#I started reading this draft at work and then he invaded my brain again so have some more Neuvillette stream of consciousness | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

how-masterful · 3 years

Text

Undercover

Delgado!master x reader

Summary: Finally, the Master had let you join in on field work for earth missions. His newest plan, the Keller machine, is going off without a hitch. The Doctor, however, is starting to suspect he’s seen the mysterious Professor Emil Keller’s assistant before- but more important matters are at play beyond the suspicions of a Time Lord: You’ve followed your Master’s orders perfectly, and a reward is seemingly in order...

Warnings: Lemon, EC for definite below the read more.

Notes: A return to writing for masterful! thankyou for being so patient with me, classes are finally beginning to end and so expect more fic’s to be released soon (perhaps that elusive new remaster will finally come out, despite my endless promises!) This half remaster is, as usual, dedicated to my absolutely beloved @plethora-of-imagines- you might recognise this fic from a while ago, but with a few little refreshes and changes here and there. A remaster of a half remaster, if you will. I hope you enjoy this trip down memory lane, queen!

The doors to the base opened with a mechanical grind and heave, the escorting guards that flanked your side guiding you towards the entrance of the UNIT embassy in London. You turned over your shoulder, heels stood upon the precipice of the entryway, leather gloved hand pulling your circular sunglasses down your nose. You met the gaze of the Brigadier, Doctor and Jo- your eyes lined with a dark kohl and red lips quirking up into a smirk.

"Will we be seeing you again, officer?" Jo asked, her voice sweet as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her blazer. You nodded with a fond smile, turning on your heels to face them as you pushed your glasses back up your nose, brushing the blonde hairs of your wig behind your ear.

"Perhaps, Miss Grant. However it depends on how the operators here at UNIT manage to handle the situation."

The Brigadier gave his typical expression. It was a raised lip corner, signalled mostly by the movement of his moustache. The various officers at UNIT, most recently Sergeant Benton, referred to it as the Brigadiers ‘not-smile smile’: he was a professional, after all. Hiding his displeasure at his authority being questioned behind a display of decorum.

"Believe me, officer, my men are working to the highest level of capacity. This peace conference shall go off without a hitch."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it. You do your Job, Brigadier, and the professor and I shall do ours."

You smiled at the Brigadier, who returned with the legendary expression once more, before turning to face the Doctor. His eyes were narrowed as he inspected your face, head slightly tilted as the ends of his wild white hair and long cape coat were beginning to be caught in the invading draft. You brushed down the front of your black blazer dress, buttons shining as you adjusted your hat with a gentle push.

"Until then, Doctor."

The Time Lord hummed, hardly an answer, watching as you swiftly turned on the heel of your stilettos and headed out of the door. The Brigadier gave a sigh as the eyes of his soldiers followed you out, letting out an abrupt cough that broke the men's gazes from the length of your dress.

“I’m guessing I should consider making that uniform mandatory for you too, since you’re so interested in its design.”

The men quickly resumed whatever work they’d been momentarily distracted from. The Brigadier turned towards his scientific officer with a further movement of his facial hair.

"Honestly, it's as if they've never seen a lady in uniform before."

Jo frowned, shaking her head before turning to the Doctor. He was still following after you, eyes narrow as you clutched your briefcase and elegantly slid into the waiting military vehicle down the steps. Jo sighed loudly as you went.

"Oh Doctor, not you too!"

"That woman seemed familiar. Far too familiar for a stranger, Far too familiar for a supposed visitor from Switzerland, anyway."

Jo rolled her eyes and smiled fondly up at the larger man.

"Doctor, I'm sure you've met many soldiers in your lifetime. Maybe you’re just misremembering?"

"Quite the contrary, Jo. I never forget a face. And my gut is telling me that face will be nothing but trouble."

The Brigadier shook his head, giving a light chuckle as he patted the Doctor on the back.

"Come along now, Doctor. She seemed like a professional young girl. You're more than likely worrying over nothing. That apprehension in your stomach can't be anything more than the result of you skipping breakfast."

The Doctor sighed, Jo taking it as a triumphant sign of his relenting.

"Speaking of food, I'm positively famished. Mike said he’d order some sandwiches from that nice little café around the corner earlier. Coming, Brigadier?"

The Brigadier rolled his eyes.

“I suppose it would be delectable of me to keep captain Yates from his obviously rigid lunch schedule.”

The humans parted, discussing such trivial things as food. But the Doctor knew something was definitely wrong. He'd seen your face before, the memory scratching at his brain. All these pieces were beginning to look like disjointed parts of a puzzle: this Keller machine, the peace conference, and now his strange sense of familiarity. He just needed to find out what was going on, and quickly- before his suspicion came far too late to prevent.

You met his eyes one last time as the vehicle door slammed shut, his curious expression suddenly being hidden by a veil of window tint as the engine revved and began to pull out onto the busy road.

By the time the military car had reached its drop off point, late afternoon clouds had begun to fall over london. You thanked the driver, standing under the early light of the street lamp as you watched the vehicle escape down the road and turn the corner back towards UNIT headquarters. You smirked, turning on your heels once more before heading down the street in the ever growing black of the soon to be evening.

A small skip entered your step as you made your way past the row of houses, a giggle escaping your lips. How your Master's plan was coming together wonderfully, your heart practically racing at the thought of his next attempt at world domination. You could see it now, yourself and the Master stood side by side, watching the destruction of earth as he whispered in your ear how good of a girl you were. It was simply dreamy to imagine: and now professor Emil Keller was about to make it happen.

You reached the end of the street, excitement brimming in your stomach as you caught sight of the large, sleek black car and the glassy eyed driver in the front seat. The man nodded at your presence, turning over his shoulder and speaking to the passenger in the back seat. The tinted window to the rear passenger side door cracked open slightly, cigar smoke billowing out into the night. He hopped out of the driving seat and pulled open the door swiftly as you arrived at the side of the car, the cigar quickly discarded out the window as a familiar voice sent comforting shivers down your spine.

"Come inside, my dear- it's frightfully chilly out there at this hour."

You giggled happily at the Master, sliding into the leather interior of the car and placing yourself firmly into his side. He grasped your chin softly, guiding your face to meet his as you dissolved into a tender, welcoming kiss. You pulled your glasses from your face, discarding them to the side as you buried yourself in the waiting arms of the Master. His coat was warm, smelling just like his cologne and lined with luscious fur, something he’d picked out for himself on a planet during one of your various trips.

The timelord knocked on the roof of the car with his knuckles, the hypnotised driver pushing on the ignition as the windows to the vehicle rolled all the way up.

"Master, I missed you." you admitted into the fur of his jacket, a smile appearing on the Master's lips as you made yourself comfortable. He stole another kiss from you, this time a sweeter, more chaste peck.

"As did I, my dear girl. As did I."

Your blush was positively adorable. The Master looked you up and down, a smile settling to a playful smirk at your rather exciting disguise. You noticed his gaze, lifting his chin with your fingers to meet your eyes.

"What do you think of the disguise?"

The Master grinned, watching you unabashedly attempt to seek his approval.

"You're positively radiant, my love. Even a fabulous disguise such as this can't hide your beauty."

You smiled, pleased with the praise you’d received. You sank back into his embrace, watching the road pass through the front windscreen as your head rested upon his shoulder.

"I never thought I'd sink low enough to be a UNIT officer."

"No doubt you were the most beautiful officer there."

You giggled once more, scratching the underside of the Master's beard. He hummed in delight, pulling you closer to his side. He enjoyed this little game of yours that you were currently playing.

"And no doubt it wasn't my face they were busy looking at."

The Master's face dared to sour at the notion, but you pressed a sweet kiss to his hand, pecking the leather just above where his wedding band lay on his finger. He sighed, relenting to your pledging kiss. At least you knew who you belonged to, even if those perverted, prying officers back at UNIT didn't. He'd enjoy pulling out every eyeball from every officer that dared to objectify you, but he currently enjoyed the thought of your company more. Besides, there were bigger plans in motion than petty, small-scale revenge.

"I trust you were not only stealing hearts, but were successful in your little task I set you, hmm?"

You beamed up at the timelord with a gasp, nodding with vigour and patting the briefcase at your side. The Master had finally let you out into the field on earth- he relied on you greatly during his plans in distant galaxies, letting you play pretend and dress up to cause as much mischief as you desired. But there was something about earth, about the idea of a human opponent, that made him keep you close to his side. This was an exciting change of pace.

"Yes Master. Documents, files, plans, anything and everything that I could get my hands on. There's nothing more thrilling than seeing 'top secret, keep out.' In big red letters on a dossier. How can a girl resist?"

The Master smiled widely, obviously thrilled, pulling you into his lap and rewarding you with a kiss to your forehead. You squealed happily, head resting on his shoulder as his hands came to rest on your lower back and thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh sat taught against the tight fitting material.

"Good girl, my darling- What a good girl you are. You've made your Master very happy indeed, my dear. How proud he is of his best, most obedient girl."

Your whole body curled up tighter in his arms, pure happiness coursing through your veins. Master was proud, Master was happy. He was drowning you in buckets of praise and telling you everything you wished to hear. It was all you could hope for.

You kissed the underside of his jaw, trembling slightly as his cold, leather clad fingers began to wander up and down your thigh. You allowed your own fingers to trail along his jawline, leather gloves against his skin in return making him almost purr with Joy.

"Your Master couldn't ask for a better, more beautiful girl to obey his every command with no hesitation. How perfect you are. Nobody could ever compare."

You moaned softly. You gathered your strength, pulling yourself from his lap to straddle his waist, hands gripping the fur of his collar as you pressed your foreheads together. Your noses brushed together in collision as his lips teased yours, tension building in your core as you felt his hands move to support your behind as you adjusted your position.

"Please, please Master... Say it. Say it for your good girl."

You bit your lip, stifling a moan as an arm curled around your lower back and a hand came to grasp your chin, thumb pulling your lip from your teeth and brushing over the red stained skin.

"Own me, command me. Tell me I'm yours."

The Master chuckled, voice low as you began to grind against his suit pants. He treasured how much you desired to be under his command, the power his words had over your mind.

"My darling girl, your mind and body belong to me: obey me, obey your Masters every command."

You moaned louder than before, grinding harder against his lap- you could feel his growing hard beneath you, a drawn out 'yes' escaping your lips. The Master purred darkly, snapping his teeth together as you grasped hold of his face in your hands.

"My precious girl, irreplaceable and invaluable. Obey me, pledge yourself to me"

You groaned even louder, eyes fluttering shut as your noses brushed together, your tongue slowly teasing his top lip as he gazed up at you with hungry, heavy eyes. His words were sending chills up your spine, more than the cold outside ever could.

"Master... I’m yours. Every part of me belongs to you, every part of me desperate to serve you. To please you. To be owned. Please, show me I exist only to please you."

Your words were obviously getting him hot and bothered. You pushed off his coat, allowing it to fall against the leather seat, rapidly pulling your hands to your dress as you undid the buttons that lead from your neck to just below your bust. You pushed open the material, exposing your bare chest against his as you pushed your ass further back into his groping hands, his fingers trailing to tug at the hems of your stockings and the lacy material of your panties- which were already painfully damp.

The Master snarled, lips moving to nip and bite at your now exposed neck. His tongue licked at the sensitive skin as he allowed his lips to trail over your breasts. A filthy groan dripped from your tongue as you fought to undo the zipper on his pants, your breath caught in your throat as he suddenly growled at the sensation of your wandering fingers.

He grasped hold on your hands, causing you to whine, pulling them up to his mouth with a sneer and biting at the leather material. Each glove was yanked from your hand by his teeth, his lips racing to kiss your wedding ring which shone upon your finger. You purred, a noise that seemingly pleased him, as a leather gloved hand grasped hold of your throat while another moved to grasp tight purchase of your ass.

Your fingers nimbly fought to undo the zipper and the remaining button on his pants, freeing his cock from his boxers and beginning to stroke it with well practiced precision. With a sharp tug your panties were pulled from under your dress, the lace slipping down your thighs and being hastily pulled off your ankles and dropped to the floor. Anticipation was crippling you, your head thrown back as the Master guided your hips to slide you carefully onto his ready and waiting cock.

The back of the car was filled with your excruciating gasp, the fierce moan rippling from your throat as both of his arms wrapped around your back to support you. Your hands once again found his neck, your arms wrapping around it as you fisted into his salt and pepper hair. Instantly the pair of you dived against each other's lips, your moans muffled within each other's mouths as you began to ride him on the backseat of the car. His tongue was precise, warm and tender inside your mouth as his fingertips dragged down your back, beginning an ecstasy fuelled sensory overload.

You whined, desperate for the connection, whimpering his name into his mouth.

"Take it off... Master, please."

He seemed to understand perfectly- and to share the sentiment, his gloved fingers furiously fighting to unbutton the rest of your dress and push the black garment to the car floor. You gasped at the rush of chill on your back, pushing yourself deep onto his cock as you swivelled your hips and allowed yourself to bounce on his lap- his fingertips stroking up your spine, grasping hold of the black cap and blonde wig that hid underneath it. He pulled off what was left of your disguise, letting your hair fall free as you skilfully rode him in nothing but your heels, stockings and bra. The sight was sinful to the highest degree. Thank god your driver was hypnotised, or the noises you were making would cause him a dangerous distraction.

Moans and whimpers fell from your lips, your whines combined with the Master's harsh grunts creating a symphony of pleasure in the backseat of the car. You were practically falling apart in his lap, putty in his hands, desperately rocking your hips and grinding down as he supported you from beneath. You allowed your head to throw back, tears almost streaming down your cheeks at the waves of pleasure ravishing over your entire body. The Master was deliberate, thrusting hard and in time with your grinding as you both rode towards satisfaction as the car sped down the road.

It was positively thrilling, your movements melting together as you felt him handle you like his most precious treasure. It was an utter delight to your system, the feeling of the Master roughly yet carefully thrusting his cock inside of you, seeking to make you utterly boneless in his arms. You could feel your climax was suddenly close, the thin veil of sweat building on your brow a symbol of your devoted effort. The Master was also close to his satisfaction, the sensation building in his core as he came closer and closer to the precipice of ecstasy.

"Master, I'm close, I'm so close."

"Hold on, my darling. Good girl, such a good girl"

His rough voice was enough to make you cum there and then. It was the unspoken rule- you came only when he did. You both believed it was the polite thing to do in any situation.

You gave a final series of grinds before the Master eventually came with a low grunt, the sensation of release making your previous ever growing moans seem miniscule in comparison. You cried out desperately as you also came, the Master's arms wrapping around you as you tiredly slumped forward onto his chest. Both of you gasped for air, the Master carefully removing his handkerchief from his pocket and lightly dabbing at your forehead. Your chest rose and fell quickly, his own hearts racing in tandem in his chest.

You hummed, nestling into his chest and placing a trail of kisses to his neck as he mopped your exhausted brow. You smiled, curling up within his embrace, the chill of sweat causing you to shiver under his touch..

"My love, you never fail to bring me to the utmost parts of ecstasy" he murmured softly, removing the smudged eyeliner from the corner of your eye. You sniffled, sighing at the scent of his cologne on his collar, relishing in his post sex praise.

"Love you, Master. So much..." You murmured, voice small against his jacket. If it weren't for his timelord hearing, you were sure he'd struggle to understand. But he did, softly tucking your hair behind your ear and kissing your lips tenderly. You adored his after sex kisses.

"And I love you, my dear girl. Here, let me wrap you up warm. You'll catch your death, and people will stare."

You smiled tiredly, nodding as he carefully pulled his fur coat onto your exhausted body.

"We wouldn't want that, would we? I’m yours." you proclaimed, a stance that caused the Master to chuckle adoringly.

"That's right, you belong to your Master and your Master alone. And when we get home he'll wrap you up in the softest sheets, allowing you to feast on the finest delicacy in the safety of his arms. Because that's where you belong, my dear girl, after such a delightful performance."

The thought was drool worthy. You weren't sure you didn't already start. When the car arrived at the residency the Master guided you from the car, supporting your arm as you let your head rest upon his shoulder. With an instructing snap the driver grasped hold of your clothes, another guard positioned outside the house grasping hold on your briefcases. You placed a kiss to the timelord's cheek, a gesture he returned with a small boop of your nose. You blushed even harder, feeling so safe wrapped up in the warmth of his coat, leaning against his side.

"Master?" You asked softly, voice tired as you made your way up the steps.

"Yes, my beloved?" He replied, a nickname that made your whole body shiver with adoration.

“I don't think the Doctor trusts me… I think he suspects me.”

The Master tilted his head, raising an eyebrow as you whined into his collar. How adorable, you still cared for the plan even in the after sex haze. He shushed you softly as you continued to mumble against his suit jacket.

“I think he recognized-”

The Master shook his head, causing you to stop in your trail of thought.

“Later, my dear. We can discuss business in the morning. You’ve done so well.”

“But-”

The Master shushed you once more, pausing at the top of the steps of the townhouse. He held you to his chest, guiding you chin up to meet his eyes once more. You pouted softly, his thumb pulling on your bottom lip.

“A familiar face will be the least of his problems, my dear. I’ll send Chin Lee on a little mission tomorrow, a small distraction will be enough for us to continue working on the machine back at Stangmore. Trust me, my darling.”

The Master finally let go of your lip, causing you to moan softly as he pushed a stray hair from your face.

“Let's get you inside, you look positively exhausted.”

“Hmm, I wonder why.”

The Master gave a warning chuckle as you entered into the grand foyer of the townhouse, his eyes widening in a harsh refusal as the hypnotised doorman moved to take your coat. You blushed, this time from embarrassment, the Master ushering you further into the house as you pulled the coat further across your chest.

“I suppose I should take a bath. You can't take over the world while filthy.”

The Master grinned, happy his enjoyment of the finer things in life and his presentational standards had passed on to you. He held your face softly, brushing his thumb over the apple of your cheek.

“You rest now, my darling. I’ll have some dinner prepared.”

“Nothing fancy, Master. Consider my appetite firmly satiated.”

You wiggled your eyebrows as the Master shook his head, a small giggle escaping from your lips as you began to head upstairs. You considered yourself lucky you could get away with such cheek.

“If you insist, my dear. I’ll send one of the men out to get something quote unquote ‘’not fancy’. I heard there's a lovely quaint little bistro just around the corner”

The Master raised a confused eyebrow as your laughter echoed from the top of the stairs.

#Delgado!Master #roger delgado #delgado!master x reader #master x reader #the master x reader #doctor who #bbc #bbc doctor who #The Master #master #fanfiction #classic who #third doctor #the mind of evil #jo grant #brigadier #x reader #reader insert

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amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines · 4 years

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Sweet Pea//Freeze Your Brain

Request: Can I request a song-fic with song Freeze Your Brain, with Sweet Pea/Reader, plot twist, reader is "JD" in it; for the plot maybe Sweet Pea's talking about how the Serpents are his family; sorta trying to help reader settle in to school

hey! first of all warning: death of a parent and abandonment. other than that, i hope you enjoy it! also, this has been sitting in my drafts for m o n t h s. like i wrote this last year at some point i think, so here ya go! sorry everything is taking so long.

“Oh.” Sweet Pea’s familiar voice makes you look up from the magazine stand you were staring at. You and Sweet Pea were in practically every singe class and you almost always sat next to each other meaning that you talked to him several times a day, practically every single day. From the conversations that you had had, you learned that he was a serpent, he was funny and he was cute as hell. “I see you’re familiarizing yourself with the local and only 7-11 we have.”

“Something like that.” You shrug and take a sip from your slush.

“Sooooo, what are you actually doing here?”

“It better than being at home? You?”

“Fangs wanted some Corn Nuts.” He replies and waves the packet in his hand.

“Oh.” You reply and go back to reading the front of the magazines.

“So, how are you finding Riverdale High?”

“Its okay.” You shrug. “I’ve been to ten high schools already so they’re kinda all starting to blur.”

“Oh. Do you think you’ll be staying here for a while?” He asks, a hint of hopefulness in his voice. Your eyes meet his and you send him a warm smile.

“Hopefully.” You nod. “It just depends on my dad. We have to move around a lot because of his work so there’s no point in ‘planting roots’ if you know what I mean?” You explain and he nods.

“Yeah, I get that. My mom was kinda the same before she left me. Instead of moving around she just moved in a lot of different ‘boyfriends’.”

“I’m sorry she left.”

“Its fine.” He shakes his head. “You know enough about me. Tell me about you. I’ve only had a so many conversations with you in class but I know nothing about you.”

“There’s not much to tell.” You reply and walk around to the drinks aisle. He follows closely behind you and picks up a bottle of soda. “My dad keeps two suitcases packed in the den no matter where we are so its really only a matter of when. Thats why I haven’t really bothered talking to people. I used to, but after the third school there’s really no point, don’t learn names or bother with faces. It easier that way.”

“That sucks.”

“Yep.”

“If it makes you feel any better I don’t like Riverdale High much. Its too preppy.”

“It is definitely the preppiest school I’ve ever been to.” You laugh softly and he smiles at you.

“I think you would have fit in at Southside High.” He says casually and you raise an eyebrow. “Thats the school the serpents went to before Riverdale. Southside High was closed down and we were transferred.” He explains.

“Oh.” You take another sip of your drink and move further down the aisle.

“Apparently we’ll ‘get a better education’ at Riverdale High. But you can’t get much of an education if you’re fighting people that hate you because you’re ‘invading their territory’.” He mocks and you laugh.

“Is the education the reason Southside High was closed?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It was deemed a health hazard due to toxic fumes from one of the chemistry labs but everyone knows that Mayor McCoy just needed an excuse to close it down.”

“Ah.”

“So, how do you cope with moving around all the time?”

“You promise you won’t laugh?” You ask and he nods.

“Cross my heart.” He replies. “Scouts honour.”

“I don’t believe you were in the scouts.”

“Fine. Serpents honour.”

“Every time I feel like the worlds falling down and that I’m going to start having a breakdown, I always got to 7-11.” You admit and he stares at you dumbfounded.

“7-11?” He asks and you nod.

“Its like a concrete oasis.” You add and he laughs loudly. “You said you wouldn’t laugh.” You roll your eyes and start to walk away.

“I’m sorry.” He runs after you. “I just wasn’t expecting that.” He catches up to you and you stop walking so you can glare at him. “Tell me about why you love 7-11.” He continues and you raise an eyebrow. “I’m being serious. Tell me.”

“Fine. But if you laugh I will kick you in the balls.”

“Okay?”

“7-11 never changes. Literally every single store is the same, from Las Vegas to Boston. Linoleum aisles that I just love to get lost in. And the slushes. Don’t get me started on the slushes. They are God-like.” You ramble and he smiles at you. “Are you laughing?” You ask in a threatening tone.

“No!” He says quickly. ‘Its cute.”

“Hmmm.” You narrow your eyes at him and drink some of your slush.

“I really do live for the sweet frozen rush.” You say to no one in particular.

“I feel the same way about the serpents...kind of.” He interrupts your moment of thinking. “They took me in when not even my own mom wanted me.”

“Your mom’s an idiot.”

“I know.” He nods his head and you smile softly at him.

“Care for a hit.” You offer him your slush and he takes it from you.

“Who needs cocaine when you can just have one of these?” He asks.

“Exactly.”

“Anyway, so the serpents. Its like having a really weird extended family. We look after each other, its even written in the rules. Although I dunno if anybody has actually written them down or if they’re just remembered. But they’re the best family I could wish for. Better than my actual family.” He trails off and stares out the window for a few seconds. He’s clearly thinking about something unpleasant, but it passes and he quickly turns his head to look at you. “What about yours? Does your mom know you eat all this crap?”

“Not anymore.”

“What?” He asks worriedly, his eyes widening.

“When my mom was alive, we sort of lived normally but now its just me and my dad.” You explain.

“Sorry.” He apologizes. “But its nice you still have your dad.”

“We’re a littles less formal...and normal.” You mutter the last part. “He isn’t really around much so I had to learn to be an adult quicker than a lot of kids do. I learned to cook pasta, and almost burned the house down the first time.” He interrupts you with a small laugh and you smile at him. “I pay rent and stuff. Turns out the world owes you nothing.”

