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wh0relibrarian · 5 months

Text

pretty thing

full fic based on this

just a few headcanons while I start working on a longer piece (I’m back home for the holidays and the idea of Sukuna being from the deep south has me frothing at the mouth)

content ahead: southern sukuna au, black coded!reader, just slight innuendos, reader is in her early 20s and sukuna is in his 30s, not reallyyy canon at all!! so don’t expect accurate information on his past, also, not his true form. don’t hate me!

word count: 913

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Southern!Sukuna who was born and raised in the deep south by a loving, yet distant mother. His father was never in the picture, but it’s okay, because Sukuna quickly learned that it would be his job to take care of his mother and little brother. This was no problem for him.

Southern!Sukuna who has always been a hard worker. Eventually, he’d come to run his own construction company. He’d been working his way up the ladder since he was eighteen. Now in his thirties he believes he should start doing something other than work. Maybe linger around a bar or two, see what “Tinder” is all about.

Southern!Sukuna who goes away on a business trip, never being the one to fly, but it was necessary for an upcoming project he had up north. One thing about Sukuna, he’ll always rep his home state. He’ll always have a shirt with the (insert a southern state) flag on it, if not a matching hat, it’ll be one from Bass Pro Shops. His entire body is tattooed from neck to ankle. He’s been getting them for years and they make his complexion look like silk. He takes incredibly good care of his skin, he has to in his line of work.

Southern!Sukuna who sees you eyeing him from his peripheral vision. You tried to be subtle, looking away as soon as his eyes would meet yours, but he caught you each time. You just couldn’t help yourself, the man was beautiful. You couldn’t help think what on earth a fucking cowboy was doing on this side of the country. Sure, you were going back to your hometown for the winter but there’s no way his reasoning was the same. He was visibly older, and no man with family up north looks that redneck. You had to know more about him, but oh god, you’d never actually approach him.

Southern!Sukuna who walks up behind you while you wait for your bag to drop from baggage claim, as was he. It startled you, mainly because you swore he was just waving at someone waiting for him outside, you thought he was gone already; so when you feel a light tap on your shoulder, you expect it to be your mother who was supposed to be waiting for you in the parking lot. When you turn around and see a 5 '8 man (short king, but taller than me) looking down at you with wide eyes you can’t help but jump back. He didn’t mean to startle you, he just wanted to know what a pretty thing like you was doing in his neck of the woods.

“I ain’t mean to scare you, sweetheart,” he reaches out his right hand from his pocket to give you a handshake, you reciprocate of course, still in awe that he’s speaking to you. “Was just wonderin’ what a pretty thing like you was doin’ in my neck of the woods.” His southern drawl was thick, and smooth. The way his words reverberated off his tongue sent heat waves straight to your cunt.

Southern!Sukuna asks for your number, just so he can check on his favorite city girl throughout the holiday. After a short conversation, he learned that you were really only here for family. No relationship, no notable friendships, simply spending the next four weeks in what seemed like an all expense paid nature getaway. He didn’t want you to be lonely, claiming that he’d check on you every now and then to see how you were doing, maybe take you out at some point if you were up to it. You still couldn’t believe the exchange, he invaded your personal space with the most intoxicating scent— some type of deep musk he clearly used to cover the underlying smell of cigarettes.

Southern!Sukuna who thought about you for days. You were unlike anything he’d laid eyes on. The first thing that stuck out was your hair. Thick and curly, not falling below your ears, but in the most gorgeous afro he’d ever seen. The ends were pink and he couldn’t help but think you both were meant to be, since his entire head was a light pink shade. Your skin looked so smooth, you smelled like clean laundry and strawberries. Maybe some type of sugary substance too. He pondered on all of these things for days, just aching for you to text him how bored you were, how you wanted to spend some time with him.

Southern!Sukuna who damn near fell out when he got a notification on his phone.

(111) 222-3333

Hey :) it’s the girl you met at the airport. I just realized I never got your name? I never told you mine either, lol, I’m ____.

You anticipated his response, thinking for a second that maybe you said too much. Surely an older guy like him doesn’t want to text like this. But then—

(444) 555-6666

Hey, sweetheart. Such a pretty name. Sorry for not properly introducing myself before, I’m Sukuna.

#📕 my books #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen #jjk men #sukuna smut #black reader #x black fem reader #jjk sukuna #i love southern sukuna #like omg #him in a cowboy hat #sukuna x black reader

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0sincerelyella · 9 months

Note

Can you do a Josh Allen one shot where you are comforting him after losing a game? Possibly with cuddling and smut 😊 thank you!

Wins and loses -Josh Allen

Summary: Josh can take losses if big games a little harsher than other people, taking it personally, and beat himself up way more than the others. the only way he gets out of that headspace is y/n

Notes: UGH IVE BEEN WAITING TO WRITE FOR JOSH ALLEN he so is my second favorite NFL quarterback. we can ALL agree that josh allen is, pardon me, a giant cry baby during games, from ACTUAL fits, to yelling at his teammates, which doesn’t make me love him any less it just makes this plot so much easier to write so thank you for the personality trait josh. i

hope you love it!

i’m writing y/n as a bengals fan (from a bengals fans perspective maybe i’m bias but it’s to create more drammmmaaa)

i also may do a part two or make a josh allen series bc i had so much fun writing this, would anyone read it?

the score of the game was very conflicting to y/n. It was the play off game before the AFC championship, and unfortunately for y/ns love life and fortunately for y/ns sports influencer life the bengals had just beat the bills and are going to the AFC championship.

Y/n, growing up in cincinnati, was on the social media team for the cincinnati bengals. she grew up in ohio, and moved to wyoming for college in 2014 where she met her long term boyfriend when he transferred in 2015. in 2017 the two of them graduated and y/n traveled around the country for her boyfriends job until 2020.

in 2020 she got an offer to work on the bengals social media team, and she couldn’t turn the offer down. so she moved away from her boyfriend, josh allen, who lived in buffalo and was the quarterback for the buffalo bills, and she moved to cincinnati.

days like this made the relationship hard to maintain. she hadn’t seen josh since last may towards the end of off season when he had visited her. she texted him every day and called him every night, even showing up at his games all the way across the country to support him, but never being able to see him due to the teams tight rules.

today was especially hard. Today was the AFC divisional round leading up to the Championship game. The bills were playing against the bengals in cincinnati, the first game against the teams since the Damar Hamlin incident.

The bills had just lost, and like every bengals win, y/n walked onto the field, this time not only to congratulate her team, but also to chase after her extra emotional other half.

since they lost, their season is over and josh is going to stay with y/n for awhile. it’s all bittersweet.

y/n ran across the field. throwing mindless congratulations towards the teammates who are playing kansas city next week. She chased after josh who had already buried himself into the locker room. He took these loses. especially in the playoffs. feeling like, what the internet calls, “the bills curse” is all his fault.

y/n say down outside the locker room and waited. players passed her going in and out. she waved hello and goodbye to bills players as they retreated to their hotel before they flew back to buffalo tomorrow.

stefon diggs stopped as he left the locker room, sitting next to y/n. “he’s worse than usual” he said, leaning his head back on the wall. “do you know why?” he sighed. “i think it’s cause you were watching”

“i watch all his games stef.” y/n knew the bills very well. though she barely ever saw them, she texted them checking on josh often. she and stefon have grown to be good friends.

“yeah but i think this has something to do with your job, i think it’s mixed with jealousy” y/n nodded, sighing as the coach walked out of the room.

“no one else but josh. go ahead” coach said, causing y/n to practically fly out of the seat. she ran into the locker room in search for josh.

“joshy” she called out. he was sitting in a chair, in the middle of the room. it was empty, the only thing in the room is josh’s jersey he disposed of in the middle of the floor.

he sat in a chair, his head in his hands. y/n could tell from his red knuckles he had been punching the punching bag that hang in the corner of the locker room. she knelt infront of him. “hey joshy?” she placed her hand on top of his and waited for him to look at her. Josh moved his hands, and rested them on his knees. “y/n” he said, he’d been crying.

“oh josh,” she said, hurting for her boy. “it isn’t your fault” she said, gripping the hand on his knee. “y/n you don’t get it.” he tilted his head back. “no i don’t, i don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’ve done the wrong thing in such an important situation” she said, hinting to the decision between her job and her relationship

“y/n you know that’s not what i meant”

“i know i’m sorry, but really joshy. it isn’t your fault. it takes a whole team, and sometimes the other team just had an advantage” josh scoffed

“you have to say that, it’s your job. your team, the most important thing to you”

y/n moved her hand, placing it on his cheek, his hand moved to hold onto hers in fear of if he let go he’d lose her like he lost this game

“Josh. you know i couldn’t turn this down. it’s close to my sister and her kids, i grew up here. she said, watching tears well up in his eyes. “nothing is more important to me than you, but that doesn’t mean that other things arnt important to me” he nodded.

“but i’m sat there, infront of hundreds of thousands to millions of people who are saying it’s their year and i can’t make it. i can never make it” her heart broke as his desperate tone.

“babe, you need to practice staying cool”

“did joe teach you that?”

“joshua.” she said, huffing at his accusations “do you watch him play josh? you are just as good if not better than him” he watched her intently as she tried to make him feel better

“the only difference between you and joe, is your temper.” she stood up, reaching her arms out. “come here give me a hug” he smiled, stand in front of her, pulling her swiftly into a hug. “i’m sorry i snapped at you beautiful” he swayed them back and forth. “i just get so worked up and i don’t know how to control it, but never should i take it out on you” he kissed her forehead as she curled into his chest.

he hugged her close. “i love you beautiful” he said, smiling happily. “here stand on the chair let’s go to the car” he said, standing in-front of the chair, letting her jump onto his back.

he walked to her car, sitting her down, opening the passenger seat to let her sit while he drove her home.

the drive home was peaceful, he held her hand, resting it on the automatic stick in front of the consul. When the two arrived to y/ns apartment, the two of them changed, y/n into one of josh’s tshirts that she kept from before she moved, and josh in a pair of sweatpants.

the two turned on a movie and layed on the couch. josh held y/n on his chest, he played with her hair as he pretending to watch the movie that played. “you know princess, if you were on the field with me all the time i would’ve won the super bowl already” he laughed, hoping she’d laugh at his joke. instead of laughing, as he waited for a response all he got was heavy breathing. “oh come on, that was the most hilarious joke i’ve ever made and your sleeping” he whispered, tucking the blanket around only her as he skillfully snaked out from under her.

with perfect ease he picked her up and walked her to her room. after tucking her in, he got into her next to her and cuddled up next to her. he kissed her cheek, “i love you princess” he whispered and held her close. he yawned, closing his eyes and finally getting a good nights sleep.

#josh allen #bills mafia #buffalo #buffalo bills #nfl fluff #nfl football #nfl fic #nfl imagine #nflying #nfl players

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musicloverxoxo7 · 8 months

Text

Professor Kim’s Teaching assistant

Professor!Namjoon x fem!reader

Summary: You feel drawn to the new professor like to nobody else. Does he reciprocate that feeling? How far will you take it?

Themes/warnings: smut with a bit of plot at the beginning, age difference (reader is Master student, so ca 5 years), hand job, oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, y/n has mild dom tendencies, tied up hands, nipple play

Wordcount: ca. 3300 words

Disclaimer: 18+, DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU ARE UNDER 18

I do not own BTS. They merely inspire me. None of this is related to their persons in real life.

“I want to use the last 5 minutes to discuss the topic that will occupy next lesson. Greek mythology in Harry Potter.”

When this new course opened the previous semester, you’d been dying to get a space. Which you finally did the second time around. But now that you’re sitting in Professor Kim’s course, you are bored. Either you know too much about literature or your minds are too alike. You already know almost all the stuff he talks about, while everyone else is in awe at his creative angles.

You raise your hand. Professor Kim looks around. Since none of the other 15 students want to say anything, he gets back to you with a sigh.

“Go ahead, Ms y/l/n.”

It’s almost always a conversation between just the two of you. It has been like that the entire semester.

“For one, there are all the beasts and magical creatures that J.K. Rowling involved in her magical universe. Things like the chimera, centaurs, Cerberus. Aside from that we also have characters in the book named after actual mythological beings, not just Greek, but also Roman.”

“That is correct. Could you give an example? Greek or Roman.”

“Take Remus Lupin for example. Roman legends say that Romulus and Remus were twins that were tasked with building a city. The short version is that Romulus got to build it and named it after himself, of course. Mythology says that they were raised by a she-wolf. I consider this fact of importance, since Remus Lupin is a werewolf.”

“Accurate. Everyone, until next week, if you haven’t done so yet, please read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s stone. Ms y/l/n, my office, please.”

You file out of the classroom with the other students and head to Professor Kim’s office. You have no idea why he’d want to talk to you. He’s never asked you to his office before.

Professor Kim appears a minute after you, his glasses askew and his hair a slight mess. Same as usual.

You smile just a tiny bit. You’d definitely straighten out those glasses. But you’d definitely leave the messy hair be.

“Please, Ms y/l/n, come in. Would you like something to drink? I have tea, coffee or water.”

You sit down at the corner of his desk as he makes himself a cup of coffee.

“I’m good, thank you. Why am I here?”

He waits until the coffee machine is done, then leans against the cupboard on which it stands. His pecks are on display like that, and you give yourself a second to admire them.

“I want to discuss your future. You are exceptional in the field I teach.”

“I just like reading a lot and finding out what could have been behind it.”

You shrug your shoulders.

“Have you considered doing a PhD and becoming a professor?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t have to share with me, y/n, if you don’t want to. I merely wanted to offer you my assistance, in case you’d like it.”

Maybe it is because he’s trying so hard. Maybe because this is the first time he has called you by your first name.

“I did consider it for a while. But I had a professor last semester who said they’d do whatever it takes so I don’t get in anywhere as a PhD student.”

“What?”

Professor Kim moves so abruptly that he spills coffee all over his chest. Thanks to your long talk it’s only warm anymore, but he still curses. He puts the cup aside. It gives you a full frontal of his chest, including dark nipples that strain against the fabric.

You jump into action helping him clean up, because otherwise you might do something stupid. Something stupid like burying your face in his chest.

“Take it off.”

“It’s beyond saving. I never get coffee out.”

“Take it off. I’ll do it.”

He doesn’t even turn away to unbutton the shirt. When he tugs the rest of the shirt out of his pants to get the last 2 buttons, you have to cling to your composure very tightly. He hands you the shirt and you put it in the tiny sink in his office.

With the cold water and the immediacy of your reaction, the stain is out in next to no time.

“Et voila.”

You hold up the dripping shirt. No stain left on the light blue fabric. Your smile wavers when you see that Professor Kim is still standing there shirtless. His caramel skin looks like it is supposed to be savored slowly and explored extensively.

“Was it Lim?”

“Huh?”

