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generalluxun · 2 years ago

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Chasing a Dream Chapter 3

Do you like Chloe breaking down? Do you like Marinette being her best self? You'll like this chapter then. Full Chapter after the break.

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Marinette : I think it’s over.

Alya : What happened?

Marinette : Shadowmoth akumatized someone.

Alya :In Italy?? Hold on, let me check the news.

Marinette : Doesn’t matter, I beat it.

Alya :By yourself? Girl I know you’re tough but, you okay bug?

Marinette : Not really. I’m sitting in a cafe on some street I don’t know, I tried to eat real food but it’s not happening. Adrien’s in Rome right now, and I’m here alone in Venice.

Alya : Alone? What happened? Marinette, I need deets. Don’t drip-feed me here, girl.

Marinette sighed at her phone. How to even begin? She contemplated trying Adrien. Was it too soon to text him? Was he still in Rome now, or headed someplace new? Might as well try.

Marinette : Hey! How’d Rome go? Did you fight any gladiators?

She switched back to Alya.

Marinette : Akuma showed up because life hates me, ditched my traveling companion, nearly died, then got into a blow up with Chloé and she wasn’t entirely wrong for once. Now I’m here with my third gelato and a pile of cash she threw at me, wondering where I went wrong.

Marinette spooned the rapidly melting fruity concoction in her bowl. She was cursed with time. At home she’d have a thousand things to keep her busy. Homework, the Kwamis, Adrien, the bakery, her friends, akumas, designs, class rep stuff, she never had room to breathe. Now she had thousands of miles of room, and all her put off thoughts were coming due. The buzzing of her phone was a blessing.

Alya : Damn girl, I don’t even. Look, whatever happened I’m sure you didn’t deserve whatever static Chloé threw at you. Do you need help getting back home?

Didn’t I? How would I even know? Marinette was stuck swinging between complete denial and self recrimination like a pendulum. She carefully leafed through the stack of Euro notes under the cover of one arm. Forty three hundred, minus three bowls…

Marinette: I think I’m good, Alya. Let’s talk about something else. How’s Paris? Must be peaceful if Hawkmoth’s on vacation. How’s Nino? Homework?

Alya, the best of friends, slid right into Marinette’s diversions without questioning her once. She made her way through her bowl and ordered a sandwich to quell her stomach’s protest about today’s diet. Halfway through that, another text popped into the stream.

Adrien : It wasn’t the best. Lila was upset about something all day. We got through the shoots but she was prickly every moment off camera. She can be a little difficult at times, but it's never been like this. I can’t wait to fall asleep. We’re making a straight shot from here to Shanghai next. I can’t wait to be back there. I loved my last trip. Would you like me to pick anything out for you, or maybe see if I can’t try and meet your uncle if they let me?

Marinette smiled wearily at her phone. She did some quick mental math, but responsibility won out this time. I can’t get stuck in Shanghai if the money runs out.

Marinette : So sorry to hear Lila was out of sorts. You should spend your time in Shanghai on yourself, but thank you for thinking of me though!

Adrien : Marinette, you’re a terrible liar. 🤣 I know there’s no love lost between you and Lila. I appreciate the effort though, and don’t be surprised to hear when I’m thinking of you. It’s something that’s been happening a lot more recently.

Marinette squinted at her phone, then looked back over her shoulder as if perhaps Adrien was texting to someone behind her. She read the message again and slowly the words started to seep into the cracks of her self doubt. She felt a slow creeping blush and contemplated a response. Her phone buzzed with another text from Alya while she was thinking and soon Marinette was blissfully deep in a double conversation of friendship and love.

She blinked up from her conversation to the realization she was the last one at the tables. Waitstaff were quietly eyeing her, and the afternoon had worn into evening. Marinette fumbled with one of the hundred euro notes to pay for her meal while gathering herself. Exiting the texts she opened an email notification that had popped up a while ago. Sabrina with the homework, at least I won’t be too far behind.

But it wasn’t. [email protected] had sent her an email with a link to a limo service, a gate number, and nothing else. Marinette bit her lip, it had been sent an hour and a half ago. She hit the link, which took her to a quick form for her address and a pickup time. What does this even mean?

She texted throughout the ride. Soon though Alya had to go, Nino was coming over. Adrien’s texts drifted into an ever more incomprehensible tangle of typos until he surrendered to the fact he had to sleep. Marinette walked through the concourse expecting a flight home, but instead she was directed out onto the tarmac to a now familiar private jet.

Marinette wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Her pace slowed as she approached the plane, but no blond dragon stormed out to roast her with fire. The attendant came out to help her with her bag and soon Marinette was aboard in her seat from before. There was no sign of Chloé at first, but a voice from the rear cabin soon made itself heard. Marinette looked back. Then with no one to scold her, she snuck back to eavesdrop.

“-am not done yet! I don’t want to come home.”

Silence must have been a quieter voice.

“She’s not using it anyway! You’re all in stupid Paris, in your stupid hotel! You’ve got Zoé now, just have her put her stupid hair up in a stupid ponytail, and I’m sure it’ll be everything you wanted. I’m going to find Adrikins.”

More silence, Marinette glanced back towards the front of the plane. Maybe I shouldn’t be listening to this…

“No! I’ll figure it out! I’ll find him! You’ll see! If you try and make the plane come back I- I’ll jump out! I’ll do it too! Or I’ll run away! You can’t make me come back!”

More silence. Marinette did back away this time. She was slouched in her chair when Chloé stomped back to her seat with hands clenched, looking every bit as angry as the moment Marinette had last seen her. Neither of them look at the other. Marinette fiddled quietly with her phone.

“Shanghai.”

Chloé jerked upright in her seat as if stung. Slowly her head turned to look at Marinette. Marinette couldn’t meet that intense blue stare for long. There was too much going on behind it, and Marinette had too much time to see it now. So it was out of the corner of her eye that Marinette saw Chloé stand and pick up the intercom phone.

“Pilot, we’re going to Shanghai. Take off as soon as you can.”

Chloé sat back down and Marinette contemplated texting Alya again. Instead she switched over to Zoé’s conversation, but her fingers balked. Where do I begin? What do I even want to know? Would she know? Marinette stole glances sideways as she thought. Chloé was on her phone, but it wasn’t a doom scroll this time.

Marinette : This is gonna sound dumb. Do you know much about your sister?

Marinette snapped the conversation shut. She didn’t want to be caught texting Zoé right now, it wouldn’t help anything.

“It’s Thirteen hours to Shanghai, if we took off right now, and we probably won’t.” Chloé’s voice was even and methodical, a sharp contrast to the full throated shrieks that still rang in Marinette’s ears. “There’s a bed in the cabin. You go first, I couldn’t possibly sleep right now.”

Marinette blinked, she turned to look directly at Chloé. That was all too close to normal to make any kind of sense. Chloé seemed to realize it too. She worked a smirk onto her face and waggled a finger at Marinette. “Just be sure you take your shoes off. This isn’t some dirty old bakery.”

It was forced, performative, and even Chloé seemed to know it. She turned away abruptly and curled around her phone. Marinette was left to stand and explore the rear of the plane. True to word there was a bed in the back, a giant queen sized affair with a thick downy comforter. There was a flatscreen set in the opposite wall of the small cabin, a microfridge, some built-in drawers Marinette didn’t open, and a tiny shelf with three leatherbound books.

Marinette’s eyes told the rest of her body that the bed was an option, and a unanimous vote had her shuffling her way towards it. She sank into the luxury face first, managing to toe her shoes off as an afterthought before pulling the comforter around her into a cocoon. She just wanted to rest, not sleep. She was still sure that the memory of the akuma’s jaws would give her nightmares if she dared to sleep.

It turned out, she was wrong.

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Comfy, she was so wonderfully comfy. Marinette was a warm ball of relaxation floating in softness. There was a low background hum that helped to quietly vibrate her thoughts apart so that she could remain free from the demands of the world as long as she wished. The only wrinkle in this plan was the light that found its way in. Light, lights, I forgot to turn off the lights when I fell into bed. Uuughh, whyyy.

Marinette tugged and pulled at the deliciously warm comforter, trying to seal up the cracks. Even with her eyes closed though the red against black on her eyelids wouldn’t leave her alone. The cursed light slowly brought with it wakefulness and reality. The hum, plane, I’m on a plane. Chloé’s plane. Reality dumped itself on top of her at the admission. Reluctantly, Marinette peeled herself out of the bed.

Marinette shuffled out of the cabin, she'd need a change of clothes but there was something much more pressing. Another smaller side-cabin housed what she had hoped, the bathroom. It was actually reasonably sized, complete with a shower, but Marinette was only here for the basics. She paused once her hands were washed and lifted her shirt. There were no teeth marks on her belly, no matter what her head was still telling her. I really need to talk to Cat Noir.

Out in the main compartment Marinette shuffled up to the swivel chairs. One of them still contained her erstwhile companion, curled into a slouched ball and asleep. Even asleep, her face seemed twisted by some unknown anger. Marinette reached out, hesitated, then laid a hand on Chloé's shoulder lightly, "Chloé. Chloé?"

Chloé came around slowly. She blinked awake, cycling through confusion to awareness much like Marinette had. "What do you want, Du-Pain-Cheng?"

Marinette stepped back. "I woke up and figured I owed you a turn."

Chloé touched a hand to her forehead, checked her phone, then glared at it. "Ugh, no wonder I'm hungry. No time for sleep though, I need to get this face off "

Marinette watched her go then sat down and checked… she had texts!

Alya was asking after her safety, she still thought Marinette was alone in Venice. Is where I am better or worse? Adrien had sent a good morning text a while ago. When was morning? Outside the plane was an indiscriminate sun above and solid clouds below.

Marinette updated Alya and sent a reply to Adrien. She took a chance and added a little heart after her good morning. A yellow heart is friendly right? Not creepy?

From the rear of the plane Chloé's voice rose, "Ring until the attendant wakes up, order us some food! They know what I want. Get yourself whatever!"

The attendant was awake it would seem. He was present before Marinette had even got up the nerve to call. Marinette had worked her way through some pastries and cereal before Chloé re-emerged and Marinette had to do a double take.

Chloé, without makeup.

"Shut UP Du-Pain-Cheng." Chloé preemptively scolded. "My skin needs to breathe, I'll have my face back on before we land. No pictures."

Marinette snorted, covering her laugh with a hand. Chloé huffed and sat, picking at the fruit and nut array the attendant had left at her seat. Silence built up again, and Marinette was about to lose Chloé into the doom scroll when some internal prompt made her ask, "Why do you hate Ladybug?"

Chloé froze with a pistachio held between two fingers. After a pause, she dropped it back into the ramekin and picked up her napkin. She finished chewing, and dabbed her lips. "She's a fraud. She pretends to be about the heroics, but really she's just a selfish attention seeker, and people just lap it up."

Why did I think this was a good idea? Marinette remembered a rooftop that felt like forever ago. Maybe… "She's not a fraud." Marinette hated that her voice sounded sulky to her own ears. "She is just trying her best. There's no one else to stop Shadowmoth. Can you imagine what it's like?"

Chloé dug the peel off a tangerine. "What it's like? Running on rooftops, saving the day? It's amazing!"

Marinette only half-heard Chloé, she was reliving prior battles. "Always afraid of messing up. Unable to take a break, exhausted and in danger."

Chloé waved a hand dismissively. "That's just the price you pay to play the game. If you don't want to be a hero, stop, and let someone else do it. You don't see other people crying about dangerous jobs, and people respect heroes."

Chloé paused, and dropped the second half of her tangerine back onto her plate, uneaten.

"At least while you're heroing they do."

Marinette bit her tongue to keep from snapping back. She could almost, almost see what Chloé was getting at, but it seemed so alien at the same time. Cat Noir thought of it differently too. Still, it was hard to attribute that kind of motivation to Chloé, "Being a hero isn't about being famous, Chloé."

Chloé had been reaching for a ramekin of crushed walnuts. She flexed her fingers just shy, turning her hand into a fist. "Of course it isn't. It's about fighting villains, and saving the day." Her voice dropped, "People love you for doing it though. There's nothing wrong with wanting to be-"

Chloé snapped her mouth shut. But Marinette supplied the last word to herself. -loved . She remembered Queen Bee's debut, the river, the helicopter, and the rooftop came back in sharp detail. Useless . Marinette realized she'd balled her hands into fists too, and slowly forced them open. "Chloé-"

Chloé rounded on her. Without her makeup, the golden demon seemed less fire and more fear. "What do you care, Du-pain-Cheng? Why do you defend her? She took my miraculous away, but she never even gave you one! Like, all of your friends got one. Why defend someone who singled you out as unexceptional?"

The sudden change left Marinette flat footed. Singled out? Does she hear herself? Unexceptional, it always comes back to that. If only I could be honest, it might actually make a difference here. Marinette got the impression she was on the cusp of something. Once more, the time she and Chloé had been alone before fighting Malediktator came into focus. Alone. That’s the key. Marinette hadn’t ever been alone with Chloé before, with plenty of very good reasons for it. I might not get another chance at this. At what? At making life better, for everyone.

Marinette looked down to buy time. Her thoughts were running a mile a minute and she could barely keep up with them. If truth isn’t an option, how can I make the connection? An idea struck her. Another rooftop, and a secret she could share because it was already a lie.

“You’re wrong Chloé.” Marinette looked up, but kept her voice soft. “Ladybug did pick me, once. I helped her with the mouse miraculous.”

Chloé blinked in confusion. With her makeupless face it almost seemed like another girl across from Marinette. “The mouse? You- Megaleech? You beat up stupid daddy and his stupid gross sentimonster?”

Marinette looked down again, laying it on a little thick in the humility department, but at her core wanting this to work. It’s not all fake. I’m not fake… I’m not. “No, it was kwamibuster. Almost no one ever knew. I wasn’t allowed to have it again. You see, like you, I gave away my identity.”

“ You ? Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous! I would have heard if your secret identity got out. It would have been all over the Ladyblog too!”

Marinette twisted her hands in her lap, “No, it wasn’t public. It was just one person, but the rules are strict.”

Chloé huffed, “Nonsense! A whole host of her little hero-buddies were outed right to Hawkmoth himself when I–”

Chloé made a strangled sound and went silent. Marinette kept at it, “Things were… different I think, for us. Something changed, the rules changed. Ladybug wasn’t the Guardian yet when we were found out. So, I do know how you feel. The time I was Multimouse, that was the most fun I’ve ever had. I felt so free, like I could do anything.”

Marinette realized she wasn’t lying. I was just a hero. I wasn’t Ladybug, I was, me. No expectations, just me. An ache for the gray uniform that Marinette hadn’t realized she’d been hiding made itself known. Taking a deep cleansing breath, Marinette raised her gaze to meet Chloé’s.

“I was terrified most of the time too though.”

Calculations danced behind those sapphires. With just the two of them, Marinette could focus and see it all plain as day. The calculations ended in a dismissive wave of the hand. Chloé sat back. “Of course it’s scary. You just keep at it, because heroes have to be better than that.”

Marinette barely heard the words. The tone was something she hadn’t ever imagined Chloé was even capable of. Camaraderie. Marinette could nod to the statement though, because it was true. “They do.”

Chloé plucked up a trio of the pistachios again. “You’re a designer. Draw your little uniform up and I’ll have my people make it. Queen Bee and Multimouse, Ladybug’s rejects, heroes of Paris.”

Did we just– Are we– friends? The word didn’t feel quite right, but something had shifted, on Chloé’s end at least. Marinette wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it. She wanted to push, Chloé was still Chloé, and that would still be a problem for others. She was still reeling from having made any progress at all though. “Chloé. You really should let go of your anger toward Ladybug, she’s just trying her best.”

Her statement was punctuated by the crack of the last pistachio between Chloé’s teeth. Marinette could hear another sound as well, the whine of the freshly forged bond being tested. Chloé swiveled an eye at her, and more calculations were happening behind it. “Marinette, you’ve spent more time talking to me about Queen Bee than Ladybug ever did. If she wants to apologize to me herself, I might consider it.”

“If you saw her again, would you apologize?”

“ Me? What do I have to…” Chloé trailed off under Marinette’s level -but she hoped not too harsh- gaze.

Chloé poked at her walnuts again sulkily for a moment. First came a long suffering sigh then as close to a compromise as Marinette had ever seen.

“I suppose… if she apologized for ditching me– ditching us , then I might admit I… reacted poorly.”

If it happens, I’ll call it a victory. Time to switch gears before this sours. “So, have you been to Shanghai before?”

The conversation turned mellow. Chloé had not, so Marinette had one up on her there. Marinette’s Mandarin was better than it had been her last time here, though it was admittedly still garbage. Marinette kept waiting for barbs that never came. Her name lost its extra hyphen. While ‘Marinette’ didn’t make another showing, she seemed to just be ‘Dupain-Cheng’ now. By the time Chloé went to restore her face things seemed almost casual. Marinette fired off a text to a friend then began to carve up the city methodically to try and plot out how they would find Adrien in a sea of 26 million faces.

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Things did not start out ideally. Marinette realized how much she had been relying on Chloé to handle travel the moment the blonde's language skills dried up. China was not Europe, there was not the common thread of romance language to eek by on. Everything was in the hands of Marinette's poor grasp of Mandarin and the few locals who could meet them in the middle on English, they hadn't met anyone who spoke French.

Even Chloé's trademark browbeating failed her. People just chose not to engage, 5' of screaming blond was left to wear herself out while life went blithely on around her. The usual routine cost them two hotels before Marinette pulled Chloé aside.

"Maybe I should handle the next one?"

Chloé was still flushed from her outburst. She kept habitually turning to her phone, as she had during her tirades, then cringing and thrusting it back into her bag. I can imagine how her dad would take this if he knew. Perfect fodder for 'You can't be alone, come home.'

Chloé visibly ordered herself, straightening her cardigan and flicking her ponytail. "Sure, whatever. People here are so rude. Money talks, but apparently they don't speak the language."

Marinette shot a sharp look at Chloé, but balked. Her words dripped condescension, but her eyes were hunted. Chloé visibly flinched, turning away to shift bags that didn't need to be touched. Marinette spoke slowly, navigating unfamiliar waters, "Not everyone responds the same, Chloé. Sometimes what looks like rudeness is a lack of understanding, or just different priorities. It can be worth the effort to maybe try a different approach, and see if you can't get better results."

Chloé didn't reply with affirmation, but she didn't snap back either, and Marinette considered it another win. Not sure if that was for her or for myself anyway.

Marinette rolled her bag up beside Chloé, "So, what's the third best hotel in Shanghai like?"

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Day one was rapidly becoming a strikeout. It quickly became apparent that finding Adrien by luck was not going to happen. In addition to the sheer scope of the task, Chloé had been reluctant to split up and cover more ground. It was a night and day scenario from Italy. She spent most of her time following Marinette closely while jumping at every loud noise.

Marinette was trying to account for the change. Quick answers pushed to the front. But that's the hangup isn't it? Quick and easy answers. Instead Marinette started cataloging little bits of information to try and paint a more complete picture.

She hates people touching her… that's nothing new. She's hyper alert, but hasn't screamed. She barely talks, there were times I would have loved that before. She stares at people talking when we stop. Why? She can't understand them. I haven't seen her on her phone at all. She hasn't browbeat a single person all day, even the driver who dropped us off at the wrong hotel.

It wasn't like Chloé not to flex her power, especially when she happened to be in the right.

Power.

That's what it is. She's powerless here. She can't call Daddy. She can wave fistfuls of Yuan all day but if she can't make herself understood it does her no good.

And as Marinette knew all too well, in Chloé's world you were either the one with power, or the one being stepped on.

Marinette stopped so abruptly Chloé ran into her. I know it, but, how often have I thought about it? It was like finding out you'd been reading a book upside down. Marinette needed to sit down. Her brain had engaged in full scale analysis mode, and she could not navigate Shanghai streets like this. She turned to Chloé, who was waiting expectantly, but defying all expectations, silently. "Can we stop and grab a bite to eat?"

“Eat? Now? Why would I want to ruin my perf–” Chloé snapped her mouth shut on a word and raised one hand to grip her opposite arm while dropping her gaze. “I mean, sure. Anywhere is fine. Maybe, I can get some of that soup like your uncle makes?”

Marinette didn’t have the spare cycles to unpack all of that. It was all connected, but it had to wait its turn. “Sure, if they serve it. I just need to sit.”

Marinette turned, and knew without looking back that she’d be followed. Arranged in the kind of small dodgily-clean establishment that Marinette knew Chloé wouldn’t normally be caught dead in, Marinette tried to order her thoughts by focusing on the menu. Chloé needed help, obviously, and looked painfully uncomfortable just sitting in the molded plastic chair.

Twitch, shift, glance, wince, twitch, each second a blowup didn’t happen convinced Marinette she was on the right track. How do I use this though? A web of possibilities spread out before her. Marinette had a small war with herself as some of the very satisfying options were also far from the nicest, or heroic.

Finally with food ordered and menus taken away , Marinette put both of her hands on the table and took a deep breath. “I don’t like you Chloé.”

There was some satisfaction in seeing it hit. Marinette was so keyed up from her realization she could track every little change. The sharp intake of breath, the trembling of Chloé’s left hand as it made a powerless fist, the widening of her eyes and downturned corners of her lips. The girl was inches away, not from an explosion, but from tears.

“Dupain– what? Here? Now? I’m the onl–”

Marinette raised a hand and cut her off. “Let me finish.” Do this right, Marinette. Oh how I wish I had my polkadots. “I don’t like you because you’ve always been mean. You’re mean to me, you’re mean to my friends. You talk down to us, pick on us. You pick on people you don’t even know. Why do you do that?”

Marinette kept Chloé locked in place with a stare. She hoped it wasn’t too harsh but she wanted the girl to know this was a question to be answered. Chloé blinked rapidly. She opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again, pulled on one of her forelocks, then glanced side to side.

Marinette saw the collapse coming and tried to head it off. “There’s no one here Chloé, no one who we know, no one who understands French. We might as well be alone on the plane.”

It was a further moment of silence and build up before Chloé grabbed her napkin and twisted it in her lap. “What! What do you want from me? I just came along on this stupid trip to get back at stupid Lila for trying to steal Adrikins from me. I didn’t ask for any of this. It wasn’t supposed to be hard. I wasn’t supposed to be stuck with you for days. You weren’t supposed to talk to me, and keep talking to me. Now I’m out here on the other side of the world, and you’re the only person I know.”

“You could go home.”

Chloé had looked down while talking. Her head snapped up at Marinette’s reply. “No! I– I don’t want to go home! I won’t! I–” her voice quavered, “I’d rather be here.”

“Here on the other side of the world, and I’m the only person you know?”

Chloé sat back in her seat, eyes down again. “Better than Paris. Stupid classmates-” Chloé winced in belated realization, “Stupid Ladybug, Stupid Zoé, Stupid Daddy, Stupid… Everything!”

“You don’t want anyone to know who you are.”

“What?” Eyes up again, “Don’t be ridiculous! Everyone should know who I am.”

“Who are you?”

Chloé was shocked out of her fear. She looked at Marinette as if she’d grown three heads. “I’m the daughter of the Mayor of Paris!”

“Who are you?”

“What? I’m– My mother is Style Queen!”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Rich! I’m rich and you’re not.”

“Who are you?” Marinette didn’t let up.

“I’ve got my own jet! I’ve got a minion! Sabrina does everything I tell her to.”

“Who are you?”

“STOP SAYING THAT!” Chloé slammed her fists on the table. Her shoulders shook and she hid her face.

“Tell me who you are, Chloé.”

“I- I’m Queen Bee…”

“Ladybug took the miraculous away.”

“I- I don’t care. I’m still Queen Bee. She can’t take that away.” It was a small, desperate response.

“Who is Queen Bee?”

“Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous,” Chloé mumbled.

“What?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Try me.”

A long sigh. Chloé’s arms had curled to her chest as if she were holding something. Mr. Cuddly . “She’s a hero. She saves people. Everyone loves her. You threw her a party.”

Marinette felt like she was weaving her way through a minefield. “Is she mean?”

