#filed » conversations / when you bite your tongue; does it draw blood?

[hcneycakc-blog]

“you know, you could just ask me if you wanted to stare. i don’t mind. it’s just a little weird to do it so openly, you know?” honey was rather open about her desires and needs. she also liked to be open about what other people wanted to do to her, she believed in honesty being the best policy. if somebody seemed a little too shy about something? honey would, and could, help draw it out of them. she leaned in a little closer and smiled, glittery lips shining in the light. “i’m more than happy for us to go somewhere a little more private, too, if that’s what you’re after. just, you know, don’t expect something for nothing.” 

[babbushka]

Mrs Z! Thank you for doing a Flip special!

What about throwing Flip a big surprise party with lots of people and he’s not happy about it. You make it up to him by letting him have his way with you before you cut the cake. Maybe he’s too into and gets carried away with being loud and noisy or gets caught somehow and that’s his birthday party, is his guests cheering his bedroom antics or roasting him.

2.6k; humor & NSFW (blowjobs/face fucking, hair pulling, come swallowing)

“I don’t remember you forgetting anything here.” Flip frowns, as he pulls the Chevy into his usual parking spot at the CSPD.

It’s his birthday, and he hadn’t taken the day off of work to avoid drawing any suspicion, so he’s a little irritated that when he gets all the fuckin’ way back home to you, finishes having the delicious dinner you cook for him, and he’s just about to ask if you want to engage in a little birthday love-makin’, that you groan and announce that it’s urgent he take you back to the station.

He already gets sour enough on his birthday as it is, but he had hoped that he could enjoy a quiet -- or maybe not so quiet -- evening in bed with his wife, just the two of you tucked up against one another to distract him from the passing of time.

“It was my Pyrex, I left it in the breakroom, it should be in the sink unless someone moved it.” You’re too determined to get the damn thing back, and Flip loves you, so Flip drove you in his truck that he parks, eyeing his work.

“And you want me to go in and get it?” He complains, deep voice too gravely for it to be a true whine, “Can’t I wait in the car?”

“You’re going to abandon your most beloved wife in her hour of need?” Your eyes are wide and clear and he hates how he gets lost in them, how he meant it when he said he’d do anything for you. He hates how you know it.

“That’s not fair.” Jabbing a finger in your direction, you only lean forward enough to cup his cheeks in your hands, sweetly pressing chaste kisses to his lips, your lashes brushing against his cheek as you draw him in with the smell of your perfume.

“Please?” Your voice is breathy in the way that makes Flip go weak in the knees, and even though he knows he’s being manipulated, he’s not mad about it.

“Fuck, alright fine.” He gives in, making you brighten up immediately as he turns the car off so the engine doesn’t idle, being sure to keep the windows cracked even though Colorado in May is a balmy sixty-five degrees. “You just, I don’t know, sit here and keep being pretty.”

“Yes sir.” You wink, and Flip isn’t so sure he likes the twinkle that he sees in your eye.

Walking through the CSPD lobby, he notices it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

No one is calling in emergencies, no one is typing away at their desks, no one is chatting by the water fountain. Something must be very very wrong, and Flip halfway wonders if there was some kind of national announcement, if Ford was making a speech somewhere.

His suspicion only grows, when he turns the corner to the break room, and opens the door frowning to himself and muttering, “Why are all the fuckin’ lights turned off?”

When he flicks the light switch, he’s so startled that he takes a step backwards, as seemingly the entire station jumps up to shout in his face a big loud, “Surprise!!”

“What the fuck -- ”

“Happy birthday Zimmerman!” All his friends and co-workers are there, the guys from the narcotics division, the folks down at homicide, all the higher ups, secretaries, rookies and seasoned pros alike.

Everyone gathered in this room that is way too small for them, organized by someone to give him a goddamn heart attack. A hand gently rubs at his back, and Flip whirls around to see you there.

“Is this your way of saying you want a divorce?” He jokes dryly, making the entire room chuckle, because really only Flip would have this sort of reaction.

“For the record this was not my idea.” You say, not wanting him to think the blood is on your hands, “Ron insisted. I tried to tell him.”

Ron steps forward then and hands Flip a card, one that he’s not going to open now because he’s sure he’d die from the embarrassment of floundering with the envelope in front of all these people, but he does bring Ron in for a hug.

“It’s signed by all of us here.” Ron gestures with one of those big handsome smiles of his, the kind that shows off all his teeth, and Flip doesn’t have the heart to be angry about all this attention to his face.

“Thank you.” He says instead, feeling so fucking out of his depth, completely out of his element, palms sweating as he reaches for you with a quiet pleading, “Ketsl?”

“I’m right here.” You whisper as you take his hand, grounding him in the present.

Everyone is looking at him, and it reminds him of when he had to give presentations in school. He doesn’t know what to say, the tips of his ears going crimson red.

“You guys didn’t have to do all this.” Flip pulls you tight against his side, his arm stretching across your shoulders. Maybe if he just holds you close enough, he can use you as a human shield for conversation, he thinks.

“We had no idea it was your birthday! No one ever can figure it out -- but don’t worry, we’ve put it in your file so we know for next year!” One of the older secretaries, Ms. Rosie, cheerfully pipes up, making dread creep up Flip’s spine.

He looks down at you, and you give him a sheepish smile. He wants to complain like the grouch that he was, but then his attention shifts to the big table of food and drinks that is spread out on the table against the wall of the break room.

“...Is that chocolate cake?” He tries not to sound too hopeful, and the break room laughs again, because even the strongest most stoic man truly can be lured in by cake.

“I made it for you special. We’ll do candles after everyone’s had a bite to eat!” You announce to the room, patting Flip’s back as the crowd begins to murmur excitedly amongst themselves, a queue forming for the hot fresh pizza. You lean up to whisper in Flip’s ear, “If you can play nice, I’ll give you one of your presents before we get to cut the cake.”

Raising his eyebrows at you, he blinks a little. The surprises just kept comin’, didn’t they?

“Can’t I get it now?” Flip tries, but you only chuckle and shake your head.

“Go say hello to everyone, and then meet me in the back of the file room.” Patting his back once again, you slip away, an incentive for him to get this over with as soon as possible.

Flip doesn’t think he’s ever shaken so many goddamn hands, or kissed so many cheeks in his life. On the one hand, it felt nice somewhere deep down inside, to know that so many of his co-workers decided to take part of this party. He felt valued and appreciated, even if he would have rathered this never happen in the first place, would have rathered to be in bed with you right now...which brings him to the other hand; he’s achingly hard in his fucking jeans, thinking about what’s waiting for him in the file room.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer though, because soon the last person has been spoken to and thanked, and he’s excusing himself to go to the “bathroom,” heading in the complete opposite direction of the bathroom.

“Ketsl, honey?” Flip prompts softly, looking around for you in the low light of the room, “You back here?”

“Took you long enough.” Your voice sounds from around the corner, and like a glass of cool water on a hot day, there you are, arms reaching out for him.

“Would’ve been sooner if you hadn’t invited so many fuckin’ people.” Flip lets himself be wrapped up in your embrace, his palms smoothing around your sides to caress your back, one of them dropping down to give your ass a firm squeeze.

“Ron did, not me. Like I said, he insisted.” You remind him, kissing your husband deeply, licking into his mouth, voice soft and breathy, “Let me make it up to you?”

The hair on the back of Flip’s neck stands up when you sink down to your knees, not breaking eye contact. He holds his breath, his cock twitching at the implications of that motion, pulse already starting to pound a little harder.

You rest your cheek against his strong thigh, popping open the button on his jeans, sliding the zipper down tantalizingly slow, making a real show of it. Flip hums, pets at your hair, smooths his palm against your cheek as he watches your eyelids grow heavy. You nuzzle against the palm there, suckling on his fingers just a little bit, teasingly, playfully.

“Oh fuck yes.” He quirks a little smile at you.

When you finally pull his dick out, you’re licking your lips, wetting them, drooling over yourself. He’s just as affected, pre-come already leaking out of the tip of his cock, and he groans when you swipe it up with your tongue. Time is of the essence here, and as much as you would like to drag this out, you can’t, so you cut right to the chase.

“Shit -- your moth’s so hot.” He grunts as your mouth opens wide wide wide for him, tongue flattening as you suck the head of his cock between your lips, careful of your teeth.

One of your hands braces yourself on his thigh, while the other holds the base of his cock, keeps him steady. Flip has a tendency to buck and choke you when he’s too wound up just like he is now, so the grip holds him in place as you swallow him down inch by inch.

Fuck, your husband’s dick is big! It’s not just long but thick too, the girth of it always something that has your jaw aching. You open your mouth wider to take him, relaxing your throat so that he can slip deeper and deeper, breathing through your nose. Never once looking away from him, you can see how antsy, how impatient Flip is getting, and if you could smile, you would.

But you can’t, because your mouth is filled to the absolute brim, so you tap the side of his thigh to signal that he can start moving.

“Yes!” He says maybe a little too loudly, “That’s it, oh fuck that’s it.”

And oh, does he fucking move. The second you’ve given him permission, he’s gripping your hair and thrusting hard. Moans and grunts pour out of his chest as he holds your head in both of his hands, keeps you snug against his groin. Your nose is nestled in his dark thatch of hair, and you can’t deny the way the musky smell gets you flustered, gets you wet. He’s not going to have time to fuck you properly here, but that’s okay -- this was only the preview of the evening to come.

“God you feel so fuckin’ good, my good girl, fuck -- ” Breathing hard and fast, Flip fucks your face hard, keeping you steady so that you don’t accidentally take him down at a wrong angle and splutter and cough.

Relaxing for him, you let yourself be used, the salty sweaty taste of his cock running over your tongue, plunging down your throat soothing and familiar in a fucked up way that only over a decade of marriage can bring.

“Fuck!” He snarls when your tongue wriggles against the veins that throb along his shaft, sucking down hard everything that you can, one of your hands moving to cup and roll his balls, “Oh baby that’s it, just like that, keep doin’ that, oh god your tight fuckin’ throat feels good.”

Tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes when it becomes so much that your jaw aches, and you squirm, wanting to be touched, wanting to be fucked even though you know you can’t have it yet. Right now is about him, about the pleasure he gets from the way you suck him down, and then you’re swallowing hard, and the friction has him cursing loud loud loud, coming down your throat.

“Damn, ketsl!” he pushes his cock all the way down your throat one last time, before pulling away to watch his come shoot all over your tongue, your lips, your chin. Painting your face with it, he grunts, pulling your hair to angle your face up some more, a better view. You stick your tongue out for him, and another pulse of come bursts out of his cock from the sight, his filthy fucking whore of a wife, love of his life, on your knees like his own personal pornstar.

You fucking look like one anyway, and you sure as shit sound like one with the way you’re moaning and breathing hard, nipples so hard that he can see the way your blouse peaks out from over them.

Wiping away the come on your face and licking it off your fingers, swallowing every drop of evidence that you can, you and Flip grin at one another, his orgasm having him in a much more pleasant mood.

“We should get back out there, huh.” He gives you a hand and hoists you off your knees, pulls you close and kisses the taste of his come off your lips.

“People are gonna wonder where you went.” You smile, giving him your lovey-dovey eyes, glad that he’s enjoyed at least one part of this surprise. “You can’t disappear at your own party. How do I look?”

“Too beautiful for your own good.” Pinching your nose and giving you face a little shake, the two of you leave the records room behind.

“Well well well, if it ain’t the lovebirds!” Sergeant Trapp announces the second that you and Flip walk back into the main lobby of the station where everyone has spread out with their food and drinks.

“You two really can’t go two seconds without goin’ at it like rabbits, can you?” Ron laughs, teasing in a way that has Flip’s scowl coming back after all your hard work.

“Mrs. Z I gotta admit I’m impressed you’re still standin’, that sounded like quite the time.” Jimmy winks at you, and you slap a hand to your face. You hadn’t even thought about the noise that you must’ve made -- all the shelves moving, the grunts and groans, the cursing.

“Watch your mouth Jim, or I’ll be forced to do something about it.” Flip warns, but there’s something warm in the threat, playful. You’re fuckin’ glad for that, the last thing you needed on Flip’s birthday was him getting fired for beating the shit out of his friend.

“Oh yeah like what? I’m surprised you’ve got the energy for threats, old man.” Jimmy only eggs him on, all eyes on the two of them.

“That’s it -- ” Flip lunges immediately, making you rush forward and grab him by the scruff of his neck, preventing a wrestling match, even if a friendly one.

“Boys please, have some cake and maybe you’ll calm down.” You roll your eyes.

“You know,” Flip says later, when you lead him through to the breakroom where someone’s lit a fuckton of candles in an attempt to guess how old he is, and you’re curled up on the couch next to him as he licks the frosting off of his fork, “I’m starting to think there never was any Pyrex.”

And it’s all that you can do to just kiss him and shut him up, letting him get away with being an idiot because he’s your birthday boy.

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Tagging some Flip friends! @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @materialisthicc @hswritingrecs @han68000 @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @loverofallthings @groovetoob @bxnnywriting @glassbxttless @angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @lovelyyy-luna @2000andwhat @raddo1975 @cornmousequeen @metsienmenninkainen @caillea @painttheskylineforme @holding-on-to-starwars

[wienerbarnes]

Left for Dead (1/2)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 1,803

Warnings: mentions to bombs and mission stuff, mentions to past torture

A/N: a lil two parter! I'm def a shorter writer so I split up reader’s first mission as opposed to posting like a 5k one shot (unless y'all dig that better for the future???) I’m gonna queue the second part to post on Friday idk what time but otherwise we all know id forget... so. enjoy!

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

It was finally time for your first mission. The night before, F.R.I.D.A.Y. prompted you with the fact that there would be a briefing this morning at 8 A.M. You’d figured the superheroes weren’t the type to sleep in.

As much as you’d been enjoying the return of your clothes, you figured it’d be safest to keep the black-on-black outfit for these briefings and anything else you’d be involved in. Attention is not necessarily something you’d want to draw on yourself right now.

You finally find the room you’re supposed to be in and find about eighty other agents. A wave of anxiety rushes through you and you feel your stomach churn. You want to look around and find someone you recognize but Sam is the only one you see; you don’t know anybody. You’re scared to talk to new people, to have small talk, you’re scared of what they’ll say to you, if they’ll remember your face from the news.

You see near the front a blonde head of hair - Sharon. You haven’t spoken to her, but she’d be the safest bet, except there’s no empty seat on either side of her. She’s conversing with a woman with ginger hair to her left and a large body with short brown hair occupies the seat to her right - Bucky!

You notice there’s an empty seat next to him and quickly make your way over before your luck diminishes and someone takes it.

Bucky registers somebody take a seat next to him, which surprises him because most of the agents are still a little scared of him after spending seven weeks training with him. He certainly doesn’t treat them like shit, but he doesn’t baby them, either. He almost doesn’t notice it’s you when he glances up; he forgot you’ve changed your look a bit.

The tattoo on your next is covered with makeup, the angry face too much of an identifying feature. He knows you hate it and were planning on getting it covered anyway. You’ve removed all of your piercings and all of the tiny holes remain empty along your ears. You’ve managed to keep the tiny stud in your nose, though. Your hair is a jet black color now and it shines in the light. How has your hair survived that many dye jobs? Stupid rules for this job; no brightly colored hair or large body modifications, excluding tattoos. Draws too much attention.

He can sense your anxiety next to him; your heart is beating a mile a minute and you’re super tense. He wants to say something, do something to make you feel a bit better, put you at ease, but he can’t think of anything before Sam calls the attention of the room.

“Morning, everyone. NCIS has requested our help with finding a bomb on a Navy ship and figuring out the identity of the woman who told them about said bomb,”

Images flash up behind him projecting pictures of said woman, looking scared with a bloodied bandage on her forehead. She has a fluffy pixie-cut style dark hair and pale skin, or perhaps her skin is pale in comparison to the caked blood matted on her head. Her eyes are a bright green with minimal wrinkles adorning the outer corners. She couldn’t be older than thirty-five.

“A citizen driving by saw her wandering about the street next to a forest and when he approached her she claimed she was buried alive and couldn’t provide any information about herself; not her name, age, where she came from, or who buried her. All she kept repeating was something about a bomb on a Navy ship that was going to kill a lot of people.” Sam continues.

“I’ll be sending some of you out to Rock Creek Park to scope out the scene and some of you to Georgetown University Hospital to talk to Jane Doe. You’re dismissed but await further instruction and be prepared to ship out.” Sam finishes and everyone begins to stand, engaging in small conversations as they exit the room.

You begin to stand and follow suit but a metal hand reaches out in front of you to encourage you to take your seat once more. You throw a confused look over at Bucky, but he’s not looking at you. You glance over to Sharon, who’s staring down at her phone, and to Sam who is flicking through the file in his hands. The four of you, you notice, are the only ones still in their seats, and you quickly make the connection that you’re supposed to wait until the rest of the agents leave after a briefing.

Maybe they’re gonna haze you, newbie. You roll your eyes at that little voice as the door shut and hear it lock audibly.

The three of them glance up and stare at you expectantly. You glance between all three of them before you give up on figuring out what exactly they’re waiting for.

“Are you guys gonna haze me?”

Sharon smirks and Bucky full on chuckles at your question as Sam clarifies, “Do you see anything?”

“Oh! Oh, right, right. Uhm… It kind of doesn't work like - um, I’ll try. I’ll try and concentrate.” You excuse, and close your eyes to force yourself into that mindset.

Most of your visions happen unexpectedly and randomly, otherwise you need to put yourself in a kind of entranced state of concentration in order to, essentially, force a vision. Forcing it is usually what causes you to get the most emotional and frazzled, but nothing you can’t handle.

You feel your face heat up at the shyness your abilities are presenting right now; “Um, can we turn the lights off?” You ask quietly.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” Sam speaks up.

The lights dim and you try to slow your breathing.

She’s covered in leaves and wet from humidity, the stickiness feeling unbearable on her skin. Her skin? Whose skin is that?

“It-It’s a shallow grave, and - and there’s leaves, um -” All you see and feel is pure confusion. You don’t know anything. “Why is it so shallow? They bury people six feet because - because that’s the depth where animals can’t smell dead, rotting flesh - except - except polar bears because they -” Your rambling is cut short at the sound of Bucky’s soft voice and his warm hand engulfing your shaking, clammy one.

“Sweetheart, try and focus on the Navy ship she was talking about, the bomb on the Navy ship.” He tries to get you back on track.

“Right, right, sorry,” You take a deep, shaky breath in and let out with force to calm yourself a bit.

It’s all quick white flashes, so fast and so bright that can’t see the images in between. All you get are feelings of fear and guilt -

“Do you know if she set the bomb?” A deep voice interrupts.

“Sam,” A feminine one scolds.

“What? There’s only one person that seems to know about this bomb and we’re not going to consider her a suspect?”

“She doesn’t even know who she is,”

“But -”

“She didn’t set the bomb!” You exclaim, everything becoming incredibly overwhelming all at once.

“How do you know?” Bucky asks, his calm demeanor influencing your own as you rub your face to somewhat pull yourself together.

“I - I - I just do! I don’t know! I - I keep seeing bomben hersteller, what - what is that?” You ask.

“That’s bomb fabricator in German.” Bucky translates.

“Okay, let’s stop for a second.” Sharon says, “This is a lot of new information, we should wait and see what evidence and samples come back from the crime scene and see what we can get out of her when the agents interview her at the hospital, maybe her condition’s changed and she remembers something, yeah?” You quickly realize that Sharon is the piece of mind between the dynamic of her and Sam while he strategizes the plans. They work extremely well together.

“Okay, okay. Agent, you did very well. Good job.” Sam praises before leaving to exit the conference room, you assume to go give the agents their orders. Sharon sends you a sweet smile before following Sam out.

You look back at Bucky and he’s already looking at you, smile on his face. “You did really good.” He tells you.

“Thanks.” You respond, feeling a lot calmer.

The two of you are sitting awfully close to each other, you notice, bodies turned to face each other in the rolling chairs you sit in. Bucky’s leaning closer towards you than you are him, his forearm pushing on the armrest and you find yourself pulling your eyes away from his and they travel around his face.

Bucky has beautifully long eyelashes and tiny sunspots and freckles that decorate his skin; skin that’s had over a hundred years of wear. He’s kept his hair short but has been growing out his beard, not to an uncomfortable burly length, but enough to leave quite the dark shadow. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips and your eyes flash down there.

You don’t even remember the last time you kissed someone, let alone someone you actually wanted to kiss, not a kiss that was forced upon you. Is he actually about to fucking kiss me right now?

Panic quickly rises through your body and you clear your throat and look away, “Uh, now what?”

“Huh?”

“Well, I can’t go out on missions or anything, so do I, uh, just wait to be summoned, I guess?” Summoned? Why are you so awkward?

“Pretty much, yeah. I’ll, uh, be sticking around, too. Sometimes for ongoing missions I stick around in one of the spare rooms until the case is over.” He softly tells you, unmoving from how close he’s sitting next to you and voice still low and smooth, not looking away from you. Can he tell how nervous and awkwardly attracted to him you feel right now?

“What about Alpine?” You whisper back.

“What?” His eyes are the ones drifting down to your lips, now. Soft looking lips that look like they could kiss him silly and unconscious.

“Alpine?”

“Oh, uh, she stays with my, uh, my neighbor. This little old lady next door to me.” Great, now I’m thinking about my old lady neighbor. You’re biting that lip now and he thinks he might start drooling when you stand suddenly.

“I, uh, just remembered. I have to… clean! I have to clean up, so. I’ll see you.” You push out before finally exiting the room and making your way down the hallway.

You release a frustrated, “Fuck…” as the elevator doors close in front of you.

Meanwhile, Bucky lets out his own groan of frustration in the conference room, hands pushed against his eyes rubbing harshly, “Fuck…”

[fierypen37]

The Oasis: Chapter 17

Chapter 17

 They whiled away the afternoon snuggled on the couch watching movies. Her choice was a rom-com about a hard-ass businesswoman accidentally falling in love with her assistant. Jon felt for the poor bastard loving his lady from afar. It was easy to daydream and project the two of them into the roles. It suited his romantic streak. Daenerys really was a badass businesswoman after all. He’d pine for her in silence. Her tea would always be hot. Her appointments would always be on time. Jon would be her shadow, her right hand as she conquered the world. Watching them fall in love made him absurdly happy. Watching the firelight dance on her features and shine in her hair, he had never felt more content.

Now, in the kitchen, they nibbled on lush strawberries crusted with chocolate. Mesmerized, he watched Daenerys take a bite, red juice dribbling down her chin. Fuck. He could watch her fold laundry or file taxes and it would make him hard. Jon looked away to distract himself. What else could he think about? Her favorite color was green, like tree leaves in summer and the sea near her home on Dragonstone. She always double-tied her shoelaces. She liked wine and hated beer. She had neat table manners, except with dessert. She snored. And she probably needed glasses from the way she squinted at the warming instructions on the prepackaged tea. Well shit. Now his dick and his chest were aching with longing.

“You ok?” her voice was soft. Jon blinked. Sitting on the counter, tousled, in her dark purple nightgown, swinging her feet as she nibbled on another berry. It was really unfair how cute she was. And too sexy to be real. Daenerys was beautiful. Inside and out. How the fuck would she ever pick him? Awkward. Working class. Too serious. A mess of hang-ups and neuroses. There was a list of men a mile long who would be lucky to polish her shoes or fetch her tea.      

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re staring at that wall like it personally offended you.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess I never noticed the crack around the support beam. I’ll have to tell Mrs. Stark to check the foundation.”

“Good to know. You’re a handy man to have around, Mr. Snow,” Daenerys said with a grin. Jon sidled closer to sample a berry. The soft richness of the chocolate exploded on his tongue chased by the berry’s bright sweetness.

“Damn, that’s delicious,” he said. Daenerys smile widened. There was a strawberry seed stuck in one of her perfect teeth. She wrapped her leg around him, drawing him closer.

“Let me taste,” she said, bending to kiss him. Yeah, so good. Soft lips, the faint lingering sweetness of chocolate, the stroke of her tongue. Jon hummed happily into her mouth, hands sliding up the strong grip of her thighs. Velvet-soft skin and so warm. Her hair fell forward around them both like a living veil. Jon cupped her hips, growling as her fingernails delicately scraped his scalp. Daenerys drew his lower lip into her mouth, nibbling gently. The sensation sent blood surging south.

