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cmncisspnandmore · 11 months

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One Night Stand

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley X Reader

Warnings: Slight mention of death??

Summary: After moving to London, you decide to go to a bar your first night in town.

Word Count: 3,475

A/N: Hi! Welcome to my very first Simon Riley Series!! Im so excited to start this series. I have been brainstorming the idea for a few days now. Im hoping to get one part out a week. But please be patient if they take a little longer. This first part isnt super long but i wanted to give something to introduce the series.

Next: Part 2

The music thumped loudly outside of the crowded bar, the heavy smell of alcohol and smoke wafted from the open door. A drunken girl stumbled out of the bar, her head back in laughter. She adjusted her too small top as she glanced over her shoulder at the man walking behind her. His face was flushed, a drunk smile on his face as well. They stumbled towards the curb together, one arm out hailing a taxi from the street.

The man wraps his arms around the woman's waist, keeping her steady as he pressed his lips against her ear. Whispering something in her ear that made her laugh again, a blush forming on her cheeks. You tear your gaze away as they climb into the Taxi, the door slamming shut behind them.

The dim lights of the bar in front of you are warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the wildly thumping bass, and loud noises from people who had one too many. Taking a moment you glance down, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. This was a bad idea, you never went out to bars. The last time you went out to a bar you ended up almost getting kicked out due to your friends over intoxication, she had a few too many and tried multiple times to dance on the sticky black bar top. Finally a bouncer had helped you drag her out of there, you then spent most of the night holding her hair back as she threw up in the lou.

But yet, here you are, standing in front of a bar in a new town. A town where you knew no one, and no one knew you.

Exactly how you wanted it.

A fresh start.

Or so you hoped.

With a deep breath you stepforward, sliding past the throng of people crowding the door. Inside the music was even louder, the bass vibrated in your chest as you pushed forward towards the counter. Behind the bar you watched as a man with a mohawk effortlessly threw bottles around. His graceful movements caught the attention of the patrons. His smile radiated in the low light, as he poured various alcohols into a shaker, making exaggerated movements as he popped the lid on and shook the contents together.

In one fluid movement he poured a row of shots, filling each tiny shot glass with just the right amount before he slid them across the clean black top towards the guests. Slipping into an empty bar stool you watch as he takes orders, his smile never leaving his face as he takes the rag off his shoulder and wipes down the counter. As he reaches under the bar top he grabs a beer popping the bottle cap off and slides it to the man on the end of the bar. His bucket hat tips in acknowledgement as he grabs the beer. Bringing it to his lips for a sip before he gives the bartender a wink.

The man in the bucket hat turns his attention to the man on his left, his head slightly down, black ball cap covering his eyes. In the terrible lighting of the bar you could see the sharp angles of his jaw as he laughed at whatever bucket hat said to him.

“Hello lass, what can I get for ye?” A thick Scottish accent jerked you away from your people watching. Standing in front of you is, Mohawk bartender, his hand resting on the bar top in front of you as he looks at you. His bright blue eyes watching you, as you straighten up in your seat. Your fingers nervously tapping on the cool counter as he gives you a soft smile.

“Oh.. uh, just a Vodka Soda?” You say, but it comes out as more of a question.

Mohawk laughs, his white teeth flashing as he shakes his head at you. “You sure about that?” He teases, his voice light as he turns towards the wall of alcohol on the back wall.

“Did it sound that bad?” You shrink down in the seat.

“Ney, you aren’t a regular ‘round here, are ye? I know almost all of them,” Mohawk says as he grabs a highball glass and fills it with ice. He tips a bottle of vodka into the glass, the clear liquid slowly inching up the ice. Your eyes follow the rising liquid, only flickering back to the bright blues of the bartender when he grabs the nozzle of soda and adds it to the glass.

“I just moved here, first night in town actually,” You smile as he slides the now full glass towards you. Taking the black thin straw you stir the contents for a moment before putting it to your lips and taking a sip. The vodka burns the back of your throat, warming your stomach as your eyes trail over the bartenders face.

He was handsome, along with his bright blue eyes, he had a strong jawline that was covered in a stubbly beard. A slight scar ran down his forehead towards his left eyebrow, but it was hard to see in the dim lighting. A smile played at his lips as he watched you take a sip, the towel from his shoulder wiping down the bar again. He was muscular under his gray fitted t-shirt, it was evident as he started replacing the supplies he used from making drinks, his muscles flexing as he reached up to put away a top shelf liquor.

“Well, welcome home then. The names Johnny, but most people just call me Soap,” Soap said over his shoulder, as he glanced back at you. Your lips around the black straw, as you take another deep sip. The slightly sweet drink goes down slightly easier now, the knot in your chest lessinging with each sip.

“Y/N, Y/n y/l/n. Why do people call you soap?” you tilt your head to the side as Johnny comes to stand in front of you again. He leans his forearms on the bar, getting closer to you so it was easier to hear over the music.

“It’s just a nickname I was given years ago, got it from a few of my service buddies,” Soap smiles, flashing his white teeth once again.

“Service? You’re a military man then?” You muse, wrapping your hands around the half empty glass.

“Aye, that hard to believe?” Soap raises an eyebrow at you, and you can't help the laugh that bubbles up in your throat.

“No, no,” you wave your hand in his direction, earning another smile from Soap.

“So what brings you to London?” He asks, as he turns towards a new patron. You watch as he listens to the customers order before going about making their drink. As he adds the alcohol to the shaker he looks over at you. The extravagant flipping and mixing ceased as the atmosphere of the bar seemed to calm down slightly.

The louder patrons from the door have gone, the music turned down slightly. The thumping bass is no longer as strong, giving you some relief from the constant vibrations in your chest. You didn't realize how tense the entire atmosphere of the bar was making you. Not until the people around you started talking amongst themselves in normal volumes instead of having to yell over the music. The knot forming in your chest settles some as the alcohol buzzes in your veins, filling you with a warmth that seems to radiate from within.

“Just needed a change I guess,” you stare down into the cup in front of you. Eyes following the swirling ice, as you mix the half empty drink with your straw.

“Change is good sometimes,” Soap smiles, as he comes back over to you. From the corner of your eye you can see Bucket Hat and Ball Cap look over at you two.

“I guess.. So how long have you been in London?” You ask, bringing the straw to your lips once more.

Bucket Hat and Ball Cap stand from where they are sitting and move down the bar, towards where you and Soap are talking. For a moment you aren't sure what they are doing until they slide into the seats next to you, Ball cap on your left, Bucket Hat taking the seat next to him.

“MacTavish! Leave the poor girl alone,” Ball cap scolds, and Soap rolls his eyes.

“Haurd Yer Wheest,” Soap grumbles, although he tried to look annoyed, the playful glint in his eyes says otherwise.

“Be glad LT isn’t here, he’d scold you for not speaking English,” Ball cap snorts, as Soap and Bucket Hat laugh. Soap leans across the bar and punches Ball Cap in the shoulder lightly, and they both smile at each other. Clearly they knew one another, their playful banter and relaxed posture gave that away.

“Excuse them, they don't know how to act in front of a lady,” Bucket hat says to you, peering around Soap and Ball Cap. “I’m John Price, and this,” he gestures to Ball Cap, “Is Kyle Garrick.”

“Y/n, nice to meet you,” You reach down the bar and shake hands with each of them. Kyle gives you a small smile, his perfectly straight white teeth peeking out behind his full lips.

“Call me Gaz, it’s nice to meet you too,” Gaz lets go of your hand and you grab your almost empty drink.

“I was just welcoming Y/n, to London. It’s her first night here.” Soap chimes in, and Price and Gaz nod. The effects of the alcohol were starting to kick in more now. Your cheeks felt flushed, and your insides felt warm and fuzzy.

You barely drank and it was almost embarrassing how having only one drink made you feel. Across the bar Soap once again reached down and pulled out two beers for his friends. He popped the tops and slid them towards them. His large hands rested on the counter as they talked. The black towel he used to wipe down the counter every once in a while slung over his shoulder.

The conversation flowed easily between the three of them, and you often found yourself just watching them talk. Soap and Gaz joked with each other, teasing one another like siblings. While Price watched them, poking fun at one of them every so often. It was like watching a family interact, it made you almost sad.

Your thoughts drifted back to your own family.Before you could be pulled into the depths of your own mind, suddenly the drink in front of you was full. Your eyes catch Johnny’s, he gives you a wink as he walks towards the other end of the bar to take someone's order. You quickly down the fresh drink, coughing slightly as the Vodka burns down your throat and settles in your chest. The warmth blossoms across your cheeks, as you listen to Gaz and Price talk. You continue to push down the feelings that sting that back of your eyes.

Maybe going out wasn't a good idea, the last thing you wanted to do was be the drunk girl crying at the bar. But the pain in your chest as you watch the dynamic between the three of them stings. It slices away at a piece of you, the piece you thought you left behind at the graveyard when you got in your car two nights ago and set off towards London.

“You okay?” Kyle asks, his soft brown eyes peer at you from under his baseball bap.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm going to go to the bathroom. Watch my drink?” You ask, pushing yourself up from the bar stool. The world tilts slightly the full effect of the two drinks you downed in the past hour hitting you. You sway slightly for a moment before you steady yourself, your hands gripping the bar stool to support yourself.

“Of course,” Kyle smiles, turning back to talk to Price and Soap.

You shuffle through the small crowd of people around the bar and spot the bathroom in the back corner of the bar. You dodge people as they mingle, managing to make it to the back of the bar with minimal stumbling. You shove open the swinging bathroom door and walk over to the row of sinks. You rest your hands on the white sinks, leaning over at the waist you take deep breaths. Your chest feels tight as you struggle to pull full breaths in, the emotion clawing at your throat as you fumble for the faucet.

The cold water sprays into the sink, the sound drowning out most of the noise from the bar. Freezing water bites at your wrists as you thrust them under the stream. The hair on your arms stands up as a chill prickles along your heated skin. Tears burn at the back of your eyes, and you squeeze them closed. It was a bad idea, the world tilts and spins, a wave of nausea starts to creep up your throat.

As the tidal wave of emotion threatens to spill over you, like someone filling an already too full cup. You abandon the still running sink, water dripping down your arms onto the dirty tile floor of the bathroom. Stumbling out of the bathroom you glance around. Eyes wide, like a deer in headlights, the glow of the emergency exit sign at the end of the hall catches your eye. Your feet feel like lead blocks as you shuffle towards the door. It’s slightly propped open, a brick acting as a doorstop. The cool London air rushes through the cracked door, and you push it open. The cool air stings your face as the door slams against the brick doorstop.

The alleyway between the bar and the neighboring building is dark. A single street light casting a yellow glow from the sidewalk feet away from where you stand. You press your back against the cold brick wall a few steps away from the door. Tipping your head back you force yourself to drag the cool air into your lungs.

Your lungs burn as you fist your shaking hands at your side, nails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. As your heart hammers in your chest, you fight back the tears that pool behind your closed eyes. You squeeze your fists tighter, the bite of your nails starts to cut through the fog in your head.

Maybe you should’ve just stayed at your flat, then you wouldn't be standing in the cold alleyway of the bar. You wouldn't have fled the bar where people were being genuinely nice to you for once. You wouldn't have to figure out how to explain your absence to Soap. Or squirm under Kyle and Price’s intense seemingly knowing gaze.

You should’ve stayed home.

“You shouldn’t be out here in the dark,” a slightly gruff voice mumbles to your right.

Your eyes flutter open, you scan the dark alleyway, eyes landing on the massive figure that steps out of the emergency door. You blink a few times, clearing away the tears from your vision. A man stands next to the now closed door, he was massive. Broad shoulders and chest, covered by a black fitted t-shirt. He blended in with the shadows of the alleyway despite his massive size.

“Are you going to kidnap me? Or kill me?” You ask, you meant for it to be teasing but it came out almost hopeful.

“No, I just came out here for some air, I didn't realize there was someone out here doing the same,” he chuckles, moving slightly into the light. In the dim lighting you can see him better, he was wearing all black, except for a face mask that rested over his mouth and nose. The lower half of a skull was printed across the mask. His dark brown eyes scanned over you, as you stared at the mask.

“You sure? Most of the time people standing in dark alleys wearing masks have less than legal reasons for being there,” you raise an eyebrow at him.

Your eyes widen as he lets out a laugh, a loud bark of laughter that catches you off guard. “Trust me, my intentions aren’t criminal,” his voice was smooth and deep like honey, as he stepped closer to you.

“What are you doing out here?” He asks, one eyebrow raised, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

As he stands in front of you, even with an added 3 inches you still had to crane your neck up to meet his gaze. “I needed some air as well,” you mumble, he was standing close enough you could feel his body heat radiating off you. Your skin prickles at the heat, goosebumps raising on your arms.

“I’m Simon,” he smiles behind the mask, his hand outstretched towards you.