“Not even a cent.” He finishes your sentence and you face him.

“Exactly.”

“You know if you wanna fit in at Riverdale High, you need to know what you’re doing after. You ask literally anyone that goes there and they’ll tell you their life plan for the next 10 years.”

“Hmmm, lets see. I could go to a college, but who knows where I’ll be by then.”

“You could marry a lawyer.” He suggests.

“Hm. Depends on what type. Are they gonna be like a medical lawyer or one of those ones that get given to criminals when they can’t afford one?”

“In the middle? He’s the best at his firm, but his firm isn’t the best.”

“I could work with that.” You nod and walk towards the candy section.

“But.”

“Ooooo. There’s a but? Now I’m intrigued.”

“The sky’s gonna hurt when it falls.”

“Damn.” You sigh and he sends you a sympathetic smile.

“You better start building some walls.”

“Already have.” You wave your half empty slush in front of his face and laughs.

“Do you have any more insightful information?”

“Nope. Wait, don’t talk to anyone but the serpents. Now I’m all out.” He says making you laugh.

“Do yourself a favour then.”

“Whats that?” He asks.

“Freeze your brain.” You hand him your slushie and he nods.

“I’ve got brain freeze!” He says after a few seconds.

“Get lost in the pain Sweet Pea.” You reply. “Just shut your eyes tight until you vanish from sight. Thats what I do.”

“Thats not healthy.” He replies and gives you your cup back.

“I know. But do you have any other solutions?” You ask and move further around the shop until you finally decide where to stop.

“No.” He shakes his head.

“Exactly.”

“Fight pain with more pain.”

“Yep. Now you’re getting it.” You smile at him proudly. “Forget in six weeks you’ll be back on the road...and you’ll have to say goodbye to the only good thing you’ve had in your life for a long time.” You say sadly and look at Sweet Pea. He’s already looking at you, his gaze going from your eyes to your lips and back again. You lean in slowly, and he closes the gap, his hands resting on your waist. You pull back and smile at him softly. His expression mirrors yours and you both stare at each other for a few seconds before you turn away.

“On Monday do you want to sit with Serpents at lunch?” He asks and you hesitate for a moment while your filling your drink up. “Its not gonna hurt you to make some friends.

“You sure about that?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Try it.”

#sweet pea #sweet pea imagine #sweet pea x reader #sweet pea x you #sweet pea x y/n #riverdale #riverdale imagine #jordan connor #jordan connor imagine #jordan connor x you #freeze your brain #heathers

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kookiesjoonies · 4 years

Text

rule breaker — jhs | part ten.

rule breaker | part ten: ramen & froyo.

a/n: this chapter is quite a few days late, but i literally had the worst case of writer’s block of my LIFE. i started this chapter, n then completely scrapped it. and i’m glad i did, bc the first draft was SHIT. LMAO. anyway, come talk to me abt hoseok n yn please. i want to hear your thoughts. especiallyyyy after this chapter! thank u all for reading! xo

main pairing: choreographer!hoseok x idol!reader

side ships: vmin, namkook

word count: 5.1k

warnings: fluff, angst, wet dream (dunno if that qualifies as a warning, but uhhh just in case lmaodskjd), masturbation, squirting

— SERIES SUMMARY

your career as an idol comes first, end of discussion. and to make sure that you stay on track, you implement two foolproof rules to abide by:

rule #1: no distractions. rule #2: no mixing business with pleasure.

and those rules seem simple enough to follow. that is, until you develop a crush on your new choreographer.

Dance practice was over and you felt like you’d just run a marathon. No, wait, scratch that. You felt like you’d run five marathons. Dancing with Hoseok was no joke. He always pushed you to work harder, to do better. And any time you were convinced you couldn’t perfect a move, he’d encourage you and offer you a thousand reasons as to why you could.

Both of you were drenched in sweat. Your grey crop top soaked and dark in certain areas, perhaps revealing a bit too much of what was underneath. Hoseok’s hair was sticky and wet against his forehead, and he’d pushed it back since practice ended.

You’d have been stupid to ignore just how attractive such a simple gesture made him look. Still, you tried your hardest to push such thoughts out of your mind. You shouldn’t be thinking of him in such a way. But you blamed it on the sensual dance routine that you’d just completed with him.

Jimin was just supposed to be late to practice, but he ended up having to skip it all together. Which meant that every single sexy move you were supposed to do with your best friend, you’d done with Hoseok instead.

At first, it was awkward. You didn’t know where to put your hands, and he was hesitant to put his on your body as well. Eventually though, the two of you relaxed into one another. The feeling of his fingertips on the bare skin of your hips was exhilarating, as well as the feeling of his length being pressed against your ass while you pushed back against him.

The way that he watched you in the mirror, the way way his pupils had clearly dilated, sent immediate relief washing over you. You weren’t the only one affected by the routine the two of you were performing. But at the end of the day, it was just that. A performance.

And that’s what you’d keep telling yourself, even if deep down, you didn’t believe it even for a second.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” Hoseok began, lifting the bottom of his muscle tank top up to his face to wipe the beads of sweat trickling down, “but I worked up quite the appetite.”

Your eyes shot down to admire his perfectly sculpted abs that were practically begging for your touch, your tongue poking out to wet your lips at the delicious sight.

“Y/n?” Hoseok was speaking again, this time albeit a little louder, which snapped you out of your trance.

Embarrassed, your neck straightened up so that you could now look at the man towering above you face to face. And you willed your cheeks not to turn red, hoping and praying that he didn’t catch you checking him out.

“Huh?” That was all you could muster up, unsure of what he’d even said to begin with.

To your surprise, he offered you a chuckle in response.

“I said I was hungry. You want to go grab lunch?”

The two of you’d never hung out outside of the studio before, so you were a little taken aback by his suggestion.

He could sense your hesitation, and he stuttered as he tried to play it off nonchalantly.

“Or, uhm— we don’t—, we don’t have to. I just figured—“

You cut him off, a small smile creeping it’s way onto your face. He really was adorable when he rambled.

“Hobi, we can get lunch. I just wish I didn’t have to go out in public looking so gross.” You were half joking, half serious.

Your hair felt greasy, you weren’t wearing any makeup, and your athletic clothes were sweaty and sticky. So, you were definitely not fit to be seen in public at the moment.

“You don’t look gross.” Hoseok was quick to reassure you, matching your smile with a wide one of his own.

“No?” You asked, wanting him to compliment you one more time. Even though, you weren’t sure why you wanted him to do so so badly.

“Nope!” he shook his head, “you look like you’ve been working hard.”

You internally groaned. Not exactly the kind of compliment you were hoping for, but it would do, you supposed.

“In that case, did you have a place in mind for lunch? Or..?”

“There’s this place down the street that has the best cooked ramen!” you found it adorable, the way he was so enthusiastic even while talking about food, “Is that okay? I mean— do, uhm— do you like ramen?”

A tiny giggle left your mouth before you could stop it, and you offered him a quick nod of your head.

“I love ramen.”

“Great!” he grinned, “let’s go then!”

Turns out, Hoseok was right. This place did have the best ramen. You were sure you could slurp up at least ten bowls of it.

Your choreographer was sitting across from you at the small round table. The place was quaint, small, and yet surprisingly busy. Various K-Pop songs boomed through the speakers overhead, and the hustle and bustle of the restaurant workers never seemed to cease. The sound of the other diners mumbling bounced off of the walls, and the aroma of the foods being cooked in the kitchen were to die for.

“So,” Hoseok spoke up after practically inhaling a few bites of his ramen, “do you like the place?”

You didn’t hesitate in answering, “Yes! I can’t believe it’s been so close to the studio for so long and I never knew about it.”

“You’re welcome.” He winked at you, a playful gesture that for some reason, had your heart doing flips in your chest.

You gathered a small bunch of noodles with your chopsticks, bringing them up to shove the food into your mouth.

“Aren’t you nervous people will recognize you?” Hoseok questioned, taking a sip of the soda that was sitting beside of his bowl.

You shrugged, chewing and swallowing the bite you’d just taken before answering him.

“It’s just part of the gig, you know?”

“No,” he admitted, “I don’t know. How do you do it? How do you deal with people constantly invading your privacy?”

“It’s not easy,” you answered honestly, “but I’ve been doing it for almost six years now, so. I’d like to think I’ve gotten used to it.”

“You handle it well. The way you carry yourself, even with all of the pressure you’re under, it’s admirable. And the fact that you’re so— so kind, so down to earth, even with the millions of fans you have.. it’s amazing, really.”

His series of seemingly never ending compliments were successful in creating flutters in your stomach. You were sure your cheeks and the tips of your ears were tinted pink, and your spine tingled as you happily took in every single one of his words.

“Hobi,” you couldn’t hide the grin that was now plastered across your face, “you’re too sweet.”

This time, it was Hoseok’s turn to blush. You’d said something so simple, yet it had the apples of his cheeks tinged red. He’d hoped you hadn’t noticed. But you did, which only made you want to continue your compliments further. If it meant seeing him like that, all flustered and shy, you’d compliment him twenty four hours, seven days a week.

Even if, technically, you shouldn’t be trying to make him blush. But at that exact moment, you couldn’t be bothered to give a single fuck.

“I mean it,” you continued, swirling the few remaining noodles around in the bowl below you, “you’re so kind to me, always. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

He glanced away from you then, turning his attention to watch the waiters walk in and out of the kitchen. You didn’t miss the dark shade of red that had taken over his entire face. And yeah, you found it undeniably adorable.

Before you could say anything else to him, a familiar sounding song blared from the sound system above you. You couldn’t help but to laugh, shaking your head as you listened to the low beat of take me.

Hoseok faced you again, a smirk present as his ears perked up to listen.

“Hey, that sounds kind of familiar.”

“Never heard this song before in my life.”

You kept a straight face, for the most part. But Hoseok didn’t miss the glimmer of playfulness in your eyes.

“Ahh,” he decided to play along, finishing up the last few bites of his meal, “a shame you haven’t heard it. The artist who sings it, she’s truly something special. Insanely talented, an incredible dancer.”

“Maybe she’s just an ‘incredible dancer’ because she has such a good teacher.”

“Nope!” he was quick to shut you down, “she’s talented because she’s hardworking and she never settles for anything but the best.”

If you didn’t know better, you could’ve sworn he was flirting with you. And maybe he was. Or, maybe you just wanted him to be? But then, why did you want him to be? Your brain was scrambled, too many thoughts running a million miles a minute.

The sound of footsteps approaching your table pulled you out of your own head, and standing before you was a tall, lean yet muscular man with dark hair. He had a freckle just under his bottom lip, which you were quick to note was quite cute. You assumed he was a fan, but as soon as he addressed the man sitting in front of you as Hobi, you quickly realized he was here for him and not you.

“Here’s that movie you wanted to borrow.” The younger boy handed a disk over to his friend, and you watched the exchange curiously.

“Ahhh! Thank you, Jungkookie! I’ve been wanting to see this for ages!” Hoseok quickly stuffed the film into his bag at his feet.

“Hmm,” you observed, tapping your manicured nails on the top of the table, “Jungkook, I presume?”

He seemed shock at the mention of his name. Or rather, at the sound of familiarity laced in your tone.

“Uhm, yeah..?” he cocked an eyebrow, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.

Your attention turned to Hoseok, and you pointed a finger at Jungkook.

“Is he the one who thinks I’m a diva?”

Hoseok had a mouthful of soda, and damn near did a spit take at your obvious call out.

“You told her?!” Jungkook slapped his hyung’s shoulder, and you watched as Hoseok soothed the abused spot with his hand.

“It just slipped!” The older male was quick to defend himself, and you couldn’t help but to laugh at the whole ordeal.

“Guys,” you said, “it’s fine! Jungkook, I’m sorry that you think I’m a diva. I’d like to think I’m not, but your own opinions can’t be helped.”

“She is not a diva, I promise. She’s anything but.”

You couldn’t help but to smile wide at the sound of Hoseok defending your name.

Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck nervously, “Ahhh, I shouldn’t be so quick to judge, or to assume. I don’t even know you. I apologize.”

He bowed in front of you, and you waved him off.

“I promise, it’s fine,” you assured him, “I accept your apology. Any friend of Hoseok’s is a friend of mine.”

He sighed, relieved.

“In that case, could you get Jimin’s autograph for me? I’m like, his biggest fan.”

Hoseok groaned before bringing the palm of his hand up and dragging it down his face. You just laughed, nodding your head once in response.

“I’ll see what I can do. You should come by the studio with Hobi sometime, you’ll probably run into Jimin there.”

“Really?!” He lit up like a kid in a candy store, and it seemed as though his older friend had had enough.

“Okay!” Hoseok said, shooing Jungkook away from the table, “You’ve fulfilled your purpose of dropping off the movie. Thank you!”

“Awww, but hyung!” Jungkook pouted, “I was hoping I could join the two of you, and you know, tell her a secret of yours since you told her one of mine.”

You perked up in your seat, gaze shifting to Hoseok as you eyed him curiously.

“What secret?” You asked, hearing Jungkook snicker to your side.

“Ignore him.” Hoseok groaned.

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave,” Jungkook held his hands up in front of him in defeat, “but you should tell her, is all I’m saying.”

“Tell me what?” You asked, intrigued and confused all at the same time.

Hoseok shook his head.

“Nothing, he’s just an idiot,” he insisted, laughing the entire situation off, “we should uhm— grab froyo after this, if you’re not busy, I mean.”

“Ugh, the key to my heart.”

He smiled at your immediate acceptance, flagging your waiter down and digging in his pocket for his wallet.

You did the same, unzipping your purse to retrieve your credit card.

“No, no, Y/n. I got it! My treat.”

“Hoseok, I can’t let you—“

Before you could argue further, the waiter was walking away with Hoseok’s money. He was unbelievable.

He paid for froyo, too. Despite your arguing.

The two of you were walking along the river, enjoying your cups of frozen treats. It was spring, nearly summer, so the weather was just right. The sun was shining beautifully on the water beside you, not a cloud to be found in the sky. It truly was a beautiful day.

“It doesn’t shock me that your favorite color is yellow.” You started, dipping your spoon into your birthday cake flavored yogurt.

“Why not?” Hoseok retorted, bringing a spoonful of his own dessert up and to his lips.

“Because it’s a bright, happy color. And you are a bright, happy person.”

He flashed you that big, toothy grin that you’d grown to adore so much.

“Alright then, what’s your favorite color?”

“Red.” You answered without hesitation.

He shook his head, quiet laughter exuding from his throat.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he insisted, “red just matches your personality perfectly.”

You cocked a brow, licking a bite of froyo from the spoon.

“How do you figure?”

“You’re full of fire, full of passion. A force to be reckoned with, you go head first into everything that you do and you don’t stop until you’ve achieved your goal.”

“You got all of that from the color red?”

“Mhm.” He just nodded at you, his smile never once faltering. Your damn heart was doing the flipping thing again and you feared it would leap right out of your chest if he looked at you like that for a second longer.

“Okay,” you said, dipping your spoon into the bowl, “you have to try this. It’s so good.”

You lifted the plastic utensil up to his mouth, and he only hesitated for a moment for allowing the sensation of birthday cake flavor to flood his taste buds. His eyes lit up, and his tone was enthusiastic.

“Mmm! That is good! I’m not usually a giant fan of cake flavored things, but I’d eat that.”

You fake gasped, bringing your free hand over your chest.

“How dare you! Birthday cake is the best flavor!”

“Pffft, no way!” he was quick to shut you down, gulping down another bite of his own treat, “brownie batter is. Here, you try.”

He was bringing his spoon up to your lips in an instant, and you poked your tongue out to give it a test lick. Usually, chocolate flavored ice cream wasn’t your favorite. But this was incredible.

“Aww, man! I like yours better!” You pouted, and Hoseok’s heart sank at the sight.

He knew you were being playful, but still, he couldn’t help himself.

“Here,” he held out his bowl to you, “we can trade.”

You shook your head, refusing the gesture, “I can’t take your food!”

“Yes you can! Please, for me. I want you to enjoy this.” His voice was kind, sincere. How could you say no to that?

“Only if you’re sure.” You said, hesitantly switching your bowl out for his.

“I’m sure.” He smiled at you again, and you felt like you’d been grounded down to the earth once and for all.

You didn’t make it home until the sun was about to set. Having too much fun with Hobi, you decided you could afford to stay out for a bit. He really was wonderful company, he seemed to make even the simplest of things fun. You’d hoped you’d get to hang out with him like that again in the future, the near future, to be exact. It was different than when the two of you were in the studio.

There, you were working. But today, you were out having lunch and enjoying spending casual time together. It felt like it went on forever, yet not nearly as long as you hoped it would last all at the same time.

However, you were happy to finally be in the comfort of your own home. Practice had kicked your ass today, and you were exhausted, grimy, and in desperate need of a shower and a nap.

Taehyung wasn’t home either, so you were home alone and excited by that fact. Very rarely did you ever have time to yourself and yourself alone. Except, you weren’t alone. And you didn’t know that until you walked into your master bedroom and saw Jimin sprawled out on your bed.

He nearly gave you a damn heart attack, had you shrieking like a banshee and clutching your chest.

“Jimin! What the fuck?!”

“It’s your fault for giving me a key.” He was flipping through a magazine, unfazed as ever.

“You could’ve texted me and told me you were coming over!” You scolded, and he just grinned.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“I hate you sometimes.”

“Liar.”

You walked further into your room as you rolled your eyes, picking up a pillow and tossing it forcefully at his head.

“Hey!” He whined.

“Why did you show up here unannounced?” You questioned, lying down beside of him on your king sized bed.

“Wanted to see how practice went.” He turned the page, and you peered over his shoulder to see what he was reading. Of course it was a fashion magazine.

“Fine.” You answered simply, and your best friend was shutting the catalog instantly.

“Damn, one syllable is all I get? Must’ve been better than I thought.” His smile was mischievous, and you had half a mind to smack it right off of his face.

“We danced. I learned the routine, and you did not. Which means you’ll have to work extra hard trying to catch up tomorrow.”

He rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what you were trying to do.

“Dude, shut up. You know I could learn it in my sleep, and you also know the ‘routine’ isn’t what I’m asking about.”

“Jimin,” you groaned, “don’t start.”

“Was it hot? Did you get off on grinding on Hoseok?” He wiggled his brows, and you flicked his nose with your thumb and middle finger.

“Ow!” He cried out, bringing a hand up to rub over the sore spot you’d just created.

“Don’t ask stupid shit like that.”

“Come on, Y/n. It’s me. You can talk to me about this shit.” He tried to convince you, and somewhere inside of you, you wanted to.

Because yeah, maybe you did get aroused from Hoseok’s hands on your ass. And maybe you did get a little wet when you were grinding against his thigh.

But who wouldn’t have? He was a fairly attractive man, after all. It didn’t mean anything. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

“I’m going to take a shower.” You quickly changed the subject, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

Jimin couldn’t help but to roll his eyes.

“You’re so fucking stubborn.”

“I know. Are you spending the night?”

You heard him sigh, a sad sigh that made your heart clench.

“I would, but... I don’t want to make Tae uncomfortable.”

“I get it. But you’re welcome to stay, you know that. This house is plenty big enough, and we always hang out in my room anyways.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve already pissed him off, or whatever. I’m sure me staying here would just add to that.”

You frowned, wishing that you could do something, or say anything to ease his obvious hurt.

“I love you, Chim.”

“Love you.”

Normally, you’d stay up until at least midnight. Tonight, however, you were exceptionally exhausted and were lying in bed by nine.

Your satin sheets felt extra comfortable underneath you, and your eyelids were heavy. Friends played on the big, wall mounted television in front of you, and the sound of your air conditioner running was lulling you right to sleep. Before you knew it, you were slipping into a state of blissful unconsciousness.

You weren’t sure how you’d ended up in Hoseok’s apartment. And you definitely weren’t sure how you’d ended up nearly naked underneath him on his couch. You were squirming below his touch, his blunt fingernails lightly scraping down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

His hips were rutting into yours, Hoseok’s hardened length rubbing along your soaked, clothed core. You were a moaning mess, slews of curses and praises spilled out of your mouth, letting him know that you were fucking loving everything that he was giving you.

“Hoseok, please don’t stop.” Your voice was quiet, barely above a whisper as you clutched onto his back in an attempt to keep yourself grounded. You felt like you were floating, like you were in a completely different time and place.

“God, I’ve waited so long for this,” he was growling lowly into your ear, his fingers descending south and flicking the thin strap of your thong against your hip, “waited so long for you.”

You yelped at the feeling of the string stinging your skin, your shriek turning into a whiny moan as you felt his hand begin to slip into your panties. You couldn’t wait for him to finally be where you needed him most. You didn’t care if his fingers were inside of you, his tongue, or his cock. You just needed some part of him filling you up. You needed it in the same way that you needed oxygen to survive, and you feared that you would die if he didn’t touch you right here, right now.

His head was hovering above yours now, and you were sure he was about to lean in for a kiss. Which had your pussy clenching around nothing. It had just occurred to you that you’d never kissed him, and all you wanted was to taste him. You were sure he’d taste delicious, sickeningly sweet.

Instead of his lips pressing against yours, though, they parted. And he began repeating your first name over and over again like a mantra, gradually getting louder and louder as the seconds ticked by.

One final yell of your name had your eyelids shooting open, the sound of Hoseok’s voice being replaced by the low tone of your brother’s. You blinked once, and then two more times for good measure. It took you a whole minute to realize that you were at home. In your bedroom, not in your choreographer’s apartment.

“Tae?” your voice was groggy, “what time is it?”

“Past ten. I could hear you from down the hall, it sounded like you were in pain so I came to check on you,” he said, cocking his head to the side as he stared down at you, “must’ve been one hell of a nightmare.”

Embarrassment immediately came over you, and you were thankful for the dark lighting of the room because you were sure your face was similar to the color of a tomato.

“Yeah— uh, just a... bad dream. I’m good.”

“If you’re sure.” His voice was laced with genuine concern, and you almost laughed. Such a protective older brother.

“I’m good, Tae. Swear.”

He nodded, mumbling a goodnight to you before turning to leave your bedroom.

You called out to him before he could shut the door.

“Hey, wait a second!”

“Yeah?” He was confused again, and you worried your lower lip before you spoke.

You weren’t usually one to meddle in his personal life, but this time, you felt like you had to. Or, that you at least had to try.

“You need to talk to Jimin. He thinks he made you upset, or mad. At the very least, you should tell him you aren’t angry with him.”

“Noted.”

That was all he said before he was shutting your door, and you couldn’t stop the dramatic roll of your eyes. Typical Taehyung.

You pushed your hair back and out of your face, grimacing as you felt the beads of sweat pooling on your forehead. In your half asleep state, you’d almost forgotten what you’d been dreaming about. You let out a groan as the images flashed through your memory.

Not only were you dreaming about Hoseok, but it was a wet dream. Surely, you hadn’t actually gotten aroused by it.

You bit down on your bottom lip before sliding your hand underneath your duvet, pressing your fingers against your underwear to test for any dampness. You gasped as you were greeted with soaked panties, hissing through your teeth as your fingertips barely grazed over your clit.

Before you really knew what you were doing, your hips were bucking up and into your hand. You pushed the cotton fabric to the side, letting your middle finger drag along your slick folds. You sighed at the feeling, your head tilting back as your eyes screwed shut. It was almost unbelievable how drenched you were just from a fucking dream. And a dream about your fucking choreographer, to beat it all.

You moaned at the images of Hoseok during practice earlier flooded your mind. He was so hot, and so sweaty. The way his fingers curled around your thighs had you wondering what it would feel like if he was the one touching you right now instead of yourself.

Maybe it was wrong, but you didn’t care. You kept yourself focused on Hoseok as you used your middle finger to circle around your throbbing bundle of nerves, whines and praises of his name slipping out of your mouth.

You dipped a finger down to tease your slit, imagining the entire time that it was him. You slipped a single digit into your heat and keened at the sensation. Hoseok’s fingers were much longer than yours, and you were sure he could have you cumming with them in no time.

