#goodbye sir you finally crossed the line and forced me to deal with an actual legal/safety issue

[floofyfluff]

i have been going through things to an exceptionally impressive degree on like three separate fronts over the last week. and i finally got done losing my mind about it today and instead turned all my despair into committing several malicious acts. none of which i regret bc the people who will and are suffering as a consequence of my actions all fucking deserve it.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Can i get a yandere steve or bucky "rescuing reader" from a family brunch? She doesn't know him, hes been stalking her.

Who loves the characters stalking their darlings?? Meeee 🙈🙈🙈

Thank you for your request, honey!

Secret relationship

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, swearing, implied stalking, kidnapping.

Words: 1729.

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Although the encounters with your family grew a bit more hostile over the year, this family brunch was an utter nightmare to you: your mom decided you didn’t know how worried she were about you having no decent partner. Listening to her trying to force you meeting a son of her coworker - “a very sweet boy with a kind heart and a nice salary, Y/N!” - you did your best not to roll your eyes. She was being impossible. Why on Earth did your mother think she could invade your life this way? You weren’t a kid anymore, and you didn’t need her interfering in your affairs.

But even your dad was unable to stop her as she kept talking more and more about you finally settling down. Once again your mother reminded you that in your age she had already had children of her own while you still struggled to find a man. Of course, she didn’t listen to you saying you didn’t want to settle down just yet. 

Internally screaming, you drank your tea, unable to touch those amazing cinnamon buns right in front of you because your mom would definitely ask you whether you kept a healthy diet. She sent you such a look when you wanted to order some pasta.

“Mom, please.” You exhaled, barely holding on. “Every time you tried fixing me up with someone it never worked out. I know you’re doing it for me, but, ugh, we just have very different taste in men. Dad, no offense!”

He had to suppress a laugh under your mother’s icy glare and quickly snatched a bun, pretending he’s busy eating. You couldn’t blame him - sometimes you wandered how he was holding on all those years with your mom.

She wasn’t a bad parent, really. You loved her, and she was ready to give you everything she had to make you happy, but sometimes your mother just couldn’t see the line where she had to stop. Of course, her concern was genuine, yet she had no right to intrude into your personal life like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Dear, if you were able to find a nice man on your own, I wouldn’t have to do it for you,” she said, narrowing her eyes at you, and you felt like hiding behind your dad’s back.

“Well, maybe I have someone, but I just don’t tell you about him!” You protested, setting your cup back on the saucer and crossing your arms on your chest. “Have you ever thought about that?”

“And why would you refuse letting me know you date someone decent?” She chuckled, lowering her fork into heavenly smelling spaghetti Bolognese. “The answer is simple, isn’t it? Because even if he exists he’s not decent!”

You were really fighting your growing desire to just stand up, pay for the meal at the counter and leave because your mother was really insufferable today. You could never understand her concern with you not seeing anyone. if you were still happy, why did it matter? Why didn’t she ask you about your reasons? The last relationship you were in was suffocating, and you thought you were still recovering from it, enjoying your freedom.

God, now you were really thinking of asking your friend to pretend you were dating just to calm down your mom.

Exhaling loudly and squeezing your eyes shut when your dad tried talking to her, you wished for this family brunch to end as quickly as it could. Well, could you maybe message some of your friends to give you a call and then act like it was your boss? Last time it worked.

“Sweetheart, why do you never pick up your phone?”

Someone’s voice rang right behind you, and you jumped a little in your seat, turning away from your parents and looking at the man standing too close to your liking. 

Holy cow. He looked like Adonis. Or Apollo. You couldn’t really tell, gawking at his impressive biceps barely hidden by his t-shirt, his tight jeans hugging all the right places - he reminded you of a ancient Greek statue, so picture-perfect and absolutely hot.

But what did this breathtakingly handsome stranger want from you? You certainly didn’t remember befriending any Greek gods in this lifetime.

“I’m sorry if I scared you. I admit I was a little mad you didn’t answer my calls.” He smiled, disarming and charming, and you were almost chocking on air at his tender tone. 

Then he lifted the sunglasses he was wearing, and you realized he was winking at you. 

Oh. Ooooh.

“I’m sorry!” You exclaimed, hurriedly taking out your phone from your bag hanging on the chair. “I put it on silent and forgot to check. Hi dear! How did you find me?”

“I’ve been secretly stalking you, of course.” He laughed it off, and the glasses kept going down on his nose until you saw who he really was. The next second you froze, happy you turned away from your parents as they would definitely see something wasn’t right.

Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, was staring back at you.

For a moment you forgot how to breathe, mentally kicking yourself to say something, anything at all to keep the conversation going. Captain America saw your miserable encounter with your mom and decided to give you a hand to escape this family brunch, and you weren’t even able to utter a single word. But who could blame you for that, right? How often did you see a superhero coming to rescue you from your own mom?

You needed to say something. You absolutely needed to say something.

“I will be more careful next time.” You managed to smile playfully at him, turning to face your parents and seeing they, too, had already realized who was standing in front of them. “Mom, dad, I’m sorry, but there’s a very good reason why I can’t meet that nice guy you were telling me about.”

“Please, forgive me my rudeness.” Steve hurriedly said as if he just saw people sitting at the same table with you, coming closer and extending his arm to your dad, then kissing the back of your mother’s hand. You were ready to laugh at her bedazzled expression, her mouth open a little. “My name is Steve. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Your father said in a quiet voice, unable to process who was standing close to him. 

It looked pretty surreal to you too, but you could hardly wish for a more perfect way to stop your mom from fixing you up with someone. Of course, you couldn’t tell her about your date because you were seeing Captain fucking America, alright? And no other sweet and nice boy could ever be compared to him, perfection of perfection.

You were so damn lucky Steve Rogers was willing to help you out here.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt your brunch, but I really need Y/N’s help with something and it's rather delicate. May I snatch her from you?” You could tell even your mother was absolutely abashed with his wide smile when Steve looked at her questioningly.

“O-of course, sir.” Your dad said, seeing his wife currently losing her ability to speak. “We perfectly understand. Thank you for taking care of her. Have a good day!”

With that you were finally free, standing up abruptly and clenching your bag in your hands as you bid your goodbye to your parents, now walking side by side with a national hero who had put his large arm around your waist like it was a usual thing. You still had a hard time accepting the fact it was Steve Rogers who had volunteered to save you. He was risking his privacy doing it - how did he know your mom or you wouldn’t run to paparazzi squad and claim you’re dating Captain America? It would surely bring him troubles.

Yet here you were, walking further and further from that little restaurant with him, unable to say a single word.

“Thank you so much, sir.” You barely whispered, and the man turned his head to you, smiling. “I don’t know what I’d do if you wouldn’t come.”

“Why are you calling me sir?” He laughed, shaking his head and rubbing your back affectionately. “I’m just Steve. Always happy to help a lady.”

Your cheeks were burning instantly, and you bit your lips, lowering your head and wondering how far did you have to walk together so your parents wouldn’t see you two parting ways. Hell, would your mom try to spy on you? It wouldn’t be surprising, actually.

So, you walked and walked until the restaurant became just a little spot somewhere far away.

“Thank you for your help.” You repeated, stopping in the middle of a street and making Steve frown, unable to understand why you weren’t willing to keep walking. “I’m so sorry I took so much of your time. You don’t have to accompany me any longer!”

“What?” He asked, looking at you with a slight concern. 

“I mean, I’m sure my parents had long lost us in the crowd. Besides, we’re so far from them, So, um, you don’t have to keep pretending.”

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?”

Taking his sunglasses away, he gently drew you closer to him, and you watched him tilting his head to the side as he rubbed circles on the back of your hand. Steve’s smile was so tender it was able to make you melt, but the way his eyes lingered on you... You suddenly felt uneasy. Why was he reluctant to let you go?

“I’m saying I’m alright and I can continue on my own, si-” You got silent for a second as his gaze turned dark. “Steve.”

“Let’s not a make a scene, dear.” He smiled, giving you a kiss on the forehead while you froze on the spot. “I don’t want your mom to think things haven't been great between us. It’s gonna break her heart, you know?”

Before you had time to say something, confused and a little scared of the things Steve was talking about, he had forcefully dragged you along to a car parked out on the street and opened the door, quickly pushing you inside. He closed the door right when you decided it was time to scream for help.

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Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin ​@void-hoechlin @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lovelydarkdaydream @soleil-dor @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @ninefuckingoneone  

[letitrainathousandflames]

There Was No Father

Rating: Mature/18+

Warnings: force pregnancy, forced pregnancy, force rape (technically), sith mind tricks, foreshadowing, slavery, sexual slavery mention, childbirth, ask to tag

-

The atmosphere is hot, stifling. The black-haired woman squints at the sunlight, standing in line with other slaves, some human like her, others from different species.

The only thing she carries from the life she had before slavery is the name her mother had given her. Shmi. If she closed her eyes, she could still picture her mother’s face, feel the scent and warmth of her embrace back when she was only a child.

Now Shmi is twenty-eight, and her mother is long gone, worked to death as a slave at a mining planet. Her current owner, an angry-looking Rodian, pokes a nautolan slave with a shock staff. The nautolan screams.

“Fix that posture!” The slave master barks “We have a very important client arriving! If any of you wanna be purchased by this rich looking fellow, you better look decent and get me a good deal!”

The slave master walks away, most likely to greet the new customer.

Shmi sighs heavily, squaring her shoulders as best as she can with little hope. She doubts any new master will be much different from this one, of the one before. Being a slave is always a nightmare and all she could hope is that this one wouldn’t be amused by hitting her or not allowing her to eat.

She hears her master approaching and keep her eyes low on the dirt. She knows better than daring to look a potential buyer in the eyes without permission.

“-sure you don’t want to take off that cape? It’s very hot out here, sir. I hear the only place hotter than this is Tattooine, a couple of sectors away. If this one sun is nearly baking me alive, can’t imagine what two of ‘em must be like. By the way, where did you say you were from?”

Shmi hears a voice that is somehow soft spoken but at the same time carries a coldness that’s sends shivers down her spine.

“That is none of your business.”

Her master seems displeased at that.

“Now, listen, there is no need to-”

Shmi could feel the temperature drop, which would be pleasant any other day in this scorching planet, but all she could do was shiver, her entire body tensing up.

“I have crossed several systems looking for something that is in your possession. I do not have time to exchange inane words with an ignorant creature in this speck of uselessness you call a planet. You will show me your slaves, now."

The slaves held their breath, already anticipating their master's explosive outburst. Instead, he spoke in a dazed tone:

"I will show you my slaves now..." at the corner of her eye, Shmi could see the master and a man clad in a black cloak stand before a lean, battered wookiee "This one's mighty strong, good for hefting heavy stuff, can work for hours on end-"

"No. This isn't what I'm looking for."

"Well, then there is this human here, he's good at fixing stuff, got a couple droids back in business when-"

"This is not the one."

They kept going through the line quickly, approaching Shmi at every step and every discarded option. Shmi swallowed down, setting her jaw. At their steady approaching, she felt colder and colder, shivers creeping down her spine. Her breathing was shallow, her chest feeling tight.

The man in the cloak stood right in front of her, and Shmi felt like she was being engulfed by the cold, her body sweaty from the weather but every hair on her body standing up with her shivers. Her eyes were still on the ground, and she could notice the expensive material of the man's cloak and the robes underneath it, everything black, a strange choice of clothes for such a hot environment.

"...this one. Where did you find her?"

"Ah, I bought her off at an auction in Saleucami. Don't be fooled by her frail looks - this one is strong, can work all day long even without food."

The man's sharp tone shifted into a much softer, gentler one.

"Look at me, young one."

"Ah, sir, don't bother talking to the slave, I can tell you everything you need to know-"

"You will stop talking now." the man spoke harshly to the master "I can appraise her worth myself."

Once again, unexplainably, the master merely nodded, taking a couple of steps back and standing in silence. The man in the cloak spoke again, in a low, gentle voice:

“I said look at me, young one.”

Shmi forced herself to raise her face, looking up at the man in front of her. His face was partially hidden in the shadow of his hood, but with the closeness she could make him to be a man in his late forties or early fifties. His eyes gleamed at her, yellow irises surrounded by a red rim shifting into a gentle blue so quickly she wondered if she had seen it wrong.

