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the12thnightproject · 10 months

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Chapter 50: Radiance -While waiting for the next wormhole, Shingen and Katsuko enjoy domestic fluff, birthday cake, and snowboarding… but an old video leads to an unsettling discovery.

Shingen x OC; Kenshin x MC (Mai)

Previous Chapter: Here

Logline - Disguised as a boy, Katsuko finds herself working for Shingen, but her dangerous masquerade becomes difficult to sustain when she falls for the man with a fatal secret.

With ten weeks until the next wormhole opened, modern Japan ended up being kind of a vacation for Shingen and I. Rather than join Sasuke in Kyoto, we elected to stay in Nagano since it was more or less home turf for both of us. Thanks to Aki’s generosity (I considered it an employee bonus and figured I had earned every penny – especially since he hadn’t ever paid me an actual salary), I had more than enough money to rent a decent furnished apartment for a few months.

Before the winter kicked in, we rented a motorcycle several times and toured through the countryside, riding down to the Yamanashi Prefecture, formerly Kai. After some discussion, we elected not to visit the Tsutsujigasaki historic site – it would be too strange and jarring. “When we go to Tsutusjigasaki Castle,” he told me, “it will be as it was, so I can introduce you to its people.”

In return, I showed him all of my old kid haunts – not that there were that many – and my favorite places to hike and climb. And of course, Shingen being Shingen, we created our own tour of Teahouses and bakeries around the city.

Sasuke came up from Kyoto every other week, mostly to hang out, but also to report what was going on with the wormhole and his investigation into the mystery of Aki. The latter was unfortunately stalled due to his parents having taken a sabbatical trip through China – they’d rented their house out to a businessman from India.

On my own, I was doing similar research on my old mentor, but to no one’s surprise, he kept an extremely low internet footprint. Nothing like putting your primary residence 450 years in the past to help you stay off the grid. Similarly, though I haunted the library and archive sites, I was unable to find a lead on “Hikosane.” If he had done something important during his lifetime, it wasn’t in the historical record.

The first weekend in December, Sasuke came up and took Shingen out for a man-bonding afternoon. That was how Sasuke described it. I described it as “get him out of the house so I can bake him a birthday cake.” The birthday meal itself, I would trust to delivery, but I wanted to at least make him something sweet.

Cooking and baking were not activities I had done a much of after my mother died, but prior to that, I’d been the primary cook, not just for meals but also desserts. I had gone through a phase where I baked the most decadent things I could find, hoping to tempt her to – Ah… maybe that was why I wasn’t a huge fan of sweets now? I jotted that down in a notebook my therapist was having me keep. I had decided to see a therapist for my claustrophobia and nightmares. They were never as bad when I was with Shingen, but I felt it wasn’t his job to deal with my mental health – I needed to take responsibility for that. Obviously, there wasn’t a lot I could accomplish before we headed back through the wormhole in the Spring (I told my therapist I was moving to Vancouver) but I hoped to at least have the tools I needed to keep moving forward.

I checked the temperature of the cake layers that were cooling on wire racks. Online, I’d found what looked like (per the number of stars the recipe had) an extremely decadent recipe for chocolate and strawberry cake. While I might never win any cake decorating contests, I was confident the cake would at least taste good. Just as I finished mixing up the buttercream frosting, Shingen and Sasuke came through the door, stomping snow off their boots.

“Sorry to bring him back early – the snow’s getting fairly deep.” Sasuke hates driving in snow. For that matter, Shingen’s not terribly fond of being a passenger when Sasuke is driving, so I ought to have expected an early return.

“No worries.” I’d been listening to the weather reports. Deep snow tonight meant this weekend I could finally take them snowboarding – an excursion that we’d planned for as soon as the weather cooperated.

“What’s all this?” Shingen eyed the cake and the bowl of frosting with the intent interest of a sugar fiend who’d been held hostage in a health spa for a decade. “If it tastes as good as it smells, then I’d say we’ve gotten back right on time.”

“I hope that wasn’t supposed to be a surprise.” Sasuke headed to the coffee machine that we kept out just for him, as neither Shingen nor I had ever developed a taste for it (though Shingen did have a fondness for those fancy caramel mocha lattes they sold at the chain coffee shop – go figure).

“No, it was to prevent… that.” Shingen had grabbed the bowl of frosting and a spoon. I took the bowl away. “That goes on the cake,” I said. He gave me an adorable little boy frown. I leaned closer and said to him quietly. “If there’s any leftover after that, we can have it later… I’ll take the role of the cake.”

Shingen had been stealthily reaching the spoon for a raid on the frosting, but upon hearing that hastily aborted the mission. I ran my finger along the edge of the bowl, scooping up a small amount of frosting on it, and held it out to him. “Will this hold you for a while?”

He sucked my finger into his mouth and licked away the frosting. “For dessert, yes. For you, my sweet Devil, not even close.” He backed me into the counter and dipped me into a kiss. He tasted of chocolate and snow and promises.

“Not a full wall, so I suppose that’s a half-kabedon,” Sasuke toasted us with his mug of coffee.

“Only the Russian judge will care.” I scooted out from under Shingen’s arms, then handed him my phone. “This cake will not frost itself. Why don’t you guys pick a place and order dinner. In this weather it could take a while to get here.”

Shingen opened up the restaurant delivery app. “Any preferences?”

“Your birthday, you pick. Just order something vegetarian for me.” I began putting the crumb coat of frosting onto the cake and pretended not to notice when Shingen stole another taste.

Sasuke rescued the cake from becoming a “naked cake” by taking Shingen into the other room to watch TV – they were working their way through the original Star Trek. I’m not sure Shingen was all that into the show, but it was fun to watch Sasuke watch it. Apparently, he and Gene Rodenberry had incompatible views on the science of space travel. Already I could hear him grumbling that spaceships didn’t need to ‘bank’ in zero gravity.

While I lost myself in the soothing rhythm of cake frosting (given the number of tiktok and youtube videos of people frosting cakes, I wasn’t the only person to appreciate the ASMR quality of cake decorating), I let my gaze wander from where I could see Shingen and Sasuke joking around in front of the tv set, to the window, where the late afternoon snow was lightly brushing against the window.

Respite.

There was that word again. Away from the stress and danger of the Sengoku, Shingen and I were cocooning in this little apartment, learning how to be together without distraction. Once we got back, we’d both have our battles to fight. I was determined to find Aki and demand an explanation, while Shingen was making plans to try to wrest Kai from Nobunaga. But until then, it was nice to have this comfort of daily living together, in order to strengthen what we’d need to face these challenges, both as individuals, and as ‘us.’

Later, after we’d finished dinner and a good portion of the birthday cake, the sugar crash hit, and we all sprawled lazily on the couch, good naturedly debating what to watch, without making any real effort to actually make a decision.

“Are you going to finish that?” Shingen indicated the remainder of the slice of cake that I hadn’t managed to eat.

Oof. Even if I thought I could move (too full), or wanted to move (too comfortable under Shingen’s arm) I didn’t want it. I’d made the cake to his tastes, not mine. “It’s about eighty percent frosting – go ahead. I’ve never liked that much sugar.”

He reached for it, then paused. “Except for the sweets from the Teahouse in Kasugayama – you liked those.”

I made a show of looking innocently at the ceiling and folding my hands penitently while Sasuke snickered quietly from his end of the couch.

Here came the forehead flick. “Really, Devil?”

“I never actually said I liked them. I simply didn’t correct your assumption that I did.” I resisted the urge to rub spot he’d just flicked. No need to encourage him.

“What am I going to do with her?” Shingen addressed Sasuke, who looked like he wanted to yeet out of the conversation completely. “She happily lies to me, steals my clothes” (oh yeah, I was wearing his shirt again), “-falls out of trees-”

“Alright, enough about that.” I gestured to Sasuke’s tablet, which was currently wirelessly connected to our TV. “Sasuke, go to youtube.” I gave him the address of the old youtube page that Toshiie and I had put up when we were still teenagers. Hopefully after so many years, it was still there. “We’re going to settle this tree thing once and for all.”

Sasuke did that ninja typing thing again. “Password?”

“Tony_Stark1610.”

“Ironman? Really Katsuko, you need better privacy settings than that.” He brought up the page. The freerunning videos were at the top, but we were going to go further back than that.

“Shut it, Spidey I was fourteen when I created this page.” No one would have been looking for it in any case.

He sighed. “At least you didn’t use your pets’ name or your birthday.”

“Sixteen ten is her birthday,” Shingen offered.

Also, Tony Stark had been the name of my cat, but I was not going to bring that up to Sasuke. “I’ll change the password later.” I directed him to the oldest video on the page.

It had been the last time I’d ever competed in artistic gymnastics – a small local competition. My mother, who normally was my biggest supporter had been having a bad week and that morning hadn’t left her bed. Toshiie had filmed the event so she could see it later. As far as I knew, she’d never watched. I’d quit soon after that – I’d only been doing it for her to begin with, and I didn’t have the funds -or the talent - to move up to an elite level. Not that that mattered now. What was on the video would likely look more impressive than it actually was.

Shingen and Sasuke watched my fourteen-year-old self tumble and flip across the balance beam. “There will be no more talk of me falling out of trees.”

“Can you teach me some of that? It would come in handy for a moderately awesome ninja.” Sasuke had a faraway look in his eyes. Likely imagining surprising Yuki or Kenshin with new tricks.

“Ah, now I understand what you meant about training as a performer from a young age.” Shingen watched teen Katsuko slide into a full split then dismount the beam with a flourish. “Are you still that flexible, Devil?”

Nobody with breasts and hips is that flexible. I was about to reply to that one with a forehead flick of my own, when the next video began. “I had no idea he posted this – Sasuke click stop.”

It was the freerunning video from the day of the wormhole – just seeing the view of the building that I was about to ascend brought back the feelings of restlessness and anxiety from that year.

“What’s wrong?” As usual, Shingen was tuned into my emotions and he picked up my hand and held it comfortingly.

“The day we got swept into the Sengoku, Toshiie filmed this. I was just surprised that he’d had time to put it on the page.” Discovering this was like time-traveling to my younger self in an archival wormhole.

“May I watch? I’d like to get a sense of the weather conditions that day – it’s a rare opportunity to have this type of data for analysis.” Sasuke had instantly become alert, ready to flip into Weird Science Mode.

“Um, if we play this, I need to warn you in advance – I was a lot more of a daredevil back then, and my brother and I fought about what I did here.” Which was why I was surprised he’d uploaded it. Maybe to try to talk me out of taking risks.

“So noted.” Shingen didn’t actually promise not to get upset, but Sasuke had already pressed start. I resisted the urge to watch Shingen, especially when I almost fell off a three-story building, but I could feel his tension at that point, and… what was that? “Wait, Sasuke, can you play that back?”

“I really don’t want to see you almost die again.” Yeah, Shingen sounded upset and his hand was almost squeezing mine too hard.

“Don’t watch me – look beyond that… left side of the roof.” Something had distracted me that day – that was why I had nearly fallen to begin with. “There.”

“I see it!” Sasuke paused the video and pinch zoomed. “What the hell is that?”

There had been someone else on the roof – a blurry, foggy figure who then vanished into the horizon almost as if they’d unzipped the sky and climbed in. “Now I am creeped out.” There wasn’t any way to tell who – or what – that had been. “Sasuke..?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He zoomed in some more, but that just added to the blur. “Permission to send a copy of this to myself?”

It might have been Aki.

It might have been Iekane.

It might have been someone completely unknown to us.

Who the hell were these people?

In any case, tracking down and confronting Aki suddenly became a lot more important.

