#for the record my coworkers didn’t directly question me on this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

visceral-stories · 3 years

Text

Family Breakfast

Logan jolted upright in his bed as a thunderous commotion downstairs caught his attention that sounded like furniture hitting the ground. He hissed and glanced at his bedside clock that read 7:00 AM. “Mom!” he called out but got no answer. Leveraging himself upright, he called again but was only met by the faint low pitch of mens’ voices reverberating through the walls downstairs. The occasional loud thumps paired with heavy footsteps left no doubt that the furniture his mother had ordered a month prior had finally arrived. “Woulda been nice to know that was happening this morning,” Logan grumbled to himself as he headed downstairs. Paired with his messy bedhead, his dingy yellow t-shirt from summer camp and light blue worn-out shorts were not the most socially inviting get-up.

Heading downstairs into the living room, he could see his mother dressed like she was about to go to work talking with one mover while two men were moving a black leather couch. The shorter and skinnier seventeen year-old felt a brief wave of intimidation flush over him. The head mover was larger than anyone he had ever seen. His back was like a turtleshell and he looked to be two times as wide as Logan.

“The place looks so different from when I was a kid,” Logan heard the mover say as he reached the foot of the steps and made eye contact with his mother.

“Hey Logan,” his mother said, shifting her attention from the mover to her son. She gestured to the mover. “This is Steven, he works for AmCo and actually used to live in this house.”

Steven spun around to see Logan. His first two buttons were down and his black chest hair poked out from beneath his shirt. He was as broad as a barrel and looked to be in his sixties. “Is that little Logan Ricker I see? I haven’t seen you since you were in grade school, kid. How old is he now?”

“Seventeen,” Logan’s mother answered for him. As an operations manager of AmCo, a locally owned construction company, she had a tendency to speak for Logan, which always wared on his patience.

Steven continued to ruminate. “Man, you’ve really kept good care of this place. I remember when there used to be a record player over there and a tiny, tiny television and my dad would always read the paper in a huge chair over there.”

“You didn’t tell me the movers were coming today,” Logan said with a hint of irritation.

His mother’s expression changed. “Yes I did, honey. I told you last night before I went to bed. You were probably too invested in your videogame to hear me.” She glanced at Steven and jokingly waved her hand. “Kids and their games. I swear he’s playing it twenty-four-seven.”

“Oh, I know,” Steven agreed. “My three grandkids always fight over their games when they’re over.”

“So...when will this all be done?” Logan asked, oblivious to his blatant pushiness. He froze up when he noticed his mother’s placid expression switch into one of unspoken anger at his question.

Steven turned around before his mother could answer. “We actually are almost finished here, kid. The men and I have just gotta move in a clock.” He patted Logan on the shoulder and then turned back around to face his mother. Logan winced at the subtle smell of cigar smoke that entered his nostrils, it was probably coming from Steven’s bushy, grey beard. “Sarah, here is your copy of the paperwork,” he said, handing Logan’s mom a stack of paper. “We won’t keep you and Logan waiting much longer.”

“Oh please,” Logan’s mother replied with a smile. “Take all the time you need. We don’t mind at all, do we Logan?” She glared directly at him, sending a shiver through his spine.

“Um...no we don’t,” Logan said, but it wasn’t even like Steven heard him though. He was already following his empty-handed coworkers out the front door to retrieve the final piece of furniture.

“Can’t you just be civil for one moment Logan?” she asked as she placed the paper down on a table. “Honestly, I think you’re spending too much time playing those videogames with your friends.” Logan grimaced. She always brought up the videogames. “It’s just..what we like to do,” he said. Judging from the look in her eyes, he knew he shouldn’t try to defend it any further because he would never win the argument.

Luckily, her expression lightened a bit. “I get that, honey, but I think it can be too much. It’s important to establish order in your life. Your senior year of high school is coming up and then you’ve got to focus on the rest of your life.” She could see the tiredness in his eyes. “How many hours did you sleep last night?”

“Um...eight,” Logan replied. He had actually gone to bed around three o’clock. His mother narrowed her eyebrows and Logan realized he was a good liar. “But it is Saturday.”

“I don’t care. You need to be getting enough rest.”

“Coming through!” called one of the movers before Logan could respond. Walking through the front door, Steven and another mover cautiously held a long rectangular-shaped object on both ends. As they reached the living room, they placed it in the corner of the room. The object was so heavy it shook the whole floor upon being gently placed down. “One grandfather clock,” Steven said after exhaling noisily. Logan could see droplets of sweat in his black chest hair which poked through the man’s open shirt collar. “You know, this looks exactly like the one we had when I was a kid.”

“Wow,” Logan’s mother said happily, pressing her palms against each other. “Doesn’t this look great?” she asked Logan who was still groggy and apathetic.

Steven hobbled over to the front of the door. “As much as I’d love to stick around, we have many other people who need their furniture. Is there anything else we can do for you folks?” he inquired.

“No, this all looks wonderful,” Logan’s mother replied. “Thank you so much! We really appreciate it, don’t we Logan?” Logan mustered a silent yes.

“Hey, it’s no trouble at all ma’am. All part of the job,” Steven replied, lifting his cap to reveal his bald scalp. He made eye contact with Logan before leaving. “Don’t be afraid to take time to live in the present, Logan.”

Logan winced at the directness of the comment.

The small entourage of movers exited the house, shutting the front door behind them, leaving Logan and his mother to absorb the ambiance of the newly-furnished room. It was only for a moment until the sound of a cell phone broke the silence. Logan’s mother sighed. “Logan, I’ve gotta take this call. They need me in the office for an hour or so, so I’ll see you later today.” Without waiting for a reply, she walked towards the kitchen to the garage.

“Alright,” Logan drowsily responded. This was strangely typical. His mother was a chaotic and extremely fast-paced individual.

She was already heading out the door to the garage with the phone still ringing in her hand. “If you want a snack, there are Pop-Tarts in the cupboard. I’ll try and be back in two hours and we can have a nice family breakfast.”

And just like that, she headed out the door to the garage, leaving Logan alone in silence. “Finally,” he mused as he admired the new items which now resided in the previously incomplete living room. A brown-colored coffee table, two white armchairs, and a black leather sofa all within the white-walled living room conveyed both a modern style and a soothing pallet of simplistic colors. Deciding to sit down in one of the side chairs Logan had to admit that the room looked so much better than it used to. The only thing that seemed out of place was that huge grandfather clock in the corner. The longer he stared at the dark brown appliance, the more he became transfixed by its strangeness. He couldn’t understand why his family chose this ominous-looking clock to complement their modern furniture. It must’ve been seven feet tall and it started to creep him out the more he looked at it.

Often unable to fall back asleep after waking up, Logan decided the best thing to do was to watch some tv until he got tired again. The white chair sure looked comfy with its untouched cushions looked like the comfiest spot in the whole room. Upon sitting down, a vibration from Logan’s hip indicated that he’d gotten a text message. Pulling his phone up to respond quickly dissolved into another episode of mindlessly scrolling through social media. Suddenly, a thunderous boom exploded across the living room, snapping Logan out of his digital hypnosis. The chime’s blasting cacophony scared the hell out of the young man, causing him to drop his phone in his lap. Instinctively, he brought his hands to his ears to mute the horrendous rumble ravaging his eardrums. “Unghhh,” he groaned in discomfort. “What the hell?” he screamed, his voice hardly audible beneath the prolonged and deafening roar of the clock. However, as instantaneously as the sound had started, it stopped completely, leaving behind a pristine and portentous silence. Logan glanced around the room, the only sound was his ears ringing. He glanced over his shoulder to see the pendulum still swinging inside the grandfather clock. “What the hell?” he said again, this time much quieter. Looking around, he noticed that everything seemed a bit hazier and all of the living room objects had fuzzy outlines. Logan rubbed his eyes and reopened them to see the dusty haze dissipate. “Huh, that’s...weird,” he muttered as he itched the side of his face.

Reflexively clicking the power button on his phone, Logan noticed that the device wouldn’t respond. He tried again only to warrant the same result: a blank screen. “Dumbass phone,” he huffed angrily. As if in response to his complaint, the phone began vibrating like crazy in his hand, so much so that Logan swore he could feel it in his blood vessels. Before he could cuss, a second low-pitched chime emanated from the adjacent grandfather clock, causing Logan to accidentally fling the phone from his hand. “Ow!” he yelped in anguish again. However, this chime seceded even quicker than the time prior, causing the ringing to resonate even louder in Logan’s ears.

“Motherfucker!” he screamed, now looking at the clock. “Why the hell did she even get that stupid-”

Before he could finish his sentence, Logan gasped as he felt an immense warm feeling come from the chair he was sitting on. He tried to speak, but he immediately became overtaken by a powerful pleasure radiating from the chair he was sitting on. Even though the chair was brand new, it felt so familiar, like Logan had sat on it thousands of times. And with that, he closed his eyes in ecstasy. Whatever cushion they put in the chair was driving Logan’s brain wild as it caused him to moan uncontrollably for a moment. He hadn’t meant to, but it almost felt like the chair was hugging him in such a sensuous way. It felt like a massage chair, just without the shakiness.

The clock dinged again, although not nearly as loud this time, much to Logan’s relief. As he opened his eyes, he noticed that the room looked a little hazy again, almost like the furniture had lost a touch of color. Even his phone, which had landed on the table, looked a little less defined, and a little grey-looking even. Blinking did nothing to revert the furniture back to normal like it had before. Logan started to breathe heavier, realizing something was wrong. His mother was going to kill him if she saw that her living room was even slightly askew.

Logan was about to get up from the chair when he felt his stomach jiggle. “Weird,” he muttered. Looking down, he was horrified to see his belly button poking from his yellow t-shirt. “What the...” It wasn’t like he had the most healthy diet, but his belly certainly didn’t poke out from his shirt like it was now. He placed a hand on his stomach only to watch it expand even more. “Shit! Stop!” he yelled to no one, but his stomach didn’t listen. All Logan could do was helplessly watch his gut plumpen to the size of a soccer ball with impressive speed. Jerking his body forward to stand up, he found that escape was impossible. The chair felt like a vacuum against his back and the weight of his growing stomach thwarted any possibility he had of standing up. No matter how hard Logan tried, he would not budge. Defeated, he could only watch and hyperventilate as the changes rose up to his gut. His breathing became less belabored as his lungs gradually enlarged to take in more air. The rise and fall of his chest became much more pronounced as he watched his pectoral muscles press against his old ratty t-shirt. The logo of a sailboat from summer camp threatened to rip due to Logan’s increasing girth. Choosing to look at his belly again, Logan gasped in horror, only to see that it was nothing short of gigantic. In fact, his belly was so large that it had begun to distend over his crotch. In one swift motion, Logan’s pectorals inflated with fat and had now started to droop. Sweat droplets appeared on his forehead as he realized what an inexplicable predicament he was embroiled within. Now panicked, he realized he had to call someone and get help, to get him out of this room that was clearly making him hallucinate for some reason. With all his strength, he pulled himself forward on the cushiony chair for a moment only to promptly smack back against the chair, almost like it possessed its own magnetism. The young man’s stomach shook like jello when his broad back and shoulders crashed against the chair with tremendous force. He was grateful nobody else was around to see whatever was happening to him.

The grandfather clock dinged again. It still withheld its tremendous-sounding tone, but it was not nearly as close to deafening Logan as it had been prior. At least there was one thing to be thankful for. With fright, Logan watched the room shift in synchronicity with its tone. Not only did the furniture lose more color, it also looked older and more retro. The discolored objects reminded Logan of the furniture he would see in an antique shop. The adjacent sofa now looked less black and leathery, instead it was chartreuse and appeared much softer.

“Why...can’t I get...up?” Logan wheezed. He didn’t ask for a gut that now rivaled the size of a yoga ball. Placing his fingers on bare skin, he hissed in anguish. By now, the sailboat on his shirt was completely eradicated by the small shirt stretched tightly around his towering gut. The saffron hue of the fabric paled to a much lighter yellow than before. Logan’s eyes goggled in horror as he watched a forest of black hair explode from his juvenile happy trail, spread up to his pecs, and down to his loins and legs until his entire body was coated with them. The hair follicles caused thousands of tingles to pulsate through his nerves. Logan giggled unintentionally, although his youthful laugh came out at a much lower pitch than he expected. That was odd, but he couldn’t be bothered to think about it. Feeling a thin layer of hair form on his crotch and butt, He laughed again. This time left no discretion that his voice was altered completely as the hardy and boisterous chuckle that left his body was befitting of a man with a much lower register. The faint ding of the clock solidified Logan’s gut to a massive proportion, his hairy stomach on display for anyone who happened to venture into this changing living room. In the midst of his confusion, Logan realized his hairy and bulbous gut reminded him of one person: Steven. To Logan’s horror, he realized it was even larger than Steven’s.

The young man paid no mind to his surroundings, instead his attention was drawn to his exposed and protuberant stomach. He may be huge but he certainly wasn’t a slovenly oaf. “That looks foolish,” he said aloud to himself, a new sense of dignity being instilled in his thoughts. Tugging on his shirt, he desperately tried to hide his hairy belly. At first, it seemed as if nothing was changing, but the more Logan pulled on the shirt, the more fabric began to unravel from the shirt. It covered the underside of his pecs, then his upper stomach, then his abdomen, until after a minute of profuse tugging, the shirt covered every inch of the young man’s enormous stomach. Logan furrowed his brow. Somehow during the ordeal, the yellow of the shirt had completely dissipated into a pure white color while the fabric became a blend of Dacron polyester and cotton. Logan brought his fingers to the untouched fabric. The more he ran it against his fingers, the more enraptured he became by it. He was so preoccupied with how soft his new shirt felt that he didn’t even notice the sleeves extending to his wrists nor the garters that had materialized around his thighs to hold the new shirt down. It felt amazing though. He closed his eyes briefly to savor the feeling of a freshly-pressed dress shirt over his broad back and immense stomach clothed in a dress shirt. When Logan opened his eyes, he was pleasantly surprised to find cufflinks at the ends of his sleeves. No formal shirt ever felt complete without cufflinks. And as the growing man ruminated, he realized he always wore something formal whenever he left the house. After all, he always sought to represent masculine fashion, even on a man as large and imposing as he. To reflect that thought, his body quickly stretched from 5’9 to 6’0 tall.

A tearing sound around Logan’s waist broke the silence of the room. He strained his neck to catch a glimpse, but was having trouble seeing the culprit, which was the hem of his gym shorts hidden behind his yoga ball-sized stomach. Damn thing felt like it was crushing his lower body, further restricting his already lowered mobility. Unseen to Logan, his pelvic area was slowly widening and stretching the seam of his gym shorts, repairing the torn fabric in the process. The elastic promptly stretched itself to match the man’s gigantic waistline. A man his size ought to have a strong lower body to hold up such meaty pecs and a stout gut.

The feeling of fabric touching Logan’s kneecaps caught his attention. His light blue gym shorts looked closer to basketball shorts judging from where they sat on his knee. They also were starting to look a little darker even. It could be a trick of the light, but he knew that wasn’t true. Fidgeting in the seat caused more fabric to unspool and spill down the length of his legs until they reached his ankles. What once were shorts now took on the appearance of sweatpants. The tenacity of the waistband proved to be extraordinary as it held both the weight of the boy’s one-hundred pound gut and maintained its composure as his waistline tripled in size. Placing both hands on his gut gave Logan an incredible sensation of maturity. Letting his mind drift, Logan thought about the people in his life that he must’ve been larger than. His classmates, his teachers; his gut was definitely larger than his own father’s, as well as Steven’s. That realization sent a shockwave down Logan’s spine and it felt inspiring in a strange sort of way. However when he pictured Steven, he had trouble remembering if he was really a behemoth of a man. No, that’s what he was. He was larger than any other man he could think of.

In response to the authoritarian feeling, Logan’s legs began to expand until they were pressed taut against his pants, which had the appearance of dress trousers but the feel of sweatpants. Shaking his leg caused the cheap ratty cotton of his pants to lighten their color and shift their complexion completely. What greeted Logan’s eyes was a pair of light grey wool trousers, completely devoid of the baby blue pigment they once had. They looked like the same type of pants his father wore to work everyday, only the fabric less refined. Logan tensed up as his lower body swelled beneath the pants a little more. Eventually, the pants had no choice but to follow the boy’s bodily expanse. At such an imposing size, Logan remembered that he needed clothes larger than the average man. A perplexed expression crossed his face as he realized that would cost a lot of money. He would need to get a well-paying job. The longer he lingered on the idea of a job, the more it stuck to his brain. He knew he was employed, he just couldn’t recall where. He was a grown adult after all, he just...lived with his parents for some reason. The idea seemed wrong but Logan couldn’t remember any other way it could be.

A collar blossomed around the boy’s neck and a striped tie promptly unraveled across his chest. However, Logan’s attention shifted from appreciating his shirt to the silence of the room which he was finally able to take in again. Only, it seemed too quiet. He could hear no birds chirping outside, no lawnmowers buzzing, just ominous silence. The only rhythm of the room was his own breathing which now required a much larger quantity of breath than before. It felt separate from time. Logan could remember days and nights spent with his family, eating meals together, watching the television, and listening to the radio. He could also remember how he always got comments about his tremendously loud laugh and how it echoed through every room of the house, often when he was with his family.

That didn’t seem right. Logan was always playing videogames in his room and talking to his friends on Skype deep into the night. But how could he if he had to wake up for work every morning at seven AM? Breaking free from his daze, Logan’s eyes darted around the room frantically. “Where...is...my phone?” he slurred in a frustrated and almost-drunken state. Reflexively pulling himself from his chair, he could see it on the table, however it looked less like an iphone and more like an ipad, only with an extremely faded screen. Somehow, the device had stretched itself out and was coated in the same layer of fuzzy static texture that coated the living room. God, this day could not get any stranger. All Logan wanted to do was go play videogames with his online friends in his bedroom. The thoughts became jumbled in his brain upon further contemplation. Video…games? What on earth was a video…game? When he thought of games, he could only think of board games or card games. Logan heaved in disdain. His brain felt like it was twisting in on itself trying to understand such an idea. Additionally, his heartbeat quickened at the thought and sweat began to condensate in his armpits and his hands became clammy. “What..the hell...is happening to me?” he panted as he white-knuckle gripped the sides of the chair.

“Hnguh!” Logan grunted as he felt the chair yank him back. Again, a wave of fat rippled from his massive stomach as he smacked against the chair.. Simultaneously, the clock dinged again, causing the room to contort. This time Logan saw the changes. The 50 inch television contorted in on itself, shrinking down into a version akin to the TVs of a few decades ago and half the size. Logan’s eyes widened as he fully realized that technology was regressing. There was an invention called a computer that disappeared from his memory as soon as he thought of the word. Even the idea of a smartphone seemed unprecedented. The subtle ding of a landline materializing on the wall in the kitchen reverberated into the living room.

Logan felt like his head was going to explode. The harder he concentrated, the more details he saw changing. The white walls darkened to a light brown. The curtains split in two and moved to opposite ends of the window. Horizontal lines burst from them and promptly covered the open window with a seat of blinds. In unison, the cushions on the sofa flattened, eliminating the leathery texture they once had. All Logan could do was watch helplessly as his family’s brand new living room became tarnished in a matter of seconds. The interior looked so strange and so old that it caused Logan to panic again. “I...don’t...belong..here,” Logan breathed, bringing his hand up to his left pec. His heartbeat felt like a timpani booming inside his barrel of a chest. “Ack!” Logan cried, pulling his hand off his chest, as he felt something move beneath his dress shirt. Much to his disgust, two cone-shaped mounds began to rise up beneath his scrunched t-shirt. Cautiously probing them with his finger, he quickly gasped and recoiled. They were attached to him. Those mounds really were his nipples. But that couldn’t be, they looked so swollen. Bringing his fingers back, he began to gingerly rub them. As much as he wanted to yank his arms away, he found that he didn’t want to. He started to savor the sensation. His nipples were just so tender. For some reason, he could recall someone touching them, but he couldn’t recall the face. It wasn’t like Logan had a girlfriend or anything so the idea of someone pleasuring him seemed so foreign. Yet the longer he thought about it, the more details he could remember. First, it started with the caressing of his belly, then it progressed to oral sex. Logan shook his head in a futile attempt to clear these thoughts. He had never had sex yet he could remember being deep in coitus. He’d been told he was good at it too. There was no way on earth that could be true, could it?

“OH!” Logan exclaimed. There was an intense warm feeling concentrated around his crotch. Unseen to him, a lump was clearly visible in his pressed wool pants. Logan chuckled as he could feel his cock expanding. And then, the strangest thing happened. The lump in his pants swayed with his quiet laughter. It started to expand more too until it pressed firmly against his pants, revealing a hefty bulge. “Ughhh,” Logan hissed in discomfort, feeling his cock press tightly against the trousers, revealing an egregious display. “Yes..yes..” Logan moaned. He liked having a new large dick, but he couldn’t be seen walking around with a flagrant bulge in his pants all the time. In direct contrast however, he could remember the many times that his friends poked fun at his moose-knuckle. But it wasn’t his fault he had always been well-endowed. Logan felt a strange bit of masculine pride when he remembered that his custom-tailored suit pants always displayed it well. He could picture him and his friends golfing and them making snide comments on occasion. It was all in good fun though. The group of men loved to golf and went every Saturday morning. It was always kind of nice, the four men loved the chance to reconnect and be away from their wives and children.

“Golf?!” Logan asked aloud. He hated golf. More importantly, why would he hang around a group of dads?

