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agendabymooner · 1 year

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high school in jakarta || pg10 fic

"I couldn't have you sit there and think that you're better 'cause you're older."

Summary: Pierre Gasly was in Los Angeles to attend his girlfriend's record label's festival, Head in the Clouds. Sadly, meeting Ensley’s close friends would also mean that he’d have to meet her high school sweetheart, who he believed he couldn’t compete against until Ensley ensured that his two-day attendance wouldn’t be spoiled by some guy who couldn’t let go of some memories she couldn’t even remember.

Content warning: Use of explicit language, established relationship, insecure!Pierre needs a hug, smug ex-boyfriend (fictional), mentions of high school romance and nostalgia, brief appearance of Lando Norris, Joji and WillNE, kind of an abrupt ending, fluff??

Note: I need to get this out of my google docs 🤠 enjoy and let me know what you think! xx

masterlist

Pierre Gasly had always been considered cocky by people who didn’t know him that well. He had a bad reputation when it came to women. His ego always believed that he could be charming or too flirtatious. Too arrogant. In some instances, Charles even had to tell him to get his shit together and make things clear for the woman he was in a situationship with.

But he had an alter ego that he hadn’t met before until Ensley Soleil came along.

He could admit that how it started was a bit too… complicated. But it wasn’t anything that a courtship couldn’t handle.

Ensley was celebrating the first year she’d been single since she left her cheating boyfriend, and yes, maybe shading him was too petty — but he went after her first, calling her out for being too busy and… bland? Yeah, those were his words. Celebrating meant that she posted photos of herself backstage before performing at her last concert of the year in Europe — London.

Then the shitshow began there.

BACK THEN

Her YouTube channel started in the United Kingdom while she was in university. She could remember connecting with William Lenney when her channel grew, knowing he lived a few tube stops away from her school and flat. Then she gradually continued to sing on the internet and made content with Will and some of his friends until she graduated. Then a year passed, and she became a well-known Asian artist based at Los Angeles after she signed a contract with the American record label 88rising.

She didn’t know how the algorithm worked in the internet, initially thinking that maybe the comments about her post being “liked by pierregasly” or noticed by an F1 driver were nothing but some prank initiated by her peers.

At some point, Will had mentioned that he had a friend, who was also a driver in the said sports. Will regularly followed and watched the races on television, attending the race in Silverstone whenever his friend would invite him. She was acquainted with this guy, meeting him once when they celebrated Will’s birthday. Lando Norris was a driver who created content with his peers, including Will himself.

Her sharp memory thankfully had told her to ask him if he knew someone named Pierre Gasly. When Will said yes and asked why, she sent him screenshots of her comment section. He hadn’t responded immediately and when he did, he FaceTimed her and laughed hysterically.

“Oh my god,” Will howled, unable to stop himself from laughing. “Your post was liked by Pierre!”

“I don’t even know who that is?” Ensley almost shrieked. “William—“

“I know, I know,” Will rolled his eyes, “hang on, let me just…” He then added another contact on the FaceTime call, the person answering after the third ring as Lando looked down on his phone with confusion.

“Oh aren’t you a welcome face,” Lando grinned after seeing Ensley on his screen. Ensley’s eyes narrowed. “How’s it going lads?”

“What time is it in there, mate?” Will asked. Lando was moving around in a room, fixing his things left and right before he leaned his phone against a surface to show his upper body over the table.

“We’re in Hungary, so it’s like an hour ahead of London…? Yeah an hour,” Lando nodded to himself before Ensley jumped at the sudden drumroll that he performed with his hands. “Anyway, how about you lots? Anything new?”

“Yeah I sent you a DM,” Will replied with a grin. Ensley remained silent throughout the interaction, too annoyed to even bother speaking.

“Alright I’ll check it,” Lando looked up for a moment and spoke to someone, who then showed up at the screen next to Lando to say hi. The British driver introduced the man as Daniel before “Daniel” left. It didn’t take Lando long to find Will’s text, his eyes widening as Will noticed Ensley flipping him off. Will was going to protest but Lando murmured, “Did he really?”

Thirty seconds passed then… “Oh my… god. He actually did.”

“What is it about this guy?” Ensley grunted in irritation, losing her patience every second as Lando and Will laughed over the news.

If Ensley didn’t know Lando, she would have assumed that he died by the way he fell off with a thud. He then regained his composure before saying, “He’s one of my grid mates. Drives for a different team. A party animal and yeah uh—“

Lando paused and pursed his lips, “Had told me once or twice about coming across your Instagram.”

“What.”

“Oh my god,” Will cackled on the other side of the call, unable to contain his amusement. Ensley shushed him with a glare.

“Yeah,” Lando looked at her with a hint of confusion in his face, “like six races ago? I think it's the Spanish GP. He showed me your timeline and asked if I knew you then I said well yeah I do, I’m following you.

“I had some suspicion that he was somehow trying to slide to your DM,” Lando continued before he asked, “has he?”

“Not that I know of,” Ensley replied. “No. I would have known otherwise.”

“Oh,” Lando’s voice flattened at the answer she gave him. “Well there you go, you have yourself a Frenchman.”

“What— no!” Ensley exclaimed. “Norris, you better give me some context instead of being mysterious and shit. Like who is he?”

“Ensley,” Will gasped in a mocking tone, “did you just tweet bitch who the fuck is Pierre Gasly?”

“Ooh,” Lando grimaced at the post, “yeah, uh… funny thing about that— oi, Gasly! D’ya wanna meet your crush?”

Ensley’s eyes widened while Will’s mouth gaped. They could hear a slight murmuring from Lando’s background. Ensley hadn’t even bothered drying her damp hair, her eyes drooping at the thought of looking like garbage in front of new people.

When Lando began shifting his camera and screen towards a person, she quickly ended the call as soon as the man saw her face. No she wasn’t about to deal with that bullshit.

Then the next thing she knew, the said man slithered his way into her private messages. When she told Will and Lando about his message, Lando brought up that it was an unusual thing for him to say that. Then the driver rattled off about how he’d seen Pierre text a woman before and how… charming his messages sounded.

He’s very much out of character, Lando continued to text, but I’ll see what I can find out.

Lando continued to pry about this whole Ensley-Pierre situation, because not once did he ever witness Pierre text I hope you’re having a good day so far to someone he barely knew.

Ensley was quite hesitant to respond to him as days went on, but she persevered through her doubts and asked general things like how the races worked or how he could even manage to get out of the bed early in the morning without a problem. She had an inkling that he was only trying to get to her pants and she thought that she was right when he invited her to a race.

Everyone knew about the specifics of the invitation, and she did too but thought so little of it. It might have been a passing comment made by the French driver. She just didn’t think that her manager would go as far as allowing Brian to tweet out that he’d send her to Singapore for the race if he got 100K retweets on his post. Next thing she knew she was being sent to Singapore on a first class flight with Will.

Her manager Mavi, and her friend Brian made contact with Pierre’s PR manager and received the paddock passes. But her anxiety was through the roof as she thought about meeting Pierre.

He only wanted one thing and it’s to link up with her. Preferably in his bed. Preferably naked.

But that’s what she only assumed. God, she proved herself wrong when he came picking her up with a bouquet of flowers in his hand and a smile so nice. She was so wrong about him.

NOW

The whole thing that she considered a shitshow became a courtship that lasted for three months. She didn’t know when she fell in love, but she uttered the word yes as soon as he asked if she could be his girlfriend.

Pierre could admit that he was too cocky and there was something about Ensley’s character that toned down his arrogance and strong personality. He liked it. Stability was his favourite thing about his life. She was his favourite thing in life.

But he didn’t think that it would come to the point where he felt so… lost. As if he didn’t know how much Ensley had spoken of him in her interviews, videos and even in her songs. He knew that he should be cocky about being loved by her — it was a win.

But hearing that your competitor was just a day away from meeting you and sizing you up? Yeah. He wasn’t too keen at the thought, only wanting to stay at her LA apartment while she had some fun with her circle of friends from school back in Jakarta. He couldn’t do that to her, though, telling himself that he would be alright with meeting her friends.

Ensley could read his face. Despite his insistence that French people had the resting bitch face, she could see his forehead creasing as he stared at whatever the fuck was on the floor. She knew how much he didn’t like the thought of meeting her friends due to a high school sweetheart that she just recently called out on twitter. She knew that confidence took some time to develop; Rome wasn’t built in a day.

She wished that he knew how much she adored him and his effort to be as accommodating to her— with her previous relationship that ended in a sour note being a factor of his consideration.

But he couldn’t read minds, so Ensley settled for an embrace and repeated murmurs of, “I love you” in his ears while she kissed his cheeks repeatedly. He smiled at her sweetness, his arms pulling her in his lap and allowing her to hold him close to end the night of silent battle with his demons. He won.

The next day consisted of going out for a walk and basking in the sunlight that brightened the Los Angeles area, and rehearsals before tomorrow. Pierre liked the heat and the brightness, but he never thought of it too much until he saw how Ensley’s skin seemed to shine under the sun - how the sun shone over her prettiest face he nearly got in his knees to thank whatever God was up there or anywhere. He liked the sun, overall.

She had an hour rehearsal that didn’t seem to take long as Pierre sat and spoke with Jackson, Joji and Ylona throughout the entire hour. He’d look up to check on Ensley every other five minutes but never stopped speaking with the people he befriended a few months ago.

With everyone knowing that Ensley’s ex boyfriend would be at their high school reunion, she also expressed her worries for Pierre to her peers. So Joji decided to assure the Frenchman, “She barely tolerates him— but he happened to be friends with her mates. So really, don’t worry. He’s got nothing on you but a past history.”

Pierre took that information in, offering him a thanks before he told himself to keep his composure once he and Ensley met her friends.

He was wearing nothing too extravagant. He wore a cream crocheted shirt and left them unbuttoned, white ribbed tank top being at the bottom layer while he wore a pair of khaki shorts that matched well with his tops. He had a subtle gold chain hanging on his neck. His blue eyes were fucking pretty.

She did say she wasn't going to go all out. She lived in this city to know she didn’t have to dress fancy in a bar, knowing full well that she and Pierre would call it a night as soon as 11 PM hit. She had to perform tomorrow, after all.

But still, she wolf-whistled at the sight of him, leaning on the doorway with her arms crossed and her cream dress on. Pierre looked up at the mirror to see her reflection staring at his back, her eyes trailing down on his figure as he tried to keep his composure. She had a bad habit of "admiring" his figure, but it wasn't anything that sets him off - he does it to her all the time and would sometimes tell her "you look pretty to devour."

“You’re staring, bébé,” Pierre chuckled, making her stare at him with a grin.

“How to spot a rich European in Los Angeles,” Ensley jokes, giggling quietly as she approaches him. She hugged him from behind, slotting her head under his arm to look at their reflection properly. She took in the scent of his cologne. God, he was so fucking perfect.

Then she said, “I didn’t think you would wear that colour.”

“No?”

“I thought you’re like Ricciardo,” she quipped, “with his party shirt and all that?”

“Bébé we’ve been together for ten months, you know this is my party shirt.”

“No it’s not,” Ensley snorted, “you’re more of a linen shirt and khaki pants guy. You’re wearing a crocheted shirt.

“But nonetheless,” she said quietly, “we’re going to be the hottest couple in there.”

“I sure hope so,” Pierre chuckled, reaching down to kiss her hair. “I’d hate to be rated as 1.”

“Your driver number is 10 for a reason, bub,” she laughed, now standing straight before she clapped his back gently, “c’mon, we’ve got our sangrias calling for us.”

“An absolute 10,” Natasha might have been quiet, but she wasn’t too sneaky on gesturing at Pierre’s direction when she spoke to Ensley. “You bagged a good one.”

“Hm,” Ensley hummed happily, glancing at Pierre — who stood by the bar counter while waiting for their drinks — and was caught staring at him. His lips curled into a smirk as he winked at her. She rolled her eyes playfully before turning away to talk to her friends. “Yeah, I lucked out.”

“When you told us about him before you even began dating we went full on FBI on him,” Abby chuckled quietly. “It was easy to find him— seeing as he’s a driver and all that. I was worried about you for a moment though.”

“How so?”

“For one, he’s known for the endless line of women trailing after him,” Abby answered before she smiled, “but you setting your boundaries and him respecting it? Phew, now that’s the hottest thing a man could have within him. Respect, of all things.”

“And you are like the happiest woman to have existed,” Natasha smirked, “who passed her honeymoon phase with all the happiness that a woman could get.”

The conversation in the table was tampered with the karaoke at the front, which helped with avoiding nosy people who’d try to get a good story to hear for the night. But alas, there were nosy people that happened to be in the same group as her for tonight.

“Who passed her honeymoon phase?” Ensley restrained herself from rolling her eyes, keeping her mouth clamped shut to somehow respect her ex as her friends’ friend.

Vero Gerard was a year older than Ensley. It felt wrong for a junior to date a senior, but she was smitten. She could remember breaking her own heart and not dating anyone after him, not in a new country or new city. She hadn’t tried again until that guy named Kenny from San Diego. Vero was memorable, to say the least. At least, those memories that made her realize that she was worth more than how he treated her. She forgot the rest.

He’s only a year older, but somehow his “matured” ego and his experiences in life made her feel small. He would often see her notes and would scoff at how easy it was while she was about to shed tears at the thought of failing. Her father was strict because he didn’t want her to be in danger— a daddy’s girl, she was. While Vero’s parents thought that she was too childish for his liking.

Vero didn’t tell her all of that, instead Ensley learned all of those from a friend of a friend of a friend. Her heart broke at that, bleaching her hair orange when he immediately found a girl to string along.

He didn’t care to tell her where he went, only calling her when he’s drunk. She thought it was ideal to say that she was getting drunk at her friend’s house and having a party with the people there— she really wasn’t. She tried to get back at him, like any petty teenager would.

When she moved to the UK for university, she kept tabs on her friends and acquaintances. She’d immediately turn off her Facebook whenever she came across Vero’s new fling while the photos taunted her.

But that wasn’t her anymore. Now she was only irritated with his petty behaviour and the tone of his voice.

He arrived with their two other guy friends, Jason and Mario, and he couldn’t choose a better time to walk over the table.

“Just Henny about to reach the engaged phase,” Natasha told him, “not that you’d know.”

Vero looked peered at the mentioned woman, to which she stared back but with the unequal amount of interest written all over her face. “You’ve made quite a good album.”

“Heard all of it?” Ensley scoffed.

“I like to keep tabs,” Vero shrugged. Nonetheless, Ensley looked past him to greet Jason and Mario before the two settled near Natasha and Abby. Just as Vero stood there, a figure behind him cleared his throat. Her ex turned around, looking in the eyes of the Frenchman who had no intention to even challenge him to some sort of testosterone competition.

Then Pierre’s eyes softened when he looked down at her, “Got your sangria, mon amour.” He placed down her drink before he found himself sitting on his original seat— next to her. Vero found his seat next to Mario, a cocky smile still written on his face as though he would win the game Pierre had no intention to play.

Pierre reminded himself that he was the one that Ensley would fly and come home to, not anyone. Ensley just reminded him yesterday how much she loved him by peppering his face with kisses. She continued to prove to him that she was equally in love with him everyday. He never doubted that.

“Merci beaucoup,” she said with a smile, obviously proud at her skill of not butchering a simple French phrase, before turning towards the men who just arrived. “Pierre, these are my friends— Mario and Jason. Guys, this is my boyfriend— Pierre.”

The three men exchanged pleasantries while Mario told Pierre, “She really wasn’t lying when she said she was dating an F1 driver. She doesn’t even watch any sport so I didn’t know what changed her opinion.” Pierre laughed at this before telling the man that he managed to change her mind on her lack of interest in the sport by competing in it.

Then she said, “Vero, I’m sure you know Pierre.”

Pierre turned towards the mentioned man, “Yeah. It’s nice to meet you.”

He stuck out his hand for Vero to shake, making the others gape quietly. At least, he knew he was a better man without putting it out there. He didn’t need to show his home in Milan to prove how better he was. Vero must have thought of him as some rich boy who would take his pick of the week before moving onto another country for a race.

Vero shook his hand regardless, a fake smile planted on his face. “Likewise,” but he said it as if he didn’t mean it.

Pierre Gasly knew that Vero Gerard was sizing him up. This cockiness of his would eventually humble him, if he didn’t know any better. While the Frenchman felt like he knew very little about his girlfriend in comparison to her ex, Pierre still knew how little she appreciated someone’s egotistical attitude. He experienced her wrath firsthand so he knew exactly her thoughts on people who allow their egos get in the way of reality.

But Pierre still felt nothing but discomfort as he stood by the bar counter to grab some refresher for Ensley and himself, opting for something nonalcoholic instead of getting pissed in the middle of a street he had no knowledge of. It was a full house and it took him nearly ten minutes just to order their drinks. It didn’t help that Vero had approached the bar with his own order and his smug smile.

“How long have you two been together for?” Was the first thing Vero had asked Pierre, fucking around with his empty cocktail glass while he continued to play some sort of mind games with the Formula One driver.

Pierre wasn’t that into the testosterone game that Vero started. Regardless he answered truthfully, “Ten months,” he paused, “fourteen if you count our unofficial months.”

“Unofficial? Hm,” Vero hummed, cocking his head to the side as he continued, “I didn’t think she’d make you wait.”

“How so?” What was Vero insinuating, Pierre asked himself internally.

“I dunno,” Vero shrugged nonchalantly, “she always jumped at the chance to get into a relationship. Even with me.”

His comment nearly had Pierre fuming. Was he calling her easy? Vero must have noticed him get ticked off by the comment, but he must’ve thought that Pierre was pissed at the thought of having to wait because he continued to run his mouth.

“She’s had a crush on me for months,” Vero continued, “yet when I asked her out she quickly said yes. She was the same with that guy from San Diego I think. So, you’re a different story, if anything.

“Don’t know if that’s a good thing or not,” Vero laughed as if he was being fucking funny. Pierre would’ve swung his fist at the man had it been for the fact that this night wasn’t for Ensley. This was her night and he wasn’t going to ruin that.

It didn’t feel right that he was hearing someone talk about his woman like this. Like she was easy and naive. She wasn’t. She was headstrong and her petite figure could do a lot more damage on someone’s physical being should she fight against her morality.

He’d gotten a mouthful from her when he joked about having to carry heavy stuff for her because of how small she was, telling him that she didn’t need him when she could just make trips back and forth. She had gotten into an argument with some journalist who thought that she was only in it for the money and fame, spewing out the most colourful words possible to defend herself and her devotion towards Pierre.

So for someone to call her easy and naive — no matter how direct or indirect it was — never felt right in Pierre’s ears. They were so wrong. Vero, for someone who bragged about knowing Ensley for a long time, didn’t know how amazing and brave she was— and Pierre could only pity him for it.

But he controlled his urge to get into some sort of fight with him, not wanting to embarrass himself or Ensley. He was still a Formula One driver with dignity and respect for his girlfriend’s image and being. He was the better man.

“I’d say good,” Pierre answered with a shrug. Vero gave him a questioning look and so the Frenchman continued, “Different means she was looking for a change — and clearly she got tired of the same thing all over again. It was good for her to be able to get out of the loop she was unhappy with.”

“That right?” Vero muttered, his eyes still challenging the driver. His smile fell off as he listened to Pierre’s words.

“Maybe,” Pierre shrugged again, “I’m not really sure— she’s got her own thoughts, after all. I don’t control her. Maybe that’s why I don’t know her much.”

He then looked at Vero while he grinned, “I don’t like dictating what she likes and what she doesn’t like. She only tells me what she wants me to know. Maybe that’s why I don’t know her much— everything she likes I don’t decide for her.”

Before Vero could speak any more, the bartender had placed a glass of alcohol free tonic and a Shirley Temple in front of Pierre as he thanked the man behind the counter.

The choices of drink left Vero to comment, “She likes tequila sunrise.”

“She loves white sangria,” Pierre told him matter of factly, beaming as he sipped on his tonic before he stood up and grabbed the glasses, “she has a mint plant in my place because she makes a pitcher of the drink whenever she’s around. She loves going to the market to get some citrus for her drink, too— saying she likes the fresh fruits of Milan.”

Then he walked back towards their table, extremely proud of himself for standing his ground. Maybe that’ll get Vero to shut up for once, as Ensley wanted.

“I thought you liked the tequila sunrise better?” “Sangria’s much better. I make more of it whenever I’m in Milan. I’d rather not get drunk tonight though so… I only had one and am settling for a Shirley Temple.”

“You always liked the school varsity jacket I had. Do you still have ‘em?” “Had to toss out half my closet. I’ve been purchasing enough for myself lately.”

“Do you still make Che Banh Lot? Like those ones you’d make at my house?”

Pierre knew where Vero was getting at. He knew when a guy wouldn’t quit— and he was sure that Ensley’s ex was trying to make her remember those happy days.

But Ensley’s genuine confusion nearly had him and the girls laughing. She cocked her head to the side and said, “I’ve been making it at home with Tasha.”

“Tasha was there,” Vero nodded in confirmation, trying to get her to agree with his recalling.

Ensley’s eyes narrowed, trying to figure out where he meant before she said, “Eh— nonetheless, I do. You know what? I had Pear assisting me with making them when we last visited his parents in France a month or so ago.”

Everyone but the couple looked at her in awe and shock. Ensley offered them a confused look, only for Pierre to grab her hand from underneath the table to hold it. She rubbed her thumb against his hand mindlessly, a questioning look exchanged between her and her friends.

Jason first spoke up and turned to Ensley, “So you’ve met his parents?”

Ensley, not really aware of the looks exchanged between her friends, beamed happily before rambling, “Yeah! Pascale and Jean-Jacques invited us over when I flew to Milan. I do back and forths, remember? But yeah, P got his flat there and we traveled for six and a half hours. I was glad I had enough time to make it. I’ve got quite a useful assistant right here.”

Natasha, amused at her friend’s excitement, then peered at the Alpine driver and asked with a small smile, “How did they like it?”

“Good,” his French accent thickened while he spoke, “they were wondering if Ensley would come back anytime soon because they wanted to lock her up there forever.”

Her friends giggled at this. “Would you lock her up there?” Abby teased the duo.

Pierre looked down at his girlfriend, not even caring about the man next to Mario anymore. For some reason, there were certain inhibitions that he couldn’t seem to look at anymore. Womanizing, or being a Casanova, was one of them.

In the span of a year, Ensley had managed to slither her way to his heart and found a little space there. He was enthralled with her personality and beauty and it was a shame Vero didn’t see all of that. If you told Pierre that he’d be dating someone that he drooled over on Instagram and that he’d eventually want to marry her, he would have laughed at your face.

But the Pierre in the present wasn’t the same. So he cheekily grinned and joked, “I would but I wouldn’t have anyone to write songs about me.”

Forget about the love that she had back when she was in high school in Jakarta; Ensley wrote more about him, and only him. He wasn’t the same person that everyone would’ve assumed to kick out a girl after one night. She wouldn’t have written Lowkey if she thought of him as someone who didn’t deserve a shot.

She was glad that her relationship with Vero had happened. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to imagine what it’s like to have a life without a certain Pierre Gasly on it.

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bidisasterevankinard · 1 year

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Fuck it Friday 🎸

which is actually already saturday for me

tagged by @buddierights @wikiangela @jesuisici33 @devirnis @spotsandsocks @hippolotamus @wildlife4life @jeeyuns thank you lovely people 💖💕

tagging if the want to share @alyxmastershipper @the-likesofus @transbuck @911onabc @heartshapedvows @heartbeatdiaz @lover-of-mine @thewolvesof1998 @cowboy-buddie @heartshapedvows @translasso @mandzuking17 @bekkachaos @rogerzsteven @housewifebuck @caroandcats @firemedicdiaz

more enemies to lovers (I give big snippet because maybe i will be out fo tag games participation for a while. please don't stop tagging me I LOVE read what you have)

The next day after he made coffee for Diaz to start the truce they needed to go through the weeks of working together, Buck found himself in Bobbie’s office again.

“No one heard any screams or sounds of a fight yesterday, and you both are alive so I guess you two finally bonded?” Bobby asks the moment they both sit in the chairs like two days before.

“Well, it’s hard to call it a bond, but we made a truce till we work with a song,” Buck answers when Diaz nods to his words.

“I would prefer the truce to stay after too,” Bobby stays up and moves to his coffee maker. “Buck out milk latte, Eddie just black?” He looks at them from the corner and they send him “yes”.

Buck would always be impressed by how fantastic a person Bobby is. And how he really cares about his singers and musicians. No other boss could tell you what coffee you drink and make it for you.

