#this was between me and one of my co-workers whose wife was not there at the moment to defend herself | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

random-and-average · 1 year ago

Text

Spider Hero 2099

Content Warning(s): violence, fem!reader, death threats, bad Spanish, cringe writing, possibly OOC

Word Count: 2,098 words

Summary: As the pilot for Project Silent Sparrow, a project that would involve teleportation travel, you were excited to be a part of this new scientific breakthrough, but your husband, Miguel, is less than thrilled by the prospect of you risking your life.

Author's Note: What happens when my sleep schedule is out of wack and I get the weirdest idea to make a semi-crossover between ATSV and Big Hero 6 (the movie, not the show)? I create a sleep-deprived mess of a story. Regardless, I hope you all will enjoy it. My favorite part of this short story is the "domestic" parts of Miguel and Y/N's relationship since it's kinda cute seeing Miguel be so mushy around his wife. On another note, I have another post queue'd up to post later, so there's that.

"I still don't think you embark on this trip, mi vida," Miguel stated as he placed your large breakfast on the table. Your stomach grumbled appreciatively when you realized it was all of your favorites. Although, your hunger could wait; your worrywart husband, a trait that you found both adorable and endearing, needed some reassurance.

"I'll be fine, sweetheart," you promised with a kiss to his cheek meant to reassure him of your safety, thank him for the breakfast, and simply convey your love for him all in one. "Besides, the portal should function properly according to all of the team's calculations. Those geniuses don't let anything get past them."

Despite your words, his mouth was still downturned in a frown, though he didn't let his displeasure towards the situation stop him from pulling out your chair in order for you to sit on it.

"I just don't know why you have to be the first person to test it out."

"Always the gentleman," you chuckled as you sat down. "But who else would test it if not me? I'm the only one who stepped up."

"I just worry for you. What if you get hurt?"

"What if I don't get hurt? Miguel, asking all these 'what if's will only stress you out. I can't have you dying of a heart attack. If you want, you can still come with me to the presentation so that you can see me safe and sound in person."

Your husband hummed in thought before settling on his answer.

"Then I'll take you up on your offer."

A large smile grew on your face. Suddenly, you couldn't wait to get to the island where the portal would be.

"Wonderful! I can't wait to show you everything! If you think that what I told you was cool, then prepare to be amazed by what you actually see at the presentation. There are just some things that are best experienced in person instead of through word of mouth," you continued ranting for a few minutes while a lovestruck Miguel absorbed every word you said, absolutely bewitched by your cuteness as you enthused about Silent Sparrow.

»»»-——————¯\_(ツ)_/¯——————-«««

After practically dragging your husband around, showcasing every little detail of Silent Sparrow, one of your co-workers tapped you on the shoulder with an amused expression on their face.

"Hey, don't want to interrupt you and your husband's bonding time, but we're ready to launch."

Miguel's grip on your hand tightened a bit. You knew that he was still apprehensive about the whole thing, and the last thing you wanted to see as you took off was an anxious Miguel. In response, you squeezed his hand back.

"Alright, Charlie. I'll be right there. Just give me a couple of minutes, 'kay?"

"Sure, just don't get too comfortable with the PDA," they teased as they left you two alone.

With Charlie gone, your attention was entirely dedicated to your worrying husband, whose eyes were starting to glisten in unshed tears.

"Oh, Miguel," you cooed while you wiped away the tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "Like I said earlier, I'll be fine. It'll just be a quick trip inside the portal and then I'll be out. We can even get some empanadas at your favorite place afterwards, okay?"

"But what if things go wrong, mi cielo? I don't think I can bear to be without you."

"They won't, and I will never leave you either. Remember that promise I made to you all those years ago? During the meteor shower?"

He nodded. On that fateful night, Miguel had opened up to you about some of his past, something that he was usually secretive about. With you by his side in a silent meadow, he told you how he was pressured by his biological father, who had abandoned him at a young age, into killing a man in an experiment; how Alchemax attempted to get him hooked on a highly addictive drug as a means to continue working with a company that exploited its workers and test subjects alike; how his own supervisor tried to kill him out of jealousy. He didn't tell you anymore than that, but he didn't need to. Beneath the shooting stars, you promised him that you would do anything to make him happy, to make his future filled with enough joy to outweigh the trauma and tragedy that filled his past. And even as you two got ready to return home, you quietly wished upon the stars for Miguel to experience nothing but happiness.

"It was only 4 years ago," he gently laughed. "You're being dramatic."

"Well, 4 years is a long time, and besides, dramatic or not, I still intend to make good on my promise. If my loss will sadden you, then I will do everything I can to return to you in one piece."

Miguel's hands covered yours as he sighed, "Oh mi reina, you are the best thing that ever happened to me; eres lo que más quiero en el mundo." (T/N: you are the person I love most in the world)

Despite both of your wishes to stay in this moment forever, basking in the love of one another, a final call from your co-worker snapped the two of you out of your haze.

"We don't got all day, y'know! Hurry it up!"

Your husband glared at the scientist, who shrunk under the intense hatred, only for you to use your hands to redirect his face back to yours. The effect was immediate: all of his anger melting into pure, endless love.

"Alright, Miggy, this is the moment of truth. Wish me luck, okay?"

"I always do, mi corazón."

For good measure, you chastely kissed all the man's fears away, and in return, he gave you an extremely intimate one, despite the affronted squawks of anyone who happened to stare.

»»»-——————¯\_(ツ)_/¯——————-«««

Miguel stood behind the protective barrier alongside the other scientists, investors, and government officials as he watched your pod slowly enter the portal. At first glance, everything seemed fine. There weren't any outward signs of possible danger.

However—based on the scientists he could see hurriedly talking with the owner of the business, fear barely masked, out of the corner of his eye—he could sense that something wasn't right.

It was only thanks to his superhuman hearing that he was able to decipher what they were saying.

"Mr. Krei, if we go through with this, there's no telling what will happen to the pilot! It's best that we shut this whole thing down temporarily."

"No, I will not humiliate myself in front of the military. Continue with the presentation."

"But, Mr. Krei-"

"I don't recall that being a suggestion, Dr. Emily."

The scientist nervously glanced at the portal beyond the barrier where his wife was possibly going to die. Realizing that they had no choice but to acquiesce to their boss's order, they turned to their subordinates and murmured, "Continue forward."

"This is crazy," one of them whispered back to the scientist. "We might actually get blood on our hands after this!"

"You tell that to Mr. Krei."

"Uhh guys," another added, "we have a problem."

"What?"

"That guy, the one that came with the pilot. He's staring at us. I think he heard everything."

In that moment, Miguel and the group of scientists locked eyes, and no words needed to be exchanged for them to understand how they made a colossal mistake.

"How the hell did he hear us?! Is he a mutant or something?!"

No longer needing to hide the fact that he discovered the truth, he made his way towards the scientists, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

"Mr. O'Hara," Krei spoke as he stepped between him and the scientists, "is there a problem?"

"Stop the presentation," Miguel growled back, anger bubbling over at the fact that this man dared to risk the life of his wife for the sake of his own greed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. O'Hara, but do you have any experience in portal technology? I do not know what came over you, but I assure you that everything is fine, according to my team of scientists who have dedicated their lives to this field."

The Spider-Man grabbed the businessman by the collar of his shirt. "Don't play dumb with me. I heard everything, hijo de puta. Stop. The. Presentation."

The sounds of guns being cocked echoed through the room, and suddenly everyone was at a standstill.

That was until the alarms began to blare throughout the facility.

"We've lost contact with the pod!"

Miguel turned to look at the other side of the barrier only to see his wife gone, not coming out of the exit portal beside it. If anything, the exit portal broke down while the entrance portal started to suck in everything nearby.

"What the hell is going on?!"

Then...

"Damnit, Krei! Shut it down!"

Everything stopped.

"I want this entire thing buried! Not a peep of this gets out to anyone!"

And a promise was broken.

»»»-——————¯\_(ツ)_/¯——————-«««

Never in his life had Krei ever been punched by someone until today.

It had only been a split second after everyone was safely evacuated from the scene when the husband of the pilot, Miguel O'Hara, socked him in the face.

Whereas Krei was left dumbfounded and stupefied, Miguel was screaming and yelling expletives at him in a mix of both Spanish and English, tears of pure rage running down his face. Government personnel had to hold the man back lest he actually beat the businessman to death.

"I-I didn't mean for this to happen," he said to no one in particular, and frankly, no one had the energy to listen after they had witnessed someone possibly die before their eyes.

For days to come after this event, Krei would distinctly remember the last thing Mr. O'Hara shouted at him before he was forced home by government officials.

"Mark my words, I am going to kill you!"

A year later, the CEO would realize that, when it came to the O'Hara's, they always made good on their promises until the day they died.

He realized this as he pleaded for mercy beneath a blood-covered fist.

»»»-——————¯\_(ツ)_/¯——————-«««

A disgusted Lyla stared down at another beaten and mangled body of Alistair Krei while Miguel's rage slowly dissipated following his stress relief.

"How many Krei's is this now? 100? 500? 1,000?"

"Not enough."

Before Miguel could say anything, Lyla pulled up multiple videos of you for him to watch. It had become a ritual of sorts. Whenever it got close to important dates—your anniversary, your birthday, the day of your "death"—Miguel would start hunting down Krei's to kill before taking a break just to reminisce over what was, what could've been.

You popped up in front of him. There was a pout on your face as you stared at the him of the past, the person holding the camera.

"Miguelllll," you whined as your body was draped over a large queen-sized bed.

"Yes, querida?"

"Come join me in bed already. I'm cold."

Both the him of the present and the him of the past knew that was a lie. Really, you just liked cuddling him but were too embarrassed to admit it out loud.

"Hold on. I want to film this moment."

"What are you even filming? Why are you even filming?"

"What if we want to look back on the parts of our honeymoon that weren't beach-related or food-related? What if we just want to see the 'average' moments of our trip? You never know."

You giggled at his response. "Miguel, asking all these 'what if's won't get you anywhere."

"Miguel, asking all these 'what if's will only stress you out."

Suddenly, he wasn't in the mood to continue watching the video anymore, and his grief as well as his hatred returned with a vengeance, crying out for a scapegoat to unleash themselves out on.

"Lyla, end the video."

Confused, the woman asked, "Are you sure?"

"End. The. Video."

"Alright! Alright! No need to get mad at me."

Without apologizing to her, Miguel entered a portal and left, traveling to another dimension to hunt down his next prey.

"He should really get some therapy," Lyla muttered to herself.

»»»-——————¯\_(ツ)_/¯——————-«««

The last thing you remembered was a world of color. Blobs of bright, vibrant hues passed you by as you felt your heart rate slow and your limbs grow heavier. Even as you tried to keep yourself awake in hopes of eventually finding a way to return to Miguel, the sensation of warmth that blanketed you compelled you to close your eyes.

And then you were home.

#yandere #yandere x reader #x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #yandere miguel o'hara #atsv x reader #yandere atsv #male yandere #big hero 6 #i could have been sleeping but i did this instead

206 notes · View notes

permian-tropos · 2 years ago

Text

metropolis, an essay

today in the new york metropolitan area, the sky is getting chalky overhead again, due to wildfire smoke spreading from canada. while the west coast has been pummeled by wildfire smoke year after year, the east coast finally gets its fair share of the most aesthetically consonant part of the climate crisis—where the sky turns scary apocalyptic colors and the air tastes like ash. two things are on my mind: that the wealth hoarders who used their power to delay critical action against climate change deserve rage, and that the rising ride of global fascism is poised to co-opt that rage and then drive us all into hell.

I’m gonna write a little essay about it, most of the facts off the top of my head, I hope my memory is correct about everything. it’s about the most impactful movie of my life, that is also my ideological nemesis.

one of the first films I ever watched (first time I was like, two years old) that stuck in my mind was fritz lang’s metropolis, and I’ve revisited it over and over throughout the years and I have a tendency to shove it and my analysis of it down people’s throats every chance I get. because it is gorgeous and striking and very worth watching—if you have the extremely important context that the co-writer of the film, fritz lang’s wife thea von harbou, joined the nazi party, while fritz lang divorced her and fled germany, evading the nazis’ attempts to recruit him into their propaganda machine.

metropolis is very dear to my heart because visually it was extremely inspired by new york city, and I cannot help but think of the german expressionist haze over the skyscrapers when I see pictures of downtown manhattan consumed by wildfire smoke.

it is a nazi film that was directed by a man seemingly who did not realize he was making a nazi film, because it didn’t aggressively scapegoat anyone or promote german nationalism or call for militarism and conquest. that is why I perversely love this film; it so aptly demonstrates fascism sneakily corrupting a socialistic message long before people have been tricked into racial hatred. it shows you the seed of bad ideology.

metropolis tells the story of a deeply unequal society of upper and lower classes, where the proletariat labors in a hellscape under the city while those on the surface enjoy high culture and luxury while managing those below.

I’m not going to discuss the main character of the film much but he is a rich ass boy whose call to adventure is that he goes down and sees how badly the workers are treated and compares their toil to victims being sacrificed to a barbaric god (european capitalists be like: what are we a bunch of indigenous people? but okay sure, mechanistic rather than religiously-motivated human sacrifice is normalized in capitalist society, is a point I’ll gladly make)

blaaaaaaarghh look at that guy. it’s moloch!! the devil himself. eating the shit out of the working class.

there are two characters who propose solutions to the workers, and fittingly one is the doppelganger of the other. the saintly maria promises the workers that a savior will come to resolve the class contradictions between the “head” (upper class, management) and the “hands” (laborers). he will be the “heart” and this sounds nice but you have to remember this is nazi shit so what I see is that this abstract idea of a city/state/nation’s “heart” is the seed of fascism

not to mention, that people have been sorted into “head” and “hands” is treated as a fact of nature. the proletariat will always be the dumb brutish power and those who manage them will always be the brains behind society. the only way to resolve the contradiction is to... <3 bring them together in love and peace and harmony <3

and QUITE INTERESTINGLY TO ME, there is a total omission of any sort of enforcement of class inequality by a police force. there is like, one character who is a bit of a henchman/secret police hired by the protagonist’s father, the city ruler, but other than that, no cops are putting the working class in their place. state brutality is not needed to convince the proles to stay in their place. just their intrinsic understanding of their place in the world

fascist propaganda pretends that the world runs the way it does on natural inherent distinctions between human beings, and that no enforcement is needed, while it actually is the most cop ass ideology of all time.

so what is the “heart” that unites the national bourgeois ruling class and the proletariat without eliminating the class distinctions between them and simply causing them to be equal human beings...? if you remember this is a nazi film you may guess the real answer (hating scapegoated minorities), but the film skillfully avoids specificity because it was co-written by a nazi and a possibly unsuspecting non-nazi. there are no villainous subhuman groups in the film. just... well... a nonhuman villain and the single bad guy who creates her.

presenting the alternative to maria’s pacifism is the glorious ~robot maria~ who is famous for inspiring george lucas in his design of c-3po and doctor who in its design of the cybermen.

don’t worry, those beams of light give her a pretty face so she can pass as an adult human female and trick those gullible workers and bougies alike into wanting to have fuck with her

she is essentially a golem, created by a rather jewish-coded villain (I recall the doors in his lair have stars on them, albeit five pointed, not six), who wants to undermine society by inciting it into violent revolution. but he’s not literally jewish, so that could fly under the radar. he’s just a mean and nasty magician-scientist with a grudge against the city’s ruler and lust for his dead wife. but instead of recreating the dead wife, the city’s ruler commands him to make the robot into maria so she can be discredited to the workers because even her liberal ass bullshit is too much for him.

the inventor lets his robot loose on the underworld and she riles the workers into a frenzy and calls upon them to smash their machines, rise up to the surface, and destroy the city. in the meantime she also puts on a hot sexy dress and dazzles the bourgeois with cabaret or whatever basically it’s decadence the movie is portraying decadent degenerate lust as distracting the bougies from what’s going on below

this is the cultural marxist agenda: sexy ladee. but of course the movie itself IS this very spectacle embodied, you get to look at this sexy robot while shaking your head and going I don’t agree with that

anyway the workers, because they are very stupid, make a critical mistake in their revolution: they forget about their children and leave them behind in the underground as it is being flooded because they’ve destroyed the critical infrastructure keeping it un-flooded.

because the working class would never rise up for the sake of their children’s future! no they don’t care about that they’re just yknow selfishly trying to escape a horrific life of toil in a literal hell, because an evil robot tricked them into being angry and also noticing there are no fucking cops in this city so who’s stopping them from revolting

anyway thanks to the brave actions of rich boy and pacifist liberal maria, the future of white working class children is secured. rich boy is declared to be that savior and “heart” of metropolis (oh yeah and that big machine they smashed earlier was called the heart machine).

I feel like I’ve made my point clear enough throughout this essay, but in conclusion: metropolis promises to resolve class contradictions by simply granting an idea of a nation or of some nebulous “heart” to the bourgeois and proletariat alike. it does not ask society to be restructured, it does not question the unequal state of things, it simply says: we need a savior to make people feel unified.

and so it presents the nazi vision without once promoting genocide or imperialism. once you’ve been coaxed into ignoring the role that state oppression plays in maintaining class, once you’ve been convinced through lies of omission that the working class is made of humans who are inherently workers and the owner/ruler/manager class is full of inherent brainlords who were born to manage and dictate, you will start to be pulled down the road to fascism.

and it’s still a beautiful movie. I never forget that, I never try to pretend it is ugly or does not move me. I’m just aware of the games it’s playing and how its message eventually leads into the genocide of my ancestors.

finally: we stan robot maria, who is mother af, and is trans jewish golem coded to me, and also right

#long post #cw nazi mention #what do i fucking tag this lol #I just wrote it on a whim #share it if you like

36 notes · View notes

chrysalis-the-butterfly · 11 months ago

Text

Katya: A Poem

"Goncharov" is a 1973 Martin Scorsese film that Tumblr collectively invented in 2022. I'd heard of it, but didn't take too much interest in it. It was only recently that I found out that "Goncharov" had a sapphic ship, between Katya and Sofia. That was what piqued my interest.

In a flurry of activity, I wrote a poem.

I am indebted to all the Tumblr bloggers who came before me, whose creations were captured in this "Goncharov" master doc and this collection of quotes. I hope you enjoy the poem I strung together from your posts!

If you reblog this, make sure to add the tags #unreality and #unrealism so people who would find it triggering don't see it. Remember to Gonch responsibly!

Yekaterina Mikhailova.

That was my name.

It was a name that meant nothing,

because I was nothing.

My father’s daughter,

my brother’s sister.

For a time, we were rich.

Then our father received a visit from his co-workers

in the mafia.

He came between them

and his daughter.

He died with a smile on his face.

For the next three years, we were poor.

My brother and I,

living – no, merely surviving –

together on the streets,

made a resolution:

never again would we fall so low.

Never again would we be so weak.

So penniless.

So worthless.

We tracked down our uncle.

Thanks to him, we joined the mafia ourselves –

me first,

my brother later, more reluctantly.

He learnt not to question what I did,

no matter how much of a father

he wanted to be to me.

I only have one mother, one father, one brother, one uncle,

but I could trace a path

from Naples to my childhood home in Moscow

with the blood of all the men

who told me they loved me.

…

Later, I trained as a spy.

It was in that line of work that I found Lo Straniero.

The stranger.

He told me his real name was Leonid Goncharov.

I chose to believe him.

What is marriage,

but a way to escape the names of our fathers?

When I walked towards Goncharov

at the altar,

I thought that would be the moment

I would finally become someone

real enough

to have flesh and blood

to call mine.

Perhaps the name Yekaterina

wouldn’t sound so empty on my lips.

And with those same lips

I called his name,

and smiled at him in front of God,

and kissed him in the dark of our room.

And all I became was his wife.

A wedding is no different to a funeral,

is it not?

The old Yekaterina died to Goncharov that day;

he took my name from me,

my very history,

and I allowed him that.

My husband is a man who collects things he can use.

A pistol,

a pocket watch,

a woman’s love,

a wife.

My father would have needed me to marry,

so I did.

Goncharov would have needed me to love him,

so I did.

I truly did.

Oh, I was a good woman, wasn’t I?

A wife when he needed someone to bed,

a sister when he needed someone to argue with,

a mother when he needed to cry...

Is that all women were in his eyes?

