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anantaru · 9 months

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4 RULES TO SURVIVE A DIVORCE (GONE WRONG)

— ꒰ synopsis ꒱ — deciding to end your marriage with neuvillette might've been the hardest decision you've ever had to make in your life, although now, navigating through the divorce was becoming even more difficult, especially when you suddenly fail to stick to four simple rules you have both set between each other.

— ꒰ word count ꒱ — 7.8k

— ꒰ warnings ꒱ — [ns]fw, fem! reader, ex! husband neuvillette, divorced couple goals lmao, fluff & crack, p with plot, lovers to strangers to lovers, size kink/size difference, rough sex, unprotected sex, unresolved tension and lots of bickering, sassy comments from the both of you, it's very much giving married old couple, office sex, cumming inside

RULE NUMBER 1: KEEP YOUR DISTANCE AT ALL TIMES

by the sixth day of waking up to an empty bed— with the left side untouched and consisting of nothing but a feeble scent of vacant perfume, neuvillette has decided that he's had enough.

which wasn't to say that he's had enough of sleep, even though that's certainly a potent route to take, yet the neuvillette the people of fontaine knew was only the one they believed they knew.

in this agonizing moment in time, he wasn't sure on how long he could act out this picture-perfect facade for the sake of his people.

they thought he was brilliant, attractive, chocolate-box pretty.

a radiant, enigmatic dragon that was quite the sight to behold, his smile reminding the flowers of spring-time to blossom to their original beauty— awakening their way of life— ah well, such lovely things to ruminate on, or when they decide to appreciate his delicateness, how uniquely he viewed the world and how otherworldly soft he chose to explore it.

in a true sense, the alluring stories the people of fontaine told each other got one single piece about him right; that neuvillette was very handsome and soft to someone's eyes.

with all ones heart, the man unquestionably had enough of the irrefutable coldness wearing down on his shoulders, sitting there alone in an empty bedroom that was previously essential to his well being, with misery written all over his face and bursting at the seams of his mental health, just enough for him to stop talking all at once.

the cold bedspread was rough against his naked body, the mattress too soft to rest on and giving in beneath his weight. wholly crestfallen did neuvillette realize that sadly, the only way to return to the life he's lived a couple months ago, return to where he should be, was to somehow learn on how to travel back in time and make things right.

which from the bottom of his heart, was impossible.

it was confusing, he has to admit, because the only factor he found somewhat common now was on how empty the bedroom was— besides his own belongings, which weren't a lot in the first place, everything else was taken by you weeks ago, beloved items that were brimful of memories stacked in cold boxes and delivered to your new home.

a predictable event, he knows, and how embarrassingly predictable it had gotten that neuvillette found himself in teething trouble, precisely the issue of his sleep schedule in this bed— one you had bought together, shared together every single day, one you had made love to each other every single night.

a slump of mindless memories waft through his psyche, resembling a wicket current of catastrophes as he ultimately came to the conclusion that the reason he was unable to sleep must be because of you— his serious issues on being unable to rest, it has to be because of you.

neuvillette's thoughts and judgments were all scattered, rummaging through the vortex of problems he had endured through the weeks, a matter much more pressing than all of the other issues put together— he continuously waits and aches, hopes and dreams, and before he notices he's slowly healing, it all comes crashing down on him again.

a recollection long gone relives itself in his mind's eye, and his previous gaze gets overturned by a new, haunting stare.

this is why he had bought the bed in the first place, he remembers it vividly now, it's because you fell in love with it right away, you liked the way it felt underneath your body, heedless of how he personally never really found it comfortable.

concealed from everyone's eyes, neuvillette was deeply saddened, but he hadn't given his mental health much thought yet, because how do you even process that your wife has left you?

how do you tell anybody that you failed as a husband?

and it's raining again? what a hassle, although now he's acquired another way to fault himself on, most importantly hurt himself, because no one deserved the bad weather other than he himself did.

for the first time after gaining the position of the iudex of fontaine, neuvillette did not want to go to work. what if someone begins to ask too many invasive questions when he visits the palais mermonia today?

if that's the immediate case that was going to happen, he begins to think about it more clearly— a person asking about his private life was definitely trespassing his boundaries, right? he could immediately do something about it and put them on trial.

by that logic of his, neuvillette cannot fathom how humiliating it was, his face clouds with a mixture of desperation and disappointment in himself, because he can already imagine the hot off the press headlines on the cover of the steambird;

ATTENTION! ATTENTION!

IUDEX OF FONTAINE LEFT STRANDED BY FORMER WIFE! ARE YOU WONDERING WHY WE THINK THIS MARRIAGE WAS DOOMED TO FAIL FROM THE START? GO FIND OUT IN THE NEW ISSUE OF THE STEAMBIRD. ©this article was written and published by journalist charlotte, do not plagiarize under any circumstances

up to the minute he was able to calm himself down, until imagining the wildfire of emotions an article like that would cause in fontaine.

all the unpleasant hours of arguing with you, even attempting to understand each other without actually coming to a conclusion on how to navigate a situation like that. aside from wanting to keep it all hidden from the outside world, leave it concealed and let the people of fontaine forget about the fact that you two had been married in the first place.

who cares, right? who gives a damn if it's husband or ex husband now? what even was the difference between a wife and an ex wife, you see that it's all the same?

ugh, who was he fooling besides himself.

the whole 'ex-wife' was aggravating him to the point where it made him physically sick.

why can't he just flip a switch and everything goes back to normal like it never happened in the first place. neuvillette wanted his normal life back, the normal life he thought you both loved and would continue to live on until your dying days.

in the end, neuvillette saw no other route around it other than to quit using it all together, maybe stop talking about you entirely.

by all means, it's not like he will talk to anybody about the divorce, maybe besides you when he has to mention it. granted that he might not talk to you about it either, because he wasn't allowed to see you right now, neither were you allowed to see him.

on how it came to that point was genuinely understandable.

after the divorce was finalized, new adjustments had to be made regarding your previous living situations, shared income and the future possibility of seeing each other.

as was anticipated, before he was able to say anything or make suggestions, you had already started to list out a couple of "important rules" that you made up, you called them rules but in the iudex mind he called them pesky little regulations.

regardless of his distaste for them, he wrote them down on a piece of paper as to not aggravate you.

well, he found it a bit bizarre, but neuvillette thought it must be a serious requirement at this point. it was his first divorce so how was he supposed to know how to navigate through one? it wasn't supposed to be easy, that's what he knew, it's very heart breaking and draining his life force.

although funnily enough, his overwhelm strengthens after you waltzed over the fourth rule of the day. that's one rule too much in his opinion.

just how many were there?

"i can't think of a better solution," you state whilst leaning your body against his desk, always facing the ground, you wouldn't want to lock gazes with him during such difficult time.

"we may even be able to talk again in the future, you know,"

but did you really want to?

it's safe to say that neuvillette would want to keep in contact, but it's certain that this would not only stress you both out in the long run, possible new partners could also get weirded out by the fact that you two were still talking and they may become jealous.

neuvillette stifles a groan, scribbling down the second rule that left your mouth before absorbing the letters on the piece of paper, "it's for the best if we keep a distance,"

to say like that was a punch in the gut would be an understatement, despite the fact that you proposed the idea in the first place.

alas and without any of you knowing before setting out those four simple rules, now— weeks after, you had found yourself in a position that made it near impossible to keep a distance from each other, or at least make eye contact in a social gathering.

for you, it has become your life in a literal sense to comb through this difficulty, for neuvillette, the possibility of seeing you in the future would secure his sanity and keep him from turning as mad as a hatter.

patience. the incurable truth was patience.

this afternoon, you have to talk for at least five minutes, with a window consisting of a maximum of ten minutes if one of you talked slowly— it's not like you want to see him, but you have to visit your ex husbands office to sign a paper regarding your previously shared finances and then you're good to go for the day again, you can leisurely exit his office and leave this failed relationship behind, exactly where it belonged in the first place, deeply stored in the past.

previously during the negotiations, neuvillette was quite persistent in leaving you the house which was located a little outside of fontaine. he was in no need of it anymore and wanted you to have it, without payments required.

between us two, it's quite obvious he wanted to get rid of it.

but so did you.

you didn't want to stay there, not now, not ever, you wouldn't sign that damned paper even if the god of contracts suddenly came knocking on your door and force you to.

all the memories in that house would eventually eat you up, they'd definitely destroy you, the gnawing grief would certainly keep you awake at night.

originally after telling your ex husband that you didn't want the house, he was able to find you a flat in the city— it's small but cute, and it had everything you needed. a cozy bedroom, a kitchen that was big enough to dance in while you're preparing dinner and an area where you can set up an office for yourself.

how convenient it was that you were previously married to the person that is in charge of fontaine.

aside from that and the fact that you were practically making neuvillette handle the most difficult parts of this— you realize how a sudden guilt was stored on your shoulders, you could barely face him after that.

the parts he needed to handle included, but were not limited to, well, a problem slightly more irritating since it was about his life, turning approximately a hundred other problems he deals with on a daily a whole lot easier.

most of the legal process was handled by him, and only him for that matter, meaning that he had to spend additional hours on it and was barely able to move on with his life after losing you.

unlike you did.

well frankly, it's only been a couple of weeks, a month at best since you've last seen him— although it has been much longer since you've last felt him.

there really wasn't a lot going on in your life after breaking things off, it's always a grueling whirlwind of;

waking up, heading to work, walking home, eating, sleeping, repeat.

most significantly, your new bed felt a bit hard as well, it's uncomfortable and drove you insane.

you missed the one you had previously shared with neuvillette— wether it was because of the way it felt underneath you or because of its much better quality.

perhaps it was also that in the past, you had the chance of leaning against a warm body whenever you were freezing— the secret on why you found your new bed worse in comparison to your old one would certainly remain a secret forever.

it can never be answered, because you do not even know the answer yourself.

it's frequent and happens all the time— when you suddenly begin to wonder late in the evening if this was the right decision after all.

then again, a divorce wasn't necessarily something you would just forget from one day to the other— aside from that, there was a reason it happened, considering the countless events of arguing and the inability of you both to find a solid middle ground.

when you notice that a relationship drains the life out of you, or makes you cry your heart out late at night, a decision has to be made eventually, especially before it would turn your love into resentment or make your respect for the other person dwindle away.

was it really that surprising that you had your doubts?

when it comes down to it, neuvillette wasn't a bad man and you would never speak poorly of him. he was everything else but bad, which reminds you of the reason you had fallen in love with him.

but in earlier days, he had a reflection less of the way he was than of the way he wanted you to see him.

it was challenging for neuvillette to open up to you.

but hell, you're certain you won't be able to find someone who'd ever make you as happy as he did, bring you sweet tummy aches when he makes you laugh all night, or be there for you when you're sick and unable to take care of yourself.

you shake your head in embarrassment, your cheeks aflame as you're drawing several deep, steadying breaths— perhaps that's just how you're supposed to think right now.

it's not real, it cannot be.

right now, you feel like you should've never broken it off, but this marriage had been on death's door for months before the decision was finally formed— albeit from afar, no one had ever suspected anything and you're quite proud of that, in fact, both of you made sure no one would notice too much of what had been going on behind closed doors— like good spouses should always protect each other.

among other things, taking into consideration just how important his work and image was, the last outcome you wanted was for your ex husband to endure dreadful gossips about him.

neuvillette did not deserve a single negative word against him, this man deserved nothing but the finest life for himself— furthermore, after spending yet another night without sleep and thinking about your ex husband, you believed that the best for him just wasn't you.

it never has been.

RULE NUMBER 2: NEVER SHOW UP TO EACH OTHERS HOME OR WORK, NOT EVEN ON EMERGENCIES, ESPECIALLY NOT IF YOU MISS EACH OTHER

it's a little clumsy when you first enter his office, accompanied by an unnerving type of awkwardness outstretching across the room as neuvillette meets your eyes right away— but his head drops after around two seconds and he puffs out a wretched sigh, sounding as if he's about to cry.

neuvillette thought that this should've been way easier— but before you, he has never felt real love like yours before, and he was quite certain that this type of love only happens once in life.

the melusines were also happy to see you, and you could tell that they were equally as confused as you were— they probably did not realize what was going on and nor did you really want them to know.

given that their love and admiration for neuvillette was bottomless and you wouldn't want them to suddenly harbor a disdain for you.

nevertheless, when you listened to what they were whispering about behind your back, they were talking about how you must've been away for travel or desperately needed a vacation from fontaine, or one even mentioned that you might've been sick— considering how dead and empty your eyes looked those past weeks.

then there's the "being busy with work". ah well, the excuses were surely endless and somewhat amusing, you know you're not taking care of yourself when every second a melusine talks about how tired you looked and if you needed a glass of water.

everything but a divorce was being spoken about, at least you managed to hide that well.

your gaze lifts to meet his own again when neuvillette stands up from his desk and looks at you from the opposite side of the table.

under further examination of your facial expression, he notices the slight discomfort that buzzes underneath your skin, especially around your eyes and how you could barely look at him for more than five seconds.

beneath the familiar emotion of being in the same room as him, the sharp bite of his aftershave slips down the back of your throat when you suck in a sharp, choked breath, tensing like a tree at each step forward.

why do you look like you haven't slept for days?

it cannot be, right? but he was paying attention to certain details, either relevant or not he notices how you're looking around without focus, or shift the weight of your body from left foot to right foot.

and well, his supernatural senses were sharp, immediately picking up on your heart pounding against your ribs as if trying to fulfill a thousand beats.

his fingers twitch slightly with the document in his hand as he remains in his position, waiting for you to come closer.

"this couch doesn't seem very comfortable for sleep," you point to the sofa in his office, in an attempt to break the awkward tension, your chin forwarding to the left where a neatly put blanket and a small pillow sat on top of the furniture.

just how many nights has he spent here? did he even sleep in the first place? was he taking care of himself and should you worry?

it's safe to say that his work shouldn't be in danger, but it really is killing you that you cannot ask without coming across like a desperate ex, and you're fully aware that it would also go against your rules.

but neuvillette has always taken his important occupation very serious, sometimes even to the point where he forgot about his own marriage and his wife waiting for him at home with freshly made dinner served and his most favorite beverage awaiting him on a beautifully set up table and— yikes, that escalated quickly.

you're beginning to remember one of the reasons as to why this marriage failed.

"i hope you do not mind if i ask," neuvillette stifles a groan, "but are you mentioning this out of curiosity or are you speaking down on my new sleeping area?" the hint of sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable, the underlying scorn making you wince.

and oh, "sleeping area" was a big statement for that little excuse of a couch, you're very much aware that he can barely fit all of him on it and always had troubles finding a comfortable spot when he fucked— uh, well, when you did things to each other there.

yes, you already know how it felt on there, and who could possibly know of the plentiful times you had been intimate with each other on that couch.

wait a minute, was that the reason? was he already having a rebound this soon after your divorce?

no, it cannot be.

not your neuvillette, hold on, scrap that and reverse, he wasn't your neuvillette anymore.

it's stinging and like pins and needles on your heart when you think about neuvillette fucking someone on the exact same place he made love to you— leading to the conclusion that simply looking at the couch made you sick to your stomach, instantly setting off another unpleasant lurch of nausea yet you could still muster enough strength to fix yourself for the sake of this conversation.

he wouldn't dare, okay, this is the last time you're discussing this with yourself;

what if he wanted you to see this, tell you that:

hey, look at me! i am so happy without you stupid witch, and i already have a new partner too, isn't that nice for me? there really is no need for you to be worried about me, so please sign this document and exit my office.

because i am getting my dick sucked every single day!

your heart beat turns feverish in your chest, and you quickly snap your head towards the direction of your ex husband, "isn't it obvious that i was just trying to make conversation with you?" you retort back, swatting away the dust lingering on your clothes while simultaneously coughing out in an awkward manner.

"although i really cannot imagine that this couch is somewhat comfortable to sleep on."

