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ericsprincess · 7 months

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i can't stop for you and me

nc-17, Sung Hanbin/Reader, office au, lawyer!reader, also bully!reader (kinda), doormat!Hanbin, cunnilingus

~~~

A/N: Reparations ;) This is a gift for a friend. I'm not a ZB1 fan and I don't know them well, so I hope it’s at least a little bit of a fitting scenario for Hanbin.

~~~

Fucking CUTE. You think while spinning your pen between your fingers. You’re sitting behind your big wooden desk, peeking over the dossier that you’ve been pretending to read for the past 15 minutes, your eyes scanning through the office in front of you, until they find your favorite target - your new pretty assistant, Hanbin.

To be honest, he’s not even doing anything particularly cute, he’s quite literally just doing his job, staring into a computer screen and typing occasionally. He’s that pretty and adorable just by existing, with his delicate porcelain doll face and black hair.

I should have hired that old lady, you lament, but you know it’s bullshit. You knew you’re gonna give him a job offer the moment he walked into the meeting room for his interview, all fresh from school and excited to start his career. He looked so proper and polite, thoughtfully answering every question, even daring to blush and sweat under your scrutiny. You took one brief look at his CV to check if he’s qualified enough, and he was. There might have been better, more experienced candidates, but you decided to do this thing for you, just this once. Treat yourself.

And now it’s coming back at you in full force.

This is not good. This is a problem. His presence makes you feel things and all of them are inappropriate at the very least.

It’s not helping that he would obviously bend over backwards to make you happy. You don’t even need to finish the question and he’s already eagerly rushing to complete whatever unnecessary task you made up this time. No request is dumb enough for him to object, and you actually tried. He would just happily go about his way to fulfill it. You could send him to sort cases by alphabetical order backwards and he would just ask when it’s supposed to be done. Sometimes you like to ruffle his feathers a little more by giving him work that he’s clearly not ready for, like that one time where you made him give a presentation to your client instead of yourself. You actually thought he’s going to faint, but somehow he powered through it just by sheer determination, earning an approving smile and nod from you, going all red in reply.

Not to say that thanks to his good looks he solved your perpetual problem of missing partner at every work function and dumb dinner party with clients. Now you get to drag your handsome assistant along as your plus one to every event, where you can not only parade him around, but also enjoy him fussing over your comfort, bringing you drinks, holding your coat or bag and even driving you home. You can see the jealousy in others and it makes you secretly happy.

You wouldn’t be able to do that, if you hired that old lady.

And even today, despite being already long past his shift, he still decided to stay working late, just because you did. The office is already empty and dark, the only sole source of light shining on his face is his computer screen in his cubicle and the light coming out of your glass walled office.

He rubs his eyes.

You slap the dossier down on your desk.

“Hanbin-sshi, can you please come here for a second?” you call out.

“Yes, ma’am,” he immediately replies and gets up. He’s sluggish and obviously tired and you almost feel bad for him. Almost.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asks.

“Yes. I would like you to run to the Starbucks, I want some coffee. I’d like a venti pumpkin spice latte-” you pause, seeing as he’s struggling to fish out his phone to take notes. “with four shots of espresso, almond milk, light caramel drizzle, light foam, one pump of pumpkin sauce, one pump of maple pecan sauce and salt topping. Thank you.” you smirk at him as he’s dutifully tapping everything down.

“No problem, I’ll be right back, ma’am,” he bows a little and rushes out of the door.

Your stomach rumbles. Actually.

“Actually!” you call out, but he doesn’t reply. You jump out from behind your table in hope of maybe being able to catch him, but when you run out of the office you can see he’s already left.

Oh well. Maybe I’ll just send him for the second time, when he gets back.

You turn back to return to your office, when his computer pings with a message.

Huh? He didn’t lock his computer?

You take a look, and really - he didn’t. He must have forgotten or just didn’t care, since no one else is left at the office at this time.

Moreover, the message is not from your designated work chat app, but from a personal one. You lean forwards to take a look at the unread notification.

matt says: so how’s the late hours with the sexy boss going? dude you’re a masochist.

You blink. Without any hesitation you click on the chat and scroll through the last messages.

hb says: fuck it's getting really hard to hide my boners from her

>every time she orders me around i can barely think

>i just go home and jerk off everyday thinking about her bossing me around

>if she ever finds out im screwed

>i literally stayed working late, just in case she wants something

>she could ask me to eat her pussy under her desk and i would just crawl under

>matt i’m so fucked

Your reflection on the computer screen twists into a wide grin. Oh. What a beautiful bunch of revelations.

You had a hunch that he must like taking orders and feeling accomplished by completing tasks, but you didn’t know it’s sexual for him. Much less, that it’s because of you, in particular. But hey, at least it validates your own interests in this little game.

You do your best to curb your giddiness and return back behind your desk. Hanbin appears a few minutes later, with your coffee in hand and a little bag in another.

“Here, ma’am. I also took the liberty to bring you some snack, since it’s really late and you must be hungry.” he hands you both.

You open the little back and pull out a blueberry muffin. “Thank you, Hanbin-sshi,” you take a bite. “It’s like you’re reading my mind. I hope I’m not putting you through too much trouble.”

“Oh, no, really, it’s not a problem,” he’s quick to assure you, shaking his head.

“Hanbin-sshi, it’s such a joy to have you. You’re always so eager and helpful, I could not pick a better assistant,” you smile kindly at him.

“T-thanks, ma’am, this really means a lot to me.” he stutters, cheeks already burning red.

“Sometimes it feels like I could ask you to eat my pussy under my desk, and you would just crawl right under, wouldn’t you?” you ask with a smirk.

He freezes. Gotcha.

“I-..”

“You?”

“I- I actually, I would,” he admits. He looks nervous, like he's sure he’s busted, outed as a pervert and will be fired immediately. It looks good on him.

“Okay,” you nod and push yourself off your desk on your chair. You gesture at the space. “Be my guest.”

He looks at you disbelievingly, as if he’s not sure if you’re serious or if it’s just some kind of a prank. But eventually, he seems to make up his mind.

He slowly falls on his knees. He looks at you, as if to check whether it is really something you want, and when he sees you’re not putting a stop to it, he slowly crawls on his all fours under your big desk.

You roll your chair back to its place. You look down, where two big eyes are staring right back at you.

“I hope it were not just empty words, Hanbin-sshi. I’m sure you don’t want to disappoint me,” you warn him.

“No, of course not, ma’am,” he hurries to assure you and visibly gathers all the courage to actually touch you. He runs his hands over your legs and leans forwards.

He starts kissing your thighs, while bunching your skirt up, even daring to suck and lick a little at your skin. He slowly gets to your pussy and he doesn’t hesitate to lick over your panties, already wet ever since you discovered his true feelings. It’s like he’s trying to get as much of your taste as he can through them, licking until they are completely drenched with both your juices and his saliva. He’s kneeling in front of you, holding you around your hips, his whole face buried in your crotch, like he doesn't care if he can even breathe.

It feels good and you’re getting more and more aroused, but you can’t wait for a more direct stimulation. You grab him by his hair and pull him off you by force. You quickly lift yourself up to pull down your panties, and he frantically helps, even tries to dive back in, but your hold won’t let him.

You look into his eyes and wait a second until he calms down a bit, while he whimpers. He’s all red and clearly aroused and he looks so pretty, you’re sure you will never forget this sight of his delicate face, eager to pleasure you.

“Now you can,” you say and let go of his hair. He doesn’t hesitate a moment and quickly leans forwards to get back your pussy.

It feels like his tongue is everywhere. He’s licking all over your pussy and trying to push his tongue in. You have half a mind to tell him to use his fingers, but his tongue already feels so good, you want to see if he will manage to make you cum only like that.

And it seems he will, since when he moves to your clit, it’s basically game over for you.

He’s clearly bringing out his A-game, rubbing all over your clit with flat tongue in cruel tempo, building up your pleasure, until he can tell you’re getting close, then switching to quicker flicks, his mouth sealed around your pussy as if he was making out with it.

You’re getting close and you know he can tell, just by the sounds you’re making. You’re so wet it must be dripping off his face. He’s tireless, his tongue never stopping, he’s even moaning a little, as if it was him being pleasured.

You grab him by his hair and push him even closer and then you’re cumming, smothering him with your pussy and juices and not letting him breathe at all, not until you’re finished. He’s not fighting it, letting you ride his face as much as you need, slowly coming down from your orgasm.

You let him go, and he takes a deep breath. He looks up at you.

You roll your chair back a little. You take a moment to enjoy the look at him all out of his mind, kneeling under your desk, red, sweaty and disheveled. He’s breathing heavily, aroused and undeniably close to orgasm, without even touching himself.

“Are you hard, Hanbin-sshi?” you ask.

It’s a stupid question, his cock is obviously tenting his pants, even leaving a dark wet spot on them. But he nods regardless, eyes glazed over, face still wet. His black hair is sticking to his face a little.

“If you manage to drive us to my apartment without either crashing or cumming, I’ll suck you off. What do you think about that?”

You can see his breath hitching. He doesn’t even need to answer.

“Go get your coat.”

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crinkled-emotions · 2 months

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If you are taking prompts for buddie. Could you do one where Buck is sick maybe with food poisoning from the whumperil lists and Eddie ties care of him. If you don't like that prompt maye use the one "I think I need to sit down" for buck. Have eddie catch him and slowly lower him down.

If you arnet taking prompts that's ok! Thank.

Hehehehe anon I hope you're still here bc I'm BACK to be a menace to the 9-1-1 fandom (be completely ignored) and yet they can't get rid of me!)

I started a rewatch so I'd be ready for season 7 then I remembered it won't be (legally) available in Australia for ages... and kept watching anyway bc it's been so long since I did a complete rewatch from s1 e1. It's been SUCH a treat.

I've also got a friend watching for the first time and their excitement is reminding me so much of the first time I saw this bunch of adults in firefighter uniforms and went oh.

Anywho- on to the fic!

"Eddie, hold up!"

Eddie glanced over his shoulder, frowning when he spotted Bobby jogging down the stairs.

"What's up, Cap?"

"I know you're going home but I was hoping you could check on Buck. He just called out and I need to organise someone to cover him."

Eddie paused, brows furrowed.

"Did he say why?"

"I was hoping he'd told you."

That reminded Eddie- he hadn't heard from Buck all shift which was very unusual. He shifted his bag to his other shoulder and reached into his back pocket for his phone, checking his messages.

"I've got nothing, but I'll let you know what I find."

"Thanks Eddie."

Bobby squeezed his arm then headed back upstairs, calling out goodbye to Hen, Chim and Ravi who were also going home after a long 24 hours. Eddie also waved at them, sending a quick text to Buck to warn him he was stopping by. He was hoping Buck had a minor cold but something told him to stop by a pharmacy on his way over just in case.

One visit to CVS later and Eddie was letting himself into Buck's apartment, plastic bag in hand. The apartment was eerily quiet as he stepped inside, unusual because even if he was upstairs for a moment Buck usually had the TV in the living room playing for background noise. Eddie dumped the plastic bag and double checked the living area for signs of life, poked his head into the downstairs bathroom, and then took the steps to the mezzanine level. His eyebrows knit together in confusion as he took in the rumpled blankets, the empty water bottles strewn throughout the room, and Buck-

Buck.

"What happened to you?"

Eddie knelt by the Buck-shaped figure in bed, finding his shoulder and giving it a gentle shake.

"Ugh, Eddie no, don't. I'll puke again."

"Again?"

Buck groaned, turning his head. Blue eyes met brown and Eddie put the back of his hand to Buck's forehead.

"You're a little warm. How long have you been puking?"

"What time is it?"

"Nearly 1pm."

"Almost twelve hours."

Buck leaned into Eddie's touch, eyes fluttering shut into a grimace when Eddie pulled the blankets off.

"C'mon, sit up. Let me get a better look."

Unwillingly Buck did as asked, leaning against the headboard.

"Does anything else hurt?"

"My head and my stomach; I think I ate something bad."

"Wait here."

Eddie hefted himself back up, rounding the bed to go back downstairs. Buck huffed, swiping at his eyes.

"Not like I can go anywhere!"

He grumbled, playing with a loose thread on his boxers.

"Not without puking at least."

He glanced up when he heard footsteps on the stairs and Eddie reappeared, plastic CVS bag in hand.

"What are you doing?" Buck asked, watching Eddie dump it on the end of the bed and rifle through it for a moment.

"I got you something... aha!"

He produced a bottle of Pedialyte and a plastic cup he must have grabbed from downstairs, pouring a serving of the liquid and then handing it to Buck.

"Bottoms up."

"Eddie," Buck groaned, "I-"

"-I know, you're really nauseous. Just trust me."

Eddie's never led him astray before and he's not likely to start now. Not after everything. Not after last summer.

Eddie still gets a funny look on his face when Buck brings up that random Friday morning kiss. It's not regret, it's never regret, just... well. Buck's not really sure. He's never seen Eddie like that.

He downed the Pedialyte.

The nausea reached its peak a few minutes later and it was only Eddie's quick dad/medic responses that got the trash can under Buck's chin in time. He'd been sitting on the other side of the bed, flicking through the channels to find something to watch considering it was almost 2pm. The minute Buck scrambled to sit up again after being asleep for almost an hour Eddie had grabbed the trash can and handed it to him with lightning fast reflexes, instinctively rubbing Buck's back. When Buck resurfaced Eddie handed him a tissue, switching that for the soiled bin liner.

"Here. You- uh."

"Thanks."

Buck's voice was hoarse as he wiped himself off, cheeks flushed a gentle pink. Whether that was from the fever, the humiliation of throwing up in front of his crush or a combination of both he wasn't willing to think too hard about. Eddie hefted himself off the bed, taking the trash can from his hands.

"Back in a sec."

He headed for the ensuite and Buck listened to the toilet flush then the sink run, hand slapping out to reach for his water bottle Eddie had kindly refilled earlier. A couple sips settled without issue in his stomach and he adjusted when Eddie reappeared, placing the bin back down beside Buck before flopping on to the bed with him and reaching into his back pocket for his phone.

"Chris said they're starting Earth Sciences this week," he said absentmindedly as he replied to whatever was going on then tossed his phone on to the bedside table and glanced over at Buck.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm gonna sue them," Buck complained pitfully as he lay back down, burying his head into his pillow. Eddie snorted.

"Careful Buck, remember last time you did that?"

An eye opened, the blue a stark contrast against the dark sheets, but then Buck smiled.

"I'll sue you too Eddie Diaz."

Eddie rolled his eyes as he swatted at Buck's shoulder, grabbing the remote again.

"Sure you will, man. Now what do you want to watch?"

Buck hummed, scrubbing at his eyes.

"Mmmmm... nothing food related."

Eddie flicked past an old rerun of Martha Stewart, nodding.

"Of course."

The clock struck five and Eddie carefully extracted himself from where Buck had somehow managed to curl up with his head on Eddie's thigh and was having another sick nap. He checked his phone and saw the notification that the food was almost there so he went into the kitchen and grabbed bowls. He heard someone knock on the door and went over to take the food from the delivery guy, thanking him as he carried it back to the kitchen island. In a couple minutes he had Buck's broth in a bowl and warm, his own stir fry hot and begging to be eaten. Considering Eddie had just come off a 24 hour shift when he headed to "check" on Buck, the food was very welcome and he took a couple bites for himself before sneaking upstairs to check on Buck. He was still asleep and for the first time since Eddie had barged into his apartment, he didn't look like he was uncomfortable. A part of Eddie felt cruel for waking him but the other part of him, the medic part, knew Buck needed something in his stomach that wasn't Pedialyte or water.

"Hey, Buck, come eat something," he called up the stairs. Eddie heard Buck groan followed by the sound of him trying to get out of bed.

"Eddie I'm dying," he groaned. Eddie rolled his eyes.

"You're clearly feeling better if you're complaining about dying. C'mon, come down here."

Sure enough, Buck made his way downstairs in a pair of athletic shorts and a shirt just as Eddie tossed a spoon down on the table beside the bowl. He collapsed into the seat in front of the soup, one eye on the downstairs bathroom door.

"Try and keep that down then we can talk about something solid."

"Thanks, Eds."

Buck picked up the spoon and tentatively worked on getting the soup down; Eddie joined him after a minute and practically chewed through his stir fry without even thinking about it. Nothing could ever be as good as Bobby's-

Oh, that's what he forgot.

Bobby: is everything okay?

Bobby: Eddie?

Eddie: sorry Bobby I completely forgot

Eddie: he's got food poisoning but he's already coming out the other side

Bobby: I figured you'd call if there were issues. Thanks Eddie

Buck, sitting beside Eddie working on his soup, raised an eyebrow as Eddie put his phone down.

"What's Chris up to?"

"Hopefully not begging Carla for a second serving of ice cream. No; that was Bobby. He was worried when you called in."

Buck frowned; Eddie could see where his mind was going and touched his shoulder.

"I would have come to check on you if I'd known even if he didn't ask. You don't call out of work unless you're contagious or it's serious."

Buck pushed away the soup, elbow on the table so he could rest his head on his hand. Eddie reached over to check him for a fever again.

"How do you feel?" He asked. Buck made the so-so motion.

"My head hurts."

"Go lie on the couch; I'll change your sheets so you can go to bed."

"Eddie no, you don't have to-"

"-Buck, it's clean sheets; not a marriage proposal."

Buck's mouth twitched upward into a smile; Eddie squeezed his shoulder and left the table to go upstairs. Buck watched after him with a warm feeling in his stomach.

It wasn't nausea.

When Buck stirred the next morning he paused, grimacing to take stock of the situation. His head was down to a gentle (irritating) throb against his temples but his stomach was staying put for the time being. The sheets were still tucked over him and he yawned into his hand, rolling over and tossing an arm over his bed mate-

Wait.

Cracking his eyes open Buck took stock of the situation. He knew he'd been sick again sometime overnight, barely able to remember tossing cookies (soup) because it had come out of nowhere in his doze. Part of him remembered Eddie being there, a figure in the darkness and he'd-

He'd stayed.

"Eddie," Buck whispered. Eddie cracked an eye open and reached his arm out, brushing a thumb over Buck's cheek.

