#and ninety percent of the updated plot

[nicknederson]

you know what i want?

a nancy drew reboot of the old mysteries with a modern take similar to the first person perspective of the nancy drew diaries

so anyway i wrote the first chapter of secret of the old clock (edit: chapter two; chapter three; chapter four)

"Can you wash cashmere?"

“Nancy Drew.”

“Don’t yell at me. It was a joke, Bess Marvin.” Not a very good one, I’d admit. But lately, Bess was on edge about her cousin’s upcoming wedding. I could have cracked the best joke of the century and she would have told me she didn’t have time for humor because she had to focus on flower arrangements. I seriously couldn’t even remember what cousin was getting married. But I was being a good friend. Which is why I was here. At the department store. Picking out our rehearsal dinner outfits.

“Nancy, I cannot deal with this right now,” Bess said with enough dramatic flair to star in a school play. That was one of her new favorite words- cannot. I guess can't just wasn't cutting it anymore. "I have a bridesmaid dress fitting in about ten minutes and I'm pretty sure I gained about ten pounds so they're going to be making even more alterations to it!"

"Maybe stop eating your weight in chocolate-covered strawberries," I tried.

"Oh, what do you know?" Bess complained. "Just buy whatever off the rack and you can return it if I don't like it."

"Yeah, I can return it," I said about as dryly as I could manage. "Because I clearly don't have anything else to do with my life." I really didn't. “But Bess, I think you’re taking this a little too seriously. Laura-“

“Lily.”

“Lily probably doesn’t want you stressing this much about the wedding,” I said. “I mean, you’re a bridesmaid. Not the maid of honor.” I had more of my speech. All about how weddings were archaic and really just a means to trap women in a cycle of impossible standards and unnecessary self-punishment.

“Yeah, that’s great, Nancy. Get me something blue. It’ll match my eyes.” And then she hung up. Well, so much for my speech. It was a good one, too. George Fayne- Bess’s cousin who wasn’t the Lily side of the family and my other best friend- would have liked it. Unfortunately, George was up in the mountain for a summer sports camp and could be reached by pigeon more reliably than cell phone. And here I was- shopping for clothes at our sleepy town of River Heights’s only department store right back at home. No big summer plans or schemes of grandeur before school started again.

That said, I couldn't really complain. Summer was supposed to be the best thing in the world when you were sixteen and didn’t have much to do. Plus, I did need to do some shopping for new clothes, anyway. And I had the benefit of my dad being nice and footing the bill for me. I was originally supposed to get a job this summer- something underpaid, underappreciated, and with a silly uniform presumably in the form of a hat shaped like a hot dog-, but that didn’t happen. Simply put, I forgot. There were probably applications buried somewhere in my room.

I would pay my dad back, don’t get me wrong. But for the time being, I preferred the term ‘appreciated’ to ‘spoiled rotten’. Though that term could easily be applied to two girls I happened to spot talking to a sales associate one aisle over. The place that I picked to shop at wasn't exactly high-end, but it obviously wanted to be. And that was also a fitting description for the two girls.

"This is abhorrent," one of them was snarling at the poor sales rep. Both of them looked to be about my age, but this one just looked older. Maybe it was her greasy hair, maybe it was her major overbite- personally, I thought it was both. She was short, stout, and angry in contrast to the rather vapid-looking girl standing next to her with her eyes sort of glazed over. She was rail thin and sort of pretty if you looked at her from exactly the right angle. Potentially on a full moon with the planets properly aligned and an eyepatch over one eye to make her seem further away from you than she was. "Do you know who we are?"

I'll admit it- I was curious. I have this natural inclination to be nosy and it's gotten me into a few weird situations. But I love drama as much as I love intrigue so I was all ears for this conversation. Pretending to peruse a rack of ugly skirts nearby, I expertly eavesdropped on the conversation. "My apologies, Miss Topham," the sales rep sputtered out. "But I was helping someone else until just now and-"

"My sister and I are about to be very rich!" the stout girl spat. I don't think the tall skinny one knew how to use her mouth to form words. "And we will remember how awful your service is when that happens, do you hear me?"

I will also admit to another weakness of mine- I hate watching people get treated unfairly. It was what made me stick up for kids getting picked on on the playground since I could first walk two steps in front of me. And what was happening a few feet away from me definitely looked like bullying. So when the shorter sister sent the sales rep scurrying off to find something for her, I continued to pretend like the ugly skirts were actually the best thing I'd ever seen just to make sure they didn't do something else awful to the poor sales lady. It didn't take very long for them to do exactly that. "What is that?" the short one harped when the sales rep presented her with a dress. "Isabel, have you ever seen something more hideous?"

The dress wasn't bad. It was a cute powder blue slip that had tulle design near the top of it. It was something Bess might like- especially because it was blue. Still, the taller girl- Isabel- nodded fervently to her sister's claim. Keeping an amicable expression was clearly the sales rep's greatest achievement for the day. "Oh, but this is just in off the designers from Paris. It's haute couture." I wasn’t much of a fashion plate, but I could tell that probably wasn’t true. I wasn't going to fault her for trying. She probably made commission.

Still, the stout sister stuck her nose up at it like it were covered in dog poo. "I don't know what that means, but it certainly doesn't mean 'even mildly fashionable'," she threw out before snatching the dress away from the sales rep. "Go find us something else that doesn't make our eyes hurt."

I could tell by the sales rep momentary slip in composure that that was not her usual job. She practically slunk off to do the girl's bidding and didn't look too happy about it in the process. Meanwhile, Isabel peered at the dress with her big, dewy eyes while her sister held it up and sneered at it. "It's not too bad," she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear it from where I was lingering near the ugly cardigans. I don't know why they thought putting them next to the ugly skirts was a good arrangement. "Mama would like it." Isabel's voice was worse than her face- a high, reedy voice that sounded sort of like a kazoo that someone had left in the sandbox.

Her sister checked the price tag on the supposedly 'ugly dress' and scoffed. "It's too expensive. Daddy would throw a fit if we started spending all of old Crowley's money before we even got it." Now that was an interesting sentence. "But we can just make an adjustment." An even more interesting sentence. Coupled with the fact that she reached up one grubby hand to rip some of the tulle on the dress right off had me nearly drop my jaw in shock. "There," the squatter sister cooed, seemingly pleased with herself. She switched back to sour-faced a second later when the sales rep returned with an arm full of dresses. "We've changed our minds. We'll take this one." She pointed to the blue dress in her hands. "But we will not pay full price."

The sales rep looked like she'd just been punched. "But that's one of a kind!" she said, clearly flustered. "It's the only one in the store."

"Well, it's damaged," snapped the stout sister. Isabel just stood by blank-faced. I realized she kind of looked like a ferret. Her sister, on the other hand, was just a plain rat. "We want 25% off."

"But-" the sales rep couldn't even finish her sentence. I couldn't blame her.

"Where is your manager?" the stout sister trilled. "I demand to speak with him."

At that exact moment, a balding man walking by reeled around on his heel- face serious. "I'm the manager," he announced. "What seems to be the problem here?"

The sales rep went pale as the shorter girl peered at the bald man. "Your associate here just tried to sell us a damaged dress at full price," she insisted.

"No, I didn't!" the sales rep yelped. She snapped her mouth shut the moment her manager levelled her with a look. The 'how dare you be rude to this customer' look that every retail worker feared.

"I'm very sorry, miss," the manager said with a bow of his head. "We'll give you a discount if you'd still like the item. And we'll even pay for the damage to be repaired by a top quality seamstress."

From the looks of the dress, it didn't even deserve that much. But while Isabel had a rather self-satisfied look on her face, her sister didn't look like she was done. "One more thing," she said sweetly. Granted, her attempt at 'sweet' reminded me of black licorice that melted on a dirty sidewalk. "You should take the fee for the repair out of her salary." She pointed at the sales rep and the woman visibly looked ready to faint. "It's only fair."

The manager hesitated for a second before he nodded. "Of course-"

I'd had enough. With a funny little hop, I was over to the group in seconds. "Excuse me," I called out. I flashed a smile- hopefully not looking super awkward. "Yeah, hi, I was just over there and saw the whole thing. She-" I pointed to the sales rep, "Did not try to sell them a damaged dress. They-" I pointed to the two sisters who were giving me the evil eye. "Ripped it when she wasn't looking to try and get a discount."

I could tell I was the sales rep's new best friend. And that I was the Topham sisters' new worst enemy. "She's lying!" the short sister shouted. "I would never do something like that."

Figuring she'd say that, I grabbed her wrist- turning it to reveal some small blue strings of fabric on her palm. "You have some fabric on the hand you ripped it with," I provided fluidly. "And you'll see that there is also some on the floor by your feet. Not anywhere else on the floor- meaning that the dress was only ripped and losing threads right around here."

The girl jerked her hand back as her face went bright red. Her sister looked ready to bolt straight out the door. "I don't know who you think you are-"

"Given the evidence," the manager coughed, interrupting them. "I'm going to have to ask you pay for the full price of the dress you damaged."

The short sister looked like her face was going to explode. "I don't want it!" she shouted. Some other shoppers were starting to linger around the spectacle she was making the same way I had. And of course, the manager was quick to notice.

"I'm sorry, but you damaged the dress so you must buy it," he insisted. "And then I have to ask you to never set foot in my store again."

It seemed a little rash, but the short sister's reaction was worse. She straight up threw the dress onto the ground. "I won't buy that! You can't make me!" Then she stormed off- her sister trailing in her angry wake all the way to the door.

Once they were gone, the sales rep gave a sigh of relief. "I can't thank you enough," she told me. "The repair for that would have cut my pay more than half!"

I just stuck with smiling. "It's no problem," I assured her. "If anyone had been around to see how awful they were to you, they'd have done the same thing." That didn't seem to stop the sales rep from looking at me like I’d accessorized with a halo and matching wings that morning.

"Regardless," the manager spoke up, clearing his throat again. "We're still going to have to do something about this dress."

"Wait-" I reached forward a took a hold of the dress to take a look at the tab. "I'll take it."

The manager looked just as shocked as the sales rep did. "But it's damaged," the manager had to remind me.

"It's not too bad," I assured him. I touched some of the ruffles that the shorter Topham had ripped. "I could probably fix it myself."

"Well," the manager huffed. "At least let me give you a complimentary discount. Both for your help in exposing those two young ladies as crooks and for helping Loralei here."

I didn't argue. I just considered it a bonus. As Loralei rung me up with the 50% discount, I couldn't help, but poke my nose even further into other people's business. You know, as I'm wont to do. "Who were those girls anyway?" I asked. "I mean, did you know them?" I’d never seen them in school before over at River Heights High. After that display, I really didn’t want to.

I could tell by Loralei's face that she did. I could also tell she didn't really want to reveal that information. But I just waited patiently until she caved. Despite everything that had just happened, Loralei was still a sales rep- they loved to gossip about customers. "Those were the Tophams. They've been in here before. Ada and Isabel." Knowing that Isabel was the skinny one, I assumed Ada had to be the stout one. It was fitting because I had never heard of someone with a more unfortunate name. Very invocative of covered wagons and long trips overland with plenty of dysentery. "Don't get me wrong, they spend money when they're here so they're technically good customers. But what you just saw was pretty much the standard fare for dealing with those two."

I just nodded along like this was all news to me and I was a completely impartial party. "I think I heard them mention something about an... old man Crowley?" I had, in fact, heard that, but Loralei didn't need to know that.

At the mention of the name, her eyes went wide. "Oh, you're from around here, are you?" I nodded. "I’m from a town over- in Hayworth. It’s been the subject of debate around there for the last few months!" She paused to look around for other customers before leaning across the counter to elaborate. "See, Josiah Crowley was this eccentric old man who lived around here. He never really had a home- always stayed with relatives no matter how distant- but he was supposedly loaded up to the eyeballs. Well, the last family who got stuck with him was the Tophams- Richard and his wife Cora. And when Crowley passed away, they came forward with a will that gave all his properties, money, and stocks to them!" I made the appropriate face so that she knew I found this just as shocking as she did. "Normally, who cares about those sorts of things, but the Crowley will just struck so many people as strange. He wasn't really a big fan of the Tophams. Fact, they hated him up until they found out he was dying and they'd profit from it. But Crowley used to promise a lot of his other- much nicer- relatives that they'd live comfortably after his death." Loralei gave an unaffected shrug. "Those poor people will never see a dime. A few of them were even contesting the will."

"Really?" I didn't have to feign interest now. I was definitely interested in all this talk of a mysterious will. Hayworth was a little town off the side of a little town- that kind of drama was uncommon for such a sleepy place. And I could swear the name Crowley sounded familiar. Not just ‘two seconds ago when I asked about it’ familiar, but ‘I’ve heard it somewhere before, but didn’t pay too much attention to it’ familiar. "Do you think they stand a chance?"

Loralei gave me a level sort of look as the machine spat out a receipt. "I don't think so." She ripped the receipt off and handed it to me. My 'savings' happened to be in the triple digits and I was sure Bess would just love her new rehearsal dinner dress. "Crowley was a weirdo and not all there on a good day. Chances are, those Tophams coerced him into re-writing the will in their favor." She put a manicured finger to her lips. "But you didn't hear that from me."

I smiled back. "Of course not."

[evertidings]

OCTOBER 2022.

— accomplishments.

okay so, a bit of a different format for the update but i figured monthly updates would be easier for me to stay consistent with than weekly ones. these will come out on the first of every month (ignore that today is the second, the third in some timezones even) and will mainly just be a wrap up of what i’ve done.

as of today, chapter eight is nearly done. like ninety-five percent. i just have a teensy little scene left to write (the hurt/comfort variation where the ro gets injured rather than the hunter) and then i can dust off my hands and call it a day for the writing.

as always, i’ve had my ups and downs, but i’m proud of how the chapter has come out so far. all the hurt/comfort scenes are different in their own way and speak to the ros’ personalities, while the wrap up scene following the aftermath of crimson and the group’s next steps is brings you back to the core of the story—the actual plot, so to speak. no matter what you read this story for, this chapter has something for you.

i’m almost certain that it’ll be out this month—if it doesn’t, it’s because a zombie apocalypse happened—so stay tuned. as always, thank you for your support <3

— word count.

344,466 words (+19.7k)

[smokeybrand]

Twincest

I have been absolutely captivated by Rachel Weisz for years. I was introduced to this vision of beauty like most of my peers, way back when the Brendan Fraser Mummy flick dropped. Her Evy Carnahan made that film for me. I mean, it’s excellent on it’s own, so campy and hilarious, but i left that theater back in the waning days of the Nineties, one hundred percent smitten with Weisz. My adoration for her definitely started as a teenage crush but, as time has gone on and my cinematic sensibilities have matured, I've fallen in love with her acting ability. Rachel Weisz never misses, man. Sunshine, Enemy at the Gates, The Constant Gardener, The Fountain, The Lovely Bones, Oz the Great and Powerful, The Lobster, Disobedience, and The Favourite are all favorites but Constantine definitely stands out. I have written at length about my love for that flick. I mean, The Favourite is up there, too, but Constantine is just aces in my book, mostly because Rachel Weisz kills it.

Obviously, whenever she has a project drop, I'm giving it my full attention and her newest just so happens to be an updated re-imagining of one of my favorite Cronenberg blood baths. You know i had to check out Dead Ringers! I’m a fan of horror. Have been for years so Croneneberg’s unique vision of the grotesque and the horrible always rings truer to my eye than, say, Clive Barker. Toss Rachel Weisz into the mix, turn it from a two hour film, into an six episode, prestige mini-series on Amazon, and i am there with bells on!  Listen, I'm not going to spoil anything about this show. Not even a goddamn hint. I am just going to gush about how f*cking amazing this viewing experience was and how i am devastated that it’s over. Off the top, Dead Ringers is excellent. Go watch that sh*t, right now. It’s on Amazon so if you have Prime, you got it. If you don’t, pay the ten dollars or whatever for the month and binge that sh*t because it’s inspired! Weisz delivers one of her best performances, playing dueling twins, Elliot and Beverly Mantle. They’re Gynecologists who do gynecological things, brilliantly, until they don’t. And things get weird. Then they get bloody. Also, even weirder. The rest of the supporting cast really carries their own weight, especially the likes of Jennifer Ehle. Her Rebecca Parker is just so insidiously delightful.

Even more than the performances, i have to praise the exceptionally strong direction. Four people took the helm over these six episodes and the tone maintained a steady feel. You’d never know that someone different directed episodes two through five. But, for me, the cherry on top of this ridiculously fattening cinematic sundae, was the cinematography. God, his show is shot beautifully! Each frame is a goddamn work of art. It reminds me of an Ari Aster film or that old Hannibal show from NBC which was criminally canceled. Dead Ringers is everything you want in a prestige television series. It’s a solidly performed epic, full of violence, sex, intrigue, and the darkest humor this side of Fargo. If the idea of Rachel Weisz playing unhinged and genius identical twins with a penchant for the sapphic isn’t enough to grab your attention, then do it for the bonkers spiral over six episodes. If you’ve seen the original Cronenberg film from the Eighties, you have the broad strokes of the plot but make no mistake; This version of that story is definitely it’s own thing. It’s more “inspired by” than a direct, gender-bent, remake. I positively cherished my time in this world and want to play within it much, much, more. If you have a morning or afternoon to kill, take the time to savor this show. It’s so deliciously perfect!

[sunmoonandsandsoundtracks]

love me like you do

... ... ...i- ...so this- ah, fuck me. there's too much to say about this. it's been in the works since december. it was meant to be for gaara's birthday, but that didn't happen.

that said, this is hands down the best version and well worth the wait. i have never put half as much effort into editing anything, which might surprise a few of my english teachers, considering how well my essays usually turned out.

this is not my first ever serious attempt at smut, but it is the first i've ever felt ready to publish. if something is awkward in the writing of the more erotic scenes, please, constructive criticism. i tried so hard with this, and then went back and fixed where i thought i tried too hard.

i also did my very best to make the character as relatable as possible for everyone. i researched colors that looked good on all skin colors, i avoided any actions that would indicate a specific body/hair type or height, and i worked out a not too extreme personality. i aim to represent everyone in these characters as best i can. tall, short, curvy, skinny, thick hair, thin hair, long hair, short hair, black, white, brown... the one thing i know i'll probably suck at representing is anything outside american culture. i have little exposure, so i'll have to do more research where i want to include it in my stories. i'm going to do my very best.

huge shout out to my husband. oh my god. i have been through so much that has nothing to do with covid, and he has been so supportive of everything. he sat with me for hours a day, at least a few days a month, while i plotted and vented about this story, helped me work through writer's block, and even read this to give me feedback. seriously. this wouldn't have happened without him. i would have dropped it by may. update 2/14: sequel up!

masterlist

spotify/youtube

word count: 18,222 yes, issa big baby and it would ruin the flow to break it into chapters.

warnings: none

nsfw below the cut! enjoy, and i really hope i convert you all to boss kink, if you didn't already have it.

Monday.

The worst day of the week to almost anyone that works a standard five day, nine to five white collar job. It was the death of the weekend.

One particular Monday was to be the death of you.

You had barely managed to drag yourself into work, and you did so with all the enthusiasm of someone heading to their execution. Hell, your execution would have been more welcome. You anticipated an immediate summons from the second you trudged through the door. That hadn’t happened, and therefore you were kept on the literal edge of your seat, for two unbelievably arduous hours, biting your lip until you saw him, and then everything got so. much. worse.

“My life is over,” you said, volume barely above that of a whisper. Even then, your voice cracked as you dropped your head to your desk, making a sound loud enough to alarm those within a large radius. You didn’t even allow yourself to express your pain in a word, just as a punishment.

“Are you okay?” Matsuri, your coworker and friend that occupied the cubicle to your right asked, forehead wrinkling as she furrowed her brow. Concern for your well being rolled off her in heavy waves.

“No,” you groaned, not even trying to straighten up. “I’m doomed. Done, finished, expired.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not bad enough to actually beat yourself up over it.”

You lifted your head a little and turned it just to give her a deadpan expression. “Trust me, it is.”

“Why don’t you tell me, maybe I can help somehow?” She tentatively offered.

“Unless you have a way to magically delete the picture where I’m ninety-five percent naked that I sent our boss by mistake last night, I doubt it.” You returned to your previous position, letting your head hit the surface with a quieter thud than the first time, tempted to do it a few more times. If you managed to do enough brain damage, you hoped to forget the whole debacle. Maybe you could claim that some questionable brain damage was the reason the whole debacle happened in the first place.

Matsuri gaped like a fish for a minute, the opening and closing of her mouth was muted as she grasped at straws for a response before giving up and going back to her task without another word. You didn’t blame her for not wanting to be involved further. Your dignity was six feet under, and just a little over six hours later, your job likely would be too.

A simple slip of the thumb with a dash of carelessness- a miniscule action coupled with a lack of precaution- knocked your world off its axis. You had a circle of friends that were very open and occasionally sent sexy pictures to the group chat. That was the first time you had done so, or thought you had, and it would be the last. You had been hyped about splurging on some sinful lingerie the day before, and while you were all about doing it just for yourself, you wanted to have someone appreciate it with you and on you. Everyone was so supportive when others did it, blowing up the chat with compliments that could only help the confidence of the brave soul who put their body on display.

Was it so wrong to want a little adoration? Apparently it was, because the name of the chat put it just below your boss’s contact in your messaging app, and when you went to hit where to send the indecent photo, you opened the wrong conversation. Lesson learned- always, always, ALWAYS check the contact name before sending. You’d never make that mistake again. How you had made it to that point in your life without making it before was a wonder.

Maybe some mischievous spirit decided things were too good in your life and decided it would be fun to fuck you over.