The snowboarding expedition was a mixed success. Sasuke’s Ninja training had come in handy, and after a few basic pointers, he had left to try out his skills on an intermediate course… or more accurately, he’d wanted to further bond with a cute tourist he’d met on the ski lift.

Shingen was athletic, but this was one of the places his height was a disadvantage. With his higher center of gravity, he’d had some trouble getting into his knees. Eventually though, he’d picked it up, and soon was swooping down the training hill. He did fall a couple more times after that, but since both times he’d managed to take me down with him, I figured those had been on purpose.

After a couple hours, he noticed I was eyeing one of the half-pipes. “If you want to do that, I’m ready for a break.”

Hm. It had been seven (or, was it eight – I was never sure how to count the unknown amount of time I’d been stuck in the wormhole) years. Could I still manage it? But with Shingen voluntarily encouraging my daredevil tendencies – why not? I gave him a quick kiss. “See you at the bottom of the hill.

In no time at all, I’d dropped in and traversed the pipe. I’d kept it simple, without trying any of the tricks I used to do, aside from simple 180 turns at the top of each wall. But the rush was still there, and I zipped to the bottom with a whoop. Flying. Me and the sky. But the bigger rush? Seeing Shingen waiting for me at the base of the hill, smiling as he watched me skid to a stop.

“I once called you a moon goddess,” he said as I disengaged from the board. “I was wrong. You’re pure sunshine – made for daylight – the most radiant being I’ve ever seen.”

I smiled up at him and took his hand. “You keep that up and you’re going to melt all the snow.”

“What time are we meeting Sasuke?” he asked, while we were waiting to return our rented equipment.

“We’re not.” I pulled a hotel key card out of my pocket. I’d already packed some luggage for both of us in order to keep this a surprise. “Sasuke took an uber back to the apartment.” Or possibly he was furthering his acquaintance with the tourist he’d met earlier. “You and I are going to that hotel over there,” I pointed to the resort attached to the snow park. “Where we can celebrate your birthday by soaking in a private hot spring.”

Later, under the clear star filled sky, Shingen lowered himself with a sigh into steaming hot water. He leaned back against the natural rock formation and gazed out on the view of Mount Kosha. “This was a good idea you had.”

“I do have them, occasionally.” The combination of the snow kissed air and the hot water felt wonderful on my skin and ok- slightly – aching muscles. “I am a little sore after that… are you?”

“Given that I am close to five hundred years old, yes. These bones aren’t what they used to be.” In opposition to his statement, he swiftly pulled me onto his lap.

“I think you’re in great shape… for your age.” I ran my hands over his chest muscles.

“I fell a little bit in love with you the moment you said that. You had this challenging glint in your eyes.” He put his finger under my chin and drew my face up to his. “Yes, just like now. You hung onto that basket of pastry and acted like an insubordinate recruit.”

“In my defense, you had just set me up to be killed – hey!” Shingen removed my wet tankini top and tossed it aside. My nipples immediately tightened in the cold air. “That is not a place I want to have icicles dripping from.”

“Can’t have that.” He fastened his lips to my breast and warmed it with his mouth and tongue. “Hold still, Devil. I want to see if I can put the same look on your face that you had when you were zipping across the half-pipe.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him closer to me. “You do, Shingen. You might not always be looking my way when it’s there, but… you do.”

@bestbryn

#TBT12lies #throwback thursday #twelve lies i told shingen takeda #ikemen sengoku #fanfic #ikesen shingen #ikesen fanfic #ikesen sasuke #sasuke sarutobi

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thewayofthemandalorian · 2 years

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wreck my plans - chapter two

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Series rating: M

Chapter rating: M

Word count: 4,241

Notes: All my love to @ezrasbirdie for continuing to beta read this series and for her enthusiasm for this chapter when she read it over ❤️ Also a huge thank you to everyone who left such kind feedback on chapter one. I’ve got most of the plot mapped out and I’m excited for you all to see where this goes!

Comments/reblogs appreciated!

Chapter warnings: Swearing, fated lovers, divorced main characters, therapy, yearning, a couple of horny adults

previous chapter || next chapter || masterlist (main) || masterlist (marcus pike)

SEPTEMBER

It’s a hot day. Summer is clinging on to the very end this year with its last gasps being prolonged. You don’t mind. Having a functional air conditioner for the first time in years is keeping you cool. Kevin had refused to fix the air conditioner at your shared house and had balked at the idea of calling a repairman.

The washing machine has you mesmerized. It’s the night before you’re supposed to go to Marcus’s first figure drawing class and you have no idea what you want to wear. He’d said comfy clothes, but that’s so vague, you’re not too sure what he entirely meant. You’d needed to do laundry anyway, and this way you’d have options.

Marcus seems nice. Handsome, too. You don’t know if it’s because it’s been so long since you’d noticed someone, but there’s a pull there. You could feel it when you met up with him to discuss the job. It’s silly, you know, but it’s been so long since someone had actually looked at you and seen you.

You’re so lost in thought, you hardly hear Charlotte come in. “How many loads is this?” she asks, plopping down on the floor next to you.

“Huh? Oh, three, I think. I had a lot to do,” you say, returning your attention to the washing machine with a yawn.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” your sister asks you after a minute of silence.

You shrug. “I guess. Dr. Ridley said it was good to get out and do something for myself.” You’ve been seeing your new therapist since March and you really like her. You think she might be the best therapist you’d ever been to.

“And she’s right,” Charlotte affirms. “When was the last thing you did something for yourself on this scale?”

Again, you shrug. “I don’t know. A while. You know how Ke – how he – felt about that sort of thing.”

Charlotte grumbles. She really doesn’t like your ex-husband, she hadn’t when you were married to him either. You think she may have been the happiest after you when you announced you were finally filing for divorce. “Well, he doesn’t count. You’re getting paid really good money to basically just stand there and look at the eye candy while people draw you.” At your look of slight incredulity she continues, “What? Ellie’s sister is in that class and she says Professor Dameron? More like Professor Damn-eron.”

You bark out a startled laugh. Ellie’s sister isn’t wrong; you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought the same thing. “There’s just one thing,” you say, chewing the inside of your lip.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know what to wear. Marcus just said to wear something comfy for the first couple of sessions.”

Charlotte nods, remembering her own experience in the class. “Well, last year when I took it, it wasn’t someone as gorgeous as you. But she basically wore, like, jeans and t-shirts.” You whine, thinking about wearing jeans on an 84-degree day. “But it’s really up to the model. You could show up wearing that for all you like. It’s not a fashion show, it’s more, like, the students getting used to drawing different textures and shit.” She looks at you, wearing a cropped top and cutoff denim shorts. “You could wear something like that if you want to,” she suggests.

You shake your head. “I don’t know, Char. I wanna make a good first impression, you know?”

Your sister understands. “I get it. But just a piece of advice? Don’t overthink this. Just… I don’t know, go with it. What would Dr. Ridley say?”

You know exactly what Dr. Ridley would say. Let this thing happen as it does. “Okay. I was thinking maybe a dress? You know the sundress I got last week when we went thrift-shopping?”

Charlotte’s eyes light up. “Oooh yes, perfect!”

You yawn again. “Thank God Cassidy was able to cover tomorrow morning’s opening shift.” You’d asked to switch with the other morning manager so that you could have a chance to sleep in and give yourself plenty of time to get ready after your bi-weekly morning appointment with Dr. Ridley.

When the laundry is finally finished at eleven forty-five, Charlotte helps you fold it all carefully. “Hey, if I don’t see you before the class tomorrow, good luck. Not that you need it. I think this is really great that you’re doing this,” says Charlotte, setting the laundry basket down on the floor outside your bedroom door.

“Thanks, kid,” you reply. Toeing the laundry basket into your room, you quickly put it all away before curling into bed and falling right to sleep.

- - - -

Marcus isn’t sure why he’s disappointed that you’re not at the cafe the next morning, but he feels the pang of disappointment all the same. He tries not to question it; he’s seeing you later today for Christ’s sake. But still, the barista, a university student he thinks, doesn’t make his order the same way you had done a few weeks ago.

Today’s the first day that you’re going to be sitting in his figure drawing class. He wonders how you’re feeling about all of it. Nervous? Excited?

It’s a talented bunch of kids that he’s undercover-teaching. At first, he’d been nervous that he wouldn’t be a good teacher, that Megan had been right. But after a while on the first day, he’d gotten into the swing of things. And he finds he’s quite enjoying it as well. If this weren’t an undercover thing, he’d say maybe he should switch careers.

He’s so glad that he found you as his model. It’s odd; he’s just met you and he already feels a connection. A connection that he can’t explain. He’s only met you a handful of times but he likes you. If he didn’t have an undercover operation to maintain, he’d maybe ask you out for a meal. Get to know you better. But he has the integrity of the case to maintain. And if anything got out, the entire sting operation would be up in smoke before he could make any headway on it.

He takes his less-than-perfect coffee and heads out to Dr. Ridley’s office. He’s not allowed to say much about this case, not wanting anything to get out before the Bureau is ready to release a statement, in addition to the confidentiality that comes with being an FBI agent. He does, however, mention that his new case requires him to be undercover as an art instructor. Dr. Ridley isn’t surprised that he’s doing better at it than he originally expected. “Marcus, the only person who thought you couldn’t do it was someone who was manipulating you into doing something they wanted you to do. Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she tells him. “This is very good, these improvements you're making with yourself.” This makes Marcus feel better.

Before he realizes it, it’s time for him to get ready for the class. Usually he shows up about ten minutes before the class starts, wanting to make sure that everything is set up the way he likes it. When he arrives at the studio, you’re standing outside the door, waiting.

And oh, god, you’re wearing a dress. “Hello,” he says, attempting to swallow his nerves.

You look up from your phone, putting it in the pocket of your dress. “Hi, Professor Dameron,” you reply.

“Marcus, please,” he reminds you and you repeat his name. “You found the classroom okay?” Marcus asks you, unlocking the door, letting you go in first. As the door shuts, he flicks on the lights.

“Yeah. My sister Charlotte took this class last year and she gave me directions.” There’s a sea of desks and chairs facing a platform that you’ll presumably be standing on. You gulp. “H-how many people are in the class?” You try to make your voice sound casual.

“Maybe fifty? I’d have to double check,” Marcus says, noticing your trepidation. “Hey, don’t worry. We’re not jumping into the deep end just yet. The first couple of weeks are a warmup. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out, no big deal.” Secretly, he’s unsure if he’d prefer it if it didn’t work out so then he would feel less weird about wanting to ask you out. He shakes the thought away. Get it together, Pike.

“Yeah.” You let out a breathy chuckle. “Just stage fright, I guess.” Looking at the stage, you gesture to it and say, “Is that where you want me to…?”

Marcus nods. “Yeah. I know there is a desk there, too. But I’m the type that walks around, observing. So it’ll just be you.” He notices the blip of panic in your eyes that quickly dissipates. “You, uh, can put your bag and other things under the desk.”

Students are beginning to filter in as you place your phone in your mini-backpack before stuffing it beneath the desk. Marcus notices the pins on it as you slide it off your shoulders. “Mandalorian fan, huh?” he asks, pointing to the Grogu pin.

“What? Oh, yeah.” You’re still a bit flustered but Marcus has managed to calm your nerves. He stands next to the desk, pulling out a pair of glasses from his bag.

“I apologize for how nerdy I’m about to look,” Marcus says to you in an undertone, pushing the square-framed glasses on his face. “But my eyes were really sore this morning and I just really fucking hate putting contacts in on days like that.” And oh my god, he looks the last thing from a nerd. You need to catch your breath.