Actors?

Pretty dolls to dress up and spin around

according to his needs?

No, I shouldn’t be so harsh.

It wasn’t his fault

he could only ever fall in love with men.

But the way he treated me?

That was his fault.

I needed a new place to exist.

I found you in the fruit stand.

…

Sofia Ambrosini.

That was your name.

With your serpent bracelet twinkling,

you stooped to pick up the fallen apple

that had escaped my basket

and rolled towards your leg –

the right one,

the one made of wood.

I recognised from your false leg

and your false snake

that you were in the same world as me –

the same world of murder

whose space we shared precariously.

But in that moment

we could be two women in a market

shopping for two men,

me my husband,

you your brother.

Because it’s so hard to make friends in a world of murder.

But here we were in public,

under the Sun,

and just for a while,

we could pretend we were women

who knew each other from …

somewhere.

Just making friends.

Just leading each other into temptation.

It was the apple’s fault.

It was the apple that made me bring up Adam and Eve.

There we so many strange apples at that market.

I imagined the wild way they looked

was how they looked in the Garden of Eden.

But then you said,

“I never understood why it had to be an apple.

Why an apple?”

I answered, “I don’t know.

Because it’s always been an apple, I suppose.

It’s easier to recreate in art.

All the painters and sculptors

and everyone else who makes those choices,

they all came together and decided

that an apple looks pretty simple –

nice, smooth, round,

easy enough to draw in a tree –

and now everyone sees nothing but apples

in the Tree of Knowledge

ever after.

So it’s always apples.”

I will never forget your response.

“The dullest possible produce.

The Forbidden Fruit is supposed to be

something unusual,

something special.

All the knowledge of the world

and of each other

and of the realisation

that these two fools are

running around the Garden

with their bottoms bare

in front of the Almighty.

An apple doesn’t seem right for that.

It’s dull.

It’s a thing for pastry and postcards.”

“What would you pick instead?” I asked.

“Pomegranates,” you said immediately. “No question.

It’s the fruit that the God of the Dead used

to trick the Goddess of Spring

into staying with him in the Underworld.

She tasted the seeds

and she was forced to stay down there

for half a year, every year,

forever.

A fruit so powerful

it can trap a goddess

seems like the kind of fruit

that can banish humanity from Paradise.”

We paused.

We made eye contact.

“Tastes better than apples, too,” you added.

And it looks like a jewel

when you split it open.”

I ate a pomegranate panna cotta

in the bistro later that day.

And when I licked my lips,

I immediately understood you.

I did like apples,

but pomegranates?

They were amazing.

I’d go to Hell for them.

I’d go to Hell for you.

…

“Oh, it’s six already?”

Goncharov said to me when I returned home.

“The clock’s broken,” I replied.

“It’s been six for hours.”

If only time would stop for us.

…

I was raised Orthodox,

but Goncharov and I had been attending a Catholic Mass

to better fit in with the locals.

I was unsettled by the topic of Father Gianni’s sermon:

the sins of the flesh,

the importance of resisting Earthly temptations,

and the necessity of self-control in this life,

thereby preparing for glories to come.

Were there any glories to come?

You, Sofia, got up to leave in the middle of the sermon,

heading for the stained-glass Virgin Mary,

and you whispered as you passed,

“Take your glories where you may.”

And like the fishermen who left their nets

to follow Jesus

and become fishers of men,

I got up

and followed you.

I did not know how my husband felt about me doing that.

I did not care.

I started partaking of apples and pomegranates

in equal measure.

…

Sofia, you told me you had never even touched a gun before.

But you were clearly too skilled

when those men cornered you

and you took them all down.

Admit it.

You just lied because

you wanted me to give you that “hands-on” shooting lesson,

didn’t you?

“Are we not all murderers in some way, Katya?”

you said to me when I challenged you.

“After all, a human being is a heart.

Break that, and how can it go on living?”

I had to ask,

“Don’t you have a broken heart, Sofia?”

“It still beats, Katya,” you said, quietly.

“It still beats.”

…

For me, it’s always been the darkness I liked;

the way the lights roll off the water between the alleyways

reminds me of the past.

…

You were adamant in your belief

that all memory is treachery.

But one of my favourite memories

was us together in my husband’s house,

after dinner at the casino,

me in my evening gown,

you dressed as a waiter.

You’d asked, “What’s your poison?”

I’d answered, “Whatever you’re having, darling.”

For the first time since moving to Naples,

I shook off the white furs

and showed you my dress –

the woman

under the animal.

“You look good in red,” you said to me.

Then you called me lisichka.

Little fox.

Which should have sounded wrong,

a Russian pet name in an Italian accent,

but that night it sounded right.

I returned the compliments.

“And you look good in green,

kukolka.”

Little doll.

I gave you one of my pearl necklaces.

“Every woman should be allowed

to feel like she is looked at

beautifully.”

My husband’s voice resounded in my head:

“Time isn’t like your pearls, Yekaterina.

You can’t buy more.

You think you can own time by wearing it,

but it just beats itself into your bones instead.”

Well, no-one can tell me what I can and can’t buy.

…

“If I were cursed, Sofia,

then I would never have found you.”

“You could still lose me.”

“Never.”

…

I started being Katya,

being myself,

not because I fell into my role as Goncharov’s wife,

but because I discovered my inability.

My unwillingness.

I knew he cared for me,

but not beyond the presentation we put on for his peers.

The peers who could end his life at any moment.

And it wouldn’t be so unbearable

if we were at least still friends,

but all of that went to Andrey –

the friendship, the love, the care –

at least as much as Goncharov was capable of

beyond his own inadequacies.

Andrey could not live loyally,

so let’s see how he does in death.

…

I didn’t want Goncharov’s name in your mouth.

I should have taken his money and left.

It’s not obvious why I didn’t.

All this time wandering the wreckage of his house –

I’m sorry, Sofia, it must have killed you.

“Unlike you,” you said to me,

“I do not lure to cannibalise.

I watch, and I starve.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Well, stop it!

What do you take me for?

Stop watching and devour me in full already,

won’t you?”

So you did.

I must have looked like a jewel

when you split me open.

…

“I’ll stay with you tonight, if you’ll have me.”

“I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

I lay in bed with you.

We wanted to do so much,

but ended up doing so little.

I ran my foot up and down your leg –

the right one,

the one made of wood.

I thought of what I knew

(what little I knew)

about your past –

how your Jewish family came to Naples,

how you lost them somewhere,

how the Poor Clares took you in and cared for you,

how you searched for your family amidst the Nazis,

how you lost that leg in the riots.

“The world wants you dead,” I said,

more to myself than you.

You turned to me.

“Do you want me dead?”

I forced myself to meet your eyes.

“No.”

You shrugged.

“Then the world doesn’t want me dead.”

We stayed in bed together for a while after that.

…

We were always wasting time we never had.

How could I love something which was never there?

Oh, darling, that’s just grief.

Time is like blood,

and I have wasted both.

We could not go on forever,

could not fight the story,

could not step outside the marriage

or the mafia

or else.

We were animals,

and animals, whether wild or tamed,

cannot fight the inevitable.

“Time stops for no-one, Katya.

Not even us.”

…

“What’s on your mind?”

“Wishful thinking.”

“Sofia, I’m not cut out for the life you’re offering me.

That different life.

I am chained to my history –

a short chain.

That’s why I cannot leave with you.”

That’s why you and I

and my husband

and his lover

and your brother

and our enemies

are all in this boathouse.

November’s the cruellest month of the year,

and Naples is full of fools.

…

“Of course we’re in love!” I scream at Goncharov.

“That’s why I tried to shoot you!”

He laughs and cries at the same time.

“If we really were in love,

you wouldn’t have missed.”

He’s right.

Our love was a grenade,

and now all that remains is shrapnel.

He loved me, but only for a minute.

I don’t know if he could handle any more.

Love cannot be bought;

otherwise, we would have had a happy marriage.

When we got married, I drew this line

between us and the world.

He’s crossed that line,

and I can’t go with him.

He and I are,

I think,

finally out of time.

He has destroyed and betrayed himself

for nothing.

That is his worst sin.

My inability to be loyal to my husband

is what saved me.

And what now kills him.

What could now kill you, if you let it.

…

You are pleading with me.

“We can have the Forbidden Fruit

and it can be whatever we want!

Let it be a pomegranate!

Let us glut ourselves on it!

And why do we have to follow everyone else’s rules

about what is and isn’t forbidden, anyway?

None of us in this boathouse

are living within the law in the first place.

There is blood on everyone’s hands.

Can’t you and I sin a little sweeter?

Can’t you admit that the sin you want most

isn’t a sin at all?

Can’t you spit out the lies you’ve swallowed

in the Hell you found yourself in?

We could grow our own garden somewhere!”

No, Sofia.

This is my garden,

my Tree of Knowledge,

better the Devil I know,

and you wish you were my Serpent,

but this is my Underworld to rule

as much as any queen can rule there,

unhappy

but resigned.

Go, Eve.

Grow your garden alone.

The Forbidden Fruit is there to be eaten,

to force us to go,

to let us step outside the walls meant to keep us in.

But you just can’t make everyone eat.

The pomegranate is within my reach,

but I have lost my appetite for seeds.

…

I do what Goncharov would do,

and you know what that means.

Death.

Goncharov has never meant anything else.

I will die like my father,

with a smile on my face.

I will die for you.

You were once a little girl, alone and scared,

but that girl is long dead.

The Sofia that lives now?

The world should fear her.

Damn them as they would damn us.

But don’t you ever raise a hand to me.

…

Sofia, don’t cry.

There’s no use trying to rewrite the story now.

Sofia, get out of this boathouse.

Take my boat.

It’s fine.

I won’t need it anymore.

Go, zolotse.

Leave Naples.

Leave Italy.

Leave the mafia behind.

But take your two candlesticks with you.

Light them on a Friday evening,

and watch the red of the sunset

wash over the white of the candles.

Sofia, take your day of rest.

No, a year of rest.

Make every day a Shabbat.

Remember to bless yourself.

Sofia, choose wisely what you do now,

because it might be the last time you get to choose.

“All memory is treachery.”

I wonder how you will remember me.

8 notes · View notes

stonewallsposts · 2 years ago

Text

16 personalities questions: 16-18

Going through these in a more in-depth way gave me the idea that when I finish all these questions, I'm going to go back and use these answers to give more thoughtful responses to where I am on the spectrum of each statement. Then I'll plug those into the quiz and see if it gives me a different personality type than the ENFP-A that I originally got. As I mentioned, I was so closely in the middle that I had assumed I could probably take this on four different days and get four different responses. So it'll be interesting to see where I land after taking this much time to delve into where I fit. But given that I'm doing around three per day, it'll take 20 days total to finish it up, plus maybe another couple to settle Where on each statement's spectrum I fall.

Anyway, on with the responses.

16. You enjoy participating in group activities

In general, yes. I call myself an outgoing introvert, meaning that I enjoy group activities, but eventually I have to get away and be by myself in order to recharge my batteries.

But I do enjoy getting together with groups of people.

One of my favorites over the years has been our holiday meetings at my brother-in-law's place. His place has become THE place where I can get together with both my sons. While I talk to my younger son regularly on the phone, and visit him a few times a year in Vegas, and I also get together regularly with my older son, about the only place I see them together is when we all meet for the holiday get-togethers at my brother-in-laws.

But I love big get-togethers with friends and co-workers as well.

I had mentioned in a previous section that we have a pretty social office atmosphere. When covid hit back in 2020, and everyone was working from home, my boss was not happy. Our IT guy stayed on premises the entire time. I came back after a month, and a few others came back quickly enough too.

But as the time stretched on, and people stayed working at home, he was definitely missing the interaction. As we've hired on new people, one of the criteria has been finding someone who is willing to come in. I suppose that selection process has brought in people who are more comfortable socially, but for whatever reason, our office environment is filled with people who like the social aspect. So I love whenever we have parties or office lunches. We regularly gather to chat over things.

I used to do this at church when I was in leadership, but not anymore. Though we still get together after drive-thru prayer for dinner. Or at least we did last year.

Anyway, yes, I love group activities.

17. You like books and movies that make you come up with your own interpretation of the ending

I think I do. I'm trying to think of some movies or shows that have done this. It's not so much my own interpretation of the ending, but I certainly like shows that make me think.

I was watching a Korean show called One Spring Night a while back. It's a love story between a young single father, whose ex-wife had deserted him, and an independent librarian who falls in love with him.

The real hitch, in Korean society, is that he is a single father. Apparently that carries some sort of stigma. People figure there must have been something wrong with him to make his wife leave him, or maybe he just has bad 'juju' that caused the misfortune. Then there is a whole stigma about the woman getting involved with him because she would have to raise a child that isn't her own, which again, is apparently a really big deal in Korean society. All this is complicated by the fact that the girl is in a long-term relationship with a guy who checks all the boxes for marriage material, but who she clearly doesn't connect with, and is feeling increasingly distant.

When she does finally decide to end it, the boyfriend tries to override this by saying it's not just her decision to make. He goes behind her back to get her father's permission. And then the role of parents in their daughter's decision comes up. The perspective of how both guys match up on the list of marriage material comes into play.

What made me think was that in the show, this is portrayed as societal pressure. But I was recognizing that here, some of these same pressures are being applied by women on themselves. For example the list of qualifications that many women judge potential mates by, is essentially the same as those employed by the Korean parents. Of course self-imposed restrictions are always more acceptable than those placed on you from outside, so there is that, but at any rate, there was a lot that I found interesting in that show. The role of society and the honor/shame culture that makes it so difficult to go against the grain.

Another movie that made me think was Munich. The story is about the PLO's killing of Israeli athletes at the 72 Munich Olympics and the subsequent retaliations. The Israeli's decide to retaliate with a series of public executions of the responsible palestinians, with the stated goal that "the world will understand that killing Jews will be an expensive proposition." But then the palestinians begin to hunt the Mossad agents as well and exact even more revenge. The entire scenario brings up questions about following orders blindly, the moral questions involved in doing so. And in particular, it made me think of the Jews entering the promised land and needing to execute the people living there. We know from reading the Bible, that the Lord was finished with the people living in the land, and that they had been given ample time to repent, but hadn't. This judgment was on them for their sins. But the individuals that had to go into those cities and hack down man, woman, and child, didn't have that luxury. They didn't know what the history was, they were merely being told to follow this order, and that if they didn't, there would retribution not only on their heads, but on the entire congregation. That's not an easy thing to swallow.

I remember the charge that the Israelites gave Joshua- We will listen to you, but only be sure that you are following the Lord.

There have been a lot of developments over the last 100 years with regard to this. The classic Nazi defense at the Nuremburg trials was that they were 'just following orders'. They had no choice.

This was overruled in that the sheer moral horror of the acts should have been understood as immoral, regardless of the command structure, and they had, as human beings, a moral obligation to not follow those orders.

So would I, as a believer, follow an order from God to kill another human? There are all kinds of questions that pop up, I know, but these are the questions that the movie confronted.

Anyway, yes, I do like books and movies that make me think. The specific statement- do I like such that make me "come up with my own interpretation of the ending"…. I'm not sure I can think of a particular book or movie that has made me do that.

Perhaps some of the Italian movies, which don’t seem to have 'endings' per se. Their modus operandi seems to be to show a slice of life. Things happen and then the end of portraying the events comes, but there doesn't seem to be a resolution. American movies like to tie things up. Italian movies don't. I guess that's more true to life, but it also doesn't feel as satisfying.

I'm not sure if this is the kind of thing they are talking about with finding my own interpretation. I decide to google this very thing. Some of the movies they listed, that I had seen were Lost in Translation, Total Recall, Gone Girl, Inception, Blade Runner, the Graduate, and the Prestige. I liked all those movies, so I suppose I do.

18. Your happiness comes more from helping others accomplish things than your own accomplishments

Interesting statement. I do love helping other people, and the times I'm most satisfied with in my life have been when helping others. We took in a friend from church who was essentially homeless and kept her dog for 5 months, and then she too stayed with us off and on until she got her own place again. Because of that, we ended up having another lady we knew stay with us for 15 months. She was homeless at the time, and without our help, I'm sure she would have been permanently homeless. She is now back on her feet and doing well. Those were difficult days, but at the same time, some of the things I'm proudest of. Any of the people I've prayed for, and spent time helping, those are moments I wouldn’t trade and I've found them the most satisfying in my life.

So I suppose that my happiness does come more from helping others, but then again, I wouldn’t be in a position to help them had I not accomplished things on my own too. Or at least it seems that way to me. Perhaps the Lord would have blessed me enough to give out, even had I not been working towards my own accomplishments.

Back around 2005 or so, I had the opportunity to go to work for Cartoon Network. I was doing freelance work for them on the Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends show, and several of the guys that had been at our studio, had moved on to work full time for CN. I was offered the chance, but chose to remain freelance so that I could continue to devote more time to the ministry work I had been doing. Several of the guys have gone on to better careers because of that move. My freelance work eventually dwindled until I had to give it up altogether and move where I am now.

I don't know if I would have had a better, more fulfilling work career, but I certainly wouldn't have had as many ministry opportunities as I did. So I have made specific decisions in my life because I wanted to serve others more than myself.

In the last four years, after having been blessed with more financial stability, I've often wondered if I should have quit freelance earlier and gotten a job. Perhaps I would have been making more, and I certainly would have been in a better financial position, but I'm happy now, I was happy then, so I suppose, while we can always second-guess our decisions, I'm not going to. I'm just going to be content in the circumstances I find myself in and let it be.

And since the statement was particularly directed towards not just helping others in general, but helping others "accomplish things", maybe I should try to address that as well. I do, when I have the chance, like to see others succeed. I'm not jealous of others accomplishments, I don't get envious when other people are given accolades or recognition. I will offer help to just about anyone that asks me... at least if I know them already. I'm not gonna hand out money to solicitations on the street. But if a friend, or co-worker needs a hand, I'm usually up to help as much as I can.

The answer to the question then is yes, my happiness comes more from helping others.

0 notes

juminsmysticmc · 3 years ago

Note

can i get a headcanon of MC that working on her office til late and accidently forget to tell the RFA and doesn't realize that her phone also dead? thankyou so much!!!! <33

RFA with a Mc who works till late without telling them

You all already know that my fav co worker decided to give up her job and left me with a lot of work? Like, I need to get the whole shop together…well, whatever, I totally feel this request. I lately go back home two hours later and usually my mom calls me, wondering why I still didn’t come back home, ahahah!

Jumin

,,Make sure you find her! Check every CCTV you find around her workplace, leave nothing open. Make sure to check every phone call. The kidnapper could want something in return. This is my wife, I need her to be safe in my arms again!’’ Jumin hissed, his voice strict, filled with panic directed at the red haired man who was sitting in one of Jumin’s high tech rooms.

Jaehee was taking care of everything else and was currently going to your workplace.

You disappeared.

No one saw you, heard you, or knew where you went.

Jumin already tried to reach out to other co-workers of yours, but most of them were just idiots who told him that they didn’t care.

,,She will be safe, I promise,’’ Seven told Jumin, noticing that the black haired man was panicking.

Suddenly, Jumin's phone rang.

In full hope that it could be you, he quickly took out his phone, realizing with disappointment that it was Jaehee, whose voice he didn’t even want to hear.

Hoping that it could be something about you however, for once he accepted the call.

,,He accepted the call, Jaehee!’’ someone said, whose voice Jumin knew way too well.

,,Jumin? It’s me, Mc. My boss asked me to finish something and no one else was willing to stay with me.

I forgot to call and when I went outside and saw that it was dark, I realized my mistake… but my phone was dead and Driver Kim wasn’t there anymore…’’ you mumbled.

You didn’t see Jumin at that very moment when you told him, but Seven could see how his face changed from sickly pale into a normal skin color.

Of course your direct way was your shared home and back there, Jumin made sure to hug you, feel your warmth, and remind himself that you were safe in his arms.

The end of the story was that Jumin made sure to give you the best powerbank for moments like these and finally asked you to make his biggest dream get fulfilled: you joining his company as a second assistant…

Zen

,,Hello, Princess, I have no idea where you are, but I thought we were supposed to meet at six? I’m waiting for you. Please listen to your mailbox,’’ Zen sighed as he cut the call.

You were already an hour late - something that never happened before.