“Y/n,” You reach out grabbing his hand. The warmth from his skin radiates up your arm. Small electric shocks skitter across your skin at the contact, the anxiety in your chest from earlier fizzles out. He gives your hand a slight squeeze before letting go, and immediately you want his hand in yours again.

“So.. uh.. Listen. I'm not usually one to just casually suggest things like this… But I'm having a really rough night… and…” you trail off, wrapping your arms around yourself. You swear you can see the smirk behind the mask as Simon leans forward slightly, one arm resting on the wall next to you, half caging you in.

“Wanna get out of here? I bet I can take your mind off things..” Simon whispers, his other hand coming to catch the bottom of your chin and tip it up so you're fully looking at him. His brown eyes dark as they trail down your face and your chest. Before they land back on your eyes, the scar down through his eyebrow puckers as he raises one at you.

“Please,” the air rushes from your lungs as you step forward. You weren't lying, you didn't normally just go home with people you met in back alleys of bars. In fact you have never hooked up with someone like this before. But you were desperate to keep the looming thoughts at bay. You needed a distraction from the storm brewing below the surface, and like one broken soul staring at another. On some level you think Simon saw that. There was something in his brown eyes that was familiar. Something you saw every morning reflected in your own eyes. Something you tried hard to shove down into the box where you kept your emotions.

Grief.

It was like a magnet, something that forces people together. So here you were agreeing to go home with a complete stranger you met moments ago because you needed something to drown that out. And from the look in Simon's eyes he understood that, because on some level he needed it too.

“Come on, Love,” Simons voice is soft as his large hand wraps around your waist as he guides you out of the alleyway and towards a black truck parked on the side of the road. You glance over your shoulder, looking back at the front of the bar. Through the large glass window you can see Soap, Gaz and Price still talking and laughing. Your absence seemingly gone unnoticed, your highball glass abandoned on the counter top as someone else has slid into the seat you once occupied.

You climb into the passenger seat of Simon's truck, turning your attention to look out the windshield as he climbs into the driver's seat. The roaring of your thoughts flooding back in the quiet of the truck’s cab. You pick at your fingers as he pulls out of the spot. From the corner of your eye you see Simon glance over at you, before he reaches up and pulls off the skull mask. He tosses it onto the floor of the backseat and focuses on driving.

In the passing streetlights you study his face, blonde stubble litters his jaw, a few thin silvery scars are scattered across his jawline and nose. They weren't ugly by any means, if anything they added character to his otherwise smooth skin. His nose was slightly crooked, you assumed from being broken at one point in time. Simon's eyes flicker to yours, causing you to avert your gaze, like a child being caught doing something naughty. Your eyes trail along the moving scenery as you try to squash down the embarrassment of being caught. The overwhelming anxiety that maybe this was a bad idea.

Simon’s large hand lands on your thigh, the warmth of his palm sinking through the fabric of your jeans.

And suddenly, the noise in your head is quiet.

Next: Part 2

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muiitoloko · 3 months

Note

heyy!! could i please request something for harry hart x reader/bedivere??? something like them playing billiard or chess and then things get steamy ;) ty, i looove ur writing!!!

Title: Pool table

Summary: Harry and Bedivere play a game of pool, and Bedivere crosses another place off her list.

Pairing: Harry Hart × Fem! Reader

Warning: Smut

Author's Notes: Heyyy! Of course, you can request something for Harry Hart/Bedivere! A steamy game of billiards sounds like a fantastic idea! 😏 Thanks for the love and for following my writing! Stay tuned! 🎱🔥

Also read on Ao3

Harry smiled at you from the other side of the pool table, his eyes twinkling with amusement behind his glasses. You were concentrating hard, your brows furrowed as you aimed the cue, trying to sink the ball into the pocket. But as you took the shot, the ball ricocheted off the side, missing the mark entirely. A soft groan of disappointment escaped your lips as you straightened up, pouting slightly.

Harry’s laughter was a warm, teasing sound that made your heart flutter despite your frustration. “I must say, Bedivere, it’s rather amusing to watch you struggle with this,” he said, his voice rich with amusement. “How is it possible to own a pool table and not know how to play?”

You sighed, leaning on your cue as you met his gaze with a mixture of exasperation and embarrassment. “It’s more for decoration than anything else,” you admitted, your tone tinged with a hint of defensiveness. “It just looks nice in the games room, okay?”

Harry chuckled, his smile widening as he walked around the table to stand beside you. He leaned on his own cue, tilting his head as he studied your expression. “Decorative or not, it seems a shame to have such a lovely table and not use it properly,” he teased gently. “Why don’t you let me show you a few tricks?”

You looked up at him, your pout softening into a reluctant smile. “Alright, fine,” you conceded, stepping aside to give him room. “But don’t expect miracles. I’m terrible at this.”

Harry’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and affection as he positioned himself beside you, his hands guiding yours on the cue. “It’s all about the angle and the follow-through,” he explained, his voice low and soothing. “Just like this.”

With a smooth, practiced motion, he lined up the shot and guided your hands to take it. The ball rolled gracefully across the table and sank into the pocket with a satisfying clink. You gasped, your eyes widening in surprise as you looked up at him, a delighted smile spreading across your face.

“See?” Harry murmured, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in close. “You just needed a little guidance. Now, why don’t you try the next shot on your own?”

Your heart raced as you nodded, your fingers tingling from his touch. You positioned yourself at the table, recalling his instructions as you aimed carefully. With a deep breath, you took the shot, and the ball rolled smoothly across the table, just missing the pocket by a hair’s breadth.

Harry’s laughter was a soft, approving sound as he clapped his hands lightly. “Much better,” he praised, his eyes twinkling with warmth. “You’re getting the hang of it, Bedivere.”

You turned to him, a mixture of pride and frustration in your gaze. “I still missed,” you pointed out, but your tone was lighter, the disappointment easing in the face of his encouragement.

Harry’s smile softened as he reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Improvement is all that matters,” he said, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. “And besides, practice makes perfect. Perhaps we should make this a regular part of your training.”

You laughed, shaking your head in mock exasperation. “Training, huh? Are you trying to turn me into a pool shark now, Arthur?”

Harry’s eyes gleamed with a playful challenge as he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice a soft, seductive whisper. “Or maybe I just enjoy watching you learn something new. There’s something quite irresistible about your determination.”

A shiver of anticipation ran down your spine as you met his gaze, the intensity in his eyes sending a thrill of excitement through you. “Well, I suppose if my king insists,” you teased, your voice low and flirtatious. “I can’t very well refuse, can I?”

Harry’s smile was a slow, wicked curve of his lips as he leaned in to press a tender kiss to your forehead. “Indeed, you cannot,” he murmured, his voice a soft, seductive promise. “And who knows? With a bit more practice, you might just give me a run for my money.”

Your laughter was a bright, melodic sound as you wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him closer. “I’ll hold you to that, Harry,” you whispered, your breath warm against his ear. “But for now, how about another round?”

Harry’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of affection and amusement as he nodded, his arms tightening around you. “Another round it is,” he agreed, his voice a low, tender murmur. “And this time, let’s see if you can sink that ball.”

With a playful grin, you turned back to the table, your heart light with the promise of the challenge ahead. As you positioned yourself for the next shot, you felt Harry’s gaze on you, a warm, steady presence that filled you with a sense of determination and excitement.

Harry, with the ease of an expert, took a measured sip from his glass of whiskey, the amber liquid burning pleasantly down his throat. He watched you from the corner of his eye as you bent over the pool table, your fingers deftly arranging the billiard balls back into place. His gaze lingered on the curve of your ass, the way the fabric of your dress clung to your form as you moved, igniting a slow, simmering heat within him.

As you straightened, Harry placed his glass down with a quiet clink, his eyes darkening with a mix of admiration and barely contained desire. He moved to the table with a predatory grace, lining up his shot with the practiced ease of a man who had mastered both the game and the art of seduction. The sharp crack of the cue ball breaking the formation sent the balls scattering, and Harry's lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he sank the first shot effortlessly.

You watched, a mixture of awe and frustration playing across your features as he set up for his next shot. The contrast between his effortless skill and your own fumbling attempts at the game was stark, but Harry seemed to revel in it, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint each time you missed.

With a playful huff, you took your turn, bending over the table to line up your shot, the cue held awkwardly in your hands. Harry’s gaze was drawn irresistibly to the way your hips swayed, the arch of your back accentuating the curve of your ass as you focused on the game. His breath hitched, the whiskey only heightening the effect of your movements, each subtle shift of your body sending a jolt of desire through him.

As you missed yet another shot, the ball clinking off the side and rolling back towards you, Harry couldn’t help but chuckle, his voice low and rich with amusement. “Need a little help, Bedivere?” he teased, his tone laced with a dark, seductive edge.

You turned to him, a hint of a pout on your lips as you met his gaze. “I think I need more than a little help, Harry,” you admitted, your voice a playful grumble. “This game hates me.”

Harry’s eyes darkened, his gaze drifting over you with a slow, deliberate intensity. “Perhaps the game isn’t the problem,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper as he stepped closer, his presence a heady mix of authority and desire. “Perhaps it’s your stance that needs adjusting.”

Without waiting for a response, he moved behind you, his hands settling on your hips with a possessive grip. “Let me show you,” he said, his breath warm against your ear as he guided you back to the table, his body pressing against yours.

Your breath hitched, your heart racing as you felt the heat of his touch, the firm pressure of his hands sending a shiver of anticipation through you. “Harry,” you whispered, your voice a breathless plea, “I don’t think this is about pool anymore.”

Harry’s lips curled into a wicked grin, his fingers tightening on your hips as he leaned in, his body pressing you firmly against the edge of the table. “No, it’s not,” he growled, his voice thick with a primal, unyielding desire. “It’s about me wanting to fuck you senseless right here.”

You let out a giggle, the sound light and teasing as you turned your head to glance over your shoulder at Harry. “I love how whiskey loosens that silver tongue of yours,” you murmured, your voice laced with a mixture of amusement and desire. “It’s nice to see you let go of that polished gentleman facade every once in a while.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly, a playful glint in his gaze as he watched you, his lips curling into a wicked grin. “Is that so?” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “And here I thought you preferred me as the polished gentleman.”

Your cheeky smile widened, your breath hitching as you felt his hands tighten on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh with a possessive force. “Oh, I do love the gentleman, Harry,” you replied, your voice a soft, teasing whisper. “But there’s something thrilling about seeing this side of you—the side that’s ready to take what he wants without asking.”

A low growl rumbled in Harry’s throat, his eyes darkening with a fierce, unyielding desire as he pressed you more firmly against the pool table. “You think I’m letting go of my gentlemanly ways, do you?” he murmured, his voice a rough, seductive growl. “Just because I’ve had a bit of whiskey?”

Your breath came in short, uneven gasps as you felt the heat of his body against yours, the firm pressure of his arousal pressing into your backside. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. “I like seeing you like this, Harry. I like knowing that beneath all that polish, there’s a man who wants to fuck me senseless right here.”

Harry’s grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh with a possessive force that sent a shiver of pleasure through you. “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he growled, his voice thick with a primal, unyielding desire. “But if that’s what you want, I’ll gladly oblige.”

Without another word, Harry reached down, his fingers deftly pulling up the hem of your dress, exposing the bare skin of your thighs. His touch was rough and insistent as he pushed your panties aside, the fabric sliding down your legs with a tantalizing slowness that left you trembling with anticipation.

“Spread your legs,” he commanded, his voice a low, rough whisper that sent a jolt of excitement through you. “I want to see you, Bedivere. I want to see how wet you are for me.”

Your breath hitched, your body trembling as you obeyed, spreading your legs wide and pressing your hands against the cool surface of the pool table. The anticipation thrummed through your veins, each moment of waiting heightening the intensity of your arousal.

Harry’s eyes gleamed with a fierce, possessive hunger as he watched you, his gaze fixed on the sight of you spread open and ready for him. “Such a pretty little thing,” he murmured, his voice a rough, appreciative growl. “You’re already dripping for me, aren’t you? So eager to be fucked.”

A soft whimper escaped your lips as you felt his fingers slide between your thighs, the rough pad of his thumb pressing against your clit with a deliberate, tantalizing pressure. “Yes,” you gasped, your voice a breathless plea. “I’m so wet for you, Harry. Please, don’t make me wait.”

Harry’s lips curled into a wicked grin, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in close, his body pressing against yours. “Oh, I’m not going to make you wait,” he growled, his voice thick with a primal, unyielding desire. “I’m going to fuck you right here, right now, and you’re going to take every inch of me.”

With a swift, practiced motion, Harry unzipped his trousers, freeing himself with a rough, deliberate motion. His cock was hard and throbbing, the tip already slick with pre-cum as he positioned himself behind you, his gaze fixed on the sight of your wet, eager pussy spread open before him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a rough, appreciative growl. “So ready, so needy. You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? Waiting for me to take you.”

