#nobody answered this last time they jury’s still out

[thebottomfromhell]

I am completely sorry for leaving you all hanging again, this apology is probable very cheap at this point, it's been rough lately. Right now I feel as if my mental health was in shambles. You see, I sometimes do work for my mother, who is a judge, and write of some testimonies on court and the last one really got to me. It was a SA case between cousins, one a young adult (the accused) the other a teen (the victim) in which almost everyone took the side of the accused, creating the story the girl (the victim) was lying, that it was "consented" but she fear the consecuences from her mother, who everyone in that family knew was abusive but nobody ever did everything. I have been hoing through statement after statement, writting people defending the guy and I'm done, I'm exhausted, both mentally and emotionally. Never a case has gotten me this much.

I really don't want to turn this into a ramble, it wouldn't be appropriate of me to take this things out here. But I want to give you some tipa if you are ever in court or need to take something, specially SA, to court. Idk, I feel this is the minimun I should be doing.

Check the actual age of consent where you live. There is an age where is you are touched or anything sexual is done it you, is automatically considered rape, but that age is never "under 18". In most places from 13 years old to older you WILL need proof that it was forced/violent to prove it was not consented. That being said, be aware that an adult going for a minor, while not ilegal, IS creepy, IS bad and actions should be always taken.

The first thing you do if you are hurt and want to take it to court is go to get medical attention, the first. Same thing if something happens to someone you know, if you don't know what to do, go get medical attention. In some countries there are medical centers linked with the local investigation/cop organization, those WILL be cheaper. Always tell the one attenting you what happened, sometimes they will lead you to a doctor/psycologist/investigator dedicated to court.

You WILL have to give several testimonies most of the time, one to the police/investigators if included, one to the lawyers, and one to the court/jury. Sometimes the jury and lawyer will use your previous testimonies to clarify things or spot contradictions. Everyone in court have these documents at hand, so don't you even think of changing the story and ALWAYS specify if you are adding a detail you disn't say before and say why you didn't add it.

Your testimony and statements must always be as detailed as possible, never assume, while they do, that the jury knows what happened. You are the one telling. In case of SA you must say the name of the specific body parts that were touched, with what and how. It's all for it to be coherent with the results of the medical evaluation.

In most cases you will have to wait years for evidence and people to be recolegted to have some to go to court. It's valid if you don't remember everything, but take note on places, time and date, and if possible, faces and/or names (nicknames count too).

"I don't know" and "I don't remember" are VALID answers in court, always say this lines instead of lying.

Never refer that you don't remember other testimonies you gave, it gives the impression you don't remember your "lines". Just say "I don't remember what happened exactly, what I remember is..."

Sometimes layers will ask the same thing several times, phrased differently, in order to get a different answer. Don't be ashame to repeat the answer and call them off by saying "I already answered (say the answer again)" in case the lawyer in your side is bad and doesn't object the question for repetitive.

In case of vaginal rape, AFAB people have all different types of hymen, it doesn't always break, but there are still other rypes of vaginal scarring. Infections are also common in case of SA. Penetration of almost any type leaves scaring, other forms of touch that are not punches or hit does not.

Try, if you have the means, to have a psicologist with experience in court (in spanish profesionals linked to court are called peritos) and colaborate. Even if you don't have the symptoms of a "good victim" "default victim", you WILL have simptoms, that their testimony explaining thems helps a lot to make the jury believe you.

In some places if you are a family member of the accused you will be obligated to attend to court but you will have the right of not giving testimony if you fear your word can be used agaisnt that person. The accused also tends to have the right of not giving testimony, and if they do give testimony they are not obligated by law to say the truth unlike witnnesses (because, let's be real. Who is going to admit it?)

You can be charged for lying in court, conviction will change depending where you live. However, if nobody (the lawyers, the judges and the jury) decide to let it slide in order to not make a whole new case based in that you lied, you might get away with it, specially if you lied in a detail. (Really, I have seen so many people get away with it.)

Anyone who fears being accused of rape over being raped doesn't know shit and it's a massive red flag. In court you have to prove both that there was "sex" and that it was "forced" as two separate things. Most of the time you can't prove it without scars that match a medical history and proves of violence used against the victim. Most of SA cases never get to court anyway, then proving it is even harder.

Always anwser the question of the lawyer first and then explain. First, because your testimony is being registered so that makes it easy to mark, and second, if you start with the explanation you might loose the focus and not only never answer the question, but it looks af if you are making an excuse.

Most white cisgender straight people, specially man, don't really know what SA is. Most of them will think that doing it while the other person is drunk, to give an ultimatum, to insist until the other will allow in order to be left alone, to scare them into doing it, anything if there wasn't penetration, or even things like groping and catcalling don't count as SA. They do. So most of these people will defend the idea that it wasn't SA because they genuinely don't understand that what they did was SA. Always be explicit and precise with what happened.

Related to the other point, most people, again cis staight men mostly, think that it has to be violent, that one must be forced to submit, and there must be punches for it to be rape. That is not the case, but always be prepared to have to fight off this idea.

Defense lawyers, in my personal experience, tend to be assholes more than any other lawyer. Some will even treat the case as if winning a competition over making justice.

Cases CAN be reopen if a LAWYER asks for it, but most of the time it doesn't work because witnneses refuse to go a second time, specially the victims as it opens wpunds and forces them to live the trauma again, specially with minors.

It can vary in different countries, but most of the time is actually harder to condemn than not. To condemn the judges have to specify what evidence makes the story of ehat happened believable, build up a story/theory of that happened linked to everything exposed and the sentence must be approved by the jury. On the other hand, a "there wan't enough evidence" is enough to absolve. (That is why to reopen the case might lead to setting the accused free in a easier way, since there aren't as many testimonies nor as many evidence as the last time)

Some lawyer of defense, this links from the two previous point, will be assholes for that, to make the work harder for everyone. Witnesses, other lawyers, judges and jury alike, so the evidence and testimonies can't be collected properly.

I will see if later I have anything more to say, but this is all I can recolect for now. Reminder that laws might change depending where you live, always check them and try to be aware of your rights.

[silverjurors]

OK TUMBLR WONT LET ME EDIT MY DRAFTS SO IM ANSWERING TWO ASKS FROM @reterols (thank you for your kind words I have read them and I also stalk your blog on a regular basis because sometimes being a Zanus shipper feels like you and me screaming about these two into an echo chamber)

A zanus headcanon(s) that make u giggle bc it's just stupid/irrelevant but it's definitely canon.

This one will be glorified story beats for a Very Specific Moment of backstory that I have thought of for actual months but cannot figure out a way to include in my story outline aside from minor references. Idk how fluffy/cute/stupid it is because they're always a little bit Deranged whenever i write those two, but im doing my best. It also gives me a prime chance to ramble about how the position of Silver Death actually works in my rewrite!!

Also this is really long so I'm putting it under a cut because I feel bad

Janus was 22 when Zane took the position of High Priest to the Church of the Divine, and a few months afterward, he asked them to join the Jury

However, Janus wasn't exactly content with just joining the Jury under any position, because, well, that would be some pretty obvious nepotism, even in O'Khasis

So, to prevent this from being an issue, they decided they were going to become the Silver Death

Many had tried to become the Silver Death since the death of the last one 17 years ago, and all of them had failed

This is because in order to become the Silver Death, you must hold a cursed object known as the Donmai that once belonged to Xavier himself

The Donmai is very dangerous, and if not handled by someone with utter devotion to something, it can cause insanity or even kill the attempted wielder. If the person trying to attain it's blessing is insincere, or not completely devoted and dedicated to whatever they are holding in their mind, they will go insane and/or die

Janus wasn't worried, they knew what was driving them forward in life, and the only thing that was giving them purpose

Zane was not so sure. He did believe that they cared for him and would defend and protect him with their life (they'd proven it several times over at that point) but he also knew that the Donmai had a super high bar to pass, and even the slightest waver in your resolve would lead to insanity

But they insisted, and if Zane figured that if couldn't trust Janus, who could he really trust at that point?

They prepared for the ceremony, and the people took to the streets to either watch the selection of a new Silver Death (hasn't happened for over 30 years) or watch another idiot die in a desperate bid for power (entertaining!)

The Donmai was brought out in it's elaborate protective case, everyone else wearing thick gloves and protective gear to let them handle it

Some people were praying to Irene or Eamonn or even Xavier for this to not go as horrifically wrong as all the previous ceremonies, the tension in the air was thick and nobody seemed to believe they could do it

Janus did feel scared at that point, they had never feared death before, but they didn't want to die like this, in a ceremony. They had always imagined their own death on the battlefield, or some form of combat

The time had almost arrived, and it was in front of them, just within arms reach. It didn't look particularly dangerous, but they knew better.

A tradition that took place just before the attempt to attain the Donmai's favor was for the High Priest to whisper an inaudible short prayer to whoever was attempting to complete the ceremony, they mutually agreed it would be a prayer to Xavier beforehand

But, when Zane leaned in to whisper the prayer, the words failed him. He couldn't think properly, so, instead, he said

“Don't let it take you from me, I still need you.”

And he pulled away, leaving their heart racing in their chest. All thoughts of fear or doubt vanished from their mind, all thoughts of anything but the man in front of them vanished. That was why they existed - they were for him, and they were going to prove it

So they took hold of the Donmai with obsessive focus, and their flesh burned at the contact with the cursed metal, but Janus hardly noticed compared to their own emotions and their heart racing

Holding the Donmai was unlike any experience they had ever had, it was like their whole body ached and burned and froze all at once, their good eye blurred with involuntary tears. The cursed object seemed to be demanding something of them, a reason it should let them live

And those words echoed in their mind - that Zane needed them. That was all the reason they needed for anything, that their life may as well be his, and they didn't get to die until he saw fit. That they were his, so, really, any pain didn't seem all that bad compared to the joy it gave them to have that privilege.

Suddenly, the pain stopped. And it was done. And they were alive, sane, and successful.

The people of O'Khasis cheered their name, the crowd in near hysterics at the blessing, thanking Irene, thanking the Divine, thanking Xavier

And Janus the Silver Death looked at Zane, and not even the mask he wore could disguise his joy

The end. Ta da. I should probably turn this into a one-shot but I have no motivation soooo

[billkill]

This was written for the anniversary. The same thing can be found on AO3 too.

Maverick had never complained to anyone. To Viper, whom he knew didn't quite understand him; to himself who nearly walked out without speaking to Carole; to the jury for not punishing him; to Sundown, who was as unsympathetic as Viper; to anybody. He was not angry with any of them. But after hearing the sighs of Iceman he felt, as he gathered his things; he said, "Why aren't you sad enough?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

“Goose is dead,” Maverick turned, echoing what Viper had said. "But you carry on, as if nothing happened."

"Mav, I was going to apologize anyway…"

"No point from now on!" cried Maverick. Wolfman, who was eavesdropping on them, was frightened, but he managed not to make a sound. Even when he saw Maverick, holding Iceman's collar, almost attacking. With his tiny figure, he couldn't have expected that Maverick would seriously harm Iceman, but considering Maverick's bitter rage and the Iceman's inability to defend himself for relating to Maverick's situation, Wolfman chose to remain silent.

"It doesn't matter when anyone gets upset…" Maverick loosened his hands. "It's the same excuse for centuries anyway… soldiers die, but because their deaths are a great act, no-one after them has the right to be sad or cry; because life must go on… because the soldiers left, so that the rest could laugh and be happy…"

Iceman couldn't look Maverick in the eyes, but he could feel them fill with tears, not to mention the trembling in Maverick's voice. If it had been anyone else, any man, Iceman would have hit him hard to make him come back to his senses, but Iceman couldn't move. His hand was shaking too, because it was Maverick. It wasn't anyone.

For Iceman, yes, Maverick was right, nothing made any sense anymore, and nothing mattered any longer; but Maverick was leaving, and when he was gone, everything would be worse. For Iceman. Nothing could stop Maverick. Nobody could stop him from leaving Iceman alone. Iceman hadn't told Maverick, but he had been all alone before he'd arrived. Now there was this danger of Maverick's leaving, too, and couldn't he see that he was going to put himself in Maverick's position too? Couldn't he understand that Maverick also meant Goose to him…? But Iceman could have sworn that for some reason he felt the tone in Maverick's voice, "I never want to go, just do something, find a reason for me to stay." Maybe he was just setting this up himself. To console his own self…

"When I was sure you'd fall…" Iceman said with difficulty. "I knew one of you was going to die. I prayed it wasn't you, Mav. Maybe that's why I'm not upset enough. Maybe it's me that's bad."

Although Mav couldn't believe what he was hearing, he still took a few more steps towards the door, before being stopped again by Iceman's voice.

"In fact, I'm very selfish. I'll ask you to come to graduation, Mav. For me. For you. For us… It's very important to me that you come, Mav. Will you be there?"

Maverick didn't answer. Iceman even doubted whether he had heard the last words he'd said: He was long gone like a ghost. Even with his eyes on the ground, Iceman could feel it. But instead, Iceman heard a different voice:

"He'll come."

"Wolfman?" He wasn't upset. He didn't resent that he just stood there, listening to their conversation. Like Maverick, he felt generally freed from anger.

"Don't you be upset. Something tells me he's coming."

"What if he doesn't show up?"

"The Maverick I know will come. And the Iceman I know won't make himself sad about it that much."

"I can't help it, Wolf… After getting to know him, it's like I'm a different person, now…"

"I know… but you should tell him that."

"I said it enough times… as much as my tongue let me... He doesn't understand…"

"He got it."

"You're not saying all this with conviction… you're just trying to console me…"

"Iceman, please don't let yourself go. What will we be, if you lose himself too…?"

Wolfman's simple words were enough to rally Iceman. From then on, he decided to stand firm.

The first job was to prepare for graduation. He'd go to give his hair the best shape. After that, he was going to have a "neat" iron on his uniform.

Whether or not Maverick came or not would determine Iceman's future —whether Maverick knew it or not—; and whatever the outcome was, Iceman decided to face it in his best look.

[absolutesort]

𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨   ;    ʙᴇᴀᴄʜ ʜᴜᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ !

what are your thoughts on max & dejan’s exit last night? why didn’t you vote for them?

         “ man, was that only last night ?  that feels like ages ago. ”  frankie waits for clarification from the camera crew.  it’s true what they say — a day on the inside feels like a week on the outside. “ sorry. so much has happened in the past few days, it’s just like... the inside of my brain right now looks like you gave a child a magic marker and just let them go absolutely balls-to-the-wall wild with it. ”  last night, she’d been crying about max leaving ( but it was hay fever ), fighting with callie, and then attempting to patch things up with her. today, she can’t even think about any of that, because she was yanked out of bed at the crack of dawn and transplanted to a new villa, with six new people.  “ i wanted to vote for them, but callie wanted rhys and bash. she’s been here longer, she knows the group dynamics better, so ultimately i let her do the choosing. it hurt to see max go, but i trust callie’s judgement. ” 

how are you feeling about the start of casa amor?

        “ honestly, i’m not gonna lie, i still don’t really know what casa amor is ? it’s like, we’re taken from our original partners and given all these new options ?  why not just put them in with all of us ? ”  unless the intention is to see if their behaviour differs when they’re away, like a boys holiday to ibiza where everybody fucks a stranger. but nobody’s official at the moment, so it feels like there’s not that much at stake. “ it’s actually nice to be away from all the drama. i know some of the originals — us, not the vampires — are super depressed about the whole thing, but that’s such a buzzkill for the new people. like, they’re just trying to have a good time, don’t shit all over them because you can’t get your dick sucked. i’m just gonna go with the flow and try to enjoy it, because you never know when you’re gonna get sent home to florida. ”  

are there any new islanders that have caught your attention? who?

      “ yeah, but more in a you seem fun to hang out with way than in a damn girl way. val’s sexy, mali’s cool, layla has a good vibe. even phoebe, which shocked me, because i did cheer in high school and had a really bad experience that basically scarred me for life. you ever see the movie easy a ?  it was like that but with cheerleaders. but phoebe’s not a bitch. uh... who else ?  miles caught my attention, mostly because he blundered through his introduction. ”  frankie’s snort-laughing as she attempts an impression. “ hi, i’m... smoking hot ! ”   she’s definitely not gonna let that one go.  “ but it was actually really endearing. he’s hot, he’s made it pretty clear he thinks i’m hot, and josh said he’s into me and that i should give him a shot. jury’s still out on whether i will. ” shrugging her shoulders, she bites down on her lip. “ i’m not actively looking to get to know someone, because i’m very happy in my current couple. but if somebody stumbles into my eyeline and there’s a vibe ?  i’m not going to shut anything down before i decide it’s run its course. ”

are there any new islanders you don’t see yourself vibing with?

     “ adela, which is a bummer because she’s super cute, but i can already tell she doesn’t like me and has like a wasp in her vag about it. i don’t know if she feels threatened because the title of resident sporty good time girl has already been claimed, or if she just hates the fact that everyone wants to fuck me, but it sounds like a her problem. i’m not getting involved. take it up with the ofcom therapist, dude. ”

do you think that your head could be turned?

        frankie purses her lips, considering her answer ( which is more than she’s done for any of the other questions ).  “ honestly, not really. i think they’d have to graft really hard to turn my head. callie and i have a good thing going, i’m excited to see if it becomes more than what it is. but at the same time, it’s been four days, and i said i wanted to keep my options open so... i’m not gonna shoot anyone down on day one. if they want to put their grafting boots on, they’re welcome to — who am i to stop people from telling me i’m sexy — but yeah, i don’t know if anyone else will have that same intensity and that chemistry with me that callie does. ” 

what do you think your ‘other half’ is up to in the other villa right now? how are you feeling about them?

    “ oh man, callie is gonna be so pissed about this. i’m just hoping she takes this as like, a good opportunity. obviously you get tested in the real world. people will hit on me, people will hit on her, sometimes we’ll want to explore that, and we’ll have to navigate that as a couple if this is going to work. ”  all of that’s true, and it doesn’t help that probably six out of six bombshells will be attempting to whistle careless whisper against callie’s snatch, but frankie has faith. “ selfishly, i hope she isn’t currently dry-humping some random from michigan, but i don’t put it past the bombshells not to lay it on like war paint. callie’s the fittest girl in there, she’s got a good heart, and she’s popular with viewers. i wanted her enough to steal her, so why wouldn’t they ?  i just hope she decides that i’m worth the trouble of sticking around. ”  

[remembertheplunge]

6:30pm.  10/7/ 2006 At Flix. An Omaha Gay Bar Cute bar tender. Music Videos. Kind of a classic gay bar. Like the Brave Bull Bar  on 9th Street in Modesto. LOUD TV. Smell of old booze and cigarettes. Ash Trays! I guess people can smoke here. No gay newspapers around. Only 2 other guys here. American Idol is on TV.