“Yeah, you taste good,” she said with a languid lick below his ear. Jon bit his lip to keep from whimpering. Flirty, dominant Daenerys was a whole new level of sexy. The kiss spun on, Daenerys teased and coaxed him into a fever pitch. Trapped against the counter, his cock twitched, eager for the slick heat of her. Her arms and legs hugged him close, her mouth mapping new paths to pleasure as she kissed and nibbled on his neck.

“Dany,” he breathed, desperate and needy. Daenerys did that thing to his ear with her tongue. Gods, he fucking loved that. Something in him snapped. Jon yanked her hips toward the edge of the counter.

“Lie back.” His accent thickened, his voice was hoarse and rough. Pupils blown wide, lips wet and pink, she looked utterly delectable. Gods, he wanted to devour her. His mouth filled with saliva. She sank back on her elbows on the polished counter, legs spread to welcome him. Jon nudged her thighs wider, breathing deep of her sweet musky smell. Mmm, her nether lips were already glistening from just a kiss. A soft lap opened her. He would never slake his longing for her. As he worked her clit, slowly, patiently, he listened to the music of her whimpers and sighs and incensed breathing. So good. With a sharp cry, she came against his face, awash with lube.

“Jon,” she whimpered, her hands fisted in hanks of his hair. Jon smiled against her pussy, nuzzling her nether lips tenderly. He would exploit his intimate knowledge of her body until she was clawing and begging for his cock. Jon teased her clit with his tongue, feeling her shudder.

“Jon, Jon,” her voice was sharp, cold. Jon looked up at her face, confused. All the lovely color had drained away, now she look pale, scared.

“There’s someone at the door.”

Fuck! Jon whirled around, positioning her directly behind him. The doorknob jiggled.

“Get the gun. Now!”

Daenerys slid off the counter and bounded for the stairs. Jon yanked a knife from the block on the island. Fear doused him like cold water. How was he such a fucking idiot? She was on the run for her life and here he was going down on her in the kitchen without a care in the world with Barry’s gun upstairs. Gods, he could get them both killed—

“Jon? Are you here?” Arya’s voice deflated all his tension. His little sister shouldered her way through the door, laden with plastic bags of takeaway. Outside, he heard the din of the rain, and saw her black truck parked on the circle drive.

“You’ll never believe it, but this fucking cattle truck was jack-knifed on the highway. And somehow the cows got loose and--”

“Arya? Seven fucking hells, you scared me!” Jon said, setting the knife down and moving around the island to help her.

“Dany, false alarm, it’s just Arya!” he called upstairs. Arya glared at him beneath her fringe of wet dark brown hair.

“I called you about a million times. Check your phone!” His phone. Wedged between the couch cushions somewhere. Gods, he was a fucking idiot. Jon glanced toward the stairs. Daenerys would be well within her rights to tell him to fuck all the way off and find a real bodyguard to protect her.

Arya’s grey eyes wandered over the scattered foodstuffs, the faint flickering of firelight, Jon standing awkwardly behind the island. He was decent, at least. That zing of adrenaline had killed any arousal. A catlike grin stretched on Arya’s face.

“You were fucking, weren’t you? Gods, Jon! I knew it! I knew you two were fucking!” Jon lunged for Arya, intent on wrestling her to the ground to shut her up. She danced around the island with ease, giggling.

“Shut up! Gods, Arya. Yes, if you must know, we’re intimate. But shut up about it, yeah?” he said. Arya set down her burden. The potent spice and oil wafting from it made his stomach gurgle. Dothraki barbeque.

“‘Intimate,’ he says. Prig. I can’t wait to tell Gendry. He owes me ten crowns.” Jon cast an aggrieved glance up. Gods save him from little sisters.

“You want me to beg, I’ll beg. Please shut up. She’s been through enough.”

Arya sobered, dragging her fingers through her wet hair.

“Yeah, it’s a tough go. You’re mad for her, aren’t you?” The question brought him up short. Jon swallowed hard.

“I am,” he said quietly. Arya whistled low.

“Does she feel the same?” Jon closed his eyes. Daenerys with the sun shining through her hair, smiling in his bed. Holding her hand in the tense cab ride from the city. The way her mouth formed his name as they made love. Did she?

Gods, he wanted it so bad.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

Arya shrugged, boosting herself up to sit on the counter.

“Have you asked?”

A soft clearing of throat saved him from answering. Daenerys glided down the stairs, dressed now in black leggings and a goldish sweater, the neckline loose enough to bare one shoulder. Barefoot, with her hair a wavy silken waterfall. She looked like something out of the fashion magazines Sansa poured over.

“Hey, sorry if I scared you. I’d phoned Jon I was coming over. I brought food!” Arya said with a charming smile. Daenerys returned the gesture with equal warmth.

“No worries, Jon and I had a movie on. We must have fallen asleep. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said with an easy handshake, “Arya, right? Jon’s told me about you.” Arya cast him a sly glance. A touch smug. It said, ‘She’s got your number, Snow.’ And damn if that wasn’t the gods’ honest truth.

“Good things, I hope.”

“Mostly that you’re a bit of a wild card, and could kick his ass seven ways to the sept,” Daenerys said with shy glance his way. Jon slid his hand into hers, hyper-aware of his little sister’s knowing gaze. Daenerys gave his hand a comforting little squeeze. Arya laughed, preening a little.

“That’s definitely true. Gendry—my boyfriend slash manager slash promoter—he says we could get a title shot if my next few fights go well.” Jon’s jaw dropped.

“You’re fighting again? Does your mum know?” he asked. Arya shrugged, her patented gesture when things got a little too uncomfortable—or if her mother came up in conversation. Arya’s desire and skill in the arena were a source of contention between her and her mother. All of her decisions were a source of contention with the formidable Mrs. Stark.

“She doesn’t want to hear about it. I mailed her an invite to my next fight. I hope to see her there. If not, I have a lot of people in my corner.”

Silence fell for a long, uncomfortable beat.  

“Thank you for braving this weather to bring us food,” Daenerys said after a moment, waving a hand to encompass the heavy rain.

Arya snorted, sliding down from the counter to rummage in the fridge for a beer. Deftly popping the cap off on the counter edge, she handed one to Daenerys before taking another for herself. Jon arched a brow at Arya. She grinned in answer, and Jon released Daenerys long enough to nudge behind Arya to snag a bottle of water for himself. No more fucking around. He was on watch. It earned an approving nod from his sister.

“It’s fine. Just a bit of rain. You should see the roads in winter. Sometimes even the snow plows get buried.”

“I’m a city girl. I don’t even have my permit,” Daenerys said as she sipped her beer.

“The north is the best place to learn to drive. Sheep outnumber people five to one,” Arya joked.

“Maybe I’ll learn then,” Daenerys said. She moved toward the bulging plastic sack of food, sniffing appreciatively.

Talk flowed easily as they heaped delicious roasted meat on their plates, redolent with spice. Traditional Dothraki stuff was mostly game, but the spice blend was perfect for beef. Arya told them about her training, her apartment, Gendry. Jon had met him once. Big bloke, a former fighter himself. The pole-axed look he gave Arya told Jon enough. Gendry was made for her.

“Mmm, you have Dothraki barbeque up here?”

“There’s a Dothraki transplant in Winterfell, Quono Riderman. His food is the best,” Jon said.

“I love Dothraki food. I was horse-mad as a kid. Mother hired a riding teacher Irri. She was a stickler for tradition. We’d always go to this authentic Dothraki restaurant after lessons,” Daenerys said. He was aware of Daenerys watching him as he tucked in.

“I’m surprised you can handle it,” Daenerys teased him, laughter in her eyes. A northerner to his core, he had a Westerosi palate. Arya and Daenerys added hot sauce to theirs, while Jon sweated. The meat was good, but gods. His mouth was on fire.

“It tastes great. The salad helps with the spice,” Jon said, trying not to cough. The greens and vegetables were crisp, and the vinegary dressing was cooling. The melty ice cream for dessert was even better, a coffee and chocolate swirl thing that was Arya’s favorite.

“So I hear there’s some bad blokes after you. Tell me about it,” Arya asked as they tidied the dishes. He watched worriedly as Daenerys paused, hands wrist-deep in soapy hot water.

“They call themselves the Harpy Triumvirate. Individuals from the three great cities of the Bay of Dragons: Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. I run an anti-trafficking organization called Breaking Chains. They’ve been sending me death threats for years. Only this week they’ve backed up the talk with violence.” The words were cold, clinical. Jon could hear the lawyer paring down the terror and death into impartial facts. Arya whistled low.

“That sucks,” she said. The understatement drew a crooked smile from Daenerys. She glanced at him, a soft, shining look.

“It does suck. But Jon saved me. That day and every day since.” Arya’s grin glowed with pride.

“He’s a good bloke to have around in a sticky spot,” she said.

“He is,” Daenerys said. Seven hells, he was blushing. There was nothing he could say without sounding like a fatuous asshole, so Jon took a long draught from his water bottle.

“Daenerys, I’d be happy to show you a couple things. Just in case.”

Daenerys’ face lit up.

“I would love that.” Both looked to him. Jon lifted his hands.

“I volunteer to finish washing up,” he said. Daenerys chuckled, kissing his cheek in passing. The glancing touch sent little tingles through him. He fancied the spot glowed. Their amiable chatter made him deeply happy. Arya was easy to get along with, but she was also very protective of him. Seeing her get on so well with Daenerys set him at ease. It had been the same subtle feeling when he met and approved of Gendry. Jon washed the dishes, tidied the leftovers, wiped down the countertops and set the kettle aside for tea. An ear turned toward the den heard the murmur of their conversation, punctuated liberally with giggling. With women, giggling was usually a good sign.

Jon tiptoed to the den and peeked in. Arya stood behind Daenerys, one muscular arm locked around her neck, the other pinioning her hands behind her. Gods, Arya’s been training hard. She looks like she’s gained a stone in muscle.

“Ok, so if a fucker’s got you from behind, more than likely he’s gonna feel pretty confident. This hand--” Arya jiggled the one holding Dany’s wrists, “—will more than likely be relaxed, ‘cause he’s got an arm around your throat. So first snap back with your hips, create a little space.” Brow forked in concentration; Dany tried. Biting back a smile, Jon leaned against the doorjamb. It made him crazy to think of Dany having to use Arya’s self-defense techniques, but the demo was important.

“Like that?” she asked.

Arya smile grew broader.

“Yeah yeah, once you do that you break the hold of his hands, you can duck under the arm—yeah like that and rip his junk off.”

“Leave the fucker writhing in pain as you run off,” Jon interjected. Arya had Daenerys repeat the move and its variations on both her and Jon over and over again. After forty-five minutes of training, his shoulders and chest felt a little sore, but he counted it worth it. Daenerys winced as she stood after Arya demonstrating some sort of Yi Tish balance-block move. Arya helped her up, nodding in sympathy.

“My first coach Syrio said every bruise is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better.”

“He sounds like a wise man,” Daenerys said. By consensus, they agreed more training would wait. They collapsed back on the couch. Arya sobered.

“Syrio’s a tough old bastard. He told me there is only one god, and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: Not today.”

                                                               ~

 Daenerys and Jon stood on the porch waving to Arya as she drove off into the dusk. The rain had let up slightly, but grey clouds brooded overhead. Daenerys nestled closer to Jon’s side. Even in summer, the evening chill was biting. Jon followed her back inside and together they wordlessly began tidying the remnants of their meal. Despite the late lunch, Arya rummaged through the fridge and insisted on a bit of supper. Robb and Margaery’s choice of lobster was excellent, as was the turtle soup sopped up with oven-warmed bread dripping with butter. Calories didn’t count on the lam.

“Are you sure you’re ok with this?” she asked.

Arya had pointed out rather succinctly that given the odds against them, Jon was outnumbered and outmanned. Winterfell with its high walls, cameras, and hired security were a far better option. Anxiety coiled taut in her belly. A sidelong glance found his brow knitted, a frown flattening the lush curve of his mouth. Jon had been explicit: he wouldn’t risk his family for her sake. Arya had been quick to wave off any concern. The youngest two Bran and Rickon were south for the weekend with their mother visiting Mrs. Stark’s family in the River district. Mr. Stark was in the Storm district on business, Sansa was at uni.

Daenerys buried her hands in the dishwater to hide them shaking. Of course he wouldn’t want her in Winterfell. Even with most of his family away, Arya was still there, who he obviously adored. He had only known her for a week. He owed her nothing. The silence was unbearable.

“Would you say something?” she said sharply. Jon glanced at her, his scowl deepening.

“What?” he asked.

“’What?’” Daenerys repeated, “If you don’t want me to go to Winterfell, just say so. I can find my own way.”  

The words emerged sharper and nastier than she intended, but the thought of being unwanted pricked her deepest insecurities. Her father had wanted another son, Vis had wanted to live without the burden of a little sister, Daario wanted Jeyne. Daenerys chewed on her lower lip, struggling to breathe down the shrieking panic. Jon had become a safe place, a peaceful paradise. Without him, she felt cast adrift, rudderless. Something in his posture stiffened. His dark eyes flashed.

“You want to leave?” he said quietly. No. No, never.

“You’ve done enough. I can--”

“‘Done enough?’ Yeah, nearly gotten you killed, right? Or do you mean fucking you? Was that ‘enough?’” Daenerys flinched as if he’d struck her and shook her head, marching in the direction of the stairs. She would pack up a few things and hike to the nearest petrol station. A phone call to Vis or Jory would be enough.

“Stop, Jon. Now you’re just being nasty.” Jon followed her, dark and thunderous as the stormclouds outside. The bedroom was a wreck, sheets and blankets strewn on the floor from their earlier lovemaking. Tears clogged her throat.

“No, no. Here we are again. Spell it out for me,” Jon said.

“Why are you acting like this? You’re the one who didn’t want me to go to Winterfell!” Daenerys said, her voice climbing to a near shout. Jon matched her in ferocity and volume, squaring off across the bed from her.

“I didn’t know my family was away! If I had, I would have taken you there first!” Daenerys blinked, confused.

“But--”

Jon sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her and raked a hand through his hair.

“Do you realize how fucking stupid I feel about this afternoon?” he said. Daenerys circled the bed to sit beside him. His expression was tortured.

“What if it wasn’t Arya at the door? I could have gotten you killed! You deserve a battalion of guards to keep you safe. If you don’t want a fuck-up for a bodyguard, I get it. If things are too intense and confusing and you’re looking for an easy out, I get it. But don’t ever think it’s because I don’t want you around. That never gonna happen. Get me?” Daenerys choked back a sob. One tear eked free, and Jon smoothed it away with his thumb. The tenderness of the gesture broke her heart.

“I trust you, Jon. I trust you. And I don’t want to go anywhere without you.” I love you. How she wished she was brave enough to say those words.

“We’ll go to Winterfell in the morning. Together,” she said, taking his hand and pressing kisses on the back.

“Together,” Jon said, drawing her close for a kiss.

Perhaps it was the thought of separation, or the fact that privacy would be scarce in Winterfell, but passion boiled quick and sweet. Sensation blurred. Mm, Jon’s dark, worshipful gaze, long, drinking kisses, undressing her as if she was something fragile and precious. She let her touch speak for her, writing words of love on his body. They moved together, a gentle, timeless eternity. Climax washed over her in deep spasms. Jon followed her soon after, panting her name against her neck. They drowsed in the tub together, fell asleep in each other’s arms.

A beam of sunlight woke her. She squinted at the aperture of the curtains, and the sun-dappled blur of greenery beyond. Behind her, Jon snuffled in his sleep. The arm draped around her twitched. Daenerys kissed him awake.

“Good morning,” she whispered. Jon cracked open one eye.

“‘Mornin,’” he rumbled.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll make tea.”

“M’kay,” he said, already drifting off.

She slid from bed, stretching. Gods, with Jon she slept better than she ever had. Braiding her hair and dressing in clean clothes made her feel ready to greet the day. The burner phone buzzed on the nightstand. She snagged it, creeping into the hallway so as not to disturb Jon. Good, she needed to talk to Vis.

“Hello, Daenerys.” The smooth voice was unfamiliar. Fear sang through her.

“Who is this?” she whispered.

“Where are my manners? My name is Ramsay Bolton. Now, you naughty girl, look at your boytoy.”

“What—Where--?”

“Look.” Daenerys looked at Jon, asleep in bed, a red laser dot floating on his forehead. Oh gods.

“Now listen very carefully.”          

[cuorepietoso]

Things you said with clenched fists / Things you said over the phone

requested by and ft. @katarinadvpont

     I.  2014

     They’re back in Libya, of course. Sometimes he feels like he’s never fucking left this place, like he never will. Blue skies above, with that scorching hot sun that always leaves him casting his gaze around for some shade when the clock hits about noon. Pale sand that gets into all the creases on his body, fills his shoes and his socks. Another civil war, the second in three years, orchestrated by the powers that be for… what, oil? He’s not sure he even knows anymore, which side he’s supposed to be spilling blood for. On base, his hand never seems to stray very far from the scar cut across his abdomen, because more than enough of the blood he’d spilled the last time he was in this country was his own.

     They have a new Carabinieri attache-- she’s almost eye-searingly blonde and lily-skinned in the bright sunlight, he can’t help but wonder how she keeps from turning as red as a lobster. The military police are hardly ever well-liked among the rank and file, seen as fun-killers at best and crooked at worst, but… Tahan thinks she’s probably alright, if only by virtue of the fact that one Capitano Daniel Lombardi hates her. He watches the pair of them from the shade of the MRAP that the late afternoon provides, his legs outstretched in the dirt before him, arms crossed over his rifle. Lombardi is bristling, trying to loom over her like his scant few centimeters he has on the woman affords him any kind of advantage in the face of her icy calm. Yeah, Tahan thinks, he likes her just fine. She’s got a spine of steel, at least, glaring Lombardi down and snapping back at him.

     DuPont, he thinks her name is. He’s never spoken to her directly, just the occasional respectful nod as they pass each other on base, or when he and Rossi are bent over a map, heads bowed together as they work on planning operations, and she sweeps into the room. Right now, she looks like she’s going to choke Lombardi. He thinks he might like to see it-- Rossi’s toe nudges his thigh, and when he tips his head back to squint at him, the younger man gestures silently toward the pair. His meaning is more than obvious: end that before it really starts.

     Ah, well. He really would have put money on the Carabinieri, the way her face has clouded. Tahan stands with a long sigh, and then stalks forward on cat-quiet feet, his rifle slung back over his shoulder. It’s so hot when he gets out of the shade that he almost immediately starts to sweat-- how can these two bicker like this? How do they have the energy?

     He catches the tail end of their conversation, Lombardi hissing out a quiet, “You don’t know what you’re messing with, DuPont--” before he interrupts by clearing his throat. Lombardi cuts himself off and turns his baleful glare onto Tahan, and DuPont takes a moment to try and smooth the anger out of her features. She mostly fails. Her fists are still bunched, the lines of her shoulders and her mouth pulled taut. Before Lombardi can bark out a ‘what’, Tahan snaps out a frankly disrespectful salute to him and then speaks.

     “Maggiore Romano is looking for you, DuPont.” His voice is flat, and he keeps his bored gaze focused on a point between them. It’s a calculated risk-- the Major outranks Lombardi, so the Captain can’t do anything but let her go, and the pair gets along even more poorly than it seems he and DuPont do, so it’s not terribly likely Lombardi will ask. Not terribly likely, but the man trusts Tahan about as much as Tahan trusts him, so it’s still possible. Not that he’d get in all that much trouble. Lombardi opens his fat mouth to say something, but Tahan doesn’t give him the chance, sweeping his arm out in an ‘after you’ gesture for her, with a quiet offer: “I’ll walk you there.”

     The flat line of her mouth turns furious once more, but thankfully she holds her tongue until they’re out of earshot, not even bothering to say goodbye to Lombardi. They walk together in silence until they round a corner, and then she whirls on him, fists curled like she’s thinking about striking him. At least she hasn’t gone for her gun. “Are you insane?” She demands, her voice ringing out of her like thunder. DuPont steps forward, one of her hands gesturing broadly toward the rest of the base. “Does the Maggiore actually need me, or did you make that up?”

     Tahan rocks back on his heels, biting back a smile. He has the feeling his amusement would only serve to act as gasoline on the fire of her fury, so he simply gives her a one shouldered shrug. “Sometimes, and no. Are you?” She stills, high spots of color creeping into her cheeks. “Insane, I mean.”

     “No,” the answer cracks out of her like a whip this time, waspish and ice cold. “I’m beginning to suspect that everyone else here is, though-- you know you’re supposed to be working with the United Nations on all of your operations, don’t you?”

     God. He rummages around in his pockets and pulls out his pack of cigarettes, offering her one as he lights his own. The look she gives him is venomous, but she takes one and he lights that one for her as well. “I’m aware--” Her brows furrow, and she opens her mouth to say something, but he holds up his hand. The gesture is enough to silence her for a half second, if only because she didn’t expect it, and that half second is all he needs. “Listen to me, picking a fight with that fuck Lombardi isn’t going to get you anywhere good.”

     DuPont exhales smoke harshly, staring hard off into the camp. “All this-- all this fucking--” He snorts, taken almost aback by the curse falling out of such an angelic face, and she snaps her electric eyes to him. “This cowboy bullshit. There’s a system in place to make sure everything is done by the book, and done well, and to keep casualties at a minimum, and it seems like nobody cares.”

     Nobody does care. He manages to keep from saying it, but only barely, instead he watches her, brows furrowed. Her fists are still clenched at her sides, like she actually cares. Maybe she does-- he’d heard she’s fresh out of the academy. Hasn’t had any time to let the world tint her idealism into something darker, yet. He doesn’t want to be the one to break it to her. Another long sigh rolls out of him as he turns to watch the walls of their base camp. “There’s something you need to understand about Lombardi.” He stops, there, and when he glances back at her he can see her eyes trained on the side of his face. “He’s gotten away with a lot of shit. He’s been allowed to get away with a lot of shit. And you’re a threat to that-- a threat to him.”

          “Good--” she sneers.

     “Bad,” he replies, cutting her off. “Because do you know what Lombardi does to people that threaten him? He eliminates the threat. Like he was trained to do.” She draws away, and he can see he’s losing her, so he gestures out to the camp. “I’m not saying do nothing. You can report him to our superiors until you’re blue in the face. I’m just telling you now, it’s not likely they’ll do anything. We’re a black operation unit, and we… unofficially play by different rules. But if you keep running your mouth off to him, he’s going to start thinking maybe you’ll actually get something done.” A pause, for effect. Her eyes are almost, almost wide. “And then he’ll just make you disappear.”

          The blonde’s jaw is so tight he could almost swear he can hear her teeth grinding. “He can try.”

     “He can succeed. That prick has been here for fifteen years, and if we’re unlucky he’ll be here for fifteen more.” Tahan is agitated, he’s already burned through the entirety of his cigarette. He puts the butt out against the bottom of his boot, and tucks it back into the pack, unwilling to start another. “I’m not saying do nothing. I’m saying keep quiet about it until you’re far the fuck away from here. You understand?”

          Her eyes, her face is grim. She nods, finally. He turns away before he can determine if she means to actually follow his advice or not.

     ii. 2016

     Her mouth runs just as hot in Verona as it did in the desert two years ago, he thinks with no small amount of amusement. The leaves are starting to turn on the trees, and a cold wind creeps in between the cramped, ancient buildings of the city. Every time he sees her, she looks like she’s bundled for arctic weather, and she undoubtedly notices how drawn he looks, the faint tremble to his fingers. He feels half-mad, some days, mourning something he’ll never be able to put words to, all the things and the days he’s buried deep. She calls him, maybe once a week, and he tries to be good company.

     The days pass in anniversaries, marked permanently in his mind. One year since Rana slipped headfirst into that ditch. One year since Rossi pulled that bullet out of that corpse for evidence. One year since, once year since, one year si--

     His phone is ringing. He’d forgotten it was ringing when he saw who it was that was calling him, staring at the screen until it rang out to voicemail. She’s calling him again. Battista wonders what’s got her… what, concerned? Angry? Enough to call him twice in a row. He answers.

     Katarina DuPont’s voice rings tinnily on the line. “Oh, good. You’re alive.” Her voice is almost totally flat, like she’s pissed she felt like she had to call again. He stares out over the Adige, sluggishly moving along.

