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jolalibrary · 6 months ago

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met you once, saw you thrice

lucien flores x f!reader

summary: the first time, he kissed you. the second time, you found yourselves in a bathroom. the third time, well, the third time.

warnings: 18+ smut, fingering aka hands go inside underwear under a tree. not-friends to not-lovers. tension. lots of references to past debauchery. slight mention of lucien's sobriety. lots of plot for some sexy rewards. wc: 5.3k an: this is my submission to summer lovin', brought to you by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery and @amanitacowboy. i got Lucien, and this gorgeous moodboard. im a touch nervous about this man as i usually need the source material to write, so be kind. huge thanks to @pedgito for hand holding and to my circle for lifting me when i kept falling.

You shouldn’t be here.

That’s what you think, hovering under the white canopy away from the sun, surrounded by expensive bottles of champagne chilling in silver buckets, their labels catching the flickering candlelight strategically placed around the sprawling garden.

Another bead falls down your glass, the ice in your drink melting. Thick rolls of condensation drip over your knuckles, along your hand, and down your wrist. Each one falls like rain, landing on the flowy skirt of your summer dress.

It's a new purchase, far too expensive, the label tucked inside, hidden away—pressing and cutting into your skin when you move—doing so each time you nod and over-pronounce a hello to those draped in designers and silk, while the grill sizzles and steams as more is added to it.

You shouldn’t be here because you don’t belong.

Not an actor, not someone on stage; not a writer or a producer. Not the girlfriend of one either. Just a friend of a friend—one ditched, left to ferment with the salad wilting in the warm temperatures as Smith flits between flirting with a waiter and the one he really wants.

You’re not sure why you let him convince you to come. Even as you take another sip, glancing at the time on your wrist, the free food and drink are slowly becoming less worth it. Assessing through sideward glances where the hand needs to be before you can dismiss the worries of being a bad friend and hail a cab.

Not that Smith would notice.

To him, you had completed your role, and earned your accolade in his eyes—the role of not allowing him to come to this alone. It would be criminal to do that. To let him arrive at a house tucked into acres, with Dom Perignon on tap and a grill larger than your kitchen.

You know you should be grateful Smith hadn’t traded you for his new friends. The ones who walk red carpets and call him Smithy. You suppose you should also be thankful he brings you so you can take home stories that make you not hate that you live in a studio apartment and work a 9 to 5.

It’s hard not to be bitter right now. On your own. Exhaling and staring around, wearing that plastered-on half-smile perfected from shitty customer service jobs.

Bringing your glass back to your lips, doing one last sweep before you sneak out, fighting the scent of split open apricots and pungent flowery perfume, you see him. Spot him. The crowd practically parting for him to come into view, creating a gap that would make a romantic swoon.

But, you’re no romantic—more thrillers and mysteries on your nightstand than meet cutes and midnight kisses. If anything, you’re more a cynic, a twisted-up, poisoned hater of hand-holding and Sunday mornings.

Especially when it comes to him.

Lucien Flores.

His name echoes around your skull in the same way it did when it was first introduced to you. Dropped to you, honeyed and elongated as though by stretching it out, you’d fall under some spell as he seated himself beside you—a deck of cards in hand.

Tipping the glass, your mouth fills with lemonade, holding his gaze—willing to do so until your eyes burn, until it feels impossible. All stubborn to a fault. Obstinate and arrogant.

You’re saved as a group moves in between the two of you—breaking it for you.

And you decide, rather quickly, it’s time to move—hoping the sight of your back will be enough for him not to press further.

You’re not counting—but he waits an hour.

Crosses the garden, where the tables have moved into standing groups around various points of the green. Some have stood to mingle, to mill around with their flutes and their tales of marriage, honours, and complaints once the grilling finished and the bubbles got to some of the louder women. Others begin the garden games, the ones which had no rules but also had some, as though the aim was to confuse rather than create fun.

Smith had returned between the salad being offered and the grilled steaks. A leaf between his fingers, he whispered he was going back to his tennis match. A twinkle in his eye, a kiss to your forehead, a promise there but one that never really seals itself or makes itself solid. Just confirms that your use was done—You don’t have to wait for me, pumpkin.

A nickname which had once made you smile and now just makes your heart lurch when you let go of his hand and watch him vanish into the house.

One person who hasn’t vanished is Lucien. It surprises you that he’s waited so long to make his approach. Almost as surprising as it is to see him, having heard rumours he’d landed a role in a movie—something British, remote, taking him overseas.

But he’s here. All brown eyes that attempt to drown you, pull you under—dig into you. You feel you should be used to them; they’ve been fixed on you for so long. Soaking you in deep chocolate, thick enough to make it feel like it’s hard to move, to fight it—akin to sludge, mud—as he begins to smirk as he nears.

And maybe he remembers too.

Able to recall a time similar to this. Not the first, but the second. When instead of barbecues and setting suns, it had been wine, cheese and a much later evening. Card games having caused outrage, shrieked words from a woman who should have been cut off a while ago, having caused you to slip out, escape to the first-floor bathroom. Finding he followed.

Don’t think about him—

The opposite sprouts so easily, you have to wonder what soil lives in your mind.

Because, of course, you had thought about it, about him. More than you should. Heat gliding up your neck now, making you shift your shoulders as the straps of your dress cut in, as you do. You think about how his lips felt on the juncture of your neck when you sit in conference calls, and how his hips had dipped before you felt his hardening cock slide over your covered ass. At night, you think about how it feels to have his thick fingers sliding open the button and zip of your pantsuit, how they’d slid inside your new lace undies and collected your slick to enjoy a taste.

The more you stopped yourself, the worse it became. Craving him when the moon was at its highest, hand delving between your thighs as you tried to replicate all the places he touched. Wanting, needing—desperately desiring until you arched from your sheets, sprinkled in sweat as you hissed his name out between gritted teeth.

That’s all you allow.

No second-glances passing newspaper stands when he makes the front page, no secret Google searches when you were frustrated and impossibly lonely. Knowing, and comprehending, that if you did, it would only lead to further disappointment. It would land you somewhere close to remembered disinterest, like those times when you’d found yourself sat across from charm and wit—making you disassociate when your palm rested on white linen with a candle flickering in the middle as you hoped, prayed, internally begged for a comment on how nice you’d looked.

Not again.

Never again.

So, you placed him where you suspected he had placed you. Out of sight, out of mind. Yours a box, right at the back of your mind—the lid sliding free when you needed release, and only then. It marked in thick Sharpie: a good time, even better cock, but comes with baggage.

It’s why you stand as he takes the final steps to you, your hand retrieving your glass, only to find it empty, drained, with only the little bits of fruit and a smidge of ice at the bottom. But his hands were not.

Extending one to you, one that looked close to the one you’d been enjoying—all mint leaves and lemon slices swimming in lemonade.

“What are the chances?”

You snort, taking a sip. “You’ve used that line.”

“Have I?”

“The last time.”

It’s his turn to snort. Staring. Looking you up and down in a soft drag that makes your stomach flip and your skin prickle with heat.

“Next you’ll tell me your name, tell me that you’re a movie star and that you’ve not seen me around.”

For a second, he gives you a silent stare, eyes speaking volumes that you couldn’t hear as he chews his tongue, and flicks his eyes from your chest back to your face once, twice. “Does it make you nervous when I stare?”

Swallowing, wrapping a hand around your middle, you smile—cold, wickedly. “No.”

“S’that why you won’t look at me?”

You eye him, as he does you. Despising that he looks good—that it’s another silk shirt, slightly unbuttoned, similar gold chains hanging from his neck. Hating that he looks so broad, that you remember how it feels to have them spreading your legs, how his chest feels pressed to your back with his cock in your pussy.

Loathing that right now, as you will a quip, a response, your thigh remembers how his palm felt on it as he held it and speared into you. How much of a mess he made of you, that you’d come so hard you’d seen galaxies and not just stars.

“Never known you to be this qui—”

Scowling at him through your eyebrows, you slide your lips into your cheek and straighten your spine. “Do I still look nervous?”

Your pulse quickens as he takes another step closer. His aftershave smothers you. It’s wooden and earthy this time, it flooding your senses as blood hammers in your ears. Every muscle in your frame going taught, tight—so close to snapping that you expect with one breath you’d play a tune like a harp.

Scoffing, a roll of his eyes and he’s taking a long drink of his water—a pebble of it remaining on his lower lip, it commanding to be stared at, to be wiped, to be noticed and applauded like the rest of him as he replies no.

You’re quick not to react, to let pride flood your expression. Something warning you against it, telling you not to—especially when he places his bottle down. The sound echoes out in the quietness of the moment.

“You do look fucking miserable though.”

There it is. Expecting it, the doorway to show itself so he can use a line to cheer you up, to have you smiling, as though he’s a gift. His cock might be, not that you’ll admit it—not even if he begged, if he pleaded.

“Maybe that’s because this asshole keeps staring at me.”

“You think I’m an asshole?”

Eyes narrowing, head tilting to the side as you shrug. “I don’t think you’re not an asshole.”

Rolling his lips, pursing them, before they flatten into a line—hand stroking the hair along his chin, his jaw, he bathes in it, your insult. Let it simmer, cook, before clearing his throat. “Is that why you gave me a fake number?”

Your mouth falls open. Your eyes quickly widen—all cards gone, knocking the air out of your lungs as your heart slams into your stomach for different reasons as he sneers, and shakes his head.

“Enjoy your drink.”

“I—I…”

But, he’s already turned his back.

While a perfectly good exit window had cracked itself open for you, you don’t take it.

Even if it would have allowed you to bid the ache in the arch of your foot goodbye, slide out with the people moving into the house to avoid the chill and those making their own escape.

But, guilt gnawed, chewed. It there ruminating when you catch sight of his silk shirt between other guests. When the scent of his aftershave lingered in the air when you stepped inside to catch your breath from having to re-explain what it is you do to the same people you had done hours ago.

You know he’s presenting a chance to leave, yet your hand grabs another glass bottle of water, the lemon slice bobbing around as you venture down the lit path no one else seems to be trekking.

The one you know he escaped down earlier, seeing it after you’d heard some of them talking about him—the man who doesn’t settle, the one who’s clean but not really clean, the one who has talent and charm, and they wonder in their hushed voices if his cock is really as big as it’s rumoured.

It took all you had to bite back that it is, wanting to point out you’d discovered it in one of their new bathrooms only three months ago.

You pause when you reach the end of the path as it morphs into perfectly manicured grass. Feet sliding from your shoes as you grab the straps, wondering what you’re doing—cursing yourself as your chest heaves and presses roughly against the too-expensive fabric as you question all life choices.

Because you wouldn’t survive him.

A man too big for you, who wouldn’t fit in your world. There’d be no farmers markets and Chinese takeout boxes in bed; no quaint coffee shops and sharing of woes of the day. It would be unbalanced, wrong, awkward, in the same way, it would be if you let him step into your shoebox of an apartment and battle feeling smaller than you do when you’re alone.

Adventure, you think.

He’d said that the first time—when his fingers had wrapped around your wrist and tugged you further into someone's hedge you didn’t know. All green leaves and the scent of flowers sticking to your skin as his mouth pressed to yours. He’d repeated it in the bathroom, your palm flush to the white tiles above the sink—clawing at grout as he hissed it in your ear, filling you, making your mouth contort around a moan of his name as he dragged his cock in and out of your puffy, needy hole.

You suppose adventures are fleeting, not ever after.

Something momentary, nothing serious.

You wonder if he’s actually an adventure or if he just thinks he is. Whether he struggles to leave the fun of who he plays or whether it bleeds into him—a patchwork personality of who he’s had to morph into. It gives him the tools to be an escape, becoming a pause from the mundane, but nothing that stretches itself out passed an evening into the daytime.

When you spot him, your adventure has his phone in hand—spinning it, round and around. Lit cigarette between his lips, the tip burning, paper crisping.

“You seem like trouble.”

Lucien doesn’t turn, but he hears your announcement.

The phone pauses in its 180—it catching the light flickering in the tree above, making the leaves and branches more ominous than they do surrounded by the vivid oranges and reds of the sunset, all fiery intensity. As though the horizon itself had caught fire from the tension, the sun sinking slowly into it, leaving a trail of molten gold and crimson streaks.

“Trouble?” he asks, deep, guttural—caked in smoke and disbelief.

“Trouble.”

Taking another step closer, you stop close to his side. Handing him the bottle, feeling him take it as drop your shoes and stare in the same direction he is—taking in the shades as they deepen before the sun bids the day goodbye.

“That realisation come before or after you came on my cock?”

Nostrils flaring, you regret finding him almost instantly. Shame blooming, filling you from stomach to throat. “A-after.”

He makes a noise, and leaves you in the cold of his mood. To the point, you question again what it is you’re doing. Why you fucking care. Because you don’t. Not really. There’s nothing to know, to latch to—no feelings that could become anything more than a crush.

Incompatible, you think. Incompatible. Incompatible. Incompatible—

“You brought me water.”

His head turns, takes you in—and sweeps you in the familiar brown from earlier. And this time, you let it hang on your shoulders like a sweater. Let it warm you, and bring you comfort. Allow it to smother the shame and force it to seep away as he blows out rings of smoke.

It quickens in its retreat when he pushes off from the trunk, pocketing his phone—it stretching the pocket of his dark jeans as you will yourself not to stare at the bulge already there.

“I did.” It’s matter of fact, no further questions—head dipping, a tightness forming as you shake your head and exhale. “I… I just don’t think your sobriety is a joke.”

You feel his gaze snap to you as the words hang—stringing themselves together like twinkling lights. Unwilling again to meet him, wondering if he was thinking about it, that first time. When a sentence was said in response to a casual joke as the two of you hid out of view. It was made by someone you didn't know, at a party where people pretended to be friends when really they were trying to belittle one another, and Smith pretended he wasn’t in love with the older man he’s vying for.

His cigarette is almost out when you look at him, the lit end illuminating his face in some ways, and casted shadows in others. But, you could see his eyes searing—likely able to even in the darkest night. It etches into you as he takes another drag, as your nose tries to capture the scent of it, it so him, a thing which comes to you when you’re close from your own hand, blotched by it.

“Do you have a collection of silk shirts or something?”

Smirking, blowing a smoke ring between the two of you. “Do you not like my shirts?”

Breathing, you fight saying I do. Not enjoying that you think of how they feel between your thighs when he'd spread you with his thumb when his tongue had licked from clit to hole and made you sob.

“They’re okay.”

“Liar.”

Snorting, you roll your eyes. “Says you.”

“She miss me?” Stuffing the cigarette under his shoe, leaning the water against the base of the tree as his chains catch the light as he straightens. “Bet she’s missed me.”

“She?”

His lips curl, eyes flicking down to the place your thighs meet, before he hauls them back up.

And it’s instant, the way heat floods your cheek, pussy fluttering around nothing—remembering.

The noise is first, recalling whispering sweet nothings as he slid inside you in one thrust. Next is the feel of him, the stretch, how impossible it had felt as he kept going, and going, until those fingers, thick and dexterous slid over your swollen nerves. Then, there’s the aftershave, the same as he’s wearing tonight. How it mixed with smoke and liquor, and roses and expensive hand soap—

“D-don’t flatter yourself.”

But you swallow, give it away. Shaky on two legs as you try to look unfazed.

Because you’re pulsing between your legs, starving, aching. Trying to blink back memories of his tongue, of his thigh, or his crooked smile in the mirror as he repeated your name, over and over, like it held weight—like it lived on his tongue and in his mind—

“Parched, are you?”

“Parched?” you hiss. “Who the fuck even are you? Who the fuck says parched—”

Snorting harshly, leaning in his stance as he shrugs, “Oh, you know who I am. I’m baby, baby, right there, baby, I’m gonna come, Luci—”

In a step, your chest is flush with his—hands steadying you on your hips as your palm flattens to his words. You’re aware of him smirking, gloating, right against your skin; feeling the wiry hair around his mouth scratching at you, the same one that left your skin raw and irritated from lapping up the taste of you both before sending you back out to smile.

Lowering your hand, you become conscious of how close you are and how his fingers spread out, holding you tighter, keeping you pinned against him as you descend into his web all over again. Embers spreading out, electricity pulsing out from where his fingers touch you over your dress, as your body recognises, identifies.

“I’m trying not to be an asshole.”

“Is that what you’re doing…”

His hand reaches up, stroking your cheek, thumb caressing your lower lip as you take in a deep breath. “Tell me you don’t want me to make you come.”

You should. But, you don’t.

Instead, you close your mouth around his thumb, swirling the tip of it with your tongue as he grunts, right in the back of his throat before he slips it out with a pop. A second brews, and then another before his mouth crashes to yours, all impatient, hungry—rough. Lips parting for him as you feel him lick into your mouth, tasting cigarettes and lemon, at the same time as your back meets bark.

And you’re desperate, yearning.

Tugging him close, palms sliding over silk as you make a note that it’s softer than the faux-paint-splattered one. More velvety, smooth. Hooking your hands around the back of his neck as you pull him closer, practically feeling each breath as coolness slides up your leg, the heel of his hand gliding behind as he bunches the fabric in his hand, his jean-covered thigh coming up between yours as you hiss into his mouth at the contact. Lost in it, in him.

In how intoxicating he is, how wrong it is, clawing at him to come closer, to touch you, whining as he teases you by rocking his knee and slides his palm to cup your breast through your dress. Thumb expertly hardening your nipple, tongue lathing over a spot on your neck that has you keening.

You forget, for a moment, blissfully allow yourself to until he’s pulling at it—tugging at the label as you try to pull his face up.

“Shit, Lucien, no.”

He grunts. Not mockingly, but not full of surprise either. “Planning on returning this?”

Clenching your teeth, you take a breath—needing air to fill your brain to help you think. To ignore the way your lips are swollen and your underwear is already soaked and pressing to his thick thigh.

“Yes.”

“You look too fuckin’ good in this dress to return it.”

“Well unless you’re going to buy it, I have no other choice—”

“I’ll buy it.”

“No you fucking won’t.”

Because it would be wrong.

More than an exchange of your body, more than a mutual appreciation and hunger and need. It would be a gift. A something more. A thing that would fester in your closet and make you hope when you see it, make you dream when your finger slides over the fabric.

“Lucien.”

His fingers drop it, let it hang—the tag. Both your embarrassment and the price of it, just there, as his lips slide down your jaw.

“You won’t want to return it. You’ll want to see it hung in your closet—bury your fingers in your underwear as you stare at it, thinking of this.” Teeth grazing over your pulse, tongue swirling a signature you suspect is his own. “You’ll think of me when you stick that toy in your pussy, wishing it was me, turn it on right between your perfect fucking thighs and—”

You blame his fingers ghosting over your upper thigh for what you let escape, let slip free. “Already think of you.”

Pausing, his shoulders bow—somehow becoming even broader before his head comes up from his place buried in your neck. You see it, words, kindness—a bunch of things he could likely reel off that would make you ruin the wet patch on your gusset even wider.

But he ingests them, consumes them like they never existed. A different offered kindness, you suppose—as though he knows, can see, and begins to understand.

“Be rude of me not to say hi to her then.”