Still, you decided to work with what you had and began to fuck into yourself until you were knuckle deep. You added a second finger and moaned at the stretch, your thighs beginning to shake already.

“Fuck, Hoseok!”

You picked up the pace of your fingers, curling once you found that spot that drove you absolutely mad. Using your free hand, you allowed your index and middle fingers to vigorously rub at your clit.

It was too much, too soon. Your walls contracted around your fingers, and your legs convulsed. Your thighs were trying to squeeze together and you were arching off the bed as you felt your lower stomach knot up, fire spreading from head to toe and making your toes curl.

Your orgasm hit so hard that you were practically screaming, Hoseok’s name being the only word left in your vocabulary. This was harder than any orgasm you’d had in a long time, and you could feel your juices squirting out and all over your hand and wrist. You squealed at the feeling, using your fingers to fuck yourself through your high.

Your breathing was erratic, and stars were circling above your head. You groaned as you pulled your hands away from your cunt, wincing at the emptiness.

An arm rested over your eyes as you attempted to stop panting. Slowly, you felt like you were back on earth again and the black dots you were seeing went away.

There was no fucking way that just happened. You did not get off while thinking of Hoseok.

You were furious. And you wished that you were mad at yourself, but the only reason you were angry was because you’d had to get yourself off. You wished it would’ve been him doing it instead.

Against your better judgement, you grabbed your phone off of your nightstand. It was eleven now, and although Hoseok was sure to be asleep, you needed to hear his voice. For what reason? You weren’t sure. Either way, you were scrolling through your contacts to find his name, pressing the call button with a bit too much enthusiasm.

When he answered the phone, his voice was raspy, deeper than usual. You were right, he’d been asleep.

“Hello?”

“Uhm, hi.” You said, voice shy and almost inaudible.

“Y/n? What time is it? Is everything okay?” He sounded worried.

“I’m okay! Uhh, it’s past eleven. I’m sorry for waking you, I didn’t mean to.”

Yes you did.

He was beginning to sound a bit more awake now, and you heard him yawn on the other line.

“It’s alright, I just wasn’t expecting you to call. Or, call this late.”

“Yeah..”

It was silent for a few seconds, neither of you knowing quite what to say. You couldn’t exactly tell him that you’d just made yourself squirt to the thought of him. And he wasn’t about to tell you that he was glad you called.

“What are you doing up?”

“Uhm—“ you stumbled, trying to come up with any excuse other than the truth, “I couldn’t sleep.”

You heard him chuckle, and it was as if all of your worries and nervousness evaporated at the sound of his laughter.

“Not that I’m not flattered, but.. why did you call me because you couldn’t sleep?”

You groaned internally. Why did he have to ask such questions?

“I just... I don’t know. I wanted to talk to you, is all, I guess.”

“Okay.” He seemed satisfied with your answer, and you sighed in relief.

“Hobi?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you FaceTime me until I fall asleep?”

As badly as you longed to see him in person, you figured that this would do for now.

“Absolutely.”

He was calling you instantly, and you smiled as soon as you laid eyes on him. His hair was disheveled from sleeping, and his cheeks were a bit puffy. Suddenly, the other side of your bed felt a bit too empty. And you wondered what it would feel like if he were laying beside of you.

↼ masterlist ⇀

a/n: if you’d like to be added to the tag list, just send me an ask, message, or reply to this post! let me know what you think of the series, i love hearing your feedback. enjoy! xo

tag list: @ppersonna @neouihobi @vanteatj1n @55west81st @jjiminah @cesthoney @vaehyungsworld @ggukiyo @devotedlywriting @consensual-trashtalk @w1tchcraftt @threedecadesofawkward @chocobetterknot @americano-sprite @yoongisabby @hobi-love @justpeachyjoon @excuseme-youpretty @sunkissed725 @amoreguk @koostime @cobbiebaexqueen @imluckybitches @taefect94 @parkmaeri @bts-7-forever @gukniverse @untainted-memories

a/n: tumblr won’t let me tag certain people for whatever reason. so if you’ve asked to be tagged and don’t see your name, that’s why! i apologize. :/

#hoseok #jung hoseok #hoseok smut #hoseok imagine #bts #bts smut #bangtan #hoseok x you #hoseok x reader #hoseok x y/n #bts imagine #hoseok angst #hoseok fluff #bts fake social media #bts texts #bts fake texts #bts smau #jhope #bts reactions

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min-youngis · 3 years

Text

Pray Tell - k.ji

me, after making my own ugly ass banner, bc it is my own: :DDD

~ Pairing : Kim Jongin x Reader

~ Genre : Fluff, Comfort, Humour, SuggestiVe

~ Summary : Tired and can't sleep? Show up at your boyfriend's house at night with no warning to receive love, a massage, and then some of this and that.

Established Relationship

~ Word Count : 2,606

~ Warnings : oh boy where to start uhh emotional constipation, shirtlessness, swearing, very suggestive like more than anything i've ever written before if u know me irl pls never talk to me about this we shall simply pretend it does not exist, descriptions of his hands sorry i've been practicing exo simp core for the last few weeks, massage description, innuendos but they're funny i swear, i have a banner draft saved in which the title is holy water, there is nothing explicit but this is scary bc i am: babie, tq that is all

~ A/N : me? getting obsessed with exo and beginning to write for them in the middle of a) my academic calendar and b) the exo drought itself? it's more likely than you think.

the massaging techniques described here are not to be replicated. please do not treat this fic as a horny wikihow article. it is simply a horny fic that is all.

i'd love to hear feedback, spread the love!