          “Don’t sound so excited about it,” is his dry answer. “Did you need something?”

     The line is silent for a minute. He thinks about sinking into the cold water in October of 2009, getting dragged out by the strap of his rifle. The shock that had come after. Leans against the railing, and peers down into the muddy brown river below. Her voice startles him out of his reverie. “No, I don’t need anything, you-- Have you eaten anything today?”

     Battista’s brows shoot up on his forehead, and he allows it because there’s nobody around to see. He leans his chin on his hand, his elbow resting against cold stone and supporting most of his weight. It takes him a moment to think. Has he? He can hardly remember, it seems. He doesn’t think so. His hands feel a little weak, he’s tired. “Yes,” he responds softly. The water churning below looks cold. He pulls away from the edge and starts walking away. “Did you call just to ask me if I’d eaten anything?”

          “No.” Katarina’s voice… he can tell the amusement in his question rankled her, in some way or another. “Do you need anything?”

     He wonders when she’s going to work up to asking if he’s been taking his meds-- probably soon. She’s not one to mince words. He lifts a hand to wipe the half-smile off his face and pauses, wondering if the faint smudge of crusted blood under his nails is real or imagined. Looking away from his hand won’t keep him from obsessing, but it will keep him from seeing.

     Does he need anything? He doesn’t know. He can’t stop thinking about Rossi, the Captain. That whole mess. He can’t stop thinking about the heroin, or the pink jacket. He can’t stop thinking about how Bianchi had leaned so close to him, his grip hard enough to bruise his collarbone, and the acid that had poured out of his mouth. And perhaps this is all loyalty will ever buy him, in a world so deprived of goodness and warmth and light. A world deprived of love. It buys him pain. In the night, in the day. A great screaming void. Death at his master’s door.

     For a moment, a mad moment, he lets himself feel a spark of… of something. Maybe he wants more than that. Maybe he wants justice. Maybe he thinks she can help, or offer advice, or maybe he just wants to talk about it. So he opens his mouth, and his voice is raspy when it rolls out of him, like he’s parched. “Have you ever heard of--” Bianchi, he doesn’t finish the sentence. She may have met him in Libya, might even remember him. But he doesn’t know how, or perhaps can’t, ask for help. The two extremes: she won’t care at all. He didn’t know her two years ago, and he hardly knows her now, except for the fact that she feels obligated to reach out to him occasionally. Or she could get herself killed, looking into it. He’s not sure he could articulate how dangerous it is. He’s pretty sure he could never choke out all of what happened, either. “Never mind,” he finishes, softer than before. Battista glances around and finds he’s back at the river, and this time when he turns his back on it, he tells himself it’s for good. “I don’t need anything, DuPont. Listen, I have to go.” There’s a long silence on her end, and he adds, “I’ll talk to you later.”

          Apparently that’s enough of a promise for her. At her loaded “Goodbye, then,” he snaps the phone shut, and slips it into his pocket.

[carmenlire]

Prompt: Malec playing with the Alliance Rune, +\- magnus (being a little jealous?) not liking Lorenzo’s magic running through Alec, wanting it to be his. Alec loving Magnus’ magic

Thanks for sending a prompt Bel!! I hope you like this!

read on ao3

When Magnus notices, it’s a punch to the gut. It makes bile climb up his throat, seeing the nauseatingly yellow magic around Alec’s hands– his Alec, his darling Alexander, using another warlock’s magic is intolerable.

And Lorenzo, the bastard, he knew. He knew how it would feel to see another’s magic around his fucking fiance.

Magnus is well aware that it’s neither the time nor the place for such a primal reaction. The truth is, the alliance rune had saved those closest to him and secured his own freedom from Edom.

That doesn’t mean that Magnus doesn’t almost choke on the knowledge, though.

Still, everything happens so fast after the rescue mission and it’s weeks later before it comes up again. The two of them are walking through Central Park and it’s the most peaceful Magnus can remember feeling in years– decades maybe.

It’s winter and they’re bundled up in their coats and scarves and Alec’s wearing those fingerless gloves that Magnus adores even if he wonders how on earth Alec’s staving away frostbite. It’s quiet, snow spitting down, and it feels like they’re in their own little world.

Alec hauls him a little closer with his arm over his shoulder and Magnus hides a grin in his scarf, tightening his own arm that’s slung low around Alec’s back.

“You know,” Alec starts and when Magnus looks up, it’s clear that his husband is choosing his words carefully, that this is far from the spontaneous little conversation he’s clearing aiming for. “I love your magic.”

A little taken aback at the abrupt declaration, Magnus merely blinks. “Thank you, darling,” he says, nonplussed.

He looks up in time to see Alec roll his eyes, though he doesn’t know if it’s at himself or Magnus. Looking over, the breath stalls in his chest at the intensity in Alec’s gaze.

“What I mean is– I love the feel of it, the way it seems to reach out to me sometimes, especially when you aren’t even paying attention. It feels familiar.” Magnus watches, entranced, as Alec swallows hard, as his tongue darts out to swipe across his lip. “It feels like home.”

Something melts in Magnus and he leans further into Alec. “Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

Alec looks like he wants to say something else but he doesn’t and Magnus doesn’t push. Instead, they continue strolling aimlessly down a path while Magnus’s head spins. It’s nothing new or unexpected but damn if Alec doesn’t know how to lay waste to Magnus’s defenses with the simplest of declarations.

His thoughts catch on Alec’s words, however, and his head snaps back up. “You said it felt familiar,” Magnus drawls. He raises a brow. “More familiar than a certain other warlock’s?”

Wincing, Alec doesn’t pretend not to know what Magnus is alluding to. “I’d much rather have been your partner for the alliance rune than Rey’s, I assure you. While it was cool, it felt like his magic was fighting me every step of the way.”

Filing away that useful bit of information, Magnus replies before his brain has a chance to catch up to his words. “Then let’s do it.”

He comes to a stop as Alec freezes and while he hadn’t meant to, he knows his voice had betrayed his irritation. He meets Alec’s eyes with a challenge in his own.

Breath catching as Alec steps close, as his husband cups his cheek and tilts his face up a bare inch, Magnus can’t look away as Alec asks, “You mean that,” in a low tone.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it, Alexander. Besides,” he asks with a quick grin, “If I can’t share the alliance rune with my husband then who the hell can I use it with?”

He watches the way Alec’s eyes darken and then he’s being pulled into a searing kiss that makes Magnus hot, no matter that it’s thirty degrees outside. When Alec finally steps back, his voice is hoarse as he says, “Home. Now.”

–

Alec sits on the couch, twirling his stele absently in his hand. It’s unfairly attractive and Magnus feels his stare land on him as he lights half a dozen candles around the living room. The late winter afternoon is gloomy, casting the loft in shadows. Taking their outerwear off, Magnus had rolled up his shirt sleeves as Alec had settled. Magnus feels a shiver wrack up his spine and can’t help but feel like the mouse to Alec’s cat.

A few minutes later, Magnus is done and he strolls over to Alec. Looking down at his husband, he blinks slowly and between one moment and the next, his glamour dissolves. He hears Alec’s breath catch and he grins as he steps so that Alec’s thighs are between his legs.

Tilting Alec’s head up, he murmurs, “Are you sure about this, darling?”

Alec’s nodding before he’s even finished asking. “I can���t stop thinking about it,” he admits and a fire blooms in Magnus’s gut at the earnest words, at the way he reaches out and grips Magnus’s hips in steady hands. “I want all of you, Magnus.”

Magnus lowers himself until he’s straddling Alec and he holds out his arm. His voice is husky as he offers, “Mark me then, Alexander.”

Alec’s fingers dig into his hips for a moment and Magnus half hopes he follows through on his clear desire to push Magnus back onto the couch and do wickedly wonderful things to his body.

Instead, he takes a deep breath as if gathering his thoughts and wraps a hand around Magnus’s arm. His thumb brushes over the sensitive skin of his wrist and Magnus shudders in his hold. When he lifts his other hand and the tip of his stele touches him, though, Magnus can’t stop his instinctive flinch.

Memories course through him, flashes of a chair and restraints and an Alec he didn’t recognize.

Catching the little movement, Alec stills, too. “You okay,” he asks softly. “I won’t hurt you– besides the rune itself stinging a little as it’s applied– but I don’t want to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

Shaking his head a little to clear it, it’s Magnus’s turn to take a steadying breath and when he looks up at Alec, his expression is serious but sure. “I want this. It’s just something new and unexpected and my body hasn’t quite caught up with my head.” He sees the hesitancy in the tension seeping into Alec and all he offers is a quiet, “Please.”

Alec nods to himself and then the stele is touching him once more. Alec draws the swirling lines in a competent hand and he wasn’t lying– it does sting as the rune flares with light before settling into a deep crimson against his skin. The pain sears into him for one heartbeat, for two and three, before it settles back down and Magnus bites his lip at the feeling.

It strikes him immediately that it’s different than the first and last time he was runed. This pain is comforting, familiar, something he wants to sink into. His mind’s a little hazy but he has a desperate wish to chase the sensation and when he shifts, biting back a moan, he knows that Alec’s picked up on his reaction from the way his gaze sharpens.

Magnus doesn’t say anything, though, and neither does Alec and as the heat banks back down, Magnus is struck by a different feeling.

There’s a connection there and it’s like he’s been jump-started. There’s a different energy buzzing under his skin and he has the sudden desire to– to do something, anything, that can test the limits of the power he can feel simmering just below the surface, waiting to be tapped.

He doesn’t do any of that, though. Instead, he reaches for Alec’s stele and as soon as his fingers wrap around it, it glows red.

Alec doesn’t comment on the color and when Magnus darts a look up, it’s to see his husband’s unsurprised face.

“You knew?”

Raising a brow, Alec merely replies, “I know who I married.”

Huffing out a laugh, Magnus reaches for Alec’s wrist only to be stopped. He looks up, curious, but Alec just urges him to lean back. With enough room to maneuver, he pulls his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor next to him.

Tapping over his heart, Alec murmurs, “Right here.”

Swallowing hard, Magnus nods once. He’d studied the alliance rune that first day– his eyes had burned into the rune Lorenzo had drawn on Alec’s arm and he’d poured his gaze over the scrap of paper Biscuit had drafted.

He draws the rune over Alec’s heart now with a steady hand. When he’s done, they both take a breath and Magnus rests his hand over Alec’s chest, feels his heart beating wildly underneath his palm.

Looking up, Magnus’s breath catches as his eyes lock on Alec’s. He reaches a hand up, running a thumb over his cheek.

Distantly, he thinks he understands Alec’s reaction to seeing his mark because seeing Alexander with gold eyes is one of the most stunning images Magnus has ever been treated to.

“Mine,” Magnus breathes, tipping Alec’s head up, and he feels the shudder that rolls through his husband at the declaration, at the possessiveness lingering in his undertone.

When his husband lifts a hand to put over his, they see the blue tendrils wrapped around his fingers at the same time and the breath is punched out of Magnus anew.

If seeing his mark on Alec was gorgeous, watching his magic wrap around his love is something else entirely. Magnus doesn’t have words for what the sight does to him, for the primal surge that rocks through him at seeing his magic– his soul, his essence– intertwined with Alec.

He’s not entirely aware of doing it but in a flash, he has Alec on his back, pushing him into the couch cushions, leaning over him with hands on his chest.

They both freeze for a moment as they realize what’s happened and then Magnus is grinning down at Alec and it’s sharp, wicked and teasing.

Before he can do anything else, though, Alec’s across the room. There’s a flush riding high across his cheeks and his eyes are glinting with challenge, with a look Magnus has only ever seen when the heat of a mission was thrumming through his blood.

“Catch me.”

Magnus has a second to register the words before Alec’s gone and it’s more instinct than anything else that has him giving chase.

It’s odd, to feel the power of runes running through him. They stay in the loft and Alec flashes from one room to the next, letting Magnus get close without quite managing to win. Magnus supposes it would be anticlimactic for vampires or even werewolves but warlocks have never had increased speed or strength. Magnus might be exceptionally fit for a human but any superhuman power comes from his magic and it’s a thrill to feel his heightened senses working in a totally different way than he’s used to.

There’s another piece of it, though, and he follows Alec, reaching through their connection. His magic binds them and he can feel it working in Alec. The ebb and flow, his power sparking in an unfamiliar body while still recognizing it on a molecular level.

It’s like Alec mentioned earlier, Magnus realizes. His magic has recognized Alec since the beginning, since before he used Alec’s strength to restore his depleted levels so long ago. It’s made a home in Alec for longer than Magnus realized– it’s burrowed its way into his husband until Magnus is fairly stunned at how happy it feels to be in Alec, crashing through his system like a purring cat.

Clearing his head, Magnus redoubles his efforts and when he finally catches Alec, he pins him against the wall in the living room. He’s not quite aware of just how effective the strength rune is, however, and when Alec leans in and crashes their lips together, Magnus’s hands drag down his sides until they’re settling against his thighs and he’s pulling, both of them breaking apart to gasp in surprise as Magnus lifts Alec until he can wrap his legs around his waist.

Magnus doesn’t even break a sweat and he feels more than hears Alec groan, his own chest aching in response.

It quickly devolves from there but when Alec’s hands cup his face, the kiss turns impossibly deep and everything slows down until they’re grinding against each other and Magnus has the thought that they should probably move this to the couch or bed or, hell, the floor, but then Alec moves.

Magnus almost comes in his goddamn pants as his choked off cry echoes through the room. When he opens his eyes, it’s to see Alec staring at him, shock and delight flaring bright in his face as they have the same realization.

Alec’s hands had moved down until he was pressing desperate nails into the small of Magnus’s back. Without knowing how– and the very small piece of Magnus’s brain that is still online is racing at the implications– Alec had coalesced his own pleasure and doubled it back, pushing it into Magnus with a shock wave of feeling.

Sex magic is intimate and while Magnus loved it, particularly with Alec as the very willing recipient, it took extensive training and an emotional bond that had to be carefully cultivated.

The fact that Alec had had the alliance rune for less than an hour yet was able to do such a thing was nearly inconceivable.

Magnus gives very brief thought to pursuing it on an intellectual level but the desire still running through him quickly drowns that inclination out.

It looks like Alec is on the same page as they lean back into each other, mouths meeting in a kiss that’s as hot as it is desperate.

As Magnus steps away from the pillar, still holding Alec effortlessly, he turns toward the bedroom.

He can’t wait to thoroughly test out the alliance rune’s abilities.

[platypanthewriter]

Under the influence of hot water and warm kisses

The Keg-King of Elfland’s Sword (chapter five)

For @ihni​

The key turned easily, with a tingle of magic that frizzed Billy’s curls, and he swore under his breath and stroked them down again as he slid inside. He unclipped his pendant again, letting it swing, but it whirled in such a strident circle, fixing on nothing, that he rolled his eyes and put it back on, and pulled out his handkerchief. He wiped his hands carefully before opening the great desk, sitting the ring of iron keys down with a shuddery sigh.

There was nothing he recognized. Nothing with his own father’s name, nothing about their joint venture—nothing, he was beginning to suspect, at all —and he was beginning to wonder if he could be so lucky, if he could honestly write and say it must be locked in a bank, somewhere, behind document checks, and out of his reach, when the windows lit with the glow of lanterns, and he leaned to see a carriage pull up to the front door.

He locked up as quickly as he could, the numbness making him drop the keys. The lush carpets kept the floor silent through the east wing, and he ran as softly as he could down the flights of stairs, leaning against the wall to catch his breath while Thomas Hall shouted through the door. Billy groaned, and opened it, after frowning around one last time for a servant, to be met by a screech of his name, and Max abruptly hanging from his neck like some idiot had made a necklace out of the anchor of a ship.

“Billy,” she mumbled, letting her swinging leg connect with his shin, and he swallowed a yell, hugging her to him. “He said you fell off your horse —”

“I did not.” Billy narrowed his eyes at Thomas, who shrugged, pushing past them.

“He said you were attacked—”

Billy was wishing heartily that he’d shoved Thomas Hall off the ferry when he’d had the chance, when a fluffy creature smelling of mushrooms struggled to hop up the stairs, huffing at Thomas like it wished the same.

“Someone needed a doctor?” it panted, and Billy dropped Max, grabbing her hand and pulling her over to help the creature with the bag balanced on its top. It was only about two feet high.

“We do apologize.” Billy gave his most charming smile, and it fluffed at him. He took the bag, bowing over it. “Had I only known you were arriving,” he said, flirting automatically, and ushering it to the stairs, “—we’d have dressed for dinner.”

“Doctor Lion’s-Mane was needed in town,” Max panted, squeezing his hand as they climbed. “The river’s flooding. When he couldn’t get on the ferry, Will decided to swim—”

“The child’s half-frozen,” the doctor put in, making a clicking sound. Billy wondered whether it had a tongue. “We were followed here. They tried to lure your sister out of the carriage.”

Billy must have nearly crushed Max’s hand in his grip, because she winced, squeezing his wrist, and he let go.

She grabbed his hand again. “I didn’t know what was going on,” she hissed. “You might have picked me up. Lucas and Dustin came to get me—”

“Who are Lucas and Dustin,” he asked evenly, watching Thomas run ahead to Harrington’s room.

“They—they danced—Lucas taught us to dance.”

Billy nodded, tucking the bag under his arm so he could keep holding Max’s hand, and frowning at the doctor, who was slowing, now that they’d reached the third staircase. “I remember him,” he said, quirking his mouth at Max, who squeezed his hand.

“Dustin met one of those...water horses,” Max told him, shuddering. “It speaks, it’s horrible, but it was hurt—”

“They—are usually—safe—” the doctor wheezed. “Something—something has—happened. The—the Lady would not—five children taken--” It stopped on the stairs, collapsing into a lower, wider pile of fluff. “I-I beg your—please pardon—me.”

“Ah, he—he’ll live a bit longer, take your time,” Billy reassured the fluffy mushroom doctor, shifting his feet. “The bleeding’s stopped, anyway—”

“We couldn’t cross the river,” Max said, tugging him down a couple of steps so she could brush grit out of his hair and narrow her eyes, pressing near a tender spot on his cheekbone. “...there were eels the size of oak trees, Billy. The horses spooked.”

Billy rolled his eyes, grinning at her fussing. “I think Harrington and I found out why your ‘Lady’ is—”

“—trying to steal children?” The doctor fluffed upright again, and Billy swallowed.

“Y-yes. We found, uh, there was a camp. Where the little girl from the ball—”

“Ellie,” Max put in, and he nodded.

“—where Ellie was held, by the mound. Sounded like outsiders? Not people from the town? They held her there, threatened her mother. They—they wanted to break in to the mountain, to the--the inside? Used cannons.”

“...what,” the doctor hissed.

“Iron cannonballs,” he admitted, wincing. “Maybe iron filings. The waterfall was running red with it.”

“And the breach is unguarded,” Doctor Lion’s-Mane said softly. “No good shall come of this. Young Master Hall said—surely you did not encounter the—the Nuckelavee.”

“That is what Wheeler called it,” Billy said, keeping his voice even, as Max’s eyes darted between him and the doctor.

“...may the Lady have mercy,” it whispered.

When they got to Harrington’s door, Thomas let the doctor in, but stepped to block Billy. “I don’t think we require your services.” He smiled falsely from one to the other, packing more powder down the barrel of Max’s internal flintlock than was entirely safe. Billy held her back by the shoulder. Thomas slammed the door in their faces, and Max started to unsheathe her sword.

Billy yanked her close. “It may not be here,” he told her, and she stared at him.

“Not...here?”

“It would make sense, wouldn’t it,” he whispered, trying to bite back a smile, “—something valuable, he’d put it in a—a bank, or something—”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you think it’s hidden from you?”

His heart started pounding, and he swallowed, trying not to imagine the words in his father’s voice. “I—I haven’t looked everywhere, there might—it’s a castle— I—”

“Billy,” she hissed. “Just tell him you can’t find it. You can lie to him in a letter. He won’t come here.”

“He’d want to talk face-to-face.” Billy shook his head, pushing her hands away, and turning away to sit on a loveseat matching the one he’d sat on, carrying Harrington. One for every stair landing, he thought, raising his eyebrows. “You know I can’t lie to my father.”

“You could,” she argued. “Billy, look around, Harrington wants to marry a girl with antlers. You can tell him everything. He won’t mind pointed ears.” She reached to touch one, and he smacked her hand away.

“Even—even I were— I’ve lied to him, he thinks—he thinks I’m some kind of hero. And you read her letters,” Billy said, and laughed, pressing his hands together between his knees. “It’s true, she was crazy. She wasn’t some—fairy deer princess, she was—she was locked away for good reason, Max—”

“It’s true she didn’t make sense,” Max replied, leaning her chin in her hand, familiar with the beats of this conversation. “But if she was—if she was one of the Fair Folk, they don’t, they don’t make the same kind of sense, Billy, I talked to Porridge—”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, snorting, and wiping his eyes.

“Dustin’s water-horse, Porridge. She likes porridge with chopped apples, just like Dustin does—anyway.” She paused to clear her throat, and smooth her trousers. “Porridge is smart, but she doesn’t make sense, she keeps talking about ‘the child’. We don’t know whether the Lady wants Will, or Ellie, or—or all of us, they tried to call me into the river, they kept calling me child—”

“Don’t you dare,” he told her, forcing a laugh through his throat.

“I’m only—I don’t want you to—” She stumbled over her words, then bent from the waist, blowing air through her cheeks in a loud wet buzz.

“I see why you have so many admirers,” Billy told her, and she sat up, swung around and started kicking him in the leg.

He yelped, and grabbed her boot.

“Do you...want me to keep Harrington distracted?” she asked, flopping back against the loveseat, and groaning at the painted ceiling. “While you finish looking.”

Billy was still biting his lips together, considering his answer, when the doctor hopped out a few minutes later. Max was through the door before Thomas could stop her, drawing Billy after her by the hand.

Now Harrington could move— his skin was smooth and unbloodied through his torn trousers—he swung his legs off the bed, cracked his neck, and stood, stretching.

Billy watched the line of his back. “Shall I run down and ask someone to bring supper? And a bath, on our way out?” The lost opportunity to ransack Harrington’s house was enough of a blessing that he didn’t even mind leaving.

Harrington laughed, running his fingers through his hair to pull out a piece of rubble. Billy found himself stepping closer, and clutched his hands into fists.

“I can see them out,” Thomas said, throwing an arm around Harrington, but Harrington shook his head, batting at the sand falling from his shirt.

“It’s late, and there are...things out there, why don’t you all stay?” He shot a glance at Billy, mouth quirked. “I’ve got a nicer bath.”

“Ye-yes, let’s stay,” Max said, nodding, and Billy was about to elbow her for acting suspicious when she squeezed his hand tighter, and smoothed her fingers over the jagged, bloodstained rip in his sleeve. She swallowed hard, and he tugged his hand out of hers to put it around her shoulders.

“Idiot,” she whispered, rubbing her nose.

When Billy looked up, Harrington was grinning at them. “I should probably return him clean,” he told her.

She snorted, wiping her eyes. “Please do, he reeks, wash him first.”

“I’ll do that,” Harrington promised, shrugging Thomas’ arm off his shoulders, and walked over to brush his fingers over the same tender bit of Billy’s face where Max had prodded him. He was gentle, checking the elbow on which Billy’d slid down the stone, and sliding his thumb through a tear to stroke it along Billy’s ribs.

Billy ducked his head, feeling blood start warming his skin as Harrington checked for hurts like he was a purebred horse.

“Ah-I-I’m hungry,” Max stuttered, backing away, and Billy opened his mouth to reply, but Harrington leaned in, cupping Billy’s jaw with both hands, and he forgot what he’d planned to say.

Harrington smiled at him, meeting his eyes as he called, “Thomas, could you help Ms. Mayfield find some supper?”

Max, proving wrong every rude thing Billy had ever thought about her, grabbed Thomas’ elbow and dragged him from the room, leaving Billy steadying himself against the bureau, while Harrington pressed soft kisses to his face.

Once Harrington was finished kissing around the bruised scrape up Billy’s cheekbone, he went on to kiss along his forearm, and Billy laughed, letting his head thump against Harrington’s shoulder.

The door clicked closed. “I’m glad you talked me into bringing you,” Harrington whispered, his lips against Billy’s neck, and Billy shuddered.