"You look better," he rasped. Buck hummed.

"You didn't have to stay."

"Hm, well, maybe I wanted to."

Buck's eyes fluttered shut as he revelled in the feeling of Eddie's thumb on his cheek. When Eddie was half asleep he could be incredibly tactile and Buck lived for when he got to see Eddie like that.

"No one needs to see-"

"-Buck. I want to know when you're sick, or you're hurting. Whatever it is."

Buck's cheeks flushed and he buried his face back against his pillow. Eddie's hand moved to the back of his neck, brushing through the ends of his hair like it was something he did all the time.

"Thanks for coming, Eddie."

"Sure."

Eddie gently squeezed Buck's shoulder.

It felt like coming home.

#9-1-1 #911 #911 on ABC #911onabc #Evan Buckley #Buck #Eddie Diaz #Buddie #Sickfic #Hurt/comfort #Fluff

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indiaalphawhiskey · 1 year

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Hi love ❤️ I’ve seen you’ve been missing writing and while I don’t want to burden this on you (please only respond if thinking and writing about this gives you joy) I wanted to share these two pics I keep connecting in my brain as if they happened at the same moment.

Harry walks by Louis’ desk. Their eyes meet.

And I keep wondering, what is going on here? Do you know?? 👀

Ask and you shall receive. 😘

— (loosely) based on Can You Keep A Secret? by Sophie Kinsella

—————

Harry was barely able to fight another yawn as he stood up from his incredibly new, incredibly bare, incredibly normal office desk.

As he closed his laptop and slipped it in his bag, he tried not to be too disappointed. All in all, the day had gone pretty well.

Ish.

Okay, so it had kind of been dead boring, but that was partially Harry’s fault for expecting too much. Apparently, almost dying on a horrifically turbulent flight halfway across the world to get a foot in the door of your dream job at an indie record label tended to lead to a rather anticlimactic first day. Who knew?

Like, not that Harry expected Elton John to walk through the halls or anything (that would be ridiculous; he was signed by Universal, everyone knew that), but like, maybe some grungy up-and-comer he could brag to all his friends about finding in a garage in the future.

Or, even the rumored new (hot), young (hot), brilliant (hot), openly gay (and hot) CEO, at least. Just to, like, confirm the rumors of the insanity of his hotness, you know?

But alas, the Mystery Boss had been holed up in a twelve-hour meeting that hadn’t even stopped for lunch, and God, did Harry somehow get tricked into working for the indie record label version of JP Morgan?

He grimaced. Considering his luck last weekend, he wouldn’t put it past the universe.

But just as he let out another quiet sigh, a petulant pout already forming on his lips, the door to the fortress that was Conference Room A opened. And because Harry was nothing if not nosy, he craned his neck just enough to take a harmless little peek inside at the head of the table.

It happened like lighting — blue eyes, and a smart smirk, and a 28 tattooed on his fingers.

And, thinking about that exact moment in hindsight, Harry would bet everything he owned that if there was a way his soul could have simply left him to die from embarrassment right then, it probably would have because…

“Flight 568, this is your captain speaking.”

“Oh God,” Harry whimpered over the crackling of the speaker as the plane rattled wildly all around them, “oh God, we’re going to die. Our captain is about to tell us we’re going to die,” he said, clutching the fingers of the stranger beside him without bothering to spare a thought to manners or like, boundaries. What on earth did he need manners for, now that they were clearly about to fucking die?

“We’re not going to die, mate,” the stranger said, his Northern accent calm.

But Harry wasn’t listening.

“Uhhh, we are,” he deigned to argue, even with the panic that was rising in his throat with each new violent shake. Then, suddenly, faced with the mounting reality of his mortality, Harry blurted out, “I lied on my CV.”

A beat of confused silence before, “O…kay—?”

“I just really wanted this job, you know?” Harry continued, because apparently, the precipice of death made him chatty. “It’s literally the dream. Like, the job I’ve wanted to do my whole entire life but never thought I’d have a shot at? That job.”

“I… see—”

“So I lied,” Harry repeated, just in case this stranger didn’t understand the depth of his betrayal. “And then I got it, and… and… Oh God—“ Harry wailed, squeezing his eyes shut as the plane rocked like it was made of paper, “And now I’m going to die, and they’re going to know. They’re going to know that I lied about where I went to school and I’m going to be dead, and my super hot new boss is gonna fire me posthumously, which is really unfortunate because I’m pretty sure he’s the kind of hot I would probably let fuck me in against a glass window, you know?” he asked, nervously forcing a laugh as he chanced a quick glance at the stranger.

He was met with blue eyes.

Blue eyes, and a smart smirk, and a 28 tattooed on the fingers Harry was currently crushing in his vice grip.

The stranger chuckled easily. “I’m nervous about my new job too.”

And…

“Oh God,” Harry said then, the horrible horrible truth sinking into his stomach as he watched his new (and now confirmed super, insanely hot) boss narrow his eyes thoughtfully at Harry through the slightly open door, before his brow began to lift in slow, amused recognition.

Oh. God.

#iaw ask #awesomefringey ask #iaw drabble #can you keep a secret

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cevansbrat0007 · 2 years

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Andy’s POV: Regarding Late Night Revelations

Summary: Andy panics when his wife doesn’t come home from running evening errands. Could she be with someone else? Andy Barber x Black Reader

Original version of the story can be found HERE.

*Warnings: Frantic Andy, Angry/Emotional Andy, Pregnancy Reveal, Emotional Reader, Slight Daddy Kink, Cursing, Light Smut (implied), Minors DNI

A/N: For my friend @birdie-girl who requested another version of Late Night Revelations, but written from Andy's point of view. Let me know what you think! Part of my Growing Pains Series. Semi-proofread. Not beta’d. All mistakes are my own.

___

Andy had been home pacing the living room for hours with no sign of his wife.

At first, he hadn’t thought much of her absence. His lovely Y/N had left a pot of homemade chili on the stove and some fresh cornbread, along with a little note telling him that he could find shredded cheddar cheese, sour cream, and hot sauce in the fridge.

So, he’d laddled some thick, hearty goodness into a bowl, loaded it up and had gone to town. And he’d savored every single delicious bite. The chili had just the right amount of spice to it, so there was no need for the hot sauce. But he did help himself to a second sweet slice of cornbread.

After an hour, he’d shot her a text.

Him: The chili was delicious, baby girl. But where are you?

And he’d never heard back. He found that to be incredibly strange. Andy lets another thirty minutes go by before attempting to call her cell. It rings twice before going to voicemail.

Did she just…ignore me? He thinks to himself. She wouldn’t do that.

So he tries again, only to receive the same result.

What the fuck? What could she be doing? Where had she gone?

This was so unlike her! Not to mention the fact that it was nearly 9:30pm. Andy fires off another message:

Him: Are you okay? Why are you ignoring my calls?

Slowly but surely, every single kind of worst case scenario begins running through his overactive brain. What if she had been mugged? Or in a car accident. Could she have been carjacked?

He does his best to put those thoughts out of his mind, but it’s not easy. Maybe she was with a friend. Yep, that had it be it. His Y/N had stopped by to see a friend and had lost track of time.

Okay, okay. He could work with that.

But then why did his thumb, seemingly of its own volition, begin scrolling through his contacts looking for her friend’s names? He starts with Jenna and then goes from there.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s still at a loss. She wasn’t with Jenna, or Rachel, or Sarah. His wife wasn’t with any of her fucking friends.

Andy calls his girl again. Pissed, hurt, and confused, he sends off another text.

Him: Y/N, this isn’t funny. Where the fuck are you?

Him: Why aren’t you answering?

And then he tries her line one more time.

Wifey: I’ll be home soon. I promise.

Him: I need you to answer your damn phone and tell me where you are. Now.

Andy goes to call his wife again, only to realize that she’d done the one thing she knew he hated.

She’d turned off her phone.

His girl was out with someone else. His wife was with another man.

Enraged, he yanks off his tie and slams his fist into the wall. Once. Twice. Three times.

The pain felt good.

—

The moment Andy hears the garage open, he’s at the door. He knows he looks like a mess, but he doesn’t really give a flying fuck. His hair is sticking up every which way, his shirt is untucked…

But at least his wife is in one piece.

He watches as his wife calmly gets out of the car clutching her purse and a random paper bag from CVS. Is that how she was going to play it then? She was at a goddamned drugstore for four, almost five fucking hours? Okay, baby.

“It is 11:15pm.” He growls. “Where the hell have you been? And why the fuck did you turn off your phone?”

“Driving around.” Is all she says before attempting to move past him. Without thinking, his hand instinctively goes to grab her arm, accidentally jerking her backwards.

Oh no, sweetheart. You don’t get to go live it up with some other fucking guy and then try to blow me off like it’s no big deal.

“Who the fuck were you with?”

“No one, Andrew. Now please let me go.” He’s convinced that she’s lying, but he releases her arm anyway.

“I’m going to ask you again.” Andy snarls as he follows his woman into the kitchen, his pulse erratic. “Who the fuck were you with? I know it wasn’t Sarah, or Rachel, or Nicole, or Michelle. Because I called them. And you weren’t at Jenna and Marshall’s place, because I called them too. So I’m going to need you to start fucking talking before I lose my mind even more than I already have!”

“I was alone, honey.”

Bullshit, Y/N. Complete and utter bullshit.

“You were alone this whole time? Right.” He’s tempted to slam his fist into the fucking wall again. “What’s his name?”

His wife winces, albeit briefly, before schooling her features once again.

“Will you tell me his name if I promise not to kill him?” Instead of the wall, he makes the kitchen table his new target. “Fuck, I can’t keep that promise.” Andy couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Andy, sweetheart, if you just give me a moment to compose myself I will explain. Alright?” He crosses his arms and stares her down. His sweet little wife was the only person on this planet who could make him actively entertain thoughts of murder.

And if she thought that she could just spin on her heel and leave him, leave behind everything they had, everything that they had built…

Then she was sorely mistaken.

“Divorce isn’t an option, Y/N. Whatever’s wrong, we can work it out.” He hisses, which only serves to make her roll her eyes. Didn’t she realize that he was teetering on the edge of sanity right now?

“Roll your fucking eyes again and see what happens. As soon as I calm down, I’m going to fire that ass up. Do you hear me?”

“I would never cheat on you.” She tells him. “I get that you’re worried. And angry.” Andy feels his right palm twitch.

His Y/N notices it too. “Okay, very angry.”

His hands go to grip her much smaller biceps, before giving her a light shake. “Do you know how worried I’ve been? How scared I was? You ignored my texts, my calls. You shoot me a vague message saying “be home soon” and then turn off your phone. You do not fucking do that, baby. I am fucking pissed right now.”

“Andy, I understand. And I’m sorry. But I just needed to think. And I needed to do it alone.”

“You needed to think?” He growls and shakes her again. “Do you know how many rooms we have in this house? You mean to tell me that you couldn’t have done all of your so-called thinking here? At home. Where I know you’re safe?”

“No, honey, I couldn’t. Because I had some very important decisions to make.” What kind of fucking decisions? His wife was not the type to speak in riddles. But he would also tie her to the bed before he’d ever let her leave him.

“Divorce isn’t -”

“Hopefully it’s not.” She cuts him off. Andy knows that he is seconds away from losing his collective shit. He knew that he had to look every bit the mad man. Only his wife could turn him into this - into this beast.

“But hold that thought for a moment, okay?” She presses the bag against his chest. “Look inside.”

Confused, Andy gingerl opens the bag and pulls out the first test.

“Two lines.” He murmurs as he pulls out another one. “Two lines.” He says again. “Two lines.”

“Yes, Andy. Two lines. I’m sorry this isn’t more romantic but -”

“You’re pregnant.” He mutters as his mind struggles to make sense of it all. “Where’d you take these?”

“In a dimly lit CVS bathroom.” She whispers.

Andy feels his legs go weak. His knees begin to shake. Which prompts him to back away from his wife and slowly slink to the floor. He couldn’t fucking breathe.

“You’re pregnant. With my baby.” Is all he can say.

“Yes, your baby. You even attempt to question that and I will slug you in the damned jaw.”

His baby was having his baby.

He buries his face in his hands as a series of emotions take hold.

Joy. Relief. Fear. Gratitude.

It was overwhelming. It threatened to suffocate him. After he feels the first hot tear spill its way down his cheek, it’s over. It was all too much.

“Andy…I know…with what happened…ahh shit. If you can’t do this, or if you don’t want to…if it’s too much, part of me understands. I won’t force you. But I want this baby, okay?”

What did she mean she wouldn’t force him? Did his Y/N honestly believe that he would leave her to do this alone? Was she out of her mind?

Another sob, muffled by the hands that covered his mouth, escapes his lips.

He would be damned before he ever let her do this without him. The love of his life was right here, within arms reach, offering him another chance. Offering him the fucking redemption that he knew he did not deserve.

And looks up at his beautiful lady, tears shimmering in his eyes. “Tonight I thought you were with someone else. I thought you wanted to leave me. And then you give me this?” He waves a test in the air. “You come to me with a fucking gift? Giving me another goddamned chance to do this, and do it right?”

“Oh, baby…oh honey.” His woman drops to her knees in front of him and wraps her small, warm arms around his neck.

”You didn’t do anything wrong the first go-round.” She tells him. He doesn’t believe her, but there is a part of him, somewhere deep down that is begging him to listen. To hear her.

“Sometimes life is just a bitch, baby. And unfortunately, you got the shitty end of the stick. But you didn’t deserve that. And neither did Jacob.” He allows himself a moment to quietly sob into his wife’s shoulder.

Andy never liked crying in front of anyone. But with Y/N, with his wife, he knew he was safe. He was always safe in her arms.

“You and I are about to start a brand new adventure together.” She whispers against his temple while rubbing his back. One of her small hands buries itself in his hair, affectionately scratching his scalp the way she knew he liked. “Do you want that?”

“More than anything.” His powerful arms wrap themselves around her tiny frame. “More than words can say. You’re really gonna make me a Daddy again?”

“I’m going to do my best.” She pulls away before using her sleeve to lovingly wipe at his tears. “But Andy, you never stopped being a Daddy. You’ll always be Jacob’s father. And maybe we should talk about him more. And on top of that, you’re my Daddy. Two different things, I know. But I need you. And this little jellybean that is apparently growing in my belly needs you too.”

She needed him. He had to focus on that.

“I’m gonna be here, baby. For everything. Every moment, every ultrasound, every fucking craving. Whatever you want, you get.” It was a vow. One he intended to keep until the day he died. And then he kisses her, moaning at her sweet taste, at the feel of her soft, full lips against his own.

“God, I fucking love the shit out of you. I’m sorry I accused you of cheating. I was scared, baby. And, on some level, I get why you were scared too.” His lovely wife sniffles and then dives in for another kiss.

“But young lady, I really wish you would have brought those tests home and taken them here. I would have waited with you. I hate that you thought you had to do it alone.” And that was the truth. He should have been there to hold her hand. And he would always despise a tiny part of himself for letting her down.

Suddenly unable to control himself, he reverses their positions and pins his baby girl to the floor, careful not to crush her.

“You’re not alone with me, baby. Ever. What did I tell you that one time you faced down that racist asshole, Jeffries, without me?” He buries his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent.

He feels her hands go to his ass, giving it a playful squeeze. “That we are forever partners. And we are. But Andy, I’m scared.”

Guess you were both being honest tonight.

“I’m scared too, Y/N. But we’ve got this, I know we do. We’re going to have a baby, a fucking baby who is fierce and smart and strong…just like his or her Mama.” Unable to help himself, he kisses her little nose.

His girl sniffles again, which makes him sniffle. “I hope he or she is like you, Andy. Strong and calculating and dynamic…just like their Daddy.”

His girl made him crazy. She made him strong. She made him weak. She made him a better man every fucking day.

“They’re going to be a combination of both of us, sweetheart.” He breathes out a heavy sigh. “God help the world.”

“They’re doomed.” She whispers before capturing his mouth again. “Our baby is going to set this world on fire.” Her hands find their way back into his hair. “I need you, Andy. I need you to take me. Make love to me. Please.” He nibbles at her neck as his erection presses against her thigh.

“I need you to fuck me before I get fat and start to waddle.” Now that makes him laugh.

“I cannot fucking wait until you start to waddle. Oh my god, we need to schedule a doctor’s appointment for you. We need to make sure everything’s okay with you and the baby. You need vitamins. And no more coffee, or sushi, or -” Oh Jesus, his overly anxious mind was running rampant once again.

His wifey covers his mouth with her hand. “Andy. Slow down, Big Guy. We’ll get to all that, okay? What matters right now is that I love you. Desperately.”

“I love you two, my sweet, sweet baby girl.” He whispers against her lips.

“Good.” She tickles his ears. “But right now, I’m desperate for you to fuck me. Right here. Right now.”

“Like I said. What my girl wants, she gets.” He murmurs as he begins tearing at her clothes.

“I’m going to give you and our baby the world.” Another vow. “You have my word. Now lay back and enjoy how I fuck my sweet little pussy.”

“Yes, Daddy.” She purrs.

“That’s my good girl.” Andy growls as he frees himself from the confines of his pants and slides home. His fingers intertwine with hers as they make slow, sweet love right there on the kitchen floor.

He savors every breathy moan, every sweet sigh, every little cry of pleasure.

His wife was his world. And soon, they’d be adding another little one to the mix.

And although he didn’t pray often these days…

He hoped to God that he would be gifted with a little girl who sported her Mama’s crazy wild curls, her boisterous laugh, and her same infectious smile.