"i believe you must still remember on how it felt laying there yourself,"

yikes, what a great comeback from him, and he didn't mean to say it like he's spitting venom into your mouth, it's almost like he wanted to tell you that it's your loss you cannot make yourself comfortable on here, even though he wouldn't mind bending you on all fours again like he did last— okay, that's enough.

there was a half-visible smirk on his face that aggravated you, the absolute last expression you were expecting to see from him.

you roll your eyes, "trust me, i don't want to," you reply, pinching your eyebrows together while assessing your distaste of his answer.

just when did an innocent question about a dusty, old couch turn into— whatever that conversation was about.

RULE NUMBER 3: DO NOT ASK INTIMATE QUESTIONS ABOUT EACH OTHERS PRIVATE LIFE

no, stop it, that doesn't seem right, neuvillette shouldn't treat you this way.

right now, he was experiencing his worst nightmare and the previous gears of sadness grind to a halt upon perceiving another emotion— one, that certainly scared him.

whatever the case, he wouldn't repeat his mistake, accepting any destiny the universe would bestow on him as he silently promises himself to stop any anger from slipping past the tip of his tongue.

pressing your lips together, you dig your heels into the ground, "okay, forget it, i don't have a lot of time," an unexpected force of confidence pushes you forward until you could feel the wooden desk graze across your thighs, you're so close now and the only thing keeping your bodies apart was the desk in between.

your mind was repeatedly screaming at your frame to stop moving before you actually did, "i have to be somewhere in, uh, about a couple hours, so lets finish this quickly."

what a sweet and pretty liar that you were, terribly aware that the only thing waiting for you tonight was your bed.

what a sad image, but he must not know!

"oh?" neuvillette mutters bitterly, a nervous rasp roughening his voice.

"a date, i assume?"

you would have gasped if you had any breath to spare, because you did not think this would actually work in a million years.

"ah, ah, ah," you note in a triumphant colored tone, happily waving your pointer finger from left to right.

"this, dear iudex, goes against rule number three."

content, neuvillette resumes to the document in his hand before placing it in the middle of the desk, sucking in a short, harsh breath, eyes deepening down south, just any area that wasn't you,

"of course, my apologies," his tone was thick, sickly sweet with barely cloaked amusement.

now he knows you're lying— he knows you so well it's almost embarrassing.

"this, is why you came for, right?"

you fumble a blistering retort that died with the hard press of teeth against your tongue, "mhm," you murmur in a low, rich tone, his casual unbothered spirit was dangerously convincing.

oh well, he must have gotten it right— and ah, you were remarkably stubborn too, resisting even the most innocent type of help coming from him as you take a random pen laying across the other side of the desk instead of the one in neuvillette's hand.

your eyes slowly scatter over the document, your brain struggling to put together the authoritative choice of words displayed in front of you.

"please elaborate on that," you press a finger on a significantly befuddling paragraph.

neuvillette muses agreeably before slanting against the desk to see for himself— and when he did you got a real good taste of his perfume suddenly invading your nostrils, playing devils advocate when you flinch back a little.

"do not worry yourself about this," his answer came so quickly you barely caught it, spelled out without a flutter of hesitation.

"everything is accounted for," he adds gently, you only need to put your name, there,"

your once-vulnerable eyes now squint stormily, "that smart mouth of yours surely has been busy, i can tell," as you place the pen on the desk before dropping both arms to your side— the man before you narrowed speechless, burning his eyes through your smug face.

"oh, just how many tricks did you pick up on your way here?" he replies sternly, accentuating the "here" as to remind you on where you currently were— as if that would somehow make him look threatening, you have been in his office plenty of times before, both naked and fully clothed, so neuvillette surely must search for another way to dominate this conversation.

priding himself in front of you with his position as iudex certainly wouldn't work on his ex wife.

"why?" you retort, "you like it?"

"indeed i do, or is that what you want me say, i assume?"

"no," a soft sigh above you echoes your own, "but i do find it weird that you'd want me to sign something without explaining it to me,"

"i did explain it to you multiple times, in fact, last time we saw each other i even asked you if you understood what i was referring to,"

an instinctive flutter of frustration, anger and exhaustion slips down his throat, "and if i recollect my memories," he coughs out and walks around his desk, so that nothing was in between you anymore.

"—you have said your time was limited." the radiating dominance of his body momentarily presses your back against the table, trapping you in the middle, caging between a wooden desk and your ex lover.

"that was weeks ago," you pause, "it's normal for most people to want a quick run through on a document of this importance,"

"it's normal?"

"it's normal," you reaffirm.

"how interesting indeed. i will keep that in mind,"

you lean your weight against the desk as to keep the eye contact with him in an attempt to stand your round, and the two of you have since lost the original purpose of this meeting.

"how could you possibly forget that?"

your voices flap over in an unmusical tune when neuvillette attempts to reply to you, although your tone was far louder than his.

there was an awkward moment of silence that was practically slicing the air within your bodies and it's unusual on just how strong the tension had gotten in a span of two minutes. not to mention that he was so close— you honestly preferred it when his desk was keeping you both apart.

it was hard to remember anything and keep a rational mind, neuvillette realized that and found himself deeply saddened on how quick this meeting went out of hand and turned to this.

but a whispered sentence reaches your hearing and immediately calms you into a warm, relaxing state, "i apologise," he speaks finally and it surprises you, a nervous rasp shaking his voice,

"i shouldn't have talked to you in such disrespectful manner,"

your eyes widen, "no," and your cheeks grow hot with deep embarrassment, "it's really my fault, i need to apologize to you," as you force out a shaky laugh in an attempt to lighten up the mood.

"don't," neuvillette retorts back, contemplating wether he should or not but lastly deciding to rest a hand over your shoulder before he squeezes it, a smile manifesting on his lips— and it was otherworldly radiant, illuminating his complete face with deep warmth and joy.

"i always loved that witty side of yours."

he doesn't say anything for a moment, in fact, neither of you do— and the feeling of him touching you again after weeks of spending apart from each other, and despite it being just his palm on your shoulder, was instantly turning your knees into jelly.

the minute of silence felt like twenty years as neuvillette straightens his body upright, drawing a more serious touch along your shoulder before moving his palm from your collarbone until curving his hand along your cheek, holding your gaze through bright, gemstone-like eyes.

he must be crazy, he thinks— because right now, he's going against everything he has promised himself not to do, and everything you have told him not to do as well. but fuck, he hasn't touched you like this in so long, the last time was long before your divorce, and the helpless intensity of his desire horrified him.

it's when neuvillette suddenly realizes that he has never stopped loving you— not even for a minute, nor a searing second.

it was impossible to stop loving you.

"it's just that i…" your voice grows softer and quieter the more you attempt to speak and your heart thuds feverishly in your chest that you're pretty much aware he must notice it too, "everything feels terrible," you admit hesitantly and flutter your eyes up at him, your gaze fanning over the soft pink across his facial features.

neuvillette begins to move his thumb across your cheek, "please forgive me for failing us," he whispers weakly, on the brink of tears, "for failing the only thing that made life worth living," his throat adds a slightly hoarse perception to his tone.

your eyes widen as you attempt to drop your head if not for neuvillette holding your cheek in his palm as a whirlwind of crystallines well up in your eyes, sousing your lashes.

your mind was gone, but suddenly you can think more clear— and you're not depending on the damaging daze that was originally controlling your body's autopilot feature— the grueling circle of work, sleep, repeat.

you sniffle between words, "no!" and helplessly slant into his chest as to bury your face in the fabric of his garments, "it's my fault, not yours!" continuing to cry and wail and sob your heart out.

"please don't hate me! don't resent me!"

being able to finally let go of all those stored emotions in your heart felt utterly freeing, as if an unbearable weight was lifted off your chest.

how did you two even end up in this situation? can someone, just anyone, make this agony for the both of you stop?

neuvillette shushes your cries with a soft shhh, folding his arms around your waist before smoothing one hand across your back. he decides to rest his head on top of yours, his warm breath fanning against your hair as you return his hug, pulling him deeper into you.

"i could never hate you," neuvillette sighs, "it's because i have never stopped loving you," before putting on weight around his embrace on you— perhaps as to prepare himself, because he was sure you were about to smack him due to what he just bluntly admitted to you.

while he knows it was certainly deserved as well, no excuse would make this proclamation easier even in the slightest.

but he doesn't regret it, it's over now. he just wanted to get this off his chest even if you'd most likely break off any remaining contact to him— although now he realizes that you've given him so much and he won't let you go again, not before repeatedly telling you that he loves you, loves you, loves you.

despite him believing that his efforts went to waste.

to his surprise, you did not hit him, nor did you yell at him or ask if he's hit his head somewhere— instead, you slowly move yourself from his chest, a saddened gaze meeting his own as a single tear falls from your eye.

your answer dwells a moment before you push it out, "i love you too," and whisper, "i love you so much," before you're peering at him with an expression he couldn't begin to decipher— for what's obvious, it's pure and selfless, a startled hum immediately following the last syllable that leaves your mouth when neuvillette suddenly slants his head forward to feel your lips.

RULE NUMBER 4: DO NOT FUCK UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, PLEASE JUST DON'T DO IT, SNAP OUT OF IT, DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT SEX WHILE BEING IN THE SAME ROOM TOGETHER

by all means, this wasn't supposed to happen— hell, you don't even know how you got here.

but his eyes were enticing as they meet your gaze, a deep source of exuberance affecting your delirium and when he leans into you to kiss your lips, his soft lashes clash against your skin, his traces subtle enough to make you feel a faint tingle shiver downwards your heat.

against all odds, neuvillette was terrible at making this any easier for the two of you, no matter how hard you tried to pull away after the third, fourth or fifth kiss, there was no way of ending this and his tongue made sure to clash against yours at each lap— this passion, it had no resistance, it will always find a way to flourish.

nothing more, nothing less, and you've got the iudex right under a fucking spell because even when his life felt depressing after you left him, when he was living through all those weeks and tried to navigate through this divorce— now, his heart had suddenly begun to beat again, although neuvillette knew that this would go against the fourth, and most important rule you had set up.

but he cannot stop.

blood racing, nerves alight, he pushes you against the desk and helps you to get on top of it.

you wanted him to pleasure you, needed him to use his hands and devour those pretty lips of yours— whine as his mouth carvs in a smirk, so excited and sooth as silk when you wrap your arms around his neck to push his frame against your chest, so he could easily rest his entire weight on top of your own.

"you're gorgeous," he coos, "so utterly breathtaking," the thought of you craving his attention to that level was flooding him with pride, it made his skin crawl with a thousand thunderous vibrations that hit the bulge in his pants, your wet kisses and hot traces fueling the withdrawals of your soul on his skin.

the dizziest groan touches your glossed lips— and neuvillette flips over your skirt to expose your drenched panties to his hungry stare, his eyes instantly hard with lust and love, every measure of his yearning openly shown as his cock twitches uncomfortably in his clinging pants.

you moan a dreamy sigh when the freezing office air hits your most sensitive parts, the tone leaving your lips high-pitched and desperate to feel more of him. in response, you earn a rough groan from neuvillette as he discards of his belt, dopamine shaking his soul alive, manifesting ruthlessly and tempting as you hug him tight, your erected nipples crushing against his strong chest.

you kiss along his neck with tenderness and feel the intense force of redness on his flustered cheeks, your tongue swift to blend over the quivering skin as you lash fiercely at the outline of his jaw between sharp flares of teeth tickling his face— his bewitching expression being held captive by your hand gripping his jaw hard enough to pull him towards you.

unwinding with relief, neuvillette manages to pull his tight slacks off, sighing as he drew out his hard cock and aching balls— instantly taking himself in his palm before fisting it slow in front of your hole. a thrum of arousal around the slit of his tip intensifies his need to crowd you with his shaft, and he gracefully strokes himself until you wrap your fingers around his wrist as to stop him for a second.

"i want you to make love to me," you mumble impatiently, "it's been so long," and neuvillette follows your lead in a flash and a quick nod of his head, making sure that you're sitting all comfortable on the desk and that you wouldn't hurt yourself with a random utensil on the table before he urges you to wrap your legs around his waist, your thighs squeezing his hips close.

"everything you say, i do," neuvillette reassures you, "forever,"

your broken moans and bulging eyes excite him, not to mention when you refuse to let go of him. of course, who knows what will happen after desire subsides and you're both thinking rationally again, after all, you do trust him with your life, but you're still divorced and sure you would look stunning on your second wedding with him, he would very much prefer to marry you right after fucking the broad daylight out of your figure.

gently clutching at your clothes, neuvillette slowly lifts up the fabric until you're wholly exposed for him to feast on, at last working your panties down your legs as they hit the ground, a coy smile spreading across his lips— your naked body was prancing in front of him, reminding him on how gorgeous you were, especially now as your lips hang apart and your lewd whines spill from the tip of your tongue.

your pretty nipples were erected as well, laying a familiar caress up his spine when you grind your chest against his chiseled one, encircling the exposed skin until it comes to meet in front.

"just look at you," he mutters proudly, almost to himself, his cheeks flushed as he ducks his head to hide the beginnings of a pleased smile when he kisses your shoulder. the praises set your blood raising, pumping a hotness into your pussy as you moan out his name in sweet tandem, feeling the slight trace of his cock-head shadowing your hole.

you will do so well tonight, neuvillette thinks to himself, and before he helps you keep your legs parted, he teases your entrance with a half-hearted push of his cock. you want him closer and carry on to search for his entire weight on top of you as his dripping dick slides past the tight edges of your hole, your pussy throbbing as it began to hurt a little— just a bit, and it's important to note that you weren't used to this anymore, used to him, and it's because all the pheromones are currently leaving your body that it was worth having a slight pain come by.

because you knew neuvillette will do anything in his power to make it hurt as little as possible— so you could enjoy his erection painting your walls white as you moan avidly, your pussy rubbing deliciously on him, his hand continuously massaging the delicious, soft skin of your thighs and ass.

you breathe a shaky sigh of relief when he snakes himself half-way in, a gentle breeze of your whimpers scatter across the room as neuvillette continues to push inch after inch of himself into you, your body relaxing underneath his much bigger one as you welcome him, beautiful moans and whimpers spilling from the back of your throat.

oh, how much you missed sucking in his cock like your life depended on it— and whatever issues would arise after this sinful encounter, neither of you was giving an inch of mind to those future concerns.

"there you go, that's what you need," neuvillette grunts, tensing his jaw and limiting his breathing because fuck, how are you still so fucking tight— in any other case, he would never skip foreplay with you, knowing that his size tends to be too big for your pussy, sometimes offering you help in spreading your puffy cunt apart— but he is aware that you're extra wet today, he notices how much easier it was to slide himself through your walls and collect your slick.

a slightest raw edge of desperation made his groan sound almost like a plea when your pussy clamps down on his shaft, and neuvillette moans softly as he bows down to trap your lips against his own, sliding down his tongue and lapping at yours, wet and slow, wet and slow, a low hiss of pleasure accentuating his skilled ministrations.

your pussy squeezes him gently and wets him thoroughly so that his flushed cock glistens in your walls as neuvillette allows himself to nuzzle his face against your neck, humming appreciatively when he began to move his hips, drinking in the light tears that swell in the corners of your eyes as he kisses them away.

everything was so filthy, just like that, and you're back to square one again— it's lewd enough to make his cock throb heavily between your legs when he picks up on his shallow tempo, warm and viscous grinds of his thick cock pounding you in two, wild and passionate burning through your sore hole and matching the rhythm of your hips that were catching his shoves halfway.

fuck, you missed his cock filling you up, shaking at the added stimulation when one hand squeezes your tits— not to mention how heavy it felt to have him deep in your guts again, his slicked erection pawing through your walls and searching for your pleasure spots, until you're practically writhing of overstimulation, most importantly releasing the stress you endured those past weeks.

somehow, everything felt more intense tonight— ecstatic and as if you're drugged of his cock, like you broke off the connection from clear reality each moment his tip inches down the searing spots in your cunt— your screams muffled by his strong shoulder which resulted in your noises coming out in weak cries and sobs.