“...told you I’d make myself useful,” he whispered back. “Make it worth your while, letting me—”

“Letting you save my life,” Harrington said, his teeth clicking against Billy’s as he tried to talk and kiss at the same time, “—letting you save my friends—”

“...not sure I can manage that every time,” Billy said, laughing, “—I can only throw myself at so many monsters before I won’t—”

“Hush,” Harrington breathed against his lips, and Billy nodded, lifting his jaw so Harrington could press kisses along his throat, and letting his eyes drift shut. Harrington’s hands slid along the rips in the back of his shirt, and paused. “...you must have been sunning yourself with your shirt off,” he mumbled.

Billy laughed, remembering the mirror above the bureau, and somewhat hoping Harrington was the sort of romantic idiot to compare his freckles to constellations—or better yet, he thought, while allowing himself to be manhandled to face the mirror—the stars the night before, over the balcony. Harrington ran warm hands over Billy’s thighs, and rocked their hips together. He slid his fingers around the largest rip in Billy’s shirt. “...you have...scars,” he said, and Billy laughed.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

Harrington paused, watching Billy’s face, then bent to kiss his back through the tear in his shirt. “They’re like a map. This one could be the river,” he said, running his thumb over it, and Billy shivered, watching his own face redden in the mirror.

Harrington kept talking. “This one’s the road. The freckles along here are the shops along High Street.” His breath tickled, and Billy bit back a grin, his eyes stinging. “These—” Harrington said, his fingers stroking lower, “—South Street. I guess you—you belong here. In Hawkins.” He looked up and met Billy’s eyes in the mirror, their cheeks as flushed an identical red. “You can’t ever leave again, right, not with a map of the town on you—”

Billy leaned back to kiss him, sideways and clumsy, and Harrington laughed, sliding his fingers through the gap in Billy’s shirt, and along his back, dipping into his breeches. Billy smacked his hand away, yanking his shirt out of his breeches and over his head, and nearly elbowing Harrington in the face.

Harrington hummed, wrapping his arms around Billy again, and kissing the base of his neck. “We should take that bath,” he said, his voice buzzing against the tender skin under Billy’s ear.

The bath room was as resplendent as the rest of Harrington House, with a marble tub set in the floor, water that jetted from the mouths of swans—“Your swans are very ill, Harrington,” Billy whispered, and dodged Harrington’s shove—and an actual crystal chandelier, in case you needed fifty magical lights to soap your ass.

“Some people have more trouble than others,” Harrington replied, straight-faced, then started snickering at Billy’s flat stare.

“Do you mean...Thomas,” Billy asked, tugging Harrington’s shirt out of his breeches, and sliding his hands up the man’s back.

Harrington snorted. “If he’s taken baths in here, it was in secret,” he whispered, slipping his fingers down the front of Billy’s breeches, and Billy grinned, yanking Harrington’s shirt off over his head.

“Secret bathing,” he said, nodding. “I wouldn’t put it past him. Sneaking in here and—”

“He thinks you want my money,” Harrington said, pushing away to unbutton his own breeches, and huffing a laugh. “I told him that can’t be all of it.” He glanced over, then down again. “—you wouldn’t—there’s no way you’d take that kind of risk, just for money. You would—you aren’t stupid—”

“...you think there’s some chance I want you for more than money,” Billy repeated, to be sure.

“It could have been a gamble, Tommy said. You save me and know I’ll be grateful, I’m—he always says I’m a bit simple.”

“Tommy is an ass,” Billy growled, pulling Harrington close, and feeling him laugh.

“You wouldn’t risk death for a gamble,” he said, glancing up to look over Billy’s expression, then down.

Billy, privately, begged to differ, but took a deep breath. “My m—” His voice cracked, and he took another breath, and blew it out through his cheeks. “My m-mother is in a sanatorium,” he said. “I don’t know where. He—my father worked for yours, he visited here, he—he said he—met her here. He said she—she came and gave me up, she was afraid she’d—hurt me. I stopped breathing underwater, she said.”

Harrington went still.

Billy nodded, and kept talking, lowering his eyes to further preserve the mystery of Harrington’s expression. “—she kept saying I wasn’t right, I—I was no child of hers, he—he says he didn’t know she had—madness. Running through her. She tried to drown me again, so he had to take me. He had her locked up.”

“What are you saying?” Harrington asked, pulling Billy closer, his fingers stroking up the ears Billy had stared at in the mirror, trying to see points.

“I’m more likely about to run mad than do magic,” Billy said with a laugh, swallowing against Harrington’s warm hand on his face. “I want to help her. He said she writes, sometimes. She’s asked to see me, he won’t tell me where she is—”

“Why won’t he tell you where she is?” Harrington’s voice was level, but he’d stopped stroking Billy’s cheek, and hair.

“He wants something of your father’s,” Billy admitted, watching Harrington’s jaw work. “I—I don’t know what, exactly. I’m—I’m here to search. But I’d—I’d never see her if a monster killed me, Harrington.” He gripped Harrington’s arm with both hands, preventing him from pulling away. “That’s true enough. I wasn’t thinking of her, when I ran in.”

Harrington pulled back the hand Billy wasn’t throttling, and covered his mouth. He took a slow breath.

“I was only thinking of you,” Billy emphasized, watching Harrington’s face, and wondering whether to let go, or step back, or take Max and leave, when Harrington’s hand on the side of Billy’s head slid around to his nape, pulling him forward into a tight embrace. Billy took shallow breaths, began to slide his arms around Harrington in return, and then rested them on Harrington’s hips.

“At the dance—” Harrington whispered, against the side of his head, and Billy pushed through his mad urge to giggle and took a shuddery breath against Harrington’s neck and hair, inhaling the dust of the ruins, and sweat, and the salt fog that had blown off the bottom of the Falls. Harrington’s skin was cold, and a little sticky, his muscles gleaming in the light from the chandelier.

“I didn’t know who you were,” Billy whispered. “Thomas told me. I was already watching you. Max told me you’d rescued children. Fought monsters.”

Harrington pushed him away again, watching his face. “Tell me what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t know,” Billy said, trying to stand still. “He said your father received something, before he died. He doesn’t know exactly what it was.”

“We can look in the morning,” Harrington said, and Billy bit back another bewildered peal of laughter, reaching out to touch Harrington’s hand and chest before he realized he was doing it.

“You—you’ll permit me to look?” he asked, to be sure, and Harrington nodded.

“I will help in your search.”

“How on earth did I happen on someone like you,” Billy mumbled, wrapping his arms around Harrington’s neck, and doing his best to kiss his gratitude into Harrington’s mouth. Harrington held him bruisingly tight, yanking at the buttons on Billy’s breeches.

When they were both freed from the tyranny of clothing, in a cloud of dust and the smell of unwashed men who’d had a fright, Billy knelt. Harrington yanked him upright again, grabbed his face, kissed it, and then flung him bodily into the enormous tub. The tiles along the bottom were also of swans, and Billy rolled his eyes, kicking off them to splash to the surface. He shoved water and dripping curls out of his face, only to be knocked back in the wave of Harrington jumping in and grabbing him around the waist. Billy yelped, splashing with his arms wide, but Harrington didn’t push him under—though he did use his free hand to make a great wave into Billy’s face. The water smelled of flowers, steaming and covered in soft foam. Billy jumped lightly from the floor of the bath, lying back so his weight pushed Harrington under the water, and Harrington yelled bubbles, and let go.

Under the layer of bubbles, Billy couldn’t see him, so he edged over to grip one of the gold swans with both hands, in anticipation of attack. The bubbles in his hair started to drip into his eyes, and he let go with one hand to push them back, just as Harrington’s hand slid out across the bath and felt around, then grabbed a chunk of soap the size of a piece of masonry, and disappeared under the bubbles again. Billy raised his eyebrows, sat on the tiled edge, and swung his legs out of the bath, uncertain why a well-meaning bath partner would need to stay underwater, grasping large heavy objects with corners to them.

Harrington surfaced, wiping his face, and blinking around. “Where are you going?”

“Hrm,” Billy hummed, without moving.

Harrington flapped a hand at him. “Come back. I’ll scrub your back.” When Billy didn’t move, Harrington swam over, reaching out to wrap a hand, pink with heat, around Billy’s ankle. “...you’re all over goosepimples,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb along Billy’s Achilles tendon. He set the soap down to tug at Billy’s leg with both hands. “Let me warm you up,” he whispered, leaning his head to catch Billy’s smile. “I’ll keep you afloat.”

Billy laughed. “I can swim well enough—”

“I probably shouldn’t have thrown you in, after what you said earlier,” Harrington muttered, frowning at the ankle he was holding.

Billy wiggled his toes at him, scooting closer to slide back in. The splash knocked them together. “I am very well, your Lordship,” he said against Harrington’s mouth, and kissed him.

Harrington smiled into the kiss, his lips hot from the bath against Billy’s cold ones, and ran the flats of his warm hands up and down Billy’s back. They stopped on scars.

Billy’s voice cracked as he laughed, wondering what to say—when he’d planned to get into Harrington House, he’d assumed he’d be jimmying open a window, or a guest at a party, not invited to Harrington’s bed. Harrington’s hands clenched at his arms, and Billy flinched. “—they—they aren’t—I’m—”

“May I see?”

Harrington’s face was set, and Billy turned easily, his brain in a whirl of explanations.

“I’m not a criminal,” he offered, finally. “They’re not—I stole no horses, or property, they weren’t from—”

“...thieves are horsewhipped,” Harrington said, running his thumb along one of the thickest scars. “...they were deep, or you were very young, or—” Harrington stopped talking, and swallowed. “...Hargrove. What—”

“I can’t prove I’m not a thief,” Billy said, shrugging, and huffing a laugh. “It’s not—”

“What, no, I believe you,” Harrington said unevenly, pulling him back into a tight embrace. He pressed open-mouthed kisses down the side of Billy’s neck, punctuating each with a squeeze. “I wouldn’t—I didn’t think that, I know you didn’t earn these.”

Billy laughed, his vision blurring. “You—you can’t know that,” he said hoarsely.

“I know it,” Steve said against the base of his skull, kissing it, and reaching around Billy for the soap. He scrubbed his hands together in front of Billy, then pushed him up against the side of the tub, sliding hot soapy hands along his shoulderblades. His thumbs stroked along Billy’s spine, squeezing the muscles until Billy leaned his head on his arms, sighing against the edge of the tub.

His head felt like it was pounding. “It wasn’t anything I did,” Billy mumbled, and Harrington’s hands paused, then continued. “I don’t—not everyone has that—you have a spark.” He leaned his head back, fluttering his lashes, and Harrington rolled his eyes, grinning. He pushed Billy’s head away, and Billy leaned back again to rub his cold, sudsy curls on Harrington’s arms, saying, “You have something in you that people see, that—that led Wheeler, and the melodic Carol, and Doubting Thomas—”

“I was there,” Harrington said, laughing, pushing Billy’s head forward again, and rubbing the ball of his hand under Billy’s shoulderblades, so his back shivered, and he swore softly with his face still pressed against his arms.

“No less than four people rode to save you,” Billy reminded him, “—because you—have something within you that—”

“You’re saying I made you fall desperately in love with me?” Harrington snickered, sliding his arms around Billy again, and soaping his chest.

“I’m saying I don’t have it,” Billy said, squirming in Harrington’s suddenly-stiff arms. “Whatever it is,” here he leaned his head back against Harrington’s shoulder, trying to see his expression, “—I don’t have it, and it took me some time to—to learn to make myself agreeable enough that my lack would be overlooked.” Harrington wasn’t responding, and Billy elbowed him. “That’s why I’m scarred, is all. I was the kind of child a mother wanted to drown—” He swore as Harrington yanked him around, holding his hands up, but Harrington only stared at his face. Billy laughed, waiting, and grabbed the hand Harrington lifted to touch him, but Harrington only reached out and reached out and cupped Billy’s cheek. Billy closed his eyes, leaning into the rough thumb stroking his cheekbone. He let himself be tugged forward again, so his face rested against Harrington’s neck.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Harrington growled, “—but I want to shove you under the water for thinking you should be shoved under the water—”

Billy sputtered, choking on his own unexpected laughter.

“I know,” Harrington cringed. “I could—I could drown whoever said that to you.” He caught Billy around the waist as he bent, cackling, and pulled him close. “I could—I could push them off the waterfall. Watch them—we could take them as a gift to the Nuckelavee.”

Billy was laughing too hard to reply, tears running down his face. He took a slow breath, and kissed Harrington’s neck, snickering against his skin. “That’s my father, you know,” he whispered. “That you’re tar-and-feathering.”

“At least make him drink Tommy’s punch,” Harrington hissed. “He’ll vomit out everywhere, once I—”

“And my mother,” Billy said, leaning his head back to watch Harrington’s face. “Don’t you think they know me better than—” He cut off at Harrington’s petulant bulldog expression, whooping a laugh as he staggered backwards, wiping his eyes. “Harrington, stop—stop pouting—” He stumbled and dunked himself, and Harrington swooped upon him again, pulling him out of the water and pressing kisses to his face, and then blowing air into loud rude noises against Billy’s wet skin. Billy laughed harder, pushing at Harrington’s face.

“No,” Harrington said, into his hair. His voice sounded thick. “No. I—I don’t think that, she’s—they’re wrong—” he muttered. “That’s not—that’s not how—god have mercy on your—” His breath was warm against Billy’s ear as he nuzzled closer, wrapping his arms around Billy’s shoulders more carefully than before.

“What are you doing?” Billy asked finally, when Harrington had been silent for several beats. He breathed against Harrington’s shoulder, and Harrington pushed away, wading through the waist-deep water to grab a cloth before splashing back over.

Billy shivered, laughing, as Harrington wrung hot water over his head, and then dunked the cloth again, and started scrubbing him.

“That’s all—they said that to you?” he growled, and Billy’s eyes fluttered shut at the hot sudsy water across his collarbones, and up his neck.

“Mmm.”

“They don’t—they can’t have you back,” Harrington muttered, ignoring Billy’s snicker, and splashing the cloth over his arms. Billy grinned as he was yanked close again. He licked the water running over Harrington’s collarbone, and Harrington jerked, then narrowed his eyes. “Our map’s on you, you—you—you’re— fond of—us.”

“That’s true,” Billy admitted willingly, kissing the wet shoulder closest to his lips.

“Stay here,” Harrington ordered, and Billy snorted, letting his knees bend. Harrington nearly fell trying to catch him around the waist.

“Here? Here in this house? Don’t call the ratcatcher—” Billy whispered back, sliding his arms around Harrington’s neck, and Harrington swung him around in the water, leaning in for a kiss. It was hard to ask more questions with Harrington’s tongue in his mouth, but when Harrington wouldn’t let him speak, he relaxed into it, letting himself be pushed across the bath onto a tiled seat. The cloth was perfectly rough against his skin, and he laid back with his arms along the rim of the bath.

“Nothing amiss here,” Harrington said, scrubbing Billy’s arm, and turning it in his hand to scrub each finger. Billy squinted at him. “Or here,” Harrington said, grabbing the other one, and turning it to have a look.

“Do you think you’re going to find a label?” Billy asked, quirking his mouth. “‘Billy Hargrove. Poison in excessive quantity, please drown—’”

“Need to stop up your mouth,” Harrington muttered, leaning in for another kiss. He was soft, and thorough, and for a long moment Billy let his world restrict to his mouth, and breath, and Harrington’s lips against his. He let his eyes close again as Harrington scraped soap against his scalp, squeezing the sudsy water against the base of his neck.

[ua-monoma]

.01.26.

1:45pm @ua-stein

[Monoma knocks on the door of Stein’s office, a good fifteen minutes before their scheduled time. He's also dressed nicely, perhaps a little too nicely considering the occasion. As he waits, he frowns to himself, fiddling with his hair before finally calling out.] 

MONOMA: It's Monoma...

[So early. Trying to prove a point, Stein muses, smiling to himself. He's trying, definitely, but it only succeeds in showing that he's just as childish as ever. He considers not answering until the 15 minutes have passed. Making him wait. Cruel, but sort of deserved. He only waits 5. After that he stands, making his way to the door and opening it, leaning heavily on the frame.] 

STEIN: Nothing else to do today? 

[The question is sort of rhetorical, sort of annoyed.] 

STEIN: Come in. 

[He steps away, back to his desk.]

[Monoma scowls at the attitude and again at the question, immediately frustrated again. Entering the room, his bad mood settles slightly as he takes it all in, curiosity popping up in its place. Eventually he sits, pursing his lips, at a loss for words as he recalls their last conversation and the utter disaster it was.]

MONOMA: ... So... [he finally starts.] What is this about exactly...?

STEIN: You. [He says with a shrug.] Do you know what I do here?

MONOMA: ... Not exactly, but I'm sure you're about to enlighten me...

[Stein gives an insincere smile.] 

STEIN: I'm the Director of Research here. In other words, I pass through everything people want to test and explore. I also do quite a bit on my own. I was one of the leading scientists when we discovered the League's noumu lab, and I've helped in a lot of studies about how quirks work inside the human body and how to effectively implant or explant them.

[Monoma nods slowly, not really understanding at first, but when the noumu lab is mentioned he goes pale and stricken, hardly even able to draw breath. His heart pulses in his chest, itching and wrong, before he finally is able to muster another nod.] 

MONOMA: ... Ah... I see...

[The smile grows more sinister, watching Monoma process everything, until it falls completely, just quick enough that he wouldn't notice.]

STEIN: Do you know why you're here?

MONOMA: ...

[He nods, just slightly. He wants to leave.] 

MONOMA: ...

STEIN: Tell me what happened. 

[He slides a small device forward, slowly blinking red.] 

STEIN: And keep in mind that this is all being recorded.

MONOMA: ... I... 

[He stares at the device, the horror on his face that much more clear.] 

MONOMA: ... don't really know where to start...

STEIN: Usually you start at the beginning.

MONOMA: ... 

[He tears his eyes away from the device, staring at his hands now as he picks at his fingers.] 

MONOMA: It was... an alternate's doing. He was obsessed with helping me become something... other... than I was... 

[His eyes flicker up to Stein then back down again fast.] 

MONOMA: ...

MONOMA: He had a theory that there were 'loopholes' in my quirk that would allow him to create a sentient noumu...like thing. Or. Something like that. Something... new. 

[He fights a shiver as the words he remembers Deku saying as he'd laid back barely coscious leaves his mouth.] 

MONOMA: It was, um... the very end of September, when it started...

[Stein listens carefully, despite his disinterested demeanor. It's interesting. Loopholes in his quirk, he gets stuck on that, eyes flicking to him and looking him over, looking for anything wrong with him, like you might see in a noumu. Loopholes. A quirk copying quirk, obviously there's something that could be tweaked, made so those quirks stay forever, is that was he wanted? Or just some of them, by choice. Either would be interesting.]

STEIN: So what did he do?

MONOMA: ...

[He opens his mouth to answer the question but, for a second, his voice gets caught in his throat. His heart races that much faster, a cold sweat just starting to dot his brow. He's never had to actually voice it before, and the sheer concept of bringing it to words...]

MONOMA: ... The... experiment... [God.] ... involved... replacing parts of myself with a... with a noumu's. 

[He swallows. God. He might vomit if this keeps up.] 

MONOMA: My quirk... utilizes DNA, in a way, s...so...

[Interesting.]

STEIN: So you have pieces of DNA from other things constantly in you, granting you access to those quirks at any time. [He finishes, leaning back in his chair.] Which, effectively, renders you part... noumu.

MONOMA: ... 

[He continues picking at his nails with slightly more vigor now.] 

MONOMA: ... I suppose, in a way...

STEIN: In a way. [He echoes, a slight amusement coming to his tone.] ... You've left me with a lot of questions, Monoma.. a lot of questions... 

[He sighs, leaning his head back briefly, moving his hands above his head while he thinks.] 

STEIN: What did he replace? What quirks are at your disposal? Was he finished, or was there more he was going to do-who is He in the first place?

MONOMA: Midoriya Izuku. 

[He picks harder.] 

MONOMA: He never attempted to try again afterwards, he was always more focused on... training, I think. Or me fulfilling some purpose. 

MONOMA: [He picks harder.] 

MONOMA: There were transfusions. Blood, bone marrow, some sort of...

[He bites his lip, practically hearing the violent buzz of a drill grinding against his head.] 

MONOMA: And my... heart. Was removed and replaced.

MONOMA: ... 

[He stares unseeingly down on his fingers.] 

MONOMA: I've never tried to use those quirks, I don't know. I'm aware of some sort of r.. regenerative ability, I wouldn't have survived it if it weren't for that, but...

[His breath is stolen when Monoma mentions his heart. The whole thing, removed and replaced, to keep someone elses quirk inside of him forever. Stein  wonders whose it is. What it does. What's so important that it has to be the heart. He wants to see it with his own two eyes.]

STEIN: ... A lot of untapped potential there. [He mumbles, giving him another once over.] If you register your quirks you can use them in hero training. For good.

[Monoma’s eyes widen and snap towards Stein.] 

MONOMA: ... What...

[A thousand reasons why he can't surge up. He can't have the world knowing he's a freak. Nobody fucking has multiple quirks, everyone would treat him like a monster, and he is one, he is one but he doesn't want people to know-]

MONOMA: ...

[Stein shrugs, nonchalant at the violent reaction he gets from Monoma.] 

STEIN: Turn the bad into something good. Someone's gonna find out eventually, and if you don't just put it out there they're gonna use it against you. Either make it your own or screw yourself in 10 years when you have someone that really wants to see you crash and burn. Also, [he picks up the file with his blood tests,] these all say clear as day that you're basically a noumu, and any doctor can take your blood and look. Better for everyone if you just admit it.

MONOMA: ...

[Shellshocked, he stares at the files in his hands. What he's saying makes sense, obviously. Obviously that's the only option, the best option, of course this could be spun in his favor and who cares about the press and the judgement when he'd clearly be one of the most powerful heroes out there.

... It's all what he wishes he could make himself believe. Maybe in another life, another world, another universe, he can. All the terror weighs him down, though.]

MONOMA: ... 

[He nods slowly.] 

MONOMA: Okay...

STEIN: Choose whatever though. 

[He shrugs, setting the files down.] 

STEIN: Oh. Another thing. Do you know what makes a noumu really.. a noumu? Other than being stupid and having too many quirks.

MONOMA: ... We weren't exactly taught about noumu in school... 

[He frowns.] 

MONOMA: Though I have a few guesses...

STEIN: Really? 

[He hums.] 

STEIN: Guess I'll have to rectify that. Anyway. One of the key things we've found in noumu over the years is heightened loyalty. 

[Another smile crosses his face.] 

STEIN: Although, based on the alterations and the methods that were used, I doubt that's something that happened with you. We've also tracked a lot of memory loss in noumu, brainwashing, things like that. I think some just have so much that they can't handle it all and get rid of every thought they have that isn't given to them. They were all human once, you know. Individuals. There's a lot in the brain, it'd be difficult to handle that times two, let alone four or five or ten or.. whatever.

MONOMA: ... [His expression hardens at the thought.] 

MONOMA: I wasn't brainwashed... 

[He frowns.] 

MONOMA: You say you doubt it but why bring it up if it weren't all that relevant to the conversation? Unless you wanted to insinuate something...?

STEIN: I doubt it, but it's still possible. 

[He shrugs.] 

STEIN: Although you seem like a terrible liar, so I'm not super worried.

[He clicks his tongue, anger flaring in him again.] 

MONOMA: ...

STEIN: It's a good thing. 

[He sits back, swiveling from side to side in his chair.]

MONOMA: Mm. 

[He watches the swiveling, seething a little. Calling him immature when he has such a childish habit of his own...]

MONOMA: ... May I ask what your plan at this point is? I assume, as the Director of Research, there are... studies... you'd wish to undergo. Or, at the very least, some sort of path you'd like to take concerning all of... this.

STEIN: I was just going to talk about that. 

[He grins, straightening out.] 

STEIN: That's exactly what I'd like to do. I want to do more tests, physical and psychological, and I'd like to keep track of you and have you check in monthly at the very least. And maybe while you're here you'll learn a thing or two.

[Tests... Monoma fights a grimace. More experiments, then. And if being poked and prodded at wasn't bad enough, they'd be attempting to dissect his mind as well.]

MONOMA: ... Alright... [he agrees reluctantly.] But do I get to know of these tests beforehand? And am I allowed to refuse them...?

STEIN: Of course. 

[Stein opens a drawer and takes a packet of papers out from his desk, outlining Monoma's rights as a patient as well as the Commissions' rights, with places to sign at the bottom of every page.] 

