#copper ridge

[foreverreverie]

Thomas!! A character I’ve had for a while but haven’t drawn in years. What’s new? I dropped the ball on this, but I already had references laid out so here it is! His birthday was at the end of August 💚

Old Bill is Thomas’ retired Belgian/Halfinger; he’s a good boy 🐴

Also wanted to draw a little picture of Tom and his wife Nancy that he keeps in the store, but I don’t have her design totally down yet. He still misses her a lot 🥺

[abysmal-zone]

[ID: A black and white, copper plate print showing the Chengde Mountain Resort in China. The resort’s structures sit on the right side of the print, at the edge of a lake which is sparsely lined with trees. There are tall hills or mountains in the distance. The sun shines in the left corner while clouds take up the right. End ID.]

Morning Glow on the Western Ridge

Matteo Ripa, made between 1711 and 1713

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Solar: Nanofermentation

[pisanefasade]

Detroit Porch Mid-sized arts and crafts front porch idea with a roof extension and decking

[jollypeachcomputer]

Spacious 2-Bedroom Apartment in Corpus Christi - MidlandTowersApts

Welcome to Midland Towers Apartments. Our apartment community offers unique floor plans, as shown. There is an onsite playground for children, refreshing swimming pool, and spacious courtyards. All of our floor plans come with washer and dryer connections, walk in closets, and private patios. We are a pet friendly community with pet stations throughout our property. The Midland Towers Apartments are located within walking distance to Hogan Park softball fields, golf course, and driving range. We are within minutes of the Midland College, Midland Park Mall, Midland Memorial Hospital, shopping centers, grocery stores, and a wide variety of fast food and dine in restaurants.

Property Features

Landscaped Grounds

Sparkling Swimming Pool

Pet Friendly

Across the Street from 100 Acre Park

Playground

Video Surveillance

Resident Community Room

Apartment Features

One & Two Bedroom Floorplans

Private Patios

Vaulted Ceilings

Breakfast Bar

Washer & Dryer Connections

Garden Windows

Cable Ready

On-Site Services

Leasing Office

24-Hour Emergency Maintenance

Pool House

Online Rent Payment Available

[type-greninja]

Porch - Front Yard Idea for a medium-sized front porch in the arts and crafts style, complete with a deck.

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

Who the bloody Hell is Zoey and why is she important enough he would mention her to his mother.

Dad is too goddamn 🤓 smart.

*looks at picture*

She was like daddy used to float me when I was here as her.

My sweet Jane perhaps.

[writers-potion]

Could you give any advice for "descriptive" writing of any scene or action scenes or mapping out the scenery (Mountains, forests, streets etc) - i believe this is a struggle for Non-English speaking writers due to lack of vast vocabulary.

Common Scenery Description Tips

Vocabulary is clearly an important part of description, but it doesn’t have to be a limit. The most important thing about description in fiction is picking the right details to mention:

How does the details add to the mood of the story? A mountain ridge will be dark, gray and foggy if the overall mood is meant to be mysterious/brooding. In contrast, a mountain can be brilliantly snow-capped, lush green and “smiling down” upon the character if they’re out for a light stroll.

How are the contrasts/complementary aspects being brought out?

Are you using the five senses? You can even combine the senses, ie. blue ringing of the church bells

(If you have the POV character) what 

Some other tips for setting description:

Use similes and metaphors. Creative figures of speech always get my attention as a reader. 

Mention story-specific elements. For example, “The sky was the shade of Zoes’ eyes” or “the mountains looked like a group of trolls sleeping on one another” 

Be concise. Today’s readers don’t want to read paragraphs and paragraphs about one landscape. Outline the larger elements in the scene, their location and general mood. Add some details, then move on. 

If the same location appears multiple times, differentiate the description little by little as you write, instead of trying to lay out one scene in too much detail at once. 

That said, here are some helpful words/phrases:

Forests/Mountains

Color: bone-white, phantom-white, hazy gray

Sound: rumbling, booming grumbling, bellowing clapping, trundling, growling, thundering

Shape: crinkled, crumpled, knotted, grizzled, rumpled, wrinkled, craggy, jagged, gnarled, rugose  

Action: sky-punching/stabbing/piercing/spearing, heaven-touching/kissing, snow-cloaked/hooded/wreathed/festooned

Sloping sides, sharp/rounded ridges, high point/peak/summit

Majestic, gargantuan humbling, vast, massive, titanic, towering, monumental, mighty, vast, humbling

Mountains having faces, etc. 

Seas

Color: blue-green, crystal-clear crystalline, emerald, frothy, hazy, glistening, pristine, turquoise

Size: boundless, abyssal, fathomless, unconquerable, vast, wondrous

Sound: billowing, blustering, bombastic

Action: boisterous, agitated, angry, biting, breaking, brazen. Churning, bubbling, changing, brooding, calm, convulsing, enticing erratic, fierce, tempestuous, turbulent, undulating

Alluring, blissful, betwitching, breezy, captivating, chaotic, chilly, elemental, disorienting

Deserts

Sight: A landscape of sand, flat, harsh sunlight, cacti, tumbleweeds, dust devils, cracked land, crumbing rock, sandstone, canyons, wind-worn rock formations, tracks, dead grasses, vibrant desert blooms (after rainfall), flash flooding, dry creek

Sounds: Wind (whistling, howling, piping, tearing, weaving, winding, gusting), birds cawing, flapping, squawking, the fluttering shift of feasting birds, screeching eagles, the sound of one’s own steps, heavy silence, baying wild dogs

Smell: Arid air, dust, one’s own sweat and body odor, dry baked earth, carrion

Touch: Torrid heat, sweat, cutting wind, cracked lips, freezing cold (night) hard packed ground, rocks, gritty sand, shivering, swiping away dirt and sweat, pain from split lips and dehydration, numbness in legs, heat/pain from sun stroke, clothes…

Taste: Grit, dust, dry mouth & tongue, warm flat canteen water, copper taste in mouth, bitter taste of insects for eating, stringy wild game (hares, rats) the tough saltiness of hardtack, biscuits or jerky, an insatiable thirst or hunger

Streets

Dusty, fume-filled, foul, sumptuous, broad, bucolic, decayed, mournful, seemingly endless, empty, unpaved, lifeless, dreadfully genteel, muddy, nondescript, residential/retail

Bleach, flimsy, silent, narrow, crooked, furrowed, smoggy, commonplace, tumbledown, treeless, shady

The blacktop streets absorb the spring sunshine as if intent upon sending heaven's warmth back through my soles.

The streets absorbed the emotions in the air, the city as the steady and reassuring mother.

The streets were a marriage of sounds, from bicycle wheels to chattering.

In the refreshing light of early daytime, the streets had the hues of artistic dreamtime, soft yet bold pastels.

Cobbled streets flowed as happy rivers in sunlight.

Parties

Some extra tips for locations like parties, where lots of action is going around practically everywhere:

Focus on the important characters - where they are, who they’re with. 

Provide some overall description of the structure of the party scene (a pool, a two-storey house with yard?), then move on to details. 

Don’t try to describe everything. 

whirlwind of laughter and music, a symphony of joyous chaos.

It was a gathering that shimmered with the glow of twinkling lights and echoed with the rhythm of dancing feet.

The air was alive with excitement, buzzing with conversations and the clink of glasses.

Every corner held a story waiting to unfold, a moment waiting to be captured in memory.

It was a tapestry of colors, a mosaic of faces, each adding their own brushstroke to the vibrant canvas of the night.

Laughter cascaded like a waterfall, infectious and unstoppable, filling the room with warmth.

The night was a carnival of senses, with aromas of delicious food mingling with the melodies that filled the air.

Time seemed to slip away in the whirl of the party, moments blending into each other like colors on a palette.

The energy of the crowd was electric, pulsing through the room like a heartbeat, binding everyone in a shared moment of celebration.

It was a celebration of life, where worries faded into the background, and the present moment was all that mattered.

[flawseer]

Jade Mountain Academy students

#3 - Nightwing chapter

The Jade Mountain Nightwing chapter, also known as "the part where Mightyclaws carries the entire weight of the Quartz winglet's canon characterization by himself". There are a bunch of wacky headcanons that have snuck their way on here. Shout-out to the deliberation on Nightwing powers by my partner @flamebringer0.

Moonwatcher

Tribe - Nightwing

Winglet - Jade

Color - Iridescent black and blue

Relatives - none on site

Clawmate(s) - Kinkajou (Rainwing), Carnelian (Skywing)

Favorite subject - Literacy

Least fav. subject - did not disclose

Physical characteristics - three prominent silver-colored scales on face (two adjacent to each eye, one in center of forehead); scale clusters of iridescent blue and green along neck, torso, and tail; small stature, round features with well-defined musculature

Other characteristics - socially subdued, quiet, mother reported history of migraines (suggest keeping stock of pain-relieving herbs on hand in medical cave, monitor hydration habits); appears ostracized from fellow Nightwing students (suggest communication seminar)

Bigtail

Tribe - Nightwing

Winglet - Gold

Color - Dark ash

Relatives - none on site

Clawmate(s) - Pike (Seawing), Flame (Skywing)

Favorite subject - History

Least fav. subject - Science

Physical characteristics - nasal ridge sloped; large stature, uneven distribution of body mass; tail size and length medium to underdeveloped

Other characteristics - body shows signs of extreme long-term malnutrition (suggest dietary seminar and monitoring of food intake); caught bringing bottle of cactus wine into classroom (confiscated, reprimanded after incident but monitor future behavior)

Fearless

Tribe - Nightwing

Winglet - Silver

Color - Charcoal black and red

Relatives - none on site

Clawmate(s) - Sepia (Mudwing)

Favorite subject - History

Least fav. subject - Literacy

Physical characteristics - long dorsal spines; localized reddish accents; stature is noticeably small and thin

Other characteristics - body shows signs of extreme long-term malnutrition (suggest dietary seminar and monitoring of food intake); fixation on Nightwing culture (gently encourage diversifying interests)

Mindreader

Tribe - Nightwing

Winglet - Copper

Color - Charcoal black

Relatives - none on site

Clawmate(s) - Alba (Icewing), Snail (Seawing)

Favorite subject - Cultural Exchange

Least fav. subject - History

Physical characteristics - black teardrop scales adjacent to both eyes; size is average, features appear very gaunt

Other characteristics - body shows signs of extreme long-term malnutrition (suggest dietary seminar and monitoring of food intake); appears socially open and well-adjusted

Mightyclaws

Tribe - Nightwing

Winglet - Quartz

Color - Shadow gray

Relatives - none on site

Clawmate(s) - Barracuda (Seawing)

Favorite subject - Art

Least fav. subject - Anatomy

Physical characteristics - light horns, bent; prominent jawline; small stature with uneven distribution of body mass

Other characteristics - body shows signs of extreme long-term malnutrition, noticeably stressed during meal times (suggest dietary seminar, monitoring of food intake, and counseling); artistically inclined, has started therapeutic painting to cope with post-traumatic stress (at behest of staff)

[velvetmud]

All Those Aches and Pains

warning(s): explicit 18+, period sex, blood, oral, daddy kink, dirty talk, messy filth

in which joel especially loves how you taste during usual painful days of the month

-

Despite how swollen, sore, and achy you’d felt since it started yesterday morning, bleeding through everything and getting all worked up over nothing — Joel could still easily read you, feel what you needed from him but hadn’t known how much you’ve needed it just yet.