“Let’s not run too fast, Bobby. Let us end the song and we can talk about prolonging the truce” Diaz says and Buck agrees.

For now, they can promise only weeks for songwriting and recording. But working with Diaz after their little high school experiences sharing wasn't really bad. Buck with bitterness can admit it really felt good. No other musicians or singers were ever so interesting to work with.

Diaz is a talented asshole, and he quickly understands Buck’s even really raw ideas he can’t even normally verbalize.

Maybe, if this jerk would stop being so not real and drive Buck crazy constantly they can co-exist in the label more peacefully after doing too.

Well, perhaps they should try if they don’t want to work together again to save their image.

“I’ll take what I can have for now,” Bobby comes back to the table with two mugs and gives them to them, then takes the tupperware from the little fridge he has here and puts it between them. “Found a new receipt yesterday. Made too much for Athena and kids, so I decided to take some to my work kids too. Eat and listen to our next moves.”

You never should tell Buck twice to eat if he can eat Bobbie’s food.

The first bite of fantastic chocolate cookies makes Buck almost moan from the deep and rich taste. Cookies literally melt in his mouth and with an oat milk latte, this is the perfect breakfast even if not the healthiest.

Looking at his side Buck can say Diaz enjoys cookies no less. Well, at least they can have another thing to talk about. How blessed they were with Bobbie’s love of cooking.

Bobby sits looking at them proudly and fondly with a little smile on his face for a second then starts.

“Happy you both enjoy it,” then he puts the smile down, changing it to his professional manager's face.

“Hen has some planned content for your accounts you would need to post. Also if you can post something while working together to make it more real it would be fantastic. Hen will talk about it with you later. Next, tomorrow you two will be guests on Taylor’s Kelly show,” Diaz makes an offended sound on that.

“You have problems with this Eddie?” Bobby raises his eyebrow and looks at brown-eyed like an angry parent and Buck feels smug like a sibling watching the other one being grounded.

“I’m ok with it all, but should we actually go to the show of that redhead? She’s the most unprofessional and rude interviewer I've ever worked with. I still can’t understand how she got her show.” Diaz rolls his eyes. “Could we have some other variants?”

“No, Eddie, sorry. Her show is one of the most popular now, and it’s the best option to close the gossip about your fight so fast.”

Diaz rolls his eyes again.

“I’m sure Taylor is not bad,” Buck intervenes in the conversation. “She seemed interesting and professional. She is also really principal and chases her goals.”

“If by principal you mean she’s ready to walk over anyone to get the information she wants, put to pour a ton of dirt on people just for the sake of information and to get into the personal lives of people who have specifically said MORE THAN ONCE that this is CONFIDENTIAL information, then yes. She is principled. This woman once was ready to pay my bodyguard to find out if I’m single or not,” Diaz says it all, and Buck can feel the poison in his voice and he can't help but feel sorry for Eddie.

Taylor can really be willing to do a lot for the sake of information. He knows his experience when she tried to know more about Bobby from him. But he didn't know that she could do something like that. It's overstepping the bounds completely. It's a good thing they didn't start anything after their hook-up in the bar.

#buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #fuck it friday #buddie wip #enemies to lovers singers au wip #my writing

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thatguyender · 2 years

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Welcome to the Emporium!

// Author's Notes

So, uh. After rambling about sonas in the server, I decided: Duck it.

Why the hell not.

Here's 'Welcome to the Emporium!", a collection of random bs and stuff that Aiden happens to face when he is within the Emporium. Characters and sonas here and there.

What kind of things will our young pilgrim find himself in?

0. Aiden Caldwell

“Aiden! Great job on the delivery as always.”

Driscoll, the guildmaster of the Carriers Guild, said so happily, with slightly wrinkled envelopes in his hand. He was sorting through them as he turned to the young pilgrim.

“Happy to help, professor. Is there more that needs to be done?”

It’s been a few days now beating the top carrier’s record in a span of a few hours. Driscoll's preference for the pilgrim over Derek or any other carrier prior to becoming an Elite Carrier should come as no surprise. The number of deliveries made since the first week was astonishing enough that even most couriers felt jealous for the first time in ages.

“Not with me, but there is someone…” setting the folded paper onto a small stack of unprocessed packages, neatly piling them one after another. “...who will need your help getting bigger stuff around Villador. Give me your map.”

“Bigger stuff?” Aiden looked confused, unfolding the paper map from his pocket and laying it flat on the table. “What do you mean?”

Aiden has only been getting small, nicely wrapped packages and envelopes to people around Villador—some in the tall buildings around the Central Loop and some at Old Villador.

Day and night, there was no such thing as a break for the pilgrim.

“I’ll let you find out. Besides, I hear that yer a Nightrunner now, yes? That’s quite a task, huh?” Driscoll scoffs, a little disappointed that his top carrier will likely be dragged to do more stuff outside their guild. Then again, Aiden knew that the man respected his decisions and would remain to help out when possible. Bright green circle in one of the buildings, not too far from the Fish Eye, just south.

“This guy can help you out with your equipment. Many nightrunners, including ourselves, went to their pops before they disbanded. We tend to go to them for repairs whenever possible. High quality stuff, I have to say.” Having caught Aiden’s attention, he definitely should get the chance to upgrade his equipment. They’re starting to show some wear and tear that began to concern him, and most repairs by other craftsmen, even Vincenzo, doesn’t seem to keep up with his stunts.

“Then I guess I need to take a look at their menu when I get there.” Aiden laughed and took the paper, carefully studying the markings. Driscoll’s cursive writing that labels the point of interest

“The Emporium.”

#short fiction #dying light oc #dying light 2 stay human #dying light game #dying light 2 #dying light #dying light driscoll #dying light aiden #thatguyender #dying light fanfiction #fiction #short stories

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kairakeiji · 3 years

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first meetings

god i love meet cutes, i adore meet cutes so so much

characters: tsukishima, akaashi, kenma, oikawa

a/n: hi hi reblogs are so so incredibly appreciated, kisses for u if u do :’)

— keiji akaashi

the romance section of the library: a place where akaashi did not tend to frequent himself. after reading one horrible romance novel, the boy tended to turn more to the mystery and crime genres rather than sappy love stories. but when he walked into the library, something in him told him to go to the romance section. so, against his better judgment, he made a right at nonfiction instead of his usual left, turning into the romance shelf and running into you, who only gave him a confused yet kind smile. it wasn't often that you saw people like him in the romance section, especially since he definitely seemed more like a suspense and action guy to you. it felt like your trademark scene out of a romance book, why not live out your romance novel fantasy? and so you went for it, throwing caution to the wind and saying fuck it as you made your way to the stranger. turns out you both bonded over your mutual hatred for the single romance book that akaashi felt suddenly lucky to have read. it was then where you asked if he'd like to give romance another shot and with the way your eyes were begging him to say yes, akaashi nodded intrigued in what you'd offer. and so you walked over to the book whose place on the shelf you knew by heart and handed it to him along with your phone number which you scribbled out quickly on the back of an old receipt, telling the now blushing boy to let you know how it goes.

— kei tsukishima

it was odd how the two of you ordered the same thing in a coffee shop, but what was incredibly ironic about it was how your drinks weren't coffee at all, they were iced chai lattes. and so when the barista called out your drinks and the two of you approached the counter, he assumed that you two were together, to which you both quickly corrected him. you turned to the boy next to you, he seemed quiet, more on the reclusive side, especially as you watched him throw his headphones back on and go back to his work. it wasn't until you lifted up your cup that you realized the mistake on it. tsukishima the label read, a name nowhere near your own. and despite you both ordering the same drink, it still felt weird to drink something that wasn't technically yours. so you made your way to the boy only to see him already sipping on the drink as you brought up the error. despite how quiet he seemed, the boy was quick to apologize, offering to buy you another drink to replace it. but you declined, claiming the two of you got the same thing. yet even with that, the boy still felt bad. despite the fact that he's never seen you before, you looked around his age and you were wearing a karasuno high uniform. so with that realization, he offered his services in school work and, after recalling your not so incredible grades, you grabbed your stuff from your table and moved over to his.

— kenma kozume

what are the odds? you thought to yourself as you looked at your computer screen, only to see the famous streamer on the other side of your interview. it didn't seem fair, the way your boss assigned you to a random interview with only a few prewritten questions and a call time. even with the extra pay that you'd be receiving, it wasn't worth the extra preparation you had to do to be prepared for any kind of interviewee. you had expected a small yet rising song artist or a celebrity who had just gotten off a movie. but here you were, interviewing a video game streamer, someone incredibly off your radar. but despite your rather obvious initial confusion, you remained professional asking the questions while the video call was recording, making your way through the interview as smoothly as possible. it wasn't until the blinking red dot in the corner disappeared that you apologized to the boy, explaining the odd situation you were in. but kenma was nice, saying it was all ok and that he was actually told about this interview the day before. "so much for planning," you both thought out loud, to which the two of you laughed. despite your interview lasting no more than 30 minutes, the call lasted another hour, in which you both complained about how shitty your boss and management team were. not only did you leave the call with the right material for your article, but you left with $200 in sympathy money, a plan to quit your job, and the phone number of a pretty famous celebrity.

— tooru oikawa

you weren't one for those silly little newspaper fortunes. but after reading a few for your zodiac sign before the morning train arrived, you couldn't help but search for them. turquoise was your lucky color for the day as well as the numbers one and twenty. the two lucky signs together felt so random that it left you intrigued for what kind of luck they'd bring. so as you boarded the train you kept a look out, observing and people watching almost as your eyes scanned for some kind of sign. it felt like fate when your eyes landed on a brown haired boy. he was holding up his jersey, pouting at it on seeing the coffee stain on the side and sure enough, it was colored turquoise and had the number one. you had to rub your eyes on seeing the jersey and the boy now trying to clean the stain with the water in his water bottle. it felt so much like fate that you didn't think twice as you approached him, thankful to your past self for putting one of those mini stain removers into your school bag. he showered you with gratitude when you got the stain out, wanting to find a way to show his thanks to you for removing it. and so you checked the time, and sure enough, you had twenty minutes on the dot until your class started. so after you told the boy (whose name you learned was oikawa) about the time until your classes, he offered to take you out to coffee, claiming that his classes started around the same time as well. the whole scene, everything that occurred in the past five minutes, felt so incredibly unreal, it felt so planned out by the universe that when he offered to take you, you knew you just had to say yes.

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sonnet77 · 3 years

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Michael Cutter // Welcome and Goodbye

Run into my heart so carelessly, that's the reason I'm afraid. You're thoughts that can't be tamed, and I'm trying to be sane.

Summary: Five times when Mike Cutter could have said something, and one time when he finally did.

Warnings: nothing but classic tropes, angst, references from episode S18 E18

A/N: This has been rewritten and stared at way too long. I don’t know anymore. As always thanks for reading and your sweet comments. Shout-out to @hurricanejjareau for the fab gif set :’) Reader tag, if you do/don’t want to be tagged for future things, just let me know: @moon-river-drifter @tinkerbelldetective @hhroadgirl @breakawayfromeveryday @justjaclin@hearthockey @thiswitchyweirdo @mrsrossshorlynch @cocobird09 @queen-of-bad-ideas @bouquetoutlaw-blog

8,707 words // Song Inspiration: welcome and goodbye - dream, ivory

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You had made your way up the many floors of One Hogan Place, and found no one in the tiny cluttered office that was labeled Michael Cutter’s. After waiting for a long five minutes, with fidgeting nerves, you sighed aloud-- this wasn’t a good start to your interview . You suddenly overheard some noises down the hall and wandered closer to see if you could get some answers.

“Hello?” You called out.

“Yeah?” A voice answered from inside the room. You couldn’t see from who, since large document storage boxes were staggered everywhere like a walled fortress.

“Uh, I’m looking for Michael Cutter. I was supposed to have an interview this morning. But he’s not in his office.”

The figureless voice said your full name, correctly at that, before a man appeared from behind a row of boxes, files in his hands, glancing at the watch on his wrist.

“Legal studies and English dual major, right?” He asked, looking back up with the smallest of hesitant smiles.

“Yes,” you replied, watching him, noticing how the manila folders contrasted against his pale blue shirt.

“Sorry I got caught up in this,” his voice stumbled out like his limbs-- which were trying to avoid knocking over precarious cardboard towers and not dropping the folders still tucked underneath his arms, while he offered you a hand to shake, “Mike Cutter.”

You shook it, as he sincerely apologized again, “Sorry about the wait.” He didn’t break his stare, his mind connecting a face to the name.

Mike had been working in the D.A.’s narcotics bureau for three months before he had doubts-- his first major case was falling apart as soon as he managed to piece it back together. Tensions were high, and intimidation tactics from the newly accused were abundant. One coworker had quit. Cutter had assessed the current risks, realizing they would be detrimental to the citizens, bureau, and ultimately, his ego. He was still finding his footing at the D.A.'s office, but he had enough skill or luck, to have a foundation to stand on. So, he managed to get approval for a new contract hire request to help in the interim with things. (Catch was, he had to handle the interviews.)

“Do you need some help?” you asked concerned, as he picked up and shifted another box onto the table, “These files don’t look very organized.”

“No,” Mike said, before he pushed up his sleeves and corrected himself, “I mean, yes. You’re right, they’re not. They just delivered all these company records before you got here.”

“If they’re business or accounting summaries, moving them into financial quarters would be a good start. What time period are you looking at for the current case?”

Cutter paused briefly, his back to you, shifting another box, the spot above the bridge of his nose creasing as he thought to himself. He knew this was only an interview, and he wasn’t allowed to bring up case specifics until a confirmed hire, but you were kind enough to offer some help and interest, unlike anyone else he’d met in the past few days during these meetings.

“Uh, the last year is most suspect. Five months ago a new client was approved…” Mike began, revealing more about the case then he was supposed to.

You dug through the mess, found the necessary labeled files and arranged them into an initial pattern to see if anything stuck out, asking more about the case and how it could relate back. After awhile, a ringing cell phone interrupted the process,

“Excuse me,” Mike noted, taking the call.

You busied yourself with rereading some statements and organizing loose files. Mike listened on the line. Mid-way through the conversation, his focused stare inadvertently wandered, like a curious kid bored in line. It shifted away from the grey sky peeking through the blinds towards another sight: your determined self standing nearby, still working-- a smile faintly toying at Mike’s lips until he felt it sitting there.

Cutter soon hung up the call, addressing you again, “Thank you for the help. I know this interview didn’t go as planned. But, I have to run, so I’m not late for a second meeting today,” his voice attempted to chuckle.

“It’s no problem,” you said, grabbing your bag.

“So, will I see you again tomorrow?” He asked, discernable hope sneaking into his question.

“Oh, for a new interview time, yeah let me--”

“No, for the job,” he frankly interrupted, “It’s yours.”

Cutter observed your astonished humble face, “I’ve already read through your résumé. You offered good ideas regarding the case, and you voluntarily gave up time to literally push paper around a conference room for an hour. Doubt that’s what you expected.”

“I didn’t know what to expect, honestly.”

“Well, I hope it wasn’t a total disappointment,” Mike added, head tilting to the side slightly, you were no longer just some printed name on a piece of paper. He hung onto the pause this time and the idea of how you were going to respond. Maybe deep down, more than he wanted to, but he didn’t let himself think more about it to try and convince you.

“It wasn’t,” your grip on the same lull in the air now, a small grin bordering your lips.

You were happy the unexpected interview worked out. You needed this job, as your unpublished writings and journalistic pursuits weren’t paying the bills.

“Great,” Mike noted, genuine relief he couldn’t hide, forming into his features, “Let me just grab the paperwork in my office before I go.”

You followed him back down the hall. Mike searched his desk, somehow knowing what existed where and what didn’t, despite the mess. You weren’t sure how you missed it before, but there was a baseball bat strewn on the shelf behind him.

“Doesn’t seem like enough space in here to practice your swing,” you blurted out.

Mike stopped what he was doing, momentarily confused, before you clarified, nodding to the object, “The bat.”

“Yeah,” he bashfully agreed, grabbing his jacket off his chair and the now-completed papers, “It’s motivation for a bigger office one day. The mitt has to suffice for now,” he explained as you walked with him.

“9AM. I promise I won’t be late,” he assured, heading out, after he brought you to the front desk with the hiring documents, freshly inked by him.

As the elevator chimed through the lower floors, Mike felt a solace he hadn’t thought was possible these past weeks as he struggled through cases. Cutter was rarely impressed, but working with you happened to be one of those rare occasions he was. He didn’t tell you though. And, as he thought to himself, he wasn’t even sure if had words that would properly describe the impression you made, in the first place.

During the learning process of a normal office routine, you’d acquired facts that helped, like not calling certain judges right before lunch, avoiding the wonky copier by the stairs, improving the style of your legal memos, etc. But then there were facts you didn’t need, ones that always strayed from the rigid definition of work, but hung loosely around it due to the context of where and who you were with, which most of the time was Cutter.

Random conversations of law school stories, memories of lonely holidays, clever ripostes, favourite take-out orders, baseball team stats. You had nowhere to keep these things. But you saved them anyway, taking each one as it passed through your brain, and quickly shoving them into the empty spaces, like a distracted naive messenger. You didn’t think much of it, unknowingly the overflow spilling into the hollows of your unaddressed heart. You were guilty of similar talks, letting slip past your lips the struggles of writing gigs, stories from your past, a failed last relationship, favourite songs growing up. In passing, or on the surface, it all was harmless. Little did you two know, how utterly pernicious it could just be. How, when added all up, it molded into pieces that matched the hollowed out spots, sitting beneath both your ribcages.

You and Mike went to re-interview a back waiter, on the clock, at a fancy restaurant in Midtown for the latest case. You were almost out the door, until you stopped in your tracks, fear freezing everything, but your heart. Mike practically ran into you, as you swiftly turned on your heel,

“You’ve got to be kidding me?!” You hissed out loud, as you ducked into an empty booth nearby for refuge, peering your head out.

“What’s wrong?” Mike asked, completely confused, sitting down across from you.

“My Ex, he’s at the bar.”

“The one that dumped you?”

“Yes,” you whined, “Ugh, why does he have to be here?”

“I honestly don’t see what the big deal is...”

“It’s not really,” you backpedaled, words rushing out, lacking your intended rational elegance.

“...It’s his loss,” Cutter’s voice declared with ease, like it was a piece of evidence no one could argue against in the court.

Yet, it was stated so offhandedly, in passing, his focus elsewhere as he casually readjusted the unlit candle on the table.

Your ears ran after the quick compliment, catching it and consuming it, an unexpected analgesic. It seeped under the surface like water causing a short circuit. You weren’t even sure if your mouth twitched into an actual smile despite feeling like it did, panic still around you.

“I just, I don’t want to deal with him. I know he’ll say something, because it’s a chance for him to be a pompous ass.”

Mike made a noise at your unfiltered comment, vaguely amused at the lengths you were taking right now to avoid this jerk. He felt the same enduring faint smile that pulled at his mouth, the one he always kept fighting since you started working with him.

“Alright,” Mike gave in, “But we are going to have to leave,” he pointed out obviously, the early bird diners across the aisle giving you strange and confused looks.

“I know, I know,” you breathed out, resting your elbows on the table, trying to think. Then an idea struck you, an arrow direct from your subconscious or otherwise. Cortisol fueling your boldness or lapse in judgement, depending on how you viewed it.

“Can you pretend to be my boyfriend for like the next five minutes?”

“What?” Mike asked, the question rapid, yet the word, slow from his lips, his eyebrows rising. His stare straight into yours now, like a head-on collision.

“Please? That’ll shut him up,” you explained, eyes earnest, a vulnerability sitting in at the table now-- a forgotten ghost materializing.

You watched Mike’s face, which found a new way to react. You tried to read him. You had been trying more so recently, which ultimately just ended up you staring at him from across the room. You didn’t know why you suggested it. It was all petty, you knew, and you knew that better as you felt his held stare seemingly morphing to chide your overreaction in the silence.

“If not, that’s fine. It’s a stupid idea. You can head out, I’ll meet you back at the office... Maybe I can grab a waiter to see if I can use the kitchen exit,” you suggested, looking away to search for one, while avoiding Cutter’s still unchanged face.

“This is ridiculous,” you heard Mike say louder through an exhale. And in how he said it, you assumed he was shaking his head at you, as if you were some delusional suspect who just asked for some absurd leniency at a plea deal.

You were surprised at how much the thought pulled down your optimistic heart. It was built up too much from the compliment, perhaps. You kept your sheepish gaze on the tabletop, chin in both your hands now. You listened to the clinking dinnerware and livelier conversations around you, feeling Cutter’s weight shift when he got up from the booth. You inhaled your chagrin, struggling to get out of this situation, too many emotions still processing.

“Are you ready to go, darling?”

The question from Mike’s voice swiftly drifted into your ears like an airy summer breeze, the sudden string of words peppered with such sweetness and affection. Something you never heard before, but instantly wanted to hear again.

Your crestfallen face shot up from the table as Mike extended his hand for you to take. Your nerves transformed into a quasi-calmness, something else flooding your veins as you took his hand with a delicate yet somewhat disbelieving smile, getting up from your seat.

Cutter knew this was a bad move. He knew it as soon as he felt your palm in his hand-- his breathing pattern getting tangled in the spaces between his ribs like a weaving ribbon. It was exactly like the time when he first met you, months ago now-- that whisper of unsettling sublimity. He had managed to forget that sight. Not anymore. It left another mark, with another sense.

His hand shifted, not wanting to let you go, finding the middle of your back, without any effort or doubt. Mike tied another knot around himself, tethering to the details only you held.

“This guy better notice us,” Mike ordered, leaning over your shoulder, adamancy fighting to cover up worry.

“Then let’s make sure of it, Counselor,” you confidently replied with a sideways glance while he casually led you through the surrounding tables and chairs, “Put your arm around me when we get to the bar.”

You kept walking, heartbeat hastening further in the extended absence of a reply from him. Yet, as instructed, you felt Mike’s arm gently wrap around your shoulders, his body next to yours as you walked now, the bar coming into full view. This simple act, even one you had half-expected, startled your heart for a second time tonight. It sank further, missing how the nonchalant tenderness of togetherness could feel. These little forced actions planted something into your mind, which your heart had already been growing in abandon.

“So, what do you want to do this weekend?” You happily wondered aloud, and purposefully within ear-shot of your Ex. Your hand reached up and found Mike’s, needing a longer memory than the brief exchange from before.

“I’m open to ideas,” Mike answered, his lips involuntarily and eagerly forming the smile he’d been practicing so long in secret-- your brightened eyes totally focused on him. For a second he forgot what or who the actual point of this charade was or for. And, he didn’t care.

The line of what was an act was becoming hard to distinguish, bleeding out and through. That mark extended into permanence now, his conscience being ungrudgingly engulfed by your company. As were you, with his.

So much so, you hadn’t even noticed your Ex’s bewilderment, him nearly choking on his drink, his obnoxious mouth halfway to the floor as you and Cutter walked past. You were too busy trying to keep Mike looking at you.

You stumbled back to reality as your name rang through your ears, knowing it wasn’t Mike who had said it.

“Oh, hey,” you said, now totally pulled out of your daydream haze, stomach suddenly lurching at the sight of him, not giving the satisfaction of a personal greeting. You covered it up in well-acted indifference.

You waited a second, watching your Ex’s eyebrows and lips struggle to find a place to rest, enjoying his baffleness. Mike was still beside you, letting you play it out however you wanted.

“Looks like you need another drink,” you cooly commented, leaving him there, not hearing the half-assed retort he tried to spout behind you.

You weren’t sure if you imagined it or not, but as you walked away, you thought you felt Mike’s grip protectively tighten around your frame. His touch burning through the fabric, his radius of cologne like a blanket, your veins rushing in an adrenaline high of successful revenge and newfound desire. The closeness dragged something back from far away. Something glowed brighter than the candlelight inside, or the approaching dusk outside. Like the discovery of a lost artifact, the dirt was dusted away and it revealed the truth buried within you. What you had now seen, you couldn’t look away from.

You wanted this to be real.

“I think that went fairly well,” Cutter noted, a pleased yet reluctant smirk halfway to his lips as he gave you space that suddenly felt like exile.

“Yeah, definitely” you forced a zealous smile, briefly eyeing his blurred silhouette, unable to focus normally now, “That was one of his better conversations, looking back,” you tried to joke, to wipe away this current feeling you were covered in.

Mike gave a small laugh, watching you, as you fumbled with your shirt sleeve.

“Thanks,” you said more quietly.

