#got tired of trying so I started fucking around in photoshop

[amarrymeinbostonwriter]

I have had like zero focus all day and then I realize it's Friday the 13th.

I feel like that shouldn't matter but for some reason it does.

#I responded to one thing my professor sent me #I did a lot of work on my personal writing project and rebranded my youtube channel but other than that no #and that wasn't the point today so I failed epically #got tired of trying so I started fucking around in photoshop #ugh...I feel like I wasted today :/ #mychatter #maybe if I read some chapters or articles for school I'll feel better #and yes you'll see the 'art' I made XD #I have some bookblr posts too as well and those are less unhinged #mostly anyway

[inafieldofdaisies]

Draw (edit) your (platonic)ship prompt | "Barbie and Ken get into trouble" edition

Okay, I so had a blast making these, I really wanted to do the meme for Calahan and Sabrina but I'm scared to draw people, so with Photoshop I went... I'm leaving the snippet for the story behind how they end up getting into trouble below the cut.

"Is this really necessary?", Sabrina asked, moving her eyes over to Sheriff Whitehorse who was standing with his hands on his hips, looking completely done with the day. And it was barely 8 am. All she got as a reply from him was a head shake before he took a sip from his coffee. "Stop moving, Brin. I can't take your picture like this.", Pratt called out from behind the camera and sent an apologetic smile her way. "Mugshot, Pratt.", Whitehorse corrected him. "Make sure she looks good, Staci.", Joey put a hand on Pratt's shoulder and bent down to look into the LCD screen too, fully set on supervising the "booking" of her fellow Deputies. "Want me to fix your hair, Brin?" "It's fine, Joey. Just get this over with.", Sabrina looked straight ahead and took a deep breath, trying her hardest not to blink as she held the name tag. Unbelievable, Calahan. After taking an extensive number of pictures per Hudson's request, Pratt walked over to show her the results, "Pick which one you like." "Criminals don't get to choose how they look in their mugshots, Deputies.", the Sheriff spoke up again, making Calahan break into another fit of laughter. "Rookie. You're pushing your luck today. It's your turn.", his eyes narrowed when he pointed at Hartley. "Have you tried yoga, boss? Heard it helps with stress and anger... I'm sure Addie would be happy to assist ya.", Calahan winked and walked over to switch places with Sabrina. "Sorry, Gray.", he whispered as he passed her. "Or I can finally fire you, Rookie." "Now. You know you're going to miss me. Who is going to keep things interesting around here then?", Hartley retorted as Joey passed him his name tag. He frowned, his smirk slipping for a second, "Fucking hell. Couldn't even use my actual name on the tag?" Joey shrugged and returned to her spot by Pratt and now Sabrina. "Last warning, Rookie." Calahan shifted so he was standing sideways then turned his head towards the camera, giving the three behind it his biggest smile as he gritted out, "Take the shot, Pratt. One. And I'm out of here. It's my day off." "No smiling in your mugshot, at least try to appear sorry. And face the camera properly, Rookie.", Whitehorse argued, but it was too late: Pratt took Hartley's mugshot and marched out with the camera before their boss could force him to retake the picture. "What am I going to do with all of you.", the Sheriff huffed and strode away to his office.

"You love us, anyway.", Joey said at his retreating form before bumping shoulders with Sabrina and leading her over to their desks, "So tell me again why was John Seed out front demanding to speak with good old Earl?" "You won't let me live this down ever, would you?" "Nope." Sabrina sighed, "Calahan thought it would be a good idea to stop to the Spread Eagle for a drink after work... At one point he just vanished. I texted him and he tells me he's, I quote "Paying a friendly visit to a certain ranch owner." then went completely silent." "So you drove to John's ranch, too.", Joey continued, holding back a smile. "Yeah, and I found him fighting with the guards out front while shouting for John to come out..." "And he didn't, like the coward he is.", Calahan interjected as he sat down on the edge of Sabrina's desk, "Then runs here to whine to Whitehorse." "You were drunk and disturbed the peace at 2 am, Rookie. And were about to set his house or God knows what on fire.", Whitehorse poked his head out of his office. "Kid.", Sabrina said in a pleading tone, tired of listening to the two banter. It had started with him arguing with John's men, then with John himself after he had showed up at the Sheriff's, demanding the two Deputies be taught a lesson. At the end he and Whitehorse had settled for a "warning" and mugshots taken as a form of humiliation. John didn't even care I wasn't there to cause any trouble, just looking out for a friend. "You're lucky he's not pressing charges, son." "I was just messing with him.", Hartley rolled his eyes. He was skipping over the fact he had a gas can with him when he tried to storm the ranch or that he admitted to Sabrina the plan was to spell "No" on the lawn in fire, "Fucker needs a reality check. I'm happy to provide it for free." Whitehorse paid no attention to his excuse, "Hudson, John asked to hold onto the mugshots as part of the deal, make sure he receives them.", he instructed before shutting his door. "Noted.", Joey saluted him and got up, "Better check on Pratt." "Why the fuck would he ask to keep our pictures, kid?", Sabrina asked, unsure if she even wanted to know the answer to that question. Calahan wrinkled his nose, "Weird bastard. Ah, man, I would have flipped him off in mine, if I knew."

#i'm still cackling at Calahan's mugshot; bcs he so would be smiling like that :D #couldn't help but write a short snippet of the story behind the edits #doubt the snippet would be canon to the wip but it's definitely something Cal would do to piss John off #barbie meme #barbie and ken prompt #draw your ship #platonic ship #wip: in hope of tomorrow #snippets #oc: sabrina donovan #oc: calahan hartley #fc5 fandom #fc5 deputy #fc5 ocs #far cry 5 fandom #far cry 5 deputy #far cry 5 oc #ocs #edits #myedits #graphic design #character inspiration #dialogue snippet #writing prompts #story prompt #writing prompt #wip snippet #the barbie movie #character moodboard #character edit

[wexpyke]

.

this past year has actually been so crazy, like… it started with me taking a long, proper break from my MA thesis, which turned into me finally admitting i shouldn’t have chosen this degree and i’m incapable of finishing it at this current moment in time. maybe (hopefully) i’ll do it at some point in the future, when i feel better, but we’ll see. i just can’t force myself, because that’s only ever had a negative impact.

i’ve also had to come to terms with how much of an impact the crippling loneliness i experienced for the vast majority of 2020, 2021, and 2022 has had on me. i’m not really in a place yet where i can fix it, which is incredibly frustrating because i so badly want to fix it. it still affects me to this day and no one in my environment seems to truly understand it.

tried to get back into my old hobbies, like reading, writing, and messing around in photoshop. mostly succeeded, for about half the year.

in june i lost my dog whom i love(d) more than i can describe. we only had him for a year, but he was my fucking rock. he was the reason i got out of bed in the morning, the reason i managed to drag my ass outside and go for a proper walk in the woods & by the seaside, and the reason i smiled every day. i still miss him so much.

i attended my sister’s wedding, went on a disastrous holiday with my bf, and we chose to adopt a new dog. taking care of him has been a lot. “i love you, but god, at what cost?!” has been my main feeling towards him for the past few months. i’ve had moments where i want to pull my hair out in frustration because of him, but i also love him so much. it’s been confusing.

for the past few months i’ve been half-assing (if not quarter-assing) finding a job, because there’s nothing in our kind of rural, small town i think i’d actually enjoy, and because of my mental health, i know i need to find something i’ll enjoy or i might ***.

had the worst birthday in recent memory. just, god. wish i could forget.

visited dublin with my bf. spent some time with his family. worried about ronan (our puppy) a lot.

oh! had a fucking breast cancer scare. and a terrible experience with the health care system here, again! had one in may too. so that’s great! that’s definitely making me want to reach out to them to try to see if i can get a referral for therapy!

just a week or two ago i got into the biggest fight i’ve ever been in with my sister, which ruined the family holiday and almost could’ve ended our relationship altogether. we talked it out after a few days and we’re all good now, but it was an insanely stressful week that was so incredibly emotionally draining. cannot emphasise enough how tired i still am from it all.

christmas was weird because of it. had some good food and wine, though, and got some nice presents.

finished my theon fic exchange fic, somehow. i hadn’t written anything since my dog died, because i fully lost all of my motivation to write and my enjoyment in writing. i enjoyed writing it. hopefully i’ll be able to get back into writing again.

read 13 books this year. my goal was 15. i really want to get back into reading, but alas. started the wheel of time series, though, so maybe that will help. reading all of those would already almost complete my goal for next year, lol.

i hope next year will be kinder. i really need it to be. i know i’ll try my best to be kinder; to myself and to others.

#personal #tbd #.txt

[in--somnium]

((Okay, so just a lil update!

The last few months have been hectic as hell for me- first with prepping for the concert at the end of August, then the sudden passing of my kitty only 2 days later at the start of September (which, listen, I have lost a lot of family and a lot of pets but that was especially traumatic as fuck, so my entire September and even some of October was lost on me due to mental health issues ^^;). Then there’s been the holiday season (which for retail actually starts in, like, June/July bc we started getting Halloween stuff in June and Christmas in September- which was better than when we got it in August last year). So I’ve been neglecting writing (especially here on the multi) A LOT since August. 

With that said- once inventory is over (it’s on Jan 6th), things should hopefully calm back down and get to normal. It’s gonna take me a minute to adjust and properly be around again once the holidays are over, but I’d really, really like to get back on track with writing here (and on the side blog, and on Rogue’s blog). So I’m gonna start trying to post opens and ask memes more (I’d do a promo, but I’m absolute garbage with photoshop so...)

At this point in time, PLEASE feel free to send ask memes or to IM me about plotting or to tag me in little starters or whatever! Like, literally just flood my inboxes and nudge me and ask for my disc.ord and whatever! I really wanna get back into the swing of things and, while I probably won’t get to everything right away (it’s the last week before Christmas so I’m gonna be tired as fuck after work every day all week and, for that reason, might be extra silent until after the 26th), it would be nice to have some things prepped to start queueing up post-Christmas.

I’d also like to send some extra love to the people who’ve been patient with me during all of this and who still toss things at me and talk to me ooc (even though I’ve been ESPECIALLY unavailable ooc- my social battery is at a constant negative this time of year oTL) and just... still follow me and wanna write with me and check in on me and such❤️ You’re all the fucking best and I love you so much 🥺❤️ I promise to try to make it up to you in the coming year with lots of threads and fun interactions and more ships if you wanna 👀 

I hope you’re all having a nice weekend!❤️))

#ooc. #long post cw #long post #((With that said- I gotta go for a little while now but yeah! Always feel free to send stuff! #I'm gonna start queueing some replies tonight hopefully and I'll just hoard the rest for chances to queue 'em during the week lmao))

[mcrmadness]

I took today off because the stuff they talk about in class today is just basic "how to use Photoshop" and I already know how to use it, and how to edit photos in general.

But my stupid brain decided to wake up before 8am anyway, despite me making sure the alarm clock won't go off so that I can finally rest and SLEEP. But no. And now it's 10am and I'm so damn tired (because mornings, not my thing...) and also almost done with browsing Tumblr, and I don't know what to do next.

Except that, I guess I should try to do some research on laptops because I still need to get myself a laptop I can edit videos with, and I wish we were told about that a bit earlier than 2 days before we need those laptops. The cheapest ones for this purpose I can find cost over 400€ and that is a second-hand laptop. It also turns out that I can't download any of those Adobe softwares to my PC because I have Windows 7 and Adobe only supports Win10 or higher, unless there is a way to bypass this and download the softwares anyway. I'm pretty sure there must be a way because I already have Photoshop on my PC thanks to a Tumblr post that keeps going around, and it works just fine despite this being Win7. On Adobe's website it just says "you must upgrade your system" and like. Fuck you and don't tell me what I need to do. Win10 sucks.

Still probably gonna get a laptop with Win10 or Win11 just in case. I just hope I can activate it because Win10 sucks even more if you don't have it activated, about Win11 I don't have any experience.

And if the laptop thing is too overwhelming, then I guess I could always try continuing my art project that kinda got interrupted because my school started this Monday...

#madness rambles about school

[finelinevogue]

What if a security guard wouldn’t let you back in the arena if you went out to get something. And they didn’t believe that you were harrys gf and just thought you were a crazy fan

oooh it’s been done before but here’s my version!! ;

You were running late.

It was already 7pm and you were only getting out of your car in the car park. Harry was due to be on stage in an hour and you hadn’t even seen him yet. The traffic around Dallas today has been awful. Chocker block. You’d been with Harry all day, up until 3 hours ago when he had to leave the hotel to come to the stadium for rehearsals. Normally you’d go with him, but you were so tired that you wanted a little nap before coming. The problem here was you overslept.

There were no Ubers available and a taxi would be far too expensive at this time, so you drive in Harrys car instead. You’d been following Harry on tour in his car, so when you get to different destinations you can go out on ball day trips if you want to without the obscenity of a huge tour bus or paying for Ubers everywhere. It was the main reason you were so tired though, travelling across country and into different time zones. It would be so much easier if this was the UK.

You grabbed your purse and your jacket, locking the car as you got out and started running for the backstage entrance. It was easy to make it there and you noticed security guards already standing there.

“Hi!” You smiled, slightly short of breathe. You were about to move past them when one of them shoved your shoulder back, making you stumble back unbalanced. “Wha—”

“ID and backstage pass to get through here.” One of them said, looking you up and down as if you were nothing.

If anything, you were quite shocked on how they just treated and continued to treat you. Normally, Harry would show a picture of you to these backstage security guards to make sure you’d be able to get in no problem, but it seemed like today Harry might’ve forgotten to show that photo. This was going to be a problem for you, because you’d forgotten to bring your backstage pass.

“I normally just go through? I’m Harry’s girlfriend.” You tried talking your way around the situation, not appreciating behind held up so close to show-time.

“Oh you’re Harry’s girlfriend? You must be the 7th one we’ve met tonight.” The security guy laughed and so did his friend, making your blood boil with how annoying they were being. Harry would be so pissed if he heard the way they were treating you.

“No but I actually am.”

“Then, ID and backstage passes.” One of then held out his hand whilst the other crossed his arms over his chest to make him look intimidating. Dickheads.

“I have ID just not the backstage passes.” You answered honestly, holding out your ID for them to check. They collected it and asked you questions on it, you answering them all perfectly.

“Well you definitely know you, but you have no proof you’re supposed to be where you claim to be.” They handed you back your ID and you huffed in stress.

“Well what can I show you? Photos of me and Harry together? Text messages?” You waved your arms around, getting really pissed off that this was actually happening. You’d probably miss Jenny’s whole set because of this and then 15 minutes before show-time Harry gets transported under the stage. So you only really would have half and hour with him, and that’s just not enough time. You wanted a safe and warm hug off him. You wanted a kiss. You just wanted him.

“Everyone knows they can be photoshopped.” One of the guys scoffs at your notion.

“Listen. You either show us your backstage pass or we’ll escort you off site.” The other one says a lot more firmer this time. It made you quite anxious for what you’d do if they did that - or maybe when they did that.

“Well I don’t have the backstage passes.” You sighed, rolling your eyes at the way this was going to end.

“Then let’s go.” One of them pointed to where you came from and to the car park, stepping forwards as he did so.

“I’m not leaving until you let me through those doors. My boyfriend is waiting for me.” You answered, taking a step back in stress of what they might do.

“Harry ain’t your boyfriend. Now let’s go!” They stepped forwards again and reached for you.

You swung your bag at one of them, hitting him in his side and he grunted because of the impact of your water bottle with his chest. The other one grabbed your arm and you couldn’t shake him, since you were not trained in any way for situations like this at all. His fingers dig into your skin and it made you scream out a cry, trying to kick him in any way to escape. The other one recovered ever ordered the guy holding you to escort you away whilst he stayed and guarded the door. The one holding you tugged your arms behind your body and held them tight there, it really fucking hurting. He didn’t care though and continued to walk you, asking you where your car was so he could get you out of here.

Once you reached your car he let you go and you wrapped your arms around you as he walked away again, not verbally saying anything but his eyes saying enough. Stay away. You shakily got your keys out of your bags and unlocked your door, climbing in and just sitting there. You could feel your hands really shaky and achy. Looking down with tear clouded eyes, you saw the red marks over your arms and slight bruising already. Your arms and shoulders hurt from being bent in an uncomfortable position.

You cared less about the pain though and how much of a disappointment of a girlfriend you were going to be to Harry. He was going to think either the worst for you or the worst of you. You reached in your bag on your lap for your phone, throwing your bag on the seat next to you afterwards. You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your t-shirt and unlocked your phone to text messages, sending Harry a quick text.

To Harry: Are you free to call? x

No response. You sat there for a few minutes in silence, still shook up and teary. That had been a really awful situation to be in and you hated that you were nowhere near Harry to fix it. Your phone vibrated 3 minutes later, finding a text message from Harry. You sighed and felt safe when you saw his icon light up your notifications, knowing he was in contact with you.

From Harry: Of course, you okay? xx

You didn’t open your phone because you didn’t know how to respond. How do you tell him you’re not okay, only 20 minutes before he’s meant to be ready to go on stage? You didn’t want to worry him, but you also didn’t want him thinking you were a terrible girlfriend either.

Another vibration.