END

#chris evans #andy barber #chris evans black!reader #andy barber black!reader #chris evans woc!reader #andy barber woc!reader #chris evans imagines #andy barber imagines #andy barber x yn #andy barber x reader #chris evans x reader #andy barber fanfiction #chris evans fanfiction #Cevansbrat0007 fic #cevansbrat0007growing pains series

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nctsplug02 · 2 years

Note

can we get mr. jeong comforting ms. jeong instead 🥺

[3:29pm]

genre: fluff and slight angst

warnings: mentions of car accident, crying, mentions of blood

note: this was before they even had hannie

it had been a week since you passed your divers test and received your divers license. you were always anxious behind the wheel and you hated the feeling of pressure while driving.

today was the day you had to be behind a wheel in your fiancés car. he went to another country to visit his friends who had graduated from college. see, you had to stay behind so you could study and pass your drivers test.

your body shook with fear as you drove on the highway. multiple cars zooming past you— going at least 80 meanwhile you, 40.

cars honked at you in anger as they drove past you after being stuck behind you.

honk!

you look back when hearing a honk behind you—

crash!

you gasp, jerking forward and pressing on your breaks. you look up to see a white car in front of yours, close. a dent made on their bumper.

“holy fuck— holy fuck!” you pant heavily, quickly taking your seatbelt off and rushing out your car. “oh, my god. i’m so sorry! are you okay? is everyone okay?” the person rolls their window down and gasp, opening their door and stepping out.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to crash into you. someone honked behind me and i—i panicked?” the older lady cups got face.

“dear, stop talking. you’re bleeding.” you reach up and you wipe your forehead. “but i didn’t even—? i didn’t even hit my head?” you notice the red liquid on your fingers.

your hands began to shake. your chin began to quiver.

“dear, sit down. you need to take a seat.” the lady leads you to the side but you shake your head, refusing. “no, i have to, i have to call my fiancé.” you stumble towards the car, still holding your head.

you unclip your phone from phone holder and you dial your fiancés number. “hey, babe. i just got my bag— what the fuck happened?! why are you bleeding, baby?” he could care less if people heard him.

“jae, i got in a.. a small accident. i don’t know how i bumped my head but i did and now i’m— im bleeding.” jaehyun doesn’t reply, instead he runs through out the airport.

“jae, im fine. seriously. please don’t freak out.” you walk back to the lady who stared at you the whole time. “dear, you must—?” you shake your head again. “i’m fine, it’s just a little bl..” you gulp staring down at your bloody palm. “just a little blood.”

“my fiancé just got in an accident— baby, im coming. just stay on the phone with me.”

jaehyun arrives to the hospital a few minutes after you were taken to the hospital.

“babe,” jaehyun sighs in relief, his shoulders dropping as he sees you with a bandage on your head “hi, hon.” he rushes over and gently takes you into his arms, kissing the clear area of your forehead.

“i’m sorry, jae. i wrecked your car.” jaehyun shakes his head and cups your face. “who cares— i can buy another one.” you softly chuckle.

“god— did it hurt, baby?” you shake your head, giving a gentle grin. “i was just a little scared. that’s all.” he kisses your temple again. “i’m so glad that you’re safe.” he sighs in relief

“‘s just a minor scratch.” you shrug and jaehyun tuts. “you have a gash in your head, baby. i knew i should’ve just ubered home.” you shake your head. “ubering is expensive and dangerous.” he recups your face. “me letting you drive someplace that’s unfamiliar to you got you here.”

knock knock!

you and jaehyun both look towards the door to see a nurse who walks in with purple scrubs. “mrs jeong—? oh, hello. i’m assuming you must be mr jeong?” jaehyun clears his throat. “ah, yes.”

“alright,” the nurse grabs the roller chair and sits on it. “so, here are the discharge papers,” he hands the clipboard to jaehyun. “mrs jeong, you’re free to leave. on you way home, stop by a CVS and pick up the ointment we have for you. it’s for your scratch— you’ll wanna apply it every five hours.” you nod, climbing off the table.

“have a good day, you two.” he winks before heading out.

#ash talks #anon #nctsplug02 #nct imagines #nct smut #kpop imagines #kpop smut #kpop fluff #nct scenarios #nct 127 #jung jaehyun imagines #nct jaehyun #jeong jaehyun fluff #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun angst #jaehyun smut #jen the babysitter

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moecartoons · 11 months

Note

Are we allowed to know why CV’s got a crooked smile? If not no worries

Sorry for taking so long to answer. This is one of those ideas I've been wanting to draw a comic of since forever but never will. I'm drawing CV rn and remembered this question

Cw for violence towards kids?

It was about a year after CV and her brother Talos were left on Discardia. He took her to R-Fair City so he could look for work or at least some food. At the time he didn't realize how hostile Cyberspace was towards people abandoned on Discardia so answered truthfully on where they came from. Others could/can also just smell it on someone when they've been living amongst the trash of the their universe.

CV was trying to make friends or at least find someone to play with her while Talos was busy. One kid was particularly nasty and pushed her, so she pushed them back. The kid's mother came over, crying out that some "Discardian trash" was attacking her baby and hit CV as hard as she could with her purse.

If you asked CV what it felt like that lady had in her purse she'd say it felt like a car battery. Which is not outside the realm of possibility when it comes to Cyberspace. The buckle attaching the strap to the purse struck the right side of her face several times as well. She went down with the first then quickly ran off when the mother didn't stop.

Talos was 15 without a single snelfu to him at the time. He also realized that no one was going to be willing to help him or his sister.

He took her home crying, she screamed repeatedly that she couldn't feel her face. All he could do was find the coldest thing lying around, a half frozen freshly tossed out bag of peas, wrap it in a towel, hold it against her face and try to calm her down.

After a few days, the pain seemed to stop and CV could open her right eye. She seemed fine. Eventually, however, she found when she looked in an old mirror her smile was uneven. Her right eye didn't squint like her left. She quickly became an inconsolable ball of tears again.

Even in the timeline where Talos' breathing apparatus is repaired, she's reluctant to look into getting it fixed. It's become a part of her and although she still has remant's of the 8yo self's fear of looking like a monster, what haunts her the most was looking in the mirror and not recognizing herself. She really does not want to go through that again.

I imagine face paralysis in a borg is fixable depending on the cause and how soon the fix is done. In CV's case it was a direct hit to the face that caused it, which would be easier to fix if it happened right at the incident. Now it would be difficult to integrate new components for her mouth and eye and would actually involve messing with what is essentially her brain. With time, snelfus and patience it's doable but may involve trial and error, which would probably cause CV and other borg's like her a great deal of stress that may not be worth it.

Anyway thank you sm for the ask, haha, I hope this was a fun read!

#My Ocs #CV #Cv's smile

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studiojeon · 3 years

Text

troubled outsiders | intro - jjk

| summary | - how you two end up pining for each other.

warnings: none :)

content: idol!jungkook x student!oc, friends to lovers (because it’s THE superior trope okurrrt), jungkook is quiet and shy but a social butterfly when needed (and when it comes to oc but you’re not supposed to know that yet), oc is both a badass and a socially akward queen, she has TWO friends and only because one is dating the other (like... same), the Lee Charyeong is her bestie, oc works at bighit and feels like everyone either fears her or hates her, author nim is a crackhead and has no plot planned for this series whatsoever (doesn’t know if she’ll keep this up, we’ll see).

words: 1.93 k

His presence was overwhelming, to say the least. Even if he were surrounded by six hundred other equally handsome men, somehow, to you (and the majority of the female population, at that point) he was as captivating and magnetic as they come. Jeon Jungkook didn't pay no mind to no one, but sure as hell everyone became hyper aware of his existence and essence in time. And that didn’t exclude you.

Yet, as nonchalant and indifferent as the man could be perceived, in reality he was more considerate and friendly than the aura he exuded. You knew this because working in the same company had to teach a thing or two about the people who literally carried said company and the whole industry at some point, still you barely knew four or three people, including your assistant and Jungkook, whom you had met once.

The opportunity of working at the company had come to you out of the blue, quite literally, you were attempting to send one of your assignments in when an email appeared in your notifications during your sailor moon study break.

HYBE Entertainment

We’re glad to inform you that you’re being recruited for the position of Logistics Manager in one of our sub companies, BIGHIT Entertainment. We’ve thoroughly looked through the CV you’ve submitted and are very interested in your capabilities and what you can contribute to our organization. One of our other managers will gladly meet you on a day you can both agree on. Make sure to answer this email to get more details about your interview.

“Nani!? THE FUCK?” sure as hell that your eyes and cognitive functions were deceiving you (ADHD) you went over the text a little over three times in a row before the message settled in your mind. This was sus.

Before even considering a reply you made a quick call. “Fucking Lee Chaeryeong” you spat on your end of the line. “You did this, didn’t you?”.

Her silence was more than enough to have you cursing her under your breath. “I don’t know what exactly you’re talking about but it most likely was me. Does it have to do with a sex toy in particular?”

“No” you denied almost monotonously, guessing the pile of boxes in the corner of your room with her names on them was what she referred to. “Does anything come to mind if i mention BIGHIT FUCKING ENTERTAINMENT?”

It was her. All those conversations during the summer about how badly you wanted to work in the entertainment business as marketing staff of some sort had their effect on your friend, who, despite all your excuses and denials, knew you better than you and your mom combined did, and because of this, was sure as hell you were not making a move towards that goal whatsoever. So, being the boss bitch she was, she took matters into her own hands, was what she explained.

You concluded that was the reason you had reached a point in your life where you had more experience than most recently graduated kids in your field, because Chaeryeong had you moving every summer break. You had been the manager of a coffee franchise and convenience store during you junior and senior years, and also figured a way to improve the marketing management strategy of a fucking restaurant while at it. Not to toot your own horn, but you were kind of cool.

Or not. “I hope this job satisfies your workaholic ass for once, I’m running out of ideas”. Chaeryeong spat before hanging up.

Sure as hell it would.

On friday afternoon, you made your way to the HYBE INSIGHT building and introduced yourself to your recruiters who promised to give you a call at some point. “It went fine” you told Chaeryeong once you were in your car. And it was the truth, however you weren’t so sure if they would actually hire you at some point since well, you were a girl in a male dominated industry and, in your opinion, there were always better people than you. “Wanna go grab coffee?”

“I want to. But, I have practice today. I’m actually on my way there. Please avoid driving through Hongdae today, this shit’s packed.” You sighed and thanked her for the heads up. You missed your friend, badly. You hadn’t seen each other in three weeks, and you didn’t even live so far away from each other (you did, but it had been worse before). You two had very agitated lives to say the least. Chaeryeong was a kpop group member, and well, you were jumping from job to job and getting your phD in Business Management at the same time. It was hard to find moments to spare together during some periods of the year, but you guess the anticipation made your encounters better.

“Talk about anticipation” you slammed your forehead against your desk, taking a breather after such an anxiety packed situation. Short story: you got the job (for some fucking reason). And you had gone through a whole week of expectancy and anguish. Not getting that job would have broken your heart, and ego at the same time.

You guessed the law of attraction tactics Chaeryeong had taught you had sorted their effect and were what led you to your current position in life.

“Miss _____, your presentation’s ready” your work assistant gave you a comforting pat in the back as she took a seat somewhere next to you. You were nervous, shitless. It was your fifth week at the job, and being the proactive woman you were, you had collected lots of data in order to come up with a resources management plan.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and more than a hundred people sat in front of you, waiting for your speech. Including him, who you’d once bumped into accidentally during one of your data recollections runs inside the building.

You hated having the need to impress others yet, hence your anxious behaviour. But this was a decisive moment in regards to your validation in your new job and how you’d continue to be perceived during your work stance (no reason to panic at all)… you needed to get it together.

“I think I just pissed off a bunch of old men right now,” you told your assistant right after you got off stage. “I need a bathroom break”. Linh gave you a reassuring smile, one she always had plastered on her face.

“Take as long as you need to. I’ll give you a call once the rest are done”.

The commute to the bathroom was unnecessarily complicated in your opinion. You had spent a little over a month rushing through the hallways of the building and you swore every single day your spatial orientation got a bit more fucked up. There was no way there wasn’t a single bathroom on the floor you were in, that would just be atrocious. “It’s not completed yet” someone said beside you as you stared at the half empty map the company had projected on a wall next to the elevators. “Where do you need to go?”

Kim Taehyung of all people in the world was talking to your ugly and unworthy ass. Your breath caught in your throat and after staring for at least five seconds your body finally reacted to your orders. “Oh, um… the bathroom. I’ve been looking for it for a good ten minutes” you explained with a nervous laugh.

“Trust me, I get it. I still get lost over here” he smiled gently. “It’s in the hallway in the middle of the next hallway”

You laughed at his very ambiguous explanation. “Thank you” you bowed your head and made your way to said destination.

It was in the hallway to your left, not your right, and it took you a while to figure out that new piece of information. Once you were staring at yourself in the mirror, you realized that you looked considerably tired and exhausted from all the social interaction you had undergone throughout the day. You were used to the side stares and whispering you’d get whenever you entered a room at that point, but some days you just wished you could get a break from them. After all, it wasn’t your fault you didn’t look Korean at all, and that you also didn’t fit the stereotype of a foreigner.

You got that from your mom, both the non Korean features and social fatigue. But that wasn’t even the problem most of the time, it was your friendly and smart nature which she had also passed onto you. Some would consider it a blessing, but to you it was a burden, like a clear glass that shielded you from introducing yourself into other people’s realities. You had few friends and people to trust, but in your everyday life you had to deal with the pressure of standing out too much and that came with a lot of negative energy from others. You sigh as you spray your favorite fragrance on yourself. You could be feeling like shit, but no one will ever catch you slipping.

But that excluded him apparently. You hadn’t noticed that on the other side of the hallway was the men’s bathroom and the realization hit you as you were calmly getting some tea from the vending machine. “Good afternoon” the man greeted you as he made his way out the hallway, but stopped in his tracks right after he noticed you. “_____! Hi” he smiled at you and you wanted to die, suddenly forgetting what you were ordering in the first place.

“H-hi Jungkook” You smiled back, poorly attempting to put your wallet back into your backpack.

“Need help there?” he noticed your agitated state and held your bag for you. He smelled just as heavenly as you had expected, somewhat between big dick energy and flowers. Oh, and he also remained as kind and polite as you remembered him.

Seeming as if he wasn’t planning on continuing his path to wherever he was heading to in the first place, he stood quietly by your side, waiting for you to be done with your deal. “How have you been?” you break the ice for him.

Quickly, you grab your tea and start walking back to the auditorium together, unaware of your surroundings or the suspicions that could arise. “Busy, but very good. How have you been? I saw your presentation earlier… I wish I understood half of what you said but you still sounded amazing”.

And you would never admit it out loud, but you were positive you were blushing (and falling in love too - platonically, of course). “Oh god, you think so? I basically told them they’ve been doing things wrong all along so maybe you’re the only one who’s appreciative of my work” you handed him the second can of iced tea you bought without him noticing. You swear his eyes lit up like stars in the night sky. “Payback for the other day” you smile at him.

The first time you two had crossed paths you didn’t look nearly as glamorous as you did now. In fact, you looked incredibly disturbed and in pain, carrying a huge pile of paperwork in your hands. But as soon as sweet Jungkook noticed your state, he offered you a hand and somehow ended up helping through your multiple data collecting trips that afternoon. It was a nice day.

“Anytime” he took the can in his hands with a shy look on his face. “Unless I’m practicing, you know…” you look down at his feet, with huge black boots engulfing them, and you smile due to their contrast with his personality. “Here, i’ll give you my number so you can call me whenever you need to put all those papers back. Hopefully I’ll be around” he added as he pulled his phone from his back pocket.

Way to get a girl’s number, my god.

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agapaic · 3 years

Text

[19 days] whiplash [ch. 365 after-shot]

The shop will be closing soon. He’s seen an attendant wandering around, who will probably ask him to leave in the next five minutes. There’s no one else here. His clothes are vivid against the neon glow of the tanks. The fish cast strange shadows on his shirt, living out a second life on his skin.

They swim in half-circles before sharply changing direction, never touching the glass. He wonders if they know it’s there, as if they can sense some immovable wall that holds them back.

He’s not getting deep about this. He could contemplate, quite extensively, about how their freedom must be bought by some higher power, and they would really only go from one tank to the next, slightly bigger, slightly richer. It’s all fake shit, and he remembers that in some ways he’s got it better than an animal. He can, at least, run away. Maybe he won’t get far. Just to the edges of the city villages where he’ll get a job earning less than before and lose his place in school.

Guan Shan puts a finger on the glass in front of him. There’s a label in the corner, peeling away from the glass. Veiltail goldfish. They have wispy, membrane-like tails. He could put his hand on the other side and see all the way through. Guan Shan watches the only black fish in the tank move placidly through the water.

Beneath the label, a smaller one: Black moor. For a minute he considers tugging the label off and putting it in his pocket, a little secret. He remembers that would be stealing, in some way, and someone in the shop would have to go to the effort of printing and laminating and reapplying the label just for one fish.

Guan Shan turns away.

He wanders for a few more minutes. He’s aware of his reflection in the glass. He worries about how long the attendant will let him stay there, and the thought that they will make him leave makes him feel slightly sick. He likes it here—the quiet, the muted hum of the tanks, the strange lights. They make him feel somewhere else.

His mother is working the night shift and won’t be home until just before he’s meant to go to school the next morning. They’ll have long enough together that he could tell her he got fired from the shop, but not long enough that he could reasonably pretend to have forgotten as he tugs on his uniform and slips out the front door.

She won’t be mad—she never is.

She can’t take on another shift.

Mentally, he has started taking stock. His Xbox is a few years old, but he’ll get something for it. He has a stack of old music magazines from his dad that could catch the eye of a collector. His computer, maybe.

The earrings.

His stomach twists.

Really, it’s not much. It’ll earn them a month, which could be just long enough for him to get another job, but what’s the likelihood of that in a city where most kids are just trying to bulk their CV’s for their college applications. Besides, his grades speak for themselves. He got lucky with the shop, and lightning doesn’t strike twice.

‘Hey, kid. We’re closing soon, so unless you wanna buy something…’

Guan Shan nods. His shoulders round.

For no logical reason, he says: ‘Can I take a goldfish?’

‘Sure. The black moor? Saw you had your eye on that one.’

‘No, one of the others.’

The attendant comes up next to him. ‘Just the one? They don’t like being on their own, you know.’

He presses his jaw tightly. A small sound comes out of him. He looks at the price tag and is somehow shocked and saddened to see the figure so low.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘The black one, too, I guess.’

