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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 months

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When private equity destroys your hospital

I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me TOMORROW in PHOENIX (Changing Hands, Feb 29) then Tucson (Mar 9-10), San Francisco (Mar 13), and more!

As someone who writes a lot of fiction about corporate crime, I naturally end up spending a lot of time being angry about corporate crime. It's pretty goddamned enraging. But the fiction writer in me is especially upset at how cartoonishly evil the perps are – routinely doing things that I couldn't ever get away with putting in a novel.

Beyond a doubt, the most cartoonishly evil characters are the private equity looters. And the most cartoonishly evil private equity looters are the ones who get involved in health care.

(Buckle up.)

Writing for The American Prospect, Maureen Tcacik details a national scandal: the collapse of PE-backed hospital chain Steward Health, a company that bought and looted hospitals up and down the country, starving them of everything from heart valves to prescription paper, ripping off suppliers, doctors and nurses, and callously exposing patients to deadly risk:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-02-27-scenes-from-bat-cave-steward-health-florida/

Steward occupies a very special place in the private equity looting cycle. Private equity companies arrange themselves on a continuum of indiscriminate depravity. At the start of the continuum are PE funds that buy productive and useful firms (everything from hospitals to car-washes) using "leveraged buyouts." That means that they borrow money to buy the company and use the company itself as collateral: it's like you getting a bank-loan to buy your neighbor's mortgage out from under them, and using your neighbor's house as collateral for that loan.

Once the buyout is done, the PE fund pays itself a "special dividend" (stealing money the business needs to survive) and then starts charging the business a "management fee" for the PE fund's expertise. To pay for all this, the PE bosses start to hack away at the company. Quality declines. So do wages. Prices go up. The company changes suppliers, opting for cheaper alternatives, often stiffing the old company. There are mass layoffs. The remaining employees end up doing three peoples' jobs, for lower wages, with fewer materials of lower quality.

Eventually, that top-feeding PE company finds a more desperate, more ham-fisted PE company to unload the business onto. That middle-feeding company also does a leveraged buyout, pays itself another special dividend, cuts wages, staffing and quality even further. They switch to even worse suppliers and stiff the last batch. Prices go up even higher.

Then – you guessed it – the middle-feeding PE company finds an even more awful PE bottom-feeder to unload the company onto. That bottom feeder does it all again, without even pretending to leave the business in condition to do its job. The company is a shambling zombie at this point, often producing literal garbage in place of the products that made its reputation. Employees' paychecks bounce, or don't show up at all. The company stops bothering to pay the lawyers that have been fending off its creditors. Those lawyers sue the company, too.

That's the kind of PE company Steward Health was, and, as the name suggests, Steward Health is in the business of stripping away the very last residue of value from community hospitals. As you might imagine, this gets pretty fucking ugly.

Steward owns 32 hospitals up and down the country, though its holdings are dwindling as the company walks away from its debt-burdened holdings, after years of neglect that have rendered them unfit for use as health facilities – or for any other purpose. Tcacik's piece offers a snapshot of one such hospital: Florida's Rockledge Regional Medical Center, just eight miles from Cape Canaveral.

Rockledge is a disaster. The fifth floor was, at one point, home to 5,000 bats.

Five.

Thousand.

Bats.

(Rockledge stiffed the exterminators.)

The bats were just the beginning. One of the internal sewage pipes ruptured. Whole sections of the hospital were literally full of shit, oozing out of the walls and ceiling, slopping over medical equipment.

That's an urgent situation for any hospital, but for Rockledge, it's catastrophic, because Rockledge is a hospital without any hospital supplies. Steward has stiffed the companies that supply "heart valves, urology lasers, Impella catheters, cardiac catheterization balloons, slings for lifting heavier patients, blood and urine test reagents, and most recently, prescription paper." Key medical equipment has been repossessed. So have the Pepsi machines. The hospital cafeteria had its supply of cold cuts repossessed:

https://www.reddit.com/r/massachusetts/comments/1agc1j4/comment/kolicqo/

It's not just Steward's nonpayments that reek of impending doom. Its payments also bear the hallmarks of a scam artist on the brink of blowing off the con. The company recently paid off a vendor with five separate checks for $1m, each drawn on "a random hospital in Utah" (Steward recently walked away from its Utah hospitals; its partners there are suing it for stealing $18m on their way out the door).

This company – which owns 32 hospitals! – has resorted to gambits like sending photos of fake checks to doctors it hasn't paid in months as "proof" that the money was coming (the checks arrived 22 days later).

Steward owes so much money to its employees – $1.66m to just one doctors' group. But the medical staff keep doing their jobs, and are reluctant to speak on the record, thanks to Steward's reputation for vicious retaliation. Those health workers keep showing up to take care of patients, even as the hospital crumbles around them. One clinician told Tcacik: "I watched a bed collapse underneath a [patient] who had just undergone hip surgery."

Rockledge has nine elevators, but only five of them work – the other four have been broken for a year. The hospital's fourth floor has been converted to "a graveyard of broken beds." The sinks are clogged, or filled with foul gunk. There's black mold. Nurses have noted on the maintenance tags that the repair service refuses to attend the hospital until their overdue bills are paid. The fifteen-person on-site maintenance team was cut to just two workers.

Steward is just the latest looting owner of Rockledge. After the Great Financial Crisis, private equity consultants helped sell it to Health Management Associates. The hospital's CEO took home a $10m bonus for that sale and exited; Health Management Associates then quickly became embroiled in a Medicare fraud and kickback scandal. Soon after, Rockledge was passed on to Community Health Systems, who then sold it on to Rockledge.

Steward, meanwhile, was at that time owned by an even bigger private equity giant, Cerberus, which then sold Steward off. That deal was performatively complex and hid all kinds of mischief. Prior to Cerberus's sell-off of Steward, they sold off Steward's real-estate. The buyer was Medical Properties Trust, who gave Cerberus $1.25b for the real-estate: three hospitals in Florida and three more in Ohio. Steward then contracted to operate these hospitals on MPT's behalf, and pay MPT rent for the real-estate.

This complex arrangement was key to siphoning value out of the hospital and to keeping angry creditors at bay – if you can't figure out who owes you money, it's a lot harder to collect on the debt. The scheme was masterminded by Steward founder/CEO Ralph de la Torre. De la Torre is notorious for taking a massive dividend out of the company while it owed $1.4b to its creditors. He bought a $40m yacht with the money.

De la Torre was once feted as a business genius who would "disrupt" healthcare. But as Steward's private jet hops around "Corfu, Santorini, St. Maarten and Antigua" as its hospitals literally crumble, he's becoming less popular. In Massachusetts, politicians have railed against Steward and de la Torre (Governor Healey wants the company to leave the state "as soon as possible").

Florida, by contrast, is much more friendly to Steward. The state Health and Human Services Committee chair Randy Fine is an ardent admirer of hospital privatization and is currently campaigning to sell off the last community hospital in Brevard County. The state inspectors are likewise remarkably tolerant of Steward's little peccadillos. The quasi-governmental agency that inspects hospitals has awarded this shit-and-bat-filled, elevator-free, understaffed rotting hulk "A" grades for quality.

These inspectors jointly represent a mismatched assortment of private and public agencies, dominated by a nonprofit called Leapfrog, the brainchild of Harvard public-health prof Lucian Leape, who founded it in 2000. Leapfrog likes to tout its "transparent" assessment criteria, and Steward are experts at hitting those criteria, spending the exact minimum to tick every box that Leapfrog inspectors use as proxies for overall quality and safety.

This is a pretty great example of Goodhart's Law: "every measurement eventually becomes a target, whereupon it ceases to be a good measurement":

https://xkcd.com/2899/

But despite Steward's increasingly furious creditors and its decaying facilities, the company remains bullish on its ability to continue operations. Medical Properties Trust – the real estate investment trust that is nominally a separate company from Steward – recently hosted a conference call to reassure Wall Street investors that it would be a going concern. When a Bank of America analyst asked MPT's CFO how this could possibly be, given the facility's dire condition and Steward's degraded state, the CFO blithely assured him that the company would get bailouts: "We own hospitals no one wants to see closed."

That's the thing about PE and health-care. The looters who buy out every health-care facility in a region understand that this makes them too big to fail: no matter how dangerous the companies they drain become, local governments will continue to prop them up. Look at dialysis, a market that's been cornered by private equity rollups. Today, if you need this lifesaving therapy, there's a good chance that every accessible facility is owned by a private equity fund that has fired all its qualified staff and ceased sterilizing its needles. Otherwise healthy people who visit these clinics sometimes die due to operator error. But they chug along, because no dialysis clinics is worse that "dialysis clinics where unqualified sadists sometimes kill you with dirty needles":

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/the-dirty-business-of-clean-blood

The bad news is that private equity has thoroughly colonized the entire medical system. They took hospitals, fired the doctors, then took over the doctors' groups that provided outsource staff to the hospital:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/04/a-mind-forever-voyaging/#prop-bets

It's illegal for private equity companies to own doctors' practices (doctors have to own these), but they obfuscated the crime with a paper-thin pretext that they got away with despite its obvious bullshittery:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/21/profitable-butchers/#looted

The financier who decides whether you live or die depends on an algorithm that literally sets a tolerable level of preventable deaths for the patients trapped in the practice:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/05/any-metric-becomes-a-target/#hca

Private equity also took over emergency rooms and boobytrapped them with "surprise billing" – junk fees that ran to thousands of dollars that you had to pay even if the hospital was in network with your insurer. They made billions from this, and spent a many millions from that booty keeping the scam alive with scare ads:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/21/all-in-it-together/#doctor-patient-unity

The whole health stack is colonized by private equity-backed monopolies. Even your hospital bed!

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/05/hillrom/#baxter-international

Then there's residential care. Private equity cornered many regional markets on nursing homes and turned them into slaughterhouses, places where you go to die, not live:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/23/acceptable-losses/#disposable-olds

The palliative care sector is also captured by private equity. PE bosses hire vast teams of fast-talking salespeople who con vulnerable older people into entering an end-of-life system before they are ready to die. Thanks to loose regulation, the nation is filled with fake hospices that can rake in millions from Medicare while denying all care to their patients (hospice patients don't get life-extending medication or procedures, by definition):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/26/death-panels/#what-the-heck-is-going-on-with-CMS

If you survive this long enough, Medicare eventually tells the hospice that you're clearly not dying and you get kicked off their rolls. Now you have to go through the lengthy bureaucratic nightmare of convincing the system – which was previously informed that you were at death's door – that you are actually viable and need to start getting care again (good luck with that).

If that kills you, guess what? Private equity has rolled up funeral homes up and down the country, and they will scam your survivors just as hard as the medical system that killed you did:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/09/high-cost-of-dying/#memento-mori

The PE sector spent more than a trillion dollars over the past decade buying up healthcare companies, and it has trillions more in "dry powder" allocated for further medical acquisitions. Why not? As the CFO of Medical Properties Trust told that Bank of America analyst last week, when you "own hospitals no one wants to see closed." you literally can't fail, no matter how many people you murder.

The PE sector is a reminder that the crimes people commit for money far outstrip the crimes they commit for ideology. Even the most ideological killers are horrified by the murders their profit-motivated colleagues commit.

Last year, Tkacic wrote about the history of IG Farben, the German company that built Monowitz, a private slave-labor camp up the road from Auschwitz to make the materiel it was gouging Hitler's Wehrmacht on:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/02/plunderers/#farben

Farben bought the cheapest possible slaves from Auschwitz, preferentially sourcing women and children. These slaves were worked to death at a rate that put Auschwitz's wholesale murder in the shade. Farben's slaves died an average of just three months after starting work at Monowitz. The situation was so abominable, so unconscionable, that the SS officers who provided outsource guard-labor to Monowitz actually wrote to Berlin to complain about the cruelty.

The Nuremberg trials are famous for the Nazi officers who insisted that they were "just following order" but were nonetheless executed for their crimes. 24 Farben executives were also tried at Nuremberg, where they offered a very different defense: "We had a fiduciary duty to our shareholders to maximize our profits." 19 of the 24 were acquitted on that basis.

PE is committed to an ideology that is far worse than any form of racial animus or other bias. As a sector, it is committed to profit above all other values. As a result, its brutality knows no bounds, no decency, no compassion. Even the worst crimes we commit for hate are nothing compared to the crimes we commit for greed.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/retaliation#charnel-house

#pluralistic #Rockledge Regional Medical Center #private equity #looting #Steward Health #ponzis #maureen tcacik #Medical Properties Trust #Ralph de la Torre #Massachusetts #florida #Cerberus #too big to fail #pe #guillotine watch

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thedivineart · 1 year

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Confirmation Signs To Determine Your Future Spouse

ꕀ ׅ࣪ ꒰ ✮ ꒱ links : navigation. send love.

pacs. paid services.

one

wishing well, a fountain, throwing coin and wishing in fountain, unexpected meeting, receiving the most special gift from someone, a lost purse/wallet, climbing alone in mountain to reduce stress/ hangout, being alone without feeling lonely, a dog coming towards you, small home in forest, cross roads, being happy in other people relationship, going to building/institutions to fix legal documents, a friends to lovers trope, visioning your past life, a gallantry from someone, aiming financial achievement, lucky money wins, a nest eggs, flames, mutual feelings with someone, being flirt, co-worker, a new friend, ships, a little home/cottage, new house/places, moving to a new place, soulmate connection, meeting perfect person/ ideal lover, seeing lots of abiding love, wedding, wedding rings, hurt/painful feeling, hospital/doctor, unrequited love

⋆ feel free to ask question you didn't understand in this reading

‹𝟹 leave like or re-blog when you love it !

two

changing location whether it is for work or residency, when you heal from the past, starting a new, stork, a invitation for a event, gifts ( receive or give ), helpful advice from someone, receiving lots of good news, a clock/time, your hate and fear towards someone, a handshake, a journey ( travel ), birds, sharing ( partnership), food, restaurant/ fast-food places, notice of correspondence from important bills, writer/ journalist, financial loans/help, being at your lowest point such as feeling trapped/tired/staying at home/unhealthy situation, a friend betrayal, older than you, foreign, lawyer/authority, being attack, an enemy, invitation in weddings or engagements, church, cemetery, thinking negative/ having negative thoughts, a large body of water such as beaches, pools, fountains etc, night, cold weather/winter, locks, fishes, physical union with someone, a mending of broken friendship/ex love, party, clubs

⋆ feel free to ask questions you didn't understand in this reading

‹𝟹 leave like or re-blog when you love it !

three

younger, foreign / leader, bad girl & boy image/personality, unexpected kiss, feeling lonely, a new lover/person, family oriented, lady and moody, soulmates connection, unexpected friendship with someone, horse/sagittarius, a good news coming, an artist/poet, student of arts, athletic body or an athlete, lack of focus in commitment, receive or give gifts, fountains, generous, wears uniform that symbolize their position at work, a friend, co-worker, a peer, taking time to heal the wounds of the past, in park, in forest, walking around and meeting someone new, having time alone, wandering in woods, in the big trees, travel, achievement, lucky breaks, successful moving up ( at work or something), the space, distance, someone is far away, delay, receiving love letters and bouquet of flowers, country side, simple life, money surrounds them, professional person, workaholic and less focus on love, a bank; good at handling finances, provides good advice in finance, a happy family, fire/burning, summer, evening, warm weather country, good judgement, social

⋆ feel free to ask questions you didn't understand in this reading

‹𝟹 leave like 🙵 re-blog when you love it !

four

authority, can be foreign, arrogant, weddings, older, negative emotions, large body of water such as beaches, pool, fountains, lake, pond etc, night, cold weather/winter, a dog, a friend, a church, a purse, money, financially stable/ wealthy, office, jewelry box, a social butterfly, enjoy clubs and socializing, likes to be busy and active, wine, travel, trips via water, clouds, heavy rains, good partner, sensual, good at financial advice, an expensive wedding of a friend, children, financially secure, fixing cars, lily, workaholic, trying their best at difficult situation, lion, a Leo sign, quite, electric, jealous and possessive, like to give great advice, streets of gold

⋆ feel free to ask questions you didn't understand in this reading

‹𝟹 leave like 🙵 re-blog when you love it !

