#Everyone in the know is Pissed at the observants for trying to force a ghost already traumatized by similar things to End a child

[simp-ly-writes]

Suits, Ties, and Thus Spies (pt.7)

Pairing: Spy!Task Force 141 x Handler!Reader

Summary: Kidnapped, heartbroken, and thoroughly pissed off, you become a one man team- breaking through restraints, into houses and cars to find a way back home.

Warnings: 5000~ words, light swearing, blood, violence, torture.

A/N: these chapters keep getting longer and longer it seems. I will try and hold back my yapping... anyways! hope you all enjoy! :)

Masterlist | Taglist Request | un-edited.

Body bruised and scraped from being thrown around with the various landscaping tools around you, your head slammed against the door as the vehicle came to a halt. You took deep breaths in and out, picking up the dead-fish smell in the air. You were near the industry sector and by the sounds of the gravel crunching beneath everyone’s feet, you were upshore. 

Three slams against a metal door and it creaked open and you pushed inside, stumbling with the bag over your head and losing balance as your feet were chained together as well. Shuffling back to a stand, the men above you laughed before a bucket of ice cold water was drenched over your body making you instantly shiver. 

Breathing in through your nose sharply as the bag was then torn off your head, you found yourself lazily strapped to a wooden chair- it creaked everytime you shifted your weight. Eyes blurry to the newfound light, you blinked a few times before the once blob in front of your face turned into features and a broken-toothed smile was gracing just before your lips. Their cigarette breath causes bile to rise up in your throat yet you kept a natural expression, staring between their eyes to the crooked bridge of their nose. 

A cigarette was being lit to your left side, they flicked the ashes on your suit as the sparks burned against your skin. Taking a quick glance down, you tried not to frown seeing your once beige suit now a tattered mess of brown and grey with various cuts breaking the soft plaid pattern. The head man, the one to choke you in the first place, takes a step back and sits on a metal chair behind himself, taking a drag of the shared cigarette before mockingly dangling it in your face. “Want a drag, dearest?” 

You make no comment, just staring off past his shoulder, silently observing your surroundings for more clues. You press your head against your shoulder, mocking a scratch behind your ear as your comms flood your eardrums once more. Samantha is crying and losing her actual shit as John raises his tone at one of the nearby officers- not allowing him to check the security footage. That makes sense as to why Samantha is currently losing it- more unnecessary work to hack into the system. 

Thinking to yourself, this is more relaxing, getting to sit down and take a break, being on the receiving end of the saving than being the sole savior. You can’t help but produce a small smirk as you roll back your shoulders and lean back into the chair, spreading your legs for comfort. “You gettin’ comfortable there? Good, enjoy it while you can. God knows- I know- the work you’ll be doing after this with a body like yours.” 

You chuckle, foot now dragging up his leg and positioned in his lap. “But why go through all the hassle, sir? When I could stay, just, right… here” you foot ghosts over his lower abdomen, you relish the sharp intake of breath that signals success. “Mmm, well as good as that would be for the both of us…” he takes a drag of his cigarette, finishing it off on your leg as it places a burn mark on your ankle. “...my brothers could use someone like you, a fighter, a killer of their own. Takes a special kind of fucked up to do the things you have done…” his hand now drags up your leg, fingers dancing over every cut to touch the skin of your leg as you stay still. 

“...and if you remain that kind of person for em’, I can only promise rewards beyond your imagination,” he finishes with, stopping his chase of skin at your upper thighs before carrying your leg off his lap and standing. “Now before we get started, is there anything you wish to tell your newest contractor?”

“And what information would that include?” you press forward, blinking twice. “Anythin’ you are wishing to share before I force it outta ya, making both of our jobs easier.”

“Ask your men to leave and I’ll be an open book, can have a nice date about it,” you counter-offer, smile returning to match his one. With one motion of his hand, the room clears outside of the warehouse, the rusty door creaking closed to a slam. “Speak.”

“I was contracted to Greece in order to capture that royal you were after-”

“Who was your contractor then?” They lean forward, as if smelling your hair as you face forwards, tone even. “Undisclosed- manager wanted utmost privacy and I respected that, which made the job easier in the end.”

“And if the job was as easy as you said, why waste tears over a tool to be used for the bag?” They whisper into your ear, you swear to feel them smirk as a bead of sweat drips down your forehead, racing towards the muddied floors below. You wrap a leg around your chair, your hands almost free from the cheap rope they used from the gardiners truck as you access the best way to take this man to the ground and to make your escape. 

“I am loyal,” you state, the one truth you have slipped today. “Well that is a blessing and a curse, we have a dilemma on our hands already with you…” His hand drifts up, resting on the back of your neck. You pray that Samantha shuts the fuck up in your ear, unknowling if he can hear her screaming or not. “...Very, very loyal it seems. I am disappointed. Seems as though you already need a lesson, a shame.”

And with that, his fist slams against the bag of your head as you fall towards the floor, finally freed. You snake your feet around his ankles, forcing him down with you and cover his mouth with one of your hands, racing to unhook your necktie as you force it around his throat, trying to buy yourself more time by muffleing his pain. He uses his body weight to roll out from under you, slamming a kick to your side as you curse out. The tie falls around his neck as he wobbles to a stand and you begin to run, hearing the doors slam open as your hand just graces the exit. 

Bullets are flying around your head as you duck and weave over the various barrels in the room, looking for a window as another set of guards burst through the door you were just about to use. Quicking throwing yourself back around, you twist your arm with the motions, a series of knives falling from between your suit's fabric and directly between their eyes. Pressing your hand to your ear, “I need immediate evac, industry sector, meeting at south rally point when available.” 

Glass cuts across your face as you fly out the window and roll into a run. Trees rip past and blur your surroundings as you follow the sun above you. The sounds of the sea call to you as you make a sharp turn in their direction, their shouts muffled by the ringing in your ears as you hear your shallow breathing, feel as if time is moving slowly for you once more as your body jerks forward. A dull aching feeling against your back, they managed a shot. 

The sound of a boat horn slams through your consciousness as you slip down a hill, lengths over extending as you race onto a rammed road filled with cars against the coastline. Drivers honk as you race between cars in the road, policemen call after you, guns raised as well as you race to the front of the accident. A series of cars wait, driving slowly past the crash, the car nowhere to be seen but the rip in the divider separating road from sea as you shake your head before ripping over a divers door.

The woman shrieks at you scream out apology after apology, ripping the keys out from her hands before slamming on the gas and racing down the seaside. Sirens sound from behind you as you see the red and blue lights flashing in your rearview mirror as you curse out. Drifting around a corner as the radio decides to start itself in the junk of a car you managed for yourself. 

You roll your eyes at the “white girl” music plays through the radio as you find yourself soaring through another seaside town, car picking up the various displays set on the small street as lights attach to your side mirrors, carrying them down the street with you like a “just-married” car. 

You make a sour face at the thought, eyes saddening as look around your surroundings for directions to the nearest rallypoint, the cops in mad pursuit still behind you, some even sneaking up the road in front. A spike trap sounds, popping your wheels as sparks behind to fly, you punch open the window as the song finishes to your bumper crashing into the side of a building. You fall out the side of the car, running up the skin as your legs and lungs burn. Adrenaline causing your hands to feverishly shake as you climb up the lattice of a townhome and crash into their living space. A little boy screams at you as you hold your hands up, pleading that you do not mean to harm the small child before you race down the galley kitchen and slam into the wall, turning to find another glass door to a balcony where the next apartment appears empty. 

Jumping across the balcony and onto the next, you break the glass door, and feel for the door handle on the other side. It is dark and sparsely decorated. You feel around the kitchen for a cup, taking a minute to take a sip of water from the tap before throwing the glass to the floor- trying to hide any biological evidence of yourself before looking wildly for the stairs downstairs.   

You fail to hear your communications during this chase, your radio buffering in and out as you curse out to Simon's concerned voice asking for an update to your location. You finally find the stairs, emerging onto the town streets once more as you hide yourself in an alleyway. Watching as the blue uniformed men and women carry up the street. Looking over the various backdoors, you find a logo with a dress on it and softly open and close the door to what appears to be a storage room. 

You shuffle through the various boxes, finding a range of formal garments and finally at the back, a box of clothes to be donated; shoes and casual wear alike, as you strip yourself of your tattered suit and force it into the bottom of the box. You press your hair down, taking out your earring- knowing that they would make you some serious cash from being pure gold as you strip off your watch with a sad wince. Note to self, no longer wear gifts on missions. 

Walking back onto the street with a more casual stride, you find a pawn shop a few blocks down as your stomach gurgles and gain a few thousands dollars that you stuff into your pockets as the shopkeeper does not bat to fucks to. Clothes, Money, check and check. 

You just needed food, a good drink and a car out of here. Thankfully you found a small street-side vendor as you ordered yourself an espresso shot and breakfast sandwich as your mouth salivated at the sight of it. Humming out contently at the taste of it as you walked back down to the seaside to examine your destruction- stealing a hat off a rack as you walked down the streets. The fedora covered your features as you pressed your head down, taking another sip of your drink while eyeing around for a phone. 

A tourist couple was just about to pay for a bill- perfect. “Excuse me,” you smiled brightly at the two of them, “Is there anything we can help you with?” The woman asked kindly, her charming posh british accent relaxing your features. “Yes, would you mind if I made a quick call to my spouse on the phone- I can’t seem to find them down here.”

“Ah, no problem dear! Here you are, take as much time as you need, we are just finishing up here.”

“Thank you so much!” You flash another smile back, turning your back as it drops just as quickly, your fingers fly across the digits as two rings pass and Kyle's voice sounds in your ear. “Who is this?”

“Oh Kyle darling,” you fake a loving tone, breathing out an exaggerated sigh of relief as your eyes scan the streets. “I can’t seem to find you anywhere, see I am waiting at…” you look up to see the restaurant's name. “... Lola’s, where are you currently?”

You humm to every word he speaks, nodding your head lightly as you grip the phone, smiling at an officer that passes you by with a tip of their hat. “The team and I are about thirty minutes out from your location, are you able to keep this phone?”

“No, sorry dear, I do not see you, ummm, is there a place we could meet up between the both of us?”

“I am dear now?” Kyle chuckles out, “What happened to darling?” you roll your eyes, coughing for him to cut the crap. “Walk 10 minutes east through the alleyways till you see Pearl Bar and Shop, silver car.” 

“Alright! Heading over now, see you in a few sweetheart!” and you end the call, sending a thanks to the couple before making your way back into the town core. Various scooters race past you in bright colours, kids kick their soccer balls around the fountain as mothers sit on its ledge, snapping pictures happily. You smile sadly at the sight, your eyes drifting back to the sea, to Whitby, as a cold breeze snaps against your skin as you stumble from the pressure of its ghast and slide back into the alleyways- towards the meet point. 

--

“You look like shit,” Soap comments ever-so-kindly with a chuckle before offering you a sip of beer as you sit at the back of the plane on your way back to headquarters. “Well you kill fifteen guys, one of them your potential spouse, get kidnapped, traumatize a child and then sit on a plane with four men for the next few hours.” 

“Well when you put it like that…” you shove his shoulder, walking further up the plane and check up on Simon in the cockpit. “How much longer we got?” you groan out, pressing your head against the doorway as Ghost takes a quick glance back at you, setting the plane to autopilot. “You holding up alright, Handler?” Not answering your question as you send him a glare. 

“What do you all fuckin’ think- you all seem to high and jolly with this shit-”

“And you appear like it's not affecting you all that much-” 

“WELL WHEN ELSE HAVE YOU SEEN ME A DISHEVELLED MESS IN A FEDORA AND SANDALS?” you scream out, taking another deep sink of your drink, sliding against the wall and to the floor as Gaz unbuckles himself from his seat to kneel in front of you. “I am sorry you have had to go through these things, Dee…” you shake your head at his words. 

“No you all don’t understand-”

“No, we do Daniels, and here's the thing. It only gets more fucked up from here on out, you lose the ones you love, you hate yourself for it, you want to fucking kill them yourself for making you feel guilty, kill everyone, kill yourself. We all wanna do it, we all have people we are fighting for- livin’ and dead but here's the thing. Its a job at the end of the day, no matter how fucked up it is, no matter how much we cry and bitch about it- we do our job so that other’s hands stay clean,” John states, turning around from the other piloting seat as he now leans against the doorframe, looking down at you. 

You stay quiet absorbing his words as he continues to speak, “we will mourn the loss, he was a good man- a great man to all the good he did for others but he wouldn’t want you this way. Not even right after his death- he always cheered on your fight. Now the decision is up to you, are you staying to fight or are you gonna wallow and retire?” 

You nod your head along before slamming your head back against the metal wall, needing the coldness to ease the tension in your muscles. “I’m gonna fight,” you speak in a soft tone- still trying to convince yourself of the idea. “... thank you, John. You’re the first person to not sugar coat my losses… needed to hear it.” 

John hums out, leaving down to give your shoulder a squeeze in an awkward side hug before taking control of the plane once more as Simon moves to take a nap at the back of the plane. “Want another beer?” Johnny yells as Simon throws a pillow in his face. You press your hand into a thumbs up, leaning so the signal is visible from down the hall as the glass bottle rolls to your feet as you and Gaz take sips while in a staring contest with one another.

--

12:00 PM | Spring | Eglinton Funeral Home and Cemetery 

You are severely drunk at Whitby's funeral, his parents stand to the side, unknowing to who you and your entourage was that stand at the back underneath a willow tree whose branches drift off towards the sun's rays. 141 and you are dressed to the tens in three-piece suits, pure black accents - you all are shadows of yourselves. Watching as the family and friends walk away you step forwards and stand in front of the open casket, the first thing you notice is his missing glasses. Fixing a hair on his rested head your fingers shake over his cheek before grasping his hand one last time. To your surprise when you unravel it, a diamond ring falls out into your palm as you chuckle back a sob and place it into his suit pocket- right above his heart. 

You bow your head, whispering a prayer before taking one last look and finally turn your back on the past. You stumble in your shoes over the uneven pavement stones towards the event hall where ushed cries and somber music play with trays of fresh fruit displayed against the back wall. You blow your nose into your handkerchief before guzzling down a glass of water as Gaz pats your back reassuringly when a family member walks by, glaring at your group. They all didn’t know the shit you both got up to together, how close you were- close to so much more… 

Shaking your head, John came back with a plate of fruit for you all to pick at as Whitby’s will is read aloud. You need to sit as you fumble with the buttons of your suit, suddenly feeling too hot as the rest of your crew stands around to shield you from the curious stares of the fellow funeral goers. “Friends, Family, and those connected to Sir Wyatt Whitby. We gather here today to remember a man of great strength, who served his country and had a great sense of humor.” 

A series of posh chuckles sound around the room as you feel yourself mentally drifting further and further away from this moment. You would have never fit in with his family, if you ever were to tell them of the danger you put their son into… you probably wouldn’t be breathing any longer… and with that thought, there was a deep part of you that believed you deserved such treatment from your more recent history. 

--

In the few months leading up to the funeral, Whitby’s body had been frozen and preserved so that the headquarters could stage a more believable death to the agent for his remaining family and outside friends. This violently disgusted you, having to see him every time you went to check biological evidence with the scientists in the west wing. Yet John’s words were concrete, pouding in your skull, “fight like he would want you to…” and so you did, and rather brutally at that. 

You forced yourself back onto the field, demanding it from upper management- refusing promotion after promotion as Samantha became your new Handler in this turn of events. You often wore dark blue navy suits to hide the blood that drenched every part of the fabric as you shot and hacked away at various bodies on your missions. No witnesses to be left between you and the goal. You will never forget the fearful eyes of that one politician as you gripped their shoulder into the helicopter, your bloody hand staining their crisp white shirt and some of it began to drip into your eye from your hair yet you could not care. 

Management was thoroughly satisfied with your independent work- you were the most requested contractor. Money was following in- so much so that you lost reasons to spend it, letting the stacks build under your floorboards and in your jacket pockets before you were floating between bodies, drugs, and the bottom of empty bottles with glasses smashed against dust on the bartop. 

You were far gone, everyone at headquarters joked that you had taken form to a rockstar as you flipped them the bird. Sitting at your desk as you choked down a coffee and pain medication, your head still pounding in rhythm to last night's DJ as you swirled around your desk chair, looking up at the ceiling as if you were dancing. 

Laswell had called you endlessly, begging for you to reply after every night so she knew you made it home alright, that not another one of her close friends was gone in this line of work. You Stopped replying, 141 never showed up for their last mission, and when you looked at yourself in the mirror- you were as good as dead. Severe bags under your eyes, sex hair was your new hairstyle as lipstick stained every shirt you wore- matching the deep reds of your suits. You were fighting to keep yourself alive, is this what Whitby would want? You chuckle darkly to yourself, calling out to the new secretary that you would be taking your break at the storefront as you lit a cigarette, tapping the embers to the street as your ankle burned in memory. 

You leaned against the bright building, blowing the smoke to meet the clouds above as you savoured the bitter taste in your lungs. Your throat burned for more drink, your eyes dry but when a shadow overtook the sun, you opened your eyes- surprised to find them closed and saw a masked-face man tilting his head down at you. “Hello Simon, come to tell me off?” you press, throwing your cigarette to the ground and stopping it down with your boot. 

“No. But I am here for our last mission.”

You humm out, trying to rack your tired mind as to when you have received a new debrief. “Fill me in them,” you state, feeling around your suit for another distraction before a gloved hand grips your wrist gently, pulling it out of your suit jacket and down to your side. They do not let go, just looking over your shoulder before leading you back inside the building where Laswell waits, leaning against the counter as she speaks to Samantha. Gaz views the various ties in the display cabinet as Johnny forces himself not to touch the various new products in the windowsill. John observes everyone from the front door and you can’t help the heartache that bellows in your stomach to the scene before you- so reminiscent of your first meeting together. 

Laswell runs over, pulling you into a hug as her nose scrunches up at the bruises against your throat and the cigarette breath you breathe. You pat her back stiffly before she pulls away, wiping away a few tears as you lean against the stair railing that leads to the supplies room upstairs. Simon stands still behind you, giving Samantha a nod as she turns back around the counter and disappears into the back. 

John walks slowly up to you, replacing Kate as he frowns at the sight of you. You wince at his features scrutinizing your every decision that leads to now before looking down at your boots, unable to meet him in the eyes any longer to the guilt that consumes your being. “I would say it's good to see you again, but I was worried you would be something like this when we got called back-”

“Thanks John, just what I wanted to hear…” you interrupt sarcastically, moving around the man to hug Gaz and Soap in greeting before sitting on top of the counter- right beside the till. Laswell leans against the wood beside you, looking through the various emails on her phone as you start to tap your nails against the treated wood. 

“... I fought, long and hard I hope you all know. But now… now I think- I don't actually think,” you laugh to yourself as Gaz winces, looking towards his Captain who had yet to drop his attention from you. John walks up to you once more, holding up your chin so that your eyes meet. You cast him a cheesy fake smile as he hums out, “I’m sorry…”

“What for?” you raise a brow, not clicking in his somber tone as Laswell stares sadly into the side of your head- thinking that you are unknowing. 

“For not showing you what to fight for. It's one thing to say something, another to not follow through,” John finishes speaking, dropping his touch as you hold your head up more clearly as you look around the room. “Not your fault, everyone!” you announce, clapping your hands together as you move to stand and walk around the counter, trying to move back to headquarters- brushing off the words. “Sorry for making you all come back here, I’m still here, no need for worry or anything…” 

“But that's just the thing,” Soap comments as you snap your head back to face him. “We are staying here for our next mission.”

“Then what is this fucking mission?” you stress back out, pinching the bridge of your nose as the nicotine has started to wear off. 

“You,” Gaz states simply, throwing a tie your way with a smile. 

“Now it's time to get to work,” Laswell announces, shoving you through the door as you begin to protest and that's how you found yourself here, at this funeral with a bunch of strangers unknowing to his actual death and task force 141. 

--

Your attention snaps back to the will presenter at the sound of your name, “And to my dearest-Dee, thank you for teaching me that the present is enough of a gift that you need not worry about the past or future. I love you darling, and maybe one day we will dance together again but for now- it's time you took some lessons and find a new partner, I will be waiting to see all your new moves and maybe then you will finally tell me your first name.”

You burst out laughing, it echoes throughout the hall, cutting through every tear, sob, and face filled with sorrows. Your shoulders bend up and down rapidly as you clench at your stomach, folding yourself in half as you almost fall off your chair. Soap was not there to place a hand to your shoulder to halt any further movements. You look up to the ceiling, watching as the sun casts through the skylights above as you blink away your tears, trying to even out your breathing while fanning your cheeks with your hands as the reading presumes once more and you make your way outside.

↳ Taglist: @thriving-n-jiving @cringeycookies @lilliumrorum @brokenpieces-72 @ashy-kit @notsaelty @hindi-si-ikay @sleepyycatt @no-lessthan3 @cod-z

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 79

  When Pariah was awoken from his slumber, he wasn’t exactly expecting it. One was never expecting to awaken when they were supposed to be sealed for eternity after all. He also wasn’t expecting for the reason the sarcophagus was even opened to be a pair of literal infants. A pair of very sick infants.

  One was a newborn ancient for Realms’ sake! Two years dead, if that, and the other- Where was their guardian?! Who had let an obsession get that bad?! How long had he been sealed away that no one had caught an obsession turning toxic and harmful towards a ghostling?! 

  Why was he even sealed inside this area of the zone?! Why had his Keep been moved in the center of one of the zones where ghostlings formed?! He’d never harm a ghostling, but if he’d been any madder (And he knows he had lost it near the end there, that he’d gone too far as he cracked under the weight of the Realms, he’d had an eternity to realize) it would have been a catastrophe! 

  Who has been in charge, the observants!? … What the fuck, that was supposed to be rhetorical! No! They’re good for paperwork but they seem to have failed even at that and- what do you mean they’ve sealed Clockwork away?! 

  The already traumatized Time Primordial who was in this type of area specifically to care for ghostlings, and was now being prevented?! How long has this been going on- No! He’s fixing his realms-damned kingdom before he even thinks about conquering other ones, because who the fuck let it get this bad!

   Pspsps, here little sick ghostlings, he’s trying very hard not to hurt you but you are very tiny and he has been locked away for a long time so please stop squirming…

[hellcat8908]

Broken Road Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female Reader

Warning: Angst, Violence, Fluff, Language

Ghost was about to interrupt your conversation with Soap when your words had him stopping dead in his tracks. "Who could love anyone so broken, Johnny?" You ask rhetorically. Ghost quickly turns and leaves before either of you can see him. "He's been through enough. He deserves someone better than me." You tell him. "He's crazy about you, but the grumpy bastard won't admit it. I think you're perfect for each other, lass." He says. You're not convinced. "Just keep spending time with him, you'll see." Soap says.

Later that night in the mess hall, you take a seat with Soap and Gaz. "Where's Ghost?" You ask after realizing he isn't joining. "Eating in his dorm, said something about paperwork." Gaz answers as you all finish eating. You saved your brownie knowing their one of Ghosts favorites. You made your way towards his dorm, gently knocking. Moments later, it cracks open, hiding most of Ghost, "What?" He asks, sounding annoyed. "Gaz said you were doing paperwork, so I brought you a brownie. I know how much you hate paperwork." You say, stopping yourself before you can ramble.

"Si, come back to bed." A female voice calls. Your face falls as realization hits you. "This was stupid. Sorry for interrupting." You mumble before turning and walking away. You hear Ghost shut the door, and your heart shatters. Halfway back to your dorm, you can't keep your composure as you bump into Soap. He takes you to his dorm, which is closer. "Tell me what happened, lass." He says as he hands you a box of tissues. Once your tears have slowed, you're finally able to tell Soap.

"He's with a girl. I went to take him the brownie, and she told him to come back to bed." You say as the tears return full force. "I'm going to kill him!" Soap says angrily. "Don't. Just let it go." You say between sobs. He wraps his arms around you. "Fine, I won't kill him. I'll just kick his ass extra hard during training tomorrow." Soap says, making you smile. Soap has become like a brother to you since you joined the task force. He comforted you for the next hour before you decided to go back to your own dorm.

The next morning, the hurt had been replaced with anger, and you hardened your heart against Ghost. You got dressed in your training joggers and one of Soap's shirts he had left behind that you'd normally use as a sleep shirt. You threw your hair up in a ponytail before making your way towards the training area. You started making small talk with some of the recruits when an incessant giggling caught your attention, followed by the female voice from last night. She was recounting her escapades with Ghost. The anger inside you simmering towards a boil.

Thankfully, Soap came along to distract you. "Are you trying to get me in trouble?" He teases as he steps beside you. "You don't like it?" You tease. "I didn't think you'd wear it outside your dorm, but I approve of your tactic." He says with a laugh. "I woke up and chose violence." You say with a laugh of your own. "We'll if you wanted to piss him off, it's working." Soap says, seeing Ghost glare at you in another man's shirt. "It's the least I could do." You say before hearing an angry Ghost get started with training.

Towards the end, Ghost paired everyone up for hand to hand combat training. Of course, he paired you with the recuit he spent the night with. He and Soap went over the moves and instructions before walking around and observing, offering criticism and corrections. "Could you be more pathetic?" She asks, catching you off guard. "Excuse you?!" You grit your teeth as the anger starts building. "I brought you a brownie. I know how much you hate paperwork." She says in a mocking tone.

"Why would he want someone like you when he could have a real woman like me." She sneers. "I'm surprised he fucked you, with how much he hates paperwork, he'll be filling out a lot of it when he has to get tested for STDs. Who knows what nastiness your cunt is breeding." You say with a smirk before continuing, "haven't you fucked your way through at least half the task force? Sweetie you're nothing but a barracks bunny playing dress up." Her face sours as she tries to punch you. Within seconds a fight has broken out between the two of you. You land a punch to her nose breaking it as blood pours down her face.

Moments later, you're pulled off of her by Soap as Ghost grabs ahold of the other recruit who is holding her nose. "Take her to medical." He instructs Soap before staring at you. You cross your arms over your chest and glare back at him. "Everyone clear out!" Ghost orders placing a hand on your shoulder to stop you, "not you." You roll your eyes and wait for the others to leave. Once the last recruit leaves and the door shuts, Ghost turns his full attention to you. "I should have you transferred for that little stunt." He shouts. "Do it! I was going to ask for a transfer anyway! With you're support I'll be gone by the end of the week." You smirk.

"Why were you going to ask for a transfer?" Ghost says surpringly quiet. "It doesn't matter." You answer, still angry. "Yes, it does." Ghost replies. "No, it doesn't! You don't even care." You say with venom lacing your voice, "you never cared." You see anger on Ghost's face, "You don't get to tell me I don't care! Not after your little conversation with Soap yesterday after training. Your eyes widen in panic. "That's right, I heard enough to get the hint." He says angrily. "Ghost, I didn't mean...." You start, but he cuts you off, "Save it. I'll talk to Price about your transfer. Better start packing." He says before turning and storming out.

You made it back to your dorm and locked it before curling up on the bed and burying yourself under the blankets. You lay there numbly, wondering how it all fell apart. A knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts, but you ignore it. Soon, the knocking becomes louder. "I know you're in there, I brought you food." Soap says through the door. He knocks again, "Come on, y/n. Please let me in." He says, almost breaking your resolve. You hear the tray being sat on the floor, "foods out here if you want it. I even snagged you an extra cookie." He tries one last time before walking away.

You open the door once you're sure he's gone and grab the two cookies before locking your door again. You crawl back in bed and stare at the wall. You start thinking about how you'll miss Soap, Gaz, and Price once you're transferred. Your mind turns to Ghost, and your heart aches. You try to push him from your mind, but he keeps coming back until you eventually fall asleep. Tossing and turning as you relive yesterday and todays events.

Meanwhile, Soap tracks down Ghost cleaning up the training room. "Hey, asshole!" Soap says before punching Ghost in the face. "What the fuck, Soap!" Ghost shouts as he recovers. "You tell me, what happened between you and y/n?!" Ghost rolls his eyes. "Leave it alone, Soap." Soap tenses, "No, tell me what happened!" Ghost shoves him, "You know what happened! She said it herself, I'm too broken for anyone to love!" Ghost says angrily. "You idiot! She was talking about herself! She thinks you deserve better than her and that you've been through enough!"

"Fuck!" Ghost says as he realizes how badly he fucked up. "She's got it backwards though, she deserves better than you, especially after that shit you pulled!" Soap says. "I should beat the shit out of you for managing to destroy her in less than 24 hours." Soap threatens. "I have to fix this." Ghost says. "What makes you think you can fix this?!" Soap asks. "I don't know but I have to try!" Ghost states. "If you're not committed to her 100% then you need to let her go. She's been through enough without you adding to it." Soap says.

Unable to stay asleep, you took the tray back to the mess hall after scraping the food into the trash. Once you returned the tray, you made your way towards Price's office. You saw the light under the door so you knew he was in there. After knocking, he called for you to enter. He motioned for you to take a seat. "As per your email, I've put out feelers, and you have your choice between Kortac and Shadows." Price says, not bothering with small talk. "Shadows are out because I don't trust Graves. Kortac would be great." You're cut off by the door slamming open and Ghost storming in.

"You can't transfer y/n!" He shouts. "WE were just discussing that matter, She's decided to transfer to Kortac." Price says. Ghost acknowledges you for the first time since barging in, "You're not transferring!" He shouts. "Lower your voice, Ghost." Price warns. "We have unfinished business." Ghost says, keeping his attention on you. "No, we don't. You made that clear after training. How is what's her name anyway?" You say sarcastically before turning back to price and asking, "When can I leave?" Price shuffles your transfer papers on the desk, "about 2-3 days, as soon as paperwork is in order." "Thank you, sir." You say before leaving his office only to have Ghost on your heels.

"You're not transferring!" He says as he runs ahead of you to block your door. "I'd better start packing." You say, throwing his own words back in his face. "You're not packing because you're not leaving, not until you hear me out." He says. "There's nothing to hear you out about. You made everything clear as to how you feel." You say as your lip starts to quiver. You hate that he is having this effect on you. You see the pain flash across his face. "I know you hate me right now, and I know I've ruined everything, but I want to make it right. I love you." He says the last part so quietly you almost don't hear it.

You almost break at how vulnerable Ghost looks in front of you. He still stands taller than you but seems smaller somehow. You resist the urge to comfort him when you know he doesn't deserve it, especially from you. "Please, just let me try to fix the damage I've caused between us." He practically pleads. "Ghost, give me time." You say softly. He gives you a nod and reluctantly moves from in front of your door. He watches the door close behind you, hoping you'll give him a chance.

Once you're inside, you lay in bed, feeling more confused than before. You toss and turn all night, not being able to sleep as your mind keeps drifting back to Ghost telling you he loves you. Once morning comes, you skip breakfast. You don't want to get out of bed. The knock you've been expecting finally comes. "It's open." You call hearing your door open, and a tray sat on your desk before hearing the door close. "I'm not hungry, Soap." You say, not moving to look at him. You're only met with silence. "If you think giving me the silent treatment will make me move, you're wrong." You say.

More silence. "Suit yourself." You say before ignoring him. After several moments you turn over to discover your alone. Confused you pull out your phone and text Soap.

Y/n: Are you training early?

Soap: No, did you want to?

Y/n: No. I was wondering why you dropped off breakfast and left.

Soap: I didn't drop off breakfast.

Y/n: Well someone left me breakfast.

Soap: 💀

You look at the tray and see it's loaded with sweets and a glass of milk. You can't help your small smile that maybe Ghost did bring you breakfast. You ate a few of the sweets along with drinking the milk before deciding to save the rest for later. You change into a pair of shorts and johnny's shirt again and make your way towards the training room. "Ghost!" You shout as you burst through the doors. "I challege you to a sparring match, you win I go out with you. I win you, let me transfer to Kortac!" You say confidently as he turns his attention towards you. "Deal!" He says with a smirk.

"Are you sure about this?" Soap asks. "Never been more sure." You say confidently. "You two going to spend all morning talking or what?" You step onto the mat, "someone is eager to lose." You tease. "Not on your life." He says. The two of you start circling, waiting to make your move. Ghost moves first with a strike you easily block and counter. "You always were impatient." You taunt as you nake your move. He grabs you and flips you to the mat. "You're always reckless." He says as his pins you. You stuggle for a few minutes before you flip him over pin him. You hold on tightly as he resists. Once he breaks free, he creates some space.

"You're not scared, are you?" You ask, feigning innocence. "It's you who should be scared. I can't wait to take you out." He says wolfishly. "You haven't won yet." You remind him. "Oh, but I have." He says watching you. You let his words have their desired effect as you charge him and knock him to the mat. You strike his side and chest as he blocks his face. He lays there and lets you take out all your anger on him until you're crying. He wraps his arms around you and holds you against him. "That's it. Let it out." He says softly while stroking your hair. "I hate you for sleeping with her." You manage to say. "I hate me too, love.

"Hate me as much as you need to because I deserve it, but please let me love you, and maybe you'll fall back in love with me." He says as he rests his head on top of yours. Your fist holds his shirt tighter as you soak it with your tears. He carefully stands with you before carrying you to his dorm. He sits on his bed with you in his lap. "Take these." He says, handing you two pills and a glass of water. You take them without hesitation. "They'll help with your headache." He says softly. "But I don't have one." You argue. "Not yet, but you will from all your emotions.

He lays down with you curled up against him as he refuses to let you go. "Get some rest." He says as he pulls the blanket over both of you. "You had better have cleaned your bedding." You threaten as your eyes get heavy. "Brand new bedding, love. I burnt the old." He says. "Good boy." You mumble half asleep. "Sweet dreams, love." He says before kissing your forehead. "Sweet dreams." You whisper quietly. He holds you as he strokes your back til your breath evens out, signaling you're asleep. "I promise to right every wrong, love." He whispers before falling asleep beside you.

[the-ragingenby]

erasermic is eating my brain :,)

(Also still taking requests/prompts for fanfics, by the way. I’m totally not running out of ideas or anything…that’d be crazy…)

Edit: AO3 Crosspost

SHIT I FORGOT

MY HERO ACADEMIA ANIME SPOILERS (SEASON 6) RAHH

You Worry Me

Hizashi bit back a laugh as Nemuri and Sekijiro started going at each other again. It’s become a somewhat regular occurrence in the teacher’s lounge, with Sekijiro being snappy and Nemuri returning his quips with even more enthusiasm. “Is there really a need for you guys to do this every day?” Toshinori sighed, though even he had a ghost of a smile on his face. 