You spent that whole day ditching, dodging, and ducking whenever you saw or heard any hint of the man who controlled the balance of your life at that time. You were almost home free when-

“Please see me in my office when you’ve finished your work for the day.”

Fuck.

Truth be told, even though your mind said that he was preparing to issue your death sentence, the sound of his voice when he might as well have whispered in your ear after sneaking up on you at your desk in the last twenty minutes before you could clock out had your body buzzing with excitement. Those last twenty minutes were an absolute hell as you were torn between wanting them to move at the speed of molasses, and wishing they would hurry up so you could be alone with a man that, to be perfectly frank, made you want to drool and pant like a bitch in heat.

Yes, the entire situation was made even worse by the simple issue of him not just being your boss with whom you had a friendly work relationship, but the amazingly appealing man that kept coming to mind when you bought the underwear in the problematic picture.

The end came, and you were so strung out from both abject dread and intolerable anticipation. You felt like you had downed ten cups of coffee after not sleeping for a week.

“See you tomorrow?” Matsuri said as she finished gathering her things.

“If he doesn’t have me pack up tonight,” you sighed, surrounded by an air of defeat.

She gave you a sad smile and a pat on the shoulder. “It may not be that bad. You and I both know that he’s kind and understanding. If you make it clear that you had no intention of sending it to him, I’m certain he’ll let it go and just move on.”

“You’re right,” you admitted. He made you imagine him and you in the dirtiest scenarios your mind could conjure, but it was more than just physical desire that had you eager to be around him. He was the best supervisor you’d ever had because of both his work ethic and the kindness with which he treated everyone, subordinate and superior.

He wasn’t the most sociable, and you had noticed times when he was clearly feeling awkward in more casual settings, like company parties, but he tried, and he just exuded energy that drew people in once they realized he wasn’t as tough as some might believe at first glance. You were part of that some, but found out so quickly that he was tender hearted, and patient, and understanding, and appreciative, and… and… and...

You could go on for some time about his positive attributes. You confessed that you were more than a little infatuated as well as lustful, but you weren’t the only one. Most of the women you’d seen him interact with all had the same look in their eyes. They would kill for the chance to love him, and love on him. You were sure you had the same look when he was near.

Without realizing that you had spaced out after answering Matsuri, you came around. She was gone, and it was almost ten minutes later. You were late.

“Shit!” You cried a little too loud as you stood up, straightened your clothes, then rushed as professionally as you could to his office. Though you were already tardy, you made a stop in the break room to get him a cup of coffee. You’d seen him make his own a handful of times, so you knew the right amount of cream to add. Your heart hammered in your chest as you continued on, growing louder in your ears along with the rushing of your blood the nearer you drew. Despite the eager twisting of your stomach, you arrived all too soon for your liking. In your hurry, you didn’t even take a moment to collect yourself before lightly knocking on the once imposing door with a shaky hand. It came out so soft, you doubted he heard anything. That was when you took a moment to breathe and get yourself together. Your body barely listened, but it was a slight improvement, and you could work with that.

Another knock, firmer than before, and then you took a small step back. He didn’t answer immediately, so your eyes began to wander. It seemed somewhat as if you were searching for help. You noted the closed blinds at the front windows to his office. Usually, those fixtures were open until he left for the evening, which, besides being a smart move to avoid any potential misunderstandings or incorrect conclusions whenever he had an employee in for a performance review or such, made him more approachable by allowing everyone to see if they were interrupting anything important. A few times every few weeks, especially around the end of each quarter, he would have them closed during the day as a sign that he was not to be disturbed for anything less than an emergency as he was tasked with paperwork and the like. What constituted an emergency varied by the position someone held. At your level, something had to be on fire, or someone had to be dying to merit an interruption. Even then, you weren’t sure you could be the one to interrupt him.

“Come in.”

You took another breath to steel yourself, then opened the solid wood door and strolled inside, trying to project some composure. Your breath caught for a second as you caught sight of him gazing out the floor to ceiling window that gave him a wondrous view of the city which, at that hour of day during the winter season, was already well lit. His back was enough to get you worked up in more ways than one, and you had to admit that you had it pretty bad. He had his hands in his pants pockets, and his suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair. His posture was stiff, but you were surprised to see him even that casual.

“I-I apologize for making you wait, sir,” you said with a slight verbal stumble as you approached his desk, staying on the proper side.

He barely acknowledged what you said with a slight hum, not even turning to face you for you had no idea how long, but it dragged on for ages. At least it gave you a chance to study him a little more. It was better than sneaking glances when he was least likely to catch you.

He stopped your survey of him when he said your name. “Do you know why I asked you here?”

“Yes, sir,” you answered, gripping the coffee cup that you couldn’t put down because it kept you from fidgeting, and the heat in your hands was comforting. “It’s about what I sent you last night. I’m very aware of how unprofessional that was, but please, understand that it was not intended for you. I never meant to breach not only company policy, but the boundaries of our relationship. It was an accident that only happened because I didn’t check the contact before sending it.”

Silence fell once again, and you were ready to crawl out of your skin. It was agony.

“I take it this other contact you meant to send it to was someone with whom you have an intimate relationship?” He questioned after a painful amount of time, his voice was laced with an emotion you didn’t dare try to label.

You dropped your head in shame, wondering what he thought of you. Would he think worse if you were honest with him? He always got to the bottom of any issue he was presented with, and you’d heard his colleagues praise how much he valued the truth, no matter how bad it was. He didn’t pry where it wasn’t necessary in any situation, but he cared enough to clear up any misconceptions, so he sought out any information he deemed crucial.

It didn’t occur to you to question just why he needed to know anything about the one to whom you intended to send such a scandalous image. You trusted him completely to keep it appropriate.

“No. It was for my friends. I, um, have some very confident friends who are big on body positivity and share a lot more than most people would. I was just... looking for some validation and to be appreciated. I’d never done it before, and I’m never planning to do it again, e-even when I...”

You couldn’t go on. Despite your friends being so open and okay with flaunting their bodies, some of your loved ones were very conservative and would frown greatly upon what you had done, believing that no one should see you in such a state other than someone with whom you were deeply committed and intimate. Some of them held the belief that it should be reserved for marriage. He was so upstanding at work, you feared that even though you knew he wouldn’t condemn you, he wouldn’t want to be associated too closely with you. You had no idea what his personal life was like, what kind of company he kept.

The silence was deafening by that point, and you swore on your grave that you were going to combust if you didn’t get some closure soon. You dared to slowly raise your head and saw him leaning against the window, bracing himself up with an arm over his head.

“I see,” he muttered, immediately clearing his throat.

You stiffened and straightened up at the tone of his voice. Should anyone have asked you what you thought you heard, you wouldn’t have been able to say it out loud. You could barely think it, but part of you was confident that you heard relief in his voice. The same kind of relief you felt and heard in your own voice after finding out that the gorgeous woman you’d seen visit him and bring him lunch was his older sister, and not his girlfriend. Even if she wasn’t, he still could have had one, or he may not have been into women at all, for all you knew, but you were flying high for the following two weeks.

Having the friends you had for as long as you had, had quashed most of what you used to claim was an inbred tendency to disparage yourself, so you weren’t saying that he couldn’t possibly desire you in any way, but unless he saw something in you during your interactions that were strictly work-related, you believed that he wouldn’t. You got to see a lot more of who he was than he saw of you, or so you assumed.

“I completely understand if there’s certain protocol you have to follow in this situation-”

“Have you told anyone else about this?” He deliberately interrupted you, which had never happened before, especially not with such a curt tone. The mix of worry and need returned as the no nonsense attitude pierced through you. You’d seen that attitude employed before, but never where you were directly involved. In fact, you’d never seen it directed at anyone specifically. It was the biggest indication to everyone that the stress was getting to him, and you suspected that it was the last warning someone would get before he snapped if they continued to agitate him.

What would happen if he lost control? How would he vent? What kind of outlets did he use even when he was in control of himself? What you wouldn’t give to know...

A brief clip of him fucking you into oblivion to channel his rage and stress danced through your imagination, which couldn’t have been worse for the given situation.

“J-just my friends outside the company and Ma-Matsuri, sir,” you nearly squeaked as the clean cut sight of his backside was replaced with the mirage of him facing you, those reading glasses he only wore when he had to do paperwork after the sun’s natural light no longer shone through his window perched low on his nose. The top few buttons of his maroon dress shirt that complemented the red of his combed down hair- which you swore varied from ruby to a dusty kind of scarlet to garnet, depending on everything from the lighting to the time of day you saw it- were unbuttoned, the cuffs of his sleeves were rolled up, and the hem was untucked. His black silk tie was loose, hanging lazily against his chest. His black slacks seemed to sit a little lower on his hips, not that you could really tell with the shirt covering the waist line.

You were so completely, wholly, and otherwise indisputably fucked when the clothes on the imaginary him started falling off until he wore nothing but the tie and glasses. It was beautiful. God, it was beautiful, but it was not helping. Guilt over your barely contained lust coursed through you, and it wasn’t just because of him… Okay, maybe it was. However, you were not an animal and you were going to get in control of yourself. There were more important matters at stake than going home unsatisfied and desperate.

Like your job. You just passed your year mark as a technical support agent with the company. Your coworkers had given you a small celebration, letting you know that they were happy to have you as part of the team. He had been there, gifting you a sweet smile that you went home and giggled over that entire night, and adding his praise to the others. You loved your job, though it was far from perfect, and you loved the rest of your team.

Like your blossoming friendship with him. Even if you stayed right where you were with your job, you didn’t want to lose the amicable conversations, or the ease with which you regarded each other.

Like hell you were going to put your desire for what could end up being mediocre or even disappointing sex that may not amount to anything once it was over above the good deal you already had. Even if it was mind blowing, it wouldn’t be worth it if it put the rest at risk.

Focus. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in-

“All right. If there are no future indiscretions of this nature, then there is no reason to dwell on it further. We will carry on as if it never happened.”

Breathe out. You breathed out more air than you had taken in with your relieved sigh.

“Thank you so much, sir! I swear that it will never happen again. I’ll make sure of it-”

What happened next was the catalyst that turned what was going to be a night where you went home and bounced between celebrating that you still had a job, with hope that nothing would change between you and him, and whining over how badly you wanted him into.... a night where you didn’t do any of that.

You let out a shrill cry of pain as the still scalding coffee you forgot you were holding for the slightest second soaked through your blouse after splashing on you when you jerked your arms back too quickly. You dropped the cup, spilling the rest onto your feet. At least you didn’t have to worry about where your mind was focused anymore.

It was only then that he turned around, eyes widening in horror as he saw you kicking off your shoes while trying to get your shirt up. He didn’t know what happened, but the noise you made was enough to drive him to help without question. Had anyone been watching and even half way blinked, they would have missed him bolting from his place at the window to you. His hands were steady where yours fumbled as he assisted in the removal of your top.

As soon as your shirt was out of the way, he raced for the nearest office first aid kit for treatment supplies, and grabbed two of the softest rags he could find in the supply closet, soaking one in cool water and wringing it out. Upon returning to you, he got to work gently cleaning and drying where your skin was the most irritated, before applying an Aloe Vera gel that felt incomparably wonderful as it soothed the scalded area. Nothing was said as he knelt down and took care of you, even tending to your feet, with a focused thoroughness and caring tenderness that only added to why you wanted to cry.

A sharp sting that was still fading, utter humiliation, and the realization that it really was more than mere infatuation that you felt for him, that you were seriously falling in love with him with the intensity of a skydiver, brought tears to your eyes. One of those overpowered the other two with ease.

“S-sir,” you spoke, not achieving more than a whisper as emotion grabbed you by the throat. You cleared the blockade of sentiment with a little cough so you could be heard. “Thank y-you. I’m so sorry about the mess on the carpet, I’ll pay to get it cleaned if there’s not a budget or something you can use, and-” You cut off and looked over at his desk, not seeing anything alarming, but you were beside yourself with worry anyway. “Oh no, did I get any on your desk? God, I hope not. What if it got on something important? I’m so, so sorry-”

Your fretting was interrupted by a gentle finger pressed to your lips- when did he stand up?- and your eyes met what you’d say was likely the softest gaze you’d ever seen. Those bright eyes that almost seemed to glow peered directly into your own, and you swore your spirit left your body. Your warm breath blew out around the digit that rested against the plush cushions of your mouth as you tried to avoid hyperventilating.

“Are you okay?” He questioned, voice full of concern. “It doesn’t look too bad, but if you think you need it, I can take you to the hospital.”

His hand dropped, allowing you to speak, but you only covered your mouth with your own hand as you choked on a sob and tears filled your eyes. He was so kind, so genuine, and with how tense you’d been the whole day, fearing the worst, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. You felt so many things at once, and not even half of them made sense.

Being a man who knew more about rocket science than he did about how to appease an upset woman- the only thing he picked up from having a sister like his was to shove copious amounts of chocolate at her and otherwise stay clear unless she made a specific request, but that didn’t seem to be apt for the situation- he waited patiently, and silently, until you gathered yourself. A slight nod succeeded by a sniffle and deep breath answered his question.

“I’m so very sorry, sir,” you said, your voice heavy with exhaustion, head lowered, eyes closed. You were ready to go home and deny until you could forget as much of what had happened from the moment you took that picture to the moment you left the office as you possibly could. “This is a very compromising position that could have been avoided if I had exercised a sliver of caution or intelligence before sending that picture, and just now, if I hadn’t gotten-”

“They were accidents,” he cut you off for the second time, his tone curt.

“Yes, but they were preventable accidents,” you argued, determined to take the blame you felt you deserved. “Again, if I had-”

“What matters is that I understand that I was not the intended recipient, and that you are all right.”

You pinched your bottom lip between your teeth until you pierced it enough to result in a drop or two of blood, drawing some satisfaction from the pain, intent on giving yourself some punishment. A hand on your bare shoulder made you raise your head to see him staring at you again.

“Give me just a minute to finish up here, then I will take you home or to the hospital. Do you feel that you can cover up without causing any pain?”

Only then did your partial state of undress hit you. Fuck. The picture was bad enough, but because you had never changed out of that new underwear set you had wanted to show off, he was seeing in all glory of the burgundy strapless elastic floral lace bra that cinched between your breasts where it drew the eye with a large, lightweight, golden diamond shaped glass rhinestone. You might as well have just dropped your skirt to show off the matching lace briefs.

“Yes, sir,” you answered, unable to contain the quiver in your voice, eyes darting from one side to the other and back as you tried to avoid seeing whatever discomfort or displeasure he might be trying to hide from you. That lasted only a minute, until you came to a hard stop to see him offering his own starched shirt to you. There may or may not have been the quickest rush of disappointment when you saw the long sleeve black undershirt he had on, but it was gone when you noticed how form fitting that shirt was. Some higher power, be it a deity or karma, finally decided to throw you a bone.

He was on the leaner side, which you’d always suspected, but hadn’t seen much of because of the loose shirts and jackets he wore around the office. That said, the undershirt was a gift that more than hinted at the muscles that formed the contours of his firm chest as well as a pack of abs. You needed to find out when, where, and how he worked out.

Your face heated as you accepted his offering and put it on. Once in the privacy of your apartment, upon finishing your moping over everything that had gone wrong, you were going to be spilling every detail to your friends. They’d laugh, cheer for you, and- no matter how baseless their suggestions were- speculate that he had a thing for you. Like you were special. Like he wouldn’t treat anyone in your position the exact same way.

“Thank you, sir. This is so kind of you.”

He felt awkward and unsure of how to respond. but he gave a nod to show that he heard you before turning his back to you to go around the desk. It was all he could do. The wires running around his brain crossed whenever he even thought about setting his eyes back on you, in his shirt, wearing that cursed underwear that had him sweating profusely from the second he laid eyes on that damned picture.

He could only wonder if he was having some sort of dream when he opened that message. That thought was later disproved when his mind began to wander and he saw an apparition of you in his kitchen. Your lips were curled in an inviting smile, and he was aroused in a way he hadn’t been... well, ever. The apparition disappeared with a dose of caffeine- to wake up his exhausted mind, at two in the morning, that did nothing to help his restless body- but the picture was still on his phone. He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought of you in a context outside of work, but the way he was thinking of you that night and, to his embarrassment and horror, the following day was reprehensible.

Asking you to his office with intentions to clear up the issue was not easy for him, especially when he found that the only time he had to meet with you was after hours. All he could think of was you in that lingerie that made him realize he had a taste for that type of clothing- to be fair, the style of clothes you wore to work every day made him realize he had a taste for clothing on anyone else at all- and it made him avoid you as long as he possibly could, which was until twenty minutes before the end of the day. He couldn’t handle another night without some sort of closure.

Then that whole fiasco happened. He had been so focused on taking care of you, from when he heard you cry out to when he offered you his shirt- which he hadn’t the slightest idea of how bad an idea that was- nothing registered beyond making sure you were okay. When the adrenaline had slowed and the worry had ebbed, he was left staring at you, a hunger that had nothing to do with food rising within him, and if he didn’t put some distance between your bodies as well as distract himself somehow, he wasn’t sure that he would be able to keep himself from seeking something to appease that hunger. Even a man as disciplined as him had only so much restraint.

He removed his reading glasses and set them down on the desk, then his hands flitted over the documents he had out, placing them into the appropriate folders and stacking those on top of each other. As he opened the drawer to put them away, he spotted the gift box under his desk that contained a fine, well aged red wine along with a pair of stemless wine glasses cushioned by styrofoam that were gifted to him by his managers that day for his birthday, with the wish that he celebrate with a good friend or someone special. He didn’t tell them that he really wasn’t a wine drinker, or an alcohol drinker in general. He only ever had a drink for special occasions, and he supposed that’s what that bottle would be reserved for, but-

“Would you care for a drink?” He found himself offering before he could fully process the decision.

Your eyes widened slightly. It wouldn’t have surprised you in the least if he hadn’t said another word that wasn’t purely out of courtesy to you the rest of the night. What kind of drink he meant tickled your curiosity, because you noticed that he never drank at office parties, and only once or twice out of the handful of times that he had joined your team out to celebrate a birthday or such.

“Oh, I... You don’t... I-I mean,” you stuttered, fidgeting with your fingers as you struggled to find the right words. You only needed three. “Yes, thank you.”

“Forgive me, if I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he rushed to apologize while maintaining his composure as he reached for the box. “I have some wine here that I know I won’t drink much of and I just thought that you’ve clearly had a trying day. That’s what I’ve heard a lot of people say they enjoy when they’ve been stressed. .”

“I take it you don’t count yourself among that group,” you muttered with the tiniest smile.

His eyes finally shifted to you when he placed the box on top of his tidied desk.

“You would be right,” he confirmed, opening it and pulling out the contents, one by one. There was even a corkscrew. Either that was sold as a well stocked gift box, or his managers were extra thoughtful to make sure he had everything he needed to make use of their gift. “I only ever drink socially, for special occasions, and even then, I try to be sparing.”

“I can understand that. I’m sure everyone has seen someone get drunk enough to put them off heavy drinking. That is, if they aren’t the person everyone else sees get drunk enough to be put off.”

He couldn’t resist the chuckle that originated from his chest. “I suppose that’s true. I’ve seen a few people like that.”

“So have I. A few of my friends make that a bit of a habit. They make for good stories, right?” You replied with a girlish giggle that immediately had you biting your lip in embarrassment.

He didn’t react to it at all, allowing you to relax a bit. You watched as he opened the bottle. You enjoyed wine well enough, but you didn’t drink it often. You had your taste in lower priced beverages and stayed faithful to that, only occasionally indulging in something a little more expensive every now and again. Your eyes strayed to his arms, and you noticed how they tensed when he used the corkscrew. There was a bit of defined muscle there, and once again, the idea of watching him at the gym hit you. That, and the idea that the undershirt truly was a gift. You’d never get to see the finer workings of his body in action under the shirt you were wearing.

God, you needed help, you realized as your throat ran dry from a different thirst than the kind that wine could satisfy.

“Here.” He held out one of the glasses to you, and you accepted it, almost robotically.

“Thank you, sir,” you muttered before sipping from it.

He nodded once more in acknowledgment and took a sip of his own. He didn’t react to the taste, so he was either accustomed to it, or he had a face that was well practiced in maintaining stoicism. You wouldn’t be surprised if either or both turned out to be true. The ticking of his clock was grating on your nerves, and you had to put great effort into not shaking like a newborn fawn.

“S-so, is today a special occasion?” You ventured to ask, cursing your inability to keep your voice from trembling. “Or are you just kind enough to drink to keep me company?”

His lips curled into a slight smile. “I suppose you could argue that it’s a special occasion, though I try not to make it public knowledge.”

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” You guessed with a light laugh. “That’s hardly fair. I know all the teams that you oversee would have loved to wish you a happy birthday. I’m sure they wouldn’t have made a big deal of it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not that I’m worried about anything, I just don’t care to be reminded of it more than I have to be. My family and friends do that well enough.”

The answer was disheartening. You understood wanting to have only a small celebration, that was a matter of taste, but in your personal experience, anyone that didn’t care to acknowledge their birthday had at least one ruined for them in the past. It might not have been a deeply traumatizing reason, but it could have been. Regardless, you hated to think that the man before you had suffered anything at all to make him take such a reluctant attitude toward his special day.

“I see. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean-”

“It’s all right. You couldn’t have known, could you?”