“Did Professor Lim tell you those terrible things?”

“Oh, well…”

“Y/n!”

“Okay, yes, he did.”

Professor Kim sighs deeply. He straightens out his glasses and walks over to his desk.

“He hates women that are smarter than him. Especially if they are also beautiful. He’s an insecure pig. Time for some measures.”

“What? No!”

You are at the desk with 2 quick steps, your hand on Professor Kim’s upper arm. He looks up slowly from what he was writing, his eyes not focused on your hand but on your eyes.

“Y/n, if you want to go to university for a PhD, I will help you.”

“Okay, then help me. But please, let’s try to keep Professor Lim out of this for as long as possible. He won’t be able to do anything if he finds out last minute.”

Professor Kim straightens up and you finally let go of his arm. You’re a little sad, because it felt very nice. Strong and warm.

“How about you become my TA in the meantime, for your last semester here? That way we would have a valid excuse for spending some time together. Time we will mostly spend on prepping you for that PhD and the application process.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Professor Kim looks at his shirt in your arm and then his naked torso.

“I forgot I wasn’t wearing a shirt. Sorry about that.”

He grabs a jacket from a stand in the corner and buttons it up. This way, he is mostly covered up again. What a shame. You’d grown used to seeing him shirtless by now.

“And one more thing, y/n.”

“What?”

“Please call me Namjoon. Teaching assistants and their professors are almost always on first name terms.”

You hand him back the moist shirt.

“Got it. The shirt should be fine now. But please give it a wash in the washing machine as well.”

“Thank you for your help. I’ll remember that for next time.”

--------

As it turns out, Professor Kim – no, Namjoon – spills something quite regularly. No matter how elegant he looks, he can be quite clumsy. The following week you end up washing coke out of his shirt. The week after hot cocoa. You end up almost getting too comfortable with seeing him shirtless.

Being a TA is turning out to be quite fun and not all that much work, since Namjoon does not hold that many courses this semester.

The day comes when you get accepted into 3 different PhD programs at very prestigious universities. They are out of Professor Lim’s league, so he doesn’t dare mess with you. And finally, your graduation day arrives.

After a beautiful graduation ceremony, you have dinner with your mom and granny. Granny urges you to get married and mom wants you to finally start working full-time. They both talk way too much about your brother and sister and their little families.

Afterwards, you are in dire need of a drink. You end up in a poorly lit bar two houses down from the restaurant. Surprisingly, it smells like peppermint and lime in there. You sit down at the bar and order your favorite drink.

“Long day?”

Namjoon turns to you. You sat down on his right side without even noticing him there. You notice that the top 3 buttons of his shirt are open, and the sleeves pushed upwards. Your mind wants to go in some dirty directions, but you don’t let it.

Thankfully, the bartender puts down the drink in front of you right that moment.

“Kind of. Beautiful, but also laden. Like a landmine.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Sounds like family.”

Namjoon snorts into his drink.

“No matter how much I love my family, I understand what you mean. What did they say to you getting into the 3 best universities in the country?”

“Haven’t told them. They’d be livid that I haven’t gotten married or taken a full time, highly paid positions somewhere yet.”

“You’ll probably have to tell them sometime.”

“Yeah, sometime. I only see them once or twice a year and that’s soon enough for me.”

You let out a long, heavy sigh.

“You want to sit down in an alcove?”

“Sure.”

You move to an empty one with your drinks. The lighting is different here. Warmer, sexier. Namjoon’s dimples look like they want to pull you closer to him. You have a hard time resisting.

“Now that I’m no longer your professor, I’d still like to at least stay friends with you.”

“Of course. It’s thanks to you that I got to this point.”

“Not really. I only guided you a little. But thanks to you I now know how to clean almost all stains out of my shirts.”

You smile. That is true.

“I didn’t mind.”

You don’t because you find his clumsiness endearing. And also, because you got to see him shirtless on a weekly basis. Which was worth the effort.

Namjoon smiles. And something in that smile tells you that he knows.

You fidget a little. Since the nook is small and the bench short, your arm touches his in the process. You withdraw your arm and sit still again.

“I will miss having you around nearly every day. Of course, you were a great help, but mostly your presence is very stimulating to my mind.”

“Well, you wanted to be friends, so we will still get to see each other.”

“Of course. But that won’t be the same, will it?”

“I suppose not.”

Namjoon takes another sip of beer. When he leans back again, his cheeks are a faint strawberry color. You keep your eyes on him. He doesn’t look at you, though, but far into the distance.

“I am a very clumsy person. Which you know.”

“Yes.”

“I do spill drinks on myself quite regularly.”

“I know.”

“But maybe not quite so often. More like once or twice a month.”

“What are you saying?”

You’re still looking at him and he finally meets your eyes.

“I wanted to be close to you. The way you looked at my chest whenever I took of my shirt... I hoped you’d make a move on me someday.”

“Wait what?”

“Ridiculous, I know. You have marvelous self-restraint. And perhaps you only enjoy pecks in general, not specifically me as a person.”

His eyes are honest, with a hint of vulnerability. You hold his gaze for a few moments, then your eyes move down to his pecks. His shirt today is just the right amount of tight. But the fabric is midnight blue, so you cannot see through it.

You bite your bottom lip. You do like Namjoon as a person.

“I do like pecks. But yours are particularly… delectable.”

You slowly look up at him again. His dimples are showing. You move your hand up and gently poke one of his dimples with your finger. When you withdraw your hand again, Namjoon catches it and blows a kiss on your fingertip.

Butterflies flutter through your stomach. You move a little closer and put your hand on his thigh. He does not object. When you stroke up and down his thigh, his breathing becomes a little labored.

Encouraged by your bold movements, Namjoon leans forward and touches his lips to yours. You deepen the kiss. He tastes like peppermint and beer.

You break apart after what could have been seconds or hours.

“Would you like to disappear from here? My apartment is just down the road. If you aren’t ready, though, we can postpone that.”

You take him by the hand and pull him out of the alcove. Thank goodness the drinks are already paid for.

The warm summer air outside caresses your legs and arms. Namjoon takes your hand and guides you to his place. On the way you talk about books, as usual.

Only once the door to his apartment closes behind him do things change again. You’ve barely taken off your shoes when Namjoon grabs your waist and pulls you against him. This kiss is much less restrained and civil than the one in the bar.

You melt into him, your hands on his firm pecks. You run your hands over them, making sure to also caress his nipples gently. Every time you give them a twist, his breath catches. Finally, you can’t take it anymore and unbutton his shirt. He does not stop you.

Once you have peeled the shirt off him, you let your hands roam over his entire upper body. He gives you time to explore while keeping his hands at your waist.

When you break apart for a breather, Namjoon smiles.

“This kind of curiosity will bring you far anywhere, y/n.”

You giggle. Even in a situation like this, he can’t help but think of work and books.

“I hope it can also bring me as far as your bedroom.”

“If that is where you want to be, definitely.”

He walks to the bedroom door and pushes it open. You walk inside past him and turn on the light. There are beautiful paintings on the wall. The bed isn’t made, but overall, the room is very clean and organized.

You turn back to Namjoon.

“I love the interior design. I want a painting tour later on.”

“Whatever you wish, y/n.”

You put your hands on his belt buckle and open it.

“IF there is anything you don’t like, tell me to stop. Ditto for if it’s too much.”

“Who is the teacher here?”

You smirk up at him.

“Tonight, I think it’s me. But I’m always willing to switch roles.”

You pull the belt out of his pants.

“Lie down.”

He does.

“Put up your hands.”

He follows your instructions again. You tie his hands to the head of the bed with his belt.

“I’ll untie you whenever you want. Just say the word.”

“Got it. But I’m feeling pretty comfortable right now.”

You unzip your dress and drop it on the floor before crawling on the bed. Namjoon lies stretched out, the muscles in his arms and torso prominent. You sit down on his lower belly and give him a kiss.

“This could take a while.”

And it does. You start with feathery kisses on his dimples and then move down his neck. You are very tempted to leave marks there, but that wouldn’t be good for a professor who has to teach his students tomorrow.

So instead, you suck a mark into his bulging upper arm. You gently scratch your teeth over the inside of his forearm. That has goosebumps running over his arms. You bite down on the inside of his palm.

By then you’ve teased enough and move down to his chest. His gorgeous chest. Finally, you get to touch and savor. You place sloppy kisses all over his pecks. Namjoon watches you with hooded eyes. When you run your lips over his nipples, his eyes cross. You do it again and add a little tongue. He huffs out a breath.

You keep up the ministrations for another minute or two until you move down his stomach. You leave tiny bites there, which has his stomach muscles contracting like crazy.

You unzip his slacks.

“Hips up.”

He does and you pull the slacks and underwear down. As you already felt earlier, he is fully erected. You run your hand up the shaft and pay special attention to the frenulum. Namjoon takes a shuddering breath. Your thumb draws a circle around his slit.

“Baby, stop torturing me.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Namjoon sighs.

“Goodness, no.”

“Then stop complaining or I’ll gag you next.”

You smile up at him.

Then you lower your head and repeat the circular motion around his slit with your tongue. His moan is a true turn on. You ditch your panties, slip your hand between your legs and start playing with your clit, while you keep working him with your tongue and mouth.

It doesn’t take long until you have him at the brink of desperation. And ecstasy.

You raise your head and let go of him. His eyes linger on your other hand, which is between your legs.

“May I do that too, tonight?”

“Definitely. But later.”

You crawl back up to the headboard and untie him. He lowers his arms and presses you against his body. The close body contact feels heavenly.

Namjoon undoes your bra. You sit up and throw it aside. Then you lay down on him again, rubbing your nipples against his chest. It feels like heaven. Until you’re so sensitive you have to stop.

You kiss the tip of his nose.

“Your turn now, professor. I want to feel you in me.”

He rolls you around until you are lying on your back and he is hovering over you. With one hand he grabs your hands and pins them against the pillows above you. You find that very, very hot.

You arch your body towards him.

“Please.”

“How could I say no to that.”

You feel his tip push against your entrance. It’s a nice stretch once he finally pushes into you, slowly, so you can adjust. Except that you are so turned on that you don’t really need time to adjust.

Namjoon is breathing heavily by the time he bottoms out.

“Give me just a second like this, okay? I don’t want to cum right away.”

He smiles down at you and the dimples appear in all their glory. You pucker your lips. He gets the message and leans down for a kiss. A very deep, slightly messy kiss.

Once you break apart and he finally starts moving, your eyes meet. His are dark, almost black, with lust.

His moves are slow and steady at first. He lets go of one of your hands, so you can play with your nipple. It doesn’t take long until his moves become sloppier, harsher. With a few more twists or your nipple your high burns its way through you.

Namjoon’s breathing gets shallower while you moan into his ear. He lets go of your other hand and you sling both around his torso.

“I can’t… much longer…”

“It’s okay. We have all night for more.”

A few more sloppy thrusts, then Namjoon cums. He buries his face in your shoulder, and you hold him once his body ceases to move.

It takes a bit for both your breathing to normalize and for heartbeats to slow down again. Until that happens, you stroke Namjoon’s hair.

You don’t know how long you lay there like that, but you enjoy it.

Eventually, Namjoon raises his head and looks down at you. His eyes have cleared up to their normal dark brown. You see something in them that looks surprisingly like love. You’re even more surprised that you don’t mind that at all. Maybe it is time to trust another person and give them your love.

“Would you like to go and take a hot shower with me, y/n.”

“Gladly.”

He pulls out of you and helps you up.

“About that paintings tour of your apartment?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s postpone that until tomorrow. I think we’re busy for the rest of the night.”

Namjoon guides you into the bathroom, where he turns on the shower. There is easily enough space for two people in there.

“As you prefer, honey.”

When you look at him his eyes are crinkled in a smile.

Please do not copy, translate, or repost my work (reblogging is fine though). Doing so will make you legally liable for stealing intellectual property.

#bts smut #bts imagines #bts x reader #bts fanfic #female y/n #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon smut #namjoon #female reader

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walaskart · 7 months

Text

Let's Hang Together

Chapter 3/7

The next morning, you wake to a loud knocking at your door. You quickly pull on your robes and boots, then open the door to see Mother Superior.

“Sister, the Papa has summoned you. Come with me.”

Without being able to respond, she begins to walk to the Papal chambers. You follow behind her, wondering why on earth Papa would want to speak with you. When you arrive, the Mother raps on the doors to the Papal office. You hear Papa call, “Come in!” from inside. The Mother opens the door for you to step in and as soon as you do, she closes it, leaving just you and Papa alone in the room.

Papa sits behind his desk, in his black robes and cornette. “Please, sister. Have a seat.”

You sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk, fiddling with the fabric of your robe between your fingers.

“Sister, I have an important compito, ah, important task for you. Now, we’re waiting on one more person to arrive but I suppose I can just fill you in before he arrives, si?”

You simply nod in response, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

“Good, good.” Papa claps his hands together and smiles. “First, some good news! With this task comes a promotion! You’ll be getting new chambers and less work comes with the position, something we could all use, eh? I know I want less work these days. Sister Imperator just keeps sending me on tour after tour and now so many summer festivals!”

“What exactly will I be doing, Papa?”

“Yes, yes. Scuse.” Before he can continue, there’s a knock on his door. “Perfect, this is who we are waiting for,” He says to you. Then louder, “Come in!”

Mother Superior opens the door, letting Swiss step into the office, then closes the door behind him.

“Congratulations, sister! You’ll be Swiss’s personal assistant.”

You look to Swiss in shock, just to see him standing there with a stupid smile on his face.

Slowly looking back to Papa, you speak as calmly as you can. “Thank you.” Those seem to be the only words you can get out.

“Of course. Ora vai! Off you go.” He claps again. “Shoo, shoo. Get to know each other, I have my own work to get to.”

You stand and bow, rushing to leave the office. Swiss is right behind you, laughing as soon as the door shuts.

“What did you do?” You turn to face him, stopping in the hallway.

“Nothing.” Swiss shrugs and walks passed you. “I just told Papa I wanted a sister to help me with some things.”

“And?” You catch up to him, walking behind him, trying to give him a glare but he just kept his attention ahead of him.

“And that I knew the perfect nun for the job.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve caught my attention.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

Swiss stops short and turns around quickly, making you walk right into his chest. He grabs both your wrists to keep you from falling and pulls you close to him to keep you steady. “Let’s make a deal, honey.” He looks at you through those big lenses and smiles under the mask. That damned smile. From this close to his face, you notice he has two sharp fangs in the top row of his teeth. “You’ll be my assistant. You’ll be nice about it. And if you do a good job, if you last a week, I’ll take my mask off for you.”

“And if I don’t?”