“Why do you…”

His thumb hooks into one side of your underwear, dragging it from its place. Aware of it, the way he’s gentle in shifting the fabric down, handing you the bunched-up dress with a pointed stare, before he’s teasing your lace from between your slick, soaked core. Tugging it down your thighs, eyes not breaking from yours, exhaling as he licks his lips at the sight of you bare to him in the middle of someone's fucking garden.

“Lift?”

And you do, without question. Taking a deep inhale in, closing your eyes, hand covering your face as you lift one foot, then the other.

Finding him staring when you look down. Ogling. Admiring you like what is there between your thighs is some art piece, an exhibit, a thing he’d queue for—as he pockets your panties.

“I’m keeping these.”

“Lucien…”

His hand urging yours to take the balled-up fabric of your dress as he rises, places kisses on your outer thighs, dragging his face slowly up your frame—breath fanning out, somehow feeling it under your layers.

“I’m. Keeping. Them.”

You swallow, silently surrendering. Back of your head flat against the tree as his hands nudge your thighs to part.

“Gorgeous.” He whispers. “You’re so gorgeous—prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

A protest readying, but stolen as one of his thick fingers slides over and through your folds. Knowing you, understanding you. Standing as he drags your slick to your desperate, swollen clit, swirling it, massaging it as you hiccup his name and forget all about his compliment and chase his lips instead. Instead, your hips move on instinct, desiring—determined to find more friction even as he just slowly draws a circle.

You know he’s grinning. Cockily. Frame pressing to you as you feel his hard cock against your thigh—hips keeping you pinned. Fixed.

“You want my fingers? Let me give you my fingers, baby.”

Nodding, fingers tangling in his curls you say it, more in a whisper, something close to a whine: yes, please, yes—

Aware of the heaviness in the air, how thick it feels, even in the breeze. In the same way, you’re aware of the way he breathes good girl. It makes you shudder, yearn, more so when he slides his fingers down from your clit and works two into you.

You gasp. Almost crying out. Unable to stop yourself when he curls them inside of you, bearing down on him, squeezing him, hand releasing your dress as your fingers grip his forearm.

“Want me to stop?”

Shaking your head, no, no, no—

“Good,” he breathes, kissing the side of your mouth. “She’s the best pussy I’ve ever had my fingers in.”

You almost hiss your bet that he says that to all the girls. But, your teeth grit. Not wanting him to stop. Not as your head tilts, eyes opening to see the navy blue smothering burnt orange, blurring the afternoon into the night through your lashes. Shh, he coaxes, as your nails dig into the bark, as he finds that spot inside of you that makes you dizzy, makes you pant. He works it, makes you roll your hips and his palm catches your clit in teased movements—

“Feel so good clenching down on me.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs, and buries it right into your neck as he nips, as he grazes his teeth over your skin. “You tell me one thing but she’s giving you away, baby. Telling me all your secrets.”

Your hand tightens around the fabric in your palm, mouth falling open, paused around words that won’t appear—

“Said you’d tried to make your fingers feel like mine. But they just, wouldn’t, do.”

Each word is punctuated by his fingers fucking into you, crooked, making you messier, wetter, hearing the evidence of it, all filthy, obscene. Enough to get you barred from one of these events again.

Good you almost think, until his mouth slants over yours. Then, it’s bad. Very bad. Each flick of his wrist, and curve of his fingers solidifies it. How bad it would be to lose this, to lose him. The man who has your vision spotting, darkening in the corners.

“Fuck me, Lucien. Please—”

“Not tonight.”

Blinking, hearing it over and over: not tonight, not tonight, not tonight. Your body is lit, more electric than skin and muscle. Thrumming, vibrating bone against blood as he drags his moistened lips against your cheek.

“That’s it. Give it to me, can feel you squeezin’. I know you’re close, baby. So, soak my fingers, want you to stain them, make—”

You come somewhere amid his sentence—right when he kisses you properly. When he presses his vulgar words to your mouth and curls his fingers to meet that spot that has you arching, tensing and chasing. It’s maddening, and everything else before that. Hitting you, and exploding out—something like liquid fire erupting through you as you bear down on his fingers. Each cry and whine muffled by his mouth, by his tongue licking past your teeth and his hips being flush to yours. Pinning.

Because he doesn’t slow or stop even as you tremble. Not doing so until you’re gasping, frayed, all shaking nerves and splintered edges. Lucien swallows each heaved and hissed version of his name until you’re nudging him with your forehead, face scrunching, fingers pushing on his forearm until he retracts.

And, like it does in the movies, your dress falls back down into place. Creased, likely ruined. But nonetheless perfect to anyone who may glance.

Not that you care. Not as you chase normal breaths, as you blink and he comes back into vision, all ridiculously handsome and wide, brown eyes.

Because he’s watching you, seeing his lips curl into his cheek, fingers being brought to his mouth before he wraps his tongue around them. Licks and sucks you clean from them—

It makes you breathe heavier. Want more.

Even on shaky legs, you take a step closer to be flush to him. Arms sliding around his neck, finding your mouth glues back to his as though it should be there. Tasting yourself now, discerning it from the other things he’s enjoyed tonight.

“You do make me nervous when you stare.”

He gives a short laugh, hand on the back of your neck, tugging you back so he can stare into your soul. Something there. Something hurt that has healed all wrong, left things poisoned and rotten as you.

“You know I’m too fucked to be anyone’s anything, right?”

You smile, fingers teasing the hair on the back of his neck. Swallowing, seeing it shift back—the usualness of the two of you.

“See, this is where I think you’re an asshole.”

“For being honest?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head—lips ghosting over his. “Because I think you’re a liar. I think you’d kill to be something, never mind an anything.”

Smirking, but you suspect he stops it from being a smile. Offering silence, instead of a lie—a thing that’ll hurt and sting.

“You going to keep the dress?”

Shrugging, offering a roll of your eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

“You think I could have your number now?”

Biting your lip, you tug on a particular curl. Hearing a dull yelp, watch him narrow his eyes. “I think you can have an email address and take it from there.”

Snorting, he tilts his head back as the both of you hear a commotion from the other end of the garden. Private time likely ending, his name called out in confusion by the same high-pitched voices you’re sure were comparing his inch size earlier.

“I fucking hate these things.”

“Yet you come to them every time,” you reply.

And then his head moves; stares at your side profile as you pretend not to notice. “So do you.”

So you do, you think.

hope you enjoyed! this was so much fun, and also so scary. but i did it, wahayyy. now, i should admit, i may have fallen for him...

npt's [added from the liked post]: @yorksgirl @maggiemayhemnj @janaispunk @sawymredfox @angiewatson

@survivingandenduring @saradika @purplerain04

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rynwritesreid · 1 year ago

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Mind Games~Spencer Reid

Chapter one~Genius 2.O

Chapter summary: You have just graduated from the FBI’s academy and a new member of the BAU’s team. Throughout your time at the academy you had heard so many great stories about the legendary Dr Reid and couldn’t wait to work along side him. However, Dr Reid is not your biggest fan and doesn’t know how to cope with someone being smarter than him.

Chapter warnings: Mention of a case (no details though) Fem! Reader. Angst. Spencer is mean in this and hates reader (though that will change in chapter four).

A/N: This series was requested, and it’s probably going to be the only time I do a requested series “A series where reader works at bau and she's as smart if not smarter then Reid and somehow you pick they end up in a relationship with dom Spencer”. I hope everyone enjoys it, and yes there will be smut in the near future ;).

~mind games masterlist~

~Join the taglist for mind games~

While you were in the academy, you heard all the stories about the genius who worked in BAU called Dr Spencer Reid. He is a man of such high intelligence, with three PH. Ds, an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory, one who was well known to show of how smart he is and one who did not easily back down. He is the stuff if legends.

You, well you, are also the stuff of legends. You didn’t believe in telling people your IQ score, because you didn’t think it really mattered, but it was high, higher than Spencer’s. You had a photographic memory, which many people often compared to Spencer’s one, but you would have to tell them the difference between an eidetic memory and a photographic memory.

You watched all your peers around you talk about what division of the FBI they were applying for, many were going for counterterrorism and financial crimes, but you had your eyes on the BAU. You knew all about how it was a close nit family, how Hotch and Rossi were like fathers to the entire group. You wanted nothing more than to be a part of that team, that family.

And so, with a determination fuelled by your own exceptional intellect and a burning desire to join the ranks of the BAU, you set out on a path that would lead you down a road less travelled. While your peers were focusing on their chosen divisions, you dedicated every waking moment to studying the minds of criminals, honing your profiling skills, and pushing the limits of your own mental faculties.

Your name was everywhere with in bureau, you were being called the newest genius, one who was going to make a name for herself, and one who was going to take the FBI by storm.

Unit Chief Agent Hotchner had heard whispers of your brilliance echoing through the halls of the FBI. He had seen your name pop up on his colleagues' reports, accompanied by glowing praise and commendations. Curiosity piqued, he decided to dig a little deeper, intrigued by the prospect of a new prodigy joining their ranks.

Hotchner delved into your background, poring over your academic achievements and accolades. He was astounded by the breadth of your knowledge and the depth of your understanding in various fields. Your impressive IQ score and photographic memory only added to his intrigue. It became clear to him that you possessed a unique blend of intellect and intuition that would be an invaluable asset to the BAU.

He knew he had to have you in the BAU, he knew that you, Reid, and Garcia would be an unstoppable force. So, when he saw your application to join his team, he knew you were going to get the job.

So, when you got the call, telling you your application had been successful, you couldn’t quite believe that you had landed your dream job.

It was your first day, Hotch was showing you around, who’s desk belong to who, where your desk was. It felt surreal, being in this building, been employed by the FBI, knowing you were going to be working alongside Dr Spencer Reid.

As Hotch led you through the bustling bullpen, you couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling within you. The stories you had heard about Dr. Spencer Reid made him almost mythical in your mind, and now you were about to meet him in person.

Finally, Hotch stopped in front of a neatly organized desk and gestured for you to take a seat. "This will be your workspace," he said, his voice steady and commanding. "Make yourself at home."

You settled into the chair, taking a moment to soak in the atmosphere of the room. Each member of the team had their own unique personality reflected in their workspace. Penelope Garcia's desk was adorned with colourful trinkets and gadgets, her vibrant energy apparent even in her absence.

Spencer’s desk though, it was almost bare, there were a few files and books, but nothing fun, nothing that showed what his personality was like. You couldn't help but be intrigued by the stark contrast between Spencer's desk and the others. It seemed to reflect his focused and analytical nature, an embodiment of his dedication to the work they did at the BAU. As you settled into your chair, your eyes wandered over the shelves filled with books on various subjects - psychology, criminology, philosophy. Each book seemed well-loved and well-worn, evidence of Spencer's insatiable thirst for knowledge.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn't notice that someone had entered the bullpen until Hotch's voice broke through the silence. "Spencer, I'd like you to meet our newest addition," he said, gesturing toward you.

You stood up, you almost felt star struck, but Spencer didn’t seem to care. He glanced at you with his piercing gaze, his eyes scanning your face as if studying every detail. There was an intensity in his expression that sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but feel a mixture of apprehension and fascination in his presence.

"Hello," you managed to say, your voice filled with a nervous tremor. "It's an honour to meet you, Dr. Reid."

Spencer nodded, a slight tilt of the head that conveyed acknowledgement rather than warmth. "Likewise," he replied curtly, his attention already shifting back to the stack of files in his hands.

You couldn't help but feel a slight pang of disappointment at Spencer's aloofness. You had built up this image in your mind of the legendary Dr. Reid, someone who would be eager to share knowledge and engage in stimulating conversations. But here he was, seemingly indifferent to your presence.

Everyone else seemed to love you though, Derek had made a few flirtatious comments, Emily, JJ, and Garcia had invited you to go grab some drinks with them, Hotch and Rossi had told you good coping mechanisms, but Spencer seemed to be annoyed any time you spoke, or laughed, or really did anything. Everyone told you that’s just how he is when he doesn’t know you, but it still hurt.

You were determined to prove yourself to Spencer, to earn his respect and break through the cold exterior he seemed to present. You knew that gaining his trust and acceptance would not come easily, but you were ready to put in the effort.

Though the days turned into weeks and then into months, Spencer's demeanour towards you remained unchanged. He continued to keep his distance, always engrossed in his work, rarely acknowledging your presence unless absolutely necessary. It hurt, but you refused to let it deter you from your goal.

You poured yourself into each case, determined to prove your worth to the team. You spent countless hours analysing crime scenes, studying victimology, and delving deep into the minds of the perpetrators. Your keen intuition and sharp analytical skills began catching the attention of your colleagues.

You thought this might change Spencer’s mind about you, but it seemed to make him hate you. JJ had told that Spencer was used to being the smartest, everyone praising him, but you seemed to be smarter than him and that wasn’t something he was used too. But you couldn’t and you wouldn’t change who you are just to make someone feel better about themselves.

But the tension between you and Spencer continued to simmer beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment. It was as if there was an unspoken competition, an invisible battle of intellects that neither of you were willing to back down from.

Despite the strained relationship, the BAU team continued to function like a well-oiled machine. Cases were solved, perpetrators were apprehended, and lives were saved. But there was always that lingering tension between you and Spencer, like an unresolved chord in an otherwise harmonious symphony.

One particularly gruelling case tested the limits of everyone's mental and emotional resilience. The team had been chasing a prolific serial killer who seemed to always be one step ahead. Sleepless nights and relentless hours of research had taken a toll on everyone, yourself included.

You were at your breaking point, not knowing why you couldn’t solve this case, and Spencer’s attitude problem with you was the cherry on top of the cake. You knew you had to say something to him, because you knew you couldn’t carry on like this.

Taking a deep breath, you approached Spencer's desk after everyone else had left for the night. His eyes were glued to the computer screen, but you could tell his mind was elsewhere. This was your chance to address the tension that had been building between you.

"Spencer," you began, your voice firm but gentle. "We need to talk."

He glanced up at you, his expression guarded but curious. "What about?" he asked, his tone tinged with a hint of scepticism.

“You have an issue with me, and I know you are used to being the smartest person in any room you walk in to, everyone looking up to you as a God. But maybe you should get use to someone been on the same level as you”.

Spencer's eyebrows furrowed, a mix of surprise and irritation crossing his features. "I don't have an issue with you," he retorted, his voice laced with defensiveness.

You took a step closer, determined to make him see the truth. "You do, Spencer. Ever since I joined the team, you've treated me like an annoyance, like I'm intruding on your territory. But I'm not here to compete with you or undermine your intelligence. I'm here to work together, to bring justice to those who deserve it."

“God, you think you’re better than everyone else don’t you, Y/N. You’re not, you act like everyone should worship the ground you walk on. I bet you were top of your class in the academy, got straight A’s all throughout your school life, but that doesn’t matter now. You are not as clever as you think you are.”

Spencer's words cut deep, slicing through the tension between you with a sharpness that left you momentarily speechless.

“That’s what you think about me? You think I believe I am better than everyone, but I don’t. But I know you do, your outbursts are common knowledge Spencer, or that fact you love to rub it everyone’s faces that you have a doctorate.” You basically shouted this at him.

Spencer's steely gaze locked onto yours, his face a mask of disbelief mixed with anger. "You don't know anything about me," he snapped, his voice dripping with venom.

You felt tears starting to form in your eyes, you knew you couldn’t be around him any longer tonight. Turning on your heel, you made a swift exit from the bullpen, unable to bear the weight of the confrontation any longer. The familiar corridors of the BAU headquarters blurred as tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over. You couldn't help but feel a sense of defeat, the weight of Spencer's words heavy on your shoulders.

As you found solace in a quiet corner of the building, your tears streamed down your face, mingling with the frustration, and hurt that consumed you. The confrontation with Spencer had left you feeling vulnerable and doubting your place on the team. It was hard to fathom how someone you once idolized could turn out to be so cold and dismissive.

There was a small part of you that wished you had never applied for this job, or you had been rejected. You didn’t want to quit, you wanted to prove Spencer wrong, but you knew you couldn’t do that with the state you are in. But this wasn’t over, and you would do everything you could to solve this case, and make Spencer like you, or at least be kinder to you.

~Taglist~

@bitchassbecky691 @iluvreid @drspencerreidsthings @amatheuni@i-heart-mgg @Liidiaaag@wyntersstuff@brilliantreid @donttrustlove@btsiguess-kpop @bellesmith628 @lunaticgurly @Oureternalbond@somethingsmart123

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uzumaki-rebellion · 1 month ago

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Spinning the Block Part 2

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Officer Jessica "Jess" Sims

Warning(s): 18+, Suicide Mentioned, Smut.

Summary: Terry returns to Shelby Springs to find Jess.

Word count: 4.2K

"I keep my head up high

I cross my heart and hope to die

Lovin' me is complicated

Too afraid of a lot of changes

I'm alright and you're a favorite

Dark nights in my prayers"

Kendrik Lamar – "Alright"

The dust had finally settled.

Terry sat in a Shelby Springs coffee shop and mulled over the whirlwind two years he'd lived through. His high-profile case against the Shelby Springs Police Department ended in his favor. The case didn't drag out for years, probably because the video proof of misconduct was irrefutable. The combination of systemic corruption, civil rights violations, departmental liability, and lack of community trust in the leadership helped the jury make a quick decision. Summer and Marston's testimony did significant damage, but it was Jess Sims' presence that rattled him. Whatever ambivalence he felt about her part in knowing what that corrupt police department was doing, Jess's community rallied behind her. They set up online support to encourage people to donate money for her lawyer's defense fund and to help support her financially while temporarily suspended without pay. There were online testimonials from citizens vouching for her character. Even former criminals who had run-ins with the police posted TikTok clips of how Jess checked up on them to make sure they stayed on the straight and narrow after interactions with her as their arresting officer.

"Officer Sims didn't play. She talked to me like one of my aunties and that made me feel real bad, y'know, like I let down somebody in my family for being a fuckup. Sims told me to get my shit together. She even went to my grandmama's house to see if I signed up for night school like I said I would. My grandmama and my mama didn't even know how bad I was doing. I was pissed at first, cuz I felt like she needed to mind her business. Feel me? But yeah…I got my G.E.D. and I'm working a steady gig now. When I seen all that bullshit go down with homeboy and his cousin…I believed them cops did that shit. But I wouldn't yoke her up with them other fuckers. Ain't no good cops really outchea, but she made me think there might be some tryin' to do right by people."

The comments to that particular TikTok blew up and people argued among themselves about Jess's choice to be a cop, knowing that one Black woman among a squad of white boys didn't make her appear capable of fighting systemic racism. She was called everything from a white man's bedwench for knocking niggas around to the best type of law enforcement needed…someone connected to her community who put their needs first by protecting them from the white cops.

None of her community accolades or dedication to the force appeased other cops who painted her as a traitor to the blue line. She withstood online hate and ferocious public scrutiny. That had to be tough on her. Meanwhile, the public framed Terry and his cousin as victims of police brutality. His Aunt Rosa received nearly one million in GoFundMe donations. It covered burial expenses and the cost of a heavy-hitter lawyer to take on their wrongful death suit against the prison that was negligent in protecting Mike. The lawsuit would take some time, but all the media attention shed light on the case. He hoped his aunt would get swift justice.