Your breath came in short, uneven gasps as you felt the head of his cock press against your entrance, the anticipation thrumming through your veins. “Yes,” you whimpered, your voice a desperate, pleading cry. “Please, Harry. Fuck me. I need you.”

A low, primal growl rumbled in Harry’s throat as he thrust into you, his cock filling you with a powerful, claiming motion that left you gasping and trembling with pleasure. “Oh, Bedivere,” he groaned, his voice thick with desire as he buried himself deep inside you. “You feel so good, so tight around me.”

The sensation of him filling you, the rough friction of his cock against your inner walls, sent waves of pleasure crashing through your body. “Harry,” you moaned, your voice a breathless plea. “Please, don’t stop. Fuck me harder.��

Harry’s grip on your hips tightened, his thrusts growing more urgent, each movement a powerful, claiming motion that left you gasping and trembling with pleasure. “I’m not going to stop,” he growled, his voice a low, rough whisper. “I’m going to fuck you until you’re screaming my name, until you’re begging for more.”

Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as you felt the intensity of his thrusts driving you closer to the edge, the pleasure building within you like a tidal wave ready to crash. “Yes,” you sobbed, your voice trembling with a mixture of desperation and ecstasy. “Yes, Harry. Fuck me. Make me come.”

Harry’s eyes darkened with a fierce, unyielding hunger as he drove into you, his thrusts growing more powerful, more insistent with each passing moment. “You’re mine, Bedivere,” he growled, his voice a rough, commanding whisper. “All mine. And you’re going to come for me, aren’t you? You’re going to come all over my cock.”

A choked cry escaped your lips as you felt the pressure within you reach its peak, your body trembling with the intensity of your impending release. “Yes,” you gasped, your voice a desperate, breathless plea. “I’m going to come. Please, Harry, make me come.”

With a final, powerful thrust, Harry drove you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pleasure that left you gasping and trembling in his arms. “Oh, God,” you sobbed, your voice a broken, breathless cry. “Harry, yes. I’m coming.”

Harry’s growl was a low, primal sound as he felt your inner walls clenching around him, the sensation driving him to the brink of his own release. “Come for me, Bedivere,” he commanded, his voice thick with a primal, unyielding desire. “Come all over my cock.”

As the waves of pleasure subsided, leaving you panting and trembling in Harry’s arms, he held you close, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered sweet words of reassurance. “Shh, my love,” he murmured, his voice a soothing melody. “You were magnificent. You did so well.”

With tender care, Harry reached down to pull your dress back into place, his fingers brushing over your skin with a gentle, possessive touch. “There, my love,” he cooed, his voice a soft, reassuring whisper. “You’re perfect. Just like always.”

A soft, contented sigh escaped your lips as you leaned back against him, your body trembling with a lingering sense of pleasure and fulfillment. “I love you, Harry,” you whispered, your voice a soft, earnest plea. “Thank you for this.”

Harry’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of affection and satisfaction as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. “And I love you, Bedivere,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough promise. “Always and forever.”

In the quiet aftermath, with the weight of their shared desire hanging heavy in the air, Harry and you held each other close, your hearts beating in unison. The path ahead would be filled with challenges, but you were determined to face them together, your bond stronger than ever, forged in the fires of your shared passion and the unspoken promise of a future built on mutual love and understanding.

As the haze of passion began to fade, you found yourself laughing softly, the thrill of your recent escapade leaving you both breathless and giddy. Harry, ever the epitome of poise even after such an intense moment, leaned back against the pool table, his breathing steadying as he adjusted his glasses. The warmth of his gaze and the faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips were enough to make your heart race all over again.

“Would you look at that,” you murmured, your voice a teasing lilt as you glanced back at the pool table with a playful grin. “I can finally cross ‘being fucked on a pool table’ off my list.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, a flicker of amusement and curiosity sparking in his eyes as he regarded you. “A list, you say?” he queried, his tone dripping with playful skepticism. “And since when did you have such a list, my dear Bedivere?”

You shrugged nonchalantly, your smile widening as you leaned in closer, poking him lightly in the chest. “Oh, you know,” you replied, your voice laced with mock seriousness. “Ever since you decided to seduce one of your agents. Had to keep track of all the places we’ve, ah, christened together.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, a glint of feigned irritation mingling with the amusement in his gaze. “Seduce you?” he scoffed, his voice rich with incredulity as he straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “If I recall correctly, it was you who seduced me. You must have had a plan to charm your way into your boss’s bed from the very start.”

You burst out laughing, the sound bright and unrestrained as you shook your head, your eyes dancing with mischief. “Nah,” you retorted, a sly grin spreading across your face as you tilted your head, “My plan was always to get into Merlin's bed”

Harry’s reaction was immediate, a mock sternness settling over his features as he reached out to swat your thigh, his touch playful rather than punitive. “Cheeky woman,” he murmured, his voice a low, affectionate growl as he shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips despite his best efforts to appear stern. “Let’s not bring poor Merlin into this. The man’s already got enough on his plate without being dragged into our little games.”

You chuckled, a delighted glint in your eyes as you leaned into him, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of your recent encounter. “Oh, Harry,” you sighed, your voice softening with affection as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing a tender kiss to his jawline. “I’m just teasing. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Harry’s gaze softened, the warmth in his eyes a stark contrast to the sharp edges of his usual demeanor. He reached up, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Neither would I, love,” he murmured, his voice a tender promise as he held you close. “Neither would I."

As you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of the world seemed to melt away, leaving only the comforting warmth of your shared connection. The pool table, once a symbol of playful challenge and competitive spirit, had now become a testament to the intensity of your bond, a tangible reminder of the passion and affection that bound you together.

With a soft sigh, you nestled closer to Harry, your cheek resting against his chest as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “You know,” you mused, your voice a soft whisper against the fabric of his shirt, “I think we should add more things to that list. Just to keep things interesting.”

Harry’s laughter was a low, rich sound that sent shivers of delight through you, his arms tightening around you as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Oh, I’m sure we can come up with a few more adventures,” he murmured, his voice a blend of amusement and affection. “But for now, how about we clean up and get some rest? We’ve had quite the evening.”

You nodded, a contented smile spreading across your face as you reluctantly pulled away, your fingers lacing with his as you both moved to straighten the room. The playful banter and shared laughter lingered in the air, a promise of more adventures to come, each one adding another layer to the rich tapestry of your relationship.

As you tidied up, Harry’s gaze remained fixed on you, a mixture of pride and admiration shining in his eyes. “You know,” he said softly, his voice a gentle murmur as he watched you, “you never cease to surprise me, Bedivere. You’re stronger and more resilient than I ever could have imagined.”

You looked up, your heart swelling with a mixture of gratitude and affection as you met his gaze. “And you, Harry,” you replied, your voice a soft, earnest whisper, “are more wonderful and loving than I ever could have hoped for. I’m lucky to have you.”

Harry’s smile was a slow, tender curve of his lips as he reached out, pulling you into his arms once more. “And I, my dear,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he pressed a kiss to your temple, “am the luckiest man alive to have you by my side. Here’s to more adventures, more surprises, and a love that grows stronger with each passing day.”

With those words, you and Harry shared a soft, lingering kiss, the promise of your future together shimmering in the warmth of your embrace. And as you both prepared to face whatever challenges lay ahead, you knew that with each other’s love and support, there was nothing you couldn’t overcome, no adventure too daunting, no list too long.

#colin firth #colin firth x reader #harry hart #harry hart x reader #bedivere #merlin

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saucyjothoughts · 2 months

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Dearest Saucy, what do you imagine would their nudes look like ,like how would they prop themselves up ,how much time they'd invest into them and stuff like that

I will forever be great and thankful for your naughty stories

This is a juicy one! Let's dive in.

(nsfw under the cut)

Kris: struggles to get nudes that he's happy with on his own. Has the occasional camsex and will exchange photos but what he really needs is for someone else to take them for him. Kris only likes to be on one side of the camera and will perform especially well if the person behind the lens is nice to look at.

If I was an artist, the example would be: Kris reclining on silk sheets, dressed in an open oversized shirt that only just covers his dignity (though with the dramatic lighting you can still make out the edge of it). He has a wistful expression with just the very beginning of a smile, staring with big doe-eyes at the person behind the camera.

Jure: looks like the kind of guy to take dickpics from awful angles in terrible lighting (perhaps with a remote control or beer can for scale) but is actually very into the artistry of a decent shot, taking inspiration from some of his favourite models and using props to enhance his assets. Won't send anything unsolicited but is prolific once he knows the recipient is eager.

If I was an artist, the example would be: he's outdoors, sheltering from rain under a rocky overhang. He's shirtless and wet and wearing baggy jeans which are low and unzipped. One hand holds the camera at a slightly raised angle, the other is holding his erection through his boxers. He can't decide if he prefers the one with the sultry expression or with the playful grin.

Jan: regularly takes erotic pictures and videos of himself (and his partners). Knows his best angles and where to set up his phone for timer shots. Uses his red room light to get the atmosphere right and took some tips from Jure on how to tastefully use sheets/clothing for a suggestive pose. Will send a photo he likes to multiple to people at the same time when he's feeling naughty.

If I was an artist, the example would be: he's wearing his fishnet vest which throws interesting shadows over his skin in the bold red lighting. He's on his bed, the sheets messy. He used a timer to get his full body in shot and one arm is up above his head while the other is pulling his boxers down so we can just see the top of the shaft of his hard cock. His mouth is open and his eyes are closed in a pleasurable expression half-covered by his messed-up hair.

Nace: struggled with this for a long time. Dick pics aren't really a problem - nothing to be ashamed of there and if he can sneak some ink into the shot then all the better - but he always avoids getting any thigh or tummy in the picture. Takes a lot of shots to finally get something he's happy with. Never sends anything unsolicited, only ever shares with his most trusted lovers with express prior consent.

If I was an artist, the example would be: he's fully clothed and sat on the edge of his couch. His pants are open and his cock is in his hand and appears wet in the low light. He's leaning forward towards the camera which is held in his outstretched (tattooed) arm and has his head angled down to look up at the camera in an aggressive expression.

Bojan: isn't shy of his body and will take pictures to share whenever he suspects someone might want them. Sometimes he's wrong, but he hasn't yet learned to be careful. Doesn't put a lot of effort in but is photogenic enough that they're always nice. Isn't subtle - sharing nudes with Bojan regularly means a full penis or asshole jumpscare from the first photo.

If I was an artist, the example would be: he's lying on his front on a hotel bed in bright daylight on pristine white sheets. He's fully nude, knees bent to kick his feet up behind him and he's grinning a childish grin to the camera with his face resting on one hand, generally looking soft and clean. From the angle, you can see his pecs pushed together and the arch of his lower back/curve of his bare ass. It might be immediately followed by a similarly playful picture taken as he rolls on his back.

#umazane misli #kris guštin #jure maček #jan peteh #nace jordan #bojan cvjetićanin

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follows-the-bees · 11 months

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It's my favorite time again! Filmmaking analysis time!

How the camerawork used in 2x2 Red Flags shows the power dynamic and tension between Blackbeard and Frenchie.

This scene stands out because the camerawork is impeccably used to show the tension, fear, and power dynamic between captain and first mate.

In fact, the camera this season, especially in the first three episodes, has more boldness than the previous season. Since this season is Ed's POV, the camera is more dynamic, the shots are tighter to show emotions, and like in this previous analysis I wrote on "the atmosphere on this ship is toxic" scene in 2x1, it can be used to show the mental state of the crew.

This scene starts out as Frenchie's POV. It starts with him crouched down, holding the first-aid kit, and follows him up as he stands before panning to the right to reveal Ed. It is as much of a jump scare for the audience as it is for Frenchie.

We already are starting with a small amount of tension that just ramps up as the scene goes on. The camera switches to medium shots that are tilted up on both characters.

Let's start with Frenchie's shots.

He is center framed, making sure the audience is focusing entirely on him, and the camera is tilted slightly up. Shots are normally eye-level, so to change this immediately gives us a sense of discomfort.

As Frenchie starts to lie - also, I love you Frenchie but you are a terrible liar - the camera starts to push in closer to him. It shows the audience more fully the discomfort Frenchie's feeling as well as begins the POV of Ed as Blackbeard questions him and walks closer.

The audience feels the same discomfort as Frenchie as Ed slowly advances on him, and we see Frenchie fumble with his words, with the lies, as his face gets closer during the push in.

Now let's switch to Blackbeard.

He is framed in almost the same manner as Frenchie, center, but this time the camera is even more tilted upward. Low angle shots are used to make the subject powerful. And we see that here with how Blackbeard is framed. With Frenchie, we saw from chest up, but with Blackbeard, it is a tighter shot, the audience barely sees his shoulders.