Swiss lets go of your wrists and you take a step back. “I’ll leave you alone. Since that’s what you want so bad.” He leans forward, mouth right next to your ear to whisper, “I’d believe that lie a little more if you stopped blushing so much around me.” You feel your face get redder, whether it is with anger or attraction you couldn’t tell. You push past him, just wanting to get out of this conversation. Before you can get far, Swiss yells to you, “Is that a yes?” You just keep walking.

When you get back to your room, you see three nuns standing in front of your door with a pile of empty boxes. One of them speaks, “Mother Superior sent us to help you move.” You sigh and agree, opening your door to let them in. It takes you about two hours to pack everything from your room into the boxes.

“Do any of you know where I’m moving to?” You stack two of the boxes and hold them in your arms, ready to move.

The other sisters pick up the rest of the boxes and walk in front of you, guiding you to your new chambers. The one who answered your question when you first arrived answers you again. “You’ll be moved to the ghoul’s wing of the ministry. Your new room will be across from whatever ghoul you’re serving.”

You mumble some complaints to yourself as you walk. As much as you want space from him, you can’t help but want to understand him more. There was something about him that made you want to stay with him, but you also just wanted a normal life again.

As you turn down the hallway of the ghoul's wing, you see Swiss leaning against a wall. When he sees you behind the boxes you’re holding he perks up and jogs over to you. He takes the boxes from you and brings them into your new room.

“Alright, sisters. I’ll take care of her from here.” He winks at you before taking more boxes from the other sisters. They put down the rest of the boxes and leave quietly, intimidated by Swiss’s presence. “Thanks for your help.”

You start to unpack the boxes as he carries them into your new room. “I don’t have to call you ‘sir’ now, do I?”

Swiss chuckles as he brings in the last box. “Only if you want to, honey.” He opens the box labeled ‘decor’ to help you unpack. “You never answered me by the way.” He takes out your posters and sets them on the bare mattress to come back to.

“About what?” You’re unpacking your clothes, moving your shirts one by one into the new dresser.

“My deal. The mask.” He takes out some small statues from the box next and goes to stand next to you. He places the statues on the top of the dresser as he waits for your response.

“Sure. Only out of curiosity.” As you finish unpacking your shirts, you fold the empty cardboard box and place it on the bed next to the posters.

“Shake on it.” He places down the last statue and reaches his hand out. You roll your eyes and put your hand in his. His hand completely covered yours as he held it in a firm grip. After shaking his hand, you pulled back and tried to get back to unpacking.

“Pass me that box.”

#ghost the band #ghost #nameless ghouls #the band ghost #papa emeritus iv #ghost fanfiction #swiss ghoul x reader #swiss ghoul

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celandeline · 3 months

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Summer of Like // Farleigh Start x OC (32)

On the eleventh anniversary of Venetia’s death, I find myself back in England, with Saltburn in the distance.

The wind rips through my hair, but if anything, I’m grateful - it’s the only source of relief from the oppressing heat of the August sun beating down on me. The pros and cons of renting a convertible - no roof, no air conditioning. Farleigh sits in the passenger seat, a cigarette perched between his fingers as he rests his elbow on the door. He smiles when he catches my glance.

I refocus on the road ahead of us. The leather of the steering wheel is hot, and burns a bit when I shift my hands. The glint of the wedding band on my ring finger - still shiny and new - catches my eye for a moment, and a rush of giddiness fills me. Since the wedding, every time I’ve looked at it, I can’t help but smile - even though we’ve been living like we’re married for years.

It doesn’t feel like it’s been eleven years since Farleigh and I met. I can still remember the summer of 2007 like it was yesterday. Endless days by the lake, just lounging about in the grass, talking about everything and nothing all at once. That night we smoked on the roof. All the nights he would slip into my room to complain about Oliver. The first time we kissed - the first time we fucked. How things had taken a turn for the worse the very next day. I don’t think I’ve ever cried as much as I did that summer.

It doesn’t feel like it’s been eleven years - but at the same time it does. All the dots that connect us from then to now are lined up perfectly in my head. It started out rough - juggling my last year at NYU and teaching Farleigh how to be a normal person was hard, not to mention the part-time job I was working on top of it all. But after he’d gotten used to working, and started fiddling around with social media things had gotten easier. By the time I’d graduated, he was pretty much self-sufficient.

Since then, New York has swept the both of us up into her madness. For Farleigh, his social media presence lifted him back up into a social status he was familiar with, hanging out with nepo-babies and fallen-off child actors in the VIP sections of New York's hottest clubs. For a while, he was something of a club queen until he started leaning more into fashion, posting styling tips, high end hauls and purchasing that first sewing machine. God, that thing was loud. I don’t miss it - the one he has now is so much quieter. Fashion blogging turned into being invited to runway events to designing to having his collection featured in Vogue’s last issue. Now, he’s in high demand to style celebrities for red carpets.

I’m happy for him - really. It’s obvious that he loves his work, even if it does mean that our house is covered in fabric scraps. And that I have to go with him to fashion events - not really my scene, but it is fun to see pictures of us on E!News.

For me, it’s been objectively less exciting - but I wasn’t trying to climb my way back up the social ladder. Once I was done with NYU and had my journalism degree, it was tabloid work for a while - reporting on who Taylor Swift was dating or who Ariana Grande had been spotted with that week - until I had woven myself into the industry enough that I could network my way into a more respectable news source. I wrote for the New Yorker for a while, and then The New York Times, and now Time magazine itself. It’s a lot of traveling, but since Farleigh doesn’t work a regular 9-5 he can usually come with me (unless there’s some event), and he likes to. It ‘expands his horizons’ and ‘inspires him to create’ supposedly. I think he just doesn’t want to be home alone.

In all my traveling, I never thought I’d end up back here.

Saltburn glitters in the distance, the winding road leading up to the gates, growing ever closer as we cruise along. When we’d gotten the news that James was sick, I’d reached back out to Elspeth, sending well wishes from the both of us. On a whim, we’d sent them a wedding invitation too. I didn’t really expect anything to come from it - Farleigh was adamant that they would just ignore it, considering how things ended between them. And for a while, it had seemed like he was right - until a handwritten letter from Elspeth had showed up in our mailbox.

It was long winded - of course, it was from Elspeth - and apologetic, explaining how she couldn’t make the wedding because James had died, but insisting that we come back to Saltburn for our honeymoon. Something about it being where we met made her adamant there was no better place to spend the first couple of weeks as a married couple.

After talking it over, we decided to take her up on her offer.

Which is how we’re here, now, gliding down the road to Saltburn in a convertible, Iconapop’s I Love It blasting through the speakers. It feels like being twenty again - the summer sun beating down on my skin, the smell of cigarette smoke trailing from Farleigh’s fingertips, my hair fluttering out behind me as I drive too fast on purpose. I glance over at him - my husband - for a second, catching a glimpse of the way the sun paints him in luxurious gold. He’s gorgeous. He’s always been gorgeous.

Again he catches me looking. “You’re supposed to be driving.” He shouts over the wind and the music.

“I am!” I say. “It was two seconds-”

“Eyes on the road!” He ignores my protests, pointing his cigarette at me threateningly.

I roll my eyes. “Maybe if you were less distracting it wouldn’t be a problem.” I joke. “Stop being so pretty.”

“I couldn’t even if I tried, Eves.” He says, leaning over the center console to smack a kiss to the side of my forehead. Taking one hand off the wheel, I hold out two fingers for his cigarette. He places it between them, and I take a drag before handing it back to him.

God, it feels like being twenty again.

I miss her.

< previous part | next part >

#farleigh start x oc #farleigh start x reader #saltburn #farleigh start #farleigh x reader #saltburn x reader

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chelseasdagger · 1 year

Text

Fall From Grace

Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank comes home after a long job and is so thankful to have you with him. But his hands are dirty, unknown to him, and the sight of blood on you makes his mind spiral

Warnings: angst, cursing, blood, gun mention (one time, briefly)

Author’s Note: Ah! First time writing in so long and I’m very worried I’m rusty (not to mention it’s my first published Frank fic). But I hope it’s still enjoyable nonetheless! Feedback is greatly appreciated! Thank you to @chellestrash and @suitsofwo3 for your encouragement! I wouldn’t have done it without you guys :’)

Word Count: 2.9k

It’s been nine days since Frank has been home. Nine days of judging looks from the passerbyers of the town who don’t recognize him. Nine days of finding more leads at the end of a trail of bodies. Nine nights of dreams, all of them of you.

He’s currently alone, surrounded by nothing but the asphalt under his tires. Its sound echoes out as it rubs against the rubber, his foot pressing on the brakes once the streetlight ahead of him turns red. He stares up at the sky, watching the light sway of the wire from the wind as it blows. His eyes are heavy but he fights to keep them open, the few hours of sleep evident from the way his eyes burn at the corners.

The red light shines down on the windshield and over his face as he sits at the intersection. The black van is the only car on the dark road illuminated by just one lone street lamp. He checks the time on the dashboard of the car, making out the dimly lit numbers of the digital clock. Half past twelve.

Frank sighs to himself and adjusts his hips in his seat. His legs are cramped from driving for hours and he’s trying to imagine how soft the mattress will feel on his aching muscles once he’s home. But the more he thinks about home, he’s left with more questions.

Will you be up? Are you even at the apartment? If you are, do you want him there?

The sudden green glow pulls him from his thoughts and he places both feet on the petals while putting the car into gear. It becomes background noise after a while: the humming of the engine under the hood, the sound of the clutch engaging when he shifts, the tires roaring on the road. The only question on his mind is if the place he calls home will be as empty as the dingy motel room he’s been living in for days.

Right now, he’s not so hopeful.

He gets to the driveway faster than he expected, and he doesn’t have a total recall of the last few minutes. After turning the car off, he stays inside for a few moments longer and he can’t understand why he feels paralyzed. He’s finally here, after over a week of dreaming of it, so why can’t he move? Fidgeting with the keys between his fingers, he thinks of every possible outcome of what’s behind that door. It flashes in his head–an empty apartment, tears in your eyes, a fight that lasts for hours–the visions overlap until it’s muddled and he forces his mind away from it.

Solemnly, Frank swings open the van door and grabs the duffle bag on the passenger seat. It’s heavy as he throws it over his shoulder, grunting when the contents of the bag brush his bruised ribs. He walks with a slight limp, the wound to his ankle disrupting his normal gait. When he gets to the door, he wraps his fingers around the doorknob and pulls in a deep breath. His chest fills with air, and he focuses on that feeling instead of all the other worries clouding his head.

The metal hinges creek quietly as it opens, and he scans the silent living room before stepping inside. The only light comes from the open wooden door, the lamplight pouring in over his shoulder. Everything’s exactly as it was and he’s relieved, yet slightly disappointed. He does one more sweep after turning on the lights, listening carefully to any sound of another person before he hears footsteps from the hall. His hand reaches under his shirt for the pistol in the waistband of his jeans, but the second he sees you turn the corner, his whole body stops.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, he’s not even sure he’s breathing as he sees your figure in the corridor. He was certain he’d be alone, he was preparing himself for it all those hours on the drive home. His eyebrows pull together in confusion, wondering how and why you’re even here. The pounding of his heart in his chest reminds him to breathe, and his lips part as he inhales a shaky breath.

“Frank?” your timid voice calls out in the quiet room. He swallows hard then and blinks quickly, finally processing that you’re standing here in front of him. His eyes flicker all over you, not able to focus on one particular thing, and that’s when he takes in the nightgown draping from your body. The ivory satin flows around your waist and ends at your upper thigh, the white straps thin on your shoulders, and the neckline plunging to expose some of your cleavage. You’re like a true image of innocence—untouched, unharmed and pure. He swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then you smile at him and he realizes that there’s one thing more beautiful.

Your eyes have a light in them that he has never been so thankful to see before. It’s his own beacon of hope—the darkness, the violence, the blood, it’s all behind him now. Your face reassures him of that. It’s the first face he’s seen in so long that wanted to see him, that was genuinely pleased by his presence. And the feeling has his pulse pounding faster.

For the first time in nine days he feels he can let his guard down, and slowly he does. He lets out that breath he’d been holding, and his whole chest deflates with it. His shoulders slump and his face softens, mirroring your kind expression. He sighs as he smiles and it’s been so long since he’s done it that the action feels foreign. It soon grows into a grin as you whisper his name again, an air of disbelief around the syllable.

“S’me, sweetheart,” he mumbles as he nods, “I’m home.” His voice is raspy from having not been used in many hours. The duffle bag hits the floor with a dull thud but it’s drowned out by the sound of your impatient steps across the floor. Frank opens his arms wide, body waiting to welcome you into him, and he sees the way your face scrunches up while you cross the small distance to him.

It looks as though you’re fighting off tears, eyebrows scrunched together and bottom lip caught between your teeth. The sight tugs at his heart but it’s soon swelling in his chest at the feeling of you crashing into him. You’re warm. You’re actually here. You’re accepting him.

Frank can’t find the right words to express his gratitude that you’re still here and that you’re safe. His mind can be a broken, sorrowful place at times and it loves to paint him the darkest scenarios it can and name it the best outcome. His head had told him that the hug goodbye and longing kiss you gave him before he started his journey on the road would be his last time he saw you again. Now, he’s just so thankful it was a part of his colorful, albeit twisted, imagination.

His fingers make purchase on your ribs, squeezing gently and breathing in your scent. He had only been living off of memories of you and picturing your perfume on the cold, thin sheets of the lonely motel room. But the distant echoes of you couldn’t do this justice. Not when you’re hugging him so tight he’s reminded of the bruise to his ribs or when your arms cross around his back and your smaller hands grab as much of him as you can. You make him feel wanted, and it’s better than anything he could’ve conjured up.

“Oh, my god,” you whisper softly. Your shaky voice breaks the silence that had settled over the small room again. You pull away from his chest and look up at him before continuing, “I’ve missed you so much.” Your hands quickly reach up to your eyes, brushing away the tears welling up from the sight of him. Frank sees how you try to dismiss them but he doesn’t want you doing it for his sake.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” his bigger hand cups the back of yours and gently pulls it away. He glances over your face before speaking in a hushed whisper, “Don’t push it away, let it out.”

If there’s one thing he encourages you to do, it’s to feel your emotions fully. He knows first hand how damaging it can be and he’d never want you to go through it. So when he sees you nod gently and blink up at him, when he sees more tears stream down your already wet cheeks, he can’t help but smile.

“Attagirl, just like that,” he reassures you, hand rubbing up and down your back. His opposite hand cups the back of your head and brings you into his chest. He cradles you there and breathes with you while you work through your tears. Little praises fall past his lips as he holds you in the empty living room, the two of you clinging onto each other as if it’s the last time you’ll be together.

It’s only when your shaky sobs die down into quiet sniffles that he pulls back to stare down at you. He gives his best smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he whispers like you’re the only one meant to hear it. The light in your eyes returns at the tender tone of his voice and you grin at him. Frank brushes away the lock of hair that falls in front of your eyes, swiftly tucking it behind your ear.