No longer feeling the intense invisible restraint of the armchair, Logan found it much easier to move his body. Looking at the chair, he was shocked to see that it now sported a marvelous tangerine hue. Hadn’t it been white before? The chair had not only changed color, it had also become melded to the shape of his ass, becoming a few inches wider and more cushiony. To fill the space, his butt began to inflate as it widened to cover more area of the cushion. Feeling himself raise up in his seat, Logan crinkled his eyebrows at the sensation of his buttcheeks further widening the hem of his grey pants. His meaty ass was extremely prominent, jutting out from every pair of dress pants he owned. In a manner of mere seconds, his buttcheeks solidified into the formidable undercarriage necessary to elevate his husky figure. Logan subconsciously brought his hand to his moose-knuckle and caressed it remembering what it felt like to be the largest man wherever he went. He couldn't help but give a hardy laugh, akin to the chuckle of Cary Grant, when he thought about how some of his wife’s friends had once joked that his butt was bigger than any they’d ever seen. Adjusting in his seat, Logan smiled as he remembered how humorous that night had been that Mrs. Olson next door had said that at their dinner table which erupted with laughter. It had become quite the joke around the neighborhood. His wife would even playfully tease him about it occasionally. Logan jolted his neck forward and froze. He wasn’t married. He was just a kid and he was still in high school. Yeah, that sounded right. But as he slowly continued rubbing his cock, a wedding band appeared around his ring finger that said otherwise.

Fidgeting in the cushy armchair, Logan plunged deeper into nostalgia. He remembered picking out that chair himself at the store. That was the day he had taken his family out to ice cream by the beach. He even drove his brand new red Ford Skyliner. Of course, he was dressed formally alongside his loving family, a woman and two children who were pretty young. For some reason, the car was in his name, even though he couldn’t remember owning a car. But he must’ve. He worked in an office downtown and would drive that sexy ride there five days a week. He always dressed sublimely in pleated slacks and suave sportcoats. Logan grinned at that thought. Maybe he was ready to be an adult. He’d be able to do so many fun things now. Plus, he was much larger than his own father now. In fact, he was larger than the majority of other men his age. Whenever he was out in public, he always drew stares. Logan didn’t care though; he was rather used to it. He adored being the largest man in the neighborhood. The parents of his childrens’ friends always knew him as did many other people around town. Logan ran a hand across one of his huge thighs; he wanted to be worshipped. Whenever he entered a room, it was extremely rare anyone was larger than him. That feeling was enough to cause the bulge in the boy’s pants to stir.

The room shifted again. The television retracted in on itself even further until it had a screen about a fourth of the size it once was. The table it was on disappeared as four wooden slabs burst from beneath it, each equipped with a metal piece at the end to keep it on the floor. Two dials poked out from below the screen. Additionally, paintings of flowers and pastoral landscapes appeared on the walls. Logan continued to smirk jovially as he took in the details of the living room. His wife really was such a talented painter. An explosive boom from beside him caused Logan to jump and his fat jiggled again, but he thought nothing of it. In a matter of seconds, a fully-stocked and four-shelved bookshelf stood next to him, filled to the brim with books, a hobby which he always encouraged the kids to read. As one final touch, a radio burst into fruition on the top shelf. Logan smiled, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia by looking at how the room was coming together. He felt powerful, content, and satisfied and he felt like such a lucky man.

Logan squirmed lethargically as a record player exploded into fruition beside him. Unfamiliar with the technology, he watched as the needle form from thin air and begin to move until it touched the spinning record and instantly, a calming doo-wop song filled the air. Alongside its soothing sound, Logan could hear background noise, it was faint at first but gradually filled his ears. Light footsteps upstairs and a woman’s voice talking on the landline in the kitchen caught his attention, further imbuing him with a sense of pride. He was a white-collar dad and he always had been. After fighting in the war, he had settled down, landed a great corporate office job, and started a family of his own. Logan could hazily recall being married and having two children Steven and Kathleen, who were eight and ten respectively. For some inexplicable reason, when Logan pictured Steven, he pictured a huge, hulking bear of a man with a long grey beard, but that couldn’t be right. Steven was just a little boy. Logan shook his head at what a foolish thought that was. Maybe someday his son would be as large as him, but for now, he was the only large man in the house.

Moving at the speed of a turtle, Logan pulled himself from his chair and snatched the newspaper that had been sitting on the coffee table, unaware that it was had once been his cell phone. He leaned his broad back slowly against his comfy chair with the newspaper in hand as he noticed the date in the corner: August 20th, 1960. For some reason, that felt peculiar. Looking to his right, he saw an emerald couch next to another tangerine-colored armchair with an ottoman of the same hue in front of a cinnamon-colored wall. Logan was used to this view since he always chose to read the morning paper in the living room.

“1960...” Logan whispered to himself, still doubtful. As if the universe had heard his inquiry, a dramatic force pressed against Logan’s face, instantly broadening his cheekbones, forever giving him a more jolly appearance to match his body. His blonde hair quickly dyed itself black and pulled itself upward, both revealing more of the man’s forehead and fixing his bedhead. “I..don’t...want…” Slight wrinkles appeared on Logan’s face as he entered his early forties. His teeth whitened and the few facial hairs he had disintegrated. The older man could remember always being clean-shaven. A pair of glasses slipped on above his nose, giving the man a penetrating and sagacious visage. “Don’t...want...this…I’m…just-” His hairline solidified into a widow’s peak. “I’m..just..” The faint outline of crow’s feet appeared on the sides of his eyes. As a final touch, grey hair blossomed around his temples, leaving no discretion about his age. “I’m..just..a...kid,” Logan heard himself say before snapping out of his surreal facial massage. But he couldn’t be a kid, he must be an adult. Peering down at his dapper dress shirt, trousers, and long grey socks, he realized they were only things an adult would wear. He moved his body in the chair and watched his stomach jiggle hypnotically. The immense salt-and-pepper-haired man wedged his colossal butt further into his favorite orange chair and flipped open the morning paper. As one final touch to the house, Logan’s signature pork pie hat materialized on one of the hooks by the front door next to his family’s collection of jackets. Comfy in his chair, he began sipping on a cup of warm coffee while he read the news.

“Milton!” a woman’s voice called from the kitchen after a few minutes. “Breakfast is ready!”

Logan instinctively stood up, which took a lot of effort at his burly size. Wait, had she said Milton?

A woman walked out from the kitchen in a bow plaid blouse and skirt and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Kids,” she called sweetly. “Come get your breakfast.”

Logan’s felt like time froze when he saw the woman turn to face him. The sweatiness returned to his extremities. She was beautiful. Her name was Dorothy and she was the most beautiful and loving woman he had ever known. She was tall as a weed, svelte, and well-endowed with cleavage and an ass that Logan found himself obsessing over. They were quite the bodily opposites yet that was the reason they were attracted to each other so strongly. People often joked and called them Ralph and Alice from The Honeymooners. Logan noticed a wedding ring on her finger that matched the one on his. For some reason, he thought that was odd, but why would it be? The couple had been married for years now and their happy family was the proof. A worried expression came over Dorothy’s face. “Milton, are you feeling okay?” This time, Logan fully took in the word. “Milton? Who’s that?” he asked earnestly, his look of concern now matched hers.

To his surprise, Dorothy laughed sardonically. “That joke gets funnier every time.”

Milton was about to interject, yet he could remember his affinity for playful banter. When the kids were young, he would always pretend like he didn’t know his own name and he loved to play the same joke on his family from time to time. The colossal man’s frightened expression lightened as a deluge of memories inundated his consciousness. “Oh Dorothy,” his voice filled the room as he hoisted his massive frame upward. He touched the small of her back with one of his meaty hands and pulled her in closer, her slender figure in direct contrast to his round one. A permanent confidence embedded itself within his psyche. “I am the luckiest man in the world to have you.”

She smiled and lightly pushed him away. “I know sweetie. It’s only 7:20.” She looked behind her and turned back around. “Do you want to go get the kids for me, Milton?”

“Of course,” Milton replied. Trudging to the bottom of the stairs, he called out. “Breakfast, kids!” His baritone voice nearly shook the walls it was so loud. Looking at the mirror at the bottom of the stairs, a reflection of a tall man in formalwear caught Milton’s attention. He felt like something was off as he looked at his enormous body, but he couldn’t place what. Turning profile, he could see his stomach and back stretching out in opposite directions. Undoubtedly, his stupendous stomach and wide butt were his most prominent assets, each protruding out very far and each tightly pressed against their sartorial confines. Turning to face the mirror, Milton saw his husky bulge and swanky belly shake in unison. He grinned in satisfaction, then he furrowed his brow and brought his hands to his tie to straighten it. “Much better,” he said. The sound of footsteps from above caught Milton’s attention.

A few seconds later, his children Steven and Kathleen came trudging down the stairs, both saying “Hi, dad” as they made their way to the kitchen. Milton said hello in return as he watched them walk past him. His children were growing up and soon they would enter the age of puberty which he knew would generate a plethora of unique conversations. Still, Milton could envision his lovely children growing up into such promising and proper young adults, it made him so proud. The smell of bacon and scrambled eggs entered the father’s nostrils. He straightened out a crease on his dress shirt and grinned broadly before lumbering into the kitchen to join his family for their routine family breakfast.

#male tf #male tf story #businessman #tf story #sartorial #age progression #mental change #reality shift #time travel #father #age progression tf #weight gain #suit #bear tf #reality change

325 notes · View notes

dilftaroooo · 3 years

Note

hi! can you please write a nsfw oneshot for dio brando x fem! reader ? to be a little specific; can you add a boss/assistant dynamic & corruption kink? tysm ( ◠‿◠ )❣️

mmm corruption kink. thats absolutely my fav, anon 🤤. i'll be more than happy to write it for you. enjoy!

(business office au)

you gotta earn it. (boss!dio x secretary!reader)

word count: //1.7k+//

synopsis: you want that raise? then show mr.brando what it is you're willing to give up to him. it's only fair.

tw/tags: dubcon, nipple play, corruption kink, size difference (not heavily mentioned though), business attire, afab reader, cute virgin reader.

"No."

Those words left you speechless; stiff in your spot as you looked into piercing, yellow, eyes. He said it in such a nonchalant manner, you don't think he even took a double take on your question. You spent so much effort to muster up the courage to ask your boss the question that you dread to be answered - but not in this way. He must have made a mistake.

"'No'...?" You echoed.

Dio leaned back in his seat, eye contact never faltering as he crossed his legs, burgundy colored dress pants ruffled at the movement. He tilted his head in a mocking manner as one well groomed eyebrow raised upwards.

"Oh dear. Perhaps my beloved secretary has gone deaf? I shall repeat myself once more: 'No' meaning, 'No, I will not offer you a raise.'"

Your fist clenched as you try to fight back the tears of humiliation and neglect. Why? Why did he refuse you? You worked so hard for him and you knew he knew that. So why won't he give you this raise? Leave it to Dio to crumble up your acts of valor and throw them into a fiery pit.

Trying to regain your composure, you speak up,

"But, sir, Why? I've done so much for you these past couple years; schedule your meetings, review your records and documents, compose orientations for newcomers. I even make sure to make your coffee each morning - a long black with two shots of expresso."

Your eyes were becoming wet. You were on brink of breaking down and crying right in front of your boss. You don't even think he was the slightest bit convinced by your retort. All he did was observe you with a wicked smirk plastered on his face. There was no change in his features but, reluctantly, you resume.

"Please, Mr.Brando. Please give me this raise. I-I'll try to do better for you! Just tell me what it is I need to do. Please, I'll do anything, Mr.Brando."

Dio stiffened. It was that keyword that gained his attention: 'anything'.

"'Anything', you say?" You nod and a flash of his white teeth glimmered from the building's colorless light on the ceiling. His chuckle was deep. "Think before spouting careless words such as that, my little mouse." The small squeak emerges from his office chair as he gets up, approaching your meek figure and you cower at his nearness. His fingers gently grasped your hair and you notice how well kept they were - manicured with a clear polish and decorated with gold rings. You didn't miss the Rolex watch wrapped around his wrist.

"Such pretty hair," He lightly plays with your mane before tightening his grip and hoisting your head up, forcing you to look directly at him. "You don't mind if I tug on it do you, love?" He adores the wince you let out, eyes scrunched close with pain.

"Ouch! Mr.Brando, Please stop-"

"Oh but you said you would do anything for me, remember? So I'm allowed to use you however I please. You want a raise, don't you?" Your face burns when his lips feather against the skin of your cheek. You heave out a low sigh at his deed. Dio deliberately consumes your reaction - savoring it like the smoothest red wine.

"Have you ever been fucked before, dear?" The amorous question made you whine. This was just too dirty. You shake your head for an answer.

"N-No, sir."

"Really? You've never been touched before? No one has ever pounded that filthy, little, pussy of yours? Tsk, tsk, tsk - What a shame. Looks like I have to change that." He lets go of your scalp but your head never moves, eyes still on his frame as you process his words.

"Wait, Mr.Brando, please. I've never- oh!" You were put to an abrupt stop when he picked you up from under your arms and legs before setting you down on his desk. It messy with scattered documents he found frivolous and purposeless, there were much more important matters at hand.

Tearing off your white dress shirt and bra in a blink of an eye, he gave your mounds a carnivorous stare, gulping at your nipples swell at his glance. He wasted no time kneading them. You let out a moan from his heated touch. It was foreign to you.

"What a lewd sound you made just now, Y/n. You like this, right? I barely even started." His fingers teased your stiff buds, pinching and pulling at them.

"Ngh- No, Mr.Brando..."

His touches were blunt and straightforward, they were rough as he assailed your fragile body. He was fervent to take it to the next step. He lifts your legs up to take off your pencil skirt.

He lets out a delighted sigh beyond seeing your choice of underwear. "Lacy panties? Was my little mouse expecting this? Getting all dressed up for your boss. You're such a nasty fucking girl."

"That's not true! I was in a rush to-"

"Excuses, excuses. That's all I hear from you. Shut up and take your panties off. I want to see how wet your cunt is." You obeyed under his stern tone - slowly stripping off your red-laced panties. You still had your legs closed, ashamed to show him your untouched flower but Dio pried them open by your knees. Your heady scent instantly fills his nose and he takes this time to observe your pussy, you were soaked - vagina pulsating, waiting for anything to be plunged inside, trimmed hairs placed on your pubic area, clit swollen with excitement. It was remarkable.

"Look at you, throbbing so greedily." He puts two thickset fingers in your sopping pussy without warning." An invevitable moan escaped your lips when he applied pressure to your g-spot.

"M-Mr.Brando - mmmm - that spot, you're hitting that-"

"Quiet, little mouse. As much as I love to hear you scream did you forget the setting we're in right now? I hate the idea of someone seeing this pretty pussy other than me." You pitch your voice down an octave - not too fond of the idea of being caught by your coworkers (especially by Jonathan).

His digits rapidly thrash inside you, bodily fluids flew everywhere. "You're making such a mess all over me. So sloppy. I have no doubt that this is what my little mouse wanted. Your grip is so firm around me." Your small hand cover your painted lips. You didn't want anyone to hear you but Dio was making it all too hard, he was hitting all of the right spots within you.

Pulling his fingers out, he unzips his flyer and sought out for his cock. His length was huge, you were unsure if you should even continue. His member intimidated you. Dio knew you were on edge, he softly coos at your expression.

"Aw, don't worry, sweetheart. You'll only feel a slight pinch." Aiming his shaft to your entrance, you recoil once he plummets inside of you, tip kissing your womb. What you felt was more than a pinch. it was easily comparable to being stabbed in your nether regions. Tears flowed from your eyes.

"Pull out! Please, it huuurts!" Your cries were ignored as Dio continued slamming into you like no tomorrow. He covered your mouth with his large hand, muffling your wails.

"Ah- You feel that? My cock jabbing at your womb?" His thrust slow down so you can feel every inch of him - veins feeling more prominent than before. "That's how deep I go inside of you. This tiny body of yours can't handle a cock like mine. Ha! And would you look at that, I can even see your stomach bulging from my dick. How filthy."

He traced his fingers along the bulge forming near your abdomen. He rams in you relentlessly. You gripped the sleeves of his business suit, wrinkling them while doing so. Dio was fired up by the calls of his name leaving your lips, making him go at a, almost inhuman, pace.

Vulgar slaps of skin filled the room and you were both close to coming. Dio's hot breaths reached your ear and his thrusts losses its initial tempo.

"You're a few inches away from getting that raise, sweetheart. Just let me fill you with my seed." He bites the crevice of your neck - his teeth were sharp.

"Mr.Brando-! I'm gonna come...Agh- Mr.Brando... D-Dio!" Said man met his high after his name was yelped - relieved to let himself go, his cum spurts deep in your walls. You came shortly after by the feeling of him filling you up. Both of you sigh.

He hoists himself up off of you to put his dick back in his pants and fix his attire. You grimace at the slimy fluids now sticking between your legs. Dio scoffed. "Consider yourself lucky, little mouse. You finally got that raise you so desparately wanted. What's wrong with a little cum in you, hm?"

A bit irritated, you get dressed as well, getting ready to leave his office. But before you can exit, he turns you around to face him, eyebrow lifted in question.

"Leaving now? Have you forgotten what to say?" You assume he wanted some form of gratitude from you for giving you a raise.

"Thank you, Di-

"Hmmm? Did I fuck you so dense you forgot who I am to you?" You blush at his smile.

"T-Thank you, Mr.Brando."

"Good girl. Run along now." He slaps your ass before you leave.

"Dio, why do you smell like sweat? The only thing you do is sign papers and present at meetings." Jonathan frowned at Dio's pungent scent. The man chortled at Jonathan's exasperation. If only he knew what happened behind closed doors.

"Don't worry about it, JoJo. A little boy like you wouldn't understand."

"We're the same age, Dio."

"Oh yeah. You're right. You have such the resemblance of a child that I must've forgotten." Dio teases. The both head to the parking lot of their company to call to it a night. Jonathan clenched his teeth.

"I do not! Just what in the hell were you doing in your office? Working out?"

Dio roared out a large laugh at the word akin to what you and him did earlier today.

"Yeah.. you can call it that."

this fic belongs to @dilftaroooo

#jjba smut #jjba x reader #jojo's bizarre adventure #dio x reader #jojo smut #dio brando #business au #anon request #tw: dubcon #tw: corruption #requests. [👘]

576 notes · View notes

ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

Misread Details, Part Two

CW: Described death of whumper, BBU, implications of pet whump, references to noncon, dehumanization, sadistic whumper

Part One: Nanda | Part Two: Brute | Part Three: Robert

The Unsolved Murder of Henry “Brute” Hanlon and the Box Boy Killer

r/LetsTalkTrueCrime

•Posted by u/oshaycanyousee

2 weeks ago

I’m back, r/LetsTalkTrueCrime! I really appreciated the questions and discussion under my last write-up, and a few of you really encouraged me to keep working to provide a part two to my Serial Killer Box Boy series, so here it is!

In Part One, we looked at the mysterious death of Nathaniel “Nanda” Benson, who died of cardiac arrest due to an undiagnosed heart defect (and likely head trauma played a part) and was found at the bottom of the stairs inside his California home. The only valuable possession missing from his property was his legally-purchased Box Boy, who fled the city wearing Nathaniel Benson’s shoes and using his money to buy a bus and then train ticket.

The last confirmed sighting of the runaway Box Boy (and Benson’s possible killer?) was in Red Hills, California, a large-ish city a couple hours south of Benson’s house by train.

Questions remain around Benson’s death: did he suffer cardiac arrest and fall down the stairs? Did the Box Boy push him, with the shock of the trauma and injury leading to the heart attack that killed him?

Is the Box Boy merely a witness to a tragic but natural death, or the prime murder suspect?

And most importantly: If he wasn’t guilty, why did he run?

Less than a full calendar year after Benson’s death, the question of where the Boxie went after Benson died was answered… but even that answer only opened up more questions, and the sudden death of a second man places even more uncertainty into the story of a Boxie who might simply be an innocent victim - or who could be a serial killer whose makes a victim out of those who give him shelter.

Which leads us to the story of Henry James Hanlon, known to nearly everyone - including his wife - as “Brute”.

Henry Hanlon was born in a small town in Texas, but moved to Red Hills, California after finishing a stint in the Air Force.

His parents, James Hanlon and Estella Hanlon, maiden name Brickers, had had their first child, Henry’s older brother William “Bill”, right out of high school, born six months after their wedding day. Henry came three years later, and his sister Roberta “Bobbie” one year after that.

Henry was a perfectly normal, cheerful little boy, always toddling after his older brother and trying to join in the games of the older kids in town. His parents recalled him as the quintessential “middle child”, always resolving disputes and quietly getting things done. He received his nickname of “Brute” in fifth grade, when a classroom bully was harassing a female friend of Henry’s and Henry decided to take action. The only information I could really hunt down on this was some old school records that I found on a message board, and I can’t really verify if they’re real, but they suggest that the bully was sent home injured and Henry received a three-day suspension.

After that, it seems, anyone and everyone - even teachers - called Henry Hanlon “Brute”, and he never seemed to mind.

He received perfectly average grades, enlisted in the Air Force, served without distinction but without any significant incidents, and afterwards he moved out to California, where he settled into Red Hills (then a city with a thriving industrial district that was slowly beginning its slide into something rougher) and took a job with a manufacturing company, working in their warehouse.

“Brute” dated around a bit, but it wasn’t until three years after his move that he met the woman he would marry, Ellen Patricia Barry. She was a few years younger than him, and they met at a local bar that both were known to frequent. One of Brute’s former coworkers told police that Brute was big into pool and poker, both of which he would engage in when he went to the bar, and that he met Ellen during one of the poker nights, and that Brute stated that how easily she beat him was one of the reasons he was interested in her romantically.

Ellen claims they first spoke while playing pool, not poker, and also claims she’s never played poker in her life. Why Brute would have told his coworkers a different story is unclear.