The man brought a hand to her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone. His touch was strangely cold and unwelcome but Shmi tried her best to stay perfectly still. However, she swallowed down tensely, taking the risk of stating her limits, even though she knew that doing so might’ve warranted a slap across the very face he caressed.

“Sir, I am not that kind of slave.”

The man clicked his tongue dismissively, moving his hand to tuck his pointer finger under her chin and making her face him properly.

“How old are you?”

Oh, moons, he was looking for a bedchamber slave. Shmi gulps down, trying to keep the disgust off her features. Her master would often tell her to lie and take about five years off her actual age, but since he was being so complacent and Shmi would rather work to death like her mother rather than losing the very last shred of dignity she still had, she said the truth:

“I’m twenty-eight, sir. Will be twenty-nine in a few rotations. I-I am good with crops. A-and droids, I’m not as good as Jayden there, but I can fix a wiring or two. I’m strong, as my master said, quite used to heavy work.”

She raised her hands between the two of them, showing the scrapped and chipped nails and the dry, calloused fingers of a worker. Most men were put off by this, and Shmi would purposefully have her disheveled hair tied up in an unflattering low bun to warrant off any advances. At twenty-eight she was still a virgin, and she had no interest in laying with men, masters or otherwise, without any kind of connection, of love between them.

“Twenty-eight…” the man repeated, sizing her up with a gaze that swept up and down her form “Pity. A tad too old, I’m afraid.”

Shmi was simultaneously offended and relieved, lowering her hands at her sides; did that mean the man wasn’t interested in keeping her as a bedchamber slave?

“However, I cannot let this go to waste. Such power… If only you were young enough to be trained.”

Suddenly, Shmi could feel her entire body stiffen, as if she was being held by invisible ropes that tied every inch of her from head to toe. The man tilted his head to the side, smirking, and he brought his hand to her middle, right over her lower stomach.

“Hey!” her master shouted “Hands off the merchandise!”

The man ignored him, and Shmi could only whimper, trying to break free from the power holding her still.

“This will be very interesting.” The man muttered, and Shmi could feel a sudden warmth in her stomach, her skin tingling and her abdomen tightening; the feeling was as unwelcome as the cold that preceded it

Get your hands off me! Shmi thought, her face cringing in disgust, Stop touching me!

The man released her with a smirk, pulling his hand away. Shmi felt the power restraining her finally release her body and nearly collapsed, struggling to stay on her feet. Her body felt strange, and the warm sensation in her stomach did not cease.

“I believe this will be all. Goodbye.”

The man turned and left, leaving Shmi unsettled and her master furious, screaming at her to never say her true age in a sale ever again, but Shmi wasn’t really listening, her hands falling over her stomach. Something had happened, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t understand what it was.

A month later she had long forgotten about that particular incident, finding it very strange that she missed her period. On the following weeks, she would start feeling nauseous every morning. Two months later, she would notice her stomach swelling despite her poor diet. Several months later, on one late night of work all alone in a tool shed, she would collapse on the floor with the pain of her stomach contractions, muffling her screams in a cloth not to wake up her master and struggling for hours until she gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby.

“There was no father”, she would say, and no one would believe her.

[fic-xation]

Spicing It Up

Sam proposes something a little unorthodox for his and Max’s night off. But is it too much for even Max to handle? Archive of our Own

"Uh-huh? ... Yeah. Oh, yeah. Absolutely... Ah, Mahzeltov! ... Well, give her my best. Goodbye, sir."

"Well?" Max asked, anxiously popping his head out from the crowded confines of their office trash can. Their usual scuffle over the phone always landed him in the strangest of places... "What'd the commissioner say?"

Sam, shaking his head, hung up the receiver.

"Sorry, lil' buddy. No aliens, demons, mutants, or some unholy amalgamation of the three."

"What about a ponzi scheme?!" Max rocketed himself from the trashcan, snagging at Sam's collar in a panicked frenzy. "Embezzlement?! ... Hell, I'll even settle for mild insurance fraud, jut gimme SOMETHING, man! Anything!"

With the air of one casually removing a tick, Sam snagged at Max's ears, and plucked him from his lapel.

"Nothin' doin', Max. There isn't even so much as a WHISPER of crime tonight."

Tossing his friend to one side, Sam crossed over towards the open window, his hands comfortably nestled in their respective pockets.

"Seems as if the city that never sleeps is taking a much needed power nap." he said thoughtfully.

His partner, however, was far from thoughtful.

"... AaaaaAAAHHHH, I CAN'T TAKE THE SILENCE, SAM!! I need chaos! I need mayhem! I need some sense of superiority as I beat the snot out of some slimy smuggler!"

With a faintly groan, Max collapsed, face-first, against the floor. Sam, meanwhile, merely observed him, scratching at his doggish ear with a contemplative sort of expression.

"... Well..." Sam slid the window shut. "If you're REALLY eager for something to do... We could, uh..." he cleared his throat, awkwardly straightening his tie. "Y'know... Spend some 'quality' time together..."

Max's despair seemed to vanish as quickly as it'd appeared. Scrambling to his feet, he race over towards Sam, leaping into his unsuspecting arms like a bride readying to cross the threshold.

"Why SAMMY, you dirty dog..." Max cooed, snuggling up to his partner's broad chest. "Why didn't you just SAY so?"

He gave a saccharine giggle of mock, girlish delight, coyly tracing little circles against the fabric of Sam's tie.

"What did you have in mind? ... Ooh! Why don't we break into the aquarium again and have a brief make-out sesh in the shark tank?"

"Ehh," Sam shrugged. "I don't think so... I always get the feeling those great whites are enjoying it far more than they should..."

"Fair enough... Oh! How's about a game of ~French Maid Shooting the Balls Off a Nazi Officer?~" Max's smile then faded slightly. "Wait, no, I tore up my fishnet stockings after that caper in Reno last week... Ooh, I got it! How about you leave me handcuffed to the bed, forcing me to relive my mysterious childhood trauma as I desperately struggle for survival?" Max seemed to salivate at the very idea. "Oh my god... HOT..."

"... Actually..." Sam gave a sheepish little smile. "I was thinking we could try something... Different."

"Oooh!" Max flashed a carnivorous grin. "Spicing it up, I see! Do tell!"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, before snapping it shut with a bashful whine. Whatever this idea was, it was evidently too embarrassing to speak aloud. Chewing his lower lip, Sam gestured for Max to come closer. Max, kicking his elongated feet excitedly, happily obliged, gleefully leaning in as Sam finally mustered the courage to whisper his proposal.

Max's smile melted like an ice cube on a frying pan. Mouth agape, he suddenly drew back from Sam's embrace.

"... Y-you're... You're not SERIOUS, right?"

"We don't have to try it if you don't want to!" Sam said hurriedly, waving his hands. "I-it was just a thought!"

"... Yeah, but... Why THAT?" Max seemed repulsed by the very notion. "It's just... It's so... Ugh! I can't even SAY it!"

"I know it's a little... out of the norm for us-" Sam said, settling himself onto a chair as he shyly rubbed the back of his neck. "I just... y'know..."

"... Are you bored with our usual shtick?" Max looked almost hurt by the idea.

Sam's ears pricked up almost at once.

"No! No, buddy, far from it! ... I was only thinkin'... Maybe if we TRIED it, we might wind up likin' it... We wouldn't make a habit of it, of course, but..." he trailed off, lowering the brim of his hat down over his eyes. "... Nothing. Forget I even-"

"Do YOU wanna try it?"

... A surprisingly straightforward question, considering it was Max.

With a sputter of surprise, Sam felt the heat rise against his muzzle. Squaring his shoulders, he hurriedly glanced away.

"... Th-that... That's not really impor-"

"Up-up-up!" Max swatted a finger against Sam's lip. "Shut it, Sam, I've heard enough. Look, if you REALLY wanna give this... THING a shot, I'm in."

Sam finally returned his gaze to Max, eyes wide.

"But... But I thought-"

"Well, QUIT thinkin', or you'll work yourself into a freakin' tizzy! And mind you, I don't use the word 'tizzy' that often." Max reached up, readjusting Sam's hat to its proper angle. "... At the risk of sounding like some pouty-faced teen in a bad chick-flick, I..." he glanced down, fidgeting with his hands. "... Well, I trust you. You wanna do something, so I'll try it. If I like it, great. If I don't, I get to take a baseball bat to your kneecaps. Win-win!"

"... When did a baseball bat enter into the equation?" Sam smiled slightly.

"It's called 'incentive,' Sam." Max huffed, folding his arms. "So, we got a deal?" Sam's chuckled lightly, patting a gentle paw to the crown of Sam's head.

"Okay, lil' buddy... If you insist."

~~

Two hours later, Max found himself in the desolate hallway of their building, just outside their office door, feeling increasingly foolish with every passing second. Swallowing hard, he tugged at the faux pearls lining his throat. In spite of his bravado earlier, the whole ordeal made him uncharacteristically nervous... THIS was new territory for him and Sam... Sure, they'd been married almost eleven times, did the horizontal bop practically every hour, and fooled around with everything from jumper cables to piggy banks... but THIS...

This wasn't just spicing things up, this was dousing it in tabasco sauce before lighting it on fire... 

"Saaa-aaaam-" he whined aloud, hurriedly glancing over his shoulders. "C'mon, aren't you ready YET?"

God forbid any of their neighbors, (least of all Flint Paper) should see him like this... Not that he didn't look amazing. All these years later, and he could STILL rock his old prom dress like an absolute queen... It was just the context of the outfit that made it feel... weird...

And the cheap Taiwanese plastic of the jewelry rubbing up against his fur probably didn't help either.

"Just one more sec, pal!" Sam called back, and suddenly, there came the muffled noise of a clattering misstep, followed by a hefty THUMP.

Curious, Max raised a brow.

"... Ya still alive in there?"

"... J-just lost my footing!" Sam hollered, and Max, with a faint giggle, could hear the embarrassment in his voice.

'... Clumsy goof...' He thought fondly, straightening the candy-colored lace of his hem. Just then, the door swung open, and Max, glancing up, barely troubled to suppress his laughter.

A holdover from their 25th anniversary at the Inventory, Sam was all dolled up in his best, (and probably ONLY) tux; all in black, with a prominent bowtie and tophat replacing their casual counterparts.

"... Look, I didn't have the time OR the money for a new suit, okay?" Sam grumbled, scowling at Max's derisive mirth.

"H-hey! It's important to recycle!" chuckled Max, wiping away a tear as he strolled across the threshold. As soon as the door closed behind him, however, he suddenly took stock of Sam's... 'renovation.'

It quickly became clear why the whole elaborate set-up took close to two hours. The office was cleaner than Max'd ever seen it, (though, admittedly, most of the clutter had just been shoved up against the walls.) In the center stood their rarely used ping-pong table, made only somewhat classier by a red sheet posing as a tablecloth. The lights'd been dimmed, and the shudders drawn, leaving only the rust-stained candelabra as the main source of illumination. Max's nostrils twitched, and he caught a familiar blend of tomatoes, diced onions, and oregano.

Spaghetti sauce.

... Romantic spaghetti sauce... Romantic spaghetti sauce with romantic outfits and romantic mood lighting... How could it get any worse?

"Oh, I hope you don't mind-" Sam's voice cut through Max's train of thought. "I found one of my Sinatra CDs while I was cleaning. Would it be alright if I...?" he trailed off, smiling all too hopefully.

Sinatra. Of course. The perfect soundtrack for any romantic setting.

Max did his best to smile in spite of the anxiety twisting his stomach.

"Sinatra? Sure! Put him on! Ol' blue eyes! Swoonatra! Chairman of the board! After all, the guy's been married four times! Who better to serenade our... d... d-d.." the very word seem to swell Max's tongue. Dry-heaving, he promptly struck his own gut.

"D-DATE! OUR DATE!" he finally choked, gasping for air as he pressed his hands to his knees.

... The relief of finally verbalizing it was dampened slightly by the palpably awkward silence that followed.

"... You good, buddy?" asked Sam, worryingly. Max hurriedly straightened up, forcing a smile with such manic intensity that his left eye began to twitch.

"You betcha! I'm great! I'm better than great! I'm about to have a romantic candle-lit dinner with my... s... s-sweetheart..." Max felt the blood rush to his face, but he bared his teeth, determined to persist. People used cutesy terminology during these things, right? Sam was probably expecting it by this point.