"i'm— i'm so close." it's the way you said it, the way you wanted him to hear you.

neuvillette glances down on you, "yeah?" he cannot hold back anymore, your walls were too hot and too tight, his thudding erection cornering your bruised pussy as his cheeks turn cherry red— the tip of his ears shading the same color, "will never let you go again..." the following sentence comes from under his breath, a strong utterance, holding graven significance as it ignites flames deep within the pits of your core.

it's so unbelievably sexy when you tell him that he's about to make you cum, and the repeated proclamations of love were aiding your orgasm in unraveling much more intense— neuvillette parts his lips before pinching your nipples in between his digits, never faltering nor losing the steady streams of thrusts on your sex, paying no mind to your minor struggle of keeping his thick member within your sloppy hole.

the moans you sob are bringing him such satisfaction as well, particularly the ones of his name made him swallow down the assembling saliva in his mouth, leaving small kisses against your face as his adams apple bobs harshly against his throat when he grinds his hips into your heat— your slick seeping out at the corners of your hole as your beautiful legs hover over his waist to get into that ideal position.

he cups your pretty face without stopping the shallow tempo on your cunt, "i.. want you to look at me," his rhythm becoming blistering and rapid— it almost pains him to hold himself back, or the desire to cum but wanting to make you climax first. it's like his shaft runs through satin, pressing back and forth the finest silk but it's your pussy instead, so soft and taking his shape, you're made for him and he'll never let you forget.

even though he could hardly breathe because of how achingly hard he was, caged within the tight embrace of your walls as tears spring to his eyes, slip down his flaming cheeks, being wild and free and finally one with you again— in addition to the exciting sounds of wet noises of skin clashing on skin providing the last bonus puzzle pieces to make you spiral out of complete control.

a static crushes as if underwater in your ears— and neuvillette rolls his hips fast and hard, purring deeply when your legs wrap and urge him to penetrate you further. the pleasure buried in you was coiling from the base of your spine and found the candid bubble in your belly before snapping into a million pieces— your gorgeous noises finding his ears as he fucks you faster, yanking his head back and clenching his jaw as you came apart together, moaning into each others mouths and welcoming your orgasm with melting, soothing moans.

you shake your head and bury yourself into his warm embrace, earning you a smile you cannot even see when your thighs shake around his waist as he continues to pump his seed into you, the warm covers of milky whites prolonging your orgasm and intensifying it to a tenfold.

just in time too, his hot gift soothes the soreness on your walls as neuvillette deafens your body with a post-orgasm sensitivity that catches you in a trance, his cock still buried inside and never leaving your tight hole as you work to somehow get a hold of your breath again, letting you ease the stress he senses from you.

the stone-hard desk underneath you was bruising and uncomfortable, but it's bearable when you nuzzle yourself into your ex lover, or, well— current lover? soon to be fiance again?

"do not worry your pretty head," his hand lovingly brushes over your head as you fuse into his trace, "i will take care of everything," as he's allowing you to indulge in the intimate atmosphere you have missed so dearly, "i could marry you right this second, wherever you want," and with that sort of enthusiasm, you hold in every passing word with love, knowing that whatever the case— neuvillette and you will figure out a way, but you'll do it together, as a team.

5K notes · View notes

kyuuppi · 9 months

Text

help, my boyfriend has no sex drive! (5)

Pairing: Kenma x reader (f)

Contents: smut; established relationship; feminization, "femboy", heavy praise kink (Kenma); rough sex; creampie; Christmas themes

Words: 3.4k

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

“But as long as you’d love me so—

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snoooow”

Kenma tries not to visibly cringe at the cheery music as he emerges from his office, finally finished with his obligatory three-hour “Christmas special” stream.

As you had been for the past month, you’re softly singing along to some Christmas carol playing from your shitty laptop speaker. You had busied yourself with reorganizing the presents under the full-sized tree—something you had insisted on buying for the apartment.

Kenma had little more interest in most holidays than the “free day from school” perks. But as he watches you scurry around your shared living room wearing candy cane-themed stockings, an oversized ugly Christmas sweater, and a hundred-yen-store Santa hat, Kenma is thankful you had expressed your desire to celebrate with him. He will gladly participate in anything that makes you this innocently cheerful.

Your background music is abruptly cut short and you frown when you realize your laptop has just died again. But the disappointment is cut short when you notice Kenma, standing awkwardly by the couch in the dark Christmas sweater you had insisted he wear for his stream.

“KenKen—your stream is over?”

Kenma smiles softly at how eager you look, eyes practically sparkling.

“Yeah, I’m free now. You wanted to open presents, right?”

You nod quickly, guiding him to the couch and leaving only to retrieve a cup of hot cocoa—extra whipped cream—and a slice of homemade apple pie, placing them both in front of him on the coffee table. He thanks you quietly, predictably digging into the apple pie first.

“So I think we should start with your family’s gifts first,” you begin, already passing him a small stack of presents, all wrapped in identical green and red paper.

After nearly half an hour you two had finally worked your way through nearly all of the presents. Most were the typical things–an abhorrent amount of socks and pajamas from your families, Kenma’s mother gifting both of you very cringey matching couple sets with any video game character she saw. You had to try very hard not to laugh at Kenma’s face when you opened a matching Kirby and Jigglypuff sweater set with a handwritten heart note.

“Aww, don’t pout KenKen, your mom was just being thoughtful.” “They’re not even in the same series.”

A few gifts had been surprising–namely Kuroo’s cat ear headphones—to which Kenma promptly sent a text telling Kuroo to never buy him Christmas gift ever again— and even a signed pro jersey from Hinata. Even if he didn’t voice it, you noticed how touched Kenma seemed by the gesture and you made a mental note to buy something to display it in the apartment. A few gifts were even from Kenma’s fans, sending various game merchandise, snacks from their country, and even fan art of the two of you.

Finally, the last remaining gifts were the ones you made for each other. You didn’t want to pressure Kenma to buy you anything fancy–and you also couldn’t afford to reciprocate with anything fancy, so you set a strict budget.

Kenma was unexpectedly good at keeping secrets so you weren’t sure what he had gotten you–probably a game he wanted you to play together but the box was unexpectedly big—

Regardless, you knew what you got him , and it was something you had been thinking about for months. Needless to say, you were eager for him to open it.

“Who should go firs—”

“I’ll go!”

Kenma raises a brow but complies as you all but shove your gift into his hands. The outside is unassuming—a flat package wrapped in red paper with a holographic silver stick-on bow in the center. Somehow, he feels vaguely uneasy.

Cautiously, Kenma begins unwrapping the gift. You practically vibrate with excitement in your seat, eagerly watching as his thin fingers peel away the final layers of colorful paper.

Finally, your present reveals itself, soft nylon fabric in a bright red shade. Kenma seems confused, unsure of what exactly he is looking at until he shifts and the fabric unravels into two long strips.

“Ta-daa,” you cheer, “your very own pair of thigh-high stockings!”

Kenma looks horrified.

“This is a joke,” Kenma states, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as you.

“What do you mean? Don’t you like them? Look, they’re even Christmas-themed!”

You guide his hands over to the top of the socks where a large red ribbon sits. Two short red strings dangle the ribbon with a small, fuzzy white ball at the end each. You make him squeeze the soft ball for good measure. His expression doesn’t change.

“Why would you buy me these? You wasted actual, real-life money for this,” Kenma bemoans.

“Didn’t your fans suggest something like this before? I think they called them programmer socks—”

“ Oh my god please stop talking.”

Kenma lets out a long, suffering groan as you eye him with an absolute shit-eating grin.

It’s fine, he thinks. You wanted to be a little shit like Kuroo but it was just a prank. He could probably Venmo back the money you wasted on this and never have to think of this situation ever again. He’ll toss them in the back of the closet next to those cat ear headphones Kuroo bought him.

He is proven wrong when you nudge his shin with your own stocking-clad toes and give him an expectant look.

“Well?”

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to try them on?”

Kenma’s brain very obviously fries and you have to resist the urge to laugh at his expression.

“C’mon, I spent actual, real-life money on these," you tease, throwing his words back at him, "I wanna see you wear them at least once!”

“You have to be joking,” he all but whines.

Your excited expression tells him you are very much not joking. Kenma considers refusing more firmly. He knows you genuinely care about him and would never push him to do something he was uncomfortable with—or at least so long as it wouldn’t actually kill him.

But your eyes are wide and practically sparkling as you look at him expectantly with that cute little grin–the crippling humiliation that will likely haunt him every night for the rest of his life is nothing compared to your happiness. Kenma sighs deeply and you know you’ve won.

He ignores your excited squeals as he stands up and shuffles towards the bathroom in something akin to a walk of shame.

As Kenma stares at his own lithe form in the mirror he’s positive that he has never felt so mortified in his whole life. Not when he accidentally set a ball into Lev’s face during a match in high school. Not when he missed his ult in a team fight and cost his team the ranked match in League. Not even when he came so hard he nearly passed out while getting his dick sucked during a live stream.

Kenma can barely even recognize himself in the mirror, eyes flitting from his familiar golden gaze down to his oversized black and white Nightmare Before Christmas sweater and, finally, to his thin legs wrapped in an inappropriately bright red pair of thigh-high socks.

Somehow, the stockings feel even more exposing than if he were just naked. He feels like some cheap, poorly drawn femboy character in a hentai. One of his first thoughts was they don’t look nearly as appealing on him as they do on you. His legs are too lanky–straight and lean from years of volleyball but missing the curve of healthy fat yours have. His face heats up as he visualizes your thighs currently clad in your own pair of red and white striped stockings.

“KenKen are you ready yet? You’re taking foreeeeever!”

His heart rate picks up and he tries to remind himself it's just you, the person who makes him feel safest. He’s going to go out there, you’re going to see how cringe he looks, then you'll both laugh and never talk about this again.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door, immediately meeting your gaze as you sit on the couch where he left you. Breath bated, he watches as your eyes dart down his body, darting around his lower half with your mouth agape. He tries his best not to squirm under your stare.

“Fuck, Ken,” you chuckle breathily, “you look amazing.”

Kenma’s breath hitches, certainly not expecting that type of response. As you continue to take him in he realizes your gaze looks almost hungry, like you’re ready to devour him–shit, are you seriously into this?

He finds his answer in the way you motion him over, helpless in how his body obeys before he can even process the silent request. You reach out hesitantly, fingertips so close to his thighs he can feel your body heat even through the thin fabric. You glance up at him, asking permission, and he’s nodding immediately, desperate for your touch.

Your fingers land near his left knee, trailing up slowly and making his whole body tremble lightly. When your fingertips catch on the hem of the stockings he nearly gasps and then you're brushing his soft skin directly, only stopping when you reach the edge of the sweater that’s just barely covering his rapidly hardening cock.

“You’re so pretty,” you praise, "my pretty boy."

Kenma makes a choked sound, surprised and mildly offended but also awfully turned on to hear any form of praise from your lips. No, he wants to argue, you’re the pretty one –but you look up at him, so pleased, that he can’t remember how to speak.

“And now we match,” you sing, tone innocent as you raise your leg between his own. His eyes follow, nearly hypnotized by the contrast between your red-and-white stockings against his red ones before your clothed shin brushes against his crotch in a way that is anything but innocent. He has to grab the back of the couch near your head to keep his knees from buckling as he groans.

You seem to take some form of pity on him because you let up on his crotch with a giggle, making room for him to sit down beside you and catch his breath. Even when you let him rest your attention never strays from the item of clothing, hand idly stroking his thigh while you continue to drink in the sight of his pale skin contrasting with the scarlet cloth.

“Do you really like it that much,” he asks, almost hesitant.

He’s surprised at how sheepish you become, moving your hand away as your face slightly flushes.

“Um–yeah. I know it’s kinda weird, sorry, you just look really pretty sometimes.”

Kenma frowns slightly and takes your hand back, returning it to his thigh with his own on top of yours. The action was meant to reassure you but it felt too bold and he avoids eye contact as he speaks.

“You don’t have to apologize, I don’t hate it…”

He sees the way you perk up, practically beaming, from the corner of his eye and is quick to clarify less you try to buy him a pair of panties or something next year.

“It’s not my thing—I prefer seeing you in cute clothes…but I can try things like this if it makes you this happy.”

“Aww, KenKen, that’s so sweet!”

Kenma huffs, breath nearly knocked out of him when you launch yourself into his chest, planting noisy kisses all over his face. He tries his best to scowl but he’s pretty sure he’s failing by the way you giggle at his expression. Your Santa hat gets knocked off in the commotion but neither of you care. Kenma even takes the opportunity to bury his fingers in your messy hair as your kisses finally focus on his lips.

Eventually, the kisses deepen, morphing from quick pecks to slow and open-mouthed. Your tongue invades his mouth, gravity giving you a clear advantage as you take charge of this kiss. But not one to easily accept defeat, Kenma takes the opportunity to grab a handful of your ass in a way that has you gasping in surprise. You start to grind on him, both of you letting out soft sounds between kisses.

It’s you who pulls away first, making Kenma softly whine in protest, gaze hazy as he blinks up at you in question.

“Wanna ride you,” you explain simply.

Kenma hisses out his approval and obediently waits as you pull down your lounge shorts. You yank them down your legs and fling them across the living room with a little too much force, accidentally hitting the Christmas tree. You laugh at the sight of your fuzzy white shorts hanging on the tree like some soft of kinky Christmas ornament but Kenma is quick to redirect your attention by pulling you back down for another kiss.

He grips your ass again, this time bare, and moves his fingers to prepare you for his dick but—

He abruptly stops and pulls away from the kiss in shock.

“You’re already this wet?” His expression looks genuinely surprised and you can’t help but giggle.

“I told you, you look really pretty.”

Kenma groans, not sure if he’s annoyed or turned on but his cock throbs all the same. You pull up the bottom half of his sweater to reach his black boxers. He’s so hard that it's almost difficult to get them off but he helps you pull them down just enough to free his leaking cock. It takes a moment to properly position yourself from this new angle, hindered by your bulky sweater and the headrest of the couch digging into your side but you manage to guide his leaky head to your drenched hole and ease down.

You both groan as he breaches your cunt, your wetness making the slide smooth even as you reach his thick base.

“F-fuck, Ken, you always feel so good,” you moan.

The praise feels like a punch to the gut and he’s thankful he’s already lying down so he can’t embarrass himself further by losing his balance. He’s coming to realize even if feminization isn’t his thing, praise might be. He thinks he'd do just about anything if it pleased you—if it made you look down at him with those shiny eyes and call him your good boy—fuck. Kenma has to force himself back to reality before he makes himself cum too quickly just by his own fantasies.

You readjust your weight, leaning back and using his bent knees as leverage. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his stockings as you begin to move, raising to his tip before dropping your whole weight down. It feels good—mind-numbingly so—but he finds it looks even better. The angle you put yourself into gives him an unobstructed view of your face–eyes pinched closed and reddened lips open in pleasure, your breasts–soft and bouncing with every movement–and, best of all, your tight hole sucking him in with every uptake.

He can’t tear his eyes away from where the two of you are connected. A creamy white ring is quickly forming at the base of his cock from how soaked you are, thin strings sticking to your pussy like webs. Framing it all are your thick thighs, muscles straining with your movements and squeezed by those god damned red-and-white striped thigh highs.

Fuck, he wishes he could record this.

He has apparently said that aloud on accident because now you’re grinning down at him conspiratorially.

“Y-yeah?” you stutter out, “you wanna make a movie with me?”

Kenma doesn’t verbally answer but he doesn’t need to. Instead, he’s gripping your hips and guiding your pace, making you bounce on his cock faster while his own hips start to meet your thrusts.

It has only been a few minutes but it's becoming clear your stamina is far from athletic. Your thighs burn and your pace stumbles but Kenma is quick to take advantage of the situation, using a strength you didn’t know he was capable of to roll you over and push you face down.

“Kenma, wh—oh!”