He’s done all the right things in taking care of you, running you your bath, feeding you your indulging treats, leaving you alone to your own space when you need time to rest and recharge. There was just one last thing he planned on checking off his list for whenever you were dealing with these particularly dreadful aches and pains.

“You know where I need that pussy, baby,” he heaves from down below you, gorgeously naked with his dark pupils totally blown. “Get it down on my mouth. Yeah, that’s right. It’s okay if we’re messy, s’what tastes good.”

Kissing little marks while his trustworthy hands engulf the entirety of your thigh in each, your pussy could only wait for what was to come and drool more slick and blood. He hears how obscenely wet you sound, taking the back of his finger and teasing a swirl in. He feels his irritating cock start to move about and bob up and down, aching for some attention from the erotic sounds.

“Jus’ need to cum the pain away, don’t you, honey? Need to let it out on my tongue, yeah. Tastes so good like this.”

Spreading your lips apart gently with two fingers, he licks a stripe up the hood of your clit. Practically electrocuting you.

“Oh my god, daddy I love that—“

“And daddy loves you, baby,” he pants, hot breath blowing on your thumping pussy. The warmth alone thrilled you, clenching and gaping for his mouth. “Love eating my pretty pussy.”

He drags his flattened tongue down in gorgeous circles, mixing his spit with every fluid. The taste of earthy copper fills his tastebuds not too long when he goes in, and already he couldn’t get enough.

“Mmmm tastes so good for daddy. Was hungry for this poor little bleeding pussy all morning,” he whispers in the crevice of your skin, sucking one of your lips between his own while your hole helplessly spills more out.

His words put your body in a drunken frenzy, riding your hips along his chin and grinding on every ridge on his awaiting face. Joel is beaming, sweating, so clearly sent straight to heaven and happy to be of use for you when you don’t feel good. To give you release, and taste every new flavor you drip for him.

“Fuck, s’it your second day, sweetheart? Taste so fucking sweet on me right when it starts.”

“Y-yes, I— it hurts, daddy—I need you to make it feel better,” you whine, spreading out any remaining space so he’s completely submerged and diving in as good as he can. His tongue wiggles in a zig zag around your clit, gathering up your juices and flicking his tongue on your bud. He knows how sensitive it gets, loves slapping it with his cock right before you fuck. Even slaps it with his own palms whenever you’ve grown increasingly naughty against him.

“Shhh, pumpkin. I’m licking you better now, we’ll get your sore little pussy back to feeling good again. Gonna get rid of all those aches and pains,” he murmurs, locking eyes when he dips his tongue in and hums at the pool you’ve got gushing inside you. You see how hard it makes him, tasting you in these vulnerable moments—when your body’s in its monthly pain.

“Yeah, please, p-please keep licking it better daddy,” you whimper your request, scrunching his locks between your fingers while the vibrations of his hums give your body another beautiful buzz, thighs shaking while he laps at your pussy, slurping your juices up clean.

“Pussy’s gonna taste this amazing for me all week.. oh fuck I’m not lettin’ you go anywhere ‘til after you fuck my mouth first.”

He smoothes his tongue from your ass to the button of your clit, slipping his tongue in side to side and moaning in glory while he does it.

The raw taste of your pussy in heat does something primal to him, something substantial. Gathering up your slick onto his smooth fingertip, he guides it down before his cock before he blew this chance and busted on its own, snaking those wet fingers that he’d scooped inside you, pulling at his base in his hand and rubbing downward.

His cock was already angry and drooping, veins delectable looking out on display. The intensity in his eyes was also a sight to behold, dipping his tongue in and closing his eyes while his lips do all the work. You’re gaping for it but you know he wants you to cum on his mouth before anything else.

Without thinking he jabs his thumb in your slippery warmth, nearly going cross eyed at the welcoming heartbeat thumping of your pussy.

“You gonna give daddy your orgasm? Gonna get it in my mouth? Yeah you fuckin’ will. You better cum all over daddy’s tongue, daddy wants the taste.” he snarls, hips rigorously thrusting into his wet palm, the palm that he’d gotten covered in your blood and your juices. Joel hurries to slip his thumb out and suck on it, missing the flavor right before diving in to swirl his tongue in your taste again.

“Yeah, I know that pussy’s gettin’ ready. Shit. Mmhm, could eat this all fucking day.”

“I’m gonn—gonna cum, I can’t hold it any longer d—“

Joel halts his rigorous licking to hiss and spit, snarling up at you to “shut the fuck up and give it to me, mmm—baby, yeahhh you feeling good? like when daddy licks you up this good huh?”

“Y-yes…. need it, oh god,” you shake your head back and forth in a daze, feeling your body unclench and release it all on him.

“Need this every fuckin’ day of the month just to make it through, don’t you?” he chuckles, coming up for air briefly after giving your pussy another sloppy kiss.

“S’okay baby, I need it bad too. Can’t have my moody little slut in heat without getting her her orgasms, hm?”

He gulps and laps everything splashing on him, delighted in your long howls and whines, bratty hips still thrusting your clit onto his tongue like a slip and slide.

Your thighs quake in the heat of your buzzing aftershocks, heaving while Joel keeps his lips glued to your pussy, cleaning and kissing so gently and generously.

“M’it…. feels so good, daddy…”

“My girl this sleepy already? Came on my mouth too hard, baby?”

He laughs and smiles at your heavy eyes and sluggish posture, giving him playful shoves. “You know how much daddy loves to take care of you. Always will. ‘Specially love how you fuckin’ taste for me like this,” he scoops his middle finger in to demonstrate, shamelessly licking down the finger down to the knuckle.

When he has enough slick to glide his palm down his cock again, it takes less than twenty strokes as a whole until he’s shooting his load aimed right between your bloody puffy folds. He ruts the fat tip onto you and groans when you push back and slide up against him with your hips.

You’re already nearly out cold by the time he gets a damp washcloth for between your legs. The warm kiss that lands on your temple makes you stir, noticing the feeling of your soft pajama bottoms back on your legs he somehow got rolled up to your waist while you were knocked out. Water by your bedside, your favorite crackers accompanied. Little things that made all those aches and pains that much more bearable.

[mediumgayitalian]

Waking up to music screeching in the inside of his head a half-hour before sunrise every single day is, frankly, hell. Especially when he has the day off. That’s the worst.

But there is, on those rare days off, one benefit — so good it might, although Will shall never in a million years admit it, make the whole ordeal worth it.

On morning shift days, he spends the first ten minutes after he wakes up with his face down into his pillow, praying for the sun to hit the Earth. His prayers have yet to be answered. He spends the next ten minutes sitting, bleary-eyed, at the edge of his bed, waiting for his brain to boot-up and imagining his neurons are making little dial-up internet noises to amuse himself. The final ten minutes before sunrise he spends sprinting silently around the cabin, trying to brush his teeth and put his shorts on at the same time and generally failing at being a person.

Mornings are not fun.

But on his days off, he can afford to be slower. He can’t go back to sleep, true, but he can take the time to let his brain catch up with the rest of him, to breathe, to actually, genuinely wake up, not just be forced to be awake. And then as the sun rises, golden rays bleeding through the window, he bears witness to the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

Nico is gorgeous, swathed in sunlight.

Some might say Will is biased. But Will, these same people might forget, is the son of the god of truth, the god of beauty. He sees these things in the world as easily as some mighty see colour — he can see the Nico is beautiful, and he can see that this is true.

He always is beautiful. Even when he was halfway to dying and twisted in rage in sorrow, he was beautiful. Aside from high cheekbones and a devilish smile and fine, gorgeous hair, he stands in divinity. There is something wholly powerful in the set of his shoulders, the rigidness of his spine; the same kind of beauty in a staggered mountain, in a gnarled tree. A sturdiness, a timelessness, an I have been tested, I have been challenged, I have been beaten; still, I am here. Gracefully, I am here.

Now, Will watches, back to the headboard, as the first few lines of yellow-golden sun filter through the open window above Nico’s bed. They climb slowly, started at his sheet-covered feet, travelling in time up the curve of his cast, stuttering at each fold in the linen, to the crest of his hip. By the time the sunlight crawls over the ridge of the end of the sheet, in bleeds through the window in full, bathing his bare torso in light: his scars, curving like sparkling rivers, his freckles and moles, flicking like dappled light through leafy branches. A forest floor of beauty, in the twisting roots of muscles under his skin, rock-dark bruises over the square of his scapula, the valleys and hills of his ribs. Thousands of miles in which Will loses himself, following the path of the light.

He stirs, slightly, at the brush of his lips against the blurred line of daylight and shadow, tickling the line of his shoulders.

“W’ll?”

“Go back to sleep,” Will murmurs, breathing the words into sleep-warmed skin, raised with goose-flesh.

Nico hums. A small smile tugs the pink curves of his lips, making the corner of his eyes crinkle, the fan of his lashes flutter. Will is awestruck.

“‘Kay.”

He’s out again in seconds, sighing as he settles back against the pillows. His hand, acting out his dreams, drags across the mattress until it spans the curve of Will’s thigh and stills, gripping loosely. Will wraps his own fingers around it and squeezes.

“I love you,” he says softly. He holds his breath, waiting for Nico to stir again, and sighs in relief when he doesn’t. “It scares me.”

A breath of air blows a strand of Nico’s hair across his forehead, almost copper in the early morning sun. Will brushes it easily out of his face, lingering as he tucks it behind his ear.

“I’ll tell you,” he promises, risking another, softer, kiss to his lips. Barely a murmur of touch. “Soon. Sleep well, darlin’.”

[foreverreverie]

💙 Valentine’s series 2023 - Elena [6/10]

- - - - -

Lady on a horse brings you flowers, what’s your response?

I love this; it’s been too long since I’ve drawn Elena (or Rocky!), so this was a great chance to bring them back! Rocky’s not too thrilled about being decked out in roses and ribbons, but he’ll tolerate it…for her 😤😒

[huhniebowl]

Guilty Pleasure

Elliot x Reader 

Warnings: S M U T

a/n: the long and awaited smut is now here...this is what y’all really wanted huh?

i hope you all enjoy this, probably one of my favorite pieces :P

¥

“We—ah shouldn’t be doing t-this.” You stutter in his ear when the tip of his tongue flicks at your nipple. Elliot feels your thighs try to jerk close as they sit on either side of his lap, the muscles trembling against the fabric of his jeans. 

Your sweater is bunched up over your chest and rests on the crown of Elliot’s head—chest heaving as you wrap your arms around his neck and cradle the back of his head to pull him closer, lips now sucking on your perky tit. 

“Elliot, please, you have a girl—fuck!” Your head lolls back when he snaps his hips up, cock hard enough through his jeans to put delicious pressure on your clit through your sweatpants. 

“You talk too damn much,” He mutters into the underside of your chin. He quickly moves his hands up from your ass and into the arch in your back, keeping you from leaning onto the horn. A Range in an empty parking lot at two in the morning, already raises enough suspicion. 

“Shh, it’s okay.” He says, slowly moving his hips against yours, “What she doesn't know can’t hurt her.” 

Yes, Elliot is aware, that’s probably the shittiest thing he could say and do to another woman, but he can’t help who he yearns for. You’re just everything Jules isn’t. You tempt him without trying, without knowing. If your signs were more evident from the beginning, Elliot could swear right away, that he’d been fucking you rather than Jules. No shame in it at all.