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blueiskewl · 1 month

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European Court Upholds Italy's Right to Seize Greek Bronze from Getty Museum

A European court on Thursday upheld Italy’s right to seize a prized Greek statue from the J. Paul Getty Museum in California, ruling that Italy was justified in trying to reclaim an important part of its cultural heritage and rejecting the museum’s appeal.

The European Court of Human Rights, or ECHR, determined that Italy’s decades-long efforts to recover the “Victorious Youth” statue from the Malibu-based Getty were not disproportionate.

“Victorious Youth,” a life-sized bronze dating from 300 B.C. to 100 B.C., is one of the highlights of the Getty’s collection. Though the artist is unknown, some scholars believe it was made by Lysippos, Alexander the Great’s personal sculptor.

The bronze, which was pulled from the sea in 1964 by Italian fishermen and then exported out of Italy illegally, was purchased by the Getty in 1977 for $4 million and has been on display there ever since.

The Getty had appealed to the European court after Italy’s high Court of Cassation in 2018 upheld a lower court’s confiscation order. The Getty had argued that its rights to the statue, under a European human rights protocol on protection of property, had been violated by Italy’s campaign to get it back.

The court ruled Thursday that no such violation had occurred.

“This is not just a victory for the Italian government. It’s a victory for culture,” said Maurizio Fiorilli, who as an Italian government attorney had spearheaded Italy’s efforts to recover its looted antiquities and, in particular, the Getty bronze.

The Getty has long defended its right to the statue, saying Italy had no legal claim to it.

Among other things, the Getty had argued that the statue is of Greek origin, was found in international waters and was never part of Italy’s cultural heritage. It cited a 1968 Court of Cassation ruling that found no evidence that the statue belonged to Italy.

Italy argued the statue was indeed part of its own cultural heritage, that it was brought to shore by Italians aboard an Italian-flagged ship and was exported illegally, without any customs declarations or payments.

After years of further legal wrangling, an Italian court in Pesaro in 2010 ordered the statue seized and returned, at the height of Italy’s campaign to recover antiquities looted from its territory and sold to museums and private collectors around the globe.

Thursday’s ruling by the Strasbourg, France-based ECHR was a chamber judgment. Both sides now have three months to ask that the case be heard by the court’s Grand Chamber for a final decision. But Thursday’s ruling was unanimous, with no dissenting judges, and the Grand Chamber can refuse to hear the case.

There was no immediate comment from the Getty, and its lawyers referred comment to the museum.

Italian Culture Minister Gennaro Sangiuliano praised Thursday’s decision as an “unequivocal ruling” that recognized the rights of the Italian state and its ownership of the statue.

“Following today’s ruling … the Italian government will restart contacts with U.S. authorities for assistance in the implementation of the confiscation order,” he said.

In a statement, he doubled down on Italy’s campaign to bring its looted treasures home, and noted that recently Italy has ceased cooperation with foreign museums that don’t recognize Italian legal confiscation orders.

Recently, Italy banned any loans to the Minneapolis Institute of Art following a dispute over an ancient marble statue believed to have been looted from Italy almost a half-century ago.

The Getty had appealed to the ECHR by arguing, among other things, that Italy’s 2010 confiscation order constituted a violation of its right to enjoy its possessions and that it would be deprived of that right if U.S. authorities carried out the seizure.

The ECHR however strongly reaffirmed Italy’s right to pursue the protection of its cultural heritage, especially from unlawful exportation.

“The court further held that owing, in particular, to the Getty Trust’s negligence or bad faith in purchasing the statue despite being aware of the claims of the Italian state and their efforts to recover it, the confiscation order had been proportionate to the aim of ensuring the return of an object that was part of Italy’s cultural heritage,” said the summary of the ruling.

It wasn’t immediately clear what would happen next, though Fiorilli said the Getty had exhausted legal remedies and it’s now for U.S. the courts to enforce the Italian confiscation order.

“It’s not about guaranteeing the right to property, it’s about guaranteeing the internationally recognized value of every nation’s right to protect its cultural patrimony,” Fiorilli told The Associated Press over the telephone.

The statue, nicknamed the “Getty Bronze,” is a signature piece for the museum. Standing about 5 feet (1.52 meters) tall, the statue of the young athlete raising his right hand to an olive wreath crown around his head is one of the few life-sized Greek bronzes to have survived.

The bronze is believed to have sunk with the ship that was carrying it to Italy after the Romans conquered Greece. After being found in the nets of Italian fishermen trawling in international waters in 1964, it was allegedly buried in an Italian cabbage patch and hidden in a priest’s bathtub before it was taken out of the country.

Italy has successfully won back thousands of artifacts from museums, collections and private owners around the world that it says were looted or stolen from the country illegally, and recently opened a museum to house them until they can be returned to the regions from where they were looted.

The most important work to date that Italy has successfully brought back is the Euphronios Krater, one of the finest ancient Greek vases in existence. The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, which purchased it for $1 million in 1972 from an art dealer later accused of acquiring looted artifacts, returned it to Italy in 2008.

In 2010, the same year that Italy ordered the “Victorious Youth” statue confiscated from the Getty, a criminal trial ended in Rome against the Getty’s former curator of antiquities, Marion True. After years of trial, the Rome court ruled that the statute of limitations had expired on charges that True received stolen artifacts. She has denied wrongdoing.

In 2007, the Getty, without admitting any wrongdoing, agreed to return 40 ancient treasures in exchange for the long-term loans of other artifacts. Similar deals have been reached with other museums.

Under the 2007 deal, the two sides agreed to postpone further discussion of “Victorious Youth” until the court case was decided.

By Nicole Winfield.

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switchcase · 5 months

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✨ You Are American, Poor, and Have Some Sort of Health Problem ✨

This is not intended to say these things are easy to obtain or will be obtainable in every single circumstance. But especially for new adults, people who just started having health problems, people who have recently fallen on hard times, you may see things that you didn't know about.

Ethics:

Brush up on your patient rights. Knowing your rights and options is important.

Every hospital has a patient rights advocate.

There are typically state-wide patient rights and disability rights organizations.

There are state and federal boards that practitioners are licensed in. Reporting a practitioner to the board does NOT require a lawyer or court money. You are just reporting them/their behavior for the board(s) to investigate.

Cost:

Medicaid is a government program based on income, not disability. You can enroll during Open Enrollment at the end of the year or in special circumstances. This is the most commonly known one.

State, county, or city health insurance programs. Likely not available in very rural areas, but sometimes is. There is often a program for individuals who are low income but ineligible for Medicaid--each program has different names. Calling 2-1-1 or searching "state/county/city low income health insurance" will bring it up.

Hospital Charity Care. Charity Care are laws that exist in states that says people under a certain income level can have their medical costs/debts waived. The exact specifics will depend on the state. Hospitals try to hide this info on their website so if you can't find it best to ask directly for a charity care application and about eligibility with the billing dept or patient rights advocate.

Community clinics and teaching institutions generally offer very low cost care, and community clinics in particular will let you know about programs you may be eligible for.

There may be prescription cost help programs in your area.

Vocational Rehabilitation is a government program that exists in every state. Their goal is to get you functioning well enough to work or go to school. Which means they will pay for: doctors appts including diagnostic tests, disability aids, training, school costs, etc. You will not owe them if you end up unable to work/go to school.

You can write off medical costs and medically necessary items on your taxes. You can also get your taxes done for free if you're low income. Just let them know the costs if you aren't doing it yourself. This includes accessible home renovations, disability aids, regular appointment costs.

Search for bill help in your area or call 2-1-1 again. Much of the time, there will be charity organizations that assist with all sorts of bills. Most of them will be churches.

If you have a condition that is generally costly, you probably know this but if you don't, search "[condition] charity". Sometimes there are orgs that exist specifically to help fund care for that condition, eg the various MS orgs.

IF YOU ARE APPLYING FOR SSI/SSDI: be very aware that amounts you fundraise may be counted as your income/assets unless you SPECIFICALLY tell them that you're getting it as charity/on loan! If you are currently on SSI, fundraising from your personal acct does in fact affect your eligibility to stay on SSI. Be careful.

Logistics:

For transportation: sometimes, not always, there are local programs for getting you to/from doctors appointments. This can be helpful if public transport is not accessible to you.

Disability lawyers do not cost you money up front, they take the money from your backpay IF you win your case.

#cripplepunk #cripple punk #disability #actuallydisabled #.log #If you've been disabled for a while this is probably a very 'yeah yeah I know' type post but y'know #Feel free to add on but for the love of god can people Not jump up my ass talking about how they can't do xyz #That sucks. Truly it sucks. That doesn't make this information unnecessary to mention

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 3 months

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The Plan [Marcus Pike x f!reader]

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: The Mentalist

Pairing: Marcus Pike x you/cishet f!reader. Reader is fat/overweight but this is never explicitly mentioned. Also, reader is a lawyer. (I know nothing about lawyering.)

Tags/Warnings: Sad Marcus, alcohol mention, one night stands, fellatio mention, neighbours with benefits, safe sex, squirting, cunnilingus, reader has a difficult relationship with her family, mad dash through the airport at Christmas, trauma dumping (Marcus coming clean about his disappointment after Lisbon dumped him).

Summary: A drunken one night stand with your cute new neighbour Marcus Pike eventually leads to more. Takes place after his story arc in the show.

Words: 7,895

A/N: My first Marcus Pike fic, and also I finished a goddamn fic! There is so much cause for celebration here, folks. Remember to comment and reblog: sharing is caring.

Shout-out to @missredherring and @pazizz who read drafts and helped me forward with this story <3

Marcus Pike does not have a bitter disposition. He does not sulk, or harbor resentment. It's just not in his nature.

Until now.

There is just something so unforgivable, incomprehensible, wrong about the way Teresa Lisbon left him. She called him to say she was coming to D.C., that she would marry him, and two hours later she called again to inform him that she wasn't. That she was in love with Patrick Jane. That asshole.

Marcus has been divorced, and not even that made him spiral as hard as the breakup from Teresa. It just hit harder, because he had fallen so hard for her, for the way she dipped her gaze and chin when a smile broke out on her lips, before looking back up at him with those pretty eyes of hers. He fell for her sense of humor, her intelligence, the way it was so easy to be with her. And he really thought that she fell for him in the same way. Maybe she did - but Jane was there, in the background, confusing her, wooing her with one last big, desperate gesture. If Marcus had known that all it took to keep Teresa was to get himself arrested, he would've done that instead of bringing her takeout at work, making her morning coffee just as she liked it, loaning her his jacket when she was cold during that date, all the thousands of little things that he did for her, that he loved doing for her because he loved her so much that doing those things weren't a chore, they weren't planned, they were an honest, spontaneous expression of his feelings for her.

And then, one big, desperate gesture that rendered Marcus's all small, everyday gestures moot. And it pisses him off.

Practicality kicked in as a form of survival. He quickly cancelled the purchase of the house he had Teresa had picked out, found a condo instead, moved in with his things, and threw himself into his work. Most of the boxes were left unpacked. His place didn't feel like a home because he couldn't let it. He was supposed to share one with Teresa, and now there was just him, surrounded by moving boxes that he had to deal with but couldn't, wouldn't. What should've been a house for the two of them - maybe more in the future? - with a little garden, walls impregnated with love and excitement for a life together, sunlight through the window during long weekend mornings of slow breakfasts, putting up Christmas decorations together, all those things that he was looking forward to. Now he has a bachelor pad, in a fancy apartment building with a doorman, but a sad bachelor pad all the same. The furniture is more or less where it should be, but he hasn't bothered to plan that much. The kitchen table is too big, but he's not in any condition to sell it off and buy a new one. The bookcases are half full, and his artwork is still unhung. He really tried there, but the first painting he got his hands on was one that he had seen before him in the spacious yet cozy living-room in That House, with the fireplace, and suddenly no wall in his apartment was good enough. So he put the painting away, and the rest were left packed down.

He even started going out after work, when he couldn't stay any longer but didn't want to go home. He found a watering hole to his liking, and became a regular, nursing one whiskey after another until he could go home and fall into bed for a deep, dreamless sleep.

It's after one of those nights that he finds you, his neighbor, trying to open his front door with your key. Your clumsy yet meticulous movements tell him that you're intoxicated, and there is something endearing about the way you're frowning, the tip of your tongue sticking out the side of your mouth as you focus on sticking in the key that doesn't fit.

When Marcus comes closer, you notice him, and look up. Quickly registering that it's the workaholic neighbor that you rarely see, you just nod, and go back to trying to open the door.

"That's my door," he says, and you look up again.

"What's that?"

"That's my door. You're trying to get into my apartment."

You frown, your hand holding the key falling to your side as you process his words. You then squint at the number of the door, taking a few seconds to realize that this is, indeed, not your front door.

"Oops," you mutter, then grimace apologetically at your neighbor. "Well, this isn't embarrassing at all."

"Don't worry about it," he shrugs, fishing his own key from his pocket. You step to the side to give him access to the door, and when he stands right next to you, you can smell his cologne, sophisticated and with a hint of bergamot.

He eyes you, just as drunk as you are.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Late night. You?"

"Same." He looks so tired when he says it, but you can tell that there is a dimple aching to appear in his cheek. His face, bleary though it is, is handsome, and looks like it was made for smiling.

"What is it you do again?" you ask. You've exchanged pleasantries with him when he first moved in, but you never had the time or mental capacity to actually remember who he is.

"FBI, I investigate art theft."

"Ah, right." Yeah, that's it, something so unusual and random that one couldn't make it up. Then again, D.C. is full of people who do stuff you only hear about in movies.

"Marcus," he offers his hand, and you take it, and give him your name.

"And what is it that you do?"

"Law. I work with government contracts and related investigations at a law firm here in D.C."

"Sounds complicated."

You shrug. "I'm smart enough."

"You look good, too."

You scoff. "Are you coming on to me?"

"I'm trying." Now the smile breaks through, lighting up his whole face. Gods, but he's cute.

"Okay." You make the decision quickly, nodding at his door. "Looks like I picked the right door, after all."

Marcus unlocks the door and opens it for you.

His head is pounding, and his mouth is dry when he wakes up. For a moment, he doesn't know what day it is, what he's supposed to do, or what happened last night, but then the flashbacks start to put things together. The flirty neighbor. Her naked skin. Her alcohol-fuming kisses.

He turns his head and sees you, still asleep next to him. Oh, okay.