Any dissent you had intended to make is abruptly cut off when your boyfriend, one knee digging into the couch for leverage, feeds his length back into your greedy hole and sets a pace that has you nearly screaming. His hips snap into you, hard, and you scramble to find something to hold on to. One hand finds the armrest of the couch near your head, nails nearly tearing into the fabric, while the other ends up behind you, digging into his thigh as he rams his hips into you. You’re drooling as you manage to stutter out a barely coherent statement through your moans.

“K-Ken, so h-hard, fuck—”

“Yeah,” He replies, sounding breathless but not nearly as wrecked as you. You curse his retired high school athlete stamina.

“Am I still your pretty boy?”

The question momentarily shocks you. You aren’t sure what response he’s looking for but you answer honestly, too fucked out to ponder on it.

“Y-yesyesyes, the prettiest! ”

“You like getting fucked by your pretty boy?”

“Yeeeess, I l-love it—oh god—”

One hand reaches up to grip your hair, tugging your hair in a way you aren’t sure is punishment or a reward. You cry out all the same, cunt squeezing him for dear life as he hits something deep deep deep inside of you. You’re fairly certain you’ve never been fucked this hard in your life. The sweet, no-sex-drive-having boyfriend trope becomes little more than a pipe dream as his hips smack into your ass without reprieve.

“‘m g-gonna cum,” you warn.

Kenma’s grip on your hip tightens and he adjusts his angle to hit the spot he knows makes your toes curl and your pitch turns airy. The nail in the coffin comes when he releases your hair, but only to start rubbing your clit, remembering your favorite rhythm from the time he watched you masturbate.

Expectedly, you cum, toes curling and squeals reaching a pitch you think might cause your boyfriend hearing damage. Your whole body seizes with your orgasm, cunt spasming and thighs squeezing shit as you please for him to stop, go harder–you aren’t sure.

Kenma forces you to ride through it, fucking you even as your hips stutter violently and never letting up on your pulsating nub. It's only when you're nearing tears from the overstimulation that Kenma stops, moaning sweetly as his own orgasm overtakes him. He collapses against you in exhaustion as warmth fills you from deep inside, making a mess on your thighs as it gushes out between you.

“Mm, y’r heavyyy,” you complain sleepily.

Kenma grunts something in response but doesn’t bother moving. In fact, he seems to make himself more comfortable by moving his hands to find your own. He slips his long fingers in the spaces between your own, locking your hands together. Your heart swells at the action, constantly reminded how much this boy loves you even when he doesn't vocalize it very often.

You allow him a few more moments of peace, listening to his harsh pants die down into something more calm before you speak again.

“By the way, what was my present?”

Kenma stiffens against you, having completely forgotten about Christmas altogether. Quickly, he pulls away from you and the loss of warmth almost makes you regret saying anything. On shaky legs, Kenma shuffles over to the forgotten box, wrapped in royal blue paper and topped with a pretty gold ribbon. He comes back to the couch, gingerly helping you sit up before placing the box on your lap.

You’re immediately surprised by the hefty weight of the box and grow curious as you tear at the paper. Within seconds, the logo and picture on the box become clear, making you gasp in shock.

“Kenmaaaa,” you whine, trying not to tear up as you pout at him.

To his credit, Kenma looks honestly guilty as he avoids your eyes.

“We set a twenty-thousand-yen spending limit, ” you remind him.

“I know but—this is basically a necessity. Your old one was going to die any day now,” Kenma reasons, helping you pull out the shiny new laptop –in rose gold no less.

“And it's a gaming laptop–that means you can play with me more so it’s basically a gift for me more than you,” he continues.

You know he’s absolutely pulling excuses out of his ass but you can’t help the rush of affection at how much Kenma wants to spoil you. He always buys you the things you want, even when you insist on not wanting to take advantage of him as a wealthy streamer and businessman. He usually comes up with some excuse, I was going to buy one anyway so we can share or I have too much money this month, taxes will be a hassle if I don’t spend it.

But he is right–your old laptop was on its last leg and every time you opened a Word document for school you had to pray it wouldn’t crash before you could save your draft.

You softly smile as you trace the box with a finger, elated that he even remembered which color you wanted. He grins at how pleased you clearly are, even if you won’t say it.

“Besides,” his grin suddenly turns sly as he places a hand on the swell of your hip, “I heard the webcam is really great for recording movies.”

#kenma #kozume kenma #kenma x reader #kenma x you #kenma x y/n #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #kenma smut #kenma imagine #kenma scenario #kenma fic #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu smut #haikyuu fic #hq smut #hq x reader #smut #fic:hmbfhnsd

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shootybangbang · 10 months

Text

The Upsides of Property Damage [Part 4/5]

Authored by @verai-marcel and @shootybangbang

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Mature

[Content Advisory]: light D/S undertones

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

[Author's Note]: Thank you guys so, so much for your patience, and so sorry for the delay! Most of chapter 5 has been completed and should be out soon. If you want to be notified when that comes out, go ahead and leave a comment down below and I'll make a taglist or something.

--------

The maintenance request form states: [Please give a brief description of the problem.]

for the past few days i've been so fixated on fucking the maintenance man that i've been having difficulty accomplishing basic tasks because every time i try to concentrate on anything even remotely meaningful all i can think about is him saying "maybe you just enjoy my company" and if this keeps up i'm fairly certain that i'm going to actually get fired from my job so clearly i need to either get laid or get evicted

This statement makes you look certifiably insane. It’s not even a request– it’s a confession . Sending this would be tantamount to seating yourself beside the grated window of a church booth and asking its captive priest whether he’d prefer you spit or swallow.

More importantly, it also exceeds the text box’s 250 character limit. You rapidly tap the delete key until the entire obscene paragraph disappears. Then you try again.

broken cabinet.

Hmm. Lacks an element of genuine contrition.

broken cabinet. sorry. :’(

[Your service request has been logged. Please allow up to one standard business day for a response.]

You glance at the time displayed on the microwave’s grease-spattered screen. 4:36PM. Morgan’s probably already packed up for the day– and taking normal operating hours into account, the earliest he could possibly show up tomorrow would be 9AM… which gives you at least sixteen hours to emotionally prepare yourself to confront him.

Morosely, you drag yourself out of your kitchen chair to pour yourself a glass of sparkling water. So this is what I’ve sunk to . Using service requests as a means of personal summons for the hot repairman. Pathetic. Shameful. And 100% necessary for the preservation of your sanity.

How many times have you pictured it now? Morgan, cornering you against the wall and wrapping his hand around your jaw… Or maybe , he’d rumble, caressing your lower lip with his thumb. You just enjoy my company . Then he’d fuck you silly, of course, in a series of lurid positions that grow increasingly obscene with each imagining.

And how many times have you pictured its inverse? Morgan, backing away in response to your hypothetical advance, his face contorted with faint disgust as he asks, “You know I was just joking, right?” Following which you’d get written up for sexual harassment by the leasing office and put on… housing probation, or something.

Being humiliated, you can handle. Albeit not very well— but you’re usually able to stay at least semi-functional. The same goes for flirtation. It’s this hopeless vacillation between the two possibilities that drives you out of your mind. Schrodinger’s boner: simultaneously fucked and unfucked. And like that quantum superposition, you’ve been plunged into a private hell of uncertainty until your reality can settle definitively on one or the other.

This has been predictably bad for your job performance. Earlier today, you’d accidentally deleted two entire spreadsheets of data whilst lost in competing visions of fornication and abject rejection, and then constructed a pivot table so incomprehensible that one of your colleagues had personally reached out to ask whether you’d recently experienced head trauma.

God. At this point, you really have no choice but to put the question to him directly. Plain and simple. Just a quick “are you hitting on me” and it’ll all be–

Your thoughts are interrupted by an urgent knock at the door.

Huh. Looks like Defying Your Blue Collar Dom is getting delivered a day early? It’s unusual for Amazon to leave packages at your doorstep instead of in the lobby, but it does happen, so…

…Oh.

It’s Morgan. What the fuck.

“But you were supposed to come tomorrow ,” you blurt, eyes wide with panic.

“That so?” Morgan asks, one eyebrow raised. He glances sidelong to the empty hallway, and shifts his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. With a shrug, he squares up his shoulders and turns back towards the stairwell. “Later, then.”

Shit. This is all going wrong. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that I– I, uh…I’m… ”

He allows your stammer to run its course into awkward silence. Then the corner of his mouth angles upwards in a sly smile and he asks, “Or d’you need a minute to put away anything else your ‘friend’ mighta left out? I can wait.”

Somewhere in the realm of missed quips, there probably exists a clever response to this. Somewhere that is decidedly not here. “No,” you reply in a small, pained voice. “She, uh– she hasn’t been around, so… y’know…”

The sentence unspools like loose yarn. Jesus Christ, this is stupid.

“You alright?” Morgan asks, frowning down at you from where he stands. “You ain’t normally this incoherent.”

His comment implies that you’ve been operating thus far on an existing, baseline level of incoherence. Biting back the urge to query exactly what that looks like, you reply with a clipped, terse, “I’m fine.”

As you lead him towards your kitchen, you nearly trip over the half-packed suitcase parked beside the door. At this, Morgan again voices his concern. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this on edge before. Something botherin’ you?”

Yes , you think to yourself. My libido.

“Or is it some one that’s botherin’ you?”

He says the words with such a darkly implicative undertone that you actually turn around to stare at him, disarmed by the sudden shift. The warmth in his eyes has gone out like a blown candle. “Is it one of the other maintenance men?” he asks, and the whisper of lethality in his countenance surfaces so quickly that it speaks to a kind of practiced efficiency.

A mingled thrill of fear and intrigue runs up your spine, and you swallow hard.

“If one of ‘em’s harassin’ you— if anyone’s harassin’ you…” he says these words with slow deliberation, while curling his free hand into a fist, thumb tucked over his folded fingers in that characteristic manner of boxers and street brawlers alike, and god if he were anyone else you’d likely be shrinking against the wall in terror right now. “Then you come tell me. And I’ll handle it.”

You have a sneaking suspicion that his method of conflict resolution involves grievous bodily injury. “Nobody’s bothering me,” you reply. Then, because he still looks vaguely homicidal, you follow up quickly with, “Just had an off day.”

This placates him somewhat. The tension diminishes like a rope going slack, and you realize with a hot pang of humiliation that your underwear is slick with arousal.

It’s not until he’s crouched in front of your broken cabinet, which stands ajar with its wooden door peaked at a 45 degree angle, that you finally work up the nerve to confront him. “So. Morgan.” You lean against the edge of your kitchen countertop like the faux marble might offer you emotional support. “There’s, uh. Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

He’s sorting through his tool kit and doesn’t lift his head. Picks through an array of silver chiseled pieces so deftly that you can’t help but wonder what else those hands might be clever at. “Yeah?’ he asks, selecting a screwdriver head. He slips it into the drill chuck, twisting it tight.

“Are you, um…”

Fuck. You can’t say it. Your mouth literally refuses to shape itself to the words. Instead, you hear yourself ask, “Are you thirsty? You want some seltzer?”

Morgan blinks, then turns to you looking predictably baffled. “That’s… what you’ve been wantin’ to ask me? Whether or not I’m thirsty?”

“Yes,” you reply weakly.

For once, it’s him who’s been caught off guard. “I– uh. Sure, I guess.”

He takes his drill and begins to remove the damaged hinge. Taking the door leaf and flipping it this way and that, he examines the damage.

The crack of aluminum when you pull back the can’s metal tab and the responding fizz of compressed air sounds a little like a rebuke. Scathingly, it hisses: what the hell are you doing?

I have no idea , you admit, pouring the can of sparkling water into a clean glass. You pass it over to Morgan after he presses the trigger on the drill twice and sets it on the countertop. He gulps down an absent mouthful, then immediately stands up to spit it in your sink.

Oh. He hates it.

Your voice is thin as a reed. “I guess you’re not a fan of sparkling grapefruit, huh?”

“It’s…” With the duty-bound reluctance of a dog given a loathed order, he takes another, tentative sip, and forces himself to swallow. “It’s fine.”

It is clearly not fine. “Do you, uh. Do you want a beer?”

“What, you encouragin’ me to drink on the job?”

You open the fridge. Good god, you might as well partake too. It’s not like you’re in any state to get any work done, stuck as you are in this miserable limbo . “In any case, I’m gonna have one. And I’m still on the clock.”

“Alright.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “So long as you’re complicit, why not?”

You end up downing half a bottle of 8% oatmeal stout in about three sips, then stand around blankly waiting for the roil of anxiety to abate. You’d attempt the precarious endeavor of small talk were it not for the fact that the only thing you can think of right now is “grapefruit”. Not the concept of grapefruit. Just the word “grapefruit”. This must be how computers feel when they spit out the same, continuous error message.

Mercifully, he intervenes. “You goin’ on vacation somewhere? Saw that suitcase by your door.”

“Catsitting,” you say.

“’…s’cuse me?”

“Catsitting. Like… babysitting. But for a cat,” you explain. “My friend’s going to Vegas the day after tomorrow, and her cat has anxiety.”

“Cats can get anxiety?”

“This cat takes cat Xanax . His name is Sebastian, and he’s the most neurotic animal I’ve ever met.”

Morgan asks, “Yourself included?”

You make a noise that bears no resemblance to any word in the English language.

He chuckles. “Well, go on, tell me how neurotic he is.”

Thank fucking christ, the alcohol is finally beginning to course its way through your blood. Your tongue loosens enough to tell him how poor Sebastian had spent nearly an entire day curled up under your friend’s bed the first time you’d tried to take care of him, how you’d ended up driving to the grocery on a Sunday morning to scour the shelves for the most pungent can of sardines they had in stock, and how only then , with the room saturated in fish fumes, had the cat finally dragged itself out of the boxspring to nose curiously at your offering.

Morgan laughs. A good sign, you think. “That’s nothin’,” he says, and describes to you his boss’ cat: a purebred white Persian appropriately dubbed “The Count”, so thoroughly spoiled that she won’t eat the same meal twice in a row.

You snort at the image of a prissy little fluff ball turning her nose at a gourmet cat meal.

“Though it’s funny, I never took you for a cat person,” he says.

“No?”

“Figured you’d prefer snails.”

“Look, snails… snails are…” This is a sentence you started with absolutely no knowledge of how it should end. “I like snails,” you say lamely.

“Oh yeah? Think I remember somethin’ else that you like.” He puts his hand around his jaw and pretends to look thoughtful. “What was that book called again? Somethin’ about… bein’ punished by blue collar doms?”

“I’m sure that my friend who left her book on blue collar doms here very much enjoys them, if that’s what you’re referencing.”

He merely chuckles indulgently as he continues to fix the cabinet. You watch his muscles flex under his shirt as he drills new holes into the wood and sets the new hinge in place. As he works the power tool with a soft grunt, you find yourself idly wondering if he’d make the same sound as he drills you —

“Y’know,” he comments, stepping back as he tests the alignment of the door. “I’m actually kind of impressed. This is the most work I’ve ever had to do for a single apartment, barring natural disasters.”

“Wow. Comparing a girl to a natural disaster. Are you this charming with all the tenants, Mr Morgan?”

“You gonna be jealous if I say ‘yes’?”

The alcohol makes you honest. “Extremely.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” He grabs the edge of the kitchen counter and hauls himself back to his feet. “If this is the amount of property damage you cause normally, then I’d hate to see you angry.”

He takes another step forward. You take a step back reflexively, but find yourself pressed against the wall. He leans his forearm against the drywall and he’s close enough now that you can smell sweat and machine oil. Your heart beats hard in your chest.

For once you’re lost for words. No quip comes to mind, for your brain is emitting sparks. “I, uh– I’m not–”

“You’re not what, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” you say weakly.

He raises his hand to your jaw, tips your chin up with two fingers. “The answer’s ‘no’, by the way,” he says quietly. “It’s just you.”

Morgan looks like he’s going to kiss you. The expression on his face is softer than you’ve ever seen it, all his gruffness melted away. You tentatively tug at the fabric of his jumpsuit and stand on your toes to–

But he puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down. “Goddamn,” he says, frowning. “You’re really red.”

