#and yet i think this is the most incriminating bit of real-life evidence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

plus-size-reader · 4 years ago

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Sport

Billy Loomis x Plus size!reader x Stu Macher x Plus!size reader

Word Count: 1871 words

Warnings: Usual horror warning stuff.

Summary: The reader starting a friendship with Casey Becker for a bit in order to start off the whole murder thing

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You never really wanted to be her friend.

There was nothing wrong with Casey Becker, of course, but you didn’t care too much for anyone in Woodsboro. Aside from Billy and Stu, you sort of saw the rest of them as a sort of inconvenience, but that didn’t mean you weren’t a team player.

The plan you and your boys were taking on was nearly a year in the making, and whatever it was you had to do to make it go off without a hitch, you would do. Even if that meant playing nice with someone you couldn’t have found more dull.

Which was exactly why you were here in the first place.

You each had a role to play in this whole thing. Billy had a handle on Sydney, Stu managed most of the business with Tatum, and you were in charge of figuring out everything with Casey Becker.

To start off a murder spree like you had planned, you couldn’t just jump right into it with the main focus of your anger, or so Billy had informed you. This all had to go according to his plan and to lead up to the main event, and Casey was the perfect ice breaker.

Stu hated her, Billy hated everyone, and it didn’t hurt that Steve Oris had been added in there at some point, who made you increasingly uncomfortable.

It just worked out that way, but you had to find a way to get in and get information, which they guys just couldn’t get. Billy approaching her out of nowhere would be too suspicious, and she and Stu didn’t get along.

That was why it had to be you.

After Marleen Prescott’s death, you had plenty of time to get on her good side without putting yourself in a place where you would ever be a suspect. If nothing else, after the deed was done, you could play the heartbroken best friend.

No one would ever put the pieces together, but you got all you needed. Casey trusted you, she cared about you, and that meant you knew everything that was going on in her life. That included, among quite a bit of other crap, when her parents would be home, when they wouldn’t, and what she would be doing with Steve.

She never had a prayer, not after you started that conversation with her at school.

...And after all this time, tonight was the night.

You made your way to the house, as you had pretty often at this point in your friendship without anything out of the ordinary. Anyone looking in would have just seen two best friends, ready to hang out and have a good time, though the truth was far more sinister.

Somewhere, headed this way was Steve Oris undoubtedly going to meet up with Stu and Billy before getting anywhere near his girlfriend tonight.

Not that you were going to get off easy just because time was ticking down for them. You still had to finish this whole thing out strong, even if there was a little bit of wiggle room.

No matter what happened, Casey wasn’t getting out of her alive, but just because you could loosen up a little didn’t mean you could be reckless. You still had plenty of time to kill, and the night was far from over.

After all, you had just knocked on her front door.

“Open the door” you called, knocking a few times on her front door. You were friends, best friends in her eyes, but you had become so in the perfect way.

No one would even know you were here, with the only person familiar with you being Casey, who wouldn’t live to incriminate you.

“I thought I told you that Steve and I were hanging out tonight, I’m just waiting for him to get here” she hummed, opening the door with an almost apologetic look on her face. She had told you, of course, but you didn’t care.

You knew something that she didn’t.

“I’ll just keep you company till he shows up, besides, I brought ice cream” you tried, presenting the bag to her as proof that you had really just come to hang out with her. It was her all time favorite flavor, cookies and cream, which you knew she couldn’t turn down.

So, she let you in.

You followed her into the house, closing the door behind you, though you decided to leave it unlocked. It was a casual action, one that the blonde didn’t even notice as she made her way into the kitchen, intent on putting on some popcorn.

She still had a movie night planned with Steve, after all.

You were casual as you moved through the foyer of the house, just barely catching a glimpse of Billy in one of the far windows. Clearly, Steve would be a little preoccupied, or at least, far too busy for popcorn, .

“I guess I should just put the ice cream in the freezer” you decided, talking more to yourself than anything as you passed behind her, opening the door casually. You had been here enough times before to know what you were doing.

In fact, you were almost sure that not even Casey knew this house as well as you did. You had been doing extensive research over it, all these months, keeping track of what was where and who would be in the house on certain nights of the week.

You were good at this, lying and all that.

So good that you didn’t even flinch when you heard the phone start ringing on the hook, which Casey was quick to retrieve all the way in the living room. All you could do was stand still for a moment, doing your best to listen in to figure out who was on the other line.

She spoke for a few moments before hanging up, and when it rang a second time, you knew for sure who it was.

It was happening.

There was a noticeable change in the space after she picked the phone up a second time, with the air growing more and more still with each breath she took. Clearly, something was wrong and while you briefly considered to act concerned, you abandoned that quickly.

Keeping up appearances wouldn’t matter now.

“Boo”

The blonde jumped, understandably given the circumstances, when you spoke behind her. Between the things Billy was muttering through the phone and the fact that Steve still wasn’t here, she was stressing herself out.

“Who’s on the phone?” you mouthed, holding your hand up to your face like a mock phone. Something had changed in your demeanor since how you were before and this moment but she didn’t even have time to process it.

Too much was happening at once.

When she didn’t answer, you couldn’t help but sigh, plopping down against the armchair in her living room. After all this time, this was what you were doing this for? You just had to sit back and watch her pace around.

It was hardly the excitement Billy had promised you.

Gingerly, you leaned back to stretch the muscles in your back, your arms over your head for a moment. Glancing behind you, there was just enough of the patio visible to you for you to catch a bit of something there in the darkness but you couldn’t make it out.

Not that you had to be a rocket scientist to figure it out.

By the time Casey caught on though, there was screaming and begging and freaking out going on which made it a little difficult to relax.

“We have to get out of here” she decided, under her breath, the sicko on the phone still occupying most of her attention. The blonde was in a full panic, and had yet to connect the dots, fairly assuming you had no part in this.

Though, as soon as she said it, Casey noticed that you didn’t seem even a bit concerned by what was happening.

Something was wrong with you.

All at once, she went through several possibilities. She thought that maybe you were in shock, still a little lost over what was going down over the phone, or that maybe you just weren’t the kind to panic.

...but the truth was obvious.

You clearly weren’t surprised by this.

Then, before she could really come to any real conclusion, you grinned, standing from your place and walking across the room. You didn’t stop until you reached the patio doors, allowing yourself to gaze out into the darkness for a moment before flicking on the light.

Billy was still spouting horrors into her ear, but the girl could only focus on you, trying to figure out what was happening. Though, she didn’t get very far before even more panic set in. Evidently, he’d asked her his first question, and she’d gotten it wrong.

Of course she had.

All in all, it was a trick. Stu had come up with it, knowing that only real horror buffs like the three of you could really answer it. The added panic only served to guarantee that she’d get it wrong, not that any of that even mattered.

Once she spoke his name, “Jason”, you flicked the light off again, waiting for the auditory cue from Billy to turn it back on. Of course, when you did, Steve’s insides were splayed all over the pavement, dripping out of him like wax onto a birthday cake.

“You lost, you know the rules” you shrugged, turning around carelessly toward the kitchen.

“You smell burning?” you asked, briefly taking note of the fire that had started on the stovetop, long forgotten between Casey answering the phone, and Steve’s untimely death. At this point, she was a blubbering mess, which couldn’t have been more boring.

Surely your job here was done.

“Hey Cas? I think the front door is unlocked, you should probably go check that” you teased, taking the phone from the girl, and sitting back down in the chair you’d previously been in, as she scrambled in that direction.

It wouldn’t have mattered how quickly she went, as Stu was surely already in the house, but that didn’t phase you either. In truth, the actual killing was of no interest to you at all.

That was really where the boys came in.

You just liked the sport of it all.

“How’d I do?” you asked, casually placing the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you made your way out the broken patio door, which had gotten shattered shortly after Steve took his final breath.

You were careful to avoid the glass, making quick strides of it as you listened to Billy breathing into the phone. He didn’t answer you, of course, with Casey having gotten outside at some point, making him her problem but you didn’t mind.

You just kept walking until you found a nice little tree swing on the other side of the yard to sit in while you waited. They would be done soon enough anyway, and then you could go home and get a shower or something.

Maybe you’d even give Sidney a call for an alibi.

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arcadialedger · 4 years ago

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Please note that I am most likely leaving this platform. I am done being abused. But first? We need to have a discussion. A discussion about hate and bullying in fandom.

All online-- I encourage you to read my story below. Reblog and spread awareness. The Dragon Prince fandom especially -- I implore you read my words, every single one of them. The short of it is that I am done.

This all began with losing and being blocked by a friend because I shared something they disagreed with. I don’t care what you feel about my initial reaction to this (which I’ll explain below) -- I’ve apologized for not handling the situation correctly. But I will not be shamed for speaking my mind and standing up for myself.

Because no human being deserves to go through what I have endured since last summer.

Following the “callout” post made about me by one of, if not the largest blogs in this fandom, I received hundreds of threats, harassment messages, and death threats. Messages and posts telling me to kill myself were also prominent, on a multiple times a week basis for awhile.

Messages from people who were well aware I have struggled with being suicidal. Due to one of their favorite Dragon Prince blogs speaking out against me, they thought it was okay to suicide bait me.

And it worked. I already struggle with hating myself, am already insecure, and being flooded with these comments which, while I made mistakes, did nothing to deserve, drove me to try and take my own life after years of progress in my mental health.

Mind you, this is like a 200 follower to 4k follower power dynamic. Which yes, plays a role-- because when you have a large following and influence, you have power. Yet the person behind this had the gall to claim Tumblr clout isn’t real.

People blocking and condemning others instantly at your word? Is power. If people read your words and are influenced, or have their minds changed, or buy or don’t buy something, etc.-- you are an influencer. You have power. And when you’re one of the largest blogs in a fandom, you have a LOT of power.

So take responsibility.

I was hurt because I lost a friend who I had chatted with for months, did a podcast with, and was generally not only one of my favorite blogs but the center of my experience in the Dragon Prince. I may not have been perfect in my words, but when I was asked why I was quiet/ inactive, I explained how I was hurting, anonymously. I was understandably in pain and upset. I had been cut off for just having a different opinion on a matter, for thinking differently. Even though it was within their rights to block and do so, it felt wrong and it weighed on me.

Is that such a crime?

The callout post and previously described abuse followed, lasting for months until later in the year (this began in June, or around then). It also included screenshots of tweets, when this user does not have Tumblr, and they have stated to have screenshots stored up on their computer of my various posts and interactions. This is creepy behavior, and freaked me out. I felt like I was being stalked, “evidence” being filed away for the very purpose of being used against me.

I eventually talked things out with the blog per recommendation of my therapist, and thought all would be fine. For a little while, it was. I largely stayed off of Tumblr to heal. Once in awhile I would have a rough, tearful night because something reminded me of what I lost, but I would make it through. Overall, I was making progress.

Then? My Twitter got hacked by one of the people sending me hate. For what had turned out to be much. And after they tweeted some purposefully incriminating and bigoted things to make me look bad, I came home from a weekend in the mountains to a shitstorm.

Twitter has a love hate relationship for me and I barely opened the app unless actively chatting with a friend. So when I saw 700+ notifications, I was surprised. It had never happened before.

I began to scroll through, and when I saw what had happened, I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

I had lost over half of my followers and a solid 60% of previous Twitter mutuals had blocked me. But worst of all, I had hundreds of hate tweets directed at me replying to the hackers tweets. Messages had been sent in DMs and accounts blocked, followed, and unfollowed as well.

If you have never felt that loss of agency-- that sickening feeling of words you never said next to your profile-- be glad. Because it is traumatic. I value my words. I value what I have to say. And having that taken from me was worse than anything I had been through here on Tumblr, outside of the suicide baiting (the most direct attack to me and my emotions/ insecurities throughout this entire ordeal). Further, this hacker had clearly stalked my tweets based on some of their comments.

Hundreds of tweets bashing me, calling me aphobic slurs (knowing I am asexual mind you, as it was in my bio), making fun of my appearance and targeting all of the insecurities which lead to my first suicide attempt in high school, and taking/ editing images of my face and mocking them. This all culminated in a doxing threat-- a doxing threat which made me feel unsafe on a campus I had already been sexually assaulted on. I was once again, after starting the healing process, thrusted back into the darkest time of my life and spiraled into anxiety and depression. I cried a lot overwhelmed by it all, had difficulty sleeping, and felt sick. I started fall semester and couldn’t concentrate on school. I was a mess.

I had once again been condemned, this time for something I had no part in. I tried to example what happened but nobody listened. I had been hung without trial. People were understandably confused, and my entire reputation on the platform, and my page, became a mess of lies, misunderstandings, and more.

If you don’t know the feeling of already hating yourself and being insecure, and having these beliefs reinforced and spread by hundreds publicly across the internet? Of already feeling lonely and unwanted and having the one space you thought you had taken from you? Consider yourself lucky.

I had a lot of voice actors and creators following me-- accounts I interacted and greatly cherished my mutual with. A handful of them unfollowed, understandably. This online hate mob was sending messages to people demanding they unfollow me, including some of these creators. They had no idea what to make of this mess or what was real and true and just didn’t want to deal with it. Most of the others just stopped interacting with me. @aaronwaltke (tagging so those who don’t follow already click and do so, because he is absolutely fantastic-- he’s a writer for ToA) who had followed me on the platform, graciously wished me peace with the entire situation after I checked to make sure he had not been subjected to messages or hate, either from my hacker or other accounts. His was the greatest compassion I got on Twitter, before I ultimately ended up just having to delete.

I lost podcast deals because of this with Adrian Petriw, Aaron Ehasz, and Justin Richmond. I do not blame them one bit and would have done the same in the confusion not wanting to get dragged into anything.

Only to have one of the friends I lost who helped start this interview these very people on their own podcasts. A slap in the face. A zine I had bought to support them came to my door, with the front page proclaiming to “spread a narrative of love.”

I was never granted that chance. That compassion. I had the vultures sent after me with no mercy. And anyone who has been through online abuse and systemic harassment knows just how much it feels like they’re slowly but surely picking at your flesh ( a metaphor I used in one of my old, since deleted posts discussing the situation, and still find accurate), wearing you down until you have no strength left.

Make no mistake, my story is not a one off situation. Many share the same tale of abuse and being driven off of platforms that once gave them great joy. These attacks are coordinated, systemic, and common hobby for these people-- who largely claim to be loving and accepting of all. They are a cyberbullying phenomenon which has risen with the presence of fandom on the internet. And I want to make clear, with current discussions of “cancel culture”, I mean nothing political in that statement. Some might call my experience cancel culture, but I don’t.

It’s just bullying. It’s just hate. These people get off on ruining people’s lives.

And my life was greatly set back and ruined. I had a stain on my past in fandom I could never be rid of. I had to shut down my podcast, took time off of all social media, and most of what I had built, most of my growth, was taken from me while those who incited and/ or spread hate thrived and continued to grow and find success. That was the greatest sting of all.

I asked the one previous friend who hadn’t blocked me, but had just stopped interacting with me (which I understood and respected, and also greatly respected her perspective, help, and support though this situation in which she largely unfortunately ended up in the middle) for help after explaining everything, and got nothing. They didn’t seem to care, and just blocked me on all platforms. Once in awhile, I would find I was cut off from yet another old friend, or a blog that I had never interacted with before but clicked into, interested. It hurt being cut off, unable to fully interact with the fandom, but I could move on.

That pain would never go away, but I made clear I did not blame them for the actions of those who abused, harassed, and threatened me. I also made it clear they did not owe me anything, including unblocking.

I just wanted to move on peacefully, but those with the power to enable that did not wish to help. I slowly, when I felt ready, began to be more active on Tumblr again, and once again the hate started up.

Sometimes when I was hurting, I expressed my pain and loss to my followers just to reach out, because I was sad. I had no idea how to rebuild from all that had happened. This got me more hate an accusations of emotional manipulation and gaslighting. I had no idea what to do, and got trapped in a cycle of needing to talk about it, and getting hate and backlash, but not knowing where else I could turn.

My doxer came back into my asks, ultimately making me switch schools, and refueled the drama. Speaking up about this got me more backlash-- mostly accounts reblogging (one with tags saying “fuck you”, despite not knowing the full story, and commenting and then blocking me so I could do nothing to respond or get it off of my page. I deleted all posts of the matter, as requested by these people (who validly pointed out they were in the main fandom tags, which I hadn’t thought of and understood), and hoped to move on.

But it hasn’t stopped. I have been beaten down and emotionally bruised for months. I have had my life and safety threatened, my education and by extension life path altered, and lost work (podcast) opportunities due to this-- alongside the irreversible emotional damage from trauma and abuse. My mental health issues and insecurities-- which I have been very open about to destigmatize the subjects and encourage conversation-- were actively targeted to inflict the most pain possible.

And I can’t even talk about it, without enduring more hate and accusations of “playing the victim”.

Death threats, suicide baiting, doxing, months of bullying and harassment to the most vile degree, which a lot of these people don’t know about because they don’t even bother to read my words. Yet I’m playing the victim.

And the accusations of bigotry and being hateful hurt, because it couldn’t be further from what is in my heart. I believing in love and acceptance of all. I don’t know how many are religious here, but I found God after my first suicide attempt and that is what his word has taught me.

I’ve been through too much in life to tolerate this, for lack of a more eloquent term, bullshit. I know what abuse and victim blaming looks like when I see it. And in my 20 years of life, I have gone through too much: constant ridicule and bullying, suicide attempts, sexual assault, major spinal surgery, to just be stomped over and not stand up for my right to basis human decency.

I refuse to put up with this, so unless I get an apology and some semblance of justice for everything I have been through, I am leaving. I will not participate in a space run by hate and toxicity. I will never claim to be perfect, and I have apologized for my mistakes and wrongdoings. Now, hold those who did this accountable. If you’re reading this you know very well who it was, and I am not naming them for those who don’t. Because at the end of the day I still send nothing but love and wish no ill will towards them.

But I’ll be damned if I don’t expect accountability of one of the greatest influencers in the fandom for their complacency in abuse, threats, suicide baiting, and and absolute ruining of my life and online experience. They enabled this and were well aware they had the power to stop it-- to ask their followers to stop-- and did nothing. They didn’t care-- about a human’s life and well being.

@dragonprinceofficial, are you aware that this is what many of the fans of your show, which preaches love and an end to the cycle of vengeance, do to others? That this is happening in your space? If you stand at all by the values you preach, condemn it. @staffTumblr/ @supportTumblr-- shame on you for allowing this abuse to happen and ignoring my reports. Shame on you for permitting these people to operate in your platform and for being okay with hosting hate. People have been driven to suicide on your website-- I am one of the lucky ones.

If you care at all about humanity and stand against this behavior, reblog and spread awareness. Share my story so I may not happen to anyone else. Tag @dragonprinceofficial until they notice and speak out.

This is my story, and so many others. Make sure it doesn’t happen ever again. No human being deserves to be treated how I was. Everyone deserves compassion, decency, and respect. And everyone deserves a place in fandom. Do better. If you want to reach out to me DMs are open, as well as my email, which is attached to my account. Until this change happens and I am given the support/ help needed to safely function on this platform, this blog will not be active outside of that.

Thank you all of the many accounts who have supported me, and I am working on getting back to all who have reached out! Your love means the world. You know who you are, and I don’t want to tag in case people come after you for showing me kindness. I am sorry if this is goodbye, to all that have enjoyed my blog. I enjoyed it for a long time too. I loved sharing my passion for stories, culture, having a space where I could analyze and discuss my favorite things. I loved getting to share what I had to offer with the world, having fun and posting jokes with my unique sense of humor. I loved interacting with intelligent people/ fellow fans and discussing my favorite stories, offering each other new insights and growing together. I loved the many, many kind and wonderful people who reached out to me in a variety of ways and provided support and friendship.

In the end, it just isn’t worth all of this pain and trauma, and I know when to put my foot down. I don’t want pity, I don’t want apologizes, and I’m not a martyr. I just want my story to make a difference-- to spur positive change in fandom culture/ spaces. I will be tagging all fandoms in which I have seen this kind of abuse present as well, to reach as many as possible.

Be safe, and be kind.

- The Arcadia Ledger/ Ryn/ Katie, signing off.

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shemarmooresfedora · 4 years ago

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Menagerie

Summary Quote: “Don’t you get it? It’s all been a lie, Spence. Since the moment we met, our entire relationship has been founded on a carefully crafted lie and since then, we have been tricked into thinking this was love...but maybe that was a lie too.”

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Genre: Angst with happy ending, Fluff

A/N: this fic has already been completed! it’s 25 chapters and just over 40,000 words. i don’t plan on posting all the chapters on to here but i have included the first two and the ao3 link to the rest is at the bottom if you are interested!

Chapter 1

You woke up from your peaceful slumber to hear a loud crash followed closely by someone yelling “FBI”. You screamed, alerting the agents of your presence thinking you were in danger but once the agents had reached your bedroom, you were being put in handcuffs and read your rights.

“W-What is happening? Is this some sort of sick joke?” you stuttered.

“Do you think killing three men is a sick joke?” the muscular intimidating agent spat back.

You were in utter shock. You barely even left the house let alone go out on a murderous rampage.

“I-I don’t know what you think I did b-but I can assure you I-I didn’t kill anyone or do anything illegal,” you tried to stay as calm as possible but you were shaking profusely.

The other agent that was the back-up in your apprehension seemed to notice this and took some sympathy on you by lightening his grip on your cuffs as he led you out of your front door that had been kicked down.

You sat in the chilly interrogation room wishing you had something else on rather than a thrifted oversized t-shirt with stains on it that said “Best Dad Ever” and sweatpants. They removed your handcuffs, I guess you weren't considered that much of a threat in a locked room in FBI Headquarters. Although you could not see past the one-sided glass, it was obvious the agents from before and possibly others from their team were standing on the other side, observing you.

“Well she is definitely not what I was expecting,” Prentiss was the first to break the silence as the whole BAU team watched you through the glass.

“She was sleeping when we apprehended her. Her facial expressions and body language showed clear signs of distress but I can not be certain if it was because we have the wrong person or she is scared she finally got caught. In her apartment, we found nothing in the slightest bit incriminating, mostly just lots of books,” Spencer spoke, while he was trying to remain impartial, he had admired your taste in literature as he was looking for evidence.