As for Terry, he received a multi-million dollar settlement.

He cried when the judgment was read to him out loud in court. His lawyer cried with him because it meant that the world knew he was innocent and the cops were indeed callous bastards. No legal analyst expected the police department to appeal. Chief Sandy Burnne acted belligerent on the stand and justified his actions as a way to keep the town afloat because of budget constraints. He clammed up when Terry's lawyer brought up his previous wrongful death suit as the true cause of the department's financial crisis. He would more than likely die in prison with the long stretch he faced in the criminal case against him. The suicide of the corrupt Judge Logston who helped hide the truth nailed it shut in many minds. Why take yourself out if you're innocent?

The departments's insurance would pay it quickly and quietly. The city council of Shelby Springs wanted their town's name and tarnished reputation out of the media.

The judge approved the settlement, and the case was officially closed after eighteen months.

Sitting in the coffee shop stirring sugar into his espresso, the idea of being a wealthy man didn't faze him. Getting the truth out mattered most. It didn't surprise him that others who went through the terror tactics of the cops didn't come forward or even want to join a class action lawsuit. They had to live in that town or near it among family members of the cops that crossed several parishes. The trauma ran deep for some, and they wanted to forget about the money or assets stolen from them. Terry had nothing to lose. No wife or kids. No steady girlfriend. No job. No fear. He was a lone wolf with nothing but time on his hands to go up against a beast of a system.

Still, he couldn't keep Jess Sims taking the stand out of his mind. She wore a simple beige top with a tan blazer and brown slacks. She had puffed out her hair in a halo of fluffy curls, pulled back by a hair clip on one side. The light make-up on her face showed him what a stunner she was out of uniform. When his lawyer made a little joke to help Jess relax, he noticed she had a dimple in her right cheek when she smiled. Their eyes met briefly before she was grilled about her role in the case.

Certain things were made clear. Chief Burnne kept Jess in the office for the majority of her work shifts. Misdemeanor cases were in abundance in Shelby Springs, and most people didn't question it because of the war on drugs and whatever made-up war they used to explain away why so many victims were called by their incarcerated loved ones to bring large sums of purposely inflated bail money in cash. Officer Lann and Officer Marston, along with two other officers Burnne used, were the primary culprits who arrested people. Judge Logston notified the police chief when a new bundle of cash was expected to come through in an attempt to bail out a loved one.

Burnne knew Jess was a straight-shooter and good at computers, so he kept her mainly indoors for the past two years as their department struggled with budget cuts. She also cared for her ailing grandfather at home, so her schedule remained fixed to gift her flexibility to run home for emergencies when the day nurse she paid for had issues. Each date that his lawyer brought up pertaining to a civil asset seizure, she could show in her personal daily planner that she worked in the office that day. Her patrol days were usually on Saturdays when her sister-in-law stayed with her grandfather.

Terry watched the dawning realization on Jess's face as she understood how Burnne had manipulated her and kept her away from a lot of actions she would most likely object to. The chief stayed considerate of her home situation only because it was the best way to keep her and a few other goody-two shoes cops in the dark as much as possible.

In the beginning of her testimony, Jess answered confidently and spoke highly of her former boss in terms of how he treated her. Burnne played on her need to clean up the streets and indoctrinated her with the mindset that they were under siege by nefarious cartels and drug dealers. No one could be trusted. Their actual legitimate drug busts cemented in Jess's mind that Burnne knew what was best, and she moved his way. Terry's lawyer baited her into speaking of her moral compass and pushed her to explain why she had held a gun on Terry when he thought she was Serpico.

"Until that point, I had no cause to believe that Chief Burnne acted unlawfully," Jess said.

His lawyer, a white man with the mind of a steel trap, stared at her hard before speaking again.

"Terry Richmond, who had done nothing but de-escalate every situation he faced with your fellow officers…you included…he hands you SD cards and asks you to broadcast them for the world to see after he thinks he'll be arrested or killed by your department… and that doesn't give you pause Miss Sims that maybe something is rotten in Denmark…or even a little fishy?"

Jess glanced at him, and he tried to give her an encouraging look to tell her truth. Her eyes watered.

"I wasn't sure what to believe. Things were happening so fast and I didn't want him to hurt the Chief or me."

"Miss Sims, you told us earlier that Mr. Richmond remained calm at all times, always explaining what he was going to do, and even conveyed to you that he wanted to avoid gunfire and violence. Why didn't you at least stop to look at the footage?"

Jess held her head high and kept her tears from falling.

"I wanted to trust Chief Burnne—"

"But you just stated that you weren't sure what to believe."

"That's because I didn't want to make a mistake and get my fellow officers or Mr. Richmond killed because of doubt. I kept thinking things could be sorted out later, as long as no one got hurt."

"That's the thinking of a good cop. We know you're good, Miss Sims, because we saw video of you stopping Officer McGill from shooting Mr. Richmond in cold blood. Mr. Richmond also testified that he thanked you for protecting him from men who wanted to… and I quote, "string me up". You also stopped Chief Sandy Burnne from obstructing justice by pushing him off the road and arresting him. The problem I'm having, though, is why you waited so long to stop Burnne once he shot Officer Marston…"

Jess's voice sounded unsure later in her testimony. It appeared that she questioned her own actions as she recalled them. She gave the impression that she was willing to support bad actors and questionable conduct as long as the end result she wanted came about. To Terry, she sounded no different from the Black soldiers he worked with in the marines who were gungho about fighting bad guys overseas, even if a few innocent civilians in other countries got crushed. Collateral damage.

Terry sipped his drink and contemplated the busy street outside. Such a sleepy-looking town. The type of place people put on postcards. A white woman strolled past, walking a small black and white dog with a young girl. She double-backed a few seconds later with her mouth held open. He grinned and gulped down the last of his espresso before leaving the coffee shop and joining the woman outside.

"Terry Richmond…I swear as I live and breathe!"

Summer McBride hugged Terry, and he lifted her up, returning the affection.

"You look amazing," she gushed.

"You look good too."

"Oh, please," she said.

She ran a hand over her thin blond hair that was about two inches longer than the last time he saw her.

"This is my daughter Annie…Annie this is Mr. Richmond, the man who saved me."

Summer's daughter had her mother's lanky blonde hair and a thin build. She looked to be about nine years old.

"Hi Annie," he said.

Annie acted shy and stayed close to her mother as she held the leash of the passive dog.

"Hi," Annie said.

"When did you get here…and why did you come back?" Summer said.

"Got here last night, and I came to check on some people in person. You and your daughter…and someone else."

"Marston?"

"No…Jess Sims."

Summer stared at him for a long time.

"Why Jess?"

Terry crouched down to play with Summer's dog. The puppy willingly went to him, and he glanced across the street, keeping an eye out for Jess. A Black café owner on the corner informed him earlier, after he ate an early breakfast, that Jess and her friends often had brunch there every Wednesday at one. He hung around the coffee shop to do some reconnaissance, looking for her. He tried contacting her through his lawyer, but she changed her phone number. His plan was to see her…try to talk to her. He had a burning desire to sort his feelings about everything with her. After the court case, he was compelled to let her know that he was never going to hold hard feelings against her. The vitriol she received from the outside world was enough. He needed her to know that he wanted her to keep living without guilt. All the others could go to hell, especially Marston, who started the whole ball running by ramming his cruiser into him.

But Jess?

He wanted her to have grace. The look of regret and shame on her face at Mike's repast made it possible for him to forgive her part in the whole affair. It was brave for her to show up at his aunt's house, knowing she'd be the target of scorn and the rage of a family who shouldn't be mourning Mike.

When he glimpsed her face back in Greenwood, he couldn't believe it. He almost didn't recognize her. She'd stayed on his mind for days. His cousin flipped the fuck out on her, and Terry chased Jess down the street. She looked so vulnerable and broken. Scared. He wanted to hug her, even though his cousin had every right to curse her out. That was her baby brother shanked to death. Her only brother.

He looked up at Summer. Why Jess?

"I need closure with her. She saved me two times…three, actually. Saved you."

"She was only saving her ass."

"Like your friend, Marston?"

Summer looked away. Her body language and tone told him more than she realized. She and Jess had history of some kind.

"You know her?"

"Yeah. We were friends at one time."

"What happened?"

"That's personal."

"I have a lot of time available to listen."

"Over dinner?"

He grinned. Summer gave him a coy smile. He sensed some flirtation, but he wouldn't feed it. She was strictly for the friend zone.

"Pick the restaurant. My treat," he said.

"No, my treat at my place. It might be better if we aren't seen eating out together since…you know…the case has been settled. I make a mean casserole and I can fill you in on my case against Officer Lann."

"When?"

"Let's do tomorrow night. Annie goes back to her dad's and we can have some privacy. My number is the same."

"Okay. Sounds like a plan."

Terry noticed a Dodge Durango pull into a parking spot across the street. Seven Black women piled out and Jess was the last to exit from the driver's side. He inhaled through his mouth quickly, seeing her with her people. She smiled and checked her cell phone, pulling out a pair of glasses. Her black and silver off-the-shoulder halter top accentuated all that she had up front and her short jean skirt gave him an eyeful of big legs and thick thighs. The heels of her black open-toe half boots helped stream-line her profile. She was all huggable curves and wide hips. Big hoop earrings dangled to her shoulders and her laughter drifted across the street, making music in his ears. Goddamn. Nothing made Terry weaker than a short, big-breasted woman who wore glasses.

"Well, there she is," Summer grumbled.

Her voice sounded irritated. She took the leash from Annie.

"See you tomorrow night," Summer said.

Jess glanced their way and froze.

"Good luck," Summer said, walking off with her daughter and dog.

Terry looked over at Jess again. Her party of women entered the café laughing and talking loud, but she stood near her car with a concerned expression. He smoothed his blue sweater down to make sure he was presentable and crossed the street after a car rolled past.

"I've been trying to contact you. You changed your number," he said.

Terry tried to sound upbeat to help ease her apprehension.

"Changed it a year ago," she said in a crisp and cautious tone.

Jess's central Louisiana accent had him feeling bashful in front of her. Things were so different when she wasn't in uniform. This was a bona fide southern baddie in front of him. He didn't want to lose all his cool in front of her, however, it would've been so easy to take one step and place a hand on her car's roof, hem her up against the driver's door and talk that talk to her like he was trying to pull her in his orbit. She had to be feeling him because her eyes dropped to his chest, admiring the wide expanse of it.

"I see you're about to have a meal with your people, so I won't take up too much of your time…I just needed to see you, Jess. Can we meet up for another time to talk openly?"

"I don't know why you'd want to. Last time you saw me, I caused a scene at your cousin's house."

"That was a tough day, and my entire family stayed on edge. I'm sorry about your passenger window. Can I take you out to eat later in the week? Friday maybe? Or we could take a long drive into the country, get away for a chance to connect…talk?"

"I have a church function on Friday."

"Saturday."

"Busy. Terry, I don't feel comfortable—"

"Okay, okay. Thank you for helping me. Thank you for keeping me alive."

Jess chewed her lip, and her left leg shook. She averted his direct gaze, and he so wanted to hug her and tell her everything would be fine. But he didn't know that for sure, at least not for her. He dug for his wallet in his back pocket and pulled out a card from the motel he stayed at.

"I'm in room 5B. Please call if you change your mind. I'm going to stay here for a few more days. If I don't hear from you, I'm going to leave town."

"You should leave now. There's nothing for you here except a horrible memory."

Jess started wiping at her eyes as tiny teardrops fell down her plump cheeks. He moved in close and hugged her, letting her nervous trembles get absorbed by his warm strength.

"I'm not here to upset you or make you feel bad, Jess…I care about what's going on in your life. We both went through something traumatic that changed us. I know you're having a hard time here."

She wept onto the top of his chest. He rubbed her back to soothe her. The way she rested against his solid frame felt right.

"Jess? Everything okay?"

One of her girlfriends stepped out from the café, looking for her. Terry didn't want to stop holding Jess. All that softness molded against his hard muscles reminded him of how long he'd been without the regular comforts of a woman. He'd had a few hook-ups throughout the trial, but none of the women he spent intimate time with felt like the woman in his arms. Her lushness and the way she clung to him aroused a yearning to be alone with her. But only when she was ready.

He stepped away from her and stroked her shoulders.

"I won't pressure you. If you don't call me, I'll understand why and won't bother you again."

She nodded and walked away from him quickly. Her friend, another heavyset woman with long straight hair, threw an arm around Jess's shoulder and escorted her inside the café.

That didn't go so well.

Terry took a long walk around the town square to clear his head. He didn't want to make her cry, although he knew in his heart that speaking with her could turn emotional. Now that he'd approached her, he wasn't so sure if talking with her would do either of them any good. He was already feeling the heaviness in his chest from listening to her sob. Did she think he just wanted to punish her with his words? Give her a verbal tongue lashing to rid himself of the burden of Mike's death? Lay it at her feet so she would suffer for as long as his family did?

Truthfully, he didn't know what to do. He'd been languishing in a holding pattern for two years since Mike's murder. The lump sum of his multi-million dollar payout gave him financial freedom to go anywhere. All he did was buy a brand new silver-blue Dodge Ram truck with a pop-up camper and drove straight to Shelby Springs to find Jess. The previous night, he slept out in the woods inside his pop-up to test it out. Roomy, comfortable, and perfect for his needs as an outdoorsman, Terry later sought a motel and bided his time, waiting for her to show up by lingering inside the coffee shop.

Now he found himself lost again.

He returned to the coffee shop after an hour and ordered a turkey club sandwich with tomato basil soup. Jess emerged from the café with her friends, looking subdued. He sat back in the cut and watched her drive away, thinking about her softness.

Returning to the motel, he tried to turn in early after watching a few movies. He tossed and turned all night, dreaming about Jess. Before dawn broke, he woke up with a throbbing erection. He twisted his legs around the cheap, thin motel sheets. Their friction against his dick might have influenced the vivid dream he snapped awake from. There was nothing inherently erotic about it at first, just a replaying of hugging Jess and rocking her in his arms. But then she dropped to her knees, right there next to her car, and unfastened his pants, fishing out the thick dick that her cute hands couldn't get to fast enough. The rich brown heaviness pulsed in her hand. He was a big man everywhere, and his erection was not meant for those who couldn't handle a big penis. Terry was so ready to nut all in her pretty mouth. Jess teased the fat mushroom cap and thick frenulum ridge with a nasty pink tongue that knew how to please him. He reached down to palm one of her breasts and her top just fell down to her waist, like the magic of dreams often did. Her big titties made him groan, especially the large reddish-brown areolas with stiff nipples ready to be pinched and played with.

Jesus! He was ready to bust.

She started shaking them fat titties, letting them smack against each other, letting him hear how loud they'd sound smacking above his face if he fucked her good and hard.

"Baby, you can put your mouth on that dick. Lemme see how far I can get it down your throat before you choke…"

His deep voice sounded demanding and direct. She lifted those big melons and jiggled them for him, her lips pulled back into a smile showing him that one dimple in her cheek.

That's when he woke up, sweating and cursing, because that shit wasn't really happening.

Terry untangled his legs from the sheets and fisted his dick, pumping his hand up and down from the root to the ridge, squeezing the heft. His pre-cum spilled out in a deluge and he groaned Jess's name. He envisioned her voluptuous breasts, wishing they were in his hands, and came so forcefully that his balls pulsed in a rhythm with the thick white streams he shot across the bed.

"Fuck…fuck…oh…fuck!"

He kept working his hand up and down, pretending she rode his dick, clapping the cheeks of her fat ass on his muscular thighs. A final release of cum signaled the end phase of his intense climax. No orgasm ever felt like that before, just from a dream.

Terry moaned and gasped for air. The room looked blurry because his eyes watered from the pleasure, sweating fluid like the rest of his skin and his content dick.

He squeezed his eyes shut and knew something for certain while being in Shelby Springs: either he'd end up fucking Jess Sims, or he'd make her cry again. Maybe even both… at the same damn time.

Part 3 soon come...

Masterlist.

Taglist:

@nahimjustfeeling-writes

@planetblaque

@kindofaintrovert

@thedondada05

@blackburnbook

@avoidthings

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thesewordsareallihavetogive · 2 years ago

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5 times the Bronco was a third wheel - bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader

Summary: 3.6k words. Rooster & his partner's love in snapshots throughout the course of their relationship. or, five times the Bronco was a third wheel <3

Warnings: sososo much fluff. some cursing, suggestive material, overuse of italics, & frequent usage of she/her pronouns for the reader

a/n: hi y'all! life has been v busy but i'm excited to share another fic with u guys! i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it <3

master list

After multiple failed & disappointing first dates, y/n was prepared to write off dating and romance altogether. She could be happy and fulfilled with some pets, good friends, and a good vibrator.

Then Bradley Bradshaw came along.

y/n was convinced chivalry was dead. So when the aviator offered to pick her up for their first date, she was skeptical. She did an internet deep dive and all she found were high praise for his flying ability and Navy accolades. Bradley only had one social media account and he followed less than 50 pages–most of which were plane and vintage car accounts. He almost exclusively posted photos of his travels during deployments.

So, she accepted his offer. She told him her address and pushed the Dateline and Criminal Minds theme songs to the back of her mind.

Bradley showed up on time and he actually walked up to her door. There was no dry “I’m here” text or the muffled honking of a car horn.

Not only did he ring y/n’s doorbell and meet her at her front door, but he also brought her flowers. Bradley brought her flowers!

His mama raised him right.

Bradley sucked in a breath when y/n opened the door. She was beautiful, and he told her so. The words left his lips before his brain caught up. It sounded cliché, but he was pretty sure he fell in love at the sound of y/n’s kind giggle and the way she bashfully scrunched up her nose.

As the aviator led y/n toward his car, she admired the sight of the vintage Bronco. A shiny wax coat accentuated the bright blue paint. It seemed as though there wasn’t a speck of dirt on the car. Somehow, the decades-old vehicle looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line.

Bradley smirked when he turned back and found y/n shamelessly staring in awe at the Bronco. Keeping up with the old car’s maintenance was a labor of love; it made his heart flutter to see someone appreciate it the way he did.

y/n snapped out of her trance when she saw Bradley patiently waiting by the opened passenger door. Swoon.

With a blushed smile she approached the door, standing intoxicatingly close to the aviator. Even in her heels, he was still a full head taller than her. Being mindful of said heels, Bradley held out his hand for y/n to hold while she slid up into the slightly lifted car.

She buckled her seat belt as he shut the door and jogged around the front of the hood.

She smiled inwardly. This could be good.

After six months of dating, y/n had officially earned the title ‘passenger princess’. y/n and Bradley spent a good majority of their time in either of their homes, but when they went out together Bradley drove.

If they went out to a bar, Bradley always made sure to limit himself to one beer or sober up before they left. y/n was especially fond of fruity little drinks with a high enough alcohol content to knock a grown man out cold, so she wasn’t exactly a good candidate to drive either of them home after a night out. The buzz tended to make her more touchy-feely, which Bradley didn’t mind at all.

If they went to the beach, they’d typically take y/n’s car. Bradley shuddered at the thought of sand in the Bronco and sunscreen on the seats. Yet, he still drove when they took her car. y/n would’ve protested if it were anyone else attempting to drive her car but with Bradley it was different. Everything was different.