You look away so you don’t get re-flustered right before the class starts. The class is mostly female, with some male students as well. You’d say it’s a seventy-five/twenty-five ratio if you had to guess. You spot Ellie’s sister, Tessa, sitting near the front with a gaggle of girls you vaguely recognize.

“Good afternoon everyone,” Marcus begins as he calls the class to attention five minutes past the hour. “As you all know, this week we are beginning our semester-long project of figure-drawing. As discussed in the first class, your grade will largely be based on how you improve over the course of the next three months.” He gestures to you. “This is going to be your model for the semester.” Giving your name, he continues sternly. “I only want to stress this once, we are all adults in this room and she has thankfully accepted this position, so please treat her with the same respect and dignity you would treat me or anyone else in this room. Am I clear?” The class murmurs their assent.

You can’t help it. You’re flustered now for a different reason. Seeing someone be so authoritative like that has always done something for you. You bite your lip, trying to keep yourself calm, but you’re not sure how well you manage. You’re glad that his attention is on the class and the class’s attention is largely on him. Still, you manage to catch Tessa’s eye unintentionally and she winks discreetly, knowingly, smirking as she returns her attention to Marcus. Finally managing to school your features as Marcus directs his attention back to you, he says, “I want you to stand as you are. We’ll break in about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes.”

Waiting until the class has their sketchpads and charcoal pencils at the ready, you adjust your position ever so slightly and stand at the ready. You’re going to be standing for a long time; you’re glad that your sandals are supportive.

The only sound in the room is that of pencil on paper; every so often Marcus’s shoes will squeak as he takes a turn around the class.

Marcus is mesmerized by you, your look of slight defiance and determination. It stirs something, rekindles something that he thought long gone: inspiration.

- - - -

“I started drawing again,” Marcus says to Dr. Ridley two weeks later.

She looks up from her notes. “That’s wonderful, Marcus,” she says. “You’ve been saying for so long that you thought your inspiration was long gone. What brought it back?” she asks.

Marcus hesitates. He can’t tell her that much about the case still. “You know that part of my undercover work entails teaching a figure drawing class.” Dr. Ridley nods. “So, the inspiration is partially to do with teaching, but mostly to do with the model.” At Dr. Ridley’s look of alarm and confusion, he hastens to add, “No, no, no. Nothing like that. Fuck, no. Not anything like that. She isn’t a student. She doesn’t even go to school there, she was just looking for a job. She’s closer to me in age than she is to the students.”

The dots connect in Dr. Ridley’s head as she remembers another client of hers talking about doing a modeling job for a university class. She doesn’t say anything. “And tell me about this woman. What about her inspired you to pick up the pencil again so to speak?”

Marcus opens his mouth and shuts it several times in succession. “There’s a connection,” he finally says. “It feels like we know each other, even though we just met for the first time just under a month ago.” He knows how it sounds; he doesn’t want to dive in this quickly. Not to mention, he can’t.

“And does she feel the same way?” asks Dr. Ridley.

Again Marcus hesitates. How can he know that? “I’m not sure. She seems to like me.” Last week you had genuinely laughed at a bad joke he’d made before the class began. You’re always eager to start a conversation, and you haven’t been scared off yet, not by the class or, more importantly, by him.

The class has moved, with varying results, from fully clothed figure drawing to figure drawing in undergarments. Today is the first day that you’ll be standing up there in nothing more than a bra and panties. You’d taken it in stride when he told you at the end of last week’s class. You’ve settled into the gig pretty easily. He sometimes sees you in the morning at the cafe if the paperwork and ordering was all caught up.

(More often than not, you took a break from paperwork and ordering when he came in so you could see him; it helps that he always comes in at about the same time. You feel like a high schooler with her first crush all over again. At least Marcus is better than Oliver ended up being.)

“It doesn’t matter, though. I can’t ask her out,” Marcus ends up saying.

Dr. Ridley frowns. “If this has to do with your previous relationships –”

“It doesn’t. It’s just… This case is so secretive and I can’t risk the integrity of it.” He sounds like a broken record, but it’s the truth, it has to be. As much as he likes you and enjoys the easy friendship you’ve started, it has to stay there for the sake of the case. Even if he wants to take you for breakfast and have you try the best pancakes he’s ever had. He doesn’t even know if you like pancakes but he still wants to share them with you.

“That may be,” Dr. Ridley says. “But that doesn’t mean at the end of the semester, or once you’ve cracked the case, you can’t…”

He’s considered it. It’s only been a month, but he’s never had a connection like this with anyone else. “After admitting that I’ve lied to her the entire time about who I really am?” he asks ruefully.

“If the connection is there like you say it is, isn’t that worth the risk?” asks Dr. Ridley.

That evening, you’re running late. “Christ,” you pant as you run to the door just as Marcus is unlocking the door. “I’m not late, am I?” you ask. The weather’s begun to cool slightly. You’re in a long-sleeve t-shirt and jeans.

“Right on time,” Marcus says.

But you’re not, you think. You don’t have enough time to pick up where you left off on your discussion from last time.

Marcus holds open the door for you, his heart hammering as an idea forms. “I was wondering… You can say no if you don’t feel comfortable…”

You arch a curious brow at him. “What’s that?”

“Well, if we should exchange numbers.” Marcus rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “That way if ever either of us is feeling under the weather or running late or something comes up, neither of us is left in the lurch.”

You’d been angling for a way to get his number. Trying not to sound too eager, you say, “Sure, that’s a good idea.”

You give him your number before helping him set up a partition off to the side of the platform. “So you can change behind there with some privacy,” he explains to you.

“Right,” you say. “I’ll just…” You point to the partition as people begin to file in. As you begin to shimmy out of your jeans your phone buzzes.

Hey, this is Marcus. Just wanted you to get my number/contact information, reads the text.

Hi Marcus, you reply, sending a waving emoji along with it, before you return to changing. You can hear Marcus greet the class as the last minute din of chatter and discussions die down.

Oddly enough, you don’t feel as nervous about this as you had at the beginning. You chalk it up to being used to having a hundred and two eyes on you for the past month or so.

Waiting until Marcus finishes his opening spiel, you step out from behind the partition and stand in position, wearing the same neutral expression as always. As Marcus makes his rounds across the classroom, pointing out corrections and observations, he meets your gaze. You hold it for a long moment, his brown eyes blazing into your own eyes. It’s almost like playing a game of chicken with him, seeing who will look away first. It’s Marcus. Clearing his throat he looks down at Tessa’s sketch of you. “Very good, Miss Thompson. I like how you’ve captured her gaze. Like she knows something you don’t.”

- - - -

“How do you think it’s going so far?” asks Charlotte. It’s been almost a month since you officially started.

Picking up a box of spaghetti, you toss it into the cart that you’re pushing, Charlotte in step beside you. “I think pretty good. It’s kinda boring sometimes. And my muscles ache after a long pose.”

Charlotte nods. “I think that’s par for the course,” she says. “And the…” she gestures to herself, “stuff?”

It takes a minute for you to realize what she’s asking. “Oh. That. No, we haven’t gotten there yet. I don’t think that’s until mid-October if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. But how is professor hottie?” she asks with a knowing smirk. You and Marcus had started texting each other outside of the official reason why you’d exchanged numbers. Mostly sharing memes, but sometimes you’ll carry on a conversation that was cut short earlier in the day.

With a shrug, you grab a bag of rice. “Nothing to report,” you say, attempting nonchalance. She sees right through you.

“Oh, sure. Yeah. I believe that,” she says sarcastically.

“It’ll sound silly,” you say, “it sounds silly to me. But I feel this… magnetic pull towards him?” Charlotte doesn’t say anything. “Like, we’re definitely friends. But, I don’t know. It could be that I’m feeling all these post-divorce feelings, but Char. It’s like he sees me. In a way that no one ever has. Not even Kevin really saw me.” Charlotte fake spits at the mention of your ex-husband. “I’m probably reading too much into it. I don’t know. What I do know is he’s so fucking pretty to look at. But he’s also my boss, technically.”

Charlotte mercifully changes the topic. “And how are things at the bistro?” Of the three jobs you have, you only really mention the cafe and the modeling gig.

“Not much to report there. They gave me the all clear to go down to ten hours a week, but you already knew that. I don’t know what’s going to happen after this semester is over.”

As you push the shopping cart to the checkout, Charlotte says, “Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.” And you know she’s talking about more than one thing.

Charlotte drops you off at the building before she heads out for girls night with her friends. She keeps trying to get you to join them but it never works out or you’re worn out from work and just want to sit on the couch with a glass of wine and a book. Maybe one of these days you will go.

Marcus is just coming into the building as the door shuts behind you. “You’re earlier than usual,” he says.

“Sister dropped me off. She’s going out with some girlfriends tonight,” you explain, falling into step beside him. Your stomach growls.

“Hungry?” he asks, glancing at his watch. He has his glasses on again today. “We’ve got time before class if you wanna grab a bite to eat.”

“Um…” you hesitate for a second. It’ll be going on seven by the time class gets out and then factoring in the bus, it’ll be almost eight before you get home. “Sure.”

And that’s how you find yourself sitting across from Marcus in the cafeteria, eating wraps and chips. You’d both gone for chocolate milk as a drink. You’d offered to pay for yours, but he had simply waved you off and paid for the entire meal.

“That’s better,” you say. “It’s been so long since I had cafeteria food.”

Marcus nods. “Well, we can’t go to class on an empty stomach.”

The two of you chat on the way to the studio, the topic going to where you went to school. “I went to the University of Texas, in Austin,” Marcus offers, “art and art history.” It isn’t a lie. He had started in the art department, which was very different to the current art department he was in.

You gape at him. “No way, that’s where I went! Only I took business.”

Marcus chuckles. “Huh. Small world.”

“No kidding,” you reply as he unlocks the door to the studio. “When did you go?”

“Oh, god. Like. Fifteen years ago?” he guesses. “I graduated in 2009.”

“I started in 2008. God, that’s kind of freaky to think about. Do you think our paths ever crossed?” you ask.

“I think I’d remember if our paths ever crossed,” Marcus affirms.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you quite sure about that, Professor Dameron?” you tease, your voice just this side of flirtatious and there’s a pang in Marcus’s chest at the reminder of who he really is versus who you think he is. Still, he forces a chuckle before you step behind the partition to step out of your leggings and hoodie.

Focus is hard to achieve tonight for some reason. You’re fidgety and you blame it on what little you’re wearing. Still, you try to maintain your pose. Unable to tear your eyes from Marcus. As he’s making his rounds around the class who are diligently sketching you, he frowns. Your pose isn’t quite right.

He should just tell you to adjust the way you’re facing ever so slightly. But that would distract the class and you could change the pose too much. Once he’s finished with the student whose sketch he’s currently giving a once-over, he strolls over to you.

Your eyes lift to meet his as he steps up onto the platform, asking a silent question of “yes?”

His voice, quiet, responds, “can I just…?”

And without breaking eye contact, even for a second, he reaches out and touches you just beneath your chin, moving your face ever so slightly into the position needed.

Oh. You realize it all of a sudden, the dawning realization hitting you like a freight train, your face blazing with the sudden comprehension, the air knocked from your lungs. You’re so overwhelmed with this sudden feeling; you need to calm down, but keeping calm is the last thing you’re able to do at the moment. You’ve never been this affected by a touch as simple as this one before, not even when you were with Kevin, and that scares you a little bit if you’re being completely honest.

