#Officer's Choice Whisky

[officerchoicewhiskey]

Apni smoothness se ramp ko career ka runway banao. officer's Choice commonly known as OC, is an Indian whisky brand which is owned by Allied Blenders & Distillers. Officer's Choice Whiskey, one of the largest consumer brands in the country.

Visit to view new officers choice commercial https://www.youtube.com/shorts/bJu5CWaKBNU

[officerschoiceblue]

https://www.abdindia.com/spirits/whiskies/officer-s-choice-blue/

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Of course I’m here. Big surprise.

I’d love some soft!dom energy from countryclub!steve when we’re being a little needy. 😇

Leighanne my beloved 👹 18+

“No, no, Thursday should be fine— mhmm. Well, talk to Richard and see what he says, surely we can’t push it much further—”

You knew fine well Steve was still on his call, you could hear his voice through his office door, his tired, bored tone sighing into the receiver. He’d told you ten minutes though, and well, that had been twenty minutes ago.

So you didn’t feel too guilty when you snuck in, lips pressed together to hide your smile and Steve glanced at you with surprise as you closed the oak door behind you. His whole office smelled like him, like leather and whisky and expensive cologne. He was sat behind his desk, an impressive thing made of dark wood and topped with a forest green leather covering.

There were files all over it, receipts and email print outs, an open cigar case that hadn’t been touched yet, a glass of something amber that was yet to be drunk. Steve looked tired, the top few buttons of his shirt undone, the white linen rolled past his elbows, his suit jacket thrown across the sofa on the other side of the room. You watched him take a hand through his hair and he smiled at you as he listened to whoever was droning on.

It didn’t quite reach his eyes, though.

So you took it upon yourself to wiggle between the desk and Steve’s legs, smiling when he shifted for you, rolling back on the wheels of the chair, his cell still pressed to his ear. He didn’t seem to be listening as intently as before when you dropped into his lap.

“What? Yeah, no, no, of course. Surely we can have the meeting over a conference call?”

You weren’t sure what meeting this call was regarding but you busied yourself with sneaking a hand into Steve’s open shirt, your palm finding warm skin and a smattering of chest hair. You felt his heart race under your fingertips, grinning when his eyes turned a little glassy and his gaze dropped to your lips.

“I’m listening,” he murmured into the phone, lying through his teeth. His hips moved under yours, adjusting himself until his hardening cock was felt properly under your ass. “New York, sure…” he trailed off, coughing a little when you leaned in to kiss at his throat.

You squirmed against him, dress riding up your thighs, Steve’s hand trailing the cotton, his eyes following behind. You watched him suck his bottom lip between his teeth, his expression appreciative. You wondered how far he’d let you take this, if he’d let you sink to your knees under his desk and—

“Hold on a sec, Fred— yeah, two seconds, I just gotta—” Steve pulled the phone away from his face, his hand covering the mouthpiece. He raised his brows at you, doing his best to hide his smile as he leaned in, nose nudging yours. “Did you need somethin’, honey?”

You pouted, dress strap slipping off your shoulder as you played up for him, lips brushing his. “You,” you whispered, as if it were a secret.

Steve smirked, a salacious thing that still made your thighs push together. He tapped at your hip then, coaxing you off of him and you wanted to tut, you wanted to protest. But the man didn’t give you any time to feel offended, nor rejected. He knocked his knuckles onto the top of his desk and nodded towards it.

“Gimme your underwear, baby and hop up.”

You blinked, lips parting.

“You got five seconds, honey, or you can wait ‘til this call is done, your choice,” Steve murmured in a song-song, his tone leaving no room for discussion. He wiggled the phone that he was still doing his best to silence. “Drop ‘em.”

With your hands curling into the sides of lace, you pulled the underwear off of your hips and down your legs, your dress rucked up indecently as you did, showing your fiancé a flash of bare skin, soft and wet in the places he liked most. You worried with the papers strewn everywhere, trying your best to gather them into a neat pile but Steve spoke from behind you once more.

“Five, four…”

You stifled a laugh, shoving them to the side before hopping onto the cool wood and Steve grinned, victorious. He moved back, the wheels of his chair skating across the floor as he settled himself in front of you. “Yeah, yeah I’m here, apologies. You were saying? New York?” Steve didn’t miss a beat as he took your underwear from your hand, stuffed them in his pocket and tapped at your knee.

You knew what he wanted, what he was silently saying.

Open.

You felt your face warm as you spread your legs, sticky thighs parting as you bared yourself to the man in the dim glow of the setting sun and the lamp on his sideboard. Steve’s lips parted, a barely audible groan coming from his chest that he covered with a cough. He used one hand to settle your feet on either side of his seat, keeping you wide for him, your cunt on show as you sat back on your elbows, waiting for his next move.

You didn’t have to wait long.

A single finger, used to trace up and down the seam of your folds, gathering the wetness there, slow and shallow. He was barely touching your clit.

“I’m sure that’ll work,” he was saying. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “If we manage to secure the Parker funding, I can’t imagine it’ll be too much trouble.”

He pulled his hand back to drag his finger over his tongue, humming at your taste and apparently something his colleague was saying. Steve didn’t miss a beat when he brought it back once more, immediately sliding his middle finger into your pussy. You whined, cutting yourself off short with teeth to your lip and Steve stilled, throwing you a warning glance.

“Oh, of course,” he continued, as if he weren’t knuckles deep in you. “If we can manage to get it into the schedule that day, we might as well go for it…” he curled his finger up before adding another, grinning when you threw your head back. “…I’m sure it’ll be a tight fit.”

Withdrawing, he leaned forward, nudging at your chin to gain your attention and Steve brushed his fingers over your lips. He pouted at you, waiting. You opened without hesitation, showing off as you stuck out your tongue and let Steve drag his slick covered digits over it. His thumb brushed your cheek in reward and then he settled back into his seat, using the same two fingers to draw circles over your clit.

A slow, soft tease, steady and messy, over and over and over—

“No, you’re fine, Fred.” Steve smirked at you, brows knitting together in faux sympathy as you screwed your face up in pleasure. He was going to make you cum while you couldn’t make a sound. “I’ve got plenty of time to talk.”

[wispythreads]

I did catch on to that part of it with him bouncing between jobs so frequently, and some of the other things like the fridge freezer, but they were still included in the jumbled up thoughts I listed out partly because I was thinking about them before coming to an answer, and partly because I'm not fully sure if those answers are all there is to it.

Cause, yeah, there’s the newspaper clipping rebuking him for being “unprofessional and brash” (which damn that’s also just rotating in my head because Vince was clearly reading this specific clipping earlier and blatantly lied saying Rody hadn’t been mentioned at all, later scribbling out the section talking about the waiter), he’s very clearly messy and unkempt in pretty much every aspect of his life, and even if he gets the to-go question right in the tutorial, Vince appends the "Good work." with "keep tone in mind."

But, the thing is, he does know a lot of the basics. Much of the tutorial is really just for the benefit of the player to know how the mechanics of the game works, Rody meanwhile nods along and does whatever task is needed without comment, only getting tripped up when Vince mentions the way the menu for his bistro works, and when the aforementioned customer asked if he could get boxes to go or call in his order ahead of time. Which I think are reasonable things to get tripped up on! Those seem like things that would vary depending on the establishment he was working for.

I keep thinking about his reaction when Vince pivoted the conversation of "do you actually like your job" onto Rody. His awkward response that it paid him money. Vince voicing specifically “I doubt you wanted to wait tables for a living-”, and that being met with how there was “something” Rody went to school for, that he was too hesitant to tell Vince, feeling he’d get made fun of. The impression that its some passion he had that just didn't work out. The revelation later that the “something” in question was him majoring in hospitality.

He was afraid he'd be made fun of for actively going to school and choosing to study for skills that, either ironically or purposefully, would've been useful for his current job of waiting tables. A goal that he flunked out of. He has had 28 jobs in the service industry over the course of 7 years. He keeps losing his job, but he also keeps getting hired.

I keep thinking of the post-credits scene of the Best Served Hot, whisky lemon cake ending. "I can't keep watching you ruin any semblance of progress you make with yourself while trying to make me happy, it's exhausting-"

He's only 4 days into this job when he approaches Vince for a raise. He already figures he'll have enough to do something nice for Manon, his "girlfriend," by the end of the week, but he wants more to make it really special. He is very clearly told 'no.'

On the 5th day, when his shift is finally over and done, we don't next see him as we usually do, back at his apartment. He's still at the bistro, all the lights turned out. The only other person presumably being Vince hacking away at the meat in the freezer that'll be used for the meals in the morning. The first time I went through that night, I presumed Rody had just been selected to stay late and help clean up for the night, with whatever Vince was doing in the background ominous horror ambience to be unsettled by.

But we can't really do anything while there that would support this initial assumption. There are only two things you can do. Snoop around in Vince's office, and... steal from the cash register. Whether you avoid doing the latter as I did or not, it has no bearing on whatever ending you get, but just the fact that it's even an option to Rody...

How many other times did he allow his love for Manon to rule over his decisions, making choices in the pursuit of what he believed would make her happy, no matter the cost, before finally facing a price for his obsession beyond the scope of his worst nightmares?

...

And after all that I do want to defend the rollerskates a bit because

Rollerskates in restaurants are kinda a thing, in the 1960s (the year this game is set) they were a pretty popular gimmick/tool for diners in the U.S. at least, not sure about elsewhere in the world unfortunately

Yeah he canonically brought and proceeded to wear rollerskates to work at a fancy bistro. But that also means Vince watched him show up to work one day, wearing rollerskates, and just let him do it. Just watched Rody roll around his fancy bistro attending to customers that expect the highest of professionalism, and said nothing.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

CONGRATULATIONS ON 1,000 FOLLOWERS! That's absolutely wonderful! You deserve it.