masterlist (now with a new category!) in my description.

~~~

The sound of the cab driving away behind you, unceremoniously deposited as you are at the entrance of this imposing building, leaves a hollowness behind, accentuated by the darkness you’re surrounded by.

You hear a couple walk past, catch them giving you a look even as you continue to dawdle outside the apartment. The security guards probably think you’re another stalker, here to camp out for the night, waiting to catch a glimpse of one of the inhabitants.

For the fifth time in as many minutes, you wonder if this is the best course of action. What if he’s busy? What if he’s been practicing the whole day and he’s tired? What if he’s, shockingly enough given the earliness of the hour, asleep?

But traitorously, the weight of your phone in the pocket of your jeans makes itself known with another vibration, and you let yourself recollect all the facts that refute your tiredness- and stress- induced spiral. He’s texting you right now, for one. You had felt like a proper fraud, reading his messages that were coming in rapidly from your notification panel as he went on about what a good day he had, how great it was that it was a Friday and they were getting a weekend off, right as you were in a car on the way over to his place.

You know that if there were a day where you crave some comfort and some warmth, and your body decides to drag itself of its own accord halfway across the city the moment you get home from work, you couldn’t have chosen a better time for it to be happening than now.

But, still.

You’re not sure how to go about this whole selfish-intentioned surprise appearance to his house. Every time you’ve been here so far, you’ve both either arrived together, or he’s been waiting in the lobby to pick you up from the entrance. You doubt the guards are feeling any kinder towards you the longer you spend hovering outside, and a claim of ‘I'm his girlfriend.’ will probably be met with scepticism and a complaint at the nearest police station about a stalker. If they asked Jongin to file a restraining order, he'd do it, too. For shits and giggles.

With a sigh, ignoring the unread messages from him, you walk across to the opposite side of the road, absentmindedly kicking at the wall as you call his number. He’s on his phone, you know that, but it still surprises you a bit when he picks up on the second ring, cheery greeting instant, leaving you with no time to prepare.

You’re pretty sure you would have come up empty, anyway.

“Hey!”

You’re not sure where to start, how to even begin to tell him that you’re outside his house at 10 PM, and you wish there was a script for such situations.

Hi, I’m tired and stressed and the moment I got home, I came here, but now I’m not sure why, so maybe I should just go back and save us both the bother, even though I feel a little bit better already, just after hearing your voice.

Without preamble, throwing caution to the wind, you ask, “Could you pick me up?”

There's shuffling on his end, the sound of blankets rustling, and you think he’s getting out of bed when he replies immediately, “Yeah, sure. Where are you? Are you fine?”

You hear the clang of keys and you desperately wish there was some way to sound less confusing than you do, as you hurriedly tell him to not bother with getting his car.

“Uh, okay. Why don’t you tell me where you are, and I’ll see if it’s a sneakily walkable distance?”

“I’m outside your apartment.”

There’s silence for a second, static crackling, as you semi-consciously pick at your thumb nail, waiting for him to laugh it off as a joke, praying that he laughs it off as a joke, hoping to hear the low rumble of his chuckle so you can pretend the same and just book a cab back home. But then he hums slowly, thoughtfully, before replying, “Okay, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it without a vehicle, but I’ll try.”

You feel the side of your lip quirk up by itself, just a minuscule amount, beyond your control, before you huff in half-hearted amusement, listening as he opens his door. You can imagine him entering the lift, padding around in the corridor in his ridiculously expensive house slippers, slipping into the lobby.

He doesn’t hang up, and the elevator sounds and the polite neighbour greetings give you a pretty good estimate of his progress. You see his blurry shadow behind the frosted glass of the building entrance before you hear him talk to the guards.

From the handset you still have pressed to your ear, you hear his tinny voice ask, “What are you doing all the way over there?”

“Coming,” you mumble shortly, hanging up and crossing the road.

Despite the fact that they’ve got explicit proof that you are, in fact, a legitimate visitor, the guards’ gazes hold lingering distrust, and it’s with an internal sigh of relief that you slip inside the building and out of their eyesight. Or maybe the relief has more to do with present company, who’s to say?

To his credit, Jongin doesn’t say a word. He tries catching your evasive eye, fidgets a bit after he presses the elevator button, but doesn’t ask you what on Earth you’re doing here. The lift is empty but for the two of you, and the moment the doors close, he shuffles a bit closer. Not so much that he invades your personal space but enough to let you know that he’s there, and that he’d appreciate an explanation, if you were up to giving one.

Slowly, not looking at him, you extend your stiff arm to the side, just enough so your pinkie grazes the side of his surprised hand. His muted giggle as you wind your finger around his makes you feel just that little bit better. He relaxes as he gets the cue and engulfs your hand in his large one, warm and comforting and solid, before gently tugging you out once the elevator doors open.

His house always smells the same. Hints of his Ferrari Black perfume, traces of his chocolate flavoured protein powder and just that little tinge of lilac air freshener.

You stop walking somewhere in the middle of the hall, your interlocked hands forcing him to halt as well in his path to the bedroom. He turns around, eyebrow quizzically cocked as he looks at you. For the first time, you look up from your insofar steady gaze at the smooth marble floor and at his face.

Your mouth opens once. And then it shuts. And then it opens again. Suddenly, you’ve remembered all the work you have to do and all the stress induced by that work and paradoxically enough, how that’s the reason you’re here.

It’s like he can tell that you’re working yourself up in your head, and by the time he turns around fully to face you, now very much in your personal space, he’s lost all trace of confusion.

Softly, hand still holding yours firm and keeping you grounded, he asks, “Food, sleep or talk?”

It’s easier to focus on options like these, simpler than trying to organise the multiple to-do lists you’ve got living rent free in your brain, and without much thought, you mumble, “Can we just...chill?”

You know what he’s going to interpret it as before a single word escapes his mouth, and you’re already halfway through an eye roll by the time he begins to reply, eyebrows wiggling ridiculously and stage smoulder set in place that just looks exaggerated in as subdued a setting as this.

“Is that what we're calling it these days?”

You’re the one leading him to the room now, as he easily matches your pace with a single long stride. He sees that you’re a little calmer, pleased that his silly antics have served to at least put you in a headspace that’s almost accepting of peace, and like a fuckboy faux-stretching to put his arm around his dates' shoulder, he fakes a yawn, detaching your interlocked hands and long limbs extending until he’s smoothly gotten you under his left arm, loosely pressed to his side, right as you both enter the room.

It’s contact that you did not know you craved, and you gladly welcome it, shuffling closer and fully prepared to just live there, cozy against his firm chest and his t-shirt that’s become uber-soft from being washed too many times.

It’s short-lived, sadly enough. After indulging you for a few seconds, he pulls away slowly, lowly chuckling as you cling on for a millisecond longer, before nudging you towards the bed.

“Go. I’ll be there in a second.”

Wordlessly, you obey, letting your body flop onto the mattress so you can stare at the ceiling as Jongin rummages around in the bathroom. The dimmed yellow night lights calm you down, and it’s comparatively easier to mute your brain now, body sinking into the comforter that smells like his laundry detergent.

You’ve just about begin to relax, about to say that you could maybe muster up the mental capacity for maybe a low-action movie or TV show, when you hear him call out from the adjoining room.

“T-shirt off, please.”

You don’t realise that your eyes have slipped shut until they jolt open in surprise. You clamber up to a sitting position with an energy you didn’t know you possessed, swiftly turning your head towards the owner of the voice in bemused surprise, just in time to catch the trailing end of a roguish wink before his poked out head pops back out of sight to join the rest of his body in the other room.

Before you can even question the abrupt request, Jongin re-enters. He’s got a bowl in his hand, white and porcelain and whose contents smell like those massage oils he swears by, that he carefully carries in his journey toward you, lightly observing as he places the container on the side table, “You’re still wearing your t-shirt.”

“You're still wearing your t-shirt.”

You aren’t sure where the knee-jerk, childish response comes from, but you can’t complain as you watch him divest himself of the offending article of clothing, impish grin popping into view once he’s done, black fabric bundled and nonchalantly tossed onto the armchair in the corner of the room.

“Your turn.”

You tear your eyes away from his torso at his teasing voice with more than a little difficulty. There’s a shift in the air and challenge in his gaze, and maybe this was his plan all along. Smart man.

Focus trained on him, chin up in a confidence you would not have been capable of ten minutes ago, you mimic his motions, and just for the heck of it, neatly fold the garment in your hands before setting it on the far corner of the bed.

It gives you something to do with your hands, and they’re definitely itching.

You look back up at his patient face when you’re done, refusing to get distracted by everything else that he definitely wants you to get distracted by, distantly pleased when you see his eyes flick up to your face. If there’s a massage on the agenda, you’re going to get it, goddammit.

“What are you doing all the way over there?”

His lips quirk up further at your recycled statement, repeated from what feels like ages ago. He picks up the bowl he had sat down while saying, “Lie on the bed, face down.”

You resist the urge to snort at his smug grin, both of you sharing a second of amused eye contact at the continuous innuendos, before you do as instructed, crawling up the bed and flipping around until your chin is resting on your forearms cushioned by the pillows right in front of the headrest. Somehow, you manage to feel simultaneously half-asleep and hyper-aware.

The bed dips to your right, his movements graceful, dancer limbs elegant, even as he’s climbing onto a bouncy mattress while balancing a bowl of oil, and he settles on his knees near the small of your back.

There’s silence for a moment, before his phone lands a few feet from your face, bouncing once and landing face down, and now there are slow, deep beats filling the room, The Weeknd crooning smoothly and making you slip deeper. Shit, he’s good.

Your hum of approval is accompanied by you sinking in further to the mattress, and bedding rustling next to you as Jongin moves closer, the fabric of his pyjama pants now brushing gently against the side of your waist.

“Is this...the treatment you give all your customers?” you ask, breath slightly hitching as you feel a large palm settle on the small of your back, gently tracing upward to fiddle for a second with the hook in your bra before undoing it.

“Definitely not. They get flowers and bathrobes and choice of fragrance. And I get paid.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to retort, teasingly poking at the flesh on the side of your waist, making you weakly giggle at the ticklish sensation, before placing his permanently warm, and now oily, hands at the base of your spine, gently sliding up, applying just the slightest hint of pressure.

You'd be embarrassed about the sigh you let out just then, but you’re too far gone to care. You let yourself relax under his tenderly firm ministrations, feeling his palms glide up and down your back as he spreads the oil around, rubbing it in. With the slow music in the background and the dim lighting in the room, there isn’t much to keep you from slipping into a zoned-out, dreamy haze.

An indeterminate amount of time passes like this before you sleepily begin to mumble, head ducking to burrow into the soft pillows as Jongin moves to the sides of your neck, long fingers more effective than any massager. “If you weren’t a dancer, you could have become a very successful masseur, I think.”

You feel his chuckle in your bones, as he momentarily bends at the waist, gentle kiss pressed against the skin right in between your shoulder blades, a direct contrast to the warmth his body emanates against your pampered back, brief contact swiftly snatched away as he straightens up and continues pressing his thumb against the bottom of your neck.

Preening at the affection, you continue, “Magic in those fingers, that’s what you have.”

Said fingers move down until they’re at the base of your spine, large palms spread out in opposite directions and spanning your back, ends curled possessively around the curve of your hips.

“They’re good at other things, too,” he says, tone low and no longer as teasing as it was, hands slipping dangerously low and index finger dipping into the waistband of your pants.

Suddenly, you’re wide awake.

Head slowly coming up, you rest your chin once more on folded arms, settling as much as you can with a finger running absent circles on the base of your hips.

“Pray tell.”

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jar-full-of-pixel-hearts · 4 years

Text

Sugar Kiss Part 3

Part 1 - Part 2

Space Force Netflix

Fuck Tony Scarapiducci x Reader

Notes: I get a little bit cared away by my inspiration so this part is kind of long. But, I hope you will stay until the end because it’s really important ! I hope you will like it !

* English is not my first language, I tried really hard to correct myself but, I hope you will excuse me if some mistakes are still there.

—-

F. Tony couldn’t really explain what kind of impulse took him that Friday evening on his way home. But, one thing was sure, he needed to see you.

After one week of feeling ashame and stupid. Writing draft after draft of tweets not sure of the good things to write, apologies, joke, publicity proposition, before immediately erasing them. He became foolishly hopeful to cross your path on the entry of the General Naird office or in the lobby. It’s only when Wednesday arrived that the idea that maybe you were mad at him slowly started to drive him crazy, leading him to be distracted and sad.

On many occasions that week, people had asked him if he were okay, confused in front of his unusual silence and the way he was absently biting the nail of his thumbs.

Even Brad, who usually had a smile each time the four stars general became angry at Tony, started to ask questions that Friday morning.

“ Are you okay ? You are sit on this chair for almost thirty minutes now “

“ Yeah yeah interesting. Brad...did...Y/N is the kind of woman to do the cold shoulder traitement...or things like that...did she bring you a box of somethings this week...did she get ill ? “ Tony asked, ignoring the previous question of the one star general about his state of mind.

“ Y/N ? No I didn’t see her this week, she had that new product she was preparing to release so she was kind of busy. And she certainly is not ill, my wife always knows when one of us is sick. I don’t know how she does it, it’s almost like if she ....” Brad replied half mumbling to himself. “ Why do you want to know if she is the kind to do the silence traitement...what did you do F. Tony ? “

The joy that maybe you weren't mad at him, abruptly chasing the dark cloud, making him jump out of the inconfortable chair.

“ She had a cake release ? It wasn’t announced anywhere ! How should I were suppose to known that !” He exclaimed, already writing his next tweet for the moonlight cake twitter. Returning to his office, letting Brad wonders what’s happening and repeatedly calls his name.

But,once the funny tweet was ready, he still couldn’t send it either, having a strange feeling that it wasn’t the right thing to do. Feeling that Fuck Anthony Scarapaducci didn’t had often in his life.

And there he was, standing in front of the bakery door, waving at you, a smile full of hope plastered on his face .

Like always, you were stunning even in your simple casual jeans and t-shirt . At your expression, who’s quickly shifting for the most adorable smirk he ever seen, you didn’t expect to see anybody tonight.

Trying to calm the now fast beat of his heart and stop the fog invading his brain as you were reaching to unlock the door. A thousand of sentences started to spin in his head. But, none of the brilliant introductions or explanations for his presence really seem to justify the impulse who’s caught him. Letting him totally mute in front of your amused gaze.

“ Well, I know you didn’t really have close hours in space, Spaceman, but on earth it’s kind of a popular thing. “ You joke, your smile illuminating his night.

“ Yeah I know...We work on that...I was near and I thought to come see if you still were there...” He lied. “ I can come back another day if you prefer…?”

“ And let me eat all by myself the two last cinnamon rolls of the day ? No, come in, save me of a devastating sugar rush “

" If you insist on offering me a cinnamon roll…" He smiled, passing the door.

Looking around, admiring the simple but elegant Moon theme you had put in the main room. Succeeding somehow to make something like space, usually cold, welcoming and warm just like you.

“ Welcome to Moonlight cake F.Tony “

“ Thanks, I like it, it’s really...it’s really you, but with the moon...like Space Force is great but here it’s...really moonie...Instagram aesthetic...” He replied, realizing too late that he was babbling. Closing his eyes,cursing against himself. He suddenly opened them at the soft touch of your hand on his arms.

“ Thank you, it was kind of the idea... F. Tony, I’m sorry but...are you...are you mad at me, for not telling you sooner about twitter ? Because I swear I thought that you knew“ You shyly ask, the expression in your face, a mix of curiosity, hope and sadness, hurting him.

“ Mad at you, me ? Naah, of course no...I didn’t reply because of all this job the general Naird had for me this week. That man is so lost if I’m not here to read his tweet and arrange his meeting...” Fuck Tony reply, exaggerating his expression. The last grumble of his own fear that you were mad at him leaving his body like a stone out of his chest” And your uncle tell me about that cake release so I just think that you didn’t need that kind of distraction, that all I swear “

Seeing you smiling again, the expression so painful for him, leaving your face. He caught himself smiling, like if your happiness was sufficient to make himself happy, like a human bluetooth device.

“ Take a seat I will come back with the pastries “ You offer him, disappearing being the double door of the kitchen.

Absently sitting on one of the bistro chairs of the counter, passing a hand in his hair to keep them smooth and in order. F. Tony gave another look around him, discovering your touch in every little decoration and design. Passing from the soft grey of the wall from the blue roses on the counter and the framed picture of the moon.

“ Sorry for making you wait, I put a batch of cupcake in the oven for tomorrow. So, what brought you here ? “ You asked, contouring the long surface before sitting at his side, putting one of the dessert plates with the precious roll in front of him.

“ I um...I “ He started, fidgeting with his fork, the thought of telling you that he simply wanted to see your face crossing his mind before being shut down by his ego and fear of rejection “ I’m here to offer you my help with the media and talking about an idea“ He suddenly exclaimed, the fog of his brain vanishing.

“ I'm listening “ You reply, tearing a piece of your roll.

And the simple things that you were truly listening to him,giving you all your attention ,gave him one of the best feelings in the world.

" When I plan a meeting or press conference we always have the same company hired by the government who serves us awful coffee and hard as hell cookies. No surprise after that, that these reporters ask stupide and horrible questions, they are angry. But, if we serve them your soft, sweet pastry...happiness." He explained, taking a bite of his own sweet.

" That seems a really great idea, but what makes you think they will accept the change. They will maybe not like what I have to offer or my price. "

" We will probably have to make a plan with a smaller size of your product, bite size, smaller but more for the same cost to bake. But trust me, after a taste of your stuff they will say yes to everything you will ask." He replied, sure of his affirmation. Naird maybe didn't take him seriously when he was talking about social media, but, even he was able to see that in planification, F. Tony didn't play games. " The reputation of Moonlight cake is perfect in the town and at the base. Link to the space force event you will become a legend."

"Did you think about what it will cost me to do this ? Transport, staff and stock ?"

" I had thought of it too. If you bring some regular stock, we can sell them at the cafeteria, to the soldier and staff, creating a limited event. So, you will raise your sales of the day and It will also give the chance to gain new customers. “ He continu, glad to not lose all his capacity in front of your brilliant gaze.

"That's smart,but I'm only a small bakery in a town in Colorado. Government won't hire small business like mine usually" You asked, your knee brushing his as you instinctively approaching him, caught in the discussion.

" Please, I'm Fuck Anthony Scarapiducci. " He smirks, approaching his face of yours, like if he was about to give you a secret. " I have important contact. " He wink, his heart racing,your delicious perfume waking up is sense.

" And you will help me, just like that, for my pretty eyes? " You reply,almost in a whisper playfully flirting.

" Y/ N I could do so many things for just the sight of your pretty eyes…" F. Tony flirty confesses, his face at only few inches of yours, giving a glance to your lips.

Your gaze locked, you slowly approche of each other, attraction pushing you like a magnet.

Before being suddenly distracted by the loud noise of the oven clock.

" I...I have to take the cupcake out of the oven" You shyly tell, taking a quickly step back.

" Yes, no problem I um…" He started misunderstanding your shyness for regret, preparing already himself to leave.

"I will come back in a minute, stay there please “ You ask, giving him a shy look back before coming into the kitchen,a smile on your lips.

"Yes! I... I will wait for you here….that you come back…here " He replied surprise, his mind slowly realizing that you almost shared a kiss. That you would actually let him kiss you.

“ They are perfectly gold and smell divine “ You announce, coming back in the main room where F.Tony was waiting for you, lost in his thoughts. “ Are you okay, you seem really serious right now “

Lifting his decided gaze on you, his heart beating like crazy, he didn’t bother to reply getting up off his chair before cupping the side of your face with his left hands, his finger tangling into your hair. Approaching gently his face of yours, building his courage, he suddenly kissed you, passing an arm around your waist.

The kiss, at first sweet and gentle, becomes quickly passionate. Putting your hands on the back of his neck and his shoulder, trying to keep your balance as your head was starting to deliciously spin. You feel his lips leave yours, making you miss the pressure of his mouth almost immediately.

“ I really have to go...both of my phone's vibrate...Naird need me...I...I text you...I swear…” F.Tony whispers, taking a step back before kissing you quickly one more time in the lips. “ I’m sorry“

Turning on his heels, passing the door, a mix of emotion bursting inside his chest. He let you in shock in the middle of the bakery, your fingers brushing your lips, your heart and his resonating at the same beat.

—

PLEASE don’t forget to support my work by like, comment or reblog !

—

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@caitlin-rose28 @skullchik89 @ruefulposts @ssanjuniperoo @scruffiejelly @festmenyes @dannydevitostrashbag @humanbeingiguess @qatiee @ waffletoast215 @ formedinaway @ shipsandart @ hugedwarflover @ peachylemasters @ diamond-doritos @imvibin69 @ benschwartzismyhusband

#F. Tony Scarapiducci #f. tony #f. tony x reader #fuck tony scarapiducci #fuck tony x reader #Ben Schwartz #Space Force #space force netflix #space force fic #Sugar Kiss

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snarkwriteswrasslin · 4 years

Text

FFT: dark as night; jon moxley

Notes:

This one.. this was sent to my main by @rampagewriting and I enjoyed writing every second of it. It fits into the roommates version of events that I had planned out for Mox and Jane, so I kinda rolled with it.

Summary:

Jane is stuck at home in bad weather. A drunk Mox arrives home early. Misunderstandings are had and things are revealed.

Pairing:

Jon Moxley x OFC, Jane - from my various universes with these two in them.

Warning:

alcohol tw, fluff, mentions of a storm, suspense.

The thunder had her jumping and a split second away from shrieking. Jane had never particularly liked storms. And this one had been brewing for hours now, getting nastier and nastier with each one that passed.

She found herself eyeing the time on the microwave and then almost reaching for her cell phone.. Mox was 2 hours away, doing a show at some little armory tonight. He’d be driving back in the worst of the shit -more than likely drunk off his ass, and that worried her.

← Be careful on your way back. This storm is getting worse by the minute.

←(Draft) I know it’s not my business but like.. I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t drink an entire bar like you usually do if you wind up having to drive back tonight.. Again, not my business I just… I don’t want anything to happen to you..

She eyed the text in the box and sighed, erasing everything but the part where she told him to be careful on his way back. Any more than that and if he was in a mood, he’d probably think she was bitching at him or something and she really didn’t have a cause or claim to even say anything.

Sure, they were old friends, but they were only just reconnecting and slowly starting to get a little bit close again like they used to be as kids… She wasn’t his girlfriend or family, so she had no right to suggest or ask him not to do something.

She hesitated for a good five seconds over even sending one of the texts. Would he feel like she was nagging or invading his personal space? She didn’t want to come off that way.

Sending only the first text she’d written, Jane put her phone down on the counter, and almost immediately, thunder struck hard enough that the floor beneath her feet rattled. “Damn it.”

She’d always hated storms. She hated them even worse now if she were to be perfectly honest with herself. Especially tonight, this storm.

Knowing Mox was out in this tonight had her just a shade more tense than she’d normally be. Knowing he’d probably drink while driving back in this tonight did not help at all. Taking a few deep breaths, Jane worked on settling herself down.

Mox’s actions were out of her control; even if sometimes the shit he did worried her and made her want to tell him to knock it the fuck off because every time something happened to him it scared her a little bit. He was who he was and she loved him exactly the way he was.

The thought was a sobering one and it was enough to stop her mid rummage through the pantry for something quick to eat for herself.

“Fuck.. I’m in love with him..”

The lights flickered a little and Jane’s breath caught for a split second. When she banged her side into the counter in their cramped kitchen, she swore and winced, lifting her shirt to look down at her side.

“Yep, that’s probably gonna leave a mark.”

“Hey Mox, your fucking phone is going batshit. Take it.” almost as soon as Mox walked through the hallway and stepped into the little room that the other wrestlers were milling around in, waiting to go out for their matches, one of the valets shoved his phone at him and Mox stared at it a few seconds, caught up in the picture he’d chosen for his wallpaper.

It was a picture of Jane, an old friend and currently, his room mate. … and idiot, ya fallin for her all over again… his brain reminded him.

He unlocked the phone and saw that she’d texted him. Glancing around to make sure no one saw him and got nosy as all fuck, Mox texted her back.

→Be careful on your way back. This storm is getting worse by the minute.

She’d sent the text about thirty minutes ago, during his first match of the night. He felt bad about leaving it on read, so after a second or two, he answered back.

← I make no promises. Stay put tonight, yeah?

Rather than send it straight away, he spent a minute or two agonizing over and changing the text countless times, finally re entering the first thing he’d thought to type. It was safe. Safer than what he considered putting, which was something along the lines of telling her if it got too bad she could call him.. That he’d actually like it if she did.

Because only a boyfriend got that right and the way Mox saw it, he might not ever be a good enough candidate to call himself that where Jane was concerned.

“Hey man, you wanna grab a few drinks before we head back?”

“Nah. I think I’m just gonna go back, Callihan.” Mox’s turning down drinks prompted Sami to study his friend with a curious gleam in his eyes as he rubbed his chin.

He burst into laughter as soon as he really thought about it and realized exactly why Mox was turning down drinks and clapping his hand down upon Mox’s injured shoulder -which prompted Mox to swear for about a minute and a through gritted teeth, he told Mox, “Finally. I thought I wasn’t ever gonna see th’ day Jon Moxley met a girl capable of tamin his wild ass.. Is it that cute little teacher ya got livin at your place now? Jane, that’s her name, right?”

“Shut the fuck up, Callihan, it ain’t like that. Just tired, damn.”

“And grumpy. That definitely tells me it’s exactly like that by the way.” Sami was having a field day with it and when Mox shoved the keys at him, he took them and went quiet.

He could tell it already had the bastard up in arms enough already. No sense in making Mox mean for the duration of the two hour drive they had ahead of them. “I’m gonna stop for a case.”

“Whatever man, I’m just fuckin ready to go.”

The storm raged on outside and Jane realized that her relaxing soak in the tub was not an option. She’d just stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around herself when the whole apartment went pitch black.

“Fuck my life.”

Jane had never liked the dark, not at all.

Rather than get dressed, Jane stumbled around the little apartment in the dark digging around for candles, flashlights, anything to help get just a little light into the place.

Naturally, Mox was not the kind of guy who kept candles.

Or flashlights, apparently.

“I am.. Buying that man a Mag Lite, I swear to God.” Jane managed to bang her shin into the couch and she was in the midst of hopping around on one foot after stubbing her toe a second time when she heard the door knob to their apartment rattling.

She swallowed hard, glancing in it’s general direction.

… i swear to God, it better not be someone breaking in… only my luck…

Her phone was almost dead and she’d left it in the bathroom, sitting on the counter. If she started using it for a flashlight, she wouldn’t have any battery left if say Mox wound up in a bar fight or an accident or something else of that nature.

… you don’t even know he’d call you anyway…

… but still, if something happens, you’d want to know.. Better to save the battery and put on those big girl panties than to run the damn phone down using it as a flashlight…

The doorknob was still rattling and Jane didn’t think, she just stepped into the hallway leading back to the bedrooms and bathroom, flattening herself against the wall, her hand finding the handle of a bat Mox kept lying around.

Just as the door burst open and whoever had been swearing under their breath outside in the hall stepped in, lightning lit up the sky just enough to show that the person was wearing a bloodstained tee shirt and holding something in their right hand.

The intruder took a step forward, Jane took a step back and raised the bat slightly. “You… better stay back..”

Mox chuckled and reached for her when the next clap of thunder had her screaming and that only freaked her out more, making her step further out of his reach. It didn’t occur to him that thanks to a blood stained tee shirt, she probably had all sorts of scary thoughts running through her head right now on top of an already present overwhelming fear of any sort of bad weather and the dark.

“Ain’t g-gonna hurt ya.” the intruder raised his hands, waving them almost defensively.

“Yeah, right.. Bet you said that to whoever’s blood is all over your shirt too. If you’re smart you’ll get the fuck outta here now because..” Jane hesitated a second, raising her bat, stepping away more when the intruder stepped a little closer and raised an arm.

Her back hit the wall at the end of the hallway and she gulped. She only had another step and she’d be in the bathroom but the way the intruder was pressing in against her was kind of trapping her between his body and the door her back was against.

“Because why?”

“My boyfriend.. He’s sleepin and if I scream, he’s gonna wake up and when that happens.. You’re as good as fucked.”

Mox raised a brow, almost snickering but resisting the urge. Having had about a third of the bottle of whiskey in his hand right now, it was more amusing to him than anything and he really wasn’t thinking about what Jane might be afraid was happening right now, otherwise, he wouldn’t have done it.

“Go on and laugh. But when Mox is beating the shit out of you you won’t be.”

Now that.. That was more than enough to sober Jon Moxley right up. And yeah, leave him temporarily speechless. But only temporarily. That cocky side took over and he smirked to himself in the darkness. “Wouldn’t want that, would I?”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Jane was about to step into the bathroom. Her phone was in there. If she could just get to it, she could call Mox and alert him, warn him what was happening so maybe he’d avoid it.

… or alternately, he’ll come rushing into your rescue.. Because that’s what you fantasize about, right?… her mind nagged at her, but fight or flight was kicking in and Jane had to act soon. If not whatever happened to the person whose blood was spattered all over the intruder’s shirt would happen to her.

And given the sheer volume, Jane wasn’t really fond of the idea of an almost certain death.

She raised the bat and his hand found her wrist, lowering it, prying her fingers from around the handle. Jane screamed and screamed as if her life depended on it and the intruder was laughing. “This isn’t..” Jane was pushing back against the door covertly and hoping that just this once it would fly open for her, letting out a ragged breath when it actually did, “Fucking funny. And it definitely won’t be just as soon as…” she stepped into the bathroom, slamming the door between herself and the intruder, sitting with her back wedged right up against it after hurrying to grab her phone off the countertop.

The door knob rattled and rattled and she could feel the door being pushed on from the other side.

← Mox

← so someone broke in I think… look, make the block or something instead of coming straight here. I’ll call 911 but… I just..

← I don’t want anything happening to you, alright?

Outside the bathroom door, the muffled sound of the factory ringer for Jon’s cell phone started to play and Mox scratched the back of his head, the glow of the screen lighting up the darkness.

He eyed the bathroom door and called through it, “If ya just open the fuckin door..”

“I’m calling the cops. When my boyfriend and the cops get through with your ass..” Jane started, but then the sound of Mox’s ringtone… In the apartment..

Jane bit her lip and eyed the door.

She did a quick check of her battery power and the time and raised a brow. The show still had another hour to go because Jane just didn’t seen Jon Moxley getting eliminated, not as good as he was or as well as he knew the ring, himself and his opponent. “What the..” she trailed off, hesitating when she heard it again.

Outside the bathroom door, Mox’s eyes darted over the texts she’d sent and he glanced up from his phone to look at the door, trying to wrap his head around the fact that Jane essentially sent him a text.. Warning him away from danger.

← Mox

← so someone broke in I think… look, make the block or something instead of coming straight here. I’ll call 911 but… I just..

← I don’t want anything happening to you, alright?

… the fuck was she gonna do for herself? Hope t’ fuck nothin happened or nobody kicked in the door?… she knows the cops don’t give two shits about what goes down on this side of town…

Hearing Jon’s cell phone going off in the apartment made Jane bolder. “You’re in deep shit now.”

She noticed it then, the door handle wasn’t rattling and the intruder wasn’t pushing at the door to try and get into the room with her.

She held her breath, waited for about a minute and rose to her feet.

Just to be safe, she picked up the glass vase her makeup brushes sat in. It might not do a whole lot in the way of damage to someone intending to do her harm but… It would give her time to run.

“This shit.. This is why girls like me die in horror movies.” she muttered mostly to herself just before flinging the door open. Just as the door swung open, the lights came on and Jane was greeted by the sight of Mox standing against the wall, staring at the screen of his cell phone with a far away and thoughtful look in his eyes.

“J-jon?”

Mox’s head snapped up and he bit back the urge to make a suggestive comment at the fact that she was apparently wandering around their apartment in one of the smaller bath towels.. Her hair still damp from a shower she’d probably taken just before he got in and the power went out.

… c’mon goddamn, work brain, work mouth.. Anythin?…

“ So I’m ya boyfriend now?”

“I..” it hit her then that Mox had been the intruder the entire time and she doubled over, laughing so hard that she actually snorted a time or two. “It was you?”

Mox knew her like the back of her hand. He knew her well enough to know that the laughter was her, deflecting. He stepped closer, a hand resting at her side, squeezing her hip. He cupped her jaw with the other hand, guiding her eyes up to meet his. “It’s kinda funny yeah, but.. Ya ain’t answered my question yet, doll… I’m ya boyfriend now, hmm?”

Jane’s laughter died away and she gulped, staring at his eyes, then his lips. Her mouth opened and closed a time or two but no words were coming. Nothing.

“I…”

“C’mon doll.. Don’t avoid my question. I mean..” he took a calculated risk and stepped closer to her, his hips against hers as he did it and he leaned down slightly, his mouth hovering just above her own. He licked his lips and muttered quietly, “Ya texted me before ya even thought about the cops, woman.. To warn me away.. Makes me think if ya didn’t feel somethin..” and he went quiet, not wanting to say too much.

There was a slim chance that he was too caught up in the moment, being too cocky and totally misreading the situation and the signs as they presented themselves to him now with shocking clarity.

Jane sighed and bit her lip, her heart beating so fast she thought it’d explode at any second. She’d pretty much given herself away.

Might as well come clean, get the whole awkward rejection part over with.

“Oh I do. More than you know.”

Her words shocked him and the shock registered quite visibly on his face. But in a split second, that shocked widening of his eyes was gone and in it’s place he was super focused, staring intently at her mouth as the hand on her hip crept down and squeezed a hand full of her ass through the towel when he hauled her completely against him. “How long, hmm?”

“How long what?”

“How long ya felt… whatever ya feel?”

“The honest answer?”

“Yeah.”

“Started when we were thirteen.. Then kinda… intensified when I answered your roommate ad a few months ago.” Jane dared to inch her lips closer to his. Her fingers went to his hair and the hem of his shirt as she grimaced at the blood spatter on the front.

In the light it wasn’t nearly as bad as she thought.

Mox took the hint and tugged his shirt over his head, muttering an apology before sliding her up his body and pressing her back against the wall. The second her mouth met his and her teeth sank into his lower lip he growled and started to kiss back; harder and deeper, his hands and fingers all over her, digging itno her hip at one point and earning him a hiss.

“Bumped into the damn counter in the dark a little while ago.” she explained it quickly, a quiet giggle.

“Shit.. Sorry.” he deepened the kiss even more and then mumbled against her mouth, “If being ya boyfriend ends up with gettin kissed like this.. Or you greetin me in a towel when I come home.. Don’t think I mind it at all, darlin.”

#jon moxley fanfiction #jon moxley fanfic #jon moxley fic #jon moxley oneshot #jon moxley imagine #// alcohol tw #// bad weather #// fluff #// funny misunderstandings

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fmdjoosungarchive · 3 years

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location: mainly daisung’s apartment

date: ~april-sept 2020

word count: 1967

tldr; verification for sung’s song badbye. full everything. the beginning reads so pretentious and dramatic i’m so sorry. sung has a dream about his first best friend (peep the call back to the first loves series) and it sets him on a spiral of self-negativity, thinking he’s bad for everyone he loves and they’re all gonna want to leave him some day. copious mentions of daisuke, who is featuring on the song, mention of yujin, and unnamed references to sung’s friends

“but you could! you could just leave me!” the sound must have been deafening, but all sound muffled. sung barely heard himself. “you can just- just decide you don’t want me anymore! and i- i can’t-” his knees felt weak, sudden as it was, and he collapsed forward, breathing in the heat of daisuke’s body against his own. that warmth was infuriating, but right below that, taking up the majority of space within sung, in every last crevasse, was a deeper pit, hollow and eternally empty. the voice that came out of sung’s mouth was broken apart, near unrecognizable as his own, “please... please don’t leave me.”

static, with his finger pressed down on the rubber tipped button of the remote. the television was older, blocky, thick rimmed. the one from his home in gwangju. he registered, then, that he was in the sitting room of said apartment. but, unlike the home from back then, filled with ambient noise of his mother milling about, starting their dinner hours far ahead of time as she preferred to every day, his father flipping through papers or rattling off to his itty bitty brother about sports, said brother nodding enthusiastically despite only understanding every fifth word, this room was silent, save for the static.

zzt.

blue glow combined from the greyed out screen, must have been covering his face. he could feel blue, as a tangible object, a taste in his mouth, an ink on his eyes, a scent perforating his brain.

sung changed the channel, and there he was. in the same white shirt and grey pants he was in the last time he ever saw him. his first best friend.

he didn’t look happy. he was mouthing something, but sung couldn’t hear it over the static. volume button pressed, again, again, five, ten, thirteen times. the static became deafening, tempting sung to cover his ears again, but -he heard it. quiet as ever, sung needed to lean forward to make sure he was hearing correctly. a shout, in english. you know why, over and over.

his fingers fumbled for the buttons again as his heart sped up, to change the channel yet again, but there the boy was, never having left. the sound only got louder, and louder still the more times sung attempted to change the channel. what whispered shout he’d heard before was shouted in his ears now, like the words circled him, pushed closer inward with the force of static, trapping him in.

tears fell from his eyes in buckets, as if within a few minutes he might have been stranded in his own tears like alice. his hands did cover his ears then, trying to dull the sound, but it had no effect. he screamed back, “i’m sorry! i loved you! i’m sorry! please!” a litany of sorry’s continued, until his voice grew hoarse, and all that came out was static.

sung woke with a start. every bit of lining in his mouth was dry, along with a chalk filled throat and tongue. his cheeks opposed that feeling, accessorizing with streaks of salted water dripping all the way down to his chin, starting from his tear ducts.

instinct took over as sung’s hand flopped down next to him with power, only to smack upon empty bedsheets beside him. suddenly, his heart matched that of his dream self.

he couldn’t taste the blue, though the computer’s light lit up his face anyway. one leg was pulled up onto the chair, arm wrapped around it. no matter how hard he’d been trying, everything he ended up coming up with that day sounded doom and gloom. if he was thinking more clearly, more rationally, sung might have told himself to open up to that feeling, to let himself feel it enough it can dissipate with time. right then, his eyes half focused on the funnel shape of light coming off of his phone that had been left open for so long it was running on low battery.

a bad habit, that red bar was. sung wasn’t bad about charging his phone usually, but the red bar represented something else. it was the indicator of the tens of text threads that had been pushed up to the top of his messages.

you like me, right?

i’m sorry if i’ve ever hurt you.

you’ll be my friend forever? please?

i know you don’t want to talk to me...

don’t lie to me, please

it’s okay if you don’t like me

don’t leave me

one after the next, insecurities on blast. a nasty habit. sung kept to himself, when he was feeling at his lowest, for reasons like that. no one needed to shoulder his irrational mind that was bordering on manipulation. it manipulated himself, and when he let it, others.

that funnel of light had invaded every part of the studio, even into the screws lodged in the desk. there was no getting away from this, no distraction. his feelings demanded they be felt, right then, in anything he did. if someone had passed by quickly, they could feel the heady emotions pulsing out of the door. even if they didn’t pass by, they could hear it, in the wafting, wailing sounds of something akin to an empty cathedral’s organ.

a sludge-ing smack of the apartment door closing, and sung’s heart skipped a beat, momentarily paralyzed. daisuke. more than any other, his boyfriend had dealt with the brunt of his unwell text messages. between each new conversation pushed up to the top of his messages, was another message to daisuke. even then, the coned phone light crowned the king.

his writing programs laid open, nearing on sleep, unsaved, second tier to sung standing up. the chair he’d been sitting on bounced with the force of his lift, and if it were possible, the floor might have bounced with each step as he made his way to the entrance.

what might have usually been a warm, gentled welcome to the love of his life, was replaced with a trembling jaw and tightened muscles. “who have you been with all day?”

sung wasn’t the type of person to yell when he was upset. frankly, he didn’t even yell much when he was excited. but the cries coming from his mouth sounded eerily like a tinny white noise, a million cicadas seeking mates, a buzzing static of a tv.

only after his tears had drenched daisuke’s shirt, and his hands had created what seemed like permanent wrinkles, and large, warm hands, much different than his own, had sent cozy heat onto every inch of his body, could sung calm down.

another day on, his worries felt distant. at first, he required the unyielding grip of daisuke’s arms around him as he woke up, keeping him tethered to the promises he’d been given the day before. however, as the days passed, it became easier to trust in that once again, and settle his insecurities into their own box.

long after his welcomes had become once again filled with kisses and the touch of skin, was when sung finally felt ready to try to tackle those emotions, and the song he’d accidentally started.

healing was never easy, though. listening back to what he had written, and did end up remembering to save the next morning, brought back all of the terrible feelings he’d been having while writing it. no matter how far he had come to distance himself in daily life from the feelings, they still existed within him, ready to be brought to the surface at any given point.

now wasn’t that time. sung had decided as much. he’d made sure to get a decent night of sleep, and to have spent as much time with those he cared for as possible in the days leading up to this attempt. sung could handle this.

he took it from a more professional standpoint, rather than purely emotional as he had before. while what he’d written was beautiful, it was disjointed together, mixed improperly, and not in a way that was purposeful. although, he realized that it could be purposeful to have the sound a little disjointed, especially if he wrote some kind of lyric basis to the song. after having written dystopia for our songs, sung felt a little more comfortable with the idea, if not excited for such a thing.

if this song worked as an interlude of sorts, it didn’t need to be anything fancy. so, sung worked. he took all of his experiences from that terrible day, and fit them together in a song that was just a little off.

within that same day, sung finished what he’d started before, wrote lyrics, a melody for said lyrics, and mixed it together in a first draft sort of style. it was a feeling of burnout over having sat working on the same thing for so long, over burnout of the song itself, that had him packing up his day there. and with fresh eyes later on, fresh ears that could listen to the song more objectively, to think, this really could work on the album.

he’d been writing for his album long enough that he’d mixed dozens of songs with the same soundscape, a uniformity across the majority of everything he’d written for the album, so the cohesiveness necessary wasn’t a difficult task. probably, the hardest part, was the idea he’d had towards the end of producing.

static.

this song was meant to be an unabridged look into his mind that day, right? and, if there was one thing that had encapsulated every part of that day, it was that terrible sound. as an interlude, it was even more compelling. however, that meant he’d be required to capture the sound. sung considered, for a moment, asking a friend to do it for him, but... he knew this was his own battle to win.

in the end, it wasn’t as terrible as he thought it would be, even if his sweat glands and heart valves may have disagreed.

the final piece, ended up being a singer. sung didn’t think the demo recording he’d done was bad per say, considering there wasn’t a whole lot of technical skill needed for what he’d written, but it certainly wasn’t what he’d wanted.

naturally, sung turned to those close to him. while that was common for him in pretty much any scenario, his demo songs filled to the brim with demos sung by yujin, this was more of a need. he wasn’t sure who he could trust to share this with, especially before it had ever been presented to the company. for all intents and purposes, this piece was sung baring the parts of his soul that not even the people closest to him got to see often. the best -and safest- choice, was the man who had seen him that exact day, had experienced how he felt, and continued to love him anyway.

he’d gone over and over again in his head how he might approach the situation, trying to think of his words more carefully so he wouldn’t trip over them when it came to actually talking to daisuke. and he did so anyway. but, thankfully, call it the power of being in love or something, daisuke readily agreed.

even in the recording booth, sung knew that his fears had still led him to the right decision. daisuke’s voice on the track was as hauntingly beautiful as he could never attempt to pull off. by the end of that day, sung, creativity and love overflowing, had mixed the song, finishing up the last touches, to officially add to his folder for the next album review.

#fmdverification #i rly record scratched this one huh #aha yep that's me bet ur wondering how i got into this mess well lets take it back to the beginnign #refuse to fix that typo xx #self para #era: happiness #still have 7 of these bihs to go n ive been trying to write this one for like a week #will i actually finish in time Who Knows

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shxrirogers · 5 years

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When Love Falls- Tom Holland x Reader (Repost)

Summary: A mutual visit to the same park in New York City resulted in Tom fantasizing about being in a relationship with you. The only problem? He saw you, but you didn’t see him and you left before he worked up the courage to introduce himself. Now, Tom is faced with a particularly troubling dilemma: How is he supposed to find you again in a city of eight million people when he doesn’t even know your name?

Word Count: 2,719

Warnings/Triggers: None, just lots of fluff!

Author’s Note: Hi, everyone! After nearly a year of taking a fanfiction writing hiatus to focus on school and learning more about the craft of writing overall (I’m a creative writing major in school), I finally decided to revisit and edit my old fics using the new tools I’ve gathered in my classes. I plan on doing this for all of my writing to produce and publish the best art I can for you guys, so be on the lookout for some more pieces here soon! But, in the meantime, I have to thank @bicaptain for proofreading and providing constructive criticism for all four drafts of this fic that I had. I appreciate you, L!

Most normal relationships nowadays begin with a simple “hello” while standing in line to check out at the grocery store or liking a post on someone’s Instagram page. A dinner and movie date might ensue, or a long thread of DM conversations before a “going steady” label or a change in one’s social media bio to “in a relationship.” It’s the twenty-first century for Pete's sake; for a relationship to begin any other way would be peculiar and out of sorts.

But, to be fair, when had Tom Holland, or his life, ever been normal?

For him, your relationship began the moment he first laid eyes on you. He was filming a project in New York City for a couple of months during the summer and rented an apartment on the south side of the island, just a train ride away from the apartment was a dog park he discovered and frequented with Tessa, his Bull Terrier. The grass in the park was emerald green and well fertilized; oak trees that had to have been planted more than one hundred years ago spanned the perimeter of the park, extending up and into the open air, cutting jagged edges out of the atmosphere, begging to be climbed and explored.

Which is exactly what Tom decided to do.

\What compelled him to perform such a task, he would never figure out, but he decided to blame it on a combination of his amateur parkour abilities and his boyish nature that was always poking at him to explore new places, no matter the risk or cost. On the first day he had a break from filming, he left Tessa at home so he could place his complete focus on the tree-climbing; he threw the hood of his sweatshirt up on his head and hopped aboard the subway for the short ride.

It was only natural of Tom to choose the tallest, most fruitful tree in the park to begin scaling once he got there. It probably should have proven more difficult than it was to get to the spot he decided he was going to make his own, but his early-twenty-something stature swung him up and about rather easily. The spot that he chose had multiple sturdy branches that sprouted out in all directions and provided the perfect nook to lay his blanket down and settle in with the book he brought, a book that certainly challenged his dyslexia but was too thrilling not to try and work through it. All was well for a couple of hours, what with the light breeze caressing his face and the warm sun shining through the leaves onto his skin, and he felt invisible, invincible, and at peace. He would have almost gone as far to say he was untouchable, even, like the anxiety of his career and the constant pressure of having to be something for someone all the time had completely disappeared. Tom was about thirty-seven pages into the mystery plot, thirty-seven pages into his blissful isolation, when the soft humming of an old Blink-182 song by a strong voice floated up into earshot.

That’s when he peered down and saw you.

You were making yourself comfortable with your own blanket and book at the bottom of the trunk. Your golden retriever, Winston, was laying contently beside you. That damn Blink-182 song had been stuck in your head for days ever since you walked past a hole-in-the-wall bar that was hosting their annual emo night, and no matter how much you sang it, some notes on the pitch, others off-key, you couldn’t let it go. So, it followed you here as you settled under the very tree Tom was nestled in to get a head start on an assignment for school and allow for Winston to get out and enjoy the fresh air, but because of the overgrown branches and monstrous-sized leaves, you didn’t know he was there. You sat contently for a time combing through your work as Tom’s mouth grew increasingly more dry while looking at you. He knew he shouldn’t have been doing that, watching you while you were completely ignorant to his presence, but he was drawn to your aura, the radiating confidence, and gentleness that simultaneously oozed from your pores. He’d never experienced anyone like you before, and certainly not under these bizarre circumstances, either.

How long his attention was gauged on you, he didn’t know, but when he snapped out of his lovestruck daze that had drool falling from the corner of his mouth, he realized he was watching you pack your bag and untie Winston from the tree to go on your way. Tom should have done something, damn it, but the thought of making himself known to you shrunk his confidence down to minuscule size and caused him to freeze. What in the world could he have possibly said: Hi, I’ve been watching you from up in this tree for hours and I think you are the loveliest girl I’ve ever seen, and I mean this in the least creepy way possible? Piss off. He could never. You wandered down the park trail and out of his sight and Tom’s heart fell at the realization that he’d never see you again.

If someone stuck a probe in Tom’s brain and used a projector to cast his thoughts on a loop, that person would only see you. You began to invade every aspect of his life: Tom closed his eyes in the shower to shampoo his hair, and there you were behind his eyelids. He passed an extra on set with a hair color similar to yours and his vision suddenly blurred. He heard your Blink-182 song in his dreams and woke up to believe you were right next to him in bed, curled up and sleeping soundly. It was the spaces between moments where you came to fruition-- sat next to him on the subway as someone else left the car, working behind the counter at the Starbucks on 8th Avenue right as walked out of the door with his coffee, passing him on the staircase as he made the climb to the floor of his apartment. You were there until you weren’t. A moment in time Tom couldn’t hold onto, a figment of his imagination that flashed before him and dissipated before he could resonate that he wasn’t actually looking at anything at all.

“You’ve got it bad, bro,” Harry stated over FaceTime one evening after twisting Tom’s arm behind his back to get him to explain why he couldn’t hold a proper conversation with his younger brother. “You saw that girl one time and you’re so preoccupied with her that you can’t even talk to me for more than thirty seconds before trailing off and drooling on yourself.”

“I am not drooling!” Tom protested although he couldn’t be sure, so he turned away from the camera to swipe at his chin just in case. No drool. A bastard, Harry was.

“You might as well be. You talk about her like she put the constellations in the sky herself.”

“C’mon, dude, you’ve got to give me a little bit more credit than that.”

Harry began fiddling with the cord of the headphones he was using to talk to Tom. “Hey, I didn’t say it was a bad thing to feel this way about someone, man. I just think you need to learn a bit more about her to ensure those feelings are constituted. Maybe you should, like, make yourself known to her first and say hello. Don’t keep looming over her head and ogling at her like a fucking weirdo.”

“Just how do you expect me to do that, Mr. “I Know Everything About Love?”

“Well, for starters, have you considered going back to the park to find her? She may be a frequent flyer.”

Tom sat silently, his eyes wandered off his phone screen in embarrassment.

“Ok,” Harry sighed, feigning annoyance. “Let’s start there. You should head to the park on the same day and time as before and make yourself comfortable near where you first saw her. I mean, this is a total shot in the dark and you really might never see her again and end up alone forever--”

“Dude!”

“--Or, you might just get lucky and see her again. But bro, a bit of advice: If you do see her, the only way you’re going to form any kind of relationship with her is by making sure she knows you exist. Say something to her if you see her.”

And somehow, by some crazy twist of fate, when Tom followed Harry’s advice and settled himself in his same spot in the same tree on another day of rest from filming, you showed up shortly after to settle in your same spot under the same tree. Tom couldn’t believe it. He was genuinely at a loss for words. The sound of your familiar humming of the same Blink-182 song gave your presence away before the sight of you did, and just like last time, he froze in his spot, eyes fixed on you, mouth slightly agape. To hell with the novel he was reading; you were far more pleasurable a sight to lay his eyes on than any story could have ever been, and he immediately began to wrestle with the incredibly creepy task he was performing. He just needed to go down there and say hello, to introduce himself as Harry said, but because fear was coursing through his veins, he simply watched you again for as long you were down there. This time, you were on the phone with your mother, and through this Tom was able to gather a shocking amount of information about you, including your mother’s name, your middle name, the latest summer classes you were taking at Columbia, and the fact that you have three younger brothers, just like Tom has, who seem to be knee-deep in their fair share of shenanigans, just like Tom’s brothers would be. The similarities between your two families made him smile, but before he was ready to see you go, you were up and on your way again with Winston, the connection Tom felt a fleeting moment he wished he could make tangible and wrap his fingers around forever.

For the next few weeks, Tom stayed up in the safety of his tree where he knew you wouldn’t find him. Every other Tuesday seemed to be the day was when his filming schedule opened up and allowed him to find you at the park by the tree. Every other Tuesday, for the next couple of weeks, Tom would fight to work up the courage to talk to you, and every other Tuesday for the next few weeks, he would lose. This was how he came to practice calling you his own.

However, for you, the relationship began a bit differently.

You’d been coming to the dog park with Winston on a bi-weekly basis whenever you didn’t have to be in summer classes or at work. You would have liked to have visited more often; a one bedroom apartment on campus wasn’t conducive with the lifestyle of an energetic five-year-old golden, but you made do with the free time you had and Winston wasn’t the type to protest. There was a particular tree you’d grown fond of (no pun intended) in the park for its sturdy trunk and strong frame, as well as the sweet shade it provided on humid New York summer afternoons, and you made it your temporary squatting place on the days you could make it out there.

On a Tuesday in mid-June, you settled down in your usual spot with a blanket to rest on and a bowl of water for Winston to lap up when he needed. The moment your back fell against the tree, you huffed, livid and nearly sick over the prospect of failing the physics test you took earlier that day. Science was never your thing to begin with, and why the hell did a liberal arts university require so many science classes of you to graduate, anyway?

It was a particularly windy day, so the constant rustling of the trees didn’t seem out of place against the bright blue sky, but it was about forty-five minutes into mindlessly scrolling on social media to distract yourself from your troubling emotions that you realized something was off: A shadow that was shaped oddly like a man was stretching across the grass in front of you. You peered over the top of your phone to look for the source of the shadow that was accompanied by the feeling of eyes blazing into your skin, but before you could stand up to search for the person that was causing your hair to stand on end, you felt a sharp object clip your shoulder while it fell to the ground.

“Ow!” You shouted, your hand immediately crossing over your body to cover your already-bruising skin. The object bounced a couple of feet away before flopping inanimately, and it took you a couple of glances to register what had just come down on you.

“A book? What the-”

“Oh my goodness, sweetheart, I’m so sorry!”

A boyish voice with an English accent coming from above interrupted the expletive that almost rolled off your tongue, and you looked up to see that it belonged to a man scurrying frantically down the tree. You started to stand while the man’s sneaker-covered feet landed on the grass. He began dusting off his jeans until he realized you were cradling yourself in pain, and within that moment he came to your rescue, apologizing profusely.

“I was up in the tree reading and my leg began to fall asleep, so I shifted my bum and the book slid off my lap and fell onto you before I had a chance to catch it! Please forgive me, miss, it was a sincere accident.” That boy was telling lies and you knew by the way his pupils dilated with every inhale of breath he took between his long-winded sentences. Even so, though, his dilated pupils were swimming in golden brown irises, and as his palms grazed the bare skin on your arms to offer some kind of assistance for your injury, you felt your skin warm at the touch and the adrenaline in your bloodstream settle.

“Were you…” you paused, trying to process the fact that the shadow that had been observing you moments ago substantiated into someone rather handsome and quirky, “Were you up there watching me the whole time I’ve been here?”

“I, uh...See, well, I, uh--”

So that’s a yes. “Have you been watching me the entire time I’ve been coming here?”

“No! Absolutely not. You see, I, uh, I heard that Blink-182 song you were humming and I… uh… I rather like that song, and so I, well, I…uh--”

“You’re a really bad liar, you know.”

The boy stopped stammering and sighed. “I know how incredibly creepy that sounds, but I promise I wasn’t stalking you. Every time you left the park, I didn’t follow; I had no idea where you were heading home to. I only observed you when you were under this tree because I was so enamored by you… Oh my gosh, this sounds so awful. Jesus…”

You giggled and felt your cheeks blush. “Is that slightly creepy? Yes. Absolutely. But is it also oddly endearing? You bet.”

The boy’s shoulders dropped in relief at the sound of your laughter as he extended his hand out to you. “Anyway, my name is Tom. I should have told you that the first time I saw you here. I apologize for the scare and for the bruised shoulder.”

You took his hand and gave it a firm shake, the warmth radiating through you again.

“Y/N.”

“‘Y/N,’” Tom repeated. “Nice to officially meet you.”

“Likewise-- Er, uh, sorta.”

You both laughed and took a seat on your blanket.

“So, Tom, have you always had a knack for climbing trees? You seem to be pretty good at it, seeing as how you got so far up I couldn’t see you.”

He broke out into a grin. “Oh, love, you don’t even know the half of it.”

Xx.

If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting my plan to go to grad school and earn my MFA in creative writing by donating to my Ko-Fi here! All of the money will go toward graduate school expenses.

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whattheklance · 4 years

Text

Wecavod 3 AU

wecavod= “What Else Could a Virgin Omega Do?”

IF Lance eventually went back to the brothel for a future heat.

To preface this, in my original notes from three years ago, Keith was going to gain tons of popularity at the brothel from fantasizing about Lance when with clients.

Also in this scenario Keith had left a comment on Lance's file in the brothel database indicating that Keith himself had requested to be assigned to Lance should he ever return, regardless of other bookings.

This is a draft of an incomplete scene that would’ve happened if that was true and Lance tried to schedule with Keith a second time.

FYI Any time you see: “???” that means there’s missing writing between what’s above it and below it to connect it together and flow. So it skips a bit.

_________________________________________________________

After fidgeting awkwardly in line, it was finally Lance's turn and he sucked it up and said "Hi, Lance Alvarez."

"First time or returning?"

"Re...turning."

"Can you spell your last name?"

Lance did, and the guy typed on the computer, pulling up Lance's information. "Hm?" He stared intently at the screen, eyes widened for a second in shock before settling on a kind of smarmy smile. He looked back at Lance.

"Whelp, here's who's available" The guy at the desk handed a thin binder to Lance.

He opened it, but without even looking started, "I'd like to request Keith..." he winced when he realized he didn't even know his full name.

The guy looked up from where he was working and eyed Lance, arching his eyebrow and smirking.

"Oh ho ho. You've been here before and you don't know? Not just anyone can walk in and request Keith on the day of their appointment. He's the new star stud around here.

Lance furrowed his brow. "Last time I was here he wasn't busy at all, said so himself."

He hummed as his smirk slid into a cocky grin. "You hooked on him too? Everyone who sees him seems to be."

Lance was growing exceedingly uncomfortable with this guys demeanor. He crossed his arms. "Can you just spit it out? I don't need snarky commentary. It's barely been six weeks since I saw him. What happened?"

The guy's sly predatory expression dropped to a deadpan. "Fine fine. It's not like this is normal. He used to be at the desk and I was the top Alpha, was for the last 2 years. I don't know what changed but suddenly more and more Omegas come in requesting him. And 'BOOM'" he made an explosion motion with his hands. "He's the one who doesn't get a day off and I'm the one with free time.

Seriously. I've been here way longer than him, seen Alphas' popularity come and go, and I've never seen anyone gain such a huge client base so fast. It was almost supernatural."

Lance's face fell.

The guy rolled his eyes but a gentler expression settled on his face. "Look. These kinds of things happen in this business. It's not like real life where you get a mate and stick with them"

The word 'mate' sent a shock right through Lance's heart. Any ideas or fleeting hopes he had seemed to be shrinking all the faster.

"Most clients request the same Alpha after their first visit"

???

"I'm Rolo, by the way."

???

"A lot of the others would just bowl right over your wanting Keith. I get how you feel. We can do it any way you want."

???

"That's it, relax. Just let your instincts take over. I promise it'll make you feel better."

Rolo ran his hands down Lance's sides. The feeling of his heat surged through him, making him feel achingly empty. He was depressed it wouldn't be Keith. But he'd always thought on some level that he can't ever really have Keith, so maybe this was for the best. Maybe he just needed to try to get over him. Lance leaned into his touch.

"Thattaboy" Rolo praised in a low voice, as he ran one hand up Lance's chest, hooking his finger into Lance's mouth, and slid the other down Lance's thigh, cupping his ass and fingers grazing his hole. Lance shuddered as a stream of slick dripped out of him and groaned.