The two of you agreed on meeting in front of your favorite restaurant - Zen planned a surprise for you, but this was the last important thing he had in his mind.

He was worried and scared.

The worst part was that your phone was somehow turned off.

The white haired man waited a few more minutes before he just went off - he had to find you.

You, on the other hand, were still at the company.

As Zen’s manager, you wanted to make the best out of his next comeback.

The clothes you were supposed to wear this evening were hanging behind you while your mind was concentrated on the love of your life, who was currently going crazy for you.

Zen made sure to call the security. They, without checking first, told him that there was no one left.

Zen tried to check home - without success.

When the white haired man couldn’t find anything, the best he could think of was the RFA, who immediately came to his aid.

Just an hour later, you finally decided to go back home, the date long forgotten as you sleepily made your way towards your home.

,,If he kidnapped her… I don’t know what I should do? I - I wanted to propose and now this!’’ he sobbed, making your heart skip a beat.

,,I think he either let go of her voluntarily or she was never kidnapped,’’ Saeyoung commented when he saw your blushed face, you waiting between frames.

It was as if the scene was cut out of a drama - Seven made sure to video tape it - Zen jumped into your arms and you cried, ,,Yes, I want to marry you’’

Afterwards, the both of you cried together and hugged each other longer before Zen asked you about your whereabouts.

That’s when each of you realized that something went wrong - you forgot the date and forgot to charge your phone, and he trusted the security man way too easily…

Yoosung

,,Oh, only 30 percent left. I need to get a charger,’’ you sighed when you looked at your smartphone the last time.

This,however, was at noon, before you were burdened with a lot of work.

Since you were in a medical shop and a lot of patients came in, you didn’t even have the time to realize that your phone was dead.

You just concentrated on taking patients, giving them what the prescription said and put every document you had to finish behind you.

This had the consequence that when the shop was closed at 6 p.m., you had to finish a lot of work.

Being overwhelmed and stressed about the amount of work you had, you didn’t realize that Yoosung, at home, didn't know that you would come home late.

When he came home earlier than he usually did and couldn’t find you anywhere, he already could feel the panic and fear in himself.

Yoosung decided to wait for half an hour, beginning to cook and tidy up your shared place, but quickly afterwards decided to inform the RFA that you still didn’t arrive.

When you were already two hours late, he suddenly feared the worst and decided to call you.

,,Huh? The phone seems to be off,’’ he mumbled.

And that’s when his panic attack kicked in.

No one seemed to respond to the phone at your workplace… Well, of course you didn’t respond to the unknown caller, not knowing that it was your husband since the shop was supposed to be closed.

Yoosung feared the most and decided to search for you, beginning from your workplace to find some clues.

He was already tearing up just thinking about the fact that something could have happened to you, his wife, the one he loved the most.

,,Mc…?’’ he whispered to himself when he saw you from the window, writing something down.

You on the other side only noticed Yoosung after he knocked against the window, making you finally leave some work aside and instead go home.

,,Your hands are sweaty…’’ you chuckled, feeling his hand in yours.

,,I…was scared something happened, of course I’m sweaty…’’

Jaehee

Five minutes.

The both of you live five minutes apart from the cute little coffee shop the both of you opened, so how could it be that you, the one who was always punctual and on time, wasn’t at home yet?

Jaehee began to look at her fingers, but quickly glanced back at her watch.

Only three seconds passed ever since she checked the time the last time.

Jaehee tried to take a deep, calm breath, before she checked the time again to find out it had only been three more seconds.

,,If I wait more, more time will pass,’’ she said to herself and quickly took out her phone.

Her lockscreen had a cute picture of the both of you with a cat filter, something she didn’t really like because she remembered the c-fur, but it made her smile and lose track of time.

,,Six more seconds passed,’’ she realized and quickly dialed your number.

However, the voice mailbox was the only thing she could reach.

Jaehee, fearing that she would be left alone once again, couldn’t wait any longer and instead decided to check on you since half an hour passed by now and it was becoming way too risky.

With a pounding heart and sweaty hands, red face and trembling body, the young woman approached the coffee shop.

She was glad for a second that she learned judo and was sure that it would come in handy.

But instead, she was surprised with the sight of you cleaning one table.

,,Mc?’’ Jaehee called once, making you look up with big eyes.

,,What are you doing, Jaehee? I told you that I would be right back,’’ you smiled.

,,Yeah, half an hour ago. I feared the worst,’’ she sighed and quickly hugged you. The embrace was filled with love and was stronger than ever.

She was scared, and you knew it. You were sure to try your best to do everything for her to forgive you from then on…

Saeyoung

If you knew what the outcome would be, you would have made sure that your phone was charged.

If you knew how Saeyoung would feel afterwards, you would have made sure to write down a note to not forgive your fiancé.

Instead, you forgot to charge your phone and forgot to call him to tell him that you had a lot of things to finish, leaving him to fear the worst at home.

At first he didn’t worry, he knew that you were old enough and that you had a lot to do at work lately.

When one hour passed, however, Saeyoung could feel himself panic.

He tried to call you more than once while you were gone and when you still didn’t pick up the phone, he tried to track you.

Your phone being dead however, was unable to show him your location.

It was clear to him that someone who knew what they were doing was currently hiding you, sending him into panic mode.

He began to check CCTVs and nervously tried over and over again to check your location.

,,She must be in the building,’’ Saeyoung gasped when he noticed that there was no way that you could have exited the building without him seeing.

And so he immediately went out to search you, hoping for the best.

His biggest fear was that his father had something to do with him being unable to reach you.

He was prepared for the worst, to possibly find your dead body and follow you.

He wished for you to cheat on him instead of being dead, at least then he would have been sure that you were alive.

When you however met him right when you went to leave the building in front of the door, Saeyoung’s heart began to feel at ease.

,,Oh, did you want to pick me up? Did you see me coming out right now?’’ you asked happily.

Saeyoung’s golden eyes began to tear up, his lips began to tremble, and suddenly he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

The red haired man began to sob, cry, and moan your name in panic while he held you in his arms.

He was thankful, scared, and behaved like a child when he suddenly saw you healthy.

You were alive.

Since then, feeling bad about him panicking so much, you made sure to always have a power bank by your side and made sure to install an alarm for the time you were supposed to finish work, just in case you had to tell him that you would stay longer…

He wanted to keep you safe forever…

ᗰᗩᔕTEᖇᒪIᔕT

01.06.2022 // 23:22 MEST

380 notes · View notes

mrs-gucci · 3 years ago

Text

Mr. Handsy {Clyde Logan x wife!Reader}

@icarusinthesea :

Okay, okay. I think I've thought of something. Eh, it's a mediocre idea, but it does it for me. Fighting with Clyde followed by sweet, hot, nasty make up sex. I can not think of anything else. But whatever you write I'll love. 🥰

author’s notes: hello, hello! writers block has been hitting HARDCORE as of late, which is kind of a bummer, but luckily I’m feeling a bit better now! @icarusinthesea thank you for this request!! I hope it was worth the (very long) wait, and I send love to you, friend <3 <3

warnings: fluff. smut. club brawls. violence against an asshole. protectiveness. dom!Clyde. oral sex (m receiving). rough sex. unprotected sex/creampie.

(possible) tw’s: non-con touching (not by Clyde). physical conflict. sex in a public restroom.

word count: 1.9k

my general taglist peeps! @safarigirlsp @babbushka @mrs-zimmerman @dirtytissuebox @thepalaceofmelanie @einmal-im-traum @charliesahottie @gotham-city-uber-driver @gildedstarlight @slytheriin2002 clyde’s taglist peeps! @goddessofsprings @icarusinthesea @lumdelacour @readingreaver @eagerforhoney @trubluepensfan @beachwoodmonet if you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, the sign up is linked here and can also be found in my description :)

You had a bad feeling about this place from the very beginning, from the moment you stepped into this stupid sleazy club for your co-worker’s birthday.

Clyde decided to tag along, mainly to hang out with the other poor guys whose wives dragged them along tonight.

The bass pulses your eardrums as you make your way over to the booth that they’d claimed, saying some very loud ‘hi’s’ and ‘hello’s’ to everyone before taking a seat on Clyde’s lap.

Your outfit certainly matches the locale of tonight’s party, sexy and risqué while maintaining at least some coverage and dignity for your larger areas. Clyde’s been having some trouble keeping his eyes, and now that he can, his hands, off you.

His calloused flesh hand runs over your thigh and hip in a soothing manner, mindless in its movements over your exposed skin.

Soon, a good dancing song comes on and no matter how much you try to beg Clyde to join you on the crowded floor, he refuses, insisting that you go have some fun with your friends.

His eyes keep a close watch on you, knowing that unfortunately, it’s highly likely that some bonehead Joe will come along and think he can touch without permission.

He finds himself in a sort of entranced state, watching the way your hips move when you dance, watches your skin bounce and jiggle with each motion, sees the way the multicolored lights bounce off the sequins on your dress…

Sure enough, said bonehead Joe dances his way over to you, not-so-subtly checking you out from a bit of a distance before making his approach.

Clyde almost instantly leaps into action when his hand touches your hip and he slides in behind you. Thinking that the man behind you is Clyde, you start grinding against him a bit more, smirking.

But, only after a second or two, his motions and touch begin to feel awfully foreign. You’ve just truly begun to doubt your dancing partner’s identity when he leans down to whisper in your ear.

“Keep dancing like this and I’ll just have to take you home, babygirl.”

Goosebumps form on your skin in disgust the moment you hear an unfamiliar voice, yanking away from his grubby grip.

“How dar—“

“Hey, you!”

Your eyes widen and you look around the man to see a very angry-looking Clyde storming his way over to where you’re standing.

He turns the handsy man around with a hand on his shoulder, then gives him a shove. “Can’t ya see she’s married, asshole? Don’t you ever think ya can just go ‘round here, touchin’ what ain’t yours.”

“Cly—“

“Don’t ya even start with me right now, Y/N. I can’t believe ya didn’t stop ‘im, can’t believe ye kept grindin’ against ‘im.”

Your eyes widen. “Clyde, p-please, it’s not like tha—“

“I thought I told ya t’ can it, Y/N.”

You shudder at his commanding and harsh tone, immediately backing down and biting your lip as the tears swell in your eyes.

The man wears a small smirk, giving Clyde an equally rough shove backwards. “And what, you’re telling me she’s yours? Bullshit she is. Who’d ever wanna marry a one-armed redneck like you?”

Big mistake. Clyde used to just stand down and shut off whenever someone made fun of his disability, but usually now, he just gets fucking pissed.

Sure enough, his jaw clenches and he quickly lunges at Mr. Handsy, forcefully knocking him to the scuffed dance floor. Often times, mostly due to his kind and gentle demeanor, you forget that Clyde’s a veteran. A special ops veteran, at that.

You can’t deny that bearing witness to his unbridled anger and dominance isn’t at least a little bit sexy, even if you do feel incredibly guilty about not realizing sooner that it wasn’t Clyde.

Like the coward he truly is, and that many men like him are, he flees the scene quickly when he looks up and sees the anger in Clyde’s eyes.

Meanwhile, you instantly rush up to him, apologizing repeatedly. “Clyde, I’m so sorry, I thought it was you and I didn’t mean to—“

He snatches your wrist, bending down so that his hot, slightly strained breath wafts across your face. “You’d better yer slutty ass into the restroom right fuckin’ now.” He growls, letting you go.

You nod, whimpering under your breath as you scurry off into the bathroom.

He follows after you, pushing you into the single stall before reaching around to lock the door.

“Clyde, please, I’m so sorry. I promise that I didn’t know it wasn’t you until he spoke and I pulled away right after that. I would never…”

He holds a hand up and you trail off, then crosses it back over his chest along with the other. When you look up at him, ready to apologize further, he gives you a subtle head shake and a faint smile.

“Get m’ cock out.”

You know, then, that he’s not mad, and you know exactly what he wants from you. You step up to him with a small smirk and pop the button on his Levi’s, pulling the zipper down before reaching in to fish out his half-hard length.

“Now stroke it. You know how I like it.”

Your hand holds a steady grip around the protrusion, starting off slow but quickening randomly, just as he likes it.

His head tilts back onto the cheap tiled wall, nostrils flaring as he exhales shakily. “Thaaaaat’s m’ girl, just like that.”

You speed up just a bit, focusing your pressure and ministrations on the upper half of his shaft, moving the little bit of excess skin up and down his shiny pink head.

“Mmmmffhhh.” He groans through pursed lips, hips rutting forward into your touch.

Suddenly, he pushes your hand away, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to cope with the sudden loss of stimulation on his pulsing arousal.

“Knees.”

You get onto your knees, using his shoes as cushioning.

“Mouth open.”

Your jaw falls open and he wastes no time in moving himself into proper position, sheathing himself fully in your mouth.

“Ghhhohhh, s-shit.”

You’re choking right off the bat, shoulders shaking with each violent cough.

“Yeah, take it. Gon’ make ye choke on me, shove m’ cock down yer lil throat ‘till ya can’t breathe no more.”

You somehow manage to moan around him in between your gags and coughs, lungs panicked for the rough cutoff of airflow by Clyde’s length. Tears begin to swell in your eyes, soon running down your cheeks.

His eyebrows are tightly knitted in the center of his forehead, skin glistening with the beginnings of sweat as his hips rut into your cavern even quicker and rougher now.

Clyde has to physically pull himself away from your mouth, shuddering as his cock bobs and throbs angrily at the loss of friction. His hand splays out on the wall, chest heaving as he takes a moment to re-gain composure.

Then, he looks down at you, gaze sizzling your very skin.

“Up. Turn yerself ‘round n’ bend over, ass out n’ legs spread nicely.”

You put yourself into the position, wiggling your ass just a bit for play after pushing your jean shorts down, earning you a harsh smack across your newly-exposed skin. He smirks when you squeal softly, giving himself a few lazy strokes as he steps up behind you, lips instantly attacking your neck.

“Yer gon’ walk outta ‘ere with all o’ my marks on your neck, hickeys n’ bite marks. Maybe then everyone’ll understand who it is ya belong t’."

His chin digs into your shoulder, then he’s thrusting forward, filling you up and stretching you out to the max. You gasp, eyelids fluttering as your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

“Ohhhhh.”

He groans into your ear, chin digging into your shoulder as he begins fucking you fast and hard. There’s nothing gentle or romantic about this union; it’s hunger and wanting, it’s pure carnal lust.

Tears quickly swell up in your eyes at the sweet pleasure currently surging through your body, tickling every nerve ending and igniting every pleasure center.

It’s humid in the club, the bathroom no exception and already, a sheen of sweat has formed on the surface of your skin. Clyde’s good hand takes an even firmer hold on the meat of your hips, hips thrusting at an impossibly fast pace.

“G’damnit, wrapped ‘round m-me so tight, fffuck Y/N. Such a lil’ cccunt, love shovin’ m’ b-big cock in ya, ssssplittin’ ya right in half--christ.”

You love how his accent gets thicker and thicker at times like this, so much so that sometimes you can’t even make sense of what he’s saying. It’s adorable.

“Mmm, C-Clyde! Please baby, please mmmake me cum!”

His lips latch onto the side of your neck, sucking as hard as they possibly can while he reaches around to rub your clit with the cool metal digits of his prosthetic.

Your hips instantly grind down on him, a shaky gasp leaving your lips. “Ohh god, mmmmmfffuck--right there! Yes, yes, Clyde!”

“Say y-yer mine.” He growls into your ear, panting. “Tell everyone who ya bbbelong to. Scream ma name w-when ya cum.”

“Y-Yours, all yours, Clyde. I’m yours!” You whimper.

Clyde fucks you with everything he’s got, biting into your skin and sucking more of the flesh until you’re littered with marks. It’s not long before you’re tumbling over the edge, body trembling as you release all over his shaft with a shout of his name.

“Clyde! C-Clyde, fuck!”

Not long after you, Clyde falls over the edge, desperately rutting and fucking each drop of his hot load deep into your spasming cunt.

“Y/N, g’damnit...fuuuckin’ s-shit!”

Both of you are rendered breathless as you come down from your respective highs. His lips and tongue gently soothe the harsh bites and bruises that have been left behind in his wake.

He sighs softly when he pulls out, helping you pull your shorts back up before tucking himself back into his pants. When you turn around, he crashes his lips into yours, hands resting gently on your hips.

“‘m real sorry fer that, Y/N; dunno what got int’ me. I didn’t hurt ya, did I?”

You smile, cradling his face in your hands. “Clyde, there is no need to apologize or feel bad for that. You know if I was uncomfortable, I would’ve stopped you or said something. I loved it, more than I probably should have, and I love you.”

His lips tug up into a soft, lopsided smile, relief flooding across his expression.

“I love ya too, Y/N, so, so much. Thank ya fer puttin’ up with me n’ bein’ mine.”

“No ‘thank you’ necessary, baby. I’m yours, always yours.”

Clyde grins, pulling you in for a hug as he repeats your words out loud.

“All mine.”

163 notes · View notes

anika-ann · 4 years ago

Text

Conundrum (A.B.)

Type: One-shot, challenge fic

Pairing: Andy Barber x fem!reader Word Count: 7700 (:

Summary: conundrum - a confusing and difficult problem or question

Andy Barber is a difficult man whom you have yet to understand. He certainly doesn’t make it any easier; and right before Christmas, he manages to surprise you again.

Prompt: You have to look for a gift impromptu

Warnings: a smidge of angst, a drop of awkward humour, mention of death (mild AU - both Laurie and Jacob!), alcohol consumption, feels, explicit language, reader gets called a dumbass... that’s it I hope, lemme know

A/N: This is my submission for the Happy Hoelidays challenge. There’s no hoeing tho, shame on me. Also, if you want some music to go with this, know that I listened to ‘God I Hope This Year Is Better Than the Last’ by SYML an obscene amount of times.

Andy Barber was an enigma.

Reporters liked to think he wasn’t; almost a year ago, they tore down all the walls he had built up to protect the privacy of his family and they shed light into startingly intimate details of his life – and where they couldn’t shed light, they used their imagination and sold it with a claim of having a reliable source. Naturally, it worked; there were always people willing to believe it just so they obtained more of juicy gossip material.

There were wanabe psychologists who would address his trauma and tried to analyse his personality, the consequences he would suffer in the aftermath of the tragedy, who attempted to strip down his soul just to get a few more reads and generally talked about him as if they were best friends, as if they knew him.

It was all a load of bullshit.

The truth, you thought, was that no one knew him. If you were being honest, you weren’t sure if even his wife ever had, truly – but that was you under the influence of the little information you bothered to gather from the influx of crap that the media provided the public with.

What you believed was that the reporters and all the self-proclaimed experts on him knew nada.

Andrew Barber was and always would remain an enigma; to the public, to the little what remained of his family after the death of his wife and son, to his co-workers – the category which included you. If you could even call yourself a co-worker; you were simply a secretary. Granted, one whose previous employer let her peek over their shoulder quite a bit so you learned a thing or two about law, but Andy Barber was the lawyer. The former DA from Boston, who moved over to rule the DA office of Portland, your home.

Even after having been working with him for nine full months, Andy’s thoughts and feelings didn’t get any easier for you to read or predict. When he wanted to let you know he was disappointed, he did. When he was truly angry with someone, well, he wouldn’t let it go unnoticed either.

Other than that, however, you would have had better luck trying to decode the actual enigma-encrypted messages sent during World War II.

Small talk didn’t last longer than three sentences from you each. Work-related affaires were discussed in his office with politeness and with calm, rather dispassionate mannerism. If you caught a hint of a smile when an important case that helped people went his way (or the office’s way really), you considered it a miracle that sent your heart reeling.

He would sometimes smile only for you if you brought him a coffee without him asking first, simply because he looked like he needed one; at those times, he would thank you softly and let slip in your first name instead of referring to you with your last. Those were your favourite moments.

Well, almost.

You found him with a tumbler and an expensive whiskey on occasion when you were leaving the office late; you never commented on it, but there were four times he actually silently invited you to have a glass with him. You refused the first time and accepted the other three.

Those nights, you got a glimpse of the mystery of a man hidden behind surprisingly soft mannerism, one which was in such a sharp contrast to his shark-like demeanour he displayed in front of the judge and the jury. His scars ran deep, his hopes had been shattered, his life in the past year as bitter as the overpriced liquor. Your heart cracked for him to the point of nearly breaking altogether.