“No!” Chloé snapped, but still didn’t look up. “Of course not. Heroes can’t be mean. Maybe she’s a little impatient, people like it when a hero has spunk.”

“If Queen Bee isn’t mean, then why are you mean Chloé?”

Chloé flinched, but rallied. Anger poured out of the wounds, “Why are you doing this?!”

Marinette leaned across the tiny table, “Why are you mean, Chloé?”

She got her answer, just not how she expected.

“BECAUSE!” Chloé surged out of her seat, snatching up the cheap metal napkin holder and hurling it past Marinette at the far wall of the restaurant. She leaned in, nose to nose with Marinette, all the shrinking gone and a full flush on her bronzed cheeks, ”You step on people or they step on you! That’s how it works! Fire everyone! Who cares if you’re mean ? You’re on top or you’re on the bottom. Nobody respects you if you’re on the bottom! Nobody notices you! You’re nothing! You hear me? NOTHING! You’re an unexceptional, forgettable, leftover; easily replaced by having the kid of some random out of New-”

Chloé slapped a hand over her own mouth, eyes wide. The staff were approaching slowly and customers were doing their best to make it look like they weren’t looking. Chloé bit her knuckle, muffling a scream, then turned and fled.

Fuck.

Marinette was left to drop money on the table for food they hadn’t even eaten before tearing out the door after her. Marinette thanked the stars for two things. First, her Mandarin let her fumble through basic communication this time, and second that Chloé was a golden Euro-princess completely out of place in Shanghai. She was able to get direction after direction to guide her along in her hunt. She found Chloé huddled up on a stool outside a tea shop; head down on folded arms atop her knees. Round two. Marinette leaned on the brick wall beside the stool.

“So… would you believe that wasn’t what I wanted?”

Chloé didn’t look up. “Why can’t you leave me alone, Dupain-Cheng?”

Marinette didn’t answer right away. It was a fair question. She chewed her lip as she thought. “Because leaving you alone has never worked, for anyone, not even you.”

There was an answering sniffle and ragged words, “I never should have talked to you on this trip.”

Marinette stuffed her hands behind herself. The brickwork was damp and soaking through her pants. “Maybe we should have talked a long time ago.”

Marinette thought about those words, then shook her head even though Chloé still wasn’t looking at her.

“No, it probably wouldn’t have worked. I wish it could have though.”

Chloé raised her head slightly, pressing a hand to the back of it and kneading. “What ar-are you even on about now, Dupain-Cheng?”

“You were a miserable tyrant who made my life hell, and that’s all I saw. Even after you stopped having any real power over me this year, I was still playing out our assigned roles.”

I want to tell you about Malediktator, about that rooftop. What would you think?

Marinette tried to pick her next words carefully, it was herself as much as Chloé wrapped up in them. “It’s easy to help some people. They’re nice. They deserve a hand up. They’ve never done anything against anyone. They’ve just been stepped on their whole lives. What’s really heroic about helping the people only when it’s easy though? I want to be the kind of hero who helps people when it’s hard. I want to help people who don’t deserve it, who aren’t nice , who might never even thank me, but who need help anyway.”

Marinette took in a breath and let it out.

“I guess that’s really it, Chloé. That’s why I’m doing this. You need help, and I can see it.”

Chloé responded with an unladylike snort, and a toothless jib. “What, you’re a hero now, Marinette? I don’t see a costume on you.”

That made her smile. “They can take the costume away, but I won’t stop being a hero.”

Another, softer snort. “Ridiculous.”

“Says Queen Bee?”

“Only losers need help.”

“Everyone needs help, even heroes.”

A long silence. Chloé’s tea arrived. She sipped it, made a face, sipped it again, and passed the cup to Marinette. “Even if all this dumb stuff is true, and I’m not saying it is, what do I even do about it?”

Marnette blew on the surface of the tea, making small waves; then sipped it, a bitter matcha. “How should I know?”

The glare she got was painfully sharp. Marinette handed the cup back, but held onto it when Chloé reached to take it.

“But, I’ll try and help figure it out. If you want to.” Marinette let go.

Chloé sipped again. “God, you’re not going to tell everyone are you? I think if I had to deal with pity from the entire herd I might just die.”

Baby steps. “No one knows, no one has to know. Some will figure it out though. Alya will in a heartbeat.”

“Ugh, that’s all I need.”

Marinette reached out to pluck the cup from Chloé’s hand and sip again. “You could do a lot worse than Alya. She’s checked me more than once when I needed it.”

“I have Sabrina.”

“Would she really ever check you?”

Chloé leaned forward on her stool, letting her legs down in the process. She took back her tea. “Maybe once. Then she got to see too much.”

Marinette couldn't connect the dots on that so she just shot Chloé a confused look.

“That’s how it works. If someone has power over you, you have to keep them even more firmly under heel, so they won’t use it against you.”

Marinette grimaced at the cruelty of it.

Chloé shrugged sulkily. “What? You started this. I was happily ignoring my internal monologue all this time.”

“Happily?”

Chloé took a long pull from the tea, and handed it back. “I was faking it well enough.” Marinette drank the last swallows, and stared into the tiny flakes plastered to the bottom of the cup. Chloé added, “Mom will hate me if I change.”

“Oh no,” Marinette deadpanned. “You’ll be in an exclusive club called ‘Everyone.’”

That got her an appraising look and one of the classic Chloé smirks. It was an odd feeling being glad to see it back in place. The smirk fled and Chloé looked back up the street, away from Marinette as she asked, “Why didn’t you just ask my sister to help you chase Adrikins?”

“Well, I don’t think she’d have been quite as riled up about Lila’s plans, and do you think she could have really pushed us through this far?”

Chloé still didn’t look at her. “So, I’m good for something after all?”

“At least one thing, probably two or three.” Marinette countered dryly.

It brought Chloé’s head back around and another look that turned into a smirk. “Buttering me up with insults?”

“You want me to give you a big hug, and we can braid each other’s hair?”

“Oh gag me.”

Marinette grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

Chloé stood and flipped out a compact, examining herself in the mirror, and from her reaction apparently not liking what she saw. “I thought we were supposed to be looking for Adrien.”

Marinette pushed off the wall, and wiped off the backside of her pants as best she could. “Tomorrow. He’s here for a few days, and my feet are killing me.”

Chloé snapped her compact shut. “Weak as ever, eh, Dupain-Cheng?” She finished with a smile instead of a leer though, and even that small change was tectonic.

“Why don’t you throw some of that money around and get us a cab?” Marinette adjusted her bag,”And by the way, I’m telling Alya. Not everything, but I have to tell someone or I’ll explode.”

Chloé rounded on her, but after a pause rolled her eyes. “Just don’t get anyone’s hopes up. You know, I still don’t like most of you for perfectly valid reasons too.”

They walked up the street towards a road wide enough for cars. Marinette thought about her answer before voicing it. “I promise not to get anyone else’s hopes up.” She glanced sidelong and turned her head when she caught Chloé’s gaze, holding it. “Just mine.”

#mlb fanfiction #chloe bourgeois #marinette dupain cheng #Chasing a Dream #miraculous ladybug

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sexlessrpmemes · 6 years ago

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Attack of the Killer Donuts sentence starters

“This isn’t going to hurt, because you’re dead. If you weren’t it would hurt like a motherfucker.”

“Rosie, no, no, you may not eat Minnie”

“I did it, I’ve created the greatest discovery of the 21st century”

“Please never enter my lair when the door is locked.”

*whining voice* “no, wait, you’re going to ruin my greatest hour.”

“Well it’s not like I wasn’t working.”

“Neither is lying and getting paid for it.”

“Is it invisible money?”

“What’s next, you’re gonna tell mom?”

“You sassing me is not helping this situation.”

“Hold your water Nancy, I got it.”

“I was a little busy, with being the only one here and all.”

“Whatevs, dude look, I need money.”

“Babe, we have to go, I don’t have time, I’m on house arrest.”

“I’m here for the device, where is it.”

“I don’t want to use salty language in front of the... lady.”

“I don’t want your kind in my classy eating establishment.”

“Yeah, this place really screams class.”

“It’s mine, unhand me you ruffian.”

“It’s mine, mwahahahaha”

“It’s donuts, it’s free donuts.”

“I can’t believe you like our coffee.”

“I don’t, just keeps me regular.”

“You’re not going to let the criminal have a donut?”

“That acid’s kicking in.”

“Whiskers Mc fur, we’ve been waiting for this all week.”

*seductively dancing at a box of donuts*

Do you smell patchouli?”

“Greetings kids, is _ available.”

“No, I wouldn’t be caught dead eating here, I mean I have a very strict gluten-free paleo-vegan diet.”

“I just wanted to show you my latest creation, open it you silly goose.”

“Behold, it’s fertile soil’s latest creation, circular bliss.”

“It looks like a tiny donut.”

“What gives, it’s a tiny round donut.”

“It is a tiny round donut you boob, where do you think I get the word circular from.”

“The big deal my uncouth compadre is that it’s made from the freshest, certified organic gluten-free fat-free proteins. Nothing less for my customers.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Best part, 3.50 retail.”

“Actually my halitosis inflicted competitor, three dozen sold this morning.”

“Just because it has all those healthy ingredients doesn’t mean it necessarily tastes good.”

“I can feel it tingling all over my body.”

“Are you ready for my famous macaroni and cheese.”

“I call it the [insult]nut it’s our new free-range whole wheat 100% sugar free.”

“It looks like a regular donut.”

“I would love to chit-chat with you all day, perhaps catch some salmonella too, but I’ve got a hot yoga class to go to.”

“__ wouldn’t bend over to pick up his mom if she was on the ground.”

“Unless his mom was a quarter.”

“Do you hear that? That heavy breathing?”

“He comes to my house even if I’m not there, he hangs out with my mom.”

“She doesn’t always ask for money, she comes to see me.”

“I’m crazy about you baby, you’re the clam to my chowder.”

“The donut shop.”

“Wise ass huh?”

“Everyone is giving you lip today _”

“Two hits, me hitting you you hitting the floor, any time you’re ready pal.”

“_ did you pepper spray these customers?”

“I hope you get explosive diarrhoea you filthy animals.”

“We’ve been friends since fourth grade?”

“We’ve been friends since I beat you up in miss ___’s class.”

“You’re never gonna let that go are you?”

“No one fires _ on my watch.”

“Do you just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind?”

“Is he a zombie?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“You’re not remotely disturbed by the fact that I hit this guy with my car at 60 miles per hour, he survived, looked like a zombie then shat his guts out, glowing green radioactive shit in case you guys missed that part, before plopping over and dropping dead?”

Dude, the donuts just moved.”

“I... hate... donuts”

“The donuts are alive, and mutated into... killer donuts.”

“I think my brain just melted”

“Thank god you have so few customers.”

“And tell the police what? An army of killer donuts is on the loose?”

“Dangerous criminal? He was polishing a sword behind a sorority house, how dangerous can he be?”

“Wait, it’s tempered glass it can not be broken.”

“She’s dead, the donuts ate her, it was horrible.”

“I am 100% sure it was the donuts.”

“Don’t worry, the ground broke my fall.”

“There’s like ten murderers in there.”

“There’s no time to call for backup, there are like ten murderers in there.”

“__ what’s gotten into you, it’s not star wars night.”

“What could possibly cause donuts to become bloodthirsty killers?”

“You think your crazy uncle came up with a reanimation serum?”

“No need to panic Debbie, this new antidote should bring you back to normal... or it’ll just kill you again.”

“Eureka, I’ve done it.”

“Oh you’ve done it alright you crazy loon.”

“You’ve turned harmless tasty donuts into killer donuts.”

“Your serum has contaminated the donuts and they’ve come to life.”

“That’s impossible... who are you?”

“What you see before you is a harmless grey mouse, a few seconds ago it was a crazed killer rat.��

“Aww it’s taking a nap, how cute.”

“You ignorant toad. The point is not to kill the rat again, but to stabilize it. You don’t realize what I’ve done here, you’re in the presence of genius.”

“Just give us enough pink stuff so we can kill the donuts.”

“You fool, it has to get into their bloodstream.“

“We’re talking about donuts, donuts don’t have a bloodstream.”

“_ grab some pink stuff, let’s go.”

“Do you have any grenades?”

“I’m angry, we’re about to be snacks FOR THE FREAKING SNACKS.”

“The worst part of this is that when I’m eaten by my little friend sprinkle and glazed out there my mother is going to be alone.”

“I should just open the door and let them eat me.”

“I like you very much alive, now shut your mouth and help me figure a way out of this mess.”

“That’s great, now how do we survive the explosion?”

“You definitely weren’t dreaming, we blew up the donut shop.”

“Don’t think so hard, you might strain something.”

“That’s why I want to figure out what we are, last time I didn’t I ended up with an imaginary girlfriend.”

“No, you know what, I love you, and that’s that, you’re my (significant other)”

#attack of the killer donuts #sentence starter #quote #honestly this one mostly works if you want some trash talk for a coffeshop au #not sure how well it works for anything else but hey when it rome #swearing: cw #threats: cw

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sunkissedpages · 3 years ago

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instead of you [part fourteen]

pairing: [best friend’s brother] tom holland x college!reader

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption

word count: 2.6k

series masterlist

“Just that you’re not technically a chef yet,” Tom explained defensively. “You’re not certified.”

“A chef doesn’t need a piece of paper to call themselves a chef,” Leo countered. “Anyone can be a chef. But don’t tell the WAC I said that.”

“Yeah, Tom haven’t you ever seen Ratatouille?” you teased.

“Great movie,” Leo added. “Sam, great job on your dough,” he reiterated.

Sam stuck his tongue out at his brother across the table who rolled his eyes in response as Leo picked up his ball of dough and rolled it in his hands.

“Tom, yours is still a little tough. Keep working on it.”

He nodded and took his dough back to continue kneading it. You noticed his jaw clenched subtly in frustration, but he didn’t say anything else. You watched as he rolled the pasta dough with a little more force, maybe a little too much.

Leo checked yours next and gave you similar feedback to Tom’s, even though Sam had helped you with yours. You didn’t want to think about what kind of feedback you would have gotten on your own.

Your dough was still flaking apart when you went back to working on it, and you tried desperately to hold it together with little success. Sam had left your side to help his mom so you were on your own.

At least Tom was also struggling. You felt a little better knowing he was miserable too.

You were starting to sweat with effort, you were so out of shape that even cooking had you catching your breath. You had thought this was going to be fun, but instead you were having flashbacks to high school P.E. class.

Leo made his way down the rest of the table and checked everyone else’s dough before circling back to you and Tom. He took over for Tom and instructed Sam to finish kneading yours so that he could move on with the lesson. It was embarrassing to be singled out, but Sam assured you it wasn’t your fault. He wasn’t making much progress with yours either.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with yours,” Sam whispered to you.

“I probably did it wrong,” you hissed back.

“I watched you do it, you did it the same way as everyone else.”

“Then why is it being like this?”

“Sometimes food has a mind of its own,” Leo interjected, making you realize the entire class had been listening to you and Sam’s back and forth. “This is good enough, though. We can set it aside with the other balls of dough to let them rest while we make the fillings.”

You and Tom set your sad pasta balls on the counter with the others before moving to the sink to rinse your hands.

“I think they’ll still taste good,” Tom said thoughtfully as he offered the bottle of soap to you and pumped some into your hands.

“I hope so.”

“It’s pasta, it’s almost impossible to fuck it up.”

“Yet somehow we still managed to.”

“Some would say it’s talent,” he said and shrugged.

You bumped his shoulder with your own as you fought over the water stream. You managed to stick your hands in first and Tom put his above yours only for you to shove them away.

“Hey!”

“You’re completely ruining the purpose of washing my hands!”

“I have soap on my hands, you have soap on your hands, what's the issue?”

“And you’re washing off your germs and they’re going on my hands now!”

“Fine, fine, I’ll wait my turn,” he seceded and let you finish washing your hands before he rinsed off his own.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Making the fillings for the pasta was a much simpler process than making the dough. All you had to do was mix certain ingredients together. It didn’t matter what order you added them, if you whisked fast or slow, the only important thing was that everything made it into the bowl one way or another.

You worked in pairs for this step. Sam mixed together the pesto filling while you did the parmesan-truffle one.

“This is different than the pesto I make,” he said, looking at the mixture in his bowl.

You frowned. “But I like your pesto.”

“It’ll still be good, baby,” he assured you with a kiss to the forehead. “Don’t worry.”

When the fillings were done it was time to revisit the balls of dough and roll them into pasta. Sam explained it to you like rolling Play-Doh, but it was far more difficult in your opinion. Play-Doh was nowhere near as stubborn as this. The pasta dough somehow retained tension, and would bounce back every time you tried to stretch it.

Sam ended up having to help you and Tom because both of you were starting at a disadvantage with your fucked up dough.

“I never want to hear you say I have it easier than you ever again,” Sam warned as he folded your strands of dough into raviolis.

The class had moved on to the final step, shaping and filling the noodles, but you had already tapped out. Sam was done with his portion before you had even finished one so he had taken over for you.

“I’m sorry for saying that,” you said, remembering all the times you had teased him for stressing out over his ‘soufflé final’ or ‘crepe labs’. “I would much rather be writing a paper right now.”

He shrugged. “Everyone has their strengths.”

“I’m starting to think that Ratatouille movie was bullshit,” you groaned.

“How ironic,” Tom snorted across from you.

He was really starting to get on your nerves. But you let his comment go, not allowing your temper to get the better of you. He was still Sam’s family, even if they had a... complicated relationship.

When the class finally settled in the dining room of the restaurant to eat you were sweaty, sore, and exhausted. You could feel your skin sticking to the leather seat, and you felt severely underdressed. Back in the kitchen you hadn’t been so self-conscious. But now you couldn’t stop thinking about your appearance.

The atmosphere was much more sophisticated. The lights were dim, and soft music played in the background. All of the other guests were following an unspoken black-tie dress code while the fifteen of you were still wearing your disposable aprons, only now they were covered in flour and egg yolk.

And to make it worse-

“Smile!”

Nikki held up her phone and motioned for you and Sam to scoot your chairs closer together. You took a deep breath and complied, leaning your head against your fake boyfriend’s and managing a grin. You really didn’t want this moment to be immortalized, but you didn’t want to be difficult either.

The camera flashed once, then again. Sam wrapped a hand around your waist and pulled your body against his, pressing a kiss to your cheek for another picture. You scrunched up your face as the flash went off, the tickle of his breath against your skin and the feather-light touch of his lips making you squeeze your eyes shut.

“That’s a good one!” Nikki complimented, even though you were sure it wasn’t as flattering as she was making it out to be.

The pasta was served with a glass of red wine for everyone. Sam was right, the pesto was different from his, but it was still good. It was no match for his recipe, but the handmade pasta did give it a few bonus points. You were sure you hadn’t gotten any of the noodles you made because all of the ones on your plate were perfect. It didn’t feel fair that you got to enjoy somebody else’s hard work while they got your shitty excuse of a ravioli.

But as the wine dwindled from your glass the negative thoughts began to ebb away too. Your muscles, though still sore, relaxed slightly and you rested your head on Sam’s shoulder as everyone else finished their meals around you. The conversation carried on without your contribution. Your social battery had died hours ago, but you were content to listen to the Hollands chat with other students at the table.

You weren’t a huge fan of wine, but the one served with dinner was palatable, and to be honest you weren’t one to turn down complimentary alcohol anyway. It tasted more expensive than anything you had ever drank, like the equivalent of velvet on your tongue. You finished your glass and the rest of Harry’s.

The next few days in Florence passed in a similar fashion. You ate a lot of carbs, drank a lot of alcohol and let the business of the itinerary overwhelm you. It was getting tiring, living in an act. Trailing along behind the Hollands like a dog, worn on Sam’s arm like an accessory.

You had known what you were getting into, and you were trying your best to enjoy the experiences- because who the fuck knows when you’ll ever get to go on such a nice vacation again, but pretending to be in love with your best friend was a harder feat than you had thought.

It felt like being in a school play. Every move and phrase had to be intentional. You tread the lines of your relationship with rehearsed expertise. And you had to watch what you said, because everyone’s eyes were on you. At least that’s what it felt like.

Sam’s parents were easy. They fully bought into your lie, seeing what they wanted to. They usually left you to your own devices, too. His brothers were the ones who needed convincing. Not even Harry, though. Tom was the problem. Tom was always the problem.

You were in Rome now, walking back to the hotel from the Colosseum. Sam had his arm slung around your shoulders and was talking his twin brother’s ear off about the Gladiators and inaccuracies in films about Ancient Rome.

You didn’t think you’d seen him this excited the entire trip. It was cute, the way he talked with his hands and looked off into the distance whenever he was really engaged in something. Harry was also cute. He was trying his best to keep up with Sam, nodding his head at all the right points, asking questions when there was a pause in conversation.

“Yeah, gladiators fucking unionized,” Sam explained. “They put their lives on the line all the time, ya know? Might as well get benefits.”

“If I was a gladiator I’d join their union,” you said, adding to the conversation for the first time in a while.

“There were women gladiators too, babe! You totally could’ve been one.”

You laughed. “You remember my season on the intramural dodgeball team? I wouldn’t last a day. But I appreciate the thought, Sammy.”

You had dinner in the restaurant attached to the hotel lobby. Nikki passed around her Canon for everyone to look through the pictures from the day while a bottle of limoncello was passed around the table.

You’d scarfed down your pasta and passed on dessert in favor of another shot of limoncello. Rookie mistake.

In the past the sugary drink had always tasted like cough syrup to you, but this batch tasted like straight-up lemonade. You were tipsy, bordering on drunk, but nowhere near blacked. Nikki and Dom turned in around shot three, leaving the tab open for the four of you. Sam went upstairs next, having gone too hard too fast on the limoncello (he was on shot five when his parents went back to their room).

Then it was just You, Harry, and Tom. You told Sam you’d join him in a bit after the pianist played a couple more songs. In all honesty, the music reminded you of Sam. Back at school you could always find Sam in the music hall if he wasn’t in the culinary building. You’d always hear him playing as soon as you walked through the double doors. You could always tell it was him at the keys by the way the playing sounded. He was self-taught, but still a genius in your mind. He didn’t need any formal training to make beautiful music, and that’s what you loved about it.

When he moved out of the dorms and into an apartment he bought a keyboard, and you’d spend nights together in his room illegally pirating sheet music for him to learn new songs. He’d play whatever you requested, and if he didn’t know how to play it he’d teach himself.

The pianist in the restaurant played with a little more expertise. The notes sounded refined, perfected. Sam always told you that perfect music was restrained music, that real music had flaws, that a song should sound a little different every time it was played.

After an encore of Beethoven the man at the piano stood from his bench and took a bow, passing his hat around the room to collect tips. Tom dropped a bill into the hat and you did as well, handing it back to the man afterwards. He dumped the contents of the hat into a briefcase and closed the lid of the piano, thanking everyone in the audience for their donations.

“Well, I think I’m going to head up now,” Harry said, yawning for emphasis. “We still have to get up at the ass crack of dawn even though we’ll all probably be hungover.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tom said cockily, then turned to you. “One more shot?”

The bottle of limoncello was almost empty anyway. Might as well finish it off, it’d be a shame to let it go to waste, right?

“Hit me.”

“God, you’re both going to be so fucked tomorrow,” Harry groaned.

“We’ll be fine,” Tom insisted, rolling his eyes at his younger brother.

“Good night, Harry,” you sang, waving at him as he walked off.

“Yeah whatever.”

Tom wasted no time pouring you both a shot of what was left of the limoncello. The restaurant was beginning to clear out so he worked fast, filling the glasses up to the marked line. You both took one and clinked them together before throwing them back.

You winced at the burning sensation in the back of your throat and put the glass back on the table, searching for something to chase the shot with. Your eyes fell to Tom, lingering on his cheeks, his lips, both pink from the alcohol or something else. You flicked your gaze down to his neck, his collarbone that was peeking out from the neckline of his shirt. You thought about how it would feel to kiss him there, to run your tongue over a love bite you’d given him.