All of your nerve endings are on fire. It’s such an innocuous gesture, meant simply to adjust the way you’re facing. Marcus has touched you before. But not like this, never like this. You keep your eyes fixed on his, trying to school your features and, somehow, either through divine intervention or sheer fucking willpower, maintain that neutral look of defiance. His own face is impossible to read, his intense brown eyes still locked onto yours.

But he fucking knows. You liked it, want him to do that again.

“That’s better,” he murmurs gruffly. And as if he hadn’t just rocked both your worlds with his simple, innocent touch, Marcus returns to the sea of students to see how they’re progressing.

This is not good, Marcus thinks, trying to pretend like he hadn’t seen the way you reacted, the way he had reacted. Not good at all.

--- taglist in reblog

#pedro pascal #marcus pike x reader

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maybeitsalivescribbles · 8 months

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Sicktember 23 : Cold Case

(15. Sick in an Inconvenient Place + 24. “Did you just sneeze?”)

The detective's throat hurt.

Without leaving from sight the stuffy room, he massaged it slowly. His eyes were drier than usual, too. He blinked furiously. All for nothing, of course. No one was there yet; just him, a stupid little private eye freezing in a stupid little store that wasn’t heated. At least this time he was inside while it was snowing.

He’d already made good decisions in his life. It had happened ! Accepting this case had not been one of these. Not because of the case itself, oh no; it was – or at least, he hoped – rather simple. No corpse, for a start. That was a nice beginning for an inquiry. The client himself was much more of a problem. It was the first time that the detective had a rich collector among his clients, and if he was lucky, he’d be the last before long. The phone call that had begun it all had been one-hundred twenty eight (128. Honest.) minutes long well before his opening hours. The client had spent the first thirty seconds to explain that one of his greatest treasures had been taken from him, that was to say a priceless painting, and the rest to describe how miserable he was and the impacts on his social and financial life. Two hours left more than enough time to become salty, so the detective had asked:

“If that painting was that priceless, isn’t its place in a museum ?”

The client’s voice had become as frosty and hard as the weather outside.

“This painting is in my family since generations. Haven’t you heard, sir? It was stolen in a museum, because I lent it for an exposition.”

The detective had rubbed his temples and glanced at his alarm clock. 8:15. He’d never been at his brightest before 10 AM. Especially when he had been woken up toward 6 AM, all for a painting and some guy who was taking him for some kind of therapist. Yes, he’d heard about the stealing. Only he’d paid it no attention. It wasn’t often that rich guys were coming to him. The biggest mystery, really, was why the client had called him, but he’d needed the money, so he’d gone to work. A quick examination of the museum had told him that the thieves couldn’t have gone out by the main entrance or by the exit. There had to be a third way. Crime was always on the rise in this time of the year, and police and him didn’t get along too well, so as always he’d had no one else to help him. The museum security hadn’t been understanding either, so he hadn’t been able to make a very detailed search. Fine. He’d left out the place, and had tried to determinate if it’d been the only theft done in the same style, no matter how insignificant. It had been a laborious search, to enter all these stores only weeks before Christmas. He’d been shouted at, he’d been slapped once, and he’d been so very, very cold. While the days were going by, it’d been harder to get out of bed. He’d felt his throat hurting, his stomach growling, and sometimes he’d felt feverish. Used tissues piled up in his bin, and it took gallons and gallons of tea with honey to make him feel a little better. There was no time to rest, though. His medical appointment kept being postponed. The grumpier he was, the harder he wanted to catch the thief. Mostly though, it was because the client would not leave him be. Every day he called to complain. There was no polite way left to get him to shut up. The detective made his morning coffee while the phone whined on the table, and he’d only occasionally turn his head to add a “hmm” or “sure.” It wasn’t like he could turn it off altogether. Unlike what the collector seemed to thought, he actually had other clients.

Still, his work had paid off. All signs pointed to a little antique store next to the museum. He was pretty sure now that there was an entrance that connected the two buildings – and, if he was lucky, the painting might have been still in here. Judging by its description, it wasn’t something you could hide or carry easily.

After a bit of breaking and entering – he swore he’d pay for the damage - he’d settled in there and crouched behind an authentic-genuine-I-swear post-prehistoric chest of drawers. The perk of being small – or, as he’d liked to call it, a very reasonable height – was that in the middle of all these objects, he was invisible. He’d been waiting for a long time now. Hours and hours in the dark without moving too much, without getting asleep, without doing anything but watch. It’d been tedious. But the ray of light he could peek at just now told him that it hadn’t been for nothing. Said ray of light belonged to a flashlight that belonged to a long, bulky shape in black.

There you go.

The form extirpated itself from a hole in the stone wall, that had been hidden before by a bookshelf. One slightly slimmer shape followed up, then a tiny, tiny third that made him tilt his head in confusion. Maybe it wasn’t a child. He hoped it wasn’t a child.

Three whole humans. Right. Sure. His throat hurt a lot more all of the sudden, and it wasn’t because of the cold. He’d better believe he was as invisible as he wished, because the first one had something in their hand that very much looked like a gun. Of course, he had his own. That wouldn’t do much good because it was loaded with blanks. The only thing worse than risking being killed was risking killing another person. He wasn’t sure he could bluff against three. On the other hand, if he wasn’t noticed, it was his early Christmas present. He was paying them a visit just the night they were making another trip to the museum. What for, though ?

“A good thing we have done”, mumbled the first one. “That painting would have ruined us.”

Wait, what ? The second shape seemed to slap lightly the third, who whined in protest and stepped back.

“How was I supposed to know it was a fake ?”

Wait. What.

“Yeah, let the kid alone,” neglectfully said the first shape; “good thing someone had a brain cell inside his skull and checked with Dr Garner.”

The detective took note of the name, but he was still too flabbergasted to precisely hear what they were saying. So that was why the police hadn’t been that interested into that theft and the museum security had given him the cold shoulder. They must have known. Bastards, they could have told him ! Else he wouldn’t have been risking his neck for a fake painting that had been given back. As for his client, he’d never killed anyone in his life, but he was very much tempted to at least try to strangle him a bit.

Still, those bozos were going to be arrested. He didn’t like the kind of fire they carried around. He liked even less the kind of guys who bullied kids. He couldn’t catch them now if he wanted to live a little longer, but he wasn’t in a rush. He just had to wait for them to drop a clue.

So he stayed and stayed and stayed. He barely dared to move and had no idea of the time. Fortunately it was December and dawn wouldn’t break before very long. The thieves were still taking their sweet time, though. Oh, they spilled the beans all right. They let out names and addresses and other things that could be easily checked. He had them. He had them good. It was worth it. Sure. But there were also long, long silences that reminded him that it had been hours since he was in the same position and there still wasn’t any heating and the slightest noise would mean a bullet in the head. His throat was killing him but as long as it was the only thing killing him, he would be fine. Right ? Right. He could take it. He was a persistence hunter. The ache in every muscle in his body and his burning forehead and his vocal chords on fire meant nothing, so long as he got out alive with all those precious hints.

And then, the first shape took a step back and accidentally knocked down a table. It was far too close from him for his taste, but he was relieved to see it didn’t affect the little barricade of furniture who protected him. He let out a big sigh, unaware of the dust cloud that the table had moved, accidentally breathing it.

The second shape started.

“Did you just sneeze?” they asked awkwardly to the first.

“No,” answered the first, drawing out a gun, passing so very close to a shadow huddled into a corner with his hands on his mouth and nose and his eyes wide.

“I didn’t.”

Back to Hero x Villain Masterlist (I know I'm reaching)

#sicktember #sicktember 2023 #writeblr #writers on tumblr #detective #mystery #original fiction #my writing #writing snippet #writing drabble #writing dialogue

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bedbugbiting · 6 months

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I don't want to do today. I just don't.

I haven't paid my rent yet (it's fine, it's actually due today). I pay with money orders and apparently it's currently almost impossible to get a money order in my neighborhood, or at least it was yesterday when I walked to four different places with no success. I'm going to go to the post office and they had better have a functioning machine or I will scream. Perhaps I should get checks but I don't trust Hell Clinic to cash them promptly and I don't want that on my mind. Also, I would write one check a month but I have to buy a huge box with my address printed on them and I'm probably moving next year. I digress. Does Hell Clinic take Venmo? I'll ask.

I have a student leadership meeting and that's going to be annoying as well. Then immediately after that, I have an appointment with my brand-new therapist. Then, immediately after that I have to wrangle disruptive screaming kids who fight nonstop.

I also have to vote at some point.

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emilemily · 11 months

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I broke my sobriety last week, and I didn’t lose control. I got lightly tipsy while on vacation and I enjoyed it for what it was, but I didn’t go until I was blacked out as I used to do.

I honored my two drink limit and stopped there. I promised so many people in my life that I would never drink again, and that’s where I made a mistake. But I also made a mistake reducing myself to a permanent fuck-up. I messed up by underestimating myself so much.

I’m so capable of doing whatever I want to do, yet I hit road blocks because I struggle to actually do it. I’m perpetually bored, unfulfilled, and struggling to see the road ahead and what sort of debris is on it.

For three years I abstained from drinking, told myself that if I had one drink I’d go right back down into hell. Rehab programmed into my brain that if I were to relapse, I’d easily end up back in those chairs of the meeting rooms.

But I didn’t. I drank last Tuesday and Wednesday and flew home on Thursday. Had a 20 hour layover in Denver where I could have continued the party and really fucked my life up in numerous ways. But I didn’t. It has been a week and I haven’t had a drink again since.

My therapist believes that some people can become alcoholics completely by circumstance. Enough factors existing at once can create the perfect storm. I do believe he’s right to a degree, but I’m also confused.

When I was at the height of my drinking I would walk into my apartment and take three shots just to warm up from getting off work. I’d go on to easily take 10+ shots during the night, even if I was alone. It became my routine and way of life. A habit I needed to go to rehab for because if I hadn’t I would be dead.

I always bargained with myself by saying I would maybe drink again one day. That helped me feel more in control. It helped me reassure myself that it was all temporary. My therapist said that many people get into the swing of dependency and after a prolonged period of abstinence, they’re able to one day drink again. That’s the mindset I tried to take, even if I didn’t fully believe it.

But why was I so easily able to do so and stick to moderation? Was I ever really an alcoholic, or was I in a routine? What was the meaning of it all?

I’ve been battling some pretty tough cravings today, and realized yesterday what it really is. Thank god for therapy, because I don’t know how I’d cope feeling all of this and not knowing why.

He says that based on what I’ve told him, I spent a high percentage of my life in survival mode. Pretty constant chaos. Because of that, my normal is existing in an environment where people fight constantly, where I’m scared about where my rent money will come from, where I’m constantly unsure of what the next day will bring.

Though he advises against being hyper-vigilant, he recommended that I use my hyper-vigilance to maintain a consistent inventory of what I’m feeling. Because my life is so stable currently and I’m making better money than I ever have, I’m not existing in the chaos to which I am accustomed.

Boredom is and always has been my biggest trigger. Feeling aimless and restless. When things aren’t imploding around me, I don’t know how to relax and enjoy it… so I self-sabotage.

I pick fights with those I love in an “I hate you, please don’t leave me” kind of way. I get cravings to go out and do impulsive things. I start spending in a way that is not sustainable. I shake up my world to create the chaos I don’t even need.

I’m making good money, I’m starting college next month, my bills are paid, I have everything I need. Why is it that the home in which I was raised affects me to the degree that it does? Why couldn’t my parents have been mild-mannered and boring? Why couldn’t I have experienced a normal existence?

And why did that lead me to getting into awful relationships which furthered the extent of the damage? You would think that trauma would lead one to never want to replicate it. But when I’m sitting in a clean house with the bills paid, silently hanging out with my dogs, I get so anxious that my leg involuntarily shakes. I stim and fidget and drive myself insane.