"... I-isn't that right? ... My little... Er... Sh-shumbly... w-wubbles?"

... Max would've given six of his own ribs to crawl under that table and never be seen by anyone ever again.

"... Y'know-" Sam smiled, though not unkindly, as he placed a gentle hand to Max's rigid shoulder. "You don't have to talk like that if it makes you uncomfortable... Heck-" he shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. "It's kinda makin' ME uncomfortable..."

Max exhaled, his body going limp.

"Oh, thank GOD... No offense, Sam, but I just can't do the cutesy-wutesy crap... At least NOT unironically."

"I'd have to agree," nodded Sam, pulling out a chair for his partner. "Watching you trying to be purposefully adorable is like pulling teeth."

"Um, I beg to differ, Sam." Max hopped up onto the chair, the length of his legs barely making it past the edge of the seat. "Pulling teeth is both exhilarating and vaguely erotic. What I did a moment ago was just..." he gave a faint shudder. "Creepy..."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head as he carefully pushed Max in.

"Well, that aside, I DO appreciate your willingness to give this a shot, Max. Just remember, if it gets to be too much, you can tap out at any time." He fetched a comforting smile, playfully tussling the space between Max's ears. "Don't forget, our safeword is 'subvert.'"

"Aaah, subvert." mused Max, settling back against his chair. "My favorite variety of 'vert,' second only to 'per.'"

"Noodle-head." Sam chortled. Leaning over, he planted a soft kiss to Max's cheek, briefly savoring the familiarly fluffy texture against his lips. Max, with a sigh, contentedly leaned into it, a slow smile stretching across his face.

... Maybe this 'conventional' date night wouldn't be so bad...

"Oh, speaking of which-" Sam straightened up, breaking the kiss almost as soon as it'd begun. "I better check on the pasta before it burns."

"Ohhhh," groaned Max, reaching his arms out like a needy toddler. "Can't we just skip the food and play tonsil-hockey for an hour?"

"Your vividly grotesque idioms for making out are strangely winsome, Max." Sam commented, crossing through into the next room.

While his partner made himself busy, Max tried his best to occupy his sporadic attention, absent-mindedly studying the slender prongs of his laid-out fork.

'... I wonder how far I could get this up my nose...' he pondered, before hurriedly shaking his head. 'No, no... No zaniness... Sam wants a nice, romantic evening, and by God's left nipple, I WILL DELIVER!'

... But there was that word again... Romantic... There was just something to it, some sense of unease that dangled from the phrase like a booger. But then again, maybe it wasn't the word, but rather the aesthetic that came with it. Hearts, flowers, naked cherubs and giggling waifs and long walks on the beach... It was just all so...

'Disgusting? Stupid? Flagrantly artificial?'

... Embarrassing....

Maybe it was just because he and Sam never had to experience the awkwardness of a first date. They'd grown up together, and once they finally took their relationship to the next level, their lives just became one long, uninterrupted honeymoon phase. There was never any anxiety over impressing the other, no charade of exemplary manners.

Now, they were on a REAL date...

And Max had to suffer all the emotional torment that came with it.

"Hot stuff, comin' through!"

Max gave a slight start. Quickly setting down the fork, he watched as Sam reentered the office, a saucer of steaming spaghetti on each hand.

"I'll say you are." Max smirked, disguising his surprise behind a snide little wink.

"Aw, hush." scoffed Sam, smiling modestly as he placed their dinner towards their respective ends. Moving over towards the CD player atop his desk, Sam carefully slid the Sinatra disk into place, before hurriedly switching to his favorite track.

"~Every kiss, every hug

seems to act just like a drug.

You're getting to be a habit with me.

Let me stay in your arms,

I'm addicted to your charms.

You're getting to be a habit with me.~"

"How apropos," sneered Max, as the honey voice filled the space.

"Eh, what can I say?" Sam winked in return. "I'm a sucker for theming."

Briefly retreating under the table, Sam soon withdrew a small ice bucket housing a bottle of something pink and bubbly. Holding it at arm's length, Sam popped off the cork, taking care not to spill too much froth.

"... Champagne, eh?" Max smiled, a little uneasily, as Sam poured out their glasses. "... Gee, you, uh... Ya really went all out, huh?"

"Well, go big or go home, right?" Sam said, sounding somewhat unsure. Sliding the bottle back into the bucket, he took his seat opposite Max, suddenly looking around as if having noticed something.

"... Did I overdo it?"

"What? ... Oh, no! No!" Max shook his head. "No, I didn't mean that in a bad way! I'm just..." 'Intimidated?' "... Flattered that you went to so much trouble, that's all!"

Sam relaxed, taking a small sip from his drink, before chuckling. "... Heh... Well, I guess this is what you'd call a childhood fantasy."

"... Really?" Max raised an eyebrow.

"Sure," Sam bowed his head bashfully, his muzzle shifting from brown to red. "I'm only a little ashamed to say so, but ever since my blossoming adolescence, it's been a secret dream of mine to treat my special someone to a hand-crafted night of atmospheric intimacy."

Max pressed a hand to his chest. That was.. surprisingly kind of touching...

"... What are you, a girl? Who refers to themselves as blossoming?"

Much like any knee jerk reaction, the quip was out before he even had a chance to think. Ears standing on end, he clenched his fists so hard against the table that the cloth began to bunch under his fingers. This wasn't right, this wasn't romantic... If the circumstances had been different, it would've been fine. Hell, it would've been expected... But this was a DATE, people aren't supposed to make fun of their dates!

"But I DID blossom," continued Sam, completely unfazed. "I blossomed like a beanstalk. What's YOUR excuse, pint-size?"

Max heaved a sigh, releasing his snag on the wrinkled cloth.

'I've served as the racket for games of tennis that were less stressful than this...' he thought, snatching at his glass, and downing the drink in one quick-fire gulp.

"... You doin' okay, buddy?" Sam said, and all at once, Max felt as if his hand were encased in an oversized catcher's mitt. Max looked up, and saw Sam's platter-sized paw gently caressing his apple-sized fist.

All at once, inspiration took hold; a chance for redemption.

... Or further mortification, depending on how you looked at it. For Max, the odds were pretty split.

Nevertheless, Max screwed up his courage, clutching at Sam's hand with both of his own, he yanked at his partner's arm, drawing the knuckles to his mouth...

... And kissing them.

It was light, clumsy, and about as awkward as a grade school play, but he managed, hurriedly throwing Sam's hand aside like a used snot rag before slumping back against his seat.

Sam, meanwhile, just sat like an open-mouthed totem pole, slowly glancing between Max, and his hand. 

Was that a good reaction?

... Then, quite out of the blue, Sam was chuckling. That special husky, back-of-the-throat sort of chortle that Max typically adored, but was NOW making him feel about as hot as a steamed vegetable, and just as stupid.

"Don't laugh!" he snapped, though something in him was grateful for the sound breaking the tension.

"S... sorry, Max..." Sam snickered. "I-it's just... I haven't seen you blush like that since our ninth honeymoon."

Max's beady eyes narrowed. "... What're you talking about?"

"Oh, come on..." Sam smirked, leaning against his elbow. "You remember."

Max's eyes suddenly went wide.

"... Oh, good Lord Sam-" he whimpered, ears drooped. "Not that, please-"

"Now what WAS it?" Sam playfully pondered, scratching at his chin. "What WAS that little word...?"

"Sam, I beg you-" Max slid further into his seat, his aforementioned blush only deepening. "Please, no!"

"That magic little four syllable phrase-"

"Sam-"

"That rarely used pet name that makes you crumble like a Jenga tower-"

"SAM!"

"Hm?" Sam finally looked towards Max, still smiling his complacent little smile. "Something amiss, my little Lago-Muffin?"

... As soon as it was out in the open, Max wasted no time, slamming his face into the plate of spaghetti with a low, muffled groan. Sauce went flying in all directions, but he didn't care.

He hated Sam.

He hated that stupid nickname.

And he hated how much he loved both of them and how weak they ultimately made him...

"... So you DO remember." Sam piped up, evidently proud of himself. He slid a noodle from Max's scalp, before slurping it up with a satisfied gulp. "I know I remember. You and I had just nabbed the infamous Pinwheel Purloiner, and were celebrating over a chocolate malt. The whole set up was so beautifully Rockwellian that I called you that as a joke... But, low and behold, you purred like James Dean's motorcycle makin' sweet love to Martha Stewart's blender."

"... Done in by a lousy play on words." Max mumbled into the pasta. "... How humiliating..."

"Nah," beamed Sam, raising Max's head up by his ears. "On the contrary, I find it rather endearing." Taking a moment to observe his partner, he added, "Sheesh, Max... ya look like a tomato..."

"Don't remind me," Max grumbled, eyes downcast. Sam shook his head.

"No, I mean ya got sauce all over your face. Here-"

Lifting him up and across the table, Sam drew Max into his lap. Plucking at a napkin, he then began to smother it against Max's unwitting cheek.

"Agh-! S-Sam!" Max sputtered, writhing like a dug-up grub. "Quit it!"

Sam paused.

"Lago-Muffin."

‘... God dammit.’

Max's eyes turned to comical spirals as he slumped against Sam's stomach in a love-struck daze. Satisfied, Sam was able to finish his cleaning before Max came to.

"... That nickname NEVER leaves this room, understood?" Max growled, still red-faced despite the lack of pasta sauce. Sam gave a soft guffaw,

"Whatever you say, Max. Do ya want me to put you ba-"

"No." said Max stoutly, folding his arms. "I live on your lap now."

"... For all intents and purposes, that may as well be true." Sam considered, spooling a strand on pasta onto his fork, before passing it along to Max. Max happily obliged, snaring the fork between his razor-like teeth like a shark.

Just then, Sam's CD reached the final track of the album.

"~I won't dance.

Don't ask me.

I won't dance.

Don't ask me.

I won't dance,

Madame, with you.~"

And once again, Max was granted an idea.

This time, however, with more confidence.

Leaping to the floor, he bowed slightly, offering out his hand in an all-too romantic fashion.

"Sinatra may not dance, but I'd like to." He grinned. "... Care to join me?"

The outright coolness of the gesture was enough to surprise them both. But while Max kept his composure, it was Sam's turn to look flustered. Blushing, he nervously tugged at his bowtie.

"... W-what, uh... what brought this on?"

"Eh," Max shrugged. "I've already been humiliated beyond belief... Twice now, in fact! So, I figure... third time's the charm, right? ... Besides..." He gently threaded their fingers together, urging Sam onto his feet. "... I'm a sucker for theming."

... Maybe the awkwardness of a first date wasn't so bad. Heck, maybe Max was even better at this romance thing than he thought! He'd just have to keep at it if he wanted to get any better.

But that was alright. After all...

Max didn't mind spicing things up every once in a while.

~~

An entire fanfic inspired by a single throwaway line of @supermary64‘s marvelously charming prom comic!

Hope you lovelies enjoyed it!

[ahsien-saffari1-blog]

Ice vs Fire (Poss. AU)

Prompt/Inspiration:  He didn't understand what he'd done to them, but he would by the time they were finished. 

Genre: Angst (Family angst I suppose?) and Fantasy

Pairing(s): None yet, but there will be

Word Count: 2536

Warnings: Brotherly fighting, mild violence (A single punch)

A/N: This ended up sparking an entire AU in my mind, so you’ll probably see more shorts or ‘mini chapters’ regarding this story in the future. I hope you like it and please let me know if you’d be interested in reading more about the AU!

-

“But, but sir, the new school curriculum barely provides any room for the children to have fun and grow their creativity-” Logan raised his hand, effectively silencing the stuttering school advisor. With a dull sigh he turned to face the man who was looking quite pale.

“Emotional control and logical thinking are more important than,” He paused, glancing back down at the parchment of proposed ideas that had been given to him, “Arts and crafts or music. Therefore, more valuable teachings will take up the periods of schooling that were otherwise being wasted in future semesters.” 

“My king, please-” Logan gave him a cold look that sent shivers down the man's spine and he shut his mouth, eyes widening as Logan proceeded to crumple up the parchment before tossing it into the lit fireplace where it began to burn.

“I have made my rulings perfectly clear,” He said, tone cold and even, a silent threat in his eyes.