Mike knew you deserved better than whatever you had with your ex, but he stopped any thoughts beyond that. Those thoughts that made him second guess himself, and read into things. Cutter never assumed anything in any relationship anymore because he had experience in how they fell apart, no matter what you thought, believed, or rationalized-- those childhood scars existing within adult skin.

You looked up, and your stares fell into each other’s crosshairs, some part of both of your brains fixed on something vaguely forming, but not defining it outloud. You felt your cheeks flush in the golden light, but you kept your sightline on Cutter, mustering all the confidence you had to not look away-- hoping he’d notice you.

Your convictions faltered, when Mike brought up work again, aimlessly checking his phone, the effect of your presence floating away like a newspaper caught in the wind. Your eyes dropped to your shoes, feeling heavier than the concrete below them. But you blinked, and walked on, leaving whatever it was, at the restaurant. You pushed it farther away with each step, holding the conversation without awkwardness or the obvious memory-- like nothing had happened between you two, because nothing really had. It was only you who fell for the act.

Mike couldn’t jeopardize what he was working so hard for, despite knowing the exact fuel, first-hand, that could convince him to. This job was still new, and whatever this was, that he stumbled upon with you, wasn’t anything he accounted for. He saw how the scattered sunlight hit your eyes making them appear even more alive and in colour. He felt the fear in his chest from your stare boring into some part of his soul he thought he had under lock and key. He didn’t like it. He was trying to figure out the meanings he couldn’t hide from anymore. He wasn’t confident in how to translate them, or if he even should. He didn’t want to deal with it. So, he used what he knew, the reminder, the anchor of work, to erase that split-second of everything that had just taken up all the space around him-- as if that would rid himself of the mark he made. He didn’t want to talk about it, because then it’d be too real, too finite. So, he didn’t.

“Mike!” A cute woman yelled, dashing over to where you and Cutter were standing at the intersection, a few blocks from the courthouse, waiting for the light to change. You just wrapped up your lunch recess.

“Candace,” Cutter greeted, his salutation like he was uneasy on a tightrope, “Hey.”

“And you are?” Candace lightly asked you, before Mike or you could speak up.

She adjusted her doctor’s coat over her fashionable dress as you introduced yourself. And so did she again. Candace paused with an expectant face, you were supposed to say something more, apparently.

“Mike, don't you ever talk about me at work?” She asked, her smile strong, but its genuineness seemingly weak, as she nudged his arm.

“No, not really.”

Candace’s face scowled at his immediate reply, while you had to quietly hold back an amused snort at the exchange.

“And we’ve been dating for how long now?”

Your amusement died instantly at her voice, run over by the line that was louder than the impatient traffic.

“Yeah,” Mike breathed out roughly, not sounding an agreement or rebuttal, patting Candace’s shoulder in consolation.

Meanwhile, you were trapped in the sudden hurt of lost potential. It etched into every bone in your body, fracturing the piece you stubbornly nurtured in hope for weeks. None of this, however, crossed your face-- a silent break. You were numb, diving into a black hole of nothingness, lost in freefall, your body waiting for the crush of the surface you might never hit.

Candace didn’t wait for a reply from you. She didn’t seem to care, ignoring you altogether as she focused on Mike, “So, what are our plans this weekend?”

It was déjà vu playing before you, without you as the leading role. Your toying tiny memory you had with Mike, burned you. It scorched like a hot iron, disintegrating the projection of your crush, film melting to a match. You wanted to know how long they were dating, but didn’t want to know at the same time-- like bad news you couldn’t stop learning more about, trying to analyze the timeline of who, what, where, and when, it changed for the worst.

“Uh,” Mike mumbled, drawing his eyes up from the pavement, despite feeling the gravity of you by him, which he shouldn’t have noticed, “I managed to get Yankees tickets.”

“That’s baseball,” she whined, with an unenthused face, “You know I don’t do sports… I bought a new dress.”

“You can wear a dress to the game,” Mike happily suggested, trying a second time, “You’ll be voted best-dressed, for sure.”

“They do that?” She asked naively.

“No,” Mike deadpanned, “But you’d still have my vote,” he said, trying to salvage it.

“So, it’s just sitting with you for hours?” Candace questioned unenthusiastically, “It’ll wrinkle,” she pouted.

“Or! I can wear it to the benefit concert! Remember the one I told you about?,” she paused, again not really concerned with an answer, her calm radio-ready voice very convincing, “Let me see if I can sell the tickets. Text me the info, and if I have someone who will pay more at the hospital. You get some extra cash. Yay. And, then we can have an actual fun night together. I heard some celebrities are going to be there too.”

“But you--”

“Mike, if the team is at the World Cup or whatever, we can go.”

“World Series.”

“What?”

“It’s the World Series,” he corrected again.

“Uh-huh,” the word extending into a longer second syllable than needed. Candace’s pager beeped, going to check it, she said, “You knew what I meant, anyway.”

Mike took a breath, raising his chin to the sky slightly to reassure himself.

“Promise?” He asked again.

“Promise,” Candace assured, “I gotta get back and make rounds. Don’t work too hard, babe. And nice meeting you!” She said, running off, before you even had the chance to correct her for calling you the wrong name, while she blew a kiss to Mike.

“She’s a doctor?” You muttered out, attempting to hide your growing disdain as you both started walking again. All these emotions and what-ifs roared into a storm behind your eyes, you had nowhere to go and escape.

That was the only thing you could utter, not believing she deserved a compliment off first impressions, not wanting to learn the details of their budding romance or whatever misshapen idea of one this seemingly was. It’s not like Mike was obligated to tell you about his romantic life.

“Yeah, at New York Presbyterian,” Cutter cleared his throat, head barely turning to glance at you, his hair blowing in a short breeze.

After a block of fast walking, you spoke up and got back to case talk, using it to forget, leaving the new realizations found on that street corner to evaporate in the midday sun, while burying the ones you couldn’t leave behind.

Mike knew Candace after meeting her during a random lunch run. She flirted with him when they ran into each other once or twice, and exchanged an occasional text, but he left it alone mostly. Then Mike asked her out on a first date, the week before he and you ran into your ex at the restaurant. Then he asked her out again, after. Because it was easier than figuring out what to do in regards to you. It was what Mike wanted because it didn’t complicate anything. It wasn't a risk, and he knew what to expect. It was comfortable and it had been working… well enough. He had responses rehearsed in his head, on how he could answer and defend various things you could say. And, while you walked in silence, he waited for your reaction-- something he could analyze. But, you said nothing about it.

Mike didn’t say anything more either.

And neither did you, until a few weeks later.

“So…”

“So… what?” Mike asked gently, filing away the plea deal just finished, listening, but not looking at you, as the early evening light flooded the conference rooms’ windows. It was the last meeting of the day, and your official last day in the office-- your contract was done.

“You wanna grab a drink to celebrate all the cases won that we never went and celebrated these last six months? Like that mess of a Newgarden trial when I started, and ultimately saved for you,” you spoke casually, trying to keep it light, despite your body language being altered to hide the weight of it all.

It wasn’t a date. You weren’t trying to make it one. You just were trying to salvage a friendship, one that was quickly receding into a different formality and separateness, unfought by either of you.

“Raincheck?” Mike questioned, getting up to follow behind you. When you didn’t answer, he continued in the silence, reluctantly stringing together, “Candace made reservations at this edgy new restaurant that I’m going to love, weeks ago.”

You scoffed to yourself, turning away from the door you were going to open, biting sarcasm taking over where rejection was.

“I’m sure she’ll love it enough for both of you,” you mocked, the hurt escaping from where you’d been trying to heal it over. His eyes watched you, but he said nothing, and you hated it. Everything held back, broke through. You had nothing to lose now. You were leaving.

“Also, I doubt you’re going to a World Series game with her, and it’s not because of the Yankees standings,” you blatantly commented.

“What are you implying?” Mike pressed, stunned with your sudden shift in disposition that just hit him.

“Come on, Mike, how many times has Candace changed plans, done what she wanted? Why do you let her off the hook?” You questioned.

You aimed to read his face, but your own glint of anger made it harder. Mike didn’t put up with things like this at work, so why was he being second chair in his own relationship? It irked you.

Mike shook his head, mouth half agape, defensiveness shifting into place, “You’re being judgemental, you’re just pissed she said your name wrong when she met you.”

“Ah, you remembered that?,” you chuckled bitterly, “Still didn’t answer the question, though,” you noted, heartbeat rising as you saw the annoyance under the surface of his eyes, like a big wave growing before it hit the shore.

“Relationships are about compromise…” His distant voice tried to argue with you, as if he was speaking to a kid acting out.

“Not about compromising yourself,” you interjected, “Who are you trying to convince, Mike?”

“What’s your point?” He asked, crossing his arms despite the manila folder in his hands, aggravation piercing through.

“It isn’t right,” you asserted.

“And how do you know what’s right for me?” Mike spat.

Your own swell of brashness receded, recognizing you were swept into a deeper water than what it really was, with the idea of what could be.

“Why are we even talking about this?” Mike countered, frustrated, “We’re colleagues, we’re not--”

“You’re right... I don’t know,” you admitted abashedly. You had no argument for him. You didn’t know. So, you cut him off, not needing to hear the rest of his statement outloud-- you weren’t friends, you were just two people connected by circumstance. And this confirmed that.

Mike and you always had your separate lives outside of the office, the pieces known of one another were sparsely littered in brief mentions, always told in reference or past tense. There seemed to be no incentive to try and make memories together now in the present-- in whatever form you were trying to restore, outside of work.

You looked at him briefly, catching a glimpse of that memory-- the endearing first sight of him six months ago, tripping over evidence boxes, folders in hand, smiling at you.

He wasn’t smiling now.

You had confessions caught between your teeth, the one that said he deserved someone who wanted to sit with him for hours at a baseball game, the one that admitted you were going to miss working with him, the one that revealed you liked him more than you should. But, you couldn't bring yourself to say any of it. He wasn’t ever yours to lose, or gain. You swallowed your pride, and the pain in the back of your throat that had grown worse.

“Sorry. Forget it, Cutter,” you quietly said, looking away briefly, addressing him only by last name, as if that added enough distance on the map you already had drawn from you to him, “Just forget everything. There’s nothing to remember anyway.”

Mike felt the air change between you two. It was immediate like a burst of air through a broken window in a sealed room. He heard the familiarity fade in your voice. He saw how your shoulders sank then rose in reticence as you walked away through the door. He knew a line was drawn. A consequence he hadn’t foreseen when his ego tried to preemptively shield him. You had just sent a crack into the reality he formed into a sanguine fix for himself-- his safe bet in Candace. Then it boiled down to him trying to get you to force your hand instead of his, (less risk that way). But, maybe there was nothing to show, or win.

Mike was always slightly off-balance since you came into his life. Maybe it was best you interrupted, and stopped him from saying ‘lovers’. Maybe, that would’ve been the canon blast to sink this entire friendship stumbled upon months ago. But now, it didn’t even seem like you were interested in that. Again, he got what he wanted, no loose ends. There wasn’t an incentive to risk any more.

You left, and he didn’t say anything more to make you stay. So, Cutter tried to forget, like you told him to. Like he had been trying to do all along.

Interestingly enough, the Yankees did make it to the World Series that year. You wondered if Candace kept her promise and went with Mike to a game. Then you scowled for thinking about it. You were doing fine. You met new people, changed apartments, had new experiences and losses. Your time at the D.A.’s Office was less than a year, small compared to the greater timelines of life, but it never faded into your memory as you would’ve liked.

You didn’t like how dreams randomly planted scenarios in how things could’ve been different with Mike. You hated how those lost feelings found you again and again, hanging around like smoke on clothes-- the joy and disappointment like a bad cigarette habit you couldn’t break. You didn’t reach out, ever-- time, life, and stubbornness making it harder. Also, why bother when it was Mike who made it clear you weren’t anything in the first place.

Meanwhile, Mike pushed away the memories that surrounded him, by pulling himself deep into everything else at work. He garnered a successful reputation in his bureau in a couple years, no longer the doubting lawyer, unsure of himself. At least, he never showed that side of him to others. Frankly, he didn’t show any side of himself really, after you left, learning that it only made more trouble than it was worth. Mike’s revelation, of course, made it easier for him to do what he wanted, which was win cases, and focus solely on one thing: justice. He could care less about everything else, which gave him confidence and more work. His methods had got him the job opening of Executive A.D.A. in the violent crimes bureau, a bigger promotion despite his lesser office tenure. Again, a success at distracting himself from the past he couldn’t always outrun.

Then it caught up to him, again.

Mike saw you, or rather, was struck by you. You appeared no different than almost four years ago. His mouth went dry. He knew no one could hear his heartbeat in his ears, except him. Question after question spiraled out their tendrils, climbing over the walls of his brain: How were you? What were you doing now? Did you like your job? How was your life? Did you have-- he stopped himself-- his heart suddenly sore.

In his hesitation from across the room, you looked up, shocked at the familiar suit and coat taking up your office space. Both your sightlines knotted together, and that pit at the bottom of your heart grew exponentially. Same blue shirt get-up, his haircut slightly different. He nodded in your direction, putting his hands in his pockets, standing there, wanting to move, but unsure. You waved him over, busying yourself with writing a note at your desk to give you a moment to figure out what the hell you were going to say. You had so many drafts, rehearsed so many times-- but now, the speeches crumbled into rubble. You took a deep breath as the low voice you hadn’t heard snuck into your ears reminding you of another time, like an old song from your youth you forgot you loved.

“I hadn’t expected this,” Mike said slowly, nervously hovering near your desk.

“Yeah,” you drew out, standing up, neither of you pushing the personal space, for a hug felt disappointingly out-of-place, like clothes that didn’t fit anymore despite you wanting them to.

“You’re finally writing full-time?” He inquired, re-realizing this was an online newspaper office.

“Mmm-hmmm, I vet blog recommendations but also collaborate with investigations. In the city, there’s plenty of issues to uncover... just trying to find justice where I can,” you explained with a reluctant smile passing your lips, “You still at the D.A.’s Office?”

“Yeah,” Mike replied, “trying to do the same as you. I was here, hoping to get some info for the latest indictment.”

“How’s your conviction rate?” You joked, a genuine smile appearing.

A smile Mike learned he had missed more than he thought, knowing this seemed so different compared to how he last saw you. He tried to argue his time working with you was fleeting, merely an impression, but as soon as he recognized you, he realized you were a goddamn indentation in his mind, and he carved it out deeper every year it moved farther into the past.

He raised his eyebrows, his lips a confident half-smirk, “Not sure. I changed bureaus, and kind of lost track. Murder trials go on so much longer and by the time you win, there’s another.”

“I’m sure it’s a killer.” You deadpanned the pun, which got a chuckle from him, “You got a new office then?”

“Yeah, windows and extra tables and everything. It’s practically the Plaza.” He joked.

“Enough room to practice baseball? Or did you give that up?”

“No, still got them,” Mike nodded his head, surprised you’d remembered, “And yeah, there is space.”

You were unsure of what else to say, despite knowing there was so much to ask. Your eyes outlined every detail of how Mike looked now, his posture more reserved (or was it guarded?), the grey flecking his hair-- the different stress of cases surely contributing to these things. Yet, his eyes were still as blue as the New York skyline in early fall, something still behind them-- like a sunken object at the bottom of a deep pool, you never could make out exactly what it was.

“Uh,” Mike looked away, “Actually you reminded me of something.”

“What is it?” You wondered, anticipation speeding up your heart.

“Recently, there was an article put out on a popular news blog that seems to be linked to something bigger than a current case-- meaning it was done as a warning for my boss. I wanted to know who leaked the info. Would that be hard to find?”

“Not particularly, if someone tells me.”

“Could you find out for me?” His voice stumbled over the words, just like he did when he was younger.

You paused briefly, going around behind your desk in silence. You opened up the internet browser and gestured for him to take a seat.

“Find me the article, and I’ll let you know.”

Mike let out the breath he was holding. He nodded before sitting down. While he typed and scanned the search results, he occasionally glanced at you leaning against your desk, next to him. He cleared his throat.

“Here.” He said, getting back up to let you see.

He let you read the article, while his eyes retreated back to you again, in their own tide with his mind-- who decided to pull them away from the shape of you, yet also selfishly wanted to take another fleeting moment while you weren’t looking.

“D.A. McCoy galavanting in California, on the taxpayers’ dime?”

“It’s not true.” Cutter defended.

“You do realize you’re biased.”

“I know, but it’s still false. It’s someone high profile linked to our case as a potential witness, and this was a way to say ‘stop digging’.”

You sighed, “that is plausible,” you said, leaning back into your chair, undecided.

“You were right about Candace, by the way,” Mike gently revealed, randomly, looking away as he shifted his weight.

Your eyebrows rose slightly when he looked back to you, waiting for him to continue.

“I had wanted to go to the final game of the World Series. The Yankees still had a chance to tie and reclaim their win. I bought tickets. She forgot she even made that promise. She said it wasn’t a big deal. But, it was. So, despite her long-winded ultimatums in-person and by phone. I ignored her, and went by myself. And then the Yankees lost, 0-2, which was its own kind of insult to injury.”

“Is this an attempt at flattery?”

“Yes, but it’s also me trying to say I didn’t want to admit that you had a valid point. And, it’s long overdue. And right now, I’d really appreciate the help.”

Unconsciously, your rigid expression softened at his earnest blue-eyed gaze and small smile, like driftwood being smoothed in the ocean's surf. You hated that smirky smile, the one that was more amusing than smug. You nodded in acceptance, swallowing that familiar vague pain in the back of your throat.

Mike continued, “I also think she cursed the team because they haven’t been back since, and I’ve been single and they still couldn’t even win the division series this year.”

You noticed the casual drop of relationship status, but you refused to react to it. This was a lot, at once, to maintain composure about. You didn’t want all of this flooding back so quickly when you had nothing to hold onto-- after you worked so hard to be some form of okay again.

“What’s your cell number?” You asked, changing the subject, as you grabbed a pen and paper, “I’ll call you if I find out anything.”

Mike didn’t push the boundary that was drawn out so long ago. He took what he could. And, he hoped you’d call. Regardless if you found anything, he hoped you’d call.

It was about four days later when his phone rang.

“Hey Mike, it’s--”

“Hi,” he interrupted, recognizing your voice, dialing his own back from sounding overeager, “What’s up?”

“I traced that article you gave me back to a PR firm: Swann and Poltek. They’re pretty big. Interestingly enough, they handled the Governor’s last campaign.”

“Really? Now that’s interesting,” he paused, racking his brain to figure out how he could keep you on the line a little longer, “Thanks again for taking the time to find out.”

“You’re welcome,” you paused, before sarcastically adding, “Just don’t make it a habit. Unless you want to negotiate an investigative fee right now.”

We can discuss it during our date.

What about drinks, you and me?

Would dinner work instead?

Can I just make it a habit of running into you again?

Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime.

But he didn’t say any of that.

“Not in the budget, currently.”

“Well, good luck with the case.” You replied, wondering if you could hear anything in the silence on the line-- a signal that agreed with what you wanted to believe for so long-- that this was more than just a favour from an old acquaintance.

“Thanks.”

“Take care, Mike.”

“You too.”

Cutter sighed aloud, dropping the phone, dismayed with himself. He didn’t think this would be so hard to do. But, it was-- unable to escape those fears from so long ago. There were words, ripe to use, but Mike let them hang there, tongue-tied with old strings. There was a layer to you that wasn't there before, and he didn’t know if it was for him or because of him. He had so little to go on, and it was his own doing. He had gained confidence in other areas of his life, but when it came down to you, he was still stuck in the past.

&1.

After becoming depressed with Governer Shalvoy’s cover-up of the web of events tied to the Madison murder and guilty Frank Beezly’s future pardon, Cutter tried to distract himself from work. It was a thing he never was usually inclined to do, but more recently was fine with. Nursing some questionable off-brand liquor in his apartment when he couldn't sleep, he opened his laptop and looked for your news articles online, and tried to remember anything you mentioned about your writing pursuits from years’ back. He wasn’t surprised at your work: it was researched, thoughtful, and well written. He also stumbled upon a few references to submitted pieces-- the fiction and poetry kind, which vaguely sounded familiar to something you enjoyed from old offhand conversations. He wasn’t really one for those sorts of things, despite his verbose line of work. The words could sound awfully pretty, but he never got the meaning. Then Mike stumbled upon a poem of yours that was published last year:

Emcee

Master of ceremonies,

I didn’t know I was a part of the show, won over.

Then the curtain fell, cursed formality,

Realized the ending before anything.

Anxiety a chip on my shoulder,

My eloquence more of a thrown boulder

At a delicate situation, housed on the edge of the cliff

Slipped, stranded.

A landslide of feelings I thought I abandoned.

That suit and tie, loose daydream threads pulling at me,

Caught, saw a sliver of what’s underneath,

Smile in every crack of the street.

Your articulate lips were an altar I would’ve been sacrificed to,

To learn what your lungs would say

When I took your breath away

With my insurmountable love.

Pretty blue horizon I skydived deep.

Lost traveler crashed, what I tried to give, you didn’t want to keep.

Not enough then, not enough now, to escape the almost.

Here I am, on stage, attempting to console my self-inflicted wounds,

Heartbeat echoing, I’m still talking into the microphone in that emptied room.

He repeated the given title, as if trying to pronounce a new word, or recalling a forgotten incantation as it dawned on him: M.C.

Like his initials? Was it about him? Mike paused, your written words crashing like a tidal wave, going beyond that mark which had reemerged. The thought was like broken glass digging in, making him hurt. This was written almost a year ago, things could've changed by now. But-- if it was still true, or even if it had been, and he let you go-- there was so much time wasted because he was afraid. He finished off his drink with one swig. He sat there in silence, the bright glowing words on the screen burning, like his throat. It was life’s metaphorical way of shaking him up, telling him to do something. So, finally, he did.

When you got back to the office, you found an envelope left on your desk. As soon as you inspected it, visions from old notes on whiteboards and meeting memos’ familiarity grabbed you: it was Mike’s handwriting on the outside. His name next to the ‘from’ confirmed that too. You were confused, thinking maybe he felt obligated to pay you back for your investigative help from 2 weeks ago. You carefully opened the letter, unfolding the note inside. It was a print-out of the poem you’d never think he’d find, let alone read. Your heart caught in your throat, even learning of this secondhand felt too vulnerable. Then you saw something written at the bottom of the page:

The room isn’t empty. If you want to talk, I’ll be at Pete’s Tavern. Friday, 7 o’clock. If you don’t, no hard feelings.

You stood a moment, staring at the sudden potential that flooded the place you wrote off as done for.

The nerves you felt as background noise when you first read Mike’s note didn’t escape you. They were there all day after, and still here every step you took towards the black and white sign of the restaurant on the corner. You hoped for the best, but worried it wouldn’t work, that too much time had passed, that somehow it’d end the same just like every other time you thought it was going well.

Mike had been watching the door non-stop since he got to Pete’s, taking only brief breaks to check his watch countdown time. Then he saw you walk through the door, and he couldn’t stop that familiar grin from spreading across his face. You were a vision, better than anything he could’ve imagined because you being here, was, in fact, real.

You were scanning the room, and your eyes met each other’s. That earnestness radiating from Mike’s face, calmed your nerves. You recalled the memory from that fleeting moment at the restaurant years ago, that look in Mike’s eyes where everything else dissolved away and all you wanted was to keep him looking at you. Now, he was. Completely, and totally, that mystery hidden in his irises revealed and finally, in the open.

“Hi,” he greeted, the tone of his voice somewhat familiar, that tenderness saved from a moment before.

“Hi,” you mirrored, taking a seat across from him, “You know you could have just called me and asked me out. But I admit the handwritten letter was very poetic.”

“What can I say, you inspired me,” Mike acknowledged, a smirk tugging at his lips again.

“Also,” he added, tapping his fingers against the tabletop, nerves floating up to the surface as his smile faded, “It was for self-preservation. I wouldn't have had to face the rejection first-hand.”

“Really?” You asked, not incredulously, just in a way that lent your own surprise at how someone who stared down murderers daily could be insecure towards you.

“Yeah,” his voice agreed, splitting the word up, “not that I’d admit that to anyone else or frankly, have for anyone else.”

You kept talking through the dinner that felt like a second chance, an amleroration. It was magical yet unsettling in another way. It was like time was erased and confined at the same time. The restrictions were gone, but all the gaps had gotten bigger to overcome. It wasn’t difficult, but it took time-- fortunately both of you were willing to spend it.

The short walk after dinner turned into over twenty blocks. The Empire State Building standing over you on the street, the line for tickets miraculously gone for the evening.

“Hey, do you wanna go up to the observation deck? I’ve never been, and no one’s here.” You suggested.