~~~

Keith was in the middle of a day long session with a client. He'd come so many times on the memory of Lance's cries and Lance's warmth and Lance's scent. He could never forget Lance's scent. It intoxicated him from the beginning. He'd never smelled anything as good as Lance.

The Omega he was knotting was blissed out, begging for more, which Keith obliged.

Coming from the memory of Lance's scent, Keith thought he was going loopy because he'd swear he could smell it for real, invading his senses and shocking his brain.

He took a deep breath of the air around him to try to clear his reverie, only to be met with the intense musk of Lance in heat. No matter how vivid his imagination was, he couldn't fake it that good.

Time seemed to freeze. Lance was here? Lance was here. In heat. And not with him. His insides felt like they began to boil inside of him. Without even coming again his knot deflated inside his client. He got up without a second thought and grabbed a robe by the door on his way out, flinging it on but not tying it closed.

One deep breath out in the hall and he could tell he was on the wrong floor. Without even conscious effort, his legs took him seemingly in an instant down the stairs and to the door that was unmistakably the place.

Doors were always locked for privacy. A single push button lock on the doorknob. But locks didn't matter to Keith's flaring instincts. He turned and pushed the handle so forcefully that he broke the lock and the door opened before him. He didn't even take time to observe the scene before him. He dove at the rival Alpha and tackled him to the ground, grabbing a fistful of his hair to hold him down.

"KEITH?!?" Lance gulped and caught his breath, trying to register what just happened.

Keith's nails were at Rolo's throat starting to draw blood.

???????????????????

"Well–heh heh, hello to you too Kogane." He tried to get up like it was all a joke but couldn't even squirm with how tightly he was pinned. Keith had murder in his eyes, and Rolo let himself go limp when he realized Keith was dead serious, muscles tensed, trapping him in place. "Wow, okay. We're not animals. Could you ease up a bit?" Keith didn't seem to hear him.

Lance felt a fury of conflicting emotions. Shocked that Keith interrupted them. Elation that Keith sought him out. Relief that Keith put himself between Rolo and him. Anxious that he didn't know what was happening. Fear that Keith might do something he'd regret. And so many more he couldn't think straight.

"KEITH!" This time Lance yelled trying to get his attention, a response, anything. He'd heard caution of Alpha instincts so often, but this was his first time seeing something frightening firsthand. Lance inched towards Keith. "Keith? Can you hear me? Snap out of it. You're going to hurt him."

Keith's mind was free of thought. He was all senses. Outside of keeping all his strength and attention on this fucking fucker, the rest of the world was like he was underwater. He could hear what sounded like a voice speaking, but it was so muffled like water in his ears.

Nothing was working and it looked like Keith's grip was only tightening on Rolo's throat. There was one more thing Lance had in his arsenal. He walked up til he was behind Keith. Rolo was shaking his head at Lance, like 'dude, you're an Omega in heat, you gotta stay back.' Lance ignored him and reached out and softly brushed Keith's hair behind his ear. He actually didn't flinch at the light touch. It really didn't work? Lance let his finger trace Keith's cheek as he let his hand drop, but before it dropped all the way to his side Keith caught it gently, and held it to his lips, inhaling his scent while chastely kissing him on the hand.

Lance dared to lift his gaze from their hands to Keith's face which was finally trained on him.

"Lance–?" Keith choked out. His other hand still gripped Rolo's throat, but his attention was on Lance.

"Yeah. It's me." Lance kneeled down to be level with him and brought Keith's hand to his face and leaned into it closing his eyes. He was in disbelief. Keith. Did Keith really want him that badly? Or was this still Alpha instinct.

A pair of huge Beta security guards came in and peeled Keith off of Rolo, restraining him.

"What?!? What the hell!" Keith shouted and tried to wriggle out of their grip.

"Keith, my man. You didn't really expect to assault a coworker and run off into the sunset did you?" While Lance had had Keith's attention, Rolo was able to reach his phone and send for help.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!? Don't tell me you didn't see it! Don't tell me you didn't know! I KNOW you fucking knew. I put it where anyone would have to read it. You can't tell me you didn't see it!"

Rolo smirked, "Recommend to the owner he go back to therapy. We can't be putting our precious customers at risk of an out-of-control Alpha."

Security started forcing Keith toward the door. His blood felt like it was on fire again and he managed to resist and pull them back into the room.

Keith snarled and glared at Rolo, and whispered like a death threat, "If you did his filing by the book, which i know you do, then you had to read the comments there, you fucker. You wanna fuck with me? You fucking chose the wrong way."

Rolo still smiling leaned forward, a nose's inch away from Keith's face, out of reach. "I don't know. This seems to have worked surprisingly well."

"Good luck explaining those marks to your clients" Keith spat.

"Ha! Well at least I'll still have clients”

Keith was dragged out, fighting and kicking before Lance could say anything. He could only stare.

"Hey, so where were we?" Rolo murmured as he slid an arm over Lance's shoulder.

Lance felt immediately repulsed by his touch and shoved his arm off.

#wecavod #klance #what else could a virgin omega do #omegaverse #Voltron legendary defender

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babblingblondegenius · 5 years

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Future Ficlet: All You Need is Love...and Coffee

Wow, tonight’s episode was brutal. Between the painful Olicity separation in present time and the lack of Olicity in the dark future of the flash-forwards, we aren’t seeing any of the happy right now. There seems to be no hope. Our heroes’ sacrifices were all in vain. Basically, everything sucks.

As kismet would have it, a couple of weeks ago, I shared a fun little head canon with @allimariexf and @hope-for-olicity and they both encouraged me to ‘write the thing.’ I’ve had a terrible case of writer’s block for quite some time (meaning I have a gazillion story ideas and a ton of WIPs that are unfinished). I expected this one to end up dormant in my drafts as well. But after tonight’s episode, I felt the need to finish it because we (and Olicity, of course) deserve a little hope and happy. Set two years in the future, the premise of this little fluffy ficlet is that Felicity needs an assistant but she has particular criteria ;)

This should have been the easy part.

After months of enticing investors, obtaining the proper licenses and permits, all the legal mumbo jumbo, and locating the perfect office space, hiring an executive assistant is going to be the breaking point where she finally loses her sanity.

Which completely defeats the purpose of trying to find someone to help her in the first place.

She has been doing fine on her own, thriving actually, since she decided it was time to recommence building a tech company from the ground up, sans Curtis this time. This venture, for better or worse, will be all hers. Her vision. Her name. Her legacy.

