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tpwkay · 4 years

Text

Medicine (h.s.)

You’re finally given permission to cover the song you’ve wanted to perform for years and a special surprise during your performance sweeps you off of your feet.

Word count: 11.5k

Rating/warnings: NSFW - A lot of this is plot but there is smut as well. Contains explicit language and consensual sex acts between a man and woman. This is a story written in the 2nd person (“self insert"). This isn’t written to be exclusionary, it’s just my preferred style! Author’s note can be found at the end!

"Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot thank you enough for coming out tonight to listen to me and the band. We've got a couple more songs coming up for you but I just wanted to take a minute to tell y'all how much we appreciate you." You gesture to yourself and the band behind you as the lights on stage come up a bit. "We wouldn't be where we are without your support. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you!"

The crowd cheers and you can't help but experience an insurmountable feeling of joy. It never gets old. You'd been in the spotlight for a few years now, already at the end of touring your second album, though the size and scope of venues this time around was much, much larger. There was nothing that compared to being able to sing your own songs and have a crowd of thousands scream them right back at you.

Being an up-and-coming singer and songwriter in the genre of country music hadn't been easy. Girls your type had been a dime a dozen, hoards of Taylor Swift-wannabes covering "Teardrops on My Guitar" during open mic night. You held nothing against them; there was a path to success for everyone, but yours had been, well, different.

It was a karaoke cover of Brooks & Dunn's "Boot Scootin' Boogie", a song that you'd been singing since you were a toddler, that had gotten you noticed by a recording artist one night while out with your girlfriends, which led you to where you stand now, performing in front of thousands. You were liked for the range of your voice, with it's easy easy transitions from the sounds of pop to country and rock, in addition to the way you performed, and your take-no-shit attitude towards the entirety of the industry. People liked that you were forward and left nothing on the table, though you had to admit that it was mostly an act, a means of coping with the pressure of working your way to the top.

///

"It's refreshing!" Jax, your manager, had shouted one day, arms flailing as you had argued that maybe your attitude was going to get you into trouble one of these days.

"Aren't you, as, you know, my manager, supposed to be the one keeps me in line?"

"You aren't out doing coke, killing anyone, public indecency and all that," he had shrugged. "Far as I'm concerned, you are in line. People talk about you because of your attitude. They like it! They like you. Why is that so hard for you to accept sometimes?"

"Maybe I just haven't been caught doing those things," you grinned, effectively dodging his question. Fame hadn't helped break down the walls that you'd long ago built around yourself. If anything, you had done some reinforcing, built a moat even, in an effort to ensure that you protected yourself from getting too close to anyone that would only end up using you in the end. You had seen the way people in life had been used, and what it ultimately led them to, and you had promised yourself long ago that even if it meant being known as the Boot Scootin' Bitch, you would protect yourself and your heart at all costs.

"Your momma would tan your hide for much less than any of those, you know. Hell, you should be more afraid of her than you are of me or anyone else… 'cept maybe God."

///

You shake your head, working the memories free from your mind as you grab a bottle of water from the platform on which the drum set rests.

There's one more song of yours to sing before you performed a new cover, the one you had been looking forward to for months. Although you'd gotten permission to perform it not long into the start of your tour, the set list had been rehearsed already and every other detail ironed out around it. You'd convinced Jax and the crew to let you slot it into the last concert of the tour, Austin, Texas. These folks knew their music and for some reason, they liked you so you were thrilled to be able to share something new with the crowd that had welcomed you to their city with open arms.

You grab your guitar off its stand and slide the strap over your shoulders, adjusting it as you step forwards to the mic stand. A shimmering blue shirt catches your eye in the crowd and you do a double take because surely it can't be Harry because he's—

And it's not him, of course, though the fashion of the gentleman in the pit area would surely catch his eye as well as it's right up his alley. It's not him - it can't be him - because you know exactly where he is right now and it's not in the pit of your Austin performance.

A grin stretches over your face as you think of him. You strum the first chord of the first song you'd ever written about him, although there had been many more since. He probably knew this one was about him, having come just after your first meeting.

///

A friend of yours was good friends with Kacey, who had been the guest artist that night. Her name had been added to the VIP list and in the summer of 2018, just as you were hitting your own stride in your career, you tagged along with her to Harry Styles' live tour performance in your hometown of Nashville.

If you were being honest, prior to his concert, you hadn't heard much of his solo work, apart from the various huge hits like his Kiwi or Watermelon Sugar and a few other ballads. You liked his sound, seemingly influenced heavily by rock stars of days past, but you'd had other influences to worry about in your own side of the industry.

Sure, he had country music connections through the likes of Kacey Musgraves and Cam, and legends like Stevie Nicks, but his pop and soft rock style was pretty far removed from most country playlists that you yourself had graced. Your genres just didn't cross paths and the two of you seemingly operated in different realms of the music industry, topping your own charts and breaking your own peer's records.

Of course, you hadn't been completely oblivious to The Harry Styles. One Direction had been too big of a deal to ignore and you'd often found yourself bopping along to their old hits, singing along as they played amongst the other nostalgic pop hits to which you listened.

The concert had been in June, a hot sunny day followed by a perfect breezy evening. Downtown Nashville was always busy, but that night the city seemed to buzz, bright with music and life. After meeting for drinks at Acme on the River, you allowed yourself to luxuriate in getting lost in the crowd that milled about on Broadway. It was a surprising thing to not be recognized in your hometown, but you weren't one to complain about it. It was one reason that you value your time in Nashville over other music-centric cities like Los Angeles - it seemed that people here respected the private lives of musicians. There was an odd fan here and there, but you'd lived a majority of your "famous" life in Nashville in relative peace.

You were early to the venue, your friend having wanted to have a chance to see Kacey backstage. You were excited to finally meet the star - though you'd been around the block of fame a bit already, there would always be people that you never had an opportunity to meet in passing. You had been greeted at will call and had been led backstage.

The arena was alive with excitement. At that point, you yourself had never toured a venue that large, so the experience of being backstage and seeing the operations first hand were thrilling and a bit overwhelming. In her dressing room, Kacey pulled you straight into a hug, gushing about how excited she was to watch your career take off. She insisted on sharing her personal cell phone number with you, urging you to call her to get together on a collaboration. You were in shock leaving her room, blown away by her kindness and the way the music industry worked in the most bizarre of ways, when you turned a corner and ran smack into a tall, solid, smiling Harry Styles. His arms had come out quickly to steady you on your heels boots.

"Fuck," you swore, shaking your head at your clumsiness. "I am so sorry. What a great way to introduce myself."

He laughed and the sound flowed through you, warm and sweet like a cup of tea with honey. "Y'alright?" His eyes looked you over, and you couldn't help but notice the way they lingered.

Your cheeks blushed and a wave of embarrassment washed over you. "I'm the one that should be asking you that. I don't think your adoring fans would be very happy if I took you out with a textbook tackle right before you're due to go on stage." You took a moment to give him the same appreciative glance he had already given you, admiring the way his deep blue custom-beaded suit jacket fell open to reveal a black dress shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

"Ah, 'm fine. Lil' thing like you couldn't do too much damage to me, even in those heels. Don't think they'd be very happy though," he said, nodding his head in acknowledgement of the already-rowdy crowd while offering his hand. "I'm Harry."

You laughed as you introduced yourself, shaking his hand.

"I've heard that name before, but I'm sorry to say that I don't recognize you. You don't seem like one that's easy to forget."

"I sing, write music," you shrugged, not sure how to explain to a superstar that you were on the way up, yet still somewhere much farther down the fame totem pole than him. "Country, mostly. Not sure if that's on your radar."

"The new stuff's not, but I may have to change that." He was tapped by one of the event producers, needed for another pre-show procedure. "Where will you be tonight?"

"To your right, in the pit."

He smiled and you had almost immediately fallen in love with the crinkles that appeared under the corners of his eyes. "I'll look out for you. It was wonderful meeting you. Oh, shit, wait, just remembered— may I?" he gestured for the phone that was in your hand and you unlocked it before passing it to him.

You watched as he dialed a number and put the phone to his ear. He paused for a moment before he grinned. "Hi Harry, it's you from before the show. This is a message to remind you to text this number and ask the owner of it out on a date. She's the one with the beautiful smile and great tackling skills. You won"t have forgotten her. 'Kay, bye!"

You laughed at an almost embarrassing volume, blown away by his cheek.

"Why not ask 'her' out now?" you pondered to him as he handed the phone back.

"What, and risk getting shot down? Wouldn't want to be sad and disappointed through my whole show, now would I?"

"It would make the ballads a bit more emotional," you had reasoned with a grin.

"Ouch! They're already filled with emotion, love. You'll see, I'll sing 'em right to you if I have to. Gotta run, thank you for letting me use your phone, that was a very important message!"

You laughed again as he took off. "Harry!" you had shouted to get his attention in the busy hall. He turned quickly, a small smile on his face. "She definitely won't say no, but you can wait until later to ask if you want to."

His grin stretched wider and he'd pumped a fist in the air before turning and jogging down the hallway.

You liked to joke with anyone who knew the story that your life had changed that day all because you met Kacey. Which wasn't a complete lie - it had been her dressing room you'd come out of before slamming into Harry in the hallway.

///

Singing the last lines of one of your songs, your stomach began to flutter in a bit of nervousness and a lot of excitement. Performing the next cover was something you had been looking forward to for months, and the moment that you got to share it with your fans was finally here.

You retreat from the mic stand to pass your guitar off to a stagehand, taking another sip of water to settle yourself.

"Doing alright?" Wyatt, your drummer, shouts over the pounding bass drum and you give him a thumbs up before turning back to face the crowd.

"I've got one more cover to play for y'all tonight," you say, grasping the mic stand to keep your hands from shaking. "I've been working on getting permission to play this one for quite awhile now. I fell in love with it the first time I heard it played and now here I am, performing it for you all. It's an unreleased piece by a very, very good friend of mine, but his performances of it are all over the internet so some of you may know the words. This song is called Medicine."

The song starts out with a steady bass line and the rhythm centers you a bit, steadying any nerves that still linger. The intro gives you a minute to shake out your shoulders and get comfortable at the mic stand once more like Harry does at each performance. You catch yourself having fun mimicking him and feel thankful that you're able to perform one of your favorite songs of his. When the bass drops in pitch and the electric guitar riffs, you slide in close to the mic stand.

"Here to take my medicine, take my medicine," you sang the opening lines, already settling into the sexy rock sound of the song you and the band had rehearsed relentlessly over the last few weeks. No, the genre wasn't one you normally dabbled in, but part of the fun of performing was taking chances, risks. You had to admit, you liked the sound a lot. It tempted you to branch out a bit more on your upcoming album.

The opening lines of the first verse throw you back into thoughts of meeting Harry that first night. You hadn't imagined what would follow the concert, let alone have the foresight to see it bringing you to this very moment in time.

///

You had been standing outside the arena after the concert, ears buzzing and heart thumping still from the incredible show Harry had put on. As soon as he disappeared from the backstage hall earlier, you had immediately saved his number to your phone, still in disbelief over the night's events.

Your heart had soared when your phone began to vibrate, not in a text message but in a voice call. Harry's name appeared on the screen and your friend had nudged you, clearly approving of the night's turn of events.

"Harry," you answered, ready to praise him halfway to Sunday on his performance.

"Let me take you out," he interrupted you. "Right now. Please? Anywhere you want to go."

You laughed and paused. "Yeah, okay. I might know of a place."

There was a lot of shuffling on his end before his voice came back on the line. "Might've had to do another fist pump."

"Told you she wouldn't say no."

"Where are you?" You heard the smile in his voice, already familiar with it.

"Demonbreun and John Lewis, headed towards the park."

"Give me 10, I'll pick you up." He paused. "Be careful, okay?"

"I'll stick with the hoards of your fans milling about, maybe ask some of them for the hot gossip on you while I wait."

"Don't believe anything they say," he said, and you could tell he was still smiling as he hung up.

He and his driver arrived shortly after, Harry's hair damp and covered with a baseball cap, dressed down in black pants and a simple loose white shirt, tattoos peeking out everywhere you looked. He exited the car and opened the back door for you, helping you balance as you stepped up into the large Suburban.

"We'll go to Pecker's," you said to his driver, laughing as Harry snorted next to you. "Shut up, it's just a bar. Take a right up here onto 24 and it'll take us all the way to Fairfield. It'll be on the right."

He looked at you and smiled before reaching out to hold your hand in the middle seat between you.

Taking Harry to Pecker's had just felt right. It was where you'd been discovered, where all of your adventures had started, and you weren't sure why but you wanted to share that small part of you with him after watching him up on stage that night.

"Won't people recognize you? I looked you up before the show, you're apparently a pretty big deal around here." He had asked, smirking, sipping on the locally-brewed beer that Clint, the regular bartender, was serving that night.

"Locals are pretty good about not interrupting our normal lives. Pecker's isn't as well known to tourists either, so it's a good hideout. This is where a lot of producers, executives and all the other professionals come to unwind." You ignored his comment on your fame and had taken a sip of your margarita instead. "Unless, of course, there's a drag show scheduled, then it's a bit of a madhouse."

Harry laughs into his drink and you grin. "So," he started after a pause, twiddling with the rings on his right hand. "What'd you think?"

"It was incredible," you said without hesitation. "Truly one of the best live shows I've seen in a long time, country acts included. You've got such a magnetism about you that people can't help but want to watch." You blushed a bit, alcohol and the quick comfort of him loosening your lips. "The whole water spraying trick was hot," you admit, making him blush. "And don't tell Stevie, but I think I might prefer your version of The Chain."

"Sacrilege! That's some incredibly high praise," he said, a small smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

"Earned and deserved," you said, tilting your glass to his. "Honestly, Harry, you're an incredible musician. There aren't many out there that have the whole package like that."

"What about you? You seem like the whole package."

"I don't know if I'd say that. If you looked me up, you've likely seen what they say about me. 'My attitude won't get me far' and all. But I don't think it's my attitude, so much as it is my willingness to take the risks that others won't. I'm not out here to make music that's just there to be sold. Hell, I couldn't care less about the money. All I want is to create music that makes me feel fulfilled, and I think that honesty scares them." You twirled your finger in the condensation of the glass in front of you. You glanced up to his face finding his eyes already on yours, holding your gaze steadily. "It doesn't scare you, does it?"

"It's the most refreshing thing I've heard in a while. Not many people in the industry are fearless in the face of failure like that."

"I'm definitely not fearless; I just refuse to change who I am to make a buck."

"Who are you then?" Harry had asked, and telling him your story was easy. You couldn't understand how it was so natural, opening up to a stranger, but as the conversation wore on, you realized how similar you and Harry were in terms of the way you conducted your professional lives and that was without apology.

And you also realized, as the evening continued and you and Harry crept your bar stools closer and closer to one another, feet and knees bumping, his fingers tracing the ridges of your knuckles as you shared life stories like long lost friends, that you didn't want it to end.

///

"He's acting like a gentleman," you continue, changing up the lyrics slightly as you finish the first verse. The line always made you smile and you let yourself briefly flash back into your reminiscing about the night you'd met Harry, and how, even though he had acted gentlemanly upon dropping you off for the evening, you wanted to be anything but a gentlewoman.

///

After enjoying drinks late into the evening at Pecker's, Harry had insisted on having his driver take you home rather than allowing you to call an Uber.

"Such a gentleman," you commented as he opened the car door for you once again.

"Maybe my gentlemanly actions have motives," he said, sliding his hand along your lower back as you step past him and into the car. Your grin matched his smirk as he shut the door and you decided that he'd been right - not calling an Uber was the right thing to do.

The car ride back to your apartment building was too quick and before you knew it, he was at your door again, offering a hand for you to hold for balance as you exited the car. Neither of you let go as you walked through the lobby towards the elevators.

"You're uh— You're welcome to come up, if you'd like," you said, suddenly shy but not wanting to chicken out on asking for what you wanted, asking for some continuation of this sweet but likely brief meeting between you two. "For a drink, I mean, or to keep chatting, you know."

Harry smiled and glanced around the empty lobby. His hand in yours smoothed up the length of your arm, over your shoulder, and came to rest at your jaw. "I'd love to, believe me. You have no idea how much I want to." He leaned towards you, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead and your skin burned at the contact of his lips. "But I want to do this the right way. Don't want you to get the wrong idea of me."

"What if I want the wrong idea of you?"

He laughed, the sound open and honest and it had given you hope. "You called me a gentleman earlier and I have to admit that I liked it, coming from you. Would like to keep up the facade that I am, even if it's just for a bit." His face searched yours, each of you trying to read the thoughts that were flying through one another's minds. "You have beautiful lips," he whispered suddenly, his accent thicker than it had been all night.

Your mouth quirked into a smile, unable to do anything but preen at his compliment. "You do too," you replied, just as softly.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Please, yes." Before the words had settled he was kissing you, slowly and with too much care, like you would break if he wasn't gentle enough. It was over much too quick but you knew you would remember every moment of it for the rest of your life.

"Christ, I'd wanted to do that all night." His thumb smoothed over your cheekbone, smiling when you leaned into the touch. He glanced up as the elevator doors swung open and gently nudged you towards them. "Thank you, truly, for a wonderful evening. I promise to give you a call soon."

"I'll send Kacey after you if you don't!" you laughed, stepping into the lift.

"Good night darling." He winked and the doors slid shut, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the delicious ghost of his lips on yours.

///

"Give me that adrenaline, that adrenaline, think I'm gonna stick with you," you finish the first verse as Ryann rips through the chords on her guitar. You loved that the song built slowly, and even though that meant a quieter beginning, it promised an explosive end.

Though the crowd had been hesitant at first, you can see that the first few rows of them are nodding along, countless phones out recording the performance. You know that somewhere out there at your request is a member of your press team, professionally filming the cover. You may only be doing it once, but you were determined to make sure you would never forget it.

///

You had enough time at home to check some of your social media accounts, shower and get comfortable in bed before your phone rang again. For the second time that day, your heart soared seeing Harry's name light up your screen.

"If you're going to say that you're downstairs because you've reconsidered my offer for that nightcap, I'll need a few moments to prepare as I'm currently in my pajamas," you said as a greeting and you were met with his warm laughter once again.

"No, no, I had to go back to the arena for a bit anyways, pack up and all of that," he said, still chuckling. "I just— I wanted to make sure you weren't offended by me declining your offer. Because I wanted to— I didn't want the night to end there. There's something about you that's… Transfixing. And I don't want to ruin that and make you think you're just a fling."

"That's quite a compliment," you said, a bit awed by his words.

"What was it you said earlier, "earned and deserved", yeah?" He said, quoting your toast to him at the bar, making you grin. "I want you to be more than that. I'd like to get to know you, the gentlemanly way."

"Okay. Will we have a chaperone at our next date then?" He laughed but didn't correct your referral to that evening as a date. You had snuggled a bit deeper into the sheets, still disbelieving that all of this had been the result of being dragged along to a concert.

"No chaperones," he chuckled, "but yes, I do want to take you out again, if you'd let me."

"Hmm," you jokingly pondered aloud, as if answering with anything other than a resounding "yes" was on your mind. "I suppose I could fit something into my schedule."

"I hope that's a yes."

"Of course it's a yes! I didn't want the night to end either. And don't you dare say that you just did another fist pump," you had laughed, hearing the familiar shuffling of the phone on his end of the line.

"Me? Never!"

"You're adorable," you had said, a smile stuck on your face.

"And you're beautiful. Two can play this game."

There had been a comforting silence between you for a moment before you had spoken up again. "Harry?"

"Yeah, love?"

You had blushed at the pet name but loved the way it sounded being directed your way. "Thank you," you had whispered.

"Should be me thanking you. Sleep well sweetheart." You'd fallen asleep with your phone in hand, hopeful that you wouldn't wake up the next morning to realize it had all been a dream.

///

It hadn't been a dream, and here you were, nearly two years later, performing one of the songs that Harry himself had sung the night that you'd begun falling for him.

The second verse continued quickly and you let the lyrics wash over you as you sang, loving the way the rock energy of the song sounded with a bit of your band's country influence.

"Here to take my medicine, take my medicine, rest it on your fingertips," you sang, holding your pointer finger in the air much like Harry did every time he performed the song before bringing it to your lips as you sang the next line. "Up to your mouth, feeling it out, feeling it out."

///

Beginning to date Harry - properly date him too, not just make FaceTime calls to one another from across the world and sending texts back and forth until the wee hours of the morning thanks to the differences in time zones, sharing everything and more with one another as best you could digitally - had been the most exhilarating experience of your life, and you had performed in front of sold out crowds and accepted awards on live television. His tour was due to stretch on for almost another month throughout North America and the next time you saw him was when you'd been invited as Harry's guest to his show in Chicago just a few weeks after you'd met.

While he had put on an incredible show for the United Center, there had been moments that felt like he was performing just for you, glancing over to where you stood in the Friends and Family area, meeting your eyes and grinning. By that point, you could sing along to every song of his and you knew he loved it, loved watching you dance along to the music that he had created and was performing.

In a moment where you were thankful for the differences between the genres in which you two performed, you hadn't been recognized at all by his fans. You'd both talked about wanting to keep things quiet as you got to know one another, and you hadn't wanted a relationship with him, an already incredibly famous artist, to somehow influence the trajectory of yours. While it had been easy when you were apart, being together without seemingly being together was difficult. Especially in that moment, when all you wanted to do was curl up into him and soak in the post-show bliss with him. Instead, you sat on the couch with him, a cushion apart from one another, holding his hand tightly while you chatted about the concert.

"Someone is gonna notice that you looked to my side of the pit constantly all night," you said and he grinned guiltily.

"I like knowing you're in the crowd," he shrugged. "Besides," he scooted closer and threw his arm around you before dragging you in close, "you look incredible, how could I not want to stare at you all night?"

"Anyone could walk in," you pointed out, watching as his eyes followed your lips.

"Just want a little taste," he said, moving in closer, "Haven't I earned a kiss from my girlfriend after all of that work up on stage?"

Your eyebrows raised in surprise as you looked at him and he seemingly realized his slip-up.

"I mean— What I meant was— Shit," he scrubbed a hand over his face but you could tell he was hiding a grin. "Wasn't exactly how I wanted to ask you, but… Will you officially be my girlfriend?"

"Yes, H. I'm all yours."

"Love it when you call me H." He pulled you in for a kiss that you both lost yourselves in, finally able to experience the feeling of one another after being denied it for so long. When a knock at the dressing room door came, Harry had to all but drag himself away from you, hair disheveled and lips swollen, scowling at the door.

You threw your head back and laughed as he stalked over and pulled it open with a flourish.

"What?"

"The hell's your issue?" you heard Mitch ask before Harry widened the door so he could see you laughing on the couch. You raised a hand in greeting and Harry's scowl deepened as Mitch chuckled, taking in both of your disheveled appearances. "Oh, shit, hey, sorry. Uh, car's ready when you are. See you tomorrow bud."

"Harry!" you chided once he'd closed the door in Mitch's face, giggles still bubbling out of your mouth. "He was just being polite."

"Interrupting arse is what he is," Harry said, sitting down and pulling you into his lap. "Where were we?"

You threw your arms around his neck and pressed your body as close to his as possible, hoping that he'd thought to lock the door before returning to your embrace. "Right about here, I think." With a hand on your hip, sliding under your shirt to reach warm skin and one at the back of your neck, Harry kissed you until you were breathless and not only wanting more but very seriously needing it.

"Come back to the hotel with me," he murmured against your lips as you ground your body down on him, reveling in the way the action made him throw his head against the back of the couch and exhale sharply.

"You sure?" Your hands smoothed over the chest of his skin, tracing the dark swallows with your fingertips as you rolled your hips.

He shuddered at the light touch and gripped your hips tightly, pressing his up as you pressed yours down and the action made you sigh, the pressure a delicious tease of what was hopefully to come. "Absolutely," he said, his grin telling you he was pleased with the noises he was causing you to make. "Want you so bad, like I won't be able to breathe right until I properly have you."

You leaned in to kiss at his neck, his shower-damp curls tickling your cheek. "The feeling is mutual. Adored watching you up on stage tonight. Have I told you yet how much I love seeing you perform?" You nuzzle at his neck, urging him to tilt his head back farther, exposing more of his skin to you.

"Yeah, you have, but tell me again," he sighed, his hands running up and down your back.

"It's like when you get on stage no one else before or after you matters," you said honestly, letting your lips against his skin hide how truthful you were really being, spilling all of your thoughts about seeing Harry up on stage. It was scary, feeling so deeply for him already. But you wanted him to know, at least in part, what it meant to be able to watch him perform. "Something about your live voice just makes my breath catch in my throat, I can't get enough of it."

Harry breathed deeply for a moment, working to center himself while you nosed at the curls around his ear and heaped praise upon him.

"It's like you connect with every person out in the crowd, like you're singing just for them. You can tell that you're having fun and people want to join you in that. They know you love the attention," you whispered and he hummed in appreciation (or agreement), the sound low in his throat. "They'd stay out there all night for if they could, screaming about how much they love you."

"And you feed into it, playing it up for them. You know exactly what you're doing when you get to act a little bit naughty up there, driving them all mad," you said with a smile.

He chuckled and you could hear and feel the sound rumble through him. "Played it up for you tonight. Did it work?"

"You mean did it make me want to jump your bones the second you came off stage? Yeah, it worked."

