#maybe? I feel maybe less so as you get an email for every fic subbing to the user

[killuaisaprincess]

I got curious how active my tumblr followers are so I started clicking on blogs to see if they’re still active and the amount of people at the bottom of my list that it’s been two years made me have a crisis

Where did the time goooo

[lunar-jimin]

i can be temptation, you can be my sin

Pairing: Jimin x Fem!Reader

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 4.5k

Genre: smut, tiny side of angst and fluff, office!au (not the TV show), coworkers!au

Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dom!Jimin, sub!reader, spanking, fingering, semi-public sex, dirty talk, degradation, reader sends nudes

Summary: Between bragging about his prolific sex life and his horrific design ideas, Jimin has managed to make your work life a living hell. Then one little accident sends you hurtling towards him, and as hard as you try, you can’t seem to stop yourself. 

A/N: This is a commission for @ppersonna​ for @ficswithluv​‘s ChangesWithLuv project dedicated to raising money for BLM. I’m so sorry this fic took forever to write (I’m not sure why), but I hope that you enjoy it! A huge shout-out to my lovely beta-reader, @jinterlude​. She’s the best!

| m.list |

“Jimin…” a groan tumbles out of you, “that shade of yellow is-“

“Bright and comforting?”

“-awful.”

His thick lips curve into a pout, eyes doing little to conceal his mock hurt. Exasperation runs through your body, grasping your brain in its clutches. Your entire week has been filled with Jimin’s progressively hideous design ideas for a book cover, to the point you’re beginning to wonder how he got hired at all. The piss-yellow mock-up in front of you is just another straw in the stack that is going to break your back.

“What?” he looks confused, “You said you wanted something eye-catching, and I would have to say this is pretty darn, eye-catching.”

“It’s blinding is what it is. Maybe if we toned it back a bit…” your eyes drift over the design, horror twisting in your gut.

You want to cry. A week ago, your boss had enthusiastically paired you with Jimin to design a book cover for an up and coming YA author, claiming the two of you were the best designers she had, even promising the both of you a promotion if things went well. You aren’t sure what designs Jimin had produced in the past, because what he was bringing to the table now wasn’t much better than a shitty college club poster.

Jimin didn’t make for great company either. Sure he had legs that went for miles, and a face that would outshine angels, but his mouth was filthy. If the two of you weren’t bickering over fonts and hex codes, you were stuck listening to him brag about how loud he could make a girl scream. What’s worse is that while your brain was logical enough to know that Jimin was no good for you, your body had other ideas. As a result, you often went home after a long day, frustrated in more ways than one.

With a little luck- and quite a bit of compromising- you manage to make it to five ‘o’clock without murdering anyone. You manage to talk Jimin down off the yellow in exchange for completing the pitch presentation by yourself. Presentations are time-consuming and tedious, but it’s better than being out of a job because Jimin is set on making the cover look like a neon highlighter.

A half an hour later, you're collapsing on your soft couch, ready to do absolutely nothing for the rest of the weekend. A sigh of relief carries an iota of the stress out of your body as you sink back into the welcoming cushions. You grimace as the tension in your neck became apparent, and you feel the growing ball of angst you have for Jimin tighten. You were going to send him the bill if you had to go to a chiropractor.

In an attempt to move on from your hectic week and into your relaxing weekend, you wander to the kitchen, searching for the merlot you have yet to open. The tall green bottle greets you from the counter. You find a glass and watch as the red liquid quickly fills it. You savor a long sip as you let your mind stray away from the thoughts of work and stress and into notions of self-care and relaxation.

An hour later, having eaten a frozen pizza, you find yourself soaking down into the hot bath suds. The heat begins to draw the ache out of your sore muscles. Once again, Jimin flashes through your mind, coupled with resentment. Your eyes prickle at the thought, sick and tired of Jimin living in your mind rent-free. Why is he preoccupying your brain instead of Seokjin, the cute cook you matched with on Tinder?

While you had yet to meet in person, you and Seokjin had hit off right away when he opened with the cheesiest pick-up line you’d ever heard. He worked at a five-star restaurant a few blocks from your office, but you’d never met in person. That didn’t mean that you hadn’t had a few scandalous conversations. You weren’t usually one for sexting, but Seokjin’s way with words left you little choice.

Eager to take Jimin off your mind, you grab your phone from the side of the tub, quickly opening your messages. You’re much too impatient for small talk, so in the interest of sparking some saucy dialogue, you take a few snaps of your bubble-covered nude body. You suck in a breath as you hit send, anxious for your reaction. It wasn’t the first time you had sent him a nude photo, but it didn’t make you any less nervous. Seokjin was one of the most attractive men you had ever had the privilege of laying eyes on, and it was only natural for you to question your appearance in comparison to his. He would always reassure you, though, flattering you with compliments, both sultry and sweet.

When he doesn’t respond fifteen minutes, a knot forms in your stomach. What if he didn’t like them? What if he was seeing someone else? What if he lost interest? You check your messages with hurried concern. What you find on your screen mortifies. In your haste to tease Seokjin, you had accidentally sent the photos to the last person you texted: Jimin. Worse yet, the little grey “read” sits just beneath the last picture. As you stare at the screen with abject horror, a little speech-bubble pops-up. Your stomach twists in knots, anticipating of what he might say striking you with fear.

The Office Brat: if you wanted a piece of me baby girl, all you had to do was ask 20:33

You suck in a breath when he immediately follows the text with a picture of his own. He’s shirtless, lip between his teeth as he grabs his prominent erection through grey sweatpants. You can’t help the whine that slips out of your mouth at the image. You try to ignore the heat that rushes to your core as your legs rub together. When your senses finally return to you, you drop your phone on the bath mat before sinking into the water, leaving only your face out. The photo is still seared into your brain, taunting you with his delicious abs and what turned out to be a healthy sized dick.

You immediately resolve to forget it ever happened. You spend the rest of the weekend attempting to distract yourself through a binge of every cheesy rom-com you can find on Netflix. You sent Jimin a quick text, informing him that the photos weren’t actually for him. He hadn’t responded, and you didn’t know if you should be relieved or not. It certainly didn’t aid the dread building in your stomach at the thought of having to face him again on Monday.

When you walk into the office two days later, you’re relieved to find that Jimin seemed nowhere to be found. You pray that he actually had an iota of shame and quit out of humiliation. Your hopes are crushed when not five minutes later, you notice him prancing toward your cubicle, his ever-present smirk plastered across his face. When he reaches you, he plops down in an extra desk chair, arms crossed across his chest, eyes looking you up and down. You can’t help but shiver at the knowledge that he knows precisely what you look like underneath your work clothes.

“What do you want, Jimin?” you sigh.

“Haven’t I made that obvious, baby?” He grins. “I want you.”

You roll your eyes.

“Jimin, what happened this weekend was an accident,” you give him a firm glare, “so no matter how much you claim to want me, I want nothing to do with you.:

He raises his eyebrow, eyes locked on yours, before standing and walking to you. His breath is warm on your neck as he leans over to whisper in your ear. You clench your thighs in an attempt to extinguish the heat beginning to burn in between them.

“We’ll see about that, now won’t we, baby girl?”

He pulls away with a smirk, before turning to head to his desk. Your eyes trail to his ass as he leaves, only worsening the situation in your underwear. You silently vow to yourself not to fall for his tricks. You have more self-respect than to allow yourself to be yet another notch in Park Jimin’s bedpost.

Brushing thoughts of your troublesome coworker from your mind, you turn back to your bright computer screen, determined to lose yourself in your work. Your eyes widen when you find an email from Jimin taunting you in your inbox. Heart pounding fast, you click on it, half afraid to find another nude of his (it wouldn’t be beyond him). Instead of a naked Jimin, a PDF with the details for the cover design presents itself. You’re taken aback. Not only had Jimin swapped the yellow for soft coral, but he practically redesigned the entire thing. Scrolling through, you’re embarrassed to admit that it was nearly as good, if not better, then some of your best works.

You immediately realize that this means he’s been pulling your leg for over a week. A groan escapes you, and your head falls forward, smashing into your keyboard. Of course, he was a fucking amazing graphic artist; you shouldn’t have expected anything less. Fury floods down your spine as it dawns on you that it was all a trick to get out of doing the PowerPoint. Now you were stuck making an entire presentation, just because Jimin had pretended to love piss-yellow.

It takes every ounce of your self-control not to march to his desk and strangle him. White anger flashes in front of your eyes, resentment growing to cover every waking thought in your brain. When you finally calm enough to rationalize that murder isn’t going to get you anywhere, you decide that your best course of action is to avoid him until the day of the two of you are scheduled to present to the board.

The world isn’t being kind to you today, because when you finally head to the break room for lunch, you immediately run into your new worst enemy.

“What’s got your panties in a knot now, love?”

You glare at him, not trusting yourself not to stab him with your salad fork. He smirks in response, before turning to leave. At the last second, he turns back to you.

“Have fun with that PowerPoint.”

You want to scream.

“Jimin, I swear to god, you little shit, I’m gonna-”

“You’re gonna what? Spank me?” His cheeky grin widens. “You know, baby, I’m usually a dom, but if it meant feeling your sweet pussy, I’d definitely be a sub.”

You are lucky that no one else is around to hear his words because you are mortified enough. Red creeps across your face as Jimin winks at you. When he finally leaves, you collapse back onto the counter, trying to get a grip on your surroundings. You swear to high heaven that you’ve never hated someone so much in your life, yet feel so attracted to them at the same time. As infuriated as you are with him, you are even more infuriated with your inability to control your body’s reaction to him.

Why did he have to know exactly what to say to soak your panties? Why was he so hellbent on getting you to sleep with him? Why did you ever have to be assigned to him in the first place? These questions plagued your mind as the week trickled slowly on. Your anger with Jimin was beginning to be diluted with anxiety about your upcoming presentation. No part of you looked forward to standing in front of the company board to make a potential career-changing pitch with the person you hated most in the world. Not to mention public speaking made you want to hide under a rock and never come out.

Thankfully, Jimin is kind enough to offer to do most of the talking- even if his original deal included a blow job- but it also meant you had less control if things started to go south. By the time Friday rolled around, you’re shitting yourself with fear. Jimin does his best to calm you down as you sit in hard plastic chairs outside the boardroom, waiting to be called in.

“Look, we’ll do fine. You made an amazing presentation, and I’m pretty brilliant at charming people if I do say so myself.”

He reaches over and gives your hand a small squeeze. You’re just nervous enough to offer him a small smile. For what it’s worth, he wasn’t terrible at comforting people.

“Thanks, Jimin. I’m sure everything will go great.”

Everything did not go great. In fact, it went very, very badly. Somewhere out there, someone must have hexed you because that’s the only reason you can think of that would explain why you placed Jimin’s original yellow design in the slideshow instead of his new one. You feel terrible. Not only have you fucked up in front of the entire company, but you’ve put both of your jobs on the line.

As soon as the meeting ended, you rushed off to the bathroom. You already embarrassed yourself enough as it is, you don’t need everyone to see you cry too. Tears roll down your face as you sit on the toilet, praying for the sudden end of your existence.

You had one job and somehow you had managed to fuck it up. You managed to ruin your career. You’re going to end up jobless. Broke. Destitute.

You’re jolted out of your thoughts by a knock at the door.

“Doll? Are you in there?”

Jimin’s voice is soft and comforting, and if you weren’t so afraid of humiliating yourself, you would have gladly welcomed his arms around you. But you are, so you try to stifle your sobs in an attempt to make him go away.

“Doll? I know you’re in there. I can hear you crying,” he sighs, “Please just let me in. I just want to talk.”

A sigh escapes your lips as you debate your options. If he already knows you’re crying, what difference will it make if he sees you? You stand up from your seat on the toilet, make a quick attempt at cleaning up your ruined makeup, and hesitantly open the door to let him inside.

He immediately takes you in his arms, closing the door behind him. The feeling of his body wrapped around yours only serves to induce more tears, and you find yourself crying into his shirt collar.

“I’m so, so sorry, Jimin,” you hiccup, “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know how I used that one. I’m so sor-”

“It’s okay, baby.”

You pull away to look at his eyes.

“What? How can you say that? I ruined the presentation, and we’ll be lucky if they want us to come back to work tomorrow.”

“They loved it.”

“What?”

“They loved it. They thought it was bright and innovative and really demonstrated that we understood design enough to push its limits.”

You look at him in shock. They loved it. They thought it was great. Your job was safe. You weren’t going to be fired. You may even receive a promotion.

“Feel better, doll?” He smiles down at you.

For once in your life, you return his smile, while shaking your head in affirmation.

“Well, then…”

You’re still smiling but suddenly unsure of what to do. Jimin’s hands are still on your waist, and you hated how aware of them you’re becoming. He seems to notice at the same time and quickly pulls them away.

“I have a question.” His voice is soft and shaky, and his eyes shift from side to side, seemingly unable to focus on you.

“What?”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

You’re taken aback. Jimin, who was usually so confident and larger than life, is now standing before you, small and meek, like an underfed puppy begging for scraps.

“I, I don’t hate you, Jimin.”

“But you must,” his voice is curt, “You never flirt back with me, yet I see you tease Hoseok all day long. You never laugh at my jokes. You never praise my work. As soon as I come anywhere near you, you close up. You snap at me, and you have no patience with me. You avoid me at all costs. So let me ask you again: why do you hate me?”

This time, instead of avoiding eye contact, he stares at you like he’s trying to read your soul.

“I really don’t hate you, Jimin.”

He raises his eyebrow.

“I just don’t want you to hurt me.”

He looks genuinely confused at your statement.

“How could I possibly hurt you?”

“The same way you hurt all those other girls.”

“What other girls?” His voice rises with defense.

“You know, the ones you sleep with in bathrooms, only to leave them broken-hearted when you never so much as glance their way again? The one’s you brag about fucking every chance you get until I want to slam my head into a brick wall? The ones that prove you’re nothing but a narcissistic fuckboy whose only goal in life is to get his dick wet? Those are the girls I’m talking about.”

Jimin looks shocked before his face morphs into an angry scowl, eyes heated and alert.

“That’s what you really think about me? That I’m a no-good player who uses girls for their bodies? Do you really think I trick girls into sleeping with me? Because you're wrong. They know what they’re getting into when they agree to restroom rendezvouses, but they always seem to convince themselves that they can convince me that I should be in a relationship with them. That’s not my fault. I would never sleep with someone under false pretenses. And I bragged about them because I wanted you to like me! Do you not get that? I don’t ever try this hard to get anybody to sleep with me, but I like you. I like you a lot, and this whole time you just thought I was a misogynistic fuckboy because you never cared to get to know me better.”

Jimin is seething, like a dog that went feral. His chest rises with heavy breaths as he backs you into the wall, eyes staring down yours. You let out a small whimper when he leans into your ear, hot breath ghosting your neck.

“If you think I’m such a fuckboy, then a fuckboy is what you are going to get.”

Before your brain can properly register his words, his lips are covering yours in a desperate kiss. Despite your lack of cognizance, you respond immediately, lips moving against his as your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into you. His hands ghost down your side before he grabs your ass with a rough squeeze, eliciting a whine from your mouth.

He flips you around before bending you over the sink, eyes holding yours in the mirror reflection.  

“I think you’ve been a bad girl, don’t you agree? Leaving me with blue balls just because you think you’re better than me.”

Words fail you, so you nod instead. His hand slips under your skirt, softly massaging your ass.

“Don’t you think Daddy needs to punish you?”

You whimper, eyes struggling to hold his in your shared reflection. His gaze was burning with lust and fiery.

“I need you to use your words, baby.”

“Yes, daddy, I need to be punished.”

He grinned before flipping up your skirt to reveal the supple curve of your ass to his waiting gaze.

“Fuck, baby, do you know how long I’ve stared at this ass walking away from me, trying not to pop a boner in front of the whole office?”

He grabbed a rough handful.

“So long, baby, much too long. I think ten should suffice. Count for me.”

“Okay, daddy.” You whine.

“Say ‘red’ if it gets to be too much.”

“Yes, daddy.”

The first spank sent shocks running through you. While you expected the pain, you hadn’t anticipated how hard he would hit you, or how the contrast of his warm palm and cool rings would send pleasure singing through your body.

“O-one.”

The word barely made it out of your mouth, your brain hazy with lust.

The subsequent slap on the opposite cheek once again jolts you, and you fall forward, bracing your hands on the cold porcelain sink before you.

“Two.”

By the time he made it to five, tears had begun to well in your eyes, and you were sure your ass was painted a nice shade of crimson. By the time he made it to ten, tears had streaked your cheeks as moans and whimpers left your mouth alongside your garbled counting.

Jimin takes a moment to step back to admire his handiwork, his smirk only widening as he takes in his handprint bruised into your ass.

“Holy shit, baby, you’re so hot. You took your punishment so well. Look at how much of a good girl you are.”

Even in your hazy state, you beamed at his praise.

“Thank you, daddy.”

“I think you deserve a reward, baby girl.”

You nod vigorously at that, eager to feel him finally inside you.

“What do you want, baby? Use your words.”

“Your fingers, daddy, please.”

In an attempt to convey your desperation, you grind your hips into his crotch.

“Patience, baby girl. Where do you want them?”

“In my pussy, daddy. Please. I’m so wet for you.” Your sentence ends with a light sob, the need for him overwhelming you.

“Ask and you shall receive.”

With that, he pulls your panties to the side as he cautiously rubs his pointer finger up and down your soaked slit, before slipping inside.

“Fuck, baby, your dripping. Did spanking you turn you on that much? Is my baby girl that much of a pain slut?”

“Yes, daddy. I’m a pain slut just for you.”

He adds a second finger, and your head drops between your shoulders as he begins to move his digits in and out of you at a quick but intentional pace. Moans fall from your lips, and you let out a sharp squeal when he crooks his fingers and brushes against your g-spot.

“Fuck, daddy, right there.”