“I’m not convinced. I think this is whole ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ thing is an act,” Morgan stated as he strolled to the door leading to the room you were being held in.

The door opened and your eyes flickered up. Much to my dismay, it was the muscular agent rather than the tall, lanky agent who seemed a lot friendlier to you, given the circumstances.

He took the seat across from you and spoke firmly, “I am ready to take your confession whenever you are.”

At this point, you were just getting frustrated. You were ripped from your bed in the middle of the night given no explanation other than you had supposedly killed three men and he had the audacity to ask for your confession to something no one would even tell you the details of. So against your better judgment, you opened your mouth which has been known to get you in trouble from time to time.

“Well, considering no one has even told me what I am formally being accused of or the details, I can’t do that. Do you even have any evidence to keep me here? Oh wait...you don’t...that’s why you need a confession because all your evidence so far has been circumstantial. Only too bad for you...I know my rights. So, you have forty-eight hours to find some real evidence against me, that doesn’t exist if I may add, before you have to let me go.”

The agent looked back at the glass with his jaw dropped.

“I watch a lot of crime TV shows,” you huffed and crossed your arms.

“Okay this may be harder than we originally planned, folks. We are going to need everyone on call for the next forty-eight hours until we find some incriminating evidence,” Hotch spoke.

The agents began to depart from the room to review old case files and dig deeper into your personal history. Spencer stayed back for a few minutes and saw tears start to roll down your face when you thought no one was still watching you. You quickly wiped them away and wringed your fingers together. Spencer didn’t know if he should or not yet but he felt bad for you.

Chapter 2

The door opened again but this time, you just kept your eyes down at the table so the person could not see your watery eyes.

You have been trying to put up a brave face but every time, a different agent comes in to question you about your routine, friends, family, and personal life, you just feel exposed.

Traces of your DNA had been found on the bodies and they had all visited your bookstore but that wasn’t enough to convict you I guess. You didn’t know the victims personally but you still felt bad for them.

A cup of coffee was placed gently into your line of sight. You wrapped your hands around the warm paper cup and mumbled your thanks.

“I didn’t know how you liked it. I can add more creamer or sugar if you like,” the voice spoke.

You glanced up tentatively and it was the tall, lanky agent. Your lips turned up ever so slightly into a small smile but it was the most you could manage at the moment. You took a sip.

“No it’s fine, thank you. It really helps. I appreciate it,” you said.

“I’m Spencer, by the way”

“Y/N, but you probably already know that by now.”

He chuckled at your joke. Silence filled the room once again.

“I didn’t do it, Spencer...and I know I can’t really prove that but I wish I could. Most of my friends live in another state and so does my family so I don’t go out too often. I don’t have a boyfriend. I own a bookstore so I spend most of my time there. I don’t really know why this is happening to me,” you started to get choked up again so you stopped talking.

Spencer involuntarily blushed when you stated you didn’t have a boyfriend.

He really needed to get it together as much as he wanted to believe you.

You could be a murderer for all he knows...but a really pretty murderer with a great taste in literature and probably even a bigger collection of books than him.

Stop it, Spencer, get your head in the game. He smiled softly once more at you cradling your drink and exited the room.

The forty-eight hours were up. They had nothing solid against you. If anything, the team had less of a case against you.

The bodies were all dumped on the opposite side of town from where you lived but it was clear they had been transported there. Garcia’s digging showed you had no car and you weren’t lying when you said most of your friends and family live out of state so the chances of you borrowing someone else's car were unlikely.

Credit card receipts showed you hardly ever went to that side of town and they had profiled the unsub would know the area well.

The victims did come into your store a few times but they also visited all the shops on that street occasionally as well. It didn’t make sense for you to kill your customers. That would just be bad for business and easily linked back to you.

The team agreed that they believed Y/N was no longer a suspect.

An officer drove you back to your apartment where luckily, your door had been fixed.

You ordered takeout and took a shower to hopefully rid yourself of the stress of the past two days. Shortly after your dinner, you fell asleep hoping your door would not be busted down again by the FBI.

A few days had past and you were opening up the store for the morning. You were in the back organizing the nonfiction section when you heard the soft bell chime of the door opening.

You walked to the front expecting to greet one of your regulars. Once you saw who was standing shyly at the front desk, you stopped in your tracks.

“Spencer?”

“Uh h-hi-hello Y/N. How are you?”

“Good...unless you are here to bring me back in for more questioning”, you said half-joking half-seriously.

“Oh! Um no, you’re all set. I am truly sorry about that. But I do have a question for you”, he was nervously wringing his hands just like you do, looking anywhere but your eyes.

“It’s okay kind of sounds like the wrong thing to say because I would preferably not be dragged out of my bed in the middle of the night and then held for forty-hours but I understand, you were simply doing your job. Anyways, ask away,” you replied.

His eyes finally made contact with yours and he opened his mouth like he was about to say something but completely lost his confidence.

“Do you...um do you...do you have a nonfiction section?” Spencer blurted out.

You didn’t understand how the nonfiction section could make someone so nervous. He looked as if he was going to say something else but thought better of it.

“Of course! I was just organizing it! Right this way!” you chirped with a smile that seemed to untense his shoulders just a little bit.

Spencer perused the section a bit before deciding on a hefty book about the different plants and flowers native to the East Coast. When he made his way up to the front desk to check out, you praised his choice.

“Aw! I love reading about plants. I have some many succulents in my apartment. It's honestly more of a jungle. Have you ever seen forget-me-nots? So lovely!”

Spencer smiled and nodded, knowing if he tried to speak it would be gibberish because he could not focus on anything when he was looking at your radiant smile.

“Did you do it?”, Morgan asked as Spencer entered the bullpen with a brown bag.

“No but now I have a book on plants and flowers. I actually am excited to read it. Did you know that some plants like orchids do not require soil to grow they get their nutrients from-”

“You chickened out”, Derek sighed.

“She is so pretty! She was just standing there in all her radiance smiling at me and I couldn’t take the rejection. We dragged her out of her bed and put her in handcuffs only to find out two days later, she is innocent. I can hardly believe she is still being nice to me despite it.”

“Well believe it or not, the first night I met a girl, she was in handcuffs in her bed with me so it’s not always a bad thing,” Morgan smirked.

“Not appropriate, Morgan,” Spencer scolded.

“What are we talking about? I don’t like to not be included in the gossip!” Garcia ran over in her pink heels with Prentiss right behind her.

“Pretty Ricky here went to visit Y/N at her bookstore but then chickened out about asking her on a date,” Morgan informed them.

“Awwwww! I like her! She’s so pretty! Plus, I have already done a background search on her and she is squeaky clean now that we have proven she isn’t a murderer,” Garcia excitedly rambled.

Prentiss was nodding her head in agreement, grinning at Spencer.

Spencer had already chugged his morning cup of coffee during this conversation just to have an excuse to go get another cup and leave this conversation.

“You can’t run away from your feelings, Boy Wonder!” Garcia shouted.

Chapters 3-25

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #cm fanfic #reid x reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds

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samedmunds · 3 years ago

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I am wary of the word trauma, one of those words that enter the psycho-social vocabulary only to be buzzword-ified, made to serve a vital purpose and doomed to fall out of the lexicon after some former-SNL comedian illustrates how the current young-generation is abusing it. I don’t particularly disagree with its usage in general, but I am always cautious to apply the term when describing myself. Nonetheless, when I think of school shootings, the first thing that comes to mind is generational trauma.

I was raised in a household by a mother in whose view that catastrophe was lurking around every corner and a father who was a multi-year veteran of the War on Terror. We had emergency plans for each trip--be it to a theme park or shopping mall; practice what to do if we hear that loud popping sound that doesn’t ever quite feel right. I was raised in a generation of lockdown drills. Hide in the corner and turn the lights off, don’t open the door for anyone. Unanswered questions: will you let me back into class if it happens while I’m in the bathroom, right? After the Parkland shooting in 2018 where the attacker initially pulled the fire alarm to flush students out of the classrooms, each successive fire drill was met with a pregnant anxiety. One such fire alarm was no drill, we all shuffled outside to find a burning van that had exploded from a faulty gas canister--students made album covers out of the pictures they snapped. Around this time was when I started wargaming. I read everything I could about crowd control, defensive strategy, previous mass-casualty attacks. I made detail contingency plans in my journals: opposition studies where I concluded the most efficient way to kill as many people as possible would be for a hypothetical shooter to stand in the outdoor portion of the cafeteria near the courtyard at the beginning of second lunch (more students had lunch period then) and work then work their way through to the interior of the cafeteria which had a limited number of immediate exits. While different scenarios could be carried out with two shooters, I evaluated the likelihood that an attacker would risk conspiracy to be minimal.

Conscious of the fact that my war-plans could be construed as incriminating evidence, I shredded them after writing. Nevertheless, secure in the knowledge that I knew what to few, I could rest a bit more easily. I knew where the emergency exits were, where best to hide in each classroom, where the heaviest, throwable handheld objects were located: staplers made for good missiles if aimed at the head, while the engineering classroom had hammers, well balanced, and robots that could be launched at an assailant in a pinch. Fire extinguishers were too heavy, chairs barely useful even as a barricade. I graduated high school years ago, but all of this stands clear in my memory. I carry around a trauma kit with me and still find myself preparing escape routes whenever I’m at a mall or busy street (restaurants usually have pretty reliable direct routes to the back service entrance which might be locked in shops or department stores).

One thing has that has changed, with every following mass-shooting however is the nature of my not-so-fantastic-fantasies. My thoughts no longer center on fleeing or hiding, but running towards the assassin, launching myself at their center of mass, tackling them to the ground. I have to close the distance quickly and stay low to deny them use of their gun. I slash at their eyes and throat and keep beating at their temples with my empty fist until there is no more threat or harm. The thing that drives me to these waking nightmares isn’t a kind of inflated hero-complex or even a pretension that I actually would do this in a real-life situation. Its anger, rage that someone would take the lives of dozens of their kin into their own hands, enabled to like some level in Call of Duty. It’s a directed rage at a faceless figure, a role not yet cast for a show I hope no studio picks up.

I am reluctant to use the word trauma because it implies harm, seen or unseen, but undoubtedly dealt. I’ve never been shot at or threatened, never assaulted or even particularly harassed. In fact, if I were to drop dead at any point over the last ten years, the odds of of it having been in in a mass shooting in the United States would have been one in eighteen thousand, where the odds of dying to a car crash are one in one hundred seven. It is actually slightly more likely that I would accidentally shoot myself than die at the hands of a terrorist or in the crossfire of a gang war. With all this in mind, how could I call this uniquely modern fear normal and healthy? What is it, but a sign of generational trauma--not the sort that is inherited from our parents, but instead generated and applied equally across our cohorts?

While it’s clear to me that I obsess, I know that I’m not the only young person that grew up in the shadow of an AR-15. While it serves as an individual coping mechanism, turning the whole world into a series of imaginary strongpoints and “hard targets” ultimately doesn’t stop violence from breaking out in the first place. Nor, will security guards or armed teachers really do anything to stop the next disturbed person from picking up the semi-automatic rifle. The violence must end alongside the means to carry it out or we are only going to lose more of our children. I don’t have a picture for today; more later.

#writing #thoughts #mass shootings #coping #trauma

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chayacat · 3 years ago

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Devil’s Sweet Star (36)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Ghostface x Female Reader

Rated M for Violence, Language and Smut

***

Have you already seen an angry bull, charging at full speed, horn forward, ready to pick up the unfortunate one who will be on the road? Yes, I know, this question is a little strange but in the current context... it’s the order of the day. If you've watched one of these American police series at least once in your life, you know how interrogations take place... especially when they are muscular. After a while, the investigator loses patience and becomes a little upset. Well, let’s say that Danny is experiencing this scene and, fortunately for him, he’s not on the other side of the interrogation room. Because if Wilhelm has been able to remain patient so far... He’s currently like that famous angry bull. Without the horns.

2 days after your... little tasteful evening with Ghostface, Danny found himself at the police station to attend the interrogation of Hoggins who, despite the media and police pressure, remained marble. How, that's the question. There is a lot of evidence that he’s a suspect, even though we know the truth about McKellan's murder. Danny's perfect plan was perfected even more thanks to this fool of rich man who was too stupid to stay in place. The photo, the interrogation of Devon, the phone calls... Everything incriminated him. And yet he remained serene as if all this was only a conspiracy and that he was the light of justice. Poor asshole. At least Danny didn't need to falsify any evidence. Hoggins brought them to him on a silver platter. Even if his "Jed" side regrets it a little, because he saw how much Wilhelm was involved in this case, he was eager to see the reaction of the latter when he’ll discover that from the beginning it was indeed, he, Ghostface, who had committed this crime. And that while he was going after Hoggins, other victims suffered this sad fate.

“I bet you 10 dollars that the boss will turn the table.” said one of the officers.

“I bet you 20 dollars and a restaurant that he will not.” responds another one.

“What exactly is the point of anger?” asks Danny without looking away from the interrogation room.

“Let's say that we get to the critical stage and that any object in the room, including the table, can suddenly start flying.”

“Oh. Good.” Replied Danny, who feels the two officers look at him strangely.

On the other side, Hoggins did not move, his back straight, proud as usual. As if it was a bad dream and he was just going to wake up in bed. Wilhelm tried to remain calm, but in front of a man like him... it was complicated.

“Mr Hoggins, I don’t know if you realise what situation you are in. There is much, MUCH evidence against you. If you really have nothing to reproach yourself for, if you’re truly innocent, then cooperate.” said Wilhelm, trying to stay calm.

“I can't help you more than that inspector. As I told you, all this is just lies and plots against me. Coming from whom, I don't know. I have always been an honest man and, although I admit that I had indeed ... had some unwelcome words towards Horace, he was a very good partner and a good friend.” responds Hoggins with a fake smile.

“We have this photo, the testimony of the man who is on it, your phone records and the text message you exchanged! and you absolutely want to prove me wrong!? Stop taking me for a fool!”

“This man would be able to say anything for money or to have peace. I don’t deny the messages exchanged with Horace. As for the photo... it’s not evidence as it infringes on my privacy. I could file a complaint but I'm not to belittle myself to this kind of... stupidity.”

“The photo was taken in a legal framework, Mr. Hoggins. the journalist who took it was turned away at the entrance of your residence when he had come to write an article about you, long before the scandal broke. He had taken several photos of the place to illustrate his article. The prosecutor confirmed this to me. What about the car that was patrolling around McKellan's house a few days before his murder? We were able to find this vehicle and its owner, and he confirms that he was on the scene at YOUR request. And with the following terms: Watch me this scabby dog. Never leave his eyes. And take the opportunity to see how to enter, without being noticed.”

“... I don’t see what this man is talking about at all.” replied Hoggins with the same fake smile.

Wilhelm inhaled loudly before leaving the room to join Danny and the two officers who were there. He entered the room by violently slamming the door, ready to destroy everything in his path. An image that made our beautiful murderer smile. Nothing makes him happier than to see Wilhelm on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

“I swear to you, that if it were not for the investigation, it would be a long time since I exploded his jaw against the table. Damn, I dream of being able to put this rotten man in jail. I can't get enough of his satisfying little smile, even you Olsen, you are more bearable and less annoying than him!” said Wilhelm trying to regain his calm.

“As you said to me, Hoggins is not a simple man. He’s a big fish. He knows how to play his pawns to win.” responds Danny before whispering to himself: “But he’s nothing than a kid compared to me. I’m a GOD in that category.”

“With everything we have on him he should talk! Even if it is to prove his innocence! But here, I don’t see how he could say that he is not involved in this case! it's all there! I... Damn, I need to hit on something. »

In a sense it was better for Danny that Hoggins defended himself. A man who confesses too quickly is not fun for him. No, Danny is a man who appreciates having strong opponents in front of him. And Hoggins is a prime opponent. Killing him is going to be a pure delight. 3 Days to wait... We will have to find something to deal with between now and then. Fortunately, some sad souls, drunk or drugged, hang out in the streets in the evening... Otherwise his life would be nothing but a mortal boredom.

And then at least... there's you. It's been two days since you and Danny officially lived together, something you celebrated of course. But something was wrong with you. As Jed, he pretended to ignore it, but in reality, he knew very well what you were thinking. He didn't stop thinking about it and he couldn't wait for one thing: to take his place again. How will you react? Several options are possible.

The most unlikely would be that you jump into his arms to kiss him, and just agree to live with a murderer, becoming his accomplice. That would be too good to be true. The second option would be fear and misunderstanding. Knowing that he lied to you all this time.... you would be despaired. But you’ll have no choice but to accept it, permanently tarnishing your relationship. Which will bother Danny a bit. And knowing you, the last possible option is that you fight him and notify the police. In this case he would have no choice but to kill you. It would break his heart, but his secret must remain so above all.

Hoggins' interrogation lasted a few more minutes until his lawyer arrived. And we can say that he is as stupid as his client. Two head-to-slap for the price of one. He has every interest in not being there when Danny kills Hoggins. otherwise... Well, that will make two murders for the price of one. Christmas before time for our murderer. The two men leave the police station and Wilhelm turned the table in the interrogation room, making one of the officers win the bet. Danny left the interrogation room and crossed Hoggins' gaze in the distance, the latter smiling at him to provoke him. But Danny wasn't an idiot and responded in the same way.

“Hmph. Assholes.” Danny simply said.

“Well Olsen... sorry for bothering you for that. But at least we are making progress. It may not be proven that it was Hoggins who paid the man who ransacked your girlfriend's coffee... But there is a lot of evidence to suspect him of McKellan's murder. It's a matter of time, I guess.” said Wilhelm.

“Don't worry about that. He loses nothing to wait. You will eventually have him. His provocative little smile will soon fall. With that, I'll leave you. I still have work ahead of me. And an adorable girlfriend too. See you later, inspector.”

Danny left the police station to return to the apartment, still at work. The newspaper articles are not going to be written on their own. unfortunately. And in addition, he will be alone, given that you work at the café today. normally. He took the opportunity to do some shopping to fill the fridge, life for two, obviously the food goes down faster. Once he arrived, he put away the groceries, put down his belongings, took off his coat to end up in a tank top, and then walked to his office. And even there he locked it, from the inside. We never know in case you have the good idea to make him a surprise attack, when he clearly asked you not to enter this room.

He landed in front of his computer and began to write his articles, or even to finish others that he had already begun. Taking a break from time to time to rest his eyes, even with glasses you have to be careful. Drinking a sip of coffee, which was nothing compared to yours, he rereads what he had written so far. He was proud of it, proud of what he wrote, proud to see his work appreciated. Even if it is not his real name that is at the end of each article. Jed Olsen will always remain as a cover name... but in your eyes it will be Danny Johnson and nothing else. A name he can't wait to hear from you in your future... intimate evening.

He resumed writing his articles for a few more hours before stopping for today. He took off his glasses to rub his eyes and got up, taking his cup of coffee to wash it. He looked at his hunting board, including the photo of hoggins that he circled several times in red, then he left his office and locked it to avoid any intrusion on your part. It's not that he doesn't trust you but... Curiosity is sometimes too strong against reason.

“Well... Everything goes as planned... Hoggins even makes it easy for me. But I'm going to have to be careful. I feel like he wants to drag me along with him in his downfall. If I feel that it is too dangerous over the next 2 days... I wouldn't wait until the evening of the festival to kill him. Sorry honey, but I may have to speed things up.” said Danny to himself.

Putting the news on TV, Danny started preparing the meal for tonight, when he got a call to say the least... singular. Wilhelm? But what did he want from him at this hour?

“Inspector? A problem?” he asks.

“Tell me Olsen... you lived well in Florida, didn't you? About 4/5 years ago? Does the name Nicolas Pheels tell you anything?” said Wilhelm.

Danny's heart missed a beat. Obviously, he knew this name... It's the name of the man who destroyed Danny's life forever. The "doctor" who took care of Carla. But why and how did Wilhelm get this name?

“Olsen? Are you still there?”

“Yeah. Yes, I know him. It was the doctor who took care of Carla until... until the end. Why?"

“My condolences. I did some research on Hoggins... to learn a little more about this asshole. And it turns out that he lived in his second home in Florida and... he was visibly very friendly with this guy. From what I read, Hoggins financed the hospital run by Pheels. But some doctors said, in exchange for anonymity, that Hoggins was willing to fund a little more for each death. In order to pass this on to a material financial need. Of course... Pheels kept everything to himself.” replied Wilhelm.

“I knew it... What a son of a b**ch!” responds Danny.

“This guy is dangerous Olsen... a real crazy one. So, pay close attention to you two, ok? He is not the type to be afraid of death.”

“Yes... I hope he will pay for what he has done. And believe me... he will pay dearly.”

Danny hung up, before hitting the worktop with force. Decidedly this little war with Hoggins has been going on for longer.... It's not just Pheels' fault... but also hoggins' fault if Carla had died. Pheels has already paid, Hoggins will pay double. 3 Days.... 3 small days... he couldn't wait. Suddenly he heard the front door open. And all his anger and frustration disappeared when he saw you enter, a cheerful smile on his lips. At least you had a better day than him.

“Hello Honey!” you said cheerfully.

“Hi, Darling. How was your day?” Danny said with a little smile.

“Darling? This is the first time I've heard you say that. Would I already be too old for you?”

“Ha ha, for me it's more of a form of politeness than anything else. And then it changes from Honey or Sweetheart, right?”

“Let us keep this expression for when we will be two old madmen in wheelchairs. And to answer your question... my day went very well. We are at the point on the cake for the festival, we are at the point on the festival anyway ... all we have to do is wait for the great event. And we had a lot of people at the café. What about you?”

Danny gently took you by the waist to stick you against him, burying his head in your neck. You hug him in return, rubbing his back to console him. He raised his head slightly, looking down at the front door, bad looking in his face. You know this look that could kill you without you being able to react... That's exactly what Danny looked... And if you weren't there, he would have made his smile the unhealthiest, the craziest of all the smiles he could make. But you are there so he has to stay in his role... All the way.

“So bad this day?” you ask even if you already know the answer.

“No... let's say I just learned something... which I wish I had never known. I had my doubts... Now it's clear.”