Sitting up slowly, he gets his bearings before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Clothes are strewn over the floor. Right next to the bed is a used condom, tied up and looking sad and abandoned. Okay, good, at least he remembered to use protection. He picks it up and takes it to the bathroom, where he disposes of it before washing his hands and face.

He hears the rustle of bedsheets, and returns to the bedroom, realizing that he's naked. You might not want to be greeted by a naked stranger first thing. Looking around for his underwear, he's nevertheless too slow in finding them: you're already sitting up and rubbing your forehead.

He clears his throat. "Good morning."

Your smile is a little lopsided. "Morning."

"You want breakfast?" Marcus immediately offers, wanting to do the gentlemanly thing before he sends you off so that he can take about ten aspirins, and go to work. "And I'll put out a clean towel for you so that you can use the shower."

"Appreciate it, but I live right next door," you point out as you get out of bed. You're as naked as he is, and Marcus tries very hard not to ogle your body for what he suspects will be the last time.

"I don't mind."

"Thanks, but I have to get to work." You pick up and put on your panties, bra, skirt, shirt. Marcus spots his boxer briefs, and pulls them on.

"Okay, well... I had a good time."

"I did too."

Now you're standing right in front of him, buttoning up your silk shirt. Even with your makeup smudged out, and terrible morning breath, you look really nice.

"I gotta ask you something, though, because my memory is a little... hazy." Your cheekbones seem to glow, and he realizes that you're blushing.

"Yeah?"

"I sucked your dick, didn't I?"

Marcus feels the heat rise to his ears. "Um... well... yes, you did."

"Well?"

"What?"

"Did I do it well?"

"I think so."

You grin at him. "You don't remember much either, do you?"

"It was all consensual, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that." You surprise him by placing your hand on his naked chest. His heart skips a beat, and he hopes that you won't notice.

"I really have to go, but maybe I'll see you again soon?" you ask softly, and Marcus finds himself relaxing.

"I'd like that."

You even kiss him good-bye, a quick, closed-mouth peck to keep morning breaths from mixing, before you grab your shoes, your purse (muttering under your breath about several emails, and two missed calls), and head over next door.

Marcus, still only wearing his underwear, looks thoughtfully at the closed door for a long while before going into the kitchen with the too big table to make coffee.

Work occupies most of your waking hours, six days a week, often seven. You don't see Marcus again for weeks, don't hear any sounds from his apartment during the hours you're home and awake. Barely having time to think about him, your thoughts nevertheless stray to him when you're standing in the shower or going to bed at night. You haven't been able to fit a boyfriend into your life in a long time, and casual hook-ups have rarely left you satisfied, but even with your hazy memories of the night with Marcus, you left his apartment that morning with a feeling that it was good. So that's where your thoughts go when you touch yourself, the few times you have the energy to do so.

One Friday night, after a long but satisfying week that ended with a contract being accepted as it was, which meant you could have a weekend with only a couple of hours of work from home, you're hurrying home with Chinese takeout in a bag. Looking forward to a quiet night in front of the TV, with an early morning at the gym the following day, you run into Marcus on your way into your apartment building.

"Hi," you smile, immediately noticing how he seems to square his shoulders when he sees you. "Going out?"

"Yeah," he nods, moving his weight from one foot to the other as he takes in your food bag. "And you're staying in?"

"Finally, a Friday night without work," you acknowledge. Marcus's smile lets you know that he knows about that all too well.

"Enjoy."

"You too, you going somewhere nice?"

"No, I mean... I'm just going by myself."

There is something so despondent about the way he averts his eyes when confessing to going out alone. You're not in a position to start saving people, but you see an opening here.

"Join me for dinner instead, Marcus."

"I don't want to bother you."

"It's no bother," you shake your head, now moving towards the elevator while beckoning him to follow you. "Come on, before the food gets cold. There's enough here for two, I always buy extra."

He hesitates for only a split second, you can see it in how his body seems to pull him away, out to some sad bar with too much to drink. Instead, he nods, smiles softly, and follows you. He insists on bringing a bottle of wine from his place, and you accept.

You find out more about him that night, as you share your takeout with him, and he shares his wine. He tells you of heartache, only summarily, clearly not wanting you to feel sorry for him, but you can tell that he's been torn up about the "amicable" break-up. He also mentions that he's been married, and you wonder what's wrong with him. He seems perfectly nice and normal, why hasn't he been able to keep a woman? To his credit, he never complains about nice guys finishing last, only states that maybe he's meant to focus on his career.

"There's a lot to be said about having a good career," you agree. Marcus sips his wine with a small smile.

"Work doesn't break your heart."

"That, too."

"I take it you don't have a partner who'll suddenly come home to find me in his kitchen?" he jokes lightly, but you recognize the question for what it is: he wants to know if you're Seeing Anyone.

"Not one for relationships," you shrug.

"You don't long for anyone to snuggle up with in front of the TV on a Friday night?"

"I don't have time. And they never seem to understand that. Or they're working, too." You pick at the scraps in your takeout box with the chopsticks. "And I seem to attract douchebags. Dunno if it comes with the field in which I work. I always seem to go out with terrible lawyer guys."

Marcus chuckles. "Their loss."

"I miss having sex, though." You look him in the eye, and his tongue slides over his lower lip, catching some runaway sauce.

"Yeah?"

You nod, and feel your cheeks heat up. You're a no-nonsense person, but not always this forward with men. But it's easy with Marcus. He takes it all in stride, doesn't seem to think you're aggressive, or slutty, he just smiles and tells you that he misses sex too.

"But what we had was okay, though?" he adds. "Even if neither one of us seems to remember it that well."

"It was," you agree, raising the glass to your lips and draining the rest of the wine. After putting it back down, you tilt your head and bite your lower lip.

"You wanna do it again? Now that we're sober and all?"

"I'm a little tipsy," he warns you with a chuckle, "But I'm in."

Both of you get up at the same time, chairs scraping the floor simultaneously in the kitchen that mirrors his own but has a table that fits it. All of your apartment just fits in a way his half-assed dwelling doesn't. He realizes that it's because your apartment is a home, decorated and lived-in, warm colors and fabrics, Scandinavian wallpapers in bold but tasteful patterns that he himself would never consider but that feel right here.

You step up to him, snugly fitting yourself to his frame, and place your hands on his narrow hips as you kiss him. The two glasses of wine that you've had have laid a warm, cozy blanket over your busy mind, and now you're fully focused on Marcus, whose soft, plump lips are meeting yours as his arms go around your waist.

You make your way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes as you kiss and get undressed, get undressed and kiss. The bed in unmade, you just threw the covers to the side when you got up this morning. Wearing only your underwear, you lay down, pull Marcus over you, rake your fingers through his hair, moan when he palms your plump tits through the bra.

"Tell me what you like," he asks you hoarsely. You hum when he scatters kisses along the lace trim of your bra.

"That's a good start."

He hums back as he pops your tits out of your bra and lick around the nipples.

"Go on," he asks, and a shiver runs down your spine at the low barytone of his voice. You reach around to unhook your bra, and Marcus takes it off you and flings it to the side before burying his face between your breasts.

"You eat pussy?" you ask him breathlessly, and he looks up at you.

"Of course."

"Not everybody does," you wink, and he shakes his head.

"Their loss."

He's in a hurry, you note, but it's endearing in an unexpected way. When he pulls down your panties and gets settled, your legs over his shoulders, you remember to give him a warning.

"I, uh, I don't orgasm from oral, just so you know."

"Really?" His breath is hot against your folds, but he's looking up at you with attentive eyes.

"Yeah. It's not a comment on your skills, I just need you to know it," you shrug, accustomed to always having to tread carefully around the matter. Too many men get offended or take it as a challenge.

"Thanks for telling me," Marcus smiles in a way that's way too innocent and adorable for a man who's got his face inches away from your pussy. "But do you really want me to...?"

"Oh God, yes!" you reassure him. "I enjoy it a lot, and it gets me wet. I just can't cum, I need vaginal stimulation for that."

"You got it," he pats your thigh lightly before his tongue connects with your folds, and your eyes fall shut as you hand yourself over to the pleasure, to Marcus's deftly dancing tongue. He's good, he's attentive and eager, yet you don't get the feeling that he's trying to prove you wrong, to make you orgasm. Lord knows men have tries that in the past, and it's just stressful. No, he just seems to enjoy your moans, the way you writhe and grab his hands, the twitches of your pelvis when he does something extraordinary.

"Goddddd, Marcus, that's so fucking good..." you wail when he alternates between sucking your clit and licking it with a quick tongue. He's getting louder, sloppier, and you know you're dripping. Your clit is throbbing, and you know this is the perfect time to speed things up. You push him away, your thighs closing around his head, and Marcus retreats, chin glistening as he licks his lips.

"You okay?" he wants to know. You nod, breathless and with a pounding heart.

"Need to fuck you."

He scrambles up for a deep kiss, wet and lewd, before you push him over to get a condom from your nightstand. He drapes himself over you as you stretch across the bed, and peppers your back with kisses, like he's unable to stay away from you. You roll around, finding yourself caged between his strong arms, and you pull him down for more kissing with lips swollen and dry but still wanting more.

"How do you want me?" he gasps between the kisses as you pull down his underwear and paw at his small butt.

"Can I be on top?"

He rolls over onto his back immediately, watching you with open-mouth excitement when you remove his shorts and put on the rubber. When you finally sink down on his length, his fingers dig into your thighs as his breath hitches.

"Oh, that feels good..."

"Uh-huh," you sigh, staying still for a moment to adjust to his cock inside of you. You smile inwardly as you find yourself thinking about just how perfectly sized it is: thick but not too long.

"What?"

Your eyes open to find Marcus grinning at you.

"What what?" you grin back. He caresses your hips slowly.

"You looked like you had something to say."

"I was just thinking about what a perfect, gorgeous dick you have."

His cheeks turn pink. "Thank you. It came with the body."

You chuckle and start a slow grind, hips moving lazily back and forth as you seek out the right spots, the right rhythm. Finding it, you plant your hands on Marcus's chest and let out a low moan as you go slightly faster.

"That right for you?" he huffs, sitting up to catch a nipple in his mouth.

"Mmmfuckyes..."

You drop your hand to where your bodies meet, fingers seeking out your clit. Pleasure zaps through your body when you rub it, and you clench tightly around Marcus, causing him to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, both of you groaning.

"So good," he gripes, soothing the sting of his fingertips by rubbing his palms over the affected areas before he moves his fingers to your front. "Need a hand?"

"'m good," you gasp, your free arm slinging around his neck. You clench around him again, and Marcus's hips jut upwards, slamming into you with a force that makes you choke.

"Fuck! God, Marcus, that was..."

"Can we try something?" he pants, pulling you in for a kiss. "Please?"

"Okay?" you frown, a little frustrated at being interrupted, but Marcus gestures for you to rise, so you do as he asks, and let him pull you down with him.

"Get on top of me again, but lie down," he instructs you. You must look doubtful because he immediately adds:

"Just try it, if you don't like it, we can go back to what you were doing."

"I'll try anything once," you shrug, and get on top of him again, this time with your back turned to him. Marcus pulls you down, positioning you on top of him, legs spread, his own legs on the outside of yours. You hesitate for a second, the reality of your weight sometimes haunting your mind, but Marcus insists.

"Just come here, baby," he tells you softly, so you let him take your weight. One of his arms sneaks up the side of your ribcage to cup a breast. With the other, he guides himself into you, pushing himself in with an upward thrust of his hips. You choke on your breath and let your head hang back on his shoulder, one arm seeking a position to support you, the other coming around Marcus's neck when he presses a toothy kiss to your neck. He thrusts into you again, fingers playing with your nipple, and then his other hand comes to rub your clit.

You keen at the sudden intensity, back arching on top of him, and he plants his feet more firmly on the mattress.

"Fuck," you gasp, "that's good, Marcus, this is good..."

He sucks a kiss to your neck, his teeth stinging just a little, and your legs kick in search of a hold so that you can stay just above him. He slips out, and you whimper.

"Relax," he soothes you, thumb abandoning your clit to instead guide himself back into you. "Put your weight on me, I can take it."

You follow his instructions, back sinking down onto his chest and stomach, pelvis angling slightly to help him stay inside you. His fingers return to tease your clit, and your head falls back onto his shoulder as he settles into a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

"That's it," he praises you, his breath hot against your ear. "Just like that, take it, just enjoy it, let me take care of you."

The slow drag of his cock against your slick walls is maddening in how it pushes at your spot but leaves you wanting more. You buck your hips down eagerly.

"Faster, please, Marcus."

He obeys immediately, moaning at how you immediately clench around him. Your fingers thread through his hair, the other hand fists into the sheets. The pressure on that one spot inside you is growing in intensity, insanely, perfectly, knocking your breath out with each jab of Marcus's cock against it. Your moans become whimpers, a moan too complex a sound for you at this point, when you are so close, so utterly close to the climax that you now need as much as you need air -

The release floods your body and your cunt, and for a split second you're horrified at the wet feeling on your thighs, the rippling sound, until you realize that you squirted. A half moan, half giggle escapes you as you press your thighs together as if to lock in the orgasm that pulsates through your cunt and lower belly. Marcus gasps an excited Fuck, yes before bucking up a couple of errant times, and then relaxing down. He kisses your temple, drags his soaked fingers up over your soft belly, making you squirm.

"Sorry," he murmurs throatily. You murmur something back and slide down next to him. Everything between your legs seems wet and now cold, but you're still prickling all over with excitement.

Marcus heaves a deep sigh before turning his face to you. "That was so hot."

"I didn't know I could do that with a man."

"You haven't before?"

You shake your head. Marcus smiles softly.

"I'm honored. Was it good?"

"Yeah. How about you?"

"So fucking good."

You smile back at him before turning your face back towards the ceiling, and taking a deep breath that you sigh out audibly. Your body relaxes quickly, a muscle in your lower back mutters about the position you just were in, but you feel extremely good, and wrung out in a fantastic way. In the corner of your eye, you catch Marcus taking the condom off, before getting up to take it to the trash. When he returns, he looks around, looking for his clothes. You roll over onto your side.

"You don't have to leave, you know," you tell him quietly. Marcus stops, boxers in hand.

"Yeah?"

"I mean... don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for a relationship," you hurry to assure him. "But I wouldn't mind you staying over. Unless you have plans?"

"I don't."

He drops the boxers, and slides back into bed, next to you. You smile a little wryly.

"The sheets are wet. I'll change them, feel free to grab a shower.

"Soon," Marcus tells you, low voice heavy with a calm confidence. "I suggest we wet them a little more first."

Your deal with Marcus is simple and beautiful: sex, with or without staying the night. The occasional take-out dinner. Quickies when you run into each other in the corridor outside your front doors, with ten minutes to spare. It's undemanding, friendly, mutually satisfying. Uncomplicated, with no romantic feelings involved, so nobody can get hurt.

Marcus is an active lover who smoothly takes charge. Not bossy, but firm and empathic, and not afraid of using aids of different kinds to raise your orgasms to the next level. He's not opposed to fucking you fully clothed in the morning and leaving you wanting as you go to work with his cold cum in your panties, shot there after he removed the rubber after fucking you.

It is, in short, the perfect set-up.

