#I swear if the try to glorify the blacks even more while trying to make the greens look like crap i'll personally go talk with the writes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

xkv8r · 2 months

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Macro Aggron Day Stuff

Friend of mine on Discord has an Aggron/Corviknight hybrid character so because it's Aggron day and marco March, I wrote him being a collossal fatass and eating buildings. Contains Macro, fat, and object vore. Aprox 2600 words, esitmated reading time: 13 minutes.

Demolition isn't exactly exciting work for someone like Mint. One would think knocking down a building would normally be fun, but steel types were usually relegated to "processing" which meant he would be eating the concrete and rebar that was deemed too expensive to bother recycling. Most of the good steel would be cut out and recycled, Mint was there to serve as little more than a glorified trash compactor. Still, for a corviknight aggron hybrid who would normally need to stake out a large chunk of an iron rich mountain to sate their hunger, it wasn't a bad deal. Getting paid to eat was a much better job than most people ever got an opportunity at, so long as he brought his appetite, job security was assured, and Mint always brought his appetite.

Every hour or so, a front end loader would dump another pile of reinforced concrete in front of his trailer and Mint would happily chew through the stone to get at the delicious rebar inside. Even as old, dry, and tough as these condemned buildings were, the concrete still held a rich texture to it, and once one got past the rust, the inside of the steel rebar was still plenty sweet. The Corvaggron's beak had only slight trouble crunching through the stuff, but his stomach had no difficulty breaking it down. Giving his belly a few pats, Mint popped the next chunk of rubble into his beak and gulped it down whole, feeling the heavy clunk as it was deposited into the pit of his gut.

A few unintelligible shouts from the demolition site caught Mint's attention, and having cleaned his plate so to speak, he figured there was no harm in taking a walk. Heaving himself off the trailer and into the dirt with a heavy thud, Mint was once again reminded of the consequences of his job. A career of sedentary eating had left its mark around the Corvaggron's waistline, pudgy belly, stuffed with rubble, bulging far enough forward that he could see it below his chestplate. Even if old buildings were relatively low calorie, Mint had always been a big eater, and while steel types were not known for being light, Mint was certainly up there for his species, no doubt the result of many years of demolition work.

Approaching the site, Mint found the site foreman and a couple other workers in the now exposed basement, staring at half a dozen black 55 gallon drums, one of which had been opened. The foreman was swearing up a storm and shouting angrily into a cell phone before slamming it back into a carrying case and turning to the other two workers. "What do they think we are, a brownstone cleanup operation? It's gonna take months for us to get the permits to deal with this!" The other two workers avert their gaze from their furious boss and try to avoid provoking him further before one of them spots Mint and gets an idea.

"Hey, why don't we see if the big guy can deal with it?" The other two give him puzzled looks before he elaborates on his plan, "The Corvaggron, he eats basically anything, right? He can probably drink the oil, we don't have to worry about getting a permit, and we're back on schedule." The foreman thinks for a moment before relenting with a sigh and a shrug. "Fine, bring him one and see if he eats it, I'm gonna go make some more calls." He says before walking off.

The two workers load up the open barrel into a handcart and wheel it over to Mint, who gives the contents a few experimental sniffs before shrugging and picking up the whole drum. The heavy liquid sloshes around inside and he has to adjust his grip on the drum a few times before tipping it back into his open maw. Thick, black, and surprisingly sweet oil pours from the barrel, which Mint happily chugs down, each gulp causing his dark blue underbelly to swell outward and hang low on his frame forcing his stance outward a bit to accommodate the his rapidly distending stomach, and pushing his armored chestplate into his neck ruff a bit. Each swallow packs away more than a gallon of the liquid, slowly but surely emptying the drum into his gut. When the last drops spill from the drum, Mint is bloated heavily and panting from exertion even as he licks the last drops of sweet crude from his beak.

The two workers look relieved at this development, thankful that they have a way to dispose of the problematic waste, but with five other drums stacked up and awaiting disposal, Mint has his work cut out for him. He turns the empty barrel sideways, crushing it like a soda can before biting through it like a cookie, scarfing down the flat metal disk in a pair of massive chomps before waddling forward to the remaining barrels while the workers roll another towards him. The second drum goes down as easily as the first, Mint simply lifts it over his head and lets the oil glug out of the barrel and into his open beak. One of the two workers gives Mint's heavy, swollen stomach a hearty slap in celebration, letting a few bubbles of air tumble out of his maw as a deep, resonant belch. "Alright big guy, you polish those off, we're going on break." The pair of workers walk off in the direction of the foreman, looking immensely pleased with themselves for having resolved the problem.

Meanwhile, Mint is left trying to chug drum after drum, panting and belching as his stomach distends into a sphere, clutching his belly with one claw while tipping back a drum with the other. Ominous metallic creaking echoes from his armored plates as Mint tries valiantly to complete his task, having gorged himself to the bursting point. It's when Mint starts to feel as if he can't take another drop that the sensation of fullness suddenly starts to abate. Shrugging at his newfound capacity, Mint makes his way back to the half demolished building at the center of his jobsite, a barrel under each arm, somewhat surprised to find his hips brush against the sides of doorway, and that he has to duck his head to avoid whacking his horns.

Returning to his job of devouring the rubble, the first few chunks of reinforced concrete slip effortlessly down Mint's lubricated throat, splashing into the pool of oil in his belly. He alternates between sipping from a drum and biting off bits of building, chomping through steel girders and gulping down gallons of crude with equal voracity. His hybrid metabolism works quickly, digesting the rubble almost as fast as Mint can cram it in. If not for the fact that he was completely engrossed in his meal, Mint might have seen that he was steadily growing bigger, rounder, and even taller, but the ravenous need to consume more and more is so distracting that even when his horns bump into the floor above him, Mint hardly notices.

A chunk of rubble tumbles loose from the ceiling above, smacking into Mint's belly, but fails to even scratch the thick armored plates of his torso, succeeding only in knocking loose a rumbling belch from his swollen stomach. Mint rips steadily larger and larger pieces out of the building, scarfing them down with reckless abandon, tearing the dilapidated structure asunder with each bite. As quickly as he clears the area around himself of metal and concrete, his body, and his reach grow in kind, letting him engage in further acts of unrestrained gluttony without even having to stand. Sat on his widening rump, Mint eats away every last bit of structural integrity the building has, letting it collapse into a pile that he scoops into his greedy maw.

Soon, all that remains of the building is a concrete pad, picked clean of everything save for a few pieces of bent rebar protruding at odd angles, and a bloated, gigantic Corvaggron, easily three times the size he was this morning. Mint heaves himself back up onto his feet, feeling the rubble grind and clunk together inside his gut before giving the misshapen mass a hearty pat and letting out a low belch. Despite having devoured a whole building, the sudden growth has only left Mint feeling even hungrier than before and he waddles off, looking for more to eat, stomach swaying with the weight of a building, each ponderous step leaving marks in the earth where his mass has packed the dirt flat.

Mint doesn't even make it to the road when his hunger strikes again, lifting a car off the side of the street and folding it in half, glass shattering and metal squealing before shoving it into his maw and taking bite out of the crushed heap of metal like a massive hamburger. In seconds, the crushed sedan is devoured and Mint is already eyeing his next snack. He grabs hold of another car, rolling it up before stuffing the compacted automobile into the open back of a construction van to make the metallic equivalent of a burrito. Mint takes massive bites out of his latest creation, letting leaking fuel dribble down his chin as he crams the crushed cars into his stomach. Before long, he is licking spilled gasoline off of his claws as he savors his meal. Mint belches out a few scraps of rubber tire, the release of air causing his gut to clamp down like a car compactor on its contents, crushing the twisted wrecks into a tight ball, belly echoing with the sounds of squealing and creaking.

By now, there is panic in the streets as everyone watches the building sized hybrid devour entire cars whole. Dozens of vehicles, abandoned by their drivers line the street, leaving behind a veritable buffet for Mint. Whatever isn't crushed flat under his ponderous footsteps or plowed into the trench left by his belly dragging along the ground quickly finds itself vanishing down his throat. Spotting a tanker truck amid the pileup, Mint lifts it out of the road, giving the tank a gentle shake to confirm the presence of liquid within before extending a claw, and effortlessly piercing a hole in the tank. Black gold pours from the truck by the ton, and the lumpy shapes of wrecked cars in his belly quickly soften and vanish as oil floods the pit of his stomach. By the time Mint has polished off the contents of the tanker truck, he has grown tall enough to see over the tops of all but the tallest of skyscrapers, and his doughy gut is too big to let him waddle down even the widest of roads without knocking down buildings.

Undeterred by the prospect of having to wade through buildings, Mint gets to work eating his way out of the city, ripping off chunks of skyscraper and shoveling them into his maw. To him, the city is one big buffet, and Mint has every intention of glutting himself on every delicacy it offers. Massive tail wagging back and forth, cutting down buildings like grain before a scythe, belly oozing into the streets and pancaking anything unlucky enough to be unable to get out of the way. Claws crushing concrete like it was chalk, nothing is spared Mint's relentless destructive appetite, anything that doesn't make it to his stomach is buried beneath the mountainous hybrid's ever expanding body.

Mint had almost made his way to the city outskirts when he spots another prospective meal, a cargo train barreling along the tracks, unaware of the danger until it is far too late. The train turns a corner to spot Mint, laying on the tracks, maw open wide, the operator slams on the brakes, but it's impossible to stop that much train that quickly, unless you are, of course, Mint's stomach. The train careens into his open maw, inertia forcing it deep into his belly. The cacophony of squealing brakes and crushing metal only serves as a dinner bell for mint as he greedily gulps down the train cars like sausage links, savoring the delectable flavors of all the different cargo. Half the train was still outside the Corvaggron when it stops pushing its way in on its own, but that does little to deter Mint, who simply starts to slurp down the remaining cars one by one, rubbing his belly as they coil up inside his stomach. Hauling himself back into a sitting position, Mint runs his talons over the blocky shapes of train cars that push outward against their prison, feeling his stomach compact them into a ball as he swallows the caboose whole. A deafening belch, many times louder than the train's horn was serves as a fitting epitaph for the doomed locomotive, and a sign for Mint to keep moving, knowing that even this won't sate his hunger for long.

Despite his slow, ponderous waddling, at his new size it takes Mint mere minutes to leave the city proper. Following his nose out and away from the more populated areas, the smell of more oil carries him towards more sparsely populated areas. The houses out here are mostly wood, and so small now that Mint barely notices when he crushes one flat underfoot. With each step, the scent of distant oil grows more powerful, as heavy and dark as the belly it will no doubt soon be filling. Mint is drooling at the smell, stomach grumbling at the thought of drinking his fill. The empty fields around here are totally barren of the metal he has grown used to being able to snack endlessly on, and Mint is left to waddle as fast as he can in the direction of the smell that has him enthralled. His feet press deep into the soft earth, and his belly dragging along the ground leaves a massive trench in his wake, but Mint is persistent, and this persistence is rewarded when he spots the drilling rig towers in the distance.

Breaking into as much of a sprint as the flabby colossus can, Mint makes a mad dash in that direction. Spotting a field of pumpjacks all working in unison to drain the oil field below his feet, Mint unceremoniously rips the head off one of the wells, and a dark geyser shoots out for a few seconds before Mint clamps his metallic beak down on the flow. The pressure is so high, he doesn't even have to swallow, the heavy liquid is simply forced into his stomach by the ton. Mint takes the opportunity to lie down on his belly and get as comfortable as possible, mindlessly gorging himself on the thick black bounty, even as his stomach bloats out far enough to lift his legs off the ground. Face pressed against the well by his rapidly expanding body, a distant part of his brain recognizes the tingling of clouds blowing against his taut hide, nearly spherical from the incredible volume of delicious oil. Every minute, more is forced inside his creaking belly, expanding outwards in every direction to contain the dense, sweet liquid. Mint is a veritable ocean of dark, armor plated blubber, engulfing everything around him at a steadily increasing pace, far and away the biggest single thing on the planet and still getting bigger.

#xkv8r writes #v.ore #v0re

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screechingkingdomhottub · 2 years

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hey guys angry white boy here to talk about racism, what could go wrong? I saw a post the other day that I won’t tag or anything cause I think it’s for a safe space for black people and that’s not my place? Anyway the post was essentially pointing out that people defend Billy from stranger things and glorify him even though he was very very racist. It got me thinking about how obvious racism needs to be for people to be like “oh that was racist”. Cause so many people are denying Billy was racist, he singled out the black kid and hated him, I think he called him “like that” or “that kind” at one point whICH like how can’t you tell??? But we live in times where people can say that stuff irl and worse and everyone goes “oh it was just a joke”, “oh it wasnt about race”. and that sucks. So I became hyper aware of racist shit I’ve been doing (yeah apparently you can still do that stuff once people have forgotten about black lives matter, shocking I know) and I’m gonna address them. - Avoiding watching media starring black people. I swear I never did this intentionally but when I look at the shows I’ve watched it’s like modern family, the middle, parks and rec, the office, boy meets world and brooklyn 99. While all these shows have some representation, some better than others, you can very easily make the argument that the main character and thus the person the audience is set up to empathise with most is white. And whilst characters like Captain Holt are main characters, I’d say Jake Peralta would be the main character of the show. I grew up watching fresh prince, thats so raven, true jackson vp so it’s not like I had a primarily anti-black childhood either. I genuinely think this is just because I subconsciously think I’d relate more to “white shows” which is stupid and anti black. I say anti black and not racist here cause I’ve recently been watching shows starring latin casts and as I’m typing this I’m realising I don’t know about a lot of asian shows that aren’t anime. What brought this to light is the new show Killing It which looks great, has one of the best actors around in it imo but I genuinely hesitated before watching it and I’m relatively sure it’s cause the main character is black. And that isn’t right but if I don’t admit it then it will continue. -Being hyperaware of my friends that are poc. This one I hate that I do, I’m really trying to see people as people while appreciating their cultures and where they came from but I’m so desperate to ensure that that isn’t always the focal point of our conversations that it does more damage than good. I think this will get better once I hang out with some of my poc friends (genuinely a mix of all different races here hence why im not naming the races but i get that it can sound like i mean the 2 black people i work with or something stupid like that) more and get more comfortable, right now non-white people seem new to me and I think that’s where this is an issue.

Those are things I currently do that I’ve realised are a problem and I’m fixing them. Things I used to do included: assuming people were white unless proven otherwise, spoke over poc especially black people, avoided reading about racial issues, got butthurt over really dumb stuff, assumed poc weren’t neurodiverse or queer (representation matters so much). Oh also just as an ending thing, a lot of this Ukraine support is rooted in racism - let me explain. Supporting Ukraine is important, supporting anybody suffering is important, that’s what being a human is about. However some of you acting like this is the first war and suddenly wanting to support refugees better start applying that same energy to Palestine and Syria and Iraq (yeah damage remains after a war, just cause they aint at war anymore doesnt mean theyre suddenly back to normal). “But if you look at who our enemies usually are...” 1) Racist af. 2) The enemy in the Ukraine situation is Russia and idk bout you but to me they look pretty similar.

There are so many videos on the internet of different animals coming together to take care of the young of a different animal. Because in nature, we’re programmed to look after children. If there’s a kid in need of money, I’ll give them some. If there’s a kid needing to know good adults exist and rescued, I’ll help them. I’d do absolutely anything to help a kid idk, most people are supposed to be that way like tigers and lions and wolves and dogs and any animal you can think of. But some of you won’t help a kid in a warzone because the media you like and the daily mail taught you to be scared of different melanin levels. This was a really long rant but sometimes I think this stuff is necessary, and I think sometimes a guy like me needs to say it cause you dont trust the guys that look different to me.

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andysbubba · 3 years

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Loving you

Andy Barber x Gender neutral (?) reader

-> the one where you’re tired of andy’s igorance towards himself

Note: Angst diffusing into fluff, the typical andy-kitchen scene i used in my candlelight loving fic— except there’s no smut, ++ feedbacks welcomed as always! and reblogs and likes are more than appreciated <33

𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Andy, baby. Will you please take a break?” You exasperatedly sigh when you see Andy still hovering over his desk in his study after the fifth time you told him to take some time to rest.

“I know, I know. Just a little more, honey. I’ll join you in bed in a bit, okay?” He only looked up at you for barely a second to reply before his eyes were back on the stacks of case studies and folders on his desk.

Truth be told, you were completely done with his bullshit.

You huff in frustration, rolling your eyes the slightest bit and muttering to yourself as you distanced yourself from Andy’s home office with full annoyance. “Fucking lawyers.”

Andy’s been fully hung up on work ever since one of his co-workers took a vacation off work just last week. Meaning that his already-extensive workload just got an upgrade. Also meaning that he’d drag his workload home and continue working his ass off in his study. Which really- there’s nothing wrong with your boyfriend being all diligent and assiduous.

But it really doesn’t seem all that glorifying when you’re the one having to deal with all his crap. You could’ve probably list down all the times he put fucking paperwork above you, and the list would probably have been as long as Article 1.

Unbeknownst to you, Andy caught onto what you said right before you left his study. He felt guilty, alright. All he’s done is to be a complete work-addict while you’re out there being the best lover one can ever ask for. And all he wants to do is to chase after you and apologize and stay in bed and order in pizza with you. But the never ending workload on his desk was the one thing keeping him away from having you all snug in his chest.

He shakes his head, eyes glancing back down at his work. He was beyond exhausted, the pot of coffee you made him and the hope that the earlier he wraps his work up, the earlier he can shower you with all the love you deserved, was his only motivation to keep reading though the files and trying to get as much work done.

You groggily rubbed your eyes as you tried to feel around the sheets for Andy. And honestly? You weren’t even surprised that he wasn’t there. It was 7 in the morning, and it was too early for Andy to be up if he actually went to sleep last night. You could only assume that he never even went to bed, no matter how much you wished otherwise.

You head out to his study, the door’s still opened as it was yesterday and the faint noise of keyboard clicking tells you that Andy’s still working inside.

“Babe?” You knocked on the wooden door, trying to get his attention.

Andy’s hunched in his seat, eyes switching between his laptop and the files from time to time as he typed. He glances up at you, just a little surprised.

“Did you get some sleep, honey?” You asked, even though you knew you’d only receive the answer you dreaded so much.

He glances at the digital clock on the wall, only realising that it’s been 6 hours since you last came in to check on him. He scratches the back of his neck as he shook his head and mentally cursed himself. “I—”

He considered lying, but he already felt as bad for leaving you to sleep alone the whole night and breaking his promise on joining you in bed. And knowing you, you’d probably see right through his lies anyway.

You sigh, shaking your head and disappointedly rubbing your face. “I swear to god, Andrew—” You turned away before you could allow yourself to get even more pissed at him. Which most probably would’ve been impossible.

Caffeine. God— caffeine sounds fucking amazing right now.

Andy’s beyond guilty. So much more than what he felt yesterday. And his heart burns when he sees you so disappointed and pissed at him. The kind of pain where it feels like it’s being crushed and squashed.

He didn’t even realise that he went a whole night of work without sleep. Nor did he realise the time. Or that he forgot to keep his promise to join you in bed. Or the fact that he never paid attention to you for more than 5 minutes in the last 10 hours. Or that he didn’t join you for dinner. Or— okay, the list is long alright. And Andy knows he’s hurt you- the one person who’s patient enough to deal with him and the one person he loves above anything else in the goddamn world.

He ditched his laptop and stood up. Stretching his legs and working out the kinks in his muscles.

Andy trailed behind your footsteps, leaving his study for the first time in almost a day. It really took you to be angry at him just to get him out of the study. Andy knows his sorry isn’t enough. And you truly deserved every right to be pissed at him.

You were sorting your morning tea out when he came into the kitchen. Andy couldn’t help but smile fondly at you- or rather, your back really. For goodness sake, Andy’s head over heels in love with you. With every inch of you from head to toe. It is truly indescribable.

He steps up behind you, arms wrapping around your shoulders, and his chin resting on the tiny area joining your shoulder and your neck.

“Hi, baby,” He pressed a soft kiss on where his chin was before.

He wasn’t surprised that you stayed silent and continued doing your own thing. He knows damn well he deserves the silent treatment, alright.

“Honey,” He trails off as his thumbs rubbed circles on both sides of your shoulder. “Talk to me please, baby.”

You let out a heavy sigh, unwilling to turn and look at him, but you knew stirring tea wasn’t enough to occupy the next 3 minutes of your life, let alone the next few hours.

Andy turns you around by your shoulders, one hand shifting your mug to the side so he doesn’t accidentally mess up more and end up spilling hot tea all over you. He picks you up by your sides and sets you down softly on the counter.

His head was around your chest level now. As much as Andy wanted to bury his head in your chest and stay there forever, he knows he has to say something because you definitely won’t say it first. He takes your hands in his, bringing it up to his lips and kissing your knuckles, his pretty blue eyes staring up at you the whole time.

One look and you know he’s sorry. His watery eyes bring you to that conclusion.

“I’m sorry, honey.” He sighs, guiltily holding your palm up to the side of his face. “I know I hurt you. I was just so focused on the case that I didn’t even realise I hurt you, baby. You deserve all the right to be mad at me and ignore me and- fuck. I really messed up, Y/n.”

Andy shakes his head, “I just thought that if I wrapped up all my work, I’d have more time with you.” He chuckles humourlessly. “I know what I did was wrong, baby. You gave me more than enough chances yesterday but I messed up every one and I left you.”

He glances into your eyes desperately, his hand gripping onto your palm on his cheek tightly. You know it’s a silent plea for you to respond and do that thing he loves about your touch.

You find yourself surrendering to his silent plea, and your thumb brushed the side of his face. Soft and repeatedly. The comfort it brought Andy was beyond words. He leaned into your palm, seeking more of your touch.

“You’ve been nothing but understanding and caring and I just kept on taking advantage of that.” Andy was grateful he had someone as amazing as you. “ I’m so sorry I hurt you, honey. I know I j- just completely left you alone— and shit, you don’t deserve that, my love.” The crack in his voice broke your resolve.

You breathed deeply, bringing your other palm up to the other side of his face. “Baby, you really don’t get it, do you?” You paused, searching his eyes before realising that Andy didn’t truly understand why you were upset in the first place. “Andy, everytime I came up to check on you— that was for you. I wanted you to get some rest, honey. You looked exhausted every single time I came in, and I hated that you just ignored your own health.”

“You skipped dinner, bub.” Your hands shifts down to the back of his neck, pulling him in closer. “All this overworking and sleepless nights— I just wish you’d take care of yourself more, Andy.”

Andy sighs, hands shifting down to your hips and he leans in, burying his head in the middle of your chest.