"Fucking hell," he said, holding you close with his hands on your butt as he stood up. "Our first time is not going to be in a dressing room so we need to go now."

He let you slide down his body and held you steady as you balanced on your legs. "Would be pretty fitting though, don't you think, given how we met and what we do?"

"Yeah, but then I'd think about it every time I was in one. You wanna torture me relentlessly?" He pulled you tight against him, kissing you once more before separating to grab his bags.

"Yeah, relentless torture sounds like something I might be into."

He glanced up at your words, eyes dark and hungry, a smirk on his lips. "Careful what you wish for, love."

///

The bass line increased behind the riff of Ryann's guitar and you leaned into the mic stand, eyes closing as you continued singing the first bridge. "I had a few, got drunk on you and now I'm wasted, and when I sleep I'm gonna dream of how you…"

There were a few fans of yours and Harry's who apparently knew the words as they helped you out, screaming the unwritten word that finished the sentence: "tasted."

///

Harry was quick to say goodbye to everyone on the team before pulling you quickly through back hallways and down quiet staircases, sneaking quick kisses when he was sure there was no one around. You were both out of breath when you finally climbed into the car, grinning like kids getting away with sneaking around.

The hotel ride was quick, mercifully, but Harry had been anything but patient, his hand at your knee creeping up slowly, closer and closer to the hem of your dress, toying with the hem while he chatted with the driver.

"I'm gonna head in first with Martin and Eric will loop around and drop you off at the side entrance. I would wait in the lobby for you but this hotel hasn't been the best in the past with uh— containing sensitive information, we'll say, so Martin will meet you on your floor to get your stuff, then bring you up. Is that okay?"

"You sound like you've done this before, Styles," you said with a wink, using humor to cover the nerves that had settled in the pit of your stomach.

He blushed and you loved knowing you got under his skin so easily. "The band used to stay here when we toured… and I was young and dumb once, yes."

"Just giving you a hard time, H."

His grin stretched as he leaned over to peck your lips once more. "See you in a minute, love."

Harry climbed out and the driver took off once again, slowly circling the block. "He's quite taken with you, you know," he said, glancing up in the rear view mirror as he parked the car at the curb. He got out and opened the door for you in the empty street then used his keycard to unlock the heavy side door of the hotel.

"Thank you," you said, both for his actions and his omission about Harry. Sure, you had talked to him as often as possible over the last weeks and had yourself been on the receiving end of his attention, but it felt validating to hear that Harry's feelings for you may have gone a bit farther than just a small crush if people around him had also noticed his behavior.

Harry's bodyguard was waiting by the elevators and escorted you to your room to gather your luggage, then led you to Harry's door.

"Car'll be around about 9 tomorrow morning, H. Flight's at 10:30." He turned to you. "I understand you have business to continue here in Chicago?"

"Yes, meetings tomorrow and then I fly back to Nashville in the evening."

"There'll be a driver ready for you tomorrow as well. He's been instructed to take you wherever you need to go and he'll stay until you depart. Have a nice evening," he nodded at Harry, who was smiling in the doorway, before departing.

"You didn't have to do that for me, I could've managed by getting an Uber," you said, stepping into the room past Harry to set your bags down and kick your shoes off.

"I didn't, was Martin's idea; says he doesn't want anything to happen to the one thing that's made me so happy these last few weeks."

"Oh yeah? I'm the one thing, huh?"

"You're everything, honestly," he replied a bit sheepishly, taking your hands in his. "Think I might like you a bit more than I already should. Lettin' my heart get a bit ahead of my head, I suppose."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," you said softly and he beamed.

He moved his hands up to cup your face, pulling you close for a sweet kiss that quickly turned insistent, heat rising between the two of you. Harry slid his hands under the hem of your shirt to rest where your spin ended and yours wrapped around his neck, dragging him down to you as you stepped behind you towards the bed. His long legs tangled with yours and you tumbled backwards, laughing as you hit the plush bed and Harry collapsed on top of you.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at you with a smile, pushing the hair that had fallen into your face aside. "Hi baby," he said softly.

"Hi."

"Missed you," he said, leaning down for another sweet kiss.

"We were apart for like, eight minutes," you giggled between his kisses, your laughter giving way to a sigh as he moved to press a kiss to your nose, your cheek, your chin.

"Doesn't matter," he breathed into the crook of your neck, pressing small open mouth kisses to the soft skin there, "Any time apart is too long."

"The two weeks left of the tour will fly by. You should enjoy them while you can."

"Wish you could come with me, love performing for you." He kissed his way across the base of your neck, collarbone to collarbone as his fingers trailed to the small straps on your shoulders. "Would you like to take this off?"

"Please," you sighed, desperate and aching for the feeling of his skin against yours.

Your first time sleeping with Harry had been exactly what you'd wanted and expected - hot and fast, admittedly over a bit more quickly than either of you had wanted, but worth the weeks of wait.

Harry's skill set hadn't ended at singing and playing instruments. If anything, his vast experience using his hands and mouth only helped him excel in other pastimes that also utilized those parts of his body. To both of your delights, he had proven his adeptness in all areas multiple times that night, and once again in the morning before he had to rush into the shower, dragging you along with him simply to get more time together before you were forced apart once again.

///

You had spent the next two months away from one another, Harry having wrapped his tour and immediately beginning work on his next album. You'd spent your own time mixed between writing and recording an upcoming single. You had already written a handful of songs that were inspired by him and you'd wondered, albeit a bit nervously, if the sentiment was shared. When he stopped in Nashville on a long layover, pushing his flight back even longer to stay with you for another night, you'd tried to pry the information out of him. Unfortunately, no amount of sexual teasing or denial had convinced him — he, however, had you singing like a canary almost immediately, teasing you in the best way about how easily you opened up for him, telling him all about the music that he had already inspired.

You had been FaceTiming him late one night weeks later, both tired from long days spent in the studio. He had suddenly gotten shy, biting at the skin around his fingernails.

"Hey, stop that. What's the matter H?"

"Wanna ask you something," he mumbled, but a smile was peeking through where his fingers were still at his lips. "Jus' don't know how to."

"Baby," you sighed, "you can ask me anything. Y'know that."

"I know, I know." He paused and took a deep breath before a wide smile stretched across his face. "Would you maybe want to come home with me this Christmas? To London? Wouldn't be for long, maybe just a couple nights, I just wanna introduce you to my mum already, she's been pestering me nonstop lately 'bout meetin' you and Gem's joined in on it now too, so it's two against one when they call and I've told them that—"

"Harry," you said chucking, trying to interrupt his nervous rambling.

"—and she actually called me Harold last time she told me to bring you 'round and that got me a bit worried so I—"

"Harry! Of course I'll come with you. I'd absolutely love to."

You met him at the airport weeks later, desperate to pull him close and kiss him silly in the confines of his darkly tinted car, but you refrained, knowing how seriously Harry took the protection of your relationship from the press. You may not have been able to see anyone straining to capture pictures of you two, but you knew there was always the chance.

It was an entirely different story, however, when he'd finally pulled the car past the mechanical gate and into his private drive. You both reached for each other immediately, arms tangled and shifter knob pressed uncomfortably against your side, but perfectly content so long as his lips were against yours.

"Fuck— I missed you— so much," he muttered between kisses. He pulled away, forehead resting against yours, sly smirk pulling at his lips. "Mum won't expect us for a few hours at least."

"What is it that you're insinuating, Mr. Styles?"

"That there's plenty of time to give you a tour around the house, that's all," he said innocently. He gave you a sweet smile before hopping out of the car and coming to the passenger side where he helped you out and picked up your bags.

You were eager to be given a house tour, more than keen to learn all of the things you could about his London life. The house was decorated in a way that made you smile - eclectic but with a definitive air of cohesive taste. It suited Harry to an absolute tee. From the artwork that decorated the walls to the mismatched but homey furniture, you could tell immediately that this was Harry's sanctuary - every inch of the home screamed his name.

"It's incredible," you said as he led you into the largest room, the master. He walked over to the dresser that sat under the window and pulled open the top two drawers.

"I know we won't be here long, this time around, but I cleaned out a few drawers for you here, if you want to unpack some things. And there's space in the closet for you too," he nodded towards the door on the other side of the room, dragging a hand through his hair as he talked, "I had too much in there anyways and some of it needed to go and I wanted you to be able to leave some things, if you felt comfortable, of if Mum drags us out shopping and you don't want to take it all home now you can leave it here and-"

"You- you cleared out a drawer for me?"

"Well, yeah," he said, resting his hand on the back of his neck. "Made some space for you in the bathroom too, though I doubt it'll be enough, with all that you bring along to fix yourself up." He paused and thought for a moment. "I know how our lives are. I just wanted you to have some of your own space here; want you to feel as comfortable in my home as I do. Is that too much?"

"H," you said with a sigh, your lips curling into a smile, "it's perfect, and so thoughtful. I'm sorry I haven't done the same for you in Nashville yet."

"'s alright, love. I've already got a toothbrush there at least. I can take some time when we fly back to come and help if you'd like me to. As long as you don't end up wearing all the clothes that I leave there," he chuckled.

"You know me too well," you said, reaching for his hand. He lifted your entwined fingers to his lips to brush a kiss over your knuckles.

"You do look good in my clothes," he confessed, pulling you close to face him. "Look good in my house. But you always look good anyways."

"Said the pot to the kettle," you said with a smile. "I like being here already," you shrug, hands resting on his shoulders. "It feels like you, like home. Thank you for inviting me," you add, as though the measly voicing of your appreciation is enough to convey what you truly feel.

"You're welcome anytime, if I'm here or not."

"You trust me that much?"

"Yeah, I do. I'll get you a key and everything." He leaned down to kiss you slowly, relearning the map of your lips and mouth, before pulling away. He laughed when you made a noise of protest.

"The bathroom's over here if you'd like to freshen up." He had pulled at your hand, stepping towards the other open door in the room. "Figured a shower might sound nice after a long day in an airplane. Besides, I've gotta clean up before we go to Mum's anyways."

"Gonna join me?"

"Yeah, thought I might, if that's okay." His smirk had been wicked as he pushed you the rest of the way into the bathroom. He dropped your hand to reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head quickly. As he reached for the buckle of his pants, he had met your staring eyes. "See something you like, love?"

You definitely had, though you didn't think your attraction — physically or emotionally — for Harry had stopped at something that was as weak as "like." Getting to know him over the last six months had made you worry that there wasn't ever going to be anyone else like him, anyone that made you feel like he did. You had fallen for him, desperately hard, and the realization of it as you stood in front of his half-naked self almost embarrassed you.

"Babe? You alright?" he asked as he stripped down to his boxers.

"Yeah, you just got me all distracted," you had grinned, pulling your sweatshirt and remaining clothes off quickly before joining Harry under the warm spray of the water.

Meeting Harry's mom that evening went better than you could've ever dreamt it would. The two of you got on like old friends, and Harry had stared, almost in wonder, at how easily you seemed to bond with her. And then he had stared in horror as Anne offered to pull out the photo albums filled with pictures from Harry's childhood, particularly when Anne offered up the album filled with photos from Harry's and Gemma's emo phases.

As the evening wore on, you caught Harry on more than one occasion glancing your way, cheeks bright from the red wine he was sipping on and eyes warmly reflecting the bright Christmas lights. He always looked like he was a split second away from saying something, only to shake his head and look away with a small smile.

Later, in bed, Harry pulled you close to him. He was laying on his back, you on your side, and you threw a leg over his waist, soaking in all of the cuddles you could get on this short trip together. The room was only illuminated by the ambient light coming in through the blinds.

"Mum liked you a lot," he murmured, gently stroking the skin at the base of your spine, "said I should hang onto you".

You returned the gesture, running your fingertips along the lines of ink that make up his many tattoos. "I liked her too. She's wonderful, I see where you get it from now."

"Hey now, 'm wonderful all on my own!" He tickled your side and you couldn"t help but arch towards him, shrieking and laughing at the touch.

"Stop that! You are an absolute pest, you know that?" you said, grinning up at him.

"Ah, you love me," he whispered, and his joking tone made you smile but the way he pulled you tighter as he said it made you brave.

You let the weight what you were about to say wash over you, aware that things were going to change forever with just a few words. "I do love you, Harry," you whispered, moving up his body to press a kiss to his lips.

"Thank God," he had said, wrapping his arms back around you and pulling you on top of him. "Cause I love you too."

Leaving Harry after that had been even more difficult. All you wanted to do was be with him, but you had too much coming up with the future release of your album and Harry was still in the midst of doing his own writing and recording.

It was your professions, along with the desire to keep your relationship private, that kept you apart. You weren't sure how you did it, but your relationship had withstood the distance and odd-hours. The only step now would be deciding if, when, and how to confirm the suspicions to tabloids and fans alike that you were an item.

The wait was killing you. All you wanted was to show off to the world that Harry was yours.

///

The bridge of the song was followed quickly by the chorus and the heavy guitar and pounding drums had you rocking on your feet, body swaying into the mic stand as you let yourself get lost in the lyrics. "If you go out tonight, I'm going out 'cause I know you're persuasive."

The crowd was even more into the song now, many picking up on the words quickly and screaming them along with your singing. The rock and roll vibe of the song was coursing through you and the crowd, the arena electric with energy already.

"You got that something, I got me an appetite, now I can taste it."

You remove the mic from the stand and dance towards one end of the stage, singing as you move to the beat. "We're getting dizzy, oh, we're getting dizzy, oh! La da da da da! You get me dizzy, oh, you get me dizzy, oh!"

///

You had been on the phone with Harry one day in July, nearly five months after the release of your album, having him help you decide what the setlist of your tour would be when it began in November.

"I wish I could cover one of your songs."

He had laughed and slurped his tea, the sounds comforting to you, even over the phone. "That'd be a bit obvious, wouldn't it love?"

"I don't mean cover Golden or Kiwi," you said, tapping your pen against the pad of paper in front of you. "What about one you wrote for 1D? What about Perfect? Or Stockholm Syndrome! That was always one of my favorites."

"Getting permission on those might be a bit more difficult, s'not just me that's gotta sign off on it. Besides, do you really wanna be the artist that covers a One Direction song on her own headlining tour?"

"Guess I'll stick with singing along to them in the shower then."

You were both quiet for a moment, lost in your own thoughts.

"What if I covered Medicine?" you asked suddenly, realizing it was the perfect compromise, not to mention your favorite song that Harry himself performed oh his own tour. The rock sound wasn't a far cry from the roots that country music had and you knew it would sound great. "Even if it was just for one stop!"

"Hmm," Harry mused. "It would sound great with the band, I'll give you that. But videos will go around, people will know it's my song you're singing and they'll connect the dots about us."

"H, I'm ready for that if you are. I love you, and I'm ready to be able to share that love that I have for you with the world. Sneaking around has been fun but I want people to know how proud of you I am and how much you're loved and appreciated. Half of our fans know already, it's just a matter of us confirming it. I think that we could really-"

Harry was laughing at your rambling on the other end of the line. "Alright, alright, you drive a hard bargain, love. I think you're right, maybe it is time we stopped sneaking around. I'll try, but Jax and everyone else still have to agree to it too. It might be easier to convince everyone if it's just a one time thing. Pick another cover, something you'd normally do, in case it takes some time to work things out."

"I'll ask him right now! Thank you Harry!"

"I just have one condition," he said, and you could hear the grin that was surely pulling at the corners of his lips.

"What's that?"

"I get to perform it with you," he had said, and the smile already on your face widened exponentially. "If we're finally gonna make "us" public, may as well do it with a bang."

///

In the moment after the chorus, an 8 count beat is carried by the drummer and guitarist. For this performance, and the only performance you'd put on of this song, you had rehearsed the 8 count repeating once between the chorus and the next verse, as you needed a bit of extra time to announce your guest performer.

"Ladies and gentlemen," you shout into the mic, grin wide and face beaming already at what was about to take place. "To help me finish this performance, please help me welcome my very good friend, Harry Styles!"

Harry emerges from behind the stage holding his own wireless mic as much of the crowd screams - he may not be a country artist, but he was absolutely known worldwide. You step back with a wave of your arm, smiling as he begins the next chorus. His performance is for the crowd but he's singing the words directly to you.

"Tingle running through my bones, fingers to my toes, tingle running through my bones," he sings, voice smooth like whiskey, and the crowd adores him, eating out of the palm of his hand. "The boys and the girls are in, I mess around with them, and I'm OK with it."

You can't help but dance as he sings, his voice and the energy of the crowd propelling you to move. He watches you, eyes no longer on the crowd, as he sings the next lines. Immediately, heat pools low in your belly at his glance and the words.

"I'm coming down, I figured out I kinda like it. And when I sleep I'm gonna dream of how you…"

You gyrate your hips at the unsung line of "ride it", listening with a sly grin as some in the crowd scream the two words that go unsung.

///

After giving him a key, Harry had moved some of his clothes to your apartment in Nashville some time while you were away on the first leg of your tour. He had found the city to be incredibly welcoming and inspirational for his upcoming album and had decided to stay there for a spell while you continued to tour around the country.

You had scheduled a short break between your concerts over New Years, wanting to be able to grab at least one or two nights at home with him to celebrate the holiday before you were back on the road again.

"So fucking glad you're home," Harry panted, pulling your shirt over your head before attaching his lips to yours once again. "Missed you like crazy."

"Missed you too," you moaned as his lips moved downwards, across your neck and over your collarbones, down the valley between your breasts. Before he could reach around to unhook your bra, you reached for his shirt, as desperate as he was to see and touch what you'd been missing.

As he pulled the half-unbuttoned blouse over his head, you pulled your leggings off and reached for him, pushing him back onto the bed behind him. He unbuttoned his pants as he scooted up towards the middle of the bed, shoving them and his boxers off in one swoop.

You climbed on top of him, hurriedly reaching to kiss him as you rubbed your clothed center along the length of his hard cock.

"Fuck," he hissed, throwing his head back to allow you room to kiss his neck. "Desperate aren't you, darling?"

"Want you so bad it hurts," you whispered, sucking a bright hickey right where it would absolutely be seen by anyone.

You moved to continue kissing down his chest but he stopped you with a hand under your arm. "Not gonna last long, love. Wanna be inside you."

His cheeks and chest were flushed bright red, lips puffy and pupils blown wide. This was when you loved him most, being able to have him like no one else did. The same feeling always hit you at certain moments, particularly ones of domesticity, like when you watched him back the car out of the driveway or when he stood in the kitchen in the morning in nothing but socks, boxers, and his ratty old robe, singing along to old big band jazz as he waited for the coffee to brew. There was Harry Styles the musician, Harry Styles the actor, and Harry Styles the performer, but then there was your Harry.

"Yeah, okay," you sighed, moving off of him quickly to remove your bra and panties. You climbed back onto the bed and threw your leg over his hips, straddling him. He immediately reached for you and pulled you flush against his chest, his lips capturing yours in a bruising kiss.

You rocked your hips against him as he held you, your slick arousal gliding along his length, drawing a moan from both of you.

"Baby, please," he panted, and you could only mod in agreement, lost already to the sweeping feeling of your close release.

His hands rested on your hips as you positioned him at the entrance between your legs. You groaned in harmony as you worked down him slowly, the only sound in the room was your shared heavy breathing and gasps.

"Fuck me," he sighed as you set a slow pace, rocking on top of him to reach each spot that you know will get you there.

"Workin' on it," you grin. A quick swivel of your hips hit at just the right angle and you tossed your head back, repeating the movement over and over again until you shuddered with a final snap of tension, your orgasm rolling over you as Harry helped you move, hands tight on your hips, to wring all you could from the release.

"You look so beautiful right now, like a fuckin' angel," Harry said, voice low and gravely, accent thick with need.

"How's that line go?" you said as you slowed down, smirking when a harsh rock of your hips caused Harry to moan. "'Turns out she's a devil in between the sheets'?"

"Fuck," he groaned again, eyes closed tightly. "Can't just go reciting my own lyrics to me while I"m buried in ya like this, love."

"And there's nothing you can do about it," you continued, singing the line of his song this time, and his hips buck up into yours harshly.

"You're gonna pay for that," he had said, quoting another of his songs, before he had flipped you over onto your back and set his own brutal pace.

///

Like he can read your thoughts, Harry beams and wags a finger in your direction and the crowd screams at your chemistry together. You grab your mic from its stand and take a step towards Harry to sing the chorus together.

"If you go out tonight, I'm going out 'cause I know you're persuasive." Harry dances off to the side of the stage, performing once again for the crowd.

You dance at center stage with your wireless mic, too excited about performing with Harry that you can't stand in one spot. The music and Harry's energy make you want to move. "You got that something, I got me an appetite, now I can taste it."

"We're getting dizzy, oh, we're getting dizzy, oh! La da da da da!" Harry throws his head back, singing along in his own world and you can't look away from him. He really was a rockstar and getting to share the stage with him like this was an experience you'd never forget.

"You get me dizzy, oh, you get me dizzy, oh!"

There's a great pause in the lyrics where the guitar, keyboard, and drums play together, increasing the tension of the song. You and Harry take off towards opposite ends of the stage, both reveling in the performance for the crowd as you dance and stomp to the beat. Eventually, with a slide down the keys of the keyboard, the instrumental quiets into just the steady beat of the bass line joined by the hi-hats.

You and Harry urge the crowd to clap along as you both return to the middle of the stage to sing together once again. He always said that this portion of the song was one of his favorites to perform, the repeated line from the bridge ending abruptly with the lights going out before flashing back on, the added theatrics of the performance elevating the climax of the song completely. Having rehearsed that Harry would sing the following chorus alone, you let yourself get lost in his gaze as it settles on you.

You stand facing one another behind the mic stand, once again singing more to one another rather than to the crowd. You step closer towards him as the lyrics progress, nearly chest to chest now with your voices sharing one another's mics. "I had a few, got drunk on you and now I'm—"

Before you can sing the last word of the line and the lights can blink out as rehearsed, Harry leans forwards and captures your mouth in a hungry kiss. The crowd erupts with screams as the lights above the stage go dark.

You can feel rather than hear him say the words "I love you" against your lips and you have just enough time to repeat them back to him before the drums and guitar pick the beat up once again, the lights flashing back on brightly. He moves away and continues to sing the chorus that follows as if nothing had happened. You're a bit stunned, not having prepared for his relationship-revealing public display of affection to happen during your performance of his song but it was perfect and he knows it. Your smile is wide and you can't help but stand rooted where you are and laugh at what has just finally happened.

"If you go out tonight, I'm going out 'cause I know you're persuasive," he sings, smirking at you while you blush across from him.

You join him in singing the last lines, your right hand joining his left hand where everyone can see your fingers entwine.

"You got that something, I got me an appetite, now I can taste it. We're getting dizzy, oh, we're getting dizzy, oh!"

You urge the crowd with a waving hand to join in and they do, singing along with you and Harry. "La da da da da! You get me dizzy, oh, you get me dizzy, oh!"

The drums and guitar end the song on five quick beats and the crowd erupts once again in screams. You immediately jump towards Harry, throwing your arms around his neck in a close embrace. His hands wrap around your waist to hold you close, and you can feel him smile where his face is pressed close to your jaw.

"How was that?" he asks, chuckling against you.

"It was perfect, you're perfect. Thank you, H. For everything."

"Can take you on a proper date now, yeah? Wanna show my girl off to the world."

"Yes, please!" You can't wipe the smile from your face as he sets you down and Harry continues to beam at you as the crowd continues screaming, reeling from your shared performance.

Harry nudges you gently before turning back to them, lifting his and your arms high in the air and leading you in bending for a bow. He steps away from you and turns, opening his arms wide to you for the crowd to praise and you laugh, tearing up at his gesture and the overwhelming emotions of the performance while you take another bow just for yourself.

He pulls you into another hug and you can't help but angle your face up towards him, wordlessly asking for another very quick, very public kiss.

He glances down at you, smiling. "You're gonna love this now, aren't you?"

"Course I am. love showing them you're mine."

He leans down to peck your forehead, your nose, and finally, your lips, as the crowd goes wild. "Love showing them you're mine. You've got a show to finish, love. Go kill it."

///

Ahh! So much fun! This has been such a joy to write and I appreciate you taking the time to give it a chance! It’s my first (of hopefully many) Harry fics - reading all of the stories here has been immensely inspiring, and I’m so looking forward to writing more!

Tagging my love @morganlatte who is a wonderful hype woman and beta reader. Thanks buddy!

Anyways! Thank you for reading! My love language is words of affirmation (aka I have a praise kink) so leave me a comment here if you feel so inclined!

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles story #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #one direction fanfiction #harry styles x you #reader insert fic #my writing #wow!#that was so much fun #i'm so in love with it

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cryinginthebackseat · 3 years

Text

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part iii

part i part ii AO3

Fandom: Call Of Duty

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 6.572

Warnings: here’s where the smut tag comes into play, boy with a copious amount of power play and yeah, it’s messy af

Author’s note: after three months, a couple of brainstorming in the bathtub, delays, revisions and self-doubt, chapter 3 is finally done. i hope you'll enjoy it. also, i don't think i have to warn you what will go down in this chapter.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Fast forward to twenty-four hours since he discovers that Bell is fucking someone, Lazar drops about half a dozen of dusty manilas on his desk. Adler’s eyes sweep over them. He recognizes Bell’s handwriting etched across the memo attached to one of the folders right away.

He picks it up. It’s becoming second nature to him lately; drawing himself to her, an ineradicable magnetic force pulling his end of the pole.