From Harry: Lovie? xx

Your eyes watered at that simple word, meaning so much more to you than five letters. It made you feel so much comfort, you only wished you could get that hug and a kiss now.

Again.

From Harry: Love, you’re worrying me now.

From Harry: Let me face-time you, hang on.

His icon lit up the screen; Incoming…

You shakily accepted, wiping your eyes quickly before. When he answered you could tell he was still in his dressing room, sat on the sofa that you wish you were also sat on with him. He looked so beautiful. His hair was perfectly styled and he was wearing a pearl coloured silk shirt and you knew he was wearing white silk pants to co-ordinate. You thought he looked ethereal. A glowing beacon of hope and beauty.

He didn’t say anything to you at first and you nothing to him. He just looked at you and instantly knew something bad was up. He kept eye contact with you and it was as if he was having a telepathic conversation with you, understanding that you needed him and just him.

“Hey, Mitch man?” Harry asked, turning his head to somewhere else in the room. “Could y’just give me a minute. Please.”

“Sure, sure.” Mitch answered and all you could hear was the sound of shuffling and the door shut. As soon as he was gone you started crying all over again. You cupped your hand over your eyes and your body shook as you just cried. Harrys heart broke that you were alone and he couldn’t hug you close to his chest.

“Y/N, baby. Look at me.” He asked urgently and you just shook your head, embarrassed that this was happening to you. “You’ll be alright lovie, I promise. Just look at me, beautiful.” You moved your hand away from your face and wiped your eyes and nose to try and make you look slightly better - not that it helped. “There’s my pretty girl.”

You smiled. He smiled.

“I-i’m so-rry H.” You whispered, sniffling in between words because of how shaky you felt.

“Hey, no. None of that. It’ll be okay.” He reassured you, keeping eye contact with you to try and decipher what was wrong. “Where are you, lovie? You’re in the car, yeah?” Harry asked, recognising your surroundings but you could get anywhere. You could have been in an accident for all he knew, but he was remaining calm so he didn’t send you into a panic.

“Yeah. In the stadium car park.” You saw Harrys eyes momentarily light up at that, before he remembered that you weren’t okay.

“Okay. Tell me why you’re upset, love. Help me understand.” He sounded urgent, just wanting to know so he could help you out. He wanted you to be okay. He wanted you with him.

“The security guards wouldn’t let me in, backstage I mean. I didn’t have my backstage pass. But..” You choked on a sob and Harry told you to just breathe. You were okay. “One of them g-grabbed me and escorted m-me of sight.”

“Baby, are you hurt? Is that why you’re upset?” Harry asked, standing up now in panic. His face looked angry, but you could tell he was trying his best to be a comfort for you. “Y/N?”

“Y-yes. Yes Harry, yes.” You voice wobbled out and you let out an exasperated sob. “I’m s-sor—”

“No don’t you dare. Don’t apologise for this. Not ever. You understand me?” He made very clear he wasn’t messing around.

“Yes.” You nodded.

“Alright. Now, you gotta be strong for me okay?” He asked, before asking, still checking that you were okay. He knew you would be though, because you were his bravest girl ever - stronger than you knew.

“Okay.”

“You’re going to make your way back to the backstage entrance, alright? I am going to be there, before you get there. Those security guards won’t be there I promise. You’ll be okay. Can you do that for me?” He asked, moving around the room and then out of the door. He was walking down the corridors, ignoring the people shouting his name. He was only focused on you.

“Yes. Okay.” You nodded, wiping under your nose again.

“I love you.” He kissed the camera of his phone, looking like he was kissing you instead.

You returned the gesture, kissing him virtually back. “I love you.”

He told you that it’d be alright and then ended the call, explaining how you didn’t need to hear him get angry when he found these security guards. They would be fired even if they weren’t on his tour crew, he’d make sure of it. You made your way back to the backstage entrance again, slowing down before you rounded the corner. Taking a deep breathe you walked around and were met with exactly what Harry promised; him.

You smiled and broke out into a run to get to him, your bag weighing on your shoulder. Once you reached him your bag was thrown on the floor in front of him and you jumped into his arms. He lifted you up to sit you around his waist, keeping his arms tight around your waist and squeezing the biggest hug out of you. Your arms tightened around your boyfriends neck and you buried your face into his neck, and god he smelt like everything homely and sweet. He felt just like home.

“See, you’re alright now lovie.” He assured you, kissing your cheek that wasn’t quite buried into his neck.

“Th-ank you.” You muttered, kissing his neck in appreciation which made him hum in delight. He tasted so hot and lush. He was insatiable. You then felt him start kissing your arms, where the harsh red and purple marks were.

“Sorry y’had to go through this.” He kept kissing your arms, until you moved your head up and looked at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“If I can’t say sorry, then neither can you.” You shook your head, kissing his nose softly. You watched his eyes flutter close and felt so special that only you could do that to him.

“You’re so amazing Y/N. Truly.”

“You’re pretty special too, my love.”

He didn’t need to hear anything else from you, those words were enough, so he pressed his lips to yours softly, filling you with the love you’d been waiting to feel all day. You smiled into the kiss and he just felt so amazing. He was so soft and gentle with you - as smooth as the silk that dressed his body. He was so pretty to watch melt away under your spell and delicious tasting. Strawberries, was that?

He was everywhere. He was everything. He always would be.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x y/n #finelinevogue #harry styles fanfiction #finelinevogue harry styles #harry blurb #harry oneshot #harry styles concept #hslot texas #hslot series finelinevogue #hslot concept night #hslot2 #hslot #love on tour harry styles #love on tour fanfic #love on tour blurbs #love on tour series #love kn tour #finelinevogue harry styles masterlist #finelinevogue blurbs #love on tour finelinevogue #harry styles backstage #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff

[sleeperswakewriting]

fire alarm

Thank you to @nicolanoodles for the prompt: “the fire alarm went off at 3 am and now the cute guy from the flat next door is standing next to me in his underwear AU”

AO3

Rating: G

Pairing: Levi x Petra

Petra groaned and rubbed her eyes as she slid into her slippers. Not again…She thought, throwing on her robe and grabbing her phone. She padded to her front door with not nearly as much haste as she probably should have, but she was tired. For the third time this week, her building’s fire alarm had gone off, and each time had been a false alarm. Something related to a new system, is what management told everyone, but it still didn’t make up for the fact that this was now the third night this week that she had woken up at 3 AM. By the time the firetrucks were called and the all clear was given, she barely fell back asleep before waking up at a prompt 5:30 AM to get ready for work. 

Her coworkers and students commented on her ragged appearance, which made her all the more frustrated since she was usually known for her sunny disposition, but even she had her limits, and she was someone who valued her sleep. It didn’t help that she recently moved into the building so she had nearly another year before her lease was up, and she was so sure that this apartment would be the perfect fit for her modest salary and being a single woman. 

Skirting down the stairs, Petra noticed her neighbors also lazily making their way back down, each of them with the same annoyed and dazed look. Petra knew most of the people on her floor, an elderly couple three doors down, a single mom and son across from her, and a young couple with an adorable Pomeranian that she often saw in the afternoons when she returned from work. There were a couple neighbors unaccounted for, and Petra assumed that their schedules never aligned, but she never had any noise complaints, which was the plus side to her floor. 

The summer breeze hit her as she made her way onto the grass, the moistness catching her fluffy slippers and she grumbled, wondering if the apartment complex would reimburse her for physical and emotional damage. If anything, her students will be suffering tomorrow since Ms. Ral had been at the end of her rope all week, and one more student on the red zone would take away Friday’s movie afternoon. Clearly, lack of sleep made her heartless, but at this point she didn’t care, she wanted to get back into her bed. 

Petra pulled up her Snapchat to show her friends that yet again, she would be in a bad mood all day. As she raised her phone to the apartment complex to snap a picture of the screeching disaster, she immediately noticed a man standing a few feet in front of her in his underwear. Well, his black boxer’s to be exact. He had flip flops on, and he wore a scowl equal to the people around him. His eyes focused in on her, and his grimace darkened. 

They made eye contact and Petra yelped, immediately turning around and slapping her phone to the side of her leg and out of sight. Oh my god, he must think I’m such a perv. Don’t turn around, Petra. Even if he is hot and has a six pack, you were not taking a picture of him in his underwear!

“Oi,” a man said, tapping her shoulder, and she went hot. 

Slowly turning around to meet her judgement, Petra went crimson as the man in the boxers stood in front of her. He was glaring (as he should, Petra thought) and pointed to her phone in her hand. He was only a few inches taller than her, maybe a just bit older too, with grey eyes and an undercut.  

“What the hell?” He asked, and Petra found it very hard to breathe. The last time she was this close to a near naked man was her ex-boyfriend, and that was someone she knew very well. This was a stranger! A very sexy, are-his-muscles-photoshopped stranger. 

Petra took a step back, squishing further into wet grass and she stuttered, “I-I wasn’t taking a picture of you. I was just taking a Snapchat to show my friends to complain. I would show you, but you know, Snapchat.” 

The main raised an eyebrow, not buying her story, and she groaned. “I promise I’m not a pervert. You’re really attractive, but I’m not the type to snap pictures of random guys.”

He raised his eyebrows even further, the annoyance disappearing and his expression softened to something closer to amusement. 

Realizing what she just said, hung over from lack of sleep, Petra clamped her mouth shut and took a deep sigh. 

“Let me start over. Hi, my name is Petra. I live in 34C.” She extended her hand, hoping to get into the stranger’s good graces before he reported her for harassment. 

The man shook her hand. “Levi. 34B.” 

God, could this day get any worse? He was her freaking neighbor too?! One of the nameless ones that apparently worked opposite hours. Feeling lightheaded, Petra released his hand and stared at the ground in embarrassment.

Seemingly uncomfortable with their silence, Levi coughed. “This shit sucks,” he said, pointing his thumb at the firetrucks that started to pour in. They were a good 100 feet away from the building, but the noise was enough to give her a headache. 

“Yeah,” Petra agreed lamely, her silk robe suddenly feeling too tight. 

“How long have you been living here?” He asked. 

“Just two months, I got a job in the area over the summer. You?”

“A year.”

“Oh, so are these things common? I’ve been meaning to ask around but I’m always so tired when they go off, but I’m not sure how much longer I can take it.” 

“Not really, but it’s still fucking annoying. Not like we have work or anything,” he mumbled sarcastically, running his fingers through his hair. 

Since the conversation had mellowed out and he didn’t seem as agitated at her, she allowed herself to peek at him, admiring his muscular features. Maybe he was a personal trainer? Or in the military? 

“I know, right? I have to deal with so many brats in the morning, this week has been killing me,” she commiserated. 

Levi seemed to smirk as she spoke, and she amended, “Not that I don’t like my students or anything! They can be a handful, but I usually really do like them when I’m not sleep deprived.” 

“You’re a teacher?” 

She nodded enthusiastically, “Third grade.”

“Wow,” he replied sincerely. “I couldn’t do that, too much noise.” 

“What do you do?” She asked, feeling braver. 

He crossed his arms, and Petra swallowed as the action highlighted his chest and biceps. “I’m a lawyer.” 

“Oh! Like defense attorney stuff?”

“Child welfare,” he replied, looking to the side, and Petra’s heart melted. Hot and chivalrous? She had to tell Nanaba about him later. 

“That’s amazing!” She said enthusiastically, nearly forgetting about his unclothed state, and she stepped closer to him. His eyes widened as the side of her robe brushed against his stomach, and she caught herself, giggling. 

“Aha, sorry!” She pulled the straps tighter against her. “Can I ask why you’re in your underwear?” Don’t look near his groin, Petra. Don’t try to guess how big—

“I was asleep,” Levi deadpanned, as if it were obvious. Petra looked around them, wondering if anyone else was in a similar state of disarray, but most people were in their robes or threw on a jacket to cover themselves up. Seemingly, as if Levi could read her mind, “I never know if one of these things are real or not, so I just gun for it. I guess I should know by now, but it’s a pretty knee jerk reaction.” 

“Do you want my robe?” She asked suddenly, feeling bad for him and maybe he was feeling self-conscious. 

“Hell no. I’d rather be like this than be caught dead in your pink lingerie.” 

Petra blushed furiously. “It is not lingerie! It’s a robe!” 

He nodded, and with a teasing lilt to his tone, “Sure. With a v-neck cut out to show off your cleavage. Just a robe.”

She looked down at herself for the first time since putting on the ensemble, and she grew hotter noticing the lacy and thin tank top she was wearing. It was obvious to anyone looking at her up close that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and her sleep shorts cut off before her robe, making her look pants-less. 

“Do you want to sit in my car and make out until the trucks leave?” 

“W-What?!” Petra gaped, and she looked up to see Levi’s face lined in amusement, holding up his car keys. 

“I’m kidding. I was actually going to sit in there before I saw you taking a picture of me. We’ve already seen each other half naked, so it isn’t too weird to sit in a car together.” 

Not seeing how her night could get any more embarrassing, Petra nodded and found herself following Levi to his car in the adjacent lot. Maybe I should call out of work tomorrow…

“For the record, I definitely was not taking a photo of you.” 

“I wouldn’t mind if you did, though.” He said, opening the door to his black sports car, and Petra’s heart thrummed in her chest, inhaling the leather. 

Maybe the fire alarm going off wasn’t so bad. 

#rivetra #Levi x petra #petra ral #rivetra fanfiction

[cheshiremadd]

Uprooting Bindweed

Ao3

I'd had the idea of Rena and Chat talking about Marinette and Adrien in my WIP folder, and then @galahadwilder posted the perfect prompt on discord to go with it: what if Chat Noir fired Rena Rouge.

Thank you SO much to @alexseanchai and @sweetmeatdale for your feedback! 💜

Speaking of Alex, they came up with the title, because they're amazing like that. Bindweeds are used as "food plants by the larvae of some Lepidoptera species, including the convolvulus hawk moth". With that information and the Bindweed tarot card, I knew a more perfect title would not be found.

-

The Akuma of the Week was searching for Marinette. The fourth time this month, and he was really hoping there was nothing to that. So many targeting the same person not Chloé or Lila seemed strange to him. But that was a worry for another time.

Chat Noir and Rena Rouge had been sent ahead to the bakery (he was very glad that he’d stashed Marinette somewhere else). Rena was to Mirage herself into the designer and play bait, but they had to wait until Ladybug could lure the akuma closer. Five minute timer, and all.

Rena reached her balcony first, and went to the trapdoor without hesitation. Chat figured he’d have to be the one to open it, and had been planning how to go about it without giving away how familiar he was, but Rena had no qualms. His stomach soured at the thought that he wasn’t the only superhero to visit Marinette.

She’d redecorated some since he last was in her room. He wasn’t able to come as often as he wanted, and they typically preferred the open air and view of her balcony when the weather was warm.

Adrien’s modeling photos were still present, but they’d been updated to more recent shoots. On another wall were more candid pictures. Their friends and classmates. People he assumed were Marinette’s family (only some of whom he’d met). Several of Kitty Section. Her and Jagged Stone and Penny Rolling (it still blew his mind that she’s on a first name basis with them). Lots of her and Alya and Nino. Fewer of Adrien.

He knew she had more of Chat than of Adrien. But she kept those on her phone, locked away in a secret folder. Too much chance that someone would see her walls.

One caught his eye, placed directly in the center, the spot of honor. A high res of Chat-him and Ladybug. They’d thrown their arms over each other’s shoulders and snapped half a dozen selfies. It’d been Ladybug’s idea to submit the best of them to the Ladyblog, giving civilian them plausible deniability.

The last wall, above her sewing supplies, held her inspiration boards. One for general inspiration, holding her favorite pieces from her favorite lines (only one of which was a Gabriel piece, he noted with some interest), some fabric squares of different colors and patterns, and scenic pictures from around Paris. The other, he knew, was more specific to whatever she was currently working on. Pinned to it was a handful of dried flowers, a fabric swatch to match each flower, and several sketches.

Chat glanced at Rena, realizing she’d been quiet this whole time. She was staring at Adrien’s modeling photos, the look on her face unreadable. He looked with her. He wondered if there was a specific shoot Marinette favored.

“This must look so strange to you.”

Chat looked back at her, but said nothing. He wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t give away exactly how close he was to Marinette.

“I promise she’s not some weird stalker in love with a celebrity. Well. He is a celebrity and she does have the biggest crush on him.” Um. What? “But they’re actually friends. She didn’t even like him when she first met him. The—the Wall actually started because he wasn’t allowed to hang out very often, and no one could get any candids of him.”

What?!

His shock must have shown on his face. He turned back to ‘the Wall’ in an effort to hide at least some of it.

“You seriously didn’t know?” Rena said. “You’ve got to be, like, one of two people in Paris that doesn’t. I keep flopping on whether Adrien knows or not. One minute it’s like he’s encouraging her feelings, the next he’s going on about how glad he is to have such a good friend.”

Chat tried not to sputter. “How—how does ‘no candids’ turn into—” He gestured at the collage of Adriens.

“None of them were perfect.” Rena said it like she’d heard it a million times. “This photo shows his sincere eyes, but the rest of the face is photoshopped too much to be his real smile. ‘That advertisement had most of his real smile!’ ” She pitched her voice higher in mimicry. “ ‘But they shaved several centimeters off of his waist! Several! He’s skinny but he’s not that skinny can you believe they felt like they needed to change that, Rena?’ Well, she didn’t say Rena, she said my civilian name. I mean—you get it. And, oh, that outfit looks really good on him, it looks like something he’d choose to wear himself, but he looks so tired in that one. I bet that was at the end of that all-day shoot.”