You felt his lips moving against your his shirt as he murmured. “I know, ‘m sorry.” Andy inhaled deeply, your natural, comforting scent piercing through his nose. “I missed you, bubba,”

You run a hand through his hair. “I missed you too, love.” You lean down and kissed the top of his head. “You wanna go wash up or get some rest while I heat up yesterday’s dinner?”

“Wanna stay just like this.” He mumbled into the fabric of your his shirt.

You laughed heartily, “Go nap on the couch, Barbie.” He pulls away from your chest. “Or at least, please go brush your teeth. I’ll fix up somethin’ for you.”

“And sleep with me after?” He arched a brow, and you took the time to scan over Andy’s face. He looks so fucking exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes and the barely noticeable strands of gray hair among the luscious black is a simple message that he was stressed. And god, you wanted nothing more than to take care of him and make sure he’s all healthy and— lord.

“Anything you want, baby. As long as you don’t step foot in the study till tomorrow afternoon.” You pressed your forehead against his, lips touching into an easy kiss.

You were both exhausted— Andy with his lack of sleep and you having to worry over him almost every 45 minutes. You both needed the rest. And some time together where it’s just the two of you and no one else exists.

#chris evans #chris evans x reader #cevans #cevans x reader #steve rogers #steve rogers angst #steve rogers smut #andy barber #andy barber angst #andy barber fluff #andy barber x reader #andy barber x male reader #chris evans x male reader #gay andy barber

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bluefirewrites · 3 years

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not sure if u are still taking this but, celebrity/fan au for JUKEE 🤭

Okay this one's a little involved but I got you!

Rated T for mentions of sex and maybe some language

SEND ME A SHIP AND A NUMBER AND I’LL WRITE A SHORT FIC

******

Julie tugs against the rather short dress Flynn had squeezed her in, not caring for how much she looks like a glorified candy wrapper in the shimmering gold.

She feels like she's some Ferrer Roche, waiting to be devoured.

Which seems to be her intention for tonight because she's insane, and so is her bestie Flynn, because she's supposed to grab the attention of a certain someone in this club.

Her motives for tonight sound like they come straight out of a Wattpad story, but her boyfriend- or well maybe an ex boyfriend now'- forced her hand.

So a year ago, right around the time they started dating, they both disclosed their 'hall passes'. Just a list of celebrities they were both 'allowed' to cheat on their partners with. It was fun. Just to see who the other person would pick.

It was harmless because the whole point is that these people are so famous, so far out of reach, that the odds of hooking up with them would be essentially impossible.

Nick's was the lead singer of the world famous pop group Dirty Candi. And Julie remembers drunkenly applauding the choice ("She's pretty! Wowww you like them Bubblegum Pop girls?")

They had a laugh that night and Julie doesn't really consider that hall pass conversation all that much since then-

-Until fast forward to last week when Nick disclosed to her that he ran into Carrie Wilson at an event. And then promptly disclosed to her that he invoked his 'Hall Pass' rights.

His rights?! She had exploded at him, and he claims that its no big deal. That he thought she would understand that it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, a crazy set of circumstances, and that- 'Holy shit Jules, she was actually into me. Like what?'

Understandably, Julie stormed out and has been staying with Flynn for the time being. And it must have been the haze of crying and watching a lot of true crime series to cheer herself up that she and Flynn concocted this... plan.

One fueled by spite and pettiness.

Get back at Nick, make him jealous, make him feel how she did- by invoking her own 'Hall Pass' rights-

-which so happens to be Sunset Curve frontman, Luke Patterson...

"There he is" Flynn whispers from their corner of the club and Julie gulps.

"I don't think I can do this," Julie hisses at Flynn, when they spot him at the bar, nursing a drink with his bandmates like he usually would (they did their research).

See, Julie’s been a fan of Luke’s for a long time. Ever since she heard ‘Now or Never’ in freshman year of high school, she’s been hooked onto their music- especially Luke and his voice and playing.

She had their posters on her bedroom wall and had been that girl who would (when no one’s looking) press her fingers to her lips then press them against Luke’s image before going to bed.

It was that bad.

And Julie had probably fantasized on more than one occasion of meeting him and all the other scenarios you would picture in a typical Celeb x Reader scenario.

And she’d like to think she grew out of it, now she’s in her mid-twenties and just casually listens to Sunset Curve, following up on their careers every now and then.

But you can never really shake your first major celebrity crush. Hence he had been on her so called ‘Hall Pass’ list.

(”You into rockstars, Jules?” Nick had teased her that night.)

Seeing him there, in the same place as her, is so surreal, but Flynn’s continued pinches to her arm remind her just how real this is.

“This is ridiculous,” Julie crosses her arms, ready to bow out because what is she thinking? Why would Luke Patterson pick her up, of all people, at the bar? It’s like a supermodel runway in here, filled with girls more accomplished and famous. Her confidence is shaken a bit and she rethinks everything.

"Nick didn't seem to have a problem when he did it," Flynn points out, “And girl, you look great. He would be blind to not want you.”

The mention of Nick still boils her blood, which only reaffirms her plans for revenge. She’s still nervous but they both stand up from their booth and walk over to the bar.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my best friend,”

“No. You’re musician extraordinaire, Julie Molina! The world may not have heard about you, but they will one day. I bet that’s something you can talk to him about. Music? Lyrics?”

Julie could use her songwriting credentials to her advantage, “I mean I guess-”

“Quick, he’s getting up!”

“Flynn, wait I’m not-”

With a forceful push, Flynn sends Julie into the path of Luke Patterson, colliding into him and effectively spilling his drink all over her dress.

“Oh my god,” Luke gapes at her, “I am so sorry-”

Julie fans herself, shaking slightly from the fact she’s drenched and also that her freakin’ high school celebrity crush is looking at her, actually talking to her.

But she recovers quickly, and she speaks, “It’s fine. Really. I guess I’m just... clumsy.” She shoots a glare at Flynn, who merely winks and retreats to their booth.

Luke grimaces and takes her by the hand, leading her somewhere, napkins in his other hand, “Here, let’s get you cleaned up. Again, I’m sorry. Hate to ruin a pretty... dress.”

It’s the way he eyes her that catches Julie off guard. He’s... not talking about the dress, is he?

Julie reels it back in tries her hand at a joke, “I wouldn’t call this a dress. I feel like fancy leftovers in this thing.”

Luke stifles a laugh, “Okay, I mean I wasn’t gonna say anything but yeah. I guess it’s a bit tin foil-y.”

“Not your style?”

His gaze drifts over to her one last time, “Well, any way to take a meal back home is fine by me. I mean-” Luke scrunches his nose, wincing, “I didn’t- I didn’t mean it like that. Shit. That was too... much. Are we-” he laughs nervously, “Are we still... talking about food?”

“Unless you just called me a meal. Then no.”

The look in his eyes say that he’s absolutely mortified, “...yeah. I think I did. I was hoping that was a nightmare.”

“Nope, it definitely happened,”

“Feel free to slap me,”

Julie giggles, somewhat delirious because she hasn’t tried to flirt with him but here Luke is, flirting with her. Or trying. And failing. Like a far cry from the suave rockstar she had pictured him to be.

“No need. Just, can you-?” she points to the napkins he’s holding hostage.

“Oh yeah. Here,” They stop in front of the coat check, and he hands her the napkins so she could try herself off with the best she can.

Suddenly, a weight falls onto her shoulders, she looks up and sees Luke draping a jacket over her- his presumably.

“You looked cold,”

Julie wraps the jacket tight against her, relishing in the warmth, “Wow, thanks.”

Luke smiled and stepped back, “Just so you know, if I made you feel weird in any way, I’d like to throw out my third ‘sorry’ of the night. Nothing has to happen though. So, just say the word and I’ll leave you alone.”

Whew. Um, okay. Julie stands there, faced with this decision.

The compliments aside (she will revisit those later), Luke’s giving her an out. Any reservations she has about moving forward with this plan, this is her chance to leave.

She could just treasure these amazing few minutes for the rest of her life. This could be a story to tell friends at a dinner party, about the time a rockstar lent her his jacket. Would be up there with the time Jack Black passed her on the street and said “Nice hat!”.

But-

Maybe she wants to see where this goes.

“All this talk about food is making me hungry though...” she says and Luke lights up, “I could go for a bite to eat.”

Luke snaps his fingers, “I know just the place.”

*******

Half an hour later, Julie and Flynn are in a smelly alleyway with the guys from Sunset Curve, in line for a street dog cart just a couple blocks away.

“An Oldsmobile?” Julie gawked after hearing Luke and the guys describe the delicacy, “Are you trying to poison me?”

“I swear by it,” Luke insists, taking her hand and moving them up in the line. Flynn sees this and doesn’t comment, but Julie’s starting to get used to Luke doing that, “You have to try!”

Julie doesn't know when she got over her initial starstruck, but by now its so easy to treat Luke like a regular person.

Well, celebrities are all regular people in the end, but more so now that he and his friends, have their sleeves rolled up, smiles wide, ready to dig into what may be the most disgusting hot dog she has ever seen.

Julie takes a bite out of hers and her eyes widen. Wow. It's not terrible.

"Ayy! We got another one, boys" Reggie laughs, noting her reaction.

"Told ya" Luke needles her sides and she giggles, ticklish. Her knee jerk reaction is to playfully shove him, but in the process accidentally smeared some mustard onto his face.

Luke goes to lick it off with his tongue, making funny faces as he did which amused Julie even more.

"Here," she takes a napkin and wipes at his cheek, "Now we're even."

The whole group gets to talking over by the couches, while Flynn chats up the other boys, Julie and Luke are sequestered in their own corner, and yes, eventually the topic switches to music.

"Wait, so you know Rose and the Petal Pushers?" Luke chokes out, "Like everyone I talk to hasn't heard of them!"

"Yup. Have their record actually" Julie beams proudly, censoring out the part that its her mom's band and hence she has one of the few records ever released.

Luke is floored by that and continues to poke her brain for music and Julie finds that their spiels go on naturally, that she could probably talk with Luke for hours and hours.

Which ends up happening. Flynn had already made her escape, having texted her to come home safely, the boys had gone too, leaving them in the nearly empty lot.

When the food truck closes down for the night, they end up taking a stroll down the streets of L.A, talking and getting to know each other.

Julie learns so much about Luke, things she's never heard about from the press- like his songwriting practice, that he cries at Finding Nemo, and that he can do a cartwheel only when drunk.

And in return Julie shares with him her crazy college stories, how she misses her mom sometimes, and that she is encyclopedia of commercial jingles (a fact Luke exploits by rapidly quizzing her at random moments)

Somehow they end up near the beach, with Julie pointing out the different stars she could see, but finds that Luke isn't looking at the sky.

"Hey, Julie..." He gets her attention, "I had a really good time tonight."

"Me too"

"So... would it be alright, if I kiss you?"

Julie's mouth parts, speechless. It happened. Holy shit it happened or... is happening. She has Luke exactly where she wants him.

She could only nod and Luke takes it as the sign to lean in, but just as his lips is about to brush against hers, she freaks-

"Wait" she steps back. Luke opens his mouth, "No. No more 'sorry's from you. This one's one me. I'm sorry but... this- this" She sighs, "I have to be honest with you."

Then she tells Luke everything- Nick, The Hall Pass, her plans for tonight- basically admitting to using him.

When she's done, she expects for Luke to get angry, to leave in a huff and never want to see her again.

That's not what happens.

"This Nick guy sounds like a piece of work" he says.

Julie nods slowly, "Yeah... I guess he was. So maybe that's why I did it. But I don't think I could have gone through with it. Like I don't think we're together, me and Nick but-"

"You wouldn't want to do what he did. Because you don't want to hurt people," Luke surmises, understanding, "And by doing that, that means you're a better person than he is."

"I guess"

"No Julie, you're a good person" Luke insists, "Man, I think that makes me like you even more."

Julie laughs, "God, if my high school self could see me now..."

"You were a big fan?"

"I'm not having this conversation right now with you,"

"Okay cuz now you got me curious-"

Julie swats his shoulder but it doesn't deter the guy from snickering.

On a more serious note though-

"I think..." Julie hums, "I think this means that I got some stuff to work through. Before I could start considering... this."

"I understand"

"But thank you... Luke. For tonight"

"It's been real, Julie,"Luke smiles and pulls her in for a half hug, "And you should keep the jacket. Looks better on you anyway."

****

Julie goes back to Flynn's that night and her bestie's still awake, wanting all the deets. But there's not much to tell. Nothing happened.

She shrugs off the jacket and resigns to the couch, not caring that her makeup is still on. She's about ready to pass out.

Her phone dings.

She pulls it out and sees two notifications.

luke_patterson is now following you

luke_patterson is requesting to message you.

Curious, she accepts the request.

'here if you want to talk, Tin Foil :P'

Julie rolls her eyes and collapses onto the couch, sleeping with a smile on her face.

She doesn't know it now, but the oncoming years would be filled with more messages back and forth, meetups with their friends for more shady street food, building a solid foundation of friendship and eventually, when Luke asks again if he could kiss her, Julie would eagerly prop herself on her toes to close the gap.

Yeah, Julie's high school self would definitely be screaming...

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #juke #julie molina #luke patterson #luke x julie #julie x luke #this one turned into an actual fic wtf #lol #i got carried away #long post #blue answers asks #celebrity/fan au

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kedreeva · 2 years

Note

Are we talking about OCs? I've been working on some for a while now and I've been really hoping to get some positive feedback on then eventually. I'm still nervous and haven't started posting about them yet, but I hope to do so very soon!

Two characters I've made recently aren't even the main ones of my stories (and WIP games!) but I really think they're lovely! I like subverting expectations with tropes, you see, and taking stereotypes and genres that have been done to death and try to rework them into something new while still keeping some aspects of the original trope.

Both characters so far are nameless, but they both deal in nightmares and dreams. The Nightmare one is dark and gothic and dressed in blues and blacks, and the Dreamer is light and airy and dressed in oranges, pinks, purples and yellows like the sunset.

But where things differ is that the Dreamer is actually much more demonic in nature, using his charm and positive aura to glorify negative things like crimes in people's dreams to tempt them to act on detestable things by making them seem beautiful, and the Nightmare is quiet and polite and respectful, and uses his ability not to torment others, but instead uses the nightmares as a way to warn them, to show them disasters or dangers that could have the potential to happen to them, so that if anything in those nightmares happens to come true, they already know how to deal with it and how to react in order to survive.

The Dreamer has sharp eyes and equally sharp teeth, and the Nightmare has soft angel wings and big, tired eyes, as an extra sort of hint that things aren't quite as they seem.

I've got plenty more characters that subvert tropes like this, and I'm waiting on just a few more followers until I start posting about them and trying to gain a community and fandom of my own like I've always hoped for!

The GREAT thing about tumblr is that you don't have to wait for followers! The more you post, the more people will have access to seeing your stuff, and will come in time. Start posting about them! People can (and will) backread when they get interested, I swear!

These sound like excellent characters, I also enjoy trope subversion. are they friends or enemies? or strangers, I suppose!

#asks #oc friday

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theskywaslookingback · 3 years

Text

[AO3]

“Why do you even have that?”

Sasha looks up from her laptop to give Jon a quizzical look. They’ve been deep in a research hole for hours now, Jon with his files spread out before him like a buffet and Sasha picking her way through line after line of code to access things that she really shouldn’t be able to access - although, the government should have better security if it didn’t want to get hacked so she tried not to feel too badly about it. Jon’s not looking at his files now though, his gaze appears to be drawn to her shoe-box sized kitchen.

“Why do I have what?” She asks, “A kitchen?”

“No, the--” He flicks his fingers in a vague gesture to the counter, and his eyebrows pull together in a fetching little wrinkle that Sasha desperately wants to smooth away with her thumb, “the absolutely massive thing you have taking up half your kitchen.”

“Oh!” Sasha says, and then starts to laugh.

The stand mixer is large, honestly, too big to store in the meagre storage space of her cabinets and taking up half the countertop next to the stove. It’s also a garish bright red, loud against the backdrop of beige walls and a white lino countertop. She wonders why on earth Jon’s bringing this up now, they’ve been working for hours now and this certainly isn’t the first time he’s visited her flat, and decides the answer to simply be that ‘it’s Jon, he’s probably just never noticed.’

He’s fully scowling at her now, in a way she knows is defensive. He probably thinks she’s making fun of him. He can be so sensitive. “Sorry,” She says when she stops laughing long enough to speak, “I think you just caught me off guard. It was cute.”

“Cute?” Jon starts to sputter, the tips of his ears darkening and his nose wrinkling.

He is cute, Sasha thinks.

She waves it off. “It was a wedding present. That’s one of the big ones, I think, for most people. First thing I added to the registry.”

Jon couldn’t look more blind-sided if he’d been hit by a lorry. He even drops his pen, staring at her with wide eyes. “You’re married?”

Sasha snorts. “Don’t be daft. Does it look like I’m living with someone?”

Jon looks around anyway like he’s looking for evidence. “Divorced?”

“Nope.” She says, popping the ‘p’ with extra emphasis and grinning at the helpless confusion radiating from her friend.

“Then--” Jon trails off. He looks at the stand mixer again, like maybe it holds the answers he’s seeking. He looks back at her, and then down at his files. Suddenly his head jerks up and he says, “Wait, have you ever even been engaged?” He says this so seriously it tugs at Sasha’s heart. His eyes narrow like he’s caught her in some kind of trap, as though that wasn’t what she was expecting.

Sasha grins. “No.”

Jon looks at her incredulously, like he’s fitting together a bunch of puzzle pieces in his mind. It’s fun. Jon is so fun. “Sasha, did you fake an engagement just to get a stand mixer?”

“Yes!” Sasha slams her laptop shut and points at Jon, “But do not tell my great aunt that, do you understand? It took me years of work to get that stand mixer, Jon!”

Jon stares at her silently for just a moment, absolutely bewildered, before he dissolves into laughter, curling in on himself and digging his fingers into his sides. It shakes his shoulders and Sasha swears there’s tears in his eyes and before she knows it she’s laughing too, hard enough it hurts her chest and blurs her vision. To an outside viewer they must look positively loony. It takes ages for them to stop and gather themselves back together. Jon takes off his glasses to wipe tears away from his eyes while Sasha rubs at her face and tries to stop the giggles that keep bubbling up when she looks at Jon.

“God,” Jon says at last, “I haven’t laughed like that in--” he clears his throat, “anyway.”

“Yes,” Sasha agrees, “anyway.”

She looks at the clock and is both shocked and completely unsurprised that it’s after midnight.

Jon must follow her gaze because she hears him utter a quiet, “good lord.”

She’s dangerously close to laughing again.

Jon starts to shuffle his files away back into their folders. “Later than I thought.” He says.

Sasha hums in agreement, putting her laptop away and sorting her notes into neat piles. “No use trying to get home this late, you might as well just stay the night.”

“Ah,” Jon’s nose does that cute wrinkle thing again, and Sasha’s lips twitch, “that’s quite alright. I’m sure I can just find a cab.”

“Could do,” Sasha agrees, “but it’d be easier if you stayed. I’ve got an extra toothbrush and everything. Plus, tomorrow is Saturday so it’s not like we have to rush back to work or anything.”

Jon’s got all his things put back in his messenger bag, a solid olive green canvas affair that Sasha privately thinks is dreadful looking. “Wouldn’t want to spoil your weekend. I’m sure you have plans.” He’s stalling, looking for a reason not to go. Sasha wishes he’d just tell her what he wants.

She smiles, because Jon isn’t easy but she knows him and she likes him anyway, “Well, I was going to put that stand mixer to work and make myself some bread. But other than that--” She shrugs.

Jon’s eyes go once more to that bright red piece of kitchen equipment. “You make your own bread?”

“Sure. It’s cheaper and it tastes better.”

Jon makes a thoughtful noise. “Well, I suppose… that is, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Lovely,” Sasha beams, and then adds slyly, “I’ve even got some of Tim’s things you can sleep in.”

Jon goes properly red at that and buries his face in his hands with a groan.

Sasha busies herself with getting her ingredients together while Jon wakes up. Before they’d become friends she’d always just kind of assumed he’d be a morning person. He had that air about him at work, sharp and alert even when she was still trying to get her head on. The truth is that while Jon has difficulties getting to sleep, he would happily sleep until mid-afternoon if she let him, so she makes sure to wake him at a decent hour and then goes back to check and make sure he hasn’t fallen back asleep. Since her flat is basically a glorified closet, and Jon sleeps on the sofa, this is not a hard task to keep an eye on.

It takes a good twenty minutes before Jon comes and sits himself down at what she generously calls a kitchen table. His hair hangs in curls around his shoulders and he impatiently pushes a hand through it where it covers his face. He’s still sleepy-eyed, the sleeves of Tim’s jumper she’d let him borrow pooling around his hands.

“Good morning.” She says with amusement.

He grunts, flopping into a rickety chair. “Coffee?” He asks.

“All out. Tea alright?”

He nods.

“Great. Kettle is over there.” She gestures vaguely to the area next to the fridge, “Tea is top cabinet.”

Jon sighs, like it’s a great effort for him to make his own tea, but offers no further complaint as he retrieves the kettle and fills it with water.

With Jon out of the way Sasha appropriates the table for more space to set out her scale and bowls. She won’t need anything too fancy today so it doesn’t take long to get set up. She hears the kettle and turns around just in time to see Jon half-way climbing onto the counter. “Jon!” She scolds, similar to the way she would her cat when she was a child.

He freezes and gives her a sheepish grin. “You said top cabinet.”

She did, and she hadn’t thought about the almost foot of height she had on Jon. She snorts and waves him down. “Grab the mugs, I’ll get the tea then.”

He grumbles something about doing it himself but obliges, plucking two mugs from the drying rack.

“Green tea alright?”

Jon makes a dismissive noise. “Black?”

“Out.”

“I’m taking you shopping after this, Sasha James, this is downright unacceptable.”

“Yeah, sure.”

She hands him the box of tea bags and he rolls his eyes at her, muttering as he fills their mugs with water.

“Do you at least have milk?”

“Yes.”

“Thank god.”

Sasha rolls her eyes and gets back to her scale, weighing out her dry ingredients.

“Why are you doing it like that?”

“By weight?”

Jon hums.

“It’s more accurate by weight than by volume, typically.”

“You can’t just, I don’t know, eye-ball it?”

“Jonathan Sims have you ever baked anything in your entire life?”

She takes the jerky shrug he gives in response as a no. She shakes her head and dumps her flour and yeast into the mixing bowl of her stand mixer. Jon hovers there at her shoulder, watching, so close she can almost feel his breath.

It gives her a wicked idea.

She reaches a hand up, like she’s checking something, and then flicks the mixer on high.

Flour explodes from the mixing bowl in a cloud of white, covering her and Jon and the countertop.