She’d never felt the kind of love and safety she did with Bradley. And it was easy! Their relationship was playful and fun and happy. Which was part of why y/n found teasing him to be particularly amusing.

The couple was driving along the beach with no specific destination in mind. A soft breeze flowed through the open windows and a playlist y/n made for Bradley played over the stereo. y/n alternated between watching the pink and orange hues adorning the sky–nothing quite compared to west coast sunsets–and admiring the handsome man seated to her left.

Rooster’s eyes flickered away from the road for a moment to look at this girlfriend. He caught her already ogling him and broke out in a toothy grin, ghosting his fingers along the inside of her thigh where his hand already rested on her leg.

The mostly-innocent devil on y/n’s shoulder told her it was time to bug her boyfriend. She carefully toed her sandals off before kicking her feet up on the dash. A smirk graced her face as she trained her eyes on Bradley, awaiting his reaction. His eyes flashed toward her feet with alarm and his shoulders sagged in relief when he realized the dirty soles of her shoes weren’t marking up the dash. Bradley rolled his eyes and grumbled before he effortlessly pulled both of her legs off the dash and into his lap with one hand. y/n threw her head back and laughed. The corner of Bradley’s lip twitched upward at his favorite sound.

At the next red light, Rooster pressed a kiss to y/n’s ankle before continuing to massage her calves.

y/n groaned in the lobby of the auto shop. The mechanic gave her a timeline of roughly two weeks for her car to be fixed. Her insurance wouldn’t cover a rental either, so she’d have to get rides from her coworkers. She was sure Bradley would gladly drive half an hour each way to drop her off and pick her up from work, but she didn’t want to burden him with that.

Rooster came with her because she suspected the mechanics wouldn’t take her seriously by herself. Men. She sulked while stomping out into the parking lot. She knew better than to touch the passenger door handle herself, so she waited for Bradley.

y/n huffed as she stared out the window. Bradley knew it was better to let y/n ride out her frustration, so he silently rubbed his thumb over y/n’s knuckles, brushing against her engagement ring. After her second huff, Bradley ventured into the lion’s den.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” Rooster asked with a kiss to the back of her hand. She ran her free hand through her hair and pinched her brows together. Maybe she was overthinking and stressing out too much, but the feelings felt very real nonetheless.

“I guess I’ll just ask one of my coworkers for a ride to work for the next couple of weeks. I don’t think she lives too far from us…” y/n trailed off. It was Bradley’s turn to pull a confused face. Why would she do that when they had another perfectly fine car? When Bradley proposed to y/n he promised her his heart for the rest of their lives and that what was his was hers–though both of those things had been determined long before he bought y/n’s dream ring.

“Baby, you can just take the Bronco. I’ll drive us to the base in the morning and then you can take the car from there. Or I can have Mav pick me up on his way to the base and you can get more of your beauty rest,” Rooster finished with a cheeky grin. Though y/n had her personal favorite origin story for her fiancé’s call sign, the actual reason rang true. Rooster was up before dawn nearly every day, regardless of whether he’d set an alarm or not. y/n, on the other hand, rather appreciated sleeping in and ignoring the morning daylight for as long as possible.

Bradley once tried to wake y/n up before 6 a.m. to join him on a morning run. In her sleepy haze, she threatened to break up with him. She was joking mostly but the edge in her tone had Bradley leaving her to rest without any further argument.

“...are you sure Brad? You would let me drive the Bronco?” y/n asked hesitantly. The only other person she knew of that had driven the vintage car was Bradley’s late father, Goose. To Bradley, sharing the car was a no-brainer. Would he let anyone else have their hands on his precious wheel? Hell no. But y/n? He’d give her the moon if she asked for it.

“What’s mine is yours, honey. I don’t trust anyone more than you,” Bradley smiled as he spoke. The words flowed off his tongue so easily. y/n did her best not to tear up at the sentiment, but it was a fruitless effort. It was her turn to kiss his hand this time, muttering a soft I love you against his tanned skin.

Which is how y/n found herself parking the Bronco in the car lot closest to the dagger squad’s hanger. The aviators had just finished their afternoon workouts. It was the safest means to gradually decrease the natural adrenaline rush from flying, but also had added benefits, if you asked y/n–the bonus being her fiancé’s physique. She took a brief break from ogling her boyfriend to be mindful of the distance between her feet and the ground as she hopped out of the car.

Hangman looked up from the weights he’d been lifting and clocked the new addition to the parking lot. The bright blue vehicle was hard to miss among the red, white, and dark blue trucks filling the lot.

“Rooster, that looks like your car,” Jake observed. Thank you, Sherlock.

“That is my car,” Bradley replied after glancing toward the parking lot. Hangman was a lot of things, cunning even, but the blonde man’s density didn’t surprise Rooster. A small smile graced his face when he saw y/n’s feet land on the asphalt, the rest of her body concealed from view. Phoenix typically ignored Hangman’s antics. It was a waste of time and energy, and ensured she wouldn’t lose brain cells simply by exposure to the cocky aviator. However, this discussion piqued her interest.

“Then who the hell is driving? Has anyone other than you touched that wheel in the past 15 years?” Natasha blew a stray piece of hair out of her face and stood back with her hands on her hips. Eventually, she too noticed the approaching footsteps nearly hidden by the car and she smirked. Of course it was y/n.

“Not until today,” Bradley smiled. y/n turned the corner, coming into view, and Hangman tutted in understanding. Rooster paused his workout to take in his fiancée. She wore a breezy sundress that complimented her complexion and the wind blew gently at her, letting her hair flow back to reveal her sun-kissed cheeks. She was a sight for sore eyes.

“Well I’ll be damned, Bradshaw. You must really love her,” Jake clapped Rooster on the back, earning an eye roll.

“We’re engaged, Bagman. I obviously love her,” Bradley replied, his eyes still trained on y/n. Fanboy piped up. He quite enjoyed the verbal tennis match.

“Yeah, but that’s like next-level love,” Mickey argued. The rest of the squad nodded in agreement. Rooster shook his head with a smile and abandoned his weights, lightly jogging to meet y/n halfway. Bradley wrapped his arms around y/n, pulling her into a tight hug. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of jet fuel and sweat, but she wasn’t bothered; she was used to it by now. y/n dangled the key ring from her finger in front of Bradley’s face with a teasing smile. He grinned and slipped the keys into his back pocket with a peck to y/n’s lips.

The wedding ceremony and reception were breathtakingly beautiful. Bradley and y/n decided to have a private ceremony with just their closest friends and family and a larger reception party. They danced the night away quite literally. The newlyweds probably stayed on the dance floor for almost two hours, only taking breaks to take some private wedding photos and for Rooster to play the piano. The wedding venue was the couple’s favorite of the ones they had toured, the on-site piano was an added bonus

When the night came to an end and it was time for the send-off, Bradley and y/n couldn’t wipe the wide grins off their faces even if they tried. Whooping and hollering from their loved ones sounded out as party-poppers and sparklers surrounded the pathway toward the awaiting Bronco.

y/n was the first to notice the tin cans on strings affixed to the back of the car. With a loud laugh, she turned back to the crowd to find the culprits. Her eyes zeroed in on Bob and her sibling with a chuckle. The aviator wore a blush and avoided eye contact with y/n though he was acutely aware her eyes were trained on him and the string he was shoving into his pocket. Her sibling, who was standing right alongside Bob, attempted to discreetly kick a spare tin can on the ground behind them out of view. Rooster gave the two of them an appreciative wink.

Bradley picked y/n up bridal style, earning a surprised yelp from his wife, before he gently sat her down in the Bronco’s passenger seat, careful not to snag her wedding gown on anything. He pressed a searing kiss to her lips and jogged around to the driver’s side.

As they pulled away the distinctive clanking of the tin cans bouncing on the pavement earned louder cheers from the wedding guests. Despite his strong urge to get both of them home and into bed as quickly as possible, Bradley was careful not to drive too fast so that the cans wouldn’t fly up and chip the Bronco’s paint.

In the driveway of the couple’s shared home, Bradley opened his wife’s door and helped her step down from the vehicle. Once she was on solid ground y/n pulled him down by his collar and pressed yet another kiss to his lips. Their kiss count for the day was nearing triple digits. y/n shuffled toward the back of the Bronco to admire Bob’s handiwork again, pulling her husband along with her. Bradley wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed wet kisses to her neck. y/n suppressed her quiet moans and tried to stay focused on the task at hand, but it was a near-futile effort.

“Honey, do you think we should-hmm, oh-take these off before we go to the airport? We have to leave-hmmph-early tomorrow morning,” y/n finished breathlessly. Rooster’s ministrations were distracting and relentless. He groaned against her neck and nipped at one of the sensitive areas he knew by heart.

“Baby, if I don’t get you inside right now we’ll both be charged with indecent exposure,” he spoke directly against her goose-bump-covered skin and ground his hips against her back to emphasize his point. y/n tossed her head back against Bradley’s chest with a grin and a devious glint in her eyes.

“Take me to bed, you big stud,” she whispered. Bradley heard her loud and clear. He tossed y/n over his shoulder and practically sprinted toward the door. Though most of the blood in his body had rushed elsewhere, he still was mindful enough to carry his wife across their home’s threshold bridal style.

Bradley Brashaw is a smart man. Incredibly smart. He knew his plane inside and out, could take it apart and build it back up again from each individual part. The same was true for his Bronco and y/n’s car, for that matter. There weren’t many mechanical problems he couldn’t solve with his toolkit and some WD-40.

So what was stumping him?

An infant car seat.

He understood clearly how it should be installed. He’d read the manual three times over to make sure he didn’t miss any details. He wanted, no, needed to make sure his baby would be absolutely safe. Bradley wanted the car seat to be able to safely withstand a moon launch. The problem was that the manual directions weren’t working. He groaned and rested his forehead against the cool leather backseat. It was almost, but not quite cold enough to distract him from the sweltering California summer heat.

Against her husband’s protest, y/n followed him out to the front yard and observed as he installed their soon-to-be-Earthside baby’s car seat. The relentless San Diego heat was getting to y/n too. At eight months pregnant, she was already uncomfortable. With the added humidity? She was bordering on miserable. The couple didn’t really think through the timing of the pregnancy and the fact that y/n would be in her third trimester during the hottest time of the year. Actually, they hadn’t really thought through getting pregnant much at all. It wasn’t that y/n and Bradley weren’t trying to get pregnant. They just… got carried away one too many times.

Nonetheless, they were excited to be parents.

Bradley didn’t have to say anything for y/n to know he was getting frustrated. She could read her husband like a book. She slowly walked over to him, being cautious of her bump and lightly rubbed Rooster’s tan sweat-covered back. The aviator sighed and relaxed into his wife’s touch for a moment before he swung around to face her.

“Go sit down!” Bradley pleaded exasperatedly. As much as the aviator acted like a tough guy around his coworkers, y/n knew he was a teddy bear at heart. A teddy bear that worried incessantly. His eyes were wide as he took in his wife’s form. A large hand subconsciously gravitated toward her growing bump. y/n rolled her eyes but leaned into her husband’s comforting touch nonetheless.

“I’m pregnant, Brad. Not incapacitated.” she said pointedly. Bradley groaned inwardly. The exchange was all too familiar and he rarely won. y/n rested an arm on the door frame and looked around the back seat at Bradley’s progress (or lack thereof). She thumbed through the installation manual herself and Bradley looked as well, his chin resting on her shoulder. He reached his arms around her front to gently support the weight of her bump and y/n swore the instant relief she felt was akin to very few worldly pleasures.

y/n didn’t find anything in the manual Bradley hadn’t already. She didn’t expect to, but it was worth a try. She leisurely grabbed the nearest seat belt buckle and examined it.

“Maybe the buckles are just too outdated? Not compatible with the car seat or something like that?” y/n offered with a shrug. Bradley sucked in a sharp breath behind her.

“Don’t… don’t shit on the car, baby,” he spoke softly, a pained strain in his voice. y/n rolled her eyes and turned around to swat Rooster’s pec with the instruction manual. She obviously had no intention of taking a dig at the Bronco; the car had more history than either of them. To get his mind off of the failed car seat installation, y/n coaxed Bradley inside for a lemonade break. The cold beverage had been her pregnancy craving all summer, so they always had an excessive amount on hand. With a resigned sigh, Bradley followed y/n inside their house looking like a kid who’d dropped his ice cream directly on the pavement.

Though y/n invited Bradley inside so that he could take a break, he insisted on having his wife sit down while he poured lemonade into two glasses. y/n’s attention was split in two directions. The car seat adapters she was browsing through on her phone were interesting enough, but her husband’s sculpted figure was much more captivating. Bradley rounded the kitchen island and settled in next to his wife on the bar stools, peering at her phone as he passed her a cold glass of lemonade. y/n leaned over to peck her husband’s cheek in thanks when she noticed where his eyes were trained. From the way y/n straightened her back and grinned, Bradley should’ve known she was up to no good. But, in his defense, he was feeling too defeated to notice.

“You know, you could always just trade the Bronco in for a minivan,” y/n suggested with an innocent facade. She casually toyed with a loose strand of her hair and watched the fifty-some emotions morphing over Bradley’s face. y/n had a much better poker face than her husband, but she couldn’t help but crack and burst out into laughter when Bradley delivered a final deadpan look. He tugged her stool to face him directly so that he could look her in the eyes. Sure, y/n might’ve been joking, but he was so serious in that moment.

“Honey, I will drive that car until the damn wheels fall off,” Bradley declared without a single shred of doubt. y/n failed to hide her giggles behind the glass of lemonade and soon enough Rooster broke into a grin too. When she finally got a chance to catch her breath, y/n intertwined her fingers with Bradley’s.

“As long as I get to ride shotgun,” she half-whispered with a twinkle in her eye. Bradley took y/n’s glass out of her hands before softly gripping the back of her neck and pulling her in for a deep kiss. When they pulled away they gladly welcomed air back into their lungs. Bradley rested his forehead against y/n’s and traced his thumb over her flushed cheek.

“Always, baby.”

a/n: i snuck another top gun ‘86 reference in here…👀 i absolutely love love reading ur comments & reblogs so please don't be shy <3

have a good day luvs!

#rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster imagine

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icecreambeach · 6 months ago

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the more i think about the ACD canon, the more holmes feels like he was suffering from hero syndrome. impressing watson led to his entire career. courting accolades is how he stays allowed to do the thing he loves most. he even says at the end of the first novel, a study in scarlet: "it's not what you've done but what you can make people believe that you've done." sherlock holmes becomes a character he must constantly create.

so of course he eventually throws himself into exile in order to take down a giant criminal. of course he views the noble sacrifice as 100% worth it. but did he HAVE to do that? ACD would of course say yes, but this is a Very Western story where heroes are selfless, mighty, and single-handedly save the day. there's no emphasis on communal effort, even though holmes himself probably would never have gotten that far without watson. it can't help but illuminate how terribly lonely and perhaps not-that-inspirational the hero/martyr trope is.

#sherlock holmes #acd holmes #john watson #dr. john watson #the reichenbach fall

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fanfic-obsessed · 1 year ago

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Not the Mama...or the Father

This takes place in a universe where Jango Fett survived Geonosis AND where Palpatine is defeated without Order 66 coming into being (the chips still existed, yes that is important).

After the war ends there is an absolute legal quagmire regarding the clones. Their origins (Possibly commissioned by the Jedi, a Republic Entity, outside of Republic Space, on Kamino, using the DNA of a Non Republic Citizen for a Republic Army, paid for by means that no one has been able to identify-presumably illegal and/or embezzled) mean that acknowledging their sentience also means that everyone involved broke so many laws that prosecution would take a decades. This compounded by the fact that it is an all or nothing kind of situation, on paper the Jedi who did their best were tied to those crimes just as thoroughly as senators who abused the Guard. While the Jedi, as a whole, would be willing to face that prosecution if it meant the clones would be considered sentient, they had rather less power than the Senators who did not want to face their crimes. In the end the only way to get the support for the Clone Rights bill was to add a clause that the bill would not be considered retroactive. The clones would be considered sentient after the bill was turned into law but could not seek any kind of reparations, back pay, or even acknowledgement that their rights had been violated prior to the law.

NOTE: It horrified everyone (though it should be acknowledged that the Jedi and the Clones were horrified for very different reasons than many of the Senate) when the Coruscant Guard successfully sued a number of Republic Senators, their aides, and several citizens for ‘sexual abuse of a non sentient’(It was a very odd lawsuit where Thire, who had taken to law with a frightening passion, was able to argue that the Clones could bring the suit as their own owners, since being sentient with a start start date essentially meant that they now owned themselves and the laws around abuse of non sentients are written so that new owners can sue past owners for abuse-written so that animal abuse could be fully prosecuted even years after the fact). Criminal charges were even filed, though it was harder to get those charges through the system.

Jango Fett, due both to the Clones legal tangle and how it had to be resolved, could not be brought up on charges for his part in the creation of the clones, their training, and the chips. None of it was technically illegal. The fact that all of the clones looked like him meant anyone who did not know better tended to consider the clones his children. At first Jango was just as quick to correct people, somewhat violently.

However as more and more clones began to distinguish themselves he started to play into it. Saying how proud he was of his children and that his genetics must have been superior (incidentally giving Boba more than one complex in the process). Most of the clones have no idea what to do with this behavior, since acknowledgement by Prime was something that almost all of them wanted as children. Also he wasn’t really acknowledging any clone in particular. He was simply soaking up the accolades of being associated with so many driven, accomplished people.

Though the Commander batches tended to be the most well known, every batch of clones had at least one or two members that distinguished themselves in a positive manner.

Then comes the very public wedding of Commander Bly and Aayla Secura. While the two are very much in love it is also a political/PR move. The scandal of the Amidala/Skywalker marriage left the galaxy with a very skewed view of the Jedi and marriage. The fact that Skywalker would go on to tell anyone who would listen that he was kicked out for falling in love made the issue worse. (Commander Cody and Obi Wan were also considered for this PR move, however they were not quite at the point where they wanted to get married, also Anakin’s…reactions to the scandal of his marriage left some scars for Obi Wan. It would be quite some time before being perceived by a large crowd of beings-with the exclusion of the Jedi or the clones- would be something Obi Wan could tolerate)

Though the Jedi wedding traditions are typically a private affair, with permission of the happy couple every tradition would be made into a public spectacle with explanations for the traditions. One such tradition is that a parental figure (generally the Master if it is a Jedi) for each member of those getting married would escort their children down the aisle, as it were. This was a way for the parental figure to signal their support, or at least acceptance, of the marriage. Within this tradition it was very noticeable when a particular parental figure did not show up…or was not invited.

The public nature of the ceremony meant that Jango knew when and where to show up. He did not think much that he was not specifically invited, having bought into his own propaganda of being the father of the Clones. He arrives at the staging area, Boba in tow, to loudly announce that he was there to walk Bly down the aisle. Very publicly.

All preparation stopped for a moment, a silence descending that almost echoed. Then Bly scoffed loud enough to be captured by the recording equipment (Every moment of each tradition was being recorded by no less than three recording crews at all times, currently there are six recording the lead up to the ceremony).