(They didn’t actually shave inches off his waist. They did shave a little, but that wasn’t the point because—) He never realized that Marinette paid so much attention to him. He wanted to deny it. She’d specifically told him that she didn’t have a crush on him. And Marinette hates liars.

But. But she’d been embarrassed, that day. And she was embarrassed around him a lot. Especially when Alya was involved. It’d taken him a long time to notice that, but once he had, he saw it everywhere. And with this new piece of information…it shone a whole different light on many of their interactions.

Chat swallowed. He wasn’t sure what to do with this knowledge. He’d been in love with Ladybug for…for a long time. And Marinette. Marinette was special. Rejecting her was hard enough the first time, but at least he’d known that it’d never work between a superhero and a civilian.

Oh, Kwamis. She had a crush on Chat, too! Adding that event with this new understanding, he realized she never meant to confess to him. She’d probably been about to backtrack, but then her parents interrupted, and it was out of control from there.

What better evidence that someone truly liked you for who you were than falling for you twice and not realizing it?

Rena shuffled a bit, finding other things to poke her nose in, and Chat realized that he’d never responded.

“So, you don’t think it’s creepy that this girl has like twenty pictures of her crush on her walls?” He didn’t think it was creepy. He thought it was endearing. But he was curious what she would say. She’d been interestingly defensive of Marinette.

She snorted. “Hey, if it’s crazy, Adrien’s her same kind of crazy. He’s got more photos of Ladybug on his phone than I do, and that’s saying something.”

His brain came to a complete stop. And then worked overdrive. How the fuck did Rena Rouge know that.

She sighed, picked at her flute, and continued. “I’ve been wondering if she shouldn’t give him up, though. It’s starting to get unhealthy. Ruining her friendships in class.”

His chest tightened and it became hard to breath. Loving him was bad for her. The thought rattled around, but what she said next wiped it all away.

“There’s this girl in class, Lila. She’s an amazing person, done all these things, and has a real chance with Adrien. Marinette can’t let it go. She swore that Lila was lying, then dropped it and now just gives her the cold shoulder. Won’t go to group outings if Lila’s involved. Keeps flaking out. Avoids her completely. Lila’s trying, so hard, to keep the peace, mend bridges, and Marinette just refuses to listen.”

Rena dropped her hands, hitting her thighs, and paced. Agitated.

“It’s jealousy, pure and simple. And if she’s going to be like that, then I just don’t know if I can approve her being in a relationship. Especially with him.”

Chat felt something inside him harden. Gritted his teeth. Considered biting his tongue. He knew who this was. It’s plain as day now, and he’s mildly surprised he didn’t see it before. She’s supposed to be Marinette’s best. friend. And this was how she thought of her?

To be fair, Rena looked torn over this. Chat could see the hurt in her eyes, the worry in her bitten lower lip. The frustration in the creases of her brow. And she was telling all this to Chat, whom she only passingly knew.

But he couldn’t keep the distaste from his face. “Marinette’s right. Lila Rossi is a fucking liar. You think she’s got a real chance with Adrien Agreste? He wouldn’t touch her with my extendable baton. He only does photoshoots with her because clearly no one at Françoise Dupont knows what proper procedures for expulsion are, and that stunt Rossi pulled almost turned into Heroes Day 2.0.” He tugged down one of Adrien’s glamour shots. Marinette’s handwritten and detailed critiques ran along the edges. “From what it sounds like, Agreste would be lucky to date a girl like Marinette.”

Rena stared at Chat, stunned. “What do you know about Lila?”

He let out a short and hard laugh. “Enough. That little interview on the Ladyblog? I doubt there’s a true word in it. I mean, Ladybug’s best friend? I’m Ladybug’s best friend!”

Some of the tension released from her shoulders and she rolled her eyes. “Right. I forgot how jealous you can be, too.”

Chat growled at her. His ears flicked back, low on his head, and his tail whipped through the air agitatedly. “If you’re going to sit here and defend that manipulative bitch then you might as well take that miraculous off right now.”

Rena stepped back into a defensive stance. She was a decent fighter, but he was better. If she refused to give it over peaceably—

Something thumped on the roof. Ladybug. There was still an akuma, and that took priority. They needed to be where Ladybug expected them.

“Mirage, now.” His words were short and clipped. He pounced past her and opened up the window opposite of where the akuma would be coming from. “Follow the plan. We can talk about this later.”

The plan worked out like most of Ladybug’s plans do: perfectly. Chat’d tied the villain up in Marinette’s tarp-roof, presented with a string-of-lights bow and a flourished bow to his Lady to his Lady. She did her thing, tossed the spotted paperclip into the air, and Marinette’s balcony and room put themselves back together. The glamour shot even taped itself back on the wall.

Chat sent Ladybug a look. She gestured in a direction and he nodded. He was pretty sure he knew the roof she meant.

Rena passed by him with wariness, but he paid her no visible attention. She took off with Ladybug in the agreed direction while he turned to the akuma victim. He had a princess to protect.

“Here, let me get you down to street level,” he said. The deakumatized girl seemed hesitant to step into his arms, but relented after seeing no other way down. “Do you remember anything?”

Tears shone in her eyes for a moment, but she swiped at them and tried a smile. It didn’t work. “I—I think I’ll be okay. It’s stupid, I just…let my stress get the better of me.”

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a gasp. “Oh, no, Marinette! I didn’t do anything to hurt her, did I?”

“Mlle Dupain-Cheng is fine,” he hurried to reassure her, “but…do you remember why you were after her? Did she do something wrong?”

“No! No. Marinette is lovely; she’s always helping us out in the Garden Club!” The girl paused, ashamed. “I was just feeling overwhelmed and she always seems so put together, she juggles all these responsibilities…I was jealous. Like I said. Stupid.”

“Hey, hey, your feelings are not stupid. Everyone gets stressed and feels like they’re drowning at times. I bet if you asked Marinette about it, she’d say that she always feels like that.”

He remembered himself and what he had to do, and glanced upwards.

“I’m very sorry. I’d usually stay longer and make sure you’re really okay, but I have an urgent something.” He handed her one of the business cards he’d made up. It had information on a number of Akuma support groups. “I can be back in about 30 minutes if you want to wait?”

Her smile turned a little more real. She took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly. “I think I’ll be okay,” she said again. “I’ll—that’s good advice. Talking to Marinette. Thank you, Chat Noir. For caring.”

He smiled and saluted her, then bounded off. His baton confirmed that Ladybug and Rena were still active a few rooftops over. But then he watched Rena’s signal go out and put on a burst of speed to get there in time. They weren’t on the roof, it turned out, but in the alleyway adjacent to the building.

Ladybug’s eyebrows raised in silent question when she saw him. “Sorry, Bug. This is something that needs to be done.”

Alya looked between the two. Suspicion bloomed and, with it, fear.

Pernicious cat gods, this was going to be awful.

“Alya Césaire.” Chat held his hand out. “The Miraculous. Please.”

She grasped it so hard her knuckles turned white. She took a big gulp of air and said shakily, “This feels final.”

He stared at one of his closest friends, and didn’t let himself waver.

“Your recklessness has put many in danger, including Ladybug and myself. You gave Lila Rossi a platform to speak, to spread her lies. You, who had held a miraculous before, and likely would again. Whom Ladybug had shown a partiality to in interviews and questions. You had every opportunity to check Rossi’s story.”

And, oh, he sounded exactly like his father. That grated.

“In giving her credibility, you opened several of your classmates up to her manipulations. Your best friend warned you about her lies, and you wrote it off as petty jealousy. You tried to write off what I told you as petty jealousy.”

He could kind of see how she’d come to that conclusion, assuming Marinette never told her about that cringe-worthy ice skating date and knowing that she was in love with him. (Alya said ‘crush’. Having this new option to attribute to Mari’s behavior, he knew it was more than that.)

“Furthermore, I can guarantee that at least one terrorist watches your blog. A civilian claimed to be a superhero’s best friend and you broadcast that to the world. What happens when said terrorist decides to use that?”

It was harsh, and damning. But it had to be said. She needed to understand.

Alya looked from him to Ladybug and back, then repeated the motion. “You—you can’t…” Alya’s voice broke. Her eyes settled on Ladybug, who appeared to have turned to stone, she held herself so rigidly. “He can’t do this. Right? You hand out the Miraculous; it’s your decision. Not his!”

Ladybug’s stormy eyes turned to ice. The Ladyblogger realized her mistake and opened her mouth to salvage something, anything, but Ladybug cut her off. “You, of all people, should know that Chat is my equal. He’s right. I should've…but I didn’t…” She shook her head, once. “I stand by his decisions.”

Chat released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Alya’s eyes grew bright with tears and she clutched the Fox Miraculous harder. She stared at them, and they stared at her, and she finally dropped it into Chat’s claws.

Ladybug’s hands fluttered in Alya’s direction. She pulled up short, though, unsure if her touch would be welcome.

“This doesn’t make you a bad person, Alya,” she said gently. “You’ve been lied to and manipulated. That’s not your fault. But, as a reporter, it’s important to consider the consequences of distributing information. Just as it is to produce evidence to back your stories.”

Alya’s hand pressed against her mouth, muffled a sob.

Ladybug hesitated, considering, and then spoke again. “You can still be a hero, Alya. Magic, the miraculous, it doesn’t make you into what you aren’t. You make you a hero. And, like I told Chloé, being a hero starts with your everyday life.”

Silence. The only sounds were the girl’s sniffling and the pounding of Chat’s heart. Even the sounds of the city muted. He had to force himself to stay still. Fidgeting felt disrespectful somehow. It was broken by Alya.

“So—so Lila was never your friend?” she asked thickly.

Ladybug’s voice was so gentle, yet cut through what the Ladyblogger had known like a knife. “No.”

Alya nodded. Wiped her eyes and tried to pull herself together. Her short gasps of breath betrayed how upset she was. “I. I think I’ve—” She swallowed. “Got some thinking to do.”

She turned to face the street, straightened her spine, and walked out. Her walk looked a little robotic to Chat, a little too forced to be her normal. She barely made it ten meters before Chat heard Nino call out to her.

Good, he thought, deflating a little. Nino will protect her.

His priority was his Lady.

“Well, it looks like you finally joined me in getting past the time limitation.” His attempt at lightening the mood fell flat even to him.

Ladybug didn’t respond at all. She took a big, shuddering breath.

“Oh, Bug…” Chat was quick to wrap his arms around her, and gently pull her head to rest on his shoulder. He coaxed her into a shuffle-walk until his back met the dirty alley wall, the heel of the hand that still held the Fox necklace rubbing up and down and across her back. “I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head back and forth; his claws tangled further in her hair. He tried not to listen to her quiet tears. He drowned out the sound of Nino and Alya moving on. The cars on the street. Instead he looked for the delicate and distinct sound of an akuma’s wings. She deserved a moment to mourn without worry.

Ladybug took a deep breath.

“You were right.” Her voice sounded wet. “Her blog affects many, and we were probably the only ones she was going to listen to.

“Actions…actions have to have consequences. Alya wasn’t seeing them, and—and maybe we shouldn’t be judge, jury, and executioner, but—the longer this goes on the worse they’ll become.”

Neither of them moved. He continued to find no evil bugs. Or feathers, but they usually went weeks in between Mayura sightings.

A gentle wind blew. They were having a round of good weather. Sunny days that were just warm enough to make the breeze feel perfect. He was hoping it’d hold through the weekend.

Ladybug pulled away to wipe her eyes. He fumbled a folded black handkerchief with green embroidery into her hands and she shot him a grateful, if watery, smile. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Oh, that just warmed him down to his toes. And emboldened him to push a little more. “Hey, I was wondering, would you mind saying that bit about me being right again? Because I could listen to that all day—”

He internally cheered as his partner huffed out a laugh and rolled her eyes. “Careful, kitty. I can see your head getting bigger by the second.”

She returned fire!

Mission accomplished.

.

That meant it was time to go, he guessed.

.

Chat stood there a moment longer. Contemplative.

“What are you thinking about, minou?”

He turned to her with a small smile, trying to hold it back and mostly failing. She crinkled a smile in return and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m going to get me a girlfriend.”

He said it so resolutely, so surely, so smugly, that she couldn’t help but laugh. “You are, are you?”

He nodded. His smile spread to full blown glee. “If she’ll have me. Rena said something while we waited, and it just made me think. There’s this girl, LB, and fuck is she amazing. She’s been waiting for me for the better part of two years, and I just realized that I’m crushing on her. Hard. I don’t even know when it started.”

He sighed, happy. “I’m going to ask her out. Tomorrow. And pray to the kwamis that she gives me one last chance.”

(Adrien didn’t ask Marinette out the next day, because Alya looked awful and he figured she needed the support. He’d count himself lucky if she didn’t get akumatized over this, and would attribute the entirety of that luck to his princess. He did invite her to lunch the day after that—he’d thought it’d be more difficult than it was, but Alya was already leading Rose off to a quiet corner—where he managed a stuttered and stilted confession. He honestly had no idea how Marinette managed to understand it, but she must have because she gave an enthusiastic “Yes!” and the next thing he knew they were making plans to explore the city together on Saturday.)

-

It's the job of the Black Cat to recognize when something’s not working, and to get rid of it. Destruction is necessary for Creation to truly thrive. And, sometimes, that means destroying what Creation loves. But, sometimes, the thing Creation loves is the vine that's choking her.

(Or enables the vine that’s choking her.)

#miraculous ladybug #chat noir #ladybug #rena rouge #alya salt #alya learns a lesson #lila salt #adrienette #ml fanfic

[leverage-ot3]

notable moments from The Wedding Job

leverage 1.07

Nate: No. No, it's-it's not right. But, you know, uh, we're not detectives. And if you want to prove your husband's innocence, there are plenty of agencies I could recommend.

eliot and hardison share tired, annoyed looks and I felt that in my soul

- - - - - 

Teresa: I understand. Thank you. Where did my daughter go?

Hardison:I think she was with Parker.

(Parker is teaching the little girl how to pick locks)

Parker: Go! 

(they both begin to work on the locks, after a few seconds, the girl gets hers open)

Parker: 6 seconds! Give it up! Good job.

parker can be good with kids and it’s adorable

- - - - - 

Hardison: Just take the mob out of it.

Nate: What? Take the mob out of it?

Hardison: Hear me out. Isn't this just a breach of contract?

Eliot: These guys had a deal, right? And your boy, Ray, he lived up to his end, but Moscone didn't. And for that, there's not a court of law in this world this lady can go to.

Parker: Which is exactly the kind of case we take

the ot3 immediately jumping in to support sophie’s idea

- - - - - 

Hardison: We can't. That thing's a fortress, man. I clocked four armed guards, a Tikva security system. That thing's Israeli-Made. It's used to protect their military bases. It's unhackable. Oh, and then there's the FBI parked around the corner.

Parker: FBI? Where? (looking through camera lens)

Hardison: You see that crappy van that says "plumber"?

Sophie: Did you say "plumber"? That's their cover? Oh, that is so cute. It's like it's 1978 all over again

- - - - - 

Parker: I saw some rubber gloves. What do you do with those?

McSweeten: Oh, actually, we've just been kind of blowing them up and playing volleyball. But, uh, yeah, if we need to do any kind of investigation…

big boredom during quarantine mood

- - - - - 

eliot being proud of the one (1) thing he did on the computer 

- - - - - 

parker winked at mcsweeten that poor boy, I’d be smitten too

+

fic writers get on this, parker smells like jasmine

- - - - - 

Hardison: All you have to do is rip them on my flash drive and run.

[FBI Offices]

(Eliot closes the door)

Eliot: I don't have to type anything, right?

[Leverage Headquarters]

Hardison: No, just plug it in. It does the rest.

Eliot: All right, 'cause you know I just learned the Photoshop thing you told me.

Hardison: I-I know. Baby steps.

[FBI Offices]

Eliot: So I just plug it in.

(Eliot forces open a set of cabinet doors and they open, revealing stacks of cassette tapes. He looks at the flash drive in his hand)

[Leverage Headquarters]

Hardison: Now, audio files, they can take a little while to run, but, uh, the servers are pretty loud, so that should give you some cover.

[FBI Offices]

Eliot: It's tapes.

[Leverage Headquarters]

Hardison: Wha-hold, wait. Did y-you just say "tapes"?

Eliot: I just said "tapes"!

Hardison: Cassette tapes?

[FBI Offices]

(Eliot picks up a cassette case and taps it with the flash drive)

Eliot: Your little thing, it's not gonna work.

[Leverage Headquarters]

Hardison: But at least you ain't got to type nothing.

[FBI Offices]

Eliot: Hardison, how am I supposed to get out of the FBI offices with a boxful of surveillance tapes, huh?

[Leverage Headquarters]

Hardison: Punch somebody.

[FBI Offices]

Eliot: Oh, I’m gonna punch somebody

- - - - - 

Nate: Can you break the codes?

Hardison: The codes? The codes to the Cayman Bank and Trust, where the Cali cartel and the African dictators keep all their dirty money? The ones that Moscone changes anytime he damn well pleases? Like, it's-c-come on. Dude, are you kidding me?

