw her as a whore before a secretary. Except Jeremiah, of course. Now, that was a friendship that shocked everyone. Lizzie knew she wasn't a Madonna, but the preacher seemed to be the only one that made her think she had more worth than how far she could spread her legs. Or, how well she could type. It was her pride and joy, watching her skeleton fingers hurry over the buttons with precision and speed. It was good work, work she was good at, work that she could proudly take the money from Tommy's hands. She'd moved into a new, clean flat, and got a new bed she could sleep peacefully in. It was becoming easier to look at herself in the mirror, easier to look at the blooming curves that were beginning to hide the taut skin stretched over bones. She was a good woman, she said with a smile, and she had saved herself.

She was focused on the typewriter most days, and that was exactly what she was doing when Tommy was having a meeting with the Italians. Bloody wops, Arthur had grumbled all day when he heard they were coming. John was no better. They still remembered the green, white and red from the wrong side of Flanders field. But Tommy had insisted. Business was business, he'd said. And business was all he cared about, Lizzie silently finished for him. The white haired Changretta sat with the three brothers, leaving a gaggle of hulking Italians in their fine clothes to wander around the betting shop under Polly's watchful eyes. But Lizzie was focused on her work. That was until a slam on her desk sounded over her rapid typing. With a sigh, she looked up. He was tall with the typical olive skin, dressed in a refined way that did not reach his eyes: wild, hungry eyes that she recognised with a racing of her heart.

"You're Lizzie Stark, aren't you?" He asked. She forced herself to look down from his lustful look, down to his broad hand on her desk, which covered up some paper notes. This was not the Derby, she chanted, she would not let him.

"Yeah, and?" Her rough, Brummie accent was so in contrast with her newfound elegance.

"I think this is your usual rate," his snarl was enough to get her to cringe. Nevertheless, she looked up at him with a determined fire in her brown eyes. He looked like the nasty kind. Before, she would just lie back and think of England for those sorts, but now? She was going to be nasty back. A gun was tucked away in her drawer, her fingers wrapped over the cold metal. Tommy was still conversing with Vincente Changretta just next door, and he would not be happy if Lizzie decided to put a hole in his office, or in an Italian lackey. But Lizzie would not let the Derby repeat itself. No more customers. If Tommy wouldn't save her, she would save herself.

"Unless you want a secretary, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"A secretary, huh?" He gave an amused laugh as he slumped back in the chair opposite hers, heedless of her violent glare. The paper money stood out amongst the brown wood of the desk. "See, I thought you were a whore."

Before she could snap back, a hand gripped onto the Italian opposite her. The sudden motion caused him to jump up, cocky snarl replaced with pale fear. The man behind him was taller, a long coat covering his broad figure. He was handsome, with a round face, and the same hooked nose as the older man, still in Tommy's office.

"Now then, Alberti," he began with a soft voice, thinly veiling his menace. "I'd hate to tell my father that you've been harassing the Shelby's loveliest secretary." He gave a flirtatious grin to Lizzie, who was watching him with furrowed brows, hands not leaving the gun.

"Sorry, Mr Changretta." The quiet stutter in his voice was enough to satisfy the Changretta, who let his grip on him go as he motioned for him to leave. The newly identified Alberti reached over to grab the money from in front of Lizzie, only for it to be taken away by the other man. "Call it compensation for the distress you've caused Miss Stark."

Miss Stark. She hadn't been called that before. He smiled as he watched Alberti trudge away, hands in his pocket.

"Miss Stark," he turned to extend his hand. It was polite, not the kind of introduction she was used to. Hesitantly, she let go of the gun and shook his hand. "My name is Angel Changretta."

"It's just Lizzie," she replied. Angel tried to pass the paper notes to Lizzie, but she shoved her palms against her desk as she shook her head.

"I'm not a whore."

"I know." He looked like he was being honest, although Lizzie wasn't too sure what that looked like any more.

"I can't take that. I won't."

"Fine." With a sigh, he placed it in the pocket on the breast of his coat. Angel looked up to her with another smile. "At least let me spend it on a meal for us."

"Us?" Lizzie froze. The drawer was still open, gun glinting in her peripheral. She didn't know if Angel could see it, he was just staring at her with his dark eyes. 

"Yes, I'd like to take you to my restaurant." She looked him up and down for any hint of a joke, the slightest tinge of evil intentions. "If that would be alright with you?"

She bit her lip. Men never bought her food, especially not without expecting some sort of invitation home. Despite that fact that weighed down in her mind, she managed to force back a smile.

"As a date?"

Angel blushed a little, scratching the back of his dark hair. It was shiny under the lights, indicating he'd applied a fair bit of gel in there. She wondered, quite bashfully, how it would feel to run her fingers through it.

"Well...um...yes." With a shrug, he managed to regain the confidence he had been oozing only seconds before. "Lizzie Stark, will you go on a date with me?"

It sent a schoolgirl-like thrill through her chest to hear that. He sounded so polite, like she was one of those proper ladies he could be courting, or whatever the hell those posh fucks called it. 

"Just dinner," she wagged her finger in warning, more teasingly than not.

"My lady," he bowed a little, hand on his chest in theatrical earnestness. "I am a man of my word." The grin gracing his handsome face was infectious, causing Lizzie to beam back up at him. "Is that a yes?"

"My shift finishes at five," she told him. A date, she was going on a date, just like normal people do. "Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

His grin didn't leave his face as his father walked out of the office with the three Shelby brothers in tow, his dark eyes totally fixated on her as they all left. She found herself watching him leave too, not quite believing it herself. The boys were looking at her funny, as if they couldn't quite understand what was going on. To Lizzie, it was simple: she was a good woman, she deserved a good man.

Read Part Two here

[damnprussia]

Love Is Not A Victory March

Synopsis: Gilbert makes a difficult decision which questions his identity as a nation, and the strength of his emerging humanity. 

Part 1 of 3

Berlin, Germany. July 1939

Gilbert signed his name, the last of several signatures from a large stack of papers in front of him on his desk. His office was still grand, with luxurious furniture, a fireplace off to the side, currently unused, and all of his finest comforts surrounding him, including a portrait of his dear Frederick the Great - the original - hanging nearby. The only sounds were the scratching of his pen and the sounds of Berlin street life drifting in from the cracked-open windows behind him. 

He gazed at one of the papers he had just signed his name - it was for the termination of one of his best employees. He recalled nine years ago, facing financial ruin following the global Depression, a young man answered his “help wanted” advertisement. He had wanted a financial analyst to rebuild his carefully-curated wealth portfolio, and Karl Hopf had answered.

Gilbert smiled remembering his first impression of the young man. He had strode into Gilbert’s office, wearing a too-big suit and a suitcase that was clearly older than he was. He had slammed his credentials down on Gilbert’s desk before him and told him those magic words: “I can make you rich.”

It wasn’t the young man’s proposed skill, nor his prestigious education that had impressed Gilbert. No - it was his confidence. That was Prussian confidence. He had liked this kid right off the bat.

Nine years later, Gilbert was indeed rich. Karl Hopf had a way with the stock market and wealth management that seemed magical; an understanding of some kind of mystical language that was beyond Gilbert’s comprehension. He would grow to trust the man almost completely with his money and where it would go.

It was for this very reason - this implicit trust - that Karl had to go. 

There was a light knock on the door and Gilbert commanded to enter. In came Karl, much quieter and more sullen than he was from years past. Gilbert could understand. There was exhaustion in persecution.

“Good morning, Karl.”

“Good morning, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

Karl sat down in the seat facing Gilbert, avoiding eye contact. Somehow, he knew at least a little bit of what this meeting would entail.

Gilbert glanced down at the termination letter on his desk before he sighed and anxiously folded it in half. This would be harder than he thought, it seemed. He didn’t know quite how to proceed, so he just blurted out what was on his mind.

“New York is a wonderful town.” He leaned back in his chair, carefully watching the man sitting across from him. 

“I wouldn’t know - never been,” the young man mumbled, squirming uncomfortably and glancing almost anywhere other than Gilbert. He was probably wondering where this conversation was going.