Oh my Go! The reunion was “Relative Hell! Ahhhhh!

Really bad idea.

I stayed 3 hours. Others were jumping ship left and right. When it came time for me to go, Mom said tensely “Stay longer”. Me “No”. It was leading into watching  a Nebraska Football Game.  Ahhhh!

So, the big line up—Cousin David.Heavy set, balding, tiny bit of grey hair. He was nice but distant. (David is 6 months older than me). I’d rather recall him at 18 than as he is now. At 18, he was handsome and in shape. I can kind of still see his younger self in his features. Hear it in the voice. But, God,the impact of on youth and beauty of time’s odd wand. He gave me a Blanche DVD which I left there! ( Our Aunt Blanche was a nurse during WWII who served in Europe. I think the DVD was about that.  She was one of my mothers older sisters) I just wanted to leave. Cousin Ruth Ann was fun! Sparkly. (10 years older than me) The twin Iowa cousins were friendly and fun. Diane and Debby. (One year older than me)

Everybody there was 50 plus. 50 equaled you were a baby. Lee was 88. Ruby and Mildred, in their 80’s. (Aunts and an Uncle)

Were the cousins happy to see me? That I don’t know. They never mentioned once anything about me being gay. They never asked how Jim, my partner,  was doing. I asked cousin Dave how many kids he had. David “4”. He asked not one thing about my life.

So, hold it. Hold on. Where’d this all come from anyway? This cousin’s reunion stuff? Why did I fly back to Nebraska for this? I’m leaning toward making a statement. NO

At the brunch the next day at the convalescent hospital Blanch was living in, Cousin Jim and his wife Marsha was there. Marsha was cold. Cousin Jim was horrified to learn I don’t computer, Cousin Jim “I spend all day on mine.” Cousin Marilyn “What do you do in old town Omaha last night?” Me (un said) “I do queer, gay, bohemian unmentionable things.”

Nobody gets it. I need Lew time. This is not a good time.

I thought it was interesting that Cousin Jim wanted to know “What did you do last night?”. And perhaps, even more amazing I told him , "I went to gay bars".

Cousin Jim asked “What’s a lawyer’s life really like? Is it like CSI?” Mom answered “He doesn’t watch it” I said “CSI is phony. Made up. It’s theater." I told them that I had just competed a murder jury trial back in California and that the jury was still out (they were out for 3 1/2 weeks before declaring they could not reach a verdict) Regarding the trial, I said “You are lucky that we are in deliberation and not earlier in the trial or I would have brought the autopsy pictures. I brought them to Mom’s last family party.”

Cousin Jim, when pressed by his sister Ruth Ann (both about 10 years older than me) “do you want to be cremated. He replied “I don’t care. I want to be mixed in the paint and painted on the bedroom ceiling.” They did Blanche’s will last night. How odd. Jim and I just did our wills.

Blanche was quite and peaceful (She was born in 1914). I think that she got what she wanted. Her family together. As I said to Jim on the phone later (He was at home in Modesto) “If Mom and Blanche are happy, so am I.”

End of entry

Margin notes in the journal re:above entry

10/7/06. Flix Bar  Omaha “To be in a gay bar watching American Idol while the Nebraska Iowa game is on is sacrilege.” ___________________________

11/08/2006.  Basically, I took a vacation. A get away. They resent it. Coming and saying “Hi” wasn’t enough. Well, that’s all I had. It’s what I wanted. If there is so much interest in me, why so much dead space? Years worth of no contact with them.

[dreamerology]

This is a mutuals mention game! u need to mention one or more mutuals that come to your mind at first when you read the following words (per word): flower, angel, love, smile, laugh, chocolate, sweet, cute, gorgeous, fun, sun, moon and stars 💓

mutual loving mode: Activated 

flower - @minhyukt (miss mel,, u have a very warm presence!!!! u remind me of a sunflower?? idk why but thats u!!!!!!! ur just bright and lovey nd ur love for minhyuk is so wholesome)

angel - @aminhyuk (erin ur so sweet!!!! like i kno we havent interacted  Whole Ton but whenever we do it always leaves me feeling warm!!!! nd the love for minhyuk is so pure n cute 2 see)

love - @jealousymv (aleena ur love for kihyun is on a whole other level………in fact when u look up love in the dictionary its actually just a picture of u nd kihyun…when will ur faves ever?) 

smile - @bloodorangeki (alli :D i loveeeee talking 2 u never fails 2 make me smile!!!!!! u just have a very comfortable presence nd ur rly funny!!!!!! also ur smile (nd dimple) is so cute i love u :((()

laugh - @hyuccwoo (shannon i think u’ve made me laugh every single day we’ve been mutuals so far……..ur tags? iconic. they’re what im thinking but too chicken 2 say skjhjdshfkjs) 

chocolate - @kihyuns (cass!!!!!!!!!! the sweetest (like chocolate) person 2 exist????????? i love u so much, ur seriously like the nicest person ive ever met nd i love talking 2 u,, it makes my heart go 💕💘💕💝💕)

sweet - @theminhyuk (fari u’ve literally been nothing but an absolute angel 2 me ever since we become mutuals i dont deserve this???????? i still remember all ur compliments on my mbs and hello????? u deserve the world i love u)

cute - @toffee (miss angel!!!!! i love love love seeing u on my dash ur so cute nd sweet, ur emoji keysmashes r so Cute nd u have such a big heart for ur friends i love u!!!!!!!!!!!!) 

gorgeous - @ckyun (whenever u tag me in selfies im pretty sure i black out for a couple seconds? ur so prettie!!!!!!!!!! but also all ur gfx are always so gorgeous,, im in awe :0)

fun - @emoroha (egg i always see u on my dash interacting w others nd ur so funnie & friendly!!!!! please teach me ur ways,, u just like. radiate good energy jhsdkjfhs i think it would b rly fun 2 hang out w u)

sun - @nubebe (miss kei……..ur so bright? like ur always positive nd i love seeing u on my dash, i always get a smile like :0 thats kei!!!! im sending all of my love ur way, it should b there in 2-3 business days!)

moon - @kihani (i love ur aesthetic soooo much…….its so calming and peaceful,, like the moon. also u just have a very calming and safe presence in general! like….id trust u with my lifesdfjksdh)

stars - @kihyunanti (miss alex!! i kno we havent talked much but i Love seeing u on my dash,, u rly do shine nd whenever i see u on my dash i :D bc thats alex!!!! i love u thanks for coming 2 my ted talk)

[formenis]

Can you do a oneshot of L Lawliet where he is in a secret relationship with Light's twin sister and she finds out she is pregnant so she shows up at Task Force to tell L and just announces it to the whole task force but its L who announces he is the father.

OML I'm so sorry for the delay, Anon-san 😭😭

Lately I'm feeling so overwhelmed and in the dumps that I lost any sort of inspiration. I hope you like it thou.

.

.

TITLE: NEWS

pairing: L x Yagami!fem!pregnant!reader

warning: none.

«See you later mom»

«Be careful dear. You too Light»

«Yeah bye mom»

And the door was softly closed after that answer. The two Yagami twins, Y/N and Light, always left home earlier than their sister Sayu. Light had to take the train for the Daikoku Private Academy while Y/N was a last year high school student at the Gamou Prep Academy, where her twin brother attended supplemental classes in the afternoon. Actually, it was what her family knew. The reality was a lot different.

Despite the two twins had the same age, the same skills and the same perfect school report, Y/N had that extra oomph that Light hadn't. It was thanks to this oomph that ensured her a special, secret job. She was noticed by no less than the greatest detective in the world, L.

Y/N Yagami had everything L needed: intellect, slyness, excellent rhetoric. At first, they had a simple working relationship made of mutual respect and esteem. But as time passed those feelings changed.

Initially Y/N felt strange: L was this mysterious detective with an extraordinary mind and skills, she never saw him in person. She had the impression that what she felt for him was wrong: what if L didn't exist? Y/N was so curious about him that one of their online meetings, she couldn’t wait to ask him thatquestion.

«L, can I ask you something?»

« 𝚈𝚎𝚜»

«Why did you decide not to show yourself? Can you describe yourself to me, please?»

A long pause followed her question. Y/N didn’t know what to say (or to do). She had the feeling she crossed the threshold.

«𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝙻 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝙻 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛»

Such an arrogant person. Y/N expected an answer like that. So she gave up with her wish to see her crush' face.

Sometime later, however, the Yagami girl met someone. A pale, tall young man with a simple white shirt and faded jeans; his hair was moved by the wind and they seemed messy yet rather silky. He was standing there, at the top of the Tokyo Train Station's stairs, staring intensely at her, few steps higher than the girl. This man was blocking the way and Y/N was in a rush.

«Excuse me, I have to-»

«You're Y/N Yagami?» he immediately interrupted her and in the meantime he hid his hands in the pockets of that faded jeans.

«Who wants to know it?» Y/N replied defensive. Unlike Light, Y/N had good skills in many martial arts and she was ready to kick his ass, just in case.

«Me»

Y/N hadn’t the idea that in front of her there was L himself. He introduced himself as Ryuzaki but, for some reason, she couldn’t believe him. For her, it was like he had a good answer for everything as if he planned every single (and possible) question from the Yagami girl. That reminded her of…L. Everything about him reminded her of the detective.

Day after day this Ryuzaki started to appear more and more often in her life: at the train station, on her way home or after school. He told her he was studying for the entrance exam at the To-Oh University, that was why the two of them were seeing each other that often.

«I see, what do you want to study?»

«Criminology»

Y/N and Ryuzaki created a strange bond between them. The Yagami twin felt so at ease with him despite his particular (and rather unique) behaviour: she didn’t mind about the large amount of sugar he ate or the sitting position he took. He was so smart and brilliant…once again she thought about L.

It seemed like that Ryuzaki appreciated Y/N's presence too. He loved listening to her or analyse every single feature of her figure. She would find him staring at her such intensity that she would look away.

Y/N, however, had so much in her mind. She was so convinced that Ryuzaki and L were the same person that she felt so anxious around him. She had to know the truth.

«Ryuzaki, can you tell me something?»

«What is it, Y/N-san?»

«Are you L?»

The two of them were waiting for the train and Ryuzaki was standing (or "slouching" actually) right beside her. His dark hair covered the face and Y/N couldn’t tell what he was feeling or thinking. She was afraid that she crossed the threshold.

Ryuzaki smirked and sighed through the nose as if he laughed silently. Then he turned to look at her. «Yes»

He kept staring at her while Y/N got pale and returned the stare with wide E/C eyes. So she was right…he was L. The real L. She couldn’t believe that this man…with faded jeans and a simple white shirt…was L. The same L she started to love.

That was how their story began.

───────◇───────

Now Light was going to finish his last year of school together with his twin sister Y/N but something else what happening outside the Yagami household: Kira.

This person took the role of judge, jury and executioner of the criminal world not only in Japan. Kira was such a disgusting, immoral human being, Y/N hated him. Nobody had the right to play with other's life regardless of their police record. Light, however, didn't agree with his sister.

«I don't understand your point, N/N. The world would be a better place without criminals, you have to realise that»

«Of course it would be a better place without them, Light. But it's not the right method!»

«And what would be "the right method"?» Light asked her making air quotes with his fingers.

«Uhh…I don't know maybe putting them before a judge?» Y/N simply replied. «Kira is not the solution, Light»

Her brother was so different lately. Since this Kira appeared Light started to act strange, Y/N was the first to notice it. Not even her mother, father and Sayu perceived it.

Y/N was feeling strange too actually. After Ryuzaki's "confession" about his identity the two of them admitted their respective feelings. Y/N was so happy that Ryuzaki felt the same as her, she was so happy. Sachiko noticed it and asked her if her happiness was due to a boy but Y/N didn’t give her a proper answer.

Ryuzaki was investigating about Kira and he booked a suite at the Imperial Hotel and Y/N would pay him a visit from time to time. They talked, played, ate and even made love in that room. And it was since one of those times that Y/N started to feel weird.

«Let's not talk about it, alright Light?»

«Fine» her twin shrugged and kept walking home together. After a while they crossed a konbini, a Japanese convenience store.

«Wait Light, I have to buy something»

«Alright, I'll wait you here»

And Y/N ran inside the shop while Light started to read a book outside. She had to buy few things: a new set of pencils, chips and…a pregnancy test. Yes, a pregnancy test.

She had all the symptoms: swollen breasts, nausea, fatigue. And the fact that she missed the last period was a sort of final proof. But she wanted to be sure.

Once she payed everything Y/N left the shop and kept walking home with Light. He was looking suspiciously at her but he said nothing.

.

> TIME SKIP <

«Positive…it's positive» Y/N repeated in a whisper while looking at her pregnancy test. Her E/C eyes were still glued to the test when she heard someone knocking at the door.

«Y/N! I need the bathroom!»

«Me too!»

Light and Sayu were staying right outside the door, Y/N hoped they didn’t hear what she said before. She hid the test in the pockets of her jeans and left the bathroom.

«Sorry» and she ran downstairs. Light, once again, looked at her with clear suspicious and raised an eyebrow. Sayu took advantage of this moment to lock herself in the bathroom.

«Sayu! I have to go with dad, leave the bathroom!»

In the meantime, Y/N already left the house and was literally running towards the Imperial Hotel, where Ryuzaki had his room (and where the Task-force met L for the first time). He had to know it.

About ten minutes later Y/N arrived at the hotel and quickly went to Ryuzaki's suite. She was bouncing off the walls for the excitement.

«Ryuzaki!» she spread the door open and ran inside. She quickly reached him and made him turn towards her.

«What is it Y/N-chan?» he asked calmly.

«I have to tell you something!»

«And what would it be?»

«I'm pregnant!» she said smiling. It, however, faded quickly when she saw Ryuzaki's lack of reaction to that news. Was he…disappointe-

«What?! Are you serious Miss Y/N?» the young voice of Matsuda echoed in the room making Y/N distract from the man in front of her.

The Yagami girl noticed that her father's entire Task-Force was working in the same room as L and she didn’t notice them when she entered the suite. Excitement was replaced by fear.

«Uhm…well…»

«Congratulations!» Matsuda got up and walked closer to her with a kind smile on his young face. That smile cheered her up a little.

«Thank you Matsuda-san»

The rest of the Task-force congratulated to her too, they were all so happy about that news. The only one who didn’t say anything was L, the father.

Aizawa started to give Y/N some "parental" advices when L's suite room opened again revealing Soichiro and Light at the doorstep. Y/N didn’t notice it immediately and she couldn’t stop Matsuda from rushing towards his boss to give him that important announcement.

«Boss, did you know it?»

«What is it Matsuda?»

«Miss Y/N is pregnant!»

Silence.

Silence of a grave, to be precise.

Nobody dared to speak, to move, to breathe. It seemed only Matsuda wasn’t feeling that heavy atmosphere.

At those words Soichiro walked towards his daughter and placed his strong hands on her shoulders.

«Y/N, is it true?»

She gulped and swallowed hard. «Yes dad, Matsuda-san is right» her voice showed no fear, no embarrassment, no shame. Even if her family didn’t agree, she wasn’t going to give up that easily.

«Who is the father? Someone assaulted you?» he immediately asked sounding rather worried and serious. Y/N was going to answer when she heard some sort of mumbling from behind, where L was sitting.

«Did you say something, Ryuzaki?» asked Soichiro.

«I said, Yagami-san…» he took an ice-cream sandwich and divided it in two. «I am the proud father» he turned towards the policeman and licked the vanilla cream without looking away from the man.

Soichiro couldn’t see her but Y/N was smiling widely at Ryuzaki who smiled back for a mere second before

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Bound Blood (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 1

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for blood, language, brief nudity. Later chapters will be M Warnings: Nah fam Summary: Local vampire finds out she can't kill soft human (because they're soulmates, baby), human becomes insufferable bastard, oops they fuck later. Soulmate AU where if one person gets injured, their soulmate feels the same amount of pain and receives a scar in the relevant area.

1: Sharing Is (Not) Caring

It’s not that you had expected to survive this- being locked in the dungeon of Castle Dimitrescu, waiting for the day you’re picked to be someone’s meal. Oh no, you had given up on surviving long ago, it was just that… well, you had hoped that someone with a softer touch would do you in. But here you were, too exhausted to cry, hanging naked in front of none other than Cassandra Dimitrescu. Her eyes were trailing you up and down, examining every inch of your skin, every flaw, every unique trait. It was like she was making a mental map of which parts of you would taste best. Goddamn, you wanted to spit in her face, or scream, or say something, anything that might make her feel even an ounce of what you had felt for weeks.

But you know that she’s already planning to kill you, and to make it painful. Why give her any more reason? Why dare her to find a worse way to end your life? There was no good answer, so you stayed still, just watched her move. Maybe if you looked bored enough she’d make it quick, just stab a knife in you and drink you up like a capri sun. Or, maybe, if you kept a straight face, she would admire your courage. Oh, how you longed for people to think of you kindly now, in your last moments, when dying clean and pretty was no longer an option.

Pulling a blade from some hidden sheathe, Cassandra approaches you with a wicked grin. There’s still blood on her lips from her last victim. Had they not sated her? Or had she been like this for some time? When she inevitably drank from you, how long would your blood remain on her lips? You weren’t sure that you wanted to know. In your mind, you picture her cleaning up as soon as she was done with you. It does not make you feel any better. Neither does the way she traces a finger across your chest, left to right, practicing for the incision to follow. She pauses to lick her lips, making direct eye contact as she does.

What happens next passes by so quickly that you don’t process any of it until the whole ordeal is over. The blade’s tip digs into your chest, just below your collarbone, before dragging along half the width of your torso. It hurts like hell, but you manage to keep your misery to yourself. But your pain is soon replaced with confusion; Cassandra screams, loud enough to echo throughout the basement, doubling over herself. In an instant her knife has clattered to the floor, forgotten. Instinct takes over your brain, the default programing kicking in, and you say something that fills you with instant regret.