Nate: You know, you're-you're very negative lately. 

Eliot: Yeah. 

Nate: And the sass, it doesn't-doesn't help.

bruh lay off hardison

- - - - - 

[audio of mob family fighting playing off of hardison’s computer]

Sophie: It's a bit like an opera, isn't it?

Eliot: You mean 'cause I want to run away

- - - - - 

Nate: Sophie. Where are we at?

Sophie: Huh? I don't know, Nate. I think you need to ask yourself that question. You called me, remember? And now we're working together every day. I don't know what you want. And to ask me that dressed like a vicar? You're a very strange man.

Nate: No, no, no. I meant where are we at with finding the money?

Sophie: Oh.

chaotic sophienate 

- - - - - 

Nate: How are we doing? How's the search?

Eliot (chopping vegetables): I haven't started yet.

Nate: Okay, you know, I haven't gotten one answer I was looking for today. What is it that you're doing? What's going on?

Eliot: I'm cutting onion, deveining shrimp, uh, pan-searing some scallops. I've got 200 people I got to feed, all right? Back off.

Nate: Okay, okay. Hmm.

Eliot: What, you think the only thing I know how to do is bust heads?

Nate: No, well, yeah.

Eliot (demonstrating): Look, hold a knife like this, cuts through an onion. Hold a knife like this, cuts through, like, eight yakuza in 4 seconds. Screams, carnage. People are like knives. Everything is in context.

Heather (enters): Okay, hors d'oeuvres.

Eliot: Yes, ma'am. Stuffed mushrooms, pine nuts, kiss of basil, some sun-dried tomatoes, and the finishing touch, lemon juice. (gives her bite)

Heather (spits it out): Does this look like a food court? Does it? I want high-End food - High-End! What are you— (walks out)

(Eliot starts to go after her with the knife, Nate stops him)

Eliot: I know.

NEVER GET BETWEEN ELIOT AND HIS FOOD

also, eliot only becoming murderous when someone insults his food? iconic

- - - - - 

Sophie (to bridesmaid): You look lovely.

Cindy: You don't think it makes me look fat?

Parker: Oh, definitely. I mean, why do you think I had to let out the waist? To make you look less skinny?

Sophie: She... she didn't mean that.

Heather: Oh, suck it up, Cindy. You'll be fine.

if someone did this to me I would c r y and that’s the truth lmfao

- - - - - 

the ot3 eating pizza and laughing as nate verbally fucks himself over with sophie lmao

- - - - - 

Hardison: Yo. No way in hell I could ever imagine getting married. I mean, it's just - It's just a piece of paper.

(Eliot, eating an apple, looks at Hardison)

Hardison: I take it you've never been married.

Eliot: No.

Hardison: Ever come close?

Eliot: No.

Hardison: What was her name?

Eliot: It was a girl I grew up with. But anyway, she married somebody else, so...

Hardison: Hot-hot damn, what did you do?

Eliot: What did I do? I liberated Croatia. (leaves)

Hardison: Oh, see, now, me, I would have just got fat and started up a comic-Book shop. That's you and me right there.

relationship foreshadowing in s1 we love to see it

- - - - - 

Hardison: Now, I know that you're in charge of the bridesmaids' dresses, but why are you wearing one?

Parker: A bridesmaid's dress is like an all-access pass at a wedding. Plus, I kind of said something, and the maid of honor cried. And Sophie said I should make it up to her. 

Hardison: By looking much, much better in the same dress? Yeah, you let me know how that goes.

Parker: Hmm, you really think I look good?

Hardison (pinning flowers on her dress): And now you're perfect

they’re BABIES your honor

- - - - - 

(of course the trashy mom wears a sparkly white dress to her daughter’s wedding) 

- - - - - 

(Eliot walks up to the rest of the team)

Eliot: What is it? I got bacon on.

Parker: The Butcher is here.

Eliot: Does he have the baby lamb chops?

Hardison: No. The butcher of Kiev.

Nate: Think he'll recognize you?

[Flashback]

(flames surrounding them, the Butcher has Eliot by the neck and is trying to cut him with a meat cleaver. Eliot is barely holding him off)

Butcher: I kill you!

[Exterior House]

Eliot: Yeah, I think he'd remember me

I live for wacky eliot flashbacks

- - - - - 

Nate: You're staying? Sophie, Sophie, it's the Butcher of Kiev.

Hardison: Have you ever been to Kiev? The cake-maker of Kiev would whup all our ass. This is the butcher.

Sophie: Uh-Huh.

this isn’t that notable, but it’s funny

- - - - - 

parker smushed up against the glass door ,,, just imagine if anyone saw that lmao

- - - - - 

eliot using a frying pan to fight the butcher of kiev,,, iconique

- - - - - 

we need to start making a list of things that are Specifically Not Weapons™ that eliot uses as weapons:

for this episode, a frying pan, a whisk, an appetizer platter, the platter itself 

- - - - - 

Hardison (eating appetizer): This is pretty good, man.

Eliot: Thanks, man. I squeeze, like, fresh lemon juice on it.

Hardison: Cool. Cool.

(they follow Nate out of the kitchen)

eliot is so genuinely happy when someone finally appreciates his food, you can see it in his face ,,, he starts to love hardison just a little bit for that

- - - - - 

Nate: Did you clear out Moscone’s accounts?

Hardison: I left him five dollars for socks

we love the team being petty

- - - - - 

the girl immediately jumped into parker’s lap at the restaurant I’m soft

- - - - - 

soft chef eliot serving his -friends- family is everything 

- - - - - 

I understand that this was technically supposed to be the third episode, so this would have been their first meal as a family and I stan them so hard for it

#eliot spencer #alec hardison #parker #leverage ot3 #leverage #leverage meta #nate ford #sophie deveraux #the wedding job #leverage 1.07 #leverage 1x07 #meta #leverage season 1 #season 1 #notable moments

[peachyteabuck]

under cover of darkness

summary: a 24-hour convenience store, the night shift, and the man who gets you through day. 

a commission for @lovelycarose​

pairing: eliot spencer x reader

words: 5510

trigger warnings: mentions of a break-in with canon-level violence, fluff, mentions of an unspecified chronic pain disorder

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

There are some good things about the night shift. It’s easier to balance classes and your precarious mental health, plus the pay wasn’t terrible – a few extra bucks per hour were thrown your way after eleven and before five.

So you kept with it, one earbud in so you could listen to music while the hours ticked by at a pace so slow it felt like some supervillain had not only completely frozen time – but was also determined to thaw is at room temperature.

That was another thing about the night shift – the customers. It was mostly regulars, or tourists who forgot something at home but didn’t want to spend airport prices for a travel sized container of deodorant. None of them really stick out, none interesting enough to stick in your brain for long as you mindlessly pack their various items into white plastic bags.

That is, until he starts coming in. Tall and impossible big – it’s hard not to marvel at him as if he was a breathtaking skyscraper, like you had never seen something so magnificent. His flowing dark brown hair, his tight jeans…it’s all nearly too much for eleven-at-night-you. (Also for “I haven’t had sex in so long and I think I’ve eroded the ridges on my vibrator from using it so often and holy shit I would do anything to have that man under/above me” you, a you only made stronger and more desperate by how late it was and tired you were.)

He walks around with the confidence not often seen in newcomers, your eye used to college students too drunk to stand up perfectly straight. You’re used to people stumbling around with eyes-half closed, rubbing their temples as the bright white lights feel like cheese graters shaped like ice picks against their already hurting brains. You’re used to watching them stumble around, using some Neolithic instinct to find the cool fridges where they’ll rest their faces against the glass for an oddly long amount of time before opening it up to grab as many Gatorades as they could hold before attempting to grab one or two (or five) frozen pizzas, never able to access the higher order thinking necessary to understand that maybe grabbing one of the baskets by the entrance is important.

Or, on the other end of the spectrum you’ve come to know as normal: soccer moms searching for alcohol for their husband’s post-game barbecue. Moms with large dark circles under their eyes who probably read (and watched) the Fifty Shades movie unironically but still feels weird when their husbands suggest having sex in any position besides missionary with the lights off. Moms who went to college just to meet some mediocre-looking frat boy who votes Republican just because his father did and thinks thirty seconds of oral is enough foreplay.

They don’t spend as much time in the store as the drunk/high students, but it’s still just as entertaining watching them grab the food and drink – but not before lingering in the makeup aisle, staring at bold shades of red and waterproof mascara and the bright hair dye whose advertisements have terribly applied photoshop.

No matter the type – no matter the customer – they were nothing like the man who stood on the other side of the store, staring intently at your soft drink selection. None of them were beefy men with crumpled grocery lists, permanently furrowed brows, and the most beautiful five o’clock shadow you’ve ever seen. None of them wear thick black work boots that make not a single sound as they walk around the store, none of them wear jeans that are so criminally tight around a perfect ass.

Not even a perfect ass – the perfect ass. It’s symmetrical, looking as if it was drawn by a pin-up artist in the 50’s whose specialty involves drawing super buff men in poses meant for petite, slender women with perfect curves. As he walks you half expect sparks to form on his backside as if you were in some kind of Anime, or for each individual cheek to bounce up and down on their own asynchronous accord. Normally you’d be terrified of being caught staring – of him turning around and catching your eye and mocking someone like you for having the nerve to be attracted to him.

But that doesn’t happen, because for once in your life the universe is kind to you. For once in your life you’re allowed to listen to music and stare dreamily at the hot guy who checks the ingredients on every snack dip option you have available before choosing three different ones with a small, disappointed huff.

You watch him with that same silent intensity as he fills the bright red carrier he grabbed without a sound when he first strutted in, the packaging of the items crinkling being the only way to track his location when he steps out of your eyeline. If your boss wasn’t the one on security cameras you’d be angling all of them to follow him around the store, your eyes hungry for another look at him at whatever angle and whichever quality you could get. You feel like a fangirl obsessed with some boyband, your heart rate determined by the amount of the mountain of a man you can see between displays of holiday-themed candy and cheap make up.

You’re not sure how long it is before he’s approaching your counter (time appears to have lost all meaning the second he stepped into the store), but whether it had been five minutes or five years, he still takes your breath away. As he steps closer you realize he’s fucking massive – something your grandmother (a wonderful woman, but one lacking when social situations called for, among other things, any kind of brain-to-mouth filter) would call a “shit brickhouse.” He doesn’t even need one of the baskets as he prowls the aisles – scanning every item like a lion watches the Sahara through tall grass. It’s hard to look away, to go back to the book you’ve been trying to read the same page from since long before the little automated bell above the door had announced the man’s arrival – but the only distraction before had been the tiny, exhausted voice in the back of your mind that was shaming at you for not sleeping before the night’s shift.

Now, though, the voice has quieted to allow your tired eyes to follow him, pupils tracing along every inch of him.

The man checks out without a word; shaking his head when you ask if he has a rewards card and paying in cash. When you give him $7.26 in change, your hands touch for a brief moment and you nearly stop breathing – lungs suddenly void of their capacity to hold air as sparks fly from his callous fingertips to the bottom of your spine. He pulls away, eventually, because he has to – depositing the totality of the meager amount of money you’d just handed him into the donation box plastered with facts about victims of domestic violence right next to your register.

The box is made of an opaque deep purple plastic, the coins making a loud clink sound as they crash into the near-empty container. The man stares at it for a moment, swallowing an apparent lump in his throat as his eyes go blank for a fraction of a second before he digs into his pockets and fishes out a thick wad of perfectly folded five dollar bills before stuffing them into the hastily cut slot at the top.

Neither of you say anything as he does so, you too stunned by his generosity and him too occupied with making sure he had no more money hidden in his pockets to try and muster some vague capacity for speech. Still, as he turns and leaves, you cough to clear your throat and call out a loud and slightly hoarse “thank you!” to which he just turns and gives you a small smile in return.

The moment between the pair of you is fleeting but still makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest, swelling until your lungs feel tight against your ribs as you struggle to breathe. Fuck, you think. You haven’t felt like this since middle school when Jamie told you that your Katniss braid was adorable and you followed him around for two weeks until he agreed to take you on a “date” during lunch. You don’t even know this man’s name and you’re fawning over him as if you have another girlhood crush.

God, you need to learn his name.

Luckily, you find out the next time that his name is Eliot, even though the name embroidered in red above the right pocket of his dirtied coveralls says “Evan” in a fancy looped script (whatever, you don’t question it. You regularly wore your roommate’s sweatshirt from her alma mater even though you didn’t attend the university – must be the same thing, right?). That time all he buys is hair ties and chapstick – lots of hair ties and chapstick, just another thing you don’t question – but stays to talk with you about the Robert Frost poem you were annotating.

“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening?” he reads aloud, smiling a little as he does so. “Is that for class, or…”

“It’s for class, but I’m liking it a lot more than the other obligatory readings for my degree,” you tell him a small laugh. “Do you enjoy poetry?”

Eliot shrugs as he grabs the full bags. “Oh, ya know. Just the occasional piece. You have a good day now.”

You smile as he walks toward the exit, butterflies pounding in your stomach once more. “You too!”

God, you think as he disappears from eyeshot. You’ve got it bad, girl.

He comes in again, irregular in each way except for the fact he arrives. Sometimes he’s clean cut, standing straight as he takes his sweet time wandering the store – as if he has nowhere to be, no need to rush around.

On those days, he buys a lot of things. Duct tape, orange soda, hair ties, sour candy in all shapes and colors. He makes conversation, asking about the book you’re reading or what you’re listening to, asking about your classes when you wear a jacket embroidered with your university’s logo on the front. On those days, he waits a little – even when all his items are bagged and there’s no real reason for him to stay – picking up on anything that would give him another thread of conversation to pull at.

“Something new?” he asks when you dogear one of the first few pages of a poetry book your friend had lent you.

“Yup!” you perk up just at the sight of him, cheery now more than you had been the entirety of the day now that he’s arrived. “Told a friend of mine about the assignment I was working on the last time you were here, and she shoved this anthology into my hands.”

You like those days – you look forward to them each time you step through the large door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY” in large white letters that stand out against the incredibly depressing brown that’s been peeling since the day you interviewed here, spots covered sparsely by the maintenance guy who you’ve never seen. Those days are good, fun – they make you smile hours after he leaves and occupy your thoughts until you go to bed, sometimes even making it into the margins of your notebook when you’re zoning out in class.

Sometimes, though, he comes in nearly limping – at least one eye blackened and dark navy baseball cap pulled as far down his forehead as he can.

It scared you the first time, watching as he grunted with each step, every item he grabs from the shelves seeming like it pained him, his face scrunching into a wince each time he raises an arm above his ribs. You checked his items (bandages, ice packs, gauze, antifungal cream, a few first aid kits) with bated breath, terrified of making his mood worse.

It isn’t until you tell him the total, until you finally look up from your hands – that you finally look him in the eyes. They’re always warm like plate of freshly baked macaroni and cheese (and always make you feel just as gooey), but now appear to be clouded with a type of pain you can’t pin down. He doesn’t say much – or anything – as you bag his items, placing them gingerly into the paper bag as if it was an extension of him.

You try to keep a happy face throughout the entire ordeal, not wanting to push him in case what happened was particularly bad. Eliot gives you a similarly small, but earnest one in return – even if he barely hides the wince in his side as he does so.

But that was the first time things seemed a little off – your first time, specifically – and the others get easier as time passes.

At first, “easier” meant a return to days similar to the good ones – telling him things about your day as you ring up all his first-aid related items. He doesn’t respond with as much enthusiasm, doesn’t have the same witty banter – but gives you a small smile that you recognize nonetheless. But then, as the weeks bleed into months, you learn how to handle both the terrible days, the bad days, and the good days all the same.

It’s on one of the good days that he buys tampons, a piece of every kind of chocolate item you sell, and enough Acetaminophen to knock out a horse.

“Your girlfriend is very lucky,” you tell him, blushing as you bag the items. For a minute you think you’ve embarrassed him, crossed some line as a sickening silence grows between you two like mold on two-week old leftovers in a fridge that was turned off. It’s just as disgusting, too, which is why you’re so happy that he still gives you a small smile when you dare look up from where your scanner’s red line centers on the barcode of one of the tampon boxes.

“Nah, just,” Eliot’s plump lips look so kissable it makes your heart pick up. “A roommate, uh. She needs this. Her boyfriend is doing some game night thing and couldn’t pick it up. So I, uh. I got drafted.”

You give a little snort as you grab the receipt, smiling wide as you place it in the bag. “Well, your roommate is very lucky to have you.”

Eliot laughs as he grabs his stuff, cheeks heating up as he blushes. “Can I kidnap you for a little while so you can come remind her of that?”

In a rare moment of confidence, you lean forward and grin. “Is it kidnapping if I want it?”

The blush rages as he sputters a response, eyes downcast as he turns to leave. You get no witty response back, but the way he turns to wink at you as the automatic doors part is enough of a rebuttal for you to feel satisfied with your quip.

No matter what kind of mood Eliot is in, you look forward to his visits, watching and talking with him. Each evening you get ready for work you wondered if he would come in that night, if you would be able to tell him about the dumb thing this guy in one of your seminars said, or how you won an argument during bar crawl over the weekend using some of the random things he had taught you during the very conversations you now wish to have with him. It’s nice, the nicest thing you have in a long time – and somehow that doesn’t scare you, and somehow that makes you feel even better each time you see him.