They dated for about a year before they wed at Grace Baptist Church on a sunny summer day in 20XX. Ellen’s father gave her away while Brute’s little sister was the maid of honor. A year later, Brute’s daughter Elizabeth was born, and a couple years after that, their son Daniel.

The Hanlons lived a charmed life - they owned a cute three-bedroom cottage home (bought and given to them by Ellen’s parents as a wedding gift) in a good part of town with a little white fence around the property and a yard big enough for the children and dog to play in. Ellen was part of the local PTA and active in her church, and Brute himself had the appearance of a man totally content with everything he had.

But Brute Hanlon had a secret.

Ellen continued to believe he was employed by the manufacturing company, but he actually left his employment there years before his death. Instead, he seems to have transitioned into making his money “under the table”. Ellen wouldn’t discover any of this until after his body was located… in a secret house he’d never told her about, in one of the roughest parts of Red Hills.

Without her knowledge, Brute purchased a two-bedroom home with cash directly from its previous owner that was badly in need of repair in the Pauls Mill neighborhood. Once a “company town” from the 1930’s - 1950’s that was absorbed into Red Hills as it grew in the 60’s, Pauls Mill today is the kind of neighborhood where everyone knows if you belong there, or don’t, and it’s best if you belong.

Brute performed a few very cursory repairs to keep it livable, laid down some new carpet, and then used it as a kind of secret base for the unsavory activities he didn’t want Ellen or the children to know about.

While his family believed he was at work at the factory, Hanlon was in fact hosting poker games, selling illicit narcotics and unlicensed firearms, and generally making quite a bit more money than he had with legal employment entirely under-the-table. He would spend his day making connections (and money) through these activities, then go home right at 5 pm sharp to his loving family, eat dinner at 6 pm, help his kids with their homework and hear about their day, and settle in for an evening playing the loving husband and doting dad.

Somewhere during this time period, Brute told Ellen he was setting up a “poker night” with his friends again, now that the kids were school-aged.

What he did instead was drive down to the corner of Holt and McCormick streets, known to all locals as the Red Hills “red light district”, and pick up prostitutes, usually simply meeting with them in his car, but occasionally taking them to a nearby motel.

After his body was found, police showed his picture around to a variety of the individuals who make their living at Holt and McCormick, and more than a dozen locals immediately recognized him.

Some described him as a regular customer who wasn’t particularly special or notable beyond the simple fact that he never tried to renege on payment and could be relied on to always be looking for someone on a particular night of the week… but others, almost entirely male, said he could be violent. A few described being injured enough that they had to seek medical treatment after meeting him. The same individuals stated that he insisted on using dehumanizing and insulting language to speak to them during these encounters, and that he was often unable to perform unless he did so.

One individual, who gave his name as “Mix”, mentioned that the last few times Brute had engaged his services, he had brought along a collar and insisted Mix pretend to be a Box Boy.

During this time period, Brute continued to be an active, involved, and loving parent.

He was home right on time every night except “poker night”, attended his chlidrens’ recitals and baseball games on the weekends. He often took them to the Red Hills Zoo, local parks, and even did a weekend trip to Berras to see the Berras Aquarium, stay overnight in a hotel as a family, and then visit a redwoods park before returning home.

Six months before his death, Brute’s visits to the red light district abruptly stopped. Instead, he apparently met with a local prostitute, engaged his services, and took him home… for good.

The best record we have is that one woman, Needie Brandt, remembered seeing Brute leading a shorter, angular young man to his car one night, and described the young man as “one of those runaway Boxies, collar and all. Poor thing was half-starved”.

Runaways, especially Romantics, are picked up by police from time to time in Red Hills. Most Romantics don’t really know any other way to survive, so prostitution is a common way to make ends meet. Needie said the young man had been seen around the area for a couple of weeks, right alongside the rest of the working people in the red light district, and that after this one night she saw Brute Hanlon lead him into the car, she didn’t see him again.

Asked if she remembered a name, Needie only shrugged and said that even if she did, it wouldn’t be a real one. Which is probably a good point.

Somewhere in here, Brute began to date outside of his marriage while his family believed he was out with friends playing poker. He took dancing lessons with one Susan Krieger, had a serious relationship with a Lucy Graham, and was apparently occasionally taking a Natalie Dorn out for dinner.

Ellen was never informed about these out-of-wedlock interests.

Brute’s family knew nothing. When his eldest son went to state with marching band his freshman year of high school, Brute Hanlon was right there cheering him on.

Then, just two days later, he presumably went right back to brutalizing the Box Boy he was keeping in his secret second home.

We don’t have a record of what exactly transpired within the house after Brute took the runaway Box Boy in. What we do know is what the police found later on.

On October 18th, 20XX, around midnight, Ellen Hanlon called police to report her husband missing after he did not return from his regular poker night. His car was located in the parking lot of an abandoned FoodMart, but a friend of Brute’s came forward to say he often parked there and carpooled with friends when going out.

None of Brute’s possessions were inside, and it didn’t appear the car had been touched by anyone but Brute himself when it was dusted for fingerprints or signs of DNA. Brute’s friends who knew about his secret activities weren’t telling, and Ellen and the children didn’t know anything about their seemingly loving husband and father’s double-life.

At first, the trail seemed like it would go cold, and investigators were frustrated that they had so little to go on.

Then, on October 29th, 20XX, Brute’s neighbor (who apparently asked that his name not be given) called the police department complaining about how the small two-bedroom house next door had begun to smell “like something died in there”, and that he hadn’t seen his neighbor leave or return in days, which was very unusual.

When police arrived, the front door was unlocked. Officer William Keys, the first one inside, later described the smell as “unmistakable. I knew exactly what we’d find the second we walked in that door.”

He was right.

What they found was the bloodied and decomposing body of Henry “Brute” Hanlon, lying on his back in the middle of a small unremarkable living room, on a dirty and stained carpet. He had been viciously stabbed more than fifty times. One even went so far into Brute that there was an exit wound through his back. Medical examiners would later state that at least seven of his wounds would have been directly fatal, but that he had died within the first few and most of the wounds were technically post-mortem.

The murder had been committed by someone who had a very personal reason for the killing. Investigators believe this individual was “absolutely enraged”.

Next to his body was the murder weapon, along with a set of buckles and strips of leather that mystified the officers. These were eventually identified as modified leg braces, but rather than straightening bent or injured legs, they forced the wearer to keep their legs at nearly right angles, which would ensure they had to crawl rather than walk. They appeared to be homemade.

Bloodied smears and footprints led the officers down a hallway and to the bathroom, where there was evidence someone had showered, changed clothes, and then left.

The same neighbor who informed police about the smell also remembered seeing, on October 16th or 17th (later determined that it was likely the 17th, the day that Brute did not return home from “work”), a young man wearing an oversized coat, sweatpants, and a too-large t-shirt walk out of Hanlon’s house and down the street. The young man was on the short side, the neighbor said, had an angular face, and a visible scar at the corner of his mouth and another along the side of his face. He had the collar of the coat flipped up, and the neighbor doesn’t recall if he wore a collar or not.

He had dark eyes, and short but shaggy dark hair that seemed to have been cut hurriedly and unevenly, and he waved at Hanlon’s neighbor without pausing or speaking as he walked past.

Tests on fingerprints and DNA located within Brute Hanlon’s secret second home would reveal that the Box Boy who once ran from Nathaniel Benson after his death was the exact same one who ran from Brute Hanlon after murdering him. The Boxie’s fingerprints were all over the murder weapon… and everywhere else, too.

Within Brute’s home, more knives were found, along with what looked like a badly-crafted homemade whip and some other supplies. A few of the things investigators found appeared to be essentially identical to what was found in Nathaniel Benson’s home. Other things were different (“animalization” was mentioned in some of the reports, but what I’ve been able to find is seriously vague for some reason).

Possibly related, a series of dog leashes purchased from a local pet-supply store were found throughout the home, but there was no evidence of an actual dog. In the home’s main bedroom was a perfectly normal queen-sized bed that was clearly Brute’s, with a small side table, a large dresser, and an attached bathroom.

There was absolutely nothing outwardly out of the ordinary, besides the room being very plain and impersonal. Makes sense, since Brute almost never slept there.

In the second bedroom, however, there was army-style cot with a thin blanket and sheet, three folded shirts on the floor, two sets of bloody metal handcuffs hanging off the cot’s frame at the top and bottom, and a bucket next to the bed. Two metal bowls, clearly of a style meant to be a dog’s food and water bowls, were next to the door. One still had water in it. The window was painted and nailed shut, and bars had been installed over the windows.

Investigators determined the bars were on the house when Brute Hanlon purchased it and had been installed by the previous owner. No reason for that installation was ever given.

Investigation revealed trace amounts of evidence of blood, but nothing much. However, the living room and dining area both showed poorly-cleaned bloodstains that were much older than Hanlon’s murder, including discolored patches on the walls.

A contract for a 24/7 “master/slave” style relationship was found in the top drawer of the dresser, signed ‘Pet’ at the bottom, and with Brute’s name alongside it. However, both signatures match Hanlon’s handwriting, and the Boxie is not believed to have actively signed it, as he would be illiterate at best. Plus, Box Boys are not legally allowed to enter into any contract, anyway, since they can’t understand obligations at that level, so even if he had signed it, it wouldn’t have been considered remotely valid.

I mean, not that those contracts are legal, but... you get my point.

Also located in that drawer were more than one hundred photographs showing the Boxie in a variety of compromising situations and positions. Several of these photos had Brute himself clearly visible in them, and a few had other individuals who have since been identified as Brute’s associates in his more illicit activities.

Interrogations of those associates led to more than seven further arrests for illegal gambling, the production and sale of illicit drugs, and illegal weapons sales. Those interrogations are also how we know about what Brute Hanlon was up to in-between Little League games and Girl Scout meetings.

Those associates claim that Brute kept a “secondhand Box Boy”, muzzled him so he couldn’t speak whenever guests were over, and that often ‘poker night’ simply turned into a game where the assorted guests and Brute himself repeatedly assaulted the Boxie. The associates claimed they thought the entire thing was consensual, but frankly… given the overwhelming evidence that the Boxie had to be kept restrained and was often seriously injured by these assaults... that’s doubtful.

Ellen and her children, who had previously been very visible and spoke often to local news stations about Henry’s disappearance, withdrew after his body was found and his second, secret life revealed - and have never given a single public statement or made a public appearance since.

Ellen moved her children out of Red Hills, moving back in with her own parents, briefly, in northern California. Where they went after that is unknown, but they appear to have left the state and Ellen may have changed her surname. Investigators are firm in their belief that Ellen knew nothing about her husband’s secret life.

I would give my right arm to know what his son and daughter think about it, and if they ever suspected what their devoted dad was up to when he wasn’t at home.

So, what happened to the Boxie after he left the house and disappeared down the block from the witness who saw him?

In short… no one knows for sure.

After murdering Brute Hanlon and cleaning off the evidence that must have been all over him, the Boxie simply fades away. He could have been anywhere, doing anything at all. There is a brief sighting of him on CCTV footage at the local bus station, where he is in line to buy a ticket… and then abruptly looks up, apparently noticing the camera and looking directly into it, then turns and walks quickly away.

The footage is grainy, but the Boxie does appear to be wearing his collar.

He isn’t seen in Red Hills again.

Instead, he reappears one more time before his final murder and disappearance… more than a year later, in a little town right along the border with Nevada.

Part 3 will go into how the investigation into the death of a quiet little oddball named Robert Weber reveals a basement full of skeletal bodies. But our Boxie isn’t the cause.

Instead, Robert Weber’s murder solves a series of related murders police had been stymied by for more than a decade, and a Box Boy who may have been meant to be Weber’s next victim instead turned accidental vigilante with a final killing of his own.

Or maybe I should say, his final killing so far.

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary

87 notes · View notes

deewithani · 3 years

Text

A clone’s first day at Coruscant prison

Clone Trooper Toast Series Volume 1

Pairing: Clone Trooper Toast x GN!Reader

Word count: 2,336

T/W: Hazing

Rating: G

A/N: I couldn’t help but go serious with this. It was started out as a drabble, but quickly gained its own life and I couldn’t stop. Toast clone is love. Toast clone is life. Toast clone deserves happiness too. I might write another couple of fics to give him some. This is my first fic ever, no beta. If we die, we die.

Tags: @royalhandmaidens as requested.

If you sat Toast down and asked him what his favorite food in the galaxy was, he would tell you it was toast. It was true, and his love for toast begat the name that he was given. He didn’t know exactly what it was about toast that made it his favorite food. It tasted good, sure, much better than the rations that were more commonly served to clones no longer in training (or so he had heard, he was fresh out of training himself), and definitely better than what they served to cadets to ensure their nutritional needs were met, but not exceeded, at the bare minimum of cost. You could put different toppings and spreads on it, giving you a new breakfast every day if you wanted. And it was cheap, so the Republic had no issue serving it to Clones as an “option”, sitting in the breakfast lineup on a tray, next to a small basket filled with small packets of butter and jogan fruit jam. He came to the mess at the same time every day, just so he could have some toast, because breakfast was his favorite part of every day. No, he wasn’t sure what it was about toast itself that made him like it best, but he knew it was his favorite food the first time he had breakfast at the Republic Judiciary Central Detention Center.

You thought back to the first time you ever met Toast, the very first day he came to the prison, and the first time you ever saw “First Breakfast”. He arrived early that morning directly from Kamino with many of his other brothers, fresh faced and ready to make a difference in the war. To do a good job. To be a good soldier. To be a good brother. He had high hopes for this posting, and high expectations for himself, and he was prepared to do his duty to serve the Republic and its people. You thought back to that day with happiness. It was the day you met the most wonderful person in the galaxy.

On that very first day on duty he was cornered by a small group of more experienced troopers who were tasked with showing him around and getting him acquainted with his job and the brothers he would be working with. One of the most well known first day rituals the the boys participated in was known as the “First Breakfast”. It was a time where the more experienced clones would welcome their new brothers, in their own special way. The First Breakfast was a tradition, and every clone that worked at the prison had participated in it. Toast’s participation in the First Breakfast was required before he set foot on the floor, whether he knew it or not.

“C’mon vod” the leader of the group, Ether, had said. “Let’s head to the mess to grab some grub before shift change.” Toast spent the short walk answering questions, “How are the cadets on Kamino doing?”, “What do you think of Coruscant?”, “Do you know any girls?”, “Did you chose a name yet?”. He didn’t really know how to answer those questions, he never really thought about his own feelings about his life, but he answered them as best he could. The cadets were doing as well as any other clone had done on Kamino. Coruscant was different than Kamino, but he had never been any other place to make a fair comparison. Of course he didn’t know any girls, there were none aside from the Kaminoans and the Jedi Shaak Ti at the training center. And no, he didn’t have a name, he just didn’t stand out from his brothers enough to warrant a name, either from his vod or from his own heart.

When they finally reached the mess, Ether put an arm around Toast and gave him a rough side hug. “Alright vod. This is the staff mess. There’s mostly clones here, but there is some natborn staff, so don’t be surprised if you see a face that doesn’t look like your own in the mess every now and then. Now, the menu changes, and you know as well as the rest of us that some food just isn’t edible, so let me guide you through what’s good, and what’s not.” As he walked down the line he pointed out exotic dishes, to Toast’s palette anyway.

You sat alone in the corner of the mess, reading the day’s news on your holopad, unaware of the shiny new trooper that Ether’s crew just brought through the door. Ether lifted his voice, pulling your attention to the group, where he had his arm around the shoulders of the timid looking clone. You had heard that Ether liked to put new troopers under his wing, at least long enough to play a mean spirited prank on them, but the clones had always been tight lipped, and you had never seen or heard any solid proof it. Until today. Today, it looked like you might get a glimpse inside the world of a new clone at the Coruscant prison.

You watched as Ether pointed out various foods to the new trooper, shaking his head yes and no at various times, presumably to indicate which choices were better than others. It should seem obvious which were best; some dishes were barely touched, while others were attacked as if they were set out for a pack of loth-wolves. It didn’t take a scientist to know that clones had a liking for the spicy pepper hash that was a staple in the mess, and tended to stay away from the blue hued yogurt. You suspected that Ether was telling him the same.

First Breakfast always –always – included the spicy pepper hash. Every new trooper had to try it, even though all the others knew it was spicier than the lava of Mustafar. Ether knew First Breakfast was a mean prank. New clone trooper, fresh from Kamino? He’s never had anything spicier than some salt and pepper added to the “grey fluff” they called food on Kamino. The long necks probably didn’t even know what a pepper was, if he was being honest with himself. But he had seen more than one new shiny come through those prison doors and fall in love with the spicy pepper hash. They just needed to jump in feet first. Try it, burn up your taste buds, have a good laugh with your brothers, and tada, you’re part of the group! Every single clone here went through it, and it was obvious that almost all of them had a taste for the peppers. Besides, even if he didn’t like it, it was a bonding experience, and there were other things he could eat after today. He wouldn’t be the only clone that would pass on the hash after the First Breakfast, and no one held it against any of the others.

You watched as Ether filled the young clone’s plate with spicy pepper hash, telling him it was the most popular dish at the prison. He didn’t lie, exactly. It was. Loved by both clone troopers and prisoners, the hash was easily mass produced, cheap, and came frozen, allowing it to be safely stored for long periods. It was perfect for the prison, and the workers and inhabitants it contained. He just left out the ‘it’s so spicy it will make you cry’ part. The new trooper didn’t even know what spicy was, let alone that it caused physical pain, but Ether and the other clones did, and you did too. Unfortunately for the young shiny, you didn’t know that he never eaten anything spicy before. The clone troopers seemed to love it, so why would you think the new guy would be any different.

Ether and his buddies led Toast to a table, in his hands his full plate and a small glass of water. The others had also chosen the spicy pepper hash, but had chosen to drink blue milk instead. “Kriff”, you thought to yourself, “that hash is really spicy. The other troopers are drinking blue milk, but he’s only got a glass of water. He doesn’t know what he’s in for”. You made the decision right then, if this is what Ether has in mind for his “prank”, you’ll have a glass of blue milk ready for what you felt was inevitable. If you were wrong, well, you would just have a glass of blue milk to drink for yourself. No harm, no foul, you could play it off as being thirsty and not bother the clones as they went about their business, but you wanted to be ready in any case. You didn’t like a bully, in any case, and if you had to take the new trooper the milk you could just play it off as just getting to know your new coworker, even if you didn’t work in the same area as he did.

You watched as the troopers started chowing down on their breakfasts, some eating slowly and savoring their meal, others shoveling it in as fast as they could. The new trooper dug in as well, but you noticed his face started turning red almost as soon as the hash hit is tongue. Most of the others with him had already started sipping on their milk, but the new clone was guzzling down his water before he ha d finished his first bite, coughing and trying to catch his breath as the strange food burned his mouth. You decided then that the prank had gone too far, and you got up to take the milk to the beleaguered clone.

“Here”, you told him. “Drink this. It will help take the spiciness away.” Toast, brow covered in sweat, eagerly took the milk from your hand and downed it in record time. “I’ll get you some more if you’d like.”, you said, and he vigorously nodded affirmingly. While you headed back to refill his milk, his brothers all gathered around him, patting him on the back jovially and welcoming him to the crew. On your way back to the table you noticed the small smile on his face, presumably for sufficiently passing the “test” and becoming one of the group. You still didn’t like Ether’s prank, but it did warm your heart to see the new trooper take it in stride, and his brothers gathering around to celebrate his official first day guarding the worst of the worst the galaxy had to offer.

While you were getting him a refill of milk you had an idea. Just because he had a bad experience with the spicy pepper hash didn’t mean that he couldn’t still have some breakfast. The problem was knowing what he liked. You had absolutely no idea. So you decided on the safe bet: toast. You grabbed a plate, a butter knife, and a fork, a couple of pieces of toast, and one pack each of butter and jogan fruit jam. Returning to the table you sat down at the seat opposite of Toast, placing the glass of milk and the plate in front of him, silently smacking yourself in the head when you noticed you added an unnecessary fork to the mix. Thoughts of how he would think you were an absolute idiot ran through your mind, but he looked up at you and smiled, graciously accepting the milk and toast.

He looked at the plate quizzically, before asking “What is this?” You were sure that he wouldn’t trust anything anyone else brought him after the fiery start to his first day, but he listened intently as you explained the different items you had placed on the plate. You told him the toast was an easy to eat food, not spicy and well tolerated by most people, and the butter and jam were used as spreads for the top. You thought he may like it more than the hash, so you brought it to him to try.

He seemed to accept your explanation, and after showing him how to add the butter and jam to toast you watched him take a bite. He chewed for a moment before his eyes went wide and a big smile split his face. Swallowing, he took a sip of milk, then looked back to you and exclaimed that it was the best thing that he had ever eaten in his life. At least, it was the best thing he had eaten up to that point.

“Well then, toast-boy, I’m glad there’s food here that you can enjoy. It’s my favorite food in the mess, I don’t really trust anything else, honestly.” You sat together at the table for a few minutes, asking each other questions and learning about your new friend. As the clock moved closer to the official start of your own day, you moved to wrap up your conversation, and you steered in the direction of your names. After you had officially introduced yourself, he looked at you sadly. He had never had a problem with not having a name before, but now he had to give you his designation, which felt inadequate, but he gave you what he had and explained that he hadn’t chosen a name for himself, and no one had given him a name either.

He didn’t have a name? How odd. Although you rarely worked with the clones directly every one you met had a name of some sort. Was it normal not to have a name? You didn’t know, but kind eyed clone gave you as much as he had. He was nice, and was good conversation, so you hoped that you would see him again.

“Listen, next time I see you, how about I call you Toast instead of those numbers? It would be easier for me to remember”.