The little shriek Jon gives will stay with her for a very long time.

“Why?” He asks, mouth agape and positively covered in flour.

“Because I knew it would be funny.” Sasha says, laughing. There’s flour in her hair, and she’ll definitely need to wash her clothes, but the look in Jon’s wide eyes and the slowly blooming smile on his face is worth it.

It takes less time than she thinks to get everything clean again, and the second time she even allows Jon to help her measure ingredients and start the mixer. He’s very serious about the whole thing, watching the scale with a grim kind of determination like it would mean death if he added just a bit too much yeast to the dough, but it’s the most fun Sasha’s had in forever. By the end of the day she has enough bread to wrap a loaf up for Jon to take home, and he looks at her like she’s just given him the greatest gift he’s ever received.

“Same time next week?” She asks as she wraps his scarf around his neck.

“I suppose.” He says, ducking his head to avoid the kiss she tries to plant on his cheek. “If you’re amenable.”

“I’m amenable.” She says, and kisses the top of his head anyway.

Sasha watches him leave and Jon turns back at the end of the hallway to wave, before disappearing into the stairwell. She laughs, bright and happy, and closes the door.

#fic #my fic #jonathan sims #sasha james #days before; unwinding

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angryinternetduck · 3 years

Text

When All Feels Lost Chapter One: All Business A scheme, some terrible plays, an outburst in an elevator. Rom coms, late night talks, dreadful kale and carrot juice. Harry Styles is one arrogant son of a bitch. [producer!harry x actress!reader; enemies to lovers] Warnings: explicit language and alcohol consumption about 11,000 words series masterlist | general masterlist | ask

~*~ The interior of the staircase doesn’t match the exterior of the apartment building at all.

On the outside, the building is run down. The paint of the windowsills is chipped, dead flowers lay wilted in graying flower boxes. It’s not quite derelict enough to catch the eyes of passerby, though; in fact, it’s so unnoticeable that you almost walk right past it.

When you walk in, the door creaks loudly. A small bell tries and fails to mask the sound, ringing out a pleasant chime just barely noticeable over the whine of the door. The man behind the desk looks bored, but a slight bit of interest crosses his face when you ask for the producer you’re looking for: Harry Styles.

The man at the desk points you up the stairs, tells you where to go.

Apparently, Mr. Harry Styles has a level all to himself. The staircase up to his apartment is lined with awards, certificates, and framed newspaper clippings. Where there are shelves, more awards in the form of small trophies cover every surface.

Despite yourself, you’re a little in awe. You knew how famous he was, how good he was at his job, but you never really saw all his glory laid out before you like this. It’s really quite impressive.

When you arrive at the door, you take a second to pause before knocking. You take a breath, read the gold plaque on the door: Harry E. Styles. Executive Producer. You let the breath out, and then knock.

“Come in.”

You walk inside. It’s a big office. There’s a leather sofa on one wall, a desk in the back covered in papers. A coffee table sits in front of the couch, covered in even more papers. Stacked on top of and spilling out of filing cabinets are thin yellow books, bold black print on their covers.

And Harry Styles himself is sitting on the couch. He’s terribly handsome, you notice first, all tan skin and tattoos peeking out of sleeves and green eyes when he looks up at you. He smiles, and you see dimples.

He’s also a mess. His crisp white shirt is undone one too many buttons, his bow tie unknotted around his neck. The coat of his black suit is over the back of the large chair behind the desk.

It hits you, then, that this man isn’t a big time producer. He was a big time producer. You close your eyes for a split second, thinking back to the dates on the newspapers, all from years ago, back to the less-than luxurious building he’s residing in.

He produced countless hits on countless stages, but none in the last few years. Which is odd, seeing how he looks young - he can’t be more than twenty five, twenty six, but it somehow seems like eons ago when you last saw his name in the papers.

Well, it seems like eons since you’ve seen his name glorified in the papers and online. He’s been featured quite a few times with horrific reviews, critics ripping his pieces to shreds and complaining about the once-master reduced to nothing.

Really, that’s the only reason you’re here, the only reason you think you have a shot with him: he’s probably just as desperate as you are. He hasn’t produced a hit in ages. You haven’t starred in a hit in ages.

You’ve been to every other place imaginable, starting at the top and spiraling down, but you haven’t been able to find a job anywhere. You’re the picture of a starving artist. You’re an actress - a damn good one, too - but haven’t seen the stage in months.

“Are you lost?” Harry Styles asks after a moment, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You blink. “No.”

“Alright, then,” he sighs, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. A sliver of muscled stomach peeks out at you as his shirt lifts, and you frown, your gaze darting back to meet his eyes, which are staring at you almost challengingly.

“I need a job,” you say.

“There’s a McDonald’s down the street,” he replies flatly. “It’s hiring.”

“I’m an actress.”

He quirks an eyebrow and then turns around, walking over to his desk. “Then the reason you don’t have a job is because you’re stupid.” You frown more, following him further into the room. He collapses into the chair, which squeaks and bounces under him.

“I’m not stupid,” you tell him, a sliver of irritation flashing through you. “You were the best producer Broadway’s ever seen. I need a job.” He laughs wryly, shaking his head. “‘Were’ being the key word there.”

“You must have something.”

“Yeah, I have something,” he says. “I have a lot of somethings. But a play isn’t one of those somethings.” He stands up again, heaves a sigh. “Neither is patience. So I’m asking you to leave, please, and find some other poor bloke to torture.”

“I’m not torturing you,” you say, stepping forwards rather than back. “I’m asking you for a spot in one of your plays.” His face hardens, and he juts out a finger at you. “Listen to me,” he says lowly. “I’m not producing a play. I’m too fucking broke for that, and it’s not like there are people lined up outside to support me.”

You scoff. “So what the hell are you doing in here?”

He blinks, his hand lowering as his expression melts and his face softens. “Withering away,” he mutters under his breath. “Just leave,” he sighs. “There’s nothing for you here. You look like a good actress… or whatever. You’ll find something else.”

“No,” you snap. “No, I won’t. This is my only option. I’ll do anything.”

He sits down at his desk. “Moose Murders,” he says.

He’s joking. You know he is. Moose Murders is widely considered the worst play ever created. But you sit down across from him anyway, because this is a test, and goddammit you’re going to pass this test and get a job if it’s the last thing you do. “Sold,” you say. “Moose Murders. I’ll do it.”

For a moment, he studies you. You’re a bit intimidated, but you hold his gaze.

Finally, he leans forward. He folds his hands in front of him, on the desk on top of loose pieces of paper. “Would you like to know my secret?” he asks, and you pause. You wonder if it’s another test, but if it is, you have no idea what the right answer is.

A hesitant, “Okay,” is what you decide on.

He clears his throat. “I’m going to try and perform a heist.”

“You what?”

He smiles, almost sweetly, and says, “I’m planning a scheme to cheat rich investors out of thousands of dollars.” Your jaw drops, just slightly, and you have absolutely no idea what to say to that. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” Harry Styles mutters. He stands up, shoves his hands into his pockets, and starts pacing. You turn around and watch as he walks. “I peaked early,” he begins. A faraway look is in his eyes, and you’re a bit scared of what you just got yourself into.

“I was nineteen when I produced my first hit.” He pauses at the record player tucked in a corner, inspecting it. “I’m a genius, I’ll have you know. I’m the perfect producer. I churned them out, one hit after another. I was the best there ever was. And then…” He sighs heavily. “It took one mediocre play to topple me.” He looks at you, and you see anger in his eyes. “It wasn’t even that bad. It was okay. It just wasn’t a hit. And I had… I had no idea how to handle it.”

He turns back around, starts walking around the room, gaze drifting over the documents and posters lining the walls. “I was a flop after that, as you know. Still am. My reputation went down the drain, my investors lost their interest… And now every show’s a flop.” He laughs wryly, looking at you again, shaking his head. “You know that, too. They’re all flops. Failures. But I… I figured something out after my last fuck up.”

Your eyes trail him back to his desk, and he meets your gaze as he sits down.

“You can make more money with a flop,” he says, “than with a hit.”

At that, you frown. “No, you can’t.”

“You can,” Harry insists. “You sell shares before a play, right?” It’s rhetorical, but you nod anyway. “Right,” he says. “You get money, in exchange for a payment once your play is a hit. But if your play isn’t a hit, if it’s only on stage for one night, you can avoid payouts and then just…” He shrugs. “You can just run away with all the money.”

You blink at him.

“We can run away with all the money,” he amends. “If you… want to work with me.”

“You’re kidding,” you say flatly.

“No,” he insists. “I’m not kidding - I swear. It will work. Nobody will check the books of a play thought to have lost money! If I - we - wait for a while overseas until it’s all forgotten about, we can come back, go our separate ways, rich as can be, and…” He tosses his hands up. “And live happily ever after.”

For a second, all you can do is stare at him.

He shifts forward, focusing his gaze on you. “Listen,” he says. “I need somebody like you to convince my investors that something’s different. They’ll never believe something’s changed unless I can show them that I’m serious this time, and you’re the way to do that. An experienced actor, a beautiful actress to star in my next hit - it’s perfect.”

You bite your lip, stay quiet.

“And you…” He scoffs, throws his hands up at you. “You need this. What else are you going to do? Where else can you go? Nowhere. There’s nothing. Theater’s a dying business, darling. You said it yourself: this is your only option.”

You swallow thickly, feeling yourself start to consider his offer. It really might work, you realize, and that kind of scares you, because you really shouldn’t do this. “Well - well it’s not right to steal like that.”

“Oh, please,” Harry mutters. “First of all, we’re stealing from rich old bastards who have nothing else to do with their money but invest in plays. Secondly, we’re barely stealing anything! We’re not taking thousands from one single person, it’s - oh, it’s just a little bit from each person. Each person who has millions, probably.”

You cross your arms. “We could go to jail.”

He rolls his eyes at that and replies, “We absolutely will not. We won’t get caught. Who the hell will check the books?” He leans forward. “Nobody. Besides,” he goes on, spinning his chair around, “compared to my bleak bloody existence at the moment, I don’t think I’d mind jail all that much.” He sighs, staring out the window at the gray building front it looks out on. “At least I’d’ve gone out with a bang.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

He turns back around. “Well?” he asks. “Any more arguments?”

“I need money now,” you say. “My rent’s about to let up. It’s the end of the month, and I… I can’t cover it. I need a job, or - or something now.” Harry looks at you. “Move in with me,” he suggests.

You scoff a laugh, shaking your head. “Absolutely not!”

“Why not?”

“Because - because I can’t!”

“Fine,” Harry says, waving a hand in the air. “Consider it. Whatever. Just get back to me by… oh, by the end of the month.” He levels your gaze. “Before rent’s due.” Then he slides a card over to you and taps it twice. “There you are. Use it well.”

He opens a yellow booklet and spins around in his chair.

You can’t do this. It’s insane. It’s absolutely ridiculous. You could go to jail. And moving in with a complete stranger? Especially one malicious enough to scheme people out of - what did he say? Thousands of dollars?

You look at the business card.

Shit, you think. You need this.

“Fine,” you say. “When can I move in?”

***

The days are starting to blur together.

So are the words.

It’s been about a week since you moved in with Harry Styles, and your days have been nothing but reading lately. You’ve paged through what feels like hundreds of those thin yellow books you’d seen that first day, spilling out of cabinets and opened on tables. You’re looking for the perfect play, which really means the most awful play. It needs to be so indescribably bad that it closes within the first week of opening so that everything goes according to plan.

You never thought there could be so many plays. Most of them are pretty awful. There’s a pile on the coffee table in the main room of potential prospects, but nothing good enough - or bad enough, rather - to run with.

You’re sitting on the bed in your room, plays scattered around you. There’s an empty cup of coffee on the table next to the bed, and you look at it forlornly, willing it to fill up. It’s almost midnight, and you’d go to sleep if you had any sense.

But you don’t have any sense. So with a sigh, you roll off the bed and pad out of your room in your fuzzy socks. As you head to the kitchen, the front door opens up behind you. You glance around.

Harry meets your gaze.

You turn around and pour more coffee into your mug.

The first time he disappeared, you had been asleep and had only realized he’d left when you woke up to him opening the door. He looked a little less than disheveled and absolutely exhausted, and you could only presume he’d been out getting laid.

Well, you thought. Good for him.

Then it started happening more often. It was almost every night, which was fine, you supposed, but only if you didn’t have a play to find. He worked with you during the day and left at night, or left mid-afternoon and came back around midnight, like today.

He shuffles around behind you, and it’s a combination of laziness and stubbornness that keeps you from turning around and watching him or asking him where he’s been. When your mug’s full, you turn around and walk back into your room.

Hours later, on another coffee trip, he’s asleep on the couch with a script on his chest.

***

The first few times he offered you snacks, you refused. You wanted to spend as little time with him as possible, which was a bit difficult seeing as you lived with him. You couldn’t control bumping into him on your way to the bathroom in the morning, or eating breakfast at the table while he watched TV on the couch, but you could control where you read the pages and pages of scripts.

Sometimes he plays records out in the office. He must have quite the collection. You’ve heard a few things you recognize through the door of your bedroom - lots of Fleetwood Mac, some Joni Mitchell, the Eagles - and a lot that you’ve never heard before. It’s all good, and it’s a pleasant background noise to your tedious reading.

He never stopped offering snacks, though, and today, apparently, the last of your restraint has melted away. When he knocks on your door and says, “Popcorn if you want it,” you can’t refuse the delicious smell of buttery popcorn wafting under your door.

If he’s surprised when you come out of your room a few minutes later, he hides it well. He glances up at you, but then his eyes go right back to the script in front of him. The popcorn’s worth it, and when the bowl’s empty, Harry wordlessly goes and microwaves another bag without taking his eyes off the script he’s reading.

When he comes back from the kitchen, he slides down from the couch and sits on the floor, popping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. From your spot on the opposite side of the sofa, you watch as he spills crumbs all over the script.

You wonder why he’s pulling this scheme, suddenly, wonder why he’s going through all this trouble when he’s really probably fine from what he’s made in his early productions. Scowling, you come to the conclusion that he’s just greedy, and take one more piece of popcorn before standing up and walking back to your room.

***

“Have you seen my, erm - my collection?” Harry asks.

You’re eating lunch at the kitchen table, some spaghetti dish that Harry had made the night before. He’s quite the chef, you’ve learned. “Nope,” you say. There’s sauce on the booklet you’re reading, and you frown as you try and thumb it off.

“You should.”

The sauce smears. You frown more.

“Do you like music?” Harry asks.

You stand up. Walk to the sink. “Of course I do,” you say, a bit sharply. “I’m an actress.”

Behind you, you hear him shuffling through his records. “I love music,” he says softly. “I wish I could… I dunno. Sing or something.” You bite your lip as you run water over your plate. There’s a beat of silence. It’s just the sound of water, the clinking of the dishes in the sink.

When you turn around, Harry’s staring at the empty record player thoughtfully. He looks up after another second and smiles, just slightly. “Any preferences?” he asks, running his hands over the vinyls.

You shrug. “I don’t care.”

Harry looks at you, then shrugs and starts looking through the collection. Finally, he chooses one. “I listened to this,” he begins, sliding a disk out of its sleeve and gently placing it onto the platter, “on the plane the first time I came to the States.” The gentle sounds of Frank Sinatra’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” float from the turntable.

He begins mouthing the words, dancing slightly, smiling at you.

“We should find that play,” you say, and you walk back to your room.

***

A few days later, you gasp awake when you feel Harry’s hand on your cheek.

“Christ, what are you reading?” he asks. “That’s the third time I’ve woken you up.”

“You had to slap me to wake me up?” you scoff indignantly, sitting up on the couch.

Harry frowns as he takes the script out of your hands. “I did not slap you.”

It’s two pm. You’ve been chugging coffee all day - he’s right, you shouldn’t have fallen asleep at all, much less three times since you started that script. It really is very boring… Your eyes widen as you think back to the play, and you begin, “I think -”

“This is it,” Harry breathes.

“It’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever read!” you exclaim, sitting up.

“I can see that. This is it. It’s dumb as hell, and - and you’ve fallen asleep.”

“Three times!”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Harry says happily. “The ending doesn’t - it doesn’t…”

“It’s awful,” you agree with a grin.

“Margaret Fitcher,” Harry says, reading off the back of the script. “It’s - there’s an -” He grins, looking at you as he snaps the booklet shut. “She’s close,” he says excitedly. “Get your shit. We’re going.”

The car ride is quiet. You fidget. So does he. His leg moves a mile a minute, his finger fiddling with his lip. He’s going just a tad over the speed limit. When he pulls into a parking lot, you don’t even look at the building.

There’s a directory, and you find the name you’re looking for: Margaret Fitcher. 9C.

The elevator is shaky. It has an iron gate, blinking numbers. When the ninth floor button lights up and the elevator rattles to a stop, the gates clatter open and you follow him out into the hallway.

Harry knocks on the right door. “Ms. -”

“It’s open, sweetie! It’s open!”

You look at Harry. He shrugs. He looks excited.

He pushes the door open, and immediately, the smell of rotten fruit assaults your senses. You grimace, and you see Harry blink, nose wrinkling. “Come in, dearie,” a voice calls. You walk further inside. A cat comes and slides along your leg. You shift away, bumping into Harry, and he steadies you before he turns the corner and you see an old lady - Ms. Fitcher.

Her face is illuminated by the TV, on which an infomercial is playing. There are cats curled around her. You count. Six. Plus the one who’s decided to sit on your feet. Seven. You spot the source of the odor: a small bowl set in front of an easel, which carries a small, partially painted canvas. It’s supposed to be the bowl of fruit, you see. It’s not half bad.

“Sit down, sit down,” she says. Her voice is weak. She’s wearing glasses, on a chain, that are sliding down her nose. “Hello, Ms. Fitcher,” Harry says, speaking up above the TV. “We’re here to talk to you about your -”

“Eh?” she interrupts, squinting at him “You’ll have to speak up, dearie.”

Harry tries again, louder, “We’re here to talk to you about your -”

“What are you selling?”

This time, Harry shouts. “We’re here to talk to you about your play!”

“My play!” Ms. Fitcher laughs. She picks up a ball of yarn that had been sitting next to her. One of the cats fusses. “My play, my dear play…” She begins unwinding the yarn. “Who are you, again?”

Yelling, you introduce yourself, and then Harry does.

“Nice to meet you!” Ms. Fitcher croons. “Never see young ones around here anymore… What a shame…” She shakes her head, beginning to wrap the yarn around her frail hand again. “What a damn shame…”

You and Harry exchange a glance.

“Your play is wonderful, Mrs. Fitcher!” you shout.

She looks up. She seems almost coy. “Why, thank you.”

Harry clears his throat, begins to scream, “We wanted to -”

He’s cut off by somebody banging on the wall from the other side. “Oops,” you mutter, realizing neighbors can probably hear all the commotion through the thin walls. “Can we shut off the TV?” you shout, a bit afraid somebody’s gonna come over and rap on the door.

“Oh, the TV?” Ms. Fitcher says. “Whatever you want, dearie.” She hands you the remote, and you shut it off. The silence is glorious. “We want to buy your play,” Harry says, and Ms. Fitcher’s eyes grow wide. “To… to put it on the stage?” she asks, her voice soft.

“Yes,” you tell her. “We want the world to see your story, Ms. Fitcher.”

She pauses, inspecting the two of you. You feel slightly uncomfortable. “You’re not wearing wedding bands,” she says, looking suspicious, and a surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Oh! Oh, no, you - you mean - you think we’re -” You laugh, shake your head. “No, no, just - just business partners.”

“Business partners, roommates, that’s all,” Harry adds.

Her gaze narrows. “Roommates?” she echoes.

“Yup!” you chirp, hoping that’s not a problem.

She hums lowly in a way that makes you think it is a problem, but then asks, “Who will be playing the role of dear Rosalind?” You falter, then remember that’s the main character’s name. “Anybody you want, Ms. Fitcher,” you say.

“I can see auditions?”

“You can come to every rehearsal,” Harry reassures her. “It’ll be just as you like it.”

She stares at you over her spectacles. And then she says, “No.”

You blink. “What?”

“I don’t want you children ruining my masterpiece,” she sneers.

“We are not children,” Harry says irritatedly.

“Hmph.”

“You sent this play to me,” Harry says.

“That was ages ago,” Ms. Fitcher says wistfully. “When I was but a girl.”

Harry scoffs. “It was last year!”

She glares at him. “Get out.”

“No, no,” you try, “no, please, Ms. Fitcher, you’ll have total control, it’ll be you, all you and your -”

“Get out, you’re bothering my cats,” she snaps. “Get out!”

“Please, Ms. Fitcher,” you beg, “please. We’ll -”

She stands up, and now the cats really are bothered. “I’ll call the police!” she shrieks, and both you and Harry jump up, hurrying to the door, which she slams behind you. You look at it, at the sign with the apartment number engraved on it, at the fraying fuzz of the green carpet inside that had stuck to your shoes and was now on the floor of the hallway.

“I’m covered in cat hair,” Harry whispers.

You turn around first. He follows you to the elevator, which clanks as it stops and as its doors slide open. You step inside, lean against one wall. Harry leans against the other. You look down, not sure what to say. The adrenaline’s fading. You really thought that was the one.

And then -

The elevator bangs to a stop.

“What the fuck?” Harry whispers, looking up as you do.

Each floor’s light blinks, then shuts off, in rapid succession.

“Are we gonna die?” you ask.

“I - I don’t know.” He pokes a finger through the iron gates. “We’re in between floors.”

You blink, feel your brows furrow as you shake your head to clear your mind of the cloud of disappointment. “The - the building,” you say, pulling out your phone. “We can call the building.”

“What’s it called?” Harry asks.

You look up. “I have no idea.”

You stare at each other for a second, and then Harry’s face lights up. “I have it,” he says, fumbling in his bag for the paperwork. When he finally finds it, he flips it around so you can see the address. You type the name of the apartment complex into Google and call the first number that appears.

“Hi,” you say, trying to keep calm. “Hi, we’re, um - we’re stuck in one of your elevators?”

There’s a pause.

“Hello?” you say, impatient.

“Um… I don’t really know…”

“Who are -” You sigh, taking a step in the elevator, trying to pace, but you don’t have room. “Who am I speaking to?” A bit of static, and then, “I’m Mike,” the guy says dumbly. “I’m just the desk guy…”

“Do you have the elevator controls?” you ask, not really knowing what you’re asking but unsure of what else to say. “I mean - can you restart the elevators or, like - I don’t know, can you get them moving again? Do you see the - I don’t know, the controls?”

“Yeah, they’re… the box is right here,” Mike says.

“Great!” you exclaim. “Can you please start the elevators again?”