He quickens his pace, rubbing you perfectly over and over again as he brings you closer to the point of no return.

“Shit, baby, I’m so hard right now. Your pussy is so tight and wet around my fingers; I just want to sink my cock into you.”

“Please, daddy, I want your cock too. I want you to cum inside me. Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna-“

Words fail you as you are sent hurtling into your orgasm, waves of euphoria crashing down around you. Your body is shaking as you collapse against the sink.

Jimin lets out a groan at your fucked-out state, removing his hand from your pussy and bringing it to his lips to taste you. He lets out a moan as he does, freehand going to the front of his pants to rub his prominent erection through the black fabric.

After you recover enough to stand, you turn around and replace his hand with your own, pussy clenching at how big he was.

“Will you fuck me now, daddy?” You look up at him under your lashes, and his head falls back at your mock innocence, a light whimper escaping his lips. He tilts his head back up to look at you, hand coming to grab your waist to pull you to his lips.

You taste yourself on his tongue as your hands come to play with his hair, tugging on the strands. He ruts up into you, desperation getting the better of him. He pulls away, revealing his swollen lips and hazy eyes.

“Fuck yeah, I’ll fuck you now, baby girl.” He makes quick work of his belt zipper, shoving his pants and boxers down just enough to let out his cock and balls. The tip is an angry red, beautifully contrasted with the white of his dress shirt. Your mouth waters as you take in its wide girth and slight curve. You’re desperate to taste it, but right now there were more important matters at hand.

You drop your panties, before hopping up on the edge of the sink. Jimin gives his cock a few short tugs before lining up with your dripping entrance. You let out soft moans as he sinks into you, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him as close as possible. His hands grab your ass, pulling you to the edge of the sink, before slamming back in. He sets a slow but intentional pace, the sound of skin and desperate moans echoing throughout the small bathroom.

You aren’t going to last long, having already come once, and judging by his quickening pace, neither is he. Your lips meet each other in a messy kiss as he pulls you tight against his body. It’s hard to discern what is a part of you and what is a part of him. Your limbs are so intertwined, that it feels like you are one body.

As his cock continues to drill into your g-spot, stars begin to cover your vision. With the force of a freight train, you come unannounced; your mouth opens in a silent scream. Jimin follows right behind you, painting your walls white with his seed. He lets out a groan of your name, his head coming to rest on your shoulder.

Both of you silently shake as you take a moment to catch your breath and process what just happened. He slowly pulls his softening cock out of you, watching as his cum pours out of your cunt.

“Fuckkkk, that’s hot.” He groans, tucking himself back into his pants, before wetting a paper towel to help clean you up.

“I’m sorry I thought so poorly of you.” You give him an apologetic grin, as you pull up your underwear.

“It’s okay. I can see where I might have led you to think that I don’t treat girls well.”

“Well, now I can see that I was wrong. You seem like you would be a fantastic boyfriend.” You move to exit the bathroom, eager to get away so you can process the rampage of emotions flooding through you now that your lust wasn’t getting in the way.

“I can be yours.”

You pause at the door.

“What?”

“I could be your boyfriend.”

“I-“

“I’ve liked you ever since the first time I saw you, and I think that maybe you like me, and I just really, really want to be your boyfriend.”

Your mind is racing at a million miles per hour, trying to process everything that’s happening. One moment he was fucking you like it was your last day on the earth, and now he’s standing in front of you, pleading for you to make him yours. You aren’t sure what to make of it.

“I think I would really like that too, Jimin,” he beams,” “but everything is going so fast, and I just need a little time to take everything in.”

His face falls a little, but he nods understandingly.

“That’s fair. Let me take you on a date, at least.”

You grin.

“Okay.”

“Coffee on Saturday?”

“Sounds great.”

[artificialqueens]

Modern Love, 1/12 (Branjie/Scyvie/Ninex) - Ortega

fic summary: Brooke Lynn is a 23 year old graduate writing boring, uninspired pieces for the fashion department of a newspaper and living in a city all her friends have moved away from. Silky is living at her parents’ house and spends her days applying for jobs she’s promptly rejected for. Nina and Monet are struggling through their first year as teachers whilst being sickeningly adorable girlfriends. Akeria is pursuing her dream of being a badass lawyer, even if her master’s degree is slowly crushing her soul. Plastique is acting like the second coming of Paris Hilton, so nothing there has changed. Scarlet is overworked and Yvie is underpaid and their relationship isn’t all it appears from the outside.

And Vanessa? Vanessa is nowhere to be seen.

(A story about a holiday, a breakup, friendships and relationships in a post-graduate world, careers, navigating life after university, figuring out what it means to be an adult, and coming to terms with the fact that we really are not nineteen forever.)

a/n: welcome to the sequel to Not Nineteen Forever!!! i should say it’s not *~ mandatory ~* to have read the original before this but it’s encouraged huehue xo hope u enjoy and please feel free to reblog, like and send love!!

***

Brooke felt the all-encompassing sense of dread wash over her as her alarm went off, the sounds of the radio that were gradually fading in doing nothing to make the experience of waking up for another day of work any more palatable. She groaned loudly as she stretched, her arms flying out to the side and hitting the edge of the double bed. Brooke starfished a little, stretching her legs out as long as they would go and trying to put off getting up and showered for as long as she could.

Rolling over in bed she reached for her phone and stopped when she saw the rose-gold rectangular frame beside her on the bedside table. It caught her by surprise every day, almost a sort of routine in itself. A picture of her and Vanessa from when they first moved in, standing at the doorway having just popped a bottle of champagne. Brooke’s face was in a funny contorted sort of smile as she yanked the cork out of the bottle and Vanessa was clapping her hands in excitement, a brilliant white moonbeam painted across her face. Brooke remembered the day well. Monet had taken the photo with Nina beside her, both of them still in their work clothes after they’d visited straight from a hard day full of teaching. Akeria, Silky, Plastique, Scarlet and Yvie had all been inside, shuffling through the huge variety of Domino’s pizza boxes that had just arrived at their door like a deck of cards. That night had been so special. Whatever had happened since then, Brooke would probably treasure that memory forever.

In spite of herself she smiled as she looked at the photograph, then turned her attention to her phone screen.

No notifications. She didn’t know why she expected anything more.

With a cloud over her head that matched the ones in the uncharacteristically grey June sky, Brooke brushed her teeth and peeled her pyjamas off before stepping into the shower and adjusting the dial to somewhere between tepid and warm. Vanessa’s shower gel sat in the corner, the tropical fruit and mint one with little tiny sloths all over the front. Brooke found herself hurting as she looked at it, still loath to use it as she took her own from the opposite side and splatted a huge dollop into her shower puff. Sometimes she used it indulgently, like a secret she shared with herself. She didn’t know whether she’d buy more when it ran out. That was something she still needed to think about.

Once she was clean Brooke briskly dried herself with a towel, sitting on the edge of the bed wrapped in it as she carefully blow-dried out her hair. She picked out her outfit: smart black work trousers with a fabric belt that pulled her in at the waist, a black and white patterned shirt, black stiletto heels. As she painted some minimal makeup on her face in the hope it would make her look less like a sleep-deprived zombie and more like she had her life together in some way, Brooke checked the clock and cursed as she realised she was running behind.

Leaving lipstick for the moment, she grabbed her bag, shoved her feet in a pair of black pumps, and left hurriedly for the train. Breakfast wasn’t a priority; she knew she could grab an iced coffee and a croissant from the cafe in the station in between changing trains, as it took her two to get into work. It was times such as these that she wished she knew how to drive like Monet, Plastique and Akeria, or had learned since uni like Nina or Scarlet. But then again, cafe food for breakfast was one of the very few perks of public transport.

Brooke eventually arrived at the huge concrete block with windows that held her offices, taking the elevator up to the fifth floor, clocking in, shooting a lacklustre “hi” to the girls she sometimes chatted to and settling herself in at her desk. As office positions went, Brooke supposed it wasn’t awful- it was beside the window looking out onto the streets of the city below and it provided some much-needed light to her day. Logging on to her work laptop, she checked her emails (one from her boss about the article due for Friday, and one from Cheryl about money for flowers for somebody going on maternity leave that she’d never met or heard of and might not even have worked there).

Her working day had started.

University hadn’t prepared Brooke for graduate life. It hadn’t prepared her for the fact that friends moved away for jobs and houses and flats, internships and apprenticeships and postgrads and masters. It hadn’t prepared her for the fact that her group chat, once flooded with about a hundred messages if she so much as left it for five minutes, gathered dust as everyone’s lives took over. It hadn’t prepared Brooke for the feeling of missing out on something…Christ knows what. Perhaps living, making memories instead of simply swiping through ones already made on a Saturday night spent alone in bed with a bottle of wine to herself. It hadn’t prepared her for the yearning, the regret at having taken those days for granted when they were the happiest of her life and she hadn’t even realised it. If Brooke had known how soul-crushingly boring her life would be once she got that rolled-up piece of paper in a little tube she would’ve been dragging the girls out every single night. The all-encompassing sadness and longing for something better hit her harder on days like these, sepia ones with big clouds that hung ominously in the sky but never gave her the satisfaction of raining. She supposed that feeling had only been exacerbated by…

She didn’t need to remind herself of that.

It was ten o’clock in the morning and Brooke was staring out of the small office window stupefied with boredom when her phone vibrated. She jumped, pouncing on it as she always did whenever a notification went off. Her phone hadn’t been on silent for a full month. It hadn’t been the person she’d wanted or expected, but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless.

Silk: HEY GIRL LONG TIME NO SPEAK! I’M GONNA BE IN TOWN THIS AFTERNOON FOR AN INTERVIEW BUT I’LL BE FREE AFTER AND I’VE GOT A COUPLE HOURS TO KICK ABOUT UNTIL MY TRAIN. YOU WANNA GRAB DINNER? XXXXXXXXX

Brooke frantically made plans as if she was under a time limit, as if the moment would slip through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. She suggested some restaurants that she knew wouldn’t eat into either of their fragile graduate salaries and they settled on an Italian in the city centre, where the portions were big and the meals were tasty.

Brooke spent the rest of the day looking forward to meeting her friend. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Silky. Maybe it had been as long ago as New Year. Brooke smiled as she remembered the occasion; all of them cramming into Scarlet and Yvie’s flat to see in the year. Silky and Akeria had got too drunk off prosecco and screamed along to JLS, Scarlet and Yvie had both made a buffet to rival a hotel’s, and Nina, Monet, Vanessa and Brooke had all been tangled up in an almost relationship-ruining game of Articulate. Plastique had brought her new girlfriend Naomi to introduce to everyone and the girl had looked ever so slightly alarmed by the sheer chaos of everyone put together, but she’d laughed and joined in all the same.

That had been another happy memory. Those seemed to be hard to come by these days.

Work dragged. It always did. Brooke managed to write three sub-par articles that she sent to her editor at the end of the day anyway because hell, it was their job to turn carbon into diamonds. So when she hopped on the train back into the city, Brooke felt a little buzz in her veins that she hadn’t felt in a while.

It took her until she saw Silky standing outside the restaurant- hair in a bun full of flyaways, eyebrows still Sharpied on, in a pair of smart trousers and a floaty top- that Brooke realised that part of the reason she was so excited was because she’d been so lonely for such a long time. Well, only really a month, but it felt like a year. It had taken her living on her own to realise just how boring her life was without all her friends so constantly part of it, and now they all had their own lives and schedules it only served to show Brooke how empty her own was without…

Well. Without her.

As soon as Silky looked up from her phone and spotted Brooke her face lit up, and she fixed her with a smile and a screech that Brooke never thought she would have missed hearing but by God, she had.

“BROOKE LYNN!” she screamed, followed by lots of squealing and babbling as she wrapped the taller girl in a tight hug and refused to let go for at least twenty seconds. Brooke didn’t mind and she found herself clinging back, Silky suddenly the loudest anchor she’d never known she needed. When Silky finally pulled away she grabbed Brooke by both wrists, shaking her back and forth a little. “Oh my God, BITCH! Oh my God. FUCK! It’s so good to see you. How the fuck are you?”

Brooke appreciated that- Silky asking how she was. Yvie tiptoed around Brooke’s feelings when they texted and Brooke tiptoed around her and Scarlet’s perfect domestic bliss, both of the subjects too touchy for Brooke and the pair of them instead choosing to communicate via meme. Nina barely had time to breathe these days let alone text back, and Plastique…well, Plastique wouldn’t get it.

None of them would, she supposed.

“I’m…I’m surviving! I’m being an adult, I guess, and this is what life is now. How’re you?” Brooke swiftly moved the conversation on, and Silky took the hint and dropped both her wrists, pushing open the door.

“I’m on cloud fuckin’ nine girl. C’mon, let’s get some vino an’ I’ll catch you up on the world of Ms. Ganache! Think of it as a free episode of the reality TV show that is my life.”

“Let’s be real, Silk. If anyone’s life’s like a reality TV show right now, it’s mine,” Brooke raised her eyebrows, not quite committing to her own attempt at being lighthearted and instead couldn’t have sounded more bitter if she’d eaten an entire lemon with its rind on.

Silky, for her part, shrugged and let out a small sigh. “You ain’t wrong, girl, you ain’t wrong. But the offer of wine still stands, so let’s get sat. Where the damn hell is a waiter?”

They eventually got shown to their table and the conversation flowed frantically and excitedly, mirroring the wine. Silky filled Brooke in on every last detail of her life- most importantly, Brooke thought, was that Silky’s parents who she was back living with had adopted a cocker spaniel puppy called Pooch. Graduate life had been tough on Silky; she still hadn’t managed to get a job and so therefore couldn’t afford to rent a flat, so she’d moved back to her sleepy and uninspiring hometown. Living with her parents, she’d groaned, was beginning to chip away at her; the constant pressure they put on Silky to find a job, move out, get a boyfriend, and lose weight was beginning to grow wearing in the extreme, and Brooke didn’t blame her for being fed up.

“You know you’re always welcome to come chill at mine, you know. If it’s getting particularly rough,” Brooke suggested not-quite-casually, glad of the fact that loneliness didn’t have a scent because if it did she’d be reeking of it.

Silky gave a bashful smile, looking down at her half-eaten plate of spaghetti bolognaise in front of her. “You’re a doll, B, but you know I can’t do an hour on the train any time my Mama tuts at me buying a size XL of anything. In fact therapy’s probably cheaper than a train ticket here but realistically I don’t got the money for either, so…thanks, but in the words of Simon Cowell, issa no from me.”

“That’s okay. I get it, Mums are simultaneously the worst and the best people,” Brooke pulled a face. Thinking about her Mum made her wonder when the last time she texted her was. She felt a little ashamed for not knowing off the top of her head. “But hey, at least you got that interview, right? How did it go?”

“Alright,” Silky muttered in a non-committal way. It was the most un-Silky response Brooke thought she’d ever seen her friend give. It was weird and unpleasant; the Silky from uni would’ve yelled the place down about how she’d aced it, how they’d make her the chief editor right there and then, how she could write an article for them entirely in Wingdings and it’d still be the best thing they’d read all day.

Seemingly picking up on Brooke’s discomfort, Silky gave a small laugh. “I don’ know, boo…I used to be so sure of myself, I used to be so set in the fact that writing was somethin’ I was good at. When I was a kid I used to write these fuckin’ huge stories…pages an’ pages long that my teachers would pull big overexaggerated smiley faces at an’ squeal over an’ put big glittery star stickers on. I thought I was somethin’ special. An’ then uni, y’know…I was a small fish in a big pond- hell, a big fish in a big pond- but I still thought I was the shit even when I got bad grades. I thought my markers just didn’t get it, that they were the ones that were wrong. But now it’s like…”

Silky heaved a sigh and put her fork and spoon together neatly on top of her half-full plate. “…I can’t even get a job at a fuckin’ local rag, so why the hell am I even tryin’ with the big city offices?”

There was something about it all that made Brooke’s heart break all over again, the way that life after uni had worn Silky down to the extent where she didn’t even know if she was good at anything any more, didn’t have much visible self-worth left. Silky had always been the heart and soul of their group; she, Akeria and Vanessa, and in the time it had taken between now and graduation Akeria had become the polar opposite of Silky- so completely embroiled in her quest to become a barrister that she barely had time to reply to any of them any more.

And Vanessa…well. She knew where Vanessa was. Or rather, she didn’t.

Greece was a big country.

“You’re trying because you’re Big Silky Nutmeg Motherfucking Ganache,” Brooke said with a determination she’d not felt in a while. “Come on Silk, you’re you. If grad life has broken you then what the fuck hope is there for any of us?”

( Any of us sounded better than me , Brooke thought.)

“Kiki’s doin’ okay for herself,” Silky shrugged, her downtrodden tone counteracted by the way she picked up her fork again and twirled a single strand of spaghetti around it, eating it once she was finished speaking.

“Kiki’s vagina-deep in a hellish and all-consuming masters degree that’s probably eating her up from the inside out just as much as everybody else’s jobs are. I mean, are any of us doing anything we actually like?”

“Nina an’ Monet? They’da quit by now if they hated teaching so much.”

“Nina West would join the fucking scientologists and stick it out just so she could say she didn’t give up. She’s the final boss of the term mama didn’t raise a quitter . They’re having a hard time, Silk. We all are. It’s just tough because we’re all so busy and shit at keeping in touch that everybody thinks each others’ lives are perfect but…they’re really not.”

“Yvie and Scarlet seem pretty happy.”

Brooke’s face took on an involuntary look of distaste, so irritated and bitter was she at the image of them and their perfect flat and their perfect jobs and their perfect coupley life. “They’ll have something up, nobody’s life is that perfect. Maybe their relationship’s secretly falling apart or…something, fuck, I don’t know.”

There was a beat of silence in which Brooke finished the last little pocket of tortellini she’d ordered and Silky twirled another mouthful of spaghetti around her fork. She chewed, then shrugged thoughtfully, her head tilting a little. “Y’know we should go on holiday. Fuck all this shit off for a week, get away from it all.”