1.) T. "I see you. I know you're watching me." // 2.) 🕶 Mafia AU // 3.) Writer's choice! Go wherever the muse takes you. // 4.) 📚 Book

Thank you so much! ❤️ Hitman Eddie and mob baby Steve are rapidly taking over my brain, so here's some more of them!

Poisoned honey

Rated: M

Words: 995

Tags: Mafia AU; Hitman Eddie Munson; Mob boss Richard Harrington; Blood and violence; Obsessive behavior; stalking; flirting; sexual tension

Notes: Part 1 | Part 2

The boss is in one of his moods. 

Eddie endures the screaming with a stoic face - or as stoic as one can manage with a split lip and one eye swelling shut - and thinks to himself what a fucking joke it is. If anyone has a right to be mad, it's him. 

The intel he got on the job was all wrong. The target arrived with backup, turning what was supposed to be a quick, clean affair into a bloodbath. Eddie still finished the job, of course. But the goods he was supposed to secure got destroyed in the fight, losing the boss a ton of money. Hence the yelling. And the name-calling. And the throwing things. 

Eddie sidesteps the whisky tumbler that's hurled his way. It hits the wall, but he can feel the shards catch in his hair as it shatters into a million pieces. Jesus Christ. On days like this, he almost regrets getting into this. 

Almost. 

It's not easy, working his way into Richard Harrington’s inner circle. In the beginning, the asshole wasn't even aware Eddie existed. And even now that Eddie has his attention, he's still far from gaining his trust. 

Eddie gets it, though. You don't become a mob boss by blindly trusting anyone. 

And so Eddie has been biding his time, slowly weaseling his way into the group of Harrington's most loyal hitmen. The better part of a year passed before the boss even deemed him worthy of entering his office, but that’s okay. Every job brings him a little closer to his goal, and every time he sets foot into Harrington's villa is another occasion to catch a glimpse of the prize he's got his eyes on.

*

It's getting dark by the time he's dismissed. He should go home to lick his wounds, but the patio doors are open, and the rippling light and the scent of the hydrangea bushes lure him in. The night is warm, and with a bit of luck, his little nymph will be out by the water. 

He's in one of the lounge chairs, hair wet and tousled, body draped into a robe against the breeze. The underwater lights illuminate his features. He has a book in his lap, and his brow is furrowed in concentration. Eddie stays in his hiding spot for a long while, watching graceful fingers leaf through the pages, watching pink lips part around inaudible words, and gets lost in his favorite fantasies. 

Biting and sucking at those lips until they're plump and shiny, drawing the most beautiful pleas and moans from them. Maybe he'd leave those hands free, or maybe he'd tie them up, just to watch his little nymph struggle. Just to feel him squirm while Eddie covers that soft, tan skin in marks, leaving the traces of his ownership for everyone to behold. 

“I see you. I know you're watching me.” 

Eddie is so far gone in his own head, it takes him a moment to process that the words were directed at him. It takes even longer for him to realize who the voice belongs to. 

The boy has marked his page and is looking straight at his hiding spot, lips curled into a smile.

“Why don't you come out and introduce yourself? It would only be polite.” 

Soft hair falls into hazel eyes as the boy cocks his head. He looks so sweet, but Eddie knows that looks can be deceiving. He sees the coy glint in those eyes, sees the sharp edge to that smile. Knows that this is his last chance. He can turn away and save himself, or he can follow his little nymph's call and let himself be pulled into the depths. 

Those eyes sparkle with satisfaction as he steps out of his hiding spot. Not waiting for an invitation, Eddie sinks down into the empty deck chair beside the boy's, lighting a cigarette and taking a pull. 

“Eddie Munson,” he drawls and extends his right hand. “My pleasure.” 

The boy quirks an eyebrow before reaching out - only instead of accepting the handshake, he snatches the cigarette from Eddie’s lips. His fingers brush the cut and it burns like gasoline. 

“Steve. You know my last name, obviously.” Those perfect lips part to exhale a plume of smoke, hazel eyes assessing every inch of  Eddie’s appearance. “What happened to your face?” 

“Work accident,” Eddie shrugs. “Fell down some stairs.” 

Steve huffs a laugh, a curt and cruel thing. “Yeah, right. You think I'm stupid? I know you’re one of my father’s dogs.” 

Eddie feels his temper flare, snide reply already at the tip of his tongue. How he’s not a dog, doesn’t answer to any master. 

Except, that isn’t true, is it? 

He’d happily kill for this boy, would beg and crawl and debase himself. Has been doing exactly that, every day, for almost a year. 

Steve smiles, sweet like poisoned honey, and takes another lazy drag of the stolen cigarette. 

“You guys are all the same, huh? You think you’re so tough, so dangerous, but as soon as my dad tugs on your leash, you slink off with your tail between your legs. Pathetic.” 

Eddie is nothing if not fast. With one quick movement, he has snatched the boy's wrist and pulled the cigarette back to his own mouth. He takes a long drag, pressing his lips against the soft skin of those fingers. When he pulls away, he makes sure to graze his teeth over Steve’s knuckles. Those hazel eyes are huge, pupils deep and fuzzy, as they watch him stand. 

“You like leashes, little nymph? Good. Hold on to that thought.” 

Nothing has ever been harder than turning his back and walking away, but somehow he does it. Eddie prides himself in being good at his job, and much like his job, this is all about playing his cards right. 

He intends to win, in the end. 

He always does. 

Part 4

More celebration ficlets

[wing-ed-thing]

Stay the Night (Smoker x Reader)

Synopsis: Smoker is surprisingly, bafflingly competent at taking care of you while you're drunk.

Word Count: 2.4k

Tags/Warnings: Alcohol, Intoxication, Alcohol Sickness, Vomiting, Fluff, No Reader Pronouns Explicitly Mentioned (Reader Wears Heels, Makeup, and a Wig), Language, Mildly Suggestive, Two Longtime Friends and Peers who are Clearly in Love with Each Other

Notes: I felt like Smoker was the kind of guy to reluctantly hold your hair back while you're throwing up.

Unlike the rest of his present company, Smoker usually avoided overindulging in elaborately planned social events, especially those with an open bar. It was best to stay out of the way. 

The Marines rarely allocated funds to such frivolous occasions, and so most officers and honored guests took it upon themselves to find the bottom of the generously offered bottomless champagne. While the hangovers were never worth it, that didn’t stop even the highest leadership from stumbling out of the ballroom doors with hair tousled and neckties hanging across their shoulders. 

Smoker preferred to sit at a table out of the way: a sanctuary among the chaos, away from the main path of foot traffic, with a clear view of the door. That’s where he nursed his single glass of whisky. If he were feeling especially celebratory, he would have two. 

You, on the other hand… were already standing on top of a table. Your stilettos were positioned on either side of the floral centerpiece in the middle, and the tiny point of your heels barely allowed you to balance as the bottle in your hands exploded in a loud, crisp pop. 

Smoker watched how the sea of Marines that gathered around you in disheveled formalwear cheered, and your hypnotized face admired the bubbles pouring from the bottle's neck. 

A group of newly trained officers jumped up and down together in time with the music on the opposite side of the circular table in celebration, knocking some tall glasses over onto the white cloth below. Smoker nearly leaped out of his chair as your knees began to buckle. But even despite your tiny shoes and even tinier dress, you managed to catch yourself. Your laughter resounded loudly among the voices around you.

Smoker heaved a deep sigh, sitting back down, swirling his drink with a flick of his wrist. 

He didn’t even need to see that stunt to predict what would come later that night. 

The streets were utterly empty. Aside from the glow of the street lamps, the only light that shone was from the venue as the staff hurried their clean up. Smoker strolled out of the double doors, tie loosened around his neck and suit jacket draped neatly over his arm.

He barely had to make it outside before he saw you. Hell, he’d be able to spot that glittery ass anywhere, even without your blinding choice of attire. 

You were bent over on your weak knees as you hurled your guts out into a bush. Smoker let out a low, resigned grumble, swiping a hand over his fatigued face as he approached you. You barely registered the large shadow that overtook you, let alone the hands that gingerly and neatly gathered your hair away from your face. 

You sputtered, coughing as a few tears streamed from your eyes. The insides of your cheeks were wet and bitter, and your throat burned. You spat onto the ground to get more foul-tasting mucus out of your mouth. 

You were a Marine, dammit, and a few too many took you out quicker than any pirate ever did. 

“Koby?” you whined. Tears continued to stream from your eyes at the pressure in your sinuses. You spat again. God, something was in your nose.

“Sorry to disappoint, Lieutenant Commander,” Smoker gruffed from where he squatted next to you. 

“Don’t call me that,” you whimpered, not wanting to be reminded of your rank during such a state of weakness. Your stomach convulsed, causing your sickness to start again. Smoker’s gaze drifted to the still street like another weekday night. “I’m never gonna drink again.”

“Mh-hmm” was about the only noise you got out of Smoker. He sat patiently and wordless, not one to croon words of assurance at you as you paid for your night of over-indulgence. But for his silence, he continued to pull your hair back, meticulously smoothing the bundle back as best as he could so as not to knot or tug at your stands. 

In a moment of relief, you finally turned over to sit on the curb. Despite the extra alcohol emptied from your stomach, you were far from sober. Smoker knelt on one knee in front of you. You could hardly get his face to focus, let alone register the warm jacket he hung across your shoulders. 

He took the pocket square from the left breast pocket and unfurled it with a snap of his wrist. Smoker swiped the fabric over your mouth, clearing away saliva and slime. The backs of your fingers knocked against his wrist belatedly as you shook your head.

“‘M gonna fuck up your hankie, Smokey,” you sighed, even though he had already wiped your mouth. He shoved the square roughly into his pocket, paying no mind to you as he heaved you onto your feet. “‘M alright. I can make it home.”