Huh. What.

“Listen, I ain’t one for takin’ advantage of drunks, even if they got themselves into this mess.” He picks you up as if you weigh nothing at all and sets you down on the couch. “Now, I’m goin’ to get you some water, and yer goin’ to sit here and sober up while I finish this cabinet. Alright?”

“I’m not even that drunk,” you protest loudly.

“Yer about the color of a fire hydrant right now.”

When you press the back of your hand to your cheeks and forehead, your skin feels feverish. Begrudgingly, you sink down into your couch cushions and cross your arms.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, patting your head affectionately.

***

You slouch on your friend’s comfy couch with Sebastian sitting regally in your lap as if you were his loyal subject.

“Hey Sebastian, I think I did something really stupid.”

Sebastian stretches and yawns.

“I hit on the maintenance man.”

He meows. It sounds almost disapproving. Even the cat is judging you.

“It gets worse.” You loll your chin downwards until it touches your chest. “I was sloppy drunk.”

Sebastian tilts his head at you and blinks.

“Okay, one bottle drunk.”

He sniffs haughtily.

“Right? Pathetic, I know.” You move to pick up Sebastian, but he begins to arch his back and you stop, leaning back against the cushions again. He relaxes and maintains his regal position.

“Well, maybe YouTube will keep my mind off him for the next two days…”

***

You return from your friend’s place, having used her cat and your friend’s YouTube Premium as your therapy sessions. You feel better about things now, and life should return to normal. Right?

The washer’s inner mechanism gives a promising rattle as it swallows your last six quarters. There’s a low rumble of moving parts, the click of something slotting into place— and then silence. The drum of the machine sits sedately in place. Your dirty clothes sit inside in a quiet, unsoaked heap.

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter under your breath.

You try out a couple different methods: Turn the knobs to various settings without success. Jiggle the handle to try and unlock the washer door. Yell at the machine, call it a worthless piece of shit.

But where discourse fails, violence often prevails. It’s a lesson that has offered a decent measure of success in your dealings with vending machines, keurigs, and lawnmowers. So it’s not merely anger that guides you to kick the washer. No, this is… this is a strategic use of force.

The first kick yields no results. The second kick produces an interesting sputter. Perhaps , you reason, a more precise method is needed here . You raise your fist.

Before you can punch the machine, someone grabs you by the wrist.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Morgan asks, exasperated.

“Laundry,” you answer matter-of-factly.

“What part of laundry involves fightin’ inanimate objects?”

“The part where I get this piece of shit to finally work.” You attempt to give the washer a last parting shot out of pure anti-machine sentiment with your other hand.

Before you can continue to perform percussive maintenance, he grabs your other wrist too.

You tug on both your arms, but he is ridiculously solid; it’s like trying to break free of handcuffs.

Of course my mind goes there.

Looking up at him, he’s realizing at the same time as you of how suggestive this looks. His eyes widen a bit, and you take that as a look of surprise and embarrassment. Yet neither of you moves for a full minute.

“Well,” you say finally. “Are you gonna let me go? Or are you gonna make me submit?”

His eyes narrow for a moment before a smirk slowly grows on his face. “Sounds like that’s what you want.”

He pulls you away from the machine and instead pushes you up against the closest wall. You can feel the heat of his body through the thin linen of your sundress. He traps your wrists against the cold surface and presses his whole body against yours.

“Mr Morgan—”

“It’s Arthur,” he interrupts. “Call me Arthur.”

You whisper his name, beckoning. His expression darkens ever so slightly as his desire for you manifests in a slight twitch of his lips, a crinkling of his brow.

Then he kisses you hard, his tongue lashing against yours before lightly nipping your bottom lip. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and his pupils are blown out with desire.

Letting go of your wrists, he reaches for the hem of your sundress and hikes it up, his calloused hands stroking upwards from your thighs to your hips. He shifts his knee between your legs and nudges them apart before grinding against you. You can feel how hard he is, how big he is, and you moan softly. Burying his head between your neck and shoulder, he begins to suck on the delicate skin there—

The door creaks open. Mrs. Smith, the septuagenarian from down the hall, walks into the doorway with a hamper of laundry in her arms, then pauses when she sees the two of you.

For a second, everyone stands tense and still as participants in a shootout.

“Well,” Mrs. Smith says mildly. She doesn’t look surprised or scandalized. If anything, she looks mildly entertained. “I can see you two are busy. I’ll come back in an hour or so—”

“No! It’s fine,” you say before laughing nervously. You yank your skirt back down. Arthur immediately releases you and begins intensely inspecting the washing machine. “I was actually just leaving. This, uh, this machine’s broken.”

Morgan’s face is red as he makes a noise of confirmation and nods.

“That certainly seemed a novel means of repair,” Mrs. Smith says. The smile on her face is benign, but knowing.

“Anyway!” You pick up your empty laundry basket. “I really must get back. I have a…that is, I… I think I left my oven on.”

You barrel out the door, nearly knocking Mrs. Smith over in your escape. You run down three flights of stairs and into your apartment, slamming the door shut. Marching to your couch, you put a pillow over your face and scream .

***

Watching her leave, Arthur stands in shock at first, then glances over at Mrs. Smith and turns himself towards one of the washing machines, examining it with great focus.

A soft chuckle reaches his ears and he turns his head to look at the old lady, steadily pulling out one piece of laundry at a time from another machine. Under the pretense of examining all the machines, he notes that she also slowly and methodically loads the dryer.

“You should just go after her,” she says quietly, throwing a pair of large pink underpants into the dryer. “She’s a nice one, that girl.”

Arthur can only mutter, “I got work to do.”

“Come now, we both know that’s a lie.”

He sighs. It’s bad enough that John is on his case, but now 705 is giving him grief.

“Do you like her?”

He’s silent. He does not want to be having this conversation.

“Because a girl as pretty as her…”

“I know, I know,” Arthur grumbles. “I’m goin’.”

As he walks past her, Mrs. Smith grins knowingly.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #modern au #verai-marcel #upsides of property damage

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wenella · 1 year

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Zhu Yilong: Be Water 石子的回响

EN translation of Zhu Yilong's WSJ Men's Style Sept 2023 Issue Feature Interview

Translated by wenella

It's Bustling Again

“Unbelievable.” Zhu Yilong said slowly, on the other end of the phone.

The box office of Lost in the Stars has far exceeded everyone's expectations. On the eve of the movie’s release, the predicted box office was merely RMB 1 billion. Producer Chen Sicheng was relatively optimistic and believed that the film would be on par with its predecessors Sheep without a Shepherd 1 & 2, which grossed RMB1.3 billion and 1.1 billion respectively. As of Jul 31, however, the film has grossed more than RMB3.5 billion, with nearly 85 million moviegoers. This abstract figure is perhaps not as concrete as Zhu Yilong’s feelings: “Our cinemas are bustling again.”

From the end of June to the beginning of July, Zhu Yilong did roadshows for Lost in the Stars in 7 cities across 10 days. This is the largest number of roadshows he has ever done for a film. Before he started the roadshow tour, he felt rather apprehensive as he didn’t know what kind of situations he would face and what type of questions he would get. Zhu Yilong felt less worried after he learnt that the organizers picked Wuhan as the first roadshow stop for the film. Wuhan is his hometown and the only city that held a roadshow for his movie "Lighting up the Stars" when it was released last year. The movie grossed RMB1.7 billion and earned Zhu Yilong one of the most prestigious awards of his career - the Golden Rooster Award for Best Lead Actor.

His hometown audiences were particularly supportive during the two roadshows, but Zhu Yilong could feel the subtle difference in their reactions. Lighting up the Stars is a heart-warming story and the overall narrative is light-hearted. However, Lost in the Stars is highly dramatic and the audience’s reactions were more complex. They were critical of the character He Fei.

The entire cast and crew came to a consensus at a very early stage during the production: Lost in the Stars is a commercial genre movie. When Zhu Yilong first received the script, he was hesitant to accept the role for the very exact same reason as his audiences. However, He Fei is a challenging, complex, multi-faceted, and extreme role; it is rare to encounter such a role and Zhu Yilong was worried that it might be difficult to land a similar role in future.

Zhu Yilong watched an initial cut of Lost in the Stars before he joined the set of Only the River Flows. "The film managed to convey what the original script and the actors hoped to express.” He watched the completed movie for the first time at a Shenyang roadshow six months later. There were minimal changes and the main differences were the special effects. This time, he was so drawn into the film that he realised he had crumpled the ticket in his hand after the screening ended.

He was also deeply moved by the audiences. The audiences could feel all the key character designs that he made on the set and reacted as anticipated. This is the magic of film that transcends time and space, that is shared between an actor on the set and audiences in the cinema. Zhu Yilong felt happy and immensely satisfied.

The artistic and moral questions evoked by Lost in the Star aren’t part of the actor’s responsibility. What Zhu Yilong had to ensure was that audiences were intrigued by He Fei, gripped by his emotions, and drawn into the mystery quickly. In his opinion, He Fei is not only a highly dramatic character, but also a realistic one too. This was his main entry point when he first started to create his character; the tragic ending of He Fei has to serve as a realistic warning.

“He is an actor who maintains an appropriate distance from audiences; he doesn’t seem so ‘definte’ and is somewhat ‘vague’.” Producer Chen Sicheng explained why he chose Zhu Yilong to play He Fei. Zhu Yilong took a step back to think about this comment. He said that Chen is describing the ideal state of an actor, and this is a trait that he admired in veteran actors. He hasn't thought much about how close he is to achieving this state, but he's pretty convinced that “this is the right direction.”

Only the River Flows

On May 20, the world premiere of Only the River Flows took place in Cannes. At the end of the 101-minute screening, the 1,000-person Claude Debussy theatre was filled with applause.

“Movie is a universal language,” Zhu Yilong has a deeper understanding of this saying now. Despite the language barrier and cultural differences between the East and the West, human nature is universal. The story of a police in a small town in southern China during the 1990s captivated Western audiences.

“It's hard for me to watch this movie as a regular audience now.” Zhu Yilong first received the script more than three years ago. Back then, the character Ma Zhe seemed like a profound character and he wasn’t sure if he could handle it. Subsequently, the production team changed and the script was revised. When he received the revised script, he decided to take on the role.

Zhu Yilong’s first priority was to establish the character. The film is an adaptation of Chinese writer Yu Hua's pioneering novella titled Mistakes by the River. During his preparation, Zhu Yilong saw an old photo of Yu Hua taken by photographer Xiao Quan. In the photo, Yu Hua, who had a moustache and thick black hair, was staring at the camera. The photo was taken in 1993, right at the time when the story took place. The character Ma Zhe immediately materialized in Zhu Yilong’s head.

His next urgent priority was to become Ma Zhe. For one and a half months, Zhu Yilong followed the local police in Nanfeng, Jiangxi province, every day, to experience life, simulate crime scenes, and question witnesses. He also gained weight consciously. By the time he appeared on camera, “Zhu Yilong” was replaced by a middle-aged man called “Ma Zhe”, who has a slightly chubby frame and somber eyes. Like Mo Sanmei and He Fei, Ma Zhe is another character that contrasts greatly with himself. People often asked Zhu Yilong, it must be satisfying to play such contrasting roles, right? Zhu Yilong gave the question some serious thought, but admitted that it was difficult for him to find such performances enjoyable or satisfying.

The director of Lost in the Stars Cui Rui recalled a moment after an intense He Fei scene. The first thing Zhu Yilong did when he returned to the monitor was to grab his Thermos bottle and drink water. Those intense emotions that he exhibited did not seem to belong to him, Zhu Yilong said, "I have these reactions and emotions only because I’m in that specific environment. Once I’m away from the set, I often find it difficult to believe that I did those stuff.”

Many of his co-workers have talked about Zhu Yilong's focus and dedication on set. Once the camera rolls, he would hand himself to his character entirely. Off-camera, he would spend most of his time preparing for the next scene. “I don't want to leave any regrets,” Zhu Yilong said. Movie is an art of regret – this is a phrase that Zhu Yilong often heard when he was in film school. He understands the inevitability of regret in acting, but believes in reducing it. Whenever he is on the set, he would try his best to give his best performance and ideas; he would express them regardless of whether they were right or wrong. “I will regret it if I merely think about it and not do anything about it.”

Next, trust was also needed during the filming of Only the River Flows. In order to recreate the 1990s mood, the movie was shot on 16mm film, with no HD playback on set. The images on the monitor resembled television in the 80s, with grainy white spots and indiscernible facial details. Zhu Yilong chose to trust himself, the film director Wei Shujun and cinematographer Cheng Ma.

Previously, he had watched Director Wei Shujun's Ripples of Life and Striding into the Wind and found him free-spirited and rather goofy. After working together this time, he realized that Director Wei was also highly receptive to people's opinions. “The cameraman, lighting crew, actors, and director would always have a discussion before shooting.” It was a young creative team and everyone belonged to the same age group. There was no absolute authority on creation or ideas. If this was a problem with a scene, they were not afraid of trying all over again in a different way.

Zhu Yilong was attracted to Only the River Flows because it was filmed chronologically. “It is rare for an actor to have the opportunity to embark on a journey with a character.” Does filming chronologically help the actor get into character more easily? Zhu Yilong didn’t seem to have a definitive answer. Sometimes, he would also suspect if the magical moment of “getting into character” really existed. He wasn’t sure if this was because he didn’t pay enough attention to the process or if that moment simply didn’t exist. In his own experience, whenever he tried to seek that moment consciously, he would find himself already connected with his character.

This process is not controlled by one's subjective consciousness. Zhu Yilong doesn't want to be in control either. Very often, he follows the emotions of his character. This was the case for the head shaving scene in Lost in the Stars and Ma Zhe’s emotional scenes in the second half of Only the River Flows. “My reactions are subconscious and not predetermined.” Once Zhu Yilong is on the set, when he enters the circumstances and the narrative starts to flow, the emotions will come naturally.

Audiences Will Never Disappear

Like the river and its meanders, Zhu Yilong is also constantly flowing and changing.

He played similar characters in dozens of digital films when he first started out, fulfilling his responsibility as an actor dutifully. Then his opportunity came when a web drama pushed him ahead of his peers in the market. Next, he kept playing different roles on the big screen and sought breakthroughs to keep refreshing the public’s perception of him. Now, it's time for everyone to get to know filmmaker Zhu Yilong.

The idea of making a movie germinated when he was a 20-year old college student at Beijing Film Academy. During his four years in college, he took audio-visual language classes, attended lectures on films, and watched film masterpieces in order to nourish this little idea he had. But he needed a suitable opportunity and courage in order to turn this idea into action. The turning point came after his first trip to Cannes in 2019. He finally saw those faces that he had only seen on the screen at the annual Cannes Film Festival - a gathering of international filmmakers. Zhu Yilong felt a bit apprehensive, as he was invited by a brand and had no work that was competing in the festival. After he returned to Beijing, he told his team, “We need to make a movie.”

Four years later, he returned to Cannes with Only the River Flows. It was a particularly difficult four-year period that saw a turbulent environment; cinemas shut down and film releases were postponed indefinitely. The Chinese film industry was in a dire state. Yet Zhu Yilong progressed steadily. He made eight films and played the lead actor in four of them.

Was he ever worried about a film’s theatrical release? He shook his head. “I chose to make films because I like it. I’m attracted to a role and I want to create this character. Besides, I've always believed that the audiences in cinemas will never disappear.” Unlike watching films on your phones or through a projector, Zhu Yilong believes that film-going is a kind of lifestyle. You need to buy a ticket in advance, set time aside, and join a group of people to quietly enjoy a two-hour story in the dark. It is an extremely impressive and emotional experience. Using himself as an example, Zhu Yilong said that he still remembers his schooling days when he watched films at the Film Archive.