Fall passes by, and you see yourself forced to fly out to see your family over Thanksgiving. You spend as much time as you can working in your childhood room, however. Your parents do not understand your choice of profession, your mother does not see how a woman of your age has chosen to be childless. Your older brother knocked his girlfriend up at sixteen, your younger sister was married at eighteen and divorced at twenty-eight. You love them, but you don't have a lot in common with them, and even if your siblings at least pretend to understand your life choices, their contempt steeped in jealousy of your life shines through at times. Your parents choose to simply ignore the life you have built for yourself in D.C., talking instead about Mrs. McCall next door, Annie down the street, Cybil in town, Kearney at the gas station, as if you knew any of them or cared about what they said about Kayleigh's twins.

You endure for two nights, and text Marcus from the airport, before boarding: I'll be home after nine tonight. You free?

He replies almost immediately: I'll pick you up at the airport.

You text him the flight number before turning off your phone, settling for a three-hour nap in lieu of working.

When you finally land, puffy-faced but breathing freely now that you're back in the city you call home, Marcus is waiting for you in arrivals. The way his smile lights up his eyes when he sees you makes your heart miss a beat. There is something there that's beyond what the two of you have, something much more sincere.

You shake it off and smile back as you walk up to him. He leans forward, like he's about to kiss you, but ends up giving you an awkward half-hug.

"Welcome home."

"Thanks. And thank you for picking me up."

"My pleasure."

The two of you turn and start walking towards the exit. Marcus offers to take your carry-on wheelie bag, but you decline, accustomed as you are to carrying your own luggage yourself.

In the car, he asks you how your Thanksgiving was.

"As holidays at my parents' usually are. One night would've been enough."

"That bad, huh?"

"Yeah. It's just..." You rub your forehead. "Whenever I visit, I feel trapped. Everything back home is... small. People are kind, yes, but they're small-minded. The town is small. The spaces in which to move, physically and mentally, are small. And I feel like some kind of big city snob who comes to visit twice a year, scoffs at their very ordinary and, as far as I know, happy lives, and then flies back to my vegan frappuccinos and twenty-four-hour sushi restaurants."

Marcus chuckles low. "I think I know what you mean. But it's hard for me to imagine that you'd be a snob about anything."

"I probably am. But I... I don't know, I outgrew that town when I was fifteen. Couldn't get out fast enough. And I don't like going back."

"Does your family support your choices?"

You shrug. "Yes and no. Mom and dad are proud, I guess, but at the same time they don't have any idea what it is that I do. 'If you wanted to be a lawyer, couldn't you be one here? Where it's not as stressful and you could start a family, and work normal hours?' As if I could practice the law I'm interested in over there."

"What's the most common type of lawyer in your hometown?"

"General practitioners who do a little bit of everything, wills mostly. And there are three, I think."

"Wow."

"Exactly."

The conversation turns to other subjects as Marcus drives the two of you to your apartment building. As he parks in his spot in the underground garage, you place your hand onto his thigh. He turns off the engine and looks at you.

"Thanks for picking me up," you tell him quietly. His hand comes to rest on top of yours.

"No problem."

"You have any plans for tonight?"

He shakes his head, then leans forward over the middle console as you reach across the same for a kiss. His fingers thread into your hair before closing around the back of your head to bring you in, and you sigh softly against his lips as you feel the rest of the pressure from your Thanksgiving visit melt away. If the town you grew up in felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable, D.C. and Marcus feel like home. And there's nothing you want to do more now than be with Marcus in this city.

You break the kiss and lower your gaze to his fly, where your fingers are already working on unzipping him. Marcus exhales in an audible sigh.

"You missed me that much?"

"Don't get any ideas," you warn him before bowing down over his lap.

Later, when you are freshly showered, and lying awake in Marcus's bed with him deeply asleep next to you, you wonder when his presence at night became such a comfort for you.

Marcus visits his parents over Christmas. You manage to convince yours that you're way too busy and the holidays too short for you to fly out. Settling in for a couple of days off work, you plan to go to the gym, meet friends, and maybe finally get through that book you started three months ago. You plan for simple yet delicious meals and come home with bags full of groceries and bottles of wine that you balance in your arms as you're digging for the keys in your pocket.

"Lemme get that."

Marcus appears by your side, taking a grocery bag from you.

"Thanks."

You manage to let yourself in, and Marcus follows you to the kitchen, where he leaves the bag on the table.

"Hi," he smiles. There is something so endearing about this man, his smile lights up the whole room, you can't possibly keep from smiling back at him.

"Hi. I thought you already left for the airport?"

"Just on my way now. Glad I caught you."

"Oh?" You unbutton your coat, unwrap the scarf from around your neck. "What's up?"

"Just... I wanted to see you before I left. Wish you happy holidays."

"Right." You take off your coat and leave it over the back of a kitchen chair. "Well... happy holidays, Marcus. I hope you have a nice weekend with your parents."

"Thanks." He clears his throat, looks down and scratches the back of his head. "Do you have any plans for New Year’s Eve?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do you maybe... want to do something?"

"Sure," you nod, a warmth spreading in your belly. "Like, dinner?"

"I was thinking Hirschhorn? You said you were curious about their special exhibit. Then dinner, and maybe a movie, if you're not opposed to spending so much time with me at once?"

You feel your cheeks heat up a little. "I don't mind at all. That sounds lovely."

His smile widens, his warm eyes glitter. "Great. I'll get back to you as soon as I return."

He kisses your cheek before leaving, his hand resting momentarily on your arm. When he closes the door behind him, the apartment feels empty.

That emptiness stays with you over the holidays. You're enjoying the time off, yes, and downright cherish not having to spend time with your family. You were looking forward to Christmas eve drinks with a couple of friends but are disappointed when they only talk about holiday preparations, gift shopping, and visiting in-laws. The detachment makes you annoyed. It's not that you want that kind of life, you don't want kids and a house and Thanksgiving dinners and all of that. But there doesn't seem to be any alternatives. You get the feeling that they feel sorry for you, that they think you should look up from your laptop once in a while, go dating, settle down, maybe work less.

Always work less. You love your job so much, maybe you won’t forever, but right now you do, and it doesn’t feel taxing when it gives you the gratification it does.

You grab a cab home, earlier than you thought and morose for not getting the carefree night you had planned for. Maybe it's your own fault for thinking that people with families wouldn't have changed.

You weigh your phone in your hand for a couple of blocks before texting Marcus.

Hope you're having a better time than I am. Just getting home after drinks, and realized I have nothing in common with my friends anymore :/

You regret the text as soon as you've sent it. It sounds whiny, and you know that you're being unfair to your friends. But Marcus replies almost immediately:

Sorry to hear that. Wish I was there to make you feel better.

You smile, and your heart skips a beat. He always knows what to say.

It is what it is. Early night for me.

He replies with a Santa emoji that makes you chuckle.

Too old for Santa, you type back. Or too naughty. Either way, he's not coming.

Only man who should come in your apartment is me ;)

You stare at the message, cheeks heating as you lick your lips. Your brain scrambles for an answer to match his tone.

I'll be the judge of that, mister. If you're away for too long, I might get lonely.

The reply comes almost immediately.

I'll be back before you know it.

Your heart is fluttering like a butterfly inside your ribcage, and you react with a thumb up to the last message. For the rest of the cab ride, you're chewing on your lower lip while looking out the window, decorated windows racing past you as the cab driver navigates towards your apartment building.

You fall asleep in front of the TV and are awakened by a text.

You up?

You rub your eyes, realize that you're still wearing makeup, and curse low.

It's two am.

Marcus's name immediately lights up on the phone, and you answer the call.

"What's up?"

"Sorry to wake you."

"That's fine, I was on the couch. Gotta schlep my ass to bed," you yawn as you turn off the TV, and stand up, scratching your head.

"I'm outside."

"What?"

"I'm outside your door."

You frown, trying to understand what he's saying. "What are you doing there?"

"Just open?"

Call still active and phone held to your ear, you walk over to the front door, and unlock it. And there Marcus is, holding his phone but lowering his hand and ending the call while smiling wryly at you.

"Hi."

"What... why aren't you at your parents'?" you stutter, still holding the phone like you're talking to him through it.

"Because I can't do this at my parents'." He steps up to you, cups your cheek, and brings his lips to yours. His face is cold, so you understand that he has just arrived from the airport. Your sleep-riddled brain still doesn't understand, and Marcus breaks the kiss, breathing softly against your lips before drawing back.

"Did I... fuck this up now?"

You lick your lips and realize that you're feeling calm and steady in a way you no longer do when he's not around. You grab him by the jacket lapel and pull him in through the door.

"No," you reply, a shiver running through you when he puts his arms around you. "No, you did just the right thing."

You don't use your tub as often as you would like to, yet it was one of the main reasons why you bought your apartment. It's spacious, has gorgeous vintage style brass faucets, and is placed by the window, from which you can see the park, now wearing a white winter coat of snow, on the other side of the street. The shower booth is at the back wall of the bathroom and your busy lifestyle has you favoring quick showers instead of long, luxurious baths.

Now, however, you're stretched out languidly in Marcus's arms, the back of your head on his shoulder, his hairy thighs pressing up against you on either side. The water is hot and scented with oils, and if the orgasms you had before getting out of bed hadn't relaxed you, this would definitely take away the last vestiges of stress knotting your muscles.

"This is a really nice tub," Marcus mumbles into your ear, his hand running up the inside of your arm, resting on the edge of the tub. "Wish I had one."

"You're welcome to use mine," you smile, just as his hand disappears into the water, finding your breast and cupping it, thumb lazily stroking the nipple.

"I like your apartment better anyway," he admits. "Mine doesn't feel like a home."

"That's just because you haven't unpacked."

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. "Been busy."

"Doesn't help much that you're fucking me every time you're off work."

“One could even say it’s your fault I haven’t unpacked,” he muses, lips touching your temple. You shake your head, hand finding his and leading it away from your breast.

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to pin this on me.” There is no vehemence in your voice, and even if Marcus can’t see your face, he can plainly hear the smile threatening to break out.

“I had to try.”

You bring your hand back to your chest, and sigh when his fingers brush over your nipple. It would be so easy to just let things slide, enjoy his hands, his mouth, his cock that’s resting softly against your lower back… But your interest is piqued.

“Why haven’t you unpacked, Marcus?” you ask quietly. “I’ve seen that you have painting just waiting to be hung on the walls and given how much you like to criticize my dentist’s office artwork from Ikea, I can’t imagine why you haven’t done more to decorate your apartment.”

His hand stills, and you feel him swallow. He clears his throat, sighs, clearly stalling, but you don’t show mercy. You want to know.

“I guess… I thought I’d be making a home with someone. And when that didn’t happen, I didn’t like the idea anymore.”

You braid your fingers with his, the water gently rippling with your movement.

“Your ex?”

“Yeah. Teresa.”

“What happened?” He’s mentioned some tragic breakup but never specified, and you’ve never asked. Now, however, you’re asking. You want this puzzle piece to fit right, want to know everything there is to know about Marcus Pike.

“I don’t want to burden you with that…”

“I want to know, Marcus.”

He hesitates, but eventually tells you how his ex, a smart, beautiful woman that he fell head over heels for and eventually proposed to, accepted his proposal over the phone but called again thirty minutes later to tell him that she was leaving him for a coworker. Marcus had been transferred to D.C., had asked Teresa to come with, had a plan for a life together, and she turned out to be in love with a coworker: a charming, unreliable man who worked out an elaborate scheme to make her choose him instead of Marcus.

You’re shocked to silence when he stops talking, an array of emotions simmering inside you. When Marcus speaks your name, the first one to burst is anger.

“What a cunt!”

Marcus sputters your name, but you don’t feel bad.

“You know I’m right!”

“No need for language like that,” he protests, but you can sense a change in him. It’s like something’s loosened in him. Even if you can’t see his face in this position, you can feel it in how his body feels against yours.

“I’m sorry, but that behavior is despicable. And from what you’ve told me about that asshole that she went with because of you, I’d say they deserve each other.”

He shrugs. “Or maybe I was too pushy. We didn’t date for long before I asked her to marry me. I should’ve given her more time.”

You turn around in his arms so that you can meet his flickering gaze. Raising your hand to his cheek, you caress the slightly scratchy surface that sorely needs a razor.

“If it feels right, it feels right,” you tell him softly. “There’s no shame in being open and honest about your feelings, Marcus.”

He blinks, and for a second you think his eyes look shiny. His lower jaw moves as he swallows.

“Thank you,” he eventually mumbles. “I don’t want to sound like I’m making excuses but… I did feel I was being straight with her. And she… really fucking hurt me.”

“Yeah, she did.”

His stare is suddenly relentless.

“Will you? Hurt me, I mean?”

You feel nothing but calm. “Marcus, I like you a lot. This is more than just sex now. But I won’t marry you in six months, and I don’t need you to have a plan for us. I like my job, I have a good career that I won’t give up. I don’t want kids, but I like being with you, and I want to keep being with you, not just have sex but do other stuff with you.”

He smiles at that and casts his eyes down. You lean forward to press a small kiss to his lips.

“And I will help you to unpack your shit, and I will come with you to get a new kitchen table tomorrow when the stores open. Because that huge monster you have jamming up your kitchen has got to go.”

“Not tomorrow,” he immediately tells you, and you quirk an eyebrow. “Because tomorrow I’m taking you to the museum, out for a meal, and then we’re watching Casablanca.”

You chuckle. “It’s a deal.”

He pulls you in for a deeper kiss, water splashing when his arms go around you.

“For the record,” he murmurs against your lips, “I like you too.”

“That’s a relief,” you smile, before a gasp escapes your lips; Marcus’s hand has slid down your soft stomach to the apex of your thighs, and one finger is slowly circling your clit.

“Open your legs,” he whispers, breath almost scorching your cheek that is already warm from the water and your rising desire. You move around, legs and hips repositioning themselves so that he can cup his big hand over your sex.

“Marcus,” you breathe in a low moan, “I already came twice this morning…”

“And you’ll come a third time,” he promises as he slides a finger inside your warm heat, rolling a nipple between two fingers of his other hand. You curl your arm back and around his neck, seek his lips for more kisses, push down against his hardening cock to make him gasp into your mouth. Thumb on your clit, he adds a second finger to your pussy, fucking you slowly as you exchange moans along with your kisses. Your hips jut upwards when he hits the right spot, and then he stays on it, water splashing over the edges of the tub when he goes increases speed. Your hand dives underneath the surface to find his cock, and a strangled moan travels from Marcus’s mouth to yours when your fingers close around the stiff length. When he slows down, so do you, when he fucks you faster, your hand works him faster.

The climax reaches both of you at the same time, your bodies tightening up, Marcus’s hips jerking up as your thighs clamp shut, cries bouncing off the tiles as you press your bodies together. As silence falls, the water stills and your hearts return to their normal rhythms, and Marcus’s lips are on your temple.

“Fuck, you’re amazing.”

“So are you,” you hum, a ripple of lingering pleasure making your legs twitch. He kisses you again, a light smattering of kisses over your temple, brow, cheekbone, before reaching your mouth. That last kiss is deep and slow, loving, and intimate in a way you haven’t had with him before. It’s unnerving, almost scary, but there is something so comforting about Marcus’s broad-shouldered body underneath you, something that makes you embrace the unknown.

“Happy Christmas, baby.”

The underwhelming meeting with your friends, the flirty texting with Marcus, that feels like weeks ago. But it was only last night, and your world has been thoroughly rocked since then.