“Oh… I don’t know how to work them…”

You let out your breath, gritting your teeth. “Fantastic,” you mutter. “Um, well, can you call somebody who does?” Mike shuffles a bit. “Um… Yeah, I think so…” You laugh wryly. “Great, Mike, that would be great. Please do that.”

“Okay, I, um… Okay…”

“Keep me updated, okay?” you say tensely. “I’m counting on you, Mike.”

“Okay… bye…”

He hangs up.

“We’re gonna be trapped in here forever,” you moan, banging your head against the wall.

“What?” Harry asks. “What was that?

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “He said he’d call somebody.”

“You didn’t get a time estimate?”

“Jesus, Harry, no, I didn’t get a fucking time estimate.”

Harry frowns at you. “Maybe you should’ve.”

You glare at him.

There’s a beat of silence, and then you start your two-step pacing again. “This is ridiculous,” you mutter. Harry blows his breath out, sliding down one of the walls to sit on the floor. “Ridiculous indeed,” he says.

“I can’t believe this is happening.” You feel yourself getting riled up. “I can’t - fuck. I can’t fucking believe this is happening.” Harry stares at you from the floor. “I’m in an elevator… after getting shot down by a crazy old lady… with - with -” You glance at Harry. “With a fucking con artist.”

Harry frowns at that. “I’m not a -”

“Dammit, I should be on Broadway,” you interrupt. “I should be on Broadway. I did everything right, Styles.” Your breaths are coming faster. You lean back against the metal. “I - I went to fucking Julliard, Styles. I’m a pro. I trained, and I did all the little shows, and I - fuck.”

“It’s just a little pitstop,” Harry offers. “Before Broadway.”

“No!” you sob, and you clap your hand over your mouth. “No.” You step forward, turn around, two steps, you’re pacing around him in the teeny-tiny little box. “God, I’m a failure. I’m a - a failure. That’s why I’m here.” You glare at him through tear-clouded eyes. “With you. Jesus, how fucking evil do you have to be to steal money to get rich? You don’t even need it. You’re probably just fucking fine, probably have some rich daddy back in fucking - fucking England - and you just…”

Your voice is cracking, getting weaker, and you wipe away the tears on your face angrily. “I can’t believe this.” You sniffle, shaking your head. “God, Styles, everybody likes to talk about the new opportunities. Everybody likes to say, ‘Oh, when one door closes” - you jerk on the iron gates - “another opens!’ But dammit, Styles, it’s not open!” You shake your head, stumbling back onto the back wall of the elevator.

“Those goddamn doors must be locked,” you say softly, staring at the shut elevator doors in front of you. “They’re locked,” you repeat. “They’re locked. They slam shut - in my fucking face - and every other door is locked. They’re all locked…” You slide down the wall. “They’re all locked with a key I just - I don’t have.”

Your breath stutters. You look at Harry. “I just don’t have it, Harry,” you whisper.

He opens his mouth to reply, and then your phone rings.

“Hello?” you say. Your voice cracks.

“Hi, are you the lady stuck in the elevator?” It’s a different voice than before. Not Mike.

“Yes! Yes, yeah, I’m here with -” You clear your throat. “What’s happening?”

“We’re resetting the system,” the guy says. “Hopefully that’ll pull everything together. Can you stay on the line for me and tell me if it starts moving again?” You nod excitedly, stepping forward and scanning the buttons. “Yes, I can - what, um - what am I looking -”

A button lights up. There’s a loud clank, and the elevator starts moving.

“It’s moving!” you say happily.

“Great, great. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day.”

There’s a dial tone.

“Right, then,” Harry says as the doors open and you slide your phone into your purse.

You start walking to the car, and Harry follows you. You slow down a little so you’re walking side by side and look at him apologetically. “Um… I’m sorry,” you say quietly, wiping the last of the tears from your eyes. “I’m just… frustrated, I guess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry says.

The car ride back to the apartment is silent.

***

You’re back to reading in your room after seeing Ms. Fitcher.

What’s sort of annoying is that you’re not even partially ignoring him because you’re mad at him - you’re almost just embarrassed about your explosion. You don’t want to face him, don’t want to talk about it. You don’t even want to think about it.

He seems to understand. He cooks a lot. You told him your favorite food a few days ago, before Ms. Fitcher, and he’s made it quite a few times. That makes you even more embarrassed. You blew up at him, insulted him… and now he’s cooking for you.

Ridiculous.

He still disappears a lot. It’s for longer, now; sometimes he’ll leave at noon and not be back until around midnight. You only know because he keeps his bedroom door open and the apartment always has a different air about it when he’s not there.

He doesn’t usually tell you, but… today he is, apparently.

There’s a knock on your door, and you tell him to come in.

“Hi,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hi,” you say.

He looks down at his hands, and you follow his gaze. He’s holding a small black box, fidgeting with it. “I have to… go,” he says, quietly. “But I, erm…” He looks up, steps forward almost hesitantly.

You get up to meet him, and he holds the little black box out to you.

“I thought of you,” he murmurs. His ears are tinged red, and he won’t meet your gaze.

You take the box. It’s light. When you go to open it, his cheeks flush red to match his ears, and he presses his hand on top of yours. You blink, surprised, looking up. “Sorry,” he says quickly, pulling away. “I just… I, er -” He smiles, laughs a bit sheepishly. “Do you wanna open it when I leave?”

You smile slightly, a bit amused despite your confusion. “Sure,” you say.

Harry nods. “Okay,” he says. He clears his throat, not moving, and despite yourself, you’re not mad, because it’s nice to be in his presence, to hear his voice, because you haven’t heard his voice in a while, haven’t been near enough to -

“Okay,” Harry repeats.

He leaves, and you look at the door of your room for a second, hearing the door of the apartment shut before looking down at the little black box in your hands again. It’s a jewelry box. When you open it, a little slip of paper flutters out.

It has jagged edges like it was ripped from a larger piece of paper. You recognize the handwriting from the notes Harry writes in the scripts he reads, from the thoughts he writes in the margins of the books he’s lent you.

For when every door seems locked.

Inside the box is a necklace.

The chain is delicate. Simple.

Attached is a silver pendant, in the shape of a key.

***

The next day, after you said thank you to him, and after he smiled and said you’re welcome, you stayed in the main office with him to read. It’s quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You could stay in this quiet all day.

The day after that, he’s gone for most of the day.

When he comes back, your plan to silently scold him for leaving again by ignoring him for a while crumbles because he’s watching The Notebook while he works. It’s late. You were just getting coffee, planning to hide away in your room after acquiring your dose of caffeine.

Then he gives you a soft smile and nods towards the empty side of the couch.

Come on, he says silently. You know you want to.

So you do. You can’t help it. It’s The Notebook, of course, and you can kind of just tell it’s his favorite from his small smiles at certain parts, his whispered echoes of every other line. Also, he tells you, says, “This is the best movie ever created,” as he grins over at you from the opposite end of the couch where he’s wrapped in a soft blue blanket.

It continues the next day, when he flicks on a movie during dinner and doesn’t turn it off after all the food’s away and you’re just reading on the couch. It’s just something random, but you have to bite your lip to hide your amusement at Harry’s snarky comments under his breath.

A few days later, you shouldn’t feel as satisfied as you do when he comes in to find you already on the couch, your favorite movie onscreen. He smiles at you, takes some of the chips on the coffee table, and starts reading.

Progress goes a bit more slowly once the movie watching begins. You need it, though; it’s a welcome distraction and you’d definitely go crazy without it. Letters dance after a few hours of nothing but reading in silence.

The Potential Prospects Pile on the coffee table grows, but it’s kind of just for show. You both know you’ll know it once you see it. Your interest piques whenever you see him add a booklet to a pile, though, and you flip through each one that’s added like he does.

It’s a few weeks after that first time watching The Notebook, and to your slight reluctance, you’re watching it again. You’re sitting on the floor, coffee sitting next to you, a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table on top of the prospects. Harry’s on the couch, all six feet of him sprawled and taking up the entire thing.

It’s late, almost two am. You want to fall asleep - are falling asleep - but Harry only just arrived and you feel like you should stay up with him. He’d been out the entire day, doing God knows what.

“Sometimes I hate Allie,” Harry murmurs suddenly.

“Really,” you say, only half listening.

“She makes it so… unbalanced.” His voice is so low. He sounds exhausted. You look up, and you see that the play he’s reading isn’t even open - it’s closed in his hand, fingers marking his spot, hanging over the side of the couch. He’s on his side, head on his hand, eyes fluttering shut.

“What d’you mean?” you ask before you can think.

“He writes to her for a year,” he whispers. “A whole year. And she... She doesn’t.”

You shrug. “She didn’t know he was writing.”

“She should’ve written to him anyway. She said she loved him. She should’ve written, and told him again, or… or…” He fades off. “What, she should’ve run away back to him?” you ask, and Harry whispers, “Yeah.”

When you turn around again, he’s asleep. You bite your lip, and then look back at the TV.

On screen, Noah catches a glimpse Allie across the street, then sees her kiss someone else.

You open another script and take a sip of coffee.

***

Sleepless in Seattle is playing on the TV. Harry loves his romcoms.

It’s late again.

The days seem to pass so quickly, and the nights seem to drag on forever and ever. Maybe that’s because your sleep schedule is royally fucked up, but you’re mostly blaming that on Harry being out all day.

You’re sipping hazelnut coffee. It’s delicious. It’s not hot anymore, but it’s not quite cold enough to be given up on. The remainders of your midnight snack - tacos - lay on the coffee table, and there’s a smear of guacamole on one of the Potentials.

The movie’s wrapping up. The elevator doors are closing. The credits begin to roll.

Sighing, you stretch for a second before turning around and resting your chin on the coffee table so you can look at Harry. The key necklace swings forward. It hangs in the space between your chest and the table, and you can feel its weight on the back of your neck. It’s comforting.

Harry’s on the couch. He’s on his back, holding his arms straight up with his elbows locked so he can read his script. His brows are furrowed, and his lip is between his teeth. He looks uncomfortable.

“I don’t know anything about you,” you whisper.

Harry meets your gaze, dropping his arms. “You know my favorite movie.”

“But not your favorite book.” You wonder what the hell you’re doing.

Harry smiles slightly. “Or, apparently, how indecisive I am. I can’t decide.”

“Are you just trying to avoid other ‘what’s your favorite’ questions?” This is the longest exchange you’ve had in weeks. “No,” Harry says, “really. I can’t decide. I’d answer all the ‘what’s your favorite’ questions you have if I could.”

“Why?”

Harry sits up, looks at the script in his lap, and shrugs. “Seems like you hate me.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“No,” he says softly, looking at you.

His eyes are really green, you notice. Maybe it’s just the light. Or lack thereof. They sparkle in the darkness, and you kind of want to see him smile, want to make him smile, want to be the cause of those dimples so that you can see his green, green eyes light up for real.

You close your eyes and lean backwards. Now your back is on the ground, your arm over your eyes. “I think you should pay for a chiropractor for me,” you murmur. “My back’s killing me from sleeping out here all the time.”

“There’s a bed just in there,” Harry says.

“Too far away.”

“Then that back pain’s on you.”

“You’re why I’m out here in the first place.”

“No, you’re out here for the food.”

You feel yourself smile. “And the movies.”

“There you have it.”

“Still think you should pay,” you whisper.

“I pay for yours, you pay for mine.”

You close your eyes tight, bite your lip hard, because now you’re smiling even more.

“You have yourself a deal,” you say.

***

A few days, later, and you’re trying to hold your tongue again.

It’s been quiet for too long, and you’re getting uncomfortable. You’re not sure if that’s because you’re beginning to associate silence with the tremendously boring reading, or if it’s because you just don’t like silence.

Another possibility hovers in the back of your mind, one that implies that you really aren’t uncomfortable, you just want to talk with him, with Harry, the enigma sitting two feet away from you, but you don’t want to think about that, so you say something.

“You sound British,” is what comes out, even though he hasn’t spoken in hours.

It’s a few days later. Four in the morning. The TV’s quiet, no movie playing. There’s a bowl of M&Ms on the table - this guy has every snack imaginable in his little kitchen - but that’s the only distraction. You’re both on the floor this time, the coffee table pushed off to the side. He’s cross-legged, sipping tea, you’re on your stomach, eating more M&ms than probably healthy.

“Is that a compliment?” Harry asks, looking up from his script.

You eat another M&M. “Can be.”

“That’s ominous. I am. Born and raised.”

“Why’d you come here?”

“Broadway.”

You smile, turning onto your back to look at the ceiling. “How romantic.”

Harry frowns, asks, “Why?”

“Dunno,” you reply with a shrug. “There’s something sweet about that - a little boy, being absolutely entranced by plays he sees onstage… he’s enchanted, wants to be a part of it but isn’t nearly handsome enough to be an actor, so -”

“Hey!”

You look over at him. Grin. “What?”

“You don’t think I’m handsome?”

“I’ll only make that big head of yours bigger if I answer honestly.”

He smiles. Takes a sip of tea. “Nice to know.”

“Why not an actor, anyway?” you ask, looking back at the ceiling. You follow the fan with your eyes as Harry says, “Believe it or not, I prefer to be backstage.” He sighs, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him follow your gaze to the fan.

“I wanna see people’s reactions,” Harry says softly. “I like to see their faces light up at something funny… Or their tears at something sad…” He looks back down and takes an M&M out of the bowl. “The best is when somebody’s trying to hide it.” You see him smile at you, and you look at him. “When they think they’re so cool, so stoic and - and immune to the wonders of the stage…” He smiles more, fiddling with the M&M. “And then you see them break, see their reluctant laughter or their hands rush to hide their watering eyes…”

You steal the M&M he’d been playing with. “Wouldn’t you rather be the one making them feel those emotions?” He gets another M&M. “Nah. Too much work.” He eats it, finally, you watch him chew and swallow and then you look at the ceiling again.

“It’s not,” you whisper, closing your eyes.

“Maybe you’re just not doing it right.”

You open an eye to glare at him, and he smirks.

“I am,” you say. “You’ll have to see me some time.”

“Maybe after this mess I’ll produce a real play,” Harry murmurs. “You can star.”

You close your eyes again. “Not in one of your plays,” you hum. “Don’t want my first play back to be a flop.” You feel something against your arm, and you realize Harry had thrown an M&M at you.

You scoff. “I’m just being honest!”

“Sometimes a little white lie can be appreciated.”

“That’s not good for your ego.”

“What ego?”

“The one making you think you’re funny.”

“Oh, sod off,” Harry laughs.

There’s a beat of silence, and then you whisper, “What if we never find a play?”

Harry clears his throat. “We will,” he says. He stands up, dusts off his hands, and grabs a book. You watch as he sits down in a chair and puts his legs up onto the table. “Keep looking,” he tells you quietly.

So you do.

***

A few days later, a little after lunchtime, and it’s your turn to pick the movie. It’s one of your favorites, a comfort movie at this point. You mouth along the lines with the actors, grinning madly at the television screen because it’s so perfect and you love it so much.

Harry’s not really paying attention. He’s been quiet. Normally, he’s cracking jokes, murmuring sass at the stupid scenes and sighing heavily at the dramatic ones. If it were any other movie, you’d be curious, or anxious, but not this one.

You’re not even holding a script.

Harry is, though, and you look over at him curiously as the credits start to roll.

“You okay?” you ask.

He doesn’t reply.

“Hey,” you say, nudging him with your foot, “are you good?”

“I think… I think this is it,” he says quietly.

Yawning, you stretch towards the ceiling. You wonder what time it is. “What’s it?”

“This is it,” Harry says, sitting up but not taking his eyes off of the script. You frown, straightening. “It’s bad?” you ask, and Harry finally looks up. He’s practically glowing, he’s so excited, and a spark of excitement rushes through you.

“It’s so bad.”

“Lemme see,” you say, standing up, but Harry’s pacing.

“Retired FBI agent Leopold Gray is suddenly being hunted down by a small town dentist named Ernest D’Angelo who thinks Gray has killed his wife. As D’Angelo chases the elderly Gray around the globe, the two slowly start to lose patience; by the end, D’Angelo has given up, and Gray is retired - again - in Bismarck, North Dakota.”

He pauses, and you frown, waiting for him to continue.

Instead, he looks up, grinning. “That’s it!” he exclaims.

You blink. “You’re kidding.” He hands the script to you, and you read over the summary, scoffing in pleased disbelief as you get to the end and see that it’s just as unsatisfactory as Harry read it to be.

“God, it’s a - it’s an action and a musical!” you laugh.

“Come on,” Harry tells you, grabbing his coat. “Look at the address on the back, tell me where we’re going.” Following him out the door, you read off the street name and number. Harry plays music in the car, but you don’t hear it.

A sliver of doubt runs through you as you get closer and closer to the address, scared to be shot down again. You shove it aside, shifting from one foot to the other as you wait on the front porch.

This guy lives in a house. His name is Richard. The house is a small stand alone, with a little yard out front. It’s gated. The paint on the door and under the windows is chipping, and the flowers in the yard are drooping and wilted.

Harry knocks on the inner door. The screen door slams shut when he pulls away.

You wait a beat, another, you’re getting nervous, and then -

BANG.

You jump a foot in the air as the screen door slams again, this time against the rail behind it, and then fear courses through you, because the guy is holding a large cast iron pan, and you’re genuinely afraid for your life.

“Who are you,” the man - Richard? - hisses, glasses sliding down a crooked nose.

Harry coughs, backing up half a step. “I - I’m Harry Styles, this is -”

You tell him your name. His eyes are beady, and there’s a single strand of graying hair on his forehead, and his fingers are trembling, and Harry says, “Please, sir, we just want to talk to you about your - your, erm - your absolutely fantastic play -”

He freezes.

“Could you put away the, um - the pan?” you ask, and it slides out of his hand.

It thuds against the floor.

“My play, huh?” he says gruffly, wiping a hand under his nose.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s - it’s absolutely ingenious.”

He stares at you for a second, and then backs up. “Come in.”

Harry looks at you, and you shrug helplessly, opening up the screen door. Richard’s already halfway through the hallway, which is dim, and if you squint, you can see cobwebs in the ceiling. You follow Richard until he stops in a living room and sits in a creaky sitting chair.

Richard glares at you. “What about my play.”

“We want to put it on the stage,” Harry says.

“Why.”

You clear your throat. “Because it deserves to be seen.”

“I think so, too,” Richard says. His glasses are slipping down his nose.

Slowly, Harry pulls the documents out of his bag. “If you sign here,” he says, patiently, like he’s talking to a five-year-old, or perhaps a wild animal, or maybe a criminal about to kill somebody, “thousands of people will see your play.”

“Thousands,” Richard echos, his eyes widening.

“Thousands,” you confirm, lying. Harry gently slides the papers, along with a pen, towards Richard on the glass table between the easy chair where Richard’s sitting and the sofa where you and Harry are.

“You’ll be praised in every newspaper,” Harry says, also lying.

Richard picks up the pen. He looks down at the papers. The place where he’s to sign is highlighted in yellow. He’s looking down, and his glasses are at the very tip of his nose. You wonder what would happen if they slid off his face completely, or if he’d notice.

After an awkward moment as Richard just stares at the papers, he begins to sign.

“My mother will love me again,” he whispers.

You look at Harry.

Harry looks at you.

“Make me proud,” Richard says hoarsely, and you and Harry both look to Richard, who’s holding the papers out. You see a single tear roll down Richard’s cheek. “Thank you so much!” Harry exclaims, and then he grabs your hand and practically sprints out of the house and into the car.

“Floor it, floor it,” you rush, and Harry speeds away.

As soon as he turns a corner so Richard’s house is out of eyesight, he pulls the car over, parking for a second. “Okay,” he breathes, palms flat against the top of the steering wheel, “what the fuck was that?”

“I have no idea,” you reply, laughter bubbling out of you.

“Oh, my God,” Harry says incredulously, laughing too, and for a second, all you can do is laugh, because that was so surreal and you’re not quite sure how else to react. “I hope we never have to deal with that again,” you say as your laughter dies down.

“Christ, he’s fucking insane.”

“Harry, our cause of death could have been a frying pan.”

“No wonder his mum doesn’t love him!”

“Shit, this play better bomb,” you giggle, and Harry pulls onto the road again.

“We gotta do something,” he says. “To celebrate.”

You raise a brow. “Like what?”

Harry glances at you, and smiles. “I know just the place.”

***

You haven’t been out in forever.

Harry’s music is great - calming, quiet, mellow. The entire atmosphere of the apartment is like that. Everything’s quiet, with a layer of comfort over it. That’s not bad, of course, but it does mean that the club Harry’s just taken you to is a little more than a shock to your system.

This music pounds in your ears, thrumming in your chest and in your stomach, pulsing in your hand where it meets Harry’s. He’s leading you through the crowd, and when he turns around to grin at you, he’s glowing.

He says something, you can see his lips move, but you can’t hear him.

“What?” you shout, and he stops for a second, but you don’t, and you’re suddenly bumping into him, pushed flush against him by the moving crowd around you. Smoothly, his hand slides down to your waist, holding you tight, grounding you.

You can feel his breath on your skin, his fingers digging gently into your hips. He’s everywhere, flooding your senses. The fabric of his suit jacket is warm under your fingers, his cheek so near you’d be kissing him if you were any closer.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he says, right next to your ear.

You feel yourself shiver, and you nod because you don’t trust your voice.

Suddenly he’s moving again, and then you’re through the crowd and landing at the bar, and you’re breathless, and he’s flush-faced and happy and you feel yourself smiling because he’s smiling, and then he’s ordering something and you’re not sure what it is.

On three, you see him say when the shot glasses appear in front of you.

And on three, whatever it is slides down your throat, burning a trail to your stomach and lighting you up from the inside. The music is deafening. You love it. Harry’s beaming, and he clinks his next glass against yours before downing it as you do.

You’ve never felt more alive.

Harry leans forward, and you lean into him, and you’re smiling blissfully, you’d kiss him if he let you, and he says, right into your ear, “You alright?” You laugh and nod and tell him, “Never been better.”

Time begins to blur, and your head’s fuzzy as hell not just from the alcohol but from Harry’s intoxicating presence and the thud of the bass in the music. You find yourself in the bathroom, a while later, staring at your reflection in the mirror.

You look different. Good different. You giggle and lean forward, inspecting yourself, and then sigh and stumble backwards against a wall. It’s much quieter in here, and you can breathe for a second, and can kind of hear your thoughts through the muddle of your mind.

After a while, you wonder where Harry is, and walk out of the restroom to search for him. “Harry,” you sing out, your voice drowned by the music and people. “Harry, Harry, Harry,” you call, just for the fun of it.

“Harry, Harry, Har -”

You freeze.