You forced your gaze back to his eyes, hoping he hadn’t caught you staring. You had to act uninterested, you couldn’t let on to- but he was staring back. His eyes were intense, and almost impossible to read in the darkness of the room. You knew you should look away, knew you had to keep up appearances, but you couldn’t.

Later you’d blame it on the alcohol, but in that moment you knew the limoncello wasn’t what was making your head spin, or your what was making your vision cloudy.

You were about to leave the table, about to rush to the elevator and back to Sam but then suddenly Tom was kissing you. He cradled your head in his hand and tilted your chin up to meet his lips. It wasn’t desperate or messy like most drunk kisses were. Instead, it was delicate. You swore you could feel every line of his lips against yours, feel his heartbeat through his hands on your cheek.

It was only for a second, not enough time for you to react or reciprocate and then he was pulling away, eyes wide with panic.

“Please don’t tell Sam.”

logging off before i get yelled at but lmk what you think i always appreciate feedback!!

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#instead of you #iou #tom holland x reader #tom holland x bi!reader #tom holland x fem reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland series

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blondiest · 2 years ago

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WIP Wthursday

tagged by @agentmmayy @staceymcgillicuddy @khaleesa & @bratanimus !! very much not the W day of the week now, but better late than never 😉 i considered sharing a snippet of voted most likely ch16, but instead i'm going to share a bit of a Christmas-themed WLW hellcheer WIP instead 🫣

Eddie isn't the biggest fan of Christmas even in the best of circumstances— don't get her wrong, it's fine, she just doesn't really get it. But seriously, even if she were Santa himself, Dustin's fucking scheming would be enough to turn her into a Grinch.

"You're wasting your time, man," she tells the kid, well on her way to being truly irritated with him.

Henderson ignores her and continues with his infernal decorating, whistling along to the radio as he drags a chair across the room and climbs onto it. Eddie takes a long pull of her eggnog, wishing she'd put more whiskey in it. Maybe her next mug can be, like, a cup of whiskey and a splash of eggnog instead of the other way around.

"Hey, where's the whiskey?" Mike appears at her side to ask, almost as if reading her mind.

"It's in— hang on, why the hell are you looking for it?"

Wheeler tries to act casual but, of course, fails miserably. "For, uh— for Mrs. By— Mrs. Hopper! She's looking for it."

Eddie gives him an exasperated look and shakes her head before returning her gaze to Dustin. "You're not slick, Henderson, I know what you're doing."

The now-sophomore turns to look Eddie in the face, tilting his head. "I'm not trying for subtlety, Edwina. We all know where that's gotten you."

Lucas walks up, then, squeezing Max's hand before dropping it as the redheaded girl continues into the kitchen. "Oh, you actually found some?" He asks Dustin.

Eddie whirls. "Are all of you conspiring against me? You've decided to mutiny?"

Of course Harrington chooses this moment to appear. "It's not mutiny," Steve informs her. "It's an intervention."

Eddie gives him both the most poisonous glare she can muster plus the middle finger. She'd flip him off with both hands, but that would require her to abandon the eggnog, and she's pretty sure Mike will steal hers if she sets it down.

"It's not going to work anyways," she tells them.

"Oh do enlighten us, please," Dustin says, hopping down off his chair and giving Eddie a smug grin. A small sprig of mistletoe dangles in the doorway.

"For one, in case you've all forgotten, I'm Jewish," Eddie says flatly.

Mike looks confused— more than usual, that is. "What's that got to do with anything?"

She huffs at this. "I'm like, immune to mistletoe, dumbass."

Sinclair's brows pinch together. "I'm... I'm not sure that's how it works."

"Yeah," Steve agrees. "I think mistletoe is a 'when in Rome' sorta deal."

She rolls her eyes. "When in Rome is like, a suggestion, not a law."

"Whatever you say," Dustin says, holding up both hands in resignation. "But you know, this is for your own good."

"No, it's not," Eddie insists. "She doesn't— it's not—"

Eleven appears out of nowhere, nearly silent in her approach, but for once Eddie is deeply relieved instead of startled.

"Joyce says we need to call for the pizza now," El announces. "I'm getting everyone's orders."

The group almost immediately dissolves into their typical debate over pineapple on pizza, and Eddie's love life is blessedly forgotten.

Unfortunately Eddie's (unrequited, no matter what Dustin might think) love life doesn't forget her; Chrissy comes wandering up with Nancy and Robin mere moments later.

"Just plain cheese for me," Chrissy tells El gently, placing her small hand on the middle of Eddie's back as she leans forward to talk to the younger girl. Eddie feels the warmth of her palm through flannel and gets goosebumps all over despite feeling a touch overheated.

—

tagging: @makingatomlette @cunnninghams @cricketsatnight @slumped-in-the-arms-of-fiction (no pressure ofc) & anyone else who wants to do this !! ❣️

#hellcheer #eddissy #tag: my writing

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pagetgram · 3 years ago

Photo

Paget Brewster in Criminal Minds “Minimal Loss” 4.03 Promo Photo

Criminal Minds' Paget Brewster Gets a Devil of a Storyline (Article Below)

This week on CBS' Criminal Minds (Wednesdays at 9 pm/ET) Paget Brewster steps front and center when a rogue priest conjures up demons from Prentiss' past. Brewster gave us a preview of the episode, as well as mooned over upcoming guest star Alex O'Loughlin.

Matt Mitovich - March 10, 2009, 6:55 p.m. PT

This week on CBS' Criminal Minds (Wednesdays at 9 pm/ET), Paget Brewster steps front and center when a rogue priest conjures up demons from Prentiss' past. Brewster gave us a preview of the episode, as well as mooned over upcoming guest star Alex O'Loughlin.

TVGuide.com: I hear we're getting a healthy helping of Prentiss this week.

Paget Brewster: Oh my god, it was exhausting! [Laughs] When you're on an ensemble show and you're messing around with everybody every day and you're not in every scene, and then all of a sudden you're in every scene, it's rough. I would not want to be Hugh Laurie.

TVGuide.com: The episode is titled "Demonology" and it says, "Prentiss has a personal connection to one of the victims in a series of deaths with religious overtones." Man, you can almost hear the thunderclap in the background.

Brewster: Basically we discover that a priest is performing exorcisms outside of the church guidelines. Bruce Davison plays a Catholic priest we go to for advice, and he tells us, "Hey, the church knows it's done, but there are certain guidelines you have to follow," and this "renegade" isn't doing that. The question becomes, "Is this guy actually chasing a demon or is this guy a serial killer?" If we get this guy, are we stopping someone from doing a good thing?

TVGuide.com: Bruce Davison is always a fun guest star.

Brewster: That guy is so much fun. One day he asked me, "Are you Brewster as in William Brewster from the Mayflower?' I said, "Yeah, how would you know that?" It turns out that my [ancestor] nursed his through influenza, at Plymouth! He gave me the book Mayflower, so I'm sending him The Wordy Shipmates by Sarah Vowell.

TVGuide.com: Might "Demonology" change the way we look at Prentiss?

Brewster: Possibly. She has a past and it's a little controversial, as to how she knows this victim, a friend of hers from when she was a teenager in Rome. She asks Hotch, "Can I look into this?" And then she uses her position as a federal agent questionably in seeking out the truth. And there is something that happened to her as a kid that..... Well, it's risky what they wrote. We'll see how people respond.

TVGuide.com: Speaking of Prentiss' past, will we ever learn more about her mother, the ambassador?

Brewster: What's kind of exciting is that at any time, the writers can create more history. But there's nothing else this season involving my mom, who is, of course, Kate Jackson.

TVGuide.com: There was an episode last season where Prentiss offered to become the guardian to a young victim. Do you think we'll revisit her desire to have children?

Brewster: I do, yeah. A lot of the female agents who we have spoken to, they work all the time, and they have a hard time just dating. It's an interesting conundrum. Do they choose this life where they're constantly working and dealing with the darkest side of humanity? All we've ever heard about Prentiss' dating life is, "It's grim out there." [Laughs] But that's what we hear from the female agents we talk to.

TVGuide.com: Of course, a band of fans want her to hook up with Hotch.

Brewster: I know! I didn't realize that fans make these videos on YouTube? A.J. Cook sent me a hilarious one that made it look like Prentiss and J.J. were having a secret lesbian affair. You know, when Hotch was blown up in the SUV, we shot this scene where he's in the hospital and I'm standing next to him, looking at his bleeding ear. Our director came in and said, "Paget, you're looking at Hotch like you're in love with him. It looks really weird." So now, every day, Thomas [Gibson] and I flutter our eyelids at each other.

TVGuide.com: Tell me about some of the guest stars still to come this season.

Brewster: Well, in this episode, I got the best of the best. In addition to Bruce, James Remar (Sex in the City) plays the father of the victim, and Walton Goggins (The Shield) is playing my childhood friend....

TVGuide.com: Have you shot the episode with Alex O'Loughlin (Moonlight) yet?

Brewster: Oh, Alex.... Alex sets all the girls into a twitter. Various departments were vying for Alex's attention. We just finished that this past Saturday morning, at 5:30 am.

TVGuide.com: Did Prentiss get a "moment" with Alex?

Brewster: No, No.... Prentiss had no moments with Alex! [Laughs] He's a cutie-pie! There's a little kid, Jake Cherry (Desperate Housewives), in that episode, and he's amazing too. All our guest stars are extraordinary, which we need to remember. We're there every day, and we have long-standing jokes with the crew, so we need to remember there is someone standing next to us, acting [as if] they're about to die or their child has been murdered. They're working up all this emotion, and we're hiding fart machines from each other. We're the most childish set, and we love it!

TVGuide.com: Are there plans for another explosive season finale?

Brewster: I haven't heard anything yet. We're doing 26 episodes, and most shows do 22, so we should have finished two episodes ago. It's a grind.

TVGuide.com: You need to stop being so damn good!

Brewster: [Laughs] We're just trying to make it to the finish line. I'm sure [the finale] will be shocking, but I don't know if they can blow us up again. They only did that last year so none of could ask for a raise!

#03.10.09 #10.08.08 #october #2008 #TVGUIDE #other #s: original post #image #article #Criminal Minds #cm: season 4 #minimal loss #demonology #cm promo #Paget Brewster #emily prentiss #link in text #content source

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calcifermovesthecastle · 4 years ago

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Shared Language

Ghiaccio x Florist!Reader, gn pronouns, fluff ending

1000 follower giveaway for @therealcozyy after a million years I’m so sorry

Warnings: kind of angst, hospitalization and IV’s but nothing major

At the end of a busy day, all you want to do is close up shop and trudge to the apartment the floor above you, and collapse into bed. Thirteen Bridal Bouquets, Add on roughly six each for bridesmaids, as well as walkin customers have you frenzied and harrowed and exhausted, your hands aching with the amount of work you pulled today. Annoyance shoots through you when you hear the patronizing ring of the bell, signaling someone new, and you squeeze your eyes shut, collecting yourself before you turn around.

"I'm horribly sorry, but we are closed for the night, so-" Your voice trails off when your eyes graze over the Passione pin glinting on the man's shirt, and you visibly wilt when your eyes travel up to his face. "Of course. How much do I owe you?"

"It's a protection fee. It's not any lower or higher than it's ever been," He responds, looking just as annoyed with the situation as you feel. You sigh, biting your tongue, and crouch behind the counter, skimming the shelves for the envelope you usually keep the fee in.

"Right, here you are. Um, let me count it out just to make sure I have it all, if that's alright?"

His eyes meet yours, narrowing, before he shrugs, resting his hands on the counter. You flip through the bills, organizing them by every fifty euros. He watches you count like a hawk, his eyes flicking to your face when you purse your lips in a particular way and freeze.

"Shit."

You disappear into the back office, and he can see you rummaging around, looking more and more stressed as you go.

"Is there a problem?" He calls after you, an edge to his voice.

"No, no, it's-" You come back out to the front, looking near tears as you open the cash register. Your voice cracks when you speak again. "No, there's not a problem. Give me just a moment."

By the time you've finished counting, there's ten euros left in the register, and tears have started to pool into your eyes. You have to swallow to speak, and when you do, your voice is soft and catches on each word.

"There. Ten-Ten thousand Euros." You recount once more just to make sure it's all there, tucking it back into the envelope and handing it over to him. His eyebrows knit as he glances to your register, and your lip trembles when you speak again. "Now, really, sir, I do have to close up for the night."

Even though he's left your shop, he remains in his car, watching you lean over your desk and cry as you appear to do some calculations. Wordlessly, he drives away.

You're in the middle of arguing with a customer on the price of a standard funeral basket when the bell rings, and one glance over at the door has you panicking.

"Shit, sir, you need to leave," You usher the fuming customer out the door and swivel, your eyes wide, at the man from last night. "Was it not enough?! Are you going to take my-"

"Woah, slow down!" He holds up his hands. "I just- do you want- cazzo," He spits, shoving his hands in his pockets. You shift nervously, hysteria quickly threatening to well up past your throat. "Shit. I saw that you didn't have much left yesterday, so I wanted to- buy you lunch."

You aren't sure if you heard him properly, but when what he says finally registers, your legs crumple underneath you.

You wake to a concerned blue haired man, and a curious purple haired one who's taking your pulse and checking you over for injuries.

"Oh, good, you're awake," The purple haired one smiles cooly, helping you sit up. You press a hand to the back of your head, wincing. "Ghiaccio here called me in a frenzy when you passed out. I'd pass out too if he ever asked me out to eat."

The blue haired one- Ghiaccio, glares daggers at his companion, practically frothing at the mouth, his teeth grinding back and forth. The purple haired one pays him no mind, continuing his conversation with you as if you were old friends.

"I don't think you need to go to the hospital, but my advice is close early and get some rest.

"I- what?" Your mind is still trying to catch up to what's happening- two men from Passione acting so casual with you it's like you've known them for years. You frown, gingerly rubbing the back of your head. Not Ghiaccio chuckles, the corners of his lips quirking up with the action as he repeats himself.

"I- I can't. I can't afford to close early. My rent is due in three days and I have 300 euros. That makes me 1700 euros short and if I'm short again I'll lose my business."

"Have you eaten since last night?" Ghiaccio speaks up, his words harsher than he probably intends. You stare at him blankly.

"No?"

"Do you want to?"

"I-" You glance at the clock. "I would, but…"

"What if we brought you some food back here?" Not Ghiaccio coos, earning a death glare from his companion. You bite your lip, slowly getting to your feet.

"I guess so? If you're offering."

"I'll be back in forty minutes," Ghiaccio ushers his companion out of your shop, and you're left alone to mull over what happened.

True to his word, he strolls back into your shop forty five minutes later, a bottle of water and a box of margherita pizza in hand. He sets it on your counter, biting his bottom lip nervously.

"Are you pitying me?" You ask him quietly, reaching out for the bottle of water, pausing just before you grasp it.

"Since when is doing something nice for someone pitying them?" He looks genuinely taken aback, and you can see anger rising in his face. You decide to let the issue go, opening the box and taking a slice of pizza.

"It's not something you had to do," You take a bite, feeling a little awkward that you're eating in front of him. "But thank you."

He takes a slice of pizza for himself, looking uncomfortably stiff as he eats. You share a tense silence with him, your mind reeling with the possibilities of his presence.

"Are you not enjoying yourself?"

"I could ask you the same thing," You turn to him, pulled out of your funk. "You're standing in my lobby still as a statue, looking like I just gave you the worst news of your life."

"What the hell does that mean?" He snaps, stiffening even more. You cover your mouth to hide the smile forming on your lips. Maybe you could enjoy his company after all.

"It means if your eyebrows knit together any further, you're going to form a unibrow," You take a discreet sip of the water he gave you, laughing when he swivels to face the window, trying to see what you're describing.

His heart stutters when he hears it, the way your mirth sounds so musical and carefree. God, he thinks to himself. He could listen to that forever.

"Hey, listen," You set the bottle of water down, moving around behind the counter for a moment. When you look satisfied, he watches as you come around the counter and present him with a small bouquet, mixed with white clover, pink sweet pea, Hydrangeas, and peach colored roses. "Thank you."

His face burns as he reaches out and takes the flowers, his heart hammering in his chest when his hand grazes yours. You smile gently at him, retreating back behind the counter. He can't find anything else to say, so he gives you a gruff goodbye and leaves your shop, sitting in his car long after he arrives home.

"Who're the flowers from?" Prosciutto looks up from his book, eyebrow raised in question as Ghiaccio enters the hideout. Ghiaccio balks, stammering in a mix of embarrassment and indignation.

"The florist three blocks down. Why do you need to know?"

"Oh? They never give me flowers when I collect their protection fee," Prosciutto hums, tilting his head.

"When's the last time you bought them lunch?" Melone drapes himself over the back of the couch Prosciutto lounges on, grinning coyly at Ghiaccio as he searches for a vase. Prosciutto hums again in understanding.

"Their shop still not doing too well, huh? How much did they have left this time?"

"You make it sound like you want their business to fail," Pesci whines, jutting his lower lip out. "They're always so nice to me when I collect the fee. They'd lose their home if they shut down."

"They had ten euros," Ghiaccio answers, grabbing a cup and filling it with water, setting the arrangement of flowers inside and carrying it to his room. He gingerly places it on his windowsill, tilting it until he's satisfied that it would get the best amount of sunlight. Prosciutto appears in the door, entering without asking and leaning over Ghiaccio's shoulder to peer at the flowers. His mouth quirks up into a smile when he's satisfied and turns to leave.

"What? What's that face for?" Ghiaccio stops him from leaving, his tone demanding. Prosciutto looks too smug for his own good, his eyes slanted downwards as he studies Ghiaccio's form.

"Look up the meaning of those flowers and you'll understand," Prosciutto sidesteps and leaves with a wave of his hand, leaving Ghiaccio fuming.

He had wanted to come by sooner, but unfortunately, got caught up in an odd schedule where he'd travel from job to job, and got stuck in Rome for a month on a hit that only paid One Hundred thousand euros. By the time he'd come back home, he did nothing but sleep and keep up on the paperwork for two days.

The next time he shows up at your shop, you're not there, and the windows and doors have been boarded up. The sign on the entrance says "Gone out of business."

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit!" He kicks the door frame furiously with each swear, earning some strange glances and some comments.

"Christ, man, they weren't even the best florist in town. It's a wonder they stayed afloat as long as they did."

"Heard it was because they couldn't pay their rent this month. Honestly, with how much Passione charges, it's not even a protection fee anymore, it's an eviction notice waiting to happen."

"Honestly, they're just flowers. Why is he so worked up?"

"The person running the shop wasn't even that personable."

The crowd he'd accumulated falls silent when he turns around, his expression nothing less than smoldering. Some furtive glances at his pin, and soon, the street is empty.

He meanders back home, kicking pebbles to the side, glowering at anyone even remotely in his way, and slams the door so hard it almost falls off of the hinges when he arrives, earning a displeased look from Prosciutto.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Where the fuck are they?"

"That's rather vague," Prosciutto lights a cigarette and leans back on the couch, resting his ankle on his knee. "Did you have a hit go wrong, or-"

"The fucking-" Ghiaccio all but stomps over to where his colleague sits, ripping the cigarette from his mouth and taking a deep dreg himself. Prosciutto's brow furrows in annoyance, but he doesn't say anything as he pulls out another from his silver case and lights it. "The florist. They went out of business. Where did they go?"

"Like I should know the answer to that," Prosciutto scoffs, tapping his ashes into the tray on the end table. Ghiaccio follows suit, taking another deep inhale, sputtering when it goes up his nose. Prosciutto huffs again, shrugging. "What am I? A babysitter? I told you they were going to go under."

"Well, who collected their fee last?" Ghiaccio throws himself into the chair perpendicular to Prosciutto, tapping his ashes out. Prosciutto hums.

"Had to have been Risotto. The rest of us were all on hits at the time it's usually collected."

Ghiaccio bolts up, putting out his half smoked cigarette, earning a glare from Prosciutto.

"If you're going to steal my smokes, the least you could do is finish them. These are expensive, you know."

"Then buy a cheaper brand," Ghiaccio retaliates, walking back towards Risotto's office. "We're on a budget anyways, aren't we?"

Just barely in earshot, he can hear Prosciutto telling him to fuck off. Inhaling deeply, he knocks on his capo's door.

"No clue."

"What the fuck do you mean, no clue?" Ghiaccio's voice is nearing hysterics, and he taps his foot fast, his eyes blown wide. Risotto's demeanor doesn't change, he just hums.

"Exactly that. I collected their fee two weeks ago. I was in and out. I didn't even know they were shut down until just five minutes ago, when you burst in here screaming about it."

"Cazzo. CAZZO! Fine, I'll find them myself!"

"You said Melone went and helped you with a fainting spell they had? See if he can help."

"See if that slimy- oh."

Of course.

Of course it had to snow.

You sit against the brick wall of the alleyway, doing your best to ignore the drug deal to your left, and the way your stomach twists painfully.

"Hey! Hey, you!"

You hunker down, your brow furrowed miserably, and close in on yourself a little more to stave off the cold.

"Hey, you, on the ground! Get the fuck outta here. This is my turf!" Your screamer's legs appear in front of you, and you look up at him, dead eyed. "Jeez, you look like real shit, you know? When's the last time you ate?"

"Leave me alone."

"What, not even a hello?" Your perpetrator sneers, crouching to your level. You don't have it in you to even glare. You're too hungry. He scoffs, eyeing you. "Tch. Find somewhere else to starve to death, huh? You're making it hard for me to do my business."

"Do you have to humiliate me any more than I already am?" You sigh, trying to get to your feet. "Fine. Just leave me alone."

You lean heavily on the wall, your legs trembling underneath you. Homelessness has not treated you well, and the stares your emaciated body receive only further your spiral into despair.

You've barely made it to the next alley over when your legs give out, and you collapse face first into the accumulated snow. Hazily, you think to yourself that you have to get something to drink somehow, and pull yourself up, grabbing handfuls and shoving it into your mouth, nevermind how cold you already are, your thin long sleeves and tattered excuse for pants clinging wetly to your body. The only thing you can do now is wish for death to come faster than it does. You fall down onto your side and stare blankly at the opposite wall, willing yourself to fall asleep.

You think you see a pair of legs come to a halt in front of you before you slip into a haze.

When you wake again, a flat white ceiling greets you instead of a cloudy sky, and you notice the weight of a blanket on you. Hazily, you glance over and notice an IV drip hanging out of your arm, and a somewhat familiar blond haired man in a suit sitting next to your bed, smoking a cigarette and absentmindedly reading a newspaper. His eyes flick over when he senses your movement, and his brow shoots up. The paper is set aside, and he takes a generous hit from his cigarette before speaking.

"Good morning. We weren't sure if you were going to pull out of that or not. You've been asleep for almost four days. It's funny. You lose your business, and suddenly, you drop off of our radar. It was quite a chore to find you, you know."

"Are you mocking me?" You croak, trying to pull yourself up into a sitting position. The blond appraises you for a minute, puffing smoke out of his mouth. "Are we in a hospital? I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to smoke in hospitals."

"I doubt the staff is going to give me a hard time," The man speaks lightly, lounging back. "You certainly are something. You've been awake two minutes and you already have a smart mouth?" A small smile lights up his features. "I guess you could say that you're a trooper."

"I'm starving," You bite your lip, turning away, your eyes widening when you finally place the man. "Shit! You're from Passione! Oh my god, oh, I lost my-"

"I already know that," The man waves you off. "I'm just here to keep an eye on you and take you home once you get discharged."

"But I don't- I don't have a home," You place your thumbnail between your teeth, looking at him anxiously. He dismisses you again, snubbing out his smoke.

"That's why I'm here, kid."

His vagueness annoys you, but one glance at the box of apple juice and ham sandwich on your bedside tray has anything you want to say dying in your mouth, and by the time you've scarfed it down, tears spark at the corner of your eyes, and any animosity towards the gangster has dissipated.

"Thank you."

The blond- he's since introduced himself as Prosciutto, drives in silence away from the hospital, not saying anything to you about where you're going. You fidget nervously in the passenger seat, jumping when he parks the care and tells you that you've arrived.