Derision dripped from every syllable coming from Bly’s mouth, “Why should I care about your approval of my life partner” (harkening back to the meaning behind the tradition).

Jango spluttered about being Bly’s parent.

Bly tilted his head, eyes distant as if looking into the past, “What was it you said, when you heard Ponds ask Alpha-17 for a name?”

Jango looked perplexed, clearly not remembering the interaction.

Wolffe stepped from crowd, “you said, ‘livestock doesn’t need a name’”

Cody took his place at Bly’s side ‘You are no parent to us, you lost that title when you sold us.’

Bly nodded along, “Cody is walking me down the aisle (In the background Alpha grumbles that it is only because Cody is tricky little shit. All the clones in the room smother a grin as Cody shoots Alpha a smug smile-NOTE: There was a duel/tournament between fifteen Alpha and CC clones that were considered ‘older’ than Bly on who got the honor of escorting him down the aisle, since the explanation of what constituted a parent left them with the firm belief that any clone that is older than you could be considered such) and you, Prime, are not welcome. Go back to the son you claimed.”

The galaxy at large absolutely ate up the ‘You are not my father’ drama, which frankly served to humanize the clones, and their assorted Jedi, better than anything else.

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ophanum · 2 months ago

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THE MOON WILL SING - ! Edward Nygma

Edward Nygma x Doctor!Reader

"I shine only with the light you gave me..." - The Moon Will Sing by The Crane Wives

A game begins

The fluorescent lights of Arkham Asylum buzzed overhead, casting cold, clinical shadows along the sterile halls. Dr. Evelyn Harper moved with practiced ease through the labyrinthine corridors, her lab coat swishing at her sides as she reviewed the notes on her newest patient. Edward Nygma. Riddler. A man whose mind was as sharp as it was dangerous.

Evelyn had been working at Arkham for nearly three years, her specialty in criminal psychology and neurocognitive therapy making her one of the youngest rising stars in her field. Yet, despite her academic accolades, she’d never come across a mind quite like Nygma’s.

She paused outside his cell, taking a steadying breath before stepping inside. The room was dim, lit by a single bulb overhead. Edward sat on the bed, legs crossed, fingers steepled in front of him. His eyes flickered to her the moment she entered, scanning her, calculating.

“Dr. Harper, I presume?” he said, his voice velvety smooth. “I’ve heard rumors of a ‘brilliant mind’ joining the Arkham staff. I hope you don’t disappoint me.”

Evelyn smiled politely, unphased by his arrogance. “Mr. Nygma. I trust your accommodations are comfortable?”

He gave her a languid smirk. “Comfortable is subjective, doctor. What’s the first question on your mind? I can tell you’re dying to ask something.”

She sat down across from him, pen poised on her clipboard. “I’ve read your file. You seem to believe that your intellect places you above the law. Why, then, do you continuously seek validation by creating puzzles for others? Isn’t the admiration of a lesser mind beneath you?”

Edward’s eyes gleamed at her words. “You’re already trying to crack the code, aren’t you? So many doctors before you have tried to analyze me like some kind of specimen, but you, Dr. Harper… You seem to understand the game. You realize that it’s not about the puzzles themselves, but about who can solve them.”

Evelyn leaned forward slightly. “Then let me ask—are you seeking someone who can solve them? Or are you waiting for someone who can outsmart you?”

For the first time, Nygma paused, considering her words. His expression softened, just a fraction, and something flickered in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps. Evelyn noted it immediately. A crack in the facade.

“Well, Doctor,” he said, leaning back against the wall with a casual shrug, “if you think you can outwit me, by all means, try. But let’s make it interesting. You ask me your questions, but for each one, I’ll give you a riddle. Solve it, and I’ll answer honestly. Fail, and I get to ask you something.”

She smiled, intrigued by his proposition. “Agreed.”

“Wonderful.” Edward’s grin widened, excitement shining in his gaze. “Here’s your first riddle: I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?”

Evelyn barely hesitated before responding, “An echo.”

Nygma’s smile twitched—just barely—but Evelyn saw it. He was impressed. “Correct,” he said smoothly. “Ask your question.”

“Why do you crave validation?” she asked, her tone calm but direct.

He seemed to consider his response, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee. “Because there’s no fun in being the smartest person in the room if no one else knows it. I thrive on the acknowledgment of my brilliance. It’s a flaw, perhaps, but we all have those, don’t we?”

Evelyn nodded, absorbing his answer. “Fair enough. Now, your turn.”

He studied her carefully, eyes flicking over her features with the intensity of someone deciphering a code. “Why did you become a doctor at Arkham, of all places? You’re clearly too bright for this rundown institution.”

Evelyn paused. It was a question she’d asked herself many times. “I wanted to understand the minds that others were too afraid to engage with. People like you, Edward.”

His expression shifted slightly at the use of his first name. No one ever called him that here. It was always “Riddler” or “Nygma.” But somehow, when she said it, it felt different—like a part of him that had long been buried beneath layers of riddles and ego resurfaced.

Their sessions continued for weeks. Each day, they exchanged riddles and questions, probing deeper into each other’s minds. Edward found himself looking forward to their time together, not just because she challenged him, but because she didn’t treat him like a puzzle to be solved. She saw him. The man behind the riddles.

And he found himself drawn to her. The way her mind worked, the way she answered him without hesitation, the way she always kept her composure no matter how convoluted his riddles became. She was a challenge—and Edward Nygma loved challenges.

A crack in the armor

One evening, Evelyn sat across from him, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows on her face. Edward watched her closely as she reviewed her notes, tapping her pen against the clipboard.

“You’ve grown quiet today,” she remarked, looking up at him. “Not like you.”

“Perhaps I’m thinking,” he replied, tilting his head. “Or maybe I’m enjoying watching you work. You’re much more interesting than the dull minds I’m usually subjected to.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her expression. “You sound almost sincere.”

“Perhaps I am,” he mused, a rare moment of vulnerability slipping through his usual bravado.

She set down her clipboard and leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, Edward… what is it that you really want?”

He hesitated, for once unsure of how to answer. The truth was, he didn’t know. He had spent so much of his life chasing recognition, proving his genius, that he had forgotten what it felt like to want something—or someone—for no other reason than because they made him feel… alive.

“You,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I think I want you.”

The admission hung in the air between them, heavy and unexpected. Evelyn blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his honesty.

“Edward…” she began, but he cut her off.

“I know what you’re going to say. That it’s inappropriate, that I’m a criminal, that this can’t work. But you and I… we’re alike, aren’t we? You understand me. You challenge me. No one has ever done that before.”

Evelyn sighed, conflicted. She couldn’t deny the connection they had formed over the past weeks, but she knew the dangers of becoming involved with a man like him. Yet, there was a part of her—small, but growing—that was drawn to him too.

Before she could respond, Edward leaned forward, his voice low and intense. “I’ll give you one more riddle, Dr. Harper. Solve it, and I’ll never bring this up again. But if you can’t…”

“What’s the riddle?” she asked quietly.

He leaned even closer, his breath ghosting over her skin as he whispered, “I am not alive, but I grow; I don’t have lungs, but I need air; I don’t have a mouth, and yet I can drown. What am I?”

Evelyn’s heart raced as she searched for the answer. It was one she knew, buried somewhere in the recesses of her mind.

Finally, she looked up at him, her voice steady. “Fire.”

Edward’s eyes widened, and then he laughed—a genuine, surprised laugh. “Well done, Dr. Harper. Well done.”

But in his eyes, she saw it—the fire he had spoken of. The spark that ignited between them, dangerous and consuming.

And Evelyn knew this was only the beginning.

After their sessions, Evelyn found herself lingering in the common areas of Arkham, taking solace in the quiet moments where she could breathe. One day, after an especially taxing session with another patient, she was surprised to find a cup of coffee waiting for her on the small table where she often worked.

It wasn’t the institutional coffee Arkham served, but something far richer, darker, and clearly from the outside. A riddle was scrawled on the napkin beneath the cup: “I run but never walk, I have a mouth but never talk. What am I?”

She smiled, glancing around, half-expecting to see Edward watching her from some unseen corner. Of course, he wasn’t there—he was locked in his cell as always—but the gesture was unmistakable.

Later, during their session, she mentioned the coffee with a raised eyebrow. “You’re becoming predictable, Edward.”

He leaned back in his chair, looking almost smug. “Am I? I doubt that.”

Evelyn shook her head but didn’t press further. The truth was, she enjoyed the small acts of thoughtfulness. They were strange, certainly, but they were also his way of showing affection.

The next day, she left something for him: a crossword puzzle, tucked into the file she handed the guard to deliver to him. It was filled with clues only Edward could solve—questions about quantum theory, obscure literature, and, of course, riddles. At the bottom of the page, she wrote, “For a mind as sharp as yours. Don’t disappoint me.”

The day after, she found the crossword returned to her, completed in flawless handwriting, with a note attached: “I never disappoint. —E.”

Weeks passed, and the boundaries between doctor and patient blurred further. Edward’s riddles became more personal, less about testing her mind and more about understanding her as a person. In return, Evelyn found herself revealing pieces of herself she hadn’t shared with anyone else at Arkham.

Then, one night, after a long shift, Evelyn returned to her office to find something unexpected: a single red rose, placed neatly in the center of her desk. No note, no puzzle, just the rose.

It wasn’t hard to guess who had left it.

The next day, when Evelyn entered Edward’s cell, she didn’t bring it up right away. She simply sat down, opening her notebook to begin their session.

Edward watched her with a quiet intensity, waiting.

Finally, after a long pause, Evelyn spoke. “The rose. Why?”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “Isn’t it obvious, doctor? Even the most dangerous minds can appreciate beauty.”

Evelyn felt her breath catch for just a moment, the weight of his words settling over her. There was something more in his eyes—something deeper than just admiration for her intellect. It was unspoken, but undeniable.

They were no longer just playing a game of wits. This was something else entirely.

Chapter 4: Unraveling

Their relationship continued to grow in the shadows of Arkham’s cold walls. It was in the small gestures—the way he left her puzzles to solve, the way she’d bring him books he requested, the quiet moments they spent in each other’s presence—that they built something unexpected.

But with each passing day, Evelyn knew they were walking a dangerous line. She had always prided herself on her professionalism, her ability to keep emotional distance from her patients. Yet, with Edward, that distance had evaporated, replaced by something fragile and complicated.

As they sat across from each other, their gazes locked, she realized that what had started as a game had turned into something far more real.

But how long could it last before everything unraveled?

Edward Nygma was not a man easily impressed. He had spent most of his life surrounded by mediocrity—people who couldn’t comprehend the brilliance of his mind, who were blind to the sheer genius that flowed effortlessly through every fiber of his being. But Dr. Evelyn Harper was different.

From the moment she first sat across from him in that cold, sterile room, clipboard in hand, her eyes steady and unwavering, she had intrigued him. Most people were quick to dismiss him as a dangerous lunatic, a mind too twisted to be understood. But Evelyn? She saw him—really saw him. And that was something he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Her intelligence was the first thing that caught his attention. Evelyn wasn’t like the other doctors who had tried, and failed, to “fix” him. She didn’t condescend or patronize, and she certainly didn’t shy away from his riddles and mind games. No, she embraced them. And every time she solved one of his carefully crafted puzzles, Edward found himself more enthralled by her.

He watched the way her mind worked—the way her brow furrowed when she was deep in thought, her lips pressing together as she unraveled his challenges with an ease that made his pulse quicken. There was something undeniably captivating about seeing her in action, watching the gears turn behind those sharp, calculating eyes.

But it wasn’t just her mind that intrigued him. It was the way she moved, the way she carried herself with a quiet confidence that drew his gaze like a magnet. The way her fingers tapped against her pen when she was thinking, or how she would sometimes bite her lip ever so slightly when she was on the verge of solving one of his riddles. Every little gesture, every subtle shift in her expression—it was a puzzle in itself, and Edward found himself craving more.

Late at night, when the asylum was at its quietest, Edward would find himself lying on his cot, replaying their conversations in his mind. Her voice, calm and collected, echoing in his thoughts like a melody. He would go over the way she had looked at him during their sessions—those moments when their eyes met and he could almost feel the unspoken understanding pass between them.

It wasn’t just intellectual curiosity anymore. It had grown into something more—a fascination, a desire. He found himself thinking about her in ways that went beyond their verbal sparring. He wondered what her hair might feel like if he could run his fingers through it, how her skin would feel beneath his touch. Would she be as soft as she seemed, or would she surprise him with hidden strength, just like her mind always did?

He imagined her sitting close to him, not across the table, but right next to him, where he could feel the warmth of her body. His thoughts would drift to what it might be like to lean in, to brush his fingers lightly against her cheek, to watch her eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise. Would she lean into his touch, or would she pull away, teasing him with that same calm composure she always wore?

But there was something darker, too, lurking beneath the surface of his thoughts. A desire that went beyond just kissing her, beyond simply holding her. He wanted to possess her—to claim her mind, her body, her very essence. He wanted to unravel every part of her, to know her in ways no one else ever could.

He wondered what it would be like to have her completely—to hear her gasp his name in the quiet of the night, to feel her tremble under his touch as he explored every inch of her skin. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, his pulse quickening with the sheer intensity of it.

He imagined the way she would look at him in those moments—not with fear, but with that same quiet understanding she always had. She wouldn’t be afraid of him, no. She would meet his gaze with those sharp, intelligent eyes, and in them, he would see not just desire, but trust.

And that, more than anything, was what drove him mad with longing. The idea that she would let him in, that she would open herself up to him, mind and body. That she would surrender, not out of weakness, but because she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

The tension between Edward and Evelyn had reached its peak. Days blurred into nights, and the space between their sessions felt charged with an unspoken intensity that neither of them acknowledged aloud. Edward’s thoughts were consumed by her—her sharp mind, her quiet grace, the way she challenged him in ways no one else ever had. But more than that, he found himself intoxicated by the thought of her body, the softness of her skin, the quiet yearning that lay behind her steady gaze.

And Evelyn? She wasn’t blind to it. The way his eyes lingered on her, the subtle way his voice softened when they spoke—it was all so clear. A dangerous line had been crossed, and deep down, she knew that neither of them could pull back from it now.

It happened one night after a particularly long session. Evelyn sat across from Edward in his cell, their usual back-and-forth a little more subdued than normal. She had been distracted, her mind occupied with thoughts she shouldn’t have entertained, thoughts of what it would be like to give in to the pull between them.

She stood to leave, but Edward’s voice stopped her.

“Evelyn,” he said softly, using her first name—something he rarely did. “You’ve been… distant.”

Her hand hovered on the doorknob, her pulse quickening at the sound of her name on his lips. She turned slowly to face him, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, intense, and for a moment, she felt a flutter of nervousness in her chest.

“I’ve been busy,” she replied, her voice steady but quieter than usual.

Edward rose from his seat and took a step closer, his movements slow, calculated. The tension in the air was palpable, crackling like electricity between them.

“No,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “It’s something more than that, isn’t it? You feel it too.”

Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering in her chest. She wanted to deny it, to keep the professional distance they’d both maintained for so long. But there was no denying the truth any longer. The line between doctor and patient had been blurred beyond recognition, and there was no going back.

She could see it in the way Edward’s eyes softened as they locked onto hers, the way his lips curled into the faintest of smiles, as if he already knew the answer to the question he hadn’t asked yet.

And for once, Evelyn Harper had no words.

Before she could think, before she could rationalize the consequences, Evelyn took a step forward. And then another. Until she was standing just inches from Edward, her breath mingling with his.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of them in that small, dimly lit room. Edward’s eyes searched hers, his expression one of quiet intensity, as if he was waiting for her to make the first move.

And she did.

In one fluid motion, Evelyn reached up, her hand brushing the side of his face as she pressed her lips against his. It was soft at first, tentative, as though testing the waters. But when Edward responded—when his lips moved against hers with a hunger that matched her own—something inside her broke free.

The kiss deepened, their mouths moving in sync, the tension between them finally snapping. Edward’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and Evelyn let out a soft gasp as her body pressed against his. There was something raw, electric about the way they clung to each other, the months of unspoken desire finally spilling over.

Edward’s lips trailed down her neck, leaving a burning path in their wake. Evelyn’s fingers tangled in his hair, her body responding to his touch in ways she hadn’t allowed herself to imagine before.

For a moment, they were no longer doctor and patient. They were just two people, caught in a moment of passion that had been building for far too long.

Evelyn woke in her apartment the next morning, the events of the previous night playing over and over in her mind. The way Edward had kissed her, the way she had responded so willingly, so eagerly—it had felt right in the moment, but now… Now, in the light of day, reality set in.

She had crossed a line. A line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

Her fingers brushed her lips as if she could still feel the ghost of his kiss there. She closed her eyes, trying to push the memories away, but they wouldn’t leave her. The way his hands had roamed her body, the soft murmurs he had whispered in her ear—it was all too vivid, too raw.

And yet, even as guilt gnawed at her, a part of her—an undeniable part—wanted more. She wanted to be with him, to feel that connection again. But she knew the risks. She knew the dangers of getting involved with someone like Edward.

When Evelyn arrived at Arkham that morning, her steps were slower than usual, her mind weighed down by the decisions she had yet to make. She had allowed herself to give in to her desire for Edward once, but now, standing outside his cell, she wasn’t sure she could face him again.

But Edward was waiting for her, as always, his gaze unreadable as she entered the room. The air between them was thick with the memory of what had happened the night before, and neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Finally, Edward broke the silence.

“I’ve been thinking about last night,” he said, his voice low, almost cautious.

Evelyn swallowed hard, her eyes dropping to the floor. “We shouldn’t have—”

“I disagree,” Edward interrupted, stepping closer. “I think it was inevitable.”

He was standing right in front of her now, his eyes piercing into hers. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no regret. He wanted her—he had always wanted her—and now that they had crossed that line, there was no going back.

But Evelyn shook her head, her heart heavy with the weight of reality. “Edward, this can’t happen again.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against her arm in that soft, deliberate way of his. “You’re more than that to me, Evelyn.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of her name on his lips, but she forced herself to step back, to put distance between them. “It doesn’t matter. This can’t continue.”

For the first time, something flickered in Edward’s eyes—something dark, dangerous. “You’re wrong, doctor. This is only the beginning.”

Evelyn’s stomach tightened with a mixture of fear and desire. She knew Edward too well to think he would let this go. But she also knew that if she continued down this path, it would consume them both.

In the weeks that followed, Evelyn tried to maintain a professional distance, but Edward was relentless. His riddles became more personal, his gaze more intense during their sessions. Every time she saw him, the memory of their night together played in the back of her mind, making it harder and harder to focus.

And then, one night, Evelyn found another puzzle on her desk. But this time, it wasn’t a box or a riddle on paper. It was a key. A simple, unmarked key with no explanation, no note.

Evelyn stared at it for a long moment, her mind racing with possibilities. She knew Edward too well to think this was just another game. This was something more. Something final.

That night, Evelyn stood outside Arkham, the key clutched in her hand. She had a choice to make—a choice that would change everything.

If she used the key, she would be stepping into Edward’s world fully, embracing the darkness that came with it. If she walked away, she might be able to reclaim the life she had before him.

But deep down, she already knew the answer.

She turned the key in the lock, and the door swung open.