You recognize his hair, and the jacket he was wearing, and the rings on his hand, which is holding someone else’s hand above their head, against a wall. He’s close to them, lips against their neck. It’s a girl. She’s grinning euphorically, eyes closed. You can see her laughing, chin tilting upwards as Harry whispers something into her ear.

“Oh,” you say, out loud, even though you can’t hear yourself.

You can’t move. Your brain’s stuck.

When he moves, his arm slides around her waist, and he’s leading her out of the building. He looks over his shoulder before they reach the door, and sees you. He falters, and a spark of hope flashes through you before he just grins and winks and keeps walking and your heart falls back down into your stomach.

You see his fingers linger against the door as he guides it shut from the outside.

Oh, you think, silently, blinking back something that feels suspiciously like tears even though… why? You rub at your eyes, frowning at yourself, walking away, because why on earth would your - friend? roommate? coworker? - why would Harry getting laid suddenly make you cry? That’s ridiculous.

You collapse at the bar.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Somebody’s smirking at you. They’re pretty good looking. You sniffle, then smile back.

There’s nothing more ridiculous than crying over Harry getting laid.

They start to come over, and hurriedly, you blink away the tears in your eyes.

He wouldn’t cry if you were getting some.

They’re smiling at you. You bite your lip, letting your eyes trail over their body.

Not if - he won’t cry when you get some.

You say yes when they ask to buy you a drink.

Yeah, no, he won’t cry when you get some. Tonight.

You lean into their kiss, open-eyed. They’ve got some pretty green eyes.

It’s not like you can go back to the apartment, anyway.

***

“Charles Cartwright,” Harry reads off the list in front of him.

“Double ‘c,’” you say.

“Hope his middle name is Carter.”

“Or Chris.”

“Cole?”

“Cooper…”

You watch as Harry sighs, setting the stack of papers down onto his desk again. He doesn’t sit there a lot, behind the huge mahogany desk at the back of the room with the giant leather spinny chair.

“We’re never gonna get anything done,” Harry says, looking down at the list.

You shrug. “We have tomorrow.”

“Said that yesterday.”

“All these people sound like bastards, anyway,” you mutter, spinning the paper around on the desk so you can look at the names. “Yeah, that’s why they’re wasting money investing on my plays,” Harry mutters back.

The list is very long, a whole stack of crisp white printer paper with a cover page and a shiny black binder clip holding it together. Enumerated neatly on the left side are what seems like thousands of names, all previous investors of Harry’s various plays. Phone numbers and addresses sit under the names, along with emails and other pertinent information.

“We’ll go for Mary Sanders first,” Harry says decisively after a second, clearing his throat. “She loves me.” You look up at him, an eyebrow raised, and he rolls his eyes. “I look exactly like her son,” he says, “who hates her. So she’ll do anything for me.”

“Fun,” you say.

“Very. Tanner Smith, however…” He points his name out at the bottom of the third page. “He’s just fucked up. Batshit crazy. He hates me, but liked my old, erm - the company manager, so he chipped in for something I did with - with her.”

“Great.”

“Excited to meet Mr. Smith?” Harry asks with a wry smile, sliding a manila folder over to you. “Can’t wait,” you say, flipping the folder open. There’s a picture of a scowling man in wireframe glasses. “Wow,” you add, shuffling through the ten or so pages in the folder. “This is… a lot.”

Harry shrugs. “Most of it’s just financial details, but there’s a” - he reaches forward, slides a single page out to the front - “page on personal stuff. Don’t mention his wife, but we’ll definitely mention hockey.”

“Hockey?”

“He sponsors his grandson’s minor league team,” Harry tells you, rolling his eyes. “It’s all these entitled little rich boys who flip him off behind his back. He thinks he’s doing God’s work.” You snicker, scanning the document.

“They have games every Saturday,” Harry says, and you look at your phone. It’s Wednesday. Harry goes on, “I usually ambush him there,” and then frowns. “It usually doesn’t work.” His frown turns into a smile as he looks at you. “But maybe this time it will.”

“Making me feel a little used here, Styles.”

“Well, you’re using me for money, too, so don’t get all high and mighty on me.”

You sigh. “Are you really gonna take me to a hockey game?”

“Consider it our first date,” Harry says, smirking.

“Better buy me flowers, then.”

Harry smiles. “A whole bouquet. That’s Saturday, though. We’ll go for Miss Mary today.”

“Have a file on her?”

In response, he slides another manila folder from a filing cabinet behind him. This one’s a lot thicker, double the size of the last. “I’m a little creeped out,” you say, hesitantly opening the folder and peeking inside.

“Don’t be,” Harry replies. “She’s, erm - quite the chatterbox. This was all given consensually, I promise…” There’s a picture of Miss Mary herself on top of the papers, and then a picture of a young man next to her.

The young man is very good looking. Dashing. Green eyes, dark hair, a charming smile.

You look up at Harry and then back down at the picture.

“Nicholas,” Harry says. “Her son.” He poses for you. “See the resemblance?”

“If I squint,” you say with a shrug.

“He’s a lawyer.”

“Good for him.”

“Married,” Harry sighs. “A kid on the way. He lives in San Francisco. Drinks kale juice.”

“Damn.”

“I know,” Harry says, almost wistfully. “Imagine that.”

You scoff a laugh, brows raised. “No, Styles, I’m surprised that you know all of that, not that it’s - unimaginable.” Harry frowns at you. “Like I said! Mary’s a chatterbox. Not my fault she calls me to give me an update on her perfect son every week.”

“Je-sus. Every week.”

“More or less,” Harry says. He stands up and stretches. “Study up, we’ll leave in ten.”

***

He’s a natural.

You can tell from the moment he walks into the little flower-covered house that he’s got her wrapped around his little finger. “Oh, Harry, darling,” Mary coos, patting his cheek and linking her arm with his. She doesn’t even notice you, just leads Harry into the house. “I have biscuits in the kitchen, dearie, come on, come on.”

Attempting to disentangle himself from her, Harry starts, “Mrs. Sanders -”

“Mary, dear, you know that,” Mary interrupts cheerfully, pausing for just a second in the hallway. You hover in the doorway, but Mary goes on, “Oh, and I have that dreadful kale and carrot juice you love, too!”

You make a face at Harry, and he rolls his eyes.

“That’s Nicholas, Mrs. Sanders,” Harry mutters.

“Oh, of course,” Mary says absently, and she rubs his arms before starting into the house again. Harry sighs, and you watch his jaw clench in frustration as he gently places a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “Mary, I have a guest.”

“A guest!” Mary sputters, turning to look at you, still standing in the doorway.

“Hi,” you say.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Mary gasps to Harry, smacking him on the chest with the back of her hand. Harry winces. “He’s terribly impolite, isn’t he, sweetie,” Marry says disapprovingly. “What’s your name, then?”

You introduce yourself, Mary hugs you, and Harry shrugs at you over her shoulder.

“Come in, come in!” Mary exclaims when she finally pulls away. “I have biscuits and tea in the kitchen, you won’t have any of Harry dear’s terrible juice.” Behind her back, Harry throws his hands up exasperatedly.

“Okay, Mrs. Sanders,” you say, biting back a smile at Harry’s dramatics.

“It’s Mary, dear, please,” she tells you, leading you into the kitchen.

Harry closes the door behind her, then follows behind you.

“Sure, then, Mary,” you say with a smile, and she pinches your cheek. When you arrive in the kitchen, there is in fact a plate of cookies on the table and one teacup. Another cup, this one tall and clear, is set across the teacup, filled with a thick, scary looking green substance.

“Sit, sit,” Mary orders, pulling another teacup from a cabinet.

You do. Harry sits next to you, inspecting the juice with a disgusted look on his face.

“I do hope chamomile is alright,” Mary says, pouring some into the teacup that sits in front of you. “More than alright,” you say, closing your eyes as you breathe in the comforting steam happily. When you open your eyes, Harry is glaring at you over his kale juice.

You smile at him sweetly, then turn to Mary. “So, Mary,” you begin, “I’ve heard you’ve helped Harry here with his plays in the past.” Mary nods, hands wrapped around her own cup of tea. “Yes, I have. Quite the talented one, he is. He’ll be a force to be reckoned with once he finally decides what he wants to do with his life!”

“It’s this,” Harry says in a halfhearted way that makes you think they’ve gone through this many times before. “I’m a producer. That’s what I want to do with my life.” Mary chuckles, patting his cheek again. “Okay, dearie.”

You clear your throat. “Well, about this play…”

“Oh, yes, yes, what’s this one about?”

“It’s about an FBI agent,” Harry says. “It’s very adventurous.”

“Adventurous!” Mary echoes gleefully.

Harry smiles. “Yes. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

Your eyes widen as Mary rifles around in her purse and then comes out with a checkbook. “I certainly will!” she says happily. Her handwriting is elegant, flowing from her black fountain pen and onto the check with graceful ease.

“I have an appointment at two, darlings, so you’ll have to excuse me,” Mary tells you, handing Harry the check. “But I do adore seeing you, love, so come back soon!” Harry slides the check into his pocket, and you stand up as he does, following him to kiss Mary on the cheek.

“Bye, now, Mary,” he says. “See you soon.”

“It was nice to meet you, Mary,” you say, and Mary smiles at you. “And you too, dearie. You better come back soon, too, promise me.” You nod, and she looks at Harry. “And pick up the phone, Harry.”

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but she goes on, “You’ve been dodging my calls, love, don’t bother denying it.” She glances at you and winks. “Maybe it’s because of this one. Try and take a break from each other every now and then, you hear me? Young love is important but so am I.”

Harry looks about as red as a tomato. “We’ll see you later, Mary,” he says hurriedly, and he grabs your hand to lead you out, which probably doesn’t help with Mary’s assumption. “Bye, Mary!” you call.

“Sorry about that,” Harry mutters once you’re outside, letting go of your hand.

“Seem a bit flustered,” you laugh.

Harry rolls his eyes as he opens the car and gets in. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t deny it, though.

“‘s not worth it,” Harry sighs as he starts the engine.

You reach over and pat his cheek like Mary, grinning. “Whatever you say, Styles.”

~*~

aaaaand that's chapter one! hope you liked it!!! if you did, a reblog and some feedback would be much appreciated <333

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a-n-conrad · 3 years

Text

Coffee Shop (Spencer Reid x Reader)

[Summary: After a new Coffee shop opened up near the FBI headquarters, Spencer found a new favorite place to pick up his coffee on the way to work. And after making friends with the owner of the little shop, he was even more motivated to spend time there. (They/Them pronouns)

Warnings: Not proofread, Maybe swearing (I don’t remember)

Request:From my Request Survey(https://forms.gle/D9rsJtkERoBPaKvv8)]

It took you a few years to save up the money you needed to open your coffee shop. You managed to secure a little shop not too far from the FBI headquarters, meaning a good portion of your customer base was FBI agents. It was kind of nice to not have to worry about your security too much. With the amount of federal agents in your shop at any given time, it’d be stupid to try to rob you.

One of your favorite customers came in a few weeks after you first opened. He was dressed a bit better than most of your other customers, or at least more creatively. You were getting a little bored with black and white, so his purple tie and button-up was a welcome change, and his hair looked just fluffy enough that you kind of wanted to pat his head.

“I heard a new coffee shop opened nearby, but I wasn’t expecting you to have quite this nice of a collection of classic books,” He motioned to the tall bookshelves that wrapped around your shop.

“Thank you. It took me quite a while to get this many. You’re free to borrow any of them that you’d like, though, just make sure you give me your name and number, so I can keep tabs on my books,” You say, a smile on your face. You always appreciated when people recognized the effort you put into the books, “Is there something I can get you?”

“Oh, uh, just a large salted caramel mocha,” He replied sheepishly.

“For here or to go?” You already knew the answer. You had seen his FBI badge, so you were already reaching for the travel cup. But it was always better to ask than assume.

“To go,” He was still looking at one of the book shelves when he responded, “Is that in french?”

He was pointing to one of your favorite books. It rarely drew much attention, because it was old and worn out, and the attention it did get was normally driven off by the fact that it was, in fact, in french.

“Yes, it is,” You reply, starting to make his drink, “It’s one of the original prints of that book, so it’s a little worn out.”

“I think I’ll borrow it, if you don’t mind. I’ve been looking for a french version of this book for a while,” He said. He walked over for a moment to carefully pull the book from the shelf. Somehow, even with his tall, slightly lanky build, he managed to look graceful and at home among the book shelves.

“Alright, your name and phone number, please?” You set his completed drink down on the counter and pulled out a ledger that you were using to keep track of the people borrowing your books.

“Spencer Reid,” He said, “(702)-555-0103”

- - - - -

Spencer came back the next day to return the book. And just about every day after that. He borrowed books and read through them quicker than you thought was humanly possible. And eventually you stopped keeping track of the books that he was borrowing. You trusted that he’d return them. You had even started to get his order ready before he got there to pick it up, checking that he would actually be there with the number that he gave you when he first checked out a book.

You had started talking regularly, too. Whether it be about books, or coffee, or his work. Though, he did try to keep most of his work to himself. Eventually, you started keeping the shop open late on the nights that he told you he’d be coming home from a case, and he’d stop by. If it was a rough one, you’d make some calming drinks and sit with him for a little while. You knew better than to try to make him talk about the bad cases, but he seemed to appreciate the company.

You came to know him as a very good friend, and you hoped that he thought of you the same way. Well, sort of. While you’d only ever admit to thinking of him as a friend, you held a bit more affection for the good doctor than you originally expected to.

He was obviously smart, and a little awkward, but when you got him onto a topic that he liked, he could talk nonstop. While some people may have thought it could get annoying, you admired his passion, and liked to listen to him talk. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him a little cute when he rambled. You were proud to call him your friend.

And when he invited you to come to one of the outings his team was having, that feeling of pride almost overwhelmed you. His team was a big part of his life, and the fact that he wanted to introduce you to them, made your heart melt.

- - - - -

You were nervous when you showed up at the sushi bar that Spencer had told you to meet at. Were you at the right place? Was it the right time? Did you dress alright? You wanted to impress Spencer’s team. You felt the way you felt in highschool, meeting your highschool boyfriend’s family. But that was ridiculous, right? You two were just friends, so you really had nothing to worry about. Plenty of people had friends that didn’t always get along with their other friends.

“Hey, you don’t have to be so nervous,” You nearly jumped at his voice, “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep picking at your nails like that.”

“Oh, uh, hey,” You respond sheepishly. Normally you’d be embarrassed by the awkward response, but you knew that your favorite FBI agent wouldn’t mind all that much, “Sorry, I’m just a little nervous to meet your other friends, Spence.”

“Don’t be,” He responded. His smile was sweet and you felt your face start to heat up just a little. You hoped that he didn’t notice, “I’m sure they’ll love you.”

You nod, and take a deep breath. You were still quite anxious, but you hoped that walking in with Spencer would help you feel a little more confident. Something about standing right next to him as you walked through the door made you feel like nothing could possibly go wrong.

“Woah, hey,” You heard a deep voice whoop as Spencer lead you towards a table. You figured that his team must have gone there pretty frequently, “Looks like pretty boy brought a guest. You gonna introduce them to us or what?”

Spencer sighed a bit at the sight of the man that had called out for him. It seemed as though his friends had already ordered a couple of drinks, “(Y/n), this is Derek Morgan,” He motioned to the man, before introducing the rest of the team, “Guys, this is (Y/n). They’re my friend that owns that coffee shop that I told you about.”

“The one that you keep borrowing books from,” The woman that was introduced as Penelope Garcia asked, “They must have quite the collection.”

You spent a little while talking about your shop. And then a little more talking about Spencer. And the longer you talked with his friends, joking and laughing, the surer you were that you were completely head over heels for this man. While they were impressed by his genius, they didn’t seem to admire him in anywhere near the way that you did. And none of them seemed to like his rambling like you. You didn’t just admire his genius or think of him as a really good friend like you sort of hoped. You were genuinely and completely in love with him. And you had a feeling that his friends could tell.

It was on your way back from a trip to the restroom that you had that worry confirmed.

“Oh, come on, Spence, you’re a profiler. Don’t tell me that you really didn’t notice how big of a crush they have on you,” JJ sounded exhausted as she said it. Like she had been trying to explain flirting to him for weeks, and he still just wasn’t getting it. “So what? What if I did notice?” Spencer asked in return. His tone was that of a teenage boy whose parents had been nagging him about his crushes for months.

“Do you not have feelings for them?” Morgan was the one to ask next, “You go to their shop enough, even when you don’t actually want coffee. And you brought them along here when you’ve never done that with anyone before. It’s alright if you don’t wanna date them, but if I’m getting mixed signals, I’m sure they are too.”

You chose that moment to make your appearance. You really didn’t want to hear that response. You were fine with mixed signals. You were fine not knowing. Because not knowing wasn’t rejection. And you rather not know than be rejected.

“What were you guys talking about,” You ask as you sit back down. You hoped that your acting skills were good enough to fool the profilers around you. Maybe they weren’t paying that much attention to you.

“Nothing super important,” Spencer answered before anyone else did, “I should get going pretty soon. I have to check in on my mom.”

You followed as he stood up, not wanting to be left alone with his friends. Especially knowing that they knew about your crush on their coworker. Not to mention, you had taken a cab there, and really didn’t want to take one back, “Do you mind giving me a ride home? I can grab a cab if you want, but if you don’t mind, I’d love a ride.”

“Oh, sure.”

- - - - -

The ride started out pretty awkward. Just you giving Spencer directions to your house between longs gaps of cold silence. The tenson was thick, and you felt like maybe you were wrong. Maybe not knowing wasn’t better than rejection. Maybe rejection was much better than this.

“How much of the conversation did you actually hear before you walked up,” Spencer eventually asked. You could hear the same tension in his tone that you felt in the pit of your gut.

You weren’t sure how to respond. You knew this conversation was going to bring your pining to an end. You just weren’t quite sure how it would end exactly. But you were pretty sure that it would hurt.

Spencer was too good for you. He was a successful FBI agent with multiple doctorates. He was charming and handsome and could probably get any partner he wanted. And you were what? A glorified barista with a book collection?

“Just a little. You really don’t have to worry about it,” You said, trying a last ditch effort to get this to hurt you less.

“(Y/n),” He sounded like he was scolding you a little, “You know that I know you have feelings for me, don’t you.”

God, why’d he have to say it like that? Why’d he have to say it like he was about to lecture you? You were stuck in this car. You had to sit through this conversation wherever it went. And you were sure that you weren’t going to like it.

“Look, Spence, you don’t have to do this. We really could just not talk about it,” You try again, desperate to at least push the conversation back.

“So you do actually have feelings for me?”

“I-” You really should know better than to deny it. He’d see through you. He always knew when you were lying, “Yes.”

You felt the tension drain out of his shoulders. You couldn’t understand why. You didn’t say anything that he didn’t already know, so there’s no reason for him to feel relieved. Especially if he didn’t feel the same way. Why would he be relieved that he has to reject you?

“This make this a lot less awkward,” He said, pulling the car up to your house, “Would you like to go on a date with me next Friday? After you close up the shop?

You froze. That wasn’t what you expected the response to be, “I-, uh, yes! Of course!”

It was then that he got a little red in the face, his blush matching your own, and he sheepishly asked, “Could I kiss you?”

Your body answered before your brain could, and before you knew it, your lips were on his.

[A/N: Sorry if this is really bad. I’ve been dying from the writer’s block recently. Please, feel free to take the quiz if you liked it, though.]

#criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader

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echo-hiraeth · 3 years

Text

Newlyweds - Jack “Agent Whiskey” Daniels x F!Reader [NSFW]

Summary: When Jack and y/n are assigned a mission that requires a cover, they are assigned the role of husband and wife. But the suave agent can’t contain himself any longer and doesn’t want to play pretend anymore.

Warnings: Swearing, violence, spice, NSFW 18+ only

Masterlist

This mission wasn’t at all what you’d expected it to be. Some crazed millionaire seeking world domination and infinite power wasn’t all that unusual to you, but the way you had to go about stopping him was different. So here you were, standing in the five-star-hotel’s lobby, dressed in clothes more expensive than your fucking car, your fellow agent’s arm slung across you waist. Champ had paired you together with agent Whiskey, his boosted ego already getting on your nerves.

“Ready doll?”, he whispered in your ear as you approached the counter.

“Just get it over with”, you mumbled, faking a smile as the woman behind the counter greeted you.

“Good afternoon, how can I help you today?”, she asked excitedly, tilting her head at the two of you.

Jack placed a hand on the counter, leaning against it. “My wife and I have a reservation, the name’s Brandy.”

The lady typed away on her keyboard. In the meantime Jack pressed a peck to your forehead, making you have to fight the urge to kick him in the nuts. “Ah yes, the honeymoon suite, ninth floor. Congratulations Mister and Missus Brandy! Here’s your key, your bags will be brought up shortly, please do feel free to call us if you need anything.”

“Thank you so much”, you cooed as you took the key from her hand.

The two of you headed towards the elevator, Jack’s hand comfortably resting on your lower back as you did so. As soon as the metal doors slipped closed you swatted his hand off of you. “No need to take advantage of the situation, Daniels”, you huffed.

“Oh come on sugar, we need to make it somewhat believable. We’ve been trying to get this guy for weeks and this is the closest we’ve gotten.”

You closed your eyes, trying to keep your mouth shut when the doors suddenly slipped open. He took your hand as he walked you down the hallway, nodding his head at a maid along the way.

When you reached the dark double doors to your sweet the two of you came to a halt. You slowly slipped the key into the lock, sucking in a breath when the doors opened to reveal a gorgeous and luxurious loft. Jack slowly closed the door while you had a look for yourself.

There was a small dining area connected to a tiny kitchen with a see-through fridge filled with alcoholic beverages. To your left you found a bathroom consisting of a lavish walk-in shower and the other facilities you’d expect to find there. The bedroom was gorgeous, the huge bed stood in the middle, directly under the mirrors that found themselves on the ceiling. You ran your hand over the silky bedsheets, the sheer softness of them sending a shiver throughout your being. In the corner of a room stood a luxurious hot tub, the windows behind it looking out over the city. On the other side of the bedroom you spotted a lounging area and huge television. This place was fancy as fuck.

A knock at the door startled you as you were drawn from you inner thoughts. You watched as your pretend-husband opened it, helping the staff member haul your bags inside.

“Mister Brandy, if you’d let me”, he spoke, rolling a tray filled with desserts and champagne into the room. “It is our great pleasure to have you and your wife with us to celebrate something so special.”

“Pleasure’s all ours, thank you”, he ensured the man, smiling as he slipped him a hundred dollar bill.

The member of staff left without another words, leaving the two of you alone once again. “Well dearest wife, care for a toast?”, Jack taunted as he winked at you.