You gave a modest shake of your head before taking a larger drink. Your mind blanked on any conversation starters, which you figured was just as well, since after the sad revelation, you were sure that you’d be tripping over your tongue too much to articulate any that you did conjure. A subdued silence overtook the two of you, and you could only look out the tinted window- or pretend to, as the fluorescent light from the ceiling fixtures bounced off it and blocked your view with your own blurred out reflection- as you drank mindlessly. Sip. Sip. Si-

You had emptied your glass. You used your thumb to wipe any drops that had caught on your lip. The thought to go delicately wash it out so he could put it back in the fancy box crossed your mind, and you were about to offer when he picked up the bottle and offered a refill. One more glass couldn’t hurt, you reasoned as you thanked him.

It felt like you entered a time loop as you downed your next glass, doing exactly as you had done with the first, except you were daring enough to risk glances at him as he stared out the window. Could he see out any better from his angle than you could? Did it matter, or did the light trick you into thinking you saw his eyes glaze over in thought, suggesting he wasn’t seeing anything at all?

“Sir, am I keeping you?” You asked, drawing his attention from either the window or whatever was going through his mind. “I’m sure Shinki is eager for you to get home.”

“You aren’t keeping me,” he answered, appreciating the acknowledgement of his adopted son he had mentioned to you a few months prior at the company’s anniversary celebration. “No one is expecting me for another hour.”

“Because of the extra work you have to sort through. So I’ve just distracted you from your job. Great. I can’t seem to stop messing up when it comes to you lately, can I?” You said, following up with a bitter laugh.

If anyone asked, you would truthfully tell them you were not a lightweight. Not in the stripping, too drunk to care that you’re performing karaoke when you can’t sing, throwing up then blacking out only to wake up with a hangover so bad anyone that looked at you instantly got a headache way. However, it took an embarrassingly little amount of alcohol to get you buzzed. You’d still be highly functional, but your tongue was loosened enough to get off the leash your brain typically had it on, and your inhibitions- and shame- dropped enough for you to do some of the things that your friends encouraged you to do. The longer the silence persisted, the more you drank, and the more of a disconnect there was between your impulse control and your body.

There wasn’t a whole lot on your mind as you eased up, but one question popped up, and as you emptied your glass a second time, you found yourself voicing it.

“Is this the first time someone has accidently sent you a picture like that?”

You wondered if he was so far absorbed in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard you. You wouldn’t have repeated the question, you had enough awareness and control to keep yourself from pushing it, and had given up on getting an answer when his voice pierced the silence.

“This is the first time I believe it truly was an accident.”

You weren’t surprised in the least, but you wondered what the reasons were behind the pretense that it was an accident. Were they all employees trying to take a shot, but cover their asses too? Cowards.

“What?” He looked at you, puzzled by the last word that you thought you had only thought, but had actually spoken aloud.

“O-oh, ah- I...” You were thrown, so even though it wasn't embarrassing or untoward, you grasped at straws for an answer. “I-I just meant that if the others did it intentionally, they should have been ready to face the consequences, not run away like cowards with that excuse.”

He hummed in agreement, then turned away from you once more. It was growing irritating and almost insulting, but you rationalized that he was trying to preserve what little professionalism the situation had left. There were other potential reasons, such as he felt it would be disrespectful, he was uncomfortable, he thought it would make you uncomfortable, or... well, maybe he had someone that wouldn’t appreciate it if, for any reason more than your previous emergency, his eyes did linger on you.

“Would you care for one more before we go?”

Your eyes raised from where they had been glaring a flaming hole into his desk, which you hadn’t been consciously doing, to see him partially turned in your direction, but still not looking at you. Why wouldn’t he- No, you didn’t need to know exactly why he wouldn’t. If nothing else, he was as much the gentleman he appeared to be by the light of day, and that was enough reason for you.

“At the risk of sounding like an alcoholic, yeah,” you joked, almost slapping your hand to your forehead, feeling stupid.

“I don’t think three glasses of wine makes one an alcoholic,” he pointed out.

“You’re probably right. An alcoholic likely wouldn’t be able to stop at three, and three is definitely where I draw the line.” You handed him your glass for your second refill. His eyes landed only where they needed to and you silently sighed. For all the reasons in the world, it would still be nice to know he found you at least somewhat appealing to look at.

“Forgive me for asking,” he spoke up as he handed you your glass back. “I noticed your- ah- interesting marking.”

So he did notice something about your body before closing himself off. He was insanely observant, you’d noticed, and it didn’t surprise you that he’d picked up on that little detail.

“Oh, well, I-I got it right after my closest friends and I all turned twenty-one,” you explained, using the glass in your hand as a focal point. You liked having the kanji for love tattooed in red on the flesh over your heart, but you had to admit it was really cheesy.

“Why that particular one?” You wondered if the wine was getting to him as well, because he hadn’t seemed so eager to talk a moment prior.

You tried to sum up the reason without diving into a whole anecdote. “To put it simply, it was the only thing we could agree on. I’m the only one who got this particular one, but the others got sentimental meanings as well, and we couldn’t agree on the font or language, which we wanted to match. We each have our own interests in fields of study, and while it isn’t the most interesting culture to each of us, Asian culture is the most interesting culture we agreed on based on interests. Art, history, language, mythology, storytelling, traditions, cuisine... It was the best compromise.”

Your lips shifted from a shy smile to a victorious smirk. “I won that one, honestly, convincing them to go with kanji, because while linguistics wasn’t my major or even my minor, it was one of my passions, and I studied as much as I could, whether I learned the language or not. In terms of writing, Japanese is the most complicated system, and I’m just fascinated.”

You blushed and shrunk into yourself a bit when you realized you were talking to a Japanese man. “I-I probably don’t need to tell you that, though.”

If you’d been looking at him, instead of at your drink, you’d see the tease of an amused smile pulling at his lips and the way he leaned toward you just the slightest. “I wasn’t aware that it was the most complicated, but it doesn’t surprise me.”

“Y-yeah.” You indulged a glance, then looked back down.

A compressing weight bore down on you with the silence, and you were ready to be put out of your misery. You were not drunk enough to endure the awkward discomfort any longer. It was time for your favorite liquor to finish what the wine had started, so you politely sipped the rest of your glass faster than the first two.

“Are the friends you got the tattoo with the ones-”

“Some of them,” you cut him off as abruptly as he had broken the silence. It was clear where that question was going, and despite having the slight buffer that gave you some comfort, you couldn’t handle hearing him bring up the unintentional sext again.

He suppressed his chuckle with a sip. He was just finishing his first half glass, which made you feel like you had a drinking problem with how quickly you polished off three.

“I didn’t take you for the type to be interested in things like tattoos, to be frank,” you said, your mouth running off again, immediately biting your lip to keep from saying more.

He couldn’t have been more grateful for the natural stoicism that kept the quirk of his lips from evolving into a smug smirk. You knew nothing about him outside of work, which was how he had preferred to keep it with most, but it also entertained him to envision your reaction to just what kind of track record he had. Tattoos weren’t even half of it.

“You’d be surprised,” he chuckled, drawing your gaze to him.

Then he did it. He deliberately combed a hand through his hair, disheveling his bangs, showing hints of the tattoo on his forehead covering up a scar he’d given himself as a child.

“No way,” you gasped, and you hadn’t even seen just what it was yet. He pushed his bangs completely out of the way, and you were sure you went into shock. “Oh my god.”

He allowed himself the smirk that he’d held back. If only he could show you the rest of them.

“Mine is not as sentimental as yours, but it’s interesting that we both have the same one.”

You gave a mute, wide-eyed nod. You could only think of one thing- were there more?

He put his hair to right and subtly studied you. It was clear to him that you were like many others who, based on the personality he showed them, thought him to be a choir boy with an unblemished record. That was just how he liked it, but he was so tempted to roll the sleeves of his undershirt up a bit to see how you reacted to his sleeves of tattoos. How wide would your eyes go? How far would your jaw drop? Would your face flush? It was a far too tempting experiment, but he resisted.

“How are you feeling?” He inquired when you didn’t make any noise, looking deceptively innocent.

“F-fine,” you answered, feeling a little light headed. It was the wine’s fault, you argued with yourself. That’s right. It was all the wine’s fault that you were acting like a brainless bimbo... Yeah, you didn’t believe that half-assed excuse.

“I mean your feet and your stomach,” he clarified, still enjoying your reaction as he composed himself as if nothing had happened.

“O-oh, um, it- I’m fi- They’re good,” you managed to spit out after searching for words that should not have been so difficult to find.

“So I should take you home then?”

“No, sir, I can get myself home,” you insisted. You put the glass that you’d forgotten you’d been holding on the desk gently, stood up, and started working on the rest of the buttons you’d left undone, but as your arm brushed your side, it pressed the material to your tender skin, and you flinched. He noticed.

“I’m sure you could, but I’d feel better if I made sure you got there myself.”

“Sir, I’ve already caused you enough trouble. Let me leave with what dignity I have left,” you nearly begged, which stirred something unpleasant in his chest.

“You shouldn’t feel that way,” he argued. “I’m concerned. You’re still in pain, and I can get you home faster.”

“Theoretically, you could, but with the streak of luck I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours, I seriously believe that I’ll do something to cause you to get in a wreck on the way, which means neither of us would be getting home for quite awhile, rendering your argument inaccurate,” you countered as you tried not to whimper when the smooth material grazed the heated skin of the right side of your stomach.

He stood and said your name in a way that made you freeze, paralyzed by the authority in his tone. Before you could return to your senses, he rounded the desk to stand in front of you, and you weren’t sure if it was the air of command he exuded, but something was controlling you like a puppet on strings as you turned toward him, your eyes locking with his.

“Si-sir?”

“I am going to examine your burn, and if I feel it’s safe, I will take you home,” he stated with such gravity, it almost knocked you to the floor. It was a little exciting, especially because you knew he wouldn’t fire you if you defied him. Still, you were powerless to do such a thing, so you complied instead.

It was like a caress as he moved his shirt out of the way to see the skin that, to his relief, was not blistering, or showing any signs of being anything more than a superficial issue. He very gently brushed his fingers over it as his eyes went to your face to see the extent of your pain. You winced, but it wasn’t strong. He retrieved the gel from the first aid kit he’d left on the desk and applied another layer on the dry skin that had absorbed the first one, then checked your feet, which seemed to have received minimal damage. When he stood in front of you once again, you avoided looking at him.

“Thank you, sir, but please, let me just get a cab home. I can’t stand the thought of causing you any more trouble.”

“And I can’t stand the thought of not seeing you safely home,” he sighed, then gave in. “I will see you into a cab, and I would appreciate it if you texted me when you get home.”

“Sir, me texting you is the whole reason we’re in this mess,” you said with a bark of laughter.

“Then call me. Just promise to let me know, or you’re not going anywhere without me,” he demanded, sending a little chill down your spine. It was evident in his tone that he genuinely cared about you, but you could write it off as just being in a professional sense. If you had just lifted your eyes to connect with his, you’d see the smoldering embers in his gaze that would tell you otherwise.

“All right. I promise to text you. I apologize that if by some freak accident, you somehow end up with something even more inappropriate than what you already have. No matter how much I want to, I’d never send anything to you that would put either of our jobs at risk-”

“How much you want to?” He cut you off.

You gasped, realizing your major faux pas. Hands fidgeting like they were on steroids- you really needed to do something about that- you searched the recesses of your mind for something you could use to save the situation.

“No, no, th-that’s not... I meant.... How much I may want to, in a hypothetical case... Oh, god,” you finished with a pathetic groan as you covered your face, burning with embarrassment that put the heat of your injury to shame. The speed and efficiency with which you crafted the knot of your own noose would have made any boy scout envious.

While your fears from earlier came crashing back into you with the force of a meteor, he couldn’t take it anymore. You had been well out of his reach for multiple reasons before that day, and he was fine with that, until that godforsaken text. He’d optimistically planned to clear things up, then hopefully return to normal before too long. No one that could bring down any consequences on either of you, but especially you, would need to know. Crazy incidents that sounded like they belonged in some ridiculously written plot aside, he was still aiming for that, but then-

“Si-sir?” You muttered, still not looking at him.

You put a foot over the line, unintentionally taunting him when you inadvertently confessed that you wanted to intentionally send him something like that. If the circumstances were right, he figured. What would dictate those circumstances? Would you do it out of the desire to be intimate with him? You weren’t like many of the others who’d come onto him. Over the year you’d been employed under him, he felt like he’d gotten a good sense of who you were as a person, and that sense told him you’d stick around for more than one night- if even that long in the cases of some he’d seen sneaking out of his brother’s room when they were younger- of passion. You’d give him what he needed, which was a relationship of substance. He was confident that he wouldn’t be nearly as attracted to you as he was if he didn’t feel you could and would commit to him. And he was really attracted to you, in many ways, as evidenced by the delusion and other reactions the whole mess had brought about in him.

“Well, I’m going to go now. I’ll let you know when I get home, so you don’t have to worry about me.”

Even if you didn’t return his affections in the same way- but if you didn’t, why would you be willing to send him such an intimate image? You made it clear that you wouldn’t send it to just anyone, so... you had to feel the same way, right?

Damn it, it was just frustrating him, and he swore that he was going to get closure. He technically had for the issue he’d intended, only to have a different one plop in his lap. He could go home and repeat the previous night, or he could get answers and deal with them, for better or for worse.

“What did you mean by that?” He asked, coming off as more demanding than he meant to. You were halfway to the door when he spoke, and against your better judgment, you stopped.

“No-nothing,” you responded as you shook, back still to him as you clutched the shirt in your hands, not worried about wrinkling it, since you planned to get it dry cleaned that weekend, if not sooner. “I’m sorry, please just write it off.”

“If you tell me what you meant, I’ll let it go,” he promised, needing to hear the truth.

You clenched your hands into fists and your eyes shut as the hot sting in your eyes warned you of even more impending tears. Forget going home and getting drunk, you were going home to cry like a baby into your pillow until sleep took you, hoping you made it that far before you broke down. You couldn’t take anymore stress, humiliation, or slip-ups that could cost you everything you had built in your current occupation.

You grit your teeth, warring with yourself before caving. “I meant that I wish we were in a relationship where you want me to send things like that to you… but mostly one where I can be honest about how I feel about you, and hopefully, you’d feel the same.”

You took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll put in for a department transfer first thing in the mor-”

“I won’t approve it,” he cut you off for a third time. He was getting pretty comfortable with doing that, and it likely would have irritated you to some small degree under normal circumstances. “If you truly want to transfer, report me for misconduct so that you don’t need my approval.”

“For what misconduct?” You snapped, turning around. “As far as I can see, the only one guilty of that is me! Why won’t you approve it?”

“Because you’re an invaluable part of this team,” he said, his face giving away nothing.

“It’ll function fine without me,” you retorted.

“Why does what you said in the last thirty seconds mean that you have to transfer?”

You barked out a sardonic laugh. “Why does me basically telling my direct supervisor that I have romantic feelings for him mean that I have to transfer? Seriously? As if that’s not enough, look at everything else. Are you really going to be able to pretend that none of this happened?”

You just covered your eyes and hung your head. “All right, fine. If this has no effect on you, then I won’t make a bigger deal out of it than you want to. I’m going home now, before I do even more damage to myself, or god forbid, you. Goodnight.”

“You really think that’s all we are?” He said before you could turn away again. “I was under the impression that we had reached a level of friendship.”

You sniffled and rubbed at your eyes, smudging your makeup a bit. “Okay, yeah, we do have that. Tell me tomorrow if you still feel that way, again, if you’re able to pretend that this sorry mess didn’t happen.”

He set his jaw in determination and narrowed his eyes. “I won’t be able to because I have no desire to erase what has happened.”

“And why is that?” You questioned in exasperation, wondering why you weren’t kicking off your heels and walking out barefoot to give your poor feet some relief- Oh, yeah. Because the soreness called at least some attention away from the other aching parts of you, like your heart and your head.

So many answers flew through his mind, and none of them felt right. What if he said the wrong thing and you finally broke? What if he pushed you too far and you did push for a transfer? What if you quit? His rational mind said that you weren’t the type to quit over something like that, but you would try to get away from him within the company at the very least. What was the right answer?

“Let me clean up here, then I’ll see you into a cab.”

That was not it. That was not it at all.

“Fine,” you weakly agreed, too defeated to argue any further. “Here, I’ll go rinse those out.”

You approached his desk once more and reached out to pick up the short glasses, but one hand was restrained by another on your wrist. Turning your head, you fixed him with a curious stare, wondering what more he could possibly have to say. He said nothing. Even after a good half a minute of wondering what the hell was he thinking, neither of you said anything.

Of course, by that point, it was impossible to speak when your mouth was sealed by his. He was so not following standard protocol with the way his lips moved against yours. Not at all. For a dream-like moment of indulgence, neither were you as your eyes closed and your hands floated up to land on his shoulders.

Then you woke up.

“Sir!” You gasped as you pulled away abruptly, stepping backwards. “Wh-what... Why... We can’t-”

“I was responding to the confession I all but forced from you. I couldn’t think of the right way to tell you why I don’t want to forget any of ‘this sorry mess,’ as you put it. We can.” he said, answering what went through your mind as if he could read it.

What are you doing? Why did you kiss me? We can’t do this.

“B-but I can’t… Do you… How?” You sputtered.

He said your name with a reverence and tenderness that almost made you cry again as he stepped forward, gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, and made you look at him. “Tell me, do you want this?”

“God, yes!” you gave in, “but what about company policy? I don’t want to lose my job, and I know you don’t want to lose yours!”

To your frustration and confusion, the slightest laugh came from him. At your expression that conveyed the utter lack of understanding, and even some injured pride, he smiled softly.

“That’s the official rule, yes, but there are many relationships between employees of different positions. The unwritten rule is that as long as it is kept discreet and genuine, the higher ups look the other way. It has obviously been working as far as discretion goes, because most have the same idea you do, which is generally how we’d like to keep it. I’ve heard of very few that resulted in firing before something changed that allowed them to go public,” he explained.

“You’re kidding. So that section of the employment contract that everyone has to sign dictating that there can be no unprofessional relationships between employees that aren’t on the same rung of the corporate ladder is just a smoke screen?” You questioned.

“Essentially."

You looked off to the side, processing. “I see. That explains a lot, actually.”

It certainly explained how people you knew to be strict rule followers didn’t seem to try nearly hard enough to hide-

Wait, wha-?

Your head whipped back in his direction as you covered your mouth with a hand to hide the gaping hole it had become when your jaw hit the floor.

“So, what you’re saying is that you want a relationship... with me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he confirmed, face void of anything that would give you misgivings that he was less than deadly serious. Everything about him suggested that he didn’t take much lightly, but the way he removed himself from any conversation that drifted in the direction of romantic relationships had given you the impression that they were a topic that he kept very close to his chest for whatever reason.

“Sir-”

“I have a name,” he said, his deep voice floating through the still air. “I wonder if you remember what it is, given I’ve never heard you use it.”

That was true. Everyone else called him ‘sir’ less than half the time. It was usually Mister Sunano, or even his first name. He didn’t really care what he was called. Being addressed informally at work was nothing compared to the echoes of what had been shouted at him in his youth... But you were the exception.

Your eyes met his as you slowly lowered your hand, face far more composed than a second before. Yes, you’d barely referred to him as anything but ‘sir’ even outside work, let alone called to him with anything more familiar. Your friends teased you that he was either going to be turned off completely by your refusal to establish more intimacy through the typical convention of using his name, or be so turned on that if he ever got his hands on you, he’d make sure you understood just why you couldn’t use that particular title in public any longer. You told them to put a sock in it. You had originally been too intimidated to call him anything other than that, and then it just became habit after a month or two, and then when your little crush became harder and harder to ignore, you were afraid that increasing familiarity would break down the cage you were trying to keep your heart in-

When you didn’t respond for an agitating amount of time- if only you’d had the presence of mind to take the tiniest amount of sadistic pleasure out of watching him suffer in imposed silence- he sighed. “If you are still uncomfortable with the idea of going against the relationship rule, I understand. We will pick up tomorrow as if none of this ever happened. I can’t promise that I’ll forget, and I apologize if that makes things difficult. If you honestly wish to transfer, I will-”

“Gaara, please stop talking,” you softly commanded while you tried to think, cutting him off. When it hit you that you had interrupted him- jumping straight to using his first name at that- and again said what was on your mind without it passing through your mental security check, you tensed, starting to panic again, thinking that the world was seriously going to end because, dear god, you slipped up again and-

and then you reached your stress limit, and it all just came crashing down.

A house constructed of verbal filters, social barriers, professionalism, worries, and excuses in your mind just collapsed onto the foundation that had been cracking since the second you caught yourself thinking of him as anything other than your boss. Your throbbing heart was visible through those cracks, leaving you exposed, your eyes peering into his, completely unguarded. What was left for you to hide?

His eyes widened in mild shock at the angel’s sigh that was his name passing through your lips. He really had no idea what he had been missing, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go back to hearing ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ all the time.

“Again,” he muttered. “Say it again.”

You mouthed it, but nothing came out, so you tried again, and it was a just barely audible whisper.

It was enough.

There was no way to tell if one of you kissed the other first that second time. The pair of you were akin to an erupting volcano that oozed a year’s worth of sparks from each interaction, a year’s worth of affection that only showed when your masks slipped just slightly, a year’s worth of stolen glances that the other never saw, a year’s worth of attraction that made blood boil and cheeks flush... It flowed as smoothly as molten lava, and possessed even more heat.

Your hands gripped his shoulders as his hand returned to the back of your neck and the other rested lightly on your hip, feeling the familiar texture of his shirt. He was tempted to break the kiss so that he could stare at you and finally appreciate what was in front of him without guilt, but your lips on his felt too good.

Slowly, and reluctantly, you separated when the need for air became priority, but just enough for your eyes to lock with his, at least until those beautiful bright blue-greens ran over you from head to toe and back up. It made you feel both thrilled, and a little self-conscious.

