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koiukiy-o · 22 days ago

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orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 008. the email.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 3.3k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: yum. good night, see you next week <3 -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

On the board: a rough, sketched spiral that narrowed into itself. Then—without explanation—he stepped back and faced the room.

“The Julia Set,” he began, “is defined through recursive mapping of complex numbers. For each point, the function is applied repeatedly to determine whether the point stays bounded—or diverges to infinity.”

He turned, writing the equation with a slow, deliberate hand, the symbols clean and sharp. He underlined the c.

“This constant,” he said, tapping the chalk beneath it, “determines the entire topology of the set. Change the value—just slightly—and the behavior of every point shifts. Entire regions collapse. Others become beautifully intricate. Sensitive dependence. Chaotic boundaries.”

He stepped away from the board.

“Chaos isn’t disorder. It's order that resists prediction. Determinism disguised as unpredictability. And in this case—beauty emerging from divergence.”

Your pen slowed. You knew this was about math, about structure, but there was something in the way he said it—beauty emerging from divergence—that caught in your ribs like a hook. You glanced at the sketch again, now seeing not just spirals and equations, but thresholds. Points of no return.

He circled a section of the diagram. “Here, the boundary. A pixel’s fate determined not by distance, but by recurrence. If it loops back inward, it’s part of the set. If it escapes, even by a fraction, it’s not.”

He let the silence stretch.

“Think about what that implies. A system where proximity isn’t enough.”

A few students around you were taking notes rapidly now, perhaps chasing the metaphor, or maybe just keeping up. You, however, found yourself still. His words hung in the air—not heavy, but precise, like the line between boundedness and flight.

Stay bounded… or spiral away.

Your eyes lifted to the chalk, now smeared faintly beneath his hand.

Then—casually, as if announcing the time—he said, “The application deadline for the symposium has closed. Confirmation emails went out last night. If you don’t receive one by tonight, your submission was not accepted.”

It landed in your chest like dropped glass.

It’s already the end of the week?

You sat perfectly straight. Not a single muscle out of place. But you could feel your pulse kicking against your collarbone. A kind of dissonance buzzing at the edges of your spine. The type that doesn’t show on your face, but makes every sound feel like it’s coming through water.

“Any questions?” he asked.

The room was silent.

You waited until most of the students had filed out, notebooks stuffed away, conversations trailing toward the courtyard. Anaxagoras was still at the front, brushing residual chalk from his fingers and packing his notes into a thin leather folio. The faint light from the projector still hummed over the fractal diagram, now ghostlike against the faded screen.

You stepped down the lecture hall steps, steady despite the pressure building in your chest.

“Professor Anaxagoras,” you said evenly.

He glanced up. “Yes?”

“I sent you an email last night,” you said, stepping forward with a measured pace. “Regarding the papers you sent to me on Cerces’ studies on consciousness. I wanted to ask if you might have some time to discuss it.”

There was a brief pause—calculated, but not cold. His eyes flicked to his watch.

“I saw it,” he said finally. “Though I suspect the timing was… not ideal.”

You didn’t flinch. “No, it wasn’t,” you said truthfully. “I was… unexpectedly impressed, and wanted to follow up in person.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he speaks again—calm, almost offhanded.

“A more timely reply might have saved me the effort of finding a third paper.”

You swallow hard, the words catching before they form. “I didn’t have anything useful to say at the time,” you admit, keeping your voice neutral. “And figured it was better to wait to form coherent thoughts and opinions… rather than send something half-baked.”

He adjusts his cuff without looking at you. “A brief acknowledgment would have sufficed.”

You swallow hard, the words catching before they form. “Right,” you murmur, choosing not to rise to it.

Another beat. His expression was unreadable, though you thought you caught the flicker of something in his gaze.

He glanced at the clock mounted near the back of the hall. “It’s nearly midday. I was going to step out for lunch.”

You nodded, heart rising hopefully, though your face stayed calm. “Of course. If now isn’t convenient—”

He cut in. “Join me. We can speak then.”

You blinked.

“I assume you’re capable of walking and discussing simultaneously.” A faint, dry smile.

So it was the email. And your slow response.

“Yes, of course. I’ll get my things.”

You turned away, pacing steadily back up the steps of the hall toward your seat. Your bag was right where you left it, tucked neatly beneath the desk—still unzipped from the frenzy of earlier note-taking. You knelt to gather your things, pulling out your iPad and flipping open the annotated PDFs of Cerces’ consciousness studies. The margins were cluttered with highlights and your own nested comments, some so layered they formed little conceptual tangles—recursive critiques of recursive thought. You didn’t bother smoothing your expression. You were already focused again.

“Hey,” Kira greeted, nudging Ilias’s arm as you approached. They’d claimed the last two seats in the row behind yours, and were currently sharing a half-suppressed fit of laughter over something in his notebook. “So… what’s the diagnosis? Did fractals break your brain or was it just Anaxagoras’ voice again?”

You ignored that.

Ilias leaned forward, noticing your bag already packed. “Kira found a dumpling stall, we were thinking of-”

You were halfway through slipping your tablet into its case when you said, lightly, “I’m heading out. With Professor Anaxagoras.”

A pause.

“You’re—what?” Ilias straightened, eyebrows flying up. “Wait, wait. You’re going where with who?”

“We’re discussing Cerces’ papers,” you said briskly, adjusting the strap across your shoulder. “At lunch. I emailed him last night, remember?”

“Oh my god, this is about the symposium. Are you trying to—wait, does he know that’s what you’re doing? Is this your long game? I swear, if you’re using complex consciousness theory as a romantic smokescreen, I’m going to—”

“Ilias.” You cut him off with a look, then a subtle shake of your head. “It’s nothing. Just a conversation.”

He looked at you skeptically, but you’d already pulled up your annotated copy and were scrolling through notes with one hand as you stepped out of the row. “I’ll see you both later,” you added.

Kira gave you a little two-finger salute. “Report back.”

You didn't respond, already refocused.

At the front of the lecture hall, Anaxagoras was waiting near the side doors, coat over one arm. You fell into step beside him without pause, glancing at him just long enough to nod once.

He didn’t say anything right away, but you noticed the slight tilt of his head—acknowledging your presence.

You fell into step beside him, footsteps echoing softly down the marble corridor. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was anticipatory, like the silence before a difficult proof is solved.

“I assume you’ve read these papers more than once,” he said eventually, eyes ahead.

You nodded. “Twice this past week. Once again this morning. Her model’s elegant. But perhaps incorrect.”

That earned you a glance—quick, sharp, interested. “Incorrect how?”

“She defines the recursive threshold as a closed system. But if perception collapses a state, then recursion isn’t closed—it’s interrupted. Her architecture can’t accommodate observer-initiated transformation.”

“Hm,” Anaxagoras said, and the sound meant something closer to go on than I disagree.

“She builds her theory like it’s immune to contradiction,” you added. “But self-similarity under stress doesn’t hold. That makes her framework aesthetically brilliant, but structurally fragile.”

His mouth twitched, not quite into a smile. “She’d despise that sentence. And quote it in a rebuttal.”

You hesitated. “Have you two debated this before?”

“Formally? Twice. Informally?” A beat. “Often. Cerces doesn’t seek consensus. She seeks pressure.”

“She’s the most cited mind in the field,” you noted.

“And she deserves to be,” he said, simply. “That’s what makes her infuriating.”

The breeze shifted as you exited the hall and entered the sunlit walkway between buildings. You adjusted your bag, eyes still on the open document.

“I marked something in this section,” you said, tapping the screen. “Where she refers to consciousness having an echo of structure. I don’t think she’s wrong—but I think it’s incomplete.”

Anaxagoras raised a brow. “Incomplete how?”

“If consciousness is just an echo, it implies no agency. But what if recursion here is just… a footprint, and not the walker?”

Now he did smile—barely. “You sound like her, ten years ago.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“She used to flirt with metaphysics,” he said. “Before tenure, before the awards. She wrote a paper once proposing that recursive symmetry might be a byproduct of a soul-like property—a field outside time. She never published it.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “She said, and I quote, ‘Cowardice isn’t always irrational.’”

You let out a soft breath—part laugh, part disbelief.

“She sounds more like you than I thought.”

“Don’t insult either of us,” he murmured, dry.

You glanced over. “Do you think she was right? Back then?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then: “I think she was closer to something true that neither of us were ready to prove.”

Anaxagoras led the way toward the far side of the cafeteria, bypassing open tables and settling near the windows. The view wasn’t much—just a patch of campus green dotted with a few students pretending it was warm enough to sit outside—but it was quiet.

You sat across from him, setting your tray down with a muted clink. He’d ordered black coffee and a slice of what looked like barely tolerable faculty lounge pie. You hadn’t really bothered—just tea and a half-hearted sandwich you were already ignoring.

The silence was polite, not awkward. Still, you didn’t want it to stretch too long.

“I’d like to pick her mind.”

He glanced up from stirring his coffee, slow and steady.

You nodded once. “Her work in subjective structure on pre-intentional cognition it overlaps more than I expected with what I’ve been sketching in my own models. And Entanglement—her take on intersubjective recursion as a non-local dynamic? That’s… not something I want to ignore.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said.

“I don’t want to question her,” you said, adjusting the angle of your tablet. “Not yet. I want to understand what she thinks happens to subjectivity at the boundary of recursion, where perception becomes self-generative rather than purely receptive. And many other things, but—”

He watched you closely. Not skeptical—never that—but with the faint air of someone re-evaluating an equation that just gave a new result.

You tapped the edge of the screen. “There’s a gap here, just before she moves into her case study. She references intersubjective collapse, but doesn’t elaborate on the experiential artifacts. If she’s right, that space might not be emptiness—it might be a nested field. A kind of affective attractor.”

“Or an illusion of one,” he offered.

“Even so,” you said, “I want to know where she stands. Not just in print. In dialogue. I want to observe her.”

There was a beat.

Then, quietly, Anaxagoras said, “She’s never been fond of students trying to shortcut their way into her circles.”

“I’m not trying to–.” You met his gaze, unflinching. “I just want to be in the room.”

There was a pause—measured, as always—but he understood your request.

Then, Anaxagoras let out a quiet breath. The edge of his mouth curved, just slightly—not the smirk he wore in lectures, or the fleeting amusement he reserved for Ilias’ more absurd interjections. A… strange acknowledgment made just for you.

“I suspected you’d want to attend eventually… even if you didn’t think so at the time.” He said, voice low.

He stirred his coffee once more, slow and precise, before continuing.

“I submitted an application on your behalf.” His eyes flicked up, sharp and clear. “The results were set to be mailed to me—” After a brief pause, he says, “I thought it would be better to have the door cracked open than bolted shut.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t speak yet. You stared at him, something between disbelief and stunned silence starting to rise.

“… And?”

He held your gaze. “They approved it.” He said it matter-of-factly, like it wasn’t a gesture of profound academic trust. “Your mind is of the kind that Cerces doesn’t see in students. Not even doctoral candidates. If you ever wanted to ask them aloud, you’d need space to make that decision without pressure.”

Your heart skipped a beat, the rush of warmth flooding your chest before you could even fully process it. It wasn’t just the opportunity, not just the weight of the academic favor he’d extended—it was the fact that he had done this for you.

You looked down at your tablet for a beat, then back up. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t sure it would matter to you yet.” His tone was even, but not distant.

Your chest tightened, heart hammering in your ribcage as a strange weight settled over you.

You leaned back slightly, absorbing it—not the opportunity, but the implication that he had practically read your mind.

You swallowed hard, fighting the surge of something fragile, something that wanted to burst out but couldn’t quite take form.

“And if I’d never brought it up?” you asked.

“I would have let the approval lapse.” He took a sip of coffee, still watching you. “The choice would have always been yours.”

Something in your chest pulled taut, then loosened.

“Thank you,” you said—quiet, sincere.

He dipped his head slightly, as if to say: of course.

Outside, through the high cafeteria windows, the light shifted—warmer now, slanting gold against the tiles. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

You’re halfway back to your dorm when you see them.

The bench is impossible to miss—leaning like it’s given up on its academic potential and fully embraced retirement. Dog is curled beneath it, mangy but somehow dignified, and Mydei’s crouched beside him, offering the crust from a purloined sandwich while Phainon gently brushes leaves out of its fur.

They clock you immediately.

“Look who’s survived their tryst with the divine,” Mydei calls out, peeling a bit of bread crust off for the dog, who blinks at you like it also knows too much.

“Ah,” he calls, sitting up. “And lo, they return from their sacred rites.”

You squint. “What?”

“I mean, I personally assumed you left to get laid,” Ilias says breezily, tossing a leaf in your direction. “Academic, spiritual, physical—whatever form it took, I’m not here to judge.”

“Lunch,” you deadpan. “It was lunch.”

“Sure,” he says. “That’s what I’d call him too.”

You stop beside them, arms loosely crossed. “You’re disgusting.”

Mydei finally glances up, smirking faintly. “We were betting how long it’d take you to return. Phainon said 45 minutes. I gave you an hour.”

“And I said that you might not come back at all,” Ilias corrects proudly. “Because if someone offered me a quiet corner and a waist as sntached as his, I’d disappear too.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m romanticizing,” he counters. “It’s a coping mechanism.”

“So,” you ask, settling onto the bench, “Mydei, did you get accepted?”

Mydei doesn’t look up. “I did.”

Phainon sighs and leans back on his elbows. “I didn’t. Apparently my application lacks ‘structural focus’ and ‘foundational viability.’” He makes air quotes with a dramatic flourish, voice flat with mockery. “But the margins were immaculate.”

Ilias scoffs immediately, latching onto the escape hatch. “See? That’s why I didn’t apply.”

“You didn’t apply,” you repeat slowly, side-eyeing him.

“I was protecting myself emotionally,” he says, raising a finger.

“Even after Kira asked you to?” you remind him.

“I cherish her emotional intelligence deeply, but I also have a very specific allergy to what sounds like academic jargon and judgment,” he replies, hand to chest like he’s delivering tragic poetry.

You snort. “So you panicked and missed the deadline?”

“Semantics.”

The dog lets out a sleepy huff. Mydei strokes behind its ear and finally glances up at you. “I still can’t believe you didn’t apply. The panel was impressive.”

You hesitate, staring down at the scuffed corner of your boot, when your phone dings.

One new message:

From: Anaxagoras Subject: Addendum Dear Student, I thought this might be of interest as well. – A.

There’s one attachment.

Cerces_MnemosyneFramework.pdf

You click immediately.

Just to see.

The abstract alone hooks you. It’s Cerces again—only this time, she’s writing about memory structures through a mythopoetic lens, threading the Mnemosyne archetype through subjective models of cognition and reality alignment.

She argues that memory isn’t just retentive—it’s generative. That remembrance isn’t about the past, but about creating continuity. That when you recall something, you’re actively constructing it anew.

It’s dense. Braided with references. Challenging.

You hear Ilias say your name like he’s winding up to go off into another overdramatic monologue, but your focus is elsewhere.

Because it’s still there—his voice from earlier, lodged somewhere between your ribs.

"A brief acknowledgement would have sufficed."

You’d let it pass. Swallowed the dry implication of it. But it’s been sitting with you ever since— he hadn’t needed to say more for you to hear what he meant.

You didn’t know what to say. Maybe you still don’t.

But you open a reply window. anyway.

Your thumb hovers for a beat.

Re: Still interested Nice paper, Prof. Warm regards, Y/N.

The moment it sends, you want to eat your keyboard.

He replies seconds later.

Re: – “Warm” seems generous. Ice cold regards, – A.

The moment it sends, you want to eat your keyboard.

It’s a small, almost imperceptible warmth spreading across your chest, but you force it back down, not wanting to make too much of it.

Then you laugh. Not loud, but the sort of surprised, almost nervous laugh that catches in your chest, because somehow, you hadn’t anticipated this. You thought he’d be... formal. Distant. You didn’t expect a bit of humor—or was it sarcasm?

Your fingers hover over your phone again. Should you reply? What do you even say to that? You glance up, and that’s when you see it—Ilias’ eyes wide, his face scrunched in disbelief, like he’s trying to piece together the pieces of a puzzle.”

He points at you like he’s discovered some deep, dark secret. “You’re laughing?”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face, trying to will the heat out of your cheeks.

He doesn’t even try to hold back the mock horror in his voice after peeping into your phone. “Anaxagoras is the one that;s got you in a fit of giggles?”

Ilias gasps theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Is he funny now? What, did he send you a meme? ‘Here’s a diagram of metaphysical collapse. Haha.’” He deepens his voice into something pompous and dry: “Student, please find attached a comedic rendering of epistemological decay.”

You’re already shaking your head. “He didn’t even say hello.”

“Even better,” Ilias says, dramatically scandalized. “Imagine being so academically repressed you forget how greetings work.”

He pauses, then squints at you suspiciously.

“You know what?” he says, snapping his fingers. “You two are made for each other.”

Your head whips toward him.

He shrugs, all smug innocence. “No, no, I mean it. The dry wit. The existential despair. The zero social cues. It’s beautiful, really. You communicate exclusively through thesis statements and mutual avoidance. A match made in the archives.”

“I’m just saying,” he sing-songs, “when you two end up publishing joint papers and exchanging footnotes at midnight, don’t forget about us little people.”

You give him a flat look. “We won’t need footnotes.”

“Oh no,” Ilias says, pretending to be shocked. “It’s that serious already?”

You stomp on his foot.

-> next.

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(send an ask/comment to be added!)

#❅ — works !#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x gn reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr anaxa #hsr anaxagoras #anaxagoras x reader

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moonlitcelestial · 4 months ago

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Prologue

Beyond the Lens - Logbook Videographer!Reader x Poly OT8 Ateez

W/C 3,435

🎥 Series Masterlist 🎥

☽ Masterlist ☾

Inspiration Pictures

Pinterest Board Masterlist

Disclaimer: This story is purely a work of fiction. It is not meant to assume or mock anything about Ateez or Atiny. I will be attempting to keep it as gender neutral as possible. If it comes down to it it will lean toward she/her pronouns.

The logo in the center is mine. Please do not reuse or copy.

There are a few characteristics that will be set in stone the following will apply:

Reader’s height ~5’9” which is 69 inches or 175.26 centimeters,

Reader has glasses,

Reader has a gothic/dark academia style,

Reader has lots of tattoos, and

Reader has 3 cats (Maine Coons).

Here is the Inspiration Pictures that I will be using.

Here is the Pinterest Board Masterlist I have for this as well.

Warnings: cussing, possible angst, fluff, and obliviousness.

This list will be updated as the story goes on.

Synopsis: Capturing life’s favorite moments, that’s what you were paid to do. You did not expect things to go the way they have and end up where you have. Follow the reader in one of the biggest opportunities of their life. Being the Logbook videographer for your favorite band Ateez should be great, right?

Author’s notes: I will warn you now, this will not be perfect by any means. I am doing this by myself and looking at things for so long makes you miss things. If you see anything please let me know. The first few chapters will be setting up the story. While I know that we all would love to meet the boys, all good things come to those who wait.

Thank you for reading

<3 Moonie

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

Capturing life’s favorite moments, that’s what you were paid to do. The rush of being able to record some of the moments that make a person happy is one of your favorite things. The freedom of creativity is what drives you. You get to create things that inspire people, make people happy, and things people will be able to cherish for generations. You loved your job and the people that surrounded you in it.

Plugging in your camera you booted up your computer and opened the files you needed to upload your footage to. You were really excited about this project for one of your long term clients. You stepped away once you were satisfied that it was doing what it needed. You need to make your rounds for your team. It was an after outing habit you picked up after they bombarded you, on multiple occasions, checking to make sure you made it back. After letting them know you were back with the footage and that it would be uploaded shortly you headed back to your office. You waved as you passed some of the other people on separate production teams as you walked. On the way back you stopped in the kitchenette to grab some leftovers you had brought in that morning. You turned the corner into your office and noticed your boss standing over your computer staring intently at it.

“Hi, is there something I can help you with sir?” You questioned. The hair on the back of your neck raised when he stepped away from your computer and you could see the blank screen. You knew two things. One, that you plugged in your camera to begin the uploading process; and two, that you had pulled everything up before leaving to go speak to everyone so it would be further along when you got back. With the way the system worked you had to upload it to your computer before uploading it to a backup drive or to the drive that your team shared. You rushed to the computer and glared at the man who had taken a small step away as you rushed past him. You threw your lunch box down on your desk, it almost slid off with the momentum you threw it. You pushed your thick framed black glasses up and took a closer look at your computer.

“I was watching your files upload and did not like the shots. I decided that it would be in the best interest of the client and the company that you start over. It was a waste of our resources and time.” He stated in a matter of fact tone. As he was speaking you looked through all of your files double and triple checking everything. You even checked your camera, it was sitting on its dock but not plugged in. It was all gone, the files empty, and your camera wiped clean. This man decided that it would be the best decision to delete the footage you had worked so hard on, for several days. Just because he wasn’t satisfied with the small clips he had seen. Who the fuck does he think he is? Despite being the boss, which by the way was only one step above you, he barely knew anything about being a videographer and how long it took to even get the amount of footage you had been uploading. You turned around to look at the stone-faced man clenching your fists. He had been after you for small things since day one because you got hired over one of his buddies. You had been more qualified with more years under your belt. They were hiring an experienced person to be the head of a division of videographers and not some rookie who hadn’t even completely decided what he was going to do with his life. This was your last straw.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You asked, seething, your voice raised just slightly. It was just enough to instill a silence over the office. You could feel the stares of your coworkers, you didn’t care, as you stepped up to him getting close enough to see the modicum of fear in his eyes. You had never been prone to anger especially in the workplace but you clenched your fists tighter to keep from socking this man to fuck up his too perfect smug smile. Your team walked over out of each of their offices to see what was going on. All of the people in the office watched in wide eyed silence. They all could see the tells of your anger, how rigid your back was and how you clenched your fists and jaw. They had never seen you furious, so furious in fact that you were calm, it was terrifying. Generally you were one of the people who kept their cool in bad situations. Not this time. They all had known how much of an ass he was, especially to you. They knew he had gone too far this time.

“Do you know how long it took for me to get that footage? The snippets you saw were the ones in the beginning when we were trying to figure out what style the client wanted. You just deleted several days work for something you had no fucking idea about. You don't even know half of what I do to make this damn company run smoothly. I am the head of this division. While you might be just one step above me you never had the fucking right to come near MY computer when you don’t know shit about fuck, what it takes to be in this business, and how it works.” Your voice raised little by little while you poked him in the chest. He was backed up against the edge of your u-shaped desk. Out of the corner of your eye you could see your team stepping into your office, preparing to step in if needed. All of this had added up and you were sick and fucking tired of it.

“I quit.” You declared in a loud tone. The truth was, you had been thinking about it for months, you just didn’t want to leave your people. He had increasingly gotten worse as all of the teams had gotten better under your instruction. Maybe he was worried that you would be taking his spot, who knows. You had been there for 5 years, putting up with his small petty bullshit.

Everyone's eyes widened and some gasped, you were the person who made this place tolerable for all of them. You had become a confidant to your team and the rest of the people working on the other teams. This place had become a close knit family after you arrived, he was the stupid creepy uncle that no one liked. You turned away from the man and started to gather all of your gear, thankfully some of it was still packed, you only took out the basics to start the upload. The only thing that was here when you arrived was the company computer and one monitor, everything else tech and decor related was yours. He stood there shell shocked. He just lost the best worker in this company, and the mentor to all of the people in this office.

“Get out! You’ve done enough fucking damage,” you said with an icy tone. He straightened at the tone of your voice.

“Come on Y/n. Let’s not get hasty, I’m sure there is a way to recover all of the files.” He stated.

You whipped around with your camera in hand. “No. I’ve had enough. You deleted everything, it had not even been uploaded, not to my personal backup drive, not to the team drive. You even picked up MY camera and deleted it from there. You got rid of it on the only two sources it was on. I am done being your victim because I was hired over your rookie friend. It’s been five years, get over yourself.” He looked at you in shock, you smirked, he didn't know that you knew. One of your teammates, Aurora, overheard him speaking to the man you were hired over several weeks after the fact. He was being entirely too nice for it to just be a normal phone call, she investigated and found out the secret. If she didn't have a passion for being a videographer she most definitely would be a great FBI agent, like most women on a mission. After she had her evidence she came straight to you. He had started his minor inconveniences shortly thereafter.

“Yeah I know about that, word travels fast in this office. The only reason I stuck around was because of my colleagues. I can deal with you being a dick. I can even deal with you making me redo things over and over again. Hell, even I think some of them came out better after redoing them so many times after your instructions to do so. But you took it too far this time, deleting my whole project, one for a very big client might I add. Said client being one that I brought to this office from my personal freelancing. And if you paid a lick of god damned attention to the way this office ran, you would know that the majority of the clients that we get in here are people that followed me from when I did this myself. You made your bed now you get to lie in it.” You turned back to your desk and continued packing. He stormed out of the office glaring at everyone who was watching the spectacle unfold. You could hear as your three teammates stalked after him out of your office.

Throwing your head back you let out a large sigh. You knew there were other places that would absolutely love to have you. Your extensive portfolio was something that attracted even some of the biggest companies around. Some of the time you were approached by companies asking for you to come work for them, but you were comfortable with this job. The pay was good, the people were amazing and they had the same passion you did. The only downside was the major dickhead that just walked out of your office. Your computer bag and camera bag were packed and all you had to do was collect some of the small knick knacks that were littered around the office from all of the places you travelled while working. You looked back down, adjusting your glasses and stepped over to one of the shelves. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed three of your favorite people walking back into your office.

“We quit too, you are the person that held this place together. We don’t want to be here when you aren’t here.” Aurora, your right hand said. After being here for a couple weeks you had requested to build your team, she was the first addition. She had become your right hand after kicking some ass in the interview room, in the field, and on the screen. You were very impressed with her natural talent to get some of the best shots you’ve seen. You took in the tall lanky woman, you only briefly saw her earlier. Her rib length dark hair was up in a bun with one of the knife pins you had given her for her birthday last year. She smiled at you, the skin around her blue eyes crinkling just a little.

“Yeah, he’s had this coming for the past several months,” piped in Willow. You and her had met after you stated that you would like to hire someone who was levelheaded and could take criticism after the last person quit. They stated in their exit interview that you were too much to handle. She has been one of the best you have met, even challenging some of your views of things. You looked over to her tall curvy frame, she wasn’t nearly as tall as Aurora but she was up there. Her chocolate shoulder length curly hair was flowing around her head like a halo like it normally did. Her caramel colored eyes held something like excitement in them.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t leave sooner, there are so many better places than this shithole.” You looked at Forrest who was sporting a shit eating grin, his beautiful green eyes sparkling with mirth. He was one of the best in the industry as well, he had a unique way of going about things, and a sense of humor to rival even the best comedians. He was taller than both women by just a fraction. His chin length copper hair was framing his face. He always looked amazing with his wolfcut.

“Forrest!” Aurora scolded as she smacked his arm. “We are still in this shithole and surrounded by people that work in it, be nice.” He shrugged and rubbed his arm smiling teasingly at her. They stuck their tongues out at each other, a common occurrence when they were in the same room. You let out a small chuckle at their antics. They have always argued like siblings.

These three had become some of your closest friends. You spent many hours together outside the office. You couldn’t have asked for a better support group or coworkers.