“If you wish to voice any further complaints you will need to file an official one. Otherwise, we are done here.” The school advisor took in a shaky breath, but nodded, giving a low bow.

“Yes, of course my king, my sincerest apologies, I was only trying to-”

“Leave.” Logan said, cutting the man off who quickly raced out of the room as he felt the temperature begin to drop. 

Logan sighed, massaging his temples as he headed to his desk where the newest stack of papers to be gone over and signed for today sat. 

He had more important things to do than to listen to that idiots ramblings, he was running a kingdom all on his own now after all and he intended to continue to increase its efficiency and fix the multitude of errors he’d found within it while his father had been ruler.

-

“Logan, what the hell do you think you’ve been doing?!” Roman hissed as he stormed into the middle of a meeting between Logan and a few of his advisors, the door of the room crashing loudly into the wall. Literal fire was flickering at the tips of his hair, crackling softly as he glared daggers at Logan.

Logan frowned at this, annoyed at the interruption even though he hadn't seen or heard from Roman in quite a while.

“Roman, while I am unsure as to what exactly you are referring to,” This only seemed to make Roman angrier, his hair sparking brighter, “I am in the middle of an important meeting and don’t have time to deal with one of your illogical outbursts.” 

“Illogical outbursts?” Roman repeated, sounding incredulous as he approached the table, slamming his hands down onto the wood. 

The advisors in the room winced and, all but one, quickly got up and left the room, their presence being replaced by a couple of guards standing warily in the doorway. Logan simply stared coldly at Roman. 

“Do you really think that me being pissed about the fact that my own brother didn't even bother to send me a letter letting me know our father was ill or that you were becoming king illogical? That being pissed at you for proceeding to put into motion changes father would never have agreed to before he'd even been properly mourned over, is overreacting?! Changes, mind you, that could end up dooming our entire kingdom and people all while I was away without a word?!” Logan met Roman’s burning gaze with his own cold one. 

"Did you just assume that I'd be fine with you claiming the crown on your own?! That I wouldn't want to take part in ruling my own kingdom?! Cause that's sure what it seems like." Logan pursed his lips at this, resting his now clasped hands on the table.

“I was actually present and paying attention in every course we took to prepare us to rule this kingdom, unlike you. I am also realistic, level-headed, and strict. Therefore, I am better suited to act as King.” 

He motioned to Roman, “You on the other hand were always skipping your lessons and are still too much like a child: reckless, impulsive, over-dramatic, hot headed, and unrealistic in your goals and beliefs.” 

Roman grinded his teeth, hands digging into the wood of the table as he fought the urge to forcefully shut Logan up.

“And as such, I saw no reason in waiting for you to return from your prolonged ‘adventure' as you put it, to put my plans and changes into order.”

“My adventure has proven to be more complicated than I previously assumed, I didn't intend for it to take so long, okay?! Besides! How was I to know that you would do all of this the moment father died!?” 

Logan stiffened at this and stood up from his chair, hands pressed against his end of the table, an imperfect mirroring of Roman.

“It is not my fault that you cared more about your ridiculous adventures than father.” Logan said, teeth grit, “You were the one that wasn’t there by his side when he passed. You were the one that abandoned this kingdom when it needed us most.”

“I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HE WAS SICK LOGAN!” Roman basically screamed, the smell of burnt wood in the air as his palms pressed harder into the table. “So maybe if you’d actually bothered to send a letter to let me know what had happened I would have been home sooner!” 

“And if you had just grown up and stopped playing pretend adventures out in the woods you’d have had been here to say goodbye and oppose my changes.” Logan shot back, the wood beneath his own hands beginning to frost over. 

“But you weren’t here. And so my changes have been approved and will be implemented whether you agree with them or not.”

Logan, glancing down momentarily, noticed the frost branching out from his hands and quickly removed them from the table, adjusting his outfit as he looked at Roman with cool anger and forced indifference. 

"Perhaps these consequences will finally teach you to start taking life more seriously."

A tense silence fell over the room as they stared down each other, both refusing to give.

"I bet my presence wouldn't even have made a difference to you." Roman finally said, still furious, but his volume lower. "You've probably been planning this all along, haven't you?” 

Roman was practically shaking with anger as he lifted one hand up from the table to point at Logan, a smoldering hand mark permanently burned into the table where it had been resting. 

“How you'd make everything the way you wanted it to be: sterile, robotic, heartless, and cold, all for the sake of efficiency." He shook his head, giving a barking laugh as he crossed his arms over his chest and sneered at Logan.

“I bet that even if I’d been here to go against you it wouldn’t have made a difference. You probably already had contingency plans to get me out of your way once he was gone, didn’t you?” Logan was breathing hard, hands clasped tightly behind his back, gaze icy and the atmosphere around him chilling as Roman continued to attack him.

“Do you even care about a single person within this world?! Because from here it seems like all you’ve ever cared about are rules and order! That’s all you’ve ever cared about!” He threw his hands up, “You never consider people, Logan."

“That is quite enough Roman.” Logan said icily, his words quivering ever so slightly in anger. Roman paid him no mind, Logan’s demand for his silence only fanning the flames of his anger, hair sparking angrily.

“No, it is not enough Logan! You’ve crossed a line here that I am not willing to back down on. I refuse to stand by while you turn our father's kingdom into something unrecognizable! Our people are creative and amazing and passionate and you plan to rip that all away from them for the sake of rules and efficiency!”

“Our father ran this kingdom like a fool,” Logan finally hissed out through his teeth, eyes sparking a cold blue with hints of gold and the air within the room dropped in temperature, “And all I’m doing is cleaning up the mess.” Roman took a step back as if Logan had just backhanded him with that admittance.

“So you can either fall into line and support me Roman,” He paused to let that sink in, “Or you’ll quickly find yourself on the wrong side of the law.” 

His eyes narrowed, “Because you may be my brother and a prince, but that in no way excuses you from reprimandation or consequences if you continue to go against the rules and regulations of this land. I am not our father.”

Roman didn’t say anything for multiple seconds and just stared at Logan, having a hard time believing that this was really happening. That this emotionless monster was his brother. Sure, he had always been rather cold and emotionally distant, but not this bad. Had something happened to him while Roman had been gone to turn him this cold and cruel?

Roman's expression finally hardened again and he shook his head, clearing away those thoughts.

“You know what, for all I know maybe you poisoned father while I was away just to make sure you got what you wanted." Logan’s eyes widened at this comment, knuckles whitening as he pressed his hands together even harder behind his back, but Roman wasn’t finished speaking as he marched up to Logan.

“You’re certainly heartless enough to do it.” 

“I don’t take kindly to your accusations.” Logan said, just barely holding in his anger as he held his ground, “And I suggest you leave now before you do something you regret.” 

Roman laughed at this before he suddenly winded up his fist and proceeded to punch Logan in the face, sending him to the ground. Within seconds multiple guards were on top of Roman, wrestling him to the ground.

Logan, face slack with surprise, brought a hand up to his left cheek, which was mildly burned, wincing as he applied a small amount of pressure to it. He then looked over at Roman - who was now being pinned face-first into the ground.

Roman simply grinned back at him and spit out, “I highly doubt I’ll ever regret doing that.” 

Logan grit his teeth as he stood up from the floor, one hand against the injured side of his face in an attempt to cool it down. A cold fire burned in his eyes he made direct eye-contact with Roman and spoke very clearly.

“Having made wild accusations about me, the king, as well as making an attempt on my life, I have no choice but to brand you a traitor to this kingdom and have you sent to the dungeons.” 

Roman’s grin dropped and he stared at Logan open mouthed - feeling oddly heavy cuffs placed around his wrists - before he began to feel as if something was being drained out of him.

“W-What?” He finally asked in disbelief. He had expected Logan to have made him apologize, give him some sort of ‘labor’ task, or have him removed to his room, not label him with treason and throw him in jail! Why had he even gotten so fired up in the first place?! Hadn't he come here with the intention of getting help?

“N-no!” Roman said, volume rising, “No, you can’t do that! I’m the prince of this kingdom! The people will riot when they find out!” 

Through pursed lips Logan gave a cold and thin grin.

“I can and I am, and any citizen who chooses to speak out against this will be dealt with.” Logan turned his back on Roman as his head advisor stood up from the table and crouching down beside Roman, spoke quietly, a grin on his face.

“And once they learn that their precious Prince Roman attempted to assassinate his own brother for the right to the crown the moment he returned home, I don't think they’ll have as much of a problem with the ruling.”

“Why you!” Roman’s words were silenced as something was tied around his mouth even as he began to struggle furiously against the multiple guards that were now forcing him onto his feet and dragging him out of the room. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to stab his brother through. 

However, panic shown in Roman’s eyes as he found that he could no longer use his powers anymore. He couldn’t get his hands to heat up and no longer heard the crackling of his hair. Were the cuffs they’d put on him specifically designed?! This had to be a nightmare, right? How could this be happening?

“Let go of me!” He managed to mumble out past the gag as he was finally pulled out of the room, still fighting as hard as he could even without his powers available to him. Logan couldn’t do this. This couldn’t be happening.

Logan, after waiting a few moments to compose himself, finally left the room to find all of his other advisors standing outside, looking very uneasy and hesitant as they looked away from the cursing Roman being dragged off to the injured and particularly cold Logan.

“My king, are you alright?” One of them finally asked, the burn marks and swelling still visible even though Logan had an icy hand pressed against it.

“The meeting will have to be postponed until tomorrow,” Logan said stiffly as he moved past them, his head advisor trailing behind him silently, “I need to be treated for my injury and file the necessary papers to renounce Roman’s title of prince due to his treasonous actions.”

He ignored the stunned and disbelieving looks of the advisors and walked off, his head advisor trailing behind him as Logan began to discuss the paperwork that would need to be filed in order to retract Roman’s title.

-

“I hope this is all just a terrible misunderstanding,” Patton said quietly to Petunia, a horse. “Surely his own brother wouldn’t intentionally hide the death of their father just to keep him away from the castle so he could be crowned the sole ruler, right?” 

Petunia neighed softly in response, nudging the side of Patton’s head with her nose.

“That’s true, but I also don’t want us all to have to be on the run from two kingdoms.” He sighed, resting his head against the stone wall beside him, currently waiting at a hidden back entrance to the castle. They’d all agreed it was better to be safe than sorry. “It would only make fixing this whole mess even harder.”

Petunia responded with a longer neigh this time and Patton laughed in response, giving her a light pat.

“Fine, fine, I’ll only keep worrying about it if he doesn’t turn up by the end of the two hours.” Patton was silent for a moment before he looked to Petunia again and asked curiously, “Want me to make you a flower trail for your mane while we continue to wait?” 

Patton grinned when Petunia pawed at the ground with her front hoof and whinnied, clearly approving of the idea.

[ellygoesnyooom]

Jumin/MC bodyguard AU please!!

I didn’t know what format you wanted, so I stuck to a headcanon format for this ask. If you want me to make this into a oneshot/fic format instead, please let me know! I’m actually really proud of this. It took a bit, but I think it came out well ^^ I hope you like this~

NOTE: The MC in this AU has no affiliation with the RFA, and does not know of it’s existence. They are different than the MC in the game, and therefore does not pursue a romantic relationship with Jumin. 

Your job as a personal bodyguard had been very good to you. Granted, you put your life on the line every time you went to work, but it paid well and you genuinely liked it.

You were employed by an agency that ‘leased’, if you will, bodyguards to those who needed it. Your last position guarding an up-and-coming singer had ended after she decided she didn’t need so many guards, so now you were sent to a new client.

And that new client? C&R’s Jumin Han.

You’d heard rumors about the man being emotionless, like a robot, and quite blunt. Of course, people loved to dramatize everything, so you didn’t think he could really be so cold and calculating.

Of course, you were wrong.

The first day you showed up to work and encountered Jumin, he at first barely gave you a sideways glance.

“Is this the new guard?” He had asked who you believed was his assistant, a woman with short cropped brown hair and a large stack of manilla folders in her arms. You felt bad for her; she looked exhausted.

“Yes, Mr. Han.”

Once he realized who you really were, his gray eyes scanned you up and down. “What is your name?”

“MC, sir.” He nodded, eyes calculating. It made you a bit uncomfortable, being under his heavy gaze. You held your breath, standing straight and looking as professional as you could be.