I should be grateful for this stability I have created for myself, for my own drive to get myself out of hell. Why am I instead just as bored as I could possibly be?

Once I drank again, it’s as if I ripped off a bandaid. No more intense cravings and no real interest in doing it again. Until today. Now I’m just thinking and thinking and thinking about how I could really use a fucking drink.

I don’t intend to be sober anymore, but I don’t intend to drink consistently either. Maybe a few times a year. But how do I make that work for my clearly unhinged brain?

I told my therapist that I’m suddenly realizing that I’m not this failure I have seen myself as for years. I can moderate and I can do the right things when I have a mind to.

But what if I don’t have a mind to? Will I ever? It’s hard to say.

I’m feeling extremely heavy with emotion today. The gabapentin is no longer covering everything I’d normally feel, so here I am feeling all of it in abundance. Very tough. I just want to go wild and do tons of things I shouldn’t. I want to cry and scream. I want to run away and join a weird commune.

What direction is my life going in? Where will all of this lead?

If I could just make the shit stop for a few hours I’d be the happiest girl in the world. The anxiety is almost unbearable.

But I won’t go back on more meds. I need to see this through and get through it. I’d rather feel life, the good and the bad, than cruise by with little to no emotion about anything.

Until I adjust, though, ouch.

Refraining from drinking again until I’m in a better frame of mind. Craving that release and giving in is what got me into all this in the first place.

Feelings. Lots of feelings.

I just want to be a normal woman, with the ability to give and receive love normally. With dreams and goals that I take steps to accomplish. With a happy relationship with my family. With a pretty okay mindset most of the time.

Instead, here I am blowing off work that I need to be doing. Agonizing over SOMETHING but being unsure of what that is. Thinking about people and situations that dwelling on doesn’t serve me. Feeling so uncomfortable that I want to crawl out of my own skin.

How am I so confident and aware of my own potential, but so fucking lost at the same time?

Who am I? I used to be pretty sure.

I guess I have to find her again.

Wish me luck as I ride this stupid rollercoaster.

#personal #alcoholism #recovery #sobriety #selfie #me #anxiety

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book--wyrm · 8 months

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depression vent posting below

i'm like. lowkey obsessed with people who think that socialism will fix all mental illness related issues.

like I am kind of living the life i think everyone should get to live. I'm given enough money to live more than comfortably, my schooling is being paid for even though i am now eight years into a four year degree and seemingly no closer to graduating, my medical needs are all covered by a mix of insurance and my parents' money.

I'm fucking miserable. Sometimes I'm not but the pendulum always swings back to this default state of "feelings machine broke". I can't envision any future for myself that isn't just more of this. I am constantly deluding myself that the next type of medication or the next shiny new treatment or my next attempt to exercise will be the one that fixes me, because if I don't live with that hope I might actually just curl up in bed and wait to die.

I think I might have been lying to my psychiatrist about not being suicidal. Literally do not know if this counts.

And I *know* I feel like this right now because I've been off my meds for a month and I'm guessing the magnets have worn off and I've been under a lot of social stress for the last week but. It doesn't help to know that. It just sucks ass.

Because once I'm back on my meds and magnets and find a therapist and am exercising again.

I will still be at a 4 on the okay-o-meter at best.

Better than a 2 i guess.

#i genuinely cannot believe that there are people out there that are genuinely like #okay all the time #feeling things #being happy #i want to believe in a few years i will look back on this post and be like oh man look how far i've come #but it's been a full decade and i dont' feel any better #and I literally cannot stand the idea that this is all i get for the rest of my life so #idk

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neonponders · 1 year

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I posted 6,040 times in 2022

That's 1,858 more posts than 2021!

562 posts created (9%)

5,478 posts reblogged (91%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@neonponders

@memes-saved-me

@chrisbitchtree

@lovebillyhargrove

@lazybakerart

I tagged 6,010 of my posts in 2022

#harringrove - 3,628 posts

#fanart - 2,054 posts

#neonponders - 1,038 posts

#billy hargrove - 892 posts

#ficlet - 800 posts

#s4 - 681 posts

#steve harrington - 577 posts

#gif set - 539 posts

#text post - 400 posts

#oh 🥺 - 370 posts

Longest Tag: 105 characters

#but i know angst is coming so i'm saving the rest for a new chapter so i can segue through the angst haha

My Top Posts in 2022:

No one can un-convince me that Billy did not learn the world ‘amigo’ merely by being in California.

That came straight out of his favorite chef and dealer, Argyle’s mouth.

325 notes - Posted August 2, 2022

Enough “no one can understand why they’re a couple” tropes.

I want moments where Robin points at Billy while telling Steve, “Marry him.”

Bonus points if it’s totally stupid like Steve mistook San Francisco as San Flamingo when he was a kid and calls it that to this day. Max just pats Billy’s arm and informs, “That one’s yours.”

327 notes - Posted November 22, 2022

You know those Reddit stories of men experiencing actual love/affection from their significant others for the first time in their lives? Like the guy whose girlfriend washed his hair for him and he cried?

That’s Billy.

(and Steve, after he realizes how much work HE put into relationships without getting anything back. Then his efforts are finally returned and he has to lie down.)

328 notes - Posted October 7, 2022

I want Billy to be so goddamn clingy once he knows Steve means it.

417 notes - Posted October 10, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Thinking about a scenario where Billy and Steve become dads, but once their daughter is walking, talking, and really thinking for herself (4 or 5 years old), Billy becomes the kind of dad who’s very quiet. Not quite negligent, but he stands aside and lets Steve do everything.

It gets to a point where their daughter asks Steve if her daddy doesn’t love her. (Kids are blunt with their words but this really slices Steve open.)

Steve tells Billy, and Billy doesn’t really get time to consider anything. He doesn’t have the time to look for therapists (he’s already in therapy, but that’s for complex ptsd, not parenting) or to ask his little girl if she’d go to a park or anything with him. They already had planned to go to some kid’s birthday party at a restaurant on a boat dock.

At the party, they really only know the birthday kid’s family. But they get to know some snotty little asshole real fast because he just won’t leave their little girl alone. She’s on the verge of spilling tears when Billy interrupts, “Kid, can you swim?”

“Duh, I can swim,” he responded, all proud.

Billy picked him up and chucked him into the lake. “Well look at that. He can swim - ”

The kid’s dad comes over swinging. Gets lucky and lands one punch before Billy decimates the man. He doesn’t waste time. Kick to the balls, hit to the gut, the face, and he falls right into the lake next to his kid.

Billy scoops up his daughter and waves off the waiters and busboys who look like they feel obligated to do something, but aren’t getting paid enough in their summer jobs to fight a raging father.

Steve is beside his family in an instant, bag already packed and money on their table while their baby curls herself very small in her daddy’s big arms. “When we get home, I’m teaching you how to throw a punch. You can practice on Big Teddy. He won’t ruin your tea parties anymore.”

At home, she puts a sparkly star sticker on her daddy’s bruised cheek. He asks for a sticker every day until it heals. She kisses it just in case, and long after it’s healed and it’s a fifty/fifty chance that the kiss will be a raspberry instead.

Steve might be the dad who helps his daughter feel big, but Billy’s the one who helps her not fear being small.

749 notes - Posted September 2, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr year in review #neonponders #harringrove #thanks for encouraging my bs haha <3

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anandasamsara · 2 years

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Update and a bit of an anxious rant:

I guess I got the job?? Like, they didn't gave me a contract yet, but im still on testing week bc i started on Thursday. It's good enough tho, the work is simple and repetitive. And there's things to do the whole day, so not much time to get sleepy even if im bored.

Also, im gonna be able to try to table at the big events here! Which is very fucking cool as hell. I got someone to share a table with for the local one, and i can try a half table at the biggest one. I also took today to organize for next week's event, just a few extra things to get ready.

One other unbelievable development is that my friend is giving me her old ipad. Its has a white mark on the screen but still functions perfectly. It will come complete with the pen and everything.

Im VERY lost tho, bc all my dreams are coming true and im suspicious of what may come after.

And now, the rant: im happy to have a job, an easy enough one. It is good. And I don't know why im feeling anxious about it. It may be the lack of socialization these last few years, or my own anxiety, or whatever. But for some reason I feel bad? Like, deep down I don't actually want to work? Im thankful for it, i am! I just feel weird. I think I'd actually feel better if i could work from home. I feel... Conflicted. The idea of having a job is both appealing and not. I'll ask my friend, who works there and was the one who indicated me, to give me daily, very clear instructions, bc i don't feel able to act on my own. I do prefer to have direct instructions and be told exactly what to do. I don't want responsibility in an office environment, bc i feel like a robot. I don't want to draw attention to myself. I don't even want to be promoted or anything. I can't feel really happy or fulfilled like that. I just want to be paid, is all. I know i sound ungrateful already talking shit about a job that's not even officially official yet. But yeah, im just there for the money, I don't want to give myself to a boring, repetitive office job. Guess I do know why i feel bad. Hope my therapist is back this week, i need to talk it out with a professional, and a real person, not just throw it out to the void online. But this does help.

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coochiecowgirl · 2 months

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Wish I could find a job that paid me a lot and I only had to work maybe 20 hours a week

Actually I wish I didn’t have to work at all but still got paid and I could spend my time being however productive I want

I’m so lazy on most of my days off and will just watch tv shows but I feel like if I had a solid month or two off from work I’d get out of that phase and start to do something more worthwhile

I’m so tired of working. I’m so tired of worrying about bills. I don’t want to exist because my existence only revolves around making money in order to barely survive

I know I need to find a therapist but I also think when I next see my doctor I’m gonna ask if I can up my antidepressants. I don’t think there’s much a therapist can do. The meds help me feel like there’s something to live for but they haven’t been doing their job for about a year. And I’ve been getting by. Some things have made my depression/suicidal ideation a lot worse. And I know it’s situational. But I can’t fix my situation. So it’s gotta be the drugs. Because that’s one thing I can fix.

#dear diary

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donnerpartyofone · 5 months

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I received a direct message including only the word "hi" from the bot above, whose blog contains only the extremely relevant-to-my-interests post above, while I was loading up this whole screed about how incredibly stupid I am, featuring this large pile of blank paper that I just paid to have "printed", twice, because I couldn't possibly be bothered to actually look at or think about what I'm fucking doing at any given time.

And actually this shouldn't even have been a surprise because I'm a big dumb piece of shit in general but also because I've been fucking things up from the second I woke up this morning including triggering a catastrophic avalanche of boxes and furniture because I stacked things like a fucking idiot, right on top of the extremely idiotic place where I "stored" our Important Documents. Then I spent about an hour looking at the same movie and transit schedules over and over and over again like a fucking idiot and because I can't do addition or subtraction or even just reference my own experiences of going to familiar places and doing familiar things, and I'm actually not sure if I drew any conclusions, I just went ahead and bought some tickets anyway like a fucking idiot, one of which cost about the amount of money that I just spent on printing two different versions of the same document that was largely full of blank pages, which I rode my bike to go do without even thinking for one second about taking a lock with me, and also when I paid the first time I didn't notice that they hadn't given me the second document I asked for, at which time I realized I never told them I needed it in color, so now I actually have 2/3 documents that are completely useless and a waste of money, of which I have none coming in because I've been looking for a new job for 15 years and almost nobody has ever even emailed me back and you can guess why (actually one person agreed to interview me, and I fucked up disastrously right away, and then she spent the whole interview telling me what a fucking idiot I am, and even if that wasn't a very nice or even rational thing to do, she is right).