“I could do with a glass”, you chuckled as you sat down on the edge of the bed.

He popped the cork off, elegantly pouring two glasses before walking over to you. A smirk set on his lips as he handed you the glass, softly skimming his fingers across yours. The two of you clinked your glasses together before each taking a sip, his eyes focused on you the entire time.

You’d worked some cases with him before and were not to keen on working with him again. He always drove you crazy, the flirting and small touches made your mind wander to places really not appropriate for work. Jack was known to be flirtatious, you were well aware, but it was getting harder and harder for you to resist his attempts and caring gestures. Having to play his wife for the week surely wasn’t helping. The continuous strokes and embraces drove you more insane than he ever had.

“You need to get changed, event starts in less than an hour.” You looked up at him to find him already staring back at you, tilting his head in confusion. “You okay, doll?”

“Uh – yeah, was just thinking about how I’m going to get to him later”, you lied, getting up off the bed and carrying one of your suitcases to the bed.

“Intel is not sure he’ll be there tonight, but some of his people should. Just try to get around and talk to as many people as you need. It is absolutely crucial we find out his location tonight, Tequila will be on stake-out outside”, he informed while you slowly pulled a black bag out of your suitcase.

When you zipped it open it revealed a long, revealing, satin, maroon dress. You chuckled nervously upon seeing the thigh-slit. “I thought we were supposed to blend in.”

“You take the bathroom first, I’ll freshen up after you”, he instructed, handing you a small bag filled with toiletries.

The moment you left that bathroom all dressed up, was the moment Jack’s heart stopped. He felt the palpitations with every step you took, your heels clicking in time with the thumps in his chest. He cleared his throat, quickly disappearing into the bathroom to finish up as well. It wasn’t like him to lose his composure like that, he just didn’t expect you to look that sexy. The agent splashed some cold water on his face, patting it dry with a hand towel right after, not wanting to get his suit wet. He’d had his eye on you for quite a while now but had tried to keep things professional. The risks that came with being a Statesman weren’t minimal and even though you were a strong woman, he couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt. He decided to make the most of your fake marriage, seeing how he thought you had no interest in him like that whatsoever.

He calmy left the bathroom, telling you that it was time to go. You’d just finished strapping your gun to your upper right thigh, asking him if it was hidden alright. He nodded, urging you to follow him. The elevator ride was silent, awkwardly silent.

“You’re looking really dapper tonight, Daniels”, you started.

He scoffed, looking at you. “I look like a glorified hillbilly next to you… You look stunning, doll.”

You blushed a bit at that, taking his hand in your as you reached you designated floor. When you entered the banquet hall you felt overwhelmed by all the people and flashing lights, the jazz music a pleasant mitigator as Jack leaned over to you.

“See that lounge up the stairs, they’re with him, that’s where we need to go”, his breath was hot against your neck as he spoke, trying to avoid any further suspicion by kissing you there. “Our informant will introduce us to them and then it’s all us from there.” He pressed a peck to your cheek before breaking apart, dragging you through the crowd.

“Ah! The newlyweds!”, you informant laughed, engulfing the both of you in a hug. “If I may say”, he continued, grabbing a hold of your hand, bringing it to his lips and swiping his tongue across the wedding band, “you look amazing Miss.”

“Missus”, Jack corrected him, wrapping a protective arm around you.

The informant smirked, encouraging you to follow him. You got into the small lounging space without a problem, a waiter offering the three of you a drink, which Jack gratefully accepted.

“Emilio! Come meet my friends!”, your informant yelled, a scrawny-looking man walking over to the three of you. “These are the Brandy’s, the banker and his wife I told you about.”

“Ah yes, I remember you telling me about them. Forgive me, but your names seem to have slipped my mind”, Emilio smirked, shaking hands with the two of you.

“John Brandy, and this is my wife Leah, pleasure to meet you”, Jack grinned, his grip around your waist tightening ever so slightly.

“Leah, let me introduce you to my wives, by all means, join them for some games. I think me and your husband have some business to attend to”, the man suggested, though it sounded more like an order.

“Gladly, I’ll let the big boys get to work”, you taunted, not feeling to happy with the man’s derogatory attitude.

Jack smiled at you, proud at your daring character. He pressed a tender kiss to your lips before winking and walking away with the man, leaving you breathless. What. The. Fuck.

You quickly waved the thought and lingering burn of it away and you joined the women on the leather couches. While Jack was off talking with the righthand of your culprit, you worked on getting some information out of the girls. Your newly assigned mission become more and more successful with every drink the girls downed, their integrity and sworn secrecy decreasing with every sweet drop of liquor. Not to come off as suspicious, you drank along with them as well, or so it seemed, you kept dumping your glass into another girl’s, which went by unnoticed every time. You pretended to be just as drunk as them, giggling and flailing your arms as you spoke.

When Jack came back he wore a proud smile on his face until he spotted you. An adoring smile tugging at his lips. “Okay, okay, looks like someone’s done drinking for the night”, he chuckled as he took the glass from your hands.

You whined in response, making a bit of a fuss, as a drunk person might. He supported your weight as you slumped against him, Emilio and the informant giving Jack a knowing grin. “Take care of that one, Brandy. You’re lucky you found her before I did.”

He balled his hand in a fast, forcing a smile and nodding his head at them as he helped you to the exit. You were giggling and telling the wildest story as he pressed the elevator button. As soon as you stepped inside and the doors closed you stood up straight, sighing to yourself.

“Quite the performance y/l/n”, Jack joked.

“Why thank you agent Whiskey.”

Jack filled you and Tequila (over the earpiece) in about his newly acquired information, as did you.

“So he’s on the same floor? Just untouchable?”, Tequila questioned.

“Until tomorrow. I scored a meeting with him, though I doubt it’ll be any good, the guy’s got a whole army up there”, Jack replied, loosening up his tie.

“We’ll go from there, we did the best we could for tonight”, you said, bent down to take your heels off.

“She’s right, talk tomorrow Tequila”, Jack mumbled as the elevator dinged, signalling you’d reached your desired floor.

Another loaded silence filled the room as the two of you sat down on the couches. Jack was trying to keep himself from jumping you, your dress making it nearly impossible for him to think.

“You’re thinking too loud”, you joked, lifting up your dress to unstrap your gun from your thigh.

His eyes followed your every movement and lingered on the exposed flesh, his hardening length pressing against the fabric of his pants. “Sugar, I’m gonna need you to get changed.”

You raised your brow in confusion until you laid eyes on him. His hands were balled into fists on the armrests, eyes screwed shot, chest raising and falling with laboured breaths. A devilish smirk appeared on your face as you went to stand. “What’s wrong cowboy, thought you could deal with some heat?”

“Stop”, he warned, lustful eyes burning into yours.

“I don’t know, I quite enjoy seeing you so… desperate.”

And there it was, with a swift tug on your lower arm he pulled you on top of him. Faces only inches apart. His hand hovered over your exposed back, suddenly pushing you into him, hungry lips devouring yours. You let out a moan as his tongue swiped across your plump lips, keenly allowing him entrance. His tongue stroked yours lovingly, his hands wandering over your body through your dress.

He picked you up, bringing you over to the bed and dragged the zipper on your side down as he gently laid you flat on your back. “As much as I love this little number on you, I’d much prefer to have it on the ground right about now.”

“By all means Mister Brandy, do what you must”, you purred as you pushed his jacket over his broad shoulders. A grunt sounded form his chest as he lifted the satin fabric over your head, leaving you in nothing but a pair of lacey thongs.

“Fuck doll, you look amazing. I’ve been dreaming of this”, he mused, hurriedly opening the buttons of his dress shirt, letting it cascade onto the hardwood floors.

You tugged on his belt as he kissed along your collarbones, hands cupping your naked breasts ever so gently. When the buckle gave way you opened the button, pushing his pants down his ass, further sliding them down with your feet, until they also hit the floor.

He softly caressed your cheekbone as he hummed: “Are you sure you want to do this?”

You smirked before rolling him over, smoothly climbing on top of him, straddling his waist. “What’s wrong Jack? Nervous?”, you taunted, softly sucking on the skin of his neck.

The man groaned, roughly grabbing your ass with one hand while the other brought your face back up to his. “I’m not sure I can keep things professional if we do this.”

Your lips slowly covered his again, as you started slowly moving back and forth against his crotch. His tongue became more needy and fervent, his body aching with anticipation. “As if they every were in the first place. I can’t stop thinking about you either”, you uttered, cupping his bulge through his boxers while leaning down to catch his lips in another searing kiss.

He grabbed onto your hips as you dragged his underwear down, encouraging you to just get on with it already. With his boxers halfway down his thighs and your thongs hastily shoved to the side, you slowly sunk down on his erection. You closed your eyes and threw your head back as you slowly took in every inch of him. He grunted from the sensation and divine sight in front of him, his hands coming up the squeeze your breasts, making you gasp. You slowly started moving your hips when suddenly you heard a familiar voice coming from the hallway. Jack was groaning beneath you, eyes closed and blissfully unaware. You quickly covered his mouth with your hand, stilling your movements as you focused on the noises outside.

“Fuck, that’s him”, you cursed as you got off of him, slipping his shirt on before grabbing your gun.

Jack watched you, visibly confused. “Darlin’, I’m gonna need an explanation here”, he chuckled as he watched you, putting his boxers back on.

You quietly opened the door, motioning for him to shut up as well. Your suspicions were confirmed as you saw your target right down the hallway. Without a doubt, you screwed the silencer onto the barrel of your fun. Jack promptly came up behind you, electric lasso in hand. The two of you shared a knowing look before you stepped out into the hallway, barely covered up.

With two shots his bodyguards were taken care of and within seconds your target was trapped within the grip of Jack’s lasso. You walked up to him, expertly catching the cuffs Jack tossed over to you before fastening them around the man’s wrists.

“Did I interrupt something important here?”, the culprit joked, eyes locked on your barely covered form.

“Where the hell are your manners?”, Jack let out, carelessly knocking the man out. “Don’t you ever disrespect a lady like that.”

You wore a confident smile, hands on your hips as you locked eyes with him. “Tequila will be up in a second, how about you and I get back to that suite?”

“Who am I to deny my wife on the night of her honeymoon.”

He swept you off your feet, carrying you back into the room and kicking the door shut.

“You wish cowboy”, you laughed, slipping off the wedding band.

“Keep that on doll, it suits you”, he uttered, pressing a fiery kiss to your mouth.

“Maybe one day when you give me one yourself.”

#pedro pascal #agent whiskey #jack daniels #kingsman #statesman #imagine

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terrascookiejar-archive · 4 years

Note

Terra I gotta know... why is everyone hating on Milk Cookie now I don't understand

Tbh from what I’ve been told and what I’ve seen Milk Cookie was hated from the start and suddenly that hate is making waves again.

There’s the misinterpretation of Milk being based on a Christian Crusader, when in reality he’s based on a Cleric from DND. However that hasn’t stopped people from continuing to use it as a basis to hate him. They see the use of crosses on his outfit as offensive and will censor them out.

There’s the fact he’s shipped Purple Yam and/or the fact the two are treated as a kind of dynamic. People rushed to the conclusion that Milk and Yam are “White and Black-coded” characters and that Milk was a colonizer meant to glorify whites while Yam portrays blacks as aggressive “thugs.” Which is just about the biggest reach you can think of. Milk Cookie’s been accused of being a racist, a white supremacist character, and even a straight up depiction of a n*zi.

And more recently people have begun to slam milk cookie and ONLY milk cookie for the events on Pinapple Island where he and Sour dug holes despite Mango’s pleas. They think that this is an unforgivable act and that Ananas was too easy on him. And while I DO think it was a little OOC of Milk, nobody is bashing Sour for encouraging it, and milk wasn’t even doing so to be malicious. He was just a little too excited if anything, and in the end still saved Mango and Pinapplemur from the cave in.

People might try to argue but just looking at the Milk Cookie Tag you can see that these are the top three ways the fandom trashes him. I swear out of all the Cookie Run characters, Milk Cookie is the MOST bastardized and vilified simply for being white colored and having crosses on his design. It’s seriously so fucking stupid and is based on people’s own prejudices rather than actual fact.

#mun answers #cookie run discourse #milk cookie #cookie run #im coming out and saying it #people are being shitty to milk for no good reason.

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zettabita · 4 years

Text

RIVALS: Spark I

Rivals Master List

hi guys! ok so this is becoming more action than romance lmao I promise next time ill make it...fluffier...?

I need to get this story out of my head HAHAHAH so I’ll just keep writing. :D In this chapter, you might be a lil OP but thats ok bc you’re amazing irl <3

————————-

a masaki ichijou x fem reader fic

Genre: action, romance Warnings: mild swearing Word count: 2.2k+

Previous: Thunder

————————-

You really didn’t see what was coming when Saegusa-senpai pulled you into a discussion room the night before your first Ice Pillar Break match. You were meandering about the hotel, you see, trying to get rid of your pre-event jitters. You were inspecting the vending machine (Why doesn’t this have milk tea?) at the end of the corridor when Saegusa-senpai suddenly popped out from nowhere and urged you to follow her into a room full of very intimidating Third year students and an expectant Tatsuya.

The first thing that crossed your mind when Juumonji-senpai told you in that room that you were chosen to substitute for Monolith Code was the horrible image of you tripping over a rock in the middle of a battlefield. The second thing was how you were so unlucky that the first year they allowed girls to compete in Monolith Code and increased the number of members on a team was your year (but hey, hooray for gender equality.)

Not wanting to embarrass your school, you tried to put up a good fight. But what about Miyuki, you said. They said that she had two events already and Tatsuya scrunched his face a little bit at the idea. But I don’t have combat experience, you said. They said that Monolith Code, a glorified, no-contact capture-the-flag-with-magic contest, isn’t really live combat and your skills were needed in the team Tatsuya was forming. Not wanting to further bother the scary Third years who looked like they were getting more impatient by the second, you grimly added “not get stomped on at Monolith Code” to your Nine Magic Schools Competition to-do list (At the top of your list was “melt a lot of ice”, which you would later tick off in your Ice Pillar Break match with Mutsuba-san the next day.)

And that’s how you found yourself standing in front of a black pillar in the middle of an open field with Tatsuya Shiba, Leonhard Saijou, and Mikihito Yoshida at the Monolith Code finals, trying in vain to gulp down your nervousness.

At the far end of the field, you see four figures in dark red armor. They had one girl fidgeting more nervously than you were (It was somehow comforting.) You eye the tallest one, the one with the brownish-red hair tucked underneath the helmet before closing your eyes.

“We need you to counter Ichijou Masaki.” Tatsuya says, almost apologetically.

You almost spat out your drink from the hotel minibar. “You need me to do what?!” (You panic now, but years later, you thank Tatsuya for his decision. Masaki thanks him too.) You were hanging out in your room with your teammates and a few First-year friends, discussing combat styles and strategies for the coming matches in a few days.

Tatsuya sighs as Leo and Mikihito stare at him incredulously. “It will be difficult, but I need to shut down Futatsugi Kei. I can’t do that while also facing off against Ichijou Masaki. At the very least, you have to buy me some time.” You pause to think. Futatsugi Kei was another Third High School ace from a Master Clan. It was absolutely criminal for him, the Crimson Prince, and Cardinal George to be on the same Monolith Code team.

But then again, Ichijou Masaki was also in a weight class of his own. Or so they say. “But why me?”

“It’s actually one of the reasons why I chose you. The Ichijou clan specializes in medium to long range bombardment. That would make it difficult for Leo and Mikihito,” Tatsuya gestured to the two, “to take him on from a distance with their specialities. But you can.”

Before you could even reply, Erika chimes in from the other side of the room. “And you’re a girl!”

The four of us gaze at her curiously. You ask, “What does that have to do with anything?”

Erika flashes me a wide grin. “You’re a girl, so he’ll hesitate going all-out. Right?” She looks to the boys for confirmation.

“I don’t know if I should be happy about that…” you say as Leo lights up in realization. “Oh, yeah! Old-fashioned types like Master Clans people will probably underestimate you, ” Leo blushes slightly and pauses, realizing the implications of his words, “uh, which is, you know, really unfair, but maybe you could use that to your advantage?”

Tatsuya and Mikihito nod in agreement. “Yes. It’s possible for us to construct a strategy around that,” Tatsuya adds.

You press your fingers to your temple in a gesture of defeat. “Okay. I’ll think of something. But I don’t think my defense will hold…”

Tatsuya reaches into his inner coat pocket. “And there’s another reason why I chose you.” His lips curl into a rare smile and hands me a silver gun-shaped CAD. “Come on. I’m going to teach you Gram Demolition.”

“(L/N)-san.” Tatsuya calls. You open your eyes without looking at him. “Are you ready?” He asks in a low voice. He was obviously most concerned about your state, given that you were the unlucky one to throw down with one of the best first-year magicians around.

You feel for the CADs in your holsters and pull up your glove, your magic talisman, on your left hand. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” You think back to your first Monolith Code match with Eighth this morning. You did well, taking to the battlefield easily and readily, but you haven’t shown the world your new spell that was learned in a few late-night crash courses with Tatsuya. Gram Demolition, a potent close-range Counter Magic spell, wasn’t a complicated technique, you learned. You only had to have a crazy high Psion count to cast it. It just so happens you had a lot more than most.

You sigh and go over your magic repertoire in your head for the last time. You do your best to ignore your heart beating annoyingly fast in your chest, sharpen your focus, and lock your eyes on that self-assured red-haired magician standing directly across from you on the field. Masaki Ichijou—your rival for the day.

And with a screech of a faraway siren, the match begins.

Tatsuya sprints, two CAD pistols in his hand, legs pumping quickly underneath him as he aims at Futatsugi. The air shifts as the other two spread out behind you. Masaki, on the other, strides confidently forward and begins to cast a spell aimed at Tatsuya.

Not him, me, you think to yourself in a split-second. You send a barrage of lightning bolts in Masaki’s direction, the intensity of your thought coloring the strength of your magic, and he deflects it just in time. He turns to you and you see a small smile plastered on his…admittedly handsome face. Smug bastard. You take a quick glance to your left and see Tatsuya engage in a shootout with that Futatsugi character.

Your eyes dash back to your opponent. Masaki raises his two pistols and a few Activation Sequences form around you quickly. Air Bullet: a round of compressed air and Masaki’s go-to spell in this competition (You’ve watched a few replays of his matches. Never can be too careful with a guy who’s killed a bunch of Russians when he was 13.) Strong, but easy to dismantle. Show time. You blast them away cleanly one by one with your newly-learned Gram Demolition technique and counter with your powered-up version of Thunder Child. Masaki’s smile fades and his eyes widen as he puts out a defensive spell, averting the paralyzing effect of your offense. At the edge of your vision, you notice the other Third opponents shoot you a shocked glance.

Masaki regains his composure in an instant. The two of you walk towards each other, pistols raised in a magic gunfight. Lightning and Activation Sequences form and disintegrate around the both of you within seconds, drawing you in, encircling the both of you in a beautiful but deadly light show. (It lit up his face the same way it would the first time he took you to see fireworks at the pier in Kanazawa.) You manage to slip in a few lightning bolts in between shots of Gram Demolition, making him sidestep occasionally, but you were basically locked in a stalemate.

Now or never. You break your solid stance and run towards him, catching him off-guard. For a second, he pauses, and you press the attack, nearly hitting him with a low-voltage lightning bolt.

The Crimson Prince must’ve felt the heat quite literally. He flinched at the heat and the close sound of air expanding rapidly like miniature thunder, and, with a flick of his wrist, a dozen Activation Sequences suddenly surrounded you, threatening to let loose. Oh my God, this jerk’s trying to kill me. You catch the horrified expression on his face (his move was a violation of the rules, after all) before you blast away one, four, then seven in a moment, going beyond what you thought you could, and then you take out a few more. You feel the hotness from a nearby explosion. You internally scream at your body to catch up and obliterate the remaining Sequences.

And then, when you’d just were a couple of paces from him, just within range of a lightning bolt, one air bullet hits the ground next to you. The world to your left erupts in a hot flash and the ground simply bursts, soil surging up into the air. You let out a yelp of pain and dive away from the blast.

“And that’s the plan. Do you think the illusion will hold?” You focus on your outstretched hand, gathering Psions and then destroying Tatsuya’s attempt at a spell, the glow from the attempt lighting up his figure in the darkened training field not far from the hotel. Your Gram Demolition was still imperfect, but it was getting there: you had proceeded from mildly inconveniencing Activation Sequences last night to outright blowing them away this evening.

Tatsuya furrows his eyebrows in mild disapproval as he prepares to cast another one. “At your level, it should.” Another Activation Sequence forms before you and you blast it away easily. “Still...a lot of things could go wrong with that. Are you sure, using yourself as bait?”

You shrug. “You would be too busy to help me. And… to be honest, I don’t think I have a chance at fighting him head-on for too long. So I’m doing what you guys suggested. Using a little psychology.” You grin as you take down a couple of Sequences from Tatsuya near-perfectly. “After all, who wouldn’t panic if they thought they hurt a cute girl?”

You just didn’t expect him to try to kill said cute girl, even if it was an accident. You lie face down in the dirt. Your ears were ringing and your head throbbed irritatingly. Thank goodness your helmet had tough glass or you’d be eating mud by now. A thick mist that looks like dust and steam emanates from the palm of your glove-covered hand and envelops the surrounding area, hiding you from view. You raise your head slightly to look around at it. Your smoke version of Magical Mist, a spell that creates a thick fog, looked a bit unnatural, but it should do. A destroyed CAD, an attempt at a defense spell, a weird natural phenomenon: what created the mist shouldn’t matter, because the opponent should be panicking either way. You take another second to lie on the grass, CADs clutched in your hands, hurting all over from the dive, and then you waited.

You knew that Masaki was just at the edge of the smoke, probably freaking out at the prospect that he killed a girl and a foreign exchange student at First High (Later on, you learn he already had been practicing how to apologize to your country’s government for your death. The nervous wreck.) You knew he would be too busy reviewing his previous steps to see if the excessive force he used would be enough to kill you and definitely too busy to notice that his opponent was very much still alive and kicking. You listen for a rustle of grass or a shuffle of armor.

After a quiet moment of passing wind and the faraway sounds of magic from your teammates’ own battles, you hear it: a step back, the ground crunching underneath a foot. You raise yourself from the ground quickly and throw your CAD in the direction of the sound. It was a good throw: high and far, the gun spinning away from view in a clean trajectory. More importantly, it was a good distraction at a magic-only battle. At almost the same time, you sprint and emerge from the smoke and into the light.