“S-sir-”

“Unless I tell you otherwise, please, use my name when we’re alone,” he requested in a feather soft tone.

You acquiesced with a nod.

“Gaara,” you whispered. You’d forbidden yourself to get comfortable with even thinking his name before, but you knew right then that it was going to be all too easy to get used to saying it.

He smiled, the sweetest expression that made your heart pound.

“So,” you started, blinking at him with a face that couldn’t have been more innocent. “Does that mean I can send you pictures of a similar nature to the last one on purpose?”

His smile immediately fell, and it was obvious where his mind was when his eyes fell to your covered chest, then returned to your face, which was morphing from the naïve expression to a cat that ate the canary grin. His stomach sank and he felt a thrill of his own as he realized that he was going to see an entirely new side of you.

“And will there be opportunities to show you my little splurges in person without burning myself in the process?”

Your hands went to the top button of the shirt and undid it, then went to the second, and the third, and so on. When you sadly confessed that you were in love with him, you thought you were going to be going home, a pathetic woman that didn’t know how you survived that day, nor how you would survive the following days. There was no way on earth, in heaven or hell, that you would have believed you would end up kissing him, and then teasing him only seconds later. Blaming the stress and following relief made you feel less crazy.

“Speaking of that injury, would you mind looking at it one more time, please? One more layer of that gel should get rid of the stinging for good,” you requested politely, shrugging the shirt off when you finished unbuttoning, exposing the alluring lingerie you’d been so eager to show someone...

His eyes couldn’t have gotten any bigger, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was as shocked as you had been when he first kissed you, or because they were trying to drink in the sight of you to commit to memory. It was so much better than an illusion. He found himself nodding and kneeling down to inspect your skin that he was relieved to see was much better. The scalding wouldn’t leave anything that wouldn’t heal in a week. He brushed his fingers over it, light as a feather, and checked your face for a reaction. There wasn’t even a wince.

“You look like you’re going to kiss it better,” you joked.

He raised a non-existent eyebrow- the theories in the office regarding that particular topic were ridiculous- then the corner of his lips quirked up, almost looking mischievous, before they were pressed to your abdomen, where it was still a bit warmer than normal from the injury. Endorphins rushed from the point of contact through your whole body, eliciting a soft moan. You were hit by a huge wave of disappointment when he pulled away, only to have it dry up when you felt another kiss placed a little higher. More and more came, soft and slow, and it made you shudder and gasp as he moved up your torso, until he reached the bra, staring it in the giant rhinestone. The look on his face made you realize that you were going to get to see a new side of him.

“Did that hurt?” He asked, teasing you back. You gulped and shook your head. He rested his whole hand over where the worst of the damage had been. “How about this?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I’d say that you’ll survive.” He faintly smirked.

“I’ll trust you on that,” you said, suddenly feeling a little like a mouse staring up at a cat as it licked its lips.

“I think I better check again, just to be safe,” he muttered. He touched his fingers to your navel, the furthest extent of the damage, and ran them up your stomach to stop right at the gold colored diamond in between your breasts. “Did that hurt?”

“No,” you whimpered, realizing how touch starved you were. Your hands shook and your right one grabbed his wrist. His eyes narrowed in concern, afraid he’d crossed a line, then relaxed when you nervously pressed it to your chest. When you teased him with the little strip show with his shirt, you felt emboldened and in control, but he managed to turn the tables, making you feel like a shy school girl. You didn’t think he intended to do so, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a time for games.

The reverberating staccato of his heartbeat in his ears was unmatched as he beheld the softness beneath his hand. You were so beautiful, and it excited him to have you within reach, but it was all so new to him. He wasn’t sure how to proceed.

He pulled his hand away, and only by great self control were you able to hold back a whine. You eyed him, noting that he wasn’t showing discomfort exactly, just nerves. He refused to look at you, totally different from when he was feeling up your midsection... He didn’t fully understand that you wanted him, physically or emotionally, despite your declaration. He did say he felt he forced it from you, and then he must not have understood that the kiss you shared was your enthusiastic consent and confession.

“Sir,” you said deliberately, drawing his attention. “Forgive me, but I think it’s best that we establish a contract with terms and conditions, given this change in the status of our relationship.”

It was evident by the drop in his shoulders and the disappearance of the worried wrinkles in his forehead that your attempt at humor with the formal proposition relaxed him. Success.

“I suppose you’re right,” he answered with a faint laugh and smile, allowing you to make eye contact once more.

“You’ve already given me one, about using your name. Do you have any others?”

“I don’t have any experience with ventures of this nature,” he admitted, cheeks pink. “I think you should set your terms first.”

“I have very few. Be honest, be clear, and be you,” you stated politely. “We’ll both get the most out of this joint effort if we maintain trust and open communication, and it’s bad practice to enter any agreement under false pretenses. I will hold myself to the same standard. Is that agreeable?”

He couldn’t help the light chuckle that came from his chest, and his heart warmed at the way you lightened the mood.

“Yes, I find that all agreeable.”

“How would you like to seal the deal?” You questioned, leaving the next step up to him.

Those beautiful eyes that bordered on luminescent, outlined by dark rings that you’d been told were the result of years of insomnia, stayed on you. Slowly, as you could see the gears turning in his head, he projected an air that shifted from a man who didn’t seem confident in what he could do, to one that was ready to experiment with his boundaries. It was a sudden thrill ride that made your stomach sink and had you itching to rub your legs together to alleviate the sudden heat between them.

“I’d like to see the rest,” he stated firmly in a way that was not quite a command, but left little room for defiance.

Heat rushed to your face as you processed his request. “Th-the rest? You mean..?”

He simply nodded. You’d half way undressed for him already, but just how far did that willingness extend? He’d seen you in your picture, yes, but that was entirely a mistake, so it was different. How much of yourself were you content to bare to him?

You had no problem with showing yourself to him. There was no question of his respect for others, and for the entire year you’d known him, you’d never once seen him indicate in the slightest that he found preference in any certain shape. You’d overheard him agree with some men at the office end of year party that one of the female managers was really pretty, but he said it with the interest of someone stating that the sky was blue. It was one of the moments that made you fall for him the most. He appreciated everyone for who they were and their individual talents.

Still, the act of kicking your shoes off as you unzipped your pencil skirt felt awkward under his scrutiny, and you had to stare at the floor to keep your composure as you slid it down your legs. You stood in front of him, allowing him to see you with all your physical flaws, and crossed your arms over your stomach in a way that made you feel secure, but didn’t really hide you from him.

He didn’t like that. His hands came up to very gently pull your arms away so he could see you in all your splendor, from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. His eyes gave away nothing, making you squirm just slightly, but then his whole expression softened and his smile made a reappearance.

“I really like that color on you.”

“I wasn’t going to get it, until something told me that you would like it,” you admitted. “If that doesn’t make you question how accidental sending that picture was, nothing will. I swear, it really was. I was just-”

You cut off as he grabbed you by the hips and pushed you down on the edge of his desk, drawing out a shocked squeak.

“You’ve already made it clear that you didn’t mean to send it to me,” he growled. “You don’t need to keep saying that.”

You couldn’t keep the smug smile off your face. “No, sir. I didn’t intend to keep reminding you.”

“What did I say about using my name?” He snapped, waking up the brat in you.

“I don’t know. I mean, old habits die hard, sir. You might have to break me of it,” you taunted him.

He took that as a challenge that he just couldn’t turn down. His hands slid up your sides to the gorgeous clothing article, mindfully feeling it from sides to back, and when approved, to the front. His eyes focused on your breasts for only seconds before they shifted to your tattoo, heating up as they soaked in the flaming red that popped beautifully against your skin tone. A pale digit touched it, brushing over each line of the kanji, followed by his lips.

God, he was so romantic, and you were positive that he was a man to whom it just came naturally. Either that, or you needed to warm up your vocal cords to sing the praises of whoever educated him on how to treat a-

You opened your eyes- when had you closed them and dropped your head back?- to see the ceiling, a soft moan tearing up your throat when you felt him nip, then cautiously bite on the sensitive flesh at the base of your neck. When he had moved from your chest, you weren’t sure. You must have checked out for a second when you were appreciating the sweeter than sugar way he was handling you.

It was all too surreal, barely made easier to grasp the more his senses took you in. The taste of sweet mint still on your lips from the gum you chewed after lunch, the feeling of your succulent body under his hands quickly becoming so ingrained that he was sure his fingers would still be tingling with the phantom sensation the next day, your scent- a mix of your shampoo, body wash, and favorite perfume- clouded his mind, your breathy sounds and the whisper of his name ringing in his ears, and the vision of you in front of him, so very willing.

“Sir?” You spoke up when he backed off and his eyes took on a distant gleam, not intending to be defiant that time.

He held out for a few seconds before his mind returned from wherever it had wandered off to.

“That was your second strike,” he growled again, and your body temperature went through the roof.

You bit your lip and crossed a leg over the other, knowing there was no way you were dry after that. Leaning back on your hands, you smirked. Oh, could tempting your boss into taking you on his desk be more of a dream come true? It couldn’t, based on the hungry way his eyes raked over you.

“And what’s the punishment for strike three, sir?”

That last little formal address pushed him over the edge. He untied the double Windsor knot and removed the black silk tie that hung from his neck, his eyes never leaving you.

“You’ve never had a problem following orders before.”

“You’ve never ordered me to do anything before. You’ve always been so cordial and polite.”

You watched as his empty hand beckoned you forward, and like a puppet on a string, you obeyed.

“I’m not feeling cordial or polite right now. I’m definitely not feeling very patient.”

You grinned, unable to even pretend to put up a fight.

“Then I’ll accept whatever punishment you feel is appropriate.”

He guided you up by your hips and turned you around. pressing his chest to your back, and then everything went dark. You felt a pressure at the back of your head as he tied a knot to hold the makeshift blindfold in place. With the inability to see, every single nerve in your body became a live wire.

Without you looking at him, it was easier for him to focus on what he was doing without getting anxious under your gaze. His arms wrapped around you and his hands flattened against your stomach. Taking his time, he ran them over your midsection, grazing over each imperfect square inch of flesh that your friends glorified in an attempt to boost your confidence. So soft and warm, and he couldn’t see himself tiring of holding you. In fact, he’d give just about anything to be able to have you in his office every day, so he could take breaks and just hold you in his arms when he was getting too stressed...

“Gaara?” You dared to whisper, ripping him from his appreciative reverie.

“No talking,” he demanded, his voice raspy as he exercised a dominance that only seeped out through the tiny cracks in his genteel demeanor from time to time.

A violent shiver raced down your spine like electricity at his tone, then again when his fingers slipped under the lace, barely brushing over the underside of your breasts. Was he simply exploring, or testing how little effort it took to drive you out of your mind?

In his head, he was mapping you out like uncharted territory, and he’d be lying if he said your reaction to his slightest movement, his lightest touch, didn’t fascinate him. He hadn’t felt so excited by anything in such a long time... It was exhilarating, and he could only crave more. More of the little noises you made, more time to memorize you, more contact-

You cried out as his fingers moved higher, causing a pleasant prickling sensation when they slipped beneath your bra and brushed over your nipples as his palms cupped each mound. It was a beautiful torment as you tried to obey his rule. The words strained against the chains of your control, and a whimper of his name escaped as you brought your hands up to cover his.

“What did I say?” He questioned, sounding anything but irritated by your disobedience.

“So-sorry, si- Gaara!”

“You’re misbehaving on purpose, aren’t you? You have to be. I know you’re far more competent than this,” he said with a dark chuckle. His hands released you after pushing the fabric up, exposing your tits to the air, then ran down your stomach to your underwear.

Legs quaking, you were so close to giving in and relying on him to support you as he slowly- so agonizingly slowly- slipped his fingers underneath the top edge. There was a gush of slick awaiting him between your legs, but to your frustration, he stopped just as his knuckles disappeared beneath the material. Was his goal to drive you insane?

“Is this really okay?” His voice, mild and a bit uncertain, floated into your ear.

“Yes,” you mewled, but as you felt a brush of his shirt against your back, you stilled. “Wait.”

Without moving the tie that was blocking your vision, you turned around, using your hands to locate his shoulders. You could feel the change from the confidence and amusement with which he’d previously been groping you to confusion.

“This feels unfair to me. I’m all but naked here, and you’re no less covered than you were when I first walked in,” you pointed out. “I’d feel a little bit better if there wasn’t such a disparity between our levels of vulnerability.”

You felt down to his waist, where his cotton-polyester second shirt was tucked into his dark slacks, and pulled at it. Pulling it up by the hem at an unhurried pace to give him plenty of time to resist, you listened. Your ears detected a hiss of air between his teeth, and you froze. You couldn’t see that he had raised his arms to allow you to remove the clothing.

“Don’t stop,” he commanded quickly, and you couldn’t help your pleased smile.

“Of course,” you answered with a nod and finished taking it off. Subtle warmth radiated from him, making you just want to curl up in his arms and rest for eternity. You dropped his shirt so you could take advantage of the golden opportunity to get a feel for those muscles you’d only barely discovered. Under your hand, they felt better than they had looked under his shirt, and you nearly discarded your blindfold to get a glimpse of them.

He watched you with a fiery intensity, enjoying your touch, growing desperate for more. It wasn’t lust that moved him, though he’d be remiss to not admit that he was certainly experiencing the powerful emotion. The need to build a stronger connection- not only to satisfy a basic human need, but also to fulfill a personal need of everything that amounted to you that was deepening by the second- charged him like a powerful battery. He didn’t think when his arms darted out and encased you, the skin on skin contact causing a massive rush of endorphins and drawing a blissful sigh from both of you. “Gaara,” you whimpered, and then he was kissing you again, amorous and gentle one second to fierce and forceful the next. His hands ran over your body tenderly, caressing you like a treasure he’d searched for his whole life. When they found your breasts once more, he pushed your bra up, and the force with which he groped your chest had you torn between a gasp and a moan. A deeper moan interrupted the previous one as the pads of his thumbs brushed your nipples for a second time. The gentle touches were a rush, but nothing compared to the one that came when he suddenly removed your bra, displacing your blindfold for a second before he re-adjusted it, then turned you around once again and pressed up against your back. You couldn’t see the mildly possessive desire burning in his eyes, but you could feel the passion that had built up in him straining against his pants. His hand had returned to where it had been before he had stopped to receive verbal consent and kept going. He may not have been the most experienced, or experienced at all, but he had plenty of crude education, courtesy of his older brother and his blonde best friend, and that education told him that judging by how absolutely soaked you were, something had already done a good job of working you up. He couldn’t say for sure if you had come into his office less than dry, but his ego purred at the thought that he was the one who could claim credit. You were almost relying on him to keep you standing as he familiarized himself with your intimate area, powered by the noises you made.

Your knees were quaking as you leaned against him and clutched the hand over your ribcage. He brushed against your clit and you saw stars. It had been so long since anyone else’s hand had touched you, and the fact that it was your boss- no. The fact that it was Gaara- socially awkward, sweet, intimidating at times, devoted to his work and loved ones- no matter his position, had you ready to snap. “You’re so hot,” he whispered in your ear, running his hand on your chest down to your stomach. “We should probably do something about that.” And then he did the last thing you would have thought he’d do. He moved you to the huge window and pressed you up against the glass. You were dying to know where the fuck the man got his kinks. Luckily, you were high enough up that no one who wasn’t flying by in a helicopter could see you. The chilled surface felt amazing on your skin- he was right, you were overheating a bit. He then removed his tie and let you see the artificially lit city. It was breath-taking, and you briefly wondered if this wasn’t actually a kink, but his attempt to be romantic and helpful- “I want the whole city to know you’re mine,” he growled, sending a tremor down your spine that would have put a level eight earthquake to shame.

Nope. Definitely a kink.

“Am I?” You challenged him. “Am I really yours?” “I believe that’s what we agreed on.” “Did we?” You pressed back against him, brushing your ass against his straining length. “Prove it.” He wasn’t a total beast that lost control, like you had started to think he would be. No, he was much worse. He turned you around and-

“Oh my god,” you gasped when you saw the inked images running up and down his arms. You got a full look at the half naked man before you. His hair was tussled, his forehead and arms were tattooed, and his eyes were absolutely wild. He was the most beautiful person you’d ever seen.

He got you on your back- after laying his jacket down under your back so you wouldn’t be irritated by the coarse fibers of the carpet- and then he dialed back his intensity, which was brutal after being brought to such a pleasurable height only a couple minutes before. “You were such a good girl before. What happened?” He taunted, lightly touching you in the places you’d responded most strongly to when he was exploring you before. “Gaara,” you groaned. “If only everyone in the office knew you were such a tease.” “They’d never believe it if you told them.” He smirked with pride. He had a carefully constructed mask, and no one that he didn’t feel close enough to could see through it. You were one that he had deemed special enough. He was allowing you to see the faces he hid from everyone else. The uncertainty, the doubt, the love, the lust, and everything else, you knew he’d let you see them all with little reservation- in comparison to what he showed others, anyway- because he wanted you and trusted you.

The thought struck you hard, ringing through your being, and you couldn’t help smiling. Your body released its tension, stupefying him. You were on the verge of begging him to give you release, and suddenly became the picture of tranquility. When you stepped into his office, you were wrestling with fear and wanton desire that were eating at you like ravenous wolves. When you were trying to leave, you were disheartened and defeated. When you actually walked out that door, it would be with your head held high and in the best spirits you could imagine, feeling loved and appreciated by someone you deemed special enough to merit putting your heart on the line before you even knew how they felt. He watched you as you sat up, having no idea where things were going. “No, they wouldn’t, and I’m pretty happy about that. I get to keep this side of you all to myself.” His eyes changed from swimming with confusion to your favorite tender gaze, the one that had started everything for you from the first time you saw it. He leaned in and you shared the softest kiss yet. What had previously been more one sided as power shifted between you two, whoever could fluster the other being the one in charge, became a sweet and equal balance. You held him loosely by the back of his neck while your other hand ran down his chest, eliciting a soft growl from deep in his throat. “Gaara,” you whispered when you broke apart. “I love you.” Shock flashed across his face, followed by an expression that you could only describe as insecure and frightened. “You don’t have to say anything, I just wanted you to know. Come on,” you told him, then laid back down, inviting him with twinkling eyes and a playful smile. “Are you sure?” He inquired, and you saw clear conflict in his eyes. There were rumors around the office ranging from that he was asexual, to the idea that he had his own personal harem. You had no clue where most of those ideas came from, but you had a feeling the more scoffed at idea that he wasn’t asexual but had never had sex was right on the mark, especially since he admitted that he had no experience in establishing a relationship.

“Yes, but it’s okay if you’re not,” you assured him, “If what we’ve done is all you’re comfortable with, then it’s enough.”

You got on your knees in front of him. “But give me a chance to make you feel good?” He appeared a little unsure, and you wondered if he had any experience being touched at all, or if he had a bad experience. He had no problem making sure you felt good, but he didn’t seem to have an idea of how it felt to be catered to. “It’s okay,” you said with a soft smile before pecking him on his lips and getting up to dress. Inside his head, Gaara was running laps. You were the first person he’d ever been so intimate with- ever desired to be so intimate with- but when it came down to being fully vulnerable, he hesitated. He’d been in positions of power for so long, and even when he had higher ups to answer to, no one would ever make the mistake that he was ever less than in complete control of his position. The idea of handing that control over to someone, even if it was only for a few moments of pleasure… It terrified him. More than terrified him. He didn’t know how to relinquish that much control to someone, did he? That’s what love was all about, right? When you said you love him, he didn’t doubt it for a second, but he choked on his reply. You took it in stride and kept moving…

“Gaara?” He barely registered that you had spoken to him, and that you were kneeling back in front of him.

You called his name again, but he was unresponsive. “Oh god, I broke my boss,” you muttered, touching his shoulder. You had no idea what to do to snap him out of whatever trance he was in. Throw water on him? Gently slap him? Shove him? ...You got one idea that you hoped would stop you from needing to use force.

“Okay, sir, I guess I’ll just head home, if that’s all you need,” you said clearly and at a higher than normal volume, praying that it would shake him up enough.

One word pierced through the mental fog, and the rest got through, eliciting a growl and glare. “I told you not to call me that, and you aren’t going anywhere without me.” “Oh, thank goodness,” you sighed in relief. “You scared me.”

Confusion painted his face. “I lost you for a bit there. I’m very sorry if I did something that upset you or triggered something unpleasant. We can talk about it later, if you want, and you can tell me what you’re comfortable with. I don’t want to do anything that you’re unsure about. It’s probably best that you get going anyway, since you’ve got people ex- Mmph!”

You really should have kept a tally on how many times he did that, but how he went from a state of confusion to- “Shut up,” he panted when he stopped kissing you to catch his breath, and his hands went to undo the buttons you had just done up.

It was your turn to play host to the confusion he’d previously held, and it was much deeper than it had been with him. “Wha-” “I gave you an order.”

Your briefs were not going to dry out on their own any time soon, and your legs were quivering as you leaned back on your calves.

He wasn’t confused about anything, and it had changed so fast, it would have left the metro train in the dust. He trusted very few people enough to risk being compromised- four, to be exact- and he wasn’t inclined to strip down and tangle with any of them- it would be a crime if he was to do so with three of them. Naruto… He wouldn’t have ruled him out exactly, if asked, but otherwise, he wouldn’t have contemplated it at all.

Then you were right in front of him, in his shirt again, worried about upsetting him, wanting to see to it that he was comfortable… It wasn’t just then either. It was how you had been with every interaction since the day he met you. You showed interest in him as a person, but you weren’t pushy. He’d analyzed you as an employee for a year, and without thinking about it, he’d fallen in love with you.