Brooke’s eyebrows raised in appreciation of the idea. She and the girls had never been away together before and the prospect of lying on a beach doing absolutely nothing under the blazing sun was an inviting one. “What, a girls’ trip? Like in Sex and The City?”

“Mhm. ‘Cept we go on an all-inclusive to the Med ‘stead of Mexico ‘cause ain’t none of us can afford that shit.”

“Except Plastique.”

“True. Fuck that bitch. She could prolly buy Mexico.”

Brooke laughed and for the first time in a good few months she felt a little flicker of excitement lick at her heart, so much so that she could see her pulse race at her wrist. She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. “Oh my God. I’m so in. Let’s do it.”

“We have to get all the girls on board, though. Otherwise there ain’t no point.”

“Definitely. Where should we go? Spain’s always good.”

Silky had her phone out and was typing furiously. She paused as something presumably loaded, then her face lit up. “If we go the week after Nina an’ Monet finish up school for Summer we can get flights to Crete for £20 return.”

“Twenty, what the fuck? That can’t be right,” Brooke screwed up her face in disbelief, and Silky cocked an eyebrow at her as she showed her the proof on her screen. Conceding, Brooke shrugged. “That’s so good. I don’t want to know what that plane’s like though. They probably just stuff you all into a tin can and ping you into the air with a giant rubber band.”

Silky howled with laughter and thumped the table so hard that the wine sloshed about in their glasses, little tiny red tsunamis. As Brooke snorted in response purely to Silky’s own mirth, a small thought set off a little drip of dread that threatened to put out the excitement that had only just begun to burn in her chest.

“Where is Crete again?”

Silky let out an unimpressed breath from her nose. “Bitch, you got all the geography skills of a Love Island contestant. It’s just off the Greek coast. Kinda near Turkey too, but it’s Greece.”

Brooke felt her heart drop, Alton Towers Oblivion all over again. She blinked quickly, tried to hide her discomfort. “Well, we’re not going there.”

Silky gave a small sigh, a little hint of resignation or long-suffering to it that Brooke didn’t appreciate. But when she reached over the table and patted her hand on top of Brooke’s, she felt a little bit more understood, a little bit more validated.

“B, Greece is a big place.”

It was the exact same thing Brooke herself had thought earlier, except now it didn’t seem true. Now, with the prospect of going there, it seemed like the tiniest microcosm of society. The world was simultaneously too big and too small, and Brooke felt the cold drip in her heart get worse. “Silky…”

“Look. We ain’t exactly gonna pick the same place she’s at, are we?”

Brooke put her head in her hands and sighed. “She’s not there anymore.”

“What?”

“I phoned the hotel a week ago to try and speak to her. I was going to fly out, try and talk to her and fix things. They said she didn’t work there anymore. So I don’t even know where she is at all.”

Silky huffed, frowning and concerned. “I’m sorry, Brooke, this shit must’ve been hell.”

“You’ve got no idea.”

There was a pause as Silky pushed her food around her plate. “Crete’s small, but it ain’t that small. We still got a one in a million chance of bumpin’ into her if we go.”

“That’s still too small for my liking. Both the island and the chances.”

“Aight, one in a billion. Trillion. Point is, it ain’t gonna happen. An’ besides…” Silky waggled her eyebrows, flashing her phone screen at Brooke again. “Twenty pounds for the first week of the school holidays. This shit’s like gold dust.”

Brooke smiled slowly in spite of herself. Maybe Silky was right. And maybe it would be fun to swan around Greece, eat seafood and pretend to be in some knockoff version of Mamma Mia. Scratch that, it would be fun. She’d get to spend a week surrounded by her friends in the sun, which was what she badly needed at the moment.

Brooke was nodding before she knew it. “Okay, fine. Crete it is.”

“YES, bitch!” Silky cheered, loud enough to be heard by the entire restaurant and possibly the chefs in the kitchen too. “Now let’s get dessert. All this wine needs soaked up by a big slice of sticky toffee puddin’.”

It was easy to feel optimistic with Silky back being her loud and just-the-right-side-of-obnoxious self, and with a plate of tiramisu in front of her. But after they’d finished up, paid their bill and she’d hugged Silky goodbye at the train station, Brooke found the endorphins wearing off as she got back to her dark flat and into her cold bed. Maybe it was because she was finally coming down from the high of meeting up with a beloved friend, maybe it was because she knew she had another monotonous, greyscale day of work to get through tomorrow.

Or perhaps, Brooke thought as she turned over in bed, caught sight of the familiar rose-gold frame and blew it a kiss, she was simply missing her girlfriend.

If she could even call Vanessa that any more.

[zara2148]

Fethsteel Fic: Not Good Enough (For You)

So here we go, my take on how Fethry Duck joined F.O.W.L. and met Steelbeak. Less warning stuff for this one, mostly just implied abuse, though it’s clear Steelbeak has not had a pleasant history. Also, both he and Fethry have some self esteem issues... and there’s not exactly spoilers for “Lost Harp of Mervana,” but the new intro takes place right after it.

Also on AO3. Make sure leave kudos and comments there. I enjoy the feel of being applauded.

Huey was placing Isabella Finch's journal back in Uncle Scrooge's study when he spotted the tin can phone there, now connected to nothing. Scrooge held on to everything in the mansion, even seemingly useless things, on the grounds that it may one day come in handy again. 

It was one reason why Trash Day could be such a nightmare, though Scrooge was starting to learn how to let things go...

Huey found Della and Donald unpacking their gear off the sub, hanging up suits and boxing equipment until it was ready to be used again. "Uncle Donald? Mom? Do you know how to get in touch with Cousin Fethry? I think he'd love to hear all about Mervana."

"No, sorry, sweetie. I haven't heard anything from him since he rode off on the back of that... giant... fish..." Della shuddered in remembered revulsion.

"Mom, it was a krill."

"A fish is still a fish by any other name."

"You also seemed fine with Mitzy at the time."

"I was too busy thinking about all the Moonlanders we had to beat up."

Donald sighed and turned away from a crate to answer Huey’s question. “I haven’t heard from him either since then.” He shrugged. "But that's normal for Fethry. He either calls every five minutes or he gets so wrapped up in something we don't hear from him for six months."

"Doesn't he have a cell phone we could call?”

"Knowing Fethry, it would just get dropped in the ocean." There was a reason Scrooge only trusted Fethry with a tin can after one too many busted phones.

Huey’s beak twisted in discomfort. “But what if he got in trouble? What if he needed our help?”

Donald let out a breath, more frustrated with himself than anyone else, even Fethry. He knelt in front of Huey and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Fethry is…” Cuckoo bananas really hadn’t been the right thing to say to Huey, not when Donald could see the similarities between the two of them. Unsure how else to finish that sentence, he tried again.

“Fethry is who he is. But he’s also a grown adult capable of making decisions and taking care of himself. If he ever needs us, he knows where we are.”

Della grinned proudly. “He’s a part of the Duck family. Surviving is what we do.”

Uncle Donald and Mom weren’t wrong about that. Cousin Fethry had survived alone in a collapsing sea base for years. He knew the Junior Woodchuck guidebook from cover to cover, just as Huey did. He was better prepared than most to face trouble when it found him.

"Okay, I'll just make sure to write down all my observations about Mervana to share with him when he gets in touch."

Donald gave Huey a smile. "I'm sure he'll love that."

***

“Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

It was an old refrain at this point. 

The last job interview he had, Fethry had spent a full half-hour talking about the eating habits of krill and the merits of singing when asked about his team management skills. 

The interview before that, he spoke briefly about the endless silence of the ocean when asked how he dealt with workplace difficulties. He’d been too quiet after that question.

And the interview before that… well, he didn’t think that room was ever going to be the same.

Fethry’s laptop was old. Wires were sticking out and duct tape was barely holding the screen together. He browsed through the listings for scientists on Quacked In, tweaking his cover letter and resume slightly for each.

Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Maybe he should try for a slightly smaller position at a lab, like a custodian! He had experience keeping things in custody! And then he could work his way up from there. 

But the little Donalds had such faith in him. They believed he could be a great scientist. Fethry wasn’t going to let them down. He never really realized until it was too late, but Fethry knew he had a habit of letting his family down.

Gladstone had offered to help, after that big event with purple people from the sky… ahh, yes, the invasion! But Fethry knew how often people tried to get close to his cousin to use his luck. Family shouldn’t do that.

The next listing didn’t quite catch his eye. But Fethry was at the point of applying for everything that came up for “scientist” and read through what little there was.

“WANTED: Skilled scientists for private company in Duckburg. Duties will vary. Flexible work schedule, late nights occasionally required. Must be able to roll with the punches.”

He had no expectations that it would progress to a job offer. How he chose to look at was that he was doing really well on reaching his goal of 100 job rejections. He’d read all about re-framing your objectives for positivity!

Once he reached 100, well, he might as well try for 200 rejections then.

He reviewed his resume and cover letter on the final submission screen. He clicked “Send.”

Then he moved onto the next listing and thought no more of it.

***

F.O.W.L.’s computer settings were extremely sensitized when it came to tracking the movements and activities of the Duck-McDuck clan. They knew when Hubert Duck received a new merit badge, or when Dewford Duck uploaded another video to his overlooked Insta, or when Llewellyn bought a soda that wasn’t Pep branded.

Any diversion from or progress in the Duck’s family’s normal routine could be significant. That’s why they monitored it all.

So when a member of the Duck family applied for one of their vacant positions, it got noticed. Alarms went off, alerting the highest-ranking members in F.O.W.L. command.

Just ten minutes after the application was received, Bradford clicked through it on his laptop.

F.O.W.L. could just ignore this. Stay away from the Duck family until they were more ready to move out in the open. It would be a sensible move.

But there was potential here he couldn’t overlook.

Fethry Duck was one of the harder members to track ever since the McDuck SubLab crumbled into an undersea abyss. Satellite images last had him riding some sort of kaiju across the ocean, which was just typical when it came to the Duck-McDuck family.

When the moon invaders came they had made many mistakes, such as caring more about the acknowledgment of their perceived superiority than how they could exploit the Earth. But they had been right that it was better to have all members of that family accounted for when it came to global-scale plans.

Having Fethry under constant watch at F.O.W.L. would leave Gladstone as the most transient variable. And the lottery winnings and sweepstakes prizes he left in his wake would make him infinitely easier to track.

Fethry was also one of the more controllable members of the Duck family. Neither misfortune nor ostentatious fortune dogged his steps. He didn’t question intention and he didn’t try to stir up trouble for his amusement. He was so lacking in ambition that he stayed in a lonely janitorial position for almost five years. If he was taken to a lab and given every reason to stay, he likely would do so without seeing anything amiss.

His goal was to steal the world right out from under Scrooge. Why not start by stealing a member of the man’s family? One Scrooge was unlikely to miss for quite some time, given his avoidance of Fethry’s company.

Yet for a duck who didn’t believe in handouts, it said something that Scrooge still cared enough about Fethry to give him a string of jobs that he more or less performed adequately. He’d prefer it not come to threats, especially since harm to his family made Scrooge predictably savage. But if worse came to worse… better to have a hostage than do without.

And if he was useless? Disposing of him would be no hardship.

He clicked “Accept” and composed a brief response, suggesting a range of times that Fethry could visit a front location in downtown Duckberg.

After opening up the email and reading through it, Fethry squealed and picked out the earliest possible time. 

***

Fethry hummed as he walked inside the address the email gave him. It was a plain building, notable only for its pristine white exterior that seemed all too blank.

He’d dressed up nice for the occasion. His red jacket was replaced with a slightly frayed and browned business suit jacket. His tie was a piece of dried kelp that Mitzy had picked out for him. She always had the best eye when it came to kelp. And his cap was still present, keeping his thoughts toasty warm!

Yet his throat felt clogged and simultaneously too dry. The papers in his hand would be wrinkled if he clutched them any tighter. There was a heavy feeling in his chest that told him he’d be out of here soon enough, and he would need to try his luck elsewhere.

A duck with a dirty face and ruffled hair sat behind the visitor’s desk. Her name tag read “Ample.”

He approached her without his usual bounce. “Hello, I’m here for an interview.”

She nodded and glanced through the schedule. “Fethry Duck?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“The director is ready to see you now. Go through the double doors over there.”

He dipped forward in an awkward half-bow, unsure if a handshake would be too presumptuous. “Thank you!”

He pushed his way through the double doors. The room was in grey shadow, a large desk slightly off toward one of the corners. Two chairs were in front of the desk, facing the figure behind it.

The shadows slightly obscured the person behind the desk. He could make out a shape but no features.  

The shadow turned to him. “Ah, thank you for coming. Please take a seat.”

Fethry grabbed one of the chairs, shifting his paper copy of his resume as he looked at his interviewer up close.

Oh, he knew this vulture! He worked with Uncle Scrooge before! His name was buzzing around in the back of Fethry’s skull, waiting to be grabbed hold of…. what was it, what was it…?

“Bradley!”

“It’s Bradford,” he corrected in a cold tone. 

Fethry slumped back in his seat, feeling small. “O-oh, I’m sorry.”

Bradford did not take the time to acknowledge what he said. He sat “So, Fethry Duck. Scrooge’s nephew.”

“Yes.”

“You hold no degrees, no certifications that would qualify you for a scientific position.”

“... no.” Fethry knew how much those pieces of paper meant to people. He sunk into his chair, almost wishing it could swallow him up, the way the ocean did…

...and that was not a train of thought he needed to be boarding right now. Fethry stepped off a mental platform, letting it whiz by.

Bradford continued, neither noticing nor caring about Fethry’s inner world and its struggles. “And yet, you thought you could apply here, for a scientific position with us.” He stood up and started to circle around Fethry. “Do you know what we do here, Fethry?”

“Science?”

“Among other things.” Bradford paused behind Fethry. Fethry couldn’t quite bring himself to turn and look at him. “What we do here... let’s just say we're out to change the world.”

Bradford resumed his circle and came to a stop in front of Fethry. He let silence reign for a few seconds before speaking. “And Fethry Duck? We’re willing to give you the chance to join our ranks.”

Fethry had to swallow down dry disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Fethry’s hands were clammy as he held out his stacks of papers. His grip wasn’t shaking, but his limbs felt hollow. “You don’t even want to look at my resume first?”

“I’ve already seen it.”

He let his arms fall to his sides. His voice came out small, as if he was once again speaking from the bottom of the ocean. “Why me?”

Silence returned. Bradford considered him over his beak.

“You’re the unnoticed member of the Duck-McDuck family. Isn’t it time you had a chance to prove yourself?”

Bradford wasn’t wrong. He wanted that chance. But the implication that he was only getting this job because of his family...

Well. Wasn’t that how he got every job he ever had?

Bradford turned away from him and loomed his way back behind his desk. “Mind you, the job still isn’t much. You’ll be working in a lab on your own projects, yes. But you will remain under direct supervision for the time being. Before undertaking any venture, you are to submit a full report that outlines expected costs and outcomes, in accordance with our guidelines.”

He sat down, his back hunched to allow him to continue looming from a lower height. “The pay is minimum wage, but you can work your way up through experience. Food and board will be provided on-site, so that’s two fewer things you have to worry about.”

Fethry absent-mindedly fiddled with his kelp tie, his attention otherwise on Bradford as he continued.

“As you may have surmised, your work is to be considered top secret. For the time being, we will ask that you remain in the facilities to better learn your responsibilities. There is to be no contact with the outside world without prior approval. Otherwise, you put ourselves and the work we do at risk.”

“If you accept the job under these terms, a car will be dispatched to pick up you and any belongings you choose to bring tomorrow morning.” Bradford steepled his fingers and looked through Fethry. “Do you accept these conditions?” 

Fethry had forgotten he hadn’t said yes to anything yet. He wasn’t sure how he got so caught up that he missed that.

He could bring his team with him, their jar was extremely portable. But taking this job would mean saying goodbye to Mitzy for a while… hopefully, she would understand. 

He nodded, then said for emphasis, “Yes.”

“Well, then. Welcome, Fethry Duck, to…” Bradford paused again, his words trailing off into familiar silence. “... well, we’ll just call it your new place of work.”

***

There wasn’t a whole lot to do at their headquarters between missions. The funnest thing to do around here was to play all the arcade games after the kids had gone home for the day.

However, the last time Steelbeak did that he blew an entire paycheck and ended up with only 20 tickets to show for it—not even enough to trade-in for a piece of candy. That didn’t make him stupid, that made the games rigged.

Now he stuck to the actual secret parts of their secret lair, wandering the halls. His wallet stayed full and fat, but the time between missions dragged on and on.

The gun course was fun, but there was only so much offtime an agent was allowed there. Spend too much time shooting things and command would send you over to their quack shrink.

The rec room was okay, but he’d be fighting every off-duty Eggman there if he wanted to pick which channel to watch on the sole TV. Not that he wouldn’t win, but his time in the prison rec room, and the underground fighting ring’s rec room before that, taught him that victory wasn’t worth it if you couldn’t find any good shows playing.

Which is how he often ended up doing what he did right now, trailing after Heron down to the labs. He’d watch her and watch the other scientists, trying to see how what they did tied into F.O.W.L.’s big ol’ villain schemes.

Did he always understand what she was working on? No. Did she ever really try to explain it in an easily understood way? Also no. Did these trips to the labs often end with her metal hand clamped around his beak, hissing at him and calling him names? No, well, yes. Yes, it did.

… he was supposed to be going somewhere with this, but he wasn’t quite sure where. Wait, no, now he remembered. 

If he wanted to someday be the one hatching the schemes, he should watch how others hatched theirs first. It was like watching the prizefighter in the ring to learn how to beat him. Some people would only hit you if you asked them for anything, so you had to watch how they did something instead.

Most of the other scientists ignored him, and he didn’t pay them much attention either. But today, a duck in a red hat waved at them as he and Heron stepped inside the lab.