He pays, then leaves. It’s late enough that the streets are quieter than he expected. He’s usually home by now, his shift over, reheating leftovers while he works on his homework. He stands there while the shop attendant locks up behind him, holding the plastic bag with two fish in his hand. He feels stupid. Behind his eyes, he can feel a sort of stinging sensation.

He has the unnameable urge to grab one of the passing strangers and tell them how he’s feeling, what has happened, what could happen. On some level he knows that everyone has their own problems, and he’s not the type of person to overstep his bounds. Instead, he watches them pass, and after a few more minutes he goes to the nearest subway station and gets the train home.

He had half expected He Tian to find him on the street. He’d imagined it, He Tian catching his arm as he wandered from store to store, deliberating at large windows with thin mannequins and expensive jewellery without price tags. There is a part of him that’s disappointed that it didn’t play out like this, a part of him that is even angrier to find He Tian sitting in the stairwell of his apartment when he eventually does get home.

It’s close to midnight, and the stairwell is clinically quiet. Outside, the stars are dusty and covered in a thin layer of smog that is less noticeable in the day. He Tian looks exhausted. He’s the type of good looking where even the slightest imperfection somehow makes him even more attractive. Guan Shan hates it.

He stands when Guan Shan walks in, suddenly filling the space, and Guan Shan says, ‘Get outta my way.’

‘Where have you been?’

Guan Shan shoulders past him. There’s a moment where he thinks He Tian will grab him around the shoulders, the air around him simmering enough that Guan Shan is convinced it’s a near thing, choking with danger, but he lets him pass. He follows Guan Shan up the staircase, his footsteps silent, his body casting long shadows on the steps where Guan Shan sets his feet.

At the door, Guan Shan pockets the notice that’s taped there, knowing He Tian has already seen it. Less sharply, he picks up the notes in He Tian’s and Jian Yi’s writing and folds them into careful squares.

‘You’re not comin’ in,’ he says.

‘I called you, like, fifty times. Did you block me?’

Guan Shan thinks He Tian sounds angrier than he really has a right to be. He turns and presses his back to the door. He has his keys clenched tightly in a closed fist.

‘Yeah. I didn’t want to talk to you. I thought you would’ve gotten that.’

‘I can get you another job. Something better paid.’

‘You’re so fuckin’ clueless.’

He Tian’s eyes tighten.

‘You’re ruining my life,’ says Guan Shan.

‘That’s—that isn’t true. I’ve helped you. You would’ve been expelled if—’

‘Maybe I would’ve gotten expelled. But I wouldn’t have had She Li on my dick all the time, would I? Wouldn’t need you to get me a job ‘cause you made me lose my last one, would I? You’re just—stickin’ a bandage on shit when you hurt me first.’

‘It’s not always like that. Don’t make it sound like it’s always like that.’

Guan Shan shakes his head. ‘I want you to go. I told you I didn’t want to see you again. Fuck off.’

He Tian says, ‘Let me pay what was on the door.’

‘Fuck off.’

He Tian doesn’t move and Guan Shan squeezes his eyes shut. He’s going to cry again, the frustration bubbling sourly in the back of his throat. He doesn’t trust himself to open the door while He Tian is still here because he knows he’ll probably let him in.

‘Do I really make you feel like a failure?’

Guan Shan rubs at his eyes with his fist. His voice comes hoarse and thick: ‘I am a failure. Bein’ around you just makes it so much more fuckin’ obvious.’

He doesn’t want He Tian’s pity when he says this, or his reassurance. He’s just being honest. Saying it out loud is kind of breathlessly relieving. He couldn’t say something like that to his mother, or any of the teachers at school. He couldn’t say it to Grey, who he’s known for years. He Tian knows more about him than anyone. It’s a terrifying thought.

If they never see each other again, will He Tian tell everyone the things Guan Shan has told him? About the restaurant and his dad, or about She Li and the things Guan Shan has let him do to him? He feels vulnerable and sick thinking about it, completely powerless, as he does a lot of the time when he’s around He Tian.

He oscillates between that feeling of uselessness and the feeling of being so empowered that he thinks it must be what being high or drunk feels like. That latter has him trusting his own convictions, having an unadulterated faith in himself like jumping from a bridge and thinking he might just fly—so long as He Tian is with him. He doesn’t like how it’s one or the other, empowered or powerless, and rarely anything in between. He’s heard adults on TV talking about being codependent, pulled punishingly into each other's orbit, and he wonders if this is the same thing.

In the end he supposes it doesn’t really matter. So what if He Tian tells everyone? Probably, he won’t see the rest of the year out at school. He’ll get a job on a different side of the city and no one will hear from him ever again. The embarrassment will all be internal and will only last a week or two. Then life will move on. He wishes he were older and wiser and better at believing this. He wishes it didn’t feel like the universe might fall out from beneath him.

‘Doesn’t matter what I do, it turns to shit,’ he tells He Tian. ‘No matter how hard I work, I’m never gonna earn enough. I can spend three hours studyin’ for a test and still come last. If it isn’t She Li, then it’ll be someone else. I just—I can’t catch a fuckin’ break, He Tian. But you do somethin’ and you come first every time. Life’s so easy for you.’

He Tian shifts from side to side. ‘Do you think things wouldn’t feel so hard if you stopped focussing on what you think my life is like?’

‘You’re pissin’ me off.’

‘I don’t know how I’m meant to help you. You won’t let me give you money. It’s like pulling teeth from you just trying to know what’s going on with you. What are you so fucking afraid of?’

‘I never asked for your help.’

‘You shouldn’t have to—that’s why we’re friends.’

‘I never said I wanted to be your friend.’

He Tian frowns, his look very serious. He isn’t teasing tonight. Neither is Guan Shan. There is the sense that their interactions are always anything but teasing, really, some dark undercurrent that runs between the two of them like dark veins.

He Tian says, ‘Are those fish?’

For a moment Guan Shan thinks he’s joking, deflecting wildly to distract from the seriousness of what Guan Shan has just said. Then he feels the crinkle of a plastic bag in his hand and, remembering how he’d just spent the last few hours, nearly drops the two goldfish onto the floor.

‘Yeah,’ he says.

‘You don’t have a tank.’

‘Yeah, no. I don’t know why I bought them.’

He Tian hesitates. There is a curious, predictable gleam in his eyes. ‘Red and black?’

‘It’s all they had left at the store.’

He Tian is looking intently at the bag. ‘Do you remember when we went to the aquarium? And you said I wasn’t someone you could forget?’

‘I just meant that—’

‘I know what you meant. But I always pretend like you meant it the other way.’

Guan Shan thinks, Don’t you think things would be easier if you stopped focusing on what you want me to mean and what I actually mean?

Instead of saying anything, he looks down at his sneakers. They’re scuffed and starting to rip at the seams. The thought of having to buy new ones makes him panic and the thought of buying a pair of second-hand ones online makes him panic even more. There’s no shame in it, but the thought of wearing someone else’s clothes makes him feel strange, especially when he knows He Tian could buy fifty pairs without blinking.

Guan Shan considers that thought and replays what He Tian has just said about focusing on his life too much more than his own. Maybe part of that is true.

Before He Tian, did he always feel things so intensely? Did the bad always feel so fucking awful? He knows that things were mechanical, and he was mean and didn’t think much about other people in particularly nice ways. He knows he didn’t laugh much then, or have dinners and sleepovers with friends. He knows everything hurt on a distant, muted level that was easy to ignore. Not much time has passed since then, and he reasons that nothing about him has probably changed, just everything else around him.

‘I can’t understand why you won’t let me help you,’ says He Tian, when the silence has stretched too long.

‘Because I’ll get used to it.’

He Tian frowns, not understanding.

‘One day, you’re not gonna be around. And I’ll be fucked.’

‘I’ll always be there for you.’

‘You don’t know that. People say that a lot and then they disappear or get taken away, even if they didn’t want to.’

It’s obvious they’re talking about his dad, but it feels safer to talk about things in vague, subjective conversation. Maybe things would be easier if they talked openly about things and didn’t use metaphors and hypotheticals. As it is, Guan Shan doesn’t feel ready to try the alternative. He is conscious of the fact that this feels like a conversation. They are passing words back and forth that hold meaning and neither of them has touched the other yet. It feels new and fragile as an oil painting, still wet, and so he doesn’t let himself think about this for long.

‘I think you’re getting this wrong,’ says He Tian. ‘I’m not asking you to rely on me. Obviously, I’d kind of like that. I like the thought of you needing me, and I know that says something about me. But—I’m just asking you to let me help you. Just here and there, no strings.’

Guan Shan rubs his forehead with the back of his knuckles. His keys are starting to pinch his skin and he can feel a headache starting to surface.

‘I’m tired,’ he says. ‘I actually do want you to go.’

He Tian’s jaw clenches and he breathes out heavily through his nose. He’s probably thinking he’s wasted his time.

‘Okay,’ he says then. ‘But we’re not done.’

A new wave of exhaustion comes over Guan Shan, crippling and final. He wants to get into bed with his skin against cold sheets and sleep for twelve hours without waking once.

‘You’re not the only one that ever gets to decide that,’ he tells He Tian, a little sharply. ‘You’ve gotta learn to let people go.’

‘But what if I know I can help them?’ says He Tian. ‘If I don’t, I’ve just—failed.’

They look at each other.

A minute stretches into an eternity that could be seconds or hours, and everything has gone backwards. Everything is the same.

Guan Shan can’t put his finger on what has just happened, but he feels like laughing. Their fears are twinned, self-perpetuating, some kind of ouroboros chasing its tail. Who will get caught first?

They both seem to take in a breath at the same time, and He Tian takes a step back.

‘Goodnight,’ he says.

Guan Shan nods. He waits for He Tian’s retreating back to disappear a few flights down before opening the door to his apartment, and shuts it swiftly behind him.

There’s a knock at the door while he’s brushing his teeth. The fish are swimming placidly in their bag on the edge of the bathroom sink. It’s past one, and he keeps all the lights off because his eyes are feeling sore. He’s adjusted to the dim glow that comes from street lamps seeping through the curtains, the blink of the timer on the electric stove, his Xbox gleaming in his bedroom. His mother shouldn’t be home yet and she has her own set of keys.

With a sinking heart, Guan Shan pictures his landlord demanding payment.

Worse, he pictures He Tian. Before He Tian left, they’d resolved nothing. It feels like being back to square one, chasing each other around a chess board. It fills him with a vast emptiness that makes him feel like he’s existing outside of himself, waiting for someone else to take over.

He pads silently towards the front door, his toothbrush jammed into his cheek, and peers through the viewer. There’s toothpaste dripping down his chin. In the hall, there’s no one there. He’s half-convinced he imagined it. He counts to ten before he opens the door, steps out—and his foot connects with something hard. There is a cardboard box sitting on the welcome mat.

Guan Shan peers around. The light in the stairwell is artificially bright. He kneels down and opens the tabs on the box, which hasn’t been taped. He swallows.

For the fish, says the note on the second box, nestled inside the first. Careful, it’s fragile.

Guan Shan rubs the heel of a palm into his right eye. He sighs. Then he reaches out, braces himself, and picks up the tank. He carries it into his apartment, and the door locks behind him.

thank you for reading! if you’d like to support me on my ko-fi/request a short drabble, you can do so here: https://ko-fi.com/agapaic 💞

#19 days #tianshan #old xian #he tian #mo guan shan #my fanfic #sorry for errors - it's late but i couldn't get this out my head

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gammija · 3 years

Text

The final Web!Martin evidence list

Now that canon is done, and we’ve got word of god confirmation that Web!Martin wasn’t complete nonsense, I decided to go back to my lil chronological evidence list and actually clean it up a bit, delete parts that in hindsight weren't all that indicative, and put everything in a slightly more readable format. (Obligatory disclaimer that i don’t and never did believe or advocate for some kind of evil web!martin, and that I'm not intending to connect a moral judgement to martin (or anyone else for that matter) having some of these traits)

So here: The (hopefully, please) final list with Web!Martin Evidence! Presented in order of importance, according to. me

The final (hopefully) Web!Martin evidence list

(In order from most to least obvious)

Spiders

I mean, it’s called the Web. TMA reiterates quite a few times that Martin liked spiders. Sometimes it IS that easy.

MAG022: Martin: "I like spiders. Big ones, at least. Y’know, y’know the ones you can see some fur on; I actually think they’re sort of cute -"

MAG038: | Sasha: "A spider?" Jon: "Yeah. I tried to kill it…" [...] Sasha: [Chuckles] "Well, I won’t tell Martin." Jon: "Oh, god. I don’t think I could stand another lecture on their importance to the ecosystem."

MAG059: Jon: "I have done my best to prevent Martin reading this statement in too much detail. I have no interest in having another argument about spiders."

MAG079: Jon: "Apparently, biologically, his account of the spiders doesn’t make any sense according to Martin."

MAG197: Martin: “What? Because I like spiders? Well, used to.”

Lies and subterfuge

Martin is able to use lying and subterfuge to achieve his goals, and is called manipulative a few times.

Lies:

MAG022: Martin: "[He] became slightly more co-operative after I lied to him and told him that one of the upstairs residents had buzzed me in."

MAG056: Martin: "I lied on my CV."

MAG158: Peter: “But you said –” Martin: “Honestly, I mostly just said what I thought you wanted to hear.”

MAG164: Jon: "You – I actually believed you!"

MAG189: Martin: “Sorry. Sorry, John. Not sure how much everything up there actually understood what was going on. But, y’know, I didn’t want to take any chances so it made sense to… um…” Jon: “Put on a show?” Martin: “Yeah, basically, more or less.”

MAG191: Martin: "That's not true." Arun: "Liar!"

Subterfuge:

The plan in 118, which revolved around convincing Elias that Martin was only “acting out”, to create a distraction for Melanie. (Also compare the way he evades giving a straight answer here with the way Annabelle talks in 196.)

Working with Peter in s4 under false pretenses, to distract him from Jon and eventually try to learn what Peter wanted.

Manipulation accusations:

These, I know, are somewhat contentious, since it’s mostly villains saying this to him. I’m still including them, since

1): From a media analysis standpoint, being mentioned 3 times is a sign to pay attention, even when it may not be the full truth.

2): I only see it as describing Martin’s behaviour in the previous points, not as a moral judgement; Especially since he almost always ‘manipulates’ people in positions of power over him.

Still, if it bothers anyone, feel free to ignore these.

MAG138: Martin: "That’s it? No, no monologue, no mind games? You love manipulating people!" Elias: "That makes two of us."

MAG186: Martin: “I can be a real manipulative prick, you know that?” Also Martin: “Oh yeah.”

MAG196: Annabelle: “Because you always managed to get what you wanted through smiles and shrugs and stammerings that weren’t nearly as awkward as they seemed.” [SMALL SOUND OF MARTIN’S CONCESSION TO THE POINT] Martin: “Point taken.”

The Lonely/the Web

The Lonely and the Web sometimes affect Martin to similar degrees.

In season 3, when Martin is getting used to reading statements for the first time, most of them leave him emotionally affected: MAG084, MAG088, MAG090,

MAG095: Martin: “S-S-Statement… done.” [HEAVY BREATHING & TREMBLING AS MARTIN STEADIES HIMSELF] “I don’t like recording these. There. I-I said it.”,

MAG098: Martin: [Panting] “End of statement.” [Deep breath] “I, um, I think I might need to sit down. Oh. Yeah, I am. Right. I don’t, uh, I’m not really sure if these are actually getting easier or harder. I mean I don’t feel –”

Only the last two statements he reads are remarkably easier. This might be a hint that Martin is just getting used to reading them, but the quote from MAG098 seems to contradict that. Either way, it’s likely not a coincidence that those last two happen to be the Lonely and the Web:

MAG108: Martin: “Statement ends.” (exhale) “That wasn’t so bad…”

MAG110: Martin: “Statement ends.” [...] “I mean, I think it sounds like a Jurgen Leitner book. About spiders. Hm. Good John didn’t have to read this one, anyway. I know he’s not a fan. Although, this one wasn’t too bad, actually! I – yeah. Anyway.”

In season 5, there are two powers’ Domains that actually affected Martin mentally, as opposed to only physically: the Lonely’s, in 170 (and arguably 186), and, depending on your interpretation, in 172, when Martin went exploring without knowing why he did so.

Proximity

Martin investigates a lot of the Web statements during season 1 to 3 (in other words, when the archive team still researches statements). The only ones he isn’t mentioned in during this period are MAG019 and MAG020, when he’s being harrassed by worms, and MAG081, which Jon records by himself outside of the institute.

Most notably, he’s the one who discovered the statement in MAG114, ‘Cracked Foundations’, which is the one statement in the entire show that sets up the interdimensional properties of HTR.

The Web!Lighter passed through Martin's hands first, before he gave it to Jon.

Similarly, Annabelle mostly spoke to Martin in season 5, despite most other Avatars usually focusing on Jon.

Aesthetics

Apart from the above obviously Web related areas, there are some other aesthetics which are mentioned in connection to both the Web and Martin, throughout canon.

These are describing the Web;

These are describing Martin.

Tapes:

Martin is the only character to treat the tape recorders as friends - any other character is either indifferent, or treats them as enemies.

MAG039: Martin: "I think the tapes have a sort of… low-fi charm."

MAG154 Martin: “Oh. Hi. Hello again.” … (small laugh) “Sorry pal, false alarm this time.”

MAG156 Martin: “Mm? Oh.” [HE LAUGHS, GENTLY.] “Yeah. (rustling paper) I was going to read one. Hate for you to miss it!” [SHORT, FORCED LAUGH, AS HE FLAPS THE STATEMENT AROUND.]

MAG170 Martin: “Oh. Oh, hello. What’s this? Wow, retro! What are you up to, little buddy; just – listening? That’s okay. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

MAG190 Jon: "[The tapes] seem to like [Martin]."

Retro:

MAG069: Statement: “I only saw Annabelle Cane once during this period. She wasn’t hard to pick out. She dressed like a vintage clothing store exploded on her, and her short bleach-blonde hair stood out sharply against dark skin.”

MAG160: Jon: “Anyways, don’t tell me the phonebox down there doesn’t appeal to your retro aesthetic.” Martin: “It – might. Maybe.”