“Yeah, I’d like that. ‘Toast’. Thanks for the name!”

You saw him in the mess every morning for breakfast from that day on.

#toast clone x reader #clone trooper toast #toast clone is best clone #our precious toast #what did i just write #i have no idea #it had a mind of its own #star wars fanfiction #star wars #the clone wars #gonna give toast some happiness if it kills me #toast clone

61 notes · View notes

blushingreid · 4 years

Text

Eye Love You

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

A/N: shout out to @pumpkin-goob for this request💛 I absolutely love it bc I’m blind af, so it’s a vibe. S2 Spence always has a special place in my heart. Pls enjoy & slide me feedback <3

Note: I use the technical term for the equipment: phoropter (in case you’re privileged with 20/20 vision or you’re like me & just called it the eye machine your whole life).

“You know, three out of every four adults require glasses or contacts. Of the 75 percent of adults that need vision correction, 64 percent of them wear eyeglasses, while 11 percent wear contac-,” Spencer’s ramble cut short as he clumsily bumped into a display entering the eye doctors.

“Easy there Pretty Boy. Can’t have you wrecking your good looks,” Morgan teased, steering him towards the receptionist’s desk.

“Hi, what brings you in today?” the man at the desk asked, not even bothering to look up.

“Um I have an appointment for new glasses for Spencer Reid.”

The receptionist gave Spencer a nod before tapping away on the computer. After a couple minutes of awkward silence, he finally looked up at them. “So from our records it appears that you need to have your eyes examined for any changes in your prescription before we can get you new glasses. Just have a seat in the waiting room and the optometrist should be out soon.”

Spencer sighed as he and Morgan headed towards the waiting room. He just wanted to be able to see clearly and it wasn’t even his fault.

His glasses had gotten knocked off his face and crushed during one of the BAU’s recent cases. Spencer had been chasing after an unsub when out of nowhere, the unsub’s partner struck Spencer. Next thing he knew, he was basically blind.

Hotch had given Spencer the next couple days off until he got new glasses, since he wasn’t much help blindly stumbling around the bullpen. Morgan had volunteered to be Spencer’s “guide dog” until he regained his vision.

“Spencer Reid?” The optometrist called out.

Spencer looked up at the blurry figure and shyly waved his hand.

“Hi, I’m Doctor y/n y/l/n and I’ll be doing your examination. If you could follow me and we’ll get you checked out.”

“She’s very cute,” Morgan whispered in Spencer’s ear.

“Since all I see is her silhouette, I’ll take your word for it,” Spencer whispered back before getting up and following her. Morgan chuckled as he watched Spencer try his best not to bump into anything.

Once he made it safely into the examination room and onto the chair, Spencer turned towards y/n. He involuntarily squinted his eyes, hoping it would temporarily clear his vision long enough so he could assess her. Unfortunately, it didn’t do much.

“I see you’re here for new glasses. Any particular reason why?” Y/n asked as she cleaned and set up the phoropter.

Spencer felt embarrassed all over again, remembering why he needed new glasses. “Yeah uh they got ruined in a work incident,” he nervously laughed off.

“Well your job must be very interesting and hectic,” y/n replied before pushing the phoropter towards Spencer. “Please place your chin up on this bar, and lean forward until your forehead rests on the cushion. I’ve added your latest prescription, so we can see if there are any changes.”

Spencer placed his chin onto the cool surface, leaning forward so his forehead touched the cushion letting him see into the phoropter. He heard a small click before the darkness he saw in the machine was filled with light, and a clear view of the television on the room’s wall with rows of letters in various sizes displayed.

“Great! Can you see clearly now?” Y/n asked, wheeling her chair directly in front of Spencer and the phoropter.

Oh he could definitely see clearly and he certainly liked what he saw, given the heat that immediately coursed through his body once y/n came into his line of sight. It was most certainly love at first eyesight. Y/n was breathtakingly beautiful. Spencer had never seen anyone more perfect than her. He mentally appreciated the dimly lit examination room.

“Yes, uh things are much clearer now,” Spencer quickly said, realizing he had completely zoned out. Spencer was relieved and filled with glee that he would be able to admire y/n without her realizing it, through the phoropter.

“Perfect! I’m sure you know the drill with this thing, but I’ll explain it anyways. So I’m gonna block out your left eye first and each round, I’ll switch between two different lenses and each time you’ll tell me which one is clearer. Then, we’ll repeat the process with your other eye after,” y/n explained before flipping and turning the many parts of the machine to block out Spencer’s left eye.

A tiny hint of sadness hit Spencer when he realized he’d only get to admire her one eye at a time.

“Okay one or two?” Y/n asked as she flipped between the two lense options.

Spencer immediately saw that option two was clearer, but he didn’t want his time with y/n to be over too soon. “Um could you do that again, a couple more times?”

“Yes, no worries. Sometimes these are very close, so just let me know if you need more time or repeats.”

And so he did. What should’ve been a quick 10 minute examination became a 40 minute one. Not that y/n minded, she found Spencer very attractive and his presence quite comforting. Normally, she would’ve told a patient that they could say if they thought both were similar, and they’d immediately move on. However, she didn’t mind spending more time with Spencer. She just assumed he was an indecisive person. After the exam, she discovered that his prescription barely changed from his last one.

“We’re putting a rush on your glasses, since they were your only pair and you still want the same frames. You’ll receive a call letting you know in the next couple days when they’re ready,” y/n said as she lead Spencer out of the room back to the main lobby.

“Pretty boy! What took you so long? You said this would only take at most twenty minutes. I’m starving,” Morgan whined before extending his hand to y/n. “Hi there, I’m Derek Morgan, Spencer’s coworker, best friend, and current guide for his blind ass.”

“It was a pleasure to meet both of you, and good luck with your new glasses,” y/n said after shaking Morgan’s hand and giving them, mostly directed at Spencer, a kind smile.

As she turned to walk away, Morgan nudged Spencer. “Um hello, are you really going to let her get away without asking her out? There’s a chance you might not cross paths for a long time.”

“I can’t. I’m not good at that type of stuff like you are,” Spencer sighed, turning to look at y/n one last time. He wanted to remember every detail about her before he leaves.

“How about you just be yourself and ask her out,” Morgan advised. He was not going to let Spencer walk away from this woman. “Hey Doctor y/n!” Morgan yelled, before shoving Spencer towards her. “Spencer here has a question about his uh retinas that he forgot to ask.”

Y/n turned towards her name being called and was met with Spencer stumbling into her arms. As she helped steady him, she felt a blush rise to her face at the sudden close proximity they were in.

“Uh sorry about that,” Spencer apologizes as he steps back. “Ignore what he said. I uh actually came over because um I think you’re very b-beautiful and you i-intrigue me. A-Anyways, I was wondering if you would maybe um like t-to go out to dinner uh sometime. I completely understand if you don’t want to though.”

Y/n smiled at Spencer’s adorable nervousness as he asked her out. She’d been waiting all appointment long for him to ask her. After waiting a couple seconds, pretending to contemplate his invite, y/n slid her card in Spencer’s hand before leaning up to his ear.

“Call me once you can see again.”

372 notes · View notes

ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa · 4 years

Text

With Cherries On Top

Chapter 2: The Proposal & The Deal

Summary/Author's Notes: Oh.my.god. the response from part one was fucking WILD. I love you guys so so so much! As always, dedicated to @rae-gar-targaryen. She’s had a bad week, yall, go show her some love. <3 ITS WHAT MAX WOULD DO.

Max explains himself and gets down on one knee to ask the big question. Your trust is tested as he tries to pull a fast one, but he makes you an offer you cannot refuse.

Pairing: Max Phillips x Reader (The Proposal AU) Word Count: 3.3k Warnings: Language, flirting, SEXUAL TENSION, Max Phillips is a bastard man, vampire themes

Chapters [1] [MASTERLIST]

Max finally caught up with you and convinced you to go with him to the immigration office. The entire cab ride across town you were seething. Neither of you spoke, and when the cab parked in front of the Federal Plaza building you got out. Glad to leave him to pay for the cab and top it off with slamming the car door in his face. You heard him growl his frustration but didn’t stop as you stormed into the building and he had to jog to keep up.

"Will you slow down?" He snarled and you ignored him.

How could he be this egregiously shameful? You knew Max was cunning. That he would do anything to make the sale, to close a deal, but this--this was a whole other level, even for him.

In hushed tones, in his office, as you threw your items in your purse, he had explained that he was being deported. That the government had caught him in a technicality of his after-life status versus his human one, and although you agreed it seemed to be a petty place to draw the line, his way of kicking you into the fire with him made you not want to help. Did he deserve to be sent back to Romania? Probably not. But forcing you into marriage? Or an even better term for it would be forcing you into fraud. The two of you were breaking the law and he didn’t even have the balls to ask you first.

The immigration office was jammed packed with multiple lines of people waiting for a free attendant and dozens of others waiting in chairs, looking over reading material and playing on their phones. This was going to take forever. Apparently, Max had other plans, as he grabbed your hand and pulled you both to the front of the line. No one stopped him, no one questioned him as you tried to make your face as apologetic as possible to the people already in line that were giving you dirty looks. He asked for the fiancee visa application and the next thing you knew the two of you were being led into a cramped office in the back and looking over the desk at a very stoic, older, government worker.

“Sorry about the wait, folks,” the older man said as he pulled out a file folder filled with papers. “Busy day.”

“Of course, of course,” Max nodded, crossing his ankle over his knee and giving the man his best smile. “We appreciate you meeting with us on such short notice.”

The older man looked Max up and down slowly and smirked--whatever Max was selling, he wasn’t buying and the realization made you want to lean over the chair and vomit on the floor. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Okay, so, I only have one question for you,” he continued to smirk as he closed your file and steepled his fingers in front of him. “Are you both committing fraud, in order to keep Mr. Phillips here from being deported back to Romania and losing his position as CFO at his company?”

“What!”

“Ridiculous!”

Max and you both scoffed at the same time and shook your heads as you waved your hands in front of you and he rolled his eyes, giving a good-hearted laugh.

“Mr.--” Max looked at the nameplate on the desk as he leaned forward and addressed the man. “Yates. That is an absurd assumption. We are just a couple that want to get married and I assure you, our case will be the easiest one you have all day. So, just tell us what we need to sign and we can get out of your hair.”

You wished more than anything you had the courage to grip Max’s leg and beg him to shut up. His normal bullshit was not going to get either of you any favors with this man and if he didn’t tread carefully, you both were about to be in a world of trouble. You knew you wouldn't last in jail, but Max really wouldn't last in jail. That mouth that never seemed to stop talking would get him stabbed...wait, maybe jail was a good idea after all.

"What makes you think we're lying, Mr. Yates?" You asked, crossing your ankles and moving your legs to the side comfortably.

"A tip that came in this afternoon from a concerned citizen--"

"His name wouldn't happen to be Evan, would it?" Max asked.

"As a matter of fact, it is."

"I knew it. He is nothing more than a very disgruntled employee who is out to get me." Max shook his head and waved it away as if that discredited the tip. "I fired him this morning."

The other man scribbled down a couple of notes and went back to pressing his fingertips together and leaning his elbows on the desk. He heaved a large sigh and suddenly looked very tired.

“Here’s what’s going to happen next, you two. I am going to schedule you an interview for next week. I am going to put you both in separate rooms. I am going to ask you a series of questions that real couples would know all of the answers to.” He said the term ‘real’ in a pointed way and looked directly at you, making your stomach fall to your feet. “And that’s the easy part--”

“Okay, seems fair.” Max started, but Mr. Yates ignored him.

“Then I am going to dig deeper. I’m going to check your phone records, your emails, talk to your friends and family--your coworkers. If anything, and I mean anything, seems out of order or does not match your story, you,” he pointed to Max. “Will be deported to Romania indefinitely. And you, young lady,” he turned and pointed to you. “Will be fined two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars with a minimum five year sentence in federal prison.”

You swallowed so hard it hurt as you felt your vision narrow, your body threatening you with the idea of passing out. You felt like you were sitting inside a vacuum, like a larger entity had sucked all of the air out of the already too small office space.

Prison. It wasn’t enough that you had been at his beck and call for the last five years. If this all went sideways, Max Phillips, in a last act of extreme selfishness was going to get you sent to prison.

“So, that being said, Ms. (y/l/n),” he smiled and crossed his arms as he addressed you. “Do you want to talk to me? Tell me what’s really going on here.”

“What’s really going on--” you started, your heart hammering in your ears so loudly that you were sure Mr. Yates could hear it.

You looked at Max and thoughtp about how you wanted to do this. Could you really throw him under the bus and let them ship him away from his home? Could you match his heartlessness and protect yourself above all else? No. Despite how much he deserved it, that wasn’t how you operated. He had insisted on dragging you into this mess and now it seemed, at least for the time being, you were going to have to play along. He looked at you with those soft, coffee colored eyes, so full of anticipation that you almost groaned. Instead you reached over the arm of his chair and patted his leg.

“What’s really going on is that Max and I are getting married,” you squeezed his knee and saw him give a full body sigh of relief out of the corner of your eye. “We just couldn’t tell anyone.”

“And why not?”

“Because he’s a vampire,” you shrugged. “And we were worried how my family would take it.”

“I see,” Mr. Yates leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms waiting for you to continue.

“And--” you, glanced at Max and back. “Because of the promotion.”

“Promotion?”

Both Max and the older man said at the same time and you steeled your resolve and continued.

“Yes, I am in line for a big promotion, and both of us felt if our relationship went public before that it would look unprofessional. Right, honey?” You looked at Max and although you were smiling, your eyes dared him to say otherwise.

“That’s...right, dear.” He nodded, putting his hand over yours on his knee.

Mr. Yates looked at the both of you for what felt like a very long time. You kept your smile even for so long, your cheeks started to ache. The hand you had on Max’s thigh offered a small amount of comfort and you allowed it to ground you, to center your mind as you did your best to look like the definition of truthfulness.

“Well,” he sighed and opened up a filing cabinet and pulled a very large binder full of papers for the two of you. “If that’s the story you’re sticking to. Here are the questions you could be asked, there are about three hundred of them--along with all of the forms that need to be filled out, references we will need, and copies of your identifications. As well as,” he paused and looked pointedly at the both of you. “The marriage certificate.”

“Thank you,” you said quietly as you leaned forward and took the binder from him.

“Have either one of you told your families about this, happy little arrangement?” he asked as he gestured between the two of you.

Max laughed and shook his head. “No, my parents are dead. Only child, too. It’s a real shame.”

Mr. Yates, chuckled dryly, not understanding how such information could be considered funny. “And what about you, Ms. (L/n)? Are all of your relatives dead as well?”

“Mine?” you put a hand to your chest. “No, no, they are alive--”

“We were actually going to tell them the news this weekend,” Max chimed in and you looked at him in surprise. “It’s grandma’s 85th birthday--we thought it would be a nice surprise.”

You stared at him like he had grown a second head. How did he know about your grandmother’s birthday? The idea that Max paid more attention to you than you thought was sitting uneasily in your stomach, but you continued to smile and nodded in agreement.

“We’re flying up to, (y/n)’s parents house.” Max took the binder as you handed it to him.

“And where is that?”

“Alaska.” You said simply, crossing your legs and adjusting the hem of your pencil skirt, reveling in the way Max’s entire face fell.

“Ah-ah-las-kah?" Max stuttered and glared at you. "Alaska." He cleared his throat and repeated.

You returned his intense look of malice with an overly satisfied smile. It felt good to ruffle those feathers, to catch him off guard and see him out of his element.

“Well, I wish you both a safe trip,” Mr. Yates stood up to show you the door and the both of you mirrored him. “I’ll call to schedule your visa interview after what I’m sure will be a lovely week.”

Leaving the federal office felt like you were walking in slow motion. You vaguely heard Max put his bluetooth on his ear and take a call, letting his boisterous voice echo in the too loud, too crowded lobby. Going out onto the street and feeling the cool air on your skin didn’t make breathing any easier as you thought about what just happened. In your trance you almost dropped the heavy glass door on Max’s face.

He hung up the call and started talking like everything was just a normal day back at the office, like the two of you hadn’t just been threatened with the American government absolutely ruining your lives.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he said as he put his sunglasses on to protect him against the already very overcast autumn sky. “What’s going to happen is we are going to run up to your parent’s place, act like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend--we can stay in a hotel and that will make it easier to fake. Make sure you use the miles for the tickets--”

“Max…”

“I will pay to have you fly first class, but only, and I mean only if you use the miles. If I don’t get rewards, then we aren’t going.” He pulled his sleeve up slightly and looked at his watch. “Also, please confirm they offer vampire accommodations, because I swear if they put me next to some old hag like last time and I have to smell her O-positive, diabetic, dustiness for six hours--I’m. Going. To. Lose. It.”

“Max--”

He stopped as he realized he had walked quite a ways in front of you and he turned around. “Why aren’t you taking notes?”

Your jaw dropped and you stomped over to him and shoved the binder against his chest with enough force that he stumbled back a step. “I’m sorry! Were you not in that room with me just now? Were you not fucking listening??” You were almost screaming and he looked around quickly before stepping closer and towering over you.

“You look crazy, calm down--”

“Calm down? You have some neve, Max. Some. Fucking. Nerve.” With each word you poked your manicured finger into the middle of his chest, on top of his stupid, yellow tie. He grabbed your wrist to stop you but you yanked out of his grip. “Don’t touch me.”

“Listen,” he took a breath and spoke to you like the ticking time bomb that you were. “You did well back there. That thing about the promotion? That was genius. He really bought that.”

Evan’s words rang back through your head and you took a step back looking at Max. He's never going to promote you. You know that, right? Five years. For five years you had done everything for him. You had done the work of an executive level salesman and made a secretary's salary. And for what? To constantly be missing out on important things in your life? Friends. Family. Dating. You couldn't remember the last time you had actually been on a date with anyone. Everything seemed to revolve around the man in front of you--and you had reached your limit. All of this was asking too much of you.

When you finally spoke, your voice was flat and even. “I meant it. I want that promotion.”

“To what? Evan’s job?” He raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I’m the one that is facing a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar fine, and jail time--that changes things. I want Evan’s old job and a thirty percent raise.” You crossed your arms and planted your feet as you held his gaze.

Max moved his bottom jaw from one side to the other, a tick you had often seen and come to realize meant he was mulling over his options. “Fifteen.”

“Forty.” You counter offered the wrong way and he gave a hard bark of laughter. “Okay, fine. I’m walking. You’re screwed. Goodbye, Max--have fun in Romania.”

No sooner did you turn around did Max lunge forward and grab you by the upper arm. “Okay! Okay. Fine.”

“Fine?”

He looked at you pointedly and pulled you into the front of his body. His eyes shimmered for a brief moment and his lips turned upward into a small grin. “Unless--you’ll take something else? Plus, ten percent of course, I’m not a monster.”

You felt as if a small breeze was whispering against the nape of your neck, and you fought the urge to bat at it like a fly. The press of his voice worked its way into your ear and you could almost feel it trying to go deeper. When you realized what he was doing, you gasped and slapped him across the face. “Did you just try and hypnotize me??”

“Ah, shit!” he released your arm and put his hand to his cheek. “Did it not work?!”

“Go to hell, Max!” You turned once again and started walking down the sidewalk, ignoring the faces of the people that were nosily watching your heated exchange.

“Why the fuck didn’t it work--” he mumbled, continuing to rub his cheek and coming to his senses once he saw you putting more distance between the two of you. “Hey!” He jogged quickly and passed you easily in your high heels, turning around so he could look you in the eye. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Typical,” you scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“I can’t do this without you,” he held his hands up defensively and gave you an almost pleading look. “I’ll give you the promotion, and the raise. If I’m not at that company, they will get rid of you like that,” he snapped his fingers and you clenched your jaw. “I don’t want to go back to Romania. I didn’t have such a good trip the last time.” He smiled way too large, an action more for the purpose of pulling back his lips so he could gesture to his fangs. “So, will you do this?”

"I have a few conditions."

"Name them."

"We do this my way, and on my terms. This is my family that we are lying to, so we will tell them when I want, and how I want."

"Done. Next?"

"How did you know it was my grandmother's birthday?"

"You think I can't hear every time your family calls and begs you to quit? Even without superhuman hearing--you sit right next to my office." He made a gesture of his hand pantomiming a small distance.

"Fine."

"Fine." You both said one right after the other in shared stubbornness and mutual disdain. "Anything else?"

You crossed your arms under your breasts slowly and straightened your shoulders. “Ask me nicely.”

“Ask you what? I just--”

“Ask me to marry you.”

Max paused and leaned back a bit, rubbing a hand down his face and chuckling like your request was unbelievable. “Uh. Fine. Fine.” He nodded and cleared his throat. “Will you marry me?”

“Like you mean it,” you insisted. “On your knees.”

He gaped at you like a fish out of water. His large hand rubbed the back of his neck as he looked around embarrassed by the idea that any of the hundreds of people on the street could see what he was about to do. He looked at the ground to make sure there wasn't anything obviously sticky lurking on the pavement before slowly getting down on one knee.

"There. Happy?" He gestured to himself and you nodded.

"Oh, extremely."

He sighed and bit his tongue with what he really wanted to say as he looked up at you from his spot on the ground. "So, will you marry me?"

"I believe I said, ask me nicely. Sales. Is. Seduction. Right, Max?" You clenched your fists and brought them into your chest, mimicking his speech from earlier in a most obnoxious way. "Seduce me, then. Really sell it."

Max blew a heavy sigh in the form of a loud raspberry and cracked his neck. He shook out his arms in a dramatic display like he was getting ready to perform and finally looked up at you. His expression was genuine enough. His eyes were warm and his smile small, and he even took your hand and held it out in front of him lightly.