“Oh, hello! I’m Fethry!” The lab coat he was wearing hung loosely on him, clearly meant for a slightly larger bird.

“O-kaaay...?” Why was he expected to care?

A grin was spreading across Heron’s face as she looked the duck up and down. Then she turned her gaze to Steelbeak as she gestured offhandedly at the duck. “Fethry is our new marine specialist. He’ll be working on some of our most important projects.”

Heron… sounded like she was trying to hold back a laugh. What, was this smart guy really good at the jokes? Or did he know a party trick or two?

And what kind of name was Fethry? Might as well have called him “Webby” since he had webbed feet.

“Say, Fethry?” He knew that tone of voice from Heron. He didn’t always know the details of what she was saying, but he knew the sweetly sharpened tone was meant to cut someone down to size.

He felt… lighter, watching that tone be aimed at someone who wasn’t him. Like he was actually in on the joke for once. He also felt the urge to move to safer ground.

Heron’s smile was wide as she continued. “Why don’t you explain to my partner, Steelbeak, what you’re working on? He loves to hear about scientific experiments in great detail. Especially if you use a lot of long words.”

Okay, maybe he was still part of the joke.

Fethry’s eyes widened—he didn’t even know it was possible for someone to widen their eyes like that until Fethry did. “I’d love to!”

“Great!” Heron said in a passable imitation of Fethry’s enthusiasm. Under her breath she added, “Maybe now I can get some real work done.”

Steelbeak’s jaw tightened as she walked away. He refocused his gaze on the red-capped duck, who was all but jumping in place. 

A snort escaped him as he sat down at a table. At least if this pipsqueak tried to clamp his beak, he could just knock him into next week.

“So what are you working on?” This was still more exciting than watching the walls, after all.

Fethry laughed nervously. It had been a while since anyone paid him a significant amount of attention. “Well, at the moment I’m just filling out the request paperwork. But I’m hoping to start an experiment on delaying the eating habits of the crown of thorns starfish.”

“The what?”

“Crown of thorns starfish. It eats coral.”

“And that is?”

“Coral is like…” Fethry scratched his head. He could never remember all the big words like polyps, sessile, and Anthozoa when he needed to. “It’s like skeletons scattered across the seafloor that fish live in.”

“Really? So fish just decide to live in dead bodies.” Sounded fake, but at least it wasn’t boring.

“Well, coral is a skeleton, but it’s also alive. It’s really bad when they do die.”

“So the fish live in alive dead bodies.” This Fethry guy was talking an interesting sort of crazy.

“Skeletons, yes. Called coral. Only these sea stars eat the coral, so the fish have no place to live then.”

“Now, these sea stars start off eating algae. It’s been called the grass of the sea,” he explained before Steelbeak even had to ask. Fethry’s beak scrunched up. “Though I have to say, grass usually tastes much better.”

“How long it takes for the sea stars to go from algae to coral varies. And there’s a lot of these starfish in the ocean. If they made the switch all at once, they could do a lot of damage.”

Huh. For the guy’s first project, it had the makings of a decent scheme. “So… if you could figure out how to make them do it, you could have them eat the fish out of house and home?”

Fethry actually nodded at that. “Or if I could figure out a way to slow it down, I could buy time for the reefs to grow.”

“...huh.” He actually followed most of that. Sure in his mind, coral reefs had a lot more skulls than they normally did. But he got the gist of what Fethry was talking about.

Black Heron hummed as she worked without interruption. Fethry calculated the costs of feeding and housing a small colony of starfish, making sure to show his work. And Steelbeak imagined blackmailing a fishing village with an army of sea stars. Small potatoes when it came to true villainy, but everyone had to start somewhere.

***

It wasn’t one of Heron’s longer science sessions. She tapped at some keys, read some screens, fiddled with some gadgets, and was ready to leave in a couple of hours.

Fethry had remained in the lab, drawing up plans for a sea star’s dream home. They’d need plenty of walking room, he’d said, so he was drawing up little pathway designs. Including one for a yellow brick road.

He started to reach out a hand to Steelbeak… for what, Steelbeak wasn’t sure. His body tensed in defense.

And Fethry must have noticed because he let his hand drop to his side and just smiled instead. “Thanks for listening. I know I kind of ramble.”

Steelbeak waited a few seconds to be sure that Fethry wasn’t going to make any sudden moves. Then he gave a shrug and followed Heron out.

It hadn’t been a hardship. Listening to weird undersea stuff passed the time. It was like catching a documentary on TV, without the meatheads that would grab the remote from you and change the channel to something else.

Black Heron laughed at Fethry as soon as they left the lab. "That guy," was all she managed to say before chuckles overtook her.

Steelbeak scowled. “What? What did he say that was so funny?” Was he the butt of someone else’s joke again? He'd make him go splat, if so.

Heron regained control of herself, but she was still grinning. “He didn’t have to say anything. It’s comical that he’s even here.”

The scowl receded and his brows knit in confusion. “I don’t —”

“You don’t get it, I know. Lucky for you, I’m in a good enough mood to explain. He’s Scrooge McDuck’s nephew. You remember, the guy you were supposed to get out of the arcade?”

“The big guy who wrecked one of my suits?”

“Ugh, no! He was the one wearing a top hat.” A frown flitted across her face, but her good mood was quick to reassert itself. Past failure meant little in the face of such a hilarious triumph.

“He came to us, wanting a job. He has no idea that we’re F.O.W.L. and no idea that we’re working against everything his family stands for. We’re holding him hostage, and he has no clue.” Another peal of laughter escaped Heron.

Steelbeak let out a chuckle as well, now that he was finally in on the joke. "Ahh, I get it. Classic dum-dum. What kind of idiot doesn't know who they're working for?"

The grin on Heron’s face slipped slightly.

"This should go without saying, but I know you so I'll say it anyway. Do not tell Fethry any details of your work, your missions, what we do here. Nada. Nothing."

"Well, duh. I know that. That's why they're called secret missions."

"Steelbeak, I once saw you brag about being a secret agent at a bar to try and get a date."

"And why not! They were cute!"

“And you wonder why your recreational leave is so limited.”

“What?”

“I’m saying dumb boys don’t get a lot of outdoors time.”

“Hey!”

A smirk moved across her face before she continued. “The director wants him to remain utterly oblivious, so secrecy is of the utmost importance. He’s not going to be happy if we have to lock him up or kill him for knowing too much.”

Steelbeak did not reach for his beak. He did not feel the slight dents that remained from trying to punch his own mouth open. “And we’re not just locking him up now, why?”

“Because the Ducks are easiest to manage when they think a situation is within their control!” Her voice was raised as decades of thwarted ambitions seeped into her tone.

Steelbeak was unimpressed. He could get just as angry, and he hadn’t needed years to get to that point.

“And what if he does ask what I do here?”

“Why would he ask? You’re hardly about to engage him in some deep conversation, are you?”

He couldn’t quite meet her eyes for some reason. “Well, no, but…”

“Oh, for larceny’s sake. If it does come up and you can’t avoid answering the question, just make something up. You’re an agent, do some lying.”

“... yeah, of course. I can do that.”

***

It doesn’t really sink in until later that night, back in his room, how Fethry answered all his questions without calling him, “Stupid.”

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Where You Want My Lipstick Part Nine

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Notes: This turned out way longer than I thought this chapter would be, soz If you’re viewing on mobile, I’ve noticed that the italics can get  a little wonky. For the conversations below, the texts that start with   ‘-’ indicated Reader’s texts. Thanks for all of the likes/comments/reblogs/replies. I’ll be honest, I was pretty nervous posting this story and the positive feedback has made me feel way more confident, so yeah. Thank you!! Not beta-read

The warnings below lists a running/growing list of warnings that vary from chapter to chapter. Not everything on the list below will be in every chapter.

Warnings: This fic has explicit sexual content.

Sugar daddy-esque relationship, oral sex, dirty talk, fingering, vaginal sex, Daddy kink mention, Dom/Sub dynamics, alcohol, under-negotiated kinks, possessive behavior, jealousy, public sex, cock warming, shower sex, phone sex, praise kink If you dislike these, please don’t read. Thank you. Pairing: Andy Barber x Reader

Summary: Andy wouldn’t give me any hints or clues about what he had up his sleeve.

After our little... talk, we seemed to have defined some of the invisible lines. Andy still teased me about coming into his office to fool around, but he never pressed, knowing I was wary of becoming the talk of the office. Our meet-ups weren’t limited to his place or weekends anymore. I told him when I was going out people (I hadn’t seen Max again after our drink, and hadn’t gone on anything that could be classified as a date) and he told me when he and Selena got another drink...And then another (though it seemed to stop at that).

--

AB: What are you doing this weekend?

I glanced at Andy. He rarely messaged me during meetings; he was typically too immersed in work, but the staff meeting had devolved into whether ketchup should be drizzled over fries, or left on the side.

I’ve got some stuff to do.

AB: Stuff you can put off?

Maybe. Why?

Andy’s eyes narrowed at me playfully.

AB: Can you clear your schedule, yes or no.

What are you planning?

AB: Yes or no. I leaned back in my seat, eyeing the chat window before I minimized it, opening my email and pretending to skim on as I considered the question. I had loosely made plans with a friend of mine, but we hadn’t set anything in stone; I needed to do some laundry, but besides that and maybe a Breaking Bad marathon, I didn’t have any pressing business. I glanced up at Andy, knowing he was still watching me, before I opened the chat window.

Yes.

--

Andy wouldn’t give me any hints or clues about what he had up his sleeve. He wouldn’t even come in when I invited him up that night. “What was the point in following me home, then?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest. He tipped his head to the side, amused at my irritation as he kept his distance, hands tucked in his pockets as he leaned against his car. “To tell you to be ready to go at one tomorrow afternoon,” He said. “Could’ve told me that over the phone.” He quirked a brow. “And because I feel like I never get to see you anymore. I mean outside the office, and besides...You know.” I averted my eyes, shifting from foot to foot. There was some truth in that. When Andy and I had had our disagreement, I hadn’t been ready to own up to the feelings I had for him - I still wasn’t, especially not to him. Before we’d fought, I’d gotten used to spending my weekends curled up in bed with him, or hanging out on his couch, ribbing him for the boxes left unpacked. We’d order takeout, or I’d talk him into letting me poke around in his fridge, making do with what he had there for dinner before we wound up back in bed. It felt sweet, domestic. It was one of the reasons I had felt so fucked up when we finally talked. What we had worked better now - I’d un-planted the mental flag I’d once staked at Andy’s apartment, on Andy, with that stupid, possessive, vicious little voice in me that whispered, “mine,” when I looked at him. Spending less time with him took the sting out of the truth: the relationship Andy and I had was sexual, full-stop. “We’ve both been busy,” I pointed out, lifting my head again to meet his eye. Andy didn’t say anything to that, just pulled his hand out of his pocket and held it out to me. When I didn’t take it right away, he asked, “What, you think I’m going to bite?” I rolled my eyes. “No, I’ve seen your face pre-bite. This face is much more calm,” I waved my own hand in the direction of his face before taking hold of his. Andy smiled, pulling me closer. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, and I felt myself relax a bit. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?” He said. I sighed, nodding. “Alright,” I agreed, looking up at Andy, “Are you coming to pick me up?” His eyes glinted mischievously, and I groaned. “Come on, you can’t even tell me that?” I whined. Andy leaned in, giving me a soft, teasing kiss. His tongue skimmed over my lower lip, then his teeth. He leaned away before I could chase the feeling. I groaned, closing my eyes. “... I deeply dislike you right now,” I sighed. Andy laughed, giving me another quick peck. “One o’clock. Don’t be late,” he said as he let go of me.

--

It felt like it took me ages to fall asleep. I couldn’t fathom what Andy was even planning. When I woke up the next morning, I had a text.

Sir🖤     Good morning, princess

I was glad he wasn’t there; every time Andy started in with a new term of endearment, it threw me at first. I could feel a blush rising to my cheeks and a warmth spreading through me. I read it over a couple more times, imagining how he’d say it - as a murmur, or a moan, or a growl. -Good morning, sir

Sir🖤     Pack an overnight bag. What time are you gonna be ready by?

A bag? I had at least one outfit’s worth of clothing at his place.

-One o’clock

Sir🖤     Good girl

I squeezed my thighs together, groaning in frustration. This wasn’t making me any less impatient for the day ahead. 

--

I dressed casually; Andy hadn’t given me any indication that we’d be doing anything outlandish or fancy, so I figured casual was a safe middle. I had gotten a text at 12:58 that the car was downstairs. I had assumed he’d meant his - with him in it. I was wrong. There was hired car waiting for me. The driver introduced himself as Joey as he took my bag from me, setting it in the trunk. “You’re not allowed to tell me where we’re going, are you?” I asked as I go into the car. He smiled a little, shaking his head. “I’ve been told it’s a surprise.” I leaned back in the seat, pulling my phone out.

-What are you up to? Sir🖤     Just relax, baby

I shook my head, narrowing my eyes at the phone. ‘Relax’. Like that was so easy.

-- Our first stop was a lingerie boutique. I was told we had half an hour before I got out of the car. I’d been there before with Andy - it had been a pretty quick trip, as we’d both wanted to get back to his apartment as quickly as possible. I flashed the salesgirl a smile as I began to look around. I fingered a few price tags, thoughtful. I found myself looking for things with Andy in mind. I usually didn’t - I focused on what made me feel hot - but I also knew from experience that when Andy was feeling impatient, he tended to get a bit hurried and rough, and was more likely to rip something off of me than to try and get it off the right way.

I picked out two sets - one white and one black. The white bra underwire framing, with no fabric anywhere else but a band than stretched across the nipples; the matching underwear were equally sparse - thick elastic bands to hold up the lace that covered what needed to be covered. The black set had a similar underwire cut, but there was a vertical black band to cover the nipples, as well as a floral crochet pattern that decorated the cup; the matching underwear was black mesh, high-waisted and cheeky. I knew we’d both love how my ass looked in them. I headed over to the counter to pay and when I passed the salesgirl my card, she frowned at it. “Something the matter?” I asked. “Oh! No, the opposite. It’s already taken care of,” She passed my card back to me before she turned, rooting around for something on her station. She produced a small handwritten card, passing it to me before she turned away to bag my order. I looked down at the card, reading Andy’s message, Can’t wait to see what you picked, sweetheart. Get back in the car for your next surprise.  I smiled down at the card, unable to help the giddiness I felt. It was like a treasure-hunt where I didn’t actually need to do any hunting. I thanked the salesgirl before heading back out to the car.

--

-Thank you, sir Sir🖤     You’re welcome, princess

-- The next stop was a clothing boutique. Joey mentioned that I had another half hour, and I thanked him. I was a little irked, though. Half an hour did not feel like enough. -I’m gonna need a tiny hint about what we’re doing

-Please, sir?

Sir🖤     Dinner.

And that was all I got. I raised a brow. Dinner. Well, if he was going to all this trouble, it was safe to assume he wasn’t going to just take me to grab takeout and then back to his. Us going out somewhere like that would be...New. I looked over the dresses, keeping the lingerie I’d just bought in mind. The black set would be easier to pair with something. I grabbed a few dresses that caught my eye right off the bat and tried them on. I settled on a low-cut, burgundy dress that hugged my body and had a hemline that stopped just above my knees. I figured I had finished with a few minutes to spare, but when I reached the cashier and handed over my card, the sales attendant looked dubious and said, “Mr. Barber asked me to tell you not to forget shoes and a purse.” So I wouldn’t be heading back to my apartment? I grabbed a pair of gold heels and a matching clutch, texting Andy as the sales attendant bagged the purchase. -How’d you know I’d forget?

Sir🖤     Just a hunch, sweetheart. You happy with your pick? -Yes, sir

Sir🖤     Good

-Am I heading to see you now?

Sir🖤     Not yet. Get in the car

I took the bag from the sales attendant with thanks and did as I was told.

-- When Joey pulled up in front of a spa, I was confused. “Um... You’re sure we’re at the right place?” I asked when he opened the door for me. “Positive,” He smiled. I thanked him before I headed inside. I gave my name and the receptionist smiled, informed me that I was right on time, and that my esthetician would be with me shortly. I sat in the reception area, pulling my phone out. I glanced at the ‘No Cellphones Beyond This Point’ sign and hurried to text Andy.

-You’re spoiling me.

Sir🖤     You deserve to be spoiled, princess

-I have to shut my phone off when I go in

Sir🖤     I know

-I like being able to talk to you :(

Sir🖤     You’ll get to talk to me later

I looked up as my name was called at I stood, still texting.

-I’m heading in now.

Sir🖤     Have a good time, princess

--

I had never been so relaxed in my life. Andy had pre-arranged for me to have a Swedish massage, a body polish, a manicure and pedicure, and for my hair and makeup to be done. I spent the entire time almost in a daze. There were moments when I selfishly wanted Andy to be there with me, but I pushed those thoughts away in favor of happier ones - how nice tonight was going to be, how good I felt... How much I liked Andy.

--

Joey drove me to a hotel a couple of towns over. I had no idea where we were going; Andy hadn’t answered my text asking when I got to see him once I got out of the spa. He helped me out of the car, getting my bags for me. When I went to tip him, he waved me off saying, “Mr. Barber’s got it.” There was a chilled bottle of champagne waiting for me in the hotel room when I got inside, and a handwritten note from Andy on the bedside table.

I’ll pick you up at 6:30, princess                                               -Andy

I smiled, putting the note back down where I’d found it. I opened the champagne, pouring myself a glass and setting it down beside the note. I took a picture of the two, texting it to Andy and adding Wish you were here. x

Sir🖤     Soon

-Can’t you come by and have some fun before dinner?

Sir🖤     Don’t be a tease

-Then can I have some fun before dinner?

Sir🖤     Don’t be a brat

I pouted, picking up the glass of champagne and taking a sip. When I didn’t answer his text, I got another one.