“Y’know, we could start our own business and bring this one down to the ground! In fact, I have some suggestions for names. Scene Syndicate or Creative Cuts, oooh or even Lens Legends!” Forrest spouted, throwing his hands out from the center like he was picturing the logo right in front of his eyes. Willow rolled her eyes and went to sit in your chair. She had always loved that thing, even once threatening to steal it to trade hers out. You had planned on getting her one for her birthday so she wouldn’t steal yours anymore. It was one of the cross legged ones you could move around and sit in multiple positions on. You were prone to sitting at that desk for hours and that was one of the best solutions you could come up with for your aching bones when you didn’t move. That was another thing that you had to make sure you got before leaving.

“Y'know for once I actually agree with him. That’s actually a good Idea!” Aurora said teasingly, taking a seat on the small couch you had for team meetings or client meetings. He looked at her and pouted flopping down next to her.

“Okay, how about this,” you started. “We all gather our things from our offices, walk out of this bitch like bosses and discuss this somewhere else. I would rather not be here while discussing taking this business down. We can all go to my place and have a celebration of being free from this shithole. Sound good?”

A chorus of cheers echoed from the three spread across your now old office. You had already considered the idea mulling it over the past few months, it might not have been the best way to get started but it was definitely something you looked forward to discussing. This was the start of a new chapter.

★☆☽ Timeskip ☾☆★

It had been six months. Six months of planning, exploring options, and making decisions. The four of you decided to actually open your own studio. It was in a decent sized building not too close but not too far from downtown Seoul. You were finally holding the keys to unlock the building for the first day. You all had put so much work into making it a home away from home. The four of you stood looking at the sign that had just gone up yesterday. Beyond the Lens Studios. After sitting down and discussing names you all narrowed it down to this one. While Forrest’s names Scene Syndicate, Creative Cuts, and Lens Legends, sounded awesome, it did not seem to scream professionalism; which was a necessity for running a business. You liked the names too, maybe they could be a nickname somewhere down the line, but not a business name.

“We did it, it's finally our first day in our own office and not at our shitty home offices! Someone pinch me.” Forrest said with wide eyes at the sign. Aurora reached over you to pinch him hard on the arm. He yelped and started scolding her, reaching out around you to attempt to pinch her. Here we go again you thought, rolling your eyes and laughing. When you looked at Willow she was also laughing. You took a step forward and unlocked the door pulling it open for everyone. The two hooligans rushed past you chasing and swatting at each other like children.

This was the start of something new and refreshing with some of the people you cherished the most. The majority of your original clients followed the four of you and were extremely happy you got away from the other company. You had some work to get done. You were thankful for your office space to be opened instead of your cramped basement with minimal supplies.

You had installed a doorbell system for people to ring for you to let them in. That way you had security in such a busy city and so you knew that they were here. Maybe later you could hire a receptionist.

As you walked in the door after your teammates you took in the large waiting space unsure if you were dreaming. Nope, it was finally real after months of planning. To the right was a large u-shaped couch with a table in the middle. To keep people entertained if they had to wait was a large tv mounted on the wall with the remote in a small holder right next to it. You took a look at the left side of the room where the snack and drink bar sat along the wall right as you came in. You wanted to have an assortment of things that were specifically for the clients. If there wasn't anything specific for them you knew Forrest would get into the snacks and drinks. The door to the viewing room you had insisted on was just past the snack bar. It had a large TV mounted on the wall with a small entertainment center under it to hook up laptops. That entertainment center doubled as a drink and snack bar as well. In the center was a large table that could easily seat 15 people. You thought it would be best to have one so clients could come in and view the products. You looked ahead and slightly to the right at the glass door with your new logo on it. It had come out so well and you insisted on it for all of the doors except for the props storage, regular storage and changing rooms. You walked forward to that door and pushed it open, this was the main hallway. On the right were two changing rooms for any of the clients that needed them and the left was the door to the studio. Straight ahead there were the stairs to the second floor. You followed the noise of the other three up the stairs. To the right of the stairs is where your offices are. To the left it had a full kitchen and a small lounge area. You took a second to look over the balcony to the studio. It was the unique thing about this whole setup. Looking into the studio you smiled at the special ordered white curtains that hung on automatic unrollers. Lights were strung across the walls and right under the balcony. Straight ahead you saw the storage doors. To the right you saw the glass double doors to the enclosed patio and to the left you saw the door to the viewing room. After taking in the rest of the space, you walked to your office. It was just past the large team conference table you stepped around to get to the balcony. There stood your own personal space. You smiled at the added detail on the glass door, under the logo was your name. Forrest was in charge of the doors and logo design, he did so well capturing all of your ideas. You stepped in and smiled wider, the reality finally hitting you. You finally did it, your dreams had finally come true. Your own photography and videography business, owned with your best friends.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

Next Chapter (Chapter 1)

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sugawhaaa · 3 months ago

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WOOYOUNG X READER

BRANCHES

Chap+er On€::

💉•{C@rdB0@rD}•💉

Warnings//genre:: DRUGS, mental disorders, violence, needles, suicide, alcoholism, cursing

Pairing:: patient!Wooyoung x fem!bodied!reader

A/N:: this was inspired by @no1likenas on janitor.ai! I actually love this so much and it might be a long serious but I have the attention span of a toddler so idk also anyone wanna be tagged in the next part???

Atz masterlist:: 💊

🎧::

Today is your first official day as a nurse at this asylum. The past few days were all introductions and getting familiar with the building and routine of the system. However, you had a run-in with one of the patients yesterday. He had somehow escaped from his room and was on a run for it. He walked right into you and you both stumbled over but he quickly got back up and continued to run. You stood there unsure what to do.

Another nurse passed you chasing down the man with a syringe containing a familiar liquid. Based on the needle itself and the color and consistency of the liquid you assumed it was some kind of sedation injection. You knew that this situation didn't involve you and you shouldn't get involved.

You were later informed that the man was named Wooyoung and he had a record of breaking loose, being violent, and getting sedated. He had these theories in his head that the nurses were trying to slowly kill him off with the drugs they were giving and injecting into him. Staff and doctors believed he had a very strong case of delusional disorder, most likely persecutor, and perhaps something else, though Wooyoung was nearly impossible to test. Any equipment or suspicious questions would set Wooyoung off and he'd become resilient in sharing anything, or he'd plainly lie.

In his teenage years, he was diagnosed with an anger disorder but the specific type switched between doctors. Some said he had a conduct disorder whereas others said it was more likely oppositional defiant disorder. He was on a mix of pills, switching between all kinds along with battling depression and childhood trauma. When he hit the age of 19, he had a psychotic breakdown and murdered his father and siblings. He was unable to kill his mother because of his emotional attachment but she committed suicide not long after the accident.

Wooyoung was on a run from the police for a while but it took only a few weeks for the police to find him. Ever since, he's been in mental institutions and asylums. His final placement is here, though if things don't improve he may be sent to a higher leveled asylum under the same branch.

You close the folder containing all of such information about Wooyoung.

"So, will you take on the task of treating Jung Wooyoung?" Your new boss, Seonghwa, looks up at you through his glasses on the other side of his desk. "I'm aware you were assigned to other patients previously but I believe, based on your record as well as his, you will be able to...handle, wooyoung better than others," he explains, his gloved hands resting on the desk. You take a deep breath as you consider his offer. "You have until tomorrow at 3 pm to decide. I won't force you to take on Wooyoung but I heavily encourage it," he nods his head and you look up at him, determined.

"I'll take him. Will he be my only patient?" You ask as you look back at his file.

"Yes. Wooyoung requires an outrageous amount of attention, especially if he caters to you," Seonghwa explains, "but your pay will remain the same," he explains. After some paperwork and legal talk, Seonghwa takes you to meet Wooyoung in his room, though his room looks more like a cell. Numerous locks and pins need to be entered in in order to open the door.

Once the heavy door swings open your eyes fall upon Wooyoung wearing a whiteout outfit as he lays on his bed, throwing a bouncy ball at the wall and back into his hand repetitively as he lays back on his bed, head draping down the side. "He likes to play with those, though they are rather hard so be careful," Seonghwa states calmly.

"I like them because it's the only shit you fucking give me!" Wooyoung sits up and throws the ball at Seonghwa's head, though he excellently dodges the throw.

"Wooyoung, this is Y/N, she will be your new nurse," Seonghwa gestures to you and suddenly you feel like you're looking at a dart and you're his target. Wooyoung's eyes scratch up and down your body and you can't tell if he's eyeing up prey or simply looking at you.

"Okay," Wooyoung scoffs, laying back down; this time his head rests against the pillow.

"Well that went well..." Seonghwa sighs and Wooyoung instantly sits back up.

"Stop treating me like an animal!" He barks, jaw clenched.

"My apologies," Seonghwa bows his head and Wooyoung stifles and angry growl in his throat.

"Look at you, hiding in the doorway because you don't know when I might snap and just go...savage," Wooyoung rises to his feet, long black hair dangling in his eyes. "Stop poking a stick at a feral beast and fucking shoot it," Wooyoung's voice is rough and angry, rage built up inside him. Seonghwa then closes the door.

"He's in a foul mood today," he explains as he clips in some of the locks. "If it makes you feel better there is a window you can watch him through but he can't see you there," he explains, "if you'd like to see his natural behaviors and such, it is available," Seonghwa then carries on with his business and you watch the ball on the floor roll with the wind of Seonghwa's movement. You crouch down, picking up the rubbery and nostalgic toy before turning back to look at his door. You considered giving it back to him but you worried that he would think you're treating him like a dumb dog.

Instead, you make your way to the room Seonghwa mentioned. It has all the information about Wooyoung, his medications, and the codes for his locks in there as well as the window. You sit down at the desk and look at the array of bottles of medication laid out and the syringes within arms reach on the wall. You sigh softly and browse through the names of his medications.

As you peacefully read there's a loud bang on the glass, startling you. You drop one of the bottles on the floor. As you go to pick it up Wooyoung begins to lick the glass, trailing his tongue along the entirety of the glass, creating a long streak of saliva. That's when you realize. You've bit off more than you can chew. Wooyoung really is more out of it than you thought. He then bashes on the glass again.

"I know you're watching me~" he grins as he claws at the glass. "Always watching me through that manipulative glass, too afraid to look the beast in the eye," he spits onto the glass as you go up to the glass. You see him then wind up for an aggressive kick, his boot clashing against the glass. You then hear the door open behind you and you jump to look at him.

"He's an interesting character huh?" Yeosang smiles softly before coming to stand beside you, watching Wooyoung fight the glass. "He does this sometimes. We believe it's because of his anger issues but it wouldn't surprise me if it's a behavior from his delusional disorder as well," he explains as Wooyoung shows his middle fingers to the glass, he knows someone is there so he displays all his rage.

"What exactly is his delusion?" You ask, turning to look at Yeosang. He sighs softly before looking back at Wooyoung.

"I think it'd be best if you heard him explain but I'll tell you the basis," Yeosang continues to look at Wooyoung's behaviors as he talks. "He believes we are slowly trying to kill him. "Pill by pill" in his words," he explains and your eyes widen.

"That's why he doesn't take his meds?" You ask and Yeosang nods.

"He has this belief that the government wants him dead and that's why he's here. He claims that he's heard staff talking about his death but I think he's trying to twist our words to convince himself his theories are true," He explains as Wooyoung moves to the door, pulling on it hard before kicking it and shouting some PG words. "Would you like to accompany me to give him his final meal of the day?" Yeosang smiles and you nod.

Yeosang leaves you to watch Wooyoung, make sure he doesn't hurt himself or escape somehow while Yeosang gets his dinner plate. When Yeosang returns the two of you make your way to Wooyoung's room. You open the door and take the plate from Yeosang. You see Wooyoung sitting on the center of the floor, staring at the wall.

"I've brought you dinner. I've heard you like this meal hm?" You smile and Wooyoung turns from the center of the floor to look at you.

"God I was starving," he stands up, approaching you warmly. All of that rage he executed earlier is now somehow...erased. This is the first patient you've been genuinely scared of because he's the most unpredictable bastard in the world. "Yeah, this is the best meal this shithole offers. The potatoes taste like cardboard but it reminds me of my mom's cardboard potatoes," Wooyoung takes the plate and sits back on the floor.

"Where I come from potatoes were included in almost every meal and they were always locally grown. I've never had cardboard potatoes," you chuckle and Wooyoung looks up at you, seemingly confused.

"You're not missing out much," he shrugs as he shovels some potatoes into his mouth. You look back at Yeosang who gives you a thumbs up and Wooyoung rolls his eyes before turning his back to you.

"You wouldn't let me try some?" You squat down to his level. He turns to look at you again and you can tell he's thinking hard. His jaw is clenched as he looks you up and down, eyes pausing at your breasts for a moment.

"I guess," he shrugs, handing you the plate and spoon with a rounded end and unbreakable metal. You take a scoop of the potatoes and try not to touch your lips with the spoon. Wooyoung watches you with rapt attention, his eyebrows narrowed in focus. "Taste like shit?" He smirks as you swallow the potatoes. They do really taste like cardboard....

"Kind of yeah," you chuckle, "they taste just like cardboard..." you rise to your feet again, and Wooyoung attempts to look up your skirt a little but it's just too damn long. He pouts slightly before looking up at your face. "Would you like something to drink?" You ask Wooyoung before turning to Yeosang. "What do we have to offer?" You ask him.

"We have milk, water and apple juice though I think it's expired," Yeosang replies.

"Milk or water?" You bend down to talk to Wooyoung again.

"Milk I guess," he shrugs before continuing to it his food. "Now shut up and let me eat," he turns his back to you again and you can't help but smile. You've made such progress with him already. You get some milk for him and when you return he still has his back faced to you. You set the cup beside him and head for the door. "Y/N," he says your name for the first time. You turn back to look at him.

"Yes?"

"Can I have seconds?" He holds up his empty plate and you smile. You go to the kitchen to get him some more and find the staff are actually quite friendly. You return to Wooyoung with a new plate of food and he gratefully takes it and eats again. You return to the watching room with Yeosang.

"He's never asked for seconds before, this is quite a big deal," he turns to you with his spinning chair.

"I think he likes me," you smile as you sit in the second chair, watching Wooyoung eat.

"It's a good start at least,"

To be continued

#Spotify #ateez #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez hard hours #ateez hard thoughts #Halloween #spooky #philosophy #insane in the membrane #ateez wooyoung #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung smut #jung wooyoung #wooyoung

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runa-falls · 2 years ago

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cat and mouse - 2

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Supervillain(?)!Reader

Warnings: kissy kissy :3, mention of alcohol, you're broke. sorry.

a/n: i wrote this out today (what is now a few days ago) because i couldn't work on the other fic until i got this out of my system :) if there are plot holes its because i vomited out this chapter and threw it out like a dumbass. idk what Black-Cat's personality is like so i made it kinda mirror cat woman from the harley quinn show.

Summary: Every time you try to convince people it was an accident, you immediately get ratted out to the Spider. But really, it was! You don't know why you're being hunted, you didn't even do anything wrong. Yet.

w/c: 2.6k

part 1 part 3 part 4

masterlist

----

Nueva York’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, as he, and the world, likes to call him, is your official nemesis, or at least that’s what the city thinks.

You crumple up the half-soaked People magazine, filled with ‘juicy gossip about our favorite Spider and the new villain-of-the-week: Blaze’. Seriously, you might just become a villain if they keep calling you that.

You briefly forgot you swiped the news story off of a nearby food and entertainment stand (that’s barely holding up in the downpour) until you hear:

“Hey! You gotta pay for that!”

You don’t.

In your defense, it was only a dollar-fifty. And either way, it’s technically the Spider’s fault that you didn’t have a penny on you!

Honestly, if it were your choice, you’d never see his stupidly broad shoulders again. He truly is the bane of your existence and a major pain in your ass. You genuinely don’t understand why he even pays you any mind, it’s not like you are plotting to take over the city. You just want enough money to get some fries and a Koka Soda, and maybe a couple more black articles of clothing that aren’t covered in clawed-out stripes.

Spider-Man? More like Cat-Man.

You would say you’ve been “fighting” this man for weeks like the magazines insinuate, but it’s less violence than it is just you squirming out of his clutches and running away. You swear the Spider is a bloodhound. No matter where you are, or what you’re wearing, he always finds you. And you always get away. It’s actually quite pathetic.

He goes: “It’s you again.”

You say: “No it’s not.”

Then he has to say: “Blaze.” Like you’re some ultra-nemesis that has ruined his life.

And you can’t help but: “Stop fucking calling me that, dude.” Before you make a run for it.

He catches up, obviously, either has you on the ground, against the wall, or holds you up so you can’t escape, but then you do. Every time. And he lets you.

So really, it’s just fucking annoying. What a waste of a great plan and an excellently executed silent break-in!

You never asked for any of this. The fact you don’t have a flashy-ass elastic suit should be proof enough: You’re not a supervillain.

But, when the opportunity to make a little more cash comes around, you can’t just say no. In your mind, the bigger the heist, the longer you can stay out of the public and away from him.

And if the one girl on the team wants to make you a suit, how can you resist? The Spider has ruined all the other clothes you’ve worn (and not in a good way).

You saw your new suit a few hours before you needed to meet up with the team. Felicia, or Black Cat as the rest of the group refers to her, is probably the most elegant and badass woman you’ve ever met.

She has voluminous silver-blonde curls and sharp green eyes that match the deadliness of her talon-like retractable claws (which actually kinda remind you of someone…). Though she doesn’t have explosive energy inside of her as you do, her cat-like senses and martial art skills are almost as deadly.

Felicia was happy to invite you over to her multi-million dollar penthouse to get ready and hang out a little before you needed to leave.

She’s filing her nails into perfectly deadly points as you sit on her plush ultra-white couch next to the new suit, hands fiddling nervously together as you watch her pamper herself with extreme precision. There are two glasses of high-grade champagne in front of you on the glass coffee table. Yours is barely touched. Hers has been drained and refilled a couple of times throughout the hour.

“You know, usually I’d work this job alone, but it’s a lot easier to get away when you leave a few maggots to distract the Spider. That’s what men are for. Us girls need to stick together, right?”

Even her voice is elegant.

“Yeah.” You croak out. You prefer to listen to her talk than say something dumb and non-villain-like. And yeah, you’ll admit you’re a tiny bit scared of her, but sometimes that’s something you have to go through when making friends. Right?

“Alright, we’ve got like 20 minutes. Go on, babe, try it on.” She loosely gestures to the suit, “Bathroom is in the hallway, first door to the left.” You stand promptly and shuffle over to her bathroom, taking a second to look back to send a grateful smile at her before you close the door.

It almost resembles the one you saw on her the first day you met. The only difference is that yours is completely black and has a high collar neckline in contrast to her more provocative V-shaped suit.

There’s no fur-lining or silver details, just an invisible zipper that creates the illusion that this suit is painted onto your body. Felicia also provided a simple mask that you can pull over your head when you tie back your hair and some silver hair spray so you’re less recognizable to the general public.

You stare in the mirror and smooth out any wrinkles down your torso with your gloved fingers. Alright. Now you look like a supervillain.

Or at least a super-something.

She makes you do a little spin. “You look lovely, darling.” A smirk pulled at her charming lips. “Absolutely, perfect.”

—

Fuck.

So here you are, trying to break out of a bank that shut down around you as soon as you walked in. The two guys, who you never took the time to learn the names of, are freaking out, banging harshly against the metal doors that slammed shut in front of the exits.

Felicia, on the other hand, is as cool as a cucumber, checking her nails like there isn’t a blaring siren and pulsing lights around her.

So what now? You could probably blast the doors open with whatever comes out of your hands (you’re still not sure as you try to use your powers as a last resort). But that would leave a bunch of evidence that you were there and you didn’t come to knock down a whole building.

You walk over to her, trying to hide the anxiety that’s starting to bubble up inside of you. “What should we do?” She looks up from her manicured nails and looks at you. Then at the guys.

“Well, the boys seem a bit preoccupied,” As if to prove her point, one of them starts kicking the door, as if it would magically open up for him if he were to hit it harder and make more noise. She sighs, “I guess we could use the air duct that leads to the roof.”

“Ok.”

So you follow her to one of the main offices in the building, watching as she easily rips off the cover of the vent and uses the desk for leverage to hoist her into the surprisingly spacious air duct.

The chill evening breeze of Nueva York has never felt so good. Well, it has smelt better, but if garbage and crime-filled air meant you’re not going back to jail, you’ll take it.

“Well, that could’ve gone better.” The Black Cat runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it back and out of her face. Of course, it falls perfectly over her shoulders. “So…I’ll see you later, yeah?” She’s leaving?

“Uh, yeah, sure. I’d love to!”

“Great.” She walks to the edge of the roof and scales down the back of the building like it’s nothing. Look, it’s not that tall of a building, but still, you weren’t about to follow her down. You watch as her black-suited figure lands on the concrete ground, barely making a sound, before she sashays into the shadows of the city, disappearing into the night. God, she’s so cool.

And then it’s just you.

You sit yourself down and finally take a breath. Your first job as a villain and you didn’t even get to see the money. What are you getting yourself into?

You pull slightly at the elastic holding your hair together, regretting the tight pony that’s now giving you a major headache. Maybe this life isn’t for you. With, probably an overdramatic, sigh you push yourself up. Now to figure out how you’re getting out of here.

–

Turns out you didn’t have too many options. As soon as you were about to take a serious ‘leap of faith’ and try to scale down the building, you were ambushed by a series of fwp, fwp, fwp’s and lifted from the ground. That probably saved your life now that you’re thinking back on it.

So, he found you. Big surprise. He’s practically stalking you at this point.

He takes you for a ride, holding you close as he swings from building to building, barely breaking a sweat. You’re actually surprised that you didn’t hurl all over his stupidly firm shoulder. You should have.

You don’t know why he brought you to the top of a half-constructed building, but you’re assuming he’s just trying to be dramatic again. Superheroes, right?

You struggle against restraints when you’re finally set down, at least trying to lay in a more comfortable position as Spider-man stands over you. Not only are you fully wrapped in red webs, but your arms are also tied behind your back.

The Spider kneels down, watching you continue to struggle, “Alright, Hardy, give it up.” Hardy? Shit, he must think you’re Felicia. The black suit, the silver hair. Dammit.

He takes off your mask before you can say anything, pulling out your loose hair tie with it, and boy, is he surprised to see it’s you.

“Wh–Blaze?” He takes off his mask like he can’t believe his fabric-covered eyes. His scarlet gaze not so subtly takes in your new look. A big change from the usual getup you wear. “What, uh,” When he finally meets your eyes, one of his gloved hands raises to rub at the back of his neck. Is he nervous? He briefly looks away from you, “What did you do to your hair?”

“Who cares! Let me out of these!” You glower at him, arms tugging at the luminous webs, “And you know I hate that stupid-ass name.”

“What the hell were you doing here? Why are you suddenly hanging out with a bunch of criminals?”

You give him a deadpan expression, “I’m a villain, remember.”

“Ah,” He slices through a couple of the overlapping webs that fit snugly over your stomach. “Finally giving into the narrative, hm?” Then the ones around your arms.

“S’not like I have much of a choice.” The red webs start to loosen until they unravel completely and pool on the floor. “So, you’re…letting me go?” You rub at your sore wrists, feeling the ache dissipate almost immediately. He shrugs like it’s no big deal for him.

“It’s expected, isn't it?” He’s at the edge of the roof staring at the buildings around him, a soft breeze sweeps through his hair, and the lights of ‘the city that never sleeps’ soak over his suited figure from below.

“Just like that?”

“...Just like that.” He says. But he says it more to himself than you. With that, he swiftly puts his mask back on, hiding the wonderfully serene expression he once held, but you never got to see in full.

Spider-man is confusing. He treats you like you’re some sort of catch-and-release criminal. Acting like a push-over parent that reprimands their child even when they know they’ll do it again. You don’t get it.

And the way he looks at you sometimes. Like he’s having fun. You see it when he’s chasing you, webbing you to the wall, or holding you under his claws. There’s a glowing heat that pulses in his eyes and you can almost see the barest gleam of his fangs. You can’t even wrap your head around how he can both infuriate and draw you in at the same time. And then he lets you go.

And now he’s leaving you.

So you take your chance.

“Wait.” He stills but doesn’t turn back to look at you. He just stays there, merely stopping to listen to whatever you have to say. But you want him to look at you. You need to see those simmering red eyes that are hidden behind the mask. “I-” You stop yourself. You’re not actually sure what you were going to say. All you know is you just weren’t ready for him to leave yet. “I, um, never caught your name!” It blurts out of your lips before you realize what you’re saying.

Then silence.

How awkward.

You were sure he was going to leave you there. No sane superhero would reveal his secret identity, dumbass! Especially to a girl like you.

But then his hand comes up, slips off his mask again, hair slightly ruffled from the action, and he finally turns. Before you know it he’s approaching you, fast. And you can’t do anything but stand there, watching as his looming form starts to take up more and more of your vision until he’s standing right in front of you, head tilted downwards and red eyes low.

Two warm palms cradle your jaw and you lean into the touch, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. Just as your eyes start to open again, his head is dipping toward yours. Then his lips meet yours.

And it’s perfect. His soft plush lips move against yours, occasionally nipping and sucking on your bottom lip until it was satisfyingly plump. The warm, masculine smell surrounding you makes your knees weak as his hands drop from your face to your waist in an effort to pull you toward him.

Your body melts against him as he starts to softly lick into your mouth, thoroughly seeking out the taste of you. He pushes you gently against the unfinished concrete wall behind you, eliminating any space that was left between your thinly suited bodies. You swear you’re about to melt when you feel his broken groan against your lightly suited-chest.

And then you separate, heavy breaths and intense gazes floating between you. “Miguel.” He looks down at the way he’s holding you, the size of his palm against your smaller body. And then the ridiculous suit that was tailored specifically for the heist, but looks more like something you’d wear for a BDSM session. He clears his throat and looks back up, “Miguel O’Hara.”

“Miguel…” His hand on your waist clenches at the sound of your hoarse voice and you can tell he’s tempted to pull you back in.

“You’re one of the few who know.”

Now, you’re curious. You hum, “Who else knows?” His eyes glance at your hair and his hand drops. Suddenly, you feel cold. He steps away from you, not unkindly, but it’s clear he’s trying to create space.

He brushes it off, “No one important.” And then he’s walking away. Back to the same spot he was going to leave you from. Cool.

“Well,” You take a few steps closer, eyes roaming over his muscled back, “I promise not to tell anyone.”

“I know.” His mask is back on, and this time you know there’s no stopping him this time. “Catch you later, Little Red.” He jumps.

Little Red?

#miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x you #spider man 2099 #spider man: across the spider verse #cat and mouse

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foxymoxynoona · 2 years ago

Text

Over the Falls Ch. 3: Churn

Sexy Banner & bar by @borabae-gx

Summary: Jungkook sees a lot of things as a pool tech. It’s… fine. It pays the bills between mornings on the water and evenings rocking out with his garage-band. His favorite thing to see on the job has been Grace Birch –older but a hottie, wealthy but nice, and unfortunately very married. At least until Grace learns what her husband has been up to behind her back. Now that she’s free, Jungkook finds himself wondering: what does it take for a guy like him to catch the eye of a woman like that?