MAG163: Annabelle/the Web callying Martin via an old payphone: [ A PHONE RINGS. IT’S NOT THE TINNY, ELECTRONIC SOUND OF A CELLPHONE – NO, THIS IS A TRUE, HEAVY, CLASSIC RING.] Martin: “Uh. John? Uh, J, John – the, uh, payphone that’s – here, for some reason – it’s ringing?”

Hatred of burns:

MAG067: Jack Barnabas’ statement: “I looked up and noticed within the corner of the room, where there had been a spider’s web this morning, there was just a faint wisp of smoke.” “Another held a bag that seemed to be full of candles, while a third had a clear plastic container filled with hundreds of tiny spiders.”

MAG139: Statement by member of Cult of the Lightless Flame: “The Mother of Puppets has always suffered at our hand; all the manipulation and subtle venom in the world means nothing against a pure and unrestrained force of destruction and ruin.” Agnes burned down Hilltop Road.

MAG145: The Web ties Gertrude to Agnes, stopping the Desolation’s ritual (the only Power whose ritual the Web is known to have prevented).

MAG167: Gertrude enlists Agnes’/the Desolation’s help in order to burn her assistant Emma, who was Web aligned.

MAG169: Martin: "Look, I just – don’t want to get burned, all right? It’s, it’s like my least favorite pain ever. [...] I, I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re, they’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it – it just makes me sick; I, I hate it. Hate it!"

Phrasing:

MAG039: Martin: "I’m trapped here. It’s like I can’t… move on and the more I struggle, the more I’m stuck. [...] It's just that whatever web these statements have caught you in, well, I’m there too. We all are, I think."

MAG079: Martin's poem: "The threads of people walking, living, lovi–"

MAG117: Martin: "This last couple of years, I’ve always been running, always hiding, caught in someone else’s trap, but, but now it’s my trap, and, well, I think it’ll work. I know, I know it’s not exactly intricate, but it felt good leaving my own little web. Oh, oh, Christ, I hope John doesn’t actually listen to these. “Good lord, is Martin becoming some sort of spider person?” No, John, it’s an expression, chill out! Besides, spiders are fine. I mean, yes, people are scared of them, obviously, but actual spiders, they just want to help you out with flies."

MAG167: Jon: “Methinks the Spider dost protest too much.” Martin: “Jon –” Jon: “Joking! Just joking.”

Personality:

How applicable these are depends heavily on how you interpret Martin's own personality, so your mileage may vary.

MAG008: Statement: “Nobody ever said a word against Raymond himself, though, who was by all accounts a kind and gentle soul [...]”

MAG123: Jon: "The Web does seem to have a preference for those who prefer not to assert themselves."

MAG147: Annabelles statement: "I discovered a deep and enduring talent inside myself for lying. [...] My manipulations were not intricate, but they were far beyond what was expected of a child my age, and I have always believed that the key to manipulating people is to ensure that they always under- or overestimate you. Never reveal your true abilities or plans."

Word of God and Annabelle

I kinda wanted to ‘prove’ that Web!Martin had quite a bit of evidence to back it up, hence this header being last. But of course, in this post-canon world, there are a few lines that most obviously confirm the theory:

MAG197: Martin is Web enough to be able to read the 'vibrations', like Annabelle, and see Jon and Basira (the latter being especially notable, as he hadn't known she was there beforehand): [CHITTERING, BUZZING AND HIGH-PITCHED SQUEALS CHANGE CADENCE] Martin: "Wait… Wait, hang on, is that him?" Annabelle: "Yes. I guess you’re better with the Web than we thought." Martin: "And – Wait, ha– No, uh… is that… Basira? He – He’s got Basira with him!" Annabelle: "Yes."

Season 5 Q&A part 2: Jonny: “Essentially, it was fascinating looking at the fandom and, like, the Web!Martin believers, because what they were doing was correctly picking up on hints dropped in the early seasons that were later, like, not exactly abandoned, but it was much more like, ‘Well, no, he does have like aspects of The Web to him, but he is moreover The Lonely.’ And that came about very… very organically, really. Because throughout Season 3 and going into Season 4, we had this conversation and we were like, ‘No, actually he's like-” Alex: “‘It can't be, it cannot be, it must be the other way round’ Yeah.”

(Note that they say “throughout season 3 and going into season 4,” which likely means that season 1, season 2, and at least part of season 3, aka half of the entire show, were written with Web!Martin as an intentional possibility.)

If you read all that, thanks so much! Obviously, Web!Martin never really came to fruition, so it's fine if you still don't like it. This is just a post explaining where it was coming from, at least for me and the other theorists I've spoken to.

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #tma #tma s5 #web!martin #web martin #webmartin #or as jonny called it:#spider!martin #tma theory #tma meta #martin blackwood #martin k blackwood #martin #tma martin #magnuspod #i feel like i say this every time too but #when i say martin lies a lot i dont mean that #in comparison to 'normal people'#i mean that in canon he gets specifically mentioned to lie; at a higher rate than the other protagonists #ditto for everything else. im not speaking about real life people who might have these traits. im doing a media analysis #my own real life bedroom curtains being blue dont mean im depressed but in media sometimes aesthetic themes can be deeper signifiers #and tma especially has some very strong aesthetic themes #ok i think im done talking now. webmartin theories always get me rambling #EDIT: oops i changed a part on mobile and now the formatting is a bit fucked #ill fix it back tomorrow #if anyone cares #EDIT EDIT: ok fixed it

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

Text

I Can't Help It If You Look Like an Angel

Summary: Spencer is not that kind of doctor, but he'll always come when Y/N needs him, even if germs are involved.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

Warnings: One cuss (sh!t), kisses, small insecurities

Word Count: 2.5 k (was not supposed to be this long but I'm a monster)

Author's Note: From this list (3, 12, 14) since I hit 300 followers! Thank you! This request is from @willowrose99 (look for the bold)

I Can't Help It If You Look Like an Angel

Spencer’s half done with his third book that weekend when his phone rang. A weekend spent in the company of Nietzsche and Sartre is, according to Spencer at least, a weekend well spent. He can feel the relaxation that settles in his bones come crashing down as he phone rings.

Thinking it’s Hotch calling the team in for an unexpected case, Spencer, lethargically, walks over to answer the phone. However, realizing the caller is not his boss pulling him away from a restful weekend, but Y/N, his heart rushes with a sudden urge of excitement.

“Y/N,” Spencer starts. He’s more than happy to have Y/N interrupt his weekend; they even made plans for a day out on Saturday at the new Anthropology museum that opened downtown. But all of Spencer’s made up plans fall in front of his face, as he hears Y/N’s quiet sniffles.

“Spencer, I’m so sorry to bother you. I know that you’re probably enjoying your rest, but I guess I have a cold. One of the kids at school, I suppose,” Y/N tells him in between sniffles. Her voice is scratchy and Spencer tries not to think about how his brain seems to short circuit at the way his name sounds.

“I’m coming over,” Spencer says, cutting her off. He doesn’t like doing that, in fact he hates when that happens to him, but right now he knows that Y/N is going to try her hardest to stop him from coming over.

“No Spence, it’s germs. You hate germs and I’m really gross and snotty and—”

“Stop, Y/N. Don’t say another word. I’m on my way” Spencer says. He feels a little guilty for hanging up on her, but he knows that if he stayed on the line any longer she’d end up convincing him that he didn’t need to rush over. There’s not a lot of people in this world that can convince Spencer to change his mind, and he’s pretty sure that Y/N is one of them.

Spencer walks into his bedroom, looking for some supplies like a man on a mission. He decides to pack a small bag for the next three days. He’s off from work anyway, why not spend that time making sure Y/N gets better. Spencer packs away a couple of sweaters, flannel pajama pants and two thermal shirts. In the back of his drawer he spots a very old college tee shirt.

A memory, an early memory with Y/N, comes flooding to the surface. They got caught in a rainstorm after a picnic in the nearby park. Spencer changed into his comfortable tee shirt and pajamas. He would never forget the look on Y/N’s face; the way the rain collected on her glasses and for some reason she had yet to wipe them off. She called him an angel. Maybe it’s for bringing her some warm clothes or maybe she’s slightly on edge from their dash into Spencer’s apartment. Whatever it was that made her call him an angel, Spencer never wanted her to call him anything else. Besides his own name, in that scratchy sick voice that made him feel a little guilty for liking so much.

Spencer collects some other things he needs for his stay. A toothbrush, toothpaste, a hair brush, and his hair serum that Y/N says she likes the way it smells. When she told him that, Spencer could hardly wait to buy the entire supply from the CVS down the street. He tucks away in this bag with a small smile.

Walking out of his apartment, Spencer locks up and makes his way down to his car. He glances at his watch, realizing that it only took him a couple of minutes to get ready for Y/N. Quicker than what it takes for him to get ready for an emergency case. Then again, tending to a sick Y/N seems much pleasurable then looking at served bodies and mangled limbs.

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After making a pit stop at a small convenience store near Y/N’s apartment, Spencer pulls into the guest parking spot near her complex. He attempts to shoulder the weight of his go bag; even though he only packed a couple philosophy books, they are quite dense. In his hands, he grasps the grocery bags.

Y/N’s apartment, thankfully, is on the first floor. Spencer approaches the door and thinks twice about knocking or ringing the doorbell. The last thing he wants to do is wake a sick Y/N up. He rummages in his pants for his car keys. Attached to the keys is a cat keychain with a spare key to Y/N’s apartment. Balancing the groceries and his own bag, Spencer quietly attempts to open Y/N’s door without possibly waking her up.

Once he finally gets the door open, Spencer realizes all too late that a large orange cat guards the tight hallway entrance. Spencer Reid, though a genius in his own right, is completely aware of the fact that he has two left feet.

“Oh, Zelda! Oh shit!,” Spencer yells as he trips over Zelda, Y/N’s orange cat. Zelda, scared from the noise, leaps from her spot guarding the hallway to the kitchen. Spencer brushes himself from his fall and picks up the groceries that fell during his tumble.

“Zelda, baby?” Y/N calls from what sounds like the couch from the other side of the wall.

“Hi Y/N, it’s just me. It’s just Spencer,” He says, placing the oranges back in his canvas bag and on the kitchen table. He sees Y/N laying on the couch. Surrounded by a pile of crumpled tissues, she smiles weakly at Spencer. He walks over to her and like an involuntary muscle, she scoots her feet so Spencer has room to sit.

Spencer, setting the beg on the floor, tucks Y/N’s legs over his. He rests a comforting hand on her calf that’s covered by a worn quilt.

“You didn’t have to come Spencer. I’m really okay, I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t ghosting you this weekend,” Y/N explains. The TV has been left on, but on mute. The colorful lights illuminate Y/N’s face in her dimly lit apartment.

“Nonsense, Y/N. What are friends for,” Spencer offers, wondering beyond belief if he messed up calling them friends. Their relationship had been quite strange for the past couple of weeks. Intense moments of silence where Spencer thinks he’d have the time to memorize every freckle on her nose or small grazes from fingers to wrists where Spencer swears she left scars that he hope would never heal.

“Friends,” Y/N says quietly. Spencer, offering a tight lipped smile, leans forward to straighten the blankets under Y/N’s chin. He presses the back of his hand towards Y/N’s forehead, feeling her warm skin under his knuckles. He’s not sure if the heat he feels is from her bug or from the adrenaline coursing through his veins at being this close to Y/N.

“You’re hot,” Spencer says, not moving his hand from Y/N’s forehead. She, loving the way his ears turn pink when he’s embarrassed, uncovers her arm from under the blankets and holds onto his wrist, keeping him attached to her forehead. Not that he’d want it any other way.

“So are you,” Y/N says. Spencer flinches and moves his hand from her forehead like she scorched his hand. In reality, her comment pierced his heart with hope.

“How much cough syrup did you take?” Spencer asks, choosing to face the situation with humor. There’s no way in the world Y/N could ever find him “hot” without the aid of cough syrup or another mind numbing substance.

“None,” Y/N says, reaching around to turn off the television. Spencer, getting increasingly nervous as the minutes of that intense silence passed, mentions to Y/N that he needs to put the groceries away.

“You really didn’t need to do that, Spence. I feel bad enough that you came here just to get sick yourself,” Y/N says. She’s folding the blankets that she was just resting under.

“I’ll always come when you need me to, Y/N” Spencer says, his breath catching and his eyes latching onto Y/N. He looks at her too long and there’s that intense silence again. Silence that is as thick as fog. Spencer can’t see facts through all the love that swallows him whole looking at Y/N.

“Maybe I knew that, and maybe that’s why I called you,” Y/N murmurs quietly, almost like she’s more scared to admit it to herself than to Spencer.

“Maybe,” Spencer says, breaking her gaze to put the half melted tub of green tea ice cream in the freezer.

“I think I’m going to shower, I need to put a fresh pair of pajamas on. I’ll be right out,” Y/N tells him, turning on her heel and leaving Spencer along with his thoughts.

Spencer can hear the water from the shower turn on. He estimates that Y/N will take at least 5 minutes in the shower, accounting for a margin of error, he supposes that he should start to heat the soup he bought from the store now, so it’s ready for Y/N when she’s done in the shower. Too bad all Spencer’s brain power is good for his statistics and numbers, not recipes and romance.

As it turns out, not a single statistic, nor a single digit could account for the possibility of Y/N walking out her bedroom, her hair damp and skin practically glowing, wearing Spencer’s worn college tee shirt. Spencer reckons that his eyes must have been bugging out from his head, given the spirited smile Y/N wears.

“I’m sorry, Spence, you know how much I love this tee shirt. I was putting some of your stuff away in your drawer and I saw this and I just couldn’t help myself. God it even smells a little bit like that hair gunk you wear,” Y/N rambles. She stands, leaning on her door frame, staring at Spencer who holds a wooden spoon that he used to stir the soup.

“You look like an angel,” Spencer says before he can stop himself. He just knows that his face is flaming red.

“You remember that?” Y/N asks, her voice light and hopeful. Spencer recognizes something in it. It’s the way his voice sounds when he talks to her, about her, with her. He can only hope that this is the way she always talks to him. He hopes with every fiber of his being that she uses that light and hopeful voice with him and only him.

“Of course Y/N. Then again, even if I didn’t have an eidetic memory, I’d still remember every single detail about you,”

“Now you’re making me feel guilty about stealing your shirt. You’re being all sweet and kind with me, it makes me fuzzy in the head,” Y/N confesses. She walks to her kitchen table, slowly closing the gap between her and Spencer.

“Keep it, it looks better on you anyway,” Spencer tells her. Her eyes grow big at his words and she presses her lips together like she’s holding something in. But something in her switches. Something in her grows a little sad and Spencer watches before his eyes as Y/N withdraws into herself.

“You can’t say that stuff to me, Spencer. You can’t say that stuff to me and not expect me to love you more than I already do,” Y/N says, her eyes shut and her lips pinched so tightly that it almost looks painful.

“Y/N,” Spencer starts, unsure what he’s supposed to say. His brain always seems to be playing catch up around Y/N. “Can I say it if I do love you back?”

Y/N eyes flutter open and narrow at Spencer, as if she’s reading him. Her eyes scan for any sign of a joke, of a prank, of Spencer trying to trick her. Maybe he should be upset that Y/N is doubting him, but all Spencer can feel is hatred for the person that made her doubt herself so much to not believe him.

“I’ve never felt what I feel when I’m with you, Y/N. No one else has made me feel truly me except you, Y/N,” Spencer professes, setting down the wooden spoon on the counter to reach Y/N’s hand.

“I never thought you’d feel the same way, Spence. I love you, God. That feels so good to say,” Y/N says, letting out a strained laugh. Spencer standing up next to her, places his hands on Y/N cheeks, and tries to lean in lower to kiss her, but Y/N’s finger on his lips stops his movement.

“I’m so sorry, I should have asked. I thought that this is-” Spencer stammers, suddenly very concerned that he violated Y/N in some way.

“Shhh, angel. It’s okay. I want you to kiss me. I really do, but I just want you to tell the facts on you getting sick if you kiss me,” Y/N says, not moving her finger from Spencer’s soft lips. He kisses her finger and grasps her hand with his.

“Sorry, I just had to do that,” Spencer smirks, “but to answer your question, unless you have a bad cough, and some of the respiratory mucus has made its way into your saliva, the cold virus will not be transmitted by kissing,”

“That’s good, so please kiss me, Spencer,” Y/N practically begs, eager for Spencer to leave pieces of him all over her. Eager for him to leave physical evidence of the marking he’s already left on her heart.

“You just might have to take care of me next week,” Spencer counters, peppering kisses over her jaw, knowing he’s purposely avoiding her lips.

“Spencer, I’m sick! Don’t tease me, just kiss me,” Y/N whines, and Spencer caves. He leans in slowly, meeting his lips to Y/N’s. It was the kiss that Spencer knew he’d be waiting for. A kiss that seals fate without a return address. A kiss that reminds him that he’s alive. A kiss that says forever and always.

Spencer, resting his chin against Y/N’s head, closes his eyes. The intense silence that existed between them, now is this light and hopeful air.

“Y/N, do you use my hair gunk?” Spencer asks. He can’t help but giggle with her and breathe in the familiar scent of her hair. He places three kisses on Y/N’s head and gently pushes her hair to the side to kiss down the back of her neck.

“I’m not sure what I love more, the smell of your hair gunk or the man that wears it,”

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pitaparka · 3 years

Text

a steadfast heart will conquer

summary: you show up at frankie’s doorstep in the middle of the night after your boyfriend gets violent. he invites you in and lets you stay with him.

pairings: frankie morales x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

warnings: mentions of domestic abuse, mentions of bruises

At midnight, you speak in fragments.

“I’m at your front door.”

He’s more asleep than awake. He doesn’t have the brain to question you.

“It’s raining.”

He can tell. He can hear it through the phone and from his bedroom window.

“Can you come let me in? Please?” You ask, and before he can say anything, you hang up. He stares at his phone, but figures there’s a girl at his front door, waiting to be let in.

He takes a second to unlock the door, in his groggy state, and sure enough, there you are, in all your midnight glory, on his front doorstep. It’s more romantic in movies, he thinks.