And yet, it was beating for him too; behind all that hurt, you couldn’t but notice certain gentleness. Yes, he could be scary, downright terrifying and when his temper got the best of him, the true rage on display, he was a force to be reckoned with. But oh, that gentleness. The kind shattered soul he hid so well every morning, more so on the days right after your little heart-to-hearts. Trying to build a working relationship with him – a friendship of a sort, anything you wanted to call it – was a game of push and pull and more of a string of guesses than an effort that would bore fruit.

You might have already given up on that and instead, with the ferocity you hadn’t known you possessed, you kept punching the crush you had on him; that silly thing that would always call louder and louder after he revealed a piece of him on one of the precious nights, only to shut you out completely the next morning.

Andy Barber had never even remotely showed a romantic interest in you and by God, did you not blame him for not being interested in anyone at all as far you knew. While you considered yourself a fairly capable worker and half-decent person, you were aware you could never measure up to him. Just another reason to push down the feelings you had for him, ones that seemed to bloom with more intensity whenever he raised the corners of his damn lips, when he asked a question about you during those stupid nights as if he cared— nonsense. You had to get rid of those. He didn’t even like you, barely acknowledged you in the end. Or did he? You honestly didn’t know.

Bottom line was that if you couldn’t get close enough, then the reporters knew jack shit, no matter how much reading on him they had done or how many books on psychology, criminology and law and shit they went through. Many people knew Andrew Barber’s name, but no one could hope to know him.

And yet, those assholes still called and asked about him.

It was the fourth one that day; December 23rd, over a year from the accusation of Jacob Barber, and those fucking vultures still called Andy Barber’s office. They weren’t even good newspapers and news sites anymore; obviously, because every rational decent person would have let the poor man rest. But nope. Not them.

“Portland’s DA office, secretary of Mr. Barber speaking. How may I help you?”

“Oh, wonderful! Is there any chance I could talk to Mr. Barber personally?” the chipper of a man asked on the other end of the line and just by not giving his name, he raised suspicion; was it forgetfulness caused by his distress or intention?

Fortunately for him and unfortunately for you, you had to be polite. Hot-shot lawyers and other important people rarely returned the courtesy, but that was the world you lived in.

“There might be, Mr-?”

“Oh, Connor. Peter Connor.”

“Well, Mr. Connor, what is your legal issue?” you asked patiently, writing down his name automatically.

“Well, you see, I would rather talk with Mr. Barber about—my delicate situation, in private.”

Your eyes narrowed as you stopped scribbling and spared a brief glance towards the door to Andy’s office. It was opened ajar in what could be an invitation, but all blinds on both the door and the windows were down in typical fashion.

Talk in private?

Yeah, not gonna happen. You knew a few tricks that these assholes calling the office tended to pull and whoever this man was, you were growing more suspicious by the minute that he was not seeking legal advice.

You went back to your notes and wrote down the word liar right next to his name and a question mark. Was he a liar? One way to find out you guessed; you caught your phone between your ear and your shoulder, opening a new tab in your browser to google the name along with a wild guess of him being a reporter.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Connor, I’m afraid I will need more information before I put you through. And I will probably need to make you an appointment, my boss is a very busy man-“

“Oh, is he? Lots of cases in Andrew Barber’s new district, huh?”

The blood in your veins was set aflame even before the search was done, because in an instant, you knew for sure.

And then you had it confirmed by the results.

This jerk had even given you his real name, utterly shameless. Sure, he could have only had the same name as the journalist you found, but what were the chances? Two days after you told his colleague – who had made it through your vetting, got an appointment and even got past the reception desk before you spotted him for what he was – to get lost and not try again?

Your pulse skyrocketed along with your blood pressure. Technically, you didn’t owe Andrew Barber anything, but he was respectful enough, didn’t make much trouble and for most time, was an okay boss to you.

You owed him this much: he was a decent guy. Why couldn’t other people show a shed of basic human decency too and leave him the fuck alone?

“That depends, Mr. Connor,” you purred, barely holding the outrage locked inside. You felt both energized by your anger and achingly tired and done with humanity. You rested your elbows on the desk and leaned onto it with a sigh, massaging the bridge of your nose, eyes closed. “Is he going to have to sue your rag of a newspaper or will you and your colleagues finally get the memo and leave. His. Personal. Life. Alone?!”

You most definitely strained the last words through your teeth, but you didn’t care anymore if you were being rude. He was the fourth reporter today ready to ask about Andy’s personal matters. The FOURTH!! He was lucky you didn’t tell him to go fuck himself… explicitly.

“Are you threatening me?” the man demanded, his voice insulted, losing all traced of pretence.

As if you ever. You knew better than that, working with lawyers.

“Nice try, Mr. Connor. I will thank you to never call this office again unless you have legal issues or a relevant question which you should direct to our PR department anyway. And if you could extend this to all editorial staff, please, preferably to all editorial staff in the United States, that would be splendid. Have a good day. Happy Holidays.”

You slammed the phone down, missing the slot for it, not caring. You were sure he would hang up on his own.

“Asshole,” you muttered under your breath and hid your face in your palms, grunting, fingertips sinking into your hair.

“I hope you don’t mean me,” sounded from the doorway and you yelped, honest to god yelped and straightened in your seat, head snapping up-

-only to meet your boss’ curious gaze. Hurt and anger casted shadows over his beautiful cerulean irises, but there was no mistaking the melancholy and resignation on his face either.

“Of course not!” you blurted out quickly, panic rising in your chest.

How much had he heard? Was he going to fire you for being unprofessional? Did he figure out what was this about— of course he did, there was little room left for doubt. Your choice of words was pretty straightforward.

Andy bounced off of the doorframe he was leaning onto, not easing his stance – his arms remained crossed over his chest and had you not been so alarmed, you would have indulged in the sight of his biceps nearly cutting through the seams of his shirt.

“Why do I get the impression that whoever you were talking to was not the first person to call the office to feed on ‘the misery man’ that Andrew Barber is?” he more stated than asked, his tone unmistakably bitter.

You gulped as he approached your desk, nails digging into your palms. You had no idea what to say. Once again, you couldn’t quite read Andy; you had no idea where this was heading and how you should answer without setting him off, making him sadder or even more bitter. And without getting fired, obviously.

“I—uhm, well, I suppose you heard me, so you know he wasn’t the first—Mr. Barber. I apologize-“ His eyebrows rose a fraction and you didn’t dare to analyse why. “-if I was too loud. But--- humanity sucks.”

The moment the last two words left your mouth, you instantly regretted them, snapping your eyelids close and squeezing. You were sure you were about to have bloody crescents in your palms from your nails at this point.

Did you really just say that? To your boss, no less?

Way to go, me.

“Not wrong there. Why don’t you take your lunch break now?” he offered casually.

You nodded as you felt the tell-tale burn of tears forming in your eyes; fuck, this was humiliating. Why had he had to walk in exactly in that moment? And now using that tone?

He didn’t say anything else and you didn’t dare to look at him. Only when you heard him walk back to his office and close the door behind him, you opened your eyes and released the breath you were holding, your heart hammering in your chest.

Gulping and swallowing your tears before they could escape, you grabbed your purse and your coat, rushing out to the cold air of Portland winter.

✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

Andy didn’t bring up the incident again when you came back. You had a short list of assignments for the upcoming days off which you went over with him before parting ways for the holidays. You mentioned you would probably drop in tomorrow despite not necessarily having to, but wished him Happy Holidays in case you’d miss him during your brief visit.

The corners of his lips twitched at that, but he wished you the same. You supposed his holidays weren’t about to be happy – more like the opposite. Last year, he celebrated with his family, even if it might have been already falling apart. This year however…

Your heart cracked another fraction for the man and you wondered if you should leave some cookies for him in the office tomorrow at least. Then you realized he would probably hate it, either being bitter about feeling like a charity case or hating the reminder of what he had lost, what wasn’t waiting for him at home anymore. Not to mention that maybe even the poinsettia, which you had placed on his office window two days ago and neither of you commented on, was already too much.

The only cookies you baked that night were the ones you knew should stay in a box with apples for over a day, the cookies you were supposed to bring to your sister’s house for Christmas, because your nephew Harry loved them.

With cheesy Christmas songs in the background and a bottle of wine for the party of one, you kneaded the double batch of dough and couldn’t but spare your achingly handsome and likely lonely boss a thought and maybe… maybe a tear or two.

✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

The office was empty when you arrived on 24th at around half past four; everyone left as soon as possible, which was to be expected. Admittedly, despite not knowing what you would talk about with Andy, you found your heart sinking when you didn’t see light peeking through the blinds of your and his offices. You had expected him to be working to avoid being at home; but then again, you knew next to nothing about him. Maybe he was with a girlfriend. With a boyfriend. With former colleagues. With his deceased wife’s family. It was only assumption of yours that he might be lonely on Christmas.

You shook your head at your train of thought as you unlocked your office, mentally going over which files you needed to bring home, trying to eliminate the amount as not to endanger confidential information by taking them away from the safety of the bureau.

You froze in your tracks when you found a rather large piece of paper folded into a roof on your desk. A note, you realized, frowning and slowly walking to the suspicious object.

There were very few people who could enter your space, namely three: the janitor, you and Andy. The first option was unlikely, the second impossible, the third confusing. You didn’t understand why he wouldn’t just shoot you a text if he needed anything.

You halted in your steps, the air knocked out of your lungs when you noticed that the note was not the only new item on your desk.

There was a box.

A box roughly size of your extended palm. And if you weren’t mistaken… it looked like a jewellery gift box.

“What the hell?” you asked yourself breathlessly, your curiosity getting the best of you; more so as you recognized what was most definitely Andy’s handwriting on the paper.

Andrew Barber, your boss, with whom you weren’t sure what your relationship was – if there was any at all – might have got you jewellery.

Say that again?

A tiny voice in your head told you he might have just used the box for something else entirely, but that didn’t seem to be his style.

So you picked up the gift carefully, almost reverently removing the lid, your heart pounding in your chest, stomach twisting with pleasant anticipation; with the familiar rush that kids feel when opening a present with high hopes of what could await them inside.

Your lips parted in pure shock, you mind turning blank.

There were no words in English language to express how… how absolutely magnificent the bracelet inside was.

Five thin circles with symbols made of slender lines inside, looking like charms, but withing the body of the bracelet, one clasped to the next one with delicate ellipses. The metal reflected the fluorescent lights of the office, glimmering softly, appearing almost fluid, a thin stream of water trapped in a box.

You actually had to blink and it took all your willpower not to pinch yourself, because—how-

How had he known? Where had he got it? Holy mother of Jesus, how much had he spent on it?

And why get you a gift in the first place? You were… acquaintances at best. Yes, there were almost friendly moments, and then there were those nights, but this was---this- you couldn’t even---- think, apparently.

Keeping an eye on the opened box, you gently placed it back on the desk, afraid to even touch the metal itself. You blindly reached into your purse in search for your phone to dial the only number that made sense for you to dial at that moment.

It sure as hell wasn’t Andy’s.

Nothing but a dialling tone sounded for half a minute, the time seemingly endless. You fell heavily into your chair, still staring at the absolutely gorgeous and thoughtful gift.

How did he know?!

You fought the urge to roll your eyes as your sister still didn’t answer the phone and your hand automatically reached for your necklace to toy with.

And that was when it hit you.

Your necklace; one you got from your sister during the period of your biggest obsession with the Divergence series. Two arrows in a circle pointing different directions, the symbol for a ‘divergent’ person. Your eyes wandered over the five circles of the bracelet – scales, an eye, hands connected, a flame, a tree –, an incredulous chuckle escaping you.

But--- you didn’t think he would notice. You didn’t even wear it all the time, rather often, yes, and yeah, perhaps you did have a bit of a bad habit of fumbling with it when nervous-

“Hey sis! What’s up?” Amber’s voice sounded cheerily from the microphone. You jumped in your seat, startled by her as she interrupted your musing. “Please tell me you’re still coming, because Harry wouldn’t shut up about his favourite chocolate chip.”

You cleared your throat, barely able to comprehend what she was talking about, too caught up in your head.

“I—hi. Uhm- I need help actually,” you finally stuttered and you could practically feel her frown even over the phone.

“Oh? Is everything okay? You sound… a little strange.”

“That’s-“ not wrong. You scanned the office and listened in for the tinniest noise, making sure you were still alone. “I’m at the office and I--eh, I found a gift for me.”

“Awww, a secret admirer? Nice!” Amber chuckled, then abruptly stopped. “…unless it’s a stalker. You don’t think you have a stalker, right? Is that why you called me, so I could tell George? He’s not on duty-“

This time you did roll your eyes at the mention of her husband who happened to be a police officer.

“No, Amber, I have no stalker as far as I know. I’m pretty sure I can recognize my boss’ handwriting at this point.”

Nothing but silence could be heard from the other end for a good minute. You bit your lip in anticipation of… something.

And then: “You’re shitting me.”

“Not really-“

“Holy mother of-!” your sister squealed loudly and you winced, instinctively withdrawing from the phone. “Your boss got you a Christmas present?! --Wait. Is it a Walmart card? Because if it is, then this call is pointless, because that’s boring as-“

“No, Amber, he—he gave me a bracelet,” you admitted softly, your gaze once again wandering over the said object. Beautiful. Fragile. Yours, apparently. What?

When Amber only responded with silence again, words suddenly spilled from your lips, all the mixed feelings you had about receiving the bracelet released, relief singing in your veins as you vented.

“And-and it’s actually really beautiful and--- it’s thoughtful, because it has all the fractions from Divergence on it? But not like something you buy for ten dollars, only paying for the copyright or whatever and the quality is shitty, no, I mean--- it looks pretty, eh, delicate.”

It did, awfully so, which was why you still couldn’t make yourself to touch it even if you really, really liked it and wanted to do nothing but to wear it for the rest of your damn life.

“And expensive. I-- I think it might be real silver and…” you wavered, almost scared to share your last observation out loud for it seemed impossible for it to be true. “Amber, you know I looked through a lot of Divergence-related goods so I would know. It- it doesn’t look familiar at all, it’s--- I think it might be custom-made.”

You choked on the last word, tasting so strange on your tongue as you couldn’t quite believe that you were saying it. You felt--- incredulous to put it simply… and touched and- absolutely bewildered.

Silence stretched in the follow-up to your rambling and you felt your brows drawing together.

“…Amber? You there?”

“Oh yeah, I’m here,” she assured you swiftly, mischief curling around the tone of her voice like a smirk on her lips you couldn’t see. “Just wondering how could you not tell me you started sleeping with him-“

“What?! No!” you protested instantly, straightening in the chair. “I’m not—I’m not his sugar baby or whatever! This is not a ‘thank you for letting me fuck you raw’ gift-“

“Not that you would complain from what I heard and saw-“ she hummed playfully.

She was right. But shush!

“Screw you!”

“George does, that’s why we have Harry in the first place,” she sassed you. “But… sis? What kind of a gift it is then?”

And wasn’t that the question.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Well, you should, because from what you told me, you guys aren’t even friends. Nota bene, this isn’t exactly a gift you give to a friend,” she pointed out, addressing one of the million issues concerning the damn (gorgeous) bracelet.

“I-- I guess?” You were sure, in fact. This was something to give to a… well, to a lover, to a partner. “But- Amber, he doesn’t--- that’s not-“

“What did the note say?”

“Huh?”

“You said you recognized his handwriting,” she reminded you slowly as if speaking to a five-year-old. “What does the note say?”

You glanced at the note again noncommittally, remembering exactly what it said. Pretty much nothing. Definitely nothing to go on.

“Uhm… Thank you. Happy Holidays.”

There was a beat of silence, again. “That’s it?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Eloquent.” You rolled your eyes at her sarcastic tone. She should see him at court. True though, on personal level, he wasn’t exactly chatty. Unless he opened up a bit over a glass of whiskey--- anyway, she had a point, obviously. “What are you gonna do?”

That snapped you from your musing like a shot of life into your bloodstream.

“That’s why I’m calling! I should-- I should get him something too, right?” Right?! Absolutely. “Oh god, I hate last-minute shopping. And I don’t even have a fucking clue what to buy! Well, a good whiskey is always a safe bet I guess, but supporting his drinking habits doesn’t sound like a good idea. Plus, it’s kinda… impersonal with comparison to what he gave me.”

Though if there was one thing you learned about Andy Barber, it was that he could appreciate the high-quality liquor, so perhaps it wouldn’t have been as impersonal as one might think.

“Well, I don’t know him so I can’t really help, but what you got from him should definitely give you a clue.”

“A clue?” you parroted, confused.

“I don’t mean like a clue for what you should buy him. But… look, even if you didn’t suspect that it’s custom-made, which whoa, he has to pay a lot of attention to buy you something like this. Much more attention than you thought.”

“…okay?”

“He likes you, you dumbass! It doesn’t matter what you get him, he’ll be happy you got him anything in the first place!”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” you deadpanned, unsure which statement you were referring to. That he liked you or that you shouldn’t take care to choose something that would really bring him at least a little joy.

You tried your best to ignore how your heart skipped the beat at the former.

“Whatever. Harry’s throwing a hungry eye on me, I gotta go fix him a snack unless I want him to eat all the candy again. Good luck!”

“Amber!“ you called out in honest despair, panic rising in your chest, only to get no answer.

You pulled the phone from your ear to look at the screen, already knowing what awaited you.

Disconnected.

Fuck.

It seemed you were on your own. Wasn’t that wonderful?

You shot your sister a simple ‘I hate you’ text, the gears in your head already turning frantically in order to figure out what you could get Andy.

Amber replied with a set of laughing emojis within seconds. Bitch, leaving you alone to deal with a situation like this! What a sister she was.

You sighed, admiring the delicate lines of the bracelet again, torn between indulgence and guilt. There was no questioning whether you should buy Andy something too.

Say yay for the last-minute shopping for a man out of your league and whom you had no idea what you should get.

You were utterly at loss, growing anxious not only about the difficult choice of a gift, but also about possible delivery, wondering what should you even tell him and when.

Maybe though…. just maybe, you were getting kinda excited about what you were about to do too.

✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

Three hours.

You spent almost three hours at the mall where you could barely breathe because of the crazy crowds and yet you were none the wiser; your excitement left you quickly, once again replaced by despair. It took you three hours and passing the lingerie shop four times, a shop with pieces on display that barely covered anything, intended for either bedroom games or a swimming pool, before it finally hit you.

You cursed under your breath, calling yourself an idiot in murmur loud enough to have few people around you look at you in surprise.

“Dumbass, I’m such a dumbass,” you continued your monologue as you fished out your phone, quickly scrolling through your contacts.

To say that the person on the other end was shocked to hear from you at this time of month and hour was an understatement.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Lee. I have… eh, a favour to ask…”

✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

You were being ridiculous.

Absolutely and utterly ridiculous as you stood on a modest porch in front of a small family house, the roof hiding you from the intrusive drizzle but not keeping you quite safe from the wind as you clutched your handbag to your side as if it was your lifeline, cursing yourself for not wearing a scarf in December.

Your nose was practically freezing, your cheeks burned from the wind and your hands were cold too, because you were stupidly underdressed; as if you haven’t lived in Portland your whole life.

But that wasn’t the main issue; an Uber dropped you off about five minutes ago and still, here you were, standing outside and trying to convince yourself to ring the bell.

The plan had been to finish packing a bag and leave around 10 p.m. to your sister’s house, where you would spend the night so you could be with her family on Christmas Day from the very beginning. But then Andrew fucking Barber, your fabulous boss, left a gift in your office, a breath-taking bracelet now sitting low on your right wrist, and it all went to hell.

Maybe you could still make it to your sister’s house – it was shortly after nine, your bag waiting on your bed, so maybe you should just call another Uber and be on your way. Maybe you could leave the silly envelope in the post-box just so you wouldn’t have to deal with Andy’s reaction; after all, he had chosen the same approach; cookies be damned, there would be more left for Harry then-

But you really, really wanted to thank him. And you might be shitting your pants, but the prospect of seeing him in a domestic environment, possibly more relaxed, perhaps nearing the man you had had the honour to see on those nights… you couldn’t make yourself to pass on that opportunity.