STEIN: This is all the legal stuff you need to sign off on. It'll detail that I can't surprise you with anything and you can refuse anything. Because of the nature of this and what might happen, I'll also need your guardian to sign these. 

[He flips a few pages and points to the last few with two spots for signatures.]

MONOMA: I see... 

[Taking the packet, Monoma skims a few lines, though it's a legal jargon he's not in the mood to force himself to understand. He'll have time to read it through later, he assumes... He fights a grimace again, imagining the conversation with his grandfather he'll have to have about this.]

MONOMA: Alright... So I'll just bring this to you later, then...

STEIN: Yes. You can bring it to me at school, if you'd like. 

[He nods, swaying side to side in his chair.] 

STEIN: It's not too complicated.

[He glances up to watch him swaying again, skeptical.] 

MONOMA: Alright... Is there anything else...

STEIN: No. Unless you have any questions.

MONOMA: ... 

[He glances through the papers some more.] 

MONOMA: ... You mentioned quirk implantation... May I ask about that or is that confidential...?

STEIN: You can try. 

[He shrugs.]

MONOMA: ... Has it been done successfully? Explanting a quirk and placing it in someone else.

STEIN: We think so.

[Monoma nods slowly.] 

MONOMA: And you used the noumu to do that...?

STEIN: Yes. 

[He gives a knowing smile, and then glances at the clock.]

[Monoma follows his glance with a frown.] 

MONOMA: ... It just makes me curious. Perfecting that kind of technology, it offers a lot of opportunities to dominate the hero system as we know it. Robbing villains of their power, strengthening heroes, controlling them...

[... He sighs and then waves the thought away, starting to get to his feet.] 

MONOMA: It's fine, I know me wondering about it doesn't warrant an honest conversation. Regardless, I'd be honored to help in any sort of research on that matter. I'll try and get these to you as soon as possible...

STEIN: If you agree to all of this and start coming regularly you might end up hearing about it anyway. It's ongoing classified research that you'll be a part of, which is why you'll find a non-disclosure agreement near the back. That's pretty broad though, generally we'll also give you one for specific exams or procedures if needed.

[Monoma nods some more.] 

MONOMA: That makes sense... Glad to hear it.

STEIN: Yep. Anything else?

MONOMA: No... I assume I can contact you if I have any thoughts or questions...

STEIN: Of course.

[Monoma gives a short bow.] 

MONOMA: Then that will be all... Thank you for this.

STEIN: Thank you.

[With one last nod, Monoma shows himself out quietly.]

[mintchocolateleaves]

Cost of Freedom (40/52)

Summary: In which, Kaito and Aoko investigate the museum and Ran takes a look inside the fake rock.

A/N: Holy shit, we get an update that’s semi-quick this time! Wahooo! I hope that you guys enjoy the chapter!

[Chapter List]

Water flows from taps as Sonoko draws the bath offering white noise, something that keeps Ran’s thoughts from overflowing.

She sits on the small stool Sonoko brings forward before peeling her jumper off. Behind her, Sonoko kneels and assesses any damage from the glass. She lets out a small whistle, and then, after placing a hand on Ran’s shoulder as a form of warning, she pries the first bit of glass from between the knots of Ran’s shoulders.

Ran lets out a small hiss.

“I know it hurts,” Sonoko says, “but this is what happens when you get caught up in mystery work.”

There’s an element of disapproval in her voice. Worry. Ran doesn’t usually get such seriousness from her best friend, but she supposes being covered in glass and mentioning how she’d been shot at could be a sobering experience for anyone.

“You’re not angry at me, are you?”

For a moment, Sonoko is silent. She plucks another shard of glass from Ran’s skin, before pressing gauze against it, applying pressure to stop any potential bleeding. Then, she sighs.

“I knew you were looking to help Shinichi-kun,” Sonoko says. Her voice is quiet, like she’s not sure just how much she should say. “Your dad told me when I visited once how the two of you just… poured over the files together, looking for new leads. I knew you weren’t going to give up.”

Ran bites her lip. She knew, in some sense, that Sonoko had always known about her trust in Shinichi, but they’d never brought the topic up. Mainly because Ran hadn’t wanted to ask Sonoko what she thought, hadn’t wanted to bear the idea that her best friend didn’t trust him anymore.

“As soon as the news said Shinichi-kun was free, I knew you’d look even deeper. And it looks like you found the lead you were looking for.” She sighs again. “I’m not angry at you, Ran, I just wish you’d talked to me about it.”

Another small pause.

“About him.”

Ran shudders at the idea. Perhaps it’s selfish not to ask, not to talk about things, but she doesn’t want to. If they cross this divide, if they share their innermost thoughts and they’re contradictory… Ran doesn’t know what she’ll do.

Still, Sonoko might not be begging for the conversation, but she wants it. And it’s long since overdue.

“… I’m sorry,” Ran whispers. And then, “Do you think Shinichi is really capable of murder? Would you have told me to stop looking?”

There’s another tug against her skin and then, Sonoko pushes herself up. The tweezers make a small clink against the bathroom sink as she places them down. Ran turns, meets Sonoko’s gaze.

The expression is set, determined. Like it’s not something easily changed.

“I grew up with that nerd too,” Sonoko says, and for a moment her eyes soften. Then, they’re hard again, unrelenting. “Of course, I don’t believe any of the charges for a second. Ran – I’m not going to pretend I didn’t consider it, all that evidence against him is convincing, but I know him.”

Has she really been so foolish as to think Sonoko wouldn’t understand in the same way she did? Jeez, she really is an idiot.

“And as far as the investigating goes,” Sonoko says, “I… I don’t like the idea of you putting yourself in danger, and Shinichi-kun wouldn’t like it either, but I wouldn’t tell you to stop. I’d have helped, if I could have.”

Ran bites her lip.

“The bath is ready,” Sonoko says, “I’ll let you warm up – I’m going to go check on Hakuba-san.”

Ran turns, lets her lips tug upwards and offers a small smile. “Thanks, Sonoko.”

Sonoko flashes the same smile back and says nothing.

-

Aoko doesn’t like the way the exhibition room leaves her feeling cold.

Even with Kaito beside her, a warmth by her side, she feels frozen. She pushes her hands into her pocket so that he can’t see the way they shake, and grits her teeth, anticipating the shivers that wrack through her body.

“What do we look for?” Aoko asks, because it’s better than admitting that the place spooks her. That standing in here reminds her of how her father had bared firearms at the man she loves, how a red dot on her own forehead had led to Kaito’s injury.

“The night I was shot,” Kaito says, as if it doesn’t matter to him that he’d been injured, as if he can so easily leave it in the past. Aoko wishes she knew what he was thinking. “It wasn’t by the police. They would have never shot without a clear line of sight. Without a clear ID on me.”

Right. They’ve already gone over this. The shooter had been external, probably part of whatever case Kudo had gotten Kaito caught up in. Which was why they were doing investigative work, despite the fact neither of them are actually detectives.

“Okay,” Aoko says, “so what’re we focusing on first?”

“They didn’t dig a bullet out of me,” Kaito says, “it went through my arm. So somewhere, there’s a wall with a bullet imprint on it.”

Aoko pauses. Bites her lip and says, “I thought you said the bullet skimmed you.”

It hadn’t even crossed her mind that Kaito might have lied to her, to make his injury out to be less than it is. But really, that’s such a him thing to do – and she hates him for it.

“Skimming, going all the way through,” Kaito says, leaning forward to grab her hand, “they’re the same difference.”

She’s not pleased. Lips tightening, shaking her head, she wants to pull away, to punch him for not telling the truth. But she won’t. A lie from kindness… she can see how he’d been trying to be kind.

Even if she’d have preferred the truth.

“You better not be lying to me still,” she whispers.

“Nope,” Kaito says. “Let’s find my bullet fragments alright?”

Aoko sighs, and together they make their way towards the grate that Kaito had been meaning to make his escape by. They’ve since refastened the screws, keeping it in one place.

She doesn’t know where the vent leads, but she can imagine how cramped and dark it might be. That’s one thing she’s always found shocking about KID’s heists, that he doesn’t mind the sharp squeezes, that he trusts his plans so much that he’ll crawl through dusty vents just to procure his prize.

“Here it is,” Kaito says. He lifts his hand, points toward a hole in the wall. Dry paint has crumbled around it, but there’s a hole around the size of her little finger. Aoko leans forward, imagines the bullet going through.

Inside the wall, where cleaning hasn’t got to it, there’s specks of dried blood. This time, Aoko does shudder.

“I don’t know much about bullet sizes,” Kaito admits, finally, “but this one seems like it was small. It seems like the diameter was less than a few centimetres.”

Aoko blinks, nods her head.

“I’m gonna take a picture of it, use my finger as a reference.” Kaito says. “It would be easier if we had the bullet fragments, but the police have already taken them away as evidence.”

She shrugs.

“We can’t get out hands on that,” Aoko says. And then, turning her head, she considers the wall. “But we can figure out where they shot from, maybe?”

Kaito nods his head. He says, “we take the angle of where the bullet went into the wall and consider where someone could have shot from. Which vantage point.”

Aoko nods. She almost wishes that she had some ribbon, something that she could use to create a taut line, a path that the bullet could have taken. Instead, she shakes her head, tries to visualise a path instead.

“How much of an angle from the window to the wall?” She asks. “If we figure that out, we can figure out between the buildings too.”

Kaito hums. He says, “it’s not particularly steep.”

He runs his hand from the bullet hole, walks towards the window and slowly adjusts his hands, as if creating a triangle between the two and the floor.

Aoko can’t help but find it interesting, a vivid line of red in her vision, where the two points meet. She heads towards him, glances out at the buildings around her and takes a moment to consider. There’s a fire station and two multi-story flat complexes, not to mention office buildings and restaurants.

“How far can people shoot?”

Kaito shrugs his shoulders. He says, “It depends on the gun, really, but the longest shot is thousands of metres long. I’d say… in an area like this, someone could manage a couple of hundred?”

Aoko hums. Then, she points up towards one of the apartment buildings. If she imagines the path, imagines the trajectory, it seems like the roof of that apartment building is one of the only ones it could be from.

The other apartment building is too far left from the window. The bullet wouldn’t be able to hit the glass at the correct angle from that building. The fire station is out of the equation too, since the building isn’t high enough to create a downward slope.

Similarly, with the restaurants, they’re singular storied, no area for a sniper to climb up to, to offer a good enough vantage point.

“How about that apartment building?” Aoko says.

Kaito clicks his tongue. He says, “lets go check it out.”

-

The first thing Shinichi does as he races into the cabin, energy bursting as he’d forced his way through Osaka, remaining unseen, is check for any signs that he’s being watched.

Then, he searches for any signs of Hattori and Kazuha. They’ll be around soon, he knows. So, he takes some time to consider his next course of action. His mind has been racing since Vermouth left him in Kyoto, but now, he wills himself to slow down.

To think everything through.

To give them the time rather than to come to hundreds of conclusions, to drive himself insane. Shinichi sits down, presses his back against the wall, aching without having really done anything.

Vermouth’s plan echoes in his head, and he pushes away the guilt, the horror for what was meant to be her kindness, by breaking everything she’d said into facts.

She’d left clues for him. One that had been heavily guarded by a sniper – and if Hattori and Kazuha aren’t harmed, then that clue must have been found by Kaito and Nakamori. They’re the only other people, Shinichi knows, to be capable of finding the clue – because Kaito had been the only other person with access to his case files.

There are only two options for what might have happened. Either Vermouth knows about Kaito’s breakout from the hospital, insinuating that without proper medical treatment following his shooting, he might not survive. Or, in the hours following their breakout, they’ve been injured again.

Shinichi bites his lip, lifts his hands up and curls his fingers into a fist. He shudders, hopes that Vermouth means the former. Kaito’s been shot before, Shinichi’s seen the scarring, which means he’d had at least one contact capable of getting him the help he needs.

(Even though, well, he’d not been a wanted man back then.)

Heaving in oxygen, Shinichi pushes forwards. He doesn’t have enough information to do anything but worry, so he needs to trust in Kaito and Nakamori, trust them both to keep themselves in one piece, whether they’re injured or not.

It makes him wonder: What clue is so important that there’d been a sniper waiting outside?

He worries his teeth against his lip, until he can taste blood, metallic on his tongue. Another thing he doesn’t have an answer to.

He needed to focus on what he can answer. It’s frustrating because he’s lacking in them. There are barely any.

Shinichi startles at the sound of conversation, caught off guard. He closes his eyes, listens quietly enough until he can confirm the voices belong to Kazuha and Hattori.

Going over all the information – or, well, most of it – will help clear things up, offer much-needed clarity. He pushes against the wall, peers from the window, pulling the blinds open enough to see outside.

Hattori has driven them on his bike. Kazuha stands opposite him, brushing her hand through her hair, trying to rid herself from the static her helmet has caused. Hattori has taken both helmets, holds them in one arm each.

Even though they’ve told him they’re fine, that they’re not injured, Shinichi does a check up and down anyway. They don’t seem in pain, don’t seem to be guarding any area of their bodies more than another.

They seem fine, it helps some of the tension roll out from his shoulders. His shoulders are still tight though, and Shinichi lifts a hand, presses his fingers beneath his collarbone to try and release some of the rest.

It doesn’t help but, it’s something to focus on as he heads towards the front door, ready to meet them. They turn to look at him as the door opens, and as he makes strained eye contact, Shinichi offers a strained smile.

“So, what’s this about a clue?”

-

Ran leaves the bath behind and finally lets herself feel as worn down as she actually is. Adrenaline gone, her joints feel heavy, her skin bruised and cut from litres of water and a sharp flow of glass and the odd dead fish.

She sighs, pulls at the sleeves of the jumper Sonoko had left on the side for her, and pushes back into the sitting room. Sonoko sits on the couch opposite Saguru and the doctor, low conversation that fades off when Ran enters.

“Ran,” Sonoko says, patting the seat opposite her. She reaches over the side of the couch, and as Ran sits back, drapes a blanket around her shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Ran breathes. As much as she aches, she is warmer now, doesn’t seem like she’s going to freeze over. “Yeah, I’m better now.”

She turns towards Saguru, and finds, with wide eyes, that he’s awake.

“Saguru-kun,” she starts, but he doesn’t turn to look at her. His eyes are wide, as he watches the doctor finish up his stitches. His lips are pinched shut, a wince spreading through him, and Ran can see the way he tenses, trying not to flinch.

“I’m okay,” he breathes, finally, voice light. “We’re almost done. Give me a… a second?”

Ran falls into silence, tries to consider everything that’s happened. She still can’t quite believe that someone shot Saguru, that they were in that situation little less than a few hours ago, but it’s true.

It means that they’ve gotten close to something. Right?

Something important?

“Araide-sensei gave Saguru-san some pain killers,” Sonoko whispers, nudging her foot against Ran’s ankle. She hums in response. “Nothing overly strong, but it should help. If you’re in pain, we’ve got over the counter tablets?”

Ran bites her lip, and then, shakes her head. “I’m fine, if I start hurting, then I’ll take one.”

Sonoko doesn’t push her, and Ran is thankful for that. Instead, she simply stays quiet, shifting to a more comfortable position when Ran leans her head against her shoulder, watching Araide apply a dressing to Saguru’s wound.

Finally, the doctor steps back, says that he’s finished and removes his gloves. He places the gloves in the bin, and to Saguru, he says, “I’ll write you a prescription for antibiotics, which should keep the wound from getting infected. But if you start feeling unwell, you need to go to a hospital.”

Saguru nods. “Thank you.”

Sonoko shuffles, and Ran finds herself shifting too, lifting her head to allow her friend to stand. Sonoko waits until the prescription is written out, passed over to Saguru, before muttering about how she’ll show him out.

With Sonoko gone, Ran forces her focus onto Saguru.

Finally, he turns to look at her. He’s pale, and he winces as he moves but he meets her gaze, his eyes steely and determined. The expression almost reminds her of Shinichi, of when she’d seen him at the heist days before. How he’d not wanted to give up on helping Kaitou KID.

It’s a determination, Ran realises, that only the desperate really ever manage to tune into.

She wonders if she’s wearing the expression on her face too. It wouldn’t be surprising to her if she is – after all, they’re injured. Maybe they knew people were out to hurt them before, but now they have proof, and the proof includes blood splattered against their clothes.

“I’ll have to take a detour to the pharmacy before we continue the case,” Saguru says.

Ran stills. She’s not sure why she’d had the thought that they’d step back now that they’ve faced danger, but it’s only now that she begins to realise that… they probably can’t.

Maybe before they’d stepped foot inside that apartment they could, but now they’ve been injured – which means they’ve been seen – and they can’t stop.

“Where do we go next?” She asks, “we can’t go back to that apartment again, and they saw us.”

Saguru shakes his head, and says, “I doubt we were any more than outlines to the shooter. I don’t think we need to worry too much about being tracked, as long as we don’t stand out.”

Ran thinks that maybe the fact that Saguru’s been shot might make them stand out, but well… maybe they’ll be able to pretend he hasn’t been. It’ll be difficult but if they can avoid having any eyes fall on them…

“That sounds dangerous,” she whispers.

“Probably,” Saguru responds, and his expression shifts. His eyes are bright, and he leans forward despite himself, lifting his hands up, “but it’s a little exciting too, don’t you think?”

“N-not really?”

He blinks and the brightness shutters, replaced again with a wince as he moves back. “The case I mean – if it’s dangerous, it means we’re closer to things than we ever were before.”

Ran isn’t one hundred percent sure that this is what he’d really meant, but she doesn’t want to press. Instead, she nods. Falls quiet.

“That rock,” Saguru continues. “The one we got from the fish tank. It’s about time we opened it up, right? There was something important about it.”

Reaching down for her bag, Ran unzips the pocket, brings out the rock and holds it closely enough to see it. It’s plastic, bound together by rubber bands. She loosens them, dropping the bands into her lap and slowly watching the plastic unravel, ever so loosely.

“Is that a…”

Ran doesn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she presses her nails into the space between the two halves of the rock and pries them apart. They fall into two, leaving behind a plastic bag that’s been wrapped up in a similar manner, to avoid any water damage to it.

“What is it?” Saguru says, as Ran unfolds the bag, removing more packaging. She bites into her lips, pulls the plastic open, and reaches inside.

“An address book?” She mutters. “Why would someone hide that in here?”

-

Kazuha doesn’t really think that they should be exchanging all the information and clues that they’ve come across, since it’s past midnight, they all need to rest, and Shinichi seems beyond spooked but… but it seems like they’re doing it anyway.

“I’m glad I brought coffee,” Kazuha mutters under her breath, as she sets the travel kettle on the heat, boiling water. She’d thought maybe coming would give them time to see how Shinichi’s doing, emotionally, mentally, after spending time in Kyoto, but there’s no time for that, apparently.

Which is a load of crap, but both of her detective friends are stubborn and apparently all talk about feelings is off the table.

Just because she’s not pushing the subject, isn’t asking the questions, doesn’t mean that she’s going to forget about it. Either way, she finishes coffee, stirring it and distributing it amongst the three of them.

“Thanks,” Shinichi says, and then, “you said about a lead.”

Kazuha wants to tell him to calm down and be patient, but at the same time: She really wants to talk about the notable sponsors list they’d found and what it might mean. So she shrugs, glances at Heiji and lets him take the lead while she rummages in her back, searching for the paper they’d scrawled each name down on.

“I started thinkin’,” Heiji says, leaning forward, capturing attention in the way he always seems to when offering a deduction. “About those pictures tha’ were sent in those messages. I think they weren’t just taunts, ya kno’?”

Shinichi’s expression shifts. Eyes glazing ever so slightly, his lips tighten, his brows furrowing. He says, “It was a clue, I know.”

Kazuha can’t stop herself from gaping. She says, “If you know it was a clue, then–”

“I didn’t – I – It doesn’t matter.” Shinichi shakes his head. “I hadn’t figured the clue out yet, so if you’ve figured it out.”

Blinking away any of his surprise, Heiji continues.

“Well,” he starts, “it’s uh – well, we kno’ the clue is tha’ sticker of the alcohol label, right? So we thought, if they’re masqueradin’ as this alcohol agency, then they’re gonna leave a trail. We thought maybe the agency website itself is a clue.”

Raising an eyebrow, Shinichi shifts. He sips at his coffee, waiting for an explanation.

“…Of course.”

“We looked on the site,” Kazuha says, taking over, passing the list over. Shinichi sets his cup down, smooths out the creases, without a word. “It had a list of notable sponsors.”

Heiji fidgets beside her.

“We thought it might o’ been your organisation,” he says, “so we jotted it down, thought maybe you’d know more ‘bout it than us.”

Scanning the list, Shinichi is quiet. He mumbles alcohol names under his breath, trying to place names to the drink, but doesn’t seem to figure them. Or at least, it seems that way at first.

Then, his eyes widen, and he glances back up, looking between them both.

“What?” Kazuha says.

“It says here, that the sponsor for Vermouth, is Sharon Vineyard.” He says. “That’s true. And Miyano – her younger sister – she’s on here too. Sherry.”

Kazuha blinks. Feels bitter spread across her tongue. She bites her lip. “This is what that woman told you? So, we can trust the list?”

“She told me bits and pieces,” Shinichi says, “I’ll explain later. But – I think this list is legit. It’s got the main players. I think the list gives us people we need to look into, we need to find the evidence.”

For a moment, they’re all silent. Shinichi reaches for a pen, scrawls notes onto the page.

Then, Heiji says, “I don’t get it.”

Shinichi lifts his chin, raises an eyebrow, a silent question. Don’t get what?

“Whoever left the list, committed those murders.” Heiji lifts his hand, runs it through his hair as he tries to think. “The point was to frame you, Kudo, so what was the point in leaving you a clue to solve who did it?”

Shinichi flinches. He blanches, skin paling in a way that Kazuha’s always does whenever Heiji suggests they watch horror movies together. No – he looks almost like the ghosts that terrify her.

Or… or almost like a corpse.

“I don’t get it,” Heiji continues, and he’s not noticed Shinichi’s expression, Kazuha knows, because you can’t see such an expression and not realise. Not realise that Shinichi has an answer to that question, that it horrifies him, that it’ll leave him awake tonight just thinking about it.

“Shinichi,” Kazuha says, “do you want to talk about it?”

He makes a show of checking the time. Shinichi shakes his head, and his lips are red, bloody, from where his canines have torn through the skin. He says, “Tomorrow, we’ll finish this tomorrow.”

“But everything tha’ happened in Kyoto–”

Kazuha rests her hand on Heiji’s shoulder, and when he turns to her, she mouths, ‘not now’ at him. He quietens – Kazuha is glad. Sometimes, he never takes her lead. She’s glad he’s taking it now.

They want to solve the case, yes, but making sure they don’t break their friend is far more important.

“Alright,” Kazuha says, “we should probably be heading home now anyway, it’s late. And we can only sneak away from our parents for so long, anyway.”

“Tomorrow,” Shinichi mutters again, and Kazuha takes the muttering as it’s intended to be: A plea for them to leave.

-

Fighting birds for ownership of the rooftop, Aoko shifts, making her way towards the side of the building that overlooks the museum.

“You sure it’s this one,” Kaito says, “and not the offices next door?”

Aoko nods her head, taps a finger on her chin. She says, “well, there’d be more cameras in the office building than inside the apartments, right? And if the police are already on high alert, you don’t want to go on to become suspicious.”

Kaito nods, moves forward to the edge of the building, kneeling down. He glances around and then, leaning forward, scoops up a small metal casing. Aoko blinks at the sight of the bullet casing.

“What’re the chances that multiple people have fired a gun from here?” Kaito says, clicking his tongue. “Because, this doesn’t seem like it should be here.”

It probably shouldn’t be, Aoko knows that much. The police should have guessed the trajectory of the bullet, should have led their search across the street to where the gun had been fired. They should have taken the bullet casing into evidence, but they’ve overlooked it.

Aoko’s pretty certain that her father wouldn’t turn around and make such a rookie mistake like overlooking the shooters location. So, either the investigation into the shooter isn’t as high a priority as it should be, or someone’s pulling the strings, keeping people away from looking too closely into the shooter.

She doesn’t want to consider why that would be, so Aoko shakes the concern away and focuses on the evidence they’ve got in front of them.

“Do you know what it’s from?” She asks.

