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angeli-marco-writes · 2 years

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Chris Evans - The Intern

A/N & WC - I know absolutely fuck all about American politics, other than what’s in the news and in RWRB: I’m British. However I read a TikTok comment that said ‘[in D.C.] it’s an open secret that Chris Evans regularly hooks up with 20 y/o congressional interns when he’s here promoting his foundation,’ and I obviously don't know if this is true or false, but this idea spawned. *EDIT: I have since been notified that this rumour is untrue, and I offer my sincerest apologies for this. I will once again reiterate that this is a work of FICTION and is not to be taken seriously, especially not when Chris’ career and political platform are taken into account.

This is kinda coworkers to lovers/boss&employee to lovers/she hates him he loves her to lovers? I specify reader's height and education but feel free to change it in your head because I just did what worked with this idea, which is fictional. I do not know Chris, nor do I claim to. This is first and foremost a work of fiction. I don't consent to this being posted elsewhere. 12.5k.

Warnings - Chris sleeping with people half his age, politics, bisexual!tall!reader, mild harrassment kinda: Chris keeps pursuing reader when she declines, alcohol consumption, fuckboy behaviour, smut: degradation kink, praise kink, 'Mr' and 'Miss' in bed, slight anal play, oral f rec, protected sex, fingering, slight dom!reader & sub!chris, sort of tattoo kink. 18+ only

Summary - Mr Evans has been trying to get you to sleep with him since he first met you on your internship, yet not a single visit has gone by without him asking you out for drinks, even though you decline each time. But maybe you’re just a little inclined to find out more about how the elusive Mr Evans gets away with breaking so many interns hearts, and maybe you’ll test whether yours can stay intact. Drinks and Mr Evans' natural charm could have you falling faster and harder than you'd realised you could.

AS UNFORTUNATE AS IT MAY SEEM, you can’t remember a single visit from the ASP founders occurring without at least one broken heart. Every single time.

You tell them every time that it’s their own damn fault, that they knew the repercussions when bouncing head first into what was always going to be a one night stand, yet every intern in the office did it anyway. But that niggling part of your mind remains unanswered, and that just won’t stand, not with junior finals as well as one of the biggest political campaigns of your lifetime coming up.

And the visit is this weekend.

Every visit thus far, you’ve also been hit on a minimum of twice. Usually just by one guy, but if it’s anyone else, he makes sure to scare them off just to keep you for himself. You’ve never let him, of course. His reputation of sleeping with (and subsequently ghosting) every intern between 18 and 22 in the entire campaign office is hard to believe and yet incredibly veritable, which makes it all the more disgraceful.

So why is your interest piqued at the thought of some mediocre straight-cis white man who decides he likes politics when he barely scraped a high school GED and didn’t even attend college?

Lord only knows, but you’d like to get to the bottom of it before finals, and before another heart is broken and the campaign is knocked for six.

A smiley, blonde lady no older than 25 beams up at you from the secretary’s desk. “He’ll see you now.”

You adjust a singular pin in your hair, fight the urge to bring your thumb up to your lips, and grip your folder tighter. The office doors open of their own accord, or perhaps the smiley-secretary just pressed a button, but either way, you can hear your heels echoing on the expensive, marble-effect laminate floor that costs probably as much to properly maintain as your yearly college fees.

And there he is, behind a huge sprawling desk that isn’t even his, but that he’s just borrowing for the weekend. The chair, orthopedically designed for the lumbar support of your boss, is currently kicked back fully and is being lounged in by none other than the heart-breaker himself, hands loosely slung behind his head, and his feet up on the thousand-dollar oak desk.

Deep breaths, y/n. Deep breaths.

“Miss y/l/n!” he exclaims, “always a pleasure.”

“I ran those numbers for you, Mr Evans.”

He kicks his feet off the desk, and deigns to straighten his posture for you, a lazy—very unprofessional—smile toying on his lips, half hidden by his close-cropped beard.

“Thank you,” he tells you, voice low, but he hesitates, “you didn’t have to bring them to me, you know.”

“Well, I thought it would be more efficient since it’s been a whole”—I very ostentatiously check my wrist, glimmering with the vintage Cartier watch I saved up for a whole year to buy—“five hours since you requested them, and you haven’t yet been to collect them.” Or hit on any of the barely-legal interns. “And I called Barnaby’s office for you. He says he’s in, and I wrote down what he said, verbatim.”

You take a single step closer to his desk, forgoing a seat on one of the very uncomfortable square things your boss insists on keeping around, and hand him a thick file with a note written in neat, blue-ink shorthand paperclipped on the top.

His blue eyes flicker over your face as he takes them, but you don’t meet his gaze, and make sure he knows that.

“You’re very efficient, Miss y/l/n.”

“Thank you,” you respond, aiming to school your voice into a neutral tone, but when his Bostonian accent takes over, it’s increasingly difficult to keep a straight face.

You know the effect he has on girls, on women, on men, even, but this is something else entirely. You won’t cream your pants just because he shoots you a wry, roguish smile, and you won’t drop everything just to sleep with him. But there is something indescribable and magnetic about him that makes him a very attractive man.

Nonetheless, there are two Mr Evans’. There the suit-clad man sat before you here, playing politician and getting some sick kick out of it. And the other, more well known Mr Evans, with the tattoos and the dirty jokes. He’s a dichotomy to say the least.

“Come, sit. Let’s chat.”

“Actually, I’d rather not, thank you, I have work to do.”

He laughs, deep and pure and warm. It echoes off the walls, off the poor excuse for art strung upon said walls, off the window panes, and hits straight to that spot in the back of your brain that needs to be shut up. Of course.

“Don’t we all?” he jokes. “Just for five minutes.”

You concede, taking a step around the chairs and positioning yourself very carefully down in one. Pencil skirts and stockings are not ideal for chairs as low down as these. You tug at the edges of your blazer once settled, cross your legs at the ankles, mindful of your high heels, and look at him with your carefully perfected, political-intern, people-pleasing smile.

“What are you now, a senior?” he inquires.

“Junior,” you tell him, “I’m just tall.”

He laughs again, this time smaller, and places his elbow right on top of your neatly handwritten note. A shockwave of annoyance ripples through you.

“Howard?”

“Georgetown. Poli-sci.”

“And why did you choose to become a congressional intern?” he asks, intrigue lacing his words.

You roll your eyes, sighing a fraction—as much as is allowed in your high-necked cream blouse. “Is this for your damn website? Because if it is...”

“Just for me,” he explains, and leans over on his desk, papers rustling as his tie knocks them. “I’m interested.”

“Um, well, I’ve always been active in politics, and I have a strong moral compass...” Unlike someone.

“No, no, no.” He stops you, and the air is knocked from your lungs. “Why did you choose to do this?”

This is possibly the first time you’ve genuinely been asked that question, because the real answer isn’t exactly interview friendly.

“Because I’m tired of the way LGBTQ+ youth, and adults, are treated, and this campaign is, in my mind, the best way to make a wider difference, due to both the legal activism and the queer charity support it offers, but on more topics than just queer rights, because the anti-discriminatory policies within this campaign are the best I’ve seen. The anti-racism initiatives, the anti-ableism laws, working against age-old prejudices within this country: I believe we can move forwards into a more accepting world. I believe the future of politics lies here, and I didn’t want to waste time at a New England college when I could be working here whilst getting my degree, and kick start my future while making a difference.”

There’s a brief note of silence, a rustle from outside, footsteps on the faux-marble floor. And then Mr Evans leans back in his chair, fingers straying to his tie while you sit there knotting your fingers together, and he releases a long breath of air.

“And that’s why you’re my favourite intern, and possibly the best in this whole office. Your passion is... unrivalled.” Heat begins to crawl its way up your cheeks as you cross your legs at the knee, your pink tweed skirt pulling a little. “Tell me, are you getting college credit for your internship here?”

You shake your head ‘no’, and have to push a pin back into your hair as it becomes dislodged with the slight movement. You don’t miss the way his eyes follow your every move.

“That changes now. Let me make some calls. With your hard work here and your undoubtedly perfect GPA, I don’t see why this shouldn’t help you graduate summa cum laude and make you valedictorian, if that’s something you’re interested in?”

Only the dream!

“Thank you, Mr Evans, I don’t know what to say... but you really don’t have to do that...”

“Except I do,” he says, voice low with authority, eyes darkening as he meets your gaze across the desk. He’s normally shorter than you, so feeling his looming presence is a change, “because you’re the best intern here, and you deserve more recognition for that.”

“I—” you find yourself stumbling for something to say other than the obvious exercise in futility, but nothing comes. “Thank you, Mr Evans. So much.”

He nods, lips pursed, and picks up a pen, scribbling something on the piece of paper atop the folder you gave him. This, apparently, is your cue to leave.

He stands as you do, and this time, comes around the side of his desk to stand by your side. The sick pleasure you gain from being taller than him now is just that, sick, but he needs knocking down a peg or two. Or ten. Perhaps even the number of notches on his bedpost, but by then he’d be buried underground. However, you must concede that what he’s doing for you is incredible, so even his womanising ways can’t be held above this good deed he’s doing. He might be a fuck-boy, but he’s got a heart of gold, and the means to make dreams come true.

“Thank you again, Mr Evans, and anything you need doing while you’re here, I’m your girl.”

He takes a wide stride to open the door for you. “Aren’t you just.”

His smile, while you expect it to be smarmy, is warm and grateful, maybe even genuine.

“Let me walk with you.”

So you do, and feel his hand brushing yours, the coldness of his rings contrasting the flush of your body, his pinky finger briefly knotting around your own as you walk, side by side, in silence, throughout the office.

“Actually...” he begins once we reach your designated area.

He leans his elbow against your screen, crossing his legs at the ankle in an attempt to look casually suave. That doesn’t work on the same faux-marble laminate floor that spans the area: it’s too squeaky.

“I can offer you two options... a pile of work that only you are capable of completing to a high enough standard, which you will get full credit for, or you can come for a drink with me. Tonight. No strings attached... but you have to wear that suit.”

Even with everything he’s doing for you, you don’t owe him anything, least of all a drink which will undoubtedly lead to mediocre sex. That’s the way it’s been with every other intern in the place for the past 3 years, and you won’t suffer the way they were all stupid enough to.

“Thanks, but I’ll take the work. I’m far better at it,” you say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

He stands and straightens out in concession, “I’ll have my secretary bring it over to you, and I’ll come check on you before the days out, cool?”

“Like a cucumber.”

His presence looms over you as he hovers momentarily, expectant, perhaps, but within a minute he’s walking back along the corridor, the swagger in his stride audible from his Brogues. While you dig into some work on the computer, awaiting the files Mr Evans is sending over for you, you catch a glimpse of his face, as though he cast a final, longing glance back over his shoulder at you.

Of course he didn’t, you correct yourself. He did a good deed. Don’t fall for his trap.

But does it have to be a trap? Even someone with a reputation like Mr Evans could be genuine and kind without an ulterior motive. And maybe you shouldn’t have said no to that drink…

That’s when the pile of work lands on your desk with a thud, a gust of air hitting your face as blondie drops it down.

“Mr Evans says to call him with any questions. His cell number is on the top of the file.”

It’s a good job he’s given you his cell because, judging by this pile of work, you won’t be done in time for drinks, anyway. You shed your pink blazer, pinning together one of the pearl buttons as you drape it over your bag. Only you are capable of completing to a high enough standard… he’d said. If you believe that, and don’t look for the layers of flirtation and pleading beneath his words, you’ll be okay with rejecting what must be his hundredth offer of a drink with him. You won’t be another one of Mr Evans’ congressional intern hook ups. Mind over matter, right?

——

Mr Evans’s eyes are glued to you as you strut through the office, coffee in one hand, book in the other. It’ll be good to get ahead in an elective for once, even if you can’t pay attention to a single word scribbled on the page due to his piercing blue gaze fixed on your hips, your back, your legs, your neck, you.

He’s never tried to hide his watching you before, but this time feels strangely intimate. You have to clear your throat to regain some semblance of composure once you reach your desk, closing your book. It takes everything in you not to let your eyes flit up to where he’s sitting with his secretary. Some strange part of you hopes he’s watching your every move: logging onto the system, stacking your files, pulling out your pen, hanging up your coat…

The white of the marble, the blue of his eyes, the red of your suit. How fitting.

You know what you’re like, and you’re fully aware of what you do. You’re most men’s fantasy, in pencil skirts and frilly blouses and stockings. It’s an awful pity you have virtually zero interest in any of them. Except maybe this one, who, from the first day you met, hasn’t even tried to hide what he thinks of how you look and how you dress. A few moments stand out:

That time you showed up in a red, white and blue combination for the election, and Mr Evans physically groaned, tossing his head back, and held a folder over his groin the entire day.

The yellow ensemble—sunshine yellow—and possibly the only time he hasn’t left the congressional offices with an intern after telling you that you looked like sunshine, and you were the only sunshine he needed.

But perhaps your first meeting has the alacrity to stick in your mind for so long. And that one's on you. When a 6-foot-tall man with arms the size of your head, a close cropped beard and wearing a suit that fits a little too well, it’ll even get your fem-leaning bisexual engine going a little. You’re pretty sure most of the men in the office, gay or otherwise, had their engines revving for him when he laughed like that, and paid minute attention to each and every single person when he spoke to them. You’re all important to him, which is what’s so incredible, not that you’ll ever confess to having thought that.

But then he came over to see the interns, asked each and every one of you your name, your reason for being here, and shook your hands, offering a kiss to each of your cheeks. But something about his attention to you felt... different. It was obvious he was trying to get into everyone’s pants, but his eyes snagged on you, and instead of his office-appropriate smiles he beamed at you, and introduced himself as Chris, alongside insisting on calling you Miss y/l/n, because apparently you’re the most efficient one in the office. It’s good to know he still thinks that.

“That dress looks stunning on you, by the way. Props for dressing like this is an actual office and not a free for all,” he whispered gruff in your ear, sneaking a wink as he pulled away, glancing down at the navy number that pinched in at the waist and fell to your kneecaps as though perfectly tailored for you, paired with an emerald green blazer.

He has a point: people will come straight from college in their God-damn pyjama bottoms and no one will say anything. Of course you’re all for comfort and wearing what you please, but President Biden could come around any day, and they’d look like that. It was the first time you’d been seen, though, since most of the time people think you’re funny for dressing this way to go to work, and oftentimes college as well. But you’re at a top college studying one of the most competitive majors, while working as an intern 5 days a week: forgive you if you’d like to dress like it. It was just... nice, to be seen by Mr Evans.

Then he hit on you for half an hour before you point blank told him not in this lifetime, but he’s never stopped fawning over you. Perhaps until yesterday…

He didn’t even try to flirt after you rejected his offer for drinks in order to do work, and today, there’s not a single broken heart around the office, and he’s been in the office since apparently 8am. That’s never happened before.

Your heart begins to stutter strangely in your chest, driving you to place a hand over your sternum, swallowing thickly. Then…

“Morning, Miss Y/l/n. Did you get that work done for me?”

Think of the devil and he shall appear, ice-mint and whiskey breath, freshly pressed suit and tie, authority and looming presence.

“I’m almost done, just one section left,” you explain, eyes focussed on your screen.

“On my desk in an hour.”

Your eyes flutter shut, your red-stained lip drawn between your teeth. “On it, Sir.”

But he doesn’t leave like you expect him to, but instead just lingers, his breathing shallow. He watches as you open the server and create a fresh document and spreadsheet, pasting in the same titles you’ve used for every other section within the file he gave you yesterday. With your fountain pen, you begin to jot down notes in your neat shorthand, but Mr Evans is still there, apparently reading over your shoulder. A sigh escapes your lips before you straighten up.

“May I help you Mr Evans?” you ask politely.

“No…” he trails off, “I just wondered how you work, what brings your efficiency out, and apparently me being around is a distraction.”

You scoff a little, tapping the end of your pen on the desk rhythmically, in time with the tap of your heels. “Don’t flatter yourself. But, if you’d like to watch me, feel free to pull up a chair.”

He hums and ahhs for a moment before reaching for a rolling chair from a nearby cubicle, and positioning himself behind you.

“I do like to watch.”

“Hmm, I bet you do.”