At the same time, you kept reminding yourself that Andy did not expect to see you tonight, he might not even be home – you were pretty sure a dim light was coming from the living room, the TV on probably, but yeah, you could keep lying to yourself – and that he might be grieving and genuinely might hate you for invading his privacy since you had to search his home address in the official documents.

Yeah, you definitely should just spin on your heels and-

“Oh for God’s sake,” you muttered under your breath and pressed the doorbell, your heart suddenly hammering in your ribcage as you realized there were no takebacks now. “Shit.”

Maybe you should just run. What if he had fallen asleep already and you just woke him up?! Oh, he was so going to be pissed and he might even show that emotion, screaming you down like he did one with that intern-

A scruffle on the other side of the door snapped you from your hopeless expectations and you sucked in a horrified breath.

And then the door slid open before you could react and you were certain you looked like a deer caught in the headlights, a semi-frozen deer to make the situation worse and--- there he was.

You quickly dropped your gaze, only then realizing how rude that was and that you should meet his eye no matter how much you did and did not want to do so at the same time. As you gaze travelled up, you found that a domestic Andy was everything you imagined he would be; black socks, loose dark grey sweats, pale t-shirt slightly wrinkled. One of his arms hung loosely by his side, the other still at the door-knob as you continued your inspection, gaze caressing the line of his bare forearm, reaching the sleeves that were hugging his biceps precisely. Broad shoulders, perfectly trimmed beard framing plush lips with the slightest hint of a curious smile.

You smiled awkwardly as your eyes met his watching you with interest, dimmed with a hint of a doze-off you must have woken him up from. You tried not to dwell on the inconspicuous redness surrounding his irises.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up!” you blurted out quickly, rewarded with a light shake of his head and a stifled yawn; subtle.

“You didn’t. Hi,” he greeted you, only to make you realize that 1. you forgot to say hi and 2. his post-nap voice was a thing from wet dreams-- which was definitely not relevant at that moment.

“Hi,” you offered unsurely, eyes roaming his face, searching for any trace of anger. All you found was bewilderment; if pleasant or not, you couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry for barging in. I just… uhm- I wanted to thank you and-“

The hint of a smile on his lips grew a fraction, expression softening at your admission and before you could find your footing, he opened the door further, subtly extending his hand to usher you in.

Your heart skipped a beat, the strangest feeling tickling your gut, teeth sinking into your lower lip, the grip on your handbag growing stronger. Yet you accepted, taking two reluctant steps inside. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing whatever fate awaited you.

Attempting not to look too nosy, you turned back to Andy rather than scanning the hall.

Words got stuck in your throat. As tired as he looked, worn to a bone by everything but physical exercise, you couldn’t but marvel at what a handsome man he was, even without his smart suits and ties and neatly styled fluffy hair; it was still very fluffy, just more of a mess than a fashion statement.

God, wasn’t he beautiful.

He kept looking at you too in mute anticipation of something, appearing mildly lost just as you were, giving the impression of a man who couldn’t tell what to expect.

Your gaze locked with his, unyielding, a gorgeous trap and you knew you had to say or do something before your heart gave out entirely.

Your mouth opened, no words coming out and you cursed yourself, simply opening the bag and pulling out a Tupperware box with half the cookies you baked last night, practically shoving it to Andy’s capable hands.

He accepted the item with eyebrows shooting up once before settling back, eyes misting for a moment. His fingertips brushed yours as he took a firm hold of the box, the not-quite-there smile of his remaining on his lips.

He seemed perplexed.

You felt like an idiot.

“This feels so silly now,” you admitted with a sigh, realizing the absurdity of the situation only accented by the fact that you stood there in the hall of his home in your coat and high-boots, ridiculously overdressed in comparison to him.

“It’s not,” he whispered finally, forcing the corners of his mouth to rise higher. “Thank you. Didn’t know you baked. Should have figured.”

You shrugged. “Never came up.”

Something shifted in his expression as did in the air; you knew he sensed it too. The unspoken hung between you, that you meant not in your daily routine at the office, but on your private nights, so rare and precious, so desperately pretended to be non-existent the next morning.

Your gaze lowered as the silence fell on your pair again and you awkwardly shifted your weight from one leg to the other. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“So, uh-“

“Thank you for the bracelet. Really. It was-” you licked your lips, meeting his eyes again, so deep, so blue and somehow soft and you forgot what you were about to say. “Eh- I wasn’t expecting it. I-- I didn’t think you’d… notice. And--- care.”

His brows furrowed for a bit and he placed the box on the shoe rack next to him; an action he soon regretted you guessed, because his fingers went for his wrist as if he wanted to readjust his cufflinks, a nervous habit of his, only to meet bare skin. Good to know you weren’t the only one iffy in this conversation.

“But you liked it?” he asked almost shyly and the corners of your lips rose on instinct as did you right hand, the sleeve of your coat sliding down a fraction, enough to reveal the new accessory. “Looks pretty on you.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers gently slid over one of the symbols, brushing over the sensitive skin of your wrist. His gaze returned to yours, a flicker of something heated in his eyes, calling butterflies to your stomach.

Lord have mercy.

“Thanks- uhm--- thank you. Here, I got you something too.” You quickly reached into the handbag again to hide how flustered you felt – for a different reason than awkwardness.

He had touched your wrist and you turned into a blushing mess. Fabulous. And to make the matter more humiliating, now a twinkle of amusement played in his irises.

“You gave me a plant. And cookies.”

“Yeah. Kinda? But that was more of a… gesture?” you offered reluctantly as you handed him the envelope. “I uh—this is probably stupid, but, uhm--- here.”

“Stop putting yourself down,” he muttered darkly, causing your cheeks to burn hotter. “Thank you. You didn’t have to get me anything.” Pulling out the firm colourful paper, he blinked a few times, seemingly surprised. Ha, you bet he expected a Walmart card! Instead, there was a voucher for five entrances to the swimming pool where your friend Lee worked at. “Oh. Thank you. That’s really nice of you.”

A stone the size of Texas fell from your stomach and you couldn’t help the sigh of relief. Andy seemed genuinely pleased by your choice of gift and you felt your whole body relax.

“It’s just… eh, just for half an hour each and you can pick them on a horizon of three months. I’m not sure how often you like going, so… uhm, my friend works at the place, so you just give her a call and it shouldn’t be a problem to book it for mornings right before the opening hours,” you explained lamely, earning a puzzled look.

“How did you know I liked going when no one’s there?”

That caused one corner of your lips twitch in slight amusement and your eyebrow arch, even if his reasons weren’t exactly funny; his cheeks flushed a hint of red, a sight to behold for more than one reason. It was nice to have the roles reserved, you making him feel flustered for once.

Really? The rather quiet lone-wolf Andy Barber, followed by reporters still, just asked you this? Cute.

“…that’s fair,” he said and for a brief second, you were afraid you had shared your thoughts out loud. But he didn’t look offended, so probably not. The self-awareness then. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m-eh, glad you like it.”

You stood there again, both smiling – a little reluctantly, a little soft – and once again you had no idea how to proceed.

What you did know was that you enjoyed talking to him, even if it was awkward like this. You enjoyed seeing him in his natural habitat, in his home, relatively relaxed. You thrived seeing more of this Andy Barber, just a handsome guy, not Andrew Barber, the hot-shot lawyer.

He was the first to break the silence, hesitantly gesturing further into the house.

“Would you—would you like to-“

YES! was what you brain screamed.

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother…” was what you told him, mentally cuffing yourself on the head.

“You’re not,” Andy opposed lowly. The whisper of your name that followed made you shiver.

His gazed trailed all over your face, so intense you would swear he saw right into your soul and further. You felt naked, but for some reason not too vulnerable – Andy seemed to like what he saw, expression genuinely inviting and yet. Yet there was a subtle promise of this not being a friendly invite which was as exciting as unsettling. The air appeared the crackle and you found yourself yearning to taste the electricity on your tongue.

“May I?”

He beckoned to your coat, suddenly free hands already rising and all you could do was to nod, automatically placing your handbag on the floor and unbuttoning the garment. Once if fell open, revealing simple black jeggings and a light pink sweater, Andy sidestepped you, fingers sliding under the hem, cautiously skimming over the bare skin above your collarbones, leaving a burning sensation in their wake.

The warmth of his fingertips seeped into your flesh and yet you shuddered, goosebumps rising on your skin.

You watched Andy put your coat away with care, turning back to you torturously slowly. He filled all of your personal space, so close and too far. You weren’t sure when exactly the air turned so heavy in your lungs, but as your gaze travelled to his lips, not missing how his sought yours in return, you felt all the oxygen leave the room.

“Andy,” the word rolled off your tongue, nothing but a soundless breath of his name.

His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips again and back before he spoke, voice barely above a whisper, hoarse.

“Am I imagining it?”

He didn’t have to say what and still you knew with absolute certainty that he was addressing the unbearable and delicious tension, the one that had been building and coming to life during those three nights you had spent talking in his office late--- and now it was back with smouldering intensity.

“You’re not.”

You shivered and gulped when he cautiously took a single little step further into your space, your gaze falling to his chest, lowering in sudden surge of the deep-rotted insecurity, whispering about your and his world being thousands of miles apart. And yet, your heart raced in anticipation, your hopes dizzyingly high that you might touch heaven, even if for a few moments.

When his fingertips grasped your jaw, tough light and oh so careful, your eyelids fluttered close, already indulging in the sensation. God, his touch was so soft despite the roughness of his fingertips…

As if he wished to torture you or to indulge that sweet little moment before lips met lips, he stopped an inch from his destination, his breaths as wavering as yours, the words whispered straight into your mouth just a little broken.

“I’m fucked up.”

Your brain basked in blissful fog, but this got across, causing you to tense briefly.

You couldn’t deny what he was saying, you both knew he spoke the ultimate truth – well, you guessed. What had happened to him, having his life dismantled and then losing his family, that sort of thing was bound to leave a scar. Confirming it bluntly though, that felt unforgiving, only adding insult to injury.

“We all are,” you whispered instead, not only because you wouldn’t say ‘fucked up’, the words too harsh.

And it wasn’t trivializing the tragic turn his life had taken. It wasn’t downplaying the depth of his wounds. It wasn’t necessarily implying that you had been through something equally horrible either. Most importantly, it wasn’t you mocking him.

And somehow, he understood that; even if he could have interpreted it in every wrong way imaginable and shove you away, insulted, disgusted.

But no, in that fleeting moment that meant everything, Andy understood that this was your acceptance; this was you telling him that you were willing to try; take whatever he offered and give anything you could in return.

Finally, his lips brushed over yours, slightly chapped and oh so warm and delicious, withdrawing too soon, leaving you to savour the taste as your ran your tongue over your own lips. You inhaled shakily, overwhelmed by everything that was him, powerful, electrifying and then your hand was somehow on his chest, your palm laid over his racing heart, your fingers twitching as his ribcage expanded with a sharp inhale.

Blindly, your mouth searched his again, his whiskers tickling softly and scratching at once, a pleasant sensation on your sensitive skin as he grew bolder, and truly attached your lips in a kiss that made you feel lightheaded with the emotion poured into it. Your hand curled around his nape, an instinct to pull him closer, fingers toying with the short soft hair there, drawing a hum from within the expanse of his chest.

You granted him access to your mouth when he wordlessly asked, but it was him who retreated shortly after that, his heart now appearing as if in pain with its furious beats under your palm. His breaths started coming out short and it dawned to you what was wrong. How fast this could have felt to him, even if he was the one to start it.

‘I’m fucked up,’ he had said. Too caught in the moment, you hadn’t fully realized the extent of his words perhaps.

But you did now – at least a little better than before.

So when he rested his forehead against yours and a breathless ‘sorry’ slipped from his lips, you shook your head lightly and planted a kiss on his cheek, hand still on the back of his head, fingers running over his scalp in a hopefully soothing motion.

“I’ve got you, Andy. You lead.”

You had no strength to keep him close when he pulled his face away, your eyes snapping open in fright that you had said something terribly wrong.

But Andy’s cerulean eyes were big and glassy, grateful and softly speaking about him being… moved by your proposition. Your heart felt like it just grew twice its size, too big to fit into your chest at what a breath-taking picture he was.

The next thing you knew, he dropped a chaste kiss to your forehead and pulled you into his arms, an almost protective embrace, kissing the top of your head for a good measure and you melted against his large frame, smiling into t-shirt.

“Thank you,” he murmured breathlessly into your hair and your smile widened, remembering the note he had left with the exquisite gift that had started everything that led you right here into this moment.

“Happy Holidays.”

Thank you for reading! I’ve been sitting on this since the beginning of damn November. I hope you enjoyed.

It was my first (and maybe last) time writing Andy, so I hope it was alright. Feedback always appreciated.

P.S. – sorry if the nosy reporters thing offended you.

P.P.S. - …I know, the prompt was veeery loosely filled. Shush.

Pretty divider by whismicalrogers.

#happyhoelidays2020 #andy barber x reader #andy barber imagine #andy barber x you #defending jacob #post defending jacob #andy barber #holiday fic #christmas fic #andy barber fluff #andy barber angst #andy barber fanfiction #andy barber fanfic #fanfiction #challenge fic #conundrum #anika ann

270 notes · View notes

xo-cuteplosion-xo · 4 years ago

Note

Hello! I want to start by saying that I’m totally in love your BSD works. If it’s alright, I wanted to make a request~ I’d love to see a Kunikida x Reader (preferably she/her) angst fic 💔 with the prompt “Please... please don’t look at me with such hatred, I’m begging you.” (coming from the reader)

It might be something related to a case they work on that contains a controversial topic and the reader turns out to be morally grey about it, creating a contrast with Kunikida’s snow white, ideal morals and maybe triggering his past traumas. Or anything else that you think would create a beautiful angst with Kunikida, this was just an example! The ending is also up to you, you might just finish it in a dark, angsty mood or shift to fluff/comfort; I’d probably prefer the second ending but if you don’t feel like it, I’m alright with anything!

Oooo I don't get requests for Kunikida much, so this one made me super excited to write! I hope it lives up to your expectations.

The gray between right and wrong |Kunikida x Female Reader|

Prompt|“Please... please don’t look at me with such hatred, I’m begging you.”|

Warnings| mentions of implied abuse ( the case being worked on)

Notes- there are she/her pronouns used. (third-person for a few paragraphs)

Words- 2163

Beneath what appears is always an underlying layer of difference. Between the right and the wrong, there is always a between. Separating black from white lay a thin sheet of gray. With every decision, there is indecision. No mortal can exempt themselves from these concepts. To be morally white is to ignore being human. To be perfect is to ignore your imperfections. Even those with the strongest of morals have moments of doubt and indecision. There is always the what if I was wrong. While a person's morals appear crystal clear and white to them, to another, to society, their morals may not be as clear as they say. While one may say that theft is gray, one may also argue theft is black. It can be gray because theft may lead to survival. While the counter-argument says it is black, as it takes what could have helped earn somebody a living without giving in return. As long as the person believes they are right, their morals can be completely white. Such a person does exist, a person who sees it all, every right and wrong choice, every counter and rebuttal, they do exist within the mundane world. Such people turn to their ideals as a way of living life. Such was the case with the agency’s Doppo Kunikida. A man whose life was completely planned out, a man who lived his day on a schedule created for his specific needs. His every movement a routine planned out without a second of hesitation. There was another within that agency who found her morals to be pure and untainted. To him, she was the ideal woman, level-headed and strong on her own. Somebody he could rely on, without worrying his schedule would suffer.

The case the two were working on was fairly simple, but involved complicated matters. Drama among the home was always complicated. While upfront one would say the situation was dreadfully obvious, another could notice something missing. These situations, especially involving abilities, can become a tangle of lies, deception, and cunning twists. This was one of the few cases one could rely on their moral sense of justice. These situations were the trickiest, lying within morally gray areas of different sizes and classifications. He looked at her walking while jotting small notes and thinking to herself. He wondered what was on her mind as they went on their way to investigate the crime. “Is there something bothering you?” he asked before looking down at his watch, it was alright to slow their pace. Arriving too early would disturb the latter of their day. Judging by their location and the remaining distance, they could half their current pace and still be thirty seconds early. Best not to risk it considering traffic and unforeseen issues could arise at any given moment. Slowing down just enough to talk would not hurt though, even if they came into a disturbance, they would be there on time.

Looking at him with e/c eyes, you shrugged. Closing your notebook and pocketing the pen you had been holding. If there was something on your mind, it would be the confusing state of this case. On one hand, there was black, murder, and on another hand, there was something else. It wasn’t white or gray, but closer to a blackening gray. Murder was wrong, no matter what, at least that was how Kunikida, your partner, would view it. To him, there was no doubt in his mind that this case was going to end in the pursuer being sent to jail, tried for the sin they committed.

Then why, why was it that you found yourself morally gray with this case? You had never been so unsure of an answer before. An accidental murder, an act of defense, an act of pure hatred. Did these concepts change the black to gray? Murder stayed indifferent, it stayed wrong, but could it be justified? Surely Kunikida would agree that at times certain morals had to be bent, laws had to be made to accustom these morals. So you answered him honestly, for lying in itself was never the right decision, even in the event to spare another's feelings, you were honest and down to earth with your approach. “The case is bothering me, that’s all.” It was not a half-truth, simply not the full reason. He never asked why, just as you never pressured to why he had so many ideals written out in that notebook of his.

Stepping inside the warehouse where the case had originally started, one of the family members stood waiting. After your kind introduction, the woman, in her late twenties, answered little of what pressed on your mind. Though she did make one small flutter of anxiety run rampant over your heart. Like a stampede of gazelle rushing to escape a predator, your heart pounded under the force. While she covered her words with unsure and terrified stillness, her hands had trembled and her words contradicted with the smallest of minuscule details. It reminded you of a memory you had. So the question softly fell in the silence. Your words pin against the stone; an unpleasant ding to stir up the room. So morally confident that an accidental death inflicted by self-defense as an ability activated unconsciously for the first time was unpunishable. Sometimes, bad people get karma in unimaginable ways. The fault falls on the cruel ways of that person. “You're the wife, so you should be able to answer with honesty. Was he kind to you and your daughters? Did this man ever hurt them?” with a horror-stricken face, the woman leaped from the box she had fallen onto earlier. Her face contorted in rage and shock. For a moment, a fading bruise showed itself on her wrist.

With a confident stare, you met her quivering eyes. The smallest tear pooling out of the corner. With such tender lips, the woman looked to the blonde you cared so much for. When her eyes settle back onto yours, she held nothing but regret. “He would have killed her, my baby girl.” She whispered such words softly, and you nodded. Walking her out with shaking hands, you smiled. “Your child did nothing wrong. The fault lays within the attacker.” Was it those words that triggered the beloved blond? So focused on comforting the mother you had forgotten you had him with you. So overly confident in your decision, you did not realize how morally gray that sentence had been. No human, no matter how evil deserves death's punishment. For most that punishment is nothing but freedom from hell. That was something you had learned from another co-worker. The suicidal maniac had a thing for death and would say the harshest yet most delicate sentences that stuck with you.

Kunikida stared in shock, never had he imagined she’d speak such words. Somebody who had fit all his ideals, somebody whom he had connected with, was justifying the slaughter of a man. It didn’t matter whether this man had hurt others, you locked a criminal up, you did not murder them. Murder, no matter the reason was murder, there was no right or wrong when it came to murder. As he listened to those words, a memory peaked inside his head. There were reasons he believed in what he did. Criminals have families, mothers, and fathers. If you kill a murderer, then the amount of killers does not decrease. The world would never be peaceful if all justice did was kill. An even punishment was required for the crime. His eyes couldn’t leave you, even as they narrowed and his brows dipped. His head shook in both shock and resentment.

Your heart nearly dropped from its cage. The look on his face was never a look you had thought you would find pointed at yourself. You knew you were right about this. Though your mind knew the decision; the thought you had come to was wrong. That it wasn't morally right, but it wasn’t wrong either. In fact, it was that heavy gray spot so many people trapped themselves within. You denied it though, saying your decision was not gray, but white. The longer you stare, the more an image is painted into your head. A loved one looking at you with such hatred, even you loathe yourself. It had been Kunikida who pulled you from that spot and showed you the light of the world. He had been the one your morals aligned to. It went silent, like the moment just before the tsunami’s wave came crashing down. When the torment of peace faltered, your hands came up to your chest and your eyes fell silently shut. Shaking your head with a striking, stabbing feeling in your gut words parted through your lips. A muffled scream, a plea to not he was not so harsh with you. “Please... please don’t look at me with such hatred, I’m begging you.” those words seemed not to reach him at first. His voice lashing out as if your words had been the lightning to this storm.