You're still a little unsteady on your feet, so Prosciutto guides you down the stairs with a hand on the small of your back, and leans across you to unlock and open the door. The minute you step inside, you're greeted with almost everyone who's come to collect your protection fees. The only one missing is the blue haired one who bought you lunch- Ghiaccio.

The...boss… Risotto, as introduced, gives you a quick tour of your new residence, telling you that everything is free range, that he's going to have you take on some of the deskwork in return, and shows you to your room. Inside is a bed and a few changes of clothes in the closet. At this point, you're teetering on the edge of bawling your eyes out, and you can barely choke out a thank you, giving him a wobbly smile. You swear you can see him smile in return.

You're sitting on the edge of your bed that night, fidgeting nervously, your mind spinning 100 miles per hour, when there's a knock at your door. You practically jump out of your skin, and call out a shaky "Come In."

The door creaks open slowly, and there he is, his hands hidden behind his back.

Ghiaccio.

You stand slowly, your eyes searching his face.

"Did you-" You catch yourself, starting towards him hesitantly. He seems just as hesitant as he walks towards you. "Did you make this happen?"

"Not really," His voice is soft and hoarse, and the way his brow is furrowed tells you just how worried he was, but the light in his eyes shows you how relieved he feels to see you in person again. "I just suggested it, really. Sort of… Panicked... When I saw your- your shop-" His voice falters when you reach out and grab his shoulder. Tears are welling in your eyes for what feels like the eightieth time today, and your lower lip trembles when your hand comes in contact with him. He's a little cold to the touch, but it's comforting and refreshing.

"Thank you," You manage. He swallows thickly, revealing his hands and shoving something harshly in your direction. He's beet red now, and looking anywhere but you. You grab it, taken aback, and look down to inspect it.

Now you really start to cry, tears spilling onto the arrangement of Daffodils, Daisies, purple lilacs, irises, and lavender roses. So much said in one little bouquet. A sob expels from your throat, and you look up at him, catching him watching you out of the corner of his eye.

You set the flowers on your bed, stepping forward to wrap your arms around him.

"They're good?" He sounds nervous, and stiffens at the contact.

"They're wonderful," You confirm, your voice thick as you bury your face into his shoulder. His arms wind around you, then, and you can hear the relief in his voice when he murmurs to you again.

"Welcome home."

#Ghiaccio x reader #jjba x reader #jojo x reader #jojo no kimyou na bouken #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #jjba #jojos #jojo's #la squadra x reader #Prosciutto #Ghiaccio #Melone #Pesci #risotto #la squadra

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mcwriting · 4 years ago

Text

Lost in Rome

hello, friends! Ever since "La Vita Dolce," I've wanted to write something else involving Italy and at least one Italian phrase, and so this lil story was born! Hope you all enjoy!

Ship: Tom Holland x Reader

Word Count: 1488

Warnings: mentions of drinking, vv slight language

★

You had been walking around Rome for what felt like an eternity.

(It had only been like 30 minutes)

You knew the bar was right near Piazza Navona, but you'd only been to that part of the city one other time, having been staying south on the other side of the river in Trastevere.

You felt embarrassed knowing you were dragging your friends around the city without much of a guide, but you were too stubborn to admit that you were actually lost.

"Maybe we should've gone to Bar San Calisto again. It was cheap and close but noooo. I just had to look up a 'best bars in Rome' list" you thought as you continued to trudge on.

Not only were you lost, but you also didn't have the ability to look up where you were going, since you'd decided to go cheap and not buy an international plan or a vpn, choosing to only using wifi so you'd "stay in the moment."

That moment seemed stupid now that every marble wall and cobblestone street started to meld together in your brain as it continued to darken.

A trip to Rome was something you'd been wanting to do for years, so when your university offered up the chance to go study abroad for 4 weeks, you immediately began scrounging up the funds to go, even scoring a scholarship based on the fact that you'd taken Italian classes in school.

You'd only been there a week but thankfully had bonded with your roommate before even going, having struck up a conversation at the informational meeting the semester before. Since then, you had also bonded with those in the room next door, them sticking to you as their translator.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore, stopping.

"Okay, look, guys. I'm really sorry but I literally have no idea where we are," you admitted, feeling guilty. Everyone else smiled.

"That's okay! This place is beautiful! I'm sure we'll find it eventually," your roommate, Olivia, said.

"Yeah. Didn't you say it was at Piazza Navona?" Aaron, one of your neighbors, asked. You nodded. "Well as long as we can find that, then we're basically there!"

After some wandering, your group found itself in the square in front of the Pantheon, which was a step in the right direction, but you were determined to actually find the right place.

There was a hotel right there, so you quickly stepped in to ask the desk worker to point you towards the Piazza, who explained that it was only a couple streets East of where you were.

Relieved, you and your friends quickly walked that way, breathing out a collective sigh when you walked into the giant open square, looking around at the familiar structures from the second day of class when you'd toured the area.

"Sooo... where's this bar?" Aaron's roommate Joseph asked.

You all circled the square from the inside and out a couple times, not seeing any signs with the name "Bar del Fico Roma" anywhere.

Dread started to wash over you as you realized the website must not have meant the bar was actually on the square, but was somewhere nearby. You felt stupid for not screenshotting the website page or, you know, actually looking it up first.

"Fine, that's it! I'm marching up to the next person I see and asking where this darn place is. We've made it this far!" you said, exasperated.

The first thing that caught your eye was a group of people who looked close to your age, talking in a small group. They were pretty well dressed, typical of a young Italian, so you immediately started over towards them, expecting them to be the most helpful in giving directions.

"Wait, y/n!" Olivia protested, but you ignored her, walking between a shorter boy and taller girl.

You couldn't help but sigh out the words as you started speaking, placing a light hand on the boy's arm.

“Scusa, potresti dirme dov’è la-" "Excuse me, could you tell me where the-"

"Sorry! I don't speak Italian!" the boy answered in a British accent, turning to face you with hands in surrender.

You both seemed taken aback when your eyes met.

Tom Holland?

"Um, oh what was the word for sorry in Italian again?" the actor in front of you asked, looking to one of his many Spider-man costars around you. Before one could answer, you blurted out one for him.

"It's 'mi dispiace' or 'perdonami,' depending on how you want to say it," you started, realizing how stupid you probably sounded to be teaching a world famous actor Italian words after accidentally infiltrating his conversation.

However, Tom was more shocked by your American accent. Your eyes still widened as you realized what was actually going on.

"Oh my gosh, what am I saying, um. I- I'm so sorry. We're just trying to find this bar and got lost and-"

"Which bar?" he asked in return. You furrowed your brows and looked at him funny, wondering why he would care. He seemed to take notice. "It's just that, we're also headed to a bar and can't seem to find it, either."

You chuckled at the situation, baffled.

"Well, um, it's called 'Bar del Fico Roma.'"

Tom's eyes widened.

"Hey, that's where we're headed!" Jacob Batalon cut in, making you look at him and the rest of the actors in surprise. You could see your own friends shock from your peripheral.

"No way! Really?" Joseph said for you. The group nodded.

"I just got it pulled up on maps," Zendaya said, holding up her phone. Realization suddenly hit that she of all people was the one who you had been standing next to this whole time.

You and your friends all gasped incredulously, amazed at your luck after spending all that time lost.

"If you want, we can show you the way," Tom offered.

"What? No, no we couldn't impose like that," you began, knowing your friends were probably internally screaming at you.

"Oh come on," Tom responded. "We're all going to the same place anyways, not like we won't see you there. It's barely a five minute's walk."

"Seriously, y/n. Do you really want to go around asking more locals for help when we've got it right here?" Olivia asked, raising a good point.

"Alright, fine," you started, rolling your eyes. You turned back to Tom. "You know what they say, 'when in Rome.' Seriously, thank you. All of you. You're definitely saving our asses."

He chuckled as Zendaya began leading the way. Though the sun had set, lights throughout the roads and emanating from various shops lit the way.

Without meaning to, you fell into step with Tom, easily matching his gait as you crossed through the bustling piazza.

"So what brings you to Italy?" He asked. "You don't quite sound like a local."

"We're studying abroad through our university. Unfortunately for me, these goons keep following me 'cause I speak the language," you joked, causing Olivia to slap the back of her hand to your shoulder.

"Ah, I see. I was definitely confused when you went from Italian to American in an instant. Y/n, was it?"

"Yes! Yeah, that's me. And you're obviously Tom Holland."

"You better remember that later, he tends to forget his own name after a few drinks," Zendaya called back to you, causing the group to laugh.

"Hey! That was one time!" Tom defended himself. "Not my fault I was going through a breakup!"

He turned back to you.

"Don't listen to them. I'm quite fun to drink with. You should see for yourself."

"Is that some sort of offer..?" you questioned playfully, tucking your hair behind your ear.

"If everyone's alright with it, I figured you all would join us at the lounge. I'm more than happy to pay for a round or two," he winked.

The group was approaching the bar, and any anxiety you'd had about finding it finally quelled when you could see people outside laughing and drinking as they enjoyed the summer night.

"Hmm... I don't know..." you sing-songed, looking up at the sky.

"Dude are you crazy?" Aaron exclaimed, causing the others to argue in agreement with him.

"Okay, okay. Of course we would be happy to join you for a drink. Thank you."

Both groups cheered in approval.

"The only thing I ask in return is a little lesson in Italian and, if all goes well, a pretty lady's number at the end of the night," he said smoothly, giving you a look.

The others looked between you with wide eyes, surprised at his open flirting. You couldn't help but smile and blush before replying.

"I think that's something I can manage. Now come on, your first lesson will be in ordering drinks," you said, grabbing his hand to lead him in what was about to be the best night of his life.

And yours.

★

A/N: Okay fun fact I thought up this concept immediately after publishing La Vita Dolce and just... never wrote it? The entire work was actually written around the one Italian phrase I used haha.

Anyways... Hope you all enjoyed as per usual and feel free to hmu anytime about anything :)

Send a message or ask if you’d like to be added to my permanent or series taglists so I can verify you’ve been added!

@jackiehollanderr, @one-big-fangirl, @agentnataliahofferson, @spider-babe, @justafangirlduh

#lost in rome #tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fic #tom holland one shot #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland imagine #tom holland drabble #tom holland spiderman

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nastyatticman · 4 years ago

Note

I’ve got a lil request, and feel free to disregard if you’d rather not! For some reason, I can’t get the thought of Billy Lenz and s/o skinny dipping out of my head u//u Think you could write a thing about that? Love your work!

aaa thank you so much! I hope you don't mind I went a more fluffy route with this one :3c (and if you want you can always request something more explicit later!)

Billy Lenz x Reader

Warnings: none. Reader is gender neutral. A little spicy but nothing explicit.

It was a hot, sweaty day, and you could tell by the glint in his eye that your partner had something in mind for you two.

Over the course of a few months, you’d introduced Billy to your friends. He was still a little skittish around unfamiliar people, especially in crowds, but hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Surprisingly, he hit it off well with a couple of them! Which is how you ended up here, visiting one of your friend’s families in the States over March break.

The only problem was… none of you had anticipated how hot it would be.

You weren’t exactly dressed for the weather, so you spent a lot of time inside trying not to move too much. However, the day after you arrived you got up early, before it got warm, and walked around the area. Your friend showed you both the sights. It was a nice, wooded area with not too much in the way of a town but a lot of beautiful natural features. Including a big lake!

Too bad you didn’t bring swimsuits…

The day before you were leaving, your friend had something come up in another town that they needed to go to. Nothing urgent, they just had to pick something up from a relative, and it was a long drive. They apologized that you couldn’t come with them, but you said it was fine, that you’d figure something out to keep occupied. Your boyfriend gave you a knowing glance and you smiled, looking away.

When your friend left, Billy asked if you wanted to go out. It was just starting to cool down for the day, but you knew if he wanted to try anything you’d melt. That was the other thing - you didn’t have much privacy when you were staying there. And your boyfriend had enough of a sex drive for both of you. Not that you minded, of course!

After a few close calls in your friend’s family home… maybe you could use some time alone together. So you found yourself walking to the lake with him, hand in hand. It was too hot to touch anywhere else, and besides, he loved to hold hands with you, swinging his arm while you walked and talked.

You stood under a tree, looking around to make sure there was no one around to catch if he wanted to do something. It was a small town, and you didn’t see anyone around, but you were a little paranoid. It didn’t help that last night stayed up watching a horror movie about a guy who’d kill people around a lake, especially if they did bad things like sex or drugs. It was a good thing you weren’t in a movie like that, you’d both be so dead by now.

Billy looked around a second, and a grin split his face. He practically tripped over himself getting out of his clothes. “Race you to the water!”

You laughed and followed suit - well, after you looked around again just to check. Satisfied the coast was clear, you got your clothes somewhere safe, and watched your boyfriend splash around. He didn’t swim much as a kid, living somewhere cold. It was kinda cute seeing him enjoy himself here. After a moment’s hesitation, you ran in to join him.

You didn’t expect it to be that cold! But you didn’t have time to dwell on that, with him picking you up. You giggled and pushed at him, but he held you tight to his chest and went in for a sloppy kiss.

It didn’t take long for the kiss to get heated - this was your Billy, after all - and you smoothed the wet hair out of his face and encouraged him with a low moan in your throat. This only made him kiss back, harder, a hand making its way down to your ass.

Oh, you’d be even more dead for what you were about to do next...

#nasty attic originals #billy lenz x reader

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beatricethecat2 · 4 years ago

Photo

"This is nice," Myka says, sipping her beer while surveying the bar.

"Consuming alcohol in a public house?" Helena asks.

"Yeah," Myka says, eyes angling down as she picks at her label. "Working with Pete...this wasn't a thing I could do much. Then Steve and I had a drink here, and I remembered what it was like. I used to go on my own in DC just to unwind. Feels like a lifetime ago."

“In many ways it was," Helena says, idly stiring the ice left in her drink. "Could you ever have imagined the company you now keep?"

"I don't think so," Myka says, shifting closer to Helena. "But I like it, a lot. Doing this with you feels...normal. Two people, spending time together, not a care in the world."

"You care for nought?" Helena says, fingers tracing a line from Myka's thumb to her wrist where her hand rests on her thigh.

"Ok, one care," Myka says, eyes flicking up to meet Helena's. "Hey, I know that look. We said we'd stay for the band tonight, not just hole up in our room."

"Is there not another band tomorrow?"

"Yeah, but we said we'd stay for this one." Myka slips her hand from Helena's.

"As you wish," Helena says, settling back on her stool, frustration evident in her tone.

"More drinks, ladies?" the bartender says. "The band's about to start."

"I shall need one," Helena grouses.

"Stop being dramatic," Myka snips.

"Fine," Helena snaps. "Bourbon. Neat. Top shelf, please," she instructs the bartender.

"Comin' right up." The bartender steps away to complete the order.

"Oh, we're getting drunk now, are we?" Myka quips.

"When in Rome..."

"I'd actually like to see that, a drunk H.G. Wells," Myka says, poking Helena in the arm.

Helena flinches. "You may very well if you keep behaving as such."

"Seriously though, when's the last time you drank enough to let your guard down, even a little."

"In the company of others? Not in recent memory. And you?"

"Same."

"Here you go," the bartender interrupts, setting the tumbler on a napkin in front of Helena. "Another beer?" she asks Myka.

"You know what? I'll have the same." Myka waves her bottle at Helena's drink.

"Cavalier, Ms. Bering."

"We'll keep each other in check. We deserve to get super tipsy, at least."

"Color me intrigued."

The band strikes its first cord just as Myka's drink arrives. She tugs Helena's arm, and they relocate to a table near the stage.

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

The Adventures of Bering and Wells ("Warehouse 13" Season 5 replacement) Season 1: Episode 4 Title: New Orleans: Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Summary: Myka and Helena follow whim rather than duty, driving south, detouring around Washington DC, avoiding a second emotional rabbit hole so early on. After a wi-fi-free week in a cabin, deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains, they feel ready to tackle urban density again. ("The Rockies are better," Myka declares. "We'll go there, too.) Vowing to stay as touristy as possible, the pair head towards history-filled New Orleans. But far too soon their carefree trip hits a snag and they're in need of Warehouse help.

Previously: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3

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

***BONUS SCENE***

"Exactly how touristy have you been?" Abigail asks.

"Pretty touristy," Myka answers.

"Practically flâneurs," Helena says, grinning as Myka looks up at her with sparkly eyes.

"Well, that narrows it down," Steve mutters, typing into the keyboard. "Let's start with your hotel. Why'd you pick the carriage house?"

"The lack of adjoining suite and the king-sized bed."

"Helena!" Myka smacks Helena on the arm. "Because it's cute and charming."

"So this ghost isn't listed on their website? Wedding dress woman, Civil War soldier, dancing patio woman?" Steve asks.

"No. And the manager hadn't recognized the description I gave," Helena explains.

"So not all ghosts," Abigail says.

"If seeing them is normal," Myka says.

"Let's say the ones on their website are but H.G.'s isn't," Steve says.

"Are we to assume I've been 'whammied' then?" Helena says.

"You freeze in place. I have to shake you out of it," Myka explains.

"Perhaps I'm studying the phenomenon."

"You're never that still. It's creepy."

"Then I think we should consider it," Abigail says.

"Where else have you been?" Steve asks.

"Um, everywhere?" Myka answers. "That blacksmith's bar you and I went to. And The Gas and Lights Museum--"

"Such memories. So many details wrong," Helena gibes.

"On a carriage ride--"

"Highway robbery! Sixty-five dollars for a turn around the park. And not in the least authentic."

"You said it was nice!"

"I said it was familiar. The sound of it took me back," Helena says.

"I thought you'd like it." Myka leans back and looks up at Helena questioningly.

"I enjoyed the company quite thoroughly," Helena says, laying her hands on Myka's shoulders and grinning down at her fondly.

"Aww," Steve coos.

"Did anything about the carriage ride scream 'lady ghost will now appear at will?" Abigail asks.

"Not to my knowledge," Helena says.

"We also went to the Pharmacy Museum. And on a steamboat ride," Myka adds.

"Not that I'd have stepped foot on that death trap without proof of modern safety precautions. In my day, they exploded frequently," Helena explains.

"Ok...let's start with the Pharmacy Museum," Abigail says as Steve types. "Could this woman have afforded a doctor?"

"She often appears in her Sunday best, but also in, shall we say...less. She didn't strike me as particularly monied."

"Did she look sort of vampire-ish?" Steve asks. "I'm reading that people with consumption were rumored to be vampires due to how the disease aged them."

"I'm familiar with that premise, and no, this woman was not withering away."

"Could she have died on a steamboat?" Abigail asks.

"She doesn't give off that sense. There's a calm about her. She's not in danger."

"Let's try another angle. The neighborhood you're staying in, Storyville, claims to be the birthplace of jazz," Abigail says, reading over Steve's shoulder. "Maybe she's related to that?"

"Myka took me to hear this 'jazz,' and I can't say I was at all impressed."

"I like it. Steve does, too. You really hated it?" Myka asks.

"The bleat of the saxophone evokes vaudeville for me."

"Play her some Charlie Parker. Or John Coltrane. That might change her mind," Steve suggests.

"Does this relate to our ghost?" Abigail presses.

"I don't see a connection," Helena answers. "Her dress is previous to that of jazz, of an age closer to my own."

"Storyville was once a legal bordello district," Steve explains. "The whole neighborhood was shut down in 1917. So maybe she's from then?"

"That makes sense," Myka says.

"Do you see her inside or outside?" Abigail asks.

"Thus far, outside."

"But," Myka protests, "last night, when we were...t-the blindfold, you said 'just in case.'"

"Did that not heighten our activities?"

"That's not the point. I can't believe you--"

"Punish me later, darling--"

"Why don't you two hash this out, and we'll get back to you," Abigail suggests.

"Wait, is this her?" Steve asks.

Steve shares a black and white photo of a woman, seated outdoors, in front of a makeshift white backdrop, her hair styled into a modest, shoulder-length coif. Her linen top, trimmed with lace, hangs off one shoulder, and a string of pearls adorns her neck. Her lipstick, rendered as a middle grey, matches the kohl lining her eyes, giving her a soft, silent movie-era look.

"Hm, possibly."

"Here's another."

Helena leans further over Myka's shoulder, looking closely at the image. "Yes, I believe that is her."

"That's, um, really off the shoulder. Shoulders..." Myka says. "Isn't that kind of racy for the time?"

"Quite tame compared to some. Her expression is unusual, contemplative almost, recalling solemn greek statues rather than the usual fodder meant to titillate men's desires."

"How would you know?"

"One encounters all sorts of materials as a Warehouse agent," Helena says with a smirk.

"As an agent. Uh-huh."

"Listen to this," Steve interrupts, "these prints were made from a stash of glass negatives found locked in a desk drawer years after the photographer died. Many are of Adele, the woman you're seeing, but there are other women, too. They were shot in the 1910s, but these prints were made in the '60s. If there were any original prints, they were never found."

"May I see the images again?"

Steve cycles through and adds a few more, one depicting a roll-down desk with a shrine of photos arranged above, all of women, vignetted portraits and romantic depictions of the female form more typical for the time.

"Not sure if that last one is related. But it says it's by the same photographer."

"Could you send that one over? I'd like to look more closely."

"Sure."

Myka trades places with Helena, and Helena clicks the link. She enlarges the photo and inspects the array of images.

"I vaguely recall flicking through a basket in a shop with ephemera such as this. Perhaps this ghost woman was amongst it, but printed in a manner such as the images depicted here."

"So you're saying the photo in the shop might be a photo from this photo?"

"That is what I'm hypothesizing."

"So when you see her, you freeze like you're her photograph trapped in this photograph."

"Or perhaps I am her, caught in the decisive moment of the image being captured."

"That's really meta," Steve says.

"No matter what, neutralizing that photo should do the trick," Abigail suggests. "Heck, neutralize everything in the basket, just in case."

"Do you remember which shop you were in?" Steve asks.

"My recollection is hazy at best due to the copious amount of drink someone encouraged me to consume the evening previously."

Helena looks at Myka and scowls. Myka looks back, endearingly.

"I don't get hangovers."

"Lucky you," Helena quips.

"I hope you find it soon," Steve says, "because being happy looks good on both of you. You should get back to that."

"Thank you, Steve. And thank you, Abigail, for all your help," Helena says.

"Anytime," Abigail says.

"Have a great trip. Send some postcards!" Steve says.

"What a marvelous idea," Helena replies.

"Isn't flicking through postcards how we got here?" Myka warns.

"Shall you pre-screen everything I touch from now on?"

"Maybe I should--"

"We're hanging up now," Abigail says.

The screen goes blank as Myka and Helena devlove further into playful bickering.

*End Scene*

-TBC-

NOTES: "Laissez les bon temps rouler!" is Cajun French for "Let the good times roll." In season four, Steve and Myka go New Orleans and both say they like jazz, so I'm not making that up. I see Myka as more of fan of popular tunes - Billy Holiday, Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole, etc., whereas Steve would know the genre through and through (and try as he might, never gets Claudia quite on board with it all). The photographer is E. J. Bellocq - I was going to incorporate that more, but the politics behind photos I mentioned is...complicated. I want this B&W show to focus on our ladies journey, artifacts are side-plot motivations. But if you're interested, look him up, and I suggest reading both Susan Sontag and Nan Goldin's essays for some clarity on why the images hold the status they do. From the research I've done, his images are plastered all over Storyville businesses, so if you've been there, you've seen at least one. Oh and I had a roommate once who could drink anything and never got a hangover. Some people are lucky like that.

#BERING AND WELLS #w13 #fanfiction #fan art #Myka Bering #Helena HG Wells #new orleans #road trip!#canon divergent au #it's nice using the characters you like and wish had more screen time in spin off shows #while others need not appear

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gravelyhumerus · 4 years ago

Text

Criminal Minds College AU - Chapter Seventeen

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Title: “I may just take your breath away”

Relationship: Jemily

Summary:

Exams, pizza, board games... what more could a girl ask for?

Slow-burn Jemily college AU where they live across the hall and despite all odds, the universe pushes them together. AKA they’re silly gay babies who pine after each other for months.