“Like hell, you can.” You stumbled as you tried to step forward, but Smoker caught you around the waist. “These, too. You know the whole street’s cobblestone, right?.” His movements felt incredibly fast to you as he bent down again to slide your shoes off, and with two large fingers hooked around the pinch of your stilettos, Smoker moved to throw you over his shoulder. 

“Whoa, whoa, wait…” Your hand flew over your mouth, and the other splayed across Smoker’s right shoulder. He held you at length, studying your face and movements carefully. 

“What’s goin’ on?”

You shook your head in small but rapid swivels.

“Can’t do that.” You heaved a deep breath, slowly removing your hand from your mouth. 

Smoker grumbled a hum of acknowledgment, pulling his jacket closed over your chest before shepherding you down the street toward your apartment. 

You barely remembered the walk, although you were sure your drunken meandering was more than a test of Smoker’s patience. Even so, he hardly said a word, only breaking his silence to ask you where your keys were when you reached your doorstep. 

They were in your clutch, which Smoker was holding with your shoes, of course. 

As soon as the door opened, you nearly collapsed into your apartment. With Smoker's help, you fell neatly onto the couch by the entrance. He slipped off his boots— no matter how formal the event, Smoker was wearing his combat boots— and disappeared somewhere into your apartment. 

You didn’t even care. Your head was so heavy that all you wanted to do was sleep as you slowly sank into your couch cushions. 

“Sit back up.” You heard Smoker call sternly from the other room. You didn’t think you could obey him if you wanted to. 

In a second, you were being repositioned. The light from the lamp in the corner of the room was sobering and borderline upsetting, but it allowed you to see the small trashcan Smoker brought for you on the floor to your right and the bottle of make-up remover on the coffee table in front of you. Smoker sat beside you, tilting your chin to delicately rub your make-up away with a prepped, textured cotton pad. 

It caught you off guard, to say the least. Even in your drunken haze, Smoker still didn’t seem like the type to have patience for tender acts of service. Hell, you didn’t even know he knew what make-up remover looked like. 

But despite your judgments, Smoker sat on the couch next to you, one elbow resting against the back cushion as he held your chin while his other hand swiped away your perfect contour. 

“Who taught you this?” you giggled. Smoker, make sure to get the creases around your nose. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Where do you want your lashes?”

“What?—” 

Smoker had already pulled your left eyelash off, the entire strip. 

“I’ll put ‘em back in the book I saw.” Before you could protest, Smoker had already pulled off your right lash. He stood quickly, stuffing the solution-soaked pad into your hand as he pivoted to carry your lashes to the other room. “Work on the rest of the glue.”

He turned back to you slightly, leaning over you just a bit to grasp your wrist and manipulate your hand to move in a circular motion on your face before you slapped him away. Smoker disappeared once again into your apartment. 

You finally noticed the plastic cup of water on your coffee table and mustered up the energy to take it. The outside was wet with condensation. It was cold. You couldn’t remember the last time you drank water. 

“What do you wanna do with your unit?” Smoker appeared from around the corner again; some linens balled in a wad under his arm. He held a pillow in his opposite grip as if he were holding a stray dog by the scruff. 

His white collared shirt had been pulled from the waistband of his dress pants sometime during the night. The black tie that was already draped over his shoulders drooped to one side, making one side longer than the other. The first three buttons of his shirt sat on his chest untethered. A dampened towel rested over his shoulder.

You blinked at him between sips of water. Your stomach was handling rehydration so far, but you were about to push it.

“You’re not touching my hair, Smokey.”

“Though I’d offer.” He set the pillow down to take the towel off his shoulder. Smoker wadded it in a ball before throwing it your way. You somehow still had the dexterity to catch it out of the air. A generous amount of adhesive remover had already been applied to it. 

Smoker pulled the coffee table out of the way, and as you stared at the towel he threw to you, Smoker began arranging blankets and pillows around you. You supposed he was trying to get you to sleep somewhere you could sit up. He draped a fuzzy throw blanket on your lap and moved two large decorative pillows to your right and left.

As your eyes moved from the remover-soaked towel to Smoker and back, you couldn’t help but laugh. The sensation moved through you before tearing out of your chest. Unrestrained by the liquor, it probably came out louder and more shrill than it would have usually, but if Smoker had any comments, he kept them to himself. 

He knelt before you, both his wrists resting on his bent knee. He shook his head as if regretting the question he was about to ask in advance.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

You swayed forward, racked with trembles, as you continued to laugh. The back of your heels knocked against the bottom of the couch. Smoker didn’t move, even as your face inched gradually towards his. Your cheek settled into your palm, allowing you to sit folded over to meet his eye. He waited as your laughter gradually subsided.

“What are you doing here, Smoker?” 

He stared directly into your irises, and you didn’t know if his expressionlessness or the intensity of his gaze made your smug smile waver. Intending to tease him, Smoker didn’t humor you with an expression. Nothing you had done that night—nor anything you would do—could sober you up faster than the sharp and sudden twinge in your chest that came with simply meeting Smoker’s dark brown eyes. 

What the hell?

“Your girlfriend’ll be pissed.” You sharply recoiled, kicking your legs over Smoker’s bent knee to swiftly stand. You made a beeline deeper into the apartment. 

Smoker only wavered a moment, his eyebrows creasing for a second in confusion before he stood and followed you.

“What girlfriend?” he shouted. He nearly ran into you as you closed a small cabinet by the bathroom. The side of your lip drooped downward in an acute pout. Smoker, never one to enjoy feeling left out of the loop, hovered over you expectantly. You entered the bathroom without a second thought. Smoker found himself in the doorway.

“Weren’t you with that…” You snapped your fingers as you tried to recall her name. You didn’t have to wait.

“Six months ago… and we only went on a few dates,” Smoker defended, although he wasn’t quite sure why he felt the need to defend himself to you in the first place. The two of you had known each other for longer than he recalled knowing anyone else, and more prominently, the two of you were peers. Why should it matter if he took some petty officer out for a few drinks a few months back? His eyes narrowed at the back of your head. “Why?”

You shrugged. You seemed far less worried about the whole thing; your face practically pressed against the mirror to remove the remaining patches of product Smoker missed. He did a more than adequate job. He hardly missed anything regarding your makeup, but the pointed glance you stole in the mirror escaped him. 

“Now I know I’m pretty wasted—” You met his gaze through the mirror. You cocked your head, and your hands gripped the side of the sink in pure bafflement. “But you said ‘lash book’—?”

“Got it. Got it.” Smoker crossed his arms as he tore his attention away. Steam filled the air. He hardly noticed the shower running, and he most definitely didn’t realize that you were standing in front of him, presenting your back, until you started speaking again.

“So, you’re just kind of a—" You glanced over your shoulder at him, and for as off as your judgment was, you knew you probably shouldn’t finish your sentence—even if his reaction would have been hilarious. You turned back around. “Get my dress for me?”  

You could have noticed Smoker’s single beat of hesitation if you were any less intoxicated. But for yet another instance that night, Smoker went quiet as he slowly tugged down the back zipper of your dress. The invisible zipper was thin and difficult to grip, but it slid down your spine like butter regardless, revealing the soft skin underneath.

“I have a pair of your shorts in the bottom left drawer of my dresser. The couch is yours.” You pivoted again on your heel, one hand holding your dress up on your chest and the other pushing Smoker back through the doorway. “Now get out.” 

You shut the door. Smoker sighed and resigned himself to rifle through your dresser, wondering why he had clothes at your place at all. 

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: Based off my personal headcanon that Smoker has a surprisingly extensive dating history and an equally surprising library of knowledge about girly stuff because he's an extremely involved boyfriend. I'd say most of his previous relationships had amicable break ups. Reader was also going to say "so you're kind of a whore" but decided against it.

[sodamnradd]

Hermione Granger was going to die on his operating table.

Fuck.

Draco paced the room and tried to ignore the ghostly girl lying unconscious a few feet away.

Potter was the only person keeping Draco here and, if Granger died under his care, it was all over. The Order would blame him for her death.

“What am I meant to do with you now?” he mumbled, glaring at his patient.

He touched Granger’s pulse and felt it fading. Her skin was cold and clammy. Even her hair seemed deflated, giving up the good fight.

There was no other way.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, feeling a flash of remorse for the fate he was bestowing on her. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall in love with me.”

--

The Order promoted Draco to main headquarters. He had his own room and went to bed with a full stomach every night. Sometimes, there was even beer.

But Draco would have slept in moth infested sheets again and eaten stale cereal for dinner every night if it meant staying away from her.

After her miraculous recovery, Granger visited him in the medical wing. Often.

The first time to thank him for saving her life. The second to borrow a book she spotted on his desk, swapping it for one of her own. The third to return his book and tell him about all the ways it had pissed her off. Before he knew it, she’d cajoled Draco into a war-time book club, reading all the books Granger bartered off other Order members.

She started confiding in him about odd things that were happening to her.

“It’s not my problem,” he cut her off, popping open his collar as the room grew three notches too hot.

“But you’re my healer.”

“I’m not your healer. I’m just a healer. A reluctant one. Your idiot friends won’t let me do much else.”

“Help me find out what’s wrong with me, and I’ll have them reassign you.”

“No.”

She was insufferably stubborn.

“See how I did that?” she asked one afternoon, squashing a fly with her palm and resuscitating it seconds later. “That’s odd.”

“That’s magic.” He feigned disinterest, swatting the irritating fly. “Couldn’t you have let it die?” Sometimes Draco wished he had.

“It’s like holding sand in my hands. I have a handful of seconds to decide whether to preserve its life or let it trickle out—Are you even listening to me?”

“I’m counting inventory.”

“Stuff your blasted inventory. This is serious!”

He made her concerns seem trivial, shooing her off and demanding she mind his office hours.