Though his voice is not loud, his words stuck with a heavy weight. “How could you say something like that?” he hissed through confusion and disappointment. Though his anger was no longer purely directed at her. The memory stirred within his mind, pulling the feelings he had about this topic to rise. “No matter how you look at it, nobody deserves to be slaughtered. A loved one always ends up feeling the fault, blaming themselves and hurting.” There would never be an exception. Even the most hated, dangerous, and cruel criminals had people mourn their death. Yet, he could not look past that to see the suffering he was causing the woman who stuck by him.

The louder his words became, the more they echoed and tore at your heart. With every passing second, you became less sure of your morals. Unsure if what you believed was truly above the others. Were you destined to be alone and isolated forever, to morally set for others to care, but not enough for him? Your voice repeated the same line again, this time your eyes leaked water. Rain was adding itself to the storm. “Please... please don’t look at me with such hatred, I’m begging you.” The words escaped your lips again as the thunder sounding about stopped abruptly. The only sound came from the rain; your soft tears. The smallest hiccup of your voice, as you tried to explain your reasoning, to explain the memory that drove you to think in such ways. To explain the view of such a thing from a female's perspective. Sometimes violence was the only thing to keep yourself alive and safe. In extreme situations, accidentally killing somebody happened. Bashing one over the head to keep them from harming you was the easiest way. Sometimes, those actions went too hard, and instead of simply knocking them out, they bled to death from the inside out. So why, why did he have to look at you the way they always did? It wasn’t fair, being a woman in an abilities world. These accidental deaths happen more frequently, men and even at times other women who seem to think they can get away with things, become victims to an ability reacting on its own, something appearing for the first time.

Kunikida glanced at the time with conflicted thoughts. His mind trying to settle on what he should do. For as much as he hated pushing things back, he knew he had hurt you. He’d never meant to lash out like that, especially not against you. Everybody had reasons for believing what they did, surely you did as well. Watching your shaking form, his arms grabbed onto you and pulled your head to his chest. The waves fell to a calm, a single drop of water plummeting before they were no more. Shock taking over your body as he embraced your shaken form. He whispered a word he did not often use in his large vocabulary. For you, he could set aside pride and show you a softer, caring side. “I apologize for… lashing out like that.” He found it so difficult, apologizing despite the difference in your opinions regarding this matter. He owned you a celebration for solving the case, but he’d brought you to despair instead. Deep down guilt flooded him, and he held you closer until the sniffling of your nose had stopped, and your shaking had come to a close. With a light smile, you reached to his cheek.

“It’s alright…” you whispered watching as the blonde pulled away and lightly patted your back, before looking down at his notebook and schedule the rest of his day.

"Great because I planned a small relaxation for later," he grumbled, with a slight red to his cheeks. This was out of the ordinary, but he'd been free enough to add it.

#bsd #bsd angst #bsd angst to fluff #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs #kunikida #kunikida x reader #kunikida angst #kunikida angst to fluff #kunikida x reader angst to fluff #angst to fluff

68 notes · View notes

scullydubois · 3 years ago

Text

that terror that keeps me brave: a sex education fic

hi, hello, now that I am riding high off the excitement of season three, i am finally gonna start publishing the sex education fic that I began writing in uhh...february! it primarily follows jean, maureen, and jakob as they deal with the ramifications of the season two finale. again, i started this months ago so it is not influenced by season three, and you can read it without watching that. it will focus on jean's pregnancy and maureen exploring her sexuality in the wake of her separation.

chapter one is under the cut! 1.5k, rated T. read it on ao3 here.

Jean taps her pen absentmindedly against her soft leather notebook, misery on the faces of the couple in front of her. It’s a classic story: the once-adoring wife who has seen the dream crumble in front of her and her unshaven husband. Jean’s eyes train on him as he squirms in his seat.

“So, to clarify, you experienced a nocturnal emission from a dream about your co-worker, and then when Cecelia asked what the dream was about, you told her the truth.”

The man nods. Jean shifts her focus to the woman.

“And now, Cecelia, you are mad at him because you believe that he cheated on you.”

“Yes,” the wife squeaks. “He got off on another woman! Am I supposed to be okay with that?”

Jean pulls her lips into a poorly drawn line. “But you don’t have any other evidence of his cheating, correct? You’re using this dream as the sole reason for your accusation?”

“The dream is the cheating, there doesn’t need to be nothing more.”

Jean glances at the woman over her glasses. “Let’s ask Brian, shall we?” She crosses her legs, turning her attention warmly toward the poor man. “Have you ever engaged in sexual intercourse or anything of the sort with this woman while you were awake?”

“No.” He shakes his head violently. “Never.”

“Would you ever do so?”

“No...Addison--that’s her name--is fine-looking, but I’m married and I love my wife. I would never do such a thing.”

Jean has seen her fair share of men who are bullshitting. Brian is not one. She closes her notebook. “See, Cecelia? You are the one he wants. Nocturnal emissions are involuntary physical responses to subconscious stimuli. Addison is Brian’s co-worker, which means he probably sees her quite often. This makes it more likely for her to turn up in his dreams. It’s neither an affront to you, nor a compliment to her.”

Cecelia pouts. “I just don’t feel right about it.”

Jean rests her glasses on the crown of her head. “This could easily have been you who had the dream about your co-worker, and what then? How would you feel if Brian were accusing you of something you couldn’t control?”

“I never have those nasty dreams,” Cecelia counters, scoffing. “Not even about my own husband.”

Jean can’t help but fight back a smirk. “Well, Cecelia, that may be an issue for another session.”

“Like hell it will be! I’m giving you money to tell me it’s okay for my husband to make love to another woman! What do I look like, a fool?”

Jean folds her hands over her lap. Nothing she hasn’t heard before.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Cecelia, but I’m glad you and Brian could come in and have this conversation today.” She exchanges a sympathetic look with Brian. “My ears are always open.”

“Thank you, Jean,” the man says, ushering his wife out of the office. “We’ll see you next time.”

And Jean’s sure they will, because they’ve had this exact session about five separate times. The only thing that ever changes is what woman features in Brian’s dream. Once, it was even Jean! Now that was a session. You’d think, by now, that Brian would just tell Cecelia that every dream is about her. The honest men are always the ones who can afford a little dishonesty.

This is what’s on Jean’s mind when she jaunts into the foyer and finds the most honest man she knows standing there like he’s waiting to be checked in. Grease streaks his clothes; he’s stopped by in between jobs.

“Jakob!” Her voice is taut and uncompromising.

“Jean!” His is cordial and languid. “That nice couple let me in, I hope it won’t be a problem.”

Jean shifts her weight onto one heel, stretching her free leg. “I have another session in a few minutes. You should go.”

“Such strict avoidance of an ex-partner is not healthy, you know. I’m sure they taught you that in therapy school.”

“And continuing to show up at your ex-partner’s home after they have indicated they do not wish to see you is called stalking.” Jean strides into the kitchen. His clunky footsteps follow her. “I didn’t need to go to ‘therapy school’ to learn that.”

“We didn’t have those kinds of laws in Sweden until very recently. It was viewed as an expression of fondness when I was growing up.”

“That’s a view universal to men around the world,” Jean retorts. “They can’t all be right.”

“I was let in here, remember?” Jakob points out. “I don’t believe that makes it possible to prosecute me for any crimes.”

“Well, if I see you grab a kitchen knife, I’m going to assume the worst.”

“If I touch a kitchen knife, you may arrest me.”

“Wonderful.” Jean starts the coffee pot and pulls her beloved honeycomb mug from the cabinet. Despite herself, she grabs another one and offers it to Jakob. “Coffee?”

“No thank you. I had my smoothie this morning.”

“Ah.” She should’ve known. She stands on her tip-toes to slide the rejected mug back on the shelf. When she turns around, her visitor is gone. This isn’t of particular concern to her, though it is rather strange.

She sets her mug beneath the coffee pot and lets it run. As the steamy liquid spews out, she surveys her kitchen. Following the trend of the day, curiosity gets the best of her. “Jakob?” she calls.

A familiar head pops out of the pantry. “You have not used your pan shelf.”

Jean takes her coffee and shuffles over. “No, I have not,” she confirms, mimicking his charmingly formal way of speaking.

“Is it not adequate?”

“I told you, I don’t need it.” She turns on her heel, gliding toward the table. “Now, can you get out of my pantry?”

With an amused smile on his face, Jakob slips out and shuts the door.

“How was the session?”

Jean casts a downward glance at him. “I’m not supposed to share--”

“My mistake.” Jakob sits down and settles his hands on the table, the epitome of patience. Jean feels a nagging tug in her stomach, and she can’t discern one potential cause from the other.

She sighs. Jakob’s eyes have always struck her as those belonging to a guard dog who’s sworn to protect. Their inability to deceive is a great comfort, and so different from most of the men she has known.

She presses the mug to her lips, drinking in the miracle roast that she has been meaning to cut back on. 200 milligrams per day, that’s the recommended maximum intake for expecting mothers. She’s keeping herself right at that.

It is hard to steel herself against Jakob when he looks at her with such genuine eyes, especially knowing that she can’t offer him the same.

She swallows her sip, sets the mug against the table. “Do you feel that a husband who’s having wet dreams about another woman is cheating?” She eyes Jakob like he’s one of her clients, someone she must pick apart.

Jakob eyes her in kind, deducing that this is not a trick, but an honest question. “Yes,” he responds in his frank tone. “That would be an emotional betrayal at least.”

Jean leans back in her chair. “Why do you say that?” She may as well have her notebook and pen in hand.

“Because he’s emotionally attached enough to this person to have those sorts of dreams.” It sounds completely sensible, Jean thinks, when he says it. And it makes her sound like a bitch for what she has to say, but a situation where she must leave her emotions out of the equation is exactly what she needs when it comes to him.

“Dreams occur in our subconscious, unbeknownst to our waking selves. We cannot plan them. And the physical response is involuntary. Nocturnal emissions happen without our intervention. He is neither choosing the subject of his dreams, nor is he choosing his sexual response to them. Therefore, no cheating is taking place.”

“So cheating is a choice then,” Jakob muses. The weight of this statement hangs between them. He searches Jean’s face for signs of apprehension.

She stiffens in her chair but holds firm. “Yes. It is.” She understands the implications of admitting this, and she hopes he does too. She has done him wrong, and the worst they can do is let it keep happening. Even this choice, though, does him wrong, and for that Jean is sorry.

The doorbell rings, no doubt the next sexual conundrum she must untangle. She slides her chair back, grabs her mug, and gives Jakob a look that’s almost apologetic.

He returns the look, his eyes both fire and ice. “Another pair whose relationship you will save.”

Jean breaks eye contact when she realizes he’s being serious, for that’s simply too sweet a thing for him to say. She walks him to the door, and it strikes her as all too familiar.

“Thank you for your help,” he utters when she opens the door to her clients. She sees what he’s doing and plays along.

“You’re welcome. See you next week.”

“Yes,” he says, fixated on her. “See you next week.”

#the title is from an audre lorde poem #pls pls let me know what you think #is the characterization okay? is it enjoyable? i wanna hear it all #sex education #jean milburn #jakob nyman #sex education fic #sex ed #sex ed fic #tttkmb #mine

15 notes · View notes

fleabaged · 5 years ago

Text

Ranking Phoebe Waller-Bridge Characters from Least Feral and Morally Unhinged to Most Feral and Morally Unhinged.

7. Lulu Crashing

Literally what is stopping this straight white couple from being together their whole life? Lit’rally nothing. There is no conflict. oh no i have this sexy best friend and we play little ukelele tunes for each other having sex would totally, what, ruin this once in a lifetime dynamic?? oh for fuck’s sake. Even his own fiance is waiting anxiously for these two to bang like-

0/10 not Feral OR Morally Unhinged

6. Godmother Fleabag

DEFINITLEY Feral but is too rooted in society’s expectations to truly become morally unhinged. Not sneaky at all, although, major props for being openly horny for the men around her right in front of her own mans. WOULD attend her sexhibition, would NOT attend her wedding.

4/10 Feral, but needs work on Morally Unhinged

5. Carolyn Killing Eve

DEFINTILEY Morally Unhinged but is so put together she’d rather die than be seen as feral. Has a rotating list of lovers, could give a fuck about her kid, and literally spotted some homoerotic tension between her employee and a notorious assassian and was like “checkmate imma use this sapphic situation to spin these bitches and manipulate them into doing my dirty, dirty bidding- just another day at the job.” smokes a fat blunt afterwards to celebrate, too.

5/10 maxed out on Morally Unhinged, will get more points when she finally loses her cool and becomes fully Feral

4. Fleabag Fleabag

now HERE’S some LEGITIMATE HETEROSEXUAL CONFLICT!!!! fleabag’s after a priest!! this is an ACtUAL reason why this straight white duo can’t immediatley be together!! she wants what she can’t have!! a little sexual church tension!! pure sexiness! phoebe knew what she was doing when she cast a humble gay man to play this role- who else could bring such gentleness to the screen!!! KNEEL, BITCH!!!!!! i’ll never get over it.

6/10 fleabag grows as a character but will never lose her edge :’)

3. Villanelle Killing Eve

you’re a fool if you thought she’d come in first. she’s just trying to do her job well! At her core she’s simply a sad lonely gay pisces. gets extra feral points for her little sex & killing stirring the same feelings inside her. Kills for now, but Dream Job is being a stay at home trophy wife who cooks and shops for her wife.

8/10 feral & morally unhinged on the surface but peel back some layers and there’s only unbearable tenderness

2. Eve Killing Eve

ALMOST a first place win for eve. Job? Fuck that. Husband? Fuck that. This bitch is OUT of control!!! she HIRES villanelle even though she has ALL of the resources of MI6 at her fingertips. doesn’t even think TWICE when her boss lets her do it immediatley. not for one second does she pause in think “it’s odd carolyn is letting me do all this could i possibly be being manipulated right now?” HELL NO!!!! she’s completely lost in the sauce. ALSO has mad sex game . bangs her 26 year old co-worker while listening to 26 year old love interest via an earpiece. willing to die for pussy.

9/10 PEAK character development of releasing your inner Feralness and becoming fully unhinged- ladies take note!!!

1. Claire Fleabag

said “let’s go fucking crazy tonight” with such conviction and chaotic energy that it rearranged the chemicals in my brain and i asceneded to become a different person whose third eye was finally open. leaves her husband for a man named klare

10/10 it’s her world and were just living in it

#just some thoughts i had #killing eve #fleabag #phoebe waller bridge #crashing #sandra oh #jodie comer #ugh phoebe's mind is unreal #pwb #*#sian clifford

5K notes · View notes

jenniferisacommonname · 4 years ago

Text

Bonus Level Unlocked

This week marks the release of Jason Schreier’s Press Reset, an incredibly well-researched book on catastrophic business failure in the gaming industry. Jason’s a good dude, and there’s an excerpt here if you want to check it out. Sadly, game companies going belly-up is such a common occurrence that he couldn’t possibly include them all, and one of the stories left out due to space constraints is one that I happen to be personally familiar with. So, I figured I’d tell it here.

I began working at Acclaim Studios Austin as a sound designer in January of 2000. It was a tumultuous period for the company, including a recent rebranding from their former studio name, “Iguana Entertainment,” and a related, ongoing lawsuit from the ex-founder of Iguana. There were a fair number of ghosts hanging around—the creative director’s license plate read IGUANA, which he never changed, and one of the meeting rooms held a large, empty terrarium—but the studio had actually been owned on paper by Acclaim since 1995, and I didn’t notice any conflicting loyalties. Everyone acted as if we always had been, and always would be, Acclaim employees.

Over the next few years I worked on a respectable array of triple-A titles, including Quarterback Club 2002, Turok: Evolution, and All-Star Baseball 2002 through 2005. (Should it be “All-Stars Baseball,” like attorneys general? Or perhaps a term of venery, like “a zodiac of All-Star Baseball.”) At any rate, it was a fun place to work, and a platformer of hijinks ensued.

But let’s skip to the cutscene. The truth is that none of us in the trenches suspected the end was near until it was absolutely imminent. Yes, Turok: Evolution and Vexx had underperformed, especially when stacked against the cost of development, but games flop in the retail market all the time. And, yes, Showdown: Legends of Wrestling had been hustled out the door before it was ready for reasons no one would explain, and the New York studio’s release of a BMX game featuring unlockable live-action stripper footage had been an incredibly weird marketing ploy for what should have been a straightforward racing title. (Other desperate gimmicks around this time included a £6,000 prize for UK parents who would name their baby “Turok,” an offer to pay off speeding tickets to promote Burnout 2 that quickly proved illegal, and an attempt to buy advertising space on actual tombstones for a Shadow Man sequel.)

But the baseball franchise was an annual moneymaker, and our studio had teams well into development on two major new licenses, 100 Bullets and The Red Star. Enthusiasm was on the upswing. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention when voice actors started calling me to complain that they hadn’t been paid, but at the time it seemed more like a bureaucratic failure than an actual money shortage—and frankly, it was a little naïve of them to expect net-30 in the first place. Industry standard was, like, net-90 at best. So I was told.

Then one Friday afternoon, a few department managers got word that we’d kind of maybe been skipping out on the building lease for let’s-not-admit-how-many months. By Monday morning, everyone’s key cards had been deactivated.

It's a little odd to arrive at work and find a hundred-plus people milling around outside—even odder, I suppose, if your company is not the one being evicted. Acclaim folks mostly just rolled their eyes and debated whether to cut our losses and head to lunch now, while employees of other companies would look dumbfounded and fearful before being encouraged to push their way through the crowd and demonstrate their still-valid key card to the security guard. Finally, the General Manager (hired only a few months earlier, and with a hefty relocation bonus to accommodate his houseboat) announced that we should go home for the day and await news. Several of our coworkers were veterans of the layoff process—like I said, game companies go under a lot—and one of them had already created a Yahoo group to communicate with each other on the assumption that we’d lose access to our work email. A whisper of “get on the VPN and download while you can” rippled through the crowd.

But the real shift in tone came after someone asked about a quick trip inside for personal items, and the answer was a hard, universal “no.” We may have been too busy or ignorant to glance up at any wall-writing, but the building management had not been: they were anticipating a full bankruptcy of the entire company. In that situation, all creditors have equal standing to divide up a company's assets in lengthy court battles, and most get a fraction of what they’re owed. But if the landlords had seized our office contents in lieu of rent before the bankruptcy was declared, they reasoned, then a judge might rule that they had gotten to the treasure chest first, and could lay claim to everything inside as separate from the upcoming asset liquidation.

Ultimately, their gambit failed, but the ruling took a month to settle. In the meantime, knick knacks gathered dust, delivered packages piled up, food rotted on desks, and fish tanks became graveyards. Despite raucous protest from every angle—the office pets alone generated numerous threats of animal cruelty charges—only one employee managed to get in during this time, and only under police escort. He was a British citizen on a work visa, and his paperwork happened to be sitting on his desk, due to expire. Without it, he was facing literal deportation. Fortunately, a uniformed officer took his side (or perhaps just pre-responded to what was clearly a misdemeanor assault in ovo,) and after some tense discussion, the building manager relented, on the condition that the employee touch absolutely nothing beyond the paperwork in question. The forms could go, but the photos of his children would remain.

It’s also a little odd, by the way, to arrive at the unemployment office and find every plastic chair occupied by someone you know. Even odder, I suppose, if you’re actually a former employee of Acclaim Studios Salt Lake, which had shut down only a month or two earlier, and you just uprooted your wife and kids to a whole new city on the assurance that you were one of the lucky ones who got to stay employed. Some of them hadn’t even finished unpacking.

Eventually, we were allowed to enter the old office building one at a time and box up our things under the watchful eye of a court appointee, but by then our list of grievances made the landlords’ ploy seem almost quaint by comparison (except for the animals, which remains un-fucking-forgivable.) We had learned, for example, that in the weeks prior to the bankruptcy, our primary lender had made an offer of $15 million—enough to keep us solvent through our next batch of releases, two of which had already exited playtesting and were ready to be burned and shipped. The only catch was that the head of the board, company founder Greg Fischbach, would have to step down. This was apparently too much of an insult for him to stomach, and he decided that he'd rather see everything burn to the ground. The loan was refused.