"Sweetheart--(y/n), beautiful, intelligent, decadent, sexy, vibrant--"

"Enough." You said with a frown. "Remember, I'm a person, not a dessert."

He continued as if you hadn't interrupted his string of praise. "Will you please, with cherries on top, marry me?"

You tapped your chin in mock contemplation and gave a single nod. "Okay. Yes. Although I don't appreciate the sarcasm." You let go of his hand and let it fall to his side as you adjusted your purse on your shoulder. "Get me a ring. If we break the news to my mother and there's no ring, she will go bezerk."

"Fair enough."

"See you at the airport, Max."

You walked passed him without another word, leaving the most powerful man you had ever met on his knees in the middle of the New York street.

Perm Tag List: @rae-gar-targaryen @zeldasayer @stevieharrrr @winters-buck @gooddaykate @jigglemiwa @seawhisperer @halefirewarrior @ripleyafterdark @phoenixhalliwell @thebakerstboyskeeper @honestlystop @lackofhonor @readsalot73 @cryptkeepersoul @skdubbs @sendhoots @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @googiebeankat @dinohaze @saltywintersoldat @huliabitch @silver-lined-solitude @tainted-gay-ghost @roxypeanut @@hayley-the-comet @domino-oh-damn @manda-but-not-lorian @maybege @corvueros @thea-cartier @pettyprocrastination @qveenbvtch

COT Tag List:@atlas-adams-apple @the-feckless-wonder @legally-a-bastard @heatherbel @spacegayofficial @holographic-carmen @queenofheavenandhell @space-floozy @corvueros @catfishingmorales @hdlynn @escapinginmymind078 @thelastemzy @88dragon06 @yaboiithewreck @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @mrpascals @pedropascals420 @agentpike @hdlynnslibrary

@apples-of-february @gamingaquarius @thelastemzy @californiakoenig @trashbin2 @the-feckless-wonder @silver-lined-solitude @whiskeyslasso @timeslugarts

as always please let me know if you wish to be tagged or untagged!

#max phillips #bloodsucking bastards #max phillips x reader #pedro pascal #pedro character fic #with cherries on top #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #max phillips x you #the proposal

605 notes · View notes

techmomma · 3 years

Text

I made big progress with my trauma recovery the other day! I’m really proud of doing a very hard thing, and honestly doing so made me feel so much better.

Said growth involves realizing some unfun things, so y’know, look out for that under the read more, even if I consider this a hopeful, uplifting realization by the end. Christ this is long, have fun reading this word wall.

So I essentially lived in a bitter divorce household. Y’know, when the two parents have an awful, agonizing divorce that pits the kids’ loyalties against each parent and each other and themselves.

I grew up in that. Except they never actually divorced. Or separated. Not till after I’d moved out, anyway. So 20+ years of living in a household where my parents flip-flopped between “trying to make it work” and “screaming at each other and bitterly trying to corral their kids in this us-vs-them, me vs your other parent toxic tug of war.”

Why didn’t they divorce? Codependency and religious pressure because both were previous divorcees, one was an excommunicated catholic because of this, and the other was a narcissist who couldn’t admit defeat and made a promise to god to make it work for fear of the shame that would come from failing again! What a winning pair! Who definitely did not mutually cheat on one another and then act scandalized and eternally vindictive about this.

Anyway, what this meant for Steph’s psyche was every day was an eternal battleground of loyalty tests. Any disagreement was disloyalty. Saying the wrong thing could be taken as disloyalty. Yet, y’know. You don’t want to be disloyal to the other parent that you love. You don’t wanna throw them under the bus. You just wanna say what you saw happened.

Which meant every answer became this tightrope of not only validating and appeasing one parent’s ego, but also finding the diplomatic thing to say so as not to implicate the other parent, or get that parent in trouble, or appear disloyal because that too could come around to bite you in the ass. Sometimes we agreed with what one parent was saying, but taking issue with a small part or one aspect? This was seen as fully disagreeing and being disloyal.

You can imagine the pressure this put on an already socially-awkward kid, ages 4-20, to find the exact correct thing to say. It rarely worked out.

But I figured out a clever loophole early on: if I shut down, if I didn’t make a peep, if I said not one word—sure. That parent would be mad at me for not responding. They’d be made I wasn’t saying anything. They might yell louder, or guilt me, or threaten me with some form of humiliation.

But not saying anything was so, so much better than any alternative. Never once did speaking up end well.

If you know about pavlovian training, you can probably quickly see the conditioning that was set in. Parent would state an opinion, about anything. Give validation. Parent looks for validation about shitty feelings about other people? Don’t say a peep, let parent be mad, and eventually they’ll either get so frustrated they give up, or they say their piece and get whatever was on their chest off of it. Either way, they leave me alone. Maybe after three hours of screaming at me, but three hours could turn into six if I made them more mad by disagreeing or seeming disloyal.

And for the record, when I talk about loyalty, I’m not saying they were asking about actual loyalty. They wanted me to agree with their opinions. They wanted me to be on their side, their ally, no matter what the other parent said. It was all or nothing. “You’re with me or against me.”

Made all the more complicated that sometimes, if you seemed disloyal to the other parent, the supposed “enemy” in the situation, the first parent might berate you for that too. “How could you talk about your mother/father that way? How could you say those things?” Despite having been saying worse things minutes before.

They were volatile. The smallest, stupidest things could become full-blown arguments that could last for hours, at the top of their lungs. After which they might turn that to us, the kids, to get out whatever was left in their system I guess. Small questions, statements, became tests. Answer wrong, and there would be hell to pay. The most innocuous things could become loyalty tests. But most of all, the most discerning tests came when they were complaining about the other. When Dad complained about Mom, and when Mom complained about Dad. “Agree with me,” they said between lines, “Are you on my side? Aren’t they terrible?”

I just wanted to love both of my parents. I never wanted to choose.

My epiphany came when I realized that when others seek comfort from me, when looking for validation during shitty events or people being mean to them—y’know, normal things people do with friends—I was having emotional flashbacks. I was being triggered into a state of trauma, my brain receding to that familiar shutdown state. Terrified that whatever I say to comfort them, whatever I say to help them feel better, would be taken as a loyalty test. To voice even slight disagreement could be disloyalty.

My friends had never tested me. But my brain was reacting so firmly and my body so wholly that I had no idea. I try to be aware of my emotional states and how my body reacts but this shutdown response has just been so normal for so long, and such a large bodily feeling, that I never noticed what it was. And it wasn’t until watching a video about this type of situation, feeling like you have to validate someone not necessarily from a place of concern but of fear, that I realized what was happened.

I realized how deep the rabbit hole went. This has been happening for decades. At work, when coworkers would complain or even just chat normally about other coworkers, my brain was shutting down out of fear that my loyalty was being tested, I was being scrutinized for disagreement. When customers talked about my coworkers, my brain was shutting down, terrified to say the wrong thing and either disagree with said customer or throw my coworker under the bus. I shut down when friends talk about other friends, when people talk about other people and maybe I agree, but there’s an aspect or idea in the situation that I don’t agree with, or maybe I’m just seeing things differently from an outside perspective.

But every time, I was terrified. I was so scared that my brain returned to trauma, returned to that shutdown state from childhood (and some adulthood), because shutting down, previously, had always yielded the better result. Staying quiet, keeping my head empty and my thoughts blank, kept me safe for twenty years.

And now I can’t hear other people talking in a room without returning to that same shutdown state, for fear that they are arguing and I will be forced to choose between people. To love one friend more than another. Forced to pick a side, forced to soothe their emotions because if I don’t, things will be so many times worse. Heaven forbid they have disagreeing opinions, even if they’re calmly sorting them out, communicating in a healthy way. God help me if they’re actually arguing. I can’t think, I can’t even speak sometimes, voice pulled tight like I’m being strangled; I can’t even squeak out a sound. It hurts too much. It hurts so much.

Sometimes I can hear people through my earbuds or headphones and all I can do is lay on my bed and plug my ears with my fingers as tight as possible and try to hum a song, try to force a mantra to drown out the sound as I desperately try to soothe myself with some kind of stim, even if it’s just rocking side to side on the bed.

I knew I had problems with listening to people disagreeing. But I realized the other day how deep the rabbit hole goes. How often, daily sometimes, I’ve been having emotional flashbacks. How thoroughly this has been effecting my life, my relationships, my sanity.

It’s been so exhausting. Realizing how many things connect back to this central issue of toxic loyalty that I grew up with, how thoroughly engrained this trauma is in my life. Realizing I’ve been having emotional flashbacks almost every day, for decades.

I’m so tired.

But I’m really glad I did. It’s putting a name to the beast. I am finally getting to the heart of an issue that was so much larger than I originally thought but in turn, there is so much potential to truly grow and heal. If I know the beast, then I can know how to face it. I can know how to use CBT therapy for this, how to weaken it to progress. And I’m really glad for it.

I also did something very hard: directly forcing myself to face it, and told my roommates about this deep-set fear. I realized that I don’t often just talk about how I’m feeling, I usually do so in the context of like having an issue or a problem that we need to talk out or talk through. I don’t usually just say, “I’m really really scared of this thing.”

I told my roommates this realization and like the wonderful, amazing friends they are, they understood. It’s an internal problem for me, something just for me to work on. It’s my issue. But now... they know that if I go quiet when discussing other people, or leave the room when disagreements are happening, I’m not just trying to blow them off or or be wishy-washy. I imagine there have been many times in the past when a friend has come in need of support and my answer came across weird or like I was trying to change the subject and it was awkward and not what they were hoping for.

Now they know that my response might be weird because I’m having a flashback. I’m scared, my brain is shutting down and I can’t think.

And that’s okay. It’s okay to be scared in front of my friends. It’s okay to experience that trauma in front of them. I don’t have to try to pretend I’m okay or try to push through the fear when I really, really can’t. It’s okay to need a subject change or even to just listen quietly if I don’t necessarily want my friend to stop venting, I just may not be able to answer in a beneficial way. I may be shutting down and sometimes all I can do is wait it out. And that’s okay.

I don’t have to validate other people because I’m scared. Because I think I’m being tested.

I felt better not just because talking about these things helps but also because a weight was lifted. One of my main triggers is feeling like I have to respond and have to respond correctly Or Else. But now that they know, that weight is off of my shoulders. I can be afraid and not able to respond and they understand why now. I don’t have to try to keep up that lie or try to put on a face or try to push through it.

I can be scared. And letting yourself be scared is the first step to healing from it. I don’t have to pretend to not be scared anymore.

I always know I’ve hit the hammer on the head when it comes to my emotional issues because I start crying and even just typing this out made me weepy, haha. It’s a good weepy though. I made a big step, and I’m really proud of myself. My instinct was to take this and agonize quietly over it myself, find my own solution on my own and deal with it on my own. But I didn’t. I reached out, and it was scary and hard and it hurt and now I’m so, so much better off for it, and now I can really start healing. I can change this.

God I’m so tired tho. Holy shit.

8 notes · View notes

fluffymcu · 4 years

Text

The Soft Soldier

@kaithezaftig hope this is ok!

Bucky kept many parts of his life hidden from different people. Except for you, his wife. You knew of his past and the reputation he upheld around his coworkers and even friends. Everyone knew Bucky as a pretty intimidating and serious man. And he liked to keep it that way. He liked that he could keep a certain part of his life to himself. It made him secure somehow. The only other person who knew of almost every aspect of his life was Steve of course. And Steve always kept things confidential with everyone else.

The team wasn’t exactly afraid of Bucky, they just found him pretty intimidating. Of course, he wouldn’t treat them unfairly, he’d use his manners and treated people accordingly. But he’d always give off this serious and distant vibe. No one would question it though, because they knew what he’d been through.

They also knew he was married. They have met you many times, but they never questioned anything of your relationship since they knew Bucky was sensitive about sharing stuff about his family. Either way, the team, especially Sam, Clint, and Tony, would love to tease him about his so called “tough guy act”. Sam secretly assumed that Bucky wasn’t always intimidating and brooding, which is why he liked to tease him. And the fact that Bucky never denied it, instead just rolling and eyes and grunting, only confirmed his theory further.

Tony also thought that Bucky acted differently when he came to the compound and when he went home. He could tell by the type of bubbly person you, and your kids were. But he decides to leave it alone for his sake. Bucky also knew that the team had the same idea but either way, he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of telling them directly.

“Come on, Barnes, lighten up a bit! Stop looking so dark and brooding.” Sam teased as Bucky passed by the hallway to assist Steve in the conference room to discuss the mission coming up in a few weeks. Bucky only grumbled and kept walking, leaving Sam to smirk. He couldn’t wait to get home to his girls.

“You know, you are allowed to smile, right Buck?” Steve chuckled when he noticed his almost annoyed expression. Bucky only rolled his eyes and continued to discuss further details of the mission.

“I just wanna go home already. I’m tired.” He mumbled. Steve nodded, and continued on with the details.

----

“Come on, girls! you’re daddy’s gonna be home in a few, pick up your toys from the living room so daddy can come home to a clean house and relax.” You said, calling out for your twin girls, Rebecca and Lorelei. You smiled as you heard their little feet pound on the floor all the way to the living room to clean up. Lorelei ran up to you and put her hands on her hips and leaned a bit to the side; exactly what you do to Bucky when you get sassy.

“Daddy can’t relax mom. He’s joining us for a tea party.” She ground out. You sighed, shaking your head fondly at her before turning back around to keep cleaning the counter.

“Okay then, but daddy’s gonna come home and he’s gonna be real tired since he’s been working all day. So when he comes home, do you think you can give him 10 minutes to rest a bit?” You asked.

Lorelei groaned dramatically before giving in.”Fiiine. Just 10 minutes ok?” You hummed in agreement before the sound of the keys in the door caught your attention. The twins gasped before running towards the door. “DADDYYY!”

The door opened and Bucky walked in, immediately tackled by his two daughters. He smiled widely as he hugged them both and oicked them up, holding one in each arm. “Hey! How have my girls been? Did they behave?” He asked, the girls immediately going on about how their day was.

You smiled as you walked towards him, watching him put the girls down and leaning down a bit to give you a quick kiss. “And how are you, doll?” He chuckled with a lopsided grin on his face.

“I’m good. How was work?” You asked, running a quick hand through his hair. He let out a deep sigh as he straightened his back.

“Stressful.” He sighed.”But I’m glad to be home.” You smiled and rubbed his back comfortingly.

“The team still messing with you? Teasing you about your tough guy act?” You smirked, giggling when you saw him roll his eyes.

“They never stopped. And I don’t get the big deal about it.” He grumbled, making you chuckle.

“I think it’s cute.” You hummed. Bucky sighed and rolled his eyes. “I mean, I think it’s cute that you act all tough and intimidating around people and then come home and suddenly you’re my Bucky Boo Bear.” You teased. Bucky gave you a pointed glare making you giggle.

Right then, Rebecca and Lorelei began to jump around and pull at Bucky’s arms. “Come on, daddy you’re gonna be late to the tea party!” They said in unison.

“Girls, I told you to give your dad 10 minutes to rest.” You said, raising your eyebrows at them. Bucky chuckled and nodded assuringly at you.

“It’s ok, I don’t mind, I’m not as tired as usual.” He smiled, following the girls to their room to start the party. You smiled and began making dinner for the four of you, plugging in your earbuds and turning on spotify.

“Okay daddy, you know the drill.” Lorelei said, waving her hand around like a little boss. Bucky hummed and nodded before taking the tutu Rebecca was handing him, and throwing in on on top of his pants. He then sat down on the small chair at their play table, leaning most of his weight on his legs and knees as to not break the chair. Rebecca then approached him a pink sparkly tiara. Bucky bowed his head to allow her to crown him and he smiled widely, grabbing his tea cup from the table.

“Shall we commence?” He asked, using a horrible fancy accent. The girls nodded before sitting down and raising their tea cup.

“We shall.” They said. “Pinkies up!” Rebecca said, the three of them simultaneously sticking out their pinkies.

You were halfway done with dinner so you decided to check up on Bucky and the girls. Sometimes they forget that Bucky is a human being and he can get tired and so he sometimes needs your help to get a break. You peeked through the slightly open door of the twin’s bedroom and smiled fondly at the sight. Rebecca was wrapping Bucky up in a blue feather scarf and Lorelei was pouring them all some invisible tea.

“Would you like the sugar cubes, or the sugar free one?” Lorelei asked her dad, you pretended to think.

“I’m kinda on a diet, so i better stick with the sugar free sugar cubes. Thank you.” He smiled as she nodded and pretended to pour the sugar in. You internally cooed and pulled out your phone to record the event. Your phone was already full of videos of him and the girls, but what’s another video gonna hurt? You began to record them and smiled.

“You’re lookin’ good, daddy!” Rebecca quipped, also mimicking what you’d always tell Bucky. Bucky gasped and looked hurt.

“What do you mean I just look good? Am I not beautiful? huh?” He asked, poking around her belly, smiling when she squealed loudly and squirmed around. He decided to grab her and sit her on his lap and continue to dig his fingers gently into her belly. “Are you gonna tell me I’m beautiful yet?” He teased, smiling and letting her go when she spat out giggly apologies.

“Enough horsing around! Drink your tea!” Lorelei scolded, pointing a finger at the two. You chuckled and stopped recording, you didn’t wanna get caught.

“Uh oh. Someone has an attitude!” Bucky chuckled before reaching over and snatching her off the chair and tickling her ribs. “Looks like someone needs some tickles to get that funky attitude out.” He chuckled, pausing his attack when he finally noticed you peeking in the doorway. He noticed your phone in your hand as his jaw dropped and as he glared at you playfully. “Were you recording?” He asked. You tucked your phone in your pocket and giggled nervously. “You did!” He gasped, standing up and ripping the tiara off him before running after you.

You squealed and took off to your bedroom, trying to get there fast enough so you could lock yourself in there. “Show me the video y/n!” He laughed as he was gaining on you. You only giggled and yelped when his hand blocked you from closing the door on him. He immediately scooped you up and carried you to your shared bed, “I guess everyone needs a visit from the tickle monster today!” He sighed, throwing you on the bed making your laughter sound more nervous.

“Nohoho! I don’t need a visit!” You giggled, trying to scoot away from him but he grabbed your legs to keep you in place.

“Are you gonna show me the video?” He asked, raising his eyebrows at you.

“No.” You scoffed sassily, probably not the best move right now.

“That’s what I thought.” He chuckled, before attacking your ribs and belly. You squealed, arching your back and giggling hysterically. He tried to reach under you to grab the phone out of your back pocket but you’d always squeal and turn on your side, preventing him from grabbing it. He groaned before squeezing your thighs and right above your knees, making you throw your head back in ticklish agony and kick out your legs. “You can make this stop by showing me the video..” He sang, scoffing when you shook your head stubbornly. “Fine, have it your way.” He sighed, digging his thumbs into your hipbones.

You let out a scream before flailing around as much as you could. Bucky chuckled and kept this up for a bit longer until you finally gave in. “OKAHAHAY! OKAY JUST STOHOHOP!” You yelled, slapping at his hands.

Bucky smiled. “Does that mean you’ll show me the video?” He teased. You nodded frantically, panting when he finally let go and stood up with his hands on his hips, looking at you expectantly. You sat up with a sigh and took out your phone and showed him the video.

He shook his head at the video with a smile on his face before handing the phone back to you. “Do not show this to anyone, ok?” He said. You playfully rolled your eyes and sighed dramatically.

“Yes, Bucky, your alter ego “The Bucky Boo Bear” is safe and secure within this household.” You teased, pinching his cheek and giggling when he rolled his eyes. “I mean, it’s not like I was planning on sending it to team or anything..” You smirked, shrugging it off. Bucky stiffened and poked your belly on last time, making you flinch.

“You better not.” He chuckled. You laughed and bent down to give him a quick kiss.

“Relax. I’m not gonna do it.” You waved dismissively, smiling at the thought of the teams reaction if you had sent it to them. They probably wouldn’t have even been that surprised!

I don’t know how to end this so....... the end

246 notes · View notes

peachyteez · 4 years

Text

second chances ≫ DAY THREE, COMFORT.

as a feral wolf hybrid that was violent with all of the employees assigned to him, seonghwa was subjected to be put down. however, jiyu being the softhearted feral hybrid nurse she was, she decided to save seonghwa no matter what.

PART OF THE HEAVEN SERIES.

✧ taglist: @defsoul15, @choisaniskillingme, @t-tbinnie, @multi-bookmarkscripts, @hello-its-ya-boi

feel free to let me know if you would like to be added to the list! :)

✧ notes: a little sneak peek of jiyu’s home life. it’ll be explained more in depth in later parts of the series.

back。| next。

hearing the horrific sound of her alarm, jiyu groaned and tossed over towards her nightstand to silence her phone. sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she got out of bed and opened the curtains, hissing at the piercing sunlight pouring in. she watched the sun slowly rise above the city—it was a peaceful scene for her.

however, the peace was disrupted when her phone rang.

her blood ran cold when she saw the caller id. dad.

she hesitantly answered the phone. “h–hello?”

“it’s been a while, jiyu,” her father spoke. “i’m assuming you’re still working at that ridiculous hybrid center.”

jiyu’s grip on her phone tightened. “so what if i am?”

“watch your tone, young lady. or i can bring you back before our agreed deadline.”

jiyu grit her teeth as she stared straight ahead out her bedroom window. “why did you call?”

“as someone who’s about to take over the family company soon, you should start thinking about your future. you can start by thinking about your future marriage.

jiyu felt her world go numb at her father’s words. future marriage?

“i’ve sent you a file of canidates to your email. they’re all sons of other big corporations that i’ve chosen. combining our shares will be beneficial to both parties,” her father continued. “look through the list and send me at least five of your picks.”