“Are you okay?” Your voice is a bit quiet, and raw, worn out from lack of hydration. But it is enough, evidently, for Cassandra to hear. She’s rising back up and glaring at you, one hand clutching her chest. Something in her expression tells you that she thinks you’re mocking her. While that wasn’t technically the case, there was a part of you that found joy in this, watching your captor get a taste of their own medicine. The question left in your mind was why she was in pain. “I’ll take that as a no,” you said, again left with regret at your choices.

Now her hand is swiping at your face, nails cutting you open. Once more she hisses in pain, now clutching her head, shaking a little as she does. When she meets your gaze, you see that she’s more confused than anything. More than that, you see the marks on her face, knowing instantly that they match your own. Oh hell no, you thought, grimacing.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Cassandra growled through clenched teeth. Bouncing back and forth on her heels, she seems tense, unsure of how to process what’s happening. You feel the same way, desperately wanting to pretend that this doesn’t mean you’re her soulmate. Maybe the universe had just messed up, crossing some wires, or decided to pull a prank on the two of you. Either way it was better than the alternative. Eager to think about something else, you start considering your options. The first that comes to mind is ridiculous. Stupid, really. But would it amuse you? Absolutely.

“Not gonna lie, I feel better about the idea of you killing me now. Feel free to make it painful, darlin’, I won’t mind,” you snarked, lips curling up into a smirk. Oh boy was it satisfying to watch Cassandra’s response. One of her hands raises to smack you, only for her to freeze before releasing a torrent of swears. Hurting you meant hurting herself. “What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little aching? Haven’t you ever imagined what it’s like to be on the other side of things? Under the blade yourself, blood soaking your skin, eyes too dry for even a single tear? Poor thing,” you purred, tone as teasing as it could get. Apparently it’s aggravating enough for Cassandra to fight through the pain, as she slams her fist into your stomach, leaving both of you gasping for breath. “This is fun-” you pause to cough out a few drops of blood- “really, really fun. Hey, if you kill me, how bad do you think you’ll feel?”

Before Cassandra can react, either to speak or hurt you worse, the sound of approaching footsteps draws her attention. From where you hang you can’t see much, too many cells and hanging bodies blocking your vision. But your “soulmate” seemed to know who was coming. Her face scrunches up a little, and she adjusts her robes, trying to cover the mark on her chest. Had you not still been coughing, you would have sarcastically asked her how she intended to hide her face.

“What the hell is going on, Cassandra?” An unfamiliar voice asked. The footsteps grew louder, and faster, until the new figure stood in the same cell as you. Not even bothering to spare you a glance, she approaches Cassandra, reaching to examine her face. “Did a prisoner manage to get you? I’ve told you a thousand times-”

“Don’t fucking touch me, sis,” Cassandra snapped, pushing away her sister’s hand. Both of them are visibly tense, and for a moment they stand still, staring each other down. Then the sister (who you assume to be Bela, from things you’ve overheard recently) shifts her focus to you. Something tells you that she has no intentions of being gentle.

“Did you do this, you rotten little thing?” Bela questioned, glaring at you hard enough to send a shiver down your spine. But that doesn’t stop you from trying to have some more fun.

“Oh, of course I did! I rattled my chains real good, scared the shit out of her, made her fall on her own knife a few times. You know, like that one musical?” You must look insane as you speak, grin wide but face dripping with blood. If it unnerves Bela, she hides it well, though you doubt it does. As soon as you’re done poking fun she’s pulling out her sickle. Still grinning, you make eye contact with Cassandra, who realizes what’s happening a second too late. Then the two of you cry out in unison, as the blade carves into your shoulder. Instantly Bela pulls back, stunned, turning to her sister with genuine concern. “I might have lied. Rest assured though, it was for comedic purposes.”

The next thing you know the two sisters are shuffling away from you, Cassandra begrudgingly being dragged along by Bela. Though the younger of the two had been adamant about not receiving help, she now had little choice in the matter, skin searing from your blood bond. Even you are starting to breathe harder than you’d like.

“Was it something I said?” You barked, barely able to manage a fit of giggles between your coughing. Bela shoots you a glare over her shoulder, but quickly returns her attention to her sister. They talk, quickly, soft enough that you can only make out a few words here and there. It’s hard to make meaning from it, especially considering their vastly different tones. Cassandra is pure anger, gestures fast and wide, while Bela is oddly solemn, even regretful. When you finally catch a couple full sentences, things start to make a little more sense, though you wish they didn’t.

“We can kill them painlessly, in their sleep. That way you won’t have to suffer,” Bela whispered. She’s doing her best to comfort her sister, despite the tension in the room, gently patting her on the back. Briefly, you make eye contact with her. In that moment she looks equal parts executor and unwilling jury. But she looks away quickly, even shifting her angle to prevent it from happening again.

“No, fuck that, fuck this, I’m… I’m not killing them. Nobody is,” Cassandra growled, daring to emphasize her point by pushing Bela away. Now it’s her turn to look at you, brows furrowed, eyes betraying something more than just anger. Somehow it’s a million times worse than when she first came in. You strain yourself trying to look away, cursing the chains keeping you in place, resorting to closing your eyes and pretending none of this was real. “I don’t care what you think, Bela. They’re already my ‘meal’, might as well get what enjoyment out of this that I can.”

Again, footsteps echo through the basement. Tension locks your muscles in place, and your eyes are still clamped shut, to the point that you don’t realize your chains are being undone until you’ve hit the ground. Cursing under your breath, you finally open your eyes again. There’s blood on the floor, only some of it yours, and you’re suddenly aching for a bath. More than that, though, you’re praying for something to cover yourself with. Certainly Cassandra didn’t need to see everything, now that you weren’t a piece of meat for her to enjoy? As if reading your mind, the middle Dimitrescu daughter flings open a nearby cabinet, messily searching for something. Eventually she gives a hum of approval, then tosses a blanket in your direction.

“Put it on, dipshit, then follow me,” she snapped, already walking away. For a moment you’re tempted to stay there, sitting still, waiting to see how long it would take for her to notice. But one look from Bela sends the thought back to whatever crevice of your mind it crawled out of. So you’re moving, hastily, awkwardly wrapped in a somewhat itchy blanket. Other prisoners eye you as you pass, some shouting curses or even spitting at you. At first Cassandra takes no notice, or simply doesn’t care, but eventually the noise seems to irritate her. Turning back, she takes her sickle in hand and slams the handle into the bars of a cell. It’s loud, making you flinch, but gets everyone’s attention. “Next one to make a peep gets the blood eagle!”

“Is that, like, a sex thing?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop yourself. Laughter rings out around you from the few prisoners capable of it. Cassandra is seething again, looking about ready to kill you. Then she’s shifting into swarm mode, spreading out wide, insects barreling through half the occupied cells. A few cries escape the prisoners, as the flies take bites out of them, cutting a perfect balance between pain and (a lack of) lethality. They’d be suffering for days to come, every movement making their wounds ache. “Not a sex thing, got it,” you muttered to yourself, just as Cassandra reforms in front of you. This time she grabs the blanket you’re wrapped in, using it to tug you forward, sending you towards the exit.

“Shut up for five minutes and I might let you put on actual clothes,” she growled, keeping one hand on your back to guide you. The offer is the closest thing to kindness you’ve seen from her, and you have half a mind to do what she says. Would you actually manage to keep quiet for that long? Well, you were certainly looking forward to finding out...

[the-modernmary]

chess, not checkers || a. hotchner x f!reader

Summary: Cross-examining Agent Hotchner should have been a lot more simple than it had been. But when the questioning slips out of your control, you find yourself being profiled right there in the middle of the courtroom. Amazing how one stranger can know you better than anybody you've ever met.

Contains: SMUT! 18+ only, minors DNI. Fingering, (light) choking, semi-public sex, adultery, anger sex, enemies to lovers, edging, lawyer hotch <3

Word Count: 8k+

Comments: This is so heavily inspired by “charcoal grey” because we all know how hot he was in that scene. Thank you to @angelfxllcm for being an absolute godsend as I wrote this and being the most supportive friend ever. (If you haven’t read her work, you absolutely should!)

“Fucking FBI and their selfish ass schedules,” you grumbled as you hurried through the hallway of the courthouse, your intern Robin on on your heels. “Court gets pushed back for a week because Agent Hotchner just had to leave with them on a case instead of working remotely, and then expects us to drop everything to go to court the second he gets back to D.C. As if we don’t have jobs too. As if I don’t have six other cases sitting on my desk that now have to be pushed back because of him.”

 Robin scrambled behind you, nodding along to every word that left your mouth. “Does this happen with the, uh…”

  “BAU,” you supplied.

  “—BAU, right. Do court cases usually get pushed back for them?”

  You shook your head as you checked your watch. A glint caught the corner of your eye. Shit, your ring. You hadn’t expected to go to court, and completely forgot to leave it at home. You pulled it off and slipped it into the outside pocket of your bag, hoping nobody noticed.

“No. Most cases from the BAU never go to court,” you explained. “There’s enough evidence against the people they arrest that it’s almost always a plea.”

  The Bankers Box in Robin’s hands almost slipped as you placed another file precariously on top of it. “Then why is this case going to court?”

  Your step faltered as you processed her question, and you couldn’t hide the disbelief on your face. “You did read the brief for this case, right?” you asked, unsure if you really wanted the answer, except her embarrassed blush and averted gaze gave you enough of one. “Seriously? Okay, well, first of all, because of that, you won’t be sitting at the attorney’s table with us. Instead you’ll be in the public seating. I won’t weaken my case because you decided to be unprepared. If this happens again, you won’t be welcome to join me in court at all, am I clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Deciding to take pity on the poor intern, you sighed as you started your explanation. “Our client claims that his arrest was unlawful and therefore none of the evidence they found should be usable. I’m inclined to agree with him, so we’re fighting all of the charges that were made with evidence found after the arrest.”

  “So you don’t think he’s guilty?”

  “I don’t ask that question. I’m not God and I’m not his priest, I don’t need to hear his confession. I just need to get him out of unjust and illegal charges.”

  Robin’s eyebrows furrowed. “So he’s going to walk free? Even after everything he did? How do you sleep at night?”

  Fucking Christ, how did this girl even get into law school? You rolled your eyes, suddenly regretting your decision to take on an intern. “No, he’s not going to walk free. He’s going to get a lesser charge, because everything else was obtained illegally. And I sleep very well, actually, because my job isn’t some episode of Law & Order. Less than 10% of my cases ever go to trial. I’m not here to suddenly convince juries that the evidence is wrong. My job is making sure that everybody is given their constitutional rights, that the police are doing their jobs correctly, and that the State isn’t over-punishing. Any cop knows that, and if you ever come across one that doesn’t, you know that you should look into those cases even further. You have to realize, criminal defense lawyers—”

  “— are the last line of protection against a corrupt system.” You turned to see your assistant, Marcus, making his way towards you, briefcase and your spare blazer that you keep in the office in hand. “I see you’re giving her your famous anti-prosecutor lecture.”

  Marcus helped you slip on your blazer over your satin button up, his hands lingering on your skin for just a little too long to be considered professional, and it made you shiver in anticipation. “God knows she needs it. Thank you, Marcus, for bringing these so quickly. Were you able to get the physical copies of Agent Hotchner’s files?”

  Marcus held up his briefcase. “All right here. Although I have to say, I’m a little lost as to why you need his service records.”

  The three of you turned the corner to enter the courtroom, your heels clicking on the tiled floor. Robin obediently took her seat in the public viewing area while you and Marcus pushed through the swinging door to settle at your table. “I’ve heard stories of Agent Hotchner’s testimonies. He used to be a prosecutor, so he’s not easily tricked, but he is prideful and will defend his work. I’m going to use that to my advantage. It’s like I always say, practicing law means always playing chess, never checkers.”

  Marcus took the seat next to you, making sure to sit close enough that his knee brushed yours the whole time. “You know, I was thinking, this case is complicated,” he whispered, “And we haven’t combed through everything yet… It could take more time than we planned.”

  You smirked, knowing exactly what he was insinuating. “Agreed. I’ll tell Tony I have to stay late at the office tonight.”

  Before Marcus could continue his flirting, you were distracted by the door to the judge’s chamber opening, revealing the back of a man in a black suit. “Thank you again, your honor, for the continuance,” came the deep timbre of the man, and oh. You certainly weren’t expecting that. “A young girl was able to be reunited with her family this week because of it.”

  The man in the doorway turned, and your breath caught in your throat. He was tall and buff and expensive-looking and absolutely gorgeous. His suit was tailored to fit him perfectly, the sleeves of his blazer straining against his biceps. He carried himself with an aura of confidence, like he belonged in the courtroom, and he was making his way directly towards you. Unconsciously, you separated from Marcus, putting as much distance between you and your assistant as possible without raising suspicion.

  The man said something to the prosecution before turning to you, hand outstretched. He said your name as a greeting, and your name had never sounded so good. “I’m Aaron Hotchner.”

  When you stood up to shake his hand, you tried to ignore the way his eyes raked down your body, or the way the two of you held on just a moment too long to be considered proper. It felt as if he was looking right through you, learning all of your secrets as though they were written on your body. No, you knew that look. He was studying you. “Agent Hotchner, it’s a pleasure.”

  “Likewise, Counselor. Please, call me Aaron.”

  You raised your eyebrows in Aaron’s direction, still shaking his hand, and it made your skin burn. You dropped his hand. “I’m just glad we’re able to get this case done and over with. Hopefully with no more delays.”

  His eyebrows quirked upwards in what could only be described as shock. “I see your reputation precedes you,” was his only reply before going to his respective seat, and if he noticed you watching his every move, he made no indication of it. That being said, you definitely felt his gaze on the back of your head as the judge entered the room and the session began.

  As the proceedings dragged on, you and Marcus continued to talk strategy, his hand finding its way to your thigh ever so often. You also continued negotiating with the prosecutor, both of you flashing Post-It notes of potential plea deals that you would be willing to accept, always careful to keep it out of the eyes of the judge and jury. By the time Aaron had been called to the stand, the offer given to you still wasn’t low enough. Fine, if the prosecution wanted to make a fool of themselves, so be it.

  You listened to Aaron’s testimony with the prosecution, completely enraptured. There was something about the way he spoke, so full of authority and confidence, that made the entire room drawn to him. He was incredibly intelligent, that much was clear, and despite the many years since he had actually practiced law, that prosecutor candor hadn’t left him. Staying focused on the case had proven to be more difficult than previously expected. You found yourself staring at his lips, and it didn’t take long for your mind to conjure up some obscene and explicit situations starring the man in front of you. 

  Eventually, his eyes caught yours, and he watched you, his lips — god, those lips — quirked up in a smirk. Aaron watched you expectantly, and in the light of the courtroom, his eyes were almost the color of whiskey, and you wanted nothing more than to drink it all in.

  A sharp “Counselor” broke you out of your trance. In the corner of your eye, you could see Marcus looking at you in concern, but he was the furthest thing from your mind now, especially as Aaron let out an amused huff of air.

  “Counselor, does the prosecution wish to cross-examine the witness?” the judge asked with barely hidden annoyance, making you think that it probably wasn’t the first time she had asked the question.

  You stood up quickly, smoothing down your pencil skirt as you did. “Yes, your honor. Thank you,” you said, trying your best to keep your voice steady as you noticed Aaron’s eyes trailing down your bare legs.

  The cross-examination started normally, and Aaron answered all of your questions with careful precision that only a lawyer could pull off. He seemed to know exactly where you were trying to go with your questions, and easily sidestepped any unflattering implication you were trying to make. Long, biased questions were met with short, clipped answers, not giving you anything to work with. Whatever move you made, Aaron was right there, two steps ahead with you. Never in your life had you met somebody who could follow you so easily or could match your wit without so much breaking a sweat.

  It was exhilarating.

  “Agent Hotchner,” you started, hands clasped behind your back. “Could you please explain to the court how profiles are used when finding and apprehending suspects?”

  Aaron sat up a little taller in the witness box. “Using behavioral research and past case studies, we’re able to construct what we call a profile of the perpetrator, or unsub. Anything they do can give us insights as to who they are — their victims, what weapons they use, even how they dispose of the bodies. Once we have a profile of who we believe is committing these crimes, we have our technical analyst run the parameters through her system. From there, narrowing down our search is easy.”

  You nodded slowly, pretending to mull over what he was saying. “For clarification’s sake, in layman’s terms, you build your profile off of assumed psychology, and not concrete evidence, is that correct?”

  The muscles in Aaron’s jaw flexed, a sure sign he was gritting his teeth. “Behavior analysis is a tool, just like any other—”

  “It’s a yes or no question, Agent,” you interrupted, and oh, he was not happy about that.

  His tongue darted out from between his lips. “The research we use for behavior is—”

  “Yes. Or no.”

  Aaron hesitated, his frustration building up to palpable tension that settled in the courtroom like a thick fog. You weren’t giving him a chance to explain or show off anymore, didn’t allow him to be seen as the smartest person in the room anymore, and that was getting to him.

  “Yes,” he conceded, grimacing as if admitting that was physically painful for him.

  “Thank you,” you replied, and he caught the unspoken that wasn’t so hard now, was it? even if the rest of the room did not. You walked back over to your table, snatching up a piece of paper and holding it in the air. “Your honor, the defense would like to submit Exhibit Seven into evidence.”

  Once the judge gave her express permission, you placed the form in front of Aaron with your left hand, perfectly manicured fingers splayed out in front of his eyes. You almost missed the way his head tilted ever so slightly and his eyes narrowed, like he was staring at a puzzle half complete. “Agent, could you please tell us what’s laying in front of you now.”

  He leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the paper before meeting back with yours. “This is a part of our official report of the case. Specifically, it has the profile that was used to lead us to the apprehension of Mr. Mckenna.”

  “Does it say on that paper who had the final sign off on the profile before it was circulated?”

  “Yes, that would be me. As Unit Chief, my job is to sign and finalize any reports.”

  “And could you please read the profile, verbatim, as written on that report?”

  Aaron’s face remained neutral, with the exception of his eyebrows scrunching together. Slowly, he had started to piece together your strategy, and he didn’t like it. “The unsub is a white male, between 32 and 40 years old. He’ll most likely be unemployed and driving a van or truck — anything that would let him easily transport his equipment and victims. We believe that he’s also had run-ins with the law before, likely as a juvenile. He’ll come across as friendly, if not a little shy. We believe that this comes from a failed relationship in his past, one where he believes that he was manipulated and wronged, and now he’s going after surrogates for that woman. Killing these women is the only thing that gives him any sort of power. If we can figure out who this past relationship was, it will lead us directly to the killer.”