A muscle on his jaw twitches.

For a moment, Adler despises her. He allows himself to really despise her. She’s started something in his head- a war; an intangible, unmanageable riot and if he lets her, she’ll rearrange him until he’s insane.

And he can’t let that happen. He’s the one holding the leash here, not vice versa.

“This is what we have on Dragovich’s activities in Yamantau,” Lazar informs him, pulling him back down to earth.

Adler stands, keeping his face easy, neutral. “Is this everything?”

“So far, yeah. Bell says she’ll let us know if she digs up something more from the archives though.”

Bell- the Bell in question- can be heard sighing, like she turns the corner and finds herself at a cul-de-sac; hunching over her desk, reading, her fingers keep buttoning and unbuttoning the top of her shirt, madly distracting (him).

She remains in her seat, for pretty much the remainder of the day. Eyes glued to the pages before her, factory-like dedication. She hardly looks up when Sims borrows her pen or when Park stands over her, sipping her coffee, inquiring about her progress behind a plume of smoke.

The only- truly time Bell ever lifts her head from her work is when Mason approaches her desk. She gazes up at him, notes forgotten, a kittenish smile etched across her face, come-hither eyes that could have time hung in motion, or held at ransom, perhaps. Mason’s own smile is full-blown, too wide, too genial, as he stalks closer and closer to her table, her whirlpool.

Adler does a double-take, like his eyeballs only functioning for the first time. He might as well be hallucinating it because no... this can’t be right, can it?

But then Mason is touching her hand, a blink-and-you-miss-it movement that was not lost on Adler and oh, she’s looking at him hopefully now.

The knots in Adler's stomach are vertiginous. Realization rings in his head like a gunshot, nearly leaving him in a daze. There’s no denying it. Not when the exchange unfurls before his eyes like a broken, warped film reel and there’s nothing to stop him from seeing it.

The thought of her and him haunts the rest of his waking hours, until there’s absolutely no telling how far he’s fallen into his own pit.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ( Alex Mason fucked her that night.

Mason was in her bed; beside her, above her, under her. Inside her. He imagines her fingers digging into the mattress as Mason rolled her onto her stomach, mouth trailing down the ladder of her spine. Their breaths intermingled in the seraphic glow of her hotel room.

Alex Mason fucked her. It shouldn't leave an acrid taste in his mouth, but it does.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ She haphazardly reaches for the mug and takes a hearty gulp of its content. It’s not hers.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Bell says, mortified and places the mug down noisily on the desk. “I’m sorry, I thought it was mine.”

The rim of his mug is now stained with her lipstick. Adler bites down on a careful retort.

He thinks he knows now. Why he lets it happen, why he thinks of her in metaphors, why she gives him that vertigo. The answer is at the tip of his tongue- he can almost taste it, like spoiled milk or rancid gardenia. But it’s much easier to ignore it until the words grow diminuendo and disappear, that he thinks he imagined it all along.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You can’t obsess without turning around and getting lost in the middle.

Or losing a part of yourself in the process.

The idea of obsession, to obsess, perhaps is a far riskier thing for a person to have than playing the knife game, blindfolded with absolutely no telling where to start.

Yet we all do it, despite knowing the very dark flipside it possesses.

Perhaps it’s the very nature of humans, tucked deep within the pigeonhole of our minds, suffused by the very promise of bogus achievements that usually leads most of us insane, thinking that obsession is essential to living. But without it, artists are corporate slaves, slack-jawed know-it-alls moving stiffly in the middle of the hullabaloo that is our world; Paris would be just as unrecognizable today without Napoleon’s artistic legacy.

Obsession is good.

Obsession is dangerous.

The very dichotomy should have us all warded off of it.

Yet, again, we all do it. Again, and again, and again until it taints our veins. And it’s always far too late until you realize, that yes, now all you see is her, the air has been poisoned by her perfume, that her name is now forevermore engraved in your skin, like an overgild tattoo.

That you end up in downtown Berlin, out of sight, out of mind.

He finds them there, in a shoebox-sized cafe. Ill-lit, low-ceiling, coffee-stained floor that shows the wear of three decades worth of boots, pantoffels and high heels and Adler is sitting in his car, nursing a beer with but one all-consuming, perplexing thought:

Bell and Mason.

Someone told him they arrived together, about an hour ago. The cafe has become their usual haunts, his source said, ever since they’ve returned from Ukraine and Adler just can’t wrap his head around this- them. In his head, they’re wholly different entities. Two proper nouns separated by a conjunction, or a comma if mentioned in a list.

They’re the kind of opposites that he thought don’t attract, yet here they are.

Perhaps it's inevitable, both are products of brainwashing. Maybe they sensed one another, speaking in code, like detecting an RF signal from a nuclear bunker.

Then the doors to the cafe swing open. They step outside, cheeks flushed, his arm wrapped around her waist, her lips glueing on the slope of his neck. Shaded eyes watch them from the opposite street, his disgust obvious.

Now, Adler wonders how this all began. Someone must have made the first move.

He wonders if it was her. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"You wanted to see me?"

Adler looks up from his desk and nods. "Lock the door behind you."

And Alex Mason, the root of all this trouble, obeys. Looking somewhat uncertain under the scrutiny of the harsh lights, and shuts the blinds. Unlike Woods, he takes a seat at the chair Adler sets up before the desk.

"What is it?" Mason asks, after a long, almost unending silence. His curiosity seeps through the room.

There is very little control when the first domino falls. Oftentimes, once it starts, it’s like crossing the Rubico n and the next thing you know, you are lying flat on the ground in some theater, 23 fresh stab wounds decorating your body and the beat of your pulse seems dim and distant, everything feels cold except your blood; warm, bright and thick like gasoline, crawling into every space until it goes into your throat and strangles you, kills you. Fini, kaput.

But then again, he's not Caesar and this isn't Rome.

Adler pushes the first tile.

"How long has this been going on?" he asks without fanfare, tight and composed as ever. Never mind the way his eyes ignite like cold blue fire behind his glasses.

"How long has what been going on?"

“You and Bell." And Mason blinks at him in surprise. Bingo. "I saw the two of you leaving for her hotel from a cafe in Downtown Berlin last night. So don't bother skirting your way around this.” Adler leans forward across his desk. He’s a man on a mission- there’s no stopping him now.

“Now, let me rephrase the question, how long have you been fucking her?"

"Hold on, hold on, you were stalking us?" Mason asks, waspish.

Adler winces inwardly. "I was keeping an eye out for my asset.”

“Asset?” Mason hisses, like Adler just blasphemed. “Jesus Christ, Russ, is that all she ever is to you? An asset? She’s your protégé, for god’s sake- a person! What is wrong with you?"

"Plenty. Or apparently, so I've been told.”

"I don't find you amusing.”

“I'm hardly ever,” Adler parries. Mason remains silent, yet the tilt of his lips translate exactly what words can't. "And you haven't answered my question."

“Bullshit. I don’t owe you anything."

"Listen, Al-"

"No, you listen to me. You may be calling the shots around here, but this has absolutely nothing to do with you. Whatever- or whoever - we're doing in our spare time is none of your business, do you understand? So you can just drop it," Mason seethes, bitter, and, much to Adler’s surprise, rises to leave. “We’re done here.”

"That's where you're wrong."

Mason has only managed to put a few paces between them before he turns around, once again stepping inside this metaphorical boxing ring.

"What?"

"This has everything to do with me," Adler says coolly. "You said it yourself, I'm the one who calls the shots here. Meaning, anything that could potentially fuck up my operation is my concern and I have the right to intervene should it needed. This, being a case in point."

Mason looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What the hell does fucking her have to do with this whole operation?”

“Everything.” He says it like quiet resignation. It’s time to acknowledge the truth, he thinks, to that unusual idea that has been swirling in the deep recesses of his mind, that everyone’s weakness is varied.

Achilles had his heel, and Adler has her.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to, Al. You don't even know her."

Mason gives him a level stare. "And you do?"

Adler is so hard-pressed to say 'I made her' but even he wouldn't stoop that low.

"That is beside the point,” Adler tells him instead as he turns to his vice- one of them, at least- and lights it.

“There is literally no point to this conversation.”

“The point is, stay the hell away from Bell. I'm saying this for your own good."

"My own good or yours?"

Adler does not flinch, but his hand does ball into a fist under the table, how the fingers curl and then flex.

"Don't be ridiculous. I gain nothing from this except assurance." It's a lie, it's the truth. There's no in between. He doesn’t know which is which anymore. "You, on the other hand, I'm sure the old ball and chain wouldn't be near as thrilled about hearing this if word ever gets out."

Mason is quiet for a beat.

"Is that a threat?"

"Only once I pulled the pin," Adler replies, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

But the thing with Mason, he'll come to realize later, is how much, like with Bell, weaving through his mind is like trying to grasp for purchase in the dark as he, once again, does the unpredicted and smile- a venomous grin warps his face, like he’s mocking him, challenging him to move his piece on the board and make this mistake.

Adler stares back, surprised despite himself.

He shocks him further by saying, "Go ahead, then. Pull the pin, throw the grenade, tell her. See if she cares."

Adler’s eyes narrow at his askance. He then drags his attention to Mason’s left hand, and something grave and familiar rises in his chest.

The absence of the metal band around his ring finger tells him why.

“You know where to reach her. If anything, I’m sure she’d trust your words better than anyone else’s. So please, do it.” And Mason’s so goddamn sanctimonious about it. He’s clearly expecting this particular reaction out of Adler. It only leaves Adler angrier.

Another long pause stretches, heavy and unkind.

"Fine. Maybe she won't mind, but I'm sure the Agency wouldn’t be as tolerant.” Adler takes one last drag of his cigarette. He has that ‘Having nothing, nothing can he lose’ look on his face that makes Mason frowns. “Not when you’ve been fraternizing with the enemy.”

"What?”

"Bell. She’s not who you think she is, Al. Tell me, who do you think is the sorry bastard we saved in Trabzon?”

Mason blinks. His face is blank with shock, then he shakes his head. And he keeps shaking it, almost manic. If he laughs, which one would come first, he wonders, the gun or his fist pummeling the side of his face?

“You’re lying.”

“And why would I lie to you about this?”

"No, no, no, Woods- he told me the guy’s dead,” Mason says, his words are shaky.

“He’s not. And he wasn’t a he."

A crease forms between Mason's eyebrows, the starting of another frown.

“Hold on, if she’s helping us get Perseus then why is she the enemy?”

"Because she doesn't know that."

"Doesn't know what?"

"That she's the enemy."

Mason holds his gaze for a moment, his expression tense, like a slingshot.

And that cold elastic band finally snaps.

“What did you do to her?” He’s openly glaring at him now, mouth tight, an icy fury that is no longer dormant and for the first time since Adler has known him, he finds the man dangerous.

Adler takes a steadying breath. “We did what had to be done.”

"You sick son of a bitch. You brainwa- You-” Mason clamps his mouth shut, trembling hands finding his head. “Shit. How could you?"

Adler ignores his colorful outburst.

“She resisted every form of interrogations we threw at her, Al. We had no choice but to implement MK-Ultra as a last resort. We needed what’s in her head.” Mason is silent in reply. Adler continues, “Look, it’s nasty business, I know, but some of us have to cross a line just to make sure that line's still there in the morning. And as much as I hate agreeing with Hudson, he’s right. We need to preserve our way of life.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to play God,” his voice is resentful and crisp. “Do you have any idea what you are doing? You could jeopardize everything, and for what? You’ve seen what this- this experiment did to me, this won’t end the way you think!”

“Lightning never strikes the same place twice.”

"You’re really willing to gamble on that?”

Adler scowls. “I don’t gamble, Mason. I calculate. And if by some chance I was given a second chance, I’d do it all over again. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Mason doesn’t say anything at first, his loaded gun stare never falters. Then, “The flag may be different, but the methods are the same.”

"What was that?”

“Someone warned me, a long time ago, about how people like you will use people like me or Bell as pawns in your own game. You’d do whatever it takes to get what you want- and my, how you get results, don’t you? But you’re actually no different than the rest of the assholes you're fighting against,” Mason tells him, like he’s spitting out acid in Adler’s face.

“Bell may be the enemy- heck, she could be the architect behind all the chaos Perseus has done, but what you’re doing to her is vile and unethical. There are many ways to make her spill the beans, yet you chose the most immoral method there is out there. I sincerely hope you rot in hell for this."

Before Adler could formulate a response to his tirade, Mason stands to his feet.

“You want me to stay away from her? Fine. Consider this as my formal resignation. After Yamatau, I’m done. I’m out of the team. And if you know what’s good for you, you stay the fuck away from me because I don't ever want to see your face again, do you hear me?” he snarls. “If you think Woods is dangerous, Adler, just remember I nearly could have killed my own president."

Then Mason turns on his heel and walks out of the room, once and for all. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The fist is very much expected, and so does the pain that follows.

"You're out of your fucking depth, shithead," Woods spits, venom lacing his words.

Adler doesn't even bother to retaliate.

He doesn’t see the point. He didn’t think it would get this far. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The garage grows quiet and stodgy with now Mason and Woods are out of the picture. Everyone settles back into their own normal rhythm, the same routine before both men set their feet here almost a week ago.

Hudson doesn’t take the news of their departure kindly, naturally. He stands in Adler’s office, pacing, fuming. Adler ignores him, trying to nurse the skull-splitting migraine he's having at his desk instead. The nasty black eye hidden underneath his glasses. A secret locked, the key thrown away.

His headache, thankfully, has subsided when Sims takes a seat on the other side of the desk, hours later after Hudson left.

"I'm not trying to cause an alarm here, but you'd better watch your back."

Adler's brows furrow but doesn’t look up from the papers before him. "And why's that?"

"'Cause I think you just pissed off the wrong beast," Sims tells him. Adler pauses, then lifts his head to look at his cohort. There's genuine worry flashing over his face.

“Are you talking about Bell?”

“Who else?”

If she's a beast, then what am I? What he wants to ask, but there's a knock at the door and he swallows the words down his throat.

"Come in," Adler says, pretending to be reading again.

The door opens and Bell, fucking Bell, enters his office. It's like watching a tiger pass by your hiding spot in near dark. Neither he nor Sims breathes a word.

Bell's gaze immediately swings to him, like a cosmic pull. She's watching him as she wanders over to the desk and the weight of her stare burns him like Greek fire.

He pushes the documents close, all the while returning her stare. He is never the one who backs out of a challenge, and at this point, he knows that she probably knows that. Maybe that’s why she initiated it in the first place.

"Bell, what is it?" Adler asks firmly, in possession of his full power in this place.

Bell produces three diskettes from her pocket. Something odd definitely shining in her eyes.

"These have been lying on Lazar's desk for hours, but he's busy, so I thought I'd deliver them to you myself," Bell says. And he's trying to work out on her angle but she is unreadable. As always.

Adler nods, frustrated and indignant. "You can leave them here. Thank you."

It is only once the woman leaves that the two agents share a dark, significant look. That was too close.

And it goes without saying, something needs to be done about this. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

March 7th. A's insistence on raising the dosage is illogical. Recent behavioural analysis indicates depression. Will monitor for the next few days. Considering lowering the dosage instead. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The elevator reeks of smoke, cheap Soviet air freshener and something far more poisonous than the devil’s spider, silky hands.

It embodies the woman standing next to him right now- this special animal, emotionless, a constant mystery wrapped with a warning sign.

Adler is tempted to shut his eyes.

Or get out of here. He doesn’t dwell well in this atmosphere, this limited space shared with her alone. He probably should have listened to Hudson about taking Bell for this mission, but she’s the only one he trusts who won’t fuck this up. Not to mention her spotless Russian has proven to help them blend in with the crowd seamlessly.

He needs her, whether he would admit it aloud or not.

But she puts his head in such a spin.

She’s been near-mute since they departed from Germany. She barely acknowledges his questions and orders, barely looks at him. She’s been treating him as if he’s another shadow on the wall.

He rubs the side of his jaw. Something does need to be done about this.

“Are you going to stay quiet forever?” Adler asks. He’s bad at this, but he can’t stand her silence for much longer. Not to mention, they’re at the Lubysnka- the fucking lion's den. If she wants to wallow over Mason’s absence or sinks into whatever melancholic feeling she’s in, she can do it later.

Bell hums, her mouth curls up like serpentine. Adler sketches a confused frown. And she says, “I don’t know. Should I?”

And then, sudden and swift, Bell undoes the cuffs of her uniform. Beady eyes never leave his.

The sight catches him off guard. Somewhere in his mind, he curses something like ‘you’re a beast’ and ‘what the hell are you?’ at her, all in negative connotations. The effects she inflicts on him is maddening.

“What are you doing?” Adler doesn’t bother to hide his surprise.

Bell shrugs and gestures to the duffle bag at their feet. “Gearing up.”

Oh. Embarrassment wells up in him. Fucking hell, this woman will be the death of him.

Her fingers quickly move on to the buttons, still indifferent, nearly tearing them from the seams. The first glimpse of her skin and Adler can’t help but give in, openly stares at her in a way he has never imagined before. Her clavicles like daggers glinting in the lamplight.

Curiosity is a dangerous and heavy load.

He should have closed his eyes.

“Enjoying the show?” Her voice pulls him back from his musings. Her eyes still zero in on him, cutting him to pieces.

Her cleavage comes into view.

The lines on Adler’s face grow taut.

“What do you want, Bell?” He asks, intending for a bark but it ends somewhere like a plea.

“I want many things. As of right now, I want Alex’s cock inside me.” And Adler nearly chokes on his own breath. Bell, eagle-eyed as ever, caught the movement. “But it seems someone insists on being in control of everything, isn’t he?” she snaps.

Adler’s back goes rigid. Trepidation bubbles up in his chest.

Of course, she knows.

“It's not about control.” Adler turns around. He doesn’t quite know what he’s avoiding at this point, her flesh or the truth. “It’s about what’s right.”

He hears her uniform touches her floor as she laughs, mirthless, like broken chandeliers. “I didn’t know whose cock I’m riding is any concern of yours.”

“It is when he’s a member of the team,” he seethes. “What you’re doing with Alex will only lead to complications. And I can’t have tha-”

“Because this is all about you, isn’t it? It’s about upholding your precious reputation in the Agency, controlling the narrative the way you want it no matter how many characters you kill off in the process. It’s always about what you want.” Bell interrupts, not missing a beat. “You selfish motherfucker.”

"This has nothing to do with my reputation in the CIA."

She scoffs. "Spare me the crap, Adler."

Adler turns to fully face her again and holds his arms open, the way someone is facing the firing squad. “Fine. Fine, yes, I’m a selfish motherfucker. I did it because I thought it could ruin the operation. Is that what you wanted to hear? Now, what are you going to do about it?”

She says nothing at first. He silently catalogues her movements as she steps towards him now, half-naked and furious. He feels pinned.

Then, “What do you want me to do about it?”

His mouth dries at the implication. She is temptation, benediction, the coarse ice block before the carver.

How terrible it is to lose control, even just once.

A knowing, vicious smirk flashes over her face. Adler feels like he’s just shown his hand.

“You are one selfish bastard and a coward to boot, aren’t you?” Bell sneers before he has a chance to respond. “At least, Alex was brave enough to make the first move, but you…” her gaze raking up and down his figure coldly, a jeweller presented with second-grade imitations. Wind her up and this honey bee stings.

“You’ll always be the man who hides behind his shades,” she says, dry as dust, and steps back and snatches her clothes from the bag.

This is, without a single doubt, the longest elevator ride he’s ever experienced in his life. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler arrived back in Berlin breathing a little harder. Worry wrapped around his neck like a noose, placed by Bell herself; the judge, jury and executioner.

The knot tightens every time his mind refers to her.

The agency trained him, specifically, to keep calm under pressure. He didn’t coin the title “America’s Monster” from his colleagues for nothing. They don’t fear him because he’s hot-headed or thinks in large-scale violence— guns blazing, napalm-induced flames over the hill in the morning, bloodied knuckles and fractured jaw, blood-soaked soles tarnishing the white marble floor. Someone can point a fucking shotgun to his face and he’ll barely flinch. Only monsters remain impassive to direct threats of violence.

But there’s something about Bell that elicits this visceral, primal reaction out of him. Something strange and new; lightning about to be uncapped from its chains.

It chokes him, frightens him to the core.

How gauche is it, don’t you think, that his own mind is conspiring against him?

Now, in the garage, where it dawns on Adler that she’s probably the only person who can make him walk around the city, feeling like a fool, he decides he’s had enough. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I’ll drive you back.”

Adler apprehends Bell outside the garage. He kind of assumed she’d have a pistol aimed at his head right now, but she spins around, hands shoved deep inside her pockets and clayey mouth curls in distaste.

“Get in the car, Bell,” Adler says tightly, almost adding please.

But he would not beg.

The brunette remains rooted in her place. For a moment, a calculating look crossed her face. Always, always that sharp mind of hers turning and he wonders where it would take her this time.

“Try asking nicely,” she demands.

Adler’s eyes flash. She really is testing him. But fine, he'll play her game.

“Bell, would you kindly get in the car?” He is all but snarls, teeth gritting. Bell hardly wavers- he wishes she would waver for a change.

She does what he asked of her, finally, the shadow of a smirk on her face mocking him. Adler follows suit, teeth still clenched together, and starts the car and drives away.

It's sort of like a deja-vu, he supposes; him and her in this very same car, except that stupid krautrock music is absent this time. Neither says anything for the first twenty minutes. Everything feels heavily still.

Until he realizes she’s probably waiting for his move.

This might gloriously blow up in his face, yes, he knows this. Especially remembering the last time he was alone in a tight space with her, it had cost him his pride.

And his mind.

But he’s been here before, in the eye of the storm. He was at his calmest here. He has his cards prepared now.

Adler inhales deeply.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he utters resolutely. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t want to. “I was out of line, I admit it. Your affair with Mason should be no concern of mine but I really am just trying to look out for you.”

It’s weak, he knows. The words feel more like an anchor than an actual apology in his tongue anyway, but Adler didn’t expect that Bell would give him nothing. Not even an acknowledging hum, a scathing retort, a scoff. Nothing.

A twinge of irritation brews in his stomach. Why does she insist on playing games?

The car comes to a stop. They’ve arrived. Adler wrests his hands from the steering wheel to say something harsh to her, but Bell is already stepping out of the car.

She stands on the sidewalk; an enigma in royal red, and her lethal, all-seeing eyes gravitate to him in the night.

There is a long paralyzing beat where they just stare at each other- which seems to be a running theme between them lately. Adler is fuming, as he is confused.

It feels like hours, centuries, eons, but, like all magic, the spell is broken. Courtesy of a stranger hailing a cab behind his car.

Bell turns and walks inside the building. She doesn’t bother sparing him the final glance or extend her appreciation for the ride back and Adler thinks to himself, this universe, god fucking damnit, nothing makes sense here.

But it is also in moments like this that the world spins, when he notices a singular, significant detail that makes his stomach roll, nearly throwing him off balance:

Bell left the passenger door open.

And he’s insane- he has to be, right? He’s looking too much into this. It doesn’t mean anything. His mind conjures an image, like a graphic guideline or something, step one: get out of the car, two: make your way around and close the passenger door, and third: zoom out of the neighborhood while your sanity is still intact, all in that order. Easy to comprehend, to follow.

Adler only does the first two steps. He’s ass-backwards doesn’t even bother to digest the third step.

He enters the hotel instead and takes in the surroundings. The lobby is pointedly bare, but warm and smoky. The concierge is reading behind the counter- a young, wiry boy with shocking bleached hair- with headphones on. It’s late, he probably doesn’t expect anyone to check in at this hour.

A movement by the staircase catches his interest. He sees Bell climbing up the steps slowly, leisurely. Adler makes his way there.

Halfway reaching her floor, Adler has the inkling that she knows that he’s following her. Also, because the next she does is glancing back at him over her shoulder. He waits for her to push him down the stairs or wrap those delicate hands around his neck. She does neither. She doesn’t want him gone.

Yet, his mind betrays him. Only because she doesn’t know what other atrocities he’s committed to her.

She stops by her door, opens it and goes in first. Adler, without waiting for a formal fucking invitation, slips in behind her.

Her room is much smaller than his. The TV is still on- a German dubbed of All the President’s Men is playing- a stack of books and meds lying haphazardly on the desk table.

The door clicks shut behind him. Bell wanders over to the table and turns off the TV. Her back to him.

She doesn’t bother turning the light switch on. The green neon of the hotel sign outside illuminates the room, bathes her in it, making her look even stranger and faraway.

He doesn’t take off his sunglasses.

“What do you want, Bell?” Adler is all but snarling. His anger comes in a bottle with a twist-off cap. “I’m fucking sick of playing your games. I apologized, I admitted I was wrong- I fucked up, but what more could you want?”

Jesus, and now he’s losing his temper over a brainwashed Russian who rarely talks. How did it come to this?

She tugs off her gloves. Once again, barely acknowledging him. Apparently, if ignoring him is an art form, she is the fucking Monet.

Until:

“Take them off.”

Adler blinks hard behind his glasses. Like he’s just stepped into a whole different earth.

His mouth moves.

“What?”

“Your sunglasses. Take them off.”

He stares at her back. Trying really, really hard to make sure he’s not hallucinating this, but then Bell turns around, a finger tapping against her arm, waiting.