Sir🖤     Don’t touch yourself. Promise me. -I wanna

Sir🖤     I know you do. I want to, too, but we’re gonna wait. I’m gonna take care of you tonight. Understand?

-Yes, sir.

Sir🖤     Good girl

--

I didn’t know why I was so damn nervous. This wasn’t a blind date, it was Andy. But there I was, standing in the middle of the hotel room with paper towels folded in half and tucked under my arm pits to stop the stress sweat. I jumped at the knock on the door. I pulled the paper towels out from under my armpits, tossing it away and doing a quick double-check to make sure there were no bits stuck or left behind before I walked over to the door. I smoothed the fabric of the dress down before I opened the door. He looked good - he always looked good - in a slate grey button down and a pair of black slacks. “Damn,” I commented, looking him over. He laughed, cupping my cheek. “I was about to say the same about you,” He murmured before he leaned in, kissing me gently. I smiled, resting my hands on his chest. That smile quickly turned to a pout when he leaned away. “None of that, sweetheart, we don’t wanna be late,” He said, tapping the tip of my nose with his finger, “Grab your bag and let’s go.” As soon as I’d made sure I had my phone, room key, wallet, and lipstick, I met Andy at the door. He took hold of my hand, intertwining our fingers as we walked down the hall. I had the immediate urge to pull my hand away from his, but pushed it down. We weren’t in our town, where it was highly likely anyone could see us. No one around here knew us.

--

Dinner was at an Italian bistro a couple of blocks away. It was a quiet spot; Andy got us a table in the corner, where we could play footsie, hold hands, sneak the occasional kiss. It felt foreign to me, but definitely not unwelcome in any way. Even when we weren’t being touchy, things with Andy just felt comfortable. We could talk about work, sure, but that wasn’t all we had to talk about. It felt a little bit more like it had when my burgeoning crush on him had yet to be a fling, when we would still eat lunch together on a regular basis. It felt domestic and romantic and sweet. I ached for that.

-- I was on him the second we got back to the hotel room. “Slow down,” Andy laughed. I didn’t even care that he was laughing at me; I didn’t look away from where my freshly manicured, carnation pink nails were making quick work of the buttons on his shirt. “Hey,” He added when I didn’t stop, catching hold of my wrists to get my attention. I looked up at him, biting my lip, a bit bashful as I lowered my eyes back to his chest. “You’ve been taking care of my all day,” I said softly, “I wanna take care of you, too.” Andy’s eyes softened. “You know that just because I give you something doesn’t mean you have to give me something, right?” He asked, letting go of one of my wrists to push a lock of my hair behind my ear, “Sometimes I just wanna do things for you.” “This was more than just something, Andy, today was so much, I just--...” I trailed off, closing my eyes. I didn’t trust my words right now. I leaned in, pressing a kiss to his neck, then another, then another. I pressed my released hand to his chest, sliding it down over the skin I’d exposed and slipping it into his shirt. “Let me,” I begged, “Please.” I could feel Andy hesitate before he let go of my other wrist. I leaned up, brushing my lips against his a few times and drawing away before he could press in for a kiss. His hands settled on my hips, squeezing whenever I drew away, frustrated. I smiled as looked up at him. I hooked my fingers in his belt loops, pulling him further into the room. I nudged him to sit on the bed, watching as he went down. I reached behind myself, unzipping my dress and pulling it up over my head. I watched Andy’s eyes wander my body as I tossed it aside. I felt a swell of self-satisfaction as Andy’s lips parted, speechless at the sight of me. His hands came up to skim over the outside of my thighs as I stepped closer, resting my hands on his shoulders as I straddled his lap. “Do you like it?” I teased. Andy’s eyes lifted from my chest to my face as he slid his hands up to cup the swell of my ass. “You look beautiful.” I dipped my head, hiding my flushing face in his neck and peppering kisses along the skin there as he squeezed my ass. I pressed back against his hands before I pressed down against his hardening dick, gently rolling my hips. I felt Andy’s lips skim over my shoulder tenderly, a hand slipping up my side to slid under the bra’s strap, thumbing over the skin. It slid back down then, settling on my rib cage and gently pushing me back. I sighed as he kissed over my collarbones, mouthing a hot, wet line down to my breasts. His tongue traced along the skimpy floral pattern, teasing the exposed skin. I slid a hand into his hair, lightly scratching my nails along his scalp as he lapped at me, tongue lapping over the fabric covering my nipple before he moved on to the other breast. I whined, pressing my breast against Andy’s mouth as he gave it the same teasing treatment.

When I couldn’t take it anymore I tightened my hold on Andy’s hair, pulling him up for a kiss. He groaned into it, tightening his grip on me.

“Careful, princess,” he growled. I squirmed at the tone, unable to ignore the throbbing between my legs as I ground down against him harder. “Sorry, sir,” I breathed. I dropped a light kiss to his lips, then another, and another as I undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt. Once I’d undone them all, I reached up, pushing it away. He let go of me for a moment, pulling it off and tossing it atop my dress.

I climbed out of his lap before he could reach for me again. I felt him watching me as I got down on my knees. I slid my hands up his thighs, taking my time as I undid his pants. I saw his hand in my periphery. I figured he was going to slide his hand into my hair, but he cupped my cheek, tipping my face up to look at him. When he didn’t say anything, I turned my head, pressing a kiss to his palm. He smiled, trailing his thumb over my lips. I leaned out of his touch to take him into my mouth. Andy hummed low in his throat as I swirled my tongue around the head. I didn’t take anymore of him into my mouth, just trailed my nails up and down over his shaft. I did this a couple more times, then flicked my tongue over the slit. I leaned back, letting the head go and flicking my tongue over it once more before I leaned down, kissing along the underside. I started with gentle pecks at the head, then increased the pressure as I moved down, adding my tongue. Andy’s hand slid into my hair as I reached the base, and I tipped my head to peer up at him from under my lashes. He was watching me with this unguarded lust, licking his lips as my tongue flicked out before I pressed another wet kiss to his dick. I trailed the kisses back up, getting sloppier as I got closer to the head. I kept my eyes on his as I took him back into my mouth, hand working over what I didn’t take into my mouth. “Feels so good, princess,” he breathed as I swirled my tongue around his head. I moaned around him, clenching my thighs as his grip tightened in my hair. I pulled off of him, hand still working over his shaft. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” I murmured. “Yeah? You’ve been thinking about getting on your knees for me?” Andy asked. I nodded. I didn’t know why the admission made me feel so open and dirty. “What else have you been thinking about?” He asked. I leaned down sucking a kiss against the side of his dick before answering, “I’ve been thinking about you fucking me,” I murmured, “Just thinking about you gets me so fucking wet sometimes-- It was so hard not to touch myself earlier, I wanted to so bad--” “But you didn’t, right?” Andy gave me a sharp look and I shook my head quickly. “I didn’t, I promise,” I pouted. That look melted and he leaned down, catching my lips in a heated kiss. “I believe you, baby,” He murmured, “I know you’re a good girl for me.” I nodded, leaning up for another quick kiss as I murmured, “Yours.” Andy’s face changed after I said that. It was like something overtook him, something hungry and frantic. He hauled me up, back into his lap. I gasped against his mouth as he kissed me greedily. I could feel his dick pressing against my clit through the mesh of my panties. “Please,” I mumbled, pressing down against him harder. He reached down, slipping his hand into my underwear and pressing a finger into me. I sighed into his mouth, working my hips against his hand. He added a second finger, then a third in quick succession, working me open faster than he had before. I leaned away from him, reaching under one of the pillows where I had stashed a condom earlier. Andy lightened for a moment, turning and pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “Someone’s prepared,” he teased. “I need you in me,” I whined, not in the mood to be teased anymore. I rolled the condom onto him, stroking him a couple of times once it was on. Andy slid his fingers out, slapping my clit once before he pulled his hand out of my underwear. I keened, hips bucking at the pleasure that chased the sting. Andy pulled the seat of my underwear aside. “Go on, sweetheart,” He murmured, “Take what you want.” I rested my forehead against Andy’s, closing my eyes. “Look at me,” he ordered. I opened my eyes, watching him as I took him in. I didn’t bother trying to cover up the desperate little sighs and moans that fell out of my mouth; now and again my eyes would start to drift shut from the feeling and he’d squeeze my thigh, reminding me. I kept my eyes on his as I settled in his lap. “Feels so big, Andy,” I murmured, kissing him gently as I began to move. “Yeah?” He breathed. I smiled, watching a flush spread over his cheeks. I felt his hands on my hips, even as I took control of the pace. I nodded. “Mhm,” I murmured, “You feel so good-- You always feel so good.” I leaned in, biting at the hinge of his jaw. "I‘ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” I murmured, “Never liked being anyone’s the way I like being yours.” Andy groaned lowly, arms wrapping around me to still me. His hips drove into me in quick, sharp thrusts. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, moaning as he fucked me. I closed my eyes, pressing my face into his shoulder and meeting his thrusts as best I could. “Fuck-- Andy,” I warned, feeling myself growing close. Andy turned his head, catching my mouth with his. “Cum,” He murmured, “Cum on my cock, princess, I wanna feel you tighten up on me-- Fuck that’s it--” I threw my head back as I came, gasping his name as his thrusts quickened. He drew me into his chest so I didn’t tumble off of his lap and I slouched against him, flushed and panting. He nuzzled into my hair, gently laying us both on the bed. I curled up against his chest, closing my eyes for a few moments. I felt his hand drift over my back in slow, soothing circles. I whined when he got up, but let him go. I didn’t open my eyes as I felt Andy take hold of my ankle, undoing the strap of one shoe and removing it before removing the other. He gently peeled my underwear off next. I lifted my hips to help him, settling down again once they were off. “Lean up just a little for me, baby,” Andy’s voice was soft in my ear. I did as I was told, propping myself up on my elbows as Andy reached around, unclasping my bra. I sighed as he eased it off my shoulders, settling back down onto the bed. Andy chuckled, pressing a kiss where one of the straps had been. “C’mere,” He laughed softly. I opened my eyes, watching him settle by the headboard. I pushed myself onto my hands and knees, crawling up the bed to join him and climbing under the covers. I curled into Andy’s side as he pulled me in, wrapping my arm around him and sliding a leg between his. I heard him murmur, “Sweet dreams, baby,” before I drifted off.

[notdonenotdun]

ezra's pilots reclist

i have 90 somethin pilots fics in my ao3 bookmarks so i feel like maybe it's time to share some favorites. this is entirely my opinion/personal taste so if it's not your bag, you don't gotta read em. my ao3 bookmarks are here.

these aren’t really in any order, fyi. [⋆] indicates Iconic Hall Of Fame fic that i would die for. basically all are joshler except when otherwise noted.

⋆ artificial at best | edy | E | 53k | androids, amnesia, trauma, recovery i would die for this fic. if you want a really good forest fic with remarkable worldbuilding and excellent pacing, please read this fic. i promise you won’t regret it.

loved | olgushka | G | 2k | touch starvation, hurt/comfort what it says on the tin. just excellent, caring hurt/comfort. unbelievably tender.

good old fashioned lover-boy | cherryblur | M | 7k | 1980s, homophobia, ptsd, recovery fascinating characterizations. so vivid, josh is unbearably lovable. super different from the norm.

⋆ everything i never told you | magpie_03 | T | 18k+ (incomplete) | autistic characters, self hate, self discovery so vivid. the author has a remarkable ability to get inside characters’ heads, and make you feel what they’re feeling. it’s refreshing to have a fic where both main characters are autistic, rather than the usual one sided fare. not particularly shippy, just a good story.

⋆ take it slow | edy | M | 7k | deaf character, disabled character, vlogging, recovery the first pilots fic i ever read, and still my go to comfort fic. i’m hard of hearing and very picky about deaf characters in fic. this one nails it. their relationship in this makes my heart swell.

head in the clouds | joshiesfreckles | NR (mature) | 700 words | cock warming, subspace just a sweet little thing about tyler in subspace. 

⋆ peachy | flightlessnerds | M | 9k |  jenshler, gentle sex, light dom/sub my favorite pwp in the fandom, by far. so sweet, gentle and comforting.

the arc of conversation | jvshduns | M | 34k | slow build, small towns, self discovery when i first read this fic, i was in the headspace of it for hours after. such a gorgeous, tender telling about first love and what it means to become an adult in a world you’ve never felt like you’ve fit in.

⋆ ashes to ashes, stardust to stardust | headfirstfrhalos | T | 14k | reincarnation, disabled character, childhood, growing up i don’t know how to describe this fic other than it changed me as as a person it’s literally my finsta username inspo And i did a piece inspired by it for one of my art school finals lol please just read it

to pieces | marasa | NR | 1k | consensual violence, dom/sub, hurt/comfort in my head i refer to marasa as the king/queen/icon of hurt/comfort. this one is absolutely fascinating with a very satisfying ending.

⋆ who i am today (always) [series] | thisisnotwhatihadplanned | 16k | autistic character, RAB era, slow burn every time i get an update email on this fic i squeal lol. such deep and reverent characterization. takes something rather mundane and turns it into something fascinating and huge despite its gentleness. 

⋆ eaten by birds | edy | E | 19k | depression, recovery, disfigurement josh loses his jaw. tyler finds him. and everything goes from there. inspired by the book invisible monsters, but it’s much more tender than that. less satire, more genuine meditation on what it means to be a person. 

exhale | trinaizmy | E | 7k | van days, hotel sex, porn with feelings literally the definition of porn with feelings. josh is so shy. tyler takes care of him. this shit hits different. 

in midwest hotel rooms | marasa | NR | 2k | van days, hurt/comfort, touch starvation, dissociation tyler takes care of josh. so sweet and gentle, it makes me wanna cry. a comfort fic. 

stay with me, you don’t need to run | sadonsundays | E | 4k | angst, trench era, canon compliant, polyamory negotiation they fuck, but they discuss relationship dynamics. how is this going to work? god, they’re so in love it kills me. 

there you go, my favorites. obviously everything i’ve bookmarked is fantastic, i’ve bookmarked it for a reason. but these are the ones very close to me. thanks for reading 

[inflagranteinnuendo]

i loved your suits x svu crossover with barba!! i know christine is in med school from an ask she answered a while back, could you write a grey's anatomy style crossover with barba?? love your blog girls x

Happy holidays les amis! :) 

long ass pre-scriptum before this long ass fic:

i was in a fancy ass gourmet salad place downtown a few days ago and it’s a place where the waitstaff learns your name when you order. So whoever attends the table calls you by your name and i didn’t think much of it until this Sharply Dressed Gentleman™️ one table over suddenly got up, strode over, greeted me by my first name, and asked for my number.

can i just say i was really glad that i didn’t have salad stuck between my teeth anyways long story short i remembered this ask on my way home and was suddenly inspired

A story in 5 parts, set in New York, with foreplay consisting of words, a lot of sexy and feelings, and absurd, manipulative schemes.

1.

A man crossed your periphery vision. Navy pinstripes, baby blue pocket square in a three-point fold, burgundy silk tie, dove grey dress shirt, clean-shaven jaw, slightly downturned lips, sharply curved nose, and preoccupied green eyes…

Your gazes cross. Distracted by your appreciation of this fine male specimen, you trip on your own two feet.

And upend the entire cup of your coffee down your front right in the middle of the cafeteria.

Your co-residents at the nearby tables unanimously clap in response, led by none other than Cristina Yang. You flush and let your head droop back in exasperation, sighing, as staff and visitors alike turn curiously toward the source of the lunchtime commotion.

“Very dignified, doctor,” Meredith Grey laughs. Fine male specimen forgotten, you frantically try to save your cellphone from a liquid death, and she thoughtfully fishes the stethoscope out of your coat pocket before you initiate the world’s first qualitative study on The Effect of Freshly Brewed Coffee on the Rate of (Overpriced) Stethoscope Tubing Degradation.

What a good friend.

“Let me get you napkins,” she says.

Slapping your cellphone on the table, you dejectedly drop down into a chair next to Cristina to await her return, grimacing at the feeling of rapidly cooling coffee against your skin. 

“Still Bad Luck Week?” Cristina snickers around a mouthful of greens. “I told you. Get laid. A good dick will fuck the bad luck right outta you.”

“Turn around, Yang, bend over, I’ll show you where your advice fits in my stupid schedule,” you grumble, flinging a wet hand at her head. Laughing, she dodges the droplets that flew at her.

Meredith comes back with a fluffy Jenga tower of crappy cafeteria napkins, glowing that ungodly post-Derek-Shepherd-kiss kind of glow. You look past her, and…

Yep. 

Dr. Derek Shepherd, MD, Msc, FACP –aka your off-service attending of the day– is cocking his head at you, his post-Meredith-Grey-kiss smile melting into a frown, silently marking you down on professionalism for disgracing his (and the hospital’s) good name with your attire. 

You grimace at him and mouth a regretful ‘sorry’ in his direction. 

He throws you an unimpressed glance when his next step lands him in the lake of coffee you left behind on the caf floor. 

“Fuck. Grey, you gotta put in a good word for me with your boyfriend. Please. I just soiled his Reeboks. Bad Luck Week has gone on for twice as long as its name indicates,” you lament at Meredith and Cristina as you clumsily cover yourself with napkins that instantly bloom brown with your watered-down $2.35 coffee.

“Hang on, start from the beginning, I wanna hear this,” Meredith demands as she unashamedly dabs at your chest.

“It all started when I was given the wrong room number for the morbidity and mortality rounds. The email said sub-basement 4, room 5046. And do you know what sub-basement 4, room 5046 is?”

“Uh… no?”

“It’s a fucking unisex wheelchair-accessible bathroom.”

Cristina guffaws and Meredith sprays spits all over your face. “A-a uni-unisex wh-wheel-wheelch-” she wheezes, tears of hysteria welling up at the corners of her eyes.