  You paced back and forth in front of the witness stand, your skirt tightening around your legs with every step you took. “Between 32 and 40 years old, unemployed, and killing surrogates… Except Mr. Mckenna is 22 and works part time as a bartender. How do you justify arresting my client with those inconsistencies?”

  “As I mentioned before,” Aaron started, his voice dangerously low, “A profile is just one tool we use of many. Not every single part of the profile will fit every single time. Which is why we also rely on outside evidence to ensure that we have the best chance at catching the unknown subject as quickly as possible.”

  “Except you had no concrete evidence, which you admit in your own report!” You took two steps closer to him, getting as in his face as possible without risking being held in contempt. With every word that left your mouth, your voice got more and more forceful, and you got more and more under Aaron’s skin.

  “All of it was circumstantial at best. You had a hunch, an inherent bias against my client due to his previous conviction record, and you were frustrated at your own inability to get a good lead. But you can’t arrest somebody on a hunch, or because you’re angry. You had no evidence and the man you arrested didn’t even match the profile that you came up with!”

  Your eyes locked with Aaron, his gaze heavy, and neither of you dared look away first. “Objection!” came from the prosecutor behind you. Exactly what you wanted. “Argumentative and foundation.” You flashed Aaron a predatory grin.

  Two moves to checkmate.

  “Sustained,” said the judge.

  “Withdrawn.” You tapped the witness bench, hoping to convey an air of aloofness and calm. Aaron scowled. “Agent Hotchner, before joining the FBI, you were a prosecutor, is that true?”

  Confusion flashed across his face for the briefest of moments, and it gave you a twisted sense of satisfaction to know that you had the upper hand. You knew the answer to every question you were about to ask, and he knew that. He just couldn’t figure out where you were going with this line of questioning, or what the relevance even was. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  You made a soft hum of approval. “Could you please walk us through your higher education?”

  “I attended George Washington University for both my undergraduate and law degree.”

  “What did you major in for your undergrad?”

  Aaron hesitated. “Political Science.”

  Check. “So all together, you’ve had about seven years in higher education. In that time, how many psychology classes did you take?”

  It was almost sadistic, the way you relished in the slight twitch of his face — the realization that he had been backed into a corner. The silence was deafening as Aaron’s scowl met your smug grin.

  “None,” Aaron said finally.

  “None,” you repeated, performative shock dripping from your words. “Do you have any academic background in psychology or human behavior, then?”

  Aaron’s jaw clenched, and as you made your way closer to the witness stand, you saw his thumb frantically moving back and forth over his fingertips. Clearly, you had struck a nerve. “The FBI has rigorous coursework in order to become a profiler, along with multiple exams and continued training as more research becomes available to us. The profiling classes are no easy feat and are written by experts in the field. Creating profiles has a long and respected history in detective work, and these profilers have caught some of the most prolific serial killers of all time.”

  You placed a hand over your chest in faux modesty. “My apologies, Agent Hotchner, I believe I wasn’t very clear. I’m not calling into question the validity and effectiveness of profiles. I’m calling into question the validity and effectiveness of you as a profiler.”

  You could practically see the cartoon fire spewing out of Aaron’s ears. He was so close to being in your trap, something he had to have known, too, yet he continued to toe dangerously close to that line.

  “A lack of formal education in profiling,” you continued, keeping your voice light, “and the blatant disregard for basic police and legal procedure as shown in this case with my client… I mean, how many other mistakes were made in your past cases? It’s hard to believe that you can read anybody, much less the hardened criminal that you have painted my client to be.”

  Checkmate.

  “Objection!” cried the prosecutor again. “Your Honor, this is —”

  He was cut off by the judge raising her hand. “Sustained. Counselor, I would advise you to tread lightly from here on out.”

  You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Withdrawn.” You turned around to make your way back to your table, ignoring Marcus’s look of complete disbelief. Baiting Aaron had been easy, and now all you had to do was wait.

  The courtroom was uncomfortably silent for one beat… two beats…

  “Not only can I read Mr. Mckenna,” echoed Aaron’s voice, “But I can also read you.”

  Once you got back to your desk, you turned around, hands resting on the cool wood of the table top, but you never sat down. Instead, you leaned forward, and arched your eyebrows in a silent challenge — one he was all too eager to pursue.

  “The red Harvard Law tag on your briefcase is a perfect match to your lipstick, and you wear the same one every time you go to court. Not because you’re superstitious the way most lawyers are, but because it’s your way of maintaining control in the courtroom, something you’re desperate to keep in every aspect of your life, personal and professional. I would guess that this need goes back to late high school, early college. But you’ve been worried about appearances and how you’re perceived for even longer than that.”

  You fought the urge to roll your eyes. So he thought you were Type A? Anybody could have guessed that by your anything. All they would have to do is look at your color coded case files or your daily schedule, planned down to the minute. You had only been trying to sway the jury when you insinuated that he wasn’t a good profiler, but maybe you were actually starting to believe it yourself.

  Except Aaron got a dangerous glint in his eye, causing your stomach to bubble with anxiety. Clearly, he was playing chess, too, and by the looks of it, he believed he was winning. 

  “In fact, you’re so worried about losing control, that despite your busy schedule, you refuse to hire a planner for your upcoming wedding.”

  That got your attention. The objection that you were about to call died on your lips, and all you could do was stare with poorly hidden shock. Next to you, Marcus turned pale as a ghost.

  Aaron, cocky bastard, continued his profile of you, with no clear signs of stopping anytime soon. “You have a tan where your ring usually is, and I know you’ve been wearing it recently as you subconsciously fiddle with where it would be whenever things in court aren’t going your way. Just like you’re doing now. You still have your maiden name, which you plan on giving up when you do get married because not taking his last name would arouse too many questions that you want to avoid. Just another way your concern of appearances is manifested. So you’re engaged.

  “I would say congratulations, but it’s not a happy relationship, not on your side, anyway. Younger female professionals will take their rings off in fear of not being taken seriously, but you’re an established and respected lawyer. You needn't worry about that. So if it’s not about you, it’s about the fiance. You don’t want to be associated with him.”

  You gripped the edge of the table, too angry to form words. Your nails dug into the varnish, and you were sure that your heavy breathing could be heard from across the room. This dick. This absolute, garbage, piece of shit dick. The worst part was how casual he sounded as he aired all of your dirty laundry for everybody to hear.

  “He’s holding you back, in all aspects of life, but mostly intellectually. He doesn’t have a sliver of your capabilities. The two of you are probably high school sweethearts, prom king and queen type, but while you grew up and matured, he never did. He can’t keep up with you. Still acts the same way he did in high school, only now with more access to alcohol and money. Career wise, he doesn’t have much going for him, probably some sports related pipe dream. But you stay with him because you know how to control him and how to use him to your advantage.”

  Aaron’s eyes zeroed in on Marcus, and all of the color drained from your face. The voice in the back of your mind was screaming at you to object, to get the judge involved, anything, before Aaron did any more damage, but you were frozen in your spot. For the first time in your life, you were completely and utterly speechless and spiraling out of control.

  “That need for control is also why you’re sleeping with your assistant. It’s casual for you, but not for him anymore. You should break that off. That’s nothing new for you, though. In fact, I would bet that if we looked back at all of your affairs since your engagement, we’d find a long string of men and women, all of whom are your subordinates or of lower status than you. It’s a win-win situation — they’re more than eager to have a chance with you, and you get to stay in control. Oh, you’ll stop when you actually get married, but you continue to push that date back, as well. So…”

  He leaned back in his chair, clearly feeling good about himself, and God, you could kill him. You could reach over the witness box and wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze until his whiskey colored eyes popped out of his smug, beautiful face.

  Aaron lifted his chin, eyebrows raised in your direction. “Do you believe in my abilities as a profiler now, Counselor?”

  That snapped you back into action. You cleared your throat and unnecessarily smoothed down your skirt in an attempt to regroup your thoughts. “Well, Agent Hotchner, thank you for that little show and tell. It’s clear that you are very passionate about your career. However, just like your profile of my client, you have no evidence for any of your unsubstantiated accusations.”

  It was a pathetic attempt at saving face, and Aaron knew it, but it had to be enough for you. You turned your back towards Aaron so that you could face the judge, who, to her credit, had a perfect poker face the whole time. “Your Honor, I move to strike Agent Hotchner’s outburst” — not an outburst, Aaron was too composed to ever have one of those, but he grimaced at the word all the same — “from the record, as no question stands before the witness at this time.”

  The judge looked at you dubiously, clearly debating her ruling. There shouldn’t have been any reason to worry, you were legally in the right, but there was always the chance that she wouldn’t be on your side. You noticed yourself fiddling with where your engagement ring would usually be, and you cursed yourself under your breath. How could Aaron have possibly known all of that?

  “Sustained,” she said finally, “I direct the jury to disregard the witness’s, uh, example when considering the evidence.”

  You let out a breath of relief. It wasn’t much of a win — everybody still heard what had happened, it was still in the back of their minds, like the ring of a bell echoing — but at least in regards to the case, you had the legal upper hand.

  The judge turned back to you. “Defense, the witness is still yours, if you have any further questions.”

  If you were a little more in your right mind, you would have cut your losses, but between your oath to defend your client to the best of your ability and that stupid self assured grin on Aaron’s face, you knew that you really had no choice.

  Deep breath in… Slow breath out… You’re at a stalemate now.

  “Agent Hotchner,” you said, causing him to perk him up in interest. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting you to continue. “Wouldn’t an ex-lawyer and an FBI agent be familiar with the rules of decorum in a courtroom?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I understand your question, Counselor.”

  “Let me rephrase, then. Would you say that you have a history of emotional outbursts and rule breaking in your line of work? And I’ll remind you that you are still under oath.”

  Aaron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “No, I wouldn’t. Integrity is one of our core values, and we take that very seriously.”

  With shaking hands, Marcus handed you one of the files you’d had him print out on Aaron. “If that’s so, can you explain why, since your promotion to Unit Chief in 2005, you and your team have had seven disciplinary hearings, one of which being an internal investigation into the excessive force used by one of your agents, and another being a congressional hearing?”

  A sick sense of satisfaction passed over you when you saw him get visibly shocked, his poker face breaking for the first time that day. If he wanted to go for blood, you could fight back twice as hard. “I’m not at liberty to discuss either of those cases.”

  You shrugged nonchalantly. “Very well, Agent. So between the discrepancies in the profile, your inability to control your temper, and your history of breaking procedure, coupled with the fact that you arrested my client without any warrant by kicking in the door to an innocent civilian’s house, do you really believe that your arrest and the subsequent evidence that came from that arrest was obtained legally? Or do you just not care either way, as long as you’re able to prove that you’re right?”

  Right as he opened his mouth to speak, you turned your back on him and started to walk back to your table. Aaron wasn’t even able to get a peep out before you cut him off with a sharp “Question withdrawn. At this time, the defense rests.”

  “Our arrest was made on the grounds of—” Aaron tried, and you smirked to yourself. He must have been desperate if he was trying that move twice. You whipped around, gaze steeled.

  “I have no further questions, Agent Hotchner,” you repeated, only letting out the slightest hint of amusement. “But thank you for your cooperation with Lady Justice today.”

  Aaron’s eyes met yours, and a weight settled in the pit of your stomach. You should have hated him, but something about him had you completely and utterly entranced by him. Maybe it was the novelty of the case. Maybe it was the matching intellects and the fact that he was the only other person who could give you a challenge.

  Maybe you just liked the way you got to lose control with him.

  As he passed you, his arm brushed yours, and your whole body burned.

  “Very cute, Counselor,” he whispered, voice dripping with condescension. “How long did it take you to come up with that little switch up?”

  “Don’t patronize me,” you snapped. “I was playing chess, you were playing checkers, and that’s why you lost.”

  The rest of the session went on normally, if not a little tense. To your surprise, Aaron hadn’t left immediately after his testimony, and instead took a seat in the section for the public. Good. As soon as courtroom decorum wasn’t a factor, you were sure to give him a piece of your mind.

  Court adjourned for the day, and you couldn’t get out of there fast enough. You told Marcus to continue to push for a better plea option as you grabbed your briefcase and stormed out, pushing through the throngs of people until you could see the back of Aaron’s head.

  You sped up your steps until you were right behind him, and you grabbed his wrist to stop him in his tracks. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

  You pulled Aaron into an empty conference room, hoping to get some privacy before you completely blew your lid. You already had one public humiliation because of him, and you did not need another.

  “What is your problem?” you hissed, locking the door behind you. “You had no right to put my personal life on blast like that.”

  Aaron placed his hands on his hips, swooping the sides of his suit jacket back, and you had to make a very conscious effort to not stare. “You questioned my profiling abilities, and I proved them.”

  “You didn’t prove shit,” you argued, folding your arms across your chest. “Except for the fact that you’re an insufferable bastard.”

  “Are you saying that my profile was off? Because if you didn’t want to be caught committing adultery, then you shouldn’t have made it so obvious.”

  You gritted your teeth and took a step towards him in a futile attempt to come across as intimidating. Even in your heels, he still seemed to be towering over you. You’d have to level the playing field somehow. You gripped his tie and used it to pull him down so that he was closer to eye level with you. “I don’t need your judgment, Aaron.”

  Aaron moved closer to you, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body. His Adam's apple bobbed and it captivated you. “I couldn’t care less about what you do,” he said flippantly. “Matter of fact, I don’t think this fit of anger is even inherently about your little secret coming out. Do you want to know what I think it is?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I think,” he continued, completely ignoring your protest, “You’re angry because as much as you can dish it out, you can’t take it.”

  Your grip on his tie tightened at his words. “Trust me, I can take anything,” you said, voice low and breathy.

  Aaron’s eyes flickered to your lips — those kissable, red stained lips of yours. You hadn’t had to reapply your lipstick once throughout the day, and he idly wondered just exactly what it would take to muss up that perfect, pouty red lip. 

  “I also think that for the first time in a very long time, you didn’t have control, and you liked it.” He bent down a little bit more so that his lips brushed against your ear with every word and you could feel his breath run down your spine. “Aren’t you bored of sleeping with boys who are so far beneath you?”

  You’re not sure who initiated it, but the next thing you knew, your lips crashed against his, the two of you making out like it was the last kiss either of you were ever going to get. His hands felt impossibly everywhere all at once — gripping your hips, tugging at your hair, and even snaking under your work blouse to palm at your breast. His teeth nipped at the fibres of your lips. With every movement of his hands, little gasps escaped you, and you could feel the curve of his lips curling up into a smirk.

  His fingers trailed up the side of your body, past the curve of your neck, and tangled themselves in your hair before yanking it back, exposing the column of your throat. Immediately he attached his lips to your neck, nipping at your pulse point.

  “Aaron,” you whined, trying to regain the breath he stole from your lungs. You practically melted in his arms, going completely weak at the knees, especially as his tongue trailed across the underside of your jaw. You let his tie fall from your grip, instead bringing your hands up to cup his face to pull him in for another kiss. 

  His lips set a bruising pace, and it caused a fire to burn in the pit of your stomach. You had never once been kissed like this, never once felt so all-consumed by a person. Aaron’s cologne surrounded you, making your head spin. Bruises were sure to form from how harshly he was gripping your hips, but you didn’t care. He was addicting, and you wanted more.

  Hotch walked you backwards until you were pressed up against the wall, his thigh shoved in between your legs, forcing your skirt to ride up. The position made his arousal obvious as he pressed against you. The way he held you was possessive, primal even, Unconsciously, you ground down on his thigh, hoping for anything to help relieve the ache between your legs. 

  Unfortunately for you, Aaron caught on to what you were trying to do, and he chuckled against your lips before pulling away just far enough to speak. “Look at you,” he whispered, and the raspiness of his voice only served to turn you on even more. He hooked a finger under your chin, forcing you to look up at him, and his thumb traced your bottom lip, tugging at it ever so slightly. His other hand slowly trailed its way up your thigh, nails scratching at your skin. “Skirt hiked up around your waist, desperate to get off. Your little boyfriends aren’t doing it for you anymore?”

  He pressed his thigh further into you, ripping an involuntary moan from your throat. “Fuck,” you gasped, your hips still moving back and forth against him, not caring how needy it made you seem. “I need… I…”

  “What? Big, bad lawyer doesn’t have any more smart ass comments?” he cooed sarcastically, pushing your skirt up even higher. He replaced his thigh with his hand, and his fingers ghosted over your covered pussy, teasing you, not giving you nearly enough contact. “Fuck, you’re so wet already. Go ahead, needy girl, if you’re that desperate.” Aaron yanked down your panties in one fell swoop, and you blindly kicked them off to the side. “Be a good girl and show me how much you want this.”

  Without any more of a warning, one of his fingers entered you, and you let out a breathy moan that Aaron was sure to have on repeat in his mind for days to come. When the heel of his palm pressed against your clit, your brain completely short circuited. You threw your head back as far as you could despite being pressed against the wall as his name clumsily tumbled from your lips like a prayer.

  “You’re so fucking tight,” he grunted, pressing you further against the wall. “Can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”

  Electricity coursed through your veins as he added a second finger, easily finding that spot in you that made you see stars. You rocked your hips back and forth against his hand, eyes screwed shut in pleasure. His lips trailed from your jawline, down your neck, and to your collarbone. 

  “Look at me,” Aaron ordered, tightening his grip on your chin, and your eyes shot right back open. Instead of the whiskey colored irises you had gotten used to, Aaron’s pupils were so blown that they made his eyes completely black. “I want to see you lose control all over me. Gonna make sure you come harder for me than you have for any of your boy toys.”

  That wouldn’t be very difficult. Nobody had ever made you feel the way you did then, Aaron’s fingers buried deep in your cunt and lips exploring every inch of skin he could access. No part of this was for his pleasure — from the curl of his fingers to the slow circles on your clit, it was all expertly calculated to bring you to the edge with as much intensity as possible, and it was all devastatingly effective.

  “I’m so close,” you whimpered, and if it weren’t for the wall behind you, you would have completely lost your balance. “More, fuck, please.”

  “More?” he mumbled against the column of your throat. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

  Coherent sentences were not an option for you at the moment, not when you were so deliciously overwhelmed with pleasure and with Aaron. Besides, how could you tell him that you wanted him to completely and utterly ruin you? That you wanted him to bend you over the conference table and pound into you until you could barely speak. You wanted Aaron to mark you and send you home to your fiance with reminders of every little thing he did to you for the days to come. You wanted raw and untamed passion. You wanted to be consumed, for him to settle in your lungs like smoke, and haunt your dreams for the rest of your life. 