Jules wouldn’t have been a thought, a name that crossed his mind. He had to settle for someone that wasn’t you. And now? Now things are complicated as a result. Now you both are participating in one of the worst betrayals, but you can’t find it in yourselves to care. Not when the object of your desire, the guilty pleasure you’ve both been wanting for months, is finally within reach. 

You don’t try to protest much after that; your will to leave wasn’t that strong from the beginning. Instead, you channel all your focus on Elliot and nothing else. Your hands pull his hoodie up from his jeans, fingers running over the dips and ridges on his stomach and chest before settling on his collarbone to take the hoodie off. 

Leaning back on his lap, cautious of the horn, you stare down at him, your hair curling at the forehead and lips swollen—sweater falling back down, crumpled, over your torso. God, he can’t wait to fucking destroy you. 

Your eyes follow the ink up his arms. The single copper street lamp in the lot acts as a projector for the rain pelting the window, casting a show on the two of you and emitting just enough light for you to see each other. 

“Looking so fucked out already, and we haven't even started,” Elliot breathes, “Am I that good?” You groan and press down on his cock, getting impatient. He jolts at the unexpected pressure, your fingers making quick work of his belt buckle. 

You throw the metal clasp apart and unzip his jeans, dancing your fingertips over his abdomen—biting the inside of your cheek when he clenches under your feather touches. 

“What do you want me to do, Elly?” You mouth at his neck, fingers nipping at his boxers, and now and then brushing over the apparent tent in the cotton. 

You feed off praise, orders, and reactions. That realization alone slaps Elliot into a daze, his cock twitching at the thought of you bending in any way he orders you to just so you could please him. He’s going to have so much fun with you. 

He spreads his legs further apart and rolls his hips up, peering up at you with hooded lids, lips parted with heavy breathes. Without a word, the anticipation rolling off in waves, Elliot wraps his larger hand around yours—the size difference-making his mouth dry—and slips them down his boxers. 

All while keeping eye contact with you, he squeezes your hands around his cock and hisses. He watches you tremble on his lap. The feeling of your clit pulsing on his thigh, gives him all the affirmation he needs to keep going. 

“I want you,” he starts,“To keep your hand just like this, and work my cock up and down.” Your eyes stay on his. Top lip twitching. 

“Like this?” You whisper, moving your hand just as he instructed, twisting and turning. Elliot groans and uses his free hand to wrap around the headrest, situating himself.                                                                      

“Yeah, just like that baby,” At the praise, your nipples harden through your sweater. Once again, the buds yearn for some type of relief, and Elliot holds back a chuckle at how sensitive you are. 

“Fuck Elliot.” You whimper, your conjoined hands picking up speed. You reach down with your free hand and pull his boxers further down. His heart stutters when you shake your hand from out under his and instead wrap it around his tip to run your thumb over the slit—jerking him faster. 

“Mhm, like that, baby. Doing so well for me.” He rasps, arching off the seat and lolling his neck back against the headrest. He grinds up into your fist, his moans the hottest sound, and you feel your pussy leak another glob of arousal. 

You keep your eyes on his face, on his reactions. His tiny whimpers.

“Shit, baby. Please don’t stop.” God, this felt so right, you couldn’t help but feel like he was meant for you. That you’re the only one deserving to see him like this. Feel him like this. 

Lost in the feeling of everything you, Elliot gasps when you suddenly press your lips on his collarbone, peppering kisses up his throat before biting down on the spot under his ear. A bruise sucked on his skin and the pleasure shooting right to his cock. 

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum. Stop.” He shakily tries to push you back, the only place he wants to cum is inside you. Nowhere else. But you being the eager slut you are, keen to see him fall apart, doesn’t listen, instead picking up your pace and sucking another bruise on his neck.

Disobedient.

 Elliot grips the back of your head by your hair, and with his other hand, yanks your wrist away—squeezing it tightly. 

“I told you to stop.” He mutters, eyeing your frazzled state. Poor baby, you haven’t gotten any relief. 

“I bet your pussy is soaking right now. Clit swollen and sticky, aching for my tongue.”

“Yes, please.” You mewl, trying to tug his hand into your sweats. Elliot tuts at your disability to listen and pulls his hand away from your wrist to wrap it around your throat. 

“Do you think you deserve my mouth on your pussy? After that stunt you pulled? You really think you deserve it? Hm?” 

Your eyes gloss over, pleading, begging him for something. Anything. 

“Please?” You whisper, hands shaking at your side. That’s the only word you could utter. He dwindled you down into a pleading mess. A whimpering, begging whore. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t loving every second of it. Elliot tilts his head to the side in false thought, eyes raking over every inch of your flushed face. He wants to remember you like this. 

“Come on. You can do much better than that.” He pouts and uses the hand that was once gripping your hair to press down on your clit through your sweats. 

Tears build at your waterline, threatening to spill when you buck up. The night was nowhere near over, but you’re already feeling neglected. You just wanted him to relieve you, preferably by being stuffed with his cock, but this will have to do until he was done playing with you. You could do it. You waited this long for him. You could be good for him. You will be good for him. 

“I’ll do anything, Elliot, anything. Please touch me. Fuck me, something.” You cry, “I’ll be good for you, I promise.” Elliot grins a Cheshire cat-like grin, loving how much he dumbed you down to the point where your thought process is nothing but him. 

“There we go, baby, now was that so hard?” He doesn’t wait for you to respond, reaching down to the side of his seat for the lever and pushing it back. 

You tumble on top of him with a yelp but can barely process the new position before he’s tugging off your pants. He tosses them to the side and slaps your bare ass. The sting mixing with the sudden rush of cold air on your skin, makes you tremble. You move to rid your panties, but Elliot slaps your hands away, 

“Leave em’. You look so pretty with them on.” He moves to lay down under and nips at your lips, “Now up.” 

You don’t waste a second, scrambling up until your clothed pussy is hovering right over his face, hands gripping the back seat headrest. The heat from your pussy radiates over his face, and Elliot blows cool air. He chuckles when your hips buck up.

“So pretty.” He whispers, hooking a finger to pull your panties to the side to place a kiss on your clit. Then another, then he starts languidly making out with your pussy. He’s teasing, his mouth right on your clit but not necessarily focused there. 

You whine, mouth open and eyes screwed shut when his mouth works sloppily over you. The sounds make your stomach clench, but it’s just not enough. And Elliot knows, it’s not enough. 

“Come on!” You moan impatiently, knuckles turning white against the seat. Elliot chuckles and pulls your panties fully off your legs. He sticks his tongue out, wraps his arms around each of your thighs, then pulls you down on his tongue. 

“Ride my face,” He mumbles against your pussy, and you immediately start grinding your hips. 

Your hands get clammy against the leather, and the lewd sounds of Elliot slurping you up echo throughout the car. You’re not sure what you're begging for anymore, Elliot’s name chanting past your lips like a prayer. 

He has a pattern that he keeps up, sucking on your clit, before twisting his way between your folds, then sticking his tongue out and curving the end up firmly for you to ride on. It’s all too much, the white-hot coil tightening in your abdomen quicker than you would like. Your thighs start to shake again, and you're clenching around nothing, hips picking up speed. Elliot groans into you, tongue breaking pattern to trace each letter of his name. 

Your face is pressed harshly against the headrest, eyes rolling to the back of your head when you yell.

“I’m gonna cum. Fuck I’m gonna cum!” And right when your coil was going to snap, right when you swear you could see the end of your sweet release, Elliot twists your thighs off his face and over his shoulders—flipping them sideways and fully propelling you into the backseat. You lay there dumbfounded, both too confused and aggravated from a neglected orgasm. 

“What the fuck, Elliot?” You curse, watching him crawl over the armrest and situate himself in the seat next to you. Boxers and jeans gone.  

“Did you really think I would let you cum that easily?” He arches an eyebrow. “After the shit you pulled?” His nose, down to his chin gleam with your juices. 

He notices your stare and flicks his tongue out, licking his lips and around his mouth. Making a show out of it. 

“Mhm, so sweet.” He downright moans, and you shiver. The entire thing was nasty, obscene. And you wanted, needed more. He pats his thighs, and you immediately climb on top of his lap. Wrapping your arms around his neck again, and pulling him down so his lips hover over yours. 

“You gonna fuck me now?” You whisper against them, his hot breath fans over your face when he lets out a soft “Fuck.” 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He muses against your lips, “Want me to claim your pretty pussy as mine?” He reaches down between your bodies and presses two fingers on your clit, rubbing slow circles. 

“Look at that, you’re trembling over just my fingers.” Your thighs jerk close when he slips two of them inside, breath caught. 

“Elly please. Need you inside. Wanna ride you.” Elliot laughs, pulls his fingers out and taps your lips. You open like the good girl your are for him and suck on his fingers, tasting yourself. 

“Such a slut for me aren’t you?” He grins, and pats your thigh for you to lift up so he can line himself with your pussy. With his hands now on your hips, he guides you down to his cock. His thighs tensing at the porn-worthy moan you let out at the feeling of finally being full. Elliot has to resit the urge of fucking you dumb when he looks up to see you dazed. Hips slowly moving to build up a rhythm. 

“Go on and show me why it should’ve been you from the beginning.” 

[universitypenguin]

Chapter 27

Summary: Lloyd and Zach make a shocking discovery at Copper Ridge Quarry. Meanwhile, Princess commits a felony with Court Gentry and unmasks her stalker... kind of.

Author's Note: Thank you all for having so much patience while waiting for this chapter!

Word Count: 7,723

Masterlist

Warnings: Generalized violence, criminal behavior, kidnapping, police, bad language, 18+ content in this story, minors please do not interact.

The Princess & the Lawyer Chapter 27

Lloyd  Monday - 9:27 p.m. In the woods near Copper Ridge Quarry Fairfax County, VA

- - - - - - - - - - -

Seven years had passed since Lloyd last faced real danger. He'd forgotten the sudden surge of adrenaline, how it flooded and overwhelmed the senses. His grip tightened on the Glock. The familiar weight of the firearm was oddly comforting, despite the thundering of his heart in his ears. With moonlight obstructed by tree branches and his flashlight still off, visibility was minimal. The undergrowth snagged at his pant leg as he pushed through the suffocating darkness, following the faint sounds ahead. Twigs snapped and foliage rustled.

He could almost pinpoint the source of the noise. He was close.

Zach was somewhere to his right, but without light, the exact position was unknown. The broken branches, trampled vegetation, and the cacophony of noise told him they were on the trail of a human. Lloyd trusted Zach to have reached the same conclusion. Another snap - the sound of something breaking, followed by a gasp, guided Lloyd toward his target.

His white-knuckle grip on the Glock eased. It was too dark to shoot and risk friendly fire. The sounds were sufficient to lead Lloyd. He caught a glimpse of light filtering through a break in the canopy ahead, revealing a shadow fifteen feet ahead. He flicked on the safety and tucked the Glock into the back of his pants. Ducking under a low-hanging branch, Lloyd seized the momentary visibility to increase his speed.

Closing the distance took only three strides. There was a sudden movement, and Lloyd lunged, relying on a split-second glimpse to aim. He led with his shoulder, directing his weight low, aiming at hip level. These movements were more instinctive to him than reaching for the Glock that Zach had provided.

His arms wrapped tightly around the figure's thighs, and a scream pierced the air.