Finally, he nodded again and turned away, towards the woman. “I don’t know why you insist that I need an extra guard. The three I already have should suffice.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, they are more than capable, but it is best to be safe rather than sorry.”

He only hummed before walking off, leaving the woman to hurry after him. You had no choice but to follow.

The first few weeks of serving Jumin as his bodyguard were dull. Nothing much happened. It was a bunch of waiting and following. During the times you were waiting, you were able to get to know your coworkers quite well.

After a while, you got used to Jumin’s demeanor. You were practically invisible to him. The only reason it was a shock then was because your last client had been so kind to you and her other bodyguards, talking to you and personally getting to know you.

Actually, most of your clients got to know you. Jumin was an exception.

You accompanied him everywhere along with at least one or two other bodyguards. Work, business trips, fancy restaurants, etc.

Occasionally you took up house duty, guarding the penthouse instead of Jumin himself, which you didn’t mind. It was a bit boring, but you were okay with that.

One particular time whle you were on penthouse duty, it was quite late, and you were tired. It seemed as if your eyelids had metal stuck to them. You had checked the time repeatedly, and it seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace.

It was around midnight when you heard someone coming. Immediately, your forced yourself awake, willing your eyes to stay open.

The form of Jumin appeared, and you relaxed slightly. Not an intruder.

He nodded at you. “MC. Did anything happen while I was out?”

You weren’t sure why he chose to speak to you, as he usually spoke to the guards that had been there longer. In fact, there was a guard who had been there for 3 years standing right beside you. But here he was, facing you with his piercing gray eyes focused on you.

“No, sir. Nothing has happened while you were out.” You vaguely recalled why he was gone and decided to try and make small talk with him. “How was your business trip?”

“It was successful, but it was exhausting dealing with those women. It was also irritating that my flight got delayed by the weather” He sighed and drew a hand over his face. “I would like to go in and tend to Elizabeth 3rd. She must be so lonely in there all by herself. Excuse me.”

With that, Jumin nodded to your fellow guard and disappeared into the penthouse.

After that day, he started to talk to you more. He brought you out more often on his business trips and discussed things with you that he never would have before. You weren’t sure what happened, but you didn’t mind.

The more you were able to see Jumin and the more you were able to observe about him, the more you realized that your previous judgement of him was wrong

It was hard to pick up on it, but you could tell when he was upset. His shoulders would be hunched and his facial expression a bit more severe. He became more easily agitated. You noticed this behavior many times after a stressful business meeting when things just weren’t going right, or after lunch with his father, especially when a new woman was involved.

He met with his father for meals from time to time, and you could tell immediately if Jumin would be upset afterwards

Today was not an exception

Chairman Han had shown up to dinner with a tall woman practically glued to his side. You were standing beside Jumin as he saw his father with a new woman. You looked to Jumin and noticed his jaw muscles flex slightly, the only sign he was upset.

Since you had been guarding Jumin, this was the second woman he has been with.

It had only been a year and 4 months since you started.

As you waited in the corner of the private room the three were dining in, you couldn’t help but pick up on some of their conversation. It couldn’t be helped; you tried to ignore them, but when you are standing 10 feet away from the people providing the only conversation in the room, it’s hard to tune it out

Most of the talk was about business, but it definitely steered towards the topic of the woman at Chairman Han’s side. She seemed to want to earn Jumin’s trust, but he repeatedly blocked her attempts.

You didn’t blame him.

By the time the meal was done, Jumin looked about as frustrated as can be. To others, he would look calm and collected as he bid the pair goodbye. But, you saw it. A glint in his eye. Tension in his jaw. Tense shoulders.

Jumin had opted to take only you as a guard, which was quite odd but you didn’t question it. It was a secure location that both the Chairman and his son frequent, so the need for additional bodyguards wasn’t there.

But, being the only guard with him on the way home while he was in such an aggravated mood? More uncomfortable than you would think.

You sat silently beside Jumin in the car, eyes scanning the roadway for any potential threats.

“MC.”

You jumped slightly as Jumin addressed you, but quickly turned to him. “Yes, sir?”

He was facing away from you, eyes focusing on the passing buildings around the car. “Are your parents together? Are they happy?”

Why was he asking you, of all people this?

You hesitated in answering, which drew Jumin’s eyes to you. They looked almost sad. Longing.

There is a line that all bodyguards know and watch daily. The line between being a guard and being more than a guard. Your job is to protect your client and keep them out of danger, not to share secrets and be friends. You would have thought Jumin would know this, but here he was, asking a fairly personal question.

Would you answer?

… You did. You jumped over the line and told him your parent’s situation.

Jumin’s eyes stared ahead as he nodded in response. “I wish father would stop becoming infatuated with these women and see that they want him for his money, not for his love. I fear for the fate of the company if he keeps marrying and divorcing all of these women. I’ve already had deals fall through because of his actions with these women. Why can’t he see this is an issue?”

He turned his head to you, locking eyes with you. “MC. I don’t know your background, where you came from, or who you are as a person. But, if I could impart any knowledge onto you that would have a lasting impact, it would be this: marry for love, not for wealth. Money is a powerful thing. Don’t abuse it.”

“...Yes. Thank you, sir. I will take your words to heart.”

The rest of the car ride was silent as both you and Jumin focused your attention elsewhere. You jumped back over the line, back to professional bodyguard, yet his words echoed in your mind the rest of the day.

A few weeks later, your agency relocated you to a new client, forcing you to leave Jumin behind.

You spent a total of a year and a half with Jumin as his guard, and it completely changed your view of him.

You no longer viewed him as a cold, calculating businessman, but as a man who has emotions and feels things, as well. A man who cared for his family and wanted what was best for his company.

A man whose emotions run deeper than meets the eye.

In reality, he really didn’t do much. But, the experience and time you spent with him meant the world to you.

You never crossed his path again. Your only contact with him was through a TV screen, through the media. 

That’s how you found out about his marriage to a woman from a charity group he was a part of. The footage of him coming back from his honeymoon, his wife on his arm, brought a smile to your face.

At least he found someone to truly love.

From time to time, you think back to the time you spent guarding him, and you are reminded of the words you shared in the car.

Never in your life would you have expected to get advice from one of the country’s top businessmen, yet you did. The words, so simple in the car, clung to your mind like smoke to clothing. No matter how hard you tried, the words stayed.

Perhaps the biggest lesson you learned from Jumin Han was not to judge a book by its cover.

[stunudo]

That Got Away: A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction Part 10

Inspired by: Katy Perry’s “The One That Got Away”

Union Pulse’s “Better Days”

Featuring: Spencer Reid x Reader   Setting: Season 4   Rating:  Teen

A/N:  My poor characters! xoxo Stu    Warnings: Violence

I do not own the characters from the show, images or lyrics.

Part 1  Part 8 Part 9

“Finally, you have caught on, Dr. Reid.” Miriam Y/L/N responded over the line. “Now, if you look to the monitor on your right, you will find the thorn in my side. You will also see my “errand girl” as you called her.”

Spencer spun in the security desk’s chair, watching the basement room that was holding Y/N. Another woman had enter the stonewalled room, she was practically prancing toward Y/N. Spencer could see his lover’s mouth speaking to the unsub, the recognition blatant on her features. His stomach felt like it was digesting itself. “Now that you lost JJ, you don’t need to threaten Y/N. Miriam?” Spencer started. “I will come quietly.”

“Oh, I know you will, Dr. Reid.” Miriam mused. “No, this is for your team. They need to learn that deals should not be disrespected.”

The mail carrier unsub approached Y/N, slapping her across her already bruised face. The devilish woman grabbed Y/N’s hair, pulling her up so her eyes peered into the camera hidden high in the rafters. The woman’s dark hair and cruel eyes shone back at the BAU, a clear, “Say Cheese!” on her lips. Spencer swallowed. The unsub wrenched Y/N right arm behind her back, shoving her back to the floor.

JJ ground her teeth and pushed against the barrier above the ladder. The grating of stone on metal muted the sounds of her strained breathing, the mechanical whirling and the distant chatter. It was the size and shape of a man hole cover, but JJ could tell it wasn’t leading to the street.

With an extra boost of effort, she lifted and slid the capstone aside. A rubber mat shifted with the stone, masking it from view. Her strong arms pulled her body over the threshold, on to the next floor. She was in a service closet, only 16 square feet of floor space. JJ tried the rectangular door handle, it was graciously unlocked. Upon exiting, she knew exactly where she was. She stared at the central elevators, just off the hotel lobby. She was free!

She ran to the concierge desk to get to a phone to call somebody down. Once she reached the desk, she heard Emily’s voice.

“Yeah, Morgan, the leader of the team is the aunt. Apparently, the plane ticket purchased for tomorrow was part of their ruse.”

“Emily!” JJ called, stumbling around the desk toward her friend. Prentiss caught JJ as she spun in surprise.

“Morgan, JJs here. I’ve got her.”

By now I've seen what I had not before Love's just like any drug, you need more and more It starts with a rush, then it slows to a drag

And before too long we all just pack our bags

“But it’s so unfair!” Y/N whined into the phone. “Sir-sir, please say you’ll write to me, like last year, but all the mushy stuff this time.”

He could hear she was holding back tears by making absurdly obvious requests. Spencer was oddly quiet on his end of the line. He was cooking dinner, while his mom was holed up in her room. Luckily the phone cord gave him enough length to pivot around the kitchen.

“Was he angry with you, Y/N? Did he yell at you? Because I never wanted you to get in trouble.” Spencer clarified, overthinking and assuming her experience of the conversation with Dr. Y/L/N must have been worse than his; more punishment and threatening than slight shame and gentle authority.

“No, he was serious, but he wasn’t mad at all.” Y/N pouted. “He was civil and logical, it was infuriating.”

Spencer actually laughed, “Yes, well leave it to Graham to be to the point. And naturally your temper was ignited instead of sound counterarguments.” His fondness for their family was only hindered by this impending parting. His understanding of their personalities and small family unit an enthralling account of the social interactionist perspective. Also, a warped mirror image of his own small family. While Y/N had stability and authority with her father, Spencer had uncertainty and a reverse care giving scenario with his mother.

“When can I see you?” Spencer whispered, knowing this was shortening their rattling conversation.

“I don’t know.” She admitted, “He took my keys, so I can’t drive the Volkswagen, just pack it up. I don’t think it is a good idea for you to come over, though I want you, here, I mean.” She was rambling and oversharing, Spencer could picture the embarrassment on her face.

“Alright, call me when he gets back,” Spencer sighed. “I will try to stop over tonight, but my mom gets worse as the day goes on.”

“Sir-sir, just come, okay?” She was sniffling audibly now.

“I will do my best.” Spencer vowed. “Later, Y/N/N.”

“Bye, mon chevalier.”

The force with which your face hit the floor, blurred your vision. You knew a concussion was in store, but were not sure if Michelle was done with you yet. After a few minutes laying there and taking the beating, you decided to try and fight back. Though you had absolutely no idea how to fight. Swinging wildly, you punched her in the stomach. She easily dodged your obvious attack, palming your forehead and pushing you back to the cold ground.

The vertigo was sending waves of nausea through your dehydrated body. You tried to stand, but leaned back on to the wall in temporary defeat. You attempted to calm your breathing to fight back against the bile. Your heart rate accelerated as it anticipated another attack.

“Why?” You gasped. “Why are you helping her, Michelle?!”

There stood your old friend: all five feet eight inches of tri- athletic muscle and pure mental instability. You hadn’t seen her in at least seven years, but by the way her mouth curled at your question; she wasn’t having one of her “good” days.

But in another life I would be your girl We'd keep all our promises Be us against the world

You had called Spencer three times. The phone kept ringing and after your second message on their generic machine, you had given up. He had warned you that his mom was bad at night. You knew he had way more to deal with than just your leaving town. Your mind knew all these clear and sound explanations. Yet all hope of a romantic send off from your first love was vanishing like the Athena Parthenos.

You moped through a few games of Backgammon with your dad. You finished the laundry you had started after your tantrum the night before. You forced yourself to go through the motions of preparations, but your mind always settled on a bony boy who had too many thoughts in his head.