“What can I say? He’s a bum. Totally deserves it.” Nemuri snickered, dodging gracefully when Sekijiro made to give her a playful smack. 

Hazashi pressed his hands to his mouth, trying to stifle his giggles. Although things were looking bleak a few weeks ago, I can always count on these guys to make me laugh. It still hurts…but I think it’s manageable now.

Everyone froze when the teacher’s lounge door swung open suddenly, revealing an exhausted Aizawa. He barely spared anyone a glance, purposefully turning his back to them and making himself a cup of coffee. After a few more moments of tense silence, Toshinori, the ever helpful, spoke. “Good afternoon, Aizawa.” His cheeriness sounded forced, even to Hizashi, but the older man pressed on regardless. “How have classes been going?” 

Aizawa didn’t reply for a while, taking a long sip from his coffee. “Fine.” He answered flatly. His usual sass was nowhere to be found. Nemuri frowned, looking just as worried as Hizashi felt. It’s been over a week now, and Aizawa hasn’t spoken so much as a word to him. Now how the hell is that possible when we’re roommates? He was frustrated, but he really didn’t know what to do. He’s even been purposely timing his arrival home so he doesn’t have to see me. It hurts…just a little.

Toshinori nervously cleared his throat. “Oh. Well, that’s good.” He smiled at Aizawa, who finally turned and met it with the dead expression that seemed like it was permanently etched onto his face. Aizawa gave him a halfhearted glare before slipping from the room, mug still clutched in his hand. 

“What the hell was that?” Nemuri growled, whipping around to point accusingly at Hizashi. “I bet you pissed him off or something.”

“Hey, I’ve got nothing to do with that! He hasn’t even spoken to me for at least a week now.” Hizashi was quick to defend himself. “I’ve tried asking, but he won’t tell me what’s wrong.” 

“If he’s not talking to Mic, something’s definitely up.” Sekijiro huffed out. “Honestly, he looks like death.” 

“Thanks for the keen observations, Vlad.” Nemuri rolled her eyes. She made her way over to Hizashi, whispering in his ear. “My best advice, corner him when you guys get home. If he’s not talking to you here, there’s no way he can avoid you at home. Use the cat for leverage.” 

“You think that’ll work?” Hizashi asked blandly, already doubtful. Using our own cat against him. It’s so evil that I almost wish I’d thought of it first. 

“Have you really got a choice right now?” Fair point. With a sigh, Hizashi nodded. 

“Alright, alright. But if things get worse, I’m blaming you.” At that, Nemuri smiled. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Thank me later.” 

“Do I smell secrets?” Snipe eyed the pair from the other side of the room. “How amusing.” 

“It’s like they think we won’t find out.” Sekijiro sniffed, turning away. “Not that I’m curious or anything.” 

“Right. And you don’t have overgrown chompers either.” Nemuri teased, leaving Hizashi to mess with the Blood Hero again. 

“You dissing my teeth, Midnight?” Sekijiro growled, curling his lip in mock anger. Nemuri just stuck out her tongue at him, darting away when he began to chase her. 

Toshinori shook his head. “Those two…” 

~

Back at home, Hizashi waited patiently for Aizawa to arrive. Okay, so maybe patiently was a bit of a stretch. Being perfectly honest, he was anxious. He didn’t want to feel this way, he practically never feels this way, but with Aizawa, things are different.

He had long since changed out of his hero costume, and was now comfortable in his loungewear. Hizashi also made the executive decision to let his hair down, since he didn’t intend to go out again for the rest of the day.

With a sigh, Hizashi leaned back against the couch, allowing Mochi to clamber into his lap, purring loudly. “I know, Mochi. Aizawa’s been in a crummy mood. But you’re gonna help me cheer him up, right?” Mochi blinked up at him, her green eyes wide. After a moment, she let out a soft mrow of acknowledgement. “I knew you’d understand.”

It had been less than an hour, and Hizashi found himself lightly dozing when Aizawa returned, leaving his boots and capture weapon by the door. Mochi flicked Hizashi with her tail, startling him out of his gentle slumber. “Mochi, you jerk, I know you did that on purpose.” Hizashi paused, looking up at Aizawa. 

The long-haired man looked a little worse for wear and more exhausted than usual. Mochi twitched her ears, eyeing him before turning back to Hizashi. “Uh…welcome back.” Hizashi murmured, suddenly feeling very unsure of himself. 

Aizawa hesitated, fixing his gaze on Mochi’s black-and-white form in Hizashi’s lap. “You’re a real traitor, cat.” He huffed out, his voice holding just the slightest hint of a rasp. Hizashi lifted Mochi gently, waving her little paws in the air. 

“She said she’ll cuddle you if you talk to me.” He chided. Aizawa finally met his eyes, just for a brief moment, before turning away. “Come onnnn. Please? How can you say no to this sweet little angel?”

“Are you talking about yourself or the cat?” Aizawa finally gritted out, a hint of his usual self shining through his suddenly, and quite unnecessarily, rough exterior. Hizashi couldn’t help but smile. 

“You wanna come over here for a bit?” Hizashi patted the empty cushion beside him, staring hopefully at Aizawa. Aizawa looked conflicted, eyes darting to focus on everything except Hizashi. He frowned as Aizawa started inching away towards his bedroom. “Aizawa. We’re going to talk, whether you like it or not.” 

“I’m good.” 

“Shouta.” Hizashi said firmly. He almost surprises himself with just how serious he can sound sometimes. Aizawa froze. Hizashi almost never uses his serious voice on him and he very rarely calls him Shouta. After a moment of deliberation, Aizawa reluctantly sits down on the couch, close enough to steal Mochi away but still keeping a respectful distance. 

“Happy now, cat?” Aizawa sighed, letting her butt her head against his hand. She shook her head, purring ceasing as she glanced over at Hizashi. “You’re so expressive that sometimes I forget you’re a cat.” With a shake of his head, he meets Hizashi’s eyes once more. “So what is it you want?”

Hizashi frowned. “What’s been going on, Aizawa? Seriously. I’ve hardly seen you eat a thing and you don’t want to talk to me.” Hizashi drew in a shaky breath. “Did I do something wrong? Because if I did, I’m sorry. You know I’d never want to hurt you on purpose. I don’t want to hurt you at all.” 

Aizawa stayed quiet, gently stroking the cat that perched precariously in his lap. “No.” He cleared his throat a little. “It’s my fault. I just–” Aizawa bowed his head, hiding his eyes with his shaggy hair. “After everything that’s happened, I just feel so useless. And I’ve been taking you for granted. I was just afraid that I’d lose you too. Everyone I get close to ends up dead and I–”

Aizawa cut himself off with a quiet sob. Hizashi pulled Aizawa into a tight hug, careful not to squish Mochi in the process. “Shouta, I didn’t know…” Hizashi murmured, carefully running his fingers through Aizawa’s hair to try and comfort him. “But I’m not going anywhere. Promised that a long time ago.”

Aizawa nodded, still hiding his tears from Hizashi the best he could. “...Okay.” He whispered after a long moment. Hizashi smiled, planting a sneaky kiss on Aizawa’s head. Aizawa let out an annoyed huff, but he didn’t move away. “I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for, Shouta. We’ll work through it, together. Alright?” Aizawa bobbed his head in another nod, pressing himself against Hizashi and making himself more comfortable. Mochi splayed herself out across their laps, thoroughly pleased. 

~

Hizashhi glared at Dr. Kyudai Garaki through his now cracked sunglasses, keeping him firmly by his side. The bastard had revived Shigaraki and now Hizashi had to stop him from doing anything else that might cost the Pros this battle. 

Aizawa had run off to support the others by canceling the multiple quirks those Nomu had. Hizashi felt a swirling feeling in his gut that he could only describe as anxiousness. Explosions and shouts surrounded him, and he almost wished he could go and help Aizawa and the others, but he had a job to do. 

“Present Mic, over here!” Hizashi looked up, sagging with relief as the police arrived to take the doctor into custody. Grabbing the doctor with both arms, he hauled him over to their armored vehicle, pointedly ignoring all the nonsense spewing from the guy’s mouth.

He spent what felt like eons giving them a statement before dropping the doctor off in their capable hands. Now that that’s done, I gotta go help everyone else. Hizashi raced away, heading towards where the explosions were now dying down. 

When he arrived at the battlefield, Shigaraki was nowhere to be found. “Manual!” Hizashi called out, heading over to the hero. “What’s happening?” Upon seeing Hizashi, Masaki winced. 

“Well, Shigaraki got away. There was only so much we could do.” He explained, looking away. “Eraser and Endeavor did their best, but…”

“Where’s Eraser…?” Hizashi asked after a moment. Masaki shook his head. 

“He sustained some terrible wounds, but he still fought hard to protect the work study students. Those kids are lucky.” Masaki frowned. “I did my best. But they took him to the hospital. Last I saw him, he was unconscious.”

Hizashi froze, growing tense. “Do you know where they took him?” He asked. Masaki nodded. 

“The hospital in the next town over. You can’t miss it. I think it’s the biggest one in town.” Hisashi nodded, thanking him before moving to figure out how to get to him as fast as possible, all without breaking too many laws.

~

Hizashi burst into the hospital, eyes wide with worry. “I need to see Aizawa Shouta.” He said as he approached the front desk. A lady looked up at him through her glasses, looking thoroughly unimpressed. 

“Are you his husband? Only family members are allowed to see him right now.” She sighed. 

“Yeah, yeah, I am.” Hizashi was quick to agree. Although it wasn’t true, per say, he just had to see Aizawa, damn it. She sighed again and gave him to room number, belatedly reminding him not to run in the halls as he darted off.

When he came to Aizawa’s room, he let out a quiet gasp at the sight. Aizawa was laid on the hospital bed, head bandaged and his leg was…missing? “What…happened to you, Shouta?” Hizashi breathed, pulling a small chair closer to the bed. 

He carefully took Aizawa’s uninjured hand into his own, holding it like he may never see the man again. Hizashi let out a soft breath, pressing his forward against Aizawa’s hand. “Damn it, Shouta.” Hizashi gritted out. “You…worry me.”

[popculturebuffet]

Aqua Teen Hunger Force MC Pee Pants Retrospective (Comissioned by WeirdKev27)

Hello all you happy people. So this one's a bit of a breather after some very intensive exausting reviews, some major schedule slippage and before even more intensive reviews. Today we're looking at Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

Having gleefully covered Sealab 2021, Mission Hill, and having a whole Venture Bros retrospective on this blog (That I assure you IS coming back, my schedule is just like living in a living nightmare sometimes), and planning to cover home movies at some point after I realize I hadn't because it's purespun gold, observe…

It's probably not a suprise to Kev who comissoined this nor anyone reading whose been with me a while that I fucking love Aqua Teen Hunger Force. It fit the mold for the other williams street shows at the time like Space Ghost COast to Coast (also another one to cover), Brak Show, or Sealab itself: dialouge heavy but entirely bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-anas to compensate for a budget of a paper cup. It's also the longest lived of them by far, going on for most of Adult Swim's lifespan till being abubtly cancled and even THEN i'ts recently came back with a series of web shorts and the first DTV movie from Warner's new adult swim based intitative.

Aqua Teen will never be canceled, Aqua Teen Won't be Dismantled, Aqua Teen Gonna Be Together, Aqua Teen Gonna Be forever! And honestly it's easy to see why it's lasted this long as given the very simple yet inherently weird nature of aqua teen, three fast food mascots with super powers living in new jersey and having weird shit happen to them and their perverted asshole neighbor carl, means you can do just about anything with it from have Shake cause nuclear armageddon to reboot a flintstones pastiche, to the gang unearthing an evil sandwitch, to evangelical fruits showing up in thier house and one going on an alchoholic spiral, to carl getting himself shoved up a trolls ass as part of a metal band's performance, it can be anything. And while the later seasons are a bit weaker, I do think they still have their gems ala the simpsons.

So I was more than happy when asked to chronicle the rise and explosion and rise and slaughterhouse and rise and vamppiric explosion and rise and rise and squashing and rise and swatting and rise and elder fraud of mc pee pants aka sir loin aka little brittle.

MC Pee Pants came about due to Willams Street at the time making good use of comedian and rap god, MC Chris, a nerdy as fuck rapper with bars for days who I REALLY need to listen more of. When doing Improv one night osme of the williams street execs saw Chris, and asked him to come to atlanta nad while hesitant at first, the part of Hesh for sealab, who I assure you will get his own specail one of these days, maybe a heshtober fest, appealed to him and soon Hesh wanted sex and Adult Swim wanted more of him. So i'ts not a huge shock he popped up on adult swim's latest show Aqua Teen Hunger force and would make yearly apperances before vanishing entirely. Why he fell out with the company.. no one knows. He gladly came back for the 100th episode so there appears to be no real bad blood.. he might of just moved out of altanta. Whatever the case while Hesh made MC Chris' voice acting career, MC Pee Pants is easily just as memorable. As for who he is.. well tha'ts best left under the cut as what he is.. is a lot.

MC Pee Pants MC Pee Pants first debuted in season 1 and our journey begins with him as all his episodes do: with Meatwad blasting his jam box to high heaven and pissing everyone else off. What makes this one special besides being the first is Master Shake is trying to jam a new romantic ballad on the guitar. It can't be undestated how hilarious Dana Synder is and i'm pleased as punch he's still getting work to this day, including a starring role in Ghost and Molly McGee and voicing half of Jellystone.

Naturally Shake's response is to smash his guitar in rage and plan to ram the neck down meatwad's….. uhhhhhhh….. huh. You know I don't think ramming something into meatwad would actually kill him. Maybe HURT him, but i'm not sure ANYTHING can actually kill meatwad short of destroying every last molocule. As long as there's one cell left it'll still be sapient.

Shake CAN still beat the piss out of his hapless roomate though so Frylock, always anti child beating, tries to talk Meatwad down instead. Every attempt is objectively funny. The first is my faviorite: Frylock tries to get Meatwad to listen to classical music. He has such high school band teacher energy here trying to convince Metawad that these were the "real gangsters" while Meatwad looks on in abject horror and just switches back to MC Pee Pants after. Frylock still tries to be patient despite Meatwad having done this for days and does the obvious: has Meatwad use earphones. And I love his happy tone as he says "So master shake won't want to kill you with a guitar neck". I also like the Meatwad hearing loss gag after. Good sound mixing there. Eventually Frylock just tell shim to fuck off with it or he'll let shake beat him which is'nt great parenting but he tried good parenting. Now it's "don't make me let your roommate/brother/tormentor beat you".

Meatwad then tries to get him some candy as the dope new drop from mc pee pants h'es been blasting, I want candy tell shim to. We get a great him as elvis gag (Shake's "Are you the fat elvis" is comic gold as is his casual attempted murder), and ends up getting his fix form carl who true to form has a bunch of easter bunnies he got from the dumpster they just have to wipe off which would be gross but we don't see them actually EAT the things nor what's on them, so it works, especially with Carl's later ask of "Wipe me off another rabbit"

They end up doing this long into the night, and washing Carl's car for some reason. Probably cocaine. I wouldn't put it past carl to have put some on the bunnies and told meatwad they were sugar. Or done so by mistake. It's carl, he's either going to be sad, sleazy, deeply incomptient or all of the above. How is a crapshoot.

Frylock has concerns. Not about the cocaine, he has a snow mountain in his closet, no he's worried about the lyrics which talk about using the hyper active energy of those who eat the candy to power a drill straight to hell to unleash demons to help mc pee pants with a diet pill pyramid scheme.

So with the address given in the song, everyone heads to 612 wharf avenue. Which is ana ctual place in new jersey. It's even near Kevin Smith's store.

Turns out that's EXACTLY Mc Pee Pants scheme and instead of the child on the cover, he's a grown man whose also a giant spider in a diaper and shower cap who talks about how he's insane. Chris unsurprisingly is great in the rolll as MC Pee Pants really makes little sense with his plan, an dis only doing it because he can't get a job.

The resolution is one of the series best: the aqua teens set mc pee pants up for a job interview…. and then blow up an abandoned building iwth him inside. It's just so hilariously cruel and there's no real reason for it. They could just.. take meatwad and leave. He can't really do anything to them. I mean he did domestically abuse dr. weird though.. so fair enough.

MC Pee Pants is a solid episode.. and I got paid TO WRITE THAT. I love my life. It's got plenty of great jokes, chris is terrfiic and I want candy will get stuck in your head guaranteed

Super Sirloin While the first ep was decent, Sir Loin is even better. With this one Frylock hasn't quite caught onto the formula despite Meatwad once again blasting a song at all hours.. in this case instead of a sugar high he can't sleep because he's worried about the starving children.. and how he goes about helping "the shorties" is also hilarious, grabbing every bit of food and stuffing it into a garbage bag. I also like the runner about Master Shake somehow affording steak and eggs and Duck Alaronge, as well as despite Frylock saying it perfectly, him bitching about Frylock butchering the prounciation. I forget how much subtle humor is dotted aroudn the weirder shit. Carl also spits in a bag and Dr Weird grafts a dear antler to his groin to fit in with the heard so it hasn't gotten too subtle. "Sigh" I really miss Dr. Weird. And C. Martin Croaker.

I also like the runner with meatwad eating sand, which starts with Shake just .. getting him to eat it on a regular basis.

Despite Frylock being worried about it even though Meatwad is clearly a highlander, and later escalates to meatwad expecting everyone else to for the shorties and Shake trying it with ketchup and deciding this sucks and they need to go see sir loin. Naturally Mc Pee Pants, now sir loin is the best part of the episode. This time he's a cow whose renting patio furniture and is amassing flies to melt down a bank. Once again I got paid to watch a man explain all this and then write about it.

My faviorite bits are Mc Pee Pants slowing down explaning things because he thinks frylock is dumb, chris really nails the condesnion and the bizzare ness of him talking about the farmer asking "gimme the milk, gimmie the milk" and frylock's deadpan "There isn't a farmer is there. " He's way too used to the nonsense that is his existance at this point. They naturally use a slaughterhouse this time which tops the previous finale as last time it was at least plausable that building was a buisness… I mean not very but he's a giant spider in a diaper man. It dosen't tak emuch. This time it's very transparently a slaughterhouse and the SECOND time they've casually murdered him and will not be the last.

Sir Loin is another great episode, taking the same basic premise but finding even better jokes for it. The result's a classic.

Little Brittle

So we're onto the final focus episode for MC, and honestly when I was a teen and until this rewatch I hated this one, feeling it was too slow paced and not nearly as entertaning as the first two. On rewatch I expected to still hate it and dreaded getting to this one

Little Brittle.. is the BEST of the trilogy, and after wondering why MC hadn't come back for more than a cameo till Aquadonk Sidepieces, this gave me the answer: there was no where to go from here. THey already took the formula as far as they could. While other recurrers could be crammed in wherever, MC's episodes relied on him doing the same brainwashing raps and reveal of some stupid plan every time and with this one tearing that formula up they likely just.. couldn't think of a new spin on it. Brittle has the same inciting incident: Meatwad's playing MC's latest rap on loop, only after two times Frylock catches on instantly. Though instead of 612 Wharf Avenue he's at a decaying old folks home, presumibly next to elvis and jfk.

Two things really make this one pop: the subversion of things, which is not easy to pull off: there's a fine line between playing with a formula nad audience expectations and getting good laughs or drama out of it and pulling a swerve bro. It's what seperates the rian johnstons from the vince russos and they pull it off here. Instead of a zany plan MC instead genuinely seems to be a sad old man who just happens to also have a diaper, shower cap and yellow eyes , who misses his grand kids and is dealing with how horribly we treat the elderly. And that's the other sauce: the episode is suprisingly well done satire about how we treat our elderly: the place MC is stuck is GENUINELY awful, wether he's pulling a scheme or not, and Frylock mostly goes along to feel good about himself then abandons Meatwad there with a strange old man because "someone has to" and he dosen't want to be around the elderly because they smell. Shake and Frylock represent the most common ways society treats the old: Shake is just an asshole and is fine with leaving them to die while Frylock is only fine with actually treating elderly people like human beings as long as it's comfortable. Meatwad is only sympathetic because he not only came iwth good intentions but is basically a child unless the episode says he isn't. Little Brittle is a lot and hte fact he powers thorugh and genuinely seems to befriend him again is great.

As is the reveal that of course this is another stupid scheme, this time to have a vampire bite him to become immortal. The reveal he ONLY released come visit me yo in Transylvania is gold, only topped by Meatwad revealing "the import fees were a bitch". What caps it off though and likely sealed this trilogy off.. is that it ACTUALLY WORKS FOR ONCE. No really, Dracula shows up, bites him, and MC actually gets to be a vampire. He dies again, but only because he goes out into the sun and explodes. The ending's also something that grew on me: originally I felt it was random as hell, and while the explosions are, now I can see the setup: after two episodes of a stupid scheme tha tmakes no sense he has one actually work.. and then dies anyway because of the stupidity that got him killed the last two times. Truly brilliant. Shake is also low key great. Carl.. I don't think is in this one much. Dr. Weird is sadly absent altogether as we'd gotten to spacekataz at this point, which was fine and I get stopping the weird bits once they ran out of ideas but god do I miss them.

Side Pieces

So while they only make the three starring episodes, MC still got to show up a few more times.

First was The Last One that united all the villians legion of doom style… where they procede to get nothing done but adopting a highway by clickclickclickclickclick. MC Pitches a scheme and then dies. It's still nice to have him for this one. Then we have the movie, which like the last one I didn't watch in full, but thankfully youtube had his scene which has Meatwad calling on him to make a rap, and MC coming back as a fly, eating a dog turd and giving us a great rap to stop the insano flex.. before shake kills him because he's needlessly cruel and self destructive. It's a great scene honestly especially the oepning where he has choclate unicorn backup dancers because it's awesome. Chris himself also returned for the 100th episode though rather than play mc he simply did a rap.

Given they played this in all the commericals, it's imbeded deep in my brain… and was also the best part of the episode by a wide margin. So finally we have last year's aquadonk side pieces episode. ADSP was a series of web shorts adult swim did focusing on thet villians, with Carl and the others still showing up. It was great, with this one being tied with the dumber dolls sequel for my faviorite of the batch. It's MC teaching people who to rap the elderly out of their homes. BUT HOW IS THIS LEGAL MC

Since it's so short I recommend watching it yourself bellow

It is truly fantastic and pure comedy gold.. and also strangely heartwarming? Like this is the happiest ending he's gotten… being adopted by an old man whose house he planned to steal with his original body again. So if you have HBO about to be Just Max, I highly recommend these episodes. MC Chris is the best and I felt it was only right to play us out with one of his tracks and since it is may the 4th.. hit it youtube! Thanks for reading.

[sea-owl]

It's 2022 and I'm still salty at how Festivia was used for plot convince, and force sympathy on a unsympathetic character. Then the writers throw her away with no resolution to her story or her character. Like what? No finish that arch, especially after you all revealed the queens' ghosts.

Like it almost feels like they fridged Festivia.

Hey you know instead of making Mina the final bad guy you know what y'all could've done? We could have gotten a pissed off Festivia haunting Mewni. No magic affects her because she has no body, she's a magical, pissed off spirit. Plus she was a queen of Mewni, she knows how the magic works.

Festivia hides in the magical realm between her hauntings so it makes it almost impossible to take the fight to her.

When asked for advice Glossaryk just floats like the lazy bum he is. "Hm, but you already know how to destroy magic."

Marco tried to talk to Star. "Is destroying her ghost really the only way to stop her? If Eclipsa and Meteora get a second chance why can't we give one to Festivia?"

Justhin stops them before they can attempt the whispering spell for the first time. Festivia escapes back to the realm of magic. "You mean to tell me you weren't hurt when you found out everything you believed your whole life was a lie? You weren't hurt when you found out you could have had a different life than the one forced upon you? You expect Festivia to be ok learning everything she lived for, all those feelings she had, everything that made her who she was was just politics trying to morph her into their puppet?"

Like the queen she is Star steps back, and she observes Festivia. Star sees the tears that Festivia won't let fall. She sees that while the Magic High Commission and both sets of Butterfly families are bombarded by attacks, everyone else mewman and monster was left alone. She listens to Festivia's wordless screams.

Festivia is angry, but she's also in pain. It's almost fair to say she's devastated.

At midseason Star tracks where Festivia would attack next. With her is Marco and Meteora. Festivia appears, but she only watches the trio in front of her.

"Queen Festivia the Fun, we wish to parley!"

Festivia floats down, table, chairs and a high chair appearing.

For the first time Festivia speaks. "Very well, I was always better at negotiating anyway."

Star, Marco, and Meteora hear the story once more, but this time from a side that has been tricked into silence for too long, Festivia's. At some point Meteora crawled over to Festivia who plopped her into her ghostly lap.

"To start, I never knew about the switch until now. I was sold to the Commission to replace Meteora. They raised me while I believed my parents were eaten by a monster. Grunkle Justhin raised me for a time too, he even taught me the whispering spell." Festivia pauses to take a breath. "We were at war with monsters my whole life, and there was a threat of a coup for all of my childhood. I had surrvied a few assassination attempts. Hekappo took me to travel for my saftey after an assassin got too close when I was twelve. We traveled for two years. Then when I was fourteen they officially crowned me queen, despite the title and wand being in my posession longer than I could remember. The war got worse, I sheltered every citizen. Distracted them with parties so they would be happy. I reestablished trust in the Butterfly family."

Festivia stops herself again. "I wasn't perfect, no queen was, but I didn't ask to be thrown into this life. I never asked for magic or crowns. I just wanted my family and to be happy, but I guess I never got those either."

Moon and Eclipsa interrupt with accusations and an attempted whispering spell. It sends Festivia back into attack mode.

The rest of the season shows various episodes of Star and Meteora helping Festivia heal and in turn she helps heal a part of themselves that this switch affected. Meanwhile Festivia, Moon, and Eclipsa are still at conflict. Star tries to get the two women into talking with Festivia.

Several other of the ghosts show up to talk too. Moon and Eclipsa have heart to hearts with their mothers. Star and Marco have a big discussion with Dirhhennia and Crescenta, who have already sorted out their issues with their mother in the ghostly plane.

We see Moon and Eclipsa slowly get conflicting thoughts. They get worse every time Festivia is with their daughters and doesn't attack tthem. They're still set on stopping Festivia via whispering spell.

It all comes to head in the season/show finale in the realm of magic. Mothers vs daughters in the battle over Festivia's fate.

It's here where Festivia speaks to Eclipsa for the first time.

"You know the worst part about this is that I still love you, a complete stranger who wouldn't hesitate to use the whispering spell on me. I still love a lie."

Eclipsa stops, Moon stops. They stop using their magic to hurt, and they start using it to heal.

They talk, they scream, they heal.

"I'm sorry you never got the parents or the childhood you wished for." Eclipsa tries to embrace Festivia, she's surprised when Festivia let's her.

Festivia cries, she cries for that little girl who was given a crown but only wanted a family. She cries for the girl who was only ever told lies. Festivia gets the resolution and closure the writers cheated her out of before. Moon, Eclipsa, Star, and Meteora all are in a better place for it too.

It ends with Festivia reuniting with her own daughters.

(And if we have to destroy the magic then that can be done too with Festivia showing the living Butterflys where the core of the magic is, and then joining the spell.)

[songbirdstyles]

screw my brain (’till it hurts)

summary: you and harry are spies on an assignment to pretend to be a married couple in order to take down a drug trafficking ring. the only problem? you two can’t stand each other.

warnings: smut (18+), hate sex, knifeplay, breathplay (choking), slapping, fingering, phone sex (sort of); enemies to lovers, one bed, fake dating 

song inspo.: death on two legs (dedicated to ...) - queen / back chat - queen / you’re so vain - carly simon

word count: 19.5k 

You can practically feel Harry’s anger simmering beside you, and you’re tired of it.

He’s been acting like a child since you got on the plane, his eyes narrowed and venomous and steam practically blowing out of his ears as though he’s on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum, and you’re sure if looks could kill you’d be dead a million times over again from all the staredowns he’d been trying to initiate. And you’re used to this, for the most part, but it doesn’t make you feel any less annoyed as he huffs beside you, flicking through the file on his lap.

And - look. You don’t like Harry. You can hardly even tolerate him, most of the time, and the only times you manage to be near him without gagging is when you’re on missions. Usually he’s the same way, pushing aside the mutual disdain you’ve shared from day fucking one when there’s goals to be accomplished and targets to take down but he’s just sitting here like an angry log, thumbing noisily through papers as you swipe through your phone.

He’s looking for attention, Mark would tell you - your boss is the epitome of coolness, desperate for you and Harry to get along because of his tendency to force you together on missions - and that is true. You’re just as pissed as he is and you aren’t making a show of it. No, he’s an attention seeking crybaby, and you won’t give him what he craves. Won’t even look at him.

The plane dips a bit, then, and your stomach lurches, grabbing at the armrest in between you two where Harry’s elbow rests, and he jerks it into his side as though you’d burned him. You scoff, then, the pretense of faking casualness abandoned as fast as you’d stuck to it, and you can sense him rolling his eyes at the noise.

“For Fuck’s sake,” you huff, leaning to the side so you can stare at him as you roll your eyes pointedly, and he mimics the movement. “What are you so whiny about?”

“M’not whiny,” Harry insists in a tone that’s strikingly similar to the whine he claims he doesn’t have, and you sigh before reaching over, snatching the file off of his lap. “Hey - I was readin’ that!”

“Really?” you inquire, shifting so your back is to the man next to you and he can’t read the words on the page you’re squinting at. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought you were just sitting there huffing and rolling your eyes like a baby.” After a moment where he doesn’t respond, you risk a glance backwards and are met with the back of his head full of curls as he stares out the window at the passing sunset as you whiz through the sky. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, hmm? Did Mark not put enough into the budget for hair gel and dirty shoes?”

“Oh, shut up,” he says in a wildly mature way of response, and you can hardly resist the urge to smirk at it. “F’the record, m’mad that I have t’do another mission with you.”

You nod, trailing your finger along the line of words detailing aspects about the target you know you’ll have to utilize later - he has four cats. He and his wife are on the brink of divorce. He has two daughters, and he doesn’t speak to either of them. His name is Vincent Carfield, and, boy, does he sound like a real catch - you’re so focused on reading about him that you hardly register that Harry’s started speaking again.

“Wish Mark would realize m’good enough to do shit like this on my own. Don’t need you t’come around an’ pretend to be my - my girlfriend. S’stupid.”

“Well, if you were good enough, I would be at home with cucumbers on my eyes right now instead of reading about the leader of a drug trafficking ring -”

“God, you’re a bitch -”

“And you’re an asshole -”

“Fuck you - m’calling Mark.”

You snort, leaning back in your seat as Harry fumbles in his bag at his feet for his tablet, and he shakily sets it up on his lap, tapping through the screen until he gets to the FaceTime app. “Real mature, Har, going to tattle to Mark.”

“God, not everything’s about you, narcissist - half hour out, need a debrief.”

You crane your neck to lean in front of him and look out the window, and - sure enough - you can already tell that you’re getting closer, plane dipping slowly lower and it wouldn’t be perceptible to you if he hadn’t told you. Harry’s always been a tad bit more observant than you, though you wouldn’t confess that to him if your life depended on it.

Mark answers Harry’s call within mere seconds - he’s always on high alert when you guys call, especially when you’re off on missions together - part of you suspects he’s always waiting for a call that one of you killed the other. “Hello, lovebirds,” he chirps, the pure image of relaxation as he adjusts his tie, shifting in his seat - you and Harry both roll your eyes at his nickname for the pair of you. “Surprised to see you haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out.” “Wish I did,” you mutter beneath your breath, and Harry glares at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Anyway,” Mark says, and you know he heard what you said judging from the ghost of a smile on his pale face, but he brushes past it. “When you land, you’ll have around an hour to get settled into the hotel before dinner. I’ve sent you the address to the restaurant - the target is eating there with his wife, most likely to discuss their divorce, so he’ll be feeling vulnerable and insecure -” “And that’s where I come in,” you finish, trailing your nail across the fine printed page which holds the plans the three had deliberated over for two weeks prior - compared to most of your missions it was an extraordinarily short amount of time to plan but none of you could foresee this one going anything other than disgustingly easy. If you pull through, you could be home by the end of the weekend.

“And that’s where you come in,” Mark affirms, thick rimmed glasses mirroring the image of you and Harry that he’s seeing on his screen. “Find any way to touch him - pretend to trip - and plant the audio tracker on his jacket.” You nod, and Harry drops his head against the seat with a soft sigh that nearly makes you turn and throttle him but you hold back, fingers tensing as though itching for a throat to grab. “Then you guys go back to the hotel, hold back from slaughtering each other, and listen in - he’s staying at the room next to yours.”

If this situation were occurring a year ago in your first few weeks of working as a spy perhaps you’d marvel at the seeming coincidence of Mark just happening to get you a hotel room right next to your target - but your one-year anniversary working has just come up and, as it so happens, you know he can make just about anything happen by pulling the right strings. And staying in the same hotel, on the same floor, is the perfect talking point for dinner - you’re already storing it in the back of your mind to bring up in conversation when you manage to get the tracker on his jacket -

“ - and, look, guys, I know you don’t particularly like each other,” Mark is saying when your attention snaps back to him, and Harry snorts. It’s the understatement of the century - you almost want to laugh with him. “It’s just really important that you sell yourselves as a couple. I don’t care what you have to do - share a drink or hold hands - but he needs to see you as a couple. All of his mistresses have been seemingly happily married - he’ll be more inclined to get closer with ____ if he sees you’re in a good relationship. Then, Harry, of course, can explore his hotel room - snuff out anything suspicious.”

You nod but Harry seems less convinced - his brow arches as his arms cross over his chest, and you glance over at him with confusion written over your features. “M’confused,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows. “She’s gonna fu - have an affair wit’ him, then?”

God, we fucking talked about this, you want to shout at him, to shake his shoulders until he’s dizzy. If you paid attention while we planned instead of sitting there whining that you don’t go on missions by yourself because nobody goes on missions by themselves unless they’ve been here for nearly 10 years and you’ve barely scraped three -

Mark is more patient. He just shrugs, fingers tapping away at the keyboard connecting to his screen. “Maybe - maybe not. Depends how vulnerable she can get him without resorting to sexual means.”

“Don’t think I’ll have a problem with that,” you can’t resist saying, popping the ‘p’ in problem as you smugly smirk, scratching your nails against the smooth paper you’d been reading as Harry glares at you, seemingly affronted. “Only had to resort to getting down and dirty with a target once - that asshole mob boss - everyone else is just dying to tell me their juicy little secrets. Guess it’s a perk at being good at what you do, right, Har?”