“And you…” he trails off, taking half a step backwards to take in your nightgown once more, “you look beautiful.” He shakes his head lightly as his eyes work down to the lace hem ending a few inches below your hip. The ornate design makes the whole garment seem more delicate, and he can’t deny how much he loves it.

“Christ, sweetheart, it fits—,” Frank cuts himself off as his eyes go wide. He lets go of your hip, taking another step back as his eyes get even bigger. He turns his palms so they’re facing him and he immediately looks back to your gown.

“What is it, Frank? Are you okay?” you ask, taking a step towards him. His body reacts faster than his mind, and he flinches back away from you as if he’s been burned. You let your outreached hand fall down, scared to overstep and upset him. He doesn’t respond to you, only stares at you with more and more concern taking over his expression until it scars over into terror.

You look down at yourself, bunching the fabric of the skirt to the center of your stomach to attempt to see what has scared him. When you twist so you can see your side, you immediately see what made him withdraw from you. There’s blood on the shiny fabric, the most obscene contrast to the pure color. Frank doesn’t know what to say, his whole body freezing as he takes in the sight. Logically, he knows you’re not actually hurt, but the sight alone has his mind spiraling.

It’s a sick, tangible metaphor of his worst fear—ruining you. His hands shake slightly while he stares at the dried blood on his palms. He doesn’t even know if it’s his own or one of the many men he took down that night. All he’s sure of is the icy shiver running through his chest and the panic strangling his throat. He’s always known, deep down, it would only be a matter of time until there’s danger right at your doorstep. He just never expected it to be him alone that hurts you.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t…” he trails off, his body finally catching up with his mind in time to form words. He brings his hand to his jeans, slowly rubbing down against the denim. It’s a futile attempt to scrub the stains off, but it’s the best he can think of to do. His voice is shaky when he says your name, muttering more and more apologies that tangle together.

“I’m so sor—fuck, I’m sorry,” Frank continues, the crack in his voice audible as he whispers. The stiff material of his pants begin to give his hand a prickly, numbing feeling. He doesn’t even register it, too lost in the need to erase any evidence of the harm done to you, although he can’t stop looking at the mess he’s made.

“Frank it’s okay, I’m alright. See, I’m all good—,” you try to reason with him in a soft voice, but he recoils when you take a step towards him. He’s shaking his head and his lips are moving but there’s no sound leaving his mouth.

“I…I-I’m, I…” he keeps trying to start the sentence but his mind can’t string the words together. The sight of him breaking down like this is foreign to you; Frank is usually strong and confident in his actions. It takes something worse to shake him to this level. The only time you can recall is the one time he lost someone he was trying to protect. It was the longest night of your life, watching him spiral and blame himself when he eventually did find the words to speak. He acted similar to how he is now: the stuttering, the shaky inhales, avoiding your gaze. But you caught his eyes when he first saw the scarlet stains, and he looks even more petrified tonight.

You move towards him again and reach up to place your hands on either side of his face. “I’m right here,” you whisper, glancing from one of his eyes to the other. “I’m okay, look at me, Frank.” You try your hardest to keep your voice even and gather his attention. His fingers curl around your forearms as he shuts his eyes tightly. He begins to shake his head again, refusing to look at you.

“No, no, no, I can’t,” he repeats again and again. The image of him becomes blurry again in your view, each repetition of his words splitting your heart further. You continue to hold him through your silent sobs, desperately begging him to trust that you’re okay. His grip on you only tightens but he still doesn’t look. Instead, he keeps muttering apologies and trying desperately to rid his mind of the image of you bloodied by his hands.

It isn’t until the sharp smell of iron is cutting through the bathroom of the apartment that he begins to calm down. The scent is familiar, dare he admit, welcoming. It cuts through the cloud of despair in his head, and it’s silent with the exception of small sniffles coming from you. You’re wearing his shirt and sweatpants now as you hunch over and focus on his hands. He’s sitting on the lid of the toilet while you’re across from him on the floor, a first aid kit on your right and a wet rag on your knee.

You turn his hands over carefully, inspecting the calloused palms for any sign of injury. Dragging the already soiled rag down his fingers, you watch the stains leave his hands, revealing perfectly intact skin. You sit up and fix the posture of your spine as you bring the back of your hand up to your face, pushing your hair away from your forehead.

“Looks like you’re all good,” you start, gently dropping one hand before moving for the next. “No cuts, just some bruising on your knuckles.” He only nods in understanding.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“What?” he asks, blinking once. You repeat the question and he stares at you, questioning whether to tell the truth. He doesn’t want to burden you with more wounds, but he knows you’ll find out anyway. He swallows hard and nods again, listing off the ones that are currently aching. Your fingers find their way to the hem of his shirt and begin to pull up before he’s finished speaking, and his own fingers wrap around your smaller wrists to stop you.

“You don’t… have to do this,” his eyes flicker all around your face. “I know it’s a lot, a-and after tonight,” he sighs as he looks down at your hands.

“Hey,” you begin, raising a hand up to lift his chin gently. “It’s nothing I don’t want to do. You mean as much to me as I do to you, you know that, right?” you ask, tilting your head down and looking up into his eyes. He thinks it over for a second before giving a weak nod.

“And you know how incredibly important you are?” Frank scoffs at this question, but you push further and he agrees, begrudgingly. Your hands go to each of his knees, using them to lean forward and press your lips to his. He kisses you back instantly, his hand reaching to cup your cheek and pull you closer. You pull back and let out a quiet, “Good,” before wrapping your hand around the back of his neck and kissing him deeper. It’s slow but meaningful, the two of you needing to be together in this way. He’s still incredibly gentle with you, but you know that side effect will fade soon.

He’s the one to break the kiss this time as he pulls away for a small breath of air. You snake your hands under his shirt and start tugging up again with a grin. He gives you a questioning look but you continue stripping it off until it’s on the floor beside you. You lean forward to press a quick peck to his lips, your breath hot on him as you whisper, “Besides, you’re not getting rid of me that easily, Castle.”

#frank castle #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #chelsea writes #thank you to chelle for posting this I love you SO much #im so thankful

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 1 month

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By: Edward Schlosser

Published: Jun 3, 2015

I’m a professor at a midsize state school. I have been teaching college classes for nine years now. I have won (minor) teaching awards, studied pedagogy extensively, and almost always score highly on my student evaluations. I am not a world-class teacher by any means, but I am conscientious; I attempt to put teaching ahead of research, and I take a healthy emotional stake in the well-being and growth of my students.

Things have changed since I started teaching. The vibe is different. I wish there were a less blunt way to put this, but my students sometimes scare me — particularly the liberal ones.

Not, like, in a person-by-person sense, but students in general. The student-teacher dynamic has been reenvisioned along a line that’s simultaneously consumerist and hyper-protective, giving each and every student the ability to claim Grievous Harm in nearly any circumstance, after any affront, and a teacher’s formal ability to respond to these claims is limited at best.

What it was like before

In early 2009, I was an adjunct, teaching a freshman-level writing course at a community college. Discussing infographics and data visualization, we watched a flash animation describing how Wall Street’s recklessness had destroyed the economy.

The video stopped, and I asked whether the students thought it was effective. An older student raised his hand.

”What about Fannie and Freddie?” he asked. “Government kept giving homes to black people, to help out black people, white people didn’t get anything, and then they couldn’t pay for them. What about that?”

I gave a quick response about how most experts would disagree with that assumption, that it was actually an oversimplification, and pretty dishonest, and isn’t it good that someone made the video we just watched to try to clear things up? And, hey, let’s talk about whether that was effective, okay? If you don’t think it was, how could it have been?

The rest of the discussion went on as usual.

The next week, I got called into my director’s office. I was shown an email, sender name redacted, alleging that I “possessed communistical [sic] sympathies and refused to tell more than one side of the story.” The story in question wasn’t described, but I suspect it had do to with whether or not the economic collapse was caused by poor black people.

My director rolled her eyes. She knew the complaint was silly bullshit. I wrote up a short description of the past week’s class work, noting that we had looked at several examples of effective writing in various media and that I always made a good faith effort to include conservative narratives along with the liberal ones.

Along with a carbon-copy form, my description was placed into a file that may or may not have existed. Then ... nothing. It disappeared forever; no one cared about it beyond their contractual duties to document student concerns. I never heard another word of it again.

That was the first, and so far only, formal complaint a student has ever filed against me.

Now boat-rocking isn’t just dangerous — it’s suicidal

This isn’t an accident: I have intentionally adjusted my teaching materials as the political winds have shifted. (I also make sure all my remotely offensive or challenging opinions, such as this article, are expressed either anonymously or pseudonymously). Most of my colleagues who still have jobs have done the same. We’ve seen bad things happen to too many good teachers — adjuncts getting axed because their evaluations dipped below a 3.0, grad students being removed from classes after a single student complaint, and so on.

I once saw an adjunct not get his contract renewed after students complained that he exposed them to “offensive” texts written by Edward Said and Mark Twain. His response, that the texts were meant to be a little upsetting, only fueled the students’ ire and sealed his fate. That was enough to get me to comb through my syllabi and cut out anything I could see upsetting a coddled undergrad, texts ranging from Upton Sinclair to Maureen Tkacik — and I wasn’t the only one who made adjustments, either.

I am frightened sometimes by the thought that a student would complain again like he did in 2009. Only this time it would be a student accusing me not of saying something too ideologically extreme — be it communism or racism or whatever — but of not being sensitive enough toward his feelings, of some simple act of indelicacy that’s considered tantamount to physical assault. As Northwestern University professor Laura Kipnis writes, “Emotional discomfort is [now] regarded as equivalent to material injury, and all injuries have to be remediated.” Hurting a student’s feelings, even in the course of instruction that is absolutely appropriate and respectful, can now get a teacher into serious trouble.

In 2009, the subject of my student’s complaint was my supposed ideology. I was communistical, the student felt, and everyone knows that communisticism is wrong. That was, at best, a debatable assertion. And as I was allowed to rebut it, the complaint was dismissed with prejudice. I didn’t hesitate to reuse that same video in later semesters, and the student’s complaint had no impact on my performance evaluations.

In 2015, such a complaint would not be delivered in such a fashion. Instead of focusing on the rightness or wrongness (or even acceptability) of the materials we reviewed in class, the complaint would center solely on how my teaching affected the student’s emotional state. As I cannot speak to the emotions of my students, I could not mount a defense about the acceptability of my instruction. And if I responded in any way other than apologizing and changing the materials we reviewed in class, professional consequences would likely follow.

I wrote about this fear on my blog, and while the response was mostly positive, some liberals called me paranoid, or expressed doubt about why any teacher would nix the particular texts I listed. I guarantee you that these people do not work in higher education, or if they do they are at least two decades removed from the job search. The academic job market is brutal. Teachers who are not tenured or tenure-track faculty members have no right to due process before being dismissed, and there’s a mile-long line of applicants eager to take their place. And as writer and academic Freddie DeBoer writes, they don’t even have to be formally fired — they can just not get rehired. In this type of environment, boat-rocking isn’t just dangerous, it’s suicidal, and so teachers limit their lessons to things they know won’t upset anybody.

The real problem: a simplistic, unworkable, and ultimately stifling conception of social justice

This shift in student-teacher dynamic placed many of the traditional goals of higher education — such as having students challenge their beliefs — off limits. While I used to pride myself on getting students to question themselves and engage with difficult concepts and texts, I now hesitate. What if this hurts my evaluations and I don’t get tenure? How many complaints will it take before chairs and administrators begin to worry that I’m not giving our customers — er, students, pardon me — the positive experience they’re paying for? Ten? Half a dozen? Two or three?

This phenomenon has been widely discussed as of late, mostly as a means of deriding political, economic, or cultural forces writers don’t much care for. Commentators on the left and right have recently criticized the sensitivity and paranoia of today’s college students. They worry about the stifling of free speech, the implementation of unenforceable conduct codes, and a general hostility against opinions and viewpoints that could cause students so much as a hint of discomfort.

I agree with some of these analyses more than others, but they all tend to be too simplistic. The current student-teacher dynamic has been shaped by a large confluence of factors, and perhaps the most important of these is the manner in which cultural studies and social justice writers have comported themselves in popular media. I have a great deal of respect for both of these fields, but their manifestations online, their desire to democratize complex fields of study by making them as digestible as a TGIF sitcom, has led to adoption of a totalizing, simplistic, unworkable, and ultimately stifling conception of social justice. The simplicity and absolutism of this conception has combined with the precarity of academic jobs to create higher ed’s current climate of fear, a heavily policed discourse of semantic sensitivity in which safety and comfort have become the ends and the means of the college experience.

This new understanding of social justice politics resembles what University of Pennsylvania political science professor Adolph Reed Jr. calls a politics of personal testimony, in which the feelings of individuals are the primary or even exclusive means through which social issues are understood and discussed. Reed derides this sort of political approach as essentially being a non-politics, a discourse that “is focused much more on taxonomy than politics [which] emphasizes the names by which we should call some strains of inequality [ ... ] over specifying the mechanisms that produce them or even the steps that can be taken to combat them.” Under such a conception, people become more concerned with signaling goodness, usually through semantics and empty gestures, than with actually working to effect change.

Herein lies the folly of oversimplified identity politics: while identity concerns obviously warrant analysis, focusing on them too exclusively draws our attention so far inward that none of our analyses can lead to action. Rebecca Reilly Cooper, a political philosopher at the University of Warwick, worries about the effectiveness of a politics in which “particular experiences can never legitimately speak for any one other than ourselves, and personal narrative and testimony are elevated to such a degree that there can be no objective standpoint from which to examine their veracity.” Personal experience and feelings aren’t just a salient touchstone of contemporary identity politics; they are the entirety of these politics. In such an environment, it’s no wonder that students are so prone to elevate minor slights to protestable offenses.

(It’s also why seemingly piddling matters of cultural consumption warrant much more emotional outrage than concerns with larger material implications. Compare the number of web articles surrounding the supposed problematic aspects of the newest Avengers movie with those complaining about, say, the piecemeal dismantling of abortion rights. The former outnumber the latter considerably, and their rhetoric is typically much more impassioned and inflated. I’d discuss this in my classes — if I weren’t too scared to talk about abortion.)

The press for actionability, or even for comprehensive analyses that go beyond personal testimony, is hereby considered redundant, since all we need to do to fix the world’s problems is adjust the feelings attached to them and open up the floor for various identity groups to have their say. All the old, enlightened means of discussion and analysis —from due process to scientific method — are dismissed as being blind to emotional concerns and therefore unfairly skewed toward the interest of straight white males. All that matters is that people are allowed to speak, that their narratives are accepted without question, and that the bad feelings go away.