There’s nobody outside except for you. The streets are desolate, and the lamplight is obscured by the pouring rain. It thuds off of your car that’s parked in his driveway, and he knows it’ll bleed in through the crack in the door that doesn’t quite meet the frame.

He’ll help you fix it tomorrow.

But right now, you lean into him, slowly, and wrap your arms around his neck. You're wet, he notes. Wet and cold. He’s sure you're soaked down to your socks. Hair, jacket, shoes, all dripping onto his hardwood floor. You're still on the steps, so he pulls you in, but you refuse to untangle yourself from him. The wind sounds even harder now with the two of you inside.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he mutters, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He pulls back to look at your face, but you're buried deep in his chest. He wishes it was under different circumstances.

The pouring rain punctuates every silence. He can feel you shaking.

You don’t answer.

He lets you not answer.

There’s a storm brewing in his chest. He has a sickening premonition as to why you’re here. He tries to ignore it, but his gut instinct is always right.

He shuffles awkwardly to close the door, and it muffles the rain. He can hear you sniffling now.

“What happened?”

There is only moonlight streaming in from the window over the couch. You keep your face buried in his chest when he flicks the light on. It’s harsh and bright and he grabs you by the shoulders, pulling you back to look at him but you don't remove your face from his warm, dry chest.

So he waits.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, softer, in your ear. You rub your forehead on his worn t-shirt, and his arms find their way around your shoulders.

You find the strength to look at him from somewhere deep inside you, eyes red and swollen, eyelashes dark with tears. You squint almost imperceptibly, adjusting to the light. You’ve never felt more safe than in his embrace. Your noses almost touch.

The last and only thing he wants to do is kiss you.

He notices the red mark right away.

On your temple. His eyes soften. You watch him look at you, almost like it’s the first time.

“He hit me,” you say, congested from the tears.

Like he doesn’t notice. Like he doesn’t feel anger shoot up into his chest, heat and warmth and fire in his fingertips, down the back of his calves and aching his face. His sickening premonition coming true. He can’t come up with a single reason as to why he would do this to you. It makes fury throb in his bones. He can see your boyfriend throwing the punch and it makes him want to vomit how enraged he is.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks sincerely.

“Want me to hurt him? I’ll hurt him, you know I will. I’ll hurt him so bad,” he trails off, jaw hard and teeth grinding. Nostrils flared and lip twitching.

“No.”

He watches you rest your head on his chest, the side that your good-for-nothing dick stick didn’t punch, and he’s so careful with you, soft hands and rigid muscles.

“I just...” you start, and he’s listening. He’s listening to every word.

“I didn’t want him to hurt me. And I didn’t want to hurt him. So I... left. I went and sat in the CVS parking lot,” you admit. He figures you needed someone to talk to. He wanted someone to listen to. He’s wide awake now. He still has fight in his blood, so he repurposes it. He holds you, securely. Strong and firm.

“I was gonna fight back... but I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, I really didn’t.” you say. He closes his eyes. He steadies his breathing. How could someone so sweet, so powerful, so kind, end up with the exact antithesis of all of those things?

“I know,” he reassures, “I know you didn’t.”

You sigh shakily into his chest. He’s there for you. He’s steadfast and unwavering. You could collapse into him and you trust he would catch you, help you up, dust you off, or in your case, dry you off. But you don’t. You stand strong with him, and you let herself be supported by him. You yourself whole still. Shaky, and faltering, but whole, all by yourself. With him there, you feel a little steadier, resolute in your decisions. He supports you, and you love him for it.

“Can I stay here?” you ask.

“Of course,” he replies.

His clothes don’t fit you, but you don’t mind and neither does he.

Your hair smells like roses and rain.

You take his bed; he takes the couch.

It’s hard for him to fall asleep there, but he doesn’t mind that, either.

It’s four AM when you wake him up for the second time this morning. The grogginess is stronger than before, it seems. You’re on your knees in front of the couch, face level with him, and he jerks back in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” you say, placing a hand on his chest. His bare chest. His shirt is somewhere, he doesn’t care where. It got hot, he recalls.

“Y’scared me,” he mumbles. Would this girl let him get any sleep?

“Come sleep with me. I feel bad,” you say.

“Woke me up ‘cause y’feel bad?” he asks, and you can tell he’s irritated, but tired more than anything. Sleep carries heavily through his voice.

“No,” you clarify, “I woke you up ‘cause I had a nightmare.”

Now he’s the one that feels bad.

He lets you lead him to his own bed, but he makes a pit stop on the way to use the bathroom. He finds you curled up under his covers, staring at the doorway, waiting for him.

He smiles and joins you. He sleeps on his back. You sleep on your stomach.

He has one pillow. you have one too.

You both listen to each other breathe.

You throw an arm over his stomach. He rubs his thumb over your hand.

It’s not storming anymore, but you can both feel the electricity in the sky.

The old, squeaky mattress creaks as you move, swapping your pillow for his shoulder. It’s not as bony as you thought it would be.

You only wake up when his alarm goes off on the nightstand beside you.

You groan, and realize you’re curled up with someone in a bed that’s not your own. Your face aches as you relive the events of last night.

He wakes up when you shift to turn off the alarm, taking his time to notice you.

“Hey,” you say, in his shirt.

“Morning,” he yawns, not in his shirt.

“Thank you,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“No no no, don’t do that, don’t make it...” he trails, sitting up in bed. He rubs the sleep from his eyes again. All things considered, he got some decent sleep. He thinks it might have something to do with the warm body that was pressed up against him all night.

“No, really,” you say. You sit criss-cross on your side of the bed, and he has to remind himself that it’s his own bed (singular), not your bed (plural), and the whole bed is his bed. But for now, he can say it’s your side of the bed. At least to himself.

“Thank you for being there for me.” you say finally. He smiles at you.

“Of course.” He whines as he yawns, and things are okay for now. The storm is over.

“You want breakfast?” He asks, getting up and stopping at his dresser to put on shorts. His boxers were fine last night, but now that the sun is shining through the window, it’s kind of weird. He pulls on a shirt too.

“I have taquitos,” he says walking into his kitchen, and you squint at him, hot on his tail.

“Taquitos for breakfast?” you ask skeptically, and he makes his way over to the freezer.

“Taquito time is all the time.” He clarifies, taking the cardboard box from underneath a tub of ice cream and a bag of frozen peas. He freezes, before he turns around to look at you.

“Do you, uh, want some ice for that?” He says, and it takes you a second to realize what he means.

You touch the bruise softly, applying light pressure and wincing when it hurts.

He notices and puts the box down on the counter, wrapping the peas thoroughly in paper towels before handing them to you.

You nod a thank you, and hop up on his counter, holding them to your face.

He notices his shirt on you again, and his shorts on you, and how domestic this would be if that mistake hadn’t laid his hands on you. Though he does admit, you probably wouldn’t have been here in the first place without that run in.

He thinks he’d rather never see you again rather than have you come to him hurt like that.

He moves over to you, and carefully moves your head away from the cabinets holding the dish ware so he can open it. There’s tension in the air. He plates the taquitos and you listen to the buzz of the microwave as they warm up.

Neither of you touch your respective phones while you eat your taquitos. There are decisions to be made that will have consequences. You glance at your phone, but look away each time. Your eyes never meet. You both focus on the plate of miniature crunchy tortillas made with fake corn, filled with beef that was probably artificial. Neither of you mind.

After breakfast, or what could be sufficed as breakfast, he watches you finally check your phone.

“seventeen missed calls,” you read, “and thirty something texts.”

“Wow.”

“Not as crazy as I expected,” you note.

“Wanna see if he left any batshit voicemails?” you ask, grinning. He’s less than excited. Your smile falters as you read the texts.

“What? What’d he say?” he asks, getting up from the table to read over your shoulder. You make no move to hide the texts from him and something like relief floods his veins for a split second.

“Nothing,” you clarify, “just that... he’s so sorry… how he’s such a terrible person, that he’ll never do it again.”

He stares at you.

You ignore the messages and lock your phone.

You look up at Frankie.

“So?” he asks.

“So?” you ask back. He clears his throat.

“What are you gonna tell him?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh, grabbing the empty plate and sliding past him. You turn on the faucet in the sink and wait for it to get hot.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but you don’t respond.

You add soap to a sponge and start washing the minimal dishes there: a bowl, a few spoons, your plate, a whisky glass.

He stands by you, grabbing a hand towel from the countertop and wiping the dishes down before putting them away.

“Why don’t you have a drying rack?” you ask, as he puts away the last of the glasses.

“I dunno,” he says, “I don’t have that many plates and forks and stuff, so I just dry it and put it away as I go.”

“Hmm,” you remark, and turn off the faucet. He hands you the dish towel and you wipe your hands dry before folding it and placing it on the counter. You look at him and sigh. The elephant in the room is demanding your attention.

“What do you think I should tell him?”

He stares at your bruise, and he feels the anger from last night bubble up in his throat again.

“That you’re gonna send me to beat him the fuck up.” He says, and you roll your eyes, staring at him endearingly.

“I’m not getting back together with him.” you say, and he feels his heart do some weird stuff in his chest.

“It’s over for us. I’m breaking up with him the next time I see him.” you say, a finality in your words that make him confident you would do as you said.

“Good.” He crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one side.

“Should I go see him today?” you ask.

“Do you want to?” he questions. You sigh and shake your head.

“You’re no help.”

“Hey! I’m so much help,” he defends, and you smile at him.

“Sure.”

“I can go with you if you want,” he says seriously. You stare at him.

“If you want,” you offer, and he nods his head.

“Okay.” you say.

He watches you grab your phone and your now dry clothes and make your way into his bathroom. He listens as you close the door and waits until he hears the water start running, accompanied by soft music.

He squeezes the bridge of his nose and takes a second to examine the thawing bag of peas on his kitchen table.

He smiles to himself as he makes out the lyrics of your song.

As he puts the bag back in his freezer, he runs a nervous hand through his hair and stares at your car in his driveway.

He wants nothing more than to bruise you up himself, his mouth on your skin, his hands on your hips.

But that thought is fleeting. He gets closer to the bathroom and can hear you singing clearly, and he takes a second to listen before he speaks.

“Hey, I’m gonna go take a quick look at your car, okay?”

The water turns off.

“What?”

“I’m—I’m gonna go look at your car!” he says loudly, “the leaky door!”

There’s quiet for a moment before you’re unlocking the door, in only a towel. His towel.

“Thank you!” you beam, and with one hand clutching the towel to your chest, you hand him your car keys.

“They were in my pocket. It’d be kinda hard to get in without them,” you joke.

“Yeah, ‘course.” He grins lopsidedly, keeping his eyes a respectable distance from your naked torso.

With a smile, you close the door in his face.

The music resumes, as does the water, and Frankie breathes.

It would be a miracle if he made it through the day without sending someone to the hospital.

#frankie morales #triple frontier #francisco morales #frankie morales x reader #catfish x reader #catfish #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #soft as fuck #sweet tooth #tw domestic abuse #tw abuse #tw bruises #triple frontier x reader #hurt/comfort #fanfiction #fem!reader #afab reader

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years

Note

Your safari au. Please. I need it. Water my crops with tigers and hyenas and witchers. Grabby hands and pleading faces in abundance here.

You are after my heart, Nonnie. And considering I've only talked about the Safari AU on Novigrad, I will happily assume you're lurking on there and I love you for it. Tweaked a little to add in a hyena just for you.

Lions and Tigers and Bears

Taking over a park was no easy feat, especially not when it came with a reputation like Nilfgaard had. Eskel scratched his head as he poured over the various financial reports, wondering just how much of it could be trusted. The problem was Nilfgaard had been a shining beacon in the animal conservation world, exceptional facilities, high enrichment for the animals and a successful rehabilitation rate. If there was ever an animal in need of a place, Nilfgaard had been first choice for years. All that came tumbling down in light of the revelation that Nilfgaard had been trading illegally, their animals sold to private owners as exotic pets or, even worse, hunters who wanted a guaranteed, easy kill. The place had been shut down immediately, a skeleton crew kept on to tend to the animals but nothing more. Management was on trial and Kaer Morhen had won the bid to take over. Though small and mostly unknown, nobody else had wanted to touch the remnants of Nilfgaard so they were quite uncontested in their bid. What had seemed like a good idea at the time, an noble because it was in the interest of the animals, now was an absolute headache.

Between the three of them, Geralt, Eskel and Lambert could split most of the urgent work. They had Jaskier working on rebranding, Yennefer managing the board and Vesemir as the head. It left them free to run the day to day of the park, learning the animals as well as the people who they had kept on. But they were going to need more people to actually help the place flourish and regain its standing in the community. Which meant asking the heads of departments for who should be kept on and what roles to recruit for from scratch. The easy ones were things like hospitality, Zoltan had a firm grip on the needs of the park and its visitors, knew all the catering firms and how to run a tight ship. So it was one less headache for them. Eredin had stepped up as Head of Security readily once it was proven he had no knowledge of the animal smuggling. Again, his familiarity with the park was a boon, as were his connections, putting together a security team that could be trusted. Much more messy was the animal welfare section. Fringilla, much like Eredin, had stepped up to become interim Head Zookeeper and was doing her best. While they were understaffed, Geralt, Eskel and Lambert helped out where they could but much of their time was spent getting to know the routine of the park and its many animals.

"We need to know who we can trust," Lambert grumbled, leaning over the table where they had personnel files open. "It's impossible to know who was in on things and who wasn't."

Though, in all likelihood, none of the lower level workers knew that when they helped usher one of their beloved animals into a crate, they weren't sending them off to another facility or a happily ever after. But it was something they just couldn't risk.

"May I?" Fringilla asked, eyes roving over all the files. At Geralt's gesture, she began pulling some of them out. "You'll want Triss, she was a vet here, promote her to senior or chief or whatever you call it. She's solid. And Sabrina, she's great, works well with Triss. Retain Istredd, Mousesack, Calanthe and Eist too. oh, and Letho for the reptile house." As she spoke, she kept looking with a small frown.

"Missing someone?" Eskel asked. Nodding, Fringilla frowned. Without much care for manners, she walked to the cupboards and began pulling out files until she hit the folder of resignations and terminations. From there, she pulled out one last file.

"You'll want him."

The folder was taken from her and the three peered at it with varying levels of frowns.

"You want us to hire someone who was terminated for gross misconduct? Whose notes suggest he abused animals and has blacklisted from working with animals?"

"No. I want you to meet the whistle-blower. Cahir's the one who found out about the trafficking and reported it. Nilfgaard didn't take kindly to it and retaliated."

Not sold on the idea, Lambert crossed his arms over his chest. "His file doesn't look exceptional. Personally, if he applied for a job, I'm not sure he shines enough to even be called in for an interview."

It was a sentiment echoed by the other two and Fringilla had to fight to hold back a sneer. "Invite him in and judge for yourselves. Just because his record doesn't have a quantifiable or gradable measure of commitment doesn't mean he won't be fantastic. If we ever have a new animal in that doesn't need to stay hospitalised, I wouldn't want anyone but Cahir to help settle it in. Especially the younger ones and babies."

Against their better judgement, the three decided to follow Fringilla's advice and e-mailed Cahir an interview offer. The reply was terse but assured them that he would be there at the agreed time.

First impressions were, to put gently, not great. Cahir looked rumpled, bags under his eyes and his attitude was rather sullen. It didn't bode well as they sat in the office, Cahir an odd mix of defiant and subservient. At least Fringilla had the grace to push the interview forward as much as she could until even she sighed and leaned back.

"Why don't we walk through some of the enclosures? Make sure you still remember what's where."

As they walked, Eskel ended up next to Cahir, who seemed content to not talk. That didn't stop Eskel from trying to initiate conversation.

"So, what have you been doing in the three months since you left here?"

"Tried to survive."

The blunt answer had Eskel blinking, there were many things he expected but not that. "Oh?"

For the first time Cahir actually looked at him, sadness bleeding through his half glare. "I used to live on site, worked for Nilfgaard from the age of 15, took a full time post at 18 and moved into the small cottage in the southern corner of the land. They fired me, I lost everything."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them as Eskel tried to figure out just how much of Cahir's so story was an exaggeration. "Have you been living with friends then?"

"For a few weeks, yeah." Cahir actually scoffed. "I've been trying to get a job and living in a hostel off savings. Turns out, only having in-house qualifications does not bode well for prospects in the world at large."

Fringilla led them into an enclosure where the grass was high. From the looks and smells, Eskel would have guessed it was a tiger's habitat but he wasn't familiar enough with the park yet to know. He would have hesitated going in, especially in a group like they were but Eskel had to trust Fringilla as she came to a stop and they stood in a loose circle.

The house Cahir had mentioned was one Eskel was familiar with. They had often wondered why it was empty yet well kept. It had felt like a life interrupted when they had a look round, nothing personal there yet it didn't have the empty, unlived-in feel of a show home. In a way, Eskel was regretting just how poorly Cahir's interview was going because he could easily see them offering his house back as part of a contract.

"So why are we here?" Lambert's words broke Eskel's reverie. "I thought we wanted to go on a walk."

It was by pure chance that Eskel caught Fringilla's smirk at Cahir and the slightest softening of that stern expression in return. Clicking his tongue, Cahir shot Lambert a look. "Tell me, have you ever been stalked by a tiger before?"

"No."

"You sure about that?" Cahir clicked his tongue twice and the world burst into motion. From the long grass a tiger pounced and Eskel was not ashamed to admit he let out a surprised yell. He wasn't the only one though, Lambert gasping, hand at his mouth and shoulders up as the tiger took Cahir out. They went tumbling and only Geralt looked like he might lurch into action, taking half a step towards the animal and Cahir. It would have been hopeless though, the two were wrestling on the ground until Cahir was on his back, tiger hunched above him.

The first thing Eskel noticed was how Cahir's face was creased into a happy grin. He looked younger, relaxed and happy ever as the tiger licked a large stripe from jaw, up his chin to his hairline. All Cahir did was laugh.

"Yes, yes, I missed you too, Princess," he said. fingers loosened from the fur in the tiger's neck and petted along her nose with the ease of familiarity.