They crashed to the ground in a tangled heap, with Lloyd on top. The person clawed at his back, tearing at his jacket before finding purchase on his neck. Just before sharp nails could pierce his skin, the realization that the figure beneath him was female set in. Immediately, he loosened his grip. The woman took advantage of his lax grip and kicked him in the chest. She screamed again, her voice piercing.

"Hey!" Zach's voice echoed.

The harsh beam of a flashlight momentarily blinded Lloyd when Zach flipped it on.

"We're not here to hurt you," Zach said, softer.

Lloyd squinted against the light, spots dancing in his vision. He felt the woman panting beneath him, her damp, sweaty palms against his neck, mixing salt from perspiration into the scratches she'd left, stinging. When his vision cleared, the illumination revealed familiar features he hadn't expected to see in these woods.

"Laine Cruz. You're… Laine Cruz."

Her eyes darted from Zach to Lloyd at the sound of her name. "How do you know my name?" 

Lloyd rolled to the side, easing his weight off her. "You've been on the news every hour for the past three days."

Leaves crunched underfoot as Zach approached. He crouched down, lowering the flashlight. Laine recoiled.

Zach spread his hands, showing they were empty, including the one holding the flashlight. "Hey. It's okay. We're not here to hurt you."

"Then why did you chase me?"

"We thought you were someone else," Zach explained.

Laine inhaled sharply. "Who?"

"We thought we were chasing a trespasser," Lloyd replied. "What are you doing here?"

Laine sat up, bracing her arms behind herself as she surveyed her surroundings. The whites of her eyes flashed, and Lloyd could see sweat-dampened skin glistening in the flashlight's beam.

"Where, exactly, is here?"

"Copper Ridge Quarry," Lloyd said.

Laine's gaze swept the clearing, her eyes widening, her mouth tensing.

"We need to get out of here."

She scrambled to her feet, and Lloyd noticed blood staining her ripped jeans, still flowing from scratches on her legs.

"What's the rush?" Zach asked, his tone even.

"The man who kidnapped me. He was right behind me at first, and I thought I'd lost him, but then I heard him calling my name. Come on. You're not safe either. We need to keep moving."

A chill ran down Lloyd's spine. "You saw him?"

Laine nodded. "I saw his face."

"Can you describe what he looked like?” 

“I recognized him.” 

“You recognized him?" Zach parroted. 

"Yeah. I used to work with him. It was Shun Nguyen."

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

Princess  Monday - 9:45 p.m. Intersection of 14th Avenue & K-Street  Washington D.C 

Just leaving a note on the desk felt wrong, but with the midnight deadline, it was the only option. Earlier, on the walk to the car, your attempts to reach Lloyd had gone straight to voicemail. Zach's phone did the same. They were likely out of cell service range at Copper Ridge. Being unable to reach them made you twitchy. Guilt tugged at your conscience. What if they came back, saw the empty office, assumed the worst, and missed seeing the note? 

You should try Lloyd again.

"Relax," a quiet voice from the backseat interrupted your thoughts. Your gaze met Court Gentry's in the rearview mirror.

"Pretend it's any other night. You're just swinging by the office to grab a file."

He must have assumed your anxiety stemmed from the mission. It made sense. You were about to commit a felony, which should’ve taken precedence over your current fixation on getting in touch with Lloyd. However, all you could think about was the promise you’d made to him not to lie or keep secrets. How long ago was that? A week? Maybe ten days?

The stoplight turned green ahead, and you pulled through the intersection, weaving around concrete K-rails blocking off an underground construction site in the median. You turned left, onto the block where Bishop & Howard was located.

"Park at the meters up here," Court directed.

After paying the meter, he let you lead the way to the firm. 

Entering through the front doors felt weird - you usually arrived through the employee parking garage.

The guard at the front desk wasn't a familiar face. He looked to be about mid-twenties clean-shaven with a crew cut. You handed him your badge, per company policy for anyone entering or exiting after nine p.m., he inspected it before scanning the barcode to pull up your personnel file.  

"It says here that you're on temporary leave," he observed.

"I've been working from home."

The guard scrolled down, then grunted, acknowledging the notation.

"Purpose of your visit?" he asked.

"I need to review some files that can't be checked out."

"Alright," he responded, eyeing Court with suspicion.

Damn it. You had hoped to pass Court off as your guest and slide by on charm, but Crew Cut was not one to be swayed easily.

"He's with me," you said casually.

"I.D. badge, sir?" 

"He’s just started at Hightower Investigations. His badge hasn't arrived yet," you fibbed.

Crew Cut raised an eyebrow. "He's an employee of Zach's?"

"Yes."

His acceptance bolstered your confidence - until he reached for the phone. 

Please, please let Zach's cell still be out of service.

The guard frowned. "Straight to voicemail. That's unusual."

"He's on assignment right now," you explained.

"Did Zach file paperwork for his badge? I can process it tonight."

"I don't think so. You know Zach and paperwork. It's an ongoing saga."

The guard's suspicious gaze shifted to Court, and you realized that doing all the talking was probably a huge red flag. Maybe Court should be the one handling this conversation. However, considering that he has the same training as Lloyd and Zach, and they both gravitated toward brute force instead of subterfuge… Yeah, maybe not. This approach would have to work. Amid your internal war, the elevator chimed, diverting Crew Cut's attention. Bishop stepped into the lobby, briefcase in hand, engrossed in his cell phone. Relief flooded through you in a rush, as if you’d stood up too fast and your blood pressure couldn’t catch up.

If Bishop vouched for Court, the guard would have to relent. The guard seemed to have the same idea. 

"Mr. Bishop," he called.

Bishop looked up and smiled. "Evening, Morgan! Did you catch the Nationals game last night? Ah, Princess!"

His warm greeting to Crew Cut broke off when he saw you. At the sight of Court Gentry standing beside you, a split second of suspicion flitted across his face before smoothing out. The swoop of blood pressure you’d felt earlier surged again as three critical problems registered in your mind simultaneously.

One: you shouldn't be at the office. 

Two: it was very late

Three: Court Gentry was with you.

The last fact sent a shiver down your spine, because it related to a much larger issue. There was a 50/50 chance of Bishop recognizing Court. He had represented Lloyd in the kidnapping case, so it was plausible that he’d at least know Court’s name. You hoped Bishop only knew him by name because if he recognized his face, you were in a world of trouble.

"Hi, Bishop," you said, trying to project ease.

Bishop's eyes darted between you and Court, studying the blond man for a moment before tilting his head, his expression shifting to a cool, pleasant mask. Seeing that look made your palms sweat. You had seen the shark come out of this pleasant, affable man before, during jury trials where he tore into witnesses like a great ocean predator. 

"What brings you downtown at this hour, Princess?" he inquired, addressing you, but maintaining eye contact with Court.

You scrambled for an explanation.

"I needed to review some files in Lloyd's office," you replied.

Bishop's gaze lingered on Court before turning slowly to you. "Excellent. I'm glad you're making progress on the case. Who's your friend?"

Before you could respond, Bishop stepped around you, extending his hand to Court.

"I'm Clayton Bishop. Who are you?"

Court smiled and returned the handshake smoothly. "David Parker. Pleasure to meet you."

"What brings you in tonight, Mr. Parker?" Bishop asked.

Court's expression remained friendly and calm. "Just accompanying Princess. I've just started at Zach's, and she’s been kind enough to show me around town."

Bishop nodded, his shoulders relaxing, though the cool, pleasant expression persisted. You knew the visible relaxation was a facade, meant to give a false sense of security before the actual test began. 

"How do you know Mr. Hightower?" Bishop asked.

"We served together," Court replied without hesitation.

A wave of relief washed over you; it was an excellent answer. 

Bishop nodded, his eyes flickering. "You were in the Rangers together."

Court shook his head. "SEALs, actually. We met during BUD/S.” 

“Virginia?” 

 “No, Coronado."

"You don't look old enough to have been in the same training group. Remind me, what year did you two graduate?"

"‘02, sir."

Bishop snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes, I remember now - must’ve been a senior moment. Anyway, I won’t keep you. Morgan? Get Mr. Parker a visitor pass. We’ll sort the paperwork out later. Good night, Princess. Don't work too hard."

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

Lloyd Monday - 11:24 p.m.  The Harmony Police Station  Harmony, VA 

The fluorescent lights of the police station bounced off the bleach-white walls, assaulting Lloyd's retinas as he navigated the hallways, scanning the acrylic placards posted outside the offices for Roth's name. When he finally located the office tucked away in the back corner, he noticed the door partially ajar, affording a view of Roth reclined in his chair, engrossed in a file. Lloyd knocked to announce his presence.

"Come in," Roth replied, without glancing up.

Lloyd raised an eyebrow at the curt response. After all, he’d just located Roth's missing person a couple hours ago. Taking a seat in the stiff plastic guest chair, Lloyd crossed his legs, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"We need to talk," Roth declared, tossing the file onto his desk. He removed his glasses and spun them by the earpiece as he regarded Lloyd. Something prickly lurked in his pale eyes.

“You seem grumpy for someone who just scored a major win,” Lloyd said when the silence became uncomfortable.

"Do I?"

"Laine Cruz is safe in the hospital and has turned out to be a key witness. That's actually two wins, if we're counting.” 

Roth's thin lips twisted sarcastically. "Right."

"Is there something I'm missing here?" Lloyd asked.

"Let me give you a hint: I received reports from the uniforms at the Copper Ridge scene twenty minutes ago and followed up on their leads."

Lloyd waited, but Roth didn't offer any further explanation. "I suppose none of those reports mentioned finding my phone?"

"I don't care about you losing your phone," Roth said.

"Then get to the point because I'm getting bored."

"Here's a hint. The bulletin I issued for Nguyen came back within five minutes."

Lloyd's stomach sank - then, in the next moment, his blood boiled.

"Does the name Detective Diskant ring a bell?" Roth asked.

"It does."

“Would you care to enlighten me how the information he passed to earlier today about Shun Nguyen didn’t reach my desk until…” Roth glanced at his watch, "eight hours later."

“Information he shared with Princess,” Lloyd corrected. “She told me an hour later. And remember, that information was only discovered because Diskant found it while investigating her stalker, which is a separate case from yours.”

“Nguyen was the number one suspect in Princess’ case. Funny that he’s back to the top of my suspect list, too. Ever heard of sharing information, Hansen? I feel like it’s a matter we’ve been over before… Can’t remember why…”

“We were handling Princess’ case discreetly. Given the sensitivity of the subject and the multitude of suspects, including yourself, we opted for a closed-loop approach. Until recently, Nguyen wasn't even on our radar. As you're likely aware from your conversation with Diskant, he's been cleared of any involvement."

"You knew he was in the area but didn’t bother picking up the phone. That hampered my progress. I expected better.”

"I had my reasons for playing it close to the vest," Lloyd snapped.

"Passing along Nguyen's whereabouts without mentioning the stalking case wasn't an option, huh?"

"Look, Princess met with Diskant this afternoon. She informed me of the new information around seven o’clock, just before Zach and I went to check out Copper Ridge."

"And she didn't see fit to share this information with me because…?"

Lloyd's lips pressed into a thin line. "She was upset that the case had hit a wall. Trust me, talking to you was the last thing on her mind."

"Fair enough."

"You know, the last time we had this debate, the roles were reversed."

"I have a badge and a mandate from the taxpayers. You're a tagalong, at best."

"And dead weight at worst," Lloyd quipped.

"Your words, not mine. Tell me about finding Ms. Cruz."