“Yeah, sure.” Mike had been once before, when he was way younger, but it wasn’t at night. And even if he had, he could’ve cared less. He would’ve said yes to anything you suggested because it was more time with you he didn’t even have to ask for.

Traveling up the 80-something floors, both of your hands managed to get intertwined with one another’s during caught stares and lingering smiles. Neither of you minded they did-- clandestinely clinging onto the reality of one another that was felt briefly once so long ago, now aware and willing to hold onto it closely. So, the memory would hold onto you too.

The skyline was an onyx landscape alive with tiny sparkling lights, manufactured stars, windows into worlds. A 21st century sight Van Gogh would’ve been inspired to capture if he had been at this very spot. It was a view you had to truly see to accurately understand-- the atmosphere or time of year perfectly right. And despite the nighttime breezes up that high-- it took your breath away.

“Wow, it’s so beautiful,” you commented, enamored with the scene and current reality that led you here. Your hair elegantly fell away from your face, like the wind was at your command while your eyes held the surrounding glimmering reflections alongside another old spark nurtured back to life.

“You really are.” Cutter casually admitted, with a low drawl, his lips shifting into another smirk as he watched you.

You turned, his comment hitting you much differently than anything previously said-- the sudden coquetry was its own soft breeze, against your now blushing cheeks.

“You’re beautiful,” he said again, trying to make up for all the times he had thought it in all of its contexts and meanings, and never told you outloud.

You bit your lip, thinking back, quietly confessing, “You don’t know how many times I’d imagined you’d say that.”

“Actually, I think I can, because it’s probably as many times as I wondered about this,” Mike admitted, leaning in, his eyes clear, shining with conviction.

“So, can I kiss you now?,” his voice whispered, invisible ashes falling from where his warm breath dusted your face.

“I thought you’d never ask,” you replied, lips turning into a smile.

Your hands broke apart to only meet each other again-- Mike needing to commit this fully honest moment to another physical sense, his fingertips against your flushed cradled face, writing a cipher only you knew the meaning of, desperate to create a new mark to cover up the one that’s haunted him for so long. You were adrift in the nostalgic revived intimacy of this closeness, the chance to live out the line you wrote and prove its truth, one he’d never argue or forget, as you spoke in the sweet affection you had kept reserved in hope for so long since. You and Cutter both adamant on making up on all the time lost.

#mike cutter #michael cutter x reader #michael cutter #law and order fanfiction #law and order #mike cutter x you #mike cutter imagine #law and order svu fanfiction #michael cutter imagines #michael cutter fanfiction #mike cutter x reader

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katsukikitten · 4 years

Text

WARNINGS : N!SFW 18+ AGED UP AU! SOME SCENES MAY CONTAIN GRAPHIC CONTENT, READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YANDERE THEMES GIF MADE BY ME

It started out with a package.

Roses really, neatly tucked away in plastic and a glass vase that nestled into loud styrofoam.

Or at least that's when you started to notice it.

Actually it started with a phone call didn't it?

Just a few days ago the old rotary phone, the one you bought for nostalgia, rang. This in itself was not odd, you picked up the aged yellow receiver and pressed the cool plastic to your ear.

But you did not speak, waiting patiently for the other line to come to life. After a few moments of silence you figure it to be a telemarketer, the automated type that doesn't start its spiel until it hears a tone, a voice. So you hang up.

The random call lost to both time and thought.

But you cannot forget this package that acted as a catalyst, to what you were not sure.

You just knew it was something.

The white box with the flower company's name on the side of the cardboard sat on your concrete steps, just past the waist high fence. You were returning from a run, huffing as you bent over, you figured it was most likely for your neighbor but it had your address. The recipient's name had been worn off from the poor handling of the package, you had figured the contents to be broken. Despite the state of the box the roses were perfectly intact. Crystal vase sparkling even through the opaque wrapping, a note on top that read.

I'll love you always.

Ah so this was not for you. You scoff, this was meant for your neighbor as you first originally thought. It made more sense that way. What with his boyfriend being long distance, it was obvious. He most likely remembered his address wrong and put yours in error. As you're haphazardly closing the box, keeping the note in hand, your neighbor waltz from his door.

"Ah, um Denki-kun" You call, a bright smile beams on his face as he makes his way to meet you at your shared fence.

"Love!" He greets, strong hand giving your bicep a soft squeeze, "Ah flowers? Spill!"

"Well they aren't mine. I...I think they're yours. Here." You shove the box and note into his hands, stupid tears trying to prick your eyes.

Why? You were unsure.

Maybe you were a bit jealous. Thinking back you couldn't remember the last time you had even had a flirtatious comment or cat call sent your way. You lived a normal quiet life with your "abnormality". Quirkless. You worked from home, spoke to a select few and hardly left your house. It contributed to your wait gain thus adding to your small list of places to go.

The grocery store.

And the gym Denki invited you to or around the block for a run.

After a gurgling amount of time you finally achieved your dream body. Now all that was left was to maintain it.

"Wait!" Denki calls, "This isn't my boyfriend's handwriting."

Furrowing your brows, hand on the handle the answer comes to you.

"Probably just one of those fonts meant to look like handwriting."

"No, come look. It was made with a ballpoint pen." Nothing escapes his pro hero trained eye, his finger slides beneath the words, "He seems passionate! Lucky duck look at how deep love is."

He passes the card to you, giving you a wink as he passes the white box. Sure enough there are divots in the card stock, love is the deepest. Deep enough it almost ripped through the thick paper. You swallow thickly racking your brain, your job requires you to have answers to every question. Logical answers. So it's no surprise your mind wanders until it comes up with something. Your eyes shift to the right, you were lucky enough for your little house to be on the corner of the block.

The delicate roses must have been intended for your neighbor diagonal from you. You wait until Denki is halfway down the block before you rush across the quiet street to set the flowers up neatly on the porch. Throwing the box and wrapping into the trash before you speed walk into the safety of your sanctuary.

Your cats prance to the door to greet you and then sprint to the kitchen to be fed. As if you hadn't just fed them before your run a little less than an hour ago.

The rest of your night is uneventful. You curl on the couch, nestled deep within an old cardigan and the comfort of your leggings with a pile of work to be analyzed. To find the devil in the details and solve what seemed unsolvable.

The answers were always there, under your nose. Found easily by your trained eye but how could you not see the obvious answers when you had the luxury of a bird's eye view. The luxury of knowing the whole story from the shakey beginning to the bitter end.

A luxury you would not have for your own story.

The shrill ring cuts through the comfortable silence causing you to jump from your skin, the cats perk their heads up lazily to see what disturbed them before tucking their head back down.

You tell yourself it's a wrong number, a telemarketer but curiosity is beginning to get the better of you.

And curiosity is a deadly, loud thing. Louder than reason. Reason you had learned from the safety of your home, from other people's mistakes. The same very mistakes that sit on your lap with harsh red ink labeling them C L A S S I F I E D.

It rings a fourth time as you stand, the bell calling out for your attention, demanding you speak. You lift the receiver, again there is silence on the other end.

You wait patiently, is this another automated telemarketer? Had you entered your real number by mistake for one of those stupid store discounts?

You must have, still you resist the urge to tap the speaker of the phone to see if it would trigger the recording.

Instead you drop the receiver onto the base, rattling the hidden bell.

And that was that, you return to your work. Pouring over the details to find the pattern, to build a psychological profile to avoid a tragedy in the future.

Ironic how you cannot prevent your own.

It isn't until a few weeks later does the first letter find its way into your mailbox.

It seemed harmless enough you thought it to be an accident, just neatly looped words proclaiming their love. But it was never fully addressed to you and when you tried to pass it off to Denki, again he denied that the letter belonged to him.

Still, those looping letters twist into your memory, coming to the forefront of your mind every now and again. As if the paper that lies on your dining room table reads itself aloud, from beginning to end at the top of every hour.

As if the ink doesn't want you to forget.

"I am not sure when it started, but it did. I had fallen for you despite my efforts not to. A half of a year I've told myself to forget it, to forget you. And yet I cannot bring myself to stop, the more I try the more you come to mind. And the more I find myself near you. It's as if you're a bad drug I can't quit. I've been watching you. Everything you do is done in such cautious beauty. Please answer next time my dear."

Silence for weeks after that, at least as far as the rotary phone and the mailbox were concerned. You would occasionally get a text from an unknown number.

A transposed number, an error on the sender's end. Or so you assured yourself, especially when they would seem a bit too coincidental. When you were out for a jog or out at the gym at a different time than usual a text would come through.

For a second your mouth would go dry, your blood ice cold as you read the black letters atop the white screen. Huffing as your lack of breath came from a psychological response as opposed to your physical running.

Why aren't you home?

See you soon?

But these couldn't be intended for you. How could they? You could list the people you knew outside of your family and work place on one hand.

Denki.

And only because he spoke to you first!

So these texts, these little messages laced with concern could have been for an estranged spouse, a forgetful spouse or some partner who lacked the ability to properly communicate.

You just knew they weren't for you.

Or so your new mantra goes.

Paranoia didn't begin to sink it's sharp teeth into you until you noticed your cats' odd behavior.

In an immeasurable amount of time they went from lazy, happy go lucky animals to hostile even aggressive creatures. As if they were suddenly feral.

Oddly enough they only acted this way during certain times, mainly at night. Their moon eyes saw things you could not, their enhanced hearing heard things you could not, things you labeled, rat or mouse.

Would a mouse or rat cause a cat to hiss at shrouded corners? To claw at the wall with a howl that sounded more like a scream? Would it make them avoid the closet door in your room?

Maybe it was bigger? The floorboards above did groan more often than not lately. Maybe it was a raccoon even.

Yes, that had to be the cause of their behavior.

And yet there was still that one time, that one instance you sometimes dream about waking in a cold sweet.

The thing you cannot explain away, nor label as mouse, rat, not even a raccoon.

A cocktail of a tired mind and a trick of the eye but simply not vermin.

It was overcast, a sickly grey as the day wept deep into the night. The weather, naturally, caused you to melt into the plush material of your couch as you consumed comfort movie after comfort movie. You were given a reprieve from your worry as your cats seemed normal, sleepy just as you were that day. Even Nyx chose to laze on your chest as a temporary throne. Your couch is flush against the arch way that leads into the dining room and kitchen, giving it's back to part of the hallway towards the main bathroom and your bedroom at the back.

This angle always caused you great anxiety but there was no other way your luxury couch could fit in the small living room and so you always sunk low into the cushions.

Suddenly Nyx's ears twitch and her eyes snap open, waking only a cat knows how. On high alert to a sound totally lost to your draft ear. Her eyes widen, pupils dilating to adjust better to the shadowed room. The glow of the TV casts such a glow on the objects around you, flicker in soft and harsh lights. Slowly Nyx cranes her neck to see what exactly disturbed her sleep, just as her eyes lock on whatever is behind you, you see it for just a fraction of a second.

In the reflection of those moon eyes you see it. Distorted only from the curvature of her lens and the grain of the TV but there is no denying its shape.

A crude outline of a man, broad shouldered and faceless in the dark.

You freeze, mirroring your cat. Breath held as you watch the figure in the pitch black pupil. Wishing, hoping and praying that what you see is not really there.

After an eon of a moment, Nyx begins to shrink in on herself before silently slinking from the couch to find shelter beneath it.

You are not brave enough to move, to crane your head just as your cat did before you to confirm if what you saw was real. And in the milliseconds that the TV goes black you avoid the corner the figure should be standing in. Goose flesh breaks out over your skin, making you feel vulnerable and cold. While your feet burn begging you to get up.

To run.

After a lot of mental reassurance and silence you begin to settle down. Easing yourself back into the rational world. Even becoming brave enough to stare into the TV, into the corner where the figure should be reflected in.

Each passing second as you wait for that small moment of blackness sends your heart into an irrational pace. Finally it happens and when you see nothing you sigh with relief.

Mentally giving yourself an "I told you it was nothing." talk.

That is until you hear a sound, a thump and a click from the back bedroom.

Your bedroom.

But the sound seems as if it came from within, as if it were your closet door.

Your heart explodes into frantic erratic beating.

The shrill ring of the old rotary phone rips through the dialogue of the movie but it can be barely heard over the hum of your blood.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING

BRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIING

Tonight you are frozen in place, whether that be from petrifying fear or sheer stubborn denial you cannot say. You just know one thing. You do not want to deal with the automated telemarketer who never seems to speak.

It rings four more times before it stops.

You chalk it up to coincidence. To nothing.

Late evening turns into late night and sooner rather than later you find yourself in the mouth of the hallway. Staring down your bedroom door as your mind plays on repeat the sound of a door closing from earlier that night.

You cannot let the boogie man keep you from sleep. Slowly you enter, flicking on all the lights.

Everything seems to be in place, the small pile of laundry still lies abandoned by your hamper, your bed neatly made, pillows haphazardly lying about the comforter. Hell even your inherited diamond drop necklace still sits snugly in the jewelry dish on your night stand.

The townhouse makes an odd sound, you jump out of your skin. Clutching your phone so hard the lock and volume buttons imprint into your palms.

No longer can you ignore the elephant in the room as the silence from this particular space screams at deafening volumes until you dare to look. Your eyes flicker to your left and there it is.

Your closet door, seeming to yawn and stretch even in the harsh hue of the overhead light. A closet is always an ominous, odd place and the sounds it may or may not have made cause a great twisting in your stomach. The shine of the knob calls to you with deadly wonder. Begging you to turn the gleaming metal to reveal the darkness behind the bland white door.

It should be inspected shouldn't it? If you ever wanted to sleep soundly you would need to reveal what may lurk in the dark.

Creeping towards the door with baited breath until finally your hand hovers over the knob.

"Open me." It seems to whisper in delighted glee, elated to see your stressed, scared features distort in its polished brass. You retract your fingers as if burned, biting onto your lip as you scrape your large armchair against the wood. Shoving it into place against the closet door.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the door until your eyes burn. You turn off the overhead light but keep the soft light of your nightstand lamp on.

You dream fever dreams of flashing lights as a storm passes overhead. Dream of the closet door laughing in the night, of cool fingers pressed into your skin.

Jolting awake you reach for your phone as your senses slowly come to you. Your eyes fly to the armchair in the mid morning light. It rests in the same spot you left it ominously staring at your bed.

Something seems off about it or maybe you just imagine that there is a deep divot in the cushion, as if someone or something sat in the armchair most of the night.

You close your eyes and go over rational explanations. Always bringing back to yourself the same question.

Who in the world would want you?

Bringing you back full circle, that you were getting ahead of yourself. The cart before the horse in a sense and letting your mind race without restraint.

Letting the season of Fall try to creep into your bones and cause an artificial fear.

Still it's not too long after that do the cats avoid your room altogether.

While you choose to do what you've always done, push the problem aside and explain it away.

The phone rings as you're lacing up your running shoes. You pick up the receiver without bringing it to your ear and place it down gently.

It's just a wrong number anyway.

Tonight air bites at your nose, leaves crunching underfoot as wind whips around buildings and trash, carrying with it the promise of a harsh winter to come.

Your feet carry you slowly back to the direction of home as they beat down your normal, safe route.

A right from your little townhome, straight for two blocks before you would find the winding black pavement. It would snake past the backs of homes through some small trees but never a path that was fully hidden.

Always out in the open but giving you the ability to peer into people's lives as you passed. Witnessing dinners, arguments and heated moments of passion. Silently you thanked Kami you were not positioned on this route.

You keep your eyes focused ahead, the music in your ears low to listen for possible passers such as a bike or a better runner than yourself.

You pass a tree that seems thicker than normal, your phone buzzes on your arm band.

An email, it has to be an email.

Yet your mind wanders to those worried texts, lingers on the thoughts of if that tree had always been that wide, if the quickly setting sun had always cast the path in blood red. The maroon leaves flutter overhead, falling to the ground.

More crunching than what you think your feet should produce has you running faster. Forcing yourself not to glance over your shoulder. Your breathing becomes rasped as you borderline sprint home, still the crunching comes closer.

It isn't until someone brushes your shoulder as they pass do you let out a blood curdling scream. Huffing to catch your breath as you take a step back. The jogger, your neighbor from across the street that you occasionally run into, removes his earbud.

"You okay?" He addresses you by your name and suddenly you're embarrassed that you do not know his. He takes your silence as an answer, his brow furrowing.

"I thought you'd be less skittish since your new boyfriend's been coming around." Your mouth goes dry.

"Wh...what?"

"Yea he seems so sweet. He always checks the windows to make sure they are locked at night." He takes in your response and shrugs, "It's getting late. Since I didn't see your boyfriend there yet, I'll jog you home."

The jog home is agonizing,your mind racing far faster than your feet can go.

What did he mean he saw him checking the windows? What boyfriend?

Maybe, maybe he mixed up your house with Denki's again. It's happened once before when he was returning mail. So there was a good chance he was mistaken again.

Still the closer the two of you get to home the worse you feel. A brick sits in your stomach as he jogs in place before your fence. He gives you a knowing smile and a wink as you wave him goodbye.

It isn't until you turn to face your home do you notice it, the white rectangle stark against your black door.

There is an envelope taped to the thick oak, addressed to no one but "My beloved".

You rip it from the wood with ragged breath as you bring it inside. Already you can feel the contents squirming, fidgeting as it waits to be read.

Polaroid photos fall to the hardwood floors, pictures of you running down your favorite path. Blurred images of you walking down the aisles of the grocery store, and even a photo of you taken between the cracks of the fence in your front yard.

There are no more photos after that, at least not this time. Just that fucking letter written in long looping ink You feel the words tighten around your throat as horror wraps its spindly fingers around your guts and yanks them towards the floor.

Your knees threaten to buckle as your eyes rapidly move along the page.

"In these moments you are the most beautiful. Blissfully unaware of prying eyes. In my time I've come to care for you I've noticed I'm not the only one watching. People gaze at you with whispered murmurs, with pitying eyes as they spin tales of your life. Speculating gossip as you prance about the neighborhood. Flaunting in those tight running shorts that hold every godly curve of your thighs and ass. Of the light jacket you leave unzipped so they can get a better view of your bouncing breasts tucked in your black sports bra. I wonder, would they bounce like that when you ride on my cock? Would your hair stick to your forehead like that as I rail you from behind. Would that angelic voice squeak out for more? For me? Ah I'm salivating thinking of it, harder than I've ever been. Please do not wear those out while running. In fact you don't have to run anymore Doll. You just need to let me take care of you God damn it. You little fucking whore. You seductive vixen with your God damned doe eyes. Just...just fucking answer please."

Rage and fear fight for control as you reread the letter for the fourth, fifth time before you finally move. Rage, for once, wins. You slam the door behind you locking the deadbolt before running to the back bedroom. Throwing the heavy chair from the closet door and ripping it open.

Nothing lies within it, just clothes that begin to smell of neglect. Of old running shoes you didn't have the heart to throw away.

Of relief that whoever was sending these letters, these ones that weren't meant for you. Wasn't currently in the house.

The floorboards overhead groan and for a moment you have half a mind to tuck your cats away into their carrier, buy a one way train ticket to bumfuck nowhere and set your house ablaze.

Instead you move the chair back in front of the closet, grabbing things from your back bedroom to start your new life on your couch.

Time passes as the trees become more bare, their spindly fingers reaching out to tap the roof at odd hours of the night.

Tomorrow you promised yourself you would run.

And yet you find yourself dressed, lacing up your shoes before slowly opening the door. Your jacket is zipped all the way up, your hair neatly tied back and just as you step foot out the front door a heavy wind rips through the yard causing Denki's unlatched gate to slam. You jump back startled as your fear clings to you like a second skin. The letter begins to overlap in your head and the polaroid photos you had trashed a few weeks ago burn into your retinas. A faint snap and a whirl comes from close by and suddenly your stomach churns. Bile rushes up your windpipe too quickly, slamming the door shut and running to the bathroom. You barely make it as you dry heave into the porcelain bowl, huffing in the air of fresh toilet water. The smell starts a vicious cycle of nausea until finally your clammy skin begins to cool, pressing yourself to the side of the tub. In your panic your skin becomes sensitive, hyper aware of each stitch in your jacket, your sports bra and your jogging leggings. Your rip at your clothes until you peel them off of you, huffing as you scramble to get into the shower.

It does not matter that the water is not yet hot. Hell it isn't even lukewarm still you find yourself in the stream as it becomes scalding. Scrubbing at your skin with soap over and over and over. Nails pulling away already raw skin until that burning water begins to cool. A floorboard creaks overhead causing your head to snap up. The ceiling holds no secrets and yet no answers until you see it. A small hole, one you aren't sure if it's always been there, gaping from the attic over your shower and bath. It's too dark to tell if there is someone peering down at you from above or not.

Instead of freaking out your head slowly tilts away from the haunting discovery. Turning off the water, opening the curtain and wrapping yourself in a towel. As if it were every day you see something like that, as if it were nothing more than a spider lingering that you'd wish to forget.

It's fine It's always been there

But that would be the last time you would take a shower in that house.

Even though you hardly left your couch, things would still go missing in yourself. Things like the remote or one of your hundreds of phone charger cords. Even documents to cases but you didn't care, couldn't care. Otherwise you would break. Shatter.

Your days consisted of lying on the couch and consuming an ungodly amount of television. Doing so until your eyes burned although you begged them to stay open. Sadly everyone needed sleep and so you did. Giving into exhaustion as your eyes fluttered closed and your body weak, relaxing into the comfort of the couch.

Hours are lost to you so you dream and dream. Of a better time or of yourself in one of your files to dissect. Giving yourself that perfect bird's eye view and wondering how the victim never saw it coming.

In your dream you feel something along your face, smooth fingertips trace down your cheek over and over at a lulling pace.

"So perfect." A whispered serenade melding in with a snap and a whirl. A flash of lightning from a passing storm.

Except there was no storm coming in.

Your eyes snap open as you jerk to a sitting position frantically looking around the room. When your eyes find nothing you allow your beating heart to settle back into your numbed state, more than ready to melt into the couch.

Until your stomach growls forcing you to focus on a new problem.

When was the last time you ate? Your stomach had long forgotten about food, choosing to conserve energy in case you needed to run from whatever the hell it was in your head.

Forgoing dressing you place your hand on the knob, wallet in hand. Two sets of glowing eyes watch you from beneath the couch. Twisting the metal to yank the door open you are greeted with cold fall air. The wind whips hair into your face as your mind quickly wanders. You half imagined a man to be standing in the middle of the street. Mouth stretched too far over gleaming teeth, lips parting enough as the wind brings with it the sound of your name.

Frantically you move your hair from your face, eyes searching up and down the street to find no one, nothing.

As it should be at 10am on a weekday. Suddenly the weight of going outside sits on your shoulders, despite the convenience store being a ten minute walk both ways, the thought of you going alone scared you. Slowly you shut the door, falling to your knees before lying face down on your floor openly sobbing.

A creaking board sends you back to high alert, you remove your jacket and decide to order take out instead.

The knocking at your front door jolts you awake, the TV drones in the background with hazed over words as you quickly come to. Heart slamming into your chest before your stomach growls loudly. Right, food.

Your hand hovers over the knob as if suddenly you cannot move, as if the person on the other side of the door is an imposter lying in wait. Another knock comes at the door, he announces who he works for which eases your phobia a bit. You swallow thickly before finally opening the door, hands sweating as the anticipation of the identity of the stranger on your porch.

He seems to check out, his outfit covered in logos for your takeout restaurant of choice, car labeled as such as well. He holds the receipt towards you. His eyes wander over the face of the house, giving you sudden chills.

The question falls from your numb lips.

"D...do you see anyone in the windows?" The delivery guy visibly jarrs, eyes darting to the windows of your room and the living room. Suddenly his face changes as a knowing smile spreads on his lips.

"This is a prank isn't it? For Halloween right?" He chuckles, but when he sees the pen shaking in your grip his face goes stone cold. Eyes darting to your left, to the bedroom windows. He taps the paper, indicating where you need to sign, you take a moment to do so.

The old rotary phone screams from the living room, making you both jump.

"Guess I better get that." You gesture, grabbing for your food. He nods affirmation before stepping off of your small porch a little too quickly.

You slam the front door, appetite washed away by each shrill of the small bell. Hesitantly you reach for it, you have to know, need to know who could be on the other side.

The receiver is cold against your ear, the other line is quiet, although you can hear something soft in the background.

Talking, it sounds familiar, like an echo or almost as if there is a delay. It almost sounds like the same commercial that's playing on your TV right now.

Gently you set the phone down, the soft click echoes in the space around you. You sit on the couch before lying, covering yourself in your blanket as your takeout sits by the door, forgotten.