You swear the world moved in slow motion in that instant. Masaki Ichijou stood there a few feet from you, pistols lowered, his head turned in the direction of the CAD you threw. He feels the air shift when you emerge and he turns to you slowly, his emerald eyes glinting in the light, his mouth gaped open in surprise. He raises an arm instinctively, probably activating his defenses, but you already cast the final blow: Spark. A seemingly simple spell that creates a small electric discharge but is enough to paralyze an opponent.

As you did, you couldn’t help but flash the Crimson Prince a shameless smile from ear to ear. I win, you wanted to say. He looked on—you couldn’t understand the expression on his face—as he fell to his knees, electricity crackling around him. Far away, the crowd erupts in loud cheers.

Months later, Masaki tells you that that smile was what made him fall desperately in love with you.

————————-

hope the way you beat him wasn’t too far-fetched lmao. thanks for reading! <3

#mahouka #ichijou masaki #masaki ichijou #masaki ichijo #tatsuya shiba #Mahouka Koukou No Rettousei #irregular at magic high school #the irregular at magic high school #irregular #xreader

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leafs-lover · 4 years

Text

Because Two People Got Drunk: 1

Series Masterlist

A/N: I have been reading other people’s stories and decided to try it out. Let me know your thoughts! This is my first fic! This is set in the future during the 2020/2021 season. Also I didn’t explain the Saint Valentine/Valentinus so feel free to look into it if you’re interested in more info on it!

Summary: You head to the bar to forget a bad week and meet someone who proves to be a much needed distraction.

Warnings: Smut,

Word Count: 2775

You sit at the bar alone swirling you’re the cup in your hand looking at the ice cubes, the whiskey almost gone. A long week of work, meetings and pending deadlines, your boss had been on your case about a project. You promised it would be ready for review in one week but you were waiting on information from Kyle. Kyle is 4 years younger than you, and had been working with you for about 5 months, he got the job because of his uncle not because of his skills and you had been picking up his slack ever since. You informed your boss you needed to push the deadline back. That conversation did not go well, hence you sitting at the bar at 5pm on a Friday.

Normally there would be more people in the bar, but Valentine’s Day was in a couple days it was likely some couples were out celebrating a few days early on a Friday night, or were out of town. You stare into your glass about to take the last sip when someone sits in the seat beside you.

“Great someone coming to hit on me” thoughts start running through your mind. Why else would he sit beside in you in an almost empty bar? You notice his large legs are almost touching yours. You throw the rest of the whiskey back, wincing at the burn.

“Long day” the man says.

“Long week” you respond looking ahead not at the man beside you. “3rd drink in the last hour”

“Yeah I hear ya, just got back from a business trip it didn’t go well. I’ve heard that talking about your problems can help you solve your problems.” He waves to the bartender and orders two whiskeys.

“That’s probably true, but sometimes you need a stiff drink or 7” you respond. The man chuckles “I’m Fred.” You look towards him and soon notice it’s not just his legs that are large, his shoulders, arms. You notice his cup looks so small in his hand, like ridiculously tiny. Thoughts run through your head: What I would do to have his hands on me, wrapped around my neck, what it would feel like to have his fingers inside you. You shake the thoughts from your mind “I'm (Y/N), nice to meet you.”

You look at his face and immediately taken back by his features. Chiseled jaw, brown eyes with his red hair; stunning you think. You learn he works for MLSE , with the leafs. He doesn’t specify the specifics, and you don’t want to pry, 5 minutes ago he said how his work wasn’t going the best.

Conversation goes smoothly and the whiskey keeps flowing. “So why is a girl like you alone the Friday before valentine’s day?”

“One I don’t have anyone to spend it with, two even if I did I wouldn’t want to. It’s not a real holiday, jewelry stores, chocolate stores, restaurants they all work together to glorify today when it has nothing to do with the true meaning. You have to know the history of saint Valentino’s to rally know the history“

Fred states at you, making you wonder if he thinks you are a women who is bitter about being single on “love day.” Then he smiles and says “Children giving valentine’s to classmates is the closest thing to the true meaning.”

“Exactly” you smile. You look at your watch almost 10. “Want to get out of here?”

A smile creeps on Fred’s face as he waves the bartender over paying for the tab. In total you had 7 drinks and Fred managed to pass you with 9. You walk out the door and the cool Toronto air sends a chill down you. You stop to admire the fresh snow, and the city lights. Fred notices you stops and turns and wraps his arms around you to help keep you warm. “It’s something isn’t it" you claim looking up and locking eyes with him.

“Yeah you are” he whispers, bringing his face down to yours connecting to your lips. You move your hands from his back to around his neck, tangling in his hair. Fred gently pushes you back until you are against the wall of the bar, never breaking the kiss. He pins you to the wall as you open your mouth allowing his tongue to enter your mouth. He pushes his hips into you, causing a low moan to leave your lips. “If I could take you right here I would" he exclaims breaking the kiss. You smile “I’d probably let you" pulling him in again “I’m only a 5 minute taxi from here, you wait and I’ll let you take me anywhere you want there.” He smirks grabbing your hand and practically running to a taxi.

You arrive and as soon as you step into your apartment Fred has you pushed against the door. His hands wandering down your thighs as he attacks your neck. “you want a… drink or anything” you barely whisper trying to be a gracious host. Fred barely let’s up from your neck to respond “I have everything I need here." He pushes your jacket off your shoulders.

He resumes his attack to your neck, his hands now with a tight grip on your hip. Definitely going to have marks after this. You manage to find the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. You admire the man in front of you for a second, chiseled abs and something in you snaps. A fire builds and you take control pushing him against the wall. Your mouth moves to his chest as you leave little bites along it. Your hands slide down his chest and begin to make work of his belt. You unbutton his pants and rub over his hard dick. His head falls back as he groans, your hand slipping under the elastic band of his boxers as you continue to kiss his chest. You slowly move your mouth down to his stomach as you drop to your knees. You look up at Fred as you pull his boxers off his cock, your hand stroking him. You look away to admire him, and your jaw drops in shock as you look back to him.

He chuckles “you don’t have to do…” he is cut off by your tongue licking his shaft. You use your tongue to spread the precum around. Still looking at him you open your mouth taking him in. He is big, a little bit longer then lost of the men you’ve been with, but he is thick. Like the type of thickness you wonder if you can even fit inside you later. The type of thickness you know will hit new places, stretch you in a way you never thought possible.

You continue bobbing on him, you bring your left hand to the back of his thigh, and your right up to his balls and begin stroking those. He reaches down to grab your hair, pulling it into a makeshift pony as you keep going. Curse words begin to leave his mouth, some you think might be another language but you are too preoccupied to focus on that. You use your left hand to gently thrust him forward a few times, to deep throat him, choking slightly. His hands tighten in your hair “(Y/N) if you do that I’m gonna cum."

A smirk crosses your face as you continue your work. You swirl your tongue around his shaft, bringing it up the underside, and feel him twitch. Curse words leave his mouth as you thrust him forward further into your mouth once, twice and on the third time you feel hot spurts of cum hitting the back of your throat. You stay with your mouth wrapped around him, swallowing it all. He slowly pulls out as you rise to your feet, he still hasn’t got his breath back but he smiles and kisses you. It starts off soft and he begins to deepen it, hands still wrapped in your hair. He pulls your neck back as he bites your neck, you moan.

“Fuck you moaning is almost as hot as you with your lips wrapped around my dick.” He quickly removes your shirt and unclasps your bra. A swear word leaves his mouth, this time your certain it’s another language. Before you can think much about it, his hand are grabbing your ass and hoisting you up, as your legs wrap around him. He begins walking to one of 2 doors in your apartment, and luckily choses the correct one. He throws you on the bed, you get to admire him in all his nakedness for a second before he leans over you, biting your ear lobe as he pushes your skirt up your legs. While simultaneously pulling your lace black thong down. His hand returns to your clit and begins rubbing, you groan as your hips buck up. He chuckles lightly and wastes no time sliding in one finger.

“Fuck" you mumble. He uses his other hand to push you back down, capturing your moan in a kiss. He breaks the kiss and begins to trail his mouth down to your nipple, sucking on it as he gently fucks you with his fingers. He takes his hand from your hips and grabs your other nipple with it, his mouth sliding lower, removing his fingers from you. He places gentle kisses on your inner thighs, as he licks you “you want this babygirl?”

“No, I need this. I need you and your mouth Fred." A devilish grin crosses his face as he ducks in, bringing your legs around his shoulders, one hand on each leg, you grip his hair. He licks up your slit a few times then sucks on your clit causing you to moan loudly. He brings a hand down and begins circling your clit with his thumb as his mouth makes quick work of your folds. He is fucking you with his tongue, and you moan in pleasure. He slips a finger down and it enters you as his tongue continues to suck and lick. “Freddie!” you cry out causing him to push his head in further “I’m gonna, I’m so...” unable to finish your thought before he pushes you over the edge. He rides you through it, eventually pulling his head away, your juices on his beard. He sets your legs on the bed, but he keeps his finger inside you. He doesn’t stop, he thrusts in and out a few times before adding a second finger. You squirm slightly and begin to say it’s too much, he cuts you off with a deep hard kiss. “I know you can handle this baby" you nod, still in a daze from the first orgasm. “Such a good girl for me babygirl" he bites your neck, you begin to feel your second one coming and Fred can sense it. He picks up his pace “I’m close" you whisper leaning your head back into the pillow. He brings his thumb down to circle your clit as he slows his pace, frustrating you slightly. Just as you’re about to ask why he slips a third finger in you. You immediately jerk at the sensation, he begins to thrust slowly allowing you to adjust to the feeling of 3 of his large fingers but he soon picks up the pace. That and his thumb had your second orgasm come quickly. He slows slightly but doesn’t stop until you finish. Kissing you lightly “You’ll thank me for the 3rd finger later.”

You laugh lightly as you begin to get your breath back. “I’m going to go get us some water, be right back” he says as he slips out of the room. You admire his naked butt as he walks down the hall to the bathroom. Never in your life had you been so happy to find a man who squats.

He returns with a glass of water and his pants, setting the water beside you. You grab it and take a sip as he removes his wallet. He looks through it once, and a second time and you see his composure shift. You reach into your night stand and pull out a box, you turn it on its side, and nothing falls out. You look into the drawer to see if there is any in there, none. Not one single condom.

He starts to tell you how he had one until 2 days ago when his friend Adam? Alex? Auston? Someone needed one on the business trip, and he wasn’t expecting sex when he left for a drink so it never crossed his mind to check before heading out. He keeps rambling, you’re not really listening, dumbfounded that you have this amazing man, that actually knows what he is doing. Already gotten you off twice when most men are lucky to do once in a night and you don’t have a condom.

Without thinking you blurt out “I’m on birth control!” Fred stops mid-sentence. “Have been for a few years now. I had a physical 2 months ago; came back clean and I haven’t had sex since then.”

Fred states at you for a moment. “I had a physical a few weeks ago and mine came back clean too."

“I’m fine not using one."

“You sure?” he questions.

“Wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t. But if you aren’t comfortable we don’t have to.” Fred slowly steps back to the bed and crawls over you. He kisses you lightly and you pull him down closer. You feel his rock hard cock pressed against your pelvis as you slide your nails down his biceps. His dick nudges your entrance “100% sure about this?" he asks. “Stop talking and fuck me already."

His forehead drops to yours as he slides into you slowly. You feel his balls brush against you as he slowly pulls back, almost all the way out before he pushes back in with more force then before. “Fuck Freddie" you say as your hands tighten his biceps. He keeps going slowly picking up the pace. You can feel your orgasm coming. His pace picks up, he notices you’re getting close and grabs one leg placing it on his shoulder, he pushes so your knee is almost against your chest and is going as deep as you can allow. You feel his balls hitting you’re opening every time.

“Fre…fuck..” you moan barely able to speak.

“Let go baby girl, I want to feel you, need to feel you around my dick.” He takes his hand and places it around your throat, putting a slight pressure on it, he doesn’t stop or low his pace. He gives your neck a tight squeeze and he watches you fall apart under him. “Fucking gorgeous” he whispers kissing your forehead.

He releases your leg and after a few more thrusts he completely pulls out, grabbing your hips and flipping you over. He pulls your ass up in the air, and you lean your head down on the pillow. He slaps your ass as he pushes into you, resuming his previous pace. You scream out as he smacks your ass again “Freddie!” you are almost positive you’ll have a noise complaint tomorrow but you don’t care, you push back into him keeping up with the pace he has set. You feel him start to get sloppy behind you “Wait for me, I’m almost there” you scream.

He pushes in deep and hard, bottoming out. You feel him hit areas no man has ever been, you can tell he is trying to hold on for you. You slide a finger down to stimulate your very sensitive bud. “I don’t know if I can hold it" he exclaims, “So. CLOSE.” You respond. A few seconds later you feel your fourth orgasm wash over you and you feel some warmth begin to fill inside you.

“Shit" you hear as you feel him quickly pull out and the warmth continues on your back and down your ass. He collapses bringing you onto the mattress. You both catch your breath “that was incredible.”

“Nobody has ever gotten me 4 times” you say as you look into his eyes. He smiles, kissing your forehead as you drift off.

You awake around 11 in the morning to coldness in the bed. You wander through the apartment and realize he is gone. Not shocking given the time. You go about your day, a little upset. Not because you saw this going somewhere, but 4 times. That’s something you would love a repeat of.

Next Chapter

#Becausetwopeoplegottdrunkfic #Freddie Andersen Smut #Freddie Andersen Fic #Frederik Andersen Smut #Frederik Andersen Fic #Freddie Andersen #Frederik Andersen #NHL smut #NHL Fic #fredzilla #fred andersen #fred andersen smut #fred andersen x reader #Fred Andersen Fic #freddie andersen x reader #because two people got drunk #my writing

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xplrerdolan · 4 years

Text

𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐆𝐔𝐘 [ 𝘊𝘖𝘓𝘉𝘠 𝘉𝘙𝘖𝘊𝘒 ]

⤬ SUMMARY: Colby thinks he may have met the one. Amber is everything he’s ever wanted; he’s never been so in love before, he’s sure of it. And then he meets you—and suddenly, Amber’s once shining colors seem so dull. He knows it’s wrong, but the more he resists you, the more he wants you—and the more he hates himself for it. ➝ NOTE: this fic is written from Colby’s perspective.

⤬ WARNINGS: cisfem!reader, adultery, swearing, consumption of alcohol [reckless; in excess], smut, unprotected sex

⤬ WORD COUNT: 4.5k

⤬ DISCLAIMER: this is a work of fiction. i do not condone the act of cheating, and in no way is this fic meant to glorify or promote adultery.

pinterest aesthetic board // spotify playlist

❋ ❋ ❋

I loved Amber—love her. I swear. Everything from her auburn hair and honey-brown eyes. She dazzled me when we first met, and I want to believe that those feelings are still there. They're just buried... really, really deep.

It was killing me; she was killing me, slowly and torturously. With her claws impaled in my ribs, still sinking, threatening to own every part of me—down to my last breath.

It was getting bad. Or maybe that's just what I'm telling myself to provide me some sense of comfort. "Getting bad" was an understatement; even "getting worse" didn't do it justice. The other night, I did something terrible—so far beyond bad or worse that my stomach clenched every time I thought about it.

For the first time in weeks, Amber and I got intimate. I wanted to remind myself of who I had fallen in love with a year ago. I wanted to pull myself out of the mess I'd made; I wanted to pull Amber right back into my arms and lock her there tight.

We fucked in the dark—my first mistake. My second: I fucked her from behind. Hearing her moans, which normally drove me wild, was making me soft inside her. I didn't give her time to notice. I did the only thing I could do. I twirled her hair around my fingers and pulled her back, lifting her upper body off the mattress toward me. I brought my other hand to her mouth and silenced her. She perceived this as an act of dominance, not of shame.

I screwed my eyes up tight and thought of her. The mere memory of her sent blood coursing through my groin again, making me rock-hard inside of Amber. I focused on the wisps of her image that flashed through my mind as I chased my orgasm so it could all be over.

In the midst of my euphoria, I nearly called out her name—[Y/N]. I felt it teasing the tip of my tongue before I swallowed it forcefully, her name swelling in my throat and choking me. Tears rose to my eyes and I pulled out of Amber quickly, the evidence of my crime mocking me from inside the condom. I pulled it off me in disgust, flinging it towards the trash can and probably missing.

Amber—bless her heart—started to comfort me. "Baby, don't worry," she said softly, pulling my hands away from my face. "Don't be so hard on yourself. It's been a while. I didn't expect you to last long. Besides, I enjoyed myself while it did."

Her smile was so sweet. It took everything in me to not break down right there. I pulled her in for a tight hug to hide my face. I held my breath until the burning feeling in my nose went away and my tears dried. I kissed her cheek, fighting the bile rising in my throat as I did so. It's not that she disgusted me—I disgusted myself.

Without a word I stood from the bed and went to the shower. I turned the tap all the way to the left, the water quickly becoming scalding hot. I forced myself to stand under it, my back arching away from the heat as it assaulted my body. I grimaced as I endured my self-inflicted punishment, grabbing a bar of soap and scrubbing at my skin desperately. I wanted to wash her away. I wanted to remove the layer of skin she corrupted. Twenty minutes and half a bar of soap later, I resigned myself to the fact that it wasn't working. When I stepped out of the shower, my skin was a stark red.

I tried to remember all the pain of that night as I drove to her house for what I promised myself would be the last time.

❋

I didn't tell her that I was going over there to talk. I just told her I was coming over. To be completely honest, I told her instead of asking to feel like I had some control over the situation knowing I didn't. From the moment I'd met her, she had me wrapped around her finger, tucked neatly under that silver and amethyst ring she wore on her left middle finger—the one I'd first complimented her on when we met.

My fingers curled around the steering wheel in response to the flood of memories from that night; her little black dress, shamelessly flaunting her body; her body, the source of my hypnosis, my obsession. Even among a slew of memories I wish I'd never made, I savored the image of her body—covered, uncovered; coated in sweat as we fucked in the backseat of my car, drenched in water as I fucked her against the tile walls in her shower.

That night, she'd walked right up to me and snatched the red-solo cup right out of my hands before taking a long, deep drink from it. In fact, she drained it. The amethyst in her ring glittered as she handed my cup back to me, and since I was already pretty drunk, I didn't pay any mind to the sheer audacity of her careless, crass actions. Looking back on it now made me puff out a dry laugh and shake my head at myself. Our very first interaction was a red flag—[Y/N] took what she wanted when she wanted, and once she got what she wanted, she discarded what she didn't.

If I could go back, I'd say, "Get the fuck away from me." But hindsight is 20/20, and that's not what I said. On my way to incoherence at the hand of alcohol, I slurred at her, "Ni—cool, uh... thingy."

Couldn't decide on an adjective, couldn't remember the noun. Completely helpless in her presence from the first moment. And just like every other time she left me helpless, she just giggled at me for it. She found it funny, the effect she had on everyone around her. Everyone—men, women, nonbinary people, regardless of their sexuality or how attracted they were to her sexually. Every person she touched or talked to or smiled at was instantly inclined to like her. She was the kind of person who made you insecure in your own desirability—not just sexually, but whether people desired to be around you, and if people desired to be your friend. She was the kind of person you craved approval from. You could beg her for it with your eyes, try to get her to say it out loud, but she never budged. She left you hanging, dangling in front of her judiciary stare.

Imagine what happens when a person like that decides she wants more than just the drink in your cup? more than the shirt off your back? more than what you have to give? Here I am, the remnants of an answer.

She informed me that the thingy on her finger was a ring. She held her hand out, fingers sprawled, palm down. Innocently (ignorantly) I held her fingers in mine and gently twisted them, just barely turning them to the left and right, to watch the crystal glitter. Its edges were jagged, the rock as sharp and raw as her sense of humor. I traced the swirls of smoky purple with my eyes, squinting to really focus.

She humored me as I was clearly very drunk. She was feeling the buzz from the drink she'd stolen from me, and she was keen to catch up. When Tara, who had brought her to the party, walked up to her with a cup filled one-third of the way with brown liquor, which I could see from the shadow against the plastic, she was only too happy to take it with her free hand and immediately chug its contents. Rather than cringing from the taste, she stood before me with her eyes closed, humming. I stared at her in awe, my attention ripped away from her shiny ring while my fingers were still wrapped around hers. I only snapped back to reality when she pulled her hand from mine and gently pushed up against my chin to make me close my mouth.

After my mouth was closed, her fingers lingered on my skin, and subtly—quick enough for no one else to notice—she trailed her thumb over my bottom lip. She told me later that she liked the way it always made me look a little pouty, even when I smile. I had a feeling it only did that around her—when I was reduced to a beggar.

Stopped at a red light, I looked into the rear-view mirror and examined my lower lip. I ran my fingers over it, exactly where hers had been, and heaved a sigh through my nose. I could never look at my own lips the same way again.

I remember that I'd tried to tell her I had a girlfriend; I'd giggled it out, sounding like a little boy about to do something his mom had told him not to. Rather than backing off, she only seemed that much more interested. She didn't like being told she couldn't have something. And she'd take it anyway, just to prove she could, just to spite the rules.

She got off on the idea of making a loyal man disloyal. Whether it was to prove there was no such thing as a loyal man or to prove that she could get anyone she wanted no matter the circumstance, I don't even think she could say. It might be a little bit of both.

As I pulled onto her street, I solemnly admitted to myself that she'd done more than prove both, even with me walking away today. Walking away today didn't negate that I'd walked toward her before. The memory of the first time I met her was often revisited with anger; anger directed at her. Until now, I'd blamed her for my actions. But she hadn't been in that bedroom a few nights ago. She hadn't replaced Amber with herself, I did.

I knocked on her door twice. She called back to give her a second, and I could hear her music playing in the background. When she reached the door, she swung it open and posed in the doorway.

An involuntary whine came from the back of my throat, feeling briefly lightheaded as the blood in my body redirected south. I peered down at her over the bridge of my nose as if tipping my head away from her would make her any less irresistible.

She stood before me, dressed only in lingerie. The lacy ensemble was a bright cherry red, the color stark against her beautiful skin. The bralette cupped her breasts as if it were made for her body—and knowing [Y/N]'s tastes, it probably was made for her. The lace detailing continued down over her ribs, and a satin bow rested at the base of her cleavage. The matching panties came up to her waist, and a bow matching the one on her bra sat just under her bellybutton. They were incredibly simple, but her beauty and grace made them seem intricate and complex. What really killed me was the matching sheer boudoir robe, with its satin belt tied around her waist, emphasizing her curves, and its faux-fur trim surrounding her like a demonic aura.

She took my resistance for teasing, giggling at me—or maybe she could see right through me, and she knew I was desperately trying to resist her. And maybe she planned to dress as she had just to ruin me.