At the same time, Zhu Yilong also acknowledged that the viewing habits of audiences have changed in this era of short videos. But he would rather deem this a positive change. From silent to sound, from black-and-white to color, films have always evolved with the times. Zhu Yilong thinks that we are at another turning point right now. “We need to accept this change and explore new performance styles, audio-visual language, and narrative techniques to cope with these changes.”

Zhu Yilong watched Hirokazu Koreeda’s “Monster” at Cannes. In the Lumière Hall, more than 2,000 people filled the upper and lower floors. When the 125-minute screening ended, there was unceasing applause that “lasted for about 10 to 15 minutes.” This 15 minutes belonged entirely to the entire cast and crew of Monster and Zhu Yilong felt heartened by it too. “In addition to realist films, we should also introduce more young, pioneering, and imaginative films to international audiences in future.” This is Zhu Yilong's new reflection after his trip to Cannes this year.

In the spring of 2023, Zhu Yilong learned that Only the River Flows was selected for the Un Certain Regard section of the Cannes Film Festival. He said rather emotionally, “I guess I’ve achieved a small goal of mine.”

So what’s the next goal?

“Can’t reveal it yet. I will just follow the flow of the river and work hard.”

**THE END**

A lengthy but lovely interview with Zhu Yilong that focuses on Lost in the Stars & Only the River Flows. Happy reading! If you'd like to retranslate this, pls DM me for permission + credit.

#朱一龍 #朱一龙 #zhuyilong #zhu yilong #lost in the stars #cannes2023 #消失的她 #only the river flows #wenella #河边的错误

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bananaofswifts · 11 months

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Update: “This one is hard to predict,” is the constant mantra this weekend among rival box office sources guesstimating the opening swing for Sam Wrench’s Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour concert movie. Friday is currently pegged in the $40M-$50M range with a big spread of $107M-$130M at 3,850 theaters. On the high-end, that could be the third biggest opening at the current 2023 domestic B.O. after Barbie ($162m) and Super Mario Bros 3-day of $146.3M. Added another source about Eras Tour outlook: “Prepare for us to be wrong.”

Why is a Swift concert film calculus to box office bean counters instead of weekly algebra when it comes to projections? Basically, there’s an enormous amount of frontloaded presales here, plus the x-factor is how many walk-ups occur. Add to that the standard drops on Saturday night with a young-female skewing title. One source has Eras Tour tracking ahead of Barbie‘s pure Friday gross (less $22.3M Thursday previews), which was $48.2M. That said, no one is expecting Swift here to play out like Barbie which fashion-walked to a $162M opening. We’ll have more updates as they come.

Meanwhile, haters aren’t going to hate: Critics on Rotten Tomatoes are giving Eras Tour a 100% score. AMC isn’t sending out official figures until tomorrow.

Early Screen Engine/Comscore PostTrak from last night, which was combed from $2.8M previews, gave Eras Tours five stars or 95% positive. Parents gave it 4 stars and kids under 12, 5 stars. Thursday night leaned 76% women with females under 25 at 42%, females over 25 at 34% and guys way behind at 15% over 25 and 9% under. Moms, natch, outnumbered Dads, 67% to 33% with an jawdropping 95% girls making up the majority of kids under 12. Best grades are women over 25 (100%) and under (97%) while men over 25 grit their teeth for 2 hours and 48 minutes giving Eras Tour its lowest grade of 78%. Note these exits will shift during the weekend.

Previous: The AMC distributed Taylor Swift: Eras Tour concert movie officially made $2.8M in Thursday night previews.

We told you last night that the rough estimate was below $5M. The pic played in 2,700 theatres with showings last night beginning at 6 p.m. local time.

Remember, these previews aren’t indicative of how the weekend will go. Projections of $100M+ stateside still stand at 3,855 theaters. Swift announced Wednesday night moments before her premiere that she was pivoting her lucky 13 release date plan of Friday 6PM to Thursday night previews for the Sam Wrench directed movie. In certain places, advance tickets for the concert film last night didn’t go on sale until six to eight hours before showtime.

There are technically no comps to last night, not only because of the last-minute addition of Thursday previews, but also there haven’t been many wide release concert movies in the preview millennium era of box office. Interestingly enough, the midnight showtime starts for Michael Jackson concert docu, This Is It, drew $2.2M on its Tuesday night, Oct. 27, before posting a $7.4M Wednesday and $34.4M five-day.

The last minute showtimes for Eras Tour didn’t take too much air out of the sleepy autumn box office with Universal/Blumhouse/Morgan Creek’s The Exorcist: Believer earning an estimated $1.3M yesterday at 3,663 theaters, -9% from Wednesday for a first week of $33.9M.

Lionsgate’s Saw X at 3,262 theaters did $729K yesterday, +1% from Wednesday, and $11.3M in week 2 and $35.7M running cume.

Paramount and Spin Master’s second week of Paw Patrol: The Might Movie earned $15.8M after a second Thursday of $620K, +2%, at 4,027 theaters. The animated pic’s running total is $42.8M.

New Regency/20th Century Studios/Disney’s The Creator at 3,680 theaters grossed $571K on Thursday, even with Wednesday, with a second week of $9.3M and a running total of $28M.

Fathom Events’ The Blind saw $271K at 1,312 theaters, and a second week of $4.5M and a running total of $11.9M.

#taylor swift

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kit-walk3r · 1 year

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Scream: An American Horror Story Retelling: Part 2

Violet Harmon and her family move into a new house where she meets edgy new neighbour Tate and learns of the horrors currently terrorising the town.

Warnings: mentions of murder & slight gore and a minor feature of self harm (it’s Violet and Tate afterall)

Notes: wow, such a great response for part 1! Thank you so much guys 💓

Masterlist

2 months later

The Harmon family pulled into the driveway of a grand, Victorian house. It was beautiful and unique, with stained glass windows and old fashioned brick. Ben Harmon loved it. “It’s amazing!” he kept proclaiming, obvious that he adored it.

Violet, his daughter, was not so enamoured by it. “Great, so we’re the Addams Family now,” she muttered, earning a look of disapproval from Vivien, her mother. Violet hadn’t been so onboard about leaving Boston. In fact, she’d put up quite the fuss about leaving. She wanted to stay. She had her own group of friends in Boston (albeit it only being two) but that was two more than she was going to have in California. Violet had always struggled to fit in and make friends, she’d always been the outcast. Now she had to adapt to being the outcast in a whole new environment. It was going to suck.

“Cheer up,” Ben nudged Violet’s shoulder playfully. “This house is great. You’re going to love it.”

“Yeah, right,” Violet rolled her eyes before picking up a box of her things and heading into the house.

Vivien sighed. “What are we going to do with her?” She asked Ben sadly. “Maybe leaving Boston was a bad idea.”

“Babe, we’ve not even moved it yet,” Ben put a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulder. “Just give her some time. She’ll settle down eventually. It’ll all be okay, you’ll see.”

Vivien listened to what Ben had to say, before shrugging his arm off and heading into the house without a word, leaving a now disappointed Ben behind.

The Harmons continued to move their things into the house, with the help of a few removal men and the realtor who sold them the house, Marcy. It was a surprise to see her there, but the help was appreciated, even if the only thing she did was move a couple of boxes and gush about the history of the decor of the house.

“You do know about this town, right?” Marcy asked as the last few things were being brought in.

Vivien looked confused. “What about it?”

For a moment Marcy looked like a deer caught in the headlights. It was obvious she was hiding something when she quickly put on a false smile and headed for the door. “Oh, it’s nothing! Maybe have a quick look on Google later, there’s all sorts of interesting things,” she opened the door and was quickly hurrying down the driveaway. “I’ll call by later!” She was in her car and out the gates before Vivien or Ben even had the chance to respond.

Vivien and Ben looked at each other, both sharing the same bewildered expression. “I’ll look it up later,” Ben shrugged before picking up a box labelled BEN’S OFFICE. “It can’t be anything too important.”

- - -

The Harmon’s had been in their new house for a couple of weeks now. Ben and Vivien were settling in okay (even though their marriage was still a little rocky), but Violet was struggling, as predicted. She’d started at Westfield High School, and it hadn’t exactly gone well. Her first day was terrible, and the following weren’t so great either. She was the outcast, just like she knew she would be. There was no changing that.

Violet was wandering around the house one afternoon when she overheard a conversation coming from her dad’s office. He must have been seeing a patient.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” Violet overheard a boyish voice ask. Intrigued, she moved closer so that she was outside the ajar door and peeked through the gap.

Sat cross legged in a chair, just in view, was a boy probably around her age. He was facing her, and Violet could just about make out his floppy blonde hair and grunge style clothes. She stared at him.

“No,” she heard her dad say. “I think you’re creative, and I think you’ve got a lot of pain you’re not dealing with.”

The boy continued talking, but Violet wasn’t listening. She was entranced by him. He had a presence that captured her attention and wouldn’t let it go.

“The world is a filthy place,” the boy said, his voice breaking ever so slightly. The sadness in the way he spoke brought Violet’s attention back. “It’s a filthy goddamn horror show. There’s so much pain, you know? There’s so much.” Violet agreed. She’d felt that pain.

The boy’s eyes glanced towards the door and caught Violet staring, as if he knew she was there all along. They locked eyes for a moment, just a moment, before she turned around and quickly headed back to her new room.

Violet was thinking about the boy. His vibe just felt so… familiar. The words he was saying echoed thoughts she had had for years. The world was a filthy place. It was a horror show. She’d experienced that first hand. Hell, she’d been experiencing that in just the few weeks she had been here.

“Knock knock,” Violet looked up to see the blonde boy from her dad’s therapy session standing in her open doorway.

Violet didn’t know what to say. “Hi,” she finally came out with.

The boy came in, uninvited, and took a seat on the floor, cross-legged. “I saw you watching me in my session with Dr Harmon,” he said, staring at her.

Violet flushed slightly in embarrassment at being caught. “My house,” she shrugged casually. “I can do what I want.”

He nodded, accepting it. “I’m Tate,” he introduced.

“Violet,” she responded. A silence followed. “I haven’t seen you around school. You go to Westfield?”

Tate nodded. “But I’m currently suspended.”

“Really?” Violet grinned like it was the coolest thing ever. “How come?”

“‘Concerning behaviour’,” Tate rolled his eyes. “Got caught smoking and skipped school one too many times. I was already on a thin line. The principal doesn’t like me very much.”

“Why?” Violet asked.

“No clue, he’s just an asshole. Had it out for me since day one,” Tate shrugged as if there was nothing more to the story. Perhaps there was, perhaps there wasn’t.

“He’s a dick,” Violet agreed. “Almost suspended me on my first day.”

Tate leaned forward, intrigued. “Do tell.”

“Got in a fight with some girl for smoking. She tried to get me to eat the cigarette butt. So I hit her,” Violet recalled the story of her awful first day.

“My kind of girl,” Tate grinned.

Violet couldn’t help but smile back.

“So, why are you seeing my dad?” She asked.

Tate’s grin faltered. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to,” he said darkly. “You’re smarter than that.”

Violet shot Tate a look of apology but didn’t say anything.

Tate sighed. “I’ve just got a lot of shit going on at home,” he rolled up his sleeve to reveal a pattern of many faint scars decorating the skin of his wrist. “Partly this.”

Violet looked at them before looking down at her own clothed wrist. She remembered what she heard her dad say. You’ve got a lot of pain you’re not dealing with. Sounded familiar. She took a seat on the floor opposite Tate and rolled up the sleeve of her cardigan to show Tate her own. “Twins.”

Tate and Violet sat and compared scars. Tate had one from his dad leaving, Violet had one from having to move away from Boston. Tate had one from getting into a serious fight at school, Violet had one from her own terrible first day at Westfield.

They talked for a while, listened to some music. Violet felt like Tate was easy to connect to. They shared similar thoughts, similar experiences. She told Tate about her dad’s affair and her mom’s miscarriage, and in return he told her about his own mom’s extramarital affairs and father’s sudden departure. Tate struggled to fit in at school too. He didn’t really have any friends and would keep to himself. He said he was fine with that, that it didn’t bother him and he preferred it that way, but Violet wondered if there was an underlying sense of loneliness there, just like she sometimes felt.

“I hate it here,” Violet whined. “I hate everyone. All their bougie designer bullshit. East coast was much cooler.” She ranted, continuing to complain about how much she didn’t want to be here.

“Well, you moved to town at a crazy time,” Tate said, trying to change Violet’s mind.

“Yeah?” Violet’s voice was laced with a hint of disbelief. She couldn’t imagine anything interesting happening here. Not that would intrigue her, anyway.

“Uh huh,” Tate nodded. “There’s been a string of murders these past couple of months. Three of them.”

“Seriously?” Violet’s disbelief at anything interesting happening here was replaced with intrigue. The darkness had always attracted her, and her interest was sparked.

“Did you not hear? I thought your mom would have done a background check on this place or something,” Tate joked, yet serious. Violet had told Tate about how her mom could be a little paranoid and overbearing and she did wonder how her mom never picked up on this. She knew that if her mom knew about three murders she definitely would not have moved here.

“What happened?” Violet asked. She now wanted to know all the facts.

“Two months ago a woman was found dead in her house. Beaten to death with some trophy,” Tate explained. Violet’s eyes widened.

“And the others?” She asked.

“Two college girls found dead on the beach. Stabbed.”

“Are they connected?” Violet wondered.

“No one knows,” Tate shrugged. “I mean, probably. Too much of a coincidence, right?”

“So there’s a serial killer here,” Violet said. Definitely more interesting than she could have ever imagined.

Tate started to respond but was cut off.

“What are you doing in here?” Ben demanded.

Tate shot around to see Ben standing in the doorway of Violet’s room, staring directly at him with a look of anger and distrust.

“We’re just listening to music, dad,” Violet explained. Tate said nothing.

“You need to leave, Tate. I’m sorry,” Ben sure didn’t sound sorry. “You shouldn’t be in here. I think you know that. Please.”

Violet protested as Tate dejectedly walked out of the room.

- - -

After Tate’s unfair departure thanks to Ben, Violet decided to look up the murders Tate had told her about. It was all true.

Alicia Spencer, found dead in her house two months ago after having her head bashed in with a baseball trophy.

Serena Belinda and Bonnie Lipton, found dead on the beach last month with twelve stab wounds each.

Violet was shocked as she read through articles about the murders. She wasn’t expecting the brutality of them. These people weren’t just murdered, they were butchered. Bodies harmed beyond recognition. It was horrific. And yet, Violet didn’t feel scared. She didn’t feel any panic or concern over living in a place where three women had been murdered. She didn’t feel anything towards it.

- - -

Despite her father’s warning, Tate came over the next day.

Violet was hanging out in her bedroom, listening to music when she heard a tapping at her window. When she checked she saw Tate standing outside, a handful of pebbles in his hand that he had obviously been throwing at her window. He waved at her, motioning for her to come down and meet him, and so Violet did, without hesitation.

She met Tate outside and the two of them sat outside, just out of view of the house so that Ben couldn’t spot them together, but also with enough hiding space for Tate in case Ben did make an appearance.

Violet lit up a cigarette and started smoking, occasionally passing it over to Tate. They sat in silence for a moment, just enjoying each other’s company.

“So, I looked up those murders,” Violet said. “Pretty fucked up.”

Tate nodded in agreement. “Pretty fucked up.”

They were silent again as they continued to pass the cigarette between each other.

“The first one was my cousin’s mom,” Tate announced suddenly.

Violet’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t be. I wasn’t related to her, thank god,” Tate chuckled slightly. “She was a golddigger, just like my mom.”

Violet didn’t know what to say.

“People think Kyle did it, though,” Tate continued to tell stories. He was telling her these things randomly, unprompted, and Violet wondered why. It was as if he was telling her all this to intrigue her, to reel her in. Telling her these dark stories that he knew would interest her. They’d only known each other two days but she’d already displayed her love for the darkness.

“Your cousin? Seriously? How come?” Violet asked.

“Some neighbours saw them arguing the night she died,” Tate shrugged. “Apparently that's enough of a motive to murder someone.”

“Jesus, I fight with my parents all the time, that doesn’t mean I’d bash their faces in,” Violet rolled her eyes. “People are stupid.”