“Happy Christmas, Marcus.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike fanfic #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #my fic

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holylulusworld · 2 years

Text

Forbidden Lust - Kinktober 5

Summary: Your stepmother is the worst. But her fiancè is worth your time.

Rating: Explicit

Kinktober Special: homewrecker kink

Square filled Square 7 for @anyfandomkinkbingo: Office Sex

Pairing: Stepdad(CEO)!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: cheating, angst, jealousy, awful stepmother, sexual tension, smut, unprotected sex, quickie, kinda stepcest (they are not related by blood), dirty talk, possessive Bucky, homewrecker kink

A/N: Please be aware of the warnings. This kink is not for everyone. Also, there is more plot than expected.

Words: 2,3 k

Kinktober 2022

AFG KINK BINGO masterlist

“Another one?” you ask the blonde eyeing your colleague up and down. He dips his head as you clear your throat to get his attention. “Do you want another drink? You know, my colleague is not on the menu.”

“Engagement parties, I hate them,” he turns his back on the people at the party to look at you. “So, you’re working here or-“

“What does it look like? I’m not here to get a massage,” rolling your eyes you turn around to get a new bottle of whiskey. “Do you want another drink or not?”

“Why would anyone celebrate their engagement at a bar?”

“How shall I know?” you shrug. “I’m just trying to do my job and go home when my shift is over. If you want to know why she came here to celebrate her engagement, ask my stepmother.”

“Stepmother?” that picked the man’s interest. “The bride is your mother?”

“Stepmother,” you correct. “I haven’t seen her since my dad’s burial. No, wait. It was right after the lawyer read the will of my father.”

“Why are you working at a bar if your dad was…rich?”

“Well, she got all of his money, the company, and the house. I didn’t want his money or shit, it just hurts that he didn’t think of me at all,” while you wipe the counter, the man frowns deeply.

“That’s shit.”

“That’s life. She spread her legs for my father for three years and gets everything. I was his daughter all my life and must work three jobs to pay back my student loan. English literature, what a waste of time.”

“Not to me,” he offers. “Uh-name’s Steve. Steve Rogers.”

While the man in front of you holds out his hand, you look around the crowded bar to watch your stepmother get cozy with her newest conquest. Another wealthy man.

“Y/N be a darling and make some more drinks for my friends,” your hands ball into fists when your stepmother steps toward the bar counter. She batts her eyelashes and purses her lips. “And hurry up. They are not some of your little friends, living on beer and cheap food.”

“Dot,” your stepmother’s fiancé joins her and the blonde at the bar counter. “Do we get more drinks soon or-?” he licks his lips as his eyes land on you. “Steve, I wanted you to get more drinks, not flirt with the bartender.”

You eye the man up and down. He’s wearing a dark blue suit and matching tie. His polished shoes cost more than all of your shoes, and you are fairly sure, he’s wearing even more expensive underwear.

His blue eyes drop to the drink in the blonde’s hand. “I’m thirsty. Bartender, be a doll and give me one of these too.”

He flashes you a smile, making his blue eyes sparkle. You bet he’s the kind of guy always getting his way only by smiling at people. Not tonight.

“Sorry, my shift is over,” you drop the towel onto the counter. “You can wait for my colleague, or, how about you ask my beloved stepmother? She was a waitress before she met my dad and got her greedy hands on his money.”

“She was joking, Jamie. Y/N is just jealous I found love again,” she stammers. “I never was a waitress.”

“Of course, love,” Bucky sighs as he watches you storm toward the back of the bar. “Maybe she just needs time to adjust. We could invite her for dinner.”

“Buck, I’m getting a terrible headache. I’ll find my way out,” the blonde says.

“Steve, wait,” Bucky watches his best friend and best man leave the bar. He knows Steve doesn’t like Dot. “Come on. Don’t be like that.”

“Do you,” Steve turns around to whisper in Bucky’s ear, “know anything about your soon-to-be wife but how she sucks your cock? Did you know that she got all the money, the house, and shit from her latest husband? Did you know that his daughter must work three jobs to get around?”

A week later, the bar you are working at…

“We are closed,” you jerk your head toward the door. “Go to one of those fancy clubs you are used to. We have nothing to offer here.”

“My friend Steve told me you were a good host,” Bucky plops down onto one of the bar stools and flashes you a smile. “Can I have a drink too? Last time you left me hanging.”

You take a moment to drink him in. He’s all casual today, wearing a Henley and jeans. God, he’s gorgeous. That bastard got it all. The looks. The smile. The eyes.

If only he didn’t want to marry the woman you hate the most.

“Why are you here?” you sigh. “I got a lot of work to do and got no time for Dot’s nonsense, or yours.”

“You don’t like your stepmother much, but she wants you to come to our wedding,” you sneer at his words. “Please don’t make this any harder for her.”

“I rather let someone stab me with a rusty knife.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Maybe you should ask her,” you turn around to get a glass for Bucky. “She came into our lives. Three years later my father dies in an accident and his lawyer tells me and his brother that he left everything to Dot. Even the company he built with his brother.”

“He loved her.”

You huff.

“Doll don’t be mad at your stepmother for things happening in the past. You should try to move on. Both of you.”

“I tried,” you slam the glass onto the counter. “She forced me to leave my home. I tried to stay away from her, while my uncle still fights her. He tries to get the company back. I gave up a long time ago.”

He looks surprised.

“She is the one not leaving me alone. Whenever she gets the chance to, she rubs salt into my wounds. Like last week. She didn’t have to rent the whole bar to celebrate her engagement party here. It was to show me she got another wealthy guy into her clutches.”

“Dot is not like that,” you roll your eyes. Of course, Bucky cannot see the ugly monster behind her pretty façade. Dot is a master at manipulating and gaslighting people.

“Believe whatever you want. Just keep me out of this shit. Dot got all she ever wanted from me and my family. I got nothing else to offer.”

You pour Bucky a drink. “That’s the first and last drink you will ever get from me. Don’t come back here.”

Another month later, the car dealer you are working at…

“Not again.”

You can’t believe Bucky followed you to your second job. He looks at the cars, scrunching up his nose. “Hello, doll. I’m looking for…a car.”

“I don’t think you want a second-hand Volvo or an old and rusty Chevy. You look more like,” you look him up and down, “Porsche, or Ferrari. These cars are for people who work for their money and need a car to get to work. Not another status symbol.”

“Why do you hate me?”

He looks you deep in the eyes, searching your face.

“I don’t hate you,” you look away. “I just don’t want to watch another man end up losing everything he has to Dot. So please, stay away from me.”

“If only you would give her a chance, she could be a good stepmother.”

You snort. “Dude, she’s like four years elder than me. She never was and never will be a stepmother to me. She’s a bitch in heat looking for another dick to ride. A wealthy dick, of course.”

“Dick, huh?” he smirks.

You put your hands on your hips and glare at him. “If you would excuse me now. I have work to do.”

“I can see that. You are an expert in working yourself up,” how you hate his stupid smirk. “How about I invite you for dinner and we can talk some more.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No!”

“Heaven help, me with this stubborn brat. I can’t believe I’m wasting my time on her,” he can only watch you storm off. Bucky can’t help but wonder how it would feel to spank your ass.

Three weeks later, your last working place. Copy room.

“No…no,” you kick the copier. “It’s the wrong day to mess with me, bitch. I give you one last chance to give me those damn copies before I kick your ass again.”

“I don’t think a copier got an ass,” snickering Bucky leans in the doorframe to watch you fight with the machine. You kick it again. “Doll, the poor machine doesn’t deserve your hatred.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I thought we can go for dinner,” he steps inside the room and kicks the door shut with his foot. “Doll, I’m talking to you.”

“I got that.”

You don’t turn around, nor do you pay attention to Bucky when he steps closer to have a look at the copier. “How about being a little friendlier?”

“How about you get lost?”

“I get why you don’t get along with Dot,” he puts his hands on your hips and whispers in your ear. “You’re both so stubborn. Maybe I can help you get along better.”

“You can get lost. I don’t want anything to do with Dot, and the catastrophe you call your wedding.”

“I bet I can change your mind,” Bucky presses a soft kiss to your neck. “I’ll be back soon, doll.”

A month later, Barnes and Rogers Inc., your new boss’s office…

“Hi, I’m Y/N Y/L/N. I’m here for the interview,” you gape at the man sitting in a swivel chair. “You’ve got to be shitting me!”

“Welcome to Barnes and Rogers Inc., doll,” Bucky grins as you start to throw insults at him. You had hoped to finally get a full-time job. You’re tired of working three jobs. “Why did you do this? I wanted a new job, not another confrontation with my past.”

“Oh, doll,” he slowly gets up from his chair to stride towards you. “I have a better plan for you. For us.”

“US?”

He wraps one arm around your waistline, holding you close to his chest. “Us, Y/N. I want you to be a good girl now and do as I say.” Bucky whispers in your ear. “I’ll be your daddy soon. And I’ll make sure to become a very good daddy for you.”

“Get off me,” you weakly wiggle in his iron grip. “You won’t become my dad. I had a great dad.”

“He gave all of his money to Dot,” his hand moves up to your chest to give one tit a good squeeze. “He was an awful father. Let me be your daddy…”

You make an odd noise. This is it, the moment you have been waiting for. “I don’t think so,” you only need to rile him up a little more and…

“Fucking brat.”

He drags you toward his desk, cursing under his breath. You let him bend you over his desk. And you don’t fight him when he shoves your skirt up your waist and your panties down your legs.

You smirk.

“What do you want to do about it.”

Bucky presses one hand to the small of your back to hold you down. “I’ll show you how to behave.”

“Show me.”

“You’re not going to walk for a while.”

He kicks your legs apart. Bucky slaps your pussy, fingers running through your slicked folds. You hold your breath and try to hide you are already a dripping mess. “Slut, already so wet for me.”

You bite your tongue.

“Got nothing to say,” two fingers prop at your entrance, waiting, lingering to cross a line. “Fine, I wanted to go easy on you.”

“Fuck you.”

“No. Fuck you.”

Belt buckle. Zipper. Pants dropping to the ground. A symphony to your ears.

“I’m gonna fucking ruin this cunt,” Bucky curses behind you. He runs his cock up and down your folds, gathering your slick to cover his dick. “You’re going to be my good girl.”

Biting your lower lip hard enough to draw blood you feel him snap his hips into your ass, filling you in one go. He starts moving in vigor. Rough. Fast. Without mercy.

“Fucking brat.”

Bucky drags you onto his thick length, blunt nails digging into your skin. He watches his cock disappear in your body, smirking as you push back onto him.

“That’s much better. Good girl. Taking my cock so well.”

You struggle to not moan his name. He can never know you made sure he will end up fucking you over his desk. This is all you ever dreamed of and more.

“Jamie?” Bucky stills his movement, but his cock twitches inside of your cunt. “What? Y/N?” Dot gasps as she just caught Bucky balls deep inside of you. “What are you doing?”

“Uh-what does it look like, mommy?” you lift your head to grin at her. Bucky swallows thickly as you start to clench tightly around him. He drops his eyes to your stuffed cunt as you start moving your hips to fuck yourself on his cock. “I’m fucking daddy…”

“Dot…I…uh,” Bucky tries to find the right words. “I tried to convince her to come to the wedding and realized, I prefer fucking her and not you.”

“I will destroy you, James Buchanan Barnes!” Dot storms out of the office and slams the door shut. “We are done!”

“I got everything I wanted from you, Dot,” he grips your hips to stop you from moving. “Now, will you tell me why you came all over me when Dot caught us?”

“I-I like to fuck with taken men…sometimes…”

“Well, this is over. You are mine now,” Bucky grunts. “When I’m done with you, we will make sure you’ll get all of your money, the house, and the company back…”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“Your father was a good friend of my family for the longest time and I tried to find out what happend to him. Having my way with you was just a ... bonus...”

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

#bucky barnes #afgkinkbingo #ceo!bucky barnes x reader #CEO!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader #ceo!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes smut #tw: cheating #tw: stepcest #Forbidden Lust - Kinktober 5 #kinktober 2022

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messedupfan · 6 months

Text

Benefits Of Car Troubles| 8

Summary: After getting settled into the apartment, Leigh asks about Y/n's troubled past and comforts them.

A/n: I should have never done that damn poll. But here it is. A WARNING because y'all voted for SMUT. So, spoiler alert, there's SMUT involve. MINORS DNI this is 18+ content hehe.

Masterlist | All Stories Taglist | All Chapters

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Living with Leigh is different when her family isn’t around. She is less stressed out about how she needs to present herself and how you need to behave. When she comes home from work, she spends a few minutes in the shop talking to your co-workers and getting to know Teddy a little bit better. After having lunch with her and Cameron, her lawyer brother, she started to feel a bit better about your closeness to her. Not great, but better. She hasn’t brought up her discomfort about the friendship to you yet. With her divorce proceedings and drama with her sister, she doesn’t have the energy to come home and fight more. You have become her safe space and she has let you know that everyday.

After she rests for an hour in the apartment, she cleans up the few messes around and then cooks dinner to have it ready for the both of you since you work later than she does. Then, as she is waiting for you to come upstairs she takes time to write. With learning about your schedule she is amazed that you ever made time to go to writing class and have something prepared for class. She is surprised that you ever had time for her. What she doesn't know is that you have been working extra shifts in order to have money leftover after buying the house. You had enough to cover the down payment, the issue was having enough money to sustain for some time after that. Sure, you could ask your dad for a loan but you'd have no idea when you'll be able to pay him back. Besides the basic expenses, there is moving and baby stuff which you have no idea what you do and don't need. Everything was going to start piling up and you weren't sure if you'll be able to afford all of it.

“Wow, what smells so good,” you ask as you enter the apartment. Leigh has your small table set with the few plates and utensils that you own. She happily tells you that it's your favorite dish and you don't clean up before devouring the meal. You have been skipping lunch most days to get the extra hours. “This is delicious, babe. Thank you,” you tell her with a full mouth and Leigh shakes her head at your silliness.

After dinner, you shower and get out of your dirty work clothes. Then you join her in the living room where she is typing away on her laptop. “What are you up to?” You ask as you lift her legs and sit underneath them. You begin to massage her feet because you're sure they're sore with the extra weight she has to carry.

“Oh that's so good, thank you.” Leigh hums as you work your fingers into her tense foot. “I was working on a story,” she closes her laptop and places it on the coffee table. “But I've hit a dead spot and I'd rather spend my time with you.”

“Awe I'm sorry, do you want to talk it out? I think I could help you out of it,” you offer as you switch one foot for the other.

Leigh shakes her head then she sits her arm on top of the couch and rests her head against her hand. “I just want to talk with you. We can do that another day.” She rubs her exposed belly with her free hand.

“Okay, we can do that.” You start by asking about her day and you listen intently as she talks about work and the gossip from the office. You laugh at her sarcastic remarks and little jokes and ask her questions when you're confused or want her to know that you are listening. Then she mentions that she talked to her mom a little bit and you can see that something is bothering her so you ask her to tell you.

Leigh sighs, she moved from her position halfway through her story about finding two of her co-workers screwing in the copy room. Her legs that were across your lap are now tucked under her and instead of sitting on the other end of the couch, she is sitting on the cushion next to you. “Can I ask you how you knew that Jules wanted to use that money for drugs and not rehab?”