“are you serious?” jiyu quietly seethed. “dad, you’re practically handing me off to someone i don’t even know or love! why can’t you leave me alone? it’s my life!”

her father sighed. “i’m doing this for your own good, jiyu. it’s better than devoting your life to hybrids—”

“if mom were still here, would you still be doing this?” she asked, feeling a spurt of bravery. “would you still say the same thing—”

“enough, jiyu!” her father shouted. the two were silent after his outburst. “i’m doing this because i love you. give me your picks by the end of the day.”

he hung up. jiyu dropped the phone from her ear as she felt tears welling up in her eyes. “love, my ass.”

she wiped her tears away and turned away from the window to get ready for the day. however, the phone call left her in a gloomy mood, something yeonjun picked up on the moment she sat at her desk.

“bad morning?” he asked.

“my dad called.”

yeonjun rolled his eyes at the mention of her dad. jiyu’s told him her past and yeonjun absolutely hated the man. he treated jiyu more like an asset to the company than his own flesh and blood.

“what happened this time?”

jiyu turned her monitor on and continued typing up yesterday’s report on seonghwa and soobin. “he wants me to get married to strengthen the company shares. i have a list of candidates and i’m suppose to choose.”

yeonjun almost spat his water out. “and you’re letting him do that?!”

jiyu paused her typing and sighed. “i have to. otherwise he’s taking me back before our agreed deadline.”

“but he can’t just—”

“i’ll be fine, yeonjun,” she reassured with a small smile. “can we please just drop the topic?” she asked when more people started filing in to the office.

while greeting their coworkers, yeonjun quietly sighed. “alright.”

throughout the day, jiyu tried to forget about the phone call. easier said than done. i’m doing this because i love you. it was a line that her father always repsonded with whenever she asked why he was doing all of this.

jiyu always scoffed at the idea. it wasn’t out of love. her father never once stopped to ask what she wanted to do in life. instead, he planned out her life for her. everything in her life was already pre–determined and calculated for the business. except for the last five years.

shaking her head to get rid of her thoughts, she realized that hours had already passed, and it was time for the daily checks on the hybrids.

“time for the daily checks,” she nudged yeonjun next to her.

as they both walked down the hall towards their hybrids’ rooms, yeonjun gently ruffled her hair. “i’m always here for you, okay?”

stopping outside seonghwa’s room, jiyu smiled. “thank you.”

watching her best friend turn the corner, jiyu entered the code in for seonghwa’s room and the door opened. seonghwa, who was once again sitting on the floor with his knees tucked to his chest and staring out the window, turned around and looked at jiyu.

jiyu plastered a smile on her face and closed the door. “hey, buddy. looking out the window again?” she asked as she took a seat on the floor by him.

seonghwa slightly furrowed his eyebrows. something about jiyu was off. her smile seemed...forced. and he didn’t sense her usual bright vibe that she usually had.

“did you sleep good last night?” she asked as she looked out the window. seonghwa’s room window faced the field, so she saw various hybrids out and about with their caretakers or with some nurses.

out of her peripheral vision, she saw seonghwa give a small nod, making her surprised, yet happy. he might not have spoken, but the silent form of response was nonetheless, an improvement. “that’s good.”

hearing her response with a forced happy tone made seonghwa frown. “you’re not happy.”

jiyu thought she was hearing things. looking around the room, she didn’t see anyone else. it was just her and seonghwa in the room. staring at him with widened eyes, she realized it was him that talked. “d–did you j–just—”

“for the record, i was verbal the whole time. i just preferred not talking,” he explained.

jiyu could only nod. this certainly came as a shock to her. then she remembered what he said. “what do you mean i’m not happy?” she quietly asked.

seonghwa glanced at her out of corner of his eyes. “you’re not how you usually are when you come visit. you seem down.”

jiyu looked down at her hands in her lap. “is it that obvious?” to be honest, she was also shocked at how seonghwa managed to pick up on her mood. she’s only known him for two days, yet he knew her well enough to know that she was indeed, not happy.

“to an observant eye, yes,” he responded.

jiyu sighed. “i’m sorry. i know how hybrids can be affected by negative moods—”

“stop apologizing, it’s fine,” seonghwa interrupted with a sigh of his own. “you can’t always be happy, you know.”

“...yeah.” suddenly, the conversation she had with her father replayed in her memory and tears started forming again.

looking over at the female next to him, seonghwa noticed how tears were gathering in her eyes and how she desperately tried to not let them fall. before he could process what he was doing, he reached a hand out and gently pat her head.

jiyu tensed and regret immediately filled seonghwa. he immediately retracted his hand. “s–sorry,” he mumbled.

“no, no. i didn’t hate it,” jiyu frantically explained. “it just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

an awkward silence surrounded the two. for seonghwa, he didn’t know to comfort the female next to him. they’ve only known each other for two days, making him wonder how to comfort her without making things awkward for the two of them.

“um, is everything okay?” he carefully asked before internally facepalming himself. of course not, you idiot. that’s why she’s sad.

“more or less,” she vaguely responded. “it’s just some personal issues at home.”

seonghwa nodded, falling back into the same awkward silence. suddenly, jiyu scrambled up from the ground. “ohmygod, i’m suppose to be here for your daily check up, not cry a river!” she squeaked as she ran for the clipboard on the table.

bewildered by her sudden mood switch, seonghwa couldn’t help but secretly smile as he watched the female hastily write. she was an interesting person, he wasn’t going to lie. and different from his previous caretakers.

going through the morning checklist, jiyu mumbled to herself as she checked off the boxes. “temperature’s okay...no, not sick...condition’s stable...”

“jiyu,” seonghwa suddenly called out to her.

jiyu whipped around in surprise at the sound of her name coming from seonghwa. her eyes widened even more when she turned around and he was standing directly behind her. looking up, she cocked her head in confusion. “y–yes? what’s the matter?”

seonghwa took a deep breath for what he was about to do. gently cradling her head, he nuzzled the top of her head with his cheek.

jiyu was shocked speechless. what is he doing, what is he doing—

seonghwa pulled back and sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. he couldn’t lift his head up. “i–it’s how wolves comfort each other and...well...it looks like you needed some...so...”

her silence only made him afraid. had he made a mistake? was she going to punish him?

“i–i’m sorry if you didn’t like that. i–i won’t do it again—”

snapping out of her shock, jiyu didn’t know how to react. but one thing was definitely clear. she was ecstatic at this huge leap of improvement for seonghwa in the span of three days. not to mention how it looked like he was slowly warming up to her. a warm smile slowly spread across her face. “stop apologizing, you didn’t do anything wrong,” she reassured.

seonghwa snapped his head up in surprise, eyes slightly widened from the unexpected reaction he received. she wasn’t mad? his former owners would’ve definitely punished him if he attempted something like that with them.

“thank you for the comfort,” jiyu added.

frankly, seonghwa was shocked at how different jiyu was compared to his former owners. “y–you’re not mad?” he meekly asked.

jiyu furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. “of course not. there’s no reason to be angry.”

his question was like a window for jiyu. a tiny window into his past. if he asked a question like that, she figured that he must’ve had a history with abusive owners.

“i may not know the details of where you were before coming here,” she softly said, catching seonghwa’s attention, “but you’re safe here. no one’s going to hurt you, i promise. try giving us a chance to help you recover, yeah?”

seonghwa thought about it before slowly nodding his head. a grin spread across jiyu’s face at his response. “if you want, i can start taking you outside tomorrow,” she suggested. “you probably haven’t been out in a while, right? ever since coming into...this ward.”

“...right.”

giving him another smile, jiyu walked towards the door to continue with her morning rounds. “then i’ll take you out tomorrow.”

she turned over her shoulder to give him one last look. “and really. thank you for earlier.”

and with that, she left seonghwa’s room.

the tiniest smile spread across seonghwa’s face. maybe, just maybe, the universe gave him a second chance.

#9th member of ateez #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez angst #ateez fluff #park seonghwa #seonghwa imagines #seonghwa scenarios #park seonghwa imagines #hybrid au #kpop hybrid au #ateez hybrid #hybrid!ateez

217 notes · View notes

palukoo · 3 years

Note

ooh amy and toby because i would die for them

okay i know you sent others before this one but i really wanna answer this one! i meant to just... write about basically what i've said before with their unique combinations of idealism and cynicism but also with the vast difference in loyalty and also their similar political positions, but then i spent all afternoon uh. writing this.

amy and toby meet on some doomed campaign that he's running, and she's fundraising for, and they both know it's doomed but that doesn't stop them from trying. she tells him it is, at some point, and he knows she's right but won't say it, because it's different. amy's consulting for a dozen campaigns this election cycle, and toby's got one, and he likes amy, but she doesn't get to say that about his one.

they bring amy in for debate prep, at the candidate's request, and toby sits back and smiles a little at the hopefully-but-doubfully future senator's comprehensive answer until amy starts eviscerating the woman's answers. she does it with an awkward, regretful smile, and the candidate adjusts, and toby asks amy to step out into the hall, asks if she has a problem with their policies. amy says no, she loves their policies and that's why she's doing what she can to give them a shot. toby laughs bitterly.

"you said yourself that we don't have a shot! we're trying to talk about issues and you're taking the only place we can do that and have people listen and turning it into pithy soundbites like every other guy!"

"the pithy soundbites might stick," she says, mostly unfazed. "let me try to give you a shot. she thinks she has a shot."

he sighs. "yeah."

the candidate loses, 41-57. before amy had started working with them more, polls were at 30-62.

they run into each other, after that, both of them with tendencies towards certain candidates. amy's associated with more winning campaigns than toby is by a long shot, but she's never run one, winning or otherwise.

amy's talking to a candidate she's excited about for maryland's fifth district, who's leading against the old, far too moderate and out of touch incumbent in her primaries. andy wyatt. and then toby's beside her.

"oh, hey, amy, this is toby, he's my--"

"you're working with her?" amy asks teasingly before andy can finish. "but she might actually win."

toby laughs. "yeah, no, don't worry, i haven't lost my touch yet. i'm her fiancé, not her campaign manager."

amy tries to keep the surprise from her face. "you two know each other?" andy asks.

"we've worked together before. congratulations, by the way," amy says. toby smiles awkwardly. "don't let him anywhere near your campaign," she teases.

"don't let her anywhere near your speeches," he quips back. amy laughs.

it's catching up and some unofficial consulting in the primaries that amy would really rather stay mostly out of even though she has a clear favorite. she meets abbey and liz at a starbucks that was a little diner the last time she was in town, and they bring her back to "campaign headquarters" after bribing her with coffee and using their trademarked bartlet charm. which is really what will help him more than anything, at this point.

she laughs when she gets to the office and sees him bouncing a ball against the wall. "toby ziegler. i should've guessed that you'd be on this campaign."

he doesn't question her presence, just sighs. "because it's doomed?"

she beams at him, shaking her head. "because it's good."

his lips twitch into something resembling a smile, and she turns around to abbey and liz.

"with him and governor bartlet--"

"you can call him jed, y'know," abbey says. amy can't, actually.

"well, with the two of them, you're gonna need to find someone less... long winded."

he sighs and glares, and then his brow furrows. "why the hell are you drinking an iced coffee?"

she runs into them right after they've won the primary, which means everyone's uncharacteristically excited, meaning josh unthinkingly drags her along to their party, and jed kisses her cheek, and toby, by some miracle, hugs her and cj laughs and hugs her, too.

"you and toby get along?" she asks, surprised. amy shrugs and turns to toby, who also looks deeply noncommittal. cj laughs again.

the giddiness of the room gets to her. "i admire his integrity and his politics," she says, and there it is again, that vague, almost smile, brighter with the new victory.

"when he recruited me for this campaign, he called emily's list 'that women's group with the dumb name'," cj says to her, and amy turns back to him, suddenly far less admiring.

"dumb name. not dumb... mission, dumb name," he defends. she stands down, a little. "so, what have you been up to lately?”

"i'm political director for emily's list," she says, and he opens his mouth and closes it, and cj laughs again.

when the general election rolls around in november, amy collects bets from coworkers and friends and really whoever. she can't help but admire that toby only bets on losing candidates, but she also knows it doesn't matter to him. he won the thing that mattered.

"did you know?" he asks, tense.

"what?"

"that-- you've known the bartlet's forever. you... did you know?"

amy shakes her head, and forces her face into a neutral expression. "no, i didn't."

"are you--"

"i didn't run his campaign, toby. i voted for him, and i would've done it either way. and i'm not sure i'm in the majority there, and i'm glad he's there, so... i'm not mad."

he laughs bitterly. "you admire my integrity?"

"didn't say i shared it," she says plainly.

"you're not mad none of them told you?" he asks after a moment.

she takes in a breath and nods slightly. "well," she says like a concession. "mostly i'm worried," she admits, and toby nods, too.

"about him or the election?"

amy doesn't answer. she doesn't need to. he knows as well as she does that it's both.

"hey, amy, that speech you gave last week," he says when she runs into him in the hall. "did you write it yourself?"

"yeah."

"i could tell," he says, condescending and teasing at once. she rolls her eyes.

"nice job with the president's remarks yesterday," she says back.

"that was sam."

"yeah, i know. i could tell."

"i don't want to have this conversation with you," he says, and her eyes narrow.

"okay."

"not 'cause it's you, 'cause you're actually... i just don't want to have this conversation."

"toby, did something happen?"

he shakes his head and looks at the floor. "josh really cares about you."

she scoffs, disbelieving in a couple ways. "got it."

"amy--"

"as much as i agree that josh really can't take care of himself, he really doesn't need your protection from me, if that's what this is."

toby nods, and amy hopes they'll never talk about that again.

working with stackhouse reminds her of the old campaigns she's run into toby on, and it almost makes her nostalgic, except for the part where she's still mad at him, because he knew as well as josh did that the marriage incentives were shit. he knew as well as josh did that they could've made a play other than the one that forced her to resign.

still. she knows that if there's anyone as proud of the president's answer on needle exchange as she is, it's toby.

sam's campaign really feels like the old days once they’re in it, mishap after mishap, impossible odds, her trying to get funding while toby coaches him on remarks. she feels bad, having talked him into this, knowing he wouldn't win.

toby's used to the loss, she knows, but he's not used to this one. she buys them both drinks and gets on a plane to start her new job.

her first day, after the ceremony, after every exhausting, impossible thing, she still finds herself going back to her office. there's an unpleasant banging sound coming from inside when she gets there, and she'd be more concerned were it not for the secret service and her exhaustion.

she steps inside, ready for whatever new prank josh has set up, but instead it's just cj and toby putting her diplomas back up on her wall.

it's a week or so before she catches up and remembers to congratulate toby and andy, but neither of them hold it against her.

it's another few weeks before she leaves, and for that, she's sure he does.

"rafferty's speech was really good," she says casually. he nods vaguely in agreement. "toby," she says.

"what?"

"i could tell," she says pointedly, and he sighs. "you should've... i like getting women elected, you know."

"i don't need your help," he says confidently. she rolls her eyes.

"your track record--"

"she's not trying to win, amy," he says insistently, and she shrugs.

"neither was the president at first."

he exhales. "the debates have been better than i expected. santos did well."

she shrugs, and he rolls his eyes.

"i could tell, too."

she knows it's stupid, but here she is, so. she hits the buzzer.

"hello?" he asks.

"it's amy."

"wh-- why the hell are you here?"

"i'm not associated directly with the white house or the campaign, toby, just let me up."

there's a long pause where he doesn't say anything, but then the door clicks open. he opens his door when she knocks, and she hands him an iced coffee with a grin. "you didn't answer my question," he says.

"i'm... not mad at you," she says. he squints.

"okay."

"i get why everyone else is," she adds.

"okay. you're still not answering."

she sighs. "i thought you'd want to know that."

"i don't care if you're mad at me," he says gruffly, a bit rude.

"okay," she says, unaffected. "i also... don't want to have this conversation with you."

"what?"

"josh really cares about you," she echoes. he laughs humorlessly.

"i think josh wants to kill me right now."

she smiles. "that's another thing we often have in common," she teases.

"what's the first thing?"

she rolls her eyes and doesn't answer.

"should you really be calling me?" he asks.

"i know for a fact that both josh and donna call you. plus, congratulations, you're free."

"and you aren't anymore. didn't think you'd take it."

"i didn't, either," she admits.

"what are you calling about?"

"sam said you knew congressman johnson pretty well. i want him to swing with us for a vote."

"how are the kids?" she asks, and he smiles, which makes her smile, too.

"good. they're good."

"good. how's andy? do you... are you and cj talking again?"

he nods. "yeah, they're both... you talk to both of them more than you talk to me."

"and when i do, i ask about you," she counters.

"they're good. how're things there? josh, sam, donna?"

she laughs. "you talk to all of them more than you talk to me." she waits for his eyeroll. "they're all good. things are... you know how things are."

"not as much as you do."

"you can guess."

"yeah."

"how's teaching?"

he huffs. "college kids can't write."

"you don't think anyone can write."

"i think sam can write. i think will can write, on a rare good day. whoever you guys have is... fine."

"a glowing recommendation. i'll be sure to pass it along," she teases. otto probably would be flattered, really. "what's up?"

"how are your internals looking?"

she laughs. "did josh cut you off?"

he sighs. "maybe."

"i have some notes," he says.

"on... what?"

"the book," he says, like it's obvious.

"well, considering that it's been, a, published, and b, selling quite well, i think it's a little late," she says, arrogant and exasperated.

"i agree. you should've sent me the draft first."

she laughs. "content or style?"

"the content's great. you make good points, and it's compelling, and... it's very..." he trails off and sighs, and she takes the compliment. "it's too pithy."

she rolls her eyes. "how's yours coming along? how many pages so far?"

he pauses. "touché."

she's just finished a guest lecture when she gets the call, and she's surprised, a little, by the name on caller id. it's been a while. they'd had less to talk about, other than comments on each other's books, since she'd left the white house and started going back to lobbying and fundraising and debate prep between campaigns for old friends. though, when she thinks about it, it could be that last one.

"hey, toby," she answers.

"hey. so, rafferty's running again," he says.

she smiles. she's always liked rafferty. "okay." she thinks about it. "you... want help fundraising?"

he laughs. "amy. she wants to win this time." he pauses. "you should come up to new hampshire with us."

she gets a plane ticket.

#this almost certainly has mistakes bc i just. wrote it but go with it #i wrote nothing about josh and jed getting shot bc toby and amy would not talk about that with each other thank you #same with gaza tbh #asks #answered #claudiasjeancregg #tww #amy gardner #toby ziegler

19 notes · View notes

prorevenge · 5 years

Text

Coworker tried to get me fired over breast implants, so I pulled a reverse uno card.

4 years ago now, when I was 24, my mum died of breast cancer, and as both my grandmothers had also died of it I saw a specialist for a screening. I found out I had some cells in one of my breasts that could have turned cancerous at any given moment.

I was told I had a few options:

I could have regular screenings every 3 or 4 months until it does develop into cancer (I was told the risk of the cells becoming cancerous was very high due to family history) but it could also potentially never could turn so I'd just be getting these screenings for no reason

I could get a single mastectomy on the breast with the bad cells, but they'd need to keep an eye on the other one, so I'd still need regular checkups for the other breast

I could get a bilateral mastectomy and remove all of my breast tissue, basically eliminating the risk.

I went for the bilateral mastectomy. It was admittedly the most drastic option but after seeing what cancer did to my mum and grandmothers I didn't want to risk it.

I was warned about scarring but told it should be fairly minor. It wasn't and I was left with 2 huge, pink, jagged scars on either side of my chest, each about an inch long and half an inch wide, and it caused me to go into a severe depression, where it got to the stage of me not even leaving my flat because I didn't want people to see me, throwing out my mirrors, and getting physically sick looking at myself.

I went to a therapist, who suggested a plastic surgeon. The therapist said they'd never normally do that but it was clearly something I was struggling with and I might never get over it, and the therapist could see why I struggle with it. Although I'll admit the therapist did send me to ask about scar reduction. The plastic surgeon suggested a cream, a laser or implants. The cream didn't work, and the laser was both expensive and risky, so I went with the implants. My natural boobs were an F cup so I went with a slightly smaller DD. Since then my mental health has improved and I feel a lot better about the way I look. My confidence has gone up, as has my self esteem. I know I shouldn't put so much into my appearance but I wasn't exaggerating about these scars. Huge, bright pink, jagged, raised, just really awful to look at and I hated seeing myself, and they are now nicely hidden away and you can barely feel them.

In the present day, I'm 28 years old and working in an office. I'm doing a lot better than I was. My coworker, Jill, found out I'd had a boob job (but not about the cancer thing), when myself and my friend from years before the mastectomy were planning a holiday and she made a joke about me going on a plane with my implants, and Jill overheard. By the end of the day, the entire office knew I'd had a boob job, but not why, and half a dozen people confirmed Jill had told them.

Over the next few months Jill made many "jokes" and comments about my chest to coworkers when I was in earshot, at one point saying I had "more plastic than Barbie" and calling me "fake in two ways". I didn't hear this one myself but a friend in the office told me that Jill had at one point referred to me as a "sack of silicone".

IDK what her problem was exactly but at one point she mentioned the NHS so I assume Jill thought that I'd got my tits done for free on taxpayer money (I'd gotten the mastectomy on NHS but gone private for therapy and implants).

I asked her to stop more than once, but unfortunately the places I'd talked to her were places like the lift and the women's bathroom, where there weren't any cameras, and Jill just kept making comments no matter how often I asked her not to. I wouldn't say it was every single day, but I heard at least 3 comments per week for 3 months.

I hit my breaking point when me, Jill and a few other coworkers were having lunch, I referred to something as being shallow and Jill said "you'd know all about being shallow" while gesturing to my chest. I snapped.