But then “The Day” happens, and it changes everything.

The evening of “The Day” you woke up from your pre-work nap with this unexplainable feeling that something was going to go wrong. This feeling deep in the bottom of your stomach that you can’t quite place, one that makes the back of your knees sweat and where your ribs feel just a little tighter. Each and every sound – the cars that drive way too fast down your street, the creaking in your house, the dogs that bark obnoxiously – seem loudly, harsher than usual. When you sit up in bed when your alarm goes off it’s like you can feel the muscles in your back contract, feel the bones in your joints grind against each other. There’s some electricity in the air like when it’s right before a storm – only the sky is clear and your weather app doesn’t predict any rain until next week (and, even then, it’s only a drizzle).

At first you think it’s just a bad pain day; not bad enough to keep you home, or make you forget even the idea of doing anything besides groaning in pain in your bed and taking as many pain medications as your doctor says you’re able to. Still, it’s quite noticeable, and occupies your thoughts as you go through each part of your pre-work routine. Even as you shower, turn on your coffee pot, do the minimal make up required to make it look like you didn’t just roll out of bed or are some Victorian orphan plagued by tuberculosis and possibly a deep sadness embodied by the terrible weather that crashes outside their overcrowded London orphanage – you can’t seem to get rid of the proverbial dark cloud that settles itself between your brain and skull, clouding your thoughts and making your stomach hurt just a little.

It doesn’t get better when you get into work, either. There’s a tenseness in the air you can practically taste – electricity in the air that settles over your skin and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straighter than the carefully constructed sales display of some B-list celebrity’s nail polish collection, the one you spent hours fussing over during one of your very rare day shifts. It somehow only gets worse when Eliot arrives, whistling some tune that normally would be wistful and happy, but given the context sounds like something straight from a horror movie trailer that invades your otherwise-sweet daydreams for weeks to come; one of those songs that everyone knows but no one knows the name of that sounds really creepy when played slowly over a clip of some old, beat-up doll being held by an adorable little blonde girl with black-out contacts in.

You don’t tell him to stop, but the tune does slow when he notices your tense state when he passes to get to the soft drink aisle. When he gives you a questioning look you just shrug, hoping he forgets (or finds it in himself not to ask) about it by the time he finds what he needs. Judging by the song, lack of list, and spring in his step – it’s a good day, one where he intends to meander around the store and grab whatever it is catches his attention. Today that appears to be anything with sugar, most notably soda in every color but orange.

At some point he finds his way closer to you – more specifically he finds his way to the chocolate aisle, which faces your register – and strikes up a conversation. It’s just small talk, and doesn’t do much to distract you from the twisting in your gut, but you appreciate his efforts nonetheless. The small talk just feels like a dead-end – a polite road to nowhere that feels pointless to engage in. Still, it’s Eliot, so you give half-hearted answers and ask half-hearted questions and hope he doesn’t press you too hard on your slightly-sour mood.

And, because it’s Eliot, he draws a few small laughs and a couple of tiny smiles and it’s…nice. It’s not the usual “Good Day,” but it’s not a bad one, either.

But then it happens. And it happens quick – all of it.

Three men, dressed head to toe in black, enter guns a blazing as if they own the place. They’re wearing masks over everywhere but their eyes, the thick, black material likely silencing their voices if they weren’t screaming at the top of their lungs.

They enter in an oddly-triangular formation – one you’d describe akin to the Charlie’s Angel’s post if you weren’t scared out of your fucking mind. One of them runs to the aisle where you keep cold medicine, the other ransacking the liquor aisle and shoving heavy glass bottles of your most expensive bottles of alcohol into the black duffel bag slung around his shoulder. The last one – the one you think is the leader – keeps his eye on you as he steps closer to where you are at the register.

It’s the scariest fucking thing to ever happen to you, and what occurs next happens too fast for you to describe.

You blink once and find that you’re staring down the barrel of a handgun that’s definitely loaded and definitely has the safety off. The end shakes just a little, as if the robber is nervous, and you wonder why he’s the one scared. Both of your hands are up in the air, elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle while sweat pools at your brow and your bottom lip trembles. It’s the most terrified you’ve ever been in your entire life, and if you had enough in your stomach you throw up, you totally would’ve.

But then – Eliot.

You’re screaming at him to stop, to get away and hide and what are you doing? They’ve got a gun! Get away! You could be hurt! Eliot!

But then you realize that, holy shit, he’s actually taking the guy down. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the face. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the gut. Holy shit, Eliot just disarmed that dude while punching him.

It’s only when the guy that targeted you is screaming in pain from a dislocated shoulder that the other two realize something’s up and come rushing towards the man that stands just in front of your register. You’d scream if you weren’t stunned – eyes not sure where to look as Eliot disarms them with the grace of a professional ballet dancer at the same fucking time. He’s fierce but controlled – not breaking any bones but definitely leaving some bruises as he knocks them to the ground and kicks their guns across the carpet.  

It’s then – when the inferior robbers are writhing in pain on the ground – that he grabs the leader by the collar of his black hoodie and pulls the teenager’s wincing face close to Eliot’s raging one.

“I will give you one warning,” he hisses, teeth bared like an angered wolf as he spits. “one warning to leave this place and never come back. If this,” his left hand raises to gesture to you in all your petrified glory. “Nice lady tells me that you have returned to so much as buy a single stick of gum, I will track you down and find you and make sure you pay for the damage you’ve done here today. You got that?”

The still-masked teenager immediately nods furiously, eyes wide with terror and legs already kicking at the ground to leave.

Eliot gives a small, faux smile, and shoves the kid back down onto the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. “Good, now get the Hell out of here and don’t come back.”

Without hesitation, the would-be robbers scatter as fast as their damaged legs can carry them, clutching their bags to their chests as they rush to their crappy getaway van.

If you weren’t scared shitless you’d admit you’re a little turned on at the feat, especially as Eliot flips his hair from his face as he watches them speed away.

Your boss appears a few seconds later, apparently one more to watch from his safe room in the back than to interfere. Thank Heavens Eliot was here, you think. Facing those three kids on your own – even if they were, indeed, kids – makes your blood pressure spike once more.

“Should I call the cops?” he asks, looking at the wreckage around the store. The only silent alarm is located under the counter where the register is and, given your petrified state, you weren’t one to trip it.

Eliot just sighs and shakes his head, kicking a broken bottle of whiskey that for sure was going to stain the carpet. “No, they can’t do much – those kids probably don’t have a record and I don’t think you’ll get much out of ‘em if they do find the bastards. They’re young, broke, and I don’t know how much priority your case will be given.”

Your boss sighs, rubbing his face. It’s not as if they stole more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise, but being the victim of a robbery is still both tiring and rage-inducing – especially when someone like him has gone so long without incident.  “But, I, what am I supposed to do? I just-“

Eliot grabs his wallet from his back pocket, reaching into it to fish out a small, professional-looking business card that he hands to your boss. “Call the number there come sun rise and tell them Eliot referred you. They’ll help you out with whatever you need.”

The man who signs your paychecks furrows his brow and reads the block print allowed. “Leverage, Incorporated? They can help me replace what I lost?”

Eliot nods, placing a comforting hand on your boss’ shoulder. “Everything.”

Immediately the man nods and steps away to go out the back exit, leaving you and Eliot in the center of it all.

It’s then – just as you’re alone – where the sun’s just coming up and the large windows in the shop allow its warm light to bath the both of you in a beautiful soft orange. There are no other customers there, and with your boss preoccupied with calming himself down, it really does feel like it’s just you and Eliot – just the two of you with the whole world still asleep around you. It’s nice, perfect.

He’s the one to break the silence, voice gruff as he flashes you a small, shy grin. “So, uh…you want to go for coffee?”

Your heart rams in your chest even louder than when you were staring the possibility of a gunshot wound to the face, the poor organ exhausted as your brain screams at you to accept his generous offer. It takes what feels like an eternity to muster up the courage to do so, but before you can Eliot’s already speaking once more.

“Not that you, uh,” he clears his throat. “Not that you should feel, uh, pressured, or anything. I just mean like, hey, you worked all night and just went through a pretty rough event, and you’re probably tired, and probably pretty hungry as well, and a coffee place just opened up a street away that I’ve heard good things about. I’ve wanted to try it out, for a while actually, and I wanted to, uh, see if I’d have the honor of you joining me…”

“Eliot,” you laugh as you step closer, placing your hand on his face to guide his eyes to yours. “Don’t be stupid. I’d love to go with you,” he smiles and it warms every bit of you. “Just let me grab my bag and clock out, I’ll meet you outside in a moment.”

He sputters through an “okay, sure, yeah,” before you both turn to leave – him out the front doors and you behind the large one your boss had just been hidden behind. Your hands shake just a little as you insert the little card into the dinosaur of a machine, the loud noise and sputtering sound it makes now white noise as you grab your purse and rejoin him outside.

When you arrive at the coffee shop (aptly named “The Bean Spot”) you order a caramel latte with a cheese Danish, Eliot getting a simple black coffee with cream along with a walnut muffin. You wait for your breakfast in relative silence, neither you nor Eliot sure what to say after such an event. When the food and drink are handed over to you, you find a spot tucked in the back with an excellent view of the whole place.

The coffee shop is nearly empty since it’s still so early in the morning – the only patrons coming in, getting their coffee, and zipping off to the next part of their day. It’s nice to be the only inert thing, the movements of the people around you providing a nice cover as they zip past, locking you and Eliot in your own little world as the world stretches its arms and prepares for another day of hustle and bustle.

By contrast, you and Eliot are wide awake, laughing as you swap horrible roommate stories and whatever else comes to mind. He asks about your degree but has enough class not to ask you about your graduation year (a rare feature of conversations these days), talking to you about all the books you’ve read and professors you’ve liked.  

It’s odd – not bad, per say – but odd nonetheless, to be able to talk freely and openly and having him in front of you, within arm’s length as your knees barely touch under the small table. Seeing him in this space, a space more conducive to conversation and watching his hands as they pick at his blueberry scone and watching his mouth as the corners of his lips twist into a smile every so often and watching –

You blush at your own serial-killer-like thoughts, trying to suppress them with another sip of way too expensive but totally worth it coffee.

Eliot notices, because of course he does. “Hey, you alright?”

You nod, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. “Y-yeah, just-“

He smiles warmly, one hand moving to cradle your chin – to guide your downcast eyes to his. “It’s weird, seeing me in a new place, isn’t it?”

Once again, you nod. “It’s not that I don’t-“

“It’s okay,” his smile widens even as he now avoids your gaze, his hands moving to his lap as he fiddles with them. “It’s…I understand. Trust me, I get it.”

You exhale deeply, your shoulders falling a little. “I’ve thought a lot about this moment for, like, since you walked into the store for the first time…to have you here,” you gestured vaguely to the rest of the coffee shop, to the very few customers and baristas chatting about something you can’t hear and don’t care to pay attention to. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s not as if you’ve fallen short of expectations-“

Eliot gives a little chuckle, mumbling an “I sure hope so” with a glimmer in his eye that makes you want to jump on his lap and kiss him right there. Somehow, you find it in you to continue.

“It’s just super, super weird,” you tell him honestly. “And I don’t like it.”

The man in front of you leans forward, placing a hand over yours to calm you down.  

“How about we get out of here,” Eliot murmurs, voice warm and thick like the caramel drizzle over your latte. “I have an espresso machine at my place, and could make you homemade baked goods a million times better than whatever you bought, and we can continue this in a space where the baristas don’t misspell my name on overpriced coffee.”

He gestures to the cup labeled Elliott, wincing as he does so. It makes you laugh, and you nod in agreement. Together you down the coffee and throw the empty cups along with the wrapping for your pastry away. It’s natural – the way the two of you move – as if you’ve known each other for a millennia, as if whatever it is between you two that’s formed is already as strong and sturdy as an oak tree.

Eliot places one of his large hands on the small of your back as you exit the cafe, thumbing at the fabric of your sweater as you wait to cross the street. It’s comforting – just a flash of the fire that he started for you back at the store a mere hours earlier, heat warming your blood from your toes and up your spine. As he guides you to his apartment his hand finds yours, his fingers fitting neatly next to yours as he points out parts of the city you’ve never slowed down enough to see.

You may not have known Eliot for very long, but even within that short amount of time (and even shorter conversations) he had become a safe house for you, one that you could easily make a home.

And, unbeknownst to the other person, the both of you intended on doing just that.

#eliot spencer x reader #eliot spencer/reader #eliot spencer fanfiction #eliot spencer #leverage #lukis does commissions #lukis writes stuff

[5lazarus]

A random prompt for you: "It was a dark and stormy night"

I was at the party ranting about catabasis narratives, wine glass in hand, and somebody walked up to me and handed me a pomegranate. “Fuck you,” I said. But it did its job. I put down the wine glass, or handed it vaguely to someone, and headed to the kitchen. There I began abusing the pomegranate, to make it give up its secrets. “Nature’s treasure box,” I said happily. “Leave me to die in hell.”

