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#journal of a disappointed man
myearts-uwu · 2 years
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... athykiel merch
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happy-hermit · 1 year
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Considering overcoming crippling social anxiety in order to go door to door and beg random strangers to vote goodtimeswithscar for tumblr sexyman.
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campirebites · 2 years
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Puppy play but u euthanize me :3
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alekkis · 1 year
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It’s not just in the things you’ll never send but the interplay.
it’s in the trance, its in your sway, you’ll find me with every head nod, and I’ll be there in the categorical madness of joy.
I’ll be here for you, we are who we are.
our mind doesn’t stop it continues it begs it enshrines, strictly speaking you’re not ordinary and it hurts when it hurts and feels devilish when it does but boy you’re here why hide that.
you can’t hide that there’s a sparkle to you, you shine bright, you pay attentively to the flow that’s no one’s fault, you got me I know it feels lonely you’re alone and that’s where the fear and instability peeks in I can’t say you’ll be a writer but I will say that you create art beyond a profession you do the things you do to save the story this is your life.
memory it haunts us regret haunts us don’t live like this, it’s in direct contradiction to the the beauty bravery and freedom of those around you. we all persist to the beat of our own love it sways and conforms it bends in odd shapes and yours does the same. look how it grooves look how it falters you can’t run away from who or where you are, you’re all that you’ve ever been idk man it’s hard to say, sometimes all that we are is the realization nothing is forever to love deeper and express ourselves with absurdity nothing is forever.
temporary is the game we can forget or we can choose how we remember even when it hurts we do it for the love.
10/8/22 - wtf yeah I second this
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xtrablak674 · 13 days
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I am, was Low-Key Ashamed of My Dad
Not for the obvious reasons, how he looked or acted but for something more simple. He never worked! As I was doing my yoga this morning for some reason I was thinking of his lack of jobs the entire twenty years that I knew him. These thoughts may have been coloured by the author Ayaz Virji, who said he associated his dad with the words, I have to work. Well my father never did.
There are a few things we need to clarify, first I never called my father dad, he was alway very ambiguous about how I should address him and this left me forever confused about our relationship especially when he attempted to actually put on his parental pants. In my head I thought you can't have this both ways, being my friend, on a pedestal, worshipped and being a parent, you need to choose. But he never did and this kept our relationship in a very nebulous and confusing state.
Secondly, he was raised in a middle-class Christian household by two very devout and hard-working parents. The class difference between my father and mom was palpable, this only became more apparent as I came closer to adulthood. My father's parents had, and my mom's mother and family didn't have.
He was bought up in a stable two-parent household with one sibling and an abundance of cousins and aunts and uncle around. For a Black man his upbringing was nearly idyllic. He was highly intelligent testing on near genius levels and his school work was completed easily and always with the highest grades. His dad took the family on trips in their big American-made cars and he really wanted for nothing as he grew up along-side his special needs brother.
Lastly, he was a veteran of the Vietnam war, as I recall he had one promotion but then was demoted for being himself and defiant of authority, a theme that would continue through out his life. He was a radio operator in the infantry which had him on the front lines and put him in the perilous place of being exposed to Agent Orange along with his fellow soldiers, this key event and war would lead to the rest of his life being filled with visits to the Veteran's Administration, constant mental and physical pain, unemployment and ultimately his death alone in his Harlem apartment.
What had him on my mind this morning was recollecting that once he had asked me to find him a job at the theatre I was working at. I think I was maybe nineteen at the time possibly twenty and had decided that I wanted to work in the theatre as a career and being the very focused and diligent young person I was I took the steps to do just that.
I attended the High School for Performing Arts as a Drama major, where in my senior year while I stage-managed our double female cast of The Odd Couple for our Spring Drama Festival, I was also an intern at the Roundabout Theatre Company, and stage managing a small off off Broadway production set to premier on theatre row.
For college I was in the Theatre Management program with a minor in dance. I was doing every and all things to make sure that I was filling my newly formed resume with as many theatre credits as possible could, and to get as much experience as for the career I wanted in the theatre.
Then here comes this man whom I had never known to hold even the simplest job, wanting me to find him employment at the company where I was doing my Summer internship making a sixty-five dollar stipend per week, and living with my junior high school friend because his mother had kicked me out of my grandparents home while I was in college. I will repeat, I was made homeless while I was in college by his parents and he wanted me to help him get a job.
I don't usual cus in these journal entries, but GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE! #👏🏿
I told him I would not, and at the time felt a bit bad about that. Because I guess this was his attempt to get work, but we lived in New York City, and the only place for him to find work was at the Off Broadway theatre where his eldest child was working? #really
I was embarrassed and ashamed beyond words at just the thought of him working alongside me in the same place I did with young people who were all my contemporaries. How would this much older person have even fit in? If I could have I would have just dissolved into a puddle and sunk into the floorboards. How did he think that was even a fair request to ask of me?
As I have written in these entries previously I had surpassed both my parents having worked from the time I was fifteen till roughly forty. I don't think I could ever surpass my mom's work ethic, she was very focused on providing for her three young children and I have never had progeny and have never been influenced in that same way.
I always knew if I was going to work, I was going to be paid for using my mind, not my back. And that I would have one job or career and be paid well for it, which for the bulk of my work experience was exactly the case. Outside of the Census I haven't really worked in the last ten years, but don't feel even remotely regretful about that because my lack of work has nothing to do with my ability but the intersectionalities of identities and how they are perceived along with some of the classics like ageism, colorism and your garden variety racism.
I can admit as an adult who has been on the planet even longer than my father ever was, that mental health issues are real, that physical and mental pain are very real. But the origin of my shame and resentment towards my father is the fact that I don't really think he tried enough to get the help that he needed, and I will forever be disappointed in the man he could have been versus the man that he was. His parents did their best by him, and the rest were the kind of choices he made, never feeling like he deserved the life that was potentially laid out before him.
As a former self-sabotageur I understand how sometimes we can be our own worse enemies. I have also never fought in a war, and never will. But I understand that it is possible to overcome the traumas of the past and figure out a way to make a living for yourself and your family, my father never even attempted.
[Photo by Brown Estate]
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saintsaensreads · 1 month
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I wish I had that much swag when I picked up my pseudonym.
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humbleanger · 6 months
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.
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laku-incarnate · 1 year
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W.N.P. Barbellion (7 September 1889 – 22 October 1919), English diarist. Illustration by John Nash.
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punkshort · 29 days
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i know who you are | 2. the journal
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Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
Chapter Summary: Your memories still remain out of reach, so you ask Joel to tell you a bit about yourself, and with the help of a journal you kept, you begin to learn more about the person you became in the past ten years, leaving you with more questions than answers.
Chapter Warnings: language, eating, alcohol use, angst, pining, sad!Joel, amnesia
WC: 6.3K
Series Masterlist
"Did'ya get any sleep?"
You glanced up at Joel as you walked side by side towards the dining hall.
"No," you admitted, looking straight ahead again.
After Joel left you in his - your - bedroom, instructing you to rest on his way out, you found you could do anything but. Your mind was spinning with all of the information you had just learned, and you weren't sure which topic consumed you more: the end of the world or the supposed love of your life.
The longer his words set in, the more you were finding it difficult to look at him. It was such a strange feeling, having this large, burly, gruff man proclaim his love for you, to say he would stop at nothing to make you feel the same way, to insist you were meant for each other. It seemed so out of character, though you hardly felt like you knew him. But even now as you walked down the street, you noticed how some of the people in town glanced at him. Moving quickly out of his way.
It wasn't just you who found him intimidating.
You were distracted as you walked, curiously peering into storefronts and repurposed buildings when a group of children playing a game of tag nearly ran into you. At the last moment, Joel tugged your arm, pulling you into his side just in time. The children seemed to realize their mistake because their laughter quickly stopped and the smiles fell from their faces as they looked up at him.
"We're sorry, Mr. Miller," a young boy no more than eight years old said.
Miller. You never even bothered to ask his last name.
Joel just grunted and they scurried away, no doubt eager to escape his glare. You chanced a look at him, studying his stern expression when you realized he was still holding you against him. He was warm. Warmer than you expected. And solid. You cleared your throat and stepped away from his grasp, muttering your thanks and glancing around the busy street to avoid the disappointed look in his eye when it became clear you weren't comfortable with him touching you.
You shoved your hands in the pockets of your jeans and continued to walk in silence down the main road. A few people shot you curious looks or did double takes as they walked by, and you had to assume if Ellie heard the news about your accident, then others had, as well.
The Tipsy Bison came into view at the corner of the street, made obvious by the large crowds of people gathered outside.
"Does everyone have to eat here or are you allowed to have food in your homes?" you asked him, and he looked down at you, surprised by the question.
"We got food. It's not like a prison or somethin'," he said with a chuckle. "Most folks like to come here to socialize, but sometimes we cook dinner at home," he stopped short when he realized he never asked you what you preferred. "Did'ya wanna stay home instead?"
"No, this is fine," you told him over your shoulder.
"You sure? Maybe it's too much right now," he replied, jogging a bit to keep up.
"I'm sure. You won't leave me, right?" you asked, looking at him nervously.
"'Course not," he said, trying to hide his grin. He liked that you wanted him around, even if it was only because you didn't know anybody else. It was a start.
When Joel swung the door open, holding it wide so you could enter first, it might have been your imagination but you thought the loud chatter simultaneously died down for a split second. Then Joel stepped in beside you and the volume rose once again.
You wanted to look around and take in the rustic atmosphere but you could feel the eyes on you as Joel led you through the crowd, the scrutiny making you feel extremely out of place, so you kept your gaze pinned straight ahead. Following dutifully behind, you watched as people automatically moved out of his way, like he was Moses parting the Red Sea, until he reached a table in a somewhat quiet corner of the dining hall. He pulled out a chair and stood behind it, his hand still resting on the back, and it took you a second to realize he was waiting for you to sit so he could push it in. You quietly thanked him then finally looked around the room.
The dining room had tables scattered around, and as far as you could see, they all appeared to be taken. People were standing in groups, drinking and laughing and eating and you wondered how in the world your table wasn't taken. You were about to turn and ask when an older man approached your table.
"Hey guys," he said, pulling out a pad of paper from his pocket. "What'll it be?"
You went wide eyed for a moment, looking around trying to figure out what your choices were when, much to your relief, Joel spoke for you both.
"Still got any of that stew left?"
"Sure do. Few guys got lucky earlier today, too. Got two deer, so we'll be havin' more soon," he replied, jotting something down on his paper. "Two whiskies?"
Joel was about to nod when you spoke up for the first time.
"Just water for me, thanks," you said, and the man nodded his head.
"Thanks, Seth," Joel said as he walked away.
You glanced at Joel quickly, awkwardly catching his eye. It felt too much like a date. Dropping your gaze to the table, you tried to think of something to say.
"Probably a good idea, skippin' alcohol," he said. "Didn't even think about it, what with your head and all."
"Yeah," you said, your hand coming up to gently touch the stitches. "Besides, I don't like whiskey, anyway," you added. Joel laughed softly as he watched you shift nervously in your chair.
"What?" you asked with a frown.
"Nothin'," he replied, still staring at you in disbelief. "Just ever since you got here you've been tossin' back whiskey better than most of the men. You must've gotten a taste for it at some point."
"There's no way," you said, scrunching your nose when Seth put down Joel's glass in front of him. He stared down at it wistfully, swirling the amber liquid in the glass, lost in thought.
"Whiskey's how we first met," he said softly, still staring at the glass. You tilted your head towards him, waiting for him to continue. "When you first arrived, you were like a caged animal. You came here lookin' to blow off steam," he said with a distant smile. "It was a slow night. Just you and me and a handful of others. You were tossin' that shit back like it was nothin'."
You watched him as he reminisced. His eyes shone brightly and a small smile played on his lips, it almost felt like you were intruding on something special.
"When me and Ellie first arrived, no one really went outta their way to talk to me. I preferred it that way. Was used to bein' on my own," he continued, looking up at you now. "But that night, you sat down next to me at the bar like you had been waitin' for me or somethin'. You asked me if I was drinkin' for fun or drinkin' to forget. Those were the very first words you said to me."
You were completely silent as he spoke. The way he told it, it felt like you could see the scene playing out right before you, the way he remembered every detail left you in awe.
"What did you say?" you asked a little breathlessly.
The corner of his mouth twitched and he looked down at the table.
"Drinkin' to forget."
You waited for him to elaborate, but when it became apparent he wasn't going to, you asked him another question.
"Then what happened?"
He raised his eyebrows and hummed, a slow smile stretching across his face before he answered.
"You told me you could help me have fun and help me forget," he said, and you could feel the heat instantly flush your cheeks.
"Oh, my god," you murmured, covering your mouth, utterly mortified. "Please tell me you're joking."
He shook his head, still smiling at the memory. You glanced around the room, trying to look anywhere but at him.
"So then, did we...?" you trailed off, gaze still fixed on a spot on the wall.
"Oh, yeah. 'Course we did. I'm no saint," he chuckled.
"Jesus Christ," you said, burying your face in your hands. "That doesn't sound like me at all."
"It's not. Well, not anymore. You had an edge to you when you first arrived. Most do. Survivin' out there does that to you," he said, taking his first sip of whiskey.
You sat in silence for another minute, contemplating asking him what he knew about your life before you met him, but ultimately deciding against it. Maybe another time.
"Where's the bathroom?" you asked him, and he pointed down a small hallway near the bar. You thanked him, his eyes trailing after you as you made your way through the crowds, only dropping his gaze once you were no longer in view. It was a strange thing, recounting stories for you like that. At first, the memories made him smile, but once he saw the lost look on your face he felt the sadness creep back up, settling deep in his chest, and he wondered if he would ever get you back.
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You knew you were in the bathroom too long. You knew he would likely be worried, but you just couldn't stop staring at your reflection in the mirror after you washed your hands. Who was this person staring back at you? She looked older and weathered and tired. Your fingertip gently prodded at the bags under your eyes and then a small scar on your chin. What happened to you out there to make you the person Joel was describing? What did you have to do to survive? And did you really want to know the answer?
The door swung open, startling you as three girls around your age entered the bathroom. Their giggles stopped when they saw you and you watched them exchange glances in the mirror before a pretty girl with long, blonde hair greeted you by name. Turning around, you gave her a smile, hoping they would go about their business so you could slip out of there, but of course the pretty girl wanted to talk.