I said "do you know why I have these? A few years ago the doctors found potentially cancerous cells in my breast tissue, I was advised to get a mastectomy and was left with huge ugly scars on my chest. I went to see a therapist who sent me to a cosmetic surgeon, who advised me to get implants to hide the scars, and I did just so I could look at myself in the mirror without crying. So maybe next time you want to judge someone for having cosmetic surgery, you should ask them why they had it first". And feeling like that was a mic drop moment I picked up my food and left.

For the rest of the day I had about 1/3 of my office come up to me and offer support, and the rest tell me that Jill was just joking around and I was being a bitch. I replied that Jill was being a bitch long before I was.

I then got an email from HR saying they wanted to talk to me the following day, and when I called for clarification they mentioned a "hostile work environment" (note: this is apparently an American term and holds little weight in England but it's what was said over the phone). I knew the person who signed off the email and I'd spoken to. Her name was Debbie, and she was Jill's friend in HR so I was fairly confident on who had reported me.

I realised that if this was already being sent to HR, I needed as much ammunition as possible, so I went about collecting my information.

As Debbie had dealt with me so far, it was safe to assume she would be the person reviewing the complaint with me, and if that was true I was fucked. However, I vaguely remembered a section on complaints that was in my contract when I first signed with the company. I flicked through the contract and there was a part in complaints section that said I was contractually allowed to request a change of reviewer if I felt my allocated reviewer was biased. It was called an "impartial overseer". I photocopied the page and highlighted that part.

Then I messaged the people who had offered their support over facebook, and said basically "HR have asked to see me. Do any of you remember Jill insulting me to your face and are you willing to write and sign something saying what you heard and when?". Not everyone was willing to help as Jill is somewhat feared in the office due to her befriending HR and management but about 20 people were willing to help me.

I guessed roughly when I'd asked Jill to stop previously (the 4 asks over the last few months, some timings were easy to guess as they'd happened on my break or when I'd first arrived at work) and I wrote them all down, along with a rough time of when the lunchroom confrontation happened and a list of names of who was there for the lunchroom confrontation.

I got to work slightly early the next morning. I went round everyone who had messaged me and most of them managed to give me a printed and signed letter (some didn't manage to write one but nbd). This isn't exact words as there's 16 letters to sum up here but the gist was:

"My name is [their name]. I work with Jill Lastname and OP. On [date] at [time] (approx), I spoke with Jill Lastname, during which she referred to OP as [quoted insult]. I felt this was inappropriate as it directly related to OP's appearance and am willing to go on record further to establish that Jill Lastname has been discussing OP in the workplace in the same manner for 3 months now, causing me discomfort and creating what I feel is a hostile work environment. Signed [their name]"

I wound up with about 16 letters, all from different people, and one of them was in the lunchroom for my conversation with Jill. Some even had bulletpointed lists of everything Jill had said to them about me or other people, as it turns out Jill has issues with a lot of people's appearances. She apparently made comments about one coworker's weight, and something antisemitic about a different coworker's nose, all of which were put in these letters. There are about 45 people in the office so while 16 wasn't a majority, it's still a decent amount. The letters weren't hugely long, most were only a paragraph, but they had all the necessary information.

I was asked to come to HR at 10am. I took the letters from coworkers, the photocopy of the page in my contract, and my dates and times in a little folder with me.

I got there and Debbie was the one overseeing the interview. She got up from her desk, ready to lead me into another room.

I immediately turned to the other HR worker that was currently there and said "so is my meeting with you, then?"

Debbie said "no, you're with me."

I replied that this wouldn't sit well with me, as "my contract states I have a right to an impartial overseer" and as I said this I took the contract page out of my folder. Debbie read it (I wouldn't let her take the paper when there was a shredder so close by) and said she could be impartial. I replied that I really didn't mean to be a pain, but I had it on good authority that the person on the other end of this complaint is her friend, and my contract does say I'm allowed an impartial overseer.

Debbie stomped off to get Supervisor. Supervisor asks how I know she can't be impartial and I tell him that I have it on good authority that the Jill, who was on the other end of this complaint, is a close friend of Debbie. He asked Debbie if this was true, to which she only replied "I can be impartial".

Supervisor took a deep breath, asked the other HR rep to come with him, and the four of us all went to review the complaint. I thanked them for being so accommodating (I was worried I'd annoyed them), Debbie took out the complaint and all 3 of them went through it with me. Debbie looked homicidal the whole time the interview was happening, as she had clearly anticipated firing me (or at least recommending me being fired).

The interview went something like this. It took like over half an hour and they kept asking me the same questions but phrased different ways so this is a really drastically condensed version.

Q: You said outside that you think Jill Lastname reported you. Why is this?

A: Jill has had an issue with me for about 3 months now

Q: Why didn't you come to us when you realised Jill had an issue?

A: I had no issue with her

Q: What issue does Jill have with you?

A: Four years ago a specialist identified potentially cancerous cells in my breast tissue. I had surgery to remove my breast tissue, thereby removing the cells and the risk. After the surgery I was left with large scars on my chest. I went to a therapist for low self esteem and depression. The therapist suggested a plastic surgeon who suggested breast implants to cover my scars. All of this is in my medical history which you have a copy of in my file and my full permission to review. Jill found out about my breast implants but didn't know about the cancer. Jill had a problem with my breast implants, and decided to communicate this problem to our coworkers.

Q: Why do you feel this is true?

A: Here's 16 signed statements all from different coworkers, all testifying that Jill told the entire office I'd had breast implants on the day she found out and has since made comments about these implants frequently. They have quotes of what Jill said to them about it and rough dates and times.

Q: Rough dates and times?

A: No one knew this would be escalated to such an extent so no one really took notes as and when it happened.

Q: What event or events do you think directly led to this complaint of harassment?

A: For me harassment began when Jill told everyone about my breast implants without my consent, but as to the complaint placed against me, it would probably be what happened at about [time] yesterday in the lunch room. Jill made a comment about me being shallow while gesturing to my breasts and I replied by giving her an abridged version of my relevant medical history and ending with a comment about the importance of getting the full story. There are cameras in the lunch room, so I'm sure you'll be able to find that conversation. I'll admit I could have handled the situation better, but after 3 months I felt I had to put my foot down. Here's a list of names of people who were also present. There were 6 people at the table, including myself and Jill. One of these people is also in those letters, and has written their account of the conversation and signed it.

Q: Had you had a conversation with Jill prior to this regarding her comments about you?

A: Several, spaced out over the last 3 months. Each time I communicated to her that I felt uncomfortable and upset with these comments she was making and would appreciate it if she were to stop.

Q: To your knowledge, was Jill made aware of your former cancer at any point in this time?

A: No. It wasn't mentioned in the conversation with my friend she overheard and I didn't tell her because frankly it's none of her business and I did not feel the need to detail my medical history to a coworker in order to avoid further sexual harassment.

Supervisor stands up and says "well I think we're done here". He shakes my hand and sends me back to my desk saying that I'd hear from them after they reviewed the evidence (letters, CCTV, medical history and anything they had already) and made a decision on the case.

I got back to my desk, pulled up my CV, and prepared to start the job search again.

About an hour goes by, then the person who wrote the letter and was there for the lunchroom conversation gets called for a meeting with HR. They come back 10ish minutes later.

The other people who were also there for the lunchroom conversation get called one by one, except Jill. All of them are gone for about 10 minutes then come back, find a coworker, and say that HR wants to see them.

Then the people who wrote letters but weren't there yesterday are also called one by one and are each gone for about 10 minutes each, some longer, some shorter. By about 3:30 it looks like everyone who wrote a letter or was there in the lunch room has been interviewed.

Then, finally, Jill gets called in. She's gone for about 30 minutes and comes back fuming. She glares at me while I work, but I ignore her.

4:30ish, Jill gets called into HR again. 5 pm rolls around, everyone is either leaving or getting ready to leave, when Jill storms back into the office. She glares at me the whole time she packs up her desk. She then starts telling anyone who will listen that I got her fired before shoving her way onto the lift.

An email comes in from HR. My case is closed.

(source) story by (/u/3240278189)

#prorevenge #by /u/3240278189 #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

4K notes · View notes

the-swedes-knees · 4 years

Text

Human Resources - The Swedes x Reader

Did I make a tumblr just to post a birthday present for @jossambird? Yes, yes I did.

Rating: Everyone

Pairing: Reader/Swede(pick your favorite)

It had started like any other work day at the Temps Commission. The case management room was silent aside from the rapid clicking of typewriter keys and the rustling of papers as employees cross checked their historical references. You were just another cog in the machine, expected to work efficiently and follow every rule in the handbook down to the letter.

Which is why it was a surprise when your supervisor placed the summons to HR on your desk.

"Cheryl." You greeted the HR representative coldly as you entered the meeting room. She glared at you as you went to take a seat, not even bothering to say your name. There wasn't a clear reason why she had been gunning for you the past few months but you suspected that it had something to do with the last company Christmas party. Or rather the point in the Christmas party when she had become dangerously intoxicated and you had walked her back to her living quarters instead of letting her fulfill her desires of making thinly veiled sexual innuendos to coworkers.

One might assume that kind of story would lead to a friendship, or at least a funny story to laugh about together...

"Do you know why you're here?" But apparently Cheryl didn't think so. When you crossed your arms and shook your head no she let out a catty hiss of disapproval. "Well this shouldn't be a shock, but I've opened up a sexual harassment investigation against you."

Your face hardened and your eyes shot to the folder that was placed in front of you, identical to the one infront of her and three more like it on the opposite side of the table.

"That can't be right... who - " The end of your question died on your lips as the three temporal assassins entered the room and sat down at the table across from you. Almost in perfect unison the three tall Swedish men regarded your presence before turning their attention to the woman at the head of the table.

Axel, Otto, and Oscar. More commonly referred to as simply The Swedes. You had handled a fair number of their cases in your career, and they were certainly some of the best the Commission had to offer. They were all handsome in their own right. Strong, stoic, and silent... but you had only admired them from afar, just sparing glances in passing through the massive building complex.

You weren't sure what drew you to them, like a moth to a flame. But just those sparing glances had ruined any other romantic prospects for you.

"Thank you for coming. I'm aware how busy the three of you are, but this matter simply demands to be addressed." She said smugly before turning back to you and opening the manila envelope that was placed perfectly perpendicular to her.

"In recent case number A-96353 you wrote an extra message to the Swedes that was not approved by your supervisor. Is this correct?" Cheryl asked your pointedly.

"Yes." You admitted, squaring your shoulders a little bit more as the reality of the current situation began to dawn on you.

"For the record, can you please recount what that message was?" She asked. You took a deep breath and kept your eyes focused on her. There was an evident threat of heat creeping up to your cheeks, but if this was some sort of weird power play, you didn't want to give her the satisfaction.

"I believe I wrote 'good luck boys' on the bottom of their assignment." You admitted in an even tone.

"Is that all?"

"I may have also drawn a small heart." You said through slightly gritted teeth. "I've already received infractions for that offense. It won't happen again."

You turned your body to face the three men, and bowed your head slightly in shame. Even though you had gone through getting slapped on the wrist and mandatory behavioral classes for not following protocol, it wasn't their fault that your attraction to them had led to your immature urge to flirt on the job. Even if the flirt was hardly a flirt, and it was sent via tube with a kill order.

"I apologize, for my unprofessionalism." You said sincerely, beginning to rise from your seat to leave this waste of everyone's time.

"Well there is also the case of these little locker room comments."

"I-I don't know what you're referring to." You froze as she sifted through her folder, placing her pen on the page as she began to read a section of notes verbatim.

"He could punch me in the face and I would thank him for it." She read with as much enthusiasm as a young fast food worker making minimum wage. Your heart throbbed in your chest wildly as you stared at Cheryl in disbelief. "Does that sound familiar?"

"Yes..." You croaked out softly, all moisture seeming to have left your mouth. Your eyes darted to look down at your lap, your fingernails suddenly much more interesting than the three assassins that were openly staring at your from across the table. The sound of rustling papers caught your ears as the men began to read through the reports for themselves, but suddenly you couldn't seen to move a muscle.

There was no telling who had overheard that particular comment from the water cooler, but it was just one comment... If you could shake off this terrible sense of dread and embarrassment you could chalk it up to a simple misunderstanding -

"Time and date 0923845753: I would pay him to crush my pelvis." She continued to read from the file in front of her in a monotone voice. In potentially the dumbest reaction possible your eyes darted across the table and made direct eye contact with Axel as the comment was read. His face was unreadable, but those blue eyes pierced into you so deeply you may has well have died right on the spot.

"Time and date 0202493192: God must be a woman to make men that fine." You decided that there was no God, if there was then he or she or whatever omnipotent being they were would have pity on your soul and allow your body to combust into flames instead of sitting there.

"Time and date 0221527010: He can break all two-hundred and seven of my bones." There was no blood left in your face, you were sure of it. It pulsed rapidly and loudly through your thudding heart and directly into your ears. Your brain couldn't pick between being embarrassed or downright mortified, a violent chill settling into your bones as the startling realization settled over you... this was the end... your life was over... just because you found the three men a few feet away from you devilishly handsome and you couldn't keep your damn horny mouth shut.

"Time and date 0940251637: I would let him step on my throat."

"Oh that one was actually-" You held up a finger to correct that that particular comment was made by your friend in payroll whom which you shared a similar horny braincell, but quickly decided against it. "You know what, I'll take responsibility for all of them... there's really no need to keep reading."

"For the case of this investigations, were all of these inappropriate comments directed at an individual or a collective?"

"It was, it was um... all. All of them."

"Any one of these comments could be classified as a serious offense, and you are in clear violation of several company policies." Her words barely registered in the haze that set in around you. This was it, your life was ruined... you were dead, and this was hell, it had to be... "And if they agree to follow through, I can have you fired by-"

The sound of metal screeching as Axel stood up from his seat silenced the HR representative. All three brothers shared a quick look before Otto and Oscar stood as well, tossing the files that had been placed before them back onto the table sloppily. Otto's eyes were glued to yours as Axel slightly shook his head at the woman at the end of the table.

"Byråkratisk skitsnack." He sneered before walking past you to leave the room. You had no idea what it meant, but from the offended gasping noise Cheryl made, you were sure she did. The other two men followed their brother shortly after, Oscar making teasing kissing faces at you as he exited through the door.

What just happened?

Both you and HR sat in a moment of stunned silence, obviously this meeting hadn't gone the way either of you expected. With the Swedes gone, you found the courage and sense of self determination to look at the woman again. You raised an eyebrow and looked behind you at the doorway, silently asking if this meant you could leave.

"One more slip up and I'll file for your termination, clear?" As much as you wanted to think of a snappy comeback to the woman who had just lost all the power she wrongly thought she had, your flight or fight response was still in full gear and you suddenly forgot all that was the English language. All you did was bite your bottom lip and nod before slowly rising from the chair and returning back to work.

Curious coworkers asked throughout the day if you were alright, the sense of dread still clawing at your heart at the utter humiliation that you had received... but there was no one to blame but yourself, you probably got what you deserved for making such comments in a professional environment. You briefly considered taking a vow of silence, never to speak again in penance for your sins.

The vow ended rather quickly after Dot offered you treats from her candy stash in an attempt to lighten your mood.

Everything will go back to normal, just don't think about them... ever again... You obsessively chanted to yourself while staring blankly at the copier and munching on your third candy bar. The mechanical machine whirred loudly as it spit out page after page of references that were needed for your current case. It was so loud, in fact, that you weren't aware that another person had entered the room until you felt a sharp pinch on your ass.

You suppressed the urge to scream as you jumped back, mind now alert as you whipped around to see the culprit.

Now standing a few feet away was one of the very same men with platinum blond hair that you were trying so actively to purge out of your mind. You had never admitted it to anyone else out loud, but secretly you did favor one brother more than the others... the slight mannerisms and the way that he held himself causing many obsessive dreams on lonely nights.

And here he was... alone... the closest he has ever been.

"Hi." You greeted dumbly, not even confident enough to say his name. Your eyes flickered from the ground back to his face before holding out your chocolate. "Kit-kat?"

His face remained neutral as he reached out and broke off a section from the bar, eyeing you up and down more properly than before.

"You know my name." He remarked before biting the chocolate wafer in half and slightly gestured his chin towards you. "Yours?"

You told him, a bit surprised that he didn't seem to know it after that disaster of a confrontation. Had he not read through the accusations? Or if you were such an unnoteworthy person to him, why was he here... talking to you?

He's going to kill you, you pervert.

"Do you eat?" Just as you were preparing to plea pathetically for your life, you were instead caught completely offguard. Confusion overtook you as your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to understand the question.

"Eat? You mean like... eat food?" You asked slowly, mind going completely blank as you watched him pop the rest of the wafer in his mouth and chew slowly. Even with something so small, your knees were going weak at the close proximity. You shook your head gently to refocus, dangerous thoughts like these were what got you into trouble in the first place. "Um, I guess? Yes?"

"Good. Six o'clock, pervers." He declared firmly with a stony expression before turning to walk away. Unintelligent noises of sputtering and half words left your mouth as you moved to walk with him, keeping a bit of a distance as you held your copies tightly against your chest.

"Six o'clock what?"

"You eat dinner, with me. Or I step on your neck, your choice." He said casually, eyes keeping straight ahead as he spoke... almost ignoring that you were even there.

"What? Where? Why?" Even though you were trying to whisper as you paced through the hall, your voice was rising in octaves as each question left your lips with little filter. He stopped his long stride abruptly, inadvertently causing you to flinch as he turned back to look at you. The slightest ghost of a smile toyed at his lips as he stared you down like a hunter with eyes on its game. You remained as still as humanly possible as he leaned down to speak in your ear.

"I will find you."

You watched him turn around once again and strut down the hallway like a man on a mission while you stood there, mouth gaping like a goldfish. He was coming for you, that much was certain... There was no where or time that you could possibly hide from the not-so-secret item of your affection.

Should you be horny or terrified?

Both. You decided. Both sounded good.

#the swedes #the swedes x reader #tua the swedes #ikea mafia #hbd jossambird #the umbrella academy x reader #axel x reader #otto x reader #oscar x reader

103 notes · View notes

jenniferisacommonname · 3 years

Text

Bonus Level Unlocked

This week marks the release of Jason Schreier’s Press Reset, an incredibly well-researched book on catastrophic business failure in the gaming industry. Jason’s a good dude, and there’s an excerpt here if you want to check it out. Sadly, game companies going belly-up is such a common occurrence that he couldn’t possibly include them all, and one of the stories left out due to space constraints is one that I happen to be personally familiar with. So, I figured I’d tell it here.

I began working at Acclaim Studios Austin as a sound designer in January of 2000. It was a tumultuous period for the company, including a recent rebranding from their former studio name, “Iguana Entertainment,” and a related, ongoing lawsuit from the ex-founder of Iguana. There were a fair number of ghosts hanging around—the creative director’s license plate read IGUANA, which he never changed, and one of the meeting rooms held a large, empty terrarium—but the studio had actually been owned on paper by Acclaim since 1995, and I didn’t notice any conflicting loyalties. Everyone acted as if we always had been, and always would be, Acclaim employees.

Over the next few years I worked on a respectable array of triple-A titles, including Quarterback Club 2002, Turok: Evolution, and All-Star Baseball 2002 through 2005. (Should it be “All-Stars Baseball,” like attorneys general? Or perhaps a term of venery, like “a zodiac of All-Star Baseball.”) At any rate, it was a fun place to work, and a platformer of hijinks ensued.

But let’s skip to the cutscene. The truth is that none of us in the trenches suspected the end was near until it was absolutely imminent. Yes, Turok: Evolution and Vexx had underperformed, especially when stacked against the cost of development, but games flop in the retail market all the time. And, yes, Showdown: Legends of Wrestling had been hustled out the door before it was ready for reasons no one would explain, and the New York studio’s release of a BMX game featuring unlockable live-action stripper footage had been an incredibly weird marketing ploy for what should have been a straightforward racing title. (Other desperate gimmicks around this time included a £6,000 prize for UK parents who would name their baby “Turok,” an offer to pay off speeding tickets to promote Burnout 2 that quickly proved illegal, and an attempt to buy advertising space on actual tombstones for a Shadow Man sequel.)

But the baseball franchise was an annual moneymaker, and our studio had teams well into development on two major new licenses, 100 Bullets and The Red Star. Enthusiasm was on the upswing. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention when voice actors started calling me to complain that they hadn’t been paid, but at the time it seemed more like a bureaucratic failure than an actual money shortage—and frankly, it was a little naïve of them to expect net-30 in the first place. Industry standard was, like, net-90 at best. So I was told.

Then one Friday afternoon, a few department managers got word that we’d kind of maybe been skipping out on the building lease for let’s-not-admit-how-many months. By Monday morning, everyone’s key cards had been deactivated.

It's a little odd to arrive at work and find a hundred-plus people milling around outside—even odder, I suppose, if your company is not the one being evicted. Acclaim folks mostly just rolled their eyes and debated whether to cut our losses and head to lunch now, while employees of other companies would look dumbfounded and fearful before being encouraged to push their way through the crowd and demonstrate their still-valid key card to the security guard. Finally, the General Manager (hired only a few months earlier, and with a hefty relocation bonus to accommodate his houseboat) announced that we should go home for the day and await news. Several of our coworkers were veterans of the layoff process—like I said, game companies go under a lot—and one of them had already created a Yahoo group to communicate with each other on the assumption that we’d lose access to our work email. A whisper of “get on the VPN and download while you can” rippled through the crowd.

But the real shift in tone came after someone asked about a quick trip inside for personal items, and the answer was a hard, universal “no.” We may have been too busy or ignorant to glance up at any wall-writing, but the building management had not been: they were anticipating a full bankruptcy of the entire company. In that situation, all creditors have equal standing to divide up a company's assets in lengthy court battles, and most get a fraction of what they’re owed. But if the landlords had seized our office contents in lieu of rent before the bankruptcy was declared, they reasoned, then a judge might rule that they had gotten to the treasure chest first, and could lay claim to everything inside as separate from the upcoming asset liquidation.