Yet she always came back, always wanted to hear his expert opinion on why Dark Magic was so easy now, why she was quicker than Harry at casting off Dementors, why she didn’t need her wand to perform magic anymore.

One evening she visited him, devastated. “Tell me why I can’t stand letting anyone touch me.”

Red mist filled Draco’s vision, noting her rumpled figure. The state of Granger’s hair was an old joke by now, but he could tell someone’s fingers had been raking through it. Her shirt was misbuttoned. She looked messy and fierce and unbearably debauched.

“It certainly looks like someone tried,” he mumbled, trying to choke down the emotion that rocked through his chest.

“Tell me, Malfoy.”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Because you’re all I think about!” she exploded. Her face went crimson.

She cleared her throat. “I know my own body. You did something to me that night, didn’t you? When I was injured.”

She stormed forwards, poking him in the chest. “What did you do?”

He snatched her fingers in his fist. It was like he was pure whisky, and she an Incendio spell, set astray. “Fuck.” He dropped her hand at once.

Granger leapt away too, gasping. “Did that just…?”

“You almost died,” he said, physically restraining himself from reaching for her again. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Malfoy?” Her voice was little more than a croak, her eyes too wide and innocent. Looking at him like-like—

He had to look away. “I split my magical core and gave you half.”

“Like a Horcrux?”

“It wasn’t my soul. But magic is binding in its own way.”

“What do you mean binding?”

“As in, you can tap into it now. It’s yours.”

“So I have my own magic and half of yours?”

He shrugged.

Granger’s mouth fell agape. “How do I return it to you?”

“It’s irrevocable.”

Realisation dawned on her face. “So, all of this,” she wagged a finger between them, “is because of your spell?”

“There’s no ‘this’.” He repeated the gesture. “It’s you and it’s me. Separate.”

She shook her head. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not—”

“You looked like you wanted to commit murder when I walked in just then.”

He shifted his gaze, jaw clenching. “My magic recognizes itself in you. It’s… possessive.”

“And mine recognizes you,” she concluded. “It doesn’t like me being with anyone else. You knew this would happen?”

“Should I have let you die instead?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, and Draco tried not to wince. “Is this it, then? We’re bound to each other for the rest of our lives?”

He couldn’t stand looking at her anymore. Remorsefully, he replied, “This is it.”

(883 words, prompt: soulmates from @dhrmonth)

[themultifandomgal]

Shelby Sister- No One Speaks Of This!

This one was requested over on Wattpad. I’m working on other requests now!

1 month to go. 1 month until I finally get to meet my child. My husband, Edward died before I knew I was even pregnant. Since then aunt Poll and my brothers have been keeping a very close eye on me. Today it's my brothers turn to watch me, Polly, Ada and Esme are off out on a shopping spree.

I walk into Tommys office at the betting shop where all my brothers are

"Bloody hell YN your fucking massive" Arthur shouts nursing a whisky in his hand

"Please never get married and get a women pregnant" I shake my head and roll my eyes

"Come sit down" John pulls out a chair for me. I smile gratefully at him and take the seat

"Thanks. At least one of my brothers have sense" I laugh

"How are you feeling?"

"Achy. My feet are swollen, not that I can even see my feet anyway" I rub my huge belly "and on top of that I keep having these pains"

"Pains?" Tommy frowns looking worried

"Polly said it's normal. Wouldn't worry. I'm not gonna give birth on your desk if that's what your worried about"

"Don't even joke about that" Tommy points at me the walks over, crouching down "you listen here. You don't make an appearance until Polly and Ada are home. You got that?"

"You lot better get to work. I'll just sit here and read"

"You let us know if something happens or if you need anything" Arthur says placing a hand on my shoulder

"Yeah yeah" I wave my brothers away and get my book out of my bag.

As I sit reading, the pain that I have been feeling seems to be getting worse. It's now like a cramp coming a going, getting stronger and stronger. I shift in my seat uncomfortably and feel a pop and water runs down my leg soaking the seat

"What the fuck?" I gasp

"What? What's wrong? What...." Arthur runs over to me

"I didn't even need the toilet" I hold my stomach as pain washed over me

"Shit" John sighs

"Tom. Better clear your desk. Our sister is about to have a baby"

"No. No chance I'm not giving birth to my baby on his desk and no way am I having my older brothers look at my womanhood"

"You want me to go and grab Finn or maybe Michael"

"Hell no" I shout at John

"Then you've got no choice love"

"Fuck.... Ok fine get me up" I hold my hands out for Tommy and Arthur to help me out of the chair. They walk me, slowly, to Michaels office "why are we going int Michaels office?"

"You said you didn't want to give birth of my desk"

"Your evil Tommy"

"Yeah yeah get up there" Arthur and Tommy help me up onto the desk and help me to lie down

"Right well since John boy is the most experienced one here... take the lead"

"Oh god" I groan

"Ok then. YN legs up"

"I've never been more grossed out than I am right now" I cry doing as my brother asks

"Shit. Ok YN I can see the head"

"Oh shit" Arthur gags. Tommy takes my hand and squeezes it tight

"When you have that tight pain you need to push"

Thankfully within 3 pushes I have a baby boy in my arms. My baby boy. John cuts the cord. We wait for the placenta to arrive while Arthur goes to my house to get me some clean clothes.

Once I’m cleaned up I sit in Tommys office on a sofa

"None of us ever speak of this again" I look at my brothers who all agree every quickly.

"What the bloody hell happened here?" I hear Polly yell as she walks through the door of the betting shop

"John delivered a baby" Tommy says as if it's nothing

"Wait YNs baby? He's early. Is he ok? Is YN ok?"

"Both are fine. Go in my office" Polly, Ada and Esme walk into Tommys room "oh my god YN"

"Shhh. He's just gone to sleep"

"What did you name him?" Esme asks walking over to me

"William Edward Shelby"

"Shelby?" Polly asks confused

"We I never took my husbands name. And I think he deserved to have both of our names. So he gets his dads and mine"

"I love it. And your ok?"

"Yes. We both are"

"I'm sorry we couldn't be here"

"It's ok. Who knew mister here would want to meet you all now"

"Well. Wellcome to the world William"

"What the fuck happened to my desk!" Michael shouts. Polly, Esme and Ada all look at me confused

"I didn't want to have my baby on Tommys desk. Tommy took me to Michaels"

"Bloody hell" Polly sighs "let the blood bath commence"

[bullet-prooflove]

The First Month: Beau 'Cyclone' Simpson x Reader

Tagging: @chickensrule @iwannabeinthesequalmrghostface @justameresimp @lxaah11 @librarian1002 @littlebadariell @imaginecrushes @luckyladycreator2 @emersxn99 @flrboyd @nani-kenobi @areamir @b-bradshaw @adaydreamaway08 @beausimpson @crimeshowjunkie @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond  @shepgurl @ashcosmo @inkandarsenic

Deployment!Series:

Propriety (NSFW) - All thoughts of propriety goes out of the window when Beau finds you in his office.

Rumours - Beau doesn't realise there's a rumour about him.

Disengage - Beau discovers your secret.

Stalemate - The stalemate between you and Beau breaks when he recieves some news.

Absence - Beau misses you.

The first month is always the hardest. The scent of your shampoo still clings to your pillow, flooding his senses when he tries to sleep. He decides to wash the sheets, get a fresh start and instead finds himself mourning the loss. The house feels empty without you in it, your presence slowly fading from his existence. 

It’s like this in the beginning, a constant stream of sadness and agitation. Communication is always spotty during this time, your messages sporadic, coming through at odd times of the day. The distance stretches and Beau feels restless and out of sync.

He plans to spend the weekend burying his head in work, but his plans are interrupted at 8pm in the evening when Warlock turns up at his door followed by Maverick and several other members of the Dagger Squad.

Poker night, Warlock informs him as chaos rains down on his kitchen. It’s a flurry of noise and activity. Bob, Rooster, Phoenix and Hangman are all shit talking each other as Maverick sets up the poker chips with a smile on his face. Beau knows their Captain is going to wipe the floor with them. He’s seen him in the field, that man doesn’t blink. Already they’re in his cupboards, removing glasses, seeking out plates and dealing hands. Beau likens it to when your nephews come over and invade the place, they’re in and out of everything, running around being boisterous.

“Ally set this up?” He asks Warlock, his palm rubbing across his jaw.

The other man inclines his head and Beau sighs because you know him far too well. He struggles the most during that first weekend, there’s always an abundance of free time and he never knows what to do with himself. He gets stuck in his own head, trapped in that destructive emotional cycle.

When he steps into the kitchen, he picks up the bottle of whisky Rooster brought and scowls at the label.

“I’ll get the good stuff.”

The night devolves after that, into a haze of cigar smoke and bourbon.

***

Beau wakes up the next morning with a pounding head and a scratchy throat from the cigars. He’s barely taken a sip of his coffee before his doorbell rings, and he’s greeted by Jake clad in athletic wear with an enthusiastic Belgian Malinois called Cujo. My partner’s K9, he reminds Beau, because they apparently, they spoke about that last night when he agreed to go running first thing in the morning. He has no memory of the conversation.

It's a slog, Beau feels fucking terrible for the first couple of miles. It’s only when he gets past the third one that he starts to feel anywhere normal. He manages to keep pace with Jake and Cujo the rest of the way around the track before he makes it back to the house with an invite to a cookout later that afternoon.

“I’ll see if I can make it.” He tells Jake.

He realises he has no choice when Warlock turns up on his doorstep with a cooler full of steaks. Beau snatches up another bottle from the drink’s cabinet, before heading out because his mama raised him right and it isn’t polite to turn up to a gathering without a gift.