"We heard you had an accident, are you okay?" she asked, and she sounded sincere, but something about her smile made you think twice.
"Yeah, got a few stitches but it should be fine," you said, your eyes flicking to the other two girls, giving them each a smile. They looked at each other and smirked before heading towards the bathroom stalls, leaving you with just the blonde.
"So, is it true? Did you really lose your memory?" she asked, her voice low as if it were a secret, and finally you were able to pick up the vibe. You had been to high school before the outbreak. You had encounters with these types of girls before. Friendly to your face, vicious behind your back.
"Uh, yeah," you admitted, and she gasped as if she felt bad, but you saw the way her eyes lit up.
"So you don't remember, like, anything?"
"Well, I remember before everything went to hell," you told her, "but I don't remember this place, no."
"Oh, wow," she said, and you heard the toilets flush before the other two girls exited the stalls, grinning conspiratorially at the blonde. "So you don't know anybody here?"
You shook your head, feeling uncomfortable with the line of questioning at this point. What was she really getting at?
"That must mean you don't remember Joel, right?" one of the girls at the sink piped up. You looked at her briefly over your shoulder and shook your head, turning back to the blonde but not before you caught the look in her eye.
"Oh, that's too bad," she said, giving you a pout. "Does that mean you aren't together anymore, or-"
Suddenly, the door swung open and Ellie stormed in. Her hard gaze drifted around to the three girls and she gave them a look of disgust.
"Scram, vultures," she told them, and the blonde made a face at her before flipping her hair over her shoulder and heading to one of the stalls. Ellie called your name and you scurried over, allowing her to lead you back out into the dining room but not before she gave the other two girls a few choice words.
"Don't talk to them, they're nasty," she told you as you weaved your way through the crowd. Joel's eyes instantly found you once you were in view and you saw him straighten up in his chair.
"You okay?" he asked, and you could see the genuine concern in his face as you sat down. You were about to answer when Ellie plopped down on the other side of him and spoke first.
"Angie and her little sidekicks cornered her in there," she explained, rolling her eyes. "Already sniffing around for scraps."
"What do you mean?" you asked her, but just then Seth arrived with your meals and you never got an answer.
"Stew again?" Ellie asked, scrunching up her nose.
"It's good," Joel told her before taking a bite. You looked down at the bowl and you were inclined to agree with Ellie, but you swallowed the food down anyway, just grateful for something to eat after such a long day.
"Aren't you going to eat?" you asked her, noticing she hadn't ordered anything and instead was busy sketching in a journal.
"Nah, I'm going to Dina's later, I'll eat there," she explained without looking up.
"Who's Dina?"
"Oh, my girlfriend," Ellie explained, glancing up at you briefly. "Sorry. I still can't get used to this. It's so weird you don't remember."
"Don't be out too late. You got school tomorrow," Joel reminded her. Even though he wasn't Ellie's father, he seemed to have quite the knack for being a dad.
"Yes, sir," she said sarcastically, giving him a weak, two-fingered salute before hunching back over her journal. You heard some familiar giggles coming from somewhere behind you, and when you turned to look, you locked eyes with the blonde girl from the bathroom - Angie - who was holding some drink in her hand, her two friends flanking her sides as she strolled past your table. Her eyes drifted briefly to Joel before she passed by, then turned her attention to her friends, disappearing into the crowd.
"Who is that?" you asked, realizing you never really got much of an explanation. Joel and Ellie responded at the same time.
"Nobody."
"Joel's ex."
Your eyebrows shot up in surprise as Joel glared at Ellie.
"What? She woulda found out eventually," Ellie protested.
"She ain't even an ex," he said, turning to you now. "Just a mistake I made one time before you even got here," he insisted. The tone in his voice made it sound like he was trying to reassure you there was nothing to worry about, but of course, the information didn't phase you.
"Okay," you replied with a shrug. He examined your blank stare for a moment, searching for a glimmer of recognition. The disappointment in his expression every time something like this happened was becoming too much to bear, so you dragged your eyes off him to glance around the crowded room once again. You found Tommy leaning against the bar and you stood up.
"Where are you goin'?"
"I need to ask Tommy something," you said. "I'll be right back."
His eyes followed you as you pushed your way towards the bar, his heart feeling like it was going to break. He wasn't exactly looking for you to have an overly jealous reaction to hearing about another woman from his past, but your casual indifference hurt more than he expected. When you first found out about Angie, you insisted you weren't jealous but the way you sneered at her going forward, combined with giving him the best sex of his life later that night told him a different story.
"You think she'll ever get her memory back?" Ellie asked, still focusing on her drawing. Joel sighed and dragged his hands down his face.
"I don't know, kid."
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"What'd you need to talk to Tommy for?" Joel asked once you both arrived back to his - your - home. You had wandered into the kitchen, Joel hot on your trail.
"Oh, I just had a question about something I saw when we were out there today," you explained, and he raised an eyebrow for you to continue. "There were dead bodies when I came to. They looked all decayed and... subhuman. Now that you told me about the infection, I wanted to ask."
Joel watched you open and close cupboards until you found the glasses, then picked one out to fill with water.
"So you ran into some runners," he said, and you nodded. "Did he happen to mention how you hit your head?"
Your hand froze, your glass halfway to your lips as you considered his question.
"Actually, no, he didn't," you said, setting down the glass and looking up at him.
"Yeah, he didn't really tell me, either," he replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "When he told me you hit your head and you were havin' trouble remeberin' things, I just came runnin'."
Guilt washed over you yet again as you thought about Joel being told the news and how panicked he must have been. He practically ripped all the exam room doors off their hinges to find you, only to be met with a stranger when he finally did.
"Well, I can ask him tomorrow," you finally said, putting your glass in the sink to avoid looking at him.
"Yeah," he replied, trailing off a bit. He was still lost in thought, trying to remember Tommy's exact words when you walked past him towards the stairs.
"You're tired?"
"Well, it's been a long day," you told him, pausing on a stair to look back down at him.
"Right, 'course," he said, shaking his head and following you up. When you got to the doorway of his bedroom you paused, looking up at him. It seemed like he was struggling to say something, his mind working hard to find the words, but instead he just gazed down at you, brown eyes all wide and soft.
"Don't suppose anythin's comin' back to you yet?" he finally asked, and you hated seeing that look. That same hopeful look you kept seeing right before you opened your mouth and crushed him. This was hard for him, you knew that, but the way he kept looking at you was making things so much worse. The pressure you felt to become this person he was expecting you to be was overwhelming. You opted to drop your gaze to the floor and slowly shake your head.
"That's okay," he said, and you dragged your eyes back up to him. "Maybe tomorrow."
You gave him a small smile. "Yeah, maybe."
He sighed and glanced at the door to the spare room.
"You need anythin', I'm right next door," he said, hitching his thumb to the side and giving you a lopsided grin, but you could still see it in his eyes. The disappointment. The sadness. The yearning. And it was making you feel sick.
Just as he turned to head towards the spare room, you spoke. "Joel?"
And he eagerly swiveled back around.
"I'm gonna try really hard to remember," you said earnestly, looking deep into his eyes.
"I know," he replied with a sad smile. He gave you one more look before heading into the spare room and softly closing the door behind him.
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Joel slept like shit.
No surprise there, really. He hadn't slept without you in years. He had hoped the whiskey would have helped, but he was wrong. His mind was racing as he tossed and turned, and by morning he had foolishly convinced himself that you would be back to normal after a good night's rest. He got up early and made coffee for the two of you, like he always did, then tended to the fire in the living room. The nights and early mornings were frigid, but the days were warm. The first sign that fall was approaching fast. He was just putting the poker back when he heard the bedroom door creak open upstairs and his heart jumped into his throat excitedly, but when you descended the stairs and locked eyes with him, he knew nothing had changed. He didn't even bother to ask. You didn't look at him the same way you used to. You used to smile and gravitate towards him, your hands always seeking out his, your eyes playful and loving, but now you looked at him like he was a complete stranger. Devoid of all affection, the only thing that remained was a forced politeness.
You said good morning and headed into the kitchen and Joel wondered how long it would take for you to come around. Less than a day ago, you looked at him in fear, but now you seemed at least comfortable in his presence. That had to count for something.
He must have looked like shit because when he joined you in the kitchen, you eyed him up and down curiously.
"Have you been up for a while?"
He shook his head and picked up his mug, taking a sip and hoping the caffeine would bring him back to life.
"How's your head?" he asked.
"Not great," you admitted, pouring your own cup of coffee. "It really hurts. I think whatever meds the doctor gave me yesterday wore off."
Without even thinking, Joel quickly closed the distance between you to examine your injury. You startled a bit when he came up behind you and lifted your hair, but for his benefit, you tamped down your reaction. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he gripped the nape of your neck to angle your head downwards in order to get a better look. You closed your eyes and held your breath as you focused on his fingertips pressing tenderly into your skin. You heard him murmur to himself, the sound coming from deep within his chest, and you realized just how close he really was. Aside from pulling you out of the way so the kids playing tag wouldn't knock you down, it was the first time he had really touched you, and he was so much softer than you expected.
"Don't think it's infected but let's go see the doc, just to be sure," he said, his hand still on your neck, his other hand pushing your hair away.
"Okay," you said quietly, finally allowing yourself to take in a shaky breath as you waited for him to release you.
As if he realized what he was doing, he let your hair fall back into place and let go of your neck, his fingertips lightly trailing down your spine before falling to his side, making you shiver and step away.
"Sorry," he said. "Should've asked to look first."
"It's fine," you told him, absentmindedly rubbing the spot on your neck his fingers just touched.
As you walked side by side to the infirmary, his stony expression slid back into place. Gone was the softness you witnessed in his home. His hardened gaze drifted around the street, then to the watch towers, taking everything in. Studying. Calculating. And that was when you realized there were two Joel Millers: the one who the rest of the town viewed as gruff and callous, and the one you saw in the kitchen that morning, soft and gentle.
You wondered how many people got to see the latter version.
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Nick examined you again in the same room as before, but this time, Joel was there watching his every move like a hawk. You could practically see the tension radiating off Nick's shoulders as he moved around the room. He examined your cut carefully, Joel's eyes never once leaving his hands, confirming that it was not infected before parceling out ten little white tablets of extra strength Tylenol into a small baggie and advising you to use them sparingly as inventory was low.
"That's it?" Joel asked incredulously.
"You know how it is, Joel," Nick said, but you heard his voice waver when Joel stood up from his chair. "Meds are hard to come by, we gotta be smart-"
"She hit her goddamn head so fuckin' hard she's lucky she remembers her own name and you're givin' her Tylenol?" he seethed, and you could see his neck growing flush with anger again.
"Joel, calm down, it's fine," you said, sliding off the table. Turning to Nick, you were about to voice your thanks when Joel cut you off.
"It ain't fine. What's it gotta take to get somethin' that actually works?" he huffed, taking a step forward and making Nick shift his weight nervously. "She gotta be missin' an arm? Maybe if she hit her head hard enough to forget what fuckin' planet she's on?"
"Joel, that's enough!" you snapped with a frown, and much to Nick's relief, Joel instantly backed off. He turned and paced around the small room, his hand rubbing over his mouth as he tried to calm down.
"What about my memory? Is it a bad sign I haven't remembered anything yet?" you asked Nick, and Joel paused somewhere behind you to listen to his answer.
"Well, the brain is a tricky thing," he began, his eyes darting over your shoulder briefly. "It could be weeks, could be months. Without any imaging, I wouldn't be able to tell you much more than that." You nodded and swallowed nervously before asking your next question.
"Or never, right?"
Nick took a deep breath and looked at Joel over your shoulder again before responding.
"It's possible."
You heard Joel's boots squeak against the linoleum floor and without even looking, you knew he was anxiously pacing around again.
"Alright, thank you. We'll get out of your hair now," you said, turning to corral Joel towards the door.
"Regardless, I'd like to see you again in a few days so I can take a look at those stitches," Nick said, and you agreed while pushing a muttering Joel back out into the hallway.
"I'll get you better meds," he said as you both walked out of the infirmary. "I got patrol tomorrow mornin', but I can go out after. There's a small cluster of houses we never did a full sweep on. Maybe-"
"The Tylenol is fine, don't go through the trouble. You could get hurt," you said, shoving the baggie of pills into your pocket.
"Tylenol ain't gonna do shit. I don't want you bein' in pain if there's somethin' we can do about it."
You sighed and rubbed the back of your neck, trying to temporarily relieve the ache in your head until you could get home and take one of the pills. You gave Joel a sideways glance, studying him as you walked together. He was brash and rude and aggressive, but you were learning that side of him came out when he was being protective over the ones he loved.
Or when he was trying to hide who he really was.
"So, everyone pitches in around here, right?" you asked, trying to change the subject. "You do patrol. What do I do?"
You paused at a crossroads, trying to remember which way to go, when Joel's hand on your elbow guided you in the right direction.
"You work patrol, too, but you ain't doin' that anymore," he said, letting go of your elbow after holding on for a moment too long.
"Well, obviously. I don't even know how to ride a horse," you said with a snort. "So I guess I need to find a new job, right? Who do I talk to?"
"Why don't you slow down a minute?" Joel said with a chuckle. "Let that pretty little head of yours heal up before you go lookin' for work."
You weren't going to say anything about his comment. Although it took you off guard, you realized he had habits that were going to be hard to ignore and you didn't expect that to happen overnight, but he seemed to realize what he said on his own and awkwardly cleared his throat.
"Sorry," he said softly.
"It's okay. I know this is difficult for you," you said, shooting him a sympathetic glance as you climbed his porch steps. He swung open the door and followed you inside, where you made a beeline for a glass of water so you could take one of the pills.
"We got a lotta history, you and me. It's hard to start over," he said as he watched you toss back the Tylenol with a wince. You examined his face closely and pulled out one of the stools to sit down. You leaned forward, forearms resting on the cool countertop before replying.
"Tell me a story."
He raised an eyebrow at you but couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from turning up a bit.
"What kinda story?"
"A story about us. You just said we have a lot of history together. Let's hear some of it," you replied with an encouraging smile.
"You sure? Thought you'd wanna go lay down," he said, but he eagerly pulled up a stool across from you.