Gilbert reached into a leather file on his desk and pulled out several pieces of paper. Very important, very official documents. “You will be. This is for you - Train tickets. Boat ticket. Work visa. You’ll be living there.” Blunt, but Gilbert didn’t have the emotional energy to put it nicer.

Karl did not react for several moments. Only his eyes, darting back and forth between Gilbert’s very serious face and those very serious documents in front of him. “W...What?”

The Prussian took a deep breath and leaned forward, placing two deliberate fingers on the documents before sliding them closer. “You are going to leave Germany. Forever, preferably.”

“No I’m not...Why?” His voice was only a whisper.

“Because, Karl, you’re too good for this country right now. I can’t stand to watch you suffer for everyone else’s cowardice. I know you’ve lost every other client you’ve served and that’s a disgrace. I know you have been forced out of your home and shoved somewhere else.  You’re my responsibility, and I need to make sure that you stay safe.”

“You’re not responsible for me - you’re just my boss - m-my client. I’ve only helped you with your financial - “

“Trust me, Karl, when I say that you are my responsibility,” Gilbert interrupted him. He remembered that hallmark Prussian confidence from years ago. He could not let it die. “Just...you must accept this. You must. I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this to anybody, but I have to.”

Karl could hear the pain in his client’s voice. He reached forward and quietly took the papers, leafing through them.

“You have family, right? A wife?” Gilbert asked after moments of silence.

The young man nodded slowly, not making eye contact. “We’ve been married a few years. She...she just told me she was pregnant. A few weeks ago.”

“Then all the more reason for you to leave. So many others have left. You must give your family a future. They want you gone, and I wish I could have you here working with me as you have been, but that just cannot be possible anymore. You know people have been leaving in droves. I want you among them.”

Karl was silent for several minutes. “I am afraid,” he admitted quietly, eyes drifting over to the portrait of Frederick the Great, hanging on the adjacent wall, seeming to observe them. “My family - we’ve never left Germany. We can trace our lineage all the way back to Frederick the Great. We’ve just always wanted to be -”

“-- Good citizens, I know.” Gilbert finished his sentence with a heavy sigh. He looked down at the piece of paper on his desk. “Karl, your nation is so proud of you,” he said quietly. “Regardless of whatever you hear out there, please believe me.”

Karl nodded slowly, taking a deep, long breath. “So. New York...?”

“You’ll love it, Karl. You will flourish. The country will accept you and keep you safe.”

A pause. “And if I stay here?”

Gilbert’s face fell. “If you stay, Karl, you’ll lose everything. You might even lose your life.” 

While Karl digested his last words, Gilbert pulled out a briefcase, a single piece of paper clipped to the top, sliding it over to him. “You will take this with you. I need you to sign the form on top. It will help you get started over there.”

Karl frowned and grabbed the slip of paper. “What is this?” he opened the briefcase and peered inside. “Mr. Beilschmidt, this is your stock portfolio...this is all your money - “

“ - It’s yours now,” Gilbert said. “I don’t trust my finances with these fools in charge. I trust you more. Sign that paper, it will all be yours.”

Karl went to push it away from him but Gilbert’s hand on the briefcase stopped him. “You will do it,” he said sharply. “Or you will watch it go into the fireplace. As well as those tickets.”

Karl’s face fell and for several long moments, he only looked between Gilbert’s uncompromising expression and the briefcase. Finally, he slowly slid it closer to him again. Gilbert wordlessly handed him a pen, which he accepted and signed.

Gilbert watched as Karl stuffed all the papers given to him in the single briefcase. Together, they rose from their seats. The young man clutched the briefcase close to his chest, taking a deep breath before looking up at the older man.

“I don’t want to leave,” he whispered at last.

“I know,” Gilbert responded. “But you must.”

Karl nodded wordlessly, slowly turning on his heel to leave. “Mr. Beilschmidt...I do hope I will see you again,” he added on his way out.

It was only then that Gilbert smiled - a small, sad smile. “Don’t you dare worry about me, Karl. I will see you again. Maybe on the other side of all this.”

When Karl left, Gilbert exhaled a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. He hanged his head, closing his eyes and trying to justify what was happening. 

A nation sending his own people away? Unheard of.

He opened his eyes and raised his head to the portrait on the adjacent wall of Frederick the Great. The old king’s eyes stared him down, and it made Gilbert sneer. “Don’t you judge me,” he snapped, collapsing into his chair again and leaning back. “This whole administration would be a lot more fun and exciting if I hadn't developed a conscience somewhere in those trenches.” Gilbert ran his fingers through his hair. “You’d do the same...I think.” There was doubt in his voice. “Maybe it doesn’t even matter anymore what you’d do.”

For several moments there was silence between Gilbert and his King, eye contact unwavering.

“--Mr. Beilschmidt.” His head snapped over to see Inge, his secretary. She was a young woman who had just graduated university. She was smart, quick on the typewriter, and her most important trait - she could keep his darkest secrets. She had in her hands a cup of coffee for him. She knew that Karl was coming - she had booked the meeting, after all.

“Inge. I could use a coffee. Thank you.” He beckoned her to enter the room.

She stepped in wordlessly, placing the cup down and leaning one hip against his desk, watching him. “You sure talk to that painting a lot. Does it ever talk back?”

He smiled at her cheekiness. “Hasn’t for a while, I’m afraid.”

She nodded. “Did the meeting go well?”

Gilbert sipped his coffee. “As well as can be. I've told a man he must leave the only home he’s ever known or face a firing squad, betrayed my own country and the core of what I am - and I’ve also handed over my entire fortune, so now I am destitute.” He sighed behind the coffee cup. “I spent centuries believing that the human life was cheap and replaceable, taking my people’s unwavering love and support for granted. And now I’m desperate to save every last one I can. I only wish it would mean something in the long run. It feels like far too little, far too late.”

“If human lives aren’t cheap and replaceable after all, then perhaps, for at least one of them, it was just enough at just the right time. Is that good for your conscience?”

Gilbert paused, considering her words. “For now it is.”

Inge straightened herself and smoothed out her skirt. “Good. Now, I have called your superiors and informed them that you will not be attending tonight’s banquet. I figured you would not want to attend.”

“I’d rather eat my own shit, good call.”

She walked towards the door, before pausing. “And, Mr. Beilschmidt...if I may ask - you gave Mr. Hopf your entire fortune, you said. Is there...any way you put some aside for my salary?”

Gilbert did not speak for a long while, thinking carefully. He then sighed, and moved to remove the watch on his wrist. He tossed it at her. She caught it wordlessly.

“It is Swiss. It should suffice you for the rest of the year.”

Inge just smiled brightly before leaving, shutting the door behind her. Gilbert sighed and turned to look out the nearby window, gazing at the city below him. It was bustling with life - but he felt none of it.

“I suppose I have a lot more work to do.”

[ill-skillsgard]

Ascent - Bill Skarsgård

Title: Ascent

Warning: 18+ voyeurism/masturbation/language

Description:  A collection of scents and scenes strung together by strange sequences of secrecy and surveyance.

A/N: DAMNIT YOU GUYS. This is my 3rd time posting this fic. It will no longer include the image of the sexy Bill look-alike wanking because wE cAn’T hAvE NiCe tHiNgS. Also, please don’t ask me to send the image because I can’t be sure of ages and I won’t be dinged for providing pr0nz to potentially underage people. I’m so sorry. I tried!

ISO: Quiet roommate; preferably female. Males acceptable too if you're cleanly. Split rent loft in quaint & upscale Rosewell neighbourhood with everything included. 1200 upfront first and last and then rent can be negotiated. E-mail. Do not call/text.