It wouldn't be too long before it begins to rot, almost as quickly as you.

The phone rings

And rings

And rings.

Nightly in fact, for the next few weeks as you cry silently trying to ignore the sound. Turning up the TV as loud as it can go, 24/7 until finally the speakers blow and you are left with nothing but that shrill shriek. The demand of the small plastic item that was meant to bring to a comforting memory from the past comes more often. Every four hours, every three hours, every hour until finally when it comes to an end it breathes again.

Screaming into the night tearing away your hearing, your sanity until finally you get up from your spot on the couch. Clothes falling away from your frame as they had grown in the time you sat. The time that you watched.

Each step is agonizing as sobs rack through your body, shaking hands making it hard to reach for the cool receiver.

You press it to your ear and for a final time your mind attempts logic. It is just an automated telemarketer, a glitch or determined program but the thought crumbles as your ears strain to hear the soft breath on the other line.

"Please…please stop." You sob into the receiver when no one speaks. The silence deafening as your mind can no longer keep with the charade.

That everything is okay and has always been okay. That the red flags you studied for a living were never there, washed away by your feigned ignorance.

"Finally got a response out of you." A velvet voice chimes, agitation lacing his syllables, "Gods, I just cannot wait to have you. It was worth it you know? Living in your walls for months."

"Why are you doing this?" Your voice barely a whisper, a soggy huff more than anything.

"I'm glad you asked." You body goes rigid, a haze blankets your mind and smothers the scream tearing up your throat.

"Now walk out the door to me. Don't worry I'll bring your cats back to our home later."

You hang up the phone, body moving on it's own as you walk towards the front door. A door you had chosen to avoid and for good reason. But you should have known the danger lied within these four walls. Although your body feels heavy it moves normally despite you trying to fight it. Or as best you can with your worn down mind.and will. It is not as joyous as a moment for you and it is for the man in the street. His lilac hair is illuminated in the moonlight while his amethyst eyes glow iridescent. His smile is as you imagined, twisted and screwed up in such a way it makes your stomach churn. Lips stretched out almost too far over gleaming white teeth. Your face does not reflect your horror as it stays neutral, only your eyes give you way as tears fall from your cheeks.

The answer was there, under your nose, the devil in the details that you normally saw with your bird's eye view. One you didn't have the luxury of for your own story.

"Come now pet. It's time I finally teach you about what it means to be mine."

EPILOGUE

Everything is hazed over and slow, as if watching an old silent movie through the static and snow of the screen. Trying to read their lips to figure out what they are saying only for the text box to come too late.

"Perfect. Now get on your knees kitten. Open wide." You follow his orders numbly body moving on it's own as he smiles down at you. "God, you're so so perfect."

Long fingers tug at his belt before the shrill of a ring tone cuts through the silence. It is the same sound of your rotary phone at home except with an added element. The foreign sound of your whimpers and pleads for the phone to stop can just barely be heard. He looks down at the cell phone and answers.

"Denki, Baby I know I said I would come tonight. I'm just running late okay?" Amethyst eyes rove over to you and it is then that it hits you. The horror of the realization is like ice water dumped over you as you put two and two together.

The first time you saw him, visiting your neighbor over a year ago. It was such a quick exchange, eye contact and nothing more as his lips were pressed to Denki's.

Your mouth goes dry as it hangs open, slowly it becomes uncomfortable.

He changes his voice to sound like someone else's, someone with a gruff deeper tone.

"Oi quit talking to dunce face so we can finish this shit!" He removed the device from his mouth

"I'll be home after this patrol. Love you bye."

He tosses the phone before gripping your chin to spit into your mouth, his hand rests on the hem of his pants.

"Now...where was I?"

#shinsou hitoshi #shinsou x reader #shinso x reader #yandere bnha #shinso yandere #yandere shinso x reader #bnha x reader #bnha harem collab #bnha halloween #bnha spooky

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wordsmithic · 2 years

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For the anon that asked about Greeks being white ..

First of all we are next to Italians and Spanish in terms of geography and no one questions their skin color so why such a debate about us Greeks??? 😑 like yes we are south of Europe but we are literally closer to the north of the Earth where the sun is not too hot like Africa or too cold like Sweden.

We are on the middle like Italy, Spain and Portugal that's why especially during summer many get tanned.

But I am tired of this question some make with ignorance and no proper knowledge. Also the influence of America to put tables and terms for everything is exhausting when the only original Americans are the natives and the rest were immigrants from Europe, so why disrespecting other Europe countries??

I don't want to assume their reasons for asking, as they may have been much different than we can speculate. Maybe they wanted to prove a point to a friend, maybe they were a 2nd gen Greek-American and confused about their "racial" identity, or a confused high-school student learning about Greece.

I agree with you on the "no one asks the Spanish and the Portuguese such questions" (I think Italians might get asked, this, though!) We are geographically close to Anatolia but the melanin goes vertically on the planet, not horizontally! Turks and North Iranians are still very North on the planet, for example, and they often they get told "you don't like your ethnicity"! And we have cold winters and snow! Many Americans imagine we live in a desert of something.

Moreso, many White Americans tan, and I've seen Germans with great tans that made me jealous. But when a Greek tans we become magical and mystical natives of the mythical land of Hellas 😂 (#liveYourMythInGreece ??)

We are neither the "Perfect Whites" some North Europeans want to imagine, nor the "Erased POC of History" some Americans want to believe. In the countries dependent on the US for social media (basically a whole hemisphere) North Middle Easterners and North Mediterraneans need to surface a whole atlas and five hundred ancient scrolls to explain to foreigners that we are simply what we are, and labels from the US don't necessarily fit us. (There's a Turkish meme circulating that says a similar thing). Dear Americans, we have 3.000 years of recorded history, we can also have our own terms for ourselves, thank you very much.

#answered #hellas

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yangsrose · 4 years

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Owo i noticed your requests are open,can I have an angst with street racer haechan based off the song in another life by Katy perry + haechans death from crashing?

Word Count: 2.9k words

Warnings: street races, mentions of alcohol, mentions of tattoos, mentions of making out, character death, angst

Authors Notes: this is my first time writing something like this so if it’s bad i’m sorry akjdfn also i got a bit too carried away hence the fic almost being 3k words o_O

Summer after high school when we first met

You pulled out the old photo book, flipping through the pictures that you had taken that fateful summer. You felt the memories of the summer before the first year of college flash back to you, remembering how carefree and young you were. As you flipped through the pictures, we saw a familiar leather jacket peeking from the corner of one of the images. Tears pooled in your eyes as you saw his face, memories of him flooding your brain.

Lee Donghyuck, or Haechan as everyone called him, was your first actual boyfriend. Sure, you had a few flings with other people throughout the course of your high school, but your first actual relationship was over the summer with a certain purple haired boy that lived across from you.

The day that you met him was forever ingrained in your brain, never letting you forget about him. Your parents had gone on a trip over the summer, leaving you home alone for the entire break. You spent the summer before university just like how anyone normally would, wasting your time by lying around and eating a ton of ice cream. Your summer didn’t truly start until one of your friends convinced you to go to a street race that her friends had invited her to. You were nervous and jittering, not wanting to get caught by anyone by going to the illegal race sites.

You remember sitting in the bleachers and watching the races, feeling an adrenaline rush surge through your body as you watched the cars zip down the gravel road, constantly trying to overtake each other. The hot June breeze blew your hair around, causing there to be more heat than refreshment one usually gains from the wind blowing. You remember watching a certain light blue and white car zip down, and something in you hoped that they would be the one to win. Maybe it was the fact that the colours popped out amongst the other darker cars, or maybe it was the fact that the driver easily maneuvered around the other cars. Whatever it was, your attention was instantly captured.

After the race was done, all the racers stepped out of their respective cars and your friend dragged you to go see her friend that you had attended the race for. As you walked through the multitudes of people, you saw the person in the blue car take off his helmet and shake his hair that was currently flattened from the helmet. As if the world was going in slow motion, you and him made eye contact, and you felt as if you were being tugged to him.

His dark purple hair complemented his tan skin perfectly, giving him a carefree and rebellious look to his doe like eyes. His jacket matched his car, having a white body and bright light blue sleeves, patched adorning them. His pants were an odd combination of light and dark washed stripes, but even after all these years, you have to agree that he was the only person that could pull off wearing those.

While you were still stuck in your trance, you didn’t notice the male walk up to you and stick his hand in front of you. One thing led to another, and before you knew it, you had exchanged numbers with each other and even had a date planned out. You felt a giddy feeling rise up in your chest as you drove away later that night, replacing any doubts that you had about going to the race today. You looked back at Haechan from your rearview mirror and saw him wave at you, leading you to replicate the same motion. Even though you had only known him for a span of a few hours, you were truly whipped for him.

We'd make out in your Mustang to Radiohead

And on my 18th birthday we got matching tattoos

Used to steal your parents' liquor and climb to the roof

It was now the beginning of August and summer was almost done. Haechan had asked you out in the beginning of July, which meant that you two had been dating for a month now. He took you on frequent dates, them always ending in the backseat of his car, making out, or on your roof. Even though you were pretty apprehensive about climbing up to the top, Haechan was always there for you, holding out his hand so that you could climb up to the top without getting hurt. He was also the first person that you had even gotten drunk with, him bringing bottles of alcohol to the roof. Yes, some people might label him as a bad influence, but you truly knew the type of person that Haechan was. Even though he made some bad mistakes here and there, he was the sweetest person to exist, never letting anything bad happen to you.

On your 18th birthday, you made a decision that some people might call stupid. You begged Haechan to take you to a tattoo parlor, wanting to get a matching tattoo with him. He denied your requests, saying that you would just regret it later on. But as you pleaded even more, he obligated, taking you on your birthday.

You remember sitting next to Haechan, holding his hand as the repetitive prick left your arm stinging. An hour later, yours and Haechan’s wrists were wrapped up, and you both left the store, walking hand in hand with a small lock and key tattoo permanently inked on your skin.

And for the record, you never regretted that tattoo.

Talk about our future like we had a clue

Never planned that one day I'd be losing you

Eleven months into your relationship with Haechan, you both realised that going to different universities would be really hard for the both of you. Between the long nights spent at the library and the hours in internships, you both soon began to cherish any free time that you had together. Haechan still raced, but you spent more time focusing on your school work, leaving for no free time at all. Today was the only day that the both of you finally had free time in your schedules, due it currently being summer break. You and Haechan currently lay in your bed side by side, talking about anything and everything that came to your minds.

“What are you planning on doing after graduating?” Haechan asked you, turning to face you.

“Probably try to get into medical school. You?” you asked, turned your head towards him.

“I’m probably going to go into music.”

“Music?”

“Yeah, I like singing and not to mention, I’m pretty good at it.” Haechan said, smirking in your direction.

“Looks like you’ll have to show me one day.” you said, giving him a coy smile.

“Do you know what else I’ll be doing?”

“Racing?”

“Spending the rest of my life with you.”

You choked on your spit and sat up, not believing what Haechan was saying. The look on his face was one of pure adoration, showing no hints of deception.

“Don’t say stuff like that” you said, shoving his shoulder lightly. Haechan laughed at your response and teased you a bit for your shy attitude. But deep down inside, the both of you knew that you would be willing to spend the rest of your lives together.

I was June and you were my Johnny Cash

Never one without the other, we made a pact

On your second anniversary, Haechan went all out for your date. He bought you a huge bouquet of roses, and even cooked you dinner, setting the small dining table in your shared apartment to make it seem like you were at a fancy restaurant. You remember Haechan pulling out your chair for you and acting extra dramatic that day, making you laugh at his silly antics. Little did you know, he was actually planning to purpose that night. He fidgeted the entire night, sticking his hand into the pocket that held the velvet box encasing the small metal band.

After dinner and desert were done, Haechan cleared his throat and asked you to listen to a song that he had recorded a bit earlier. You didn’t take much into account because he was always asking you to listen to stuff, wanting to get your opinion on his works. But today, something seemed different. For one, Haechan seemed more jittery, and he kept fidgeting with something in his pocket. You put those all aside and pressed play, the sweet voice of your boyfriend filling the air. Once the song ended, you were met with your boyfriend kneeling on one knee in front of you, holding a dark velvet box containing a small diamond ring, the stones glittering under the bright light in the dining room. Your hands flew up to your mouth and you felt tears form in your eyes, jumping out of your seat to tackle Haechan into a hug. He groaned a bit when you hugged him, but his arms encircled your body, pulling you closer to him.

Hugging him here, it felt like nothing in the world could go wrong.

Sometimes when I miss you I put those records on

Someone said you had your tattoo removed

Saw you downtown singing the blues

It's time to face the music, I'm no longer your muse

“Get out.”

“y/n-”

“I said get out.”

Haechan sighed and stormed out of the apartment, grabbing his jacket along with him. You watched him go out, feeling a mix of anger and sadness brew in your stomach. You felt a feeling of anxiety rise in your chest, confusing you at what the feeling meant.

Six months ago when Haechan proposed to you, he vowed to put his racing days aside. He told you that he wanted to start a family with you, and frankly, racing was slowly becoming more and more dangerous, leading to more people dying from crashes that occured during races. You were relieved, feeling happy that he wouldn’t be putting himself at risk anymore. But two weeks ago, you started feeling suspicious of Haechan. He would always give you an excuse of “having to go to the library for schoolwork”. You investigated into the cause of his absence, and when you did, you found out that he was secretly going back and racing , something that he promised you not to do. When you confronted him, all he did was stare at you in disbelief. How did you find out? He was so careful to cover his tracks, but you still managed to figure out what he was doing. Haechan began arguing back, saying that he needed a way to get rid of all the stress that had accumulated on himself from school. Before the both of you knew it, it had just led to Haechan walking out and you sitting on the loveseat, sobbing your eyes out.

Three hours later, it was near midnight and Haechan still wasn’t back home, causing you to get worried for him. Even when you two fought with each other, you always managed to make up with each other, keeping true of not letting the sun go down on your anger. You called his phone multiple times, getting the same message saying that the receiver could not be reached at the time. Your hands started to shake as time went on, and you felt a feeling of anxiety take over you. Just as you were about to grab your coat and go outside to search for Haechan, your phone let up with a notification of someone calling you. You immediately grabbed your phone, saying a small “hello” into the receiver.

“Is this y/n l/n?” the person asked. You nodded your head fervently and listened to what they were saying. When they finished, your phone dropped out of your hands and fell onto the floor with a clattering sound, causing it to resonate around the small room.

Haechan had gotten into an accident while racing and was in the hospital in a critical condition.

You ran out of your house and got into your car, driving at an unreasonably fast speed to the hospital. You rushed over to the front desk, telling the receptionist that you were there for a patient named Haechan. The receptionist told you the room he was in, and you ran off to the room, hoping that you would reach on time before it was too late. Your wish went into vain however, because by the time that you had opened the room’s door, you heard the doctor announce to the nurse to write down the time of death. You felt the world spin around you, and suddenly, everything turned black.

All this money can't buy me a time machine, no

Can't replace you with a million rings, no

I should've told you what you meant to me

'Cause now I pay the price

Two weeks later, you stood in front of the huge headstone that was placed in front of you, feeling the never ending tears well up in your eyes once again. Everyone flocked around you and Haechan’s family, mummering their condolences and placing flowers on his grave.

That night, Haechan had left the apartment in anger. Wanting to find a way to relieve the stress, he went over to the familiar race track, hoping to feel better after racing for a while. He apparently lost control of his car after he swerved to avoid hitting another racer that was ahead of him. The rest of the details were hidden from your mind, you selectively choosing not to listen to what had happened after that.

After the funeral was done, you walked back to your car, feeling as if an immovable weight was placed on your shoulders. You sat in your car, the silence of the environment threatening to swallow you whole. You looked down at your stomach, placing a hand over it.

The day that Haechan died was the day that you took a pregnancy test, realising that you had symptoms of potentially carrying a child in you. You remember waiting to tell him of your news, all of it long forgotten in the process of the events that happened the few days prior. You felt the tears well up once again and you hastily wiped them away, not wanting to break down once more while you were trying to get home. You inserted the key into your car and drove away, your mind clouded with countless thoughts of what you would have to do now.

You just wished you could tell him that you loved him one last time.

In another life

I would be your girl

We'd keep all our promises

Be us against the world

In another life

I would make you stay

So I don't have to say you were

The one that got away

“Mom come on! We have to get going to the ice cream parlor!” you turned around and saw your daughter’s head peek up through the top of the attic, the only thing being seen was her mischievous eyes peeking out.

“Go put on your shoes. I’ll be there soon okay?” you watched as her head left sight, the sound of her hurrying to put on her shoes echoing through the house. You put the photobook back into the box that you pulled it out of, smiling at your past self ten years ago. Your life had changed drastically through those years and even though you still spent days grieving over Haechan, you realised that he taught you to love the little things in life and let loose for once, learning to live in the moment.

You climbed down the attic stairs and walked over to where your daughter was standing, putting on your shoes as well before feeling her tug at your hand. You laughed and let her lead you, not noticing that your necklace had come out from under your t-shirt when you bent down. The light reflecting off of it caused your attention to be captured, scattering multitudes of small multicoloured diamond shapes all over the floor. Your hand clasped onto the dainty ring that was held on by a thin gold chain, the cold metal sending a shiver down your spine. You looked down at your other hand and saw it being held by your daughter, who you had to admit was the exact same person as Haechan. Her infectious personality and positive attitude reminded you of the days where Haechan would sit next to you for hours on end, helping you with your school work. Even her facial features were the same, the round doe eyes holding bits of mischief in them, lighting up whenever she smiled or laughed.

The sun shone down on the both of you, finally peaking through the clouds as it scattered the light around. You looked up and smiled, something in your heart telling you that it was Haechan’s way of saying “it’s going to be okay.” You smiled and walked into the parlour, because for the first time in almost seven years, life did seem like it was going to be okay.

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babyspiderling · 4 years

Text

Love Undercover one

“Leiman! I got a story for you! Go undercover as a high school student, do a piece on teen culture or whatever the parents need to hear about their kids. This could be your shot kid!” Flashes of my own high school career three years ago plague my mind. “Sir, are you sure this is a good story? I mean, there are harder hitting stories than a piece on teen culture.” Mr. Edward's eyebrow simply raises in response, and I slink back to my desk. I raise my desk phone to my ear and ring my older brother, Anthony. “Tony, they’re making me go back to school. I thought I would never have to go back. It was hell.” I hear him chuckle through the phone. “Why are they making you go back? You lose your diploma or something?” I scoff into the phone. “No, Tony. They want me to go undercover since I’m the only one who can pass for a child here. I start on Monday. Shit, I gotta attempt to dress like a high school girl again. Thank god I’ve been the same dress size since my junior year. See you tonight Tony, we still on for dinner?” I hear him confirm for me into the microphone and I click the phone off. Standing and gathering my things I peek my head into my editor's office. “Mr. Edwards, I’m headed out to get ready for my assignment. I’ll see you soon.” He nods at me, letting me know he’ll enroll me this afternoon for Monday’s classes and I take my leave.

Monday arrives sooner than later. I feel like a freshman again, out of my element and out of my comfort zone. My hair had been trimmed to a popular cut and I had been trained on how to style it. My journalist instincts took over at the mall, taking in what teens were wearing and how they were wearing it. For my first day I bought a striped blouse with a longer skirt to seem neutral. The end of winter chill caused me to grab a cardigan on my way out and I climbed into the front seat of my old “Mystery Machine” ready to go back to high school.

“Well, three new students in a month, must be a new record. Tom and Doug McQuaid and now Y/N Leiman. This way.” The balding principal tosses my schedule at me and walks off in large, commanding strides. “Tell me Miss Leiman, are you a troublemaker like the other newcomers?” My eyebrows pull together in confusion. “No, no sir. I’m not a troublemaker.” He pulls to a stop in front of a door. “This is your first class. I’m sure someone will show you around. Prove yourself to be on your best behavior Miss Leiman. Wouldn’t want you to be labeled as a hoodlum.” He turns to walk away but is distracted by a skipping student roaming the halls. I tuck my hair behind my ear and fix my appearance. I take one last breath of confidence and open the creaking door. The click of my heels only adds to the attention as the entire class watches me with curious eyes. I feel the girls sizing me up, the boys appraising my value, and the teacher annoyed at the interruption. “This is Mrs. Dustin’s class right? I’m new here.” The woman takes the papers from my hands and catches herself up. “Yes, you’re in the right place. Please take a seat.” I nod and take one of the only seats left open, next to a boy dressed in leather and an earring in his ear. I struggle to remind myself that I’m at least three to four years older than these students, too intimidated by their stares to fill with confidence. I tuck my hair away from my face as I pull out my pen and notebook from my bag. I start to write a mixture of notes for the class and notes for my story when something sharp stabs into my thigh. Turning my head with pinched eyebrows I look at the boy reeking of trouble. “You got any gum? Teach made me swallow my last piece last period.” I nod and rummage through my bag. “Mint, cinnamon, or bubble?” He looks at me in a bit of shock at the number of choices. “Bubble.” I nod and hand him a piece, pulling a lollipop for myself. In my years of studying and writing and taking notes, I know that if somewhere else on my body is moving, focusing is easier. With my mouth occupied with the sugar, my brain is on a roll. Trouble leans in once more, the sugary smell from his mouth fills my nostrils. “You got anything else in that bag of yours? I could use a coke too.” I roll my eyes and smile a bit. “Oh, hush. I have a sugar addiction.” At the sound of our whispers, Mrs. Dustin clears her throat loudly. “Mr. McQuaid, Miss Leiman, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” I shake my head and duck my head back to my notes. McQuaid lifts his chin and smirks at the teacher. “Just Miss Leimans sugar addiction, teach. Probably why she’s so sweet.” My cheeks heat at his comment and I don’t know how to react. My brain berates me for my flustered appearance. He is sixteen, maybe seventeen! You are old enough to drink! Get your head together girl! I keep my head down until the bell rings, no matter how many pokes to the thigh I earn.

I glance down at my schedule and attempt to find my way around the giant high school. An arm drops itself over my shoulder as I look up to find Trouble staring right back at me. “Can I help you? Need more gum already?” He chuckles a bit and pops his gum. “Nah sweets, my brother and I were wanting to invite you to sit with us for lunch. Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be?” His eyebrows raise at his question and my face heats. “Oh! Uh, no. I don’t have anywhere better to be. I guess I can eat with you guys?” McQuaid smirks around his gum and leads me to a table occupied by another boy who is dressed similarly to trouble. With a steady hand on the small of my back, trouble eases me into my seat. I unpack my bag and come to a realization. “I just realized we haven’t Introduced ourselves! I’m Y/N, I just moved here, and I’m a senior.” Trouble and the other boy smirk at each other. Trouble turns his body to me. “I’m Tom McQuaid. This here’s my big brother Doug. He would've graduated last year, or the year before that, but he just can’t seem to pass classes.” Doug gives a shout of defense, tossing a French fry at his brother, who catches it in his mouth, grinning triumphantly. I roll my eyes and give a small smile to their antics. “So you’re the McQuaid brothers. You’re new here too. And troublemakers from what I’ve heard.” They look at each other and laugh. “Well, sugar, what can we say? It’s much more fun to break the rules than to follow them.” After fishing out my lunch I pull another sucker from my bag, strawberry flavored as opposed to the cotton candy flavored from earlier. “Damn sweets, not gonna share with us? I’m hurt.” I roll my eyes and toss the older boy the bag of sweets. “Leave me the mango flavors. Those are my favorites.” Doug chuckles under his breath and tosses the bag to his brother. Tom rifles through the pouch of candy, and just hands it back to me. “I’ll just take another piece of gum when I’m finished eating.” I look from my salad at his burger and fries. “How can you eat that all the time and still look like that? I’m just looking at it and I think I gained ten pounds.” Tom shakes his head as he gives a once over to my figure. “Nah, you look the same. You look fine the way you are. Promise.” I giggle and play with my fingers in my lap. The line of playing the part and enjoying the attention continues to blur at my embarrassed reaction. I swallow my bite of rabbit food down and smile. “So, McQuaid brothers, tell me a bit about yourselves.” Almost evil smirks cross their faces. “Sweets, lets just say we’re not the kind of guy you take home to mom and dad. You’re too sweet and naive to know guys like us. Sugary thing like you’d get eaten alive with us. Too pure for the dark things we’ve done.” I hear the teasing in Tom’s voice. “You’re making fun of me. I know I’m not the “baddest” out there, but I know about the world. I want to be a reporter. I’ll appreciate it if you don’t underestimate me.” I look back at my hands. “And if I’m too sweet and naive to be here, to be involved with you, why was I invited to have lunch with you two? I’m sure there are plenty of defectives like yourselves to hang out with.” I move to leave the table to sit anywhere else. A hand latches onto my wrist. I follow the hand up to Tom's face. His eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are twisted into a pout. “Look, sweets, I’m sorry. You seemed lonely and everything. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” I sigh and gently pull my hand from his hold. “I accept your apology.”