A pause, and then, Kaito heaves out a sigh. He shakes his head. “No… but I bet that Shinichi would know. He knows all about this kind of stuff.”

Aoko scrunches her nose. She can’t imagine being the kind of person to memorise facts about guns and bullets, to be able to identify them based off their casings and the size of bullet holes in the walls.

Still, she has to admit that in a situation such as theirs, it will be beneficial.

“It’s probably for the best that we find him then,” Aoko says, “you know how to find him, right?”

Kaito pulls a face. Which means that he does, but he’s a little nervous to let Aoko know. Aoko supposes she understands, since she shouldn’t know anything about their accomplice, about how Hattori had helped them out. But she does, she’d figured it out days ago.

It feels almost longer than that. Somehow.

“I don’t know if he’s stayed at any of the safe houses,” Kaito says, “but we can check there.”

“No,” Aoko says, “I don’t think after you got injured, he’d stay in Tokyo. I think he’d go with the one who helped you two break out. Hattori-kun, right?”

There’s no point in lying, in pretending she doesn’t know. It’ll save them both time if they avoid a lengthy explanation.

“How did you–”

“He’s not as good at lying as you are,” Aoko says. She shrugs her shoulders. “As far as I know, Hattori-kun went back to Osaka the day after the heist. The likelihood of Kudo-kun remaining by himself in as populated a city as Tokyo – it’s unlikely.”

Kaito nods his head. He says, “I don’t know where he’d go, but I agree. Hattori is probably most likely to know where Shinichi is. We should rendezvous with him in Osaka.”

Aoko’s lips lift up. She says, “You know, taking me on a trip sounds like a pretty nice date idea.”

“We’ll be sure to stop off at a nice restaurant while we’re there,” Kaito says, a slight laugh to his voice. “I’ll see if we can get cheap enough tickets there.”

-

“What would someone be hiding an address book for?” Sonoko asks when she comes back into the room. Ran has moved to sit beside Saguru, the two of them poured over the book, trying to figure out its meaning.

“One would think because of the addresses written inside,” Saguru says, “but the words written inside are coded. They make little sense at all.”

Ran nods. She hates that they’ve risked enough to get a clue that they can’t immediately decipher, but it must be… important, right? Whatever is hidden inside the code must be vital, something that needs to be hidden completely, so the information can only be broken apart by a set person.

“So, you need to find the key?” Sonoko continues.

“Well,” Ran says, “yeah, I suppose we do. But there’s no clues here, nothing that we can use as a key.”

She pauses, shares a look with Saguru and shakes her head. The only information in the entire book that isn’t in code, are the words, ‘for you, Silver bullet.’ It’s hardly a key, just a message.

She says as much.

Sonoko leans forward, picks at her nails and says, “why are you assuming the key is in the book? Wouldn’t it be with the silver bullet person?”

Beside her, Saguru stiffens. Almost as if he’s angry at himself for not thinking of such. And maybe they should have – why would someone leave both cipher and key together when they’ve gone through all the trouble of keeping things hidden, impossible to decipher.

So, they need to find the silver bullet.

The address book is a clue then.

“Who could the silver bullet be then?” Ran asks, and it seems almost weird to consider someone as such a thing, to have that name in her head. It’s a weird label, hardly a name, more of a title.

Beside her Saguru is quiet. He shifts in his seat and finally: “Kudo-kun.”

“Huh?”

“It can only really be him,” he says. “If we think it over – we only found the apartment because of the lists. The lists about Kudo-kun. And there are only around six people who actually know Oogami is dead. Kudo-kun and I worked that case together, the fact I figured it out is pure coincidence.”

Ran bites her lip.

“This is linked intrinsically to Kudo-kun.” Saguru whispers. “So, I think… we’ve got the cipher, and he’s got the key.”

“So, we find Shinichi and we figure out what the coded message is?” Ran asks.

“Exactly.” Saguru says.

[hcneycakc-blog]

@wrathfillcd

“look, it’s not like i meant to hurt the guy. but if he’s going to keep grabbing my throat after i said i didn’t like that, what do you expect?” honey folded her arms over her chest, staring up at axel. she had perched herself on the edge of the bed, the knife laying beside her. her client’s blood had already began to dry at the tip. she hadn’t even cut him deep, it was just to get him to stop. why was he even causing such a fuss? it was like having a paper cut! “is this because i had the knife under my bed? ‘cause, you know, it was just for protection. and, i mean, look. it came in handy, didn’t it?”

[vide0-nasties]

the rivalry is with ourselves

Pairings: Lucio/MC

Content Warnings: Very strong language, sexual come-on’s, alcohol and hashish consumption

Word Count: 2675

Author’s Note: I really just wanted to write something where a Court Magician!MC and Lucio irk the living hell out of each other with lots of references.

---

When Lucio had ‘discovered’ the magician, she was a wild-eyed thing with cockleburs in her matted hair descending on a battlefield with twenty of her other black-clad Banshee Sisters, and he had no idea what an enormous pain in his ass she was going to become.

She’s impossible to live around. Insolent, belligerent, petty. If he told her to jump off a bridge, she would sprout wings and fly.

“I told you not to wear your tall boots.”

“These aren’t my tall boots,” she hums. They are her tall boots. He’s in his tallest boots, and he told her not to wear her tall boots, because he does not want to be towered over all day.

He bends and pulls on the back of her ankle, pinching the tendon as if she’s a bullheaded horse refusing to give hoof. But, like the horse, she gives. “Don’t dare lie to me. These heels are six inches.”

“Oh, aye, they are,” she laughs, jiggling the foot in his grasp. “I have a pair of eight inch heels with platforms on the toes. Brand new. Those are my tall boots.”

He drops her ankle and glares up into her masked face. She is his Court Magician, and she doesn’t like her odd face being seen. Because of this, he had masks and veils and scarves made for her, but did she ever thank him? No, of course not.

He smooths his hair back into place and bares his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “If you insist on looking like an ogress, Eustacia, who am I to stop you?”

“Lucio—my dear, dear count. If the little donkey can’t stand the ogress,” she purrs, dropping her hands on his shoulders and her cheek against his to growl in his ear, “they should stay out of my fucking swamp.”

He hates her smug tone. He hates this his throat is suddenly clicking-dry. He hates that she called him a little donkey.

+

When Eustacia ‘discovered’ the count, he was a mercenary with one pathetic little shoulder pauldron and a dagger driven into his lungs whom she dragged back behind frontlines, and she had no idea what an enormous pain in the ass he was going to become.

He’s impossible to live around. Insolent, belligerent, petty. If she said the sky was blue, he would set fire to an entire village just to turn it black.

Something was so urgent, he’d sent a servant to her quarters before the crack of noon, disturbing her fitful hangover sleep. So urgent was it, in fact, she had no time to dress. She arrives in Lucio’s bawdy brothel of a bedroom in a dressing robe, and is slapped in the face by the smell of wet dog and body odor. “It reeks of Valerius in here,” she seethes, “Valerius and sweated-out wine.”

With Mercedes sprawled in his lap on the floor, fresh from the bath and having her claws filed, Lucio doesn’t deign to look up at Eustacia. “That’s probably because Valerius was in here, sweating out wine last night.”

Disgusting. She drops on the bed, petting Melchior’s stumpy ear when he drops his head in her lap. “I can’t believe you’re clipping their nails. You have servants that would die to do that bidding for you.”

“They wouldn’t get it right. And they keep getting themselves bitten because they’re idiots. Isn’t that right, Mercedes?! Ahhh, good girl!” he baby-talks the dog, clapping and scritching her upturned pale belly until she kicks a leg and yowls in her throat.

A red tongue lolls out between her teeth, and Lucio looks so pleased. He doesn’t stop looking that way when he finally concedes to look at Eustacia. “Besides, there are servants that should be polishing your boots, yet you start pissing your pants the second they’re too close to your wardrobe.”

Ooh, she doesn’t like that—son of a bitch almost got her to use his argument for her own, they wouldn’t do it right. “They’re dogs. Their nails don’t need buffing,” she argues instead, trying to ignore how her blood pressure rises and her head thumps.

“They only deserve the best. Give daddy a kiss, Mercie. Mercie, kiss daddy. Gooood girl, what a good girl!” he laughs, heedless of Mercedes’ snapping teeth as she licks all over his face. Eustacia likes the dogs alright, but they’re so poorly trained that she draws the line at kisses. Because of this, she pushes Melchior’s head down when he starts whining and reaching for her face with his chops peeled back over his teeth.

Lucio whistles for Melchior, and the dogs trade places. “Right, anyway, why I called you here,” he starts, flipping the long dog over in his lap. “I’m hungover. I figured we’ll fuck the hangovers out of each other and brunch on the veranda.”

Vulgar, but appealing. “You’re on top.”

“If you sit around like a dead fish, I’m not doing any either,” he warns, but it’s not a hard and fast ‘no,’ so she stretches out on the bed and lets her mind flicker between brunch tartlets and Lucio’s mouth going places the holy texts say it shouldn’t.

+

Sir Mulverhampton’s birthday party is dull as dirt. Nadia’s made her appearance and escaped for the evening, and Lucio had already forbidden Eustacia ditching him just so he doesn’t have to face down the droning, monotonous man’s saltine-cracker-conversation on his own.

He’s monologuing about his fucking chandelier again. The enormous, tacky brass-and-glass structure that belonged to Count Dickhead Hornblower two hundred years ago, given to his family as a token of whatever. “Didn’t you kill his daughter or something?” Lucio whispers out the side of his mouth, clicking his fingers on his champagne glass.

“His niece, but I’m considering the kindness of reuniting them,” Eustacia whispers back. “You’re a rude little bastard to make me endure this. Maybe it’s you I should be reuniting with his niece.”

“Tough tits, Eustacia,” he seethes, nodding his head, forcing a smile, and raising his glass when Sir Mulverhampton looks back to make sure they’re rapt. “His family outfits the entire mounted guard with the best tack on this coast for free, and you’re not making me suffer this alone.”

“I don’t know why Nadia puts up with you,” she snorts into her champagne. Lucio narrows his eyes at her and keeps grinning as he sneers, “I don’t know how your right hand puts up with you.”

The rest of Sir Mulverhampton’s history lecture is worth sitting through, if only because Lucio gets to watch Eustacia’s indignation and offense skin her alive.

Two hours later, Sir Mulverhampton’s wife has dragged him off by the ear to read him the riot act about the awful way he’s allowing himself to be treated by his guests, and Lucio’s escaped with Eustacia to the overly-tended gardens and hired hookah bar behind the man’s stodgy home.

She stalks off to hunt down a carafe of wine, still having her panties in a bunch over his little comment earlier, and Lucio gets good and familiar with the hashish loaded in the bowl. Sir Mulverhampton’s sons must’ve had something to do with this. If they weren’t pig-faced twats, Lucio might invite them on a hunting trip.

But they are, and he won’t.

He’s completely boneless and giggly when Eustacia returns, necking straight from the bottle and prowling. “Damn. Look at you, such a mean, tough girl, drinking her drink like a big, scary sailor,” he chortles, stretching out on the white divan under him.

“My right hand might not stand me, but you’re always eager to fuck me,” she snaps, her accent obscenely thick because of the many glasses of champagne she’s already consumed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. Really, she’s still on that?

“C’mere,” he leers, patting his chest. He bites his lip, darting his tongue out between teeth and lip, waggling his brows. “I want you to ride my face.”

“Ohh, fuck you, Lucio. You little shite-arsed tit. Rude fuck. With your creepy little corpse eyes and shitey, fuck-arsed eyeliner,” she scowls, shoving the carafe in his hands and pulling on the hookah like it owes her a blood debt. That’s definitely doing something for him. His pants feel amazingly restrictive.

“Pleeaase, Eustacia, ride my face,” he wheedles, brushing a hand down her thigh. “I’ll make the most interesting noises come out of you. Make you squirt. Then you’ll take care of me.”

“Like hell, arrogant, rude shit, should’ve been drowned at birth,” she grumbles, and blows smoke in his face, but she’s already undoing her belt buckles. The sound makes Lucio’s hair stand on end.

+

It was supposed to be a nice little hunting trip. Ducks are in season, and Eustacia hasn’t hunted her own dinner in years. She would’ve loved to have gone on her own, but Lucio caught wind of it and turned a small, one-man hunt into a gilded march on the banks of a big lake.

A full retinue of footservants and guards have set up glaring, blood-red tents on the shore. A dozen horses and two carriages wait in the woods behind them. Cooks wait around grills, sorting fresh forage, and Eustacia is beyond offended by the display. She wanted to braid her hair up, sleep on a crappy bedroll, and slow cook greasy duck over a campfire.

And Lucio’s made it into a production.

At least he didn’t send guards out ahead to flush out game, and at least he actually waded into the shallows and thrushes instead of complaining. He’s good at keeping his mouth shut during a hunt. During dinner—a full, six-course spread that gives Eustacia the beginnings of a migraine—he refuses to shut up or keep to himself.

They take their meal on an overly glamorous bed that overlooks the glass-smooth lake, light by torches and serenaded by a violinist outside the flap. Magnanimously, he pours her a draught of wine in a thick cut-crystal goblet, and holds it to her lips. He pulls it back when she tries to drink. “No,” he chastises her, “you’re not going to act like an uncultured swine. I’m going to teach you to appreciate good wine.”

“Because you’re the crown prince of sommeliers?” she frowns.

He frowns in return, a very ugly look on his buzzed face, but he powers on heedless of her barbs. As if he isn’t from a southern tribe that’s never seen a vineyard in their entire existence, he says, “Start with the bouquet. Try to detect certain fragrances. This is a Bordeaux. You can tell that it’s leaner, more elegant and restrained than a cabernet.”

She sniffs, and all she can smell is alcohol and that it’s an impressively dry wine. She’s going to hate it. She can also tell that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about, either. Nadia would, but Eustacia imagines that she’s living her best life with the palace all to herself.

“Tell me what you’re smelling, Eustacia.”

Oh, poor sob, he’s trying to set a mood. He thinks making her sniff wine is a sexy thing. He’s not even aware that he sounds idiotic and she feels like a tit. What’s worse—it’s working. Even if it’s only working because she feels bad about how hard he’s trying, how smooth he thinks he is!

“I think…” she mutters gravely, as if in deep concentration, putting a hand on the back of his wrist and giving him her darkest bedroom eyes, “I think I detect…old grapes. Very old grapes.”

He roars and dumps the glass right her lap, splashing a great deal of it down her chest. She can’t help it, she starts cackling while he rants and raves and stalks the tent. He moves to leave the tent, stops, turns and slashes the air in her direction, yelling, “Nice things are WASTED on you!”

“Yes, they certainly are!” she howls, picking up the goblet and drinking the dregs from the bottom. Driest wine she’s ever consumed, but it doesn’t stop her from pulling her shirt off and throwing it at Lucio’s red face. Grinning so savagely her face might crack, she laughs, “You’ve ruined my hunting trip, my dinner, and my clothes. Might as well come over and ruin my night, too, you pretentious fuck!”

+

If Eustacia was miserable to deal with on her own, combining her efforts with her new apprentice Asra’s makes her insufferable. What’s worse, they’ve brought Nadia in on it. They’re always laughing and whispering to each other, flicking their eyes toward him and bursting out into cackles.

But it doesn’t matter. His mural is progressing, and he wants to show it off. It’s beautiful, it’s luxurious, and he’s made damn sure that he is the central focus.

Eustacia sways into the ballroom where the massive canvas is being painted with an arm looped through Nadia’s, followed closely by her gaudily-dressed apprentice with his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Lucio’s heels snap over the marble floor as he rushes up the meet them, and for only a moment, he’s distracted by Eustacia’s flat shoes. “No heels today, that’s an interesting change.”

“It pains me to take away from Milady’s radiance, and it pains my apprentice to crane his neck so to meet my face,” she grunts, unreadable behind the veil of diamonds that start at her hairline and disappear beneath the folded collar of her black jacket. Another gift she’s never thanked him for, but it’s not a problem.

“Isn’t there something you wanted to show us, dear?” Nadia queries, cocking a brow. She looks thoroughly bored. Lucio thinks she might’ve had something else to attend to, but he’s her husband and whoever else she needed to meet with doesn’t take precedence.

“I think it’s his animal painting,” Asra supplies, scanning the room from under his hair. “The cannibalistic one, where they’re eating other animals.”

If Eustacia wasn’t so dependent on…whatever it is he does, Lucio would’ve thrown him into the coliseum by now. He might yet do it. See how well he manages to shrug off and quip at lions. Bears, maybe.

Eustacia sighs, “Is that the one where you’re a goat, Lucio?”

“A ram,” he corrects, making a sweeping turn and leading them closer. Throwing his arms wide, he gestures at the piece that occupies a great deal of the lesser ballroom. “It’s magnificent, a masterwork! Have you ever seen such majesty—?!”

“Lucio,” Eustacia deadpans, a hand on her chest. “That bird has tits.”

“What?” He begins searching the painting, feeling heat sear up his shoulders. His blood pressure explodes like a buckled dam wall, making veins stand out on his neck and forehead. There had better not be what he thinks there is, or so help the painter.

Nadia’s hand covers her mouth, her eyes blown mischievously wide. Asra ducks his head, clearing his throat. His shoulders quake, and the quake only worsens when Nadia drops her hand on Eustacia’s shoulder and notes, “Oh, my dear. It’s not so bad. Everyone has breasts, even you. And artists should be allowed some license in their work. I think it’s…creative.”

The painter has suddenly made themselves very scarce, leaving their wide-eyed assistant behind. Lucio feels a migraine begin to drill into the spaces behind his eyes. He finds the bird, and it most certainly has a rack on it that would make a virgin faint. Pert, feathery breasts. They’re heaving.

“They’re very nice breasts,” Asra comments, but his smirk betrays his lack of genuineness.

“Never have I seen a prettier pair of tits outside of a brothel, Lucio,” Eustacia assures him. “And, look, so beatific and gracious are you in the center of it all, I’d wager that few people at all will scarcely notice her…gifts.”

Lucio only ever stops hearing about the bird’s tits when Eustacia is mercifully absent from their lives, and even that only brings him new and interesting ways to be degraded and belittled. Sometimes, he will even think that his misses the insolent witch.

[mrsbenedictbridgerton]

This Unspoken Thing (4/4)

Emma and Killian were kinda enemies. Now they are kinda friends, but there is this unspoken thing between them. A pull and a want that they haven't yet given a name to. And stubborn Emma Swan just wont admit it...

Also on AO3/FF.NET

Bed rest was boring. She had decided this after the fifth hour of her confinement. Emma had already read every cheesy magazine in the apartment and was already over watching re-runs of Judge Judy. She had taken up residence on the couch, only making the effort to move when nature called.

It was excruciating.

She’d always thought that she preferred her own company, but now she was having to re evaluate that. Bail bonds meant a lot of time alone. Still, even when she was on a job she always had Leroy calling her from the office. Or Killian. They would text, usually, jibing each other and passing back little jokes and taunting barbs.

Sitting by herself for hours while her brother either slept or worked was slowly beginning to drive her crazy. And there was far, far too much time to think.

Thankfully, the swelling around her ankle had mostly subsided within a few days and she began to try and move around a little more, though still with the cautious movements of a newborn foal. She clung to the crutches as she stumbled from piece of furniture to piece of furniture . The nurse’s stern warning about aggravating the injury had stuck in her head.

As did the way she had batted her eyelids at Killian.

It annoyed her, the way women fawned at him. It was evident just about every time they were in a public place together: the looks, the whispers. It was so superficial. He was just a guy, she reminded herself - on the numerous occasions over those two weeks when her mind wandered to thinking about him. (While at the same time batting away the urge to text him. A little bit of sparring would probably cheer her up. And give him completely the wrong idea.)

She may not have spoken to him since he brought her back from the hospital, but their discussion had done laps around her brain. The looks, the flirting… the maybe I want to make love to you. Even though she knew he was joking, those words still sent pleasurable shudders down her spine when she played them on repeat.

Between the dance and the conversation in the kitchen and his insistence on telling her about his active dating life and then his concern for her at the hospital-

Well, it was complicated and confusing. And she really only had herself to blame-

(And the rum. That was why she had danced with him. Yes, that was why.)

She honestly felt that whatever weirdness had been between them could only be helped by this little separation. Not seeing him would take away those thoughts (feelings…) that had started to appear. He was a pretty man, a potent drug- all dark hair and charm, his whole aura attractive and bright, drawing others to him in a moth-like fashion. It was clearly only a matter of time before she fell under his spell. So, the cure was abstinence and separation.

(Even if there was at least a little part of her that questioned why he hadn’t called-)

Feeling quite proud of herself for this understanding, Emma was renewed in spirit. She may have been bored stiff, but she was finally taking some control of things.

And she decided to do something that she should have done weeks ago. Late one evening, in those last few days of isolation, she picked up her phone and called Graham.

/

Being back at work after so long away was both difficult and refreshing. Emma had never taken more than a few days vacation at a time, preferring to eke it out over long weekends rather than indulgently use it all at once. So her convalescence had been the longest period she had ever been away from her desk.

It was unsurprising, then, that she had spent that first day attending to a mountain of paperwork. Come eight o’clock, she was still at her desk, sorting and scowling and wondering how Leroy ever ran this place without her.

She was deep in a pile of invoices when Killian made his presence known. He was wearing his usual tight, dark jeans and perfectly fitted leather jacket. She smiled stiffly when he looked her way- still feeling awkward about the way she had treated him that night he had taken her home and the complete lack of contact between them since then. Then she saw the cut on his forehead and the scratches at his knuckles-

“Shit,” she mumbled, dropping the paperwork she was holding, “You okay?”

He winced as he shrugged, placing the file in his hands onto his empty desk. “Embezzler got a little handsy,” he explained as he pulled out his chair and sat, before flicking through the sheaf of documents.

“You should have gone to the ER,” she commented, before making her way to retrieve the first aid kit that was behind Leroy’s desk.

“It’s just a scratch,” he said, catching her eye as she turned back to him - a moment stretching out as he removed his jacket and her fingers grasped the small green bag a little tighter. “Besides, he’s safely in lock up now, so I think I came out on top.” He tried to grin but it turned into a grimace as he touched the injury to his face.

“Scratch my ass,” she huffed, pulling her desk chair across to his and opening the bag, searching for some antiseptic ointment.

“Swan, you really don’t need to.” He placed his hand on hers and she paused, looking up at him, letting herself soak in his lovely features for a second: the angle of his jaw, the regal slope of his nose, the plain old dose of handsome that she was trying to immune herself to.

Lashes fluttering, she focused back on her task. “I owe you one,” she explained, begging her skin not to flush.

“Fine,” he nodded after a few seconds, moving his hand to rest on the desk. “How is the injury?”

“Fine,” she shrugged, her fingers finally locating the ointment. “Glad to be back.”

He cleared his throat as she grabbed a cotton pad. The decision to play nurse was clearly not one she had thought through very well. Being so close to him after radio silence for so long was having the opposite effect to the one she was hoping for. She pawed with care at the scratches on his hands and the slash across his forehead, noting that just a little deeper and he would have had a scar.

“You’re lucky this wasn’t worse,” she pointed out, scowling as she saw the bruising beginning to appear around his eye. “You know the drill - they get too violent and you drop it.”

“Why Swan, your concern for my welfare is flattering.” There was that old teasing tone. “But I assure you I was safe, though he may well have knocked some of the handsome out of me.” He winced again as she wiped away a speck of dried blood from his brow.

“As if,” she trilled, absentmindedly enough, “That’s not possible, Jones.”

“Really?” he whispered, his face moving forward just as she looked up so that his pretty, pretty eyes were only inches from her own. He heart began that familiar dull thud, so she pressed her eyes closed and fumbled in the bag for a bandage. Her reply was simply to cluck her tongue.

She prepared the dressing, her eyes avoiding his, not wanting to see that dreamy blue lest she begin to have traitorous thoughts. Her mind sought a topic of neutral conversation; anything to dull the biting tension beginning to stretch between them.

“He give you any trouble once you cuffed him?” she asked.

“No - but he did try and headbutt dear old officer Humbert down at the precinct.”

“Graham’s working tonight?” she asked, pressing the bandage gently to his forehead.

“He does lates on Tuesdays, I thought you knew?” Emma let that soak in as she held the dressing in place, tearing off strips of medical tape with her teeth to hold it in place.