"She’d escaped and was running through the woods. Zach and I heard the noise while hiking around the perimeter of Copper Ridge Quarry. We out flanked her and I tackled her, which is why he accompanied her to the hospital, and I'm here."

"Tate Corbin's comments about acid took you out there," Roth said. "You interviewed him this morning?"

"Yeah. Burned through my last real suspect, too."

Roth sighed, twirling his glasses before folding them neatly and leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

"Tell me about it. Leo McKenzie's alibis have held up, and Tate Corbin's whereabouts are confirmed from every angle."

"Nguyen is the last viable suspect," Lloyd said.

"Any thoughts on that?" Roth asked, running his hand over his head.

"If I hadn't heard it directly from Laine, I wouldn't believe it. Princess spent a good two hours dissecting all the holes in the case against him this evening. All the points she made still hold. Nguyen wasn't part of the narrative until 2000."

"And there were two murders before he moved to town."

"Logic versus an eyewitness," Lloyd said.

"Disputing a victim's account isn't very logical."

"Eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable."

Roth sighed. "True. Any chance she could be wrong? Wasn’t it dark? How certain is she about what she saw?"

"It was dark, but she was certain of his identity. She named him with no prompting."

"And provided his full name?"

Lloyd nodded. “She volunteered at the hospital in high school. The same years when Nguyen was a resident - 2000 and 2001.”

Roth twisted his head from side to side, cracking his neck. "Damn it. What the hell is going on here?"

"The trail leads back to the only suspect who logically couldn't have done it."

"Not according to Clayton Bishop. He used every trick in the book to convince a jury Nguyen was guilty. That's unlike him."

Lloyd raised an eyebrow. "How would you know what's usual for Bishop?" 

"His track record in court speaks for itself. He's meticulous, deliberate, doesn't take risks, doesn't overlook details. There's only one exception to that rule: the Nguyen case. That's the only time he played dirty - so to speak."

"Are you implying he knows something we don't?" Lloyd asked.

"Does he?"

"No. He had a strong hunch about Nguyen, but that's all there is to it."

"Because the murders ceased after his arrest," Roth said.

"It's a post hoc fallacy, but the longer this drags on, the more appealing it becomes."

"The abductions started when he returned."

Lloyd frowned. "Shit. You're right."

"We could prosecute him based on eyewitness testimony, but there are a dozen gaping holes in the case. You know it, I know it… and unfortunately, Peter Shaw knows it too."

"I don’t want to think about Shaw right now. He’ll be turning up soon enough. Do you believe her? Was Nguyen really chasing her, or is someone messing with us?"

Roth grunted. "I've been considering that since the missing person’s report. I didn't even believe Nguyen was in the state until I received the photos from Diskant."

"And?"

"I'm still not ready to abandon other possibilities."

"Do we have any other leads to pursue?" Lloyd asked.

Roth rolled back in his chair, disappearing under his desk momentarily before reemerging with three tan cardboard file boxes, slamming them onto the tabletop one by one. Lloyd stared at them, then at the detective.

"Princess can build databases, which has been immensely helpful, despite my initial doubts. But not everything gets scanned into a computer."

"What are these?"

"Arrest records spanning thirty years for the Copper Ridge area. Hunting licenses, reports from the Wildlife Department on poaching, and much more. Everything I could get my hands on."

A surge of hope propelled Lloyd to the edge of his seat. "You think there's anything here linking Nguyen to the crime scene?"

"Assuming Ms. Cruz identified the correct person, we need to find evidence. And if she was mistaken… Well, the location alone gives us something, doesn't it?"

"If you want another pair of hands-"

Roth handed Lloyd a box before he could finish, gesturing to a table in the corner. "Make yourself comfortable. I spoke to the hospital. We have an hour before Laine is available for questioning."

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

Princess  Monday - 10:12 p.m.  Sixth floor of Bishop & Howard - Patent Office  Washington, D.C. 

The sight of the steel-plated door guarding the patent department loomed ominously, threatening to send you spiraling into a panic. Despite occasional visits to the sixth floor, you'd never scrutinized its entrance up close until now. What had seemed innocuous from afar now appeared formidable; the department's door resembled something sourced from a nuclear bunker.

Court Gentry seemed oblivious to your unease. You opened your mouth to inquire if he had smuggled in a diamond-tipped drill bit when he pulled out his phone, scanned the wall to your left, and punctured it with a pocket knife. You gasped.

"Keep it down. A guard rotates through here every half-hour," Court said, continuing to dig out a section of drywall with his knife.

"You stabbed a wall! What the hell?!" 

"The mechanisms controlling the locks are routed through shielded cables inside the wall. They’re unhackable, but nothing protects them from physical splicing."

He withdrew the tool from the wall, revealing it to be a small, handheld oscillating device rather than a pocket knife as you’d initially assumed. You stepped back, nervously scanning your surroundings as Court manipulated the keypad and biometric scanner. A buzzer sounded, and you jumped as the door swung open. Court smirked, catching the handle and holding it open.

“Ladies first.”

You stepped through as Court disconnected his phone from the wires in the wall. 

"Not to state the obvious, but what if someone notices the softball-sized hole in the wall?"

Court smirked. He produced an orange and green package, easily recognizable as a construction-grade temporary drywall patch. You’d seen similar ones in your father's work truck. Peeling off the adhesive backing, he fixed it over the hole. The stark white patch stood out in glaring contrast to the soft cream color of the wall.

"That actually made it worse," you said.

"I'm not finished yet."

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieved a cloth-wrapped object. Unwrapping it, he held up a plain interior signage commonly posted around the office. The hard plastic sign depicted a wheelchair with an arrow pointing left, accompanied by the words "accessible route" in all capital letters. Court returned the oscillating tool to his jacket and used his pocket knife to secure the sign to the wall, effectively covering the hole and the patch, with room to spare.

You didn't want to be impressed, but you were.

The patent department was dimly lit. After nine o'clock, the overhead lights automatically switched off, leaving only the middle bar of every third panel illuminated. The faint scent of stale coffee lingered in the air, like someone had forgotten a half-empty mug left on their desk. Thin carpet muffled your footsteps as you followed Court down the aisle of cubicles. The space was larger than you had expected. While Court discreetly placed a couple of spy cameras, you counted the cubicles. There were sixteen.

"Come here. I need your badge," Court called out, drawing your attention.

Lost in distraction, you hadn't noticed that he’d crossed the room. To reach him, you had to maneuver through the U-shaped path of cubicles to the corner of the room, the one furthest from the entrance. Along the far wall there were actual offices, secured with locked white oak doors and interior windows granting a view over the cubicles presumably assigned to managers.

On the door to the last office sat a fancy-looking keypad and badge scanner. You eyed it warily, then turned to Court.

"Go on," he said when you hesitated.

"With what?"

"Scan your badge."

"Are you insane? I don't have access in this department!"

"Your badge will work," Court assured.

"What if it doesn't? What if an alarm goes off?!"

He sighed and held out his hand. "Give it to me. I'll scan it."

"How would it work on this door? I don't even work in this department, and I—"

Suddenly, he pressed a finger to his lips, his eyes narrowing. You instantly fell silent, feeling the hair on the back of your neck prickle. Court’s gaze darted to the door. Hinges creaked from the other side of the room and Court grabbed your wrist, pulling you down.

"Quiet," he hissed, barely audible even though his face was inches away from yours.

A beam of light sliced through the dimness as the patent department door swung open. You shivered at the sudden visibility. Footsteps shuffled over the carpet, signaling the arrival of an interloper. Your heart pounded against your ribs, each beat thundering in your ears. Dryness filled your mouth, like a physical echo of the worst hangover you'd ever experienced.

The footsteps halted, followed by the sound of metal scraping against metal  — you recognized the sound as a desk drawer being pulled open — followed by the rustling of papers. A sigh came from the other side of the cubicles. Court tightened his grip on your wrist, urging you to remain still. You peeked through a gap between the cubicle partitions, catching sight of a man with reddish-brown hair in a dark suit. He was standing in the aisle with his back to you. Court's warning grip tightened again, prompting you to shift to the left, ensuring you were out of sight if the man turned around.

Seconds stretched into minutes as you remained coiled like a spring, every rustle of your clothing deafening in the silence. Finally, the sound of a phone ringing pierced the air, accompanied by a triumphant exclamation from the man. Relief washed over you as you pieced together the clues, realizing he’d called his own phone to find it.

Muscles still tensed, you listened as the man's footsteps faded away. A shaft of light fell over the room as the door remained ajar longer this time, letting in brightness from the hall. You had the urge to peak again and locate the cause of the delay, Court's tight grip on your wrist dissuaded you from risking it.

"Hey, Gary!" the man's voice echoed down the hall. "Can you look at this keypad? It's not… uh, working… I think…"

Keys jangled, heavier footsteps approached, and you closed your eyes in horror. Court tugged your arm. You hesitated, but he pushed you forward, pointing to the entrance of a cubicle. The guard's steps grew nearer, and you struggled to keep your breathing steady. With every rustle, you expected to be discovered. Your hands trembled as you crawled under the cubicle desk. Court folding his larger frame into a surprisingly compact shape as he slid in beside you.

The crackle of a radio sounded closer this time. Court's breath remained steady beside you, contrasting the frantic beat of your heart. A moment of panic gripped you as the guard's voice echoed through the room, exchanging pleasantries with the man. They discussed the malfunctioning keypad.

Finally, the voices receded. 

Court released your wrist. Trembling with relief, you remained frozen until he spoke.

"They're gone now," he said, rising to his feet and extending a hand to help you up. You accepted, carefully brushing yourself to conceal your reaction.

Leading the way back to the door, Court gestured for your badge again. Without argument, you handed it over. He scanned it and the light turned green. He entered a code on the keypad, unlocking the door. You were too rattled to ask how he’d known the code.

"Sit tight, I'll only be a minute," Court said, disappearing into the office.

You obeyed, keeping one eye fixed on the entrance as you listened to Court typing. Glancing through the office window, you observed two computer stations. Court occupied the one closest to the door. When he eventually finished typing, he scribbled on a sticky note and posted it on the monitor of the adjacent computer station.

"There. Out of order," he announced. “Come on, all that’s left to do is wait.” 

After an internal debate, you followed him. Since Zach and Lloyd were out of cell phone range and Landon and Jake were still across town, staying with Court was probably your safest option. Anticipating Lloyd’s fury over your latest decisions, you decided it was also the most defensible course of action and trailed after him into the hallway.

“Let’s wait in Lloyd’s office. It’s more comfortable than mine.” 

“Lead the way,” Court said.

He followed you to the elevator bank. As you waited for the car to arrive, you slipped your hands into the pockets of your blazer to hide your still trembling hands. Really, the shaking made no sense. You’d engaged in far riskier activities with Lloyd over the past three years, but without him around your level of bravery dropped considerably. 

The elevator chimed its arrival, and you stepped inside with Court, leaning against the back railing beside him.

"You know, something Gentry?”

“Hmm?”

“You should really work on your communication skills. They suck.”

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

Lloyd  Tuesday - 12:28 a.m.  Emergency Department - Forest View Hospital  Harmony, VA 

Zach possessed a remarkable ability to settle the nerves of females in distress. He wasn’t cursed with the automatic reaction most men had when confronted with a crying woman. Most men vacillated between two reactions: at best, they responded to the sight with awkwardness and discomfort — at worst, they simply ran away. Zach on the other hand, shapeshifted into the personification of warmth and comfort. He thickened his Texas drawl as his voice took on a calming cadence and his movements became slow and steady. His serene presence had a profound effect on Laine Cruz.