But truthfully, that's exactly what it did. And because I'd already accepted that I was a pathetic, weak bastard, I let my resolve crumble. One last time, I thought firmly. One last time and then it's over.

I brought my left hand to her waist, the satin belt feeling like heaven against my fingertips, and pushed her back into her foyer and shut her door, pretending for the moment that she was mine. She was mine and she wanted me as much as I wanted her, and she didn't want anyone else.

My hands moved up to cup her face, my thumbs tracing over her jawline. My eyes roamed her face freely, looking over her features as though I hadn't memorized them already, as if they weren't stained on the backs of my eyelids. Her gaze steadily met mine, a twinkle dancing in her eyes like she knew just how much power she had over me. She knew how weak I was for her.

For fuck's sake, she hadn't even touched me yet and I was already drunk on her. She'd left me breathless with just a look; she'd stolen whatever fragmented sense of control I had left without so much as a "hello."

Somewhere between wallowing in self-hatred and drowning in lust, I pressed my lips against hers, welcoming the sweet torture. Her lips felt softer than the satin draped over her waist. My hands started exploring her body, pushing past her robe to grab at her ass over her panties. While the feeling of it was enough to send a thrill through my lower abdomen, nothing brought me more euphoria than hearing her respond to my touch.

Her moans sent me out of my body; the only thing I cared about was her pleasure and being the source of it. My fingers pushed the red lace to the side before properly gripping the plump flesh, massaging it gently the way I knew she liked. It pleased her enough to earn her fingers raking through my hair, tugging on the little hairs at the base of my neck to make me whine.

It pained me that she had found that sensitive spot of mine in the few weeks we'd been sneaking around while Amber still hadn't found it after a year. My eyebrows knitted together, and I pulled [Y/N] tighter against my body, savoring these last moments of true satisfaction. The friction between our bodies made me harder than Amber had made me in months. Among the embers of my burning lust flared the searing heat of self-hatred; indulging in her made me a masochist to my own sadism.

I guided her backward through her hallways, the route all too familiar. We stumbled into her bedroom, making sure to lock the door—hiding from even the pictures on the wall.

On a less significant day, I'd be ravishing her. But, as I reminded myself sternly, this would be the last day I spent with her—I had to savor it. Despite telling myself that over and over again, the reality of it hit me hard at that moment. I felt myself choke on the emotion, my body betraying me as I felt tears prick at my eyes.

I refused to allow [Y/N] to see it. I turned her around, facing away from me, and gathered myself. While I calmed myself down, I slowly trailed my fingers over her sheer robe from her wrist up to her shoulders, raising goosebumps along her skin. I focused all of my energy on disrobing her, not letting a fraction of my attention slip elsewhere—especially not toward inconvenient, intrusive emotions.

My hands moved to caress the bare skin of her chest, just above her gorgeous breasts. They traveled south over her bust and then settled on the delicate bow holding the garment together. I undid the bow gently, taking my time loosening it. I could tell she wanted me to hurry—she sighed and pressed herself against me—but, just this once, I was going to indulge myself first.

I shushed her softly, drawing the sound out as I brought my mouth next to her ear. I whispered to her, "I'm going to take my sweet time having my way with you today."

She shivered against me, my breath fanning over her sensitive skin tickling it just right. She chuckled softly, an amused smile stretching over her face. She then clicked her tongue and cast a gaze over her shoulder, considering me briefly. Apparently, she decided to play along; her body relaxed against me, allowing me to control the pace.

I carried on with my actions, pulling the garment off at a painstakingly slow pace before draping it over a chair in the corner of her room. Her stillness made her look statuesque; I wouldn't be surprised if she turned to stone right before me, proving to be some artist's rendition of perfection.

"Lay down for me, on your back," I ordered.

She complied. If I didn't know any better, I might feel like I had some control over her, like she was naturally submissive. But the truth was [Y/N] merely allowed others to feel dominant; we both knew it was me who followed her, not the other way around. But for the moment, it was nice that the cat humored her mouse.

I crawled across the bed, pausing to hover over her and steal a kiss. Before I pulled away, she tugged at my shirt by the hem, wordlessly commanding me to remove it. I pulled it over my head by the neck, tossing it haphazardly to the floor. I leaned over her again, my hands on either side of her head, my arms outstretched.

She trailed her nails softly over my arms—always careful to not leave marks—before resting them on the back of my neck, pulling me down toward her again. She kissed me then like I'd never been kissed before: with a gentle passion, a soft intensity. She must have known—somehow, she must've.

When she pulled away from me, I lingered above her with my eyes closed, still processing the complex emotions she stirred in me. As I contemplated this, she pressed another kiss to my lips, this time quick and succinct, a little peck. It was enough to ground me back in reality.

I moved down her body, trailing open-mouthed kisses across her skin. I watched as her chest began to rise and fall faster the closer I got to her core, feeling more pleasure from causing her arousal than I'd felt in my entire relationship with Amber.

I situated myself between her legs, scooping my arms under them so they rested on my shoulders. She shot me a confused glance as I had yet to remove her panties, making me smirk. I blew softly over her covered core, a sensation that would do little more than tease her. She sighed again, a wry smile on her face. I was staying true to my word of taking my time with her.

I closed my mouth over her center, pressing my tongue against it to dampen the lace and taunt her with a feeling just on the cusp of pleasure. I sucked the cloth into my mouth, drenching it further, making sure it just barely grazed her most sensitive spot. She moaned, the sound a mix between pleasure and frustration. She ground her hips toward me, seeking more from me. I felt drunk on her desperation and wanted to feel more of it. I brought my hands to her hips and held them down, continuing her slow torture.

She balled her fists in the sheets, pouty moans falling past her lips. I felt her resist the pressure I placed on her hips, but I wasn't ready to give into her. I delivered a sharp, quick smack to her outer thigh. She gasped, relaxed into me, and let out a low moan.

After another minute of making her endure my teasing, I pushed myself up on my elbows to pull her panties off, earning a sigh of relief from her. I returned to my position and pressed kisses to her skin—along her thighs, in the crevices where her legs met her hips, and all over her mound. Finally, I kissed along her lower lips, starting at the very base and working my way up to the place she needed me most.

I settled my attention on her clit, slowly swirling my tongue around it, earning the tiniest moan from her. I then sucked the bundle of nerves into my mouth to further stimulate her, watching her back arch slightly and pull even harder at the sheets.

I couldn't stop watching her reactions. I felt myself growing impossibly harder at the sound of her moans, the head of my cock starting to throb. I lapped at her ambrosial juices, my tongue roaming the entirety of her pussy. She really started to squirm for me when I slipped my tongue into her, curling it up each time it entered her. After teasing her with my tongue, I brought it back to her clit and moved my left hand to finger her with my middle and ring fingers, sucking on the hardened bundle of nerves while my fingers pumped in and out of her.

At this point, her fingers were in my hair and her legs trembled around my head. She moaned my name in pleasure over and over, seemingly incapable of saying anything else. Her head was tipped back into the pillows, her back arched dramatically. I brought her closer and closer to her orgasm, my eyes trained on her writhing figure, enjoying the view immensely.

It didn't take long for her walls to start clenching around my fingers, a feeling that made my dick twitch in anticipation. I sped my fingers up, curling them up to tease the most sensitive part within her. Her voice broke off as she reached her peak, her hips grinding against my mouth desperately. My fingers worked through her high, slowing down as her body relaxed again. I lapped at her folds for a few moments longer, just enjoying the taste. When she looked down at me again, her eyes were filled with lust and affection.

When I crawled over her again, I pressed my lips against hers in a long, sensual kiss. I felt her push against my chest, wanting me to lay back so she could return the favor, but guilt weighed heavily in my stomach at the thought. As badly as I wanted it, I truly did not deserve it, and I would rather feel regret and longing than even deeper guilt. I chuckled into her mouth softly and shook my head.

"I can't wait any longer," I lied, pulling her bottom lip between my teeth. She moaned softly at my words, her nails scratching lightly over my chest.

I pulled away from her to finish undressing. I kept my eyes on hers, watching her reaction as my cock slapped against my lower abdomen, feeling a rush of lust as she subconsciously bit her lip. I attempted to crawl over her again, but she shook her head, sitting up.

"I wanna ride you," she purred. Another wave of lust washed over me, making me moan softly. I laid back against her pillows and watched her straddle me.

She leaned down to kiss me, grinding her dripping pussy over my shaft as she did so. A strangled moan escaped me; finally getting the attention I'd been craving was enough to make me quiver under her touch. She teased me like that for a while, working me up even more—the sweetest torture.

Finally, she allowed me to slip into her, my eyes rolling back into my skull at the feeling. She let out an erotic moan, the sound mixing with my own gasps of pleasure. I gripped her hips as she worked them over me. My eyes lazily trailed over her body, drinking in the sight of her gorgeous body.

She placed her hand under my chin and lifted my gaze up to meet hers. When our eyes locked, my heart stuttered in my chest. We held eye contact for a long moment, long enough that I felt myself unravel beneath her.

Then, she smirked down at me, a little giggle slipping past her lips. It was incredible how she could do so much to me while doing so little. I flipped our positions, surprising her, making her giggle more. I couldn't hold back a chuckle and a wide smile myself. I swooped down to kiss her before working my hips against hers, the feeling of her pussy around me making my mind go almost completely blank.

In fact, horrible as it was, the only thing on my mind was how much better it felt to be with [Y/N] than Amber.

I dipped my head down, biting marks into her neck—a luxury she could afford. She tugged on my hair, hard; it was the only thing she could do without leaving any evidence behind. I shut my eyes tight, trying to push the image and memory of Amber from my mind at this moment, focusing only on the woman underneath me.

I brought a hand up to grab a fistful of her hair, tugging on it to expose more of her neck to me. I sped up the rhythm of my thrusts, my teeth grazing against her sensitive skin. I felt my orgasm approaching, so I brought my thumb to her clit and rubbed it vigorously, wanting to feel her clench around me one last time.

I knew her body well enough to make it happen. Not even a minute later, the walls of her pussy fluttered around my cock, a stuttering, breathy moan escaping her. The way her legs trembled around me and her hips rolled up to meet mine sent me over the edge, making me cum harder than I'd ever cum before.

I rested inside of her after the fact, my head nestled in the crook of her neck. She played with my hair, humming contentedly as she gave me a moment to collect myself. When I finally did pull out of her, I reached over for the baby wipes she keeps on her nightstand, cleaning myself and her up carefully.

I laid back, opening my arms to her. She curled up next to me, laying her head on my chest. I stayed silent for a few moments, trying to enjoy my last few moments of peace for what they were—the calm before the storm.

When I took a deep breath, [Y/N] already knew what was coming. I explained my feelings to her in as little detail as possible—I was too ashamed to admit to her that I'd been replacing Amber with her in my mind, but I suspected she already knew.

I left her fifty bucks for a Plan B, kissed her once more, and left her house for the last time.

#colby brock #colby brock imagine #colby brock smut #colby brock x reader #series: where we go #colby brock fanfic #colby brock fic

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lady-divine-writes · 3 years

Text

Good Omens - “Plot Twist” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Embroiled in the aftermath of two very messy break-ups, Crowley and Aziraphale are preparing to film their first love scene together. But how do you pretend to be in love when your love life is falling apart?

It probably doesn't hurt to be in love with your co-star. (2318 words)

Notes: So I made the chauffeur young Shadwell, but patterned after young Michael McKean, who I was desperately in love with back in the day XD Human au, ineffable wives, mention of past Aziraphale/Gabriel, mostly just fluff

Read on AO3.

“Ooo, I get a limo this time. Fancy, fancy,” Crowley mumbles, not nearly as impressed as she’s pretending to be. She’d much rather drive herself in her own Bentley and in her own sweet arse time. But she needs to keep up appearances.

There are always two eyes and a camera lens on her at any given moment.

Even though it’s the literal buttcrack of dawn, she’s not alone. There are about thirty asshats, armed with cameras, camped out on her doorstep, climbing over each other to snap a candid of her for the gossip sites. A photo of her emerging from her rented townhouse fresh-faced and ready for another day on set will fetch an easy hundred pounds.

But if she looks like she rolled out of bed, drank a bottle of whiskey for breakfast, then fell down a flight of stairs, landing face-first onto a mountain of cocaine? Those pictures would fetch considerably more.

That’s what she gets for going through a horrendous break-up while having the nerve to be rich and famous.

She thought that when the production moved filming away from London and out to California, the buzz surrounding her personal affairs would die down. On the contrary. It seemed to get worse, in part because the states don’t have the same paparazzi laws the UK does.

She can’t sit down to take a proper shit without seeing a flash pop off.

Despite how she feels about her life at the moment, she went for class over crass. She shies away from hard drugs, and she can't justify looking less than her best, especially in public.

She refuses to let anyone see her sweat.

“Antonia! Antonia! Over here!” the pariahs beckon, some of them whistling for her attention like she’s a dog. “Antonia! Hey, Crowley!”

Crowley.

That’s the one that gets to her - burrows into the roots of her teeth and makes her head pulsate with rage. It keeps her feet moving when she might have stopped to exchange a polite hello, given out an autograph. And the sick thing is these vultures probably realize that.

That’s why they keep doing it.

Who talks to people like that? When did it become acceptable to bellow out someone’s last name as a means of getting their attention? Is it too much to ask for them to shove a ‘Mrs.’ in front of it? Have these glorified stalkers forgotten that, if it weren’t for her and stars like her, the only jobs they could get would be snapping photos of families at Legoland for minimum wage?

Ugh.

Too much thinking too early in the morning.

She could write an entire essay on how much she loathes pap culture, but today, she can’t be bothered caring.

She’s filming one of the most anticipated scenes of her whole career on one of the worst days of her life.

That’s the hurdle she needs to focus on.

She slaps on a smile and waves, sliding her glasses down her nose only far enough so they can’t see how red her eyes have gotten from crying.

“Oh, ‘ello, loves! I didn’t see you all here! So nice of you to greet me at 5:30 on this fine winter morning! Oh, careful there. You spilled your coffee. And I think you just kicked that poor lad in the face. You wanna give him a hand up there? He’s bleedin’ all over the pavement.”

Crowley greets her guests this way every morning, killing them with kindness, as subtle an eff you as she can come up with when her brain cells have yet to kick in for the day.

Coffee. She needs coffee. About a gallon-and-a-half of it.

And a shot of bourbon might be nice.

Crowley glides through the crowd, an angelfish among sharks, and comes out unscathed.

A man with brown hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes, wearing a fitted, black uniform tailored to within an inch of its life, opens the car door for her as she approaches.

"Good morning, Mrs. Crowley."

“Good morning, Mr. Shadwell. It's nice to see you.” Crowley slides into the car, thankful when the chauffeur shuts the door. She sinks into the leather seat and tosses her sunglasses aside. “God!" she moans, burying her face in her hands. "I don't want to do this! I want to stay home, eat ice cream, and drink tremendous amounts of alcohol! I definitely don’t want to be snogging anyone today!”

Aziraphale, who had been waiting patiently with a small box of assorted cookies and wearing a sympathetic smile, frowns. “Wow. Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley's head snaps up, her face splotchy, and red enough to rival her hair in seconds. “Aziraphale! I am so sorry! I didn’t know you were …! That’s not what I meant!" She takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly. "It's not you, angel. I swear it isn’t. I just don’t feel particularly romantic today.”

“It’s all right. I know what you mean. I feel the same way.”

Crowley squares Aziraphale with a stern look. “Wow. Thank you.”

Aziraphale ducks her eyes, her cheeks turning pink as she offers Crowley a cookie from the box. She wonders if Aziraphale made them herself. She often does bake to pass the time. So much so that she's become quite good at it.

Life hasn’t been treating her too kindly, either.

The cookies are delicate little things, intricately frosted in red, green, and white, decorated as bells and angels and snowflakes in honor of Christmas.

Because it’s Christmas.

Crowley is having the worst day of her life a week before Christmas.

Sigh.

There is usually champagne, no matter what vehicle the studio sends to pick them up. She wonders where it’s gone, searching about for it. Crowley and Aziraphale rarely avail themselves to it, preferring to wait till after the shooting day is done to have a nightcap.

But today, it feels like a necessity.

Leave it to the studio to not provide them a bottle of bubbly on the one day Crowley longs to drown in it.

“I didn’t know Shadwell was picking you up first,” Crowley says, starting small talk to ease the tension. Crowley and Aziraphale don’t usually have trouble making small talk.

Today is an exception.

“Well ...” Aziraphale clears embarrassment from her throat “... I was just … you know … a few blocks down the way.”

Crowley sits up further, leans forward with interest. “So you did it. You left him. You left Gabriel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies quietly. “I couldn’t stay. Not after …” She stops and sniffles, turning her head to hide eyes that must be as red as Crowley’s. Crowley doesn’t know.

She only ever notices how incredible they are.

Crowley rests a comforting hand on Aziraphale’s knee. “I know.”

“Yeah,” Aziraphale says with a slightly bitter laugh. “So does the whole world. In fact, the photogs knew I was leaving before I knew. You should have seen it. I could barely get past them.”

Crowley pulls a box of tissues out of the side panel and offers her co-star one. “They’re bottom feeders. The lot of them. Try to ignore them.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I know,” Crowley repeats, feeling exceptionally useless. She’s in the exact same boat, but her heart hurts more for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale doesn’t deserve what she's going through. She doesn’t deserve such a public break-up.

She doesn’t deserve having her name drug all over social media by an emotionally manipulative bastard who thinks he's God's gift.

Crowley gazes out the window at the sky above. The forecast said it would be clear and sunny today, but it’s cloudy and grey. It matches Crowley's mood. Everything is cloudy and grey.

Well, maybe not everything.

The cookie she's eating isn’t. It’s sweet and crisp and melts in her mouth. It puts a smile on her face.

That helps.

Aziraphale helps, too.

Even gloomy, melancholy Aziraphale helps.

Just being in Aziraphale's presence helps.

“Living in the public eye isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, though it sounds as much like a statement to herself as a question for Crowley.

“Not on days like today. But that’s the trade-off for being a star, I suppose.”

“Would you ever give it up?” Aziraphale asks, taking a nibble of her Madeleine.

“I can’t say I would. You?”

“Nnnn ... no."

"There isn't anything else you wanted to do?" Crowley asks, latching on to her hesitation. "Not even when you were younger?"

"Well ..." Aziraphale bobs her head back and forth. "To be honest, I have always wanted to own my own bookshop. Or perhaps work in a library. But that's only if acting didn't work out. Acting has given me so many opportunities I could never have dreamed of. And all the great people I've met? I mean, this is what? The fifth film we’ve starred in together?”

“It is."

Aziraphale chuckles. "Some of them have been real winners."

"I know! The roles you get offered when you're just starting out are criminal! Let’s see, we’ve been rogue enemy agents from different factions …”

“High school frenemies …”

“Alien co-conspirators …”

“Jealous rivals …”

“And now … lovers.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says bashfully. “And today …”

Crowley smiles. “We get together for the first time.”

Hearing Crowley say it makes Aziraphale’s heart race, her pulse thrumming so fast it disappears.

The day Aziraphale found out she’d gotten the role of Crowley’s love interest and not the ‘jealous ex’ (the role her agent originally pitched for her since they play adversaries so well) was a dream come true. The studio felt the two of them could take their insane sexual tension (the studio's words, not Aziraphale's, although she doesn't disagree) and use it to fuel the plot of their latest 'friends-to-lovers' rom-com.

Aziraphale has always wanted to be a leading lady. Deep down, she prayed that her first time, she'd play opposite Crowley. Now that it has finally happened, the role of her dreams comes with the greatest perk in the universe - an intimate moment with Antonia.

In front of about three dozen crew members, but still.

It's Aziraphale's chance to indulge her crush, which she plans to savor since it may not come around again.

Not in the way Aziraphale wants.

As friendly as Crowley is to her, as flirty as she can be, Aziraphale doesn't know for sure whether Crowley shares her feelings.

“If you don't mind my asking, when did she tell you?” Aziraphale asks.

“She didn’t." Crowley snorts humorlessly. "I woke up, and she was gone. I thought she had left for work. She had a table reading at six that morning, so I wasn’t immediately suspicious. Not until I started noticing important things were missing - clothes, toiletries, her contact lenses, her laptop …”

"Did she tell you why she was leaving?"

Crowley chews her lower lip at the question she'd known was coming ... the answer she's debating whether or not to give. "Eventually." She glances up at Aziraphale, flashes a sly grin, and decides to go for broke. “She left because she thought I was falling in love with my co-star.”

"Really?" And just like that, Aziraphale dies, her heart shrinking into nothing and blowing away on the wind. "W-which one?" she asks, solely for conversation's sake.

This time, when Crowley snorts, clamping a hand over her mouth to keep from spraying crumbs all over the interior of the limo, it's genuine. "You, you gumball!"

"Oh. Oh!" Aziraphale’s expression of shock is so endearing, Crowley can’t look at it too long. There's a glow about her. It's like staring into the sun. “That's ... that’s funny. Gabriel broke up with me for the same reason. Because of ... you. At least, that's the excuse he gave on Twitter ... and Instagram ... and Facebook.” Aziraphale's glow dims as she talks about her ex. Their relationship, and separation, weren’t as civil as Crowley’s. In reality, trouble had been brewing behind the scenes for a while.

She’s glad they finally went their separate ways, but it stings just the same, finding out that someone you once loved, who you thought loved you back, just wanted someone to push around. To control.

"That is funny. Not funny ha-ha. Just ... funny. Who would have thunk?" Crowley goes back to her cookie, taking small bites while keeping an eye on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale glances out the window as the limo slows, approaching the gates to the studio lot. Crowley doesn't follow Aziraphale's gaze.

She doesn't need to.

She knows what Aziraphale sees by the way her face falls.

Aziraphale had hoped they could slip in quietly, but there's already a mob three feet deep waiting for them. The photographers and fans won't be able to see a thing through the car's windows. The tint on them is darker than dark. Still, the whole lot will be on high alert with them here.

Inevitably, a handful will slip in.

They may even find their way on set.

Aziraphale doesn't have the energy to deal with that.

Not today.

“How are we going to get through it?" Aziraphale asks. "Filming this scene? The timing is ... uncanny, to say the least.”

“Think of it this way …” Crowley slides across to Aziraphale’s side, sits as close as they're both comfortable with. Crooking a finger beneath her chin, Crowley draws Aziraphale's attention away from the gathering crowd and over to her eyes instead “… we get to spend the entire afternoon making each other feel better. That's how we're going to get through this. Agreed?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lower, flicker to Crowley's lips unintentionally. When they travel back up, she notices Crowley's eyes do the same. She swallows hard. At this distance from Crowley, from her mouth, Aziraphale only has the wherewithal to say one word. She makes it count. "Agreed."

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable wives #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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