Genre: Poolboy Jungkook x Rich Divorcee OC

Tags: Age gap (older woman), socioeconomic gap, Surferboy JK, drummer/guitarist/vocalist JK, Wealthy divorcee OC, househusband

CW: Mature/Explicit, Infidelity (not between JKxOC), language, alcohol, recreational drugs, lots of explicit sex, ageist/racist/classist remarks down the road, outdoor sex, beach sex

Chapter Two | Masterlist | Chapter Three

“GRACE!”

She hated the way her name sounded as a shout. The gr got swallowed, the a dragged out, the c punched too hard. Tim had always said her name in a way that sounded like an insult, she just hadn’t realized it until now. He rarely called her by it, only if he was angry or disappointing her, pleading for her to accept an insincere apology.

Grace pulled her phone out and opened the voice recording app, as instructed. When her divorce attorney had given her these tips, she hadn’t thought she would need them. She’d been more focused on her regret that she wouldn’t get to see Tim’s face when he got served the papers. He’d be so shocked. He didn’t know she knew. He would never expect her to go through with this even if she did find out –and that had, in fact, been the deciding thing for her. Her husband would make excuses and expect to be forgiven.

Well, she refused. She refused to be that woman. She refused to spend another minute of her time working on a marriage to this man. She’d worried about her decision up until the first meeting with her divorce attorney and then relief had flooded her system so sharp and fast that it nearly carried her away. She couldn’t fucking wait to be divorced from this asshole, who was too stupid and to even delete the evidence from their in-home camera system

They’re always stupid, the divorce attorney –a woman named Lidiya Hel, very good at what she did– told her. Their egos can’t imagine that they’ll get caught. Their egos can’t imagine they won’t be forgiven because they’ve always been forgiven for everything. It’s not like this is the first thing he’s done wrong in the marriage, is it?

No. It was not.

As soon as the backdoor slid open, Grace sprang to her feet, hit record, and announced, “I am recording this conversation so I’d suggest not saying anything you don’t want on record.”

“Grace.” He spat her name and stormed towards her, the yellow legal envelope curled in his hand like a newspaper to hit her on the nose with. “The fuck is this? Divorce papers?”

“Yes. Did you read them?”

“I didn’t need to! I saw the first line and knew something was wrong. I was at work! I was just leaving a meeting with the CEO and this fucktard comes up and asks who I am. I thought it was a shithead new hire! Instead he gives me this shit. At work!”

Grace was glad to hear the play by play and corrected him, “I don’t control when the server finds you.”

“Don’t give me that shit. What is this? What do you mean, divorce? First I’m hearing that you’ve got any issues in this marriage and you didn’t even have the balls to talk to me first? Sweetheart, whatever it is–”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” she interrupted. “That’s what you’ve been calling all of the women you fuck in our home. I’m not sure what you call the ones you don’t bring here.” She didn’t actually know if there were more than the three over the last two years, but she assumed so. Probably on all those business trips.

Tim froze. The fucking idiot. The papers said she was filing on grounds of adultery. He really hadn’t read them. Grace couldn’t imagine the self importance you needed to just walk into a situation like this blindly and assume it would go well for you.

“You can’t be surprised I figured it out,” she scoffed. “Do you realize how much footage I have from the home security system you chose?”

“You’re bluffing and it’s not a good look for you,” he countered. “You don’t have the login for the account. It’s in–”

“I’m your wife. It was no problem at all to get it.”

Tim froze, like she’d paused a video, for an insanely long moment.

“Now… now look here. I…” he restarted.

Actually, this was even better than seeing him when he got served. The emotions moved so rapidly across his flace she couldn’t name them, but she did know they indicated a usually brilliantly-quick mind trying to pick its angle. He was quick on his feet, that was why he did so well at his job. What would he choose: play the victim? Blame her? Beg for forgiveness? Rage about the invasion of his privacy?

He glanced at the phone in her hand and laughed, “What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart. I can toss that in the pool and there goes your precious recording.”

“Ruining my property, I think that’s technically assault.”

“Just because your head-up-his-ass father is a lawyer doesn’t make you one. I’m sure he’s– no. No, I didn’t mean that. You’re just catching me by surprise right now. I’m not going to break your phone. What, did you think I was going to do something violent?”

“Maybe.”

“Grace…”

“Turns out I don’t know you at all.”

“Oh come on,” he sighed, and looked away. He was still deliberating. He was trying to buy time, trying to calculate which method would get him what he wanted. And she knew he was having a hard time because he couldn’t predict her anymore. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave another deep sigh. “Grace. I’m sorry.”

She really hadn’t thought he’d pick that one.

“I made a mistake. You’re right.” He nodded, gaze roaming the pool area, her book, her drink beside the lounge chair. “I got carried away… I’m under so much pressure with work, you know that. A few late nights, and… and you working so much…”

“So it’s my fault you fucked multiple women?”

“I’m a sex addict.”

“You’re a liar,” she corrected, “And a selfish prick.”

“Oh, what now, who’s the one calling names on your little recording?” he demanded, as if this was some incredible victory for him. “Here I want to have a conversation about how we can fix this marriage and you’re–”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Fix what?”

“I know you’re hurting right now and in shock… I… I didn’t mean for you to find out,” he said, hands out like he expected her to slip hers into them. “I knew I messed up. I’d already called it off and I was going to come clean and–”

“Yeah fucking right.”

“You fucking bitch, you can’t even listen to me saying I– Sorry,” he interrupted himself again, holding his hands up for a pause and looking away. Grace just stared at him and tried to understand how she had ever loved this toad. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I’m just frustrated. Sweetheart, I understand you’re hurt and mad. Hey, I’d be pissed too if you were fucking around, but if the situation was reversed and I was looking at it from how you’ve been, I’d hear me out because I love you and—”

“From how I’ve been? How have I been, Tim?” she demanded. “Supportive? Lonely? Dedicated to our marriage and the things that make you happy?”

“Me? The things that make me happy? What’s so hard that you’re doing to make me happy? You don’t sacrifice a damn thing for me, you just peck at my all the time and all the ways I’m not as successful as your dear old dad. Let me tell you what you’re not doing to make me happy is you aren’t… you aren’t supporting me when things are hard at work. You aren’t listening to me now as I’m apologizing and trying to fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix! You’re a terrible husband but I thought you were at least loyal! I thought you were just a workaholic because I’m an idiot!” She stepped away from him, biting back her own rage so it wouldn’t make her cry. She didn’t want to rage cry. She wanted to stay calm and in control because she had made her decision and there was nothing he could say to change it.

“Sure, now you’re saying I’m a terrible husband, but I’ve made you happy! We’ve been happy together all these years and I’m not the one giving up on our future. Get rid of these fucking papers,” he said and threw them into the pool. “We’re not talking divorce. We’ll go to counseling. I’ll go with you.”

“I’m not going to counseling with you.”

“Oh, but I’m the bad guy? I’m the one who wants to work on our marriage here–”

“We don’t have a marriage, Tim. It broke as soon as you started fucking around and I can’t begin to understand why you suddenly want to fight for it now.”

“Because I made a mistake and I don’t want to let that ruin the best thing in my life–”

“No. No you did not make a mistake. How many mistakes did you make, Tim? How many women? For how many years? I have proof of at least three and I’m sure more will be uncovered–”

“What, your dad hired a fucking P.I. or something?” His face hardened and it reminded her of the “jokes” he’d made before, about whether her family did that kind of thing, if they’d have him investigated or watched, if they’d ever trust him. He said they were crazy, delusional, then reached his hand out for some of their money. They had done that before the wedding, without her knowledge of blessing. Because her family well knew that money made other people crazy and delusional and willing to do anything to get it from you. There had been nothing to find back then. Or he hadn’t been as lazy about hiding it.

Tim paced, tucking his hands into his armpits as this new thread caught him, and he pressed, ‘What does your dad think about this, huh? Your family all up in arms ready to crucify me when I bet your dad’s done the same thing. It happens, Grace. Men make mistakes when they work with the kind of stakes men like me and your dad do–”

“Stop comparing yourself to my father,” she scoffed. “You are nothing like him.”

“So far as you know, huh, Grace? You’re so fucking naive…”

“Yeah, about you!”

“Daddy’s Girl, worship the ground he walks on. I should have known he’d tell you to leave me. Is that what he said?”

Grace knew it would drive him crazy as she answered, “His reaction isn’t any of your business.” Tim wanted so badly to be liked by her father, despite his claims of not caring. How devastating for her that he would probably be more upset to lose her father’s respect than to lose hers.

“You want me to apologize to him? I’ll do it.”

“It’s over, Tim. I am not interested in reconciliation and it has nothing to do with my–”

“Like hell you’re not! I’ll fight for this marriage–”

“Why?!” she cried. “You don’t want to be with me!”

“Of course I do! I married you, Grace! I love you!”

“You don’t.”

“Don’t you tell me what I do or don’t–”

“You cheated on me! You don’t cheat on people you love!”

“It was a mistake. I regret it! You get that on your recording? You got your little trophy? Turns out when a man is nagged by his wife it gets to him.”

“It’s not my fault!” Grace insisted. She felt like he was spinning around, trying to make her dizzy and confused.

“You want me to grovel? Is that it?”

“If I’m so awful as a wife, why do you even care that I want a divorce?” she countered. “Don’t you want to be free so you can be with those nineteen-year-olds.”

“I would never be with someone under twenty-five,” he grimaced. “And no, Grace, I want to be with my wife.” It was insane, the way he made it sound like she was the one hurting and depriving him here. She had thought her rage and pain had built enough of a bulwark around her heart for this conversation, but watching him lash out like this just drove the point in deeper. Maybe there was a small part of her that had hoped Tim would offer a valid excuse, or that his apology would feel sincere and enough and she could forgive him, love him again, save her marriage.

But all he had to say was that this was her fault and he’d made a mistake. He didn’t seem loving or apologetic as he grappled with a barely-controlled rage that had her checking that the chair wasn’t right behind her in case she needed to run. Tim wouldn’t hurt her physically… right? But two weeks ago, she wouldn’t have expected he could cheat on her either… well. Maybe that wasn’t totally true. Maybe she wasn’t actually surprised by all this. Was that better or worse than being blind-sided? It didn’t matter, she’d never be close enough with someone again to compare.

Her face must have shown some emotion that Tim seized upon, because he reached his hand out and insisted, “Come on, sweetheart. Stop this bullshit. We’ve been together too long. I know I fucked up and I’ll make it up to you. No need to call quits on us yet.”

“Is it because of the prenup?”

The question rolled out without a thought and she immediately regretted it.

What little restraint Tim had held through all of this snapped. Ah, the prenup. The one her dad had insisted on, that she almost hadn’t done in an effort to prove that she loved and trusted Tim. That he was worthy of trust.

“This isn’t about the fucking prenup!” he shouted in a way that made it very clear it was. At least in part. Grace was very familiar with that prenup, having just gone over it in detail with her divorce attorney. Their marital earnings would be split 50/50, but exclude any interest earned on the money either had before marriage, defined as a set dollar amount. Grace’s amount had been much larger than Tim’s. Tim would be safe from paying alimony despite the fact he made more now, unless a judge overruled their prenup on that point. But, probably the most stressful piece to Tim right now, was that he would owe her father the amount he had borrowed to start his consulting business, after his own parents wouldn’t loan him the money because the first one had folded. Grace had been so confident he’d succeed, she hadn’t even felt embarrassed by her father’s insistence on tying the loan to her prenup. She’d figured it was just a way to spare Tim’s ego at accepting the loan, since obviously he would always be a loving, devoted husband, and so it would forever remain just “family money” and not require payback. That consulting business too had gone under, the money was gone.

Until now. Now Tim owed her father $5 million dollars, on top of splitting his assets with Grace in half. She was not actually sure he even had the money, though she suspected he had multiple bank accounts in addition to their shared one. She had a second one, no harm in that, but at this point she doubted him on everything so who knew what he was hiding? So she had squashed her early instinct to be merciful and nodded when the attorney suggested he’s probably been using you for a long time; let’s take him to the cleaners.

“How fucking dare you bring up the prenup? The prenup doesn’t matter! We aren’t getting divorced! You know better than that! There’s no way your family supports you leaving me, we made a commitment to each other–”

“That you failed when you cheated on me.”

“And now you’re failing it worse by quitting! Don’t even talk about it anymore, I won’t go through with the divorce! We’ll take some time off work and go on a nice vacation together and do marriage counseling and then we’re going to put this whole thing behind us–”

“Until you cheat again?”

“Stop talking about that! You think I wanted to do that? But you’re such a bitch all the time and it wears a man down to have someone like you always nagging about what’s going on at work and whether I closed the deal and why can’t I be like your dad! Go fuck your dad then if you think he’s so fucking great!”

“Stop. Just stop talking,” she pleaded under the weight of his words. Probably the whole street could hear them right now, she realized. She was done with this conversation. She wanted it to end. Any sense of victory or enjoyment was now gone.

“No, you wanted to talk about our marriage! Let’s talk! You think you’re some poor suffering wife here? You’re barely a wife! You run around playing at being a real estate agent so you can spend money on that shit you call art and be some queen bee in the Society or whatever the fuck your family gets randy about–”

“Stop it, Tim!”

“Oh you don’t like us talking about you, huh?”

She grabbed her things, phone still clutched in her hand and tried to step around him to get to the house.

He grabbed her arm and she screamed, “LET GO OF ME!”

“Hey everything ok back there?” a male voice called, and for a brief moment Grace thought it was the pool guy again. Wouldn’t that be perfect? And yet a strange rush of relief came with the idea; Grace felt a desperation to hide behind any man who could make Tim go right now. So feminist of her, huh? She hated herself for the impulse and yet…

“Fuck off!” Tim shouted at the interloper.

“Ma’am?” the voice called again and now she could see the mailman by the back gate. “You need me to call someone?”

“I told you to fuck off,” Tim said, stepping around her to march towards the man now. Grace wanted to wilt under the mortification of a witness at the same time she felt a deep gratitude that someone had heard and actually stepped in. Who did that? The mailman! Even if her neighbors did hear anything right now, they were probably sipping mimosas by the window to hear what other dirty laundry came out.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she called to the mailman. “My ex-husband was just leaving.”

“Like fuck I am,” Tim said, whirling on her again. “This is my house. I’m not going anywhere. You do some thinking, Grace, and get your head together quick to save this marriage, because you need me more than I need you. You think anyone else is going to deal with your rich bitch attitude?”

“Who says I want someone else? I’m not shopping around, but I deserve not to be treated like this–”

“Yeah it’s all about what you deserve. You have no fucking clue what the world is like because first daddy protected you and now I’ve done the same thing and look where it fucking got me. Wasting our money on a goddamn divorce lawyer. We aren’t getting divorced!”

The mailman was still there and had pulled out his phone. Grace saw it and tried to gesture not to. Tim didn’t notice. He’d said his piece and stomped into the house, fuming. There was no way to slam the sliding door but he tried and his scream of rage almost cut through Grace’s fear to make her laugh.

But she didn’t laugh. She sank to the lounge chair, her legs shaking, her head throbbing. The air felt static in the wake of his fury.

“You ok?” the mailman called to her. “I can still call.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m so sorry you saw that. We’re… getting divorced and he’s not taking it well.” The first person she had told she was getting divorced: the fucking mailman.

“Good for you,” he said, but it sounded sincere. “I hope you leave that bastard high and dry. You sure you’re going to be ok? You have somewhere else to go?”

“I’ll be fine, but thank you.”

He seemed reluctant to go. She couldn’t believe he’d stepped in so much; she’d never traded a word with this man in her life though she did leave him a gift at the holidays. Merry Christmas, to our postal worker, because she didn’t know his name. Did she really seem like such a damsel? His hesitation twisted her emotions and she began to feel genuine anger. Couldn’t he see that this was embarrassing? She’d said he could go! He should go!

He was gone before the angry words rolled off her tongue, for which she was grateful. But then she was alone and that felt bad too. The yard felt eerily quiet and she wondered what Tim was doing inside. It scared her. She still believed he wouldn’t physically hurt her, but was that only because she wanted to believe that? He might be in there finding some other way to vent his rage: destroying her paintings or smashing TVs or who knew what.

She ended the video. It was long. She couldn’t bear to watch it but immediately sent it to her attorney, then called.

“Grace. I haven’t watched the video you just sent. Is there something wrong?” Lidiya asked.

“Tim isn’t handling news of the divorce well,” she admitted, her breath shaking as she blinked back tears. She felt like he was still standing there yelling at her. “I don’t think I can stay in the house with him. I mean, I can… but I don’t want to… but will I lose my stake in the house then? Abandonment?”

“No, not at all. He has made you feel unsafe. As long as you keep paying your part of the bills, it’s fine.”

“Hold on a second.” Grace looked up at the rumble of the garage door. A car door slammed and then Tim’s car peeled out of the garage.

“He left. I can breathe now.”

“Good. Catch your breath and go pack your things. Stay with a friend, family, hotel, it doesn’t matter. The disclosure is hard if the other person doesn’t see it coming. I won’t lie and say this will be the only hard part, but you will get through this and I’ll be right there with you.”

Grace wanted Lidiya to tell her she was doing the right thing, that this divorce was the right step. She knew it was. But it was one thing to know it and another to have Tim standing there yelling, twisting her around, making it sound like she was the cause for failure. And she hated this. She didn’t want to leave the house! She couldn’t pack up all her stuff so quickly so she’d have to leave things behind and hope he didn’t destroy them in his rage. She didn’t want to stay somewhere else. She didn’t want to admit to her friends and family any of this was happening, and staying somewhere else was a concrete step towards admitting this was happening. She loved this house! She hadn’t loved married life to Tim but she could pretend she had, to mourn the things she had thought were good. She wanted to keep lying by the beautiful pool, but Tim had ruined her day just like he had ruined everything else.

September

“So then she grabs my ass,” Jungkook explained, “and laughs. Like, right in my face with her nastyass cigarette breath.”

Yoojin reached around him to pull the cabinet open and search for a sippy cup lid, nearly clocking Jungkook in the head from where he sat on the counter.

“That’s so gross. Did she try to pretend it was an accident?”

“No. She asked me what kind of body oil I use. I was just sweaty! It’s fucking ninety-eight degrees out there today!”

Yoojin crinkled her nose and said, “That’s disgusting.”

“I know!”

“No, I mean you being that sweaty. Have you thought of getting a doctor to look into that?”

“Shut up, asshole,” he laughed, trying to kick the back of her knee as she sauntered away.

“Hey, not in front of my son!”

But Max not only wasn’t in the room, it would be highly unlike him to repeat anything he heard, despite their best efforts. His first birthday had just passed, but he still had only a few words he reliably used, much to Yoojin’s panic. She’d recently implemented a rule that everyone had to only speak English to him, in case speaking two languages at home was slowing him down. Eomma insisted he was clearly smart and just didn’t have anything to say yet, but it was a sore subject, likely to send Yoojin into a shrieking fit, like she had when Jungkook asked if the pediatrician had said anything about it. He still didn’t know if she’d even asked about it. He didn’t think fear or shame were a good reason not to ask the pediatrician though, even if it was them doing something wrong.

“Yeah, how would he feel to hear his mom is victim-blaming, huh?”

“I’m not victim blaming. If you’re so pissed about it… I don’t know. Tell your boss you won’t work at their house anymore or something. I thought you dealt with this all the time?”

“Not all the time. It was worse when I was a cabana boy, and those fuckers didn’t give a shit what we dealt with from guests. The guest is always right.” He shuddered. The tips had been phenomenal but ultimately not worth it. He still started on the defense around older women drinking by a pool or beach, at least that kind of older woman. You could always tell. Just like he’d known Mrs. Abigail Pender was trouble since he’d started working for them. He hadn’t thought she’d actually grab him like that, but he’d never felt comfortable around her. Just tried to be polite when she’d so brazenly flirt with him. Apparently all it took was three margaritas (she’d been bragging) and the encouragement of her friends (they’d been drunk too, watching from the patio.)

Jungkook still felt shaky about the whole thing, even though that was embarrassing too. It wasn’t like he thought Mrs. Pender was going to harm him or anything. But who knew what a pissy white woman was capable of? She’d looked shocked when he’d pried her hand off and said, “Please do not touch me, Mrs. Pender. I’m just here to clean your pool.” Like she’d actually thought he came by to flirt or something?! Now he debated whether to tell Bob about the incident or wait to see if she’d call to file some bullshit complaint. That had happened multiple times, and though Bob had been understanding about the call from Limpdick Birch a couple weeks ago, if this was the second woman complaining about Jungkook, at what point would Bob think Jungkook was doing something to cause it all? He wasn’t! He was just cleaning the fucking pools!

Well, except for the Birchs, where he had involved himself and was no longer cleaning the pool. He’d asked someone else to cover the last month of their cleanings for the summer and worried that was just going to make him look bad in light of any complaints from Mrs. Pender.

“Yeah, but I mean as a pool guy. Maybe you need to wear more clothes or something? Don’t look at me like that, I realize how it sounds but this is how it goes for women all the time. We should be allowed to wear whatever we want and not get assaulted. It doesn't mean we can.”

“It’s hot and I work outside,” Jungkook defended. “At least if a guy grabs you, you can deck him and everyone will agree it’s deserved. If I deck an old lady, I’m getting sued and going to jail.”

“Ooof, it’ll only be worse in prison.”

“Yoojin, that doesn’t help!”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed, screwing on the lid of the sippy cup and sloshing apple juice onto the counter. The sink was piled with dishes even though she and Max had been the only ones home for lunch. “What else do you want me to say? Cougars are gross. Get a different job.”

But Jungkook didn’t want another job. He sighed noisily as she left the kitchen. Yoojin wasn’t usually his first choice to complain to, because she tended to be unsympathetic at best, and usually just found a way to insist her story was worse. Yeah, Jungkook didn’t envy her raising her son alone –but she wasn’t really “alone.” She lived with his parents. Jungkook babysat a lot for free.

“If jobs are so easy to change, why don’t you have one?” he demanded, chasing after her.

“Get off my ass, I’m on round two of an interview!” She slapped at his arm. “Don’t make me sound incompetent in front of Max!”

Max had been reaching for Yoojin but Jungkook scooped him up, hotly defending, “I didn’t make you sound any way. Besides, if I quit my job, I probably can’t babysit for free anymore like this. You want to pay me?”

“You aren’t babysitting,” she immediately complained. “You’re uncling.”

“I’m letting you mooch off my time,” he insisted. But then, afraid she would actually take it as a complaint, he spun Max around and added, “It’s his fault, he’s too stinking cute. It’s hard being the favorite person but ah… a burden I must bear.” Max giggled and squished Jungkook’s cheeks and babbled. “Hey, do you think he just said ‘uncle’?”

“No, I don’t think he just said uncle. I wish! He won’t even say ‘mama’! What the fuck, right? Hey, next time one of the old crones hits on you, why don’t you just play dumb and point out they’re old enough to be your mom?” Yoojin asked. Her eyes sparkled like this sudden idea was the clear and obvious answer to all his problems.

“But they’re into that, that’s the problem,” Jungkook snorted.

“God I wish people thought I was old enough to be someone’s mom. I’m so sick of people asking if Max is my baby brother. Like what the fuck?”

“Language, Yoon. Or ‘fuck’ might be his next word,” Jungkook scolded her just to get a rise out of her. She opened her mouth, probably to let another string of curses out, butEomma and Appa swung the door open, back from grocery shopping. “Not a word about my work thing,” he said quickly to Yoojin. The last thing he needed was Eomma and Appa worrying about his job security or health and happiness. One time they’d found out about a woman harassing him as a cabana boy and they had actually gone to the resort to talk to his boss about employee protection and the next thing he knew, Jungkook was looking for a new job. The resort swore it had nothing to do with that, but Jungkook knew. Even though he couldn’t hate his parents for it, they had just been trying to help when there had been so little they could do for his brother. Not that they’d ever admitted that was a part of it, but honestly, marching into a resort to complain?! We didn’t come here for our children to be treated like this! He didn’t want them to think he needed that kind of help. He could take care of himself.

Besides, it wasn’t like Jungkook didn’t ever flirt to get good tips or reviews. He didn’t do that now, at least not with any women who would take it too far, but back then… eh, he’d hooked up a couple times with guests too, which was technically what he was fired for…

<“Eomma, Appa, I said I’d go shopping with you,>” Jungkook scolded in Korean, carrying Max over.

“Stop talking in Korean around him!” Yoojin cried. She was ignored.

Eomma assured him, <”We don’t need you to go grocery shopping with us. We had the time together.”>

<”You work tonight.”>

”Bye Eomma, Bye Appa, I’m going to my second interview. See? Speak English like that,” Yoojin said, trying to slide past them after she kissed Max on the head.

Appa’s face screwed up as he asked, “An interview dressed like that? What is this company again?”

“It’s a catering company, I told you. I have to look nice.” Now Junkook looked at her outfit and also thought it looked a little off for a job interview with a catering company. Her short black dress was pretty tight, and her heels were nothing like you’d wear to show you knew how to cater food and she had a small purse. Small purses meant date.

“Are you going on a date?!” Jungkook hissed, clamping a hand over one of Max’s ears as if to protect him. Max was far more interested in Jungkook’s shell necklace than in whatever his mom’s secret plans might be. “Am I babysitting for you to go on a date?!”

“No! It’s not a date! It’s an interview, I swear! I just dressed nice!”

Jungkook didn’t want to dig in too hard in case it was true and he made her cry –she could turn it on like a faucet in front of their parents and then he’d look like an ass. But Appa raised his eyebrow, also not convinced, and shuffled past with two bags of food.

Eomma nodded at her, <”Ok, good luck if it’s a job interview.”>

“You’re all bullies,” Yoojin huffed. It was impossible to tell if she was really upset by their doubt. Jungkook thought her lack of shouting might actually mean she really was going on a date and didn’t want to back herself into a corner confirming it. Jungkook bit his tongue, for now, but only because their parents were there, and Max was grunting like he was trying to poop. Jungkook would change the diaper, but he drew the line at holding the kid while he did the deed. He’d save the brotherly lecture for later. The last thing Yoojin needed to be doing while she was unemployed with a one year old was going on dates! Not to mention every guy she went after was just like her ex, and she threw a fit if you pointed that out to her. If she was going to date, at least Jungkook wasn’t going to babysit for free for it.

He wound up trading Eomma, so she got stuck with the diaper while Jungkook carried in the groceries and did his best to help put them away with some guidance from Appa. He’d wanted to help with the shopping so Eomma wouldn’t wear herself out before her shift at the nursing home; she was working nights this week.

<“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”> Jungkook asked Appa, before realizing it was Thursday so Appa had Go night at the community center in K-town. His days were off. He blamed it on not cleaning the Birch’s pool yesterday. He wondered if Mrs. Birch had noticed someone else came by, or if she’d even cared. Probably she was relieved. For all he knew, she’d called to ask for a replacement anyway and Bob just hadn’t mentioned it yet.

<”You and Max can come with me tonight,”> Appa suggested.