"I think I can handle one little story," you told him, then watched as he stared down at his hands on top of the counter, deep in thought. When he thought of one, a slow smile spread across his face and his dark brown eyes flicked up to meet yours and you saw that softer side of him again.
"Alright," he said, settling back a bit. "So I told'ya last night how we met."
You cringed, remembering the story of a much bolder and seductive version of yourself, and nodded.
"Well, after that night we started seein' each other for a few weeks. It was just casual, nothin' serious," he said, looking down at his hands again. "I convinced you to sneak around so no one would catch on, and you grew tired of that. Rightfully so. I was bein' an asshole."
You watched him pull at a loose thread on the cuff of his flannel shirt, his eyes still cast down and you were beginning to realize it was due to shame.
"So anyway. One day you came over to, y'know..." he said, and you felt the heat in your cheeks again. "And you confronted me about it head on. Demanded to know why I wanted to keep you a secret. Thought I was ashamed of you - which I wasn't," he said quickly, his eyes finally meeting yours again. "But I had been through a lot of shit and I just didn't think I could give myself to someone like that again."
"What kind of shit?" you asked quietly, but he just lightly shook his head.
"One story at a time," he told you with a sad smile. You chewed on your lower lip as you waited for him to continue, his focus back on the loose string while he collected his thoughts.
"So I explained I had a hard time lettin' people in, that I wasn't capable of carin' 'bout anyone like that anymore, and you said to me, 'I know who you are, Joel Miller. Don't give me that bullshit, you're just scared.'"
He stared into your eyes, letting what he said land and hoping to see a flicker of the woman who spoke those words, but you just continued to look at him, waiting for him to finish the story like it was about somebody else entirely.
"Well, you were right, obviously. You always are," he continued with a smirk. "It knocked me on my ass. And I didn't know what was more difficult to believe: that you knew me better than I knew myself, or someone like you wanted anythin' to do with me in the first place."
You smiled and dropped your gaze to the counter, suddenly feeling shy.
"I'm not saying I don't believe you, but so far, these stories don't sound like me at all," you admitted.
He took a deep breath and finally stopped fidgeting with his sleeve.
"A lot's happened in ten years. Stuff that changes people. But I don't care what version of you's here, I love all of you."
You kept your eyes glued to his hands. You wished you could say it back. You knew he wanted to hear it. Maybe one day.
He tapped his finger on the counter, pulling your attention up so you were forced to look him in the eye.
"You fought for me that night, now I'm gonna fight for you, okay?" he said, eyebrows raised as he waited for you to acknowledge him. When you nodded sheepishly, his shoulders relaxed.
"So you're saying I fell in love with you because you were an asshole?" you joked, trying to lighten the mood, and it worked. Joel laughed heartily and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Nah, you didn't love me then," he said, still smiling.
"So how did I fall in love with you?" you asked, and his tongue clicked against his teeth.
"You're gonna have to wait to find out," he replied with a wink.
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It wasn't his fault, but the rest of the day you could feel Joel looking at you. He was examining you, waiting to see the woman he fell in love with, and the pressure was beginning to be too much, so you made up an excuse to go lay down in his bedroom. He had mentioned he had patrol in the morning. Maybe some time away from him would help you relax.
You stared up at the white ceiling. The distant sound of children laughing outside through the closed window and then the door to the garage swinging open and shut acted as a soundtrack to your overactive thoughts. You almost had to laugh. It felt like your mind was constantly working, churning up information and digesting it only to always come up empty.
Absolutely nothing seemed familiar. Nothing about this place or these people felt like home.
You wished so badly you could remember something. Anything to make you feel like you belonged there. One little shred of hope was all you were looking for.
And then you remembered the journal.
Sitting up in bed, you tucked your legs underneath you and reached over for the black book. You fingers hesitated for a moment on the cover. It felt like an invasion of privacy, but how could that be when it was your own?
Taking a deep breath, you flipped open the journal and began at the beginning.
Right away, you could tell you wrote the entries. There was no doubt in your mind. Aside from your handwriting, your typical disorganization shone through like a beacon on every page. You occasionally remembered to notate in the margin the date, or your best guess at the date, but more often than not you were left with very little context for each small paragraph you read.
You were disappointed to realize the journal seemed to begin after you had met Joel. A big part of you was very eager to learn more about the person you were before finding Jackson, but it seemed as though you would have to depend on others to tell you stories you hopefully had relayed to them in the past.
The first page looked to be a list of items you had jotted down that didn't make much sense, but maybe when you first found the notebook, you hadn't intended to use it as a journal.
Socks, colored pencils, sunflower seeds, cards.
Flipping the page, you skimmed a short paragraph about a cabin you stumbled upon when on patrol. Again, it was more notes than anything of any substance. A description of approximately where it was in relation to Jackson along with a note to 'mention it at the next town hall meeting'.
Finally something interesting on the next page, you read a short paragraph about someone named Maria having a baby girl, and you frowned when you read the line Joel handled it better than I expected.
Continuing on, you read an entry about Christmas: Joel found me the softest sweater, it almost felt brand new. I really don't know how he managed to find it and I described the house I grew up in to Ellie and she drew it perfectly, I can't believe how talented she is.
One paragraph in particular grabbed your attention. It was about two people, and based on the context, it sounded like you were close friends. For the first time since we got here, I had the same day off as Ben and Lisa. We went fishing together and brought a lunch. It felt just like old times. As weird as it sounds, sometimes I miss being out there with them. We made a good team.
Maybe this Ben and Lisa would be able to answer some questions you had about yourself. Based on what you just read, it sounded like they knew you before Jackson.
There was a lot more to read, but the next page stopped you dead in your tracks. Your heart began to beat faster as you stared at the four words. Just one sentence, no explanation. A shiver slowly trickled down your spine as you sat there, unmoving, as your vision narrowed on the page: Joel lied to me.
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15minlatewithbatbucks · 10 months
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It's forty minutes into the latest state of the company press conference and Bruce has had to mute his mic entirely to avoid being turned into a meme AGAIN for sighing too much at his own event. For all that he's spent almost 20 years coaching his own children on not making scenes, he's really not much better. It's hot and he doesn't want to be here. His ribs hurt. He's tired. He's hungry. He's every excuse Dick or Jason have trotted out over the years.
(Tim understands company manners and can almost always be trusted to stick it out as long as he's allowed to vent his frustrations afterwards. He's recently taken to smashing ugly thrifted dishes. Stephanie and Damian have been collecting any ceramic not entirely pulverized and turning them into pavers for Alfred's garden.)
(Bruce gave up after Tim. He really only needs one kid to tag along to social events. If the kid start to outnumber him they start getting IDEAS.)
His distraction is why it takes two very rude repetitions of his name for him to take notice at the young reporter pushing his way to the front. Lucius stands, cutting off the project manager currently presenting and speaks into the mic.
"Please keep hold all questions until the end of the presentation, thank you."
"Mr. Wayne," the reporter tries again and Bruce waves away Lucius's further protests.
"Can I help you?" He asks, smiling with the full force of Brucie Wayne's charm behind it. It's been awhile since his last scandal, but if the press is inventing drama then it's less work for him.
The man holds up a photograph almost accusingly. He reeks of gotcha journalism.
Bruce squints towards him, unable to fully make out the contents of the photo. Dick may have been right when he gently suggested Bruce add glasses to his Brucie Wayne persona but that was a hill Bruce was still willing to die on. It was bad enough he had to have a prescription COWL.
"What do you have to say about the presence of your adopted son, Timothy Drake at the illegal mob in Robinson Park last Saturday?"
"Drake-Wayne," Bruce corrected because Tim hyphenated, damn it. He was the first of his children to let Bruce tag the Wayne name on and it mattered, damn it. "Wait do you mean-"
"How about reports of him kissing a man while there?"
"A blond man?" Bruce asked, finally giving up and crossing to take the photo for himself. "Oh. No, that's his boyfriend."
There was a beat of silence before Bruce realized his mistake. Just as the reporters began to squall, he dropped the blurry photo and began to speed walk off, phone suddenly in hand.
Through the podium's microphone, the gathered reporters heard one thing as Bruce evacuated the immediate vicinity.
"Tim? Don't be mad."
---
Despite Bruce's best efforts, he becomes a meme.
---
Immediately following the bombshell that Timothy Drake-Wayne had a boyfriend, social media blows up, clamoring for more information. They're ravenous for it, desperate. Tim doesn't have a personal social media presence but they stalk his professional accounts religiously. Bruce does have personal social media, but he maintains radio silence.
In the end, a Gotham based "influencer" stumbles across Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne getting donuts at Kosher Donuts and Co. Dick is personable, as always, and stops to speak with the young woman briefly.
"Yeah, Tim wasn't mad," he laughs when asked. "Just disappointed. But man, he knows how to milk it."
"Bruce is in the doghouse, huh?" she asks, full of false sympathy.
"A little bit," Dick says as Damian mumbles, "Titus would never share."
"But," Dick continued. "Tim's spun it so Bruce is on the hook for like, half a million in donations for local LGBT charities. Tim says it would hurt less if he sponsored a new shelter too, so that's something to look forward to."
"That's a lot of money! Where's it all going?"
"Oh you know," Dick says and gestures vaguely. "A lot of different programs."
"Yeah? Anything you personally want to see done with the funding?"
"Drag story time," Damian answers before Dick can. He looks intense. "But not for children. For dogs. In the shelter."
---
A day later, Tim breaks the silence. He goes live on Bruce's Instagram.
"So the problem was that Bruce thought the reporter was saying I was being unfaithful," Tim explains. "He totally forgot I wasn't out to everyone yet. Bruce was just worried because he's already told me if I break up with my boyfriend, he's not uninviting him from any future family events."
"Luckily, I was in fact just kissing my boyfriend at PRIDE. Just because people got shifty with the permits at the last second because of protestors doesn't make it an illegal mob. If you wanna hear about Wayne's and illegal mobs, talk to Dickie about his younger years. Nothing I do can compare."
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Three for One 3
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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, cheating, customer service abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: As a customer service associate, you’re used to work with a wide variety of characters. Your efforts to go above and beyond draw the attention of a certain set of customers who want more than what’s on the shelf.
Character: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale
Note: Let's go!
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)
Love you all. Take care. 💖
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Two days before Christmas. The store is left in tatters. Shelves strewn with sparse lefftovers and aisles hastily paced by those who left their shopping a bit too late. The frantic shoppers searching for a diamond among the sand grains of untouched product.
You work at arranging the remnants of the season’s beauty advent calendars on a table draped in a bright red cloth. There’s a large tag in a metal stand that marks them as ten percent off. On the other side of the holidays, they will drop to a full eighty percent off. You always believed giftcards were a better prize, not that you got many gifts.
That year, Luanne gave you a new journal and a specialty hot chocolate bomb in the department’s secret santa. You go Michelle and gifted her a copy of your favourite novel and some nail polishes. That is the extent of your shopping and gift exchanges. Except for your puppy, Ernie, who will get a bone and one of those special gourmet dog meals.
You finish your arrangement and step back, admiring your work. It’s close to close and so close to the end of the race that the shop isn’t as busy as usual. The only customers you do see are in a rush and horribly disappointed when that very specific thing isn’t in stock.
“Excuse me,” you’re drawn around the deep voice. A man strolls up the center aisle of the beauty section, the tails of his coat flicking behind him, “hi,” he uses your name as he approaches, “I’m so sorry to bother you again but can you point me to, erm,” he looks down at his phone, “a ring light?”
You hesitate. He seems to know you and you admit, he looks familiar. You’re at that point where the faces all blur together. Your one innate flaw is that you really don’t have a good memory for that, bt you definitely recognise his voice.
“Hello, sir,” you fall short of his name. You want to say Alan but you also don’t want to be wrong. “The ring lights are actually with the cellphone.” You gesture back at electronics, “I know it makes more sense to put them with cameras.”
“Ah, oh, thanks,” he nods but doesn’t move to find his quarry, he lowers his phone, “how’s your holiday going? Thing’s slowing down,” he looks around and you can’t help but do the same.
“Uh, yeah, yeah, most people are all done,” you shrug.
“Ha, wish I could say the same,” he sighs, “I thought we were done but the wife just sent me on a wild goose chase.”
“Hm, oh, well, I’m not very busy, did you need help finding anything else?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, my manager’s done for the day so doesn’t really matter if I leave my zone,” you say, “kinda boring around here.”
“You’re too sweet,” he smiles, his blue eyes deep and swirling, “and that sweater is adorable.”
You look down at your dark blue sweater with the white crochet peter pan collar. You wiggle your shoulders and grin back at him, thanking him. You know he bought some perfume for his wife but you’re still blanking on his name.
“Here’s my list,” he tilts his phone towards you and looks down, shifting closer to you as he shows you a text bubble.
“Oh my, right. I’m not sure we’ll have everything,” you teethe your lip as you go through the items, “but we’ll see.”
A message pops up over the top and you try not to read, putting your head up as you try to act like you didn’t see it. It’s not that you meant to decipher the words but your brain quickly skimmed that ‘tomorrow night?’ Not much but just feels a bit personal.
“Alright, we’ll go to electronics first, then work our way forward,” you suggest.
“Good idea,” he agrees.
You set off and he follows at just a step. You have to remember to slow down as often you’re so determined you find yourself leaving your customers far behind you. You bring him to the mobile accessories and point to the ring lights.
He considers them and rubs his chin. He points between two; “what’s the difference?”
“Oh, this one comes with a tripod extension and this one is a full kit with a mic,” you point from one to the other.
“What do you think is better for, uh, streaming?” He sounds unsure of that last word.
“I think that kit would have more to it, especially if whoever it’s for is just starting out. But I’m don’t know too much about these things.”
“I’ll take the kit,” he scoops it off the shelf, “the kid can never have enough.”
“Oh? You have kids?”
“One,” he sounds less than excited, “teenager now so he really can’t stand me.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to…”
“No, no, it’s not your fault,” he forces away the shadow across his features, “you know how they can be. What about you? You going to see your parents? Spending the day with someone special?”
“Um, just Ernie,” you answer, “my puppy.”
“Cute,” he remarks, “are you guys open tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, yeah, ‘til five,” you try to remember the next thing on his list. 
He seems less concerned with the items than before, instead turn to examine a pop socket, “you have to work on Christmas Eve?”