Without thinking about it… When he didn’t think, when he just let himself feel, the fear went away. Just feeling was what got him to that point with you, and he didn’t regret it in the slightest. It wasn’t easy, but just moving without stopping to assess the consequences felt nice. It didn’t go over his head that it was only because it was you, who had been brave enough to face him after that picture and accept whatever decision he made about what would come of it, strong enough to admit to him how you felt about him when you had already been so exposed in more ways than one, kind enough to let him set the pace, considerate enough to think about the people waiting on him, thoughtful enough to bring him coffee when you believed he was staying late… It was only because you made him feel so at ease. He was safe with you, he wanted you, and as long as he focused solely on you, he wasn’t afraid.

“Ga-Gaara?” You whispered, seeing that he was in a bit of a trance again. It was enough to bring him back, and then he kissed you again, unable to explain what was going through his mind and heart. It was so soft and sweet, you were completely distracted and didn’t even notice that he’d removed the shirt from you again. Again, you whispered his name, and again, it lit a fire in him. His body pressed to yours as he lowered you onto your back on his jacket once more, a hand around the back of your neck to keep your lips pressed to his, and the other on your lower back.

Nothing entered your mind as you held him against you, wishing that you’d never have to let go. Your lips moved against his in a manner that was opposite to the frantic way your hands felt him up, like you were going to lose him any second.

With no preamble, he pushed up your skirt, bunching it over your stomach. Then his hands moved to your drenched briefs and paused, wanting to hear you consent again. “Please,” you whimpered before he could ask, desperate to feel his hand there again.

He gave a slight nod, then slid them down your thighs, over your knees, and all the way off. How would you react if he told you that you weren’t getting them back? His lips curled into a semi-smirk at the thought, and that, coupled with the way you were gazing at him- as if he were the most god-like being, yet also seeing the humanity in him- drove him forward. He unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, and an instinct he never realized he possessed took over. You propped yourself up on your elbows and watched him with growing adoration, amazed at the way he took control. You would have gladly taken the lead and didn’t expect much of him, but he was carrying on with more confidence than you would have expected of anyone who had been so nervous just a minute or two before. He was so focused and intent as soon as he confirmed once again that you were a willing participant. Willing was an understatement if there ever was one.

He gazed back at you when he was free from the confines of his pants, but his cock was still tucked into his briefs. “What do you want me to do next?” He inquired in a soft voice, not wanting to shatter the tranquility that had settled over you. He wouldn’t have spoken at all, but he wanted to make sure he did it right. You beckoned to him, coaxing him into looming over you. “I want you to fuck me, sir,” you whispered, barely above the volume of a breath. There it was again. That goddamn title. He growled, warring with himself on whether or not to give you what you desired after your insolence that he just knew was intentional. He desired it too, evidenced by the sensation in his stomach and his throbbing member- the erection that had mostly been maintained despite the interlude of uncertainty was at its max, and he couldn’t hold back. He pulled it out from his underwear- the tip red, engorged, and weeping- and brushed it against your dripping sex.

The moan that came from you was not one you had ever heard before, and it might have been embarrassing, but you were well past the blushing point. You needed him then and there, and you let him know with a whine of his name.

In the future, he would deny you and tease you until you couldn’t remember your own name- and make you wonder what the hell happened to the sweet, slightly shy man you’d initially seen- but that would have to wait until he made you his. You gave a cry of euphoria mixed with the lightest pain as he made his way inside you, stretching you out as he moved deeper and deeper and deep-

Another cry of delight was ripped from you as he hit the spot that had your whole body buzzing like your nervous system was coursing with electricity.

He faintly chuckled as you adjusted, interrupted by a sigh of bliss as you clenched your walls around him, greedily taking what he gave.

“Mo-move,” you requested, almost demanding as you shifted your hips, trying to find that spot again.

“Who’s supposed to give the orders here?” He said, the gruff tone of his voice making you shiver, but complied because he wanted to please you, and he wanted to further explore the physical pleasure he’d never experienced before. He really thought Kankuro was exaggerating.

You were so far gone in pleasure, but you could still appreciate the way the sweat beaded on his brow as he thrusted into you, taking no half measures. You reached up and brushed his bangs out of the way as they fell into his eyes. A particularly hard and well placed thrust had you reflexively pushing your hips back against his, drawing a staggered groan from his throat. It shoved you to the very edge, and you were one good push away from falling over.

“So close,” you whimpered, your hands going to his beautifully inked arms.

In return, you got a grunt as he gave a harder thrust. You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him in as tightly as you could. That put you at an angle that had him nailing you in the best way,

Your shriek of his name would have anyone still in the building running to you. The emotions from the day, every second of dread, sorrow, and fear culminated in the greatest high, channeling into the positive feelings you’d felt with him. Your soul, body, and mind had reached nirvana.

He wasn’t far behind as your hot pussy tightened around his cock, overwhelming him and leading to his undoing. He answered your shout with one of your name as he gave one last thrust and emptied himself into you. You had the brief thought that you were glad you were on regular birth control.

The two of you panted as you stared at each other following the release, and there was a surrealness about it, both of you wondering if it really happened, or if you’d wake up the next morning and find it was only a delusion. Both robbed of words, you were mute as you sat up and pushed your skirt back down, then looked down at your hands. If it was a delusion, you wanted to make sure everything was said.

“I love you,” you muttered, then repeated it a bit louder. “I love you so much, Gaara, and I’ll never be able to go back to what we were before. I don’t know what will happen from here, and if you don’t completely feel the same way, I understand. That’s all right, just-” “Shut up,” he commanded, but it was tender.

You lifted your gaze to see him looking a total mess, but it was even more attractive than his normal appearance.

“What about what we just did gave you the impression that I don’t feel exactly as you do?” “I-I’m just saying that-” “And I’m just saying that I do. I don’t know any better than you do about the future, but I’m not about to let you go. I love you, and I’ll do whatever we have to in order to make this work.” A short laugh of disbelief escaped you before you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing his cheek.

“Okay. I can work with that.” Smiles bloomed on both of your faces, and after a few kisses that gradually grew more heated, you managed to part enough to put yourselves back together. Agreeing to spare the cleaning staff the confusion and possible horror, you did the best you could to clean the evidence of your escapade out of the carpet, and used the rag he’d treated your burn with to clean each other up. He reluctantly allowed you to reclaim your briefs. That time.

“I’ll take you home, if you’d like, but I have an affair that I’d enjoy a lot more if you were there,” he said as the two of you were heading out. “I understand if you’d rather not.” “You mean… Meeting your family?” You questioned, joy and terror at the thought washing over you.

“Yes, but as I said, I under-” “I’d love to. I just don’t know if I’m properly dressed, and they aren’t expecting me.” “You’re dressed fine, but we can stop by your home for you to change, and as the guest of honor, they can deal with me expanding the guest list by one person.” You laughed and nodded, loosening up slightly. “Okay.”

When you walked into the house Gaara owned and shared only with his son after swinging by your apartment for a change, you were met with wide-eyed looks of disbelief. It only took a minute before Kankuro and Temari were smirking at their little brother, being privy to how he talked about you whenever they asked him about how work was going.

“Wait, so you two are dating,” Kankuro said after the awkward introductions. “Is this going to be some watered down Fifty Shades of Grey shit?” “Kankuro!” Gaara scolded, then glanced at Shinki, who seemed blissfully unaware as he analyzed you.

“Gaara, I hate to say it, but he’s going to hear about it within the next few years, with how prevalent it is in pop culture,” you spoke softly, smiling at the boy, then glared at Kankuro. “That said, anyone who openly discusses what’s in that book or anything like it in front of a child is going to meet the business end of my newest stilettos, got it? Besides, she was never his employee. If you’re going to say stupid things like that, at least get your facts straight.”

The elder brother eyed you, then looked to the younger. “I see why you brought her home.”

A smile bloomed on Gaara’s lips as he watched you bend down to get better acquainted with the eight-year-old. This was no doubt a worthwhile venture that he hoped to maintain for as long as possible.

You stayed until after Temari left, and Shinki went to bed. Kankuro offered to take you home as he was preparing to leave.

“If it’s not out-” You started to say. “She’s staying the night.” You tried not to show the astonishment you felt at the abrupt change of plans. Kankuro smirked. “Moving kind of fast, aren’t you, little brother? You better be careful. I know you don’t keep any protection on hand, and you don’t have any experience with this kind of thing, but those emotions can get pretty powerful, pretty fast-” “We’re not teenagers, Kankuro,” Gaara sighed.

“I know. I’m just saying.”

“Then stop.”

Once the other man was gone, you shot Gaara a proud smirk. “So... that was a sudden change.”

Guilt was written on his face as he gazed back at you. “Is it a problem? I’m sorry, it was presumptuous and impulsive. I just thought it was the best way to end my-”

Your lips barely brushed his as you leaned in and whispered something that made his head spin and cost him his ability to think straight.

“What are you waiting for? Take me to bed.”

[smokeybrandreviews]

Twincest

I have been absolutely captivated by Rachel Weisz for years. I was introduced to this vision of beauty like most of my peers, way back when the Brendan Fraser Mummy flick dropped. Her Evy Carnahan made that film for me. I mean, it’s excellent on it’s own, so campy and hilarious, but i left that theater back in the waning days of the Nineties, one hundred percent smitten with Weisz. My adoration for her definitely started as a teenage crush but, as time has gone on and my cinematic sensibilities have matured, I've fallen in love with her acting ability. Rachel Weisz never misses, man. Sunshine, Enemy at the Gates, The Constant Gardener, The Fountain, The Lovely Bones, Oz the Great and Powerful, The Lobster, Disobedience, and The Favourite are all favorites but Constantine definitely stands out. I have written at length about my love for that flick. I mean, The Favourite is up there, too, but Constantine is just aces in my book, mostly because Rachel Weisz kills it.

Obviously, whenever she has a project drop, I'm giving it my full attention and her newest just so happens to be an updated re-imagining of one of my favorite Cronenberg blood baths. You know i had to check out Dead Ringers! I’m a fan of horror. Have been for years so Croneneberg’s unique vision of the grotesque and the horrible always rings truer to my eye than, say, Clive Barker. Toss Rachel Weisz into the mix, turn it from a two hour film, into an six episode, prestige mini-series on Amazon, and i am there with bells on!  Listen, I'm not going to spoil anything about this show. Not even a goddamn hint. I am just going to gush about how f*cking amazing this viewing experience was and how i am devastated that it’s over. Off the top, Dead Ringers is excellent. Go watch that sh*t, right now. It’s on Amazon so if you have Prime, you got it. If you don’t, pay the ten dollars or whatever for the month and binge that sh*t because it’s inspired! Weisz delivers one of her best performances, playing dueling twins, Elliot and Beverly Mantle. They’re Gynecologists who do gynecological things, brilliantly, until they don’t. And things get weird. Then they get bloody. Also, even weirder. The rest of the supporting cast really carries their own weight, especially the likes of Jennifer Ehle. Her Rebecca Parker is just so insidiously delightful.

Even more than the performances, i have to praise the exceptionally strong direction. Four people took the helm over these six episodes and the tone maintained a steady feel. You’d never know that someone different directed episodes two through five. But, for me, the cherry on top of this ridiculously fattening cinematic sundae, was the cinematography. God, his show is shot beautifully! Each frame is a goddamn work of art. It reminds me of an Ari Aster film or that old Hannibal show from NBC which was criminally canceled. Dead Ringers is everything you want in a prestige television series. It’s a solidly performed epic, full of violence, sex, intrigue, and the darkest humor this side of Fargo. If the idea of Rachel Weisz playing unhinged and genius identical twins with a penchant for the sapphic isn’t enough to grab your attention, then do it for the bonkers spiral over six episodes. If you’ve seen the original Cronenberg film from the Eighties, you have the broad strokes of the plot but make no mistake; This version of that story is definitely it’s own thing. It’s more “inspired by” than a direct, gender-bent, remake. I positively cherished my time in this world and want to play within it much, much, more. If you have a morning or afternoon to kill, take the time to savor this show. It’s so deliciously perfect!

[westmoor]

Chapters: 3/? Rating: T Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel (The Witcher)

Geralt of Rivia is a Witcher. He hunts monsters, fights evil, and makes the world a safer place.

Jaskier is a horror fiction writer. He knows fuck all about monsters. But when his (very attractive) next-door neighbour starts acting suspiciously, he's certain he has found himself a muse in a real-life Witcher. Almost certain. Like, ninety percent.

This isn’t new, per se, but I’m spiffing it up and fleshing it out, and reuploading it in a forum that’s hopefully a little more suited for it. This AU is my happy place.

Updates daily for as long as I have updates to push, and then we’ll see.

Heed the warnings, though: No plot, only stupidity. The only thing worse than the characters is the dumbass who writes them.

[searchingwardrobes]

The Early Leaf’s a Flower: 11/11

I can't believe we are at the end of this fic! I am immensely proud of it, and I am so thankful for those who were willing to go on the journey with me to re-imagine Someone to Watch Over Me. I feel like the original was just a germ of an idea, and this event gave me the courage to build an entire world around it. A world similar to canon, yet unique. World building has never been my strength, and this re-write stretched me and helped me grow. In that way, I am so thankful to the ladies in the csrt discord chat, especially @optomisticgirl​ who stepped in as one of my last minute betas. B, you are the queen of world-building, and you have no idea how many times you helped me in chats to work out my own world in this story! Character development was also a big challenge in this fic, and for that I thank @shippingtheswann​, my other beta. Emma and Killian's relationship wouldn't be as rich if not for you! And thank you to @distant-rose​ for helping me with the Lost Boys, the pirate crew, and the Neverland mythos. (If you ever need any info on pirates and ships, she's your girl!) I was nervous to take the story into some dark places, but you cheered me on and helped me trust my instincts. And of course, tons of thanks to the mods of this event at @captainswanbigbang​. I was contemplating abandoning this fic until I saw you were organizing this, so massive kudos for putting this on!

One final thing, and I'll shut up and get to the actual chapter. My original vision for this fic was to take it where people had been begging me to - with Emma reuniting with her parents and the fall out from that - yet with my own version of the Enchanted Forest and the curse. However, as I worked on the story, I realized I had bitten off way too much. Therefore, I decided to split up the story. Sooo, this isn't the end! There will be a part two, which I am already working on. I will not be posting it until it is complete. It is shorter than this story, however, so hopefully the wait won't be too long!

Summary: She saw eyes that were the blue of the forget me not peering at her through the cracked door of the wardrobe. He saw hair as gold as the buttercups. Why does the wardrobe keep bringing them back to one another, if fate keeps tearing them apart? Or maybe fate has her reasons …

Rating: M for sexy times, violence, canonical character death, and attempted rape (all in previous chapters - this last chapter is mostly fluff)

Words: 6k and some change in this chapter

** Complete and updated every Monday** Also on Ao3

Emma and Killian: Age 24

When Emma was a little girl, she had found a book of fairy tale stories at the school library. Inside was a picture of a little cottage by the sea made of a hodgepodge of stones and a thatched roof, and rolling all around it were hills of soft grass. She can no longer remember what story the illustration accompanied, but she does remember how often she would stare at that picture, thinking how cozy the family must have been who lived in that house. She checked the book out every chance she got, and when she was moved yet again to a new foster family and a new school, she had committed a grievous sin: she had ripped the picture out of the library book.

Well, it had felt like a grievous sin to her seven year old self. Especially when the sweet librarian, Miss Stacy, had reminded them gently on numerous occasions of the proper way to treat the books. Ripping pages was definitely not the proper way.

Somewhere along the line, she had lost that ripped page. Yet here, below her now, nestled in the dip of the hills and facing the sea along the shores of Avalon, is that dream house of her childhood.

“Killian,” is all she can manage to say.

“Do you like it?” he asks, dipping his chin and scratching behind his ear. How can he be nervous giving her such a gift? Henry yells in delight and races down the hill towards the cottage.

Finally, she finds her voice again. “Like it? I dreamed of a house like this. When I was a kid.”

“Truly?” he asks incredulously, eyes bright with hope.

“Yes!” she exults, throwing her arms around his neck and peppering his face with kisses. She shakes her head as she pulls back, cupping his face with her hands. “But we can’t live here. Won’t you miss the sea?”

“A pirate ship is no place to raise our son, and besides . . . “ he pulls her closer to the quaint home. Once they crest the hill, the land levels out, and the view is breathtaking. “ . . . there’s the sea right at our back door,” he finishes with a wide grin.

“Mama,” Henry cries as he comes flying out the front door, “can I pick out my room? There are three. Cause I want the one upstairs. Can I have the one upstairs?”

Emma laughs at her son’s barrage of questions. Killian reaches down and scoops up the wriggling child.

“Sorry, my boy, but you’re mum gets first choice.” He successfully cuts off the lad’s whines by tickling him. Then he sets Henry down upon his feet and ruffles his hair. “In the meantime, why don’t you pick some flowers for your mother? The field over there is carpeted with them.”

Killian points west away from the sea, and Henry eagerly scampers off. Emma calls after him to be careful.

“Don’t go too far! Make sure you can still see the house!”

“He’ll be fine, Swan,” Killian assures her, pulling her inside the house. “He never fell overboard on the Jolly despite your worrying, now did he?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Haha, that really puts my mind at ease.”

Killian winks at her, then gives her a tour of the first floor, which is bigger than she would have expected. There’s a small foyer, then a formal sitting room to the right and a formal dining room to the left. At the end of the hall is a kitchen that opens up into a family room with a stone fireplace identical to the one in the parlor. Next to the stove in the kitchen is a door that opens out onto a patio with an even better view of the rocky sea below. Between the hallway and the kitchen is another door that leads into the master bedroom. The bed is tucked right beneath the window, and Emma can imagine falling asleep to the soothing sounds of the crashing waves.

“There’s no indoor plumbing like in your realm,” Killian explains as Emma circles the room, her hand skimming over the furnishings, “but there is a stream practically in our backyard, and the kitchen is large enough to put a tub in one corner.”

Emma pauses in her explorations and arches a brow at him. “You think I’m going to complain about a lack of plumbing after six months on the Jolly Roger?”

Killian manages another nervous laugh. “So you like it?”

She steps close to him, resting both of her palms on his chest. “I’m more worried if you’ll like it. You won’t miss the adventures at sea?”

“As I’ve said many times, piracy is ten percent adventure, ninety percent sheer boredom.” He lifts one of her hands and kisses it. “I’m ready for a life with you and Henry. I’m ready for the family I haven’t had since my mother passed.”

Tears well in Emma’s eyes. It’s still hard to believe sometimes that anyone would choose her, put her first. Yet this man isn’t just anyone, is he?

“Besides,” Killian says, thumbing her chin, “the Jolly still belongs to us.”

“But are you really satisfied turning her into a merchant ship? Is your crew?”

He draws her close, tucking her head beneath his chin. “Mason has always wanted to go to the naval academy, and with a year or two on a respectable merchant ship, he can. Hawkins wants to go to university, and Curly is looking at a plot of land to purchase and farm. Starkey has a sweetheart in Camelot, though he’s tried to hide it. As captain of my vessel, he can now ask for her hand. They’ve all grown up, Swan, and they have dreams and plans of their own.”

“And they’re loyal to their first captain,” Emma amends with a smile.

“I don’t know why.”

“I do,” she tells him, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “Are you sure you won’t get bored doing ledgers, placing orders, or whatever else merchants do?”

Killian shakes his head and bops her nose. “Quit doubting me, love! Besides,” he leans closer and stage whispers in her ear, “don’t tell anyone this, but I rather enjoy keeping the ledgers.”

Emma finds the nerd beneath his swashbuckling swagger incredibly sexy for some reason. “Well then,” she teases, stepping away from him to saunter over to the large bed. She grasps one of the bedposts and drapes herself around it in what she hopes is a sexy maneuver. “In that case, Mister Jones, maybe we should christen this bed.”

Killian growls and pounces, yanking her close and claiming her lips hungrily. Emma’s just dropped to the bed with a giggle when Henry comes pounding inside.

“Watcha doin?”

Emma almost falls to the floor in her haste to push Killian off her and jump to her feet. “Um, Papa’s just . . . tickling me.”

Killian chokes as he tries to hold back a laugh, but Henry is oblivious. Their son sticks out his hand, and clenched in his fist are a bunch of small yellow flowers.

“Oh, well, I did what Papa said and got you some flowers, Mama!”

“Buttercups!” Emma can’t help the tears that spill down her cheeks. “Thank you Henry!”

She picks up her son as Killian steps closer. He embraces both of them, brushing kisses to the tops of their heads.

“Welcome home, my loves,” he tells them.

******************************

After removing his boots by the door, Killian tiptoes through the cottage, the light of the full moon helping him avoid the furniture, Henry’s toys, and Emma’s shoes which she always leaves wherever she happens to kick them off. When he gets to the kitchen, he’s able to light a lamp so he can find the supper that Emma promised to leave on the stove. The Jolly was late coming into port, and going through the inventory took much longer than he had anticipated. Luckily, Emma is used by now to that most unpredictable of mistresses: the sea.

“Killian?”

The sound of his name is weak, yet he can still make it out on the other side of their bedroom door. He crosses to the bedroom, opening the door as quietly as possible. Emma’s curled up on the bed, her hair lit gold by the moon, and she’s so still he thinks maybe he didn’t hear her after all. He wants to reach out and touch her, yet he doesn’t want to wake her.

“Killian? Killian?”

She stirs slightly, but it’s clear she is still half asleep as she mumbles his name.

“Aye love, it’s me.”

“Killian?”

“Yes?” He touches her lightly through the blankets.