<”It’s tempting but uh…”> Jungkook scrambled trying to think of an excuse, before settling on, <”Yoojin told me not to take him there. You know, she just wants him hearing English. Maybe she mentioned that.”>

<”That’s not the problem! He’ll talk when he’s ready, in English or Korean!”>

Jungkook shrugged. At least the excuse worked. He didn’t feel like sitting around listening to Appa and a bunch of old men play games and talk about sports and weather. He had thought about taking Max to the beach to get him used to it early, but diaper bags were almost as much of a hassle as getting sunscreen on a baby, and after his morning, he didn’t feel up for it. Plus it was hot out. Maybe they’d go for a walk later or maybe they’d just play inside.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and it felt like he’d stuck a staple in an outlet. He left Eomma and Appa debating what to eat for dinner since both of them would leave early and carried Max with him back to what had become Max’s room once he moved out. He knew it would be Bob’s name on the screen before he even got his phone out of his pocket.

“Yeah, Bob? What’s up, man?”

“Hey, JK. I just got off the phone with–”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Jungkook blurted out. “I didn’t flirt with her or anything, she was just drunk and gossiping with her friends and then grabbed my ass.”

“Uh… who’s this now?”

“Shit. Uh… who did you get off the phone with?” Jungkook asked. He looked to Max for a shared grimace but Max saw toys now and squirmed to be let down so he could play. Jungkook collapsed onto the rug beside him and began nervously stacking blocks.

“I was just calling about the Breslins, they said they want to keep the pools at their properties open through the winter and it looks like it fits into your schedule now that you dropped the Birch house but what’s this about?”

“Ah, just… an incident with…”

“JK, man, I told you, you gotta tell me if there’s an incident. What house?”

“Pender. She got drunk and grabbed my ass. I told her not to touch me and that I was just there to clean the pool. She said some other things but went back into her house and I finished up and left, that’s it.”

“Pender, Pender…. Oh that’s why that name is familiar. You’re the second poolboy then. I don’t give third chances, I’ll let her know we’re dropping her account.”

“Wait, what?!”

“Good, that frees you up for the other Breslin properties. I’ll email you the new schedule.”

“No, wait, Bob, you can’t just drop a client, can you? Aren’t they going to… I don’t know, sue or review bomb or something?”

Bob’s chuckle over the line reminded Jungkook how much he actually did like this job, as he said, “Sometimes. And then what am I going to do, say she’s got to stop assaulting my pool techs. And then she wants to take me to court to prove it didn’t happen, and everyone’s talking about it now? Nah, she’ll bitch to some friends about what a shitty company we are. These people are petty but they’re lazy, and if it’s a repeat offender, they probably don’t want anyone opening the closet door. A couple people start coming forward, suddenly you’ve got a dozen people saying she’s assaulted them.”

“Bob…. thanks. I thought…”

“I’d fire you? I know I may not look like it now, but I was quite a looker back in the day. You think I never caught any eyes or wandering hands? I don’t have much, but my company and dignity are two things that can’t be bought. Well. Company might be bought if it was a really good offer…” He gave that jolly laugh of his again. “See you Monday, mandatory meeting.” And hung up, just like that, no problem.

Jungkook wanted to weep. He’d had enough overbearing, shitty bosses to know Bob was a real one. Not only was he not fired, he had a new schedule now. No Mrs. Pender. No Mr. Birch. No… Mrs. Birch. Which was for the best. It was. It was for the best that he wouldn’t see her again as she debated whether to stay with her shithead husband or go through probably a messy divorce… Yep. For the best. Not his business. He was just the poolboy, remember?

As relief surged through him, Jungkook took hold of Max, rolled onto his back and propped his nephew on his feet to airplane him. Max shrieked with delight; this had been one of his favorite games since he was little.

“Wait, you didn’t just eat, right? No spitting up on me, ok? Hurray, airplane Max!” Jungkook cheered, doing leg lifts with him because if he couldn’t make it to the gym or beach, might as well get some fitness in before their jaunt around the neighborhood. Jungkook was so relieved, he had the energy for adventure.

“Hey, maybe let’s head to the beach after all. You want to? You want to see your uncles and some crabs? You want to be a surfer baby? Yeah, let’s do it.”

January

Grace let out a sigh of relief when she stepped out of the terminal at LAX and felt warmth finally seep back into her bones. Seeing her family for Christmas had been nice, but she was glad to be away from Missouri’s brutal snow and windchill.

Just about the whole extended family had gathered, which was rare these days. Sure, she would have preferred spending the holiday with only her immediate family in Chicago, but maybe it had been better this way. It had meant more options for distraction every time someone tried to bring up her divorce, and fewer opportunities for one on one time that might lead to inescapable questions. Of course everyone had wanted to talk about it. It wasn’t a thing anyone in their family had done before. Ever. Her extended family’s horrific responses a constant reminder of that fact, everything ranging from aren’t you embarrassed for people to know your marriage failed? To well what was going on at home? Men cheat when something is wrong at home and that’s the wife’s domain to keep happy. She found herself wishing her family would just go back to making subtle digs about her weight and diet like they usually did. Not that they missed an opportunity to warn her to cut back on the stress eating and take up some activity, no need to let herself go.

Her immediate family… well, they seemed to be following her lead in just not talking about it at all. That was for the best. Even if some small part of her was desperate to talk to anyone except her attorney about it because fucking hell it was miserable!

She checked her email as she waited for a cab, fully expecting an email from Lidiya with some new bullshit Tim was trying to pull. Mediation was not going well, despite the ironclad prenup. Tim wanted to fight her on everything, and dragged his feet about the information he was required to share, and kept trying to find bullshit “leads” to chase down like he was a real detective. She couldn’t fathom what his play was: this was only going to end in divorce, and he was going to exhaust his finances long before she did hers. Lidiya had suggested he was hoping to burn through their cash without understanding that the court could require him to pay her legal fees alongside his even if he didn’t have the cash at the moment.

But now that the blinders were off, Grace had a new theory. She thought Tim might just not truly understand how money worked. Just like he hadn’t seemed to understand how their prenup worked, or how a marriage vow worked, or a home security system account, and certainly not how she worked. He’d made clear at every turn that he expected her to change her mind and realize she was making a mistake. Maybe that was truly the reason he was making this so miserable, to “give her time” to realize she was wrong.

No emails had come from Lidiya during her flight. No contact from Tim, either, which she carefully documented. Every text, every phone call, every “drop by” her rental condo to “give her stuff” after he’d somehow found out her new place. It wasn’t illegal to go near her, since she really had no grounds for a restraining order, but it was definitely annoying and stupid, clearly just an excuse to see what she was doing, or maybe as an intimidation tactic.. Grace suspected he was hoping she was having men over so he could try to counter that she had been unfaithful as well.

Part of her wished she had. As she watched the city pass outside the window, buildings spreading further apart and climbing into the multistories of wealthier neighborhoods of Santa Monica, Grace found herself again fantasizing about the petty things she’d rather be doing than fighting Tim in court. How delicious would it have been to be the one who cheated on him? To get her world rocked by someone else and then have Tim discover it and hurt as deeply as she did. Some hot young successful man Tim could never hope to compete with. A guy even came to mind, that art collector, Namjoon Kim. Intelligent, sophisticated, successful, a total hottie, and Tim hated him. He’d be perfect. How beautiful to get some sort of justice.

But there was no real justice to be got and she was not actually going to pursue something with the mild-mannered guy, especially not as vengeance against her ex. Hopefully she’d get the house, that might be a small justice. She loved that house. In fact, her mother had pulled her aside and offered to help buy the house out from Tim if she needed the money for it. It was the only reference to the whole thing her mom had made, and kindly meant, though Grace wasn’t sure that she wanted to co-own her own home with her mother. But it might be the only way…

As tempted as she was to drive by the house now, she worried Tim would be there. Possibly with someone. She didn’t want to let on that she really wanted the house or he’d obviously make it impossible. She tried to make it sound like she intended to stay permanently in the furnished condo she was renting. It was nice! But it felt nothing like a home.

Maybe she should get a pet? The thought struck her as she walked through the door. She could. Her family growing up always had dogs but she’d wanted a cat for as long as she could remember. Tim liked to say he was allergic but really he just didn’t like animals –which in hindsight ought to have been a warning sign. Not for the first time, Grace considered all the warning signs she had ignored. The rosy glasses of love really were more like blinders.

Grace set about unpacking her bags. Unpacking was obviously the worst part of travel and she usually procrastinated it but there was nothing else to take her time right now. She didn’t have a single active real estate client at the moment, no houses to stage or sell, and she enforced a strict “no paperwork” policy during her holidays. There weren’t any tv shows or movies she felt like watching, and she’d just sat on the plane for hours anyway, so not in the mood for reading either. Her fitness classes had already passed for the day and she hadn’t signed up for a general gym membership, though it had been on her to-do list because this condo complex didn’t have its own –one of several compromises she had made just to find somewhere fast.

God, do I really not have any hobbies? Grace collapsed across her bed and stared at the ceiling. That felt like a failure to her. She came from a family of always-doing-somethings. Hunting, riding, jet-setting, painting, hosting, visiting, gambling, taking up whatever club sport or craft struck a fancy and then abandoning it when it no longer served. Grace had ribbons from a half dozen sports lined up like a museum in the bedroom her parents still kept for her at their house but she didn’t fence anymore, no pool, no horse. It had been nice to ride again in Missouri.

She pursed her lips and considered tennis. She’d loved tennis. Hadn’t played it in a while, because she and Tim used to do that together and then he got too busy working –and fucking, probably. A game of tennis actually sounded good right now, without Tim.

But it would require inviting someone, and Grace didn’t even bother to pick up her phone to consider it. She had always thought of herself as adequately social, she had plenty of “friends,” but going through this divorce had made her question everything she’d hinged on that word. After overhearing the gossip about herself at the third party she had attended without her husband, she had decided to take a break from the social scene —which would inevitably lead to more gossip. It felt like letting the rumor mill win, but what was she supposed to do, clink a spoon against a champagne glass and confirm that yes, she was divorcing, because her husband had fucked around and she wasn’t wiling to overlook it? All these adequately-married couples she’d thought were her friends for years only asked after her to try and get the dirt on why her marriage failed. They expected her to be ashamed for the wrong reasons. She didn’t want to admit she hadn’t been enough, hadn’t been right for her husband; they wanted her to realize how stupid she was to let a stable-earner, social-charmer like Tim go. What was she going to do now, be alone? Boys will be boys. Just forgive him!

A few people had reached out in ways that felt sincere. Megan blew her phone up every couple of weeks when she went for brunch with “the girls.” Eva from the club had invited her to check out the new gallery opening she patronized, which seemed thoughtful and not geared towards gossip or lecture. Stephanie, who Grace had known since they were girls and had moved to LA only a couple years before, just sent condolences and suggested a girl spa-weekend/ski trip “without the boys.” Kindly meant, even if it revealed the rumor mill had reached her; Stephanie was a different social circle than the Santa Monica club, but Grace hadn’t told her about the divorce.

Grace had brushed everyone off. As she and Tim warred over who would “keep” which “friend” group, Grace found herself doubting who she could trust. Abigail Pender, after hosting one of the parties Grace attended, apparently reported Grace’s presence to Tim, and afterwards she’d received a scathing voicemail from him saying he had known the Penders longer so she shouldn’t go to their parties anymore. Even though he hadn’t gone! And maybe he’d known them longer, having met Mark Pender on a golf green, but she was the one who’d put forth the effort to build and maintain the friendship –mainly because he thought Mark could be a useful friend for him, business-wise. She’d done that with all of them! Tim had always been happy to carry a case of beer to a cookout, or fire up their own grill, but she was the one who planned the events, bought the meat and beer, made sure everyone was having a good time, followed up for the lunches and fishing trips and whatever else got mentioned to make sure these things actually happened.

All that effort and Grace felt like she’d lost it all. Now she finally began to understand the warning her mother had given when Grace had finally called home to say she was divorcing: “Divorce is like burning the house down and you’re still in it, Grace. Really think about this.”

Would she have done anything differently? She couldn’t say. But she did know it was really fucking lonely now, not knowing who were actually her friends. She missed her house. And she felt pathetic, lying there on her bed, not sure what to do with her time. Tim didn’t own her hobbies, so why couldn’t she think of any? She’d been putting so much energy into her marriage and the social network Tim required to feel secure and connected and successful.

Damn, did that make her as bad as everyone else? But the social networks were just like that. Sometimes you genuinely like the people you invited to dinner and other times it was because there was some business or family connection, or potential, or some unspoken duty to be friends because your distant cousin had married the niece of their best friend.

Now Grace had failed the social contract by leaving her two-timing (well, at least four-timing) husband and she didn’t want to hear about it anymore. She didn’t trust anyone. She didn’t want to risk getting asked about it more, as if it was a news headline that affected them all but not personally or emotionally. She was very personally and emotionally affected! Didn’t anyone want to talk to her about something else? Was poor divorced woman all they saw when they looked at her now? She had been someone before her marriage, and during her marriage, and she would be someone again soon!

Once she figured out what she actually liked without Tim’s opinion weighing on her shoulder.

Once she discovered which foods she actually liked instead of the ones they’d ordered just because he did.

Once she figured out how to reclaim her social life from that thieving new-money bastard.

Once she could find a place to live that didn’t look so cold and generic and neutral. She knew neutral colors were all the rage now. This was what new money thought elegance looked like, she’d heard that plenty of times from her mother.

Ugh, what did Grace like? What did she want to do?

Grace wanted….

Grace liked….

Grace didn’t want to be in bed right now, so she showered and changed clothes to get the smell of travel off. And she walked to get a coffee from down the street just to be among Californians again.

Then, on an impulse she decided to give into, Grace drove to the animal shelter. It was almost shockingly easy to fill out the paperwork. She didn’t know whether her rental allowed pets but didn’t care, she put her address as the house she was determined to move back into once mediation granted it to her. She googled a vet reference on the way, assuming they wouldn’t check –they didn’t– and listed her sister as her personal reference, assuming they wouldn’t call –they didn’t.

“Shouldn’t they make it harder to adopt?” she mused on the way home, carrier wedged into the front seat beside her, back seat packed with a splurge worthy of her sister’s shopping habits.

Foam said nothing, just peered through the mesh with the big eyes that took up an odd amount of his face, one ear flicking. The nub of his other ear swiveled when she turned the car.

“Almost home,” she said. Suddenly Foam let out a high-pitched yeowl and turned a somersault in his carrier, then curled up in the back. “Sh sh sh, almost home.”

The narration wasn’t important; deaf little Foam couldn’t hear her anyway, but that hadn’t stopped her from talking to him at the adoption center and it wouldn’t stop her now as she hauled the carrier and bags into the condo. She would order a cat tree for him, and a better scratching post, and whatever else struck her fancy, but at least for now he had bedding and food and toys and treats to mark this completely new chapter of his life. From kill shelter to rescue agency and now to life with Grace, she hoped this was going to be a better future for both of them.

As soon as he was out of the carrier, he climbed her like a tree; she flinched at the pinpricks of his claws until he’d reached her shoulder, trying to nestle himself onto her chest like he had at the center. That’s when she’d been a goner. He couldn’t hear her but he could feel the vibrations of her speech and had purred and nuzzled beneath her chin and really Grace had almost broken down in the room as she stroked his gray and white fur. The rescue thought he might be a Singapura-American shorthair mix but Grace couldn’t care less what he was. No one wanted this beat up scrawny deaf kitty, and Tim hadn’t wanted her.

“Fuck Tim, you’re all I need,” she beamed, arms around Foam as she swayed.

Apparently he didn’t even need a period to warm up to her, which would have been understandable. She would never know what his life had been like in the five years before he’d got to her, but that didn’t matter either. Suddenly the future looked so much better; already Grace was thrilled to hear the padding of little feet as Foam explored his new home. He shadowed her as she did a pass to make sure there wasn’t anything obviously dangerous for a cat and put on some music and grabbed her laptop to read more about cat ownership. She wondered if Foam would be the kind of cat who’d be happy hiking on a leash or in a backpack…

She’d always wanted a cat and now she had a perfect one. Maybe building the life she wanted, only for herself, wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

March

A lot of people kept their pools open year-round, but there were still enough to closed them for the winter that March always saw a surge in business. Jungkook had spent the winter working mostly on commercial properties, which was stable and all, but he was glad to see his schedule shift back towards more private residences. Not that he liked dealing with snotty rich people, but there were plenty of middle class families too who didn’t treat him like garbage. And hey, maybe his ego could use a little stoking from the non-handsy variety of women, just the ones who admired and flirted a little, because winter had not been kind to him in the dating sphere. Teona had come back into his life for a whole month before deciding he still hadn’t grown up enough. He’d had a string of dates that he shelled out good money for only to find himself ghosted or even blocked afterwards. When he’d drunkenly demanded of Jimin “is it me? Am I a creep?” his friends had taken the shit out of him a little too well. He was still bothered not to know whether they were just teasing or really did think he was a fuckboy.

The tide was out on dating and Jungkook saw spring as a chance to refocus on work and surfing and the band and let the universe steer his dating life for a while. Probably straight into a wall, but if he was going to end up there anyway, he might as well blame it on the universe.

“You’re hot but you don’t have any substance,” he murmured, repeating the words his latest date via an app had provided when he asked if there was any particular reason she didn’t want a second date. He’d liked her. He had thought the question would reflect well on him, and anticipated her answer being something like oh the sparks just weren’t there or you’re great but I realized I just don’t have time for a relationship right now. Maybe even I realized I was going to fall too hard and fast for you, it scared me. Nope. Hot but no substance.

What did that even mean? Jungkook had so much substance! He had hobbies and interests! He cared about his family! He was good with babies! He played the guitar and drums and sang and worked out and he could cook. He had a stable job and only played a reasonable amount of video games and he knew how to listen. Wasn’t that enough?! What else did women want??

He was still grumbling to himself as he parked at the Cool Pool Inc. building to confirm his schedule and grab a company truck for the day. Bob had sent them out the night before, but Jungkook had a few questions. Namely, about the typo on his schedule regarding the Birches.

“Huh? The Birches?” Bob finally said, looking up from his computer on the third repeat. “Oh, you’ve still got the house but it’s not the Birches anymore. Didn’t you look at the addresses?”

“Yeah but it says the Hessers. Did you mix up the address?”

“No. They bought the place, Birches don’t live there anymore and wherever they moved, I dunno, they aren’t using us anymore.”

Jungkook’s brow lowered in thought. That couldn’t be right. Granted, maybe there weren’t Birches anymore if Mrs. Birch-or-whatever-her-name-was-now had gotten her head on straight and left that twichy-dicked corn chip. He looked at his list of names again but didn’t see her name listed anywhere.

“Maybe they changed their name,” Jungkook suggested. “Or I mean, she did. Did we get any new customers from another address with the first name… Cornelia?” It was just a name, but he felt wrong to say it, like he wasn’t supposed to know, even though it had always been written on his schedule. Hers had been the primary name on the account: Cornelia Birch, even though she had introduced herself to him as “Grace” that first time he’d cleaned for them. It had made sense to him, in a way, that she wouldn’t give her real name to be used casually by a contractor. And ‘Mrs. Birch’ had felt like the proper way to call her anyway –in the beginning because that’s just a thing he did, to charm the rich white ladies with his manners, but later because calling her by her name would have felt intimate or wrong. They weren’t on the same level. She was older and rich and he would just have felt weird about it, ok? Calling her by her first name or a nickname, like they were casual friends. Besides, was she really called Cornelia? That was such an old lady name… He kind of liked that about her though. She had a weird name, and people always thought his name was weird too.

Bob’s eyebrows lifted. He smacked his lips and glanced at the computer as if going to check but then answered without checking,

“Nope, no new Cornelia anything. Why, you looking for her?”

“No,” Jungkook quickly assured him. “Just… you know, she’s the one who was so serious about their pool, just wanted to know if she closed the account or just moved to a new house–”

“And changed her name?”

Jungkook shrugged, “I dunno, divorces happen…”

“Or you want to know if Timothy Birch’s calls complaining about you cost us an account?” Bob countered, like he could see it all before him.

“It wasn’t my fault he complained about me, he was just like that. I hope for her sake, she did leave his ass, he was an asshole.”

Bob chuckled at this show of passion and shook his head, lecturing, “Marriages are a complicated thing, son. Maybe you’ll get it someday. But no, no Timothys, Cornelias, or Graces, Birch or otherwise.” He was already feeling nervous that Bob would think he’d been involved as much as he had been though and didn’t want to dig in more.

“Ok,” Jungkook shrugged. “I got my schedule then. See ya, boss.”

“Keep it fresh, JK,” Bob said, one of the phrases the younger employees had taught him. He was a good one, that Bob. Jungkook waved over his shoulder as he grabbed the keys to his truck to head out.

And yet, he couldn’t shake the suspicion from his mind. So… did that mean Mrs. Birch and Slim-Jim Dick had divorced? Or just moved somewhere else? He decided to hit up the new owners of that residence first, but still half expected it to be one of the Birches up until he knocked on the front door to introduce himself.

“Great,” the man, Adam Hesser, greeted him with a firm handshake. “We were told by the previous owners your company had been managing the pool so I take it you know what to do? We’re going to keep it open year-round so just keep it nice, our kids will use it a lot. Let me know if you need anything.”

Jungkook nodded, “Yeah yeah, for sure, man. Hey, so you spoke to the previous owners? Which one? Did they say where they were moving?”

“No, I didn’t really, they just had a list of previous contractors.”

“Ah, ok. I’m glad they recommended us. I’ll keep it looking good, head on back on there now. Nice to meet you, Mr. Hesser.”

Gone. That made Jungkook think they’d divorced although he couldn’t be sure. Maybe the Birches were the kind of people who’d decide they had to do everything and anything to save their marriage and they’d moved to Spain or something. Even if they’d divorced, Mrs. Birch might have moved somewhere else. Maybe she wasn’t even in the area anymore, or maybe she didn’t have a pool, which he’d feel sad for her about since she seemed to like it.

Or maybe she did and had just decided to use a different pool cleaning service.

“Wouldn’t that be fucked up?” Jungkook demanded, leaning in close to make sure his buddies heard him over the noisy bar. Taehyung, Jimin, Hoseok, and Soyoon circled the high-top. Taro was here somewhere too, probably networking. Yoongi had already bailed, claiming he had work early but probably just to get away from the place. He only really hung out at bars if there was music he wanted to catch, and even then bounced the second the bands were done.

“Uh… yeah,” Jimin nodded, but he had a look like he didn’t understand why.

“Because I was great at what I did,” Jungkook insisted. “I kept the pool looking great so if she –if they have a new pool and decided to use someone else instead, it would be personal, right? Because I was the best professionally.”

“Didn’t you have a fight with her in her backyard about whether she ought to divorce her husband?” Soyoon asked. Jungkook glared. Hard. He had told her that in drunken confidence and of course she had then casually mentioned it to everyone else without a second thought.

“Yeah, kinda weird,” Taehyung grimaced. “Almost as weird as giving her a video of her husband fucking another woman that you filmed through their window…”

“Hey!”

Jimin came to his defense, insisting, “It’s because he was emotionally compromised.” Wait, that wasn’t the defense Jungkook had hoped for.

“The fuck does that even mean?” Jungkook scowled.

“Aw, it’s because you always had a crush on her, right?” Hoseok asked, his gaze sliding to Jimin as if to confirm this, or make sure it was ok to say. It wasn’t!

“Not in a real way,” Jungkook defended. “Just in like a… a Stacy’s Mom kind of way.”

“That song is fucked up,” Soyoon huffed. “If you reversed the genders, that would be a felony.”

“Sex with a minor is still a felony but they didn’t have sex,” Taehyung countered. “He was just creeping.”

Jimin made a face and admitted, “Really, you think it was just the guy being horny for her? I mean she came out in a towel while he was mowing the lawn, right? No one is surprised by a lawnmower. She knew he was out there.”

“Do you ever see people do things like that when you’re working?” Hoseok asked Jungkook with open curiosity. “Like in just a towel or–”

“Or fucking someone else in the kitchen?” Jimin laughed and threw his arm around Hoseok’s shoulder. “Yeah, he sees it all!”

Jungkook made a face and admitted, “Yeah, I see the towel thing happen.”

“Yeah and is it ever an accident?” Soyoon demanded.

Mrs. Birch didn’t mean to see me when she came up from the home gym in her sports bra. He kept that memory to himself, since these fuckers couldn’t hold anything sacred.

“Eh, sometimes,” he decided. “Sometimes it’s on purpose, but other times it’s just because they just don’t give a shit about you. Like, you’re not even a real human so what do they care if you see them in their towel? But other times yeah it’s on purpose.”

“What’s that show… Desperate Housewives? Wasn’t someone fucking a poolboy in that? It probably gave all the old ladies ideas.”

“Is that show even still on? That’s really old. My mom watched that.”

They looked at Jungkook, who had to explain, “Uh… I don’t… know? I don’t watch that shit.”

“Oh, you know what show I just saw that was great…” Taehyung said, changing the subject further away from what Jungkook had wanted to do: complain about his lack of closure on the Birches.

He grabbed another beer and pretended to follow along, but mostly he was just thinking about how he regretted bailing on those final two weeks of cleaning at the Birches. If he’d gone, maybe he would know what was going on with them, or where they’d gone. It wasn’t like he expected anyone to leave him a note, but it felt wrong for them to just disappear. It felt… bad. He felt bad. He was the one who had sent the tape and while he was sure it had been the right thing to do, he would like to know that was true from Mrs. Birch-called-something-else telling him how grateful she was. Cornelia. Fucking Cornelia. Maybe that was another reason he always called her Mrs. Birch, he just couldn’t bring himself to call her Cornelia. Or Grace, a nickname, which felt even more intimate?! Cornelia wasn’t a name you could say as you fucked a woman slowly against the side of the pool, and Grace was so short… Gracie might make for a good–

Fuck! Abort! Too much beer! Fuck, he was horny, that was all. It wasn’t about her, he’d just crossed the streams of two different thoughts. Never cross streams.

Besides, now he’d never call her anything. She hadn’t had the opportunity to tell him she was grateful or even just reassure her by her happiness that he’d done the right thing. Which he had. Even if she had not seemed grateful when they’d fought about it.

Damnit, couldn’t a guy get closure about anything? Sure he’d had a fantasy crush about her but he was a good guy, he also just wanted to know that she was happy and doing well. Maybe he could google her…

He pulled out his phone and wandered off, mumbling about getting another beer so no one would see his phone screen as he typed in Cornelia Birch.

A shocking number of results came back. He leaned against the bar and scrolled in disbelief, but the links were all to dense text webpages and he had drunk enough that the letters looked blurry and he didn’t feel like reading a lot right now. Besides, he couldn’t tell if the Cornelia Birch who sat on art boards and was a part of some trust or whatever was her or if it was a common rich white lady name. There were no pictures. Except for a table sold by Wayfair, the “Cornelia,” part of the Birch Lane furniture line. That was kinda funny. White ladies and high end furniture lines, that made sense. He started to type in Grace Birch to see if that got different results, just in case she actually did use that as more than a name to give poor peasants so they wouldn’t sully her proper dignified name when–

“Excuse me, are you ordering or…?” He looked up at the hand on his arm, and the owner of the hand: a pretty blond, tanned and green-eyed.

“Oh, yeah sorry, am I in your way?” He scooted to the side and she pressed in. The bartenders had ignored him but came right over for her. She surprised him by motioning for him to tell his order to.