“Oh, you’re such a -”

“Children, children,” Mark interrupts the beginning of Harry’s speech about what a cunt you are, holding up his age-worn palms with mock exasperation as he stares the two of you down. “Stay civil. I’ve just booked your reservation at this Italian restaurant called Fucina’s - it’s for 7, under Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson. Vincent Carfield and his wife have a reservation for 7:30 but have a tendency to arrive early. They requested seating in a more private area, as did I, so you should be able to hear their conversations -”

The conversation rolls on for another few minutes until the pilot announces that you’re landing in ten, and that’s Mark’s cue to sign off - with a fleeting inquiry about any questions the pair of you may have he’s gone, wishing you good luck and making you promise to call him after dinner once you’ve set up the tracker and begun listening to your mark. You don’t suspect you’ll forget to - you and Harry generally can’t be in an enclosed environment together for too long without having overwhelming desires to take each other out, and Mark balances you out. Eases the two of you, calms you down, even when you’re so angry at Harry you want nothing more than to stamp your feet on the ground and scream.

It’s how you feel now, a bit, as Harry shuts his tablet and shoves it back into his bag with a dramatic huff after Mark has signed off. He’s angry about something again, surely relating to you and the mission and how he constantly feels snubbed by Mark but, truthfully, as the plane dips lower and lower to the Earth, you find that you really, really, don’t care.

 ~~

 The hotel room is, for all intents and purposes, fairly large. It’s nicer than a significant portion of the ones you two inhabit on missions and you should be grateful, toeing off your boots in the entrance of the suite, that it has a functioning kitchen and a bathroom with a door that closes and an L shaped couch facing the television (based on the description of the suite Mark had sent), but your mood has been entirely soured by Harry’s sore attitude during the drive from the airport to the hotel.

He drops his suitcase against the carpeted ground of the entrance, and it slams onto the ground so close to your sock-covered toes that you jump back, glaring at him as he pointedly ignores you and descends further into the hotel room, peeking his curly head into the kitchen and the bathroom. You watch him as you rest your suitcase against the wall, nudging his closer to the wall with your foot before following him, already tugging your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check for any new texts from your boss when -

“You’ve got t’be fucking kidding me.”

You arch your eyebrows, tilting your phone into your chest as you turn the corner into the main living area. And it’s nice, eyes wandering over the couch that Mark had told you about, and the TV mounted to the wall with a Roku connected to it that you’re sure you’ll take advantage of later tonight. The carpet is soft beneath your feet even through your socks, and the bed is nicely made, pillows fluffy and looking soft -

Bed.

Shit.

What a bastard, Mark is - booking a room with only one bed? And not even telling you two about it? God, you could kill him. You really could, and you will, as soon as you get back to headquarters and see his stupid bald head in person - you’ll throttle him. Or shoot him. Hell, you’ll even stab him.

“You’re taking the couch,” you tell Harry, and before he can protest you take a running start to leap onto the bed, plopping onto your back and tucking your arms beneath your scalp. “Looks real comfy, doesn’t it? The bed - not the couch. Couch looks like it’ll kill your back.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry practically snarls, voice all venom and teeth, and he sits at the edge of the bed anyway, hands going up to loosen at the black tie wrapped tight around his neck. “So entitled - I’ll take the fucking bed. Been here longer than you, y’know - just ‘cause y’like t’act like you’re so good -”

“And yet,” you interrupt, bringing your foot up to kick at his side, and he turns around and glares at you, “I’m the one getting put on assignments with you, even though I’ve hardly been here a year. Oh, yeah, what’s that Mark told us? I was put on duty the quickest than anyone else after finishing my assignments?” You screw up your eyes as though trying to fact check yourself before nodding, smiling at the positively hateful expression on your partner’s face. “Guess I am good.”

He opens his mouth to reply and perhaps he assumes better of it - he simply rolls his eyes, pulling his tie off of his neck and dropping it on the ground beside him. For a moment you simply stare at him as he peels his jacket off, littering it on the floor in a similar fashion as his tie, until he’s merely donning a white button down and his black dress pants, hair messy and face light red. 

Sometimes you do that - you watch him - because it’s nice to see him look so peaceful and silent when you’re used to spewing hatred back and forth. You could even be into him if he kept his mouth taped shut and promised to never make a single noise, but he would never comply with it - and you’re sure you’d find a reason to get pissed off at him if he didn’t speak.

You hadn’t realized how long you’d been staring at him until he turns around, and your gazes lock, and you lift your eyebrows.

“Don’t stare at me,” Harry demands, backing up on the bed until his head rests on the pillow beside you - you turn your head to stare at him, affronted. “Told you - m’taking the bed. An’ m’gonna take a nap f’a half hour- already set the timer on m’phone - so you can either take the couch or sit here right beside me.”

You push yourself onto your elbows, glaring down at the man beside you who closes his eyes (rather smugly, you’ll add) and mimics your own previous position, arms tucked beside his head. “You dickhead.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Fine by me.”

“I’m gonna nap too -”

“Go ahead -”

“And I stretch out a lot when I sleep.”

“How ever will I handle it?”

You’ve seem to run out of responses, furrowing your eyebrows as Harry’s face settles into an expression of slight comfort and you wonder if he really has gone to bed, resting in the button down shirt and dress pants that he’s always itching to get out of at the end of the day. You’ve had to watch him undress with absolutely no shame in front of your far too many times for comfort, shoved into small hotel rooms together but at least they had two beds - you can hardly control your heart rate as you stare down at him.

(Because you’re angry, of course. Whenever he’s acting like a dumbass your heartbeat quickens to match the pace of a fucking freight train, and that’s nearly every time you’ve ever had to talk to him.)

After a moment you rest back on the bed beside him, head dangerously close to the center of the two pillows where you can feel Harry’s curls, spread upon his pillows, brushing against the sides of your temples. With every feel of his hair against your skin you feel your anger rising, and you exhale softly, pressing your palms to the top of your stomach as you listen to his steady breathing beside you.

He sounds too peaceful.

You wait nearly ten minutes before beginning your plan of attack, not nearly as meticulously planned as the ones you and Harry will employ later - you slowly begin to spread your legs out, feeling your calf brush against his foot, and your arms follow in a similar pattern. They stretch outwards, forearm thrown across his neck, and you can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing against your skin but he doesn’t take the bait - doesn’t even move a muscle, and you can feel his even breathing against your arm.

For a second you wonder if he really is asleep. You’d be surprised.

It’s uncomfortable sleeping on your back and that’s your justification for rolling over onto your stomach, body halfway on top of Harry’s, chest pressed against his and face buried into the pillow beside him so your nose presses into his hair, softly inhaling the fruity shampoo he uses. Your arm lazily throws itself across his torso, leg nudging his until they fall off the bed, and he grunts.

“What th’fuck are y’doing?” Harry questions gruffly, voice just raspy enough to make you consider the very real possibility that he truly had fallen asleep, and you don’t respond. “Get off me, dumbass - tryin’ t’sleep.”

You remain silent. You work on steadying your breathing, faking sleep in the way that you’ve mastered over the past year (and a half, if you count the six months of training you’d done before beginning work) - on one of your earliest missions you’d pretended to be passed out in the back of a work party you’d seduced your way into with a tape recorder taped to your underboob and you’d been able to get enough recording of a conversation between two sleazy old men to support your hypothesis that their paper company was a front for a sex trafficking ring. You suspect this case should be likely the same, albeit easier and likely without the work party, and you’ll breeze through it like nobody’s business if it requires fake sleeping like you’re doing now.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” he correctly deduces, lifting his arm to slam it against your back entirely too hard and you nibble on your bottom lip to keep from making any type of noise at the slight pain the motion brings. “Get off me. Go t’the couch - stop being so stubborn.”

You mumble something incoherent under your breath, digging your face further into your pillow just to hear the way he hisses as you (un)intentionally tug at his hair. You feel his hands dig into your sides and before you can pull off of him he pushes you away with as much force as he can muster, and you’re send tossed to the other end of the bed, grappling at the duvet to stop yourself from slipping over the edge of the bed onto the carpet.

“Fuck,” you hiss, pushing yourself to sit out with your legs stuck straight out in front of you. With a glare directed towards the man opposite you you pull your legs back and push them towards him sharply, kicking him directly in his thigh, and his legs tumble off the bed, forcing him to sit up to maintain his balance. “Take that, dipshit.”

“Can’t you do better than that?” Harry questions, tone so mocking and condescending that you push yourself to his knees just as he rises to stand, the top button of his shirt mercifully coming undone, and you resist the urge to glance at it every so often. “C’mon, babe - if you’re gonna be a bitch -”

You push yourself to stand on top of the covers, taking a leap towards Harry where he stands on the other side of the bed, and your legs hook around his torso, effectively catching him by surprise as his hands immediately land on your waist, tugging you off of him and throwing you onto the bed with an ease that shouldn’t surprise you after this long of knowing him but it still knocks the breath out of you. His body hovers above you, pinning your arms above your head but you won’t have that - hook your legs around the back of his thighs and force him onto his back, throwing your legs over his torso as you mimic the position he’d trapped you in.

“1…” you begin counting tauntingly as you stare down at his face, reaching down to grab his wrists and hold them above his head, watching as he wriggles beneath you, his stomach tensing against your core. “2 … not even gonna put up a fight? What an agent you are -”

He practically growls at that, jerking his hands upward until they slip out of your grasp, nearly whacking you in the chin before he pushes himself up. You’re slammed into the headboard before you can even stop to think of your counterattack, back slamming into the wood as you drop your head forward to ensure you don’t knock your head into the wall, and Harry kneels in front of you with an exasperated, smug smirk, reaching up to press his forearm over your throat.

He’s not pressing hard - not enough to constrict your breathing at all, merely to hold your head in place - and after a second he begins counting just as you had - “1 … 2 … 3.”

You struggle uselessly against him until he reaches the final number, and a satisfied smile etches itself across his face before he pulls away, resting back on his knees to watch you huff before him before he begins crawling off the bed. “An’ I think that means that you, m’lady, have t’take the couch -”

You deliver one final swift kick to the back of Harry’s needs, and he tumbles off of the bed onto the ground with a cry, knees dropping onto the carpet and hands instinctively pressing to the wall he’d nearly slammed his head into. His position becomes one similar to a prayer, dropping his head forward against the wall with a dramatic groan.

“I won,” you tell him, flopping onto your back on the bed with a satisfied hum. “Get on the couch - reckon we still have a good 10 minutes left of our nap.”

Harry pushes himself to his feet in the blink of an eye, turning around with a look on his face that’s so serious you nearly want to double over in laughter, and as he plants his knees on the edge of the bed to resume the fight you’d had earlier, a sudden noise from the wall opposite your bed causes you to hold your palm out to him, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

“Shh!” you hiss, pushing yourself onto your elbows as Harry furrows his eyebrows, craning his neck towards the wall as though it’ll help him hear better. “D’you hear that?”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, pondering the muffled noises coming from the hotel room next door. “Wha’?” Harry questions after a moment, voice hushed and soft, and you wait a moment before responding.

“The shower -” and, sure enough, just as the thought crosses your mind and the words leave your mouth you know that that’s the noise you’re hearing - the sound of water streaming onto the buff body of Vincent Carfield or perhaps his wife - “what time is it?”

“Uh -” Harry scrambles off the bed, digging through his backpack thrown on the ground until he can pull out his tablet, and the light shines on his face as he turns it on. “6:34.”

“Shit,” you hiss, rolling off the bed and practically darting out to the entrance hall where your suitcase rests against the wall, and you knock it to the ground and unzip it quickly. “Vincent’s already getting ready - we need to be at the restaurant soon. How fast can you get ready?”

“Pretty fast -” by the time Harry’s made his way into the entrance hall to dig through the suitcase he’d attempted to hit you with earlier you’ve peeled off your clothes, dropping them in a pile by your feet until you’re clad in only your bra and a pair of lace panties that leave entirely too little to the imagination, holster holding your knife firm against your thigh, and he freezes. “Christ. Can’t y’get a room f’that?”

“Oh, says the one who strips naked in the middle of the room every single night!” You shake your head, digging through your suitcase until you can find the black dress you’d packed specifically for dinner - it’s folded and mercifully wrinkle free, and you unzip the back to begin stepping into it. “Get ready. I’m going to do my makeup.”

“Make sure y’put a lot on - don’t wanna scare him off -”

“Shut up, Harry!”

 ~~

 Fucina’s is dark and fancy, with hosts dressed in all black and waitresses in a similar fashion. You would almost feel out of place, your arm hooked with Harry’s as you’re led through the main dining room towards the back where your table is, but it’s not any more elegant than any of the other expensive restaurants and galas the pair of you have infiltrated together, and with your tight dress and his suit, you look like exactly the couple to eat and afford a restaurant like this.

“The pasta’s $65,” Harry murmurs, trailing his fingertip down the laminated menu that you can hardly see in the dim light of the restaurant. You squint down at the page, bringing your head closer down to confirm that, yes, the fettuccine truly is that fucking expensive, and - not for the first time - you’re immensely grateful for the headquarters-mandated debit cards that you’ll use to pay for this. “Y’see that? The fettuccine?”

“Yeah,” you nod, though you’re not looking at the menu any longer - your eyes scan the restaurant behind Harry’s back, and of the three other tables in the private section Mark had requested for Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson to be in, none of them are occupied except yours. You and Harry had gotten there ten minutes late, much to Mark’s chagrin when you called him in the taxi, and the Carfields still hadn’t arrived. “Think I’m just gonna get a salad - not too hungry, anyway.”

“Me too.”

The conversation drains into a weird sort of silence - not awkward, and not malicious, either, as all of your silences usually are typically the result of one of you purposely ignoring the other. It’s harder to air out your disdain for each other when you’re supposed to be a couple that’s hopelessly in love in a high class restaurant, and you find that you don’t have much else to talk about with your partner besides discussing either the mission or whatever he’s doing that may be pissing you off at the moment -

He actually looks nice right now. Calm, collected - if you didn’t know better you’d say he looks like a pretty stand-up guy. The kind you’d take home to your mom.

“Why are y’lookin’ at me?” Harry questions, then, glancing up at you, and you internally curse at yourself - you always tend to forget how good he is at identifying someone staring at him. 

“Just thinking about how much I prefer you when you aren’t speaking,” you tell him, voice dropping lower as a host clad in black leads an older couple into the area, sitting them at a table towards the window as Harry rolls his eyes. You lift your water glass to your lips, taking a slow sip as you attempt to inconspicuously decipher if the couple is your target -

“You’re being so obvious,” Harry hisses, voice soft like a breath and yet still retaining all the venom his words always tend to hold. “Is it them?”

“No,” you decide, resting your glass back on your coaster as you slide your chair further into the table, foot accidentally kicking his ankle as you do - his face contorts in both annoyance and pain as he repeats the motion to you. “No - Carfield’s wife is young, isn’t she?”

“27.”

“Yeah.” The wife currently settling into her seat, draping her jacket over the back of her chair, is decidedly not 27 - add 50 years, or so. “Not them. They should be here soon, though.” 

“Good.”

In another moment your waitress has come to take your drink orders - you get a bottle of red wine just to hammer in the notion that you’re a young couple on a date night, even if you really prefer white wine, and you’re sure Harry would rather have a beer, but Mark always tells you to go for red when you’re out to dinner on missions. And - well - you’re not necessarily complaining. Wine is wine.

The wine arrives at your table with two tall glasses and Harry takes it to pour with a faux cheerful grin that has the waitress flushing in the dim light of the room - you tell yourself the tinge of jealousy at her clear adoration for the man currently uncorking the bottle to pour for you is simply because of how in character you are in terms of your fake marriage - and if you were someone else, perhaps you’d get angry at her for clearly flirting with Harry, though he doesn’t seem to notice.

Strange. You’d always taken him as the more observant one of the two of you, but he’s paying no mind to the waitress’s blushed face as he pours wine into your glass and she pulls out her notepad, ready to take your order.

“I’ll have the caesar salad, please, without chicken,” you tell her, giving a tight lipped grin as she scribbles it down onto her page. When Harry’s rested the bottle of wine back on the tablecloth-clad table, you reach over and rest your hand overtop of his, feeling his veins jump beneath your touch. “What about you, honey?”

If he’s confused, he doesn’t look it - just gives you a warm smile that feels entirely wrong coming from him, and the waitress looks positively affronted as he orders a large Mediterannean salad, and when she’s tucked her notebook back into the apron tied around her waist and left the private area, he furrows his eyebrows at you.

“Y’jealous?” Harry inquires, leaning his head in with a mocking grin that makes you roll your eyes, though you make no effort to move your hand from his - it looks better for appearances, anyway. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“In your dreams,” you insist, straightening your posture once a different hostess leads a couple into the room. The man is old, bald head shining in the dim light and donning a suit jacket that clearly hasn’t been tailored to his proportions, and his wife is significantly younger, pale face flushed red and wearing a black dress that looks as though she’s attending a funeral - you suppose she is, to some degree, mourning her marriage, so perhaps it’s fitting.

Harry can tell by the way you straighten up that the new couple sitting at the table behind him is the Carfields. Vincent sits with his back to your table, his wife on the opposite side, and immediately they lean their heads together, surely speaking in hushed tones about - prenuptial agreements and custody of their two girls and the like.

You need to be a couple. Mark had insisted on it, that it’s the most important part for you to get closer to Vincent and make him susceptible to your manipulation - he needs to see you as some sort of forbidden fruit - a married woman with a seemingly happy husband. It’s a control thing for him, and one you need to play into if you want to take his drug ring down.

It would sound like an ambitious goal if you weren’t as confident in yourself and Harry - because even if you hate him, he’s a damn good agent.

Your eyes meet Harry’s across the table, and he raises an eyebrow. You nod, jerking your head up and down before wrapping your manicured fingers around the stem of your wine glass, lifting it up and giving your partner a soft smile - one that he’s rarely on the receiving end of, if you’re being truthful - and you nod your chin towards his glass. Harry follows your lead, lifting his glass and raising it to clink against yours.

“Cheers,” he murmurs, and both of you sip from your glasses before resting them back down on your coasters, the rim of your glass decorated with a generous pink stain from your lipstick. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

His voice raises in volume just a bit, and from the table behind him you can see tears fill Mrs. Carfield’s eyes at the sentiment of a happy couple, and Mr. Carfield’s head tilts to the side though you don’t watch him long enough to see if he’d heard Harry - you simply smile - lift your intertwined hands in the air and to anyone else in your private area you’re sure you simply look the perfect part of a happy couple, celebrating their marriage anniversary. Two years together. Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson have been married for longer than you’ve known (and despised) Harry - surely there’s irony hidden in there, deep enough that you can’t see it.

It’s easier than you’d like to admit to fake a meaningful conversation with Harry. Mark generally gives the pair of you a list of things to talk about so people get the impression that you can tolerate each other but you typically don’t even need it - it’s easy enough to talk about your faux plans for the rest of your marriage.

It’s almost fun, even. Not in a way you’d expect - but it’s funny, talking about whatever the pair of you would imagine married couples would discuss - mortgages and trying for babies and politics - keeping your voices loud enough so the couple behind you can hear but quiet enough so it doesn’t seem intentional.

“D’you think we could turn the guest room into a nursery?” Harry inquires, lips quirking upwards as he lifts his wine to his lips, and you nibble on your bottom lip, pretending to contemplate the question.

“Of course,” you respond faux-thoughtfully, leaning forward just a bit, and his eyes flicker downwards for hardly a second before rising to meet your eyes again. “Or perhaps the office.”

“Yes, that’s a bit bigger,” he says seriously, and you nod, reaching for your glass of wine to take another small sip. It’s bitter and leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you’re determined to drink the entire thing - it’ll soothe the nerves that you’re sure will arrive when it’s time to plant the bug on Mr. Carfield. You still haven’t figured out how you’ll manage to do it smoothly. “Then perhaps we could save the guest room for the second.”

You nod, hardly able to keep the small smile off your lips, and Harry leans forward, reaching for the stem of his glass - perhaps he miscalculates the force needed to pick up a glass, or maybe he’s beginning to feel the effects of the first glass of wine he’d downed - but his hand knocks into the glass, sending it toppling forward onto your arms, sticky red liquid coating your skin. You jerk your arms back as though he’d burned you, watching him hiss as he reaches for the glass before it can spill any further onto you or the white tablecloth now stained with redness.

You swallow the urge to snap at him - that’s counterproductive, and it’ll blow your cover - so you merely inhale, willing the anger down as you reach for your napkin to begin to mop up the mess. “Should watch what you’re doing, honey -”

“My bad, darling - didn’t mean to -”

And the moment of you beginning to like Harry is gone as fast as it had begun, feeling the simmering anger that’s ever-present beneath your skin already beginning to bubble into existence. He’s looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if this is your fault that he can’t control his own glass, like you’re the nuisance, and your desire to retort snarkily is thwarted only as Vincent Carfield’s head turns just slightly to the side, and you can see him and his wife watching the pair of you in what’s clearly an attempt to be subtle.

You rest your palms on the table as Harry sets his glass back on the coaster, and you can feel the similar waves of annoyance rolling off of him that you’re sure you’re mirroring. “I’m going to go clean myself up,” you tell him. “Excuse me for a moment, sweetheart.”

“Take your time, princess.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you push your chair back with a tight lipped smile, standing up and resting your napkin on the table before your seat as you push past the table towards the bathroom you’d passed when your host had lead you to the table.

The restrooms are nicely decorated, with large mirrors and sinks and two singular stalls - entirely too fancy for the thoughts racing through your mind as you lean over the sink, turning the faucet on and shoving your sticky arms beneath the flow of warm water. You’d managed to clean most of the wine with your napkin but you still just need - perhaps just a moment to yourself, without Harry’s eyes piercing into you in a way that makes it impossible to feel like he doesn’t want to throttle you.

And you want to throttle him, too. That’s why your relationship works because it doesn’t, because you hate him as much as he hates you - and yet, while you were drinking wine and messing around and pretending to be a couple you didn’t hate him. Not even a bit -

Until he spilled the wine. It’s a forcible reminder of why you want to shave off all of his hair when he sleeps, sometimes.

The water has gone cold on your skin when you finally shut the faucet off, picking up a small stack of paper towels to dry off your arms. When you’ve chucked your trash in the wicker-basket garbage bin you take a moment to simply stare at yourself in the mirror, black dress hugging your body just enough to leave very little to the imagination - you adjust the fabric to hide the bulge where you have your knife holstered to your thigh. The cut of the dress dips low into your cleavage - and then you recall how Harry’s eyes had briefly dipped downwards when you’d been talking earlier -

A smile twitches at your lips. You’ll have to remember to use that one against him later.

Just before you turn to leave you pause - stick your hand down the front of your dress to the small audio device you’d hidden in your bra. The bug is small, barely the size of your pinky nail, one side sticky enough to hold onto Vincent Carfield’s tan suit jacket -

You hadn’t thought too much about how you’d manage to subtly get the device on him, but there’s no time like the present, is there?

You leave the bathroom, then - nearly run into your waitress as she stares down at her notepad, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining the dirty look she shoots you - and climb the two short steps it takes to get to the private area you’d been seated in. Harry’s back faces you, curls looking particularly messy and head dropped forward to surely stare at his phone, and you can see Vincent leaning in to talk to his wife with narrowed eyes and a hushed tone.

You inhale and begin your walk over to the table, heels clicking on the tiled floor, and Harry’s head tilts to the side as he hears you coming. Vincent’s eyes rise to meet yours just as your heel slides a bit on the floor and you slip forward right beside their table, and the plan falls into action just as you’d planned in the thirty second walk it had taken to get from the bathroom to here.

Vincent’s arm sticks out instinctively to catch you, wrapped around your stomach for just a moment too long as his other hand rests on your back, and you use the opportunity to reach up and grab his shoulder as a way to steady yourself. Harry jerks around in his seat to watch you, and the concern in his eyes almost makes you revive your brief moment of liking him but it’s overpowered by the pride you feel - if he can’t immediately snuff out that the fall was a fraud, then it had clearly looked realistic enough that the Carfields wouldn’t be able to tell, your hand with the bug pressing to his shoulder

Boom. Planted. Your grip presses the bug against the back of his shoulder as he helps you to your feet, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes trail up your body - his poor wife looks affronted at the clear display of attraction.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” you apologize, trailing your finger down his arm as he drops his hands back to the table. “I’m so clumsy sometimes -”

“No worries,” he assures you, and perhaps he would seem like a kind, well-adjusted man if it weren’t for the way his eyes zero in on your chest like a magnet - Harry shifts in his seat, watching the two of you, and his wife picks up her glass of wine and downs it in one sip. “Always glad to help a pretty girl in need.”

A blush works its way up your cheeks and before you can flirt back - it raises bile in the back of your throat to do it - Harry intervenes, leaning forward with a goddamn award winning smile and absolutely stomping on your chance to ensure some sort of relationship with Mr. Carfield as he says, “Did she wrinkle your suit at all? We’ll get the laundry bill, if she did.”

You grind your teeth together through a smile as Vincent shakes his bald head, sending Harry a warm smile which your partner gladly reciprocates. “It’s fine - are the two of you married?”

Didn’t he hear you two loudly celebrating your anniversary? Perhaps he just needs to confirm it - nothing wrong with it - but, God, he’s forward.

“Yes, we are,” you reply, and you step away from Vincent to walk back to your table - Harry reaches for your hand and pulls you to him, and you suspect the motion would look awkward if done by anyone else but it feels entirely too natural for you to be bothered. “It’s our two year marriage anniversary, actually. That’s why we’re here - on vacation.”

“That’s lovely,” Vincent says, and his smile stretches wider until it makes you uncomfortable to look at so you busy yourself gazing down at Harry’s head as though you’re so smitten you can hardly stand to look away. Then he holds out his hand, and you grab it, letting him shake it vigorously before he moves towards Harry. “It’s Vincent Carfield,” he tells you both, and Harry jumps in to introduce yourselves by your false names. “How long are you here?” “Just th’weekend,” Harry responds, nodding as Vincent does. “We’re staying downtown.”

“Really?” Vincent leans forward, and you lean your body back just a bit - not enough for him to notice, thankfully. “What hotel?”

And Harry gives him the name and Vincent acts as though it’s the wildest coincidence in the world that you both happen to be staying at one of the nicest, most popular hotels in London but you’re glad he overreacts, in a way. It’s important to establish some sort of relation between the two of you and maybe this’ll make Vincent feel like he’s destined to start some sort of affair with you - sure, it’s stupid, but he’s insecure and you’re ‘married’ and that should make him feel a bit more in control, knowing there’s a man waiting for you when you’re with him.

The thought could nearly make you gag. You hope beyond hope that it doesn’t have to get to it - that maybe the two of you could just sit and talk while Harry searches his hotel room - but, judging from the way he’s practically salivating as he stares up at you, you don’t think that’ll be the case.

After another moment of chatter your waitress arrives with a large plate of salad in each hand - you let go of Harry’s hand with one last departing wink to Vincent Carfield as you walk around the table to your seat, pushing your seat into the table just as your salad is placed before you.

Vincent’s wife glares at you - you’d feel bad in any other scenario. But - hey - at least they’re getting divorced already.

You pick up your fork, stabbing into a crouton and a few pieces of iceberg lettuce, and you raise it to your mouth, chewing thoughtfully on your food as Harry mirrors your actions. The two of you eat in silence for a minute or two, and you occasionally lift your wine to take a sip - he hadn’t poured himself a new glass, for which you are extremely grateful - before he leans in, curls flopping around his ears in a way that would be adorable if you didn’t have any sort of niggling annoyance for him still lingering.

“Good job, Mrs. Robinson,” murmurs Harry into a forkful of lettuce before shoving it into his mouth, and you scrunch your nose at his sloppiness.

“It’s what I’m best at,” you respond in earnest, and you relish in the way he rolls his eyes.

 ~~

 Harry takes forever in the shower.

It’s an indisputable fact at this point and one you should have gotten used to but it never fails to amaze you as your fingers type away at the headquarters-issued laptop resting on the carpet in front of you. He’s already been in the bathroom for nearly 20 minutes - you can hear his music playing, old hippie music that’s always blaring from his earbuds on plane and car rides, and steam billows out of the crack in the bottom of the door - and you’ve been picking up where he left up setting up the audio transmitter you’d attached to Vincent Carfield so you can hear what he’s saying, wired earbuds plugged into the computer preparation for when you start the audio.

Harry hadn’t done much at all to set it up - you can’t imagine what he was doing in the hotel room while you were showering if he wasn’t working on the mission, but you’d come out after your shower and hardly anything was done.

They should come up with better technology for this, you think as you drum your fingernails against your laptop, watching the small loading bar inch across the computer screen, transmitting the audio from next door to both your laptop and to Mark, back at headquarters. You’d texted him briefly to ask if he still wanted you to call him and he told you to merely connect the audio to him and there would be no issues - well, that’s fine by you, even if you’d largely counted on him coming between you and Harry when you’ll inevitably want to kill him later tonight.

The water shuts off. You roll your eyes for a good few seconds as you hear the shower curtain being shoved open from inside the bathroom, and you lean further into the computer before you, squinting at the loading bar that hasn’t progressed further since the last time you examined it. You sigh - push yourself off of the floor, arms stretched above your head and the sleeves of your t-shirt slide further down your shoulders. You’re simply donning a worn college shirt you’d gotten when you were in high school and still had dreams of attending a typical university - dreams that, evidently, you had squashed in the years to come - and a pair of sleep shorts, their waist just a tad too big on you and you’ve tugged them up further than they should rest.

It’s decidedly chilly in the hotel. The steam dissipating through the room from Harry’s shower serves as the only way to heat you up, humid air warm on your skin, and you hate the way you almost appreciate him for taking such a piping hot shower - but the thought doesn’t have to linger too long before the bathroom door opens with the force of a fucking bullet and Harry walks out, towel tied around his waist and hanging low on his hips, sopping curls brushed and resting on his shoulders, droplets from the strands rolling down his chest.

Your stomach flips. 

“Christ,” you say as a way of hiding the way your skin suddenly feels like there’s a fire lighting it from the inside out, burning your insides with it. “Don’t have any clothes to put on?”

He rolls his eyes - you swallow thickly, perching yourself on the edge of the bed as he takes a moment to stop and glance at the computer on the ground before turning back to you. “Changing in the bathroom is gross,” and - well, yeah, you have to agree with that. “Y’practically stripped naked in front f’me earlier, y’know.”

“You did it first,” you mutter, pulling your legs to cross beneath you as Harry crosses the room to the full length mirror mounted on the wall, fingers running through his wet curls, and you tear your eyes away from the water dripping onto his bare skin with only mild difficulty. “The audio is loading.”

“I saw that, believe it or not.”

Dick. You bite your tongue, though, and resist the urge to retort that he’d clearly not even started to set up the transmitter while you were showering, because the loading bar has moved nearly to the end of the screen while you’d been conversing with Harry. You climb off the bed, kneeling in front of the computer as Harry looks down at you, and you distinctly feel a drop from his hair land on the top of your head.

“S’done?” he inquires, and you glance up at him to reply but he’s already plopping down next to you, leaning over you to squint at the screen so you get a nice whiff of the hotel soap he’d used and his own distinct scent of shampoo - it’s fruity, mixed with something musky you can’t decipher - maybe tobacco? It’s hard to tell - he smells good. You wonder if he’s noticed how still you’ve gotten but then he pulls away, leaning back on his arm while you clear your throat and lean forward, tapping the mousepad on your laptop a few times in quick succession. “You’ve got it hooked to Mark?”

“‘Course,” you say, if only to regain your composure and keep your pretense of light annoyance with him. “Probably why it’s taking so long.”

“Ah.”

Then he stands, crossing to the entrance hall where his suitcase is opened, clothes folded meticulously because he’s nothing if not a freak for his clothes - out of the corner of your eye you see him pull out a pair of pajama pants and only a pair of pajama pants, and when his head turns to glance back at you, you’re quick to avert your gaze back to the computer -

Which has loaded. Hooray!

“It’s done,” you call to him, a decibel too loud and you’re quick to lower your voice with a small glance to the wall separating you and the Carfields. Earlier, you’d heard their door slam when they got home from dinner and you could make out their faint voices arguing if you focused hard enough - you don’t want them to hear you. “Get changed and we can listen.”

You pick up one of the earbuds connected to the laptop and shove it in your ear, fiddling with the volume buttons until it’s loud enough that you can hear their conversations as Harry ducks back into the bathroom. Clearly the coat with the bug has been folded in such a way that it muffles their voices but hell, it’s a strong bug, and you can still manage to hear them fine enough.

You send a text to Mark, and he confirms he can hear it too - you toss your phone to the side, letting it slide across the carpet as you lean in, adjusting the earbud in your ear.

Vincent’s voice is what you hear first - he’s talking fast, as though he’s in a rush, and your brows furrow.

“The new shipment isn’t set to come in until the first,” he says, tone hushed and soft, and you can’t hear his wife’s response after a moment of listening, and then he continues. “Think, you idiot! She’s trying to milk me for everything I’ve got - everything we’ve worked for -”

For a brief moment you wonder who she is, but after another few moments with no response you figure that he isn’t talking to his wife as you’d expected - he’s on the phone with someone, speaking of his divorce. A business partner - of course. The bathroom door opens, and your eyes shift to Harry’s figure as you hold out the available earbud for him.

Fuck. He’s gonna fucking kill you - not with his hands or with his gun but with those fucking pants, so low on his hips you can see the trail of hair leading beneath the plaid fabric, the tie done loose and casual. He’s not wearing a shirt, tattoos on full display for you to ogle if you had the time to, and you don’t, of course, but it doesn’t stop your eyes from roaming over his torso, throat feeling suddenly dry as he pads over to you on the ground, dropping to his knees beside you.

“Are you checking me out?” Harry questions, a soft smirk dancing on his lips and you roll your eyes, dangling the earbud for him to grab and he finally takes it, placing it in his left ear just as Vincent begins to speak again.

“Never,” you murmur, and if that isn’t the furthest from the truth you could get to you’re not quite sure what is. “Listen to him - I’m going to the bathroom.” And, as you push yourself to stand and walk towards the bathroom, you swear you can hear him murmur slacker beneath his breath but - well - you don’t need to respond to everything he says sometimes.