  You didn’t want nice and calculated the way every other man you’d been with had acted — you wanted Aaron Hotchner to take control.

  You couldn't say any of that, so instead, you grabbed his wrist, the one that was holding your chin in place and, without breaking eye contact with him, you guided his hand down until it rested on your throat. “More,” you choked out, giving him an animalistic grin.

  That was all it took. Using his grip on your neck, he pulled you in for another kiss, messy and desperate and swallowing all of your incoherent moans as his fingers moved harder, faster.

  You clung to him like a lifeline as you felt your whole body tense up, your orgasm fast approaching. You were so fucking close and he felt so fucking good and, God, if this is what losing control felt like, then you and Aaron could do this forever and —

  His fingers were gone from you, and you clenched around nothing. You cried out in protest, which only seemed to amuse him.

  “Oh? Prom queen isn’t used to not getting what she wants?” Keeping his hand on your throat and you pinned against the wall, he made slow, teasing work of his belt buckle.

  Your chest rose and fell in a desperate attempt to catch your breath. “What happened to watching me come undone all over you?” you shot, trying to even out your voice as much as possible. It didn’t work very well. “Did you lose your nerve?”

   A dark, humorless chuckle escaped his lips. “Don’t worry, Princess, that’s still the plan. I just never said where. I want to make sure you’re nice and wet and ready for me to turn you into a moaning mess on my cock.”

  In an attempt to regain some control of the situation, you rolled your eyes. “Yeah? And how do you expect to do that?”

  He smirked and released your throat. Wordlessly, he grabbed your wrist, and guided your hand down your body, further and further until you reached your throbbing pussy. He used his hands to press your fingers to your clit, and you whimpered softly. God, you were dripping, and the extra stimulation didn’t help your shaking legs.

  “By making you so needy and whiny that by the end of this, you're begging for me,” he hissed, lips brushing the shell of your ear with every word. He moved your fingers so that you were rubbing small, slow circles around your clit, although it wasn’t nearly enough to give any real relief. “Begging for me to come and fuck you over and over and over again. Because you know that your pathetic fiance and your string of affairs have never made you feel like this before.”

  Aaron yanked your hand away from your clit and you could sob. You wanted to cum so badly that you could barely put it into words. Still holding your wrist, Aaron brought your hand up to his face. He took a brief moment to admire the way your fingers glistened, covered in your arousal, before bringing them to his lips and sucking.

  Eyes wide, you made a choked noise as you committed the view of Aaron to memory. “Please, Aaron, fuck, I need you,” you whined, the start of a long string of incoherent begging. You needed him then and there, damn the consequences.

  He pulled your fingers out of his mouth slowly, and you moaned at the obscene wet noise it made. “So desperate,” he murmured as he began to unbutton his slacks. “All for me. All because I edged you once.”

  Aaron pulled down his pants just enough to pull out his dick, and you licked your lips involuntarily when you saw it, big and thick and leaking precum. Clearly, it gave Aaron a bit of an ego boost, because as he ran the head up and down your sensitive folds, he reminded you, “You did say you could take anything, Princess.”

  Your breathing came out shaking as you shivered, waiting for him to do something — anything. You were so empty and you needed him so badly. If you didn’t get his dick in you soon, you were pretty sure you would lose your mind completely.

  “Fuck me, Aaron,” you moaned, arching your back to press into him more.

  He pressed a chaste kiss to your lips in an almost intimate gesture. “Patience is a virtue,” he chastised.

  In your haze of arousal, you barely noticed him grabbing your briefcase and digging through the small pocket in the front. You especially didn’t notice his pause when his finger touched something small, round, and metal in the bottom of the bag. The only thing you cared about was him coming back to you, holding up a condom packet with a smirk.

  “I knew I’d find one somewhere in your briefcase.” You let the comment slide, the excitement at the prospect of sex with Aaron Hotchner outweighing any jackass comment he could make. Aaron made quick work of putting on the condom. The second he was done, one of his hands ran up your thigh, getting a good grip on it before pulling it up and around his waist.

  “Do you feel how wet you are for me? How willing you were to give up control? All for me? That—” Lips pressed to your ear, he pushed his cock into you, bottoming out with one thrust. You threw your head back in pleasure. “—Is playing chess, sweetheart.”

  Aaron dropped his forehead to the crook of your neck as he began pounding into you at a desperate pace. He had held off on his own pleasure for long enough, and now he was chasing his orgasm with a ruthless determination. One hand stayed gripping your thigh, the other one braced against the wall next to your head. Aaron nipped at your neck in between moans of praise for you.

  “I — oh, fuck — knew it,” he groaned, digging his fingers deeper into your thigh. “You wanted somebody to take control. Somebody who knows how to please you.”

  You wrapped your arms around his neck and tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer to you. You were an incoherent mess at this point, his name tumbling from your lips like it was the only thing you knew how to say. At that moment, it probably was. 

  “Finally, that bratty mouth of yours is good for something. You sound so pretty, moaning out my name. Say it again.” A particularly deep thrust caused you to tug at his hair. “Louder.”

  Never before had you met somebody like Aaron Hotchner, and you weren’t sure if you ever would again, so you screwed your eyes shut and let yourself get lost in the absolute pleasure he was providing. You memorized everything you could — the way the calluses on his hands felt against your skin, the way he moaned out your name, how deliciously full you felt, and how for the first time in your life you felt truly seen — so that you could suspend the moment in amber to preserve in the back of your mind.

  “Please,” you begged, scratching his scalp lightly with your nails. “I’m so close. Fuck, Aaron, you feel so good, please.”

  Aaron tore his lips from your throat, choosing instead to press his forehead against yours. His lips brushed yours with every word he spoke, so close that you were practically kissing him. “That’s it, princess,” he murmured. “Be a good girl. Be a good girl and come. All over my dick.”

  When you came, it was with a cry of his name as your whole body shuddered. You clung to him as he continued to fuck you. His thrusts began to stutter, and he took the opportunity to capture your lips in one last, scorching kiss, and you were all too happy to oblige.

  You think he moaned something as he came, but you couldn’t hear it over the sounds of skin slapping against skin. He fucked you through his orgasm, making sure that you felt every single inch of him. As if you could ever forget it. 

  The two of you stayed where you were for a few moments, relishing in the feeling of being full a little longer. Your walls fluttered around Aaron, which caused him to muffle his whimpers into your throat.

  “Aaron…” you whispered, not wanting to disturb the moment. “That was so—”

  “I know.”

  “We shouldn’t have done it.”

  “I know.” He pulled back just enough to leave a lingering kiss on your lips, and your whole body burned. “But I don’t regret it. Do you?”

  You shook your head. “Not at all.” The confession lingered in the hair for a tense second because both of you seemed to remember where you were.

  Aaron slowly pulled out of you, an act that looked almost painful for him when you let out an involuntary moan at the feeling. He could have spent all day in you, if given the chance.

  The two of you adjusted yourselves in silence, both of you hoping to be able to leave the room with some semblance of professionalism. At the very least, the goal was to not look like you had just had sex in a courthouse conference room. Shame and embarrassment flooded you — what had you been thinking?

  Once you felt that you were presentable enough, you grabbed your briefcase and tried to ignore Aaron burning a hole in the back of your head with his gaze.

  “Well, Aaron, this was fun.” You cleared your throat. “I’m sure we’ll see each other around at some point.”

  You were two steps away from the door when you heard his smug, courthouse voice come back in full swing.

  “Forgetting something?”

  You turned around in a huff, ready to go right back to arguing with him, but what you saw made your whole body heat up in embarrassment. There was Aaron with a self-satisfied grin and dangling off his finger was your panties.

  “These are cute,” he mused. “It’s a shame I didn’t get to fully appreciate them.”

  You rushed over there, fully prepared to snatch them out of his hand. “And you never will,” you shot, but even as you said it, you didn’t make much of an effort to take them out of his hands. You just stared at him and his swollen lips and mussed hair, all your doing.

  Ever the gentleman, Aaron started to hand your underwear back to you, but instead of taking it back like you knew you should have done, you covered his hand with yours, closing it in a fist around your panties.

  “Who says you can’t?” you whispered, guiding his pantie-filled hand down to his pockets. “This way… You can keep it as collateral. To make sure I’ll come and see you again.”

  His breath hitched in his throat as you guided him to put your panties into his suit pocket, and you were glad to be the one surprising him this time.

  “I don’t care about your fiance,” Aaron started, and you braced yourself for the worse. “But I’m not interested in being the ‘other man’ to your affairs with your assistants, too.”

  “Consider it ended,” you promised, not caring how desperate or easy it made you look. You wanted to keep Aaron around for a long, long time.

  Just until the wedding, you corrected yourself.

  You slung your briefcase over your shoulder, wincing as it dug into a bruise that Aaron had left. It would be there for a while — you’d have to find a way to hide it from Tony until it faded. The thought made you stupidly giddy. “I’ll see you around, Aaron.”

  He nodded in goodbye, and you slipped out of the conference room on shaking legs. As soon as the door closed behind you, you reached into your bag, and reluctantly slipped on your engagement ring.

[nocturna-starr]

Prologue - Story for Children

This is a truce gift for @five-rivers​! I am so sorry its late!

The prompt I did was Prompt#3: Pariah Dark decides Danny has all the qualities he wants in an heir and forcibly adopts him. I know I’ve done it before, but I think this version is better... I really hope you enjoy! Happy New Year!

Once upon a time there lived a wicked king. Now this king was the baddest of the bad, I mean really bad! He was the type of person who would butt in line when you were waiting for five hours. He liked to pick on kids. He could never get a date because everyone thought-

“I get it, I’m not stupid!” “Okay, fine…”

Now this king wanted to conquer the whole ghost zone. Because he was the biggest and strongest, this king believed he could do so easily. Guess what? He was right! Nobody wanted to fight the king! Like cowards, they fled into the human realm. Those idiots didn’t realize they led the king to a whole new world to conquer. Fortunately, the human world had a hero willing to fight!

“Like a Prince?” “I guess so?” “Was he like you Danny?” “You could say that…”

This hero was strong and brave and handsome! He was the type of person you could depend on. He fought evil ghosts nearly every single day! One problem though, he was WAY WAY WAY younger than the king. The wicked king saw dinosaurs, the hero didn’t even know who the Beatles were.

“Beatles?” “I think they were a famous in the human realm- That or they were a weird kind of bug.” “Oh, okay.”

The king was a master of battle tactics while the hero had a C average in math class. The king could memorize all his plans, while the hero couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast that morning. The king had an army, the boy had a rag tag team of rogues. The situation was pretty hopeless…

Yet the hero challenged the king.

“The hero was pretty stupid.” “No, he wanted to protect the town! What would you do in the situation? What if our castle was the one under siege?” “Daddy would never let that happen!” “You’re missing the point, Danielle!”

It was a brutal fight. The king fought the boy with little mercy. The boy was thrown into so many walls… he definitely had a concussion…

During the fight, something grew within the boy. He knew he had to win for the people of his world, his friends and his family. Unfortunately, the power he had been granted by a bumbling old wizard was way too much-

“Where did the wizard come from?” “I forgot to mention him… Umm… he was a really smart man when it came to magic, not so smart when it came to talking to other people.” “You suck at telling stories” “Just let me finish!”

He realized that if he used it correctly, that the power wouldn’t be too much.

“What a concept!” “Shut up Danielle!”

So, with some help from his enemies and a major creep, the hero locked the evil king away. The hero went… somewhere… I think home? The creep went to go spy on the hero’s mom. The hero would end up kicking the creep’s butt. I don’t know after that, maybe the creep would get flung into space. Jury is still out on that. I think I might have dreamed that last part. Maybe it was in the book?

“Okay...?”

But our story isn’t over. The wicked king stewed in his prison about how to get revenge. He plotted to see how he could get his throne back. (Because the hero won against the king, he was now the king.) he came up with a strange answer. Once his planning was complete, he broke free and paid a visit to the ghost government.

They weren’t happy at first. But as they heard the king’s request, they became more and more pleased. See, they didn’t like the king, but they didn’t really like the hero either. This was a way to get rid of the hero and appease the king. The king wanted to adopt the hero, soon to be a prince. He felt that he could influence the prince to do what he and the government wanted. The prince would become a puppet king. The people would grow to hate him and wish for the days of the government or even the wicked king. I don’t quite get the plan? Maybe they were afraid that the ghosts would revolt against their government if they killed a beloved king?

“What if they were afraid the wizard guy would help the hero? Maybe they thought this was easier?” “Most ghosts aren’t afraid of the wizard guy.”

They called in their Time Master who suffered from their tyranny. He didn’t like the idea, but he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. His last request was to test the hero’s family to see if they were worthy of their son. He gave them three trials. One of faith, one of hope and one of love. They only had to finish one. They failed all three. 

The time master was forced to kidnap the boy. He reversed the boy’s age until he was an infant. The king wanted to influence the child as young as he could. Then he put the baby in a time freeze until they could find his twin sister. “Twin sister? The hero was a twin just like you and me?!” “Yes. The hero loved his sister a lot. She liked to travel too. That’s why she wasn’t captured right away.” “I want to travel one day! But how did you know that she liked to travel?” “I dreamed it. I’ve been having a lot of weird dreams since I got that book.” “Maybe you should stop reading the book? “Nah.”

They found her and reversed her age too. The king then took the twins and put them in his castle far away from anyone who may recognize them. As time went by, he came to love his children. He was a lot nicer! The people loved the fallen heroes now children and called them the blessed.

Then everyone lived happily ever after, except creep guy who was still stuck in space.

“I didn’t like that story.” “It was the first story in the book that we found in my room. You wanted me to tell them to you, right?” “Not anymore, the stories are too weird!” At least they don’t have sad endings?” “What’s this that I hear about sad endings?” “Daddy! Danny is telling weird stories again!” “Why don’t I be the judge of that? Son, tell me a story.”

Once upon a time there was an evil chef who wanted to serve poisoned food…

...

Pariah Dark smiled as he watched his son Daniel sleep soundly. Who would have thought that he would be smiling so kindly at his enemy? Who could have seen the love that he would have for a boy that stole his crown? Who could have known that the former hero could have such an active imagination? Unless… these were memories?

The Observants assured him that there was no way for Daniel to remember his former life. He wouldn’t recognize his family as he conquered the human realm. He wouldn’t know the people of the Far Frozen as they begged for mercy. Even the Master of Time would not get a kind eye from the prince…

Still, maybe he would convince Daniel to be one of those kings who stayed at home and tried to belter the people through laws. Daniel didn’t seem like the type to want to take over anything. Maybe he could convince Daniel to appoint his sister, who didn’t have any attachments to the real world, to go and conquer for her brother.

Maybe she could take the crown from him?

NO! Daniel would wear the crown and his sister would be happy to give up her life for him.

Who would have thought that he would favour his opinionated enemy over his enemy’s timid sister?

Pariah sighed. His son rolled over in his sleep. The king’s eyes widened. He had never seen that book before. He had made sure to approve all the ten books in the castle, just in case his children were triggered by anything that was written. So far, he had been successful in keeping his kids in the world he had created just for them.

He snuck into Daniel’s room and carefully untangled the book from his sheets. He took the small pouch from his pocket and took a pinch of its content and concentrated. He needed Daniel to forget all about the book. With one last mental push, he sprinkled the powder over his son’s head. If he approved the book, there would be no harm. But if that book was a way for someone to try and reach his adopted son…

Well, there would be hell to pay.

Originally, It was going to be longer... But I didn’t like the direction it was going in. I’m planning on continuing the rest of the story in 2022! 

[hartigays]

big brain thot: wheezie being the one to get rafebarry together👀👀

“wheeze, you can’t just show up here like this.”

she hasn’t even gotten off her bicycle yet, helmet still in place and everything. she looks up at rafe with big eyes, rolling them as slowly and dramatically as humanly possible.

“i just did,” wheezie points out, unclipping her helmet and setting it in the front basket of her bike.

rafe eyes her warily, then relaxes a bit. his eyes flicker back towards the trailer. “how’d you even know i’d be here?”

“topper,” she tells him simply, shrugging.

“topper?”

another overly-dramatic eye roll. “yes, topper. he came by looking for sarah and i asked him if he knew where you were. i need help with something.”

“and topper told you i’d be here?” rafe asks, brows raised.

topper is a lot of things, but is he the type of person to send a kid to a coke dealer’s trailer? no, absolutely not.

“i encouraged him,” wheezie replies, a little too vague for rafe’s liking. he narrows his eyes and she sighs. “fine, i kicked him in the crotch until he gave it up. happy?”

rafe snorts at the mental image.

wheezie finally climbs off her bike, standing in front of rafe with her arms crossed. “so, are you going to help me or not?”

he really doesn’t want to say yes. but he’s sort of always had a soft spot for wheezie - she’s one of two people who don’t make him feel completely homicidal.

(the other is sitting back in the trailer, smoking a joint and watching some boxing match on his old as shit tv. the thing has antennas, for fuck’s sake.)

rafe glances back at the trailer again, then turns back to wheezie, scrubbing a hand over his face. “fine. but you can’t come inside, wheeze, i’m serious.”

“why, because of drugs?” wheezie snorts, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “please. i’m pretty sure you smoked weed in my room when i was like, five.”

“that’s not the point,” rafe huffs, his fuse shortening ever-so-slightly. “just tell me what you want.”

for the first time since her arrival, wheezie looks mildly uncomfortable. she bites her lip, looking towards the treeline.

“i want to learn how to fight,” she says, and her voice sounds so small that rafe sort of feels… bad.

which is like a new milestone or whatever, so this is sort of a big moment for him.

“why do you need to learn how to fight?”

wheezie doesn’t say anything for a long stretch. then, her cheeks get red, and the words burst out of her. “i’m getting picked on at school, alright? this girl keeps saying she’s going to beat me up after class and i can only hide from her for so long, you know?”

rafe is mildly taken aback, never figuring wheezie for the type to get bullied. she always seemed self-assured and well adjusted, with a sizable group of friends and an active social life. for a middle schooler, anyway.

“what’s her name?” rafe asks, indignant on his sister’s behalf.

if he had to choose a sister to be the target of bullying, it’d definitely be sarah. wheezie, on the other hand, is just a kid. and if someone is threatening to kick her ass, rafe sure as hell is going to find out who.