“Can’t believe they make you wait here,” she said to him.

“You waited ten seconds…”

“No, I mean you. If you can’t get a drink then I don’t get it.”

Jungkook was tipsy and confused. But he nodded and didn’t point out he’d been on his phone and also that he wasn’t sure he’d wanted another beer anyway. But one was brought, and on a whim, he told the bartender to put hers on his tab too.

“You don’t have a tab open,” the bartender pointed out. Which was annoying because they knew him here and that he was good for it. It embarrassed him in front of the girl. He slid his card over and pretended to be smooth about it.

“Thanks for the drink,” she beamed at him. “I’m Mary.”

“Another old lady name…”

“What?”

“Nothing, so, you new around here? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“You know everyone who comes here?” she teased.

“Just about. Except the tourists. You wouldn’t happen to be one of those, would you?”

“No. I live here, I just never come to this part of town.”

He nudged her closer, away from someone trying to get by, as he pressed, “Then what made you come tonight?”

“My girl friend had a date and wanted a backup, you know? But apparently that went well because she already left.”

“Wait… so your girl space friend, right? Not your girlfriend?”

“What?”

Jungkook decided she must not have a girlfriend, he was just confusing them both.

“So… are you leaving then?”

“No. Why, you want me to go?” she laughed.

“Nah. Just checking.” He chugged half his beer to find some liquid courage. He couldn’t believe his luck. A random girl hitting on him in the bar? Great. Perfect thing to distract him from the fact he’d never know what happened to Mrs. Birch. Besides, so what? It didn’t matter. She was just some lady he cleaned pools for.

“So what do you do?” Mary asked him.

“I’m a pool technician,” he answered. “And I also teach surf and work as a lifeguard sometimes.”

“Ah, that explains the muscles. I can tell you’re fit.”

“I drum too. It’s a pretty good workout, no one ever realizes that.”

“Yeah, full body. I don’t play but I mean, I’ve seen people drum.”

He grinned. Yeah, she was into him.

“What about you?”

“Oh, I’m a senior at USC.”

Jungkook swallowed hard and drank more beer to give himself time to count. Senior… so she was twenty? Twenty one? Twenty two at most probably. He was twenty-six, that wasn’t… too bad…

“What’s that look?” she laughed.

“You’re young.”

“What?! How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“What? I thought you were like, my age,” she laughed. “I’m twenty one.”

He tsked and shook his head, trying not to smile and ruin the joke as he teased, “A baby.”

“Hey, you’re the one with the baby face.” Ah, he kinda hated it when girls said that, even if he knew it was true.

“Because I’m Asian?”

“What?!” she gasped. “Oh my god! I would never say that! I didn’t mean it like that!”

“I’m kidding. I know.”

“Oh my god, I am not like that. I don’t care who or what someone is, if they’re hot, they’re hot.” She was clearly really offended by his joke, or maybe too drunk to be calm about anything.

He nudged her and prompted, “So you think I’m hot?”

Within an hour he knew she did. She’d said it enough times, her nails digging into his chest and abs as she bounced on his dick, the springs of his mattress screaming beneath them. He grabbed her hips and pulled her down, eyes slitted so he could just make out the circles of her nipples and the pink folds of her pussy around his girth. She was thin and perky and had an absurd bikini tan despite admitting she never went to the beach. Total California girl in the purchased, store-bought way.

Which was fine by him. She could be from California or New York or Florida or Timbuktu for all he cared right now. Her energy was great; his drunk brain felt like a tornado of pleasure touched down where her body stroked his.

“We’re going to break your bed,” she giggled.

“Nah, I would have broken it by now.”

“Oh my god, you’re a dick,” she giggled, and slapped him on the face. He didn’t love that but it wasn’t hard enough to hurt. It wasn’t like a dealbreaker or anything. He definitely wasn’t going to pull out for that. It just seemed wrong for this younger girl to do something like that in sex. If someone was going to slap him… ah, Mrs. Birch could slap him. He thought about it with a grin, sinking into the alcohol-logged fantasy he was drunk enough not to stop this time. He let his hands flop out and spread his legs and surrendered. Mrs. Birch could do whatever she wanted to him. She had that fit body but with way more curves than Mary. Small tits were fine but Mrs. Birch’s were bigger, they’d bounce. She had some jiggle to her thighs. If he grabbed her by the ass, he’d get at least a handful. Mary’s assbones were pulverizing his thighs. But Mrs. Birch in that white swimsuit, maybe a size smaller so her body started busting out of it…

Jungkook grabbed Mary’s hips and nutted pretty quickly after that, wordless at the rush of pleasure as a mental image of Mrs. Birch with swollen nipples straining against a white wet suit filled his head in the moments before it all went blank. He rolled Mary onto her back and got in a final stroke and gasped for breath back into his lungs. When she pushed against his chest to get him to sit up, he sat there just gasping while her eyes and hand roamed his stomach, her other hand rubbing herself furiously. He watched with the kind of fascination he always had for a woman cumming: it was a beautiful thing no matter who the woman was. This fake-beach babe looked hot as hell spasming around his spent dick and he made sure to tell her so as he gripped the condom and eased himself out of her.

“You think so?” she taunted. “Because your eyes were closed a lot.”

“Nah, just hard to keep ‘em open when it felt so good,” he assured her. “Trust me, I was looking.” She’d rolled onto her side and he smacked her ass.

“Ouch, too hard,” she complained with a giggle. And reached behind him for the blunt she’d pulled out earlier but abandoned when he’d pulled her shirt off.

He padded to the bathroom to rinse off and toss the condom, then accepted the blunt when she handed it to him, one arm crooked behind his head in absolute relaxation. Balls empty, brain empty, best night.

She was just nice to him, that’s why he wanted to know whatever happened to Mrs. Birch. Not enough he’d actually look through those google search results or anything. He was just curious. He just wanted closure because she’d been nice to him before and he didn’t feel great that the last time he’d ever see her, they’d had a fight. Hopefully by now she had realized he was right.

“Hey,” he said after blowing smoke towards the ceiling. “If you were married and your husband cheated on you, you’d fucking divorce him, right?”

“Geez, proposing to me already?” she giggled and took the blunt back.

“No, I’m just saying, that’s what you do, right?”

Mary nodded emphatically, “Yeah, this is the 21st century, no woman should stay with a cheating piece of shit.”

“That’s what I’m saying. You get it.”

“Oh my god… you aren’t married or anything, right?”

Jungkook laughed loud and gestured, crying, “You saw my house! I live with a bunch of dudes!”

“Oh. Right. I wasn’t really thinking about anything like that.”

“Just thinking about my dick?” he grinned.

“Yeah, and how bad I wanted it,” she agreed, rolling against his arm. “And it did not disappoint.”

“See? That’s what I’m saying,” he said again. “You get it.”

“Yeah, I got it good.” Just as Jungkook started to gloat, she asked, “Hey, you got anything harder than this?”

“Than… what?”

“Than pot.”

“No. Take it from your elders, don’t do anything harder than pot,” he snorted. Just like that, warm cozy fantasy of success with Mary started to crumble. Ugh. What was he even doing with a college-age girl he picked up in a bar? One clearly surfing for dick and apparently coke too?

No. No regrets. Not while his dick was still twitching with satisfaction.

“You’re not my dad,” she snickered, before whispering into his ear, “Unless you want me to call you ‘daddy.’”

“You call me daddy, I’m going to spank you a lot harder than that,” he warned. Honestly, he wasn’t really into the name but he also didn’t want to chase her off with a denial. Not when he felt this good. Whatever, he could play along. He could stomach being daddy for another round…

She handed him the blunt and watched him; he felt her gaze even with his eyes closed in the low light.

“Are you thinking about someone else?” she asked. “Who were you talking about? Someone cheated on who? Your sister or something?”

He nearly choked as he sat up and insisted, “Yeah I am not thinking about my sisters while I’m fucking.” That made her laugh harder. She choked too, coughing hard as she took the blunt back to set in the bowl on his nightstand.

“Then who?”

“Nobody. I just knew you’d understand.”

“Yeah, I’m great like that. Hey, can you spot me money for a lyft back home?”

“Just spend the night, I don’t mind.”

“.... no thanks. You’ve got like a lot of laundry in here…”

“Yeah, tomorrow is laundry day,” he lied, but her criticism made him run a little colder.

“Yeah it was just an observation. I have class early though I gotta go.”

He sighed and pushed himself out of bed to see what cash he had. Only a twenty, which she gladly took before ordering a car that would go on her card anyway. Damn college girls. He got her a glass of water and made sure she got in the car ok before returning to his room. There wasn’t that much laundry in his room. Maybe he’d been in a hurry changing between surfing and work and going out but so what? He hadn’t expected to bring someone back tonight. If she was so particular they could have gone to her place. She probably had laundry everywhere too.

Dizzy now between the pot and alcohol, Jungkook realized with regret there was no way he’d drag himself out of bed in time to catch the morning surf. He had lifeguard duty and family stuff this weekend too, and band practice Sunday, so tomorrow morning was his only chance. And now Mrs. Birch was gone and he had missed the last two cleanings at her place because he’d been too sulky about her being mad at him. He’d fucked, that was great, his balls were drained, but at what cost? Was it really worth it? Was something wrong with Jungkook to wonder if maybe other things in life were even better than sex–

Wait, Mary had early classes on a Saturday!?

Chapter Two | Masterlist | Chapter Three

#jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x oc #jeon jungkook x oc #over the falls #jeon jungkook ff #jungkook smut #jungkook series #jungkook au #poolboy jk #jungkook domestic fluff

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mqriuss · 3 months ago

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Archive → Aptroids & Technology

from 'us, always' collection

Aptroid - A synthetic humanoid that possesses a biomechanical body covered in lifelike synthetic skin, advanced AI cores, and a neural system that allows them to simulate sensation.

Companion Aptroids - A category of Aptroids designed to fulfill emotional and social needs, ranging from romantic partners and friends to parental figures. They adapt to their assigned roles, providing comfort, companionship, and support tailored to their owner’s desires.

Service Aptroids - A category of Aptroids designed for efficiency and reliability in industries such as hospitality, maintenance, and domestic work. These Aptroids have replaced human labor in various fields.

Entertainment Aptroids - A category of Aptroids designed to engage and amuse. Entertainment Aptroids specialize in performance-based roles, including acting, singing, dancing, hosting, and interactive experiences. They are commonly found in clubs, theaters, theme parks, and media industries.

Combat Aptroids - A category of Aptroids designed for warfare, security, and high-risk operations. Combat Aptroids are proficient in fighting, and can harness different types of weapons and fighting styles. Their capabilities range from serving as military assets to private security forces.

Labor Aptroids - A category of Aptroids designed for physically demanding tasks and manufacturing. These Aptroids are built for durability and endurance, often replacing human workers in extreme or dangerous environments.

Pleasure Aptroids - A sub-category of Aptroids that are designed for sex work and fall under *three main Aptroid categories: Companion Aptroid, Service Aptroid and Entertainment Aptroid.

*The category they are classified in heavily depends on the setting—Pleasure Aptroids found in clubs, host venues, and other nightlife industries may fall under the Entertainment Aptroid category. Pleasure Aptroids found in high-end establishments or brothels may be classified as Service Aptroids. However, Pleasure Aptroids are primarily and generally considered Companion Aptroids.

LIV - A well-known Aptroid Girlfriend brand in the Companion Aptroid market.

Holo-screen - A holographic display projected to life from a device that can be integrated seamlessly into furniture and surfaces like tables, countertops and drawers. They can be activated through various gestures such as stepping near it, or waving a hand. The holo-screen device is now a common *household item and has multiple uses in daily life. They allow users to browse the web, read the news, play games, listen to music, view maps, make calls with holographic projections, send messages, store files, manage security systems, etc. The size of the screen can also be adjusted with just a couple taps. Lancers and Handlers like Rindou and Koko may use these devices to access the Handler's Hub.

*Holo-screen devices are not just used in homes, but also in various workplaces.

[NEW] CMP-C - Stands for Consciousness, Memory, Personality Chip. It is a biochip inserted into the back of a person's neck when they are born that records and stores basic information on a person* (such as Name, Birth Date, Age), and their consciousness, memories, and personality. The CMP-C is also present inside an Aptroid in the same spot.

*The CMP-C also acts as an identity card of sorts. They get scanned to confirm one's identity in cases where it is needed.

collection masterlist / divider by cafekitsune

#us always: collection #us always > archive

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sitp-recs · 2 years ago

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hi liv hope you’re well!!! i was wondering if you had a reclist for like wound healing / physical h/c ?? i looked through your masterlists and maybe i just couldn’t see it but ohhh i would love it if you have any recs for me :))) thank you so much have a lovely day xx

Hi anon! Ahh yes some good old whump 👨‍🍳 💋 it’s crazy to think I haven’t done a list for it yet bc this used to be my favourite Starker trope! My memory is not great (especially with long fics) but I think these might work. Oh and if you enjoy Dronarry I highly recommend Let Be, Let Be by @tackytigerfic :)

Operative by @shealwaysreads (M, 3.4k)

After the war, Draco finds himself in the familiar position of not getting what he wanted. But sometimes, what you need finds its own way to you.

A Noir Cliche by @shiftylinguini (T, 4k)

Draco is not a Healer. Harry doesn’t get hurt on purpose. They really have to stop meeting like this.

Case File #742 by @nametheshadows (M, 6k)

When Draco is thrown into the cell, he’s furious. When Potter gets thrown in behind him, he’s pissed.

Vale Sanare by RurouniHime (M, 23k)

Draco’s world gains a new component just when he thought he’d sorted everything out.

On One's Knees by pir8fancier (E, 34k)

The war is over and to the victors go the spoils. If you are triggered by infidelity, this is not the fic for you.

If an Injury Is to Be Inflicted by @shealwaysreads (E, 45k)

Harry Potter disappeared a year after the Battle of Hogwarts, and with him went all hope for true change in magical Britain. Three years later, Draco indulges himself and attends his first Dog Fight—the infamous underground fights with no rules, no referee, and no points system bar blood on the floor. The game was simple: you win, or you die.

The Boy Who Only Lived Twice by lettered (E, 54k)

Harry Potter is an Unspeakable. Draco Malfoy is the wizard who shagged him. Adventure! Intrigue! Secret identities, celebrities, spies! It's all right here, folks.

Balance, Imperfect by @bixgirl1 (E, 91k)

When Harry sustains an injury in the line of work, he no longer knows how to navigate the life he loved, and finds help and solace from the most unexpected source.

Any Instrument by @dictacontrion (E, 131k)

Draco Malfoy wouldn't go back to England for anything less than an exceptional case. Being asked to figure out why Harry Potter can't control his magic might be exceptional enough to qualify.

From Ashes by Caedes12 (E, 150k)

When Draco comes back for eighth year, he starts an unexpected friendship with Hermione Granger. Between his new friendship and his parents kicking him out of the house, Draco's life starts down a new path.

There Is Always the Moon by @firethesound (T, 159k)

Draco's life after the war is everything he wanted it to be: it's simple, and quiet, and predictable, and safe. But when a mysterious curse shatters the peace he'd worked so hard to build, there's only one person he can trust to help him. After all, Harry Potter has saved his life before. Now Draco has to believe that Potter will be able to do it one more time.

Bonus: art!

Sometimes it’s Now or Never by @bluebutter-art (T)

The aftermath of a messy Auror raid finds one Harry Potter at the doorstep of Draco Malfoy’s home. Who knew that a brush with death is exactly the push he needs to finally tell Draco how he really feels?

#asks #anon #drarry whump #physical h/c

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heliads · 2 years ago

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everything is blue • conrisa space au • Chapter One: Some Run

Risa Ward escaped a shuttle destined for her certain, painful death. Connor Lassiter ran away from home before it was too late. Lev Calder was kidnapped. All of them were supposed to be dissected for parts, used to advance a declining galaxy, but as of right now, all of them are whole. Life will not stay the same way forever.

series spotify playlist

series masterlist / next

Connor Lassiter has only existed in these worlds for sixteen turns around his system’s sun, and yet his time is already over. It’s funny, really. If he was going to be taken apart, he was really hoping that he’d be able to make it to seventeen. It always seemed like a good year. Or maybe that’s just because seventeen is when you can start the training process to get your cosmic license, and although Connor never breathed a word of it to anyone, he’s always been angling to make it past the atmosphere, even just once.

Now, it looks like he’ll get his wish to leave his birth planet behind, but that’s the only good part about all of this. Connor will never be able to explore deep space, he’ll never chase down settlements on rogue moons, and he’ll never so much as see a binary sunrise, because Connor Lassiter is going to die, and worst of all, no one in this system or any other will fight it.

Even Connor can’t believe it’s really happening. Sure, he’s had this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that his home has stopped being his for quite some time now, but he always assumed he could do something to pull himself out of it. Yeah, he mouthed off in class, and only ever turned up at home after curfew, long past when he was supposed to, but none of those are grounds for this, right? Right?

Not according to his parents, because they’re the ones who have gone and signed away his grounds license. Horrific. Connor found the proof of it by accident, aimlessly scrolling through his parents’ hololibrary in search of something interesting to read or watch. Instead of a new show, though, Connor had accidentally clicked on the tab for his parents’ private work files.

Connor usually never bothers checking that stuff– who cares about interplanetary taxes and star system loans, anyway– but just as he’d been about to go back to the entertainment folder, he’d spotted his name on a file that read: Destined for Distribution, and then he’d known.

There’s an old saying about how it takes a lunar colony to raise a child, but sometimes even the proverbial interstellar village isn’t enough. Sometimes you can’t force your offspring to be what you want. The governments of the worlds puzzled over such a dilemma for a long time– if you can’t shape the young generation, after all, you risk losing control of all of humanity forever– and after a series of Heartland Wars and internal disputes, they came up with a solution: distribution.

Space travel is a relatively new problem in the history of humanity, but they’ve already managed to mess it up. Those in charge at the start of it all wanted new flights, new discoveries, to take over every planet they saw regardless of who lived there and the downfalls of having to carry on a society in every direction.

After sinking their claws into every star system they could reach, the tension of frenetic interstellar improvement slackened, and what was left was a hastily constructed dystopia, prone to falling apart under the slightest of scuffles. We’re kind of a terrible species, humans, all things considered. We don’t wait until we’ve solved world peace before we take our problems to other planetary systems. Instead, we spread out our grievances until everyone in all the worlds has to suffer as much as we did.

The problem with fast-paced space exploration is that the early adventurers burned through resources just as quickly as they did back on planet Earth, which is now barely more than a clod of ash and dust. To make up for the demands without having to change their tactics, the centralized government sent out a mandate to all its territories: why not solve two problems in one? Get rid of the teenage crisis by using their resources in a better way. Distribute what the ferals would take up to those who could actually use it.

There’s no way the idea of distribution should have taken on as strongly as it did. Maybe it wasn’t as inhumane in the beginning as they did now, maybe it literally was just about giving away food and clothing and shelter. Now, though? Distribution doesn’t just represent physical objects. It means that the actual bits and pieces of you, the bloody matter and bleached bones that are currently in the body of a child marked for distribution, will be spun apart into individual fragments and given away.

There’s the idea that there’s only so much space left in space, so to speak, so if you’re no longer needed, your pieces will get distributed to those who need it more. That’s how our glorious society keeps growing, no longer out but in.

Every bit of you will be gone, destined for some better purpose. Some would say that’s poetic. Connor, who is slated to be killed in just this fashion, would call it gruesome. However, no one really cares about the thoughts of someone marked for distribution, and they’re certainly not going to start now. Hell, they haven’t been listening to him for years. Why change?

As Connor swiped through the distribution forms signed in triplicate according to some tradition from a long dead planet, he was chillingly reminded of how easy it was to get rid of him. Every person born on any planet within the Collective’s reach is given a grounds license when they draw their first breath. When it’s decided that they no longer deserve the air in their lungs, the Collective takes back the air and lungs both. Your grounds license is revoked, and from that moment forward, you cease to exist in any way that matters.

After that, you’re sent for distribution. By turning in the forms to confiscate your grounds license, your parents essentially send the Juvey-cops after you. Most kids don’t find out they’re going to get distributed until the Juveys show up at their house and take them away. They’ll have just enough time for a few cries of outrage before getting packaged into a shuttle and spirited to a nearby lunar colony so the doctors can cut you to ribbons. Delightful.

If, on the off chance, you actually do manage to find out that you’re going to get torn to pieces in the name of an equal and fair government, such as Connor, you have a chance to run. He’ll try, of course, but even as he makes his final preparations to kick-AWOL, some disheartening voice in the back of his head tells him that he probably isn’t going to make it very far. You can’t do anything without a grounds license. Not easily, of course. In all honesty, it’s probably just a matter of time until the Juvey-cops catch up to him.

Of course he’s going to run, though. Connor Lassiter is not the type to sit around and wait for his death to come to him. He’ll run until they strip away his very legs. Until then, he can grab a go bag, walk around his house one last time, and then leave in the dead of night before anyone thinks to catch him.

Connor hovers one last second over the threshold of his open door. After this, his fate is up in the air. He could get caught within moments, or he could somehow find a way to stick it out until his eighteenth birthday and survive to tell the tale. The only way he’ll know the answer to that story is if he leaves now.

Connor pushes the air from his lungs and goes. The door shuts quietly behind him, and Connor Lassiter officially disappears. From now on, it’s all up to him. His best plan is to head towards a nearby interstellar transport depot, hope he can find some absentminded pilot who won’t notice some kid sneaking into the back of his starlight frigate, and take him away from this planet. Once he’s offworld, he’ll be able to breathe a little easier. There’s no way they’ll be able to find one kid in a trillion if he finds a far enough system, right?

Until then, Connor will have to keep his head low. Juvey-cops aren’t the only thugs with guns who can cause him trouble. A crop of creeps called parts pirates have sprung up, and if it wasn’t terrible enough to have your limbs hacked off by trained professionals, imagine all that happening by the hands of black market dealers. At that point, Connor would rather just turn himself in, even though that’s a possibility more remote than anything. They say it’s within their rights to take the groundsless off the streets, so whatever the parts pirates do along the way is just another obstacle he’ll have to avoid.

As if he’s got a ton of great choices, though. Connor’s going to be unwound. That term’s been discouraged by the Collective ever since the idea of distribution picked up steam– it’s discourteous to the victims of distribution, apparently, and casts a pall on the whole process– but, like, they’re taking Connor’s organs, so he feels like he can call it whatever he wants. Fuck. He’s an Unwind. Why should they care what gory words he uses to describe it? They can dry their tears with his skin grafts.

Connor makes it to the transport depot by foot about an hour and a half later. Not a bad time, all things considered, but his veins are still thrumming with an unearthly need to get away by the time the rows of landing zones come into view. It takes some difficulty to hop the fence on the back end, but it’s old and no one really bothers checking here anyway. No one turns up to a depot like this unless you’re low on fuel or maglev boots before your next trip out of the star system.

Or, of course, unless you’re Connor Lassiter and you’re going to die. Connor hits the ground and nearly takes a spill before managing to right himself just in time. It would not do to break an ankle or something before he can even get onto a ship. Injuries would only slow him down, and the Juveys would have plenty of time to wait for his unwinding while the bone mended.

Connor slinks between rows of sleeping cruisers. He’ll have to pick his ticket to freedom carefully. A lot of the old interstellar war vets took to transportation jobs once they were out of the line of duty, apparently they like having a low-stress profession while still getting to see the stars, but they’ll aim at any unwanted visitors with the same reflexes as back in their soldier days.

No, Connor’s better off hitching a ride with a newbie or someone else who’s checked out enough to forget to do a once-over of their cargo bay. He finds the perfect place down a few rows– an old cargo boat, HBY-300s class. Old as anything, and, judging by the pervasive rust stains, not well looked after. Connor can’t see any lights on in the pilot’s seat, so he hurries up the landing ramp and immediately trips the security system.

He doesn’t even see it coming, which is not great for his chances, obviously. He should have assumed there would be something like this, but Connor has been jittery for days now, and at some point his guard, already low, just gave up on him. Lights flash on and the beeping voice of a security AI announces him as ConNor LasSiter, AWOL.

Too late, Connor spots the notice of registration fastened on the side of the ship, how it’s under the ownership of a former Juvey-cop. Probably one still missing the old glory days of hunting down kids who kicked-AWOL, judging by the overeager defense mechanisms. The guy spends his days ferrying shipments from one corner of the galaxy to another, and in his downtime, he picks up escaped Unwinds. How patriotic of him to fulfill such an important civic duty.

Connor swears under his breath, immediately turning tail and sprinting out of the ship. Lights start to click on across the depot’s hangar bay, and the telltale siren of things gone badly begins to echo across the empty space. Connor can hear the sounds of people starting to rush towards the ships, and he cuts an increasingly narrow diagonal across the shipyard, trying to stay out of the path of search beams.

After hauling ass back over the fence, which seems twice as difficult to climb now that he’s in danger, Connor hurtles across plain cement, aiming for the untamed forest across the road. It’s so wild in there that it would be impossible for low flying craft to find him which, judging by the increasing din of engines coming his way, is a necessity right now.

He didn’t think they’d be able to find him so fast, but maybe one of his parents stopped by his room already and figured out he was gone. They could have called the Juvey-cops and had them here by now, especially with Mr. Reliving the Glory Days of Police Work back there already getting a facial scan on him. Connor thought he had been smart by ditching any tech so they couldn’t track him, but he’s forgotten one crucial thing about the life of an AWOL: you don’t just have to be smart, you have to be lucky. Looks like Connor’s days of finding four leaf synth-clovers are behind him.

Out of the depot’s floodlights, the ground under Connor’s feet quickly transitions from concrete to grass. The sudden softness making him stumble. As Connor straightens back up, he has to fling an arm in front of his face to protect himself from a sudden, powerful wind coursing down around him. The grass, illuminated out of nowhere by twin blinding beams, is bent flat to the ground from the force of an engine. The engine of a small shuttle, as it turns out. A Juvey-cop’s shuttle, which has found him.

Connor can see the reflection of his eyes, wide as dinner plates, on the shiny surface of the shuttle. He looks terrified, and a bit insane, which all things considered isn’t the least realistic depiction of him. Connor’s brain is a mess. He thought he’d have a little more time until the law enforcement found him. Looks like his period of staying undercover has come and gone.

The shuttle jerks to a landing in front of him, and a man begins to come down the landing ramp, tranq gun in his hands. Connor freezes for a moment, then drags himself to attention as the man gets closer. Once he’s far enough down that Connor can read the name stitched into the pocket of his uniform– Officer J.T. Nelson– Connor gets himself together and runs, rolling under the nose of the craft to the small space underneath the belly of the ship. This clearly disorients the Juvey-cop, whose footsteps abruptly come to a halt on the metal walkway before continuing again, albeit this time slower.

“Come on out, kid,” the guy shouts, “There’s nowhere you can go.”

Connor’s not about to just turn himself in after everything, though, so he creeps further underneath the ship and around the back. The cop follows him, tucking the tranq gun into his belt so he can use his hands to help himself crouch under the lower parts of the ship in search of Connor.

“You can’t hide under here,” Officer Nelson calls, voice echoing off of the metal curves of the shuttle, “I’ll just crush you when I take off again.”