Read it on AO3

Tumblr: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, (bonus scene), Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty

“That was a lot of chess,” Emily complained, nearly chugging her latte as she and Spencer left the coffee shop.

She pulled her beanie onto her head and braced herself for the snow as the taller boy held the door open for her. Emily almost slipped on the slushy tile floor on her way out but managed to keep her balance.

“Fifteen of the multiple-choice questions to be precise,” Spencer replied. The salted sidewalk crunched under their feet as they made their way across campus.

“I’m so glad it’s finally over,” she admitted. “I think I’ve had enough philosophy to last me a lifetime.”

“I’m enrolled in ‘Minds and Machines’ next semester,” he said. “I think I might try and get a double minor this time around.”

“What’s the goal? Three PhDs by the time you’re 24?” Emily quipped.

He was well on his way, having completed his engineering degree before she managed to graduate high school. He was 17, only two years younger than her, but somehow seemed like a kid. A kid with more education crammed into his brain than she could ever master in her life.

“Something like that,” he replied with a smile. His hair was getting long and he had tied it back during the exam. With last names starting with P and R, they were seated near each other in the large exam hall, and she glanced over at him as he fussed with his hair.

They stopped at the red light, watching as the cars and busses wooshed past them, sending the slush flying into the snowbanks. It had been a fairly sunny day, but bitterly cold. Now, the sun was setting and the campus was bathed in a warm golden glow. The snow had fallen the night before, leaving fluffy white snow covering their campus.

Emily had spent most of the day holed up in the library with Spencer, with him quizzing her on fallacies and philosophers. With his eidetic memory, he only really needed to read the material once. Earlier in the semester, she did feel useful when it came to editing each other’s essays. He always got bogged down with detail, word vomiting everything he knew, and she helped him with his structure and argumentation.

More studying awaited her back in her room. She rubbed at the back of her neck as she thought about the upcoming evening spent hunched over her desk studying criminal justice, a subject that left her questioning her degree half the time as she was forced to learn about the muddled ethics of justice.

That week, she had survived on minimal sleep, eating mostly bagels and coffee to sustain her. Her body was protesting with each step, and she had suffered from a constant tension headache for as long as she remembered. At least her college had that golden retriever walk around at the library yesterday, she thought to herself, sarcastically. Animal therapy definitely relieved all her stress. As if petting a dog for five minutes would fix the anxiety of finals season.

Two more exams, she reminded herself. You’ll make it.

Despite this mantra, Emily was conflicted. While finals were killing her, the end of the semester also meant winter break. Emily would be forced to go “home” for the holidays. For most college students, that meant going back to their respective towns and being surrounded by their loved ones. Emily, on the other hand, didn’t have anywhere she called home. Last winter break, her mom had at least been in DC, and Emily was able to catch up with some of her international school friends who were in the city. This time, her mom was stationed in London, and Emily knew she’d be roped back into her old life. She didn’t know anyone there and knew most of her break would be spent alone.

The last place she had called home was Rome, and now that was tarnished by her complicated past with that city.

Emily was good at being alone. Being an only child of a workaholic single mom meant she learned to keep her own company. She read a lot. She got good at running away, escaping her nannies, and skirting security in order to roam free. She’d be fine.

The problem was that Emily had gotten used to this. She rarely spent a moment alone these days. Whether it was walking to class with Spencer, or Hotch, or Derek, getting lunch with the team, surprise coffee dates with Penelope and spending almost every evening with her girlfriend, she hadn’t been left alone in ages. She didn’t miss it.

Their residence building had a warm yellow light shining out of the windows and a soft red brick facade. In the summer, ivy grew up the south facing side but in the winter, the ledges were covered in snow and the stone steps were slippery. She trudged forward, excited for the warm embrace of the dorm.

Spencer had other plans. He reached into the garish yellow plastic newspaper box that was stationed next to their doorway and retrieved this week’s newspaper.

“Come on Reid,” Emily said. “Just subscribe to the newsletter or something like the rest of us.”

He held up the cover to her in surprise. Usually it reported the news of a recent sports victory, or a change of policy announced by the administrators, or even a fun event held on campus. Sometimes there was even a dramatic protest or an important speaker coming to campus. But this week, the headline surprised her. In large font printed across the page read: “Multiple student politicians fired amid financial scandal.”

“That sounds bad,” Emily said. It did seem way more dramatic on newsprint than on a website, so maybe Spencer was onto something with his affinity for the printed word.

Grabbing a copy for herself, she then walked inside to escape the cold. Warm air greeted them as they entered their residence hall, and both students kicked the snow off their boots before trudging up the stairs. They read as they walked, but the route to their rooms was already muscle memory, so neither worried about stumbling on their way.

Normally, Emily wouldn’t willingly touch this sort of student politics with a ten foot pole. Sure, she was involved with the Criminology council, but there was a difference between the kind of person interested in petitioning for better accessibility to faculty events or running a bake sale, and the kind of students to embezzle thousands of student dollars like what the current student government executive seemed to be accused of doing.

She quickly ran her eyes down the page, the contents jogging a memory from Halloween, of Hotch and JJ discussing the early stirrings of said scandal.

“You know,” Spencer said, “I’m surprised they got a lot of this information, it’s notoriously difficult to file FOIAs for student governments, as they’re technically private corporations. So the fact that they got these files means that this is a much bigger scandal than one might assume.”

Corruption, bribery, embezzlement, nepotism. All words that jogged memories of hiding in the corner of political fundraisers, overhearing the worst of politics from too-drunk elites sipping on their wine and munching on charcuterie.

“I hate politics,” Emily said, stuffing her copy of the paper into her bag.

“I find it interesting. It’s basically a microcosm of our current political climate. In fact, I have subscribed to the print edition of fifteen student papers in the region,” Spencer said, “I like to keep informed on the coverage of student issues, and compare them to our own.”

“Why?!” Emily said with a laugh. “You know you can just look them up online.”

Spencer gave her a withering look, and she should have known better than asking about his aversion to tech. He loathed having to use his computer, as the LCD screens apparently gave him a headache. Penelope even gave him a pair of blue light glasses to attempt to alleviate the issue.

Then, he began to speak, at length, about the dying printed news industry and why print copies were better for understanding than screens et cetera. She made sure to nod and hum at appropriate points, but her mind kept wandering.

She wondered if her girlfriend was in her room. Emily missed her any time they were apart and she yearned to hold her in her arms once again. But she shouldn’t. She needed to work. She had too much to do. Her grades had slipped, slightly, this semester. Everyone warned her about how college would be harder than high school, but no one ever warned her how much the expectations were raised in second year.

Two more exams. She clutched her coffee tighter. She’d rather do anything else besides study at this point. Her body was exhausted, her mind frazzled. She wondered if she could even manage to get through a chapter of revision before conking out on her desk.

As she said goodbye to Spencer and struggled with her keys that were tangled up in their corresponding university-branded lanyard, JJ’s door opened.

“Hey girlfriend,” JJ greeted her, sounding way too much like a straight girl greeting her platonic friend for Emily’s taste. She gave her a pass because it sounded cute in her voice.

“JJ!” Emily said, somehow surprised to see her despite the fact that she lived right across the hall. Her girlfriend was dressed in sweatpants and an oversized sweater, with her straight hair tucked behind her ears and her face bare of make up. Her face was lit up with a smile, and Emily rushed towards her, planting a soft kiss on her lips.

“Hi JJ,” Spencer said as Emily and JJ kissed.

When they pulled apart, JJ gave Spencer a smile as a greeting and asked them how their exam went.

Spencer babbled about their Logic exams for a minute or two, as Emily basked in JJ’s presence. She grabbed onto her hand and found that it was so much hotter than her own and wasn’t sure if she held on tight because she was cold, or if she had missed her girlfriend.

“I’m just glad it’s over,” Emily said. “I never want to hear about fallacies again.”

Spencer seemed to want to say something, but fell silent at Emily’s tired expression.

“Wanna come in for a bit?” JJ whispered in Emily’s ear. Apparently she said so a touch too loud because Spencer replied instead.

“Sure!” he said, and then walked into JJ and Penelope’s room.

“I should really study,” Emily tried to argue, but a single glance into JJ’s deep, blue eyes had Emily melting.

JJ’s room was much messier than Emily had last seen it. Both desks showed clear markers of the ongoing exams, with papers and books piled high. In addition to this was an assortment of pillows strewn all over the floor.

“You guys are back early!” JJ said, after checking her watch, “I thought it was a two hour exam?”

“I finished in an hour,” Spencer said, “and Emily only needed an extra half hour on top of my time.”

Damn straight, Emily thought, feeling somewhat competitive with the boy-genius despite herself.

She really should study, but the prospect of seeing her girlfriend outweighed the desire to sit hunched over a textbook for another evening.

Emily and Spencer kicked off their boots, placing them neatly on the mat by the door before peeling their jackets off and hanging them on the back of her door. Emily wasn’t sure if she liked winter. Whenever her mother was stationed in the Middle East she yearned for snow, but now that she was experiencing the Nor’easter for the first time, the desert sounded like a good time.

“Well there goes my plan,” JJ said, blowing her hair out of her face with a puff of air.

Spencer flopped onto Penelope’s neatly-made bed, collapsing into the assortment of pink pillows while carefully keeping his take-away cup upright. Emily sat down next to JJ on her bed.

“Your plan?” Emily asked.

“Yeah,” JJ said, sounding a bit shy. “I had this whole plan to make up a blanket fort here for you, and I would surprise you with it when you walked in.’”

JJ gestured with her hands at the mess. Blankets and pillows were strewn about, and a bundle of fairy lights were laying in the middle of the floor.

“Then you came back early,” JJ concluded. “Spence, I thought you’d keep her occupied longer!”

“You didn’t tell me that,” he replied. Spencer looked quizzically at her, shrugged, then took another sip of his coffee.

“I just wanted us to have a cute date night,” JJ admitted. “I know you’re so stressed, and you deserve a break.”

Emily grabbed her girlfriend’s moving hands and held them in her own. She felt overwhelmed. JJ was so… thoughtful. Caring. Attentive. So many things that were absolutely foreign to Emily. No one had ever tried to impress her like this.

“It’s okay,” Emily said. “We don’t need anything special to have a cute date night. You’re cute enough.”

JJ gave Emily a goofy smile in response.

“Okay,” JJ said. “If you say so.”

“You’re building a blanket fort?” Spencer asked. “I actually have some experience with blanket fort architecture.”

“You do?” JJ asked, raising her eyebrows skeptically.

“Of course,” he replied, seeming almost offended that she questioned him. “It sparked my interest in engineering. I wanted to overcome the problem of chair-tippage when it came to building the structure, so I devised a system of counter-weights that I found increased the structural integrity by 53%. My mom always told me that I could be an architect, but I thought the sciences better suited my intellect.”

“Oh?” Emily asked, genuinely interested. How would someone measure the structural integrity of a blanket fort?

“Actually, I have some blueprints. Let me grab them,” he said, standing up and making a move for the door.

“Of course you have blueprints,” JJ laughed.

“I should probably go feed Gideon, anyway. I’ll be right back!” Spencer said. Before closing the door behind him.

“Gideon?” Emily asked.

“His fish,” JJ said, “the one he won at the fair. It’s named after his professor, I think.”

She shrugged. The kid was weird, they tended to just accept that.

“I guess Spencer’s joining us on date night,” JJ said. “Sorry. I know you’re stressed and probably want to be studying, but I thought we’d order pizza and just have one night off. Just us. And Spencer.”

JJ planted a firm kiss on Emily’s lips, leaving her dazed and blushing.

“Relaxing sounds perfect,” Emily said, pulling her girlfriend closer to her. “I can’t believe it’s already exams. This semester has flown by. Soon it’ll be winter break, and I won’t get to see you.”

“I can’t imagine you not being right across the hall,” JJ said. “Who will give me kisses when I want them?”

JJ kissed Emily, sucking on Emily’s bottom lip slightly before pulling apart to look at her.

“I know you’re joking, but I hope you’re not kissing anybody else, no matter the circumstances.”

With that established, Emily pounced on her girlfriend, pushing her onto her bed and kissing her deeply. She intertwined her fingers in the blonde locks that were splayed out in a golden halo and breathed in deep, taking in the warm scent of the lilac candle that burnt on her night side table.

All her worries melted away at JJ’s touch. Emily’s brain was filled with the feeling of JJ’s lips on hers, with her lithe form beneath her. Exams, student politics and thoughts of home were wiped away, and her stress faded into background noise.

JJ’s pliant form writhed under Emily’s, her hands sneaking below Emily’s sweater and dancing over her back. They deepened the kiss until they were making out like teenagers in JJ’s dorm with the door still open a crack.

This was how Spencer, accompanied by Derek, found them when they pushed open the door with blanket fort blueprints and bags of potato chips in hand.

Spencer made a surprised noise, which made Emily aware of his return. She jumped up and pulled apart from JJ with a dark red blush gracing her cheeks.

“Woah there ladies,” Derek said with a laugh. “Keep it in your pants!”

“Guys! I was gone for five minutes!” Spencer whined.

Emily stood up awkwardly, stuffing her hands in her pockets as she watched JJ sit up and pat her hair down in a huff.

“Sorry,” Emily grumbled, not really meaning it. She would never be sorry for kissing JJ, but she was sorry for the awkwardness

“Pretty boy dragged me down the hall,” Derek said in explanation. He had Spencer’s rolled-up fort plans in his hand, and lightly smacked Emily’s head with it, making a comedic thwap noise as it made contact. “Hope you weren’t in the middle of something?”

“Only JJ’s legs,” Emily quipped to everyone’s surprise, even her own. JJ hit her jokingly and blushed.

“Hey!” Derek laughed, “Let’s keep this PG!”

“You called?” The voice of Penelope Garcia—PG if you will—rang out from the hallway, and within seconds JJ’s room was filled with just about all their friends standing around in a slightly awkward silence: JJ, Emily, Spencer and Derek were joined by Penelope with Hotch in tow.

The latter two of them had grown closer recently and walked into the room with white shopping bags with the walrus logo printed on the side, looking like they had just returned from out in the cold. Penelope and Hotch going thrifting together, that’s new! Emily thought to herself and decided to file the observation for later. The image of Hotch watching Penelope’s customary fashion show was enough to make her laugh under her breath.

“We’re building a blanket fort,” Spencer announced, changing the subject to the task at hand. “Are you guys helping?”

“Oh you know I will, boy genius,” Penelope said with an excited smile.

Emily looked over to her girlfriend. So much for date night.

———

Without much questioning about why they were building a blanket fort, the team got to work. In college, sometimes things just happened. Impromptu blanket forts were par the course. In their defense, any excuse to not spend the evening burying their heads in textbooks was a welcome reprieve.

It started with just a few blankets draped in the space between JJ and Penelope’s beds, but with Spencer’s instruction, a verifiable architectural marvel began to take shape.

While Emily knew that Penelope would be all gung ho for this sort of project, it was certainly amusing to see Hotch in his khakis and dress shirt crawling around on the floor like a child with the rest of them, tying off blankets and very seriously maneuvering the different parts of the structure.

Sheets were draped here and there, tied together to form ceilings and walls. Two chairs stolen from the common room, loaded with backpacks on the seat for support acted as the entrance to the fort.

While it was crawling space only, Emily had to note that there was a sense of awe when you emerged into the open space of the main fort-area. It was surprisingly big, fitting all six of them with ease. The key to the whole design was a curtain rod Hotch had stolen from the boys shower that lifted the roof up.

The design was strangely reminiscent of Baroque architecture, which she was sure was due to Spencer’s designs. This was a fact that Emily kept to herself. She always tried to rein in the ‘I lived abroad’ conversation points so her childhood could remain under minimal scrutiny.

Emily’s exhaustion transformed into excitement as she relished the time hanging out with her friends. Music played from Penelope’s computer as they worked, they began to work as a cohesive group, each member doing their share. It was nice to do something besides sit at her desk and obsess over memorizing facts and statistics, or figuring out the proper argumentation for an essay on a subject. Making sure that a bunch of blankets didn’t crash onto them was treated with the utmost seriousness, and the whole group was focused with intense concentration at their own tasks.

Spencer did, in fact, have literal sketches of blanket forts in his notebooks, but the details of which were fairly incomprehensible to her. While she believed that he did the math, his chicken scratch was just about indecipherable, and his drawing was little more than a few shapes on a page. Despite this, it was laid out on the centre of the dorm-room floor for them to reference.

At one point, as Emily stood on JJ’s wheely chair, she feared that the fort had all come crashing down as she lost her balance and grabbed at the blankets to stop her fall before tumbling onto Derek with a yelp.

“Sorry,” she muttered as she climbed back onto her feet and fought off the blanket that had wrapped her in a shroud.

She flinched as she realized she had ruined it all, a pit forming in her stomach. She looked at her friends in concern, but instead of yelling at her for her mistake, or shunning her for ruining it for the rest of them, they smiled at her and helped her up.

“It’s okay!” Spencer said cheerfully. “I know exactly how to reinforce that wall.”

“You okay, Emily?” Hotch asked, righting the wheely chair as JJ fretted over her.

“I’m good,” she answered, still confused as to why they weren’t mad at her.

Instead of making a big deal over the set back, they went back to work. Soon, the fort filled out and it returned to its former glory. Arguably, better than it was because they had draped fairy lights throughout the inside, making the space glow with a warm orange light.

Inside was filled with pillows and big enough for all of them to sit comfortably so it was a comfy lounge space. It was cozy and warm, the antithesis of the bitterly cold night air outside.

“You know what?” Hotch said. “This is a damned good fort, Reid.”

The group muttered in consensus. They all had piled into the space, and as the excitement wore off, Emily was wondering what happened next. What does one do in a blanket fort? She had vague memories of building one in her room, but she had just sat inside and read a book.

“I hear the RA’s storage room has a ton of board games,” Penelope said. “They pull them out for socials and stuff.”

“That’s all well and good, but we’re not asking Strauss to let us in,” Derek argued. “I still think she thinks we were responsible for that fire alarm last week. She’s been giving me the evil eye ever since.”

“Who said we had to tell her?” Emily said. “We could just… borrow… them…”

“I mean, they are for us to use, anyway.” JJ’s eyes had a mischievous look in them as she looked at Emily.

“That is true,” Hotch said, the scowl that was usually a fixture on his face turning to a smirk.

“That’s stealing, guys,” Spencer warned, as if they didn’t already know that.

“We’ll give them back,” Emily said with a shrug. “Come on!”

Penelope led the way to a dark wooden door on the main floor, it was labelled simply “Storage,” but the computer science student assured them that it was where the RA’s stored all of their supplies.

“It’s locked,” Penelope huffed.

“Do you have a bobby pin?” Emily asked her in a hushed voice. She wouldn’t have gotten this far if she hadn’t learned how to pick simple door locks. She had trouble with deadbolts but a simple latch she could probably do within a couple of minutes.

The blonde pulled a hot pink bobby pin out of her perfectly curled hair. Emily snapped it into two, bending one end into a longer L-shape. Sticking that into the bottom of the lock and holding it in place, she used the other side to feel for the pins that held the lock in place.

Emily could feel all eyes on her as she confidently knelt in front of the doorknob, the group keeping watch for her as she worked. No one questioned how or why Emily knew how to do this. She had her reasons.

This definitely broke all sorts of residence rules and if they got caught, they knew they’d get into shit, but no one seemed to care that much. They just wouldn’t get caught.

After a couple minutes, Emily’s hands began to sweat. What if she couldn’t do this anymore? She tried to centre herself. She had made it through infinitely more stressful situations in the past. It was the eyes of her friends on her that made her nervous. She was finally accepted by a group, and she desperately didn’t want to let them down.

Then, it clicked, and she was able to turn the brass knob easily. Emily made a noise of excitement, got to her feet and yanked the door open.

Instead of an empty storage closet, on the other side of the door was Erin Strauss, their RA, in a passionate embrace with David Rossi. Her shirt was unbuttoned and he was in the middle of sucking on her neck.

“Dave?!” Hotch called out, startling the couple.

Both groups stood stock-still, neither knowing what to say. While Emily had hid the bobby pins, she wasn’t sure who was in more trouble, them for breaking into the room or their RA for using the space for unofficial purposes.

The room was small and cramped, with a pile of poster board mostly obscuring the one small window that lit the space. Strauss had been hoisted onto the desk, her legs straddling the other student. Emily could see a shelf filled with the board games stacked on the left side of the room, but they seemed unimportant at the moment. While Emily had known about their illicit love affair, she had never expected to see it in action.

“Hey guys,” Rossi said after a moment, his unwavering confidence carrying on to this moment as he pulled apart from Strauss, who was furiously buttoning up her shirt and trying to sort herself out.

“What are you all doing in here?” she demanded, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. “This room’s meant for RA’s only.”

“Well,” Emily said, startled by her own audacity, “Dave isn’t an RA so…”

“We just came for some board games,” JJ said in her most diplomatic voice, despite clearly wanting to laugh at the situation, “then we’ll be off.”

“Take them and go,” the RA said in a strangled voice, her face beet-red and as she avoided eye contact like it was the plague.

Clearly not as embarrassed as Strauss, Rossi simply smirked, collected a few board games into his arms off of the shelf, then deposited them into Emily’s arms.

Realizing that given the circumstances, they couldn’t be picky with their choices, the stunned group thanked him then scurried away, back upstairs with their loot. The silence remained until they made it back to their floor, where they all burst into laughter.

“What on earth was that?!” Derek exclaimed.

“Rossi and Strauss,” Spencer muttered.

Emily and JJ made eye contact, remembering all those weeks ago when they had caught their friend emerging from the RA’s room down the hall in the middle of the night. They had known that Rossi and Strauss had hooked up that night, but had no idea that it was a whole relationship.

“I see it,” Hotch commented. “I mean, I don’t know your RA too well, but Rossi likes a woman with authority.”

Derek and Emily fake-gagged in an exaggerated manner at the comment.

“I think I need to bleach my eyeballs after that display,” Emily muttered.

“Ooo-kay!” JJ said, pointedly changing the subject. “It seems like we have most of the pieces to Clue… I think we could manage a game of that. We also have Scrabble, Yahtzee and Snakes and Ladders. Uh… also a pack of cards.”

“At least it’s not chess,” Emily said, thinking about her seemingly endless exam that afternoon.

“Agreed,” Spencer said.

“We do not have chess, no,” JJ said with a quizzical laugh.

———

After ordering a couple of pizzas to the dorm, they all settled in to play a board game. After a few minutes of debate, they decided to play Clue (or Cluedo as Emily continuously referred to it as). The board was laid out: it was vintage, with a teal and yellow colour scheme and some scuffs and rips showing its age. In their blanket fort, they were seated in a circle, all secretly looking at their Clue cards.

“Can I be Professor Plum?” Spencer asked before they had even gotten the pieces out of the box.

“Of course pretty boy,” Derek said, “I’ll take Mr. Green.”

“My sculpted god of thunder looks excellent in green,” Penelope flirted, choosing the white piece for herself.

“Did you know that in the original version of Clue, Mr Green was a Reverend, but they changed his name for American audience because they believed that the American public would object to a parson as a murder suspect?”

“Good thing you’re on our trivia team, Reid,” Hotch replied.

Emily was Miss Scarlet, of course, and was seated right next to JJ, who had chosen to portray Mrs. Peacock. Hotch claimed the remaining piece: Colonel Mustard.

Emily loved board games. Her nanny in France, who was a kindly elderly woman that Emily only knew as “Madame,” would play with her each Sunday after church. She has hazy memories from that time, but the warm glow of sunlight streaming into their Parisian apartment as she learned how to play Cluedo. Emily would always try to cheat, but knew better than to try to do so with her immensely observant girlfriend seated to her left, JJ’s hand resting casually on Emily’s thigh.

She looked at her cards and grinned. She had been dealt her own character, she noted, as Miss Scarlet’s name was printed in bold on the top of her first card. It felt weirdly validating to know that she herself was innocent. Also in her hands were the cards for the candlestick and pistol, as well as the observatory. She marked these off of her card and tried to gauge her opponents' reactions.