Despite her initial apprehension at that thought, she has a clarity and confidence in her mission and goals that has propelled her forward at a pace she couldn’t have imagined. So far, choosing which of her many prototypes she wanted to launch first has been her biggest challenge.

Until now.

She had narrowed down the stack of over 100 applications to the eight most qualified for the position, and began the interview process at 7:00 this morning.

The first one had been punctual, neat, and lacking any sort of personality whatsoever.

The second one arrived twenty minutes late and then interrupted Felicity mid-interview to take a non-emergency personal call on her cell phone.

The third one tapped her super long artificial nails on the edge of Felicity’s desk the entire time and included ‘loud typer’ when asked how her current co-workers would describe her.

The fourth one was a chaotic whirlwind who overshared details of his personal life on every single question.

Maybe he just had too much caffeine in his system. Or maybe she doesn’t have enough.

Coffee. She needs coffee. Her next interviewee isn’t scheduled to come in for another hour, so she takes the reprieve to just lay her head down on her desk for a moment in order to gather up the energy she needs to make the trek down the block for her caffeine fix.

“One vanilla soy latte, extra sugar, extra cinnamon, extra whip cream.”

Oh yes. That’s exactly what she wants. Why she is thinking it in Oliver’s voice, she doesn’t know. Her coffee daydream is so vivid, she can even smell the soothing notes of vanilla with hints of sweet cinnamon spice wafting through the air. Mmmmmmmm.

“Felicity….honey, are you okay?” Oliver’s voice again. She slowly lifts her head and sees her husband standing on the other side of her desk, holding a large cup emblazoned with the logo of her favorite java joint and her name scrawled across it in black marker.

“I am now,” she practically purrs as he hands over her treasured treat. After taking a deep inhale and a long swallow, she blissfully smiles at him. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” Suddenly jumping up out of her chair, she shares the revelation brought on by the jolt of caffeine in her system. “Oh! I have a great idea! You should apply to be my EA.”

Oliver chuffs out a laugh. “Because I brought you coffee? Your standards must be pretty low.”

“Worried you couldn’t cut it, Mr. Queen?” she asks, arching an eyebrow in challenge.

“I think my time served as Mayor proves otherwise,” he retorts with an air of gravitas but mimics her gesture, silently letting her know that he enjoys her teasing him and is willing to play along.

She shakes her head. “Nope, not helpful. You couldn’t even get me a break on my taxes when you were the mayor. What are your current qualifications?”

He ponders the inquiry for a moment before responding proudly, “I’m the head chef at Chez Queen.”

She rolls her eyes at Oliver’s corny moniker for their kitchen but gives him an encouraging smile. “Oh yeah, I’ve eaten there a few times. The food is magnificent. But do you have any business experience?”

His expression goes from proud to smug. “As a matter of fact, I do. I was formerly the CEO of Queen Consolidated.”

She takes another swig of coffee and checks an incoming text on her cell phone before reminding him, “I happen to have first-hand knowledge you wouldn’t have made it a week without your super smart and highly efficient EA.”

“That’s true,” he concedes with a grin, “though on the downside, she only brought me coffee one time. One”, he repeats, taking her coffee and phone and setting them off to the side. Placing his palms flat on the edge of her desk, he leans in closer, a visible twinkle in his vivid blue eyes. “I think she actually broke our coffeemaker. Violently,” he teases in a conspiratorial whisper.

Mirroring her husband, she leans in over the desk until their noses are almost touching. “A little violence doesn’t scare you, does it, Mr. Queen?” She allows her gaze to run down the length of his torso, visibly appreciating the definition of his biceps that his jacket cannot conceal. “You look like you could handle yourself just fine.”

“I like to stay in shape.” He feigns modesty but she knows her husband and can recognize that look in his eyes. “Some cardio, free weights, martial arts, salmon ladder…”

“That’s so hot” she blurts out, temporarily slipping out of character as her brain produces an amazing visual of sweaty and shirtless Oliver making his way up the salmon ladder. Will there ever be a day when that doesn’t turn her on? Probably not, and judging from the self-satisfied smirk on his face, he mentioned it on purpose just to get that very reaction out of her. Determined to get back on track, she rephrases, “I mean, that sounds interesting.” She decides a change of topic would be helpful to give her an advantage in their little game. “Computer skills?”

She immediately regrets that question when Oliver gives her a feral smile that makes her weak in the knees. Lowering his voice to the same octave he uses when he is dressed in green leather, he divulges, “I’ve hacked a federal prison network.”

Guh, game over. In all her years with Oliver, that is the sexiest thing he has ever said. She quickly makes her way around the desk and invades his personal space. “Seems like you’re a man of many talents,” she coos appreciatively, latching onto his arm and nuzzling her face into the sleeve of his jacket to breathe in the scent that is uniquely Oliver.

“My wife taught me a thing or two,” he boasts, turning so they are face-to-face and he can wrap his arms around her.

Her hands instinctively move from his arm to his chest, resting over his heart. “She must be an amazing woman.”

Oliver nods in agreement, his nose nuzzling hers. “She is. She’s the best.”

“I know you’re just saying that to get husband points and its working,” she acknowledges affectionately, her hand caressing the stubble on his jaw. He tilts his head into her palm like a contented cat and she takes the opportunity to kiss him like she wanted to since she saw him in front of her desk, whether it was five minutes ago with coffee or nine years ago with a bullet-ridden laptop.

Oliver moans and deepens the kiss, the fervent strokes of his tongue making her long for more. “Okay, you’re hired,” she pants, breaking the kiss when her need for air temporarily overcomes her need for Oliver. “Smoak Tech is a start-up so your health care package consists of me patching you up if you are injured and I’m sure we can work out some type of compensation for your time and skills,” provocatively shifting her body against his and feeling his obvious interest through his jeans and her skirt. Two soft kisses and one firm rotation of his hips later, she is internally debating the sturdiness of her desk and whether they have time for her to show him exactly what she means by ‘compensation’ before her next appointment shows up.

“That’s a very tempting offer, Ms. Smoak” he murmurs into her hair as his hand travels down her back and immediately finds its usual place on the curve of her shapely ass, pulling her impossibly closer, “but I’m afraid my current employer really needs me right now and I just can’t bear to leave her,” his free hand gesturing to the stroller where their daughter slumbers peacefully.

Felicity sighs, pure happiness filling her heart and clearing her mind as she rests her head on her husband’s chest to gaze lovingly at the chubby-cheeked, perfect amalgamation of her and Oliver they brought into the world just four short months ago. “Sounds like she has you wrapped around her little finger.”

Oliver rests his chin on the top of her head and she can hear the love and contentment in his voice when he whispers in her hair, “From the very first moment I met her. She takes after her mother that way.”

A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope this helped to soothe the sting of all the angst. Queen family feels FTW. William was not in this fic because at that time of day, he should be in school and also I didn’t want to traumatize him any further with Olicity’s blatant flirty flirt. The poor kid has seen enough already lol.

Huge thanks and virtual hugs to @allimariexf and @hope-for-olicity for all the fun conversations and being all around wonderful :)

Oliver’s ‘current employer’ ;)

#this was really short #but i finished it #i'll take that as a win #olicity fluff #olicity ficlet #olicity future fic #my fic

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philippmichelreichold · 5 years

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#review #scifi Space Infantry by Dave Drake et al

Space Infanty is a Military Science Fiction anthology edited by Drave Drake, Charles G. Waugh and Martin Greenberg. It contains stories by a dozen authors spanning 3 decades. In order of appearance they are:

"The Rocketeers Have Shaggy Ears," by Keith Bennett; "His Truth Goes Marching On," by Jerry Pournelle; "But as a Soldier, For His Country," by Stephen Goldin; " Soldier Boy," by Michael Shaara; "Code-Name Feirefitz," by David Drake; "The Foxholes of Mars," by Fritz Lieber;

"Conqueror," by Larry Eisenberg; "Warrior," by Gordon R. Dickson; "Message to an Alien," by Keith Laumer;

". . . Not a Prison Make," by Joseph P. Martino; "The Hero," by George R. R. Martin, and "End Game," by Joe Haldeman.

Of the lot, Joe Haldeman, Gordon R. Dickson, Jerry Pournelle and Fritz Leiber are Hugo Award winners, though not for these stories. Mr. Drake and Mr. Haldeman served in Viet Nam. Their experiences color and inform their stories. Mr. Drake once said that his Hammers Slammers stories were partly therapy. Though clumped together as "Space Infantry," these stories run a wide gamut in attitude and outlook, and they need not strictly speaking be about Infantryman at all. Anyone simply seeking simple action adventure, bang-bang-your-dead, stories may be disappointed. There is so much more here than that. Anyone looking for high quality writing should read these stories. They stand out as excellent severally and separately. The book is essential to anyone with more than a superficial interest in Military Science Fiction-- especially anyone interested in the crafting or the history of Military Sci Fi.

The Rocketeers Have Shaggy Ears Mr. Bennett's story is not so much about ground sloggers as downed rocketeers who get the job done regardless of any obstacles and who coincidentally save their corps from absorption or disbandment. The basis for the title, according to Drake, is a song-- "The Mountaineeers Have Hairy Ears," whose lyrics I'll not reproduce here, and which carries the same emotional load of the Viet Nam Era, "don't mean nothin" in the context of having just had one's eye shot out. Mr. Drake was half a generation removed from Rocketeers, as I am from Drake's Slammers. In the context of today's milieu, the story is shockingly militaristic and imperialistic, much reflective of the attitude of the times in which it was written, 1950. No consideration is given to the real estate and no quarter to the natives. AS I said, the these admitted "Sons of bi-- er, Space" get the job done. There is of course a problem with some stories written in the 1950's. The idiom is changed. Readers of today may find it difficult to relate to.

His Truth Goes Marching On Dr. Pounelle is a Politcal Scientist and this story is as much a poli-sci treatise as it is a work of military science fiction. It is of course set in the Falkenberg's Legion universe before the collapse of the Co-Dominion and the ascension of Lysander to the Spartan throne, just prior to Ace Barton and Peter Owensford signing up with Colonel Falkenberg. Don't get me wrong, there's enough army life and gun play and slogging through mud for anyone's taste. There's also betrayal and a nuke.The story is well worth the read for anyone with a brain. But you won't know the truth till you read that last couple of paragraphs.

But as a Soldier, For His Country, Quoth the author, "It's a young man's story, venting frustration at the futility and lunacy of war." It grew into the novel, The Eternity Brigade. I'm one of those people made uncomfortable by this story. But guess what-- the purpose of good writing is not to make the reader feel good. Imagine the sheer unpleasantness and daily grind of war. Then imagine the worst parts. Imagine dying in battle. Then imagine being resurrected and even copied countless times for an age, till finally you meet yourself in battle. A well wriiten reductio ad absurdum.

Soldier Boy Michael Shaara won the Pulitzer Prize for The Killer Angels, a novel about the Battle of Gettysburg. "Soldier Boy" was also made into a novel; it tells the story of the lone soldier, at a number of disadvantages, that must come to grips with a superior opponent through his native intelligence and leadership skills. It's a well crafted story about a young man coming into his own. The antagonistis remarkable. Code-Name Feirefitz Despite being in law school, David Drake was drafted to serve in Viet Nam. He eventually became a member of a Battalion Information Center with the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. His experiences there form the basis of his Hammer's Slammers stories. The prime movers in "Code Name Feirefitz" are not the highly capable Captain Esa Mboya or his Golf Company Slammers, but two civilans. Their conflict is key to Mboya's own conflict between duty and conscience. The story contrasts the grittiness and hardness of the soldiers as they set about doing their duty with the composure and quiet persistence of Esa's brother Juma as he does his. Their dedication contrasts with the desperate selfishness of ben Khedda as he seeks to sacrifice anyone to survive. The faith of Jooma plays against that of the Kaid who will risk anything to save his people, and both stand out against the faithlessness of ben Khedda.

The Foxholes of Mars Fritz Leiber has won numerous awards-- one of the great masters of Science Fiction. Leiber's opening imagery and setting creation is masterful. Leiber's prose is deep and lush with layers of meaning. War is just the setting for a deep and not terrible pleasnt look deep into a man's soul-- the soul of a budding demagouge. I find no indication that this story won Hugo or Nebula. It should have. It's shocking that an anthology containing this story should be available for a penny. This story in and of itsself is priceless.

Conqueror Eisenber crafts his story well, creating a believable setting and a sympathetic protangonis in a story that starts out being a story about the lone foot slogger a long way from home and in need of human contact, validation of his own humanity. Ends up as a story about successful psy-ops and asymmetric warfare against an occupying force.

Warrior The first Gordon Dickson I read was the short story "Soldier Ask Not" in The Hugo Winners. Warrior is a side piece to his Childe Cycle stories, about the Dorsai general Ian Graeme. It is included in the anthology Lost Dorsai.

Though the action of the story takes place far from the battlefields of the Splinter worlds, it is full of strategy, including the principle of calculated risk, and tactics. (Including Tactics of Mistake-- this is a Graeme we're talking about.) It portrays Graeme as the Dorsai archetype-- not only the consummate soldier, but a man who would cross all of Hell and half of New York City to pay a debt for good or ill. And all the more so to exact justice forhis soldiers. Dickson's prose can be a little pompous and overbearing-- his treatment of villains a little dismissive, mere stick figures lacking depth. But then he wants Graeme to be overpowering-- to his advesaries, to the helpless bystander cops, and to the reader.

Message to an Alien Keith Laumer is a Nebula Award writer who is porbably undervalued today. His Retief stories are based on his experiecnes as a military attache in Burma. His Bolo stories were part of the inspiration for Drake's Slammers. This story is about the lone and disgraced soldier who was turned out for being righter than his superiorsthe civillian authorities could ever admit. He acts alone again and totally without anyone else's support to nip an invasion in the bud and stop a war. Laumer's disdain those with authority but lacking the sense to use it shows through. Dalton's mastery of the situation, the authoirites, and of the invaders is a pleasure to read.

. . . Not a Prison Make Martino's novelette is based on the unique premise of guerilla warfare carried out by low technology aborigines. He builds the story thoroughly, exploring the occupying forces attempts to mount an affect defence. The key is to force to the negotiating table people who have no interest in negotiations. The solution is unique to he situation, and the resolution acceptable to all. The Hero The United States has reached the point in its decadence/decay where it is sometimes more convenient to ignore its veterans and treat them with disdain then to give them the consideration and rewards they deserve. And so it is in "The Hero." Kagan serves honorably and well. When his term of enlistment is up, he demands his desserts, and his superiors balk. Can't conceive of him going to Earth. George R. R. Martin uses overstatement to drive home his point, contrasting the soldier with his bosses. In the end, it's clear that they are as dishonorable as he is honorable, as undeserving of his service as anyone could be.

End Game Joe Haldeman won an award for The Forever War. In the End Game, we find out what it was all for. Time has past. A lot of time has past, and Man is more like the Taurans than veterans like Marygay and William. There's a place for people like them called Middle Finger, heh heh. Anyone familiar with The Forever War knows Haldeman is a great writer, that he despises the stupidity and waste of war, and that he makes his case very well.

Image cover art under fair use for the review. Contact publisher for reuse.

My text creative commons 4.0

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darnedchild · 6 years

Text

Universally Monstrous - The Phantom of the Opera

It’s Sherlolly Halloween. This year I’m playing around with short ficlets loosely based off the classic Universal Monsters.

Universally Monstrous

The Phantom of the Opera

It was a well-known secret that New Scotland Yard was haunted.

Or “haunted” if you talked to certain people.

The Phantom—as he had been christened by someone who obviously spent far too much time reading paranormal fiction and not enough doing their job—seemed to favour the basement level of the building.

Whispered tales of a rare disembodied voice offering biting criticism and unwanted advice routinely made the rounds through the locker room.

“He said it was criminal that I was allowed in the lab,” Anderson had groused over a shared bag of crisps during an impromptu gossip session after a departmental meeting.

One of the lab techs rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure the Phantom isn’t the only one who thinks that. Have you talked to Donovan lately or are you two still fighting?”

Anderson ignored the other man. “I’m not kidding, Hooper. When I checked the shadows to find the owner of the voice, they were empty. The Phantom is real.”

Molly might have scoffed if she hadn’t heard the voice herself.

The first time she’d thought it was a prank, one of the other’s playing a joke on the new hire.

She’d been sitting at her desk during her lunchbreak, working on the first draft of the fictional crime novel (with a hint of romance between the feisty pathologist and the gruff cop with a heart of gold and abs of steel) that had been screaming “Write me!” in her brain for the last few years.

Molly had been slogging away at a particularly frustrating scene, one that delved into the mind and motives of the murderer, when the need for something caffeinated and bag of crisps grew too great to ignore. She’d minimized her document and headed toward the cafeteria. When she’d returned twenty minutes later her manuscript was open on the laptop screen, front and centre, and someone had left a long and detailed paragraph of where she’d left off.

“What the hell?” She’d been extremely annoyed that one of her co-workers had invaded her privacy like that and was mentally preparing the bollocksing of the century when the Voice spoke.

“That’s not how he’d think. Your killer.”

Molly had jumped, “Who are you? Where are you?”

“Don’t be dull,” the Voice admonished her as if it—he—was disappointed in her response. “You know who I am, I hear you lot chattering on about me all the time.”

She huffed. “We don’t chatter.” Molly was met with silence for several seconds. “Well, I don’t, at any rate.”

“True. You do tend to hold your tongue when the some of the others begin to wax poetic about the most ridiculous things.” She’d thought the Voice had been coming from the left before, but now it was clearly coming from the right.

Molly turned a full circle to look for someplace an adult (for he definitely had the deep, smooth voice of a man) could hide. She even ducked to look under the desk.

“Your villain’s thoughts are far too chaotic and disjointed for the methodical serial killer you’ve set him up as.”

“How would you know?” Could the stories be true? Was there really a ghost haunting Forensics? “Is this what you did in a past life? Get into the minds of criminals? Did you work down here, or maybe as detective?”

She thought she heard him laugh, and the husky sound caused a sensation like the touch of warm fingers softly brushing up her spine. She shuddered as he spoke again, “Something like that.”

“So, is this one of those ‘unfinished business’ things, or…”

Molly held her breath and waited but silence was her only answer.

Two weeks later she was sitting at her desk, transcribing her notes from the latest autopsy when she heard, “Excellent catch on the Marshall case.”

“Thanks. I thought it was a long shot, but what could it hurt to run an extra test or two so-“ Her body recognized his voice before her brain did. Her skin tingled and something at her core warmed even as she spun in her chair to search the room with her eyes.

Three days after that, she’d been working on her novel during another lunch break—she’d taken the Phantom’s advice and completely reworked the scene with her villain’s inner thoughts—when she realized she wasn’t completely alone. Her hands stilled on the keyboard. “Hello.”

Molly heard him draw in a startled breath somewhere behind her. “How did you know I was here?”

“You’re not as stealthy as you think.” She slowly turned, completely unsurprised to see that the room was empty. Still, she felt that he was nearby. “I noticed a . . . scent after your last two visits.” It had been clean and masculine, not clouded with cologne or the musky bodywashes that were popular amongst the male staff. “And there was a creak, something shifted under your weight this time.”

He was silent for so long she began to worry he might have left again. “Interesting.” She got the feeling he was watching her, studying her.

“You, uh, you’re not a ghost, are you?” Molly almost tripped over her words.

“Of course not. Didn’t you know, ghosts don’t exist.” He seemed amused.

She heard another creak and her eyes darted around the room, hoping to pinpoint where the noise was coming from. “So you just lurk, then. For fun, or . . .”

“I observe.” As if that explained anything. “Some of your co-workers are idiots. Most of them.”

Molly opened her mouth to argue then shrugged. He wasn’t exactly wrong. “Still, I’m pretty sure what you’re doing isn’t exactly legal. For a vast number of reasons.”

He laughed again, and it made her shudder just like the last time. A good shudder. The kind that was going to keep her awake thinking the sort of things she shouldn’t. “I’ve never been worried about legalities.”

“Aren’t you worried I’m going to run upstairs and report you?” she asked.

“Are you?” The Phantom’s seemed to come from directly behind her, which was impossible as her desk was set against a wall. She didn’t bother turning around as he continued to speak. “Would it make you feel better to know at least one Detective Inspector is aware of my secret, and has been for nearly as long as I’ve been ‘haunting’ the halls.”

It did actually. “Do I know them?”

“Possibly. His name is Lestrade.”

“Oh, I’ve worked with him!” He’d come looking for her six months before, requesting her assistance with a particularly brutal double homicide. “Wait, did you-?”

He hummed, a noncommittal answer if she’d ever heard one.

“Am I allowed you know your name? You obviously know mine and I can’t keep calling you the Phantom like some 1920’s horror movie.” She bit her lip.

After a long moment, he answered. “It’s Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” Molly tested the word, rolled it around on her tongue like a decadent treat. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “So now that I know you’re real, are you going to show yourself?”

Silence. He was gone. “Okay. I’ll take that as a no.”

Over the next few months she slowly stopped joining her co-workers in the cafeteria for lunch or the afternoon break, telling herself she was choosing to stay in her office to work on her novel.

That Sherlock had become a semi-regular visitor at those times had nothing to do with it.

Right?

She often found herself verbally working out plot points and dialogue, smiling when the disembodied Voice occasionally replied to offer suggestions or encouraged her to think through the moment with only a bit of gentle prodding and praise. Even better, as far as she was concerned, they’d begun to speak of other things. Her life outside of work, bits and pieces of his (although he still kept a tight lip on most everything), books they’d read (they were both voracious readers), all sorts of little things that had begun to add up.

“So this is going to be one of the really difficult bits for me to write.” Molly leaned back in her chair and pushed away from her desk on the squeaky wheels so she could spin around in a lazy circle. They’d been talking for nearly half an hour. “There’s been this building sexual tension between Brandon and Rachel almost from the moment the first met. Now they’ve just survived a near death experience, emotions are high, the attraction is there.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything and Molly sighed. “I know, it’s a cliché but it just seems right at this point in their relationship. But I’ve never really done that. Well, I mean, I’ve done that; just not the passionate, all consuming kind of . . . that.”

He still remained silent. She couldn’t help but fidget. “It’s just, it’s been a long time and even then it was more of a ‘let’s scratch this itch’ than a ‘take me against the wall right this second’ thing. God, I think my ex Tom would have hurt himself laughing if I even dared to suggest it. If anything it was boring and I just wanted to get it over with so I could see if there was anything good on the telly. And I have absolutely no idea why I’m telling you any of this.”

“I’m not really sure why you’re doing it, either. What is it you want from me, Molly?” He sounded almost as uncomfortable as she felt. Not for the first time, she wished she could see his face to better read his emotions.

“Well, you’re . . . You’ve got that voice. And you’re smart. And you have a wicked sense of humour. I know you hang around here most of the time, but surely you-you’ve . . . I can’t imagine there would be a mad scramble for the remote with you. That is, with you and-and the person you were with. So, I was hoping you could help reel me in if I get a little too . . . unrealistic? With the scene?” That was it. She was going to go home and drown her embarrassment in a carton of cookies and cream ice cream and try to pretend she’d never started this conversation.

He sighed. “Molly, I don’t know what you imagine I do when I’m not here, but I am absolutely positive it isn’t whatever you think it is.”

“What?”

“Fuck it,” Sherlock sighed. The large shelving unit that was bolted to the wall slowly swung inward to reveal a dark doorway. She could just make out a tall figure standing in the shadows.

Molly got to her feet as he stepped into the room and she saw him clearly for the first time. He was tall and fit, dark but impeccably tailored clothes, a mop of soft looking curls, and a strange black mask that covered the left half of his face.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?” she asked. She’d referenced the old Phantom of the Opera movie before, did he take that as a challenge? Was he making fun of her?

“I wish it was.” Sherlock lowered his head and reached up to carefully remove his mask. He took a deep breath before he lifted his face and turned toward her fully.

Whatever had happened to him had ruined half of his face. He was lucky he was still able to see out of his left eye. “How?”