With the proximity, he can’t have missed the way your lips curl into a threatening smirk. You meticulously chose the shade of your lipstick to match the scarlet of your wide-leg, high-waist trouser-suit for today.

“You don’t usually wear makeup,” he observes curiously, his voice a semitone lower than his previous flirtatious statement.

“Not usually, but I do like lipstick. It makes an outfit that much more striking.”

His slow exhale carries a slight whistle, and, if the creak of his chair is anything to go by, he’s leaning back with a casual air, and manspreading. You’re a simple woman: manspreading on a man like Mr Evans is always attractive, hence why it’s so hard to keep your focus on your work all of a sudden, even more so when he says, “You can say that again, fucking hell…”

A laugh bubbles up your throat, but you don’t let him hear it as you get your head down and work. Your college work for the semester is almost done and, Mr Evans was right yesterday, you have an untarnished 4.0 GPA, so you’ve not got too much to worry about, especially not if you’re going to be receiving college credit for the hours upon hours you’ve spent as a congressional intern since your move to D.C.

You’re finished with your work within the hour and move onto something else whether noticed or not, and other than the occasional squeak of shoes on the marble-style flooring, or the creak of his chair as he clears his throat, you’re mostly unaware of Mr Evans’ looming presence behind you. You can’t say the same for your sense of smell though, his cologne slowly moving from being an attack on your nostrils to being a pleasant warm hug, though unusual all the same.

You push your chair out from beneath your desk and curl a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Mr Evans? It’s elevenses, can I get you anything from the kitchenette? That is, provided you still want to supervise me now I’ve finished those files you asked for.”

You pick them up with an unmanicured hand, and dump them lightly in his lap, startling him from his slouched position. He’s definitely too relaxed for work. No wonder he thinks you’re the most efficient if this is how he himself works.

“Shit, you’re fast. I’ll grab coffee and a donut thanks. And yes, I will be supervising you.”

You don’t even bother to ask why because he won’t have formulated an answer just yet, and if you were to ask it you couldn’t ask it too quickly, too repeatedly, or even too slowly, because one thing you’ve learnt over the past few years with your congressional office working closely with ASP, Mr Evans gets very easily confused and flustered, and would undoubtedly just blurt out some shite along the lines of ‘to spend time with you’ which is borth cringey and uncalled for, not to mention completely false and just another attempt to get into your pants. He does that all the time with the other interns, and for some reason, they all fall for it—quite literally: they fall at his feet. You can tell by the state of their knees the next day—almost as bad as their hearts. Your knees are so used to being in heels that they quite possibly couldn’t cope with such a thing.

What a good thing you’re a top…

No.

Nope, eject those thoughts, and just get Mr Evans the donut he wants—jam and sugared, as you’ve somehow discovered over time—and his coffee—black.

You turn on your heel and begin to strut back to your cubicle when one of Mr Evans’ ex-conquests suddenly appears in front of you, blonde hair falling in reams around her shoulders, still wearing… last night’s party dress apparently, with an oversized sweatshirt and air forces. It’s a look, most certainly, but your mind flutters back to Mr Evans’ comment on the first day. ‘Props for dressing like this is an actual office and not a free for all.’

And then she’s speaking to you for the first time since you told her she was stupid to sleep with Mr Evans considering he’s 1– kind of their boss, and 2– a notorious playboy and heartbreaker. She doesn’t seem to care about your honesty right now, though.

“Oh my God, why is Mr Evans sitting at your desk? Did you finally give in to him?” she inquires.

You scoff, but secure your hold around your coffees and donuts nonetheless. “What? No. Why would I?”

“No reason,” she hums, “you just look real cosy.”

“He’s supervising me, apparently.” You roll your eyes, but don’t miss her performative lip-bite.

“I reckon he likes you, y’know.”

“Well that’d be nice if I was even remotely interested,” you say, you assume honestly, so why does it feel like a weight has sunk to the very pit of your stomach. It definitely isn’t because you’ve said that very line to yourself so many times that it’s second nature to say it even if it isn’t entirely correlated to your true feelings… is it?

“It doesn’t matter if you’re interested. He’s really good in bed. Maybe you’d lighten up a little.”

And with that she walks off. That was nice, you think to yourself, and shake away the cobwebs as you deliver a half-asleep Mr Evans his coffee and donut. You’re not sure why half the interns are here other than a straight white man who runs this place, because you seem to be the most politically inclined and politically minded congressional intern in this place. Of course the others like being here, and are passionate about the cause, as proven by their dedication whenever elections roll around.

“Thanks, baby,” he whispers, thankfully grabbing them from you, and gulping down his coffee while it’s still scalding hot, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. The name he just let slip also doesn’t seem to bother him, if he even noticed. You pointedly ignore it.

“Late night?” you inquire as you take a large stride over him and land elegantly in your chair, crossing your legs.

“Early start,” he responds, but doesn’t meet your eyes with his crystal gaze. “Why?”

“You seem tired. More so than usual when you have your late nights.”

He arches one thick eyebrow over his forehead, “You know about those?”

“Oh my God. Literally, oh my fucking Lord above, Chris.” Possibly the first time you’ve ever called him by his first name, but that’s not important right now as you push ahead. “You shag half the women in the office—mainly interns who are way too young for you, I might add, and you don’t expect me and the entirety of D.C. to notice? It’s every single fucking time you visit!”

“Don’t swear at me, young lady,” he threatens: voice low and demanding.

That’s rich, considering you’re older now than half the interns were when he slept with them, in your early twenties.

You slam your coffee down indignantly, though careful none splashes onto your very expensive, very nice, scarlet trouser suit which you love very much. “Or what? What are you going to do, Chris? Fire me? Sleep with me? Because news flash, you can’t do either of those things. You may wear the big man pants and sit in the office all high and mighty, but you’re just another sad, rich, straight, white man thinking he can make a difference in politics because he’s bored, okay? Sometimes it amazes me, literally astonishes me with each visit, that Taylor Swift didn’t write her ten minute All Too Well about you, because you should probably stop sleeping with people half your age, especially when you—apparently—have a girlfriend—who is also more than a decade too young for you.” Once you finally stop for breath, you notice that perhaps your voice was a little louder than you had prior intended since half the office is staring at you, and Chris is gaping open-mouthed, utterly disbelieving apparently. He knows how feisty you can be: you’ve turned him down what must be over fifty times now. But this? This is a direct attack. Then again, he has no power over you. Absolutely none. You’re not just going to submit to him because he acts like a big man in a suit—he has no fucking idea the privilege he holds just from being the man he is, and was born as. But that’s the problem: your attack is so personal, and is mostly centred around his fuck-boy ways. They can't bother you, they simply can’t, it’s a statistical impossibility. But when you look at him, eyes wide, lips parted, a hand running through his beard… it might not be. Which is horrifying, you might add. Lord above only knows what STDs a man with his reputation is carrying, the thought alone sending a shiver rippling down your spine.

He stands up, his muscular frame straining in his shirt and blazer as he unfastens the button with one hand. His eyes glue to the floor. “I think I’ll leave you to it. Thank you for the work, and the coffee, Miss y/l/n.”

And with that, he leaves. Mr Evans is many things, but resigned has never been one of them, so you must’ve struck a nerve. It’s not that he didn’t deserve any of it, and he has needed to be put in his place for a long time, but you could probably have gone about it in a different way.

However, Mr Evans acting like a butt-hurt predator isn’t going to stop you from working, so you get your head down for the rest of the day.

——

You seem to be even more productive when you’ve got guilt, or some similar emotion, crawling up your neck. By the end of the day you’re finished with almost twice what you’d usually get done. As everyone else begins to file out, you grab your bag and sling your coat over one arm, leaving your cubicle with all of your work in your spare arm.

Before your brain can quite catch up, your knuckles are knocking on Mr Evans’ unmanned door, inwardly praying that he’s still here.

“Come in,” he calls.

One deep breath later, your heels are clicking on the marble laminate floor and you’re placing the files on his desk, and words are falling from your mouth.

“I’m really sorry about earlier, Mr Evans. I was out of line, and I shouldn’t have taken my personal vendetta against you out in the office: that wasn’t fair. And as for what I said…”

“Don’t apologise for that,” he says, a note of authority in his voice, “you’re right on all accounts. And even if the office wasn’t the most objectively ideal place to have that confrontation, I’m glad it happened. But please, let me take you for a drink—as friends, no strings attached―to make it up to you. But you have to wear that suit.” Almost verbatim what he said to you yesterday.

A chuckle rises to your throat, and all in a flurry, your head feels a little lighter than before.

“I’ll go for a drink with you.” It’s high time you did, and maybe he’s very, very different off the clock, and you owe him this after, well, destroying his reputation with those in the office who weren’t aware of his womanising reputation. “But I won’t wear the suit, hard pass.” You also decidedly elect not to tell him you won’t wear the suit because the only very skimpy underwear you own that doesn’t show a VPL in these trousers has been riding up your arse crack all afternoon. “I will, however, wear the lipstick and the heels.”

His head lolls over the back of the chair, his tongue hanging out in a very dog-like manner. The groan he emits, however, is more feral.

“Done, done, and done,” he agrees with an incredible amount of enthusiasm, and a pearly-white smile peeking through his beard. “Shall I send a car to pick you up? Or I can drive you?”

“Thank you, Mr Evans, but I’m okay to meet you there provided you send me through the name of the bar. Okay?”

“Y– yeah…” he trails off, “yeah, okay. Seven?”

A smirk is painted on your red lips as you turn on your heel to exit, “I’ll see you there.”

Only once you’re outside and away from him do you realise the gravity of what you just agreed to. Why the fuck are you going out for a drink with Mr Evans? He’s the founder of ASP, yes, which is very cool, but he’s also just some horny, stoner actor who, shock horror, doesn’t have a vagina. This is… something else. Maybe it means the stupid fluttering in your lower belly will stop once you shut this down once and for all as friends, because you refuse to be another one of Mr Evans’ interns.

——

The champagne satin of your cocktail dress glitters even in the dim light of the up-scale bar Mr Evans selected for you, but despite the calibre of the place, you have to be very careful not to get any spilled drinks on your very expensive red-bottom heels.

Mr Evans is already at the bar, dressed down in slim-fitting jeans and a black henley, a blazer-style leather jacket slung over the bar stool to his immediate left.

Your heels on the lino alert him to my presence, and he’s springing up in an instant, arms open wide in an embracing gesture. He meets you, holds your arms in a weird half hug, and presses a kiss to your ever-warming cheek.

“Hey…” you say, your eyes avidly scanning him, though for what, you’re unsure.

“Hey yourself.” He chuckles. “You look stunning. What can I get you?”

“Oh! Thank you. Um, just a tonic water is fine.”

He orders for you, sweeps his jacket up, and follows you to a table, except he doesn’t sit down, and just keeps staring at you. Your brows must furrow at some point, because the next thing you know, he’s asking;

“How tall are you?”

So that’s what this is about. You pull your chair up and slide onto the seat. “I’m not sure. Five ten, five eleven? Probably closer to the latter.”

“And how tall are those shoes?”

“120mm.”

“Which is?”

“Four and a half inches, ish. Could be more.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Why, Evans? Intimidated by a woman taller than you?” you ask, smirking.

He growls almost, a guttural, visceral noise that you haven’t heard possibly ever as he takes a seat, “Take those heels off, then we’ll see who’s boss.”

“Hmm, well, considering you’re technically my boss, yet you’ll more than willingly fall at my whim, I’d say that’s me,” your voice drops to a whisper, “heels or not.”

He all but falls onto his chair groaning at this point, and your smirk is one of sly success.

You make small talk over your drinks, and while he asks you about college and your life here in D.C., you inquire about his acting and his life up in New England. It’s benign, all of it, which is a slight disappointment considering how much you were looking forward to tearing him down upon the slightest pique of interest. But he’s genuinely being friendly, professional, and this isn’t the Mr Evans you know. It’s off putting.

You talk for a little while, and both order another round, chairs gravitating closer to one another, strangely. At some point, his ring-clad hand finds your thigh, likely when you’re laughing at one of his admittedly truly funny anecdotes. His presence is genuinely nice, and for the first time, you can see why all the other girls fell for his tricks if he’s this suavely charming with them all. There’s still something strange that you can’t put your finger on, and when a natural lull in the conversation occurs, your mind screams at you to ask the question you’ve been putting off all evening, and the true reason you came out tonight.

So why put it off any longer? You came here for one reason and one reason only, and now you’ve finished your second round, this seems like the perfect time to ask.

“Why do you sleep with all the interns? I mean you’re old. Not, like, old old, but we’re half your age, Mr Evans.”

He takes a deep sigh, passing his empty glass between both hands on the tabletop. “Chris, please. And I’m not entirely sure I want to tell you that.”

“Why not? And, as a forewarning, ‘because I want to’ isn’t a good enough reason.”

“To get your attention, okay?!”

Fucking hell, he was right not to tell you. Of course you knew he was interested in you, but you’d thought it was just a male thing, a power thing, an ego thing, how he can get every young woman in the office to fall at his feet except you, and he won’t stop until you’re one of them too. But this? This is a… feelings thing.

“You’re joking, right?” you scoff, suddenly in dire need of alcohol to kill the bizarre feeling crawling around your stomach. “You decided to sleep with a bunch of chicks so I’d notice you, and what, get jealous and crawl into your bed too?!”

“It’s not like that,” he says, teeth gritted. His posture shifts, shoulders now hunched and eyes darkening with every passing second. The seams on his shirt pull taut. “I– I like you, and I didn’t know how to go about liking someone younger than me, so I did the only thing I could think of, and after the first time I knew it was wrong, I knew there were better ways to get your attention or pique your interest, damn I only needed to have an intellectual conversation with you to work that one out! But I just couldn’t stop, and I then thought if I delayed sleeping with you, and spent small slots of time with you every time I came, then you wouldn’t forget me, and maybe you’d like me too.”

“That is so fucked up you don’t even realise. You could’ve engaged in more political activism, asked me about college earlier, why I joined this office, or heaven forbid, tried to get to know me and see what we have in common in a friendly way instead of being a perv for years!!!”

“I know,” tears begin to brim in his eyes, and his hands make a futile dart across the table to grab yours, “I’m so sorry.”

Frankly, you’re appalled at all of his actions, of course you are—they’re completely immoral, but here he is, spilling his heart and guts all over the table for you to see. His soul is right there: you could shatter it with a single word if you wanted to.

But you’re past using words right now. So you stand up, grabbing your coat as you shove the chair out from beneath you, standing surprisingly solid even in your high heels. You’ve had enough of his bullshit.

Your hands are clammy and shaking, though, as you press down on your thighs, and your breaths come out shallow despite your best attempts. What sort of sick fucking game is he playing here? Appalled doesn’t begin to cover it. But at the same time…

What if he’s telling the truth?

That makes everything so much worse than you’d begin to consider. Because if he was, you would not be able to refuse this pull he has to him.

You hear his footsteps pounding behind you, evidently having just settled your tab, and races to reach the door before you can. One strong hand wraps around the chrome handle, pulling enough for his muscles to ripple, his rings glistening in the dimming lights.

“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly, more earnest than you’ve ever seen him before, his deep voice breaking.

He’s already paid for your drinks, and now he’s apologising and being chivalrous? As you pass him in the narrow glass doorway to the bar, your chest brushes against him, your nipples peaking at the friction between you. And that’s the moment it’s over, because the sincerity in his eyes could not possibly be a lie, no matter how great an actor he is.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises again, softer this time, and evidently for the touch neither of you intended.

But fuck it, you’ve had enough of being the good girl, and no matter how old he is, you’re an adult, and you can be reckless for one night if you damn well want to be. And good lord above do you want to get down and dirty with Mr Evans and see what all the damn fuss is about. In all honesty, you have for a long ass time, but would never admit it. He doesn’t have to know that, though. All he needs to feel is the same flame of passion you feel.

One slender hand swiftly wraps around his head, nails burying in his close cropped hair that bristles at your fingertips as you tug him to you, kissing him. Hard.

His body reacts as yours does, possibly even swifter, almost instantly as he draws you closer, his hands spanning your hips and waist, his grip bruising you. Your body is flush against his, cramped in this tiny doorway, and yet nowhere could’ve been a better first kiss for the two of you. The butterflies that erupt in your belly could swarm a stampede of elephants with their ferocity, and you wouldn’t change a single step it took to get here for the world.