Truthfully, yes. You did have to pee. And when you’re done with that you turn on the faucet to wash your hands and you stare at the bathroom mirror that’s still damp from the steam of his shower, edges still frosted with the humidity, and it makes your reflection fuzzy as you look at yourself.

What the fuck? Seriously - what the fuck?

There’s a pressure in your lower stomach and a neediness between your thighs that you can only assign to Harry’s freshly-showered, no-shirt-low-pants appearance and it has shame bubbling under your skin mixed with some other feeling you don’t care enough to figure out. You’re feeling very strange things for Harry - things you’ve never felt for him, ever, in the entire year of knowing him - and you’re almost completely positive he doesn’t feel the same, doesn’t have the same desire to bend you over this sink -

Almost. But almost is very close to absolutely positive.

You feel embarrassed for yourself as you glance around the sink. His hairbrush sits on the counter, and there are so many assorted beauty products scattered across the surface that you can’t tell which ones are yours or his.

The lotion is his, you decide. You don’t use unscented lotion - but you reach for it anyway, squirting a dollop onto your palms and rubbing it in for a reason you’re not entirely sure of. When your hands are as soft as they’re going to get you glance at yourself in the mirror again, shirt baggy and long, the ends of your shorts peeking beneath the fabric.

You reach up, pulling the waistband of your shorts up until they aren’t visible beneath the ends of your shirt, exposing your legs until it appears you’re wearing no sleep shorts beneath the shirt. It’s more comfortable like that, anyway, you tell yourself, which isn’t quite true, before pushing the bathroom door open and walking back out to where Harry’s perched on the floor.

He turns to look at you, and you don’t miss the way his eyes crawl up your legs but he’s a bit more subtle about it than you’re sure you were - his bottom lip looks a deeper shade of red than the top and you wonder if he’d been biting it.

You decide not to repeat his retort about checking you out, even if you’re almost entirely sure he was.

“How’s it going?” you inquire, picking up your earbud to begin listening again. The wire connecting the two buds is short and you shift closer to him until the tip of your kneecap brushes his - you’d expected him to jerk away like you’d fucking stepped on him but he doesn’t, surprisingly. “Got anything juicy?”

“Jus’ vague references t’shipments and goods - they’re trying t’trace his call, see who he’s talking to.” You nod, resting your chin on your palm as Vincent drones on about exactly what Harry had said - the only substantial piece of evidence you have pointing to his business being a coverup for a drug trafficking scheme is references to obscene amounts of money he fears losing to his ex-wife that he would’ve never been able to obtain working at a privately-owned tailory. 

For ten minutes Vincent’s phone call remains as a bit of a drag and, truthfully, a rather large waste of time in your opinion - this is stuff you’d already known, including the shipment coming in a week’s time that you know headquarters will be able to intercept - and you’ve just begun to pull out your earbud to retreat to the bathroom once more to brush your teeth when Harry’s arm jerks towards you, fingers wrapping around your wrist and effectively preventing you from rising.

“Jesus hell,” you hiss, dropping back down onto the ground as you shove your earbud back in, “what -?”

But then Vincent is speaking again.

“ - look, buddy,” he says, voice suddenly dropped lower so that Harry reaches out, tapping the volume button a few times until you can hear him properly, “met this girl at dinner tonight, out with Bonnie. Real cute - body like a fuckin’ goddess.”

Your cheeks flush as a small smirk spreads across Harry’s face.

Vincent pauses, clearly awaiting his business partner’s response to this shocking bit of news, and when he speaks again he sounds more annoyed. “Fuckin’ done with Bonnie - I’m a free agent, Jules.”

You snap at Harry, but he’s already fishing for his phone, pulling up the notes app and jotting down the name Jules in a fresh page.

“Can fuck whoever I want to, now, and I swear, you’d die if you saw her.” You can practically picture the scumbag’s face as he says it, all smug and arrogant - as though you’d ever give him the time of a day if you weren’t being fucking paid for it. “Staying at the same hotel too, with her husband.”

Another pause. “Jules, do you think I give a shit about husbands? Remember Mia, in LA? The one married to that big fella? She was all over me.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile even as your stomach continues to churn in disgust, and Harry exhales softly, resting his phone on top of his knee. Clearly, Vincent’s conversation with Jules has turned from fighting for nearly fifteen minutes about shipments and payments to you and it’s entirely less important but it still piques your interest more. The gritty details of their shipping is for Mark to handle back at headquarters - you need to make sure you can distract Vincent long enough for Harry to search his room.

“ - and, man, you should’ve seen the eyes this girl was giving me - and her husband was all over her, too, checkin’ her out but she was still looking at me -”

You nearly choke at that, head whipping to the side to look at Harry, and he’s doing a sufficient job of furrowing his eyebrows and looking entirely confused at Vincent’s words but you don’t believe him for a moment. Checking you out - God, and you had the nerve to feel embarrassed for your desire for him. A month ago you may have been truly annoyed at Vincent’s observation but it only fuels the fire igniting in your core as Harry puts on his pretense of adjusting his earbuds, tips of his ears bright red as he pointedly avoids your gaze, and you bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning.

“I’ll let you go. God, don’t sound so pretentious - didn’t you hook up with that French chick who was married to the boxer? - Yeah, that’s what I thought -”

You’re much less interested in Vincent’s conversations now, pulling your earbud out and standing up, arms stretched high above your head as Harry stays, leaning against the ground with one arm. After a moment, though, Vincent must have ended his phone call - Harry shuts the laptop and pulls his earbud out, standing up, and your gazes meet for a moment.

“Vincent’s an idiot,” he tells you, flush creeping up his neck, and you nod.

“Is he?’

“Y’know he was just saying that so he seemed cool, right?”

“Said what?”

Harry rolls his eyes, then, and you can’t stop the smirk from gracing your lips once more as he crosses across the hotel room, collapsing onto his back onto the bed, and you furrow your eyebrows as you watch him. “Didn’t check you out.”

“I didn’t say you did.” He doesn’t respond, and you sit yourself on the edge of the bed, glaring down at his slumped figure. “You’re not getting the bed.”

“‘Course I am. We fought it out, remember?”

“And we didn’t finish.”

“We absolutely did,” and then he pushes himself to sit up, leaning against the headboard, and it takes more willpower than you possess to keep your eyes from roaming his body but you resist with everything in you - you’ll just about die if he calls you out for checking him out. “I beat you. I had y’against the headboard.”

“That was inconclusive.”

“Get on the couch.”

You narrow your eyes at him and he narrows his right back, staring into his fucking soul because you’ll be damned if you sleep on the couch, even if it makes logistical sense because he is taller than you - but, no. You’re the one who could possibly have to fuck Vincent Carfield in all his glory. You deserve the bed, size be damned.

In the end, you blink first, and come bedtime, you’re nestled on the couch with blankets you’d found in the hotel wardrobe.

You hate Harry.

 ~~

 The couch is extremely uncomfortable. It’s what you’d expected but your back still aches in pain when you wake up at 3 in the fucking morning, blankets dangling off the edge of the cushions you’re bundled on top of, and the pillow your head was resting on has slipped off onto the ground.

The room is pitch black as you groan, the noise purposefully loud, reaching down until your fingers graze the edge of the pillow - but your grip is slow, tired, and as you pick up the pillow to throw it back behind your head it slips from your grasp, dropping onto the ground and bouncing against the carpet until it’s resting a solid six feet from the couch.

Do you really need a pillow? You’re not sure, but you desperately don’t want to have to get up and get it because you know your sleepiness will melt away before you can even think about it, and, more than anything, you desire going back to sleep in order to try and be well rested for tomorrow. 

You reach down and pull your clump of blankets back up over yourself, pulling your knees further against your chest so the entire area of the blankets coats your body. Your head rests against the flat cushion, pillow be damned, and you shift again until your back is rested flat against the cushion as well, legs sticking straight out in front of you, the couch creaking at the movement.

The blankets don’t cover your legs - you push one of them down until they’re situated onto your feet, collectively covering your entire body even if it isn’t necessarily warm. At least they’re blanketed to some degree.

After ten minutes of trying to go back to bed, you pointedly decide that yes, you really do need a pillow, and immediately. Your neck already aches with the uncomfortable position and your ears feel chilly without being pressed into the soft pillow you’d snatched from the bed Harry is currently sleeping on - the bastard. He’d practically suffocated you with his smug gazes before he fell asleep, curled on top of the bed that he’d (rightfully) claimed as his after an arm wrestle, rock paper scissors game, and a half-hearted second attempt at a wrestling match - you’d lost all three.

Whatever. You’d been determined not to sulk at your losses before returning to the couch, trying not to let Harry see you mope but now you wish you’d made a bigger show of your disappointment - perhaps he’d have caved and taken the couch, but you’re sure he’d have stayed firm no matter what.

You slowly push yourself off of the couch, creeping across the room towards where your pillow rests on the ground, and you pick it up, clutching it tight to your chest before returning to the couch. You press it against the cushion, punching it a few times to attempt to soften it before huffing softly, lying yourself back down and tugging your blankets tight back up against you.

The next ten minutes goes by much as the night had previously - you can’t find a good position, turning onto your side and your back and your stomach until you’re hardly sure which way you’re facing, at this point, face buried tight against your pillow. You long for not much more than a soft bed for your back to rest into and you’re sure you’ll be a sore, tired disaster tomorrow when you manage to find Vincent Carfield in the hotel.

You turn to your side, the couch squeaking beneath the shift in your weight, and your body tenses when you hear a soft groan from the lump wrapped in covers on top of the bed, his silhouette illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window into the hotel room.

“How much longer are y’gonna move?” Harry grunts, voice low and raspy and you swallow when you hear it - if you close your eyes and listen to him speak, you could almost imagine him sounding like that in a very different scenario - “Keepin’ me up.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” you retort, voice soft and crackling with your yearning to sleep. “If you’d like to take the couch so I stop tossing and turning, I’d much appreciate it.”

He exhales softly, the noise sounding so deep and pornographic it makes your stomach flip. “In your dreams.”

You narrow your eyes as you stare at him, duvet pulled up to his chest and head turned to the side towards you - in the dark you can’t tell if his eyes are shut or if he’s looking at you. For a moment you decide not to say anything, hands crossed over your stomach, and then you shift loudly onto your back, couch creaking, and Harry sighs just as you’d anticipated.

“Please,” he begins, tone low and pleading, and you cut him off before he can continue.

“Not my fault the couch is loud, Har.”

“You’re doin’ it on purpose.”

“Of course I’m not,” you tell him, shifting again so another noise permeates the air of the hotel room. “The couch is just noisy - and uncomfortable.”

There’s a rather pregnant pause after that and you keep your eyes on Harry, watching the way he shifts onto his back, opening up a rather small sliver of space beside him and your heart practically leaps at the sight but you don’t say anything else - simply roll back onto your side, the couch creaking as you do, and he sighs again.

It seems like he sighs a lot.

“If I invite you into my bed,” Harry begins, and a small smile begins tugging your lips upwards even if you want to groan at his usage of the word my, “you’ll promise t’be quiet an’ go t’sleep?”

God, he sounds like your mother. “Yes,” you tell him, clutching the blankets wrapped around your torso. “I promise.”

Another pause. “Then - then y’can come. We can share.”

You try not to look too eager. Masking your emotions is, perhaps, the most important aspect of your job and yet you’re sure you look just as excited as you feel, pushing yourself to your feet with your blankets wrapped around your body, pillow stowed beneath your arm. Your feet pad across the carpet, toes sinking into the plushness of the floor before you make it to the bed, and Harry’s staring up at you, face contorted in a mixture of emotions you can’t decipher.

“Not gonna scooch over, then?” you question, resting your pillow against the bed and hitting it a few times. 

“Y’have room, don’t you?”

And the answer is that you don’t, of course. When you lie yourself down on the bed your legs knock into Harry’s, head so close to his you can feel his curls grazing your face, and the duvet you pull up your chin smells like him, distinctly. His elbow juts into your side - your cold foot rests against his warm one - you don’t think you’ve ever touched him this much outside of a mission.

You drape your clump of blankets over your body, partially resting on top of Harry, smoothing your palms over the fabric with a contented sigh. Your back is thanking you for the switch in sleeping spots and your neck sinks into the pillow and mattress, aches already beginning to alleviate themselves.

“Still need me t’move?” Harry asks, and you shut your eyes, nearly missing the way his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he rests himself back against the bed.

“No,” you murmur, and there’s another moment of silence before he mumbles his affirmation. Tomorrow you’re sure you’ll regret this - sleeping beside him, even if that’s all you do - feeling him pressed against parts of your body you’d never expected to feel his touch on.

Well, you’d rather deal with the tinge of embarrassment (and pride) than an achy back and lack of sleep - you smile slightly.

 ~~

 The next morning comes entirely too soon for your liking - sunlight peeking through the windows permeates your eyelids until you’re groaning awake, palm pressed against your eyes to block the light and face burying itself back into your pillow.

Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. If your alarm doesn’t go off, then it’s not morning. Surely you have a few more hours of rest before you need to get up - even a couple more minutes will do -

Just as the thought crosses your mind your phone blares its alarm, the loud noise jolting you up like a bucket of ice water, and, from behind you, Harry grunts into his pillow.

Behind you.

You’re quick to silence your alarm - another nine full minutes of peaceful resting, if you’re lucky, before you’re disturbed again, though you’re sure you won’t get back to bed now that you’ve remembered the events of last night. 

Harry’s arm is heavy, draped over your midsection, the soft surface of his cheek buried intently into the crevice between your neck and shoulder - you can feel his soft breathing against your skin, the air a warm and gentle sensation. One of his legs has wedged itself between yours, thigh pressed entirely too high in the crevice between your thighs, and with every moment that passes you can feel the rise and fall of his bare chest as he snores behind you.

What a fucking sight, you think, sitting up slightly to look down at him. God, if he were awake, you’d tease him until he cries about what a position the pair of you had worked yourselves into but you have the foresight to see how that would backfire on you - technically, you’re just as to blame as he is, even if he’s the bigger spoon right now.

But you’re most decidedly not to blame for the hardness pressing into your lower back, tearing a sleepy groan from Harry’s throat when you shift in your position.

The bastard. He’s hard as a fucking rock from pressing against you while you slept, and a sleepy smirk spreads across your face as you glance down at him. In any other circumstance you think you’d poke him awake just to make him aware of it but there’s a certain air of desire you’re feeling as well that makes you feel - well, not as though you’re in the appropriate position to make fun of him for his boner.

Slowly, you disentangle yourself from his body. His leg drops to the mattress when you swing your own off the edge of the bed, his arm falling until it’s resting in your lap, palm pressed against a certain area that makes your breath hitch, furrowing your eyebrows as you glance down at his hand. There are still fading, pink indents from the rings he takes off every night and before every mission, save for the fake wedding band the two of you often have to don on missions, and you scrunch your nose as you admire it.

Married. You don’t think so. The only time you think of him with anything other than hatred is when he’s asleep, like this - or shirtless.

You stand up, shaking your head to wipe those thoughts from your mind. Harry’s hand drops onto the mattress and you can tell it’s the push he needed into consciousness - you glance back at him to see his eyes cracked open, and they shut when your gazes meet.

“‘Morning,” you tell him, voice louder than you’d intended, and he winces at the noise, shifting onto his back - it’s as though you can see the exact moment he realizes his little problem mixed with the realization that you would also know about it, pressed up against him during the night - his eyes widen ever so slightly, and he pushes himself to lean against the headboard, bundling his duvet onto his lap. 

“Um - g’morning,” Harry replies, voice raspy like it had been the night prior and your stomach turns - you shift on your feet. “Y’goin’ t’the bathroom?”

“You can go first,” you say, and he nods, bringing fists up to rub at his eyes. And then - because you just can’t help pissing him off when you have such a golden opportunity - you add, “Think you might need it a bit more than I do.”

His face reddens.

 ~~

 Earpiece. Knife. Boobs.

You go through the things you need on a mental checklist as you pick up your forkful of scrambled eggs, chewing thoughtfully on the bite. The hotel restaurant is nearly completely full, couples and families packed into the small tables as they feast on their complimentary breakfasts, chatter filling the section. You’ve been sitting eating (truthfully, delicious) breakfast for the better half of an hour, bringing your plate up to the buffet to refill your platter of eggs, fruit, and toast.

Realistically, you would have eaten and left had you not been waiting for a very specific somebody to walk in and catch your eye. You and Harry had plugged back into the bug in Vincent’s room to hear him planning to go down for complimentary breakfast - the only clue you had as to how he wanted to spend his day - and it was the only opportunity you had to find him. Get him out of his room - talking, if possible - so Harry can search it.

It’s such an easy plan, you could practically do it in your sleep.

“Is he there yet?” inquires a crackling voice from your earpiece, disguised as an earring dangling from your lobes.

“No,” you murmur, voice soft as a whisper, and you’re sure he can’t hear your response until he sighs.

“Takin’ his time, isn’t he?”

“Mhm.”

You pick up your glass of orange juice, raising the cup to rouge-stained lips as you take a sip. When you rest it back down on the table, there’s a light red stain on the glass - you wipe it away with a manicured thumb, leaning back in your seat, legs crossed. Your eyes scan the restaurant again, lingering on any newcomers leaning against the wall in case you can pinpoint the man you’re searching for - wide frame, untailored suits, bald head that shines in the artificial light.

(Complimentary breakfast ends at 10, and it’s 9:48. It’s safe to say that you’re getting nervous.)

Your nerves, however, are soothed just a bit when a familiar figure makes his way into the dining hall - tall and haughty, phone pressed to his sweaty head, Vincent Carfield is the image of a stressed businessman, recently divorced and searching for a young, married woman who’d given him eyes last night. His suit is baggy, buttons of the jacket undone and his white button up has sweat stains spreading from the armpits, visible with his arm lifted up to his ear. Instinctively your back straightens, tugging down the top of your lace top so that the top of your cleavage shows - it seems to be your greatest weapon, dealing with a man like Carfield.

You lower your gaze to your phone clutched in your hand but you can still sense exactly the moment his eyes land on you. In your peripheral vision you watch him straighten up, lips moving quickly before his phone is shoved into his pocket, weaving his way between circular tables until he’s standing beside you, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes never meet yours - his gaze stays on a point eerily similar to your chest.

“Is he there?” Harry questions, and you clear your throat - it’s the symbol you’d decided on to mean yes if you can’t speak.

“Vincent,” you begin, faux smile spreading across your face, and a similar one lands on his features. He reaches for your hand and you give it to him, watching him press chapped, dry lips to the back of your palm, and the urge to scrunch your nose at the feeling is almost overwhelming. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you,” he says, and you drop your hand back to the tablecloth resting on your table. “Can I sit?”

“Of course,” you reply, and he pulls out the empty seat across from you, resting with a soft grunt. “Breakfast ends in a few minutes, though - you’re welcome to have some of mine, if you’re hungry.”

He obliges, reaching to pull your plate to him, and you watch as he picks up your buttered toast, taking a large bite and smacking his lips as he chews. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward ever so slightly. “And why is that?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Vincent tells you, and in your earpiece, Harry snorts at his words - you hope you didn’t jump too hard at his sudden noises in your ear. “I hoped I wasn’t getting the wrong idea at dinner, last night -”

“What idea were you getting?”

“That you were interested in me,” and you tilt your head to the side, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth - if Harry could see the act you’re playing right now, you’d be humiliated. At least he can only hear it. “I saw the eyes you were giving me - not even worried ‘bout your husband seeing?”

“He’s too dense to notice,” you say, a smile tilting your lips up as Harry groans - from his side of the earpiece you can hear bustling mixed with the sound of a door opening, and you assume he’s just entered Vincent’s apartment. He needs at least a half hour, Mark had told you - breakfast ends in nearly five minutes, and you need somewhere else to take Carfield. “You know, Vince - is it okay if I call you Vince?”

“I don’t think he cares what you call him,” mumbles Harry, so quiet you’re sure he’s hardly even intending for you to hear it, “as long as you have your hand down his pants in the next ten minutes.”

Your cheeks flush as Vincent smiles, leaning back in his seat as he finishes off your toast. “Call me whatever you want to,” he tells you, and you can practically hear Harry rolling his eyes through your earpiece.

“Alright, Vince - breakfast is ending in a few minutes, and I desperately hope we can keep talking.” He nods along with your words, leaning in as he pushes his plate to the center of the table - all that’s left is the fruit and the remnants of your eggs. “Do you think we could go up to my room? My husband is off visiting some family members across London - he won’t be home for hours.”

“Hours?”

“Hours,” you confirm, nodding as you take another sip of your orange juice - this time you don’t wipe the lipstick stain off of your glass, and you watch his eyes follow the mark as you lower the glass back to the table. “Can we go, Vince?”

Clearly he isn’t thinking clearly enough to question how curious it is that you’d had similar feelings for him without much trouble at all - instead, he smiles like a boy on Christmas morning. He practically knocks the table in his rush to stand up - you watch a red blush creep up his neck to his ears as he grabs it, steadying the wobbling surface, and you pretend you hadn’t noticed when he holds his hand out for you. You allow him to take your hand in his and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping a secure arm around your waist, palm stretched across your hips so his fingertips creep up the hem of your lace shirt.

“Are you going to our room?” questions Harry in your ear, and there’s a few scuffling noises on the other end that makes you internally cringe as Vincent begins weaving the pair of you between tables that are now emptying as complimentary breakfast reaches its end. “____? ‘Y’goin’ t’our room?”

You clear your throat once, and Vincent glances over at you with an amused glance on his face as the two of you make your way out of the restaurant. “Are you okay, darling?”

The pet name makes you cringe internally and you give him a soft smile as you approach the hallway full of elevators, available to take you to any of the available thirteen residential floors of the hotel - Vincent presses the button to go up, and you wait for the doors to open. “I’m great.”

“Make sure he doesn’t want to stop in his room,” Harry mutters, and you swallow, your smile not faltering. You want to tell Harry to make sure he’s completely quiet in his endeavors in Vincent’s room but you’re sure he already knows - you can’t risk Vincent hearing a strange noise while you’re attempting to distract him.

The elevator doors open, and Vincent pulls you inside with a grip on your waist like a vise. He glances at the array of buttons available to press, and looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s floor 13,” you tell him, and he smiles, pressing the button until it glows.

“Floor 13? That’s where I’m staying, too,” he says, and you nod in mock-surprise -

“What a surprise,” Harry snorts in your ear, and you can’t stop the smirk from spreading across your face.

 ~~

 There’s a thick thigh pressed between both of yours, sweaty palms slid beneath your lace top, and you don’t think you’ve ever found a man’s touch less desirable in your  life - and, for whoever may be keeping a record, this job has required you to get up close and personal with more skeevy men that you’d expected when you’d applied.

The only thing keeping a blissed out look on your face is your focus on the soft noises coming from the other end of your earpiece as Vincent lands wet, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, tongue laving over your skin - hearing Harry’s occasional quiet breathing and muffled noises as he searches the hotel room next to yours makes this entirely worth it.

Against your throat, Vincent moans, and the noise is throaty and loud - you can hear Harry stifling a laugh directly into your ear, and the noise sends a chill rolling up your spine. Clearly, Vincent thinks your involuntary movement was for him - his hands grasp on your tits entirely too hard to be pleasurable and you bite back the urge to tell him so. “Such a dirty girl,” he tells you.

You rest your head back against the wall he has you pressed against with a moan that sounds entirely fake from your throat. You can almost imagine how Harry’s going to make fun of this when he sees you next, and your stomach turns when you think about it for a reason you can’t quite decipher. “Fuck,” you say, forcing your voice to a near whine, and you swear you can hear Harry’s voice hitch through your piece but you’re not sure. “Feels - so good.”

The lie sounds natural off of your lips as Vincent’s knee jabs into your clit - the pressure is a pain rather than a pleasure and your breath hitches as you try not to cry out. He chuckles against your skin, clearly taking your soft sign of pain as an emblem of pleasure, and you shut your eyes as his teeth graze the veins in your neck.

“No way,” breathes Harry, and your ears perk up - had he found something in Vincent’s room? “S’he actually good at that?”

You want to snort at that. Of course he isn’t good but the thought of Harry listening spurs you on more than it should - you roll your hips against Vincent’s thigh with a soft moan, higher pitched than your last one, and the man on the other end of your earpiece exhales.

“That sounded fake,” Harry says, voice soft and light, and you want to slam your head into the wall so he knows that he’s starting to piss you off from next door. “So he’s not makin’ y’feel good?”

You practically freeze. If Vincent wasn’t tugging your shirt up to expose your tits to the cold air of your hotel room, you’re sure you would have forgotten where you were completely. Those words from Harry’s mouth mixed with an edge of venom isn’t what you’d expected him to say at all - on the contrary, you’d think he was fucking with you, trying to work you up to embarrass you if you couldn’t hear his little moans that he’s clearly trying to silence.

Is he worked up? Because you can work with that.

You drop your head back to whack against the wall with a loud moan as Vincent’s clammy lips press to the fabric of your bra. Your hand goes up to press to the back of his bald head, fingernails scratching against his sweaty scalp and you wish - not for the first time - that you were feeling thick, chocolate-toned curls beneath your fingers instead, tugging on them as his tongue lavished you. Though, in your mind, it’s more teeth and grit and anger because you’re sure you’d find a way to be angry with Harry even if his mouth were on your tits - it’s one of your special skills - in every fantasy you’ve had of your partner it’s violent and harsh.

“Fuck,” grunts a voice from your earpiece, and hardly a moment later Vincent groans a similar noise as you rock your hips against his thigh. Thankfully he seems to be getting a decent amount of pleasure just making out with your boobs like a teenage boy and - maybe, if Harry is quick enough in his search of his hotel room - you won’t have to fuck him at all. It’ll be a Christmas miracle (a month early, but a miracle nonetheless.) “Are y’fuckin’ him?”

You whimper, Harry’s voice shooting from your ear directly down to your cunt and your clit and you feel wetness soaking your knickers, pressed against Vincent’s thigh though it may as well be the arm of a couch for how it affects you - the only pleasure you get from Vincent’s hard body against yours is the urge to close your eyes and imagine it’s Harry.

“No, you’re not,” says Harry, and there’s a soft clatter in your earpiece - surely he’s dropped something from the room next door and you tense. Surely Vincent hadn’t heard it, teeth still gnashing against your bra, and he seems too distracted to pay attention to it. “M’hard as a fuckin’ rock, ____ - thinkin’ of you, gettin’ off on my voice, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you exhale, and Vincent glances up at you, thick brows furrowed in confusion. You swallow, focusing on giving yourself a satisfied expression, and he turns back to your chest, seemingly convinced of your pleasure. “Yes - making me feel so good.”

Harry groans in your ear, and you wonder, suddenly, if he’s jerking off - if he’s leaning against Vincent Carfield’s bed, hand pumping up and down his cock as he listens to you. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, or leaning against the wall like you are, his breathing picking up as sweat drips down his forehead - 

“Gonna fuck you,” Vincent mumbles against your boobs, and you scrunch your nose. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Just -” you swallow, and Harry snickers in your ear, the soft laugh breathy and groaning. “Just wait, feels so good -”

“Don’t fuck him,” says Harry, and there’s a few more jostling noises on the other end mixed with another soft moan - you have a sudden image of him, digging through Vincent Carfield’s possessions with a firm hand around his cock and you feel the result of that imagery stricken straight down to your clit like a fucking lightning bolt until you’re crying out, and your orgasm is on you so embarrassingly fast you could sob in embarrassment. “I’m almost there -”

You’re not sure if he means he’s almost about to cum or if he’s almost found something to convict Vincent - you’re not entirely sure which interpretation you’d prefer. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, the words sour on your tongue as Vincent glances up at you with a wicked smile, jolting his thigh further up into your clit, and you furrow your eyebrows at the pain the motion brings. “Fuck, H - Vincent.”

“Y’were gonna say m’name,” Harry hisses, and you squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment coursing through your veins. You almost fucked everything up. “Cum. Let Vincent think he made y’cum - go ahead - do it.”

And - fuck. Who are you to disobey? You grind your core down on Vincent’s thigh with a throaty cry, and your orgasm rushes over you with an embarrassing waterfall of pleasure and shame. Never have you cum so easily and it wasn’t even Harry’s touch - simply his voice, his groans as he listens to you come undone - and, in the end, the only thing to pull you from your high is Vincent’s eyes boring into yours, eyebrows raised and lips parted as he pulls his face from your chest with a most satisfied expression on his face.

You want to smack it off of him - if you hadn’t already cum, that look would’ve stopped you in your tracks. As it is, it slows the aftershocks of your release into dull nothingness while Harry moans in your earpiece, his noises a mere backdrop to the sudden growing sounds of scuffling and jostling, and his sharp gasp is loud enough for Vincent’s head to snap up.

“Did you hear that?” Vincent questions - Harry curses into your earpiece.

“I found something,” Harry tells you, voice dropped to a low whisper. “I found - s’under his mattress - m’calling Mark!”

A small smile spreads across your face at his words. It’s done. He’s found something worthy enough to convict Vincent Carfield, and that’s enough for you to press your palms to his chest, pushing him away from you so forcefully that he stumbles over the carpet, back slamming into the edge of your bed as he falls to the ground. His expression is so confuddled as he stares up at you that, for a moment, you marvel at his lack of self awareness - in an instant you’re reaching up the hem of your skirt to the knife in its holder strapped to your thigh, and you pull the blade out to point at Vincent Carfield, in your ear a myriad of Harry’s delighted cheers of, “I’ve found it!”

 ~~

 Wrapping up a mission isn’t nearly as speedy as you’d like - there’s debriefs and paperwork to complete once Vincent is done and arrested, phone confiscated along with the drugs found in his hotel room by your partner, and physical evaluations to determine whether you’d been hurt, and a long phone call with Mark where he congratulated the pair of you.

Not only for taking down Vincent Carfield, your boss had said, his voice booming and cheerful, but for making it out without killing each other.

If only he knew.

Your plane is set to leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, and if you were more reasonable perhaps you’d heade Mark’s advice to go straight to sleep and set an alarm for 3 AM but you’ve never been too bright in that regard. You finish your last debrief in the hotel restaurant, Harry working diligently beside you, and it’s at nearly 9 PM that the pair of you pack up your work and begin to head upstairs.

The elevator ride is silent when Harry reaches to press the button for your floor. Your room had been closed for you to visit for the better part of the afternoon until Vincent’s had been properly searched, though Harry had gladly given the authorities everything he’d found without a moment of hesitation. Tiredness creaks at your bones but here - standing beside Harry, feeling his gaze boring into the side of your face - you desire nothing less than to go to sleep.

“Good work, Mr. Robinson,” you tell him, and he raises his eyebrows when you turn your head to look at him. “Fairly easy mission, wasn’t it?”

“For you,” he says, and you arch your eyebrow, frown tugging your lips downwards as the elevator begins to move up. “Gettin’ off on Vincent’s thigh was the hardest part - I had t’search the room.”

For a moment you wonder if he’s kidding and certainly he’s only teasing you but you still roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Didn’t seem too difficult, moaning and crying ‘bout how hard you were. I bet I could’ve found the drugs in half the time it took you -”

“You couldn’t have,” Harry says, and you exhale sharply. 

“‘Course I could -”

“Wasn’t hidden in plain sight like everything you find.”

“So where were they?”

He pauses, and you smile down at your shoes - surely you’ve got him now. “Hidden in his computer,” Harry says, then, and your smile is wiped away in an instant. Shit, you wouldn’t have found them. “Not so smart now, are you?”

“Oh, you dick -”

The elevator doors open to your floor and Harry pushes himself off the wall, stalking out of the elevator and you jump to follow him, picking up the pace to walk beside him as he begins down the hall towards your hotel room. It’s entirely too easy, falling back into an arrangement of bickering with him as though nothing had happened - as though you hadn’t cum with his voice alone, and you’re nearly positive that he had, too.

He stops in front of your hotel door, digging in the pockets of his pants for the room key, and you cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t know why you’re actin’ so high and mighty,” he tells you, voice biting as he shoves the key card into the door’s slot - it beeps red, and he tries again. “As f’you didn’t cream your fucking pants jus’ listenin’ t’my voice.”

“I’m not acting high and mighty,” you retort, praying the burning sensation in your face isn’t visible to him but you doubt you’re that lucky. “You don’t have to be such a douche all the time - and, by the way, you came in your pants, too, didn’t you.”

It’s not a question, and Harry flings the door open, letting you walk in before he follows. In an instant, before you can march into the bedroom area to huff at how pissed he’s getting you - it is what he’s best at - there’s a tight grip on your wrist, turning you around so fast your head spins, and before you can object, Harry has you pressed against the door, hands caging you in on either side of your head.

His face is so close to yours you can smell the alcohol on his breath that he’d had while you two worked, mixed with the scent of his mint toothpaste and his shampoo, curls dropping into your face as he wedges his leg between both of yours, thigh pressed against your cunt. It’s just as Vincent had done but so different, so much better, and it tears a whine out of your throat right off the bat.

Your urge is to lean in, clash your lips together in a fury of tongue and teeth but you don’t want to make the first move - Harry can take the lead and you’ll follow, and that’s more than enough for you. So you simply drop your head back, breathing heavy as you stare into his eyes, nearly cross-eyed to meet his gaze. 

“Fuck you,” you tell him, and the words lack the venom you’d yearned for. It’s filled with more desperation and neediness than you’d anticipated, and you feel your stomach flip-flop at the smirk that spreads across Harry’s face. “Fuck you.”

His hands drop from against your head and for a moment you fear he’s going to pull away, that he’s doing this just to fuck with you but then his hands are on your legs, fingertips dancing up and down your outer thighs, fingering the hem of your skirt, and you jolt under him. “You’re so responsive,” he tells you, and you roll your eyes, dropping your head back against the door. “I love getting y’worked up.”

“Shut up,” you groan, feeling his fingers working your skirt up your legs, and the fabric brushes over the edge of your knife, still fastened to your thigh. 

“Like makin’ y’angry.”

“Shut up,” and finally Harry leans in, mouth slamming against yours until your teeth grind against his and your lips part with a shocked gasp. His tongue slips between your lips, your hands reaching up to bury in his curls and hold his face to yours. His palm slides up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist and your cheeks burn as the cold hotel room air assaults your skin, goosebumps popping up in their wake. You whimper into Harry’s lips and he pulls away, palms smoothing up and down your thighs before you feel his fingers hook against the top of your knife, and he tugs the blade out of your holster.