JJ was checking her phone with her cards face down, tracking the pizza’s arrival. Spencer was sprawled back, his long legs taking up way more room than was necessary, jotting down notes on some scrap paper. Presumably some statistics and probability for the possibilities of the cards that were sealed in the envelope in the centre of the board. Penelope smiled over at Derek and flirtatiously tried to sneak a peek at his hand.

After the initial rounds being dedicated to moving around the board, Emily finally made it into her first room: the lounge. There, she decided on her first suggestion.

“I suggest,” Emily said, in her most dramatic, formal voice, which was particularly suited to the role of Miss Scarlet, “that Mrs. Peacock committed this heinous crime in the Lounge with-” she hurriedly grabbed the candlestick, “the candlestick!”

She knew that it wasn’t the correct weapon, but using it would narrow it down to someone ruling out either JJ’s character or the lounge as the scene of the crime.

“Moi?!” JJ said, sounding almost offended at the accusation. “Your own girlfriend?!”

Emily grinned evilly at her, but internally she felt giddy. It was the first time she heard JJ use that word in front of their friends. JJ moved her piece into the Lounge. The others chuckled lightly at their antics.

“You have no alibi for the crime, Mrs. Peacock,” Emily said, “and I am merely making a suggestion.”

JJ glared at her, but said nothing. Emily turned to Derek, who was seated at her left.

“What do I do?” Derek asked, looking around the room, slightly confused.

“Do you have any of those cards?” Hotch asked.

“Yeah-” Derek said, moving to show his hand.

“No!” Penelope stopped him. “Just show one of your cards to Emily if you can prove her suggestion was wrong.”

He made an “o” with his mouth and sneakily showed Emily the Lounge card. Emily noted that, and that it was Derek’s card. Mrs. Peacock had yet to be proven innocent, and Emily gave JJ a suspicious glance.

She loved this game.

As the game progressed, Emily noted a few things about her opponents. A part of Emily was profiling her friends subconsciously, reading each of their strategies like a book.

Penelope always seemed to luck out on her dice rolls, covering a lot of terrain and gathering information like it was a cup of tea. But, she seemed to take it personally when someone accused Mrs. White of having killed Mr. Boddy and gasped every time someone made that suggestion.

Hotch seemed to take the game very seriously, and was at it like he was an actual police officer solving crime. But, it didn’t seem that he completely understood all of the rules, and definitely hadn’t played before, so he spent most of his turn grumbling as he skimmed the rule pamphlet.

Spencer, on the other hand, had memorized the rules, common strategies and probabilities of the different outcomes, so Hotch often looked over to him nervously as the boy wrote longhand equations in the notebook that he pulled out of his bag for the very occasion.

Derek also had never played before, and regularly made ‘accusations’ rather than ‘suggestions’ when he entered a room, frustrating Spencer to no end. But, Derek was smart and seemed to be picking it up as he went along. That was until he made the same suggestion twice in a row, both times making Hotch show him the exact same card. He asked Reid endless questions about specific rules, and more than once he made the boy double check in the rule book when Derek tried to make a rather unorthodox move.

JJ seemed to be the only one genuinely trying to have fun. She munched on the Cheetos that she stored in the bottom drawer of her night stand, and made conversation. Her strategy seemed to be exclusively focused on playing the game like it was the 1985 feature film Clue, playing the role of Mrs. Peacock with a fake accent and treating it like an actual murder-filled dinner party.

After a solid twenty minutes of gameplay, the pizza arrived. With minimal grumbling from Hotch, who was apparently on a roll, they took a break to eat.

“Did you see this?” Spencer said with his mouth full, lifting up the copy of the newspaper that he had grabbed earlier.

“Don’t get me started,” JJ grumbled and took a sip of her pop.

“What happened?” Hotch asked, the conversation piquing his interest.

Spencer explained—with the assistance of JJ who apparently knew one of the people involved through soccer—the entire scandal. Apparently, last year there had been very little interest in the leadership roles, so the President of the student government had simply waltzed into his role. He then hired all of his friends, his girlfriend, his roommate, and together they embezzled thousands of dollars of student funds.

“I can’t believe they’re getting away with this,” JJ muttered. “Is there no oversight?”

“It’s always the same,” Emily replied. “Who’s going to oversee them? The college? They’re corrupt too.”

“This sucks,” Derek said. “Wish someone good would run for government, for once.”

Emily shook her head in frustration. It all just reminded her of her childhood. Embezzlement, corruption and nepotism all were casual topics discussed over family dinner in her home. She had higher hopes for students her own age, would they not break the cycle? Or was it just a microcosm of the outside world?

“You should run Mr. Lawyer Man,” Penelope teased Hotch. “You could take any of these clowns.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow at her and went back to his pizza, brushing her off. Emily smiled at him. Penelope was right, he might actually do a good job if he set his mind to it.

The people that surrounded her now were nothing like her mother’s friends—or the kids she had been forced to hang out with when she was younger—they were genuinely kind, supportive, and seemed to like Emily for Emily. When she told them she was an ambassador’s daughter, they had been more concerned with the cool places that she had been able to travel to than whatever power she had. At college, Emily finally exhaled fully, slowly relaxing more and more into herself.

But, the topic of politics always set her on edge, especially since the semester was ending soon. Her mother had already begun to leave her voicemails about the galas, fundraisers and events that she was required to attend over Christmas break. She pushed thoughts of the future aside and focused on the warmth that surrounded her. With some music playing softly (a song that JJ liked by Vampire Weekend), the softness of blankets under her, and JJ leaning on her slightly as she ate her dinner, Emily felt at peace. She knew she could handle winter break, because she knew that these friends would be here when she came back.

After years of leaving a school midway through the year only to show up to some new boarding school or international school each time her mom was reassigned, Emily never had a chance to put down roots. But, with each bite of pizza, Emily felt herself becoming even more firmly rooted. Not to this place, but to these people as their lives became more entwined.

Once dinner was over, the game continued, and thoughts of politics left their minds. By then, Emily narrowed it down to the weapon (the candlestick), two rooms (the kitchen and the billiard room) and she was pretty sure that it was Colonel Mustard that had committed the crime.

She had a decision to make: walk all the way from the study to the billiard room, or risk being wrong by making an accusation. She was pretty sure both Hotch and Reid were on the right track, as the younger boy’s scribbling in his notebook had gotten even more intense and the older boy was beginning to look around suspiciously, as if the others were trying to read his notes.

She had pretty much ruled out Penelope, JJ and Derek as competitors, as the trio spent most of the time talking, and genuinely trying to have fun. Emily, Reid and Hotch were all way too into it, but Emily was competitive and this was her game. She wasn’t going to lose to Hotch, no way. Reid winning she could blame on his boy-genius nature, but Emily decided that Hotch was going down.

The two boys seemed to have come to the same conclusion, all eyeing each other across the board, the tension palatable between them as their competition became heated.

She nervously tried to move to the billiards room, deciding to play it safe. Better safe than disqualified. But, as soon as she made that decision, she regretted it as Spencer straightened up on his turn and said: “I’d like to make my accusation.”

“Write it down,” JJ prompted, as per the rules. He jotted it down in his paper.

Then, with bated breath, they watched as he grabbed the envelope out of the centre of the board, and read the cards. His face fell when he saw one of the cards, so he must have been wrong. He placed them back into their envelope and back onto the board.

“No dice?” Emily asked.

He shook his head.

“Statistically speaking that should have been right,” he grumbled. “My math was wrong.”

“Boy genius isn’t a good detective, huh?” Penelope mused.

A few turns went by, with Derek, Penelope, and JJ moving around the board or making suggestions.

Emily rolled the dice, making one square from a room. She sighed. She’d make a suggestion next round.

On Hotch’s next turn, he made an accusation, which he wrote down on a pink sticky note that Penelope had handed out when the game started. He checked the envelope.

Emily held her breath. She was sure he had it and that the game was over. She should just call it quits now. She went to bite her nails out of stress, but stopped herself, they were starting to get long and she wanted them to look nice.

A moment passed as Hotch compared his cards. After he saw the third card in the envelope, his expression revealed that was also wrong.

Boys, Emily thought. Always so overconfident.

She made a suggestion instead of risking it: “Miss Scarlet—er myself I guess— in the Billiards Room with the pistol.”

It was a gamble. If she was right, and the people who knew she had her own card and the pistol caught on, they would also know that it was the Billiard Room, because no one would be able to disprove her theory. If she was wrong, someone would have the card for that room, and she would know that the crime occured in the Kitchen.

The second seemed to be true, as Derek showed her his card with a small illustrated image of the Billiard Room on it. She was right. She knew what it was. But, she would have to wait until her next turn. She was going to win.

But, it was she who was overconfident, because as she was too busy preemptively celebrating her win, Derek casually made his accusation.

“Hey I’m right!” he exclaimed, holding up the cards and his own hot pink sticky note.

In his semi-cursive scrawl read: “Colonel Mustard, Candlestick, Kitchen.” These guesses matched the cards hidden in the envelope, and Emily’s own deduction that she planned to make on her own turn.

“You guys really thought I hadn’t played this game before?” Derek laughed. “I’ve got two sisters, board games were everything.”

“Were you hustling us, Morgan?” Spencer demanded.

He smirked.

“Should’ve put money on the outcome,” Derek said with a laugh. “I’d be rich.”

Emily threw her cards onto the table in defeat. JJ shot her an empathetic look, and Emily tried to stuff her frustration down to pat her friend on the back for the surprising win. He deserved it.

———

After the game concluded and the pizza had been completely eaten, the group parted ways, heading to bed, or for more midnight snacks or to finish up some studying, leaving JJ and Emily alone and to start? a game of Scrabble.

The board was ancient, and quite a few letters were missing, but with music droning on JJ’s laptop, and the soft fairy lights overhead, neither girl minded too much.

Emily looked at her letters: O, B, S, O, T, B, W and thought hard, rearranging the wooden pieces to try and formulate a word. After a long day of academia, and investing so heavily into the game of Clue, she probably had only one or two working brain cells and both were telling her to play the word ‘boobs.’

Her eyes flicked to her girlfriend, who looked absolutely gorgeous in the warm light. Her blonde hair almost glowed, and she had an adorable expression on her face. Emily couldn’t help but glance lower, thinking about the real world examples of her Scrabble word.

She played the word with a cheeky grin.

“‘Boobs,’ Emily?” JJ scolded. “Really?”

She sounded angry, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her cheeks and Emily could tell the girl found it funny.

“I can’t help it,” Emily said. “I haven’t thought of much else since last weekend.”

She raised and lowered her eyebrows in an exaggerated manner, making JJ laugh and kick her lightly in protest.

JJ then played the word ‘throw,’ using the ‘o’ from ‘boobs’ to form her word, earning her thirteen points.

“I don’t think you can throw boobs, babe,” Emily said. “They’re usually attached.”

JJ rolled her eyes.

Emily made it her mission to find the funniest words possible, working extra hard (and missing out on some good points) in an effort to make JJ laugh. ‘Armpit,’ ‘meaty,’ ‘hoagie,’ ‘urine,’ ‘joint’ and her piece de resistance: ‘boner.’ All while JJ was playing incredibly normal, and often strategic words like ‘axis,’ ‘snow,’ ‘vain,’ ‘snag’ and ‘writings,’ hitting multiple double- and triple word scores on the way.

“This is fun,” Emily said, sneaking a handful of JJ’s Cheetos out of the family-sized bag next to the blonde, while she was distracted by playing her turn.

“I don’t understand how you’re winning,” JJ muttered.

Emily shrugged, “Guess I’m just a genius.”

“Reid? Is that you?” JJ joked. “Why are you disguised as my girlfriend?”

“Would Reid do this?” Emily said, leaning over toward her girlfriend and pressing kisses all over her face until she fell back. Then Emily straddled her, their lips meeting in a passionate embrace that left both girls panting.

“I would hope not!” JJ exclaimed with a laugh, making a face at the thought.

They laughed and went back to making out, with Emily careful not to disturb the game pieces. JJ sucked onto Emily’s bottom lip, making her weak in the knees and she struggled to support herself over JJ’s shorter frame at the motion.

“We should-” Emily tried to say between kisses, “finish the game.”

JJ kept deepening the kiss, going so far as to grab onto Emily’s butt to hold her in place on top of her.

“You’re trying to distract me,” Emily chided, “because I’m winning! I see right through your plot.”

She sat up and went back to her tiles before playing another funny word: ‘suck’ for twenty points. JJ grumbled,fiddling with her own tiles, as Emily collected a few out of the bag.

Emily was preening as she rearranged her own tiles and didn’t notice as JJ put down her word. When she went to play her next word (‘zap’) and only then did she see what word JJ played.

‘Love.’

It was there. Clear as day. Written vertically and connected to the word ‘snow,’ it was unmistakable. Emily looked at it for a long moment, trying to figure out what it could possibly mean that her girlfriend very intentionally played such a loaded word. Was it the only word that fit? Did she only mean that she loved the snow? Was she also reading into it?

Emily looked up, making eye contact with JJ. The blonde blushed and looked away, nervously fiddling with the necklace around her neck. Emily smiled faintly at the warmth that flooded through her, but alongside that, was the sharp pang of anxiety. Was she supposed to acknowledge that? Would that make it weird?

‘Zap’ didn’t feel appropriate when her girlfriend may or may not have confessed her love for her.

She played it anyway, deciding that making a big deal of it would just complicate matters. Besides, did she love JJ? She didn’t know. It was all so new. She liked JJ a lot. She definitely like-liked her in the traditional sense of the world. But Emily had never been in love before. She’d loved people before, Matthew for one, and her mother in a way, and she loved Derek like a brother. But being in love was a whole ‘nother ball game.

JJ won the game after playing ‘equinox’ for twenty two points near the end, beating any lead Emily had gained from her silly words. JJ deserved it in the end, as the blonde would sit and stare at her letters until they formed the most complex words that Emily had never even heard of. Emily’s eyes drooped and she was barely able to create three letter words by the end, while JJ was still surprising her with her vocabulary.

Emily shook JJ’s hand to congratulate her for the win. JJ grinned and kissed her.

Then, they looked around and realized two things: it was past one in the morning and Penelope hadn’t come back to the room yet and that all of the blankets that JJ owned were currently being used in the blanket fort.

“Can we sleep in my bed, tonight?” Emily asked. “I’ll help you clean up in the morning.”

JJ nodded but was in the middle of texting Penelope, wondering where on earth her roommate had wandered off to. Within a minute she got back to JJ saying: with derek! will explain tmrw!! 😘 🧚‍♀️ 😳

JJ showed Emily the message and both girls giggled. Emily saw that coming, but didn’t realize it would be a game of Clue that finally sealed the deal.

Exhausted but happy and relaxed after the game night, Emily and JJ tumbled into Emily’s bed and cuddled up together. Between JJ and Emily, the word ‘love’ was left unsaid that night, but Emily fell asleep that night feeling a new warmth in her chest.

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writerwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Could I Need You This Much

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: After Bucky is left at the alter he asks you, his childhood best friend, to go with him to Rome so the non-refundable honeymoon doesn’t go to waste. Wanting to support him through his breakup you decide to telework and tag along. There’s a little problem: You’ve always been oblivious about your own feelings until you’re head over heels.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: Modern!au, wedding day break-up, language, past injury mention, fluffy... chronically fluffy

A/N: *THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A ONE SHOT* This is my submission to the [belated] birthday challenge for @burninmatches and I chose to combine two prompts from the challenge for this fic. First, the soulmates trope. Second, the song “Head Over Heels” by Tears For Fears ; The beautiful dividers were made by @whimsicalrogers

Bucky was always a quiet person, but you’d never seen him this quiet. You had just stepped out of the bathroom in your cute little tux and mini-bowtie, arms splayed out wide making jazz hands. The proclaimed ‘tada’ fell silent on your ruby-painted lips the moment you saw his downcast gaze at his phone. “Buck? Hey, talk to me, what’s going on?”

Steve was checking to make sure things were good to go; the irony of that, he thought. You would be the one to find him like this. “She broke it off. No wedding.” Those were the only words the Army veteran could muster as his lungs felt like ice and his mind filled with water.

You fell to your knees in front of him, kicking off your shiny black heels and pulling his phone from his hand to throw it to the side. “So let’s go. Let’s get out of here. Steve will take care of the crowd. We’ll get Nat to handle the vendors, she’s intimidating enough to stop them from asking questions. You don’t need to be here. You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to. You tell me what to do and consider it done.”

This was what you did with the boys. Steve and Bucky were practically brothers and the three of you were the Musketeers of Brooklyn. You had weaseled into their lives because you had been the talker, the sidekick, the advice giver. Advice...you tried your best with this relationship and though you wouldn’t dare say you told him so, there had been so many bumps along the way. Even sweet Steve had drunkenly said Bucky could do better, about as harsh a judgement as Steve could ever muster. She had drunkenly complained that she hated how close the three of you were, you’d brushed it off. Bucky had been played, taken her back more times than you and Steve could count, and he’d put up with so much to make her happy. ‘At what cost’ was all you could manage to think.

There was a guilt in the pit of your stomach, a little voice in the back of your head, this was your fault. Maybe if you’d spoken up, but there wasn’t time to stay stuck in your own head as Bucky started to pull at his slicked back hair. Grabbing his hands in yours, detangling the mess he made, you pulled him up. “We’re getting out of here, simple as that. If you can’t tell me what to do, I’ll take care of this.”

When his rough hands pulled from yours it felt like he was about to protest, but his hands just went back to his face, blocking you from the sight of fresh tears. It was the first time you’d seen him cry from anything other than infectious laughter. Steve was the emotional one, Bucky was the glue, and you were... trading your heels in for the Chelsea boots you’d worn on your bike ride to the chapel. Grabbing your bag, you shoved in his wallet, phone, anything else that was small and his and put the bag on him. Pulling him to the exit you Gave him your helmet and grabbed Steve’s with little hesitation, a fleeting glance at Bucky’s car covered in hideous ‘just married’ decor. “Just hold on to me. It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone bigger than me on the back.”

He didn’t acknowledge you with words, just little tilts of his head, eyes downcast. Even when you started the motorcycle and patted the seat to get on, Bucky marched like a tin soldier to orders. You were grateful for the noise of your bike and the city, and the built in Bluetooth speakers and mic in your helmet so you could call Steve. With a promise to somehow get his helmet back to him and to make up for the shitstorm that he and Nat would have to handle, you hung up and crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and escaped to the one place you knew no one would look for you except possibly Steve, Plumb Beach.

Hand in hand you two walked onto the small beach and you only let go to dig in the bag he still wore for the clothes you’d worn to the chapel to throw them on the sand for the pair of you to have a seat. His eyes searched far and wide, still staying off of you, so to give him some space, you emailed your boss that the three days off next week, your personal time to recover from the partying and subsequent clean up, should just be changed to a full week of telework. With no complaints outside of a joke that you really needed a real vacation, you tucked your phone into your pocket and really looked at Bucky. The sun on his tanned skin, face clean shaven - a rare occurrence, and the lines on his face from years of stress and pain or chronic infectious laughter. As your lips parted to try and weasel the latter out of him, his gentle voice came out in a raspy whisper, “I was looking forward to the trip to Italy. I thought it was going to be a fresh start for us, a new chapter.”

You draped your arm over his shoulder, pulling him close and his chin rested on your shoulder. “Bucky, I know that you know those two things aren’t the same.” Running your fingers through his hair to comfort him like he’d comforted you through your own fair share of breakups, you let out a sigh, “But today it’s okay to let her burn in your lungs and your heart and your head... It’s okay to scream it out or cry. Whatever it takes to not let this moment consume you because you’re going to come out on top. You’re not alone, not for a second.”

When he pulled away you thought he was pulling away for space or going to give some grandiose speech about how you didn’t understand and how he was alone. Instead he was reaching for your hand, pulling you up and, with three squeezes and the corner of his lips you knew what was coming. The quiet countdown, the setting sun, a throwback to junior prom and your ex making out with your nemesis under the bleachers. “One.” You started, eyes on him.

“Two.” His bright blue bloodshot eyes on you.

“Three.” Two pairs of lungs in unison soon empty of air as they let out billowing calls to nowhere.

Two tuxedoed buffoons getting odd looks, Bucky pulling you into his side, and no sound but the waves whispering as you let him process. “Let’s get out of here.”

While you were relieved he was finally stringing along more than a word or two you weren’t sure what he meant. It was the way his eyes seemed to light up like he was having a ‘eureka’ moment. “The last time you looked at me like that you decided we had to take a cross-country road trip before you and Steve left for bootcamp.”

Bucky tugged you back to the bike, “And wasn’t that exactly what we needed?”

Despite your laughter, the knowing that the trip was what you all needed to cope with the gang breaking up, you still recalled how the boys barely made it to the bus on time. Passing him Steve’s helmet with a nod, Bucky pulled it on without shaking hands or hesitation. “Where are we going?”

“My suitcase is in my car. Can you get off work?” You didn’t need to see his expression to know there was a puppy dog look of optimism on his face.

“I actually already did.” As you mounted your bike and Bucky flipped up the visor and you were surprised to see him looking so surprised. “What?” Clearing your throat and flipping your own visor down he got on and you hollered over the engine. “Steve has your keys, too. I’ll tell him to drive it over to you, you can have your suitcase, he can have his helmet. Now where are we going while we wait on him?”

“Yours, knucklehead. You’ve got a bag to pack.”

It wasn’t all that surprising that Steve couldn’t leave on a whim. His job as an art therapist for veterans wasn’t exactly something he put before a social life. As Bucky pulled luggage from the trunk Steve pulled you to the side, “I’m only letting him go on this trip because you’re going. If anything happens I’ll find a way to get there. I’m sorry I...”

Pressing your fingers to his lips you hushed him. “I may not be a therapist, but you two are my best friends. I’m not going to let him lock himself in a bathroom, throw himself off a gondola, or...”

Steve interrupted you with side-holding laughter, “Oh dear, you might need this more than him you uncultured swine. There are no gondolas in Rome.”

“No gondolas in Rome? Well fuck, we better pick a new place to run off to.” Bucky half-smiled as he leaned his head into the door. “We are still putting my non-refundable honeymoon to good use, aren’t we?”

Punching Steve in the arm, you called back at the blonde, “See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!”

Bucky stayed, talking to Steve for more than a couple of minutes while you flipped through work emails and kept your boss in the loop on the telework situation. All the while, only catching the tone of concern in Steve’s voice, not the words. Before you knew it you were on your way, body scans and bag checks, and with Bucky’s eyes averted you flipped through social media to see if it was safe to let him near his own phone. It wasn’t, at least not yet. It wasn’t just that she had changed her Facebook relationship status or that she deleted the countless pictures chronicling their relationship, it was that she had unfriended every person around Bucky that had put up with her for his own happiness. It made you wonder what happened, but more than that, it made you glad to put an ocean between her and your fists.

The non-stop flight was just shy of nine hours, the ride to the hotel in the heart of the city was another thirty, and as you walked up to the counter to check in Bucky, who managed to restlessly nod off on your shoulder, looked like he was about to collapse. “We’re here to check in, the reservation is under James Barnes.”

It was obvious that they were processing the English, disrupted from their lunch, “Ah, che bravissimo, the American newlyweds! Evviva gli sposi!”

What felt like nine in the morning on no sleep for you was clearly better than Bucky’s experience. So you nodded, thanked them, and passed over the passport and other items clutched in his hand. Once it was all back in your hands with room keys you pulled him along to the elevator and, once again, he surprised you. “Are you okay?”

Your eyebrows furrowed and you took his hand. “Despite what some people think, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a Mrs. Barnes.” Sticking out your tongue to lighten the mood, you left him in the elevator as you pulled your luggage along, “C’mon Athos!” The childhood nickname seemed to draw him from his thoughts and his long legs quickly caught up to you. “Want me to go in first and chuck any romantic decor?”

“Fuck, I didn’t even think about that.” He swallowed at the cotton in his mouth. “No, it’s fine. Hell, maybe there’s chocolate on the pillows.”