So it’s not just that students refuse to countenance uncomfortable ideas — they refuse to engage them, period. Engagement is considered unnecessary, as the immediate, emotional reactions of students contain all the analysis and judgment that sensitive issues demand. As Judith Shulevitz wrote in the New York Times, these refusals can shut down discussion in genuinely contentious areas, such as when Oxford canceled an abortion debate. More often, they affect surprisingly minor matters, as when Hampshire College disinvited an Afrobeat band because their lineup had too many white people in it.

When feelings become more important than issues

At the very least, there’s debate to be had in these areas. Ideally, pro-choice students would be comfortable enough in the strength of their arguments to subject them to discussion, and a conversation about a band’s supposed cultural appropriation could take place alongside a performance. But these cancellations and disinvitations are framed in terms of feelings, not issues. The abortion debate was canceled because it would have imperiled the “welfare and safety of our students.” The Afrofunk band’s presence would not have been “safe and healthy.” No one can rebut feelings, and so the only thing left to do is shut down the things that cause distress — no argument, no discussion, just hit the mute button and pretend eliminating discomfort is the same as effecting actual change.

In a New York Magazine piece, Jonathan Chait described the chilling effect this type of discourse has upon classrooms. Chait’s piece generated seismic backlash, and while I disagree with much of his diagnosis, I have to admit he does a decent job of describing the symptoms. He cites an anonymous professor who says that “she and her fellow faculty members are terrified of facing accusations of triggering trauma.” Internet liberals pooh-poohed this comment, likening the professor to one of Tom Friedman’s imaginary cab drivers. But I’ve seen what’s being described here. I’ve lived it. It’s real, and it affects liberal, socially conscious teachers much more than conservative ones.

If we wish to remove this fear, and to adopt a politics that can lead to more substantial change, we need to adjust our discourse. Ideally, we can have a conversation that is conscious of the role of identity issues and confident of the ideas that emanate from the people who embody those identities. It would call out and criticize unfair, arbitrary, or otherwise stifling discursive boundaries, but avoid falling into pettiness or nihilism. It wouldn’t be moderate, necessarily, but it would be deliberate. It would require effort.

In the start of his piece, Chait hypothetically asks if “the offensiveness of an idea [can] be determined objectively, or only by recourse to the identity of the person taking offense.” Here, he’s getting at the concerns addressed by Reed and Reilly-Cooper, the worry that we’ve turned our analysis so completely inward that our judgment of a person’s speech hinges more upon their identity signifiers than on their ideas.

A sensible response to Chait’s question would be that this is a false binary, and that ideas can and should be judged both by the strength of their logic and by the cultural weight afforded to their speaker’s identity. Chait appears to believe only the former, and that’s kind of ridiculous. Of course someone’s social standing affects whether their ideas are considered offensive, or righteous, or even worth listening to. How can you think otherwise?

We destroy ourselves when identity becomes our sole focus

Feminists and anti-racists recognize that identity does matter. This is indisputable. If we subscribe to the belief that ideas can be judged within a vacuum, uninfluenced by the social weight of their proponents, we perpetuate a system in which arbitrary markers like race and gender influence the perceived correctness of ideas. We can’t overcome prejudice by pretending it doesn’t exist. Focusing on identity allows us to interrogate the process through which white males have their opinions taken at face value, while women, people of color, and non-normatively gendered people struggle to have their voices heard.

But we also destroy ourselves when identity becomes our sole focus. Consider a tweet I linked to (which has since been removed. See editor’s note below.), from a critic and artist, in which she writes: “When ppl go off on evo psych, its always some shady colonizer white man theory that ignores nonwhite human history. but ‘science’. Ok ... Most ‘scientific thought’ as u know it isnt that scientific but shaped by white patriarchal bias of ppl who claimed authority on it.”

This critic is intelligent. Her voice is important. She realizes, correctly, that evolutionary psychology is flawed, and that science has often been misused to legitimize racist and sexist beliefs. But why draw that out to questioning most “scientific thought”? Can’t we see how distancing that is to people who don’t already agree with us? And tactically, can’t we see how shortsighted it is to be skeptical of a respected manner of inquiry just because it’s associated with white males?

This sort of perspective is not confined to Twitter and the comments sections of liberal blogs. It was born in the more nihilistic corners of academic theory, and its manifestations on social media have severe real-world implications. In another instance, two female professors of library science publicly outed and shamed a male colleague they accused of being creepy at conferences, going so far as to openly celebrate the prospect of ruining his career. I don’t doubt that some men are creepy at conferences — they are. And for all I know, this guy might be an A-level creep. But part of the female professors’ shtick was the strong insistence that harassment victims should never be asked for proof, that an enunciation of an accusation is all it should ever take to secure a guilty verdict. The identity of the victims overrides the identity of the harasser, and that’s all the proof they need.

This is terrifying. No one will ever accept that. And if that becomes a salient part of liberal politics, liberals are going to suffer tremendous electoral defeat.

Debate and discussion would ideally temper this identity-based discourse, make it more usable and less scary to outsiders. Teachers and academics are the best candidates to foster this discussion, but most of us are too scared and economically disempowered to say anything. Right now, there’s nothing much to do other than sit on our hands and wait for the ascension of conservative political backlash — hop into the echo chamber, pile invective upon the next person or company who says something vaguely insensitive, insulate ourselves further and further from any concerns that might resonate outside of our own little corner of Twitter.

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This has been going on for over a decade. The correct response is to mock and laugh at the people complaining, and point out that they're not ready for the big wide world outside their kindergarten mindset, so they'd be better off going back home to mommy and daddy. Not validate and endorse their feelings. We need to get back to that.

#Edward Schlosser #trigger warnings #hypersensitivity #Christina Hoff Sommers #safe space #academic corruption #higher education #religion is a mental illness

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romanceandshenanigans · 9 months

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AITA for wanting to get back together with my now engaged ex? (AITA Tag Game)

Rules: Write an AITA question and post from the POV of one your OCs

Tagging: @janec23, @kittttycakes, @auroramagpie, @can-of-pringles and anyone else who wants to join in!

Thanks to @clairelsonao3 for tagging me! This was genuinely a lot of fun!

I know it sounds bad and it is, probably, really bad, but I need to get this all off my chest. I feel like I’m going insane and could really use a slap in the face right about now. There's nobody else in my life I can talk to about this. Apologizes in advanced for any spelling or other errors, this is my first time using Reddit and not used to the formatting.

Some backstory. I (30M) met my Ex (26F) eight years ago. She had left home for personal reasons I won't get into here and we ended up living together for almost nine months.

I know, you're probably thinking I'm a rake for living with a woman and not immediately proposing marriage, but circumstances made that impossible. Again, I know this sound like I'm making excuses, but for her privacy I won't divulge. Just know that for the majority of that time we lived as old bachelors. It was only in that last month did things change.

I loved her like mad. I still do, that's why I'm in this mess, but I'm getting ahead of myself. The point is, I had fully intended to marry her. I wanted to marry her, but before I could propose a FF (family friend) discovered us and convinced me not to.

I feel like now it's important for me to clarify that I am not a gentleman. My father was a common sailor and my mother was a cook. I made my living in theatre and working any kind of odd jobs I could. Now I do theatre full time, but even then I can barely make rent some days.

She, however, is a gentlewoman. I didn't know this at the time, but when the FF arrived, he made it clear she did have connections. Being with me all but assured the destruction of her reputation.

The FF, however, gave us an out. Either I could marry her and risk her family cutting her off leaving her destitute or I could let her go and pretend it never happened. (The family had a cover story on where she was during our time together.)

I ultimately decided to leave. At the time, I thought I had done the honorable thing. She could move on, find a husband who could make her happy and comfortable and not have to live with a mistake she made when she was eighteen.

Now we come to last week. A business associate invited me to a party and, for the first time in eight years, I saw her again. I didn't even know she was in town. As it turns out her fiance is my associate's brother.

The fiance not a bad man as far as I know. He's a bit of a stiff and doesn't seem to understand theatre or the arts at all, but that can be easily forgiven. His brother clearly loves him, so he must have other qualities that makes up for it.

This is exactly what I wanted for her. She's about to marry a good man and be set for life.

It's just…she doesn't seem happy. I know I'm projecting, but I can't help it. Every time I see her with him there is just no spark between them. It's like their cousins or siblings rather than lovers.

She’s was always so passionate. I can't imagine she's so changed she could content herself with mild affections.

I keep coming back to the question of why now? And the only conclusion I've come to is maybe her heart had been broken as much as mine. Maybe she's only marrying now because she has to. Or maybe it's taken her this long to move on. If she had moved on sooner, surely she would be married by now.

Needless to say, I'm not getting any answers soon. My associate has been bringing her in as a kind of counselor, so I have see her a few times since that first night. She’s treating me rather coldly, but that’s to be expected. As if stands we have to pretend we don’t know each other and it’s killing me.

If I knew for certain she was happy, I could let this go. The only reason I’ve been able to live with myself was the thought that she was living a life I couldn’t give her. My circumstances haven't changed, but I'm having regrets.

I should have asked her to marry me before I left or at least spoken with her on what to do. Now she likely thinks I'm a bastard for leaving without a word, and rightfully so.

Despite all of that, I can't help feeling there's a chance. Sometimes I catch her turning away when I look her direction. Even now and again she seems to slip and allows herself to relax around me before walking away. She even defended me in front of a whole dinner party when she didn't have to.

Am I going mad? I haven't done anything. We haven't had a single moment alone together. But every time I do see her, all I want to do is pull her into my arms and never let go, damn the consequences.

TLDR; After eight years my ex is back in town, engaged to a good man. She doesn't seem happy and every fiber in my being is telling me to get her back. AITA?

#writeblr #writeblr tag game #wip: untitled regency romance #regency romance #michael finnegan smith #tag game #original characters #romance #romance writing

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skyloftian-nutcase · 2 years

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Many Meetings (LU in Healthcare)

Well, here we go. :) Who wants Linked Universe in Healthcare AU introductions?

(Click here to read on AO3)

Time finished cauterizing and pulled the instrument out of the incision. Looking at the surgical fellow, he nodded. “Go ahead and close up, we’re done.”

Backing away from the table and the patient, he gave the fellow room to step in and begin working on closing the incision. He turned and saw Malon staring at him pointedly.

Time sighed in a longsuffering manner. He knew that look. That was the I’m still waiting for you to say something about this look. “What is it?”

“Twilight,” she said simply as she took the instrument from him and handed it to the surgical tech.

Time pointedly looked away, watching someone hang a unit of blood they had collected from the cell saver device. “Rusl and Uli said he’d be in town within the week. That could be anytime, Malon.”

“It has been a week since they said that. He’s my cousin’s kid, Time, we have to make sure he’s okay.”

Time didn’t know what to say. They’d had this discussion at least three times by now. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help this Twilight person, seeing as he was family and all, but the issue was that no one had been able to contact him. Twilight was a grown man with his own life, and Time had never even met him, and now he was supposed to find this kid somewhere in Castle Town? Rusl and Uli had given Malon and Time the boy’s phone number but he never answered texts and calls went straight to voicemail. It was concerning, but the only other option they had was to call the police, which was a drastic measure to take if Twilight simply wanted to be left alone by people he didn’t know.

“What else do you want me to do?” Time asked, looking back at her as he started to strip off the sterile gloves and gown once the patient was closed. “I’m open to ideas.”

Malon grabbed a clipboard to start counting tools with the tech, ensuring that nothing was left behind in the patient. “Uli said that Twilight was likely going to be getting a job at the hospital. It would make the most sense given that he just finished CNA class. So we need to look for him here.”

Time bit his lip. He didn’t like that they had been completely unable to reach Twilight, but Rusl and Uli had been hearing from him sporadically throughout the week, which implied he was fine. This seemed a bit overbearing – he wasn’t sure why Twilight’s parents were so insistent that Time and Malon check in on Twilight, anyway.

Still, Rusl and Uli weren’t usually anxious people. Something had to be up. He just wished this was a bit more straightforward. All he knew was Twilight had been closed off, had announced his move abruptly, and Rusl and Uli were worried.

“I’ve got ten minutes to review notes from surgeries all day before we have another one,” Time finally said. “And then I’ve got to round on a few patients. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Oh, honey, I’ll start looking, don’t worry,” Malon said. “Just keep your eyes peeled for him.”

XXX

Wild grunted as he strained to reach into the dumpster. When his fingers finally felt the packaging he’d been eying, he smiled, pulling the bag out and inspecting his prize. He was astonished to find that it was still half full of chips.

“Wow,” he muttered. “People really will just throw things away like this. What a waste.”

But great for me! He thought with delight, digging in and taking a bite, savoring the sensation as his empty stomach finally had something provided for it.

Turning, he headed towards the end of the alley when he froze, finding someone around his age staring at him.

“Um,” Wild said awkwardly, and then he lifted the dumpster lid. “You looking to deposit or withdraw?”

The man’s expression was somewhere between bewilderment and exasperation. “You need food, friend?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Wild said cheerfully, showing his half-filled bag of chips.

“Like real food.”

“This is real food,” Wild argued. “Anything’s edible.”

The man sighed. “Look, my room’s not far from here, I can bring you food here or you can come inside where it isn’t raining and eat something legit.”

The offer was certainly tempting, but Wild wasn’t an idiot to just go into some random person’s motel room at the offer of shelter. He leaned against the dumpster. “Here’s fine.”

The man nodded and walked away. Wild was tempted to leave at that point, but he could defend himself well enough if anything happened. This wasn’t the best section of town, but it wasn’t the worst, either – a quick defensive maneuver and a call for help would get him out of danger.

When the man returned, he had a microwave dinner already heated and ready with a fork, holding it out. Wild took it with a grateful smile and a watchful eye. The food looked unmolested, the plastic covering still intact. He supposed it was safe to eat, then.

“I’m Twilight, by the way,” the man said, leaning casually against the wall. “You go by anything?”

“Wild.”

Twilight laughed. “I can believe it.”

Wild paused from his bite, squinting at Twilight. “What’s with the markings on your face?”

Twilight shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “Oh, it’s uh… they’re just tattoos. Cultural thing.”

Wild chewed his food thoughtfully. This Twilight guy was not the best liar, but he supposed it was nosy to pry further. The pair stood in awkward silence for a moment, getting steadily more drenched in the rain.

Eventually, Wild’s eyes noticed more details in the dim light. The black markings on Twilight’s face somewhat hid the dark circles under his eyes, making it seem like part of the tattoos, but they were still evident. As was the clear disproportion of bone structure to fat. Looking down at his food again, he held it out. “Do… do you want some? You look like you haven’t been eating a lot.”

“Says the guy who was dumpster diving,” Twilight shot back with a smirk.

“It’s a perfectly respectable hobby,” Wild huffed, but he didn’t continue to eat. “Seriously, you look like you need to eat this more than I do.”

“I’m fine, Wild.”