I move to sit back down and hear my beeper go off. I fish it out of my bag and read the message from my editor. Both boys crane their necks to read the message. I shove it back down into my bag in defense, thinking up a quick excuse for the interruption. “Oh, it was my brother. I’ll give him a call later.” I swipe a fry from Doug's plate. “What about you guys. You do anything after school? Besides the Dark stuff of course. What kind of records do you listen to?” Looks I don’t understand continue to pass between them. “Well, Doug here is his own entrepreneur. Me, I’m more of a car guy. I’ve got the blue mustang out there.” My eyes widen. “That one’s yours? She’s a beauty. I’ve got the old yellow mystery machine out there. She’s a great road trip car.” Both boys nod. “Our dads a bit of a hippie. He’d love you, flower power. What music you listen to?” I think for a bit, attempting to decide between my true likes and what a teenager would like. “Well, I’ve always loved Bowie. Ziggy Stardust is an absolute masterpiece, and one of the first records I ever got. Prince is pretty good too, but I love a nice mix of rock and funk. Something with a heavy drum beat I can move to.” They nod along, taking in my answer. The bell rings, signifying the end of the lunch period.

I begin my journey to my next class, and choose a seat near the middle. Once I watch the class, looking around at the students and everything about them. And just my luck, Tom McQuaid walks in with his gum popping and a smirk painted on his face. As the student body shuffles into their seats, the teacher has us stand right back up. “I am your History teacher for this semester, Mr. Devo. I will be choosing your seats for my class, please let me know if you need to be seated at the front end of the room.” Two kids with glasses raise their hands and they are seated in the first two rows.

“Anyone else? No? Alright let’s get started. When I point to you, I want to hear your name, your grade, and hmmmm, your favorite record.” He points at several people, pointing at their desks. He points to me pretty early on surprisingly. “Oh! Y/N Leiman, senior, and hmmmm, give me a second. Prince’s Sign ‘O’ The Times. It cost me a bit to get the four disks, but it’s an amazing album.” Mr. Devo nods a bit. “I haven’t heard the entire thing yet, but I do enjoy Prince. Here.” He points to the desk front and center. As if the whole thing was planned, Tom is pointed at next. “Tom McQuaid, teach. Senior like Sweets here, and I like Bowie's Young Americans. If you don’t mind, Sugar here fuels my gum addiction, so if I could sit near her, I’d appreciate it.” Mr. Devo gets a strange look on his face. The journalist in me would describe it as a cross of frustration and possibly… jealousy? But I don’t understand the jealousy part. I shake it off and get myself prepared for class. McQuaid gets sent to the classroom, possibly the farthest seat from me. With a smile, Mr. Devo starts his class.

I walk out the front doors of the school with a slight limp. “I made a mistake today. I can not believe I made the decision to actually wear heels to school. What was I thinking?” Two arms snake around my shoulders. “Well, Flower Power, if you’re hurting so bad, how bout we carry you to our car. We can get you home and drive your car for you.” I look at Doug and roll my eyes. “I’ll be fine. It wouldn’t be the first time I drove barefoot. I appreciate the offer boys, but I should probably head home. See you both tomorrow?” They nod and head to their Mustang. I climb into my mystery machine and kick off my shoes, heading home.

#johnny depp #johnny depp x reader #johnny depp imagines #johnny depp imagine #tom hanson x reader #tom hanson #21 jump street #21 jump street imagines #80's series #80s imagines #80's imagine #80's x reader #80's fanfiction #90's imagine #90s imagines

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trentsleatherboots · 4 years

Photo

Carach Angren, interview translation Dutch > English

Published in the magazine Rock Tribune, edition June 2020, nr. 192.

Text by Morbid Geert. Fotos: Stefan Heileman.

WILL THE REAL FRANKENSTEIN STAND UP NOW?

At the end of last year you could already read about how we kept close watch on Carach Angren. Back when they were still heavy in the production process, on Halloween Day we went over to Ardeks homebase and studio to see the first glimpse of their new work and later Rock Tribune got invited to listen to the album in Germany. Now it's almost time for 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus' to be shown to the world and that's why we wanted to take an even deeper look. Weaponed with an oil lamp and shovel we went onwards towards the graveyard to uncover the soul stirrings of Ardek. (Text: Morbid Geert)

---

Ardek, the last time I talked to you the songs were still in a very early stage and what we heard was more of a pre production. Did you tinker more afterwards to come to an end result or did you purposely keep your hands off to avoid overproduction?

"In terms of song structures and lyrics not much changed on the premature songs that you heard. What followed however was another production-finish, where especially the mix and mastering made a big change. That last stadia really lifted it all to another plane and you can really hear that."

A FRESH LOOK.

As far as I knew, Patrick Damiani was still fully onboard working on the songs at Tidal Wave Studio in Germany. How important was it for you to pull an extra producer into the process? After all, you are very much at home with that as well? Or maybe not as much as you'd like?

"Back then he worked on drumediting and played the basslines, but his role is way bigger than that. We've worked together a lot and now we're doing something for L'Âme Immortelle, where we vibe together perfectly and know exactly how to handle such a project. When he takes on production for Carach Angren however, I notice how much better he controls it. He has so much knowledge about drum sounds, mixing,... and he's really specialised in it. It is nice to add that knowledge, it brings a lot of added value. These days a lot of bands record at home and that all makes it a lot cheaper, but a good producer brings a lot of experience and equipment, it ends up with a whole different result. Besides, we left the mix and mastering to Robert Carranza."

That last one is a pretty big name, who among others worked with Marilyn Manson. I can imagine that has a big impact on your budget, but was it worth it?

"I think so. When I listened to 'Killing Strangers' by Marilyn Manson on headphones and heard the bassline, it went so deep that it turned me upside down. Apparently Robert Carranza mixed that album. Furthermore he does a lot of different things such as make latin music and win grammy's, but in the extreme metal scene he is totally unknown. However, he wanted to help himself to our record and yes, the price was steep, but I managed to convince both the band and the label… even though that wasn't without some doubts, since all eyes were on me for a bit. I had a good feeling about it and shared it, with the result being having a record now that doesn't sound like the others. He had a fresh look on our work and thus we could avoid the recognisability of the average metal producer. There are too many records that when you hear them you know exactly who had their hands on them and in which studio they were recorded. Contrary to what you might think, there was constant contact with him (Robert) and a lot of talking about how we wanted it to sound. In particular the clarity of the sound is massive and gives it a bit more of a cinematic effect. There was no compression applied where everything sounds constantly loud and where as a listener you'd get easily tired, but the dynamics were preserved."

DIDN'T FEEL LIKE IT ANYMORE.

To refer back to Patrick Damiani: if he does so much and even plays the basslines, do you see him as sort of a 4th band member or is that just a bit too much credit?

"That's not how we see him. He's an amazing producer and musician, who gives us his opinion and helps us out. On the other hand he is not part of the creative process and he isn't on stage with us… but it is a relationship that's been going on for 12 years and something we get a lot out of."

Now I'm saying '4th band member', but after the recordings of your new record ended, your brother and drummer Namtar left the band. Can I ask what happened and if you saw this coming, or whether it was a bolt from the blue?

“In November he recorded his drum tracks and back then everything went fine, but then there came an offer to play at '70000TONS OF METAL'. Since we always looked at the financial side of the band together, we talked about the offer and he was immediately against it. I thought that was strange and to me it seemed better to sit around the table with three to talk about it. Then it became apparent that he'd been wrestling with it for sometime and in brief didn't feel like it anymore. We offered him to take a break of a few months instead of just throwing away what we've worked for the last 20 years, but that wasn't a solution. It wasn't an easy decision, but afterwards we saw it had been an issue for a long time and at that point you rather put a stop to it. That hit us hard, but you can never force somebody to stay in a band. To keep our motivation high we played '70000TONS OF METAL' after all with Michiel van der Plicht of God Dethroned as replacement. That pleased us all and he's willing to help us out in the future."

Michiel van der Plicht in indeed an amazing drummer. Are there any plans to keep him in the band permanently or is this an emergency solution and is there an offer still standing?

"I discussed that extensively with Seregor, but together the two of us stay the core of the band. We already have an extra guitarist live and in the studio we will definitely have those people join again, but all decisions will be made by us two in the end. We want to avoid that other people leave a mark on the band, causing us to lose our individuality (personality). It's about so much more than just making music: the stage decor, our own stage outfits,... for us it is very clear and it's going well, so we only need help to fill in with the music in the studio and during lives."

MILKED OUT?

Let's get to the core of business. At the end of this month is the release of your 6th album, 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus'. Now lends the Frankenstein story itself perfectly for a horror metal band, but I wondered if the story isn't too milked out by other bands… unless you do it with a completely new vision. After all, that's what you did with 'This Is No Fairytale', where Hans and Gretel were transported to the now and the horror became bigger than ever.

"When we started, I had the same feelings about the Frankenstein story, but there's a twist to it. Everything started for me as a dream, where I flew through an old house. There, I heard dissonant piano tunes and I got sucked into a room where a portrait of an old man hung on the wall. Later I made a drawing of that portrait and it got stuck in my head. When I began doing research for the album months later and even read Mary Shelley's amazing book 'Frankenstein', I found out that there is a theory that when she wrote her book she was influenced by Johann Konrad Dippel, an 18th century alchemist. Then when I looked him up, he turned out to look like what I had seen in my dream, which personally motivated me to dig deeper. Dippel is an unknown figure for the masses and that's why it seemed fascinating to us to do something with it. There is fiction and truth mixed in our story. By the way, Dippel lived in Frankenstein Castle near Darmstadt, where he was looking for the elixir to eternal life. He was also a theologist, but he clashed with the church and was therefore cast away. Because he also did experiments on cadavers and sought life extending resources, he would've inspired Mary Shelley for her story. What we did was make a concept around the source of her story instead of following the clichés. That monster with screws in his head, we've seen it already before…"

Yet it doesn't seem like a concept album, because I notice that you address very diverse subjects.

"It is definitely a concept, since all stories are connected to one another, even if it's not noticeable. 'Operation Compass' is about the North-African desert war between the Brits and Italians. In official documents the Brits were ordered that if there were to be a fallback, to make all sources unusable for the enemy with 'Dippel's oil' (a nasty substance that made water undrinkable but did not poison it, so it was in battle with the Geneva protocols). In our story it leads to a demonic outburst that went towards the soldiers. So you see, Dippel comes back throughout different moments in history. 'Der Vampir von Nürnberg' is about a real figure that is still alive. He committed necrophilia, killed people and drank their blood, … but is now at large. In our story he lost his ways after reading Dippel's books, which once again links it with the core story. 'Here In German Woodland.', the opening song, is about a boy that gets lost and dies in the forest surrounding Darmstadt, but later comes back and eats his parents. In the closing song 'Like A Conscious Parasite I Roam' it all comes full circle: Dippels life elixir only works for his soul, and his body rots away, so he searches for a guest body and his spirit creeps into that little boy."

In a few songs, some German lyrics show up. Is that besides the concept also because of the grim sound of the language or is it simply because you live so close to Germany and it has a certain impact?

"The subject lends itself to it of course and Seregor speaks German very well, which made things easier. And yes, the sound does play a certain role. 'Der Vampir von Nürnberg' sounds way better than the English translation, it immediately sets the right tone."

Some of these stories are the result of reality, but are often at least as gruesome as many fantasy stories: such is the bonus song 'Frederick's Experiments' about the sick science experiments of emperor Frederick II, a man who apparently was not inferior to the Nazi doctors?

"Yes, you can say that he set a good example! Seregor came with the idea and somewhere the story did fit within the total picture, even though we couldn't fit it into the big story. Our label Season Of Mist however asked for a bonus track and that's how we managed to include the song after all."

CROSS-POLLINATION.

What I noticed with the first sneak preview, but what has become clear now, is that Carach Angren this time worked very innovative musically. Watch out, it is immediately clear that it is from Carach Angren, since you already have your own sound, but at the same time there are noticable things we haven't heard from you before. The title track has a considerable industrial touch and we also hear something from Laibach in it, just like 'Monster'. Is that something you've only recently been getting into or have you maybe secretly been an industrial fan for years?

"It is more recent, even though I've always been appreciative of it. By also collaborating with Till Lindemann for his project Lindemann, I also came into contact with it more and started taking it up unconsciously. Afterwards I got to experiment with it for my solo project and that's how I came up with the song 'Monster'. Seregor tested some things out for singing for that song and it just made sense. It was very cool to experiment like that, which you should when you're making a record based on Frankenstein…"

It became a musical experiment instead of scientific experiment, but you do create a parallel, yes.

"Inside Carach Angren we like to put a lot of variety in the songs and if you can also give that a different look, then that is something you should try. We ourselves are absolutely crazy about it! Some fans will have to swallow when they hear those songs, but for them there are plenty of old school songs on it."

To come back to Lindemann: he and Peter Tägtgren got you involved since you are so good with classical orchestras and arrangements, but in the end it seems to have become two-way traffic, doesn't it? Have you learned a lot from it and developed other visions?

"We worked together in a very awesome way and you do learn a lot from that. You grow as a componist, as musician and as producer. It made me compose more compactly and I sometimes pursue slightly less complex songs, like the two more industrial based songs. Always great to be able to take a different approach."

Both those songs have an easier buildup, but in the other songs you go back to the complexity that you left out purposefully 'Dance And Laugh Amongst The Rotten'. Is it a way to generate more contrast?

"In some ways yes, but it depends on how it works out in a song. We tried to make the title track a bit longer, but then the effect fell away and it didn't feel right anymore. But strangely enough I write a complex song like 'Der Vampir von Nürnberg' easier than a less complex piece like 'Monster'. With less arrangements it quickly becomes hard to keep it exciting(engaging), but seeing as you want to keep the concept to level, you need to have enough variation. The industrial songs sound a bit less complex, but there is a lot happening in the background and they are full of tiny details that make the difference."

MIXING COLOURS.

With the new approach you have opened some doors to maybe do more experimenting in the future. Is that actually your goal or is there nothing reasoned behind it and do such new influences pop up sooner when they seem to be able to improve the song?

"It all almost comes down to what the concept of the album requires. Back when we wrote 'Death Came Through A Phantom Ship' we added swirling waves and custom/adapted sounds to it. With the new record the 'marching' of the pulsing industrial beat seemed to work the best with our Frankenstein theme. You have to see it like a painter who is mixing colours to make a new colour to fit his vision. We don't do any different and we would love to experiment more in the future. If we see what we've already tried with singing now … in the long run we were completely out of control trying to do crazy things."

The singing is indeed a very remarkable part of 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus'. We always thought Seregor had a good black metal voice, but we were very impressed by the way he twisted his voice this time around and helped set the mood.

"We are very happy about that ourselves. He delivered an excellent job and we really pushed everything to get to that point. We actually took several weeks to make sure my home studio was in perfect condition and sometimes Seregor had to redo a certain part up to 10 times to get the result we wanted, but he did it without struggling. A lot of singers that ask so much from their vocal chords are dead on their feet after an hour, but then there is Seregor who gets through the day without complaining, even while screaming his lungs out. While recording 'Operation Compass' we did however find out it is better to record a deep grunt in the early morning, since your voice is still a bit slow and heavier from sleep.”

MUSIC AS A BOOST.

The whole corona crisis made it so that as a band it is way more difficult to promote an album now, since all concerts got cancelled. Did that have a big impact on Carach Angren or can you make it?

"I myself am very concerned with the people who are really affected by the disease and that is why I can partially ignore the inconveniences for ourselves. Nevertheless, it has a serious effect on the music industry, although that is secondary to me. We are dealing with a pandemic, people are dying and we all have to work to keep everything under control. In addition, it is strange to release an album in a full crisis, but we decided to go for it anyway. It's a cool record and we already started the promotion, so we just keep going. For now, tours are not planned, but that does not mean that we will now stream all kinds of performances to attract attention. We are not that type of band… what is a shame is that our plans for a very cool video clip are now also being abandoned. We had to go to Germany and there are also the social distancing rules, which make such a recording impossible. But should we really want that and turn it into drama? Of course it sucks to have to promote the release like this, but the whole world is just not what it was a few months ago."

Do you have any alternative ideas to bridge that gap? I know that you guys always have enough visual ideas and there already is a lyric video for 'Monster', but I can imagine that there is more to come.

"We are working on that yes, because last month we made one for 'Der Vampir von Nürnberg' and next month we might take another song in hand. We will keep doing those sorts of things together with some 'making of-' videos that we recorded in the studio, that way we can give the album some extra promotion. Nothing for us to worry about so… by the way, there is something about releasing a record in times like these. The people have been stuck at home for months and have nothing to do, so if we can give them a new piece of music to listen to to get through the day, then that is awesome too. It would be disappointing for the fans if we just put our new work on the shelf because of this pandemic. Every band should do what they think is best, but we had already started our press campaign anyway and we would also be a lot less driven if we only had to arrive 'with old stuff' within six months or later."

Carach Angren already has a few beautiful video clips which are build up with a real story and don't only have something musical to offer. In addition, there are also the lyric videos, where certainly those for the complete album 'This Is No Fairytale' with comic images by Costin Chioreanu stand out from the crowd. Have you never thought of bundling everything on a DVD?

"We've honestly never thought about that, but that's actually a really great idea! I think it would be nice to bundle everything together and that way we immediately remove some (away) from youtube. That can always be a good idea for the future."

LEARNING SCHOOL.

As songwriter of Carach Angren you may have previously absorbed a lot of influences that shaped you into the musician and songwriter you are today. Can you list the five most essential records or artists that shaped you personally and what exactly were their interests?

"That is a good question that doesn't let itself be answered very easily. In the classical field and orchestras I think Tchaikovsky and Stravinski are very important. They both had a lot of influence on me as a componist. Another important inspiration to me in that respect is John Williams (modern componist famous for his film scores for Star Wars, Jaws, Jurassic Park..) They helped shape me even more when it comes to layered composing, although I don't come close to what they do. As a child I followed keyboard lessons for 8 years, I did a year of conservatory and studied a year of music and media, as well as cinematic orchestration. Those last two were online, but on a serious level and you really had to write pieces for an orchestra. I learned a lot there, but ever since then I kept learning by actually doing it myself, looking through books and analyzing musical pieces. But if I hadn't gotten the theoretical basis I had as a child, I would've never been able to do this today. On production level I have to mention Nine Inch Nails and, something you'd might find strange, Michael Jackson! If you see how well their albums are produced, and how many layers are incorporated, it's amazingly well done! You can say about Michael Jackson's music what you want, but the way the songs are built up and how much dynamics are in there thanks to the arrangements by Quincy Jones, it is absolutely astounding. There is no lack of bells and whistles and sometimes, for example, the snare drum comes in in four layers, something you don't hear so loudly even in extreme metal. I mainly listen to those albums as an audiophile to analyze them and see what I can get out of it as a producer. Last week I checked the solo record of Roger Waters, in which I heard effects that seemed to be situated outside the loudspeaker field. Then I want to know how that is done and whether I can integrate it with Carach Angren. That kind of thing is the reverse of the compression they use too often today and you wonder why we don't all go in that direction anymore."

---

Translated by Jeordie/Trentsfishnets.

(For the record, if this interview already exists in English, I will just see this as translating practice C:)

#carach angren #metal #death metal #black metal #european metal #carach angren interview #carach angren 2020 #corpse paint #new black metal #Dennis Droomers #Dennis Seregor Droomers #Clemens Ardek Wijers #Clemens Wijers #Seregor #Ardek #Ivo Namtar Wijers #Ivo Wijers

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jimmys-zeppelin · 3 years

Text

ghostin'

chapter sixteen

(table of contents)

(chapter fifteen)

july 4, 1976

be my mistake

Ellie balanced a variety of liquor bottles in her arms. Some were for her to take home, others were for the party later that night. Carolyn had asked her—practically begged on her knees—to get some and shoved a shopping list in her hands.

In an attempt to look at her watch and check the time, two bottles had begun to slip. Just before one could shatter to the linoleum tiled floor, a hand rushed in and grabbed it for her. Roger's face quickly became familiar to her as her entire body relaxed. Major embarrassment had been avoided.

"Thanks, Rog." Ellie exhaled.

"I told you not to carry so many bottles. Or at least get a basket." Roger said, guiding them toward the checkout line.

"I thought I'd be able to make it," she replied simply, letting a few bottles fall onto the belt as she adjusted the others she had been holding. Roger reached out and stood the remaining bottles up as they moved down closer to the cashier stood opposite them.

"Can I see some ID, please?" The teenager asked, stopping the belt, the bottles clinking against each other as a result.

Ellie scoffed, starting to pull her wallet from the small handbag that had been slung over her shoulder. Roger stepped in instead, handing over his own ID before Ellie could even get her wallet out.

"You the guy from Queen?" the boy asked upon further inspection, handing Roger back his identification. The blond nodded curtly, not wanting to be too loud about his identity. "Rock'n'roll, man." He eyed up Ellie, who smiled at him sweetly, just waiting for the items to get scanned so they could leave.

☆

"Why didn't you let me show my ID?" Ellie asked, handing Roger the wad of cash Carolyn had given her for the drinks while they carried the two paper bags clinking with alcoholic beverages back to her car.

"Didn't want him seeing your address." he shrugged, reaching in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes after placing the bags in the backseat.

Before lighting up, he offered Ellie a cigarette, motioning the box toward her and she decidedly took one, placing it between her lips as Roger came forward with his lighter, firing up the cancer stick as she started the car.

"Very gentlemanly of you, Rog."

"Always." he chuckled, rolling the passenger window down as he exhaled the nicotine from his lungs. He looked around the vehicle as the bottles made their existence known behind them. "What kind of car is this?" he asked.

"A P1800. Volvo. My parents got it for my 18th birthday. Neat, isn't it?"

"Very," Roger replied, running his hand over the dashboard, "You talk to Jimmy recently?"

Ellie paused, "yeah. We spoke a few days ago. Not much to talk about, though, since neither of us are doing shows. We're relatively boring people." she chuckled, taking a drag and tapping the remnants of the cigarette out the window.

"Right right. Zep's newest album was great."

"Oh, you heard it?" she asked, reflecting on the fact that not even she had heard it yet. Somehow she felt guilty about it.

"Yeah, I mean, like the energy. Great great great. He produced, right?"

"Always. I like that he produces the band's records. Really keeps the integrity within the band, you know? Like it's truly their vision that's being put out."

"I thought the one song..." he paused, searching for the name, "Tea for One! It sounded a bit like their other song from a few years back. Gosh what was the name..." Roger trailed off, snapping his fingers as he racked his mind for the title. Ellie pulled into her driveway as Roger pondered, "Ah! Since I've Been Loving You."

The two exited the vehicle and tossed their cigarettes before reaching into the backseat for the various drinks they'd purchased. Ellie got her keys ready before looking back at the drummer.

"You think so? Who was on the writing credit?" she asked, unlocking the front door and letting Roger in first, "excuse the mess."

"I think the credits were to Page/Plant." Roger replied, quickly finding the kitchen and setting the paper bag down on the counter. "Are you putting these in the ice box?" he asked.

Ellie found solace in the question, taking advantage of it and using it to change the subject, "Yeah, I'll keep it in until we have to leave and I think I have a cooler in the garage that we can take with us when the car comes to pick us up."

"Awesome, do you mind if I go get it?"

"Not at all, the door's right over that way. You should be able to find it. I'm gonna take a shower and get ready, okay?"

Roger nodded, "of course, take your time."

☆

Ellie's eyes met Andrew's as she and Roger made their entrance at the rooftop of some building in association with her label. The blonde hurried over as best as she could in her high heels while the two seemed to screech in excitement.

"I see you brought Project Blondie with you."

"Stop calling him that." Ellie said, trying to be serious, but at the same time holding back a laugh. She looked back to see Roger handing over her cooler to someone in formalwear. He pulled the man aside, whispering something to him before pointing in Ellie's direction. The blonde smiled and waved at the two when they looked over at her.

Another word of communication was exchanged between them before Roger made his way over to Andrew and Ellie.

"Hey, I was just telling him that the cooler's yours and you'd need it back before you left."

"Thanks Rog." She replied, "I don't believe you've met Andrew."

The men shook hands, "I'm the one who came out to you over the phone." Andrew chuckled.