Having witnessed this scenario unfold countless times, Lloyd stood in the corner of the curtained emergency room, hovering near the edge of the drapery, while Detective Roth conducted his interview. He watched as Zach interacted with Laine. She reached over without hesitation, slipping her hand in his, seeking reassurance. Zach’s fingers curled around her palm as he reciprocated by squeezing her hand. 

Lloyd lowered his gaze, but not in time to miss how Laine leaned slightly toward the blond man. Watching them made Lloyd’s guts churn. Envy gnawed at him as the bitter taste of his own emotional limitations lodged in his throat. There always seemed to be an insurmountable distance between himself and others; offering comfort was not a skill he possessed. Even with you, his abilities in that department were hit or miss. 

Roth proceeded with his routine questions, jotting notes on a pocket-sized pad, as Zach tenderly brushed Laine's hair back to reveal a bruise on her scalp.

Unable to tolerate it any longer, Lloyd slipped out of the room and followed a patient carrying the distinctive yellow discharge papers out into the lobby. The absence of his phone, a missing weight in his pocket, grated on his nerves. Outside, darkness enveloped the surroundings, with circles of light emanating from the faux-Victorian street lamps along the walk. 

Briefly, he considered crossing the street to purchase a burner phone at a convenience store, but knowing his temper was dancing on a thin ledge, he turned in the opposite direction. A winding path led Lloyd around the hospital to a garden adorned with a vine-covered pergola. Seeking refuge under its vines, he settled on the bench, letting the swirling storm of thoughts consume his mind. 

Laine's accusation against Nguyen should have settled things — it was a solid lead, from an eyewitness, something untainted by even a hint of dishonesty. So why didn’t he trust it? The timeline was a persistent challenge, the same one he’d initially focused on back in July when Bishop presented the case. Those first two murders didn't align with Nguyen’s movements and the geographical profile didn’t fit him at all. Something crucial was missing. There was a void in the puzzle and that mysterious space compelled Lloyd. He wanted to return to the police station and delve deeper into the files Roth had dug up. While McKenzie and Tate hadn't yielded results, they were just two of the most obvious suspects. 

To solve the case they’d need to turn everything over and look at everyone. The obvious suspects — and he included Nguyen in that category — hadn’t panned out. However, thanks to Laine’s indictment, all of law enforcement's resources would be spent tracking Nguyen down. 

What if he was wrong to dismiss Laine’s account so quickly? Perhaps Nguyen had done exactly as Bishop postulated and targeted Harmony at random to confuse the trail. He was the exception to rule, a killer who launched his campaign of terror far outside the bounds of his usual geographic range. The mathlete and chess team captain, who despite showing no inclinations towards the outdoors, or possessing any knowledge of Fairfax County’s remote trails, let alone the city of Fredericksburg, had navigated both locations well enough to create and dispose of not one but two dead bodies in June 1999. 

No. It didn’t make sense, and Laine’s claim didn’t sit right with Lloyd. Lost in contemplation, he remained concealed in the shadows of the pergola. Foot traffic past the garden area was minimal during the early morning hours, which suited Lloyd's mood. He stayed under the cover of the pergola’s shadow until the wind kicked up and snaked under the collar of his jacket, chilling his neck. Lloyd filled up his collar and stepped out of the garden, onto the sidewalk. At the sight of movement ahead, he stopped and ducked back into the shadows.

A figure in a black hooded sweatshirt stood by the side entrance. 

Its back was turned to Lloyd. From a distance, he couldn't discern the figure's gender but noted they were of average height. As the person in the black sweatshirt attempted a code on the keypad, Lloyd observed from a distance. Something felt off. The lock gave an angry buzz, rejecting the password and his suspicions solidified. He reached into his pocket, ready to call Detective Roth… but came up empty. Right. His phone was stuck in the woods.

After another couple attempts, the lock finally opened. The figure stepped inside.

Lloyd waited until the door began to close and darted out of the shadows, catching it before it fully shut. He waited a beat, letting the figure get a head start before he followed. Inside, he found himself in a hallway with laminate flooring designed to mimic wood and cream-colored walls. Proceeding cautiously, he passed by a conference room, a remarkably disorganized office, and at the end of the corridor, an on-call room with an unmade bed. This must be some sort of doctor’s area. Lloyd paused at the end of the hall, wondering which way to go.

There was a soft rattling sound. The noise guided him to the right. Around the next turn, he located a hooded figure attempting to unlock a door. Lloyd watched for a moment and waited for the person to feel his eye on him. Their situational awareness seemed to be lacking because the realization never came. He stepped around the corner. Still nothing. 

“Looks like you don’t have access to that room, pal.” 

The figure in the black sweatshirt froze. Without looking back, they darted to the left, attempting to flee. Lloyd caught up swiftly and grabbed them by the shoulder, twisting their arm behind their back. In a sharp motion, he pulled back the hood, revealing a familiar face.

"Nguyen."

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

Princess Monday - 11:42 p.m.  Office of Bishop & Howard, Fifth Floor  Washington, D.C.

Without Lloyd in it, his office felt cold. 

You rummaged through his closet, finding a navy knit quarter-zip sweatshirt to ward off the chill. Meanwhile, Court settled at Lloyd’s desk, using your work laptop to monitor the cameras he'd strategically placed in the patent department — providing views of the entrance, the path between cubicles, and the office door.

When he’d checked the cameras, he leaned back in the upholstered chair and folded his hands behind his head and studied you for an uncomfortably long moment. You sat on the sofa, legs folded underneath you, folding up the sleeves of the oversized sweatshirt.

“Is there something on my face?” 

Court’s eyes narrowed. “Are you in love with Lloyd?”

The direct question, delivered with such casual ease, caught you off guard. 

"Excuse me?" you responded, taken aback.

"Do you love him?" Court reiterated.

"Yes. He’s my best friend," you said.

"He’s more than that."

You frowned. "How do you know?"

"Like I said, I keep an eye on him. How long have you two been dating?"

"We’re not dating. I’m living with him because of my stalker."

Court nodded, acknowledging the situation. "I read the police report. Your ex won’t be a problem for you much longer."

"Aiden?"

"Mmmhh."

Court turned back to the laptop, seemingly to close off the conversation.

 "Care to elaborate on that?"

"I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Forget I said anything.”

"No. What do you know about Aiden?"

Court shifted almost imperceptibly. The thought of him being your stalker flitted across your mind, but you quickly dismissed it. Gentry wasn’t unstable enough to send the messages your stalker had, nor would he resort to such indirect tactics. That wasn't Court Gentry's style — from what Lloyd had said about him, he was the closest thing to a boy scout the CIA had ever produced.

"I know Aiden didn’t send those messages," you said, cautiously testing the waters.

Court’s eyes flickered from the laptop to your face and back again.

"He didn’t hack my computer either. That attack originated from inside the company."

"I doubt he’s your stalker, but he’s connected to the investigation," Court said.

"Who? Aiden? Or the person you’re investigating?" 

"Aiden.”

Your heartbeat quickened in your ears.

"He’s tried to break into my apartment twice. Do you know anything about that?"

"The spy has been in contact with Aiden, and I suspect there was coordination between them. I just don’t have proof of it," Court said.

"What do you have proof of?"

"I have proof that Aiden illegally shared information about government cybersecurity systems. Since that program protects the servers here at Bishop & Howard and he had a personal connection to the firm through you, well… one plus one equals two.”

“You got him fired because he was assisting the spy.”

Court shrugged, but a hint of a grin tilted the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps.”

"But I thought the spy had been transmitting to China for months. Why would he need Aiden?"

“They heightened the security on the patent department’s computers in June. In order to breach it, the spy had to crack the encryption.”

“Which Aiden provided. But why?”

"Money, obviously."

"Court, the only person Aiden talked to here at the firm was Zach."

"No. I already cleared Zach. There has to be someone else."

You frowned. "Aiden used to wait for me downstairs, in the lobby. We were working on this insurance case, pulling long hours. We'd usually meet up after I was done, around eight or nine, and go clubbing or grab a late dinner."

"He never associated with anyone else in the company?" Court asked.

"No, never."

"What about the hack on your laptop? Did Jensen manage to trace it?"

“The hack on my laptop?” 

“Yes.”

You frowned. "We traced it back to an IP address at B&H."

"What’s the IP address?" 

"Let me find it in my email. Jake sent it this afternoon..."

Searching through your emails on the laptop, you showed Court the message. He frowned.

“What?”

“Princess, this is the same IP address the spy transmitted from last week."

“I don’t understand.”

Court looked at you. “The hack came from the same computer the spy used. When did it occur?”

“Uh…”

His fingers flew over the keyboard, looking up the information in the report instead of waiting for your lagging brain to process.

“"Shit.”

“What?!” you demanded, leaning down to read over his shoulder.

“Not only did the hack on your computer come from the same computer that the spy used, it occurred just a few minutes after he finished transmitting.”

“You’re saying… that the spy… the spy is my stalker.”

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

Lloyd Tuesday - 1:47 a.m.  Medical Offices Annex, Forest View Hospital  Harmony, VA

“And what were you doing in the Medical Group offices?” the security guard demanded.

His questions grated on Lloyd’s already thin patience.

“I heard the cafeteria was handing out free samples, but I got lost on my way over,” Lloyd replied dryly.

“Is that a joke, sir?”

“It was sarcasm, actually.”

The guard hooked his fingers in his belt and frowned at Shun Nguyen as he lay on the floor, hands and feet tied up with oxygen tubing.

Then shifted his gaze to Lloyd and the resident physician beside him. The doctor was tall, nearly the same height as Lloyd, with icy blonde hair twisted into a messy top knot. She wore aviator style eye-glasses, and a rumpled Patagonia jacket.

“You witnessed this?” he asked her.

“Kind of. I swung by the offices after clocking out and found him fighting this guy,” she gestured to Nguyen.

“And then?”

“He asked for something to use as restraints, so I grabbed the oxygen tubing.”

“Which one of you tied him up?” the guard asked.

“We both did,” she replied.

“Do you know either of these men?”

“No.”

“Then how did you know which one was the intruder?” 

“Um… I…” 

The doors opened, and Lloyd sighed in relief at the sight of Detective Roth.

“Finally. Detective, could you arrest this guy?”

“Holy shit,” Zach interjected, moving around Roth to get a better view of the trussed-up hostage on the floor. “Is that oxygen tubing? Nice, very creative.”

Lloyd jerked a thumb at the resident. “It was her idea.”

Roth unfastened the cuffs from his belt and secured them to Nguyen’s wrists above the oxygen tubing.

“Shun Nguyen, you’re under arrest for the abduction of Laine Cruz.”

“Wait, you’re really arresting him?” the security guard asked incredulously.

“There’s a warrant out for his arrest,” Roth stated matter-of-factly.

“Do you know this guy?” the guard inquired, gesturing at Lloyd, who sighed.

“Mmmhh. Yeah. He’s with me.”

“See?” Lloyd said.

The guard crossed his arms. “I need to see some identification, sir.”

“No.”

Zach snickered, and the guard flushed. 

“Come on, people,” Roth said. “We need to get this guy out of here.” 

“Hold on!” The guard barked as the men headed for the exit. “I need your badge number for my report!”