We again have a tracking shot like on Frenchie, but this is the opposite. Blackbeard walks toward the camera, toward Frenchie, causing him to grow larger as he approaches, and we start to feel the suffocation of the moment. And the angle becomes lower as Blackbeard starts winning the conversation, when Frenchie stops trying to come up with excuses and Blackbeard informs him that he knows he's lying.

After the two push in shots show this dynamic the characters' body positions change.

At the end of the scene, Frenchie is lying back completely on the table. His legs in the air as Ed is leaning over him. He is a towering presence and Frenchie is protecting himself with the box - medical supplies - which are covering his face slightly.

The audience only sees Blackbeard's back here because he's already won this situation, this power dynamic.

This POV switch in the camera accomplishes showing the discomfort of the characters and brings that unsettlement to the audience, makes them feel it just like they were in the room. It starts with Frenchie's POV and jump scare, only to then have two different push-ins showing the slow, meticulous advancement of Blackbeard as he intimidates Frenchie. Frenchie gets more despondent as the camera pushes in toward him, until he is finally taken over and laying flat on a table, while Blackbeard takes complete control of this conversation, wins the power dynamic.

The camerawork really ramps up the tension not only between the characters but makes the audience feel it. It starts low on Frenchie, already foreshadowing how the rest of the scene is going to go - with Frenchie "lower" than Blackbeard. Using tracking, low-angle, and push-ins all together in this short scene all to drive home the tension is peak cinema

#ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd spoilers #ofmd s2 #ofmd season 2 #our flag means death s2 spoilers #ofmd edward teach #blackbeard #ofmd frenchie #ofmd season two meta analysis #ofmd meta #our flag means death filmmaking analysis

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placeinthemiddleofnowhere · 1 year

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mean soap….what about mean könig?

This is the ask that GOT me earlier cause a mean König would make me screech. He would be nothing like our beautiful bb boy in Rocky start, he would be intimidating af! (and something about the fact I'd never considered something like this before got meeeeee)

Warning: Smut (18+), mean König

Mean König would take every chance he could to show you how weak you are, how easily overpowerable. He would pin you up against the wall, holding your two hands in only one of his while he clasped your jaw with the other, and put that big hooded face of his right up against yours. His eyes would be aglow with all the terrible thoughts they had swirling inside them, betraying a building tornado waiting to be unleashed. He'd growl low and menacing in your ear - you could swear you feel the cool blow of ice cold breath escape through the thick material, but really its probably the shivers wracking your body - and König would be so threatning and dominating.

"You know, even for a new recruit you're really quite pathetic. You can barely keep up with the others, you're slow and you're a terrible shot. I'm beginning to think this is all you're good for," he'd rumble, inhaling your scent through the hood.

"König! Please I didn't- I didn't mean to fuck up so badly in training today, those guys were much bigger and I just couldn't get an edge on them, can't you just give me a break?"

"No. And you know why? Because you need to learn a lesson, If you don't have the will to fight in a place like this...you're going to be eaten alive."

He'd yank your wrists then and throw you out in the middle of the room, and you'd stumble on the threadbare rug, cursing the old worn thing like it was sentient. As if it were to meaningfully blame for your downfall. Then you'd do your best to regain your balance as you stumbled toward the bed, gulping as you saw König advancing toward you again, his heavyboots landing hard on the squealing wooden floors.

"König, please! Be nice to me!"

"Poor little newbie, you want me to be nice? You don't think I'm being nice now? You want to know how mean I can really get?"

You'd whimper and watch as he advanced toward you, crossing the floor in a matter of seconds and pinning you down on the ground as if you were nothing. His full weight would come down on you and angle over your prone body like a monster inspecting its kill. His chest would lay heavily over yours and his legs would be impenetrable.

It didn't matter what you did. It'd be no use. You'd moan out and try to kick out at him, but he'd crowd you so badly you'd barely be able toget a foot free. You'd struggle, man you'd wriggle so hard and get so hot you could swear there were flames licking at your sides, but there's no way König would budge. You'd scream, headbutt, shove and twist your hands and fight all you could, but he'd stay on you like concrete that had moulded into place. It'd send you crumbling. You were just as every bit small and vulnerbale as he made you out to be.

"It's a good thing you have me watching over you, Schatz," he'd whisper, eerily low. "Who knows the levels of depravity that some of the men on this base might like to go to with you? Aren't you just so lucky you have someone that wants to protect you like this?"

A noise would ring out into the room, a sharp pitiful noise. A whine. A whine of anticipation, of fear, of longing, of unknown unnease. You'd shiver and try to close your eyes, try to pretend like you didn't want the giant on top of you to ravage you and take out every bit of anger. Your body would betray you though, he'd know. He always knew.

"Why don't you just lie back and let me take control now, hm? Leave everything up to me. You've never been one for thinking, afterall."

"König!"

you'd give one last try at a protest.

But it'd be no use, he'd harden his lake blue eyes into tundras and you'd purse your lips, not wanting to dissapoint him any further.

"That's right. Just listen to me, don't think. It's what you're best at, Schatz."

#König #könig call of duty #mw2

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mrs-bluemarine · 2 days

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VASILY CONTENT!!

Ik I have a whole ass blog for this shit but I know it won't get any attention over there (lol) so I'm posting it here 🫶 minors dni please and thanks, content warning for guns and um. Um. (No sex just extremely suggestive) I like to imagine Vas gets very antsy when he's flustered. It's my new favorite thing. I love torturing men.

Oh yeah um normal text in speech is English, whereas italics is meant to signify Russian. Until friends come in, in which case normal text is Japanese. She's a multilingual queen ok. (And I hc Vasily knows very little English)

“Dobroye utro, Vasily.”

The man's head immediately snapped up upon hearing her kind voice. The blonde woman was making her way through the trees, smiling down pleasantly as the Russian man was settled on the ground, rifle in hand. Her deep blue eyes took notice of the gun. The butt rested on the snowy floor, the barrel pointing at the sky above, while Vasily tinkered with something on its side. Curious, the German woman joined him, watching and teasing him as he worked. “Playing with toys?”

The redhead huffed, ignoring her little comment which made her giggle. She leaned in closer. Her hand rested on his knee. “Why, it's certainly a pretty toy… I think I've seen it before, Mosin-Nagant, ja?”

Impressed by her knowledge, Vasily nodded. His silent praise only made her smile widen. “I'm not too familiar with weapons, but my father being the man he was, he was very interested in what was used in the war, he talked to me about some of it… ah, but I'm rambling. You barely understand a word I'm saying.”

Her eyes traveled lower down his rifle. What amused her was the position of it, settled between his legs the way it was… it reminded her of another weapon of his she had the pleasure of seeing just a couple nights ago. How lucky she was to have such a caring, giving man to keep her warm in that cave…

Vasily didn't seem to notice her darkened gaze as fire licked at her insides. Oh, she couldn't help herself. She was a needy woman. The snow around them, the silence of the early morning forest, it all did little to pull her out of her fantasies. She was painfully aware that it was just the two of them again. Shiraishi and Sugimoto were nowhere to be seen, probably still out searching for that precious “white”.

One of her soft hands touched his on the grip of the rifle. He wasn't wearing his mittens, so she got to feel the warm, rough skin of his fingers. These same fingers that were on her when they-

“Is it loaded?” She asked as a precaution. Brows furrowed, Vasily shook his head with a low grunt.

Her fingers drew apart from his, caressing the magazine and traveling up the forestock of the gun. “Pretty… Not as pretty as your other gun.” Her words confused him. However, the way her hand moved… it gave him a suggestion of what she was talking about. It was terribly… sultry. The idea of what she was hinting at made his heart flutter in an foreign, uncomfortable way.

Her mind searched and searched for something more she could whisper to him in that unfamiliar language. She cursed herself for getting lazy with her Russian, who knew that she'd need it for something as important as him.

She leaned in closer, resting on her palm, ignoring the frosty bite of the ice beneath it. Her hand started moving, slowly pumping up and down the stock of his gun with a ghostly touch, her deep blue eyes pinning him down. “You're a good shot, not just with a rifle, y'know.”

That slow, quiet voice of hers speaking in his tongue, it did things to him. His mind was spinning, eyes fighting between her hand and her beautiful face, and trying not to peek at the collar of her button-up from the new angle.

Vasily huffed, a cute splotch of color coming onto what of his face she could see peeking from underneath his hood. She wasn't sure he even noticed how his own thighs lifted, spreading slightly, giving her more access to his weapon. The blonde purred, stopping her hand where the wood of his gun became metal. She firmly grasped the barrel. He acted like he felt her touch, thighs abruptly clamping shut, eyes unable to look away from her hand now. Her thumb rubbed the smooth cold metal, making its way to his tip. “...I'm not a fan of getting shot by bullets, but I wouldn't mind if you shot me with something else.”

A little giggle left her mouth as she heard the redhead curse, sounding like a garbled mess due to cloth and his ruined jaw. While his eyes were occupied, her face leaned in closer to his neck. She could feel his heat, could practically hear the drumming of his heart.

“You should teach me how to shoot someday, ja? I'd like to get some more practice with you. I'd love to feel it in my own two hands.”

Her hand touched his gun with nothing but affection in every caress. Even as her index finger reached the bottom of the long muzzle, circling it with her fingertip. Her eyes didn't leave his, watching desire and embarrassment and excitement all swirl behind those beautiful bright irises of his. Vasily's finger felt the biting cold of metal burning into his finger, slowly getting oh, so close to losing his damn mind. She decided one last little tease is what she'd give him. Putting on a sickeningly sweet voice that feigned embarrassment. “I do have some practice, but not a lot… Can you show me around, sokrovishche?”

Then there was the sound of a soft, familiar click. Seemed like the sudden sound got Vasily to snap out of his daze, his eyes lowering and focusing on his finger wrapped tight around the trigger of his rifle that was hitting the inside of the guard. Getting to see him so flustered got a laugh out of the woman. She leaned in closer, resting her head against his shoulder. “What do you say, dear? Please? Oh, don't make a girl beg.”

“Franz! Hood! Where the hell are ya’?!”

Siraishi’s voice bounced off the fresh snow, defeat and irritation present in his tone while he and Sugimoto came back to Heita’s hut empty handed.

“Ah, there you two are.” Sugimoto chimed in, watching Vasily practically drag the German woman behind him over a hill, huffing and puffing, face nearly as red as his hair. “What the hell’s gotten into him?”

“I suggested he teach me how to shoot his rifle, and he got so excited!” Franziska beamed. “I guess he’s really eager to show me!”

“I’ll say.” Shiraishi eyed the Russian man pulling Franz away from the group. “Maybe we should go with you-” Sugimoto tried to suggest.

“Oh, that’s okay! Vasil tells me he’s a better teacher when it’s one-on-one” Franziska smiled, showing teeth and closing her eyes. She called out before getting too far– barely fighting the man pulling her away from the rest, “We shouldn’t be gone for too long, I’m sure we’ll be alright on our own!”

Sugimoto waved them off. “Okay, don’t go too far! Hey, and be on the lookout for any bears!”

“And bring back something to eat!”

The blackhead turned, noticing the new, devious look on his friend's face, “Something wrong, Shiraishi?”

“Hmph, just thinking. I think I know that look. Hah! Haha!” Shiraishi skittered away, laughing evilly to himself. “I'd know it all too well…”

“...Is there something happening that I should know?” Sugimoto questioned while following him.

“Heh.” Shiraishi scratched his nose. “Nothing you should worry about. I'm sure Franz and Riding Hood will be okay, and if I'm right, we won't be missing them for too long.”

#fics #🎯 / shot through the heart #ch.: 🎯#suggestive #mdni #nsft self shipping #okay that's it. no more tags because I'm embarrassed

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thebrickinbrick · 4 months

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The Artillery-Men Compel People To Take Them Seriously

They flocked round Gavroche. But he had no time to tell anything. Marius drew him aside with a shudder.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hullo!” said the child, “what are you doing here yourself?”

And he stared at Marius intently with his epic effrontery. His eyes grew larger with the proud light within them.

It was with an accent of severity that Marius continued:

“Who told you to come back? Did you deliver my letter at the address?”

Gavroche was not without some compunctions in the matter of that letter. In his haste to return to the barricade, he had got rid of it rather than delivered it. He was forced to acknowledge to himself that he had confided it rather lightly to that stranger whose face he had not been able to make out. It is true that the man was bareheaded, but that was not sufficient. In short, he had been administering to himself little inward remonstrances and he feared Marius’ reproaches. In order to extricate himself from the predicament, he took the simplest course; he lied abominably.

“Citizen, I delivered the letter to the porter. The lady was asleep. She will have the letter when she wakes up.”

Marius had had two objects in sending that letter: to bid farewell to Cosette and to save Gavroche. He was obliged to content himself with the half of his desire.

The despatch of his letter and the presence of M. Fauchelevent in the barricade, was a coincidence which occurred to him. He pointed out M. Fauchelevent to Gavroche.

“Do you know that man?”