"Ah, yes. I do recall that. It's a pleasure." Roger said, turning to Ellie, "can I get you a drink?"

"Oh yes please." the blonde stated. Roger nodded, trying to hold back a laugh as he went to grab the two of them some drinks.

Andrew reached back to the table behind him and grabbed two shot glasses. From the smell, Ellie could tell it was vodka as it was shoved into her hands. "What's this for?" she asked.

"Liquid courage." the man replied as if it were obvious.

"Courage for what?"

"You're obviously trying to please him. Maybe you'll ease up a bit with some vodka in your system."

Ellie sighed, clinking the two shot glasses together before the two of them downed the alcohol that burned its way down their throats. With a dry cough she looked up at her best friend, "I'm not cheating on Jimmy. If this is your ploy to get me to sleep with Roger you'll regret the day you were born."

Andrew feigned fear, "As if you couldn't make that decision on your own. Deep down you know what you want."

"And that's to be with Jimmy." She said as Andrew collected his things and started on his way elsewhere.

"I can't hear you because I'm walking away." he replied nonchalantly as the sound of his voice floated away with each step he took.

Ellie rolled her eyes, peering over the edge of the building where she could see three men on the ground floor setting up the fireworks display that would be going off in a few hours. Things like this always excited her.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a red cup blocked her view of the ground. She looked up to see Roger, looking pleased as he held the cup out to her. Ellie took it graciously before downing a quick sip.

"It's a beautiful view, isn't it?" he asked, staring out into the West Hollywood cityscape. They faintly saw an airplane touch down at LAX before turning to look at each other.

"California's a beautiful place to be. Kinda wish I could've taken you to the beach before you had to leave. Sorry I've been tied up with my studio stuff."

"Oh, it's no bother, really. I took a walk down the Santa Monica pier last week during sunrise. It was beautiful."

"Was the jet lag bad?" She asked.

"I walked down to the pier to watch the sun rise, didn't I?"

Ellie laughed in response, taking another sip of the drink in her hand, "I never really get to go down there anymore. Always doing something."

"You're up and coming, darling. It's good that you're busy." Roger replied, taking a swig of his drink. Ellie smiled at his calling her darling. It made something inside her flutter a little.

☆

Ellie placed another glass of champagne down on a random table, nearly tripping over her feet as she did so. The number of drinks she'd downed in the hour and a half since she'd arrived at the party were already immeasurable. Whoever the barista was, she'd have to thank them later.

The boom of the first firework startled her as it did many on the rooftop. Gazes shifted to the bright lights illuminating the sky and they ooh'd and ahh'd in amazement. Ellie looked over to see Roger sitting at a table on his own and couldn't help but make him revel in amazement along with her.

"Roger!" she exclaimed, making her way over to the drummer. He turned his head quickly, seeing her barreling over to her. Quick to stand up to try to hold her before she fell, Roger set his drink down and caught her hand in his. "The fireworks, look!" she marveled.

Another was set off into the sky, the high pitched whistle as it flew through the air before it burst with a crackle caught their attention. Ellie turned to Roger, with a beaming smile on her face, "I'm so drunk right now," she whispered in his ear.

"I'm aware." The blond laughed as he guided them toward the wall so Ellie could rest on it and watch the fireworks display at the same time. The continuous, loud booms kept them from being able to speak too much, but their fingers remained intertwined as they watched on.

"Y'know," Ellie started, slurring her words slightly as she leaned into his ear, "Jimmy never came over at the Fourth to watch the fireworks with me."

"Gosh, I'm sorry about that. I hope you're having a good time though."

"Yeah, I'm having fun. Good drinks...good music...good company...drinks..."

"I think you've had enough drinks for tonight, Els." Roger said, only to be interrupted again by the drunken woman.

"Jimmy....he's completely off his rocker. He's on that heroin stuff, it's completely doing him in. I can hear it...when we're on the phone he's like....completely off in space." Ellie said absently, singsonging the end of her statement.

"Oh...uhm. I hope he gets well, then." he replied awkwardly, not knowing how to respond to the personal confession.

"I know. And like—" the boom of more fireworks, "wow. I feel bad because the whole album, I mean the whole album is about him. I don't wanna," a few more explosions, "I don't wanna seem like a sellout."

"Well, people write what they know, right? This is what's affecting you at the moment, of course you'll want to write about it."

"Y'know, Rog...you're so sweet to me," Ellie said, looking right into his baby blues and rubbing the top of his hand with her thumb. Her voice hushed slightly as she leaned in closer to him the slightest bit. Roger, being too confused to do anything, stood in place, not moving. "Maybe I should...get rid of Jimmy and get with you instead." she finished as fireworks cluttered the world around them.

Roger searched Ellie's eyes for any answer as to what she was going to do next, but the drunken haze clouded her judgement. A firework hissed through the night sky and exploded with a big bang as Ellie pressed her lips to Roger's. Confusion crossed his features and he contemplated what to do before tentatively kissing her back for a brief second.

As the gunpowder dissipated in the sky, Ellie pulled away, her gaze still glassy and not totally there as she went back to watching the fireworks as if nothing had occurred. Roger stood stunned in place, watching Ellie instead of the display of fireworks for a long moment. It was only when she looked over to him again that she realized her fingers were still intertwined with his and she giggled at the predicament.

Roger looked around. It seemed no one had noticed the kiss. He was glad on that note, but his heart sank in his chest when he realized the gravity of what had happened. Maybe he should leave. Or maybe he could pretend nothing happened just as Ellie had. If they just didn't talk about it, the occurrence could get erased from history and Roger likely wouldn't get his shit rocked by Peter Grant, Led Zeppelin's gargantuan manager for being The Other Man.

He quickly let go of her hand and walked over to the bar, "Scotch, no ice, please." he said, drumming his fingers on the bar-top nervously.

---

it's ironic because I finished writing this chapter on the fourth of july...

masterlist | playlist

Taglist: @diaryofafan17 @tophats-n-lespauls @witchesdust @jonesyjonesyjonesy @paginate54 @hejustsatisfiess @salixfragilis @princesspagey @reincarnated70sbaby @rebel-without-a-zeppelin @kyunisixx if you want to be added to the list lmk!

#*nervous sweating*#ghostin'#jimmy page #led zeppelin #fanfic #fanfiction #roger taylor #queen

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

Text

in support of Texas relief, @padxleckiss donated $50, and requested always-a-girl!Deanna/Sam, lingerie, comeplay. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

In the week after they get back from St. Louis, dealing with James and the witches and the familiars and everything that got dragged up along with them, Deanna throws herself into the bunker. Sam thought she was nesting before; turns out he didn't really know what that looked like, from his sister.

There's cleaning. There's rearranging. She turns the kitchen upside down and finds another farmer's market over in Smith Center that even in late February Kansas weather has produce that she fairly squeals over, when she's dumping her egg-crate of loot out onto the island. "How are you getting tomatoes this time of year?" Sam asks, and she makes a raspberry noise and says, "What? Greenhouses, or something, Sammy, don't bitch when I'm bringing home gold." While Sam's still digging out in the library, still trying to make sense of the diamond-mine of lore and records and history that they've fallen face-first into, Deanna makes mysterious trips to Wichita, to Topeka, to department stores, to—who knows where else, because Sam isn't invited, because he, apparently, "doesn't know how to shop." Sam didn't know Deanna did, considering that their whole lives she's lived on thrift-store finds and leftovers same as him, but apparently his sister has yet more depths Sam didn't realize he wasn't privy to until they were suddenly revealed.

She comes home late after another trip—swinging past Kevin on the houseboat, but clearly an excuse from the shopping bag swinging on the end of her finger—and Sam's tired from a long day sitting in the library and trying to manage this nagging cough without worrying about it, but she bounces up the steps and there's a shine to her that hasn't been there since—since Sam doesn't remember, how long—and he smiles at her, despite everything. "Good drive?" he says.

"Update, Kevin has advanced in his diet enough to alternate between hot dogs and Hot Pockets," Deanna says, and wraps an arm over his chest from behind and kisses his cheek, easily affectionate like they also haven't been in too long. He swallows, tasting iron, and catches her wrist to keep her there. She hmms, reading his laptop over his shoulder like she always does. Her hair swings down, too, falling over her shoulder, smelling like road and like the faintest trace of her crappy strawberry conditioner. More absently: "Not even the good kind. He's getting, like, off-brand meatball and four cheese."

"Did you cook?" Sam says, and she goes pff against his cheek—tickles, and he flinches away, grinning despite himself—and she says, standing, "I am not Kevin's mommy, Sam, what do you take me for?" When he cranes his head back to give her a face she presses her lips together, rolling her eyes, and says, "I mean, yes, I made lasagna, okay? Kid can't live on weird mystery meat alone. It's got tomato sauce, that counts as a vegetable." She snorts then, tugging her wrist out of his loose grip, and Sam flattens his hand against his chest instead, wanting her back already. "You shoulda heard the noise he made when he got the first bite, too. If he never lost his virginity before, that thing blasted his cherry."

"Dee," Sam groans—Kevin's been through shit but he's still a kid, as far as Sam's concerned—and she says ha, unrepentant.

"You eaten?" she says. Bag on the other table, the one she's staked out as hers, which he isn't allowed to spread 'moldy records' on, apparently. She squats at the brand new mini-fridge, rummaging, though when Sam's silent she gives him a sidelong look. "Samwise? Dinner? Supper?"

"That would make you Frodo," he says, and she rolls her eyes again, coming up with two beers. She cracks them on the edge of the fridge—there's already a scraped-spot coming up—and comes up to him holding his just out of reach, her eyebrows high. Sam sighs. "Yes. Like, two hours ago. The mothering routine is weird, you know."

"Oh, something about us is weird, huh?" Deanna says, smile pulling at her mouth, and when she holds out the beer for him to take she keeps her fingers on the bottle and pulls herself in when he takes it, sliding inside the v of his legs, pressing her thigh against his. He tips his head back and she leans in, making a fake sweet moue of concern. "Tell me about it, baby."

"Dude," he says, protesting only vaguely, and she grins outright, pushing his shoulder and turning away.

"Yeah, whatever," she says. She scoops her bag off the other table and half-salutes with her beer. "I've got a date with the shower room and some new sheets. You going to come to bed tonight, or is this whole lore fetish permanent?"

Asked casual, her eyes on her shopping bag as she presumably admires whatever purchases. Sam swallows down a cough. "Give me a few hours," he says.

Deanna glances at him, not smiling at all for a moment, before that little exasperated dimple peeks up in her cheek. "Fe-tish," she coos, half-singing, and he rolls his eyes for her to see so she'll grin, brief, before she disappears again, her boots clomping loud down the concrete hall, so he still knows where she is even if he can't see her. Sam holds the beer in both hands, running his thumb along the edge of the label, listening. The bunker feels different, when she's in it. The world feels different, when she's in it.

It's been… how has it been. Complicated. That's the best way, maybe, to describe it in brief and still be truthful. His sister is one of the most complicated people on the planet, though she'd protest that description. Sam's personal opinion is that she's one of the most complicated people in history, and considering their relative position in history it's probably not a stretch to figure that, on an objective scale, she's at least ranked.

The last eight months or so—that was complicated, too, although in some ways it was very, very simple. Sam had been with another woman for almost a year and Deanna had been with another man and regardless of extenuating circumstances—death, or presumed death, or loneliness so complete that it gave Sam nightmares, even now, these bleak dreams of an empty world where he calls out and his voice doesn't echo, a deaf-and-mute misery where all he sees is absence—that was it, pretty much. Since then, they've forgiven each other. They broke off other concerns and when Sam walked back into that cabin in Whitefish Deanna was standing at the window with her arms wrapped over her stomach, looking out at something Sam couldn't see. She cut her eyes over when Sam closed the door and Sam shrugged and her lips folded between her teeth and, for a second Sam's always going to remember, she closed her eyes very tight, the faint crow's feet beside them going white with tension. Then she went to the cupboard and got down two cans of chili, and Sam found the can opener, and she uncapped the beers. They ate silently, watching a rerun of a wrestling match with six inches of space between them on the couch, but they were together, and that was more, almost, that night, than Sam could handle. It wasn't until the ridiculous adventure with Charlie—until after—when he woke up in the middle of the night already reaching for his gun with her hand small on his wrist and red-and-white makeup still smeared at her temples, her hair still caught up in the ridiculous Viking braids Charlie had given her—with her leaning in, in the too-big t-shirt she'd stolen from him to sleep in when she first came back from Purgatory and, he quickly realized, nothing else—when she said, soft in the dark, Sammy, asking—and he touched the bare shine of her knee gleaming in the moonlight and saw how her eyes closed again, very tight again, and he sat up and put his thumb to the clenched tense skin beside her eye and put his lips to her cheekbone, on the opposite side, and felt all the way through his body the breath she let out, like a tension she'd held close for a year or more was unraveling, all at once.

His sister. He knows what that means, about them. It's worse, of course, because she's his sister who raised him, who taught him how to shoot and bandaged his skinned knees and who beat the shit out of the first girl who ever stood him up for a school dance, when he was fourteen, and Sam had tried to intervene but Deanna had whirled on him, furious, and said no one gets to treat you like that, you get me? No one. Sam remembered that moment on the Greyhound, pressing his forehead against the window and watching the pale grey Arizona desert go past in the moonlight, California beckoning and Deanna's face, turned away while Dad shouted, pinned miserably behind his eyes. His sister, rowdy and caring and bullish and sweet. The town whore, boys had claimed when Sam was a teenager, and he'd gotten in his own fights, for that, fights that had led to Deanna pressing wadded TP against his lip and holding frozen peas against his eye, shaking her head, saying, Sammy, I know I taught you to box better than this. You fixing matches and making bank on the side, or what? His sister, who stood smirking in his kitchen in Palo Alto, her eyes not cutting to the girl at Sam's side even once—who said to him, voice sore, we made a good team, back there—who said to him, when Sam was out of his skin with worry after moving matter with his mind when the vision of her dead had filled it, nothing bad's gonna happen to you, not as long as I'm around, and smiled at him with her eyes clear, like it was nothing but true—who wept, cracked-open miserable, when she was sure that their dad had sold his soul for her—when she said to Sam that she wasn't worth it, and she didn't know why he had—that she was sorry, that she'd lost their father for both of them—his sister, who he folded into his chest, cupping his hand around the wavy-thick weight of her hair, noticing in a way for the first time how small she was, compared to him, and how she quivered, shaking in agony, caught against him, and how when he tipped her chin up on that mountain pull-out in the late afternoon sunshine the tears gleamed on her cheeks and her face was wrecked, her eyes red and her nose shined with snot and her mouth screwed up, bitten red and chapped, but full when Sam dipped and kissed her—plush, and startled-open, when Sam kissed her—giving, and tasting of salt, and desperate, and furious, and yielding, and precious-sweet, delicate, shocked, when Sam kissed her. She blinked, when he pulled away, stunned silent. Her eyelashes clumped and dark, and her eyeliner smeary, and her mouth red, red, red. Sam touched her lower lip with his thumb and she took in a huge deep breath that stuttered on its way in, staring at him big-eyed, and then she gripped his hair in both fists and tugged him back down and kissed him again, vicious, and that—well, that was it. His sister, and him. All the years between then and now, and that's still what it boils down to. Sam and Deanna. No matter what, the and is still the most important word.

He comes to bed. Midnight. A little after. They have separate rooms but Deanna's is nicer, despite the guns racked on the walls, and the weird obsidian axe that Sam doesn't ask about in pride of place, above the headboard. She's made the room her own—girly, sort of, despite the weaponry, although Sam doesn't describe it that way out loud—a new-built rack of her FBI-pretext suits and her few dresses on the other side of the wardrobe, and a throw blanket and fluffy pillow she has completely failed to explain or acknowledge on the uncomfortable loveseat, and candles on the shelf above the bed that she clearly had burning for a while before she went to sleep, because the room smells faintly of orange blossom when Sam's pulling off his boots, leaving his jeans on the chair in the corner. When he slides into bed behind her into the apparently-new sheets she makes a faint questioning sound, her head turning. He shushes her very quietly, sliding his hand over the wide curve of her hip, over the blanket. The memory foam sinks beneath him, too soft, but the bed already smells like her and so it's comfortable, anyway. He presses his lips against her bare neck, the soft baby-hairs there silky, her hair pulled messily up for bedtime as always, and she sighs, in her sleep, and curls in closer to her pillow. Sam smiles at the back of her head, wishing—well, whatever he wishes doesn't matter. He tucks in, knees pulling up into the curve of her knees so that he'll fit in the bed, and closes his eyes, and figures that, whatever he dreams, at least when he wakes up he'll be here, in what passes for home, with his sister.

As a matter of course Sam wakes up first. Unless there's a job-related deadline or nightmares dragging her awake, Deanna would happily sleep straight through the morning, and with no check-out times nagging at them in the bunker she's often wandered out into the library wrapped in one of those too-big robes at ten a.m., her hair wrecked and her slept-in makeup smudged and her mouth surly, demanding to know if Sam's made coffee. He has always made coffee.

This morning, though. Sam's alarm goes off at seven as usual, and he groans and smacks his phone, as usual, barely awake but knowing that he doesn't want to hear Deanna's bitching if it wakes her up, too—but there's no too-warm plush weight plastered up against him, and no murmured threats of shooting the phone if he doesn't change his alarm sound, and when he drags his hand through his hair and sits up and his brain actually comes online—the bed's empty, and the room's quiet, and he sits there blinking, surprised, not really knowing what to make of it.

Smell of coffee, when he opens the door, and bacon-smell snaking underneath it. When he gets to the kitchen, still trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes, Deanna's in her sleep-shirt (still Sam's, the shoulders way too big and the v-neck gaping), and tugged-on shorts, and bare feet, and her hair in a honey-brown messy pile on top of her head, and she's in a whirl of breakfast, pancakes on the griddle and a pan of bacon going and something being whisked with extreme prejudice in one of the big steel bowls, more suited to feeding thirty than just the two of them. She jerks when she notices him, like she's been caught at something, but then her eyes go to his hair and she starts to smile, wide mouth pulling into what Sam thinks of as her Joker grin. "Don't start," he says, and she says, too innocent, "Start what? I think it's very brave that you're joining a Flock of Seagulls cover band," and he drops his head back and sighs and ignores her snort-laugh, but he also drags his hands through his hair a little more strenuously while she says, "Whatever, Pigpen, take a seat. Grub's up in five."

He gets coffee, first. Strong, but good—like, really, really good, for some reason that he doesn't quite get—it's the same machine, same crappy tub of pre-ground stuff they get from the little market in town—but then Deanna's always been better at this kind of thing than she let on, and he savors the first few sips, breathing caffeine. She ignores him, moving confidently around—the whisking it turns out was eggs, which she pours onto the griddle too and starts working like she's a line cook—and he watches her, content for a second to let that be the only thing he's thinking about. She was a line cook, once, he remembers. When he was in high school, and she'd quit school by then, and the credit cards hadn't come through. She got a job for a few weeks at that diner, in Joplin. "What was that place you worked?" Sam says, while she's flipping pancakes. She frowns at him over her shoulder. "They gave me free grilled cheese for dinner, that month."

The frown clears. "The Show Me Diner," she says, turning back to the griddle. "Manager always joked I should show him my tits." Sam pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. He never heard that part. Deanna laughs, scraping at the griddle with the metal spatula. "Man, that kitchen was gross. Great fries, though."

"The grilled cheese was good," Sam says, after a second, and she says, "Damn right it was, I was the one making it," and then she's ducking under the island and grabbing plates, and then in the next second there's breakfast—fresh and hot and delivered with a fork clattering down into his eggs and his sister plopping down on the other side of the table, tucking her foot under her other knee and gesturing with the other fork: "Eat, drink, be merry. Happy birthday, Sammy."

Sam frowns. "Uh," he says, and makes a show of looking at his watch. "Unless I slept way too late—"

She rolls her eyes, cramming pancake into her mouth. "Shut up," she advises, garbled, and he wrinkles his nose at the chewing but looks down at his plate. It does look good. Bacon's burned, exactly the way they both like it. He picks up a piece, lets it shatter on his tongue, but he gives her a look, too, and she rolls her eyes again—a little too obvious, playacted, which makes him pay more attention—and makes a show of swallowing. "I know, duh. But, hell. I wasn't here for the last one. And, you know, I didn't really get a chance to make it up to you. Before."

She cuts another bite of pancake, studiously piling it and syrup and egg and bacon-shards into one monstrous bite, while Sam's processing that. "We didn't do anything for yours, either," Sam says, after a few seconds. Jesus, his birthday? He was in Kermit, then, only barely coming to terms with how he was going to have a hole in his chest for the rest of his life. On Deanna's birthday—god, that was only last month—they were moving into the bunker, he thinks, and they were okay but that hole in his chest somehow still smarted, and Sam doesn't even remember if they did the bare minimum of pizza and beer.

"We can do a Seagal marathon sometime," she says, shrugging one shoulder, and smiling at her plate when he groans. "I'm taking the opportunity, dude. We've got a house, we've got steady cash, the world isn't currently ending, so. I'm in charge. Birthday queen. You've gotta do what I say."

"How is this my birthday, again?" Sam says, and she says, "Shut up," lightly, and then taps his plate with her fork and says, "Eat up, beanpole," and so he shuts up, and eats. Why not. It's good. Of course it is; she made it.

There isn't, it turns out, all that much of a plan. He washes their plates but then she shoos him out of the kitchen again, tells him to run a marathon or bench press a car or something, and so he goes for a jog, as ordered. Not much of one—full stomach, and the cough, which forces him to stop and lean against a fence-post and spit, laced with red. He licks his lips, swallows, and keeps running, and when he's back Deanna's still in her pjs, doing something in the library, and she gives him unimpressed eyebrows and says, "You look like you reek, Lance. Shower time." So, fine, shower time.

When he's done, he finds clothes in his room laid out for him. Basically pajamas: soft loungey sweatpants in a dark grey that are clearly brand new, and a thin soft black shirt to go with them. "Merry un-birthday," he hears, and when he turns Deanna's leaning in his doorway, clearly enjoying him in his towel. "You like?"

"Uh, I guess," Sam says, fingering the material. Their birthday presents to each other are usually along the line of a six-pack or embarrassing porn or, memorably, twenty-nine boxes of Ho-Hos when he turned twenty-nine. Three guesses who ate more of them. He picks up the sweatpants, giving her a quizzical look, but she only lifts one shoulder and raises her eyebrows, waiting, and he huffs and then, fine, drops the towel. It is sort of—something—how immediately her eyes drop to his dick, and he bites back a smile and tugs on the sweatpants with a minimum of show. They are soft, thin but warm in the bunker's cool air, and the shirt stretches only a little over his shoulders. He pushes the sleeves up to his elbows and turns, modeling. "You like?" he repeats.

"You'd still get thrown out of bed for eating crackers," Deanna says, eyes tracing his body. "But you'll do."

He comes to her, sliding a hand over her waist, and she doesn't move except to tip her head back, eyes steady on his. Watchful and more still, now, like she wasn't before Purgatory. The kiss is unhurried. He parts her lips with gentle pressure and she sighs, letting him in, her head tilting back. Her mouth, perfect. He slips his hand down to her hip, squeezing the wide curve of it through the t-shirt and the ancient denim cut-offs, and she unfolds her arms and wraps a hand around his wrist, stopping him from going further. When he pulls back her cheeks are a little flushed but she blinks at him, shakes her head. "Not yet," she says, and he frowns, confused. Like they haven't messed around in the middle of the day before? She bites her bottom lip, attempting to look coy. "I mean. There's… stuff to do, first."

Sam narrows his eyes and she switches from attempted coy to attempted innocence. "Dee," he says, and her eyes go round, guileless as a cartoon princess. He drags his thumb over the soft of her belly, his hand still trapped by her light grip but enough room for him to find the waistband of the shorts through the t-shirt, rub there. Her eyelashes flicker, but she remains steadfast. "Stuff to do," he says, finally. "Like what?"

"Oh," she says, waving her other hand. "You know. Important stuff."

Okay, so she's clearly got some plan. He glances down at himself, dressed for… nothing, as far as he can tell. If it's going to be an elaborate and terrible roleplay fantasy, as least she isn't making him be a cop or a doctor or something. "And what am I supposed to do?" he asks, conceding. "While you do important stuff."

She starts to grin but bites it back, in that way where her dimple peeks out. "I think you should hang out in the library," she says, half serious.

"The library," Sam says.

Deanna nods, the dimple deepening. "For like… an hour, probably." She tips her head, eyes cutting to the side. "Um, maybe longer. But I'm sure there's a book in there that'll entertain you, gigantic nerd that you are."