And don't worry... You will also be in confidence.

And even you wouldn't dare to believe it.

***

(It makes an insupportable heat in my house, what a hell. Fortunately, fans exist! I am in the process of developing my fanfic on Re8 village, just to have a coherent scenario. I would like to warn that it will be a kind of... of alternative universe where unfortunately the Winters will be a little or not present at all. But there will be Chris! Since some characters like Lady Dimistrescu were inspired by Count Dracula and Countess Bathory, I decided to go in this spirit. If you dreamed of a lycan Heisenberg, I'll give it to you! (At least I'll try... I am not promising anything.) I hope you’ll like this chapter like the others ones! Well, it's time for my brain to rest! Have a great weekend to you all! See ya!)

#dbd fanfic #dbd #dead by deadlight #ghostface #danny johnson #jed olsen

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ilkkawhat · 4 years ago

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first line, last 20

Guidelines: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all.) Choose your favorite opening line, tag some friends!

tagged by @nade2308 (much appreciated 💜)

as with the last tag game, I’m not gonna tag anybody but if you want to do this feel free to say I tagged you.

If it’s a multichap, I’ll post the first line from the most recent chapter. I’m also bending the rules and posting basically the first paragraph cause idk. I’m an asshole like that.

(and wow. haven’t written more than 20 all year)

1. Bleeding Love (Macgyver)

They find out in the sandbox.

Jack’s the first to realize it, though he doesn’t quite fully define it the first time Mac runs off going against direct orders. The Wunderkind is a magnet for danger even though in years to come he’ll be blamed as the danger prone one always slowing them down, but it’s when Mac finds himself cornered by four armed and dangerous criminals that he’s almost sent him home in a box sooner than the thirty-two days Jack had left at the time.

2. Every Breath You Take (CSI)

He has no time to recall the chainset of circumstances that led him to this moment. No time to think, really no time to even feel the assault on his body, and yet...he can.

Creaking plastic stretching across his face, trapping his screaming mouth in a suffocating muzzle that reeked of his hot breath. Condensing fogs and droplets daring to blind him more than his wildly burning eyes as his fingers claw at the invisible force pulling him back.

3. A Night That We Can’t Replace (CSI)

There are a lot of things that changed for Nick in the summer of 2005.

A burial that he’s still digging his way out of, his hands blindly reaching out for anything, anybody for him to grab onto with desperate fingers and a pounding heart that hasn’t stopped beating no matter how much damage was done to it.

Lucky for him, plenty of people were reaching for him, too.

4. Death by a Thousand Cuts - Ch. 2 (CSI)

There's no warning, not that there ever really is when disaster strikes.

No dark clouds swirling in the distance, no sense of finality in a season’s worth of cases told over twenty-two weeks.

It’s just an ordinary day.

5. Stranger in a Bar (CSI)

Nick’s sprawled out on his half of the booth, waiting with casually spread wings as he hawkishly observes Greg ordering their next round of drinks from the bar, leaning over the counter and even pointing out Nick’s favorite whiskey. He often doesn’t go for the top shelf but tonight he needs something with a bit of a bite.

6. You Take the Breath Right Out of Me (CSI)

“I don’t know man, it’s like Warrick was carrying the entire case. Felt like I was just a lowly CSI collecting evidence, and I couldn’t even do that right! Missed that...damn spot on the panties.”

7. Specimen Stokes - Ch. 10 (CSI)

“Warrick, look, there’s just not enough evidence—”

“Not enough evidence? Jim, how is this not enough?”

Warrick points to the screenshots from the footage of what he feels is the most incriminating piece of evidence he has. Greg Sanders waltzing into the police department.

8. Body in Motion (CSI)

He’s missed this, the high coming off of solving a case.

The high coming off of being alive.

The high soaring far above ground.

9. Reversed (CSI)

“Nick.”

He could not move any faster as the anchors of his feet drag across the tile of an empty hallway. He’s leaving one home for another, no adventures in between. He’s tired.

Of so many things.

“Nick!”

He stops. He turns. He listens.

He owes Warrick at least that much for jumping off a cliff with him.

10. To Call for Hands of Above (CSI)

It doesn’t happen until they actually become “friends.”

Well, “friends” by Nick’s standards—and he had long been assuming that’s what they were all along, ever since the first day they worked a case together and discovered they had similar interests, similar tastes in humor, a similar spark in their eyes for justice and wanting to do their job and do it right.

But Warrick seemed to close off a bit of himself at first, which wasn’t apparent until something had endangered his heart.

Nick saw it coming.

11. Separate Ways (Macgyver)

There’s one reason and one reason only Jack and Mac would allow themselves to be apart for long times at long distances, and that reason was something that even all of the infinite science in Mac’s brain, all of the infinite wisdom in Jack’s heart couldn’t even explain.

12. Astray (CSI)

“Boy’s not even safe in his own bed.”

Nick breathes through his nose, his teeth grinding in a clenched jaw. His eyes haven’t left the boy’s body since they walked into the room, and his eyes don’t even meet Catherine as her voice grows more distant and disoriented.

13. Public Enemies, Private Lovers (CSI)

Having separate shifts may have been the best and worst thing to happen to Nick and Greg’s relationship.

Best in the way that it was easier to hide, after the lab had been remodeled and the walls to DNA were becoming more transparent, it was harder for Nick to hang around without attracting suspicion.

He still remembers the time Grissom caught him leisurely leaning against the counter, reeling a similarly laid back Greg towards him with a re-telling of a tale that he can’t quite remember.

All he remembers is the way he had caught Greg in his web and Greg didn’t seem eager to get out.

14. First Flight - Ch 2 (CSI)

Even though he thinks he’s ahead of the curve, his innocence shattered at an early enough age for him to get a glimpse outside the shelter of his youth, Parker Stokes will be the first to admit there is still a lot to life he doesn’t understand.

One of those things is his father’s love for flying.

15. What’s going to happen to me now? (CSI)

“Let me out.”

He couldn’t say the words at the time. Could only choke out a literal cry for help, though there were plenty of words that his brain was firing—and missing—but those three words in particular were just some of the few pleading thoughts he had while he was still enclosed in a glass coffin—one that was ready to collapse at any given second—why didn’t they see that? Why did they all stand on top of it? Why didn’t they open it immediately just to give him some air, just brush the damn ants off, no extinguisher needed.

He didn’t understand why it took so long to get him out.

16. Goosebumps (CSI)

Working graveyard shift, it’s rare for them to get a chance to actually celebrate the nightlife that Las Vegas has to offer, let alone on a holiday such as New Year’s Eve that is the most celebrated night out of the three hundred and sixty five that occur within a year.

17. Fire Away (CSI)

A splash of cold water gives him a quick refresh on his clammy, pale face but it’s not enough to pull him out of his state of shock that he’s denied being to everybody who’s placed their hand on his shoulder, asking if he’s okay.

The same shoulder with a pinched nerve that his head keeps...twitching towards.

18. Found - Ch. 2 (CSI)

He rubs his fingers against the temples of his forehead, brain on autopilot circling the same repeating numbers that appear in the ten-page long phone record. His eyes are straining and the edges of his periphery are stretching away so that he has to squint to keep focus. He wishes he had brought his glasses as a yawn escapes his lips. He’s also realizing just how hungry he is as his stomach grumbles, when a familiar voice completely breaks his waning concentration.

“Here, figured you might need a little snack while you do your homework.”

19. It’s Not Like Christmas At All (CSI)

It’s like there’s something infectious in the air, some cosmic force driving against him that was making this year far more difficult than ever before.

Around this time last year, the team was pulling names out of a hat. Making plans for a party in the break room to celebrate not just as a team, but as a family.

This year, there’s been no such talk and he was semi-reluctantly making plans to visit his real family in the Lonestar state.

The first year he’s gone since Warrick passed.

20. There is Just One Thing I Need (CSI)

The scents and tastes and general ambience of the holiday season seemed duller that year, for both of them. Last year they had ridden high on their first Christmas together, as a family, giving Parker the best first Christmas they could give their bundle of joy and feeling a true warmth in each other’s company for the first time since their first night of passion together.

But even Christmas in California could get so cold.

#mk.op #mk.fic #mk writes stuff #lmao i am just feeling all the negative emotions right now but given that i spent like two hours at work #analyzing my word count like legit have a spreadsheet i'm gonna try to use to keep track of #i figure this adds to a much needed self reflection/confidence boost #cause hooo boy am i just plummeting to rock bottom again #(lbr do i ever really leave it?)#which i know i didn't help by volunteering to work seven days straight plus the next five but hey #double time for today's ten hour shift #anyway. not trying to seek pity or anything just. hurting real bad right now

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sergeant-donny-donowitz · 4 years ago

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Remembering You (Hugo Stiglitz x Reader)

Requested by @mbluxaeterna

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182 @marlenemarauders @what-the--curtains @taikawho

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Normally....you would have been thrilled to meet the basterds. Hell, you could have made an unstoppable team, had they encountered you at any other possible moment in time. But of course, it's now. Now, when you are a lone, rogue soldier. Now, after you've lost your team. Now, when everything around you is oh-so-incriminating.

Naturally, they took you in for interrogating, and cuffed you. "You gon' tell us who you are, or you gon' keep on lying?" You rolled your eyes, "I've told you a million times. I am not a nazi." The fact that you'd been accused of it was enough to make your skin crawl. "Then what are you doing out here, alone?" Donny prodded at you with his bat, which was meant to be threatening given its fame...but it really just annoyed you. "Same as you. Killing nazis." "Got a pretty lil German accent there," Aldo snorted some tobacco, and went on matter of factly, "So-" You rolled your eyes, "I'm sorry, really. But you have a German right there, and an Austrian. How is an accent indicative of anything? Especially now?" You looked around. Surely, they knew all about double agents, especially those like you. "So you're trying to say you're just some kid wandering around with all these guns and knives," Omar held up your pack with all the evidence, "And you expect us to believe you?" "Pretty much." You shifted a little to sit with your legs crossed beneath you, though your hands were still cuffed. You understood their lack of trust...but also...you were a bit more than annoyed now. "I wasn't alone the whole time." You relented. They were with the OSS, and definitely not traitors. What harm would it do to tell them? It may just save your life, after all. "I was part of a team. We were called the Double Eight." Aldo didn't hesitate, "Never heard of it." He turned, almost smirking, "You boys heard of it?" A chorus of 'no sirs' and laughs rang out, and you rolled your eyes, "Of course not. Some of us are better at being undercover than others." An uncomfortable silence blanketed them, and you sighed and went on, "There were eight of us. All of us double agents, double crossers," you smiled fondly remembering your teammates, "Double trouble... Best of the best in what we did, worst of the worst to the nazis, recruited by an American officer working for the OSS." Aldo narrowed his eyes. "Oh really?" "Really." You held your ground, and held your head up high. You heard one of the boys, Smitty, ask Donny, "You think it's true?" Donny then turned to you, "Who was in your team?" He often prided himself for knowing things about agents stationed around Europe, people in resistances, and allies. He was a bit of a networking king...so if any of the basterds could tell, it was him. "A Jewish girl from Poland. Halina..." You smiled softly, though your heart broke for her. You were the one who helped her family escape...but you couldn't help her in your last mission. "She could make and break any code." "And there was Andrej. Big, tough Andrej," You shook your head remembering his loud, bellowing laugh, "Jewish kid, no older than you." You gestured to Hirschberg, "He was Serbian. He was a good strategist." The mission to recruit him was one of the earliest, (and toughest) because he was so damn stubborn. "Ruslo..." You sighed a little, remembering his kind eyes, "Romani guy. Recruited when we passed through Croatia. Didn't need a map when that boy was around." You shook your head with a gentle smile, "Then there was Konstantin. Writer and intellectual, defected from the Soviet Union. Good spy." You glanced up at, and almost imperceptibly whispered, "Good man." Omar looked around, "Kid's gotta be telling the truth." WIcki frowned a little, "How do you know?" Omar shrugged, "Konstantin is the most soviet-spy sounding name I've ever heard." Donny narrowed his eyes and nodded, "Right. Almost too perfect." Aldo rolled his eyes, "Go on." You smiled a little, remembering the unbreakable bond your team had. One even stronger within it, "We had an Italian rebel, he was an escaped political prisoner. His wife was a Spanish anti-fascist rebel. Marzio and Carmina..." Names that axis troops in the mediterranean were terrified off. You took a breath, "Our leader was an American...if you would believe that." You smirked a little, "Shelby Hellberg. Shell-Hell, we called him." You glanced off into the distance. Toward the east, where your last mission together had been. You sighed, knowing you'd never see them again, no matter how many times you passed through there. "And you." Aldo remarked, hardly believing a word you'd said. "And me." You nodded with a smile. What more could you do? Hirschberg shifted a little, rifle still in hand, "And who's you?" "Y/n L/n." You spoke with a sly shadow of pride in your lips, "After all, every team needs some muscle." Donny looked you over incredulously, "You were the muscle?" You challenged him with a simple smirk, "Why? You wanna test that theory, big guy?" You meant it, Donny was quite a bit taller than you, but you could definitely take him down. You'd taken people bigger than him down before, after all. The basterds didn't realize that just yet. But, Hugo kept his eye on you the entire time, thinking about every word you'd said, and the way you'd said them. He'd run with spies before, he knew their ways and webs. You were unlike any of the agents he'd known before. And still, he thought he'd seen your face somewhere before. And he said so, abruptly, without any explanation. "You look familiar." The way he said it...the way he looked at you was not in an accusing manner. He meant it. You went with your default response. You smiled suavely, thumb and finger sitting square beneath your chin as you remarked, "I just have that kind of face." Hugo nodded, and looked away, though he still kept trying to remember. "So, will you let me go? I do have a mission, you know. I'll be terribly late. Madrid is a long way from here, after all." Donny spoofed, "Nice try, a real agent wouldn't have told us all that." "You asked." You reminded Donny with an eye roll. Donny retorted, "So if a nazi asked, you'd tell 'em too." "No, because THEN IT'S A NAZI." Hirschberg piped up then, "How do you know we're not nazis," as if he really got you. Even Hugo and Wicki rolled their eyes. You rolled your eyes, "Because you're basterds." Aldo seemed amused, and humored the boys, "Says who?" "Says that accent. Sorry, but it's not one many people would strive to imitate." The basterds laughed. It had been so long since someone had gotten away with making fun of his accent. "Besides, everyone knows the Bear Jew. And, everyone knows about Hugo Stiglitz...And the Little Man." Donny chuckled, "Wait, who's the Little Man." "Oh, it's-" Before you answered, Utivich stepped closer to you, "Is that...blood?" "...Oh right..." You glanced at your side, with a slowly growing red stain. "When did that happen!?" "Just before you happened." you shrugged. Hugo crouched by you, "Were you stabbed?" "Oh... most definitely." You were somehow so blunt, and so stoic. Shock is one hell of a drug. Donny, who was slowly being convinced that you were telling the truth, quickly looked around for a cue, "Why DIDN'T YOU SAY SO?!" Before you could answer, Hugo practically flung toward you with a medic kit in his hands. He didn't say a word, but he kept looking up at you. He looked you in the eyes, and it wasn't something he normally did with anyone. You couldn't shake the feeling that he was trying to see into your eyes...almost as though he was trying to dig up a memory that was not his own. The basterds went about with their day. Aldo sent a few of the boys along with a message asking the general if the OSS could confirm or deny your claims. In the meantime, the rest of the basterds scattered around. A few went to get supplies and food, some of the others went out to gather a few scalps here and there to pay off their debt to Aldo. Only Hugo remained, of course 'to keep watch.' But he was busy disinfecting and stitching your wound. "Wer hat dir das angetan?" 'Who did this to you?' "Würden Sie mir glauben, wenn ich es Ihnen sagen würde?" 'Would you believe me if I told you?' He smiled a little, which you heard never happened. You raised your eyebrow, 'Why are you helping me, Hugo?' 'If you're not who you say you are, then we need answers. But if you are you, then...' He trailed off into what was barely a whisper, and glanced up at you. By now, he hardly thought you were a nazi... But that still left him with a thousand questions. Number one being...Who were you, really? The basterds came back, slept in their tents. You were still handcuffed, left outside. In the middle of the night, Hugo's eyes shot wide. He had been dreaming, which was relatively rare for him, even before the war. But this dream was much more of a memory. He'd never been much of a sports fan, but there was one night, just before the start of the war his friend Klaus had recently become a manager and promoter in boxing, and invited Hugo to a match. Your match. He made his way outside, and found you, with your cuffed hands behind your head as you laid on your back, and looked up to the sky. You glanced over at the approaching figure, then back at the sky. He stopped a few feet away from you, "Du warst ein Boxer." 'You were a boxer.' You dismisively hummed. He was silent for a moment, then stepped a little closer, tilting his head, 'I remember you. You used to-' You shook your head.

He crouched by you, and took your hands abruptly. You looked at him, confused though....you certainly didn't mind. Still, he wasn't holding your hands for the hell of it. He was studying the discolored memories of a glorious past in every scar from every victory, loss, and draw. 'It was you.' 'Was.' You conceded with a sigh, 'A long time ago.' 'Do you remember a promoter named Klaus?' He sat down, and wondered aloud, 'I wonder where he is these days...' You cleared your throat, ' Oh...you know....we...um...' 'Had a falling out?' He raised his eyebrow and chuckled a little. It was his way of asking if you'd had a falling in. You blushed a little with a smile, 'Well, yes...but it was so long ago.' Hugo was silent for a while, then asked, 'Is he...' 'Dead, deadweight, or a nazi?' He nodded once, again raising his eyebrow. He wanted the answer to all three. 'No, no, and definitely not. He's a spy for the OSS, too.' You smiled at Hugo, who seemed relieved. He didn't have many friends to begin with before the war. He always wondered what he'd do if he made it to the end. 'I'd like to see him again. I owe him something.' Hugo said with a chuckle. He'd bet Klaus that you'd lose your match...and you didn't. 'After the war, perhaps.' You chuckled and Hugo nodded, 'Perhaps...' You were quiet again, then he commented, 'I saw you sparring, once.' 'Congratulations,' you stopped smiling suddenly, and turned away from him as much as you could, 'good night.'

'Wait.' He shifted to sit directly in front of you. 'What?' 'You...disappeated.' 'They used footage from my matches as propaganda against my will. I left the ring, I left my family, I left Klaus, I ditched my contract, and I lost everything.' 'Where did you go?' 'Doesn't matter.' 'What did you do?' 'What are you, the gestapo?' You rolled your eyes at his sudden interrogation, and he grunted at himself and mumbled, 'Sorry..' He started getting up, thinking perhaps he had crossed a line. You sighed, cursed at yourself wordlessly, and then called out 'I worked as a bouncer in a club in Munich. Nice place. Nicer when we started hiding people where no one would think to look. I got rid of nazis that were too close.' 'Not bad,' He smirked a little. You didn't. 'It wasn't enough.' 'So what did you do? You were recruited, weren't you?' 'Same as you.' You smiled a little then, and he did too. For once in his life, Hugo's hands felt warm... He looked down, and saw he was still holding your hands. You didn't seem to mind. He let go suddenly, and uncuffed you. 'You're not a nazi.' 'Oh gee thanks,' You chuckled a little as you crossed your legs beneath you. He mumbled again, 'Sorry...' You smiled and shook your head, reaching for his hand, 'We can never be too careful, I suppose.' 'I suppose not,' He sighed, and his eyes wandered as he sat back against a tree. 'You're not going to sleep?' You smirked, and again said, 'We can never be too careful...' Of course, you meant you didn't want the other basterds to catch you without your handcuffs, and for Hugo to be in some trouble, Hugo thought you meant the fact that you were deep in enemy territory that was the trouble, 'It's safe here,' He promised you with his eyes, a slight nod, and a squeeze of his hand. 'We thought that not too many years ago, Hugo...' You sighed, remembering the day before the world turned upside down in 1933...you were just a kid then. Hugo turned to you, 'You're hurt.' 'You knew that already.' 'But you're hurting...' 'Who isn't, these days?' You laughed a little, but he didn't. 'Let me see.' 'Fine.' He shook his head as he let go of your hand, and went for the medic kit again. As he took care of you and your wound again, he asked 'What happened to your team?' The sky was a cool dark blue, with a tinge of orange in the horizon. It would be sunrise soon... 'It was just before dawn, about a year ago. We were ambushed. From then on, I've been on my own.' 'I'm sorry.'

You didn't tell Hugo that the nazis weren't looking for your team. They were looking for the Basterds, who had just broken Hugo out of prison. 'Don't be...' You looked up at him, and for a moment, you realized you'd had enough talk of the past. 'Where will you go?' 'What do you mean?' 'After this. After the war.' He smiled, 'I don't know...The world is a big place.' He smiled and looked at you, and you understood he didn't want to go back to Germany either. 'Where will you go?' You shrugged, 'Wherever I'm needed, as always.' For reasons neither you or HUgo could comprehend, he murmured, 'What if I needed you?' You kissed him softly, 'Then I'll be there.' **** "Well....that checks out." Aldo held up a letter from the general, demanding they let you go immediately, while also chewing Aldo out. Donny shrugged, "Well, we're sorry kid..."

You laughed, "I know, I know." You glanced over at Hugo, "Can't be too careful these days." Hugo smiled, though the basterds didn't see. You turned, and started walking west, deeper into the forest. "You're leaving? Just like that?" Omar was asking what half the basterds were wondering. "I told you, I have a mission in Madrid...and I've been set back a few days." Hugo shook his head, "But you're hurt!"

You smiled softly, as you stepped back toward him. "I'll be fine," your hand grazed over his for a moment, "You'll see." He smiled quietly as he watched you go, then Hirschberg gasped, "Is Hugo smiling?!" "No." Omar rolled his eyes, "Great you ruined it." Smitty shook his head, "I didn't even get to see." Wicki asked, "Did Y/n ever say who the nazis call the Little Man?" Smitty shrugged, "Huh...guess we'll never know."