You fell asleep with the windows open, just in case he thought to sneak into the yard and be all Leo as Romeo romantic. Spencer probably hadn’t seen the seminal Baz Luhrman adaptation, but your love-laced heart still could dream.

You were woken by the smell of sausages on the griddle. Breakfast was in progress and morning had arrived. No Spencer. No sad goodbye. Just no.

Spencer was completely focused on the ordeal that her aunt was putting Y/N through. The younger female unsub was beating her, leaving her staggering around the small box of cement they held her inside. His brown eyes were scrunched, his hand flitting between his neck and his chin as he held the phone to his ear determinedly.

“Miriam, that is enough. We are all very much aware what you two are capable of.” Spencer’s voice cracked as his tone leveled. “Where shall I meet you?”

Hotch stood in front of the panel of screens, blocking Spencer from view of the cells. One empty, one very occupied. “Out of the question, Reid.”

“Dr. Reid, I believe Agent Jareau can show you the way down. No weapons. No tricks and no wires. Understood young man?” Miriam barked her conditions haughtily.

“You forget we don’t have JJ,” Spencer spat back, closing his eyes in annoyance.

“No, Dr. Reid, Agent Prentiss is coddling her as we speak.” Miriam tutted. “I’ll be seeing you shortly.”

Like any love song, he won't soon forget He just might take his time paying off the debt

Spencer was asleep between two cushion-less hospital chairs. His mother had a violent episode the night before and had managed to mangle his bike into some bushes. The E.R. doctors had let him stay with her as her injuries were minor. They held her for observation, awaiting her doctor’s evaluation that morning.

When the morning nurse came in to check on Diana, Spence awoke, falling all over himself and on to the floor. After gracelessly standing, he listened as the nurse quietly soothed Diana’s alarm at Spencer’s fall. “I’m fine Mom,” Spencer’s eyes held hers. He scratched the back of his head when he noticed the clock on the wall. 8:23am. Y/N was already gone. He had missed her.

Spencer sat down and cried in frustration. His life never felt more unfair than it did that sunny morning in August.

The entire team had retreated to the conference room where Derek had been assigned to much of the day. Hotch had Detective Chang manning the security desk and Y/N’s prison footage. The evidence boards were up and thorough, considering Morgan’s limited access to the previous boards held at Pasadena PD. JJ was guzzling water and refusing paramedics. Rossi had already ordered room service to be delivered for the whole team. The idea of a last meal crossed through Spencer’s mind, but his confidence in himself and the team remained intact.

“JJ, where were you being held?” Hotch began once the chaos of her return had subsided.

JJ sighed, “Literally below ground. I climbed up into the custodian’s closet across from the main elevators. I am guessing whoever set this up knows the building or the surrounding ones better than we do.”

“The Unsub is Miriam Y/L/N, Y/N’s aunt.” Spencer confided in his resilient friend.

“What?!” JJ balked, “I tackled the aunt? What does she have against Y/N? And you for that matter?”

“We still don’t know.” Rossi admitted, walking to the evidence boards. “We still have no Kurt Hansen. The mail-lady is also muscle as Reid and Hotch witnessed her rough up Y/N just now. Miriam Y/L/N is a wealthy, sixty-year-old, retired teacher. What pushed them to commit murder and a double kidnapping?”

Spencer crossed the room to his messenger bag, rifling through his notes from the station. He paused as his fingers caressed the soft lace of Y/N’s panties. In his rush to get her into the shower that morning he had forgotten them in her hiding spot. Her mischievousness made him ache for her, a hollowness encased his chest.

Spencer cleared his throat, returning to the case. “I believe the other woman is Michelle Braxton. She was contacted about the funeral shortly after Miriam was, as they were in the same area code.”

“So who is she, Reid?” Morgan held his hands apart waiting for the explanation.

“She grew up next door to Y/N’s aunt and the two of them became close the summer of ‘99″ Spencer explained.

“Wasn’t Y/N in Pasadena that summer,” Morgan verified. “With you?”

Spencer shook his head at Morgan, exasperated. “It doesn’t matter why she was in San Francisco, it just matters that Michelle Braxton had all the markers for a resentful stalker, then. Just imagine what she is capable of, now.”

“If the kids goes down there, we have nothing they want. They have all the cards.” Rossi looks to Hotch.

“That’s why I am not giving him clearance to go.” Hotch agreed.

“Hotch, I am not going to stand here and watch them torture Y/N.” Spencer’s voice raised. “Not when I can do something about it.”

The room reeked of tension and testosterone. Emily’s concerned face floated its gaze from one team member to the other. “JJ, is there any other way we can get SWAT down there?”

“Not without the unsubs hearing them coming, besides there was only one way in and no doorknob on this side of the door. Breaking it down would give them plenty notice.”

“There has to be another way in though,” Rossi countered. “Didn’t Garcia say Kurt Hansen used a luggage trolley to move JJ and Y/N from the penthouse?”

Morgan nodded. “There has to be elevator access.”

Part 11

@sparkle-dinosaur, @dontshootmespence @reiding-and-writing @speedreiding @reid-my-fortune @sapphire1727 @holagubler @cherry-loves-fanfic @lookingforgalifrey @miss-gleek-freak-geek @criminal-minds-fanfiction @reidbyers @sortaathief @imagicana @milkandcookies528

[funkzpiel]

And The Tag Read Simply: ‘Pretty’ - Ch5

Words of comfort and affirmation bubbled to his tongue – He’s caught, we have him. Don’t worry. He’s at MACUSA, he’ll never hurt you again. But one look, and Newt realized that the context of Graves’ question was not ‘please say he’s not here.’ It was ‘please say he’s coming home soon.’

“He’s… away,” Newt said lamely, eyes flickering to glance at Graves now that the man felt confident enough to speak with him. Graves was leaning far enough forward now that his shoulders were visible, pale and naked. Newt felt his cheeks begin to burn at the implication, and even more so when he caught sight of the thick leather collar that hung snuggly around Graves’ throat – Grindelwald’s symbol hanging delicately next to a small gold tag that read simply: ‘Pretty’.

FANTASTIC BEASTS KINK MEME FILL Grindelwald is captured, they track down Graves, but instead of finding a locked up and tortured Graves they find Graves naked and in a collar, napping on a soft bed without a hint of recognition in his eyes. Turns out Grindelwald messed with Graves’ mind, removed all his memories and made him believe that he’s Grindelwald’s pet.

Includes: Gellert Grindelwald x Graves, Newt x Graves, Non-Con, Rape, Stockholm Syndrome, Pet Play, Forced Pet Play, Collars, Non-Con Body Modification, Animal Ears, Animal Behaviors/Qualities, Mind!Fuck, Memory Loss/Alteration, Master/Pet, Dubious Consent, Angst, Literally Graves Believes He’s A Dog, I AM TRASH

CHAPTER 5

Newt watched Graves sleep from his work table, eyes distant as he took in the image of the frail man so still and peaceful – long lashes stark against pale cheeks. Newt had heard stories of the man Percival Graves had been, but Newt only knew two sides of the man first hand: the imposter and the victim. Not for the first time, he wondered what Graves had lost. What Grindelwald had stolen. Tina obviously held a great deal of respect for the man. Madam Picquery, too.

Newt imagined him, body healthy and pristine as Grindelwald portrayed him – broad and strong and imposing – with warm eyes and able hands. Just in his actions, clever is his work, and gentle with his people. But a part of him also knew the unfortunate truth. A man with friends is not a man easily replaced. A good boss, yes. A respected man, of course. But a friendly man… no. He must have been a distant man. A firm line set in the ground between home and work. A man dedicated to the letter of the law, to the very last detail of his job, to the welfare of his employees and their success, to the safety of the public – and nothing more. He had no family to miss him. No loved ones. His life was no doubt a lonely life, only made easier by the sheer weight of his work to distract him.

And this was how fate repaid his dedication.

He had to convince Graves that, no, your bed isn’t missing – you’re allowed to sleep on the actual bed, not some uncomfortable cushion on the floor. He had to ease his worries with soft words that, no, Grindelwald would not be mad at him, and yes, I’ll be to bed soon, and no, I promise I’m not leaving.

It was only then that Graves settled. The man, once so confident and powerful now sleeping in the baggy clothes of a scrawny man’s wardrobe, hair tousled and cheek still smudged with dirt because Newt hadn’t the energy to bathe him – too afraid the man would misread the situation and try to thank him again.

“Oh Tina,” Newt whispered, eyes falling to the report he had been writing. There was a dark blotch of ink at the end of an unfinished sentence; dark from hesitation. “I don’t know how much help I am in this…”

The letter read: I fear that Grindelwald has…

Newt bit his lip and clenched his quill a little harder, willing himself to finish what he started. But even now, he did not know the right way to phrase it.

I fear that Grindelwald has inflicted far more damage than we originally perceived, he finally wrote and proceeded to detail the events of the day, down to the moment of Graves’ possession.

And then he cast his gaze back unto the man in question, heart squeezing when he realized the man was snoring very lightly. In the dim light of the little shed, Grindelwald’s tags twinkled innocently against Graves’ pale flesh. Newt wished he could just remove them.

“Please come back,” Newt whispered.

It was then, as he was watching the man, that a small hand suddenly appeared on the other side of Graves’ body. Newt stiffened, worried for a moment that he was seeing things, when finally it clicked – the Niffler. Newt stood as quickly and quietly as he could, eyes narrowed as he watched a chubby little body suddenly follow that tiny hand, the beady eyes of the Niffler staring him down even as it slowly reached for the tags at Graves’ throat.

“No,” Newt said, and quickly cast a spell to call the little beast to him. Newt watched as the Niffler scrabbled its tiny little hands in Graves’ direction before it finally gave up and allowed the spell to continue to draw it through the air and into Newt’s awaiting grasp.

The Magizoologist scruffed him promptly and held him up so they were nose to nose.

“You can’t touch those,” Newt said, and the Niffler just crossed it’s flabby little arms and looked away. “No, please, please understand – you could really hurt him. He… He needs those tags. Please, just this once, don’t fight me.”

Newt wasn’t sure if it was the sheer pleading of his whispered voice or if the little creature was merely in a giving mood, but the Niffler slowly turned to look him in the eye before actually looking somewhat mollified. It sagged a little in his grasp before nodding.

Newt almost wanted to double check, but he was too blown away by the creature’s sudden change in nature to feel his normal sense of doubt in the little thing. So instead, he cautiously set it down, ready to cast the spell again, and watched. The moment the Niffler’s feet met the work table, it sat down in a heavy ball and merely watched Graves sleep. It cast its gaze from Newt to Graves and back again before suddenly scurrying down the work table’s leg and onto the floor. For a brief moment, Newt worried he had made a mistake, but the Niffler merely peered at Graves one last time before hurrying out of the shed as if on important business.

Newt blinked.

“That was odd,” he whispered, then returned his gaze back to his report – lost for words on how to tactfully tell Picquery that he had very good reason to believe Graves had been raped repeatedly. He sighed and rested his forehead on the paper, unheeding of the ink, and closed his eyes for just a moment.

Merlin, he was tired.

They repurposed the execution chamber to serve as one giant Pensieve. In its swirling depths, every memory that their Legilimens managed to lay bare played within it in striking detail – larger than life, louder than reality, and more overwhelming than Tina had been ready for. It was like this that she watched Grindelwald recall how he had cornered Graves after his walk home from a long stakeout turned case bust and Mercy Lewis, Tina could remember that night. She had been the last person from their department to say goodbye to him that night. Was her face the last he saw before... Before Grindelwald...

Just like that, the time with which Graves had been gone was dated. Months. Six months. Six months. Tina felt her breath seize in her chest. She could remember how tired he had looked when she found him in his office that night to let him know she was heading home. She had thought to ask if he was okay. She had thought to insist that he, too, should go home. But he had his paperwork to finish, and she knew him to be a man that wouldn’t go home until every last page was done. It didn’t matter how tired he was, if she pointed it out, he would just say that was what coffee was for.

So she didn’t point it out. Tired as she was, she let him be.

The last words her Graves had said to her played aloud in her head like a painful echo.

“Goldstein,” he had said, drawing her back to his office door.

“Yes, sir?” She asked, afraid he might ask he to fill out some form herself before she left.

Instead, his lips curled into the barest of smiles – something that was practically an all out grin in the books of those who knew him – and said, “Good work tonight, Tina. We’re lucky to have you.”