Someone stirred: a man, washing his hands at the kitchen sink. I blinked. I was too drunk and not drunk enough to make small talk. “You okay?” he asked. I presented the pomegranate. “Ah, catabasis,” he said understandingly. “I’ll leave you to it.” A rush of love for humanity swept me as he left. The friend hosting the party was a recovered classicist and repentant Maoist. They had the most interesting friends. I took a handful of pomegranate seeds and stuffed them in my mouth. The juice ran red and a few missed my mouth, but still I chewed. Tangy-sweet: like all of life, all emotion is wrapped up in a mouthful of flavor. I knew that this didn't quite make sense but I was pleased with the wave of sentiment that swept me. “Catabasis,” I said, and wiped at my eyes. I surveyed the bloody juice staining the counter. “Iphigenia,” I pronounced, and left. Someone handed me a wad of clean toilet paper as I stumbled through the hallway towards another room; it clung to my hands. “Bruh, you’re super fucked up,” a kindly stranger said. “Drink this.” They pulled me into a circle, where a fervent discussion over the rights and wrongs of 1921 was being hashed out. “Iphigenia,” I added helpfully. “A sacrifice knowingly met.” I drank the water and passed the blunt and settled happily into the scene. Three members of the cadre sat around me. The kindly stranger had the classic bisexual haircut and the classic bisexual septum piercing, but was otherwise remarkable. They were the only one close to sober, and kept an eye on their phone. The others were arguing. One wore a moustache and goatee similar to Comrade Trotsky, and was dressed in all black--black t-shirt, black jeans, black Nikes. I wanted to ask where the rest of black bloc was, but only mumbles came out, which was good because the joke probably wouldn’t have gone over well. The other wore a green cap with a red star and was chewing the end of the blunt. “Tell me one example of an actually existing socialist government led by Trotskyists,” Red Star said. “Come on. I’ll wait.” “The USSR would not have survived World War Two without Trotsky heading up the Red Army,” Comrade said instead. Even I was aware this did not actually answer Red Star’s question. “You can say that any existing socialist government exists due to his contribution to the USSR--and with no thanks to fucking Stalin.” “Yooooooo,” I intoned. I was ignored. The Kindly Bisexual handed me a bowl of popcorn. I took a fistful and began to lap the popcorn up. They shifted away from me slightly. I really needed to sober up. “That doesn’t make any sense,” Red Star said. “So Trotsky made some military contributions--sure. We can’t deny that.” “Some?” Comrade said incredulously. “He fought a war on five fronts!” He put his hand in front of Red Star’s face. Clearly I was not the only one who needed to sober up. “One: the White Army. Two: the--” “Don’t you ever get tired of relitigating twentieth century debates?” Red Star asked. “And get your hand out of my fucking face.” “Comrades!” the Kindly Bisexual hurriedly interrupted. “Look, it’s raining!” We all turned to the window, and I smiled. I loved the rain, especially when I was crossfaded. Indeed, not only was it raining--it was pouring, beginning with a low rumble and rising into a lash against the glass. Lightning cracked suddenly across the sky, flashing us blue. Red Star jumped. “A dark and stormy night,” I exclaimed happily. I clasped my hands together joyously, crunching kernels between my palms. “Who even are you?” Comrade said. “Good fucking question,” I said. “I’m not sure.” I looked at the Kindly Bisexual, who I decided was responsible for my welfare tonight, because clearly they were the voice of reason in this room. “Let me ask my handler.” “Yo, what?” Red Star said. I giggled. “Nice try, FBI.” I made finger guns at them, pushed myself up to my feet unsteadily, and wandered off to the living room. The Catabasis Man was sitting on the couch, eating pomegranate seeds out of a bowl. A group of anonymous leftists sat at his feet, facing the television. They were watching The L Word. I slid next to him. “Out of the earth?” I asked. “I have been reborn,” he agreed. “You good?” “I don’t know who I am,” I said. “But the rain is a good sign.” “Right,” he said. “I think you should eat something.” He got up and headed towards the kitchen, leaving me morose. I wrapped my arms around my legs. “These are not my lesbians,” I said sadly. “Shut up,” said someone on the floor, so I did and walked off again, this time in search of more food. The pomegranates and the popcorn were sitting unsteadily in my stomach, and I needed a less buttery carb. I returned to the bedroom with the Kindly Bisexual and the twentieth-century Marxists. “Fuck you,” the Comrade was saying. “You think I’m a plant? This is clear revisionism.” “Yo,” the Kindly Bisexual said. “What?” Comrade pointed at Red Star. “This is clearly COINTELPRO tactics, with cheap talking points too. Try to sound a little less like an alt-right troll account, Comrade Stalin.” “I’m a Maoist,” Red Star snarled. Thunder rolled. I giggled nervously, and was ignored. “Fuck this shit, man! Stop this copjacketing bullshit.” Red Star turned to the Kindly Bisexual. “You see this shit? You see this shit? Callin’ me a plant? That’s cop shit.” “Uh,” the Kindly Bisexual said. “I think yall need to chill.” “Spiderman points at Spiderman,” I exclaimed happily. I could envision it so easily: just the Spiderman meme, but with one of them with a goatee photoshopped onto the mask, and the other wearing Mao’s red star. It was great. It was great to look at a real-life meme. Comrade crossed his arms. “I’m just saying, it’s not copjacketing when you’re actually a cop. How do we know you’re real? You probably got that hat off Amazon.” “There’s no ethical consumption under late capitalism,” Red Star growled. “Fuck off. You Trots are all the same. Trying to split the party--that’s the real reason why you crazies have never had a successful revolutionary front since 1917, you start the wild accusations and then there’s what! A cult of just two, handing out newspapers at Union Square. Then charging you a dollar when they shove it into your hand.” “Oof,” I said. “Yeah, yeah,” Comrade said. “How’s fundraising for the People’s War of Williamsburg going? I heard you got good turnout for your membership drive at the New School. Soon enough, you’ll have enough people to build yet another base in some swamp. And leave pig heads in front of libraries and some shit.” “We are not affiliated with Red Guard,” Red Star said testily. “And the pig head, well, things are different in Texas.” “Yeah yeah,” Comrade said. “We know all the pig heads were some cop shit. Like who else can end up that much of a parody of themselves?” “You grew the goatee on purpose?” Red Star asked. “Or just to fit in?” The Kindly Bisexual claimed their hands. “Right, okay. I think we’ve all demonstrated enough insider knowledge of the blessed disaster we call the US Left. No more calling each other cops, okay? Because yall are too fucked up, and when I told the SC that I’d be a community steward, this is not what I thought my first case would be.” I thought that sounded vaguely carceral, but at this point sobriety was creeping cold and clear, and kept my tongue fuzzily still. “Urgh,” I said instead. “Anyone got a cigarette?” We all went outside for a smoke. The rain stilled to a mild drizzle. Streetlights made the dirty pavements shine, and I scuffed my shoe against a patch of old gum that had probably been there since all these people moved to Brooklyn. The Kindly Bisexual had the cigarettes, but nobody else had a light, so I found an old lighter I had picked up the last time I was driving home to Tennessee, in a Waffle House outside Murfreesboro. I had forgotten it had a Confederate flag on it. “What the fuck,” the Kindly Bisexual said flatly. “No!” I protested. “Shit. No. I-I just, I’m from Tennessee. Stole it from some guy in a Waffle House.” I hadn’t, I had just swiped it from the counter after I paid, but they didn’t need to know that. “I ain’t--no. No.” “You’re faking that accent,” Comrade accused. Red Star nodded next to him. Was this truly how the New York Left would be united? I was vaguely proud of myself. “No, I just codeswitch around middle class leftists from the North,” I said, annoyed. Comrade made a considering face: fair point. “On account of yall think my accent means I’m stupid. But let me show you the truth. I stole this from a Waffle House, and now it shall be destroyed!” Everyone watched as I threw it on the pavement, hoping it would shatter. It bounced instead. Red Star started to laugh. “Nah, that’s just stupid. Smash it! Smash it!” I slammed my foot down and then howled, because I was wearing flipflops and that hurt. “Motherfucker!” I wept. “Shit.” “Aight, I’m gonna try,” Comrade said. He jumped on it and slipped on the slick pavement, busting his ass. We all howled with laughter, even the Kindly Bisexual, who wiped their eyes--carefully, so as not to smudge their eyeliner--before offering him a hand up. “We have to be strategic about this,” Red Star said. “Let’s use that tree branch.” She grabbed a sizeable bow that must have fallen in the storm. She wielded it, lamppost casting a mad glow to her eyes. “Solidarity, yall!” “Solidarity!” we all echoed. She smashed it down, and we screamed in drunken glee as the plastic went flying. Red Star brandished the branch, grinning. Then we heard the sirens. Up the block, we saw the cop car on the corner, whirling its sirens. Some pig said something incomprehensible but threatening over the loudspeaker. “Shit,” I said. “I’m out.” We ran for it, laughing but anxious, all the way to the train station. We split up after the turnstiles. The others all lived deeper in Brooklyn, but I needed to head to Queens. I climbed up the stairs to the platform and sat down on the wooden bench, pushing anxiety about bed bugs out of my head. I saw the three of them across the tracks and waved. They were all laughing. Red Star was mimicking how she had dealt the killing blow. I waved, and the Kindly Bisexual saw me and waved back. They all looked my way. Their train pulled in and I saw them, brilliantly fluorescent, pile into the Coney Island-bound train. Red Star and the Kindly Bisexual spread out on the empty seats; Comrade grabbed a pole. I waved again, feeling lonely now. Comrade glanced over his shoulder and saw me, and they all waved again. The train pulled away, leaving me in the deserted station, and I thought: well, shit. Back to catabasis again.

#saathiray #nice try fbi #my own damn work #:') #finally done

[hi-hey-haechan]

Can I get a reaction with nct 127 when u purposely make them mad and they punish u please

Taeil

You’d told the members about that one time you came home late to see him dancing around the living room in just his underwear. He was embarrassed, but as his members began to taunt him more for it, he grew angry. As soon as you two got inside of your shared apartment, he shut the door with a resounding slam and pushed down on your shoulder, forcing you to your knees. He didn’t hesitate in unbuckling his belt and pulling down his jeans and boxers. Taeil’s hand went to the back of your head, forcing you down on his cock. From the start, he’d be rougher than usual, fucking your mouth and tugging on your hair. He would make you gag around his length, clutching onto his thigh as tears and drool run down your face. After sucking him off, he would refuse to pleasure you.

Johnny

You “accidentally” spilled his coffee (which had gone cold) onto his outfit, ruining his white t-shirt and black sweatpants. You looked straight at him when you apologized, not even bothering to make your voice sound sincere. You had both ruined his outfit and his caffeine. Johnny decided to change after finishing his breakfast. However, he fit a hand down your sweatpants and rubbed your clit roughly. You had been in a conversation with Doyoung, so you attempted to continue talking, stuttering and sighing. When he plunged two fingers into your core, bringing a slight amount of pain to you, you had to stop mid-sentence and bite your lip, clenching your jaw to hold back a moan. You played it off as “painful cramps.” He would curl his fingers, rubbing up against your sweet spot. He’d deny you your orgasm, making you whimper out loud. The boys were looking at Johnny, not one of them oblivious to what he was doing to you. 

Taeyong

If there was one thing Taeyong hated, it was reliving the time he had to explain “Whiplash.” You kept bringing it up, saying things like, “are you sure it was your sister you were writing about?” The members continued to laugh at him, too, teasing him more and more whenever you’d mention it. He was pissed off if you for embarrassing him like that, so when you got home, he was the one giving you whiplash (exept, like, you know, actual whipping). Legitimately, he’d spank you so roughly. That’s as far as he’d go with whipping, refusing to actually use a belt or rope or whip, which could genuinely cut into your skin. However, he would spank you until your ass was red and stinging, hand coming down harshly. The room was filled with your cries and the sharp sound of his hand making contact with your skin. (Aftercare, though...that’s a different story)

Yuta

Everything Yuta asked you to do was something you refused to follow through with. Doing the laundry, ordering take-out for dinner, etcetera. You claimed that you had to work all day, which was true, but you still didn’t do the tasks when you normally would. He came home tired and hungry, so he just made himself some ramen, being short and snappy with you. What you didn’t expect was for him to tie you up completely. Your arms were bound to the headboard, and your legs were tied down and spread apart. He placed a vibrator inside of you, placing it on the highest setting, before leaving to go do the laundry. You were screaming from overstimulation at some point, but Yuta didn’t return for a solid forty minutes. Your face was tearstained and red. Your throat was raw from the cries that had been ripped from you. Your slick was dripping down your legs, and the bedsheets were wet with the fluid that had squirted out of you from overstimulation. Don’t make Yuta mad, is the message here.

Doyoung

You decided to help the younger boys of the group pull a prank on Doyoung, for his reactions and indignance to their antics were humorous. It ended up with his pillow ripped, feathers all over his bed, and his sink in the bathroom at the dorms overflowing. Since he wasn’t a fan of messes, some part of you said, “Hmm, let’s piss off Doyoung to the fullest extent by ruining some stuff!” Your boyfriend’s response to that was him ruining you. He pounded into you relentlessly when you got back to your shared apartment. He did not find your humor, in this circumstance, funny, and so Doyoung showed you that he was not, in any way, a person that you should mess with. His thrusts would continue past your own climax, and even when your arms and legs gave out from supporting your weight, he fucked your limp body. He chased his orgasm, which, in turn, literally turned your body to putty for him.

Jaehyun

You sat on your phone the ENTIRE date. Seriously, while eating dinner, you scrolled through Twitter, sometimes texting your best friend about Jaehyun’s reactions to this. Your words were short and sort of dry. Seeing his face fall literally made you want to cry, since all you wanted was for him to be happy. You made a comment when you came home about your phone being almost-dead, and that was when he snapped. Jaehyun stripped you down, being so dominant that it almost scared you. He was already hard, thinking of everything he was going to do to you. Your face was mashed against a pillow, and your ass was up. His hands grabbed your hips as he fucked you so hard to the point where you were yelling out his name. Jaehyun went fast and deep, leaving a spank on your ass occasionally. “Your phone could never give this to you, never,” he hissed into your ear. You had cum twice before he came once, overstimulating you to the fullest extent. 

Winwin

You were flirting with Ten right in front of him. He watched, glowering, as you sat next to his friend. Ten was naturally just a flirt, always talking, smiling, and sometimes going as far as to show off. He also had to admit that seeing Sicheng mad amused him (Ten is chaotic evil, what can I say?). You reunited with your boyfriend after practice, and he was having a difficult time hiding his hurt. Sicheng wouldn’t be obvious about trying to punish you. Instead, he’d have his head between your legs later, overstimulating you until you were crying, but never saying his motivation for doing so. When he said, “Ten could never make you feel this good,” you knew his motivations behind his actions. Just because he was subtle about his jealousy didn’t mean that it wasn’t there, and he made sure you knew it.  He wanted to make you forget everything else except for his name and the way you felt as he pleasured you with his tongue and fingers, bringing you to your climax over and over again.

Jungwoo

You ate all the food that he’d bought for himself. When it came down to love, you and food were competing for Jungwoo’s heart. You, in turn, decided to temporarily remove your competition. When he came home, he was already sort of upset. Seeing that all his food was gone, he was sent over the edge. You rarely saw angry Jungwoo, but when you did, it was scary. He decided quickly that instead of eating food, he could just eat you out instead. What you weren’t expecting was orgasm denial for what felt like an eternity. His tongue movements were already quite wild, eating you out with no mercy at all, whatsoever. Even when you eventually stopped warning him about your approaching climax, he could tell by the clenching of your core and volume of your moans that you were close. If he didn’t get what he wanted, food, you wouldn’t get what you wanted: to cum. 

Mark

You decided that it would be humorous for you to photoshop his head onto the body of the bee, just because of the “Mark Bee” meme that NCTzens came up with. You gave them to the boys to post all around the company, and all day, you spammed Mark’s phone with memes of him and a bee. You even sent a terrifying fanfiction you’d found about his bee form (It’s a real thing someone sent me. I can send it, if you’d like). In turn, he had to consider a decent punishment. As a result, he decided to get himself off later that day, while making you watch. Seriously, he wouldn’t let you leave the bed as he ran his hand up and down his hard length, forcing you to watch and hear the sounds of his literally perfect moans. Mark didn’t want you to pleasure yourself, so he tied up your hands to the headboard using one of the scarves you had. He overstimulated himself, too, making you even needier, but never allowing you to have relief.

Haechan

You ignored him practically all day, pushing him away when he tried to hug you or saying short, cold sentences in response to his. He was being his bubbly, sweet, affectionate self, and you were pushing him away, just for a punishment. Haechan caught on quite quickly, knowing fully well how much of a brat you could be, just for his attention. His punishment? Ignoring you in return. Later that day, when your acts were up, he was pushing away anything more extreme than a hug. He would refuse to kiss you, and he’d push you away whenever you tried to grind down on his lap, your needy self begging for friction of any kind. You even laid next to him on the bed and began pleasuring yourself, moaning out his name as your fingers delved in and out of your core, simultaneously stimulating your clit. He just watched, not even reacting when you moaned out his name. 

#nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct reactions #nct hard hours #kpop hard hours #kpop smut #i have to wake up in less than two hours #to bike to see the sunrise #i will regret this #but i had to post

[epithet-headcanoned]

Can I pweese have Ramsey being a dad to Sylvie please? You da best.

HEHEH yes (also lets just pretend Percy is Sylvie in this case, I am too tired for photoshop- me wants to write)

Dad!Ramsey and Son!Sylvie

Did you mean: ALMOST Max and Goofy from the Goofy movie????

...BUT while Ramsey isn’t the most prone to do dad jokes, he gets under Sylvie’s skin another way- he likes to constantly bug him about father/son time :)

He’ll make “jokes” like “Ya know, when I was your age me and my pops used to go down to the bay and catch a couple of fish, whadd’ya say, huh? Ya wanna go fishin’ with your old man?”

Ramsey says this while knowing FULL WELL that fishing isn’t Sylvie’s thing, and both of them each expect Sylvie to roll his eyes and go “Hard pass.” Which Sylvie usually does- though secretly, (and Ramsey would never admit this) Ramsey thinks that fishing with Sylvie wouldn’t be so bad

On the other hand, Sylvie doesn’t like the thought of Ramsey being his dad :( he sees Ramsey as nothing but a conman, and doesn’t completely trust him not to mention the fact that Sylvie doesn’t even like his biological dad

But sometimes, Sylvie does have his moments with him. Whenever Ramsey needs to get out of the house (totally not because people are looking for him or anything) he���ll take Sylvie with him to the park, Ramsey just strolling in a casual disguise and Sylvie walking next to him, texting his clients. This one particular time, Ramsey happened to see a dad with his toddler son, the dad giving him a piggyback ride while the two were just having fun

Ramsey instantly got an evil grin on his face, turned around and the second Sylvie looked up from his phone to say, “Yeah?” Ramsey had already ducked down and hoisted Sylvie onto his shoulders

Now listen... Ramsey is pretty old. Meaning when the other civilians at the park saw Ramsey giving Sylvie what SHOULD’VE been a piggyback ride, what they actually saw was:

Ramsey: *FLAILING his arms like a segull trying to regain his balance*

Sylvie: *sitting on Ramsey’s shoulders like normal, but his body is leaning a lot more forward than it should be, screaming* Ramsey what the FUCK?? PUT ME DOWN

Ramsey: IM TRYIN’

Sylvie: *patiently waits for Ramsey to stand upright again, until Ramsey starts to fall over and Sylvie’s body starts to topple over with him* PUT ME DOWN PUT ME DOWN PUT ME D-

They both fell down on the sidewalk (and looking back, the thought actually makes Sylvie chuckle)

BONUS:

Oh yeah, did I mention that Ramsey is willing to buy Sylvie whatever he wants for his office or clients? Because he would

Ramsey always insists that “I’m not gonna spoil you or whatever,” and then goes out and does exactly that

#epithet erased #epithet erased headcanons #dr. sylvester ashling #sylvie #sylvie epithet erased #epithet erased sylvie #sylvie ee #ramsey murdoch #ramsey epithet erased #ramsey ee #dad!ramsey #son!sylvie #dad ramsey and son sylvie #father and son #headcanons #long post #anonymous

[borhap-au]

Joe Mazzello: the fluffy chronicles.

Joe’s girl feels down and needs him to be there for her.

 He knew something was wrong. You could see it from just looking at him. He wasn’t like he always was. He was not playful, he didn’t crack jokes. He didn’t smile. He knew you felt bad. And – what broke your heart to a thousand pieces – he thought it was his fault.

“Please, please, please, just tell me” he looked you deep in the eyes, holding your hands in his. He was leaning towards you, sitting on the chair opposite you. Your mind was pure chaos. You knew well what was bothering you, despite telling him you were just in bad mood, without a reason. Yet it was so hard to say out loud. It wasn’t a one-time thing, it was happening for quite a long time… And you never truly admitted to anyone what was going on in your head. But it was the right time, the only right time if there ever was one. Right here and there – just to reassure the man you loved more than anything else in the world that it was not his fault.

“Where do I start… Well, fuck. Do you really feel like listening to all this? Because it is a long story, and as much as it’s important to me, I know nobody else cares, so…” you started. You honestly doubted he was ready for what’s about to come. He probably thought it was just about a stupid fight with your friend, or that you didn’t fit in your favourite jeans. He didn’t know how deeply it was rooted in your brain.