Chris pulls away, just barely, gasping for breath as he searches your eyes. His lips are stained the same red as your lipstick. That’s when you know he’s absolutely in love with you, from this very moment on.

“Out of every one, you’re the only one I want, the only one I’ve wanted since I first saw your tight little ass in those skirts, and your long luscious legs in those stockings and stilettos. Maybe it was the wrong way to get your attention, but…”

“Chris? Shut up.”

He does not have to be told twice, not when you’re dressed in somehow even higher heels and a stunning dress that clings a little too well to every curve of your body. Of course he’s all too enamoured with your brain as well, but your body takes the cake as you kiss him in the middle of a busy D.C. street and yank his hand down to your ass when he isn’t moving fast enough by himself. That's the moment he realises that he has no control in this situation whatsoever, and more surprisingly, he's absolutely more than okay with that.

Your tongues don’t just dance, they tango almost instantly, as soon as he begs entrance with a pleading swipe. He tastes of sweet alcohol and smells of that heavenly cologne but he feels like Chris, something so innate and authentic that you can’t quite describe it.

“Your place or mine?” he asks—begs—when your kisses move to the beard covering his sharp jawline.

A feline smirk wins over as you feel his heart absolutely pounding beneath his pulsepoint, the erratic beat telling you you’re doing everything right. Let’s just say men aren’t your usual area of expertise…

“Yours. Where’s your driver?”

“Just round the corner, if we can make it that far.”

“I can, baby…” you hum, sliding your hand down his toned chest, feeling the tight muscles beneath his Henley as you find his belt, and slip your hand underneath, fishing for his rock-hard member inside, “but I don’t think you can.”

He hisses as your slender fingers wrap around his cock even through his boxers, his head falling to the crook of your shoulder. Magnanimous in victory, gracious in defeat, except you won’t be magnanimous about this win whatsoever, and you have a feeling he’s about to turn into an absolute brat.

“Can you, Mr Evans?” you purr in his ear.

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes…”

You slip your hand through his, giving the both of you a whole wedge of space between your bodies, both radiating heat. “Come on then.”

The speed with which you strut down the street is amazing, thinks Chris, when you have heels of that height on. Your hips sway with every move, your ass creating a peachy silhouette in the flimsy, fitted fabrisc, the same ass he was grabbing at for dear life just minutes ago. When you reach the glossy town car, you don’t even wait for him before flinging the door open and clambering inside, letting him follow of his own volition, but you know the show you’re putting on, and by this point he must be able to tell that the undies you’re wearing aren’t what one would call full coverage. The driver speeds off the minute Chris’s door closes, which also happens to be the moment his lips fuse to yours, his arms caging you in on the leather seat as you grasp onto his shoulders for purchase. His hand skims its way down your dress, each stunted brush of his fingertips on your skin growing in courage that sparks you alive until he reaches the split seam at the leg.

Your hand flies out, pinching his wrist between your thumb and forefinger.

“You think you’ve earned that yet?” you taunt.

His eyes fly open, the blue splintering into shards as a surprisingly puppy-like look clouds his view.

“N– no…” he murmurs, his lips barely moving, “please can I earn it? I’ll make you feel good, I promise.”

So dominant and bossy in the office, so unbelievably pliant and submissive in bed. Just the way a man should be, you grin.

“Go on then, baby.”

There’s no other way to say it than that his face lights up at the prospect, grasping your hips as he turns you both onto your sides, your back pressed against the leather upholstery while Chris works his way up your thighs with gentle caresses despite his rough fingertips, licking his lips when his digits brush the line of your panties. The stark chill of his rings sends a shiver up your spine.

“May I?”

“You may,” you permit.

Like a kid in a candy store, he can’t wait, but his enthusiasm doesn’t counteract his talent. Pushing the fabric aside, his fingers swipe through your folds, gathering the proof of your arousal. A drop of drool appears in the corner of his mouth, his tongue darting out to instinctively lick it away. His eyes flicker to yours for consent, a pleading, doe expression to them. You almost smirk while nodding.

Starting with two, he glides his fingers up your inner walls, tentatively, almost, using a beckoning motion against the velvet sponginess, testing for the spot that makes your knees tremble, even when sandwiched between him and the leather seats. The metal of his rings settles against your core. He works you gently, his eyes growing wider with every whimper you suppress by biting your tongue or lip. His ‘come hither’ movements make it seem as though he’s physically beckoning you to come.

He is. Especially when he begins to work your clit like a joystick, but with an immense tactile talent. The edge is teetering within hold, on a ledge, just when the car rolls to a halt.

“We’re here, Sir.”

Fuck.

“Thank you,” you call, straightening out your dress. Chris repeats your actions, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as you clamber out onto the street. Your togetherness is astounding, though you can’t say as much for Chris, jittery and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Do you want to let me into your house, Mr Evans?”

He groans, his head thrown back, and leads you into the building. To his credit, as you trawl through the corridors, he doesn’t lay a finger on you or say a word. There could be other people around seeing as this is an apartment block, albeit a small one, and he doesn’t so much as kiss you. Until he keys open the lock on his door.

“Nuh-uh,” you scold, “I want you to wash your hands, fetch condoms and lube, and wait for me in the bedroom, only in your pants, yeah?”

He nods eagerly, like a puppy dog, and dashes off before you can even praise him. Sure, it’d be a pleasure to undress him, but this is more efficient, and he riled you more than you’d care to admit in the car.

You kick off your heels at the door, peel your stockings down your legs before taking steps further into his abode. A bachelor pad, that much is evident. Your toes savour the shag pile rug, a white leather sofa holding pride of place opposite the gigantic flat screen which is no doubt tuned into a sporting channel. You finger the strap holding your dress up, trailing your other hand over the keys of his piano, revelling in the faint tinker they make. The straps of your dress skim your arms as they fall down, the garment falling from your body. You step out of it and into the master suite.

There he is, bare, muscular chest rising and falling from the exertion. His boxers cling to his body, and the items you requested are in one hand.

“Good boy,” you praise, sarcasm lacing your tone, but he eats it up. “Thank you Mr Evans.”

“O– of course Miss Y/l/n.”

You take a step closer to him, your fingertips meeting his calf, covered with dark hair.

“Tell me, are you this good for all the women you bring home?”

“No, only for you.”

You smile a little, “Right answer, handsome.”

A crimson blush coats his cheeks, the colour deepening, paired with his jaw gaping, when you move to straddle his thighs. Your underwear, albeit sturdy and modest compared to most people’s lingerie, is a delicate lace that compliments your skin perfectly. The high waistband hugs the very top of your hips, ribbons falling from the band of your bra to tie the set together with a small bow.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, enamoured.

You nod, and instantly his hands are on you, touching whatever skin he can reach across your torso and your waist, down to your own thighs, up to your collarbones and higher. You use his distracted state as leverage, pushing him down onto the pillows. He falls with enthusiasm, and his grip doesn’t falter. Impressive.

“You wanna undress me, or must I do that myself?” you ask with a sly smile.

“Please can I? God, I wanna…”

“Go on then.”

His nimble fingers go straight for the bows, separating your bra and panties, and he then reaches for the clasp at the back of your bra, allowing your breasts to fall free, spilling into his awaiting palms. His thumb and forefingers tweak your nipples, his blue eyes as wide as saucers now as he mumbles senselessly.

“I thought you were an ass man, Mr Evans.”

Incoherent noises slip past his lips, worse than before, but his hands slip around your ribs and down your back, allowing you to feel every ridge and callus before he starts pawing at your ass.

“Oh my God,” he whimpers, “oh my God, I’ve been dreaming about this for years.”

His movements are rough, clumsy, the pads of his fingers dragging along your supple flesh as he kneads your bum with what seems to be all his strength. It definitely turns you on to see this more animalistic side of him, to have him paw at you like a man starved.

“My turn,” you announce.

At the mere sound of your voice, your tone laced with a slight authority, his actions cease, and his hands are rendered at his sides. His head bobs eagerly. You shimmy a little further down his legs, balancing your weight on your calves as your lips come down on the script just beneath his clavicle. His hands fist the sheers, the material tearing slightly as you graze your tongue over the tattoo, but you could swear his brain explodes like the fireworks visible behind his eyes when you lave your tongue over the eagle covering his right pec, skimming his peaked niple as you follow the intricate patterns of ink.

“Ohmygod, please.” He sounds pretty when he begs, that deep tone and Bostonian accent all wrapped in a parcel designed to make your panties even wetter.

To cool him down for a minute, to make him tick, you switch to the designs on each of his upper biceps. The whine is beautiful, so high pitched and needy, you can’t help but smirk a little before giving in and switching your attention to the tattoos on his ribs, blood-coloured lipstick stains littering his skin. He groans now, low and deep, one hand weaving into your hair to tug. You move further down his body, ensuring now to fix your eyes on his, to dare him to look away as you kiss and lick and bite every piece of ink covering the rest of his abs. The feral growl he emits when you finally graze your teeth over the one in his v-line, watching his eyes finally flutter closed as his hips buck up into you for the first time. He’s rock hard, his clothed cock against the column of your throat. Miraculously, this seems to be when he finds his voice, and when his inner brat starts to show.

“Who knew Little Miss Priss liked tattoos?”

Your teeth, previously lifting the waistband of his skin-tight boxers in order to remove them, let go and snap the band against his skin. He winces.

“Call me that again, and you won’t be coming tonight.”

“I’m so sorry, Miss y/l/n,” he bleats.

You don’t deign him with a response, your face a hard mask once again as you peel the fabric from his body in one move, removing your own panties a second later. You snatch up a condom, ripping the packet open and removing the item.

“S– shouldn’t I be doing that?”

Your eyes burn into his, a cold stare, “You’ve proven that you can’t be trusted with your own pleasure so no, Mr Evans, you shouldn’t. May I?”

“Y– yes.”

You pinch the top and roll it onto his thick cock, even bigger and heavier in your hand than he previously seemed to be. Long, uncut, extremely sensitive…

“You want this?” you confer.

“Yes, yes, I want this so much, I have for so long… can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me, your skin on mine, fuck, please just make me feel good!”

A smirk tugs at the corner of your red lips. “If you insist.”

Grasping his cock in one hand, you sink down on him, no need for the lube you asked him to fetch just in case. It’s a snug fit, his girth stretching your walls, his dick pulsating with every flutter your pussy makes. Wow. Before you’ve even moved, once you’re fully seated on him, his tip grazes your g-spot. You haven’t been with a guy in quite some time, so this is different, but it’s definitely good.

“You’re so tight,” he grunts.

“And you’re so big, Mr Evans,” you tell him, fluttering your lashes.

He’s a mess already, and it seems incoherency is his strong suit, since he replies with a mere, “You’re so beautiful,” that makes you want to cave to his wishes already

His hips make the move to cant upwards, but you stop him with a sharp thrust of your own, reminding him just who’s in control. He doesn’t complain. You rise onto your knees and sink back down onto him, your pace increasing every so often, watching the way his abs contract, hoe his lips part with each little moan that slips by them, his crystal eyes closing when the lewd noises of your wet pussy become too loud.

“I’m so in love with your body,” he murmurs.

The bliss overtakes you too, rolling your hips as his pubic bone grazes over your clit with every grind, his cock hitting every sweet spot laced inside your core.

“I– I’m close,” he cries.

You can tell, and just to tease him some more, you rake your nails over his abs, your hips forming a figure eight as you ride him harder.

“I know, Mr Evans. But you won’t come without permission, will you?”

“No!”

You rise up onto your knees and fall back onto him, his hands making another grab for your ass as your own stomach starts to coil at long last, a blazing orgasm burning on the fringes, hissing through your veins. With one final grind, you lower your lips to his ear, your hot breath fanning the lobe as the trim patch of hair offers yoru pearl enough friction to draw you into a haze.

“Good boy.”

“Thank you!”

Your orgasm is transcendent, racking through your body with no regard for anything else, a loud moan searing your throat as you ride it out, your walls squeezing Chris. Even once you come down from your pleasure, your hips are moving leisurely, but there are tears forming in Mr Evans’ eyes.

“You wanna come, baby, now you’ve made me feel good?”

His nod surely makes him dizzy, his breath coming out in laboured pants as he searches for the tiniest tad of friction.

“Yes, please. You’ve made me feel so good, too.”

“Come for me, then, Mr Evans,” you coax.

Right on cue, he does, his load filling the condom, warmth spreading through your core. He groans and whines, shakes and clings to you. Wow.

As much as you hate to admit it, you can see why everyone says he’s such a good lay, why he always has a new intern in his bed. So obedient, so attentive, such a pretty face…

But he’s not your type, and you don’t exactly feel like working through all his shit with him. This hookup definitely fits under the umbrella of ‘I can’t fix him but I can rail him,’ and you’re okay with that.

“Miss y/l/n,” he breaks the silence, “that was incredible, you’re so sexy I could cry, but… please can you do something for me?”

Your hand strays to his hair, smoothing down the dark, wry locks, “Of course I can.”

“C– can you degrade me?” Your eyes grow wide, your jaw opening slightly in shock. “No, no, don’t worry. Forget I asked, I’m so sorry.”

“No, Mr Evans. That’s not it. I definitely can, but I thought you liked praise?”

“I do!” he hastens to add. “I love praise, but I kinda like soft degradation, y’know calling me names and saying my only use is to make you feel good?”

“Yeah, sure, I can do that.” You pause, eyes trailing over his face. “Only for you, Mr Evans.”

“Thank you, Miss y/l/n, you’re the best…”

And there’s your praise kink flaring up again. He was praising you so much and it only fuelled your already roaring libido. You weren’t planning another round, but if he really wants this, and if he’ll keep praising you…

“You wanna eat me out, baby? Use your tongue like a good boy should?”

He hardens within you at your words alone. Impressive. You roll off of him, allowing him to do with the condom what he will as you take a swig of water from the glass beside his bed that you hadn’t noticed before, but that he must’ve brought with him before this began, since there’s an identical glass on the opposite stand, beside his rings. When you turn back, though, he’s ready. He grabs you by your thighs, using an astounding upper body strength to haul you over to him, your knees astride his shoulders. His tongue darts out to lick at your swollen nub, stiff like your nipples.

“You taste divine.”

“Well let’s hope you can make me feel it, baby,” you coo, “or is that too much for you?”

Challenge shines in his eyes and he doesn’t hesitate to bring your pussy down on his face, his beard rubbing your inner thighs and lower lips almost instantly. The friction is heavenly, and has you grabbing onto the headboard and his cropped hair for purchase.

His tongue delicately parts the seam of your labia, already lapping at the drops of your arousal, humming at the taste. The vibrations roll through your body, curving your spine. His nose nudges your pearl but his lithe muscle works its way further down to your opening, inserting his tongue where his dick had been just minutes before. His skill is immense, sending your nerves into a frenzy while your hips undulate over his face of their own accord, drawing whimpers olling from his lips to match your moans.

“Finally your mouth has a purpose further than chatting up other women.”

“Yes, Miss y/l/n!” he agrees, though it’s muffled.

He licks, laves and lavishes, sending pleasure coursing through your every brain, tormenting your mind with lust, the precursor of a luxuriant climax you can’t quite reach yet. He returns his tongue to your clit, peeling away the hood as he suckles on the nub, finally building that coil in your lower belly. The sharp cry that tears from your throat isn’t your fault but is due to the talent of his tongue.

“Nothing more than a fuck toy, eh?” you tease.

His moan floods your core with more arousal than you know what to do with, your hips bucking, hands pulling at his hair while his beard tickles your sensitive inner thighs, only adding to the sensation. His fumbling caresses on your ass draw him closer to you, whining, his pelvis thrusting into thin air as he searches for the friction he’s doling out to you in spades, his rigid sex hardening with your every rise and fall.

“So horny, so desperate, and you can’t even touch yourself. Pathetic little noises,” you jibe, “you’re touching me so well, though, baby…”

And at that precise moment, his one hand moves from cupping your ass cheek and slips his finger past the tight ring of muscle, only to the first knuckle, but oh the intrusion. You startle, as though electrically sparked, jolts of pleasure ricocheting around you: his brat tendencies are showing again. Still, it’s not unwelcome, and you find yourself leaning into the action, seeking the waves of pleasure that run up your spine when paired with his mouth and hands working your different holes, his facial hair stimulating your clit as far as you can go.