“Yeah, closing, but I don’t mind.”
“What’s this?” He holds up a pop socket.
“It goes on your phone,” you pull out your phone and show him your daisy one, “see?” You hook your fingers around it, “it’s a grip to help you hold on.”
“Ah, makes sense,” he turns the thin package over, “kid’s always breaking his screen…”
You wait patiently as he makes up the mind to add the grip to his haul.
“What’s next?” You prompt as gently as you can.
“Oh, uh,” he looks at his phone, “video games…” he squints, “V-bucks?”
“Ah, yes, that would be a gift card,” you say, “I can show you the rack.”
He lets you lead him to the large rack of subscription cards. You point out the various currency amounts available and he rubs his brow. His forehead lines as you see the stress needling in his cheek. He’s struck with the late shopper syndrome. He’s start to feel the crush of time.
“So, just your dog?” He wonders as he picks up a $75 card.
“Yeah,” you answer softly.
“No boyfriend? Siblings?”
“Just me,” you assure him, “I don’t mind. I get to choose the dessert!”
He chuckles, “that’s a good way to look at it. Did you buy yourself something special?”
“Not really, I’ve been saving for a vacation so I put most of my overtime into that,” you explain. “You having a big dinner?”
“Last minute change, wife’s parents want to host. Had to figure out travel plans.” He looks at the giftcards again and your eyes fall to the large back curled up in his arm and the card and phone grip balanced between his fingers. He slides free a Netflix card and reads the fine print.
“Do you want a basket, sir?” You offer.
“Oh, well, sure,” he accepts as he looks down, “that’s very considerate.”
“Don’t want you to drop anything,” you smile and turn on your heel.
You go to the stack of rolling baskets beside the electronics desk. Tyler doesn’t acknowledge you as he sorts through game shells to put back on the shelf. You pull the basket behind you, rattling on its wheels as you approach the shopper by the gift cards.
“Here,” you veer it around towards him.
He bends to lower the ringlight inside and drops the smaller items into next to it; he adds the Netflix subscription along with it and holds onto the Kindle card in his hand.
“You got any of these around?” He holds up the card, “the reader?”
“Hmm, we should,” you rub your neck, “I suppose if we didn’t, you can get a tablet and download the app.”
“I guess,” he nods, “can you check?”
“Of course, sir.”
You turn away and call over your headset. Regan tells you there’s a kindle up in return they can sell. You ask them to put it aside.
“There’s one left at checkout. They’re going to have it waiting for you,” you announce proudly.
“That’s great. You like to read?” He asks.
“Oh, sure, my one vice is my book addiction,” you giggle, “how about you?”
“Well, I don’t get much of a chance with work. I’m usually burnt out from all the legal documents,” he drones grimly, “then the kid has extracurriculars or there’s a PTA meeting or the wife needs something done.”
“Sounds busy,” you say empathetically, “I hope you get some time to relax this holiday.”
“Me too,” he agrees. “I almost envy you. I’m sure your dog’s good company.”
“He’s so sweet,” you can’t help but beam at the mention of your boy.
“Big cuddler?” He asks.
“Uh, yeah,” the question is a bit unexpected, “you like dogs?”
“Never really had one. Don’t need the extra work,” he says, “but I don’t mind them.”
“That’s fair. He can be a bit needy.”
He flinches and looks down at his hand. His screen flashes and he gives an apologetic look as he raises his palm, “I’m so sorry. I need to take this.”
“Take your time, sir, I’ll wander,” you point over your shoulder with your thumb.
He mouths a thanks before he answers, “Barber.”
You back up and turn to distract yourself with the shelf of controllers and switch cases. His deep voice carries but you focus on the Sinatra carol playing overhead to drown him out. Still you can’t help but catch a few words.
“Five, yeah…no, she won’t…it’s fine…” He’s quiet for a moment before he raises his voice, “figure it out.”
His stern tone sends a chill through you. It’s a sharp contrast to his previously friendly demeanour. Well, he mentioned he’s a lawyer, you assume he has a lawyer voice, akin to your customer service one.
“Sorry,” he comes back to you, “my wife…” he takes a breath, “you don’t happen to sell wine here?”
You smile. The way he answered, it didn’t sound very affectionate but maybe he hadn’t expected his wife.
“No, sorry, sir.”
“Kidding,” he chuckles, “well, I guess I should get my butt in gear,” he flicks through his phone, “um, I assume toiletries? Face masks?”
“Oh, that’s near me,” you point back towards beauty, “there’s a special for the sheet masks.”
“Great,” he grabs the extended handle of the basket, “thanks so much for this. I’m so lost.”
“That’s fine,” you go ahead of him, “it’s the job.”
🎀
You groan as you put the last empty bin in the stack. You stand and rub your shoulders, traps sore from all the lifting and moving. The night crew will set up for the day after Christmas but in the last hour of work, you and the few others in the store scrambled to get the old displays torn down.
Luanne walks with you to the employee break room. She’s in more of a hurry as she has her three children waiting for her at their grandparents. She goes ahead of you and punches out as you wait and stretch out your arms.
“Have a good Christmas,” she says breathily as she opens her locker and pulls out her purse and jacket, folding the latter over her arm, “I’ll see you after. You’re opening, right?”
“Sure thing,” you say as you punch in your employee number. “Merry Christmas.”
“Give Ernie some pets for me,” she trills as she goes to the door. “Thanks again. You saved my ass today.”
“No problem, “ you shake your head, “Christmas Eve brings out the best.”
“Does it ever. Bye, sweetie,” she waves over her shoulder as he sweeps through the door.
You go to your locket and take out your fluffy pink sherpa coat and purse. You loop your scarf around your neck and slip your earmuffs around your head. You sit to pull on your boots and stand with an ache in your calves. You feel the fatigue finally setting in. It’s not over yet; one day off and you’re right back to the furor.
You yawn as you leave the breakroom and drag your feet across the store. You take out your phone as you pop your earbuds in and choose your holiday mix. You wave goodbye to a few other stragglers and go out the front door, Spencer locking it behind you.
It’s bitterly cold out. You’re surprised by the fresh fall of snow swirling in the air. It gives an extra sparkle to the time of year.
You scroll through your phone. The buses are on holiday hours already. The next one is in an hour. Great. You can just walk, at least until you get to the next stop. More buses stop there and you can get at least ten minutes within your building.
You trod along, kicking through the powder of snow as headlights gleam ahead of you. You walk along the narrow walk beside the hotel on the other side of the intersection and a pair of flashing tail lights blink ahead of you. A dark figure stands beside the white SUV but you can’t make out much more than their silhouette.
You keep going, peeking up curiously as you near. The boot of the car pops up and the stranded driver searches. As you pass, you trip over an unseen shape, the metal clank painfully against your toe. You look down at the small foot jack.
“Oh, shoot, sorry,” the man stands straight and turns to you, “I didn’t see you coming. I was just grabbing the iron–”
“That’s okay,” you pick out your earbuds, “I wasn’t looking.”
“Wait,” he stops short and points a gloved finger in your direction, “it’s you. You work at the store just down the way, right?”
You know the man. He’s the one who was in the store just yesterday. There’s a flutter in your chest at the coincidence of your encounter. It happens, especially in the shopping district. Half the city at least passes through her during the holidays.
“Yeah, uh, that’s me. You finish your shopping?”
“Just about,” he tuts and shakes his head, “blew a tire. So, happy holidays to me.”
“I’m so sorry,” you look down at the snowy walk.
“Mhmm,” he grumbles, “all this snow, I can’t get the jack to work either.”
“Dang, unfortunately, I’m not help. I don’t know much about cars.”
“That’s fine, I called roadside assistance but they’re taking their damn time,” he checks his watch.
“Oh…” you utter.
“Don’t let me rain on your holiday, honey,” he says, “your toe okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” you look down.
“Wait, are you walking home?” He asks.
You nod.
“Wish I could offer you a ride. This weather’s only getting worse,” he bemoans. He slips his hand into his jacket and pulls out his phone, “they should be here shortly so if–”
A set of headlights pull onto the apron and roll towards you. You look over as the man beside you does the same. You stand, somewhat dumbfounded at the unexpected run-in. 
“That’s them,” he declares, “hey, guys.”
He waves as the white van pulls up. You were expecting a tow truck. Oh, well. Not your problem.
“Great, I guess I should get going,” you excuse yourself, “have a happy holi–”
As you step back, your heel catches on something. You don’t realise until your plummeting onto your ass that the man stuck his leg out behind you. You hit the ground with an oomph, barely missing the metal jack half-buried in the snow.
You hear the van door sliding open and a clatter of heavy treads. You can barely catch your breath as the world moves fast around you. The man bends over you as another rushes over, grabbing you off the ground as the two vehicles block out the street from view.
“Be nice,” the first man warns as your arms are seized. “Don’t hurt her.”
You suck in a deep breath. What is happening? You go to let out the shriek as you’re struck by the situation. This can’t be real but you’re being half-carried towards an open vehicle. A hand comes up and stifles your scream, smothering you as you’re yanked harshly forward.
“Careful,” the man girds again.
“Shut the fuck up,” the other grits and pulls you away from the other, spinning you around as he hooks an arm around your neck and covers your mouth, forcing you towards the van. He bends backwards, lifting your feet as you kick and squirm.
“Honey, calm down,” the friendly customer coaxes, “it’s okay.”
You don’t understand. Why are they doing this? Why you?
The man’s hand slips as you grab at his arms and your teeth come over the vee between thumb and index. You bite down and he yowls. Even through his leather glove, you give him a viscous pinch.
“Fuck!” He tosses you forward so your knees hit the side of the van and fall half-inside.
“Hurry the fuck up,” another voice calls from inside the van.
“Trying,” the second man snarls as you stand and let out a shrill note, only for a second before you’re caught from behind and muted again. This time the leather glove seals over your nose. “Fucking bitch.” 
You’re lifted into the van, writhing and kicking as the door slides shut from the outside. You’re pinned on the floor in the seatless rear of the vehicle. You whimper as your eyes glisten with a sudden spring of tears. 
That question rings in your head again; why you? You have no one to look for you, no one to care. It’s only you against them.
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roosterforme · 5 months
Text
Adult Education Part 7 | Hangman x OC
Summary: Jessica can't get enough of the comfort she feels around Jake, and he can't help but press her to define what they are doing. Everything feels heated and still sweet when they hang out for the day, and when she brings up the alumni event, he's immediately onboard.
Warnings: Fluff, angst, swearing, eventually 18+
Length: 3700 words
Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female OC
This story is part of the Beer Boy and Sugar universe but can be read on its own! Adult Education masterlist
Seriously, who let Jake on my masterlist!? Banner by @mak-32
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Jessica couldn't remember the last time she felt this comfortable and confident around someone else. She had grown into the understanding that her own company was the best company for her, and especially for the past year, she had kept contact with most people to a minimum. Keeping them at a professional arm's length as much as possible. But when she was with Jake, she didn't feel like she needed to be quiet and keep her head down to survive. 
"I got pretty much every kind of snack for today," he told her as they stood in his kitchen. "Just because I don't know all of your favorites yet."
Yet. That was the second time he'd made her heart flutter like this. He also told her he was getting attached to her. And now his cheeks were a little pink as she picked up some chips and salsa.
"I told you I'm not picky as long as you have Sam Adams for me."
"I'll make sure I always have it," he promised as he took two bottles out of the refrigerator and followed her to the living room. "You relax and shout to me if anyone scores, okay?"
"Where are you going?" she asked from her spot on the couch as he set the beers down and left again. She noticed the stack of journals she'd given him were sitting near the corner of the coffee table. 
"Just going to add everything to the crockpot so we can have dinner later."
Jessica settled back into the cushions and watched him walk away, his shirt hugging his broad shoulders. He was perhaps even more handsome than Brian Conley, which was something she would have never thought possible. When she and Brian were sleeping together, she thought he was the most attractive man she'd ever seen. Ten years older. Gray hair mixed in with chestnut brown. Icy blue eyes. But now she was coming around to the idea of someone her own age, with lighter hair and pretty green eyes. 
When Jake returned a minute later and settled down right next to her, even though there was plenty of room, she asked, "How old are you?"
He took the jar of salsa from her hand and opened it as he said, "Thirty. I'd ask you how old you are, but my mom would be really disappointed if she ever learned that I did. So if you'd like to tell me, that's fine, but I'm not asking."
Jessica laughed as she opened the bag of chips and curled her legs up onto the couch so her thigh was resting on his. "How would your mom ever find out anyway?"
Jake scoffed as he scooped salsa onto a chip. "You don't think she's going to want to meet my girlfriend?" He shoved the whole thing into his mouth before grabbing more. "She'd get the information out of you somehow, I'm sure."
She sat there quietly and broke a chip in half before nibbling on it as she tried not to smile. She hadn't been in a relationship since right after grad school. Most guys didn't seem inclined to want to do more than sleep with her. Her brand of nerdy was a hard sell. She was smarter than almost everyone else, she was introverted, and she preferred playing Dungeons & Dragons or reading a book to going out. Well, excluding an evening at Chippy's. 
"I'm thirty one," she said softly with a grin. 
"Perfect," he replied, casually scooping more salsa onto a chip. "I also wouldn't be upset if you told me if you bought that green underwear you were looking at on your phone."
She started nibbling on the other half of the chip as Jake's arm rubbed hers. "Maybe." He was looking at her out of the corner of his eye before turning away from the football game completely to face her. "Okay... yes, I bought the set," she said, biting her lip. "You're missing the game."
"I don't really care about the game all that much. Like I said before, I think I've gotta be the world's worst Longhorns fan."
"You're terrible," she confirmed as he held out the jar of salsa for her. 
His gaze dipped down to her lips. "Why are you so far away?" he asked softly. 
She wanted to laugh, because she was practically sitting on his lap. Instead she leaned in and kissed his cheek as she said, "What was I thinking?" Jake's body was big and warm and cozy as he draped his arm around her shoulders. She snuggled in close to him with her cheek resting on his chest. She dipped a chip into the jar he was holding and teased him with it before she shoved it into his mouth. 
"Thanks, Baby," he murmured as he chewed it up. Then she took the jar and the chips and set them on the table and grabbed the beers instead. They sat cuddled up, sipping the drinks, and Jake was actually less annoying when the Longhorns scored than she had anticipated. She just relaxed into him as the condensation from her bottle dripped occasionally onto his jeans, but he didn't complain, so she didn't move. 