Roth ignored the guard and steered Nguyen toward a patrol car that was parked by the curb. Two uniforms waited beside the vehicle. 

“Have your supervisor call my sergeant,” Roth suggested.

“Can you arrest him for interfering with an arrest?” Zach asked.

“You wanna do the paperwork?”

“Never mind.”

The guard followed them all the way to the police car, belligerent as ever. From the corner of his eye, Lloyd saw the doctor who’d assisted him in restraining Nguyen sneaking towards the parking lot. 

“Hey, wait up.” 

She paused. “What?”

“That office, the one Nguyen was breaking into. Do you know whose it was?”

“No one’s, really. It was a shared office, but since they renovated it’s been empty.”

“A shared office?” Lloyd asked.

“Yeah, for the supervising E.R. doc. Whoever was on shift could use it, since they didn’t have their own offices.”

“Thanks.”

- - - - - 

Nguyen was cooperative all the way to the police department, other than that he refused to talk. In the interrogation room, he only spoke to request water. No one could crack his stubborn silence.

“He won’t give us an alibi and he hasn’t asked for a phone call or a lawyer. We have to book him,” Roth sighed.

Lloyd looked at Zach. “Is there any chance that Laine was mistaken about who she saw?”

“She’s certain, but she only saw him in the woods outside the cabin. That’s not enough to prove that he’s kidnapped her, but it places him at the secondary crime scene.”

“Tertiary,” Roth corrected him. “The house where she was held is the secondary crime scene, and the cabin is tertiary.”

“I got a list of everyone who had offices at the Medical Group,” Lloyd said. 

“Names?” Roth asked, clicking his pen as he flipped open a new page on his notepad.

“There are seven doctors with offices in that hallway: Suraj Chadha, Miguel Catalan, Kennedy Knox, Elena Svenson, Nathan Thompson, Ethan Barnes, and Sofia Delgado.”

“Specialties?” Roth asked.

“Emergency medicine, trauma surgery, family medicine, and neurology.”

Zach cocked his head. “Neurology?”

“Space constraints. It’s temporary until they renovate the upper floors. The offices are mainly reserved for doctors working in the E.R.” 

“That’s the same configuration as when Nguyen was a resident there,” Roth said.

“Maybe he was looking for resources,” Zach suggested. “Did you find any connection between the doctors in that office and Nguyen?”

“No, nothing,” Lloyd replied.

“Bold of him to stage a break-in at his former place of employment,” Roth remarked.

Lloyd snorted. “Not really. I could’ve broken into any of those offices with the items I had in my pockets and the guards are hardly worth mentioning, let alone worrying about.”

“What if he came back to finish Laine off?” Zach said. “Did you post someone at her house?”

“There’s an officer outside, and her sister, who’s a cop up in Baltimore, is staying with her,” Roth said.

“We should look for other connections between Nguyen and anyone on staff at the hospital. Maybe none of the current doctors knew him but there’s plenty of other people who might. Nurses, techs, any of the other staff,” Lloyd suggested.

“Zach, you’re on that,” Roth declared. “Lloyd and I are searching the property records and anything else we can get our hands on, trying to identify the cabin where Laine was held.”

There was a knock on the door, before a uniformed officer poked his head inside.

“Excuse me, sir? Is there a Mr. Hansen in here?”

“That would be me.”

The officer stepped inside and offered him a plastic bag. “We found your phone, sir. It keeps ringing.”

On cue, the phone buzzed. 

Bishop’s name flashed on the screen. Lloyd fished out the device and answered, putting his boss on speaker phone so everyone could hear.

“Hey, Bishop. I take it you saw the news?” Lloyd said.

“News? What news?”

Bishop sounded out of breath.

Lloyd frowned. “That we found Laine Cruz.”

“Good. That’s good. I’m glad to hear…” Bishop cleared his throat. “Lloyd, something’s happened. You need to come to GW hospital.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s Princess. She was in an accident.”

The room suddenly felt cold as Lloyd’s breath froze in his chest.

“What? What happened? When?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. She was at the office earlier tonight with a man, uh… David Parker. He introduced himself as a colleague of Zach’s, but I was suspicious. I hung back and waited for her to leave-”

“Bishop! What happened?!”

“Princess was in a car accident. She drove head-on into some K-rails on 14th Street. I’m here with her now and... Lloyd... there’s something else.”

“Tell me, damn it!”

“She’d been shot in the head.”

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

Next Chapter

Masterlist

[inkykeiji]

got me praying, man this hunger, and feeling something rotten 

characters: akutagawa ryuunosuke x fem!reader x nakahara chuuya

genre: smut

notes: just a lil something about aku jerking off as chuuya fucks the life out of you hehe! please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: sit next to me by foster the people

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, aku being a dirty nasty little voyeur, pretend siblings as a habit and inside joke between reader and chuuya (only mentioned once briefly and not by them), akutagawa’s pov, two mentions of mori, reader is an assassin, size difference (chuuya is taller than reader), minimal prep, rough sex, noncon secret audio recording, aku’s kinda toxic in his thoughts and ideals

words: 3.3k

synopsis:

One final glance, he promises himself as he straightens up, already starved for another glimpse of you, belated grey eyes floating to your form again. Your head lolls to the side as dainty fingers trace the ridges of Chuuya’s spine, your hazy gaze connecting with gunmetal, keeping his stare captive for a moment—pinioning him down, bolting his body in place, slashing him wide open to peel back his skin and pry apart his bones and examine his insides, the very deepest and darkest parts of himself, reveling in the way he squirms and fawns and bears it all to you, holding himself open for you, always—before, at last, you wink.

You knew. You’ve known all along. 

Despite the fact that Akutagawa always dutifully attends these extravagant work Galas—parties thinly veiled beneath the word ‘functions’ that Mori enjoys throwing for ‘networking purposes’, held at one of his many mansions scattered across Japan—you’d be hard pressed to actually locate him at any of them.  

Usually, he finds a quiet corner, hidden and out of the way, to spend the night in—far from the commotion and the conversations and the crowds. 

Tonight, however, he leans against the railing of the mansion’s balcony, overlooking the ballroom, a glass of half-finished champagne dangling between slim fingers, and he watches. 

Because tonight, something has enraptured his attention. 

This is the first Gala you’ve been permitted to attend, limited spaces reserved for upper-level Port Mafia members only. 

A blur of crimson and onyx, you whirl across the marble floor in Chuuya’s arms, narrowly but expertly avoiding the other couples, your fingers loosely interwoven behind his neck, playing with the little curling tufts of copper at the nape, his hands on your lower back, fingers splayed wide, tips resting on the swell of your ass.

Like Akutagawa’s little sister, you too were born with no ability. You had been brought in to fill the gaping hole Kyouka’s absence has left—the role of an unassuming assassin; cute, sweet, deadly—and had been doing a fair job so far despite the fact that you’re an adult, with Chuuya assigned to train you in hand-to-hand combat, and Gin to train you in stealth. 

It’s a position Akutagawa has refused for his own younger sister many times. 

But your talents seem to be befit for it, effortlessly able to morph into whatever countenance the job calls for—the sweet, naive little girl; the playful, saucy little minx; the sad, desperate little baby—resulting in both men and women instantly lowering their guard around you (there’s no way such a sweet thing could ever be dangerous, right?) just before you strike and slit their throat from ear to ear.

Your laughter rings out over the crowd, gently tugging him from his thoughts, eyes drawn back to your form. You’ve ceased your dancing, Chuuya using his full body weight to back you against the wall as you giggle and gaze up at him, caged between his chest and plaster. 

Large hands are pressed flat, fingers splayed, on either side of your shoulders as his hips keep your thighs spread, your obscenely tiny cocktail dress stretched as far as it can be, ridden-up material cutting into your skin.

Chuuya’s talking to you, his body closing in on yours—tighter and tighter and tighter—as his lips work, their movements soft and smooth as silk. Akutagawa can barely imagine the words that must be flowing from his skilled mouth.

Your eyes are dark, glittering beneath Chuuya’s shadow, daring him to do all of the things he’s murmuring to you. His forehead pushes against your own, mouths so close his lips must be brushing yours as he speaks, and Akutagawa cranes his neck, attempting to achieve a better view.

It’s absolutely disgusting, deplorable, that the two of you are acting in such a manner, let alone in public, and Akutagawa can hardly believe no one is objecting to something so obscene. Disgust unfurls in his belly, sticky and thick and tainted with a coat of acidic jealousy, snuffing out the few flares of inexplicable, unmistakable desire.

“They seem a little close for siblings, don’t you think?” 

“That’s because they aren’t real siblings,” Higuchi responds dutifully, head bowed slightly. “It’s a lie they used to use when they were kids, to con people into giving them money or food. I guess they just...Haven’t fully grown out of it yet,” she shrugs. 

Ah. That makes more sense; the two of you look nothing alike. Briefly, Akutagawa wonders if Mori knows this, and concludes that he probably does—probably did, the moment Chuuya brought you into his office, introducing you as his ‘little sister’ and asking for a job.

“How do you know this?” 

“I know things,” she says, body bristling, a little defensive. “I hear things, you know,” she makes a vague motion with her hand as way of explanation. 

He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t care enough press the issue. He supposes it doesn’t matter either way. 

“Wait,” Higuchi begins slowly, turning to look at her superior with widened eyes. “Why are you interested?” 

“No reason,” he responds, downing his drink before shoving the gleaming champagne flute at her. “Get me another one of these.” 

And then she’s off, nodding and murmuring his honorific to herself as she bustles away, nothing more than a bothersome bug, swatted away with a single sweep of his hand. 

Grey eyes scan the crowd again, picking you out with practiced ease, something hard and heavy sinking in his chest when he finds both of your hands in one of Chuuya’s, a devious smile painted across your face as you back away, leading him into the shaded depths of the hallway, Chuuya’s steps languid and lazy as he allows you to pull him along willingly, readily.

Akutagawa’s body is moving before his mind can even comprehend it, forcibly switched into autopilot as it desperately follows you, allowing your aura to string him along like a dog on a leash, lovesick, hopeless.

It’s easy to tail the two of you, easy to hide behind pieces of mahogany furniture and large houseplants entirely undetected as you stumble down the dim hallways, legs entwined and lips locked, tripping over each other’s ankles only to catch yourselves a second before you tumble to the floor. 

The sound of spit-slicked lips slipping and smacking echoes around the two of you—a borderline grotesque sound, sopping and squeaky—but neither seem to care, entirely absorbed in one another to notice much of anything at all. 

It’s almost as if you’re attempting to devour each other, mouths smashing together as you attempt to swallow the other’s tongue, the drool leaking from the corners smeared across your chins and your jaws, shimmering in the low light; ravenous hands pawing at the hem of your dress and the buckle of his belt, gripping and tugging with a sort of unparalleled urgency—something Akutagawa has certainly never seen before, much less experienced himself—fingers vying and nails starved for the naked flesh of one another. 

The two of you fall into the first open door you come across—a bedroom, you got lucky, one of many vacant rooms in this creaky old manor.

It isn’t exactly uncommon for Port Mafia members to stay the night, especially if they’ve had too much to drink or sniff or swallow. Akutagawa assumes you’ll be staying the night this time, too.

You must be really fucking drunk—or maybe you just don’t care, unbothered by the thought of someone walking in, of someone seeing—because Chuuya doesn’t even shut the door properly, giving the corner a halfhearted kick in a poor attempt to close it as the two of you stagger past it, the latch bouncing against its strike plate, failing to catch and click into place. 