You take a deep breath as you figure out where to start because you don't like talking about that part of your past. It's something that you've chosen to bury and have been able to avoid telling Leigh about until now. Part of you hoped that you could go forever without ever revealing this time in your life but you knew someday that you would have to. Especially since addiction can be a genetic condition and you would have to explain to her why you plan to be so strict when the baby in her belly reaches their teenage and even their adult years. You were worried that when she met your dad that she would start asking questions but her mind clearly got temporarily distracted by her sister. The situation you had been in too many times in your life. A situation that you swore that you would never experience again. You look at Leigh with a frown and scratch the back of your head. “My mom,” is all you're able to say. Luckily, it's all that you have to say because Leigh pulls you into a tight hug.

“I'm sorry about whatever experiences that you had with her that makes you talk so little about her,” she says as she holds you. “I'm also kind of relieved that it wasn't you or maybe a complicated ex of yours. I know, that's horrible to say. But,” you shake your head to cut her off.

“No, it's okay. Honey, I'm here for all of your honesty. Good, bad, I want to hear it. No matter what. Okay?” You move her hair out of her face as you look at her. You kiss her lips. “I want to be honest and completely open with you but I’m not ready to talk about my mom. I hope to be someday. Especially before this one,” you rest your hand on her baby bump, “starts high school so that we can give them a proper scare. I don’t want them to make one wrong move that will screw up the rest of their life. I know that after everything with your sister that you’re probably very concerned about that as well.” Leigh nods, confirming that she doesn’t want that for her child. She wasn’t as concerned as she might be now since Jules' genetics aren’t connected to her genetics. But this baby is connected to you and you are connected to your mother. The chances aren’t as likely but there is never any guarantee with this sort of thing. “I don’t want you to worry though, I have faith in us that we won’t let anything like that happen.”

Leigh runs her fingers through your hair, “I love you.” She kisses you softly. As her lips collide with your’s a hunger begins to build in the pit of her stomach. The kind of hunger that doesn’t require food to satisfy. Only you. Leigh deepens the kiss as you hold onto her. “I miss you,” she says against your lips. You try to pull her off to ask what she means by that but she doesn't move and instead finds a way to answer that question by shoving her hand in your sweatpants. “I miss the way you used to fuck me all over my old house and… this apartment,” she whispers against your ear as she continues to rub you.

You're reminded of the afternoons when the affair started. She would call the shop and you would escape from work to meet her wherever she wanted. It started with motel rooms that she would arrange but ask you to pay for, which you gladly did. It was just sex at the time. Nothing more than fucking each others brains out. She started off the more dominant of you two but eventually you took on that role once you learned everything that made her squeal.

As she climbs on your lap and kisses you, memories of when she first invited you to her home flood your mind. You couldn't deny the thrill you felt seeing her framed wedding photos as you made her toes curl. But as she rides you now, you don't miss that feeling. This one, knowing that she wants to be with you, loves you, wants a future and a family. This feeling is better than anything you could have imagined. Being loved instead of used, there is quite a difference.

You start to rub her clitoris to get her there faster. She has her hands on your shoulders to hold her steady. “Let me take you to the bedroom,” you say against her lips, concerned about her back. She has complained about pain recently with the extra weight she has to carry.

Leigh shakes her head, “No, I'm fine.” She crosses her arms and removes her shirt. “This is so good,” she smiles down at you before she grabs your face and deeply kisses you. She rolls her hips as you're inside of her causing you to groan. When she stops kissing you, you move your hand from her clitoris and place your hands on her ass to help her bounce on you. She tips her head back as she moans and you move to suck on her neck. Something you used to hold yourself back from to avoid getting caught that now you get the freedom to do. She is yours.

You continue to thrust into her as you move your mouth around her exposed body. From her neck to her shoulder to her collarbone down to her still covered breasts. With your teeth, you pull the fabric down in order to expose her breasts. You are careful with licking her nipples as she has complained about sensitivity earlier in the week. You look up and watch her bite her lips and shut her eyes the way she always does when she is getting close. You smile as you move to the other breast while you continue to thrust deep into her warm pussy.

“Fuck,” Leigh moans out as you hit a spot inside of her that causes her walls to clench around you. Her moans drive you crazy as you rest your head against her chest to have her breasts rub against your face. The pace of your thrusts slow down as you get closer in order to drag it out a bit longer but she doesn’t want to drag it out. She is ready. She wants your release now. She wants to know that she can still pleasure you and bring you to an orgasm. She wants to feel you lose all control of yourself. She rolls her hips on your lap and with a tight grip on your couch she brings the pace back up until you can’t hold back.

“Holy shit!” You say as you reach your climax and shoot inside of her. Feeling your release, Leigh reaches her own high. She holds you close to her body as the both of you spasm against each other. “I love you,” you say as you kiss her sweaty cheek. “I can’t even remember the last time we did this,” you say as you start to laugh. She joins you and peppers you with sweet kisses.

“I’ll be honest, at that last house tour I imagined our life there in an innocent way but… I also imagined us all over that house. Fucking in every room,” she admits as she scrunches her nose in that cute way that she always does. You kiss her nose and call her cute, she hugs you in response.

Later that night, you are unable to sleep. Leigh is deep asleep and snoring, something that has arrived with the pregnancy. It wasn’t a loud obnoxious snore, it was actually kind of endearing. It’s a snore that you can sleep through, that’s not what is keeping you up. You can’t get your mom out of your head. Most days she never crosses your mind but when she does, you can’t help but worry about her. You wonder if she is even alive, it’s been almost five years since the last time you’ve seen her. You look at Leigh with sad eyes as you push the memory away. You know that, even though it wasn’t planned and this wasn’t the way you ever saw this happening, she is the perfect person for you to have a child with. Leigh is always going to be there for you and the baby. She won’t leave either of you to chase a high. And you will always be there for them. No matter what.

You lean down and kiss her belly, “I know that we haven’t met yet, but I already love you so much kid.” You rub her stomach softly, careful to not wake her up. “I can’t wait to hold you in my arms. I can’t wait to play with you and guide you.” You smile as you imagine the baby as a real person standing before you someday soon. “I hope I don’t screw you up.” You sigh, and move off of the bed. You weren’t feeling tired at all and instead of wasting that time tossing and turning, you decide to write down the story of your mother. You know that you won’t ever be able to tell it without completely falling apart but hopefully, Leigh will be fine with just reading it. Never discussing it. Maybe one day you share it with your kids when they’re older and start to ask about what your mom was like.

As you write about your earliest memories of her, a part of you breaks knowing that she might never meet your kids or Leigh. And it’s not because she was taken from this world but because she chose to escape this reality. The reality that you have always found to be beautiful even in your lowest moments.

Leigh finds you in the morning, asleep on the couch with dried tears on your face and a notebook on your lap. She frowns as she tries to read the smudged paper from where she stood but when she can’t make out much of it, she decides to make coffee to help you wake up. Once you do, she tries to ask why you didn’t sleep in the bed but you are too drained to talk to her about it. She worries that you are going to start pulling away from her but when you pull her for a kiss before she leaves, she knows that you will talk to her when you’re ready.

NINE

Taglist: @princessprudy @sayah13 @agaymilflover @awkwardmandalorian @bentleywolf29 @thatshyboy1998 @artisannat @thisischaismagic @wqndanat @madamevirgo @likefirenrain @tearsofglitter @feltlikethat @the-writer-arcane @natashasilverfox @karsonromanoff @aloneodi @lovelyy-moonlight @red1culous @jovialsublimecomputer @natasha-maximoff @iliketozoneout @doudouneverte @druggedduck @notbornbutforged @when-wolves-howl @lifespectator @justyourwritter69 @wandaromamoff69 @awesomelygayasf @nekoannie-chan @diaryoflife @wuwu96 @wandanats-goodgirl @sincerely-indi @blueredg52 @sisiwritesfanfics @fuzzyuniversityeclipsefriend @arcturusseer @scarlettwidow34 @chasethemoon @raven-ss @canyonyodeler @sokovianbaby @alexawynters @knellyc30

#leigh shaw #leigh shaw imagine #leigh shaw x y/n #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x you #benefits of car troubles #messedupfan

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shion-yu · 3 months

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A Safe Place (part 1) [Day 28]

Cliff shows up at Elliot's doorstep in the middle of the night soaked to the bone. A Cliff/Elliot sickfic heavy on the angst, also ft. Theo. For @monthofsick Day 28: Chaotic body temperature. I know, not me joining in on a writing challenge right at the end but it fit so well. 3,065 words, original work, TWs for homophobia, emeto (neither strong warnings, but the sick will get much sicker in p2).

It had been a long summer. Cliff had spent it working at Theo's law firm again, except this time he wasn't an unpaid intern but a legal secretary. It was a temporary job that they had offered him when his summer break had aligned perfectly with one of the secretary's maternity leaves and Cliff had jumped at the chance to work in such a great environment again. He was happy to see many familiar faces from last year, and to his surprise they were happy to see him too. Although he was mainly working with one of the other partners this time - not Theo - he saw the lawyer nearly every day and was relieved to learn both Theo and his partner, Al, were in good health. Al had gotten a double lung transplant that last Fall, Theo told Cliff. He and his new lungs were doing great.

"What about you?" Theo asked Cliff eagerly. "How did your first year at NYU go?"

Cliff smiled, automatically thinking of Elliot. "It was great," he said. "My classes were interesting but not too hard."

"You look happier," Theo said, surprising Cliff with how true the observation was. "Did something cause that?"

"Yeah," Cliff said thoughtfully. "Someone did."

Being apart from Elliot that summer was difficult. He missed hugging and kissing Elliot every single day. He wanted to talk to him on the phone for hours and hours just to hear his voice and fall asleep with his fingers in Elliot’s curls. But when he was living at home, Cliff knew he had to be the perfect, straight laced child he'd been raised as. In other words, he couldn't be himself. He wore business attire to work every day, but the soft sweaters and cute hair clips he'd amassed over the past year stayed packed away in his college stuff for next semester. He didn't think his parents would appreciate those particular fashion choices he'd been making.

It's not like his parents made it hard to hide things. They hardly ever asked questions, and if they did it was about grades or tuition. Cliff knew he was incredibly lucky that his parents paid his entire tuition, room and board as if it were a given. Elliot's parents weren't able to help much financially, meaning his boyfriend had to take out loans and work part time while in school. This summer he was working nonstop in his dad's auto mechanic shop, saving up money. Often when Cliff video called Elliot these days he was covered in sweat, streaks of black motor oil on his face. It seemed wrong to complain about his parents when it was thanks to them that he was only working this summer because he wanted to, not because he had to. And yet, silently, Cliff thought maybe he'd be happier if he was in Elliot's shoes - without much money but with a place he could really call home. It was a selfish, privileged thought and Cliff refused to voice it, but it creeped in each time he heard Elliot's mom call in the background, "Boys, wash up, it's time for dinner!"

Working was a blessing to Cliff, because if he'd been at home he would've been in that big, lonely house all by himself most of the summer. Being at the law firm was not only a distraction, but comfortable. Despite wearing a suit, Cliff actually felt less tense there than at his parents' house. He stayed long hours, longer than he needed to, because he preferred the sound of printers and fax machines over his parents screaming at each other downstairs. When he was in high school it seemed easier to ignore. Maybe it was because he'd had a break for so many months that returning to it seemed worse than before. Or maybe it was because Elliot never screamed at him like that, and Cliff had started to realize that this wasn't how things had to be.

Around the beginning of August, Cliff caught a cold that didn't seem to go away. At first it was just the sniffles, and then it was a cough that grew progressively deeper with each week that passed. The other employees started asking him if he was alright, and embarrassingly Theo caught him staring blankly at the water fountain one day for far too long. Cliff was so out of it that he didn't even notice Theo calling his name until the older man waved his hand in Cliff's face.

"Oh," Cliff said, rubbing his eyes to try and make his blurry vision clear up. "Sorry, I was just... Daydreaming."

"You look pale," Theo said, and before Cliff could step back Theo had placed a hand on Cliff's forehead while ignoring Cliff's protest that he was fine. "Hmm, you feel a little feverish. Why don't you go home, kid?"

"I'm really fine," Cliff said, wildly embarrassed. "It's just a cold."

Theo looked him up and down, clearly assessing how pushy he should be. "At least go take a nap on the couch in my office, you look exhausted."

Usually, Cliff would say no immediately. He wouldn't even consider showing weakness at the place he was supposed to be making a vitally good impression at for his career. But he felt weak and a little dizzy and found himself saying in a small voice, "...If you're sure."

Theo was sure. He brought Cliff to his office and shut the blinds so there wasn't much light coming through the many glass windows. He even tossed a blanket to the eighteen-year-old. "I sleep here all the time," he reassured Cliff. "You can't work if you're too tired to think. Don't worry about it."

Cliff felt guilty for taking over Theo's office, but Theo headed out for a two hour meeting and Cliff was left alone on the couch. He had half a mind to leave and get back to work at his desk now that there was no one stopping him, but just sitting there made him realize how fatigued his whole body felt. A little nap wouldn't hurt, he reasoned. A really short one. He lay down and fell asleep so quickly that he didn't even remember closing his eyes.

He woke up to Theo gently rubbing his shoulder. Cliff was confused, then his eyes widened in embarrassment and he sat up. Shit, had it been two hours already? Wait, that clock didn't say 5pm did it? - surely he hadn't slept for four hours?!

"Woah, it's okay Cliff," Theo said quickly, "You seemed really tired so I let you sleep. You should go home now, everybody's leaving for the day."

"I'm so sorry," Cliff gushed, face bright red. "I didn't mean to sleep so long. You don't have to pay me for today - please don't, actually."

"Settle down, it's really fine," Theo said in a calm voice that made Cliff remember to take a deep breath like Elliot had taught him to calm down. "We all have off days. You don't feel so warm now, so that's good. Stay home tomorrow though."

"That's totally not necessary," Cliff said, his confident tone supplemented by a very unconvincing round of dry coughs. He waved off the tissues Theo tried to hand him. "Really, I'm fine. I've just been having some asthma since I got sick last winter, but my boy-" Cliff stopped himself, realizing he was about to out himself. "My, um, my roommate got me an inhaler so I just have to use it that's all."

"Your boyfriend," Theo supplied gently. "It's okay to say it, Cliff. You know I have Al."

Cliff wanted to deny the comment outright. He wanted to laugh and say Elliot really was just a friend. But Theo had such an earnest expression, and he was the only successful adult man Cliff knew of who was gay. "I know, but, it's really not, not for me," Cliff found himself saying, voice wavering. "I-I have to go. Sorry I slept in your office so long," he said as he hurried out, ignoring Theo's all too kind voice calling after him. Cliff knew in a certain world that it was okay, but it wasn't his world. Not the world where he still relied on his parents.

Despite saying he'd be back the next day, Cliff did stay home that Friday. His fever was worse and he had chills that left him huddled under the covers. His mom didn't notice he didn't leave the house and he didn't tell her. She didn't need to know, just like she didn't need to know about Elliot. She had never supported Cliff in anything at all, so why... Why did Cliff feel such a strong urge to tell her?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On the last day of Cliff's work at the law firm, Theo told Cliff if he ever needed a reference, he'd get a glowing one from him. And if he ever needed to talk about anything, anything at all, Cliff could call him too. Cliff knew what he was getting at, and he didn't want to face it. But Theo was such a calm person that it was disarming, and Cliff asked without meaning to, "Is it worth it?"