***Months Later Aldo was pacing around. They'd recently lost Andy, Simon, and Michael. Now, the basterds needed some extra firepower, and had nowhere to turn to. At dawn, they'd be moving toward a nearby village for their mission. Hugo was looking east, as the first splash of red and orange began to glow in the distant horizon. "What are you lookin' for, Hugo?" Aldo turned, taking a sip of watered down, stale, coffee. They then all heard footsteps. Boots over fallen leaves. A face peered through some low hanging branches, glad to have stumbled upon them. "Y/n!" The basterds had never seen Hugo run so fast. And they were even more shocked when they saw him wrap his hands around yours. "Klaus lässt grüßen, mein Lieber." 'Klaus sends his regards, my dear.'

Hugo smiled, and held you. You'd heard quite a few rumors in the past few months about the basterds. And seeing their faces now... Seeing Hugo... You knew where you were needed.

#Inglourious Basterds #inglourious basterds imagine #hugo stiglitz #hugo stiglitz x reader #hugo stiglitz imagine

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ourplaceinthecosmosphff · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 16. Fight or Flight

‘I am healing by mistake. Rome is also built on ruins.' Eliza Griswold

“It’s a private street,” Harry explained as he walked me on quickstep towards the big black gates in red brick ahead. “Technically owned by the Crown Estate. Most of the houses are embassies or former embassies now owned by billionaires.” “Was someone supposed to have stopped me from just walking in?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

“A little weird to have a central London address mostly habited by dignitaries and rich people and forbid people from entering it, isn’t it?” He grinned. “So it’s open for pedestrians and cyclists twenty-four-seven. Cars only authorized. And, of course, they are free to kick you out if they think you’re behaving strangely.”

“Understandable.” I smiled.

“...So…” He started, shifting on his feet as he walked, adjusting my bag on his shoulder, “Where’s Christopher?”

“...Right now? Halfway to Canada, probably. On business.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “And… your security?”

I looked around at the street lights, avoiding his eyes. “It’s just me.”

“Right… but, should it be? Isn’t it a bit--?” Before he could finish -- ‘dangerous’ was probably going to be his last word -- I stopped, and looked at his, heaving a sigh. “This is weird. Isn’t it? I’m sorry, I can get a hotel.”

Under the moon and lamp post lights, I thought I saw his cheeks redden. “No, that’s not--! I don’t-- You’re welcome here, of course! I was just… worried. You shouldn’t be walking around on your own.”

At this charming revelation, said in an even more charming tone, I smiled, sheepishly. “Well, I am.”

“So, no… major changes after the… new succession?”

I sighed, remembering Joyce, my protection officer that had been replaced, and Cadie. “Some. Not tonight, though.”

We were quietly ushered through a pedestrian steel door a few steps after the big gates, which magically opened when Harry approached. His protection officer followed after us.

“Uh, sir?” He called when we kept walking.

Looking back, Harry startled slightly. “Oh, that’s right. Do you mind?” He looked at me, “They need to sign you in.”

“Oh, of course.” We walked to the security cabin near the bigger gate, where another guard, this one in uniform, smiled at us.

“ID, ma’am?”

I handed him my passport from my coat’s pocket, which I had kept handy for the train.

“I’m sorry about this,” Harry said, worried, “It’s… bloody protocol.”

“It’s alright.” I smiled. “You do remember I live in a palace, too? If there’s one thing I understand in life is protocol.”

He smiled back. “She’ll already be registered.” Harry told the guard. “She was here last October.”

I remembered, distantly, filling up my passport in security forms before the tour, and we had come to Kensington for tea once. A lifetime ago.

The guard returned my passport and wished us a goodnight, so Harry walked me towards the palace, now unaccompanied by any officers.

We didn’t go into the main building, however, like when I visited William and Catherine’s house, we went around it.

“So…” Harry started. “I don’t live in the main palace. I don’t got an apartment. It’s… small, my place. Really small. Two bedrooms! So, should be fine, but–”

“Is this--?” I stopped walking, my mind finally catching up to where I was and what I’d done. “Should I not have come? This is weird, right? I didn’t mean to barge in and--”

“No!”

“I’m sorry, I can get a hotel–”

“No, really– It’s fine!” He assured me. “I just wanted you to be prepared, because it’s not a… big, fancy place like my brother’s house, or my father’s house. It’s just… a cottage, really. It’s tiny. I live alone, so it’s quite good just for me–”

I sighed, feeling relieved. Now almost amused. “Agani, fellow royal. I live in a palace? I know how it works. It’s not all a palace.”

He smiled. “Yes… It’s just that people always seem to think it’s all very glamorous.”

The house was nice, it was, as he had mentioned, smaller than most, but it made up for it with that warm, comfortable look of a real home. The front door led into what seemed like one room, with sliding doors separating the smaller half – a kitchen with faded yellow cabinets that needed upgrading, but looked nice. The other half had a blue three-seat sofa and a matching armchair in front of a wooden chest of drawers in which was propped up a flat-screen TV – the only thing in the room that looked like he had actually purchased and not inherited, or maybe borrowed from the Royal Collection.

“It’s nice.” I told him in the silence. He was still watching me from the front door, which he’d just closed, my bag still hanging from his shoulder. “I like it.”

“Are you hungry?” He asked, with a smile, moving quickly into the kitchen. “We could order takeout. I like thai food, there’s a nice place not far from here. Or, I have stuff to make sandwiches, if you’d prefer– what?”

I was smiling at the way my bag would sway around as he moved quickly around his small table to reach the fridge, looking slightly frazzled. “Nothing.”

He smiled, too. “Or!” Excitedly, he walked over to the microwave and opened it, removing a small plate. “Ta-da!”

I approached, realizing he was holding a plate of the entrées from the wedding. “You stole the entrées?!” I laughed.

“I asked! Politely asked if I could have some of the leftovers. You were right, they were delicious.”

We laughed. “Scandalous!” I said, grabbing one and moving to the sofas. “I’m not that hungry, actually, but thanks.”

I sat on the larger sofa, realizing the room also had a small, marble-top coffee table on top of a Persian rug and a corner bookcase with picture frames. I got up to look at his books, realizing it was a mixture of books, CDs and DVDs, even some vinyls. My eyes were first caught by Jurassic Park, by Michael Crichton, 1984, by George Orwell and Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley. He also had Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury, Catch 22, by Joseph Heller, and The Complete Calvin and Hobbes collection, which made me smile. I pulled out an orange spine -- The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, Mark Manson -- and he moved behind me, the only time I heard him since walking over.

"That was a gift." He explained, in a justification tone.

I smiled back at him, returning the book to its place and noticing a white one with large black letters next to it, Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race, by Reni Eddo-Lodge, which had a summary that regarded it as 'the essential handbook for anyone who wants to understand race relations in Britain today.' I returned it to its place, smiling.

“So you like fantasy.” I concluded, when I found The Hobbit and at least two Harry Potters.

“More like sci-fi.” He replied. “I like The Hobbit, and I made an exception for Harry Potter, which is iconic.”

“I liked the movies.”

“You haven’t read the books?”

“Could never really get into it.” I shrugged.

He closed the distance between us, my bag still on his shoulders, and stared at me from up close, seriously.

“You didn’t like Harry Potter?!”

“What I said was I couldn’t get into it.” I repeated, fighting a grin.

“That’s what people say when they tried something and didn’t like it.”

“Well–” I reflected on the option. “You don’t have any evidence that’s an universal truth. Surely not that that’s how I meant it.”

“Okay, counselor,” he sighed, impatiently. A grin made its way into my lips. “Did you or did you not like reading Harry Potter?!”

“I believe I have a right against self-incrimination in Britain, I certainly do as a Savoy citizen, so I will be evoking that right at this moment.”

He took in a long breath, running a hand through his hair, “Wow.” He sighed, making me laugh. “Just… wow. I am… outraged. As a British man, as a human being–”

“Okay, calm down.” I laughed.

“Harry Potter is incredible!”

“It was just… really childish for me.”

“The first book was written for children! The tone changes as the books go along!”

“Yes, there’s like ten of them. It’s a lot.”

“Seven, and you went to Harvard! You can handle seven children’s books!” My bag fell off his shoulder at his exasperated arm movements, but he was quick to grab it by the handle before it hit the floor.

“And why are you still carrying that?”

“I just…” He shrugged, walking over to the armchair to put my bag there. “I imagine you’ll need it.”

He looked back at me, pulling his long sleeves up past his elbows.

“I--I imagine your protection detail will be ‘round shortly to collect you.”

I chuckled, nervously. “What–? Why? I told you, it’s just me tonight.”

“Yes, and you’re the next in line to the throne of a country. I can’t go anywhere without security, and I know my brother has at least two at all times, so I’m assuming you have at least one person looking for you out there by now.”

There was an awkward silence as I shifted on my feet, hands still in my coat pockets, mouth agape, searching for what to say. He didn’t look upset, and it wasn’t like I’d just committed a crime by omitting what happened, but it still felt as if I had done something incredibly wrong, and the more I looked at him, the more uncomfortable the thought of continuing to lie was.

“It’s–It’s… It’s not like they’ll rush in here screaming that you kidnapped me or something.” I said, nervously forcing a giggle at the thought. “I don’t even know if they’ve noticed I’ve gone yet.”

“Ah.” He nodded, slowly, sitting down on the larger sofa. “So you ran away when they weren’t looking.”

“They were asleep.” I corrected, feeling my whole body warm in embarrassment. “And I would object to the word ‘ran’, I very calmly walked off the train when it stopped in London. It’s not my fault they didn’t notice.”

“They were asleep?!” He asked, his voice going higher than I’d heard before.

“It’s a long journey… Especially from Northern England.”

“Well, it’s their job! That’s… that’s so unbelievably unsafe!”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I raised my hands, in a placating gesture. “No harm done.”

“Well, you couldn’t have known that, could you?!” He asked, eyes widened. “But they sure should have, it’s their job! What if someone walked into the train and pointed a gun at you and forced you to leave?”

“What– I’m– I don’t even–” I sighed, frustrated. “Harry, I’m sorry, okay? Do you–? Would you like me to leave? I can get a hotel–”

“No!” He got to his feet. “I just–” He sighed. “I know how important security is, and… you… you’re a bigger target now, aren’t you? Your security profile must have changed since… you know.”

“I don’t.” I admitted. “They don’t really tell me much these days.”

I walked over, took off my coat, and sat down on the sofa. “Really, Harry, if this is a lot, I can get a place to stay, it’s no trouble.”

He walked over and sat next to me, laying his head back to rest atop the back of the sofa. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Relieved beyond understanding, I started to relax. So I sat back and laid my head next to his.

“So you didn’t miss the train.” He said, and seeing as it wasn't a question, I thought it would be best not to incriminate myself again.

“Marie? Did you?”

I looked at the ceiling. “Technically, I did. But I missed it because I got off.”

He let out a quiet, nasalized chuckle. “Why?”

I heaved a long sigh, and turned to look at him. “I don’t know… I just… I was in the train. And I couldn’t stop thinking about things. And I wanted to. And then we stopped in London. And I grabbed my bag and went to the bathroom, just to walk a little, to distract myself. But then I saw the doors opened. And my protection officers were asleep, so they didn’t even see me get up, so one second I was just fantasizing about how I could just… walk off, and the next I just… did.”

“I still think your security is incredibly irresponsible in this scenario.” He said, on a low tone, in which a hint of anger was only just noticeable.

“They have a right to sleep if we’re on a moving train.” I protested.

“What were you thinking about?” He asked.

“I just… I don’t know, okay? I just… The door was open and there was this colder breeze coming in, and I just… I just wanted to feel more of it. I don’t really understand it, either.”

“I actually mean… What were you thinking during the journey? That you said you didn’t want to think of anymore?”

“…Oh.” I looked back at the ceiling, biting my lower lip. “Everything, I guess. I just…”

I thought back to the train ride, the sound of the tracks, the dimmed lights as everyone seemed to either be asleep or blissfully entertained by their phones. To my heart, full of questions and… anger. I couldn’t tell him half of it.

“I just… I can’t–” I felt my voice break slightly as a knot found its way into my throat. “I can’t be in Savoy right now. I just… I don’t even– Sometimes it just feels like… Like–” I sat up, clearing my throat and turning to look at him, folding one leg to sit on top of it, facing him.

He’d opened his house to me out of nowhere. I knew how chaotic this must look. He deserved some explanation.

“It’s like they’re all playing a game and I’m the only one who wasn’t told the rules, but I’m still… part of it, you know? I’m the… I’m the game.” I said. “And I’m just… so tired of it.”

He was quiet, brows furrowed. He sighed… and then nodded.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll go give security a call, and tell them if someone comes asking for you to say they haven’t seen you.”

My mouth opened, in astonishment, but I didn’t know what to say.

“And you… what do you want to do? Shower? Movie? Pizza? Sleep?”

I was still astonished, but I started to smile now. “A shower would be nice, I guess.”

“Great, let me show you to the bathroom and I’ll get you a towel.”

He got up, quickly grabbed my bag and smiled when he asked me to follow him. The guest bathroom was just around the corner from the living room, beyond the narrow, carpeted staircase up.

“This is the guest bath. You can use the one in my room, though, it’s better water pressure and you’ll be closer to the guest room.”

Upstairs, there was just a small hallway with three doors, one of which was a closet where he got me two towels. The one at the other end was his room.

The bed was made, but looked like it had been slept in recently. Another flat screen TV was mounted on the wall in front of it, with a paused Netflix movie displayed.

“Do you have pajamas, or–?.” He asked as he left my bag on the bathroom floor. “I can find you some of my clothes?”

I had a clean set of pajamas I’d brought to stay in the hotel overnight, but for some reason I smiled, sheepishly, and said, “That’d be great, thanks.”

“Sweatpants good? I’ll leave them in the bed. You can change here, I’ll wait downstairs.”

“Okay.” I smiled.

Inside, I got out of my travel clothes, brushed my hair down slowly, taking deep breaths, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. When I was done, I put my hair up in a tight bun, and finally looked at myself, but I couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re ridiculous.” I told mirror-Maggie.

As I showered, I tried to better answer the questions he had asked. I’d been thinking of Christopher, of his family ring, of why he would have decided to propose so soon after we got back together. I thought of why my father would say yes without consulting me. Of why my father would continually make decisions about my life without consulting me.

When I turned off the shower, I knew a couple of things for sure: I didn’t plan to run away. I just wanted to go to the bathroom on the train, to distract myself from my own thoughts. When I saw the door and realized that I could leave without my security seeing, all I wanted was to run. To feel… free. To be somewhere I wasn’t expected to give people the nice and polite answers they expected. For some reason, my heart decided this was that place. But this freedom also brought me guilt. What did that say for my relationship?

I wrapped myself in the towel and opened the bathroom door to find a pile of clothes in his bed. I brought them inside and got changed into a much too large for me black sweatpants and dark green shirt. Luckily – or maybe Harry had predicted this – the pants had drawstrings, so I could adjust them to my waist. I folded the bottom as best as I could.

When I did, my eyes fell on a bottle on the lower shelf of his cabinet. It was L’Occitane Cedrat Spray Deodorant. The name was familiar. I got up and realized there was another bottle on the shower caddie with the name – this one a shower gel. So I reached for the deodorant and sprayed a little of it in the air.

The smell almost knocked me to my feet. It was the smell Harry always had, the smell I remembered from London. The smell that brought me right back to an otherwise boring State Dinner, on a red dress, dancing barefoot in a room in Buckingham Palace where we weren’t supposed to be, his face leaning ever so much closer to mine, chills going down my spine, warming up my skin, getting on my tiptoes hoping to close the distance… before we were interrupted by my protection officer Joyce telling us it was time to go.

The smell took me back to flirty, happy texts planning a date. Running after Lourdes after she stole my phone. Waiting for a reply when Auguste and Montennon walked by with death on their faces… before everything changed.

I shook my head. I couldn’t add more things to the archive of stuff I had to think about.

Down the stairs, I found him in the kitchen. He bit down a grin when he saw me in his clothes. “Well, you look…”

“Ridiculous.” I smiled. “It’s a bit big.”

“No! You look cute.” He said, making me blush. “Security has been informed, by the way.”

“Right.” I sighed. “Thank you so much, Harry. I don’t think I said that yet.” He avoided my eyes, shrugging. “It’s not a problem. You’re always welcome here.”

“I know it’s... Weird… and I didn’t mean to interrupt your night.” I added. “I saw the TV on in your room.”

“Oh, I was just watching a movie. The new Transformers.” He told me. “It’s… not great. But in a good way? Does that make sense?” I smiled. “Kind of, yeah.” “Wanna watch it with me?” He asked. “I’d practically just started it. And it’s early-ish, still.”

“Sure.”

“Awesome.” He clapped his hands together and found a packet of popcorn in the kitchen cabinet.

A little while later, he handed me a bowl and a salt shaker. “Madame.”

I salted the popcorn as he walked around, grabbing napkins and a bag of M&M’s from a cabinet. “Chocolate or peanuts?” He asked. “And bear in mind, there is a right answer.”

“Dealer’s choice.” I returned.

“Coward.” He half-coughed, half-muttered, making me chuckle. “I have coke, orange juice, and beer.”

“Coke.”

“Right answer.” He nodded, approvingly, before turning to me with a slightly more serious expression. “I have… further questions.”

I pulled a chair and sat down, pushing the popcorn away. “Okay.”

“So… who knows– Did you tell Christop–” He sighed. “How many people know you’re here?”

I did the math in my head. “Five, or six, maybe?”

“Plus me and the security officers we walked by?”

“No, I– I mean you and the security officers.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“And the cab driver, but I don’t think he knew who I was.” He was quiet for a while, biting his lower lip. “Any other questions?”

He sighed. “Shouldn’t you tell someone?” At the way my face responded, he continued, quickly pulling up a chair and sitting next to me. “I mean, just that you’re okay, at least. They’ll think you were kidnapped!”

“If I turn on my phone they can track me.” I confessed. “All our phones are tracked by security headquarters.”

“Don’t you have a chip?” He asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

“Those tracking chips that go into your skin?” I asked, “No. The idea gets floated around every couple of years, but my siblings and I always hated it. And my mother thinks it’s too weird.” He nodded. “Do you have one?”

He smiled widely, teeth closed, and pointed at the right side of his jaw. “Just under this tooth here… But don’t tell anyone.”

I laughed. “Right, lesson one of anti-terrorism training. Your teachers would be very disappointed in you.”

He groaned, grinning. “Don’t remind me. Those guys are impressive, but they’re terrifying.”

“Do you ever get refresher training?”

“I think my last one was after my brother’s wedding, due to ‘increased media attention’.” He quoted, annoyed.

“Yeah, they made us take a refresher when Lourdes was born. It was awful.”

“Weren’t you, like, ten?!”

“Yes!” I confirmed, nodding enthusiastically. “That’s what made it awful!”

We chuckled, together.

He scratched his beard, looking at the ceiling. “God, we live weird lives.”

The TV in his room was bigger, so we took the popcorn, the cokes and the chocolate M&M’s – his favorite – upstairs where he started the movie from the beginning.

Admittedly, I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have, but I understood enough of it to know he was right: it wasn’t great. Great was the popcorn, the ice cold coke, and the chocolate M&M’s.

Eventually, though, my back started to hurt, so I slid down to lay on his pillows instead of sitting against the headboard, and my eyelids grew heavy, and the sound of explosions grew dimmer as I fell asleep. I shook myself awake a few minutes later, apologizing, but he only smiled and said, “It’s okay”, as he hesitated slightly, before reaching over and resting his hand by my head, brushing my hair so lightly I was asleep again in seconds.

When I woke up, the room was darker than before, the movie was over and the TV now displayed the long list of credits on a dark screen to a slow instrumental track. Harry nowhere to be found.

I heard steps from the hallway, and closed my eyes instinctively, just as I heard him come in. Slowly, I felt a warm blanket cover me, just at this moment realizing how chilly I had been a second before. I breathed in deeply, realizing how much his pillow smelled like him, and settled in to place to sleep again before I heard him step away. Opening my eyes, I realized he was leaving.

“Harry?”

He stopped at the door, and looked back. “Hey.” He whispered. “It’s okay, you go back to sleep. I’ll take the other room.”

“You should sleep in your own bed.” I said, forcing myself to sit up.

“It’s fine, Marie.” He smiled, approaching to gently tuck me back in, pulling the blanket up to my chest. “I promise, just go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He was almost leaving again, but my heart couldn’t take it.

“Harry?” I called, whispery, holding on tightly to two fistfulls of the blanket to stop from reaching out to hold his hand.

“Yes?”

I thought of his girlfriend, of my boyfriend, of the imaginary crown looming over my head, and yet, I couldn’t stop my lips from uttering, “Stay.”

He stared at me for one, two, three seconds before getting up. He walked around the bed and laid down, fluffing his pillows slightly as I stretched the blanket out to him.

We laid in silence, his warmth reaching over to me under the covers – or maybe my skin was just warmer than usual. I flipped over to lay on my stomach, hugging the pillow under me. When I did, my fingers hit something that felt like a needle. Carefully feeling it out, I realized it was a bobby pin. ‘This must be the side his girlfriend sleeps in when she’s over’, I thought, feeling suddenly sick to my stomach.

Turning to look at him, I breathed:

“Truth or dare?”

I heard his body move in the dark, and felt his knee brush against my leg as he turned to lay on his side, facing me.

“Truth.”

“Okay…” I held out the bobbi pin from under his pillow, pointing it at him. “Now, be honest… Do you curl your hair to sleep?”

His head raised from the pillow to look at what I was showing him, confused. “What–? Oh.” He smiled as I chuckled. “That’s–ha-ha, hilarious.”

He picked the bobby pin, and turned around to place it carefully in the bedside table next to him.

“Or does that belong to a lady-friend?”

He laughed. “A lady-friend?!”

“You never explained if you and Cressida broke up or not, so I wouldn’t want to speculate.”

“No, of course.” His tone was a mixture of sarcastic and teasing. “You’re just being respectful.”

There was a nice, quiet silence before I whispered, “You never answered the question.”

We laughed again. “No, Marie-Margueritte, I do not curl my hair before bed.”

“So how, pray tell, do you explain the evidence?”

“Objection, your honor,” he said, and I could still hear the giggle in his voice, “No follow-up questions, remember?”