"You want another one now?" he asked, taking her empty bottle in the same hand as his and kissing her hair. 
"No," she whispered. "And don't get up. I'm comfortable."
"Okay," he replied softly, leaning forward just enough to let the bottles drop with a thud onto the area rug. 
Jessica pushed him back with her palm on his abs, and she bit her lip as she felt his muscles. "I said don't move."
"You're in charge, Reedy."
--------------------------
This was all wildly thrilling for Jake. He was with a beautiful woman who wanted to chill on his couch and run her hand back and forth across his abs while they watched football together. He never did this kind of thing. Ever. This was indulgent in a way he didn't usually operate. 
When Jessica looked up at him through her eyelashes, he reached over and adjusted her glasses. Then he felt her hand dip inside his shirt and come to rest just above his jeans, fingers stroking almost to the point of tickling. And he wasn't even watching the game. Maybe it was halftime. He wasn't sure. It didn't matter. 
Why did he suddenly want a girlfriend so badly that he kept thinking about it? He was thinking about how this could be a normal weekend for him. And how he could have Jessica curled up with him like this in bed. 
He was staring. He knew he was. But so was she. And her small hand was moving across his skin in the most addicting way. "Reedy," he whispered, and that was all it took. She planted her hand with her fingertips inside his jeans, and Jake groaned as she kissed him. When her hand slid up his abs to his chest and pulled his shirt up with it, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her until she was in his lap. 
In the deepest recesses of his brain, Jake knew he couldn't let anything too wild happen today. Just kissing. Just like this. But when he let his hand trail down to Jessica's round ass, he realized the fabric of her leggings was thin and that he could feel her thong through it. It felt lacy. He wanted to know what it looked like. 
He palmed her a little rougher, until she broke the kiss and rubbed herself against him. "Oh, Jessica," he groaned, taking in the sight of her wide eyes and crooked glasses. She was raking her fingers slowly through his chest hair while Jake squeezed her butt. He couldn't think straight as her lips met his again, and then his hand was up the back of her shirt.
Her skin was so damn soft, and Jake was not going to be able to conceal the fact that he was getting hard for her when her knee kept nudging him through his jeans. Her feather soft kisses were becoming more demanding as she brought her other hand up to ruin his tidy hair. And fuck if he could control himself. 
In an instant, she was on her back along the couch with Jake on top of her. She let out a surprised giggle as her head came to rest on the cushion. "This okay?" he asked, kissing along her jaw. 
Jessica responded by spreading her thighs so he could settle against her, and Jake had to keep reminding himself that this was a marathon, not a sprint. But her body was warm and inviting, and she was so responsive to his touch. Every gasp from her lips had him pushing his hands a little further up her sides and sucking a little harder on her neck. 
"Jake," she moaned, rolling her hips up against him. 
"Fuck," he gasped, one hand sliding between her back and the couch as he pushed himself against her this time. Her lips were parted, and she was digging her fingers into his shoulders. Jake moaned when she wrapped one leg around his hip. Her shirt was pushed up almost to her tits, and he wanted to taste all of her skin. But she pulled him close for another kiss, and Jake knew he had to pump the brakes. 
He slowed it all down, easing his hand up to her back instead of her perfect ass. He let each kiss taper off until his lips were barely brushing hers. And then he felt her leg slide down from his hip as she took his hand and guided it further up her shirt until he was touching her bra. She chased his lips as he pulled away from her, and now she looked embarrassed.
"Jessica. Not a horny quickie on the couch. Not for our first time together."
"Okay. Right," she whispered, her fingers tracing along his neck. "Do you want to go to your bedroom?"
He kissed her cheek and said, "I think we should save it for another day."
As he slowly let his hand trail down her tummy, she turned her face toward the TV and laughed a little awkwardly. "Is it that obvious that it's been a long time for me? I'm sure that's not the case for you."
He didn't quite know what to say. "No, it's not obvious. And no, you're not wrong," he murmured, his brow creasing as he leaned closer for a soft kiss. Had it really just been two weeks ago that he brought someone home from the bar? "But it has actually been a very long time since someone mattered like you do. So the pacing is kind of important to me."
"You're sweet." A pretty smile touched her lips, and then he let himself kiss her belly before pulling her up so she was sitting and looking at him. Her hair was a little messy, and her glasses were crooked again, and Jake was suddenly afraid he was going to fuck this all up. She adjusted her glasses with the backs of her fingers and leaned in to kiss him one time. 
It really was halftime now, and Jake watched her stand and look through the stack of journals on the table. Her voice was still soft and breathless as she glanced at him and asked, "Where's the one with my phone number? I wanted to show you something in the article I wrote."
Jake wanted to laugh or maybe cry. This woman thought he was smart. Well, he knew he was smart, but nobody else ever seemed to care if he was. "It's in my bedroom."
"It's in your bedroom?"
"Yeah," he replied easily. "I'm keeping that one for sure. You can have the rest of the journals back, but not that one. I worked hard for that phone number."
She giggled. "You really did. And you did great. Can I get it out of your room?"
He thought he was going to respond by telling her yes, but instead he suddenly asked, "Are you seeing anyone else?"
Now her expression was surprised as she came to stand between his spread legs, and he looked up at her. "Are you asking me if I'm meeting other men at Chippy's and during my office hours?"
Jake nodded and swallowed hard as she bent at the waist and let her hands rest on his knees. "Yeah. I'm sure Chippy would be delighted to see you with someone else."
"No," she laughed. "I'm not seeing anyone else. Are you?"
"Absolutely not."
"Good." Her hands slid up to his thighs as she kissed him, which was doing nothing to help him get rid of the awkward half erection he was sporting. "Is it cool if I grab the journal from your room?"
"Yeah," he grunted. "You'll see it in there."
When he watched her walk away, he groaned and sprawled out on the couch. He needed to pull himself together, or she would definitely be taking someone else to Chippy's soon.
-----------------------------
To Jessica's immediate delight, she found the journal on Jake's nightstand. It was even folded open to the page with her article and phone number. She picked it up and headed back to the couch where he was sprawled out now with his head propped up on the pillow. Hot, needy sex had sounded delicious twenty minutes ago when he was grinding against her, but when she looked at him right now, she knew that's not what she needed. She'd had plenty of that in Brian's office and the backseat of his SUV. 
She didn't want to think about him. Not when Jake was reaching for her hand and pulling her down on top of him like she weighed nothing. He didn't even grunt or groan as she settled chest to chest with him. Her legs were tangled with his as he wrapped his arms around her, and she tried to keep the journal from getting smashed. 
"What do you want to talk about? I think I have the whole thing memorized," he said softly, keeping his attention on her even though the second half of the game was on. 
"I wanted to show you how I wrote about your Super Hornets," she said, unable to stop smiling now. 
"Yeah, I saw that. You know more about the damn things than I do, Dr. Reed."
She laughed. "I'm Dr. Reed again?"
"Jessica," he whispered in that drawl that made her heart clench as he rubbed her back. "You ever been up in one before? You wanna fly with me one day?"
She let the journal slide to the floor as she gaped at him. "Would I be allowed? I've always wanted to!"
He shrugged. "I can investigate it. Or I could always sneak you out onto the tarmac after dark so you can sit in the cockpit."
"That sounds scandalous."
"It would be," he confirmed with a smirk. "You could sit on my lap. I could show my throttle. Teach you how to use it."
Jessica felt warm as she kissed him, his hands heavy on her lower back. But it was sweet and intentional instead of rushed even though she was straddling his abs. She was always at least slightly turned on when she was around Jake, and she was starting to suspect he felt the same way. But his restraint was sexy. 
"I like this," she whispered between soft kisses as she ran the tip of her nose up along his. 
"Me too, Baby," he replied, and when she bit her lip and pulled away a few inches to smile, he looked like he was in awe. 
"What?" she asked. 
He shook his head. "I just can't believe you're into me."
She rolled her eyes. "You're handsome. Everyone is into you."
"That's not what I meant," he said with a laugh. "And you're obviously better than everyone else."
Jessica had to reel in her ridiculous grin as she threaded her fingers through his soft hair. "Hey, can I ask you something? And feel free to say no, because it's probably going to be really, very dumb, and I won't be upset if you don't want to go-"
"Yes."
She stared at him for a beat. "I didn't even ask it yet."
"I know. Whatever it is, I'm in."
Once again, he was making her feel warm inside. And he still hadn't looked at the game. "So you'll be my date for a posh fraternity fundraiser for alumni weekend?"
He pushed her hair back behind her ear and said, "I don't think posh and fraternity belong in the same sentence together, but yes. I'd love to be your date. Since we're exclusive now."
"Oh, that was smoothe Lieutenant." She found herself tracing the lettering on his shirt as her cheek came to rest on his shoulder.
"I thought so, too," he whispered. Then she dozed off on him. 
-------------------------
Jake held Jessica while she slept, her breaths soft on his neck while he watched the end of the game. He should really get up and stir the chili, but he didn't want to disturb her. If dinner wasn't edible, he would just order a pizza instead. No big deal. 
She finally seemed fully comfortable with him. She was letting him hold her while she napped, and she wasn't shying away from the idea of them dating. He knew there was more to the picture with the way she made him work for it and the rumors Bradshaw's wife told him about. But she was so fucking sweet, Jake didn't care about what anyone else said. And it honestly turned him on when she made him earn his privileges with her. 
She moaned softly in her sleep and wrapped her arm around him. He was going to have to ask Bradshaw or his wife what to wear to a frat party. That's somewhere he never thought he'd be caught dead, but he found himself wanting to make Jessica happy. So exceptions could be made. 
Suddenly she popped up with both palms planted on his chest. "I can't believe I fell asleep," she mumbled, and Jake smiled at the mark on her face from where her glasses had been pressing. 
"You want dinner?" he asked as she sat up straddling his hips. Her shirt had slipped a bit, and he could see the strap of her bra. And honestly, this position was enough to get him going, the way her breasts were clearly pressed together inside her A&M tee. When she nodded, he scooped her up as he sat and then stood. 
She slid down his body with a little giggle, and soon they were both sitting on the stools at his kitchen island. He watched her dip a tortilla chip into her bowl of chili and take a bite. "This is so good," she gushed. "I don't know how to cook anything. You just put stuff in a crock pot? And it just cooks it into a meal?"
"Yep," he replied, trying not to laugh at the look on her face. Now he was thinking about buying her a crock pot. What the fuck was wrong with him? She took another bite and closed her eyes like it was the most pleasurable thing she'd ever tasted. "Baby, has nobody ever cooked for you before?"
"No," she moaned. "Unless you include my mom, and I only get to eat that for holidays. If I can manage to get back to Massachusetts."
He stroked her cheek with his fingers and said, "You want me to bring you dinner again this week? When you have office hours?"
She moaned again and climbed onto his lap to finish eating. Which turned into her straddling him again while he ran his hands all over her perfect ass again. And once again he could hardly believe he pumped the brakes so hard earlier, because eventually her lips were on his neck and her glasses were pressing into his jaw. 
"If you come by on Tuesday, I'll wear something cute to work," she informed him, and his head tipped back. 
"You always look cute."
"Then I'll wear something sexy."
Jake grunted. "Baby, you always look sexy." A few more brushes of her lips, and he found himself asking, "Do you want to spend the night?"
"Oh," she gasped, but she kissed his Adam's apple before pulling her lips away from him.
"We could cuddle. Make out," he clarified, meeting her eyes as she adjusted her glasses. "I could make you breakfast."
She bit her lip and then said, "See, this isn't fair. Now you know that the secret way to get me to do anything is with food. And I don't know what your secret is yet."
"Apparently it's girls with glasses."
Now she was laughing as she planted her hands on his shoulders. "I have a lot of work to do tomorrow at home. I need to start making up midterm exam questions."
"I could help you," he murmured, only half joking. "I solved your problem correctly the day we met, remember?"
"Jake, I will remember for the rest of my life how earnest you were the day we met."
He smiled, and he found his heart swelling with pride. "So you'll stay?"
"Next time," she whispered. "Next time I'll stay. And we can do more than cuddle and make out."
Jake pulled her a little closer with his hands still on her butt. "Yeah. Let's do that."
Eventually he packed up a container with the extra chili and linked his fingers with hers. He walked her to her car and kissed her until they were out of breath, and then he let her leave. But he missed her warmth and her hands on him. He ended up rereading her journal articles and looking up a recipe to make for Tuesday while he imagined just how sexy her outfit might be.
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They are exclusive. She ordered the green set. She's dressing sexy on Tuesday. I'm ready. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls
PART 8
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475 notes · View notes
Text
something so visceral about that moment when dean looks his nineteen year old father in the eye and you see absolutely everything. this is the man he could only ever disappoint who he was never enough for who punished him needlessly for nothing and who left him stranded and alone for twenty seven years of his life. but he is only nineteen and standing here right now he could have a whole other future. where he is kind and loving. and dean looks him in the eye and hands him a journal and says please write your own story. i am letting you go. jesus christ
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norrisleclercf1 · 7 months
Note
Lmaooo I am filling up your requests but another one for our boy could be Cecile getting a boyfriend but she’s scared to tell her dads and doesn’t know how they would react so she talks to uncle Carlos or pierrre or seb for advice
Young Love
Our Boy Masterlist
Rating: PG
Words: 1.2K
Warnings: Overprotective dads
Cécile is 17, Elijah is 21, Diego and Rafael are 19 (Carlos’s twin boys)
Face claim for Cécile is Laura Celia
Synopsis: It’s a family vacation and your Pa and Dad have your uncles and friends all here, but Cécile is missing the one person she wants there, but how does she introduce her boyfriend to her parents?
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"Will you stop pouting? Come and swim with us. The water is great." Pulling up her sunglasses, she stares at Diego, one of Uncle Carlos's twins. "Go away, Diego. I want to read." Diego scuffs at Cecile. The girl has been in a mood since they left, and no one could figure it out.
"Enjoy your," He pauses, reading the article in her hand. "Advanced Modeling and Stimulation in Engineering Sciences." Making a face, he shakes his head. "Nerd." Cecile takes the magazine and smacks him hard, causing him to yelp.