She says his name a few more times, like a question, and he can’t help smiling at how disoriented she is. He’s learned over the past year that she does in fact talk in her sleep. She finally seems satisfied that he’s here, and that he’s Killian. Her body relaxes and she mumbles good on a sigh. He pats her gently again and turns to go, but before he can, she reaches out and manages to find his hook in the dark.

“But you’re not leaving?” she asks, still in that sleepy voice.

The question makes his heart swell. “No love, I’m not leaving.”

“Henry’s not leaving?”

He lifts his hook and brushes his lips across her hand, which clings to the metal tightly. “No, Swan.”

She lets out a little shudder and releases his hook. He bends, brushes a kiss to her brow, then turns back to the kitchen.

“Killian, have we done this before?”

The question has him frozen with his hand on the doorknob. He isn’t sure what she means by the question.

“I only just got home, Emma,” he tells her gently.

“Oh,” she murmurs, sleep finally beginning to claim her fully and slurring her words. “I guess I dreamed it, then.”

Killian tiptoes out and slowly closes the door behind him. He chuckles to himself as he sits down at the table with the food Emma had left on the stove. Yet as he takes a bite of the roast on his plate, he sobers. He hates the fears that sometimes plague Emma. He wonders how long it will take for the love in their little home to ease them.

******************************

Killian awakes the next morning to the banging of pots and pans, sometimes punctuated by curses in their small kitchen. He may have had second thoughts about the location of the master bedroom if he had been aware of the fact that Emma was completely incapable of moving about quietly.

“Can I have more strawberries, Mama?” Henry calls out, far louder than necessary, and Killian groans as he shoves the pillow over his head.

“Shhh,” Emma admonishes, in the exact same volume as their son, “you’ll wake up Papa.”

“Why’s he not up? He said he’d bring home more paper for me.”

“You know the ship doesn’t always arrive on time. Now eat.”

Killian flings aside the pillow with a sigh, knowing that getting any more shut eye is impossible. Yet as he buckles his brace and slips into his shirt, he only feels joy well inside his chest. He did get Henry more paper for his scribbles, and he can’t wait to hear what tall tales the lad will weave next. He can’t, at only six, truly write yet, but he feels with fatherly pride that it’s merely a prelude of what is to come.

Once he’s dressed, he grabs the parcels wrapped in brown paper and string that he’d hidden in the nightstand before he went to bed. He tucks them under his hooked arm, then bursts through the bedroom door. “Making an entrance,” as Emma would say.

“Papa!” Henry cries out, tossing aside his fork and jumping up from the kitchen table.

“Killian!” Emma admonishes, turning from the stove with a spatula in her hand. “I was trying to let you sleep.”

“A pointless endeavor, love,” he quips with a wink. Emma rolls her eyes and turns back to the stove. Henry leaps onto his back, trying to grab the parcels.

“Whaddya get me, Papa?”

“Well, get off me, you little monkey, and I’ll show you.” Henry slides to the floor, and Killian hands him the largest parcel. “Paper, as requested.”

“Yay! But what’s the other one?”

Killian hands him the small, compact, rectangular package and grins as Henry rips into it. The paper falls away to reveal a leather bound book with beautiful gilt-edged pages and hand painted illustrations in deep hues.

“That, my boy, is a book of tales from Agrabah where the air smells like spices and the sultanese keeps a tiger for a pet!”

“Wow! Will you read it to me right now?”

Killian glances over his shoulder at his wife. “Not until after you eat your breakfast.”

He ruffles Henry’s hair, and the boy obeys. Killian turns to the stove where Emma is purposefully keeping her back to him, though he can’t fathom why. He saunters up behind her and leans over her shoulder, breathing in the vanilla scent of her hair.

“Mmm, something smells delicious.”

“It’s just pancakes,” she retorts, but she is unable to hide her smile.

“I wasn’t talking about breakfast,” he growls lower against her skin. He feels her shiver beneath him, but when he tries to grab her around the waist, she dodges him. She grabs the plate of pancakes and carries them to the table.

“Eat them before they get cold,” she says with forced cheerfulness, and he frowns. She sits next to Henry, sliding a pancake onto the boy’s plate, and Killian sits as well.

“I got you something too,” he tells her, sliding a small parcel across the table with his hook.

Emma still refuses to meet his gaze, fiddling with the string around the square package that could fit in the palm of her hand. “You know I never need anything but you.”

“Yet a man likes to spoil his bride. Go ahead, open it.”

She glances up at him from beneath her lashes, then tears into the paper with a tentative smile. It falls away to reveal a small velvet box, and Emma gasps before she’s even lifted the lid. When she does finally open it with trembling fingers, she breathes out his name. Killian slides off his chair and falls to his knees next to her. He pulls the gold ring with its simple jade stone reverently from the velvet and slides it onto the ring finger of her left hand.

“I promised you I would get you a ring the day we wed, remember?”

Emma nods, staring at the gem and turning it in the light.

“I know diamonds are the usual choice, but this immediately made me think of your eyes. Then the gold like your hair . . . “ he trails off worriedly. “Emma?”

She looks up at him finally - and promptly bursts into tears. Killian glances at Henry worriedly.

“Take your breakfast outside on the patio, okay?”

Henry nods and scurries off without argument, his brown eyes wide as he glances at his mother. Killian rubs his wife’s back and whispers soothing words, most of them nonsense. He hands Emma his handkerchief, and she wipes it across her eyes, then blows her nose loudly. She cocks her head at him, and the words out of her mouth are the last ones he expected.

“Did we have a conversation when you came home last night?”

“Um . . . yes, love. You said my name about a hundred times then asked if I was staying.”

Emma nods, twisting his handkerchief in her hands. “I thought so. Did I ask if we’d done this before?”

Killian laughs and rubs her back again. “Yes, you did. I wasn’t sure if you meant last night, our entire marriage, or since we were ten.”

Emma nods, but says nothing. He’s entirely confused. It isn’t like Emma to cry out of nowhere. Or refuse to look at him. Or dodge his touch. He’s beginning to become concerned, truth be told.

“If you don’t like the ring -”

“Of course I like it! It’s perfect!”

“What then?”

“Oh God,” Emma pants, hugging her middle and looking up at the ceiling. “Last night, I dreamed about this conversation. In my dream - my nightmare - you got angry and left.”

Killian’s brow furrows. “I can assure you, Swan, nothing you can tell me would ever make me leave.”

She levels him with a steady gaze. “You used to. Through the wardrobe.” He starts to open his mouth, but she lifts her hand to stop him. “I know it wasn’t intentional, and I’m not blaming you, I just . . . I just . . .”

He grasps her hand firmly in his. “Breathe, love, it’s okay. You just get scared sometimes. It’s okay. So do I.”

“You do?” her voice sounds so small and fragile that it breaks his heart.

“Aye, of course. It has nothing to do with love or trust. The wounds of childhood tend to linger.”

“But I do trust you!” she exclaims.

He draws nearer and cups her cheek. “I know that. That’s my point entirely. The fears are irrational, for both of us. Now, what is it you have to tell -”

He stills when Emma takes his hand and places it on her abdomen. It’s different somehow, and he freezes. He had noticed the last time they made love, but couldn’t quite put his finger on the change. Now he gazes into Emma’s blushing face - how had he not noticed the sudden roundness in her cheeks? The pieces begin to fall into place - her fatigue lately, that illness that seemed to linger far too long . . .

“Emma, are you . . . “

She nods, her eyes welling up with tears again. Her tears - of course! He swallows thickly.

“Emma you’re . . . “

She grins wider, cocking her head saucily. “I’m rather proud that I’ve rendered you speechless. I think the word you’re looking for is pregnant.”

A grin fills his face, a goofy, joyous grin. “Well, I was going to say with child, actually.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course you were, my old fashioned sailor who -”

He cuts her off with a passionate kiss, and when it ends, he scoops her up and spins her around with joy.

“Careful there, buddy. The morning sickness is mostly gone, but I make no promises that I won’t puke on you.”

“Wait,” he says, shaking his head, “how long have you known about this?”

“Well,” she hedges, “this realm doesn’t exactly have a stick you can pee on.”

“Sorry?”

She laughs, “Never mind. Let’s just say it took me awhile to figure it out, and then it took me a bit longer to get up the nerve to tell you. I’d say I’m at least twelve weeks along, probably more.”

Killian cups her face with his hand and locks his eyes intently on hers. “Do you honestly believe I would leave you over this?”

She bites her lower lip and shakes her head.

“Can’t you see now how happy this makes me?”

“Well,” she says with a shrug, “you spinning me around the kitchen sort of convinced me, I guess.”

He throws his head back and laughs before kissing her soundly again. But he doesn't do any more spinning.

No sense testing fate.

***************************

“I’m sorry, Captain Jones, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The midwife has the audacity to grab Kilian by the arm and try to forcibly remove him from his own bedroom. On the bed, Emma is crying out as her next contraction hits.

“I’m not leaving,” Killian says firmly.

“It isn’t proper for a man to be present,” the midwife argues, though her words are almost drowned out by Emma’s cries.

“Bullshit,” Emma interrupts the argument, her breaths coming raggedly as her

birthing pains abate for the moment.

“Mrs. Jones, it just isn’t done,” the midwife snaps back, aghast.

“Well it is in the realm I come from,” Emma tells her, “not to mention the whole

impropriety thing is ridiculous. He’s obviously intimately familiar with my vagina.”

The midwife’s eyes grow impossibly large, and Killian can’t stop the chuckle that escapes him.

“Mrs Jones! It isn’t ladylike to -”

“Yeah, well ladylike has never described me anyway.”

The midwife presses her lips together in a disapproving way as she draws closer to the bed. She lowers her voice, but the woman is seventy-three and hard of hearing, so Killian can hear every word.

“I’m aware that your husband isn’t the biological father of your son, so I’m going to assume this is a bit new to you. If your husband sees you in this state, well . . . it may . . . turn him away from you, if you catch my meaning.”

Emma’s face turns a deeper shade of red that has nothing to do with her labor, and her eyes blaze in a way Killian knows well. He grins wider, knowing that his wife is about to render this woman speechless.

“My husband wasn’t complaining about my pussy when he was between my thighs last night, so I think I’m safe.”

Yep, speechless. Killian can’t help winking at the midwife as he saunters past her. The woman looks like she might faint. Killian kneels beside the bed and brushes a kiss to Emma’s forehead. Her face crumples as she clutches desperately at his hand.

“She was trying to make you leave!”

“Nothing could tear me away, love.”

“Oh God!” Emma yells, drawing her knees up as another contraction rolls through her. Emma releases Killian’s hand and grabs onto his hook instead as she groans in pain. This one is stronger than the last, and just as Killian is about to lose his mind because he can’t help her, she collapses against the mattress.

“I didn’t want to break your one good hand,” she tells him with a wane smile.

“I appreciate that,” he quips back with a lopsided grin.

The midwife has pushed the sheets back and is examining Emma. “Well, Mrs. Jones, your contractions are longer and closer together, but the baby isn’t crowning yet. We’ve got a while still.”

Emma whimpers and shakes her head. “It didn’t take this long when Henry came.”

Killian puts his arm around her and whispers that he loves her. She drops her head wearily to his chest, and he kisses her sweaty brow. Another hour goes by the same way, and it feels like time has stopped altogether. Killian feels her labor is unceasing, so he can’t imagine what it must be like for her. Though she’s clearly exhausted, he’s amazed at her strength.

“I see the head!” the midwife finally says excitedly, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. “Can you push for me when the next contraction hits, Emma?”

The look on his wife’s face is full of determination as she draws her knees up. He sees her tense when the pain comes again, but she bears down with a scream. She has to do the same thing again, and again, and yet again before the midwife laughs out that the baby’s head is out. The midwife shocks him when she pushes back the sheets further and asks if he wants to see. Killian does, and he blinks back tears when he sees their baby.

“It’s almost over, Emma,” he encourages her.

Emma pushes a few more times, and finally, cries fill the air. Emma laughs even as she collapses in exhaustion. Killian kisses her and murmurs over and over how bloody brilliant she is.

“It’s a girl!” the midwife announces as she rubs the baby down with salt to fend off infection.

“A girl,” Kilian breathes and kisses his wife again.

The midwife then washes the baby off with the water Killian had boiled for her hours ago. The little thing is red, screaming, and oh so tiny, but the midwife is all business as she cleans her up and wraps her in a blanket. The woman only softens when she gently places the baby girl in Emma’s arms.

“Oh Killian, she’s so beautiful,” Emma whispers as she brushes her fingers over the baby’s cheeks.

Killian lays down sideways on the bed next to his wife and gazes in wonder down at the tiny baby. She has a tuft of dark hair on her head, and her skin is damp and feather soft beneath his fingers. She’s ceased her crying, her eyes wide as she gazes up at Emma, as if she recognizes her mother instantly.

“She has your eyes,” Emma whispers with a smile.

“And your chin and nose,” Killian adds.

“And your ears,” Emma says, her thumb tracing over them.

“Poor thing.”

“Hey,” Emma admonishes, tearing her gaze away from the baby, “I love your ears.”

They just gaze down at her for several moments, Killian grinning broadly when the baby’s tiny fingers wrap around his pinkie. A tear slips down his face, and Emma reaches up to wipe it away.

“Do you want to hold her, Papa?”

He can only nod, his emotions overwhelming him. He gathers the bundle into his arms, holding her close to his chest and out of the way of his hook.

“What shall we name her, Swan?”

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot, actually. I sort of had a feeling she was a girl, and well . . . there’s only one name that seems fitting. A name that I will always associate with love and home.”

“I know exactly what you’re referring to, my love, and I think it’s absolutely perfect.”

There’s a soft knock at the door, and they both turn their heads to see Starkey in the doorway with Henry in tow. Kilian grins.

“Henry, would you like to come meet your baby sister Martha?”

Henry’s eyes are wide as he draws closer to the bed. Emma reaches out and encourages her son to climb up and join them. He settles in next to his mother and leans over to look at the baby.

“She’s pink,” he observes, and they laugh.

“She won’t be forever,” Killian explains, “all babies are that way at first.”

“Even me?”

“Yes,” Emma teases, kissing his cheek, “even you.”

Henry gets bored of the baby fairly quickly and asks if he can go back down to the beach with Starkey. After he leaves, Emma and Killian cuddle together to love on Martha, until she starts to fuss.

“Okay,” the midwife says briskly, “Papa needs to leave so Mama can nurse.”

She let’s Killian stay the minute she sees Emma’s scowl.

Emma and Killian: Age 28

“Papa, again, again!”

Killian laughs as his three-year-old daughter makes futile attempts to move the rocking horse back and forth. “Okay, okay, anything for my cygnet.” He presses his hook down on the horse’s tail, setting it in motion again as his little girl squeals with delight.

Emma laughs too from her chair by the fireplace. “That’s the truth. You know the kids don’t need you to bring gifts every time you’re away.”

“It’s part of the inventory I own, love, I can do what I please with it.”

“You spoil us.”

“Happily.”

He winks at his wife as she settles back into her chair and sips contentedly on her mug of hot chocolate - another gift from his latest shipment. Business is booming with the addition of a second ship. Starkey is still the captain of the Jolly while Nibs has taken the helm of the Jewel II. The Jolly is what sets Killian’s business apart, however. With the pegasus sail, it’s able to bring exotic goods from far away realms that no other merchants can acquire. Though Hawkins, Mason, and Curly all left to pursue their respective dreams, Killian had no trouble replacing them nor acquiring a crew for Captain Nibs. Jones Shipping has developed a reputation for treating their sailors well, and Killian has been able to hire the very best at sea.

The Jones family enjoys frequent trips on the Jolly as well, with renovated accommodations that Killian made specifically to make his family more comfortable. Henry and Martha are just as content at sea as they are on land, though this little cottage of theirs is always a joy to come home to.

Killian continues to rock Martha on her new toy as his gaze lands on Henry, now nine years old. As usual, he wanted more paper and pencils, which he goes through at an alarming pace. His writing is incredibly engaging and complex for a boy his age, and Killian couldn’t be more proud. Henry’s no slouch behind the wheel of the Jolly, either, and can read the stars as well as any of Killian’s crew. No father has ever been more blessed than he.

Their domestic evening scene is disrupted by a knock at the door. Emma frowns as she rises to her feet, setting her mug down on the coffee table.

“Who could that be?”

When Emma opens the door, she lets out a pleasantly surprised gasp to find Tinkerbell and Tiger Lily standing there. Despite Martha’s protests, Killian joins Emma at the door with his little girl balanced on his hip. There’s the typical round of greetings, hugs, and exclamations over how much the children have grown, but Emma and Killian both get the feeling this isn’t just a social visit. Not at this time of day, and not by the looks of those nervous expressions on the fairies’ faces.

“I just brought home cocoa and tea from Agrabah,” Killian tells his old friends. “Would you like some?”

“Yes, that would be nice,” Tiger Lily says, “tea for me, please.”

“I’ll take some cocoa,” Tink adds, “remember how Wendy used to love it?”

“Yes, she sure did,” Killan says, his mind going back in time to a frightened little girl with leaves in her hair. He hopes wherever she is, that Wendy is happy.

“Um, Henry,” Emma says slowly, “why don’t you take Martha upstairs with her new rocking horse?”

Killian holds his breath for the lad to protest. His baby sister in his room isn’t his favorite thing in the world, but the boy must pick up on the tension radiating off the fairies because he immediately agrees.

“Come on, Martha,” Henry tells her as he hoists up the rocking horse, “I bet I can rock you even faster than Papa.”

Martha squeals in delight and eagerly follows the big brother she idolizes up the stairs. Emma settles in at the kitchen table with the fairies while Killian goes to the stove.

“What’s this all about?”

That’s his wife, direct as always. Tiger Lily sighs and cuts a quick glance over to Tink.

“Emma . . . “ she says slowly.

“We found your parents!” Tink interrupts, practically vibrating with excitement. Tiger Lily rolls her eyes.

“What?” Emm breathes, and Killian abandons the tea pot to rush to her side and take her hand. “Are you sure?”

“Well, lost princesses are more common than you might think,” Tiger Lily says dryly, “but in the case of the lost princess of Misthaven, it all adds up.”

“Adds up to you, Emma,” Tink put in. “The birthmark, the princess’s birthdate, the wardrobe - all of it!”

“Wait,’ Killian interjects, “did you just say wardrobe?”

He’s cut off by the whistling of the teapot, and he goes quickly to retrieve it from the stove.

“I think we need to start from the beginning, Tink,” Tiger Lily says as Killian sets out the tea and cocoa on the table. When he joins the women, he draws his chair as close as he can to his wife so he can put his arm around her and take her hand.

“You may have heard the tales about Snow White, her Prince Charming, and their battles with the Evil Queen,” Tiger Lily begins.

“Snow White and Prince Charming?” Emma asks. “You mean they’re real?”

“Says the woman married to Captain Hook and having tea with Tinkerbell and Tiger Lily,” Killian quips, earning him an eye roll from his wife. She’s told him the version of Neverland in her former realm - a ridiculous version, in his opinion.

“Yes, they’re real, silly,” Tink says with a shake of her blond curls.

“I’ve heard of them,” Killian says, “go on.”

“Well,” Tiger Lily continues, “you may have heard that though they banished the Evil Queen after taking back the kingdom, she returned when Snow was with child. She cursed the baby with an evil spell.”

“Yes,” Killian says with a shake of his head, “and it came to pass. The child came too soon and died.”

“No, she did come too soon, but the child did not die. Secretly, the Blue Fairy helped the court woodworker fashion an enchanted wardrobe -”

Emma gasps and clutches her husband’s hand tighter. “Killian! A wardrobe!”

“I know, love,” he whispers.

“The wardrobe was supposed to send Snow safely to a land without magic where the curse couldn’t touch the unborn child,” Tiger Lily says.

“It could only carry one,” Tink clarifies.

“But the baby came too soon, so they had no choice but to send the child through alone. The Evil Queen and her minions were mounting an attack on the castle, so they had no more time.”

Killian nods. “I’ve heard of that battle. It’s a favorite tale in every realm, though not one with a happy ending. The Evil Queen was slain, and everyone was led to believe that in the chaos, Queen Snow lost the child.”

“And you believe this baby was me?” Emma asks softly.

Tiger Lily reaches across the table and gently turns over Emma’s left wrist. “The Blue Fairy cast a spell over you in the womb so that when you were born, this mark would be upon you. So your parents would know you when you found them.”

Emma’s eyes well up with tears. “How did they know I would ever find them?”

“They had faith and hope. Even with the Evil Queen dead, her curse still remained until your 21st birthday.”

Tink jumps in, bouncing on her seat. “The best part, Tiger Lily, tell them the best part!”

Tiger Lily smiles indulgently at the blonde. “I think you’d like to tell them, so go ahead.”

“The Rose Fairy imparted a gift to you, Emma - that the wardrobe would bring you your true love, and that when the time was right, he would lead you home.”

Emma turns to Killian, her eyes bright with tears as she cups his face. “Our wardrobe, Killian, that’s why it appeared to us.”

He shakes his head in wonder. “Emma, I know how you feel about me, but true love? That’s the strongest magic of all. Surely someone more worthy . . . “

Emma’s face softens as tears slip free and roll down her cheeks. “Don’t you see? The wardrobe brought us together right when we needed one another the most. Right before I lost Martha, right before you lost your brother and Milah. Then it brought us together for good when you found Henry.”

Killian lets out a breath of wonder as Emma’s thumb traces the scar on his cheek. “We always find one another, don’t we?”

Tiger Lily and Tink both beam as they speak again.

“It’s funny you should say that -”

“Because it’s kind of your family motto.”