“i’m not telling you her name, rafe,” wheezie says. “i don’t want you going and knocking her door down to threaten her or whatever. i want you to teach me how to fight so i can hold my own.”

rafe would probably just kill the kid, not threaten her, whoever she is. but he doesn’t tell this to wheezie, biting his tongue for once.

he rocks back on his heels, then sighs, and beckons for wheezie to follow him into the trailer.

wheezie throws her arms up as if to say fucking finally, following rafe inside.

barry is still smoking on the couch, but when he sees wheezie trailing after rafe, he has the presence of mind to put the joint out with an awkward cough.

“you gonna tell me who your little friend is, country club?”

“i’m his sister, wheezie,” she says before rafe can speak, rolling her shoulders back and holding barry’s gaze steadily.

“wheezie?” barry repeats, then laughs, wagging his finger in her direction. “you funny, kid.”

wheezie gives rafe a look, clearly judging him for his choice of company.

“jury’s still out on you,” wheezie tells barry, eyeing him.

barry actually throws his head back when he laughs this time, and rafe can’t help but eye the line of his throat, his mouth going a little dry.

the worst part is, wheezie notices him staring. she raises a brow at rafe. he just coughs and looks away, regretting every decision he’s made in the last ten minutes.

“look, she wants to learn how to fight,” rafe tells barry. “i figured two heads would be better than one?”

“or you just a pussy and know you can’t beat nobody’s ass, rafe,” barry says, reclining back on the sofa, staring at him through heavily-lidded eyes.

“neither can you,” rafe reminds him.

always reminding him. where rafe has failed, barry has too. rather consistently, as a matter of fact.

“fair ‘nough,” barry says after a stretch, leaning forward again. “two heads, then.”

wheezie coughs, and they both turn to look at her. she gives them a bored look. “are you two done having a moment? or do you still need a minute? because i can step outside if- ”

“shut up, wheeze,” rafe groans, pushing her towards the couch.

they spend the next hour and a half discussing fighting techniques, and the cardinal rules of fighting. the ones rafe and barry abide by, anyway.

there aren’t many. they spend the majority of the time discussing technique.

when wheezie gets sick of listening to them yammer on about the different types of headlocks, she starts to get restless.

“oh my god, i didn’t come for the rules of fight club, alright? will one of you just show me how to punch this bitch in the face?”

both barry and rafe shut up immediately, barry’s mouth dropping open in mild surprise.

rafe just snorts, mumbling fair enough under his breath.

and that’s how rafe ends up watching barry do some sort of shadow boxing with wheezie in the living room. rafe re-lights the joint, watching the scene before him in amusement.

“no, kid, you ain’t gotta do all that fancy shit with your legs,” barry is saying at one point, then demonstrates some sort of kick for her.

rafe forgets sometimes that barry has military training, and despite the fact that he gets his ass beat on a regular basis, he’s a pretty damn good teacher.

the joint is long gone by the time wheezie looks at her watch, cursing.

“shit. rose is gonna kill me,” wheezie mutters, fumbling for her phone.

“just tell her you’re staying at a friend’s,” rafe suggests. “it’s too dark for you to bike back anyway.”

“you could always drive me, you know,” wheezie reminds him. then, her eyes flicker down to what’s left of the joint (basically, the filter) and backtracks. “well, he could.”

she’s pointing at barry, and barry shrugs.

rafe, however, finds himself wanting wheezie to stay. dare he say it, he might’ve actually missed his sister.

he’s pretty sure he’ll regret it later, but regardless he says, “we’ll get you something to eat and you can crash here if you’re too tired to go home after.”

something to eat ends up being freezer-burnt pizza rolls, but wheezie doesn’t complain. she eats her food while scrolling through her phone, glancing up at rafe and barry every now and then.

they’re conversing quietly about a drug deal they have set up later, a big one. rafe doesn’t think wheezie is listening, but he also doesn’t notice the way she keeps glancing up at them, her eyes flickering between them with an unreadable look on her face.

and then, out of nowhere, “are you guys dating?”

rafe looks at her sharply and he sees barry do the same out of the corner of his eye. barry’s mouth had shut so quickly that his teeth clacked together, and rafe can see him rubbing at his jaw.

“what the hell, wheeze?”

wheezie raises her hands in mock-surrender, but still rolls her eyes. “it’s just a question, geez. but thanks for the answer.”

“the fuck is she talkin’ about?” barry asks, his gaze flickering between rafe and wheezie.

“you two,” wheezie explains slowly, looking almost bored. again. rafe is starting to think he’s had a bad influence on her. “you’re dating, right? like that’s why you’re always here, right?”

the latter question is directed towards rafe, and he feels his stupid cheeks betray him, burning red.

“oh, right. you’re men, of course you haven’t talked about it,” wheezie sighs, then stands up and brushes invisible crumbs off her shorts. “well, i conveniently have to use the bathroom, so. use this time wisely, i guess?”

then wheezie disappears from the small kitchen, leaving rafe and barry sitting in thick, palpable silence.

“so… what the fuck just happened?” rafe asks when he can’t take the uncomfortable silence any longer, pointedly not looking at barry.

when barry shifts in his seat, rafe can feel it, and he realizes all at once just how close they’re sitting.

“she thinks… “ barry trails off, shifting in his seat again.

“that we’re dating,” rafe finishes, swallowing around the golf ball-sized lump that has mysteriously appeared in his throat.

rafe can feel barry looking at him. he can feel the heat of his gaze, and wow, wheezie is taking a really long time in the bathroom.

“that what we been doing, country club?” barry asks, and rafe looks over at him so quickly that his neck pops.

rafe searches barry’s face for any trace of humor, but comes up empty.

they’ve been practically living together for months, ever since rafe gave up trying to please ward and joined barry’s little side business. and if he really thinks about it, they have lapsed into something almost nauseatingly domestic.

it’s like. like rafe’s been in this weird, fucked up relationship this whole time, and he’s just now realizing it. and realizing, at the same time, that he doesn’t want it to end now that wheezie has gutted them both and laid everything out in the open, where neither of them can hide.

jesus fucking christ, is he in love with barry? barry the drug dealer?

well, rafe supposes that’s what he would call himself now, too, so. maybe it makes some sort of sense after all.

“i don’t think so, but i think we should now,” rafe finally says. he doesn’t know why he says that last bit, it just sort of slips out before he realizes what he’s saying.

but he doesn’t take it back either.

barry is too quiet next to him. the silence goes on for far too long, and rafe is starting to debate internally whether or not he should dump wheezie’s body in the swamp or somewhere off shore.

finally, barry speaks. “startin’ to think you may be onto somethin’, rafe cameron.”

“so is that a yes?” rafe huffs, already feeling exposed enough as it is. he doesn’t need barry speaking in shades of gray.

suddenly, there are fingers wrapping around his jaw, gentler than rafe would’ve anticipated, and then barry is turning rafe’s head and kissing him.

like, really kissing him. rafe feels like he’s being turned inside out, his insides shifting and adjusting, rearranging and adapting to make room for barry.

it’s not a particularly long kiss, but it’s sure as hell the best one rafe has experienced in his life.

“they teach you that in the army?” rafe asks when barry pulls away, aiming for nonchalant but failing due to the heavy rise and fall of his chest. and the fact that he can’t stop staring at barry’s mouth.

barry just smacks the back of rafe’s head, shoving him lightly. “get the fuck out my kitchen, country club.”

rafe is about to respond when the bathroom door opens, and wheezie pokes her head out.

“ugh, thank god you’re finally done. you should invest in a bathroom fan, you know,” wheezie tells barry, “i could literally hear everything.”

she shudders and gags, barry laughs, and rafe vaults himself out the nearest window.

well, he tries to. barry catches him by the waist easily, dragging him back into his seat. wheezie just rolls her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“okay, well, since you’re done being a drama queen, i think i’d like that ride home now.”

[micamicster]

⭐⭐⭐ music question!! any particular song choices you put a lot of thought into or just really want to talk about?

noa ur a real one for this. i know youre asleep rn i hope you enjoy the madness you've unleashed when you wake up <3

Back when I started writing this i complained nonstop about how i didn't know anything about 80s music and im happy to say that is no longer true! I have listened to SO MUCH 80s music in the last month holy shit.

Playlist with all the referenced songs <3 If people want to know what the hell im talkign about at any given time they will all be on here <3

I already talked in the end notes about what music everyone is based on so I won't get into that here. Instead I'm gonna talk about the "soundtrack songs," or the songs that i insist on shoehorning into every scene. (Actually discussed with my sister A Lot about whether the songs are fun or meaningful or are clutter in different scenes and the jury is kinda still out on that. So would be interested to hear what people think!)

The most important songs in part one are probably Last Dance With Mary Jane and Dancing in the Dark. I'd always wanted Last Dance for Steve's crisis about being back in indiana. That's a song I listened to on LOOP writing that scene! I love tom petty so much--i feel like he has a unique sympathy for the characters he creates in his songs. They're very kind songs, and they feel very comforting, even when he's talking about ennui and dissatisfaction and heartbreak. Dancing in the Dark is dancing in the dark i literally cant even explain more. Perfect song. (Other good bruce songs for steve are Brilliant Disguise for Steve/Nancy and Independence Day for his daddy issues <3)

In part I think the major songs are Cyndi Lauper's Good Enough, which I brought into the scene to be another thing they don't have in common. The bus scene is a whole list of Shit They Don't Have In Common, and Good Enough is an answer to that question (if it's good enough for you it's good enough for me), but it's also a kinda depressing hint at Eddie's perspective on the fwb situation (if it's good enough for you it's good enough for me).

Every kid's breakfast order song! Dustin's is a 70s rock song and also a pun (i love dustin). Lucas' is a classic off my favorite Steve Wonder album. It's a little older (1980), so it's probably one his parents played when he was a kid. He sings it to Max in a wildly over the top way (just like he used to see his dad do for his mom) and she pretends hes so annoying but she loves it. (Lucas has the most flexible voice the the group btw he can do any genre). Will is playing a gay ass song by the replacements, one of the greatest of 80s alt rock. Mike is playing an electronic piece that nobody else likes (the icicle works were one hit wonders iirc). El is playing a 60s girl group (headed by the incomparable ronnie spector, who was also abused by her manager, like El was, even though that's not something El would know to associate her with). Max is listening to Talking Heads. She (and will) listen the most widely of any of the kids, but I think her heart lies with new wave/punk (again vs will who is a punk/alt rock kid). Eddie plays Iron Maiden. He's a twenty-something teenage dirtbag babey!

Breakfast club scene I think is self explanatory. Don't you forget about me etc etc

FUCK this is so long. Imma keep goign. Now for some songs i DIDN"T get to include:

REFUGEE TOM PETTY aka the song that best sums up the Eddie/Steve situation in this fic. Could not make it fit naturally into the text but you should know it's The Song

Downtown Lights by Blue Nile is the song I listened to while writing the party scene in nyc. I did not include it because it came out in 1989 which is not accurate :( Alternatively I chose Drive by The Cars for that scene, but I ended up not putting any lyrics in at all, because I thought it might just clutter the thing up. (But I think I left it on the playlist anyway because i listened to it so much lol)

[love-peterparker]

In Extremis || Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: After the reveal of Spider-Man’s secret identity and the release of Quentin Beck’s murder video, there isn’t a lot going right for Peter Parker. But he has you. 

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings: Cursing, protests and rallies, mentions of murder, a gun that is never shot, and some hair description for Y/N for plot purposes (but it should still be generic enough).  

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: I’m first a Captain America and Agent Carter fan, and I wanted to recreate what makes their relationship so special, but with Peter and Y/N… ‘cuz I also love Peter Parker. I really loved writing this, and I hope you enjoy it.

Also, thanks to @marvelouspeterparker, @sinisterspidey (she actually has a blurb called I’ll Follow You and it builds off of Spider-Man’s identity reveal) and @stuckonspidey for answering my anon asks for general writing tips and Peter’s character. And @spideyspeaches with her kind words after reading one of the final drafts of this fic. Lastly, a special thanks to @peterbenjiparker encouraging me with this fic and for making me so emotional with her series Invisible String (Read this!... but only if your heart can take it) that I needed to write something. This story has nothing to do with it, but it does make some small generic references to her fic, and I would like to think that Y/N and Peter are soulmates in this story.

***

This takes place in a universe where a FFH-esque identity reveal happens when Y/N and Peter are young adults.

***

This fucking city didn’t deserve him.

Peter rarely admits it, but you say it all the time. When you hit a dead end in the Avenger’s database. When checking for your gun before leaving another safehouse. When reaching for him in the dark of night.

This fucking city didn’t deserve him.

It had been over a year since Peter’s identity as Spider-Man was revealed and the dubious video of Quentin Beck’s murder was released. But it felt like a lifetime.

These two Peter problems were like ivy. They rooted, twisted, and spread. Winding into chokeholds around their victims.

But heroes knew how to play with fire.

Peter’s identity was dealt with in a straightforward fashion. Plenty villains who would do anything to exact revenge on Spider-Man, but they would have to find Peter Parker and identify his loved ones first. And for someone like Peter? Well, it was going to take some time.

To you, Peter was lifegiving. A shining ray of golden hope. You fell to sleep and rose to press kisses into his face. To cherish and hold. To share tears. But to the world, or even New York City? He was a nobody, one who couldn’t even hold a steady job.

You all worked fast while the wicked played catch-up. The Avengers searched and wiped all, but ultimately little personal information Peter had on the internet, as well anything that might connect him to your shared inner circle. Everyone was given an Avenger’s signal watch. And both you and May opted to move as a precaution. May to Brooklyn. You to Avenger’s Tower.

The case of Quentin Beck’s murder was a much more grinding process. Through polished superhero reputations, the lawyers secured an Avenger’s Tower house arrest during court proceedings. An overwhelming amount of evidence in Peter’s favor was gathered. Press conferences were held. Speeches were given. And when it all seemed like it was too much for too long, you and Peter would lie in bed, arms and legs entangled, whispering that everything would turn out all right. Good will win. You just had to keep going.

It was taxing, but not impossible. And just when you all thought you were pulling at the end of the thread with the jury in your favor, the ground beneath you crumbles into nothingness. You spiral and crash into a labyrinth, lush and high-walled. Maybe this was the way out- oh wait, you’ve been here- or have you? You all turn and turn only to face a new dead end. A new set of incriminating videos were released. Spider-Man’s videos took the spotlight, but videos of Wanda and Bucky were also revealed. The streets of New York bustled in whispers.

Can we really trust these heroes? What if these videos are the truth?

And what happens when these powerful people think they are right when they are wrong?

When public protests against Earth’s heroes sprouted and jury members started to disappear, it was clear that the whoever or whatever was behind this had greater motives and powerful allies. It was time to buy time.

Everyone had tried to convince Peter to go into hiding somewhere else. Anywhere else. He had enough super-friends where anywhere was possible. Lay low while everyone else above ground scrambled to unweave this massive web of lies. But Peter was infuriatingly adamant that New York, regardless of her wavering loyalties, was his to protect.

So two months ago, he started bouncing around New York City, investigating when he could, and making polarizing headlines with every swing he took.

You tried to continue as if Peter was still by your side. After being terminated from your junior journalist job for “suspect ties to Spider-Man,” Spider-Man became your mission. You originally attended press conferences and rallies as moral support, but after Peter’s first awkward mumbles of a speech, it was painfully clear that he needed a new voice. The public herself needed a normal person who interacted with superheroes. Who better than Spider-Man’s girlfriend? But after the last kidnapping attempt and the Avengers’ numbers shrinking, it was clear that this wouldn’t last. The world now knew who you were too.

The thick ivy had caught up, and you were on fire.

But to hell with it because there was no universe where you would be leaving this nightmare without him. So the next time you looked in the mirror, you donned short red hair and heavy eyeliner.  

Days were spent questioning possible witnesses. Nights were spent in the light of a computer. And when you could barely drag yourself to continue, moments were spent staring at your beautiful boy’s picture. He needed you.  

You had only heard from him twice since he went into hiding, though there were a few times answered unknown number calls would lead to abstract rustling and distinct web shooter noises. To those, you always whispered “I love you,” before hanging up.

That was until last night, when you noticed small slip of paper in the crack of the window of the safehouse you had been staying at. Only a time and an address were written, in messy, but undeniably Parker script.

You spent the next day visiting arbitrary places in the Bronx, trying to determine if anyone was following you and collecting items in an unsuspecting backpack.

It was a balancing act between comfort and practicalities. An extra stealth suit. A waterproof jacket you both shared. Protein bars. Extra web fluid and a first-aid kit. A hefty wad of cash, just in case. And in the smallest pocket, things to help him in the darkest days to come. Letters from you, May, Ned, and your other friends. A few packs of gummy bears. And a picture of you and him, laughing in Central Park on one of your many dates. Sunlight casting halos on your heads. Bright. Carefree. Brimming with love.

Your heart cried and cried and cried, begging for those days.

But they were gone. And as much as you didn’t want to admit it, so were the people in that picture.

You travelled to the building location and made your way to the rooftop. Rows and rows of white sheets were hung, all whipping in the wind to dry.

A small smile graced your lips. You had to hand it to him. He was smart.

You folded yourself into one of the corners of the rooftop, gun in hand and waited. Eerie silence slowly lulling you to…

You woke up to the soft footsteps, sleepy eyes registering a shadowy figure behind one of the bedsheets.

“Hans?” you whispered, pointing your gun with a finger on the trigger.

“Leia,” the figured replied, equally hushed. The shadow lifted the curtain. It took a second to register, but it was really him. You raced towards each other, quick hold each other, beaming. Today, you existed in the same place at the same time.

“That was so stupid. I can’t believe you got me to do that,” you laughed, pressing your face into him, holding him tightly as if he could disappear at any moment.

“Oh, come on, you loved it!” he quipped. You hummed in appreciation.

“True, but I love you more.” His eyes brightened at your confession, pink dusting his cheeks.

“I know.” You shook your head, smiling at his response before turning your head and taking in who he had become. Gone were the luxurious curls, replaced with a buzzcut. A pair of fake glasses perched on his nose in further attempts to conceal his identity. Hallowed eyes. His skin tinted gray from the stress. You ran your fingers through the fuzz on his head, massaging his scalp. A sigh escaped his lips, eyes fluttering shut, with hands reaching to caress yours.

“You cut your hair.”

“You did too.” His fingers danced in the ends of your own tresses. A sad smile furnished your face.