You watch with wary eyes as Harry brings the blade up to his eyes, examining it with narrowed eyes, his other hand still resting on your thigh, fingertips rubbing circles into your skin harsh enough that you’re sure you’ll find bruises tomorrow in the shape of his hands. Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch him and his eyes turn to yours, smile tugging his lip up.

“Y’look a bit excited, there,” Harry says - an acute observation, because you’re practically creaming your fucking panties. “Like seein’ me with your knife?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and Harry flips the knife in his hands until the blade is just an inch from the spot between both of your eyes, your orbs crossing to see it. “What are you -”

Before you can finish the question Harry presses the knife forward, the sharp edge of the plate pressed to your cheek, and you inhale sharply, swallowing thickly as he increases pressure against your skin. Fuck, this shouldn’t excite you - he’s not half as good as you are with blades - and you’re sure if he keeps going he’s going to slice you either by accident or on purpose, and it disturbs you how much that thought turns you on.

The blade drags down your skin, tracing along your jawline with pressure light enough to feel like a breath and hard enough to catch yours in your throat - Harry’s watching it with darkened eyes, watching as he lowers it down your throat, tracing it along your neck and the veins.

You drop your head back against the door with a thud, feeling the cool metal on your skin, sweaty from being pressed against him and the heat that encompasses your body until it’s all you can feel, and Harry’s just watching, watching the knife run across your skin.

Your eyes, fluttered shut, shoot open when a sudden burning sensation overtakes the top of your chest - you glance down to see Harry pulling the knife away from you, the tip decorated with just a smudge of dark, red liquid that’s mirrored on your collarbone.

“Did you -?”

“Oops,” Harry says as you bring your fingers to the small nick he’d given you, wiping away the drops of blood that spread on your chest. You raise your narrowed eyes to glare at him and you’re trying - trying so hard - to be furious with him, to get angry, to push him away and yell at him - but, fuck, feeling his thumb rub across the cut on your chest only increases the ball of pressure in your lower abdnomen as you look at him.

Your lips clash once more, more intense than before as you whine into his mouth - Harry’s free hand hoists your thigh around his waist, and when his lips move down to bite at your throat, the hand still clutching your knife pulls back before he slams the blade into the door next to you, surely taking a few of your stray hairs. You yelp, jolting your head back as you whip your head to the side to stare at the knife stuck in the door barely an inch from the side of your head, and Harry lifts his head with a smirk.

“You assho -”

Before you can finish Harry’s hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your ability to speak and you can’t help but moan at the pressure even if the noise is choked and gasping - Harry grins, moving his other hand down to your hips until he’s helping you to roll against his thigh, clit rubbing against the fabric of his pants. You tighten your thigh’s hold around his waist, pressing his torso closer to yours, and he, in turn, tightens his grasp on your neck.

“Y’like m’hand on your throat, hmm?” Harry questions, voice low and raspy like how it had been in the middle of the night except more, better and intense, and you whimper in affirmation. “Can’t even talk - can’t even say anything.”

When he finally loosens his hold on you, you gasp for air and bring your arm up to wrap around his neck again, fingers scraping through his scalp to tug his lips back to yours. Your other hand drops to the front of his pants, palm smoothing over his bulging erection before your shaky fingers begin tugging his zipper down.

“Can I tell you something?” says Harry, then, as you fumble to undo the button of his pants until you can shove your hand into the fabric, fingernails dragging along his cock through his boxers - his hips jolt into your hands.

“Yes,” you murmur in response, hand jerking up and down his dick and, even through a layer of fabric, he grunts into your lips.

“I didn’t cum,” he says, and you move your head from his, furrowing your eyebrows. “Didn’t cum, even when I heard y’with Vincent -”

“You -?”

“Didn’t wanna cum when I wasn’t buried in your cunt,” and you gasp sharply as his hand on your throat slides down your body until it’s shoved into your panties, cold fingertips dragging along your soaking folds that drip your ambrosia into his grasp. “Even f’you sounded so good, moanin’ for me - almost pathetic -”

You tighten your grip on his hair until he’s crying out, fingertips pinching your clit in your panties and you jerk your hips into his grasp at the sharp punishment. “Don’t call me that -” you moan, trembling hand pulling his boxers down over his cock while he smirks.

“Pathetic -”

“Fuck you, Harry -”

“Whimperin’ like a baby -”

You move your hand from his hair to his face, grip bruising as you grab his chin in your palm. Your fingertips squeeze his cheek as you force his head to stare at you - the lazy, cocky smile that adorns his features makes you want to throttle him, and your fingers flex against his face.

“What?” Harry questions, tone mocking and it fuels the anger in every crevice of your body as you glare at him. “Gonna hit me?”

Yes, you want to say - before you can even open your mouth, though, Harry leans in, teeth nibbling on your earlobe as he exhales, his words low and breathy, “Do it.”

Who are you to disobey him?

You bring your hand back and smack it down on his cheek with a satisfying slap that reverberates through your hotel room. His head is slapped to the side, exposing his side profile to you, and you smooth your palm over the red mark already blooming on his cheek in the shape of your handprint.

“You like to be hit, do you?” you inquire - for a moment, just a second, you feel some semblance of control over the situation, wrapping your fist around his cock once you’ve pulled his boxers down over his length. He hisses, dropping his head back, lips parted in a silent cry when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of his cock, precum dripping down his member. “Never would’ve guessed.”

And you do it again, bringing your hand up to slap his face and it tugs a louder grunt from his mouth, pressing his body further into yours until all you can feel is him, chests pressed together and cock rubbing against your cunt through the fabric of your lace panties. You bring your hand back to give him another slap but then his fingers are pulling your drenched knickers to the side, bulbous tip of his cock nudging through your folds for only a split second before he pushes himself inside of you, sheathing the entirety of his length until he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your skin.

You can’t help but sob out. It’s, really, not your fault - you can tell how it spurs him on, but before he can keep fucking you like how you’ve dreamt of he’s pulling out completely, taking a half a step away from you, cock tall and leaking. The emptiness you feel is overwhelming, even if you’d only had him in you for a few seconds at best, and objections immediately rise in your throat.

“What the fu -?”

Then he’s grabbing your throat, using his grip as leverage to force you around, cheek smushed against the wooden door frame and back pressed to his chest. His palms smooth up and down the globes of your ass, pulling the cheeks apart until the pressure burns and you throw your head back with a cry. Then he pulls his hand back - lands it back against your ass with a cracking slap that makes you jump against him - and he doesn’t give you a second to beg him to fucking do it again before he’s sliding his cock back into your folds.

“Fuck,” he practically shouts, the noise crackling and broken with arousal practically dripping from the syllable, and you drop your forehead against the door with a cry. “Fuck, so tight - knew y’would be -”

“Move, please,” you beg, tone sobbing and desperate, and Harry obliges without another second to spare - pulls out and thrusts back in, pace brutal and desperate right off the bat until you’re quivering, legs trembling when he’s only been going for a half a minute.

Oh my god. Holy fuck, it feels so good, better than you could’ve ever pictured it, his hand smoothing over your ass before landing periodic slaps to the plump skin - his hand landing on you hardly overpowers the sound of his hips smacking against your ass, filling you until you’re crying for it before leaving you empty and diving back in. You can’t do much else other than stand there on quivering legs that feel incapable of handling your weight and take it, pushing your hips back into his with every thrust until you’ve worked yourselves into a rhythm that makes your fucking head spin.

“Harry -” you gasp as he grabs hold of your hips, pulling them upwards until his cock is slamming into the sweet spot buried inside of your walls that makes you sob out, cheek slamming into the door over and over with the force of his pounding. “Harry - God -”

“What?” he practically hisses, the word full of desire and contempt in the most delicious way possible, and your knees would give out if not for his bruising grip on your hips, keeping you flush against him. 

“Har - choke me, please, want you to - to choke me -”

He stutters a groan at that, moving one of his hands from your hips - he delivers one hard smack to your ass before he’s trailing his hand up your back and around to the front of your throat, squeezing your neck once experimentally just to hear the way you moan at it before he tightens his grasp. Your resulting whimper is caught in your throat, pressing your palms to the door you’re leant up against as Harry just fucking laughs from behind you, thrusting himself into you like he was fucking born for it.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” Harry says, then, and he almost sounds in awe as he squeezes your throat tighter, tight enough that your vision goes fuzzy and your head feels light. “So filthy - knew y’would be - an’ so - so - fuckin’ - tight -”

With every word he punctuates his meaning with a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, and the hand on your hip slithers around your body until he’s pressing two fingertips to your clit, rubbing shaking, hard circles against the sensitive nub that has you jolting, arms shaking as you attempt to keep yourself up. “Oh my god,” you practically cry, and the voice sounds far away as he briefly releases his hold on your throat - a firm slap is delivered to the side of your face as you’d given him, the motion forcing your head to the side, and you sob out harder. “Fuck - do it again, please -”

He obeys you, bringing his palm back to slap your cheek again before he wraps his hand back around your throat. “M’gonna cum,” he tells you, words throaty and laced with neediness - you push your hips back against his, a loud, long whine bursting from your throat as his fingers never give up on their assault to your clit. “M’gonna fill y’up - y’want that?”

“Yes!”

“Want me t’fill you up?”

“Yes, Harry, please -!” You come undone around his cock just as his hips stutter to a close - there’s a ball of pleasure that bursts in your core, spreading warmth and euphoria through your body like a wildfire attacks a forest. Your forehead slams against the door with a moan that borders on a scream, nails scratching against the wood as though searching for something to hold onto, to ground yourself, because surely you’re far away - in fucking space - because there’s no way on Earth you could feel this good.

Behind you, Harry’s hand on your clit wraps around your waist, holding your body taut to his as you feel him spurt ribbons of cum inside of you, his release filling you up and it only prolongs yours, aftershocks rolling through you mixed with his warmth spreading through your body. His head drops against the back of yours, breath ruffling the hairs at the back of your neck, and when you finally regain the ability to breathe you’re fucking heaving, gasping for air, the once-simple process labored and desperate.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, and then he pulls out of you - you can feel his cum beginning to trickle down your inner thighs, and that mixed with the sudden emptiness in your cunt makes you exhale a low whine. Your pussy flutters around the sudden air invading it, the loss of a certain appendage filling you up glaringly obvious, and you slump against the door. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, and your knees are shaking when Harry unwraps his arm from around your waist, leaving you to fend for yourself as you try and steady your body. “Fuck.”

You hear, then, Harry walking away - surely stalking deeper into your room, perhaps lying on the bed, kicking off his shoes and beginning to tug off his shirt. You feel sudden embarrassment and heat coursing through your body as you tug the bottom of your skirt down over your ass and the tops of your thighs, walking on shaking legs into the bedroom area of your hotel room -

(Your knife can stay in the door until morning. It is, for all intents and purposes, the least of your priorities when you can’t even think straight.)

Harry’s eyes are on you when you make your way into the bedroom section, leaning up against the doorframe to hide the quivering in your legs, and you hope it looks decently natural but you’re sure it doesn’t, judging by the way his lips tremble upwards as he glances down at the shoe he’s focused on untying.

“I’m gonna shower first,” you tell him. Your throat burns with the energy of speaking after screaming your lungs out and your voice is crackling and raspy - you cough into your elbow, hoping it makes your voice sound a bit less fucked-out than it is, but you’re sure you’re not that lucky.

“Fine by me,” Harry says, kicking his sneakers off onto the ground, and he collapses onto his back onto the bed with a sigh. His pants are still undone and are pushed down his thighs, boxers pulled up over his cock, and you feel - decidedly strange, watching him post-coital, at the way his eyes shut, limbs spreading out over the mattress with a grunt. “M’takin’ the bed, though.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “What -?”

“Y’can hardly walk from how hard I fucked you. I think I deserve it.”

And - well - you can’t quite argue with that logic.

~~

TAGLIST (crossed out urls meant they didn’t show up)

@nineteenfiftyone​ @harryslilkat​ @galacticferns​ @ficrecrry​ @morethanamelodyy​ @hoeeforstyles​ @bunny-munchkin-luvs-music​ @mintchipstyles​ @sstarkme​ @thecitiesintheseas @harry-styles-l​

[chateautae]

flirt | pjm. (m)

➵ summary :  park jimin is a notorious flirt, but so are you. when you both meet at a party after weeks of back and forth, it’s a matter of time before somebody gives in

➵ pairing : jimin x reader

➵ genre :  college!au, sexual tension, smut, pwp

➵ rating : 18+

➵ word count : 4k

➵ warnings : super suggestive flirting, alcohol consumption (both parties able to consent), swearing, light dom and sub themes, soft dom!jimin, brat!reader, little bit of brat-handling, dirty talk, praising but also degradation? it’s hot i promise, use of slut, slight body worshipping, mentions of oral, jimin is hot and yes that’s a warning in itself, breast play, unprotected sex, penetrative + rough sex, bit of angsty sex, creampie cause i seem to not like it any other way

➵ a/n : and my first jimin fic is here!! dear god i love this boy to the moon and back so i got a bit carried with him lmao, hopefully this isn’t terrible cause i still need to edit it but your support and feedback are always appreciated!! <3

2 hours.

2 hours since you first came to this party. You’ve bumped into at least a hundred people, danced your legs numb, God knew how many and what concoction of drinks were inebriating your system and still, you hadn’t seen Park Jimin the whole night. 

The only reason you even dragged yourself to this party was because of him. You were initially bailing on the annual ‘one-last-hurrah-before-midterms’ party because you, like everyone else here had midterms haunting them Monday. It was Friday night and as the ever diligent student, you were planning to study over the weekend.

Though your nagging best friend Hoseok had other plans, threatening you to come with every piece of dirt he had on you until he finally sprinkled Jimin’s name into the mix. You couldn’t lie, it was the only reason you decided to hell with your education, wiggled into a barely-there dress and waltzed in with Hoseok ready to take the night on.

But when you hadn’t seen Jimin at all, you were left annoyed, pissed off and with a headache raking your brain.

Seeing him was a selfish desire, one you’d develop after realizing you had met your match when you first encountered Jimin. You were always fairly notorious for your flirtatious habits and touchiness, a sort of trademark of yours and the same was always said about a ‘Park Jimin’ unknown to you, sometimes described to be an even bigger flirt.

It automatically intrigued you, curious of what kind of rival you secretly harbored until one day, you chanced upon Hoseok who just so happened to be with Jimin. 

At first, you didn't think Jimin could be a daring flirt. He had this sweet smile and disciplined way of speaking that screamed innocent to you, his mannerisms and demeanor shy and introverted. He didn’t make big moves and so you wrote him off as just that. 

But it wasn’t until you started seeing him outside your class’ building, alone, and multiple times after that, enough for you to realize he was anything but shy or innocent.

You ended up observing that a) he was sex on legs, b) easily flipped between the persona of an angel and a demon and c) anything he did could seem flirting. 

You two hit it off without a hitch, your flirtatious tendencies meeting to form a relationship of mutual interest. It was clear as day, both your actions almost always held some sort of unknown intentions behind them, your every saying a double meaning. 

It became the norm between you two, anytime you met turning into a conversation riddled with innuendos, suggestive lip-biting or eyes that couldn’t help but wander. And you weren't stupid, you could tell he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. You two were dangerous, testing the limits of either’s control, hoping someone would give in and only left disappointed when nobody did. 

So when Hoseok mentioned this party, and graciously added Park Jimin’s name to it, you knew this was your chance. A party with buzzing bodies, loud music and copious amounts of alcohol was bound to set him off, especially if you were dressed scandalously and felt bolder with liquid courage pumping through your system.  

But it’d been 2 hours, and you hadn’t seen him all night. You were taking another shot in the kitchen, sulking by yourself and reflecting on the fact that you’d been duped by Hoseok. This party became useless to you, a mere waste of your time as you quickly discarded your cup and began stomping out of the kitchen.

You ventured further into the house to look for Hoseok’s 5’10 ass, tell him he’s the worst best friend for lying to you and that you were leaving this disappointment of a party.

You stepped around people mindfully, dodging them until you rammed smack dab into someone’s back, scrambling for an apology before looking at the unaffected victim.

Park fucking Jimin.

“Y/N!” Jimin beamed, holding a drink in his hand as he smiled widely.

“Jimin, hey! I thought you didn’t come tonight.” You attempted biting back your smile from finally finding him, shouting over the bass of the music as you met him on the dance floor.

“I just ran late. You know me, of course I’d be here!” Jimin raised his drink to his plump lips and sipped, stepping side-to-side in rhythm with the music. 

You couldn’t make him out that well, the disco lights of whatever lights system the only means of seeing him in the dark, but you swear the smirky grin on his face as he scanned you over wasn’t just a figment of your imagination, ecstatic that you already seemed to be reeling him in. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, I already had-” You didn’t get to finish your sentence as someone’s raging body stumbled into yours suddenly, sending you off balance until Jimin reached out for you cautiously.

“Woah, easy there.” Jimin’s arms quickly held you, flashing a scolding look at the person who bumped into you and pulling you towards himself. “Are you here with someone tonight?”

“Yeah, Hoseok! I was looking for him.”

“Why’s that?”

“I.. wasn’t having fun, so I wanted to leave with him.” You swiftly masked the real truth, your voice becoming less of a shout as Jimin encased you, just a few centimeters between your bodies as you peered up at him, cheeks flushed with heat and alcohol.

“Leave with him? Damn, didn’t know you two were like that.” Jimin flashed you a suggestive look, raising his eyebrows.

“Shut up, you know we’re just best friends.” You both erupted into a fit of chuckles as you hit his chest, your hand smacking against his jacket and now that you were close, registered what a meal he looked like tonight; ripped black jeans, plain white t-shirt underneath a distressed jean jacket, all pulled together sexily by his tousled hair, small hoop earrings and a Chanel necklace decorating his neck.

Dear God, how many times you’ve ached to kiss that pretty, pretty neck.

You internally groaned, habitually drawing closer to him as you enjoyed the warmth of his body, nostrils filling with the familiar scent of his intoxicating cologne.

“So I hear you wanna have some fun.” Jimin perked up, eyes amused and hands smoothing over your sides slowly after faltering from your arms.

“Are you suggesting I’ll have fun with you?”

“Of course, gorgeous, but up to you how we do that.” Jimin stepped dangerously closer to you as his voice lowered, your face tucked into his chest as his body blocked other people from touching you.

Excitement shot to your center at his use of a pet name, a common occurrence during your exchanges though his choices of which always an added thrill. 

“And what if I just want to leave and eat at a diner instead?”

“Then I’d definitely take you, food and you? A win in my book.”

You cocked an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Adding me to the mix suddenly makes it a win? I’m not the one on the menu, Park.” 

Jimin’s eyes seem to blow out, leaning down as his plushy lips ghosted your ear as he spoke, tone darkened, “We can change that, princess.”

A thrill shot throughout your body, hyper aware of his lips mere inches from your face as your heart began to race, turning towards him expectantly.

You began advancing slowly to decrease the gap between your mouths, feeling him inch forward in response, letting him hover just above your lips for a tease before you stopped, “I’d like to see you try, Park.”

Then you abruptly turned out of his hold and walked away, making it through a few people into a hallway, allowing yourself to breathe. You loved teasing Jimin, it was an incredibly entertaining pass time but dear God, did it knock the fucking wind out of you. 

You were mentally recuperating from the fact that he almost let you kiss him, distracted as you stepped away until someone suddenly snatched your arm and pinned you against the nearest wall. You were honestly shocked to see Jimin, surprised he actually took your bait and stayed on your trail to stop you. His dancing eyes held nothing but greed, evident even in the darkness of the party.

“You know just how to test people, don’t you?” Jimin warned as he narrowed his dangerous eyes at you, holding your hot-skinned wrists against the cool wall. 

“Of course I do, it makes things fun and last time I checked,”  You brought your face to his and left only an inch between you two, “that’s just what I want.”

Jimin visibly grew less tamed, glancing down towards your lips as he tried breathing controllably, “Careful what you wish for, princess. It might come true.” 

“And if that’s what I want?” You titled your head expectantly, licking your lips as you watched Jimin bite his own. He eyed you the whole time, making it a statement to drink you in every inch of you. 

You could smell the alcohol on him, assuming liquor was the only driving force behind his actions but then contemplated his level-headedness, his coherent speech and clear judgment in this moment.

Jimin was choosing to chase after you, choosing to not let you go after weeks of incessant back and fourth and you knew you were finally getting closer to exactly what you wanted. 

Park Jimin giving in. 

“You’re fucking hot.” Jimin commented, eyes eating you up hungrily.

“You’re hotter.” You grinned and leaned back against the wall, cleavage unintentionally popping out for him and Jimin’s look immediately shifted, bringing his body closer against yours.

“You look submissive as hell right now, is that what you like? To be dominated?”

“Only if you like to dominate.” 

Jimin could feel the reigns on his control snapping, biting down to contain his raw desire to fuck you. He’s been holding himself back, knowing you seemed willing on your end of the interactions but never wanting to take the leap in case it was all just an act. 

But as he watched you go along with his every comment, staring back at him with the same devious eyes and practically offering yourself to him in his hold, he knew you weren’t acting at all. 

“You talk a big game, but can you put your money where your mouth is?” Jimin leaned his hips against yours, ensuring you could feel his growing hardness. 

“My mouth can do a lot of fucking things, Park.” You jutted your hips into his.

Jimin shut his eyes frustratedly before he re-opened them, a downright obsidian colour taking them over.

“Go the fuck upstairs.” 

“Wh-”

“I said, go the fuck upstairs.” Jimin demanded, looking at you with conviction so searing you in fact did become submissive. 

“W-which room-” You didn’t complete your question as Jimin’s deft hands encased you and lifted you off the ground, bridal-style.

“Jimin-!” You exclaimed.

“Say another word and I’ll make sure you feel me in your throat.” 

You immediately swallowed your mouth shut as Jimin cluthed you to him, core alighting with desire as he carried you up the stairs. Jimin arrived at the second floor and rushed towards the first room with an ajar door, shutting it with your feet after entering.

He made towards the bed and practically threw you onto it, stepping away to lock the door before leaning against it, arms crossed and serious. 

“You sure you want this?” His voice came out considerate, no haste or pressure.

“Yes, Jimin.” 

“You’re completely sure?” 

You nodded incessantly. 

“I need your words, Y/N.”

“Yes.” You affirmed, unintentionally becoming submissive as you awaited him, and Jimin couldn't resist you, not any longer. He made towards your smaller figure on the bed and immediately crashed his lips onto yours, knee sinking into the mattress as he leaned over you, splaying you onto the bed.  

He held your wrists against the sheets, kissing you open as his plump lips worked tirelessly against your mouth. He continued to swallow you, opening up to catch all of you as he sank further downwards to feel your body arch into his.

His wet tongue glided over your lips and you welcomed him in lightspeed, letting his muscle entangle with yours hastily and you instantly loved the taste of him. 

Jimin’s kisses began deepening, exploring your mouth like he was dehydrated and your mouth was fresh water. His thigh began pressing against your core and you moaned into his mouth as Jimin disconnected from you, panting for air. 

“Don’t fucking do that.” He voiced frustratedly, his full lips swollen and pink as he tried to contain himself. 

“Do what?” 

“Fucking moan, it does shit to me.” 

“Sucks for you, I’m responsive as fuck.” You snipped as his sudden confession made you hot, squishing your thighs together. Jimin took notice and he flashed a look at your core. 

“Responsive, huh?” Jimin let go of your wrist, sliding his hand down your body before pressing his fingers to your heat through your dress. You instantly gasped, arching as you felt your walls clench around absolutely nothing. 

“J-Jimin.” you warned him weakly. 

“Mm?” Jimin paid no attention as he lowered himself to your neck and began kissing, tonguing, sucking at a spot that had you cowering and squirming underneath him. 

You groaned as your free hand tangled into his hair, hugging him to your neck as you basked in the glory of his plush lips devouring you. He was laving and nibbling at your skin, continuously kissing the area of your carotid all while rubbing his hand against your clothed cunt. Jimin began rutting his body against yours, the tip of his cock prodding you the more he moved.

“Fuck you, Jimin. This isn’t fair.” You moaned breathlessly

“As fair as it gets, princess. You wanted to see my try, yeah?” Jimin suddenly stopped his movements on your core and slid his hand up your bare thigh, only to shift your stained panties to the side and glide his fingers all over your bare pussy. You gasped Jimin’s name and tugged at his hair harshly, the alcohol hazing everything over with sensitivity and trying to sustain the sheer amount of pleasure he was rewarding you.

“N-nothing’s fair about this.”

Jimin smoothed the pads of his fingers over your slick core, eliciting your incessant gasps, “Fuck with my ego and I fuck with you, baby.” 

He was leaving purple marks all along your neck and chest, moving down to the valley of your breasts and you whined headily, hating that he had such an advantage in this position. 

You immediately grew bold enough to push him off by his chest, detaching him as Jimin looked at you confused. “Y/N, what the fu-” was all Jimin could get out before you stood up and gripped his cock through his pants, his breath immediately hitching. He looked at you with surprised eyes, growing weaker in your hold as you walked him back against a vanity in the room.

You had no clue who this room belonged to, but you could care less when you were minutes away from getting fucked by Park Jimin.

He let out breathy little moans as you palmed him, shutting his eyes in bliss as he turned harder by the second, leaning back against the counter. You planted your lips to his neck and mouthed fervently, making sure you embellished his skin with your desire for him. “F-fuck. Y/N, this isn’t fair.”

“Fuck with my ego and I fuck with you, baby.” You mocked him and began rubbing at his shaft, sucking hickies onto his pretty neck and licking over the areas your teeth grazed. Jimin continued groaning, hugging you close to him as he fisted his hands against your body, trying everything to cherish the pleasure he felt. 

The person he’s been desiring ever since he heard about you, his every nerve thrilled by your ability to counter him, match his energy of constant flirting and testing the waters, venturing further than him sometimes.

You were just so tempting and Jimin wanted every last bit of you. 

That sentiment increased when he felt your hands snake towards the belt of his jeans, unbuckling harshly with need so apparent he wanted nothing but to stuff your walls, now. 

“No, fuck off, getting inside you first.” Jimin denied your hands, capturing them in his hold.

You instantly whined, “But Jimin, want you to fuck my face.” You pouted into his neck, kissing along his collar bones as you rutted against him. 

“Fucking God, I’m destroying you for that.” Jimin wrapped you up in his arms and switched the positions, shoving you against the vanity, your ass on the edge of the counter as Jimin stood in between your spread out legs, lips meeting yours again. 

Jimin lifted the skirt of your dress up and over your backside, pooling around your waist as his hands slid over your fleshy thighs to the band of your panties. He pulled only to snap them back against your skin, the contact making you gasp.

“Why the fuck are you still wearing these?”

“And why the fuck are you still wearing clothes?” You chastised, hands greedily shoving his jacket off him even with your mouth attached to his.

Jimin didn’t allow the action to compromise your kiss either, practically ripping his jacket off and breathing hard against you as he threw it away. He then pulled his t-shirt over himself, revealing his toned, lean body underneath and only leaving his Chanel necklace hanging over his bare chest. You licked your lips at the sight of his smooth and pretty body, the outline of his abs like a work of art.

You reached out to touch him, his face and skin flushed with lust as he watched you. “You’re so hot, Jimin, so pretty.” You praised, eyes ogling him.

Jimin smirked proudly before speaking, “Your turn.”

He searched for the zipper of your dress and unzipped hastily, peeling away the top to reveal your naked breasts and now it was his turn to ogle at you.

“Fuck me, you’re prettier.” He huffed out, eyes blown out entirely.

“Probably not as pretty as your cock, let me suck.” You pouted playfully and pulled him closer to you with the back of your shins, hands greedily feeling up his bare chest.

“Only good girls get to suck my dick.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, you’re a fucking brat and a half.” Jimin started kneading your breasts, licking his lips as he watched you spread your legs wider for him and lean your head back out of pure bliss.

“I am not a brat, you just fucking take 10 years to get it on.” You snapped back, moaning in between at the way he groped your breasts, rolling the buds of your nipples with his fingertips.

“Sorry I was a fucking gentleman, didn’t know you were such a cock-hungry slut.” Jimin bit as he planted his thick lips to your perched nipple, eliciting curses from you as his tongue began swirling around, sucking teasingly.

“You just can’t fuck, isn’t it? All bark and no bite?”

Jimin scoffed darkly at that, sucking harder on your sensitive nipples before letting go with a pop. “I’ll fucking break you is why I kept holding off, you’ll regret this, princess.”

“Break me then, Jimin, please. Fuck me like you say you will, I need you.” Your arousal became unbearable as you grew hornier, rocking your hips against him for friction while he laved at either of your nipples.

“I will, baby. Get these off and I’ll fuck you so good.” Jimin tugged at your panties and you lifted your ass for him to discard them.

You unhooked Jimin’s belt and shoved into his pants, pulling his boxers and jeans down until you finally freed his leaking length, thick and throbbing to be treated.

What you always thought was right, his cock was pretty just like him. You graciously pumped him, spreading his pre-cum over the head as you watched him lean his head back, kissing under his jaw.

“So pretty, Jimin, just like you.”

Jimin stopped caring about any and everything and instantly grabbed one of your legs, spreading you wide open for him and situated himself before your entrance.

He brought a hand over yours pumping his member and moved you quicker against his hot flesh, looking down at the lewd scene and your pretty pussy aching for him.

“Look at you soaking, baby, so much prettier.” 

You moaned needily, the back of your shins urging Jimin closer to you again as you whined. “Jimin..”

“Raw?” he breathed impatiently. 

“Fuck yes, birth control.”

Jimin didn’t even take a millisecond before he was pushing against your hole, placing the hand that was pumping his member now against your pelvic bone, pressing down to feel himself sink inside of you.

You instantly careened, moaning out so loud that if there wasn’t music blaring in the house, everyone would know how stuffed Jimin made you feel.

“Fuck-Jimin! Stop doing that, it feels too fucking good..!” You nearly cried, the pressure of Jimin’s hand making you feel any and every ridge, vein and hardness of his thick cock, your walls drinking him in.

“Fuck you, this is what you get.” Jimin blurted as he buried himself to the hilt, groaning satisfyingly at your warm walls hugging him before plunging to make out with you.

Jimin began fucking you with conviction, determination to drive you insane for him as he spread you open. He thrusted fast and hard from the get-go, neglecting to set a pace knowing how much of a cock-loving brat you were. His thumb resting just above your clit dipped down to lightly play with your bud, tease it, all the while licking into your mouth and thrusting into you.

You gasped hard, so much that Jimin’s name was the only thing coherent within them and he swallowed all your sounds with his lips. Your body was on fire at the drag of his cock, shocked at how wet you were when he hadn’t even fingered or eaten you out, his cock doing all the work, leaving you only thinking of Park Jimin’s sheer power.

You wanted all of him so badly, wanted him to ruin you, destroy you like he said he would, fuck you open like he always insinuated he would.

“Jimin, please, harder! Fuck me like the brat I am, teach me a fucking lesson.”

“Princess likes it hard, huh? Want me to fuck this pussy up? Make it all mine?” Jimin’s words were so filthy they had you clutching onto him tightly, arousal gushing from you as Jimin impaled you harder, snapping into you.

His thumb continued its onslaught, your walls convulsing to his every stroke as you gripped his shoulders and kissed him, biting his plushy bottom lip as he fucked you harder.

“Mm, Jimin, fuck!” Your tits bounced as he pounded into you, taking his every thrust like a champ and he damn well shook the entire vanity, continuously drilling your hole as he gave no room for mercy. Your hands snaked into his hair and tugged, making him groan in approval and he only pushed you open wider in response.

“You pretty brat, look at you getting what you want. Fucked like the cock-loving princess you are.” Jimin breathed against your mouth, his skin slicking with sweat as he worked tirelessly against your opening, battering your pussy with an unforgiving speed.

“You would’ve gotten your dick sucked, but apparently-” you shuddered breathily, “I w-wasn’t a good girl.” You felt weak from his repeated onslaught, the bubbling pleasure in your gut keeping you going. 

“Yeah, so fucking behave and maybe I’ll let you choke on my dick.”

“Y-you stop playing games and maybe I’ll let you eat my pussy.”

Jimin only ticked his head to the side as he chuckled darkly, starting to propel his thick cock into your gut and raging at your clit so roughly, you gasped as you carved your pleasure into his skin. Jimin did the same as he bore his fingers into you, a hand squeezing your thigh harshly as he held your leg and your walls fluttered around him, moans growing higher in pitch.

“Jimin! I’m gonna-“ you didn’t even complete your sentence as your walls clamped around him, orgasm washing over you so quickly you barely realized it came. You clenched him like a vice and panted hard against his mouth, Jimin finally coming undone as well, spurts of cum painting your insides and filling you to the brim, certain he’d leak out of you for hours.

You felt stuffed, so full of him you were hazed over with post-orgasm bliss, mind unwinding from any trifling matter on Earth. Your forehead slacked against his shoulder as you both panted for air, sweating as Jimin held your weak body in his arms.

His cock remained shoved inside you, the throbbing letting up on both of you as your highs settled down.

“You..” Jimin swallowed dryly, breathing. “took me like a good girl. Maybe you can suck me off next time.”

“Next time?” You breathed labourly, turning your face towards his.

Jimin peered down at you resting against him, biting back a grin. “Of course, there’s always a next time with flirts like us.”

[amysteryspot]

Don’t know how to stop - Thomas Shelby x Fem!Reader

Prompts: 40. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I loved you.”; 69. “What do you want me to say?” + "Don't Know How to Stop" by Halestorm

Requested by: @sighonahurricane

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Changretta!Reader

Summary: “Or what, Thomas?” she interrupted him, defiance in her eyes as she glared back at him. “We both know you won’t kill me. You want revenge, want to see me suffer or you would have already killed me that night at the warehouse, in front of my father.”

Warnings: Smut/NSFW/+18, mentions of violence, swearing, there's a very brief implied reference to rape

Word Count: 2510

A/N: Not even going to try and find an excuse as to why this is longer than it should be, all you need to know is that I was in the mood. I absolutely loved to write this, but I'm feeling anxious about what you all are going to think of it. Really hope that you like it. For reference, reader is a Changretta and this is set between season three/four. Feedback is very much appreciated as always.

(Y/N) = Your Name | (Y/N/N) = Your Nickname

English is not my first language and this wasn’t proofread by a beta.

If you want to be tagged in my stories, just send me a message.

She had been the one that faced the Devil. Down on her knees in front of him, begging for her father’s life as he held the knife to her throat.

“One life for another,” she had offered, fingers curling into the fabric of his waistcoat. “You can have me. Do anything you want with me, just spare his life.”