My therapist called in sick today and I'm sort of glad because I didn't want to talk to her, but now I get to spend an extra week stressing out over how to deal with her the next time she tries to address my complex of problems by making excuses for me and trying to make me stop saying things like "there's something wrong with me" because according to her I'm fine and great and awesome even, it's the rest of the world that's fucked up! Like that's rilly cool and all but I do not understand how deciding that yes means no and up is down and black is white, and talking like bad things are good and acts of destruction and waste are not important and I'm never responsible for my mistakes, is supposed to make anything easier for me. That's just language control, which is something that cults and bad employers do, it has no material benefit besides making sure other people don't have to hear anything they don't like. But fine, let's try it. Like oh, OK, I did something really rad today by knocking over half of everything in the house because I put something important in a super smart place nested underneath and inside of a bunch of unwieldy and fragile bullshit. Then I wasted a ton of money I don't have on things I don't need because I didn't look what I was doing and I didn't tell anyone how to help me. That was so right of me, I will never say anything is wrong again, because it isn't, wrongness doesn't exist because I'm awesome and I love myself and the fact that I'm constantly mired in problems that I myself create somehow has nothing to do with me or my thoughts and behaviors.

I guess all my problems are solved now because I learned to abandon my values and rational thought and stop accurately describing events in my life, and now I just replace every negative descriptor of my actions and reactions with positive ones, and somehow that translates into having completely inappropriate and counterintuitive feelings about myself and my life, which further somehow translates into not being depressed or stressed out anymore despite being constantly bombarded by stressors incurred by me personally, every single day, by being a fucking idiot. Oh sorry, I meant a fucking cool nice pretty talented genius who everybody loves including me. Yay, now I don't need therapy anymore. This is exactly what I will explain to my therapist when I inevitably fire her.

#i keep remembering other dumb shit i did this morning that i forgot to even list #there's just too much i only do dumb shit #and i have to spend all my energy cataloging it because no one ever believes me

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nympio · 11 months

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as the time rolls closer to the impactful day, i become more depressed, more anxious. it’s always able to sneak up on me, like after all this time it would think i would forget. after finishing my script, i find myself wondering if ana-marie chooses to live. even as the author, i don’t know myself, because if i were in her position, i would most certainly head to the afterlife, if there is any. i’d like to think that she chooses to live and maybe finds her peace one day. afterall, we are one in the same. that’s the thing about writing, authors have to tell on themselves sometimes. the dates are coming closer and i feel it in my psyche. it’s so interesting to me how numbers on a calendar can send a pang of fear through my chest, that a name can turn my mouth dry in seconds, that certain smells and tastes make me want to scream. i suppose that’s the purpose of it all, trauma, the big capital t. when you look at things, like the date for example, all that’s there is a clump of numbers mashed together with the current year. it’s strange, days can repeat themselves but only in the scale of numbers. because as much as my fear tells me that that date and event can happen again, the year is the one that reminds me that it can’t.

but the year also hurts me, because it reminds me of how long ago something was, and how present it still is in my life. it is a painful reminder of m inability to move on like other people do. it tells me, “hey, hey you! you’re still fucked up. anyone else would have dated more people, made more, friends, made more money, done something different. but you didn’t, and now it’s all those years later, and this date still shakes you. you probably need some help.” yeah, i know i do. but i’ve gotten the help, i’ve gotten the meds, i’ve gotten the yoga, the mindfulness, the meditation, the fucking this and fucking that. i’ve gotten it all. i still feel this. i still am covered in it. then i feel like her, like i’m at the end of my own screenplay. do i walk to return to the world where i came from? or do i leap into the pond of after life and enjoy myself there? ending all my therapies is probably a wrong choice, it’s probably very foolish of me to do that, as they have been in the leading force to not end my life. but i find myself impossibly more closed off, and untrusting, even though i have worked with these two therapists for over a year. i

i just look at them, and i can’t speak. it’s like my throat closes up, like i’m allergic to speaking. my brain is screaming at me to not trust them so loud, and eventually, i’ve stopped. i can’t remember the last time i was honest, when i really spoke the truth. instead i make them laugh, or entertain them with funny stories that seem relevant, but really just enforce the whole process for them. and by the end of the session, much to my despair, they finally lock in and find what i am hiding. but lucky for me they won’t remember it next week, and therapy is simply just a paid service. the world keeps on turning, and i am nothing but a case file in a google spreadsheet. i have to remind myself of that. or else, i get lost, thinking they might actually care for me.

if i am quiet enough, i can hear her footsteps on the soft grass. but i never know which way she is going.

fine ~ thursday june 1st, 2023 9:52 pm

#losing progress #does it matter?#im only getting worse #lies

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substanceuser971 · 1 year

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very very frustrated with myself that i bought over $60 worth of weed just because it was on sale. with that and everything else ive bought today i mustve just blown half my paycheck. i at least know that rent for next month will be covered with my tax return coming in, and i know the bulk of what i bought today was necessities, but its fucking frustrating. i knew that the moment i got paid id be right back where i was with obsessively keeping stocked up and having to struggle not to get high every damn night. i think maybe part of why i went for the sale was because everything was already more expensive than i anticipated, which yeah i get weed is pricey but this particular dispensary like doesnt even have any cheap options. sometimes the cheap shit is better! but people wanna get all fancy with it eugh

the good news is that spending all this money on other junk helped deter me from buying vodka. i miss green apple vodka, literally just straight out of the bottle. since pesachs finishing up this evening i can keep drinking the beer in my fridge when i crave alcohol, but im trying to keep that at a minimum.

i had my first therapy appt in years the other day, i really like my therapist so far. i talked a bit about my substance use issues and the ways ive been coping, and it was really nice actually having my struggles acknowledged instead of them being brushed off like my ex did. it was nice too that my therapist acknowledged the effort ive been putting into reducing my usage. its hard talking about addiction with friends so i dont talk much about my successes and i guess sometimes i feel like people dont know or understand or appreciate the effort this takes.

sometimes i wish i could just skip ahead to living with my partner and being able to cuddle up with her instead of being alone in my room at night. i know itll be more meaningful to overcome all the obstacles to get there, but i still wish i could be with them now. then i could maybe fall asleep comfy instead of dealing with constant insomnia and trying to self medicate with pot just to get an extra hour or two of rest, as if it really does all that much. and when i do smoke then, itll be a fun little treat. i want to be better than i am for them. i know it sees things the opposite way, its said im too good for it, so i guess things balance out lmao

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inklore · 3 years

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it’s the rush, it’s the lust.

premise: it’s visibly clear how stressed andy is from work and his absent minded wife and son. he deserves to relax, to have someone take care of him. and you couldn’t be more willing to give andy everything he deserves.

pairing: andy barber x (f)reader

warnings: third person pov, cheating because i’m an evil person, smut, blowjobs, dirty talk, agegap, face-fucking, babysitter x employer. reminder: you are in control of your reading consumption so if you don’t vibe with any of the above pls do not go on. 18+ only.

word count: 6k+

etc: this was originally posted on my ao3 before i broke down and finally made a new tumblr for my writing, soo if you’ve read this from there and it looks familiar that’s why. since this isn’t following the shows sequence it’s clearly an au and one where laurie is not so great, no offense to the originally queen of stress, but i had to write this filth. i may make this into a series if anyone is interested…

♡ ྀ series masterlist / ao3

There was little for her to complain about working for the Barbers.

They would always keep their refrigerated stocked, adding a few snacks of her liking, leaving quick and easy meals to prepare if they didn’t leave money for her and Jacob to order pizza or drive somewhere and pick something up. They always paid her decently, slipping in a little extra for when one of them had worked later than expected or had her stay longer while they worked in their offices’, not wanting to totally make it seem like they were ignoring Jacob while they not present in their home in separate rooms doing their own things, wanting to at least have someone to pay attention to him, make him do his homework, stay off of creepy sites on the internet, or eat with him.

She had been the family babysitter for two years now. She sometimes wondered why they even kept her around, Jacob was old enough to be left alone, could feed himself, keep himself entertained—or maybe that’s the reason why they kept her around, but he wasn’t a helpless toddler. But she also understood why they didn’t quite trust the young boy, several instances being reported by other students and parents and friends of the boy saying he was a little off. And instead of having a lawsuit on their hands—she was sure that being the reason—hiring a babysitter for your teenage son was the safest bet.

It could be worse. She could be watching three screaming children and parents who paid her shit money and didn’t even at least feed her in return. So she couldn’t really complain, not even when she found herself not leaving their house until midnight or having to be a personal distraction for Jacob when his parents were fighting in the next room, like her job entitlement also had ‘part time therapist’ written below it. Even though Jacob didn’t seem to be phased by hearing his parents screaming at each other. But it’s not like his parents made a spectacle of it, the two reappearing in the room as if nothing had happened. Smiles plastered on their faces offering a fake facade that seemed to go bone deep with their marriage, always seeming more picture perfect than they actually were.

It wasn’t something she really let herself wonder about. It wasn’t her business to sit and ponder when the Barber’s were finally going to call it quits or when Jacob was finally going to show some other emotion over his parents having troubles other than a blank stare. No, her job was to entertain Jacob—as much as she could for a teenage boy who could not careless of her presence—until his parents came around, as well as making sure he didn’t get into trouble or worse.

So when Mr. Barber, walked through the door at 8 on the dot she wasn’t surprised when he asked her to stay later while he worked on some things in his office. And when Mrs. Barber showed up thirty minutes later saying she was exhausted, a frown on her face and handing Jacob some money telling him to order whatever he wanted, asking Y/N to join them, staying a bit longer, she didn’t bat an eye.

And when Jacob ordered a meat lovers pizza from the same pizza joint, the one that was more grease than cheese, it was no shock to her. Nor was it when Mrs. Barber came down freshly showered, the color a little more rosy in her cheeks a genuine smile on her face, grabbing a slice and sitting and chatting with them at the table until Mr. Barber walked in. Her demeanor turning to one that made the tension in the room go up. Though they tried hard to hide it. Andy trying to make normal conversation a family would have over dinner; how’s work? School? Anything exciting happen today? Watch any new movies?

But it did little to bring back the chipper atmosphere that was once going around the table.

She could see the frustration on Andy’s brows as he tried his best to hold the facade of his wife’s dismissiveness having zero effect on him. Y/N sending smiles in his direction when their eyes meet trying to ease some of the tension that was visible not only on his face but in the room. And when he would give a tight smile back, it quickly fading as he looked down at his plate going back to his food, she wished she could do more. Not only for him but for the rest of them too. But it wasn’t her place and she was not a licensed therapist, she was no expert on family dynamics—at least not the healthy ones—or what one should say to help from the inevitable happening. It’s not something she was equipped to do. Playing video games with Jacob to distract him or giving Andy sweet smiles or trying to lend a helping hand to Laurie was all she could do.

“Would you stay a little longer?” Laurie asked as Y/N helped her wash the plates they had dirtied with their tense filled dinner. The older woman looking at her with a silent begging in her tired eyes. “Andy is still working in his office and I’m getting ready to call it a night.” She gave a weak smile, “and I know how much Jacob likes when you’re here to enjoy Friday movie night, especially when neither of us want to join in,” she sighed adding a clipped “or can’t.” At the end, turning back to finish drying the plate in her hand, Y/N getting the feeling that was a dig at Andy.

“Of course.” She gave the best deceiving smile. And it’s not like she was completely upset about the request, Jacob did have good taste in movies despite the boy being a little weird—on certain days at least. And it’s not as if she had any other important plans for the weekend so she could sleep in the next morning, no matter how late she got home.