“Agreed,” Tate stubbed out the cigarette.

“Bet this place isn’t as boring as you thought, right?” He smirked.

No Ghostface in this chapter, but we had our introduction to the Harmons + Tate and some context as to what has happened in the time jump, including two more murders. I didn’t just want to make random names up for the other two people killed so I looked up minor characters to use. Serena Belinda is Emma Roberts’ character in Cult and Bonnie Lipton is the girl who gets kidnapped by Twisty in Freak Show.

Taglist: @jellyluvr @howtobesasha @dewberryobssesed @luv4evan @kaismanwich @violetharmonstwin @daylas-life @mariefics @spill-the-t

Want to join my taglist? Just reply here!

#american horror story #ahs #scream #tate langdon #evan peters #Violet Harmon #Tate Langdon fic #kyle spencer #Zoe benson #ahs fic #american horror story murder house #ahs murder house #kit walker #jimmy darling #james patrick march #kai anderson

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octoberobserver · 1 year

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Salvation Lets Their Wings Unfold - Good Omens Fix-It Fic (1/2)

(Read on ao3)

Aziraphale. What is it you want?

And really, for once, the answer was simple.

~*~

“Here I thought I was the one who did the rescuing.”

My God was Anthony J. Crowley a sight for sore eyes.

It had been thirteen months, two weeks, five days, 47 minutes and 16 seconds since Aziraphale had last seen him, but it had felt like an eternity.

They had had much longer breaks from one another over their six millennia, true, but this time. This time felt different.

Don’t think about why, don’t think about why, don’t think—

His heart fluttered quite humanly in his chest as he drank in every inch of him. Here he was. His best friend in the entire history of existence. Finally. Standing motionless mere feet from him in the middle of Heaven, a lovely dark contrast to the empty white, with his fiery hair, golden eyes, and lithe form, surrounded by a circle of—

“Oh bugger,” he gasped as he realised why Crowley was standing so unnaturally still.

There, boxing him in on all sides—at his feet, hovering mid-air at waist height, eye level and above his head—lay dozens of small glass vases of holy water. Dangerously full and lined up like the transparent bars of a giant, floating cage.

Panicking, Aziraphale tried to race over to him only to abruptly slip, arms flailing as he narrowly avoided falling.

“Yeah,” Crowley grimaced as he struggled to right himself. “The entire floor is doused in holy water too. Save for this lovely 10x10 patch I’m standing in.”

Halting a safe distance, Aziraphale’s brain fired on all cylinders as he fought to come up with a plan.

Hmm. Occam’s Razor?

He waved a hand to simply miracle the vases away, only to predictably be denied.

“Miracle blocker,” Crowley gestured to a large, rectangular frame above their heads.

It was a thin, silvery-blue that resembled a laser beam from those human spy films that he had dragged him to once or twice. The one where the brunet actor did loads of running and jumping from helicopters and hanging from ceilings and the like.

My, my. Things have gotten very ostentatious in the last eighty years.

“Oh, fuck,” Aziraphale groused aloud, running a hand through his hair.

“Swearing in Heaven, Aziraphale? That’s gotta be sacrilege,” Crowley smirked before his whole body deflated with a sigh. “What are you doing here anyway? Your office nearby, is it?”

He sounded weary, too tired to be snarky in a way that sounded far too foreign to Aziraphale’s ears.

“I-I’m here for you, of course,” he retorted, ignoring the hurt seeping into his veins at his lacklustre demeanour.

“Right,” Crowley sniffed, his glasses-free eyes narrowed.

An awkward beat of silence hung over them as Aziraphale tried to focus on the task at hand.

“Okay. Let’s um, let’s try this, shall we?”

“Yep,” Crowley replied airly, popping the ‘p’. “Might as well.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, Aziraphale slowly reached out to one of the nearest vials, his fingers half an inch from touching it.

“Careful, ange—” Crowley cleared his throat, his gaze trailing the vial as Aziraphale managed to oh so gently push it out of the way, it floating a safe distance from either one of them now.

“Okay, so, no alarm bells at that,” he looked around them as if someone, somewhere, was about to jump out at any moment. “Let’s keep going.”

He worked slowly and methodically, deftly moving each and every vase several metres away from him, starting at his feet and working his way up.

“So, Metatron’s insane,” he informed him lightly if only to distract him.

Crowley snorted.

“Yeah, I kinda got that when he had me abducted and imprisoned for trying to save humans from an army of the dead.”

Aziraphale winced. The Second Coming had been…eventful thus far, to say the least. Even with all his suggestions and outreach and spirited optimism, it had all fallen rather on deaf ears. Metatron had a vision, as it were. A vision that Aziraphale vehemently opposed.

Crowley was right…

Shaking his head, he willed himself to focus. Freeing Crowley from this death trap was far more important than absolving himself of his guilt.

Gritting his teeth and steadying his hands, he began moving two vials hovering close to his thigh, only for his knuckle to accidentally bump against one.

They both gasped as the vial edged up dangerously close to Crowley’s hip. Aziraphale’s other hand veered out, clutching his hip bone tight and shielding him from it, it bouncing up against his ring finger instead, the tiniest droplet wetting his skin.

“H-Holy shit,” Crowley breathed shakily before chuckling nervously at his accidental pun.

“The holiest,” Aziraphale shot back, his heart in his throat as he very carefully pushed the vase away, his fingers brushing against the fabric of Crowley’s waistband.

He watched as Crowley’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he took as deep a breath as he could.

They didn’t need to breathe, celestial beings. But Aziraphale could understand the comfort of it and had indulged in it on more than one occasion himself.

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think—

He breathed in.

“Nearly there,” he said quietly, forcing himself to remove his hand from his hip and carefully pushing away five vases that were floating near his collarbone with a sweep of his arm.

“Uh huh,” Crowley replied stiffly, his eyes slits as the little vessels of death bobbed away like rubber ducks in bathwater.

They were down to the last dozen now, most of them a ring around Crowley’s face and head like a macabre facsimile of a halo.

Steadying his hands, Aziraphale reached up, parting four vases (that blocked Crowley’s eyes, cheeks and jaw) like curtains. His stomach swooped when his face was finally fully visible for the first time in over four-hundred days.

“Hi,” he breathed out.

“Hi,” Crowley murmured, his gaze noticeably staring at some point over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Uh, not to rush you or anything, but I’m pretty sure Michael is going to pop up any second now and put a dent in our great escape plan.”

Aziraphale nodded, clearing his throat. “Right, right you are. Let me just…”

He leaned up on his tiptoes and swept the vials bouncing by Crowley’s hair and ear, the final three floating away to join the others.

A beat of silence draped over them as they avoided eye contact.

“Well, what now?” Crowley eventually asked as he outstretched his arms for likely the first time in several hours. “We can’t fly out of here. And the entire floor is soaked. Don’t suppose you have a mop and bucket on you, do you?”

Aziraphale glanced around the vast void, despite knowing it was fruitless. There was nothing. No material objects anywhere. As per usual. Just one of the many things he had tried to rectify in vain during his time here.

“Right, okay, right,” he said more to himself than Crowley, summoning every speck of his courage. “We’re just going to have to do this the human way.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up.

“‘The human way?’ Do you actually have a mop and buck—”

Before he could blink, Aziraphale swept his knees out from under him, scooping him up in his arms and holding him close to his chest.

“There we go,” he murmured, his lips mere inches from his cheek. “I’ve got you. Let’s get out of here.”

Ignoring the fluttering in his stomach as Crowley grumbled something under his breath (that sounded like ‘humiliating’) before reluctantly wrapping his arms around his neck, Aziraphale tightened his grip around his back and began carefully crossing the wide, open space.

He took slow, measured steps across the slippery floor, painfully aware of every inch of space where their bodies met. His heart, far too human after all these years, hammered in his chest, pounding in his ears in time with his pace as he tried to ignore that any slip-up (pun intended) would cause the destruction of his very favourite being in the entire universe.

So instead, Aziraphale focused on how he could feel little puffs of breath against his neck and Crowley’s fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt collar, no doubt wrinkling it but not caring in the slightest.

His stomach rolled as he was vividly reminded of the last time Crowley gripped the material of his jacket and pulled him in to kis—

His left foot slid ever so slightly forward, causing him to stumble.

Crowley squawked in fright, his fingers digging painfully into his shoulders.

“S-Sorry,” he gasped out, gritting his teeth in determination.

It felt like forever and a day to cross the clinically white void between the makeshift prison and Heaven’s lift back down to Earth. He kept his gaze trained dutifully ahead throughout, not trusting himself to look at Crowley while he held him closer than he ever had before.

Well. Except for that one time…

“Here we are,” he exhaled as he halted at the thankfully-dry lift entrance, gently placing Crowley down in front of it and watching as he straightened up and smoothed out in clothes, his eyes carefully adverted.

“They took my glasses,” he muttered darkly, still squinting in the harsh light. “And the stupid bloody miracle blocker is still on. Don’t suppose I can just shut my eyes and—”

Aziraphale reached into his breast pocket and held out a pair of shades for him to take, his own eyes carefully focused on a non-existent speck on the ultra-white floor.

A beat of silence followed.

Two.

Thre—

“You…” Crowley cleared his throat before gently taking the glasses out of his grip, his fingers brushing the back of his hand.

Aziraphale held his breath for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“Thank you, ange—uh,” Crowley slipped the glasses on, clearing his throat again. “Well, you know.”

“You’re welcome.”

With that, he pressed the lift button and waited. Out of the corner of his eye, he could feel him watching him for a moment before he, too, faced the doors.

After what surely was eons, they finally opened, revealing, thankfully, an empty lift.

“Right, shall we?” Aziraphale gestured. “After you.”

Crowley shuffled in and leaned back against the railing, folding his arms. Once the doors closed with a soft snap, he turned to him, eyebrow arched.

“Does this seem a little too…easy to you?”

Aziraphale frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Crowley shrugged, brow furrowed.

“I dunno, it’s just…Metatron lured me all the way here—”

“I thought you said he captured you?”

Something crossed over Crowley’s face at that. Frustratingly, Aziraphale couldn’t read him like his favourite book this time.

“You say potato, I say potah—does anyone actually say ‘potahto?’ I’ve never once heard anyone—” he cut himself off with a half-shrug. “My point is…where is everybody? Why aren’t we being hunted down by furious angels all cross with us for ruining ‘The Great Plan’?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands, fidgeting.

“Well, um. That might be because I trapped most of them in a ring of hellfire until all this could be…resolved?”

Crowley’s jaw dropped.

“Angel, are you telling me you’ve declared war on Heaven?”

His stomach swooped at the sound of his beloved, long-missed nickname that Crowley didn’t seem to realise he had said.

“Well,” he swallowed down the hysterical feeling rising in his chest. “I sort of already did that when I used my Halo to attack Metatron and come find you, so,” he shrugged. “Potato. Potahto.”

The lift dinged, and its doors slid open before Crowley could do more than just gape at him.

“Come along,” he coaxed, though far too nervous to touch him again. “I–I have somewhat of a plan in place. Adam is holding down the fort when it comes to the Second Coming shenanigans. All we have to worry about now is—”

“Metatron,” Crowley finished just as Metatron himself appeared directly in front of them, standing at the doors of A.Z. Fell & Co.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #my fanfiction

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denimbex1986 · 1 year

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'As Cillian Murphy receives some of the best reviews of his career for Oppenheimer and seems incredibly likely to score an acting nomination at the Oscars next year, you may be eager to delve more into his past work.

And one movie of his that has built up a cult following in the years since its release is In Time, a 2011 sci-fi with an incredible premise.

Written and directed by Andrew Niccol (Gattaca, Lord of War), the film is set in a future in which time has become the ultimate currency. Yes, time literally is money.

This is as humans have been genetically engineered to stop aging on their 25th birthday, but are programmed to live only one more year - unless they can buy their way out of death.

As such, the rich can essentially remain immortal, while the poor are forced to beg, borrow or steal to earn enough hours to survive.

The movie follows a factory worker (Justin Timberlake) from the poorest ghetto who, with the help of a wealthy woman (Amanda Seyfried), aims to upset this system - while being pursued by a timekeeping cop (Cillian Murphy).

Upon release, In Time was a box office hit, grossing $174 million on a $40 million budget. However, it was seen as a bit of a critical disappointment, only earning a 37% Rotten Tomatoes score.

That said, while the general consensus surrounding the movie is that it does not fully capitalise on its very intriguing premise, it has garnered a legion of fans in recent years.

Amongst the praise for In Time is the way the film depicts the stark division between the rich and the poor, as well as the amount of time certain people in society have to give up to work just to stay afloat.

One Letterboxd user wrote:

"I really love the concept of this movie and it has a great political message [about] the real world where the top 1% have so much money they don’t know what to do with it and they’re overcome with greed while a big portion of us are struggling to get by day to day unable to get medication/food/essential things you need to survive."

Another reviewer added:

"Time has become currency and everyone is on borrowed time once they stop aging at 25 years old. The rich have no problem living forever, while the poor are constantly struggling to add time to their lives and finding time to pay bills... Loved the story and the class war commentary."

A third said: "Rewatched this movie after such a long time and I still love it. The concept is really interesting and I love how it still emulates our society," while another wrote: "This is one of my favourite films, the concept is just so interesting, I would kill for a sequel or a series set in this universe."

Meanwhile, a fifth Letterboxd user joked: "This movie made me a communist when I was 10."'

#Cillian Murphy #Oppenheimer #In Time #Justin Timberlake #Amanda Seyfried #Andrew Niccol #Gattaca #Lord of War

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pop-pop-pop-popculture · 5 months

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Wow, you're probably the only blog that posts opinions on Zendaya where it's not licked top to bottom. Respect. I hope you're not getting threats sent to you because of this. Her fans are very inadequate.

I agree with the other opinions. Zendaya has room to grow and there is room to improve in her acting skills.

Where others can just play with their eyes and convey the full range of emotions, she works hard with her face. And more often than not, it's a couple of basic expressions - the smirk, the angry hamster, and the disgruntled child. Honestly, her acting hasn't changed much since Disney. Thank goodness that at least the excessive conveyance of emotion is a thing of the past. Then again though, you can obviously see where Zendaya's problems are coming from in general.

She made a name for herself through fashion and style. Further cemented her name in the rumor mill by participating in a high-profile spider project where her role for all 3 movies can be folded into 30 minutes, lol. And of course the PR relationship with the lead actor playing the spider. How unexpected(not)And that's how she moved on.

A euphoria that can only appeal to a younger audience at the expense of epatage. And while season 1 wasn't bad, the plot sagged already in season 2. Back in the day, we had Skins. That's what really looked real. So I wasn't really into Euphoria. Not to mention Zendaya's character is the least interesting among fans. And I'm still laughing from the fact that she was singled out in season 2 for 1 episode, which was namechecked for an Emmy and won. And everyone pretends it's okay. Even though any other actress would be condemned for it.

Then there was part 1 of Dune, where she again has 5 minutes of screen time, but she's always ahead of everyone in the promos.

In general I can understand why she gets cast in high-profile projects. She's a household name, she's doing the carpet and the articles. She has a multi-million dollar audience on Instagram, which has become important these days for movie companies, which is sad.

She has a very powerful PR team. And she herself obviously puts a lot of effort into earning the title of great actress. But the truth is, she's a long way from her colleagues who are more talented. And the only difference is they have fewer followers.

Challengers in general is something strange to me. I don't know why she decided that a tennis drama with polymoria is what will get her viewership. Not to mention she still has 3 of her typical emotions in there. And if she's still a teenager in the story, she's not a 30+ woman with a child and a marriage.

I don't know if the movie will fail or not. After all, there are no special competitors at the box office, so it will probably make the box office.

And of course the critics will praise her performance. Which they're already doing now, predicting her Oscar nominations, lol. I don't think any of them will risk writing the truth. For they will be immediately condemned and called racist. In this day and age, you either have to say only good things about Zendaya or nothing at all. Which is sad. This way the girl will never make it to the top and will sit with a plastic crown on her head.