"What the actual fuck?!" Lambert all but screeched. "What the fuckity fucking fuck?"

Eskel had the sense to look to Fringilla for answers, even if he wanted to watch Cahir with the tiger. The change in the man wasn't something he could have predicted. Gone was the sullen, defensive and standoffish air, replaced by an easy smile and a look of serene happiness as Cahir looked at the tiger, checking her over out of habit, muttering about dirty ears and mucky paws as he went.

"That is what you won't ever learn from a CV and qualifications," Fringilla said. She was absolutely looking smug. "Princess came to us at 9 months old, from a circus. Had terrible separation anxiety and a host of other issues too. She wasn't doing well despite our best efforts. At least, not until Cahir took her home and cared for her during the nights rather than leave her in a hospital cage. He introduced her to independence, slept out in the open with her for a few weeks when she was ready to transition to outdoors." Much more quietly, she added, "She's not the only animal he'd done that for. To find out some of his beloved children have been sold hit him hard. I don't think I'd ever seen him cry before then."

Turning back, Eskel watched as Cahir was sat on the ground, tiger with her back to him. The slightly strained "oh no you don't" from Cahir was lost as the tiger pushed up onto her hind legs and flopped backwards. Had she been smaller, Cahir would have probably caught her like a baby. As it was, he grunted as the weight crashed across his legs and he had a happily chuffing tiger's belly to tickle.

"I assume you'd vouch for him?" Geralt asked.

"In a heartbeat." Fringilla grinned at Cahir but it was lost on him, so focused on Princess as he was. The others might as well have stopped existing. That was the moment Eskel knew his heart was in danger. It didn't get easier as time went on. Hiring Cahir was proving to be a good decision. He just got on with the work, never finding anything distasteful or below him to do. If it needed doing, he got it done.

Over time he opened up too, Eskel found himself wandering down to the southern corner of the park to the little house that was now full of life. He got used to Cahir usually having a baby or two in his care. Sometimes he babysat for Letho's hatchlings, content to have baby snakes trying to look around his arms as they learned how to cope with being handled. The friendship between the two was one Eskel couldn't claim to understand but they seemed to make it work.

"Knock knock," he announced himself by the open back door.

"Come on in," Cahir called as he wandered out of the kitchen. "I'm just finishing making dinner, care to join me?"

That was new too, Cahir was inviting Eskel into his life more and more. It made Eskel feel even better about what he was planning to ask at Fringilla's instructions.

"I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow. There's a new arrival that we think will need your assistance."

Cahir cocked an eyebrow and held up an empty plate in question again. At Eskel's nod he began loading. "Anything you can tell me about it?"

"Not much. Private collector got raided, had a few animals in his less than tender care."

"So they'll be part socialised, part traumatised. I can work with that."

Somehow, Eskel had no doubts about that. But he was holding back some information because Fringilla had told him to keep it a surprise. The next morning the transport van rolled in, a small group of them ready to handle the newest arrivals. There were a couple of pythons for Letho to bring into his fold, a parrot for Guxart to train into swearing. Last was a large crate. As interesting as it was, Eskel's eyes were on Cahir, the way his nostrils flared as he caught scent of the hyena. The box opened and the animal cautiously peered out.

"Dave!" Cahir exclaimed, all semblance of quiet professionalism gone as he hopped off the top of the crate he'd helped open.

If his reaction had been exuberant, it was nothing compared to the hyena's. They collided next to the box, all over each other.

"I missed you buddy." There were tears running down Cahir's cheeks as Dave alternated between butting into him and running tight, excited circles around him before settling down and trying to bodily press into him. Glancing up, Cahir gave Fringilla a wobbly smile. "How did you find her?"

Her? Last Eskel checked, Dave was a male name. Still, he wasn't going to interrupt the tender reunion with such a dumb question.

"She was part of a collector's hoard. Didn't have the right permits so he was made to give her up to those who could offer her proper care."

A broken "thank you" was whispered in her direction before Cahir buried his face in the hyena's neck. Eskel watched with so many questions. Thankfully Fringilla didn't miss that fact.

"She was born in captivity, originally assumed to be a boy, needed to be hand reared after mum rejected her. She never understood that she wasn't human and as a result has spent most of her life living with Cahir. We've tried so often to introduce her to a pack but she never took to them, content to stay with them for a day, two at a push before she starts pining. When Nilfgaard sold her, that's when Cahir got suspicious, did some digging and realised she hadn't gone to another park. So Dave is a catalyst for this whole fiasco if you will."

Watching them, Eskel nodded. He had a hyena to befriend if he wanted to keep Cahir in his life it would seem.

#pre-Cahir/Eskel #fringilla vigo #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #eskel #lambert #geralt #safari au #tldr: nilfgaard is a disgraced safari the kaer morhen idiots take over

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thekitschdiet · 3 years

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my take on the literary masterpiece, the chic diet

Firstly, I am no one. It’s part of my charm. My fifteen minutes of fame was years ago, when I had an instagram niche meme page. I didn’t even take any brand deals! And my posts averaged six thousand likes! Anyhow. I am hardly literate and well hydrated and carry a small sephora-CVS-hybrid worth in my mini tote bag. Here is my guide on how to live like me, the intermediate kitsch-rat, aspiring influencer. But like, in an apathetic, somewhat dissonant, ironic way. I like saying I live by dogmatic principles. But a lot of it, um, is just eating disorder rituals. But that’s not really important. You’re as hot as you say you are, and as much an authority on what you write so long as you say it with, you know, conviction. It’s kind of venerable how fucking delusional I am, actually. Giving any sort of advice like I’m anywhere close to the ritzy ideal of the amphetamine-areyouami label-american. New York, ideally. West Village, preferably. But I guess the kind of guide I can write is better suited to someone living in a suburb, in a house with the twelve-paned windows. I always thought those were so chic. SO quaint, in a somewhat luxe way. Like, Connecticut vibes. My parents used to drive me up there as a child to buy books and ice cream. Nowadays I’d opt for a matcha latte with novelty ice cubes, but I guess at the time it was pretty sweet.

Because I popped a Vyvanse at like, 10pm, this next little bit could go one of two ways. I will write the most articulate, brilliant piece of literature of my life. Magnum opus, if there was a skinnier word for it. Or, I will get wrapped up doing something like folding all my last-season knits (which is part of my look, okay! I don’t have a job!) and fixating on a paragraph on how a girl’s collarbones are almost as identifying as a fingerprint, or a signature. I’m not a graphologist, but if you write your A’s with the little tail on top (like on a computer), you’re probably a snake. Nothing personal, just an observation. Also, I do have a biology final to study for. Not that I’m super anal, or even particularly committed to academia, but even in my precariously manicured (read that as separate terms; I did a good job on my nail polish, okay? But I happen to also be teetering on the brink of an epiphany or a collapse. Hence the use of the word precarious.) state, I know it’s important enough I can let one of my countless side-quests sit idle for a couple more days.

The first section seems only natural to be about hydration. And the whole idea of drinking things, really. There was a section in The Chic Diet about Adderall dry-mouth, which deeply resonated with me. Once I bit off a chunk of a Nivea Strawberry Shine (my favorite lip balm, more on that later) and swished it around my mouth. Didn’t help. Really, really didn’t. Anyway, I suppose that even if it served no purpose for combatting my prevacatingly ingenious cottonmouth solution, I was able to milk a sentence or two out of the experience. “Do it for the Vine”, all grown up! And wearing bananapapaya resin hoops too. Side note, that Etsy shop is a parasocial enemy of mine. It stems from jealousy, which sucks, but hating from inside a club I’m adjacent to is much healthier than being a hateful individual towards people I would, you know, interact with. Daily. Or something. I stopped going to therapy because I felt stupid about going and I don’t live in the right kind of town to warrant vacuous $300 hours. Bitching about my well-adjusted parents and how desperately I wished my anxiety would just “go away” was plainly gross, and a waste. Like, pretty sure almost every problem I have could be solved by a couple painful conversations taking place during a hurricane. Such a shame it doesn’t rain much here. Anyhow, I digress.

Staying hydrated. It is essential to my character, my persona, if you will; to never be without either an elegant metal bottle (I’m loyal to the smooth enamelled S’well ones, printed to look like marble or a semi holographic solid) or a little 16oz tumbler with a metal straw. Hydroflasks were some of the worst things to happen to society. I want to preface this claim with the fact that I wanted one in the same way a teenage girl wants a new iPhone so she can keep up appearances with her dermatologist-dad friends who still have the XR, by the way. But I ended up spending the money on like, a minidress at Brandy Melville before it fled my city. Or maybe a Fresh Sugar tinted lipbalm. For the better, even though the dress has a busted zipper now and the lipbalm tube has inevitably gotten dinged and dented by the other contents of my mini-totebag. Unlike a car, though, a couple scuffs on your laptop or your luxury lipbalm tube looks kind of cool. Like, you’re not someone who values the pristine, unused quality of an item that was ambiguously intended to be used versus displayed on Instagram. Now, I’m wondering why this paragraph about hydration is so fucking impossible to stay on track for. I literally drink several litres of water a day, and more tea on top of that. And sometimes an almond milk latte if I can budget it in. Not that I’m so anorexic I can’t afford a 45cal latte. They’re just not that important to me. Anyhow. Drinking lukewarm (on the cool side) water is better than ice-cold. Partially because I just get it out of the tap of my ensuite and I can’t be bothered to wait for it to run cold enough every time, and it just seems wasteful. Plus, there is something so.. skinny about drinking water at an “obscure” temperature. Trust me, I want to know why my thought process is like this too. My favorite tea is blueberry tea foraged in a side aisle at my local supermarket. I love a good commercial, high-end steep or fruit infusion as much as the next girl. Maybe more. My pantry is filled with tins labelled with things like “emerald jade organic” and “magic potion”, which is really just currants and butterfly pea flowers. But there is a necessary glamor about drinking dirt-cheap tea on the daily. Seriously, a box of 25 sachets is like, $3. At a higher point with my, um, Adderall problem, I spent like several times that on pills. I didn’t really need to include that, and could have linked the price point to the cost of a drugstore lipbalm, but I wrote it in. And I’m married to it, stubbornly, as all amateur writers should be when they wittle in a somewhat indecorous little joke. This tea is sooo good because it has a strong fruit-reminiscent taste (not as sweet as a fresh blueberry, but who wants that anyway?), it’s zero-calorie, it’s the most GORGEOUS color ever. The latte, the third drink in my little trifecta, is nothing special. But necessary. The trick is to use a milk frother to whip up sugar free syrup with instant coffee and a little bit of hot water in a glass. It’ll make the most luscious foam.. Top it off with almond milk. My dad is a coffee purist, owning both an upstairs keurig AND a downstairs one (among other more analogue methods, but I can’t name-drop, so what’s the point?), so he hates this drink. Now, calling oneself a plebian is so unglamorous and teetering on self-deprecating territory, dangerously close to insecurity. But I can use it here because I am at least posh enough to have a different pair of earrings for every outfit I could possibly come up with, and I only wear Patagonia if I am in a situation where I just have to wear fleece. Like I was saying. It’s such a simple drink, certainly not a delicacy, and… I had a joke about the word plebian but I keep getting up to refill my water and I fear I have forgotten about it.

Next section; the importance of a good tinted balm

In the intro I alluded to how a girl’s collarbones function essentially as an identifier, the way a signature or fingerprint does. This is a lie, or at least an exaggeration. But one’s ultimate tinted lipbalm is actually extremely indicative about who you are, as a person, as a member of society, even…

If you are loyal to Dior Lipglow, I have a couple questions. One; did you shoplift one tube, once, and refill it with cheaper stuff afterwards? I did that. I consider it one of my better-kept secrets, but now you know. Might as well explain the catalyst for my parent’s first separation now, and the horrifying experience that was meeting my dad’s Manhattan sugar baby (?) at the age of thirteen, wearing an overalls dress from, like, Topshop or something else equally embarrassing. .. Kidding. I digress. It’s such a fancy lipbalm, and good too! It smells like thin mints! But I could just never justify cell phone monthly installation payment money on something I will inevitably talk off. I do own three, but two I stole (before I lost the nerve, somewhat unfortunately) and one, a boy(not)friend bought for me. This is not something I feel any remorse about, because his house was easily four thousand square feet and his sisters had a dedicated all-glass room for their shared peloton. Oil money. Ugh!

My personal favorite lip balm, and I have tried a frightening amount, has got to be the Nivea Fruit Shine collection. The frosted one is shit-ugly. Hideous. But the strawberry one is the love of my life. It’s such a pleasant red, looking healthy and rejuvenated and really completes any look. Only downside is it will always, hopefully not always, remind me of Charles. Kissing Charles, specifically. And him asking me what lipbalm it was, because he knew I was somewhat frivolous and definitive and would have a very long answer. But for whatever reason, I simply stated it was from “out of town”. Not really sure why I said that, but it plagues me (minorly) to this day. Of all the things to make up.. .. The peach one is a perfectly demure spring classic shade. Cherry exists too, but the only tube I have ever had the fortune of owning was purchased in Costa Rica and lost somewhere on the way home. Honestly tragic, it was the juiciest shade. Blackberry is perfect too, but I have to layer it with either peach or untinted lipbalm to avoid what I imagine TooPoor would choose if she believed in tinted lipbalm. I don’t mean this hatefully, I think she’s a queen, but super dark, smudgy makeup suits the eyes better in my opinion. Or something. Or something.

Afraid to bore the reader, I have to move on now. Maybe at a later date I will release an addendum on my ultimate lipbalm buying guide. But also, that is so deeply personal (and everyone needs the excuse of “hunting for the perfect staple shade!!”), so it is really not my place to have any authority on something so intimate and subjective. Etcetera.

Moving on; Decorating your room

Here is a section I lifted out of my memoir document. It fits, because as enigmatic as I hope I am, I am also quite unchanging.

I just pushed three hangers and two tiny strappy tops with the tags still on, off my bed. Most nights, all, these days, actually; I spend in my large but cluttered bedroom. I have a little ensuite with a jetted tub I’ve never used because I just never get around to it. There’s a plush grey rug, spanning the expanse of the room (covering an ugly cherry wood that doesn’t match the rest of the house; no clue why. I never asked, and the previous owners were eager to sell so they could finally ditch this town and retire in Montreal for the bagels, or Hawaii for the monk seals. Point is, I’ll never know) with loose beads and loose pills and little shards of glass from plier-crushed beads. I vacuum every day. The whole room tells you exactly the kind of person I am; the clutter I possess, the encapsulation of the projects I start, start, start and the hours I don’t sleep for and the clothes I tried on (these to sell, these to cut up with kitchen scissors; thrifted lululemon and aritzia and heaps of knits and plaid fabric..) I would not say the room is a mess. Lived in, maybe. Chopsticks and mugs and gum wrappers. Single dangle earrings. I just finished the last of my Creme Brulee eos lipbalm; disguised as a relic of 2015, I was gifted it Christmas of ‘20. I think my next waxy conquest will be a tinted Burt’s one I palmed a while back, before I lost the nerve. Peering around the room you will see shopping bags strewn about the mouth of my walk-in closet. Every surface has something shiny or colorful stacked up on it. Cluttered, busy, but intentional. Except for the walls, which are bare. Bare and gray and miles-tall when I lie flat on my back, high out of my mind, willing things to change but knowing I’m responsible for a first step I will always be too scared for. Bare, pristine, no gumtack. Empty, Like they’re waiting. I wait around a lot. It makes sense. That was an awful lot of words about my stupid blank walls when truly it does not bother me that much; I really just don’t get around to it. I have other things on the ground to tend to, like post-email nausea, addressing envelopes, marrying wire and bead. Writing a document I care about because I am determined and I am alive, alive, alive, goddammit.

Excerpt over. The memoir is coming out when I get famous, or something earth shattering happens. Like I become the world’s least remarkable entrepreneur, and I get retweeted by Colorpop. I don’t want to be the next Elizabeth Wurtzel. I read two of her memoirs one restless night, absorbing it to make up for the nutrients I didn’t that day (you can laugh. I think that is pretty clever), heart breaking a little bit. She writes about her struggles so intrinsically, you either get it, or you don’t. Anyway. She had the books and the fame from it, and she wrote more memoirs than I think a single person should. That is admirable. Aspirational, even. But I do not want to be like her. Where was I? Oh. Yes. Decorating/adorning/filling your room. Your room should serve as the kind of place to watch a movie (if you believe in film. I don’t) and put on ridiculous glittery eye makeup, or smoke an ~artistic cigarette~ or stay up all night on the phone, which is different from staying up all night simply on your phone. Chatting with someone you are tepidly in love with is much more exciting. Not chic as the whole affair is so juvenile, but fun regardless. It’s somewhere to keep your worldly possessions, too. I know I have a lot! Also, it is kind of thrilling to hide things in your room in little crevices only you know about. Now, unfortunately, everyone reading this will know too. But, like, I trust you not to really.. do anything about it. I keep my extra juul pods in the sliding box my apple pencil came in. That box is almost more useful than the pencil itself. I’m somewhat morally opposed to the iPad. Whole culture is so embarrassing! I have a tea tin with an ounce of golden teacher shrums in it. This is tossed in my closet among tins filled with other things, like lace trim and buttons. Which makes it actually a pretty terrible hiding spot, I see now… Anyhow. Keeping benign little secrets like that is so fun. You can tell I don’t have siblings. I sort of wish I did, but it is easier to believe there is something aristocratic about being an only child. Not sure if older-sister me would be egalitarian enough to share things. But that’s prophesying, which is kind of a waste of time. I live in the now, in a room positively cluttered with meaningless things that mean the world to me, chewing on my lip because my mouth is just so dry and 5gum is just not an after-8 indulgence. To live truly kitschly, you have to have somewhat hideous decor. Now, do not confuse dissonant, or incoherent, with what I mean by “hideous decor”. The kitsch room has as many surfaces to look at as possible, while also shying away from too many shelving units. Then you risk your room looking like a storage unit or something. When my mom renovated (re: paid someone to do it) our New York house so we could sell it, all our stuff was stacked up in a Cubesmart self storage. It was sort of horrifying, seeing my childhood home reduced to plastic storage tubs piled what felt like thirty feet high. Anyway. It’s just not an inviting way to store things; I imagine it makes your room look like your stuff is all trapped in gelatin. The more fussy, tiny things you have out in the open, the better. Nail polish. Earring trees. Bowls full of rings and lighters and water color pans perched on your windowsill. A rack with the tackiest assortment of knits and bucket hats and baguette bags. And so forth.. Quickly surveying someone’s room is so telling. Bonus points if all your books are spine-in, except for your favorite ones, because you don’t want people to get the wrong idea. (that you read).