Realization hits him like an uppercut in the face and nearly leaves him in a daze. He’s walked into a trap. That much is clear as day. She wants him to suffer as she does. An eye for an eye.

Adler holds no modicum of control in her domain, not unless she gives the reins. Once again, she plays the judge, jury and executioner at her own court.

But, like before, he’ll play her game.

There, the glasses are off. His eyes, bare, blue like fractured ice, meeting hers. In the dark, he feels her eyes shift to assess his bruise.

His heart booms against his ribs.

"Kneel,” she says glibly.

He obeys, again. His legs and hands don’t shake, but his mind is much less governable than his limbs. No, the CIA didn’t prepare a manual for situations like this and he doesn’t trust his instincts to help him dance his way around this.

Nor does he want to.

The thought fucks him up to a degree.

Adler should have known that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees, no, no. That would have been too easy, anyway. Although history has dictated and taught him that women are never to be underestimated, Adler hasn’t expected that one woman would be able to do the deed and succeed.

But then again, when that woman is Bell, he supposes anything is possible.

When Bell approaches him, he’s unable to take his gaze from her. Her eyes spangle with determination, an avenging soul in the neon lights. Her fingers work on the sash of her coat. The line of her mouth is flat and inscrutable. The air crackles with electricity and a promise of the unsayable, the unattainable.

She stands over him now, gloveless and coatless. She’s powerful like this and he can only crane his head up at her, ceding his fate in her hands, against his better judgement. She catches that.

Suddenly, something unpleasant breaks on her face, like when one’s smelling something foul or pungent.

Bell reaches down and grips his jaw painfully in one hand, her nails digging into his skin, and tilts his head sideways. Strange that his stomach leaps at that.

“Say you’re sorry,” she spits furiously. “And say it like you fucking mean it.”

He feels, suddenly, triumphant and chuckles darkly. Eight fucking long weeks and the beast finally shows her claws.

“Try asking nicely,” Adler parrots her words from before, not a beat missed. Two can play that game, he thinks. "Or are you above niceness, Bell?”

Her grip tightens.

"You’re one to talk,” Bell says. Then, rubs the pad of her thumb over his scarred cheek and it feels like forgiveness, or the beginning of it, at least.

His confusion spikes.

Her nose skims down his jawline.

A better, sensible man would apologize. He'd squander it until his tongue burns acid, he'd beg for her forgiveness like a man asking for repentance before his god.

“Why did you do it, Russell?” Bell whispers against his skin now, baleful and raspy. Her chest rising and falling too rapidly.

But he’s a sick bastard, a selfish motherfucker, a heartless monster. All he does is hurt the people around him. He doesn’t get to take from her, not after what he's done.

Still, Adler catches her wrist. Relishing the way her wrist bone grinds under his hold. He pulls his face back to look at her.

“You know why.”

Her eyes flick dangerously to his lips.

Desperation really can make the most vulgar things tolerable.

“Then prove it.”

So he does. As his hand reaches up to her neck, past the delicious column of her throat and with a precise swift, Adler grabs a fistful of her hair, the feminine gasp escaping her mouth is like a jolt to his groin, and kisses her.

Bell responds in kind. That little beast. She grasps his collar and drags him up to his feet, impatient with want. She laps at him, bites and sucks. His free hand snakes around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.

She pulls away, catching her breath, and his teeth skim down her jaw, her neck. He bites her there in retaliation, on the delicious junction of her neck and shoulder, into the fabric of her shirt, making his intentions clear. Bell chokes in surprise and scrapes her nails over his scalp.

It hurts. But with pain, along comes pleasure and it’s good. It’s so good, Adler melts with a shaky breath.

His gloves come off first. Next, she pulls him free off his jacket, his sweater and snakes a hand between his legs, stroking him. He bites off a strangled ‘fuck’ into her throat. He’s worked up real fast already. Adler manages to make a short work of her shirt, unclasping her bra before he’s all but pushes her onto the bed.

Adler settles above her, capturing her lips in another feverish, hot-blooded kiss. He tugs her zipper down and slips his hand inside her pants. Her cunt’s everything he’s come to expect: wet, warm and oh-so wrong. She sucks in a breath. Her hips move against his hand. His blood sings. She throws her head back against the pillow, while his finds her earlobe.

“Has this proven my point, Bell?” he asks. His answer starts on a moan and ends with a breathless ‘yes’.

He doesn’t let her come that easily. No, he wants to drag this out for as long as he can until it drives her mad. So, Adler peels the rest of her clothes away, pulls her shoulder and turns her onto her stomach. He pins her down, hard. She gasps loudly against the white pillowcase, her hand fists into the sheets.

Adler slots himself behind her. His hand tracing along her spine, followed by his mouth, just how he fantasized once upon a time. His other hand quickly undoes the snap of his pants. Everything has been poisoned by her and her only; she is in his tongue, his veins, his mind, his lungs. She takes the centrefold of his mind and it's ridiculous.

He presses himself against her ass. His mouth falls open. Her body trembles. She’s all sin and racing hearts and sweaty flesh. She’s perfect. His now free hand slides up to the nape of Bell’s neck, reaching her throat, pressing down. She makes this high-pitched, demanding noise as she moves her hips back against him, leaving him wanting, helpless at the thought of having her right here, right now, in the warm neon glow of her hotel room.

“Please,” Bell begs. He groans in response and he gives it to her. Fuck, he’d give her anything if she begs just exactly like that.

When Adler is finally inside her, he thinks his world drops dead. He sets a merciless pace. He is not a gentle man and there is nothing gentle in the supple arch of her back, a rose bent backwards in the wind, as he pants along her neck before he pulls out, twists her onto her back again and pushes deeper into her until she comes apart underneath him (he’s made sure she begs for it- please, Russell. Oh god, Russell)

(He didn’t have to. Russell Adler is never the kind of man to fall for his dark side, but Christ knows he is only one man)

#russell adler #russell adler x bell #adler x bell #cod cold war #cod bell #cod #call of duty #call of duty black ops #call of duty cold war #alex mason #frank woods #helen park #lawrence sims #jason hudson #lazar azoulay

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batarangsoundsdumb · 3 years

Text

guess fucking what? my inbox is so fucking full right now i'm unloading all of this shit in one post.

For the 11th gotham memes: gothamites react to bruce being jacked in a tiktok he made with kids, like super yoked, ripped as hell

fucking hilarious thanks. i think i did it in one meme post, but i genuinely don't remember which one

i dunno which of the batfam would do this but one time i was sleeping over at a friends house and ended up on the floor bc the bed was so very small and i just stayed there because the rug was soft

that's a drunk jason move i don't know what to tell you

tim and jason are "i listen to pop punk" solidarity. whenever jason highjacks the batmobile theyll go on long ass car rides blaring mcr and paramore and then never talk about it again

as they should!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! tim: no jason it's my turn using the aux cord i gotta put on my jams jason: don't you dare put on weird shit tim: don't worry, you're gonna love this *plays fearless (taylor's version)

hear me out hear me out, red hood stans 🤝 nightwing stans t h i g h s

holy shit yes.

SNL au: Bruce breaks character when pretending to superman and says something like "I'm not superman! You've seen his gps!! It's from 2001!!!" @sabeanybabe

superman flies past the snl building the next day just to say 'actually it's from 2005, i'm not a heathen'

does your back hurt from carrying the batfam fandom

it hurts more from the exotic rock collection i keep in my backpack, but thanks for the concern.

I love your posts by why would you always leave the best parts in the tags?

as a treat for the people that check the tags ;) (and also because i'm committed to the short post aesthetic)

somehow your playlist was everything i never knew i needed. i mean it. this is my new favorite playlist.

and don't you dare get a new favourite playlist!

babe ur stoner tim playlist is exactly too perfect, earth is literally blessed by ur existence

babe thanks so much! i love my stoner tim playlist because it's just my usual playlist but people think it's an artistic choice that i put taylor swift and britney spears in there, when it's just what i unironically like listening to

JANDKSKDK BILLY RAY CYRUS ON THE STONER TIM PLAYLIST I LOVE IT IT

again it's not even an ironic choice, i know every single word and i genuinely like the song

The last chapter of Fundamentals of Casework has me crying at work. Thanks I love it @dudelookitsalesbian

oh babe, i'm sorry, but also, not sorry i love chapter 4 so much it's my lovechild with the 'mental illness' tag

soooo....stumbled on your tumblr by some stroke of fate??? read your DC fanfic first. which is PHENOMENAL btw. then found all the batmemes; the funniest thing EVER bc everyone forgets about regular old gothamites. kept scrolling and your blog pops up as recommended. clicked on the ao3 for shits and giggles and waddaya know?!?!? it's YOU!!! you're LEGEND!!!! ever seen that meme? it's a video of a cat that got into a baseball field and the two announcers get really invested in his escape attempt and start giving a play by play of the cat instead of the game. memeable moment: "GREAT stuff from the Cat!!!"

i seriously think about this ask every single day and it's so fucking funny to me that i've never seen the meme you're referencing, but i still find myself going 'GREAT stuff from the Cat!!!' whenever i see something funny. but wow i'm glad you liked this steaming pile of garbage

Fav dc character overall? And fav batfamily character?

don't ask me to pick between the loves of my life, but i can tell you i've cried about every single batfamily member and also wally west (my beloved)

What's your opinion on fans having a problem with batfam being "too big"? And some even claim that batfam is just "Bruce Alfred Dick Damian" and the rest of them are just "friends and allies" (source: reddit) Personally, I like batfam because of this reason but idk

stupid. a family can never be too big. i'm not that big a fan of like huge batfam stuff with everybody from every single universe, because as much as it's funny for bruce to have like 30 kids, it just feels a little too OOC for me.

This is the best tag I've seen involving the batfam, thanks for thinking of it

This is canon now @nctxrejects

lmao yeah i think at that point alfred has had to sit through like at least a dozen coming out talks and just has a pride flag collection in the attic that he pulls out whenever a kid comes out

idk why batfam hits different as compared to any other superhero family

bc it's found family and usually the other superhero families are almost all genetically related in one way or another

I don't know if you watch the umbrella academy but I saw your last post about batcest and saw the similarities. But the thing is (although I think it's weird) in TUA, they addressed it by saying "they were raised as weapons, not siblings" or something along those lines, which is simply not the case with batfam.

yeah i watched tua but i also thought it was ridiculous and they still treated each other as siblings so i didn't like the luthor/allison thing, and am glad they stopped doing that shit bc it fucking sucked.

Hot take: Batcest shippers are the same people who believe adopted siblings are not actual siblings

smoking hot take: batcest shippers are the people who watch 'my sister got stuck in the washing machine' porn

Duke was adopted by Bruce?

not technically no, but do i, tumblr user batarangsoundsdumb, look like i care?

True story but I had to change my freaking name because it used to be "Damien" and most people would go "OH LIKE DAMIAN WAYNE" like please I'm just tryna live

true story, but i don't actually think of damian when i hear the name damian, literally the first thing that pops up is damian darkh like bruh what?

apparently dc comics company supported comic stores by giving out new titles and stuff during the beginning of the pandemic to help them run and I just think that's wholesome

ah yeah that's so fucking cool, still don't like dc, the company, because this world is a capitalist hellhole and we're all owned by warner brothers or disney with no in between.

ayo looking at tumblr head canons and finding out bruce is actually a terrible father is a punch in the gut

lmao yes, in like 50% of comics bruce is a terrible father and it gives me whiplash

oooh I just saw the jason todd vs winter soldier post and the real question is: batman vs iron man

while iron man has like hundreds of cases of armor, batman could throw out an emp and have the guy dropping out of the sky in 2 seconds.

dickfast = fastdick = quickdick = quickie

magnum hot take

hey bata(?) just thought I'd let you know I have copied the obnoxious emoji and Billy Ray post for use on simping men going forth

thank you 😘🌷 (@spacebarsidecar)

why would you do that to your followers???? i get why i did it, but why would you???

what is scarecrow made the nightwing funko pop himself, like those diy-ers that paint over other ones

oh god no, horrible take, horrible take, that's a disgusting thought oh no

I see your HC that Bruce and Oliver fucked and raise you this: Dick and Roy ALSO fucked

yes they did and it was a horrible moment for jason to find out dick has fucked both of his best friends

"at this rate bruce adds like 1 child to his family every decade or so" Duke is introduced in 2013, Damian as Damian, not as an unnamed child, in 2006. And he is already 14 years old, Robins rarely remain Robins after 16 😬 It looks like a new Robin and Batkid will appear in a couple of years

i mean i can't wait? but somebody will probably die first tho, we're due for another major character death. my money's on either cass or duke this time.

BRO you're so right all of your Bruce's ex headcanons are amazing but they aren't ships, that's kinda wild. Like I don't want any peeks into how their relationship was I just want to see everyone make fun of them

lmao YES it's just i love bruce being a slut, like good for him.

I am in love with your posts your honour thank you

omg thanks are we like,, gonna kiss now?

The justice league needs to have a meeting to discuss how many of their members/partners have slept with bruce. Because through a combination of cannon & fannon (if DC wasn’t homophobic) we have AT LEAST: 1) clark 2) lois 3) oliver 4) dinah 5) john

Thats not counting villains or random civilians @dudelookitsalesbian

yes yes yes, they'll have a yearly meeting about how many of their collective exes could be out for revenge and batman's list just keeps getting longer.

tim was like "i'm drake now" and everyone was like ahh so your fursona is a dragon and tim was like pffffft no. ducks.

and what about it?

when steph's fighting livewire and she zaps her with lighting and nothing happens and then they both just. stand there awkwardly for a second and talk. yeah i couldn't stop laughing at that batgirl steph is the BEST

oh yeah that was fucking hilarious and i think it would be so cool and sexy of dc to give steph a little comic series,,, as a treat

Hi I absolutely adore all of yours "Bruce and Oliver very badly pretending they didn't fuck each other" memes

lmao i do too

I need you to know that “Bruce Wayne had frosted tips” is one of my favorite Bruce takes of all time it’s so galaxy brained. you’re right and you should say it

he also painted his hair blonde once when he was travelling and in conclusion, this is why he's being blackmailed by the gotham gazette.

you know my thing about gordon being branded as the only good cop in gotham is its a load of shit like arguably he's a good person and not working to screw people over or anything but the fact that he also works w. batman makes him a shit cop. like yea batman is better than the mob but its still illegal its still an abuse of power he just not making bank

babe, all cops are bad cops. (but yeah youre absolutely right, working with vigilantes makes you a shit cop, but also working against vigilantes just makes you an asshole cop yanno?)

ruh roh i think i’m about to add “so not yeehaw” every time i don’t like something

that's a very good vocabulary upgrade

somehow i feel like steph already knew. like babs obviously knew but i feel like bruce got high/drunk in front of steph and started telling his boarding school stories and steph was just like “oh you fucked up i’m never gonna forget this”

steph and bruce have weird uncle/rebellious niece dynamic and they just hang out sometimes and bruce will be like 'i once broke my arm when i tripped over a hedge when i was drunk so oliver drove me to the hospital on an electric scooter' and steph will just have to sit there with that knowledge in her head.

Hello I just wanted to tell you you are So right in all your steph opinions bc she is, in fact amazing and I think that's very sexy of you. Ps. Your Bruce/Oliver fic is hilarious

babe, thank you so much and yes steph is amazing and i love her and she deserves the world and she's the best member of the batfam hands down. also thanks

In Supersons we see a couple of kids that are implied to be Damian and Jon's children and the boy has laser eyes and can fly, so I asume he's not adopted. The girl, who calls Bruce grandpa, can also fly, btw. So it's canon (probably by accident) that Jon can have kids and he must have married one of Bruce's kids. (I'm hoping for Damian, mostly because any other of his children would be waaaaaaaaaaaaay too old.) @artemisa97

lmao that was probably an accident seeing as jon is a 17 year old superhero in the year 3000 (by the jonas brothers)

You know, I'm a die hard fan of your memes, but I gotta say one thing: if Gothamites actually took gas mask everywhere with them, then the Scarecrow would just be a weird dude in a weird costume, and not a villain oh so scary. DC really should just takes notes from you.

bold of you to assume there's no gothamite anti-maskers

How does it feel being the funniest person on this app?

horrible, next question.

I can't listen to Green Day or Billy Joel without thinking of your post about how Bruce got arrested at a Billy Joel concert @nightwings-kid

yeah that's your mistake, i on the other hand can't enjoy billy joel without thinking about the glee rendition of 'uptown girl'

I've FINALLY been watching the Batman animated series and I gotta say, after watching "the gray ghost" I am CONVINCED that Batman is a closeted super hero geek who was 100% freaking out the first time he met Superman and is just REALLY good at hiding it.

superman: so what do you do in your free time? batman, thinking about the superman fanfiction he's writing on the batcomputer: i have no free time

bruce and oliver be like boyfriends to co-workers 401k (do the justice leagues get 401ks??? not that bruce and ollie would need them, but-)

lmao yes just 400 thousand words of bruce realising 'oh dip oliver is such a fucking dumbass' (also i don't know what a 401 k is but i assume they don't?)

Gothamites would totally boo superman as he saves Gotham while batman is out. @meenje

he's like 'okay think about that next time you want to be saved from an alien octopus'

I just took long break from dc comics and I come back to see ric grayson ??

i think it's very cool and sexy of dc to see dick and just think 'you know what? let's just give him a traumatic brain injury' and then didn't develop his character in any real way

SPEAKING OF RIC GRAYSON, gothamites making confused memes out of ric grayson is much needed

'dick grayson is my taxi driver? can anyone explain what the fuck happened he looks like an italian plumber?'

i hate to say it but batfam are def "marvel characters" in that sense they are characters who are human but become superheroes unlike most dc characters who are gods trying to be human maybe this is why I like batfam

fair enough

#this is only like half of it #but at least you can get like a few answers #yanno fuck it #bataranswers #ask #asks #anon

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starlightsearches · 3 years

Note

Can we get 3 with hux from the flower AU prompts?

Hello friend! Thanks for the prompt, I hope you like it!! 🌹🌸💐🌼🌺🌷🌻

Requests are open ✨

Florist! Armitage Hux x Model! Reader (f)

Warnings: Not really, a little yearning, some slutty narration, it's kind of silly and maybe ooc, but I think that's it.

I've been feeling pretty shitty about myself and my writing over the past few days, and I figured the best way to break myself out of that funk was to write something, even if it was stupid. Sometimes when your brain is telling you that you can't do something, you gotta do it anyway. Let me know what you think, besties!

3. Flowers are often used for photo shoots and Person A gets hired to arrange the flowers for one, but they can’t help getting nervous around the model, Person B from the Flower Shop AU Prompts

Armitage is out of his element.

He's plenty comfortable working with his assistant in the back of the shop, or helping customers as they dither over the size of the arrangements and the available flowers at the counter. But this is madness.

The backstage of the set is absolutely teeming with people, and every single one of them runs past without a glance in his direction, shouting into headsets or flipping through stacks of pages attached to clipboards.

He ventures further, past a few darkened hallways until he finds an occupied room. There's a vanity mirror against the far wall, and a woman sitting in front of it, resting her head on one hand, the other holding a book.

"Excuse me," Armitage knocks gently against the door frame before stepping inside.

You set the book down, greeting him with a smile.

"Hello, are you here for makeup?"

For a moment, Armitage is speechless.

He hadn't noticed your strange apparel when he first caught sight of you, but now he can't seem to look away from the dress you're wearing, a less-than-faithful recreation recreation of a Victorian gown that hangs low on your shoulders and tight around breasts, leaving very little to the imagination.

Is he hallucinating? He's never believed in ghosts before but you do seem like a rather lovely, and strangely familiar, apparition.

Your brows furrow in confusion before you glance down at yourself, eyes going wide like you've forgotten what you were wearing.

"Oh," you exclaim, throwing your head back with a laugh, "it's a period piece were doing today."

"I'm sorry?"

"You laugh again, finding his idiocy endearing instead of annoying, "you're not the makeup artist, are you?"

"The florist."

"I see. We're doing a shoot today, a romance novel cover. Do you read romance novels?"

So that's where he recognized you from. He's seen your face before, many times over. How to Wed a Rascal, Devil's Daughter, Three's a Crowd, and his favorite: Kingdom of Thirst.

He's spent too much of his time—bleary eyed, reading into the late hours of the night—imagining your face, your eyes, the sound of your moans as he devoured book after book, story after story.

But he's not about to tell you that.

"Uh, no, not really," he lies, and you shrug off the answer, turning the seat so that you can face him.

"I've only read a few, and they're alright. The jobs pay well, at least, and they're more fun than most shoots."

He nods, leaning against the door frame in an attempt to appear casual, hoping you'll say more. He likes hearing you talk.

You don't look like yourself in pictures. It's not just the makeup and the editing, although he's sure that has something to do with it. You're much more earnest in person, and surprisingly easy to be around. It's magnetic, your personality, to the point he can’t take his eyes off you. It must be what makes you so great at your job.

"You were looking for a place to put your flowers, right? I can help with that," you say, standing from the chair and moving into the hallway, calling into the empty space, "Hey Stacy!"

The sound of harried footsteps echoes down the corridor, and soon you're greeted by a serious looking woman, dressed in all black with her hair swept up into a ponytail.

"What do you need, babes?" she asks without looking up from her cell phone, "Jack said he'd be here half an hour ago but traffic's got him running late, of course. Shouldn't matter since we're ahead of schedule so far and going for a pretty minimal look this time but I told him to haul ass anyways, traffic laws be damned. Who is this?"

Every word pours out of her mouth without a breath in between, and it's not until she looks up, meeting his eyes that he realizes she's talking about him.

"This is . . ." you turn to look at him expectantly, raising your brows.

"Armitage," he provides, and you nod.

"Right, Armitage," you smile, turning back to Stacy, "and he's got the flower delivery for the shoot today waiting in his car."

Stacy nods, mumbling into her headset. "That's great. I'll have Phil unload them."

Armitage nods, wondering if he should offer to stay and arrange them. It's not something he'd typically do . . . but he's not exactly in a hurry to leave.

Another set of footsteps meets the three of you from the end of the hallway, this time provided by another harried-looking woman, almost in a sprint.

"Bad news, Stacy," she pants when she arrives, out of breath, "Ronan's called in sick. He's got food poisoning."

Stacy groans, and you roll your eyes. "Typical. Did you call somebody else?"

"They're all busy: Theo and Jacob are out of town shooting swim, and Will's best man at a wedding."

"We'll have to call off the shoot, then, won't we?"

You shake your head, defeated. Armitage can't help but feel for you; it's obvious how much work goes into these productions, so much time wasted. Not to mention the six dozen flowers currently dying in the back of his van.

"Not so fast," Stacy holds her hand up, silencing the group. Her eyes land on him, and she chews on the inside of her cheek, thinking.

"It's Armitage, right?" she asks, tapping her finger against her lips, "have you ever . . . modeled before?"

He feels his face grow hot, heart racing, "What? No. Absolutely not."

The other woman catches on, sizing him up herself. "Wait a second, you're right Stacy. He's totally got the look. Those god damn cheekbones could slice through steel. He’s about the same size as Will, too, so costuming wouldn't be a problem. How tall are you? Six foot? Six foot two?"

"No," he steps back, "I won't do it."

You put your hand on his shoulder, begging him with your eyes.

"Please, Armitage. It would really help."

He twists his face into a frown, already feeling his resolve crumbling under your eager gaze.

"Well . . . alright."

The three of you erupt in to cheers. He's absolutely going to regret this.

An hour later—hair done, costumed, and feeling ridiculous—Armitage walks out onto the set.

God, no.

It's a surprisingly faithful recreation—he assumes—sumptuously decorated and absolutely bursting with flowers. That's not the problem.

It's a bedroom, most of the space taken up by a large, dark four-poster, rose petals strewn across its surface. He knows what that means.

Bile rises in his throat, a wave of nausea rolling his stomach. He couldn't do this. There was a reason he read so many romance novels: he liked to imagine he could be someone different, someone charming, passionate, wicked.

Being that person is not in his nature.

Vivian, the costumer, approaches him from behind, startling him.

"You ready?" she asks, gesturing him towards the stage, but he hesitates.

"There's no need to be nervous, hon. Your partner for today? She's a god damn angel, the best of the best. You'll be in good hands . . . or I guess she'll be in your hands."

She laughs at her own joke and pats him gently, wandering away.

He's going to throw up. Or pass out. Or drop dead. He can't handle this.

Then he sees you, gliding in through the doorway. You're sparkling with your makeup and hair done to perfection, your eyes warm and bright, and you're smiling at him. Just for him.

Somebody ushers him towards the set, and you join him, arranging yourself on the bed.

"Nervous?" you ask him, laying down on your elbows, a little too at ease. He doesn't have to answer, he knows you can see it on his face.

You hold out your hand to him, and he takes it, adjusting to the feel of your skin against his. "You don't need to be, it's easy."

You pull without warning, and he falls forward, knees hitting the mattress. His other hand land besides your head, close enough to your face that he could reach out and stroke it, if he wanted to.

"Ready up there?" the photographer yells from across the room, and you give him the thumbs up before slipping in to your proper pose. You place his hand at your waist, tilting up his chin.

"Now furrow your brow a little," you whisper, "and part your lips."

He does as he's told, and soon enough the camera flash sparks in his periphery.

It's not as horrible as he thought it would be, although you are doing most of the work. You shift periodically, sometimes staring deep into his eyes, or looking down demurely with your hand just barely grazing your forehead.