“Stupid man, Mr Evans, getting me into your bed this way. Well now at least you won at something…”

You can feel him hardening behind you and beneath you, since the muscles in his chest and abs contract with each twitch of his thick cock. He could make you scream with pleasure if you weren’t so inhibited, so your moans and murmurs will have to suffice, since you feel it even if you don’t convey it.

It’s fervid, a fever dream, but your climax comes on like a freight train, flooring you as you writhe above Mr Evans, sitting on his face and using him for your pleasure only. Your walls clench around his tongue, but he only takes it as an opportunity to delve further in, his heart beating rapidly beneath you. Your hands travel upwards as you ride the waves that ebb and flow around you, tweaking at your nipples and feeling the sensations everywhere.

You topple off him, falling into the cool sheets that shape around you, your chest heaving. You turn your head to glance at Chris, currently panting just like you are, white cum sticking to his gorgeous muscles and contrasting the dark ink of his tattoos and the shadows of your lipstick. The smirk that tugs at your mouth is pure feline, a blooming sense of achievement in your chest.

“Someone enjoyed himself,” you intone. His face flushes a crimson that it probably shouldn’t after where it just was, which is why you add, “Sorry for, y’know.,” you gesture to your thighs and then his face.

He chuckles, rolling on his side to face you, “Being caught between your thighs is the most delicious vise of silken flesh…”

You smile to yourself, scraping your nails gently through his hair, “I’ve gotta go pee. Bathroom through there?” You point to a door covered in stacks of blazers and shirts on the hooks: all of which he’s worn to the office this week.

“Yeah. Miss you already.”

You roll your eyes at his lopsided expression as you scurry away and sort yourself out, admiring the vintage-style tile that covers the room head to toe, even on the toilet lid. Not very subtle, and therefore very Chris.

He’s standing there, towering in the doorway when you open the door again, taking you by surprise by snatching your lips in a kiss. You close the door and pluck his henley off the pile by his bed. The duvet is around your waist, your head in the pillows, by the time he comes back out, stopping dead at the sight, his abs glistening with drops of water.

“It suits you better. Keep it.”

“If you insist,” you giggle. “Join me?”

“Not running out on me, then?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

Though in actuality you can’t gather the sense to leave, not when his sheets smell just like him, woody and masculine and citrusy and so damn comforting. And while you won’t verbally admit it, you want to fall asleep in his strong, safe arms just this once before you let tonight go like it was just a dream, if you can ever find the strength for that.

“Hey, you okay?” he prys, his voice low. Suddenly he’s beside you, his fingers under your chin, his thumb swiping your lip. “You went away with the fairies.”

“Yeah, sorry. I– I’m good. Thank you for this, Chris. It was really nice. And I’m so sorry for how rude I was to you earlier. And before that. And I’m sorry it took me so long because this was such an incredible night, and I do like spending time with you…”

He cuts you off by his lips on yours, fusing, melding, fastening, your words lost on the tip of your tongue as his steals them away. His kisses are the most intoxicating thing about him.

“It’s okay. I’m real sorry for everything as well, but we’re here, right?” You nod, surprised at his relaxing tone. “And that’s all that matters. Don’t get all het up.”

You nestle into him, your head slotting perfectly between his shoulder and neck. Lips brushing your temple, arms enveloping you, fingers tracing… it’s funny how much can change in such a short space of time. His digits find your folds again, slipping through, arousing you once more before caressing your waist, your ass, anywhere he can reach.

“Chris?” you murmur.

He shushes you gently, “You can rest now. You deserve it. I’m here.”

——

Chris stirs at the blaring sound of his alarm, rolling over in the sheets, now laced with your scent. He presses snooze, laying back in the pillows, a lazy smile adorning his face. Last night was… consummate. The best sex of his life. Yet when he turns to your side of the bed, the sheets are neatly straightened, and there’s no sign of you. Not even a note.

“Y/n?” he calls. Upon garnering no response, he calls again, louder this time.

The relief that floods his senses is surely not normal, but he can’t help it when your head pops around the door, his shirt gracing your tall frame.

“I was just making some tea. I didn’t realise you were up.”

“I only just woke, darling. Come back to bed.”

You sigh, cracking the door open a little more despite turning on your heel, away from him. “I’ve got work.”

“No you haven’t:” he rushes, “I got you a paid day off for today.”

“Chris! No!” you exclaim. “That’s not your place.”

“I– I’m sorry. I just wanted to spend some more time with you. I’m leaving tomorrow night and I won’t be back for months…”

He truly is a little brat. You leave his mind to scramble and go to pour your tea, your clothes assembled in a neat pile on the piano. Right on cue, he scampers out from his room, one foot caught in his boxers as he hops over his apartment to reach you.

“Y/n, please. Spend the day with me. I’ll take you for breakfast, lunch, dinner, take you shopping, to the library, or we could stay in bed, or watch TV or do wherever you want. Please don’t go yet.” His voice fractures, weaning in strength with his final words. For all that you pride yourself on your cold exterior and ability to be objective on many matters, a forty year old millionaire kneeling at your feet and begging you to spend the day with him is something you can’t refuse. The sincerity in his eyes sends an ache through your heart. And that, paired with that stupid voice in your heart encouraging you to, is the reason you agree to stay.

“I’ll come back to bed, go straighten the covers,” you tell him.

His face all but lights up, even beneath the dark beard covering the lower portion. Except before he disappears, he jogs to the door, snatches up your Louboutins, and dashes back to his room. You smile to yourself. Chris’ cheekiness is a compelling enough reason in itself to spend the day in bed with him.

——

The clock strikes 9pm, the time you told yourself you’d leave his apartment and not look bad. So now the moment’s come, why are you so hesitant to part with him? It’s a necessary evil, and you've been together constantly for the past twenty four hours… You’re dressed in his flannel over your dress, standing at his door, watching him towel dry his hair. You whiled the day away in bed, mostly, going out for a nice lunch, watching a film in his arms in the afternoon, not even discussing work or politics once, but falling into a steady rhythm. Despite the comfort, your differences were still alarming, which is exactly why you’re here, ready to go.

Chris catches sight of you and his movements halt, his expression resigned, his shoulders slumped. “I thought today would be enough to convince you to stay.”

“Good sex and a nice lunch doesn’t equal a relationship, Mr Evans,” you say, adding an inflection of humour to your tone. It doesn’t convey, or meet your eyes. You know how resigned you must look, too.

“But I care about you! I want this to work, I want to be with you, I want a relationship. Please.” That escalated very quickly. Evidently you went into this with very different expectations. It takes you a good moment of silence, kicking your shoes off to meet his height in his moment of vulnerability, until you find the right words, modulating your tone accordingly.

“Chris, we can’t be together. I don’t feel the same way you feel about me. I’m warming to you as a person, but you’re a political broadcaster, for lack of a better word, while I’m at school, working to become a politician. That in itself is enough of a reason for us to be incompatible, not to mention age, distance, my sexuality and preference of girls… I can’t be with you,” you tell him in earnest.

The air is sucked from the room around you, the lights flickering.

“Y/n, please,” he begs, his accent thick, “you’re everything to me. You’re the one I look forward to seeing every visit.”

“And that doesn’t have to stop because of this!” you exclaim. “I’ll see you the next time you come, I– I’ll help you with ASP stuff whenever, but that doesn’t mean I have to be your obedient little girlfriend.” You certainly didn’t intend the bite in your words.

“I don’t expect that of you!” he cries. “I just want you, in whatever capacity. I want you to do this, finish school, be a politician, and I’ll give up whatever it takes for us.”

Your heart shatters at the resignedness in his eyes, his voice, the every line of his body. You take his hands in yours and hold them, your thumbs rubbing shy circles over his knuckles. “I don’t want you to do that, Chris. Look at me, c’mon.” His eyes trail to meet yours, tears shining afresh in them. “I trust you. I believe in what you feel. And just because I don’t feel it yet, my feelings for you have definitely increased these past few days. But I’m not ready for a relationship yet. You’ve gotta appreciate that I’m still really young, still in college, and while what’s between us may be ‘it’ for us both, I need to experience more of the world and build a life for myself before I can offer my heart to someone.”

He sniffles, tugging one hand away from yours to wipe at his eyes and nose. “I get that. I’m sorry.”

“Shh, no, don’t apologise. And we can still do this, yeah? Whenever you come down, I’ll be here to see you and we can spend time together, we can help each other out. I’ll even come to Boston during the holidays if you want me to,” you offer.

Your brain won’t accept it yet, but Mr Evans irrevocably holds a piece of your heart. Maybe you will find your way back to him in the future when things are more settled, when the age difference doesn’t matter so much, when he’s grown out of his man-whoring ways. Sure he can teach you a lot, but you can help him too, educate him, motivate him, prove what his activism can truly do. But for now, this is what’s right, no matter the cost and the pain.

“Can you stay with me tonight?” he whispers.

“Of course I can.”

——

“Good morning, Miss y/l/n,” Mr Evans calls to you as he passes through the office.

His brogues click on the floor, though you can see through his feigned confidence as he flicks open his blazer by the single button straining across his tattooed chest. No one else sees him this way, though: only you can see that vulnerability. His favourite intern.

“Good morning, Sir,” you echo, straightening your neckerchief and how it fits in your blouse now you’ve removed your blazer, the one that matches his favourite of your skirts, “did you have a good night?”

Last night, Chris made love to you for hours. He ensured he proved every single word to you, appreciating you with every inch of his body. He fulfilled promises he made that no one could make good on but him. That tenderness and passion can’t be feigned. Something in him has melted the iciness of you, warming your soul up to him, the idea of a relationship. And yet you can’t imagine it with anyone but Chris, even if the idea is in your future.

His smile is gentle, his eyes already shining with unshed tears by the time he reaches the door to his office. He thinks only one heart was broken last night, but you knew from the moment you chatted sincerely with him, that you’d be another intern with a broken heart, only so much worse. Which is why his next words wound you so. “I did, thank you. A good enough night to face the day, and all the rest to follow.”

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anxiouspotatorants · 3 years

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It is time. It is finally time for the new Suicide Squad rant (and spoilers will be plentiful):

As someone who was into DC Comics and comics in the mid to late 2010s and had so much hype for the first Suicide Squad movie only to be let down, I was so nervous for this one. I knew it was going to be a roller coaster, but whether I would come out happy or disappointed was up in the air. Having just seen it I will say this: I have no idea if this was a good movie-movie. It was insane. The comedy. The violence. The high emotion. I’m still trying to take it all in. But one thing I do know is that this is an amazing Suicide Squad movie. Gunn and co took the best parts of the comic concept and went batshit with it and that is how this property should be handled (in my opinion). Screw edgelordisms, we need full on insanity free of aiming for shock-value or sexy brutality we want chaos baby.

Starting the whole movie as they did, with Savant as the POV for a mission (or part of the mission) that just goes to hell immediately and kills off so many before the title arrives is the perfect way to start this movie. Like the second I realized this was how they were doing it I was just smiling from ear to ear, this is the spirit of the property.

Part of me wishes we got more Amanda Waller, but what we had was impeccable. Then again, this is Viola Davis we’re talking about, and if she was born to play any character in a superhero story, it is Amanda Waller.

And points to her tech team, introducing them with the death bets was just a lovely way to show how regular this is and how awful everyone is in this movie.

I’m not going to pretend like Deadshot and Bloodsport didn’t have the exact same character- and plot premises… but I will say that Bloodsport felt better executed.

I love that they kept some of the past members and not just Harley. Rick Flag got to have a full personality and interactions with his team members and to be a true leader and it made me so happy for someone who initially did not give a single shit about his character. The Harley friendship? The Dubois friendship? The friendship with that guerilla leader? Amazing. The one American soldier in fictional media I genuinely like. You go Mr Flag.

The new members were… they were insane in the best way. Gone are the shitty stereotypes and present are some of the wackiest creations to ever grace the mainstream movie-sphere (aka the slightly less normal comic creations): A man who has to shoot out polka dots two times a day so as not to die from a space virus. A giant child murdering weasel. A guy who detaches his limbs and slaps people with said detached limbs. King Shark. The second person to command rats with a fancy gadget. They are all crazy and all weird and all more or less morally repulsive people and I love them.

The amount of times I did a double take over the soundtrack I swear. Jessie Reyez? The Pixies? It was so much fun to pick up on once I did.

Was the depiction of a vague Latin American country stereotypical? Yes. Was the secret American involvement predictable and felt mildly patronizing from a non-American, part Latina point of view? Yep. But damn it if I didn’t have a good time with those stereotypes and laugh my ass off at how well executed some were. I don’t know if it was meant as parody, but that one secretary has me thinking so — and if so I am pleased.

Speaking of Latino dictators Harley’s one day romance with one of the villains was something I never knew I needed. Like it was so perfect for Harley that when it happened I almost hit myself for not realizing that this kind of plot should be a normal thing for Harley. And the end of it? Perfect not only in this standalone movie, but also in conjunction with the first and with BoP.

The Taika Waititi cameo??? Oh my god??? I did not expect that and I love it?? Sir, What We Do in the Shadows is impeccable.

Rick Flag’s death actually surprised me. It shouldn’t as this is Suicide Squad, but I kind of expected him to be on Harley’s level of unkillable (because let’s face it, no one kills Harley). What I will say is that his death was good and his final words and actions made me love him all the more. I hope this spawns more Rick Flag content, or at least inspires me to look at what already exists, if he already is as this movie made him (it’s been ages since I read one of the Suicide Squad reboot comics okay).

Starro. How can a villain be so wacky and so terrifying at the same time? I did not expect a literal alien starfish to have more terrifying powers and a more tragic plot execution than Enchantress. But here we are. And that damn star just wanted to be floating in space, and instead it was stuck getting revenge by killing and puppeteering human corpses. Wow that thing was creepier the more you think about it.

I don’t know what I think about Polka Dot Man. I loved watching him on screen but also damn those mommy-issues were on a new level. Not just in his backstory but how he literally sees her in every person around him that was insane. Very funny but like also the kind that makes you laugh just because you’re uncomfortable and don’t know how else to releive the tension.

When Waller got knocked out by a staff member I immediately thought «oh my god Amanda Waller is going to kill half the staff for this», so I’m mildly surprised and disappointed that I didn’t get to see that happen. But also I should maybe expect something like this in a potential future Suicide Squad movie. We can’t have everything in a movie as packed as this.

Peacemaker was very horrible and worked really well. Don’t really have much to say about him, not because I didn’t enjoy him but because I already feel like the film itself has said it for me. But the planting and payoff for his death? Chef’s. Kiss.

Harley’s wardrobe was beautiful. Ratcatcher 2’s combat outfit felt like a steampunk plague dream. Bloodsport’s mask was supercool. Rick Flag’s t-shirt was amazing. But the best little outfit was the Mafalda-keychain and her red dress, hands down. Oh and King Shark’s fake moustache finger moment.

King Shark is shaped like a friend I don’t care how many people he ate alive on screen he looks so huggable. It feels like wanting to pet a bear. You know it will kill you but damn it look at those paws and those cute eyes!

I really need to give it to not just James Gunn but the entire production team for this movie. The aesthetic was perfect. The story was the right blend of whimsical and violent. The finished product was a literal rollercoaster and I mean that in a good way. If superhero movies have to be like amusement parks, I hope they’re more like this one and BoP.

I’ll finish on the note that while I think this movie was great and hopefully a step in the right direction for the DCU/DCEU (as in stop trying to play Marvel’s game and just do your own thing/ let your creative teams run wild and free), it is not the first step. Cathy Yan, Birds of Prey and the production team for it took a step first, and they deserve due credit and attention. If you loved this Suicide Squad movie and haven’t watched BoP yet, do so. Because they really are in the same ballpark while doing things in slightly different ways. And any good DCEU movie deserves more attention so the studios know that creativity and risks should be rewarded. I want more DC movies like this, not necessarily in genre but in creative risks. I want a Black Canary rock movie. I want Alfred in a reverse heist movie alone in the batcave against Gotham villains. I want Gotham Academy on screen play by play from the comics. I want a fully animated psychedelic-like Khalid Nassour as Dr. Fate movie. I want elevated horror movie Constantine. I want weird ass Lois Lane journalist movies with a heavy side of Superman. And I want DC movies I didn’t even know I wanted.