“It had to be done,” you replied, before pressing your lips to his cheek and gently removing yourself from his embrace to get your laptop. “We need to get started. We’ve found a lot since you left.”

With his head on your shoulder, fingers laced with yours, and your laptop on your lap, you recounted the on-going investigation to him. The deep web that just kept going and going. Your theories and suspects. And when that was done, you kept talking. How Aunt May and his friends were fine but missing him. How the remaining Avengers were fairing. Peter was oddly quiet, sharing only a few thoughts here and there, but you attributed it to his weariness.

As the sun continued to dip, the silences between sentences stretched, but you mustered more words. As if your sentences were the delicate string that grounded him to you.

“Y/N,” he interrupted. You looked at him and hummed in reply. He began playing with your fingers, eyes never meeting your own. “I love you more than I ever I thought I could, and I’m really thankful for everything you’ve done. And you’ve done so much. Like, I don’t know if I would have even made it this far without you, but here you are, and well, you can’t keep doing this.” You cocked your head, before shaking your head, hair rustling.

“What? Peter, we are getting somewhere! I just need to visit the-“ He lets go of your hand, fingers clenching into trembling fists.

“No, no more visits. No more investigating. This can’t be your life. When this started, we thought there was a way out. But it’s been over a year. Clearly whoever or whatever is doing this won’t stop until we’re all gone. This may never stop. I can’t have you throwing away your life for me. Hell, I don’t even know when I’ll see you aga-“

“Peter,” you cut him off, your voice pitched lower in concern, “Where is this coming from? We’re gonna make it. It is just a matter of-”

“I can’t give you what you deserve! I’m Spider-Man, so we don’t get to have a house and two kids! We get this-, this fucking disaster! I live like this because I have to. I don’t get a choice. And you shouldn’t be stupid enough where you are doing the same thing!”  

Your mouth fell open, ready to spit back poison when he looked at you. It was in his eyes. Behind the falling tears and redness was the glint of insecurity that Peter had always carried. This was the child whose parents died. The teenager who didn’t stop his Uncle Ben from getting killed. Who held Tony Stark in his last moments. The man who was on the run.  

The hero who would never stop giving to a world who would never stop taking.

Your thoughts frenzied. If you held on to him too tightly, he would resist. The more he would thrash, determined to save you while slowly sacrificing himself until there was nothing left. Your brain was frozen, so your heart gave you the words-

“Marry me.”  

Peter’s eyes widen before retracting into a tight furrow, scrunching his nose.

“What?! No! Did you not hear anything I just said-“

“I’m not leaving you. I will never leave you. The one thing you never get to doubt in the world is us. So, I’m gonna ask you again; will you,” you took his hand, went to one knee, and let your voice soften as you held his gaze, “Peter Parker, marry me?”  

You both bathed in silence. His chocolate doe eyes boring straight into yours, searching for truth. The thought that maybe you had gone about this the wrong way started to crawl into your mind, but then a smile slowly creeped onto his face, bright red with blush. More salt-water pooled in his eyes. He pulled you into a near lung-constricting embrace, smothering wet kisses into every inch of your face. Mine. Mine. Mine. You could practically hear his thoughts as you basked in each kiss. I missed you. I love you. And oh my god, you’re here to stay.

“What did I ever-, I have no idea know what I ever did to ever deserve you.” A smirked formed on your lips.

“Is that a yes?” The gold stars in his eyes shined at your playfulness. There was the man you always loved.

“Yes, yes, oh god yes. I do, Mrs. Parker,” he said pulling you in for a passionate kiss. And you both stayed there, melting into the ground beneath you. Breathing each other in as moments passed. Tender “I love you’s” flowing generously from both of your lips. As if the world had vanished and all that existed was you and him, and him and you, and this understanding that this, this was a love until death do you part.

Peter was the one to break the string of kisses, leaving you to chase his lips before touching his forehead with your own. His breath hot on your face. “I- , if you go to my lab there is a secret compartment. In my desk. The code is your birthday. I was going to ask you myself, but then, well… this.” You chuckled as he stumbled on his words.

“I’ll get it as soon as I can.” You both leaned in to close the gap again when a cacophony of sirens and lights echoed in the streets below.

Frustration filled Peter’s eyes as he sat up. “Shit. I-, I gotta go. Are you gonna be okay?” You let out a shallow breath, but quickly forced a smile.

“Go get’em.” And with the whip of his webs, he was gone.

You sat there for a moment, taking in the new quiet. Your fingers graced your lips, still warm with the memory of his. A lightness had settled in your chest, and with every breathe you could feel it pulse stronger.

Because no matter what it took, no matter how long the wait, there was two things for certain.

He was going to protect the city. And you were going to save your husband.

[pollylynn]

Title: Abeyance WC:  1000 Episode: Montreal (7 x 02)

There’s a moratorium on being mad him. It’s something they all wordlessly agree on, all of them except Gates, at least, and well—no jury would convict her for violating any moratorium under the sun after that stupid stunt with the reward, after giving the precinct number to New York’s most cracked crackpots, after that lip lock. 

She’s envious. Kate is envious, because she’d really like to be mad at him for all of that, up to and including the lip lock, but it’s hard. It’s hard because being mad at him definitely needs to get in line behind that hack that calls herself a host. And it’s hard because the stunt is not entirely a stunt. 

He’s hopeful about it. He needs something to be hopeful about, because the hacky non-hosts of the world are the least of it. Nobody believes me. It’s hard to be mad when that’s a shot to the ribs, and once again, being mad at him needs to get in line behind being mad at herself because she has not produced even a haystack in two months and then some. But that brings her right back around to wishing there weren’t a moratorium on being mad at him, because it hurts. Having him throw a quarter of a million dollars at the whole thing hurts, because it’s not like she hasn’t tried. It’s not like she hadn’t already worked her way half a dozen haystacks before he showed back up and it feels like he’s all if you want something done right . . . 

He’s not. That’s not it at all, and even the part of her the would like a license to be mad know that’s not it. And still she goes running to Lanie. She tattles on him for playing with toys, for rattling off useful facts about their vic’s company, for Gates and the lip lock, and for the foolish sin of running to Lanie, for the childish sin of tattling, for the very strange sin of being genuinely unnerved by the idea that she has, by transitive property, now had a lip lock with Gates, she gets what she deserves. 

She gets an earful from an exasperated Lanie. She gets Girl, are you serious and an eye roll that is usually an Esposito Only special. She gets some real talk about the fact that her haystacks are last month’s news and there’s a possibility—an actual possibility—that his stupid reward might turn up an answer or two. And even if it doesn’t, they have to do something. Nothing isn’t an option in this no man’s land where she can’t be mad him for his usual nonsense, and he can’t engage in nonsense as usual without it seeming like too much, like an act, like everything’s fine. 

And Lanie, as usual, is right—at least eventually. Anger burbles beneath the surface a while. He’s using Alexis as crackpot buffer, and how is that okay? He gets Kate herself to play cab driver when he goes to meet his compatriot in anal probing, and does she have time for this? She does not. 

But there they are, then: Mike and Lauren Adams. There he is, six weeks ago in Montreal having some intense, unfriendly conversation with the man who might be anyone in the world except Henry Jenkins. And she’d like to be mad about it. She’d like to point out that Mike and Lauren Adams just happened to be going through their honeymoon photos and his stupid reward didn’t bring them crawling out of the wood work. She’d like the record to show that they are, in fact, insistent that they don’t want the reward, and he’s just as insistent that they deserve it, and the whole thing is stupid, because where does it lead? It leads to him hell-bent on rushing off again, hell-being on leaving her, and mad isn’t the word for how she feels about that. 

Mad can’t be the word for it. It’s against the rules. There’s a moratorium. 

And he finds something. He finds three devastating things that make a difference to Martha, to Alexis, to her. The memory cards are no stunt. They’re no dramatic eleventh-hour wedding-related—no whatever-related—stumble that he’s tried to backfill over with some elaborate scheme. 

She didn’t need the memory card to tell her that. The memory card changes nothing. And it changes everything. It’s agonizing for him, and she regrets that. She tries to smooth away the pain from his face and she truly regrets the way this complicates everything for him. But the memory cards energize her. They are something. They are a lead. They are a thing to investigate, a thing she can bring her resources to bear on. 

And it’s lousy. It’s more than a little lousy the way she doesn’t want to be mad at him anymore, and this is what it has taken. She isn’t mad him any more, even when he goes haring off to Montreal alone, even when Martha and Alexis demolish the moratorium. They raise their voices and clip their vowels. They cry and scold and lecture and Kate just stands by. She has all the empathy in the world for him now. There’s not a cell in her body that wants to be mad at him. 

She understands that he had to go—the first time, the second time—because no one believes him. 

She understands that he had to go—the first time, the second time—not because he needs anyone to believe him. 

He knew before the memory cards, just as he knows now, that Martha believes, Alexis believes, she believes. “No one” includes no one he cares about. But as long as no one else believes, everyone he cares about is in for pity, for scorn, for finding themselves at the end of questions that begin What about your . . .? 

She understands. She loves him for it. She doesn’t want to be mad. 

A/N: You would think that the anger of Kate Beckett at Richard Castle would have cumulative morphousness, and yet . . .

images via homeofthenutty

[jaskiersvalley]

I absolutely love your writing!! It's so very enjoyable and your au's are absolutely delightful. I just thought you should know.

Thank you so much, Nonnie! AUs are something I really enjoy and to hear that others find them fun makes me so very happy. As a little thank you, here’s another AU feat Kaer Morhen Radio and a Jaskier driving an 18 wheeler.

Life was a lonely one on the road. There were many acquaintances and other drivers Jaskier had a passing friendship with, Valdo Marx had the annoying habit of having similar routes to him - they did say mimicry was the highest form of compliment. Alas, nobody was a steady presence in Jaskier’s life. Well, nobody who was aware of him. Though there was the Kaer Morhen Radio family. They were the closest Jaskier had to everyday friends, as sad as that sounded.

“Good morning fuckheads.” Such a declaration could only mean it was 6am and Lambert had taken over. Instinctively, Jaskier was smiling as he sat up with a yawn. Most radio stations liked to gently rouse listeners with swelling music that got more up beat as the day went on. Not Kaer Morhen Radio. They had Lambert as their morning DJ, there to wake sensitive ears in more and more creative ways. He had become known for his unique way to wake listeners up; from bringing in pots to bang to trying to imitate the mating call of a moose at full volume. The only thing listeners loved more than Lambert being a general prick was his flirtation with Aiden who did weather and traffic announcements.

“And, in those four famous words: and now, the weather,” Lambert announced gleefully. After a long moment of silence, he snickered. “We shall have to give Aiden a moment to climb out from under the desk and rinse his mouth. In the mean time, here’s a banger.”

The banger, Jaskier was surprised to find, was quite literally a recording of someone (possibly Lambert) attempting to play drums (badly) on some kitchen pots. By the time the piece reached its rather boisterous end, it seemed that Aiden was no longer preoccupied.

“The weather today-” Jaskier tuned Aiden’s words out in favour of figuring out whether he was messing around or whether he really did sound so husky and gravelly thanks to having his throat fucked. It was quite the conundrum and Jaskier spent the start of his morning drive wondering how many complaints Lambert and Aiden will get now. Their record was 36 for the game of “identify that noise” wherein they stuck their fingers in various containers and made them squelch. To that day, nobody knew whether the last one really was, in Lambert’s words, “Aiden’s well used hole and my come”.

Afternoons were much more peaceful. Eskel took over at 2pm and he was laid back, played soothing music and gave the impression of being a very calm and reliable member of society. Jaskier always maintained it was an impression because, among all the chat, Eskel would sometimes drop a strange little fact that made him do a double take or two.

“This next song,” Eskel had once said, “was written while under the influence of cocaine.” It was a reasonable enough fact to share, Jaskier had been listening while stuck in a traffic jam along a motorway. “How they managed to write it though, I have no idea. Cocaine is terrible for your focus, I could barely scratch an itch before being distracted by something else. So kudos to the writers for creating a whole song while off their face.”

Which was something Jaskier had never thought Eskel would know anything about. He always seemed to demure, the solid rock of Kaer Morhen Radio. He balanced out Yennefer’s news updates perfectly. It was probably why Jaskier liked him so much, now that he thought of it. The surface innocence mixed in with hints of a very colourful life lived beneath the steady exterior. Well, hints other than the incident where Eskel somehow managed to not turn his microphone off and had a conversation about going to a rave with someone who worked at the radio station. Nobody knew the man’s name and his answers were half muffled but listeners swore they heard him suggest something along the lines of a collar and leash - which Eskel had hummed in agreement to, sounding all too happy. When questioned, Eskel resolutely refused to name the mystery man but conceded that there had been a rave. Jury was out whether Eskel had grumbled about being ‘in ecstasy’ or ‘on ecstasy’ for it. And there was definitely a picture of floating around the internet of him in a collar at what definitely looked like an underground rave.

The real reason Jaskier listened to Kaer Morhen Radio was the late night DJ. 10pm on the dot, Eskel would flick the switch and a prerecorded intro played, announcing that it was Late Late Nights with Geralt. Between 10pm and 6am, Geralt manned the station. The only reason Jaskier knew his name was because of the intro. Otherwise the man was silent other than a few hums between songs. Sometimes, presumably when he knocked something over, there would be a growled “fuck” that listeners lived for.

As little as Geralt said, Jaskier was in love. The music was eclectic and death metal could be followed up by electro swing or grime. There was to way to predict just what Geralt would play next, he didn’t take requests, didn’t talk to his listeners. But, somehow, he still drew them in. Jaskier had made the mistake of looking Geralt up online and swooned a little at the few pictures available. It seemed Geralt was an elusive man, somehow managing to turn away from cameras with an uncanny ability. Though a few pictures did exist of Lambert and Eskel on either side of him, quite literally holding him down for a photo.

Truthfully, Geralt was one of the main reasons Jaskier chose to do overnight hauls. Not only did they pay better, he also had Geralt’s nonverbal grunts and hmms to look forward to. He was well aware that it was an infatuation and nothing more. He’d never met Geralt before, Geralt wasn’t even aware of his existence. So, really, Jaskier could daydream all he wanted but had no intention of doing anything more.

Except, Jaskier couldn’t help but wonder. Geralt had such range in his musical taste, maybe he would like what Jaskier wrote. It was a rare night off and Jaskier was well into the bottle with Valdo when they got talking, egging each other on about who was the better musician. It ended with Jaskier drunkenly posting a CD of his music to Kaer Morhen Radio, addressed for Geralt. When he woke up in the morning, on the floor next to his couch which was occupied by Valdo, Jaskier groaned.

Thankfully, there was never a mention or even a single note of his music in the next week. Slowly, Jaskier relaxed, only a little disappointed that his music hadn’t even been acknowledged by Geralt. He almost had a heart attack when eight days later, Lambert came on air with a mad cackle.

“Morning fuckheads!” Lambert sounded more cheery than ever before. “You’ll never guess what I found. Geralt has been hoarding new music. Good music. Said it was for him. Well, I have decided he cannot hold this back from us. If you’re listening, Jaskier, your note was hilarious. I hope your hangover was worth it. Thanks for the CD!”

There was a growl that sounded like Geralt storming into the booth but the microphone was cut and Jaskier’s song started playing. Jaskier almost crashed his truck in shock. Especially when Lambert declared it so good, they would play it again and, sure enough, the song went back to the beginning to play twice in a row.

If it had just been Lambert, Jaskier would have quietly died of shame, accepting that he was being mocked. But Eskel got in on it too. That afternoon he introduced Jaskier’s song with the promise that management were looking into getting in touch with him about the music. Even worse, a listener even requested the song later that evening. Jaskier was both in heaven and hell at the same time. That night, Geralt didn’t play his song and Jaskier was only a little disappointed.

His phone rang the next day.

“Good afternoon, my name is Vesemir, I’m calling from Kaer Morhen Radio. May I speak to Jaskier?”

Jaskier promptly choked. He got an invitation to the studio. It was a good seven days of driving away and Jaskier searched for a contract that would take him across the continent. While he drove, he got a bit braver and started e-mailing the radio station on his breaks.

His written request for songs were acknowledged by a hum and the song coming on next. When he asked Geralt for a shout out, he got obnoxious pop music playing instead. So Jaskier asked for two hums if Geralt wanted to meet and three if he didn’t. Thus, there was a “fuck” on air and the Beauty and the Beast theme song started playing. It was safe to say Jaskier didn’t understand it but he wasn’t deterred.

By the time Jaskier got into town and made his delivery, it was almost 6am. There was no time he had been specifically invited for and he ended up approaching the building at the same time Lambert showed up with Aiden and three large cups of coffee in hand.

“Excuse me,” he called out, “I’m here to see Vesemir.”

“Bit early for that.”

“He never gave me a time so I figured an early start would be appreciated.” It wasn’t exactly a lie but Jaskier kind of wanted to meet Geralt who would be finishing up soon.

For some bizarre reason, Jaskier was led into the radio studio, no questions asked. Surely it was a security issue but then again, Jaskier checked out Lambert and Aiden, they would no doubt be able to handle any issues. Then there was Geralt, stepping out of the booth, Lambert’s intro queued up. He froze when he spotted Jaskier and, curiously, glanced away, seemingly all shy. The curious response was explained away all too soon. There, on the wall, was Jaskier’s CD and a polaroid of him and Valdo, helpfully labeled “The Talent” with an arrow to Jaskier and “The Fake” pointing at Valdo.

“You here for Vesemir?” Geralt asked eventually, sipping at one of the cups Lambert had brought.

“Amongst other things,” Jaskier replied.

“He won’t be here until 10. Why don’t we go grab breakfast while you wait?”

Aiden wolf whistled at that and Lambert whooped, arms in the air.

“My dear fuckheads,” he purred into the microphone, “we have a date between our local cryptid and our mystery siren. Please wish them luck.”

It turned out that, in person, Geralt was a bit more talkative than on air. And Jaskier helped fill any silence without any problems. He ended up being later than planned to meet Vesemir and Tissaia who had a very handsome cheque for him for playing his music and also his phone number with the promise of passing it on to some connections who had expressed an interest in his music.

Never before had Jaskier thought he would thank Valdo Marx for anything. But, one drinking session with him had landed Jaskier with not only a contract with a record label but also a boyfriend. With his first pay, Jaskier send Valdo the biggest bouquet of flowers humanly possible.