I only had 900 dollars on me but I figured if I e-mailed the person that had put out the ad and set up a time to meet the following week then I could earn enough in tips to cover the rest. Easy as that. Breathing became a little less laboured once I sat back on my futon and realized that I wasn't quite as fucked as I initially thought. Then I wondered how in the hell somebody could use the words quaint and upscale to describe the same neighbourhood. Which one was it? Quaint or upscale? How could it be both? All I was sure of was that I had to find a roommate quickly. The new landlord of my apartment building had decided that I had something to do with the junkies shooting up in the storage unit behind the building, as though I had knowledge of it the whole time and failed to make a report of it, therefore, making me part of the problem. But it wasn't just that; this guy was a jackass of ultimate proportions- a seedy little rich momma's boy that had inherited his parents' sense of self-entitlement and strings of real estate offices spanning across the city and surrounding counties. We did not click at all upon first meeting when he made his rounds to see exactly what kind of tenants he would be dealing with. In fact, the moment I opened the door to my apartment and he peered in to see the apparent cluster-bomb that had gone off in my bachelorette pad, he set his sights on destroying me, or at the very least, evicting me. If only I hadn't answered the door in my stained sweatpants and wrinkled t-shirt from a decade ago when my taste in music remained under-developed. If only I hadn't had the day's worth of crusted mascara stuck in the inner corners of my eyes like black boogers. If I had thrown my hair up in a semi-cute messy bun, rolled down the waistband of my stretchy pants and tossed on my only reputable sweater maybe things could have gone differently. But I didn't. Instead, I let him catch a glimpse into the trash-covered world of crooked posters, laundry and pizza boxes. His prissy, Gucci-wearing ass got one whiff of my body odour and my fate was sealed. Whatever though, shit happens. Even if Millennial pretty-boy newbie landlord hated me, I didn't quite hate myself. Sure, I had had better times in my life but there had also been much worse. I was just going through my annual depression when the Summer was long gone and the scent of leaves rotting in the gutters rang in the impending frost. Who wanted to do anything but sit around and play video games or watch TV for six straight hours after work? Certainly not I. I e-mailed the guy living in Rosewell because I had been through that area once or twice and remembered that it was one of the nicer neighbourhoods; its remnants of old city charm and decadent architecture still intact. That's when I gave it a second thought. 1200 for first and last month's rent was not that much, considering the location. My brain caught up with me and I recognized that there would probably be dozens of people replying to the listing and that my chances were diminished to almost nothing. Oh well, I read on and circled more potential ads with the tip of a fresh permanent marker that was starting to give me a headrush. By some grace of luck, I received an e-mail back the next day from the person that had put out the Rosewell advertisement. It dawned on me that I also didn't know whether he or she was a he or a she or a they. It seemed mundane to ask but the person didn't include their name in the reply and their email address was an obscure reference that I wasn't sure I understood. My imagination decided to take a jog and came upon the silly little notion that perhaps this was one of those things when serial killers lure in unsuspecting victims with promises of rent so cheap in a gentle neighbourhood where nobody would think to look for a body. It was classic of me but I couldn't pretend like I wasn't thinking about it. At least death would help put a stopper in my rut. I didn't know what to expect, walking up to the building with a face sectioned off into quadrants- each with their own tiny glass door and artful wrought iron laced balcony. What kind of a person lived inside? Was it a peppy university student with a small dog and a knack for pulling off an active-wear-is-all-I-wear look? Could it be another snotty, uptight rich boy like my fuck-bag of a landlord? Or perhaps it was a nice older lady that fancied her wine and lived in an effortlessly baroque den, lined with books and trinkets from her travels abroad. Either way, I just hoped they approved of me since I had taken the time to shower, put on a bit of makeup and dress like the clothes I owned weren't questionably clean or variably dirty all the time. The door was painted black and nobody could see through the glimmering panels of stained glass that made up an intricate checkerboard of red and blue with two cantaloupe roses coiling up and away from each other, petals agape and ready to fall. I gave the door a good look over with a smug grimace that was just a feint for my awe. The place was definitely too nice for me but I soldiered on and smiled when I heard the door being unlocked. A man opened the door and the scent of wood and something else immediately wafted out like a ghost casually passing by. Not only was he a man, but a looming sculpture dressed in a sagging brown wool sweater that threw me off from my rehearsed speech. He was tall, pale and had such striking eyes behind his glasses that I couldn't quite meet them without feeling some hint of discomfort. It was like somebody had tossed a limp rug on the statue of David the way his knitted sleeves hung loosely around thick veiny wrists. "Hi. Bill," he motioned to himself. "Won't you come in?" "Um, yeah. Sure." The mud room was painted in tarnished blood orange and was home to a wooden rack full of men's shoes. There were trainers with hints of dirt on the toes and soles, leather dress shoes with the fancy gold buckles on the front, more dress shoes, stylish suede ankle boots, and beaver fur lined moccasins. I could taste the transition from the cool Autumn air to the musky inside of the home. The floors were all wood, the banister leading upstairs was carved from another expensive type of tree and the shelving units were solid oak stretching from floor to high ceiling. Every wall was home to some kind of meticulously placed decorative object. But there were also family photos to lend the place a warm and happy glow. Or it could have just been how the sun shone through the clear bay windows. I was led through the house, past a large cupboard tucked beneath the staircase and a small writing desk that was home to a  vintage typewriter cased in filigrees of polished silver. It was then I noticed all the framed book pages lining the walls. We entered a kitchen and I was blown away by how roomy it was compared to the tight, warm front that made up the mudroom and what I had determined was a living room that had been converted into a reading room. There was no TV but there was a chaise lounge with a stack of old books reaching up to a cascading hand-carved armrest. "This is the kitchen. The fridge will be mostly yours. I just use the bottom shelf and the crisper on the left. I just ask that you keep your section clean." "Right," I nodded. "The stove is gas, the fireplace is gas... Everything is gas in here. Um... It gets kind of cold in the winter because the electric baseboards don't really work. If you turn them on it makes the whole place smell like burning sawdust. So... You can use a plug-in heater in your room but... Just wear slippers on the floors." "Oh, okay. Good to know." "Uh... Yeah. The laundry room is through there. I also keep my bike back there. There's another rack mount for a bike if you have one." "No, just my car." "Hmm," Bill pondered with a grimace. I bit my lip and hoped that he wasn't biting his lip from derision. He took in a breath through one of the daintiest noses I had ever seen on a man and adjusted his glasses for a moment before pulling them off completely to wipe the lenses on the hem of his brown knit sweater. "Parking can be kind of a bitch around here," he warned. "Yeah, " I chuckled. "I probably pulled around the block six times before something opened up." "You'll have to get used to that... Or just get a bike like everyone else." With a forced laugh, I attempted to hide the odd sense of shame that he had instilled by suggesting that nobody around these parts bothered with silly things like motor vehicles. Fuck, that could mean he was some sort of health nut that would turn his nose up if he saw the types of meals I made for myself and how lazy I could get. Aside from his alarming curtness, Bill seemed to be calm and easygoing. The house was a wooden ladder of a place; stacked with his worldly possessions and Scandinavian accouterments. It was easy to conclude that he was a single man that kept to himself and I did my best to show him that I fit into the same category. Although, it seemed as though he had already decided that I was moving in. He referred to everything as his, mine or ours and led me through the rest of the house like both our minds were already made up. "Here's the room. It's right next to mine. You have an en-suite bathroom. Toilet kind of acts up once in a while and the shower drain is prone to clogging but it's all easy fixes. Oh... And the walls are kind of thin. I ask that if you have guests over in the evening to keep the socializing downstairs. I suppose I can't really stop you from having people in your room but... I do enjoy my quiet." "That's okay. I don't really hang out with too many people," I said. Bill strolled into the center of the empty room, the soles of his shoes hitting the floor echoed off the bright white walls. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers as he spun on a heel to face me. His shoulders drew up to his ears and for the first time, he cracked a smile. It didn't last long and was accompanied by a shrug of closure. "What do you think?" He asked. "It's nice. I like it. A lot. It's very... Homey." Bill nodded, "yes. So will you take it?" "Uh... You don't have any questions for me? Or anyone else to show the place to?" His full lips set into another grimace as though my question scratched the scab off of a wound that had yet to close. Swallowing hard, I immediately began to regret my inquiry. I should have just been grateful that he saw fit to trust me without so much as delving into my history. "To be frank, I'm not really interested in knowing a lot about you. The less we know about each other, the better. I just need a quiet tenant that won't bother me much and you seem like a sensible woman with your own distractions." "Oh." "I don't mean to sound insensitive." "It's okay. I get it." "You have a job, of course?" "Yes." "Well, that's all I need to know. Just make your rent payments on time and we'll get along." "Not a problem. Sounds good." The entire moving process took a little over a month to complete. I gave my notices where they were due, rented a small truck to pack my things into and drove it across town after handing the keys to the fuck-bag landlord who seemed more than thrilled to watch me departing. Bill had already given me keys to the house and when I arrived the first of the month he was nowhere to be found. Luckily, my possessions didn't extend further than my bed, wardrobe, futon and a couple of side tables that had collected more dust than I thought. After hauling up the ripping black trash bags I had stuffed full of clothes, I tried to decipher a way to get my bed up the winding stairs without scratching the wood or getting myself stuck in a corner. It would have been easier if I had another set of hands and I wanted to clear the halls of all my things before Bill came home and saw the clutter in the front hall. Something told me he was not a fan of mess and I had left a heaving trail all over the mudroom, halls and stairs. With my bed frame already stuck on the first few steps, I decided to sit down and reevaluate my strategy. It was definitely a two-person job that I would not be able to complete on my own. "Fuck, " I cursed as I pulled out my cell phone to make a call to the only person I knew that would be willing to give me a hand; my cousin. On the third ring, I heard the sound of the door opening and footsteps coming through. I was sat on the stairs pouting, my cell clutched to my ear and my breath hitched in my throat.  Bill looked up at me from the first-floor landing through the rails of the staircase and smirked at me. "Need some help?" He asked. I immediately terminated the call to my cousin before he could pick up. Shooting up from the fifth step up, I smoothed out the front of my shirt and tried to make it seem like I wasn't about to burst into tears of frustration. "Um, yes. Sorry. I thought I could do it by myself." "No worries," Bill said as he lifted the edge of the bed frame that was hanging off the first step. We dislodged the frame and slowly carried it upstairs but not without a few grunts of effort and sighs when we finally made it to the top floor. Bill's arms were bulging with the strain and when he helped me gently lay the frame down on the floor I couldn't help but stare at the muscles I never knew he had. We had only had a handful of encounters and each time he had been wearing baggy clothes that veiled the true form of his body. Bill helped me bring everything else I had upstairs and once the last of my belongings arrived he evaluated the mess that I would have to organize myself. Half my clothes were spilling out of bags and my furniture was yet to find a proper place. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Unless you have anything else?" "No. This is it. Thanks for your help." "No problem," he nodded with a small pointed smile that brought out a sweetness in his face before exiting the room. I heard the sounds of his footsteps drumming down the stairs but before I had the chance to get to work unpacking, Bill came back. When I looked up at him he had a peculiar look on his face that I couldn't read. It may have been a cross between uncertainty and embarrassment. "You um... These were on the stairs," he showed me what he had clutched in his hand and the moment I realized that the black material in his hand was a pair of my underwear, I paled. "Oh my god," I laughed uneasily. "I'm so sorry. They must have fallen out when I was dragging the bags up the steps. My panties looked crumpled and insignificant in his large hand as he dangled them between two fingers for me to grab. When I caught them I stuffed them in my pocket immediately and blushed even harder than I had when he had come home to see me flustered on the stairs. "It's all right. Could be worse things to find," he pointed out. "I guess so," I chuckled. Bill smirked at me, eyes darting to the pocket that contained the stray panties and gave me one last glance before leaving me to stew in my mortification. Once I was certain Bill was gone, I took the panties out to evaluate just how embarrassed I should have been. The last thing I needed was for my new roommate to have already discovered a pair of my dirty underwear on the floor. They were generic and made of stretchy faux lace that covered next to no ass cheek but I would have considered them to be a good go-to pair nonetheless. Based on visual inspection and a quick sniff, I was assured that everything checked out and Bill hadn't had the displeasure of picking up a pair of my period panties with the permanent stains in the crotch. If anyone had to have found a pair of my underwear I was glad it was a sexy pair and not ones that I had been hanging onto since high school. But because it was a man that had found them, I felt a strange yearning for approval. I thought about what he could have been thinking about for a long time as I set up my bed and unpacked my necessities. It was going to be weird having a roommate.