And as she stepped inside, she realized that the puzzle wasn’t just about Edward. It was about her, too. About what she wanted, about who she was.

And maybe—just maybe—this was the answer she had been searching for all along.

Edward watched as the door to his cell swung open, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. Evelyn stood there, her expression a mixture of fear and resolve, and he knew—knew without a doubt—that he had won.

But this wasn’t just about winning. It wasn’t just about solving the puzzle of her heart. No, this was something deeper, something far more complicated.

She was his now, in every way that mattered.

And as she stepped into his cell, closing the door behind her, Edward pulled her into his arms, their bodies pressing together in the darkness. This was the beginning of something new, something dangerous and thrilling, and neither of them could turn back now.

The riddle had been solved.

The sirens could be heard from a distance.

#the riddler #gotham #edward nygma x reader #edward nygma #gotham fox #arkham

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fungalittleweirdo · 9 months ago

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ROTTMNT 60s AU !!!

UHHHH JUST WANTED TO PUT THIS OUT THERE WHILE I'M STUCK IN DENIAL ABOUT MY WRITER'S BLOCK

raph

please this man has SOUL

he sings in clubs in new york, he has a record coming out in '67 with his band Raphael and The Digg

his brothers didn't feel like joining the band, so it's up to some talented musician girls he met without a trained main vocalist (digg, with prairie dog, honey badger, and groundhog)

they're super popular in harlem and they make it to charts

raph meets other motown records signees and they always find he's the gentlest of giants

he and his band DESERVES a grammy

leo

he's a surfer !!!

he loves competing in surfing tournaments in long island

the boy's a legend, other surfers think he's a fish at first

if he didn't have separation anxiety for his brothers (a post-kraang headcanon) he would have gone to the west coast where the real competitions are (they never feel like leaving new york for very long)

for now he's happy surfing the coast of long island

he loves when todd surfs with him, his favourite part is the lemonade he gets afterwards

donnie

donatello is OBSESSED with the space race

he managed to hack nasa for rocket blueprints

he got caught and they asked him if he was a communist but there was no found evidence that proved he was so he was let go and his name was cleared

he managed to improve the blueprints he got his hands on and built more efficient rockets, then he used computing tech to make his very own battleshell

he has a super-powered telescope he nicknamed shelldon

donnie predicted the states would win the space race in 1965 because it had something to do with the war, i myself don't know how he used that data point to draw a conclusion

mikey

mikey is such a hippie he has mugshots of his charming smiling face framed to prove it

very anti-war, very pro-civil rights movement, pro-dope and lowkey anti-united states government

he was at the stonewall riots !!!!!

he not only fought for human civil rights, but for mutants too, so that he and his brothers could be acknowledged as citizens

humans turned into mutants are already citizens, but the mistreatment they get is unfair and mikey chose to be a leading pioneer for mutant rights

leo (hesitantly) opened portals for mikey in the south so that he could stand with people of colour in their trying times

misc notes !!

lou jitsu was popular in golden age hollywood, he won many accolades for his films until big mama made it look like he was signed to stay in the battle nexus

jupiter jim films are actually westerns, his name is junebug jim instead

big mama is a big mafia boss woman regardless of the era she's in, though her battle nexus is televised for all ages

instead of becoming criminals, mutants follow mikey's lead protesting for mutant/yokai rights and new york is the first city to acknowledge it

the turtles' beach parties are insane, there's always some people other than the siblings lingering around at midnight

april is the best reporter out there, she reports on the turtles' exploits all the time and she makes mad BANK over it (successful 60s black woman slay)

the foot clan is a cult a lot like the manson family, the turtles hate their guts

baron draxum does the same thing he always did, brood in his lab trying to destroy the humans (that is until mikey gets through to him)

sr. hueso's run of the mill pizza is still the turtles' favourite pizza spot, though the establishment is beachside because he's on good terms with his brother, who mainly does imports

casey jr. is a star hockey player, he also avoids the draft because he's from the future, so the government doesn't have his records

but cass protests against the war with mikey whenever she can, she's also anti-war

donnie also managed to be the first mutant on the moon by his own means, it's been a childhood dream since he saw laika's launch in sputnik 2

aight that's all i have for now, i hope you enjoyed !!

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt writing #rise raph #rise leo #rise donnie #rise mikey #tmnt #yippee #jules' thoughts #headcanons #rottmnt 60s au

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fireemblem7x · 8 days ago

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A sample of the Codex

--CHAPTERS

:Prologue

Pherae inner city, 962 AS

Royal Delinquent

Lord Uther is relaxing after a tense negotiation when he and his escort come across a group of soldiers accosting a woman. Uther asserts Lycian jurisdiction and a fight breaks out.

--CHARACTERS

:Uther 1

Lord 10.1

941 AS - Present, Anima affinity

"Am I fit to rule? No, not really. Are you?”

Aliases: The Right Honourable Lord Uther Pendragon of House Ostia, Baron of Redgrove. Prince of Lycia. The Rebel Prince. Relatives: Parents Duke Regent Ulric and Duchess Catherine of Ostia. Brother Prince Hector of Ostia. Uncle Lord Griffith, deceased. Aunt Lady Olivia Bronzearm. Cousins Sir Kalten, Master Orun.

A descendent of Roland, raised in Ostia to be a warrior, a leader, and a wise man. That is not to say he became those things. Uther has been groomed for leadership his entire life, but often slipped away to have adventures with mercenaries and criminals. He has a history of drinking excessively, and getting into trouble because of it.

As heir to the Duchy of Ostia and the Regency of Lycia, Uther spends much of these days assisting his father in the governance of the realm. Uther wishes nothing more than to explore the world around him and find what mischief he can get into, so he finds these duties onerous.

Intelligent enough to pretend he isn't, he makes quick decisions and is skilled at adapting his attitude and mindset to fit the situation. Many consider him stubborn, overly bold, foul-mouthed, and foul-tempered, but his rougher friends say that he is an authentic and charismatic person after an ale.

:Ulric 1

Bishop 10.20.5

914 AS - Present, Earth affinity

“He did his duty. None can say he did not do his duty.”

Aliases: His Majesty Lord Ulric Boston Ostia, Duke Regent of Ostia and Steward of Lycia. Lord Father Ulric, Bishop of Ostia and Defender of the Faith. The Saint's Shield. The Welcoming. Relatives: Parents Duke Ulysses, Duchess Fiona, deceased. Brother Lord Griffith, deceased. Sister Lady Olivia Bronzearm. Uncles Sir Redorik, Lord Esaight, deceased. Aunt Szarke the Architect, deceased. Aunt Lady Kailee. Wife Lady Catherine. Sons Lord Uther, Prince Hector. Nephews Sir Kalten, Master Orun.

Duke Regent of Ostia and direct descendant of the hero King Roland, Ulric is a cunning and worthy leader of the Lycian people. Few remember, but he had a somewhat troublesome youth, and his first few years of regency were turbulent as he butted heads with the other lords. After the birth of Uther, his wayward son, he entered the clergy as a way to transform himself and serve a better role model.

In his capacity as Regent of Lycia, Ulric occupies himself by governing the realm. Ulric does all he can to keep Lycia economically and politically stable, while simultaneously working to ensure his bloodline continues to hold its position of power.

Dour, weary, responsible, insensitive, and pious, Ulric is the tired husk of the wild youth he once was. Many long years keeping the Lords of the League from each other's throats have taken their toll, and made him bitter and even more short-tempered.

:Elbert 1

Paladin 10.20.1

943 AS - Present, Earth affinity

"Elbert is the perfect card partner - he is so honest that his hand is always plain on his face.”

Aliases: The Most Honourable Lord Elbert Pyron Pherae, Marquess of Pherae. The Swallow's Son. Relatives: Parents Lord Gregory the Swallow and Lady Belloria of Pherae, deceased. Aunt Lady Alex of Tania. Wife Lady Eleanora of Pherae. Son Prince Eliwood of Pherae.

Rightful lord and head of one of Lycia's greatest houses, raised to be just, generous, and even-handed with his people. Elbert has a long history of achievements and accolades, and besides those few times his good friend Lord Uther involved him in his misadventures, has never given cause for admonishment.

As recently inaugerated Marquess of Pherae, he is occupied with its governance. In his free time he pursues his father's research in order to understand the man's strange behaviour before his death.

Elbert is thought by many to be the finest and most pure-hearted of the lords of Lycia - perhaps even of all its people. He rules justly and fairly, and is generous with his bondsmen. Yet rather than beggaring his realm, he brings in much income through a network of trade deals and training agreements he maintains on behalf of his deceased father. Though not the richest of the marches, or the fairest, Pherae has become a cultural capitol within Lycia under Elbert's father, and now under his own hand. He keeps two steeds with him, Prince and Diver, the former haughty and the latter wild and brave.

:Desmond 1

Peer 10.8

934 AS - Present, Light affinity

"Watch your words, little prince.”

Aliases: His Royal Highness the High Prince Desmond Ursus Elphet Samsara of Bern, Heir to the Nine Roosts and the Seven Skies. The Expected One. Favoured Son of Filla. The Next Legend. The Storm-talker Reborn. Relatives: Parents King Damien the Relentless and Queen Claudia Brighteye. Uncles Dragon General Deckard the Watcher and Lord Treasurer Zachariah. Uncles Lord Harvey of the High Roost and Sir Quincy, deceased. Aunt Lady Sharna of Fafnir. Aunts Lady Mary, Lady Leslie, and Lady Colette, deceased. Cousins Sir Casey, Sir Logan, Sir Morne, Sir Hector, Master Will-of-the-Saint, Dame Anita, Lady Tish, Lady Eileen, and Lady Peregrine of the Hoard.

Descendent of Hartmut and eldest son of King Damien of Bern. Desmond has shown himself to be a less-than-ideal leader, often shirking his studies in favour of games of polo or wine-tasting parties. He has arranged for the deaths of more than one rival, and sabotaged the careers of a number of high-ranking generals he disliked.

As the sole Prince of Bern and heir to the throne, Desmond is consolidating his power. He is doing this by playing the political game, vying to win the favour of his most powerful subjects for when he assumes the throne.

Egotistical, paranoid, and jealous, Desmond will stop at nothing to secure his position as king. It is rumoured he is doting on a village girl named Zelda.

:Eliwood 1

Civilian 1

962 AS - Present, Anima affinity

"Such a strong arm! You'll be a fighter, whether your mother likes it or not. I can only hope you'll show me mercy on the day we cross blades.”

Aliases: Prince Eliwood Buston Pherae. Relatives: Parents Lord Elbert and Lady Eleanora of Pherae.

Latest in a long line of noble and just men, many expect that Eliwood will grow up to be a fine example of the bloodline.

Heir to the March of Pherae, Eliwood has long years of schooling ahead of him. For now, he is concerned only with his next meal and exploring the world around him.

A cheerful and curious child, Eliwood is showing all signs of growing into a healthy, happy heir.

:Eleanora 1

Bishop 10.20.1

945 AS - Present, Dark affinity

"There is something in her eyes - it is like she is an ancient creature, humouring me with her time in the knowledge that I will fade out of existence before long.”

Aliases: Lady Eleanora Greyheart, Marchioness Consort of Pherae. Relatives: Parents Sir Kurt and Lady Wilma of House Greyheart. Brother Sir Falling-Fire. Husband Lord Elbert of Pherae. Son Prince Eliwood of Pherae.

A daughter of a knightly house serving Santaruz, who fell in love with Elbert during their childhood and worked many long years to win him over. Her father and Lord Gregory were on amicable terms due to their history working together, and the nuptials proceeded smoothly. The ceremony was attended by many noble men and women from the neighbouring provinces, as she won many friends in her childhood with charm and wit.

As Elbert's wife, Eleanora often runs things while he is off adventuring. Indeed, Eleanora even supports Elbert in his work by writing to experts and liaising with the populace.

Raised to be a dutiful wife and doting mother, a mistress of the household and wise counselor, Eleanora is strong-willed, and an excellent dancer. She is well-studied in the fundaments of both anima and holy magic.

:Marcus 1

Recruit 6

940 AS - Present, Ice affinity

"Do you think he is truly descended from a dragon? It seems so far-fetched, but then you see him, and he has that look in his eye…”

Aliases: Sir Marcus of House Alexander. The Young Dragon. Relatives: Parents Sir Isaac the Dragon-blooded and Lady Joan Stalwart. Aunt Lady Katelyn. Cousin Lady Urma.

As son of Pherae's knight-commander, Marcus has been groomed from birth to take his place. His life has been spent in study and training, interspersed with social gatherings where he would practice his etiquette and come to know the lords he served.

Now Lord Elbert's most promising knight-errant, Marcus was an obvious choice for protecting the sovereign heir, Lord Uther. He is proud to fulfil his oath and relishes the experience. His greatest hope is to become a man worthy of his lot in life.

Focused, serious, slightly cynical, and impatient at times, Marcus is a man of poor humour. Very well-read, but with no prior field experience, he has little confidence in his abilities - even though the more experienced knights have much. His horse is named Ryan, and is rather mild-mannered off the field, but is a hell-beast on it.

:Isadora 1

Squire 1

949 AS - Present, Dark affinity

"I know, I'm too generous with her. But look at that face! How am I to turn away such a creature?”

Aliases: Lady Isadora of House Swinburne. Relatives: Parents Sir Lance and Lady Summer, deceased. Sisters Lady Aveline, Lady Millicent, Lady Gervaise.

The youngest daughter of one of Pherae's lesser houses, Isadora grew up without knowing her parents. Her father was killed in a botched jousting match, and her mother died of a stroke. Since her sisters married away while she was still a small child, she was raised alone at the estate by her parents' staff.

Raised on stories of her father's heroics, Isadora decided early that she, too, would become a knight. As her apprenticeship started around the wedding of Lady Eleanora into the Pheraean house, Lord Elbert decided she should train to become Lady Eleanora's personal knight. To advance that training, Lord Elbert has agreed to assign her with the protection of Lord Uther. Isadora is hungry for adventure and excitement, and believes that such a posting would serve that hunger.

Willful, cheery, clever, and brave, Isadora is a bright spark of life whose presence animates and revitalises those she interacts with. She is not entirely a child, and has deep concerns about her position in society and whether she will live up to what is asked of her, but she tends to keep such things to herself and put on a brave face. Her horse is named Chucky, and is playful in demeanour.

:Mazda 1

Phalanx 10.3

932 AS - Present, Fire affinity

"'It takes all kinds', my mother used to say, but I don't think she had the captain in mind when she said it.”

Aliases: Captain Mazda. Relatives: Parents Dirk and Posie. Brothers Wain and Till. Sister Delilah.

Common born and raised in the Bernese countryside, Mazda's options as a child were few. He fell in with criminal gangs, was arrested, and then conscripted, after which he worked his way to a respectful position as a Captain of the Royal Guard by more-or-less honest means.

As a Captain in Desmond's honor guard, Mazda accompanies Prince Desmond to Pherae to guard him during the embargo negotiations. While he and his men share a drink on recess, he arrests a suspicious girl - which leads to a confrontation with Lord Uther.

Abrasive, egotistical, and cynical, Mazda would be very unattractive for a command position if it weren't for his willingness to follow orders with no hesitation. Yet this obedience is not out of loyalty, but rather an unscrupulousness of character.

:Tory 1

Mercenary 10.1

938 AS - Present, Wind affinity

"Haw!”

Aliases: N/A. Relatives: Orphaned, unknown.

A street rat from Bern who fell in with Mazda during his days as a gang thug and stuck with him since. The skills he picked up as a foot soldier and crony in the gangs translated neatly into his skills as a royal guard.

As Mazda's right-hand-man and only friend, Tory actually shoulders much of the managerial responsibilities of their squad. He is no better at it than Mazda, but the bureaucracy of Bern's great military is well-equipped to handle sub-par reporting and management. Mazda has a propensity for achieving money and fame, and making an exciting mess of things while doing it; Tory sticks around to see it unfold, and to pull Mazda out the other side so he can do it again.

Tory is easy-going, quick to laugh, and just a little bit malicious.

:Harken 1

Drifter 2

948 AS - Present, Fire affinity

"I am already heartsick with the grief I have sown. What is a little more, in the name of duty?”

Aliases: Dara d'Harken. Relatives: Parents Auroth and Auleth d'Harken. Uncle Seer Harken. Brother Ima d'Harken. Sister Erteth d'Harken.

A Western emigre who set out from his home in the Isles after his parents decided to join an Etrurian labor colony. After wandering across Etruria and Sacae, he came into service under Lord Dastan but had to flee after a short term of miserable service.

As a wandering soldier, Harken joined Lord Uther's escort because it was convenient. Aimless and confused, he found that having work gave him purpose.

Harken is fretful, absent-minded, and shy, though clever and charming after he's warmed to you. He suffers much inner turmoil due to his depression, which can make him seem distant or anti-social at times. He is reluctant to speak of his background or his family due to the nature of his estrangement.

--LORE

:Elibe

"Was there ever a land so cursed, so blessed, so madly full of contradictions and broken promises? Its people cling to their identities, sewing them on banners and emblazoning them on their clothes, yet they cannot remember the truth of their own past…"

The Dark Continent is a place of great diversity; diversity in peoples, diversity in ideals, diversity in cultures. At one end are the wild jungles and volcanoes of the Western Isles, at the other is the endless grass sea of No-Man's-Land. Between are the kingdoms and countries of Bern, Lycia, Sacae, Ilia, Etruria, and so too the desert wasteland that is the Nabata of Missur. Its history is one of chivalry and heroes, of magical quests and monstrous beasts. To live in Elibe is to speak the Dark Tongue and to possess a fierce pride in your land and your countrymen. The high lords and the lowly farmhands alike all revere the Saints Above, spirits of long-dead holy folk who are said to watch over the world and govern its fate. The nomadic plainsfolk worship spirits as well, though rather than the spirits of the dead they worship the spirits of the land and the sky, and all the elements between. The tribes of the Isles cannot seem to agree on what they worship, but they do so no less fervently than their kin on the mainland. The only folk who do not keep a religion are those of the Ilian highlands.

Peace is the rule in Elibe, yet every nation keeps ready and trained a number of great armies. There exists an ebb and flow of tensions between the rulers, but trade is prosperous and emigration is commonplace. Racial lines are drawn on some borders, and social mobility is low for most people, but for the most part, life is safe for hardworking folk.

:Lycia 1

Ceremonial monarchy/aristocratic federation. Led by Duke Regent Ulric of Ostia, Duchess Catherine, the Council of Lords. Capital is Ostia. Approximate area of 650,000 km2, approximate population of 3,900,000.

Lycia was originally many individual kingdoms that were often at war. During the Scouring, and thereafter, the kings of Lycia swore themselves over to Ostia's sovereignty, giving up their crowns to serve as a council of marquesses under the hero Roland. For most matters, the marquesses have autonomy over their individual states, so the marches of Lycia are all very different in culture and lifestyle. They tend to hold fast to old traditions and much of their lives are steeped in ritual.

The arrangement of power in Lycia appears on its surface to be one-way, that the Duke Regent dictates how the lords should govern their realms, but the opposite is true. The Duke Regent can only issue an edict with the assent of the majority, so in order to get enough of the lords to agree with his decisions, the Duke Regent bows to the will of the lords in other matters. Fulfilling promises to the sometimes competing interests of the lords renders the council leader politically immobile.