"Diego!" The deep voice of Uncle Carlos has Cecile turning, smiling innocently at him. "She started it!" He whines, but Carlos's wife turns, glaring at her son, which has him bolting off. "Ma petite fille?" Sighing, Cecile looks up at her Papa. Still, the man has never heard of sunscreen, chest already bright red.
"Is something bothering you?" Charles sits down on the recliner next to hers. "No, I'm just not in the mood." Sliding her sunglasses back on, Charles sighs. Ever since Cecile turned 14, she drifted away from Charles and Lando. You explained it was normal and let her work it out, but Charles hated that his little girl couldn't talk to him.
Hand reaching out, he touches her dirty blonde hair. Pulling away, she glares at her father; dropping his hand, he apologizes. "If," "I'm fine, Papa, please just leave me alone." Charles walks back up the sand seeing the look of understanding from Lando and disappointment from you. "I'll talk to her." Lando grabs your arm, stopping you. "Don't. We shouldn't push her. When she wants to talk to us, she will." You hated this. You went through this once with Elijah.
Cecile seemed to be having an internal argument, which she refused to share with either of you. "What," You clear your throat finding the words, "What if this is like Elijah all over again?" Lando's grip slips, and he looks away, watching his boy play football with Carlos's twins. "It's not." Carlos pipes up, biting into some watermelon.
"And how do you know this?" Carlos shrugs, not wanting to voice more thoughts. Carlos knew that look in his niece's eyes. That was a look of heartache. That or she really didn't want to be here. He's hoping for the latter. "What happened with Elijah was your own doing, Y/n. Besides, Cecile isn't one to hold in her opinions." Wiping his hands, he stands. "She'll come to one us; we have to wait."
Walking down the sand, Carlos takes his place next to Cecile. He says nothing as he lays out in the sun. Neither of them says anything, but Carlos can tell she has something to voice. Her eyes keep drifting to her Uncle, opening her mouth slightly to express it, but she closes it and returns to her journal.
"Uncle," Carlos turns his head, pulls down his sunglasses, and takes Cecile. She was the perfect mix of her father and mother. From the eyes to the way her mouth forms when she smiles. "I have a friend, a guy friend, and I wanted to invite him, but I was worried what Papa and Daddy would say." Biting her lip, she casts her eyes toward her parents, laughing as they set up lunch.
"Well, their first question would be if we know this guy 'friend'." Carlos hates this conversation. He knew what she meant, and to see the little girl who used to follow him around now fully grown. "Yes," She draws it out, Carlos quirking up an eyebrow without saying it; he wants more. "It's Beau," Carlos smirks, unable to hide this reaction. Groaning, she buries her face into her hands.
"Beau? As in, the boy you've had a crush on? The same boy who is your father's best friend, son?" Cecile whines into her hands and looks up fast. "I wanted to invite him, but I couldn't because everyone would see that we're dating, and I really like him." She blubbers, discarding her article. "Cecile, you could've easily invited him. Charles would've never thought much of it. Are you happy?" Blushing, she nods her head.
Carlos can't help but feel joy. The girl with the iron glare and walls made of steel was blushing. "Just tell them you don't have to tell them who, but talk to them." Carlos stands, kisses her head, and walks back up. Taking a few deep breaths, Cecile gathers her courage and storms to the table.
"Daddy, Papa. I have a boyfriend." Silence falls at the table. Elijah snorts while Diego and Rafael stare open-mouthed. "Close your mouths." Their mother smacks both their heads, quickly looking away. "No, you don't." It's quick from Lando shaking his head as he stands. "Nope, no. You're 17. You can't date." Cecile watches as her Dad keeps mumbling.
"Who is it?" Turning, she looked at her Papa, eyes calm, but he was a silent storm. One you only knew was there when it was too late. "It's Beau." Elijah spits out his drink, the twins yelling as they dodge the spray. "My best friend Beau?!" The twins make a sound of protest, but Elijah waves them off. "Pierre's son? He's 19. Too old." Looking at her Dad, Cecile just smirks.
"Daddy, isn't Mama older than you? Papa is, too; doesn't that mean you shouldn't be married to them?" Her voice was sickly sweet; you couldn't help but be proud of your little girl. She certainly knew how to shut a man up. "That is," "Lando, sit down. She won that one." Patting your husband on the back, he sinks into the chair. "When did this start?" Charles keeps calm, returning over every time Beau is at the house alone with Cecile. That wouldn't happen again anytime soon.
"3 months ago." Charles's eyes narrow. He remembers precisely why Beau was over. It was their anniversary, taking Lando and you to Croatia to get away from your 3 children. Beau, the twins, and the other kids gathered at your house. He's going to rip Pierre and Beau to shreds. "So, you two got together while we were out of the country? I suggest you choose your next words carefully." Charles warns voice clipped with anger.
"Papa, don't you dare suggest that. Beau isn't like that, and if you think for a second, I'd," She growls out in frustration pulling her hair. "Beau and I haven't had sex yet, okay!" Everyone at the table makes a sound. The boys groan in disgust while your Uncle and parents cringe at Cecil's words. "Cecile, I'm not saying you should tell me that," Charles sighs, trying to figure his way around this.
"You're my baby girl, and I want to always see you as my baby. But I can't. You're almost an adult; I don't like that you're growing up, but if Beau is good to you. Then I won't be ripping his dick off yet." Charles warns, kissing her forehead. "Daddy?" Lando huffs, looking at his daughter. "Your Papa is right, but I'm kicking Pierre's ass for not keeping his son on a leash." Giggling, Cecile tackles them in a hug kissing their cheeks. She runs off, going to call Beau.
"I miss her heartless bitch era," Elijah whispers. The guys chuckle. "Hey Lando, she looks like you after Y/n kissed you for the first time." Grabbing a plastic cup, Lando whirls it right past Carlos's head. "Fuck off." "Fuck off!" All the adults turn, completely forgetting about Callum at the end of the table. "Great, our 4-year-old has learned a new word. Nice job." Charles claps his husband on the back, going to deal with the little one repeating fuck off to everyone.
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suzukiblu · 2 months
Text
WIP excerpt; weird Kryptonian bonding rituals.
“This just not how I expected to become a dad,” Lois mutters under her breath, putting her hands in her hair. “Seriously, I was going to get a Pulitzer first. How am I supposed to be a dad without a Pulitzer?!” 
“You were ever expecting to be a ‘dad’?” Jimmy asks, raising an eyebrow at her. Lois glares back at him. 
“You know what I mean, Jimmy!” she hisses. “A parent! Any kind of a parent!”
“What’s a Pulitzer?” Conner asks curiously. 
“The Pulitzer Prize!” Lois says, gesturing dramatically with both hands and starting to pace. “It’s one of the most distinguished awards in journalism! It’s been going since 1917! It’s a huge honor and a major achievement and–!”
“What’s it have to do with being a dad?” Conner interrupts, wrinkling his nose with a puzzled expression. Lois . . . pauses. 
“Um,” she says. 
“Probably nothing,” Jimmy says with a shrug. “Like. Almost definitely nothing.” 
“Then why’s it matter?” Conner asks, still looking puzzled. Lois puts both of her hands over her face. 
“Oh my god, I am my dad,” she says despairingly. “I think my career matters that much? Seriously?! Conner’s not gonna care if I have a Pulitzer or not if I’m a bad dad to get a Pulitzer! Oh my god, what am I doing with my life?!”
“Having a crisis, apparently,” Jimmy says. “And, like, some serious reprioritizing.” 
“I don’t think taking pride in your work is a ‘bad dad’ thing,” Clark says. Though having a kid is a reprioritizing-level situation, he thinks. Definitely when they’re a surprise kid. “That’s setting a good example for Conner, really. Just, you know . . . don’t ignore him to kidnap and illegally detain people because you think they might have something to do with a theoretical invasion, and I think you’ll probably be fine? Probably?” 
“Yeah, the invasion thing really seemed important to, like. Everybody who was working on me,” Conner says as he sneaks another honey bun. He’s adorable about it, so Clark doesn’t stop him. “They kinda suck, though, sooooo . . . I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you were gonna invade them a little. Just saying.” 
“No one’s doing any invading,” Clark says immediately, then feels awkward because, well, technically–“I mean, I don’t think anyone’s doing any invading. I’m not! I’m very much not doing any invading! Ever!”
“Are you sure?” Conner looks disappointed. 
“No alien invasions until you’re eighteen,” Lois says. “. . . or until we figure out how old you should count as being.”
Conner pouts. 
. . . they could probably invade just one dubiously-ethical lab, Clark thinks, if Conner really– 
“No, Clark,” Jimmy says. “I know that look, man. We don’t need any more angry government dudes or MIB-types after you, we’ve got enough of those already! Like, way too many!” 
“I think any is ‘too many’, in this case,” Lois says, looking sour.
218 notes · View notes
youandtom2 · 9 months
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Request if you want it: Tom is playing at a golf event and reader is a journalist there. She absolutely can't stand him, because she finds out he is quite arrogant and full of himself. They go after each other throughout the whole day with sarcastic remarks. But somehow (you can fill in the details) Tom seduces her by the end and he gets her on her knees and he totally dominates her, making her choke and gag. And he embarrasses her by making her feel his muscles and beg to suck him off and he boasts about how easily he got her in the palm of his hand. :P
(14/07/22) brain go brrrrrrrrrrr THIS REQUEST!!!!
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a/n (28/06/23): This was a request that was sent in and one that I had started last year that I really wanted to finish. Apologies to the anon who sent this in and waited for it whoops. This was supposed to be short but I clearly don't fucking know what short means so here's like 7k or something???
Anyway here's 'A Word for the Youth Diary?' Shitty title I know but I literally can't think of anything else.
MASTERLIST
"The weather is absolutely gorgeous here at St. Andrews' Castle Course, celebrating the first 'Pro Amateur' charity competition where a host of celebrities, socialites or anyone with a keen passion for golf can compete. A number of spectators have gathered around the course, eager to soak up the buzzing atmosphere, the scenic landscape and the presence of Hollywood stars, all in the views of the warm Scottish sun. Now that's something I never expected to say!"
The red light of your recorder dims as you press pause on your commentary. You made the switch to recorder a few years back when journalism became too close to drowning in a number of scribbled, illegible notes written far too quickly. Now it is a simple case of pressing record and pressing pause.
Of course, wherever there is a flock of celebrities congregating in the one area for the week, there will always be flock of paparazzi and journalists close by, each with the same agenda. It usually feels like mission impossible to get a word in with a celebrity or document anything of note or interest when there's a wall of other journalists blocking your way, but today those things won't be a problem. Because you’re not going after who may probably be the most coveted celebrity here. Tom Holland.
You don't quite don't know where it stemmed from; your strong dislike towards Tom Holland. In all honesty, your hatred towards him is very self-inflicted, but there's something about his ego that paints him in a very arrogant light. He knows he's hot shit with the press, he knows everyone fancies the man, he knows that his many talents has sky-rocketed him up the societal ladder and onto the throne of the rich and wealthy. What makes him double as frustrating than he is arrogant is that he hasn't done anything wrong. He's Hollywood's golden boy; ever the humble, handsome, kind, charity-giving actor that has claimed the hearts of many across the world. It's what makes your hatred towards him completely unjustified, so while no one shares the same view as you, there is some things you can do to quietly preach your opinions.
"First to arrive at the course is the notable Tom Holland, waving to the crowd with a smile, loving the attention as ever. Although I'm not sure that his mismatching colour-blocking golfing attire will receive the same compliments!"
The smirk on your lips lasts for the majority of the day as you talk incessantly into your recorder. Your goal isn't necessarily to shit on Tom, only when the opportunity presents itself of course, like when he swung the golf club at an awkward angle, sending the ball straight over the forest and into the sand bunker.
"Oooh, what a poor shot from Tom Holland. He'll be disappointed with that one. Perhaps leaning towards the 'amateur' side of the competition in comparison to some other competitors. Tom Holland yet again teaching us a valuable lesson in life; just because you're a pro at one thing doesn't mean you're a pro at everything else."
The crowd politely applauded and off he went with his caddie. While others followed, you choose to stay rooted while you wait for Mark Wahlberg to walk up to the tee. He's who you've been waiting for all afternoon. Getting a word in with him would set you up for the highlight of your career.
"Mark! Over here! Mr. Wahlberg! A word for the Youth Diary? Mr. Wahlberg!"
As it seems, Mark calmly maneuvers way past the wall of journalists, paying them, and you, no mind and strolls over to the starting point. Damn. You have to get a word with him somehow.
"Mark Wahlberg takes a mighty swing and thrashes the golf ball high into the air, and the crowd watches in astonishment as it sails its way over towards the green, a hair's breadth away from perfection as it rolls upon the hill. A round of applause circles around Mark as he proudly walks on with the confidence of a man who's set on winning this competition."
As the hours tick by, you find yourself without any luck. Those first few minutes of the competition were stuck in a loop, constantly experiencing deja vu of having to witness Tom Holland's unlucky shot followed by being ignored by Mark Wahlberg. You haven't had one decent interaction with anyone yet. Things are getting a little desperate.
You even begin to understand why the majority of journalists are following Tom Holland like a lost flock of sheep; he's very chatty. He stops at every turn to give his narration on his own playing, offers a brief insight to the projects he is currently working on, and if he likes you, even spill some of the secrets of his private life. It's a journalist's dream, one that you haven't even had the taste of yet since Mark Wahlberg is as accessible as the vaults of the Bank of England. Anyone with common sense would advise you to follow the crowd and ignore your bias towards him and just interview Tom Holland if it means you have something worth printing.
Oh no, no, no, no, no, no. Not a chance. He gets enough attention as it is.
"Mr Wahlberg! A word on your new film? Could you tell us about Uncharted! Mark! Over here!"
Not even a glance is spared your way in yet another attempt to get his attention. From your left, a voice emerges. A fellow reporter sidles himself next to you, away from the crowd that follows Tom Holland. You spot the Sky Sports label wrapped around his microphone.
"He doesn't like to speak much to the press. Thinks that he'll say something and they'll twist his words," he sympathies. It's genuine, obvious that he too has been caught up in the same frustration you've been facing all afternoon. At least he has a little more insight as to why you haven't gotten a word from Mark.
"Yeah, I figured. It wouldn't hurt just to say hello and have a small chat. What could the press twist about that? If anything, I think he's damaging his reputation by not saying anything. It's rude, y'know?"