I sighed, “Oh, right, that bullshit rule.”

“Enough stalling. Truth or dare?”

I smiled, sighing. “Truth.”

“…Do you think Clara could have done better than John? Be honest.”

I laughed. “You’re terrible.”

“Come on, we’re all thinking it.”

“Who’s ‘we’ in this scenario?”

“Every guest at their wedding.”

“You’re a terrible friend.” I giggled.

“Hey, I didn’t say that to him! I’m saying it to you, in confidence.” He justified, “And I can’t help but notice you’re avoiding the question.”

“Alright, fine. Admittedly, yes, she has dated guys I think were objectively better looking in a traditional way. But that’s not everything!”

“No!” He said, in an exaggerated way. “Of course not… that’s why your boyfriend looks like that.”

“What do you mean with ‘like that’?” I laughed.

“Oh, you know… the big, moussed up hair, the fancy suit, be honest, does he wear makeup?”

“Oh, my god!” I laughed. “You’re the worst. And you already asked your question. So, truth or dare?”

He sighed. “Truth.”

I considered for a long time what to ask. Long enough that he called out, “Marie?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh.”

Gulping, I tried to make the question sound as casual and playful as possible. “Who’s the mysterious owner of the bobby pin?”

“…oh.”

He was silent.

“Go on.” I laughed, nervously. “You must answer truthfully.”

“I–” He sighed. “It’s… It’s you.”

“I–” I startled. “What?”

He sighed, again, deeper now. “That day, my last day in Savoy. On the stairs. You were trying to remove your hat… I helped. I tried to give them back to you, but you�� were distracted, I guess.”

“Oh…”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t.” I turned around, laying in my side, facing him. “Harry, I’m the one who’s sorry… that day I was–I was acting completely insane.”

“Don’t apologize.” He asked. “You were going through so much–”

“Yes, but that doesn’t excuse hurting someone–”

“You didn’t hurt me.” He reached out, holding my hand in the space between us.

“I mean–”

“I know what you mean.” He assured me.

Breathless, I closed my fingers on his hold. I couldn’t know what he was thinking of, but I was thinking of the kiss. Or, more accurately, the almost-kiss. I could still feel his neck on my lips, his smell, right there on his pillow, had lived in my mind for the past five months. That‘s what I was apologizing for, but couldn’t say. I couldn’t speak of it. Speaking of it could lead to questions I had also been avoiding for five months like my life depended on it.

“Truth or dare?” He asked, without letting go of my hand.

Breathing in, deeply, and knowing I still wanted to talk about it, but it may not be the right time, I said, “Truth.”

Quietly, I felt his fingers brush mine, slowly.

“Why did you ask about my ex?” He asked, whispery, barely audible.

“…I…” I gulped. “I was curious… I guess– I guess it feels… sad? That we lost touch. I wanted to know what– you know, what you’ve been up to.”

He was quiet. I ventured a look past our hands, to his face, where I could almost see a smile on his lips.

His finger slowly traced mine. His next question came even lower than the first, as if scared to make it even a little bit more real than it had to be. “Were you jealous?”

I felt my heart jump on my chest. His soft touch on my hand, the guilty knot of anxiety in my stomach to be laying in bed with him, as platonically as it was… it all made it impossible to lie.

But I was a lawyer.

“No follow up questions, remember?”

A silent second. And then I heard his nasalized chuckle. “Wow…”

“Your rules.” I shrugged, painfully pulling my hand from his while I still could, and turning to the other side. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He let out another low, appreciative chuckle. “Goodnight, Mary.”

I fell asleep smiling as the name echoed in my thoughts: ‘Mary’.

--- ---- ---

[A/N: heeeeeeeeeeey. how ya’ll doin? I really wanna write something cute and funny here about the chapter or about how much I appreciate you reading but its 4 am on a monday and i spent all sunday working on overtime and i am exhausted so... just know I appreciate you A LOT seriously thank you so much for reading!!! let me know what you think???????? the end of this chapter made me smile when i wrote it and the next chapter made me cry so you have that to look forward to. THANKS BYEEE]

#Princeharryff #prince harry fanfic #prince harry fanfiction #princeharryfanfiction #Princeharryfanfic #prince harry #brf #modern royalty au #modern royalty fanfic #fanfiction #OPITCphff #chapters

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cozycryptidcorner · 5 years ago

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Chapter Seven

“good morning, kids. gentle reminder that chapter eight of the Mad Prince is up on my patreon for the $1 tier, so you don’t have to wait!”

You exit the bathroom, hair still damp, and swing around to where the prince is, his back turned to you, his telecom pressed up against his ear, entire body tense. Thinking that the uneasy conversation is just probably some political strife and you shouldn’t bother him about it, you take a moment to look over the sheer size of his bed. Sure, while his torso bit is about the same size as a rather large human male, the rest of his body does need a lot of space to stretch out and relax, which is probably why his mattress is easily the size of some of the apartments you’ve stayed in before.

“How did you let this happen?” You hear him say as you climb on to the silken sheets. The actual bed isn’t all that high, it’s about average, so you don’t struggle to get on there. “Are there any leads?”

Laying your entire body out flat against the mattress, you take a moment to stare up at the ornately decorated ceiling. Unlike your suite, gilded with glittering metals, the stone of the walls and ceiling are whorled with different deposits of minerals, grays, blues, and even dulled violets seep and curve through the surfaces. Then there are all the carvings, worn with time, but still evident enough that you can immediately pick up on the overarching pattern that converges on a single, circular centerpiece in the middle of the ceiling.

“You’re very, very lucky that she is with me right now.” The dangerous edge of the prince’s voice gives you a jolt, and you sit up. “I don’t care for excuses, Elias. I care about the results.”

“What’s going on?” You ask, and he twists around to give you a look of… relief? He holds his hand up, requesting for one moment away from your attention, and then he frowns.

“Find who did it, and leave them alive for me to deal with.” The threat in his voice is clear, and it sends icy shivers down your arms. You’ ve- you’ve never seen him like this, so enraged that he looks like he’s shaking, as though he’s only three slights away from going on a bloody rampage. His main seeing eyes narrow as whoever is on the receiving end offers up some empty reassurances, but he doesn’t respond before hanging up.

Finally, you’re under his full attention, which doesn’t make you feel any better. There’s a sick pit at the bottom of your stomach because you know something has happened, something big, but you don’t grasp what. Did they find something incriminating? Has the maid gone through your things? No, no, you don’t think you would still be standing if that was the case, though can you really be sure? Maybe, just maybe, it’s something as simple as someone reporting that you’re missing.

He lets out a long sigh, and you’re almost screaming for him to just tell you, because you’re about to crack under the pressure. Finally, he shakes his head. “Someone broke into your suite.”

Which is usually a minor thing to you, it happens all the time whenever you stayed in the seedier parts of the galaxy. But,, but definitely not now that there are things in your room which can incriminate you in something nasty. “What happened? What was stolen?”

He doesn’t answer, and you feel like puking. “I wouldn’t know, you’ll have to do a full inventory of your things.”

There’s something else, something he’s not telling you. You’re about to fucking explode, but somehow, impossibly, you manage to keep your voice calm enough to say, “Aksanos, just tell me how bad it is. Be honest.”

“Your security detail is dead.”

You sit back, mulling over his claim. One, you didn’t even realize you had a security detail, which was awfully stupid of you because of course you would, and two, you are very aware of just how much danger you are, just as the matchmaker rep had warned.

“Someone- or a group of someones, most likely political opposition to my family’s caste, broke into your suite, murdered your guards, and were most likely looking to kill you as well. Or, at the very least, take you hostage.” The way he says it, his voice almost cracks during the last sentence, you suddenly realize that you might actually mean something to him.

You take a deep breath. “What about the servant? Semele?”

He looks at you strangely, then away at the ceiling, admitting in a low, defeated voice, “Semele Leos was one of your guards.”

You think of her motherly, tender eyes, the way she smiled when you asked to be of any help to her tasks. And you think of the callousness of which your last words to her were, I don’t want to be disturbed. That was that, no thanks, no gratitude for all the effort she put into keeping your space liveable. Oh god, she wasn’t even a maid, was she? It must have been torturous to babysit someone who didn’t even bother to try to clean up after herself. But also, there’s something else, some other realization clamoring in the back of your head, something so obvious you don’t know why you hadn’t seen it before. “She wasn’t just a guard, was she?”

The prince clears his throat. “No, she wasn’t. Elias thought it would be… prudent, to keep an eye on you.”

“But you agreed.” It wasn’t an accusation, you just don’t feel like allowing him to deflect any guilt.

“I did.” At least he admits it easily enough. “There was cause for concern, in case your position on the match had been… compromised.”

“Well, it wasn’t unwarranted.” This will be the closest you’ve ever admitted to the real reason that you’re here, but you don’t elaborate, not even when the prince gives you one of his careful, questioning stares. In fact, you’re satisfied to let the room slip away into silence, if only for a minute because you need the time to quietly grieve for a life that didn’t have to die. Not for, at least, you’re quite frankly sick of how people seem to drop dead around you. Carefully, to keep the tears from your eyes, you take in a deep, cleansing breath, and let it all out. “So, what now?”

“Given the fact that the traitors seem to have had an informed advantage over your security measure, and perhaps even your movements, I believe something drastic must be done to ensure your safety. What did you tell your guard when you went crawling about in the vents?”

You feel your throat tighten. “That I was going to lie down for a rest.”

He nods as if he suspected as much. “It is quite possible your room was somehow bugged by this traitor faction. Given the fact that I don’t know which of my underling staff to trust, except perhaps for the ones that are already dead, then I’m afraid that it would be rather unwise for you to have a suite of your own.”

Well, correct, and you also don’t want to tell him that your matchmaker rep was also fully programmed in all forms of defense, making her probably be the biggest adversary to overcome. Funny coincidence on how her programming was hacked and had to be fully shut down for everyone’s safety, hm? “Um, what do you suggest, then?”

“That you stay in here with me.”

It’s a simple enough solution, but you’re still taken aback by the ease that he says it. Oh, right, just share a room, why hadn’t you thought of it? There’s an odd twinge in your chest, one that you’re a little too bit receptive to, and you have to calm the resulting nerves that seem to be steadily building up in your stomach. Yeah, just share a room.

“You’re tense,” the prince notices quickly, “was the suggestion unbecoming of me? If so, I apologize.”

“It’s probably a smart thing to do,” you say, slowly.

“And yet?”

“Well, the thing is,” you let out a breath, “I know that you mean the best when you say it, but I’m not really the best roommate. You’re not just going to get me when my hair is nice, or when I’ve had a couple of hours to wake up and get my shi- er, stuff together, you’re going to get me when I snore, or when I have to use the bathroom at some ungodly hour of the night and trip over just about everything on my way there, or how absolutely obnoxious I get when I’m tired, and just a bunch of other things that I’m sure you’re not going to be so fond of. We’re still kind of strangers.” Also, there’s only one bed. Not sure how you’re going to handle that one quite yet.

You’re not sure if the best or worst part is that he hears you, clearly running over your immediate offer of cons to the idea in his head, hair falling over his shoulder as he looks to the side while he thinks. Finally, after just a moment of reflection, he says, “I still don’t understand why you find the idea unsavory.”

“What?” You blink. “I just - I just was not really prepared to be in such a… a domestic situation so quickly. But I can be, I guess since it does seem like the best outcome. I’m just letting you know that I should come with a warning label.”

“I’m sure all individuals can agree that they come with a unique set of issues, myself included.” The prince offers you what you think is a hesitant smile, but he could just be moving his mouth weird. “You aren’t repulsive.”

“Oh, thanks.” You say, knowing that he probably doesn’t mean it the way he said it. “You aren’t repulsive, either. Just… I want to be aware of these things, alright? I mean it, too, I don’t like being kept in the dark about anything. Let me know if I’m in danger, and from where it might be coming, I’ll do a better job at keeping myself out of it if I know what’s happening.”

It doesn’t take him much more persuading to agree. “I do believe that you would be a greater asset than hindrance if your quaint atmosphere duct maneuvers have shown, but you must at least be willing to do the same for me. No more escapades without my knowledge, hm?”

“That’s fair.” You agree, reaching your hand out. When the prince doesn’t do anything, you take one of his long-fingered hands in your own and shake it firmly. “That’s the human way of coming to an agreement.”

“I see,” he says, and yes, you think he’s actually smiling now. “That’s an interesting way of showing it.”

“How do the people here do it?”

“Oh,” he waves his hand, “we don’t have any gestures or symbols beyond that of piety and respect. We hold each other to our word, or there will be bloodshed. There are traditional punishments for those who go back on their promises, usually involving plucking out a limb or two.”

“Cool.” You say, deciding never to double-cross anyone, ever, then and there. “Would love to talk more about the ceremonies involving dismemberment, but I just remembered how hungry I am. Is there anything we can do about food, or am I stuck being starved until everything gets sorted out?”

That snaps the prince out of whatever trance he had been in briefly. “Of course, allow me a moment to order something up. Please, how do the humans say it… ‘make yourself at home,’ while I do so.”

While the prince goes back to speaking on his telecom device, you’re back to laying out against the covers of his bed, staring right back up at the ceiling. And then the sick feeling quickly returns, seeping through your veins like a stab of poison, eating at your heartbeat until it rockets around your chest like an unstable core. Honestly, you’d think that you could take a close call like that in stride, you’ve done so before, but it’s a reminder of just how open you are in this unfamiliar environment. Because yes, you’ve had close calls. Sometimes ever closer than this one!

But you’ve always seen them coming.

You’ve seen the glint of metal in someone’s pocket. You’ve smelled the burning acid of lighter fluid. You’ve noticed a person’s shifting glance or a nervous lip bite, or the tense way a double-crosser might turn their eyes, looking for help. But you didn’t even have an inkling that a bullet was heading for your forehead this time. And maybe you would have heard the struggle of a trained guard outside your bedroom door, though more likely, you wouldn’t have, and you would have ended up as a corpse. The thought of being taken alive doesn’t even cross your mind, though, because at least then you have the street smarts to escape and evade capture. Death, that’s what you’re afraid of. Once your brains are splashed out on the wall, there’s no running from that.

You swallow thickly as the prince asks you what you feel like eating. Typically, you might shrug and offer a halfhearted response, but you know that something left for interpretation might get you a bowl of writhing bugs. “Remember that dinner we had when I first arrived?”

“Of course, anything else?”

“I’m good, thanks.” The brief conversation snapped you out of that depressive spiral, so you wait, not so patiently, for the prince to finish ordering your food, and then you pounce on him. “I’d like to hear more about you, please.”

“What do you wish to know?”

He had a full profile on the official matchmaker site, there was a complete list of hobbies and things he might do for enjoyment, but you didn’t know what any of it was. Now’s the time to figure it out, though, before you go insane with guilt. “What do you do for fun?”

In a couple of steps, his spindly body is back over to the foot of the bed, where you lie. “Before I answer that, humor me for a moment.”

You look up, trying to pull yourself back to the moment, to reality. “Yeah?”

“Move over to the side, just a bit, then up to the top.”

Dubiously, you do as he says, scooting your body until you are in the very corner of the mattress. “Like this?”

Without answering, he slides his entire body up onto the sheets, large abdomen able to somehow dwarf the gigantic bed itself. Yet above all else, he somehow manages to line his head and torso up to yours, almost making it seem as though the two of you are about the same size, so long as you don’t look down at the massive amount of long, thin legs, that is. Still, the gesture doesn’t escape you, and your chest begins to fill with something other than anxiety.

“During childhood, we’re expected to be able to make a show of superiority and strength, so the sport of wrestling is highly encouraged. Youths are expected to compete against each other, though the disgrace of losing isn’t carried outside the ring. Adulthood, though, brings many different expectations to those who compete. Winning against a weaker opponent brings little respect; however, managing to wrangle a much stronger opponent does plenty of honor to their status.”

“Kind of like the Galaxy Wrestling Entertainment?” You ask, though you haven’t heard of driders or drows competing.

“None of the matches are televised,” Aksanos says, “it is entirely a private matter between the families and judges. The outcomes may sometimes be publicized, though the details are not given beyond the winner and loser.”

“So no one knows if it’s a close win or not,” you clarify.

“Correct, people only know the most basic outcome.”

“That’s-” awful, you don’t say, so much pressure to put on someone, “an interesting way of doing things.”

“Perhaps,” he responds, “but that is how we have done it for generations. Though once most driders have fought each other, and really, truly wish to give a show of strength, they must wrestle the dragons of the deep.”

It takes you a minute to fully process what you’ve just heard. “I’m sorry- you’re expected to wrestle a dragon?”

“I’ve done it many times,” he says, as though that somehow puts your mind at ease. “It might be difficult, yes, but it sometimes is the only way to earn respect. Anyone who does not partake in a show of strength, wrestling or not, are seen as weak, or unworthy of their stations. I must do every little thing to earn what I can.”

You’re still stuck on the fact that he’s fought dragons that you almost don’t notice when he reaches over, tucking stray string of drying hair behind your ear.

“Do not fret,” he says, “for I am strong and have always emerged victorious.”

“Everyone’s victorious until they aren’t,” you respond dully, tucking your hand underneath your chin.

“Perhaps that is true,” he allows, “but you have naught to worry about.”

You’re tempted to argue further, but there is a brisk beeping in the direction of the door, and you dully remember that he had ordered food for you, not so long ago. Before he can even think of getting up, you do so first, reaching over to where he placed your thiamas, braced for attack. Adrenaline has yet to do your body the pleasure of dissipating, so you’re just as ready to rip someone’s face off now as you were a few minutes ago, despite the… relief of talking to the prince about his dragon wrestling escapades.

He doesn’t seem to find your tense reaction strange, if anything, he seems less worried than he was just a few minutes ago. It takes him a good minute to haul his behemoth body out of bed, but once he is on his feet, his movements are swift and graceful. The two of you exit his bedroom, the same, intricate carvings engraved into the walls, the low lamps almost flickering like candlelight. You’re struck by the thought of how this must of been what it was like for the first driders that went underground, that is, if the stories of the legend were to be true. They were only able to see very faintly, even with the dim, warm glow of fire before they were blessed by their mother goddess with the Night Sight. It’s a strange feeling, but you’re also hit with a brief memory from when you were still at the mining colonies, stringing up little fairy lights when you were younger, making a fort of light, flat stones.

The door opens when he swipes the control panel to the side, revealing two very nervous drow, pushing a tray full of food into the room. Both of them look like they would quite enjoy being anywhere but here, and though you aren’t really used to gauging the tones of their skin, yet, one seems a little paler than the usual pallet. They work on setting the small table on the side of the room, setting the table with dishes, silverware, the works, then laying out the platters in the center. You watch them operate, see their worry, their terror, and only briefly wonder what they’re so afraid of before glancing over at the prince’s face.

Oh, that’s probably why.

He’s staring them down, head tilted slightly to the side, his mouth no longer in the gentle curve of an almost-smile. The way he stands is different, too, his legs stretched out longer, his shoulders broad, and arms crossed tightly over his chest. Even though he’s significantly taller than you, he never made it seem that way, or at least, he never looked down on you with such a contemptuous gaze of bitter distaste. In fact, a shiver goes down your spine when you see him like that, even though you know you aren’t the recipient of such feelings.

One everything is settled, the drow make a move for the door, but the prince stops them with a firm, ”wait.”

They both freeze.

“Come here,” he orders, gesturing to the food. “Doesn’t it look remarkably delicious? I think that the both of you should have the honor of trying some before you leave.”

The drows don’t speak in response, only hesitantly approaching the table they had tried to leave. A part of you sees where this is going, the other part wants to fade away in the shadows. You’ve never seen the prince act so much as firm before, let alone murderous, and despite his reputation, you had begun to think that perhaps it was all hyperbole. Now, maybe you can bear witness to how it probably wasn’t.

“Go on,” the prince says, his voice condescendingly harsh, ”eat the food.”

One of them does, reaching over and pulling something off one of the platters, popping it into their mouth. The second one follows suit, taking something else, and eating it. Mouths either chew quickly or not at all, one of them picking to swallow the bite whole, probably so they could leave faster. But the prince doesn’t offer them the dignity of being dismissed, instead, he watches their reactions, the room eerily silent. If there was a clock, you might be able to time the seconds, though instead, you watch the way they both shake, hands jittering, shoulders tense, eyes either darting too fast or merely fixated at one place on the floor.

Nothing happens. And still a few minutes later, nothing more. The prince finally waves his hand in a gesture of dismissal, not even bothering to tell them that they are excused. They both catch the drift, though, bowing deeply and then rushing out of the room as quickly as they can without also running, their movements smooth and fluid. You watch them leave, still in shock from the viciousness emanating from the prince’s body posture, then suddenly remember your manners.

“Thank you!” You call after them just as the door shuts.

“You should not do that,” the prince says, voice still echoing the tone he used on his servants.

“I shouldn’t be polite?” You clarify, walking over to the table and looking over what they brought. There’s certainly plenty of stuff for you to sample, not just the things you requested.

“Politeness differs between cultures,” the prince elaborates, the tight, regal words slowly dissipating as he slips out from conqueror and back to hesitant lover. “What you see as kindness is considered a weakness here. People might try to take advantage of that.”

“Don’t mistake my kindness for stupidity.” You spear something you don’t recognize with a two-pronged fork, “I’m being nice, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

It takes him a moment to process your words, probably because he hasn’t heard that saying before. “Still, I think that you should at least consider stopping thanking the servants every time they do something for you. It will be seen as unsightly.”

“Or, the alternative,” you suggest, “your servants, so shocked at someone being nice to them, will now be more likely to do what I saw because I, a kind person, asked it of them.”

“They should do as you ask because of your station, not because you’re ‘nice.’"

“Care to make a bet?”

“This is a bet that you are going to lose.” The prince says.

You settle down on the chair and arch your eyebrows. “Did they tell you that I’m a gambler?” At the sharp, shake of his head, you wonder if the matchmakers left that part out of the report or if you failed to mention it on the form. “The thing is, I’m a good gambler because I don’t throw money in unless I know that I’m going to win. The fact that I’m willing to even mention it should warn you off.”

“What do I get if I win?” He asks, mildly bemused by your words.