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serenadeonacanoe · 3 years

Text

Honestly, I'd piss him off on purpose. (Namjoon x OFC)

Pairing: Namjoon x Original Female Character

Genre/Warnings: Smut, Angst, Fluff, too tired to beta

Tags: Artist!Namjoon, Yoongi and Tae are the best flatmates, Enemies to Lovers I guess... more like brats to making out in the storage unit, OFC is an idiot.

Summary:

"Wow. Is that that grumpy artist behind you? Jesus. He really looks like a bit of a dick. And you are right. He really is hot..." Oh no. Speakerphone. Namjoon was standing behind me and was staring at me. Then at my phone. He let out a little laugh, then raised his hand to wave at Tae and Yoongi outside who were now also staring at him as if frozen, before turning around in unison. As if that would help. As if he couldn't see them. Or better even... couldn't hear them.

[...]

Mister Darcy has nothing on Kim Namjoon - that new and upcoming artist you probably already heard of (You haven't? How dare you? At least have the decency to pretend you have!). He is cold, serious, and rather good at making other people believe he is a prick. Especially Elizabeth Bennet - uh... Charlotte - is about to lose it because of him. Maybe in a good way. Man, I'd literally piss him off on purpose.

More chapters on AO3

CHAPTER 1

Even the sound of my own nails rhythmically tapping on the top of the counter was annoying me. To be fair, it didn't need much today to blow my fuze that had never been particularly long in the first place. But after a week consisting of being belittled by old white men and endless hours of unpaid overtime I about had it. Welcome to the art world. You know well before you enter that the hours are horrible and the job market is more than frustrating, but you love art and you have good organisational skills, you are resilient, charming when it counts and tend to romanticize things even when you know you shouldn't. It's too late to turn around now.

"That is why I don't use an agenda or notebook. If something is important enough for me to attend I simply won't forget. I know you youngsters are all about the bullet journaling and expressing yourself by mapping out your life but it really is just another way to procrastinate instead of getting to actual work." For a second I considered throwing my damn notebook in the buyer's face, but that probably wouldn't have helped my CV and the new job I would have to look for starting tomorrow. At least I should have screamed at him a little. Mainly, that I didn't care, that I was on my period and my shitty shower in the shitty flat i shared had broken and no dry shampoo in the world had fixed my hair this morning and that god damn it, how the hell was I supposed to remember every phone number, every call my boss had to take, every art handling transport I had organized if I couldn't write it down somewhere. Instead, I smiled. Died a little on the inside and complimented him on the gift of his exceptional memory and asked whether he would like another cup of coffee.

"What a dick." Samantha murmured, more to herself than me, after the guy had finally left, which made me snort under my breath. She usually didn't say much but when she did it was usually pure gold. In the end, it didn't matter that he was. Didn't matter that everyone at the gallery thought the art he had bought from us over the last couple of months had neither been smart nor impressive purchases. Mainly expensive. And flashy.

"Doesn't matter now." I said in a sigh after a quick glance at the clock. It was Friday night and we were about to close. Since it was my birthday on Monday I had taken two days off, about the longest break I had had this year and I was looking forward to being the lazy slob for a few days I was maybe always meant to be. In silence we answered a few last emails, tidied up the desks and counters so that potential buyers that would come in over the weekend wouldn't have to suspect anyone was actually working here. - A white desk. A huge Imac on it. That was all they needed to see, folders and pens and apparently especially agendas to be hidden away in drawers.

At five to eight I threw on my coat and Samantha just gave me a tired smile. Probably happy for me, just exhausted. "Have fun then? Don't get too wasted?" "Oh..." I said with a huge smug grin on my lips. "You have no idea... gonna take a bottle of Moët with me from the bar and drink it in my bathtub after eating a huge pepperoni pizza by myself and dancing to only the finest of 90s Euro Trash." I couldn't help it, apparently, I felt it necessary to give Sam a little demonstration, waving my arms up and down while swaying my hips in a way that I'd probably would not have if it hadn't been for a bit with an audience of a single person. Or maybe two?

A quiet scoff behind me and I quickly turned around, slowly lowering my arms, Sam biting her lower lip at the sight of me standing there like an idiot in front of HIM of all people.

Men didn't have to be old to annoy me. Or white. Yes, those were the ones that pissed me off most usually, but no one had managed to do so as much as Kim Namjoon recently. And now he was standing there, looking me up and down and stopping at my hair. The crazy too-much-dry-shampoo-because-the-shower-broke-hair. "Nice." He just commented and then looked over at Sam. "I'd like to take a last look before Sunday's opening if that is okay?" I stood there, my shoulders dropping, completely ignored.

"Uhm, actually, my babysitter has to leave in about an hour and I will have to be home before that." Samantha replied and I was impressed by how calm she stayed. "Of course." Namjoon said and gave her a slight smile. "Anyone else still around? Chris maybe?" Of course Chris hadn't been in today. It was Friday and unless important guests had announced themselves the owner of the gallery wasn't around on Fridays... "I am afraid not. But maybe Charlotte has a few minutes?" Well. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I felt a little betrayed. "Wouldn't want to keep anyone from their important Moët-Pizza-Dance Party plans." Namjoon replied before I could say a word. His voice once more dropping to a hushed, deep disapproval and his hands buried in the pockets of his rather expensive looking coat. Silence for a few moments and then he just walked off towards the room his exhibition had been set up all week. Showing without a further word that I would have to stay anyways if he wanted it that way.

"Well thank you for pushing me under the bus like that. Really appreciate it." "I am so sorry. But I was serious, I can't lose this babysitter. She got Jamie to eat vegetables. VEGETABLES!" Samantha suddenly seemed in a rush, grabbing her jacket and purse and showering me in promises she would make it up to me. Even though we both knew that wouldn't happen and wasn't necessary. Suddenly having to stay longer was normal. I just hated that it had to be today. And because of him.

I heard the door close behind Sam and I stood there for a second before putting my bag down again. Usually, I would have followed the artist, asking if I could somehow help, but nahhh... my ego was bruised up enough now, especially remembering the little dance. I closed my eyes. Fucking hated the guy. Always had. Well, not quite. I had thought he was cool for about five minutes when he had come in the first time. We had heard about him for quite a few months before, I think I had even seen pictures of him at some point, but those were nothing compared to him in real life. He came in all cheekbones and sharp chin and an all grey outfit, quick pace, observant gaze. Incredibly hot. He had also completely ignored me.

That's how it had started - a bruised ego. He couldn't know that it was my weak spot. Having studied art and its management and now feeling like a better secretary at times, when my colleagues and I were doing all the behind the scenes work while Chris worked very little hours and ended up with all the money and recognition. I was aware this wasn't the only field of work where this was the case, but it still frustrated me... I had imagined my life in the last years of my 20s to be a bit more glamorous than living in a tiny apartment on the outskirts of the city... spending my Friday night waiting for some rude artist dude to leave so I could lock up.

But what I perhaps hated most about him... was that I admired him. - Purely for his art. Really. Even the fact that he kept acting as if I wasn't around every time he came in didn't mean I couldn't admit that. At least to myself. The stories behind his huge colleagues were clever and thought through, but even without context, the pure aesthetics were mesmerizing. It was the kind of art that touched something deep inside of you and standing in front of it I always had a hundred questions. Whenever he brought in a new piece I was the first one to sneak a peek in the back rooms before it was hung.

"I don't get why you have such a problem with him. He is just... quiet. I think he might even be shy... stop being so sensitive and just ask him out already." I had almost strangled Sam for that comment a couple of weeks back. Stop being so sensitive. What did that even mean? Comments like that made me want to cry and scream at the same time, which probably would have been perceived as even more sensitive, but when had insensitivity become something to strive for? I had only kept quiet because I liked Sam and I knew what she had tried to say. At least I thought so. That I might have given less of a shit if I hadn't been rather attracted to Namjoon. Even though I had never mentioned it, she just knew. She knew if I didn't care about something I didn't waste my time on it. But if something made me angry or upset there was usually more to it. I hated that she could read me that easily. But he was still a dick and I still wanted to go home.

He took his sweet time. After an hour I walked up to him, a little speech prepared in my head about how he could come back first thing tomorrow. But when he turned around he just raised a hand between us to keep me from interrupting and turned away again. I hadn't seen that he was on the phone. "No, it's nothing, just one of the gallery employees." I heard him say and okay... if I wasn't about to explode before I was now. I stood there for a minute, fuming, and then simply walked back to the office area, my hand shaking when I started turning off the gallery lights one by one. It wasn't as satisfying as I had hoped but still felt good. Two minutes later the only lights still on were the one above my head and the one in front of the door. I would at least give him a clear direction where to head, he seemed to need it.

When Namjoon appeared out of one of the dark corners he looked even more annoyed than usual. Looking my direction through squinting eyes and his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek. "Seriously?" he yelled my way and almost walked into one of the little flyer shelves. Wasn't the first time I had seen that happen to him though so maybe that had nothing to do with the light.

I felt oddly triumphant. By the time I had put on my coat and turned off the remaining lights, ready to finally lock up, Namjoon had almost found his way, standing in the open door, still on his phone. A little groan from my side when he didn't even notice that I was standing behind me went by unnoticed. Or simply ignored. But instead of the appropriate clearing of the throat or the maybe less polite squeezing past him, I just put my hands on his back and gently pushed him forward a bit, until his feet hit the pavement and he turned around. Dropping his hand with the phone in it, for a second he looked like he wanted to push back. Or trample me.

"Okay, what the hell is your problem, Charlotte?" His voice was hoarse. His eyes dark. God, he was hot. I hated him so much. "You." I simply replied and stared at him for a second, then turned around and locked the two locks on the door before stepping over to the alarm system. I couldn't help feeling smug because apparently, he knew my name. I imagined him staring at the back of my head because he was flustered, but couldn't be sure. All I knew was that when I turned around again a minute later he was still standing there, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his lips pressed together forming a straight line and watching me.

"Do you always act like that at work around people who could get you into trouble?" He was right, he could get me into trouble. But I was too fired up now, my heart racing. "Is that a threat?" "An observation." "Only around the ones I don't like." "Cool." "Great." "Enjoy the dance party. Sounds shit."

And with those words he had turned around, coat flying open in the wind, unfortunately making him look really cool as he walked away and I ABSOLUTELY HATED HIM. I kept my mouth shut and just walked off in the other direction, realizing minutes later that my car was parked the other way, but I kept walking for a while before I finally turned around. It took a while to calm down and only cuddling up to my cat on the couch to trash tv finally did the job. But by then I had realized something I wasn't sure I liked too much. Yeah, I thought he was a prick. And yeah I should have just played it cool. Would have been much smarted in many regards. But I also had somewhat enjoyed myself in the most fucked up way.

Seeing that stern look, that intense posture as he was towering over me... man, I'd literally piss him off on purpose.

More chapters on AO3

#namjoon fanfic #bts fanfic #namjoon x reader #namjoon smut #namjoon angst #namjoon fluff #artist!namjoon

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qqueenofhades · 3 years

Note

Whew!

Darklina + academia AU? (Professors, students, whatever dynamic you find most interesting)

Alina Starkov has always loved maps.

There’s just something about them: the deeply human struggle to understand the world, to sketch it out, to imagine fantastic beasts and lands and people on the margins, here be dragons. It’s half illusion and half reality, a guidebook both to what lies out there and what is dreamed of. She is fascinated by the relative accuracy of maps drawn long before satellites and space photographs – that, say, the sixteenth-century Europa recens descripta à Guileilmo Blaeuw does look pretty much like the modern continent. Well, mostly. She wrote her undergraduate senior thesis on the fictional island of Frisland, long believed to exist in the North Atlantic Ocean just south of Iceland, and its role in premodern cartographic and geographic imagination. Rereading it now gives her a twitch, as it always does with academics trying to revisit their past work, but it’s not all bad. It won her a prize and it impressed Professor Baghra Morozova, the fearsome head of the Department of Medieval Studies at Central European University, Vienna. (Best method to survive her class: Pray.) And it’s why Alina, still feeling very, very much like a terrible fraud – though she’s been assured this is likewise common to academics, so yay? – is working late in the main library on Quellenstraße, stifling yawns. She has a supervision meeting tomorrow, and if she half-asses this, Baghra will eat her alive.

Alina has been working for a while, pausing only to slug lukewarm coffee from her travel mug and answer texts from her flatmate Genya, when she becomes aware that there’s some other late-night diehard skulking in the stacks. This isn’t uncommon, but this guy doesn’t look like your usual desperate slacker. He’s tall, lean, and elegant, wearing a black shirt and crisp slacks, and – Alina has eyes, sue her – he’s extremely good-looking. Thick dark hair with a bit of a curl, a sharp dark gaze, and although he has his own stack of books, he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to any of them. In fact, he is looking – a little unsettlingly – directly at her.

Oh, hell. Alina hasn’t spoken to him before, but she knows who this is. Aleksander Morozov is an urban legend at CEU, for rather ominous reasons. He is rumored to be in some indeterminate year of his own PhD, but disappears at long stretches for “research trips,” and nobody is any the wiser about what he’s actually doing on them. Noting the similarity of surname, Alina once asked Baghra if they were related, and got a face that looked like someone had died. “Unfortunately,” her supervisor said, lips pursed, “he is my son. But I assure you, his presence on this campus has nothing whatever to do with me.”

Understanding that familial relations were, to say the least, chilly, Alina hasn’t pushed it. She’s also not sure what to make of her professor’s estranged (and disturbingly attractive) offspring sitting here and watching her study, as if he has nothing better to do than haunt first-year PhD students like the Ghost of Bad Decisions Yet To Come. At last, she gets up and marches over. Keeping her voice at librarian-approved levels, she hisses, “Excuse me, can I help you?”

She speaks in English, the lingua franca of CEU, though the Morozovas are political exiles from the Putin regime, like White Russians fleeing the Bolsheviks once upon a time. Alina herself is ancestrally Russian – born in Moscow, adopted by a nice British couple out of an orphanage and raised in suburban Sussex – and as Aleksander Morozov flicks those onyx eyes up at her, she can sense him weighing how to respond. As if he wants to test her, examine her bona fides, and Alina’s Russian is limited to “da,” “privyet,” and “dosvidaniya.” Not that he should know that. Not that he should know anything about her.

“Good evening,” he answers, also in English. His Received Pronunciation is even more posh than hers. “I wasn’t aware that I was disturbing you.”

“You’re – ” Alina wrestles with herself, tells herself not to be rude. It’s not a crime to sit and watch someone study, even in a mildly creepy fashion. “You’ve just been watching me for, like, an hour now.”

“Ah.” He doesn’t apologize or explain why that might be. He sits back in his chair, studying her like a piece of rare porcelain. “My apologies, Miss Starkov.”

Alina glances at him again, despite herself. There’s an undeniable thrill at actually talking to the campus heartthrob, even if the reason for it leaves something to be desired. She should say something else, when she becomes aware that he’s addressed her by name, and she doesn’t remember introducing herself. That doesn’t exactly do anything to convince her that he’s not a stalker. A little uneasily, she says, “How do you know my name?”

“You’re my mother’s student, aren’t you?” He cocks his head. “Alina?”

“I – yes.” That does explain it, although she didn’t realize the two of them were on speaking terms, or that they discussed her. Her name sounds unusual in his mouth, deliberate in a way nobody has spoken it before, and all at once, he gets to his feet. He stands several inches taller than her, and he starts piling his books into his bag, as if to discreetly absent himself now that she’s noticed him. “You don’t – ” she starts. “I didn’t mean to – ”

He looks at her again, sidelong. Then he says, “I should go home and get some sleep. I’m returning to Oxford tomorrow morning anyway.”

“Oxford?”

“I went to school there.” He utters a short, dry laugh. “All the good Russians do. And they live in Londongrad.”

That explains the accent, at least, and he seems to have some other business there, whether it’s another of the “research trips” or a guest lecture or whatever else. (Alina hasn’t seen his CV, but she has a sneaking feeling it’s the kind of thing to make her throw her drafts in the trash and never do anything in academia again.) Despite herself, she’s curious, and even though she has just told him to get lost, kind of, she wants to know. “Will you be back?”

Aleksander Morozov studies her with utter, unblinking intensity, as if he sees past flesh and bone, blood and sinew, to the very core of her, something that even she does not fully comprehend. Then he shrugs, his eyes never leaving her face, until Alina feels a shiver travel down her from head to toe, cold and powerful, twisting in her stomach. “Perhaps I will. Good night, Miss Starkov.”

With that, he nods to her, then turns on his heel, vanishing into the shadows as effortlessly as if he is made from them. No sound, no breath. Simply there one moment, and gone the next. Alina rubs her eyes, but she is alone in the library. Just as she wanted. Wasn’t it?

She can’t help her eyes from searching for him, or rather the vanished impression of him, the flutter of a curtain after someone has left the room. Before she can stop it, she has the thought that he very much is a map of his own, a path that leads into a strange dark land beyond the boundaries of the known world, a dragon or a doorway, a dream of what could be. Maybe something entirely ordinary. Maybe something not.

Alina shivers again, and returns to her carrel. She sits down and pulls the next book toward her, forcing her tired eyes to focus. Just because Aleksander Morozov – Aleksander Morosov – is a map, albeit the strangest one she has ever seen, it does not mean she needs to follow where he leads. She knows damn well the danger.

(And yet, despite herself, she wants to.)

#fic prompts #darklina #was this more than 500 words #yes #yes it was #anyway more prompts later #but this will do for now #mearcatsreturns #ask

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