Her heart ached coldly in her chest, ever tightening as she watched the memory of Graves – tall and proud, and yet limping ever so slightly – walking just ahead of Grindelwald on the street; unaware of his stalker. She wanted to call out to him. To warn him. But all she could do was watch as the dark wizard purposefully apparated himself from behind Graves to the end of a dark alley on his left. The noise drew Graves in, his mouth set into a firm, displeased line at having caught someone displaying magic so openly. And when Grindelwald lit the end of his wand with a brilliant light, it was obvious that Graves had resigned himself to having to take the man back to the office despite his exhaustion.

“Someone will see you,” Graves said firmly from the end of the alley, squinting, trying to peer past the bright light of Grindelwald’s penetrating lumos but unable to see his face because of it.

“Let them,” Grindelwald purred.

Graves stiffened and drew his own wand. With a quick look left and right, he took several steps deeper into the dark of the alley to try and mask their altercation as best as he could. Late as it was, he had little to worry for. Maybe if someone had been there, Tina thought. Maybe if…

“If you don’t desist, I’ll be forced to relieve you of your wand and take you in for the night,” he said grimly, and Tina could suddenly see how Graves was trying his hardest to mask his limp, his exhaustion. Grindelwald smiled behind the glare of his spell.

“I’m afraid not, my dear director,” Grindelwald said. “In fact, tonight is the last night you will use your gifts to shackle your fellow witch or wizard.”

Graves stilled, his body suddenly stiff with dawning recognition. Tina thought he was going to call the man out as a Grindelwald follower, but instead Graves attacked without preamble. With a quick flick and a dodge to the right, Graves launched a harsh kinetic wall of energy at Grindelwald while simultaneously stepping out of the way of Grindelwald’s own spell. The concrete where Graves had been standing exploded, and in the building next to them, a light turned on. Graves looked at it and cursed before shoving off the wall he had stepped to and launching another attack.

Brick burst behind Grindelwald, but the man wasn’t fazed. Instead, he merely continued to advance on Graves, driving the director toward the street, making him panic – knowing how the Auror worried over prying eyes. Somewhere above, blinds rustled. Graves grit his teeth and finally held his ground, unwilling to let the dark wizard take their fight to the open.

“Your fear of our exposure will be your downfall, director,” Grindelwald said through a grin, and it was then that Graves could finally see his face, the concealing glare of Grindelwald’s lumos long since gone. Graves’ hand tightened on his wand.

“Grindelwald,” he said, voice gentled by shock.

“Director Graves,” Grindelwald greeted in return, his smile that of a cat’s.

Tina could see a hundred thoughts filtered through Graves’ eyes. Headlines from the papers, reports from the Ministry, operations from the support team MACUSA had offered. Graves frowned and set his feet, obviously no longer concerned with the world around them.

Grindelwald hummed his approval.

“Finally,” he said, his own wand raised and ready. “Yes. Show me what you can do without the shackles of our society holding you down. I want to see it for myself.”

Tina had seen Graves duel before. In practice and in the field. He was a clean, efficient spellcaster. He didn’t gloat, he didn’t underestimate, and he didn’t take chances. He cast his spells with the intention of ending any altercation immediately. The less time the enemy had the ability to cast a spell, the less likely one of his people got hurt. So his spells were fast, brutal things. Heavy hitters that slammed through tissue and concussed – and that was on a normal day.

But this… Tina had never seen Graves attack like this. Sharp, fast spells cast so pointedly, so intently, they practically cut the air like knives. She could hear the way they whistled through the air, and every strike that missed tore up pavement and brick alike. One shot in particular that Grindelwald only just managed to divert ended up turning the nearby fire escape into a hodgepodge of contorted, screaming metal. But Graves never waited to see if his work connected. One spell followed another followed another, and all the while, Graves advanced.

He was like a different man, his eyes alight with a dreadful determination that turned Tina’s veins to ice. This was the man who had fought in the war, the man they told stories about. She had thought she knew him. She had thought she knew his drive and his skill and his rigor. She was wrong.

Grindelwald was thrilled. In his manic eyes, she saw nothing but pleasure and excitement as he diverted one spell after another, guiding them away from his body with quick jabs but not having much more time than that to do anything else.

“You’re wasted at MACUSA, my dear,” Grindelwald howled over the cries of Graves’ spells.

“I’m precisely where I need to be,” Graves said, following one particularly harsh blow with a swipe of his free hand, using Grindelwald’s distraction of deflecting his spell to hit him with a dumpster and pin him to the wall.

Even caught as he was, Grindelwald laughed as though they were two friends having a merry old time rather than enemies aiming for the throat. Graves clenched his jaw, wand trained on Grindelwald as his other hand kept up the pressure on the dumpster – metal slowly warping to curl around Grindelwald’s frame.

“And where is that, pray tell?” Grindelwald asked, smiling so widely his gums showed.

“Here. Between you and the rest of society,” Graves said resolutely, but as their fight ebbed, so did his energy. Tina could see it in the softening of his shoulders and the tremble of his wand. So could Grindelwald.

“Long night, my dear?” Grindelwald asked.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Graves began, encouraging the metal to curl around Grindelwald that much quicker.

“I’m quite tired of silence, I’m afraid,” he said, something dark glimmering in his eyes.

Behind Graves, a shadow appeared. Then another and another. Men – Grindelwald’s followers.

“Crucio.”

The spell hit Graves in the back, pointblank between his shoulders, and felled him with a cry torn from the bottom of his chest. Tina watched as he shuddered on the ground, body seizing as Grindelwald easily detangled himself from Graves’ bindings.

“He’s as good with wandless enchantments as they say,” Grindelwald said, clearly excited as he swept the dirt from his coat and straightened himself out. Once put back together, his eyes fell on Graves and he grinned. “Let the good fellow go, won’t you?”

The spell dropped, but the men behind Graves advanced, forming a wall behind the man – blocking him from the road. Somewhere, Graves could hear the telltale beginning of sirens. He groaned and rolled from his side to his knees and tried to rise, ignoring the way his clothing dripped from the puddle he had landed in.

When he tried to get to his feet, one of the three wizards behind him raised a leg to kick him down, only to find a trash can lid suddenly flying through the air to greet him. It connected with his face with a wet crash that sent him tumbling backward, immediately unconscious and nose clearly broken. The wizard nearest Graves took two steps back. The other snarled and raised a wand, only to be disarmed.

Graves’ eyes shot up, shocked, when the wand flew to Grindelwald’s hand – the flunky’s magic stayed by the hand of a madman.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Grindelwald said, fiddling with the wand before tucking it away in his own coat. “I didn’t say to attack him, now did I, Peter?”

“But sir, he—!”

When Grindelwald raised his gaze from Graves, its humor was gone – replaced by something that made Tina shiver. “I have no use of the deaf or stupid.”

Peter shut up and took a step back. Grindelwald smiled, his farce mask returned.

“Good boy,” he said, then moved to address Graves. “As I was saying—“

Graves swept his hand just as he rose to his feet to sprint past the two goons, and instead of launching another trashcan lid at Grindelwald, he launched both of his flunkies at him instead. Tina watched, heart thundering, hoping – hoping – as Graves made a break for it. With a loud crash and an angry batch of yelling, the two men collided into Grindelwald, sending the dark wizard to the ground. And for a moment, Tina thought he was going to make it.

Graves stumbled into the road, obviously about to apparate, when a spell came arcing out of the alleyway and nailed him in the shoulder. It knocked him off balance, spinning him to once again face the alley he had come from, disorienting him. He clutched at his shoulder and panted, preparing himself to apparate – gathering energy – eyes all the while on the three men clambering to their feet.

“C’mon, Percival,” he whispered, blood oozing from his nose from exhaustion, and reached for the last dregs of his magic when a loud noise disrupted his attention. A horn.

That was when the car struck him, slamming him harshly into the hood before bouncing him into the road. Tina gasped and beside her, she heard one of the other staff members watching the memory vomit.

There was screaming. A woman in the passenger’s seat was crying, wailing. The man who was driving cut the car in reverse and drove away frantically, and suddenly, Tina hated them. She wanted to reverse the memory and look at them, find them, make them pay for not staying. If they had only stayed, then maybe…

They would have died, she realized, her anger flooding out of her in an exhaustive sheet. Grindelwald would have killed them. There was no saving Mr. Graves from this. There was no changing the past.

Instead, she watched as Graves slowly opened his eyes and moaned wetly. His wand had been knocked from his hand, but even now, Graves reached for it. Even now, Graves fought. Tina’s eyes burned, and slowly the image before her became blurry through her tears as her boss tried to pull himself across the short stretch of pavement between his crumpled body and his wand. When it was obvious that his legs – Merlin’s balls, his right leg wasn’t supposed to look that way – wouldn’t get him there, he extended a hand to call it to himself. The wand wiggled fiercely for a moment, then fell still. Graves’ eyes fluttered. More blood oozed from his nose.

He tried again to pull his body forward when his gaze caught sight of Grindelwald approaching. The Auror didn’t make it far. He merely wheezed as Grindelwald knelt down in the road and retrieved the wand, holding it up in the light to admire it. He turned it this way and that, as though familiarizing himself with some great weapon, all the while ignoring Graves on the ground.

“Truly a wand of some distinction,” Grindelwald said approvingly, weighing it in his hand before pocketing it as well. “Steadfast and powerful. And in such a pretty package, too. Quite like you.”

Graves tried to keep his gaze on Grindelwald, but his head lolled dangerously until finally, he could do not much else but glare at the man’s shoes. He watched as the dark wizard knelt before him, and moaned raggedly when a long finger grabbed him under the chin and lifted his gaze.

“Poor Mr. Graves, hit and left to die like some mangy old dog. Your underlings didn’t see the hit you took at that raid earlier, did they? Or is it that they just didn’t care to make sure you got home, hmm?” Grindelwald asked, eyes searching. “Nobody cares for you, not truly. If they did, they’d know that you need more care than what they give you. They think you so strong. They’d let you work yourself to death, my dear. They wouldn’t even notice if you were gone. Why do you fight for them?”

“Somebody has to protect them from men like you,” Graves said, his words garbled and faint, but there all the same.

Grindelwald’s hand moved from his chin to cup his jaw, and Graves shuddered when he realized the man was watching him with fascination and no small amount of pity. As though he were some poor creature caught in a net, ripe for saving - or slaughter.

“But my dear Mr. Graves,” he said, swiping a thumb along a quickly purpling bruise. “Who is going to protect you?”

Graves eyes fluttered as Grindelwald grabbed the Auror by the shoulder and disapparated the both of them away – just as sirens blared around the corner. Lights flashed, illuminating nothing but a barren road and the blood Graves left behind.

The memory softened, softened, then faded altogether and Tina shuddered. When she raised her gaze, the team of Legilimens they had brought in to fuel the execution chamber turned Pensieve were kneeling on each of their respective floating platforms above the black mass, exhausted, and at their center sat Grindelwald – bound to his chair, grinning from ear to ear.

She desperately wanted to say something, anything, to tear that smug look from his face. She couldn’t find the words.

“Your right hand man was quite something, Seraphina,” Grindelwald said, not even winded from the forced pulling of his memories from multiple witches and wizards. In the dim lights of the execution chamber, one eye glowed unnaturally – like a pearl in the dark. It made Tina’s stomach twist with dread. “I can see why you chose him to head up your security. He would have made it, if not for that car. Funny how fate works out. In another world, he’d be beside you. In this one, he’s mine.”

“Do not flatter yourself, Gellert,” she said, using his first name in kind with a wry brow that said, ‘fucking try me’. “Mr. Graves is beginning to heal quite excellently under the watchful eye of our expert. He’ll be beside me once more in no time.”

That only made Grindelwald’s grin widen.

“Lying now, are we?” He asked. “Oh, things must be so much worse than they appear. How wonderful.”

With a sharp movement that had Tina stumbling for her own wand, Picquery drew hers from her coat.

“Madam President?” Tina asked, eyes wide, heart thundering, but all Picquery did was conjure a chair with a precise flick of her wand. With the grace of a great cat, she lowered herself into it and said, “Again.”

A set of shocked and weary eyes fell upon her from the platforms, the team of Legilimens exhausted. But one by one, they stood – wands extended – and began the process once more. But Grindelwald did not care. He only had eyes for Picquery.