“Well,” you say, “it has to be something that you want, and it has to be something I can give. And the other way around for when I win.”

“I’ll have to think the terms over. How will I know if you win?”

“If I need someone to do something, and they do it, not because they must, but because they want to.”

The prince settles in his section of the table, reaching over and grasping one of the delicacies laid out. “And how will we know which of us is victorious?”

You shrug because his end of the deal seems a lot more challenging to call. “I guess it’s more subjective, but my point still stands. If I win, I want a tour of the solar system, in person, on a spaceship. And I want to pilot it.”

He cocks his head, clearly thinking it over. “I suppose that would be acceptable. You might have to give me some time to think over what I might want from you, if that is somehow in line with the rules of this little game.”

“Usually not, but I’m fine with bending them a bit for you.” You twirl your fork around in the bowl. “Just let me know sometime, I guess.”

And then you begin eating, trying to take your mind off how you’re going to be sharing the spectacularly large bed soon enough.

#drider #exophilia #monster lovers #monster #monster/human #monster/reader #drider/reader

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written-on-the-trees · 4 years ago

Text

Strawberry Necklace Part 8 - Yungblud Fan Fiction

Word Count: 1925 words.

Warnings: None, for this part. Smut, fem-dom, and prostitution for the whole story.

Summary: Nova explains to her sister about her relationship with Dom...but it turns out Stella isn’t the only one who’s interested.

Where else can you find this: Ao3 | Wattpad

Part Seven | Part Nine

"So...strawberry necklace boy."

"Hi Stella. Yes, I'm well, thank you. I got you a latte - no, no, there's no need to thank me." Nova replied blithely, ignoring every unspoken question she'd just been asked and smirking at her sister, who was glaring at her from the chair she'd just dropped into.

"Nova!" Stella whined: "Stop it! You got a boyfriend, and you're trying to talk to me about coffee. Seriously!"

Nova just laughed.

Stella glared and bunched up a napkin and threw it at her hand, but that only made Nova laugh harder at her sister's annoyance.

It was tempting to keep annoying Stella by evading her questions - both because it was amusing and because talking about Dom was going to be awkward as hell - but her sister would probably move onto throwing heavier objects at some point, and Nova didn't want to get kicked out of another coffee shop. So instead of being a bitch, she shrugged and gestured for Stella to ask her questions.

Of course, Stella already had a whole load of them - which she had apparently written in her notes app, if the way she started reading off of her phone was any indication: "Right, firstly...is he still treating you right?"

"Stella, it's been two days since we decided to see each other outside of work - "

"It's important!" Stella insisted.

"Yeah...Yeah, he's still treating me right." Nova smiled softly. Because even if it had just been two days, so far everything had been good. Better than good, in fact.

Stella nodded, apparently satisfied by what was probably a ridiculously sappy expression on Nova's face.

It was hard not to look a bit sappy; Dom might have left last night, after getting his own text messages about who the hell was on his Instagram story and demands to explain himself from his housemates, but that didn't mean he hadn't made his presence felt this morning. She'd woken up to a really cute text message, and a delivery man knocking on her door to hand over a bouquet of all different kinds of pink flowers.

Maybe it was just the honeymoon period, but that didn't stop her from feeling like he was amazing.

"Good. Secondly, are you two dating now? Just seeing each other? Engaged? Planning to elope to Vegas next week? Where are you at? Am I going to be an auntie soon?"

Nova choked on the sip of tea she'd just taken.

"Jesus Christ Stella!" she spluttered: "Dating! We are dating! There are absolutely no plans for marriage or children at this point."

"You sure?"

"Yes!"

Stella smirked: "Because I know you have a tendency to announce things via Dom's Instagram..."

Nova glared and jabbed a finger at her sister: "Fuck off, it happened once."

Little shit that she was, Stella just laughed: "Speaking off announcing things, have you told anyone else yet?"

"I didn't mean to tell you. Fucking Sinead and her fucking Instagram." Nova sighed half-heartedly, bearing no actual ill-will to either her niece of her social media: "But no, I haven't told anyone - honestly I only plan on even telling mum, dad, and Orion because I don't want Dom thinking they won't approve of him."

It was entirely true.

Nova's relationship with her parents and younger brother was...strained at best. Her parents might be former hippies, but they were judgemental pricks, and Orion had some sort of youngest-child-and-only-boy inferiority complex that meant he was always looking for ways to prove he was 'better' than Nova and Stella. In truth, they probably wouldn't approve of her seeing Dom, but that disapproval would be focused on her, not him; because that was what they did. Disapproved of her.

She got it; no-one really wanted a dominatrix for a daughter, but it had started getting old around five years ago, and by now she was completely over it. She knew her parents loved her, but they just didn't approve, and though they certainly weren’t afraid to show that, Nova didn't really care anymore. It was old news, as far as she was concerned, and Stella knew all of that, so she was quick to move on to her next question, because there was simply nothing else there to cover.

"Speaking of family, Sinead thinks you're literally the coolest person in the family now." Stella rolled her eyes: "She's not shut up talking to me about how cool you are because you're dating this famous rockstar, and now she's somehow got Ciara and Finn on board, so you're going to be very popular this Christmas."

Amused by Stella obviously being put out by her daughter's favouritism, Nova smirked: "I mean, I was already the coolest person in the family, but it's nice to finally have it recognised."

"Go fuck yourself." Stella responded casually, taking a sip of her latte: "They've all been keeping it really secret, but are you and Dom keeping it a quiet? Sinead's really nervous about letting it slip if she shouldn't."

"We haven't really spoken about it. From what I can tell, he's never been hugely obvious when he's dating someone, but he doesn't go to many lengths to hide it either. He seemed more worried by my family not liking us dating than anyone else, but for now..."

Stella nodded in understanding: "Sinead and Ciara can keep it quiet a bit longer. I'm not entirely sure Finn actually knows who Yungblud is, or even if it's the same person that you're dating, so there's no risk there."

Nova wouldn't lie and say that she was relieved that the girls wouldn't say anything yet. She didn't want to fuck anything up for Dom, which meant she'd have to take his lead on whether anything went further than their families.

In any case, it might not be a problem. If they tried dating and it didn't work, then it was probably better that it wasn't widely known that they'd been together at all. Dom wouldn't need the questions, and Nova wouldn't need the attention - it would be much better not to have the whole world know about them if there wasn't actually a them. Besides, she wasn't trying to be flippant, Nova had other things on her mind than Dom's Instagram followers.

She was thinking of quitting her job.

It wasn't because of Dom...she was just getting tired of being a dominatrix. She'd been doing it since she was twenty-one - not to mention the two years she'd worked in a brothel before that - and she was thirty-two now. It was boring. She was bored of her clients - with the exception of Dom, of course - she was bored of her lack of a real social life, and she was bored of the constant effort to try and look like she was in her early twenties because looks were a huge part of attracting and keeping clients.

To put it simply...she was bored out of her mind. If she was being honest with herself, she'd admit that she had been for a while, but now she was dating someone - with the intention that the dating would turn into a relationship - Nova was wondering if it was time to move on. The only thing that was stopping her was...not knowing what she was going to do if she did pack it all in.

Unfortunately, there was no easy answer to that. And so she wasn't going to dwell on it while she was having coffee with Stella.

Instead, they carried on speaking about Dom, for a little while. Stella was insistent on getting the chance to meet him, but Nova warned her that it wasn't going to be for a while. She wanted to see if they made it past a month yet - if they did, then she would think about him and Stella meeting, since Stella lived so close. About the rest of the family, Nova wasn't sure, but she was sure that she wasn't in any rush for him to meet them, so that was fine for now. After that the conversation turned to a few other bits and pieces, before Stella had to leave to get Finn from school.

Nova made sure to hug her sister tightly, a silent thank you for so open to Dom being a part of Nova's life, while still wanting to make sure he was good for her, before both of them left together, walking to the tube station together before going to their separate platforms. Nova had every intention of just going back to her flat and making the most of having no clients today, knowing she had and appointment with one of her less preferred customers tomorrow, when a text message from an unsaved number dropped down from the top of her phone screen, interrupting the news article she was reading while waiting for the train.

An unsaved number, not an unknown one.

What the fuck does she want?

The text message itself was uselessly vague - messages from Nova's 'boss' always were. The old woman didn't like to put anything even potentially incriminating in writing. If she had something to say about business, she'd say it over the phone or (as she preferred) in person.

And it seemed she had something to say.

Meet me at your house. Five o'clock.

Nova cursed internally.

Helen Birch was a woman of few words, but somehow she always managed to make every single one of them feel like they were weighted down with lead. Maybe it was from years of experience, both as a dominatrix and a madam (although she would never admit to being the latter), or maybe it was just her personality, but either way it made reading her texts feel like being threatened...although in this case, it was potentially because Nova was being threatened. Not explicitly, of course, but nothing good ever came from such blunt commands from Helen.

Sighing, Nova slid her phone into her handbag and boarded the train that had just opened its doors in front of her.

The way she saw it, she now had two choices.

One, ignore the message. It would piss Helen off, and likely only invite more arsey text messages. Helen didn't actually employ Nova - that would suggest there were contracts and paperwork and physical evidence - but did own the house Nova rented to work in, and she also took a cut of some of the money Nova got from some clients, if those clients were direct to Nova from her. And over the years she had sent Nova a lot of clients. She'd really helped Nova find her feet as a dominatrix, providing not just clients but also good advice and help when Nova needed it.

Basically, it would be really rude to go with choice one.

Choice two, however, was doing what Helen told her. And that...that set a bad precedent. Helen wasn't her boss, and Nova didn't have to go when Helen called. If Helen wanted to tell Nova something, she could ask Nova if she could meet like a normal person. Nova didn't want to give in and make Helen think that she could command Nova to do as she wished, whenever she wished.

But if she didn't go with choice two, she'd have to wait longer to find out what Helen wanted. And more than anything else, Nova wanted to know why she was being summoned to her workplace.

Looks like I'll be going to work after all.

Whatever happened...it should at least be interesting.

#The Trees Writes #Yungblud #Yungblud imagine #Yungblud fanfic #Yungblud fan fic #Yungblud fan fiction

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moodyvalentinestories · 4 years ago

Text

Direction – Thirteen | Hunt x HWU MC (Danielle)

Warnings: Discussion of Viktor being a sexual predator; not being able to stop a sexual predator because proof is fucking hard to come by.

Summary: Hunt and Danielle’s conversation continues...

Words: 1700+

Notes: I'm pretty sure y'all are smart enough to know this but, um, Danielle is kind of an idiot and her idea was a very, very bad one. So, like, don't do that.

❥ Previous Chapter: Twelve ❥ Moodyvalentine’s Masterlist

Thomas wanted to believe her more than anything in the world as she stood before him, looking so utterly miserable. He so wanted to reach out and take her into his arms, tell her he was sorry and beg for her forgiveness, but he needed answers first, and irrefutable ones at that. He wouldn’t let her fool him with a trembling lip and a voice no louder than a whisper again. It could have very well been another act. He was tempted to believe her without so much as an explanation, now that he’d looked at the contents of the box, wondering why she would have given something that could have landed her in prison for life to him if she’d thought there was any chance he’d release it. But that was just it – it could have been a well-calculated risk, knowing him as she did. Perhaps she’d thought he wouldn’t be that cruel and, had he known just how incriminating the evidence was, she would have been right. He would have burned the whole thing and never even thought about releasing any of it.

“How?” he asked her. “How were you going to fix anything by going with him?”

Danielle looked away and began chewing on her lip. “I offered him a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Thomas asked, though he could imagine.

She huffed, still not meeting his eyes. “The kind he would have accepted. Asked him to get rid of what he has on you.”

“And you thought he’d uphold such a deal, did you?” He couldn’t believe she’d be quite so naïve. Then again, if what she was saying was true, she’d already proven how naïve she was by entering into a contract with Montmartre in the first place.

Danielle made a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh but was perhaps supposed to be one. “No, I didn’t think he would.”

“Then why—”

“He needed to believe me, didn’t he? I couldn’t have him be suspicious,” she explained, her hands fiddling with the hem of her dress. “Would have worked if Ethan hadn’t interfered, too, I’m sure.”

There was a knot forming in his stomach as Thomas started to piece everything together, though he didn’t understand quite yet. “What would have worked?”

“I had Dean call in some favours. Got into the security cameras in his office. We would have had the footage, then,” she told him and he felt like he was going to throw up. He almost wished he hadn’t eaten just now. “It would have worked, I know it.”

Thomas was once again floored by just how naïve she appeared to be. “It wouldn’t have. I’m certain he’s had people try to blackmail him like this before, Danielle, you wouldn’t have been the first one. You would have—”

“You don’t understand,” she interrupted him, and he did have to stop speaking to hear her, her voice having gone quieter again. “I’d have told him I’ve changed my mind. I’d have asked him to stop.”

That made even less sense to him. How would that have helped anyone? Let alone her, because if there was one thing Thomas was sure about, it was that Montmartre would not have cared a bit. “Danielle, I don’t think…” He cleared his throat. “I don’t think he would have listened.”

She finally looked up at him when she spoke, holding his gaze. “I know. I was counting on it.”

It was then that the penny dropped and Thomas gained a new appreciation for Mr Blake, who, as it appeared, had prevented what would have been a rather ugly outcome to Danielle’s insane plan. “No. No, that’s not – no, you – no.”

“It’s the only way I could think of that would have stopped him for good,” she said, clearly trying for a nonchalant tone but he knew better.

The trembling of her lower lip caught his eye and before he could change his mind or she could protest, he’d rounded the counter and wrapped her up in a tight embrace. It was no later than her face was buried between his neck and his shoulder that tears began to fall from her eyes again, and Thomas could feel them soak through his shirt.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered into her hair, the endearment slipping out unbidden but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. “What were you thinking?”

She sobbed against him once more before she told him, her voice barely above a breath, “I just wanted to fix everything.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she wouldn’t have fixed anything – that she would have only put herself in harm’s way – but he found it would be best to wait to tell her that. So he simply pulled her closer then, resting his chin on top of her head, and whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, Danielle, I didn’t know.”

He’d never felt quite so terrible about not having had all the facts, and he cursed himself for not having talked to her before he’d gone and tried to ruin her life. He almost couldn’t believe he’d acted in such an impulsive way but, then again, it wasn’t so usual for him to have any type of feeling that could cloud his judgement. And the disappointment – the betrayal – he’d felt when he’d seen her go with Montmartre had been one hell of a cloud.

Danielle wasn’t sure just how she had ended up in Hunt’s arms after the day they’d had, but she most certainly was not going to complain. He was warm and comforting and she wished she’d never have to leave his embrace again. Unfortunately, she knew he had more words for her – a proper scolding about how stupid she was, and how wrong it would have been to go through with what she’d planned – but just now she decided to cling to him a little while longer, at the very least until her tears would subside.

Eventually, they did, and she pulled back a little, feeling that Hunt was just as reluctant to let go as she was. He did, though, once she took a step back, and she couldn’t help feeling a little bereft. She had half a mind to just step back into his arms again right away and clasped her hands behind her back to stop her from doing so.

“Are you all right?” Hunt asked before she could even get a word out.

She nodded. “I am. I’m fine,” she confirmed, taking a moment to consider her next words. “I would have been fine, too,

“Maybe so,” he said, though the exasperated look that told her he didn’t believe that in the slightest didn’t escape her. “But it was a bad idea all around.”

Danielle huffed. “Was it? You just told me you didn’t think he would have listened. You know he’s a creep and a… a fucking predator. You know.”

“There’s a difference between suspecting and having proof,” he argued, his eyes pleading with her to understand.

And she did understand, which made it all the more infuriating. “I could have provided proof!”

“And what if your plan backfired?” he asked, his voice raised now. “What if someone found out what you’ve done?”

She didn’t have an answer for that. “Well, I…”

“At best, it would have been a crime in and of itself,” Hunt said, shaking his head. He spoke quietly now, his voice serious. “At worst, your actions would have discredited any real case that could be made against him. You would have discredited his victims.”

He was right, she knew. It would have been wrong in many ways, but she was so sure it would have worked, and if it had, they’d have had a way to make him go away for good. Not just for their sake, but for everybody else’s, too. “What was I supposed to do, then?” Danielle asked. “Wait for some other young actress to fall into his trap for real and hope to catch it on camera?” She shook her head. “That doesn’t sound like the height of morality to me.”

“There has to be another way, Danielle,” he said and she felt like a chided child.

Hanging her head, she said quietly, “It wouldn’t have just been for you, you know.”

“I know,” he assured her. She could see him lift his hand from the corner of her eye, letting it hover above her shoulder before he took it back, not touching her. “He will get his just deserts one day. He will. But not like this, sweetheart. Not like this.”

She hadn’t been sure if he’d noticed he’d called her that earlier, but this time she was. This time it was intentional, and she felt her heart flutter the tiniest bit. It didn’t change anything about the situation, though, and she sighed. “It’s not like I could try it again, anyway.”

“Good,” Hunt said with a nod, and then she felt his hand on her shoulder after all. “I’ll do anything in my power to help you bring Montmartre down if that’s what you wish to do. This time, I’ll be there to help.”

There wasn’t much of a choice but to accept that that was the best option now, and she nodded. “Okay. We will find a way to get you out of this project, and we will find a way to bring Viktor down. Whichever comes first,” she said determinedly.

“We will,” he agreed and gave her a small smile.

Danielle returned that smile, then, feeling as if now was the time to lighten the mood, said, “I do have one question, though.”

Hunt regarded her, eyes narrowed, and she was sure her semi-cheerful tone had made him suspicious. “What kind of question?”

“Were you jealous?”

The smile that tugged at one corner of his lips – though it never quite made it into a full smile – told her everything she needed to know. He didn’t dignify her with an answer, though, and instead asked her, “How would you feel about a little campfire in the backyard?”

“A campfire?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

He grinned then and nodded to the box and papers that still lay on the counter. “We better get rid of those, don’t we?”

“Can we make s’mores, too?”

Hunt chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m all out of marshmallows.”

“I suppose just warming our hands over it will do,” she said as she put everything back into the box and tucked the thing under her arm to carry it outside.

Tags: @flyawayboo @lilyoffandoms @oneemofungirl @trappedinfandoms @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @alleksa16 @alj4890 @silversparrow02

#hwu hunt #thomas hunt #professor hunt #danielle

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darklingichor · 4 years ago

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A rant on Sherlock Holmes, Romance, and the Expectations of Fiction

*Sigh*

I fear that I have come across yet another book that insists on turning Sherlock Holmes into a love interest.

Now, I'm only a quarter of the way through and it isn't clear if Holmes will reciprocate, but the lady character is annoying enough because she has very suddenly come down with a crush on the detective, after having shown no interest before.

This literally came out of nowhere in a book that has done amazingly well at characterization of both Holmes and Watson while also playing with other characters from classic stories, and having well developed women characters who do not suddenly get crushes because a guy is paying attention to another woman for 30 seconds. And, this book, like so many, has enough going on without a lovesick sub plot. But I will get to that when I review that one.

This seems like a good as time as any to vent my spleen about using Holmes as a romantic figure.

First, the brilliantly disguised elephant in the room: The Late Miss Adler.

I lothe when Irene Adler is made out to be a love interest, I have yet to see an interpretation where it doesn't come off as awkward. Maybe I’m in the minority here, but I never saw Holmes’s admiration of Adler as being romantic or sexual in nature. He admired her as an equal; equal in cunning, equal in intelligence. She fooled him and he respected that. That is why he refered to her as The Woman he didn’t even see Watson as a full equal and he sure didn’t feel that any woman could be his equal in anything he thought of as important.

I also don't get why she is depicted as having a similar personality to Holmes. In A Scandal in Bohemia, Adler is using an incriminating picture as insurance against a royal, yes, but in the end she assured Holmes that all she really wanted was to keep herself safe from any action the King of Bohemia might take against her, it is implied that she had real romantic feelings for the King at one time as she felt "cruelly wronged" by him, but will not use the photo against him. This is a woman with a brain, but she has a warmth to her that Holmes rarely has. Adler simply played chess with the master and won, she's not another Holmes.

It drives me crazy that modern writers can't fathom Holmes without a romantic relationship. I mean, how on Earth can you make a love story with a guy who does cocaine when he's bored? Keep in mind that without a case he's always bored!

He never showed any interest in any connection like that in the source material and this wasn't Victorian repression at work because Watson had his relationship with Mary, A Study in Scarlett had a love story in it. Clearly, matters of the heart were not taboo for Doyle.

I would totally go for the Holmes and Watson as a couple acting as two friends living together if it weren't for the fact that there is no subtext for this.

As genius as he is Holmes only devotes headspace to what helps with his work. Watson had to tell him that the earth revolves around the sun. He didn't know this basic fact because he doesn't need to know it to do what he does, so who cares?

With the exception of his violin and drugs, everything is focused on cases. And what do those two things have in common with his work? He can pursue them in his own way and no one will question him.

He has a lot of freedom when working with Scotland Yard because his methods get results, he plays the violin for himself, the drugs occupy his mind when cases are sparce.

This is not a person who would have the desire to start and maintain any sort of relationship.

Watson is the exception because he lets Holmes be Holmes. He doesn't like that he does drugs, he may question and be concerned over behavior but in the end, he knows that he will do what he will do and he's learned not to take much of his behavior personally.

But his behavior in a romantic relationship? I just don't see it, not in a literary sense anyway, which is really all I can speak to.

I maybe aro ace but I know a decent love story when I read one and Holmes wouldn't fit into one. To be Holmes he would be a crappy partner, or the relationship would have to change him into someone who isn't the character we love.

I'm not saying that Doyle was making some sort of statement in making Holmes the way he his, I'm saying he wanted to make a single minded brilliant detective who solved mysteries and had adventures. Love never factored in because that's not what the stories are about.

Popular culture is so saturated with romantic and sexual love being the ultimate goal, we think that all stories need a romance to be interesting and to follow a character through multiple stories means following them through relationships.

Never mind if it fits the story, it just has to be there. Somewhere along the line it was decided that for a character to be interesting, for a story to hold interest, the main character had to have a love interest, to make them "relatable".