The peoples of Lycia come in many shapes and sizes, with differing beliefs from region to region and class to class. Most agree that there is security in the feudal system they live under, and as long as the gods keep providing wheat, they'll be there to cut it and trade it and feast upon it.

:Pherae

"Sweet Pherae, gentlest and kindest of the marches. Too good for such a world, some say; destined for betrayal and undoing.”

One of the marches of Lycia, located on the border of Bern. It has a history of peaceful relations with its neighbours and of noble and upstanding lords. Currently it is led by Marquess Elbert.

Pherae is flush with resources, and has one of Lycia's richest cattle industries. It uses this wealth to support one of the finest orders of knights in the world, as well as to ply the populace with an openhanded tax scheme. As such, its people are happy, healthy, and safely kept, and work three times as hard as those of its neighbours. Its sigil is a horse head.

:Ostia

"How is an honest criminal to make his way in this city? Every last coin is scooped up by the priests and the tax-men, and even the local guards are running a protection racket. It's enough to turn a man lawful.”

Ostia, located on the edge of the Western Borderlands and the Range of a Hundred Kings, is the seat of King Roland, and though he died many centuries ago, all of Lycia still pays him fealty. In his place, his descendents rule as regents, and govern the realm at the head of a council of lords. Ostia is where these councils are held, and is a place of much ceremony and tradition. Numerous churches perch on its hills, and many trade-houses and embassies keep the streets busy all through the year.

Included as part of its demesne is the port city of Badon and some common lands along the highway that is Roland's Way. Its sigil is a crowned keep with a curtain wall.

:Bern

Totalitarian hereditary absolute monarchy. Led by King Damien the Relentless. Capital is Bern. Approximate area is 905,000 km2, approximate population is 11,600,000.

Living in Bern means serving the king, and then his son when he comes of age. Indoctrination establishes this rule and strict military policing enforces it, even in the most remote of settlements. Because of this, Bern boasts the most stable society on the continent, even if not the happiest, and subsequently the largest and best-trained military force - especially effective due to its monopoly on the local draco population.

Bernese children must choose to either take up a labour or craft, giving them the right to use property and start a family, or to join the military, which also provides opportunities for a government office. The sciences and arts are entirely under the church's jurisdiction, and pursuing such a life means giving up the rights of citizenship. There are the exceptional few who wander the land as independent merchants, performers or mercenaries, but they are largely regarded as no better than criminals.

An aristocratic class exists in the form of off-shoots from the royal line, as well as the families of those who have served as Dragon General. Children of the aristocracy are typically groomed for military command, so the election of a Dragon General rarely includes the rise of a new noble family - rather, they are almost always chosen from a family which has frequently served the office in the past. Similarly, government officials are first chosen from the eligible nobility before any common officers are considered.

:The Nine

"From the darkness were born eight, and together they were nine, and among them were nine crowns, but one was never worn.”

The Nine gods of Elibe are worshipped from coast to coast, but for every place there is a custom, and sometimes different names are used. The Sacaeans talk of Mother Earth and Father Sky as the primarch deities, and the others as servant spirits; the tribes of the Isles claim to be descendent from the children of the gods; but for the most part, the gods are agreed on.

An exception in the Eliminian tradition is the god Mot, and is the most controversial of the gods. In Elimineanism they are genderless, and are discerned as a being beyond judgement and morals and good and evil. It is forbidden to worship them in the clergy, for old tribal stories tell that they created the universe out of their own body in order to devour it again. Such a carnal telling of the creation myth has instead been told over by adopting an interpretation of Mother Earth and Father Sky; Ninis and Deus.

The other gods have many names and many stories, and are worshipped as patrons of craft, of youth, of passage, and so on.

--CLASSES

:Lord

"A noble attached to a ruling house. Has great potential.”

As nobility, lords often have a lifetime of rigorous study and training behind them. They are expected to be as skilled at command as they are at diplomacy, as well as having an expected proficiency at martial arms. As the commander of the field unit, their defeat often means the surrender or retreat of their party.

Unique proficiencies and skills. Unique movement.

:Recruit

"This spear-wielding attendant is a low-status soldier seeking rank.”

Recruits come from all walks of life. If a man is given to no special talents, then he is given a spear and taught to thrust. The best recruits will dedicate their every waking hour to perfecting this thrust. The worst will use their spear to lean on as the day rolls past them.

Proficient in Lances. Light Infantry movement.

:Squire

"All knights begin somewhere. Young, but fiercely loyal.”

A knight's apprenticeship usually follows some time as a page, groom, or other attendant, and is the beginning of their martial training. As a squire, they must clean armour and carry materials to harden their hands and muscles, and ease the duty of their master knight. Combat training is typically elementary sword drills and occasional sparring.

Proficient in Swords. Light Infantry movement.

:Drifter

"An aspiring swordsman with almost limitless confidence.”

Drifters are often self-taught. They leave home young, for whatever reason, seeking fame, seeking fortune, seeking something other than what they left behind. No two share a style, but all share a hunger to prove themselves.

Proficient in Swords. Light Infantry movement.

:Mercenary

"Professional soldiers with little care beyond their next payment.”

In Elibe, "mercenary" is a catch-all term for sword fighters. Some are stationed soldiers with a wage, some are by-the-job killers, all are hardy and skilled fighters. They have a balanced style, with strength to match blows with bigger warriors, but the footwork and skill to keep pace with lighter ones.

Proficient in Swords. Skill: Focus (Pow +4 when moving one tile or less). Heavy Infantry movement. Swordsman type.

:Soldier

"A lightly-armoured soldier who has balanced abilities.”

A typical garrison or infantry unit will be stocked with many men like this. Equipped with a spear, a helm, a breastplate, and a shield, they fight best together and rarely are exceptional or noteworthy duelists. Some make it a point to master this style, however, and it is important to keep watch for such men.

Proficient in Lances. Skill: Hit +10. Light Infantry movement.

:Fighter

"Axe-wielding soldiers whose wild style hampers their accuracy.”

The men who are drawn to the axe come from many backgrounds, but all are large, powerful, and brave. If they can land a blow, it will always debilitate, but few have the training to land them consistently. In open warfare, they are unleashed like stampeding bulls to crash through the enemy's ranks.

Proficient in Axes. Skill: Focus (Pow +4 when moving one tile or less). Heavy Infantry movement.

:Phalanx

"As unbreakable as a fortress, these axemen are invaluable.”

Phalanx knights are Bern's ultimate answer to the infantry question. A line of their tower shields can advance through any fire or fury, and their axes can cleave through anything that stands in their way. Alone, however, they are slow and can have difficulty catching nimbler fighters.

Proficient in Axes. Skill: Savior (No rescue penalties, enables Shelter and Refuge). Armoured movement. Armour type.

--ITEMS

:Claymore

"A marvel of smithing. Any man who can wield one of those is a master in his own right.”

A mighty sword of castle-forged steel that is as unwieldy as it is devastating. It takes more than muscle to master this blade; it takes will, and grit, and guts. Effective against armor, cavalry, shields and barriers, the claymore would rule the field if there were more men worthy of it.

:Bronze Lance

"The best place for a bronze lance is crossed over some soldier's grave.”

An ancient spear with intricate metalwork made of faded bronze. In some era long past, it was the peak of smithing. Now it is only good for training recruits with, because it is impossible to break.

:Slim Sword

"Why batter and hack and battle when you can just prick a man and watch his lifeblood spill unbated?”

The slim sword is a tool chosen by masters of the blade, those who dance and flow in their battles. It isn't as strong as other blades, but it is lighter and more precise, and a precise strike is often all one needs.

:Vulnerary

"Mum makes hers from plants in the garden. It's not as good as the market stuff, but it works.”

A herbal ointment common throughout the dark continent, used to seal wounds, stay bleeding and infection, and promote healing.

:Iron Sword

"This whole bleedin' continent runs on iron. Iron for wheels, iron for gates, iron for badges and crests. Like as not both of us will die by it.”

The iron sword is the test of an apprentice smith. If they can make one that is balanced, sturdy, and sharp, they move on to their journeymanship. It is not a hard test to pass, in truth. The iron sword is as plain a tool as ever was devised; it has a place to hold and a straight blade of just enough length to maximise the leverage of an arm. It has no adornment but a simple pommel and crossguard.

:Bronze Axe

"The runes on this ancient raiding axe are from no known language in Elibe.”

Historians love to talk of the bronze axe, a relic from an age when "sea people" would emerge on the shores in great numbers and cut and take anything in sight, then disappear. Like other bronze weapons, its intricate make somehow protects it from damage.

:Iron Axe

"Cuts bone just as well as wood.”

The iron axe is a common weapon, as near any worker worth his salt will have one on hand somewhere. It isn't as elegant as a sword or as easy to make as a spear, but its slab of a blade packs more of a punch than either.

:Bronze Sword

"No-one knows how to make 'em like this any more. No-one cares to. Whenever you find one, it's best to try and get rid of it, if you ask me.”

An ancient sword with runes along its blade. Despite being made of inferior metal, it has a strange hardiness that makes it impossible to damage.

#fire emblem: immortal sword #fe7x #team bwdyeti

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octarinecore · 7 months ago

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Comics and blurb dump of me and @sweetie-chandelier's ocs :3

#Jane Hari #Zacharie AuClair #Yekaterina Skvortsova #Julien Arnette #disco elysium oc #de #friends ocs #zacharie sketch #rammy art #rammy sketch #criminal accolades

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universitypenguin · 1 year ago

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Chapter 20

The Princess & The Lawyer: Chapter XX

Summary: Leo McKenzie’s arrest infuriates a dangerous man. During an interview with Julia’s best friend, Princess and Detective Roth learn shocking new information. Theories about the stalker’s identity are discussed.

Masterlist

Word Count: 5,536

Warnings: Murder, stalking, domestic violence, kidnapping, criminal investigative work, and mention of medical treatment.

Chapter XX

The killer stared at the wall. Usually, this was an activity he enjoyed.

It was decorated by his own hand, a shrine to his achievements and a showcase of awards, certificates, prizes, mingled with photos of his greatest successes. Each addition to the wall was a testament to his dedication, skill, and tireless work ethic. Staring at this wall was a visual reminder of his mastery over life’s turmoil.

On nights when his insomnia wouldn’t let him fall into the blissful arms of Morpheus, looking at it soothed him. Right now, he desperately needed to be soothed. Sleep had eluded him for days now, and even the pride of his meticulously curated accolades made him feel hollow. Grimly, he accepted the painful truth - these prizes were hollow.

His real accomplishments couldn’t be displayed in the open, not if he valued his freedom. Being misunderstood was so frustrating. The frustration simmered, an ember of discontent that had been stroked into a raging fire by the arrest of Leo McKenzie.

He thought he’d closed that chapter of his life twenty years ago when he’d framed Shun Nguyen.

Choosing Nguyen as his scapegoat had been a masterstroke of cunning. To this day he counted it as one of his finest moments. Drawing the doctor to him and gaining his confidence had been easy, like luring a moth to a flame. Thanks to careful planning, and a bit of luck, he’d eluded the long arm of justice. The police had closed the case and he’d walked away without so much as a scratch on his own reputation.

He hadn’t minded Dr. Nguyen taking credit for his work, but Leo McKenzie? McKenzie was a washed up bar fly. He was a lazy, dim-witted idiot. The killer couldn’t understand how the police could look at that fool and think, even for a second, that he’d been responsible for such cleverly planned and flawlessly executed crimes?

Were they mocking him? Or, worse, were they mocking his work?

What really got under his skin was trying to wrap his head around how anyone would think that imbecile McKenzie had the restraint to stop killing. That was a struggle he knew well. It was an endless torment, one that tested his self-control every day for the past two decades. He’d gone to incredible lengths to keep himself on the straight and narrow. Giving up his true passion after he’d nearly perfected the art of the untraceable crime had been painful, but he’d given it up.

Doing so had been the most grueling feat of his entire life.

He’d stopped after killing Julia and dedicated himself to other pursuits. With great effort, he’d managed to hold his darker impulses in check, because he was a man of discipline and intelligence. That intelligence was more vast than anyone could imagine or appreciate, even those who knew him well.

His gaze shifted to the television in the adjoining room. It had been on all night, the flashing lights keeping him company long after he’d muted the sound. Now, it played the seven o’clock broadcast from the local NBC affiliate. Their lead story was about Leo McKenzie. None of the information in it was news to him; he’d lived in Harmony for decades and knew everyone. McKenzie was a twice divorced weekend alcoholic with a spending problem. Eventually, people would see him for what he was, and when they did, he’d be cleared as a suspect and released.

But when? How much longer did he have to endure this disrespect? How much longer would a moron be given credit for the things he’d done?

His eyes returned to the wall of achievements - a magnificent tapestry that suddenly looked incomplete. It didn’t hold his most significant contributions, and he lamented that omission with a deep sorrow. The world couldn’t recognize his genius if he hid himself away, but if he showed them who he really was, they wouldn’t understand.

Frustration surged like a bolt of electricity and jealousy gnawed at his chest like a case of progressive heartburn that couldn’t be treated with conventional methods. Something had to be done. He hadn’t slept in days and he was snappish and irritable. He couldn’t go on like this; something had to change but everyone was so blind and obtuse - the police, the media, even those high-profile investigators Clayton Bishop had sent down from D.C. were useless. His jaw clenched and he willed the internal turmoil to subside.

What good was being a genius when no one acknowledged it?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Please, have a seat," Aliyah Kissinger waved her hand towards the dining room table in invitation.

It was long enough to seat twelve, and made of an expensive looking dark wood. Detective Roth sat at the head of the table. You took the chair on his left.

Aliyah, as she'd requested you call her, sat across from you.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

Mrs. Aliyah Montgomery, formerly Kissinger, carried herself with the confidence of a 90s supermodel, projecting an aura of sophistication that only came from experience.

You recognized it instantly because you’d seen the male version of it on Lloyd and Mr. Bishop.

Her hair was ironed to pin-straight perfection and her features sculpted by an expensive contour that blended so seamlessly into her skin that it was almost invisible. She wore wide-legged ivory pants and a silk turquoise shell.

"We're here to ask you about Julia Xiarong. You were friends with her twenty years ago, correct?" Roth asked.

"Yes. I gave my statements to the police back then and I don’t have anything new to add.”

"My questions will be more expansive than what you were asked before. We're taking another look at the case. Anything you can remember would be much appreciated."

She arched a well-groomed eyebrow. "Why? I thought you arrested Leo McKenzie?”

"The investigation is still ongoing."

Aliyah tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I see. I'm not sure I can be of help."

"Mrs. Montgomery, you knew Julia well,” you said, phrasing the question as a statement.

"Yes. We were very close, Ms. …?"

You gave your name and noted a flicker of recognition cross her face.

"You're from Clayton Bishop's firm, aren't you?" Alliyah said.

"I am."

"Clayton was the only person on the case who could get anything done. The police were useless. They couldn't find their way out of a paper bag with a map, a trail of breadcrumbs, and GPS instructions."

Roth cleared his throat. "Could you tell us what you remember about the months leading up to Julia's death?"

Aliyah’s lips tightened but nothing else on her face moved. You'd noticed the botox when she'd greeted you at the front door. Her forehead was utterly smooth, even when she smiled, but the muscles around her mouth and in her cheeks were still active.

"What about them?" she asked, her voice just a degree shy of hostility.

"Did your book club meet weekly or monthly?" you asked.

It didn't take much to understand why Aliyah despised the police. She'd been approving of Bishop and relying on your association with him to soften her up seemed like the best play. Roth leaned back and closed his notebook, a silent cue for you to take the lead.

"Weekly," she said.

"Where and when was your last meeting?"

She swallowed, throat moving. "Starbucks, the Saturday before she was killed."

"Could you tell me a little about the members of your book club?"

She obliged and listed their names, giving you brief biographies of the members. You didn’t pick up any stress cues. Playing the game of hot and cold, you asked more questions. When you brought up the relationships between members, Aliyah’s gaze dropped to the table and her fingers curled into her palms.

"Did Julia have any disagreements with other members of the book club?" you asked.

Her lips pursed. "Disagreements? No, never. She was very personable. Julia organized the book club in the first place, she was friends with everyone."

You'd struck a nerve. Her forehead was almost wrinkling as she frowned, which was amazing, especially considering the discretely hidden facelift scars you’d just noticed by her left ear.

"But she had a disagreement with someone, didn't she? Do you remember who?"

Aliyah flicked a glance at Roth.

"Did Julia have a disagreement with you, Ms. Kissinger?" you asked, deliberately calling her by her former last name.

"Montgomery! It's not Kissinger anymore."

Despite the flash of anger, you kept your expression calm and spoke in a placid tone.

"I apologize, Mrs. Montgomery. Did you and Julia have a disagreement before she was killed?"

Her dramatic lash extensions made it easy to observe the change in her blink rate as her stress level rose. It was too fast for you to count, pushing the triple digits. Her shoulders were visibly moving with each breath now. Roth was silent, doing his best impression of the invisible man. Aliyah's attention remained squarely on the threatening party: you.

"I don't want to discuss this."

"Having a more complete picture of what was going on in Julia’s life when she died could help us make a case against the person who really killed her,” you said.

Disgust flashed across Aliyah's face, wrinkling her nose and curling her lip for a split second before she covered the reaction. Her chin jerked up as she tossed her head.

"Sweetheart, everyone with an IQ above ten knows who killed Julia."

You smiled, unbothered by the insult. Aliyah was doing everything she could to distract you from... something, but her weapons weren't as sharp as she thought they were.

"Do you remember the topic of your argument with Julia on the Saturday before she disappeared?"

This time you risked naming a specific date, interested in the effect it might have. Aliyah twisted her neck from side to side, enthralled by the patterns in the table’s wood grain again. Silence hung over the room. It was so quiet that you could hear the second hand of Roth’s watch ticking.

Finally, Aliyah answered.

"Yes."

"What did you argue about?"

"It was a long time ago,” she said.

"You can't remember?"

"Shun murdered Julia. Clayton knew it, the media knew it... I knew it. Her death was an open and shut case."

Ignoring her attempt to redirect the topic of conversation, you kept pushing her and stuck to your original line of questioning.

"Why did you and Julia argue, Aliyah?"

"It was just a book club meeting."

"You didn't talk about books that day, did you?"

A muscle jumped in her cheek. "Julia and I talked about a lot of things, all the time. She was my best friend."

Her hands illustrated as she spoke, but then abruptly dropped into her lap on the phrase ‘she was my best friend.’ You watched as she pressed them together, fingers flexing. It was odd to see such acute distress flare up during a discussion about events that took place decades ago. Guilt, fear, anger, sadness… There were so many emotions flashing from your subject that it was hard to decide where to take the conversation next.

Instead of asking another question, you waited, letting the silence linger until it became awkward.

Aliyah refused to fill the silence.

You stayed quiet.

Her lashes were fluttering again and her eyes darted between you, the table, the window, and then to the right, in the direction of her front door. Talking about this argument had her teetering on the edge of a flight response and that made you very, very curious.