“No,” said Gavroche.

Gavroche had, in fact, as we have just mentioned, seen Jean Valjean only at night.

The troubled and unhealthy conjectures which had outlined themselves in Marius’ mind were dissipated. Did he know M. Fauchelevent’s opinions? Perhaps M. Fauchelevent was a republican. Hence his very natural presence in this combat.

In the meanwhile, Gavroche was shouting, at the other end of the barricade: “My gun!”

Courfeyrac had it returned to him.

Gavroche warned “his comrades” as he called them, that the barricade was blocked. He had had great difficulty in reaching it. A battalion of the line whose arms were piled in the Rue de la Petite Truanderie was on the watch on the side of the Rue du Cygne; on the opposite side, the municipal guard occupied the Rue des Prêcheurs. The bulk of the army was facing them in front.

This information given, Gavroche added:

“I authorize you to hit ’em a tremendous whack.”

Meanwhile, Enjolras was straining his ears and watching at his embrasure.

The assailants, dissatisfied, no doubt, with their shot, had not repeated it.

A company of infantry of the line had come up and occupied the end of the street behind the piece of ordnance. The soldiers were tearing up the pavement and constructing with the stones a small, low wall, a sort of side-work not more than eighteen inches high, and facing the barricade. In the angle at the left of this epaulement, there was visible the head of the column of a battalion from the suburbs massed in the Rue Saint-Denis.

Enjolras, on the watch, thought he distinguished the peculiar sound which is produced when the shells of grape-shot are drawn from the caissons, and he saw the commander of the piece change the elevation and incline the mouth of the cannon slightly to the left. Then the cannoneers began to load the piece. The chief seized the lint-stock himself and lowered it to the vent.

“Down with your heads, hug the wall!” shouted Enjolras, “and all on your knees along the barricade!”

The insurgents who were straggling in front of the wine-shop, and who had quitted their posts of combat on Gavroche’s arrival, rushed pell-mell towards the barricade; but before Enjolras’ order could be executed, the discharge took place with the terrifying rattle of a round of grape-shot. This is what it was, in fact.

The charge had been aimed at the cut in the redoubt, and had there rebounded from the wall; and this terrible rebound had produced two dead and three wounded.

If this were continued, the barricade was no longer tenable. The grape-shot made its way in.

A murmur of consternation arose.

“Let us prevent the second discharge,” said Enjolras.

And, lowering his rifle, he took aim at the captain of the gun, who, at that moment, was bearing down on the breach of his gun and rectifying and definitely fixing its pointing.

The captain of the piece was a handsome sergeant of artillery, very young, blond, with a very gentle face, and the intelligent air peculiar to that predestined and redoubtable weapon which, by dint of perfecting itself in horror, must end in killing war.

Combeferre, who was standing beside Enjolras, scrutinized this young man.

“What a pity!” said Combeferre. “What hideous things these butcheries are! Come, when there are no more kings, there will be no more war. Enjolras, you are taking aim at that sergeant, you are not looking at him. Fancy, he is a charming young man; he is intrepid; it is evident that he is thoughtful; those young artillery-men are very well educated; he has a father, a mother, a family; he is probably in love; he is not more than five and twenty at the most; he might be your brother.”

“He is,” said Enjolras.

“Yes,” replied Combeferre, “he is mine too. Well, let us not kill him.”

“Let me alone. It must be done.”

And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras’ marble cheek.

At the same moment, he pressed the trigger of his rifle. The flame leaped forth. The artillery-man turned round twice, his arms extended in front of him, his head uplifted, as though for breath, then he fell with his side on the gun, and lay there motionless. They could see his back, from the centre of which there flowed directly a stream of blood. The ball had traversed his breast from side to side. He was dead.

He had to be carried away and replaced by another. Several minutes were thus gained, in fact.

#lm 5.1.8 #the brick in brick #barricade day #les miserables #lego

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camels-pen · 1 year

Text

ghost of your past

Summary:

Walker was up to his last straw when Danny broke a precious mug gifted to him by his daughter on his last Father's day as a living man.

He didn't expect to lose more than his patience chasing the punk, but then, out of nowhere, he reunited with the mug's creator.

based on @mystyrust's prompt "Walker attacks amity park and maddie recognizes her father/ grandfather/ancestor" and @ectoplasmicsoda's prompt "Walker and the terrible, horrible, no good day."

Ao3 Link

Oh, that little punk. Walker was gonna toss him in the slammer and throw away the key, mark his words. The little half-human abomination was going to pay.

Walker had left his guards to scour the town. Told them to leave no rock unturned until they found the brat, but it seemed he hadn’t needed to bother.

“Walker! Look, uh, buddy, this isn’t a good time—”

“I. Dont. Care.” He moved closer, grabbing the ghost boy by the throat. “You’ve gone too far this time. Putting aside starting a second riot in my prison followed by the subsequent jailbreak of the entirety of the ghost criminal underworld,”—he leaned in close, his voice dropping to a low whisper—“that was a one of a kind mug my kid gave me for my last Father’s day. That was my last physical memory of her and you are gonna pay dearly for breaking it.”

“Danny? Sweetie, where’d you go? I know getting anti ghost possession shots can be a bit scary, but—” A loud inhale. Walker rolled his eyes, turning back to look into the stunned face of a woman who looked starkly like his wife. When he was still alive to have one. “...Pa?”

Walker raised a brow. He looked the woman up and down, the blue and black hazmat suit looking about as stupid as the brat’s, pausing briefly on her dark, red-brown hair. Probably one of those ghost hunters who loved to mess things up, then. “Do I know you, ma’am?”

From one second to the next, her open shock changed to a very familiar scrunched up nose. “What the hell, Pa? You don’t recognize me and you’re going around strangling children now?!”

Recognition struck him. “Madeline!” he shouted, a smile growing on his face. He dropped the ghost brat and rushed over to sweep her into his arms. “Oh, hun, I’ve missed you so—”

Maddie dodged him and moved around to coo at the brat, turning his head at different angles to look at the beginnings of bruises Walker left.

“You’re kidding,” he said. “Do you know who he is?”

The brat abruptly froze as Maddie growled, “I don’t joke about things like this.”

Walker clenched his fists, stalking forward. “That little abomination was the one who—!”

“Do not call him an abomination!” She stood quickly, standing in front of the brat as he massaged his throat with a pitiful look. The moment Maddie’s back was turned, the boy stuck his tongue out at him. “He’s my baby boy and your grandson!”

“He’s your what?!” Is this a joke? This had to be a joke. Please, dear Ancients let it be a joke.

Maddie put her hands on her hips. “Pa, please, I know you don’t usually like my partners, but don’t be a pest about this.”

“Don’t be a—” He stomped right up to Maddie. “Don’t throw my past words back at me, Cookie!”

“Well, can you blame me?” She threw her hands in the air. “I waited years to be able to do it and then you kick the bucket!”

He shook his head. “Whatever. I don’t care about your taste in idiot partners right now! I care about this little punk, breaking the mug you got me for my last Father’s day!” She stared at him, unimpressed. “He broke your mug!” he repeated, indignant. “It was my favourite one!”

Maddie scoffed. “That mug was a piece of shit and we both know it. You’ve never drank out of it in your life.” Didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate fine art. And he’d seen the hours she put into learning how to use the pottery wheel. Or rather, he’d heard her frustrated screams through the walls. “And I heard what you said to Danny; your last physical memory of me? Really? I don’t suppose you only have one physical memory of Alicia?” Walker’s code of avoiding lies as much as possible was really working against him here. Maddie scoffed. “Of course. Of course!”

“Kiddo, I didn’t—”

“Don’t call me ‘Kiddo’.” She glared at him. “I am in my early 40’s. And I have not seen you in over three decades.” Was she really that old already? He was surprised she wasn’t bragging about having lived longer than him. “I will not allow you to diminish my opinion and call me a child.”

Walker hedged, “But you’re still my little lemon cookie—”

Maddie threw her arms up. “I’m married now! I have kids! Two of them! One of them is going off to college soon!”

“I don’t know what that brat’s told you, but there’s no way he’s related—” Walker blinked. “Did you say ‘two kids’?”

“Yes! Jazz—Jasmine. Our oldest child and a wonderful daughter.” Maddie smiled, pulling out her wallet. “She’s got her whole life planned out ahead of her. We’re still a little worried—you know what happens to Walker girls when they try to plan out their lives.” She chuckled a little as she handed over a long sectioned plastic with small photos, folding it up in a way to show off a picture of a girl with Maddie’s red hair and speaking at a podium, her face bright and smiling.

Walker took the photo in hand, staring at the little girl he knew nothing about, given by his own little girl that he was supposed to know everything about.

“Or,”—Maddie sighed—“I guess you wouldn’t know.”

“Know what?” he asked softly, tracing the picture over with his eyes. Jasmine had Delilah’s nose.

“Well, you know how I was doing a biology and chemistry double major and going to go to medical school? And Alicia was going to marry her high school sweetheart?” He nodded faintly. “I switched into an experimental ecto-biology program and Ally’s divorced now, living on her own in Arkansas.” She chuckled weakly.

Walker’s head snapped up. “What?!” He blinked a bit, turning back to stare at the unfamiliar picture. “What?” he repeated, softer.

“It’s—I mean, I finished my degree eventually and Ally finished trade school—” She huffed through her nose. “But we can catch up and talk all about it later, okay? Preferably with Ally. Maybe we can all meet up and have a picnic by mom’s grave.”

“Mom’s grave?” He parrotted, a terrible ache running through him. Dear Ancients, he hadn’t even considered that Delilah was anything other than alive.

“I promise I’ll tell you later, but more importantly—

“What happened to you, Pa? Where did you go?” Maddie asked. “We thought you’d died. Mom and me and Ally, we all buried you—mourned you. What—What happened?”

Walker furrowed his temporary brows. “What do you mean? I did die.”

“But how are you here? Was it temporary? Did—” She gasped, putting a hand over her mouth. “Did we bury you alive?”

“No! Isn’t it obvious I’m—” He gestured down at himself, pausing as he noticed the illusory skin and clothing. Huh, seemed like he’d forgotten to take off his disguise to fool the ghost hunters roaming around shooting at his boys. Now it made sense why Maddie recognized him so quickly.

He should… probably take off the illusory charm. It wouldn’t do to get used to a fake human disguise, especially one as accurate as this.

Out of the corner of his eye, the punk was slowly crawling out the other end of the alley. “And where do you think you’re going?” Walker tried to storm past Maddie, but she held firm.

Maddie snatched the photos from Walker’s hand. “Pa, I’m glad you’re alive, but I don’t take threats to my children lightly.”

He scowled and when he looked back, he noticed a distinct lack of annoying ghost boy. “Darn it, you let the punk escape.”

Maddie glanced behind her and sighed. “Oh, would you quit with the overdramatics?” She shook her head. “It’s always the same with you: ‘This town is full of criminals! You can’t just go out on your own in broad daylight!’ without any further thought and entertaining no other opinions or research other than your own.”

“Our town was full of criminals! I was nearly ‘bout to prove it too, before I was murdered!”

She raised an eyebrow. “You mean when you barged into Ms. Garrison’s house when she was a few minutes late to the county fair? When you knocked down every door, tore her house apart, and then fell through the part of her second story that was under construction to brain yourself on the floor?”

“How do you—” He coughed. “There was surely someone holding her hostage and I was going to be the hero—” he coughed again. “I needed to rescue her. Clearly the perpetrator spread false rumours so they could get away scot-free. And Ms. Garrison already had a faulty memory!

“Cookie, I never meant to leave y’all, you have to know that. I was trying to do good.” Maddie searched his eyes a moment and he kept himself still, a brief hope flickering in his chest.

“Y’know, Pa,”—her face softened, the bags under her eyes looking heavier, more pronounced, and looking at him like Delilah had in those last years he was alive: resigned, tired, pitying—“I almost believed you.”

She turned around, making to leave. He reached out, suddenly desperate to make her stay. “Cookie—Maddie, please.”

“I need to find my son and take care of him.” She tore her wrist from his grip. “Have a good life, Hardy.”

Walker stood there, stunned. Unable to tear his gaze away as his daughter—alive and whole and independent in an entirely new way—strode out of the alley, leaving one ghost for another.

#danny phantom #phic #phic phight #phic phight 2023 #dp walker #maddie fenton #nemo the writing ho

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targaryen-jpg · 2 years

Text

like real people do — ch. 7

part seven: so scarlet it was maroon

part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight

pairing: aemond targaryen x tyrell!oc

summary: aemond and adria's plans are put in jeopardy by the small council.

notes: part seven!! this was originally going to be longer but it got so long that i decided to split it up!! as always, thank y'all for reading and for all the love <<3 lrpd wouldn't be here without you! tw: mentions of attempted sa

“oh, my sweet girl.”

the queen mother was stationed outside the entrance to the small council chambers, fingering the seven-pointed star that hung on a chain around her neck.. as adria drew closer, she closed the distance and wrapped her in a warm embrace. she smelt of peonies and warm vanilla.