Support creativity in mainstream comic movies. Help me become a DC fan and happy about it again.

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doberbutts · 2 years

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Hey Jazi, Hope you can give some insight here. I am a cis bisexual girl and I think very happy like thi

But every time I play dnd I can only feel truly part of the game and happy lwhile playing as a gay man.

I have two dms, a cis straight man and a cis lesbian girl, and no matter how they build their worlds it just seems right to be a cis gay man in those fictional worlds. Our games always have a bit of romance so it’s not just a thing to put in the character bio so, I get to really roleplay as a gay man and it feels so right

Do you think it’s worth to examine further my own relationship with gender? Or this is just a gaming preference?

I had an ask that was something like this last year and I can't find it now but basically:

Enjoying a roleplay scenario is not the same as gender euphoria- though it certainly can be, not everyone who roleplays a certain way wants that in real life. It's just a fun game. This can be as innocuous as my sister who called me mid-panic because she was struck with the thought that she really enjoys pegging her husband (thank you sis that was more information about you than I needed) and thus she must be transgender and oh god did that mean she had to go on testosterone and chop her boobs off she loves her body as-is she just also likes giving her husband the strap etcetcetc. Once I'd calmed her down she was able to see that her enjoyment of a specific roleplay scenario was- well, not completely disconnected from her gender, she likes being a dominant woman and lbr I don't think I have a single submissive woman in any of my immediate or extended family lmao. But she felt no overwhelming desire to be a man, she just likes wearing a strap and giving it good to her husband.

(hey that ties into the conversation from yesterday/last night- she felt a wave of gender euphoria having once again pegged her husband and then when she guessed incorrectly- does this mean I'm a man?- she immediately had an intense wave of dysphoria because she's happy in her gender as a strong and dominant woman and to be forced to choose between "be a man" which she felt was wrong for her (because she was conflating having a penis and being the penetrating partner with manhood) vs "be a woman" which she felt was right for her but "wrong" for the actions she was enjoying would really upset her. She had to hear, from someone who is transgender and someone she trusted, that she could be a woman that enjoys topping men and remain as a woman, regardless of whether her penis is made of silicone or flesh. That brought back the euphoria she felt, and she was much happier and more content in her role in her relationship after that)

A lot of drag queens are gay men and trans women, it's true. But some drag queens are cisgender, heterosexual men who just like to play dress up and roleplay for a bit. That doesn't mean they're secretly desiring to be women or that they're secretly gay, it just means they enjoy the roleplay.

Actors who play roles that are different sexuality than they are likewise are not secretly that sexuality. I don't think NPH is secretly a straight pervert that sexually harasses every woman he sees- dude's a gay man married to another gay man. But he enjoyed the role of Barney all the same, because he found it interesting and the energy and chemistry of the cast made the role feel "right" for him.

All of these can be ways people figure out that they are actually transgender, but do not unanimously mean for sure that someone is transgender. If you are happy with who you are and how you're read outside of the game, then continue enjoying your fantasy roleplays. It's made up! It's meant to explore things that aren't real.

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jillianallen14 · 3 years

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Spirk fanfic rec

Some amazing Spirk fanfic to bless your dash because I’m falling in love with this shit all over again (this is like the 10th time this has happened lol):

Entering Orbit: Jim escapes to Iowa to avoid the media frenzy following the Narada incident, but a late-night miscommunication results in Spock turning up on his front porch; rated m; 30,957 words

Papers in the Roadside: Non-Starfleet AU. Jim owns a small bar in Chicago, keeps on picking up strays and taking care of everyone no matter how hard it makes his own life. Spock is a journalist writing feature articles for the Chicago Tribune; he depicts the world with uncanny skill, but hides more than one personal drama and is possibly under surveillance from the Vulcan royal family. They meet by accident just before their lives start to spin out of control; rated e; 49,637 words

Take Refuge in What You Know: AU - Kirk has moved into a apartment/house and wants to get to know his neighbors. He meets his neighbor Spock, a loner who suffers from extreme agoraphobia. Kirk thinks he's beautiful enigma; rated e; 120,334 words

Listen, this is not only my favorite Star Trek fic of all time, it’s also one of my favorite fanfics in general. It’s right up there with Text Talk and The Shoebox Project from the HP fandom, which if you’ve read, you know are incredible and frankly life-changing. And this fanfic changed my life. The description the author gives doesn’t do the beauty of this fic justice. I suffer from agoraphobia and Spock’s depiction as an agoraphobic man was probably the most well-researched, sympathetic, empathetic, caring, realistic portrayal of what it’s like to be agoraphobic that I’ve ever witnessed in fiction. It made me cry like a child because I had never felt so seen and understood. This writer is incredible, and this fic is incredible. I can’t recommend it enough. It’s an AU, which I’m usually pretty wary about, but it barely even feels like an AU. It just feels like Jim and Spock. The author’s understanding of both of their characters’ is perfect, like just a spot-on portrayal of who they are. This fic genuinely helped me accept who I am and helped me understand that I am capable of & deserving of love. If you don’t read any other Star Trek fics (and you def should read more Star Trek fics because they’re amazing), then let this one be the one you read. I dare you not to read it three times in a row like I did.

Observations: First Officer Spock comments on life aboard the Enterprise and his service under Captain James T. Kirk; rated m; 500,000+ words.

So the author of this fic actually did a thing where they made this fic into two books (similar to what The Shoebox Project authors did many years ago in the HP fandom). They don’t get any money from people buying the books; the cost is just to go towards producing the books. This fic is the equivalent of two LARGE novels. We’re talking 600 pages & up. It’s a huge fic. Now, that being said, I read it in one day. ONE DAY. It’s that good. This is another one of my all-time favorite fics, though not quite as dear to my heart as the one I listed above. It’s focused on AOS, and tbh, I forget that what happens in this book isn’t actually canon. Like it’s so well-told, it just feels like it’s now part of the timeless story of Kirk & Spock. The “professional” Star Trek writers would never be brave enough to do what this author does with Kirk and Spock, though. This fic will make you angry, will make you laugh, will make you cry. It has such a good grasp on every single character. It also shows the love between the crew of the Enterprise, which is always a treat, and it’s beautifully done in this fic. It has a sorta-enemies-to-lovers arc between Spirk and an enemies-to-close-friends arc between Spock and McCoy that is beautifully done and fleshed out. This fic is definitely a journey to go through, and I can’t recommend it enough. It’s extremely slow burn, and you will want to slap both Kirk and Spock (and McCoy) upside the head at certain points lol.

Of Coffee Beans and Green Tea Leaves: The progression of a relationship, through Coffee Beans and Green Tea Leaves. Basically, it’s an AU where Kirk works at a coffee shop to pay his way through school, and Spock visits often. rated t; 16,429 words

Love, love, love, this fic. It’s cute, it’s in character. They have kind of a rocky start together, so it’s got a little bit of that Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy i-hated-you-but-now-i-love-you-marry-me vibes to it. I’m a sucker for that, if you haven’t figured that out by now lol. It’s really good, and a really enjoyable read. And it’s not too long, if you’re in the mood for something on the shorter end of things.

Please Don’t Touch the Vulcans: The "yes" is out of Jim's mouth before he can think about it. Jim is chipper about having time off for the holidays. He asks everyone if they want to spend time together but sadly, everyone ditches Jim over the holidays because they have plans. McCoy visits his daughter, Nyota visits her family, and everyone splits. Not knowing Spock has feelings for him, Jim doesn't even bother asking if he wants to spend time together figuring he has something to do. Something cute, romantic with the boys spending time with one another and confessions; rated m; 17,690 words

Super cute and has lots of Sarek, which idk about y’all, but I’m always a fan of. Sarek and Jim kind of get to know each other a bit, and it’s cute. Sarek knows about they’re in love before Spock & Kirk know lol. If I remember correctly, there’s also some appearances from everyone’s favorite: Old!Spock! You also get a little bit of jealous and protective Young!Spock. So you’re in for a real treat with this one.

The Ren shat’var Trilogy: A split-second decision changes Jim's life forever, as he enters into a bond with Spock in the face of certain torture. Enemies to the Federation emerge from unlikely places, and the command team must contend with unexpected threats, as well as challenges within their own intense relationship. In this three-part series, the Enterprise races across the galaxy to confront the unknown, and Jim and Spock discover the true significance of their unprecedented connection; rated e; 184,411 words

Textual Attraction: Valentine’s Day does not bring up pleasant memories for Cadet Kirk. But the serendipitous switch-up of his cell phone with a particular Vulcan professor’s will make his day far more interesting –and romantic. Perhaps some new memories can be made! 15,900 words

SO GOOD. Just SO good

Spaceman: Academy AU. Five times Spock realizes he's attracted to a barista at the academy spaceport, and one time he decides to do something about it. rated t; 3728 words

Short, sweet, funny. You’ll love it.

Subtext: Texting your Vulcan first officer in the middle of the night is never a good idea. Especially when you have an obsessive crush on said Vulcan.The holidays are approaching and Jim is left entirely Spockless aboard the Enterprise when his First takes shore leave on New Vulcan. After some midnight pining, Jim sends a text he instantly regrets. That is, until Spock responds and willingly continues their textual communications to an inevitable conclusion; rated t; 13,032 words

Cute, sweet, funny. It’s a texting fic. I think you’ve probably figured out I love those. This one makes me laugh so fucking hard. Like actually laugh-out-loud-omg-did-i-just-snort kind of funny. Spock is great in this one

All Spock Wants For Christmas: While Jim is away on a delegation mission, he panics about what to give Spock for Christmas. With help from Bones and Uhura, and in between some spam texting with Spock, Jim realizes he already has the perfect gift. And all it needs is wrapping paper and a bow; rated t; 11,966 words

And here we have another cute, sweet, funny texting fic. Sue me lol

The Morning After: Jim convinces Spock to take shore leave with him on Risa, hoping the time together will help re-solidify their bond of friendship after some recent tension. Meanwhile, Spock convinces himself he's on Risa for one reason and one reason only, to prevent his wayward captain from getting into trouble. After a passionately illogical night of Romulan Ale and chocolate infused liquor, everything changes when Jim wakes with something other than a hangover filling his head. Something he's sure neither he nor Spock can handle. Because if Jim knows anything for sure, it's that his messed up thoughts belong nowhere near Spock's clean, ordered mind; rated m; 50,381 words

HAHA. This fic fucking cracks me up. You’ve got drunk boys pining over each other & not realizing it. You’ve got accidental marriage. You’ve got bed sharing. It’s great, it’s cute, it’s funny.

Take This Sinking Boat (And Point It Home): In which Spock pines, Jim isn’t stupid (except he kind of is), and Christopher Pike has had enough of this bullshit; 6698 words

Pike is great in this one, and it’s super, super funny.

Extracurricular Activities: Spock returns to the Academy from a tour of duty to find an intriguing cadet captures his attention; rated e; 15,433 words

Veritas: Basically, Kirk and Spock are on trial because the Federation thinks they are emotionally compromised by each other, which is putting the lives of their crew in danger. They have to convince a court they’re not actually in love with each other. They think the claims are bullshit. They think it will be easy to prove that they aren’t in love or emotionally compromised, damn it. It isn’t; rated m; 186,80 words

This one is so, so good. A real gem off of Fanfic.net. I remember it was actually one of the first Spirk fanfics I ever read, and it blew me away. The progression of their relationship is really well-done and interesting. It has star-crossed lovers vibes and has some really emotionally intense moments in it, especially for Spock.

A Habitual Affection: Living in 1930s New York with the Vulcan you're secretly in love with is no simple thing. But Jim never liked anything simple. And then, the big snowstorm hit...; rated t; 7998 words

A beautiful TOS fic about one of the gayest episodes of Star Trek. Love this one.

Atlas: Between what was and what will be stands James Tiberius Kirk, in all his fractured patchwork glory. Because saving the Federation was only the beginning; rated t; 135,529 words

A beaut. Really great characterization, and the progression of Jim and Spock’s relationship is really well-done.

#spirk #spock #kirk #james t kirk #spock/kirk #kirk/spock #star trek #star trek tos #star trek aos #space husbands #spirk fanfic recs #spirk fanfic

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entertainment · 3 years

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Black Excellence 365 Spotlight: Jay Reeves

New Jersey's Jay Reeves is a multi-talented actor, producer, and musician currently starring in Safety on Disney+. Growing up, Jay ranked #9 out of 100 in the Western Region of Underclassmen and went on to play at Pasadena City College before leaving to pursue a career in acting. After experiencing homelessness, Jay went home to regroup, eventually studying acting in New York, and debuting as Shawn Scott on The CW's All-American. Jay took the time to chat with us about the making of Safety, his music, and Black Excellence. Check it out:

Which scene from Safety had the most impact on you as you were filming it, and which do you hope viewers pay the most attention to?

The most impactful scene for me was the scene about the custody of my little brother. I mean, I grew up with a single mother most of my childhood, and placing myself in that circumstance, as Ray, was hard for me. A young man who has to rise to the occasion and take custody of his little brother is a difficult situation on its own. But when you add the stakes of having such a life-altering conversation with your mother, now that is difficult. It took me to a level of vulnerability that I haven’t been able to showcase thus far.

You’ve said that “as content creators [we] have the obligation to hold a mirror up to the world.” What do you hope to reflect?

I hope to reflect honesty at all times. That’s whether I’m playing a fictional character or someone who lives on this earth, because people gravitate towards that, people love to feel. Most importantly, there’s always someone who can relate to the truth, and that’s whether it’s my truth or the truth I live through on the big screen. There’s always someone who can relate to the story at hand, so I just hope to reflect enough honesty so the audience can organically connect.

How does your experience playing football impact your approach to acting roles?

My past experience in athletics helps me keep a level of discipline when it comes to acting. Just like any professional level player, in the NFL or elsewhere, we have to work every day and treat our bodies well. That looks like eating clean, being prepared, and knowing when to rest, and that all starts with self-discipline. You have to wake up every morning and want these things for yourself before the world can see it for you. I wake up at 5 AM every day just like I’m in high school or college again playing ball. I truly believe that’s the level of intensity you should bring as an entertainer, athlete, or whatever your dream is to be.

What music are you working on right now, and can you give us a sneak peek or hint about what you have coming up?

I’m working on an EP between acting gigs, so it’s early on in the process—a hint would be too much of a giveaway. But I am working with the same folks I have in the past, Ashton McCreight and Spencer Nezey. It’s early in the developmental process, but I trust these guys, and I can’t wait to see what we can collaborate on and put together. However, I did drop two EPs on SoundCloud this week, so be sure to tune in!

If your life was a choose-your-own-adventure, what decisions would viewers have to make on an average day?

Luckily, I do have a career where I can choose my adventure daily. Being an actor, I find myself studying and always learning about so many different careers and life decisions. What’s also cool about being a filmmaker is you get to play around with different periods, so I’m not confined to a box or any kind of structure. We get to imagine and break any form of limitation.

When you hear the phrase “Black Excellence,” what or who comes to mind?

When I hear Black excellence, I can’t help but think of Issa Rae and her infamous speech of saying, “I’m rooting for everyone Black,” because that is how I feel. Black excellence goes so deep, and there’s enough success on this earth for us all to be excellent. As a Black man, I hope to one day no longer be confined to just having the label of Black Excellence, but reaching higher and achieving overall human excellence as a Black man. My mother’s side of my family came from Monrovia, Liberia. I am my ancestors’ wildest dream!

How did you find your voice?

I found my voice falling flat on my face. I moved to Los Angeles, but things didn’t work out on my first go-around. I didn’t have money, and I lost my support by making dumb decisions, so I went back home and scraped up every single dollar and sent off the most prayers I think I’ve ever had in my life. Doing so allowed me to dig deep within myself and realize my true potential—but without that moment of failure, I wouldn’t have had my back against the wall to do so. If you’re dealing with fear, I encourage you to face it with faith because that is how I found my voice, and I’m pretty sure it’s how you’ll find yours.