~*~

Bill was a strange man. Bill had an office in his room and a writing desk stacked with papers and manuscripts. Bill was a writer. When I asked him if I could read something he had written he said nothing. He only peered at me warily over his wire-framed glasses. We were in the kitchen at the same time and I figured it friendly to strike up a conversation. I had seen all of his papers and looked at all of the stuff he had in the house by then and deduced that he had to have been a writer. All I got from him was a gentle shrug of his stately shoulders and a mumble that I couldn't hear. "You're a writer, aren't you?" I continued. "Yes. I suppose, in a way I am." "Ever had anything published?" Bill rapidly shook his head and muttered, "not here, no. Back home... In university. But not here." The subject of him being a writer seemed touchy so I left my line of questioning at that while I boiled water to make tea. I couldn't help but watch him on the other side of the kitchen preparing his lunch because he was comically lanky yet carried himself with graciousness and poise. His side profile was vexing to me as well. It was then that I realized that Bill was not just commonly handsome, but sculpted in a way that I wasn't used to seeing. With a cute boyish nose and arrestive eyes that shone light green through the lenses of his glasses, I felt that old familiar pang of a crush plunging its way from my chest to my gut and all the way down to my groin. He didn't speak much and I hardly ever saw him because he was always in his room with the door shut. I had a feeling that me bringing up his writing had alarmed him into keeping the door closed at all times. It must have been an adjustment for him to go from living alone to having somebody sleeping in the room right next to him. I tried not to make much of the crush but the times that I did see Bill I always tried to stare for as long as possible. He was a mystery to me; a person living in the very same quarters but with a totally separate life that I had no windows into. Bill had pictures of him and a lot of other people that looked kind of like him so I tried to piece together what his family was like without asking him personally. The family photos were all in chunky brass frames and placed in a strategically sporadic way on the wall shelf. There were many books and three different runs of encyclopedic information stacked side by side with their brightly dyed leather spines displaying a prestigious title and the volume number, but it was the pictures that intrigued me most. By the looks of it, Bill had a lot of brothers and a sister. The longer I analyzed each shelf the more I managed to paint a picture of him for myself based on his belongings. There was a photo of Bill next to some other men of similar heights and facial structures, all dressed warmly and huddled together, each with his own version of a charming smile on. It was amusing to see pictures of him smiling since he had hardly tossed more than a crooked smirk my way. I wasn't sure if Bill was standoffish or if he thought me a slob because of the first day I arrived. The house was cleaner than any place I had ever had by myself and I gathered that he liked to keep it that way. I remembered what it had said in his ad about cleanliness. Maybe I had disgusted him. He had been so sold on having me as his roommate but that was weeks ago and he hadn't tried to engage me much since. It didn't weigh heavily on my mind for long. After all, even though I was the crusty definition of a bachelorette, I could put it together that trying to fuck my roommate that I didn't know was probably a surefire way to complicate things beyond repair. And the place was nice. I wanted to stay and I wanted Bill to like me.

~*~

I walked into his room when I knew for certain that he was gone. I don't know why the sudden urge overtook me and steered me to his bedroom door. I opened it and a waft of his scent came over me. It was like fresh cotton and chopped wood or an old book that had been kept in pristine condition. His writing desk beckoned me so I went without hesitation to cast my eyes over the papers on its surface. There were some printed pages full of words with hand-written notes scribbled in the margins. One of the most eye-catching pieces was a mostly blank white page that had been the last of the bunch to be placed upon the altar of his creative expositions.

I can't get enough of the scent that she left behind.

After reading that one line, I snapped out of my mindless intrusion and left his bedroom at once. Why I had gone in there in the first place was a mystery and I was overcome with guilt that pushed me in the direction of avoidance. I felt somehow he would know that I had gone into his room without permission.