The deal had been made that night, for reasons that Tommy still couldn’t understand, even after all these years. He wasn’t even sure if he had really considered the possibility of killing her, despite the rage clouding his mind at the time.

Vicente walked free, dragged out of the room in tears, at the expense of leaving his daughter behind, a prisoner of war.

Tommy confined her to the guest wing of Arrow House. He didn’t want to see her and be reminded of the reason why he slept in an empty bed now. It was easier to ignore her existence if he didn’t have to see her every day.

His son had other plans though. Somehow, Charlie found a way to escape his nanny and ended up finding (Y/N). Tommy knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into his son’s room to find it empty. It was safe to say that he was seeing red as he climbed down the stairs, calling for Mary and asking about the whereabouts of the nanny and the baby.

The door to her room hit the wall with a loud bang that startled both the women in there and Charlie, who was all curled up in (Y/N)’s arms.

Tommy looked at the nanny, ordering, “Take Charlie back to his room.”

She did as commanded, quickly, even though the boy didn’t seem very pleased with the idea of leaving (Y/N)’s arms. Tommy walked straight up to her, grabbing her tightly by the jaw, and almost lifting her from the ground.

“You don’t get to talk to him. You don’t even look his way or else…”

“Or what, Thomas?” she interrupted him, defiance in her eyes as she glared back at him. “We both know you won’t kill me. You want revenge, want to see me suffer or you would have already killed me that night at the warehouse, in front of my father.”

His hold on her had gone lax but he still kept his hands on her.

(Y/N) continued, “The boy came to me, I’m not going to blame a child for sins that aren’t his.”

Tommy observed her in silence for a minute. The rise and fall from her chest, the way both her hands were circling his wrist, how she didn’t show any sign of fear even though the imbalance in power was evident. He let her go, leaving the room without another world, only to be haunted by the image of her in his dreams.

“Are you going to kill her or fuck her?” Polly’s voice got him out of his trance.

He looked up at her but did not answer, because he didn’t know what to say.

Polly continued, “Because these are the two available options with you. You are either going to kill her or you’re going to fuck her. Considering that you are mourning, I would bet on the second, or you would have killed her already.”

She took a drag from her cigarette, taking her time in exhaling the smoke, before saying, “You men start wars because of your uncontrollable ego, and in the end, is always the women who pay the price of it.”

In the end, both Polly and (Y/N) were right. He didn’t kill her. His aunt’s words have made him realize something better to put a definitive end to this war between them and the Italians: a wedding. What could be worse for Vicente than having to marry his only daughter to a Shelby?

After a year of mourning, Thomas married (Y/N) Changretta, sealing the pact she had made with him for good.

They slept in separate rooms at opposite ends of the corridor. Since she was his wife now, Tommy had to get used to the idea that Charlie would have to be around her, or people would get suspicious. He had never been one to care about what people thought of him, but sometimes it was easier to maintain the appearances than to go against the norm.

If Tommy was worried about having to see her more often now that they shared the same corridor, he was wrong. (Y/N) was like a ghost. He rarely saw her outside of brief encounters whenever he was at home at the time the meals were served, the occasions when he found her in Charles’s nursery, or when she had to accompany at events.

On those occasions, (Y/N) was the image of a perfect, dutiful wife. She was well mannered and educated, making it easy for her to hold conversations with the most different people. Her charm and beauty helped her, and Tommy was surprised at how good she was at making people believe that their marriage wasn’t a sham.

His family and the staff of the house knew better though—all (Y/N) was was spoils of war.

They were surprisingly civil to each other, posing for the public eye as the perfect couple and avoiding each other like the plague at home. When they met at home, occasionally, a polite conversation could end up in a fight. Except for that night when Tommy found Charlie in (Y/N)’s arms for the first time, their arguments never turned physical.

Until one night when Tommy was especially pissed off by something business-related and ended up pressing her up between his body and the wall of her the drawing-room.

(Y/N) had never backed away from a fight, never showed any signs that she was afraid of him. But that night, that night the way she flinched when he touched her and the look of pure horror on her face as she looked at him, made Tommy let go of her immediately.

As he watched her ran away from the room, Tommy realized what must have crossed her mind, and the mere thought of it made his blood boil. The glass of whiskey that was on his desk exploded in a hundred pieces on the wall, before he retired to his room, plagued by the sight of her running away from him.

He tried to be more careful around her after that, always seeking some kind of consent from her before getting too close or touching her. Tommy would never force her to have sex with him, not for revenge, not because she was his wife.

They crossed the line from civil to friendly at some point, maybe after she sassed him because of Lizzie in front of the whole family, making everyone laugh, but he was not sure. What he did know for sure was that he started to see her as more than someone who was there because of a casualty of war somewhere along the way.

It was hard to ignore her after that. It was hard to ignore the beautiful woman navigating the corridors of his house, playing with his son in the garden, handling the staff, helping with the business. It was hard to ignore the woman he tried to avoid for so long, the woman he didn’t want to acknowledge.

He wasn’t sure at what point he had started to consider the idea to fuck her, it just happened. One night, after they arrived from a gala, fighting about something that Tommy didn’t even remember anymore, they fucked against the vanity in her room.

After that first time, it all went downhill. It was like getting high for the first time and then not being able to control the need to take another hit. (Y/N) was warm, soft, willing, and available, and Tommy decided that he wasn’t going to deny himself or his needs searching for other options when he had her right there.

Things escalated quickly and they developed some kind of silent agreement, another deal. During the day, they acted like old acquaintances, respectful, and civil to each other. But after dawn, they would seek each other out, drowning together in a desire that seemed to have no end.

That had been a long time ago, so long that he didn’t remember how it was not to have her around. Long enough for some unrequited feelings to show up.

He did his best to ignore the guy talking to (Y/N). They were hosting a dinner at Arrow House, the man talking to her was some rich bachelor from London that was being a little too friendly to Tommy’s liking. He downed the whiskey in one gulp and noticed Polly watching him, but his attention is quickly drawn back to his wife.

At the end of the night, after all the guests either left for home or to the guest wing and all that is left are the Shelby’s at the parlour, Tommy revels in the feeling of (Y/N) sitting beside him, reclining against the arm he rested behind her shoulders. From the other side of the room, Polly looks at him and smiles, like she knows something that he doesn’t.

It happens the week after the gala. They’re both getting ready for a family meeting. His room became their room, unofficially, because her things were scattered all over the place—her perfume and jewelry on the bedside table, dresses on the wardrobe, lingerie on the drawers, even the sheets smelled like her.

“Tommy,” she exclaimed in a reprehensive tone, as he pressed himself against her back, arms sneaking around her waist and preventing her from running away as his lips trailed down her neck. “What are you doing?”

“Giving some very due attention to my wife,” he answered, casually, walking them both closer to the bed.

“In broad daylight?” (Y/N) gasped, something between surprise and a protest, although she was doing very little to resist his advances.

“Want to see you,” he stated, before turning her around to kiss her.

“Your family is downstairs waiting for you,” she warned against his lips, breath uneven and fingers clutching onto his shirt.

“My family is downstairs waiting for us,” he corrected, nibbling her earlobe and smiling because of the sound she made. “Let them wait. They’re probably too occupied drinking, anyway.”

Any pretense of resistance from her part vanished when Tommy started to unbutton her dress. He was desperate to feel her skin against his, to taste her, and be inside of her. When they were both finally naked and pressed against each other on the bed, it felt like some kind of miracle.

Tommy drank her in, from the blush on her cheeks to the way her toes curled when he touched a sensitive spot on her body. All the scars, the birthmarks, the dips and curves, the softness of her skin, the heady taste of her on his tongue, and how wet she could get for him. He wanted it all, needed all of her.

He was tired to fight against it, tired of pretending that this feeling gnawing on his chest was something else.

“(Y/N/N),” he breaths against her skin, the feeling of her short nails scratching his back driving him crazy. “I love you.”

Her eyes open to stare right into his, something between surprise and uncertainty on her features. Tommy kisses her, gripping her tights a little harder to dive deeper into her.

The whimper of need that comes out of her lips makes him wild. All he can think about is how she feels, how good she feels, how right she feels. Here, underneath him, crying out his name, welcoming him into her body, scratching his back as the both of them get lost in pure pleasure.

All it takes to make her unravel is for him to press the engorged nub at the apex of her thighs. (Y/N) comes undone and brings him down with her, just a few trusts later, her walls milking him from his orgasm, his seed taking place deep inside of her for the first time in a long time because they were too lost in each other to care.

One more time they pretended, dressing in silence and walking down the stairs as nothing more than acquaintances. If his family suspected of something, they didn’t show it.

The meeting went uneventful, as planned. (Y/N) found a way to sneak out of the parlour before him and when Tommy went upstairs to his room—their room—he found it empty.

Sighing, he made his way to the other end of the corridor. He knocked one time, before letting himself in. (Y/N) was sitting in front of the vanity, taking the pins out of her hair. She was already dressed to sleep, the silk nightgown revealing her legs and a bit of the lace underneath. Their gazes met through the mirror as Tommy closes the door behind him.

“I wasn’t lying when I said that I love you.”

(Y/N) takes a deep breath, still not turning around to face him.

“Tom…”

“We’ve been dancing around this for too long, it’s time to face it.”

She sighs, a hand running through her face as she says, “What do you want me to say?”

He is in her in a heartbeat, pulling her up and pressing her against the vanity, just like the first time they had sex. Tommy takes her face in between both of his hands, nose brushing against her as he mumbles against her lips,

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Tom, I can’t. We can’t,” she protests, weekly, eyes closed and hands holding his wrists.

“A little too late for that because I don’t know how to stop this.”

“Your brother blinder my brother, Tommy. Your wife was killed because of that. I’m only here because you wanted my father that and I made a bargain with you. How this is supposed to work. What people will think?”

“Fuck what people think. We are already married, (Y/N). What happened, happened. We can’t change it. But this thing between us, this thing is real. I’ve denied myself that long enough, not going to keep pretending anymore. I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time now and I know, I know that you feel the same, so stop fighting against it and say it.”

Tommy’s lips brush against hers as he repeats himself, half plea, half command, “Say it.”

“I love you,” she whispers, eyes closed tightly as if the words will be less real if she can’t see him.

“Say it again,” he commands, nose bumping into hers while his thumbs caress her cheeks.

“I love you.”

“Again,” the sound is music to his ears and Tommy just can’t get enough of it.

(Y/N) opens her eyes, looks him in the eye, and professes, “I love you, Thomas Shelby.”

He smiles, for what feels like the first time in years, and confesses, “I love you too, Mrs. Shelby.”

.

Taglist: @stressedandbandobessed7771 @internalmess3 @theshelbyclan @giowritess @captivatedbycillianmurphy

[nevertheless-moving]

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27 Part Two - Suicidal Misunderstanding AU

Continuation of this 

By the time the hovercar finally pulled into the temple, Obi-Wan’s tremors had mostly quieted. Cody awkwardly manhandled him out the vehicle door. Obi-Wan didn’t resist; he mostly seemed to be dealing with the overwhelming situation by refusing to open his eyes. 

“Master?” Cody absently noticed that Anakin’s robe was tied modestly, with no other layers peaking out underneath; wherever he was before Cody called, he had left half-dressed and in a hurry.

Obi-Wan started shaking again, burying his face into Cody’s pauldron.

“Yeesh- you’re really a wreck,” Anakin observed bluntly but not without sympathy. “Honestly, you’re taking all the fun out of the situation. What’s the point of getting drunk if you act so pathetic that your smug padawan can’t even mock you afterwards?” Anakin hesitantly laid a hand on his master’s shoulder.

It was uncertain whether it was the words or the touch that succeeding in garnering a positive response, but finally Kenobi seemed to pull himself together. With a deep breath, the high general straightened up, opening his eyes to look Skywalker square in the face. He continued to hold eye-contact, expression gradually shifting from steely resolve to open faced delight.

“ANAKIN!” Obi-Wan flung himself at his former padawan with obvious joy. “OH ANAKIN! IT’S YOU! IT’S REALLY YOU!” They staggered with the force of Obi-Wan’s enthusiastic bear hug.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Anakin managed to get out, shocked by his Master’s uncharacteristically loud and emotional greeting, as well as slightly breathless from the intense grip. Obi-Wan didn’t answer; he just held Anakin tighter. 

“Man, what did you drink?” he tried to ask instead, deciding to return the hug fully and deal with any later consequences later.

Obi-Wan shifted back enough to make eye-contact again. His brow furrowed in thought. “Just some Jawa beer to wash down the spice doses.”

“SPICE DOSES?!?” Cody and Anakin both shouted in alarm. Anakin grabbed at Obi-Wan’s face, examining the man’s pupils before pulling back his lip to look at his gums. “You don’t look like you’re dosed up. And the only thing you smell like is middling quality alcohol.” he concluded doubtfully. “Are you sure that’s what you took?”

Obi-Wan stopped to think again “The Jawas that sold it seemed pretty confident. I would be more likely to entertain the possibility that I was ripped off were you not standing here with me.”

“I- Wwhere- When would you have even bought spice from Jawas?” Anakin asked, exchanging bewildered looks with Commander Cody. 

“They seem to like stopping by my hut, even when I don’t have anything to steal or buy. I suppose there’s not many opportunities for sentient contact out on in the wastes,” He mused.

Anakin only looked more confused, reasonably confident that he would have known if Obi-Wan owed a home on Tatooine. 

“Heart rate was slightly elevated to normal on the ride over, sir.” Cody added dutifully. “Well within average human normal, and not consistent with spice use or alcohol poisoning.”

“His presence in the force is... strange,” Anakin said while patting Obi-Wan soothingly on the back. “I’d have to take him to the healers to confirm, but my best guess is he's having a bad reaction to something he drank. There are certain alcohols that can cause side-effects and unexpected reactions in force-sensitives. Though I can’t believe that after all the lectures he’s given me, he would be stupid enough to drink one.”

“He...did have an unknown mixed drink a bartender gave him on the house,” Cody said with a sinking sense of failure. “Could this have been a targeted attack?”

Skywalker clearly looked pissed at the idea “If it was, then that bartender committed an act of treason.” Only the fact that he was still supporting Ob-Wan’s weight (in what was rapidly approaching the second-longest hug they had ever shared) kept him from taking command of the troopers to interrogate a bartender. 

“Sir, do you want me to accompany you to medical and make a report?” Cody asked.

Anakin hesitated, thinking while Obi-Wan rested his chin on his former padawan’s shoulder. As amusing as the idea was in theory, he didn’t really want to humiliate a vulnerable, emotional Obi-Wan by dragging him through the heart of the temple to be gawked at and judged.

“No.” He finally decided, “Even if he somehow managed to miss the fact that he was being poisoned in a civilian bar, he’s more than capable of processing toxins on his own, and I’m more than capable of monitoring him overnight. We’ve got a full field med-kit in our quarters- I can take a blood sample tonight, and ask him what he wants to do with it once he sobers up in the morning.”

Obi-Wan readjusted slightly as Anakin shrugged, “It’s also possible that he just, you know, overdid it drinking, which isn’t anyone’s business but his own. I mean, he hasn’t exactly had the opportunity to cut loose when he’s a High General all the time; his tolerance might not have been where he was expecting.”

Cody saluted in acknowledgement of the command decision. He ruthlessly quashed any doubts, reminding himself that General Kenobi had, in fact, asked for General Skywalker by name, and Skywalker was likely to better informed on Jedi responses to alcohol. 

“Master, let’s get you to our quarters so you can sleep this off,” Anakin reluctantly pulled back from was now officially the longest hug Obi-Wan had ever given him. “Can you walk by yourself, or do you want me to help?”

The unusually peaceful smile Obi-Wan was wearing started to slide away. “Our quarters? Our quarters were destroyed. There’s nothing to find there now but ash,” he stated, as if gently reminding Anakin of a known tragedy.

Cody, still standing by, sucked in a breath.

“Besides,” he continued mater of factly, “You were barely ever in them at this point anyway. Even for a dream, it would be a lot more realistic for me to go to my quarters and sit in the dark trying to memorize casualty lists, while you’re out somewhere unknown, carousing with Padme presumably.”

“Carousing with Padme?! I - why would you- Master!” Anakin fumbled out, addressing the last point first before processing the rest.

“And is that seriously what you do when you have time off? Just sit and memorize the names of everyone who died during the war? That’s - that’s seriously sad Obi-Wan, we are talking about that when you sober up.” Not giving Obi-Wan the chance to defend his extremely sad hobby, Anakin plowed on. 

“And our quarters are fine, I know that- uh- I know I haven’t been around a lot, but I was just in there earlier today, they look practically the same as they did when I was a padawan. Whatever you saw, here and now - I promise you - here and now the temple is fine. We’ll talk about your vision or your hallucination once you sober up, I promise.” Anakin ended emphatically, gripping Obi-Wans shoulders and staring directly into his eyes.

The miniature rant seemed to work. 

“That sounds nice,” Obi-Wan said smiling, “I would love to see our old rooms- I know it didn’t really matter either way to you, but I always took comfort in the fact that you never bothered with requesting a new room after you were knighted. I know, I know that between how rarely we were temple based and Padme, it probably just didn’t cross your mind, but it was nice to have some tangible reminder of our connection, even as the war and the growing darkness stole everything else.”

Anakin truly didn’t know how to respond, the raw emotional honesty somehow even more painful than the crushing hug. Obi-Wan reached up to smooth back his hair like he was still a child. He then walked a few steps to face the extremely out-of-depth Commander Cody.

Not hesitating, Obi-Wan pulled Cody into a tender hug which he couldn’t help but lean into. The commander brought his arms up and around but hesitated to actually make contact, instead ghosting his hands along the general’s back.

“I always wanted to do that,” Obi-Wan whispers into Cody’s ear. “I can never thank you enough for all you’ve done; I never would have gotten through the war without you. I wish...I wish I could tell you that I consider you one of the best of men, and one of the best of friends. But... I can’t. Even if I abandoned my last mission to search you out, even if I succeeded in finding you, you would never allow me close enough to do this.”

Cody’s heart is racing, trying to decode the General’s words over the ringing white noise in his ears. He stops breathing entirely as Obi-Wan shifts to press their foreheads together, allowing him to focus entirely on the feel of the general’s breath, the sight of tears trickling again from red-rimmed eyes. “Goodbye, Cody.” he finally exhales.

And with that he turned and walked away, not looking back.

Next (Part Three)

[bluestarscribbler]

Writing Characters With Social Anxiety Disorder (SAD)

Hi everyone! :) How are you doing? 🥰💕 Today I'll be outlining the main do's and don't's of writing characters with SAD, as well the definition and the main symptoms of SAD.

DISCLAIMER: I am not diagnosed with SAD myself; however, all of the following information had been obtained from different posts and sites of people that have first-hand experience with SAD. I will be linking those at the end of today's post, please feel free to check them out.

What I learned from the intense research I did is that nobody has social anxiety the same. Some people feel like they can't breath. Others tend to laugh in awkward moments. Nobody is the same. No character is exactly alike. You can't get it "right," because it's not an exact science. So don't feel too pressured while writing a character with SAD, there's no "one" way to write them. A helpful approach is to think what about how the SAD fits into the story you want to tell because the topic is really as complicated as any other and you can view it from many different angles and go as deep as you want - depending on what this story you're trying to tell calls for. So rather than trying to get an objective view of this complicated topic, focus on the aspects that are relevant to the story.

What is Social Anxiety Disorder?

AKA Social Phobia, SAD describes an intense fear and avoidance of negative public scrutiny, public embarrassment, humiliation or social interaction. This fear can be specified to particular social situations; such as public speaking, or more typically, is experienced in most/all social interactions. Those suffering from SAD will often attempt to avoid the source of their anxiety; this is particularly problematic and in severe cases can lead to complete social isolation.

Symptoms of SAD:

person paces a lot

very fidgety

stops talking mid sentence...a lot

wrings hands

angered by slightest infractions of others

finds fault in others a lot

hard to breathe when focus/attention is shifted to them

sweating profusely

mumbling

shrinking to hide

lack of eye contact/wandering eyes

painfully shy and withdrawn

picking the nails, picking the skin

always the person in the back of the room or in a corner

gravitating toward the first person they recognise and following them everywhere

headaches

finding ways to avoid certain situations

crying before or after social events

feel dizzy and the entire world becomes very far away

feeling like chest was caving in

assuming that everyone is focusing on them

assuming that people are laughing about them

grind their teeth a lot

bite their knuckles

tap out drum patterns with their feet or fingers

nausea and vomiting

muscle weakness

migraines

heart arrhythmia

increasing nervous tics

Keep in mind that social anxiety exists on a spectrum. Not everyone is paralysed at the smallest conversation, but some are. Others feel mild discomfort at certain types of socialising. It’s all relative.

DO'S:

DO write in a lot of internal dialogue. People with SAD say that most of their anxiety is created by their own internal rumination. So, add a lot of overly self-critical internal dialogue and have them think about trivial things that they may or may not have gotten wrong for hours after the fact. People with SAD also tend to avoid initiating with anyone, instead preferring for them (the other person) to initiate — because then they know they're not inconveniencing them (the other person). If a person with SAD does have to interact with people then they tend to plan and rehearse what they're going to say to them. However, once the social interaction has begun, there will be very little internal monologue. In those situations, the character is very much relying on instinct. After the interaction, if the character feels that they messed up (which is likely; be sure to pick up on even the slightest fumbles or awkward pauses), they should keep thinking about how they're an idiot and they want to never have to talk to another person again, because they know it'll end the same way. If they feel like they did a good job, they should express surprise at how well it went, congratulate themselves, and say that they should maybe do this more often — although they probably won't.

DO let them have observational skills. Part of the anxiety stems from not always knowing how to/being good at socialising. Thus an anxious person will watch others closely for clues to their performance and acceptance. While it doesn’t always tell the person how they are doing, it does teach them a lot about the people around them and how they feel about each other. The person in a group with SAD may actually have a better idea of who in the group are friends, enemies, annoyed with the others, think they are better, have crushes, and so on. Having SAD doesn’t mean that a person doesn’t know social cues, it means that they underestimate their ability to use them. Don’t confuse SAD with autism.

DO make it influence all decisions. This is one you can do as the writer and not include every bit of internal dialogue. Just keep in mind that Every decision an anxious person makes is put through the anxiety filter first. Even if they are doing things by themselves, they have to evaluate the chances of meeting people, meeting people they know, having to talk to people when they are done. Keep that in mind when writing these characters in order to keep their personality consistent. That said, in general you can think of someone with SAD feeling physically, mentally and emotionally uncomfortable and "out of place" in ordinary social situations - they want out of it, looking for the door, excuse to leave, cut the interaction short. There could be a sense of shame, guilt and self-loathing about not being "good enough", or that there is something broken and wrong with them (or society).

DO give them other traits. Make sure you give them other traits that influence their decisions and drive their motivations. Someone can have anxiety and also love adventure, want to save all the stray dogs, want to help orphans, want to be a basketball hero, etc. One of the big problems with SAD is that it interferes with a person’s desires to do and be other things. It doesn’t always win though. And sometimes a person may decide that an awkward encounter or two is worth taking part in some other activity they love. Just remember to keep your characters balanced.

DO let them find each other. SAD is probably more common than you’d think. Not everyone has a crippling case. You can have characters share their anxiety with each other and comfort each other and help each other through tough times. SAD can make a person feel isolated but they don’t have to be, and often aren’t as isolated as they think. That observational skill can also help them find the right people to share their feelings with. Not all socialising is terrifying, it can often be cathartic.

DON'T'S:

DON'T make them hate people. Social anxiety does not mean that the person afflicted doesn’t like people or always craves solitude. One of the harshest aspects of SAD is that a person may want companionship and friends but still have uncontrollable discomfort when faced with making friends or spending time with the friends they already have. This constant tug-of-war between wanting friends and feeling the anxiety around people can cause a lot of internal pain and lead to other emotions and conditions such as depression. Someone with SAD can have friends. Even a lot of friends. But certain factors may influence how a person with SAD chooses friends more than they influence others. The level of contact is different for everyone and there will be some friends who can take up more time while not taking up more energy on the part of the anxious person. However, SAD can get so bad that the person with it is unable to leave the house for days at a time, ghosting on all social engagements, not answering their phone and ignoring all texts; but that still doesn't mean they hate people.

DON'T always make them succeed. If you are writing about a person with SAD and they are forced again and again to go outside their comfort zone, make them fail. Have them go to a meeting and then duck down a side corridor at the last minute and disappear. Have them talk to a person and then freeze up in the middle of a conversation, at a loss for words. The longer they go without knowing what to say the stronger the anxiety gets and the harder it is to think. Or have them execute the socialising brilliantly but then go into the bathroom and cry from the overwhelming sense of effort it took to look normal. And just because they have had a few successes doesn’t mean that they will start succeeding every time. Sometimes, the energy it takes, even when the interaction was a success, means that next time they are reluctant or too exhausted to do it again.

DON'T always give them "tells". Anxious people can be very good at hiding it. In the example above of the person who socialises brilliantly and then cries in the bathroom, no one knows how hard it was. They only saw the brilliant “performance.” Keep that in mind. Not all people uncomfortable with socialising are bumbling awkward goofballs. Sometimes they actually appear very cool and collected.

DON'T suddenly make their anxiety disappear when they're at the end of their character arc. This pisses me off, anxiety is a life-long condition. It cannot be "overcome" easily. However, the person with it can learn to live with it. They can visit a psychiatrist, get pills prescribed or change their lifestyle completely to fit around their SAD. A person with anxiety always thinks about their anxiety. Even when they are happily at home reading a book, sometimes they will think about an upcoming engagement, or wish they made friends like the characters in their book. Every time a person with SAD makes plans they have to run through a list of criteria before nailing anything down. Will they have time before and after to prep for and cool down from the experience? Is it something they have done before and feel comfortable doing? Can they back out at the last minute if they feel too overwhelmed that day? These are just a fraction of the things that go through an anxious person’s mind before committing to plans. Again, this isn’t an absolute, but for many people with SAD it is a defining characteristic of who they are. They don’t talk to a single person, even a spouse sometimes, or make a doctor’s appointment without the anxiety affecting how they feel, think, and behave. It is always there. Always.

That's it for today folks! I hope everyone has an absolutely fantastic day! 😊❤

[hellcat8908]

Broken Road [Alternate Ending] Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female Reader

Warnings: Violence, Language, Blood, Angst

Ghost was about to interrupt your conversation with Soap when your words had him stopping dead in his tracks. "Who could love anyone so broken, Johnny?" You ask rhetorically. Ghost quickly turns and leaves before either of you can see him. "He's been through enough. He deserves someone better than me." You tell him. "He's crazy about you, but the grumpy bastard won't admit it. I think you're perfect for each other, lass." He says. You're not convinced. "Just keep spending time with him, you'll see." Soap says.

Later that night in the mess hall, you take a seat with Soap and Gaz. "Where's Ghost?" You ask after realizing he isn't joining. "Eating in his dorm, said something about paperwork." Gaz answers as you all finish eating. You saved your brownie knowing their one of Ghosts favorites. You made your way towards his dorm, gently knocking. Moments later, it cracks open, hiding most of Ghost, "What?" He asks, sounding annoyed. "Gaz said you were doing paperwork, so I brought you a brownie. I know how much you hate paperwork." You say, stopping yourself before you can ramble.

"Si, come back to bed." A female voice calls. Your face falls as realization hits you. "This was stupid. Sorry for interrupting." You mumble before turning and walking away. You hear Ghost shut the door, and your heart shatters. Halfway back to your dorm, you can't keep your composure as you bump into Soap. He takes you to his dorm, which is closer. "Tell me what happened, lass." He says as he hands you a box of tissues. Once your tears have slowed, you're finally able to tell Soap.

"He's with a girl. I went to take him the brownie, and she told him to come back to bed." You say as the tears return full force. "I'm going to kill him!" Soap says angrily. "Don't. Just let it go." You say between sobs. He wraps his arms around you. "Fine, I won't kill him. I'll just kick his ass extra hard during training tomorrow." Soap says, making you smile. Soap has become like a brother to you since you joined the task force. He comforted you for the next hour before you decided to go back to your own dorm.

The next morning, the hurt had been replaced with anger, and you hardened your heart against Ghost. You got dressed in your training joggers and one of Soap shirts he had left behind that you'd normally use as a sleep shirt. You threw your hair up in a ponytail before making your way towards the training area. You started making small talk with some of the recruits when an incessant giggling caught your attention, followed by the female voice from last night. She was recounting her escapades with Ghost. The anger inside you simmering towards a boil.

Thankfully, Soap came along to distract you. "Are you trying to get me in trouble?" He teases as he steps beside you. "You don't like it?" You tease. "I didn't think you'd wear it outside your dorm, but I approve of your tactic." He says with a laugh. "I woke up and chose violence." You say with a laugh of your own. "We'll if you wanted to piss him off, it's working." Soap says, seeing Ghost glare at you in another man's shirt. "It's the least I could do." You say before hearing an angry Ghost get started with training.

Towards the end, Ghost paired everyone up for hand to hand combat training. Of course, he paired you with the recuit he spent the night with. He and Soap went over the moves and instructions before walking around and observing, offering criticism and corrections. "Could you be more pathetic?" She asks, catching you off guard. "Excuse you?!" You grit your teeth as the anger starts building. "I brought you a brownie. I know how much you hate paperwork." She says in a mocking tone.

"Why would he want someone like you when he could have a real woman like me." She sneers. "I'm surprised he fucked you, with how much he hates paperwork, he'll be filling out a lot of it when he has to get tested for STDs. Who knows what nastiness your cunt is breeding." You say with a smirk before continuing, "haven't you fucked your way through at least half the task force? Sweetie you're nothing but a barracks bunny playing dress up." Her face sours as she tries to punch you. Within seconds a fight has broken out between the two of you. You land a punch to her nose breaking it as blood pours down her face.

Moments later, you're pulled off of her by Soap as Ghost grabs ahold of the other recruit who is holding her nose. "Take her to medical." He instructs Soap before staring at you. You cross your arms over your chest and glare back at him. "Everyone clear out!" Ghost orders placing a hand on your shoulder to stop you, "not you." You roll your eyes and wait for the others to leave. Once the last recruit leaves and the door shuts, Ghost turns his full attention to you. "I should have you transferred for that little stunt." He shouts. "Do it! I already asked for a transfer anyway! With you're support I'll be gone by the end of the week." You smirk. "Good!" He says before storming off towards Price's office.

You hit the showers before returning to your dorm. Once inside, you start theowing everything but the necessary items into your duffel. Once the majority of it is packed, you check your e-mail and see one from Price requesting you pay a visit to his office. You groan, assuming this has something to do with your fight with the recruit. You head towards his office. After being granted permission to enter, you're relieved to find it's only him. "Take a seat." He says, indicating towards one of the chairs. You sit and try not to fidget. "What did you want to see me about, Sir?" You ask patiently. "It's about your transfer. Are you sure this is what you want?" He asks as he leans back in his chair.

"Absolutely, I mean I'll miss most of the guys here, but I think it's for the best." You answer honestly. "Well, if you're sure about this, you have your choice between Kortac and Shadows." He tells you. "Kortac would be great, I don't trust Graves." You tell him. "Kortac it is then. If you want, I can have you on a chopper first thing tomorrow." He says. "Sounds good, I've already got most of my stuff packed, so that works." You answer, happy you don't have enough time to change your mind. "I'll let them know to expect you." He says before telling you that's all. He stands up and hugs you, "Didn't think you could leave without one, did you?" You hug him back, "Thank you for everything you've done for me over the years." You say as tears blur your vision. "If you need anything at all, just reach out to me. You'll always have a spot in the 141." He says, giving you a final squeeze before releasing you.

After leaving Price's office, you track down Soap and tell him he's going to the pub with you. "You don't have to tell me twice. But why are we going to the pub?" He says as he grabs his coat. "I'll tell you after a few drinks." You say as the two of you start towards the pub. "This can't be good if I need alcohol." He says teasingly, trying to lighten whatever you're going to tell him. You find an empty table for two towards the back as Soap goes to get the first round. He places your drink in front of you along with a shot. "Figured maybe it called for shots." He says, causing you to smile. "Cheers." He says before both of you down your shots.

"Time to rip the band-aid off lass." He says before taking a drink of his beer. "I'm transferring to Kortac." You say waiting for his reaction. "When do you leave?" He asks, keeping his expression neutral. "First thing tomorrow." You tell him. "Fucking hell. Not wasting any time are ya?" He says. "Johnny, I'm sorry. I just need to get away." You say apologetically. "I know, lass. I just didn't think it would happen this fast." He says before taking another drink. "I didn't think so either, but at least we get o e more night of memories." You say. "That we do, let's make the most of it. To new beginnings." He says tipping his glass to yours. "To better tomorrows." You add before taking a drink.

You spend the majority of the evening laughing at old memories from missions. By the end of the night, you're both singing off key to pop hits before stumbling back to base. You crash out in Soap's dorm as you're too tired to make it to your own. Your alarm on your phone wakes you up. "It's too loud and too early." Soap grumbles beside you as you shut it off. "I gotta get up and finish packing." You tell him. "I'll help you." He says as he gets dressed and follows you to your dorm. "I don't have much to pack, only the essentials." You tell him. "He sits on your bed watching you shove the rest of your stuff in your duffle.

He pulls out his phone before pulling you in beside him, "say cheese," he says before snapping a picture of the two of you. "Send that to me, please." You say after looking at it. "Of course." He says after he hits send. He grabs your bag and escorts you outside where your chopper is waiting. "Take care of yourself, lass. Don't let them bully ya." He says after tossing your bag inside. "Take care of yourself. Hopefully, we'll cross paths soon." You say before hugging him. "I'm going to miss you." He says. "We'll keep in touch." You assure him as your eyes fill with tears. "Of course." He says, "but right now you've got to go be a badass for Kortac. They're lucky to have ya." He says as he helps you into the chopper.

He stands and watches you disappear into the distance. Once your chopper is out of site he takes off to find Ghost. As soon as Ghost opens the door to his dorm, Soap lands a punch to his jaw. "What the hell, Soap?!" He shouts as he recovers. "That's for y/n!" He shouts angrily. "Stay out of it, Johnny! It's between me and her!" Ghost sneers. "Not anymore! Because of you, she's gone!" Soap says. "What do you mean she's gone?" Ghost asks, confused. "She's on her way to join Kortac in Austria!" Soap says as his anger rises. "When does she leave?" Ghost asks as his chest tightens. "She already left. She hopped a chopper 10 minutes ago." Soap tells him.