You have the opportunity to ask an all-knowing genie one question. What do you ask?

If I had the opportunity to ask a genie a question, I would ask him what stock is going to short through the roof because then I would just dump all of my investments and savings into that and ride the wave. But that might be illegal for the genie to tell me that. As young people, I believe we need to no longer be consumers of a product but be producers and makers of products.

What advice would you give to young Black talent looking to get their first break in the entertainment industry?

Shoot your shot, reach out to these CEOs and ask them for advice. Don’t be afraid to ask questions…look for information, look for a mentor and work hard. Nothing worth it is easy. And you wouldn’t want it to be easy anyway. The person we become as we follow our dreams and hit the ground or backs against the wall is the true blessing. The success is the cherry on top.

How do you practice self-care?

I take good care of myself, and it’s as simple as that. I eat clean, I work out, and most importantly, I feed my spirit daily. Even if I’m not feeling in the mood, I’ll pray, and I take time to give thanks. I do whatever it takes for me to feel 100% because health is wealth.

Thanks for taking the time, Jay! Safety is now streaming on Disney+.

#blackexcellence365 #entertainment spotlight #jay reeves

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sserpente · 3 years

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A/N: Heyho there my lovelies! I’m finally back! I missed posting so much! This Imagine is based on a TikTok I found and what can I say? It inspired me! After this, next up, will be the 20k Special! Enjoy everyone!

Words: 3205 Warnings: colour-blindness

“What if I never find him?” You murmured, glancing at the fruit bowl with a saddened expression. Yellow bananas, green grapes, red apples. To you, they were all different shades of grey. Dull and boring, like you had been sucked into a 30s black-and-white film. Only you didn’t get a cheesy romance out of it.

You had been born with what doctors today would call a ‘remarkably rare, complicated and fascinating condition’, for you had lost all of your colour vision at the age of twelve. You still remembered what the world had looked like before—bright, rich, intense—then someone flicked a switch overnight and all you could still see was grey, grey, grey and greyer. The colours would only ever come back to you once you found the love of your life—your soulmate.

A sigh escaped your lips. Only a few people still existed with this… defect and to make things worse, you had had no idea you were one of them. Not until your twelfth birthday. Society admired and pitied you all the same and yet, being a hopeless romantic, at the end of the day, you longed to finally fall in love.

Tony chuckled. “Heads up. You’re too young to worry about settling down anyway.” He responded cheerfully and pointed at you with a screwdriver in hand. He had been trying to fix the dishwasher for a solid twenty minutes now and for a man who had built himself a pretty much indestructible suit that could fly, it was utterly amusing he couldn’t figure out why it had stopped working.

You were not an Avenger, mind you. The sole reason you were, as of right now, in the Avengers’ kitchen munching on grey chocolate chips was that your best friend, who in turn was friends with Clint’s wife, had managed to flood your shared flat over the weekend. It was utterly inhabitable now and it would take quite a while for the landlord to get it all dried up again—and since insurance would not cover the cost for staying in a hotel, for the time being, Clint’s wife had suggested you’d stay with them—right until Tony Stark had shown up and you had graciously offered you’d come hang out at the Avengers Tower. Okay, technically you had begged him but either way and needless to say, you had jumped at the opportunity and somehow even hoped that you would learn some dirty superhero secrets—but so far, nothing. Nothing but what superheroes did when they were not out and about saving the world. Truth be told, seeing Thor in Hello Kitty pyjamas and witnessing Natasha Romanoff of all people scream watching an Asian horror film had its perks but you had somehow expected for them to be called in for an urgent mission where they required a skill only you had and then they would rely on your help and you would fight and become an Avenger and… your fanfiction had always sounded too good to be true.

“Are you still there? How is that fruit bowl so interesting?” Snapping yourself out of your thoughts, you blinked.

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that…”

“Tony?” It was Bruce who interrupted you two, peeking his head into the kitchen almost timidly. You waved at him and he nodded, yet he failed to reciprocate your smile. Uh-Oh.

“Did something happen?”

The scientist nodded. “You might wanna put on your suit.”

“What happened?”

Bruce pursed his lips. “We’ve located Loki.”

Your eyes were still widened by the time you rushed after Tony even after he had told you explicitly (three times, to be exact) to stay put and hide until he had been put in custody.

The Loki. God of Mischief, Thor’s brother, Frost Giant, the I-tried-to-take-over-the-planet-guy. It was exciting, somehow, meeting a villain and oh, would it fuel you for your fan fiction. You almost bumped straight into Thor when they all came to a halt all of a sudden, his body a wall of flesh and muscle and making you grunt in pain—you might as well have hit a brick wall. With his hammer in hand, he ensured no one would approach his dangerous brother closely enough for him to try anything funky.

But the fact that Loki was even more handsome in person and the first villain you ever saw in person when he turned around the corner with a proud and arrogant expression on his face despite his shackles, was not what startled you to the core.

All of a sudden, there were colours. Everywhere.

Your lips parted, the impact of all the pigmentation around you making you dizzy. Loki’s armour was black, his cape was green, his eyes were blue, and his hair reminded you of the plumage of a raven. And your surroundings... The compound was silver now, the sceptre they had taken from him golden. Nauseous, you held on to Thor’s muscly arm for support. The God of Thunder frowned in concern. His eyes were blue too, his hair blonde, his cape red… too… many… colours. You suppressed a gag, overwhelmed by the sudden return of your colour vision.

“Are you okay?” Thor asked.

“G-guys… I can see colours.”

Every single head in the room, including Loki’s, turned in your direction so fast you flinched. Tony’s face was the first to fall in response.

“You are joking, right?”

Mutely, you shook your head. Your eyes locked with Loki’s, electricity rippling through you when they did. His blue irises froze you from the inside out, like each and every one of your limbs failed to resist the magnetic pull you felt towards him, and your cells longed for you to throw yourself into his arms—despite the fact he was handcuffed... and for a good reason too. Swallowing thickly, you forced yourself to look away.

Loki was your soulmate. That was impossible; and quite frankly, the god in question appeared to be thinking the exact same thing.

You chewed on your lower lip, anything to distract yourself from your predicament all the while everyone was still staring at you like you had grown two more heads.

“Take him to the cells, I’ll stay with her.” Clint’s hand on your shoulder did little to console you. Part of you still barely resisted the urge to start at Loki like a succubus, the other… the other was terrified and meant to hide in the archer’s embrace.

You could feel Loki’s blue gaze still resting on you when he led you away from the scene, staring daggers into your back and rendering you speechless until you were finally out of sight and Clint shook your shoulder gently.

“Are you sure it’s not one of the security guards that helped bring him in?”

“No… no, I saw them first. Loki was behind them. It’s… I don’t know how to explain it but somehow, Loki was in colour first, you know what I mean? First him and then, a split second later, everything else was colourful too.”

“And now?”

“Now what?”

“Do you still see in colour now?”

“Of course I do.” Clint sighed and buried his face in his hands.

“So what happens if you don’t… act on this soulmate thing?”

“Nothing. Nothing happens.” You said.

“So you don’t have to… stay close to Loki or anything?”

“No. Not that I know of. But Clint—“

“Good. Because he might find a way to use you against us. Stay away from him. Thor’ll take him back to Asgard soon enough. All we need to do first is find the Tesseract.”

Your lips were pursed when he turned to check on them and if Loki was wreaking havoc while they were trying to get him imprisoned.

Stay away from him? Of course… it was the most reasonable thing to do. Loki was dangerous, a criminal… but was that right? Now that you had found your soulmate in him?

You couldn’t get him out of your head that night. Screw the danger, you had to see him. And eventually, your curiosity and that inexplicable and strange pull you felt towards Loki got the better of you. With a deep breath, you threw your covers back and let your bare feet hit the cold floor before quietly tiptoeing out into the dark and empty hallway.

Your blood was rushing in your ears, making you hear things your paranoia and imagination cooked up to the point your heart was pounding in your chest so hard and fast you feared it might jump right out of your ribcage. No one could know, of course. Clint would positively kill you—he, along with Tony, somewhat considered himself responsible for you here. You couldn’t really blame them. If something happened to you, they’d never forgive themselves. You were an innocent civilian, after all.

And now you had been tossed into the greatest fanfiction yet. Shivering, for the cold slowly crept into your bare skin and through the tanktop and shorts you were wearing to sleep, you finally reached the corridor leading to the elevator. The prison cells, a rather new addition to Stark Tower, were located at the very bottom, the cellar, or… what you preferred to call it, a modern dungeon.

You found Loki with his back turned to you in his cell, looking pale through the glass pane. Your heart skipped a beat when he suddenly spoke up.

“I expected you would find a way to come and see me at some point. I’d dare say the Avengers have taken quite the precautions to keep you as far away from me as possible.” He mused. He lifted his chin, approaching the glass window.

It was quite ridiculous to assume that this tiny and meagre prison would keep the Trickster at bay after everything he had proven to be capable of. If only he wanted to, he could shatter that glass with but a flick of his wrist or break the heavy metal door posing as the only barrier between you.

If you were to just… unlock that door to touch him… it would be so easy. Blinking rapidly, you shook your head to chase the thought away.

“Who are you?” He asked and for just a brief moment, you believed to see genuine interest and curiosity sparkling in his stunning blue eyes.

“No one, really. You already know my name, I presume but that’s all there is. I’m not special—I mean, I don’t have superpowers. I’m just a regular human with a rare condition.”

“Oh, I see. Surely you had not hoped for a criminal of all people to be your soulmate then? A murderer? A monster?” His expression hardened.

Yes. But you were not going to tell him that. He was still the person to have made you see colours again, regardless of who he was and what he had done. There must have been a connection between you, you felt it after all! And you were certain that he felt it too.

“Thor will take me back to Asgard and the great King Odin,” he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “will surely have me executed. You will never see me again. So do not worry.”

“I don’t want that.” You finally chirped, barely daring to look him in the eye. His gaze was scrutinising and intimidating… almost as if he was able to see right into your soul with but one single glance.

Loki frowned.

“I bet you’re not happy about this, are you?” A desperate scoff escaped your lips. “I’m not sure I am…” You confessed and sat down on the chair in front of the window. It creaked a little under your weight, the unpleasant sound echoing through the empty hallway.

This man right in front of you was not be trusted and yet, the desire to pour your heart out to him was so strong you felt it like a sea of emotions attempting to drown you.

“You know ever since my twelfth birthday I wondered when I would finally meet my soulmate. Who they would be, what they would be like… and then so many years passed I was beginning to worry I might never see colours again. That I’d be alone and grey for the rest of my life.”

Loki licked his lips and glanced up at you, listening intently to every single word you said.

“Now I met you and they all tell me not to trust you. I mean… I know who you are, I know what you’ve done. I can’t say I’m happy about the fact my soulmate is…” You stopped yourself, breathing in sharply. “What was the universe thinking? You are a god and I’m just… me. We live light-years apart!”

Eventually, after a moment of surprisingly pleasant silence between you, Loki hummed. “The Norns do have interesting ways.” He said, locking his eyes with yours, almost as if he was pondering if… if what? If he could imagine being with you?

“So what should we do? Never speak of it again? Pretend we have never met? I can’t just… come to Asgard with you.” You held your breath when you realised what you were considering here. Loki must have thought the same. He smirked in response—not mockingly but bitterly. “Odin would never allow a mortal on Asgard. If I was to survive my trial, that is.”

“Don’t say that. I don’t care you’re a criminal right now, I just found my soulmate, and I don’t want to lose him again right away, regardless of what happens between us.”

With a start, his face fell. “Nothing will happen between us. That would be unnecessarily cruel, would it not? Your life in the nine realms is but a heartbeat compared to mine.”

“So… this is goodbye?”

Loki hesitated. You noticed by the way his lips slightly parted without a single sound escaping them just yet.

“Yes. This is goodbye.”

The fruit bowl had become your new best friend. In the morning, tired and rather absent, you sat at the kitchen table holding on to a steaming mug of coffee all the while studying the different colours of the fruit before you like a complicated Maths formula.

“Did you have a good chat last night?” Clint barked at you when he entered the room, skipping the ‘Good morning’.

“Huh?”

“With Loki?” He probed, raising his eyebrows in an I-already-know-what-you’ve-done manner.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You said, shaking your head and focusing your gaze on the fruit bowl again. Yellow bananas, green grapes, red apples. In colour.

You flinched when Tony spoke your name. “We saw the footage on our security cameras. You sneaked to his cell last night knowing fully well why you should stay away from him, especially with… with… you know.”

Fuck… the security cameras. You had completely forgotten about those! Of course the legendary Tony Stark would have had security cameras installed all over the damn place!

Busted, you shrugged your shoulders as nonchalantly as you could muster. “I just wanted to talk him. I had to talk to him. I know what you’re all thinking—that he’s evil and brutal and cruel and ruthless… and… and you’re probably right? I… I don’t even know but… he is still my soulmate. I can see colours again because of him for Fuck’s sake! I can’t just… ignore that.”

“I get it. We don’t know what it must feel like. But it’s for the best. We don’t want him to hurt you.”

“I am his soulmate, too. He wouldn’t dare hurt me. You know maybe he’s not the monster you all think he is.”

“Are you saying that because you know him so well after last night or because that is what you want to believe?”

Both. “I just… have a feeling.”

“Right.” Tony clapped his hands. Your name left his lips almost like a plea. “You have to trust us.”

Thor nodded. “Loki is dangerous. You should stay away from him at least until we know he is not still plotting the domination of your planet.”

“What do you mean ‘at least until’? You can stop staying away from him when he’s back on Asgard and out of your reach.” Tony snapped.

“We’re just trying to keep you safe.” Steve intervened. You sighed.

“You know what? I’m getting a headache and I’m still tired, so I’m gonna go back to bed.” That wasn’t even a lie—well, at least the fatigue bit wasn’t. Besides, the blackout curtains in the room Tony let you stay in were heaven-sent.

That was until a loud tumult in the Tower woke you up again, even though you were not sure anymore you had actually fallen asleep once your head hit the soft pillow.

“W—“ Your scream of protest was muffled by a cool palm covering your mouth. You struggled briefly, ripping your eyes wide open in a weak attempt to make out who was assaulting you in the comforting darkness of your room when you suddenly heard a soothing voice shushing you.

“It’s me…”

“L-Loki?” You choked out when he removed his hand again. “Did you… did you break out of your cell?”

“It would seem so. Come.”

“What?”

He tilted his head. “I don’t have much time.”

You stood, throwing the covers back when he already reached for your hand and held it tightly, pulling you with him into the hallway and towards one of the more hidden exists of Stark Tower, a flight of stairs illuminated only by emergency lights.

“W-what are you doing?”

“I am proving to you that I am more than just a criminal.”

“Oh… but… um… where are we going?”

Loki smirked. Your eyes widened when he pulled out the Tesseract seemingly out of nowhere, its blue light glowing brightly in the dark and throwing artistic shadows on his face.

“Hold on tight.”

“Loki…”

The God of Mischief pulled you close, making you gasp. Your chest hit his, his arm wrapping around your waist. With his face only inches from yours, you could feel his warm breath on your lips, and suddenly longed to kiss him.

“You are my soulmate. I am not leaving you behind.”

“What happened to ‘goodbye’?” You chirped.

Loki tilted his head almost threateningly. “You are mine. Don’t you think I wanted to leave this place without looking back?” His expression softened. “But I couldn’t. Because of you.” And you might just be the only woman to ever love me in this way, he added silently.

“B-but… Y-you said Odin will never allow me on Asgard and… and…”

“I never said we were going to Asgard, now was I?”

Your lips parted. Could you trust him? The stranger who had finally made you see colours again? If you told him No, would he let go of you? Would he let you run to Tony and Clint and Nat so they could protect you from him? Swallowing thickly, you met his intense blue gaze and nodded.

Loki smirked and winked. “You are in for an adventure.” And you knew he wasn’t lying. Next thing you knew, you were both hurtled through space and into a shared future.

A/N: ☕

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fowl-fox · 3 years

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This may be weird to post about seemingly out of the blue, but I've seen discussion about this so many times over the years- I just wanted to say that not a single thing has to be changed in any of the Artemis Fowl books for it to be 'canon' that he's trans.