“Acid. I’d barely begun working with Lestrade as a Consulting Detective—you wouldn’t have heard of the term, I invented the position—and the abusive husband of one of my clients decided to get his revenge. It could have been worse. As you noticed, I was able to keep my eye and my mouth and vocal cords were virtually undamaged. Believe it or not, I was even more of a socially inept arsehole and my interest in relationships had been virtually non-existent before the incident. And then this happened.” He gestured to his face. “You can see how off putting this is to another person. It was easier to seclude myself than deal with people every day.”

Molly had questions. A lot of questions. “Okay, I get the wanting to stay away from other people thing, but how in the heck did you get a secret door in the basement of Scotland Yard?”

“Doors, plural. I have a contact in the government and a massive trust fund.” He blinked at her. “Why haven’t you run off or retched on your shoes? Why are you pretending this doesn’t bother you?”

“Last week I had to do a post-mortem on a floater who had been in the Thames for several weeks. A disfiguring facial injury and healed scar tissue is nothing in comparison.” She bit her lip and took a step closer. “Could I-Would it be all right if I-“

“Touch my face?” Sherlock asked at the same time Molly worked up the nerve to say, “Get a tour of your underground supervillain lair after my shift ends?”

They stared at each other for a long moment before he nodded. “I guess that would be acceptable. As long as no one saw you roaming the halls after you were supposed to be gone. As incompetent as most of the idiots upstairs can be, they are trained law enforcement officers.”

Molly smiled. “One more question, and this one is super important. Can you get wi-fi down there?"

#sherlolly halloween at 221b #2018 sherlolly halloween #sherlolly

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buzzdixonwriter · 6 years

Text

Vietnam: There & Then, Here & Now

I just finished watching Ken Burns’ Vietnam War documentary.

Quite an experience.

Vietnam was my generation’s war, the baby boomers’ war (i.e., those born between 1946 and 1964). I lived through the era of most of the events of the war, being old enough and cognizant enough to follow what was going on in the world around me.

From a historical POV, the Vietnam War documentary offers little new information, mostly puts everything we already knew in perspective and fairly linearly.

A few things did surprise me, such as the revelation that Nixon in order to keep the war from becoming even more unpopular, wouldn’t let draftees be sent to Vietnam unless they volunteered.

People were still being drafted (I was) but instead of being sent unwillingly to a combat zone, we were sent to foreign bases to replace enlistees who went to fight in our place.

I feel bad about that.

Nixon’s political logic was sound -- enlistees and draftees who volunteered couldn’t say they were going against their will and thus the potential for desertion and the general populace turning against the war were lessened -- but it doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

It’s one thing if everybody’s name is put in a hat and assignments are handed out at random.

It’s another if the names are put into two different hats (but then again, nobody’s name went into the Vietnam hat without their consent…).

Watching the series, it struck me that people analyzing the current American political scene are wrong when they liken it to the Civil War or the rise of Nazi Germany.

No, it isn’t.

It’s like the 1960s all over again.

Let’s back track a bit and start afresh.

From time immemorial, there has been conflict between those who think for whatever reason they should be on top and those whom they think should be under them.

The average human being just wants to be left alone to live their own life. We really don’t care what kind of socio-economic political culture we live under so long as it’s reasonably stable, consistent, and fair.

We have no problem with some people being very, very wealthy.

We just don’t want their wealth to come at the expense of everyone else.

By the 18thcentury, the first trade guilds were beginning to appear in Europe.

They were crushed by the aristocracy of their day, both the nobility / landed gentry and the financiers.

In the early 19thcentury the working class tried again with various trade unions. Again the aristocracy (more industrialists this time) crushed them.

The working class tried a third time in the late 19thcentury with socialism , again it was crushed.

Finally in the early part of the 20thcentury, communism came forth, and it was successful…at least for the better part of the century.

(Yes, I am grossly over simplifying a lot of history here, but I’m doing so to make this point: Every time labor got slapped down, it came back with something stronger until finally it won and -- in an effort to forestall communism -- the rest of then world more or less adopted some for of socialism.)

We ignored the plight of the Vietnamese prior to WWII because we (i.e., the Western democracies) only cared about the political and civil rights of white skinned people. We begged their help during WWII to fight the Japanese again, but afterwards we reneged on our deal with them because the French threatened to go communist if they lost their lucrative colony (spoiler: They eventually did lose their colony and, no, they didn’t go communist).

When the Vietnamese defeated the French, the United States viewed this as another domino falling in communism’s plan for worldwide dominance.

Since our internal domestic politics were consumed with a paranoia against communism -- because communism would keep us from going to church or owning guns and cars and houses or reading books, etc., etc., and of course, etc. — we could not let them succeed anywhere.

We fought communist forces to a bloody standstill in Korea.

We faced them down in tense situations in Europe and the Middle East.

And we were damned if we’d let them topple the first domino in South East Asia.

So, even though we knew we had no popular support among the South Vietnamese people, and even though we knew their leadership was too corrupt and inept to defeat the North Vietnamese, we backed them with money, materiel, and men in the form of “advisors”.

It didn’t work.

The situation rapidly turned into a huge hot steaming turd pile and nobody -- NOBODY!!! -- in either party could see a reason for being there except if we weren’t there, the other side would blame them for “losing” Vietnam.

The same way the GOP blamed the Democrats for “losing” China…when it was never theirs to begin with.

We refused to deal with communist governments because we’d be damned if we were going to deal with the likes of “them”…not when we could prop up a puppet of our own to run the show.

And we made this mistake again and again and again everywhere, refusing to cut deals or honor agreements because we weren’t going to bolster communism because we wanted to keep our God, our guns, and our gold.

Oh, yes, let’s talk about money.

When you analyze anti-communism, for all the high-falutin’ language about human dignity and freedom and whatnot, it really boils down to people being able to make money and not have to pay any of it to the government.

And if some people make more money, well, that just means they’re better people than those who make less.

Isn’t it?

So the U.S. fight against communism was to protect the rich, the corporations, the moneyed interests.

The Vietnamese were ancillary to this goal.

…if they were considered at all.

So we wound up digging ourselves deeper and deeper into a morass that we couldn’t win because our enemy, while quite easily defeated, simply couldn’t be beaten.

(The North Vietnamese were communists by default; there was no ideological purity to their struggle, at least not the beginning. They were nationalists first and foremost, and when the capitalist Western democracies ignored their desire for independence, they turned to the Russian communists. If Chicago baseball fans had offered them more support than the Bolsheviks, the North Vietnamese would have been Cubbies.)

This is all a long winded way of saying that even though every White House administration from Kennedy forward (and perhaps as early as Eisenhower and Truman) realized South Vietnam was a doomed proposition, they nonetheless kept funding the war because they feared they lose power if they didn’t.

Domestically, Americans were so terrified of communism and what they were told was its first cousin, socialism, that they would respond negatively to anyone accused of appeasing those God damned commie simp pinko bastards.

It was a recipe for disaster, as Ken Burns points out repeatedly.

But this post isn’t about the Vietnam era, it’s about what’s happening in the here and now, and to look at that we need to hit the major highlights of the Vietnam Was as perceived by the average American citizen (read average white Christian American citizen).

In the aftermath of Kennedy’s assassination -- and his killer being an on-again / off-again USMC deserter / defector to Russia who joined a bunch of iffy political movements when he returned to the U.S. sure didn’t help things -- Americans were shocked again when it was reported the North Vietnamese had attacked two U.S. destroyers.

To this day it’s still impossible to discern what really happened in the Gulf of Tonkin with any sense of accuracy.

Suffice it to say something happened and the North Vietnamese navy came out all the worse for it but nonetheless Johnson treated the incident as if the gawd damned commies were about to start invading New Orleans and the next thing we knew, the war had escalated from a few hundred American “advisors” to a couple of thousand active combatants.

This was in 1964.

The next big event to lodge itself into the American psyche was the Tet offensive of 1968.

The North Vietnamese and their Viet Cong allies (not one and the same!) launched a massive series of attacks across Vietnam in the hopes of spurring a popular uprising.

The tactical portion of the Tet offensive failed, but the strategic one worked perfectly (although it took seven years to see the payoff).

The reason the strategic part worked was that for the intervening 4 years between Tonkin and Tet, the U.S. had promised its citizens again and again and again that victory was just around the corner, we could see the light at the end of the tunnel, and we were winning by breaking the resolve of the enemy.

Well, Tet put the lie to that PDQ!

The most shocking thing about Tet was the photo and TV news footage of South Vietnam National Police Chief Nguyen Ngoc Loan blowing the brains out of Nguyen Van Lem, a member of a Viet Cong assassination team who had just killed some police officers and their families.

Look, let’s be honest, Van Lem richly deserved his fate under the rules of the Geneva Convention since he had killed innocent civilians while disguised as a civilian, and as such had lost all protections under international treaty.

But it’s pretty damn shocking to see him being executed again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again thanks to the miracle of television, and while most Americans still supported the war, God love ‘em still supported the troops, and agree Van Lem deserved death for his war crimes, it’s still a pretty damn shocking scene to see.

Most Americans supported the war.

But most Americans also wanted it over.

About a year later, Americans were shocked even more. Information on the infamous My Lai Massacre, which occurred in the aftermath of the Tet offensive in 1968, became public, including photos of women begging for their lives and the lives of their children, and the revelation that Americans had gang raped Vietnamese women and children before killing them.

Again, predictably, most Americans sided with the troops who committed these crimes, and continued to support the war, but despite that, one can’t shake the images of weeping women futilely trying to protect their children, or the piles of bodies just a few seconds later.

The anti-war movement, which had aligned itself with the civil rights movement and the nascent feminist movement (and, boy howdy!, is that a tale to tell but not in this post; stay focused) began opposing the war in more and more successful, and in larger and larger protests.

American presidents Johnson and (soon-to-be) Nixon did not want to lose any elections, and since the majority of Americans still supported the war -- whatever doubts they might possess about it -- they weren’t about to give any serious attention to the protestors demands.

(And, truth be told, there were a lot of show boaters among the anti-war protestors, bozos who just wanted to watch things burn.)

As protests mounted, Nixon (who became president by sabotaging Johnson’s attempt to negotiate a peace agreement in time for the 1968 election which, if bigoted George Wallace hadn’t acted as a spoiler, would have gone to Hubert Humphrey) fought back in an increasing number of ways, some quite petty, others quite deadly.

Among the deadliest was the Kent State protests in 1970 which resulted in the deaths of four college students, two of them innocent bystanders walking away from the direction of the protest on their way to class.

While shocking, again the majority of Americans defended the National Guard troops who slaughtered four students and wounded a dozen more, crippling one permanently.

But you can’t unsee an image, and though Americans hardened their hearts, they couldn’t forget the image of Mary Ann Vecchio over the body of Jeffrey Miller anymore than they could forget the image of Nguyen Ngoc Loan killing Nguyen Van Lem.

Like the Tet offensive, the battle may have been lost, but the war was being won.

More shocking turns awaited the average American. Vietnam Veterans Against The War was a surprisingly effective antiwar movement. They, along with the Winter Soldier congressional hearings in 1971, put the lie to the claim that it was only hippies and communist agitators who opposed the war.

Nixon and his vice president Spiro Agnew went on the offensive, denouncing anti-war protestors and appealing to the so-called “silent majority” of law abiding, church going, conservative, and -- dare we say it? -- white Americans who continued to support the war.

Nixon and Agnew (who had to resign due to scandals entirely unrelated to his role as Nixon’s vice president) stirred up class animosity in America, pitting working class Americans against the so-called “liberal elite” including college students and professors, preparing the soil for the coming campaign of ignorance that would devour the country in the post-Vietnam era.

But even though the average “silent majority” American continued to support the war, the vocal protestors were gaining ground, winning hearts and minds, and the images were searing themselves into the American psyche.

Also in 1971, the Pentagon Papers were released, documenting mistake after mistake after mistake the U.S. had mad, all the while acknowledging that was simple no way we could possibly win in Vietnam.

But still the fighting continued.

Nixon’s paranoia and pettiness proved his undoing,

As he and his underlings committed more and more brazen crimes to solidify their base, the Vietnam war continued unleashing horror after horror.

In June of 1972, 9 year old Phan Thi Kim Phuc was photographed running naked down a road, screaming in pain after 30% of her body had been burned by a South Vietnamese napalm strike.

Try as they like, the pro-war apologists (same rat bastards as today’s trolls) could not find a way of blaming her for her own misery.

By January, 1973 the U.S. started withdrawing in earnest and for America the war of over for all intents and purposes.

On March 8, 1973 the last official U.S. ground troops left Vietnam.

On August 8, 1974 Nixon resigned.

On August 15, 1974, the U.S. congress said “Hold! Enough!” and effectively cut off military support to South Vietnam.

On April 30, 1975, Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City) fell, and the end that everybody knew would arrive sooner or later finally came.

All that…for nothing…

As noted above, the Vietnam war did not occur in a historical cultural vacuum, and there was not only the dread of an existentialist threat of a grossly misrepresented communist bogeyman to what the average white conservative Christian American held near and dear, but also the much more palatable fear of losing white supremacy to racial equality with…with…negroes (to use the term of the day), not to mention the first stirrings of the feminist movement, the first hint of a gay rights movement, and the hippies themselves, perceived as a great unwashed mob of dope swilling anarchists.

As the song goes, the dirty fucking hippies were right.

Ken Burns’ Vietnam War presents Vietnam to us in that context, a major component of a much broader picture, a picture that threatened the very soul of America.

Small wonder the reaction was the disco era and yuppies replacing hippies and cocaine going through the roof and Reagan replacing Carter as the latter tried to struggle with the economic bill come due after decades of reckless military spending.

Reagan, of course, devastated American in his own way, the opposite of the Tet offensive, in which he seemed to win easy victory after easy victory only now that he’s dead and gone we see those so called “victories” were actually a betrayal of everything America used to stand for.

America, at least in part, has always been a progressive nation.

The founding fathers may have been slave holders, but they left a mechanism in place that could deal with the issue of slavery.

The reactionaries came back against the founding fathers, even while claiming to honor their spirit, with Andrew Jackson, as vile a racist as one could hope to imagine, but they were countered by the abolitionists of the Civil War.

The same progressive spirit that made abolition possible also made labor unions possible, and pure food and drug laws, and trust busting under Theodore Roosevelt.

And when bad reactionary / financier / industrial policies brought the U.S. and the rest of the world to financial ruin, Franklin Delano Roosevelt fought to use progressive policies to save the country.

The reactionaries have been waging a war against America since the end of WWII.

They lost ground in the 1950s and 60s despite their successful promotion of anti-communism, but regained that ground in the 1980s to 2008.

There were a few brief respites with Clinton, as flawed a human being as one could imagine, and Obama, who became the target of the mindless white racism simmering beneath the surface of what passes for conservative thought in this country.

Now, as we near the end of their era ///and they know it///, the reactionaries and the 1% want to stack the deck as much as possible against the march of progress.

The march of humanity.

The march of the future.

We are not in a second Civil War or a second Nazi movement (though there are elements of same present).

We are in a second 1960s, only there aren’t the obvious clear crusades of Vietnam or civil rights to rally around.

We have just had our Gulf of Tonkin incident with the election of Trump.

We may have had our Tet offensive public execution photo with the appointment of Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court, a short term tactical victory that will spell doom for generations to come.

But I’m afraid we’re still quite a ways away from our My Lai, our Kent State, our Winter Soldier, our badly burned girl.

I want to tell you, as someone who lived through the 1960s, as someone who was drafted at the end of the Vietnam war, we will survive this.

And we, the decent people of the United States, the people who truly believe in liberty and justice for all, will prevail.

It won’t be pretty, and it won’t be easy, but we will win.

#Vietnam #communism #capitalism #Christianity #white supremacy #racism #history #GOP- Republicans #Trump #morals #ethics #politics

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cathedralreims · 6 years

Text

Cuckoo

Submission for the @aphabriefhistoryoftime event

Read on AO3

Read on FF.net.

Warnings: Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Character Death

Characters: Czech Republic, Slovakia, Minor OCs

Summary: The Heart of Europe still beats under the oppressive hand of Nazi Germany

Word Count: 4243/18,982

Chapter I: I Open My Bill

On the nature of the characters’ human names:

For Czechia: Kristýna is the derivative of the English form “Christina,” meaning follower of Christ. Her last name Vaněk, feminine form Vaňková, means “greater glory.”

For Slovakia: Frederik means “ruler” or more specifically “peaceful ruler.” His last name, Procházka, means "stroll.”

15 November, 1939

The window creaked against the cold autumn wind. A slight draft invaded the library, where students normally gathered together to stress about exams in silent solidarity, among the rows of ancient books depicting heroic figures in history. All of them hoped that one day they’ll be remembered: as a sentence, as a footnote, as a memory.

At the moment, however, the library was not a quiet sanctum; it was a bustling auditorium as they prepared a protest against the parasite. Nevertheless, the library’s intent was preserved amongst all the noise, a stronghold for knowledge and the protector of ideas. Here, the students decided, was when they’ll reinvent the future because no one would do it for them. They came from all grades and majors, united at the notion of freeing their dear country from occupation. There were about a thousand in total, a few dozen of whom gathered at the library for temporary shelter as they waited for the procession.

On the second floor, two twenty-year-olds occupied a quiet corner. One of them, a boisterous man with aspirations in law, and the other, an exhausted woman who dreamed of becoming a physicist.

“Do you think it’ll go well,” asked Frederik Procházka, propping his feet upon the table while precariously balancing himself on his chair. Brown hair swept over his eyes and over a head bandage, an unwarranted medallion from a scuffle with a German officer. “The last time it happened, it caused this,” he waved his hand theatrically at the congregation below, “to pass.”

The question was directed at his companion, Kristýna Vaňková. She toyed with a red ribbon in her left hand; soon she would have to use it to tie her hair in a bun. Her fingers were callused after long hours besides a lamp, gripping a pencil as she wrote down equations. “I have confidence that this one will work out better. The Germans need us…”

She let the statement trail off, knowing what exactly the Germans could do. It was, unfortunately, the only thing they knew confidently, which bothered Kristýna to no end. Frederik merely shrugged in response and turned his attention back towards the window.

Outside, their classmates huddled in tight groups. Soon, they will amass into a larger one for the funeral procession of Jan Opletal, a medical student who was shot and killed last month during Independence Day. Neither Kristýna nor Frederik knew him well, but both respected his actions to the point where they were willing to finish what he started.

Behind them were bare trees spread sparsely on the green. Some of them still bore the vestiges of birds’ nest. Perhaps a few still had eggs. Perhaps nothing will disturb the peaceful robins. The word “perhaps” embodied all of humanity’s uncertainties and all of humanity’s futures.

“You know if things go horribly wrong, follow the plan,” Kristýna said.

She stood up and began tying her hair up, as it helped her concentrate on the situation at hand. She always had a plan. It assured her that there was always a way out, always a light to guide her when darkness suddenly falls.

“And what if the plan goes horribly wrong?” responded Frederik, giving her a sideways glance.

Something inside Kristýna twitched at the notion of one of her plans going wrong. They had a high success rate and on the small chance one failed, review, revise and plan again. But this wasn’t a trajectory problem where she had all night and the next morning; this was a demonstration that always had the present in mind. She couldn’t erase the problem and start over again.

She jabbed her thumb at Frederik as a retort. “Then it’s your job to improvise. Now, get up. Do you hear the voices?”

Frederik sighed, a hint of pessimism lingering in his breath as he stood up. He had doubts on this succeeding but he had a trick: by not worrying about it. Such has been his philosophy for the past decade. Kristýna told him to change it, in fear of him being too zealous, but today was not that day.

He was a lawyer by studies. He would waltz in the classroom wearing a rumpled button-down that he forgot to iron and trousers that were haphazardly put on as he raced across the school for his debate that he read the night before. Frederik never worried about anything, as worrying meant more stress, and more stress meant more likely to make mistakes in his rhetoric. This method so far had an impeccable track record.

Kristýna pushed in her chair and together, they started walking towards the stairs to join the river of other students pouring out of the library. They didn’t brandish posters but planned to brandish their voices. Frederik was naturally loud. Kristýna had the capability to be loud when the situation called for it.

Now, Frederik could yell unrestrained and Kristýna had a reason.

They marched out of the library and integrated themselves in the crowd. They would go wherever Jan’s intentions led them, and that would be the heart of Prague.

The black hearse lead them through the sprawling city. Some of the windows were lighted as evening fell but barely any of them were inhabited as their residents poured onto the streets to observe. Some of them were the parents of the students in the procession and they could hear faint but excited Ahoj matko! Ahoj otče!

Neither of their parents knew they were on the streets. Though Kristýna’s mother probably had an inkling that her daughter was among the throb of people, Frederik’s parents would never think that their dear son would partake in political responsibility.

Of course, it’s not like his parents would know of the protest anyway, though they probably had an idea. Frederik was sure that him and his family was fine. All of the Procházkas could talk their way out of anything. Whether that ability would be affected by the recent crackdown on Jews is a different matter; he loved learning about new things, but this is the one subject he would abstain from.

The procession came to a brief halt at the train station where they assumed his body would be sent to his home town in Moravia. Everything became quieter, until only snatches of whispering remained. A cold wind blew through the area. Kristýna contracted her body further into her overcoat and Frederik, noticing this, took his scarf and wrapped it around her.

“You really should have dressed warmer if we were going to be out here this long,” he said.

“I am wearing two coats and a long-sleeved sweater,” she fumed, although the faintest traces of a grin were present on her lips. She tilted her head up and straightened her back so that their eyes met. “I don’t think I could be any warmer if I could.” She resumed her stoic silence but she tugged his scarf a little closer to her, where the cloth barely brushed her exposed face.

Frederik’s cheeks were red, but whether it was from the cold or a warm happiness, he did not know. He always loved it when she smiled, genuinely smiled. But he was not sure whether he loved her. They have been friends for so long now that it was virtually impossible to imagine themselves as anything but.

Still, there were moments where Frederik did feel for Kristýna. It happened during spontaneous moments: when they spent long nights studying for their exams, when they sent furtive glances at one another across a room, when they basked in the sun during the warmer months, when she listened to his proposals about some dusty court case. He wasn’t sure if Kristýna felt those moments as well.

In fact, she too grappled with her emotions. The scarf smelled faintly of old paper and coffee. Under her focused expression, a hurricane of possibilities swirled within her mind.

She was well aware of Frederik’s moments, how he would smile brighter when she was there and how he always made her feel radiant after an abysmal day. Kristýna considered herself a free-spirited woman, so she would make him chase her, until they were both tired and collapsed onto the ground.

The both of them knew, however, it would be a long time until that happened.

The procession marched on. Even though Jan’s body was no longer here, his spirit lived on in the heart of his fellow students. The procession transformed into one of reverence to one of protest as bursts of yelling erupted through the crowd. Suddenly, the peaceful, winding river transformed into one of ferocity, whipped up from the incoming storm.

Where is my home, where is my homeland,

Water roars across the meadows,

Pinewoods rustle among crags,

The garden is glorious with spring blossom,

Paradise on earth it is to see.

And this is that beautiful land,

The Czech land, my home,

The Czech land, my home!

Where My Home Is. The national anthem of Czechia rang loud and clear like a church bell tolling. Their hearts were trapped in their lungs and the only way to relieve the pressure was to sing.

As the procession reached Charles Square, they came in contact with the police and quickly scattered into the open doors of the nearby Technical University. Kristýna grabbed Frederik by the hand and dragged him under an arch, squished uncomfortably with the other throb of students. Kristýna’s lungs were squashed under the weight of people’s heavy winter coats and her brain wanted to explode with the force of her classmates’ nervous chatter. Meanwhile, Frederik and his lanky figure had no problem with the predicament.

“What do you think is going to happen?” he said, echoing the concerns of others. “…Do you think we should leave?”

“Is that supposed to be a rhetorical question?”

Frederik stood on his toes and moved his head left and right, trying to search for an exit. “I’m just concerned for our safety, that is all.”

“Wait. Let’s see what happens next and then we’ll decide. If you see anything up there, tell me. ”

Anything, so far, did not exist. Frederik became frustrated and claustrophobic being surrounded by so many people in such tight quarters. He was used to wildly gesturing his arms in an open room. Kristýna did not mind the restless, though static atmosphere; she was used to working in cramped conditions, building mock rockets and boats in the small basement under her house.