“good morrow, your grace,” adria said softly.

alicent stepped back, holding adria’s shoulders as she eyed the deep bruises peeking over the collar of her dress. her jaw set, a cool mask over her anger, “i am so terribly sorry about what happened, adria.”

adria smiled weakly before she glanced to the door, “is that why i’m here?”

the summons had arrived early that morning, requesting her presence before the small council. adria had no doubt that every person who witnessed what had happened had proceeded to tell the tale to as many people as they could. instead of spending her morning resting, she barely had time to find a dress with a suitably high neckline before ser arryk had arrived to escort her. she silently thanked the queen for sending a guard she at least knew.

alicent clasped adria’s hands, “in part. but that has been dealt with — what is more concerning are rumors i have heard about yourself and prince aemond.”

adria’s stomach lurched and her cheeks burned, “your grace, i—”

“you are not on trial, my dear,” the queen smiled fondly, “my son has always been headstrong. whatever the truth may be, i doubt you are at fault..”

the queen’s gaze shifted over her shoulder. by the twitch of her lip, adria knew who it was before she even glanced back. aemond was striding towards them, jaw set. the sight of him sent a flush across her body.

alicent gave her a pointed look, “the small council awaits.”

the door swung open to reveal the members already assembled. adria moved to follow the queen inside, but felt aemond’s hand came to rest on her lower back.

without a word, he pulled adria out of the doorway and against the wall, away from view.

“what are you—,” she whispered, but he pressed a finger to her lips.

“i only have a moment,” he murmured, reaching into his pocket, “this is for you.”

he produced an ornate ring, set with a gleaming sapphire. adria’s gaze shot up and found a small smile playing on his lips, “aemond…”

“i don’t care what they have to say in there,” his voice was low as gently picked up her left hand, “we will be married. this… is just a reminder.”

he tenderly slid the ring on and pressed a warm kiss to her knuckles.

from his touch spread a seeping warmth that made her heart feel like it could burst. he was a hardened warrior and a serious man, all hard lines and angles. but this was so warm and soft and tender.

when he looked up from her hand, adria grabbed him by the collar and pulled herself up to slam their lips together. they stumbled slightly, and aemond’s hands grabbed her hips gently. he wasted no time in returning the kiss, meeting her with equal fervor.

it was desperate and messy and adria could feel the fire burning just beneath the surface.

they separated with a gasp, but aemond still held her close.

“they’re waiting on us,” adria whispered.

“let them,” aemond’s voice was low as his hands came up to cup her face tenderly. he kissed her once more, slowly and purposefully. but all too soon, it was over.

he held out his arm, and adria placed her hand on it. as they entered, the low hum of chatter stopped, heads turned and chairs creaked.

she surveyed the men assembled, and realized in horror that even aegon was there.

his distaste for the business of ruling was no secret, and his presence at the small council was rare. nonexistent, even. but he was here for this — for them.

“lady adria,” otto hightower began, standing, “welcome. the council wishes you to know we are all deeply sorry for the… incident yesterday.”

aemond and adria stopped at the foot of the table, directly opposite of aegon. all looked to her, but it was aemond who spoke next.

“bold words, grandsire,” he called, “from the man who ordered the attack.”

the hand shot him a pointed look, “there was a great misunderstanding. and a terrible accident.”

“if that was a misunderstanding,” adria offered, cocking her head, “then what was your intent, my lord hand?”

“i’m sure my grandson has told you of the letter we received from your mother — certain precautions had to be taken. we couldn’t have a traitor to the crown wandering around court, now could we?”

aemond’s hand slid to rest protectively on the small of her back.

“did you tell them to rape me as well?” adria jabbed before she could think better of it. she felt her neck flush but held his gaze.

“no,” the hand’s voice was slow, as if he was talking to a child, “good heavens, why would i order the rape of a lady of the court? no, their orders were only to detain you until we could ascertain your loyalty. what those men did to you was a terrible thing — ser dayne has paid with his life, ser alden is already on his way to the wall.”

“and have you?” adria snapped, “ascertained my loyalty?”

“it appears my brother’s already done that,” aegon snickered into his goblet.

the words were barely out of his mouth before aemond’s hand was on his knife, “are you questioning lady adria’s virtue? my honor?”

“no, no, brother,” aegon waved him away, “i would never. it’s quite a sudden engagement, that’s all. and an interesting choice of bride.”

“and that brings us to the matter at hand,” alicent interjected, giving aemond a cutting look before he could remove his knife further, “there will be no engagement. aemond is to marry one of lord borros’ daughters.”

adria’s heart dropped, and the putrid feeling of jealousy sunk low in her stomach.

aemond’s voice was deathly quiet, “no.”

otto laughed ruefully, “i beg your pardon? my prince, this is not a matter you simply get to say no to.”

aemond’s jaw clenched, his free hand itching to reach for his blade, “it is, and i will.”

alicent clasped her hands atop the table, “this is not up for discussion, aemond. a marriage is the best way to secure our alliance with lord borros.”

“then find another way,” aemond glared at otto before turning back to his mother, “i have played the dutiful son all my life. i have trained and studied and done everything required of a prince. i have lived my life for you, and my brother, and our legacy. this is the one thing i ask you for.”

alicent’s voice was sharp, “he has four daughters, aemond. i’m sure you can find one you like well enough. leave lady adria out of your schemes and ambitions — she has her own offers to consider.”

adria was taken aback “i do?” as the knot in her stomach twisted itself further.

the queen nodded, “several, in fact. i’m sure there is one to your liking.”

“cregan stark,” otto began, “lord reyne, prince qyle martell. there will be others, i’m sure. you are a beautiful girl with a good name, you will have your choice of the seven kingdoms.”

“i don’t want it,” adria breathed in realization, “i don’t want anywhere else. anyone else.”

aemond’s chest heaved as he met her gaze.

“my brother desires a love match,” aegon mused, “you, who’s scoffed at notions of romance your entire life? the only women you’ve ever loved are our mother and vhagar. and adria has been the bane of your existence for years. gods, i can scarcely go a day without hearing what slights she has committed against you.”

it was lord larys who spoke next, “it was the impression of the court that the prince wished to… forgive my language, but, use the lady adria to further his own ambitions. or that some… unbecoming… activities had taken place. the consequences of which required a marriage.”

“well?” the queen questioned, sitting back in her chair, “which is it? do you love her?”

aemond’s lips parted as he took in adria, hand gently squeezing her waist. his gaze landed on the gleaming ring, and he murmured, “i do.”

“and adria?” aegon raised an eyebrow. she could see the gleam of mischief in his eyes. he followed aemond’s gaze to the sapphire and raised his eyebrows in knowing. the prick was enjoying this.

“your grace, there have been times when i wanted nothing more than to stab prince aemond with his own knife. he has vexed and tormented me more than anyone else, yet, i —,” her breath hitched as she looked back up at the man beside her, “i would do anything to keep him from harm. despite everything, because of everything, i do. i love him.”

“that is all good and well,” otto hightower’s voice was hard, “but it does not change the fact that the prince is not free to marry.”

aemond looked a split second from either calling vhagar to take them to essos or murdering the hand. adria would have been fine with either.

“have i taken any vows? has any formal agreement been drawn?” he shot otto a hard look, “i think you’ll find that i am free. and make no mistake, we will marry. whether it is in the sept of baelor or the summer isles is your choice to make.”

“your grace,” adria’s voice was thick with emotion as she addressed alicent, “the red keep is my home. what my mother and brother have done is beyond my knowledge. for eight years, i have done nothing but my duty to the crown. my loyalties lie with king aegon — and aemond.”

“no—” the hand started.

“very well,” queen alicent cut the hand off, sending a scathing look his way. “perhaps we will have daeron wed one of the baratheon girls when he returns. lady adria, aemond. the crown gives you permission to marry. and i give my blessing.”

“and mine,” aegon called, lifting his cup, “brother, i am delighted you have found a woman who does not run screaming from you. and adria, i commend your bravery.”

the queen sighed and rubbed her temple.

“lord borros will not be happy. neither will rhaenyra,” tyland lannister pointed out.

“a royal wedding is good for the people. and it further cements our position as the true heirs. perhaps it will even bring the tyrells back over to us,” alicent looked pointedly at her father, who only scoffed and marched out of the room.

“well,” lord wylde interjected, “i do believe congratulations are in order.”

“yes, yes,” the grand maester agreed, raising his cup.

“to aemond and adria!” aegon joined in the toast, grinning widely.

aemond had never looked so pleased with himself as he did when he pressed a tender kiss to adria's cheek.

taglist: @bubblebuttwade @kittykylax @fix5idiots @signyvenetia @stillinracooncity @queenofshinigamis @criesinsagitarius @crispmarshmallow @missusnora @bekky06 @augustslippedavvay @hauntedcafeteria @doe-inluv @feiwelinchen @caspianobsessed

comment to be added!

next part ->

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfic #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd fic #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fluff #got fanfic #game of thrones #like real people do #emilia writes

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lullabyes22-blog · 1 year

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Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - Snippet - A Smuggler's Tale of Woe

Silco shares a bedtime story with Mel.

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Mel’s eyes search him, the gold edging into dark. "You've gone terribly quiet."

"I'm curious."

"Yes?"

"How often do you do this?"

"Take a Chancellor down to the Sumps, and have him until his legs give out?" She tips him a smile, artfully deceptive. "Not more than once a week."

"Oh, I don't doubt your ingenuity. But I do wonder if risk has become its own reward."

"What do you mean?"

"You remind me of a smuggler I once knew," Silco muses. "Brilliant fellow. A real head for business. Could steal a loaf from a miser's mouth, with not a crumb leftover.”

“Hmm,” she purrs. “He does sound familiar.”

“He knew he was clever, too. So, of course, he made his livelihood doing the undoable." Mel's hand is still in Silco’s hair, an idle caress. The rest of her concentration is on the thrum of his words against her belly: a whisper-song of warning. "His specialty was hefty hauls—jewels, spices, silks—that were too hot to handle. So hot, in fact, that they'd need a cooling-off period before they hit the market. Our smuggler had no patience for such tactics. His favorite game was to transport his goods at high noon—when the markets were at full bustle. A great risk, but one he relished. And why not? He was so canny that nobody ever suspected him."

"How did he manage it?"

"Covered every angle, didn't he? Smugglers are masters of timing. Like astrologers, really. They've a whole calendar of sunsets, half-moons, low tides, stars. All the celestial cues to plot their maneuvers. So our smuggler wasn't fazed by the hour. He knew when the buyers would be out in full force. Where the ships would dock. How the Patrolmen would change shifts. He'd plot every second in his mind. He'd unload his haul, in plain sight. He'd wait as the market crowds surged and the buyers closed deals. At the critical juncture, he'd whip into a blind corner—a blink of an eye—then slip back out. Then off the goods would go, still hot as sin, and yet so cold, the buyers didn't know the difference. And off he'd go, with coins in his pockets, and a grin as wide as the Sun Gates."

Mel tweaks a brow. "Diabolical."

"Sly as a fox, he'd say. The gods are on my side."

"Was he right?"

"There's a time and place for every god." Silco's scarred cheek nuzzles her belly. "But mortals do not share their calendars."

She is quiet for a moment. Then: "So what happened to him?"

"He took a risk," he says. "A foolish one, by his reckoning. He did the job the old-fashioned way: all by hand, no charts. When the Patrolmen showed up, they spotted the goods. Our smuggler was quick as lightning: he threw the crates back in the hold and gunned the engines. But one of the Patrolmen managed to clamber on board. A younger lad, new to the job. He saw the smuggler—tangled in the netting, dangling by a rope from the open hatch—and took a shot."

"And hit him?"

"Straight through the heart." Silco's breath is hot on her navel. "He dropped into the sea like a stone."

Mel's silence turns pensive. "Is there a moral to the story?"

"No moral. Only an ending."

"A smuggler's tale of woe."

"A smuggler's love of risk. They can't resist it. They make their living by defying common sense. They see danger, and they dive right into it."

"And that's us now?"

"Our game has high stakes. And it's in full public view. That's enough thrill to addle the sanest man."

Mel's eyelids flicker, a fracture in the sultry veneer. "Or woman."

"Quite."