"Alright, that's great, that's perfect," the photographer monologues, never taking his eye from the viewfinder, "why don't we get a couple with your lips at her neck?'

He trembles, his breathing shallow, but you look up at him with the slightest nod, arching your back just a little farther, leaving your skin exposed and inviting.

He bends closer, examining the graceful lines of your body. If this were real, where would he kiss you? If he had you to himself—without all these people watching—in his own bed, no pretense, no costumes . . .

He brushes his lips tenderly against the junction between your neck and your shoulder, and he swears that he can hear you sigh in response, your spine curving against his fingers, your chest pressed tighter against his own.

"That's perfect," the photographer shouts, but Armitage isn't listening, entirely preoccupied with the feeling of your pulse against his mouth, his lips traveling up over your jaw, stopping just below your ear.

You turn to face him, slowly, until nose brushes his, staring into his eyes. If he tilted his chin just half an inch, he'd be kissing you.

"That's great, everybody! I think we're done for today."

The set erupts with applause at the photographer's words, but you still don't pull away from him, smiling gently, whispering against his lips.

"Like I said, you're a natural."

His face grows flush, and he shifts back onto his feet, clearing his throat with a cough.

You stand beside him, brushing your hands nervously over the bodice of your gown.

"Thanks again for doing this, we all really appreciate it."

"Of course, it was . . . fun."

"No really, it was a huge favor. I'd like to do something for you, in return—we could get dinner, maybe? My treat."

You place your hand on his arm again, stroking your thumb down over his elbow. Despite how much he's touched you over the last hour, this contact feels different. Because you're not playing a part this time. Because it's him you're reaching for.

"We can change first, of course," you say, the words rushed as you read his dewy-eyed imaginings for hesitation.

He smiles, placing his hand over yours in reassurance, "I'd like that."

Hux Tag List: @theredwolfisalesbian, @thembohux, @writingletterstothefire, @catboykenobii, @missmadwoman, @evarinaandlat, @sitherin-mxschief, @imafatassmess, @toasterking, @rosevon7975, @pradahux, @armitages-galaxy, @dark-lord-of-the-simps, @daughterofaries, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @aramanna, @theold-ultraviolence, @mrs-ghuleh, @lemongingerart, @isthisheaven5, @trash-queen-af, @generalthirst, @tobealostwanderer, @huxxoxo, @theoriginalannoyingbird, @liceforlunch, @g3n3ralhux

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years

Photo

Only in a Sitcom

Fandom: WandaVision Pairing: Darcy Lewis/Jimmy Woo Rating: T

Summary: Darcy has no idea what the hell’s going on with this WandaVision thing, but neither does Jimmy. It’s kinda fun to have somebody to binge-watch alternate reality TV with.

read ch. 1 one / 2 two / 3 three / 4 four / 5 five 6 six / 7 seven / 8 eight / 9 nine / 10 ten 11 eleven / 12 twelve / 13 thirteen / 14 fourteen 15 fifteen / 16 sixteen / 17 seventeen / 18 eighteen

this fic is now complete!

Darcy, Jimmy, and Monica have been working their way across Westview in as straight a line as possible, knocking on every door in every cute little cul-de-sac in their path. It was Jimmy who asserted they should never put their backs to a dangerous situation, but Monica who overruled that statement, pointing out that they were more likely to stay focused if they didn’t keep staring at the fight in the sky.

Darcy thinks they were both right. There’s a tingle rippling up and down the back of her neck, like she gets when she’s up in the middle of the night, spooked by shadows her anxious, overtired mind is too eager to turn into monsters, but the heebie-jeebies give her the energy to work quickly. She takes on an entire crescent on her own, readying people for a departure she’s certain they’ve been longing for. As she’s coming out the crescent’s other end, she realizes the Hex is getting brighter; the red storm clouds are being sucked back into themselves to leave a thin daylight.

Standing at the corner, she watches Jimmy and Monica emerge from the street opposite. Darcy jogs over, wincing. Wanda could’ve put orthotics in these Escape Artist boots. They’re blistering her feet.

“This has to be a good sign, right?” she asks, motioning to the calm skies.

“Look,” Monica instructs. She jerks her chin and Darcy and Jimmy follow her line of sight to see Wanda, Vision, and the twins coming up the main road.

Darcy gasps.

Wanda’s gone from bumming-around-the-house sweats to battle-ready chic. With her armour-like bodice, gloves that leave those magic fingers free, and an usually-shaped tiara framing her forehead, she’s both intimidating and otherworldly. But she’s smiling. Darcy would call it a sad smile and it hurts her heart to see it, even though she doesn’t understand.

As Wanda passes them with her hand held fast in Vision’s, she turns her head to nod at Monica. It’s in her eyes too, the same thing that’s in her smile. Something tired but present. Gone are the comedically darting glances of her persona as the bumbling new girl in town and the frazzled energy of a mom trying to corral a couple of superkids. It looks like she’s finally letting go of the illusion/delusion.

“Can we do anything for her?” Jimmy asks as the family continues on down the middle of the street.

“No,” Monica says. “The rest is for Wanda to do on her own.”

“We might as well head back towards the center of town,” Darcy says. “We don’t need to waste time at the edges. They’ll be the first to wake up.”

She points to where the Hex is shimmering on the horizon. The seconds pass and the shimmer looks messier, a weave of overlapping wires fritzing with energy. The edge is coming closer, but unlike when Wanda pushed the boundary farther, closing it around Darcy and her S.W.O.R.D. nemeses, this isn’t menacing. Wanda’s powers are no longer looking to consume more territory, they’re contracting. Faster than the incoming wave of the walls, the Hex goes dark. The red glow is intensely magical in the sudden night.

The three of them fan out, hitting the houses in their new route, and make their way back to the town square. They’ve been telling everyone to remain in their homes until they receive further instructions to evacuate, but Darcy spots a figure on the sidewalk by the department story. It’s Agnes, except… not as they saw her lately. No wild hair or billowing, layered outfit. No levitation. Darcy’s wary in the face of the woman who appears so much like her former self, the one supposedly under Wanda’s control. This Agnes has a damn Peter Pan collar poking out of her sweater! She couldn’t look much less threatening.

“What do you think?” she asks Monica when she joins her.

“I don’t know.” Monica peers across the street at Agnes in the dark and when Agnes notices, she flashes a wide smile.

“Well, maybe we should— Hey, no, wait!”

But the Captain strides across to meet Agnes. Darcy almost follows in her idol’s wake, but she quickly remembers that Monica has powers to protect herself that far exceed the right hook Darcy used to drop Agent Handcuffs. Whatever Agnes’s deal is, Darcy knows she’s an entirely different kind of beast from an asshole S.W.O.R.D. agent.

“What’s going on there?” Jimmy wonders, coming up beside her.

Thanks to the stress of trying to speak to as many citizens as possible in a short amount of time, including looking dozens of people still under mind control in the eye and aching for their lack of agency, the fear of and for Wanda as she witnessed that clash in the sky, and, really, the car crash that’s still pretty recent, Darcy reacts to her boyfriend’s presence by wrapping her arms around him tightly. With his tie pressed to her cheek, she feels him hug her back.

“I don’t know,” she says, carrying on the conversation without pulling away an inch, “but Monica’s finding out.”

“Agnes looks like an average Westviewer again. It’s disconcerting.”

“She must’ve been faking right up until she went head-to-head with Wanda.”

“And now she’s one of them for real.”

“Seems like,” Darcy agrees.

When Monica returns to confirm Agnes’s newly mind-controlled status, Darcy peels herself most of the way away from Jimmy, leaving her arm around his back, beneath his FBI jacket. He rests his arm around her shoulders.

“I don’t know what we do with her,” Monica says, hands on her hips. “We can’t undo what Wanda did, but do we leave Agnes here in Westview, trusting that she isn’t able to hurt anyone? Do we bring her in?”

“If it’s beyond our power to help her, maybe we just leave her here,” Jimmy suggests. “Wanda knows where she is, so we let Agnes stay in a place she can be found when or if Wanda decides to release her.”

“It’s tricky,” Darcy says slowly. “Agnes is capable of doing so much damage, and I’m sure she’s going to get good and angry while Wanda has her trapped inside herself. You and I know how that feels,” she says to Monica. “But that Agnes is secure—as far as we know—inside Sitcom Agnes, like little Agnes nesting dolls. I don’t know if this is the kind of punishment she deserves for pushing Wanda to the brink, but I do know it’s not going to be pretty if that inner Agnes is unleashed with nobody around to mitigate the consequences.”

“Sentient Weapon Observation and Response Division,” Monica says softly.

“Hmm?”

“S.W.O.R.D. That’s what we’re supposed to stand for. I think, without Tyler Hayward around, it’s high time S.W.O.R.D. went back to its roots of trying to understand exceptional people, circumstances, and technology instead of just attacking them.”

“Sounds as though you might have a plan, Captain,” Jimmy says. Darcy glances at his face and catches his small, knowing smile.

Monica beams back.

“The former Director may have kicked me off the base, but I’m still S.W.O.R.D. and I still believe in my mother’s original goals for the organization.”

“Hey, it’s your legacy,” Darcy says. “You have my vote for Director.”

“You want to put Agnes under S.W.O.R.D. observation?” Jimmy asks.

“Not just Agnes. Not if Wanda’s willing to listen.”

With the sky rapidly lightening, Monica roughs out a plan that involves a partnership between S.W.O.R.D. and Wanda Maximoff. A partnership because any other dynamic would surely fail. After what they all witnessed today, it’s obvious that someone as powerful as Wanda can’t be held against her will. In exchange for Wanda making reparations to the people and town of Westview (not the least of which will be repairing all physical damage, which Monica knows Wanda’s capable of, since there’s no longer a Monica-sized hole in her living room wall) and an agreement to be held in the custody of S.W.O.R.D., under the leadership of Director Monica Rambeau, Monica thinks she has plenty to offer Wanda.

“You think she’ll do that deal?” Jimmy asks.

“That’s my question too,” Darcy says. “I mean, without the deal, Wanda can go where she pleases, right?”

“But she’ll be alone,” Monica counters. “We know what her loved ones mean to her. That’s what all this has been about—Wanda doing whatever it takes in order to go through life less alone.”

“What can you give her?”

“Vision,” Jimmy says abruptly. “The other one, the one who left. You think he’ll be back.”

“I think he’ll want answers,” Monica agrees. “Whatever Hayward did to him, he did at S.W.O.R.D. and I’m betting that Wanda will see that’s her best chance to reunite with Vision.”

“Vision will come back,” Darcy says, putting it together, “and Wanda will be there waiting.”

“And in the meantime, we use her expertise as we continue our work in a… more transparent vein. Give her access, keep her busy.”

“Keep her happy,” Jimmy cuts in. Monica nods her acknowledgement.

“Yes. Show her what it’s like to help people again. What better way to remind her there’s more to the world than her artificial paradise than to have her consult on the work we’re doing in space?”

“If you need somebody to sell Wanda on the space angle, I’m your girl,” Darcy volunteers.

“I’ve already had some ideas about that,” Monica promises with a smile.

Her eyes focus beyond Darcy and Jimmy and they turn to see what she’s looking at. Black hood drawn up over her head, Wanda’s walking back into the downtown. Alone. Darcy hopes that the fact that she’s black-hatted doesn’t mean she’s already decided against working to redeem herself to rejoin the good guys.

“You better stay in touch too,” Monica tells Jimmy, shifting as she prepares to intercept Wanda.

“If you reach out to Darcy, I’m sure I won’t be far,” he says. Darcy’s heart performs quick, happy thumps.

With that, Monica walks purposely towards Wanda. Darcy watches her cautious body language and Wanda’s tension in response to being accosted, but there isn’t any visible escalation. When FBI vehicles and the team Darcy assumes belongs to Major Goodner roll up the street, Wanda doesn’t flee. Darcy looks to Jimmy.

“You better go take charge,” she suggests.

He gives her a bashful smile.

“I will in a minute. The evacuation should run like clockwork after all the prep we did. With the Hex removed, everyone’s free.”

“They’re free, I’m free…”

“Are you free Saturday?” The smile’s a little slyer now.

“After all this, I don’t even know what day of the week it is,” Darcy admits, “but yes.”

He laughs.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, twisting to face him as his hand moves from her shoulder to her waist. “Quiet night in watching TV?”

“You know, I think I need a break from TV for a while. How about a movie?”

Darcy grins.

“You buy the tickets, I’ll buy the snacks?”

“Deal,” Jimmy says, and smiles against her mouth when he ducks his head to kiss her.

#my writing #Only in a Sitcom #wandavision #wandavision spoilers #Darcy Lewis #Jimmy Woo #Monica Rambeau #Darcy Lewis x Jimmy Woo #Darcy x Jimmy #Vision

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classicrockshenanigans · 4 years

Note

Hi, can I get a David bowie one please? Maybe something where the reader is also a singer? Thank you so much!

Pairing: David Bowie x Singer!Reader (reader is gender neutral)

Word Count: 1,534

Summary: Reader performs at a nightclub. They close the show with a haunting cover of “Heroes”, not knowing that the man himself is in the audience.

Warnings: Smoking

Author: Whitney

A/N: I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 Also, reminder that requests are open!

Your heart pounds as you get ready to take the stage of the small club. It’s nerve wracking to take the stage even though you’ve performed here at least half a dozen times. You peak out from behind the curtain at the small crowd gathering around the stage. With all the lighting focused on the stage, and the cigarette smoke circling around the room it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly how many people are out there.

The manager ushers you out there, and you get a bit better of a look at the crowd. It’s not as busy as you’ve seen before, but that doesn’t do much to ease your nerves. You wave to the crowd, feeling a little silly when you do so. Still the crowd welcomes you warmly with a few familiar faces looking up at you. You smile as you make your way up to the microphone.

“Hello, I’m (y/n),” you introduce yourself.

You open the show with one of your original songs. You strum your guitar softly as your voice carries through the club. People listen intently, their eyes glued to you as you sing. The insecure side of you worries people are bored, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. The club that had been so loud just moments earlier, is captivated into near silence by you standing on the stage. Your voice lulling the chaos into peace. You do a couple more of your own songs before setting your guitar to the side. You make your way to the piano, taking a seat on the bench before clearing your throat.

This was the part of the performance you were the most concerned about. David Bowie was one of your favorite artists, and you’ve always considered singing one of his songs.

One night while you were at your house tinkering on your own piano, you’d inexplicably begun playing “Heroes” in a low key. You’d sang the song in a whispery tone, and the way it sounded to you was so sad. You’d felt confident that it would add something to your performance, but as you sat on the stage preparing to cover the song in the same way your confidence was faltering. You consider making a small introduction, maybe provide an explanation. But as your hands begin shaking, you realize it’s now or never.

You begin playing the familiar tune on the piano. It’s a shock to you that your voice doesn’t quiver a bit when you begin singing. Instead you’re as confident in the words as you would’ve been if you’d written them yourself. You end your performance with this song, to a surprisingly enthusiastic response. You shyly bow and thank everyone before leaving the stage.

It takes a while for you to get calmed down. You step outside the club to the small alleyway to smoke a cigarette. Still feeling buzzed from your performance, your hand shakes a bit when you lift the cigarette to your lip to take a deep drag. You lean your head against the wall as you exhale the smoke. The street seemed to exist in a completely different world than the club. It’s quiet and dark in the alley. Only the streetlights on the blue neon sign of the club provided any kind of light, and where you stood around the corner even that was muted. You close your eyes as you feel yourself slowly begin to unwind.

“I liked your performance,” a man’s voice interrupts your silence.

You open your eyes, and pull your head forward from it’s previous resting place against the wall. In the split second it takes to do this, you’re prepared to chase off some unwanted drunkard. Instead you see a thin figure leaning against the wall opposite of you. The blue neon hitting his angular face reveals his identity to be David Bowie himself. You want to say a thousand different words of praise, but instead you simply smile in an attempt not to seem starstruck.

“Thank you very much,” you smile.

“I must say I’m particularly fond of the last song,” he smirks.

“Me too,” you agree. “It’s my favorite. Although, I was afraid I might butcher it.”

“Not at all,” he leans forward. “I’m a little envious I never thought to sing it that way.”

Your heart is racing, sending a rush of blood to your cheeks. You know in the light you probably look purple, and for some reason your brain wants to replay a children’s film in your mind at this moment.

“No need to be envious,” you tease.

He steps forward, taking the cigarette from your lips. He takes a drag from it before giving it back.

“Perhaps the next time you perform, I could join you,” he suggests.

Your eyes widen at the suggestion. All you can think to do is nod. You flick the cigarette onto the ground, and finally find your bearings again.

“I would love that,” you agree.

He chuckles as you let your admiration show for the first time. He pulls his coat closer to his thin body.

“Next time then,” he promises. “I get to choose the song though.”

“Of course,” you smile.

He starts to walk away, but then hesitates. He turns to you again with a small smile.

“Do you come to this club frequently?” you ask, hoping all of this wasn’t just empty promises.

“I do,” he nods. “Although, I hope that won’t affect your performance. I quite like listening to you sing.”

“There’s nothing that could stop me from singing,” you promise.

He smiles, “Good to hear it. So many people are quick to give up on their dreams.”

“That’s the great tragedy of life, I suppose. Probably more so than death.”

He nods thoughtfully, for a moment his eyes seem to look just past you. You don’t interrupt what seems to be a deep train of thought. Instead allowing him to pull himself back into the moment.

“There’s a little cafe down the street, the people there don’t really bother me,” he explains.

You nod, still a bit oblivious to what he was implying.

“Would you like to go with me to get some coffee or something?”

A small gasp leaves you, but then you try to regain your composure. As though you always meet famous people, then of course get invited to go somewhere with them. Just another day in your very exciting life.

“That would be nice,” you agree.

He offers you his arm politely. You try not to die as you intertwine your arm with his, and he begins leading you down the street.

“Won’t anyone miss you?” you ask as the neon lights from the club fade, and everything is bathed in streetlights. You knew he didn’t come to this club alone, why would he?

“I’m sure the fact that I’m missing will come to their attention at least once.”

You laugh, “I’m sure more than once.”

“It will be fine,” he assures you.

Your mind is swimming with questions. You look up at him. His hair is combed back rather neatly, and his mismatched eyes watch the street carefully. He looks different than you’d imagined he would. Somehow he seems incredibly alert and relaxed at the same time.

He leads you to the small corner cafe, and you take a seat at the back booth away from the window. A waitress comes by to take your orders, there’s a glint of recognition in her eyes as you both order coffee. But she doesn’t say anything. Finally seeing him fully in the light, you’re struck by how handsome he actually is.

“I like being able to move around freely,” he says unprompted. “It’s always a delight to meet people who will go along with that.”

“Everyone should be allowed to live freely,” you agree.

There’s a comfortable silence that falls between you. You steal glances at one another, smiling when one of you is caught. The waitress brings your coffees and sets them down. You add cream and sugar to yours, noticing how closely he seemed to watch you as you did so. There’s a curiosity in his eyes you didn’t expect. You bring the mug to your lips, taking a careful sip.

He’s the first to break the silence, “So, you wrote the first songs you performed?”

You nod, “I did.”

“Very good,” he compliments. You feel your cheeks blush a bit.

“Thank you,” the insanity of it all seemed to hit you for the first time.

“I own all of your albums,” you blush at the confession. “I suppose you could say I think you’re rather good as well.”

He laughs at this, “Thank you very much.”

You take another sip of your coffee. You want to ask how you ended up here in his company, his eyes seemingly locked onto you. Watching every move you make as though you’re half as interesting as him. Somehow you fear that questioning the moment will absolutely ruin it. So, you sit in the cafe sipping your coffee and allow yourself to indulge in the moment.

There’s a hope lingering in your chest that perhaps this will lead to more than just one cup of coffee.

#david bowie x reader #david bowie fluff #david bowie #classic rock fanfiction #classic rock fanfic #whitney writes #lovely anon

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oopsiedoopsie23 · 4 years

Text

The princess and the drummer part 2 | Rook x reader

A/N: I promised that this was coming didn’t I? Okay I’ll stop being a cocky piece of shit now. Anyways, thank you so much for all the support my loves! I’m really feeling the love and it’s truly so amazing! Hopefully y’all love this part as much as the last, happy reading my loves!

Prompt: After getting caught on a livestream having a heated moment with Rook, the reader’s life gets turned upside down.

Part 1

You stared into the mirror, wide eyed, taking everything in.

You watched as two makeup artists were frantically rushing, dabbing something onto your face, scolding you to stay still. And then, there was the man behind you trying to secure a mic pack onto your back, also scolding you to stay still, glaring at you every time you twitched or fidgeted.

“Y/N you’ve got 30 seconds!”

You stood up, awkwardly swatting away the makeup artists’ final attempts at making your makeup look ‘dewy’ or whatever the fuck that meant, before quickly swivelling around, only to be caught in the arms of the man that may have just possibly ruined your career a few hours ago.

“Hey...are you good?”

It took all of your strength to not melt into his arms right then and there. But you knew that if you gave in, you would never make it onto the stage.

“I’m kind of losing my shit but if I want a chance to save my fucking career then I have to do this.”

“Wait wha- save your career? What the fuck are you saying Y/N?”

You spun around, pulling yourself out of Rook’s grasp, walking away from him, purposely not meeting his eyes.

“I can’t talk right now I have to go on stage in like 10 seconds.”

“Fuck that Y/N, you need to talk to me!”

“Rook I don’t have fucking time! We can talk about this later!”

You finally built up the courage to look into his eyes but instantly regretted it, seeing his once bright and playful eyes looking dark, full of sadness and confusion.

You’re about to apologize for snapping at him when you hear someone behind you yelling your name, “Y/N you’re on right now!”

You give Rook a tiny smile, before turning around once again walking towards the stage.

“Wait Y/N! Fucking hell!” you gasp as you feel a hand wrap around your wrist, pulling you backwards and spinning you around so that you were facing him once again.

“I’m not gonna let you go on stage like this, we’re gonna talk right now whether you like it or not.”

“Y/N let’s go! You need to go on stage right now!”

Before you could pull out of his grasp for what felt like the hundredth time within the past 5 minutes, Rook speaks, never once taking his eyes off of yours, “Give us five minutes! Tell Kells to tell a story or something!”

And once again, before anyone else could stop him, Rook gently tightens his grip around your wrist and pulls you out of the busy room.

You follow slightly behind him as he walks through a series of hallways before finding a small corridor with no one else in it.

You watch as Rook slowly stops and turns around, eyes finding yours. The two of you stand like that for what feels like forever. His hand still wrapped gently around your wrist, facing you, staring at you with those beautiful eyes of his.

You close your eyes, remembering everything that happened in the past 3 hours, everything that happened between you and Rook. From the heated make-out session, to the sparks flying throughout your body, to the memory of his skin against yours when the two of you couldn’t get enough of each other in some random supply closet...and now this.

You open your eyes slowly to find his still trained on yours, studying you, waiting for you to say something.

“I think that I just made the biggest fucking mistake of my career.”

Silence soon engulfed the both of you, as the both of you let your words sink in.

“And by mistake do you mean me?”

Your eyes widen, tears threatening to spill as you realize what Rook had been thinking. You quickly shake your head, moving your hands so that they were gently placed on his cheeks.

“I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just been...a lot. Today has made me the happiest I’ve felt in a while, I mean you got me so fucking happy that I fired my dumbass publicist and then fucked you in a supply closet for God’s sake!” you giggle as you see Rook let out a chuckle

“I believe that it was I, that fucked you and not the other way around.”

“Oh shut up!” you laugh as you let go of his face, lightly smacking his chest.

“Way to ruin the moment, jackass.”

Rook grabbed your hands once again, pulling you towards him, and wrapping you in his arms. You couldn’t help but smile as you nuzzled your head into his chest, finally letting yourself melt into his arms.

“So why do you think you ruined your career?”

You let the two of you sway a little bit before responding, “Because...these past 3 hours have changed my life, Rook. In 3 hours you made me feel for the first time in my life, that I could be me...that I needed to be me. That, I can’t hide from the world, pretending to be some innocent, pop princess who doesn’t like to get drunk and have sex in random closets.”

You felt his chest vibrate as he chuckled.

“I need to show people the real me...and I don’t know how to do that, Rook.”

As the words leave your mouth, you feel fingers tilt your chin up, so that you were once again looking into his eyes, before you felt Rook’s lips on yours.

Throughout the day, the two of you had probably exchanged dozens of kisses, filled with fire and electricity, passion running through your veins. But this kiss was different, it was sweet and slow. One that didn’t cause electricity to spark through your veins but instead caused little butterflies to flutter in your stomach, and a slight blush to dust onto your cheeks. The kind of kiss that told you that whatever you and Rook had, it wasn’t just a one-time thing or a fling, it was something more, something indescribable.

Just as you were running out of air, Rook pulled his lips away from yours, but instead of pulling away from you fully, he kept his forehead resting against yours. “I love you Y/N.”

Your heart nearly pops out of your chest as you hear those words.

“I know that we’ve only had whatever this is for 3 fucking hours but, I love you, I’m in love with you, and I want to be with you. Whatever we have is too good for us to just throw away or leave behind, because if we do, I know that I’ll never find anyone else who can make me feel how I feel about you.”

There’s a slight silence before he speaks again, “You don’t have to say anything now but, I just wanted you to know because I think you had to go on stage like 10 minutes ago and I don’t think I could’ve held this in for much longer.”