"What if I don't want to discuss this?" she asked.

"It's your right to end this interview at any time. Is that what you want?"

Her eyes closed briefly. After she’d taken a deep breath, they opened again. She met your gaze with a piercing stare. Her lips parted, then snapped shut. Her head dropped until her chin almost touched her chest and hung there for a few seconds. Then she looked up.

"Do you have a best friend?"

You bent the truth a little. "Yes."

"How would you feel if you lost them?"

"Devastated."

She nodded, approving of your response. “I felt devastated. I regretted what I said to her, and looking back... it wasn't my place. I didn’t tell anyone about the argument because of all the media attention. At the time I didn’t think the argument was important…”

She trailed off with a frown.

When she didn’t continue after a moment, you prompted her gently.

"Aliyah. Why didn’t you think the argument was important?”

"It was… You know what, this is ridiculous! Julia’s been dead for more than twenty years and her killer - the real one - escaped justice. We don’t need to go down this rabbit hole, okay?”

“You don’t believe Leo McKenzie killed Julia. Why?”

Her lips curved into a half smirk, the left corner of her mouth tightening. She’d flashed contempt at you a few times already but this time it lingered openly on her face. You recognized the non-verbal challenge and knew better than to take the bait. Aliyah was a family law attorney specializing in ugly divorces. You knew you’d never beat her by meeting aggression with aggression; that was her bread and butter, where she spent most of her time.

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump and eased back from the table, uncrossing your legs.

"I guess we don't need to waste anymore of your time."

You were careful about the emphasis you placed on the pronouns. It wasn’t an overt challenge, but the implication - you’re the one who wasted our time - landed immediately.

Aliyah's nostrils flared. "You're barking up the wrong tree. What we argued about was irrelevant to the investigation. It can’t help your case and if it got out…” she broke off, shaking her head. “There’s no sense in slandering someone’s reputation after all this time.”

“This is a cold case, Ms. Kissinger. Learning everything we can about Julia’s life is the best approach we have.”

Her lips twisted. "Telling you won't bring Julia back."

"No. Nothing will bring her back. But we’re here today because you knew her better than anyone else. Anything that might be relevant to our investigation, even tangentially, could help us. You read the article in the Rolling Stone, didn’t you?”

She nodded and you scooted forward to the edge of your seat, leaning in.

“There’s momentum in the case because the second body heated up public interest again. We might have a second chance at justice and those don’t come along everyday. Please. Let’s not waste this opportunity.”

Aliyah's teeth sank into her lower lip. She pressed a hand to her chest and wrapped her other arm around her waist. Her gaze shifted, fixing on a point beyond your shoulder.

"I was helping with her immigration paperwork. It’s not my area of expertise, but she needed to get her citizenship… living with Shun was awful.”

Her dark, troubled eyes flicked to your face and you nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"A few days before we argued, a mutual friend told me that Julia was seeing someone."

The hair on the back of your neck stood up.

Aliyah continued. "My friend saw them on a date a few days before. At first I didn't believe her, but then it suddenly made sense. Shun worked 24 hour shifts in the ER from Tuesday to Wednesday and the timing of the date felt right. So, I asked her about it and Julia confirmed the date had happened.”

"Who was she dating?"

"Leo McKenzie.”

You were stunned.

Aliyah smiled at your reaction. "I know, but trust me - twenty years ago Leo was much better looking than he is now. He still had some of that military polish on him and hadn’t developed that horrible beer gut yet. Seven nights a week you could find him chatting up the ladies at McGinty's. He was a serial dater and if that had been all there was to it, I wouldn't have confronted Julia, but… well, Leo wasn't the only guy she was seeing."

A love triangle. There was a secret love triangle in the middle of the Nguyen case.

"Who was the other guy?"

Her face creased - as much as it could, between the botox and facelift - and she rubbed her chest.

"I don't know. She never told me who it was. Julia was a bit of a flirt. She made friends easily and always knew how to keep a conversation going. Her English had improved a lot since she’d moved to Harmony and it gave her the confidence to put herself out there a little more. Unfortunately, a little more turned into a lot more. Her immigration status had tied her to Shun for practical reasons, but Julia didn’t love him. For her their relationship was just a buffer to keep ICE at bay.”

Shun Nguyen... Leo McKenzie... and mystery man. Every time this roller coaster ride seemed to be leveling out, a new twist popped up.

"How long had she been seeing this mystery man?" you asked.

"A couple months," Aliyah said. "I was fine with her dating, honestly, but the situation with Shun was precarious. All it would’ve taken was one bad argument and a neighbor reporting a domestic disturbance. Then her problems would’ve become infinitely more complicated.”

Her hands went up in a helpless gesture, then fell limply into her lap. She closed her eyes, sighing. When she opened them again her expression was sad, and a little bit angry. “Hiding one boyfriend? That’s doable, but two?” She shook her head. “Two is a balancing act, three is juggling… and no one can juggle forever.”

“What kind of complications were you concerned about?” you asked.

“I figured if he got really mad, he’d go to immigration and have her deported. Julia didn’t believe he’d do it, but Shun was obsessed with her. He was so possessive and controlling. If he’d known she was cheating on him, he would’ve gone over the edge.”

Her assessment matched your impression of Dr. Nguyen from Singapore. He was arrogant, vain, and bad-tempered. If someone pushed the right combination of buttons, he could become very, very dangerous.

“On the Saturday before she disappeared, I told Julia she needed to break it off with Leo, but she refused. I wish I could tell you more, but to be honest, I got mad and things escalated from there. We didn’t have much of a discussion, we just argued."

“Did you have any theories about Mystery Man’s identity?” you asked.

"Sure. Armondo, the barista at Starbucks. Jay, from our pottery class, and Mason Phelps, who coached our workout group. However, after she died, I spoke to each of them and it turned out that none of them were mystery man."

"Do you think Leo or Mystery Man had something to do with Julia's death?"

Aliyah waved her hand as if pushing the idea away. "No, the real threat to Julia's safety was living with her and nobody ever really doubted that Shun was responsible for her death and those missing women."

"Did Julia ever mention having a cousin in the U.S?"

You hadn't planned on asking this question, but it was out of your mouth before you could think it through. The older woman paused, considering. Just as you were about to apologize and redirect the conversation, Aliyah snapped her fingers.

"Oh, yes! I remember! Her cousin's name was Li Weng Chapman, right?"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The Riverbank Diner was one of the few eateries inside the Harmony city limits. Lloyd and Zach were seated in a corner booth at the back of the restaurant. In the kitchen, staff was bustling around, preparing for the evening rush.

Lloyd watched Zach polish off a huge plate of corned beef hash browns.

“When’s the last time you saw a cardiologist?”

“Fuck off. My cholesterol is excellent.”

“You know the high numbers are bad, right? It’s kind of like golf,” Lloyd said.

Zach sneered. “At least I’ll die of natural causes… unlike you.”

The bells on the door jingled as Landon entered, a thin stack of files under his arm.

“You look like you’ve been burning the midnight oil,” Lloyd said.

“A bit,” Landon said, sliding in next to Zach.

“That's great, give me the list.”

He reached for the files but Landon jerked them away. “Uh-uh. Before I start, we need to go over a few rules.”

Lloyd’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of rules?”

“This isn’t a kill list. You can’t exterminate all the suspects just to soothe your anxiety, are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

Landon sighed. “I don’t trust him, do you?”

“Hell no,” Zach said. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him on a short leash. Give us the list.”

“I’ve narrowed it down to four names, which I ranked by level of suspicion. Suspect number four is Juan Medero.”

Lloyd’s eyebrows rose. “Her brother-in-law?”

“There’s been a recent stressor in his life and he’s got a history of anger-management problems.”

“Give me that.”

Landon passed him the file. “The stressor is his wife’s pregnancy, but I have to tell you, Juan made the suspect list mainly because I couldn’t eliminate him. We know he was at the park during the first incident and if you remember the photo that was left on Princess’ car? Yeah, he wasn’t in it. All the other members of her family were captured in the background, except for him.”

“How tall is he?” Lloyd asked.

“He’s five-foot eight. Depending on shoes, he might be tall enough to be the attacker.”

“But he couldn’t have known she was staying at my place.”

“Not true. Vivian put Life360 on Princess’ phone. If they’re like most couples they share their passwords, so it’s not much of a leap to say that he could’ve used Vivian’s phone to find her.”

“Juan has known her for years though, why snap now?” Zack asked.

“A need for power and control. The stalker wants to scare Princess. If Juan is under extreme stress he might be using this game as an outlet for that tension. It’s just a theory of course, but the major red flag on Juan was his arrest record.”

Zach reached for the file. “What arrest record?”

“He’s been in bar fights - several in the past six months.”

“They’re all misdemeanors,” Lloyd said.

“The judge allowed him to be charged with misdemeanors because he agreed to anger-management therapy.”

“He’s worth looking into,” Zach admitted. “Who’s next? Did you put Westin on the list?”

Landon grunted, flicking his boss an annoyed look. “Yes, because you insisted.”

“Why is Westin on the list? I thought I took care of that,” Lloyd said.

“Nope, not even close. You should see their emails.”

“What email?” Lloyd demanded.

“Emails, phone calls, texts… he’s a real piece of work,” Zach said.

“He’s had it in for Princess from day one,” Landon said. “I put him in the number three spot, but there’s nothing to indicate a non-professional interest in their messages, he’s just a micromanaging asshole.”

“The paralegals hate him even more than they hate me,” Lloyd said. “They’ll cannibalize him soon. What did you dig up on him?”

“Not that much. No kids, never married, he’s lived in the D.C. area most of his adult life. He worked his way up to middle management by changing jobs every six years or so. Word on the street is that he’s obnoxious, but he gets results.”

Lloyd grunted. “I’ll talk to Jen and see if we can think of a way to hurry him out the door.”

Zach and Landon stared.

“What?” Lloyd asked.

“You’re going to talk to Jen?” Zach said.

“We have an arrangement where I buy her expensive spa packages and she does me favors. Why are you looking at me like that? She gets results, okay?”

“Princess was right,” Landon muttered.

“How worried do you think we should be?” Zach asked.

“Personally, I’m terrified,” Landon said. “Lloyd, just so there’s no confusion, the deal we made earlier applies to Jen, too. You can’t have her kill Westin for you.”

“How many spa packages do you think that would cost me?”

Landon scowled and reached for his phone as it buzzed, turning his attention to the screen as he responded to a text message.

“Are any of the other suspects from the office? What about Andy Barber? And I know you don’t want to think about it, but what about Jake?”

“Jake was nowhere near the park during the first incident and he was on assignments for me during two of the others,” Zach said.

“He’s a tech genius. He could’ve covered his tracks a million different ways,” Lloyd said. “Andy Barber hides it well, but he’s meaner than you’d think, and he’s always been a little over familiar with Princess.”

Zach rolled his eyes. “Get a grip, Lloyd. This isn’t a witch hunt for you to go persecute your romantic rivals. Jake’s not psycho and neither is Barber. Aside from that, they’re both over six feet tall.”

“Can’t we investigate Andy? Just a little?”

“If you want to tug on that leash, Zach, now’s the time to do it,” Landon said, not even glancing up from his phone when Lloyd bared his teeth at him.

“Right. Sorry, I’m used to Princess taking care of this stuff.”

Zach squared his shoulders, facing Lloyd. “Listen, we don’t have cause to dig into Andy. We’re looking for someone who wants to hurt Princess, not date her.”

Landon finished texting and reached for the next file. “Okay, suspect number two. Georgina Rochester. She and Aiden dated off and on during college. She’s got a record with campus police for threatening another girl who dated Aiden while they were in an off phase. The interesting thing about Georginia is that she used to have classes with Princess.”

“What did she major in?” Lloyd asked.

“Criminal Science and Psychology.”

“I’ve seen this girl before. She was with Aiden in the restaurant the night he broke up with Princess.”

“If we take into account when the stalking started Georgina’s involvement starts to make a lot of sense,” Landon said. “I know she doesn’t match my profile, but her education might be the reason why. She could be mimicking how she thinks a stalker should communicate, which would influence my profile. This whole thing could be a ruse to scare Princess away from Aiden.”

Zach raised an eyebrow. “She’s taken it pretty far if that’s the case.”

“Georgina doesn’t come across as the most stable person in the world to begin with, but if you check out the next page…”

Lloyd frowned. “She applied to the FBI academy? Damn… her psych report is worse than mine.”

“I want to see that,” Zach said, leaning over to grab the file. He read it and let out a low whistle. “Holy shit, she failed this one hard. Low-stress tolerance, lack of impulse control, poor compartmentalization skills… Landon, translation, please?”

“She’s an anxious control freak with anger issues.”

“Right. How tall is she?”

“Five-foot, nine inches,” Landon said.

“Do we think she’s in cohorts with Aiden?” Zach asked.

“That doesn’t make much sense,” Lloyd said. “Why would Aiden try to break into Princess’ apartment if he could’ve had Georgina do it?”

Landon shook his head. “As I looked deeper into the behaviors of both the stalker and Aiden, the idea of coordinated stalking seemed increasingly unlikely. Consider the things we know Aiden actually did - he stalked Princess on social media, he called Yvette to ask if she was at home, and only then did he try breaking into her apartment. Those are cautious, non-confrontational behaviors that fit with what we know about Aiden’s personality.”

“The camera matches him too,” Zach said.

“Right. It’s advanced technology, which is his wheelhouse. Everything we can ascribe to Aiden involves indirect contact with Princess.”

“Are you trying to say that Aiden isn’t stalking Princess?” Lloyd demanded.

Landon inclined his head. “I’m just describing his behavior. Let’s look at the actions we know were taken by the stalker. The direct contact events are the near miss hit-and-run at the Emerald Harp, which took place in plain sight of half a dozen security cameras. When they tried to strangle Princess, they avoided being caught on camera coming in, but breaking into your condo association in broad daylight was still pretty bold. Taking a photo of her on the bench with Vivian and leaving it on her car was also a risk. There’s security cameras in that parking lot, but they weren’t working.”

“The text messages were passive,” Zach said.

“But the phone call wasn’t - that was direct contact. You and Princess flew to Singapore on Saturday, right?” Landon asked Lloyd.

“Yeah.”

“Her phone’s connection issues blur the timeline, but… I’m betting the stalker timed the first volley of messages to come in exactly twenty-four hours after their phone call. Since you were flying across the Pacific Ocean at the time, it’s just a theory, we don’t know for sure. But the point I’m getting at is that these indirect actions are geared towards communicating with Princess directly, something Aiden hasn’t done.”

“You’re making a case that Aiden isn’t stalking her, aren’t you? What about him breaking into her apartment?” Lloyd demanded.

“I think he’s looking for something and I don’t think the night Jake caught him was his first attempt. Her neighbor reported someone yelling outside Princess’ door, right? Not too long after you ran into Aiden at the restaurant?”

“She did. You think that was Aiden?”

“Probably. I’d also be willing to bet it was Aiden she heard behind her on the trail at her nephew’s birthday party.”

“Why?” Zach asked.

“First, the behavior. Whoever she heard was trying to avoid being seen. The stalker’s phone call on the other hand, that person wanted her full attention. I’d bet a week’s pay that if her stalker had been out there alone with her… well, it would’ve been the same thing you interrupted by the pool.”

“I still don’t get why he’d follow her down the trail, or even to the birthday party,” Zach said.

“Because he’s cautious and if she wouldn’t let him into the apartment, he had to find another way in. He probably watched her for a while to make sure she was staying and when she walked off, he followed her. I think she almost caught him and it scared him off. Aiden’s risk tolerance is pretty low. After two failed attempts to get into her apartment, he needed a new strategy, hence the camera on Mrs. Thompson’s door.”

“The camera stinks of Aiden’s handiwork,” Zach agreed.

“Cautious, indirect, and… it’s not focused on Princess. There’s something about her apartment that he’s interested in. Another thing that lends weight to the theory is that Aiden was fired on the Monday after Princess heard someone on the trail.”

“Did we find out what he was actually fired for?” Lloyd asked.

“Suspicion of espionage. Marco Lattimer has a buddy who works for Aiden’s former employer and when I explained why I was looking into the situation, he cleared it up. Apparently, some data was copied from their internal servers and three employees came under suspicion. They fired all of them and referred the case to the authorities,” Landon said.

Lloyd stiffened, breathing in deeply as he ran a hand over his jaw.

Landon continued. “I think Aiden was trying to search her apartment Friday night so he could get back whatever he stashed at her place and use it to frame one of the others.”

“Damn it, you’re making sense,” Zach grumbled.

“There’s two explanations to consider,” Landon said. “One is that Aiden’s acting independently of the stalker. If he’s trying to recover something he hid at Princess’ apartment, then his behavior makes sense. The other is that he’s manipulated Georgina into harassing Princess, either because he’s angry or to throw suspicion off of himself.”

“Who’s your number one suspect?” Lloyd asked.

"This suspect only makes sense if my theory about the stuff with Aiden being independent of the actual stalking is correct. We can all get behind that idea, right?" Landon waited for their agreement. “My number one suspect is Shun Nguyen.”

“What? That’s impossible," Lloyd objected.

“Yeah, the dates don’t match up,” Zach said.

“That’s what I thought at first, but hear me out. He matches the psychological features of the stalker perfectly. He’s unbalanced, possessive, and has a long history of anger management issues.”

“Still doesn’t explain how he started stalking her without knowing her name,” Zach said.

“He’d known her name for a week before the phone call. Bishop started making arrangements for Nguyen’s interview during the first week of July. Guess when the stalking kicked off? Eight days later.”

Lloyd frowned, absorbing the information.

Zach rubbed his jaw. “Shit…”

“I was worried about putting her in a room with him,” Lloyd murmured.

“Once he had your names, he could have Googled you,” Landon said. “I think that was when it started.”

“But how did he get her cell phone number?” Zach asked.

“Bishop’s secretary gave Nguyen’s lawyer her office phone number the day after you agreed to do the interview. Princess updated the contact information and made her cell number the primary form of communication on Friday of the same week,” Landon said.

“He could’ve accessed both if he was clever enough,” Zach mused.

Lloyd grunted. “He is clever enough, and the threatening phone happened later that day. But he lives on the other side of the world, he couldn’t have taken the photo in the park or done the hit-and-run, let alone been in my backyard ten days ago.”

“About that… I just got confirmation of this about ten minutes ago, so don’t bite my head off, okay? Nguyen flew to New York on August 3rd and his return ticket wasn’t used.”

“Shit,” Zach hissed. “He’s been in the country for almost a month. How come we didn’t know about this?!”

Lloyd reached for his phone. “Jake’s with Princess now, we need to read him in on this right away.”

As they waited for the call to connect, the room felt smaller, compressed by the weight of tension hanging over it.

“Hey, Jake. Where are you? We need to talk.”

Lloyd’s jaw clenched at the response.

“What happened? Alright. We’re on our way,” he said, grabbing his keys.

“What’s going on?” Landon asked as Lloyd ended the call.

“Princess is in the hospital.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Next - Chapter XXI

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Masterlist

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Taglist:

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@before-we-get-started

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#lloyd hansen x princess #the princess & the lawyer #the princess and the lawyer #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen fanfic #lloyd hansen fic

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