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #arcane mel #mel #mel medarda #melco #silco x mel #forward (never forget)/xoxo #forward but never forget/xoxo #snippet

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woundlingus · 8 months

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Okay I’ve seen Driven (2020) starring richard Speight Jr and I’ve taken some notes to share with the class;

It is not very cinematic. 98% of the shots are very boring. Obviously it’s a very low budget film and that’s not to rag on low budget because a lot of low budget films become cult classics because they have a charm to them that comes from a movie with little money but a lot of love ie. Blair witch project ($60k), paranormal activity (15k) a lot of horror movie franchises start really low budget and it makes them super campy which is what makes them so beloved. But this is boring cinematically. And they don’t commit to what kind of style they want to go with filming and it jumps from very clear steady shots to shaky hand held footage without much rhyme or reason. I think they could’ve done a lot with very little and just the car by incorporating the fact that she’s an “Uber” driver through use of security footage found footage style. Viewing the story from a rear view reversing camera, a passenger camera- those kinds of things and it would’ve given a more visually interesting angle than smack bang in the middle of the dash board and never moving. In a movie that’s comprised 97% of shots of the two of them sitting in a car dialoguing there’s a distinct lack in dynamic shots to spice up the monotony.

Personally I would’ve liked to have seen more of the story happening in the background of things, I think it would’ve been visually fun to see her driving around in The beginning and viewing the oncoming disaster through her windows while she’s distracted with her own personal problems, a little like Shaun of the Dead if you’ve seen that, it’s got this great scene where it’s a one take where he just strolls through town with havoc going on in the background while he’s so self obsessed he doesn’t notice, then we could be part of the journey opposed to getting a lot of information dialogued at us.

The plot is very nonsensical and feels like it was given about 10% of the love and attention for what makes up 90% of the movie while the rest of the care was put into the bantering- which is very good. I will give them that the bantering between the two of them was VERY funny, though I think sometimes they need to know when to let a joke go (toilet spoon).

The two leads aren’t bad actors though, and sometimes that’s really all you need to make something watchable is if the people you’re watching are capable of making a dull script and character interesting to watch, they bounce off of each other with a very natural chemistry on a set where everyone else im going to assume is getting their first big break (no shame, everyone has to start somewhere) because they’re NOT good. Especially Jess who stands there dead eyed and delivers her lines like she’s reading off a teleprompter… that was the worst part of the whole movie, she’s unwatchable it was terrible. It’s a pivotal part of the film, the emotional crux of Emerson coming to terms with needing to self realise that she’s what’s holding her back and Rodger is a dick but his words cut because they’re true. And she’s crying on one side of the car and her ex girlfriend is just “😐 you didn’t… fight for us😐 you sit 😐 in the car of our relationship😐”

It’s very typecast of RSJ to play this kind of guy who’s a little awkward but very flirty and quippy- sassy, I suppose. And he does it VERY well like not just being a Gabriel girlie I always find his joke telling very compelling, but there’s the big emotional climax of the movie where he turns on a dime and snaps at Emerson and it’s MEAN. And I think he’s quite capable of branching out into a more serious type of character role and I’m not sure why he doesn’t, maybe he just likes to play the funny guy and that’s fine but he’s very good at being a little bit crazy and sadistic and I think he could play a good bad guy at some point if he wanted, I think he’s capable of portraying that kind of emotional depth.

The best part is obviously the bi4bi energy going on in this car. They’re both quite awkward and the “my ex girlfriend” rolled off the tongue like it was a very normal thing to say. You know sometimes you watch something and there’s a tense beat and then it’s like “my… girlfriend,” and you’re supposed to go ooooh this is hard for you :( there was none of that. She just spat that out like she was shooting the breeze with someone chill who would just get that, and later brought up an ex boyfriend and there was no needless discussion about bisexuality we’re just expected to get it in the way that Rodger literally could not give less of a fuck about it you know? Cool you’re bisexual, can we get back to hunting demons??? There was no awkward straight guyness to it. He didn’t go “oh? Oh!” Or ask crude details about girl on girl action- you know, the usual stuff. He instead shared his own personal love life strife or lack there of. Bi4bi energy. And chaotic. Love a good bi4bi chaotic duo. Their relationship was the best part of the movie I enjoyed watching them start tense and awkward and quickly bloom into a friendship BECAUSE they’re tense and awkward, it’s fun! There wasn’t a change in character, no suaveness, she does standup comedy it’s dorky it’s cute I think they’re perfect.

And those are all my thoughts, I’d give it a 4/10 just for the distinct amount of missed opportunities they skate on by but it’s not unwatchable, I just certainly would never recommend it to anyone

#driven (2020)#sorry for the long analysis my friend is training me into a cinephile #this was good practice at least at really trying to engage with a movie on more than just an absolute surface level #Richard Speight jr

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sirfrogsworth · 9 months

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I am so confused.

Even when this lens was first released it was $850 brand new.

Does he think people aren't going to check current prices? Did he get scammed and overpay originally? Not to mention eBay gives you a suggestion for pricing.

I really wish I hadn't sold my lenses. There was a point where I had a major decline in my health and I could no longer make comedy for my main website. At the same time, my parents were getting sicker and needed more help. We were also struggling financially. I was so depressed and I was sure I'd never do photography again, so I sold most of my lenses.

We needed the money at that moment, but in the grand scheme of things, the lens money barely made a dent in our situation. Not to mention, we got a small inheritance from my grandmother soon after, so that increased my regret. It took me years of scrounging and saving to build up a collection of 5 lenses. None of them top of the line, but all of them a good value for their performance.

Thankfully I kept the lens I used to take pictures of Otis—my "puppy lens." But my ultra wide, my macro, my tele, and my portrait lens... all gone.

And now I am trying to figure out the cheapest way I can do what I want to do with photography and I'm remembering just how expensive this hobby is. But I think I need to figure this out because I have had a substantial boost in my mental health since I started taking photos again.

A good 50mm could serve several roles. I can add extension tubes for macro. It is about 75mm on an APS-C camera, which is good for portraits. The wide aperture would allow low light photography. Combined with my Otis lens, all I'd be missing is telephoto and ultra wide angle, but honestly I never did much of that anyway. Though ultra wide angle photography is probably the most fun you can have taking pictures—even if the photographic uses are rare.

I did get a Nifty Fifty for my trip to Orlando. I wanted to see if I could get away with using a $100 lens. For the price, it is surprisingly good. And it is the first lens I recommend to anyone starting photography—as almost every camera brand has its own version. But I had several issues trying to make it work for my needs.

It's not very sharp, which is actually fine for shots taken at a distance, but would be a deal breaker for product photos and macro shots which are very close up. Those require as much detail as possible, especially if you need to crop. When you are trying to show people the fine hairs on a bee's body, a soft image just isn't going to have the same impact.

It also does not nail focus consistently and it back focuses (it focuses more behind than in front). Which is a deal breaker for my efforts to use less energy. When I did my portrait shoot with Katrina, I had to do many test shots and look at them on the computer to make sure I was getting them in focus. I was going back and forth and getting up and down. In the end I had to use a smaller aperture and higher ISO to get increased depth of field. And even then the tip of her nose was soft in the photos. Not to mention the added noise from raising the ISO.

This Sigma is a wonderful lens. I'm trying to find a good deal used, but it's still out of reach for now. I have no idea what my financial future is right now and until I know for sure that my brother will release my inheritance in March, I have to be more careful with my budget.

I am going to sell all of my studio lighting gear and use those funds to help me set up a new studio upstairs. I'm hoping that will cover the new lights I will need, but I don't think it will be enough for a lens. Someone suggested a site where I can turn my yard into a dog park, so I am looking into that. I might also see if I can get some gigs restoring photos for people, but it is so difficult finding clients.

Every problem has a solution. And maybe the universe will do me a favor and keep my brother from being terrible just this once.

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lerikwrites · 1 year

Text

Linens

[A snippet of a possible series of one-shots about LU Wild being trans and dealing with a sudden and completely unexpected "cycle". Tw: dysphoria, mentions of unsafe binding, internalized transphobia, and uncomfortably feminine coded words for periods]

It had to be some sort of sick joke. An impossibly personal final “fuck you” delivered by the Goddesses. Wild scowls at his reflection in the river in front of him. The reflection staring back at him is just as angry, but the low light made it difficult to tell if his face had softened its angles. Tilting his head to one side and then another he scrutinizes the curve of his jaw. It isn’t noticeable, he tells himself, at least not enough that anyone has commented on it, yet. With a huff he scrubs the last of the thick, dark blood a little too forcibly out of the linen rags and wrings them as dry as he can. They are still too damp to store and he doesn’t have the luxury of hanging them with the rest of The Chain’s laundry. He squints up at the trees swaying above him in the twilight breeze before scrambling up the nearest trunk to drape them across the most hidden branch. Not as sanitary, but much less likely to be accidentally discovered by a team member. They had set up camp earlier in the evening before Wild slipped away to attend to his new Old Problem.

Two days ago he found himself staring at the red spots in his trousers in shock. They had stopped at an inn and Wild was thanking every deity he could name for having privacy in his panic, then cursed them all back over for bringing back one last memory. Womanhood. Memories of painful wrappings rubbing his chest raw on training days, washing bloody linens in secret, and Robbie’s intense scrutiny of the scars on his chest were now colored with a context he wished he had never recovered. That pitying look Flora had once given him when he asked why he was allowed to be her personal guard unchaperoned and her refusal to give a straight answer suddenly made more sense. She must have known, but who else did? Wild sat there frozen as each spiraling thought brought flashes of Before showing him the deal he made with the Royal Guard when it was found out that he had joined with a false identity. The lengths he went through to never speak aloud lest he accidentally reveal again the terrible secret that should have gotten him discharged from the Royal Guard or even killed if it weren’t for his skill and reputation. He touched the scars of his chest through his shirt and felt the edges of another missing memory fraying at the ends of his thoughts. The frustration that there was somehow still more his mind was hiding from him made him ache. Wild had never joined the rest of The Chain in a public bath so the differences between his body and theirs never came up. Why he couldn’t stand the thought of being bare in the water was written away as anxiety left over from the Shrine of Resurrection. He hadn’t pressed the issue, so they didn’t either. All of them have enough trauma and triggers to know when to simply let certain things be. It was a fuzzy wrongness that left him to slip away and wash alone when he needed to. It was too much all at once and the wave of shame, fear, guilt, and the exhaustion of a lifetime of hiding pulled tears into his eyes and constricted his chest. With shaking hands he frantically swiped through the inventory on the Sheikah Slate to look for something, anything he could use to hide away what he knew would be coming in the next few days. In a group of men, he flinched at the thoughts curling at the edges of his mind, there was no need for supplies for a "woman’s" bleeding. Using medical wrappings felt wrong but there was no other option available. Maybe the woman who had checked them in had supplies for guests? Wild took in a deep steadying breath and gathered himself back up to exit the toilets behind the bathhouse. He passed a sunny Wind on the way and forced a tight-lipped smile at the pirate. Wind’s own smile faltered but Wild walked faster before he could ask any questions. The rest of The Chain were bathing without him as usual so he should have enough time to find a solution before anyone noticed anything amiss. He made his way to the inn’s counter and waited awkwardly while the young woman from before helped an elderly couple check in. He rehearsed his question over and over in his head in an attempt to calm his nerves, yet felt them tick up at every repetition. When the couple stepped away Wild lurched forward to the counter’s edge a little too quickly and the woman took a step back in surprise.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled and forced himself to meet the woman’s eyes.

“What can I do for ya?” she pulled on a barely-there customer service smile. It was already getting late and she looked tired.

Wild tried to smile back at her and placed his hands on the counter to keep from fidgeting before he spoke, “Do you have, ah, linens?”

“Linens?” she tilted her head, “Did your room not have the proper bedding?”

“No, no,” Wild quickly scanned the room to see if Wind had decided to follow him. He paused and waited for the elderly couple to step out of earshot. “Linens,” he repeats quietly with a deep flush, “for bleeding.”

The woman’s eyes widened, “Are you injured, sir?!”

Wild flushed deeper and fought the urge to not duck behind the front of the counter, “No! For, uh,” he floundered for a moment as she looked him over from across the counter with concern, “linens for women’s…needs.”

She blinked at him and her face went through a series of expressions that Wild did not like. Confusion, calculation, and finally settling on distrust. “But your party is made up of men and boys,” she stated and narrowed her eyes.

“She’s coming later,” Wild blurted out.

“She can get them herself when she checks in tomorrow morning.”

“She’s coming tonight,” Wild’s voice raised slightly higher in pitch in his panic.

The woman crossed her arms, brows drawn together in outrage and lips downturned in disgust, “You have a woman coming into this establishment, to join a group of men. Tonight.” Each part of her statement was punctuated with sharp consonants and gritted teeth. Wild’s face paled and eyes widened when he realized the many layers of insinuation being woven into the statements passed between them. His eyes darted around the room once more and he pulled his hands back off the countertop. The woman waited with a tapping foot and a snarl that was growing by the second.

Wild dumped an obscene amount of rupees onto the counter between them, “Please,” he begged, at a loss to find any words that would make the situation any better. The conversation was going worse in ways he simply could not keep up with and he was getting desperate.

“Double it,” she snapped, “I’m the one who has to clean your rooms tomorrow.” They stared each other down for a few moments before he crumpled and complied.