Other “way worse than we thought” details included gratuitous self-dealing to vendors owned by board members, the disappearance of expensive art from the New York offices just before closure, and the theft of our last two paychecks. For UK employees, it was even more appalling: Acclaim had, for who knows how long, been withdrawing money from UK paychecks for their government-required pension funds, but never actually putting the money into the retirement accounts. They had stolen tens of thousands of dollars directly from each worker.

Though I generally reside somewhere between mellow and complete doormat on the emotional spectrum, I did get riled enough to send out one bitter email—not to anyone in corporate, but to the creators of a popular webcomic called Penny Arcade, who, in the wake of Acclaim’s bankruptcy announcement, published a milquetoast jibe about Midway’s upcoming Area 51. I told Jerry (a.k.a. “Tycho”) that I was frankly disappointed in their lack of cruelty, and aired as much dirty laundry as I was privy to at the time.

“Surely you can find a comedic gem hidden somewhere in all of this!” I wrote. “Our inevitable mocking on PA has been a small light at the end of a very dark, very long tunnel. Please at least allow us the dignity of having a smile on our faces while we wait in line for food stamps.”

Two days later, a suitably grim comic did appear, implying the existence of a new release from Acclaim whose objective was to run your game company into the ground. In the accompanying news post, Tycho wrote:

“We couldn’t let the Acclaim bankruptcy go without comment, though we initially let it slide thinking about the ordinary gamers who lost their jobs there. They don’t have anything to do with Acclaim’s malevolent Public Relations mongrels, and it wasn’t they who hatched the Titty Bike genre either. Then, we remembered that we have absolutely zero social conscience and love to say mean things.”

Another odd experience, by the way, is digging up a 16-year-old complaint to a webcomic creator for nostalgic reference when you offer that same creator a promotional copy of the gaming memoir you just co-wrote with Sid Meier. Even odder, I suppose, to realize that the original non-Acclaim comic had been about Area 51, which you actually were hired to work on yourself soon after the Acclaim debacle.*

As is often the case in complex bankruptcies, the asset liquidation took another six years to fully stagger its way through court—but in 2010, we did, surprisingly, get the ancient paychecks we were owed, plus an extra $1,700-ish for the company’s apparent violation of the WARN Act. By then, I had two kids and a very different life, for which the money was admittedly helpful. Sadly, Acclaim’s implosion probably isn’t even the most egregious one on record. Our sins were, to my knowledge, all money-related, and at least no one was ever sexually assaulted in our office building. Again, to my knowledge. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure we remain the only historical incident of corporate pet murder. The iguana got out just in time.

*Area 51’s main character was voiced by David Duchovny, and he actually got paid—which was lucky for him, because three years later, Midway also declared bankruptcy.

18 notes · View notes

irreplaceable-ecstasyy · 4 years ago

Note

Could we perhaps get a part 2 to the Marya and Helene running away fic?!

YOU WANTED A PART 2?!?! I GIVE YOU A PART 2!!! SORRY FOR THE WAIT BUT HERE IT IS!!! <3

Part 1 here

Vanya Vorobev trudged her way through inches of snow after a long day at work, boots heaving to free themselves from the ground that trapped them. Snow coated her short locks of red hair that pooled at her shoulders unceremoniously in a mess of tangles and knots. How dreadful the winters could be. It was no different than what she had had in Moscow and her dislike for these horrid days only grew. If work had ended any earlier, she would have beat the stir of the oncoming blizzard but here she was battling her way through with the residue of her strength. A full day’s sewing garments had drained her but there was something that kept her going. Or to be more precise, someone. Someone at home waiting to welcome her with open arms and preferably a cup of hot tea laced with rum to shake the cold away.

The walk to work was never an issue for the morning weather was always pleasant but it was always unkind during the evening. Work was even more unpleasant for her supervisor would never allow her colleagues and herself off early. The weather was no excuse to dismiss everyone early as they had deadlines to meet and quotas to fulfil, both which Vanya despised with all her being. She had filed complaints before to her higher ups but was met with harsh laughs and mockery for being so bold. They would jest at her for being a woman then threaten her with their class and gender. God, how she despised those pesky imbeciles and their horrid perverted words. She always gave in and she hated it. If only they knew the power she possessed. What she once had before this life but she had left all that behind for this one and she did not regret it for a moment.

Amidst the blizzard, her eyes were squinted to see through the haze of white, a hand raised to shield the snowflakes that might obscure her vision. Aggressively, she stormed through the building blanket of snow at her feet, unbothered by the way the cold seeped into her boots. Warmth awaited her as a reward for her efforts and a little water never hurt. Eventually, she defeated the storm. She collided against the gate of her home with a soft grunt then yanked it open after fumbling about with the lock. As she stepped into her garden, the gate slammed shut behind her with a very unsatisfying thud and that was when the door of her home swung open. She bolted towards the entrance and was greeted by a graceful breeze of warm air blowing in her face, accompanied by the scent of soup and fresh bread.

The door closed and Vanya was engulfed in a warm embrace. A face pressed against her back, arms wrapped around her waist in a firm hold and a light giggle filled the air. Sighing softly, Vanya leaned into the arms of her lover… her wife, to be more precise… and she craned her neck to look over her shoulder at the head of curls in her line of vision. Roza Sorokina Vorobev. Or, Hélène Vasilyevna Akhrosimova, as we all know. Vanya Marya turned around and pulled Hélène into her arms, burying her face in her hair to take her all in. Hélène moved her hands to hold Marya’s cheeks within her hands, lifting her head to kiss her gently on the lips which Marya happily returned. They had been deprived of affection for too long. Yes, in their terms, a day was long. The kiss lasted for a while then it was followed by another and then another one until Hélène pulled away to speak.

“How was your day at work?” Hélène murmured as she removed Marya’s bonnet, tossing it onto the couch lazily.

“Awful as always. Today could have been worse but thank heavens for my colleagues. My supervisor insisted that we worked until the wind died down but we demanded that we returned home since we weren’t getting paid for overtime,” Marya told her with a scoff.

“What did your colleagues do that saved your day?” Hélène inquired, taking Marya’s coat to hang it up on the coat rack.

“They had my back,” Marya simply answered.

Raising a brow, Hélène’s gaze followed the woman as she walked to the kitchen to help with dinner that was still cooking. “Okay. What did you do?”

“I raised my voice.” Marya shot Hélène a smirk and it earned her a small round of an applause.

“How terrifying~ Oh, you’re truly my feisty dragon!” Hélène exclaimed.

Marya picked up a spoon, stirring it in the air dramatically. “If there’s anything I’ve kept from my previous life, it’s that name,”

“I’m not complaining. I adore it.”

“Keep it in your pants, Kuragina.”

Hélène hugged Marya from behind and kissed the back of her neck. “It’s actually Akhrosimova now~”

“Oh?” Marya smirked lightly. “How cute.”

“You’re not supposed to praise your own name.”

“I was praising you, stupid.”

“Ah. Thank you~ I appreciate it very much.”

“You had better.”

Marya abandoned dinner just for a moment to attend to her wife, drawing her into her arms to press a kiss to her lips. She ran her hands through Hélène’s curls and rested her forehead against hers gently. Hélène hummed softly against Marya’s lips and cupped her cheeks delicately. Before they could lean in for another kiss, a voice cried out. A loud shrill sob filled the house and Marya pulled away from Hélène to look towards the corridor where the cry had come from. Hélène acted quickly. After a kiss to Marya’s cheek, she dashed down the corridor and entered a room that appeared to be where the wailing came from. It went quiet, save for the occasional sniffles and reassuring whispers, and Hélène came out of the room carrying a little girl who was no more than the age of 3. Their little girl.

Her cheeks were stained with tears pouring down, eyes red rimmed from crying too hard and her little fists clutched Hélène’s blouse tightly. When the little one saw Marya, her face lit up and she held her arms out to her with grabby hands, finger wriggling insistently for Marya to pick her up. Children were funny little beings. Their moods could switch within a matter of minutes and Marya was not one to complain for she found it very easy to figure her way around the ways of parenting. The girl squealed in excitement as Marya plucked her from Hélène’s arms and she buried her face against the woman’s neck where she was perfectly comfortable. Hélène stood beside Marya, a hand on their daughter’s back to trace circles in a comforting manner, and she smiled at her wife.

Etoile Kuragina Akhrosimova. That was her name of their little one. She was not their biological daughter but they loved her as their very own. They had adopted her on the day she was born. Prior to her date of birth, a co-worker had confided in Marya about an unplanned pregnancy which peaked Marya’s interests. All it took was a question, one that changed her to love not only as a wife but as a mother. This colleague of hers trusted Marya with the birth of a new life and she had never been more honored to have the privilege of raising a child of her own with the woman that she loved. This was God’s greatest gift to them, a sign that he had given his blessing and Marya, until this day, was eternally grateful. She prayed to God every night, thanking him for all that he has given them and praising his generosity. There was nothing more in the world that she wanted.

“She’s been asking for you all day and when the blizzard came, she thought you were never coming back,” Hélène stated quietly, a solemn look settling upon her features.

“Oh… Poor dear. Please don’t tell me she’s been crying all day.” Marya looked at Etoile who was beaming up at her, her wet cheeks dried from rubbing her face against her mother’s shoulder.

“She didn’t, and thank goodness for that… She started crying when you did not show up on time. Sat in that very spot”- Hélène motioned vaguely to the sitting room- “and stared at the clock for hours.”

Etoile held up two fingers. “You said 4… You came back at 8.”

“I’m so sorry, Etoile. I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Marya cooed softly then kissed the little girl’s cheek.

“Promise?” Etoile lifted her pinkie finger which Marya hooked her own pinkie around with a smile.

“I promise.”

Etoile was more than pleased. She hugged Marya tightly and nuzzled against her neck, tucking her head in between the crook of her shoulder and neck. Hélène giggled softly and wrapped her arms around the both of them, her little family. Every day was just perfect among the three of them; though, they did yearn the company of their families back in Moscow, the place that was once their home. Marya missed her goddaughters as well as her old friend, Pierre. She wrote to them as frequently as she could but with how letters were being tracked, it would risk revealing their location to those who were searching for them so her stuck to a quota of two letter per month; three in case of emergencies or festivities.

It had already been two months since Marya sent her letters to her dear family but it was not forgetfulness that created the hiatus. It was the incredibly patient wait both her and Hélène had to endure as well as the receiving end of the letter which consisted of Pierre and Natasha who branched out to Sonya and Mary. Hélène’s receiving end consisted of her brother, Anatole, whose letters also were addressed to Dolokhov. Waiting was never a simple task, unless one were disciplined like Marya or as easily entertained as Etoile. Hélène was terrible at passing time and two months had felt like an entire year to her. On the bright side of things, she did not have to wait any longer.

A knock echoed through the house and it was followed by a drumming of fists that were much gentler than the former. The door rattled with every knock, especially with the overly-enthusiastic rhythm and Marya feared that the door might cave in soon. Hélène went to answer the door hurriedly for she did not want their guests standing in the middle of a snowfall for too long, Etoile waddling closely behind her after Marya had settled her down to lay out the table. When the door swung open, Hélène was greeted by a pair of arms flinging over her shoulders which pulled her into the tightest but warmest hug she had ever received in a long time.

“Vanya! It’s so good to see you again!” Natasha exclaimed but she paused her excitement. “Wait… Or is it Roza?”

“It’s Roza, ma charmante.” Hélène leaned in to whisper into the young girl’s ear. “But it’s exclusively Hélène for the lot of you~”

Natasha beamed and squeezed Hélène tighter in the hug. “It’s been so long!”

“It has! Your godmother and I are so happy to have you here.” Hélène noticed the way Pierre shuffled awkwardly beside Natasha and she pulled away from Natasha to greet him with a hug. Baffled, Pierre wrapped his arms around her and patted her shoulder. “Hello, Pierre. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Elena. Hélène… Uh- Roza,” Pierre stammered but he was smiling in amusement. “I apologize. You have quite a number of names and you didn’t specify which to use in any letters.”

“Hélène will do, my dear. I see you haven’t changed at all,” Hélène jested as she nudged him gently in the side with her knuckle.

“And neither have you,” Pierre jabbed back. His eyes widened at the sight of Etoile clinging onto her mother’s skirts, head peeking out from where she stood behind Hélène and he knelt down. “Is this little Etoile?”

Natasha gasped, a hand flying to her lips. “Oh, she’s gorgeous. Hi there.”

Etoile’s eyes twinkled in curiosity and pure joy to see the people that Hélène had shown her before in photographs. It was as if her picture books had come to life. She waved at Natasha then approached her slowly. These people in front of here were her own relatives she was meeting, other people who she could consider her family aside from her mothers. Leaping with joy, she buried herself against Natasha in what was supposed to be a hug and she stayed in Natasha’s fur coat for a while. Her fists clutched the furs and Natasha picked her up with a light giggle. Pierre watched them fondly and he placed a fairly large hand on Etoile’s back, rubbing circles in a familiar and comforting manner.

“She’s an angel,” Natasha swooned as she leaned into Pierre who kissed her forehead.

“She gets that from her mother,” Hélène said as she motioned to the kitchen where Marya came rushing out.

“Natasha, darling! How wonderful it is to see you! And Pierre, old friend, you’re looking well!” Marya cheered as she drew the two of them into a welcoming hug.

Pierre grinned at the sight of his dear friend. “Marya, it’s good to see you”- He was startled when Natasha interjected.

“Marya! Where have you been? It’s rude to be late. You taught me that lesson yourself,” Natasha scolded her godmother mockingly.

“I know I did but truth be told, I just got back home a while ago and I had dinner to prepare. Please excuse this minor inconvenience. I promise, it won’t happen again,” Marya swore.

“It better not. Now come give your favorite goddaughter a hug!” Natasha bounced into Marya’s outstretched arms and Etoile was sandwiched comfortably between the two ladies before Natasha passed the little one to her mother.

“Sit down at the dining table, my dears. Food is ready. We can’t have it going cold,” Marya insisted as she ushered her guests to the kitchen. “Hélène, dear, could you close the door?”

Hélène complied and skipped to the door to shut it as she was told but stopped when she saw four figures in the snow making their way to the door. Two men clumsily kicking through the snow and two women walking like completely normal humans with their arms linked. One of them, the tallest male of the lot, was mocking one of the ladies for her height and this small lady happened to be the smallest of the group. From what Hélène could see, she had quite a feisty attitude and very quick retaliation. As this tall figure ruffled the shorter figure’s hair, the shorter one struck, the back of her hand whipping the taller’s side swiftly and it elicited a loud high-pitched whine that Hélène knew all too well.

“Told you to stop bullying her,” Dolokhov laughed as he hit the taller man’s head.

“It’s not my fault that she can’t take a joke.” Anatole rubbed the back of his neck, scoffing at his companion before side-eyeing Sonya who was glaring daggers at him.

“Can we please be civil?” one of the girls squeaked out meekly, specifically Mary Bolkonsky who was clinging onto Sonya’s arm for dear life. “Marya won’t appreciate this behavior.”

“I doubt she’d appreciate anything we do,” Dolokhov added.

“Would you guys rather argue in the snow or come inside?” Hélène called out to the group which caught their attention and Anatole gasped.

“Sister! Oh, dear god, it is so good to see you alive and well,” Anatole cheered as he abandoned Dolokhov’s side to race up to his sister, swooping her in his arms for a big bear hug. “How are you?”

Hélène squeezed her younger brother with love as she leaned into the hug. “I’m fantastic! I’m glad to see you! Fedya, Sonya, Mary. Welcome!”

“All attention on me, please?” Anatole requestion politely and Hélène pinched his cheek.

“You always were a joker. Come in, otherwise I might get a scolding from Marya for leaving the door open for too long.” Hélène moved out of the way, allowing the group to come in.

“And now for my turn!” Dolokhov declared and embraced his friend, one hand tossing his coat right onto the rack with precision (finally living up to his name of being a crazy good shot).

Hélène could have sworn she heard Dolokhov sniffle but crying would be quite uncharacteristic of him. No matter the circumstances, Fedya Dolokhov never cried. The winter wind might have caught him with a cold which was not very good. Hélène did not want anyone to return to Moscow with a burning fever. That would mean that they failed to be hospitable. But once more, crying and falling ill were not words in the vocabular of Dolokhov. If either of that happened in one day, then something must be wrong. For all Hélène knew, she could be in another universe but that was irrelevant. Why fret now?

“My dear Feddy. How have you been?” Hélène purred.

“Never better. Has Marya been taking care of you?” Dolokhov asked as he threw a look over Hélène’s shoulder.

“That is your biggest concern? Of course, she has! She pampers me a lot,” Hélène answered dreamily.

“Good! I actually wrote her a letter asking if she was and she only responded with “Dear Fyodor, we are fine. Stop wasting parchment paper, yours truly, Marya D,” Dolokhov storied.

Hélène snorted and laughed. “Ah- I’m aware of that. She wasn’t very pleased by your doubts in her.”

“I’m just concerned!” Dolokhov debated and scowled.

“I know you are. Now, stop sulking and make yourself at home. You’ve received your attention. I have other guests to attend to.”

“Yes, ma’am~”

Dolokhov skipped off with a hum as Hélène watched in amusement, shaking her head lightly. As for the two very similarly quaint and bashful ladies, H��lène also gave them a hug. They were not close but they appreciated affection as a warm welcome, metaphorically and physically, after bickering in the snow and troika ride for too long. Marya, despite her well-known dislike for Dolokhov and Anatole, had shown an accepting attitude as she greeted them with a handshake far too polite for the occasion. At least she allowed them to touch her hand with their icy ones, unless one were to count the fact that she was wearing mittens to avoid direct contact.

Etoile, who had been in Marya’s arms, demanded for Anatole to carry her and without hesitation, the man picked up his niece and twirled around the room with delight. The blonde had screamed, “Is this my beloved niece?!” as he spun which sent Etoile and Hélène into a fit of giggles. As much as she trusted her brother, Hélène still had to keep an eye on his as he played about with her daughter. He could get a little too absorbed in his own mind to consider caution. At the same time, the sight of her own brother and daughter bonding brought tears of joy to her eyes.

Dolokhov slid into a vacant seat at the dining table beside Sonya who groaned loudly in dismay for him to hear and Natasha laughed opposite them. Mary looked away, girding herself. Pierre waved to them awkwardly and pushed his falling glasses up his nose, scrunching it from how his glasses slid off his nose once more. The house was filled with Etoile’s giggling and cheering as Anatole spun around the room with her. Her cheers were contrasted by the quiet hissing and snapping from Dolokhov and Sonya who had decide to strike up another petty argument over Dolokhov’s manners. Oh, the joy to have the familiarity of the orchestra of sounds Hélène and Marya had been so used to in Moscow. They never thought that they would ever have the homeliness of Moscow in their own house but with this family of theirs, they brought the entirety of their home with them.

In all honesty, Marya did miss the ambience of Moscow. She would never forget it though. The gossips, the opera, the parties. They were all part of her being. She stood at the kitchen door with great fondness for everyone in the room, breathing in a refreshing whiff of air. It would have been nice if it were not for Anatole’s overwhelming perfume but it would do. Clapping her hands together, she sat at the table and everyone sat to join her.

“I won’t speak long. I’m sure everyone is hungry a long journey but I would like to thank you all for coming such a long distance to see Hélène and I. We have missed every single one of you dearly and I don’t think there’s a day that is more blessed than today. I hope we can gather like this more frequently in the future. But for now, we will cherish what we have,” Marya spoke, glancing at Hélène who was swooning over her. “Enjoy your dinner and may god bless you all.”

“God bless you too,” Mary chimed in her seat and when everyone turned to look at her, her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

“How adorable,” Hélène cooed.

“If you responded like her, maybe you’d be adorable too,” Marya interjected which earned her a frown.

“Are you saying I’m not adorable?” Hélène gasped dramatically.

“And we eat!” Dolokhov interrupted which worked like a charm.