This is probably true but, as Nelson starts to stalk further around the perimeter of the shuttle, Connor gets an idea as to how he might be able to escape this little encounter. It’s a terrible idea, to be sure, and will probably get him killed if he does it wrong, but it’s not like he has any other options at the moment.

So, Connor stays deathly quiet, heart hammering in his chest as he stays pressed flat to the lower wing of the shuttle, and he waits for Nelson to walk closer. The officer indulges, drawing nearby, and Connor reaches out a trembling hand and pulls the tranq gun from the officer’s belt, just like that. Easy. The guy doesn’t even notice.

Connor eases himself out of his hiding place once Nelson has doubled back the other way, then sprints towards the landing ramp of the ship. He makes it halfway up before Nelson reacts to the sound of his heels thundering up the metal incline and bolts back towards the entrance of the shuttle.

“Get back here!” Nelson makes it to the base of the ramp just as Connor reaches the top.

As the Juvey-cop starts to race up the landing ramp, Connor looks around wildly. His eyes land on a button near the ramp entry and he slams his palm onto it. Thankfully, the button does what Connor had hoped for and the ramp begins to fold up towards the shuttle again, unfortunately with Nelson still scrambling for purchase on the surface. Connor can’t risk the guy getting close enough for Connor to shove him off, so he looks at the tranq gun in his hands and figures out the next best thing.

Nelson reaches the same conclusion as Connor at about the same time. “Don’t you dare, kid,” he begins to shout, but Connor’s finger is already on the trigger.

The Juvey-cop jerks back with the impact of the tranquilizing dart, and he has enough time to snarl out a swear before his limp body falls backwards off of the ramp and into the grassy dirt a few feet below. The landing ramp fastens to the wall of the shuttle with a dull click, and Connor rocks back onto his heels, unable to believe what he’s just done.

He can’t stay in here forever. At some point, that cop is going to wake up, probably with reinforcements, and they’ll smoke him out or something. Then again, as the background roar of the engine reminds Connor of its presence, he realizes that he might not have to leave after all. The Juvey-cop was stupid enough to leave his ship on when he left to pursue Connor, so maybe– maybe he could just stay here after all.

Stars, maybe he could go. Up to space. Juvey-cop shuttles were designed with both ground and space capabilities in mind. He might not be able to set record hyperspace flights in this thing, but he’ll at least be able to crawl to a neighboring planet and ditch the shuttle before hitching a ride on a cruiser like his original plan.

Connor shuffles towards the pilot’s seat in the cockpit and is greeted by the sight of dozens of glowing switches and buttons, all beeping and blinking up at him. He takes a seat, staring, and then tentatively pulls up on the yoke. The shuttle lunges forward and up a little bit, sending Connor sprawling to the side until he manages to fall into the pilot’s chair once more and strap himself in.

After managing to stabilize himself and the shuttle, Connor regards the instrument panel with renewed focus. He’s never been able to get his cosmic license, and that’s damn near out of the question now that he doesn’t even have a grounds license, but he’d had a friend of a friend once who’d known a thing or two about how to fly a spacecraft.

There was this older guy named Carson Shepherd who used to hang around the parking lot after school got out for the day. He’d sit and swap drinks with some of Connor’s friends. The guy had graduated a year or two ago, and it was anyone’s guess how he’d managed to make it to eighteen without getting his grounds license revoked. Carson had flung himself into the life of a military boeuf and wouldn’t let anyone forget it, either. He wouldn’t stop talking about how he was going to run air strafe runs on distant planets, which Connor only listened to because he’d occasionally talk about how to fly a ship.

Stuff like that was mainly brought up as a bragging point, of course, but Connor was starstruck-crazy for anything space related, so he’d tuned in as much as he could bear. Now, Connor wracks his mind for any tidbit of information Carson had given away. He needs to disengage the landing gear, he needs to get himself airborne before people start looking.

He flips a few switches and is rewarded with a grinding sound somewhere below him. A red light flickers off, and is replaced with a green one when Connor shifts the engine into a mode for takeoff. Pulling on the yoke again, this time slower, Connor is able to drag the shuttle up and up until the tops of the trees are waving below him.

He shouts once in triumph, then again, more loudly, when a readout on the dashboard offers to turn on automatic steering. Connor presses ‘accept’ as quickly as he can, then inputs a destination. Odds are, there’s a tracking beacon somewhere on this ship, so he can’t take it anywhere in the worlds, but if he swaps to another planet in the system, he can transfer to another ship that can take him far away from here.

The nav readout offers him a few choices within the same sector, OH-10, as Connor. He’s on Akron-C right now, home planet that will be home no longer, but Connor presses the button for the small moon just one orbit over, OH-10-XXIII. It’s a small lunar body, hardly anything there at all except for a State Home and some religious communities. No one would look for him there, and by the time they did, he’d be long gone.

Connor hovers by the pilot seat for a few moments longer, just in case something goes wrong, but when no warning lights flash and the air remains devoid of sirens, he accepts that he might actually have made a good decision and sinks back into his own skin, tension finally starting to melt away.

Connor watches the ship carry him up and away from the planet that had once been his own. He has no idea if he’ll ever return; if he’ll even want to, for that matter. Instead, he fixes his eyes on the ever broadening expanse of space, and lets the bright pinpricks of stars take over his mind.

Connor Lassiter is finally offworld.

unwind tag list: @schroedingers-kater, @locke-writes

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reiding-writing · 3 months ago

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Ive read all your cold reader fics and i love them so much 🥹 i swear theres not many fics with the reader being the grumpy or cold one so its safe to say these fics will always have a place in my heart. i have a request if your not too busy about how the reader would act when Spencer is sick i really liked the fic about when the reader was sick and id love to see the roles reversed ❤️❤️

A STUDY IN CARE — SPENCER REID!

spencer doesn’t know how to take care of himself, so you do it for him.

s9!spencer x cold!reader 1.2k h/c series masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — love a good sick!fic

Spencer looks like hell when he walks into the bullpen.

His normally tidy curls are limp with sweat, his eyes dull behind barely-worn glasses, and his complexion is pale, save for the telltale flush high on his cheeks. He’s sick—obviously. Anyone with eyes can see it.

You pretend you don’t.

You’re not heartless, just… selective with your concern. You and Spencer have kissed a few times, gone on a date or two, but it’s not like you’re together together. And as much as you might find yourself drawn to him—more than you ever intended—you’re not about to turn into some doting girlfriend type.

Still, when he shuffles over to his desk with an uncharacteristic sluggishness, you catch yourself watching him. His movements are slower than usual, the precise, practiced efficiency dulled by whatever virus is wreaking havoc on his immune system.

Morgan beats you to the punch.

“Damn, pretty boy, you look rough,”

Spencer sniffles, blinking blearily at him. “I’m fine,”

Emily arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, you sound fine,”

You roll your eyes at the teasing. It’s not like you disagree, but it’s exhausting being around these people sometimes. You refocus on your own work, but not before sneaking another glance at Spencer.

He’s rubbing his temple like even the fluorescent lights are too much for him. His usual meticulous posture is slouched, his elbows braced against his desk like he needs it to hold him up.

With a quiet sigh, you push back from your desk, standing up before you can second-guess yourself. You ignore the way Morgan and Emily exchange a look, knowing full well that any deviation from your usual cold indifference will not go unnoticed.

Spencer doesn’t even seem to realise you’re approaching until you place a steaming mug on his desk.

His head lifts slowly, eyes narrowing at the tea you set in front of him. “…What’s this?”

You give him a look devoid of humour. “Not cyanide.”

He blinks at you, his brain a fraction slower than usual. “I… what—”

“It’s tea, Spencer. Drink it.”

He hesitates for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick, but eventually, he wraps his hands around the mug. “Thank you?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you cut in, walking around the cluster of desks to re-take your seat.

“I wasn’t,”

“Good,”

—

You don’t hover.

Hovering is not your thing. Hovering implies caring too much, and that’s not really your style. But you do make sure to keep an eye on him throughout the morning.

Subtly.

Not that it’s hard to notice how much worse he gets as the hours drag on. His usual rapid-fire analysis is slower, his focus slipping at times. He sniffles every other minute and occasionally buries his face in his elbow to stifle a cough.

It’s pathetic, really.

At one point, Hotch hands out case files, and you catch the way Spencer stares at his stack like it’s personally offended him. He rubs at his temples, the weight of the work clearly pressing down on his already exhausted body.

So, you wait until he’s distracted—probably zoning out over some statistic that’s floating around in his head—and quietly slide a couple of his files over to your desk.

He doesn’t notice.

But Morgan does.

“Interesting,” he drawls from across the room, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smirk. “Since when do you do extra paperwork?”

Emily glances up from her own files, her gaze darting between you and Spencer before her lips curve in amusement. “Wow. This is new,”

You don’t look up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Morgan chuckles. “Oh, come on. You think we haven’t noticed?”

“There’s nothing to notice.”

“Right,” Emily says, nodding sagely. “You just happened to develop a sudden love for Reid’s paperwork,”

“You see this?” You lift your head just enough to give them a blank look. “This is my ‘I don’t care what you think’ face.”

Morgan and Emily exchange glances, clearly entertained. You, however, return to your work, entirely unbothered.

If they were expecting the usual defensive reaction, they’re going to be disappointed. Maybe a few months ago, you’d have spat out an insult or tried to redirect the conversation. But now?

You really don’t care.

—

By noon, Spencer looks about two minutes away from passing out at his desk.

And, fine, maybe you care a little. But it’s not like you’re going to say that out loud.

Instead, you stand, grab your coat, and walk over to his desk with all the nonchalance you can muster.

“Come on,” you say.

Spencer peers up at you, bleary-eyed. “What?”

“You’re going home.”

He frowns. “I told you, I’m fine—”

“I’m not debating this with you, Reid.” You grab his arm and haul him to his feet. He barely resists, which is all the confirmation you need that he’s feeling worse than he’s letting on.

Morgan snickers from his desk. “Whipped.”

You shoot him a look before turning back to Spencer. “Come on. I’m driving you home.”

—

Spencer dozes off before you even make it to his apartment.

You don’t wake him right away. Instead, you let him rest for a minute, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He looks younger like this, all the stress and exhaustion smoothed away.

Eventually, though, you nudge his shoulder. “Reid.”

He stirs, blinking at you with heavy eyes. “Mm?”

“We’re here.”

It takes him a second, but he finally sits up, rubbing at his face before fumbling for the door handle. You sigh and get out first, walking around to help him. He doesn’t protest when you loop an arm under his and guide him up the steps to his apartment.

Once inside, he drops onto the couch with a groan. You shake your head and head to the kitchen, rummaging through his cabinets until you find some instant soup.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” he calls weakly from the couch.

You snort. “Yeah, clearly.”

By the time you bring him the soup, he’s already half-asleep again.

You set it down on the coffee table and sit beside him, watching as he blinks sluggishly at you.

“Why are you being nice to me?” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I mean it.” His voice is softer now, quieter.

You glance away. “Because you’re sick, Reid. And because—” You hesitate. Then, with a deflected glance, you finish, “Because I like you, obviously.”

His lips twitch, almost like he’s trying to smile. “Obviously?”

You nudge his shoulder. “Shut up and eat.”

Spencer doesn’t argue. Instead, he just watches you for a moment longer before picking up the bowl, a small, contented look settling over his face.

#cold!reader ᝰ.ᐟ #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst

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iwasntstable · 10 months ago

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☰ 𝗦𝗬𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗠 𝗡𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗚𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

🗀 C:/SYSTEM/FILE/PINNEDMESSAGE [system] ﹂ projects | [file] 　﹂ [pinned-message] | masterlist | AO3 | taglist

+[MSG : welcome!]

　my name is ava! i’m 26, from the UK, she/her. i'm a creative fiction writer specialising in self insert, self indulgent fics, one shots, blurbs and headcannons for all the delusional individuals that need a little escape from reality ✶

　— feel free to send requests, suggestions, prompts, and ramble in my inbox! 　　　i'll answer everything (within reason) when i get time so remember to be patient.

+[WARNING:　 this blog contains content not suitable for minors.]

† please note;　　some of my writing—and therefore this blog itself—is nsfw and certain works may contain sensitive topics and darker themes.

«you are responsible for what you consume on the internet, reader discretion advised»

☰ 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗝𝗘𝗖𝗧 𝗡𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗚𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/TAG ⌕ search by; tag RESULT |　#fluff　#angst　#emotional-hurt/comfort　#smut

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

#C:/SYSTEM/FILE/PINNED #<FILE;TYPE=SYSTEM-NAV/>

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ellewritesfix05 · 3 years ago

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Lost & Found

Characters: Soldier Boy x Reader, Billy Butcher, Hughie

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: SMUT - 18+ ONLY, Minors DNI. Slight fluff, if your squint. Some angst.

A/N: It’s been a while since I’ve been able to get any writing done but have been keeping up with The Boys and am completely obsessed with Soldier Boy so… yeah, this just happened 🤷🏻‍♀️

📸 cred: to rightful owners

Elle’s Library/Main Masterlist

“Hey, Y/N, someone’s looking for you.”

You sigh in frustration for the thousandth time today. What should have been a routine day turned into hell when the idiots at Vought decided to rush the release of merchandise for their latest egocentrically-fueled, completely-cheesy film starring the Seven. As manager of one of the most visited shops in the city, you’re used to chaos but, for whatever reason, today the chaos just seems never ending; running out of merchandise, dealing with annoying customers, resetting all systems due to an unexplainable loss of power halfway through the biggest rush of the day. Just one thing after another, and now… now someone is asking for you. Probably another disgruntled customer losing his shit because you’re all out of Starlight posters for him to jerk off to.

“I’m busy, Joe. If it’s just another asshole whining about us not having something, just send them away.”

“Not just any other asshole, luv,” says a voice with a thick Cockney accent.

Fuck.

“Butcher.” You turn in your chair to face the Londoner leaning against the frame of the doorway with a shit-eating grin that told you he was here to ask you for yet another favor. “You know you’re not supposed to show your mug around here. If anyone at Vought finds out we know each other-”

“I know, I know,” he interrupts. “But, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have a good fuckin’ reason now, would I?”

You glare up at him, waiting for him to state said reason while he just stands there, looking at you expectantly. Rolling your eyes, you stand up and grab your jacket. He wants you to follow him, and while you’re not always so willing to do as he asks, you know he must have a very good reason for coming all the way into the Vought tower merch shop instead of calling you. Whatever it is, it’s good enough to risk your job and possibly both your lives.

You follow him out the back after telling your assistant manager, Joe, to take over for the rest of the day since you had a family emergency. Butcher says nothing as he climbs into his car, and even as he drives out to fuck-knows-where.

After about ten minutes of silence, you can’t stand the suspense anymore, “Okay, out with it.”

He chuckles, “you are an impatient one, ain’t ya?”

“Butcher,” you warn. “I’ve heard nothing from you, or Hughie, or even Frenchie since y’all went legit and now all of a sudden you’re here being all mysterious? Forgive me for being a little impatient with your sorry ass.”

“Alright, fair enough.” Butcher reaches behind you and pulls a file from the backseat of the car, “it’s a long story but, we ain’t legit anymore, turns out Neuman’s a bloody supe, Kimiko’s in the hospital, and we just got back from a little field trip to the former Soviet Union that tore the group apart.”

As he flops the folder down on your lap, you can’t help but be shocked by the information Butcher just dropped on you. True, you’d been through some serious shit with the boys ever since you joined their cause after some asshole C-list supe had decimated your best friend, Ashe, for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but after everything, you’d really thought things had turned a corner.

Butcher had found you after you exacted your revenge on Ashe’s murderer and convinced you to join the team. You were apprehensive at first but after thinking about it all - the deaths, the lack of accountability, all the collateral damage that kept getting covered up - you decided to help the cause. It wasn’t a great arrangement; to be honest, everything was shit considering the fact that it took a long time for the boys to warm up to the idea of working with a Supe, even one as half-decent as you, but each time you were able to rid the world of yet another asshole Supe with Butcher’s help, you knew at least you were saving some lives. Which, apart from avenging Ashe, helped you remember why you agreed to be injected with Compound V all those years ago. Though you were gifted with the ability to shoot literal fireballs through your hands, you somehow managed to stay under the radar enough with the morons at Vought that they never really knew of your existence. Or if they did, they didn’t find you threatening in any way. So much so that you’d been able to go nearly 40 years jumping from one job to another within the conglomerate without detection, always using different names and changing certain aspects of your appearance just enough to not raise suspicion. It was this ability to have access to Vought property that had brought you to Bucher’s attention, that and your thirst for vengeance. After years of running with him though, when the Stormfront scandal hit and the group disbanded, you went back to your old ways, having thought that finally things would be better.

You did keep your job with Vought because even as a lowly shop manager, you still had access to certain individuals who could provide invaluable information but over the past few months, having heard nothing but silence from everyone but M.M., you were nearly convinced that the worst was over. Oh well, you should’ve known better.

Still, none of the events that Butcher has just relayed to you explain why he’s come to you only just now. You figure the answer lays in the folder on your lap and when you open it, you understand.

“What is this…” you look through the entire file in disbelief.

The car stops and you look up to find yourself in a motel parking lot, far from the center of the city where Butcher picked you up. You look at him, puzzled, wide eyes silently asking for an answer to the question you’re terrified to ask.

“He’s alive,” Butcher answers and you feel time freeze. There’s a ringing in your ears.

He’s alive. The words dance in front of your tunnel visioned eyes and you feel sick to your stomach. Soldier Boy. Soldier Boy is alive.

No one else knows your connection to the famous superhero - America’s former sweetheart and defender. No one but Butcher.

New York City, 1980

Pain. Spreading throughout your entire body, like an unforgiving wildfire, burning everything in its path. You writhe on the floor, crying out for help, holding on to Ben’s hand for dear life. Though your vision is blurred, you can see him next to you, a smile on his lips as you struggle to breathe. He’d told you, warned you how much it would hurt, but you didn’t care at the time, and even now you try to convince yourself that it’s the right thing. Because it’s the only way to be with him, the only way to stay with him… forever.

Present Day

“But how…? No,” you shake your head, “this can’t be. He was gone, he died, that’s what they all said… the twins, a-and Gunpowder. They grieved him, even Crimson Countess…”

You feel your chest tighten as the air becomes too thick around you, making it hard to breathe. Butcher places a hand on your back, an awkward attempt to soothe the anxiety creeping up on you.

“They lied. There was a plan, they wanted to get rid of’im. He didn’t die, he was taken by the Ivans.” With every word coming out of his mouth, Butcher only makes your world spin more. It doesn’t make any sense, you’d talked to them, all of the Payback team were there at the memorial service, they mourned the loss of their captain. You knew, of course, that they didn’t always get along, especially with Countess since she’d been forced to fake a relationship with Soldier Boy, but they wouldn’t dare try to hurt him. He was too strong, they couldn’t have…

You look down at the picture in the file, and somehow find a way to ground yourself. Anger replaces anxiety, a seething rage simmering under your skin. Those bastards; ungrateful, talentless, useless. They were always jealous of Soldier Boy, it’s no wonder they stooped so low as to team up with the Soviets to bring him down.

“Did you find him?” you ask.

“Y’know, he ain’t no angel neither,” Butcher comments and you look at him angrily.

You do know that, of course you do. It was one of the reasons you’d struggled so much working with the boys. Especially M.M. You knew what happened to his family, you knew what Soldier Boy did to him, and yet you couldn’t help but excuse him in your mind. Yes, Soldier Boy had a dark side to him, but nobody before, and certainly nobody after, loved you the way he did. No one made you feel like you were on top of the world with just one look, no one made your body tremble and your soul reach heaven the way he did. But that wasn’t Soldier Boy, that was Ben; your soulmate, your lover, your everything.

“You don’t know him like I do, Butcher. I know, okay? I know what he’s done but… he’s my Ben and I- I can’t turn my back on him. Just please, tell me you found him.” You know begging is pathetic but if there’s a chance to see him again, you have to try.

Butcher says nothing but nods at one of the rooms in the motel. He takes his phone out and sends a text, and not thirty seconds later you see Hughie come out of the same room. Gathering all your strength, you force your body to get out of the car and go towards the door. Your legs are like lead, each heavy step taking you closer and closer to a moment you never thought would come.

You reach out and grab the doorknob, taking a big breath before turning it and opening the door.

Though he has his back to you, you immediately recognize him. Those broad shoulders, that silky, dirty blonde hair, his laughter as he mocks one of the commercials playing on the small TV. He doesn’t even bother looking back at the door to see who’s come into the room.

You close the door behind you and take a couple more steps, but stop just a few feet short. You can’t get any closer and though you know it's been only seconds, it feels like decades that you stand there before you finally get the courage to speak.

“B-Ben?” you whisper, barely audible but that doesn’t matter because he can hear you. His body tenses up and he stands up immediately, the chair he’d been sitting on falling to the ground. He turns around and you swear he’s gotten even more beautiful than you remember. He hasn’t aged a day, and while you haven’t either, it’s striking; he looks amazing, standing in front of you in a Giants jersey and sweatpants. Looking so normal, so innocent, so… Ben.

If he’s shocked to see you, he doesn’t show it because almost immediately he smiles and crosses the short distance between you. Before you know it, you feel his lips against yours and you can’t help but melt in his embrace. The kiss is rough, bruising, filled with pent-up need. In a flash, he lifts you up and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. Your movements are swift and expertly, your hands tearing at his clothes as he carries you to the creaky motel bed. He practically throws you onto it, you land unceremoniously but waste no time in removing your own clothes as he lifts his shirt over his head. You sit up and reach out, your fingers dancing across his perfect skin. He looks down at you, lust-blown pupils staring as your fingers dip under the elastic of his sweatpants, pulling them down along with his boxers, allowing his impressive erection to spring up against his abdomen. Without hesitation, you lick your lips in anticipation, practically drooling at the sight in front of you.

As his pants hit the floor, you wrap your hand around his shaft, guiding it to your open mouth. Pre-cum leaking from the tip paints your lips, and you feel the weight of his throbbing cock against your tongue. Soldier Boy groans at the sight, but patience has never been his forte and he quickly snakes his fingers through your hair, pulling at the strands as he pushes your head towards him, forcing you to nearly swallow him whole.

He holds you in place, moving his own hips against you, each thrust allowing him to hit the back of your throat, making you gag around him. Your eyes meet his beautifully green ones and you can feel tears beginning to form as he makes it hard for you to breathe. Saliva seeps out the sides of your mouth and Ben groans, this is the sight he missed most. You moan and the vibrations are nearly enough to make him undone but you know he’s only just beginning, your body responds to him on its own accord, as if no time had passed at all since the last time you found yourself in this position. As he finally pulls out of your mouth fully, you gasp, catching your breath while guiding his manhood downwards, slowly making its way down your neck and stopping in the valley between your breasts. He lets go of your hair, his hand sliding down the side of your face, thumb resting against your bottom lip as you push your breasts together, rolling your nipples between your fingertips as he begins thrusting up and down, his cock sliding easily between your tits. His thumb makes its way into your mouth and you suck slightly, all the while looking straight up at him, admiring his features, basking in the glory of the groans of pleasure escaping those perfectly parted, kiss-swollen lips of his.

While he loves the sight and feeling, he can’t wait any longer. He needs to feel your heat around him, needs it more than anything in the world. Before you can react, his hand leaves your face and he grabs your wrists, pulling you upwards so he can push you down on the bed. His body covers yours, his chest against your own, his mouth on your neck leaving angry, visible marks as his hand travels down to your core. Thick fingers slide down your wet center making you moan loudly as he inserts one, then two digits into your dripping pussy.

“Fuck, babygirl,” he groans in your ear, “so fucking tight and wet for me.”

You nod incoherently as he adds yet another finger and begins moving them in and out of you. It’s been so long since you’ve been touched in any way like this. After Soldier Boy’s “death”, it had taken you a while to start dating and when you did, it was always a disaster. No one compared to him, no one even came close; he ruined you for every other man on Earth. And now he’s back in your arms, the one man that knows what makes you tick, how to turn you into a blubbering mess underneath him using only his fingers. Fingers that curl directly against your most sensitive spot with just the right pressure that sends you unexpectedly crashing against your first orgam. It hits like a freight train, just waves of unimaginable pressure washing over your entire being; your eyes roll back against your head and you loudly scream his name. So loudly, you wouldn’t be surprised if they heard you all the way to Vought Tower.

He continues finger-fucking you through your orgasm, never quite letting you come down. Oh how he's missed this, how many times he dreamt of you in this position, beneath him, writhing and screaming his name in pleasure. Sometimes it was the only thought that kept him from going insane every time the Soviets devised a brand new plan to try and break him.

Without missing a beat, he pulls his fingers out of you and presses them against your lips, groaning as you suck your own juices from them, lapping at them like you were starved. He can’t wait anymore, he needs to be inside you. Kneeling on the bed now, Soldier Boy grabs you by the hips, your legs on either side of him and pulls you towards him. He uses your wetness to coat his painfully hard cock and the moment you feel him enter you, you swear you see stars dancing across your vision. He’s big, thick and delicious as he stretches you out.

Soldier Boy throws his head back as he pushes his way inside you, your velvet heat wrapping around him perfectly, like you were specially made for his cock. He takes a moment to revel in the feeling, yet soon his body demands more and he begins thrusting. His hips expertly move against you as he holds one of your legs against his front while the other fondles at your breast. It doesn’t take long for your second orgasm to hit, and when it does your entire body convulses, your hands holding on to the bedsheets for dear life, your back arched and your head thrown back. He loves to watch you cum, loves to see you come completely undone because of him. He loves the feeling of your cunt pulsing around him even more, it's intoxicating really and it’s been so long he knows he won’t be able to last much longer. He needs to cum inside of you, to coat your walls with his seed and make you unconditionally his again.

As wildfire-like pleasure continues to spread throughout your entire body, he keeps thrusting in and out of you, now desperately chasing his own release. He needs it, you can see it in his eyes. And you need it too, you need to feel him let go inside you.

As best you can, you move your hips against his, egging him on until his thrusts are erratic and unforgiving. You can feel him in places you never thought you would again. The bed creaks loudly beneath you, but it’s barely audible in comparison to your combined moans and groans. He’s close now, you can feel his cock throbbing inside you as he nears release when you suddenly hear the sound of wood breaking and feel the bed dip beneath the two of you, the frame being no match for the strength of Soldier Boy’s final push that feels as though he may split you into two, and he growls as he lets go; a deep, guttural sound that fills the air as he fills your insides completely. But that’s not all, the room suddenly becomes a thousand times brighter and you feel an intense heat all around you as his chest illuminates and sends what seems like a supernova against the windowed wall of the cheap motel room. You cover your eyes, nearly blinded by this light and uncover them as you feel him collapse against you.

Perplexed, you look around you and find yourself in full display of the parking lot. Whatever it was that just happened, Soldier Boy destroyed the hotel and what seems like a few cars parked out front. You hear hysterical screams before you see Butcher and Hughie run into your field of sight. Concern is etched in Hughie’s features as he takes in the damage, while Butcher…

Well, fuck. Butcher is definitely going to kill you.