~*~

A man from work had asked me out on a date and I stood in the shower vigorously washing the shampoo out of my hair. I was already late and had to scramble to put together an outfit out of what little clean clothing I had. There had been no time for me to do any laundry so I made do with an old sundress that I had worn the shit out of the Summer before, a pair of black nylon leggings with a hole in the crotch and the only pair of underwear that I could find that wasn't stretched out from me wearing them. I had laid out everything on my bed and bustled around trying to find my good face moisturizer and the only high-end lipstick that I had been coveting for the better part of two years. When I got dressed, I had somehow lost pieces of my attire along the way and rushed around looking for the underwear that I had dubbed acceptable to wear out on a date. My phone went off with a notification from my date saying that he was circling around the block again because he couldn't find a place to park. I quickly messaged him back and told him I would be down in five short minutes. Forgoing the panties, I hiked on my nylons and hoped that the skirt of my dress would manage to cover me enough all night that I didn't accidentally flash my pussy while getting in and out of his car. The date was boring and I didn't find myself connecting with him as we had at work. Maybe it was because we were co-workers or maybe it was because he was smiling too much at me the whole time, but I decided to put an end to the night after a dessert and the last of a bottle of cheap wine. When I got home, I shut the door and pulled my vibrator out of my empty underwear drawer.

~*~

In the morning on one of my days off, I stood in the kitchen making myself a pathetic breakfast of two pieces of toast with a slice of tomato and chunks of a too-ripe avocado splattered between them. First I was focused and calm and then suddenly I felt like something had materialized behind me. When I turned around, I let out a gasp as I noticed Bill standing next to me with no shirt on, his hair a mess and his eyes half-closed. "Sorry," he breathed through his nose. "Need a glass, please." I got out of his way and watched as he opened the cupboard that I had been standing in front of and took out a clean glass to pour water into. My eyes were drawn to the burgeoning of hair from his armpits when he reached to the top shelf. Without saying a word, he filled his glass from the tap and then walked back upstairs casually sipping his water. I don't know how he had managed to sneak up on me without me hearing the floorboards protesting beneath his feet but it had happened and my heart continued to race until I heard him enter his bedroom right above the kitchen.

~*~

I had tossed my laundry into the dryer and let it run while I left for work. When I got home my laundry was all folded and put back in my basket. My jeans and work pants were on the bottom, my shirts the second tier and then several pairs of my panties had been folded neatly in halves and placed on top. "Um... Okay," I whispered to myself, lifting the basket off the dryer that was still rumbling full of Bill's laundry.

~*~

A nap was on the immediate horizon for me when I got home from work. I kicked my shoes off as soon as I got in the door and made right for my bedroom. Bill must not have heard me climbing the stairs as I hadn't heard him come up behind me the week before because his door was open and what I saw halted me in my place and robbed me of the abilities to breath or think. There he was, laying on his bed naked with his right hand wrapped around his dick. But it wasn't that he was stroking himself that caught me completely off-guard, it was what he clutched to his nose and mouth with his other hand; the pair of my panties that he had discovered on the floor all those weeks ago when I first moved in. Rooted with panic and intrigue, I covered my mouth and watched on from the third-to-last step at the man taking deep breaths of my underwear while he pulled on his cock and massaged his balls. When I heard a faint groan leave his mouth I felt my floodgates crashing open. The tingle I felt budding from my clit grew so strong that my hands went numb and my face turned red-hot. There was no way that Bill hadn't heard me coming in the door and ascending the steps. But if he knew that I was there watching him play with himself, he didn't acknowledge it. He was in his own world of pleasure, getting high off the fumes that I had infused into the fabric of the underwear he was meddling with his fingers. I wanted to watch him shoot his cum from the tip of his cock but I was so scared that he would see me that I cowered back so that if his gaze did travel beyond the walls of his bedroom, perhaps he wouldn't catch me staring. Another long, deep moan left him and the sound of it somehow filled every sense I had. It was as though I could smell what he was smelling, feel how he was feeling and the taste left behind in my mouth was wetted with saliva being over-produced by my own sexual appetite. I pictured him kissing my clit, pushing my legs back and using his tongue to bore into me, letting it run down, down, down so he could taste every inch of me. A gasp nearly escaped me when I saw him push the crotch of my stolen panties into his mouth. His head dropped back into his pillows and his slow, languid strokes of his cock turned erratic. "Fuck!" He emitted after spitting the panties out and dragging them down his body to wrap around the base of his shaft. "Fuck, fuck, fuck... Mmm, my god." After a minute of every muscle in his body flexing, it looked like he was inches away from coming and I leaned forward with my hand out on the last step to balance myself so I could watch the end result. It took a bit longer than I expected but I watched on unblinkingly until he finally managed to pump out an orgasm that ripped through his body and exited him in a glorious spurt of cum. Then there was another spurt and another, all landing in a perfect sticky mess over his stomach and chest. The sun coming in through his window glittered over his spackled body while a dryness hardened my tongue. I gawked as he moved to mop up his own mess with my black lace panties. What he was going to do next was as much a mystery to me as the last ten minutes I had spent as a voyeur. His cock laid over the top of his thigh and shrunk with each passing second while he rolled my panties up into a ball with his fist. All of his muscles relaxed and he sank further into the bed, closed his eyes all the while my stolen cum-soaked panties remained clutched to his chest like a cross. I could almost smell the musk permeating from the open door. Slowly, I descended the stairs one by painstaking one.

[ramblingthoughtsofayoungadult]

Persistence is Key-John Shelby Imagine

Requested: No

Warnings: fluff, long

Y/S/N- Your Sister’s Name

  “I love your hair, Y/N, it looks so posh!” Y/S/N said as she linked arms with me.

  “Thanks, it feels a bit weird but I suppose it’s a nice change,” I said.

  After three months of dragging my feet and being indecisive, I finally got my hair cut into the bob hair style that I had seen all over Paris as well as in London thanks to the flapper girls. A few older women stared at me as we passed them on the street but as long as my parents were okay with it, I didn’t care about them. 

    “And the bangs are perfect,” she gushed.

    I frowned. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

   “What? I love you, sis, what’s so weird about that?”

   “We barely speak when I’m home, there’s something else going on.”

   “I’m just happy that my stylish little sister is home for Christmas is all,” she said.

   Her shimmering e/c eyes were a little too shimmery and her lipsticked smile was far too wide. She was hiding something and her having a secret made me nauseous because if it gave her this much joy, it was something at my expense. It was times like these that I wished that I could read her mind. 

    When we got home, I realized why she was so nice. John Shelby was standing in front of the house with a bouquet of roses in his hand. He was wearing a long dark coat, expensive suit, and the Blinder razor hat. Just looking at him made me shake with irritation.

    “I knew something was wrong,” I griped.

    “Hi, John!” she said.

    John looked up and smirked when he saw me. “Y/S/N, Y/N.”

    “Hi, John,” I said in a polite but bored tone.

    Y/S/N practically dragged me over to him. “What brings you here?”

    “I came to give these to Y/N.” 

    “That really isn’t necessary, John.”

     “I insist.” 

      I opened my mouth to argue, but the bouquet was already in my hands. It was a beautiful bouquet but I already had several dozen flowers in my room thanks to his previous efforts.

      “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to talk,” Y/S/N said.

      “We aren’t love—”

      But Y/S/N had already slammed the door to the house shut behind her and I bristled in annoyance. She had obviously set this up with John and only accompanied me to get my hair cut to make sure that I would be caught off guard but John popping by with flowers or candies was a normal thing. Since we were fourteen, John flirted with me and my friends would try to get me to kiss him but I’d refuse every time. It was horrifying to have everyone staring and demanding that one kisses a boy they aren’t too keen on. His brothers teased me endlessly about it even though he would always threaten to kill them if they said one word to me. When we got older, I’d considered going out with him, but he got married and then went off to fight in the war. When he came back, he and his wife started having kids and then she died giving birth to the last one. Of course, all the pity I had went out to John and I couldn’t help but feel bad that he had a hard time wrangling all those kids on his own. However, about a year had passed when he started stopping by when I happened to be visiting my sister and her husband. He would flirt and try to get me to go out with him, but I always refused.

    “You cut your hair,” John said. 