So, they ate their dinner as one loving family. Hélène had Etoile sat on her lap as she fed the little girl. While so, they chatted with Anatole and Dolokhov in their weirdly positioned triangle but it worked. Natasha, Sonya and Mary shared their own triangle where they whispered and giggled in soft whispers in stark comparison to the other trio but neither groups were bothered. Marya was far too busy for a conversation as she was gazing at Hélène who was speaking to their daughter and feeding her with some bread and soup. Her daughter and her wife. Her heart was so full and with everyone here with them, she felt as though she might just pass out from the joy. She could very well but she did not wish to make a fool of herself.

And Pierre. Dear old Pierre. He observed his old friend and his former betrothed with an easy smile that came to his lips, distracted to the point he had forgotten about his dinner. He had never seen Marya so romantically endearing nor had he ever seen her openly display her emotions towards Hélène who she had once despised with every bit of her soul. Hélène was kinder now; much more kinder than she used to be when she carried the title of ‘The Queen of Society’. The title she held now was different, a better one for a change. She was now a mother and a wife to the woman she loved, and my God did that make Pierre proud of his intervention in their plans to grant them such happiness. He too had found his own happiness fairly quickly with Natasha which he was grateful for. It appeared that everyone at the dining table found their happy endings, or beginnings.

A curious thought. He wondered how things had been if he had refused to help Marya and Hélène flee Moscow to start anew. Would they be this happy, decently happy to an extent or miserable? Pierre was not willing to make a bet. Whatever it was, he appreciated the moment. He thanked the Lord above who gifted them this life and began to eat when Natasha tapped his shoulder for his attention. All was well.

#nat.txt #marya dmitryevna akhrosimova #marya dimitrievna #helene kuragina #helene kuragin #maryalene #marlene #the great comet #the great comet of 1812 #Natasha pierre & the great comet of 1812 #natasha pierre and the great comet of 1812 #runaway fic #nat.writes

15 notes · View notes

propensityforthemature44 · 4 years ago

Text

Texas Triangle

For most of my forties, I worked as the assistant news director for CBS News, based in Manhattan. The position came with a number of perks, most notably salary and benefits greater than I would have earned back in my hometown on California’s Central Coast, where my career began. Within mere walking distance, so many of New York’s great museums, concert halls, restaurants, etc. were right there to explore during the little free time allowed by a demanding career. It was a spectacular time, the dynamics of television journalism in the twenty-first century, always learning something new, and the great people with whom I worked, the latter being perhaps one of the greatest benefits. This was especially true regarding one particular co-worker: legendary anchorman Bob Schieffer.

Arguably one of the more recognizable reporters of our time with an impressive CV, Bob commanded the respect of everyone at Black Rock, as the New York headquarters of CBS is known, not just because of his professional accomplishments, but because of how well he interacted with others. Whether you were network top brass or a member of the cleaning crew, he treated everyone with a sincere compassion. It was quite common on a Monday morning for Bob to pass through the halls and ask other employees how their kids performed at a piano recital or baseball game over the weekend. His affable nature allowed for bridge-building and ease of relationship maintenance between management and on-air talent, which made my life easier. This was a sharp contrast to the environment during the time of his friend and predecessor, Dan Rather, with whom I was acquainted and got on well, but the mention of whose name still drew eye-rolls on the property. Our professional dealings were so excellent, that they eventually led to a friendship outside of work.

After a couple of years on the job, Bob and I became such good friends, we were frequent guests at one another’s home for dinner parties. In fact, I had even been to his home for Christmas Eve dinner on consecutive years. His wife was a wonderful, gracious woman, and the same could be said for the rest of the family whom I had the opportunity to meet. It was a friendship based on trust in a professional situation, but had blossomed into what I considered to be a very rewarding relationship.

Due to our difference in ages, he was in many ways a role model given his life experiences. Also, I found myself very attracted to him, and why not? He was a handsome, well-dressed, intelligent mature gentleman with a wonderful personality, in other words, exactly my type. The exceptions being that he was straight, a colleague, and a friend.

One spring, I had planned to return to California, where I kept a home for visits and eventual retirement, for a couple of weeks to attend a family wedding and also to take some time to wind down by travelling along the coast. A few days before I was scheduled to head west, my boss summoned me to his office one afternoon. He requested that I schedule some time to speak with Bob about a personnel matter involving the research department. When I reminded him that I would not be back in New York for two weeks, he expressed a desire for the matter to be concluded quickly. So, I mentioned that I would be seeing Bob in Austin at the end of the week, and could discuss then. He was a great boss, but I knew that he was aware that as a friend, I would be attending the awarding of an honorary doctorate to Bob by the University of Texas on my way back to the West Coast. A crafty move on his part, but I would have tried the same.

A few days later, I traveled to Austin for a night, and checked into the Four Seasons downtown, where Bob was staying. Upon checking in, the clerk informed me that he had passed to the front desk a message asking me to visit his suite. I thanked her, and headed to my own room to drop-off my luggage, and do some minimal unpacking. It was already 2:30 in Austin, and I was flying to SFO to get a connecting flight the next afternoon following the award and luncheon.

Upon settling, I headed to Bob’s suite on the top floor. I knocked on the door, and then heard, “I’ll be right there, John,” in his familiar Texas drawl. When he opened the door, we shook hands, and then embraced in a more familiar hug of close friends. He showed me around, a rather impressive room of no less than 1800 square feet overlooking the river. “Where is Patricia?” I asked. Bob replied, “Well, change of plans.” He explained that his wife had gone to visit her sister in Dallas, whose husband was recovering from a recent procedure. I asked him to pass along my regards.

We made our way into the living room to take care of business, which concluded rather quickly to my delight, and from there began to just be ourselves. I congratulated him on the honor, and Bob being Bob, became flushed and modest. He then arose, and asked if I wanted a drink, and he poured me a vodka on the rocks. From there, we began to get caught up on a number of personal matters.

At one point he asked, “So, did you ever fill in that plus one on the wedding invitation?” Even though we were close, I was taken by surprise, forgetting that Bob had been in my office when the invite arrived several months prior. “No,” I said. “I’ll be attending solo. This way, I can focus on visiting with people at the events. I only get back to the Coast a few times a year.”

This seemed to draw a rather puzzled look on Bob’s face, as I could clearly see the eyebrows pointed upward through the lenses of his reading glasses. “Come on, John. Are you trying to tell me that you can’t get a date for this wedding? You’re in your prime. Forty-five years old, handsome, well-educated, well-traveled, great career, and you spend most of your time in California when not in New York. I’m sure there are plenty of eligible gentlemen in both places who would love to accompany you.”

I was shocked, to say the least. On the one hand, flattered, on the other, feeling as if I’d been drawn out of the closet, even though my being gay was not a secret at headquarters. Before I could respond, Bob asked, “Did you think I did not know? You know it doesn’t matter, right?” The answer of course being, I knew, despite the whole TCU connection he had, that he did not care about ethnicity, orientation, race, religion, etc., with regard to how he viewed people.

“I suppose that it’s just never come up in conversation between us over the years,” I said. Thinking about it, I supposed it was true, despite my occasional lusts for him.

“Well, no pressure, but I would just like to see you with someone. This isn’t the 1950’s, a couple of 40’s/50’s something guys like you should be enjoying the time together”, Bob said with a smile.

I answered, “That could be an issue. You see, I have a type, and what you describe, doesn’t match.”

“Well then, what is your type of man?” Bob inquired.

In a matter of seemingly no time, I found myself pouring out the details of my ideal man: mature, handsome, worldly, cultured, gentile. He laughed, “Why on Earth would you want to be with an old man?” “Not just any old man, the right sort of older man. Truth be told, he would be a man, like you, Bob, in many respects.”

He looked a little taken aback, so I said that I would head back to my room, and see him at the ceremony. As I made my way for the front door, I felt a tug on my right arm, and when I turned around, Bob embraced me in a hug and said, “Don’t leave just yet. You just surprised me is all. You know that there is no problem for us, right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You know that I love my wife, don’t you, John?”

“Of course, Bob.”

With that, he moved his arms down, and then up along my jacket, caressing my back and chest as he pulled me closer, pulling off his glasses before passionately and firmly pressing his lips to mine. Not exactly the first time kissing a man significantly older than myself, but this was certainly unchartered territory. I was so turned on, it felt as if I were high, and wow, could he kiss. It was a perfect example of why older men are better: they know things. Even more, I was beginning to realize this was not his first time with another man, certainly not when he began to move his hand over my crotch, focusing on my now fully erect manhood.

“What do we have here?” he asked slyly, as he bent down to unbuckle and open my slacks. From there, he took me across his lips, and then along his tongue, taking my entirety within his mouth, moving me back and forth. The sensation was so pleasing, I felt as if I was going to pass out in the middle of the suite. Hearing his moans and seeing the look upon his face, Bob was enjoying the act at least as much.

After a couple of minutes, he stood and pressed himself against me, with me now feeling the full excitement coming from Bob’s side. We embraced in a kiss for minutes, not wanting to separate. Toward the end, he was undoing my tie, and I his, after I removed my jacket, and then unzipped his fly, as I had imagined doing so many times over the years. Feeling a drop of pre-cum, I spread it along his tip, then began to move my hand back and forth, reveling in his moans and breathing, until he pulled himself closer and whispered, “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Within a matter of seconds, we had completely undressed and were embraced near the foot of the bed, and engaged in a complete lip-lock. As I saw it, there was certainly no reason to separate now. He tasted so good, and I knew he felt the same. In addition, we had established that he loved his wife, I had no intention of getting in the way, and my attraction to him had clearly taken over after settling those details.

We separated for a moment, as Bob walked over to the side of the bed. He pulled back the covers and climbed inside. Leaning on his side he patted his hand on the opposite side of the bed and said, “Come on, don’t be shy,” grinning from ear to ear. It was all the invitation needed for me to get under the covers and wrap my arms around his beautiful, smooth body. I wasted no time before reuniting with his lips and playing with his wonderful tongue. I moved my hands up and down his torso, finally settling down on his firm and gorgeous ass, adjusting to move my head down to focus on his nipples with my tongue and using my right hand to stroke him.

I could not believe that this was happening. This was a good friend, a colleague, and although this had been a fantasy for a few years, I could never have imagined that he would be so receptive and then some. I had every intention of making the most of the opportunity, and thus moved further down to take him in my mouth, and give him his medicine.

“Oh my god,” he exclaimed. “That is so wonderful. Please don’t stop.”

I moved up and down along his shaft, wrapping my tongue around the head, and after a couple of minutes, began to really work the head with my mouth while using my hand to pleasure his shaft. In doing so, I really began to get turned on by his moaning. After a few minutes, he placed his hand on my chest, as if to pause, but then pushed down until I lay flat on my back. Now, Bob was in charge, cleaning my testicles with his tongue, before focusing down on my cock. He moved up and down, closing his eyes, then opening them so that he could see the look of joy upon my face, and he certainly knew how to put in there with years of practice.

What seemed like hours of pure delight had passed when he let up and pulled himself back up to cuddle and kiss deeply and passionately. He was so close to having me reach the limit, but suddenly pulled back from the act, held me close and whispered into my ear, “Please enter me, darlin’. I want you to, it will be okay.” Then, Bob, pulled away and reached into the night stand drawer, and to my surprise, produced a bottle of lube.

“Now, you what to do, don’t you?” Bob asked rhetorically, as he kissed me on the forehead. So, I felt compelled to prove him right, and lubed my right index finger, and moved it slowly across his rosebud. This made him twitch and tickle at first, but he knew he was in good company, and I would never let him feel discomfort. So, as he loosened up after a minute, I lubed my middle finger as well, and began to slowly move them back and forth until I eventually reached his prostate. Now, he was putty in my hands.

Once my cock was sufficiently lubricated, I placed myself upon his precipice, slowly waiting for the right time, as I lay with my head upon his stomach. After a minute or two, I lifted my head toward his to embrace in a passionate kiss, after which he said, “I’m ready.”

I began to move ever so slowly back and forth, Bob in the missionary position, resting his heels on my shoulders, facing one another. It was so hot with the pleasure being split equally. Every time I thrust forward, I would make eye contact so as to see how much he was enjoying the penetration. He was giddy like a schoolboy, but more appropriately as an adult, panting and moaning. After several minutes, neither of us could handle any more, and I thrust against his prostate and ejected a stream within Bob, and then he let out a sigh, “Ohhh, god,” and shot a river of cum across my chest. Once concluded, we wrapped one another in hugs and kisses, and cuddled. It had been a couple of months since my last experience, but would easily say it was the best sex I had at that point in my life.

Eventually, the silence was broken by the ring of the room’s landline. Bob answered, “Hello. Come on now, of course I didn’t forget about you. Drop by when you’re ready,” he chuckled.

I looked over at the clock, and a couple of hours had since passed. Then I looked at Bob, and said, “Well, if you’re having a visitor, perhaps it’s best if I move to my room.”

Bob winked at me and said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You may want to put this on, however,” as he passed me a robe, along with a pair of slippers.

After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. Bob went out to the hallway to answer, and I could hear the faint echo of what appeared to be excited conversation between old friends. In the moment, it occurred to me that Bob felt comfortable enough with me to have me here in a robe, while inviting someone else inside, but I still had a tinge of awkwardness about the room. This was originally supposed to be just a stop on the way back west, but had taken a fantastic detour.

Then, a minute later, Bob came walking around the corner, also robed. Then, he asked, “You met John back at one of the holiday parties, didn’t you?” A moment later around the corner stepped James “Jim” Baker III, former Secretary of Treasury, White House Chief of Staff, to name just a few posts. Being a double-major political science/journalism as an undergraduate, of course he was a familiar figure, in addition to being introduced at Bob’s house.

“Of course. Nice to see you again, John.” He smiled, but you could tell from the expression on his face, that this, by no means, was the encounter he had expected. It was known that although there had been many interviews over the years, they had developed a friendship off-camera. So, while a stately, respectful man, he did seem somewhat put off that there was an extra man in the room, and reported, “Well, I won’t stay too long.”

The phone rang once more, and Bob said, “I’ll need to take this. Can you two make yourselves comfortable?”

“Sure,” we replied in unison.

Jim made his way around to sit on one of the sofas. He was, I think, a rather handsome man in his own right. Nicely cut head of white hair, beautiful navy blue suit with a red and blue striped tie, it was as if he’d just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers ad.

We attempted the task of small talk, although there was a bit of discomfort in the air. The conversation shifted to the next day’s event for Bob, which brought us both to Austin in the first place, then moved to an overview of each of our schedules for the week. Eventually, I noticed him wince a little, and asked if he was okay.

“Oh sure, I’m fine. Just paying the price for a round of golf this past weekend. No carts, all walking, so my feet are a little tender,” he chuckled.

I’m not sure what came over me, but I stood up and moved an ottoman closer to Jim, and sat down. Then, one-by one, I extended each of his legs and removed his cordovan Alden tassel loafers and began to massage his dress-socked feet.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” he said.

“I’m sorry, I just thought you were having discomfort. I’ll stop.”

“Well, it certainly is improving things,” Jim said, laughing a little.

I continued doing so for a couple of minutes, enjoying his pleasure.

Then, Bob returned and leaned over Jim to ask, “Do you still want to leave, Bake? They have such great service here.”

Bob then reached over and removed Jim’s suit jacket, as I continued to massage his tired feet. After hanging his jacket, Bob returned, and from behind, planted a deep kiss on Jim’s lips, that seemed to go on for minutes. It would have become obvious to an outside observer why Jim seemed edgy at first; he had planned on meeting Bob all by himself, and the way they were going at it, it was not the first or even fifth time, this had been an arrangement for a while.

While they were still kissing, I placed Jim’s feet on the floor, and made my way to his chair. I moved my hand up and down each of his corresponding legs, and then focused on the midsection. I caressed his torso, and transferred to his belt, which I unbuckled, then unzipped his fly and opened his slacks, and reaching inside the front hole of his boxers to release him. Now, he was mine, all 7 inches of engorgement that had developed in the past few minutes, and I wrapped my mouth around the head of his beautiful cock and began working my way up and down. I could feel the vein along the side, as it met my tongue, and could feel his excitement as he wriggled while still kissing Bob.

Bob untied Jim’s tie, and I began to move my hand inside of his shirt to feel his amazing chest. Not smooth like Bob’s, but just the right amount of hair, and light-colored. In a few minutes, we moved to the bedroom.

We placed Jim back on the bed, and then proceeded to fully undress him. I moved my way up the bed to kiss him, and again, older men know things. He was a master kisser, and we worked on one another while Bob serviced Jim below the deck. After a minute or two, I extended my right hand upward and began playing with his nipple. It seemed to be going well, so I released myself from his lips, and re-focused my mouth on his left nipple, while using my hand to play with his right.

To my delight, he was enthused, evidenced by his moaning of satisfaction. In fact, he must have been so appreciative, because without notice, he eventually maneuvered so that he could take me into his mouth, and did he ever do so. He had me in sheer ecstasy for several minutes, moving up and down on my head and shaft, completely reviving me for another performance.

At one point, he changed gears, shifting to Bob. After all, Bob had been hard at work for some time, and it was his turn to receive the delights he deserved. In doing so, he placed his hands on each side of Bob’s torso and pulled him up further on the bed. Then, he got between Bob’s legs and lowered his head, lips first. As he did, Bob’s patented grin returned to his face as he moved his head back and forth on the pillow.

It’s often said when a threesome occurs, that one person can find himself left out of the equation. I did not find this to be the case, but rather an opportunity. Specifically, Jim’s spectacular ass was now staring me right in the face. I extended my hands outward, massaging his buttocks. It was wonderful, so smooth and tight, you could just feel that he worked out 3-4 times per week. I could also feel that he was enjoying the chain of stimulation, as on the front end, his mouth and hand were now bringing Bob to new heights of joy. So, I reached over to the bedside table and retrieved the bottle of lube from earlier. One by one, I lubed my fingers, and began to finger Jim. He wriggled a little at first, but began to relax and loosen up, so a couple of minutes later, I spread a generous amount of lube on my cock, and then inserted myself into the former Secretary of Treasury.

As I stated before, this is not anything like I had imagined this trip unfolding. I wanted it to last as long as possible, so I slowly slid in and out. He was so moist, and I was so turned by watching him blow Bob and all of the moaning coming from both of them. I knew it would be only a few minutes at the most until I released myself within Jim.

“Jim,” Bob panted a few minutes later. “I can’t hang on much longer.”

Jim pulled Bob out of his mouth and began to quickly jerk him off before replying, “Come on, honey.”

Bob threw his head back and said, “Oh my god,” and then proceeded to cum right into Jim’s mouth, which he took like a pro and countered, “Umhm.”

I couldn’t take any more myself, and then pushed further into Jim before shooting a load.

Bob put his head back on the pillow. His expression was one of satisfaction and exhaustion. He was spent.

Jim leaned over and covered Bob with the sheet. Then, he kissed him deeply and passionately on the lips, then gently on the forehead.

I was now lying flat on my back, and Jim cuddled up next to me. He extended both hands, placed them on either side of my face, and pulled me in for a wonderful kiss that made me melt away, and we held in the embrace for several minutes.

“Doesn’t he look cute when he’s sleeping?” he asked me while looking over at Bob.

“As for you, you are every bit as good as I thought you’d be. Mmm, mmm, mmm. I knew the first time I laid eyes on you.” With that, he maneuvered so that he was right on top of me, and as he did, his cock rubbed up against my leg, just dripping with pre-cum.

Jim pressed his manhood right up against my balls and said, “There just one thing, son. The next time you’re in Texas, I get Bobby first. Understood?”

“Understood,” I said.

He then smiled at me, and lifted my legs upward so that my feet were now resting on his shoulders. With his right hand, he grabbed the lube and squirted several drops on my anus and a plentiful amount over his cock, and moved it up and down his shaft. Then, he got closer, and pushed himself gently up against my opening. His cock was just the right size, not too thick, not too thin, that with the lube, he slid right into me.

“Oh my,” he muttered, as he began to move back and forth.

It was heavenly, as he moved in and out, building up his pace over a few minutes. Eventually, he unloaded what felt like a gallon of cum all over my insides, falling forward and resting his head on my chest for several minutes before he went limp and released himself from me.

I must have dozed off because after a while, I felt a hand upon my chin. I looked up to find Bob smiling as he asked, “Hello, darlin’. Are you ready for another go?”

What transpired then is between the three of us. That said, it would not be my final encounter with either Bob or Jim.

9 notes · View notes