When she finished, he continued. “He asked about you. Said you have dinner plans on Friday.”

Oh. That.

“It’s nothing,” she said dismissively, crumpling up the scraps and tossing them in the trash can.

“I’ve heard that before.”

Emma froze, those words taking her back to the kitchen a month earlier. With slow, careful movements, she looked up again. Killian was now lying back in his chair, his hands interlinked over his chest.

“Actually, Swan, I should say it’s about time. You’re an indecisive woman and it’s good to see you making some strides forward for a change in the personal arena.”

There was an insincere - yet not malicious - tone to his voice. She didn’t like it. She liked the snippy Killian who would have made fun of Graham’s hair or teased her about finally having someone to warm her sheets.

“Thank you, I guess.” She wasn’t entirely sure if it was a compliment, but she didn’t really want to dwell on that right now. In fact she had already ruined whatever resolutions she had made about keeping her distance from Killian and she needed to rescue the situation. “He’s wanted to ask me out for a while. I thought I should give him a chance,” she explained, before rising and returning the first aid kit. When she turned around, Killian had rounded his desk and was perched on the edge, arms folded, his shirt doing that pleasing stretch thing again over his arms, his ruffled hair from the tussle making him even more sexy than usual, calling to a primal part of her that she felt slightly ashamed of.

“How very magnanimous of you.”

She glared across the office, taking slow deep breaths.

What was he playing at?

She wasn’t going to fight with him. She was going to be cool and calm. She would not let him get to her.

“He’s a nice guy,” she insisted.

“Yeah, nice.”

Emma’s heart seemed to drop into her stomach at his words.

Nice as in boring. Nice as in safe.

(Certainly not things that Emma herself had thought.)

Killian crossed his feet at the ankles, settling in like he was staying for a while.

He needed to leave. Now was not the time to be letting him burrow beneath her skin. She needed to clear her head. Oh why did he have this effect on her-

“So, you’re done now?”

“Sure,” he replied, with a small nod, though he made no sign to move.

Her only hope was that if she ignored him he might leave. She tried to not see the way his eyes were trained on her as she went back to her desk and the pile of invoices. Her own eyes blurred over the figures she waited for him to do something. It took a few minutes of burning tension for him to speak.

“Swan, why don’t you hate me anymore?”

That was unexpected. Dazed, she looked up.

“I do hate you,” she insisted, fidgeting with her ponytail and shifting about in her chair. She was never a great liar even if she was good at spotting them.

He stalked the few steps to her desk and placed his large palms on its surface, leaning over her, his shadow falling across the file she was trying to look at.

“No, you don’t.”

She had no idea where he was going with this. And she didn’t want to indulge him. Not really.

Her tongue darted across her lips. “Well… I barely tolerate you,” she explained, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling at the lie, his fingers fanning out just within her eyesight. She could smell his woody cologne. He always smelled good.

“No Swan, you like me.”

The thud in her chest that she had actually grown used to, became a pounding beat, her heart ricocheting against her ribs so loud that she could almost hear it.

She tried to deny it but her lips wouldn’t move.

(She was a terrible liar, after all.)

She studied his hands, large and strong, tiny dark hairs slipping from under the cuff of his shirt, the knuckles grazed and reddened. She liked his hands. They felt good around her when they danced: gentle yet powerful-

She snapped her eyes shut.

But then he placed his finger under her chin and they flickered open.

His expression caught her breath: there was no mocking, only openness and- and something else she wasn’t able to place.

“This thing,” he pointed between the two of them, “deserves a chance. But I can’t wait forever.” His words were tinged with melancholy as he pressed his tongue into the corner of his cheek. “Even the most patient man has his limits.”

She ceased her pretense of working. His words confused her. What did he want? What was he trying to say?

There was no time to dwell on that, though. A second later he was standing upright, offering her a quick smile and leaving.

It wasn’t until the door closed that she finally understood.

/

Once again her brother was working late. The prospect of returning yet again to the place of her confinement was less than appealing. It was too quiet. She would have far too much time to think.

Instead, she headed to The Rabbit Hole.

It was a Tuesday, so the place was quiet, the few occupied tables were filled with the usual old timers and regulars who kept the place in business during the week. The pool table was taken by some college-age kids and the stage was empty save for the ever present drum kit and mic stand.

Ordering her usual rum and coke was automatic. But the minute it was placed in front of her she regretted it.

It reminded her of him. It was his drink of choice and the one they shared more often than not. She squirmed on the bar stool as drank, her eyes fixing on the spot where they danced, the smells and sounds of the bar, though muted, bringing her back to that moment.

Going through the haze of time and alcohol wasn’t easy. As she slumped against the bar, she kicked her toes against the metal pole that ran along its perimeter, begging her mind to clear up those fuzzy memories.

Oh, she could recall the dance with perfect clarity. The feel of his body, the warmth of his breath, they way they swayed together: for just that one song everything was different. He was just a guy, she was just a woman. No history, no complications.

The last of the rum washed over her tongue and she tapped her glass on the bar to request another.

She was back in the moment. Remembering crossing the bar, Graham to her right, Killian in the distance. She had looked at the police officer, remembering all the good things her brother had told her. But then there was Killian: her nemesis, her coworker, her kind of friend. Sat slouched down in his chair, a glass in his hand, he was swirling the liquid around. He seemed lost even amongst the busyness around him.

And then she remembered the feeling: that want and ache that had overcome her. How her feet had continued past where Graham has sat, singlemindedly determined to do something her sober self had denied her. She wanted to touch him, to look into his eyes and be free of all the past that surrounded their relationship with each other.

To just be a woman, who is well on her way to being in love with a man and just hopes he feels even slightly the same.

/

There had never before been a reason to go to Killian’s apartment, but of course she knew where it was.

She’d left her second drink almost untouched, paying the bill before she could analyse her decision.

Outside his door, her hand wavered over the doorbell.

What did she want to say?

Sorry?

You’re right?

I want you-

(I don’t know what I want.)

But then the door opened.

“Emma?” Killian asked, his face twisted in confusion.

“Hi.”

He stared at her and looked like he was going to ask a question, before thinking better of it.

Her mind was blank whilst simultaneously she was lost in him. He had changed into a grey t-shirt and sweatpants. The bandage she applied was still on his forehead. His hair was still delightfully dishevelled. Her gut wrenched and a flood of needing him threatened to overwhelm her.

This was a bad idea.

She was about to turn on her heels and leave when he spoke.

“Do you want to come in?”

She should go?

She should stay?

God, she was a coward.

Had she not just decided to stop being scared- to live in the moment and be damned with the consequences?

Wasn’t that the whole reason she had hauled herself to his place, just shy of midnight?

After a pause, she nodded, not trusting herself to eat. Her hands were clammy. Her stomach ached.

She was nervous.

Emma followed him, closing the door behind her. Inside, he didn’t seem to know what to do. They stood in the open plan living room and kitchen, the tv playing something softly in the background.

His place was nice and so… him. Muted grey and blue colours dominated the decor. It was impeccably tidy, the only thing she could see out of place was a cushion on the couch where she assumes he had been sitting.

He was facing her, his hands at his waist.

“Emma-”

“Killian-”

“You first,” he insisted. Killian gestured to the couch and the two sat, an expanse of chocolate leather between them. Her knees shook.

The little clock on his wall ticked loudly. She was listening to his breathing. He was waiting.

“Thank you for the hospital thing. And carrying me upstairs. And making sure I was okay on that first night taking the pain meds. I know I was a bit of an ass about it all. I’m just not used to people helping me.”

He smiled softly. “My pleasure, Swan.”

“And I’m also sorry for being a bit shitty with you recently. We’re friends now and I’ve not been a good one.”

He nodded, his head tilting to one side as he watched her tuck her hair behind her ears and take a deep breath.

“But I’m not sorry for dancing with you at David’s birthday.”

“No?”

With purpose, she shook her head, placing her hand on the leather between them. She looked at the grain of the material, the lines and creases that fanned out, almost like that of a palm, those that a fortune teller would read. She wondered for a moment what fortune it would be given.

Emma Swan was brave. She was fearless. She could face any challenge… except honesty. Steeling herself, she let her eyes meet his again, the dreamy blue, darkened by the evening and lamplight. The shadows cast across his face showed all the angles and curves that made him, sweeping down to the firm line of his neck and the peek of collar bone hinted at where the neck of his shirt had been stretched out a little.

“It wasn’t about Graham.”

He cocked his head to one side, his palms resting on his thighs.

“So what was it about?”

“You. Me.”

She rolled back her shoulders.

“Someone said to me a while back that there was something between us but I was too stubborn to admit it.”

“And?” he whispered.

Her stomach flipped.

“You were right.”

A tense few seconds slipped by, until he covered her hand with his, sliding along the couch until their knees met.

“I guess then it’s not so unspoken anymore.”

“Yeah, I-”

His kiss caught her off guard. The hand holding hers tightened its grip as its pair cupped her cheek, pulling her lips to his.

And it just felt right. Not strange or awkward. More like a teasing taste, a whisper of what more could be. His lips light and carefree as they dusted over hers. She let herself be kissed, leaning into his touch, her back arching to allow him to show her what words were unable to. She felt the yearning and the wanting and everything began to click into place.

The teasing. The kindness. The looks.

That sparring tension between them that seemed to wind tighter each day and that she had been in denial about for months.

He ran his palm across her cheek, reluctantly releasing her. Emma pressed her forehead against his, happily dizzy. It was like a giant weight had been lifted. She felt lighter and more carefree than ever.

“Wow,” she hummed. “That was-”

“Just a taster,” he whispered into her ear, sending a pleasurable pulse through her body right to the tips of her toes. “I’ve wanted to do that since we first met,” he admitted.

“You have?”

He nodded. “Oh yes. All that feistiness and that tough shell. I just was desperate to know what was beneath it though I never thought I’d get the chance to see. And then things happened.”

“They did.”

His hands slid to her waist

“I’m not the best with feelings.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“But I like you, like that. I mean, you know-” She bit her lip. “I mean, it’s more than like.”

He looked stunned for a minute, his eyes wide, his lips parted.

This time, she kissed him. With far less restraint than he had exhibited, swinging her leg over his so she could sit in his lap and wrap her hands around his neck, her kisses pulling against his lips and then pressing against his neck as her teeth grazed his skin in their wake.

It was the dance again, back in The Rabbit Hole, but this time was wasn’t pretending or lying to herself. Now she was admitting what she wanted. She pressed an almost chaste kiss against his cheek.

“I cancelled the thing with Graham. I thought you should know”

He began to slowly smile.

“And I wanted to ask you out.”

His smile became an outright grin and her stomach flipped again. Just how did one smile do that?

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking?”

“I thought you were a modern man?” she teased, her fingers playing with the cotton of his t-shirt.

His grin became crooked. In a second, he had flipped them over, pressing her into the couch, his hips anchoring against hers. “Oh, I’m very modern,” he replied, the way he looked at her making her feel like her whole body was turning inside out as her mind screamed, asking her why she had resisted this for so long. “I’ll gladly go on a date. It’s just, there’s one thing I need to do first.”

“Oh?” she said, raising her brows.

“Yes. It’s very important. Some would say essential- and it requires, well, far less clothing that you are currently wearing.”

“Well, if it’s essential-”

The rest of her words died in a kiss.

/

They managed to keep it secret from their friends for two weeks. Which was three days longer than they managed at work.

Everyone was unsurprised: it turns out the other agents had a pool running on them. Emma was momentarily mortified, until she looked across the office and saw the happy face of her boyfriend and she realised she didn’t care.

She’d spent way too long hiding the truth, even from herself.

She loved Killian Jones.

The evening her brother found out, he’d given them his blessing (not that they needed it but it was sweet all the same). They’d danced together at The Rabbit Hole for half the night, lost in each other.

He told her he loved her there, as she moved in his arms. She’d said the same, admitting she wasn’t even sure for how long she had.

Back in his bed, in rumpled sheets, she told him a dozen more times, because after something has been unspoken for so long, sometimes you need to make up for lost time.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Any thoughts, reviews, questions or any other feedback is super appreciated!

[foreignseongms-blog]

The Midnight Paradise Effect : Korean Fan Fiction

ForeignSeong’s 2nd Fan Fiction in the making, couldn’t wait to post it. I hope you all enjoy=)

An adopted simple kind-hearted high school student, Jin finds himself in the middle of a violent turned Seoul when people out of nowhere begin to wreak havoc in the streets. It is later found out that the root to people’s madness is a drug called Midnight Paradise, the goal is to get a high and hallucinate but meanwhile the user is in a state of high hallucination the body begins to go crazy or “brainless”. The government fiercely attempts to find the root of the problem and eliminate it as fast as possible. All clues of Midnight Paradise point to Jin. Could he possibly prove his innocence in time? Who framed him? Does he have to face this ordeal alone?

Genre : Fantasy, Romance, Angst, Mystery, Violence, and Psychological

Rating : M - mature for sexual suggestive themes, violence, and vulgar language

Characters : Kim Seok-jin (Choi Jin), Lee Soo-hyuk (Choi Chan-gyu), BTS, Block B, Bam-mi (Fictional), and Park Mi-ri (Fictional)

Chapter One : Killings

The middle aged man gasped trying to catch his breath from running for so long. Thick sweat dripped from his forehead as he panicked seeing nothing but an alley that ended with a brick wall.

“No! Fuck!” He cursed banging his fist on the wall.

The sound of chuckles echoed causing him to turn back in alarm. “Hmm…” The woman opened her bloodied mouth revealing fangs while limping towards him.

“No! Stay back!” He warned grabbing a piece of broken wood nearby trying to hold it steady but it still wavered. “No, I’m sorry! Please spare me!” He cried desperately.

“Ah!” Her hand slashed at the wood cutting through it with her fine claws making it hit the wall. “Hmm!” Her tongue stuck out while she forcefully grabbed the man by the arms digging her nails in deeply enough to penetrate his skin.

He cried out in pain looking straight into her eyes revealing nothing but an empty darkness. “No, please!” He still begged.

Her fangs dug deep into his neck drawing out an immense amount of blood as she repeatedly began to gnaw at the wound sucking the blood roughly while he cried out his last breath.

The Silver Hill High School stood bright and proud as the sun began to gleam rays at it. Two male high school students stood on the Silver Tower yawning and drinking coffee that early morning.

“What time is it?” One of them asked while he played with the large bell rope.

The other scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know let me check my phone.” He yawned stretching. “5:58.” He announced.

The one with the bell rope began to stand up and put on some type of sound cancelling ear plugs while his buddy did the same. The phone rang that it was six o’clock.

The boys pulled on the rope with all their might and the large bell began to toll throughout the whole school.

Several students ran to the open gate entrance. “Hurry before we get locked out!” Some students urged each other.

A female student held onto the gate door since it was her duty to close it with one of her junior officers of the student board. She tapped her foot impatiently searching through the students hoping to see someone in particular. “Ugh, where is he?” She muttered frowning.

“What has you so worried Mi-ri sunbae?” The junior asked.

She nodded with a nervous smile. “Nothing in particular Jae.”

All students successfully made it past the front entrance, except for maybe one. “Okay lock it down Miss Park!” Mi-ri bowed to the teacher’s order and slowly began to push the gate with Jae.

“Damn it Jin!” She cursed under her breath. “Why are you always so late?”

“Wait!” A familiar voice called out and she stopped pushing the gate looking out to see Jin.

“Jin!” She called out with a wave.

The teacher groaned but quickly turned to Jae. “Shut it, shut it down now!” He snapped and Jae quickly begin to push it as hard as he could but Jin managed to slip though just in time.

“Jin!” Mi-ri clapped bright while he tried to catch his breath. “You made it.” She playfully hit his arm. “What took you so long?” Everyone began to walk into the building ready to begin early class sessions.

Jin nervously scratched the back of his head. “Oh it is nothing just that I was looking into Chan-gyu hyung’s first case file.” He admitted.

Mi-ri gave him a distasteful look. “Why would ever want to look at that? Dead bodies and blood everywhere, how gross!”

“Yeah-yeah,” He rolled his eyes at his lady friend, “but hear me out when I tell you that this case is pretty peculiar. Guess what happened?”

“Ugh, what?”

“Some 36 year old victim got a large bite on his neck!”

Mi-ri looked alarmed. “Like vampire bite?”

Jin nodded. “No, way worse! The unsub ripped the flesh off and sucked out all the blood, leaving nothing but a dried up corpse.” He made many motions with his hands grabbing a small part of Mi-ri’s white neck making her flinch back.

“You’re lying!” She hit him with her book bag before reaching her locker and inserting her digital combination.

“No it’s true!” Some other male students got in the conversation.

“Yah are you guys talking about the killing last night?”

“I heard it was an animal that did it.”

“That’s stupid we’re in Seoul!”

All were talking at once making a huge gap between Jin and Mi-ri. To her disappointment Jin began to focus on all the other students overriding him with a million questions. “Hmph!” She slammed her locker turning a direction far away from Jin and his crowd of popularity.

Jin paused mid-sentence catching a glimpse of Mi-ri storming off towards her home classroom. “Mi-ri!” He called out.

“So does anyone know who did it or is the killer still out on the loose?” A girl asked nudging his rib cage.

Another one went through the crowd. “Does Chan-gyu oppa have the unsub already? If anyone can catch the unsub it would be him!” She squealed along with other girls that were part of the Choi Chan-gyu fan club, which is a surprisingly real thing at the school.

Jin only chuckled nervously feeling the exhaustion of being surrounded by girls swooning over his big brother.

“Everyone make way!” A boy with faded aqua hair pushed students aside with a Girl’s Generation light stick in one hand and a Sistar light stick in the other. Many students stuck to the sides making room like he urged them. “Move!” He shoved a shoulder against Jin making him bump his back on the lockers behind him.

Jin furrowed his brows clearly mad. “Don’t worry oppa they aren’t as cute as you.” Some of the first year girls snuggled into him making him grunt in annoyance. This is not how I pictured High School.

Five boys with flower boy looks walked into the hall gaining a lot of attention from the female students. “We’ll still stick with you!” The freshmen girls hugged onto Jin tighter.

“You are all...crushing…” He gasped a few breaths of air.

The obvious leader, just for the heck of it, kicked a nearby trash can to gain more attention from students this time making everyone tense up. He kept walking until he finally halted near Jin and his pile of girls.

The boy smirked. “It seems like losers always get the freshmen. Sometimes status never changes.” He blew air on Jin’s bangs causing him to blink but he was certainly not intimidated.

“You are right Nam-joon.” He agreed. “Status here can never change. For example, your status as the high school douche that thinks he can dominate everyone here but is really nothing, just a low life everytime he walks out of this school.” Suddenly the girls managed to run away as soon as Nam-joon’s hands caught a good hold of Jin’s collar. Both were in a dominant staredown.

“Yah, what is going on here?” A teacher from a nearby homeroom called out to the boys.

Nam-joon’s furrowed brows loosened and his lips made a forced smile. “Nothing!” He caught Jin’s head in his arm ruffling his maine. “Just having a little fun with my buddy.” He gave Jin a hard flick on his forehead.

The teacher just tapped a foot on the ground not buying a single word from the notorious Nam-joon. “Everyone needs to get to their home room immediately!” He announced in a booming voice, people began to scatter.

Nam-joon bumped into Jin purposefully making him slam back onto the lockers. “Watch that fat mouth next time Jinnie.” He warned continuing to walk the hall with his gang.

“Yah, homeroom Nam-joon!” The teacher warned while Nam-joon only stuck out his middle finger before disappearing behind a corner. The teacher clicked his tongue. “Aish, that little shit.”

Jin began to walk to his homeroom but caught a glimpse of Mi-ri eyeing him from her homeroom entrance. She frowned at him before disappearing into her classroom. “Aish!” He sighed a bit frustrated. High school can become a complicated mess sometimes.

Throughout the Seoul Police Department there was constant chatter, arguments, and phones ringing non-stop. “Aish, make it stop!” A chubby police officer groaned taking a few tablets of aspirin with water.

Chan-gyu chuckled sitting at his own small office desk near the officer. “You shouldn’t have gone drinking last night like I warned.”

“It was our superiors. It’s not like I had other plans.” He rubbed his temples.

Chan-gyu began to open the notes he made on his case file. “Make plans.” He pulled out a pair of glasses from his desk drawer putting them on before reviewing what he has understood so far from the horrific case-his first gruesome case. “I have never seen anything like it before.” He muttered tapping a long finger on his chin. “We may have to go back to the crime scene. It could help us make our next move.”

The other officer groaned with his head on his desk but still raising a thumbs up to Chan-gyu. He just sighed at his partner who was about to pass out.

“Yah, get your fucking paws off me!” A hooker yelled out while a police officer forcefully escorted her to a nearby jail cell. Behind her were like two or three other hookers, except one looked peculiar with a solemn look on her face as if she wasn’t exactly taking in her reality but something else.

They brought all the women into the jail cell. She sat down and only stared blankly sometimes blinking but that was about it. Chan-gyu furrowed his brows examining her intently. She did wear hooker style clothing, her dark hair untamed like it hasn’t been brushed in a long while.

She sensed a pair of eyes on her and she looked up to see her’s and Chan-gyu's eyes connect. He blinked away. She quickly stood up and held the bar handles tightly looking at Chan-gyu pleadingly.

One of the officers that took the girls in noticed officer Choi eyed the peculiar one. “Yeah she has been off ever since we caught them hanging around the streets. She didn’t even run or use force against us. Weird right?” Chan-gyu nodded.

“Does she have mental issues perhaps?” He asked the officer who only shrugged.

“Hell if I know. She hasn’t said a single word since we found her. Just stares sadly all the time or as if she is in a different world, poor thing, must have been through a lot.” They both looked at her while she stared intently at Chan-gyu her eyes glistening in the light almost as if she wants to cry. “She acts a bit childish though, only sometimes, like when we had her in the cop car she couldn’t stop messing with the window. She would push the buttons up and down, hell we were surprised how big she smiled when we let her turn on the siren. She might have amnesia and got caught with these hookers. We should get her examined in the hospital that’s for sure.”

“Yeah.” Chan-gyu nodded turning back to focus on his case.

“Wow, that’s a dirty one.” The officer commented.

Chan-gyu nodded. “Yes it is. I believe we are all going to be assigned to this case as a unit if we fail to catch the unsub before it strikes again.”

“It seems like a wild animal killing to me. This must be some real sicko.”

Many students in the school huddled to the nearest television sets and cell phones within the school and tuned into the news, all hyped about the fresh new killing.

Mi-ri appeared into Jin’s homeroom scouting for him but failed to find him in his seat. “Where is he?” She ran through the halls.

Jin sighed with arms behind his head looking up at the beautiful sky with only warm fluffy clouds decorating it. “I wish I wasn’t here, but up there.” He raised a hand up to the sky feeling the warmness of the sun. “It’s so pretty!” The light wind blew between his fingers. “I’m gonna skip the rest of the day.” He thought. “I’m sure hyung wouldn’t mind.”

Mi-ri ran through the halls and turned a corner tripping over someone’s leg. “Oh!” She gasped falling on the floor. “Ow!” She looked up to see six boys tower over her. Uh-oh.

“I’m sorry.” A boy with dark hair warmly stuck out a hand for her to take. Mi-ri blushed taking a good look at the boy’s cute smile and dimpled cheeks.

Before she took it another hand slapped his away. “Get out of the way Ho-seok it’s your fault she tripped anyways.” A large hand grabbed tight on the back of her blazer and pulled her up to her feet. “I apologize for my friend’s clumsy retardedness.” The leader leaned closer to whisper. “It’s a sickness. You better not catch it.” He chuckled pressing his index finger on her nose making her blush and blink constantly.

“Stop Nam-joon you’re scaring the girl.” Ji-min chuckled trying to pull Nam-joon away from her path. “Please, continue on your way girly.” He waved.

Mi-ri slowly walked past Nam-joon and his friends but a hand caught onto her arm, she gasped turning back to see a boy with peculiar eyes on her. “Jung-kook what the hell!” Nam-joon snapped at him.

Jung-kook squinted his eyes at her. “You’re that girl he hangs out with.”

Mi-ri blinked at him confused. “What?”

“Jin, Choi Jin. You are always around him. Are you two dating?” Her face blushed beet red.

“No,” Mi-ri tried to tug away from his strong grasp, “let go!” She panicked.

Nam-joon grabbed Jung-kook in a surprise choke hold. “Aish, what the hell?!” Jung-kook managed to spat out letting go of her.