Theo nodded. He knew what Cliff meant without specification. "Yes, it's worth it," Theo said. "Even if there's nay-sayers and you lose people, you gain much more. It's always worth it to be exactly who you are, Cliff."

Cliff went back to his parents house with those words echoing in his brain. Theo, a successful and respected lawyer, said it was worth it. He had a career and a person who loved him by his side. Was that something Cliff could have, too? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be honest, just once?

"Mom," Cliff said over dinner, pushing his phone over to her with a picture of him and Elliot together on the screen. "I want to tell you something. This is my-"

"Don't do this to me Cliff," his mother interrupted before he could finish. "You've already caused enough trouble. He's not - just because you have a thing with another guy doesn't mean anything."

"It's not a thing mom. I love him," Cliff found himself saying angrily. And oh, why did he say that? The first time he finally said he loved Elliot and it was directed at his mom in spite. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Cliff, you don't love him. You're too old to be playing this game. Now I'll forget we had this conversation. And don't tell your father."

Cliff saw red. He'd never been so angry in his life. He snatched his phone back and grabbed his wallet on the shelf by the door and went outside. She didn't follow him.

It was pouring rain. Cliff shivered, wishing he'd had the forethought to grab a coat too, but he wasn't going to ruin his dramatic exit by going back inside. Of course his mother hadn't approved. Cliff hadn't expected her to. But he'd expected her to get angry - not to dismiss him all together like he was just a kid with a big imagination. Cliff knew then that she would never really think of him as his own person, and he couldn't do anything to change that. It broke his heart.

Cliff walked for a very long time. He didn't quite know where he was going, only that he wanted to get as far away from that house as possible. He found himself at a park by the water where he beat up a couple of tree trunks that definitely won based on his bleeding knuckles afterwards. The rain didn't let up, and Cliff found himself getting progressively colder. His cough from earlier that month had never gone away and his breath began to catch on what felt like a dry patch in his throat. Cliff realized then that he'd left his inhaler at the house, too. The coughing grew more desperate until he pitched forward and vomited onto the grass he was standing on. He groaned and leaned against the nearest tree he could find, the contents of his stomach mixing with rushing rain water and swept away quickly. He continued to gag for several minutes until the coughing abated ever so slightly. He felt weak and pathetic. And also very, very alone.

He needed to get somewhere dry. Somewhere warm and safe. Cliff only had one place like that in mind. He boarded train after train, shivering in the corner like a wet dog as he made his way all the way to Long Island. He knew Elliot's address because he'd been sending Elliot mail all summer, little love notes and presents that made Cliff think of him. He never included a return address though, because he hadn't wanted his parents to see. Thankfully his phone had enough battery to direct him to Elliot's doorstep despite the wet four hour commute, and he found himself at the front door of a modest suburban home at 3:30 in the morning.

The journey had felt like a daze. Cliff had never done something so erratic, so unplanned. He raised his hand to knock before remembering what time it was, and Elliot had parents and sister who probably wouldn't appreciate him knocking. He called Elliot instead, his phone barely hanging on at 5%. He thought to himself that it seemed unlikely that Elliot would answer at this time of night. But after several rings, by which time Cliff had resigned himself to waiting for dawn under a tree, a very sleepy voice picked up.

"Cliff?"

"Elliot? Sorry to bother you," Cliff said, as if this entire situation weren't incredibly bizarre. "But I'm at your door."

There was a long pause, presumably while Elliot tried to figure out exactly what Cliff meant by 'at your door'. "Like right now? Now?"

"Yeah," Cliff said. "Do you think I could sleep over?"

"I'm coming down," Elliot said, and there was the rustling of sheets and then the thump of footsteps as Elliot ran downstairs. The front door opened and Elliot hung up. Cliff looked at him and thought he was the most beautiful person in the entire world. "Holy crap, you're really here," Elliot breathed. "God Cliff, what happened? No, come in first, you're soaked..."

Elliot pulled Cliff inside and helped Cliff take off his soaked trainers. There were traces of vomit on the front of his shirt and his fingers were still bloody. Elliot brought him to the bathroom, motioning for Cliff to stay quiet with one finger to his lips. He grabbed a towel from under the sink and wrapped it around the shorter boy, who was shivering violently from the marked change in temperature. In the bright light of the kitchen, suddenly his journey seemed a lot less valiant and a lot more stupid. "Sit," Elliot said, sitting Cliff on the toilet. "You're freezing... Can you take your temperature?”

Elliot handed Cliff a thermometer, which Cliff obediently used. After a few seconds it beeped and read ‘96.9.’ Elliot frowned. “Hot shower, okay?" Despite being woken up in the middle of the night, Elliot seemed fully alert. Cliff nodded and peeled off his wet and dirty clothes. He coughed roughly as he did so, a slight wheeze audible on the end of the exhale. Elliot patted his back with a concerned expression. "Do you have your inhaler?" Cliff shook his head no. Elliot grimaced and ran the hot water for Cliff. "You warm up. I'm gonna find you some clothes and I think there's an old inhaler somewhere in the medicine cabinet..."

Elliot moved to leave, but Cliff grabbed his arm before he could go. "Don't wake your family up," Cliff said hoarsely. "I'm okay."

Elliot looked at Cliff in concern and sighed. "Cliff, you just showed up soaking wet in the middle of the night. You live all the way in Newark. I'm gonna be a little concerned. But right now you need to warm up. We can talk later."

"Okay," Cliff said. He took the hottest shower of his life then, and it felt glorious. After a few minutes he started to feel dizzy though and sat on the floor of the tub. Elliot came back and peeked around the curtain, frowning when he saw Cliff sitting there.

"Are you awake?" Elliot asked worriedly.

"Hmm," Cliff hummed in confirmation. "Just feels nice, and I got sleepy."

"Finish up in there," Elliot said. "I've got sweats and a hot water bottle and bed waiting for you."

Cliff obediently finished showering and sat on the edge of the tub as Elliot dried him off thoroughly with two big, fluffy towels. Cliff closed his eyes and remembered how many times he'd imagined being together again over the summer. "I missed you so much," Cliff said, resting his face on Elliot's abdomen.

Elliot stilled and crouched in front of Cliff. "I missed you too," he said softly. "Now arms up." Elliot helped Cliff get into the warmest sweats that he owned and then led Cliff upstairs to his bedroom. The house was quiet, and Cliff hoped that meant he hadn't disturbed anyone else's sleep. He glanced around curiously at Elliot's childhood bedroom, which was decorated in a way that seemed so very Elliot. He smiled at the teddy bear sitting on the dresser that Cliff had bought Elliot at the baseball game they'd been to. It brought back good memories, nothing like the ones that had been swirling around in Cliff's head for the past several rainy hours.

"Bed," Elliot whispered, tucking Cliff under the duvet and several extra blankets. Cliff was still shivering, but less so now. His temperature had blown from low numbers to high and he gazed at Elliot with glassy, feverish eyes. Elliot handed Cliff a very expired albuterol inhaler, which Cliff took a few puffs of. Despite the date stamped on the canister, it still eased the tightness in Cliff's chest a little. Elliot then climbed in next to him and wrapped his arms around Cliff. The feeling and smell of being enveloped by Elliot after all this time brought Cliff to tears and he hid his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know I should have called.”

"It’s okay,” Elliot said. “Sleep, Cliff. We can talk tomorrow.” Knowing he was finally in the only place he truly felt safe, Cliff slept.

[Cont. part 2]

#shionwrites #novemetober rescheduled #whump #sickfic #sicknario #tw: emeto #tw: homophobia #prompt: chaotic body temperature #novemetober 2023 #oc: cliff #oc: theo #oc: elliot #fever whump #hurt/comfort #angst #hypothermia #pneumonia

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random-thought-depository · 1 year

Text

""Moreover, it turns out that the United States is not all that tightfisted when it comes to social spending. “If you count all public benefits offered by the federal government, America’s welfare state (as a share of its gross domestic product) is the second biggest in the world, after France’s,” Desmond tells us. Why doesn’t this largesse accomplish more?

For one thing, it unduly assists the affluent. That statistic about the U.S. spending almost as much as France on social welfare, he explains, is accurate only “if you include things like government-subsidized retirement benefits provided by employers, student loans and 529 college savings plans, child tax credits, and homeowner subsidies: benefits disproportionately flowing to Americans well above the poverty line.” To enjoy most of these, you need to have a well-paying job, a home that you own, and probably an accountant (and, if you’re really in clover, a money manager).

“The American government gives the most help to those who need it least,” Desmond argues. “This is the true nature of our welfare state, and it has far-reaching implications, not only for our bank accounts and poverty levels, but also for our psychology and civic spirit.” Americans who benefit from social spending in the form of, say, a mortgage-interest tax deduction don’t see themselves as recipients of governmental generosity. The boon it offers them may be as hard for them to recognize and acknowledge as the persistence of poverty once was to Harrington’s suburban housewives and professional men. These Americans may be anti-government and vote that way. They may picture other people, poor people, as weak and dependent and themselves as hardworking and upstanding. Desmond allows that one reason for this is that tax breaks don’t feel the same as direct payments. Although they may amount to the same thing for household incomes and for the federal budget—“You can benefit a family by lowering its tax burden or by increasing its benefits, same difference”—they are associated with an obligation and a procedure that Americans, in particular, find onerous. Tax-cutting Republican lawmakers want the process to be both difficult and Swiss-cheesed with loopholes. (“Taxes should hurt,” Ronald Reagan once said.) But that’s not the only reason. What Desmond calls the “rudest explanation” is that if, for whatever reason, we get a tax break, most of us like it. That’s the case for people affluent and lucky enough to take advantage of the legitimate breaks designed for their benefit, and for the wily super-rich who game the system with expensive lawyering and ingenious use of tax shelters.

And there are other ways, Desmond points out, that government help gets thwarted or misdirected. When President Clinton instituted welfare reform, in 1996, pledging to “transform a broken system that traps too many people in a cycle of dependence,” an older model, Aid to Families with Dependent Children, or A.F.D.C., was replaced by Temporary Assistance for Needy Families, or TANF. Where most funds administered by A.F.D.C. went straight to families in the form of cash aid, TANF gave grants to states with the added directive to promote two-parent families and discourage out-of-wedlock childbirth, and let the states fund programs to achieve those goals as they saw fit. As a result, “states have come up with rather creative ways to spend TANF dollars,” Desmond writes. “Nationwide, for every dollar budgeted for TANF in 2020, poor families directly received just 22 cents. Only Kentucky and the District of Columbia spent over half of their TANF funds on basic cash assistance.” Between 1999 and 2016, Oklahoma directed more than seventy million dollars toward initiatives to promote marriage, offering couples counselling and workshops that were mostly open to people of all income levels. Arizona used some of the funds to pay for abstinence education; Pennsylvania gave some of its TANF money to anti-abortion programs. Mississippi treated its TANF funds as an unexpected Christmas present, hiring a Christian-rock singer to perform at concerts, for instance, and a former professional wrestler—the author of an autobiography titled “Every Man Has His Price”—to deliver inspirational speeches. (Much of this was revealed by assiduous investigative reporters, and by a 2020 audit of Mississippi’s Department of Human Services.) Moreover, because states don’t have to spend all their TANF funds each year, many carry over big sums. In 2020, Tennessee, which has one of the highest child-poverty rates in the nation, left seven hundred and ninety million dollars in TANF funds unspent."

- The New Yorker: "How America Manufactures Poverty" by Margaret Talbot (review of Matthew Desmond's Poverty by America).

#that last quoted paragraph is infuriating #class politics

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andydrysdalerogers · 10 months

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Yours Submissively ~ Control

Steve Rogers X OFC Isabella Davis

Summary: Five Years after the events of Civil War, Steve Rogers has moved on from avenging and has started his own business, Grant Inc. He has a secret that would turn his world upside down. And he's good at keep that secret. Until he meets the woman with violet eyes that could bring him to his knees. Now his mission is to make her, his. But she is the key that could bring the world into balance... or chaos. And she has no idea.

Series Warnings: slow burn at the beginning, smut, angst, sexual themes of BDSM, dom/sub dynamics, kidnapping, (and a bunch of others that will come up)

A/N I can't decide which banner I like more. Let me know what you think

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS. Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated

Previous: Prologue

Series Masterlist ~ Main Masterlist

Five years earlier…

Steve Rogers was tired.

Tired of the fight.

Tired of the demand.

Tired of the politics behind his shield.

Just tired.

Retiring was the right move.

But what does he do now?

“Hey Tony, can I talk to you?”

Present day…

Getting the loan from Tony was the best idea he could have had. Grant Industries was thriving five years later. Steve had built the business from the ground up. Sure it helped that he used to be Captain America but when his first successful takeover happened, people really started to take notice.

Making Sam his number two was the second best decision. He was savvy with the business and made sure that Steve kept on track. When Sam married Natasha, she joined the company as well. She was now his lawyer.

Bucky elected to be Steve’s head of security. Sure, he was a super soldier but as a businessman, the threats were more than before. Bucky felt better knowing he was close to Steve but at the same time doing something good. He wanted nothing but the best for his best friend.

Yes, things were working out for Steve in his business. At home, he had a beautiful penthouse. Bucky lived with him and his housekeeper in the staff quarters and he had the place mostly to himself. Except on the weekends.

On the weekends, he did have a guest who would entertain him. Because deep down, Steve missed having control. He had control when he led the Avengers. And it sated that part of him for the most part. But now, he needed it more.

Sharon had introduced this life to him while he was still avenging. Learning how to control and be controlled. Submitting and being submitted to kept Steve calm. Control was all he wanted.

Submissives weren’t hard to find in New York. But he hadn’t had one since Lizzy left. So boredom was starting to seep in. Boredom could be dangerous, expensive even. The last time he was bored, he bought out a publishing house. Granted it was making a profit now but Steve has learned, don’t be bored for too long.

“Devon, can we go through my schedule?” Steve called through the intercom to his assistant.

“Right away sir.” Devon walked in holding her tablet with Steve’s schedule. She has been his assistant since the beginning and ran his office like a fine Swiss watch. He appreciated her hard work and attention to detail.

“What’s on the agenda?”

“You have a meeting with Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Romanoff-Wilson in 20 minutes to discuss a new acquisition. You have a training session with Mr. Barnes right before lunch here in your private office gym. You have a meeting with Mr. Miller on the development of a tech piece he wanted to present. A Delilah Stevens is stopping by with a need for signatures regarding the new deal with Stark Industries. After, Mr. Barnes will take you home to prepare for the gala event this evening.”

“What gala?”

“It’s the fundraiser for the recovery efforts in Sokovia. You told Miss Maximoff you would attend.”

“Damn. Alright. I guess I have no choice in that one.” Steve sighed. “Am I seated alone?”

“No, Miss Maximoff and Mr. Stark are sending someone to be the liaison for you. Mr. Wilson and Mrs Romanoff-Wilson are also attending.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Alright. Have the intern bring me a coffee and let me know when Sam and Natasha get here.”

Devon left the office and sent her intern, Cindy in with the coffee. Steve rolled his eyes again at the little girl in front of him. She was a vapid girl, but she was Senator Ward’s daughter, and he needed the Senator in his pocket. She left after batting her eyes at him. As he read his daily reports, Devon called when Sam and Natasha were on his floor.