Let's forget the inharant dehumanization of people who do not have or may not want romantic relationships in this line of thinking, for the moment.

Doyle wrote multiple stories with Holmes as the central character, but he never intended for him to be relatable, that's what Watson is for. Holmes isn't meant to be the every man. He's meant to be a singular personality the world's only consulting detective.

He also wrote all of these stories without Holmes having a love interest, and people still read them. The very fact that these modern writers who take Sherlock Holmes and reimagine him, but either shoehorn in an element that doesn't fit, or change the character to make him fit what they think sells is, in my opinion, insulting.

Holmes and Watson, as Doyle made them orginated in the 19th century. In the 21st century, they are still well known and loved enough to inspire movies, TV shows and various books. And some of these writers think that they can improve the character by making the man who will allow his closest friend to think he's dead, fall in love? Seriously, other than acting for the sake of a case, can anyone imagine Holmes sincerely courting anyone? And then for the modern set retellings. Picture Holmes on a date.

"Good evening, darling. Have I told you about my recent insights into the categorizing of ash? You may be interested since I can see that you have recently started smoking again.

How do I know? Oh, the tell tale smell under the purfume is evident, but could be explained by spending time with someone who is a heavy smoker. However, add that I observed you looking around for an outdoor ashtray when you got out of the cab. There is also the matter of you glancing at your watch to see when leaving to have a cigarette will not seem rude. You also seem to have the tense energy of one who has reintroduced a stimulate that has been long out of the body. What? Don't be rediculous, logically speaking, I cannot be the reason you smoke."

Add to his habit of shooting at walls, anyone in a relationship with him would be half tempted to brain him and call it self defense.

I can hear you say, but what about Watson?

Holmes and Watson are unboutly the most important relationships in either's life, they are more like friends or brothers. Because Holmes doesn't need anything else and Watson, sucks at it a little bit.

All of this is to say: Holmes doesn't need to focus on romance in his stories, there is no reason to force him to in others!

#sherlock holmes #rant #book blogging 2020

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ilovemygaydad · 5 years ago

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picture frame(d) [part 2]

a continuation of this prompt

pairings: pre-romantic logince

warnings: mentioned death threats, gay panic, lots of swearing, anger, panic attacks, sass, stuttering, verbal conflict, rudeness, deceit (as a character; named damien), deceit (as in lying and deceit), yelling, manhandling and pushing, frustration, and possibly something else

a/n: everyone really liked this so, uh.... here’s part two. i’m just gonna tag the people who reblogged the first part with comments, but i do have more ideas for this in the future if you wish to be tagged then. when will that come out? dunno. i wrote this on a whim.

@ironwoman359 @justanotherpurplebutterfly @anxiouslyfred @five-second-cookies

consider buying me a coffee

If there was one thing that infuriated Roman to no end, it would definitely be when he couldn’t find a lead to save his life.

And he couldn’t fucking find one.

He’d been on this case for weeks, and he’d interrogated every staff member half a dozen times with no results. Virgil, Patton, Joan, Talyn, Remy--he’d even talked to the delivery people--had given their stories and alibis, and they all checked out!

And there was one person who he thought he’d hit a home-run on, but it turned out that the kid only spoke French. Thank fucking god that Dr. Picani was fluent, or Roman would have had to hire a damn interpreter.

And guess what? The kid didn’t know anything! He’d never even heard of the notes until they asked.

So yeah, Roman was pretty damn frustrated. It wasn’t his fault that this whole investigation was falling apart at the seams, and Logan’s life was still on the line.

“He’s got to be involved, Roman,” Logan murmured. They were standing on the other side of a one-way mirror, watching the kid draw in a pad of paper. “He showed up just a month before the notes started appearing. It can’t be a coincidence.”

Roman hummed, deep in thought. He was going over what they had learned about the kid. Damien Gauthier, age twenty-one. Immigrated to the country at twenty and picked up a job at the palace around a month before the threats began. Works in the kitchens handling deliveries and preparing ingredients for the higher-ranking chefs. According to Patton, the kid was shy and reserved. He rarely spoke. The scarring on the left side of his face were from a burn (around his eye) and friction burn (the rest of that side of his face).

It just didn’t add up.

“I’d love to believe that we’ve found our terrorist, Lo, but there’s just no evidence. I can’t go around arresting people on a hunch.”

Logan deflated a bit. “I know… I’m just scared, I guess.”

“Hey,” Roman whispered, placing his hand gently on Logan’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ll figure it out. I’m sure what we’re missing is right in front of our faces.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I’m sure that you’re right.” The prince sighed. “I’m going to go back to my bedroom. I’d advise that you go see the secretary; I believe that she has mail for you.”

Roman smiled and took a few steps towards the door. “Have a good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty.”

“You too, Prince Charming.”

Roman was going to redact his previous statements. The thing that infuriated him the most was when he got conned into believing the same damn prince that he had known was bad news from the beginning.

He should have fucking known. The second that he saw the fucking notes, he should have been able to figure it out. The handwriting wasn’t even that different from Logan’s. He barely changed it at all, yet Roman fell for the mystery.

He fell for Logan.

The results of the handwriting analysis had come back. They showed that the person who wrote them was left handed. Logan was a leftie, and Damien was right handed. Upon closer inspection from Roman, he noticed that the “a”s matched up almost perfectly with the ones on the rendezvous letter that Logan had left with him one particularly stressful night.

No one was threatening Logan.

The notes were just some attempt to frame Damien.

Roman flung the door to Logan’s bedroom open with more force than necessary, but he didn’t really care with all of the red clouding his thoughts.

“Roman, what are you--”

“What kind of an idiot do you take me for?!” Roman screamed, grabbing Logan by the collar and lifting him from his chair onto his feet. “Did you seriously think that I would be so stupid that I’d put an innocent man to death without evidence? Am I a joke to you?”

“What are you going on about?” Logan’s hands wrapped around Roman’s wrists, and horror shone clear in his eyes.

Roman’s voice turned too sweet too fast. “The lab results for the handwriting analysis came back, Lo. Left handed. Unlike our prime suspect, and just like you. Not to mention your pathetic attempt to mask your handwriting failed miserably.”

“It’s not what it looks like--”

“Oh, I’m pretty damn sure it’s exactly what it looks like,” Roman said; his voice gradually gained volume once more. “You played me like a damn fiddle! I fell for--” You-- “your innocent schtick, but you were completely free of guilt, trying to send that kid to death! I can’t believe you thought so poorly of my intelligence. And--holy shit--you were so fucking awful to risk your friends’ lives in your scheme! They could have been found guilty, and I bet you wouldn’t have cared. You’re just insufferable!”

Logan was still clinging to Roman’s wrists, but his expression edged almost on regret. “Roman, I swear to you that I would never try to incriminate an innocent person! He’s hiding something! I’ve seen it, Ro; he’s--”

“Save it,” Roman spat in a menacing whisper. “I don’t want to listen to you for a second longer than I have to. Go cry to your damn servants…” He leaned in close to the prince’s face. “That is, if they trust you anymore.”

In one fluid motion, Roman threw Logan back into his chair and stalked out of the room, leaving the prince gasping for breath.

“Um, excuse me, Detective,” Virgil said as he walked into Roman’s bedroom at the palace.

Roman threw him a vicious glare over his shoulder. He’d been hastily throwing his belongings and tools back into his suitcase for about an hour in preparation to vacate the palace as soon as humanly possible. He desperately wanted to go home and wallow in his sorrow and anger without the constant reminder that, hey, the prince fucking conned me for nearly a month! That’s cool, huh?!

“What do you want?”

“Oh, well, um… Well, I came to tell you that the cab you requested won’t, um… It won’t be able to come.” Virgil shied away from the intensity of Roman’s stare, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Roman spoke up again.

“So order another one.”

“I, um, can’t.”

Roman felt time still as he fully turned around. “What?”

Virgil took a step back and curled further into himself. He was nearly impossible to hear as he said, “There’s a huge blizzard coming through. We’re stranded in the palace for a few days until the storm passes and a bit of the snow clears.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Roman muttered to himself, dropping onto his bed.

“I-I’m sorry! I can try t-t-to get s-someone to come in--”

“No, I’m sorry.” Roman waved the servant off. “I’m just upset. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

I should be taking it out on the real culprit, but I’d rather avoid committing a capital offense.

Virgil gave a tiny, scared nod. “Okay. Uh, if you need anything--”

“Just call. I know,” Roman said with a gentle smile. “Thanks, Virgil.”

“Uh, yeah… Bye.”

Virgil was out of the door before Roman could even think to respond.

With a sigh, the detective flopped back onto his bed. It was just his sour luck that he would be stranded in this godforsaken palace with Logan. The prince of his dreams. Stupid, handsome, deceitful Logan. He muttered a few Chinese and English curses under his breath, feeling the full exhaustion of the day weigh on him like a thick blanket. Without the drive to get the hell out of Dodge, Roman was sleepy as hell. His eyes fluttered closed. It wasn’t as if he was missing anything important if he fell asleep.

#sanders sides fic #logince #m writes things #logan sanders #roman sanders

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crowdedchatroom · 5 years ago

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the most dangerous game (for the world’s biggest virgins) | Chapter One

the first fic posted on this blog! i posted a few mysme fics on my main blog since they were for zines, but since this one is sort of its own thing, i’d figure i’d make use of this silly little sideblog.

the idea of there being a chapter 2 is a little questionable, but we’ll see how it goes.

AO3 | writing commissions | main blog.

They meet over coffee. Jumin sits quietly in his chair, reading a book, and Zen sits across from him, impatiently drumming his fingers on the table.

“Stop that,” says Jumin, not lifting his eyes from his book. “I find it annoying.”

Near immediately, Zen counters with, “I find you annoying.”

“The feeling is quite mutual.”

They sit in silence for a few more moments, and Zen begins to get a little irritated. “Why am I here?” he asks.

“I wanted to have a chat with you,” says Jumin, and he pauses, “I never thought I would say that sentence in earnest. It’s an interesting change.”

Zen would probably make a snappy comeback, if he weren’t already so done with Jumin. “Then why have we just been sitting here, not talking for—” he looks up at the clock by the front counter, and MC waves happily at him. He waves back, then turns back to Jumin, “five minutes.”

“I wasn’t in a rush,” says Jumin, “and I figured now was as good a time as any to conduct a little experiment and see how long it took for the silence to get to you. That’s the thing about children, you know?” He lifts his head to meet Zen’s eyes. “They can’t stand boredom.”

He looks back down at his book, and Zen briefly ponders if his career could survive the inevitable controversy he would face for murdering the man in front of him. And Jumin is quiet for a few moments longer, giving Zen plenty of time to think, until he opens his mouth once again.

“So,” Jumin says, “What are we?”

There are a few blissful moments where Zen is only attempting to process those stupid, terrible words coming from Jumin’s stupid, terrible mouth. Not that Zen thinks about Jumin’s mouth at all, ever—shut up.

When he does manage to process said terrible words, it’s as if Jumin has poured water directly onto Zen’s motherboard in an attempt to kill him dead. If it were possible to short-circuit in real life, Zen would surely be doing so.

“What are we?” he manages.

Jumin turns a page in his book. “I believe that’s what I said, yes.”

Zen shakes his head, “We aren’t anything. We don’t have anything to do with each other.”

“I see,” says Jumin, “I assumed that was the case. I just wanted to clarify.”

More silence. Zen continues drumming his fingers on the table, now in the midst of developing a distinct rhythm. To be in this situation, he thinks, is surely the universe’s retribution for all his sins. Which ones? That is yet to be figured out. He begins to replay the interaction in his head, and something bothers him.

Jumin assumed that was the case? What does that mean?

Of course, there’s the obvious interpretation—which is that Jumin took the events of last weekend and deduced that they were the product of a lot of drinking between both parties. Then there’s the explanation Zen falls on, which is that Jumin thinks he’s some kind of commitment-phobic playboy. An astrological leap, to be sure.

And who is Jumin to make this assumption of Zen, who is totally dedicated to anything he puts his mind to— including relationships, thank you very much. Jumin, on the other hand, has probably walked through all of his relationships with indifference, letting them pass as quickly as they arrived. Last weekend probably didn’t even mean anything to him. In fact, that’s probably Jumin’s every weekend, and Zen is one of many—

In the midst of Zen’s spiral, Jumin speaks again, “You can dismiss yourself. I’m waiting on a cup of coffee.”

“—I’m not some kind of playboy, for your information!” exclaims Zen. Jumin looks up at him.

“I see,” he says, “Now, I’m not sure what logical leap you’ve been privately making over there, but rest assured, whatever you think I think of you is absolutely true.”

He’s messing with Zen, now.

“I mean, what do you want us to be?” says Zen, and Jumin seems to think about it for a few seconds.

“I’m impartial,” he says, “I think we have very little compatibility as ‘friends,’” he lifts his hands from his book to put ‘friends’ in air quotes, “so a relationship seems a bit hasty, but I didn’t know if you were the sort of person to care about that sort of thing, so I asked.”

“And what does that mean?” says Zen, tone accusatory, though this whole interaction has been pretty accusatory in general. They’re an accusatory pair.

“Well, I had reason to consider either possibility,” says Jumin, “You seemed to be trying very hard to forget the whole ordeal, but at the same time you did agree to meet me here, which I doubt would happen if you were completely uninterested.”

“It’s not hard to be uninterested in you,” says Zen.

“And yet you’re still sitting here,” retorts Jumin.

“You’re a dick,” says Zen, “and you’re really not funny at all. Or interesting. Or nice.”

“I see,” says Jumin.

“It just makes me so, ugh, to think that I—that you—that we—” says Zen, running his hands through his hair in frustration. Jumin is sitting across for him, observing him curiously.

“So you’ve been thinking about it?” says Jumin, and if Zen didn’t know any better, he’d say that there was a smile forming on his stupid, terrible face. Just awful. The worst. “If it makes you feel better, it was ‘only a kiss.’ Of course, I suppose that comfort depends on how much you value a kiss.”

“If it was with you, not at all,” tries Zen. Jumin nods.

“Same here,” says Jumin, “It was, as Lucien or Yoosung would say, ‘wack.’”

Zen’s brain is short-circuiting again. “Did you just say ‘wack?’”

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to expand my vocabulary to something more current, in order to appear less stiff,” says Jumin, a man who is sitting in a coffee shop in a full suit. Had it been any other day, Zen is certain that said suit would be covered in pale cat hair. “Why are you still sitting here?”

“Why are you?”

“I believe I mentioned that I was waiting on a coffee?”

“Maybe I’m also waiting on a coffee.”

“I think that you’d have to order one in order to wait for it.”

“Die,” says Zen, “I just—nevermind your assumptions of me, what is this whole situation supposed to say about you, Jumin Han?” He tries to say Jumin’s name as if that were an insult in itself. Jumin merely raises an eyebrow.

“That I don’t feel we’re compatible?” he says.

“No! It’s that you’re a playboy!”

“A playboy?”

“A playboy!”

Jumin seems to consider this for a moment. “I suppose, from a certain perspective, it could look that way,” he says. “That said, I consider myself quite conservative with my sensuality.”

Hearing Jumin refer to his sensuality in conversation is quite possibly the worst thing Zen has ever heard. Instead of abruptly vomiting, however, he stands his ground. His very thin, shaky ground. “Well you aren’t! And it’s weird that you’re pretending to be all professional about this situation and trying to say that I don’t value a kiss or whatever. You—you’re weird!”

“Perhaps,” Jumin places his book down on the table, “we would benefit from a reevaluation of the incident. As I recall, it was you who leaned in for the kiss, Zen.”

“Oh, fuck you! That’s not what this is about and you know it—” Zen begins, fully prepared to go into a tirade about how he was drunk and how Jumin was being weirdly cool and how the moment was a particularly bizarre exception, as far as romance goes, but Jumin is just… looking at him. “What?” he says, “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I’m thinking,” Jumin says, and there is the briefest moment of blissful silence before he says, “I don’t find you unattractive,” and Zen once again feels as though he has just been shot.

“I’m sorry, what\—”

“As insufferable as your personality is, you are fairly handsome, and I was fairly drunk at the time,” says Jumin, “and so when you leaned in for the kiss, I was receptive.”

“God. Why are you doing this? Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m merely analyzing the events of last weekend in order to paint a clearer picture of my character, since you insist I fit some kind of ‘playboy’ stereotype,” says Jumin. “Now, I will admit that my decision to introduce tongue to the kiss was very questionable, however—”

“Stop! Stop! I get it! You can stop now!”

“Zen, you are making a scene,” Jumin appears serious at first, before a slight curve appears at the corner of his lips, and he blows some air out of his nose. “Though, I suppose that’s natural for an actor.”

“You’re not funny,” Zen says. God. Thinking about that night is—

(kind of hot)

—awful. What was he thinking? He has to live with the fact that Jumin’s tongue has been in his mouth forever now. This is a travesty.

“Zen,” says Jumin. “Was it such an unpleasant experience for you? Because if so, I—” he stops for a second, as if truly hesitant to say anything further, “I… am sorry.”

He’s apologizing. Holy shit. Zen just got an apology. Out of Jumin.

“What was that?”

“I’m not going to say it again, especially since I was not initially responsible for the incident.” Holy shit. Jumin seems flustered. This is hilarious. And kind of adorable. Or, not adorable—Zen definitely did not refer to Jumin as adorable, but it’s like… well, it’s something, and Zen is all about it.

“No, no, say it! You can’t backpedal.”

“I am,” Jumin sighs, “sorry for making you uncomfortable, if that was the case.”

“Oh, that’s good. I could get used to that.”

“That is an inherently weird statement to make, Zen. I believe you were arguing the point that I was ‘weird,’ earlier, and that only serves as incriminating evidence to your own ‘weirdness.” Jumin is turning a bit pink. “Where’s my coffee? Could you leave? I’d like to drink my coffee in peace.”

“It looks like it’s gonna take a while,” says Zen, “in the meantime, let’s review another point: you find me attractive?”

“Do not get me started, because I seem to remember that your hands certainly found themselves in some interesting places that evening, and—”

“Okay, okay! Point made!” Zen interjects. A few seconds pass, and he lets out a confession. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. I just thought your apology was really funny.”

“I am going to kill you. I have the money to do so cleanly and without any trace to myself.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” says Zen, dismissive. “So, we’re agreed? We’re forgetting about the whole thing?”

Jumin nods. “It would be a service to the both of us. I mean, just imagine it. If we dated.”

Zen says, “Not possible.”

Jumin adds, “Completely incomprehensible.”

“Disgusting.”

“Terrible.”

“The worst.”

More silence. Extremely, wildly uncomfortable silence. The kind of silence that only occurs between parties with an it’s complicated status on social media.

Zen tries not to think about the kiss, but, well, it’s not like he’s kissed that many people in his life—and Jumin happened to be much more skilled than expected, and it’s hard not to think about that. Zen has barely ever kissed another person with tongue in his life, but Jumin was a total natural. A real team player.

And, well, he isn’t hideous. Kind of the opposite. There’s a reason this guy also models, Zen supposes. A cursory glance to Jumin only serves to confirm this. Sure, he’s pretentious and repulsive, but he does really pull that suit off. His hair looks soft (it is soft. Zen remembers, because one of his hands ran through it when they kissed. The other hand was kind of preoccupied with things below the waist, but whatever. Not relevant, right now) and his skin is immaculate.

“It would be kind of funny,” says Zen, talking before thinking. “If we dated, that is.”

“Oh, it would be hilarious.”

“Maybe we’d do it for, like, a trial run. You know, if I can tolerate you for a month, then you have to pay me some ridiculous amount of money.”

“That wouldn’t be much of a challenge at all. I’m very tolerable. And what would I get if you lost?”

“I have no idea. Maybe I’d have to do something stupid, like babysit Elizabeth or something—”

“Deal.”

Oh.

Oh?

“For real?” Zen says, incredulous. “You’d make this stupid bet on the off chance that I would have to watch your stupid cat?”

“Yes, absolutely. It would be hilarious.”

“Well,” says Zen, thinking about his impending sum of money and definitely not thinking about Jumin’s tongue in his mouth, “Then we have a deal.”

“Certainly. We’ll need to work out the details a bit later, perhaps in a written contract—”

“I am not doing a fifty shades style contract with you.”

Jumin shakes his head. “Nothing like that. This would merely cover the terms of the wager, in order to ensure equal chances of winning for both parties. My affinities are none of your business”

“Um, I think they’re totally my business. I’m your trial-run boyfriend.”

This banter would probably go on forever, if not for the sudden presence of Jaehee, who clears her throat. Zen instantly jumps in his seat.

“How long have you been here?” he asks, instantaneously. Jaehee looks at him with some unholy combination of grief and amusement.

“Long enough,” she says, before turning to Jumin. “You ordered coffee?”

This, Zen thinks, is going to bite him in the ass.

#juzen #jumin han #hyun ryu #myzme zen #mystic messenger #juzen fic

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xxlovesuicide61xx · 7 years ago

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Countdown

Severus hadn't exactly planned on continuing his interactions with Hermione while the ten months were still in effect-- he was worried that someone would notice-- but he found that he couldn't quite help himself. She was addictive. So very damn addictive.

It was about three weeks later when Grimmauld Place was trapped in the heat of mid July. Severus was still jealously possessive over Hermione's choice of wardrobe, but he couldn't say that he'd be dressed any differently were he her. He hated having to wear his full robes in public. Cooling charms just weren't cutting it and he was sweating to the point where he was considering getting robes specially made with cooling charms set into the thread.

On one particularly hot night, at around 11 o'clock, Severus was reading in his bed, mercifully in sport shorts and a t-shirt, when he heard a knock on his door. He had one desperate hope of who it was.

Quickly applying concealment charms over his scars and dark mark, Severus rose to answer the door. it wasn't that he didn't trust Hermione-- he did, very much-- he just figured that it would be easier for all involved if neither one of them had to look at them. Some were particularly gruesome, as well as some of the newer ones still looking a bit too fresh to be comfortable.

His prayers were answered when he saw Hermione on the other side of the doorway. She was wearing what he assumed were called shorts in the technical sense and a short, thin strapped tank top. Her shirt rode up to reveal her tanned stomach, as well as a glint of jewelry hanging from her bellybutton. He was intrigued.