Thank you. I haven't received any threats yet, and I hope it stays that way! This is so well said, wow. I honestly have nothing to add on, to be honest, I'm sorry.

#ask #answered #2024 #pop culture #zendaya #celebrity

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kylesvariouslistsandstuff · 6 months

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I just noticed...

Warner Bros. has recently dated their all-animated adaptation of THE CAT IN THE HAT... March 6, 2026...

This is the first of their new "Warner Bros. Pictures Animation" initiative, the plan being to have two animated films out every calendar year.

All jokes about this movie possibly being shelved and turned into a tax write-off aside (I don't think any animated movie is safe under the Zas), that's the same day as...

An untitled Pixar movie...

Pixar currently has two animated movies set for 2026, one on this date, and in June. June presumably goes to TOY STORY 5, which is - at this point, per Disney CEO Bob Iger - eyeballing 2026. It being the summer release is a given, I feel. TOY STORY 3 and 4 were June releases in their respective release years, 1 & 2 were Thanksgiving frame releases... Walt Disney Pictures claimed 3/6/2026 first.

Games of chicken in animated movie scheduling are nothing new, in fact... Some high profile animated movies used to open head to head. THE LITTLE MERMAID vs. ALL DOGS GO TO HEAVEN in 1989, OLIVER & COMPANY vs. THE LAND BEFORE TIME in 1988, A BUG'S LIFE just a few days within release of THE RUGRATS MOVIE in 1998, you get the idea. They don't do that kind of thing now, though... Unless the demographics are wildly different.

But I wonder who blinks. The Pixar movie set for this date is most likely an original movie (it's not "Ducks", that appears to be a hoax), which are playing a different game at the box office these days. Open low (like, say, ELEMENTAL last year w/ $29m) and then leg it out to a solid gross... THE CAT IN THE HAT, on the other hand, is based on a beloved Dr. Seuss book... Which happened to have a live-action version preceding it, which itself was preceded by a half-hour animated TV special...

Just like...

HOW THE GRINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS and THE LORAX.

Those movies opened with $67m and $70m respectively. So, I think CAT IN THE HAT is primed to have a pretty good opening weekend come 2026. That is, if it makes it to the finish line and avoids the dreaded beast at the end of the castle, and makes it out alive.

As for the Pixar original, that's a little trickier to predict. ELEMENTAL was the first original Pixar in theaters following shut-downs in 2020. Its $29m opening is on the higher end of non-sequel animated movies released over the past couple of years, though it was foolishly written off. Legs, of course, came to the rescue. ELIO is the next original, which I think could gross around there. Maybe less, because it's an animated sci-fi story. Could be another case of STRANGE WORLD, TREASURE PLANET, etc. Whatever the 2026 original is, the box office prospects are up in the air...

It all boils down to who blinks.

One of them will have to try out February, maybe around Valentine's Day. Probably the Warner movie. Easter's locked up by the MARIO sequel. Not like February can't work for a family-friendly animated movie, look at THE LEGO MOVIE.

Interestingly, Pixar's been trying to do this 2-a-year every other year thing. 2020 had ONWARD open in March, and if plans worked out, SOUL in June. ONWARD got cut right off by COVID's outbreak, SOUL went straight to Disney+. In 2022, TURNING RED went straight to D+ in March, LIGHTYEAR went to theaters in June. This year was supposed to be that situation, too, with ELIO being out this month being followed by INSIDE OUT 2 in June... But ELIO was delayed all the way back to June 2025.

So maybe 2026 is another one of those situations, where Pixar wants to have two movies out, but ends up rescheduling one of them. I have a feeling TOY STORY 5 stays right in its place, but it's possible that could get delayed to 2027. TOY STORY 3 was once thought to be a 2009 release, and it ended up coming out in 2010. TOY STORY 4? Two delays: From its original summer 2017 slot to summer 2018, to summer 2019.

Plus, this could aaaaall be moot within a few months. Animated movies are always moving forward and backwards.

Worth noting, this wasn't the first time Warner Bros. tried stepping on Disney's toes in one of their major corners. Right now it's with animation, last time... It was with superheroes...

That was when - in mid-2014 - an untitled CAPTAIN AMERICA movie was on the boards for May 6, 2016. A follow-up to the very well-liked CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER... (Side note: I refuse to believe that that was a decade ago. A DECADE.) Continuing on, Warner shockingly moved their BATMAN V. SUPERMAN to that same date. Later in 2014, Marvel revealed that the 2016 CAPTAIN AMERICA threequel was subtitled CIVIL WAR... Eventually, Warner conceded, and moved BATMAN V. SUPERMAN up a few paces, to March 25, 2016.

So, we'll see how this one goes... Or if both of them vacate the premises...

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theflashdriver · 1 year

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A Collection of Mondays: Chapter 1 (A Silvaze Office AU Fanfic)

The growth of the Sol Shipping Company was proving to be a double edged sabre. While the success of the business could not be denied, with shareholder and customer satisfaction alike being the highest ever recorded, it had led to countless days spent as today's would be. Sat before a computer in her office, reading through an endless screed of commissions, rubber stamping order after order and signing file after file.

Blaze the cat, chief executive officer of the Sol Shipping Company, didn't feel she had any right to complain about her position. Despite being born in the prime position to inherit the centuries old corporation, she had insisted on starting from the bottom. As a teenager she'd overseen shipments directly, even joining cargo for the journey on occasion, before gradually transitioning to a client outreach role, and then taking on more legal responsibilities. Not only was she born to be here, she'd put herself here.

How long ago would that have been now, five years? From the day she'd taken the company's reigns, planning those first meetings with the board and key clientele, her whole life had changed. Early mornings like this, especially Mondays like today, were the few moments of calm she had. She arrived to the office early specifically for that reason, in order to have some peace to plan for herself before she was swept up in the inevitable organised chaos that was running the business.

All of her interactions were itemised and timetabled; every outing and visit ran according to schedule. Her life was not unlike the shipping of goods she oversaw, it was a parallel she'd mentioned in speeches perhaps once too often. Every act had it's allotted start and end, spontaneous delays (or occurrences period) were something to be avoided lest they create strife elsewhere, and she spent the vast majority of her time in the box that was her office.

A knock at the door broke her the overthinking this especially dull morning had brought to manifest. Her gaze darted to the small clock at the corner of her computer screen, confirming it only to be eighteen minutes to nine. Gardon, still stuck in the rut of formality, another of the predictable aspect of her current position. Yes, the older koala who was her personal assistant, a man who had known her since she could scarcely walk, still continued to knock on the door even in these early hours when surely there was nothing he could be interrupting. He'd enter on her call, make what stilted small talk he could manage, then back out like clockwork.

"The door's unlocked," She informed him, as she had countless times before, "Enter."

Blaze turned back to her screen, looking to busy herself in an email string regarding a precious archeological shipment bound for Spagonia University which had been stalled by a debate regarding true ownership. In truth, it wasn't a matter that concerned her beyond the delay but the gossip surrounding the occurrence was interesting to say the least. Both sides were threatening to go public, having seemingly forgotten that she had been linked in to all of their correspondence. She just had to remain aware of the situation in case-

"Sorry, you are Blaze, aren't you? I don't think I've ever been this high in the building before," An unfamiliar, rather close, voice asked.

Blaze blinked, turning from her computer only to find a hedgehog stood before her rather than a Koala. A set of yellow eyes were peering down at her, much too bright for a morning like this. On top of a mop of overgrown white quills sat a blue cap, emblazoned with the phoenix that was the company logo. A short sleeved blue shirt hung unbuttoned over his shoulder; making the placement of a tie around his neck stand out against a blatant pillow of chest fur.

Her brows furrowed as her attention lowered to what she'd imagined was the trolly Gardon often brought tea in upon, only to find a plastic cart stuffed full of letters and packages. Though worn in a somewhat messy style, he was dressed in the outfit of their delivery workers... but his cart was just from the mail room. Didn't he know he could just wear a normal suit and tie? Or, at least, to tidy himself up before coming face to face with the head of the company?

It wasn't hard to make the cat feel overdressed, she felt she was garbed more like a parody of a titan of industry than a true one, but keeping up appearances was a necessity. When confronted with this postman's candour, despite his low station, her purple slit-cut dress, fine black undershirt and fluffy white boa felt like a bit much. That wasn't even mentioning the red gemstones that adorned the dress or the accessory fan with its flame design set on her desk.

"I," Blaze thought to the signs on both the door and her very desk, bearing her name, not to mention the fact that this was her company, "Am Blaze, yes?"

"Ah, great! Had to be a hundred percent certain, didn't want to give your post to the wrong person. I couldn't really figure out where your office was? Your mail is all just addressed to you to be sent to the building, there's no room number on it or anything," He poked a thumb over his shoulder, "The guy at the desk outside said I could just leave all this with him, but I decided it was safer to make sure it all gets to you."

Had he never seen her face? Blaze supposed the company was big enough that such a thing was possible? After all, it wasn't as though she recognised half of the people she encountered in the corridors... but she was the head of the company? It seemed a difficult thing to have missed.

"I... suppose that's true," Blaze felt like her brain was misfiring; those from the mail room always leave her deliveries with Gardon, "I'm sorry, I don't believe we have met?"

"Oh, yes, I'm Silver. I just started here just last week," He quickly introduced himself, "I work in the mail room, as you can maybe tell."

"I see," Blaze muttered.

That explained it, he was completely new. The mail staff had surely added her deliveries to his rota because it was the furtherest to travel with the most parcels. That thought in itself didn't help with the nagging truth that her presence intimidated those lower in the company. Perhaps that was why they'd always left her mail with Gardon? Did that make this Silver brave, or foolish?

"There are a few things you're meant to sign for? I guess that guy was going to give them to you later..." He explained, drawing a clipboard from the cart, "If you're busy I could come back for them-

Having been caught in her stupor, the CEO shook her head and waved him to proceed, "No, I'll deal with this now."

She took the board from him and began to tick and sign her way through the stack of papers. By the time she'd reached the third page however, a bizarre hum and flash of cyan light stole away her attention. Blaze looked out from behind the clipboard only to find the hedgehog's hands were glowing. As he rummaged through the great plastic bin various letters, contract-filled tubes and parcels had risen to hang in the air above him.

So very casually, he was riffling through to find the goods addressed to her before setting them in the air as casually as one might put them on a shelf. Those with powers existed throughout the company, but it was so very rare that they aided with a person's role so obviously. Her own pyrokinesis was more a hinderance and deterrent than-

"Oh, wow," Her view flickered down to the power's caster, only to find him looking beyond her, "You really have a great view up here, it's incredible..."

The hedgehog so casually stopped his searching to rise and wander through the hovering mail. Without so much as blinking, let alone asking her permission, he strode up to and past her chair to stare out the great glass window that was to its back. She tried to summon the will to chastise his lack of discretion, but somehow could not conjure the will to do so.

"Yes, I suppose I do," Blaze murmured, continuing to sign the documents he'd presented.

That was, until he again scattered her thoughts, "Why does your desk face away from it?"

The obvious answer was that her desk faced the door because that way she could greet those who joined her for meetings directly, that she would always see them coming. In reality though, with every interaction she'd had in the past five years being according to a set out schedule (well, every interaction except for the one she was having now), there was no reason she had to see who was entering to visit her. She always knew who was coming and when and exactly what they wanted from her. What was the point in having that window, if not to look through it? It let light in yes, but her own shadow blocked it while she wrote.

"The mail room is in the basement, it's like a totally different world up here," The comment pushed her to turn, not to the window but the hedgehog staring out of it, "It's just a shame these windows don't open, I guess it'd be too windy?"

Blaze knew it was still early, the whole room had been lightly tinted orange, but his white fur seemed to catch the sunrise in a manner her own never had. While his blue shirt and hat maintained its colour, the hedgehog's fur had been dyed by the morning sky. He was like a cloud, tinted by the warm hue of the morning light. Despite what he'd said, it was almost as if he belonged here more than she did. How had this intruding mailman caught her so completely off guard and slipped beneath her armour of professional stoicism?!

"It surely would be," Was all the pyrokinetic could manage to say.

A second knock at the door stole back Blaze's attention; this time the intrusion would be Gardon with the tea... wouldn't it?

"Enter," She called aloud as Silver scrambled back toward his trolly.

"Good morning Ma'am," Sure enough, Gardon and his tea trolly had arrived, "I do apologise, he was quite insistent that the post was for you."

"He's not incorrect," Was she defending his nonsense now too?! "Good morning Gardon, I'll have the usual. Just tea, no sugar."

As the koala went to pour, the cat attempted to once again busy herself with her emails only to catch a flash of bluish energy again out of the corner of her eye. While she scrolled, trying to focus on the emails preset today rolling into her inbox and pouring out of her outbox. No surprises, nothing she hadn't anticipated or calculated for. Unlike the hedgehog psychically arranging parcel Jenga on her desk, trying to take up as little space as possible despite the innumerable deliveries he'd plainly brought for her.

"I believe your first video conference is scheduled for nine fifteen," The arrival of a cup and saucer before her again stole the cat's attention, "Do you require anything else from me, Ma'am?"

"No Gardon, thank you," She responded, turning to type an email regarding heavy machinery transportation, "I have a slot for our weekly briefing at quarter to eleven, that should slot into your timetable for today."

"Very well, Ma'am," He gave a half bow, retaking the handles of his cart, "Have a pleasant day."

Calm lingered in the air following Gardon's exit, Blaze managed to finish the email and return to pushing through his clipboard without looking up to him again. Of course, by the time she did look up, a bulky great wall of brown and white cardboard that now obscured him. That was, until she heard a fresh buzzing whir. The hedgehog had opted to float over the stack of packages he'd created, rather than simply walk three steps left or right of it.

"Should I call you Ma'am too?" He asked from above, almost looming over.

"No," She'd said that much too quickly, "Just Blaze is fine," Why was her brow so hot all of a sudden? "If you'll excuse me, I have work to attend to."

"Oh, right, yes, I do too," He seemed to catch himself, taking the clipboard as she held it out to him, "Well, I'll probably see you again soon Blaze. I hope you have a good day!"

As he dropped down, the sound and light fading, the feline slumped deeper in her chair. Why had she permitted this? She should have had him leave the mail by the door to be sorted when a quiet moment arose, not allowed him to whittle away who knows how long not only searching her out but speaking with her so casually! If he truly was as new to the company as he claimed, then shouldn't he have been at his most attentive? Most professional?

Why didn't she mind? Any rational boss would at least be perturbed at the time waisted; if meetings dragged on and risked interrupting others she'd been know to warn once and then leave. Her time was precious. Had he truly caught her that off guard? Was she really so vulnerable to having her schedule disrupted? Surprises breaking her timetable were always truly frustrating, what made him an exception? The only aggravating thing about his barging in was that she didn't understand why it hadn't prompted her to cooly eject him. She had been reflecting on the constraining nature of her role just before he'd arrived; she wasn't foolish enough to take that as some sort of sign, but perhaps it explained why she'd been so accepting of his casual breaching of tact?

He'd said he'd come again; well of course he would, to deliver her mail. Would Gardon put his foot down now that the koala had spied the hedgehog lingering? Did she want him to block the psychic's entry?

She rose to lean out from behind the obstructing parcels, "I hope-

He was already gone. She was alone again. Quiet had once again claimed the room.

Blaze looked over the backrest of her chair, staring out at the city skyline tinted orange by the sunrise. Building after building, cast in the glowing orange on the horizon. Theirs was one of the tallest buildings in Southern City and so the sun was visible cresting over those that were shorter. The world was still in its awakening state, cars crawled like ants through the intersections bellow and some were beginning to move in the nearby office buildings. All was basking in that wondrous orange light of a late Autumn morning...

Just how many mornings had she sat with that glowing view behind her, not deeming it worth so much as a glance?

#silvaze #Silver the Hedgehog #Blaze the Cat #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #fanfiction

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