Wiggling your eyebrows you slipped the keycard in and pushed the door open, but just as you were about to say ‘dibs’ you saw the room. Rose petals trailed along the floor and the room had the soft scent of clean cotton and gardenias. Faux candles of an array of heights and sizes flickered on every surface. The bathroom door sat open and the motion sensor light kicked on to brighten up a jacuzzi tub and oversized shower with a bench. The small area to sit in had a door out to the balcony with a postcard worthy view and just as you were about to rush out there you saw the bed- the one massive bed and the welcome basket and flowers in the center of a massive heart of petals. “Cliché, but I think we have the chocolate covered.”

“I’ll take the couch.” He was so quick, so matter of fact about it that it almost threw you for a loop and you nearly agreed.

“We could sleep on this bed with all of this on it and still never brush elbows. Besides, we’ve shared a bed before.”

While all of that was true and you didn’t think much of it as you kicked off your shoes and left your bags by the door, something was twisting in the pit of Bucky’s stomach. The fact was that it had always been you, him, and Steve; even on the impromptu road trip Steve was always there. The boundaries had always been crystal clear and now you both were single, had careers, grown up, and now, after everything, there were secrets. “Are you sure?”

“Yup. Go and shower first, Army boy. If I do there won’t be any hot water left for you.” As soon as he was in the bathroom you pulled out your laptop, checking in with Natasha about the vendors and letting Steve know you had made it safe. With it being so early in the morning you weren’t surprised by the lack of a response and set out to clean up the room, all the while keeping an ear open for Bucky needing you. Just as you were about to check on him, your toiletry bag and a change of clothes tucked under your arm, you shrieked at the door opening in front of you. Your fist instinctively punched straight ahead into his stomach and set him coughing. “Shit! Sorry.” As soon as you put your hand on his damp shoulder you saw the familiar intense scarring that he usually kept hidden under a henley or leather jacket. Your thumb brushed over the remnants of the wound that had discharged him from the military before you took a step back, “Okay Barnes, I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“It’s my ego. You hit me in my ego.” He mocked as he straightened up. “Steve can never know this happened.”

Sticking your tongue out you walked into the bathroom and shut the door, a long slow exhale passing your lips. You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath and that might have surprised you if it wasn’t for the flushed look on your face in the mirror. It wasn’t blush- or so you swore.

On the other side of the door, Bucky quickly changed and moved around the room setting a few dozen of the candles back on to turn off the harsher light of the bedroom lamps. His eyes stayed on the bathroom door the entire time while his mouth moved from chewing the inside of his cheek to chewing on his bottom lip. Once he’d finally stopped pacing around the room and decided to take a seat the bathroom door opened and you stepped out in leggings and a long t-shirt. Your eyes were on the floor, hair wrapped in a towel so that it didn’t drip onto your clothes. Bucky’s blue eyes stayed glued on the shirt clinging to the damp skin beneath. “I remember when you stole that shirt.”

“Huh?” Looking down you couldn’t help but snort, “Don’t call me out!”

“You always do that,” The corner of his mouth turned up, in a near smile and it was a relief for both of them to feel the tiniest lightening of the mood, a baby-step to normalcy.

“Do what?” Feigning innocence and flopping onto the bed, you reached for a pillow, causing the old shirt to slink up your curves.

“Buy a present that is actually meant for you and, under dubious circumstances at best, you somehow reclaim that gift.” Once the pillow was under your head, Bucky delicately pulled the shirt down and laid down next to you, rolling onto his side.

“I’m pretty sure I had this shirt first and it’s mine, but I knew you liked it so much that I got you the same one for your birthday.” You looked down at his hand, lingering on your stomach, certain it was just that he needed physical comfort, so you placed yours on top.

“Then at Steve’s twenty-first birthday co-Independence Day party you got so trashed you ruined yours. This is my shirt.”

“James Buchanan Barnes! Are you calling me a liar? Are you trying to steal the shirt off of my back?” You laughed so hard the bed shook and just as you settled down, sides aching, his rough fingertips tickled at the bottom of your soft tummy, right at the hem of your leggings and the shirt. “Even if it was yours, and I’m most certainly not saying it is, it’s molded to my thicc-ness now and it’ll never fit you again, Army Boy!”

“My whole government name, is it?” He smiled, really smiled, that glowing dopey ear to ear smile that was contagious. It had nearly been twenty-four hours since you’d seen him smile and somehow you were all to aware of an ache in your bones of missing his naturally contagious light. But that wasn’t what caught you off guard, it was the fact that this smile hadn’t been seen in years and the realization was something akin to going through withdrawals.

The choked laugh and the smile that found your own lips was hesitant, reserved, and held between your teeth. Against your better judgement you reached over and brushed your thumb through the lines on his face. “Does it hurt smiling like that after you haven’t in years.”

The words were whispered, Bucky’s sad blue eyes looked up from the threads of the comforter he was picking at and locked dead on you. When your lips parted to apologize, he leaned in close and pressed his lips to your forehead. “New chapter, remember?” Though your breath hitched in your throat, he pulled away from you, “I guess we’ll have to get used to it.”

“I could get used to it.” You half-yawned. “If we take a nap we might be able to reset ourself and waste less time jet lagged.”

“Background noise of tv, music, or--”

“City!” You finished with an excited smile, already sliding off the bed to open the balcony’s door and let in the sounds of Rome. You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you and thought little more of it than his own curiosity about what the pair of you were going to miss during your quick snooze. By the time you turned around his eyes were closed and he’d jumbled up all of the blankets and pillows to get comfortable. “Too fluffy?”

“Spend years in the desert and try and sleep with all of that.”

Walking up the massive bed on your hands and knees, your tired body couldn’t be bothered to shove it all over the edge. He watched you attempt at climbing under the blankets, curious about why you weren’t looking up to see where you were going. It left you brushing against Bucky and he pulled you to his chest in one of his classic bear hugs. “Careful or you’ll wish you were back in the desert or did you forget that I’m a human space heater?”

“Nah, you missed my big hugs.” The steady cadence of his pulse was already lulling you to sleep. If that wasn’t enough, he pulled the towel off of your head and ran his fingers through your hair. It was an intoxicating sort of magic, a little trick he’d learned comforting his sisters and maybe when you woke up you’d feel played because you should have been comforting him, but the stars behind your lids drew you to a comfortable sleep.

As the two of you zipped around the city on your matching pistachio colored Vespas, Bucky knew he’d really started a new chapter. He could still perfectly picture the confusion on your face when you shocked him by agreeing to set work aside for a sunset zip to hunt down the best gelato. He couldn’t remember the last time you’d looked at him and not known what he was thinking. It was impossible for him to recall the last time anyone had set work aside to live a little, even with Steve. Though Bucky had chalked it up to ‘growing up’ a larger part of him wondered if you wold have always said yes or if there was a bigger reason you would’ve said no- like his ex. The fact was that the ex never even let you ask. That chapter felt a lot like the words ‘missing you’. This one felt a lot like three.

Somehow in the last two days in Italy, tossing coins in fountains, eating copious amounts of bread at every meal, sipping on proper espresso to counteract jet lag; he hadn’t cried or settled into some desperate need to get over his ex by getting under someone else. Bucky found himself delighting in the little things and he realized it was just because you were.

Wine tasted better after watching you bring it to you lips with a hum. Its color was the perfect balance of red and purple as it stained your lips. Then, when you slid it across for him to try it was the melodic sound of your laughter and pleading that convinced him to try something new from his staunchly beer and bourbon alcohol repertoire.

The mere mention of ice cream was no longer summoning the memory of that time Steve started a scrap that he had to end and resulted in you buying the three of them ice creams to cool off in the humid New York summer heat. You’d scolded the both of them so lovingly hard that yours melted entirely over fingers before your first lick. No, it was those fingers now covered in strawberry, sticky-sweet, and the almost inaudible gasp on you lips when Bucky leaned in and licked it off. He swore it was just for a stolen taste, but in the back of his mind he knew it wasn’t.

The laugh that came with the silly gesture, the familiar warmth of it like a hug to him, was more to you. While you swore it because he was being uncharacteristically childish. “I want to say I could get used to this ‘new chapter’ version of you because I love seeing you back to the Bucky that would protect Steve from his own stubbornness and me from my bad... taste, but if you’re going to make me laugh this much all the time... Can a person die of laughter? Is it going to be an oxygen deprivation type of death?” Laughing nervously, glad Steve wasn’t around to read you like a book. The embarrassment truly stemmed from how you loved the feeling of his stubble scratching your skin. Steve would’ve called you on it, that some how, something had just flipped like a switch and you were seeing the history of your friendship in a completely different way. The anxiety was starting to bubble as you question if he did too.

It felt so obvious to you, that the universe was laying the cards out on the table. You both shared silence and sound, space and somehow time- not just time in the sense of being in a new time zone or having shared a lifetime of memories, it was more and as you parked the rental Vespas at the shop and picked up your little bicycles, Bucky pulled you into the biggest hug. You didn’t ask him what it was for or hesitate to hug him back.

The sun was low, the street lamps turned on, and the only barrier between you two were the bikes. Hiding your smile in the curve of Bucky’s neck you could have sworn you heard him groan when you lips brushed the base of his neck at the collar of his t-shirt. “You know where we are?” He asked as he led you around the bike just a little, still holding you until he pulled on your hip to make you look out at the view. A hefty amount of stairs led down deeper into the plaza, flanked by older peach and dusty rose buildings. The architecture was beautiful, but you honestly had been enjoying the company on this trip more than the food and your love of history was always always something you didn’t flaunt. “It’s late and we’ve been dragging each other all over this city since we got here, so I’ll forgive you for not realizing just yet.”

Buzzing with excitement and curiosity he took your hand, lacing his hand in yours and taking you down the stairs a few at a time. “I’ve got little legs!” You laughed, true or not it was always hard to keep up with the soldier’s longer legs. The joke of protest was met with Bucky’s arms scooping you up. You were so tempted to protest, so tempted to tell him that the last thing he needed was to hurt his arm lugging you down some stairs in Rome. Then you saw his smile, the one that reached his eyes and the only thing you could say was, “The stairs! Stop looking at me and look at the stairs, Bucky!”

“I’d never drop you.” He said it so matter of factly and you believed it. “I really want to enjoy this so close your eyes.”

“Demanding.” You chuckled, no longer hiding that you loved it. “Fine... but only since you completely unnecessarily but oh so gallantly walked me down oh so many Roman stairs.”

With a crinkle of your nose you shut your eyes and he set you down shortly thereafter. You swallowed at the dryness in you mouth when his hands found yours again almost immediately. Bucky’s breath shook in your ear, surely from the effort of lugging you around, you swore, biting into your bottom lip waiting for the cue to open your eyes. But he waited, his hands still holding yours and then enveloping you in a tight hug, his chest pressed to your back, his chin over your shoulder. “Okay, now you can open them.”

You didn’t have to read the placard to know Keat’s home. When Bucky and Steve were away for boot camp you’d written them every day, jokingly telling the boys to not become blockheads and to keep each other safe. While the letters were fairly similar, you knew Steve was already hiding doodles on the envelopes, he had ‘his thing’. So you sent Bucky poetry, Keats being one of your favorites. How you’d forgotten the stairs was beyond you, but you weren’t breathing, your eyes stung with happy tears. This was a bucket list visit and your chin quivered as you recalled the emotions of reading you first poem and the worry about losing the boys forever. You’d made yourself sick worrying Bucky would do something stupid to save Steve.

“Hey, pretty girl, this was supposed to make you smile!” Bucky squeezed you in that hug a little tighter and finally you took a breathe and the few tears dripped down your cheeks. “I thought you loved John Keats.” You could only managed a mildly frantic nod as you tried to collect yourself, a soft smile- one too similar to an apology found your lips. “This is you in celebrity shock?” A nudge to Bucky’s side made him laugh and you let go of his hands so you could spin around and hug him tightly back. “Ahhh there’s the reaction I was hoping for.”

“You never talked about the poems I sent you. I just assumed you didn’t want to tell me I was being lame.” Chewing the inside of your cheek you looked back at the building and then up at his bright blue eyes, which were only on you.

“I loved them. They got me through...” The arm, he didn’t have to say it and you squeezed his side to let him know that. What you hadn’t expected was the quiet man that kept his longer chatting to odd things he’d dug up on science threads on Reddit or political rants to make a confession in the middle of the Piazza di Spagna in words that you both shared years ago:

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

Was that what did it? Was that the moment you fell head over heals for Bucky Barnes? It felt irrelevant to label the ‘something happened’ moment when, under the stars and in the summer heat you pulled his mouth to yours and kissed him fearlessly. His hands pulled the two of you somehow ever closer and the only compromise to the separation of your soft lips to his was the gasp for air. The dopey smile on his face as he cupped your face gave you the opportunity to use your words. “I’m in love with you, too.”

Bucky’s fingers pressed gently into your soft skin and he pulled your mouth back to his. He didn’t ask when you knew, you didn’t ask him either, and it didn’t matter. His tongue caressed yours and you moaned into his mouth, your fingers tugging on his cloths, his hair, every inch of you pressing into him until you both were breathless messes again. “I’ll bring you back.”

“Promise?” You didn’t know if he meant to Italy or the Keats-Shelley Museum, but you were too distracted by his blown out pupils and how beautiful his lips looked wet and swollen from kissing you. The thought of that action alone was still dizzying.

“Yeah, I promise, but I have one more surprise.” As your eyebrows drew together in confusion his hands pulled away from your face, where they had been resting gently on your neck, brushing your jaw, leaving a sting of heat in their wake. He took your hands in his and he got down on one knee. Your mouth fell open and you picked it up quickly, but your head lulled to the side like a confused puppy as your heart raced so loudly in your chest that you were certain Bucky would feel the vibrations in your fingertips. “Will you marry me? Steve always knew I wanted this. He swore up and down that if I just took five minutes to think about what you meant to me romantically that I would realize every single person I’d been with never compared to the girl who climbed in my sandbox. I wouldn’t have been left at the alter if I would have realized the only person I wanted at my side was the person I wanted at my side in sickness and in health, good times and bad, was always already there. Yes, you and Steve are my best friends, but I should have realized sooner why there were differences between my friendships with the two of you.”

“Everyone saw it but the two of us.” You looked down at Bucky, his hands may not have held a ring, but it was perfect and it was very much the two of you in your own world. “I guess I need to call Steve to come to Rome after all.”

As if he was reading your mind, he knew what you meant, you weren’t leaving this city without marrying him. Pulling out your phone, you tapped the little phone icon and in one swoop Bucky was picking you up and spinning you around, his lips kissing every inch of skin they could find and you laughed breathlessly. Steve answered on the second ring but the pair of you laughing muffled his greeting. You pulled the phone from your face and saw the minutes counting and you hushed Bucky with a smile and gentle little thwack to his peck. “So he told you?” Steve asked, tone anxious.

“Told me what?” Your eyebrows drew together and Bucky set you down, leaning in to listen to the call.

“He told you she called it off because he wanted to marry you.” Bucky swallowed, knowing that Steve was leaving out the key detail that after somehow getting his confiscated phone back he had drunk texted the Bride-not-to-be and told her as much the night before the wedding. “Is it finally happening?”

“Yeah,” You both said in unison, smiling despite the circumstances.

“Well, only if you can get out here. Someone has to give me away and seeing as how he won’t stand there without you and I won’t marry him without your blessing, it’s a bit of a co-dependent situation.” Bucky muffled his laugh, squeezing your hand before kissing your temple. “What do you say, Aramis?”

Steve let out a long sigh, but you could hear his keys jingling like he was already headed for his car. “Far be it from me to delay the inevitable. I’m surprised you two didn’t take care of this before we enlisted. Y’now, speaking of the three musketeers, does the impulsivity of this make him a D’Artagnan?”

Bucky let out a whistle and jokingly pumped his arm in victorious celebration. “You’ve done it now, Steve. Straight to his head.”

“I have to torture you a little for making me live through a couple of decades of angst and oblivion.”

You could practically hear the approving smile, “See you soon, stupid.”

Unceremoniously ending the call, you leapt into Bucky’s arms and picked up kissing him, drizzling in a lifetime’s worth of unsaid I love yous. Through laughing and smiling, fingers tangled in hair and soft curves pressed to the cold stone wall of the museum, you drank in Rome and Bucky. Each kiss was a vow to no longer letting a moment pass you two by.

All Tags: @tom-hlover

Bucky Tags: @caplanbuckybarnes

#fic: bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #writingmatches #writer: writerwrites #bucky x reader #//listen I really love them and so I may do head canons or something for these two

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sunkissedpages · 3 years ago

Text

instead of you [part sixteen]

pairing: [best friend’s brother] tom holland x college!reader

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut

word count: 3.1k

series masterlist

smut warnings: female masturbation, porn, mentions of choking

“‘We’? Like, you and me?” you clarified, hoping you had misunderstood.

“Yeah, it’ll only take a second,” Tom assured you.

You looked to Sam for help, but he looked just as lost as you were. “I’ll go try and find a microwave to heat up your leftovers,” he offered and took the container back from you. “I’ll be right back, babe.”

“Okay...”

You watched him shrug past both you and Tom and then disappear into the hallway with a sinking feeling in your chest, knowing he trusted you completely. He had no reason not to, and that’s what consumed you.

“What do you want?” you muttered, reluctantly stepping to the side to let Tom in.

He didn’t answer right away, giving you a moment to collect yourself. His eyes followed you around the room as you found your pants and tugged them on. He averted his gaze when he realized you were getting dressed mumbling a “sorry” as he trained his eyes on the carpet.

You sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain why he was there.

“You weren’t there today,” was all he said.

You blinked. “Yeah?”

“Was it because of me?”

“I wasn’t feeling well.”

Tom’s tongue poked at the inside of his cheek. “Is that all?”

“I had a lot to drink last night,” you reminded him.

“So you don’t remember anything?”

“I never said that.”

“So it was because of me?”

“I never said that either.” You sighed. “If you’re here to ask me if I told him you kissed me, I didn’t. And you could’ve just texted me to ask.”

“No that’s not why- I don’t have your number anyway.”

“I’m in the trip group chat with your family.”

“Oh, right. I’ll save it to my contacts.”

The tension in the room was palpable. It felt like all of the air had been sucked out and replaced with thick, suffocating silence. Arbitrarily, you wondered who the most famous person in his phone was. He was a Marvel actor, he probably had Simu Liu’s number, right? Who would your contact information be sitting in between? Maybe if you ever forgave him for what he did you could ask him.

“Is something funny?” The firmness of Tom’s voice cut through your train of thought and brought you back to the present. “Why are you smiling?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you said despondently. “Sam’s gonna be back soon. What did you want?”

“I just wanted to check up on you. Sam said you were sick.”

“Oh, so you wanted to see if I was lying?”

“No! God, why is it so hard to believe that I’m genuinely concerned about you?”

“Because last night you only seemed concerned about yourself.”

Tom pursed his lips and shoved his hands in his pockets, expelling a breath harshly. “Okay, I deserved that.”

You hummed in agreement, and let your eyes trail down the veins of his arms to where they disappeared into his pockets. It looked like he was fiddling with a coin or something small, but you couldn’t tell.

“Are you feeling better?” he said the last part through gritted teeth.

“Yes, thank you. This chat has helped considerably.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Well, lucky for you I’m not your problem to deal with. I'm Sam’s.”

He flexed his hand in his pocket and sighed. “Okay, well, I also wanted to apologize again for...” the word kiss seemed to die on his lips, poetic irony at its finest. “Being a dick.” Less poetic.

He finally fished his hand out of his pocket, holding a delicate piece of paper between his pointer and index fingers. He shifted uncomfortably where he was leaning against the dresser. “We went to the Academic Gallery today. I saw this in the gift shop and thought of you.” He presented you with what turned out to be a postcard, creased down the middle unevenly and smudged with pen ink.

You turned it over to look at the front first, admiring the artwork printed on it. It was a picture of Michelangelo’s David drawn in swoopy black lines and filled in with watercolor paint. Instead of a museum, the statue was in the middle of a garden, the centerpiece among dozens upon dozens of flowers.

“Sorry it’s folded,” he mumbled. “It wouldn’t fit in my pocket.”

You flipped it over to read the back only to see iou scribbled in his handwriting and nothing else. You turned it over again to see if you had missed something on the front, but there was nothing.

You looked up at him in confusion. “Iou?”

“Yeah, you know... I feel really bad about last night, and I don’t really know how to make it up to you so I’m letting you decide.”

“That’s not really how it works.”

“I think that this counts as an exception, since we’re kind of in uncharted territory.”

“Maybe for you. My boyfriend’s brothers make out with me all the time.”

“Fuck you, I didn’t make out with you- it was barely a peck.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “It was more than a peck.”

His cheeks were beginning to grow pink with what you couldn’t tell was either embarrassment or frustration. He cleared his throat awkwardly and changed the subject. “Anyway, if you ever need a favor or anything, just let me know. Think of it as me owing you one.”

“And do I have to give back the postcard when I cash in this ‘favor’?” you asked.

“No, you can keep it.”

“Good, because I was going to keep it anyway.”

He chuckled in spite of himself and shook his head. “Knew you’d like it.”

You flattened the card on your lap, smiling as you tried to iron out the little crease with your fingers.

“It’s pretty, thank you.”

Tom nodded in acknowledgement and straightened his posture. “I should get going. I just wanted to give you that, and see how you were doing since tomorrow’s a travel day and I know you get a little motion sick sometimes. I didn’t want... whatever you’d come down with to make it worse.”

How did he know that? Had Sam told him? You didn’t have time to ask because he was already walking towards the door. He paused when he reached it and turned his head towards you, hand already on the knob.

“Good night, y/n.”

“Good night, Tom.”

He opened the door and let himself out into the hallway, catching it suddenly on his foot as he saw Sam coming off the elevator. Tom held the door for Sam, since his hands were full, and then said goodnight to his brother as he finally left.

“Sorry, I couldn’t find the microwave,” he explained. “I had to ask the night manager and they heated it up in the break room for me.”

“Oh, Sam, you didn’t have to do that! I would’ve eaten it cold.”

“I know you would have, and that’s why I’m not letting you.” You gave him a look, which he ignored and handed you the container of food. “It’s carbonara, it’s one of the things Rome is known for. I couldn’t have you eating it lukewarm.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He ran a hand through his hair and took a seat next to you on the edge of the bed, pulling the ottoman closer to use it as a makeshift table. He watched as you tried the first bite, gauging your reaction. It was something he did whenever he cooked for you, especially if he was trying out a new recipe. He always needed your approval, and valued it above anybody else’s. But he hadn’t even made this, and as his eyes searched your face you found yourself wondering if they were looking for something else.

“Do you like it?”

You breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Your paranoia was starting to get the better of you. “It’s delicious,” you assured him. “I’m sad I missed dinner.”

“I’m sad you missed the whole day. Spending time with my family without you was hell.”

“Oh come on, it’s probably good that you got some real family time.”

“It’s real family time when you’re there. It felt like something was missing.”

You let a small smile slip past your lips despite the guilt that bubbled under the surface. You pushed it down and took another bite of the carbonara.

“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you? It can’t have all been bad. Tell me about the good stuff. I wanna hear that.”

Sam nodded and pushed his curls back again, grinning like he’d been caught. “Fine, maybe there were some okay moments.”

“And what were they?”

“We went to the Accademia Gallery today. I think you would have really liked it. They had a whole wing of instruments from some of the most famous inventors and musicians from history. They even had pianos from Bartolomeo Cristorfori, the inventor of the piano.”

“Wow,” you said, impressed. “I bet it was beautiful.”

“Of course if it was played, it wouldn’t sound anything like the piano we’re used to hearing today, but I’m sure it would still sound incredible.”

��Even if it hasn’t been tuned in a few hundred years?”

It was his turn to give you a look. “Yes, of course.”

“Sorry.”

“And they had a Strativerius, I don’t even want to know how valuable that thing is. It must cost millions. I took some pictures for you, but I know they won’t compare to the real thing. The lighting in museums never does the art justice.”