Artemis Fowl (with the books exactly as they are) lives a life full of danger, yes, but a life where all the people he cares about (Butler, his parents, his brothers, all of his friends) fully recognize that he's a boy. Even his enemies, cracks about his name aside.

There's an (unintentional, I think) expectation sometimes that a trans character is required to meet resistance in regards to their gender, but there really doesn't have to be! In fact, I think it's beneficial to have stories where a trans character meets no resistance to their identity, especially for younger readers.

While stories where dealing with transphobia are also necessary (people often need to explore their experiences and trauma in fiction, as writers and as readers!) I feel it's important that there are also stories a character being trans has absolutely no effect on their adventure and their relationships.

As a young trans man, before I even knew what being transgender meant, I related to Artemis in a way that would shape who I am today. Artemis was always trans to me, and he always will be. Nothing in his story has to be changed for that to be true.

TL;DR - Not every trans character's story needs trans-conflict. You don't have to change a story to interpret a character as trans unless you want to!

Well wishes to anyone who reads this- I'm so lucky to be able to share a space with people who also love these stories and characters.

#artemis fowl #fowldom #trans artemis fowl #trans artemis

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min-hoax · 3 years

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castaway - myg

Chapter 1

Pairing: Yandere! Idol Yoongi x F! Singer Reader

Warning(s): Obsession.

A/N: Re-upload! Story originally in my old Wattpad account :)

- This is complete fiction. I do not believe any of the members would do or act as written.

CASTAWAY MASTERLIST

You’re a drug to me, so intoxicating and addictive. My hope to forget you was broken and my thirst for you increases as the months pass by. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I still remember the day I first set my eyes on you, how you smiled and squealed when your friend, Lili, tickled you for teasing her for the fall she took at your concert. And I still remember the incessant teasing from Taehyung when I froze and stayed on the spot because of your beauty. You were a fresh breath of air I wasn’t aware I needed.

I searched for you that same day and I was welcomed into your life. We live the same lives, you and I. You sing and I rap what we feel, I guess that’s another reason why I feel so connected to you. You’re the youngest just like Jungkook-ssi but despite your tender age, you’re calm and calculated. You are me. You and I match. You love to compose and make music as much as I do, and I absolutely love that.

I thought you were too good to be true, that you weren’t perfect, but I was mistaken. Your voice was just as beautiful as the rest of you is. It’s like… honey, literally music to my ears, and god, the way you move, so deliciously dangerous and sweet.

It leaves me breathless.

Though to the public you are cold, the further I researched, I started to know the real you. You’re silly and playful, so sweet and energetic that you are loved by just so many. I can only imagine how sweet you would be to your significant other, how sweet your lips would taste.

When I listened to the songs you had composed and written, my heart broke. You sang about heartbreak and I couldn’t help but to think: who hurt you?

And when I found out, I wished I hadn’t.

You dated them for two years. My stomach churned when I saw the pictures of you both, so young and in love. But you were young, just an inexperienced kid when you were him, that I thought that you hadn’t truly been with a grown, experienced man… have you?

The thought stays in my mind.

I tried to erase you from my mind, but you were like gum stuck to my shoe. You are permanently embedded in my mind, body and soul, and I can’t shake you off, just like I can’t shake off the thought of other people wrapping their arms around you - especially them who once hurt you.

It makes me so sick to the point where I want to punch my computer through the screen until my fist is seen at the back.

Your toy was tall and lean, with eyes that called for attention and hair that stood out from how smooth it was. They might’ve had a good exterior on the outside, but on the inside, they were complete and utter garbage, a piece of shit who trapped you in their trap and used you until they had enough.

I don’t buy the heartbreak songs they wrote. I found out soon that they were in a group, just like you - a rock band to be more clearer. I guess they have an okay voice, played guitar and piano, but I can’t help but to smirk at the thought that I am so much better… because I am.

It made me angry when I read the story of your breakup. They cheated and you still stayed. You were so forgiving and naive. They hurt you and you still stayed? How did you do that to yourself? I imagined yourself crying to sleep, and I couldn’t fathom it. It made my heart hurt.

I dream of you every single night. I kiss you and you smile. It’s so vivid that I legitimately came in my pants when I was making love to you in my dreams. I crave you so much, the thirst is never ending, and I know that I have to find a way for me to get rid of this once and for all. I just don’t know how.

#yandere bts #yandere bts x reader #yandere kpop #yandere yoongi #yandere yoongi x reader #yandere min yoongi #yandere #bts au #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts #bangtan #yandere suga #yandere suga x reader #suga bts

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lorenfangor · 3 years

Note

I heard that #40 was super homophobic :/ so I skipped it. But now your fic is making me want to give it a try. How problematic is it? Are the characters worth it?

Okay.

Let’s talk about #40.

The plot of The Other (a Marco POV) is that Marco sees an Andalite on a video tape sent in to some Unsolved Mysteries-esque TV show, and he assumes it’s Ax and hauls ass to save him from being captured. Ax, being Ax, has videotaped the show, and they pull it up and Tobias uses his hawk eyes to figure out that it’s not Ax, it’s another Andalite - one without a tailblade. Ax is appalled at the presence of this vecol (an Andalite word for a disabled person) and we find out that he and others of his species have deep ingrained prejudices against at least some kinds of disabled people.

Despite this, Marco and Ax go looking for the Andalite in question because he’s been spotted by national TV, and they meet a second one, named Gafinilan-Estrif-Valad. The vecol is Mertil-Iscar-Elmand, a former fighter pilot with a reputation and Gafinilan’s coded-gay life partner. The two of them have been on Earth since book 1; they crashed their fighters on the planet and have been trapped there thanks to the GalaxyTree going down. Gafinilan has adopted a human cover, a physics professor, and they’ve been living in secret ever since.

Thanks to that tape, Mertil has been captured by Visser Three, and he’s not morph-capable so he can’t escape. Gafinilan wants to trade the leader of the “Andalite Bandits” to the Yeerks to get his boyfriend back; he can’t fight to free Mertil because he’s terminally ill with a genetic disorder that will eventually kill him, and (it’s implied that) the Yeerks aren’t interested in disabled hosts, even disabled Andalite ones. Despite Ax’s ableism, the Animorphs agree to work with Gafinilan and free Mertil, and they’re successful. Marco ends the book talking about how there are all kinds of prejudices you’ll have to face and boxes that people will put you in, and you can’t necessarily escape them even if they’re reductive and inaccurate, but you can still live your life with pride.

So now that I’ve explained the plot, I’m gonna come out the gate saying that I love this book. I love it wholeheartedly, I love Marco’s narration, I love Ax having to deal with Andalite society’s ableism, I love these characters, and as a disabled lesbian I don’t find these disabled gays to be inherently Bad Rep.

that’s of course just my opinion and it doesn’t overshadow other issues that people might have? but at the same time, I don’t like the seemingly-common narrative that this book is all bad all the time, and I want to offer up a different read.To that end, I’m going to go point by point through some of the criticisms and common complaints that I’ve seen across the fandom over the years.

“Mertil and Gafinilan were put on a bus after one appearance because they were gay!”

this is one I’m going to have to disagree with hardcore. I talked about this yesterday, but in Animorphs there are a lot of characters or ideas that only get introduced once or twice and then get written off or dropped - in order off the top of my head, #11 (the Amazon trip), #16 (Fenestre and his cannibalism), #17 (the oatmeal), #18 (the hint of Yeerks doing genetic experiments in the hospital basement), #24/#39/#42 (the Helmacrons’ ability to detect morphing tech), #25 (the Venber), #28 (experiments with limiting brain function through drugs), #34 (the Hork-Bajir homeworld being retaken, the Ixcila procedure), #36 (the Nartec), #41 (Jake’s Bad Future Dream), and #44 (the Aboriginal people Cassie meets in Australia) all feature things that either seem to exist just for the sake of having a particular trope explored Animorphs-style or to feature an idea for One Single Book.

This is a series that’s episodic and has a very limited overall story arc because of how children’s literature in the 90s was structured - these books are closer to The Saddle Club, Sweet Valley High, Animal Ark, or The Baby-Sitters’ Club than they are to Harry Potter or A Series of Unfortunate Events. Mertil and Gafinilan don’t get to be in more than one book because they’re not established in the main cast or the supporting cast, I don’t think that it’s solely got anything to do with their being gay.

“Gafinilan has AIDS, this is a book about AIDS, and that’s homophobic!”

Okay, this is… hard. First, yes, Gafinilan does have a terminal illness. Yes, Gafinilan is gay. No, Soola’s Disease is not AIDS.

I have two responses to this, and I’ll attack them in order of their occurrence in my thought. First, there’s coded AIDS diseases all over genre fiction, especially genre fiction from that era, because the AIDS epidemic made a massive impact on public life and fundamentally changed both how the public perceived illness and queerness and how queer people themselves experienced it. I was too young to live through it, but my dad’s college roommate was out, and my dad himself has a lot of friends who he just ceases to talk about if the conversation gets past 1986 or so - this was devastating and it got examined in art for more reasons than “gay people all have AIDS”, and I dislike the implication that the only reason it could ever appear was as a tired stereotype or a message that Being Queer Means Death. Gafinilan is kind, fond of flowers, and fond of children - he’s multifaceted, and he’s got a terminal illness. Those kinds of people really exist, and they aren’t Bad Rep.

Second off, Soola’s Disease? Really isn’t AIDS. It’s a congenital genetic illness that develops over time, cannot be transmitted, and does not carry a serious stigma the way AIDS did. Gafinilan also has access to a cure - he could become a nothlit and no longer be afflicted by it, even if it’s considered somewhat dishonorable to go nothlit to escape that way. That’s not AIDS, and in fact at no point in my read and rereads did I assume that his having a terminal illness was supposed to be a commentary on homosexuality until I found out that other people were assuming it.

“Mertil losing his tail means he’s lost his masculinity, and that’s bad because he’s gay! That’s homophobic!”

so this is another one I’ve gotta hardcore disagree with, because while Mertil is one of two Very Obviously Queer Characters, he’s not the only character who loses something fundamental about himself, or even loses access to sexual and/or romantic capability in ways he was familiar with.

Tobias and Arbron both get ripped out of their ordinary normal lives by going nothlit in bad situations, and while they both wind up finding fulfillment and freedom despite that, it’s still traumatic, even more for Arbron I’d say than for Tobias. And on a psychological level, none of the main cast is left unmarked or free of trauma or free of deep change thanks to the bad things that have happened to them - they’re no less fundamentally altered than Mertil, even if it’s mental rather than physical. And yes, tail loss is equated with castration or emasculation, but that doesn’t automatically mean Mertil suffering it is tied to his homosexuality and therefore the takeaway we’re intended to have is “Being gay is tragic and makes you less of a man”. This is a series where bad shit happens to everyone, and enduring losses that take away things central to one’s self-conception or identity or body is just part of the story.

Also, frankly? Plenty of IRL disabled people have to grapple with a loss of sexual function, and again, they’re not Bad Rep just because they’re messy.

“Andalite society is confusingly written in this book, and the disability aspects are clearly just a coverup for the gay stuff!”

Andalite society is canonically sexist, a bit exceptionalist and prejudiced in their own favor, and pretty contradictory and often challenged internally on its own norms. In essence, it’s a pretty ordinary society, and they’re really realistic as sci-fi races go. It makes sense from that perspective that Andalites would tolerate scarring or a lost stalk eye or a lost skull eye, but not tolerate serious injuries that significantly impact your perceived quality of life. Ableism is like that - it’s not one-size-fits-all. I look at Ax’s reactions and I see a lot of my own family and friends’ behaviors - this vibes with my understanding of prejudice, you know?

“Mertil and Gafinilan have a tragic ending, which means the story is saying that being gay dooms you to tragedy!”

Mertil and Gafinilan have the best possible ending that they could ask for? They are victims of the war, they are suffering because of the war, they get the same cocktail of trauma and damage that every other soldier gets. But unlike Jake and Tobias and Marco, unlike Elfangor, unlike Aximili? Their ending comes in peace, in their own home. Gafinilan isn’t dying alone, he’s got the love of his life with him. Mertil isn’t going to be as isolated anymore, he’s got Marco for a friend. Animorphs is a tragedy, it’s not a happy story, it’s not something that guarantees a beautiful sunshine-and-roses ending for everyone, and I love tragedy, and so I will fight for this story. Yes, it hurts. Yes, it deserved better. But it’s not less meaningful just because it’s sad. Nobody is entitled to anything in this book, and it’s just as true for these two as it is for anyone else.

“It’s not cool that the only canonically gay characters in this series don’t get to be happy and trauma-free and unblemished Good Rep!”

This is one I can kind of understand, and I’ll give some ground to it, because it is sucky. The only thing I’ll say is that I stand by my argument that nothing that happens to Mertil and Gafinilan is unusual compared to what happens to the rest of the cast, and that their ending is way happier than Rachel and Tobias’s, or Jake and Cassie’s. But it’s a legitimate point of frustration, and the one argument I’ll say I agree has validity.

(Though, I also want to point out that I think there are plenty of equally queercoded characters in the story who aren’t Mertil and Gafinilan - Tobias, Rachel, Cassie, and Marco all get at least one or two moments that signal to me that they’re potentially LGBT+, not to mention Mr. Tidwell and Illim in #29 and their long-term domestic partnership. There’s no reason to assume that the only queer people here are those two aliens when Marco’s descriptions of Jake exist.)

“Marco uses slurs and reduces Gafinilan’s whole identity to his illness!”

Technically, yes, this is true, except putting it that way strips the whole passage of its context. Marco is discussing the boxes society puts you into, the ones you don’t have a choice about facing or escaping. He’s talking about negative stereotypes and reductive generalizations, he’s referring to them as bad things that you get inflicted upon you by an outside world or by friends who don’t know the whole story or the real you. The slurs he uses are real slurs that get thrown at people still, and they’re not okay, and the point is that they’re not okay but assholes are going to call you by them anyway. He ends by saying “you just have to learn to live with it”, and since this is coming from a fifteen-year-old Latino kid who we know is picked on by bullies for all sorts of reasons and who faces racism and homophobia? He knows what he’s talking about. He’s bitter about what’s been said and done, he’s not stating it like it’s a good thing.

Yes, absolutely, this speech is a product of its time, but it’s a product of its time that speaks of defiance and says “We aren’t what we’re said to be,” and in the year this was published? That’s a good message.

tl;dr The Other is good, actually, and Mertil and Gafinilan are incredible characters who deserve all the love they could possibly get.

#animorphs #animorphs meta #mertil/gafinilan #mertil #gafinilan #mertil-iscar-elmand #gafinilan-estrif-valad

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dreamerstreamer · 3 years

Text

Love Bite

Pairing: vampire!Dream / Clay x human!gn!reader

Summary: [Vampire!AU] Despite how deadly it may appear at first glance, you love your vampire boyfriend with all your heart, so when Clay goes a bit too long without a drink, you’re more than willing to help him.

Warnings: tw// mentions of blood & general vampire shenanigans

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: requested by a lovely anon who wanted to see vampire dream! this was lots of fun to explore, and i hope you all enjoy! <3

You scroll mindlessly along your mouse, your laptop screen illuminating your dim room with a pale glow as image after image pops up on your screen. Your assignment lies long forgotten on the side of your desk, the tab still open just a single click away.

“Whatever,” you mumble quietly to yourself as you click on another link. Your gaze briefly flickers to the calendar on your wall before you shake your head. “I still have another week to work on it—it’s fine.”

Letting out a sigh, you slump over onto your desk, pressing your cheek against the cool wood as you sweep your gaze over to your balcony window. Outside, the sky is dark, the vast expanse washed with a deep, navy hue as the stars begin to peek out from the shadows and gaze down at the bustling city below. It’s a little past midnight now, and despite how late it is, the streets are just as busy as ever. You only catch a small glimpse of the crescent moon hanging among them before your gaze drops to your balcony.

Yet again, it’s empty, completely devoid of life.

The sight makes you frown, and you tear your gaze away from the sight and back to your laptop, continuing your scrolling with a sulk.

It had been a little over four days since you had last seen your boyfriend. Not that you’re counting or anything, of course. It’s just that you’ve gotten lonely without him, and you’re starting to miss him more than you’d like to admit.