You giggled as you took his gentle, calloused hands in your yours.

“I love you too Rook.”

You watched as Rook’s face lit up, and he smiled wider than you had ever seen.

The two of you kissed once again, and it was somehow better than the last. You felt time slow once again, but this time it was as if nothing else in the world mattered, all that mattered was those 3 words that Rook had said to you, and that you were in his arms. You loved him, and he loved you.

You don’t know how long the two of you stood there, foreheads pressed against one another, in each others arms, making out, but it was apparently long enough for Slim to come running up to the both of you panting, but swearing like a madman, which was pretty hilarious to be honest.

“What the fuck do you think y’all are doing! We still have a concert to put on, one that one of you agreed to surprise the crowd for, and you, you dumbass are actually part of this fucking show, banging on your big ass drums! I mean it’s nice and all that you motherfuckers were having a nice fucking moment but you left Kells out there saying his lame ass dad jokes and if you, little miss murderer, don’t go out there in 5 seconds, every single fucking person in that crowd is going to lose their high, and won’t find Kells’ fucking terrible jokes tolerable anymore, so stop sucking each others faces off and get on the fucking stage you dipshits!”

The two of you stand there, wide eyed for a second before bursting out laughing and taking off running towards the stage, hand in hand. You both run by the stage manager that had first yelled at you, (who looked like she was gonna rip her hair out) and also a worried Ashleigh, who you give a thumbs up to.

You stand by the entrance of the stage as you hear someone yelling into an earpiece behind you, signalling to Colson that you were ready, as someone tossed you a microphone and fiddled with your micpack one last time.

You took in a quick breath, as you hear Colson introduce you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m so fucking sorry that you had to listen to me tell those lame ass jokes to y’all for the past little bit but it’s all worth it because I have a surprise for you, motherfuckers!”

You hear the crowd erupt and you can’t help but smile and feel your nerves slowly begin to wash away.

You look to your side as Rook pecks your forehead before whispering in your ear, “You got this princess, remember I’m right behind you.”

You smile at the nickname and nod your head as he gives you a wink and runs back onto the stage, sticks in hand, sitting back down at his drum set.

“Y’all saw her making out with my fucking drummer earlier...give it up for Y/N fucking L/N everybody!”

The crowd erupts, and as you see run onto the stage, you wave at a couple of fans before and give Colson a hug.

“Thanks for the fucking intro, you dipshit.” you giggle, playfully smacking his arm. You hear the crowd roar once again as you swear, and you can’t help but laugh once again.

You start dancing and jumping around with Colson and the crowd as they begin to play your most popular song.

The song lasts a good 3 minutes before you’re panting and sticking your arm out to the crowd, signalling to them that you want to talk.

“So, if y’all hadn’t figured it out already, I’ve had a pretty crazy day.” you laugh as some of the fans whistled and screamed, telling you that they had also seen Colson’s livestream. And you couldn’t help but laugh harder when you heard Rook play a slight beat on the drum, making the crowd go even crazier as Rook basically acknowledged the incident as well.

“Alright, alright, anyways like some of you beautiful people in this room, I’ve been struggling my whole career with being someone that I’m not. I’ve been singing and making music that I knew that other people would want me to make, but I didn’t want to make it at all, hell I fucking hated it.”

You pause as you hear a bunch of the crowd laugh and scream in agreement.

“It’s okay y’all can fucking agree that you hated it, I know what you motherfuckers are thinking.” you laugh

“Anyways, I think I’ve been talking for too long but basically, I’m tired of pretending, from now on, I’m gonna swear all I fucking want, drink how much I want and make the fucking music that I want cause fuck that shit!”

The crowd roars in agreement, all cheering you on, as you finally unleash to them and the world, your true colours and show them a glimpse of who you really were.

“So what I’m really trying to say here is, for my next album, it’s gonna be way different, and you might hear a familiar voice on there.” you yell as you point to Kells who was standing back, watching you and grinning

“And maybe even a special drummer boy on there too.” you wink and turn around catching the eye of a smiling Rook who once again, plays a short beat in response.

You hear the crowd erupt once again and you laugh, feeling on a high from finally showing the world who you really were and feeling like a huge weight had finally come off of your shoulders.

Soon enough, Colson wrapped up the show, as you joined in on one of his songs, before bidding your farewells to the crowd and returning backstage.

As soon as you step foot backstage, you feel someone’s arms snake around yours, lifting you up into the air. You immediately squeal as you feel Rook turn you around, smiling from ear to ear.

“Drummer boy huh?”

“I guess now we’re the princess and the drummer boy.”

-------------------

The end motherfuckers! Damn this is way longer than I expected but I hope y’all liked it <3

#rook x reader #rook #jp cappelletty #jp cappelletty x reader #jp cappelletty imagine #rook imagine #machine gun kelly #mgk #machine gun kelly imagine #machine gun kelly x reader #est #xx #fanfiction #imagine #colson baker #oopsiedoopsie23

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whatcouldgowrong-ohthat · 4 years

Note

Hi! I saw you had request open, so I was wondering if you could write Bucky reacting to overhearing someone tell his starving artist friend that their work doesn't mean anything? It can be in head canon style or an actual fic, whichever you prefer. Thank you!

The Artist and the Baker

Pairing: baker!Bucky x artist!Reader

Word Count: 2601 words

Warnings: This is fluff. Mutual pining, that sorta thing, guys.

A/N: I honestly really love this request especially with everything going on. I think it’s very common for people to take artists and creators for granted and I have certainly been on the receiving end of that treatment.

I hope you like this. It was fun to make, but I’m sorry if it wasn’t quite what you were looking for.

-.-.-.-

Becca’s Needs for the Soul – a two story creation that was well-loved and adored by anyone who passed through the splatter painted door. Most people never understood the name, not even her brother, Bucky. Until Rebecca asked him to co-own and start working at the establishment. His little sister, always full of dramatics, had created something for everybody.

It was a coffee shop and a bakery.

A bookstore and a gallery.

They even had nights where people came in to perform music, standup, anything the heart desired. There were other days where artists from around would come and paint, sometimes provide lessons for kids, and other days there was simply nothing but quiet.

It took no time for Rebecca’s little hole in the wall to become one of the community’s favorites. Especially when her brother and his two friends came on. They had gotten it down to a science really.

Rebecca would come in, organizing the bookstore, managing everything behind the scenes, and setting up any special events that would come up. Whenever it was time to decorate the store for holidays? Or even something seasonal that came to mind? She spent even more time out with the customers instead of behind the scenes.

And when she brought in her brother and two hunks to keep people company? It was a genius plan on her part. Especially when female customers spiked. But she would never admit that maybe that had been a smidgen of the plan all along. No, her real reasoning was for the boys. They needed something simple after returning from their second and final tour.

So she stuck two of them behind the counter. Her older brother often spent most days tucked back in the kitchen creating God knows what, but it always smelled wonderful. Any time he came out of his little hole, it was usually to help man the register while Sam slacked because he was flirting with too many customers.

But that was to be expected when Sam was the coffee guy. He was always creating new Holiday specials, deciding the best coffee beans for purchase, and trying something different. No one ever knew what it would be, but normally the smell of coffee and something filled the store.

And Steve? Well, he was one of the store’s more popular artists. He didn’t “officially” work for them, but he spent enough time there where people started nicknaming him the “curator”. He was the one who usually brought in new artists.

That was how Y/N had become part of their little group.

She was a photographer, but Bucky would always say it was more than that. For those who hired her, she found a way to make sure they were comfortable in front of the camera. Y/N always said she understood being nervous because of her own curvy figure, but Bucky just saw how she glowed. And her work that she put here? It wasn’t just portraits or landscapes. She had a way of combining paint and photos to create a way of reminding the world that imagination and reality were always linked. While Sam and Steve teased her for focusing on events to pay the bills, Bucky was the one who asked about which works she had planned.

With a smile and paint in her hair or staining her nails, she would tell him. Her eyes would sparkle with excitement that could only come from being an artist. She was so animated with her words, hands flying about and often looking like she belonged in some sort of cartoon. Her cheeks would always flush when she would realize how fast she was talking or how much louder she spoke.

But he never minded.

He liked having a friend who got so excited about her work. It was a different sort of excitement than Steve. The blonde was always smiling and had that same spark, but he was infinitely calmer compared to Y/N. Their artwork matched their personalities. Steve’s were extravagant and beautiful pencil sketches of people – raw and honest and revealing something that no one else could see but him. Y/N’s were stunning and extraordinary paint and photos – raw in a way that reminded the world to see what they were missing.

Their creations often balanced the walls of Rebecca’s shop. At least they did during the times Steve’s work wasn’t flying off the walls. It was that popularity that had him drawing at the shop. He often invited Y/N, telling her that people not only wanted to buy their work, but they wanted to watch their creativity.

Still, her best work came from the privacy of her own home.

Every week she brought in something new. Something special.

And today was no different.

The rules for artists selling their work were simple. They decided the prices. They worked the transactions. The shop itself provided a place to see the work, but took no percentage. They didn’t interfere.

These were unspoken rules that everyone managed to follow because…well, it made sense.

Until this guy – arrogant and irritating and looking to buy art. Sam had nicknamed him “Sweater vest.”

He had come in like any other day, ordering some tea before complaining that it was “too hot” and “too watered down”. It made Sam’s blood boil not because it was a complaint, but because it was the same order and same complaint every time. And every time, it was those complaints that kept him from tipping anything.

Even if he finished his tea and stuck around for a couple hours every damn time, admiring the artwork, fingering through books, but never buying anything other than his “not good enough” tea.

Sam’s too-big smile was still in place as he watched Sweater vest take a seat next to Y/N’s newest work. Both men glanced at the painting, but for entirely different reasons. Sam did because he couldn’t wait for Bucky to see it. Sweater vest did because today was going to be his first official purchase. And Sam hated that the artwork on the wall had to go to -

“Sweater vest is back.” Sam spat as the kitchen door closed behind him.

Bucky looked up, setting down the dozen cookies that had just come out of the oven. He knew exactly which customer Sam was griping about, always finding it entertaining that someone had managed to get under his skin. “And?”

“And he’s buying Y/N’s new painting,” Sam harrumphed, leaning against the nearest counter as Bucky started decorating a cake.

Bucky paused when he heard that, cursing when he messed up the piping. Setting the instrument aside, he carefully wiped away his mistake and glanced at Sam. Oh, he wanted to wipe that smug smirk off his face. “You’re point?”

“Nothing. I’m just surprised you haven’t gone and looked at it yet.”

“I’ve been a little busy,” Bucky said, gesturing to the creations that covered the counters.

Sam bit his tongue, barely able to hide his laugh. So that’s why there was so much flour on Bucky’s cheeks and in his hair. “Trade ya.”

“Your hands are too shaky. You’d screw these up.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever, but – “

Sam’s sentence died on his lips when he heard shouting coming from the front. Bucky glanced up, ears recognizing Y/N’s voice. The two men shared a look, muttering, “Sweater vest,” before rushing out of the kitchen.

Y/N’s new painting was off the wall and at her feet, tucked behind her as if she was a mama bear protecting her cub. They’d never seen Y/N angry before. Passionate, sure, but never angry. Anger was something she never seemed to reach.

Until today.

“The painting is decent, but it doesn’t mean anything. And I’m not paying three hundred bucks for something that has no meaning.”

“Then why the fuck did you waste my time asking about it?”

“Because I thought you would come to your senses and accept a more reasonable offer.”

“And what do you think would be a reasonable offer?”

“Fifty sounds more than reasonable. And I would be doing you a favor with my connections.”

“Fifty bucks and exposure?”

Bucky and Sam moved fast, knowing that tone of venom and irritation. Sam grabbed the painting, moving it out of the way as Y/N launched herself at Sweater vest, ready to tear him a new one. Bucky wrapped his arm around her waist, putting himself between her and the idiot. “Y/N, breathe…”

“Let me tell you this,” Y/N snapped at Sweater vest, pointing at him around Bucky’s arm. “I would rather never sell another piece of work than listen to your drivel for another moment!”

Sam placed a hand on her arm, tugging her back. “Y/N, let’s go to the kitchen,” he told her, talking to her as if she was a small child that needed to be calmed. He steered her behind the counter as he assured her, “Bucky just finished making some cookies. I’m sure we can steal a couple while he takes out the trash.” Sam glanced over his shoulder, giving Bucky a thumbs up of encouragement.

While Y/N might be completely oblivious to Bucky’s feelings for her, Sam was far from it. And he was completely sure that Bucky would have no problem fixing this situation. He just wished he had a camera to record everything.

Maybe he could borrow the security footage from Rebecca’s cameras.

When the kitchen door closed again, Bucky turned to Sweater vest. He straightened, coming to his full height and towering over the man. It seemed his large build was a firm reminder that Rebecca had ex-military working here because Sweater vest calmed rather quickly.

“I’m so sorry for disturbing the establishment. Artists tend to be a little soft-hearted when it comes to critiques.”

“Not if the critique is asked for,” Bucky told him, taking a step forward as Sweater vest took a step back. Though everyone had avoided looking at Y/N’s and Sweater vest’s argument, all eyes were curiously watching the baker that was often far more quiet than he was now. “Y/N is one of our favorite artists. Her work and company are always welcome in our establishment.”

“O – Our? I thought this shop was owned by a woman…a Ms. Rebecca Barnes.”

“It’s co-owned,” Bucky assured him, offering his best customer service smile.

“By…?”

“Her brother.” He held out his hand. “James Barnes.”

Sweater vest swallowed thickly, throat bobbing nervously as he took Bucky’s hand. The strength in Bucky’s handshake was enough to make him wince, barely able to withhold a cry of pain. Bucky’s other hand, a heavy and metal prosthetic, squeezed his shoulder and earned a cringe.

“While Becca’s Needs for the Soul is open to anyone, we take great pride in reminding our artists that this is their community first and foremost. So you? Are banned.”

Another step and Sweater vest was stumbling through the front door, his shoulder and hand released. “I – “

“Have a nice day.”

The door clanged shut with a ring from the bell. Bucky watched Sweater vest recover, smoothing himself out and making himself presentable once again before he turned and walked away. Bucky shook his head, turning back to the rest of the shop. They all stared at him as if he had grown a second head, never having seen Bucky so outspoken or protective before.

“Show’s over.” Everyone looked back at Sam who was standing in the kitchen doorway. It seemed that was all that was needed for everyone to go back to what they were doing. Sam grinned, asking, “So I could’ve had Sweater vest banned weeks ago if I just…”

“Shut up.” Bucky walked back to Y/N’s painting, picking it up and finally looking at it for the first time. He was…shocked.

It was a full painting – Y/N’s first.

The person was solid black, a shadow with only their eyes visible to the viewer. What he guessed was blue watercolor filled the subject’s irises. Around the person’s outline, breaking through its barrier – endless skies, constellations, galaxies – all messy and brilliant and bold. The paint was thicker, heavier there. He could make out every thick stroke of the person’s figure, of the world around it. Deeper blues, yellows, purples, greens – colors no one would expect to see from a night sky…were there. It was fathomless, endless, and the longer he looked, the more he found something new. She wasn’t connecting the mind, but the eyes, the soul, to the rest of the world.

And that idiot had the balls to say there was no meaning to this?

“I wonder who her inspiration was,” Sam teased, leaning against the counter as Bucky looked over his shoulder.

Bucky stayed silent, hanging the painting back where it belonged. Instead of commenting or over thinking it, he went back into the kitchen. There, sitting on the counter, was Y/N with a cup of coffee and a couple cookies. An apologetic smile curled her lips as she set the plate and mug down.

“Thank you for…that,” she finished lamely, gesturing to the door.

Bucky shrugged. “It’s no problem. You’re my friend.”

Y/N smiled hearing that. She had always wondered if Bucky looked at her as a friend and hearing that he did, it made her heart flutter in a weird sort of way. “Do you…need me to go?”

He shook his head, already returning to the cake he was decorating. The sooner he finished it, the sooner he could put it out to sell. He stood close to her; his eyes focused intently on his creation as Y/N watched him. She loved seeing him in his element. Though he would never admit it, his own creations were art. He poured so much of himself and his love in each dessert.

And it was adorable. But friends didn’t say things like that, so Y/N stayed silent. She was content with this, happy.

Silence fell so easily between them. There was a level of comfort in this moment that couldn’t be replicated by her friendships with Sam or Steve or Rebecca. It was Bucky being Bucky and Y/N being Y/N. Exactly what the other needed.

And neither had any sort of idea that Sam and Steve were watching them through the kitchen door.

Sam looked over at Steve, returning to the register as Steve went to his proper side of the counter. “Think either of them will ever admit it?”

Steve glanced at the glass case that held all of Bucky’s sweets. The first one was a customer-favorite at the shop. A creation that was made of fresh fruit and sweets – something that Bucky had spent all night making the day after he met Y/N. His eyes then shifted to Y/N’s painting, knowing very well who inspired what he believed to be her best creation. Shrugging, he leaned on the counter. “Out loud? Probably not. But there’s always a weird sort of meaning that comes from an artist’s work. They’ll figure it out eventually.”

Sam glanced back at the kitchen when he heard Bucky laugh. No doubt Y/N had done something. “Well, I hope they hurry it up. It’s getting to be a damn romantic comedy around here. And not one of the good ones.”

Steve laughed. Though he’d never admit it out loud, there was a bit of truth to Sam’s words. There always was.

#baker!bucky #chef!bucky #baker!bucky x artist!reader #bucky x reader #baker!bucky x reader #bucky barnes au #bucky au

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 years

Text

Big Tech welcomes (some) regulation

You know how the Curse of the Monkey's paw works: a cursed object grants all of your wishes, but in the worst way possible: "be careful what you wish for."

That's what we're living through with Big Tech right now.

I'm all for regulating Big Tech, but not all regulation is created equal. Some regulation can dampen the power of Big Tech, while other regulation can make it permanent, even creating powerful stakeholders for monopolies within government.

Every monopolist's first preference is to be totally unregulated, but every monopolist's SECOND preference is to be regulated in a way that only a monopolist can comply with, thus foreclosing on the possibility of competition from an as-yet-nonexistent upstart.

Look at AT&T, or, as it was known in its monopolistic glory days, "The Bell System." From its earliest days, AT&T was a bully, pulling all kinds of dirty tricks on small carriers and rural telephone co-ops that grew out of the New Deal electricity co-ops.

Regulators and the DoJ often had stern words for AT&T, and at various times, the company was subjected to legal penalties and court-ordered conduct remedies to make it behave.

But this was as far as it all went: no one was going to break up AT&T, take away the power it was abusing. AT&T was too important, "too big to fail," part of the national emergency and security infrastructure.

AT&T leveraged the fact that cops or fire marshalls could (and did) coopt its infrastructure to argue for special rules to protect the Bell System, because if nefarious competitors were to compromise the system, America couldn't fight crime, fires, floods and other disasters.

Which is how it was that AT&T was able to get the government to ban connecting anything to the Bell System that they hadn't manufactured. It's hard to overstate how ridiculous and abusive this rule was, but here are a couple important court cases that give a taste.

Take the Hush-A-Phone, a plastic cup that fit over your mouthpiece to make it harder for people to listen in or reading your lips. AT&T argued that attaching a plastic cup to a phone handset put America itself in danger and must be banned.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hush-A-Phone_Corp._v._United_States

Or the Carterfone, a gadget that let you retransmit phone audio over short-range radio, so that ranch-hands could take calls when they were out on the range.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carterfone#Landmark_regulatory_decision

Hush-A-Phone and Carterfone represent the endpoint of AT&T's venality, the instances in which the company overreached so thoroughly that a court finally limited its power. But they are also emblematic of the costs AT&T exacted from its customers.

Before these decisions, AT&T customers had to rent phones, paying for them dozens or hundreds of times over. To make things worse, AT&T used its regulated monopoly status to block innovators, holding back the answering machine, the switchboard and (crucially) the modem.

By 1956, AT&T's conduct was so odious that the DoJ was ready to break it up. But at the last instant, AT&T got a stay of execution: the Pentagon intervened to say that without AT&T, the US would not be able to prosecute the war in Korea.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bell_System#Kingsbury_Commitment

AT&T had been "punished" for its prior bad acts by being made a de-facto, privatized arm of the state, and now the state was intervening to keep AT&T intact. It worked. AT&T stayed intact for another quarter-century, during which time its conduct steadily worsened.

This is what happens when we "tame" monopolies instead of breaking them up: the monopolist makes some cosmetic changes to its conduct, coopts its regulators, and reverts to its wicked ways as soon as the attention shifts, using its monopoly profits to fight any consequences.

Today, there are many proposals to fix Big Tech, but far too often, these proposals start from the perspective that Big Tech is permanent and there is no need to consider the way that new rules would impact potential competitors, because they're already doomed.

Last year's EU Copyright Directive, for example, with its mandate for expensive copyright filters for online services (how expensive? Google spend $100m developing Contentid, a toy version of what the EU rule requires).

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/03/european-copyright-directive-what-it-and-why-has-it-drawn-more-controversy-any

Not only is this a disaster because filters are garbage and block all kinds of legitimate speech - it's doubly awful because it prevents competitors from entering Big Tech's markets that might be more respectful of their users - co-ops, EU-based SMEs, etc.

And it makes Google and FB and other Big Tech companies an arm of the state, part of the apparatus of copyright enforcement (not just copyright, the EU's Terror Reg makes them filter "extremist" content too).

And it prevents a future Hush-a-Phone moment for Big Tech: Youtube will say that if it is responsible for fighting extremism and infringement, it MUST block competitors who interoperate with its service to provide fairer, better alternatives.

Tellingly, while Youtube and Facebook started off as staunch opponents of a filter mandate in the Copyright Directive, they quickly switched sides and began arguing in FAVOR of filters - after all, they already had filters, and nascent competitors did not.

Big Tech's latest cursed monkey paw moment comes from Amazon, who, after losing key court cases over selling dangerously defective goods stop arguing that it wasn't responsible for its sellers' goods.

https://mattstoller.substack.com/p/why-jeff-bezos-is-worth-200-billion

Instead, they started demanding that state legislative proposals, like California's AB 3262, be made FAR stricter, so that just making an ecommerce platform (like the scrappy Canadian Amazon rival Shopify does) makes you responsible for anything sold on that platform.

It's gonna be burdensome for Amazon to check out all of its sellers' goods, but Amazon is arguably the only company with enough excess capital to do that checking, and they've got a patent on forcing sellers to expose their entire supply-chain in machine-readable formats.

Which means that Amazon - who are under antitrust scrutiny for spying on their sellers and then knocking off their best products and driving them out of business - could be LEGALLY OBLIGATED to spy on its sellers.

Which means that if the DoJ or Congress decides to force Amazon to STOP spying on its sellers, they will have to override California's consumer protection rule that makes Amazon undertake this surveillance.

It also means that sellers who are worried that Amazon will spy on them in order to drive them out of business will have few (or no) alternatives to giving Amazon its data, because Shopify and other ecommerce platforms CAN'T comply with California's proposed liability rule.

Amazon is REALLY good at this kind of regulator monkeypawing. For a long time, Amazon maintained the fiction that all its European digital goods sales were consummated in Luxembourg, where there was no VAT. That let it sell ebooks for 20% less than, say, UK competitors.

When the EU decided to fix this, Amazon enthusiastically cooperated, producing a harmonized VAT rule that only the largest companies could comply with: a rule that required sellers in the EU to gather and retain two pieces of address-confirming info from every customer.

Then sellers would have to calculate how much VAT to charge based in 28 different countries' VAT laws, and would have to remit that VAT every quarter, regardless of how small that remittance was. I was living in the UK then, and selling my ebooks online.

The VAT rule meant that if I collected EU0.01 from a single Polish customer in a quarter, I would have to pay to wire the Polish tax authorities EU0.01, and pay accountants to prepare the paperwork. The first quarter, I paid £750 to remit £17 in VAT.

Of course, there was a way to get around all of this! All I needed to do was shut down my independent ebook store and shift to selling on Amazon, and pay them 30% of every penny I brought in. Amazon has a whole building full of accountants and programmers to make that work.

(The issue became moot when I moved to the US and shuttered my UK Limited Company; today you can shop at my ebook store and I don't have to collect VAT at all)

https://craphound.com/shop

There are monkey's paw proposals everywhere, like killing CDA230, which shields tech platforms from liability for users' speech - sure, the Big Tech platforms wouldn't like to pay for more moderators and filters, but in return they'd get to wipe out all small rivals.

But the monkey's paw is not inevitable. There are plenty of ways to make Big Tech less powerful while encouraging alternatives, including co-ops and nonprofits. Instead of copyright filters, we could have blanket licenses that directly pay artists.

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/05/plan-pay-artists-encourage-competition-and-promote-free-expression

Instead of moderation mandates, we could have interop mandates that let users choose what is and isn't allowed in their own conversations:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/08/27/cult-chalk/#eff-eu

And, as Matt Stoller points out in his article on AB3262, we don't need Amazon's extensions to an otherwise sensible consumer protection statute that would extend liability to Shopify - we can craft a rule that catches Amazon's bad conduct alone.

If we are going to tame Big Tech, let us tame them - by reducing their power, not by demanding that they exercise it wisely. If Big Tech has too much power, let's take some of it away - we'll never get them to use it for good.