     “Yeah, I wanted a change.”

     “It looks good but you always look good.”

     “Thank you, John,” I muttered. “You don’t look too bad yourself. How are your kids?”

    “They’re all right, I suppose. Doin’ my head in all the time but I can’t be too upset with them. I’m gone all the time and they need a mother.”

    “Well, good luck finding one,” I chirped, walking towards the front door.

   “Y/N.”

   I sighed and turned to him. “Yes?”    “Would you come around to the Garrison to get a drink with me?”

   His stupid light eyes were filled with some sort of hope but he still had a flirtatious expression. It was a confusing combination that I was used to seeing and at first, I felt bad about turning him down but after the two thousandth time, I decided that it was his fault for stopping by even though he knew what my answer would be.

    “I can’t tonight, my publisher wants the last chapter by the end of the week and I’m trying to get past a bad case of writer’s block.” I took a step towards the door as John took a step towards me.

     “I heard alcohol helps with these kinds of things.”

     “I prefer not using alcohol as a crutch.”

      My back hit the door and John was right in front of me. I felt cornered in and had a bad feeling that Y/S/N was having far too much fun watching all this unfold from the parlor room.

     “One drink isn’t going to hurt,” John said.

     I sighed. He wasn’t about to let me get off that easy—-he never did—-he was going to make me be blunt about it.

    “John, we both know that even if my publisher wasn’t on my case about finishing this last book, I wouldn’t go to the Garrison with you.”

    John frowned and his jaw tightened. “Why not? Why don’t you ever want to go out with me?”

    I hesitated. Usually, John left with a real clever line only to return either the following day or the day after that. He never seemed so upset before but I suppose everyone has their limits. Perhaps now was as good a time as any to tell him why I could never and would never go out with him.

    “I can’t go out with a known gangster, John, it will tarnish my reputation. While I appreciate how much your family has helped mine, it doesn’t change the fact that we are two people going in different directions with our lives. Besides, what if we did end up going out and it turned into something more, like marriage? I can’t be a good writer and tend after your kids. I’m sorry, John, you’re just going to have to find someone else.”

     Like you did before.

    I felt both weight less and guilty as I stared at John. He was still upset and much more tense than he had been when he first arrived at my house. Finally, he straightened up. 

    “Right, see you around, Y/N.”

     I wanted to say something else but John was down the street before I knew it. Slowly, I turned to open the door only to have Y/S/N rip it open, her eyes wide with surprise.

    “What did you say to him?” she  demanded as she pulled me in.

    “I…I told him the truth, I can’t date a gangster,” I said.

    Y/S/N stared at me as though I’d lost my mind. “You what?”

    “It’s the truth, Y/S/N. I’m already on thin ice with Alicia as it is and getting involved with gangster would be the knife in the coffin that is my career.”

   “But what about Mum and Dad?” Y/S/N asked through gritted teeth.

   “They just like that the Shelbys helped them out of a rough patch but you know that they would skin both of us alive if we ever got involved with one of ‘em. Why are you being so snippy?”

    “John has never left the house looking more heartbroken or upset before. There is no telling what he will do to either of us or our family in his state!”

    “Then you shouldn’t have told him that I was in town!” I griped.

     Y/S/N pressed her lips together in a thin, firm line. She always made that face when I won one of our battles of wit. She should be satisfied with her life as a housewife considering that her husband owned one of the many factories in Small Heath. However, that gave her no right to punish me for staying in school long enough to get a degree in English and Creative Writing and become an author. 

     “If anything happens to Adam, Mum, or Dad because of your stunt I will never speak to you again!” 

     “You act as though that’s a punishment.”

     I strolled away from her to put the flowers in a vase and add them to the collection of flowers in my room there. As much money as Y/S/N claimed Adam made they could afford a nicer house in London but stayed in Small Heath. 

     The room was big enough and there was a window outlooking the gray neighborhood. Around the perimeter of the room were vases of daisies, roses, and tulips. They were still growing well even though I only came up to Birmingham from London when I felt like it. Maybe Sandra, the housekeeper, was taking good care of them when I was gone. 

     I set the roses on my nightstand and stared at them. They were just another reminder of John so why hadn’t I thrown them out? Perhaps it was because it was a reminder that someone as tough as John could still be sweet and romantic when he wanted to. When we were kids, he used to give me the weeds that looked like yellow flowers because he thought I deserved something pretty. Also, he used to get into fights with boys who teased me or tried to flirt with me. It was all very sweet and I would be lying if I said that I never found him attractive, but life got in the way. He went off to to the war and I went to university, that’s just how it went. 

      “It’s not my fault,” I muttered to myself. “He knew that I wasn’t really interested so why would he keep coming back?”

     I glanced at my black Imperial typewriter that was set on my desk. Writing always calmed me down and maybe now was as good a time as any to finish the book. I walked over to the desk, loaded the typewriter, and wrote.

     Hot tears of anguish ran down Ella’s tears as she read the letter that said her worst nightmare: John Shelby had finally pissed off.

   “Nope, can’t send that into Alicia,” I muttered as I took the paper out of the typewriter and reloaded it.

    All Ella could do was stare as the love of her life walked away from her for the last time. Perhaps it was for the best since they were two different people. It would have never worked out since she was a beloved school teacher and he was a no good gangster.

   I cursed under my breath as I ripped out the new paper as well and tossed it in the bin.

   “You’ve got this, Y/N, this is about Ella and James,” I muttered.

    Gray skies were brewing overhead as Ella stood in the field. The cold wind that usually warned the people in England that a storm was coming actually calmed her spirits. She closed her eyes and waited for the rain to come, to wash away any dirt that wasn’t particularly on her body but within her. 

     Suddenly, someone touched her hand, jarring her from the reverie and it was none other than James. He had that lopsided grin that made him look like the most clever man in the world and his dark curls were as wild and tangled as ever.

     “Wh…what are you doing here?” she whispered.

     “I wanted to see you again.”

     “But you shouldn’t be out here, it’s going to rain soon.”

      “You shouldn’t be out here either! It’s black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat.”

    His hard Scottish accent made the hint of a smile appear on her lips. She had gotten so used to hearing it over the past year that it was going to be hard for her not to miss it.

     “I like the rain, it’s like God’s telling the world that it gets another chance.”      “Yeah, I guess.”

      He looked perturbed but Ella didn’t wish to pry. He was already a difficult nut to crack and pushing too hard only made him retreat.

      “Honestly, you should go before the blushing bride starts to worry about you—-wouldn’t want to the groom running off with someone else the day before the wedding.”

    “Still strange that I’m gettin’ merrit.” 

     “Y/N, tea’s on!”      I blinked and looked out the window to see that it was pitch black. It had taken me all that time to write all of one page? Maybe I did need some tea.

    Thankfully, Sandra cooked and it was as good as it could possibly be aside from the awkward dinner conversation Y/S/N insisted on having with Adam every day he came home from work.

     “So, Y/N, when are you headed back to London?” Adam asked

     “The day after Christmas. You are all more than welcome to spend the New Year with me but there is something about being in London around that time that’s inspiring.”

      “Oh, yes, how is that book of yours going?” Y/S/N asked.

      “Better now, it should be done by the deadline.”

      “Great,” Adam said.

      The conversation lulled again and I was thankful that Y/S/N didn’t bring up John during tea because that would have been far too awkward for me. Finally, when tea was finished, I got back to writing and it felt as though my fingers couldn’t stop moving as I typed nearly everything that popped in my head. When I was finished, it had to be at least two o’clock in the morning and I didn’t even bother reading it before I fell asleep.

      The next morning, I woke up and read over my writing from the night before. It was pretty good if I said so myself but when I got to the end, my heart nearly stopped.

        Hot tears streamed down Ella’s face and she didn’t bother to wipe them away. She was tired of burying her feelings from James, from Olivia, from her parents, and from herself. James looked surprised and heartbroken at the young woman in front of him.

       “Ella, what’s wrong?” he asked as he stepped closer to her.

      “Everything! Everything is wrong. You wearing that tuxedo and marrying Olivia is wrong and you invited everyone we both know to come see it, including me. Did you even think about how much that would hurt me?”