To Be Continued . . . . 😉

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[brucenat]

Prompt FAQ (AvianInk)

Posting this because establishing expectations and boundaries is good! Also, I had small updates that I didn’t know how to announce in another way.

If you have any questions, qualms, comments about the information here, feel free to send me a message! I apologize if anything comes across as haughty and/or strict--I wanted to establish these things as clearly as possible.

Which fandom(s) do you write for?

On this blog, the Marvel Cinematic (Multi)Universe. It’s canon compliant up until Infinity War, at which point I diverge into an alternate timeline.

You may have noticed some old Once Upon a Time fic on my Fanfiction account. I don’t write OUAT fic for the canon after season 4. If you want more about OUAT fanfiction, please leave a comment on my Fanfiction or send me an non-anonymous message.

Whose POV will you write from?

Ninety percent of the time, I’ll in limited third person. If I am going to write in omniscient third, it’s most likely to happen in a fic focused on the OG6. As for specific characters, I’ll most often write from Bruce or Natasha’s perspective (and feel comfortably equal with either). Currently, I have a better grasp for Carol Danvers’ voice over Valkyrie’s (which I’m working on). I haven’t written much from anyone else’s perspective, but am usually willing to try.

What couple(s) will you write for?

Chiefly Brucenat, but also Valkarol (Valkyrie x Carol). Pepperony, Clint/Laura, and Scarlet Vision will also appear in the background of my fics.

How specific should I be with my prompt(s)?

Feel free to send me general ideas or something more specific! I’m flexible. If you want something from Natasha’s/Bruce’s/someone specific’s POV, feel free to tell me! If you want a drabble (≤100 words) or a vignette (≤1000 words), let me know (seriously, I am prone to purple prose). If you want to give me a prompt that’s one word, that’s fine too!

At the end of the day, I just ask that you respect by boundaries/limits as a writer. If you do that, the sky’s the limit :)

Do you accept smut prompts?

Yup!

What kind of prompts won’t you do?

Romantic Natasha x anyone who isn’t Bruce (this means no Steve/Nat, no Bucky/Nat, no Clint/Nat, no Tony/Nat, etc.). Won’t do romantic Bruce x anyone who isn’t Natasha. Exceptions here could be made for AUs.

As for AUs, I’ll endeavor to write them, but I am picky with this genre. I’m not a fan of high school AUs, or high school sweethearts/reunion AUs. Sorry. :/

First person and reader inserts are also something I don’t do with fanfiction.

Finally, I don’t write things that I feel are out of character. I won’t sacrifice characters for plot and drama. Additionally, in the interest of respecting survivors and accurate portrayals, I won’t write a piece that I think fetishizes trauma.

How do you determine what’s a Tumblr-exclusive fic?

Length, usually. Anything shorter than a vignette usually stays on Tumblr, unless someone requests that I post the finished product to AO3 and/or Fanfiction* (which you can request at any time!).

*Because of content policing, I refrain from posting explicit smut on Fanfiction

How long do I have to wait?

It depends on how many prompts I have in my queue + external factors from ~life.~ I try to write as much and as often as I can, but other projects often require more immediate, routine attention. If I got paid to write fanfiction, it’d be up so much more often, but alas. 

Usually you’ll need to wait a week and a half minimum. Because of the constant fear of being a disappointment, I spend inordinate amounts of time editing and ensuring everything is as polished, cohesive, and in-character as it can be.

I think you posted someone else’s prompt before mine. Why?

Two most likely explanations:

(i) Tumblr was weird and glitchy with my inbox, and messed with the order in which things were received

(ii) You requested smut, which is fine, but I take a bit longer with smut because I’m more meticulous with my editing and writing process.

[maychorian]

Hey, so, i hope you're not bothered or annoyed by this, you can really just ignore me if you are... I just wanted to know if you could tell us about the future of yofa, bc I'm a shitty reader and too obsessed by your fic to sit and wait for the next chapter, although you're so amazing and super fast with the uploads. Like, is mcdaniels gonna play a role, or will tim have breakdowns or fights with the others, or anything else that would be okay to share? I'm really sorry for being like this

Ha, you're not annoying. I'm quite pleased to know that I have readers who are impatient for more, truly. The problem is that I don't really have answers for you, because I don't know. I've talked about this on my blog before, but I am very much a seat-of-the-pants kind of writer, or a gardener. I don't make outlines, because it's not fun for me to write like that. When I write a long, detailed outline, I lose all interest in actually writing the story, because it feels like I've already done it. It becomes work instead of play at that point, and fanfiction is very much my playtime.

I like to plant ideas and watch them grow, or dig the story up from the dirt of the subconscious like a big boulder (Stephen King's analogy for how he writes). One of my favorite writing quotes is about how writing a novel is like driving a car at night--you can only see as far as the headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way. I believe that's from E.L. Doctorow, and I don't know who that is, but I agree with that philosophy.

This has the downside of me having tons of WIPs that will probably never be finished, at least one in every fandom I've written more than a one-shot for. But the upside is that I have a lot of fun writing, and I go through the same emotional rollercoaster as my readers. I often feel compelled to keep writing because I want to know what happens next, just like you do.

That's also why I don't have an update schedule. That would require me to have, like, a backlog of chapters, or at least some idea of what's happening next. I tend to write a chapter over the course of three or four hours, give it a cursory reading for typos, and post it immediately. I usually only figure out what the next chapter is going to be about after cogitating on the last one I wrote for a few days. Right now, I'm thinking that the next chapter will be about Tim's friends visiting him at the manor, but I need to read more Young Justice before I feel comfortable writing Conner, Bart, and Cassie, so it might be a while before that chapter comes out. Or I could realize that something else needs to happen first, as has happened several times over the course of the story.

I do have...vague ideas about what might be up ahead in the future. Someday. Maybe. These ideas might or might not happen, or they might be in a different form by the time I get to them. I'll put them under a read more, just in case anyone wants to avoid even possible spoilers.

Edit: Frigging heck, tumblr won’t save the read more line. Whatever, if you don’t want to see possible spoilers, hit J on your keyboard now.

As for McDaniels, he will be returning to the story, but I'm not sure when. It might be at the end, as some sort of catharsis for Tim, or it might be in the middle as part of a plot complication. For now he's too much of a useful motivation for Tim to have anxiety and Jason to want to protect him, therefore keeping Jason in the picture when he might otherwise take off. The family and their allies will keep looking for him, and it's going to be a major frustration and source of friction that he's so hard to find. I definitely have a picture in my head of Tim going out in the city for the first time since the incident and thinking he sees McDaniels, then having an anxiety attack that Jason or someone else will have to comfort him through. That idea has been in my head since very early in the writing process, but who knows if it will happen.

Tim having breakdowns? Very probable. Fights? Maybe. Eventually he and Dick do need to work out the hurt between them. But Dick has promised to let Tim take the lead on that, so it will have to be on his terms, and I don't know when Tim will be ready for that conversation.

I have ideas about Damian. I'm thinking that Tim is going to be very bored, waiting for his body to heal enough that he can do things again. He can't even exercise until his ribs and knee heal up some, he can't swim with his casts, he can only type with one finger, and that kind of hurts...all he's going to be able to do for a while is sit around and watch TV or listen to Jason read to him, and that's going to get old, fast. So he might take an interest in Damian. Damian is puzzling, and Tim likes to solve puzzles. It remains to be seen whether or not Damian will appreciate the attention. Probably not.

But Damian's feelings are evolving, too. He hasn't been in prolonged contact with Tim...ever. And he has promised to be civil, as well. It's going to force them to find new ways to communicate, new ways to be around each other. Jason might also be helpful for bridging the gap there, since he spent time with the League and will probably understand Damian in a way no one else does.

Also, bored Tim results in Jason taking him on rides on his motorcycle. Great bonding. Tim likes to go fast.

Once the casts come off and the pins comes out, Tim's hands are going to be very weak and shaky. He's going to need a lot of therapy, and it's going to be frustrating and painful. Also: hand massages help. (Dick is also going to keep treating his back, trying to minimize the scarring from the whip marks. Because it really, really sucks for a teenage kid to have whip scars.) So they're all going to take turns massaging Tim's hands when they get cramped, and it's going to turn out that Damian is the best at it. Damian is going to be territorial about this, because it's something tangible he can do that is visibly helping, and as much of a brat as Damian is, he also has the heroic, helpful impulse as well. Once the dust settles and Damian and Tim are more like friends and brothers than they have been in the past, Damian will be just as protective of Tim as everyone else in this story. That's the end goal I have for them.

One thing that will happen relatively soon is Bruce enacting a Big Comfy Couch Protocol, or BCCP for short, in order to be a better dad to his children, all of whom have trauma of varying levels. When one of the kids is having a bad day, or feeling fragile, or suffering nightmares or flashbacks or what have you, or just needs their dad for whatever reason, all they have to do is tell Bruce that they need to activate BCCP, or BCC Protocol. Bruce will nod seriously, then set aside at least an hour in his schedule. And they will go sit together on a big comfy couch in a quiet room, just the two of them. It might involve cuddling, or talking, or just being together, whatever the kid needs. But it'll be just the two of them, no work, no books or movies, no distractions. Because Bruce needs to be very deliberate about connecting with and being there for his kids, and putting a structured protocol in place to make sure that happens is a very Batman thing to do.

Tim will probably drag Jason along for his BCCP time, because of the bodyguard thing. (And because Jason would never do it for himself, and Tim knows he needs it and is not even a tiny bit above manipulation to get his way or help other people.) Eventually they're all gonna like it, though.

And...that's pretty much it, so far. I think about this story a lot, so new ideas pop up and float away in my head all the time, but they're mostly about what's going to happen or might happen in the next chapter. Like, I imagined the conversation between Jason and Bruce going a bunch of different ways. Once I actually sat down and wrote it, though, it turned out differently than anything I'd come up with in my head before.

And that's why I like writing this way. It's always surprising. I let the characters go, and they do things I don't expect ninety percent of the time.

[pixieungerstories]

Housemate - 9

As always the inspiration board for this story can be seen here. Patreon readers are ten chapters ahead, plus I’m running a orc story and a werewolf story.  I update three times a week.

Tristan was washing breakfast dishes as Vinny and Derick went out on their regularly scheduled run.  “Fuck, I miss having sex!”  He wasn’t expecting to have anyone listening to him so the chorus of agreement came as a surprise.  He looked over his shoulder to find pretty much everyone else looking out the window, watching Vinny’s ass as she jogged away from the house.

Kogan cleared his throat, “You have no idea how good she smells, how good she feels all rubbed up against my back on the bike.  What it’s like being between those legs and knowing they aren’t for me.”

Kevin shrugged, “Derick’s a werewolf.  He would share.”

Kogan and Bazur glared at him.  Bazur said, “that isn’t his call, it’s hers.”

Kevin shrugged again, “He would be ok with it though.”

Tristan pulled his hands out of the dish water and wiped them on the towel so that he could face Thea.  “Did you figure out how to talk to her yet?”

Thea looked around nervously, “I say hi. She says hi.  I asked her how her day was.  She tells me.  She asked me how I’m doing and I panic.  Then I run away like ninety percent of the time.”

“That’s a no then,” Kogan said flatly.

Tristan considered how ashamed Thea looked, “I don’t know.  It sounds like progress to me.”

Thea was glaring at Kogan, “Look!  Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep from dropping webbing around her?  Women don’t look at me!  Mostly they scream and run away.  It’s not like I have experience with this sort of thing!”

Now Tristan snorted, “Trust me, experience is overrated.  I had some random woman ‘accidentally’ grab my balls in the produce aisle yesterday.  I like the having enough money to be retired part, but the world knowing what I did to get it isn’t that great.”

They were all staring at him in horror.  Thea asked, “How does someone accidentally grab your balls?” at the exact same time as Kevin asked, “Was she cute?”  Which was mere seconds before Bazur kicked Kevin.

Tristan decided to just ignore that whole exchange and said, “I wish they would just fuck and get it over with.  All this dancing around the idea is driving me nuts.”

Kogan shook his head, “You say that now, but what do you think it will be like listening to the bedsprings squeak and having to smell them on each other? ”

There was a long moment of silence while they all considered this.

Kevin grumbled, “At least when you get horny, you can pick some woman up in the produce aisle. The only person rubbing my duck is me.”

Dren snorted, “That’s a personality issue more that any thing.”

Tristan went back to washing the dishes, blocking out the scuffle behind him.

——

Kogan was right about the listening in.  From what he could tell, Vinny’s bed was more or less right over his.  He was looking at seed catalogs and plotting out some planting options for a client when her phone rang.  He could only hear her side of the conversation, but it was apparent that she was picking up an extra shift at work tomorrow.  Moments later she came bounding down the stairs.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he teased.

Vinny grinned, “I got offered an extra shift at work tomorrow!  I can even take it, as long as I buy the stuff for supper tomorrow now.”

Tristan nodded.  There were enough of them that even the new fridge pretty much only held a day’s worth of food. “I’ll drive you.”

Vinny looked torn. “I don’t want to bother you when you are working.”

Tristan nodded.  “Yeah, but it’s always a hell of a lot of groceries for you to juggle on the bus.”

Now she just looked embarrassed.  She started to say something, then stopped, blushed and nodded.

Tristan stood up.  “Trucks out back.”

It was a cliche, but Tristan drove a dually three quarter ton with the lift kit to make it a good height for him to work with.  He wasn’t the lightest guy around, plus he used it to haul trees and rocks for work.  He needed the payload.   In his case, the truck was painted the matte black of primer.  It suffered enough graffiti that he needed to be able to do his own touch ups.

He followed Vinny out to the garage that was accessible through the back alley.  She was able to get the door open on her own but was then stuck trying to figure out how to climb into the seat when he didn’t have running boards.   He hadn’t ever thought about that before.  He watched as she tried to find something to hang onto to pull herself up.  “Need a boost?”

“Um…” she had one hand on the interior door handle and one foot up on the truck floor but an experimental bounce showed she wasn’t going to be able to pull herself up.  She put her foot down and looked at him, “Yes, please.”

He suppressed a snort of laughter.  “Ok, butt towards the seat.  I’ll grab your waist, you grab my shoulders.  I will lift and set you on the seat, then you can swing your feet in, got it?”

“Yup.”

He had to do a fairly deep squat for her to reach his shoulders, but it went fairly smoothly.  He hadn’t ever been that close to her before.  She might be grinning at him, but her hands were shaking a little.  After she was seated, she reached for the door.  He caught her before she fell out.  “You just worry about your seat belt.  I’ll be a gentleman and get the door.”

Now she laughed, “Thank you, kind sir.”

She was fidgeting awkwardly as he pulled out of the garage, so he asked, “What’s on the menu for tomorrow?”

“I was going to do a stir fry, because it’s fast and I won’t have a lot of time when I get home.”

Tristan nodded.  When Vinny made stir fry she used every burner on the stove.  One for a massive pot of rice and three for woks.  Then people to serve themselves meat, if they wanted it and veg from each of the two woks.  One for crispy like carrots and pea pods and the other for soft like mushrooms and bok choy.  It was always delicious.

Tristan parked a little way from the door.  Before he turned the engine off he put a hand on Vinny’s arm.  “Let me help you out.  It’s a long way down and you won’t be working with a sprained ankle.”

Vinny chuckled, “Oh, come on!  That is such a cliche!”  Then she opened the door and looked down.  “Um.  I take that back.  I would take the help.”  As Tristan walked around to the other side she asked, “Don’t these things usually come with a step?”

“Yup.  It’s an optional add on, but this is fine for me and makes it harder to steal.”  The guys were right, she smelled good.  She was oblivious to the people watching them walk in to the store together.  Tristan wasn’t.  People always associated Minotaurs with either teamsters or porn.  He could feel them looking between Vinny and him trying to figure out which he was.  What she was.  Fuck.  He should have gotten one of the others to drive her.

Once in the store, Vinny ripped the list in half and gave him the smaller half.  He looked at it.  She had taken the part with the meat and sauces on it and left him the vegetable section.  Which was fine until he was inspecting the onions and felt a hand on his ass.  

It was followed immediately by Vinny saying in a loud voice, “What the HELL do you think you are doing?”

Tristan turned to face the heavily made up fifty year old from last time staring at Vinny in shock.

“Excuse me?  How dare you talk to me like that, young lady!”

“I won’t excuse you!  You were sexually assaulting my friend!”

Now the woman smirked, “Oh, he’s your ‘friend’ is he?”  She even did the air quotes.

Vinny was ignoring her.  She was looking at Tristan.  “This store has closed circuit cameras.  Do you want to press charges?   You would have an excellent case.”

Tristan looked at her, then down at the woman who was suddenly pale under her makeup.  “Not if she leaves,” he rumbled.

The woman bolted.  Vinny looked at him in concern, “Are you OK?”

Tristan nodded.

“God!  That was terrible! The nerve of some people!  I swear the last time some asshole did that to me I turned and punched him!  Afterwards, I wished I would have just pressed charges.”

He considered that.  “Does it happen to you very often?”

Vinny shrugged and started bagging some red onions, “Too often.  A couple of times a year.  Cat calling a few times a week.  Jackass stalker that doesn’t get that I don’t want to date him at least one a semester.”

Tristan nodded.  “I don’t really get the stalker thing, but cat calls are pretty much a daily thing.  Groping…” he shrugged, “I dunno.  Couple of times a week.”

Vinny frowned, “That’s horrible!”

Tristan shrugged.  “Nothing I can do about it.  If I pushed her away from me the judge wouldn’t side with the big guy who shoved a small human housewife.”

Vinny just looked sad.  “Let’s go pay for this stuff and get home.  People suck.”

Tristan nodded, “Most of them, yeah.”

After they paid, he helped her back into the truck, then sat in silence for a moment before saying, “Thank you for standing up for me.  That woman never even considered that I could press charges until you spoke up.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

Tristan started the truck.  “Derick is a lucky guy.”

Vinny laughed, “People keep saying that, but he hasn’t gotten lucky yet.”

Tristan was concentrating on driving but he still said, “He gets to spend time with you.  That’s pretty damn lucky.”

——

The next day he went to go bid on a job and the husband showed him around the yard, talking about all the work his wife wanted.  Tristan nodded and took notes.    Then they went into the kitchen to discuss.  The wife was there.  He was shocked to see it was the woman from the grocery store.  He immediately tripled the amount he was going to quote to the husband.

She agreed.

“And I won’t be able to start until spring,” he added.

She nodded amicably.

The husband hesitated, “We’ll get back to you.”

——

He didn’t say much getting supper ready.  That wasn’t unusual for him.  He was regularly pissed off at how the world worked.  Vinny’s grumpiness was unexpected.

Derick was at work.  Bazur came down to eat, took one look at Vinny’s black expression and went back to his room to get pants.

Tristan nodded to her as he set the table, “What’s wrong?”

Vinny tensed, “Some neck beard slapped my ass when I brought him his food.  It put a crimp in my whole day, especially since it was Barry working as the manager today and he didn’t even ask the guy to leave.”

Tristan considered this, “Need me to beat him up for you?”

Vinny snorted, “Who?  Barry or the customer?”

Tristan shrugged.

After food was cleared and the dishes were watched, Tristan went to the TV room and to watch Big Dreams Small Space on Netflix.  He was just settling in with a mug of tea and his notebook when he heard Vinny come in.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not.”

He wasn’t expecting for her to sit right next to him and have a little cry, but he was fully prepared to put an arm around her shoulders and pull his lap blanket over to cover her legs as well.

[kalimaruquin]

Since it crossed my mind...

Things in Endgame that I was okay with:

-Falcon getting the shield

-Carol Danvers repeatedly living up to the hype as she kicks the shit out of Thanos over and over

-Steve using Mjolnir

-Tony reacting to Steve like they’re ex-boyfriends while Tony somehow looks more like Jeff Goldblum in a Marvel movie than Jeff Goldblum looks like Jeff Goldblum in a Marvel movie. 

-That’s America’s Ass. / That Really Is America’s Ass.

-Tony meeting his dad in the past

-On Your Left

-New Asgard basically being ten feet to the left of where Odin said it could be

-Valkyrie, Korg, and Meek

Things I was not okay with in Endgame (in no particular order):

-She’s Got Help, because if you’re going to push one character super hard and do a super women group shot, don’t fucking yank the chain on it right when they’re about to accomplish the goal. Remember Infinity War? Remember how you managed to push all of the women into the same ditch for no reason? As fucked up as that scene was in terms of gender segregation, at least it ended with the goal being met. (The goal being ‘kill the woman here who matters the least to the marketing team’.) She’s Got Help just ended with all of the involved characters collectively failing to cut a straight line through enemy forces despite the fact that half of them could fly.

-Having the first openly gay character in a Marvel movie be some nameless, useless yabbo who brings it up during some fucked up survivors guilt sharing circle, and suddenly I feel like I’m watching the AIDs circle scenes from Rent as Steve ‘America’s Ass’ Rogers makes it about him waking up in the ice for the fiftieth time. 

“We have to move on”, he says, as I sit here knowing that this is a three hour long franchise movie set after they merced half of all life and ninety percent of the cast. 

And that most of them would be coming back.

-A rat in the impound is the thing that brought Antman back. Never mind that out of every piece of useless clutter in the movie, the only thing to get impounded is the minivan with a minimizer in it, but that a rat has to be there to confirm that out of four shrinker heroes with degrees, not one of them thought of a timed return feature.

-Actually, the fact that the van alone got impounded by anybody after half of all life got dusted is really bugging me now. Did the municipality of that town specifically just get avoided in the snap all together? That street? Was the guard for the impound a hoarder who stole it? He must be, because why would you pay someone to guard an impound for five years after the streets have become so abandoned that people don’t even bother removing bicycles anymore? 