Plus extra money, which was surely to be given to her, was not something she could ever complain about. Who would?

And so after Laurie gave her dismissive son a goodnight, Jacob being too busy choosing the perfect movie to acknowledge her, ignoring her husband and quickly walking up the stairs. Leaving Y/N to sit beside Jacob on the couch, a bowl of popcorn separating the two, screams from whatever bloody movie Jacob had decided on. Trying her best to not cringe at the b-grade movie that the boy was clearly having a ball watching, if the big grin and laughs on his face when someone got gutted was not an indication.

She couldn’t help the few glances she threw back towards Andy’s office, the light from the small crack in the door being the only thing illuminating the room in any kind of light that wasn’t red from whatever bloodbath was playing on the screen. She felt bad for the family as a whole, yes. But she couldn’t help feel more for Andy. Both his wife and son were more dismissive towards him than anything. Jacob a little less than Laurie. It wasn’t a constant dismissal though, the couple had their moments when they really looked like they could stand each other for more than five minutes. When she first started watching Jacob she was in envy of the way Andy would look at his wife with love, and his family with pride. It’s still there, she’s sure of it, it just seems to have dimmed along the way.

But it wasn’t her place to worry about it. It wasn’t her place to want to give Andy reassuring words or praise letting him know that she thought very highly of him, that she thought he was doing his best, that she was sure Laurie didn’t hate him, that couples all go through shit right? That it would be okay. But who was she? The twenty year old babysitter nothing else, nothing more. It wasn’t her place to want to comfort a grown man about his marriage or family. And would she do the same thing for Laurie? Jacob? She wants to think she would . . . knows she would, that would be the right thing to do. But she didn’t feel that pull in the pit of her stomach for the other Barbers like she did for Andy.

If she was to keep score as to who showed her the most kindness in the family Andy would surely be on the top. Where Laurie usually gave her a small smile, made small talk, and ignored her presence the rest of the time she was there. And where Jacob acknowledged her existence—but could careless if she was there or not—and sometimes enjoyed her playing video games with him or watching some gruesome film with her because he knew she wouldn’t complain about it; Andy had always took an interest in asking her about her day, asking her about life, having a conversation’s with her that didn’t consist of when she could be here or there or if she could stay late. She didn’t take offense to how Laurie and Jacob treated her. If she was being honest she liked all of the Barbers, they all had their redeem attributes that made her enjoy being around them.

But there was something about Andy. . .

It was probably pathetic. No, it was definitely pathetic of her to care so much about a man who was older than her, a man that she worked for. It was ridiculous. To care about his marriage troubles or if he was okay. This wasn’t a lifetime movie where he would seek out solace in a girl such as herself; young, had never been in that serious of a relationship before.

So she didn’t allow herself to really dig into why she kept craning her neck to look back at the half open office door, or why she hoped he would come out and watch the movie with them—maybe wanting him to come out more so he would scrutinize Jacob for picking such a ridiculous movie and making him turn it off, she could handle scary movies but these kind . . . she sometimes wondered about the boys sanity.

As she looked over to Jacob as a certain scene of someone getting their head chopped off by a chainsaw, the boy bellowing out a laugh, making her cringe.

“This is amazing.”

“Yeah,” Y/N replied with a fake laugh, or a real one from how crazy this kid was but still enjoying his company, more often than not.

By the time the movie was over she had been convinced that Jacob had the look of ecstasy in his eyes and that when the next Friday came around she was going to demand they watch something of her choosing. Even if Jacob hated her after for it, she could not sit through another b-grade blood porno. She refused to!

But that was a problem for next week and with Jacob declaring that he was going to bed, giving her a smile and running up the stairs, she let out a loud sigh. She could finally go home. Her bed calling her name from miles away.

As she stood from the couch reaching her arms above her head to release the tension in her muscles she didn’t hear Andy walk from his office, round the couch and sit himself down where his son just was, until he spoke.

“How was the movie?” He asked making her jump a bit, a smile on his face in apology for startling her, Y/N softly laughing it off.

“It was . . . something.” She said with another laugh, fidgeting on her feet a little bit not sure if she should sit back down or walk to the door to grab her things and continue her descend.

But as Andy kept the conversation going she opted to sitting back down.

“I’m sorry you had to stay so late again, if I knew Laurie went to bed I would of took a break and hungout with Jacob.” He gave her a smile, “or the two of you.”

She doesn’t know why the last part of his sentence makes her chest feel heavy. Some ridiculous reason, she’s sure. But all she can do is shrug and reassure him that it was fine, she didn’t have anything better to do, it’s no trouble at all. Any reassurance she could think of spilling from her mouth as her nerves suddenly went up the more she spoke. Something that was not a total reoccurrence when talking to Andy. Maybe because of the tense filled dinner they had shared had her feeling a bit on edge. Feeling bad over the whole situation.

Several minutes pass before either of them say anything. Andy’s eyes falling shut as he rolls his neck his knuckles going white as he grips the back of it trying to rub the tension out. His shoulders rolling slightly. Before he reaches for his tie, his fingers gripping the knot loosening it. A sigh falling from his parted lips.

Y/N watching his fingers work, her eyes trailing from the rub of the flesh on his neck to the fabric knot of his tie, the pull, the grip, the loosening of it until it gives way and the sound of his sigh going straight through her. Her body tense, her mind in a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings that she knows why she’s having, but also knows why she shouldn’t be having.

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Andy look this tense. Seen him be in anything other than his dark blue suit, minus the times she see’s him outside of his house at a town event or grocery store. No, on weekdays Andy was always in a suit, always dressed to the nines. Never looking anything other than perfectly kept and put together.

Except for right now. No, right now he looked utterly exhausted and filled with stress and the way his heavy puffs and sighs came out as he tried to release the tension in his neck and shoulders had her gripping the cushion of the couch underneath her. Her knuckles turning a shade of pure white from the strain.

She didn’t know which was worse: wanting to reach out and touch him, help him relieve the ever present stress and tension in his broad shoulders. Or the fact that just watching him did something made tension build within her in a place that had no right reacting as such; a low ache making her stomach flutter and hold her breath as her eyes continued to follow his every movement. Her eyes running along the small beard on his chin, the curve of his nose, the knit of his brows, the flutter of his eyes as they fall back open and meet hers.

Andy holding her gaze, his movements stopping, his hand falling from his neck to the top of his thigh. An action she catches herself following seeing the slight flex of the muscles in his wrist under his watch.

Y/N looking up to see he hasn’t taken his eyes off of her, his eyes filled with question and something else she’s not sure of. His lips parting as if he were about to speak but quickly pressing them together, as if changing his mind, his attention quickly turning ahead of him.

Only then does she let out a slow shallow breath, looking down to her lap chastising herself for acting like a fucking weirdo. For letting the thoughts of wanting to take care of him, to help with whatever he needed cloud her mind. Andy was surely thinking she had lost her wits about her. And if she lost this, semi-good, gig she was sure she could find herself filling out applications to some retail joint that she sure as hell didn’t want to work at.

So her mind doesn’t really catch up with her when her mouth opens and she asks, “stressful work day?” Her eyes snapping shut as she internally cringes at herself for even speaking, it being the most obvious answer, and why hasn’t she just gotten up and taken her leave? Why was she still on the couch letting the time tick by? Letting herself act foolish?

Y/N finding herself relieved though when Andy does answer and doesn’t just quickly change the subject to her leaving.

“Yeah,” Andy chuckles dryly in a huff, “you could say that.” He leans himself back into the couch a little more. “Nothing new though. Just the everyday life of a lawyer.” He gives her a genuine smile.

“I couldn’t imagine.” She lets herself release her grip on the cushion a bit, relaxing in her spot and shifting so she’s not turned away from him fully and rigid—trying not to look as tense as her insides felt. “I don’t think I could deal with some of the assholes I’m sure you have to deal with.”

This makes him let out a laugh, a genuine one that has his hand falling to his chest. “Yeah,” he nods looking down, “there definitely are a lot of assholes. Most of the time. Sometimes it’s more tragedy than anything.” He sighs, “but that’s the job.”

“And you like it?” She asks in a way that hopefully comes off as more curiosity than rude.

“Probably more than I should.”

She watches the way his eyes squint in contemplation, or something like it, as if debating with himself over the declaration. She watches the way he seems to return to himself and look up at her. A feeling of heat washing over her making her skin burn.

“You should,” She blurts out before her mind can catch up again. “Like it, I mean.” She swallows her eyes never leaving his, “you’re a good lawyer, the best in this town, which is a huge accomplishment in it’s own.” She laughs softly, her skin lighting up again when he returns the laugh, shaking his head.

“Right.” His eyebrows raising and eyes rolling slightly at the comment. “You flatter me.” Andy smiles and it sends something through her. Something daring. Something that should be ignored. Something that has the darkest parts of her mind, the impulsive part that should be ignored, scheming against her.

“It’s no wonder you’re stressed though. Anyone in your position would be.” Her voice sounds braver than she feels, steadier than she feels inside right now. “I’m sure there’s ways you can help that though. I’m sure a massage parlor isn’t too high a price for an attorney.” She jokes and grins when Andy chuckles. It only fueling her bravery to continue on.

Her fingers twist slightly in her lap her feet telling her to get up and head for the door, to end the conversation where it is, he’s tired, exhausted, he needs to go to bed. Rest. That’s what someone needs when they are stressed. That’s what Andy needs. He doesn’t need to be sitting here having a conversation with her about said stress or be subject to her word vomit and tension she now feels all over her body from the ideas and thoughts going on within her head.

He definitely doesn’t need to hear her ask, “Or, I’m sure Laurie helps. . . in other ways.” The underline meaning of her statement sending a thrill through her. Because if she were in the same position as his wife she would help him anyway he could. With any part of her she could, or he wanted. That’s what this was all about for her. Her demeanor, the heat she felt on her skin, the ache low within her, the tension. She wanted to help him. Relieve his stress. In an inappropriate way she shouldn’t want to. In a way that shouldn’t even be crossing her mind. But not one that hasn’t been present in her mind before when she’s been around Andy, just one she’s usually very good at ignoring, or at least controlling.

Andy doesn’t say anything for a beat his gaze on her, intense and unnerving. She wants to let out a laugh, play it off as a stupid joke or more word vomit. But her lips don’t budge. She’s already stuck her foot over a line that should not have been crossed. It was too late for her to shy away now.

Andy clears his throat and looks away, his eyes downcast staring at the other side of the room. The longer he doesn’t say anything the longer she feels the need to fill the space, the air, to spew out more things she’s sure are not appropriate to say to the father of the kid you babysit.

But it doesn’t stop her, god help her.

Maybe it’s because she see’s a look of slight embarrassment on his face, or is it indifference? Whatever it is she knows that her statement must bring up some ill feelings about him and Laurie. She doesn’t want to assume, but she’s sure that by the way Laurie goes rigid around him is a clear indicator that there’s nothing going on there, in or out of the bedroom.

It makes her chest tighten. She has no right to judge Laurie. She has no right to judge their relationship, their marriage. But she knows if Andy needed her help, had asked her to rub his neck, his back, or other parts of him that required more than just her hand she would do it without question—to relieve any stress he felt of course. Which may have been a pathetic thought. Really. But he deserved it. He worked hard. She just wanted to make him feel better. He’s been so good to her. She wants to be good to him. For him.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t stop herself from moving closer to him, her eyes not meeting his until their thighs are touching. Her hand shaking slightly in her lap as she dares to reach out and put it on his thigh, the soft fabric of his suit making her already heated hand burn.