He spends the evening sipping Diet Coke and playing tug with Cujo, because he can’t face another hangover and once that dog takes a liking to you, there’s no chance of being left alone. The same can be said for the Daggers, he’s barely had a second to himself and he’s grateful for it. He finds himself sitting on the porch at the end of the night, the sun setting in the distance and the air cooling.

Jake drops down beside him, his palm running over Cujo’s head as the dog rags at the toy in Beau’s hand.

“Thanks.” Beau says distractedly, tightening his grip on the rope. “For this morning, and for tonight.”

Acknowledging his feelings doesn’t come naturally to him, neither does admitting he needs a little help. The people around him though they see it, they give a shit about him and about you. He thinks it was show and tell that did it, he gave them insight into his life outside of his position and he became a person instead of just another officer. They adopted him after that, he became part of their pack.

Noone talks about how isolating his job can be, you’re trained not to show weakness, to hide your vulnerabilities. You manifest that prerogative, make it a part of yourself. That’s who he is when you’re not around, it’s his survival technique. This weekend has shown him he doesn’t need to be like that, that he has a support network, that he can lean on other people if he needs to.

“Anytime.” Jake says, his elbows resting on his knees as he gazes out across the garden. “Can I ask you something?”

“That depends on what it is.” Beau says, inclining his head towards the other man to show that he’s listening.

“How did you know?” Jake asks him, his eyes coming to rest upon his partner Jenna as she stands in the midst of a conversation with Rooster, waving her hands animatedly as she laughs.

Beau doesn’t need any context, he knows what’s being asked. It’s the first time he’s thought about you over the past couple of hours and he feels a pang in his chest because it’s only been a few days, but he misses you so fiercely he aches. The silence stretches on as he considers his answer.

“We took a trip once, up to her sisters. She used to have this beaten-up old car, a real junker. It drove me crazy; I was terrified it would break down somewhere in the middle of the night and she’d end up stranded.” He tells Jake, shaking his head at the memory because he really fucking hated that car. “Anyway, we’re on the way back and it is pouring down with rain, I can barely see three feet ahead of me and the tire blows. It sent the car into a spin. I swear I thought the both of us were going to die…”

He remembers that moment, the panic that rushed through his nervous system as he gripped the wheel so hard, he had the indentations imprinted on his skin in the aftermath. He knew what to do in a situation like that, slide the gears into neutral, steer into the skid but he saw that tree coming up on your side and the thought of what could happen…

It had scared the living shit out of him.

“I managed to get it under control before we hit the tree, but I have never felt fear like that. I didn’t give a shit if something happened to me but to her…” he trails off because even now the thought feels too terrible to consider. “I proposed to her there and then because I couldn’t stand the idea of not having her in my life, she means too much to me. I’d been thinking about it for a while, but that really solidified it.”

“It happened to me.” Jake says quietly as he sips from his beet bottle. “When my plane almost went down a few days ago, before I passed out, I just had this regret sitting in my chest. I should have asked her; I should have taken that step.”

“And yet you haven’t.” Beau points out.

“You’ve read my file.” The young Lieutenant says, and Beau knows what he’s talking about. In care from the age of seven because his parents were a couple of meth heads, straight into the Navy in the aftermath. He has fought and clawed his way up the ladder to get where he is. He can’t imagine the emotional toll that must take on a person, to live your formative years being unloved, unwanted.

Don’t come to me looking for a father figure, he wants to say. I don’t know any better.

His own was a gambler, who threw away everything including his marriage and his family. Beau hasn’t spoken to his dad in years, he has no idea where the other man is and that’s the way he likes it.  

However now there’s this kid sitting next to him, one that’s looking for guidance and Beau realises at some point Jake has become one of his people. Someone he actually gives a shit about.

Fuck… he thinks. When did that happen?

“You’re past is not your present.” Beau tells him. “And it is certainly not your future.”

He thinks of you, how far you’ve come from that girl who thought she was going to live and die in a mining town in Idaho. The one whose parents were convinced she was going to marry the boy next door and spit out a couple of kids. You’d had no future and no opportunities until that Navy Recruiter had come through. He can’t imagine the life he would have lived if he’d never met you.

“You deserve to be happy Jake, and Jenna makes you happy.” Beau says frankly. “It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.”

Jake nods his head, his thumb chasing over the label of the beer bottle in his hand.

“Thank you.” Jake utters, before taking a sip form his beer bottle. “I mean it. Shit like this, it’s hard for me to talk about.”

“Yea, I know a thing or two about that.” Beau says, rubbing the space behind Cujo’s ears that makes the dog’s tail wag. “Things weren’t great before Ally left, I wasn’t around…” He trails off.

“The mission.” Jake says knowingly.

“Yea.” Beau says frankly before pausing. “I feel like I wasted the time she was here by being mad at her over the deployment. By the time I got my head on straight I was already shipping out. We haven’t spoken much since then, the signal’s spotty out there. I wish I could tell her that I’m sorry, that I love her, that I’m proud of her for taking this step for the two of us. For doing what I couldn’t.”

“Do you think she doesn’t know what already?” Jake asks him, setting his beer down on the decking alongside of him. “The two of you have been through what four of these since you’ve been together?”

“This is her fifth.” Beau tells the other man, leaning back as he watches the sun start to disappear beyond the horizon.

“Fuck.” Jake says, his elbows come to rest on his knees as Cujo wrenches the toy from Beau’s hand and lopes towards Jenna to show off his prize. “My point is you’ve got through it before; you’ll get through it again.”

“Yea.” Beau says as he watches the dog drop the toy at Jenna’s feet. “Let’s hope so.”

Love Beau? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[officerchoicewhiskey]

Officer’s Choice is a smooth, finely balanced malt blend that does justice with every sip.Enjoyed globally, Officer’s Choice, is an international favourite. The finely balanced malt blend of OC Whisky celebrates the ‘officer’ of today who live their passions, carve their own routes to success and inspire those around them to follow their dreams.

Visit https://www.abdindia.com/spirits/whiskies/officer-s-choice-whisky/

[officerschoiceblue]

officers choice blue whisky price

[sofasoap]

Five Times

Pairing : John Price x F!reader (aka OC Mini MacTavish) Summary: Five times you met, four times you parted. Part 1 to the Five times series.

Warning: Alcohol usage, mature themes. This is probably gonna be the most controversial out of all my Mini route. Age gap, if you don't like the idea of age gap story, turn around NOW.

Thanks to mother of my Mini MacTavish @saltofmercury for lending me the character “Mini” from her story. Go read her “The Favorite MacTavish”  !

“masterlist” for prequel to this Mini MacTavish expanded verse.

Sitting at his favourite pub near the base, nursing a glass of whisky, deep in thought. Price likes to come here to get away from everything. Not even hiding in his office helps him to relax. Hearing the chime of the door, he looked up. Noticing a woman, guessing around Gaz’s age, walked into the pub. Price had never seen her before yet there was an air of familiarity to her. Looking around, and down to her phone with a frown, she walked up towards the bar.

Price was genuinely surprised when she ordered a glass of Islay whisky, neat. Not a choice associated with younger crowds nowadays. 

“Good choice there.” 

“Excuse me?” Price pointed to the glass, “your drink.” “I would usually go for their ten year option but this is good enough.” raising the glass towards Price, “What have you go there?” Nodding in agreement as Price gave the brand of the drink, “Not bad, I would recommend you to try the sherry cask 18 year vintage next time.” “Sounds like you are a whisky enthusiast.” “Grew up running around my parent’s farm and distillery, I guess that just gives me a bit more exposure. But I don’t think my parents will be pleased that I have favouritism towards Islay over Highland.”  Holding out his hand, “John.” Shaking his hand and mentioning the name in return, “ I am the youngest in the family, so everyone calls me Mini instead. Thanks to my brother. In fact, that bampot is running late. He is supposed to meet me here.” Price chuckled. “Your brother lives around here?” You nodded.  “He lives at the base actually. Ah speaking of the devil, There he is.” Price turned around, eyebrow raised as he saw who you were pointing to.

“Soap.” Now Price understands where the familiarity came from. 

“Captain? What are you doing here?” Soap was surprised his captain was sitting with his sister at a pub, chatting away. “ Having a discussion with your sister about whisky.”

“ Well I gotta say you are talking to the right person. She is a certified whisky nerd.” “ I don’t know if that is a compliment or an insult Johnny.” you huffed. “ Believe me, I DO compliment you from time to time.” Downing the last bit of the drink in your glass, you turn towards Price, with a soft smile,”Well, it was a nice conversation with someone that doesn’t think it's weird a girl likes their whisky.” “Until next time.” 

Watching you walking out the door with Soap, Price refused to admit you certainly raised his interest. 

Price is sitting on the sideline, watching with amusement as you and Simon clash head to head, trying to outdo each other in the drinking game.  Shaking his head. Apart from Soap, Price never seen Ghost letting his guard down so much. These two MacTavishes really have some sort of power over him. Thanking Gaz for the water, you walk towards Price and sit down on the chair beside him. 

“That was impressive.” 

“Thanks. If we had gone for the whisky, I would surely beat him.” “You know he is more of a bourbon guy right? Looking at Price with exaggerated gasp, “Sacrilege!”

Two of you spend the night chatting away about whisky, life and travel.

You were witty, funny, wise beyond your years. The soft smile on your face, listening to his conversation intently, a woman with her own thoughts.  That feeling again, bubbling away underneath the surface, pushing it away. For the moment he is just going to pretend it never exists. It's a dangerous feeling. A feeling he shouldn’t have. A feeling that he never thought he still had. 

“Mini.” Price notice you shook a bit as he called out to you. 

You were staring blankly at the machine, beeping away, the only sign that is telling you that your brother is still alive and breathing. Price showed up a few days ago at your doorstep in London, still in his full tactical gear, standing in the rain, exhaustion evident on his face, informing you of Soap’s near death experience. It’s not the usual protocol for the captain to inform the next of kin about the soldier’s injury or condition directly, but for some reason, Price wants to break the rule for you. He wants to tell you the news in person. 