Married was a good look on Sam Wilson. He walked in with confidence, holding door for his wife, Natasha. Natasha Romanoff-Wilson, ex-assassin and corporate lawyer, was the best fit for Grant. She treated the opposition as she would have the enemy. They made a great team to get everything Steve ordered done.

“Hey Cap, how are you today?”

“How many times, Wilson, have I asked you to stop calling me that?”

“Old habits die hard,” Sam said with a laugh. He shook Steve’s hand and Steve kissed Natasha’s cheek before settling down to business. “Steve, as you know, the university in New Jersey is looking into funding for its engineering program.”

“Shouldn’t Stark be the more appropriate company to sponsor something like that?”

“You would think,” Natasha said, “but we need the exposure. Stark has a few interns but would need to lose one or two and they want us to take them on. So sponsoring the program would be a good tie in.”

“If it boosts our profile, I guess its ok. But can we also get another program as well. Something in education?” Steve wanted to be of service to all.

“We can, absolutely,” Sam said. “We can look at the background of some of the interns.”

“Perfect. What else?”

The meeting continued for a few hours until it was time for Steve’s training session. “I don’t know why you keep training Steve. You’re retired,” Sam commented.

“Because when you have the serum running through you, you have to burn out the energy somehow.”

“Then get a girl.” Sam smirked at him. “That will get you to burn off some eagerly.”

“Sam!” Natasha smacked her husband.

“I’ll work on that Wilson. Natasha, see you tonight? Save me a dance?”

“Of course Steve.” Natasha kissed Steve’s cheek.

“See you tonight Rogers,” Sam shook Steve’s hand. He took Natasha’s hand and led her from the room.

Steve headed into his en-suite to change for his workout with Bucky. Bucky was already in the private gym, lifting when Steve came in. “Hey Steve,” he said with a grunt.

“Hey Buck.” Steve took off his sweatshirt. “What are we doing today?”

“Just a spar. Let you go out full. I hear a little frustration today.”

“Just have to go to an event for Wanda and Stark and they are ‘assigning’ me a date.”

Bucky chuckled. “Why not invite one of the girls…”

“Because that is not why I have them there for.” Bucky was the only one who knew of Steve’s preferences. He made sure that the girls came and went unnoticed. “I don’t need them to think that I want something more.”

“But don’t you?” Bucky and Steve circled each other in the ring.

“No, they would just become a distraction or worse, a target.” Steve threw a punch. “Besides, all of these women only want the shield and not me. I don’t want that.”

“Maybe one day you’ll find someone who will like you for you,” Bucky said, jumping from the leg sweep. It is possible.

“I don’t want to talk about this, Buck.” Steve grunted as Bucky landed a punch to his solar plex. “I just want to get through this day.”

Steve went to shower and review the business for the rest of the day. Devon calls him, “I have an Isabella Davis here for signatures, sir.”

“I thought it was Delilah Stevens.”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“It’s alright. Send her in please.”

Steve looked back down at the report he was reading. His office door opened and a flurry of arms and legs landed on the floor. Steve rushed over. “Are you alright?”

Her face looked up at his to see the most startling violet blue eyes he had ever seen.

Taglist:

@patzammit @texmexdarling @slutforchrisjamalevans @jennmurawski13-writes @firephotogrl74 @tinkerbelle67 @before-we-get-started @bunnyforhim @alexakeyloveloki

#andy's hea #andy's shenanigans #yours submissively #chris evans fanfiction #steve rogers au #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fanfiction #Steve Rogers x OFC #Bucky barnes #chris evans #mcu fanfiction #Steve rogers #steve rogers imagine #chris evans au #avengers au

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siderealmaven · 5 months

Text

The Money Houses

2H - your food, streams of income, finances, assets

3H - commute to work, correspondence, advertising

5H - stocks, investments, gambling, your fathers income

6H - employment, job description, coworkers/employees, physical job location

7H - Business partners, lawyers, consultants, binding contracts and agreements

8H - Partner’s finances, debts, loans, inheritance, financial gifts, taxes

9H - Financial institutions, Banks, the IRS, work travel

10H - reputation, business names, pen names, bosses, supervisors, authority figures

11H - Industry peers, professional alliances, unions, your mothers income

12H - Work from home, traveling abroad for work

#sidereal astrology #sidereal zodiac #astroblr #astrology tumblr #astrology tips #houses #2nd house #5th house #6th house #7th house #8th house #9th house #10th house #11th house #12th house #3rd house

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vanwritesfan-fiction · 10 months

Text

Degree of Fancy

Part One: The Infamous Professor Barnes

Pairing: Professor!Bucky Barnes x Black!College!Reader

Words: 2,442

Synopsis: The only thing standing in the way between you and graduation is a class you’ve been dreading since Freshman year for two reasons. 1. Political Science- why do you even need to take this class if you are getting a degree in Screenwriting?, 2. You’ve heard some interesting things about Professor Barnes. This should go well.

Warnings: None right now, we’re just setting the scene. Reader gets turned on at a couple of points but nothing scandalous. 18+ as always.

Author’s Note: I hate this title so it is definitely going to change at some point, but right now its all I’ve got lol. This will be a multi-part series, released periodically.

“All I’m saying is that if I were you, I wouldn’t have turned Trent down. He’s been pining for you for the last four years, and I’m starting to feel for the guy”. You gave your friend Lela a look that said, “I can’t believe you’re bringing this up again for the third time today”, as you pushed your way through the double doors that led to the classroom.

You hurried down the steps of the auditorium to grab a seat in the middle of the classroom, setting your backpack down on the floor and pulling out your laptop. Lela took the seat next to you, but she didn’t bother to bring anything to class. Lela wasn’t the type to pay attention during an 85-minute lecture, so she traveled light. She had her iPhone in one hand, a lukewarm coffee in the other. “And this wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Trent is your brother’s best friend, would it?” your tone accusatory rather than questioning. Lela rolled her eyes and took a sip from her Styrofoam cup. She grimaced at the taste, a reminder that campus did not have any good coffee for miles. She turned her body to you, but you barely looked up at her. “Listen, this is our last year of college before we are forced to go out into the world of adulting and be forever caught up in bills and responsibilities”. You scoffed, “some of us have already been worried about bills and responsibilities for the last four years”.

You loved Lela, but to say she was out of touch with the real world was an understatement. You glanced at your friend without turning your head, and you noticed she looked annoyed. Lela was what you imagined when someone mentioned the term classically beautiful. Her brown hair and blue eyes were striking, and you couldn’t deny she was pretty, like she had stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalogue. Her family came from a long line of lawyers and businessmen, the women in the family were expected to be stay at home mothers, spending their free time gossiping at their friends at the local women’s chapter meetings. Her spot at Columbia was all but secured from the moment she entered Kindergarten. You weren’t sure how you had even managed to become friends because your lives were so different. While you didn’t grow up poor, Columbia was a culture shock for you. You had to work two jobs just to pay for your books and necessities, and you knew that your triple figure student loans were waiting for you on the other side of graduation. You snapped the hair tie on your wrist (a reminder to come back to reality) before pulling it off and putting your hair in a bun. Lela had decided to ignore you, continuing her campaign for Trent. “I’ve seen his dick Y/N, it’s not too bad”, she shrugged before turning her body back to face the front of the classroom. “Listen” you waived the image from your mind with a swipe of your hand in front of your face, “I don’t even want to know how you know that. I just want to get through this class. I am three credits away from graduating, and then I can finally start sending out my screenplays to directors and producers. Please, enough with the guy and dick talk”, you shook your hands in prayer pose at Lela, practically begging for her to drop it.

“Speaking of nice dicks”, Lela gestured with her coffee cup towards the front of the classroom where a man was walking through the door towards the podium at the front. He seemed distracted by something, a brief case in one hand, an unidentified bottle in the other. The entire classroom went quiet as he placed his case on the table next to the podium and began collecting his notes for class. You could barely make it out underneath the long sleeves of his shirt, but there it was, the metal hand you had heard so much about. The classroom was so quiet, you could hear was the wiring of the mechanics of his arm as he shifted his posture out of discomfort. There was something hypnotic about the way he moved around the room, calculated, almost like a dance. You would rarely call someone so buff and rigid graceful, but he had somehow mastered both. You had heard many things about Professor Barnes; his time as an Avenger, his terrible past, how he was a tough grader, but to see him in the flesh was like being in the presence of a God. You had heard the myth, but never expected to see the man. He wasn’t dressed like most professors at Columbia, choosing a navy blue henley, the top buttons undone to expose a bit of his chest, dark trouser pants, and combat boots. Her was nicely groomed, in contrast to his outfit, his hair long and slicked back, a heavy beard and mustache on his face. Fuck, he looked amazing, and incredibly out of place. From your seat, you had a pretty good view, and when he looked up to address the class, you two immediately made eye contact. His blue eyes were piercing, and you felt like you could drown in the ocean he held within his pupils. The eye contact dragged on too long for your comfort, so you dropped it to look back at your computer.

When you looked back up to see if he had moved on, he was still looking at you. His stare made you uncomfortable and safe at the same time, a feeling that was unfamiliar to you. You shifted in your seat, and Lela tapped at your shoulder repeatedly, giddy about seeing the interaction the two of you just had. Her eyes shifted between the two of you, Professor Barnes still staring. It was like he was looking through you, instead of at you, trying to bore a hole into your soul. You were so uncomfortable after a few minutes, you thought about collecting your things and running out of the classroom, anything to stop this interaction from continuing. He finally came out of his trance and cleared his throat, running his hand through his hair a couple of times. You could have sworn he seemed embarrassed, not in control, but you shook it off, hoping to get out of this class as quickly as possible with a good grade. You didn’t need to be distracted by your incredibly hot teacher all semester. He turned his back to class, grabbed the projector remote from the podium and turned on the projector. “Can you hit the lights, Nicky?” he turned to his teaching assistant who was seated in the first row. The room went dark, and you let out a big sigh, at least he wouldn’t be able to stare at you any longer if he couldn’t see you.

“This is UN1611, International Politics. If this is not the class you are supposed to be in this semester, please feel free to see yourself out”. His gruff voice sent a shiver down your spine, hitting you right in your groin. Fuck, stop it, you are not attracted to your teacher. He paused to allow for any students to leave, and after two hurried out of the class, he continued. “I don’t care about the syllabus, so we’re not going to waste an entire class going through it. You all know how to read, I assume, and can find it in the student portal”. A few students groaned at realizing this wasn’t going to be a throw away class. “I know, what a shame”, you let out a quiet laugh at his rebuttal, and he looked right in your direction, as if he knew the laugh came from you. A small smile slipped across his face as he looked out into the sea of students. “I hate grading assignments, and I know you hate doing them, so it will be up to you keep up with the readings. You will only have two tests, both worth 50% of your grade, so it’s imperative that you pay attention and keep up”. Professor Barnes paced around the room to exemplify his point.

The next seventy minutes were a blur, and you hoped that Professor Barnes physique was going to be on the final exam, because it was all you studied for the entire class. You would certainly ace that test. How his smile was electric when he got excited about a topic, and he would gesture wildly when describing his experiences in the countries he had visited and their impact on global relations. How his pecs would flex when he cleared his throat multiple times during his presentation, and when he turned his back to the class to write on the board, his back muscles would flex, and you were sure his shirt was going to rip right then and there. You didn’t even notice class had ended until a student passed by you, blocking your view of the teacher. You turned to look at Lela, who had dozed off 15 minutes into class and now was full, open mouth snoring. “Lela let’s go”. You shook your friend’s shoulder till she woke with a fright. “What happened?” she rubbed her eyes, gathering her things half awake. “Class happened”, you laughed and put your laptop in your backpack, slinging it on your back. “Did I dream it, or is Professor Barnes hot? Like fuck you raw dog in the bathroom of a club hot?”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” you were startled by a familiar gruff voice and looked to the left to see that Professor Barnes was standing next to Lela, brief case in hand, his metal arm empty. He flexed it a couple of times as if he was stiff and in pain. “Definitely a compliment”, Lela had no shame, and she was rarely embarrassed, so him hearing her didn’t phase her one bit. Professor Barnes let out a genuine chuckle, and you saw his face soften. You had never seen someone so beautiful. He was hardened, looked tired, a tired that no amount of sleep could fix, but still beautiful non the less. “I’m so sorry about her, she doesn’t know any better”, you tried to apologize for your friend, but the professor waived your apology off. “Don’t worry about it. Like she said, I should take it as a compliment”.

“Professor Barnes, may I just say, I am so excited to take your class. I am such a fan of politics, especially international ones”. You rolled your eyes at Lela’s attempt at flirting, you knew she was going to make it her mission to sleep with the teacher, she had done so quite a few times. “I don’t know many people who are fans of politics” he paused so Lela could introduce herself, “but glad to hear it Lela”. He looked over at you to give you a chance to introduce yourself, but you couldn’t find the words. “Her name is Y/N”, Lela filled the silence. Professor Barnes reached out his free hand to offer a handshake to you, but you hesitated. You weren’t exactly sure if he was going to crush your bones with that metal hand of his, and you were too scared to find out. Before it got any more awkward you extended your hand out to meet his. The handshake was brief and surprisingly gentle, and you imagined what other parts of him felt like. “Call me Bucky, Professor Barnes is way too formal. I’ll admit that I don’t get to meet many of my students, I guess my reputation proceeds me”, he waived his metal hand in the air, “but I promise I am harmless. If you two will excuse me, I’ve got to get to a meeting”. He dipped his head in acknowledgement of us and headed up to the stairs to exit the classroom. “What the fuck was that?” Lela whipped her head in your direction, “I don’t know, but we need to get out of here”. You both hustled out of your seats and ran out of the auditorium.

‘Want to grab lunch?” Lela asked without looking up from her phone while you two were standing in the hallway of the busy International Affairs building. “Can’t, I have to meet up with my study group, we’re going over the final drafts of our scripts”. “Yeah, yeah, okay I’ll see you later”, Lela was already preoccupied with her lunch order as she walked away from you. You scanned the hallway and made a mental note to take the stairs, so you didn’t have to wait for the elevator at lunch time. You ducked down another hallway when your phone pinged. You pulled it from your back pocket and scoffed at the text from Lela sharing Trent’s contact information with the message “just give him a chance”. You pushed open the door to the stairwell, your eyes still fixed on your phone, immediately colliding with a hard body. Your phone dropped from your hand, and you placed both of your hands on the chest of this unknown body to steady yourself. When you looked up you were face to face with Professor Barnes. Well chest to face, he was at least 5 inches taller than you, and his frame towered over yours easily.

You both resumed your staring game from earlier in the day, but the thought of being late to your study group brought you back to reality. That, and the fact that you distinctly felt two large hands on your waist, and upon looking down realized that those large hands belonged to Bucky. Fuck, you loved the name Bucky. “Sorry about that”, he quickly dropped his hands. “I should really put my phone down when I’m walking. I act like I know how to pay attention to both things at once”, you said as you gathered your phone from the floor. Bucky let out a deep chuckle and raked his metal hand through his hair. This had to be his signature move, he did it so well. “Not a problem”, he walked past you through the threshold, placing a gentle hand on your lower back to guide you in the opposite direction. You just stood there, unable to move, think, do anything really. The only thing you could focus on was the pooling of heat in your lower stomach. That touch had done something to you. Fuck! You were going to fantasize about your professor all semester, weren’t you?

#sebastian stan #sebastianstan #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut

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