-Who did the census poll of people who got dusted? How long did that poll take? How did Scott find the memorial park? Is there only one memorial park? Are there memorials in every city? Why did Scott go to a memorial park when he could/would have just gone home first? Nothing is explained by the first prolonged scene with Scott, and it is so slap-dashed together that things that should not be questions are popping up. 

-The fact that Natasha is now such a disaster that she makes a pb&j sandwich while in the middle of a hologram conference call while everyone else, including the talking space raccoon, has the wherewithal to stay standing and look presentable. Also, she is so far gone that she doesn’t know how to handle something like an underwater earthquake. You’re an Avenger, not a Rescue Ranger. Natural environmental hazards are not your problem.

Captain Ass then walks in again, talking about how ‘we’ don’t move on. Is this about SHIELD? Are you talking about SHIELD? Because if I remember correctly, that one was pretty explicitly your past coming back from the grave to bite your *American* ass. You didn’t bring it back with all your moping about WW2 pussy, it came for you with red lights on. Also, stop moping about WW2 pussy. You watched her punch a dude once, that is not grounds for a century long obsession with one woman who ended up not doing her job right because she ended up letting Super Nazis into SHIELD. If this isn’t about SHIELD, then stop going to weird ‘we don’t know how to stop putting ‘depressed masturbating’ on our resumes’ meet groups.

-Actually five years is a ludicrously long time for people to still not be picking up after themselves. It’s like the writers wanted everyone to be super depressed about the disaster, but they ignored the fact that the population explodes after shitty stuff happens. Touch of realism? Scott should have been wading through streets filled with toddlers and pregnant women. The kid on the bike? Should have had a baby seat on the back with the unfortunate implication that it was his kid. You want to make it funny as a man frantically searches for his daughter’s name in a strangely normally populated cemetery(which is clearly what they were going for with his line delivery)? Have him trying to do a superbowl shuffle through roaming packs of three-to-five year olds.

(Actually, would the snap have taken pregnant women? Snap, no baby, five years later, snap, back to being pregnant? Snap, no mom?! There’s got to be at least one chosen toddler out there with the doom world prophecy on her that since she was born from the ashes of her mother’s corpse, she is now destined to Flay The Bones of The Corpse Lord, Lord of Corpses, but her mom came back, so now it’s time for a Capri-Sun and a nap.)

-Tony’s whole... Look, it’s really hard to believe that Tony ‘Box of Scraps in a Cave’ Stark had multiple crashed spaceships, the ruins of a technologically advanced planet, an alien cyborg/gynoid woman with spacecraft engineering knowledge, and a nanotech Iron Man suit on his person and couldn’t manage to somehow become a planet-hopping rad dude living the space punk dream with his ‘robo-sister’. Honestly, Tony should have met Carol when he accidentally bumped into her at a party after they’d both just saved each half of the planet that they were partying on. Tony should have been wearing sunglasses that he’d made himself from two different colored pieces of space crystal, and Carol should have pointed out that he looked like he needed a burger. He asks where they could find such a thing (after doing that thing he does where he repeats the topic of conversation multiple times because he’s excited and trying to process what his brain is coming up with), and he flies his zero-G party barge after her and steps out to find his wife after five long painful lonely years on the road. Then he tearfully tells Carol that he’s going to have to cancel on that burger, and she’s like ‘no problem, Major Tom’, which is somehow the most dated thing Tony or Steve has ever heard.

I must emphasize though, Hetero-Chromatic Space Crystal Sunglasses. With a Stardust Iron Man suit.

-The fact that I’m supposed to believe that the Infinity Stones would allow themselves to be destroyed, and that Ant Man came back not so that he can find out that they were only shrunk to molecular size, but so that we can get some nonsense time travel plot instead. Seriously, Ant Man could have come back because the Space Stone slapped him in the dick and resized him and he didn’t know what it was. 

-The fact that time travel in Endgame works (pretty explicitly) on DBZ rules and not a more cinematically satisfying set of rules. (i.e. hey, there’s now a world timeline where the Avengers initiative failed spectacularly after the Battle of New York because Tony had a heart attack, Loki got away, the Tesseract and the Staff went missing at the same time, and Steve was found ass up after falling down about ten floors worth of glass and stairs after giving away that he was a Hydra agent(?!) but hey at least all of these stones are accounted for.)

-Steve creeping on Peggy. Just... Steve creeping on Peggy. Eugh.

-The fact that Nebula apparently has intergalactic/universal wifi coming out of her at all times, with an automatically updating memory bank that uploads all memories she has to a cloud storage that can then be accessed by anybody that plugs into her. Just have the time traveling version of her get found by scanners and get recalled the old(ish) fashion way. All you have to do is have Squidward-Frieza at the keyboard going “Oh my, it appears some naughty little monkey has stolen one of our computer units. Shall I have it brought back, my lord?” and then he sends a stall signal to Nebula’s systems and they just track her down. As it is, she could have just left if she hadn’t been sitting there watching her memories get rooted through. Hell, have that be the turn around, where she leaves, everything goes as planned, and suddenly Thanos and his BS is waiting for them when they go to put everything back.

-All of Thor. Just... all of Thor. The petty killing Thanos at the beginning, the ‘haha look he’s fat now’, the bullying kids on Fortnite, the utter bullshit of giving up on leading his people because ‘he has to be who he is and not who he’s trying to be’ like he didn’t explicitly save the Asgardians because he made do with what he was given during Ragnarok, the fact that he didn’t say one word to any of the Lokis in the movie but was a blubbering idiot over his mother. (Also, there is no good god damn way that Frigga saw fat busted old Thor and went “Yeah, I’m okay with dying and letting that happen.” So there’s a new timeline there.)

-The entire exchange between Clint and Natasha over the Soul Stone. Like, the whole thing is supposed to be a deep and meaningful conflict, but the problem with that is that the story of the movie hasn’t placed either of them in very high regard. Natasha’s a washed out wreck, apparently spending the last five years sitting in the Avengers compound and making crappy looking sandwiches while Clint went out and became an international murder spree. This isn’t them in their prime arguing over who’s taking the fall, it’s two people that we as the audience have had maybe an hour and a half to get to know. And less than half that time to like them. Hell, it’s pointed out in this movie that Natasha needs to grow a little since she can’t let go of the past and that she needs to be able to move forward through tragedy. Having to watch Clint sacrifice himself so that she might have a chance to save his family would have fit that arc. But no, we’re doing She’s Got Help later, so take the second longest running female character in the franchise and end her mid-movie so that we can re-enact the Soul Stone Man Pain scene.

(You guys,,,,have no idea,,,what it’s like,,,to be a grungey murder crime boy,,,,,and watch,,,,,as the hot girl dies,,,,,,because the writers are fucking hacks,,,,,,and are too busy reusing and recreating scenes from old movies to actually keep track of the characters in this one,,,) :,(

(I actually like Clint as a character in the movies, but the fact that he ends up being a parallel to T ‘MURDER MY OWN DAUGHTER FOR A ROCK’ HANOS is gut twisting.)

-The Bruce/Hulk offscreen nonsense. Could have made it that Hulk died in the snap and Banner got the body, could have made it that Bruce died and Hulk got the brains. Could have them become Joe Fixit, or the Professor, or Doc Green. Nope, just Bruce Banner as a giant green mascot character.

-The fact that the writers had no good idea on how to handle Tony if he was settled and happy, so they killed him off after kicking him in the teeth a few times

-The fact that the writers don’t have any idea who Captain America is beyond ‘man, he sure was in love with Peggy I guess’ and basically refused to do anything else with him.

Like, we could have had a movie where Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanov didn’t let go of the past, but didn’t let it kill them either. Steve and Natasha could have restarted SHIELD. We could have had a parting shot of America’s Ass standing perk and just above center frame on the bridge of a brand new Stark Industries made heli-carrier as Natasha gives the orders for take off.

[besthostingforwordpressredd-blog]

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[draphrawrites]

Hiii same anon here (my names Carmen)! And ah! So good to here it isn’t discontinued, it’s amazing how forward thinking you are with your fix and how much thought you think about continuity I think it’s what sets you apart from other authors :) could you explain a little bit about your plot planning ?? And ou!! I will subscribe to the fic then and wait patiently for the update. Thank u author san!

Hullo there! Yeah - not discontinued, I’m just slow to update, no worries 😂

I do try to plot out what’s going to happen in a fic before posting 👀 Laying groundwork is really important when the fic is more involved, and apparently I like involved stories 😂 Even something as simple as mentioning that someone is wearing a hat can be a plot point later, as wild as that sounds.

For planning - it depends. I usually have at least 4-5 big scenes I know I want to have happen. From there, I just have to connect the dots from point A to point B to point C, etc. Every chapter I’ll bullet point what needs to happen from each POV, and then I’ll start writing it. Once I’m finished, I’ll write the bullet points for the next chapter and see if there’s anything I need to add to the chapter I just finished to make the transition easier.

I think a lot of the reason I do this is because most of my fics tend to move pretty quickly in-scene. I don’t like having to go back and mention a detail I missed (using the hat example - if I’m in the middle of an action scene, I don’t want to stop and mention “the hat that Hawks put on as part of his disguise that morning.” It slows the story down IMO.)

The other factor is just - I have 25 published WIPs (and 30+ unpublished ones) 😂 Many of them are set in the same timelines or with the same characters. I end up doing a lot of backreading to figure out who was where and what was happening and who had what motivation 🤣 Definitely makes the process longer 😅

That’s it, in a nutshell! Make plot points, fill in the gaps, lots of bullet points, and lots of backreading. Nothing too fancy or unique 😂

Thank you for your patience and your curiosity! I’m looking forward to getting y’all the next chapter 💜💜 Added a little sneak peek from the next chapter below!

Keigo snorts. “He was trying to recruit me, if you remember.”

“I’m ninety percent sure he knew you were a traitor, though,” Rumi returns. “Congratulations, you were getting played.”

“I never get played,” Keigo says dramatically. “I’m like the bassoon in an orchestra. Nobody knows how to handle me.”

(Hope you enjoyed! 😂💜)

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[ leejunyi ]  mirthe; writing (▲ i swear im gonna start writing again soon) tags: #npn; leejunyi | #npn; writing

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[ evanismyking ] → masterlist  andra; writing (▲ the mom of the Snake Squad™, still trying to figure out whether I'm a full-time angst writer or I merely have a tendency to add dark twists to fluff :)) tags: #npn; evanismyking | #npn; writing

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[ ninth-percent ]  elliot; fanart (▲ hi my name’s Elliot I love long walks on the beach and napping so long it technically turns into hibernation. I make moodboards and artwork, usually when I should be sleeping, so expect more of that in the future °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°✧) tags: #npn; ninth-percent | #npn; edit

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[bryanastar]

How I (Accidentally) Write About Dark Subject Matter: Rough & Tumble Ramblings (Bonus Post)

I don’t like writing content warnings, not because I’m one of those losers that think they aren’t needed (because, believe me, they definitely are) but because it means I have to step back from my work and think about what the hell I just wrote. Now, in my teen writer eyes, there is nothing more embarrassing than thinking back to what you wrote and realizing that you need five different content warnings to fully prepare the reader for your work, and also remembering that you’re barely a rising Junior in high school. I end up having an out of body experience where I see myself and my work as a long and beleaguered r/I’m14andthisisdeep post, and it can make it hard to read back over my work to edit and submit.

Not that there’s anything wrong with darker subject matter. In fact, some of my favorite work to read contains some particular dark and disturbing content. But when you’re a young writer trying to submit your stuff, it can feel… a bit embarrassing. You feel like the stereotypical edgelord teen writing about edgy stuff for the sake of making the adults cry with your edgy edge.

The thing is, I don’t even intend to write about dark subject material ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s just a natural consequence of my intuitive (and rather impulsive) writing process.

I feel that—when it comes to writing about heavier content as a teen writer—there are two types of people: the ones who write about dark content on purpose, and the ones who write it by accident.

I think @shaelinwrites said it best when she wrote in a blog post that teens are often attracted to darker subject matter due to being at the age where we realize that the world is a far darker and scarier place than what we saw as children. Writing, therefore, is the safest way to explore this newfound knowledge and come to terms with it. This is why young writers who write dark subject matter on purpose do it.

But some, like me, do it on accident.

Let me explain. So I’m rather sheltered, as I suspect a lot of teen writers are. I’m not exactly the most world-weary person, despite knowing that the world is, objectively, pretty screwed up. Due to this, I can often add, on accident, some pretty screwed up material just for not thinking it through deeply enough.

For example, here was was my general thought process for my short story “Judith was Never Adopted”, a story that is, objectively, a about a young teenage girl getting left behind in the foster care system due to going through puberty and not being “adorable” any more, getting sexualized while in puberty, getting forcibly married to an older guy who sees her as an object, all the while desperately trying to reclaim the childhood she’s lost and feeling lied to by all the media that claimed that she’d have a lovely and charmed life after being adopted by rich and happy parents (also, spoilers):

“Gee, isn’t it funny that orphan girls in children’s books are often adopted by nice, rich families and get whole musicals dedicated to them, while orphans in YA and Wattpad books are often paired up with the older, assholic, ‘bad boy’ and probably have their lives ruined?”

“Wait… that’s a cool idea for a story!”

“How do I make the villain as awful as possible…? I know! He’s a twenty year-old gangster who has no scruples when it comes to hitting on teenagers, and he also has no problem with busting the kneecaps of literal orphans! That’ll really emphasize how crappy he is!”

“Why did the main character never come back for Judith? Uh… he was in the Iraq War? But why would he willingly join that conflict? Oh right! To pay for college! And he loses an arm, because the war has to have some consequence.”

“But why doesn’t he go to find her when he gets back? Well, uh, his foster mother is dead and his foster siblings are gone, so he has bigger crap to worry about first cause now he’s homeless. Also, the gangster left the city anyway and took Judith with him, and nobody really knows where they went.”

“There! Now to look over the draft! Wait… what the fuck have I written?!”

If this all sounds thoughtless… it’s because it is. To be fair to me, I usually realize pretty quickly that what I’m writing is dark and messed up (by, like, the second paragraph of this story, I really thought long and hard about it’s concept and went “oh shit”).

From there, I usually try my best to do right by the themes and concepts I accidentally introduced, mostly because it’s content that usually gets glossed over in other books that include it, or that is otherwise even romanticized! In fact, it’s anger at these storylines and characters not being treated well that usually inspires me to write the story in the first place!

I’d actually say I did a pretty decent job with this story considering that the first magazine I submitted it to accepted it a day later and praised the piece for its “insights into the psyches and circumstances of foster children.” And this was an adult-run magazine too—with adult contributors with MFAs in creative writing that should be able to write circles around me and my story ideas! They had no reason to be more forgiving of my piece just because I was a young writer! They had plenty of adult ones to pick from!

So yeah, I can be pretty blind to my own story’s content until it’s time to write, at which point I usually stubbornly try to stick with it. Part this is, again, just because I’m sheltered, but I think another reason I do this is because, like I mentioned earlier, I write about stuff that is usually conveniently ignored or downplayed in other works—especially children’s stories.

To give an example, let’s look at one of my favorite childhood movies: Matilda. Objectively, the plot of Matilda is about a severely neglected and abused kindergartener overcoming her abusive family with her equally abused and traumatized teacher, all the while forming a tiny found family with said teacher and moving on from their dark pasts together. Remove the magic and this isn’t a children’s movie; it’s a litfic novel that I know at least one person on this goddamn hell site it writing (not that that’s a bad thing).

Part of the, I guess, novelty of the work that I write is that I enjoy writing about tropes commonly found in children’s stories and contrasting them with I see as toxic or harmful tropes found in works for older teens. As a person who basically went straight from reading children’s literature to adult litfic, I’m fascinated (and somewhat horrified) by the difference in themes and ideas presented to children versus older teens—especially since those same themes and tropes seen in children’s fiction seem to bizarrely reappear in work aimed toward adults (A Man Called Ove is basically UP but without the magic—change my mind). The main difference between how adult fiction treats these subjects and how children’s fiction treats them is that adult fiction fully shines a light on how messed up these subjects are, while you can get away with writing about literal Nazis and genocide in children’s fiction (*cough* Avatar the Last Airbender *cough*) and have no one think it’s too dark or try to tone it down.

Due to this, I think I’ve already been conditioned to not see these subjects to be as bad as they really are, until I sit down to write about them and start to think about them more deeply! Looking back, I’m sure I could’ve written about the subjects outlined in my short story in a way that’s conducive to children’s fiction. Heck, you already have some of the base tropes: over-the-top villain, sad wittle orphans, and deep childhood friendships. Written in another way, I could’ve been the next Roald Dahl!

I’d also like to point out that I have nothing against these themes being explored in literature for younger audiences—in fact I think it’s necessary to teach children about these issues early. But I do think how we perceive certain media to be “kid-friendly” can cause us to forget how deep and nuanced the content in this “kid-friendly” media usually is, mostly due to much of the content having to be toned down as to not scar younger audiences (which is also important). The problem isn’t that this media is included; the problem is that we can sometimes forget how important these issues really are because they’re such common tropes in children’s fiction, which is a great disservice both to these issues and to the stories that include them!

This is also an issue present in YA media, but in a different way as some of toned down issues present in YA are executed in such a way that is actively harmful to teenagers (from the abusive and controlling “bad boy”, to the toxic “not like other girls” character that disparages femininity and promotes competition rather than support among girls). These are my favorite tropes to explore and tear apart in my own work because, when not viewed through a glorified or romanticized lens, they can actually form extremely compelling fiction due to the fallout caused to surrounding characters who have to deal with the bull these tropes and characters cause.

Of course, playing these tropes for what they are tends to lead to darker fiction by consequence, but, due to so many of these tropes being ironically extremely present in children’s and YA literature, many teens that aren’t myself also end writing about them because, really, they’re just writing what they know. This is how an entire generation of teen writers, including myself, ends up writing about content far darker than they realize by accident. We’ve been reading about these subjects for a long time, and now we’re just copying from the masters.

Wow, that was a long rant. Was any of it sensical? I don’t really know, but I still enjoyed writing it!

That’s all for now! See you next Tuesday for your regularly scheduled writing update!

[rndyounghowze]

Romeo and Juliet Virtually Uses Digital Limitations To Reinvigorate a Centuries Old Text

From forth the digital loins of these two creatives two #starcrossed lovers video chat each other.

By Ricky and Dana Young-Howze

Review 109

When Quarantine first hit and Dana and I found we had so much free time on our hands I was wondering what kind of new play people could be working on that would be almost ready made for Zoom. I at first thought about Love Letters by AR Gurney or the Last Five Years. I even thought about Star Spangled Girl or another play by Neil Simon. Eventually I started thinking that the best play to do would be Romeo and Juliet because everyone knows that play and most of the scenes have two people and could be done over Skype. I started to imagine the perfect production of the Bard’s play in my head. I’m unfortunately late to the game because this version directed by Miles Berman with an adapted script by Steven Vlasak already took the perfect production in my head and expounded on it.

It’s the same story of two star-crossed lovers you know but adapted to fit in a world of quarantine with video calling and Zoom rooms. Romeo (played by Paris Moletti) eyes Juliet (Stephanie Kutty) at a Quarantine party thrown by the Capulets (John DiDonna and Dion Leonhard-DiDonna). They fall in love and are married by Friar Larry (Yorke G. Fryer). When loathsome Tybalt’s (Vanja Renee) rivalry kills Romeo’s friend Mercutio (Myles McGee) he must avenge him. We learn that hate has no future as by the end of the play four people are dead for no good reason.

One of things you’ll notice is that the adaptation by Vlasak compresses some plot points and brings some characters together. If you’re a lover of the Opera with the same title you’re familiar with the story starting up at the Capulet’s party and things going from there. You may not be familiar with the characters of Benvolio and Mercutio being squished together and soliloquies being blended into the action. All of this was done for the sake of characters being able to hear lines and ideas that they normally wouldn’t have been privy to in a zoom chat. In that way Vlasak tried to make sure that the script fit the situation whereas some companies would have gone the other way. What we get is a more streamlined version of the play that still makes sense dramatically (in fact I think it actually fixes some narrative problems with the text) and also makes sense in the world of quarantine we’re living in.

Director Berman does what every good director does and plays with our expectations. Just as we think we’re going to see a pious priest we get a pot smoking Friar Larry. Just as we think no one is going to leave the house we have characters leaving the house to confront and or kill each other, also just as we think no one is going to be able to touch Romeo shows up at Juliet’s window. He took what we think about quarantine and what we thought a Zoom play can do and turned this into a “phone” play. The phones are props that become our eyes and ears into this world and like all virtual theatre directors are going to have to do, he controls what we see and toys with what we think is going to happen. Good job you sneaky son of a gun!

Berman and Vlasak would not have been able to get even half as far as he did without getting such a talented cast. If casting is ninety percent of an in-person performance then casting is one hundred and fifty percent of a digital performance. Getting actors that were able to play well off of each other and to also play with the camera and help in making great stage pictures is what this game is about. A million kudos to that acting teamwork that made the dream work!

What you get is an irreverent performance that actually keeps a holy respect for the story. I have a feeling if the Bard were alive today he would have more problems with the lack of cross-dressing than the staging and the choices in adaptation made. This adaptation fueled an ambitious staging brought to us by adventurous and intuitive actors. I suggest you go see it now because this is going to be one of the productions people keep talking about and citing for a while.

To see the show please go here. To see our livestream about digital theatre on the same channel please go here.

We have a YouTube channel of our own and it is being updated weekly with new videos. Please come and look at it and talk with us about it on our social media.

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