Well, if it truly doesn’t matter to you that much, then it doesn’t matter if Akutagawa stays to watch, right? Surely Chuuya would’ve taken the time and care to fully close the door, to make sure it was shut good and tight, if this was an issue or concern for either of you, wouldn’t he? 

Of course he would have.

So it shouldn’t be a problem when Akutagawa presses a cheek against the ornate doorframe, the gap left by the door just wide enough for him to use a singular eye to peep in.

“Chuu—ah!” you’re crying out as Chuuya shoves you onto the bed, a dark chuckle oozing from his lips. 

The mattress dimples beneath his hands and knees as he crawls over your heaving body, sitting back on your thighs. 

“I want this off,” he’s saying, words slurred slightly, fingers creeping beneath the hem of your satiny dress and pushing upward; up past your hips, past your waist, past your breasts, until your arms are raising obediently, allowing him to tug the garment from your body completely. 

Scarlet lace, delicate and imbued with tiny gems, coats the most intimate curves and contours of your body, bra glittering in the golden light with each rise of your chest. 

“Fuck,” Chuuya breathes as he looks down at you, palms sliding up your stomach to grab at your breasts. 

Akutagawa agrees—you look fucking breathtaking, all smooth dew-kissed skin that almost shimmers in the low light, undoubtedly softer than anything he’s ever touched, sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted, mouth watering at the thought; and a pair of jewels for eyes, shaded by thick lashes, that beg Chuuya to do all the things Akutagawa wishes he could do to you, all the things that Akutagawa’s wanted to do to you since the moment he saw you, all of the things he’s sure Chuuya had been murmuring to you only minutes ago, the heel of his palm grinding into his already hard cock through his trousers. 

“I can’t wait to fucking ruin you,” Chuuya continues, the words still airy on his tongue, eyes still glued to your tits as his fingers grasp and knead and massage, and you laugh—a pretty little melody that has your neck arching off the pillow—a teasing little smile spread across your lips; bold, enticing. 

“Well, get on with it already,” you say, and Chuuya’s hands cease their movement.

For a moment everything is still, your connected gazes thick and unblinking—challenging, almost—and Akutagawa expects him to hit you, a backhand hard enough to whip your head to the side, to leave an imprint of knuckles across your cheek, but Chuuya only laughs, the sound tangled with a deep growl rumbling in his throat.

“You little brat,” he’s snarling out, but it doesn’t sound mean, or harsh, or any of the things Akutagawa would think it to, words spit from between a sharp, toothy smile. 

And then his fingers are tearing through the lace, fingertips clawing holes through the dainty fabric like flames licking through a spiderweb as it practically melts in his hands, nothing more than stringy tatters of ruined garments as he rips them from your body.

There’s no prep, Chuuya seemingly too impatient to waste any time with that, and the sweet little hiss that slithers out from between your teeth, features twisted in agony, as he shoves his cock into you has Akutagawa’s cock twitching eagerly against his palm. 

He rubs it harder in response, crude and messy and desperate, palm cupping it through his pants and giving it a few halfhearted squeezes; nothing more than pathetic half-pumps, unable to jerk it properly with two layers of clothing in the way.

It’s so immature, so fucking juvenile, dirty and disgusting and downright shameful, but he doesn’t fucking care. 

Chuuya’s hips start pounding hard and fast the instant he bottoms out, the grip of his fingers so tight on your hips that they’re sinking into the flesh, creating deep dips that’ll surely bear his name in the morning, signed in blotchy little ovals of navy and violet and splatters of broken blood vessels beneath your skin.

The pace is merciless, pleasure and sheer force rippling your flesh oh-so-prettily with the flexing of his hips.

Chuuya’s talking to you, utter filth spilling from his lips, obscenities huffed out on the tails of laughter that mingle with the sounds he’s quite literally fucking out of you, every drive of his cock pushing another melody up your throat and onto your tongue, so dirty it has torrents of heat flooding Akutagawa’s cheeks in rushes, pooling beneath the skin as it seeps through the tissues and staining them a dusty pink.

But Akutagawa’s barely listening; Akutagawa can barely concentrate on anything at all, his own pleasure muffling his ears, heavy breaths he keeps trying to suppress building in his chest, dense and suffocating. And it’s pathetic, really—he’s barely touched himself at all, cock straining against his trousers in desperate yearning, yet he can already feel those telltale sparks tingling in his gut, cinders that smolder in waiting, ready to catch fire at any moment.

Akutagawa’s cock is aching, his hips giving sloppy, premature little thrusts into his palm—insatiable, uncontrollable—and a whine reverberates in his throat, swallowed down with the pools of spit collecting in the crevices of his mouth. 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, the word garbled and drowning in saliva. 

This isn’t enough, he needs more, ramming his hand down his trousers without even bothering to undo the button, the waistband digging into his forearm tight enough to turn the skin a sickening bone white, just shy of cutting off his circulation.  

A smooth hand wraps around the base of his cock and squeezes twice, hard, a futile attempt to ward off his embarrassingly impending orgasm.  

From this angle he has a perfect view of your bouncing tits and contorting face—the way your brow scrunches together, relaxes, then tightens up again; the way your lashes flutter, flickering the whites of your eyes as they roll in your skull; the way your mouth, bitten raw and glimmering with saliva, stays pried open in a perfect little ‘o’ by the steady stream of vocalized pleasure pouring past it.

And, Christ, the noises you’re making are so fucking gorgeous—broken mewls and soft whines and airy moans—his free hand fumbling around in his pocket, struggling to pull his phone free from its confines, desperate to record what he can for later use. 

It’s a difficult feat to perform with one hand, phone flipping open with the sharp click of plastic against plastic, thumb straining to hit that little red RECORD button, missing it twice before finally succeeding.

The feeling of triumph is short-lived, though, because he’s going to mess the whole recording up beyond repair if he doesn’t quiet down, if he doesn’t shut the fuck up.

Stubborn little whimpers keep climbing up his throat, rough and painful as they hitch and tangle with his hardly suppressed gasps, choked remnants tumbling past his mouth. Teeth slice into his bottom lip, bursts of copper staining his tongue as blood oozes from the fresh wound, the lines of his gums tinged bright crimson. 

The strokes of his hand match the snap of Chuuya’s hips, jerking his cock hard and fast, just like how Chuuya’s fucking you, and if he focuses hard on your face, he can almost imagine it’s him fucking you, his palm slick with sweat, his grip pulsing in time with the noises spilling from your lips, simulating the throbbing of your cunt. 

Heat begins to coil deep in the pit of his belly, cinders converging into something tight and fluttery and scorching, and he barely has the decency to stifle his groan of disappointment, forehead knocking against the doorframe, brow cinching and molars grinding as he tries to ward the eruption off for just a little longer, front teeth digging further into the gaping wound weeping on his bottom lip. 

Tiny spikes of pain sear through his face; up his cheeks and down his neck, the sensation doing nothing to douse, dim, dull the roiling ball of fire in his gut. 

“God, you’re so—so fucking good for me—take my cock so well—” Chuuya’s groaning, voice all ragged rasp, rough and gasping. 

It’s true, you do take his cock well, and Chuuya gives it to you well, too, the smooth muscles in his thighs almost mesmerizing, graceful as they glide beneath his skin despite his borderline vicious movements.

Akutagawa’s thighs, in contrast, are beginning to tremble, little jolts of pleasure skittering up his legs and wriggling under his flesh in droves. His whole body is wound tight and tense, jaw clenched with such ferocity that it’s beginning to ache, muscles gone hard and stiff as if he’s physically trying to hold off his imminent orgasm, pushing back against an invisible surge.

Short, sharp huffs of breath are escaping his nose now, materializing in little droplets of condensation on the wood, wet and humid against his upper lip. The pumping of his hand accelerates, perfectly in sync with the brutal plunge of Chuuya’s hips, and his lids begin to droop, heavy and weighted with pleasure. It’s a struggle to haul them open again, vision blurring in and out of focus as he tries to concentrate, desperate to see how beautiful you look when you cum, ecstasy bleeding around the edges of his sight, bright and overexposed. 

Because you’re getting close, too, Akutagawa can tell. It’s easy to see, obvious, evident in the pitchy wails that fade into the sweetest little rasps—poor imitations of the words they were supposed to be; evident in the way your spine arches so artfully off the mattress, each vertebra working in unison to form a perfect curve as your hips push towards Chuuya’s; evident in your flexing, trembling thighs and curling, vying fingers, grappling at the sheets and Chuuya’s shoulders, nails scraping against linen and skin.

Another three pumps of Chuuya’s hips, another three pumps of Akutagawa’s fist, and you’re both cumming in tandem, so hard it whites his vision and wipes his mind, so hard it kicks his breath from his chest in a pained wisp of an expletive, his orgasm amplified by your gorgeous little noises. Thick streams of cum explode all over his fist and briefs, burning and sticky and so, so much that it’s soaking through his underwear and into his suit pants, a large, uneven, dark patch staining his right thigh.

He can feel it, dribbling down his inner leg in large globs, viscous and gummy and leaving broad strokes, rapidly cooling trails in its wake. 

There’s no way he doesn’t look a mess, strands of ink clinging to his temples and the back of his neck, soaked with salt and sweat, cheeks tinted with exertion, chest stuttering as he tries to swallow down tattered breaths in a feeble attempt to keep from drawing attention to himself. 

There’s no way anyone wouldn’t be able to guess what he had just been doing in a mere instant, if they saw him.

Chuuya isn’t faring much better, to be honest, body collapsed atop of yours, heaving back shimmering with a sheen coat of perspiration, gleaming with each rise and fall as it catches in the light. Akutagawa doesn’t even remember Chuuya cumming—not that it matters, you’re the only reason he’s even here at all—too busy drowning in the intense bliss of his own orgasm to have noticed at all, all senses suffocated as the pleasure absorbed him, ate him up, swallowed him down, then spit him back out.

Finally, Akutagawa pushes off the doorframe with a weak arm, muscles spent and shrivelled with pleasure, wincing a little at the deep indent he’s sure the wood of the frame left on his forehead. 

One final glance, he promises himself as he straightens up, already starved for another glimpse of you, belated grey eyes floating to your form again. Your head lolls to the side as dainty fingers trace the ridges of Chuuya’s spine, your hazy gaze connecting with gunmetal, keeping his stare captive for a moment—pinioning him down, bolting his body in place, slashing him wide open to peel back his skin and pry apart his bones and examine his insides, the very deepest and darkest parts of himself, reveling in the way he squirms and fawns and bears it all to you, holding himself open for you, always—before, at last, you wink.

You knew. You’ve known all along. 

His cock gives one last spurt in response—pitiful, pathetic, and entirely instinctive—and you smile. 

And no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he doesn’t want to be, he’s nothing more than warm, gooey putty in your soft palms. 

He’ll never be anything more than that. 

[milk5]

⚠️URGENT PSA⚠️

Revenuers have infiltrated the Blue Ridge Hootchmaker discord. Old Copper Cove Gaming may also be compromised. Do NOT post your still builds, mash recipes, or hideaway tips to either server. Leave immediately. If a "buyer" without the Verified role attempts to contact you, DO NOT REPLY; BLOCK AND REPORT THE USER TO PAWPAW62 OR BILLYBOY123 IMMEDIATELY. If you are a trusted member of the community, you will know where to go next. Stay safe yall.

-CrickwaterJoe