He never realized you were serious about transferring. He just assumed the two of you would be pissed at each other for a week, then get over it like usual. He never thought you'd actually leave, not with you being close to everyone here. "What have I done?!" Ghost says in a panic. "You fucked up royally." Soap answers. "We have to get her back. We have to get the chopper to turn around! She didn't say goodbye." He says as his emotions send him into a spiral. "She's gone, Ghost." Soap says. Ghost pushes past Soap and sprints towards Price's office.

He doesn't bother knocking, "You need to get her back here!" Ghost demands as he storms into the office. "Ghost, don't make this harder than it already is. She wanted this. She asked for it and accepted the transfer to Kortac on her own wishes." Price says as he stares at the papers on his desk. "Then get me a transport to catch up with her!" He says after slamming his hands down on the desk. "She didn't say goodbye, and we have unfinished business." He says quieter. "Ghost, give her time." Price says calmly. "I can't! I need to fix this now!" Ghost says. "Enough, you're not going after her." Price says with authority.

Ghost can't help the tightening in his chest as he walks back to his dorm. The realization that you actually left without saying a word to him. He locked the door behind him before sinking onto his bed. He pulls out his phone to try to text you, but every message comes back as failed to send. He swears under his breath before throwing his phone against the wall. He never got a chance to apologize and try to fix what he ruined. Anguish and regret taking hold of his heart as comes to terms with you just leaving. If he could just get ahold of you and apologize, he believes he can fix it. Instead, he's stuck with this new reality that you're gone.

@gothicmutt24

[littlefreya]

Heart of Darkness

Synopsis: Slight sequel to Overprotected. Walter’s longing wife comes to visit him at his office.

Pairing: Detective Walter Marshall x OFC

Word count: 3.9K

Warnings: Explicit, graphic smutty sex, rough oral sex, choking, role play, pleasure denial, rough sex. MaleDom / FemSub. Slight fluff though. 

A/N: A special thanks for @agniavateira or helping me proof my work. I don’t own Night Hunter / Nomins or Marshall!

Title: Heart of Darkness

The heating is broken at the station. It’s either that, or Walter came up with some new methods of torture to interrogate his suspects. I’ve never seen him in action, I’m not sure if it’s the shame of this very darkness that lives within him, or his desperate attempt to keep me safe from the horrors of the night. His colleagues filled me in a while ago, mentioning he tends to go rough, violent, even brutal at times. 

They know very little for I bask in Walter’s darkness. I’m the first to witness the terror that consumes him and shadows his soul. I drink from his desire, joining him in this violent lovemaking. It’s the only thing that helps him cleanse his demons.

It brings us closer. 

And yet, he doesn’t want me here. He fights to keep me secluded as if I was some porcelain doll. 

As if I don’t see my share of blood and death every day. 

I walk through the chilled halls of the station, wrapping my arms around myself to keep warm. Even though I’m wearing a large, thick winter coat, it feels like it’s four degrees here. I shouldn’t have worn a skirt beneath all this, but how could I have known? I left five text messages which remained unanswered. It’s not unusual. He is busy, and sometimes he forgets. 

It doesn’t mean this doesn’t piss me off.

I find him in his office, with a phone pressed to his ear. His bulky body faces the window while he talks down some crime lab trainee for messing up the evidence. He turns to see who dares to barge his office uninvited, his blue eyes pale as glaciers. They immediately melt as he realizes it’s me. 

“I don’t care how. Get a new sample or I’ll make sure you’ll never hear the end of this!” He ends the call without a goodbye and drops the device on his desk. His arms grab the edges of the chair tightly while he stares down, letting his soft dark curls fall on top of his forehead.

“What are you doing here, pet? You know I don’t like you coming here.” 

I take off my long coat, hanging it next to the door. His office is only slightly warmer. It’s smaller, and Walter emits enough warmth on his own. Everyone is walking around in their coats and jackets but he's in a black wool sweater per usual, with the sleeves rolled up to expose his wide forearms.

“I missed you” I answer, pretending not to tremble but the fumes that come out of my mouth give me away. 

I take a small, slow twirl in the secluded space, inspecting the room. There's so little light in here. On the shelf, he has some books about the history of crime and criminology, with his diploma and badges of honour laid next to it. Not out of pride, but out of compliance. Walter is not an arrogant man, he’s actually the opposite. He doesn’t have time for chasing glory, all he does is out of pure heroism, some would even say out of altruism.   

The morbid photos next to his desk catch my eyes. Images of victims. They hang on a board latched to the wall, along with a map, and a thick, red string that trails the locations where the bodies were found. These are young women, mutilated, their lives were stolen from them by selfish monsters. 

I get to see my share of blood every day, sometimes even death. But, this is not something anyone should see. 

And this is what he sees all the time, probably also in his dreams. The ghosts of the girls he couldn’t save haunt him; it’s not his fault, but he’d never see it that way. For him, every girl who died on his watch is a girl he has failed.  

My fingers press against the ring on my finger, twisting it anxiously. I can feel my heart shrinking to the size of a walnut. I wish I could suck the pain out of him as you do with poison.

“I told you…” he speaks with a deep frown on his face, as if he is angry with me for entering his cave of horrors. He was in a foul mood before I got here, and I defied his request. I am the one teasing the tinders with more wind and fuel. 

All I wanted was to bring my light into his world, at least for a little while.

“You visit me at work all the time,” I answer, inching closer toward his desk. I try to ignore the sourness in my throat as the horrifying images on the wall stare right at us.  

He gives me a small smile, almost invisible amongst the wrinkles of grumpiness on his forehead. 

“It’s a part of my job to come to the hospital, and it’s the only one in the county.”

That’s how we met. 

I was in my first year of residency. The tall, burly man with the most caring blue eyes appeared in the hospital. I have seen Walter once before that, spending an evening at the local Irish bar with his friends. The toughness on his face was the only thing I remembered then. I thought he was hot, obviously, though I didn’t bother approaching him. 

I didn’t fall in love with him until I saw the ocean of benevolence he kept under that hard shell. 

He came to visit a victim and stayed the night to make sure the aggressor won’t return, and that the girl is taken care of. I felt his eyes on me every now and then, silently observing me when I was checking up on other patients. He tried to strike a small conversation, about the girl first, and then about my job at the hospital. I believed the British giant was just being polite and passed the long, boring night by chit-chat. I should have known I was being interrogated to see if I’m single or not. 

Suddenly, he appeared at the hospital every other day, to check up on “the girl”. The first night, he brought me some coffee because “I work crazy hours,” and he thought I’d like some to drink. Then, it was coffee and a sweet pastry to eat. For a week and a half, I had a constant visitor who took care of my caffeine and sugar intake. My colleagues teased me for suddenly wearing perfume to work, and how I’d blush whenever “Sir Big Dick” arrived.

On the last evening, he came to my department and found me signing some charts. I’ve told him the girl was released during the morning, but of course, he knew that. He smiled at me and offered me a single red rose instead, asking if I’d like to accompany him for a real dinner this time.

Four years since then, he comes to visit even when there are no victims. Sometimes, I’m worried he does that out of fear that something will happen to me, and not just out of a romantic gesture to see his wife. 

“Is it part of your job to stalk your wife?”

He slouches on his chair heavily, making it squeak beneath his weight. His eyes rise to gaze at my face. There is a weariness in them, the kind that even sleep can’t cure anymore. I fear the day when my husband will stray too far from the light, when the heart of darkness will clutch its ugly thorns in his tender flesh. 

“It is my job to make sure the citizens of this county are safe.” 

I roll my eyes at him, walking to stand behind his chair. My hands reach to clutch his broad shoulders as I begin to knead the tense muscles with mild force. He stiffens for a moment and then emits a soft groan, flexing and trying to relax beneath my touch.

“Do you bring red roses to all the citizens in our county?” I speak with a sultry voice, moving my hands to his collarbone. Walter closes his eyes and throws his head back, a deep groan vibrates from the pit of his throat. 

“Only the hot ones,” he answers as his hand finds my leg and snakes up my bare skin, running all the way up beneath my skirt to find the curve of my ass. “You’re shivering.”

“It’s freezing in here.” I answer, leaning into the warmth of his palm as he strokes up and down my thigh to keep me warm.  

“Why are you dressed like that, then?” he guides me toward him to sit in his lap. His hands run up and down my legs, exposing more of my skin while a soft smile spreads across his rugged face. “If I wouldn’t know better, I’d say you came here to seduce a police detective.”

I bite my lower lip, wrapping my hands around his neck while my ass sinks against his groin. I feel so safe in his touch, with his coarse hands that burn hot on my flesh. 

“Why? Is that a crime?”

“Actually, yes.”

I pull away from him, standing against the edge of the desk with a teasing smirk across my face. His hand reaches out to my knees, not wanting to break contact. He has been deprived of it all day long, abandoned in the cold. 

Now here I am, the only warmth he knows.

“Show me then.”

He licks his lips, still smiling as he is caught up with my little flirtatious act. “Show you what, pet?”

“What interrogation methods would you use? How would you squeeze a dirty little secret out a seductress like me?” I place the heel of my boot between his straddled thighs, preventing him from moving and asserting my dominance to provoke him.  

His eyes narrow at me while he considers the idea. I see how the ethical balance begins to tip, the ball falling from one scale to the other. His better judgment becomes lost in a thick cloud of lust. 

“You keep secrets from me?” he asks as he plays along.

“Maybe…” I stretch the word, giving him a wicked flirtatious smile. 

Somewhere deep inside this good man, there is a big black dog, hungry to rip this willing victim to shreds. 

He peers at my leg and then up into my eyes while his fingers reach to gently tickle beneath my knee. I hum in delight, throwing my head back, my leg losing its strength, my assertiveness leaning on the edge along with my ankle. 

“I’d begin by putting you in a position where you don’t have any power whatsoever,” he speaks in a voice that’s gruff and low, his fingers now pressing hard and I’m forced to straighten my leg and lower it to the floor.

The smile on his face becomes cold and his eyes darken as he moves to stand in front of me. His leans against me, his torso pressed against my chest, his chin against my forehead as he lowers his head.

“Down on your knees.” 

These words take my breath away, making my skin prickle with nervousness. I follow his orders with the obedience of a good wife. My knees lay pressed against the cold floor, I try not to tremble too much. I’m not sure if it’s just the temperature of the room, or the dark glare on Walter’s face.

His groin is at the level of my face, the outline of his cock showing through the fabric of his trousers as it begins to harden.

He reaches out his hands to cradle my face. Stroking my hair back, examining my face as if he is learning my features for the first time. The smile diminished from his face the moment I went down on my knees. Now he stares at me with the severity of his bad detective attitude.   

“You’re very pretty,” he compliments me, but it sounds more of a fact than anything sweet. His fingers caress my cheeks and then at the corners of my lips, forcing me to part my lips. “Pretty little mouth too, does it talk?”

“I ain’t telling you nothing, Detective” I play along, if I’ve known we’re actually doing THAT, I would have prepared a script. 

His hands run to stroke the hair away from my face, beginning in a tender affectionate touch, he collects every strand lovingly until my hair is bundled between his strong palms. I can feel the softness of his touch draining away. 

“Undo my belt.” He commands. 

“I don’t…”

“You don’t want me to ask again.”

My hands tremble with fear and excitement as my fingers fumble with the metal clasp of his belt. Walter’s eyes look at me carefully, completely devoted to this role. I wonder how much of his job is pretence and how much is actually him.

“What do you say if I’ll fuck your mouth until you cry?” 

He asks while reaching one hand to unzip his trousers, freeing his beautiful large cock and stroking it in front of me for display. I can’t help but lick my lips, like a hungry kitten presented with creamy delight. The little drop of pre-cum that trickles down his shaft is too inviting. 

“I’d say you still won’t hear a word from me,” I provoke. 

Walter gives a short smile, tugging my hair back painfully until I’m forced to part my lips open into a breathless gasp of pain.

 “Take me in your mouth.” 

Usually, when I please him, I’d begin with a soft teasing, licking my way up and down his hardness until I finally take him in and begin working him sensually.

I am not granted any of that courtesy right now.

Walter forces himself into the wet heat of my mouth with the delicacy of a grunt. A deep, throaty groan echoes in the room as he is surrounded by my hot saliva and is pressed against the softness of my tongue. 

I choke out a mewl as he completely fills my mouth, feeling the head of his cock nearing the back of my throat. My cheeks betray me, sucking by instinct to savour his girth. Every inch of my body knows Walter all too well, it succumbs to the man that owns it, physically and emotionally.  

I look up to him with helpless glossy eyes. Victory showers his face, golden and bleak at the same time. He lets his callous long fingers clasp around the hollow of my cheeks to force me to keep my mouth open wide just to please him.

I gasp for air as he pulls back slowly. Just a cruel act to make me think we’re done, but we are far from that.

“Loosen your mouth pet, I am going deeper.”  

He warns and shoves himself in again, this time deeper as promised, relishing on my muffled whimpers he puts one hand on the back of my head and begins to buck his hips. Fucking my mouth in the rhythm that fulfils his lust.

My heart pounds on my chest, my knees begin to hurt as I try to move with him. But I’m his good girl, breathing through my nose, letting my tongue lap around his lavished cock lovingly while he uses me as the wet hole he unloads into. 

His eyes are glistening, ecstasy drawing near. I look up to stare at him, admiring how glorious he is. My large man, so confident and dominating. His beautiful dark curls frame his square face, bringing out his high cheekbones and bright blue eyes. And damn, that voice, those low melodic hums of pleasure making my entire body shake.   

I choke onto his swollen cock. Tears stained dark grey thanks to my eyeliner and mascara, run down my cheeks.

“Don’t cry beautiful,” he speaks with cynical sweetness, his thumb wiping the tears away from one cheek as he carefully withdraws from my mouth, allowing me to breathe once again. “All you need to do is tell me what you’re hiding and this will end.”

I gasp for air, my chest slightly heaving while his fingers run under my eyes to clean the black mess that is smeared on my face. He remains silent, the wrinkles between his brows are deep and severe while he is still pulling his bad cop act. Yet the way his hands run over my face with care gives him away so easily.

“Is this the worst you can do? Some detective you are!”

I provoke him, laughing patronizingly with my voice still husky, the edge of my throat slightly sore from having to endure his size in its depth. Walter chuckles momentarily before grabbing my shoulders and pulling me up to sit on his desk. 

“Spread ‘em” he nearly barks, but it’s not really an order since his hands press my knees apart widely, exposing the dampness on my underwear. He smoothes both hands up my thighs roughly, his thumbs reaching out until reaching to my core. 

I let my head back, feeling how his thumb massages me, pressing against my covered clit and drawing circles against it.

“You like that, little slut?”

“Yes…” I throw my head back and moan, my hands holding hard at the edges of the desk while I spread myself to him as much as possible and grinding my hips to steal more friction.

“You want more?” he teases while his fingers slowly slip my underwear to one side, exposing me to the cold air in the room. I’m so drenched for him right now, held open, anticipating like sliced fruit. He reaches out for his cock and begins to stroke himself in front of me, a wicked grin adorning his face.

I’m very much aware he can finish himself just like this while leaving me here to beg out of thirst. Well, I can do that too. I lift my hand to touch myself, nearly losing balance but he shoves his thighs between my legs right away and holds my wrist away.

“Ah, ah” he forbids. “You’re not touching yourself, you’re still under investigation.”

“If you don’t finish me off…” I threaten him but my intimidation breaks into a pathetic cry as I feel the head of his cock rubbing against my clit. 

“You’ll what?” he asks, running the tip between my throbbing lips and up to my clit. Back and forth he tortures me, increasing the pace and then slowing down. His groans convince me he may be enjoying this more than actually fucking me, seeing me so helpless and weak, willing to cry and beg for him to just put himself inside me. “I’m still waiting to hear what you’re hiding.” 

I close my eyes, head thrown back in agony and pleasure at once, so close yet so far away as Walter pushes just an inch inside, and then pulls out and strokes me again. 

I am still not willing to break completely, what’s the fun in that? I know my man, and I’m aware of his darkest desires and capabilities.

Let him unleash his worst. 

“Not a word from me, Detective, you’ll just have to try harder.”

His nostrils flares. 

“Fine, then I’ll just have to punish fuck you, drill you like a whore.” He pushes all the way in, making me whimper with bliss as I am finally whole again. 

I’ve led him just to where I wanted. His body conquering mine, filling me with the pleasure that’s not just physical.

Somehow both his hands find their way to my neck, holding me constrained while he allows my body to stretch for him. He makes me stare directly into his eyes, holding my face close to him, his hot mouth hovers onto mine, our breath mingling.  

I wrap myself completely around him, my boots pressing onto his ass to keep him buried deep inside. My hands hang onto his shoulders as if hanging to lift itself. 

He begins to finally move, grunting against my ear, his beard tickling at my neck while he thrusts me fast and hard. I grind onto him, our bodies making the erotic sounds of wet bodies as they slam together. 

This isn’t romantic lovemaking, he’s not tender and caring. His force is controlling, consumed by his demons once again. He fucks into me as if he wants to rip me apart, his hands depriving me of air, tight, perhaps too tight. Yet it’s still love, he would have not been able to have this with any other person and I would have not given it to him if I have not loved him as much.

The desk moves as he pounds me, he stretches his arms somewhat to lean me back, so he can look at me as I squirm beneath him, choked, fucked, and beautiful in his arms. We have both long forgotten our stupid game. We were too lost in the act of seeking out pleasure in one another’s bodies. 

I look back at the man I love, feeling the tremor that dances between my legs. My entire body quivers. My muscles embrace him deep inside as I come hard around his cock, snapping my eyes open, gasping at his sight.

He has his fingers engulfed roughly around my throat, leaving blue bruises. If he’d want me to stop breathing at this moment, he could so easily just push slightly tighter. I’d die happy in his arms, but I know he’d kill himself before ever really hurt me. His hands finally snap from my throat and reach instead to hold my face, crashing his lips against mine into a deep hungry kiss before breaking away and letting out one final gasp as true bliss sweeps him away. 

For more than a few moments, Walter is lost, buried deep inside me, surrounded by light.   

That’s when I break, entangling my fingers in his big soft curls, I inch my lips toward his ear to whisper, 

“I’m pregnant.”

Walter backs his face away to look at me, first with disbelief, his eyebrows rising, unable to even form a word. I’ve never seen so many emotions at once. Then a smile appears, so wide I think his cheeks may hurt. His beautiful teeth show and he lets out a chuckle of joy, sounding almost half-believing. 

“Really?” 

I melt as I see the twinkle in his eyes. The man who is always so grumpy and gruff looks now like the sweetest, most caring person in the world. 

“Yes, we're going to have a baby.” 

He kisses me lovingly, his arms wrapping around my back and holding me tightly. 

“Detective Walter do you ha… SHIT!” A young cadet barges in, finding me with my legs spread around Walter while he is still panting heavily with his curls sticky at his forehead.

It’s as bad as it looks.

The frown immediately returns to Walter’s face. Looking at the cadet as if he is ready to murder him at the spot.

“GET OUT!” he yells, throwing whatever’s within his reach to force the cadet out faster.

I can’t help but chuckle, wrapping my arms around my mountain of a man, there is so much of him to hug, it always makes me feel so protected. He leans his cheek against my forehead and then lets out a deep sigh. 

That’s when I know the darkness is returning, and now he has a brand new fear in him. 

[vodkassassin]

For SVSS- Gifts of jewelry, with spite.

I could have sworn I had another prompt asking for what the other peak lords thought of the cucumberplane friendship, and I was going to smoosh it together with this incredibly vague prompt, but I couldn’t find it lmao. Anyway, here @starfata

There are OC peak lords in this, including the POV character. Rong Qingsheng peak lord of the agriculture peak number 12, Ju Qingsong peak lord of the 11th peak, and I finally named the booze peak lord Shui Qingyu. That’s it, I think. Read away!

—

Shang Qinghua enters the peak lord meeting with a loud bang, slamming open the door with much more force than it really needs. Being the last one to arrive, everyone else is already seated and exchanging quiet conversation with one another.

They all jump when he comes in, and stare in confusion at the scowl that adorns his face. They watch in abrupt silence as he steps into the hall, at how his eyes zero in on a suddenly smirking Shen Qingqiu, and Qi Qingqi leans her shoulder into the master of the agricultural peak that sits next to her.

Rong Qingsheng raises his eyebrow at her, keeping one eye on the An Ding lord that stalks forward without looking at any of them to sit in his own seat with a noisy and very pointed huff.

Voice lowered, Qi Qingqi smirks at him. “How much?”

“For what, exactly, this time?” Rong Qingsheng heaves a quiet sigh, long since used to his martial sister’s gambling ways.

If there’s even a hint of wavering odds in the balance of the drama that occasionally befalls the inner workings of their sect, you can be certain that Qi Qingqi has a betting pool running behind the scenes of it.

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” She asks, and Rong Qingsheng is never one to wager money in any of her ridiculous and time-eating schemes, but then again— despite speaking directly to him, she’s not exactly asking him.

Seated to Rong Qingsheng’s right, the peak lord of the beast tamers peak leans around him to eye Qi Qingqi with a sharp gaze and an even sharper smile. “What do you think the stakes are, that Shen-shixiong did something to piss him off?” He asks, eagerly, always one to fall into a bet.

“I think that it’s already clear that he has, indeed, done just that,” Rong Qingsheng says, placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder and pushing him out of his personal space and back into his proper seat.

Ju Qingsong pouts at him, the ridiculous man. “Yes, but the question is, did he do it on purpose, or on accident and is just pretending he did it intentionally in the face of Shang-shixiong’s anger?”

“Why would he do that?” Rong Qingsheng asks, confused.

“Because he’s a dick?” Ju Qingsong shrugs, and leans behind his back this time to make eye contact with Qi Qingqi. “Ten silver on Shen-shixiong doing it on accident, though. He’s a good actor, we can’t be sure he doesn’t have as much of a clue as to why Shang-shixiong is upset with him as we do.”

Qi Qingqi grins, pulling a loose sheaf of parchment out of absolutely nowhere — no, that had definitely come from in between her breasts. And a charcoal pencil, too? How does it all fit? Why.

Rong Qingsheng feels so tired, all of a sudden.

“Qi-shijie,” someone else murmurs, and Rong Qingsheng glances over his shoulder, already exhausted, to see Shui Qingyu of the brewery peak hunched behind them like he thinks he’s being sneaky. “Five silver on Shen-shixiong purposefully having antagonized Shang-shixiong.”

“All of you are idiots,” Liu Qingge grunts from where he’s sidled over to lean over Ju Qingsong’s table.

The rest of them eye him closely, and Qi Qingqi’s charcoal pencil pauses on its scribbling. If anyone were to have any sort of inside perspective of the odd friendship that exists between the Qing Jing and An Ding peak lords, it’s the Bai Zhan one. For some reason that probably makes no sense whatsoever, Rong Qingsheng is certain.

Liu Qingge continues, “Qinghua definitely started it.”

Immediately, Ju Qingsong rolls his eyes and leans heavily into Rong Qingsheng’s shoulder. He shoves the man away, once more, but he just returns, again.

“Shang-shixiong wouldn’t be this pissed if he’d made the initial insult himself, would he?” Ju-shixiong ponders. “He’s always been pretty good about taking responsibility for his own actions and accepting any retribution for them.”

Rong Qingsheng watches as Liu Qingge squints at their martial brother, and then reluctantly nods.

“He is,” the man says, tapping a finger thoughtfully to the base of his sword. “But…”

Qi Qingqi’s charcoal pencil shivers with anticipation as it hovered over her parchment. Rong Qingsheng isn’t sure it contains notes solely about the wagers, anymore. “Liu-shidi? What’s your insight?”

Liu Qingge makes a face, like having any sort of insight to it at all is a burden and insult to himself personally. “It’s different,” he eventually admits, “when it’s Shen Qingqiu.”

For some goddamn reason, isn’t vocalized, but all the peak lords exchange knowing looks anyway. Not even Liu Qingge, who’s closest to them, knows what the hell is going on there. Mu Qingfang might have a better take on the two ‘bros’, but even he looks confused, in that exasperated and tired sort of way of his, half the time whenever Shang Qinghua or Shen Qingqui pull their antics with one another.

Speaking of which—

“I’m going to get you back for this,” Shang Qinghua is grumbling, loudly. His arms are crossed, and he’s glaring balefully across the room at where Shen Qingqiu so smugly lounges in his seat beside a faintly puzzled looking Yue Qingyuan.

“You can certainly try,” Shen Qingqui says so quietly that it’s more like he’s mouthing the words than actually saying them, and the An Ding peak lord bristles like he’s been insulted in the gravest of ways.

Rong Qingsheng takes a moment to study him. Shang Qinghua is dressed in his usual peak lord attire, dark blue robes and flowing silk indigo over pants and a high-collared shirt of black, a gauzy and transparent light colored, shorter outer robe thrown over the entire ensemble. For someone who spends a lot of his time running two and fro across all the peaks of the sect chasing down some paperwork or report or other, Shang Qinghua has always been surprisingly stylish. His hair is done up in his usual full bun, held in place with the An Ding lord hairpiece and two silver needles.

Rong Qingsheng narrows his eyes, trying to parse out what, exactly, is different about his senior martial brother today, aside from his current outburst that isn’t typically within his personality unless he’s chasing after someone for an audit of their peak finances.

He resists the urge to shiver. Rong Qingsheng has never had any glaring holes in his peak’s budget histories, but he can quite vividly remember the last time An Ding had come to audit them, and he fervently hopes that the next occasion will not come any time soon.

It takes a few moments, but he eventually spots a difference in Shang Qinghua’s wardrobe. The man isn’t typically one to wear earrings unless they’re simple gems or small hoops. It could be theorized that the dangling ones just get in the way during work? Are distracting when attempting complicated maths and other calculations? Whatever the case is, the ones Shang Qinghua wears today are ornate and incredibly expensive looking, long enough to brush against the tops of his shoulders if he were to shrug, and completely uncharacteristic of the An Ding peak lord.

Not that Rong Qingsheng makes it a habit to creepily examine all his martial siblings whenever he comes across them, but he’s not blind. If you place a pretty person in front of him, what’s he suppose to do? Not look them over? Being a lord of the twelve peaks of Cang Qiong, Rong Qingsheng has ample opportunity to observe his beautiful martial siblings, and Shang Qinghua is as pretty as the rest of them. So what if he’s stared at him enough times to notice a minute change in his jewelry?

There’s a nudge against his ribs. Ju Qingsong leans into his space again, his breath ghosting across his face.

“You’re blushing,” his martial brother whispers, and Rong Qingsheng shoves him.

Ju Qingsong comes back like a boomerang, a grin on his face and his hands latching around Rong Qingsheng’s arm like some sort of infatuated maiden. “Who is it this time?”

“Nothing,” Rong Qingsheng says, calmly, and turns his eyes pointedly away from the line of Shang Qinghua’s neck. Definitely doesn’t notice how the new earrings accentuate it, or how they sparkle in the light and swing just barely with the man’s smallest movements.

He gets poked in the ribs again for his non-answer, but thankfully their sect leader finally stands to bring the meeting to order, so Ju Qingsong has no time to continue needling him.

The meeting is boring as all the others, only highlighted by the brief snack break that the Qiong Ding and Zui Xian disciples tag team to cater. Zhangmen-shixiong always goes out of his way to make sure the monthly meet between peak lords aren’t so dry and mundane that they all simply end up dying of boredom, but there’s only so much even their honorable sect leader can do. By the time the meeting rolls to an end, Rong Qingsheng can feel the edges of sleep tugging at his awareness, and none of his martial siblings look any better.

Except Shang Qinghua, that is. Then again, the peak lord of An Ding has never seemed to allow himself to feel boredom, especially at meetings of any kind. Being in charge of such a detail-oriented sphere of the sect business, Rong Qingsheng assumes, requires one to pay close attention to even the littlest of trivialities.

How time consuming. How much work does it take, to constantly be on alert for every little mention of every little faucet of their collective lives, taking careful note of every little action and reaction and conversation and tucking them away to be used at a later date in conjunction with the running of the sect, without going absolutely mad in the process? Shang-shixiong is the most frequent visitor of their sect leader’s offices for a reason.

He’s never once fallen asleep during a meeting. Rong Qingsheng simply cannot relate, and neither can any of the other peak lords.

The very second that Zhangmen-shixiong brings the meeting to a close, Shang Qinghua jumps up from his seat and makes a beeline toward Shen Qingqiu, who has also begun to look incredibly sleepy and bored out of his mind, but much better at concealing it behind his trusty fan. The Qing Jing peak lord glances up to meet the gaze of Shang Qinghua as he approaches him, and he brings the fan down an inch, a lazy smirk steals across his face.

“Do you like them?” Shen Qingqiu asks almost coyly.

The rest of the peak lords loiter in the room, holding conversations with one another but not paying attention to them because they’re all focused on the confrontation happening at the front. Rong Qingsheng is a little ashamed that he’s one of them. Not ashamed enough to leave, though.

Shang Qinghua comes to a stop before Shen Qinqiu’s table and kneels, huffily, directly onto the hard stone floor across from him, sweeping his sleeves behind him before crossing his arms over his chest. How he’s able to act befitting of a peak lord and yet behave so casually at the same time is surely a paradox, yet he somehow manages it.

“I fail to see why I have been gifted them in the first place,” Shang Qinghua comments idly, though he sounds oddly sarcastic.

Shen Qingqui sets down his fan, only to go for his teacup and use tha to cover his rather sharp smile instead. “But, do you like them?”

Distantly, he can hear Qi Qingqi murmur gleefully from behind him. “How much did you want to wager on Shang-shixiong starting it, Liu-Shidi?”

There’s a grunt. Then, reluctantly, “... Three silver.”

“So low? Liu-Shidi, that’s not very confident of you.”

“S-seven silver!”

“Qi-Shijie, stop trying to extort Liu-shidi. He’s never placed a bet before.” Oh, did Mu Qingfang join them? “Also, put me down for ten silver on Shen-shixiong being the one who started it, but Shang-shixiong being the one who caused it to continue.”

Ju Qingsong frowns. “Are they actually fighting? Shen-shixiong hasn’t intentionally aggravated anyone for a reaction since the fever.”

“What would they be fighting about?” Shui Qingyu asks, confused.

“Something stupid.” Liu Qingge grumbles, but in a knowing way, and so they all turn to listen, like a bunch of nosy eavesdroppers. Which is precisely what they are.

Rong Qingsheng feels so, so tired.

Across the room, Shang Qinghua is scowling. “You can’t just give me expensive jewelry and think that’ll make everything better.”

“Aren’t you calling the kettle black, here, Shang-ge?” Shen Qingqiu asks, using another of the odd metaphoric phrases than only he and Shang Qinghua seem to understand the meanings of. And then there’s the overly familiar form of address, which he’d begun using a few months after the fever broke, but to which Shang Qinghua had rather suspiciously had very little reaction to, and even reciprocated.

It’s all just really, really weird, if you asked Rong Qingsheng. But, then again, no one ever does.

“Are you calling me a hypocrite?” Shang Qinghua asks incredulously, fingering one of the new earrings as if self conscious. Ah, is that what Shen Qingqiu had been saying?

“Well, I’m not calling you a stalwart.”

“Joke’s on you then, Shen-ge, because I’m the most stalwart person here.”

Shen Qingqiu pauses, eyes flitting over to a bemused Yue Qingyuan, and then briefly across the rest of the peak lords, who all very consciously do not duck their heads, before he nods slowly in acquiescence.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’ve got me there. But, you still haven’t answered my question.”

Shang Qinghua scowls, removing his hand from the earring and folding it pointedly against his other in his lap.

“... Fine,” he huffs irritably. “Yes, I do.”

Shen Qingqiu takes a sip of tea, eyebrows raised. “You what?”

“I’m not saying it again.”

“You have to. That was the deal.”

“There was no— ugh!” Shang Qinghua throws up his hands, and Shen Qingqiu’s lips quirk a little before he chuckles. Actually chuckles! Yue Qingyuan looks positively poleaxed, from where he sits silently and as unobtrusively as possible at his table a foot away from the two bickering friends.

“You can’t insult my sense of fashion and style and then just, what, not expect me to get revenge? Shang-ge, please. You know me better than that.”

Rong Qingsheng’s brows furrow. This is revenge? Gifting Shang Qinghua expensive earrings was a form of revenge? Revenge for what, exactly?

“And you know me better than to think I won’t be getting you back for this,” Shang Qinghua sniffs, standing up from the floor. He points a finger at the fan-toting lord of Qing Jing, and exclaims, “I’m going to get you a gift so great that you won’t possibly be able to top it.”

“Watch me,” Shen Qingqiu immediately retorts, as if Shang Qinghua’s announcement had been some sort of threat, eyes narrow and fan flipping open to cover his lower face.

It’s a beautiful face. Rong Qingsheng has always wondered why Shen-shixiong is so self conscious about it as to constantly cover it up. It can’t be to hide his expressions — he hardly ever allows his thoughts or feelings to show on his face in the first place. It has to be something else.

Shang Qinghua glares, pivots on his heel, and stomps toward the exit. He breezes right on by the eavesdropping peak lords without even sparing them a glance, and slams the door behind him on his way out.

Rong Qingsheng is so confused, and it doesn’t look like any of his martial siblings are much better.

“I can’t even figure out who wins the pot,” Qi Qingqi harrumphs grumpily. She shoves the parchment and charcoal stick back into her cleavage like it’s just another pocket. Both items vanish, and Rong Qingsheng wonders a little hysterically whether she’s got some sort of quankin space array tattooed in between them or something else equally as absurd.

“Well, that would require knowing who started it,” Ju Qingsong shrugs. He’s got a hand on Rong Qingsheng’s shoulder and is leaning against him. He shrugs him off like the irritant that he is, and gets another pout for his troubles.

Mu Qingfang hums. “We will just have to wait until things settle down between them, and ask.”

He and Liu Qingge exchange a glance, and then look away from each other with odd, amused little smiles on their faces.

“It might be a while,” the doctor adds.

He walks away toward the exit himself just as Yue Qingyuan approaches their little group.

“If the peaks lords wish to have lunch together in Qiong Ding, arrangements can certainly be made,” the sect leader begins, and gives them a placid smile. “However, I do not not believe this to be the case. Do my shidi and shimei not have any work to do today?”

Rong Qingsheng cringes, exchanging a sheepish look with his martial siblings. They all beat a hasty retreat back to their own peaks. Finding out what exactly is going on between their two most dramatic and ridiculous martial brothers is going to have to wait.