We can (try to) fix Big Tech or we can fix the internet. Big Tech will either figure it out and survive or it won't. Their products are optional, but we NEED the internet.

#pluralistic

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mysterycheerio · 3 years

Text

Lights Up, on Washington Heights up in the break of day…

Peter closed his door, keys rattling in his hand. Across the street sat his little corner shop - the coffee shop he had worked in since he was small, and in front of it, the gang of graffiti artists painting the roller door in front of it.

The customers were gathered around, watching the artist, mumbling to themselves in disagreement for the pseudo Banksy.

Frustration filled him, and he ran towards them, shouting, "Hey, HEY!"

They ran off.

I wake up and I got this little punk I gotta chase away,

He entered the shop, asking the polite customers to bear with him a moment while he got everything ready, humming to himself as he did his chores.

Pop the grate at the crack of dawn, sing while I wipe down the awning-

He stepped outside, flipping the sign to 'open', and said in a good-natured tone, "Hey, y'all, good morning."

Piragüero, the man selling a sweet, shaved ice type dessert, called a 'piragua', rounded the corner, like he did every day, "Ice cold piragua! Parcha, China, Cherry, Strawberry, and just for today, I got mamey!"

"Yo, Piragüero! ¿Como estas?"

"¡Como siempre, Señor Parker!"

He smiled as the old ladies brought in their grandchildren, pulling them up to the desk. He greeted them the way he knew the ladies wanted.

"They call me Peter, and you prob'ly never heard my name - reports of my fame are greatly exaggerated," he said in a sing-song voice. The guardians began to shop, leaving the children at the front of the store listening to his story - how he's a first generation immigrant, who now sells coffee in his little corner shop.

He went into the back for the second, talking loud enough so that the kids could hear him. He opened the fridge and sniffed the milk, checking to see if it was still fresh, but all that met his nose was the scent of putrid dairy.

The door opened, and in stood Maria Carbonell, known to the community as Abuela Maria.

"Abuela, my fridge broke," he said, voice hinting at desperation as he tried to speak quietly so the kids wouldn't hear him, "I have café but no con leche!"

She smiled, "Try my mothers old recipe: one can of condensed milk."

They walked back out, winking at the kids, "Nice!"

"Ay, Paciencia Y Fe!"

He turned his attention to the kids, "That was Abuela, she's not really my Abuela but she practically raised me, this corner is her esquela," he said, the kids laughing as he turned on the spot.

"Excuse me," a middle aged man said politely, "Can you tell me how to get here?" He pointed at a picture of downtown.

"Ah, you're probably thinking, 'I'm up shits creek'. Have you ever been North of 96th Street?" He shook his head. Peter figured as much, "Well, you must take the A train, go even farther than Harlem, to Northern Manhattan. Get off at 181st and take the escalator. And you're there!"

"Thank you so much," he said, grateful, before holding his hand out to one of the kids and pulling him out of the shop, "Come on Michael."

"But dad, I want to listen to the man's stories!"

He smiled.

Soon the kids had to depart with their guardians, and he gave a friendly wave at their departure.

I'm getting tested, times are tough on this bodega, two months ago somebody bought Ortega's. Our neighbours started packing up, and picking up, and ever since the rent's went up-

"It's gotten mad expensive," a kid said, making small talk as Peter handed him his coffee.

"But we live with just enough," he said, smiling.

"Amen, brother."

Next up to bat, the Starks! They run the cab company, and struggle in the barrio, see - their son Harley is off at college, tuition is mad steep, so they can't sleep, everything they get is mad cheap.

"Good morning, Kid," Tony said, hand in hand with his wife, Pepper.

"Pan caliente café con leche!"

Tony nodded, "Put 20 dollars on today's lottery-"

"One ticket, that's it!"

"Hey, a man's got a dream."

Peter laughed at the couples banter, when Pepper addressed him, "Don't mind him, he's all excited cause Harley flew in at 3 am last night-"

Peter set down the drinks, "Don't look at me."

They took their drinks, and as a parting message, Tony said, "Underoos, come over for dinner, there's plenty to eat!"

Peter barely got five seconds before he heard the sound of distinct chatter, "So, then Yesenia walks in the room-"

"-Uh huh."

"She smells sex and cheap perfume, it smells like one of those trees that you hang from the rear-view!"

"No!"

"It's true! She screams 'who's in there with you, Julio!' Grabs a bat and kicks in the door, and she's in bed with Josè from the liquor store."

"No me diga," the younger of the two said.

"Wanda and Nat, going to the salon?"

Nat nodded, and the two chorused, "Thanks Pete!"

Monday is a busy day for him, to say the least.

The bell on the door dings for the umpteenth time that morning, but instead of a customer, it's a small, black boy, fourteen, who's rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"Miles, you're late," he says, his tone annoyed, but Miles knows there isn't any real bite behind it.

"Chillax," he says, making his way to the back of the store, "You know you love me."

He rolls his eyes.

Me and my cousin running just another dime-a-dozen, Mom-and-Pop, stop-and-shop and oh my god, it's gotten two darn hot-

He turned on the AC. The weather man said this summer will be one of the hottest in history.

People come through for a few cold waters and a lottery ticket, just a part of the routine, everybodies got a job, everybodies got a dream. They gossip as I sip my coffee and smirk, the first stop as people hop to work.

That's his day really. An endless blur of one dollar, two dollars, one fifty, one sixty-nine, I got it, you want a box of condoms what kind?, that's two quarters, the New York Times, you need a bag for that? The tax is added.

Like he was saying to Miles when he first came into his life, "Once you get some practice at it, you do rapid mathematics automatically."

Miles then comes out of the back, preparing himself to work the counter so Peter could do the coffee's - Peter was the only one who knew the secret recipes that kept the customers coming- successfully snapping him out of his thoughts.

"How are they today?"

"Practically everybody's stressed, but they press through the mess."

Miles nodded.

"You ain't got no skills," a voice said, as they walked into the store.

"Ned!"

Ned smiled, leaning against the counter. Peter and him were best friends growing up, so naturally, Ned was a regular in the shop, despite working long hours for a boss that didn't respect him.

"Yo, let me get a-"

"Milky way?" Peter guessed.

"...Yeah. Let me also get a-"

"Daily news."

"And a-"

"Post."

"And a most importantly, my-"

"Boss' second coffee, one cream, five sugars."

Miles wrinkled his nose at Ned's boss's absurd amount of sugar, and Ned began to talk to Peter about his job while he waited.

"I don't get it! I'm the number one earner! He can't keep me on the damn back burner-"

"Yes he can."

"I'm making moves, and I'm making deals, but guess what?"

"What?"

"Ya still ain't got no skills!"

"Hardee-Har," he said, sarcastically, pouring the creamer in.

"Has Michelle shown up yet?" Ned asked Miles, who was smiling.

"Shut up!" Peter said hastily.

"Hey, dude, don't be upset. You should tell her how you feel. Buy the girl a meal,on the real, or you ain't got no skills."

The doorbell dinged. This is why Peter was so anxious to be talking about Michelle. She normally came in around this time. Right now, she was looking at the ground, phone to her ear.

"Mr. Johnson, I have that security deposit. I've been saving to make a down-payment, and pay rent… no, no, I won't let you down-".

Ned whispered to him, "Here's your chance, ask her out."

"-I'll see you later, we can look at that lease," she said, before hanging up.

"Do something, make your move, don't freeze!"

"Hey," he said, buzzing with nerves.

"You owe me a bottle of cold champagne," she said, her voice soft and soothing. Despite this, her words made a heavy feeling form in his gut. It was something they'd thought about years ago, but only if-

"Are you moving?"

She shrugged, "Just a little credit check and I'm on that downtown train."

He tried to shake off the sad feeling, "Well, your coffee's on the house."

"Okay," she said with a smile, before turning to leave.

"Peter, ask her out."

"No way," Miles said.

But Michelle turned around, "I'll see you later… so…"

And with that, she left.

"Oh, smooth operator, oh damn, there she goes," Ned teased, before taking a look at Peter’s still kinda sad face, "Hey, dude. Take five, get some fresh air, a walk outside. You look exhausted, lost…"

"I kinda feel that way," he joked, but was it a joke?

Ned looked at him with sympathy, "Hey, the whole neighbourhood is struggling, and times are tight, and you're stuck to this corner like a streetlight…"

Ned looked at his watch, and rushed out of the shop, saying he was gonna be late and bidding adieu to the two guys, but Peter could say it back, his friends words bouncing around in his head.

Yeah, I'm a streetlight, choking on the heat. The world spins around while I'm frozen to my seat. The people that I know all keep on rolling down the street, and everyday is different so I'm switching up the beat.

Cause my parents came with nothing, they got a little more, and sure, we're poor, but yo, at least we got the store. It's all about the legacy they left with me, it's destiny, and-

One day, I'll be on the beach with Miles writing checks to me.

That's what he wants to do. His parents died, along with his aunt and uncle, leaving him in the care of Abuela. He longs to go to a beach, and reconnect with his roots. A better life, one where he isn't stuck serving coffee's.

It gets more expensive every day, in their little corner of the world.

Turn up the stage lights, we're taking a flight to a couple of days of what it's like-

In Washington Heights.

#peter and tony #peter parker fics #tony stark #no powers au #in the heights #coffee shop au

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taexual · 5 years

Text

HOLIC - 46 | jb x reader

pairing: Im Jaebum x Reader

genre: enemies to lovers au | roommate au

warnings: angst + some conflict resolution

words: 3k

disclaimer: i do not own the gif, please let me know if it belongs to you, so i can give proper credit

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You’d left a hundred voicemails. You'd called a thousand times. You’d sent a million texts. And yet, even despite your ruthless ambush, Jaebum – in an equally as ruthless manner – still did not reply to you. That was understandable, however, and, more than expected, really – but it still brought you great distress.

You didn’t know where he was and, after having stayed awake the entire night, trying to get ahold of him and waiting for him to return home, you suddenly weren’t too sure where you were, either. Your own room felt foreign and the apartment itself lost all of its’ familiarity.

Finally, at around five in the morning (or, in other words, about five centuries later), your phone rang with a text from Jaebum. You nearly gave yourself whiplash as you leaped from your spot on the bed to reach your phone that you’d left charging across the room.

His text was short and right to the point – he was simply letting you know he was with his friend – but the very fact that he had texted you lifted some of the heaviness off your shoulders. There was plenty more of it still there, though, and you crouched down, hugging your knees to your chest as you re-read Jaebum’s text message another dozen times.

You wanted to call Mark and Jackson to see if he was with them but then you paused. Jaebum obviously needed some space – and time – right now. And, although you felt like he’d left the apartment a long while ago, it was obviously not long enough.

You were dying to explain yourself but you also recognized that he needed to be away from you for a little while longer. The text he’d sent you sparked a new hope that this period of you and him being away from each other wouldn’t last long. You just had to endure it without losing your mind completely. The text had to mean that he knew you cared about him – even despite what you’d done – and he didn’t want you to crawl out of your skin with worry – even if that was precisely what you’ve been doing since he’d left – which, in turn, had to mean that he cared about you, too. But you knew that already – you didn’t need his text to show you that; his reaction when you told him about Jiho was proof enough.

You’d postponed the conversation so you wouldn’t hurt Jaebum and, predictably, you ended up doing so anyway.

Giving him some space was the right thing to do now, so you let him be. Until, a few hours later, you couldn’t take it anymore. It had started to feel like the more space you were giving him, the more place you left for his doubts to take over him. Soon, there would be no space left in his mind to hear you explain what had happened in the past few weeks.

But, just like before, no matter how much you called or texted, Jaebum didn’t answer. Shortly, he turned his phone off altogether. The phone could have died, of course, but still, hearing the operator announce that the person you were trying to reach was unavailable felt very personal. It felt like he’d turned his phone off specifically to avoid seeing your name on his screen.

You knew you called this upon yourself by not telling him earlier but knowing didn’t make this easier. If anything, the guilt you were feeling only seemed to magnify whenever you allowed yourself to think about how easily this could have been avoided.

Jaebum didn’t return home the whole night—this wasn’t the first Sunday night you’ve spent awake but it certainly was the most significant one—and, although your heart had already torn itself into the smallest pieces, you resisted and gave him the space he needed. You still called periodically and left as many messages as you could before your service provider got concerned, but you weren’t going out of your way to get him to respond to you.

By Monday afternoon, you were really only leaving him voice messages so he'd know that you really did care about him and you were aware of how big of a mistake you’ve made by not talking to him about this sooner.

By Monday night, however, you’ve started to have auditory hallucinations and lost count of how many times you thought you’d heard the lock of your apartment door click. Choosing to wait until nighttime, in case Jaebum would choose to return home after all, you sat patiently in your kitchen, doing anything and everything to keep your gaze from shifting to the door.

You wondered if Jaebum would have admired your loyalty – he’d have certainly called you clingy and, perhaps, even compared you to a dog waiting for its’ owner to come home – or if he’d have hated to know that you were still waiting for him to return even after what you’ve done. Frankly, you didn’t spend all of this time sulking – you got angry a couple of times, too. Sometimes, you’d think you didn’t do anything wrong – really, nothing happened between you and Jiho; you were just working on your career in the only way that was possible – but, immediately after, you’d find yourself admitting that this wasn’t even the real problem here.

Jaebum didn’t really storm out of your apartment just because you were working with Jiho and he hated the guy. He left because you worked with Jiho behind his back, purposefully dodging his questions about your work just so you wouldn’t have to admit the truth. Even after giving you a fair amount of openings – not that you needed an excuse to share the events of your day with him, considering your relationship status – you still stayed quiet, choosing vague words and plain silence as a way to answer his questions. It was a form of defense in a way and, consequently, a form of lying.

While you listened to Jaebum give you breakdowns of his day and updates on his career, you did not reciprocate and secretly cherished his carefulness – how many times did you thank God that Jaebum was so understanding and so willing to ignore your unusual behavior? – and that was so much worse than just lying about Jiho to him.

When your alarm clock rang the next morning, you got out of bed with a definite plan – you would seek both Mark and Jackson out to see if Jaebum was staying with either of them and you would do anything in your power to talk to him and explain. You could only give him space to think for so long before you drowned in your own thoughts and watched him to drown in his.

Before you could follow your plan – although, perhaps calling it a plan was generous; you really had no idea what you were going to say to his friends if they even agreed to help you – you still had to get through a full day of work at the gallery.

Having always dreaded to see Jiho there, you didn’t really expect today to be any different but a surprise awaited you on your phone when you picked it up to check the time after exiting your car outside of your gallery. It was a text notification from Hyojin, warning you about an article, evidently recounting the photography event you and Jiho had gone to on Friday night. Your stomach sunk before you even opened it, completely disregarding the message your friend wrote before she attached the link.

Instead of reading Jiho’s recap of the event – he’d sworn he would use your pictures for it but you ended up not taking any – you were forced to read through another pile of tabloid-like garbage that, predictably, focused completely on your relationship with Jiho.

Now, on the one hand, the article proved that Jiho’s publicity stunt was a complete success – you nearly suffocated when you saw a picture of yourself leaving the gallery and Jiho storming off after you, an ominous “young photographer couple” written in the description of the shot; clearly, you and him have been noticed – but, on the other hand, not a single sentence in the entire article even mentioned your aspiration to become a successful photographer.

Not only did the writers – tipped off by Jiho, no doubt – assumed that you and him were together but they also allowed themselves to speculate if, perhaps, you and him were going to be the next big artist-and-his-muse names in the world of photography. They even went as far as to compare you and him to Andy Warhol and Edie Sedgwick – which was right on point, considering that Edie was, really, one of many Warhol’s muses – further proving that they didn’t even consider you a photographer. At least, not in the literal sense of the word – they saw the camera in your hands and pointed it out in the description of another photograph of you by the entrance to the gallery. But Jiho was “the photographer” and, according to the writers, in the relationship hierarchy, you were either Jiho’s apprentice (the writers dismissed the possibility after merely toying with it for a sentence of two) or his muse. Not his colleague. Not a photographer. Barely even a person, really.

Beyond frustrated, you walked through the double doors of the gallery and, before you could toss your phone across the empty foyer, you caught sight of Jiho, talking to someone on the phone next to the staircase. You really considered strangling him for a hot minute but, after taking a few deep breaths, you decided to handle this like an adult – or, as close to one as you could get with your blood boiling and pulse pounding in your ears.

“Did you fucking read this?” you demanded as soon as you reached him, pushing your phone to his face. “This is the second god-damn time this happens.”

“Wh—I’m—l-let me call you back,” Jiho said before hanging up the call and putting his phone away so he could focus on yours. He squinted as he read the headline. “Oh, so we’ve definitely been seen, huh? That’s good.”

“That’s not good,” you disagreed. “And we were not seen at all. You were. I was your shadow if even that. Again!”

Jiho wasn’t listening to you as his eyes continued to scan the contents of the article.

“Your little stunt of leaving early worked out nicely, too,” he added in regards to the last bit of the article that recounted, in epic little detail, how you left the event early and Jiho “followed right after like a love-sick puppy”.

“It wasn’t—Jesus, how much money did you pay to get them to write this bullshit?” you asked, retrieving your phone after noticing that it didn’t bring the expected result – not that you knew what you were expecting; it was hard to imagine Jiho doing something other than grinning like a deformed jack-o-lantern.

“You think I paid for this?” Jiho’s eyebrows reached his hairline. “Wow, you must think I’m a millionaire.”

“What are you talking about? You knew so many people who were there—”

“So, I talked to them,” he said as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. Probably rolled his eyes, too, but you weren’t looking at him – you were reading the article and further fueling your anger. “I mean, some damage control had to be done, you caused quite a fuss there. I tried to give the others the impression that—”

“This is your fault, then!” you cut him off with a high-pitched shriek that he seemed to flinch away from.

“I’m not sure I understand what I’m being accused of, here,” he said as calmly as he could. The calmness was a façade, as you’ve already learned, and the veins on his neck were becoming more prominent by the second. “We needed exposure and we got it. What’s the problem?”

“What kind of exposure is this? You told me this wouldn’t seem like a romantic relationship. That they would focus on our professional relation instead of twisting it around to make it seem like—”

“Professional relationships don’t sell nearly as well as—”

“Sell?” you scoffed. “What are these people buying, exactly? That you’re a photographer? Well, they knew that already, I would hope. Or you’ve surely wasted the past years of your life.”

“Right—”

“There’s not really much else in there about me. Except that I’m—”

Seemingly having had enough of your endless tirade, Jiho crossed his arms over his chest, cutting you off, “maybe if you wanted there to be more descriptions of you, you shouldn’t have left early.”

“Oh, so they could have taken more pictures of us to strengthen their narrative of us being romantically involved? No. That’s not okay,” you shook your head, finding it difficult to voice your thoughts rationally and not start screaming. Screaming would have felt so nice. “These articles… they’re not helping anyone but you. Next week, they can write one about you and some other “muse” you’ve brought to a photography event. No one will give a shit about me. I agreed to do this to get myself more exposure as a photographer. Instead, I’m just a new toy you can play around with to get yourself more well-known.”

“Listen, you have this warped sense of how this works,” Jiho said. His patronizing voice made you clench your fists. “These things take time. You think you’ll get popular overnight—”

“Don’t tell me what I think!” you yelled, your patience wearing thin.

“Okay, alright. I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding one bit apologetic. He just felt like he was winning because you were suddenly shouting and he was still successful at resisting to raise his voice. “Let’s not talk about this here—”

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes for a second or two – purely a precaution so you wouldn’t punch him and get yourself fired – even if you were already one step away from quitting – and probably arrested.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said then. “This is the last article depicting me as someone’s rumored girlfriend.”

Jiho didn’t seem surprised to hear this.

“See, that’s good because, actually, I’m having second thoughts about this, too,” he said, the bitter tone of his voice dripping with arrogance and entitlement. “Clearly, you’ve got it in your head that you’re in a position to demand an exhibition when you’re virtually nothing in the photography world. You don’t listen to a single word I say and you have enough guts to give me ultimatums as if you know how this works better than I do. I don’t know who you think you are but this is not how any of this works. All I did was try to help you—”

You thought you could only recall one other instance when you felt this frustrated – and more than ready to either rip all of your hair out or to beat Jiho to a pulp – and that was when you met up with Suji and had to listen to her boast about her happy relationship with Jaebum. My God, what a pair her and Jiho would have made – both bull-headed, arrogant, and so unbelievably thick, it was a miracle they’ve gotten this far in life without getting all of their teeth knocked out.

“This was no help for me,” you said through clenched teeth and then unlocked your phone to see the headline of the article again. You pointed your phone at him as proof. “This was all for you.”

“It was meant to help both of us and the gallery we represent—”

“Oh, open your fucking eyes, the gallery’s not even mentioned in the article,” you groaned.

Jiho swallowed, an undeniable – and very well-executed – image of someone who felt wronged and disrespected evident on his face.

“This isn’t working,” he stated, then, obviously taking immense pleasure in having the ability to say this. He knew he was above you in this situation and he relished it. “I’ve lost count of how many rules listed in the contract you’ve broken and yet I closed my eyes, thinking it’d be worth it. I don’t really think so anymore. I think you’re too full of senseless pride and I’m afraid I can’t work with that. You told me you’d quit if we didn’t host your exhibition and, admittedly, that caught me off-guard and, perhaps, even impressed me. But I can see everything clearly now – you’re absolutely not the sort of artist we’re looking for.”

“What sort of artists are you looking for?” you asked, your blood hot and about to pour out of your ears in rapid squirts of burning rage. “Pushovers, willing to follow you around like newborn puppies? Fresh, vulnerable university graduates who lack the spine to tell you that what you’re doing is preying on their lack of experience and using them to your own gain?”

“I’m sorry if that’s how you feel,” Jiho said. “Unfortunately, this partnership is over. Don’t worry about the contract anymore. We’re not going to be hosting your—”

“Oh, good! Perfect!” you shouted before he could finish. “I never wanted to work with you in the first place.”

You turned around, walking away, but Jiho couldn’t resist not having the last word. He simply felt too proud to let you leave this easily.

“Hopefully you’ll continue to feel that way,” he called out after you, “because you can forget all about your dream of hosting your own exhibition.”

You didn’t want to turn around and say something else because it felt like admitting defeat but you couldn’t resist it. You’ve still had a few things you’ve always wanted to say to him and now was finally the time to stop holding yourself back.

“Fuck you,” you dropped over your shoulder, your expression – finally – calm. “And fuck that exhibition. That’s not what my dream is.”

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mikauzoran · 4 years

Text

Marichat: Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses: Kiss Eleven

On AO3: Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses: ...in joy.

It was a few months into their relationship when Marinette realized she hadn’t told Chat Noir something very important.

Once she became cognizant of this fact, she immediately realized that she couldn’t just come out and say it any which way at any old time.

Her boyfriend was a romantic, so she had to make it special. Chat Noir deserved special.

“Are you going to let me in on tonight’s itinerary?” Chat chuckled, scooping Marinette—masked and makeuped—into his arms. “It’s a little hard to act as transportation when you don’t know where you’re going.”

She rolled her eyes and hooked her arms around his neck. “Les Halles. We’re having dinner at Au Pied de Cochon.”

Chat’s eyes lit up, and his tail twitched in excitement. “I love their vegetable tarte, and the escargot de Bourgogne are delicious.”

“They have good bread too,” Marinette added with a snicker.

“You would know, My Princess,” he hummed happily, taking off for the restaurant on the Right Bank.

After a few weeks of going out in public in disguise with Chat Noir, Marinette thought she was finally getting the hang of having people gawk at her and whisper to anyone who would listen, “Look. It’s Chat Noir and Princess”. It was still unnerving, and she didn’t necessarily like all the attention, but she was learning to live with it.

Dinner was rather uneventful, all things considered. They got a corner table on a less busy floor of the restaurant where there would be less pointing and staring and whispering. The meal was delicious, and the service was wonderful. Their waiter was a big fan of Chat Noir, so they took a picture with him before departing.

“Where to next?” Chat prompted, opening his arms to pick Marinette back up.

“Louvre. They’re open late tonight,” she announced, wrapping her arms around his neck for the ride to the museum a couple blocks over.

“Oooh,” he sang, eliding the syllable over three different notes. “My princess has a refined evening planned for this common alley cat.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Some alley cat you are, rich boy. …I remembered you saying you’d only gotten to go to the Louvre a couple times when you were little with your mother because it’s too crowded, so your father thought it wasn’t safe. I figured now would be a good time, since there are fewer people at night. We should be able to hit up the highlights rather easily.”

Chat Noir landed on a roof two blocks away from the museum and stopped, turning to stare at Marinette in awed silence.

Marinette took the pause in motion plus the speechlessness the wrong way and immediately started to backpedal. “If you want to. We don’t have to go to the Louvre. It was just an idea. We can do something else.”

“No!” Chat rushed to assure. “No. I do want to go to the Louvre. I was just surprised. What I said about not getting to go to the Louvre unless there was an akuma there…that was a throwaway comment from almost two years ago, but…you remembered.”

He looked at her with big, radiant eyes and a touched expression.

She blushed under all of her makeup and smiled bashfully, shrugging. “Even though you didn’t treat it like it was important, it sounded important, so… You want to go to the Louvre?”

“Definitely,” he laughed like a giddy child. “I’d love to go to the Louvre with you.”

As expected, the crowds were nothing like they usually were during the day, and they were able to hit up the highlights in record time. Afterwards, Chat Noir made Marinette show him some of her favourites.