He handed his phone to you to scroll through. You swiped the photos, smiling whenever you came across a selfie he’d taken with a statue or painting. You reached the pictures of David and couldn’t help but zoom in on-

“Hey!” Sam yelped and grabbed his phone back from your hands.

“What!”

“Michelangelo would be so ashamed of you! I bet he’s rolling in his grave right now.”

“No way! If anyone appreciated good dick, it was Michelangelo.”

“Unbelievable.”

“If you don’t want me to judge these statue’s penises, don’t take pictures of them.”

“I didn’t take pictures of their penises! I took pictures of the whole statue- you’re zooming in on- you know what, nevermind. Arguing with you about this is pointless.”

“Smart boy.”

Sam rolled his eyes at you and put his phone in his back pocket. “Oh yeah, did Tom give you that postcard?”

“He told you about that?” you asked, suddenly panicking. Sam hadn’t said anything about last night so far, but maybe Tom had-

“Yeah, said he wanted to give you an iou for the limoncello last night.”

“What?”

“He said you paid the tab for it since he left his wallet in the room and that he wanted to pay you back for it.”

“Oh. Right.”

Another lie. You had very much not paid for the drinks last night. Tom had. And you knew he had to make an excuse for why he was buying his brother’s girlfriend something from the gift shop, but to add another lie to the ever-growing list made your throat burn with regret. You wouldn’t be able to keep the secret forever, and it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down around you.

In the morning you took the train from Rome to Naples, and then took a taxi to Sorrento to spend the last bit of your week in Italy by the sea. The atmosphere was much more relaxed than it had been in the busy cities of Rome and Florence. Even though there were still hordes of tourists, they were far more dispersed and less overbearing than you expected. The whole town seemed slowed down, like it had escaped the chokehold of time.

Sam’s parents took everyone out to lunch by the water and went over the schedule for the next day and a half.

“So, you’re on your own after dinner tonight, and then tomorrow morning we’re going to take the ferry to Capri for the day before our flight that night,” Nikki explained as she read through the spreadsheet on her phone.

“There’s an Irish pub down the street from our hotel,” Harry said. “Do you guys want to go after we eat tonight?”

“I’m down,” Sam agreed.

“Sounds good,” Tom chimed in.

The boys all looked at you for your answer, but you hesitated. Thinking about what happened the last time you drank didn’t make you eager to do it again, and you were already exhausted from travelling.

“I’ll pass.”

“What? Why?” Sam asked, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout.

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder with a sigh. “I’m tired, and I’d rather go somewhere Italian... since we’re in Italy.”

Harry shrugged. “Your loss.”

“We’ll have a shot in your honor, babe,” Sam said and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Please don’t. Something tells me you’ll have plenty to drink without an extra shot for me.”

“You know us so well.”

After dinner, you walked back to the hotel with the Hollands and said good night to Sam’s parents before parting ways to your separate rooms. Sam went with you to change into clothes for going out while you changed into pajamas.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

You nodded from where you were on the bed and yawned. Sam didn’t push any further, instead resolving to finish getting ready in silence. He paired his black jeans with a pair of converse and a dark green button up over a black t-shirt.

He turned to you for approval.

“Fake girlfriend approved?”

“Fake girlfriend approved,” you repeated and gave him a thumbs up.

“Okay, well I’m headed out,” he announced.

“Have fun! Don’t kiss any cute girls without me!”

It was something you always said to each other, but it sounded strange since it was supposed to be coming from his girlfriend. Sam just chuckled and blew you a kiss as he let himself out.

You heard him greet his brothers outside and then listened to their footsteps fade into the distance before pulling up an incognito window on your phone. It had been weeks since you’d been able to get off and it was killing you. The amount of stress this trip had given you only made it worse. You were wound so tight that you were sure you’d snap soon if you didn’t get some relief.

And you thought that maybe if you rubbed one out it might help you forget about... the confusing feelings you had for your best friend’s brother.

Seeing as you had the night to yourself, you figured you might as well take advantage of it. You copied a link from your notes app and pasted the url into the address bar. You didn’t feel like digging through your luggage to find your earbuds so you set the volume low enough for only you to hear.

The video started playing and you let your hand wander from your side up to your neck, brushing your hand lightly across your collarbone. You traced the curve of your breasts with a finger before squeezing one of them gently, feeling your nipple harden under your palm. You only had one hand to use since the other was holding your phone, but you made do.

The video was one of your favorites, one you found yourself watching at least once a week. It was one of the few videos of hetero couples you had favorited, and it started with the guy going down on the girl before fucking her...

You admired the muscles on the man’s back, watching intently as they flexed whenever he moved his head. The woman moaned, struggling to keep her legs open while he brought her closer and closer to orgasm.

You let your hand travel down further until it was sitting at the waistband of your pajama shorts. You knew you had a while before Sam would be back, but you were too impatient to wait. You propped your phone up on a pillow next to you to free your other hand as you started to play with your clit.

You pictured someone’s head in between your thighs, imagining them moaning against your pussy as they tasted you for the first time.

The man was taking his pants off now and lining himself up with his partner’s pussy. You tried to follow along, putting yourself in the moment with the couple. You gathered your own wetness on two of your fingers to lubricate them and slid them inside yourself, sighing in relief. Your entire body tensed as it accommodated to the stretch and you gave yourself a few beats before moving your fingers.

When you finally did, you felt yourself relax and sped up your pace so that it matched the actors on screen.

The angle the video was shot at hid the man’s face and you found yourself wondering what he looked like. If you squinted you could almost picture Tom- no. You tried to shake the thought from your mind, but it was already there.

Closing your eyes didn’t help either. You just imagined Tom’s fingers sliding in and out of you instead of your own, imagined the veins on his arms becoming more pronounced as he tightened his grip on your thigh.

“Fuck,” you cursed, knowing you should stop.

You were too close to stop now, and the pleasure was clouding your judgement. Suddenly the man brought his hand up to the girl’s throat and began to choke her, sending her hurtling into her own orgasm. You moaned accidentally, thinking about Tom’s hand around your throat. You curled your fingers up so that you were hitting your g-spot and whimpered pathetically.

This was wrong. This was bad. Not only were you fantasizing about your best friend’s brother, but you were confusing yourself even further.

You tried to fight it, at least that’s what you told yourself, but all you could hear were Tom’s moans echoing through the speaker. You pictured the way he’d look on top of you. His eyes would be so dark and he’d be smirking like the cocky asshole he was, chain hanging down in your face- just inviting you to take it into your mouth. It didn’t take long before you felt your orgasm begin to build. The video was still playing in the background, the man still chasing his own high and bringing his partner to her second orgasm, but you’d tuned it out by now. You came around your fingers thinking about Tom’s hips snapping into yours.

You were fucked.

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finalgirlbuffysummers · 4 years ago

Text

okay here it is. The rest is below the cut.

You would think that living on a Hellmouth made the nightmares worse. That every night would be screaming torment, but really, the hollow earth below never really prowled the dreams of its lesser citizens. Sure, the vampires and their teeth made appearances, dead classmates, the prickling curent of the wind, but waking up and knowing your neighbor heard the same bump in the night, knowing you survived to see the sun: that’s your bitter reward. Your comfort. It’s normal here, perched on the lip above the sharpest tooth.

No, the nightmares get worse ten years down the line. You’re out of highschool. You wake up alone. You wake up in a city that doesn't understand you, strangers who want to prescribe you medicine or tell you to mediate. So you end up alone, and you know alone is how they like you. You’re not sure if demons lurk in your new city. You thought once that a man standing on the corner lit his cigarette with massive purple claws, and you ran, your feet echoing like gunshots through the streets.

You never did learn to shoot a gun. You keep it in your nightstand drawer, but you know it wouldn't stop anything that's followed you out of California, out of Sunnydale. Once, you had a girlfriend. Rummaging around for a hair tie she discovered your small handgun, your safety blanket. She picked it up with her forefinger and her thumb, like it was filthy, like she didn't understand. “Why do you keep one of these awful things?” You couldn't answer her.

There's no girlfriend now. No one to make you coffee in the morning, no one to rub your back when you wake up with the feeling of teeth in your throat, tight grips on your ankles. She got tired of you, you poor, novel thing from the west.

So it's been weeks. So it's been grocery shopping at 3am, staring at the wilting vegetables, trying to stay out of your apartment. It's been staying longer at the museum you work at. No, you don’t work there just to read the old books for some kind of answer, you lie. At your highschool, there was a librarian who kept swords. You think about sending him an email: Hey, Mr. Giles, do you sleep at night? Does it get easier? Where might I acquire a sword such as yours? You draft hundreds before you realize you have no idea where to send them.

Your classmates don't keep in touch. there is no Facebook group, there is no reunion. There can’t be: Sunnydale is no more. It collapsed in itself. This should be comforting: but all you can think of is the beasts who crawled out of the pit, who remember the stink of your fear. Some folks stayed local, moving just a town over, the low thrum from the throat of hell enough the lull them into a stupid haze of breakfast, lunch, and getting eaten for dinner. The rest left. There are two hundred, give or take, Sunnydale immigrants scattered around the country, waking up alone. Waking up with a gun in their hands. Waking up dead. Your school newspaper had an obituary page. The boy who ran it wrote well, you thought, if cynical. Who the hell can blame him? Mr. Giles, you write. How come it didn't get us? Why are we still left? Mr. Giles, can you tell me if it's following us?

Last week a friend of a friend called you to say Dennis had died. Dennis… you remember now. He was the lead singer in that band, what was it? Something about Dingoes. You ask how he died. Sunnydale habits: You keep an ear out for the signs. The friend says, puncture wounds, on the neck. Police suspect it was inflicted by a barbeque fork. You drop the phone. You sharpen stakes, get splinters in your palms. Buy crucifixes by the dozen. More than once, you’ve slept in a church pew, under the painted ceiling. At work, your boss asks with some concern about the dark circles under your eyes. Long night, you say. You are starting to hate this city. In this city, there’s no hero.

Yes, you remember her. You know everyone else does, too. Buffy. One time, you saw her sparring with the librarian. No swords, just fists. Another time, she crawled out of your biology classroom window at the arrival of a dark haired girl who blew her kisses. One time, she slammed the computer science teacher against her own desk. Wacky shit. You knew, though. That Sunnydale High had to be the safest place in town because of her. She killed things, probably. Definitely. Then she left. Sometimes, there are whispers: “I heard Buffy’s in Rome.” “I heard she lives in a castle.” “I heard she’s dead.” God, please, no. After every long night, you pray she still lives. That she hasn't let her guard down. It's midnight. You draft another email. Mr. Giles. Buffy’s still alive, right? Please tell me she’s okay. People keep dying, Mr. Giles, and we’re not even in Sunnydale anymore. Can you tell me what happened there? Why can't I stop dreaming about the destroyed graves of everyone who died? Can you tell me anything at all? Mr. Giles, Dennis is dead. Oz’s friend. I hope Oz is alive, too. I hope you’re alive. I hope you’re well. Take care. This time, you call a colleague in London. You track down Gile’s email through a stroke of luck, and you hit send. You don’t hear back at all.

Three months later, you receive a response. You’d almost forgotten about the message you sent. Your museum opened a new and successful gallery You received a promotion. You’ve been successful. (Yes, you’re even sleeping more. Shh, don’t say it too loud). You open the email.

Greetings and glad to hear from you- it’s wonderful to hear from old students. I do hope you’re well.

There is no easy way to answer these emails. Yes, you're not the only one who’s managed to reach me. I won’t disclose my location, or hers, but I can tell you that Buffy is safe, and alive, and I think she’s happy. She’s been happy for a while. I’ll tell her you asked, she likes to know that old classmates are doing well. Yes, Oz is alive. He’s been in Tibet for some time, though we do hear from him on occasion. He heard about Denis’s passing. Truly a tragedy.

I’m quite pleased to hear you’ve entered museum studies: a deeply satisfying and enriching work. I hope that you are finding enough answers with it. I know that living on- Well, where we lived is disorienting, confusing. I’ll try to answer you as best I can.

The swords I kept in the library (do never tell anyone I did that) I received as a present form a collector friend, who is long dead and whose collection is long scattered. The rest of the blade I received from my employers. I do not recommend keeping swords in your home as a safety measure. Invest in a good lock. Invest in protection charms found in books of the dark arts. I checked: your museum has some in collection. (Since you are emailing me, I can only guess that you’ve accepted explanations beyond those from the metaphysical realm).

I do sleep at night, thank you for asking. It gets easier. I don’t say this just because I’ve put an ocean between myself and Sunnydale, no: time does heal. It helps that I’m with people who understand. It helps to name the thing in the dark. I’ll put you in contact with a colleague of mine- he’s in your museum network- and you can begin to build yourself a circle, if you wish.

There is no reason that we live, my friend. There's no reason why any of our friends died. Your life is not a curse, I can promise you that. This isn’t borrowed time.

If you were being followed it would have gotten you by now. I apologize for my bluntness.

Oh, the ageless question of what happened. All the time in the world and I couldn’t give you a satisfactory answer. What would I say? That vampires haunt the sunniest part of California? That hell is real, and it can speak? I believe you already know the outline. What I can comfort you on is that yes. There are people who find evil, and they stop it. They haven't gone away. But that's not the point: don’t worry about them. Sunnydale is gone, dear student. It’s up to you to name the thing in the dark, keep it at bay. Be watchful, be wise. The world is bigger than most people know.

Sincerely,

Rupert Giles

You close your laptop. You stretch your legs. You go into the bedroom to retrieve the handgun, then place it on the kitchen counter. You stare at it. It doesn't move. You stare. The apartment is still, like the city is holding it in its throat. The clock strikes 4 am. It’s just a clock. It's just a gun. In your apartment, you’re just you, waiting for the sun to rise.

END

#well. here it is #reviews appreciated :)#btvs #buffy summers #btvs fanfic #btvs fanfiction #buffy #rupert giles #giles #vampires #daniel osbourne #sunnydale

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battle-of-roses · 3 years ago

Text

When Rome Burns : Part 1

TW : Logan Roy's A+ Parenting, Manipulative Logan

By @your-gay-cousin-clover

---

With a certain hint of trepidation, Tom starts dressing himself to meet up with Shiv in downtown New York. The plan was pretty simple for the day: meet up with Shiv, find a gift for her father, put on his best Midwest honourable fellow personality and charm the pants of all her family. He stopped for a moment in the middle of his bedroom, standing there in his white button up, boxers and black socks, biting his lip on whether to take the gold ring, he’d picked out a week ago, to the party. After all this time he had spent with her, ever since their whirlwind romance in Hong Kong, he was sure that she was the one for him. His soulmate, the-one-who-he-got, his loml. The question was of when?

The party would be a good place to propose. Lavish surroundings, her entire family, and a pretty pricey ring to show his commitment to her. All eggs in your basket, he’d say if- when she said yes. And it would all be fine and okay. He starts to daydream for a moment, his dreams flying higher than just becoming Logan Roy’s son-in-law, maybe he’d join in the business himself. He would swoop in, take over one of the main branches of Royco, maybe ATN and continue the family business until he had his own billionaire kids à la Shiv.

Beep! Beep!

His fantasies suddenly dashed down into the floor. He jerks and reaches to the phone on the table to receive the call. It’s Shiv.

“Hey honeybee,” he says in a sweet-syrupy tone that he hoped conveyed his affections accordingly.

“Where are you?”

He immediately frowns. Her tone is clipped sharp, a razor’s edge, threatening him to not speak a word off their usual script.

“I’m … ahh… just getting dressed. Oh, oh, how formal is the even supposed to be? Do you think I could sneak in a tartan tie pattern to impress your Dad?” He tries to detract from her irritation.

“The fuck, Tom? Don’t be silly. Just wear whatever you want, you’re not a pre-schooler. It’s a formal event, but don’t wear anything weird or embarrassing.” Her words just kick up a latent anger in him that he press down as per usual. It’s alright, maybe it’s her job that’s got her stressed.

He tries another jovial voice for a size. “Ok, love-,” he continues, but there’s no Shiv on the other side of the call. Just him and the dial tone mocking him.

Right.

Nothing weird or embarrassing.

He drops the ring into a drawer of his bedside table and shuts it close.

—

The day goes in its own pace and Shiv makes a hasty apology about her signal getting dropped in the elevator. He waves it off, he always goes. There’s no use holding on a grudge with his future-wife-to-be, on silly things like one too many passive aggressive words and brushed off endearments. And so, here he is now. Standing in the middle of an opulent penthouse living room, chatting pleasantries with Marcia, hands sweaty as he tightens his grasp on the gilded box with the watch.

It had been pretty expensive to purchase on his own. He and Shiv were comfortable, sure. But they - no, he wasn’t Olympus rich like the Roys, America’s number one conservative messiah. He hopes it’s enough. Enough for a job at ATN, enough for Shiv, above all, enough for Logan.

His fucking future hung on a balance because of a little ticking metal machine.

Ding!

There. The elevator’s number stuck still on their current floor and his breathing picks up. Everyone else collects around the door to waiting as the metal door open, but he stands back, alone. For a split second, he’s swallowed up in all the gold, gild and glamour around him and he simply can’t breathe.

He sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of all this. No matter how brave, how much of a fucking asshole he pretends to be. He does not deserve to be here. He’s what? Got a few hundred thousand in his savings, while collectively in front of him stands the 3rd richest family in America. He just wants to bolt and never come back.

And in the same fleeting moment, the doubt hastily vaporises as Logan Roy himself steps into the view amidst loud yells of “Happy Birthday!”.

The moment he sees Logan, it’s something of oh, that echoes in his head. Like oh, he’s just an old man. And he indeed looks frazzled, startled by the sudden cheers. But he whispers something to Marcia, who takes his coat and hands it off to one of the numerous maids hurrying around the house.

And then he straightens up to face the crowd. There’s something in his eyes that makes Tom want to shrink back against the patterned wallpaper. Something fierce, something very calculating. He watches as Logan makes his way through the crowd of his children and nods absent-mindedly at everyone’s greetings.

“Shiv,” Logan says, turning to Shiv, his back to Tom “Where’s Wambsgans? I thought we invited him.”

Shiv’s expression falters for a second, perhaps debating whether her father’s joking or not. It’s clear, he’s not, when the beat of silence extends between them. She smiles back again, radiant. And gosh, Tom loves her so much.

“He’s behind you, Dad!”

Tom didn’t have much time to be mortified as Logan turned to him and stuck his hand out to shake. Awkwardly balancing his watch box on one hand, Tom tries to make grip firm and solid. Logan gives him two shakes and quickly removes his hand.

“Wambsgans, you’ve got a strong grip. Trying to break an old man’s hand, eh?”

Fuck. Of course, Logan Roy would be above all masculine handshaking bullshit that the Wall Street posers were really into. Logan knew he was the king of the world, didn’t need to prove it to any Tom-Dick-Harry on the street.

Logan’s already turning away from him, but Tom tries to swallow his foot down the throat trying not to make his first impression even worst. He lets out a laugh, but winces internally. Too braying, too harsh, too corny.

“Well, you’re not that weak, Mr Roy-“ He tries. He does. But Shiv already looks disappointed and Logan’s barely listening to him. His time to prove himself is running out.

Ding!

Everyone turns to look at the elevator again. Kendall Roy steps out the lift with his ex-wife and children in tow. He’s wearing that same black blue outfit combo, just like the one on Forbes, proudly declaring him as the HEIR WITH THE FLAIR. Tom has read Kendall’s entire wikipedia enough times to know that the stress marks and the lack of the photogenic smile was simply because of his age.

Drugs - Divorce - Demotion.

Yet like every American hero billionaire, Kendall got the second chance that could only be afforded to the rich and now, most probably, he was going to the Successor to the entire media conglomerate. Even then, Tom wouldn’t say that he exactly envies the other man.

“Ken!” Logan’s voice somehow sounds surprised as well as disappointed. “I didn’t think you’d come. Did we close the Vaulter deal?”

Kendall’s stance becomes a bit wooden as he reaches down to accept his father’s embrace. His ex turns to Marcia and hands off a wrapped box with a pleasant smile. The kids run off with Grace’s kid and Kendall stands there looking a bit unsettled as he answers “oh, no, no Dad. They’re still hammering out the details. I took a break to wish you on your birthday. Not sure how many more there might be.” The conversation mills a bit around the two, everyone leans in a bit to hear.

“You did?” Logan repeats with furrowed brows. “Well, where’s your cousin? I thought he’d rather come than you.”

Kendall looks taken aback for a moment. Everyone tries another round of conversation, but Tom simply nods along to other’s words as he tries to figure out information about the cousin. A cousin? Shiv’s never mentioned a cousin being involved in … well, anything.

“Greg?” Kendall asks, his voice uncertain. Logan looks him in the eye and shares a sardonic grin. “Yes, Greg. Unless Marianne happened to suddenly stop by. What’s he doing? Wasn’t he with you this morning?”

Kendall seems to shrink into himself under his father’s gaze. “Greg’s..” he starts and stops for a moment. “Greg’s with the team in the building. He wanted to finish the deal before joining the party.”

“Shame.” Logan says, “But good for him, as soon as we wrap up this deal the better. Anyway, kids, can I talk to you alone for a moment? I just want you to sign something.”

All of them exchange glances with each other, the meaning of which Tom is too novel to understand. All of them quietly follow in the steps of their father. The rest of them stare.

“So,” Marcia says, clapping her hands together. The sound echoes in the eerie silence devoid of birthday wishes. “Let’s get started on lunch shall we?”

—

On the way to the “game” which was highly requested in a cult-like chanting, Tom abruptly turns to Shiv and asks “I didn’t know you had cousin working at Waystar?”

She ceases typing on her phone and looks up with pinched brows, seemingly in thought. Tom watches the city go by in a blur from Shiv’s side of the window and waits. “

“Oh,” She says “You mean Greg? Yeah, he’s like my second cousin. Uncle Ewan’s only grandson, although I don’t think he’s seen them since he was ten? He’s chief strategist at Royco. You’ll see him soon enough when you join.”

A when, not an if. And immediately, Tom’s heart lifts. He fights a grin on his face and catches Shiv’s eye. She smiles a bit, the stress from her face falling away for a second and turns back to her phone.

All was well.

—

All was not well.

Tom kind of looks like an idiot. At least in his own head, he’s been lugging around the watch box the entire evening. Right now, he’s standing behind Logan and Shiv like an obedient puppy waiting for Shiv to call upon him. The rest of the family is setting up the baseball game while the groundskeepers looking on fascinated.

Tom pretty much feels like them.

“So, about Tom,” Shiv says and Logan seems to be considering her words. Tom’s ears pick up, his hands turn sweaty again and he fidgets with the box in his hands. He imagines he can hear the watch tick inside like a time bomb.

“Hmm…” Logan replies, peering out into the distance. Kendall’s already gone into the wind, about half-an-hour ago, his ear glued to the phone talking to “Greg”. Tom waits for that syllable to end and simply waits.

“What do you think about putting him under Greg?”

Despite the short distance between him and the duo, he hears an undercurrent of something sinister his way. Something almost amusingly cruel.

“Wh-why Greg? Isn’t that - like isn’t he already busy with the buyings and everything else? And surely you don’t expect Tom to be his assistant? He’s much more experienced in business.” Shiv’s protest add a bit of tension to his mind.

What was the deal with this Greg? It was almost as if he was some kind of a boogeyman to Shiv and her siblings. But someone that Logan clearly approved of, but there was something very odd about the whole missing cousin.

It was as if being put under the cousin would somehow be bad for him. Geez, was he some kind of a hardass?

“No, no. I’m sure Greg’s not to busy to welcome your boyfriend into the family business. He can help guide Tom and put him in a fitting department. Not to busy to help family.”

Tom expects Shiv to say something. To put off Logan’s plan and for a moment, she does. But instead, she stops and frowns.

A beat.

Tom takes it as his cue to step in with the box.

This better work.

—

#ficlet #part 1 #When Rome Burns #WIP #writing wip #tomgreg #tom x greg #Greg Hirsch #Cousin Greg #Tom Wambsgans #partial Tomshiv #Succession #Succession HBO #alternate universe #AU

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