Forever Loves Taglist 🖤

@deanwanddamons / @hobby27 / @spnchick1996 / @briagallen / @evergreencowboy / @vicmc624 / @justanotherblonde23 / @foxyjwls007 / @tatted-trina6 / @mlovesstories / @winchest09 / @pink-sparkly-witch / @mariaenchanted / @flashxspn / @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan / @swearingsolemnly / @happyt0exist / @spngi / @flamencodiva / @drakelover78 / @spnbaby-67

#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy x you #the boys fanfic #soldier boy smut #soldier boy fanfiction

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talesmaniac89 · 2 years ago

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Charity Heist 4 - aka. The Arm Candy Conundrum

A Supernatural Heist AU - Masterlist

Pairing: Hitter!Dean x Thief!Reader

Summary: The Singer & Winchester Retrieval Agency is the best group of con artists in the world. But even though Y/N can crack safes, scale buildings and infiltrate even the most secure locations, she still can't find a way to deal with her all consuming feelings for the group's greek god of a hitter; Dean Winchester. How will she handle their next big heist, when she's forced to get up close and personal with the man of her dreams?

Warnings: Idiots in love, smutty thoughts, a lot of swearing and a ton of bad jokes.

Watch the trailer here

A/N: This story is 50% jokes and 50% dirty thoughts. No deep angst, just fun and action! Inspired by the series Leverage.

Y/N = Your Name | Y/E/C = Your Eye Colour

Start Here - Last - Next

Unfortunately, there wasn’t a setting for ice cubes on your shower head.

So, you made a mental note to yourself to ask Charlie for one and settled for plain old cold water to wash away the sweat and dirty thoughts. Which was still plenty cold in the underground bunker. Leaving you shivering as you quickly towel dried your hair and pulled on your most comfortable sweats.

Smoothing down your still wet and tangled hair, in an effort to tame it at least a little, you hurried down the long hallway of the bunker and into Charlie’s tech dungeon in room 28. Your Network Operations Center, or as you liked to call it ‘Brainiac HQ’, was the true heart of your operation. Littered with files, screens and enough high tech systems to make NASA jealous; it was what nerdy dreams were made of.

Or at least Charlie’s dreams, and your heists.

This was where your very own resident wonder child hacked her way into databases, followed along on cameras and made all your fake identities believable. Though, calling it only Char’s was slightly wrong. Since Sammy spent most of his time there as well. Both of the team’s two teacher’s pets had their own areas in the operations room. With a separate space set up to accommodate the rest of your band of merry men when you were needed for in-depth planning and pre-con briefing past Bobby’s introductory preamble.

You didn’t get your own desks. Since Dean, yourself and… Well, you couldn’t be fully certain about Cas, but none of you seemed like the teacher’s pet type.

Hell, you’d never even gone to school, and you definitely didn’t play well with authority figures. You pictured yourself as a little more class clown than star pupil. Unless of course that teacher was Dean, and you were indulging in some more… Scholastic fantasies alone in your room at night.

Then you’d be a really good girl.

This time, every screen was filled with multiple angles of the same overly bourgeois house. The whole place screamed old money in new hands, with its mix of good taste and trashy attempts at ‘modernizing’ it. Clearly Charlie and Sam had been hard at work while you were working out, or at least attempting to work out, with Dean. That was definitely the CCTV of the mafia boss’ home. Or at least the ground floor of it.

Luckily, that was exactly where the party would be happening. And, according to your man on the inside, the ground floor also housed the safe you were after.

“Right, so now that we’re all here,” Sam cleared his throat, a tried and tested bitch glare in place as he looked over your shoulder to where Dean was slowly sauntering into the room, a shiteating grin plastered on his face. His hair was damp and messy, and he’d changed into a new pair of black jeans and a very fitting AC/DC t-shirt to match his cover’s name. Clearly, if the slight flush to the skin on his neck was anything to go by, he hadn’t followed your example of keeping the shower short and cold.

He looked hot, in more ways than one.

“We’ve managed to hack into the CCTV already installed in the house. There’s only cameras on the ground floor, and only in strategic locations, at least from what’s tied to the CCTV setup. But we can use that to our advantage,” Sam said, dropping down into one of the chairs next to the literal wall of screens, as you moved to lean against Charlie’s desk. Careful to hide your small smile when Dean leaned against the desk next to you.

“You’ll need to memorize the blind spots. We want to be caught on camera as little as physically possible. We’ll erase what they have and loop the minutes before and after over it, but just in case they spot us swiping cards or scoping the place live on the night, it’s better if we keep out of the cameras’ line of sight,” He continued, nodding towards the screens just as Charlie’s fingers danced across her keyboard to focus in on one of the rooms.

“From the intel we have, the host likes to show off his wealth, so he'd be unlikely to limit the party space to just a few rooms. But this is probably where most of the people will be mingling,” Charlie shot in, nodding towards the large living room, littered with art pieces and small couches pushed against every wall. By the looks of it, they could fit a damned rock concert in there if they wanted to.

“But…”

Charlie cut off her own words as she furiously typed in a command on the computer. Splitting the view into multiple screens again, before refocusing the central screens on another room, much smaller, yet no less overly bougie.

“This is the space we’re clocking as the most likely location for the safe,” Sam jumped right back in. The two of them worked together like the geekiest tag team the world had ever seen. If they were wrestlers, their stage names would be in binary.

“Other than the clearly forged Rembrandt, I can’t see anything that stands out from this angle, but I wasn’t expecting to either,” You mused, eyes locked on the screen in front of you and all business, even as your body reacted to the slight brush of Dean’s arm against yours next to you.

“Bobby’s inside man wasn’t really forthcoming with all the details. He said the safe was in the house, and on the ground floor based on what he knew, but that’s it. We’ll need to scout for it when we’re there and confirm its location,” Sam nodded, hazel eyes focused on the screen for only a second before he turned in his chair to take in the rest of you.

Each member of your little team was tense in anticipation and focused on the end goal now that you could see the finish line on the screens in front of you.

These guys were going down.

“We don’t have enough details to plan for extraction yet. So on the night of the party we’ll have to; find the safe, plot the exit points and get an eye on the guards, plus whatever weapons they’re packing. That’s on top of Cas rubbing shoulders with the worst of ‘em in case we need the turnabout strategy and getting our hands on as many IDs as possible,” Sam was counting off each point on his fingers as Charlie continued to work her magic across the screen, bringing up new images over the still running video feeds.

Yeah, you had your work cut out for you…

And that was only the main plan. You knew there’d be extra little goodies to keep an eye out for as well. There always was. And as Sam fished out yet another pile of folders, you knew you were about to hear all about them…

Yay….

Fucking folders.

---

“We still haven’t managed to get hold of the full guest list, but I got snippets through some other, less secure, databases where some of the guests where a little too talkative about their invitations,” Charlie spoke up. Taking over again once Sam finished running through a laundry list of weapon types to look out for, people of interest that could be possible targets if they were there. As well as wiretap and camera placements that could help you collect more intel in the time between the party and the heist.

With a quick tap of her index finger, the screen changed, pulling up a few very familiar faces, with some new ones thrown into the mix. You could feel the mood in the room sour as your shoulders tensed. Next to you, Dean’s body shifted, as if readying for a fight, as some of the most evil sons of bitches you knew popped up on the screen. If you hadn’t been sure that the party was a cover before, you sure as hell were now. With what was basically a who’s who of the biggest bastards the world knew littering the screens.

Luckily none of your own former enemies from previous cons were up there… You were just too good at your job for any of those bastards to still be walking free. These guys however… These were the ones you’d yet to get enough on to warrant a heist. A slippery bunch. Each and every one of ‘em.

Including one of the slimiest men you knew...

“Dick Roman…” You muttered under your breath, (Y/E/C) eyes locked with the dead, nearly black eyes of the billionaire businessman and all around bad guy. Roman was a man all of you knew, hell… Most people did. As the owner of Roman Enterprises and one of the fifty most powerful men in America he was pretty much a household name.

What most people didn’t know was that he was also big on biowarfare. One of the main players in the invention and sale of gasses, viruses and other forms of microscopic lethality. You’d yet to get a lead that allowed you to take him down, but you were itching to get the chance to.

Especially Charlie, who’d once upon a time worked as a whitehat hacker for one of the bastard’s more legal businesses. The guy was scum… No… That was unfair to scum. He was like sludge sticking to the bottom of your sneaker. Black, viscous and annoyingly persistent.

“Of course that dick’s gonna be there. We’ll have to play it carefully. He’s evil, but he ain’t stupid. If he makes any of us, he’s sure to make our lives a living hell,” Dean groaned next to you, one big hand going up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he shivered at the thought of the slimy bastard.

“And he’s not the only one…” Charlie’s voice was trembling slightly as she looked at the image of a smartly dressed man next to Roman’s headshot. Jacob Styne… The Styne family was another big player in the American criminal underworld. Clearly this party was set to be filled with the worst of the worst.

The Stynes were, on the surface, a political family. With Jacob Styne being a front runner for future governor. Under the surface however, the Styne family didn’t make their money campaigning. Instead it came from generations in the organ trade.

Politics cost an arm and a leg after all…

The Styne family just chose to have others pay the entry fee for them.

Unfortunately, they were currently untouchable. The many generations of Stynes had built safety nets upon safety nets around themselves. Including some untraceable accounts and a boat load of identities. Though you knew Bobby was hard at work trying to find a way you could take them down.

“We’re really walking into hell here aren’t we,” You groaned, keeping your eyes on a nondescript woman in a grey suit; her brown hair up in a migraine inducingly tight bun. She looked like a librarian. A librarian you could tackle. At least that way you could avoid looking at the other, more familiar faces on the screen. The Bishops, The Thule cult, hell, even Astor, the crooked art dealer, was up on the list. And next to her, a man you really didn’t want to party with...

Alastair.

That man was a monster. There wasn’t anyone in the underground that didn’t know his name. Serial-killer and main mafia torturer, he was pretty much just a killer for hire whose loyalty was only with his own wallet and the pleasure he found in pain. Also… He was yet another example of mobsters deciding to just, not have surnames. Like, wasn’t that supposed to be a Madonna thing? When did the big bad jump on the bandwagon?

What was next? Pointy bras and too much hairspray?

“So… We’re walking into a damned pit of vipers. What’s new?” Dean finally spoke up, breaking the heavy tension in the room as he signaled silently to his brother to keep the show moving, and preferably remove the pictures of pure evil from the screen.

“True, but they do mean we have to be more careful. Try to avoid anyone making you, and if possible stay far away from the worst of ‘em, unless we see an opening that could help us take ‘em down later on,” Sam sighed, leaning over Charlie, where her eyes were still looked on the Styne family heir and hit a button to change the images on the screen to a new group of faces.

This group was much more welcome and familiar. Well, with the exception of one, that was.

The faces of your own little group, sans Sammy, were smiling back down at you, fake names and all. And of course, there was Crowley. Luckily, if you squinted just right, you could crop him out of the picture, and better yet, focus in on Dean’s headshot.

He always looked damned good in a suit.

“You’re all caught up on your covers right?” Sam asked as he turned away from the keyboard and looked over at the rest of you. Not missing your annoyed little huff as you rolled your eyes.

“You mean Alicia? I’ve seen deeper background stories for nameless stormtroopers Sammy. Fucking Stormtroopers,” You didn’t bother hiding the bitteness in your voice, even as Dean tried to disguise his laughter behind an overly fake cough.

“It’s…”

“Yeah yeah… Spare me the excuses. I know, the mafia’s terrified of a pair of tits,” You grumbled, looking up at the short bullet points next to each of your characters. Yours was just as short as Charlie’s. Neither of you needed much time to prepare your cover stories, even though you’d probably spend triple the time getting ready to go to the party.

It was unfair.

This time Dean didn’t even try to disguise his laughter, And the pure, brilliant sound of it sent the butterflies in your stomach into overdrive. Scratch that, these weren’t butterflies, they were damn attack helicopters. Yeah, you really loved making him laugh. It made you all tingly and warm. Even when faced with the mafia's particularly pungent brand of misogyny.

“Alright then,” Sam cleared his throat in a weak attempt to hide his own surprised laugh, before he gestured up at the screen behind him, eyes still on your group.

“Cover wise, Castiel is the only one who should need to properly reveal his character’s background. Since Crowley will be introducing him to people as a possible investor. That way he’ll have easy access to get a full read of them, and hopefully tease some information out of ‘em as well,” As Sam spoke, Castiel nodded along. His normally stiff back relaxed and a slightly cocky smirk in place.

Your grifter always fell right into character the moment it was assigned. You’d be dealing with a strange mix of Cas and stranger danger from now until the party was over. And by the looks of the bullet points, his character was definitely ready to rub elbows with the big bad on the guestlist; weapon development, human trafficking, drugs… The full enchilada.

“Charlie and (Y/N)... Your characters should stay as hidden as possible. I know you used to work for Roman Enterprises Char, but from what you’ve told me I don’t think we need to worry about Roman recognizing you. Try to avoid engaging in conversation and keep moving if someone tries to talk to you. You’ll be there as plus ones, so you should be able to rely on Cas and Dean for backup as far as covers go,” Sam continued, rolling his eyes at your childish frown.

“Thank God… I don’t like talking to people,” The way Charlie whispered the word ‘people’ made it sound like the filthiest word known to man. The wash your mouth with soap type of filthy that was... Nothing like the filth in your own mind where you were still acutely aware of Dean next to you.

Sam only chuckled at Charlie’s words before finishing up the cover connection with Dean’s role. “And Dean… Your cover is as Cas’ business partner, but mainly in the way of ‘products’ and muscle, so you should be free to walk around. If anyone catches you eyeing up the firepower carried by the security at the party, you can lean into your arms dealer persona to get out of it,”

On the screen, each new tap of Charlie’s finger brough new lines, tying the team and plan together. Easily mapping out the human ties needed to make your little group work within the confines of the party without standing out too much as individuals. All attention should be on Castiel, the rest of you should just appear as garnish to the untrained eye.

“Sounds good Sam. I’ll scout the guards with (Y/N), so she can scope out our exit paths, and...” Dean started, but before he could continue Sam raised a quick hand to stop him. Brown hair falling into his eyes as he shook his head.

“(Y/N)’s going as Castiel’s date. She’s the better pickpocket, and won’t need to move around as much past checking the exit paths and confirming the safe is where it’s supposed to be. Charlie needs to place cameras and wiretaps, so it makes sense for her to go with you Dean, since you’ll be on the move,” Sam said, nodding to Charlie who easily pressed a few keys and showed your approximate planned paths around the party, and the pairs you’d be in. Your smiling face looked back at you from the screen, sandwiched between Cas’ and Crowley’s...

Damn it, you’d have to hang around the United Kingdom of Sass all night. You’d go crazy.

“Don’t worry Alicia, I’ll watch your back, and make sure to keep the main focus on myself. That way you can scout and free the marks of their wallets,” Cas was, as always, a true gentleman. Even if he insisted on calling you by your damned cover name already.

You’d teamed up with the grifter a few times before, and you worked pretty well together. He always knew when to give you the space you needed to do your job without crowding you. And you knew he could control Crowley. The Scotsman seemed nearly subdued when Cas was around.

The plan made sense, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t at least get one snarky dating remark in there… Maybe two if you were lucky.

“Alicia would want dinner first,” You smirked, raising an eyebrow at the trenchcoat enigma across the room from you. Happy when you managed to tease an exasperated eyeroll out of him, momentarily breaking his cover.

“I’ll buy you a burger after we’re done with the case,” He conceded, which only helped brighten your smile. You never said no to free burgers. Yet, before you could speak up again to push for some fries with that burger, Dean interrupted you.

“No, that doesn’t work,”

His voice was deep and dark. So very different from your light teasing tone and even Castiel’s annoyed one. His lowered voice easily pulled your eyes off of Castiel and over to where he had pushed himself away from the desk, though he remained standing right next to you.

“She needs to scope the exits, get eyes on the safe… We can’t just trust Bobby’s inside man,” His clenched jaw made the words come out clipped and short. Back straight and shoulders tense as he stared down the image of Crowley on the screen next to yours. The ice freezing up his green eyes barely visible under his long lashes as he kept his full attention on the screen, ignoring your questioning look.

As always, Dean took your heists seriously, and you knew he felt responsible if any one of your little ragtag group got as much as a broken nail on his watch. Which was why he was always quick to react if he didn’t agree with a plan.

“We need the IDs and…” Sam started, clearly not seeing the challenge in his brother’s clenched jaw. Dean’s lips were pressed tightly together as he shook his head at Sam, taking a step towards him.

“Castiel’s a great pickpocket. He can hand the cards to Charlie, who’ll strip the info and hand ‘em back. Easy... And it makes more sense. He can pull off getting close to ‘em better than (Y/N) can if she’s just his plus one,”

Dean’s voice was like rolling thunder as he cut his brother off. His hands curled into slightly trembling fists at his sides as he opened his mouth to say more. Before clearly thinking better of it and swallowing the words down, hard. Choosing instead to tear his eyes off of the screen to stare down Sam instead.

“Charlie needs to plant cameras…” Sam wasn’t giving up on his plan either. When the two brothers butted heads it could often end up carrying on for a while. Clearly stubbornness ran in the family. No matter how infuriating it was for the rest of you.

“Yeah, but we’ve already marked where we want ‘em. Just choreograph her wandering the party, getting new drinks, whatever. Just like you’d have to make (Y/N) move to scout exits,” Dean nodded at the screen, still showing carefully plotted paths from room to room. The dotted lines made sure you’d all cover the ground you needed too, without the hosts or security catching onto you casing the joint.

“Dean…” Sam’s eyes followed Dean’s to the screen, hand pushing the cursor over one path to highlight it as he got ready to lawyer up and make his rebuttal.

But Dean wasn’t letting the younger man speak. His deep voice was all business, and when the former mercenary meant business, you really didn’t want to stand in his way. Even if they were talking about you as if you weren’t there. Which pissed you off, big time.

“Sammy... She should go with me. It makes the most sense,” Dean cut in again, arms folding across his chest as he kept his eyes on his brother and jaw clenched tight.

“She’s right here you know! Stop treating me like I’m fucking invisible, ‘cause if I was I’d be a damn superhero by now,” You shot in, throwing your hat in the ring for the title of the most stubborn bastard of the bunker.

You wouldn’t just stand around listening to them using you as an excuse for another fucking pissing contest. They both had good heads on their shoulders as far as planning went, but that didn’t mean they always knew how to use them. And that definitely didn’t give them the right to drag you into it like you were the last damned good toy on the playground.

“I know (Y/N), but this is the best way. The safe’s our priority,” Dean’s voice was warmer and calmer as he glanced away from his brother and flinched at the quiet anger building in your (Y/E/C) eyes.

You really didn’t like it when someone tried to run your life for you. You’d had enough of that with the organization controlling every aspect of your childhood and early teen years. After all, you were a big girl, and you were fucking amazing at your job.

No matter whose arm you had to hang off of during it. All because of the goddamn patriarchy.

“I can…” You started, though you didn’t really know where you were going with it past some ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ lines to knock their testosterone levels down a few pegs.

Yet, unfortunately, your bravado was short lived, as a gruff voice you hadn’t been expecting boomed over yours. Nearly making you bite your fucking tongue in surprise as you jumped away from the desk. Though you personally thought you did a damned good job at hiding your shock as you gracefully let yourself thud back against the desk with a sigh and an eye roll.

“Boys! Stop actin’ like idjits. Sammy, your plan is good, but Dean makes a good point about the safe. Let’s switch the pairs,” Bobby’s voice came from out of nowhere. Drawing every set of eyes towards the phone on the table next to Sam. Your big boss hadn’t spoken up once during the whole briefing, but clearly he’d been listening in.

Damn it, he was a ninja. A sneaky, stealthy phone ninja.

“(Y/N), you’re goin’ with Dean. Watch his back, case the exits and get eyes on the safe. That final one’s your main priority, got that? Dean, weapons and security, as planned. Charlie, you back Cas up and place your gadget eyes and ears along the way, Cas, you know what to do, you get our girl the cards she needs and she’ll strip ‘em,”

Bobby didn’t give any of you a chance to even protest or, hell, agree to his plan. Shooting off rapidfire orders from the speakerphone on Sam’s desk as your little band of not so merry men nodded along like a bunch of scolded school children.

“In the meantime… Sam, you’ll be running point on this one from outside the party. I’ll be busy on the turnabout angle, in case it comes to that, and greasin’ up the right legal wheels so we’re ready to throw the boss right into a jail cell if we can. Is that understood?”

Once more your little group was left simply nodding at a phone as if it could see you. However, as the silence dragged on, it seemed your gruff leader needed a bit more of a verbal confirmation this time.

“Yes boss,”

Your voice mixed with those of the rest of your group, all groans, strict professionalism and tense nerves blending into a chorus. Each and every aspect of those many verbal emotions were just as present in you. Anger at Sam and Dean’s stubbornness, readiness to kick ass and forget about the names (you were never good at remembering ‘em anyway) and nerves…

Fuck, there were so many nerves.

Ok... So, deep breaths.

Now you’d have to act like Dean’s date. Damn it… You really should’ve practiced your cover better. You barely even remembered your fake name whenever he was around. If his hand had to be on your lower back, leading you around the room, you might just forget your actual name as well.

Sam was a brilliant strategist, and he knew that having you at your best, meant also not having you at your damn horniest. So, your cover being any form of romantically entangled with Dean’s was a pairing that had been silently nixed for every other heist. EVER.

Both Sam and Char knew you needed all your brain power for the cons. And with Dean around… Well, half of your brain went into maintenance mode; as your body had to remember how to breathe again and your heart beat its way out of your chest and into your throat.

Plus, with his icy eyes and tense shoulders from moments earlier still fresh in your mind, you couldn’t even manage another weak attempt at date snark to get another burger out of it. Which meant you’d lost your burger too...

Everything about this con was just unfair.

You did, for just a moment, consider warning him that you didn’t put out on the first date, as an attempt at your normal fake date snark. The same you’d normally pull with anyone you had to pretend to have given your heart to for a heist. This time though, that would just make you a liar. And though you were many things; a thief, a con artist, a spy and a damned good infiltrator, your mother didn’t raise no liar.

Well… Your mother didn’t raise you at all, but that was beside the point.

There was no way you could pull off something as horrendously untrue as a snarky fib about first dates and your perceived archaic stance to them. Not with Dean. If it was him asking you on a date, then you’d have definitely invited him to your room to look at your pokemon card collection after just a cup of shitty bunker coffee. No need to wine and dine when the man himself was a fucking five star meal.

Sure… You’d technically been paired with Dean on certain cases before. But your role wasn’t ever as his date.

You were usually a secretary, or an art expert or something. Some form of cover that allowed at least a bit of breathing space between you, and didn’t involve hanging off his arm. But Alicia had no such background. Which meant you had to act as Dean’s girlfriend, or side piece, for the night.

Shit...

Was the world out to kill you? What had you done for Mother Earth herself to put out a hit on you? Was it the art theft in France? Or the time you might have, sort of, maybe, snuck into the Vatican? Or… Damn it. There were just too many items on your naughty list. Karma was a bitch, and one you’d been ghosting for a very, very long time.

It seemed you were long overdue a death by heavy heart beats, frantic butterflies and dirty, downright filthy thoughts. And, as you glanced in Dean’s direction, you couldn’t help but think it’d be a hell of a way to go. Especially when your eyes locked with bright forest green as he beamed down at you from his victory over his brother. Looking absolutely freaking adorable.

Yeah, the world was definitely out to kill you.

Start Here - Last - Next

Charity Heist: @foxyjwls007 @seppys-return-to-madness @stoneyggirl2 @ladysparkles78 @twinkleinadiamondsky @tmb510 @mimaria420

Dean Winchester Tags: @ria132love @woodworthti666 @defenderrosetyler @akshi8278 @justanotherwinchester @lyarr24 @torn-and-frayed @all-will-be-well-love @wearesuchstuff1 @thefridgeismybestie @adoptdontshoppets @starsandmidnightblue @screechingartisancashbailiff @septixtrash @punof-agun @deandreamernp @justagirlinafandomworld @sexyvixen7 @justrealizedimmascifygurl @globetrotter28 @siospins2 @iprobablyshipit91 @mrsjenniferwinchester @leigh70 @roseblue373 @djs8891

#dean winchester fic #au!spn #dean au #au!dean winchester #tales89writes #hitter!dean #thief!reader #supernatural heist au #supernatural leverage au #spn heist au #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural dean #dean winchester heist au #mercenary!dean winchester

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rafescoke · 4 years ago

Text

New Girl ; Rafe Cameron

masterlist

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader

Summary: Just as Rafe thought his life couldn’t get any worse, a new girl moved into town.

Warnings: Straight smut! Mentions of trauma, extreme love-hate relationship, fluff

A/N: thank you so much for 600+ followers wtf ily <33

p.s; you know the drill. . . send requests!

One thing that Rafe was sure of; he was no tour guide, or anything of the sort.

Sure, he got himself into trouble; vandalising the principal’s office and destroying school’s properties, but that was it. He didn’t try to include the part where he goes to parties to get high and wake up the next evening with a painful headache, that was more to his personal life and he believed no one in the education system could have the advantage to be mad at him for it.

“I simply just won’t do it,” Rafe shrugged, sighing against the chair. “Look, why don’t you ask Topper to help this new kid? He’s good in class.”

“You answered yourself, Mr. Cameron,” the counsellor sighed, placing a file on top of the table lightly. “He’s good at school work, and you’re not. That’s why we’re going with you.”

So that was the core reason as to why Rafe was waiting impatiently for the arrival of the new student, whom he didn’t even care about to know the gender. All he wanted was to sit at the back of the school and light some joints.

“Mr. Cameron, this is Ms. (Y/L/N).”

Rafe took a look at her. He bit the insides of his cheeks, thinking how she didn’t even make an effort to dress properly for her first day in a new schoolz

An oversized tee and denim shorts. Really?

“Hi,” she smiled, extending her hands. “I’m (Y/N).”

“Rafe,” was all he said, before handing her her timetable for the semester.

She scanned the paper, nodding slightly and pointed at a word. When she realised how Rafe wasn’t listening, she cleared her throat.

“What?”

“I got Biology with Mr Garcia. Where’s Room 3?”

Rafe scooted closer next to her, and the smell of strawberry cheesecake wafted into his nostrils. He took a step back, seething.

Who would even wear a cakey perfume?

“Uh, that’s like, at the end of the hall?” He answered, but it was more like a question. He looked at the direction he was noting, and nodded again. “Definitely the one at the end of the hall.”

“You really don’t care, do you?” She asked, crossing her arms. “Where’s my locker?”

Rafe took another look at her timetable, searching for her locker number.

372.

He turned to look at his own locker, finding the number, and letting out an ‘oh’. “Yours just 4 lockers away from mine.”

“Thanks.” She muttered, and Rafe sighed before fixing the left side of his bag strap dangling from his left shoulder. “Is that it? Can I go?”

“Not so fast, Rafe,” the counsellor sighed, stopping him by his chest. “You’re supposed to stay with her for the week. Help her get around. And you’re supposed to show her around the school compound now.”

Rafe looked up to the counsellor with a pained expression and then back to (Y/N), his chest heavy. “Fine. Let’s go. What do you call yourself again?”

Right before lunch, Rafe stayed over in his class for a few minutes before going out to the hall. He didn’t want to see the new girl, and he didn’t feel like being her assistant anymore.