“I want to help you, Mr. Barber.” Her fingers twitch against his thigh as she slowly descends up. “If you’ll let me. You’ve treated me with nothing but respect and kindness since I’ve worked for your family.” She hopes he can’t hear the slight shake from the heat burning through her in her voice, “It may be just normal human decency, but I want to thank you. To return that kindness.” Her fingers stop at the apex of his thigh, the heat, or anger? Or whatever it is in Andy’s gaze making a chill fall down her spine, her breath stuck in her throat.

Andy let’s out an exasperated breath shaking his head, his hand coming to grip her wrist. “This is not appropriate.” The look on his face is serious and it makes her stomach fall, shame washing over her. “You are my teenage sons babysitter for Christ sakes.” He lets out a low throaty laugh at that as if it’s another thing to add to this ridiculous situation they are in right now. But his features straighten. “It’s wrong. You know that, right?” His brows come together in question.

All it does is make her feel hot all over, embarrassment finally kicking in, her brain finally coming to it’s senses, finally waking up and realizing how inappropriate this all really was.

Y/N’s eyes drop as a soft, “I’m sorry.” Falls from her lips, she can feel a slight burning in the back of her eyes. She doesn’t think she’s going to cry, no she’s sure she’s not going to. She’s sure it’s still the embarrassment of her ridiculous actions. It’s not as if Andy were yelling at her right, lecturing her in a way that would make her break down. No. She was sure the burning that made her eyes itch was one of mere disappointment more than anything.

But Andy hasn’t removed her hand from his lap, he hasn’t stopped looking at her, she’s tempted to pull her wrist from him, the thought of the loss of contact leaving a dull feeling in the pit of her stomach. But knowing if he pulled her hand from him she would not protest, she wouldn’t beg. This wasn’t a game or something that could be taken back, she stepped over a clear boundary anyone should have with a married man, as well as your employer no matter how basic the job. If she had a job after this she would be shocked.

She hears rather than see’s Andy swallow, a low breath falling from his lips, “have you done this before?”

She’s not sure what he’s asking but it has her meeting his gaze once more, his face unreadable as to what intention his question has. “Hit on the father I babysit for?” Y/N let’s out a breathy laugh, feeling even more shameful that he would think that of her, think badly of her.

“No.” He says a bit sternly that it has her body tensing even more, pressing her thighs together, the intense look in his eyes not helping the matter. “Have you done this before.” He repeats. Slower.

Understanding the insinuation, understanding the answer he’s looking for; has she done what she wants to do to him before. Has she sucked cock before.

Her mouth feels dryer. That flash of heat once again plaguing her inside and out, her thighs pressed closer together, the tension in her belly sinking further and further down. She doesn’t break eye contact when she nods her head yes. She also doesn’t break eye contact when she see’s the way he swallows, hard, a hot breath falling from him that almost sounds like a whisper of something. She can feel his fingers twitch against her wrist, she can see the way he’s breathing just a little bit heavier.

He wants this.

She’s not fully sure of herself until she feels the tightness in the crotch of his pants, the fabric straining where her hand lays.

He wants this.

She doesn’t know what prompts her to say “please”, her voice more seductive than she knew it was capable of. The lust filled part of her brain edging her on as the ache below begs for more. They’ve already reached past the boundaries why not jump over the whole fucking thing? Why not go further. Why not let her take care of him. Help him after a long day. Give him what he needs. What he deserves.

Andy doesn’t say anything though, not with words at least. His face saying it all. His blown out pupils the look of repressed hunger on his face. It’s all there, clear as day and all she wants is to lean in and press her lips to his, tell him that she will take care of it for him. That she won’t stop until he’s coming in the back of her throat.

But she doesn’t get the chance to say anything before she feels Andy’s hand lift from her wrist to her face, running the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip. She can’t help the small moan that she lets out, or how quickly she sinks to her knees when she see’s the slow nod of his head giving her confirmation. Permission.

Her eyes don’t leave his as she sits up on her knees between his legs as he reaches down to the belt of his pants, unbuckling them in a slow sultry manner, the button and zipper on his pants following suit. He doesn’t pull himself from his confines, instead he reaches his hand to her cheek, rubbing his thumb gently there.

“Are you sure?” His voice is low and comes out octaves deeper. He holds eye contact with her as she nods, not hesitating to reach up and rub him slowly through his pants, watching the way his bottom lip twitches slightly, the way his hips slowly chase her hand when she removes it to pull his pants down a bit to reveal his hard cock.

His hand doesn’t remove from her face, neither do his eyes, as she leans forward letting the tip of his cock meet the tip of her tongue. Y/N trying to hide the slight smile she gets when she hears the sharp breath Andy takes in as she lets the tip of her tongue run along the leaking head of his swollen cock. And when she finally wraps her lips around the tip sucking lightly she doesn’t miss the way his hips thrust up ever so lightly, Andy’s hand moving from her cheek to the side of her head tangling it in her hair.

“Fuck,” Andy groans, his head lulling back against the couch. Y/N moving her mouth further down his cock and back up, creating a rhythm, her hand working the parts she can’t quite reach. Her past fantasies of the man below her having nothing on the breaths and low groans coming from his parted lips. The beautiful sounds going straight to the ache between her legs.

This was not her first time in this position, she had boyfriends in the past where such a task was nothing. But with the girth of Andy weighing down her tongue and stretching her mouth, the low ache in her jaw was a first. She loved it. The weight of him against her tongue. The taste of him. The way his fingers would pull on her hair when she took him as far as she could down her throat until she gagged and came back up.

And the way his mouth hung open in pleasure and the glances of eye contact he made with her.

It was all so much. So great. So intense. Her body ached.

“So good.” Andy murmurs. His chest heaving with the effects of pleasure. “You’re so good.” His breath hitch’s as she twists her hand around the head of his cock, her tongue rolling around the tip, his fingers gripping her hair harder than before, her scalp burning in the most delicious way. Showing her how good she’s making him feel.

She could tell that he was holding himself back, his moans, the thrust of his hips. She figured it was just incase someone decided to come down the stairs, hoping maybe he would be able to hear them, that what they were doing would stop before anyone could see.

She didn’t know why the thought makes her cunt ache. The thought of Laurie coming down the stairs to see her husbands cock in her mouth, to see the pleasure she was giving him, see how much he liked it. How much he enjoyed her pretty mouth wrapped around him.

Y/N continued her rhythm on Andy’s cock, up, down, up, down, letting him hit the back of her throat enough times to have her pull off of him, a trail of spit following from where they were once connected, tears in her eyes.

Andy lifting his head from the couch, to look down at her, his thumb wiping away some spit at the edge of her mouth. His voice low and rough, eyes filled with a type of lust she’s never seen before, when he says “Let me fuck your mouth.” His words make her stomach drop, make her pussy flutter. Leaves her breath hitching and speechless that all she can do is nod her head, her body and mouth pleading, begging yes.

She wastes no time in wrapping her lips around his cock again, only this time Andy’s the one to make the first move, the one to thrust his hips up slowly, testing the waters, as his cock moves against her tongue. Pushing her mouth further and further down with each thrust he provides. Words of praise and moans falling from his lips; “that’s it, you’re such a good girl, taking me so well, fuck,”.

Part of her wonders if he’s like this with Laurie or if this is just for her, if the way his hands come to hold her head, fingers gripping her hair, the dirty words, the moans of need and want, only for her. Because she’s making him feel good, she’s helping him relive stress. Making his cock pulsate against her tongue as it hits the back of her throat.

She decides not to think about it. This moment is just for her and Andy. This moment is for Andy, about his pleasure, about making him feel good, about showing him how good he makes her feel, wanting to return that favor.

She finds her fingers digging into the side of his thighs the need to press them between her legs and help the ache that’s soaking her panties, making the tips of her fingers tingle. Each moan, each thrust, each breath of her name making her ache more and more.

“Make me come,” Andy groans, looks down at her watches the way his cock disappears between her lips. The way she gags slightly when he thrusts too deep too fast. “Please.” His begging makes her moan against him, hollowing out her cheeks more, slacking her jaw more letting him use her mouth for his pleasure. She was his to use, he needed to come, he needed to fuck her mouth. He needed it, he wanted it. And she was going to let him until he was sated and satisfied, until she could taste his come on her tongue.

And it doesn’t take long until his groans are nothing but breathy ones coming in and out of him quick and shallow. His eyes closed his mouth slack. His grip tightening in her hair until she feels nothing but her scalp burning. His thrusts faster and unsteady.

Andy moans out before his body tenses, thrusts going rigid, hot spirts of come hitting the back of her throat. A string of moans vibrating against his leaking cock as she hears him, low and hoarsely say, “fuck, Y/N.”

When his hands move from her head she takes it upon herself to let her mouth move up and down his shaft one last time, getting every missed drop, before coming up, eyes locked on his as she swallows him down. Andy never breaking eye contact when his hand comes up to her mouth, his chest heaving, coming down from his blissful high. His thumb and forefinger pulling lightly on her chin, Y/N opening her mouth, understanding his silent request. Andy’s breath hitching when she opens wide enough for him to see that she swallowed all of his come.

He opens his mouth to say something, Y/N waiting and ready to hold on to every last bit of it, ready for more praise, ready for whatever else this man wanted to give her. She would take it. Over and over again.

But before he can get it out a creak at the top of the stairs has both of them moving faster than their limbs can really keep up with. Y/N standing quickly from her spot between his legs. Andy fumbling with his belt and zipper, trying to straighten himself up, fix his suit jacket, fix his disheveled hair.

Y/N not too sure if she should sit back down on the couch or move for the door, not having time to do either other than standing there beside Andy and the couch, before Laurie appears at the bottom of the stairs. A sleep ridden face of confusion as she looks to her first.

“Y/N, you’re still here?” She asks as she roots herself in that spot at the bottom of the stairs looking from her to Andy.

Y/N goes to open her mouth and say, what she doesn’t know, but before she can Andy is speaking up for her.

“We were just going over when we’ll need her next week.” He smiles over at Laurie, his demeanor completely different than it was just mere seconds ago. “Just hashing out all of our schedules.” His tone one of cool and calm, no longer low and sultry like it once was.

“Oh.” She says almost in disinterest as she accepts the answer and walks towards the kitchen. “We might need you next weekend,” Laurie states, going along with the lie. “Andy and I have a dinner with a couple colleagues of mine.” She doesn’t sound too happy about the matter, but that could be the just-woken-up talking.

Y/N clears her throat, tries to sound as normal as possible. “Sounds good, I’ll be here.” She smiles and quickly dashes for the door. “I should get going though. See you guys next week, same time.” It’s not a question, if she’s not fired after this, god only knows, then she will see them next week.

“Y/N,”

She stops in her tracks as she hears Andy say her name for the millionth time tonight, it continuing to have the same effect on her. Flashes of what they had just got done doing minutes ago making her body flutter and tense. That heat coming back. She turns and looks at him. His cheeks no longer flushed but the heat in his eyes still present.

“Thank you.” He says. Simply. Genuinely. Sweetly. He gives her a nod to indicate what for. But, of course she knew what for. And he didn’t need to thank her, it was her pleasure, his pleasure that she wanted to give him, to help him feel. He deserved it after all.

“You’re welcome.” Y/N said with a tight smile and a blush to her cheeks, quickly grabbing her coat and bag and heading out of the door. Her chest booming in her heart. Her thighs wet and cunt aching.

What had she just done?

#andy barber #andy barber smut #andy barber x reader #andy barber x reader smut #andy barber x you #andy barber fic #andy barber imagine #andy barber fanfiction #*heat leveled*#*trigger check*#**

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