You were awfully calm when you rang your parents, currently overseas at moment on business trips, telling them about your brother’s latest “misadventure” Calling out to you again, this time by your name, you finally turn around facing him. Tears finally start to spill over from your red rimmed eyes. Taking two steps forward, Price scoops you into his embrace, as you start to sob uncontrollably, clutching onto his vest with your dear life. You slowly fall asleep, as Price lightly caresses your hair, whispering to you words of reassurance and promising to wake you as soon as there are any changes with Soap.

Just for today. He said to himself. You need comfort. From a FRIEND. 

Holding up a bottle of whisky, the label has clearly seen better days, “Want to try some?” you smirked. You found Price hiding in the shadow, puffing away on a cigar,  around the corner of the converted barn. Everyone has gathered at your parent’s distillery for Soap’s wedding.

 “Stole that from the cellar?” Price commented as you poured the alcohol into two tulip-shaped glasses. “Excuse me, don’t make me sound like I am some sort of thief… I do have the right to access the cellar. I am just.. Borrowing this for my guest to sample the great vintage.” Passing Price one of the glass, “Slàinte Mhath.” “do dheagh shlainte.” Price responded before he took a sip.  The heavy aromas and richness of the flavour gradually hit his senses as it travelled down his throat. “... This is really good.” You smirked, “Thank you, well worth me sneaking into the cellar middle of the night then.” “So you did steal it.” “ Well I did say I borrowed it. I DO intend to put the bottle back later on.” Taking a sip yourself as you lean against the wall, “Ah, this IS good.” “ Yo haven’t tried it yourself yet?”

“ Well, this was intended to be opened for my wedding. But I don’t want to wait for that long.” Price raised an eyebrow,  you just smiled, “There’s still quite a few bottles, don’t worry. Keep drinking.” 

Price took another sip. “You look handsome without your boonie hat on.”

“That’s what everyone said.” He grumbled.

Chuckling slightly, “ you should listen to them more.”

Two of you standing side by side, looking into the darkness, enjoy each other’s company in silence as noises of the crowd can be heard from a distance away. The music changed all of sudden, to a slower pace of music. Carefully putting the glass down on the grass, he held out a hand to you. 

You hesitate for a moment before accepting his hand shyly, sliding the other hand onto his shoulder, and lean into his chest as he closes his arm around your back, holding you gently, like a delicate doll, swaying slowly. 

“John.” “I know.” “We shouldn’t.” “I know.” “This will never work.”

“...”

Tilting your head up, you look into his beautiful blue eyes. Searching for something. 

“Price. Mini.” Ghost’s deep voice cuts through the tension. You quickly buried yourself into Price’s chest, trying to make yourself as small as possible, hiding.

“Soap is coming this way.” Reluctantly you two parted. But not before he picks up your hand again, lightly caressing it with his thumb as he looks into your eyes, giving it a gentle kiss and releasing it. 

This is for the best. Ending it before it starts. So he said to himself.

“How have you been?”

“ Busy with life. You?” “ Same.”

The awkward silence. The men had come over for a visit to see Soap and his partner’s new baby. You just happen to visit at the same time. You were happy to see your brother’s team mates. It has been quite a while since you saw all of them at the wedding. You miss them. Especially Price. He found you sitting in the backyard, drinking a cup of hot tea, enjoying the rare winter sun.

“Congratulations on the new addition to the MacTavish family.”

“ Thank you, I am sure in few years time Ghost will be having huge headache with three MacTavishes annoying him.” turning around picking up the big tea pot,

“Tea? I am sorry I don’t have any whisky to offer you here.” You half joked.

“I still got that bottle you stole from the cellar you know.” “ Oh, now you are the thief! “I am just keeping it safe for you.” Mumbling a word of thanks as you pass the cup of tea to him, he opened his mouth again to speak after taking a slow sip,

“Soap spoke to me that night, after you walked back to the party.” You tilt your head, confused. “I saw how you look at my sister, Captain.”

Price’s eyes have been lingering on you all night as he watches you interacting with your family and guests, laughing and having the time of your life. He did catch your eyes a few times, looking at him longingly, flashing that gentle smile, which he wishes you will not show anyone but him. “I have no right to tell you who or my sister to see.” picking up the glasses you have left behind, Soap poured himself and Price another glass of drink, “But as her brother, her family, I don’t want to see her hurt. Do not let her down if you are only half assing it Captain.” 

You were at a total loss. Why is he telling you this? Why now? “Captain. You are overworking yourself.”

“I know.”

“ You are miserable.” 

“ I am not.”

“ yes you are. You are worse than Ghost.”

“Oi. I am here you know.”

Reaching out to hold his hand, you call his name softly. “ I have another bottle of whisky. No, I didn't steal it from the cellar.” You answered his silent question as he gave you a pointed look. “ I bought this with my OWN money thank you very much.” “ Took me a while to find it. Would you like to come over to try it out?” You asked tentatively.

“ Should I bring your bottle back to you too?”

Shaking your head, taking a deep breath before you make the next bold statement. ‘Just keep it until the special occasion it’s intended for. If everything works out.”

Price was amused with your forwardness and the subtle hint. 

“ It’s a date then?” he asked with a smile.

“ it’s a date.” 

[ivybird]

It's always the quiet ones - Part One -Her.

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader.

Summary: You don't mess with the Queen.

Word Count: 1671

Warnings: Swearing, angst, crying, a hint at physical abuse, toxic relationship, blood, smoking, alcohol consumption, shouting.

A/N: Hiii! Okay, so...PART ONE. MINORS DNI. Proofread so all mistakes my own! GIF isn't mine!

Series Masterlist.

James Buchanan Barnes. The most feared man in New York. No one dared to upset him, or they’d be met with the barrel of his gun, and yet, here he was sat pouting in the back of an SUV because Bucky was somehow convinced to do business with Walker. He shuddered at the thought. John fucking Walker, the man who thought he was above everybody, thought he was above the Princes of New York…thought he was above Bucky. Walker wanted to offer him a deal, something to do with guns and grenades, but Bucky wasn’t listening when Steve filled him in, he was focusing on not losing his shit and smacking Steve upside the head with the butt of his gun. The car behind them contained the other three princes. Loki, Sam, and Thor. They insisted on coming along for “protection”, but Bucky knew they were being nosey bastards. He clambered out the car and picked a cigarette out of his holder, brought it to his lips and lit it, and Bucky couldn’t help but think the flame from the lighter resembled the fire bubbling up inside him.

“C’mon man, don’t wanna go in there stinkin’ of smoke”. Steve appeared beside him, wafting his hand to get the smoke away. They both leant against the side of the car waiting to be beckoned to Walker’s door. “Why’d you bring me here Steve? I told you, no business with Walker, Pierce, Rumlow and Stark. They’re off limits, and look at me, waiting to be called in like a dog whose been let out for a shit”. Steve chuckled and placed his hand on his friends shoulder. “This could be good for you, stop acting like a goddamn baby”. As Bucky flicked his cigarette away and turned to give Steve a snarky remark, they were beckoned forward by a man in a tux. “Mr Walker is ready for you”. Bucky gave the man a curt nod and walked past him through the threshold, leaving Steve to apologise and thank the poor guy. The foyer to Walker’s mansion was grand, if it wasn’t his, it would’ve took Bucky’s breath away. The accents of gold against white marble was far too pure for a man like Walker. Bucky’s eyes landed at the bottom of the staircase and there he stood, in all his so-called glory. A white button down, black slacks, and a tumbler of whisky sitting in his hand. Bucky managed a small nod in Walker’s direction. “Walker”. A smirk flicked at the corner of John’s lips. “Barnes. Rogers. Surprised you agreed to meet me”. Bucky scoffed and turned his head to Steve with his jaw clenched. “Not like I had a choice”.

“Buck”. Few could get away with talking to Bucky like he was a petulant child, but Steve was different. “Let’s get started, gentleman. Office is this way”. The pair were lead through a series of corridors and some stairs before they reached the office. John sat in a large leather chair and beckoned the men to sit across from him. “Please, sit”. Bucky and Steve made themselves somewhat comfortable, the air was thick with tension, and nothing could seem to ease it. “Before we get started, there’s someone I’d like you both to meet”. Steve and Bucky locked eyes before returning them to the man in front of them. “Who’ve you got locked away? No one I know would willingly wanna spend time with you, Walker”. A dry chuckle escaped Steve’s throat at Bucky’s remark but quickly covered it with a cough.

“Lucky you don’t know her then, Barnes”. Bucky rolled his eyes and scratched at his beard, his patience was wearing thin, and Steve knew if they didn’t get to business soon the office was going to turn into a blood bath. Without taking his eyes off Bucky, John raised a hand towards the door and beckoned with two fingers. “Y/N, darling? Come here. Some friends of mine like I’d like you to meet”. Steve furrowed his brows and glanced towards the door as Bucky leant forward. “We’re not friends”. Walker laughed at him. Bucky didn’t have time to respond. There she was, hovering in the doorway. Her hair flowed around her waist in soft waves, her figure was wrapped in a light blue sundress and her feet were clad in white ballet slippers. She was magnificent. Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away from her as Walker grasped her hand and pulled her into his lap. The girl shrieked at the sudden movement and looked uncomfortable, but quickly fixed her expression when she saw Bucky staring at her. “Gentlemen, this is my fiancé. Y/N”. Bucky was snapped out of his trance by Steve clearing his throat. “Fiancé?”. Walker’s arm was wrapped around her waist so tight Bucky was sure she’d burst. “What? Didn’t think I’d have it in me? Pretty little thing isn’t she?”. Bucky didn’t say a word, he refused to feed into the man’s ego. Of course, he found her beautiful, he felt a pull to her he couldn’t quite explain, but he wasn’t going to tell Walker that. “Go on, don’t be rude, say hello”. She stood from his lap and cautiously reached forward offering the men her hand. “Hello”. Steve offered her a smile, whereas Bucky’s dumbass stood up and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “Miss…”.