Wild crinkled his brow. This guy was too sweet, and he looked scuffed up.

Wait a second. Wild recognized him! He’d beaten up the jerks who were trying to steal from Beedle the other day! Wild hadn’t had a chance to thank him before he’d disappeared.

Straightening in determination, Wild asked, “Okay, where’s your room? We’re both going to freeze to death out here.”

Twilight’s smirk settled into a warm smile as he exited the alley. “This way.”

The pair didn’t walk far before they’d reached his door on the single floor motel. Twilight unlocked it and they headed in. The room was as bare as they came, looking like Twilight wasn’t even living in there, though there was a pile of clothing and a badge on the desk.

“You just get here?” Wild asked as he closed the door behind him.

“A couple days ago, yeah. Why?”

Wild hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve lived at this motel on and off for a month, so you should know some pointers.”

“Let’s start with drying off first,” Twilight advised with gentle amusement, handing Wild a towel. “Then maybe a shower.”

Wild laughed. “All right, Dad.”

Twilight scowled. “I prefer Big Brother, thank you very much.”

Wild continued to chuckle at Twilight and then pointed to the badge on his desk. “Is that a Hyrule Hospital badge? You work there?”

“Yeah, just started. Why?”

Wild perked up. “I did too! I figure maybe the income will get me out of this dump.”

Twilight smiled at that. “Well, I just got here, but I figure it’ll help. Maybe we can both find a way to live somewhere a little less… sketchy.”

Wild barked out another laugh. Sketchy was one word for it. “I’m in transport, how about you?”

“Patient care tech on the floor. Figured I’d try my hand at pediatrics.”

Wild thought about it for a moment. Pediatrics would be fun because of dealing with the kids. On the other hand, seeing sick and dying children and dealing with their insanely stressed parents was… not as appealing.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll see you around there,” Wild noted.

“Oh yeah. But in the meantime, you want some popcorn? I’ve got a few bags we can heat up.”

“Sure!”

XXX

Warriors rushed in with the code cart as the blonde nurse did compressions on the patient. No one else had made it to the room yet. He turned on their portable monitor/defibrillator quickly, placing pads on the patient’s chest, working around the nurse.

“Sorry, took me a bit to find the code cart. What happened?” Warriors asked.

“Oh, the usual, gave the good old v-fib shuffle and then he was off to Neverland,” the nurse remarked, sweat starting to glisten on his brow. “You new?”

Warriors couldn’t help the embarrassed flush that colored his cheeks considering he struggled to find the most important equipment in the unit, but in his defense no one had given him a tour yet. “Yeah. I’m also about to do a rhythm check, we can trade places after that if you want.”

“Perfect,” the nurse said, continuing his compressions, only pausing to deliver two breaths, and then getting back on the patient’s chest. He was waiting for Warriors to indicate he was ready.

The new nurse watched the monitor and then told the other one to pause. As they waited and watched an underlying rhythm of absolutely nothing slide across the small screen, Warriors sighed and swapped places.

“I’m Warriors, by the way,” he said just as he started compressions. “You?”

“Legend.”

Warriors flashed a smile before reaching the thirtieth compression and giving two breaths. “Nice to meet you.”

On the other side of the department, Hyrule gasped in delight as he pulled out a small travel packet of pretzels. “Yes, they have food in the EMS room today!”

His little victory pose was interrupted when the door opened slowly, revealing a young man in a flight suit shuffling in, his eyes drooping. Hyrule recognized him in an instant – he was a pilot, the pilot who had given him a reassuring thumbs up when he’d arrived the other day to get one of Hyrule’s patients.

“Hi,” Hyrule greeted with a smile.

The pilot yawned, only remembering to cover it when he was halfway through. Then he gave a soft smile, tilting his head to the side. “Hi.”

The pilot walked by him, heading straight for the coffee machine, when he realized it had nothing in it. Pouting he, leaned heavily on the counter, groaning.

“Need some caffeine?” Hyrule offered. “I always carry some bottles of five-hour energy in case of emergency. If that isn’t your thing, I know a nurse who basically lives off energy drinks; he could probably give you something.”

The pilot turned to him, his eyes filled with hope. “Energy drinks?”

Hyrule nodded, pointing for the door. “Yeah, his name’s Legend. I’ll help you find him.”

The pilot followed him excitedly. “I’m Sky, by the way.”

“I’m Hyrule. I, uh, I don’t know if you remember me, but we met the other day.”

Sky’s smile faltered as he considered his words, and then he brightened. “Oh, right! You were that paramedic by the ambulance when we were taking off. You had blood all over you.”

Hyrule rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, it was a bit of a mess.”

“The flight nurse said you did a great job,” Sky noted, patting him on the shoulder briefly.

Hyrule felt himself grow even more embarrassed, and he turned a corner sharply. “O-oh. Well, I—it was nothing, really, I just—protocols, you know. Let’s go find Legend.”

XXX

Four grumbled as he hit the silence button on the ventilator once more. It was alarming because it was starting to run low on nitrous oxide, a medication used for pulmonary hypertension. He didn’t often deal with cardiac and pulmonary patients on his unit, but when the CVICU was full, the surgical-trauma ICU would pick up the slack.

Which meant he had to deal with this. Whenever the nitrous oxide tank got close to being empty, it would start alarming and Four couldn’t do anything about it except wait for respiratory therapy to arrive.

But respiratory therapy was always understaffed and overworked, and Four’s patient wasn’t the only one on a ventilator.

Sighing, Four turned to leave the room when he saw a teenager hovering in the doorway with a tank almost as big as himself being dragged behind him.

“Uh, hi. Can I help you?” Four asked. The tank looked like nitrous oxide, but who was the kid?

“I’m Wind. I’m one of the respiratory therapist students,” the teenager explained with a bright smile. “I’m here to swap out the nitrous.”

Four felt pleasantly surprised, and he huffed out a small, relieved laugh. “Go for it, Wind. Guess I’ll be seeing you a lot on the unit. You new to the area?”

“Yeah! I just moved here with my brother.”

Four smiled. “Welcome to the chaos.”

#lu in healthcare #linkeduniverse #linked universe #writing #Twi is being stubborn and mopey #Malon is worried #Time is too but he's also exasperated because he's being shoved in the middle of a situation he doesn't understand #just give him a minute and he'll be dragging Twi out of that nasty motel #intros can be tedious so aside from the Twi and Wild storyline this is basically as good as it gets with people meeting lol #just assume they all meet after this and get along XD

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andthevillainshallrises · 2 years

Text

The missing hunter

Winchesters x reader // y/n x Winchesters brothers // y/n x Dean

Summary: All that y/n knows about life is chasing the supernatural. Y/n spent her life hunting after learning from the best during her youth. But now it has been weeks since Bobby has heard from her. Worried about the fate of his protégée, he sends the Winchester brothers to look for her. But what they don't expect is to see a figure from the past reappear. Will they find her and put a name on this strange familiar face?

Note: this fanfic takes place in the early years of the show since i’m only on season 8. I really like the vibe of the three first seasons. That’s also why Sam can’t crack the security camera– they haven't learned that yet :) tbh i don't really know where i'm going with this, so if you have any ideas/request go ahead ^^ (this will probably be like Dean x reader kinda fanfic ;)) also note that this is my first fanfic and that english is not my main language :) i also want to thanks @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds for doing such a good job at proof reading, it really helped me! Thank you <3 go check her blog guys, because what she writes is always a blast to read!

words count: 2k

tw: blood, swearing, mention of a gun

▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️

“I don’t know what to say, Bobby,” Dean declared to the man at the other end of the phone.

The brothers were in a motel room in the middle of nowhere. Bobby had sent them there to find someone dear to him that disappeared a few weeks ago. But so far, they had no lead.

“Her stuff is still in the room, uh?”

Dean turned around from the parking lot to take another look at the small place. “Yeah, still here.”

There was silence and then Bobby’s voice broke through the phone’s speaker.

“That’s not like her. She might be in some kind of trouble.”

A frown appeared on Dean’s face. He'd never heard Bobby sound so helpless. That person, that woman whoever she was, must be someone precious to him.

“What do you want us to do?”

Sam was seated on the single large bed in the room, his laptop on his knees, fidgeting with the keyboard.

“I’ll give you her number. Maybe she’ll answer if it’s not me.” The pain in those last words made Dean sad. Who was she for Bobby to care so much and act like this?

Dean hung up, closed the door and walked toward Sam.

“What’d he say?”

“To try to call her.”

The look on Dean and Sam’s face said it all. They were aware the worst could have happened. Dean dialed the number and waited a few seconds before a ringtone was heard in the room. The two of them released a small sigh, stood up and searched for the device. The eldest found it under the bed, the battery almost dead and the screen cracked in half. He held it up for Sammy to see, and they both exchanged a look. Something bad definitely happened here.

They decided to go back to town and retrace every last step of the missing person. It led them to a bar on the avenue. A row of motorcycles were parked in front of the establishment, and the facade was all dark wood which added to the pouring rain and gloomy atmosphere. Everything in this town is dark and creepy, Dean thought.

They entered and were welcomed by suspicious glares from guys all around the place. Some were seated at tables drinking beer , others were playing billiards but stopped the moment the brothers appeared. The bartender shot them a look of annoyance. Clearly the people here didn't like strangers.

Nonetheless, Sam cleared his throat and asked, "Um, hi. We're looking for a young woman.”

"So am I." said a voice somewhere and the other men laughed.

Dean felt exasperated by their behavior and wanted only one thing at the moment: to get the hell out of there. So he talked, a bit too abruptly maybe. "She has a scary stare, brown hair, pale skin, and approximately this size," he measured by holding up a hand. Truly he didn't know the woman, but Bobby gave them a description since he had no recent pictures of her.

The bartender snorted noisily and kept swiping off drops of water on the beer mugs in his hands.

"Depends what I get for helping you?"

There was no cooperation, and the Winchesters started to lose patience.

"Listen, buddy, it's a life or death situation here. She might be in danger, we need to find her." Dean's voice was low and raw, he could barely control himself not to punch the man in the face.

He slightly opened his brown leather jacket and in his hand appeared a shiny silver gun, its handle as white as ivory. The barman repressed an insult and took a quick look around.

“Look, if i were you, i wouldn’t show this to anyone here.” “Question of life and death.” he added pointedly to mock the brothers.

His sarcastic tone did not escape Dean, whose gaze became sharper, harder. Finally the man behind the bar started saying something interesting.

“There aren’t a lot of women comin’ in here, so yeah i remember some chick comin’ in. She sat at the bar and drank a scotch.”

Sam leaned forward, “Anything else?”. The man grunted but continued. “There was something weird about her, like she was on edge. She was constantly looking behind her shoulder.” He put the glass behind the bar and leaned on the counter, then added “I mean maybe she didn’t feel safe here since she was the only woman.”

“Did something happen? Did she leave with someone?” Dean pressed, raising his eyebrows.

The barman seemed to think for a moment. “Yup, I think I remember her leaving with some guys.”

“Anything weird or unusual about the guys?”

“One of 'em was grabbing her by the arm. Not in a gentle way, you know. It seemed she wasn't willing to go with them.”

“And you didn’t call the police or stop them?” asked Sam almost with a shocked tone.

“Why would I? She didn't scream for help”

Dean's patience was more than thin now. If he stayed one more minute he would definitely shoot the man right here, right now. “Alright, enough. let’s go Sammy.”

“Wait,” Sam said, “which direction did they take?” The barman didn’t even bother speaking, and just pointed the way with his head.

And so they strode out of the bar toward the Impala, in the light rain that hadn’t stopped since their arrival. The sky was darker “Oh I swear this rain is making me crazy. Everything about this town is weird, man.” Dean muttered, his hands on the wheel, driving the car out of the parking back on the road. Since there was nothing for miles in the direction the man had indicated, they decided to go back to the motel room and wait in the car in case she showed up.

Sammy also tried to take a look at the security camera, but his skills with a laptop weren’t that sophisticated. He couldn’t break into the town website to access the cameras. So they waited. Dean eventually went out to fetch dinner, and they waited for hours.

Finally, when they were both struggling to keep their eyes open, a silhouette appeared. In the dark night it was impossible to guess who it was, but the stranger stopped at the door of the room they were watching, and after a moment struggling with the key, the shadowy silhouette disappeared silently inside the room. The Winchesters didn’t waste a second and got out of the car toward the room’s door as if they weren’t about to fall asleep a second ago.

The sky was free of the heavy clouds of the day, letting the stars shine. The door wasn’t locked from the inside, so they pushed it slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible because who knows who was- or what was, that silhouette.

The boys entered the small room slowly, guns in hands. The lights were on but the place was empty. A noise came out from the bathroom followed by a grunt. At the very moment the brothers appeared at the bathroom’s door, the silhouette turned around and held a gun at them.

“Drop the gun! Now!”

"You, drop the gun!"

“Who are you?”

“You, who are you?”

The three of them pointing guns at each other and yelling in confusion would’ve been a funny image if the tension was not that palpable and if the stranger was in a less miserable state.

“You’re two against one, that’s not really fair.” The voice was calm and steady but felt a bit out of breath. Indeed, the silhouette was soaked in blood, her clothes dirty with mud and rain. Her hair was a mess, clearly she hadn’t had access to any commodities for a few days.

“Wait,” said Sam, “are you y/n?”

Suspicious, the woman kept the boys at gunpoint, clutching her weapon like a lifeline. “How would you know?” she asked, her brows furrowed and her chest heavy with short breaths.

Sam released a small, almost unintelligible sigh, “Dean, I think it’s her.” And with that assumption they both lowered their guns. “Bobby sent us looking for you.”

“Looking for me?” she asked, as if she hadn’t understood Sam’s sentence in the first place and needed confirmation of what she heard. But all of a sudden the world started to spin and she wasn’t steady on her feet anymore. She stumbled back against the sink and let her arm fall down by her side, the gun pointed toward the ground. She placed the back of her other bloodied hand against her forehead and closed her eyes tight, trying to make the room stop spinning and the white stars popping in her visions disappear.

“Hey, you alright?” Dean knew it was a stupid question considering how dirty and tired she seemed, so he added, “you hurt?”

And all y/n was capable of doing at this very moment was to stare at the two boys in front of her, her memory working like a DVD on fast forward. She couldn’t stop. Maybe didn’t want to, because her brain brought back memories she thought were long forgotten. She doubted they even remembered her at all, and at that thought her heart skipped a beat.

“Hello? Anyone in here?” Dean pressed sarcastically, like he was talking to some stupid teenager.

Getting back her senses, y/n cleared her throat and articulated a week “yeah” that sounded more like an exhausted plea. The brothers didn’t seem to buy it either, judging by the concerned look they both shot at her.

“Seriously, I'm fine. Just.. tired.”

“Where the hell were you to make Bobby worry-sick?”