“Sorry carry on.” Nam-joon gave her a dorky smile urging her to carry on and Mi-ri did-very quickly. “Is that a way to treat your leader’s lady?!” He started rubbing his fist hard in Jung-kook’s hair while he yelled out painful protests.

“Ow, what? Your lady?” He muffled in Nam-joon’s chest.

“Yes, you got that right minion. I’ve just found the love of my life thanks to Ho-seok!” Nam-joon freed Jung-kook and cupped Ho-seok by his cheeks and gave him a big smooch on the lips.

“Ugh!” Ho-seok managed to retort in distaste.

Nam-joon wrapped one arm around Ji-min and the other around Tae-hyung. “Come one guys let’s celebrate!” All three skipped together in the hall like a bunch of idiots while Jung-kook and Ho-seok struggled to keep up while holding onto Yoon-gi.

There was a large pounding sound coming from the High School’s roof entrance. Jin sat up alarmed. The door busted open with Mi-ri walking in and quickly closing it behind her gasping. “Aish, that was crazy. They are all crazy!”

“Mi-ri!” Jin called out to her and she yelped not expecting him to be there.

“You were here all along?” She walked up to him and sat next to him.

He nodded. “Yeah. Were you looking for me?” He raised his eyebrows in a mischievous way. Mi-ri could only roll her eyes at him. “I knew you couldn’t last all day without me.” Jin sighed lazily laying back down.

“Jin.” She began with a worried expression on her face revealing her phone from her pocket. Her eyes stared at it wide. “Oh shit! Damn it!”

“What?” He sat up to realize her screen cracked.

Mi-ri hit the phone on her forehead several times. “It must of happened when I tripped.”

Jin stared at her surprised. “But you never trip.” He laughed. “You have always been a cool and collected person who never made a fool out of herself.”

Mi-ri punched him on the arm roughly. “Why is it when it comes to you I do get clumsy?” She began to search through her phone while he laughed.

“You care about me too much.” Jin shrugged.

“There has been another murder like last night.” She handed him the phone.

Jin immediately turned serious seeing the female reporter on the screen. “We have come here today to the Hongdae club scene in the Mapo-gu District where tragedy has stricken. Hongik University student Jo Seung-woo was found brutally murdered this morning around the back alley of club Red Destination. Seung-woo was found like the previous victim, missing a large portion of his neck and with no traces of blood within the body.”

Jin handed Mi-ri back her phone and began to run into the building. “Jin wait, where are you going?” She ran after him.

Both appeared out near the school’s back courtyard. “I have to go see my brother! This is definitely a serial killer!” He began to climb the school walls.

“What are you insane? We’re in school right now, we can’t leave.” Mi-ri tugged on his backpack.

“Then I’m going alone.” Jin managed to sit on top of the wall. “You are the student body president Mi-ri. Don’t follow me anymore or they’ll just kick you out.”

“But,” She tugged on his shirt now with a very worried expression on her face, “Jin, you do realize this murder takes place this morning. It is escalating and so are the riots. Please, be very careful.” Jin grabbed her hand with a cheeky smile.

“Don’t worry I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. You worry too much. You’ll see me tomorrow morning, I promise.” He let go disappearing on the other side of the wall.

Mi-ri sighed with no traces of worry leaving her, not even for a second. “Jin, why do you always leave me so worried?” She slowly turned back and gasped at Nam-joon’s presence.

“So,” He began with an intrigued tone, “it appears that Jung-kook was right.” He popped his neck making Mi-ri wince. Oh god, what is he going to do to me? “Since you know Jinnie so well…” He grabbed Mi-ri roughly by the collar causing her to yelp, “where is he headed?”

[dat-town]

Coffee taste (m)

Characters: Min Yoongi & You

Genre: fluff, smut (just a prolonged foreplay though)

Summary:  As in what happens when you disturb your boyfriend late at night in his studio uninvited and try to lure him home.

Warnings: mild dirty talk and light sexual content

Words: 2963

I blame my late night conversation with @taetaeby about sweets, coffee and Yoongi.

“Come on, take a break.”

If there were a list of things you definitely shouldn’t tell Min Yoongi, that would be at the top of it right after Hey, wake up, sleepy head. Still, you get no reaction from the young man sitting in the chair in front the computer illuminated by its fluorescent light. His fingers are constantly typing, clicking, pausing or drumming to the beat that’s coming from his headphones. He is so lost in his music that he is completely unfazed by his surroundings.  You take a few steps towards him after closing the door shut with a quiet click and setting aside the bag in your hands. You have always found the so-called Genius Lab cozy with its worn leather couch and stylish furniture decorated with memories of its owner’s most cherished or life-changing moments: a museum of photos, awards, CDs and let’s not forget about the iconic Kumamon plushies either.

Your steps come to a halt just to stand behind the swivel chair that provides you a better view of what Yoongi is currently working on. Not that you know anything about music softwares, so the only thing you comprehend is that he’s still staring at the same file he opened two days ago when you were in. Based on the empty pizza and Chinese take-out boxes in the corner it looks like he didn’t move around a lot in the meantime and you sigh at the collection of various neglected energy drinks on the wooden table. You gently pull off the headphones you bought for him last Christmas and place it around his neck while you bend down to rest your chin on his shoulder.

“Hey,” you greet him in a soft murmur, pressing a short peck on his nape which finally jerks him out of the trance. You feel the muscles in his shoulders tense immediately because he certainly didn’t expect a visitor in the middle of the night and your fingers move quickly to soothe him by applying light pressure on the uptight area.

“Oh shit, it’s late, right? I forgot about time,” cusses fly out of Yoongi’s mouth followed by a tired yawn and you can tell from his raspy, deep voice that he hasn’t spoken out loud in a while. Which means he didn’t really have company during the past days.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him like the patient girlfriend you are even if you hate sleeping in the cold king-sized bed alone. You had been well aware of his life style and perfectionism when you started dating after being just friends for years. You admire him for being so invested in music, living so diligently to his passion but you are willing to be that person who stops him if he overdoes it. Someone has to make sure he takes care of his health and doesn’t forget about his family and friends either.

Your hands smooth down on his hoodie-covered arms and when you reach his pale, bony fingers, both of you instinctively move to intertwine them with yours. “Let’s go. You need to get some rest,” you nudge him lightly, whispering into his skin that’s still faintly mint-scented despite the previous days without seeing daylight much less taking a decent shower.

“Soon. I’ll just finish this beat,” Yoongi promises hastily while he brings your hand close to his face and you feel his slightly chapped lips brushing over your knuckles lovingly. Even though his affectionate gesture sends shivers down your spine, you know better: in his dictionary soon means another hour then one more again and so on. The never-ending battle with his own expectations to create something perfect: he won’t stop until he’s satisfied with the track and that takes a lot of time. You can’t blame him because good things take time and the outcome is always jaw-dropping: a heart-stirring song you could cry on or a rap track you would be hyped for. However, it means a lot more nights spent alone. An unintended whine escapes your throat.

“You haven’t come home yesterday and the day before either,” you remind him trying not to pout but failing miserably. The disappointment must colour your voice too because Yoongi turns in his chair and looks at you with those sincere eyes as black as his favourite coffee.

“You know what it’s like with inspiration.”

It sounds like an apology you don’t want to hear. You understand and respect his love for music and his loyalty to his fans but you won’t let him work himself to death.

“I know,” you mutter with an acknowledging nod because during the last nine months of your relationship and ever before, as soon as you miraculously became friends with him over a cup of coffee, you promptly learned how it is when he gets into the zone. You literally had to drag him out last time when he was in this phase before their latest comeback. You mercilessly threatened him to visit Holly, his beloved dog in his hometown alone and bless your acting skills, he believed that and crawled out of his cave. Somehow you figured, the trick won’t work multiple times. So you adapt to the circumstances with a sigh. “I kind of already knew you would say that so I bought you coffee and sweets just in case your supply ran out.”

You draw back a little and pull out two cups of sweetened coffee from the bag set aside along with a package of colourful french fancies you bought at that fancy patisserie open 24/7 down the corner to ensure his normal blood sugar level. Of course, you also brought decent food: a serving of black bean noodles and spicy rice cake.

“You are an angel.” Your boyfriend exclaims with widened eyes, sitting up straight and he licks his lower lip at the sight. You just smile at his eagerness and hold out wooden chopsticks for him which he takes still dazed. “What did I do to deserve you? I must have saved the world in my earlier life.”

“Probably,” you laugh it off, a pink blush heating up your cheeks as you watch him attacking the sauced pasta. He doesn’t talk much while he’s munching on the food but he has always been softspoken. You’re glancing at the luminescent light of the clock on the shelf and it shows a little over 1AM.

Your boyfriend lets out a content sigh patting his now full stomach and tosses away the empty box. He wash away the taste of spicy food with big gulps of coffee and you swallow hard at the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can’t even argue with that fan claiming she would sue Yoongi because he really is a dangerous man. Who else could turn you on just by looking hella fine while drinking?

“I really needed this, thanks,” he rewards you with a grateful smile after he finishes the cup, and then turns back towards his computer to continue working.

You almost unconsciously slip off the table you’ve been sitting on the last fifteen minutes while Yoongi devoured the food you bought him. You know that you should probably go and leave him work in peace so he can come home in the morning and make it up to you. But you’re needy when it comes to his presence and you don’t want to leave yet, at least not alone. So you slip into his personal space trying not to block his view and unceremoniously sit on his lap sideways with your legs swinging on his left. You act like you don’t know what it does to him even though his tense grip on the computer mouse makes his knuckles turn white. Leaving it without comment, you casually stretch yourself to reach the package of pastries across him as if it was your sole purpose of closing the distance between you.

You open the plastic bag noisily to take out a strawberry flavoured dessert. As soon as the typing sound dies away in the background, you can sense Yoongi’s hungry gaze on you and try your best not to smile. The pastry looks delicious but when you hold it to him, he shakes his head dismissing your kind offer. Though, his dark eyes are still trained on you absorbedly and you dare to maintain the eye contact as you ever so slowly bite into the sweetness.

Eventually you end up smiling when the rapper’s breath hitch in his throat.

“Babe...”

It’s a warning, you know well but it doesn’t stop you from innocently licking the sugar off of your fingers that became sticky because of the frosting.

“Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come home? To freshen up a little? We can shower together and then cuddle,” you murmur, your lips barely touching Yoongi’s ears but his hands suddenly find their way on your waist and his grip immediately tightens.

“Hm... tempting,” he lets out a shuddering breath and you enjoy the effect you have on him until you can. Most of the times he’s too composed to let you have the upperhand so it’s always thrilling to have a chance. He’s a little emotionally reserved, rarely allowing his feelings to be shown but right now he’s too tired to put on a mask and you shamelessly try to make the best out of it.

“Well, that’s what I was aiming for,” you admit with a cute giggle while your fingers are tangling in his soft locks. You press an unexpected peck on his cheek again but Yoongi takes you by surprise as he greedily chases after your sugary lips. He’s still a little tired so the kiss is kind of chaste and sloppy but you love it nonetheless. The coffee washed away the spiced flavours leaving nothing but the bittersweet caffeine aroma on his lips. Shakily you have to grab ahold of your boyfriend’s shoulders while he’s stroking your thigh through the thin fabric of your jeans. You kiss like this for what feels like hours and your limbs slowly turn into jelly at Yoongi’s light touches. You open your mouth instantly with a sigh when his tongue licks at your sugar-coated lips seeking entrance. The way the sweet taste of dessert and the bitterness of coffee mixes overwhelms you and before you could stop yourself, you let out a whimper in pleasure.

Yoongi pulls away with a light groan, panting heavily into your neck with his breath hitting on your heated skin.

“If you keep that up baby girl, even if we make it home, we won't sleep soon.”

You are already breathless from the kissing but the nickname and the implication that slips out of his mouth so casually really knocks out all the air from your lungs. You remind yourself that you came here with a purpose and you won’t be deceived so easily into thinking that it was his idea all along.

“You said you need to finish that damn beat so do it,” you provoke him, just a little and your daring gaze follows the way Yoongi’s tongue wets his lips. Both of you know that it’s a challenge but also a clear innuendo.

Finish what you started is one of Yoongi’s most common used line when it comes to you. He can be a teasing little shit in the bedroom but pretends not to like when you tease him (but oh, he does love it very much). You know exactly how to rile him up and he knows how to push your buttons to conjure up those sweet sounds he adores so much. Sometimes he’s rough and into dirty talk, whispering sinful things into your ear, telling you how much he’d like to record those filthy moans that leave your mouth and maybe include them in his next mixtape. His skillful, fire-spitting tongue and teeth are always on the mission of mapping out your whole body while he holds you down not letting you to touch him, torturing you in the best way possible and only allows you to have your release if you beg him like a good girl. But other times, he’s so gentle as if you were made of porcelain and his gentle touches are sorrys for the purple bruises and love bites he left earlier even though you love the way he marks you and makes you his. His butterfly kisses on your hot skin are full of praises, his mouth engraving silent I love yous on the canvas of your body while he makes love to you oh so good.

“Okay,” Yoongi shrugs nonchalantly, tugging the headphone back on one ear and starts revising the track, replaying it again and again leaving you disappointed and untouched like a doll in a vitrine.

You have no idea because he looks so put together as always that but deep down inside it’s killing him to resist and deny you what you want. Still, he acts like he’s unaffected by your charm and focuses on the unfinished melody while you watch silently as he works. You love observing him when he writes lyrics or produces a song, it's always so inspirational. But tonight, you aren’t in mood for inspiration. It's late and you want to go home. With him.

Your patience only lasts for a few more minutes and while your lips graze his earrings, you can’t see but rather feel Yoongi’s cunning smirk. He knows you too well, he knew you would break eventually, a lot sooner than he would give in because you aren’t as stubborn as him.

You plant a kiss under his ear, then right under his jaw, at the corner of his mouth and then on his plump pink lips. You expect him to stop you, to tell you to leave him alone for a bit but he surprises you once again and you gasp loudly when he finally kisses you back with fervor. His hands cup your face keeping you close while you lick the taste of iced americano out of his mouth and savour it. He always tastes like coffee. bitter and sweet at the same time, it's addictive, really.

“Impatient, are we? You really want me that much, huh?” He chuckles sneaking a hand under the hem of your shirt so he can caress the soft skin of your stomach.

“So bad,” you admit without shame and your eyes flutter half-closed at the wonders his long, pianist fingers are doing to your skin leaving goosebumps behind. You can’t even protest, not when he asks you so nicely. But who could blame you? When a comeback or concert tour is nearing, you see your boyfriend less often and he’s always so stressed, you rarely have time to be intimate. It’s been a while and you missed feeling him close.

“You couldn’t even wait until I finish. You’re so spoiled, princess,” Yoongi clicks his tongue disapprovingly and you feel arousal licking your veins at the authoritative tone of his smooth voice. The small studio suddenly feels too hot. Perhaps you like it a little too much when he takes charge. You can’t seem to shake off the memories of him blindfolding you and tying you up completely leaving you at his mercy and you think you could get off on that thought alone. But why bother if he was right here?

“Will you punish me for being bad?” you ask seductively, fluttering your eyelashes at him while your naughty fingers dance down on Yoongi’s chest until the button of his jeans and you tease it just to test the waters without taking your eyes off of him.

“Maybe,” he replies after a moment or two of nerve-wrecking silence and his raspy voice sends shivers down your spine. The anticipation is building up quickly as you bury your fingers into Yoongi’s soft raven hair you adore so much and he wastes no time to crash your lips together. As you devour each other you can still feel the sleepiness in your boyfriends’ lazy moves but you find it too attractive to complain about it. Maybe he will make you do all the work tonight, but you wouldn’t regret it one bit.

The way his calloused fingers tap on the small of your back makes you bold and he growls into your mouth when you sit a little too close to his sensitive part.

“I changed my mind…” he pants heavily as he pulls back but you’re no better when a whine escapes your mouth. You can’t help the tremble either that shakes you to the core when his rough voice whispers those dirty words so close to your ear, his teeth gently nipping at your earlobe. “You’re definitely going to get punished. You’ll regret playing with me, baby girl.”

You know that he’s dead serious because he doesn’t joke about these things. Yet, it’s not fear but excitement that makes your blood boil. He’s like fire, burning hot but you’re reckless enough to seek this intoxicating sensation.

“Really? Because so far you’ve been all talk but no action,” you say trying to keep your voice as calm as possible but it cracks when Yoongi’s fingers teasingly play with the clasp of your lacy bra under your shirt. Staring into his darkened coffee brown orbs, you can pinpoint the exact moment when he snaps. He dives in to lock lips with you quickly and roughly one last time before he pats your butt silently ordering you to stand up. As you obediently do that, you can see the mischievous glint in Yoongi’s eyes and the dangerous curve of his mouth promising you a long, long night.

“Okay, you won. Let’s go home.”

And oh, winning never felt so sweet.

[glare-gryphon]

that wingman prompt for anakin and obi wan would be so good, or the one with the grades/bookstore! i can so see obi wan, like a foot shorter and clutching a stack of books, offering to fight anakin because hes distracting the fucking prof again or he dared to insult his favourite super accurate long ass historical novel indie author

Done and Done ‘nonnie. Please forgive any errors, it is very late (or very early, depending on your outlook).

Rating: M

Pairings: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Padme Amidala/Bail Organa/Breha Organa (mentioned)

1,200 Words

Prompt: We were both playing wingman for our friends who have now decided to go home together, and after five minutes of conversation we fucking hate each other, let’s bang it out AU

He’s here again—that kid with the blonde hair and blue eyes that would be right up his alley if weren’t attached to that damned mouth. Even from the other side of the bar, Obi-Wan can hear him. Too loud, too enthusiastic, too drunk despite the fact that the night has only just begun. He and his posse are packed tight into a booth, empty glasses strewn across the table, swapping stories of the week’s conquests and capitulations.

On nights like these there is usually a woman in his lap, brown hair spilling down her shoulders and her eyes bright with drink. They make a pretty picture, Obi-Wan would grudgingly admit, but the rumors around campus have never solidly pinned down whether or not Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala are fucking. Instead, they seem intent on leading the student body of Coruscant University on the world’s longest wild goose chase. They show up at the local watering hole, tailed by their posse of adoring underclassmen, and make a big show of being seen together. By the end of the night, though, they usually end up going home with someone else on their arm.

It’s happening now, as Amidala saunters over to the bar under the pretense of refilling her glass. “Hey,” she says with a wry grin, drawing Obi-Wan’s attention from his own drink, “you should tell your friends that it’s not polite to stare.” She glances over his shoulder as the bartender sets something before her that’s colorful and small and undoubtedly packing more of a punch than Obi-Wan’s entire pint of cheap beer; he doesn’t have to look back to know who she throws a flirtatious wink to.

Bail and Breha have been dating since birth, as far as the university’s rumor mill is concerned; they may well have come out of the womb attached at the hip. They take the same classes, attend the same clubs, and rent a small apartment together off campus. Recently they’ve taken an interest in expanding their horizons, seeking out a third party to invite into their bed. Among the steadily growing list of rejections is Obi-Wan himself. As much as he enjoys their company, he has little interest in enjoying their company and has since been relegated to wingman duties on these little scouting adventures. Judging by the way she smiles at them, leaning over the bar to emphasize the swell of her breasts, they may have just found a winner in Padme Amidala.

They abandon him by the time he’s halfway through his second pint, most of Amidala’s posse filing out shortly after. Skywalker remains, boots propped up on the table in a gross breach of social conduct. His very presence grates at Obi-Wan’s patience in ways he has never and will never try to understand. There are more important things to spend his time on than Anakin Skywalker’s poor manners.

He’s just about reached the bottom of the pint when it happens: a glass slamming down on the bar-top next to his own. “Fill ‘er up,” that infuriating voice calls to the bartender, and Obi-Wan’s free hand clenches without his express permission.

“I think you’ve had quite enough,” Obi-Wan drawls, drawing the attention of the man at his side.

Skywalker fixes him with a look as though sizing him up, trying to decide whether or not to engage. “Maybe you just haven’t had enough.”

“Yes, well, some of us actually intend on going to class in the morning.”

“I pity you, then. The way classes are here, only morons really need to attend them.”

“Remember those words the next time you look at your grade point average.” Pulling his wallet from his coat to cover his tab, Obi-Wan takes his leave of Skywalker’s presence.

It’s not a long reprieve. He’d barely out the door, barely had time to light up a cigarette, before he’s being shoved into the alleyway beside the bar and pressed up against the brick. The cig falls from his grip and puts itself out on the pavement.

“Do we have a fucking problem?” Skywalker demands, up his face, breath drink-sour. He’s unsteady on his feet, but his grip is strong where it’s clenched in the front of Obi-Wan’s coat.

“I don’t know,” he sneers back. “Do we?”

Anakin’s free arm draws back, as though he intends to start something, but Obi-Wan is more sober than he. He dodges the oncoming blow with relative ease in comparison to the concentration it took Skywalker to throw it, but the following scuffle is nothing to write home about. They’ve both had too much to drink for it to be a real fight—the world spins unpredictably before their eyes, throwing off balance and aim.

Eventually, though, Kenobi does triumph. Skywalker’s back hits the wall where Obi-Wan had been only a few minutes before, the latter’s hands wrapped around the column of Anakin’s throat. They’re drunk, and angry, and they aren’t even sure why, but that doesn’t stop Kenobi from catching the hitch in Skywalker’s breath when his fingers press down on the other man’s windpipe. It doesn’t stop the rush of visceral satisfaction at the feeling of Anakin’s arousal pressing against his hip; at knowing that he has made Anakin undone. Obi-Wan can feel his own erection straining at the zip of his pants as they stare each other down, a heady tension between them.

“I hate you,” Skywalker snarls, right before he leans into the grip on his throat in order to catch Obi-Wan’s lips with his own.

It’s rough and biting, more teeth than tongue, as they fumble for each other’s belts in the shadow of the alley. A particularly strong bite breaks the skin of Obi-Wan’s lower lip, the metallic taste of blood drowning out the alcohol on their breath, and Anakin hisses when Kenobi responds in kind.

They catch their freed lengths between them, night-cold and calloused fingers dragging along skin with little finesse. There is a time and place for that; it’s not here. Here is for ragged breath, stifled gasps, bitter words as they drive each other toward the edge.

Skywalker moans into the muffle of Obi-Wan’s palm when he climaxes, painting their hands and their coats with the evidence of his orgasm; Kenobi follows shortly after.

Then there is silence. Silence as they tuck themselves away and silence as they do their best to clean themselves up. Obi-Wan has a handful of napkins stuffed in the pocket of his coat, which he shares with Anakin. They don’t meet each other’s eyes and pretend not to notice when their fingers brush in the handoff. When he takes a fresh cigarette from his pack, Obi-Wan passes one to Anakin without having to be asked. “I’ll see you in class, then,” he grunts when he pockets his lighter once again.

Skywalker says nothing, but Obi-Wan hadn’t expected him to. He never says anything afterwards—just bums a cigarette and lets Obi-Wan leave first. There’s nothing to say; they both know they’ll be back to reenact this scene in a week’s time, just like they did the week before, and the week before that, and every week since they first locked eyes across the bar.

[hcneycakc-blog]

@wrathfillcd

sofia had taken hold of honey’s mind this evening. no matter who the escort spoke to or flirted with, she kept looking for the other. a two minute conversation that consisted of polite hello’s and sofia grinding back against honey and she was hooked. honey made her way back through the club, locating sofia and curling her fingers around her wrist to stay close to her. her lips found her ear easily. “come with me.” she didn’t wait for an answer, just started to walk towards the bathroom, pulling sofia along behind her. if the other decided she didn’t want to go with honey, that was fair and it could be dropped easily. but the way they had looked at each other like they had been mentally undressing each other all evening. and right then, all honey wanted was to talk to her, have her a little closer. all she could think of was having sofia pressed against her body. shoving the door to the bathroom open, honey pulled sofia inside, leaning up against the row of sinks. the bathroom was mostly empty, the last few girls slipping out once they had entered. her breathing was heavy and her skin was slick with sweat. she probably looked like a hot mess, but she didn’t care about anything but being with sofia right then. “so, i haven’t been able to get you out of my mind all night. i just need to know one thing.” her fingers curled around her hip and pulled sofia close until she would hear her as she whispered. “what you’ll taste like on my tongue.”