“Yes. I am ready and willing to listen to you no matter how long you want to speak. Please, tell me everything. I’m begging you” you smiled sadly looking at him. Despite feeling down you knew one thing – Joe was perfect. He was the perfect boyfriend, he was so loving, caring, so sweet. And you wanted to give him much more than you believed you were.

“I hate myself” he wanted to interrupt, but you didn’t allow him. “Just let me get all of this out of my chest. Then you can say whatever you want about it.” He nodded slowly letting you proceed.

“It’s not a new thing, I did since I was like… 12? You know, I was one of the cool kids when I was very young. I was believed to be pretty, smart, interesting. Always told by everyone I will go far, I will go wherever I want actually. Got the best grades, boys were interested in me, I had expensive clothes, beautiful hair… You know, the things that are important when you’re 12. And then I entered my teenage years and the reality hit me. Hard. I got much fatter than I used to be, I got acne, I heard for the first time that I’m ugly. We got new subjects and there were kids I could never catch up with, because I prefer languages, history. I was never good at physics or PE. I realised I’m more of an introvert type. I got less and less popular. I had a really toxic best friend that bent my worldview, but also my self-esteem. I was always in her shadow and at her every wish. I’m pretty sure my parents just got me because well, they… happened to have me. Neither of them is really meant to be a parent, they don’t know what they’re doing, really. And when I got into my rebel phase, they never understood me. They still don’t. Nobody in my family really does. They’re all like: “socialize more” or “lose some weight” or “all your problems start with you.” Well of course they start with me, Karen, I am the problem! I’m never good enough. All the people around me make me feel bad about who I am. I’m an introvert, and logically, there is nothing bad about it. It’s just the type of personality I have. But no. “You should go out! Meet people! You’re like a freak all by yourself in your room. You don’t socialize because you have no friends, is that the case?” Or if I’m shy and I don’t feel ready to be an adult yet, I’m scared to go on a job interview, I don’t like strangers, I have a fear of being rejected. And it is not my fault. I’m just that kind of a person. I do make money, just differently, I teach a few kids I know. But no, all the other people my age make fucking millions. “Oh, your cousin has bought a house. Your friend is balancing three job and college. Oh, my friend’s son is travelling all around the world.” Oh, well, good for them for fuck’s sake. I’m not like them. I’m not perfect. Just tell me I’m a fucking disappointment already. Just disown me. Because all of those little comments just make me feel like shit. And yes, it took me years to find a boyfriend so I obviously heard about it too. “Oh, you’re just jealous it’s not you.” No, I’m not jealous. And even if I was, I still wouldn’t like listening about other people’s love and sex life. I’m just not interested in those things. Honestly, I try to be a good friend, but when you’re the only single person that constantly need to give advices to those in relationships… It gets tiring. And of course nobody has ever been proud of me, not since childhood. I try, and try, and work my ass off and when I for example score 90% from a very difficult exam, all I hear is “why not 100%?” I’m not smart enough. I stress about everything. And when I stress, I eat. So I can’t just get slimmer. I can’t get motivation to work out, because I can’t get a motivation to live. I don’t feel like getting out of bed. I’m not smart, pretty, skinny… Not even interesting or charming. I’m annoying. I can see in people’s eyes they had enough of me few minutes into our conversation. I always feel worse, like I’m not good enough for anything, like literally everyone’s better. At everything. I don’t have my own thing. And even if I find something, soon people turn to the person that is better than me. I’m not anyone’s favourite person-"

“Oh no, I need to interrupt you here. You are MY favourite person. You are my favourite person on the whole planet. And I’m really sorry you don’t see how beautiful you are. I know the girls in the magazines look differently. And good! Because they are not real. They’re photoshopped. And we are made to believe this is what we want – this is what girls should look like, and in those kind of women we are supposed to fall in love with. But they don’t exist. To achieve such a small flat stomach you would have to get rid of all your organs. It doesn’t work like this. You are slim. You are beautiful. Why do we even care about the standards of beauty other people tell us we should have? You are my standard of beauty. I’ve never seen more beautiful eyes or smile in my life. I look at you and I just immediately smile to myself, thinking how lucky I am and how happy you make me feel. When you’re laughing, goofing around, when you do absolutely anything. They make money on dieting, sport related things, “healthy” food, proteins, whatever. They want us to hate ourselves. To always try to achieve the impossible. Because then we buy more. Because we are sad, depressed. Easily manipulated by the media. And I don’t want you to let them win. Because you are so fucking beautiful, girl, I had a crush on you since the first day we’ve met. I adore your body. I cannot take my eyes off you when you’re walking past me. You are the reason I’m happy and I want to be the same for you. And I am proud of you. I’m incredibly proud of every single achievement you attain. I always tell people what a good person you are, how loving and caring you are. I notice everything. And if you got 90% from a test I know damn well there is not a single person that got 100%. Because nobody is better than you are. And nobody knows more about the things you’re passionate about. And to me there’s nobody that can overshadow you. You are the one and only, the only one I see when you walk into a room. You’re your own light. And you have enough to give me a bit of that too. Because this is what kind of person you are. You give instead of taking from people. You are very special. And anybody who doesn’t see how blessed they are to have you in their life can go fuck themselves. I see it and I know that I am. You mean so much to me. And I see that you’re trying and honestly in the circumstances given, you really do well. You don’t have to compare yourself to others. They all had a different start. They came from a different place, they had different people around them. Especially since you only had people discouraging you. You achieved it on your own. You owe it all to yourself. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with being an introvert, when will people acknowledge that? It’s not a mental disease like they want it to appear. “15 ways for introverts to appear as extroverts!” What about manuals for extroverts to be more quiet and understanding sometimes? And you never disappointed me. Since we’re together I’ve been so much happier and I really wish I could do the same for you. I don’t know where I’m making the mistake-“ you stopped him with a kiss.

You were listening to all that he was saying not believing this man is yours. He was like a blessing, he understood everything you had in your mind and was able to help you understand very important things too. And he loved you. Loved you more than you allowed yourself to believe. He was genuinely interested in you and your problems. He wanted to help, however he could. He even blamed himself for not doing more. Yet he did so much more than anyone else in your life before. In that brief moment, you felt happier. You knew it wasn’t the end of fighting for your happiness, it was just the beginning. But you finally felt like you wanted to fight. He made you want to take appropriate steps to change the voice in your head. Because for once you felt like someone actually wants you to be better, but in a sense that they cheer for you, not that they’re disappointed in who you are. And you knew it’s a long fight and there will be many defeats. You knew the excitement you felt now won’t last forever. But the moment you felt his lips on yours, his hands on your back, bringing you close, you knew you had a reason to fight for your happiness for. He was your reason.

“Believe me or not, I actually feel better now… It was good to finally talk to someone about it. But please don’t tell me that you feel bad, because it’s your fault… It isn’t. It started happening long before I met you. I don’t expect you to come into ruins and build a castle from them. I just love you so much for the fact you enjoy what you’re seeing for the reasons others hate it.” He smiled a bit petting your cheeks with his thumbs and kissed your forehead.

“I love you very much. And if they don’t see how amazing you are, it’s their loss, not yours. You have the people that truly care around you. You have me. And you will have me as long as you need me. I’m here, always. Call me at 3 AM, no problem. Text me and I’m here. Stay over at my house whenever you please, fall asleep in my arms if that calms you. Let me know if you need my attention more than usually. Hit me up when you need someone to encourage you. I will do all of it for you, and more, but please, just let me know you need those things. I’m not a mind reader, although I wish I was. I cannot help you if you won’t tell me something’s wrong.” He looked at you concerned. After all, he still wasn’t sure if he did enough. He was truly worried. He really cared.

“Only if you promise me that you will do the same. Maybe you think I don’t know it, but I do. You feel down sometimes too. And I don’t want to feel like I’m nosey and I try to dig out something you don’t want to tell me about. But I do care so much about you, and I want you to tell me, always. If I see that you don’t, I won’t tell you either. Either we’re both in this relationship, caring for each other and helping each other, or… There is no deal. I don’t want you to suffer quietly and then come here to help me. Men can feel bad too. You should allow yourself for it, rather than keeping it in and pretending all is fine. Men can be emotional, men can cry. And you can cry on my shoulder whenever you want. I’ll do anything I can to help you overcome your problems.” He sat on the couch next to you and you leaned on him, snuggling. He pet your back.

“I promise you. Actually, there’s something- I didn’t tell you this before, but I really like when you ask me all those little questions. Like how am I, is everything alright, did I took everything, how was my day, am I feeling well physically and mentally, did I dress appropriately, didn’t forget to eat… It may seem stupid, but I really love those things. They make me realise how much you care for me, to take time to think about those things. And I like resting my head on your stomach hugging you in bed. It makes me feel close to you, I love hearing your heartbeat. Those little things are important to me.” He smiled slightly when you nodded making sure to remember all of it.

“I like when you text me first thing in the morning. And when you come here out of the blue. I like when you’re showing me affection, hug me, hold my hand, caress my body. I like when you speak about your emotions. I like when you say”

“I love you” you both said at the same time and you smiled.

“Exactly. And I love that you listen.” You added.

“Because you listen too. I have boys who listen to me when I’m excited about sports; mom, if I want to talk about job opportunities or my dreams… I can always find someone who listens if I talk about good things. Nobody else listens when I feel down. Nobody else but you. You understand the importance of my mental health. I hope one day you’ll understand how important your health is. How important you are. ‘Cause to me, you mean everything.” He kissed your head.

“If one day I feel like I’m good enough, it will be thanks to you.”

“You are so much better than just that. You could fucking own the world if you wanted to. You can do, achieve, whatever you really want. You are a queen to me. I love you to the moon and back. And I’m so fucking proud to call you my girl. You just make other people happy. You make me happy. You know how much it’s worth? In the world where everything brings you down? It’s priceless. You are priceless. And I don’t know what more to tell you other than this girl – the one I have in my arms right now – is the reason I go out of bed, if feel like I’m flying instead of walking and whenever I know you got interested in something new, I can’t wait to hear you talking about it, gesticulating and being all excited. I love it. I love those moments with you. I’m always happy when I know we will meet on that day. It makes me feel alive.”

You listened to him carefully. He was better than you could imagine him. You knew he really would come at 3 PM to comfort you if you asked him to. And it was so important to have someone like that in your life.

“I don’t know what to say either. I just love you so much.”

“I love you too. From the moment you said you want to be with me, the life has been surreal. I feel like it’s all just a perfect dream. I’m in coma and I will wake up and you will be gone, my angel.”

“I’m here, Joey. I’m as real as it gets. Why are you here, though, I cannot understand.”

“Because you make me happy. I don’t feel obliged to be with you or any other bullshit the voices have been telling you. Actually, I would be happy if you became my wife one day. Because if I spent my life making sure you feel great and loved, then I would consider my life to be a fulfilling one. I’m not here because I have to, or something like that. I need you. My beautiful, intelligent, attractive, charming girl. My best friend. Just please, stay with me. Just as long as I make you happier than others would. If you find someone better, I will step aside. Because I genuinely only care about your well-being. I love you so much it hurts when I’m not around you.”

“Do you mean all this?” it’s like he’s been reading your mind. He told you exactly what you needed to hear.

“Every single word. Please, just try anything to be happy and I promise to be there, on the way with you, cheering for you and telling you how proud I am for every little step. And I mean all of this too.”

“Who would I be without you?” You asked rhetorically. You knew the answer was “nothing”, but you didn’t want to say it, since it would hurt him to hear you saying it about someone he loved so much.

“An ambitious girl with a bright future in front of her. Honey, you would be exactly who you are right now. I don’t make you whole, you are whole. I’m just an addition. You don’t necessarily need me, but you want me, and I’m happy and proud of it. And I will stay as long as you want me to. Helping you achieve what you would achieve on your own anyway and hopefully much more. I will not leave you. I’m here, for you. Always.”

#joe mazzello fanfic #joe mazzello imagine #joe mazzello x reader #joe mazzello x y/n #joe mazzello headcanon #joe mazzello fluff #joe mazzello au #joe mazzello x female reader #joe mazzello x you #bohemian rhapsody #bohamian rhapsody fic #bohamian rhapsody x reader #the fluffy chronicles #joe mazzello masterlist #joe mazzello x oc #joe mazzello girlfriend #pat murray #undrafted #jurassic park #the pacific #long

[dead-inside-mcgee]

Beyond that Door Chapter 4

A ladder

Yes I do write stuffs

Summary: On one hand, free clothing sounded great. On the other hand, Chase’s growing romantic feelings did not muffle his paranoia at all. On the third hand, this sounded kind of like charity, and Chase didn’t need or want any of that, nor did he really feel like he deserved it. And on the fourth hand, which at this point there are far too many hands, if this man could just offer to do something like that, without a hint of anxiety, then that probably meant he was fairly financially stable. And financial stability was on Chase’s top ten for most attractive traits.

Warnings: implied sexual content, mentions of murder

Taglist: @rabbitsartcorner @caori-azarath @murder-schmurder

Chase blinked his eyes open, trying to remember where he was. He was watching a movie, the parents were looking over old pictures and discovered that their daughter's ghost was actually in some of the pictures, other than the ones the son photoshopped her in.

  Chase smiled to himself. He’d have to watch that movie again when he wasn’t on a not-date with a criminal. What happened after that? 

  The credits rolled. He was about to make some excuse to leave. Anti was talking about something. He started pouring a glass of wine....

  The bathroom door opened, flooding the room with light and steam as Anti stepped out in just a towel. 

  ”Oh!” he said with a bright smile. “I was wondering if you were ever going to wake up. I suppose I can’t blame you considering the work out you gave me.” He chuckles lightheartedly.

  Chase blushed, suddenly aware of the fact that he didn’t have a shirt on. Last night came flashing back to him in a series of images, like someone made a shitty PowerPoint presentation about it. He covers his face in the blanket in embarrassment, earning another light chuckle from Anti. 

  Chase couldn’t help but peak out while Anti was dressing. Despite all the paranoia and suspension he had surrounding the man, he did find him quite attractive. And if last night was anything to go off of, the feeling was mutual. 

  Maybe Anti wasn’t the weird supervillain in Chase’s mind. Maybe the strange man he saw at the building was someone else, he only really got a glimpse...

  Chase’s wandering thoughts of possible romance were torn from him by the malicious hands of capitalism. 

  “Oh fuck I’m late for work!” 

  “Actually-” Anti started, grabbing Chase’s arm before he could bolt out the door in just his slipping pants “-a pipe burst, flooding a large part of the first few floors in sewage. Work is closed for a few days for repairs.” He led him over to his laptop, showing him the email explaining that in forty times the word count. 

  Chase sighed in relief. “Oh, thank god.” 

  “So. Since we have a couple of days free, how would you like to go shopping with me? I will pay for everything, and not to be rude, but you really need more clothing. I’ve noticed you’ve worn the same grey shirt ten times in a row.” 

  “Actually, I bought a pack of twelve grey shirts.” He said, putting grey shirt number eleven back on. “It was on sale.” 

  “I honestly feel like that makes it worse.” 

  On one hand, free clothing sounded great. On the other hand, Chase’s growing romantic feelings did not muffle his paranoia at all. On the third hand, this sounded kind of like charity, and Chase didn’t need or want any of that, nor did he really feel like he deserved it. And on the fourth hand, which at this point there are far too many hands, if this man could just offer to do something like that, without a hint of anxiety, then that probably meant he was fairly financially stable. And financial stability was on Chase’s top ten for most attractive traits. 

  He whimpered, talking a step back. It felt like he was between a rock and a hard place, and Chase’s claustrophobia made him want to panic. And then a fifth hand popped up to ask a question. What about Marvin?

  In the pure anxiety of last night and the confusing morning, Marvin had completely slipped his mind. The poor witch was probably worried sick.

  “I’m sorry!” He made his way for the front door. “I promised a friend I would hang out with them last night and they’re probably worried sick that I never showed up.” He didn’t wait for a response from Anti, simply running out.

  Panic set in. He should turn around. No, keep running. He didn’t think he could even face Marvin in this state. 

  He ran into his apartment, not even wondering why his front door was unlocked. 

***

Under every town there are tunnels. Whether they are made by animals like worms, moles, or crawfish. Or they’re made by time, like undiscovered caves. Or they’re made by secret organizations that use them to get around fast and to watch our every move. There are tunnels.

  Marvin discovered his own set of tunnels when he first came to this town, and later sealed off a certain part of it later to act as his base. 

  He used to enjoy wandering through the tunnels, drawing graffiti on the walls, and listening in to private conversations. He felt free in the tunnels. But tonight the tunnels felt suffocating. 

  “Where are we going?” Henrik asked timidly. He stumbled every few steps.

  “If they’ve captured Chase, then they probably know we’re looking into this conspiracy, which means my home isn’t safe.”

  “That does not quite answer my question.”

  Marvin didn’t have a good answer. 

  After an hour of walking and quietly swearing from Henrik, Marvin stopped and squeezed him through a small space that opened up into a large, musty room. It looked like a church. There were rows of pews, and the walls were lined with stained glass, which was odd because behind the stained glass windows was layers upon layers of dirt and rock. Like someone built a church in a giant pit, buried it, and forgot about it. 

  Neither of them could quite tell what the windows were depicting, and there were no recognizable religious symbols.

  “This place feels less safe.” Henrik squeaked. 