And then the parade broke through the wall of uncertainty. Something triggered something amidst a background of nothing. The phenomenon of quantum tunneling was happening before her very eyes.

Besides her, Frederik seemed to have caught this new life. He shouted at the top of his lungs: Down with the Nazis!

The crowd surged forward and out they went, nearly getting trampled by the ecstatic students knowing that they were doing something for the cause. It marched and marched, all around Prague, until they were tired and the day had ended. All the students drifted towards their homes in a dream, the coming nightmare far behind their vision.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” said Kristýna. She unwrapped the scarf from her neck, admittedly with a tinge of regret as soon as the cold touched her bare skin.

Frederik took back his scarf and wrapped it around his own. Now it was tinged with her scent: a delicate lavender. He nodded. “You will.”

And with those words, both of them entered their houses and shut themselves away from the world, succumbing to a nap, and leaving their school work for the morning.

17 November 1939

Morning dawned upon Prague. The alarms of students who had morning classes all rang before eight o’clock, but it was the matter of actually throwing the warm covers off and having the effort to walk to the bathroom.

Neither Kristýna nor Frederik were morning people and would rather stay under the comforting night. The difference between them, however, laid in their work ethics. Kristýna’s awakening was marked with a grudging moan as she stumbled from her bed, turning off the alarm, and doing her normal routine before brewing herself a cup of coffee and walking to the university. A few houses down, Frederik mumbled “five more minutes” three times before blindly slamming his palm down on the clock, rushing his clothes and hygiene, and stuffing papers in his bag, before dashing out the front door. Sometimes he would be on time, and sometimes not.

In whichever case, they would not be seeing each other until later. The most they ever see of each other are fleeting glances in the hallways and of course, during the free period.

Two days had passed since Jan Opletal’s funeral procession. Yesterday passed by with no complaints or remarks. Everyone resumed classes and hustled and bustled and had no reason to panic besides upcoming tests.

But those two days were merely part of the eye of the storm. The second part had yet to come.

They sat near their usual spot in the library. Frederik munched on a sandwich, where the crumbs laid on the folds of his shirt. Kristýna had already ate lunch, since it was against the rules to eat in the library, and instead occupied herself with a physics problem.

“Make sure you clean up, afterwards,” she mumbled.

“Of course. Of course. I’m not a heathen.” He dabbed a napkin on his mouth and put it on the table, only for it to fall down on the floor with a single sweep of his arm.

Kristýna wrinkled her nose in disgust, but still kept writing. “You’re twenty goddamn years old. Pick up after your own mess.”

“I was going to pick it up myself. Calm down.” As he bent down, Frederik peaked at the work that she was doing. Adjacent to the Greek letters and swirly symbols, he saw a paragraph or two next to a numbered step. “Is that for Silvie?”

She lifted her head up, dazedly smiling. “Yeah. In class today, we were learning about integrals in three-dimensional space.”

Frederik resisted the urge to release an affectionate sigh. “And yet, you’re doing homework at school?”

“We’ve been through this conversation a million times already, but I guess you don’t quite understand proactivity considering that your debate is tomorrow. Go check out a book on tax evasion laws in America.”

“Ah… perhaps later.” He shrugged. "I have plenty of time." In fact, seventeen hours was enough to prepare his defense.

Kristýna sighed and continued her work. Now since there are three integrals, you can integrate x, y, or z first. Though, I prefer to do them in alphabetical order… . Frederik closed his eyes and put his head down on the table, wanting a quick nap before jumping into the second half of the day.

Five minutes did not passed before his head jolted up, woken up into a dreamy stupor from a door slam. Annoyed, he put his head down again, but was once again woken up, this time by a jarring tug on his shirt.

"Look," Kristýna said., her voice lowering by several octaves, "they're Nazis."

At once, he roused from his seat, and his suspicions came true. There were repercussions to their actions from two days ago.

Both of them bolted from their seats, with Kristýna leading the way. Unfortunately, her plan did not become obsolete.

It hurt her to stuff the papers into her bag and not place them neatly in their folders. Wordlessly, she jabbed her chin to the next flight of stairs and Frederik followed suit.

As they ascended to the third floor, they peered downstairs and saw with abject horror people getting apprehended. The students fled, heading towards windows in vain or upstairs to the second floor -

Bang!

"God bless them," thought Kristýna. There was no time to stop, not even to flinch. "I'll see you guys soon."

He didn't want to say goodbye, because goodbye would mean the end. Everything follows the First Law of Thermodynamics: energy can neither be created nor destroyed; it is merely changed. She liked to think that it also applied to the human soul. She'll see them again, in one form or another.

Frederik had no such qualms. He knew where they were headed. They will either meet their end in flame or in ice. He was a cynic in this regard - that he will end up in the same place as them. There was no possible way that his Jewish ancestry could be hidden indefinitely.

They exited through the fire escape and down the stairs - but she did not plan on someone getting there before her. Her first instinct was to run, but a soldier yanked her away from escape.

“What are you doing? Let go of me! Frederik? Frederik!”

Unfortunately, Frederik was in the same predicament as she was. "Hey, hey! How about we talk about this for a sec-"

He never got the chance to finish that sentence before one of the soldiers punched him square in the face, leaving an ugly bruise on his cheeks and the wind knocked out of him. He reeled back from the impact and felt something fall down his cheek. Whether it was tears or blood, he could not determine.

Kristýna screamed as soon as she saw Frederik getting hurt. In retaliation with a force unknown to her, she delivered a swift kick to her captor's private extremities, causing him to cry out with a satisfactory enough pain to release her and focus on saving Frederik. For the other soldier, she kicked him in the shin and stomped on his feet, using her short height as an advantage; Frederik also contributed by elbowing the soldier, which finally brought him down.

And then they bolted from the scene, heading deeper into New Town for neither of them wanted their family to be involved in this. They knew the city like the back of their hands. The streets were their veins, interconnecting and interlocking with each other, and this time, Kristýna's intuition lead her to the industrial part of Prague, where rusty warehouses dominated the area.

Behind them, they heard angry shouts, but it seemed like there were no more than two. Frederik knew a little German and based on what he heard, he shouldn't translate for Kristýna. In response, he shouted expletives in Czech and Slovak, but had to refrain himself from saying anything in Hebrew.

Kristýna skidded to a stop and they took refuge in an unlocked warehouse with a few blocks of wood, beams of rusting iron, shards of glass, tools, and rope. Thank goodness she had her hair tied up.

"I need you to help me build a device. Grab the other end of the steel beam and I'll grab the other… Ack! That's good enough. Now is there enough rope to tie it to the ceiling…? Okay there is. I think the sprinklers are enough to support the weight. Frederik! Are you fine there?"

The ceiling was only a few inches taller than Frederik; comfortable for her, cramped for him. If he was any taller, the top of his head would brush the ceiling. Nevertheless, he fastened the rope around the steel beam and around the sprinkler, with Kristýna supporting the beam from her end. When he was done, they switched sides.

"You have the upper body strength. When I give you the signal, I want you to push it through the window when I show two fingers. Do you think you can do that?"

Kristýna stared at him with smoldering eyes, absolutely convinced that this contrived plan involving a hastily constructed contraption will work at the cost of putting herself in danger and then promptly left and appeared a second later in front of the window. Neither of them had any real training in combat besides what their adrenaline told them to do, so really, he didn't have a Plan B if this doesn't work.

Frederik aligned himself with the far side of the ram and prepared himself. Meanwhile, his partner stood stoically out and apparently, was holding a glass shard in her left hand. Perhaps she did have a Plan B after all.

He was only allotted a few seconds of thinking before he spotted the two-fingered symbol and with all his might, he pushed it towards the window with marvelous success. One of the two soldiers was hit square in the face and fell down, dazed and confused, while the other skidded past but didn't maintain balance.

At the end of the confusion, Kristýna forced herself to lunge forward and stab the still-conscious soldier in the chest and found that Frederik finished the job with a blow to the head. Soon, the second soldier was knocked out.

Both of them breathed heavily as they started at the unconscious bodies. They were both alive, as evidenced by the rise-and-fall of their chests, but neither of the two students wanted to kill them.

They weren’t killers; they refused to be. They wanted to keep their souls intact and didn’t want to pick up the pieces when they broke if they ever will be. And so, they propped the unconscious bodies up on a nearby lamppost and thrifted through their belongings for anything incriminating; they just found a crumpled piece of paper with thousands of names and indeed, among them were written theirs. Every officer probably had the list in their pockets, but they were still compelled to burn them.

“And that is that,” mumbled Frederik. He stared blankly at the scene below him, clutching the confiscated papers in his hands.

Kristýna instead closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, and fluttered them open again. “We can no longer exist.”

They stared at each other a silent conversation passed, and then they walked nonchalantly away from the bodies, acting like they returned from a nice stroll, but neither of them spoke to each other as they returned to their homes.

The statues lining the Charles Bridge stood tall and proud, just as one would expect from the magnanimous saints. During the summers, they would walk on its cobblestoned ground and admired the vast view of the Vltava River. St. Ivo, St. Barbara, St. Margaret, St. Elizabeth, St. Francis of Assisi…may they watch over them.

The Procházkas’ house had assimilated itself into the dull brown townhouses as the years passed, but even before, it was rather unassuming. They were preparing to move back to Slovakia. All their papers have been prepared and their tracks covered. France has fallen and Poland a memory. They were trapped on the continent, soon-to-be graveyard with no means to travel to America. If they were going to be in Europe, they will be surrounded by family.

Frederik would be staying with them for only a few months, at least until Hanukah ended. He didn’t want to worry about what would happen on the journey, or when they got there, or if they'll survive or not. Really, it was much easier if he assumed everything would go right.

But Kristýna , with her ever watchful eyes, devised several back-up plans for them. Although the family appreciated the gesture, they doubted whether they were actually doing to use them or not.

She offered her palm. "I'll burn them."

"Thank you," he replied and handed the papers. He saw her regard his response with a nod but before she left, he said, "Wait!"

She turned around with one eyebrow cocked. "Yes?"

His posture slackened and his thoughts were at a lost as he wrestled with his lips to blurt out the words. Kristýna mockingly tapped her foot on the concrete, waiting for him to finish his thought.

Frederik managed to kick himself to say it. What did he have to lose? Surely, nothing could change between them if he offered her it.

He unraveled his scarf once again and raveled it around Kristýna's neck. "I don't know when I'll come back, but if I don't, please have this."

Kristýna felt her cheeks turn red and this time, she knew that it wasn't from the cold. Once again, he managed to transform her organized mind into a state of entropy. Who did he think he was, marching into her heart like this? She didn’t want to openly admit that perhaps, she did love him; to her he was still the boy with the chipped tooth who always cried whenever she did better than him.

Of course, both of them forgot that there are other ways to say I love you without saying "I love you" - such as giving the other a soft nod, a tight hug, and ending a conversation with "Please be careful."

Frederik doubted he will be careful. Subtlety was not his specialty but just for her, he will make a special effort.

They parted ways. He entered his house, releasing a sigh as soon as he did, said hello to his parents, and immediately succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

Meanwhile, she walked a few houses down towards her own house and quietly opened and closed the door as her mother was sleeping; with a matchbox, she lighted the fireplace and dropped the confiscated documents into the flames, watching the edges of the paper smolder and blacken. Soon, they turned into ash and Kristýna doused the fire with water and swept the ashes into a waste bin.

From this point on, Kristýna Vaňková and Frederik Procházka did not exist.

The main title as well as the chapter titles are based on the song “Cuckoo” by Benjamin Britten.

#aphabriefhistoryoftime #violence tw #fanfiction #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia #aph czech republic #aph slovakia #I finally finished it... after 3 months...#will update the remaining chapters on tumblr later but the whole thing is already on those two sites

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language-rxgers · 7 years

Text

Watch Where You’re Going (Steve x Reader) High School!AU

Summary: You have an awkward first meeting when you have a (literal) run-in with the quiet but popular Steve Rogers in the halls of school one early morning. But things aren’t so bleak...

Characters: Steve Rogers, Reader

Warnings: Very awkward moments, fluff, half-nudity (nothing to worry about though, nothing important is revealed), muscly muscles, my awkward writing :)

Word Count: 2317 (holy jeez, this is a long one shot... I just can’t help it!)

A/N: This is hopefully some entertainment between installments of Best Boyfriend You’ve Never Had. I promise I’m working on ch. 4 and it’ll be up ASAP! So sorry for the wait! Please enjoy!

masterlist

*not my gif; credit to the rightful owner*

You stepped off the bus, calling out a quiet thank you to the bus driver over your shoulder. You adjusted the straps on your backpack, walking up the stairs to the front door of your school. You opened the door, holding it open for the student behind you. You didn't look over your shoulder to see who it was, but you did hear a voice mutter out a thanks as you let go of the door and continued on your way. You walked down the halls, weaving through throngs of students standing around in the hall by friends' lockers, chattering before the day began.

You headed to your English class, hoping to catch your teacher and ask a question about an assignment you'd recently been given. You knocked on the open doorway, letting your teacher know someone was at the door. He looked up from the papers he was grading, eyebrows raised. "Ms. (L/N)! What can I do for you?"

"Hey, Mr. Montgomery, I was just wondering if I could ask about the film analysis we were assigned on Monday." You pulled out a rough draft you'd finished the previous night. "I was working on it last night, but I'm having some trouble finding good examples to use. I feel like there are better ones than what I chose, like I could make it way better, but I don't know how." You handed him the paper, letting him skim over what you'd done. His brows furrowed, and he nodded as he read. He looked at you.

"Well, (Y/N), I have to say I'm not sure how to help you. These are exactly the examples I would use, and I appreciate your perspective on the effects they have on the protagonist later in the film. If you're looking to bring it to another level, I might just look at perhaps replacing some of the simpler adjectives with more powerful terms? I see a bit of repetition here-" he pointed at a few recurring words in your work, "-that you might want to look into, but I wouldn't make any drastic changes. The content's all here, quite impressively, but it's all about the delivery." You nodded your head as you took the paper back.

"Thank you, sir. That's what I was wanting to know. I'll see you in period 4," you gave a polite smile before turning to the door.

"You're welcome, happy to help." Mr. Montgomery turned back to his grading, and you headed to your locker. You rolled your eyes as you passed a group of boys in your grade, all clad in dress shirts under their football jerseys. You had never seen a species quite like the average teenage male, but they were quite the sight. All clad in either khaki or grey slacks, pastel dress shirts and pinstriped ties under their jerseys tucked into their waistbands under a brown or black belt. You could only imagine the group chat that existed solely for the purpose of their outfit coordination.

You turned down the hall and walked up to your locker, letting your bag and binder collapse on the floor beside you as you entered your combination. You were just reaching up to pull out your history book when you heard the slap of fast approaching footsteps hitting the tile floor. You could barely turn your head before a brick wall slammed into your side, sending you flying to the floor.

"OOMPH!" You groaned, rolling onto your back and squeezing your eyes shut. "What the hell?" You grip your shoulder as you try to sit up, still not having completely registered what happened.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" An outstretched hand came into your sight, and you took it without a thought, surprised at the sudden strength pulling you up like it was nothing. You dusted off your pants.

You grunted as you stretched your shoulder. "Yeah, I'm fine, it's alright, but can I just ask why- SHIRTLESS!- I- What?" As you finally looked up, your eyes fell upon the last person you would have wanted to be in this situation with. Standing in front of you, entirely stripped save for a pair of blue and red checkered boxers, was Steve Rogers. Your brain froze as you tried to form a coherent phrase. "I-I mean, you don't- You're- I- Where's your shirt? Where are your pants? What?" You tried to pry your eyes from his bare chest, chiseled and heaving as his apparent previous running caught up to him, abdominal muscles contracting with every breath he took. You blinked, shaking your thoughts loose. "I'm sorry- you have no shirt- Why aren't you wearing anything?" You were sure your face was seven shades of red; you could practically feel the heat radiating from your cheeks. You resisted the urge to pinch yourself to wake yourself up from this dream. No dream you had had of Steve Rogers was this realistic- or painful.

The blonde running-back looked equally as mortified, mouth agape, blue eyes wide in panic and muscles

{don't reach out and touch them, (Y/N)}

clenched in tension. His cheeks burned like fire as he suddenly came out of his shell-shock and quickly shot his arms down in front of his torso, utterly failing at somewhat covering himself up.

You yourself were still completely confused

{what the fuck is happening?!}

but for some reason whatever part of your brain that was working seemed to be only concerned about

{where are his clothes}

the fact that poor Steve looked so embarrassed and uncomfortable, standing there in nothing but his boxers at 7:45 in the morning. He was so lucky your hall was usually empty at this time before school started. Without even realizing what you were doing, your arm shot out and unhooked your jacket from your locker and stretched it out in his direction. You avoided his eyesight, staring at the wall of lockers across the hall. It took a second before you felt him take the jacket from your hands and heard him clear his throat.

"Um, t-thanks. I-I'm so sorry again. The guys, they- they're real jerks. H-hid my clothes across the school while I was changing after p-practice this morning…" he scratched the back of his head, looking away pointedly as he held the jacket to his chest, somewhat covering him, ears practically glowing red, much like your own.

You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding awkwardly. "Um, well, I'm going to go now," you squeaked. "H-hopeyoufindyourclothes." You slammed your locker shut and grabbed your belongings before essentially sprinting down the hall and away from a still mortified Steve.

You rounded the corner and grasped your chest, fighting for your breath. Of all the people in the world that you could have been placed in that situation with, it just had to be the one boy who had invaded your thoughts since freshman year. This shit you'd expect to see in a movie or some book, but for it to actually happen? No fucking way. The big guy upstairs must have a crazy crooked sense of humor.

—————————————————————

You saw Steve again at lunch, fully dressed this time. You felt slightly jilted at this however; even with his football jersey and underlying navy blue shirt covering his taut torso, his broad chest still stretched the fabric in such a distracting way, and his pushed up sleeves exposed thick forearms that rippled with his every movement- how the hell were forearms attractive? Come on, this guy has to know the effect he has on people.

But the thing that you knew was the reason he stuck out amongst the other guys in your grade to you, was that you didn't think he did know. He wasn’t dressed like the rest of the guys on the football team; compared to their overwhelmingly formal apparel which- along with the jersey over top- was quite frankly a little much, his dark-washed jeans, navy long-sleeve and lightly styled hair were refreshingly modest yet still sharp. He wasn't obnoxious or loud; he was quiet and thoughtful and polite and humble; qualities that were more endearing than any amount of muscle. That was just a bonus.

What were you getting to? Oh, right.

You spotted Steve's head of blonde locks in the crowd of students heading to buy lunch, but when his cerulean eyes met your inquisitive ones, he flushed a dark crimson and quickly turned down the first hall he came to. You felt your heart drop, but you had to remind yourself it wasn't your fault; he was just embarrassed, and to be honest, so were you. But you didn't want him to avoid you for the rest of high school. You'd never spoken to him before this morning save for one occasion in which you'd apologized hurriedly after you bumped into him while rushing to your class (go figure). You wished you could get to know him, but since you'd never had any classes with him and didn't hang out with his friend group, the chances were quite slim. And besides, he was way out of your league. But you'd held onto the hope that a moment would come in which your paths would finally cross, even if just briefly. You never thought it would be like this.

A few days later, you walked up to your locker only to have a startling realization hit you: Steve still had your jacket. You sighed, figuring you should check the front office to see if he'd brought it there at some point after your encounter. You were loading the books you wouldn't need until after lunch into your locker when you heard a throat being cleared beside you. You closed your locker door to meet stormy blue eyes, watching you hesitantly. You immediately felt your face flush and prayed it wasn't too noticeable.

"Um, hi…" he started softly. You tried to smile politely, squeaking out a greeting in response. He seemed to fold in on himself, and for a 6'2" wall of muscle, you'd never seen anyone look so small. Your eyes finally trailed down to the blue article of clothing clutched tightly in his hand. "I, um, I brought back your jacket."

Your breath hitched. "Thank you," you muttered softly, gently taking it from him and folding it in your hands carefully, like there was something delicate wrapped inside. "Uh, good to see you got your clothes back," you commented awkwardly, cringing as you said it. Steve chuckled, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck bashfully.

"Uh, yeah, I did. And thank you, for lending me your, uh…" he gestured to the jacket. "You didn't have to do that, but it was nice." You nodded.

"It was the least I could do. Figured you needed it more than me." You tried to give him a light smile, but it was painfully awkward even for you.

"That's kind of great. And sorry, too, I guess, for, you know, body slamming you into the ground and everything."

You chuckled, unconsciously rubbing your shoulder. "No, it's really fine, Steve. Shows you're on the football team for a reason, huh?" You frowned, realizing he probably didn't even know your name. "I'm (Y/N), by the way." Steve chuckled.

"Yeah, I know who you are." Your eyebrows raised in surprise at this. Steve Rogers knew you? He seemed to pick up on your shock. "You walk past me in the halls every day to third period. Uh- that sounds creepy that I've noticed that- I've seen you around the school. M-Mr. Montgomery also has one of your term projects from last year on display in his class. He used it as an example. It was really good…" he trailed off, cheeks now burning bright red.

Your eyes widened in embarrassment. "Oh, God… that To Kill a Mockingbird scrapbook?" He grinned.

"Yeah, it was really good. You're really creative." You could feel the heat radiating from your cheeks. “And I’m Steve, but you just said my name, so you already knew that…” he smiled awkwardly.

"I did, but that’s okay. And thank you."

Steve nodded, seeming like there was something more he wanted to say. "Hey, uh, I don't know if you're in Ms. Turner's biology class, by any chance?" You nodded your head.

"Second period." Steve's eyes seemed to brighten.

"Cool, I’m in period four. You, um, you seem really smart; I'm kind of struggling with the unit we're doing right now, do you think I might be able to ask you about it sometime?" He watched you with apprehension, and you could almost feel the nervousness coming off in tentative waves from him.

You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "Yeah, for sure. I'd love to help you out sometime." Steve grinned in relief.

"Great, thank you. Could I maybe have your number to plan to meet up?" He asked hesitantly. You nodded.

"Y-yeah, sure. Here-" you tore a page out of your binder along with a pen, scribbling your name and number onto it. "There you go…" you held out the paper, which he took and examined with retained excitement.

"Thanks! I'll text you soon," he promised. You grinned, nodding. The bell rang, and Steve looked up from the paper in his hands. "I have to go, I'll see you later?"

You nodded again, waving as you turned away. You had to cover your mouth to hide the giddy smile that was now splitting across your face. You couldn't believe it. This couldn't be real.

Your phone buzzed then in your pocket, and you pulled it out to check your message.

'Hey, it's Steve Rogers, from the hallway incident :) I was wondering if you're free on Saturday to meet up?'

You eagerly replied.

'Hi Steve. Saturday sounds great!'

Ding!

'Great, I'll see you then :)'

Today was a good day.

~End~

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed that, it was just a funny idea I had. This is somewhat of a peace offering in place of BBYNH ch.4, which I was supposed to upload around now, but it’s taking a little longer than I anticipated. I promise it’s on the way, hopefully by the end of the week. Thank you all so much for your support, love you all!

Tags- I feel like I should let everyone know how much I appreciate when you request to be tagged; it’s so nice to know you like my work and want to be up to date with my posts! I’m very sorry that I don’t reply to your requests, I want to let you know that I am receiving them but I’m scared of losing any so I just keep them in my inbox without answering. Thank you all so much, and let me know if you’d like to be added to all works or just one specific series! Unless you request not to be tagged in all works and prefer to be tagged in just one specific series (currently the only series in progress is Best Boyfriend You’ve Never Had), I will tag you in all future works! If I missed anyone, please let me know!

@crazy4thewinbros @palaiasaurus64 @the-instrumental-mortal @burningbiatch @satans-knitting-club @starkxpotts @bexboo616 @chaosinacoffeecup @learisa @socialheartbreak @la-meneur-louve @agentsinstorybrooke @colonel--sarge

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