He nods his head in agreement, but the sigh he blows doesn't seem to match. "You have to let it go though. They're not obliged to tell us anything. This is just a day out for them, they're not getting paid so why should they have to say anything about their work? It's just our luck whether they choose to talk to us."
"Ugh, I guess you're right, but I still need something for my article."
"Sky Sports has had lots from Tom. Why don't you try your luck with him? He seems to be a lot chattier than Mark. I don't know much about film journalism, only sports, so I don't know what it is you're looking for. But if you ask him anything, I'm sure he's willing to provide."
You look to him with contempt in your eyes, your lack of smile instantly shuts down his suggestion.
"I appreciate the suggestion but no. He's too easy. Think of how many journalists are here desperate to get a word in about sports, golf, acting, celebrity personal lives, all that show biz. If everyone shared the one source, audiences wouldn't bother reading them all because they all be the same, boring stuff. Think about it. If you, and 30 other journalists had the chance to interview Ronaldo, you would all take it because after all its Ronaldo. The only downside would be that you would then have 30 articles all saying the same thing and audience getting bored after reading 1. Now think about having the chance to interview Messi. It would be hard but total payout if you got it. Plus, you would stand out from the rest and that's what would gain audiences' attention."
Once again, the reporter sighs. "Look, kid. I've been in this job for 20 years and I've learned that sometimes you just have to cut your losses. If your objective is to get something to write about for your article, then you should do it however and whatever way you can, doesn't matter who the source is. If your objective is to get something from Mark Wahlberg specifically? Then you should scrap the whole article and try again. Something is better than nothing."
"I refuse to take anything from Tom Holland."
"Suit yourself. Good luck. Oh, by the way, I think you're still recording. Wouldn't want you to get your chance with Mark only to realise you have no storage left on your recorder."
You mumble a weak thanks and remember to press the pause button on your recorder. The reporter saunters away back towards the crowd, your only indication of knowing where Tom Holland is. You consider it for a second, but determination drives you away, following Mark to the next hole.
~~~~
It's all to play for in the final hole with only two possible candidates capable of winning the trophy. Currently sitting in the lead is the elusive, mysterious Mark Wahlberg, strolling casually along to the final hole with his team behind him. Ah, and of course, next in line is Tom Holland soaking up the attention as he strings along behind Mark Wahlberg like an apprentice would their mentor. It's not clear whether the confidence he walks with is a poorly executed imitation of his acting mentor ahead of him, or whether it is a man deluded with besting him. All will be revealed within the hour.
It's well into the evening of the Pro Amateur competition and the luck that reporter wished you earlier has yet to find you. With the final hole well underway, you're starting to think that it never will. So far, you've gotten a few short, curt answers from other celebrities here but nothing near the sustenance your article needs. If only Mark could stop being so stubborn.
"One at a time please guys, one at a time." Tom's smug, arrogant tone of voice emerges from behind you and not too soon after, tens of other voices asking him questions. As he makes his way nearer, so do the swarm of people and in an attempt to get out of the way, you're stampeded by the press. Bumped, shoved and pushed, you struggle to find your balance and fall precariously on your knees with your equipment tumbling from your bag. In all honesty it didn't hurt, but what an inconvenience picking up all your bits and bobs. Ugh it's all his fault.
Before you do anything irrational and say something you shouldn't, you pack up your stuff and walk away.
The competition concludes with a twist that no one was expecting. With a gust of wind getting the better of Mark Wahlberg, it earned him a double bogey and cost him the trophy, annoyingly snatched up by Tom who achieved victory with a birdie. You seethe at the sight of Tom holding up the golden trophy, soaking up the champagne that his teammates spray all over him and hearing the applause from everyone, even you as a slow, lethargic clap rings from your hands. All to just to keep up the pretence of 'liking him' of course. Ugh, why did he have to win?
After a day of being the lone ranger in a journalists mission, you concede to following the crowd into the conference room where many like you await behind a wall of microphones and a valley of cables to hear from today's competitors. And Mark Wahlberg is one of them. This might be your chance to get a question in. Quick! Where's your recorder?
Fuck. It's not in your bag. Where is it? You rummage through your bag again and it's definitely not there. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Where could it be? Did you lose it when you fell over? Has it been stolen? Fuck, you really need that!
You have no other option but to record from your phone and in your quiet, subdued panic, you try your best to catch anything he has to say. The quality isn't great and it's picking up outside noise to the point that articulation has no place on your recording. Sweating at the loss of some expensive equipment and valuable content, your phone drops and the clatter of it paints a mountain on its waveform, rendering the recording useless. Fuck, if you hadn't lost your recorder.
People start to look at you in your fluster and your legs starts bobbing erratically. The attention is too much and it's exactly why you prefer to stay behind the microphone and not in front of it. You have to leave. At the next possible opportunity, you end your recording and begin to make your way through the aisle, apologising profusely to the other journalists who wait for Tom Holland to make an appearance.
You just about make the double doors of the conference room when you hear Tom's voice welcoming the room.
"Before I start, I wanted to check to see if this was anyone's recorder..."
Everything about you stops dead in its tracks; your feet, your heart, your breathing, your entire existence. Nervously, you spin around to spot Tom Holland holding your recorder in his hands, fingers fluttering around its buttons. How the hell did he get his thieving hands on it?!
A pit opens up in your stomach at the dreaded thought of having to announce yourself in front of everyone to claim it. But damn, you really need your recorder back.
Braving the nightmare, your hand raises half-heartedly into the air. "Uh...it's mine. Sorry, I must've dropped it."
Tom's deep brown eyes lock onto yours from the stage and he throws, what you think, a sickly smile before he offers up the most ridiculous idea. "I can set to record if you want. I can sit it riiiiight here." He sits it directly in front of him and sends you a sly wink. It's a spot any journalist would dream of having their microphone; right under their nose on the off-chance that anything muttered under their breaths or whispered discreetly would be picked up. Journalists are a sucker for secrets. Quite frankly, you don't care for his secrets, you don't care for his thoughts on today's events, and you really don't care for what he has to say at all.
But the only reason why you end up saying yes is because you care more about what people would think of you if you gave up an opportunity like that.
"Sure. Thanks."
You proceed to endure 15 minutes of Tom glorifying himself in front of the press. God, it's embarrassing. You could plainly hear the snide tone underneath the guise of 'self-evaluation'. Everyone seems to soak it up like a sponge, praising him for his insightful words and self awareness, writing nothing but positive words about the actor. Whatever. You wish you could drown him out but your paranoia is rooted to your recorder at his table, thinking the worst outcome as his fingers toying with its external case. What if he doesn't know how to work it and accidentally erases all you had from today? One slip up and it's gone. Your eyes constantly flicker from your recorder to him and no matter who he's speaking to or where he's looking, he always manages to catch your gaze.
Already outside your comfort zone, you audibly whimper when you see him lightly tap the little trash button at the end of the recorder, miles away from the stop, pause and play buttons that you would regularly use. You would only ever press that button with intention, it’s pretty to hard to press it accidentally. Even without knowing how to work the recorder, it doesn't take an idiot to know what that means, so watching Tom play with it tells you that he is whole-heartedly toying with you, enjoying the view of you panicking from his throne of sadism.
It's like he can sense your hatred towards him.
~~~~
"Thank you, thank you! Until next year!" Tom smiles as he walks off stage, your recorder in his clutch. The further he walks away, the faster you bob and weave through the crowd, feeling like you're fighting against the tide as it sweeps you out. Then, just as the room empties you reach the entrance to the backstage area in a relief, only to hit a brick wall that stands in your way between you and your highly coveted recorder.
"No press allowed backstage." A security guard towers over you.
"Tom Holland has my recorder. I'd like to get it back." You have no time for polite small chat, your request grumbling with agitation.
"Still can't allow you back--"
"You can let her through, Jim. It's alright." A young boy’s voice echoes from behind the wall.
The guard hesitantly lets you through, keeping you under his iron gaze while you slip through the narrow space he gives you. You are led out into a hallway with plaques decorating the hall, awards from winners of tournaments the venue has previously hosted, the newest addition being Tom's 'Pro-Amateur' plaque much to your distaste.
The boy you recognise as Tom's caddie leads you down this hallway, he hasn't said so much as a word to you as he confidently walks ahead. Now he's getting his assistant to fetch you? God, the arrogance!
"He's in here."
"Thanks," you quietly mutter. The door closes behind you, locking both you and the actor into the room. When you started the day bright and early this morning, you didn't think this was where you were going to end up. You couldn't have put money on it.
Although, you have to admit: despite putting your heart and soul into avoiding Tom Holland the entire day, this could be an exclusive for your article. Nobody else has had this opportunity, so why not take advantage of it?
Tom smiles as he greets you, carelessly tossing your recorder from hand to hand. You swallow nervously. "You are...?"
You respond with your name, who you report for, and make it abundantly clear that you would like to take back your recorder in one piece.
He approaches with a small, boyish chuckle like you just told a joke. "Sorry, I was just thinking," he casually says, "about how you once said you refuse to take anything from me."
What? Where did he hear...? Fuck. He listened to it. And that entire conversation you had with the Sky Sports reporter...
Your mouth drops. As does the anchor in your stomach.
"What was it you said again...?"
"You listened to it." He ignores you.
"Oh yeah, that my 'mismatching colour-blocking golfing attire wouldn't receive the same compliments'."
"You...listened to it all?" you reiterate once again. Your voice rings with all the inflections of a question, but you already know the answer. Unfortunately.
Tom's brows furrow inward.
"Honestly, I can overlook the fact you insulted my outfit, it doesn't bother me that much." There's a 'but' in his sentence. You're just waiting for it. You inwardly panic, trying to remember what else you said that would warrant that dreaded 'but'. Your shield of writer's anonymity has fallen; it's what protects you if you are to ever post negatively about a celebrity, but now that he knows your name and your face, you're left exposed.
"But..." There it is. And in a disbelief, he bites, "I'm too easy? Really?"
There's two ways you could go about this. Stand your ground and defend yourself, or dig yourself a grave and apologise.
Ha. Yeah right.
"I don't really think it was your place to listen to my recordings."
"Oh?"
"Mm-hm. Should've minded your business if you knew what was good for you."
"You--" He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath, almost to contain himself and tries again. "You," he points accusingly, "are very...very lucky that you look as attractive as your voice sounds."
Your cheeks flush angrily. Safe to say, you're not used to anyone calling you attractive let alone Tom Holland, so in your fluster you have no idea how to respond. You don't know how to tame the flutter in your heart nor the fire in your stomach. Instead, you ignore it all and revert back to your original goal.
"Can I have my recorder back? Please?"
"In a minute." He swats his hand away from yours. High above your reach, you stand helpless as you watch his thumb crash land onto the record button, resuming from where it last left off. "I think that what you have about me in your article is a little bit too harsh. Why don't we start putting some positivity back in. I think you have it in you to pay me just one compliment. I did win the competition after all, I think it's deserved."
You laugh hysterically. The nerve of this guy! So conceited. "You don't deserve anything from me."
"C'mon. Just one. It's not that hard. I promise I'll give you your recorder back straight after."
Succumbing to his torment, your eyes roll over his features, his hair, his outfit and his body, trying to identify possible compliments that would meet his demands but yet wouldn't inflate his ego too much. What you don't anticipate is you're spoiled for choice.
Defeated, you sigh. "You...smell nice."
"Aw, c'mon. I said you were attractive and all you could think of was that I smell nice? Try a little harder."
"Hey, you said the deal was that I give you one compliment then I get my recorder back. Cough up, Holland."
A smug grin pulls at his lips. "I'm not satisfied. And I will give it back when I am satisfied."
Given that your hatred towards Tom Holland is now at least justified and not just self-inflicted, it means that it's twice as hard to sacrifice it all and compliment him like he so desperately wants you to, a complete betrayal to your own beliefs. But you NEED your recorder.
"You look strong."
"Elaborate."
"You clearly work out."
"What in particular?"
"Your arms."
"How can you tell?" He's really pushing the mark, overstepping it by miles with the dirty smirk he has on his face because he knows he is. You audibly grumble at the sight. Losing patience...
"They just looked particularly...muscular when you were swinging the golf club."
"Why don't you give them a feel and you can tell your readers how strong they really are in detail? I know you want to."
Is it bad of you to admit that you do want to feel them? Absolutely. Are you going to announce that to him? Absolutely not.
You don't move for a couple of seconds, your own conscience making so much noise inside your head that you can't make a coherent thought. A spark of adrenaline twitches at your hands, enough to catch Tom's eyes but it's not enough to swing it into force.
Quietly, slowly, he reaches for your hand and envelopes his fingers around yours, manipulating them to wrap around his upper arm. He makes sure to mold your fingerprints into his skin while he tenses, just to feel the sheer density of his muscles. His skin is warm, soft to touch but yet firm to grasp. While you become instantly fascinated, his glistening smile brightens in the corner of your eye. It's so quiet in the room that Tom hears the softest stutter of breaths and he feels like a winner all over again.
"Well?" He nods towards the recorder, its red button flashing. For the readers...
"Definitely..." you clear your throat. Why has your mouth gone dry all of a sudden? You retract your hand. "Definitely toned. Sculpted."
"If that's what you like then I should show you this..."
He takes your hand once again, its warmth holding you captive, and drags it all the way down to his torso. You can't pull your eyes away from how he sensually slips your hand underneath the hem of his shirt and weaves your fingers between the valley of his abs. Your fingertips skate over every sculpted ab of his, feeling the way they almost shiver at your cold touch.
Your fingertips aren't enough. Tom takes a step closer and your whole palm presses against him, almost too intimately for strangers.
Tom's head quirks to the side to get a better view of you. "Thoughts?" he asks, even though he can read them so clearly on your face. You're becoming entranced.
"...Holy shit," you whisper. "Um, yeah. Strong."
"For a woman who had a lot to say about me, you're certainly lost for words now."
As the heat rises and things escalate, neither of you diffuse the tension and the string of long, uninterrupted silence continues. Every minute that passes by is a precarious step over crossing boundaries and breaking every rule you have in your moral bible.