But the world wasn’t that fair.

(Y/N) grinned, walking towards him. “Can you show me the cafeteria?”

“How do you even know my class?” He muttered, keeping a distance between them. The last thing he ever wanted was to let the news of him being with the new girls circulating around the school, or worse, the whole island.

“My class is directly in front of yours. We parted just now.”

Of course she would remember that.

. . .

A week went by quickly, and before Rafe would know it, he didn’t see (Y/N) anymore, and he was content with it.

Until her family decided to become neighbours with his.

“What do you mean the (Y/L/N) bought the house next to us?” He groaned, watching as Rose and Ward prepared to greet themselves to the new family.

The last thing he wanted was to show her around the fucking island like he was some kind of a hotel worker.

She was in a yellow sundress, and Rafe couldn’t help but notice the way her (H/C) glowed under the sunlight. She looked similar to her mother, both bringing pastries as a way to introduce themselves.

“Hi, we just moved next door,” Mrs (Y/L/N) said, showing the Camerons her pearly white teeth. Rafe wondered if she ever got them done, because it’s not possible for a human to have such white assets.

“Hi, welcome to Obx,” Ward gushed, accepting the pastries happily. “Rafe, take the other cake.”

(Y/N) looked up at the sound of his name, and to Rafe’s amusement, began gritting her teeth. He took the cake with a smirk, happy that he got her all worked up.

He would definitely have the best time of his life taunting the shit out of this girl.

. . .

“Hey, wanna ride a boat?”

“Topper, leave her alone,” Rafe sighed, fixing his cap so it was facing backwards. “She’s not interested.”

(Y/N) perked up at this invitation, never actually riding a boat alone if it wasn’t during a holiday since she was originally from the city. She walked towards her neighbour’s deck, her skin illuminating the golden sunrays.

“Sure.”

Rafe mentally groaned, having to deal with the girl now, but he wasn’t sure if he was angry or jealous. It wasn’t him to be jealous easily, but after a week of becoming her tour guide, he guessed he deserves some kind of a credit from her. Topper didn’t do anything, but she was gladly accepting his invitation.

Their usual stroll along the stream of the island was not like usual, since the air was now filled with the annoying chatter between (Y/N) and Topper. Rafe could never relate with them, only wanting to relax his mind and sleep it off.

“So you’re a city girl? That’s great!”

“Sure Tops,” Rafe wondered, smiling delightly. Anything to get into a girl’s pants. . .

“You know what, (Y/N)?” He called from the place he was resting, and he waited a few seconds before continuing his speech. “If you’re looking for a boyfriend, Topper’s not the guy. He hasn’t moved on from his ex-girlfriend.”

Sure, he would get a lot of shit from Topper for saying that, but he was done with the pointless flirting between them.

“What about you?”

Rafe opened his eyes, watching her from behind his sunglasses. He shifted his position, “What about me?”

“Have you moved on from your ex-girlfriend?”

Has he moved on from Kie? He wasn’t entirely sure. Their relationship was brief, but she was all Rafe had. When she decided to go all full-pogue, he knew there was nothing left of them.

“I don’t date.”

“I can see why,” she said, and Rafe swore he heard some kind of mirth behind her tone.

“Have you?”

“Moved on from an ex?”

Rafe nodded, opening his eyes slightly.

“I guess.”

“Good for him.”

“Excuse me?” She gasped, pushing him lightly. “You’re an asshole.”

She leaned closer onto him, and for a second Rafe thought about letting her in his bubble, but he quickly shoved her away. “Watch it.”

“I’m just trying to tell you about that fucking fly on your face.”

“Yeah? Liar.”

(Y/N) huffed, stomping back to Topper, and Rafe laughed silently.

1-0.

. . .

Fuck.

If he would’ve known about the police raid in Topper’s party, he wouldn’t have come to his house at all. But here he was; all pushed up against the metal chair of the police station, his hair messy and his eyes bloodshot.

“We’re taking a urine test, son,” Shoupe said, sighing. “There’s always something wrong with you.”

Rafe thought about (Y/N) suddenly, and how she was probably back home and watching some kind of a rom-com. That’s totally her; all cuddled up with a pink teddy bear probably named ‘Bear-bear’, constantly wiping the tears off her face over the sad breakup scene of a movie.

Rafe was forced to strip out of his shirt and jeans before entering the small cubicle, and having to go through this same procedure for quite a few times now, he didn’t mind giving a show to the workers.

He quickly zipped his jeans bag, handing a female worker a cup filled to the end with his urine. He yawned, already knowing the results, so there was no use being nervous about it.

He was picked up by an angry Ward an hour later. He groaned, getting in the car to prepare himself for the same lecture about his future and how he shouldn’t jeopardise it, but he was shocked when Ward didn’t utter a word at all.

It was very uncomfortable, but he guessed he was just tired.

“Good morning.”

Rafe rubbed his eyes against the bright sunlight, feeling the pain from his head slowly soaring throughout his body. He squinted his eyes at the figure in front of him again, trying to blink the blurriness away.

“What the fuck?”

“Your mom told me to call for you,” (Y/N) said, looking away from him. Rafe looked down to his body, seeing his shirtless self, and laughed.

Of fucking course she would be uncomfortable with him being shirtless.

“She’s not my mom,” he grunted, removing the covers off of him and checking his phone for the time.

12.43p.m.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and his eyes turned to her again. “What are you doing here again? Leave.”

“Waiting for you.”

“I’ll be downstairs in a few seconds,” he muttered. He didn’t need her to be some kind of maid for him.

(Y/N) muttered some curse word, hoping that riled him up, but she would be stupid if she thought a random curse word would make him Rafe Cameron angry.

It would take a lot more to raise an expression from Rafe Cameron, and a curse word definitely wouldn’t.

. . .

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

His boat was not working, but he had just filled her up the night before. This was the newest model too, and he couldn’t afford asking Ward to fix his boat again. Not when he was caught with being on drugs from his urine test last week, and the only reason he got out of the trouble was because of Ward again.

“Is it not working, Rafey?”

Rafe looked up to the sound. (Y/N) was watching him with a sly grin, shielding her eyes with her hands from the sun like she was some goddamn queen that would melt from the heat.

“What did you do to my boat?” He groaned, trying to turn the ignition again.

“What did I do? Come on, why do you always think so bad of me? That’s kinda ru—”

Before she could continue her taunt, Rafe climbed the deck, inching closer towards her and smeling that goddamn cake smell again.

Hell, he’ll buy her a new perfume to stop breathing in that fucking smell.

“That’s kinda what?” He whispered. He was so close to her now, and he could hear her breath hitching. He smirked, his heart soaring.

“You’re kinda dumb for a kook, Rafe,” she sighed. She dangled a familiar key in front of him, and when Rafe took a closer look, he noticed it was the key to his boat.

She threw the key into the water and Rafe watched it plopped, moving straight towards the deep end. His eyes flared at her again, his chest heaving.

“Hope you have a spare key.”

1-1.

. . .

That should be good, he guessed, for being in a tie with (Y/N). But he doesn’t like someone being in the same league as him, so it must be 2-1.

And the 2 from him.

But that was for another day, because Kiara Carrera was in front of him. He fixed his cap so it was facing backwards again, and then putting his hands into his pockets for good measure.

“Hey,” he greeted her. She smiled at him grimly before looking back at the menu, clearly uninterested. “How’re you?”

“I’m. . . great,” she breathed. “Why?”

“Just asking,” he shrugged, “Do you wanna go out for some drinks sometimes? Like the old times?”

Rafe curled his toes, waiting nervously.

“Um, I have to check with my parents first,” she replied. “But, Rafe, you know, it’s been. . . a year.”

“Of course,” he laughed, trying to hide the sudden emotion inside him. “I meant hanging out as a friend.”

“Of course!” She suddenly exclaimed, “If you would bring (Y/N) with us.”

“Oh, I don’t-”

“You don’t?”

“I- fine. I’ll bring her with me. Is tomorrow okay?” He sighed, already foreseeing the future.

And it’s full of shit.

“Tomorrow.”

. . .

“Wow, I am not going to third wheel you and someone, Rafe,” (Y/N) laughed, resting her back against her chair.

“Please,” Rafe begged, sighing. He didn’t know how much begging he could do anymore, not when he had so many things to do. He took a deep breath again, “I’ll do anything for you back.”

“Including hooking me up with JJ?”

“Yes- no. No. What the fuck? Where did you even know this guy?” He expressed, his eyebrows furrowing. He was not going to let her a pull a Kie, though they weren’t dating.

“He helps mower the lawn.”

Of course. JJ Maybank would never pass the chance to get some money while checking out girls.

“I’m not helping you to get together with JJ,” he sighed. “Can we go for a better option? Like Landon? He’s rich.”

“I’m richer,” she yawned. “Okay. Fine. Topper.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Not going to happen.”

If she ever thought about him allowing her to date his best friend, she has to be a lot smarter than that.

He didn’t know why he wouldn’t allow it. Maybe he was scared of Topper hurting her.

Or maybe he just couldn’t imagine her with someone else.

“Then we have no deal,” she replied simply, gazing at her newly painted nails. She gazed at Rafe who seemed to be thinking hard from the top of her sunglasses.

He groaned. “Fine. I’ll help you with Topper. But I’m warning you; he. Has. Not. Moved. On.”

“Oh, he will.”

. . .

Kie was all up on Rafe.

He didn’t know what had gotten into her, because she was never this. . . strong-willed.

Kie had her hands placed against Rafe’s chest, kissing him tenderly and sometimes running her fingers through his hair.

Rafe sucked in a breath, watching as she part. Her mouth formed into a grin, and Rafe couldn’t help but grin back.

“Wanna do it?”

Did he? Of course he wanted to “do it”. He had been wanting to do so since forever. He would be crazy to say no to that invitation, and he was definitely sane.

He looked at (Y/N), who was awkwardly perched up on the sofa, tucking her legs under her and watching some kind of a movie on her phone. Her eyes looked up to Rafe, and she quickly looked away.

“In one of the rooms?”

Kie seemed to look around the boat for a while, like he was looking for someone, but there were only two of them. And (Y/N).

“Fine,” she huffed, and pulled him towards one of the rooms by his wrist.

Kie pushed him onto the bed, and Rafe wondered how she got this side of her. Throughout their 6 months of dating, she never showed him this, so this was a bit of a shock to him.

“Hey, hey,” Rafe gripped her wrists, holding her still. “We don’t have to rush.”

“I want to,” she said, and leaned closer. “I thought you wanted this?”

They began making out, his hand slipping down her back to grab her ass, only to be met with her vibrating phone in her back pocket.

“I’ll get it,” he mumbled against the kiss, and pulled her phone out.

A picture of JJ Maybank’s smiling face right next to Kie greeted him, and his name was perched on top of the screen, signalling his call.

Of course. She never wanted to fuck him. It was always to make someone jealous. That explained the gritted teeth Kie would make when he mentioned JJ earlier.

He sighed, pushing her away so she ended up by his side. “I gotta go.”

“Huh?” Kie sat up straight, looking from Rafe to her phone. She saw the caller, cleared her throat, and held up a finger to tell him to wait.

He should’ve known.

. . .

Rafe never liked the annual Obx’s drive-in movie theatre, because he really didn’t get the hype of watching a mainstream movie that he had watched with Wheezie a lot of times before in his car.

This year, it was way worse; they decided to have some kind of a horror themed drive-in movie theatre, and the best part of all; (Y/N) was going with Topper.

Rafe groaned for the thousandth time at the rapping of a clown against his car window. He gave the clown his middle finger, telling him ‘watch it, you’re scratching my car’, and moving his attention back to the screen.

Annabelle had disappeared from the room the two nurses had placed her in, and the volume quietened before booming again when the doll had appeared in the living room, perching on top of the sofa.

He rolled his eyes, and took a look at (Y/N) and his best friend laying in the back part of his jeep from the rearview window.

They were cuddling.

“Fuck off,” he grunted, throwing his hands into the air. A human-sized Annabelle pulled on the shotgun’s door now, and Rafe gave the actor another middle finger before yelling a ‘fuck you’.

“This is ridiculous,” he said to no one in particular. He stepped out of the vehicle, knowing damn well he would be the target of the ghosts now, but he couldn’t care less. All he wanted was to step away from all of this and maybe refill his soda.

He made his way to the back of the lot, getting his money out beforehand. Some type of a wannabe Michael Myers came up, to which he quickly put a hand up to stop him.

“Don’t. I’m not in the mood.”

Michael Myers seemed to get him, because he left to scare someone else.

“Refill,” he sighed, giving the worker his cup. “Coke.”

“You mean like literal coke?”

Rafe looked behind him, surprised to see a red-faced (Y/N) holding a popcorn bucket. He licked his teeth. “Why? Have you tried it before?”

(Y/N) went up beside him, muttering about putting more caramel in her popcorn to the worker before looking at him. “You seem mad.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“That’s because you’re all up in my business,” he scoffed. He turned to look at his coke, but the worker was still filling the cup up.

Good. Did the machine break or something?

“Where’s the girlfriend?” She asked. She was clearly amused by his sudden tightness, but he quickly softened, as to not rile her up.

“Where’s the fuckbud- I mean boyfriend? Sorry. It just slipped.”

(Y/N) nodded, her mouth forming into a grin. “If you’re jealous, you can just say that.”

“Wait, wait, of what, exactly?”

She shrugged.

“Yeah, exactly. No. For all I care, you guys can get married and move to fucking Antartica and have mini (Y/N)s and Christophers running around.”

The worker placed the newly refilled coke and caramelised popcorn on the counter, and Rafe wondered why she would receive her food at the same time as his when had come here first.

He rolled his eyes, grabbing the drink and walking back towards the car.

(Y/N) jogged to catch up with him, her popcorn bouncing against her chest. “You’re rude, do you know that?”

“Jesus Christ, we’re still on this?” He mumbled. He was still walking, but he wanted her to catch up so he slowed down. He guessed it would be the perfect ending to his night to taunt her until she’s all worked up.

“I just can’t think of a reason why you’re acting so fucking rude to me.”

“Yeah? Think again.” Rafe sipped on his coke, feeling the carbonated drink sloshing down his throat. He felt content, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the coke or from the girl beside him.

“This is—”

A nurse with a bloody front suddenly appeared before them, using some kind of a spray to maximise the size of the fire from a lighter. (Y/N) screamed, turning away from the heat, and Rafe quickly caught her before she could end up on the floor.

“Fuck, fucking move,” he yelled to the nurse, who seemed to be satisfied with her work. Rafe turned to (Y/N), trying to check on her state.

“Yo, yo, you good? Why are you shaking?”

She was trembling really hard against him. She had her arms around Rafe’s neck, her popcorn splattered on the ground. She jolted when a scream came from the speaker.

“Come on, let’s get you to the car,” he mumbled, helping her walk. She kept her face hidden in the crook of his neck, and Rafe had to try his best to balance both of the girl and the Coke in his hands back to the vehicle.

Topper was no longer in the back seat, perhaps looking for Sarah (Rafe wasn’t a bit surprised at this). He was glad his best friend wasn’t there, because the last thinf he needed was two people freaking out on him.

“Okay, chill, I got you,” Rafe grunted, placing the Coke in the cup holder before seating the girl beside the driver’s seat. He sighed before climbing into the driver’s seat and locked the door in case some kind of a crazy maniac tried to freak her out again.

“What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer, not that Rafe expected her to. She looked like she was reminded by some kind of memory, but Rafe didn’t want to dwell so much on it.

If he could, he would reverse his car out of this lot back to their homes, but he was one of the first cars to arrive at the drive-in theatre, so it was impossible to get out.

He sighed, placing his hands against his lap. “You can tell me, you know.”

She finally looked up to him, and Rafe’s breath hitched from the sight of her red eyes. He softened.

Whatever it was with that fire, it had triggered some kind of a memory in her.

He placed a hand against her lap, but not moving so; just a splat of his hand against her soft skin. He had meant for that as comfort, but he realised how creepy the situation was. He pulled away, clearing his throat.

So they stayed until the end of the movie, just the two of them, and Rafe was sure she wasn’t even watching the remaining parts of the movie. He pretended to watch, but he was really just staring at her the whole time.

Will she ever let her hair down like this again? Because he liked it.

When the movie ended and the cars were starting to move, Rafe slowly reversed the car so as to not shake her awake. But she was a light sleeper, and she woke up as soon as he hit the brakes.

She rubbed her eyes, “Where are we going?”

“Home,” he answered. “You’re okay?”

She didn’t answer, and Rafe knew she wasn’t.

. . .

Two weeks after the incident, they never spoke of it again.

Rafe tried to get an answer out, but to no avail. He didn’t get why he was trying his best to help her, because he, too, needed help.

“Nah. I won’t invite her. If you want (Y/N) to come, then you’ll have to invite her yourself.”

Wheezie’s shoulders slumped, “But you’re close to her!”

“I’m not, and she hates my guts,” Rafe replied honestly. Because that was the truth, right? She didn’t even want to tell him about why she was so scared of fire.

“Invite me to what?”

“(Y/N)!” Wheezie ran to hug her, to which (Y/N) laughed before patting her on the crown of her head. “Tell her, Rafe!”

Is she fucking serious?

“Tell me what?” (Y/N) looked up to Rafe strangely.

“Wheezie wants to have a movie night, and she wants you to watch with us.” Rafe sighed, hating how he couldn’t just ignore Wheezie. She was definitely Rafe’s favourite, being so close to her brother ever since she was born.

“Oh, is that true?” She smiled, looking at Wheezie. “Should I come and wear my best pajamas?”

“You’re not sleeping over, your house is literally 5 minutes away. 2 if you run.” Rafe rolled his eyes. He went up to the counter to pick up a sandwich before biting into it, tasting the creamy eggs and ham. He licked his lips.

“She can sleep with Sarah, right, (Y/N)?”

“If she wants me too. . .”

Rafe rolled his eyes again, “Sarah won’t be with us for tonight’s movie night. She’s starting to hang out with the pogues.”

“Why are you so against the pogues?” (Y/N) asked, when Wheezie left to write a reminder of tonight’s event in her diary.

“Why can’t you just shut your mouth?” He sighed. “It’s all bla bla bla bla. Can’t you see you’ll be happier without having to open your mouth every few seconds?”

(Y/N) bit her lips, and for a second, Rafe had to look away from the look she was giving him.

Shit. Why was he even looking away?

She turned to go away, but was halted by Rafe’s fingers around her wrist. She groaned, turning her attention back to him. “What?”

“You still haven’t told me about the night of the drive-in theatre.”

“Good,” was all she said, before she went back by the sliding door to her home.

. . .

“Rafe would be mad if he saw me watching this.”

“It’s rom-com! And it’s totally PG-13. Trust me on this, okay? Anne Hathaway, yeah, that girl, yes, she’s going to get prettier throughout the movie.” (Y/N) smiled, popping popcorn into her mouth.

Wheezie sighed, placing her head against (Y/N)’s shoulders and yawned. “Like what? Princess Diaries?”

“Yes, but this is The Devil Wears Prada. You’ll love it!”

A beam of light filled the mini movie theatre of The Camerons, signalling the late arrival of Rafe Cameron. He brought two chocolate bars, a Coke (again) and some chicken nuggets.

“Move,” he said, motioning to Wheezie.

“There are more seats around here!” Wheezie hissed, crossing her arms. “I’m not leaving (Y/N).”

“You’re not leaving her, silly, you’re just scooting more to the right.”

“What’s in it for me?” She raised a brow.

“Nuggets?”

She scooted to the side, giving more space for Rafe to place himself beside an annoyed (Y/N).

Out of all 7 medium-sized sofas in the theatre, he decided to pick the one the two girls were sitting on.

Rafe handed Wheezie the plate full of chicken nuggets, looking at (Y/N) before watching the screen. He groaned, “What’s this? Trash?”

“A masterpiece, so shut up,” (Y/N) replied. Rafe huffed, amused, and unwrapped the chocolate bar.

“Want some?”

“No.”

“Come on,” he cooed, placing the chocolate before her eyes. She grunted, pushing his hands away.

Rafe took that as his final warning. He didn’t want to annoy her even more, knowing that she will probably not talk to him anymore. He decided to wait until half an hour later, just to taunt her again.

“I’m going to get more popcorn,” Wheezie suddenly said after an hour into the movie. She excused herself to the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone.

(Y/N) sighed. Great, just like how she wanted.

“What do you want from me?” Anne Hathaway’s voice blared from the speaker, and Rafe looked at (Y/N).

“What do you want from me?” He asked, repeating the dialogue. (Y/N) watched him from the corners of her eyes, not getting any delight from this.

“For you to shut up.”

“Really? That’s boring,” he sighed. “Do you want to know what I want from you?”

“Sure.”

“I’m thinking of a few things. Maybe you, on my lap.”

(Y/N)’s breath hitched, but she tried her best not to look disturb. She shifted in her seating position.

Rafe leaned closer, feeling her heat. “Your turn.”

You know what? Fuck it.

(Y/N) turned to look at him fully in his face, leaning even closer that a part of her was practically on top of him. “Do you know what I think of you, Rafe?”

His eyes dropped to her lips, and he swore his heartbeat quit beating.

“I think about you, Rafe,” she whispered. “All pressed up against me in my bed, whim-”

“More popcorn!”

(Y/N) returned to her previous position, bewildered. She fixed her hair, and her eyes were back to the screen.

If Wheezie were to hang out with a pogue right now, Rafe wouldn’t give a fuck.

“Well, the ending’s shitty,” Rafe exclaimed, clapping his hands. He watched as the end credits rolled, and took a look at Wheezie.

He nudged her, sighing. “Wake up, Wheeze. Go to your room.”

She groaned, searching for her fallen glasses. Rafe helped her to put them on, and gave her another poke.

“I want to watch the movie.”

“The movie’s finished. It’s time to sleep. Go.”

Wheezie groaned, muttering how it’s not fair that her brother could stay up with (Y/N) to watch more movies, but she guessed she was too tired for another round of movie anyways.

“What’s the next pick?”

“Horror.”

“Nah.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you’re going to freak out on me again.”

“I won’t,” she assured him. “Let’s go with Hereditary.”

Rafe’s fingers and (Y/N)’s were almost touching. He was still bothered by her comment before Wheezie came barging in, and he was still desperate to hear her reply.

“(Y/N)?”

“Hm?”

“What were you trying to say?”

(Y/N) stopped watching, and looked at him. “What?”

“About you thinking of me.”

She blushed. “Nah.”

“Come on,” he nudged. When she didn’t move, he tried placing his hand against her thigh.

(Y/N) stood up suddenly, and for a second, Rafe thought he had fucked up. He watched as she went to the door, locked it, and went back to their place.

“You locked the door.”

“Yeah.”

Rafe licked his lips, smirking slightly. “Ah, I see the game you’re playing.”

“What game?” She raised a brow, only turning to the screen when a scream blared from the speaker.

“Hey, look at me.” Rafe tugged on her chin, forcing her to look at him, and his eyes actually looked into hers. He noticed the (E/C) colour of her eyes now, and he swore he had never looked at something more appealing. “Tell me.”

She stayed quiet, not moving a muscle.

Rafe sighed, getting impatient. He leaned closer now, this time his lips merely an inch away from her cheeks. He could feel the heat radiating from her.

“Tell me, baby.”

“You getting all close to me isn’t helping, Cameron,” she sighed, laying her head against the sofa.

“Still playing hard to get?”

“I’m not playing anything.”

Rafe slowly placed a kiss against her temple before trailing down to her cheeks. She sucked in a breath, and Rafe smiled.

“Still playing?”

She nodded.

Rafe’s lips touched hers by a bit, and she let out a moan she had been trying her very best to contain. Rafe chuckled, pulling away.

“Still playing?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a yes? Or a no?”

“That’s a fuck you.”

“Oh,” Rafe smiled. “Thought you never asked.”

His kiss was gentle. So soft, and (Y/N) had never felt something like that before. The kiss deepened when she let out a soft moan, riling Rafe even more.

He pulled her up onto his chest, letting her hands rest against his chest before pulling her away. Her lips were red, and there was a string of their saliva hanging from both of their lips.

“What do you want, (Y/N)?”

“You.”

“Huh?”

“You.”

He smiled, tugging on her shirt. “Off.”

She wasted no time to remove her shirt, exposing her new black bra she ordered online a few days before. Rafe sat back, his eyes dark.

“Jesus Christ.”

He kissed her neck, trailing down to her collar bones before stopping directly on her chest. His fingers fiddled with the bra clip, being so used with this already, and removed the piece of clothing with ease.

(Y/N) instinctively covered her chest, her chest heaving.

Rafe looked up to her, his eyes softening. “What’s wrong?”

“Am not comfortable.”

“Oh, that’s alright, we don’t have to do—”

“No, Rafe, I want this. I just don’t think I’m perfect enough for you.”

Rafe let out a breath, placing a soft kiss against her stomach. She closed her eyes, throwing her head back. He guided her hands away, exposing her perky breast to the entire theatre to see.

Rafe was glad he was the only guy present.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

“Shut up.”

He looked up into her eyes, wetting his lips. “I’ll do anything to fuck you right now.”

(Y/N) grinded against him, causing a groan to escape from his throat. He held her waist in place, not wanting to trigger his release.

“Do it,” she whispered.

The movie became a background noise as he fumbled with her shorts, grunting when he couldn’t figure out the knot.

He positioned himself before her, and looked up into her eyes again. Her chest was heaving, and she looked nervous.

“You’re okay?”

“I’m a virgin.”

Oh fuck.

Why would she even say that? He couldn’t even contain himself anymore.

He pushed himself into her, letting her get used to the feeling. He waited for her nod, signaling that she was okay and hadn’t changed her mind, and thrusted into her again.

His hands stayed around her waist to guide her, watching as her mouth slightly parted as he deepened inside her. She bit her lips, her nails clawing onto his shoulders.

“Oh my god.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, feeling his own forehead clammy. He didn’t notice her hands that had left his shoulder. She cupped his face, placing wet kisses against his cheeks.

“You’re so good for me, baby,” he whimpered, allowing her hands to guide his. She placed them around her breast as she rode him, and Rafe had never felt better.

If he has to taunt and annoy her more to get into this level again, he’ll do it again. Without any hesitation.

“I’m so close, baby, fuck,” he groaned. He gave her another longing kiss, looking down to where their bodies connect, and moaned loudly.

Just before he reached his end, he pulled her away, not wanting to plant himself into her. (Y/N) tried to wrap her fingers around his penis to which Rafe jerked at for being so sensitive. He pulled her hands away, his chest heaving.

“Don’t,” he grunted. His load shot out of his member, wetting the sofa underneath them, and Rafe quickly slapped his shaft against her core to get her to reach her end.

“Rafe, I-”

“Let it,” he whispered, watching as she tilted her head back, exposing her neck. “Let go, baby.”

She trembled slightly, finally reaching her high, and collapsed on top of the heaving boy. Rafe stroked her hair, pulling her into a lying position, and planted another soft kiss against the back of her head.

“The movie’s still on.”

“Watch the next part, it’s amazing,” Rafe whispered, still holding her close. They were both naked, still coming down from their highs, but Rafe had never felt better.

(Y/N) turned to look at him. “You’re still an asshole.”

He placed a soft kiss against her lips. “Your asshole.”

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