Wild winced at the growing pile of money and threw an opal on top for good measure. With an incredulous scoff she stashed the rupees and gem in a drawer and glared at him again before throwing a handful of fabric at his face, “Never come back here again, you hear? And you better clean up after yourselves.”

“Thank you,” Wild squeaked and ducked his head.

“Get outta my sight.”

“Yes, ma’am”

The young woman’s jaw dropped, “Not a ma’am!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Excuse me?!”

Wild ran out the room.

#lu fanfiction #trans link #lu wild #tw periods #tw dysphoria #lerikwrites

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softprettything · 2 years

Text

late bloomer, ch 7

AO3 | Previous | Next

Fandom: OHSHC

Pairing: Kyoya/Reader

Tags: 18+, A/B/O Dynamics, College AU, Fake Dating, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slice of Life, Eventual Smut

Summary: Nobody ever said falling in love with your best friend would be easy.

Taglist (new!): @silverhetdanes @lampalooza

late bloomer, ch 7

“There’s my girl,” Kaoru crows as soon as he spots you. At a look from Hikaru, he amends, “Our girl,” and pulls you into a hug. Low in your ear, he says, “Not Haruhi’s, but…”

You push away. “If you’re going to be a dick, I’ll just head home.”

“Noooo,” he whines.

“Ignore him, (Y/N).” Hikaru pops around your other shoulder. “He was three shots in before he even reached the pregame.”

“Yeah, which means she has some catching up to do!” Kaoru offers the red solo cup currently in his hand, full of whatever godawful concoction the Thetas have thrown together this time.

You shake your head, and he pouts at you. “You know my rule.”

“Never drink the jungle juice,” the three of you say in tandem.

Kaoru rolls his eyes, but takes the cup back, at least, knocking back most of its contents in one gulp. You can’t help but wince. Kaoru’s always had the strongest capacity for liquor of anyone you know, which makes you incredibly concerned for his health past graduation. “Spoken like someone who’s never really lived,” he says.

“Spoken like someone who wants to have a working liver when I’m thirty.”

“There’s some canned drinks in the kitchen, I think.” Hikaru says. “Want us to show you?”

“Nah, you can stay here. I’ll be right back.”

You push through the dark and sweaty room and are relieved to make it to the kitchen, which isn’t quite empty but is at least marginally less crowded. You pop open a watermelon seltzer and try to breathe.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

You almost jump at the sound of his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Kyoya says. He’s leaning against the counter, looking relatively casual in a sweater and slacks. Not exactly frat-party attire, but at least it’s a departure from the suit. “You know overconsumption of alcohol can lead to fainting.”

You roll your eyes, and take a sip of your drink for good measure. A few sips. If Kyoya Ootori is going to try and engage you in some section-asshole-pedantry in the middle of a Theta party, you’d like to be as drunk as humanly possible. “I appreciate the concern, but I doubt one White Claw every three months is going to make me blackout.”

“You don’t drink a lot, then.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Maybe.” If it was anyone else, you would think he was teasing you. But he sounds so serious. Everything he says sounds so serious, and its seriously starting to get on your nerves.

“What, you had me pegged as an alcoholic?”

“Never mind.” He moves to take a sip of own drink, and you raise a brow, looking from the (mostly full) cup to his face. “Vodka and Sprite,” he says by way of explanation. You can tell by the wince on his face after he sips that he’s telling the truth. “Terrible.”

You can’t help but laugh. “What were you expecting, scotch? Or apple juice?”

“Right now I’d take either,” he says. “Gladly. It’d be leagues better than this.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Vodka and Sprite?”

“What you’re doing here,” you correct him. “I’ve never seen someone who looks like they’ve been to less parties in my life.”

“Unlike you, a true connoisseur,” he says, eyeing your can. “How you can make it through one of these with nothing but a White Claw every three months is beyond me.”

“Oh. No, I was dragged here by some friends. I’m not really a party person, either.” You angle your head in the direction of the living room/dance floor. “I wish I was. I mean, they’re good if I’m in the mood, which usually involves being drunk off more than a seltzer.”

“How do you feel about shots?”

“What happened to overconsumption of alcohol can lead to fainting? ” He shrugs. You blink up at him. “I’m not opposed.”

He reaches over your shoulder, and you flinch before realizing that he’s just trying to get at the drinks on the kitchen island. Only at fancy-ass Ouran would the Greek life kids be able to afford a house like this, you can’t help but think. You step aside to allow him better access, and take the opportunity to get a better look at him. He’s not bad-looking. He doesn’t have the type of vitality that Tamaki has, nor is he intimidatingly buff; but he’s tall, and well-dressed, and his shoulders press against the fabric of his shirt in a way that implies a bit of lean muscle. His face looks as though it should be committed to paint (knowing the type of wealth he comes from, it probably has, several times); the smooth, pale-velvet skin; the slim, curved nose, arriving at an offensively delicate point at the end; the dark eyes; the bow-drawn lips; and all of this framed by a defined jaw and well-shaped cheekbones and that strikingly dark hair.

If only he weren’t such an ass.

“Tequila alright?”

You clear your throat, looking away before he can catch you staring at him. “They have salt and lime?”

“They must.”

“Then yeah. Yeah, that’s great.”

He hands you an empty cup and goes about cutting a few lime slices. You take the opportunity to pour your own shot, and wait for him to finish. Ass or not, you have to admit that this particular interaction is going well. Even if it started out with him questioning your drinking choices. “To becoming party people,” he says once you’re set up with the salt and the lime.

“To becoming party people.” You touch your cup to his, lick the back of your hand, down the shot, and find your eyes meeting his as you suck on the slice of lime. For some reason, it brings a smile to your face. You certainly didn’t expect at any point tonight to find yourself in a frat kitchen, taking tequila shots with Kyoya Ootori, of all people. “Does this mean we’re not enemies anymore?”

Now he raises a brow. “Were we ever?”

You snort. “I mean. We didn’t exactly get off on the best foot in class.”

“I hardly think a difference in opinion makes us enemies. It made for interesting conversation, at the least.”

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

You point at him. “You’re one of those devil’s advocate guys. Is that it?”

A little crease appears between his eyebrows. “What?”

“You just like to argue for fun? You get off on it? Is that how you think normal people communicate, just pointlessly debating all the time?”

“We were having a discussion. In a discussion seminar. What’s pointless about that?”

You roll your eyes. “Can we take another shot? Whatever looks like it’ll taste the worst.” You know by now that if you want to get really fucked up, you have to go for the cheap stuff.

Once that shot’s been downed, you clear your throat. “Okay. I just…you really didn’t feel like there was any bad blood between us? I mean, okay, what about the hospital the other day?”

He pauses. “What about it?”

“We…well. I sort of jumped down your throat.” You take a breath, then a sip of your seltzer, then another breath. “So I guess that was my fault. Sorry about that.”

“Forgiven. Though, for what it’s worth, I wasn’t holding it against you.”

“Nice of you.”

“You didn’t seem to be having a great day.”

“Well. Mondays, you know?” You tip your head back, enjoying the buzz that is rapidly taking hold. “Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays…Saturdays. Sundays. Hard to pick a least favorite.”

“Sounds miserable.”

You shake your head. “I’m exaggerating. It’s not actually that bad. But the first week of the semester is always the hardest.”

“And the second week. And the third, the fourth, the fifth.” When you focus your unsteady gaze on him, you’re delighted to realize there’s something like a glint in his eye. He really is teasing you. “And so on, and so on.”

“Sounds miserable,” you parrot back at him, and he almost cracks a smile. “Well. At least Tamaki and Haruhi—”

“Kyoya? What are you doing hiding out—oh.” Olivia stops in the kitchen doorway, and takes in the sight of the two of you. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You respond to her closed-mouth smile with an uneasy one of your own. Olivia seems nice enough, from your little exposure to her, but sorority omegas always make you nervous.

“I thought you were grabbing us drinks,” she says to Kyoya, winding an arm through his. If you weren’t already tipsy-on-the-way-to-shitfaced, you’d swear you see him tense slightly. “But I see you found Little Miss Joan-of-Arc here.”

Your smile freezes on your face as she turns back to you. “(Y/N),” you offer.

“Yeah, I know. Crusading against the big bad alpha-omega industrial complex, or whatever it is, right?”

She laughs. You join in, if only because you don’t know how the fuck else to respond, and those two back-to-back shots were definitely a bad idea. Kyoya doesn’t laugh. She notices.

“What? I’m just joking. It’s funny. (Y/N) doesn’t care, right (Y/N)?”

“Yeah.”

“See?” She cocks her head. “Y’know, it’s so crazy, I feel like I know everyone at Ouran. But I, like, didn’t have any idea of who you were until Monday. Are you a transfer?”

“No, I actually went here for undergrad before—”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen you, like, out. At any benefits or anything.”

And there it is.

There’s no denying—Ouran is a nice school. A private university, an elite and expensive private university, where scholarship students are few and far in between. And the elite tend to flock together. So it’s no wonder that Olivia (Freidmonte, a Google search after that first class revealed, and a literal fucking diamond heiress) would know all of the other rich kids (aka ninety percent of the student body) from benefits and balls and whatever else rich people did to pass the time.

Olivia’s not stupid. She’s probably put two and two together and figured out that you’re just too poor for her to have taken notice of before. But it seems, from the way she’s clinging to Kyoya with a grip that would put an anaconda to shame, that she’s probably just annoyed that a lowly beta on a scholarship would have the audacity to talk to her boyfriend. Drunk or not, you know when you’re not wanted in a room.

You clear your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…I just…I have to meet some friends out there. Sorry.” The room is starting to spin around you—in a drunk way, not a fainting way, you’re pretty sure—as you make your way out of the kitchen. “See you in class,” you mumble. Neither one of them responds.

Being in the louder, crowded room almost immediately makes you want to throw up, so you push through to the nearest door, which leads to the backyard. It’s not far enough into the season to be cold; a leftover summer evening, a gift in these early September days.

You stumble down the creaky wooden stairs and collapse with your back against the house, and absentmindedly take another sip of your White Claw, before realizing with a groan how that’s definitely not going to make you any less drunk.

Oh, well. You’re too thirsty to really care.

“Having that good of a night, hm?”

Not Kyoya this time; someone you don’t recognize. Or rather, someone you do, but not by name. “Oh. Hi…”

“Reese.”

“(Y/N).” They offer a very ring-heavy hand, which you shake. If you were more sober, you’d try to get a better look. Heavy jewelry bothers you to wear, but you always like seeing it on other people. And the sight of one particular ring rings some bell in your memory as to where you know Reese from. “Oh. You run the beta frat, right?”

If you were drunk, you wouldn’t have said that at all; especially not that bluntly. You’d spent years dodging Epsilon Phi’s recruitment efforts. They seemed nice enough, but you couldn’t justify carving out the time or the money (or the interest) to take part in Greek life. But it seemed like a nice space, as far as frats went. Friendly. Full of people (of all presentations) who didn’t think that betas ought to fade into the background.

One only had to look at Reese to demonstrate that. They were probably the best-looking person you’d seen in your life, right up there with Tamaki Suoh; they even had similar tanned skin and beaming eyes, though their hair was bright copper and closer-cropped than Tamaki’s. Wearing a bright, tastefully low-cut purple shirt and high-waisted jeans, with the aforementioned jewelry (in addition to the rings, you blearily clocked several necklaces, bracelets, and at least one cartilage piercing). “We don’t really call ourselves that, but yeah.”

“Sorry. Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” To your horror, you’re getting a little choked up. Something about the slog of the week; the reality of Haruhi going on a date with a guy who is, by all appearances, perfect; Olivia; Kyoya; those two-and-a-half drinks—it’s too much.

“Hey! It’s not a big deal, really. You’re fine.” They peer at you with what you dimly register as concern. “Are you okay? Do you need some water?”

“M’fine.”

“Yeah. Water. C’mon, the kitchen’s this way.”

“No, no, no,” you say, clinging to some vague idea that Kyoya and Olivia might still be there. After some coaxing, you do allow them to get you to the (blissfully empty) kitchen, find you an unopened bottle of water, and get you to divulge the names of the friends you came here with.

They disappear, but you only have all of thirty seconds to feel abandoned before they return with the twins, who fuss over you and determine immediately that you should probably go home. Even though it’s, like, ten in the evening.

This part of the night is the fuzziest, even as you’re living through it. Stumbling down empty streets. Crashing through your front door. Crouching in front of the toilet with one twin holding your hair back. Being tucked into bed on your side. The door; Haruhi’s voice; the door again, and quiet. Someone leaving pills and water and a big blue bottle on your nightstand. Sleep, curling around you.

And then, while you dream: flashes of warmth and witty remarks and dark, dark eyes.

#kyoya/reader #kyoya x reader #kyoyaxreader #reader insert #ohshc x reader #ohshc x y/n #late bloomer #chai.writes

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