[pagesoflauren]

The Highest Bidder Ch. 1 (Ransom Drysdale x reader; sugar daddy!AU)

Summary: A graduate-level education is a costly pursuit. When you move out of state to study in Boston, expenses pile up, leading you to auction off what is apparently your most valuable asset: your virginity. It goes to the highest bidder…who happens to be Ransom Drysdale.

There are no major spoilers for Knives Out. Consider this as an alternate timeline. There will be references to the movie/its characters and family dynamics revealed in the movie.

Warnings: loss of virginity, explicit sexual content/smut, angst, sugar daddy/baby arrangement, dark elements, dubcon, cliffhangers, minor spoilers for Knives Out, unprotected sex, irresponsible driving (don’t drink and drive!), swearing, Ransom is an asshole (more to add and if you spot any that I’ve missed, please kindly let me know!)

A/N: Huge disclaimer...I really didn’t want to end this chapter the way I did, but it was getting a little too long...but there’s more coming! Don’t worry, please don’t send an angry mob after me 😱  Big love to @threeminutesoflife and @caffiend-queen for beta-ing this for me! ❤️ One last thing about the text messages: Italics are sent messages and bold italics are received messages :)

This chapter is written under the assumption that the reader drinks alcohol.

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

With his bedroom illuminated by the flashing images of his television, Ransom lounged lazily in his bed. One hand was occupied with his phone as his thumb slowly scrolled over the screen, the other idly wrapped around his cock as he took in the images on the device. 

Various girls, all a few years younger than him, staring with false wide-eyed innocence or sprawled out provocatively across recliners on sandy beaches or by turquoise-watered pools. Their names or aliases were listed under the respective photos, with a number in green text next to it. 

Deciding there were too many options, Ransom scrolled back up, the hand on his cock pausing as he started setting filters through the search. He changed them to specific hair colors, skin tones and a more concentrated age range. The only filter he didn’t change was the prices--there was no limit there. The page refreshed and showed him more favorable faces. 

His mind started to numb and the faces started looking too similar. As he was ready to pack it in for the night and tuck himself back into his boxers, a strange listing catches his attention. 

He sees you, kneeling in the sand at an apparent topical destination in a barely-there bikini. Unlike the other girls, though, your face is candid, caught in a laugh, eyes crinkled and lips spread in joy. There’s no price. Just the letters “HB” in red text. 

He clicks on your photo and the webpage changes to your profile. There’s a few more photos of you: one with a cat, more vacation photos. Your location is convenient: Boston. Not too far from where he is. 

But all of that fails to answer the question at the forefront of Ransom’s mind: Why don’t you have a price next to your name?

He scrolls through a couple more meaningless pieces of information: a little blurb about who you are, your measurements, your race and your conditions.

One time only.

“What?” he wonders aloud, face scrunching in curiosity. Sugar babies don’t just have sex once and then walk away with a fortune. From what he’s heard, they bitch and moan but shut up when there’s a cock in their mouth (or pussy, for that matter). They need to be looked after either because they can’t afford it or can’t be bothered to do things on their own. Then, once he reaches the end of your profile, he understands. 

Virginity Auction. Current Bid: $8,250.

Ransom smirks at the prospect. He wasn’t looking for a virgin, but he likes the idea of taking one now. 

The number changes in real time, going up in five dollar increments before someone brings it up to $8,500. A pop-up window appears, warning him that if he’s interested, the auction ends at midnight. Ransom’s eyes flick to the top of his phone. It’s 11:57.

He thinks for a few ticks. If he pays you enough, he’ll have the convenience of entertaining himself between your legs and taking your virginity with no strings attached. Once that’s done, you’ll be out of his hair. He wouldn’t have to put you up, send you money or deal with your whining or complaining. 

Sounds like a good deal. 

Pressing his thumb into the blue button that says “Bid,” Ransom looks at the clock again. 11:58. 

Initially, he types in $10,000. But with two minutes to go and your price still ticking up, he doesn’t want to chance getting outbid by someone at the last second. He has to blow the other bidders out of the water. 

Sat up in your bed and wringing your hands nervously, you look at your cracked phone screen. Midnight has just passed and you’re waiting for a notification about the final bid in your auction. It started at $5,000 and in the week that the listing was posted, you had gotten notifications whenever it went to the next thousand. 

This isn’t how you wanted to lose your virginity. Ideally, you would have genuinely made love to somebody, someone your parents would have approved of and who truly cared for you. Even more ideally, it would have been the man who eventually became your husband...though you wouldn’t have waited until marriage to lose your V-card. You were about to take the next step in life and--you had to face it--you weren’t getting younger. 

What was the least ideal of it all was the fact that you were doing this out of pure desperation. Your graduate program was starting in a month and your savings were mostly gobbled up by application and testing fees. Living out of state didn’t help either; most of your money went to paying rent and commuting around the city. If someone paid you enough to tide your finances over, you could live off that money until the end of the semester, after adjusting to the program and your schedule, before taking on a job off campus. 

Your phone buzzed with an email from the website and you tapped the banner. Your email app launched and opened directly to the message. 

Your auction has ended. 

Reading further, you can’t believe what you see. 

Winning bid: $50,000 by Ransom Drysdale.

Fifty thousand dollars? Surely there must be a mistake. Why would someone pay ten times the starting bid? 

And Drysdale...where had you seen that name? 

Closing your eyes, you searched your recollection to place the name. It’s so familiar. 

Deciding your memory is unreliable, you resolve to a Google search of your highest bidder’s last name. 

The first result that pops up is a real estate company and a picture of famed author Harlan Thrombey, who apparently is the father of the woman who owns the business.

You feel faint...these names are not insignificant in Massachusetts, let alone the world. Harlan was a best-selling mystery writer--you had some of his books in your library back home. 

Then concern floods your brain: if this Linda Drysdale is Harlan Thrombey’s daughter, that makes Thrombey her maiden name. She must’ve married a Drysdale. 

Are you a pawn in some horrible cheating scandal? You must be, nobody has the name Ransom. It has to be an alias. Her husband must be looking for some young thing to get his rocks off. 

Stress causes your scalp to prickle as your phone buzzes again with a text message from the semi-mysterious Ransom, checking if it’s you, that he has the right number. 

Yes, you reply. 

The three dotted message bubble pops up before turning into another message.

Good. I’ve made a reservation at The Boxer in the city for Saturday. I told them you’ll check in. I told them not to charge you anything, but if you need to pay any fees, I’ll send you the money back. I’ll be there after 9. 

A chill runs down your spine at how direct he is. But, you suppose you can’t expect anything more from him. 

Okay, you acknowledge.

More dots, then another message.

Dress appropriately.

Despite your lack of experience in the bedroom, you know for a fact that he’s not referring to office attire. 

Settling back onto your pillow, you pull the covers over yourself and breathe slowly. You’ve got some preparation to do.

What do you bring with you when you’re planning to lose your virginity to a complete stranger in exchange for tuition money? 

Fuck all if you have a clue. 

You spent the days leading up to Saturday getting yourself ready. You bought a tight dress and pair of strappy heels from the sale racks. You cluelessly browsed for lingerie before an associate took pity on you (or just desperately wanted you out of her store, jury’s still out on that) and helped you select a lacy set complete with a garter and stockings. The associate absolutely gushed at how the color of the material complemented your skin tone, though you could care less. You forked over $120 for the damn thing and scampered out. Learning from your friends’ mistakes, you purchased a set of condoms using the self-checkout kiosk (and prayed you picked the right size). You weren’t instructed to buy condoms, but you figured you wouldn’t risk the chance of not having any. You endured a Brazilian wax, stifling profanities as the woman did her work. You also had trouble getting over your embarrassment; a stranger was going to see you bared all for him in a few days so if you can’t handle the wax lady seeing you, how could you handle “Ransom”?

Ransom.

Thinking about him did nothing for your nerves. You were certain you were going to lose your virginity to a man in his late 50s, who was married to Massachusetts’ biggest real estate mogul and the daughter of a renowned author. 

Dear God, what if she found out? Her father wrote murder mysteries, she had plenty of ways to kill you and get away with it. What if you weren’t even meeting “Ransom” and you were meeting Linda and she was going to kill you at the hotel?

You shake your head and look back down at the contents of your duffel bag: toiletries, a change of clothes for tomorrow, the condoms and your phone charger. You had created a playlist on your phone...if you weren’t going to lose your virginity to someone you loved, then maybe you could fake it with music. 

Who are you kidding? you chide yourself. 

You sigh and resolve to getting ready. After eating dinner, you strip off your old band t-shirt and sweatpants, remove your simple cotton underwear and novelty pineapple-patterned socks before discarding them into your laundry hamper. 

You shimmy into the lacy knickers, the material feeling quite uncomfortable against your skin. You clip the bra on next, followed by the garter around your waist.  Then you finish off with the stockings over your legs, stopping at mid-thigh. After fastening the clips on the suspenders to the lace trim at the top of the hosiery, you sit at your vanity to apply some makeup and fix your hair. 

“‘Dress appropriately’,” you mutter as you pull your dress from your tiny closet, “Hopefully this is appropriate enough.”

You maneuver yourself into your dress, struggling with the zipper for a moment then smoothing the material over yourself. You slide your feet into your heels and teeter a bit as you stand up. 

You’re not planning to really impress too much, so you pull on a downy, puffy jacket to combat the sea breeze the city gets in the evenings. 

Pulling the strap of your bag onto your shoulder, you look in the mirror one last time. You catch the reflection of the clock: it’s almost seven thirty. Taking into account how long it’ll take for your rideshare to arrive at your house and the traffic in the city on a Saturday night, you’ll arrive at the hotel a little after eight. You suppose now’s a good a time as any to leave. 

Requesting a car for pickup, you realize there’s no going back. 

Stepping into the hotel lobby, you know you don’t belong here. 

With modern touches and old architectural charm, the men wearing luxury tailored suits and women wearing unaffordable dresses, you felt you stood out like a sore thumb. The most luxurious hotel you had stayed at was a Holiday Inn Express near Disneyland. And it barely had functioning lighting. 

You timidly approach the front desk. Though the receptionist gives you a warm smile, you’re not comforted. 

“Hi, I’m here to check in for Drysdale?”

The man’s eyebrows raise in what you assume is recognition. 

Maybe this “Ransom” meets other escorts here often, then.

“While we would normally ask you to cover the fees upon checking in, Mr. Drysdale is a very good friend of the hotel so we’ve accommodated his request to make an exception,” the man informs you as he types away. He grabs a keycard and hands it to you. 

“You’ll be in room 6-F. Have a pleasant stay.”

“Thank you,” you say meekly, taking the card before turning to take an elevator up. 

Once on the sixth floor, you locate and unlock the room. The lights turn on automatically and you’re met with a cool gray toned room, which gives the room a darker atmosphere already. 

The entrance is narrow and you assume the bathroom is on the other side of the wall on your right. With wobbly steps, you move forward and see the room open up. 

The first thing you notice is the king-sized bed. Beyond it, the windows show illuminated facades of buildings outside. On the wall opposite the bed is a desk with a speaker and aux cord on top of the marble workspace and a fridge underneath. A TV is mounted on the wall above the desk. Next to it is an open wardrobe with a bathrobe hanging, cubbies and drawers, as well as a tray of refreshments. 

You set your bag on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe and retrieve the remote to turn on the TV to create some white noise and maybe kill some time (and nerves) as you wait for nine o’clock to come around. 

You wander into the bathroom and look yourself over in the mirror. You shake out your hands and pace, deciding to take off your heels for now as you pad around the room. 

Ransom was bored of dinner and his host knew it. Everyone else kept a level of decorum, but all the guests knew this get together was extending much longer than necessary. 

Checking his watch, it was quarter to nine. He threw back the rest of his drink before nodding to his friend and exchanging brief glances as he got up. Haphazard goodbyes were thrown his way as he pulled on his jacket and Ransom gave a nod of acknowledgement. He exits the restaurant, whistling to get the valet’s attention and handing the man his ticket as he pulls out his phone. 

Where are you? he messages you. 

At the hotel, sir. Room 6-F. 

“‘Sir’,” he muses to himself, smirking at the title you’d given him. He didn’t even need to tell you to address him that way. 

Have them bring up my usual from the bar.

Yes, sir.

Wondering how far he can take this, he asks you to send him a picture. 

He’s surprised with how quickly you comply. You’re sat on top of the sheets at the edge of the bed, leaned forward so your elbow can rest on your knee and the camera can get a view of the plunging neckline of your dress. Your hair falls nicely over your face and your palm cradles your chin. 

He can’t lie, he loves the way you look. You may as well be the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. 

Taking a few deep breaths, he wills himself to calm down; he can’t get hard yet. 

He puts his phone into one pocket and reaches into the other as the valet returns with his car. When the valet approaches, Ransom hands over a few sad, crumpled bills as a tip before walking around to the driver’s side of his car and climbing in. Sending one last message to you, he pulls away from the curb and heads to the hotel. 

I’m on my way. Make sure my drink is there before me.

You let out a spastic sound of nervousness and shook out your hands again before getting up to pace around the room again. 

The drink was on the way, you placed the order as soon as he told you to. You didn’t want to give him any excuse to not pay or complain you were unsatisfactory. Though, not having any experience in bed might prove that mission to be difficult regardless of whether or not his drink came in time. 

There’s a knock on the door and you jog over, pulling the door open to find a waiter holding a tray with a glass of what you assume is Scotch perched on top, covered with one of those signature little hats hotels always place on top of glasses. 

“Thank you,” you smile, carefully receiving the glass from him. He bows silently and turns to leave. 

You shut the door and place the glass on a coaster you find on the desk. You bother yourself with where the glass should rest (next to the speaker? on the far end, closest to the wardrobe?). Deciding it should be on the bedside table, you move the glass and coaster there then return to the desk to plug your phone in and play some music. You cringe at your choice to include Ed Sheeran in this playlist, but there’s no going back now. 

Suddenly, you hear the clicking sound of the door unlocking and you scramble over to sit on the bed to put your heels on. 

When you look up, you’re shocked to not find a man in his late 50s, nor the severe looking woman you’ve seen plastered on real estate posters. 

You find a man who can’t be that much older than you, dark hair and blue eyes that stand out in the dim light of the entry hallway. His cheeks are pale and rosy, framed by a strong jawline. He’s tall, crown of his head so high towards the ceiling. His broad shoulders nearly touch either side of the walls as he approaches you. 

He’s dressed rather casually, as if he was out to dinner with friends. The color palette of his outfit matches the hotel room: cool gray henley shirt, black blazer and jeans, finished off with a pair of brown boots and belt to match. If you’re honest, he looks like a model. He looks like he could have any woman he wanted. 

Why the hell does he want a virgin?

When he comes to stand in the room, hands tucked into his pockets, he looks you up and down from where you’re seated. His lips pucker thoughtfully and you see how perfectly pink and full they are and you wonder what it would be like to kiss them...

Nope. We’re not doing that. It’s a one time thing and that’s that. You remind yourself.

His eyes catch the glass on the bedside table and he plucks it up, removing the paper covering before bringing it to his lips to drink.

When the glass is halfway to his mouth, he hooks a finger at you. “Stand up.”

As he drinks, you obey, rising from your place on the mattress and smoothing down your dress before folding your hands together. 

He pauses his sipping, “Turn.” 

Hands falling out of each other’s grip, they land at your sides rather limply and you begin turning, giving him a three-sixty view of your body. You feel heat creeping up your neck and settling into your cheeks. 

When you come back to face him, he throws his head back to finish his drink and places the glass back on the bedside table, but he misses the coaster. You cringe inwardly at the ring that will surely form on the surface later. 

Your breath catches in your throat when your eyes meet his. You feel like a deer in headlights, unmoving as his gaze continues to flit over your figure. You wonder if he knows you’re holding your breath. You wonder if he can hear how quickly your heart is pounding. 

When he goes to take off his jacket, things start feeling real. You don’t know how to describe the sound that leaves your throat, maybe something a frightened toad would make. Ransom halts and throws you a perplexed look and you cover your mouth in embarrassment. 

He rolls his eyes. “You nervous?”

The words blend together, but his voice is so honeyed and silken and you can’t help but sigh inwardly at the sound of it. 

Your jaw is slack and can’t make any sounds rise from your larynx. You snap your mouth shut and manage to nod stiffly. 

Rolling his eyes again, he crosses the room to the mini fridge under the desk and pulls the door open. Crouching down, he shuffles through the various little bottles inside before turning and tossing one to you. 

Your balance teeters as you fumble to catch it, the glass slipping out of your grip a few times before you fully grasp it.

The cap makes a cracking sound as it separates from the tamper evident band when you twist it open. You don’t bother to look at the label or pay any mind to the color of the liquid. Once the bottle’s open, you tilt your head back and drink, feeling the burn travel down your throat. When you stop, you notice you’ve had almost all of it. 

Your eyes meet Ransom’s again and he raises his brows as if to ask, Better?

You finish the remaining contents of the bottle and feel the liquid settle in your belly as you twist the cap back on.

“Thank you,” you muster your voice to say. 

His eyebrows raise again, showing his disinterest, and he holds his hand out. You’re certain you resemble a child when you use both hands to carefully place the bottle in his hands. There’s a flicker of confusion that crosses his face and you think you were meant to place your hand in his, but he turns and places the bottle on the desk. 

There’s a sense of dread that settles in your stomach when you realize there really is no going back and no more stalling. You can’t read the expression on his face, but you’re certain he’s not pleased with how slowly this is going. 

Summoning your courage, you reach your hands up behind you and begin to pull the zipper down...

Permatag: @caffiend-queen @fckdeusername @lou-la-lou

Chris tag: @onetwo3000 @patzammit

Ransom tag: @jeremyrennermakesmesmile

Highest Bidder Taglist: @sapphirescrolls @just-another-wretched-egg @ladynightshade30 @angstsfordays @icanfeelastormbrewing @buckysteveloki-me @what-is-your-plan-today @iloganjade @twittytelly @xoxabs88xox @an-awkward-human-1 @fanfiction-trashpile @jtargaryen18 @donutloverxo @meaganottiz02 @princess-evans-addict @kianifan @asiaaisa77 @kelbabyblue @my-emotional-self @saiyanprincessswanie @random-things-i-love @captainchrisstan @daughterofthenight117 @buchanansebba @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @andiebell2023 @avengerraven1023 @dahkness @thatonefangirl111 @sllooney @sheerfreesia007 @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @suzieqsez @farremoved @edge-ofparadise @bellaireland1981​

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