Scowling, you grab yet another napkin from the depleting Jenga tower and wipe dots of her saliva off your face. Gross. She had just kissed Shepherd. “And then, I was locked between the OR door and the offices when my card magically demagnetized. And I had to spend 15 minutes trapped in that hallway, trying to convince security that I was an actual staff with an actual medical degree who has actually been paged for an actual laparoscopic cholecystectomy that has my actual name beside it on the actual procedure board –”

“Excuse me?” A voice interrupts.

Meredith and Cristina were still hiccuping, faces red, spines curved, heads between their knees, so you take the responsibility of whirling around toward the source of the voice.

What the actual fuck.

It was the fine male specimen from earlier.

He speaks again but this time, he enunciates your earned title, and puts an upward inflection at the tail of your last name as it shapes his lips.

And you acutely feel underdressed in your coffee-drenched attire and stolen cafeteria napkins when you spot the silver gleam of cufflinks, peeking through his impeccably stiff dove grey shirtsleeves, with an engraving that reads “RB” –his initials, you presume.

“Uh. Yes?” You very eloquently enquire, mouth dry. 

Bless your white coat, soiled with coffee as it is. There was no way a man like RB would’ve ever mistaken you for a physician if you hadn’t been wearing it.

Cristina’s head snaps up and she eyes the man with a mix of appreciation and calculation.

“Hi,” he greets the three of you with a nod. 

Meredith has finally stopped laughing and is watching your exchange like she’s watching a tennis match, head swinging back and forth between you and RB. 

“I overheard your story about how bad of a week, or two, you’re having,” RB continues, now only addressing you with a singular focus and a slight smile. “My name is Rafael Barba. I work as a prosecutor for the DA’s office.”

Your eyes widen with every word that came tumbling out of his mouth. You watch, flabbergasted, as he reaches into his pinstriped suit jacket and slides a business card on the table by your damp phone. You stare down at the card, absent-mindedly slapping Cristina’s hand away when she stealthily reached for it.

“I don’t usually do this,” Rafael Barba boldly says with a small self-satisfied smirk, dispelling all notion that he was introducing himself in a professional capacity. “But I saw how you looked at me earlier –”

Your eyes snap up to his, cheeks immediately flushing red. He notices, and his smile grew. “–and you’ve really made my day with your stories, so please give me a call –”

He leans down and scrawls a number at the back of the business card, blessing you with a whiff of his woodsy cologne.

“–at this number when you have the time.”

Rafael Barba patiently waits, as if he had all the time in the world, for a sign that you understood. 

You swallow and nod, still dripping with lukewarm coffee.

Then, with a last smile, and a faint ‘nice to meet you’, he turns and strolls out the cafeteria without a backward glance. 

“What the fuck,” Cristina whispers softly. “And you think you’re wet?”

2.

The huge Trump tower looms over you in all its judgemental glory and you frown up at it, judging it back, all the while feeling misplaced and underdressed once again. It was becoming a theme with this Barba guy. Maybe he was a loaded, die-hard republican, coasting on daddy dearest’s legacy. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you can just fuck him and that’d be it, he’d be out of your system and you can move on to bigger things.

“Jean Georges?” You demand in your airiest voice, trying to pass off as about 900 000 times more French and nonchalantly rich than you actually are.

“Right this way, ma’am.”

You consciously smooth down a scowl as you were guided through to Jean Georges Vongerichten’s pretentious eatery. 

When Rafael Barba had suggested on the phone that you meet him at this particular restaurant, you’d shrugged and accepted without asking questions. Sampling every crook and cranny of your bed –not world class restaurants– was what you did in your free time. So when a quick Google search spit out the location of Jean Georges (Trump International Hotel & Tower New York), you were imbued with a Strong Sense of Civil Responsibility and took it upon yourself to extend your research in order to cover ADA Rafael Barba (Manhattan prosecutor, Straight Outta South Bronx, Harvard law) and his political affiliations (unspecified).

Due diligence is normally not part of your pre-date routine, but a dignified girl has to uphold her standards.

Meredith had been completely outraged when she’d learnt where you were meeting him, but Cristina had sat you down and painted your lips the colour of fresh arterial spray, and told you that good dick is good dick, but don’t fuck this abogado if he stinks too much of that orange stench. 

A maître d’hôte greets you at the entrance. “Reservation under Barba,” you announce, before taking in your lush surroundings. Swallowing your apprehension, you realize that ending up under Barba this evening is becoming less likely as the night wears on… and you haven’t even laid eyes on him yet. Everything screams money, from the embroidered napkins to the people using them to dab at their botoxed lips. Thoughts arise, unimpeded, to the forefront of your mind –of one your patients wasting away, unable to afford the standard of treatment.

Your skin crawls in revolt. 

You have never been more uncomfortable in your entire life. Despite wearing a dress that cost you about two months’ worth of rent, you self consciously straighten up in an attempt to push back at the aggressive shove that the sight of the top 1% gave you.

The maître d’hôte leads you toward your date’s table –and there Barba is, sipping at his water, eyes intently on you, following your form as you weave through the tables behind the maître d’hôte.

Barba stands up courteously from his seat when you reach him and smiles that small, smug smile at you again, perfectly at ease with being in the Trump International Hotel & Tower New York and Jean fucking George. And despite him wearing another sublime bespoke suit ensemble that looks like it would cost you the equivalent of your annual revenue as a surgical resident, you are completely and utterly disenchanted.

“Good evening, Mr. Barba,” you say in a tone dryer than the tannins ever bequeathed the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the table. “What an interesting choice of restaurant.”

Under his hawk-like scrutiny, you sweep the back of your dress forward before settling down in the lily white seat among the richest lily white asses of NYC. His eyes do not dip down to your low neckline.

“Thank you, doctor,” he replies, nonplussed, nodding at the waiter in thanks before settling back down in his own seat. “Glad to know that you approve. You struck me as a woman with a taste for the finer things in life.”

While droning on about the differences between the prix fixe and the chef’s menus, the waiter tips the Cabernet Sauvignon over the crystal wine glasses. You tune him out to narrow your eyes at Barba over the stream of red spewing forth from the mouth of the bottle, wondering whether you could get away with breaking the stem of your glass and, in front of 30 live witnesses, stab Barba with the pointy tip –just for his comment.

Down, girl.

“We will have Chef Vongerichten’s selection, please, and a half-bottle of your 2007 Château Malartic-Lagravière, thank you,” you interrupt the waiter with a smile, then look back at your date, who doesn’t even blink at your ordering for the table. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Barba. Maybe the finer things that appeal to my palate don’t include you.”

“Yet,” he amends, without missing a beat.

3. 

You unceremoniously shove Barba onto the perfectly made bed before stopping to breathe while you take in the sight of him: hair tousled, pupils blown, lips swollen, tie loosened, half-undone belt askew.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” you hiss at him, kicking your heels off angrily. “Why would you do that to me?”

“I like my women riled up,” Barba drawled, slowly easing himself up to watch you perform the quickest strip-tease in the history of forever.

“What the fuck,” you bite out breathlessly with your hands on your hips, “is your problem? Don’t you think I’ve had enough crazy on the job? Couldn’t you have brought me to this nice, low key place where the fucking chef’s menu doesn’t divest you of several hundred dollar bills?”

Barba raised his eyebrows. “You’re the one who ordered some obscure Bordeaux off the cuff,” he retorts. “How about you stop trying to out-argue an attorney and divest yourself of that pretty bra?”

It was your turn to raise your eyebrows. “Well, Mr. Attorney, since you’re so good at arguing, why don’t you argue me out of it?”

He sits up fully to undo his tie, the motions of his wrists deliberately slow. “When did you realize–”

“–that you were fucking with me?” You scowl, crossing your arms.

“Well,” Barba pauses, letting the newly freed ends of his tie drape down his front. He leans back on his wrists to leer at the top of your tits, “that’s not entirely accurate. Technically, I haven’t fucked you yet–”

You step forward and he spreads his legs to accommodate you, pulling his trousers taunt across his crotch. “What makes you think,” you lean over him to leer at the line of his hardening cock, “that you are going to fuck me, not the other way around?”

“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to,” he whispers.

…un-fucking-real.

“You did all this to rile me up?” You ask, whipping his tie off his collar and pressing him backward with the weight of your own body. Down on the bed he goes, almost docilely, save for that predatory glint in his eyes. “That’s a… sizeable lump sum to invest in a one night stand.” 

You suddenly find yourself on your back, dizzy and out of breath, staring up at a pair of sharp green eyes.

“Oh,” Barba says softly, reaching out to unhook the front clasp of your bra. “Is that what I am to you?”

“What else are we to each other?” You retort, gasping as he follows the line of your sternocleidomastoid with his lips and occasionally, his teeth. You reward him by undoing a button of his dress shirt each time he nips at your skin. When every button has been undone, he raises his head to kiss you. 

“Even now, knowing that I’m not a complete asshole?” Barba huffs self-deprecatingly, breaking off the kiss. And he looks so vulnerable, especially with that stray curl of his hair over his furrowed brow, that you can’t help but smile.

“Who said you’re not a complete asshole? The burden of proof is on you, Mr. Barba,” you cheekily counter with a wink, though not unkindly.

An appreciative grin makes its way to Barba’s lips. He gives you another kiss, a deep, all-consuming one that has your guts twisting pleasantly. Was this a thank you kiss for not making fun of him? 

“How high are your standards?” He wonders curiously, while unfastening his cufflinks and shrugging off his shirt. He chucks them carelessly to the side before leaning over you again.

“Beyond reasonable doubt,” you manage to gasp out as he gently tickles the tips of your nipples with his tongue.

You feel his chuckles vibrate through your thorax. “Of course,” he concedes, running a hand up and down the soft skin of your thighs, making you shiver. “The highest standard for the highest court in the land.”

A laugh escapes you before you could reign it in. “Did you just call me your workplace, the Supreme Court?” 

He mouthes along the length of your sternum till your xyphoid process, as if performing some erotic median sternotomy, then obliquely, down the right costal margin of your ribs, simulating a Kocher’s incision. “Well… you are a piece of work.”

“Work at me then, Mr. Barba.”

“Oh, believe me, I will.” His fingers ghost linearly, above the line of your panties – Pfannenstiel, your mind supplies– and a sudden blaze of pleasure makes you arch your back.

He has barely even touched you and you’re already reacting this way.

“So, doctor,” Barba begins casually, propped up on a forearm beside the splay of your hair, as his fingers dip below the waistband of your panties. “You strike me as a woman who knows exactly what she likes in the bedroom.”

“And you strike me as a man who knows exactly how to please the highest court in the land,” you breathe against his lips, each words a kiss. And as he narrows in on your clit with astonishing precision, so does your focus. Unconsciously, you begin undulating your hips to meet the pads of his teasing fingers. 

Then you realize that the possessive bastard is spelling out his own name against your pussy, but there’s nothing you can do to stop him now, because you are too busy tearing the 1000 thread count bedsheets apart with both hands and squirming up against his body, begging for more friction, for more of him, because your entire body is on fire, and he is gasoline, and only he can feed you this kind of pleasure, that possessive, 

…R, possessive bastard,

…B, and his green, 

…A, green eyes–

–and you come violently with a loud gasp, arching off the bed, head cradled against his forearm, thighs tensed and clenched around his.

“Fuck m-,” you pant, but the rest of your words are muffled against Barba’s curved lips as they press against your own in a bruising kiss. 

He rips your panties off –this man does not waste any time. And so you don’t either. You reach down to unfasten his trousers, trying to stay single-minded on your task despite the highly distracting tricks that his tongue is playing on you. But you are drunk, much too drunk on the inoxicating liquor that is Rafael Barba.

He was right. You did have a taste for finer things in life, and he was one of them.

The third time you fail to unzip him, Barba laughs into your mouth and helps you out of pity. “What have you done to me,” you grumble at the ceiling as he kicks off his trousers and boxer briefs. “I transplanted a liver yesterday. Now look at me.”

“I’m not done with you yet,” he ominously cautions, rolling on a condom. 

“By all means, counselor,” you taunt, running a hand through his chest hair. “Make your case.” 

4.

If Rafael Barba were anybody else, you would have kicked him in the nuts for being such a fucking tease. 

“Beg for me.”

Eyes scrunched shut, bottom lip bitten through, you hiccuped before shaking your head defiantly at him. “Those your opening arguments when you try your cases?”

In retaliation for your remark, Barba runs the tip of his cock from your clit down to your entrance again, parting the soaked lips of your pussy to rest himself there for what seemed to be the 28th time. You were about to sob in desperation but one glance at his flushed face stopped you. Because, to your absolute delight, he looked as frustrated as you felt, if not more.

You’ve got to admire his tenacity, though.

“Beg,” he reiterates.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the idea, doctor.”

He does it again and both of you groan at the filthy wet click of your pussy as the length of him slid around your clit. You clench on dissatisfactory emptiness, and suddenly, you’ve had enough. 

It’s 2017, and you’re a strong, independent woman who knows exactly what you like.

This time, he was the one to find himself on his back, dizzy and out of breath, with you straddling him triumphantly, grinding yourself on the underside of his cock. “And what an excellent idea,” you purr, manhandling him into position.

As you sink down on him, his pupils progressively dilated, until his irises were mere rims around them. He blinks as you clench around him, and his fingers tighten on you, digging crevices into your hips as the girth of him splits you wide, and the length of him assails you crudely. You put one hand around the base of his neck for balance, the jump of his carotid quickening under your fingers as you did so. 

Anchored, you begin snapping your hips forward, riding him hard and fast, never fully unsheathing him on your way back. And maybe it was the fact that an attorney always strives for control, or maybe he was too turned on to care, but his hands are restless –pushing you further down on him, squeezing your tits roughly, roaming your thighs, making you sigh, making you shiver. 

Abruptly, Barba surges up, steadying you with a hand in the back of your neck when his change in position almost threw you off him. He pulls you closer to him while he rocks up into you. The intensity in his eyes makes you falter and it’s almost too much for you, too real, too sudden, too significant, so you let your eyelids flutter shut to distance yourself from that look when he rests his forehead against yours.

That was not a look you’d give a one night stand. 

“Look at me,” his voice rumbles. “Don’t close your eyes.”

You bite your lip, choosing not to obey, but a sharp, deliberate twist of his hips makes you gasp, and your eyes fly open involuntarily.

“Rafael,” you stutter, floored at the exhibition of his tenderness as he traces your zygomatic arch and follows the line of it to tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear. At the sound of his name, he shifts his hands to cradle your head as if you were precious to him, and you whimper helplessly against his lips when your heart skips several beats. Your lips can’t help but be drawn to his in a deep kiss, pouring in all the feelings you don’t have the courage to let yourself express.

You come before him, still lost in his eyes, silently, turbulently; and he, next, inhaling in your exhales, shuddering. 

And for all your earlier exchanges of taunts and parries, silence.

5.

He captures your lips in a slow, momentous kiss as the both of you wind down, and you finally yield to it, to whatever that has shifted between you in flagrante, letting your defensiveness and fear of intimacy recede with the tide of your high. Beneath your hand, Barba’s heart is still beating wildly, despite the languidness in his half-hooded green eyes and the relaxed set of his shoulders.

This is one perceptive man, your mind idly remarks, impressed, as he notices the change in you and breaks the kiss to look you in the eye.

“You ok?” Barba asks you softly, running a hand through your hair.

Dissatisfied with being away from his lips, you seek him out again and he indulges you for a moment before pulling back slightly.

“What’s wrong?” he persists, cupping the back of your head to make sure you can’t look away from him.

And that is really the problem with you, isn’t it? His intensity, his sincerity, his honesty –he makes you feel naked, like your soul has been bared to him, including all the indents that the ugliness of your cynicism and mistrust have made in it with ruthless picks and chisels. 

“You’re not a complete asshole,” you whisper, rendering your verdict, feeling vulnerable and small in his embrace, “and I’m not sure I know what to do.”

Barba hums, leisurely stroking your back reassuringly. “When did you come to the conclusion that I wasn’t a complete asshole?”

In your mind’s eye, you replayed the end of that hellish dinner during which you both had tried to out-suave each other to death. “At the restaurant, when I brought up the incongruity between your stance against the principles of misogyny and your presence in the Trump Tower, and you had that look on your face, that’s when I realized…”

You trail off, distracted by the swirl of his tongue against the biphasic throbbing of your jugular.

“… that’s when I realized that you had voluntarily put yourself, and I, in the Trump Tower, not because your presence within was coherent with your political interests, but because you wanted me to make me uncomfortable.”

His hand stills between your scapulae.

“It made me so mad, when I realized that you played me. And that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To have your women all riled up?” And you were halfway to getting riled up again just remembering how offended and outraged you had felt.

“That was a joke,” Barba half-apologized, half-explained, bending his neck to catch your eye. 

You narrow your eyes at him, cheeks bright. “Then why –why the hell did you do that to me, and then –and then look at me like that, and then make me look at you while I–” you pause, biting your already mangled lip, flustered.

Rafael Barba smiles haltingly, slyly, mischievously, not unlike the blades of sunlight playing hide and seek, inadvertently piercing through swirls of tumulus clouds in their carelessness –and your breath hitches at the sight of him, sporting that smile, threatening you with traumatic pneumothorax. 

“I wanted to make you very uncomfortable,” Barba murmurs, affectionately extricating your poor bottom lip from the grasp of your teeth with his thumb, “because you struck me as a woman of many faces. And when people are uncomfortable, they let their guard down. They can’t hide behind a façade.”

He glides his index down the bridge of your nose, drawing back the crumbled remnants of your resistance. Your heart lurches, acknowledging that no one has ever exposed you so completely, and knowing that no one will ever do so, after him.

Forehead to forehead, you stare at each other, all your cards laid down. There are no aces left up either of your sleeves, no defensive strategy left in either of your tactical minds. 

Match point.

“I’m not like most people.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “That’s why it took the Trump Tower to find you.” 

Your throat squeezes shut. “You went through all this trouble for –on our first date?” 