"Thoughtful," Sam says, and her grin blooms wide, her eyes crinkling in that way they do when she's really happy, and it catches in Sam's chest, like it always does. He dips and kisses her again, quick, just because he needs to, and she puts a hand to his jaw and lifts into it, eager, before she dips away, licks her lips, lifts a finger. Sam sighs. "An hour."

"Ish," she corrects, but she slides a hand down his chest to his stomach, presses in. "It'll be worth the wait," she says, warm and promising, in that way she has where she can flip from just the biggest dork in the world to the sexiest woman he's ever known, even in ratty pajamas and still all mussed from sleep, and he doesn't need more than just—her, just her, ever, and she should know that, but—he nods, and her eyes drop to his mouth and she looks tempted, but then she nods too, and disappears down the hall, bare feet noiseless on the concrete, and he closes his eyes and tells the warm wanting feeling in his gut that it has to wait, unfortunately, and he goes to the library, and he finds a book.

He doesn't actually know how long passes. He stands over the archiving work that he still needs to do but—god, he's not going to be able to concentrate on that, with this tugging in his belly that says he's got something better coming down the pipe. He goes over to one of the alcoves, instead, picks one of the leather armchairs, picks a book off the shelf. History—the Spanish incursion into Tenochtitlan—and it's dry and old-fashioned and he scans page after page, half-focused, barely taking in details about the supernatural elements of Aztec ritual when he's thinking about…

It took him until he left to realize that he judged all women against his sister. His first official college hookup, after a freshman mixer, was a perfectly nice girl whose name he can't quite remember, but he remembers to this day how he thought: shorter than Deanna. Blonder than Deanna. No freckles, not like Deanna. When she tugged him into her dorm room, both of them more than tipsy on jello shots and cheap beer, she tugged off her tank top and dragged his hands up to her breasts and he'd thought, in a way he didn't examine at all until much later, that they were bigger than Deanna's, and her ass filling his hands was—was probably smaller, although Sam didn't have the evidence then to know it, and when he rolled off of her afterward she curled up against his arm and promptly fell asleep and he looked at her muzzily confused and thought, distantly, that Deanna didn't do that, with guys, that the few times she'd brought someone home to their motel room when she thought Sam was either out or sleeping she'd fucked the guy and gotten whatever satisfaction she got and then showed him the door, and they were done, except for how sometimes Sam would squint carefully through shut eyes at how she stood with her back to the door for a few minutes, her eyes closed and her head tipped back and her body barely hidden in a big t-shirt or a towel, and he didn't know what she was thinking, then. She certainly didn't just roll over and drool on the guy's shoulder, until he had to awkwardly extricate himself, and fret over leaving a number, and then ultimately decide to just go. Bethany, Sam remembers, suddenly. It was Bethany, who was not Deanna.

He's stretched out in the chair, book open but mostly-abandoned on the arm of it, staring unseeing out at the library. Deanna, five foot seven in her bare feet, her lips a plush pretty curve and her tits a good handful and her ass, god, her ass, that she fretted over when they were younger and made him say that it wasn't fat—but it is, god, this fat perfect swell, impossibly hot along with her wide hips and her thighs gorgeous below and her body just—made for his, he thinks, sometimes. Even if of course that's impossible because they shouldn't be—it shouldn't be how it is, between them. Impossible or not, though—

"Ahem," he hears. He looks up.

Deanna's standing there, one hand on his research table, the other holding closed her grey dead man's robe. Sam blinks, taking her in. Her hair's up but she's clearly taken some time to style it—not quite the FBI-agent bun she's perfected, but looser, and the layers near her face tucked faux-messily behind her ears. Make-up, her eyes framed with liner and thickly sooty, but nothing on to hide the freckles, and her lips shining like they're freshly licked with that clearish-pink gloss she likes. Nothing too odd, or different. She takes another step, that clicks, and he glances down to find that she's wearing heels—not ones he recognizes, very high and impractical and shiny black, not her usual at all—and above the heels—

"I'm in charge, remember?" Deanna says, dragging his eyes back up to her face. "You've got to do what I say." He nods, feeling his face already getting hot, and he sits forward but she holds up a hand. "Stay sitting," she says, firm, "and don't touch, okay, not until you're told," and with that, she unclasps her other hand from the front of the robe, and lets it slide off her shoulders, and Sam takes in a breath and doesn't know if he ever lets it out.

The heels are the least of it. It's hard to take in all at once. His eyes leap from detail to detail. Deep maroon, in the silky material of the bustier, the bra-cups curved in and arrowing down to satiny buttons that close it at the front. It covers her ribs, surprisingly modest. Modest, too, the matching maroon panties done in a full cut, except that they're also sheer lace, and he can see the shadow of her trimmed hair through them, barely visible through the pattern. What's making his mouth dry, though, beyond the fact of her presented like this, is: a wide black garter belt, sitting high on her hips, leaving just an inch or two of bare white belly below the bustier—the arch of it high enough that the soft dimple of her navel's visible, above the waist of the panties—thick ribbons, for the garter, that curve sweet over her hips and down her pale thighs—and half-sheer thigh-high stockings, black lace thick at the tops, going all the way down her long legs to the heels, shining in the puddle of the discarded robe.

One heel turns in, her knee bending a little. Sam's dick pulses, caught in the sweatpants. This isn't—she doesn't bother, never has, and he never even thought to ask—in his life, he wouldn't have asked—

"Surprise," she says, spreading her hands to the side like a dancer, and Sam says, "Holy shit, Deanna."

Her tongue flicks to wet the center of her top lip. Nervous, almost, but what in god's name would she have to be nervous about? "Figured I could dress up," she says, shrugging—god, the way that makes her tits move—"and you know, it's your birthday, or uh—your unbirthday, right? So—"

"Are you sure I can't get up?" Sam interrupts. She blinks at him. "I really want to get up."

"So—" she says, fingers curling, and Sam says, "God, come here," with his voice rough in this way he didn't intend it to be, but she blinks again and then smiles, slow, her tongue pressing against the back of her teeth, and she steps forward, hips swaying, coming close enough to touch. He starts to reach but she puts her fingers to his collarbone and stops him, pressing him to the back of the armchair, and then she stands between his spread knees, leaning over him a little, so he can smell—the chemical peach of her bodywash, and the faint vanilla of the lotion she prefers, and beneath that—christ—he can smell her, her body clearly ready from whatever she was thinking as she put all this on, and he has to grip the arms of the chair very tightly not to get his hand on her pussy and find out just how ready she is.

Deanna trails a finger down his sternum, looking down at him with her lower lip caught in her teeth. "Didn't think this was going to be this much of a hit," she says, quiet, and Sam huffs. He's still looking all over. God. Her soft belly, lightly dented by the garter belt. The way the buttons of the bustier strain over her tits. "Hey, Sammy? Tell me something." He makes some sound. The stockings, christ, the stockings—that's doing something to him he didn't even know—"If you could do anything right now what would you do?"

His brain doesn't engage with the answer; it comes straight from his balls. "I'd eat your pussy," he says, and Deanna's hand spreads on his chest like a star, her chest heaving under the breath she takes. "Can I?" he says, belatedly, looking up finally at her face, because he wants to suddenly very badly, can practically taste the wet split of her, and she's pink over her cheekbones and ears, her lips wet and flushed, already, but she says: "No," and climbs into the armchair with him, instead, straddling him, her ass settling down on his knees, her hands in his hair, pulling his head back, making him keep eye contact. She dips her head, lips brushing his, and he opens his mouth for her but she doesn't quite kiss him. A tendril of hair swings forward, brushing his cheek, and she follows it, her lips faintly wet and a little sticky from the gloss, trailing over his cheekbone, breathing warmly damp against his ear. Her thighs clench around his and his hands flex, on the chair-arms, and his dick—god, he hasn't hardened up like this with no contact at all in years, didn't even know he could, but any second now it feels like he's going to start leaking, ruin the new pajama pants she gave him.

"If I asked you to hold on," she says, low and private against his ear—like anyone else could hear, like they're in a strip club and she's offering a private show. "You think you could? Hold on, not go until I said?"

"What, because I'm on such a hair trigger the rest of the time?" he says, attempting lightness, but honestly—christ, it feels like that could be a danger, right now, with her in his lap like this, with her smell, with her fingers dragging out of his hair and down his chest again, trailing down his abs through the sleep shirt. "God, Dee—you're so—" He's interrupted, when her fingers brush against the shape of his dick, through the sweatpants. She leans back, looking between them, her lips barely parted and her eyes dark. His dick flexes, against her hand, and her eyes flick up to meet his. "I can hold on," he promises, recklessly, and she flattens her palm and presses him thick against his own thigh where he's caught awkward in the soft material, but her chest heaves again on a deep breath, clearly as turned on as he is, and he says, then, "Kiss me," and she leans down immediately and does.

No touching rules or no, he's not going to just sit here, inert. He lifts up into the kiss right away, knocking her mouth open and licking inside, and she grips his hair again, fucks her tongue against his, squirms. "Scoot forward—come here—" she mumbles against him, half-coherent, and he hikes his hips forward between her legs so he's right on the edge of the seat and that, fuck, that tucks his hips warm between her thighs where he belongs, and his dick swells up against her pussy, the heat of it intense even through the layers of sweatpants and lace.

She doesn't tease, not exactly. She grinds down against him but then slips her hand right back to his dick, cupping the bulge of it firmly through the soft cotton and then sliding her hand inside. God—soft, warm. She rubs her thumb at the base, scratching her nail through his pubes, and then says, "Get it out," and he lifts, squirms, drags the waistband of the new pants down below the urgent heave of himself. Christ, he's hard. She presses right up close against him, thighs closing around his hips and his dick crammed tight up between his stomach and the scratchy lace of her panties, and she fists him capably, knowing, her cheek pressed against his and looking down between them, her breath heaving. She presses his cockhead up against herself, smearing it in the window of bare skin between the waist of the panties and the line of the garter belt—the sensitive ridge catching against her navel—and rubs her thumb hard under the crown—and fuck, fuck. Sam's balls ache. "Jeez," she says, low but light. "Happy to see me, huh? Wish I could suck it but I think I'd tear my tights if I went on my knees."

Sam groans. "You could try," he says, and she snorts, smears her lips against his jaw, kisses him brief and hot. She's as turned on as he is, which isn't helping him cool down at all. "Fuck, Dee. Let me—can I—"

"You can touch my ass," she offers, and he grabs her there immediately, squeezing, tugging her in so the spine of his dick crushes in against her pussy, grinding where her clit's got to be swelling, all trapped in the lace. She hitches air, back arching, and presses his dick firmer there with the hand caught between them, riding the pole of him. It feels outstanding but he's half-distracted because her ass, her ass. Fat and hot and so soft, denting under how hard he's gripping her. He slides his thumbs under the garter straps, tugging, and then sliding down, daring, finding the clips where they attach to the stockings. She squeezes his dick and he pulls, there, slipping his fingers under where the top of the stocking rides high and sweet and tight, and groans again, and says thoughtless Deanna, and she lifts her head up, looks down at him, eyes bright and her face flushed and her lips wet and her expression half-thoughtful, half-delighted. "Sammy," she says, and he squeezes the fat sweet swell where her ass rises up out of her thighs, the garters slipping silky against his palms. "That doing it for you? My stockings?"

He can hardly say, just lifts up and kisses under her jaw, sliding down to suckle at her throat—pulling—but she finds his hands, arrests them. He wants to knock them away but his brain's not completely offline yet and he stills, lets her pull his wrists away—lets her stand, fuck, up, wriggling backwards off his lap and getting her heels on the floor again, standing. "Hm, let's see," she says, low, and turns around, and that's when he gets to know that the stockings ride just a little higher in the back, the straps pulling with how the belt's fastened high at her waist, and they've got a thick seam that arrows down the line of her legs, ending in a little triangle of lace at the heel, just barely visible above the patent leather. The panties are practically sheer in the back—the lace finer, showing the crack of her ass—and the bustier dents in at the sides of her waist, making the tiniest roll there between the edge of it and the top of the garter that makes him want to fucking bite her, there, feel the soft flesh, taste her salt.

She's kicked the fallen robe out of the way and found the research table, her table, the one that's clear of books and mess. She bites her lip like a coquette and beckons, and he's up in a second, crowding in close, hands on the table on either side of her hips because she said, she said—

"If you want," she says, looking up at him, flushed, "you can eat me out, now."

He goes to his knees so fast it hurts and his mouth's between her thighs in the same second. He opens wide, breathes hot, sucks through the lace—her taste, right there, the fabric soaked at the little knot of the seams coming together—and she groans, bracing her heels on the floor, her ass barely perched on the edge of the table. He knows her cunt in every single way but like this it feels new, wrapped and pretty and served up for him, and he takes it slower, savoring. Drags his teeth over the unfamiliar scratch of the lace, kisses the pale-plump inside of her thigh above the edge of the stocking and suckles there, pulling tighter and tighter until she's squirming and gripping his hair and saying Sam breathless, and then switching to the other side and doing the same. Fuck, her smell. Salt-ocean, the queer unmistakable tang of pussy. He sucks at her clit through the fabric, not hard but in slow pulsing drags of his mouth that work her plump lips even fatter with hot blood, and her hips lift against him, a low pleased noise making his dick pulse. "Take them off," she says, somewhere, and he lifts up and kisses the little half-moon of skin above the waistband, fucks his tongue into her belly-button, and when he tugs—he pulls—dragging the panties down under the constriction of the belt and its straps—and he doesn't know how to get them out without ruining her whole costume—but christ, these are his present, aren't they?—and so he pulls harder, tears, and she gasps up above, "Holy shit, you lunatic," but then the lace is in two pieces and her thighs are pulling wide and he gets to dip his head and lick wide up the whole glossy slit of her, burying his nose in the slick-wet gingery patch of her hair, getting the salt without any stupid fabric in between. She grabs his head, pulling him closer, and he hooks his fingers into the straps of the garter belt and works, deep sloppy licks that smear slick all over, her clit swollen and aching just like he likes it. He spreads her wide with the edge of his thumbs, not touching, and licks the entrance to her vagina without dipping inside in the way he knows drives her absolutely nuts—and, yes, her thighs close around his shoulders and she arches with this surprised stupid sound that makes him grin against her cunt and she says, "Fuck, fine, fuck, get up here, come here—" and he stands slow, kissing her belly and her sternum and breathing against trapped satin swell of her breasts before she grabs his face and kisses him, eating her own taste out of his mouth.

"If you don't get your dick in me," she says, panting, "in about two seconds—" and so he grabs her ass and tips her backwards on the table and feeds his dick inside, pressing in bare, the scraps of lace tickling a little at his skin but the overwhelming feeling just the, fuck, the tight slippery grip of her, the close-grasping heat, the way she arches and makes this little hurt sound when he gets deep because he's thick, and he didn't even finger her to warn her, but she's so sloppy-wet he's not sure it makes much of a difference. He tips his hips in and presses his pelvis against her clit and leans in deep and kisses her, just staying still for a minute, feeling—christ. All of her. She slides a hand down between them and feels where he's splitting her wide, and he rocks back a little so she can hold his dick and then feel it slot right back in where it belongs. Fuck. "Fuck," she says, breathless, her hand flattened between their hips, and then Sam realizes she's massaging her mound with heavy, slow pressure. "Come on," she says, low and tight against his cheek, and he grips her hips and works her with a deep rocking, hardly pulling out, just grinding up and up and up inside while she works herself from the outside, and it's no surprise at all when she comes, fast, rippling inside and clenching so hard that he can barely move for fear of getting pushed entirely out. He drops his forehead to her collarbone, pushing deep, letting her clench and pulse. His dick feels so fat and swollen he could imagine all the blood in his body's there. It certainly doesn't feel like he's brain's involved.

Deanna sighs, after a second. "Holy crap," she says, like relief. "Mm. Lift up, 'kay?" He lifts up, keeping his hips right in place—his back cracking as he stands all the way straight—and she's flushed and pleased, spread out below him. "Shirt off?" she says, and so he strips it off, tossing it to the other end of the table. She reaches out and trails cold fingertips over his pecs, his abs, licking her lips. "Hm," she says, and smiles at him, wide and unexpected. She kicks her heels off, each one clattering to the floor, and lifts her legs against his sides, the stockings slick and smooth against his skin. He grabs her thighs immediately, savoring the long clench of muscle under the satin. She unbuttons the top two tiny buttons on the bustier—the top three—her tits spilling a little, the creamy swell of them loosened, and when she arches he can see the dark shadow of areola, peeking from below the maroon cups. She laughs a little at whatever his expression is, and then reaches down and grasps his hips, the sweatpants still barely caught around his ass. "Okay, birthday boy. Your turn. You can do whatever you want, but—" and her nails dig in, making his ass clench. "You make sure you come inside."

"Jesus christ, Dee," Sam groans, and she grins, eyebrows popping high like she's made a joke she's letting him in on, but it's not a joke, christ, it's not at all, and he hooks his fingers into the garter again and jolts his dick inside, deep as he can where he knows it knocks her cervix, and her eyes fly wide and she grasps his biceps instead, thighs clamping around his waist in shock, and that's—yeah, yeah, that's what he wants, and so he nails her again, and then one more time to make her gasp in a deep choked way and say shocked oh, that's—oh, and then he leans down and mouths her tit away from the soft cup of the loosened bustier and slip a sweet dark nipple into his mouth and then he just—fucks her, gripping her thighs and suckling her tit and slotting in and in and in to the perfect wet of her, making her gasp, making her clench and cry out, her heels dragging against his ass in harsh drags, scratching because of the lace, the seams of these perfect fucking stockings, pulling at him. She's soaked, her pubes a sticky mess when he drags his thumb over her clit, and he drags that wet up over her quivering belly to the garter belt, smearing there, rolling his dick in these demanding dragging slides that are making Dee arch her back, lift up one elbow, her other arm hooked around the back of his neck, her hips working back against his, her lips wet and helpless against his temple as he works her, her pussy grasping and clenching and knocked-open for him. He pulls out just because he can—feels the load of wet that spills out with him—looks down between them, at her tits spilling flushed out of her lingerie and her garter twisting and her stockings, fuck, still neat and tight in place even with her all red-sloppy and fucked-open between them—and when he pushes back in, her pussy parting immediately and welcoming, tight, perfect—she groans in this deep shocked way that connects directly to his nuts, a molten tight thing taking over where his brain ought to be, and he hooks a hand into the split of the bustier and grips a thigh tight against his side and fucks her hard, fast, his orgasm screaming up his back. If he weren't feeling so insane he'd wait for her, make sure she came again good, but it's—this is for him, she said, she wanted this, she wanted him to have her wrapped up like a present, to use like she told him to use her—and he dips down and finds her nipple again and bites there, sinking his teeth into the swell of her tit, and she squirms and clenches and says hot and quick, "Sammy, Sammy—harder—" and he unloads inside, just like she asked him to, his wad pulsing out of him hard enough that his thighs shudder, struggling to keep him up. He slams a hand on the table by her head and she flinches and moans at the same time, feeling it maybe—his dick twitching and pulsing so urgent that surely, she can feel it, even if she's so wet she can't tell her slick from his load—and he lifts off her tit with his jaw loose and his mind strange as an animal fresh off a kill, and she clutches her legs around his hips to keep him tight inside and grabs his head in both hands and presses her mouth open against his. Not kissing. Just their lips brushing, and their air shared and hot, and her forehead tipped against his, bone to bone.

His dick throbs, satisfied. His balls clutch, unload another wet pulse. He slides his hands down her sides, catching on the bustier, and then up again to frame her tits in the soft cups. The left one's out, the bitemarks obvious. He tugs down the little maroon-silk shield on the right and finds that breast full and pale, faintest freckles dusting the top, and kisses it softly, tender. Licks over the half-swollen bud of the nipple and feels it tighten, and suckles it gently when it does. Deanna's fingers comb through his hair, her chest rising against his mouth, and below her pussy clenches around his still-hard dick, needing. Wanting him.

He lifts his head and she's watching him, very close. Her eyeliner's smeared with the sweat of their fucking, the lip gloss long-gone. He fucks his dick in and out, carefully, and watches her eyelashes waver, and then slides out all the way and feeds three fingers in right after, squishing in on the mess he left, his thumb riding over her clit. Deanna's hand flashes down, fingers covering his thumb, and he lets her take over, watching not her hand but her face as he helps her chase it. She's close, has to be with how swollen and hot she is around his fingers. He kisses the pale inside curve of her tit where the bustier buttons are split wide, and the sweet peek of her belly, and then crouches and spreads his mouth wide on the thin skin of her hip, where the garter strap's still hanging on, fucking his fingers in again and again in steady pulses while Deanna arches and tightens and clutches around him and then ripples so hard he can't move, for a second. He looks up and she's silent, her mouth split and dark on a heaved breath, her head tipped back. He rubs his thumb over her wet fingers and she shudders, and he's pushed out of her pussy that way, the muscle clenching deep. His fingers are smeared white. She grabs his hand, quick, and pulls, and he stands up between her legs again and his dick presses against her pussy and he watches while she wraps her lips around his fingers and sucks, her eyes closing in concentration, her tongue slick against his knuckles, getting every last drop of come, until he's clean. He tugs his fingers out and she blinks at him, looking almost dazed, and he holds her eyes while he slots inside again and scoops out another gob of come—christ, it's slipping down against her thigh, staining her stocking—and he collects that too, and presents it to her, and she takes his wrist in both hands and sucks it all in, taking it, wanting all of him.

It's—quiet, after. Sam's tugged his sweatpants up. They're folded into the armchair but she's in his lap, this time, tucked in with her head on his shoulder, her legs slung over the arm. Deanna's torn panties are discarded on the floor and he keeps looking at them. "Do my hair?" she murmurs, finally, and he shifts them a little so he can reach and then does, searching careful for the bobby pins and pulling them out one at a time, setting them on the side table with little clicks, mussing her hair to looseness as he goes. Long time, since she asked for this. Not since… god, it was when Sam's mind was still trapped behind a wall, and he'd had a few bad flashes of memories he didn't understand. When they'd screwed madly, after that terrible job with the mannequins, and she'd held him inside in the same desperate, needing way, and she'd…

Her hair falls to mid-back, when all the pins are out. He combs his fingers through it, thick and soft. "Thanks," he says, quiet.

"Thank you," she says back, snuggling her head against his chest. "Now I'm not gonna stab myself in the middle of the night. Hallelujah."

Quiet, dumb. He sweeps her hair over her shoulder and runs a finger down her spine instead, finding the edge of the bustier and rubbing there in a soothing, repetitive line. "Dee," he says, asking, and she sighs, and doesn't say anything.

That time, that last time, when she'd been so desperate and clinging, when she'd wanted him inside. Held her hand against herself when he pulled out and felt the load he'd left, and of course it couldn't do anything, she'd been on birth control since she was fifteen, but it had made something go queerly hot in his gut to see it. Like some instinct she was operating on, trying to absorb him every way she could. Greedy, his sister. At least she used to be. He wonders if that's true, now, and doesn't know if he can ask. She's nesting, she's content, but between them—things are good, but…

Sam kisses the top of her head and she makes a small content noise, turning her face against his throat, her lips soft. He runs a hand over her knee, the stockings slick, and finds the lacy top, plucking lightly where it bites into her skin. He pulls at the garter strap and she smiles against his skin. "Never thought you'd be such a horndog about this," Deanna says, and it's sleepy-smug enough that he pinches her, on the soft plumpness of her thigh, barely hard enough that she'll feel it. She completely ignores that and crosses one knee over the other, bumping her leg up into his palm. "Should I get more? Pantyhose under the FBI suit?"

"I thought you said pantyhose was the patriarchy trying to suffocate women to death, or something," Sam says, and Deanna leans back so he can see her face, grinning, and says, "Yeah, but if it gets your dick that crazy then I'll deal with suffocation, doofus."

Honest, and nothing but content. Sam slides his hand over her belly where the garter's still digging in and slips two fingers between the clutch of her thighs where her pubes are still damp, incredibly hot, and she blinks at him surprised and then her smile changes, her thighs pulling open just like that. Easy for him, just like always. Sam puts aside any other worries and nods, thoughtful. "I guess I wouldn't mind seeing you use a garter belt to strangle a vamp," he says, and she barks out a quick delighted ha! and then lifts her mouth to his, opens her body to his, and he takes what's on offer instead of wondering about what's not.

#ffcc #wincest #girl!dean #lingerie #my writing #sam going nuts for deanna's pussy is even more boneheaded than him going nuts for dean's ass #which is saying something

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