    “Ella, you said you were okay with this.”      “I thought I was, but I’m not. I have so much else to be concerned with: my job, my parents, and my friends but I can’t move forward because you are always somewhere in the back of my mind haunting me. I shouldn’t care about you like this but I do and the fact that you are going to marry Olivia, shiny perfect Olivia, kills me!”

    James reached out to touch Ella but she shrinked away. If he touched her, she was positive that she would be putty in his hands. Maybe if she had done that before, this part of her life would be right and she would be the one standing at the altar instead of Olivia. 

     “I’m so sorry that you’re hurting, Ella, but I can’t go with ya. I love Olivia.”

     Ella sighed and smiled. “Of course you do.”

     Ella straightened her back and walked out of the church proudly into the sun. She had just ruined a wedding and stirred up a ruckus that was definitely going to be the talk of the town for the next couple of weeks but she did not care. She was finally cutting herself off from James and as agnoizing as it was, it was necessary.

   “Not too shabby, Y/N,” I whispered.

   I organized the papers chronologically and stuffed them into an envelope with the rest of the chapter. As soon as I finished getting ready, I would send the chapter off to Alicia and not have to be concerned with any work for the rest of my vacation.

    As I bathed and got ready, one glaring fact plagued me: Ella’s feelings about James were eerily similar to my feelings for John. Of course, I never told him that I ever remotely fancied him when we were younger, but the anguish of watching him marry someone else was there as well as the regret of not being more upfront with my feelings. Plus, I’d buried them for such a long time that perhaps I had grown to resent John because of it and him asking me out all the time aggravated me. However, I would miss not seeing him around as much since the Garrison was never my scene.

    Thirty minutes later, I was pulling on my coat and walking out of the door with my latest chapter under the crook of my arm. 

   “I’ll see you later, Y/S/N!” I called.

   She made a “hmm” noise in response before I pulled the door closed behind me. It was another cold, gray day in Small Heath but I still felt relatively upbeat as I walked down to the post and sent the chapter off. I took my time walking back to the house. Small Heath had some rugged charm to it but it was a lot more congested there than in London somehow.

    When I finally made it back to the house, John and Y/S/N were having a spot of tea in the parlor. John wasn’t wearing his Blinder razor cap, which made me pause and not so subtly stare at him.

    “Y/N, look who came to visit us,” Y/S/N said.

    “John, I’m…surprised,” I said.

    John stood. “Hello, Y/N.”

   “We were just talking about you,” Y/S/N said.

   “Oh.” 

   I sat in the chair next to her and John sat back down on the couch. Y/S/N poured me a cup of tea and I sipped it.

   “You finished your book?” John asked.

   I nodded. “Just sent it off to my editor, thank you for asking.”

   “What’s it about?”

    “Oh, Y/N has always been private about what her little stories are about,” Y/S/N said.

    “No, it’s fine. It’s about a girl coming to terms with her emotions.”

     “Huh.”

     “She does that when she realizes she’s in love with a boy from her childhood in spite of the will they, won’t they stuff but the problem is, she realizes she loves him right before he gets married t othe girl of his dreams.”

      “And do they end up together?”       “You’ll have to read the book to find out.”

      Y/S/N stared at me for a long moment and looked as though she might cry. “I’m going to see where Sandra is with those biscuits.” She walked away swiftly in spite of her high heels.

     I set my tea down on the table. “So, what brings you to my house today?”

     “Well, I was looking to speak to you but your sister let me in. After our conversation yesterday, I started thinking about how long I could really stay in the family business. It isn’t really safe for my kids or anyone who gets close to me. So, I talked to Tommy and he agreed to cut me my share of the business so that I can look for work elsewhere.”

       “What?”

      “I’m good with numbers and I could work anywhere.” John set his tea on the table. “What I’m trying to say is that I can be the man you want me to be. And the kids won’t be much trouble for you.”

      “You would leave your family business for me?” I shook my head. “You’re mad.”

     “Only when it comes to you.” John grabbed my hand. “I’ve loved you since I first laid eyes on you when we were five and I’ve never stopped. If it takes me leaving the family business to be with you, then I’ll do it.”

    Suddenly, tears brimmed in my eyes and I tried to blink them away as my heart swelled in my chest. He was being ridiculous, incredibly, definitely ridiculous.

    “You can’t be serious, John, that’s your family and your family has to mean everything to you.”

   “They do but they understand why I’d want to leave.”

   I ran a hand through my short hair. “This has to be the most foolish thing you have ever done for me of all people. I can’t believe you would go this far.” I shook my head. 

   John didn’t say anything and it made me nervous because he always had something to say. Unfortunately, I took it as my turn to speak.

    “Do you remember when we were fifteen and you, me, Arthur, Tommy, and some other girls from town stole some whiskey from Polly and split it over near the bridge?” I asked.

    John nodded. “Yeah, we were crazy kids but I was surprised you went along with it.”

   I shrugged. “I never had whiskey before. Anyway, we probably finished the whole thing when that girl, Helen, thought it was a good idea to start asking everyone ridiculous questions unless they wanted to do an embarrassing penalty.”

   “Yeah, Arthur told us how he lost his virginity to get out of letting everyone slap him,” John said with a laugh.

   “Well, Sarah demanded that I tell her who my first kiss was and when I said I hadn’t had it yet, she dared me to kiss Tommy. I only did it because it was a dare and he wasn’t all too thrilled about it either. However, I remember distinctly how upset you looked, like someone had kicked your puppy or something. Afterwards, when I got you to talk to me about it, you said that I shouldn’t have been forced to do anything, specially not with Tommy.”

   “Yeah, what about it?”

   “Well, that was when I realized that you really did like me and it wasn’t just because you liked the way I looked. I started fancying you around then but I kept playing coy because I was a stupid kid. Then you got married and I learned that playing coy only gets you so far.”

    The stupid tears threatened to fall but I kept talking.

    “I shouldn’t care about you the way I do now but I can’t help it. I thought about you all the time when I was at university, worried sick about how you were doing in the war. Now, you’ve left your family’s extremely successful but shady business because of my bloody status.”     Finally, the tears fell and I couldn’t stop myself from crying. I never cried and the fact that John was there made me nervous and vulnerable. Slowly, he pulled me into his arms and wiped my tears.

   “Hey, it’s fine, we’re going to be fine.”

   “I’m so sorry that I was awful to you,” I said through shaky gasps. “I wouldn’t have bothered with me if I were you.”

   “I knew you were worth it,” he said cheekily.

   I pulled away and smacked his chest with a sniffle. Then, impulsively, I leaned forward and kissed him quickly. When I was about to pull away, he grabbed my face.

   “I’ve waited for this my whole life, you aren’t getting away that easily.”

   He kissed me back with more passion, pulling me into his lap as I reciprocated the feeling. I only pulled away when I felt breathless and cupped his face, his eyes glazed over with what I could guess was satisfaction.

   “You should go talk to Tommy about your share of the company. I don’t want to tear you away from their business, they are still your family,” I muttered.

   “That won’t be a problem.” John’s hands slid down to my hips. “Nothing was official yet, just wanted you to know I was serious.”

   “And I appreciate it very much, Mr. Shelby.”

   As I kissed him again, I prayed that Y/S/N wouldn’t walk in on us. The last thing I needed to hear in that moment was “I told you so”.

[yoireverse]

a night in

((hello all!!! wonderful to be back. hope you all enjoy this installment of the series, are continuing to enjoy the reverse AU!! ♥♥♥ i took a poll to see what ppl wanted to see, and this was the result! enjoy~~

happy 2k on the blog!!! thanks for joining us, everybody! ♥ :’O))

summary: Usually, Yuuri has a very strict menu for himself and Victor to adhere to. It's mostly for his own benefit, because he's constantly concerned about staying in shape, what with his decision to come out of retirement and all. Still, he and Victor hadn't spent a lot of time together in December because of skating competitions. He sends Victor on an errand to get him out of the house and rolls up his sleeves. Yuuri is going to stun his fiancé today. word count: 1.5k rating: t ✮read on ao3 | ✮reverse fics | ✮reverse art →my personal tumblr | →em’s art blog

Generally, Yuuri makes both of them lots of vegetables, fruits, and scatters nuts and odd protein-filled meats and beans into the menu whenever he can. Victor doesn't find all of the meals delectable, even if Yuuri is obviously talented, but this what they have to do to get their proper nutrition.