[jubans]

title: honeysuckle pairing: settsu banri/fem!reader rating: m (mature) premise: contrary to popular belief, there exist certain things that not even banri “easy mode” settsu is particularly good at, and that lacking skill just happens to coincide with yours.

“Settsu-kun…”

Your voice is hoarse with desire when Banri trails a path of fire from the jut your collarbone to the corner of your mouth—a wicked smile ghosting across your feverish skin. When he raises his face to look at you, his sandy hair falls across his face in loose tufts, framing blue eyes that glint with hunger in the receding sunlight. He hovers over your pitiful form, helplessly pliant from where he has you pinned under his weight. Banri always wondered if you would kick his ass if he suggested kissing you on top of your desk in the council room, but the heady look in your eyes subverted his expectations entirely.

“Please,” you breathe, lips parted with need as you tug on the lapels of his blazer.

He spares you a soft laugh, dipping his head to nuzzle the crook of your neck—the sweet scent of honeysuckle filling his nose.

“Please what, prez?”

The mirth melts right off his face when he feels you squirming beneath him, raising one of your thighs to massage the growing heat in his trousers. Banri stiffens, the practiced charisma he’s gotten so used to taunting you with falling apart all in a single moment. When you pull him down to slant his mouth on top of yours, he’s too stunned to reciprocate but you’re too consumed by your own lust to notice.

“Please, I...I need you.”

Breaking his predicament down to the roots, Banri supposes that this all started over a harmless discussion shared between his classmates.

He usually opted to just ignore people whenever they tried to strike up a conversation with him, and when the other party was a little more persistent, he’d scare them off with a single glare. Though he may not have Hyodo’s naturally terrifying disposition, Banri likes to think that he’s intimidating in his own right. He should have just done the usual and told those losers off with an offhand comment before playing hooky somewhere else. Yet, he ended up breaking character, falling prey to a teenage boy’s natural curiosities in the end.

“Kanae-chan’s adorable when I try to kiss her,” Classmate 1 (Banri doesn’t really bother remembering their names) bragged with stars in his eyes. “She turns all red and says she doesn’t want me to kiss her until she’s the one who initiates instead.”

Classmate 2 pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose with a scoff. (This guy pissed Banri off the most. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he reminded him of someone—someone annoying.) “You like girls who play hard-to-get? That’s kind of childish. I want someone who knows exactly what they want.”

“You talk like you’ve already kissed someone,” snickered Classmate 3, who slings an arm across Banri’s shoulders despite the latter being a good three inches taller. “What about you, Settsu? With all those girls fawning over you, I doubt you don’t have any experience with any of them.”

Banri frowned, feeling his face flush. “The hell does that mean?”

“Aw, don’t be like that, man! Care to share your secrets with commoners like us? How do you get them wrapped around your finger like that?”

The more Classmate 3 implied that he was Hana High’s local Cassanova, the more Banri had to shove down the embarrassment that was beginning to bubble in his chest. What even gave these guys the idea that he was good at...at kissing? Sure, he was inherently talented in anything that didn’t involve cozying up to another human being, but that didn’t automatically make him a—

“Can you stop talking about girls like inanimate objects?”

Upon hearing your voice, Banri rolled his eyes more out of reflex than anything else. He could count on the student council president to badger him about every aspect of his high school life at the most inconvenient of times. You stood a few feet away from the corner of the classroom they’d claimed for themselves, hands braced on your hips as your brows knit with thinly veiled disgust.

“Prez, it’s not like that,” groaned Classmate 1. “I swear, you’re too uptight; always hounding people at the vaguest sign of disrespect—”

“So you do admit to disrespecting women.” You narrowed your eyes.

Classmate 3 sighed, peeling away from the group as he scratched his head irritably. “No wonder everyone else thinks you’re annoying. C’mon, guys. She isn’t worth arguing with.”

As your classmates stalked back to their own seats, Banri’s shoulders eased with finally being spared from their frivolous questions. He nearly made a beeline for the door so he could take a nap at the rooftop, but he caught the frown tugging on your lips from the corner of his eye, momentarily stunting his plans.

Not having any real sympathy for you, Banri merely sighed. “If you don’t want to be called annoying then stop being annoying.”

He left the classroom before you could offer up any sort of response, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. A bunch of girls from other classes greeted him on his way to the stairwell, earning themselves an irritated look from him that they responded to by giggling into their hands. What the hell was up with these people? Do they like asshole delinquents by default?

When he finally made it to the solitude of Hana High’s rooftop, he climbed the ladder placed right next to the door. Banri hoisted himself up with ease, sighing with satisfaction as he laid beneath a rake of warm sunlight. It was a bit cloudy today, plunging his surroundings in a temperature comfortable enough to lull him to sleep. But just when he was about to toe the boundary between slumber and consciousness, the sound of the door below creaking on its hinges reeled him back into awareness.

Banri strained his ears, hearing only one set of footsteps that paced around for a few moments before the door swung shut once again. He relaxed, convinced that whoever was about to interrupt his siesta had already gone—only to be caught off guard when someone emerged from the ladder.

“What the…” He scrambled to sit upright, squinting at the intruder. “What’re you doing here, prez?”

You swallowed thickly, averting your eyes from his scrutinizing gaze before hesitantly walking over to take a seat beside him. Banri observed you with rapt attention, watching as you pulled your knees to your chest—resting your chin on the ridge in between.

“You’ve never kissed a girl in your life, have you?”

He practically choked on the next breath he drew, causing you to whip your head to stare at him with concern lining your eyes. Banri muttered some half-hearted apology as he collected himself, wondering if he’d even heard you right. But the earnest look on your face told him that he really didn’t just hallucinate that. How the hell did you single him out anyway?

“What’s it to you?” he parried defensively, hyper aware of what little distance sat between the both of you.

You weren’t facing him yet Banri could make out the beginnings of a smile on your side profile. “Nothing, really. I just wanted to strike a deal.”

“W-What could you possibly want?”

Out of all the things he’d expected for the student council president to do, the last thing on his list would be this: you turning to him with an unreadable look, shifting from where you sat as you gently trailed your fingers on the side of his face. Your skin was burning despite the tenacity of your actions, but Banri couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

Your eyes fluttered underneath thick lashes, lips lightly swelled into a pout.

“Settsu-kun...do you want to practice kissing with me?”

As a high schooler, Banri had a lot of firsts that he was yet to conquer. It was normal, and it wasn’t like he was in a rush to tick all the checkboxes for the sake of bragging rights. But his first kiss and the first girl whose house he would be intruding on came barreling into his life far sooner than he’d anticipated.

Your mattress was much softer than the one he had in the Mankai dorms, accommodating his body almost snugly. The soft glow of the twilight outside snuck into the room through the cracks in the curtains, but the ambience was the last thing on his mind right now.

“Is...is this okay?”

Banri couldn’t help the smirk that hooked across his lips, relishing in the embarrassment that painted itself on your face. Although he was just as flustered with the knowledge that a girl was straddling him on her bed, he was better at hiding his discomposure than most.

“I think so,” he offered, testing the waters by placing both of his hands on your hips. “Are you okay?”

“W-Why wouldn’t I be?” you muttered, unsure of where you should place your hands so you flop them over your chest instead.

He laughed softly, remembering all the bad porn movies he may or may not have come across at some points in his life (except he’ll cap this escapade at the kissing). This was the part where he should encourage you a little, right? With some newfound eagerness, he hiked his hands up your back, tugging you down without warning. You yelped in surprise, hands floundering around until they’re splayed on either side of his face. Banri’s mouth twitched into a sordid smile when he felt each bated breath you made fan across his skin.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you make a face like that.”

You sputtered, the redness on your cheeks worsening. “Stop saying embarrassing things, Settsu-kun!”

“You’re pretty cute, aren’t you?” Banri chuckled, trailing his hand on the back of your head as he twined your hair in his fingers. “We’ve come this far and you’re still embarrassed?”

Just before you could make the motions to hop off of him altogether, Banri’s grip on your head turned rigid, forcing you to meet his smoldering gaze. You let out a surprised squeak—a sound he found adorable, but was too occupied to comment on.

“Do you really want this?”

His voice was decibels softer than usual, an earnest look creasing on his brow. Though he came off strongly at times, Banri had seen Masumi fawn over the director enough to get a proper grasp on the concept of consent. Even if you were a perpetual thorn on his side, he’d never want to make you do anything your mind wasn’t a hundred percent sure of. The fact that you were the one to propose this whole arrangement didn’t change that.

Hesitation crossed your meek features, eyes inching away from his despite his firm hold on you. Banri breathed out a long breath, surrendering his tight grip as a last-minute apology rested on his tongue.

“I do.”

Before he could even form a proper response, you’d already screwed your eyes shut, dipping your face down to mold your lips on top of his.

Banri’s brain blanked out for a few moments, nothing but static feedback ringing in his ears. But he was quick to kickstart his senses back to life. One second, the featherlight weight of your kiss incapacitated him from coherence, and in the next, he suddenly knew how to put his hands to good use. He used his right to cradle your cheek, and his left to tug your head impossibly close. At this point Banri was probably grappling at the vague stories about a romance game Itaru once told him of in passing. Wait, why the hell was he thinking of Itaru when he was literally kissing—

When you pulled away, he hadn’t noticed the way your fingers curled around the front of his shirt, but he did notice the forlorn look that befell your face.

The laugh that escaped you was hollow. “I’m that bad, huh?”

“What are you talking about?” Banri’s voice was far more guttural than he’d intended it to sound. “I don’t think I’m any good at this shit either, if that makes you feel better.”

You began to peel yourself away, and this time Banri opted not to stop you when you sat on the edge of your bed. He barely registered the sigh that you let out over the sound of his chest pounding into his ears. Despite you claiming it was a bad kiss, the prickling sensation that bristled on his lips begged to differ.

He...kind of liked it.

“Settsu-kun, it’s getting kind of late,” you pointed out, and Banri didn’t miss the way your voice trembled. “You should probably head—”

“Can I kiss you again?”

Slowly, you turned your head to face him, eyes blown with surprise. “What?”

Banri shifted on your bed, crawling closer to you as he imitated the same thing he did in the heat of the moment, cradling your face once again with a gentle hand. His eyes shot back to the curve of your lips, much pinker after that little kiss.

Boldly, he repeated, “Can I kiss you again?”

He liked to think that it was relief that glazed over your eyes in the few seconds that passed before you careened into his touch, pressing your mouth back to his. Banri had a bit more initiative the second time around, languidly moving his lips against yours in a rhythm that he hoped could translate into his actions. But the two of you were still woefully out of sync—teeth clacking awkwardly, not knowing where to place your hands; the list went on.

But apart from the half-second breaks as the two of you drew shaky breaths, neither of you pulled away from the other.

Sometime in between those hasty kisses, he’d finally timed himself with your own pace. When he snaked a strong arm around your waist, it seemed to catch you off guard and Banri took advantage of the gasp you breathed against his mouth by kissing you even deeper. The press of your tongue against his coaxed a soft mewl rumbling in your chest—one that sent dangerous shivers skidding down the length of his spine.  

Banri wasn’t sure how long he’d been making out with you on your bed, but by the time he made himself aware of his surroundings, the room had already darkened several shades and you somehow ended up lying back on the mattress with both legs dangling over the edge. This time he was the one peering at you from above, palms planted on either side of your head as he completely took in your disheveled appearance.

The collar of your uniform was rumpled, lips swollen and parted as you heaved one deep breath after another. He could tell your eyes were unfocused—or rather, so hyper-fixated on one thing that you couldn’t bring yourself to pay attention to anything else.

He could feel his own lips twitch with anticipation.

But despite the heat that coiled in his gut, fueled by the desire to just lose himself to the feel of your inexperienced yet mind-shattering kisses, he shakily got back on his feet.

Banri wanted nothing but to wipe off the disappointment that eclipsed your vehemence in the next second, but he told himself that if he indulged you even more, he might just lose control. Turning away, the actor patted down his clothes, carding his fingers through his sweat-stricken hair as he forcibly leashed his heart back into repose. Calm down, you little—

“Will you ever come over again?”

The question came with such an innocent tone that Banri suddenly felt all kinds of obscene. He hesitated, casting you a sidelong glance. You were seated upright now, but your hair was still mussed from all the tugging and pulling he’d done. The way your face was still flushed from your little session didn’t help in anchoring his sanity, either.

Somehow, he managed to mask all the emotions that clashed behind his eyes with an easygoing smile.

Banri leaned back down, breathing in the sweet and heady scent of your shampoo—his next words ringing like a promise.

“I will.”

He wasn’t sure what made him think that things would be any different when you both saw each other again at school the next morning. Omi definitely noticed the spike in Banri’s disposition when he slid a plate of fresh toast and eggs over to him on the dining table—asking if everything was alright at school. Taichi wondered the same thing, while Juza opted not to comment on it. Although Banri could feel the bizarre look his rival cast his way, he strangely decided not to antagonize him for it. Even Sakyo was freaked out when he greeted the older man with a chipper, “Mornin’, Sakyo-san.”

But Banri’s pleasant mood ultimately depleted when he ran into you in the hallway.

“Hey, prez,” he spoke with a flirtatious drawl that he hadn’t intended to make. “How are you on this fine morning?”

Instead of the blushing mess he’d reduced you into the previous day, you assumed the mask of pensiveness you’d worn on literally every day since you assumed your position.

“Settsu-kun, how many times do I have to tell you to abide by the school’s dress code? The rules are there for a reason, you know.”

Even your voice was stone cold. Banri frowned, pouting a little as he slung his bag over his shoulder. If you were going to revert back to your usual dynamic, so be it.

“Never gave a damn about ‘em,” he muttered, brushing past you without another thought.

You practically ignored each other for the rest of the week.

Banri knew that segregating work from play was an essential ability that an adult needed to have up his sleeve. But, given that he was months away from turning legal, he let himself wallow in his own pettiness for the meantime.

He was overreacting. He knew he was, but who could tell? It wasn’t like he wasn’t already skipping classes in the past. The only difference was this time, he was actively avoiding someone (read: you). But instead of hanging around on the rooftop, where he knew you could find him, Banri just decided not to go to school altogether.

Being the voice of reason among the Hana High boys, Sakuya reprimanded him for it every single time, but Banri waved away his concern—insisting he’d still be at the top of his class despite being a truant. But of course, slipping away from Sakuya’s wellspring of concern wasn’t as easy as it seemed.

“Banri-kun.”

He was just about to shut the front door when Izumi’s I-know-you-did-something-so-you-better-fess-up voice greeted him. Banri felt a chill run across his skin, the director harboring an uncharacteristically pissed off look on her face.

“Hey, director-chan,” he managed, trying his best to skirt away from you. “Um, I gotta—uh, take a quick dump. Is someone using the—”

“What is this I hear about you playing hooky?” She narrowed her eyes, folding her arms across her chest. “I thought we agreed that you’d cut that out already.”

That damn Sakuya.

Banri fell silent for a couple of moments, standing his ground against the almost-glare that Izumi was sending his way. But after a few moments, he felt her stringent gaze ease up.

“Is something the matter?”

He sighed. How the hell was he supposed to lie through his teeth when Izumi used her mother hen voice?

“It’s nothing,” he insisted. “I just...I don’t—ugh. Someone’s been avoiding me and I don’t know how to deal with it.”

Izumi blinked, not expecting for him to cave so easily. Nonetheless, she offered up a reassuring smile, patting the younger boy’s shoulder soothingly. “Well, I don’t know what’s going on but I’m pretty sure you won’t solve any of your problems by avoiding them, too. Have you tried talking to them?”

“Talking…?”

“Yes, talking. You know, the thing you do when you want a certain point to come across to another person?”

That incited a soft laugh from him, shaking his head. “Who knew you could be a funny guy, director-chan? The Summer Troupe might just recruit you.”

Mustering up a laugh of her own, Izumi rolled her eyes. “I’ve dealt with men like you in the past, you know. Based on experience, you wouldn’t have half the problems you have now if you just talked it out with the person concerned.”

“You’re not talking about the old man, are you?” Banri teased with one eyebrow raised.

Her reaction had no delay. “S-Sakyo-san has nothing to do with this!”

As Izumi flung the front door open in her haste, closing it behind her without a glance his way, Banri shook his head with amusement. He didn’t even drop any names. Nonetheless, the director’s piece of advice echoed in the back of his head even when he was already lying in the comfort of his own room.

Blue eyes peeked from behind the curtains draped across his window as he watched the sun slowly dip into the horizon. Banri briefly wondered if you were witnessing the same thing.

“Talking, huh…”

“Settsu! There you are, you little fiend.”

His first day back (again), and the first person that met him at the gates was the guidance counselor, Azumi. Banri waved a quick farewell to Sakuya and Masumi before begrudgingly dragging himself to his teacher’s side.

“Did you miss me, sensei?” he joked, hoping to lighten up the mood. “I bet it’s gotten quiet since I—”

“You’re on marshal duty with the student council. They want a tough guy like you to round all the troublemakers up.” Azumi didn’t even bother scolding him anymore, merely handing him a red bandana with the word MARSHAL hastily scribbled with a black marker. “You can meet (Surname) at the council room so she can give you the breakdown of duties. Go on, now. Everyone’s doing their share for the school festival.”

Now that he’d mentioned it, Banri just noticed all the students milling around the courtyard. Some were carrying props to a makeshift stage in the quadrangle, and others strung decorations on the entrances to the school buildings. He’d been so caught up in his own sulking that he forgot about the school festival.

“Sure thing,” he responded with some semblance of enthusiasm as he pocketed the bandana.

Banri made the trip to the council room at a leisurely pace. He wasn’t at all in a rush, given that, despite the time he’d spent away, he still had no idea what to say once he saw you again. A bitter part of himself insisted that he didn’t have to go through all the trouble, since he didn’t seem to mean anything to you in the first place.

When he twisted the knob, muttering a quick greeting to whoever was present inside, he was surprised to see that you were the only one occupying the council room right this second.

You were nose deep into some paperwork when you spoke to him without looking up. “Oh, Kasumi, when you get back to the stage—”

“I’m afraid I go by Settsu, prez.”

The startled look that painted itself on your face was so comical, Banri had to resist the urge to pull out his phone to snap a picture. For a few moments, the room was plunged into thick silence as you gawked at him like he’d just grown two heads. Had you stared any longer, Banri would have used it as an opportunity to slip in some sly remark, but instead, you shot up from your seat—pacing the short distance that separated you before engulfing him in the warmth of your arms.

Banri let out a startled noise, internally panicking. What the fuck? Why the hell were you hugging him? But he couldn’t resist the urge to reciprocate your affections, shakily returning your embrace in spite of his embarrassment.

“Weren’t you avoiding me?” he muttered.

You flinched away from him, and he noticed the moisture that gathered on the lines of your lashes. A brief shot of guilt lanced through his chest. Did...did he do that?

“You’re the one who suddenly just disappeared after... that,” you sniffled, wiping your tears away with the back of your hand.

Banri breathed in sharply, reaching one hand up to brush your face with delicate fingers. “You were so cold to me the day after. Here I thought I was just a one-time thing for you.”

“Shut up. I just...didn’t know how to react.” You untangled your arms from his lean frame, curling your fists over his chest instead. “I even asked if you were coming over again, didn’t I?”

He found himself smiling fondly at the petulant look you sent his way. No one was as adorable when you made that face. With a familiar flare of courage surging in his veins, he leaned down to ghost his breath against your jaw—delighting at the shiver that racked your body.

“Do you want me to make it up to you?”

Your breath hitched somewhere in your chest, but the slightest tug you made on his clothes was all the confirmation he needed. Without warning, Banri switched your positions—nearly slamming you against the door to the council room as he braced his palms against the vertical surface. You winced at his urgency, seeming like you were about to tell him off, but he claimed your lips in his before you could utter out a single word.

The helpless whimper that you muffled against his mouth shot straight to his core, making him groan in approval when you tangled your fingers in his silky hair. Banri unknowingly pressed his knee in between your legs, forcing them apart as he continued licking into your mouth. The breathless calls for his name made this little escapade all the more dizzying; making him yearn for more.

Banri didn’t even count how many kisses it took to satisfy you—the only things filling his frazzled brain being the addicting plumpness of your lips and the sweet scent of your hair. (He wasn’t kidding about the last part. He’d have to ask you about your shampoo some other time.) And he would have continued ravishing you against the council room’s door had it not been for the three subtle knocks that reverberated from the other side.

“(Surname)-senpai, the vice prez is asking for the complete class lists for the second year students,” a gentle, feminine voice called out.

Your eyes widened in a panic, and Banri could only let out some muted chuckles as he lazily latched his lips on the column of your throat—nipping at your skin with a smirk.

“I-I left the folder with Secretary Ame. Could you look for him for me, Kasumi—hah!”

Oops. He didn’t mean to bite down that hard.

“Senpai, are you okay?”

“Y-Yes! Please don’t come in I’m—um, changing!” Banri had to admit that you sounded quite convincing there. “I’ll join you guys in the courtyard a little later.”

“Hm? Alright, if you say so.”

As he practically felt the relief wash over you, Banri breathed an airy laugh against your skin before wrapping his arms around your waist—tugging you closer. “Nice save, prez. You were almost subjected to the scandal of a lifetime: Hana High’s goody-two-shoes student council president caught in the act with the local delinquent. Now that’s a headliner.”

Chuckling at his whimsical words, you leaned up on the tips of your toes to plant a soft, fleeting kiss on his lips. Banri immediately felt his face flare up with heat.

“If it’s you I wouldn’t mind.”

Banri knew that people say things they don’t mean all the time. Even he did that to others. But even when the two of you had become engrossed with keeping everything in line for the school festival, those last few words you shared with him in the council room haunted him for the rest of the day.

Omitting the part that he was doing it with you, the person who was only second to Azumi-sensei in setting him straight, this whole thing was a pretty sweet deal. He’d come over to your place every now and again to “practice” kissing, and that was one more addition to Banri “Easy Mode” Settsu’s ridiculous repertoire.

Although, he’d failed to factor in one thing before agreeing to your proposal.

You almost always had your house to yourself—the reason behind it being your parents often working late into the night. Banri didn’t mind, since the last thing he wanted was to be chased out of the house by an angry father wielding a kitchen knife. But there were times, much like this one, where he wished someone would barge into the door to personally kick him out. To yell some sense into his thick skull, because when you fell asleep on his shoulder while both of you lounged in the living room, he couldn’t help but stare.

He’d gotten so accustomed both the tough demeanor you showed him in public and the needy look in your eyes in private, that Banri didn’t think that he would still be surprised by new sides of you he was yet to discover. That realization only set once he observed how vulnerable you looked—trusting him enough to fall asleep in his company. Not that you had a reason not to. He was just a little... touched was all.

It’s been a good few weeks since you’d agreed to be ‘practice partners’, and Banri was beginning to think of the crunching days left before graduation. He used to be so ready to just get high school over with since it was boringly easy. But that was before he’d joined Mankai Company; before he let the student council president ruffle his feathers like this.

And with each shallow breath you drew, Banri counted all the times he began to think he was falling in love with you.

It was natural, wasn’t it? To catch feelings for someone he’d invited so close into his personal space? Sure, the two of you kind of did everything backwards, but you at least liked him enough to keep him around. It wasn’t too outlandish to maybe ask you to take...whatever your current relationship was to the next level, right?

Banri’s thoughts were thwarted when you stirred from your nap, gazing around the room with drowsy eyes as you asked him what time it was. He told you it was nearly time for him to leave, since the guys from the dorm might start looking for him, but with a hesitant whine, you snaked your arms around his torso.

“Can you stay a little longer?” you asked, and Banri had to physically look away from your pleading eyes. Goddamn it. You were pretty even after you’d just woken up.

Relenting, he let out a long sigh, praying Sakyo wouldn’t gut him for going home so late again. Banri tilted his face to plant a chaste kiss on the crown of your head, inhaling the familiar scent of sweet flowers in your hair.

“Just five more minutes, okay?”

“Please, I...I need you.”

With his mind suddenly zipping back into the present, Banri feels the way his heart thunders in his rib cage. He must have made a face because the arousal in your eyes tethers back into reason, a question hovering above them.

“I…” Banri runs out of words before he can even fathom any. Because how the hell can he just say, I need you, too but I’m bound by my own moral principles not to do this until I’ve told you I’m in love with you without scaring you off?

He wants to pretend that he only sees you as a practice partner and nothing else. That he definitely doesn’t look at you with a yearning that he shouldn’t even harbor.

But even if he’s an actor, there are just some things he can’t fake.

Then again...you’re (Surname) (Name). The adorable girl he’s been fooling around with for the past few months. The student council president who climbed up his little private space on the rooftop with the strangest proposal that fell on his ears.

(The same person who weaseled her way into his heart.)

He’s almost too sure he knows you well enough to expect you not to run away from him.

“(Name)...” The syllables tumble from his mouth so naturally, he feels like he never called you anything else before. You blink up at him, the blueprint of pure innocence that you are. He falters for a moment, questioning his own gamble, but when you say his name once more, Banri recovers his resolve.

“There’s something that you need to know.”

“Banri-kun, we’ll be late for the ceremony!” He can hear Izumi calling out to him from the gates, the urgency in her tone telling Banri to hurry it up. But he’s a little preoccupied in the garden at the moment.

“One sec, director-chan!” he yelled over his shoulder before turning back to Tsumugi. “These are good enough, right?”

His fellow troupe leader nods at him, sporting the kindest of smiles. “Yup. Honeysuckle flowers complement cosmos really well. I didn’t know you had an eye for flower arrangement, Banri-kun.”

“Not really,” he laughs, bringing the hastily put-together bouquet to his nose. Banri inhales the sweet scent he’s caught on your hair several times in the past. It took a little convincing, but you eventually told him what shampoo you used.

“Honeysuckle,” you said, going red in the face. “What are you even going to do with that information?”

Banri scrambles back onto his feet, adjusting the ribbon pinned to his blazer while he cradles the flowers in his arms. He does a few weird poses in front of Tsumugi before asking, “How do I look?”

“Strange. Why are you wearing the proper uniform, necktie and all?”

He nearly yelps in surprise when you emerge into the garden, arms crossed over your chest where you stand right next to Sakuya. Banri sputters a little, making a pathetic attempt at hiding the bouquet from your view as he asks Sakuya what the hell you were doing here.

“No one expected the prez to come over, Banri-kun,” Sakuya swears, stifling a few laughs. “She came on her own accord.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow at Banri, peering behind his back. “Is that for me, Settsu-kun?”

The way you still address him makes his shoulders sag, and Banri grumbles as he hands you the flowers. “Is it so difficult to call your boyfriend by his first name?”

As expected, your face immediately colors itself scarlet at the mention of him being your boyfriend. He doesn’t blame you. He has to tell that to himself over and over so he wouldn’t think he was still dreaming, too.

“F-Fine,” you huff, caressing the vibrant blooms with a gentle finger. “This is really thoughtful of you, Banri-kun. I love them.”

“Anyone else you love?”

You pout, and both Sakuya and Tsumugi let out their own bouts of laughter. Before Banri can gloat about your flustered reaction, your little moment is interrupted by the sound of someone angrily pounding on a car horn. From where he stands, Banri can see Sakyo fuming in the driver’s seat of his car as Izumi placates him outside. Sighing, Banri spares Tsumugi a minute nod before seizing your free hand. You squeak in surprise, but you don’t jerk your hand away either.

“I’m waiting for an answer, prez,” he teases.

Rolling your eyes, you crane your neck up to place a swift kiss on his cheek.

“I love you, Banri-kun. Happy?”

Elated, he thinks to himself, but instead presses his lips to your forehead.

“I love you, too.”

[chibi-pix]

Hey guys!  I felt it was a good idea. I want to share photos and a bit about the cats I have. Some are at home (Mama’s place), some at my Grandpa’s place.  So, how about it?  Time to introduce the cats!

Name: Soot Age: assumed 6 or 7 years (adopted three or four years ago) Location: Home Skills: Pissing people and cats off while being adorable. Occupation: professional asshole Likes: Yogurt, Pop Tarts, hiding under my dresses, chasing the ladies, and horror video games. Dislikes: Kisses, vacuum cleaners, my singing Extra: Soot has no understanding of my personal space. Under my skirt, across my chest, trying to get into my yogurt, you name it. He loves snacks, especially smoothies made with milk, yogurt, and frozen strawberries. He does not show signs of lactose intolerance. When we adopted him, he was so scrawny. Now he’s a chonk. He may be a smidgen overweight, but he’s happy. 

Name: Christmas Age: maybe 17? (Adopted three or four years ago) Location: Home Skills: healing purrs Occupation: Polite old lady Likes: Snuggles, giving her own cat scans, making my leg go numb Dislikes: someone trying to clean her butt, someone getting the mats out of her fur, me not paying attention to her Extra: She’s an older lady. She’s a bit sore with her age and maybe weight; she struggles to move, but she always comes to sit on my lap or shoulder for love. Her purrs are comforting and helps with my headaches. With her age, she doesn’t groom herself like she used to, so she gets mats. Mama and I have to team up to get them out.

Name: Bandit Age: possibly 17? (She’s Christmas’ sister and adopted with her) Location: Home Skills: telling time without a clock Occupation: Judging others

Likes: treats, catnip, the laser pointer, calling for the manager Dislikes: being picked up, being pet too much, me being one minute late giving her her treats Extra: She’s always silently judging others. Me singing? Judgment. Another cat licking a bag? Judgment. The videos I watch? Judgment. My sneeze? She’s damning me to hell, I’m sure. However, she is kind and caring, If I’m not feeling well, she’ll let me rest longer. 

Name: Baby Boo (Baby) Age: maybe 14 or 15? (Adopted three or four years ago) Location: Home Skills: Summoning demons from the dark pits of hell and turning invisible in the shadows Occupation: witch’s familiar Likes: lurking in the shadows, being pet, sitting on her tower and watching over the peasants, yogurt (but she is lactose intolerant, so I don’t let her have any) Dislikes: demons not obeying her, when the Hellgate suddenly opens up while she’s enjoying a snack and it interrupts her, dancing, and Soot. Poor Soot.  Extra: This is the cat of a witch and I’m pretty sure while she appears to be in her teens, she’s actually the ancient spirit of a scorned witched, cursed to live out her eternal life in the form of a cat, watching over witchlings and commanding legions of demons. She is also the one most likely to kill me in my sleep, but she doesn’t because I’m her person. Thank you, Baby. You make me a proud witch.

Name: Cimmaron (Cim) Age: 11 or 12 (adopted on a farm when he was a year old) Location: Grandpa’s Skills: being cute Occupation: executive art supervisor Likes: sitting with me while writing or drawing, trying to wake up Grandpa, milk from cereal, gravy from beef stew Dislikes: showers (not that I force him) Extra: Cim is a wholesome lad. He likes to chill and see what’s up. He tends to follow me around when he’s not spending hours sleeping on mine or Grandpa’s bed. He accompanies me for my showers, keeping an eye on me.  He was most likely reincarnated and therefore has the soul of a gentle old man.

Name: Buffy Age: seven (adopted when he was about a year old) Location: Grandpa’s Skills: sleeping Occupation: horny freeloader Likes: reminding the dogs who are about fifty pounds each that he was there first, boiled chicken, yelling for attention and then snubbing those who are willing to pet him, Voltron: Legendary Defender Dislikes: being picked up Extra: This freeloader doesn’t contribute. He caught one mouse when he was a year and a half old and that was it. He tends to jump up on my bed to cuddle one of the dogs and watch cartoons with me. He knocked up another cat that my grandparents adopted.

Name: Horatio (H) Age: about 6 (born at the house; Buffy is the father) Location: Grandpa’s Skills: sleeping, eating, and screaming Occupation: screaming freeloader Likes: food. Cat food, chicken, bacon, apple pie, toast, anything he can get to. Dislikes: being picked up, my sister Extra: This guy. He is an absolute chonk. We know he is. But he won’t exercise for anything and when we try to feed the other cats, he shows up wanting food, too. He’ll scream whenever he sees fit and when someone would check on him, he just walks away. He also likes to lay across an entire step on the stairway. Asshole. But cute. His three sisters were adopted by a nurse who took care of my grandma. He’s now an only child pretty much and he sure tries to remind us of that and tries to get us to spoil him. Also, while he loves toast, we do not give him toast. We have birds who have plain wheat toast with their breakfast; one of them dropped a piece and before one of the dogs could get it, Horatio laid down with it and started eating it.

Bonus of Buffy and Horatio.

Name: Foreigner Age: Unknown (stray) Location: Grandpa’s Skills: existing Occupation: supervisor Likes: Walks with grandpa, keeping an eye on Grandpa when he’s working in the yard, sleeping in my chair, chasing after my feet Dislikes: Other cats and dogs invading his space, Ink (another cat) Extra: He just showed up out of nowhere, as cats tend to do out in the country. He was skittish at first, but he warmed up to Grandpa very quickly. Now he’s just part of the family. He is not allowed in the house because he doesn’t get along with the indoor lads and Grandpa’s got a bird. Foreigner also supervises when the horses get out, making sure we’re all okay and can get them back.

Name: Ink Age: unknown (stray) Location: Grandpa’s Skills: Hunting Occupation: Wanderer, professional barn protector Likes: catching mice and other pests on the farm, being admired, keeping his plans for world domination a secret, sunbathing, making cars stop on the road because he’s an idiot who plays in the street and thankfully cars don’t go through often Dislikes: Feriegner Extra: This is a cat with a plan. He was probably sent here from another planet or is a warlock in cat form, slowly observing others and planning to dominate the planet. He wanders off for days at a time, perhaps looking for weaknesses in the planet’s defenses. He’s done with everyone’s shit, but love and affection restores his faith in humanity.

And that is it. These are the lovely cats of my life.  I hope you all enjoyed meeting them.  Until next time. 

Editing to add Myst. She’s fictional, but she’s still a cat.

Name: Myst Age: eternal (created three years ago) Location: going back and forth between the spirit realm and the mortal plane Skills: can go through walls Occupation: existing Likes: sleeping on shoulders, chasing ghosts, people, sleeping on the computer Dislikes: holy water Extra: Myst is a spectral cat from an unknown location. She’s rather recognizable for her fairly transparent body and skull-like face. She floats, shifts size, can be a blob, is very expressive, and doesn’t shed fur. Of course, she sheds a sort of ecto-plasm and it’s hard to wash out. She’s a wholesome cat who likes attention.