What? Y/n almost choked on her own saliva. Bobby Singer being so worried he’d send John’s boys after her? Why would he do such a thing when she’s already proved numerous times she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself? And suddenly emotions flooded in her. Not good emotions. “Why are you here? I’m a grown up, I can watch out for myself. I’ve been hunting my whole life y’know.” The words came out more harshly than she’s intended to. Her anger palpable in the confined air of the small place. She stormed out of the bathroom, bumping into the boys, barely suppressing a wince because of her bruises and cuts.

In her backpack was a first aid kit. She took it and sat on the bed while taking off her dirty sweatshirt. But by the time she was opening the kit to fetch out something useful, Dean snatched it off her hands. “Hey! We’re talking to you here! We drove hours to come here because Bobby asked us to! Because he was worried you’d get yourself into trouble, and that’s how you’re thanking us?”

Dean was pissed. Sam though didn’t say a thing but gave his brother’s arm a slight hit. “Dude, c’mon. Look at her.” That’s what Dean did, he took in the messy states she was in. Blood on her left temple, trailing down her chin and neck, the right cheek looking slightly bruised. Cuts all over her arms and dirt on her hands and under her nails, even on her face. She seemed like someone who had just spent hours in filthy air ducts. Or in the forest running after something– or running for her life maybe.

No one said a word for what seemed to be an eternity, then y/n stood up slowly and walked back to the bathroom to try to wash out her hands, arms and face. A flash of sharp pain spread through her body every time she touched a cut or a bruise but she was determined not to let it show. She was facing John’s boys, and she knew by experience that there were little that could make them flinch. So she did what she always forced herself to do since she met them when they were only kids. She clenched her jaw, and kept her composure as neutral as she could– but she was so tired, the dark circles under her eyes said it all.

aannnd it's all for now ;) let me know what you think, if you've got ideas, requests..etc i'll happily take any advices u could give me as this is my first fanfic <3

part 2

#spn fanfic #spnfamily #spn famdom #fanfiction #dean x y/n #dean winchester #sam winchester #bobby singer #supernatural #dean x reader #dean fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x you #reader x dean winchester #jensen ackles #jared padalecki #supernatural fanfiction

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proper-goodnight · 2 years

Text

Pawns in the Game

Anon Request

If you would like a Faceclaim for Sierra Seven, my anon suggested Bill Skarsgard!

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: N/A

Type: Gen, One-Shot

Words: ~3.4K

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence

Six had spent years in covert operations. He’d studied faces and evaluated threats for a living; he knew what an operator looked like when a fight was over, and what they looked like when a fight was about to begin. His survival depended on thinking ahead, and through pure expediency, he’d thrived. Long distance sniping, close quarters fighting, edged weapons, Krav Maga, long guns, short guns, explosives, poisons…

But God, he sucked at Chess.

With a renewed irritability, he watched as Chief Cahill knocked his King off the board–an unnecessary amount of force sending it careening underneath the dusty couch that he’d taken residence on the last few weeks. Something about that was oddly poetic, as if she was continuously reminding him of his place while she took the only other room in the safe house that wasn’t the bathroom. His face attempted a smile, but it morphed into an awkward little grimace as Cahill maintained eye contact with yet another victory.

Her chin settled on her palm, raising her eyebrows.

“You do realize that you’re above Special Forces? Strategy is supposed to be your specialty.”

“Chess takes two people.” Six replied easily, glancing down at the stark difference between their remaining pieces on the board. He would have suggested a two out of three, except that it would require him to have a point to barter a tie with. “And nobody is going to bring a Chess board to a gunfight, so.”

Cahill rolled her eyes at the quip, but Six could see the start of a smile before she’d turned away and left the table. The rickety legs shook from the force and the last of his pieces made a home on the equally unsteady floor boards. It wasn’t the best of safehouses, but it was a means to an end until the heat on her died down.

“I’m going to call Fitzroy in the morning and tell him to close the contract,” she went on absently, fishing a cigarette from a pack in her suit jacket.

“Close the contract?” He echoed.

“Fitzroy has reason to believe that my trail’s gone cold, and he’s already forwarded the compensation to your bank account,” she turned to him expectantly, lighter in hand. The sparks snuffed out with the confession, and she covered the flames with her hand to shield it from the sudden draft. “You’ve done your job and Fitzroy has another job laid out for you.”

Six should have expected that. So many days with nothing and the clear indication that Chief Cahill was itching to get out of the safehouse and back to some semblance of normalcy–he hadn’t personally thought about what would come after. He’d spent plenty of time moving around between places similar to this one, and most even worse, figuring it out as he went.

The idea left him unsettled.

“Does he know who ordered the hit?”

“A third party not worth my time, trust me.” She took a drag from her cigarette. One flicker of her eyes up to his face sent her reprimanded him before he had the chance to respond. “They’ve been given a phone call and a financial incentive, and since there’s been no sign of the assassin, it’s safe to say they took their payment and ran.”

Six didn’t believe that, but maybe it was his own bent moral code and too many years on the job.

“Did Fitzroy look?”

“One man is not worth our time.”

“He’s worth mine.”

Cahill sighed, fixing him with a glare that would have brought any other inferior to their knees. If anything, it only made him more determined to go against her orders.

“Your job was to protect me, nothing else. You are not to pursue this.” She pointed an accusatory finger in his direction. “Tomorrow you’re going to be on a plane bound for Europe. Understood?”

Six worked a tick in his jaw, nodded, only to answer with a flat: “Understood.”

“I’m serious, Courtland. You’re going to be facing disciplinary action–”

“I hear you.”

Cahill was unconvinced, but for the sake of a headache that only he could cause, she dropped the subject in favor of taking her cigarette out into a less confined space. He wasn’t far after her, but she was beyond conversations about Chess and his lack of social etiquette.

She dropped her cigarette to the ground shortly after, snuffed out by snow and ice. One last slithering string of smoke drifted up from its tip and disappeared. Any arguments about the possibilities of her would-be-assassin were drowned out in that last puff of smoke. ~~~~

Six’s life had been dedicated to killing men, and there was one out there that he’d missed. If he was going to break the tie with something, it may as well have been something that he was good at.

Threats of penalties to his paychecks and future support likely awaited him when he got back because he had decided to run off and play the patriot. He didn’t mind, he guessed. He took the time to think about the contract, about the assassin. Someone that worked in service to someone easy to pay off, and that much made it a little easier to narrow down.

Looking a little closely into Fitzroy’s personal accounts had handed him leaps and bounds as well, backtracking until he found the third party, and then backtracking through the third party to find the culprit. Not a name, or a face, but a general location at the very least. It brought him to the heart of the states, just West outside of D.C.

West outside of D.C. and directly into a trap that had flipped his car over and turned it to ash.

Snow had piled onto the roads, but he hadn’t run into much trouble with the car so far. It was finally warming up, the death grip on the wheel loosening to a more relaxed handle as he steered around a corner. Angelic, feathery ice crystals kissed the windshield, and rubber blades squeegeed them away, melted water streaking along their tips. The car passed under the streetlights, illuminating the inside of the cab and casting soft shadows over his face, pulsing and fading, brief but alert all the same.

His hair was damp, frizzled strands out of place while his fingers tucked around the damp ends of his jacket. Six molded over what had exactly led him to this point, but they were moving too fast for him to keep up with. His solution was to grab one and hold onto it.

Suddenly there was plenty to distract him from.

Bright lights flashed somewhere to his left. Car brakes desperately needing changed squealed, and with a curse that lost itself under a breath suddenly yanked from him, the tires slid and the wheel whipped to the side and locked. His seat belt snapped into place and his spine bounced against the seat.

The next thing he could make sense of was that he was suddenly upside down. A crash reverberated against his eardrums, shards of broken glass pelting none too gently against his face. He tasted blood in his mouth.

Six took a breath of thick and rotting air to rocket forward, to shove up in defiance of impending death. Unbuckling the seatbelt, he fell against the car’s roof. A fierce kick and the door shot open, landing on frozen concrete. It wobbled, metal grinding on ice, then it settled into silence.

When he’d dragged himself from the car, he’d landed right on one of his wounds, of course. Dark blood squelched upon impact, his breaths ragged as he flipped and sat up, the sound of people nearby soft and muzzled by distance. Six didn’t want to deal with the passersby quite yet. It risked a scream at least; a forcible visit to the hospital at worst.

A filthy hand dragged down his face. He sat against the car he’d clawed his way out of and took a moment to breathe, one leg folded in, the other stretched outward. A glass shard embedded loosely in his stomach earned a look of utter contempt.

Unconsciousness was taunting, fluctuating, and smug. It left as it desired, only to return before Six had any chance of jolting up and identifying his surroundings. He seldom made it past opening his eyes before they rolled back and flickered shut.

This was the closest he’d been to death in… he didn’t know how long. Long enough. It was an inconvenience, either way.

A man strode forth through the glare of the hazard lights blinking on and off. His pointed shoes crunched against bits of car, and the Sierra learned very quickly that it was not a good Samaritan coming to help, rather someone with purpose–one that likely ended with his brain matter all over the concrete.

Six shoved his hand into the folds of his jacket and noiselessly withdrew a pistol–the attached silencer longer than its barrel. He then rolled, prone and locked into a cramp that seized his entire body. When his stubbornness ran its course, and Six finally surrendered, the horrific pressure waned. He sank into crushed remnants of glass and car parts.

His shoulder shrieked, but not so mind-splittingly as the wounds beneath his chest. Nausea licked up his throat, though he kept the acid down. His hip and leg weren’t doing so hot either, and with exploring fingers he investigated each source of pain.

Once he was sure that he would live, his forearm braced against the side of the burning metal, attempting to find the strength to pull himself up.

“Hey, big guy.” A sharp pain behind his knee sent Six buckling with a quiet grunt. His hands slammed into a patch of black ice, saving his face from impact, but he lost his gun. The air dropped into a vicious chill. Snow fell harder, but even it could not bring a quiet serenity to the chaos of the flames and Six’s irritation speaking louder than his words could. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to answer some questions for me, could I?” The voice was like silk. “I’ve been told that I can be very persuasive.”

“I’m convinced.” A wheeze pushed from him, lungs struggling, burning as he took in the frost. One hand lifted, drained even further of color. Six attempted to rise, soon lifting his other hand to show they were both empty.

Darkness concealed only half his features now as he stared up into the unnerving mug of an old comrade’s face. They’d all visited him in the form of the word ‘DECEASED’ in bright red print on a file. He saw their fleeting shadows, their drowned bodies in the rivers and lakes. And after all this time, one wandered down the side of a street in D.C. with an incentive to kill him.

They’d all had it coming eventually. Every last one of them. It was easier on his conscience to call the extinction of the other Sierras an act of due justice, and his own survival an act of his stubbornness as well as luck. It wasn’t as though Six grieved any of them, but he remembered.

Especially this asshole.

“You remember me?”

Six squinted, not a single protest leaving him as he analyzed his face. He’d always been a deathly looking man, wearing the lives he’d expunged on his sleeve and shown bare to the world.

“Sierra Seven?”

“You’re worth a lot of money,” Seven mused. “I won’t need any work for the next few years.”

“You had the lowest contract completion rate.” Six spit through grit teeth, a sudden boot coming down on his hand making him cry out. He clenched it into a fist, hearing a loud snap. Through the pain, he carried on through grit teeth and a breathless gasp. “I’m not surprised you need it.”

A combat knife gleamed in Seven’s right hand, twirling before it came to rest in his palm.

Six maneuvered onto his hands and knees, wiping a grimy hand over his mouth. “How much do you weigh? One-sixty?” He extended his arm, waving a finger up and over the man’s torso. “The jacket with the–with the blue cuffs. I like it.”

Begrudgingly, but not unexpectedly, the other Sierra sprang toward him just as Six grappled for his gun. Deft fingers raked through his hair then clutched. Not a heartbeat to spare. Seven dove the knife forward in an attempt to stab a jagged gash through Six’s jugular. A pistol fired, grazing Seven’s right calf. Another shot missed, landing squarely in the car’s side.

Six caught the agent’s wrist after a third bullet went flying, the knife slicing his hip. An airy grunt left him. He wrenched the knife away, sending it across the concrete and glass arena. Fists flew and collided while they quietly wrestled for control. They were taught not to go at each other snarling like animals, rather similar to a dance where the two opponents knew the steps of the other quite well. Six managed to catch the agent’s arm and snap it clean at the elbow. A sickening crack reverberated through the open space.

Another crack. A groan, wet with agony. Six shoved forward, busting the agent’s face into a glistening red pulp. While he struggled for another breath, one hand unhooked itself from Seven’s coat to tear his pistol out of its leather cradle and shove the barrel against his abdomen. A few derogatory clicks followed the realization of an empty chamber.

Six’s face scrunched into a grimace, then he sighed. “Shit.”

A fist sailed directly into his nose, a sickening crack sending him slumping with his spine against the remnants of his car.

Another, softer grumble.

Six ran a thumb over the middle of his face, the broken bone and the stench of blood square in the center, shoulders stretching back in some pitiful attempt to regain his senses. He half-ducked half-fell to the ground. A thud above him reverberated against the metal, a sudden weight on his back that kept him pinned down, writhing underneath him like a cornered animal with no viable chance at escape. His breathing became labored, but not panicked.

His fingers grabbed blindly for his ankle, grabbing his knife that he twisted around and drove directly into Seven’s calf. A garbled yell deafened in his ears, one of his arms grabbed and shoved up against the car, his arm repeatedly beaten against it until he was forced to drop his knife. It skittered across the concrete with a resounding clang. His hair was a grimy mess of scarlet tufts, one eye shut and bleeding from an open wound at his eyebrow. When he breathed, he spit up blood.

A quiet, displeased grumble shook Six’s chest. The reflexes to follow were sharp, cruel, cold. A large hand lashed forward, gathering the collar of his coat in a row of deadly fingers to jerk him forward and lift. Seven leveled their faces. It was with one, the other dangling at his side in two awkward pieces connected by flesh.

The resistance eroded. Seven set his jaw and gave him a single, very harsh, shake.

“One reason,” he growled. “Give me one reason not to pop your head off like a fucking cork.”

“I’ve been told I have that effect on people, but I’m going to have to ask you not to do that.”

The bitter irony was lost in their heated space as he shoved him hard against the driver’s side. Pain exploded through his back, but his defensive demeanor never waned. The angle of his arm narrowed against Six, adding pressure to his windpipe. “Where’s Cahill?”

“Who?”

His elbow sailed into Six’s nose, making him wheeze. Irritation pinched at his eyebrows, tucking his head back against the man’s bated breaths. “What do you want? An apology?” Six choked. “Catch up over coffee and talk about it?”

Seven chuckled, amused by the defiance but not any less inclined to change his mind about killing him. He enjoyed the pain that he inflicted, the pressure added gradually and with no other intention except to make him suffer.