It forces you to suck in a nervous breath and hold it for a few seconds while you deliberate what the end goal is. Of course, it was to leave with your recorder but given your current position and your change of opinions, you're not so sure anymore. To be clear, your change of opinion isn't necessarily about Tom; you still think he's conceited, arrogant and incredibly vain, but it is what you do with that opinion that has changed. Before, you avoided him, stopped yourself becoming another little lost sheep and following him at every opportunity. Now? You're giving him every drop of attention you have to give.
Tom watches you intently while he silently introduces himself to your shyer nature, definitely not the same person that walked in here in a fit of rage and demanding for their recorder. The minute he meets that side of you, he knows exactly what to do next.
He drops his head as he drops his voice into his lower register, your hand feeling all the rumblings from his chest. "Want to be completely speechless?"
Fuck it. Sure you do. "Mm-hm."
"Good girl."
You aren't actually sure what he's planning to do so you look for intention in his eyes, but you see nothing but darkened caverns and devilish features. In fact, it's because you're looking into his eyes that you don't realise that he's grown hard underneath his straight grey trousers. Like before, he guides your hand fluidly underneath the waistband where the button pops out easily, and navigates you under the elastic band where he desperately shapes your fingers around him. He pulses underneath you, shaking with relief that he has you exactly where he wants you.
You dare not pull your eyes away from his, even as they droop in his pleasure. More so now that you admit how seductive they look. You try to mirror that same seduction with a small smile, moving your hand up and down his shaft independently.
Fuck, the more you move your hand, the more you think it's never going to end. Bluntly put, he's huge.
As a journalist, you should be eloquent with your words, careful in your choice of vocabulary, definitive with your metaphors, but all those years of reading and writing falters the second the sheer size of him stuns you. It slightly pains you to be so tasteless but nevertheless, you don't think there's any other way to put it.
So caught up in the heat of it, your common sense finally comes to once again acknowledge your recorder in his hand. You forgot he had been recording this entire conversation...
He brings it closer to his lips, seductively whispering directly into it. "Just like that..." He keeps going. "Doing such a good job - fuck - don't stop."
Encouraged, and progressively feeling turned on, you tighten your hand around his cock and move faster.
"How do I feel, sweetheart?" The microphone tilts towards you. Detail. Although at this point, you don't think it's for your readers as much as it is for you and Tom.
"So big. I almost can't fit my hand around you."
He very nearly buckled. That voice of yours is like a siren to him. Little do you know that when he found your recorder and listened to all of your little angry ramblings about him, it had sparked up a fiery, unavoidable desire inside him. It was hell having to listen to your voice talk shit about him, he just couldn't stand it. He needed to hear you compliment him, worship him, adore him, and he spent every spare minute of his day replaying your recorder, instilling your voice to memory until he could manipulate your words, imagining what they would say about him.
But now that he actually gets to hear you feed into his desire is twice the satisfaction than he initially thought.
As quick as lightning hits, an idea occurs to him and it completely devastates his entire system; if hearing you compliment him turns him on, how would having you beg for him make him feel? The idea becomes such an unstoppable craving he already knows his imagination won't be able to satiate it this time. He needs it for real and right now.
"You wanna taste?"
Doe-like eyes stare up at him - oh, you are so capable of begging him - and your movements come to a halt...all except your thumb sweeping over his tip. You didn't actually think this was going to go any further than a hand job.
"You want me to?"
Oh no, no, no. This isn't about Tom begging. "Because I know you want to. I can see how desperately you want to tell everyone how I allowed you to come backstage, meet me, get on your knees for me, how I allowed you to suck me off and how I allowed you to taste me." His hand slithers up your jawline and brings you close, leaving nothing but a hair's breadth to separate you. As you anticipate the feeling of his lips, you have but his breath fanning over yours and the anxiety bubbling at the pit of your stomach to feed from. "You just need to beg for it, sweetheart."
Beg. It was hard enough to lose one battle and compliment him, but to lose an even bigger one and beg? You would be absolutely humiliated.
Would be meaning if it was under any other circumstance, if you weren't so spellbound and seduced by him. But that simply isn't the case.
Not uttering another word, you slowly drop to your knees keeping Tom with the wicked grin within your sights. The zipper of his trousers comes undone and you pull him free, watching as his cock stands tall and bobs heavily with weight. Instinctively, your tongue rushes to wet your lips.
"Beg." Tom demands again. The recorder soon comes back into your view and your jaw clicks with frustration. He's capturing every single word much to his demented, power-hungry mind.
You chew through your irritation and instead tune into the feeling that's bubbling in and around your stomach, the one that's being powered by him. "Please," you breathe. "Please, Tom, I wanna suck you off so badly, I promise I'll be good."
"And do you promise to never write a bad word about me ever again?"
Oh, this fucker.
"I prom-"
"Say it like you mean it."
How you so wish you could lie through your teeth, but you know for a fact that from now on, any bad word you write about Tom Holland will forever be tied with this day. You'll think twice about writing badly because being on your knees for him will get in the way. You'll struggle to find the words to knock him because the compliments you paid him will stain your lips. You'll hesitate to criticise him because you'll remember how you verbalised about his good looks.
"I promise. Just--just let me taste you." It's sad how desperate you sound. "Please?"
He doesn't respond. There's one last warning to give.
"If you break that promise, I will come for you."
Adrenaline rushes through your veins and your heart pounds. Despite being adamant in your dislike for Tom, you do somehow get the feeling that the threat that rings through his tone is not one to be taken lightly. It buzzes a little too seriously for you to brush over it. So you answer accordingly.
"Okay, I promise."
The threat dissipates and he looks at you approvingly, his empty hand dropping to cup your cheek. You aren't so unaware of the twitch of his cock in your hand. "I just want to make it clear and put on the record that out of the two of us..." Tom angles you closer, "it's you that's the easy one. Too easy. So easy that you're already on your knees and begging me."
How you would slap that grin clean from his face. The scowl on yours warns him of it, but he simply laughs, mocking you.
"C'mon, sweetheart. Admit it." His boyish chuckle continues to ring in the air and its contagious effect pulls at your lips despite trying to hide it. He sees clearly that it pains you to admit it, so as a small motivator, he crouches to your level, his hand still cradling your cheek. In quieter words, though still delivered through a smirk, he murmurs..."Be a good girl for me, yeah?" His lips melting onto yours stops you from getting the chance to reply. The surprise of it fogs up your brain, submitted into a dream-like state as he gently molds his lips onto yours. It's short and leaves you wanting more.
With a flutter of lashes, you nod. "Atta girl."
He stands up taller once again and you take that as your cue to fulfill your promise. Your lips wrap around him and your tongue darts to sweep over his tip. His groans can be heard above you and no doubt heard by the recorder, crescendoing the second your head starts bobbing. Your hand covers what your mouth can't reach, doing as much as you can to make him feel good. It seems to work; his hips begin thrusting. Slowly, at first, to swing into rhythm but the more you swallow him the less control he has of his own movements, and soon, with your hair wrapped tightly around his fist, he's rutting erratically, drinking in the sounds of your moans of pleasure and pain.
"Fuck, you're so good at that."
"Don't stop. Don't fucking stop."
"Taking me so well. Good girl."
"Just like that, shit."
"Look how easy you are, fuck. So willing, aren't you? You wanted a word for your precious Youth Diary? Here it is; you are so easy it's pitiful. Fuck--"
Tom's animalistic nature completely dominates to the point where your tears and gags are silently begging to slow down. Every part of you is screaming out: your throat is bruising, your lips are tearing, your eyes are streaming, your knees are cramping, but holy fuck hearing him talk about you like that fuels the fire inside you.
His thighs twitch underneath your hands and you think he might just cum down your throat. The red-hot grip he has of your roots is your only warning before that happens.
Warmth fills your mouth and you're quick to swallow it down before you choke, like it’s instinct. He holds you hostage with his cock deep in your mouth, using you to string out the orgasm for as long as he can. Minutes later, you open your eyes to see Tom hunching over, still very much catching up to you in regaining his composure. His white fist grips the recorder while the other remains tangled through your locks, keeping you in place to prevent you teasing him any further.
When all seems settled, Tom lifts your chin once more - dabbing off the little drop you seem to have missed - and catches your gaze from behind the tears forming in the corner of your eyes. You already know what he's going to ask of you and when he perches the recorder in front of you, he shoots you a wink.
"Detail." He simply says.
"Hmm, you taste so good, Tom. Best I've ever had. I could taste you all day."
At that moment, something snaps in Tom. The smirk drops and his jaw tenses. It's small, minute changes, but it dramatically changes the atmosphere in the room. You just don't know whether it's for better or for worse.
You find your answer when Tom's muscular arms promptly tuck themselves under your arms with vigour, yanking you up onto your feet. The clatter of your recorder steals your attention as Tom carelessly throws it onto a coffee table to his right; after all, he needs his hands to be free if he is planning on returning the favour. You should be complaining about his lack of regard for your equipment and how he could've broken it, but the red flashing light still shows sign of life, so you decide to overlook it for now. Besides, Tom doesn't give you long before he whips your head back to claim your lips, hungrily moaning into them as he forces his body weight against yours and slams you flat against the wall. The collision whips all of the air out of your lungs but it isn't what causes the gasp to jump from your throat. Tom's lips find your neck, suckling onto the supple skin with intentions to bruise, all to distract you from his hand slipping under your skirt. With ease, he palms your cunt, offering just enough of a tease to have you burning for more.
"I need to hear you say my name again with that voice of yours." Ah, so that's what triggered him.
"Tom," you mewl, almost purring.
"As sexy as that sounds, I think it will sound even better when you’re cumming for me."
Oh fuck.
It's frightening how quickly Tom is able to weaken you with just the deft touch of his fingers to your clit and punishing kisses to your neck. You try your best to soak it in and remain somewhat stable to remember every moment of it, but goddammit you can't keep yourself together. So much so that despite Tom claiming to adore the sound of your voice, for the sake of dignity, he keeps his hand clamped hard against your mouth. Neither of you want curious ears to overhear the scandal coming from within.
Never did you think that Tom's all-round talents included making a girl cum so easily. It's kind of frustrating.
His fingers circle around your clit, dragging and pulling every nerve he can find and it winds you up perfectly. Legs shaking, breath faltering, you suspect you have mere seconds before he takes your orgasm.
Your whines and moans buzz from behind Tom's hand, muffled and diffused. Eventually he lets go, and replaces his hand with his lips, once again thrashing against yours.
"You gonna cum for me?"
"Fuck, I--"
"Say my name. Beg me to let you cum."
"Tom, please, I want to cum. Please let me cum."
Two fingers slot themselves into you, his palm taking over pleasing your clit and you have to stop yourself from buckling. It is the last sign Tom needs to know that you're on the precipice of shattering. With a devilish twinkle to his eye and a crooked smile, he sinks closer to you, his lips narrowly brushing against the shell of your ear and whispers the word. "Cum."
In a similar fashion to Tom what seems like hours ago, you come undone. Your hands grip onto his shoulders for stability as he refuses to stop abusing your cunt. His fingers dig deeper, his hand moves faster, and the tight curl of his knuckle breaking you sends you spiralling.
The gut-twisting tension soon turns to tranquil bliss as he slows his movements, finally catching a breath to revel in the post-orgasm haze with a twitch or two catching you out.
For as egotistical as you believed Tom to be, with the grounding kisses he litters over your cheek, neck, lips, he completely negates that belief. He utterly dominated you, yet affection fuels his movements; something you don't expect a vain person to have. Maybe he isn't all you made him out to be...
Calmly, you both collect yourselves until you're presentable, standing apart within the room as if what just happened never happened. The heat of the room is all that's left to suggest otherwise.
Tom doesn't stop you from reaching for your recorder, the plastic rectangular object feeling like home in your hand. You firmly press the stop button, letting the audio file save before you address Tom again.
"Thanks for...y'know, keeping it safe. I genuinely don't know what I would've done if I lost it."
Tom smiles kindly. "It's no problem."
"Oh, and congratulations."
He nods humbly. "Thank you. I didn't actually think I was going to win it, but I guess luck was on my side." Huh. He's not bragging...
Settling your recorder into your bag, you begin to make your way out of the room. You hadn't realised how late it had gotten and how hungry you had became until your stomach grumbled loudly. As you take your cue to leave, Tom leads you out with a gentle hand to the small of your back and chills arise. Shit. Don't start liking him now...
Tom clears his throat before you completely disappear. "Will I be seeing you lurking about any other events this year?"
Something about his question makes you smile. "Maybe. I've got a few film premieres that I will be attending."
"Good. Well, if any of them include me, I'll make sure to review your work again." How his wink makes you weak.
"Hmm, we'll see, Tom Holland."
~~~~~
It takes you over a week after the golfing event to eventually find the courage to finish writing your article. Most of it is written from what you remember thinking throughout the day, but your work leaves much to be desired. All that's missing from the article can be found on your recorder that you have deliberately been ignoring knowing what filth it contains.
It takes a couple of glasses of wine on a Saturday night to find the bravery to listen to it once again. It all goes smoothly at first, words flow from your mind to your fingertips and your article slowly builds as your past self feeds you your own commentary from that day. You were going to stick with your original idea, deciding to keep in all your criticisms about Tom Holland because who's going to stop you?
But your valour is short lived. Because you've reach the end. When you think you have the finished product, a masterpiece of literacy for your readers to enjoy and you have nothing else to write. Just when you think you're about to press 'publish' that you reach that part of your recording that you just can't bring yourself to turn off.
Shit, it turns you on so much to hear Tom's voice once again demand that you promise to never write another criticism again and the way you caved so easily in your lust-induced state. Even listening to it makes you resonate with it all over again, resurrecting the same excitement and anxiety to stir in your stomach. It's a reminder that persuades you that you don't necessarily agree with what you write about Tom. It makes you reconsider all that you've just written, your finger hovering over the backspace button prepared to fix the promise you're about to break.
Fuck. It's such a good story. Probably one of the best articles you've written. Alas, with the disagreement going on in your head, you can't find it in yourself to commit to it. There's also the problem that if you are to post it, the privilege of writers' anonymity will no longer be in your possession. Tom does, after all, know your name and your face, and you are damn sure he will take the time to find it and read it. What unnerves you is that you have no idea what actions he might take. How could you forget that warning?
"If you break that promise, I will come for you."
So there you sit with your empty glass of wine, chewing nervously on your nails while your eyes dry at the light of the screen you've been deliberating over for the last three hours. The question still remains.
What do you do?
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