Rafael Barba’s eyes are kind, and green, and limpid. “I was not only looking for the silly woman from the hospital cafeteria, who ended up dripping in coffee because she couldn’t look away from me.”

“Not only?” Is this what angina pectoris felt like?

“I saw you on the 6th floor, before we met in the cafeteria. You were fighting tooth and nail to get your patient on a clinical trial, but you were dismissed before you ever finished your arguments. And that flare of righteous anger. I was looking for that woman too, in the Trump Tower.”

This is exactly what angina pectoris felt like.

“Did you find her?” You ask shakily.

“I’m looking at her.”

(img credit x)

[platypanthewriter]

hi! i saw that you've been doing awesome rbs from ao3 comment of the day and wanted to ask you a question (feel free to ignore this!)

i see so many people talk about their subs when they say what level of interaction they get as a writer "i'm relatively big, i have x subs" or "i'm small i have x subs". what... do those mean? is there a guideline for how many subs you have before you're an established ao3 writer of a sort?

On Ao3 you have “author subscriptions”, where people will be notified of everything you write, “series subscriptions”, where they’ll be notified if you add to a series, and “story subscriptions”, where they’ll only be notified if you update a story they liked.  I suspect fic subscriptions are the most common--I sure have way less “author” subs than “story”.  (For some reason, there’s no way to track “series” subs.  Maybe for our collective sanity.) 

I have a story with around 200 subs, but as an author I have *checks* 55, which is probably...medium, for a fairly active author in a fairly small, but active fandom.  I guess?  Maybe?  If you think about fifty-five people getting emailed every time I post, that does seem like a lot.  Some are probably hoping for more from one of the one-shots I posted for other fandoms, too, not my main set.

But how to gauge?  Is there a way to know you’re big-time now?  I don’t think there is.  The numbers would be so...hugely varied.  It’d depend hugely on fandom--like I follow an author in the Megamind fandom, and she’s one of maybe two regular authors IN that fandom.  There are some fics by people who only wrote one or two fics for it, but they’re mostly gifts to one of the two regular writers.  If you’ve ever searched up Megamind fic, you probably know her name, so in that sense, she’s well-known and established, right?  Her stuff gets lots of comments, and it looks like there’s a fun little community there.  She might have 100 subs, or 12, I have no idea, but it’s probably everyone--every single person--who considers themselves in that fandom.  Which is pretty rad.

BUT if you were to look at her stats compared to an author in a slightly more popular fandom, like an anime or a video game, her numbers would look low, y’know?  There are more people writing fic for Dragon Age than Megamind.  A popular Legend of Zelda author might have way more subs than that Megamind author...but still have a tiny, tiny percentage of the people interested in the fandom, right?  Are they established?  Compared to what?

And then there’s gonna be a a huge difference with the massive fandoms--the heyday of Sherlock, Doctor Who, Marvel, Supernatural, or Teen Wolf.  Those numbers will always--ALWAYS--be dominated by the first people who were popular, because people new to the fandoms read those first. The number of people reading those was and is still ridiculous, so your fic could have hundreds of kudos, comments, and subscribers, and still be a little-known gem somebody had to root through two hundred pages of Ao3 to find. 

People within fandoms have different perceptions, too--I’ll see people say “I’m not very well-known, I only have two hundred subscribers” and I’m like “What?  Man, I wish I had ONE hundred subscribers!” or “I’m very well established in my fandom, with over thirty subscribers--” and like...maybe that’s their whole fandom, you don’t know.

Basically, no, I don’t think there’s a way to use math to figure out whether you’re established, or popular.  If you feel like you might have something to add to a fandom discussion, you do. There’s no badge to wait for. 

I hope that helped, sorry I rambled on a bit!  Thanks for asking! 

[velkynkarma]

Get to Know the Author

@bosstoaster has been tagging me all night :P

1. How did you come up with your username and what does it mean?

I’ve had the name ‘Karma’ for about 17 years now? I don’t even remember where it came from. The ‘Velkyn’ got added a little over 10 years ago when I decided I wanted to get back into fic writing. But I was still in that phase where you think you’re supposed to ‘grow out’ of fandoms and writing fanfiction, so I didn’t want any of my friends to know I was doing it. I was embarrassed. It was silly. I picked a different handle, VelkynKarma, which actually means ‘hidden Karma.’ Later I just liked the name and also got over my embarrassment for fic writing and just started using it everywhere.

2. Which fanfic of yours has the most feedback? (bookmarks/subscriptions/hits/kudos).

No matter what statistic you look at, Routine Maintenance wins across the board by a large margin. Parasite Knight only has 1 less subscription, though, so I guess it’s a fair contender on subs.

3. What is your AO3 profile icon, and why did you choose it?

Same as my tumblr icon, it’s one of my OC’s, Morrigu Lovel. He is a little smartass and I love him.

4. Do you have any regular/favourite commenters?

Oh for sure, there’s a few lovely readers that come back every time and always have something to say. I love you guys :) And a few others that don’t comment on every chapter or every work, but the comments they leave are always phenomenal and make my day.

5. Is there a fanfic that you keep going back to read again and again?

Depends on my mood, and I don’t necessarily read the entire fic, just the paragraphs/scenes/chapters that really stick out to me. But yeah, I’ve got some favorites I return to a lot.

6. How many stories are you subscribed to? How many do you have bookmarked?

Oh geez. This one’s hard to say since I watch stuff on AO3 and FF.net. A lot? I think a lot of those fics are dead now though.

7. Which AU do you find yourself writing the most?

Mmmm I don’t really have a tendency to stick to any particular series or AU for very long? I guess in terms of general themes I’ve done zombie AU’s the most, between Age of Heroes for Young Justice and Road Trip to End Times for Voltron...something about zombie apocalypse scenarios just fascinates me, especially since it can be done so many different ways.

8. How many people are subscribed and bookmarked to you in total? (you can view this on the stats page)

252 user subs, 444 work subs, 2039 bookmarks. I didn’t even know that until now, huh

9. Is there something you’d like to write about but are afraid of people judging you for it? (Feeling brave? If so, share it!)

There’s some character interactions that are such hot-button topics in the VLD fandom I’m cautious about approaching them because I don’t want to deal with people complaining or begging for things to get escalated. Like, I love Keith and Lance’s interactions in canon, but don’t have much fic centered around them because ship lashback is real.

10. Is there anything you would like to be better at? Writing certain scenes or genres, replying to comments, updating better, etc.

Short fic. What is brevity even? I can’t do zines or commissions because I can’t figure out how to manage a damn word count.

11. Do you write rarepairs or popular ships more often?

Nope! I don’t write any ships at all. I just write platonic interaction. Though I guess I wouldn’t be adverse to a platonic ‘rarepair’ as long as I liked the characters’ interaction potential.

12. How many stories have you posted on AO3 to this day (finished and unfinished)?

So far, 25. 23 of those are Voltron, 1 is Young Justice, and 1 is Supernatural (experimenting with cross-posting on both of those last two, some fandoms are just hard to break into or not on certain sites).

13. How many stories do you have saved in/with your writing program?

Oh boy. In progress? I wanna say 3. Notes? A lot, lot more.

14. Do you write down story ideas, or just keep them in your head?

I jot down notes! Or email myself ideas if I’m at work/out and about. Or speak them into a little portable digital tape recorder I keep next to my bed, if it’s the middle of the night and I have an idea, but lack dexterity to type.

15. Have you ever co-authored a story?

Not in a long, looong time.

16. How did you discover AO3?

Through TVTropes. Every time I finished a new series I’d swing by to read tropes pages and see if there were any decent fic recs. At first they all went to Fanfiction.net or livejournal but, over time, this ‘Archive’ thing kept showing up. I made an account to lurk or subscribe to things but didn’t actually start posting to it until at least a year later.

17. Do you consider yourself to be a popular or famous author in your fandom(s) on AO3?

Moderately well known in the platonic corner of it probably assuming people know bosstoaster and I are not actually the same person lol but probably not well known outside of that. Once upon a time I was a Big Name in the One Piece fandom, but after the timeskip I fell out of the fandom and lost my pirate king throne. That’s okay, it was fun while it lasted.

18. Do you have a nickname or fandom name for your readers?

No but you all are too kind

19. Was there an author who inspired or encouraged you to write?

In terms of ‘official’ authors, Brandon Sanderson is everything I ever aspire to be as a writer, and I take a lot of inspiration from that. For fic? My buddy BlackFriar was super helpful during the Young Justice era. More recently in the VLD fandom, @maychorian was big for just...getting me to stay in the fandom at all? One of her fics got me hooked and I stuck around, and then felt compelled to write, instead of just drifting off to the next interesting thing. And the Think Tank ( @bosstoaster @butteredonions @ashinan @mumblefox ) have all been huge for getting me to keep writing, between writing sprints and interesting discussions and a lot of encouragement, so that’s been huge for me this past year.

20. What writing advice would you give to a beginning author?

At the risk of sounding like that one video...just do it. It’s scary to put yourself out there, but just do it. You learn by doing. You also learn by absorbing new things around you, so read a lot and try new stuff; you never know when something completely random or a personal experience might actually add a lot to your story. And finally, write for you, first. Write the stories you want to see. Writing for comments/bookmarks/reblogs only goes so far. It means your motivation is reliant solely on people liking your work, which means you start writing for other people and not for yourself...and if reception is lackluster, it can kill your ability to finish a project, which hurts your practice at follow-through. It’s a slippery slope and starts to make the whole thing a lot less fun and a lot more of a chore. Write things you want to read, and if you feel like sharing them after, other people might like them too, but it’s important that you like it, first.

21. Do you plot out your stories, or do you just figure it out as you go?

Has to be plotted completely. If I try to wing it I meander or get hung up on trying to keep track of details. Turns into total garbage.

22. Have you ever gotten a bad comment on a story? If so, what did you do?

A few times, sure. Happens to everyone. Most often, it’s people begging, demanding, or insinuating that my platonic fics should include a ship, especially if the fic focuses on the interactions of two specific characters. Those are very frustrating because I’m always upfront about the fic being friendship only, and there are usually a million other ship fics already out there. Leave my platonic fic alone! I usually ignore the comments, or just politely remind people it’s friendship only and will remain that way. In one bewildering instance in a different fandom I had somebody who had been thoroughly enjoying the fic up until the climactic battle, whereupon they were furious at how it was resolved, and took great pains to tell me just what they thought. That one stung. I had to sit on it for a few days before I worked up the nerve to respond, and chatted with a few friends over it too. In the end I realized that it was more comparable to a fan really enjoying a canon work but being mad about a sudden twist that just didn’t seem right to them. It happens. I thanked them for reading, explained that I disagreed with their comments but did hear them, and thanked them for their time. Best I could do.

23. Is there a certain type of scene that you have a hard time writing? (action, smut, etc..)

I am straight-up incapable of romance, period. Even so far as to slide into ‘fake’ romance (I once got prompted for fake marriage/dating and literally couldn’t envision how to do it? It’s just so foreign to me). Or flirting. I can’t even identify flirting IRL. Basically anything in that general area of writing is completely out of my league. I can write intense scenes that are intimate in non-romantic, non-sexual ways, but those are really difficult for me to do too and I’m constantly second-guessing myself in case it’s maybe too much.

24. What story(s) are you working on now?

If I told you I’d have to kill you. But no, srsly, I don’t like to share ideas in progress until it’s almost done, just in case. Sometimes I share and then immediately lose interest, but I’ve already raised peoples’ hopes, and that’s just a dick move.

25. Do you plan your next project(s) before you finish your current ongoing story(s)?

I’ll have outlines, or sometimes need to plan around prompts. I don’t usually do series, so I never really need to plan too far ahead though. Sometimes if I’m plotting a crossover/AU I’ll obtain the source material and read/watch/play it to start gathering notes for that fic while working on a different fic, so that by the time I’m done writing the current story, the AU’s skeleton is plotted out and I have a place to slot in all the characters.

26. Do you have a daily writing goal set for yourself?

No. I’ve gotten better habits since working with the Think Tank but I still tend to be more of a ‘burst’ writer (no activity for days or weeks, and then suddenly word vomiting 100K in a month).

27. Do you think you’ve improved as a writer since you first started?

By a HUGE margin

28. What is your favorite story that you’ve written?

Oooh, that’s a toss-up between Phantasmagoria and Prince of Memory. The former because I love writing horror and it’s an idea I’d wanted to tackle for a while. The latter because it was a personal writing challenge to myself that I honestly wasn’t sure was going to go over all that well, but the response was stunning, and I was quietly surprised.

29. What is your least favorite story that you’ve written?

Caged Bird, from a different fandom. I make it a personal rule to never delete stories that I’ve posted, but ooh man, I wanted to get rid of this one really bad. I was happy when LJ gutted it. I actually don’t have any real dislike for any of my Voltron stuff.

30. Where do you see yourself (as a writer) in 5 years?

Still writing because I’d die if I stopped. Like a shark. But with writing.

31. What is the easiest thing about writing?

That flash of inspiration, when you get an idea and suddenly it’s building itself almost too fast for you to keep up. Dialogue. Action sequences.

32. What is the hardest thing about writing?

Getting started. Titles. Editing. Research. Any particularly emotional moment.

33. Why do you write?

Because fandoms are fun but I have so many questions after. “What if X happened? What if Y was a factor? Why not Z?” I try to hunt down answers to these questions in fandoms and if the fic isn’t already written, I write it. Also to challenge myself to do things that haven’t been done in the fandom yet, or to tackle things I haven’t tried yet.

I think everyone’s been tagged already so...feel free to play if you want, I guess!

[allwaswell16]

~Fan fiction by allwaswell16~

This is the masterpost for my One Direction fan fictions. You can also find and subscribe to my fics here on ao3. My word count so far is: 260,318. Thanks for reading! xx

And I Could Hear the Thunder | mature | 1/? WIP | read here on ao3

Harry prepares to inherit his family's estate, and Louis is the mysterious boy living in the manor to the north.

How Could I Ever Forget | explicit | 14k | read here on ao3

After his boyfriend leaves him for a job in New York, Harry vows to move on with his life. A year later when their best friends announce their engagement, Harry knows he'll be forced to see Louis again and face the truth he's been trying his best to hide--even from himself.

Or a Vegas AU where Ziam's bachelor party turns into drunken karaoke, winning thousands at slots, washing your clothes at the laundromat in your underwear, and making life altering decisions that you can't remember in the morning.

Looking Through You (series) | explicit | 49k | read here on ao3

Just as Louis and Liam were starting out in the music industry, writing and producing for up and coming artists, a fateful meeting with new pop singer Harry Styles changes everything. Four years later, just as Harry is set to embark on his next world tour, a drunken confession causes a rift between once inseparable friends. As Harry tries to make sense of his feelings for Louis, he begins writing his next album to express them as it may be the only way to break through the walls that Louis has built between them. (Written for Big Bang Round 5)

Just Hear This (series) | explicit | 46k | read here on ao3

Former boy band member Louis Tomlinson can’t stand pompous indie artist Harry Styles, but with a new record label to launch he is going to have to endure his pretensions to snag up and coming new artist Liam Payne, who happens to be Harry’s oldest friend. Luckily, Liam seems to be very interested in 78 Records and maybe a little more than interested in Louis’ best friend. Too bad Harry won’t be making this easy on any of them.

Or a modern day Pride and Prejudice--Louis is Elizabeth, Harry is Mr. Darcy, Zayn is Jane, and Liam is Mr. Bingley. Oh, and Niall is Mrs. Bennett. Obviously. (Header edit credit to @larryfanficcovers that I further sized to fit)

You’re the Light (series) | explicit | 39k | read here on ao3

Before beginning a new graduate school in the fall, Louis Tomlinson decides to spend the summer working in Chicago as an editor’s assistant for the Chicago Tribune newspaper and staying with his old college roommate. What he finds on his first day of work is a tall, gorgeous editor named Harry who has the most beautiful green eyes he’s ever seen—and who also happens to be his new boss.

I’ll Be There | explicit | 5k | read here on ao3

Louis is less than thrilled to find out his roommate has coerced his nemesis to check on him whilst he's sick in bed. However, Harry seems to take great pleasure in taking care of Louis. Maybe this green smoothie drinking, hot yoga instructing, hair in a bun wearing, pretentious art history studying wanker isn’t so bad after all.

On Monday, Louis thinks Harry's a twat. By Friday, he's thinking of reasons for him to stay.

You Really Got Me Now | explicit | 6k | read here on ao3

Louis is the best older brother anyone could ask for. He knows this because he's agreed to help chaperone his younger sister's school trip to Rome. As it turns out, Italy is full of surprises. Fizzy's Italian teacher is surprisingly hot, Rome is surprisingly interesting, and Louis is surprisingly falling in love with more than just the city.

You & Me | general | 3k | read here on ao3

Louis Tomlinson doesn't have much faith in fate. Unfortunately, his mother does. She thinks he's destined to be with her best friend's son. Louis hasn't had much luck in love, so he decides to finally meet this boy his mother thinks is his match. As fate would have it, he encounters an intriguing stranger to confide in before he meets with destiny.

Or a modern adaptation of "An Unconventional Confidence."

haven’t you heard | mature| 8k | read here on ao3

Harry Styles has been in love with Louis Tomlinson since they were eighteen. After six years together, Harry is ready to propose to the love of his life. The holidays strike him as the perfect time for a romantic proposal, but his well-meaning friends and family (including his self-appointed best friend, Niall) seem to thwart him at every turn.

Or the four times Harry tries to propose, and the one time he gets it right.

1D Very Silly Chat/Email Chain (series) | (im)mature| 7k+ | read here on ao3

(1) Danger in the Produce Aisle, (2) Caramel Apple Peeps, (3)The OT4 Email Chain, (4) Email Chain OT4, (5) Screaming, (6)The Brits & Always You, (7) Is Neil Available?