Their careers depend on them taking care of their bodies, and both of them are admittedly a little obsessive about it. That doesn’t mean they can’t take breaks - that Victor can’t enjoy ice cream on some weekends, and that Yuuri can’t dig into a whopping steak every once in a while - but they do try to eat clean.

Still.

“Victor,” Yuuri keeps his voice fairly low while he’s washing dishes from breakfast. “Could you head over to Mila’s place for me, please?”

The silver-haired man sits up on the couch, hair spilling in his bleary blue eyes. “You want me to go now?” The sun is barely up, and even though Victor is characteristically the happy morning person in their relationship, even he doesn’t feel like socializing at six a.m. when the sun has barely risen. “Is it urgent?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri insists, taking his hands out of soap water to wipe them on his stained apron. “Sorry to ask, but I asked her to get something specific for me, and it’s going to be a little heavy. Can you help her bring it back to our place?”

Victor raises a brow, more than a little curious about whatever Yuuri could be alluding to. “What are you going to do?”

“The chores,” the older man clicks his tongue and Victor is appropriately cowed by the words. He’d skimped on cleaning the bathroom, his usual responsibility, because he’d had leg cramps like mad the night previous. “If you’re alright with that?”

“Yeah,” Victor answers quietly, hanging his head. He gathers his belongings before waving to his coach, and Yuuri puts a hand to his chest, slowly exhaling.

He could tell by the suspicious glint in Victor’s eyes that he’d almost been caught. Yuuri waits for ten minutes until he’s sure that Victor is far from the apartment to hurry down to the grocery store.

Yuuri had jauntily sent Mila a text, asking her to get some crotchety old typewriter from an antique market and that he was going to send Victor over to pick it up. He’s entrusted her with keeping his fiancé busy while he makes an early dinner for the two of them on their day off, trying his best to seem romantic.

It’s not his specialty. Truthfully, a year ago, he’d never even considered dating seriously, but now? He wants to do something kind and sappy for Victor.

They hadn’t been spending a lot of time together since Yuuri had been working on going back into the competitive circuit, so today, he’s going to cook for the younger man.

Specifically, he’s going to make all of his favorite dishes, with recipes handed down from his mother.

He’s determined to wow Victor with his technical prowess in the kitchen.

//

Mila texts Yuuri at three o’clock to let the man know that she can’t stall Victor a moment longer and that he’s on his way home. It’s too late for lunch and too early for dinner, but Yuuri is pretty much finished by the time the text arrives, so he heads for the bathroom.

After he takes a shower, he shies away from using the hair gel, as is his reflex. Today is special. He’s just going to comb his locks, which are frankly getting a bit long for his tastes, and wear one of the nicer outfits that Victor had picked out for him.

Yukachin licks at Yuuri’s damp heels and the man hisses at the dog, trying to slip into a pair of dark slim-fit jeans and cursing all the while. Victor comes home, rattles around in the landing with the typewriter, among other things, and is floored to find that Yuuri has a candle lit in the room. Mila quickly waves goodbye before Victor can utter a word, finding the brunette seated at the table, smiling softly.

“I, this, huh?” Victor blinks for a moment, a flush creeping onto his cheeks. “Mila didn’t even say hi to you - wait,” after a pause, he scowls. “Did you plan this? She dragged me all over the city to find this, and made me look at pictures of Sara for an hour, trying to stop me from taking the train back while lugging this. We even bought new clothes.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri shrugs, nervously fiddling with his hands. “I’m sure you’re tired. Do you want to eat?”

Victor sucks in a deep breath, then really takes in the sights.

Yuuri looks truly beautiful, and the food is still warm. Steam is rising from most of the dishes, all of them foreign looking. They have a hodgepodge set of ceramics, some pieces bought and others donated to them by Lilia, Nikolai, and Mila. The older man has a worn out look himself, but he’s wearing a baby blue pinstriped shirt and dark washed jeans. His bangs are down, slightly curly from being improperly dried, and Victor’s mouth becomes dry.

“What’s...” The younger man coughs and continues, “What’s the occasion?”

“I just figured we hadn’t spent much time together,” Yuuri answers him, standing up with watery eyes. “Is this okay?”

“More than okay,” Victor says suddenly, taking long strides to bundle his coach in his arms and squeezing him until Yuuri complains of lack of air. Once he realizes that he’s suffocating the shorter man, Victor loosens his grasp and lets out a long sigh. “This looks fantastic, Yuuri. Thank you. I feel underdressed, though.”

“No, not at all,” Yuuri murmurs, flushing. “I just. Wanted to spend some time together, since we haven’t been able to lately. I hope you like Japanese. These are all home recipes.”

“Yes,” Victor says, holding Yuuri’s gaze in a meaningful way. “I love it.” He kisses the brunette on the forehead before rushing to take a seat. Instead of sitting across from Yuuri at the rectangular table, he moves his chair as close as he can to Yuuri, undoes his ponytail to let his hair fall and sighs with relief. Once he settles in, he moves his leg to play footsie with his coach and the older man gives Victor a half-hearted glare.

“Stop that,” Yuuri whispers, trying not to smile. “Eat your food.”

“What’re we having?”

“Ochazuke,” the older man easily pronounces the name of the dish, then moves on to explaining it before pointing to the others. “It’s like, rice, green tea, and seaweed, along with spices. Then, I made some squash, fried fish, something like potato salad, and I have some beer, if you’d like?”

“No,” Victor shakes his head. “We’ve got practice tomorrow, so I think I’ll stick to water. Once I start drinking, I can’t stop.”

“Same here.” Yuuri says, passing Victor a pair of chopsticks before pressing his hands together. As soon as they say their thanks, Yukachin pads around the table, begging for scraps, and both men have to ward her off carefully while they enjoy the food.

Victor eats it all with a happy flush, stuffing his cheeks. “All of this is amazing! I didn’t know you could cook like this.”

“Terrible for you, all of it,” the brunette replies fondly. “But hey. It’s our day off.”

They eat in relative quiet, Yuuri flicking his eyes from his food, to the panting poodle at his side and back to the beautiful man sitting at the table with him.

Victor wipes his mouth when he’s finished, lazily grinning at his partner. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing in particular,” Yuuri quips back and Victor rolls his eyes, standing up and putting a hand on the older man’s shoulders.

“So I’m nothing now, is that it?” Victor’s voice is tinny as he encourages his coach to stand up and leave the mess on the table behind. “I’ll clean everything up later, Yuuri. First, come here.”

“What is it, nerd?” Victor slowly walks Yuuri to a wall and puts a hand on Yuuri’s slightly chapped lips. Yuuri slowly smiles, breath coming quickly. “You been watching too many dramas?”

“Maybe just a few,” Victor breathes, letting his gorgeous eyes fall closed as he leans down. “Could I have a kiss?”

“Of course,” Yuuri answers him by putting his hands over Victor’s shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his sweater.

Their lips meet for several moments before they pull away, Victor’s hand cushioning Yuuri’s neck against the wall. In a daze, they slip out of the hold, both parties grinning like fools. Yuuri watches Victor clean up from the couch, still dazed that this is his life.

Before things can be truly peaceful, Victor whispers, “I’m still mad about the typewriter, by the way.”

His fiancé chuckles and rubs Victor’s chin. “I’m sorry. I really do love antique typewriters, so I’ll probably get it fixed and use it.”

The mental picture of Yuuri hunching over the keys and smudging his fingers with ink is enticing, and it abates some of Victor’s irritation for the moment. Once he relaxes, sighing against Yuuri, he gives up the frustration entirely, enjoying the moment.

They feed Yukachin and cuddle in front of the television until it gets truly late, dozing off with fingers interlaced, gold bands warm on their hands.