A blush crept up her cheeks as she retracted her hand, feeling her fiancé’s eyes burn holes in her head, so she offered him a polite smile. “Y/L/N”. Bucky returned to his seat, his eyes still on her, a smile tugging at his lips. “Y/L/N”. He repeated it slowly, the taste of the name on his tongue like honey. Walker hummed in what sounded like disapproval behind her before yanking her down onto his lap once more. “John, I shouldn’t be here. You’re talking business”. Walker placed a sloppy kiss against her cheek, Bucky could see her visibly cringe but plaster a sweet smile onto her face when he looked at her. “Nonsense pretty one. You’re gonna be my wife, you need to know everything”. She nodded at him and readjusted herself so she was comfortable – if you could call it that – in his lap.

The men talked…and talked….and talked. She zoned out, her only focus was Bucky. His arms bulging against his jacket, a hint of an accent she couldn’t make out, his fluffy hair, his beard, his ocean eyes…his plush lips. She felt herself squirming every time his tongue darted out to wet them. Bucky’s eyes flickered to her every minute or so, getting lost in her Y/C/E before tearing himself away. “Come back to us, Y/N”. John’s now slurred voice pulled her out of her revere as his fingers clicked in front of her face. “Sorry, got lost in thought”. He patted her back and pushed her off his lap handing her his half full tumbler. “Be a darling and take this to the kitchen while I see our guests out”. She nodded at him frantically before attempting to scurry away. Her foot caught on the leg of the desk, sending her flying. Steve and Bucky were quick to react, standing to catch her. Steve’s large hands caught her before she hit the ground, but the whiskey flew and landed all over Bucky’s crisp white shirt. “Oh my god! Mr Barnes I’m so, so sorry!”. The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. Bucky chuckled as Steve guided her to stand straight. “Hey it’s okay! Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?”.

She rushed to the table to pull some tissues and began blotting his shirt. “No, I’m alright, thank you. I’m so clumsy!”. Bucky pulled her hands away from him and he swore he felt sparks in the tips of his fingers. “It’s alright”. Walker cleared his throat and the two whipped their heads towards him. “Are you kidding? I invite my friends over for a business meeting and you embarrass me by throwing my whiskey all over him?”. “John, I’m sorry. It was an accident. I tripped; I-I-I’d never embarrass you on purpose”. Bucky stood in front of her. “Walker, it was an accident. Leave it, man”. John walked around his desk and pushed himself in between Bucky and Y/N. “I think you better leave, Barnes. I need to have a chat with my fiancé. You”, he turned to face her. She recoiled, the rage in his eyes only meant one thing. “Upstairs. Now”. She nodded and ran.

“C’mon, Buck. Let’s go”. Steve pulled him out. Once they reached the car, Bucky pulled out a smoke, his hands shook as he lit it. “What the hell was that?”. Bucky looked at his friend, anger spread across his features. “What?”. Steve paced back and forth, his arms flying everywhere. “That! I saw the way you were lookin’ at her, man. Those puppy eyes, the smile, kissing her fucking hand. Are you insane? Do you want a war? Because Walker’ll start one”. “Yeah and did you see the way she fucking flinched every time his hands were on her? She looked like she wanted to hurl. I’m telling you Steve, there’s something not right here”. Steve stopped in front of him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s none of our business, man”. Bucky wrenched the car door open and slipped inside. “Somethin’ isn’t right, Steve. I’m gonna find out what it is. That girl’s in trouble”.

Steve huffed and made his way around to the other side. Once settled he ran his hands over his face. “What’dya wanna do?”. Bucky turned to his friend, his mind going a million miles an hour. “I don’t know yet, but I need to find out what’s goin’ on. She looked so scared, man”. Steve just nodded, he wasn’t going to be able to stop Bucky and he wasn’t going to try. The way he looked at her…Steve knew he was going to fall in love with her…and he was playing a dangerous game.

[novankenn]

"Ozpin's Fault AU"

Headmaster has Headache (1/1) (770 Words)

(Tumblr exclusive "Remake" of Oops My Bad posted on AO3)

Ozpin groaned, as he felt as if Ms Xiao Long and Ms Valkyrie were having a wack-a-grimm contest in his head. With his eyes still closed, he forced his aching and oddly cold body to roll over on to his back. Once flat on his back, he slowly opened his eyes and quickly shut them again as the morning light flooded in, not to mention that everything in his vision seemed to be swimming.

"That's it." he moaned, as he rolled onto his side. "No more Vacuoing my coffee... damn you Ironwood."

Ozpin knew it wasn't right to really blame the General for his choice of stress relieving activity, but still it felt good to blame someone, other than himself. With another groan, he rose to his knees and finally opened his eyes fully. Everything still swam, but was also completely out of focus.

"Glasses... need my glasses..." he muttered to himself as he set about searching the floor about him for the necessary accessory. "There they are."

With his eyewear firmly back where they belonged, he looked about. He was still in his office, and from the pretty much empty bottle of Mistralian whisky nearby, he knew he had over indulged.

"I can't let Qrow..." Ozpin paused, his thought processes slowly kicking into gear. "No, it's Glynda that I have to avoid finding out about this, not Qrow. He wouldn't care."

Ozpin leaned back, arching his spine and getting a satisfying pop, that instantly made him feel much less stiff. Rolling his shoulders, he placed his hands against his thighs and started to rise to his feet, only to stop when he realized that his hands were touching his bare thighs.

"Am I seriously only in my underwear?" he asked himself, "Wait! Nope, because they are over by my bookcase."

Sighing, he rose and just ignored the breeze on his nether area as he began to move about his office, picking up and putting on his various pieces of discarded clothing. Once clothed, he located his cane, and turned on his coffee maker. While it brewed, he made a quick trip to his attached bathroom to relieve his aching bladder, and freshen up.

Returning a few minutes later, he picked up the bottle, and a discarded book near the window that overlooked the garden. Depositing the bottle in the recycling bin, he placed the book on his desk and went to pour himself a mug of coffee. With the proper additions of creamer, and sugar, he took his first sip and nearly moaned.

"Libations of the Gods." he whispered to himself, before taking a second sip and letting the warm caffeinated goodness flow through him.

Carefully setting his mug on his desk, he took the next few minutes digging about his desk drawers until he located a small bottle of painkillers. Popping two into his mouth, he swallowed the capsules before taking a seat, and sighing for like the umpteenth time that morning.

Ignoring the book, he took several more sips of coffee, before powering up his holographic terminal.

"No word from Glynda, so maybe nothing out of the ordinary happened last night... lucky me."

Checking through his messages, and alerts, he saw everything was clear, and after a few more sips, he prepared to suffer through the rest of his day. As he began to sift through the messages from council about the Vytal festival preparations; his eyes drifted to the book he had picked up from the floor.

Deciding the council could wait for another five minutes, he reached over and pulled the well-worn leather-bound tome before him. As he looked at the very plain look manuscript, something in the back of his mind began to fight to see the light of day. Ozpin's eyes narrowed, as possible memories floated past his still hungover mind.

Picking the book up, he turned it about in his hands. It was definitely a Pre-Great War artifact, which wasn't unusual. He had several similar looking and aged books in his private collection. See as there was no title on the cover, he set it down and opened it. His eyes grew wide when he saw the title.

“TRANSMUTATION! THE GAG OF A LIFETIME!”

"Fucking shitcakes" he groaned as his shoulders drooped, and his eyes closed, trying to shut out the title of the book. Somehow, at some point, he knew he was going to hear about something having happened. Slamming the cover closed, he pulled open the large bottom drawer of his desk and dumped the book into it.

"I never saw that book, it does not exist. I did nothing."

[itsmeimcathy]

{ klarolineauseason } - week 6: crossovers/fusions

The Good Place AU. Caroline opens her eyes and finds herself alone in a non-descript waiting room with no memory of how she got there. A soft elevator music masks the awkward silence, and in front of her, on an otherwise empty wall, there's a green writing: Welcome! Everything is fine.

It doesn't look that fine to her.

A man named Silas welcomes her inside a boring beige and brown office that could belong anywhere: there are potted plants and pretty paintings and it just feels as if someone has decored it to calm and reassure its guests. The man keeps smiling and making off-kilter jokes, and in the end Caroline remembers her life and understands that 1) she's dead, 2) this is the afterlife, and 3) according to her previous moral conduct when she was alive, she has apparently scored the best part of it, that is - the Good Place.

Except, how did she end up there? She's pretty sure there must be a mistake - an identity swap - since all of the informations Silas has about her are wrong. But she's not about to turn down this gift and risk ending up in hell, right?

Silas walks her through the neighborhood where she will spend the rest of her eternity, shows her her house - a small monstrosity filled with clown paintings, a clear evidence of that fact that someone else was supposed to be there - and introduces her to her assigned soulmate, Enzo, and the couple living in the mansion nearby, Klaus and Katherine.

And as time passes and life in the supposedly peaceful afterlife becomes progressively worse, Caroline is even more certain that it's because of her - plus, she can't help but being drawn by not-her-soulmate Klaus, and this can't be happening, right?

Hopefully, if they work together and help each other she can avoid an eternity in the Bad Place...

*****

"Welcome to the Good Place. Sponsored by: otters holding hands while they sleep. You know the way you feel when you see a picture of two otters holding hands? That's how you're gonna feel every day."

[The Good Place, season 1, episode 1]

*****

"I'm not supposed to be here."

Klaus rolls his eyes, decadently sipping the bland whisky they have been served. "Of course not, sweetheart. It's such a lovely party and yet you dragged me to a broom closet..."