He cleared his throat.

"Hi."

"Hi." She replied enthusiastically, all smiles. "Can I come in?"

He wasn't sure at how much of a good idea that was, but where could the harm come from. If the members of the house couldn't find Hermione, his room was the literal last place they would look. And most of the house was asleep. And he could put up wards to keep out a herd of angry elephants. Severus stepped aside.

"Of course." Hermione near skipped past him into the room, her eyes lighting up the area with her happiness. He wondered if she had something planned or if she just wanted to see him. A part of him worried that perhaps she wanted to talk about what had taken place between them in the pool. Maybe she regretted it? Maybe she was going to tell of what they had done, incriminating him? Or maybe she completely trusted him and just wanted to be with him.

The last idea came into his head as he watched her sit down on the edge of his bed, looking for all the world like it was her own. She looked comfortable. Safe. She did trust him.

"I was having trouble sleeping. All this heat, you know?" He did know and nodded. "I was hoping that you'd still be awake. I thought maybe we could talk." Hermione's tone of voice implied that she didn't just mean talking, but that she wouldn't mind if it really only was just talking. Personally, Severus was all for not talking. For awhile, at least. He really did enjoy conversing with her.

"Of course. Talking would be nice." He decided to attempt some bravery and walked over to sit down next to her on the bed and wrapped an arm around her. She settled into his side and seemed comfortable. "Did you have anything in mind?"

Hermione turned her head into his shoulder, breathing him in. She turned, drawing her legs up and cuddled next to him, her arms moving to wrap around his waist.

"Not really." She sighed. "I guess I just wanted to spend some time with you, and talking seemed like a good excuse."

Severus had placed his chin on top of her head, and he could feel her words as she spoke. Looking down, he decided that there was no possible way that she could be comfortable in that position.

"Why don't we get more comfortable first?" He tried to keep the innuendo out of his voice but wasn't entirely sure that he succeeded. "I've no idea how you could possibly be comfy in that position."

"You'd be surprised at the positions that I could find comfortable." They both froze after she spoke, a strange silence now hanging in the air.

"I didn't actually say that out loud, did I?" Hermione's voice was quiet, unbelieving, embarrassed.

"I'm afraid you did." He kissed the top of her head and moved out of her embrace. "But if you'd like me to forget about it, I promise to do my best to never think of it in your presence."

Severus offered a hand to her and she took it, not quite looking at him. "I would appreciate that, thank you."

"You're welcome." With her hand in his, he guided her over to the top of the bed, sat down, and laid back against the pillows, his head propped up against the wall. He held out an arm, indicating that he wanted her near him. "Come here."

Hermione climbed onto the bed and nestled down into the perfect nook that Severus provided. He kissed her forehead and, despite the added body heat, decided that this was a much more comfortable position. He wrapped his arms around Hermione, she returning the gesture and draping an arm across his narrow waist. Her knees rested against his thigh and she found herself fascinated with his legs. They were long, the pale skin having rather little hair. What hair there was there was as pitch black as the hair on his head and stuck out starkly against his skin. The contrasting colors appeared unnatural, but Hermione decided that she liked it just the same. She liked anything belonging to him.

Severus kissed her head again and couldn't believe that she was there with him. It seemed too good to be true, completely unreal. But she was real. And it was perfect.

Hermione tilted her head back, looking up at him, not saying anything. Her eyes kept moving from his own down to his lips, and Severus was pretty sure he understood her message. Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss on her lips, savoring the feeling of her soft skin against his own. Trying to pull back, he found himself incapable, Hermione's free arm having traveled up to thread into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him in place. She continued to kiss him, starting out as gently as he had but applying more and more pressure with each pass of her lips over his until Severus felt himself getting dizzy. He wished desperately that he could kiss her, really kiss her. He wanted to make her head spin.

After a few minutes, Hermione released his head and Severus was able to pull back, the two resting their heads together comfortably, sharing the air between them.  Severus reached down, grabbing at Hermione's ankles, and pulled them up towards him, twisting her legs around so that they draped across his lap. She was barefoot and he found himself fascinated with her feet, thinking back to a thought he had had a few weeks ago about giving anything to be left alone with her feet. He held back a laugh, but decided to commemorate his past self. Leaning down, Severus brought Hermione's left foot up and kissed her arch, making her laugh. Apparently she was ticklish. He would use this to his advantage later.

They spent the next hour sitting like that together, just enjoying being with each other, sharing the same space and being able to express their affections openly. Severus rubbed his hands along Hermione's legs which, while surprisingly cold, were incredibly smooth. Thinking back to the time he had spent enjoying himself between her thighs a few weeks ago, he started to question how her entire body, every single inch of her skin, could be so soft and smooth. He must've spent an especially long time stroking at a particular spot behind her knee, as she spoke up, answering his unspoken question.

"It's a spell that I invented in my first year." His head jerked up and he gave her a strong look. "What?" She didn't seem shocked at all.

"Spell making is an incredibly complex art. How did you manage to create one in your first year?" She smiled, leaned forward, and placed a kiss on his befuddled forehead.

"Are you forgetting, my dear, that you're talking to the girl that made a perfect batch of Polyjuice Potion in her second year?" Hermione raised her eyebrow in an imitation of him, not quite reaching his height but getting her point across nonetheless. "Besides. The thought of having to spend the rest of your life shaving your everything is motivation enough. Shaving the muggle way sucks. I couldn't believe that witches hadn't figured out a way to do it with magic yet."

He couldn't help but laugh. She had a point, although he had to admit that he didn't know the pain that women had to go through to shave their legs, but imagined that it couldn't be pleasant. And though he hated to admit it, he was glad that Hermione choosing to shave her lower regions seemed like a permanent decision. He wouldn't force her to do anything, but he admitted that he preferred the smooth feeling of her skin along his lips. And tongue. And in future his teeth. His thoughts led his body into a reaction and he could feel himself starting to get hard beneath her legs and he knew that he had to change the topic.

"This is true. Confess me impressed. I'm sorry to have offended." His tone was a mixture of playful and serious and it seemed to do the trick as she simply smiled at him and rested her head back against his shoulder. He continued to brush his hands along the cool skin of her legs, trying to get his thoughts to calm back down enough for him to be considered a respectable gentleman.

They stayed that way for what could have been hours, neither needing to check something as menial as time when they were together. It wasn't until the birds starting chirping and a faint light began to shine beneath Severus's window curtains that he finally moved. Looking down, he realized that Hermione had been asleep for the entire time. He had assumed that she had been as relaxed as he had been. Evidently he was right. It did something inside of him to know that she was comfortable enough with him that she felt safe enough to sleep. It made him feel all warm and fuzzy. Kissing her head, he spoke quietly to wake her.

"Hermione?" She let out the cutest of groans and snuggled down into him. "Hermione, love, wake up." Finding she could nuzzle no further, Hermione turned her head and looked up at him, her eyes tired and a sleepy smile on her face.

"Hey." Her voice was a little scratchy. He loved it.

"Hey." He brushed some hair back out of her eyes. "It's almost morning. You should get back to your room."

"Must I?" She groaned and placed a faint kiss against his lips. He kissed her back before replying.

"I'm afraid so. If you're found missing I shudder to think of what would happen. It's much better if you return to your own bed." Hermione shifted, standing up on her knees and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I suppose you're right." His hands followed her lead and wrapped around her waist, holding her in place. "But maybe it could wait a few minutes?" She cocked her head to the side and looked adorable. He couldn't resist.

"Very well, perhaps a few minutes more." She smiled and kissed him.

SSHGSSHG

Severus slept through the day and was surprised to find Hermione knocking at his door once again.

"We really must stop meeting like this." He smiled.

"And here I was thinking that we really must do it more often." She smiled back.

He took her hand and brought her inside, closing the door quietly behind her and silently putting up a few wards. He didn't want anyone barging in on them.

Severus led them back over to his bed, and they assumed the same position that they had the previous night, this time with Hermione draping her legs over his lap from the start. Clearly she had enjoyed his attentions there from the night before. Moving his hand behind her head, Severus brought Hermione in for a kiss. Or two. Or four. He lost count after four. He could feel her smile against his lips and knew that even with her no three-sixty rule that it was still wrong, but he couldn't help but feel how right it was. He cared about this girl. Deeply. And she cared about him. That should be all that mattered.

Pulling back, Severus looked down into her eyes and sighed. Most people found brown to be something of a bland color, but hers were the farthest thing from bland. Light brown with flecks of green and yellow and a mischievous glint behind them that he knew she would always possess. Her eyes felt like home.

Severus pulled her close to him, needing to feel her in his embrace. Placing a kiss on her head, he breathed her in, enjoying the scent of her hair. Strawberries, with an underlying tone of chlorine. The scent of the chemical sent him back to the previous month and his body started reeling at the memory. He could feel his cock start to get hard and knew that it wouldn't do well to deny himself for a second night. And Hermione did seem willing to have a little fun. What could it hurt?

Pulling back, he placed his hand on Hermione's ankle and start brushing his calloused hand along her soft skin, slowly making his way up to her knee, and then to her thigh. He repeated the process with her other leg and found Hermione to be completely relaxed against him, her head against his chest and quiet moans slipping out whenever he would hit a particular spot along her legs. She was like putty in his arms and he loved it.

Reaching the edge of her shorts, he traced along the edge, seeing if there would be any protest from the girl in his arms, and ran his hand up beneath the soft fabric. He pulled his hand out and pulled the top corner of her shorts down a few inches, exposing her hip bone and the small tattoo that rested there. Reminding himself to explore that later, he caressed her exposed skin, making her twitch in his arms. He was pleased with himself. He was doing well. Circling her hipbone with his thumb, he tilted her head back so her lips could meet his, briefly, and then moved her head to the side so he could access her neck. His lips ran along the small cords of muscle that he found there, wishing desperately that he could bite at her skin. Instead, he kissed, hard, and periodically ran his tongue along an area that he could tell made her moan and sigh just that much louder. Her hands were gripping hard along his waist, trying to pull him closer. He sighed against her skin, loving the taste of her warm skin.

"Sev."

Her voice was gold to him and he moved his hand from her hip to the edge of her shirt, ultimately slipping his hand underneath. The skin of her stomach was soft like the rest of her, but he could feel a hardness of muscle lying underneath. He continued moving his hand up along her ribcage, continuing his kisses along her neck. He was shocked when Hermione almost jumped completely out of his embrace, his hands clearly having found a sensitive spot.

Severus nearly choked on his own saliva when he discovered that she wasn't wearing a bra. He should've known, but she had chosen to wear another oversized shirt on this particular night and he hadn't gotten that good of a look at her chest before she had cuddled up to him. She had jumped because his hands had reached the expanse of particularly soft skin that resided at the base of her breasts, the tops of his knuckles brushing against her properly. His thumb ran along that line of soft skin, causing Hermione to shove her head against his shoulder, unsure of how to react to the pleasing sensation.

Severus removed his lips from her neck, allowing Hermione to move her head back up to face his. Her eyes were blazing, the embers he found in them directed completely into his own. This is what he had missed the previous month-- the primal light in her eyes that told him yes, more, please. He kissed her lips and brushed the palm of his hand along her nipple, swallowing down her gasp as he did so. It was a beautiful sound. Something that he rather desperately needed to hear again. He slid his fingers around the sides of her nipples, teasing her. He must have been doing something right, because she responded by rather abruptly biting his lip, despite her own rules. Bringing two fingers together, he pitched the poor tortured nipple gently, but enough to make her bite his lip again.

“Sev.” She sounded even more desperate this time. He loved it. Shifting, he moved her to lie back on his bed, her hair haloing around his pillows. She looked beautiful. Smiling down at her, his hands went to the bottom of her shirt, grasping it firmly. He pulled the offending garment over her head, receiving quite a bit of help from her. It stuck briefly on her head, but they managed to get her out of it just fine.

It was his first look at her bare breasts, and he confessed himself amazed. She was even more beautiful than he had expected. And that was truly saying something. Her breasts were slightly too large for her small body, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. Her nipples were small and looked like the perfect size to be sucked on. If only. It was a shame that that violated the three—sixty rule. Severus had a feeling that Hermione would be upset with her rules in a few short minutes. Then again, she did tend to violate them on the odd occasion, as demonstrated by her earlier biting of him. Severus would make due with what he could, meaning his lips and his tongue and his teeth, just not in an enclosed environment. He could make it work. He hoped.

He brought his hands up to lay gently on her breasts, just enjoying the feel of them. He tightened his grip slightly and confessed himself embarrassed at how much he enjoyed watching her soft flesh bulge between his spread fingers. He ran the tip of his index finger over one nipple, trying to gauge her reaction. Her body twitched and her eyes glowed. Severus had had a feeling that she would be the hyper responsive type. He was pleased that he was right.

He continued to tease at her nipple, running his finger around her, gently scrapping with his nail every now and again. He enjoyed watching her eyes as they slowly started to glaze over. He transitioned from using just the one finger to using both of his hands on her left breast, kneading and massaging her flesh. He was enjoying it far too much. He would cup at her breast and run his rough palms over her nipples and feel as her hips tried to arch up into his.

Severus couldn't help but look at her neglected right breast and wish that there were two of him. The nipple was straining and looked lonely compared to her left, which was receiving a double treatment. He decided to move his hands to her right breast and dropped down to run his tongue along the skin of her left. The tip of his tongue flicked at her nipple and traveled down to the bottom of her breast, teasing at the sensitive skin there. She was soft and warm and he was in love. He ran his tongue along the sides and up the valley between her breasts. His hands were busy with her right breast and he brought his teeth to her nipple, biting down and sucking on her for a moment, hoping desperately that she didn't notice that he was in violation of her rules. He reluctantly released her nipple, promising himself that he would spend hours and hours sucking on her once the nine months were up. Pulling back slightly, he touched the tip of his tongue to the tip of her nipple and gave short, quick licks. Hermione moaned, much louder than he had expected, and he appreciated it. Clearly she thoroughly enjoyed having her nipples played with. He would most definitely use that to his advantage in the future.

He moved his hands back to her now damp left breast and moved his mouth to her right, deeming it worthy of an equal amount of attention, if not more for having waited so patiently for him.

Severus teased at her perfect nipple again, this time deciding to spend some time on her breast proper as well. Her skin seemed to be just as sensitive as her nipple, and the licks that he was drawing up and down her breast seemed to be turning her on just as much. He decided that a mild violation would be worth it when he found a particular spot on the bottom of her breast that seemed to drive Hermione particularly wild. He sucked his little heart out, biting and licking at the spot as she moaned his named and gripped his head in her hands, keeping his mouth firmly planted there. He knew that it would bruise, wanted it to. He wanted to give her something to remember the experience by. To remember him by. And it was in an out of the way spot that would be covered even if she was in a bathing suit, so he didn't see the harm in leaving his mark.

His right hand left her breast and traveled along the side of her body, making her shiver and squirm, from want or from her just being ticklish he was unsure, but assumed that it was a good thing. He pressed his thumb nail into her hip before moving inward towards her shorts. He put as much of his weight as possible onto his knees and lifted his hips, sliding his hand into her shorts and beneath to her underwear. She was soaked completely through. He moaned around her flesh that was between his teeth and used a finger to circle around her clit. He dragged the tip of his finger down to the source of what he deemed to be everything good in the world and he desperately wanted to thrust his fingers inside of her. Damn her and her rules. They were harder on him than he got around her. For how much he hated it, Severus knew that it was just as difficult for her, if not more. She was the one who had implemented the rule, therefore she was the one who had to enforce it.

Still, he tried to work around the rule as much as possible and pressed his finger down, not in, her hot flesh wrapping around his finger rather than engulfing it. It would have to do. He got as much of her wetness as he could and brought it back up to her clit, providing an extra slickness to the skin there.

Severus removed his mouth from her breast and brought it up to her lips, kissing her hard. He licked along her lips so her mouth would open. They didn't need to have their tongues battle it out to have an openmouthed kiss. He simply just wanted to breathe the air that she did. His nail scratched at her clit and she moaned, Severus happily swallowing it down. He moved two of his fingers down to her entrance again, soaking them as much as he could, before removing them from her underwear and bringing them up to his face. He ripped his lips away from hers, not wanting to leave them, but still desperately wanting to taste her. He put both of his fingers into his mouth, relishing in the flavor that was completely her. He adored it. Hermione let out a large sigh at the sight and scratched her nails along his ribs, hoping he understood without words just what that sight did to her.

His fingers clean, Severus placed them back on her wet heat, their now cool feel creating an amazing contrast that left Hermione speechless. Moving his head back down, Severus kissed her, denying the rule again and thrusting his tongue into her mouth, just once. Just enough for her to get a taste of herself. Hermione moaned and pulled him closer, her hands tangled in his hair, tugging, making him moan in return. He denied her, keeping his tongue firmly in his mouth and battling her tongue out of his own when she tried to get another taste. She seemed adamant, so he did the next best thing.  Gathering as much of her between his fingers as her could, he pulled them up again and placed them against her lips. Her mouth opened instantly, drawing them both in. He quickly pulled his fingers out of her mouth, a scowl sternly in place on his face.

"You can share, or you won't receive any at all. Is that understood?" He had no idea where the sudden dominance came from, but he knew that he had definitely used his professor voice. He hadn't meant to, but it seemed to have worked. Hermione was nodding vigorously and trying to pull his arm closer. Severus split his fingers, giving his middle one to Hermione and bringing his index finger to his own mouth. They shared her taste between them, as well as Severus being treated to the taste of her mouth as well. They both went down as far as they possibly could on his fingers and their lips met awkwardly in the middle. It was at this point that Severus realized that they were still breaking her rule, but since they were both doing it, it didn't seem to matter as much.

Once his finger was clean from his end, he pulled them both from their mouths and sent them straight back down to her clit.

He was painfully hard and he knew that she could feel it. A finger on each side of her clit, he pressed down on his hand with his hips, grinding his erection into her center. The double sensation had her moaning into his mouth again, and he pulled back to look at her. Severus knew he was growing quickly obsessed with the current look on her face. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes were bright and glazed over with a brilliance that screamed his name. Her lips were swollen from his kiss and damp around the edges from sucking on his finger. She looked perfect.

Severus pressed down even harder and rearranged his hand so he could keep rubbing at her clit and teasing at her opening.

"Sev. Please." Her voice was almost nonexistent and he could feel her muscles start to clench near his fingers. He couldn't help himself and shoved two of his fingers deep inside of her and she screamed out, her orgasm overtaking her. He pulled out and drove his fingers inside of her two, three times more before she finally relaxed, coming down with his name on her lips.

He was still desperately hard, but he knew that tonight wasn't about him. He didn't want it to be. It was about her. Shifting to the side, he pulled his very wet hand out of her shorts, casting a charm to clean her clothing. He started to lick his hand, watching her as he did so. Her body was slowly returning to earth, her eyes barely open as she looked at him.

"Don't go turning me on again. I can't be held accountable for my actions if you do." Her voice was quiet, but cute. He laughed and charmed his hand clean, wishing that he would have been able to finish cleaning her off of his skin himself. For her, he refrained.

"As tempting as that sounds, I'm afraid I have some other things to take care of." He gestured vaguely towards his crotch. Hermione's eyes followed his hand and her eyes widened. Severus was momentarily confused before realizing that it was the first time that Hermione had seen him hard. Granted he was completely clothed, but he still provided an imposing pictured. He smirked internally, pleased that she was pleased with him and his size.

"Whelp, now you've done it. Turned on again." She moved to get up, rising to her knees, her breasts looking very enticing on her bare chest. Her hands moved to his shoulders, her eyes firmly set on their goal. "Allow me to- "

"-Oh no. You've had your fun for the night. It's time you get to bed. I can take care of this." She harrumphed and sat back on her legs, her lip stuck out petulantly. "Honestly. I'll be alright. And you look tired." He tried to make his voice as soothing as possible, and it seemed to work. Looking like she was going to give in, Hermione tried one more thing.

"Can I at least watch?" Nearly choking, Severus shot out a firm "No!"

Seeming to realize what he just exposed of himself, he tried a different approach.

"I promise my darling that next time, you can do what you will of me. How does that sound?" Hermione's eyes lit up and Severus wondered if perhaps he had made a mistake.  "Alright. I suppose that shall have to do." She kissed his lips and got off the bed, walking towards the door. She paused before it, her hands behind her back, her bottom lip between her teeth, still missing her shirt.  "Forgetting something?" Severus summoned her shirt to his hand and got off the bed, enjoying the blush that ran across her face and down to her chest.

"Oops."

"Oops, indeed. I will not have you galavanting through the halls shirtless. That view is for I and I alone." His face was stern, but his eyes were light.

Severus smiled and helped Hermione into her shirt. When it was on properly, he frowned and missed her breasts immediately. Then he took a better look at her shirt. Whose shirt was that anyway.

"Whose shirt is that, anyway?" The question came out of his mouth before he realized it. Hermione looked down, holding the shirt away from her and took a good look at it.

"Fred's, I think? Maybe George's? I'm not sure, I stole it a few years ago." Severus's eyes grew darker than night.

"Well we can't have any of that." He pulled the shirt promptly off Hermione's body, completely missing the squeak that she let out. Reaching down, he pulled his own sweaty shirt off of his body and onto hers. It looked much better.

"There. That's much better." Hermione stood there with an incredulous look on her face, silently asking him what was going on in his head. He answered. "I refuse to have a Weasley touching your breasts. Even if it's just via a shirt." Hermione nodded and smiled down at her feet, silently loving his open jealousy. She eyed his chest briefly before standing on the tips of her toes, her hands balancing her body on his shoulders. She kissed him with a love she hadn't previously known that she was capable. With a final, gentle kiss to his lips, she bid him goodnight and began the journey back down to her shared room.

The night itself had been amazing, his confident possession of her even better, but what truly had her floating down the hallway was what had happened right at the end. The trust that he had presented to her. The comfort. She wasn't even sure that he realized it. He had taken his shirt off and given it to her. Without any sort of preemptive measures.

He had let her see his scars.

Hermione smiled and shut the door behind her. She slept soundly that night, her nose snuggled into the shirt of her lover. She breathed deeply and dreamed of the man she loved.

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