Having a vampire boyfriend and being a human isn’t always the easiest, but you’re more than willing to put up with it for him. You can still remember the day he had broken the news to you, having been fully prepared to sacrifice his life right then and there for you if you chose to call for a hunter. But you hadn’t—you chose to stay, to love him.

And love him you do.

There may be times where he has to disappear for a little while that leave you cold and wanting, but the time you do spend together more than makes up for it. He’s overwhelmingly kind, honestly stubborn, and always loves to put a smile on your face, no matter how bad of a day you may have had. You can’t possibly count how many times you’ve thrown yourself into his arms with the widest grin on your face, all just to feel him laugh against you with a soft kiss behind your ear. There’s no one else in the world for you, living or undead, and you are willing to wait for him. It’s embarrassing to think about, but you really would walk to the ends of the earth just for him.

Heat creeps up your neck at the thought, and you force it down with a huff, ducking your head back down again and staring at your assignment. You distantly think of your phone sitting next to your bed and the string of messages you had sent him a few hours prior, all of which remain unopened. Kicking your legs, you whine, burying your face into your arms upon your desk.

Tonight is just not your night, it seems.

Just then, you hear it—the unmistakable sound of nails tapping on glass.

Lifting your head, you blink, slowly turning to look over at your window. Squinting for a moment, you can barely make out the shape of a familiar silhouette standing on your balcony and leaning casually against the railing. His golden hair shines beneath the moonlight, and your heart leaps into your throat.

He’s here.

In an instant, you’re scrambling out of your desk chair and across the room. Fumbling with the balcony lock, you slide open the door with a gasp, the cool night breeze brushing against your cheeks with a soft caress. In front of you, the figure shoots you a crooked grin, his eyes flashing with delight.

“Good evening, sweetheart.”

Your heart melts at the sound of his ever-soothing, familiar voice, and you return his smile with one of your own. “Good evening to you too, Clay.” Scanning him up and down once, you gesture for him to come inside as you add jokingly, “You do know you don’t always have to come in through the window, right? I do have a front door.”

His grin only widens at your words, a soft chuckle tumbling from his lips as he ducks his head to step into your room. “I have a reputation to uphold as a vampire, you know?” he hums. The glint in his eye dances with mischief. “Twilight was the one who said that windows are the way to go.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, your lips twitching with amusement. “Are you really sure you want to use Twilight as your vampire role model of all things? Why not use...” You pause for a moment, then lift a finger. “Dracula?”

A grimace skitters across his face as he pulls the balcony door shut behind him. “Dracula may have been scary, but he was also an old man and, like, super creepy. At least modern vampire fiction makes us sound less gross.” His eyes gleam devilishly. “And also hot.”

You gulp, stepping back until your hand is brushing over the soft covers of your bed. “Well,” you ask softly, “do you think they got it right? The way they portray you guys?”

His lips split into a sly grin, his teeth flashing in the starlight. “I dunno, darling,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low whisper as he dips his head closer to yours. “You tell me.”

Your breath catches for all but a second before you’re gently pushing him away from you with a giggle. “Nice try,” you say, leaping onto your bed with a teasing grin, “but I’m not feeding your ego any more. You do that enough on your own.”

He feigns a wounded look, climbing into the space next to you with a hurt pout. “Aw, bummer. At least give me a kiss, then.”

For a second, you pretend to think about it, mulling the decision over in your head just to watch something needy spring to life in his eyes. Then, you smile, leaning in close to his face with your mouth hovering over his. “Just one.”

You only manage to see a sliver of his lovestruck smile before he presses his lips to yours, your eyelids falling shut. You can just barely feel his sharp fangs brush against the skin of your lip, and the thought makes you croon into his mouth. A certain fondness blossoms behind your ribcage, and your lungs almost feel as though they’re too tight to breathe. He’s cold against you, and when he lifts his hand to cup your cheek, you shiver at the feeling of his icy skin against yours. Everything he does sends a chill rushing down your spine, but when you part just a moment later, you already feel yourself missing his touch.

Brushing his nose over yours, you feel him inhale sharply against you, and the breath he lets out is positively trembling. “God,” he whispers into the side of your face, his voice rasping ever so slightly, “you smell so good.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest at his words, and you feel warmth blossom across your collarbones. “I’m flattered,” you say gently, reaching a hand up to press against his shoulder. Instantly, he melts into your touch as you subtly shuffle back across your bed away from him. “But you’re the one who told me I’m not allowed to let you drink from me.”

His lips part for a moment, and you catch a gleam of the moonlight flashing across his fangs. Swallowing, he runs a hand through his hair and sighs with longing. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” His eyes dart up to meet yours, his gaze swimming with a deep, drowning sense of sorrow. “You know that I’d never, ever want to hurt you, right?”

A smile tugs on your lips, sincere and true. “Of course I do,” you murmur, “and I promise you that you won’t, even if you did drink from me.”

You pause for a moment, then slowly reach a hand up to your shoulder. You don’t miss the way his eyes widen at the sight, and you almost swear you catch an inkling of crimson swirling within his viridian gaze as you lean your neck to the side. “It’s okay if you want to, alright?” you whisper, swallowing.

His eyes are glued to your neck, and you can almost see the storm that rages just beneath his skin. Your chest aches at the thought, knowing just how conflicted he must feel right now. When he doesn’t move, you drop your hand back down to the bed, your gaze focused intently on his.

“I trust you,” you say, pouring every ounce of honesty you can into your words. “Can you trust yourself?”

For a moment, he simply stares at you, his lips parted as his emerald eyes rake you up and down. They’re wide with hunger, an expression you had seen many times before over the months, but not one you had become fully acquainted with. You fidget a little under his intense gaze, and you’re just about to open your mouth again when suddenly, his hands are reaching for yours on the bed.

You gasp as he intertwines his cool fingers between your warm ones, your heart leaping for joy. You let your eyelids flutter shut as he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours, drinking in your sweet scent as your warm breath tickles his cold skin. You love the quiet moments like this, the enamoured silences that envelop the two of you in your own little bubble as the world seems to slow down. Sucking in a breath, he shudders at your touch, his hand squeezing yours.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs quietly for you and you alone to hear. “You’re too good to me.”

You smile at his words, your heart fluttering in your chest, but something uneasy sinks into the pit of your stomach at the bittersweet tone of his voice.

He didn’t answer your question, a voice whispers from the back of your head. Why didn’t he answer?

A moment later, you push the feeling away, nudging it back into the dark crevices of your mind. Instead, you choose to focus on the feeling of his skin pressing against yours, soothing and soft as you relish in the moment. The moon’s crescent frown seems to deepen from her perch in the sky, but she remains ever silent, only watching with her patient, pallid gaze.

You’re probably just imagining things.

After that night, time passes by you at an achingly slow pace. Night after night passes without a single sign of Clay, and before you even know it, a week and a half has flown past you without so much as a call. You text him as often as you can, and more often than not, you do actually get a response. Seeing the notification of his name pop up on your phone screen makes you smile until your cheeks hurt, and you’re always eager to hear back from him, but you can’t help but miss him as the hours drag on.

An empty, hollow feeling sinks into your chest as you curl up in your bed, the blankets strewn around you haphazardly as you blink over at the closed curtains draped over your balcony window. You haven’t bothered to look outside for a few nights, now—you already know that he won’t be there, as much as you want him to be. Even now, you can imagine his grinning face and teasing pokes as clear as day. The loneliness gnaws away at you as you turn onto your side, facing away from the window.

You hope he’s safe no matter what he’s up to, right now. You know better than anyone that sometimes, he can be a little too reckless for his own good.

Letting your eyes close, you sink into your pillow, a galaxy of stars whirling around your head as you slowly feel yourself drift off into a murky dream. Flashes of bright grins and the sound of wheezing laughter trickles through your thoughts, and you sigh at the endearing memories that wrap around your heart. You can almost swear you feel a pair of hands wrap around your own.

All of a sudden, something prods at the back of your ear, restless and sharp. Wincing, you blink a sleepy eye open, your bleary mind sorting through the sounds in your head before landing on one.

Glass—that’s the sound of glass.

Someone is tapping at your window.

Your eyes shoot wide open, and in a whirlwind, you’re ripping the covers off your body and pushing open your bedroom curtains. On the balcony stands a hooded figure, his golden tresses just barely peeking out from beneath the low-hanging cloth. You swallow and grab onto the door lock, slamming it open just a moment later. You shiver at the night breeze nipping at your skin, but in that moment, you couldn’t care less about the cold, your focus entirely devoted to one thing and one thing alone.

“Clay!” you cry, your eyes desperately scanning him up and down. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and instead, his hand reaches to the side to desperately grip onto the balcony railing, his knuckles turning white. Your eyebrows furrow with concern, and slowly, you take a step toward him. You haven’t even crossed the doorway separating the inside of your room to your balcony when he suddenly barks, “Stop!”

You freeze in place, your hand halfway reaching for his when he practically crumples against the railing, curling in on himself with a choked plea. “Wait,” he gasps, clutching at his chest with a ragged breath, “please. I’m—”

“Clay?” you breathe again, this time much quieter. You shuffle closer to the window glass, your toe just barely brushing against the doorframe. “Are you okay?”

All of a sudden, a snarl rips out of his throat, guttural and beastly. You flinch at the sound for a split second, the worry in your chest only making your heart shake even more. His grip on your balcony railing grows even tighter, and you don’t doubt that it’s going to leave a mark on the metal.

“Don’t come too close,” he pants, his thighs shaking beneath him. “I—I don’t know what I’ll do.”

You purse your lips at him, frustration and confusion digging at the sides of your stomach. “Then why did you come here?”

All is quiet, and he doesn’t respond. The only sound you can properly hear is his uneven breathing as he claws at the front of his hoodie, the fabric bunching beneath his touch. You flick your gaze over him again, and a cold realization suddenly washes over you.

“Clay,” you whisper, the tiniest hint of fear seeping into your voice, “when was the last time you had a proper drink?”

You are once again met with silence, but the way he suddenly stiffens does not go unnoticed by your watchful gaze. Something curls nervously inside your gut, and your lips curl into a frown as you dig your heel into the ground.

“Clay,” you say again, a little louder this time—a little more firmly. “How long has it been?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, he whispers so softly that it’s almost swept away by the wind, “...too long.”

A pang of sorrow shoots through you, a stone dropping into the pit of your stomach. You were right. He’s thirsty. A sigh escapes your throat as you open up your arms, beckoning him toward you. “Come here,” you murmur with all the softness you can muster. “Look at me.”

He shakes his head, and it’s then that you realize you haven’t seen his face this whole time. “Take off the hood,” you say gently. His shoulders tense at your request, and you quickly add a tender, “Please.”

His throat bobs as he gulps, and ever so slowly, his hands reach up to tug at his hood until suddenly, the moonlight is casting a glowing streak of silver across his face. Your eyes go wide.

His kind, lovely eyes, which are typically viridian green and swimming with adoration for you, are now painted a deep, scarlet red, his pupils dilated beyond belief as they lock onto yours.

In all the time you’ve known he was a vampire, you’ve never seen him like this before.

But strangely enough, you’re not afraid.

Instead, you gently reach for his hand, careful to only just lightly wrap your fingers around his. His gaze drops back to the ground again, and while you know he doesn’t have a pulse, if he did, you imagine that it would be going haywire right about now. “Oh, honey,” you whisper. “It’s okay. Look at me.”

Just as you begin to lead him inside to your room does he raise his chin once more, his jaw clenched tight as he takes in your soft, enamoured expression. As he steps inside, you reach behind him to slide the door shut before tugging him back toward your bed. Settling down on the mattress with a loose breath, you let go of his hand. His arms are still shaking at his side when he sits, and it’s then that you open your mouth again.

“Clay,” you say, your voice as clear as a bell, “you can drink from me.”

His crimson eyes widen, and the look he shoots you is one of pure, unadulterated panic. “I-I can’t,” he stammers.

“Yes,” you shoot back, reaching up for the collar of your shirt, “you can.” His eyes trace down the slope of your jaw before landing on the smooth skin of your neck, exposed and waiting for him. His Adam’s apple bobs, his hands squeezing into fists beside him. “It’ll be alright.”

“H-How do you know that?” he blurts, his nails digging into his palm. “What if—what if I lose control and hurt you?” His face blanches at the sight, and he slumps over onto his lap, hanging his head in his hands. “I can’t let that happen.”

You sigh, and he clams up at the softness of the sound. “And it won’t.”

A moment passes in aching, tense silence. You resist the urge to hug him, knowing that initiating any more contact with him would only make him panic even more. “Last time I was here,” he suddenly whispers, shattering the silence with his head ducked down, “you asked me if I trust myself.”

You blink at him as he slowly raises his head, turning his gaze to look at you head-on. “I don’t, [Y/N],” he whispers. “Not one bit.”

Your eyes flash in the darkness of your room, and before you can stop yourself, your mouth opens. “But I do.”

He goes stock still before you, and suddenly, the words are flowing from your lips in a rush, unstoppable and dripping with honesty. “I know you, Clay, and I know you won’t hurt me, no matter how scared you are that you might. I believe in you, and I believe in us.” You press your hand to your chest, your fingers curling over your beating heart. “I love how much you want to make sure I’m safe, but right now, I want to make sure that you’re safe, too.”

If you were looking a little closer, you would have seen the glossy sheen in Clay’s eyes as you tip your head to the side once more, your shirt collar tugged down your shoulder. You bite on the inside of your cheek, your fingers squeezing the sheets. His crimson eyes almost look soft in the glittering starlight of the night, and you feel your chest flood with heat.

“Please,” you croon, your eyes never leaving his. “Go on.”

He eyes you for a moment longer. Then, he’s crawling across the bed toward you, his shaking hand reaching for your shoulder. Gently, he turns you toward him, his other hand cupping your cheek. Slowly, you feel his nose brush against your jaw, something cold pressing against your skin.

“Thank you, darling,” he whispers.

Then, he sinks his fangs in.

A sting shoots up your neck at the feeling, just barely there and slightly sharp, but it’s most certainly nothing you can’t handle. Heat pools around your collar bones as he drinks and drinks, and you feel your eyelids flutter shut. His lips, which are usually cool and soft when they meet yours, feel oddly warm for once, and you sigh at the sensation of your blood pumping from your skin.

You aren’t quite sure how much time passes with him cradling you against him and his mouth lapping at the side of your neck, but soon enough, you can feel a slight dizziness flit around your skull. A soft whimper escapes your lips and instantly, he breaks away from you, his eyes wide with worry as you lean against him for support. You press your forehead against his shoulder for a brief second before sitting upright once more, blinking away the vignette tinting the edges of your vision. In front of you, Clay’s lips are stained with a faint shade of red, but his eyes have returned to the brilliant shade of green you know and love. He grips onto your shoulders a tad tighter than before, his hands reassuringly rubbing against up and down against your arms.

“Oh, [Y/N],” he breathes, his eyes frantically searching your face for any sign of harm. “I-I’m sorry if I was too rough or anything. I tried to be as gentle as I could, but god, you taste so sweet and I—”

You don’t let him finish his sentence. Before he can even blink, you’re pressing your mouth to his, your tongue swiping at the seam of his lips. The uncanny warmth of his lips against yours makes your head spin more than it was before, and you feel yourself smile against him when you pull back. You can taste the slight metallic tang of your own blood on your mouth as you flash him a grin, his eyes wide with adoration as he drinks in the sight of you sitting before him.

“I’m okay, Clay,” you say with an earnest look. Tilting your head at him, your tongue darts out to swipe at the corners of your mouth. “Are you?”

His eyes never leave yours as he reaches forward to slip your hand into his, his fingers slotting between your own. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes, yes, yes.”

His pale skin almost seems to glow in the dim light filtering through your balcony window, and he strokes his thumb over the back of your knuckles. Something inside you suddenly unravels as he tugs you into his chest, holding you close to him as his arms wrap around your backside. You feel him rest his chin atop your shoulder, and you melt into his cool touch. Just as you let yourself let out a loving, hazy sigh against his chest, you feel him whisper into the shell of your ear.

“Would you maybe let me... have another sip?”

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