"No, you don't understand," Caroline hisses, raising on her toes to whisper against his ear - he tries to ignore the shudder that follows. "I don't belong here - in the Good Place. That's why everything is messed up and Silas is stressed out and I made shrimps rain! And I can't even do anything because Bonnie is always nearby-"

"Did you call?"

They both jump, turning to the mysterious entity - not a human, not a robot - whose only purpose seems to be accomodating their needs and/or potentialy spying on them. Her sudden apparition has made the closet all the more cramped, squishing them together.

"No, Bonnie, thank you. You may go," Caroline tells her wearily.

The - Bonnie - continues to smile brightly. "Okay." And she's gone.

Caroline puts some space between them as she glares at him, in a see-what-did-i-tell-you kind of way.

But Klaus is frowning, evidently thinking back to what she has just told him. "What do you mean, you don't belong here?" He keeps a low tone of voice, for which she's grateful. "And why are you telling me this, instead of - your soulmate, for example? Aren't you afraid I might go to Silas?"

He then blinks, perplexed, when Caroline puts her hand inside her dress - rummaging around her décolleté - until she fishes a folded note and hands it to him, nervous. "This is why."

Klaus abandons his glass on a shelf near the door and carefully opens the note, fingers smoothing the paper with her pretty handwriting on it.

Caroline - find Klaus.

She twists her fingers as she waits for his reaction, hoping that her past self had made the right choice in pushing her towards this man - a man who wasn't even her own soulmate, according to what Silas claimed. Not that Enzo wasn't great, but there was something in the back of her mind that kept nagging at her and made her question everything.

Caroline just wishes that he has the answer she's looking for, because otherwise she might just resign herself to the fact that she's going crazy in her life after death.

She speaks again before he has the chance to. "I think - something may have happened here, and I lost my memories, but before that I left myself that message. And honestly I feel that it's the only thing that makes sense, for me to trust you, so I'm with my gut feeling on this. And, and... I'm scared, okay, I don't want to end in the Bad Place, and I don't know what to do, and it seems like you have your life - or, well, death - together. So, that's why I'm here."

They remain in silence for a few agonizing seconds, looking at each other, Klaus holding the note close as if it were something precious instead of a random scrap of paper. A muscle twitches in his jaw and suddenly his hands grab her shoulders, delicately, drawing her near.

"Caroline, love, take a deep breath," he instructs, speaking softly. "Now, listen carefully - there is no need to be scared. I'm on your side, alright? We're friends. And I think you're right - something is definitely wrong here, because I can remember my life perfectly well and I assure you that I am not supposed to spend eternity in paradise."

Caroline widens her eyes, caught off guard. "What - you too? How is that possible? And how, how..." She stutters, on the verge of a panic attack. "Are they going to punish us when they find out?"

His thumbs are drawing small circles on her skin in a soothing way. "None of us will end up in the Bad Place if I can prevent it, sweetheart. Look - we should probably go back to the party, in case our soulmates or Silas are wondering where we are, and then we'll meet up later to discuss it, okay?"

She nods, biting her lips. "Yeah, sure, that's a good idea. I mean, it's not as if the neighborhood is falling apart, right? Mistakes happen all the time, why would heaven be any different?"

Klaus tries to smother a smirk. "Yes, exactly. Are you feeling a bit better?"

"I mean, I'm already dead, what's worse?" Then she closes her eyes, wincing. "Wait, don't answer that."

He smiles a bit, fondly, then takes a step back and slips her note in the inside pocket of his jacket. "Let's go now. Meet me afterwards at the lake behind our houses?"

Caroline nods again, then grabs his sleeve before he can open the door. "Klaus - thank you."

His answering smile keeps playing in the back of her mind for the rest of the evening, quieting her inner turmoil and making her feel hopeful for the first time since she has woken up in this place.

Too bad he wasn't her soulmate - right?

[kinnenvy]

qaf drabble #1

early season 3 break up small little drabble that i need out of my drafts :) , brian centric

Brian is on his third cigarette and his second beer. It’s Wednesday and Woody's tightly packed, but Brian's head is too all over the place to truly pay attention to the crowd around him. Not about its quantity nor its quality.

Unfortunately, despite his inability to acknowledge his surroundings, all the whispering happening around him easily reaches his ears. He can't escape the judgment being directed his way. Callous words about how tired, how haggard he looks, how dispirited and pale. How the god of Liberty avenue has stumbled and fallen to the depths of the worst kind of hell. Lonely and apathetic and too tired to hide himself behind his shell of glamour and charm.

He lights a fourth cigarette and instead of a third beer he gets himself a glass of whisky.

"Hey… Brian." Someone sitting on his left strikes a conversation, or at least tries to. Brian glances at him and hums. "Do you remember me? We… Met at Babylon last Sunday." 

Brian rarely remembers, but he looks back at him anyway. The mole on the skin beneath his eye vaguely reminds him of the backroom, of loud music filtering through the air and mingling with Justin's voice in Brian's ears.

He's the last guy they've had together and Brian is not sure whether he wants to fuck him or make sure to never see him again.

He doesn't try to do either, he just goes back to gazing into his drink and smoking his cigarette.

"We've been looking everywhere for you!" Ted and Emmett appear out of thin air and unknowingly save him from finally giving in and taking the guy home, just to hear his voice, look at his mole and pretend there's three of them in his bed.

"Yeah, it's pecs night at Babylon, what are you doing here?" Emmett sits beside him in a way that’s entirely too deliberate. He very openly reaches for Ted's hand, he glances at Brian in a way that he probably thinks must be subtle, and joins their fingers together, likely expecting Brian to point and sneer at them just to distract himself. Brian has to look away instead.

He picks at the damp label on one of his empty beer bottles, he stays there until it’s deep into the night and waits, he's not sure for what.

"This new account is bullshit." Brian groans in the agency corridors, Cynthia snickers and rolls her eyes as she walks next to him fidgeting with all the new documents they've acquired in the meeting.

"Why would they launch a new cassette player in 2003? And why do they expect them to sell?" She, as she often does, speaks out Brian's exact thoughts.

"I don't know and it's coming from one of our oldest accounts, so I can't even tell them to fuck off. They better pay me before they go bankrupt." He massages his temples and wipes off some of the tinted moisturizer he's started packing over his face. Wordlessly Cynthia helps him fix the patch of skin he's uncovered and Brian slams the door of his office harder than he should because of it.

Two days later a copy about nostalgia comes across his desk: You only know what you'll miss, once it's already gone. The accompanying images of Walkmans knockoffs and cassettes don't do much to divert his thoughts from blond hair and blue eyes.

When Brian comes home that afternoon he notices his wardrobe only has his clothes in it, he scans the loft and it takes him just a superficial glance to be able to tell that Justin sneaked in during his office hours and took away most of his things. His eyes linger on the computer and the graphics tablet he got him still sitting where he last left it. 

There's a feeling he'd rather not describe sinking to the pit of his stomach, it reaches so low inside him that Brian convinces himself his only choice is to bounce back and start looking up again.

He cleans up and for the first night since the Rage party, he wears his best fuck clothes and skips Woody's to get himself right to the backrooms.

The next logical step is to steal Michael away from his quiet evenings with Ben and let him distract him from the turmoil inside him. Allow his company to patch him up and hold him together, like he used to do when his dad got too drunk and Brian had to wear bruises for weeks, when his mom was too distracted by her own listlessness, to realize Brian needed her comfort.

"We can't stay too long, Ben has to wake up early tomorrow." Michael shouts in Brian's ear so he can hear him over the music and the yelling happening on the Babylon dancefloor. From this close he can see he still has a dark spot around his left eye from the blow he delivered to his face, without thinking Brian traces it with the tips of his fingers.

"What? The professor's working on a Saturday morning?" He asks, mostly just to fill the silence that can't be hidden by the loud bass beating and pulsating in the air around them.

"He's got a check up at the hospital." Michael says it like it's nothing special, but Brian has always been able to see right through him with ease. They dance a little closer after that, their hands gripping tightly each other's clothes.

"You better take him home then. It's already time for my scheduled backroom appearance anyway." Brian pushes him away only a handful of minutes later, Michael looks up at him and pats his shoulder.

"Listen, I know I behaved like an ass… But be careful, okay? Don't let this whole thing drag you down." Michael says, but can't look directly into his eyes anymore. Brian knows his outburst during Linds and Mel's party is still haunting him, even though letting his emotions get the best of him is Michael's specialty, just like hiding them is Brian's.

"What thing?" Brian furrows his eyebrows and shrugs, feigning ignorance, "I've never felt better."

"...Right." Michael releases a sigh between exasperated and amused, then kisses Brian's cheek and walks back to the bar where Ben, Emmett and Ted are deep into conversation.

Brian watches until all four of them decide to leave and start moving towards the wardrobe. Emmett looks back into the crowd one last time and raises a hand to wave at him, Brian raises his chin to acknowledge him, then he turns on his heels and lets himself be dragged away by the first man who hits on him.

Things slowly start to settle again. Brian stops paying short, blond twinks to wear baggy clothes and lay flat on his bed, while he rams them from behind. Hopefully soon he'll also stop seeing Justin in every trick he brings home.

For now he's cursed to see his face every time someone begs for his cock. Also whenever he steps into the diner.

Brian is starting to question the amount of money he's spending to put him through school, considering how he seems to be working every shift from Monday through Friday. He doesn't comment on it though, or on anything else, and he purposely gives his order to another server.

He's started going to tanning salons again, he's cut his hair and he is generally looking much better than he did weeks ago. Despite all of that, he keeps his sunglasses on, not wanting Justin's furtive glances to see anything he isn't supposed to. Also to shield himself from seeing how little his own ailments seem to be reflected in his inquisitive blue gaze.