There were paintings and gemstones and frescos and friezes, but the majority of the items on Marinette’s list were sculptures.

“I have good memories of these,” she explained. “As a young artist, I came here and studied sculptures for hours. Paintings are good for color and styles of dress from different periods, but sculpture is the only way to see things in 3D. Sculpture allows you to see the fabric actually moving. I spent a lot of time learning how to drape from these sculptures.”

Chat Noir shook his head, perpetually in awe of his girlfriend. He leaned in to press a light kiss to her temple, and dozens of cameras caught the gesture.

He ignored all the onlookers, whispering, “You never cease to amaze me, Princess.”

They left the museum a little before close and took to the rooftops once more.

“Did you have anything else planned for our magical evening, My Princess, or is it time to get you back home before you turn into a pumpkin?” he joked, waiting for her instructions.

“One last surprise, Minou. Can you take me to the very top of the Eiffel Tower?” She batted her eyelashes purely for show. “Pretty please?”

“As you wish,” he assured before bounding off towards the landmark.

Chat set Marinette down carefully before turning to take in the impressive view of their city. “You know, I never get tired of it up here.”

“Yeah,” Marinette sighed, going to fetch the picnic basket Ladybug had hidden there earlier that evening.

Chat laughed. “I should hope not. I’ve only brought you to the very top of the Eiffel Tower twice before.”

“Yes, but I don’t imagine I could ever get tired of this,” she covered smoothly, setting out the blanket, flower petals, and battery-powered candles.

He turned to ask her to come to the railing with him but froze when he saw what she was doing. “What’s all this? Where did the basket come from?”

“Your partner might have helped a little with the setup,” she confessed with a sheepish shrug. “Come sit.” She patted a place on the picnic blanket next to her, and, when he did sit down, she tossed a handful of rose petals in the air so that it rained down upon them.

“Princess, you didn’t have to do all this,” he insisted, but Marinette could tell from the tone of his voice that he was oh so happy that she had.

With a shrug, Marinette pulled out a container of little sandwiches on mini croissants followed by a second container with separate compartments for hummus and chopped veggies. A third container of mini pain au chocolat and pain aux raisins followed accompanied by a thermos of Marinette’s Dupain-Cheng Special Hot Chocolate and two mugs.

Chat Noir’s jaw dropped within half a meter of the floor. “Oh, wow…. We’re really having a picnic at the top of the Eiffel Tower, aren’t we? I’ve always wanted to do this!”

Marinette nodded, a calm smile of pride at having gotten it right lighting up her face. “I know. You told me about wanting to do this with Ladybug. I wasn’t sure if it would be okay for us to do it instead, but—”

Chat reached out, catching her hand in his. He squeezed tight. “—Marinette, no. It is fine. It’s-It’s perfect. Every minute I’m with you is perfect.”

She returned his squeeze. “Good. Because I really wanted tonight to be special.”

He arched an eyebrow in confusion. “Why tonight in particular?”

“Because I realized that there’s something really important that I hope you’ve known all along but that I don’t think I’ve ever said out loud to you, and I wanted to tell you tonight, but I wanted it to be really special for you because I know that’s important to you,” she explained.

Chat frowned. “Honey, I’m sorry, but I’m not really following you. What do you need to tell me?”

She licked her lips and took a deep breath. “Chat Noir…I love you.”

The words knocked the air from his lungs for a good fifteen seconds before he was able to respond.

Tears came to his eyes, and he pulled her in close, nuzzling her hair, savouring the moment.

“Thank you,” he whispered, obviously still overcome by the declaration.

Marinette’s heart constricted because he hadn’t known. She should have thought to tell him sooner, but she’d just assumed he’d known when he hadn’t.

“Sorry I’m so late,” she whispered into his neck. “I thought you knew already. I thought that I must have said it before at some point, but… Here. I’ll say it again: I love you, Chat Noir.”

“I love you too, Marinette,” he giggled, giddy with glee.

The only thing that could make it better was if she’d let him tell her his real name so that she could tell Adrien as well, but…

Well, he wasn’t going to let a little detail like that ruin an otherwise perfect moment.

He pulled back so that he could dive in for another kiss.

#Marichat #Adrinette #Adrienette #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Chat Noir #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Kissing #Writing Prompt #Mikau's Writings #Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses

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white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen · 4 years

Text

Bite (Part One)

Summary: Peter’s team is invited onto a big case in which their involvement will have serious consequences.

Word Count: 4,529

A/N: The summary is vague and doesn’t include the request, because the request itself would give away the ending. This fic was supposed to be a oneshot, but the plot was largely left up to me and I had an idea I thought was fantastic. I didn’t realize it was going to become so long. I think this is part one of three. Anyway... enjoy?

“Yikes,” you said with a level tone. “Always wear a hard hat, I guess.”

Ruiz glared at you. “You think this is funny?”

“Calm down,” Hughes raised his voice to talk over Ruiz and he gave you a hard stare that said not to aggravate the visiting agents. You put your hands up innocently. It wasn’t your fault that Ruiz had such pressable buttons.

Ruiz glared back at Hughes for all of half a second before he realized he wasn’t going to win that fight, and he used his clicker to make the projector move to the next slide. The crime scene photo went away and was replaced with a candid photograph of a white man in a snug polo with shades over his eyes, hair gelled back.

“Look, the culprit is Caffrey’s dress sense,” Diana snickered. She earned grins from yourself and Jones and Neal scowled at her from the other side of the table.

“I resent that.”

“All of you, shut up,” Hughes commanded, a vein in his forehead looking particularly pink. Everyone from the white collar unit listened and the unit chief gave an aggravated wave of his wrist towards Ruiz, whose agents were all looking either plainly amused or secretly amused and trying to hide it. Neal had always gotten under Eric’s skin, and so did everyone who took Neal’s side by extension. It was funny to see how bent out of shape he could get in such a short time.

Ruiz clenched his jaw and it looked like he ground his teeth while getting his temper under control. “Seamus Brady,” he said angrily. You still weren’t sure if he was morally outraged by the suspected murderer, or if he was just still being fussy about being ordered to invite Peter and his team onto the case. “43, American, with friends in Ireland and Wales. This bastard works hand-in-hand with suspects on Wall Street we haven’t been able to bag yet, managing a private company and swindling his investors.” He fixed his eyes on you and glared. “Henry Wallace was goin’ to take him to court next month before he ended up with his head bashed in.”

You just looked back at him. Working in law enforcement, you saw a lot of people do really awful things, and if you let every violent crime get you down, you’d never have been able to do your job for this long. You weren’t going to feel bad for not breaking into tears instead of quipping during the uncomfortable silence following the completely context-free reveal of ugly CSI pictures.

“You think Brady took Wallace out of the picture because he knew he was going to go down for it,” Peter urged Ruiz to continue, and, because they rarely saw eye-to-eye, Ruiz sent him a disgruntled look before resuming.

“I’m damn sure of it. Now that Wallace is gone, there’s no one to press charges. Problem is, Brady has got near a dozen people corroborating his alibi for the night this happened, but does that look like an accident to you?”

“Have you considered he didn’t do it?” Diana asked seriously. “Some people are really unlikeable. It can make a lot of enemies.” You got the distinct impression that she was referring to the number of people in the room who wouldn’t mind popping Ruiz in the jaw once or twice.

Ruiz glared at her next. The guy needed to loosen up. “I’d consider it if it was worth the time,” he said shortly. “Everyone supporting his alibi’s suspected of getting cuts of his profits.”

“Ah, the old “you knock mine, I’ll knock yours” method.” Neal nodded with his nose wrinkled in distaste. It was an increasingly commonly-known way of getting alibis to discount a motive, but mostly, the artist had never thought highly of violence, or anyone who resorted to it.

“Looks like,” Ruiz grudgingly acknowledged. “But instead of waiting for the turnabout, we want to lock this monster up before more bodies start dropping dead in Queens. I’ve already talked to him, so I want your boy to go undercover, Burke.”

No one commented on the way he referred to Neal. Infantilizing and deriding were pretty much the norm when it came to Ruiz’s interactions with the ex-con, no matter how civil Neal tried to be, and now everyone had stopped batting an eye because it would only fire him up more if you did. Neal certainly didn’t appreciate it, though, and neither did Peter.

“You just showed us all a picture of the last guy who threatened him,” Peter objected, pointing up at the projection screen. “I can’t send Neal into that without a good plan in place.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t at all,” Neal interjected dully, looking very aware of the fact that his vote didn’t really count.

“We got a plan,” Ruiz told Peter, his nostrils flaring from the quick and negative response. “You think your team’s the only one that does any field work? Nah, Burke.” You and Diana both looked at each other at the same time, wondering if Ruiz had intended to rhyme or not. The organized crime agent clicked his remote and the projector went to the next image – some fancy-shmancy residence for the rich you’d never be able to afford to spend a night in, much less live indefinitely. “Every other week these dirtbags get together. It’s probably where we got the best chance of getting something incriminating on them.”

“So you want Neal to somehow get invited into that high-as-heaven loft and wear a wire,” you predicted, finishing the plan for Ruiz and crossing your arms. Neal mirrored you, also crossing his arms, going off of your tone of voice to figure out that you didn’t like the plan and deciding to lend his support to anyone interested in keeping him out of it. “That’s a long-term op. They have to build rapport before anything happens.”

“Unless we apply some pressure,” Peter theorized, and immediately, Neal uncrossed his arms and looked at his partner, wounded, as though he were thinking how dare you get on board with this?

“Let’s be careful where we go applying pressure,” Neal requested pointedly, “Because pressure can be deadly. Especially for me.”

“It’s good-cop, bad-cop,” Ruiz puffed, putting a hand on his belt. “A crook goes in looking for a legit, high-profile, high-payoff job and a fed makes it seem like the bureau’s gonna get our guy unless he moves faster than we can,” Ruiz finished, ignoring your interruption. “Guy knows the crook’s history, knows he’ll take a risk for a heftier profit, knows he’s got the skill to do it. He takes the chance, except the crook’s on our side, tapped and live.”

“We’ve done some really similar ones,” you said thoughtfully, recalling a particular case where Neal had gotten himself hired as a political fixer while Peter filled the role of an obstinate, dogged cop. The pressure Peter put on the dirty politician led the man straight to Neal, who, under an alias, pushed things in the right direction. It hadn’t gone exactly to plan, but it had ultimately worked out.

“It’s this or the guy walks.” Ruiz looked at Peter and almost dared him to disagree. The man had a very aggressive way of cooperating with other agents and you were tempted to ask if he’d ever considered being less of a hardass. Maybe people would like him more. “Chatter says he’s gonna be takin’ a trip out of New York in the next couple months. We don’t try now, we may never get this chance again.”

Peter didn’t answer right away, looking at the loft on the projector screen and thinking deeply. As you had remembered, the last time this scheme had been used, it almost ended poorly – if Diana weren’t so quick with her gun, she may have been badly injured. However, there was probably not any chance of things going as unexpectedly off the rails as they had that time, and since Neal would be wearing a live transmitter, he could use a safe phrase the moment an attitude shifted the wrong direction. If he had to call it, then the bureau would probably lose the case; Brady would clam up and leave the jurisdiction, if he had any brain cells to rub together. It was unacceptable to let Neal be harmed for the sake of a ploy that may or may not work, so Ruiz was banking on Brady not being quick to anger or turn to violence. It was a brave gamble, considering his entire basis for being so pushy was that someone was already dead.

“Say I agree,” Peter said slowly, and Ruiz made the hand against his belt into a frustrated fist. “Neal goes under first, gets to know the guy, see his baseline. Then we introduce a federal agent. If he gets agitated, Neal can spot the difference and get out.”

Ruiz said briskly, “Yeah, duh, if he doesn’t think Caffrey’s an option there’s no point in sending an agent in.”

“Who plays the agent?” Neal piped up again. “Because I vote it’s not you.”

“Can’t be you, Ruiz,” you agreed, having Neal’s back. You tended to agree because he was a good strategist. It had nothing to do with a personal dislike for your fellow agent. Nothing at all. “If he’s already seen you, it’s too risky, he might think something’s up.”

“But if it were a different agent, from a different division…” Jones trailed off and held a hand out like he was saying it could work.

You nodded, and you, Jones, Diana, and Neal all looked to Peter. Your team leader was often very diplomatic about the choices he made in how to pursue cases, and this was no different. He saw you all seemed prepared to plan the operation, and gave Neal an extra look to make sure that his CI wasn’t completely opposed to the idea. Then the senior agent looked to Ruiz, and Hughes, and nodded assent with a tired sigh.

“Alright,” Madeline, one of Ruiz’s agents, said, making a note on her laptop. “Burke is the bad cop.”

“Or is it good cop?” You asked thoughtfully. If the fed in the plan were trying very hard to arrest an embezzler, then wasn’t the cop actually doing his job?

“Not to Brady,” Neal told you, shaking his head. “Bad cop. Good criminal.”

“No such thing,” Peter corrected right away.

Neal pretended not to hear him. “Who’s the good criminal?” He asked, leaning in. “Rydell’s probably burned after last time.”

“Nick’s got a history with math and money,” you suggested.

“Nicholas Halden?” Madeline asked, trying to keep up. You kept Neal’s aliases pretty close to the vest for his own safety, but a little bit of word occasionally got around. Offhandedly, you questioned why Ruiz’s agents had been so quiet during the meeting. Maybe they were more afraid of their boss.

Neal gave a full smile. It wasn’t the real thing – you knew the difference – but it was still an attractive smile, all confident and charismatic. “I think Nick has the time free to fit this into his calendar.”

~~~ Bite ~~~

You definitely had to give the bureau credit – they could move fast when they wanted to. Nicholas Halden was a ghost most of the time, but the FBI, combined with some work in the shadows on occasion from Neal and Mozzie, kept the man alive through talk and false documents.

“You’re a lucky man, Nick,” you called as you waved the file over your head, walking over to Neal’s desk and joining him as he readied for his first meeting with Brady. “Costa Rica and the Dominican Republic in the same three months.”

“What can I say, I have a taste for the Caribbean,” Neal responded with a playful grin. He reached up and took the file from you, then started flipping through it to see what had been added since the last time he took the identity out for a spin.

You sat down on the edge of his desk and picked up the papers he had been studying. He was intently looking at the most recent public reports on Brady’s company’s finances. A little bit of job research went a long way, no matter who you were applying to. While putting the papers back down on the desk, you caught Neal looking up at you instead of reading Nick’s file and you flashed him a little smile, rolling your shoulders back and sitting straight.

“Happy with the edits?” You asked, not that you could change them if he wasn’t.

Neal kept his eyes on you while he answered, “I’m just thinking how lonely it is Nick doesn’t have a partner.” Your heart felt like it skipped a beat and Neal added on, “Nick and Y/N sound good, don’t they?”

You knew there was a blush on your face but you refused to let an expression of interest go by unrequited, even if he could clearly see the redness in your cheeks. “I can think of a pair that sound just a little better,” you said to him, not looking away from his eyes until you were done talking. Neal and Y/N…

“I like those,” he said evenly, his face open and sweet. “Y/N-“

“Neal!” Peter snapped his fingers and both of you jumped a little. You leaned back and wondered exactly when you had started leaning forward. Your boss was standing on the mezzanine, looking exasperated. “What, is your phone dead? Hurry up!” He turned and went back into his office, but his coat was on and so was his holster, so you knew he would be coming out in seconds.

You cursed his timing, but there wasn’t anything you could do about it. When you and Neal turned back to each other, the moment was gone, and although the mood was still there, it wasn’t the time or place to try to bring the magic back.

Neal saw the frustration on your face and touched your knee gently. “Later,” he said, standing up. He took out his wallet and started swapping out his ID cards for those of Nick Halden that had been included in the folder.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” you told him wistfully.

~~~ Bite ~~~

Diana drew van duty with Peter and Madeline, leaving you in the office with Jones while the rest of your team was in the field. No matter how often it happened, you never got used to the itchy feeling in your legs of sitting around when your teammates were being shot at, for all you knew. (Though you could be reasonably sure they weren’t.)

It took about half an hour longer than you had expected it to, but it was impossible to tell until you got the call whether that was a good or a bad thing. Sometimes things took longer when there was a better opportunity than expected for building rapport, or even going straight to the throat, so you didn’t get too flustered. Peter eventually called, said that the op had gone well and Neal did good, and that since it was already later in the evening than planned, he, Neal, and Diana were going to head back to their respective houses and work from home. They would relate the details of the afternoon the next day. He invited you and Jones to do the same.

Jones, who had a girlfriend in his life, took the advantage of an early leave, but you stayed in the office and caught yourself looking at Neal’s empty desk more than a couple of times. No matter how much you had observed it already, it still surprised you just how much you missed Neal when he was gone. The thief felt like a more necessary part of the office than the chairs or the lights or the cheap and gross office coffee, which really sucked because one day he wasn’t going to be here. Whatever he chose to do after the anklet came off, he wasn’t eligible to be an FBI agent – his days in the office were numbered, no matter how well his work-release went. And it was going to be really hard adjusting to work without him.

“Good thing that’s still a long time away,” you told yourself, leaning back into your chair and letting out a long sigh. Still, it wasn’t the best thing in the world that your thoughts kept drifting back to him when you should have been working. You blamed it on the warmth in your knee, where it felt like his hand was still touching you. His gaze caressing your face. Voice soft and words just for you.

Yeah. You had it bad.

~~~ Bite ~~~

Peter briefed you all in the conference room the next morning, alongside Ruiz, Madeline, and the other two agents Ruiz had picked for the collaboration, whose names you learned were Matt and Damien. Nick’s interview with Brady went exceptionally well. From what Neal could tell, he was the most qualified applicant and Brady had been particularly interested when he’d been deflecting questions about the hedge fund he had briefly worked for. (Said hedge fund had been part of an older case in which Neal pretended to be a corporate spy and almost got killed for it.)

Now that Neal was in your mark’s good graces, you had to take the biggest gamble of all and decide how long was long enough to wait before sending Peter in to make Brady jumpy. It was a balancing act of factors. On one hand, a greater time gap made Brady’s introductions to Neal and Peter appear less connected and gave him more time to reach out to Neal to build a stronger rapport, increasing the odds of him going to Neal when Peter started waving the hammer over his head. On the other, if you waited too long, then the risks increased that Brady would look too deeply into Neal’s cover. There were a lot of ways that it could fall apart – he could find out that the manager of that hedge fund was now in a federal prison; he could do a reverse image search of Nick’s face and come up with Neal’s pictures from when the FBI had him on their website; he could try to talk to shadowy contacts and realize that very few people had actually seen Nick in person over the last six or so years.

“I haven’t heard anything from him,” Neal announced, but his posture was relaxed. It had been less than a day. “Give him time to come to me. I say if he doesn’t do it on his own by Monday, then we go in.”

“How quickly does he make his decisions?” Peter asked, looking to Ruiz instead of Neal, even though only one of them had a friendly relationship with the man in question.

Ruiz curled his lip. “Can’t say. It’s hard to find any intel on this guy. He covers his tracks.”

Before Peter could say anything, you were already guessing his priorities. “On it, boss,” you promised, opening up your laptop. Digging up information on slimy businessmen was one of your favorite ways to spend your work day, just on the off chance that something particularly scandalous came up that you could use against them.

“Get Diana to help you,” he said, pointing at Diana as the other female agent let out a soft sigh of complaint before taking her own computer out of its bag. “Di-“

“I get it,” she cut him off. “I already got my excitement. Out of the van with me.” She smirked slightly as she said it.

“And into the van with me,” Jones dryly said. It was no secret that the only person who hated the van more than Jones was Neal. “Yippee.”

Peter frowned at both Diana and Jones in turn before continuing with the conference. When you all came out of it twenty minutes later, there wasn’t much new on your docket. Unfortunately, you couldn’t stop everything and only pursue one person when there were so many other cases waiting to be investigated. It wasn’t to the point that this one was prioritized highly enough that Peter and Ruiz could justify having almost ten agents working on nothing else.

What you did have was the decision that, if Brady hadn’t reached out to Neal by Monday, then Peter would go in on Tuesday; if he had, then you would re-evaluate the following workday. In the meantime, Neal was to keep his head down and minimize his chances of being seen in public as much as possible while you and Diana were to continue trying to find any more background information on Seamus Brady.

While you worked on both the Brady case and your other cases, you tried to catch spare time to fulfill the promise of talking later with Neal, but the opportunity was just out of reach. You were busy when he wasn’t and vice versa, and because of how deep he was in the undercover portion of the operation, he was spending his lunches with either Peter or Ruiz, being debriefed and making statements. By the time the end of the day was near, everyone on Peter’s team was just tired, and between your irritable temperament when you were tired and Neal’s tendency to be more guarded when he was stressed, you had both seemed to agree that it was better not to touch the subject yet. The weekend was especially needed for recuperating after the work days, and since Neal was being holed up safely away from any risk of sighting or scrutiny, you knew you shouldn’t be heading over to his penthouse during the case, anyway. It was disappointing, but the bottom line was that your “later” didn’t come that week.

Although you had Neal weighing on your mind, your weekend was pretty relaxing. You grabbed a couple of naps, started reading a new book, and walked your neighbor’s dog for a little bit of exercise and homemade lasagna. By Monday morning, you were ready to go back to work and deal with whatever had happened since Friday.

It turned out that there were no new developments. Honestly, it wasn’t shocking. Working for the FBI was rarely as glamorous as people tended to think. Neal reported no contact from Brady, and so Ruiz and Peter began working up a tweaked profile of Peter’s work history in order to suit the purpose of his role in the con (no, not con, operation. Peter was very picky about that). That was going to occur Tuesday, right before lunch, and it would be a quick in-and-out of attempted police intimidation.

Then they turned the attention back to Brady, who he was and what he had done, and you and Diana had a lot of small things to report but no major discoveries. It was like Brady had suddenly come into being nine years ago, which made you suspect that it was probably a stolen identity, but you had exhausted all possible avenues for finding out who he had been before then. According to Neal, he spoke like an American, but you couldn’t find a social security number and now you weren’t totally sure that he wasn’t undocumented, which only made the situation messier.

That conference lasted until eleven, and just as it ended, you met Neal’s eyes as you both stood up. He gave you a small smile, almost like he was inviting your attention, and you made an equally small gesture with your hand towards the door, asking him if he wanted to leave with you, maybe get lunch together. He had just started to nod when Peter brought his hand down on his shoulder, not noticing that he was interrupting.

“You, me, my office,” he said. You looked down – you couldn’t fight the boss over Neal’s time when you were both on the clock.

“You know,” Neal said, sounding a little stiff. It was gratifying to know that he didn’t like it much, either. It had been almost a week since the incident that wasn’t really any sort of incident at all, but possibly could have become one. “Sometimes humans eat lunch at this time of day.”

“The Domino’s menu is downloaded to my computer,” Peter replied, missing the point and shepherding Neal out of the conference room.

The artist caught your eye as he went past and grimaced. You nodded sympathetically, understanding.

And your time still didn’t come at all on Monday, with Peter insisting on triple-checking everything he and Neal had related to each other about Brady, what he might be doing, and how best to get under his skin. You knew the case was important, but damn. At five in the evening, Peter clocked out (not really – you didn’t work on time cards). You knew that El made Peter come home on time with Neal and had them both sit down and eat a full meal every Monday, so you didn’t even bother hoping that Peter was leaving alone. You left not long after.

Tuesday morning wasn’t your friend. Traffic made your commute to work particularly slow and you got there a few minutes later than you would have liked. Another case task force conference drilled everything into your head until you could’ve recited it in your sleep, and then Ruiz, Matt, Peter, and Neal all left for the next stage of the scheme. You really weren’t sure why Neal needed to go, but at this point, it was probably your irritation talking, not the thorough agent you worked hard to be. When they all returned, both bosses gathered their respective underlings into the same conference room for another update which lasted through the lunch break, and since your entire morning had been spent on one case, you were then told to spend your afternoon and early evening working on the rest of your caseloads to compensate.

You wanted to strangle Peter. You didn’t meddle in his marriage. In fact, you supported his marriage and sometimes offered advice on presents or gestures for Elizabeth, and this was how he repaid you? By making it his life’s mission to ensure that you never, ever got any private time with Neal ever again, right after it finally seemed like the playful workplace flirting was going to result in something more meaningful?

With enough hurrying, you managed to power through a good half-day’s effort with about ten minutes left before five. You took another look at the clock on your computer, relieved you made it. Ten minutes was enough for a conversation. Ten minutes was –

You looked up to see if Neal was done, and he wasn’t even at his desk. After looking around for him with exasperation, you spotted him up in Peter’s office. You couldn’t see the thief’s face, but you could see Peter’s, and the seriousness of his expression made you want to throw your hands up in the air. You knew that look. It was the serious breakthrough look.

Brady had been intimidated into contacting Neal.

~~~~~~

A/N: Remember, there is at least one more part to this story and possibly two, so keep your eyes peeled!

If you like my writing and would be interested in skipping the request queue, please consider checking out the details of my Ko-Fi commissions here or go straight to my Ko-Fi page here. Imagines are $1, oneshots start at $4, and a story of this length would be just about $8.

#white collar x reader #white collar #neal caffrey #neal caffrey x reader #casefic #white collar lawmen and conmen #lawmen-and-conmen #fic #oneshot #bite #peter burke #diana berrigan #clinton jones #reader #x reader #reader insert

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