Read emails sent from : donnysoldier28@gmail.com, TheRealBatMan@aol.com, CraicDirection@hotmail.com, and randysdonuts@savethewhales.org

Important topics including: frightening fruits, no milk for Louis’ tea, hacking, being jealous of Steve Aoki, way too many poo jokes, Niall screaming, dogs Liam doesn’t Instagram, Harry’s floofy hair, Liam’s chains, Instagram aesthetics, and much more!

Now That I’ve Found You | mature | 6k+ | read here on ao3

Harry Styles has a great job working for his brother-in-law’s construction company. He has just one small problem. His concrete sub-contractor just quit, and he needs a foundation built as soon as possible. One fateful turn brings him exactly what he’s been looking for—an experienced concrete construction company that happens to be owned by the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes upon.

Or Louis is a long haired, sweaty construction worker. Does anyone really need to know more than that? Harry doesn’t think so.

For You I’d Bleed Myself Dry | explicit | 3k+  | read here on ao3

After a public and humiliating breakup, Louis Tomlinson finds himself on his would-be honeymoon with his best friend, Niall. However, this St. Lucian paradise is not all that it seems. Louis may be particularly vulnerable to an unusually handsome predator.

On a Day Like This You Know It’s Meant To Be | t&up | 2k+  | read here on ao3

One year ago Harry Styles met Louis Tomlinson, the man of his dreams. Harry is certain he’ll never see him again, even if they did make a pact to reunite should the Chicago Cubs win the World Series. Harry has one small flicker of hope left when it appears the Cubs might actually win it all. But will Louis fulfill his end of this fateful bargain?

Won’t You Please Come Around | mature | 5k+ | read here on ao3

Harry has lived in London for a month, and so far the only friend he’s made is his sister’s cat, Mr. Whiskers. When the lock on the window breaks, Mr. Whiskers begins exploring his new neighbourhood a bit too thoroughly and brings back mementos of his escapes.

Or a Valentine’s Day story where Harry has a really fit neighbour, and his cat is a thief.

Let Me Kiss You | mature | 3k+ | read here on ao3

Harry Styles is on top of the world. He's moving to Chicago to live in a kick ass apartment that he's sharing with his old college friend, Niall. When their old college crew makes plans to hang out, Harry realizes he will be coming face to face with his unrequited crush, Louis.

but tonight (you’re on my mind) | explicit | 36k | read here on ao3

Pairing: Nick Grimshaw/Louis Tomlinson (Tomlinshaw)

Nick's friendship with the lead singer of Seventy Eight has come with a new circle of people including an entrancing, blue eyed drummer. But what brings them together can also tear them apart.

[one-soul-two-brothers]

one-soul-two-brothers’ ultimate fic recs: wincest edition (part III)

Wincest fics are my (other) absolute faves to read First time fics are the best (but not imperative) I like them to keep some semblance of canon A fic doesn’t have to have sex to be good (but it doesn’t hurt) They have all been thoroughly vetted (aka I’ve either read them all at least twice or will definitely be reading them again) And the most important: happy endings are a requirement

ENJOY!

best LATE-SEASON FIRST-TIME

title: The Exodus rating: explicit word count: 14k relationship: first time summary: So. Dean left with Cas over a week ago on some sort of recon mission, and yeah, Sam has been trying to bury himself in research, but he's just not coping all that well with the long-term separation. He wakes up early one morning, expecting the day to be like all the rest: brother-less. Oh, except, it's even worse than all the rest, because he's completely and totally alone on his brother-less thirty-fourth birthday. His bleak outlook quickly changes with an unexpected phone call, and he has to admit that maybe someone, somewhere answered his embarrassingly needy birthday wish, despite his lack of candles to blow out. excerpt: “Yeah,” Sam breathes, trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming. It’s just-- Dean is only sweet like this, open like this in Sam’s best dreams, so… how on earth could this be real? “I missed you,” Sam adds, breathing it shyly into the air between them, watching how the words affect his brother.

title: O Brother, Where Art Thou? rating: explicit word count: 6600 relationship: first time summary: Over the last fifteen years, Sam Winchester had walked away from his brother more times than he cared to count. This time, Sam couldn’t come up with a legitimate excuse. At least, not one that was appropriate to tell his brother. He knew that, as much as him leaving would hurt Dean, staying here would lead Sam to making choices that could hurt Dean so much more. Could push Dean away permanently. Because Sam Winchester was in love with his brother, and he couldn't hide it any longer. anna’s notes: Shameless self-promo.

title: The Claiming rating: explicit word count: 6900 relationship: first time summary: At age 32, Sam Winchester presents as an Omega. No one is more surprised than Dean, the Alpha who's been pining over his little brother all his life. Canon divergence after scene with Piper in 11x04, "Baby." anna’s notes: Look...I think I’ve read this like five times (at least) since I discovered it (like, a month ago). I know, it’s ridiculous, but it’s just SO GOOD. And yes, it’s an a/b/o fic, but if you’ve never read one or don’t really like them, I still think you should check this out. There are absolutely no dom/sub or non-con components that are often in a lot of other a/b/o fics. And IT’S LATE SEASON FIRST TIME WINCEST, OKAY? THE BEST KIND OF WINCEST. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH.

title: The King and The Lionheart rating: explicit word count: 53k relationship: first time summary: After the disastrous but effective removal of the Mark, facing a life without allies or a reason to keep hunting, Sam and Dean Winchester leave their old life behind them in flames. They re-emerge from the ashes as Sam and Dean Wesson, residents of Misty Luna, Maine-- a town with a personality all its own. As they settle into civilian life, they gain careers, a home, good friendships and the kind of fulfillment they never thought possible. But with nothing left to fight, the underbelly of their particular kind of love is thrown into sharp relief, especially considering the whole town thinks they’re married, anyway. After dancing around their feelings for the past twenty years, Sam and Dean find a peace they never knew existed, and through it all, they find each other again. And maybe, just maybe, forever. Curtain!fic. Canon divergence after 10x21, “Dark Dynasty.” anna’s notes: THIS IS SO FUCKING GOOD.

best PLOT WHAT PLOT

title: Coupons rating: explicit word count: 5730 relationship: established summary: This could, quite possibly, go down as the most ridiculous thing he's ever done. He feels all of ten years old again, in a grade school where he doesn’t know anyone, creating a coupon book for Mother's Day that he plans to give to Dean. Only this time, he's 29 and his brother's turning 34, and the coupons aren't for chores around the house. anna’s notes: I mean...there’s a little plot. And plenty of fluff. It’s so good.

best MPREG

title: Not A Curse After All rating: explicit word count: 23k relationship: established summary: Dean didn't understand how his life always seemed to take the oddest turns. Another case with a witch and it was official, he was dying, not just dying, but a slow torturous decent into his worst fears before he went. He was eating like a teenage girl on a date, sleeping like a middle aged man in a mid-life crises and he hadn't wanted sex in....shit he didn't even know how long.

title: It Only Takes One Oops... rating: mature word count: 20k relationship: established summary: Someone gets pregnant. excerpt: “How, I mean, when… fuck,” Dean mumbled, his speaking ability currently matching his thought process.

“You’ve got the ‘how’ down perfectly,” Sam said as he sank down on the bed next to his brother. “The when? Oh, cast your brain–your upstairs brain–back about six weeks to that weekend at the Grand Canyon. The night with the full moon, the back of the Impala, NO condoms, the ‘come on Sammy, just this once, what can one time hurt, it’ll be fine, please Sammy, please.’”

“I didn’t beg--”

“You sure as hell didn’t use a condom! And, yes, you begged.”

title: Settling Up, Settling In rating: explicit word count: 38k relationship: established summary: Dean's been running himself ragged keeping Sam from scratching at the Wall Death put up in his little brother's head, and things are not okay between the brothers because Sam won't let Dean anywhere near him, and the only thing Dean really wants now? To retire. Because it's the only way to keep Sam safe. But a routine salt and burn leads to a cursed object that causes Sam to go into a sexual frenzy and get Dean pregnant, which is okay with Dean because that seems like the perfect ticket out. Until the Hell in Sam's head starts to spill over and he freaks out when Dean tells him about the baby.

best CRACK

title: SAMpala rating: explicit word count: 12k relationship: first time summary: Sam wishes he was the damned Impala, at least he might get some Dean love that way. anna’s notes: This is both hilarious and sweet at the same time.

best SEASON 12 CODA (episodes 12-20)

title: 12x13 summary: When Mary tells Sam and Dean that she's been working with the British Men of Letters, neither of the boys takes the news well. anna’s notes: Shameless self-promo.

title: Coda to 12x13 excerpt: He tries. He tries. He watches Dean scowl every time they see their mother and he works, honestly works to try and smooth things over, talks to Dean and talks to Mom and tries to help them see the other point of view. And if he catches Dean texting surreptitiously, later, he’s pleased about it. It’s good, right? That was the point, and there’s no reason she should message them both.

title: Dragged Up (12x17) summary: Sam's still so unsure of what he and Dean have. Drinking one night with Dean and Mick, Sam's thoughts spiral down into a deep pit of despair.

title: Through These Walls (12x18) summary: When Ketch put a bug in the bunker, he was looking for usable intel. What he got? Well, that is something else entirely.

title: You’ve Got Mail (12x18) summary: Sam's been getting an awful lot of emails from his brother lately... anna’s notes: Fluff and schmoop and a first kiss!

title: But We Can’t Punch Ourselves Awake (12x19) summary: Sam is sure this, too, will be forgiven. excerpt: Sam isn't like his brother. Dean forgives and forgets once you're back in his good graces. Sure, he's ruthless and can hold a grudge like no other but once you've proved yourself? He forgets it all. Sam is living proof of that. Still alive after all those years after Dean had planned on killing him. Sure, they'd made up after that but there are things in Sam's mind that he won't ever be rid of. It's evident even more by Dean's constant forgiving of Castiel.

title: Coda: The Future (12x19) excerpt: “I know what you’re gonna say, Sammy, but no. Not this time. He’s messed with my car, the Colt and my baby brother on the same fucking day. You are not making any more excuses for him. We’re done with him, you hear me? We’re done.” Dean pushes Sam’s hair out of his eyes. “You doin’ OK? Can you stand?”

title: Untitled 12.20 coda excerpt: Max won’t tell her anything. Bad witch is all he’ll say. Bought her power from a demon, used it against Mom, used it to make Mom turn on you. He won’t explain why he burned Mom without her. Won’t explain how she was healed, why there isn’t a bloody gash in her abdomen. Natural magic. Don’t worry. You’re fine. Everything’s gonna be fine. anna’s notes: This isn’t actually wincest, but it was too good not to add to this list.

title: Coda: Twigs and Twine and Tasha Banes (12x20) summary: Written mostly because I'm so worried that Sam wouldn't wake up at the end of 12.20. *chews nails*

          For all my other ultimate fic recs (j2 non-au, j2 au, and wincest), go here.

[auideas]

Ask the Admins: 11.0

Anon asked: any of you get pranked on 4/1?

Chamomile: I didn’t get pranked, but I work in retail and we all pranked my manager by writing up a whole bunch of fake ‘angry customer’ reports and leaving them in the break room where she could read them. She didn’t know they were fake until she got to the complaint from a nun who was disgruntled because we didn’t carry her favorite vegan chapstick anymore.

M: Nope, and I’m very happy about that - Loot Crate almost fooled me via email, but I was in good shape other than that

Syren: I am disappointed to say that I was not, but to be fair, I spent most of the day at my little half-sister’s 2nd birthday party (yes, my sis was born on April fools, and no, no one believed me when I told them my sister was born. They all thought I was pranking them. Safe to say, her future birthdays will be full of pranks from yours truly).

Jynn: No, but I did prank someone. I work at a school affiliated wellness center as a lifeguard for their pool. Normally on Saturday mornings there's a water aerobics class taught by a peppy lady who stands on the pool deck and does all the exercises while the old ladies do them in the pool. Well she's been gone the past couple weeks, so the gym's floor manager Tim has been teaching it. Now Tim is just the most precious thing. He's the most adorable personal trainer ever. He'll get up there in front of all the elderly people and they'll hoot and whistle and tell him to take his shirt off till he's a blushing mess. So anyways he going through the exercises and get into it and have his workout music playing. It starts to get pretty intense, he's working up a sweat, he's pumped, the old people are pumped, they're feeling the burn… and I go back to the guard room and switch their workout music to Mozart.

Anon asked: What do the admins and assistant admins think about soulmates?

Chamomile: I’m a bit iffy on them? I like the concept, but I like the idea of multiple soulmates and outcomes because the idea of a preset destiny freaks me out.

M: I'd like to think they exist - there's someone for everyone - but I think that probably less than an eighth of a percent of the population actually meet them, if that. They're fun to write about, though.

Syren: In the world of fic, it is my jam. I'm writing a soulmate AU rn, actually. Irl? Nooo thank you. I don't believe in it, and I wouldn't want one anyway. Cause that's creepy.

Jynn: Eh it's a cool thought but? It seems a little bland to juat have like one preset partner you're meant to be with former and ever. I think there can been lots of kinds of soulmates.

@askrileyw asked: How do you feel about fantasy AUs? (bonus: what is your favourite fantasy sub-genre and why?)

Chamomile: I love them! I’m really big into combining bizarre fiction and traditional fantasy settings.

M: They can be loads of fun when done properly! I actually like it when fantasy elements are combined with the modern world - it's totally my aesthetic. Give me CyberKnights fighting mechanical dragons, goddamnit!

Syren: Oooooh boy, fantasy au’s are my jelly. I love dystopian fantasy stuff, with outlawed magic and mages on the run. I love fantastical creatures like elves (especially elves- thank you LotR). I love adventure in fantasy (Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess is my favorite game in the world. I'm planning on writing a Zelda AU soon as well). I freaking love fantasy.

Jynn: I can appreciate fantasy, but I don't seek it out a ton. As for fave genres of fantasy, I'm always a sucker for coming-of-age adventures!

Anon asked: If you could only use one which would you choose? Magic, guns, or blades.

Chamomile: Magic! I can enchant my blades!

M: Magic. C’mon.

Syren: Magic, cause I'm a pacifist and could use it for more non-violent purposes. And it's awesome.

Jynn: Magic.

@genosha-meiuqer asked: If life was like a videogame where you level up by gaining experience points, what level do you think you'd currently be at? Everyone would start off as a noob-born.

Chamomile: 20, going on 21 (why are yall ranking so low omg)

M: Maybe 5. And that's being incredibly generous.

Syren: Like 4 maybe? Assuming it's out of at least 30 possible levels lol

Jynn: 3

Anon asked: Hello, lovelies! I'm making a bet with my partner (gimmemygurryback); prize is home-cooked breakfast in bed. Anyway, this ask involves genosha-meiuqer, but she's not betting! I'm assuming you read the added parts on your posts' reblogs. You know last month's AtA where Gurry and Geno were talking about Geno's stories? Out of all those 57 titles, are there any you found interesting or want to know about? Geno said that you probably couldn't care less, but she doesn't know your personal opinions???

Chamomile: I read all of the post reblogs! Especially ones from genosha and gurry. For the titles, I was immediately partial to all of the ones with auideas’ titles, but the other ones that I really liked were “Pieces of Time”, “Clear and Forever Young When I Close My Eyes”, and “Miss Murder & Mister Brightside”.

M: There were so many to choose from, but I finally settled on “ Docosahexaenoic Acid”, “ Mark His Way to Canaan”, and “Dreams May Not Come True”.

Syren: “Miss Murder and Mister Brightside” “Farmer in Dank Armor” and “Travel In a Pack, Street Rats” sound like stories I would treasure forever tbh

Jynn: Shall We Do The “One, Two”?, Shall We Sing The “Un, Deux”?, and I Will Make Your House Fly Away If You Rick Roll Me Again all sound really interesting!

(side note: here’s the link to all 57 titles, and chamomile told all the admins to pick their top 3 titles because they were all so good)

Anon asked: Do any of the new admins watch anime or read manga?

Chamomile: I used to be really into anime/manga when I was younger, but when I got into junior year (the year I came out and when I joined auideas) I just didn’t have time to keep up with any of it. Now that I’m in my second year of college, I’m super desperate for any cutesy lighthearted form of stress relief, so I’m slowly getting back into anime.

M: I tend to just rewatch the same three animes over and over. It's a bad habit….

Syren: Veeery little. I've watched InuYasha, Fullmetal Alchemist (both series), Ouran High School Host Club, and random eps of random others. And I have maybe a quarter of the FMA manga, but that's about it.

Jynn: Yep! I like my classic shonen anime, but I keep up with a couple of the newer ones. I also own every volume of Yu Yu Hakusho...

@gimmemygurryback asked: Do admins (and now assistants) actually read any of the "followers' works" other than the one about M driving like a war boy?

Chamomile: Y’all have no idea. I read every single fic that came in during our 2016 Auideas Advent Calendar event, and whenever somebody tags us in something they’ve written then I immediately bookmark it to read later. I live off of seeing people get inspired by our aus.

M: YUP!! We have read every single fix submitted during AAC (where do you think the rating system came from??). We love reading everyone’s work and would love to have more.

Syren: I've read a few, but not as many as I wish :(  Time and motivation are fickle lil buggers

Jynn: Yes!!!

Anon asked: Hi! So I recently got into this thing on resistantradio.com, and basically it reminded me of your AU "Rebel Yell"! It's sort of a podcast/radio broadcast that's part of this series, um, The Man In The High Tower, I think, where the year is 1962 and nazi germany/imperial japan have won wwii and split America into two parts, but there's this neutral territory where an American resistance has sprung up, and so these three members are broadcasting in order to get others to rebel!

Chamomile: I’m familiar with Man in the High Tower, and after giving this podcast a listen, I have to say that it’s pretty good! I’m digging it! Currently I’m binging The Adventure Zone and The Hidden Almanac so I’ll bookmark Resistant Radio for later.

M: COOL!!!

Syren: That sounds rad as all get out; maybe I should start listening to podcasts! I never have before.

Jynn: I'm not huge into podcasts atm but that sounds cool!