  “Don’t worry. I’ve never seen or heard anyone here. I’m not sure what this place is, but it’s abandoned.” Marvin laid down on a pew and curled up. 

  “How long do you plan on staying here?” 

  “A week at least. If they check my home, that might see I’m not there and it’ll be safe to return.” 

  There were holes in that plan, but Henrik wasn’t in the right headspace to nitpick it. He did not like it here. He really didn’t like it here. This place felt familiar, and that scared him more than anything.

  Exhaustion hit him hard. He curled up on the ground, which was only slightly more uncomfortable than the pews, and slept. 

  He had a dream. No not a dream. He remembered something.

 ***

It was Tuesday. He remembered that fact cearly. Tuesday the sixteenth, in September. Yesterday was his birthday. He was twenty-four now. 

  He was going shopping. He bought a new lab coat for work. He was a doctor, both of medical and of science. He also still struggled with English despite living in America for several years by now. 

  He meets a man with bright green hair and a smile that felt like the sun on earth. He introduces himself as Sèan, but tells him he goes by Jack.

  “How do you get Jack from Sèan?” he remembers asking. 

  “You don’t!” Jack said, patting him on the back. 

  Then it was evening, they were snuggled up on Jack’s couch, both wasted.

  “I wanna be someone someday!” Jack said loudly. “I want to be the person whose face appears on a billboard, and people can point at my face and say, “‘Hey, I know that guy!’”

  “You could be a model. You’ve got the face for it.” 

  “There’s no honor in being a model, though. I want to save people, not kill their self esteem.”

  “A cop then.”

  “No one likes cops, Henrik.” Jack said firmly, sounding sober for a moment. 

  “True…” He yawned, starting to feel tired. 

  “I want to be something bigger than that. Like a superhero. Maybe I could get into witchcraft.” 

  “You know witchcraft is illegal right?” 

  “Being a vigilante is illegal too, and people love vigilantes. Hey, maybe if I’m big enough and loud enough, I can get rid of the ban on witchcraft!” 

  Henrik giggled, nuzzling his hand. “I believe in you.”

  Jack nodded happily. Suddenly he jolted upright and almost knocked Henrik onto the floor. “Hey! Want to see something cool!”

  Jack led him to a manhole cover that had a thick numerical padlock on it. Jack put in the code 1010 and it popped off. 

  “Not a very secure code.” Henrik commented as Jack dragged him into the sewer. 

  “It’s so dumb that no one would guess it.” 

  “It smells like shit down here.” Henrik groaned. 

  “Yeah, that’d be the shit.” 

  Jack led him to an area where part of the wall seemed to be slightly broken. 

  “Look through the crack in the wall.” 

  Henik did so and he could faintly see a ladder going down. 

  Jack pulled on the wall slightly, making enough space for someone to squeeze in if they really tried. “I’ve never been brave enough to go see where it leads.” 

  Henrik was amazed. This was super cool. It may have been the alcohol clouding his judgement, but he squeezed past the wall and looked down. “Want to find out?” 

  Climbing a ladder drunk is not a smart thing to do, especially if you had no idea where said ladder leads. 

  After a few minutes of climbing, somehow Henrik and Jack made it to the ground without dying. The ladder led to a pair of large doors that looked like the entrance to a church. 

  The two glanced at each other before working together to push open the doors. Inside was eerily like a church. 

  “I don’t like it here.” Jack said, but continued walking into the church anyway. 

  Henrik stepped in and a wave of nausea washed over him. He fell forward, blacking out. That was the last thing Henrik remembered, but the dream continued. 

  Jack spun around, running to go check on him, but some invisible wall seemed to block him from getting any closer. 

  A voice cackled. It was raspy and sounded broken almost. A man appeared. He looked exactly like Jack but wrong. Like someone tried to draw him from memory. There was also a giant cut on this person’s neck. 

  Jack stumbled back and leaned on the invisible wall. “Don't come any closer!” 

  “I won’t, I won’t.” The demon, Jack decided it was a demon, said calmly. “I want to help you friend.” 

  “Help me!? What could you possibly do to help me?” 

  “You want to be a hero, am I correct? I seem to remember that.” 

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Well who doesn’t want to be a hero!? I can help you, for a small price.” 

  “What price?”

  “It’s only something small. I wish the feast on the blood of the wicked. That shouldn’t be much trouble. What’s the lives of millions of good people compared to a few assholes?” 

  Jack thought it over. “How much blood?” 

  “A body every two weeks. If you choose the right people, no one will miss them anyway.” 

  The worst part is that, that sounded like an amazing deal. He glanced back at Henrik. There was a little pool of blood by his face from where he hit his head on the floor. 

  “Is there any other catch to this thing you’re offering me?” 

  “Yes.” The demon waved his hand up and Henrik stood, except it wasn’t Henrik exactly. Something about his eyes was off. 

  “Every superhero needs a villain to defeat, and your boyfriend here will do the trick nicely.”

  Jack grimaced, backing away from “Henrik.” 

  “That doesn’t even have to be a catch. I can erase any memories and feelings you have connected to him. Just shake my hand.” He held a hand out with a big, toothy smile. 

  Jack glanced at the demon, and then at Henrik, and he decided to take his hand. There was a bright flash of light and Henrik woke up. 

  He was about to get up to tell Marvin what he had remembered, but he found himself and Marvin tied up. 

***

Chase fidgeted with part of his robotic arm. It made a nice clicking noise when he twisted one of the fingers in the right way. 

  The mask was starting to wear off, he had enough of the potion left to last him a while, but it still made him kind of sad. 

  There was a knock at the door. Chase groaned and hid under the blanket. It was probably Mrs. Wood, asking if Chase had seen her missing cat.  

  The knocking continued for a few more minutes and then Chase heard a soft creak like someone opened his front door. His stomach dropped. 

  He grabbed a large flashlight, prepared to whack someone. He slowly walked out of his room only to see Anti in his living room. 

  Anti held up his hands. “Hey. You left your keys at my place.” He dropped the keys on the counter. “I know I shouldn’t have busted in, but I assumed you weren’t here.” 

  Chase sighed, putting the flashlight down. Anything Chase wanted to say got caught in his throat. He sat down and covered his face. “Just go away please.” 

  “I also wanted to say I’m sorry. I came on too strongly and I should’ve checked to see if I was crossing any boundaries. I just want this to work.” 

   Anti’s heart shattered. He stepped out into the hallway and got a phone call. 

  “What is it?” He growled. 

  “Fresh blood is here.” Jackie said on the other end.

#jacksepticeye #chase brody #dr schneeplestein #henrik von schneeplestein #marvin the magnificent #jameson jackson #antisepticeye #jackie boyman #jackieboy man #jackie boy man #jackieboyman #my fic #beyond that door

[jaqdawks]

added a short story bellow :)

content warnings: alcohol and implied nsfw acts, also mention of death.

—————————————

Nickolai awoke in someone else’s bed with a splitting hangover. He sat up and looked around the unfamiliar room. He checked if it was possibly Alcor’s, until he realized he didn’t know what Alcor’s bedroom looked like at all. He also didn’t know what most of Alcor’s flat looked like; he’d only ever been as far in as a single hallway.

For a few minutes, Nickolai fought the hangover to remember who he was with and what identity he’d assumed. All he could remember was Noah. He had a fake ID that said Noah, and his false identity as a Noah was a man who fixed computers. Noah was a common name though, and he couldn’t remember who the Noah here was.

He didn’t think about it much longer before he succumbed to the hangover and flopped back onto the bed—which Nickolai was alone in. The disturbed sheets on the spot next to him hinted to someone else having been in it earlier.

The door began to creak open, and Nickolai shut his eyes.

“Hey, it’s almost noon. I don’t want to be rude but you need to wake up,” sounded an unfamiliar voice.

Nickolai grumbled a little. He looked at the stranger, who had soft green eyes and curly red hair. He didn’t look untrustworthy, to Nickolai’s relief. Then again, Nickolai didn’t look untrustworthy either on a normal day.

“I have Advil if you need something for a hangover,” the stranger offered.

Nickolai sat up again, for real now. “Sorry, what’s your name?”

The stranger laughed. “I’m Joel. Were you too hammered to remember my name?”

Nickolai shook his head.

The stranger seemed concerned. “How much do you remember then?”

“I don’t know, I remember thinking I should get mad drunk in public instead of passing out on my couch. After that it’s just fuzzy.” Nickolai assumed he told Joel that his name was Noah.

Joel looked a little perturbed in an endearing way. “Ah, well, do you want me to fill the gaps or. . ?”

“Can I get some Advil first?”

“Yeah. I’ll go get some water for you to swallow it with,” Joel complied. “You should get dressed.”

Nickolai waited for Joel to leave before getting out of bed and tracking down all his clothes, which were strewn about the room. His shirt smelled like liquor to the point that Nickolai thought he might gag. However, he didn’t have any spare clothes and decided to just put up with it.

Joel was back a few minutes after Nickolai got dressed. It was clear he was trying to ignore the smell, but after Nickolai took the Advil, Joel asked if he needed to borrow something that didn’t smell so rancid. Nickolai obliged and was relieved to be able to rid the putrid button-down.

“Okay, so the parts you don’t remember,” Joel began. “I can’t say I remember it too well either, but I think I have a decent memory with these things.”

Nickolai nodded. “Go on.”

“So,” Joel continued. “It began when I think I saw the bartender cut you off on drinks, and I felt kind of bad about that. So I thought, hey, company’s much better than drinks, even though I was also drinking, like a lot. And I guess at some point we kinda started flirting, and I was like ‘should we take this back to your place?’ and you began to freak out. I think you said you have a dog that bites people or something? Is that true?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Well anyways, you did not seem to be very happy with the idea of taking anyone to your place, so I took you to mine. And you can probably guess the rest, considering you woke up naked in my bed.”

Nickolai silently acknowledged the implications in his head. This wasn’t how he planned to start his weekend, but he could roll with it. “Yeah. Sorry for sleeping until noon, by the way. I’m not at all a morning person.”

Joel smiled with amusement. “How do you pull that off? I can’t even sleep past nine on a good day.”

“Sadness.”

Joel’s face went blank with a bit of underlying surprise at Nickolai’s off hand answer. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, no harm no foul.” Nickolai was vehemently aware that he may have used that saying incorrectly.

Joel veered the conversation away from the topic. “How does your head feel?”

“A little better.”

Joel was oddly kind. Nickolai wasn’t used to receiving this hospitality from strangers like him, but that probably had more to do with who Nickolai associated himself with and not people in general. Nickolai decided he liked Joel, even if he barely knew him.

“I would offer you some breakfast, but. . . it’s almost one in the afternoon. You’re probably hungry though, right?”

“Oh, you don’t have to.” Nickolai attempted to smile back at Joel but he was too tired to count off what would make it look genuine. Regardless, Joel didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m gonna do it anyway,” Joel decided. “Any allergies?”

“Strawberries.”

“Oh! That’s a rare one.”

Nickolai shrugged. “I seem to cash in on the rare things a lot. Albinism, an extra rib, and the strawberry allergy.”

“Casinos must hate you if you’re that lucky.”

Nickolai let out a genuine laugh. He decided he definitely liked Joel. He also felt a tinge of astonishment that someone like Joel casually hooked up with him, or generally anyone. He seemed like too much of an angel to even drink.

Nickolai followed Joel out of his room. Joel’s place was considerably nice, to the point Nickolai was in a bit of disbelief. He couldn’t have wound up in an upper class area if he had started last night at a shoddy bar, right? Joel didn’t act like he was rich, he didn’t seem like it either. But this place completely contrasted whatever Joel was like. Even Joel’s cat, a rather well groomed Norwegian forest cat—which was massive and somewhat intimidating—seemed to completely outclass Nickolai.

“Do you live here by yourself?” Nickolai asked as he surveyed the expensive wallpaper lining the kitchen walls.

“Nah, I have a housemate named Anwyll. He’s visiting family right now though.”

Nickolai froze. “Anwyll. . . As in Anwyll Tait?”

“That’s the one!”

Nickolai suddenly felt sick. “Oh fuck.”

“Is something wrong?”

Nickolai retched. Had his stomach not been empty, he had no doubt he would have thrown up all over the nice counter top.

Joel dropped what he was doing and crossed the room to Nickolai. “Are you okay?” He was suddenly at Nickolai’s side with his hand placed gently on Nickolai’s back.

Nickolai’s head spun. He knew he couldn’t tell Joel that Anwyll Tait took his brother’s life in the deathmatches. If he did, Joel would have a catalogue of every possible person Nickolai could truly be, and it would clearly point to Yuskol Voskoboinikov.

Nickolai ran through every excuse he could think up. He could say he hated the rich, but that could offend Joel. He could say the deathmatches made him sick, but Joel was obviously linked to them somehow if he was in league with a Tait. Joel felt like dangerous company, a double edged sword.

“Noah?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Nickolai croaked. “I think it’s just the hangover. I haven’t eaten since yesterday, so I guess I don’t have anything to throw up.”

That was the safest excuse.

Joel looked at Nickolai with pity. “Do you think you can eat right now?”

“Yeah.”

Nickolai felt somewhat content that he had definite confirmation that he had told Joel his name was Noah last night. The slight accent in his voice may throw off the authenticity in his identity as Noah Martin, but it wasn’t consistent enough to jeopardize him.

At the same time, the fact that he slept with someone of such high class alarmed him. Most public record photos of Nickolai Voskoboinikov’s face was outdated or somewhat photoshopped, but a Tait might be able to figure him out if they surveyed him for long enough.

“So, what’s your housemate like?” Nickolai asked. He tried to keep the nervousness from spreading to his voice.

“Anwyll can be such a jerk sometimes, but he’s also sorta nice. I’ve known him since I was little,” Joel said. “He doesn’t like new people that much, but I think he’d like you.”

“Dunno. I can be very unlikeable when I’m on my medication.” Nickolai knew with certainty that Anwyll would hate him no matter what. “Also I’m. . . lower class.” Nickolai also knew that Anwyll was a classist asshole.

“Lower class? That doesn’t matter,” Joel piped up. “The whole class thing is kind of stupid. I think the way it’s set up is interesting, but it won’t stop me from having friends from all kinds of walks of life.”

“I. . . yeah. I guess so,” Nickolai mumbled. He doubted Joel would be this positive if he knew of Nickolai’s illegal trades ties, the upper class notoriously hated brokers like him. They also especially hated him in particular.

Being there felt like the most dangerous stunt Nickolai had pulled, and he hadn’t even done it on purpose.

Joel set a ridiculously fancy, yet somehow definitely homemade, grilled cheese sandwich on a plate in front of him.

“Wow,” Nickolai mused. For a moment he wasn’t sure what to say. “This looks like something an expensive ass chef would make.”

“Thanks! I went to the top culinary school in the city, my parents say it was a waste of time.”

“Fuck what your parents say,” Nickolai replied before he took a bite. The sandwich tasted unreal. The last time he had food as good as this was when he posed as an intern for one of the deathmatch organizers.

“I’m glad you like it,” Joel smiled. Nickolai felt unease crawl back into his chest. Joel seemed so genuinely friendly, though a nagging suspicion told Nickolai it could be a lie. Nickolai couldn’t take a risk by being near him for much longer. At the same time, however, he felt captivated. Joel had that charisma that so many of the notorious upper class families seemed to unanimously mirror. He was a golden face among a sea of golden faces, all rotten under their skin. Nickolai knew what they were like.

Even then, Joel seemed to care a lot more than most would let on.

Nickolai took a deep breath. “I have to go home, sorry. I left my meds there, and I probably have people flooding my inbox about work and all that bullshit.”

“That’s alright. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your job?”

“I fix computers,” Nickolai lied. That was Noah’s persona, and a story that should hold up if Joel decided to try and look in to it.

To be polite, he exchanged phone numbers. Nickolai only had his burner phone on him, which was a relief. The calls and texts that flooded Nickolai’s personal phone daily would have definitely been suspicious.

Nickolai liked Joel, but he knew he wouldn’t call him. Nickolai had a hunch that Joel may not be the worst of his kind, but he knew he wouldn’t text him back. It felt harsh to shut Joel out like this, but Nickolai wasn’t going to risk identification simply because he had a good encounter. They waved goodbye, and Joel’s cheery expression was a reminder that Nickolai would have to be silently cruel.

Nickolai didn’t call for a cab, he walked until his hangover began to bother him again. Then he called Alcor—Alcor didn’t have Nickolai’s burner phone address, but he was a safer bet than any cabs in this place.

The phone rang for a while before Alcor picked up.

“Who’s this?”

Nickolai felt relief wash over him to hear a familiar voice. “It’s Nick. Can you come pick me up?”

Alcor’s words were laced with suspicion as he spoke over the phone. “. . . Sure. Where are you?”

Nickolai looked at the street sign. Of course he had to stop on Ivory Street—the richest and most notorious, and also the one Nickolai hated the most for almost no real reason. With a sigh, he said, “Ivory Street.”

“How the fuck did you get there?”

“Drunkenly and against my conscious knowing.”

“Is this going to be dangerous?”

Nickolai groaned. “Not as dangerous as standing in the house that belongs to the man who killed my brother. Now get over here, I don’t think it’d be safe to use public transport in this area.”

There was a silence on the other end, then Alcor replied, “I’m on my way.”

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