Ultimately, their gambit failed, but the ruling took a month to settle. In the meantime, knick knacks gathered dust, delivered packages piled up, food rotted on desks, and fish tanks became graveyards. Despite raucous protest from every angle—the office pets alone generated numerous threats of animal cruelty charges—only one employee managed to get in during this time, and only under police escort. He was a British citizen on a work visa, and his paperwork happened to be sitting on his desk, due to expire. Without it, he was facing literal deportation. Fortunately, a uniformed officer took his side (or perhaps just pre-responded to what was clearly a misdemeanor assault in ovo,) and after some tense discussion, the building manager relented, on the condition that the employee touch absolutely nothing beyond the paperwork in question. The forms could go, but the photos of his children would remain.

It’s also a little odd, by the way, to arrive at the unemployment office and find every plastic chair occupied by someone you know. Even odder, I suppose, if you’re actually a former employee of Acclaim Studios Salt Lake, which had shut down only a month or two earlier, and you just uprooted your wife and kids to a whole new city on the assurance that you were one of the lucky ones who got to stay employed. Some of them hadn’t even finished unpacking.

Eventually, we were allowed to enter the old office building one at a time and box up our things under the watchful eye of a court appointee, but by then our list of grievances made the landlords’ ploy seem almost quaint by comparison (except for the animals, which remains un-fucking-forgivable.) We had learned, for example, that in the weeks prior to the bankruptcy, our primary lender had made an offer of $15 million—enough to keep us solvent through our next batch of releases, two of which had already exited playtesting and were ready to be burned and shipped. The only catch was that the head of the board, company founder Greg Fischbach, would have to step down. This was apparently too much of an insult for him to stomach, and he decided that he'd rather see everything burn to the ground. The loan was refused.

Other “way worse than we thought” details included gratuitous self-dealing to vendors owned by board members, the disappearance of expensive art from the New York offices just before closure, and the theft of our last two paychecks. For UK employees, it was even more appalling: Acclaim had, for who knows how long, been withdrawing money from UK paychecks for their government-required pension funds, but never actually putting the money into the retirement accounts. They had stolen tens of thousands of dollars directly from each worker.

Though I generally reside somewhere between mellow and complete doormat on the emotional spectrum, I did get riled enough to send out one bitter email—not to anyone in corporate, but to the creators of a popular webcomic called Penny Arcade, who, in the wake of Acclaim’s bankruptcy announcement, published a milquetoast jibe about Midway’s upcoming Area 51. I told Jerry (a.k.a. “Tycho”) that I was frankly disappointed in their lack of cruelty, and aired as much dirty laundry as I was privy to at the time.

“Surely you can find a comedic gem hidden somewhere in all of this!” I wrote. “Our inevitable mocking on PA has been a small light at the end of a very dark, very long tunnel. Please at least allow us the dignity of having a smile on our faces while we wait in line for food stamps.”

Two days later, a suitably grim comic did appear, implying the existence of a new release from Acclaim whose objective was to run your game company into the ground. In the accompanying news post, Tycho wrote:

“We couldn’t let the Acclaim bankruptcy go without comment, though we initially let it slide thinking about the ordinary gamers who lost their jobs there. They don’t have anything to do with Acclaim’s malevolent Public Relations mongrels, and it wasn’t they who hatched the Titty Bike genre either. Then, we remembered that we have absolutely zero social conscience and love to say mean things.”

Another odd experience, by the way, is digging up a 16-year-old complaint to a webcomic creator for nostalgic reference when you offer that same creator a promotional copy of the gaming memoir you just co-wrote with Sid Meier. Even odder, I suppose, to realize that the original non-Acclaim comic had been about Area 51, which you actually were hired to work on yourself soon after the Acclaim debacle.*

As is often the case in complex bankruptcies, the asset liquidation took another six years to fully stagger its way through court—but in 2010, we did, surprisingly, get the ancient paychecks we were owed, plus an extra $1,700-ish for the company’s apparent violation of the WARN Act. By then, I had two kids and a very different life, for which the money was admittedly helpful. Sadly, Acclaim’s implosion probably isn’t even the most egregious one on record. Our sins were, to my knowledge, all money-related, and at least no one was ever sexually assaulted in our office building. Again, to my knowledge. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure we remain the only historical incident of corporate pet murder. The iguana got out just in time.

*Area 51’s main character was voiced by David Duchovny, and he actually got paid—which was lucky for him, because three years later, Midway also declared bankruptcy.

18 notes · View notes

bentforkent · 4 years

Text

to the moon and to saturn - chapter two

spencer reid x fem!reader

navigation and summary

there is a version of this story featuring my oc sara on my wattpad and ao3!

word count: 3,559

content warnings: alcohol mentions

previous chapter | next chapter

betty

spencer has a recurring dream about her. in this dream, it’s y/n’s 18th birthday. his brain doesn’t know what she looks like past age seven, so dream-y/n has her youthful face on an adult body. her eyes crinkle at the edges when she smiles. she’s holding a birthday cake that’s covered in lit candles. there’s no indication that spencer baked the pink, sloppily-frosted cake, but in his dream, he knows he did.

she holds the cake out towards him. “make a wish, spencer,” she says, her voice sounding far away and warbled. “it’s not my birthday, love,” he insists, swiping some of the frosting and brushing it across her cheek.

she grins and sets the cake down on the round table in front of her. “sure, but i want to share mine with you.” she pulls out a box, gift wrapped in bright yellow paper with a large blue bow on top. he always wakes up before he can ever open it.

he gets this dream once a month without fail. it’s pathetic, he thinks. he hasn’t even seen y/n in twenty years. he’s doesn’t even know her, to be frank. and yet he thinks about her constantly. he---and his therapist, of course---chalk this up to the abandonment he felt when she never came back. she didn’t even say goodbye. spencer thinks about this often, wondering if it was his fault. he wonders if any or all of the horrible things he’s been through have been his fault. his sick brain tells him yes, yes they are.

often, when spencer thinks of y/n, he imagines her in some incredible life. a spy, maybe. he knows it’s unlikely that she’s a princess or bank robber now, but he doesn’t put it past her. he doesn’t have enough memories of her, so every play-pretend game they played as children supplements what he knows about her, creating at least some whole adult person for him to fantasize about. she’s become almost a fictional character in the movie of his life. he wishes that they weren’t estranged, wishes that he could know the real y/n instead of whatever caricature of her he’s created. even if she actually was a bank robber. he just wants to know.

wait. he just wants to know.

spencer is lounged on his couch, cardigan long tossed aside, tie long undone. he’s been home from work for a few hours now, an easy paperwork day cutting his day short. he takes half of a second to make his decision, then pulls out his phone.

------

“i need you to look someone up for me,” y/n says nonchalantly, flicking through a cheesy magazine. they’re laying on penelope’s bed, tv in the other room playing a rerun episode of “the office” just loud enough for them to hear. penelope has one hand in a bowl of popcorn, and one on her laptop scrolling mindlessly through some geeky website y/n can’t comprehend.

y/n had seen spencer that evening on her way to penelope’s house. at least she thought she did. y/n was stopped at a red light, staring straight ahead at the crosswalk before her. living in a decently populated city, there were always fun characters crossing the street, and while y/n had once been in awe of the medley of people living in dc, she’d become used to it, and stopped paying attention. at red lights, she usually takes time to relax, letting her eyes glaze over before the switch to green and the restart of traffic. but before she could check out for her 15 seconds of a mental break, she saw a long haired figure hunched over a book, crossing the street directly in front of her car.

granted, y/n hasn’t seen spencer in twenty years. she has no clue what he looks like nowadays, but everything from his ray bradbury book to his lanky frame to his beat up converse was familiar. her eyes clung to him, desperate to catch a glimpse of his face, but it never came. and y/n felt like she was going crazy. of all the places in the world, there’s no way that spencer reid’s life path had taken him all the way from nevada to the exact same city she lived in.

but she didn’t have to wonder, or anxiously await the next time she saw the man by chance, because her best friend was a techy genius and no one could hide from her. y/n decided then, at that red light, that she’d ask penelope to find spencer, something she couldn’t even picture herself wanting just thirty seconds earlier.

y/n’s attempt at casually bringing the topic up is futile, because a.) penelope garcia is a very nosy woman, and b.)....penelope garcia is a very nosy woman. in all of the best ways. “who?” she inquires excitedly, halting all motion that could distract her from this very important conversation.

“it’s kind of a long story,” y/n says, closing her magazine and sitting up. she crosses her legs, a seating pose that indicates that she’s devoting everything to explaining this to penelope. “so, when i was really little, there was this boy…”

and the suspense is killing penelope. y/n’s launched into this whole story about blanket forts, and being young, and blah blah blah whatever, but she’s not giving up her male protagonist’s name. penelope has her hands poised at her keyboard, ready to give y/n a location, occupation, and criminal record in less than 30 seconds, but she just needs to know his name. y/n talks, and talks, and talks, and penelope, as the good friend and listener she is, doesn’t interrupt once except to ask a question.

(“so your mom was sleeping with his dad?”

“yes! my own mother! i know, right?”)

y/n’s oblivious to the fact that penelope is on the edge of her seat, hanging on her every single word, just waiting, waiting, agonizingly waiting for a name.

“once, i even put jell-o down a girl’s shirt for this kid,” y/n laughs. “it was cherry flavored, i’ll never forget. my first badass moment.” she stops her story with a shared chuckle, and a silence settles over the two women for a moment.

“so, did you want me to find this prince charming, or…” penelope waggles her fingers over her keyboard as to emphasize her point.

“oh! yeah! his name is-----”

penelope’s phone rings, and they let out a frustrated groan in unison. y/n flops back into her laying down position, knowing that when penelope’s phone rings, it almost never bodes well for wine nights.

----------

“garcia!” spencer greets as soon as she answers.

“as much as i’m excited to hear from my favorite doctor-profiler-boy-genius, i wonder to what do i owe this pleasure?” penelope glances over at y/n, who has already found her way back into her cosmopolitan magazine.

“hey, i was wondering if you could look someone up for me. i know technically it’s not ethical but---”

“do you have a name for me, wonder boy?” penelope asks. she’s not waiting a second longer for him to spill, lest she gets trapped in yet another long-winded backstory.

“uh, yeah. y/n y/l/n. she---,” spencer speaks, and is immediately transferred to hold, with a short and excited “wait!” from garcia. sure, she feels bad for cutting him off twice now during the short span of their phone call, but this? this is major.

“y/n, tell me his name is spencer reid,” penelope says, voice coming out rushed and full of eagerness.

y/n’s eyes go wide. penelope was really good at her job. she got his name just from her little jell-o story? “yeah, it is, pen!” y/n laughs. “what’s he up to these days?”

penelope covers the receiver of her phone even though spencer was on hold and couldn’t hear her anyways. “he’s on the phone with me! we work together! we’re like, super close! y/n!” penelope is emphasizing her words with crazy hand gestures, the clinking of her bracelets serving as enthusiastic punctuation.

y/n doesn’t really know how to respond to this information. “he’s FBI?” she asks, stupidly.

“that is so far beyond the point!” penelope exclaims. “he’s the guy i was texting you about earlier today, the one i wanted to set you up with!”

y/n, with a big goofy grin on her face, tosses a piece of popcorn at her head, watching as it gets stuck in one of her ponytails. “take him off of hold, penny!” excitement courses through her veins. she had seen him earlier. what are the odds?

spencer paces anxiously in his apartment. she’d dead. y/n is dead, and garcia’s trying to find the best way to tell him. that’s why she put him on hold, he knows. there’s a crackle in the phone, and garcia’s voice rings through the speaker. “spencer?” she asks, making sure he’s still on the line. there’s giggling on her end, pulling him to the conclusion that whatever garcia was about to say, at least y/n’s not dead.

“yeah, garcia?” spencer says, too on edge to say more than a few words at a time.

“i’ve got probably a million and one things to tell you about a certain y/n y/l/n,” garcia says, voice mischievous. on her end, there’s a squawk of protest followed by some shuffling.

spencer waits patiently, and then garcia’s voice is back. “i’ve got her right here with me, actually.”

spencer, overwhelmed with nerves, hangs up immediately.

“he hung up!” penelope screams, and the two women burst into laughter. penelope’s hunched over at her laptop, cackling.

“i can’t believe he hung up,” y/n says through her fit of giggles.

“you have to come to our work get-together this weekend and see him, y/n. spencer’s hosting!” penelope says.

“he clearly doesn’t want to talk to me,” y/n says jokingly, and they laugh again. not at the boy, but at the scenario. “also, no! no ‘get-togethers.’ you know i don’t do parties.”

------

y/n’s on her way to the party. it took all of 15 seconds for penelope to convince her to be her plus-one. all she had to do is say the words “casual” and “wine” and y/n was in. she tried to ignore the fact that it would just be penelope’s coworkers, one of them being her estranged best friend, and her. at spencer’s apartment, nonetheless. it was bound to be awkward, but y/n tried to focus less on that and more on how excited penelope was to introduce her to spencer. re-introduce her, rather.

penelope offered to drive y/n to alleviate some of her nerves, and y/n accepted graciously. neither one of them had talked about spencer since the phone call, except for penelope casually mentioning that spencer hadn’t brought up y/n to her at work at all. they’d all spent the week in limbo, then. the drive to spencer’s apartment is generally silent, penelope jumping in with words of affirmation every so often, if not to calm y/n then just to make her laugh. y/n’s leg bounces as she looks out of the window of penelope’s car.

when they arrive, after penelope’s parked, she turns to y/n. “y/n. you are colorful, beautiful, perfect, and every other nice word i can think of. everything will be fine. but if, by some odd, unpredictable chance, everything is not fine, say the word and we will be out of there faster than you can say ‘penny.’” y/n pulls her into a tight hug, and penelope can feel her heart beating.

“what if he just tells me to, like, fuck off?” y/n murmurs.

“reid would never. he could never,” penelope says. with that reassurance, they get out of her car and head up to the party.

-------

y/n stares at spencer’s front door as penelope knocks. the paint on it is chipping, she notes. spencer swings open the door and hoots erupt through the apartment.

“garcia’s here!”

“hey, garcia!”

“babygirl!”

everyone’s calling for her, so she snakes past spencer and into his home with a pat on his chest. he’s stuck in the doorway and y/n’s stuck in the hall. neither of them know what to say to each other, so they’re sticking to intense eye contact and nervous foot shuffling. y/n’s here, at his apartment. he’s shocked. she’s real, she’s here, and here is his apartment.

“you look the same,” they say at the same time, and then, at the absurdity of the situation, they laugh together. y/n, feeling empowered by the diffusion of the tension, wraps her arms around him in a hug. he’s broad, she notes. he hugs her tightly, holding on a second too long as compensation for the fact that he’d never know when their last hug had been their last.

“come in, come in,” spencer says. as he’s ushering her inside, hand against her lower back, he speaks again. y/n’s acutely aware of his coworkers eyes on her, but she’s distracted by his voice. “did you know that we begin to forget childhood memories while we’re in childhood still? younger children remember 60 percent of early life events, and that goes down by 20 percent in just a year or two.”

“hmm, so it’s weird that you remember me, then?” y/n teases as he hands her a glass of white wine.

“well, i don’t, really,” he admits, and y/n hums in agreement against the rim of her drink.

penelope calls y/n over to where she’s sitting and introduces her to the team. y/n takes notes. penelope never really combines her work and her play, telling y/n it’s to keep her safe, so y/n revels in this insight into her best friend’s life.

jj, the pretty blonde, seems to be the glue of the group, y/n judges. emily’s guarded, but fun, and y/n sees a lot of herself in her. derek is penelope’s favorite, y/n knows, and it’s not hard to figure out why. he’s attractive, but more than that, he’s charismatic and intelligent. y/n can’t get a good read on hotch, but she likes him well enough. rossi’s her favorite, though, his laidback, cool demeanor just mysterious enough to pique her curiosity. y/n greets everyone with a warm hello and a short introduction, and finds her place at penelope’s side.

she’s out of place for sure, but the team tries their hardest to include her. they’ve got great chemistry as a group, and y/n wins their favor when she cracks a dry joke that gets everyone laughing. she can feel spencer’s eyes on her the whole night, but she doesn’t indulge him by looking back. she’s too nervous. he keeps her glass filled all night, a gracious host, and when she thanks him each time he gives her a shaky smile. he’s nervous too, she realizes.

when people start filtering out, y/n realizes she’d hardly spoken to spencer all night, save for some light small talk with others. she’d really like to get him alone, but she doesn’t want to overstep. spencer looks at her intently when she stands to leave with garcia. he wants to get her alone, but he doesn’t want to overstep. be bold, spencer, he thinks. it’s just y/n. but it’s not just y/n anymore. they aren’t kids anymore, blindly bonded to one another out of convenience. there’s nothing tying them together anymore except for some flimsy memories, and this scares spencer. y/n’s also insanely beautiful. this adds to his nerves. it’s not too often he has a pretty girl in his apartment alone.

“you can stay longer if you want, y/n. i’ll drive you home,” spencer says, his words surprising even himself. his eyebrows furrow and y/n wants to smooth the crease in his forehead with her thumb.

“okay,” she says softly, turning to penelope. “i’ll see you tomorrow, pen?” they embrace, and penelope says her bright goodbyes. when she leaves, y/n leans against the closed front door, staring at spencer expectantly.

“do you want another drink?” he asks her, unsure of what to do with his hands.

“no, i think i’m sufficiently tipsy-adjacent,” y/n jokes, placing her hands decidedly on spencer’s shoulders. “i think you and i should talk.”

“yeah,” spencer replies, his amber eyes searching hers. “we can sit outside.” he leads her to his balcony, and takes a seat on his outdoor couch.

“it looks like it might rain,” y/n says lamely, sitting next to him, close enough for their thighs to touch.

“did you know women are more likely to give a man their phone number on a sunny day rather than a cloudy one? there’s only a 14% success rate when it’s rainy, as opposed to a 22% success rate when the sun’s out.”

“that’s interesting, spencer. were you planning on asking for my number?” y/n asks jokingly. spencer flushes at the question, stammering a defense. “just kidding. you sure do know a lot of stuff, don’t you?”

“sure,” he says with a bite of his lip. “i have three phds. what i don’t know, though, is where you went when you left vegas. or why you left vegas. or…”

“or why i didn’t tell you i was leaving?” y/n finishes for him. he gives a small nod, embarrassed to admit how much it affected him, and y/n frowns. she lays the palm of her hand against his face, rubbing her thumb against his cheekbone. spencer’s taken aback by the affectionate action, but leans into her touch anyways. y/n holds that position for a minute, surveying his features. she’s not ready to tell him the story, honestly. it’s humiliating. save from the fact that her mom essentially ruined his parents’ marriage; she didn’t know the nature of spencer’s relationship with his father now. for all she knows, it’d done a complete 180 in the past 20 years, and she’d ruin everything with her anecdote. no, she couldn’t risk this. spencer looked too pretty under the moonlight, was too nice to her tonight.

“would you be mad if i didn’t want to talk about that yet?” she asks, tracing her finger down the bridge of his nose. spencer feels a little relieved by this. he’s prepared for that conversation to be a heavy one, prepared for her to say she left because of him. because he wasn’t good enough for her. he doesn’t think he can handle that confirmation tonight, so he welcomes the change in subject.

“can we just...start over?” spencer says.

y/n nods. “hi, i’m y/n,” she holds her hand out to shake, finally removing it from against his face. spencer takes it with a small smile.

“i’m spencer,” he replies. they sit in silence for a while, watching the stars. the moment is long, but it feels like they’re suspended in time. like the cars and people underneath them have come to a standstill. spencer reckons y/n’s always had that effect on him, but the hustle of the city disappearing around him makes it much more pronounced. spencer steals a quick glance at her. she looks so serene. he wonders if she’s thinking as much as he is, or if she’s simply appreciating the city sounds and night air.

“are you thinking as much as i am?” y/n pipes up, breaking the silence.

spencer shakes his head incredulously with a chuckle. “you took the words right out of my mouth.”

y/n turns to face him, pulling her knees to her chest. “tell me a story. like you used to.” when spencer’s gaze meets hers, y/n’s hand moves to tuck a piece of his hair behind his ear, the movement nearly involuntary. there’s a low rumble of thunder, but it sounds far away.

“okay,” spencer says, neither one of them breaking eye contact. he remembers her eyes being much more vibrant, but he likes the true hue better. and whenever she thought of him, y/n had always imagined glasses, like when he was a child, but being able to see his face clearly is so much better.

“actually,” y/n starts. she finishes her statement by pressing her lips against spencer’s firmly. he threads his hands through her hair and pulls her closer to him, letting out a soft moan. the kiss is passionate, but not lustful. it’s gentle and full of energy. y/n nips at spencer’s bottom lip. he tastes like sangria. his hand travels to the side of her face, thumb rubbing against her cheek slowly. he kisses her like she's oxygen and he’s never had a breath of fresh air in his life.

after a minute, y/n pulls away slowly, resting her forehead on his. “okay, now you can tell me a story.”

spencer presses another chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth. “how do you expect me to remember anything right now?”

y/n grins, pulling away from their intimate position and turning to face the stars. “i can wait. i’ve got all night.”

#aw so cute would be a shame if someone added...angst #hehe #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #matthew gray gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler smut #matthew gray gubler fluff #Spencer Reid angst #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds smut #my writing #to the moon and to saturn #to the moon and to saturn chapter two #Spencer Reid x you

129 notes · View notes