Six took it in stride, between one wounded animal to another, a message had been relayed–his, more clearly. He was going to die, left in the streets without a name attached to his face. A ghost. His vision twisted and distorted, black fringing the outside corners and moving in.

In what would be the few remaining moments of his life, a faint glint flickered at his vision’s edges, then a cloud of red mist exploded from Seven’s head, body collapsing forward and releasing his death grip on Six’s throat. Six slid down until he was sitting, looking over at the corpse that he felt a weird urge to apologize to.

The pitter-patter of light footsteps sounded from his left. Six’s head snapped to the side, lips parting for a moment until he recognized Chief Cahill. She bounded over the wreckage, the ice and debris hardly proving a worthy obstacle. He waved, his other arm tucked against his chest and aching.

“Boy,” she sighed, her irritation and disappointment obvious, even in his nearly comatose state. “Look at me.”

Her orders were answered only by an awkward peering through half-lidded eyes, blood pouring from every orifice of his face. Sounds had been secluded to white noise, his vision swimming in a mixture of red and purple while he struggled to keep his head up. There was an alertness in his distant expression, but he figured that if she asked him any direct questions, he might not have been cohesive enough to answer them.

“You should have told me that you were leaving,” she scolded, removing her jacket to press it against a spurting gash in his leg. Her eyes were fixated on his face, being none too gentle in her prodding at his more life-threatening injuries.

The corners of his mouth twitched. “You said not to, so.”

“I told you to head to Europe.”

“Missed my flight.”

Cahill rolled her eyes, disappointment, as well as some vague sort of nausea evident as she took in the state of him. He could only imagine how bad he looked, sitting amongst the remnants of carnage and his safe drivers discount.

“I warned you. You might be a Sierra, but you’re not invincible.”

“I’m disposable.” Six corrected, shrugging and grimacing at the pain that shot up his spine. “That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Cahill narrowed her eyes. “Disposable, fine. You’re not replaceable.” He hissed at the harsh shove against a spot on his calf, strongly suspecting it was on purpose. “You’re a valuable asset, Six. We can gladly pick any idiot to do your job, but nobody will do it as well as you.”

Through one open eye and a vision of red, he mulled over the confession. The sincerity in her gaze did not hide anything other than genuine honesty. It put him off giving up the ghost for at least a while longer, but the hand that she extended to him almost made him forget that he was injured at all. “You’re still an idiot, though.” She didn’t sugarcoat that. “And you’re still bad at Chess.”

Six laughed, then immediately coughed. God, that hurt. “It still takes two people.” He sighed.

“Are you ready to go?”

He waved his good arm dismissively. Even his good arm felt as if it would pop out of its socket. “I’m good. I think I might sit here for a while.”

“You’re going to bleed out.” Cahill mused. “You might go into a coma.”

“I’m hoping so,” he smirked, leaning his head back, allowing his eyes to shut. “It’ll be the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.”

“It doesn’t look like he hit anything vital. You’ll be alright.” She clapped a hand against his shoulder, and he winced at the sudden contact, hand coming up to grasp the abused area. One eye opened to fix her with a gentle glare, but she’d already turned away, calling who he assumed was Fitzroy and advising him to bring several bags of AB and a new suit–he’d mentioned 42 regular, but he suspected that she ignored him on purpose and told Fitzroy to bring what he had. Once the phone call ended, she’d turned, only to say: “This isn’t getting you out of Europe, by the way.”

Six offered a meager thumbs up in response. He hadn’t counted on it.

#Courtland Gentry #The Gray Man (2022)#fic request #fanfiction #the gray man fanfiction #sierra six

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akocomyk · 4 months

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Goodbye, Accenture

2023’s 7th Most Memorable Moment

And hello, QBE.

For those who haven’t caught up wih the news yet... Yes, I’ve already left my job at Accenture and I’m currently on my third week here in QBE.

During the days I was going back and forth in Manila to get through my pre-employment requirements, someone special to me shared The Philppine STAR Playlist 💙💛 on Spotify, and it’s been on my library ever since. One of the songs in that playlist that I’ve listened to in repeat was this:

I mean... just the lyrics “Gusto kong ibigay buhay na gusto mo,” are the perfect words to embody the reason why we strive to provide the best life for ourselves and the people we love.

Whenever I was asked to tell the story why I chose to leave Accenture, I always start back in April or May this past year. That was when recruiters from other companies reached out to me via LinkedIn and offered opportunities. During that time, I updated my resumé and portfolio.

A very close friend of mine from work was very supportive of me. She thought that my promotion has long been overdue, and if this can only be offered outside of our company, then so be it. She advised me to jump on the opportunity now when I’m still young and flexible enough to handle the transition, because I deserve to grow in my career. I don’t deserve to be wasted doing the same things over and over when I can already go out there and do more—earn more.

Going back to our story... Of course, none of the applications from that era was successful. I simply kept on the positive mindset. If they didn’t hire me, then maybe because God spared me from the worse. And besides, I still had Accenture with me—and maybe, the overdue promotion would come soon enough. At least I was able to refresh my interview skills and see my worth in the career market.

Fast forward to last October when a very harrowing announcement rattled our minds, bodies, and souls. I was almost positive that the long-awaited promotion isn’t coming this year. This triggered me to send various applications simply out of spite—good thing I have an updated resumé and portfolio.

Then, my application for QBE was noticed. In those series of interviews, I knew I did my best, but I was also unintentionally making a fool of myself.

Obviously, it didn’t hurt my chances. Maybe my personality shone through and they felt it? And maybe that’s exactly what they need? Then there’s also my relentless eagerness to learn new things.

Anyway, so the entire recruitment process lasted for around two weeks, then I was given a job offer and I accepted.

I talked to my former lead who just got back from her vacation in Japan, and she was shocked at how quick the events unfolded. Then I received the news that all three designers under her have tendered their resignations.

That’s just… Wow. 😅

So now, three weeks in, work at QBE seems promising, judging from the stories of the people I’ve encountered so far. And guess what? Most of my teammates are former employees of Accenture as well.

Let's all hope and pray for greater things ahead.

And here's a my first selfie in the office during my first day.

#Top10Memories #11Heartsof2023 #Spotify

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rosetheex-editor · 6 months

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[Begin video transcript.]

[Transcript begins from the floor, the camera propped up with an object facing someone's pant legs. Random boxes in the background, the room has almost no lighting, with the exception of a small light shining barely out of frame.]

?: I think I’m done with watching, Rose.

[Voice unidentified: Please try again later.]

?: I don’t believe there is a future for the foundation. Not with Showfall running everything.

?: Dude… What the fuck are you talking about?

[Voice identified: Rose.]

?: You don’t know what I’ve seen… What Showfall keeps in those damn tunnels. Something beyond my scope. Beyond what I could even conceive. I’ve seen the face of the Devil.

R: Dude I…-

?: I went into the tunnels… God, how long has it been? Fuck… months?

R: WHY? Why though?

?: Well I went there to try and find Edgar. Mostly since it’s kind of my job… was… but I also-.

R: Also what?

[The legs in frame unsteadily shift weight]

?: How long do you think he had planned it? I mean, I know there was a plan. I just didn’t think he would actually… I mean, surely he was just putting on a show, right? That’s what you showfall bunch are all about? Playing characters?

R: No… And if you say something like that again I'll kick your ass.

?: Right.

...

?: Rose, do you think Edgar killed himself because of me?

[Rose sighs.]

R: No, I think he did it because he felt there was no other way, it was die or be showfall's forever plaything to him I feel.

?: …Maybe it was for the best then. Maybe Edgar made the right choice. I would’ve done the same, knowing what I know now. Seeing what I’ve seen.

R: Dude… I… Can I show you something, maybe it will help… Maybe it won't.

?: You’re not going to kill me?

R: No you dumb motherfucker, you haven't given me a reason to.

?: Hm. I never understood you, Rose. I can stand on my own, for a bit at least.

R: Dude… I- Ok storytime I guess. Wanna know why I'm not scared of the security?

?: I suppose not. Where are you going with this?

R: They made me into one. I uh… Don't fucking like talking about it, but if it helps so be it huh?

[The figure shifts their weight again]

R: So. I uh… Hm, it uh was when I died? Or well… I didn't die cuz the gunshot didn't instantly kill me. Oh uh… Yeah my gun backfired on me once, anyway. Yeah a uh woman named Mai dragged my body, turned me into one of those… Things and threw me in the forest.

?: Things? You mean what I saw… That horrible amalgamation of man and machine…?

R: Yeah they uh… God, I'm really going to bring this up to the person who stalked me for months.

[Rose sighs and begins walking to sit in frame.]

R: They… Made my sister into one, it uh… I don't actually fully know if she's even… There anymore

[Rose's legs seemingly move, as she tries to pull something out of her pocket.]

?: You had a sister? They never mentioned that in your files. They must have deleted her off of their databases entirely. I’m sorry for your loss.

R: I don't… Fully think she's dead, I have some hope?

?: That’s good. Hope is the fuel that keeps us burning. It’s how I survived for so long down there. I only ever planned to be gone for a week at most, but I had no idea how big those tunnels were. I had no idea those… things existed. We have no record of any of Showfall’s experiments. And yet they’re essentially our only clients.

?: But I don’t think it matters anymore, now that I know. I’ll try and see if I can un-fuck the watcher program, show them my findings, but… I think it’s over. Showfall has so much more power than I ever realized. Even if we wanted to completely raid the premises, we would stand no chance against those things.

?: It’s only a matter of time before Showfall takes over the Watcher Program. We have held our technology over their head for too long

R: Great… MORE shit to worry about.

?: It won’t be the first time they’ve done this, you know. Showfall has some dark history. Their money is dirty, worse than ours even. We always knew Showfall was ahead of us technologically, but I had no idea they were doing this.

[Rose sighs again.]

R: Wanna know something?

?: Sure, hit me.

R: When I escaped. I had a whole plant on my back. These fuckers did not catch me.

?: Like, a regular potted plant?

R: No. A potted plant in a backpack. They might have been busy with other rebels but like… Dude.

?: That is a rather impressive oversight.

[Rose looks over to her phone, finally noticing the camera.]

?: Has that been recording me?

R: Showfall tech. I hate you SO MUCH.

[End transcript.]

#showfall ask blog #encoreverse blog

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sophieakatz · 1 year

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Thursday Thoughts: Structure, Flexibility, and Torah

(I wrote this d’var for tomorrow’s Shabbat evening services. Turns out I won’t be leading services tomorrow after all - so I’m sharing it here instead!)

I love being a Jew. I see it as an active thing – BEING a Jew. Living a Jewish life, making Jewish choices, taking part in our rich, meaningful traditions and fulfilling the mitzvot of the Torah.

However, if I said that I was living a Jewish life in every possible way – making all Jewish choices, taking part in all our traditions, and fulfilling all mitzvot – that would be a lie.

Those of you who come to Shabbat services regularly on Friday nights know that you will nearly always find me here, now. However, if you also come on Saturday morning, then you know that you will almost never find me there, then. I bake challah, but I do not light Shabbat candles. I take time off from my day job on Jewish holidays when I can, but I’m not always able to. I eat kosher foods, but I do not have kosher dishes, since I share my kitchen with three people who do not keep kosher.

I do what I can. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not doing enough.

It’s easy to imagine that G-d might also think that I’m not doing enough. After all, there are 613 mitzvot in the Torah. If your boss gave you an employee handbook with 613 rules for employee conduct, then you would assume that this is a strict boss with a very structured work environment, someone who wants you to obey their instructions without fail or flexibility.

But this week’s parsha makes it clear that “obey without fail or flexibility” is not an entirely accurate description of G-d’s expectations for Jewish people.

This week we read Parshat Vayikra – the beginning of the book of Leviticus. Incidentally, Leviticus has 243 of the 613 mitzvot – more than any other book in the Torah.

(If you’re curious, second place goes to Deuteronomy at 203 mitzvot, Exodus comes in third at 109, Numbers is fourth at 56, and Genesis has only two.)

So, Leviticus is the Big Book of Rules, right? In Vayikra, the start of this book, there are a lot of rules about making offerings at the temple. These are sin offerings. A person would admit wrongdoing and atone for their sin by making the offering. In Leviticus chapter 5 verse 6, the Torah explains, “he shall bring his guilt offering to the Lord for his sin which he had committed, a female from the flock, either a sheep or a goat, for a sin offering.”

But it doesn’t end there. The next verse, verse 7, reads “But if he cannot afford a sheep, he shall bring as his guilt offering for that [sin] that he had committed, two turtle doves or two young doves before the Lord.”

And then if we jump ahead a couple verses, to verse 11, the Torah reads, “But if he cannot afford two turtle doves or two young doves, then he shall bring as his sacrifice for his sin one tenth of an ephah of fine flour for a sin offering.”

(An ephah is a unit of measurement here, and according to Google, it’s about the size of a bushel. So you would bring a tenth of a bushel of flour. I’m not sure exactly how big that is, but it doesn’t sound like much. Certainly it sounds less than a whole sheep.)

So – the commandment here, the mitzvah, is to make a sin offering. And through the Torah, G-d gives specific instructions about what to bring and what to do with it – you bring a sheep, and this is how you kill it. It’s a structure for atonement. But the Torah also provides exceptions or alternate options for this sin offering. If you can’t bring a sheep, bring two doves, and if you can’t bring two doves, bring some flour. The Torah provides structure, and it also provides different structures depending on your individual means.

In doing so, the Torah takes a behavior that could be very limited – something that only rich people could do, the people who could afford to give up an animal because they had plenty more to eat or breed – and turns it into something that anyone could do, within their means, in the way that works best for them. It’s flexible. It’s also encouraging in a way – having these different options for how to participate in the mitzvah makes the whole idea of making sin offerings feel more accessible for anyone.

And this ties in well with how I see and experience Judaism. It’s accessible for all of us. Yes, there’s structure. Judaism includes instructions for every part of our lives. And like I said before, it’s an active thing. I don’t think that you can really BE a Jew if you aren’t doing ANYTHING that’s Jewish.

But you don’t need to do EVERYTHING.

You don’t need to obey EVERY commandment in exactly the same way as everyone else in order to live a Jewish life, make Jewish choices, and participate in the Jewish community. G-d empowers all of us to show up when we can, and how we can, in the way that works best for us, to create a meaningful life as Jews. For me, tonight, that means standing up here in front of you, delivering this d’var. Last week, it meant sitting in the back row with my friends, and next week, it will mean traveling home to spend Passover with my family. And every week, every day, we get to make those Jewish choices, to create our Jewish life. Shabbat shalom.

#thursday thoughts #judaism #jumblr #jewish #torah #mitzvah #mitzvot #leviticus #vayikra #shabbat #dvar #d'var

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