“Will we die, just a little?” He asked, repeating his words from the train station before the light of the Legilimens spells fell upon him, rolling his eyes into his head, making him seize in his bindings. Below, the next memory began to appear.

“Madam Picquery,” an Auror said, coming to stand beside her for a moment. “I can report to you, if you have something else—“

“He attacked one of our own, Smithfield,” she said, not even bothering to look at the man. “I will watch this. Every moment. Every second. I will know his pain, and when this is done, so will Grindelwald.”

“Madam President,” Smithfield said softly, obviously recognizing the dismissal, and backed away to his former spot.

“We’re ready, Madam President,” one of the Legilimens said, voice strained.

“Show me.”

Tina brushed away the cool, wet tracks on her cheek with a thumb and prepared for the next memory.

Newt hadn’t even realized he had been dozing at his work station until his leg began to fall sleep, alighting his calf and toes with pins and needles. He mumbled sleepily, confused when his leg was far heavier than it had any right to be, and looked down to see a dark mop of hair on his thigh. It was Graves. He was seated on the floor beside his chair, his cheek pressed to Newt’s thigh.

Newt blinked, then everything that had happened over the past two days came flooding back to him.

“Mr. Graves?” He mumbled and gently drew his fingers through the man’s hair to wake him. “What’re you doing on the floor?”

With a soft groan and a long yawn, Graves looked up to him and said, “You didn’t come to bed.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes crawling to the report Newt had been writing for President Picquery outlining Graves'… progress. He frowned ever so slightly, the expression only soothing out at the sound of Graves’ soft whine of recognition. With a wave of his wand, he transformed the report into a mouse and sent it off – eyes heavy as he watched it scurry up the ladder of his suitcase. “I’m coming.”

Newt rose from the chair, and when it became obvious that Graves would not settle on the bed without him, he made fast work of his nightly routine before finally laying down. But when Graves did nothing more but stand at the edge of his bed and whimper, obviously wanting something but conflicted, Newt reached out for him and grabbed his hand. Too exhausted to explain, Newt simply guided Graves down onto the bed, pulling only gently, giving Graves the option to pull away. He didn’t.

Instead, he pressed the long, lithe line of his body into Newt’s side. He was shorter than Newt, and that worked well with the size of Newt’s bed. He fit quite comfortably into the dip of Newt’s side, and they were down for no more than a handful of moments before Graves simply tucked his nose into Newt’s collarbone and fell asleep.

The warm weight of Graves’ body lured Newt into sleep easily. The icy, unnatural feel of his tags however – unable to warm, even pressed between them – woke him often through the night.

a/n - got a suggestion on what you want to see? Send me a note. I can’t guarantee I’ll include it, but I love suggestions. 

[newstfionline]

‘London Bridge is down’: the secret plan for the days after the Queen’s death

By Sam Knight, The Guardian, 17 March 2017

Excerpts of long article

In the plans that exist for the death of the Queen--and there are many versions, held by Buckingham Palace, the government and the BBC--most envisage that she will die after a short illness. Her family and doctors will be there. When the Queen Mother passed away on the afternoon of Easter Saturday, in 2002, at the Royal Lodge in Windsor, she had time to telephone friends to say goodbye, and to give away some of her horses. In these last hours, the Queen’s senior doctor, a gastroenterologist named Professor Huw Thomas, will be in charge. He will look after his patient, control access to her room and consider what information should be made public.

There will be bulletins from the palace--not many, but enough. “The Queen is suffering from great physical prostration, accompanied by symptoms which cause much anxiety,” announced Sir James Reid, Queen Victoria’s physician, two days before her death in 1901. “The King’s life is moving peacefully towards its close,” was the final notice issued by George V’s doctor, Lord Dawson, at 9.30pm on the night of 20 January 1936. Not long afterwards, Dawson injected the king with 750mg of morphine and a gram of cocaine--enough to kill him twice over--in order to ease the monarch’s suffering, and to have him expire in time for the printing presses of the Times, which rolled at midnight.

Her eyes will be closed and Charles will be king. His siblings will kiss his hands. The first official to deal with the news will be Sir Christopher Geidt, the Queen’s private secretary, a former diplomat who was given a second knighthood in 2014, in part for planning her succession.

Geidt will contact the prime minister. The last time a British monarch died, 65 years ago, the demise of George VI was conveyed in a code word, “Hyde Park Corner”, to Buckingham Palace, to prevent switchboard operators from finding out. For Elizabeth II, the plan for what happens next is known as “London Bridge.” The prime minister will be woken, if she is not already awake, and civil servants will say “London Bridge is down” on secure lines. From the Foreign Office’s Global Response Centre, at an undisclosed location in the capital, the news will go out to the 15 governments outside the UK where the Queen is also the head of state, and the 36 other nations of the Commonwealth for whom she has served as a symbolic figurehead--a face familiar in the untidy drawings of a billion schoolchildren--since the dawn of the atomic age.

For a time, she will be gone without our knowing it. The information will travel like the compressional wave ahead of an earthquake, detectable only by special equipment. Governors general, ambassadors and prime ministers will learn first. Cupboards will be opened in search of black armbands, three-and-a-quarter inches wide, to be worn on the left arm.

The rest of us will find out more quickly than before. On 6 February 1952, George VI was found by his valet at Sandringham at 7.30am. The BBC did not broadcast the news until 11.15am, almost four hours later. When Princess Diana died at 4am local time at the Pitié-Salpêtrière hospital in Paris on 31 August 1997, journalists accompanying the former foreign secretary, Robin Cook, on a visit to the Philippines knew within 15 minutes. For many years the BBC was told about royal deaths first, but its monopoly on broadcasting to the empire has gone now. When the Queen dies, the announcement will go out as a newsflash to the Press Association and the rest of the world’s media simultaneously. At the same instant, a footman in mourning clothes will emerge from a door at Buckingham Palace, cross the dull pink gravel and pin a black-edged notice to the gates. While he does this, the palace website will be transformed into a sombre, single page, showing the same text on a dark background.

Screens will glow. There will be tweets. At the BBC, the “radio alert transmission system” (Rats), will be activated--a cold war-era alarm designed to withstand an attack on the nation’s infrastructure. Rats, which is also sometimes referred to as “royal about to snuff it”, is a near mythical part of the intricate architecture of ritual and rehearsals for the death of major royal personalities that the BBC has maintained since the 1930s. Most staff have only ever seen it work in tests; many have never seen it work at all. “Whenever there is a strange noise in the newsroom, someone always asks, ‘Is that the Rats?’ Because we don’t know what it sounds like,” one regional reporter told me.

All news organisations will scramble to get films on air and obituaries online. At the Guardian, the deputy editor has a list of prepared stories pinned to his wall. The Times is said to have 11 days of coverage ready to go. At Sky News and ITN, which for years rehearsed the death of the Queen substituting the name “Mrs Robinson”, calls will go out to royal experts who have already signed contracts to speak exclusively on those channels. “I am going to be sitting outside the doors of the Abbey on a hugely enlarged trestle table commentating to 300 million Americans about this,” one told me.

For people stuck in traffic, there will only be the subtlest of indications, at first, that something is going on. Britain’s commercial radio stations have a network of blue “obit lights”, which is tested once a week and supposed to light up in the event of a national catastrophe. When the news breaks, these lights will start flashing, to alert DJs to switch to the news in the next few minutes and to play inoffensive music in the meantime. Every station, down to hospital radio, has prepared music lists made up of “Mood 2” (sad) or “Mood 1” (saddest) songs to reach for in times of sudden mourning. “If you ever hear Haunted Dancehall (Nursery Remix) by Sabres of Paradise on daytime Radio 1, turn the TV on,” wrote Chris Price, a BBC radio producer, for the Huffington Post in 2011. “Something terrible has just happened.”

These well-laid plans have not always helped. In 2002, when the Queen Mother died, the obit lights didn’t come on because someone failed to push the button down properly.

There will be no extemporising with the Queen. The newsreaders will wear black suits and black ties. Category one was made for her. Programmes will stop. Networks will merge.

The main reason for rehearsals is to have words that are roughly approximate to the moment. “It is with the greatest sorrow that we make the following announcement,” said John Snagge, the BBC presenter who informed the world of the death of George VI. (The news was repeated seven times, every 15 minutes, and then the BBC went silent for five hours). According to one former head of BBC news, a very similar set of words will be used for the Queen. The rehearsals for her are different to the other members of the family, he explained. People become upset, and contemplate the unthinkable oddness of her absence. “She is the only monarch that most of us have ever known,” he said. The royal standard will appear on the screen. The national anthem will play. You will remember where you were.

When people think of a contemporary royal death in Britain, they think, inescapably, of Diana. The passing of the Queen will be monumental by comparison. It may not be as nakedly emotional, but its reach will be wider, and its implications more dramatic. “It will be quite fundamental,” as one former courtier told me.

The death of a British monarch, and the accession of a new head of state, is a ritual that is passing out of living memory: three of the Queen’s last four prime ministers were born after she came to the throne. When she dies, both houses of parliament will be recalled, people will go home from work early, and aircraft pilots will announce the news to their passengers. In the nine days that follow (in London Bridge planning documents, these are known as “D-day”, “D+1” and so on) there will be ritual proclamations, a four-nation tour by the new king, and a diplomatic assembling in London not seen since the death of Winston Churchill in 1965.

More overwhelming than any of this, though, there will be an almighty psychological reckoning for the kingdom that she leaves behind. The Queen is Britain’s last living link with our former greatness--the nation’s id, its problematic self-regard--which is still defined by our victory in the second world war. One leading historian, who like most people I interviewed for this article declined to be named, stressed that the farewell for this country’s longest-serving monarch will be magnificent. “Oh, she will get everything,” he said. “We were all told that the funeral of Churchill was the requiem for Britain as a great power. But actually it will really be over when she goes.”

Unlike the US presidency, say, monarchies allow huge passages of time--a century, in some cases--to become entwined with an individual. The second Elizabethan age is likely to be remembered as a reign of uninterrupted national decline, and even, if she lives long enough and Scotland departs the union, as one of disintegration. Life and politics at the end of her rule will be unrecognisable from their grandeur and innocence at its beginning. “We don’t blame her for it,” Philip Ziegler, the historian and royal biographer, told me. “We have declined with her, so to speak.”

The Queen is approaching the end of her reign at a time of maximum disquiet about Britain’s place in the world, at a moment when internal political tensions are close to breaking her kingdom apart. Her death will also release its own destabilising forces: in the accession of Queen Camilla; in the optics of a new king who is already an old man; and in the future of the Commonwealth, an invention largely of her making. (The Queen’s title of “Head of the Commonwealth” is not hereditary.) Australia’s prime minister and leader of the opposition both want the country to become a republic.

Coping with the way these events fall is the next great challenge of the House of Windsor, the last European royal family to practise coronations and to persist--with the complicity of a willing public--in the magic of the whole enterprise. That is why the planning for the Queen’s death and its ceremonial aftermath is so extensive. Succession is part of the job. Queen Victoria had written down the contents of her coffin by 1875. The Queen Mother’s funeral was rehearsed for 22 years. Louis Mountbatten, the last Viceroy of India, prepared a winter and a summer menu for his funeral lunch. London Bridge is the Queen’s exit plan. “It’s history,” as one of her courtiers said. It will be 10 days of sorrow and spectacle in which, rather like the dazzling mirror of the monarchy itself, we will revel in who we were and avoid the question of what we have become.

For a long time, the art of royal spectacle was for other, weaker peoples: Italians, Russians, and Habsburgs. British ritual occasions were a mess. At the funeral of Princess Charlotte, in 1817, the undertakers were drunk. Ten years later, St George’s Chapel was so cold during the burial of the Duke of York that George Canning, the foreign secretary, contracted rheumatic fever and the bishop of London died. “We never saw so motley, so rude, so ill-managed a body of persons,” reported the Times on the funeral of George IV, in 1830. Victoria’s coronation a few years later was nothing to write home about. The clergy got lost in the words; the singing was awful; and the royal jewellers made the coronation ring for the wrong finger. “Some nations have a gift for ceremonial,” the Marquess of Salisbury wrote in 1860. “In England the case is exactly the reverse.”