#But I have been reading 30+ pages about how risk management is all about managing risk

[uncarving-the-block]

If you work in information security you too can study the world’s most boring, obvious diagrams

#oh I need to assess risks before I decide what to do about them??? #amazing #don’t get me wrong #i got into this field because flowcharts and other node-graphs are my favorite way to express information #But I have been reading 30+ pages about how risk management is all about managing risk #also there’s no entry point into this graph #help im trapped in a risk management process and there’s no way out #the Minotaur’s labyrinth except it’s just a 9-5 desk job #wait that’s just called being alive #hmm #actually they should show this diagram during sex ed

[mindfulstudyquest]

❥﹒♡﹒☕﹒ 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲

𝟭. being consistent in journaling ( 🪻 )

i have recently started journaling more consistently and would like to maintain this line. i tried several times to start, failing miserably, because i couldn't find a method that would keep me motivated for a long time. then i purchased the famous five minutes gratitude journal, which is much easier to keep, and which i manage to update almost every day because by simply having to answer the pre-set questions my brain doesn't experience it as a commitment, unlike writing a diary page. alongside the fmj i have another diary with blank pages that i use as a proper diary, writing my reflections, talking about my day, complaining about negative things and stuff like that. i must say that it's therapeutic. i hope this is the right time i can maintain consistency in writing.

𝟮. having a more balanced diet ( 🍋‍🟩 )

i admit i've been eating like shit lately, a lot of sweets and processed foods alternated with periods of fasting due to guilt with the excuse of not having enough time to cook among the thousand things to do. i want to seriously commit to investing some of my time each week into preparing healthy, homemade meals (i could share some recipes here if you want, lmk) that keep me energized and don't ruin my hard work at the gym by adding empty calories to my diet.

𝟯. being consistent in the gym ( 🍄 )

and then obviously going to the gym at least 3 times a week, not really due to a matter of weight/aesthetics, but to cultivate discipline and focus. i believe that physically venting stress is the best and healthiest way to handle the crushing weight of life lately. sometimes i simply need to unload my energy without throwing a fit and risking venting it on someone who has nothing to do with it.

𝟰. reading at least 10 pages per day ( 📚 )

i love reading. i love reading madly, but i also know that i often find a thousand excuses not to do it. my brain fried by social media and zombie scrolling doesn't like the idea of concentrating on printed pages at all and i always put off reading all those books placed on my shelf gathering dust. i haven't read a book in months, so the time has come to break this bad habit and take back my greatest passion. i won't even mention all the benefits of reading, because only one book can give you so much in such a short time.

𝟱. sleep at least 8 hours ( ☕ )

i think my lack of sleep has a psychological component, but i'm no expert so what i say may not actually make any sense. i sleep little, much less than i need, when i was in high school i finished studying very late at night (past 3am) every day because i was so dependent on academic validation that the idea of getting a slightly lower grade than my usual could make me throw up. the thing is, i always delay going to sleep, even though my body is begging me to do so, and i think it's due to an inherent fear that the next day i'll have to go through it all over again. consequently in the morning i'm a wreck and i have to drag myself out of bed, being 30% as productive as i actually could be. i think it's time to work on my sleep schedule much more seriously, i think it could boost my health a lot.

𝟲. spend 15min in the sun every day ( ☀️ )

as a woman i know how important it is to be in the sun to produce vitamin D, unfortunately for me i'm some kind of goblin vampire who can't stay in the sun for more than five minutes without getting sunburned – on top of that my eyes start to water when the light too strong. i'll arm myself with sunscreen and give my body what it needs, hoping i won't get arthritis in my forties.

let me know in the comments what are YOU planning to improve in the near future <3

#academia #college #education #note taking #school #student #study aesthetic #study blog #study inspiration #study motivation #study notes #study tips #studyblr #studyinspo #studyspo #university life #university student #university #working on myself #self improvement #self care #self love

[bripops]

Right now, the northeast is at really high risk for flooding so here's a friendly reminder from someone who learned the hard way:

CHECK YOUR RENTER’S INSURANCE FOR WATER DAMAGE COVERAGE

You will be shocked by how little a standard policy covers when it comes to water and/or flood damage.

Flood insurance almost always requires a completely separate policy managed by the National Flood Insurance Program (NFIP) under the scope of FEMA. You can get it as a renter, but it usually involves calling a local agent because it’s highly regional and takes a lot of different variables into account. NEVER assume the person you’re renting from has adequate coverage. Even if they have homeowner’s insurance, it probably doesn’t extend to renters’ belongings.

While you’re at it, MAKE SURE YOUR POLICY COVERS WATER BACKUP. This is different from flood insurance. A lot of basic policies only cover water damage from appliance malfunctions, like a washing machine overflowing. Coverage for water backing up out of a drain or sewer often costs extra (in my experience not more than a few extra bucks per month) and has to be opted into, it’s not included.

Doing this will save you.

Last December, after three days of nonstop pouring rain, the drainage system outside an entrance to the house we were renting just couldn’t handle the volume anymore and water started pouring in under the door. We used everything we had to try to slow it down, and we were up all night using a wet vac we borrowed from a neighbor to try to contain hundreds of gallons of rainwater. I will never forget the mounting horror as I realized the water wasn’t going to stop until the rain did. It's not like a plumbing issue or dishwasher malfunction where you can cut off the source.

We were lucky, and the rain tapered off by the next morning. The layout of our living room meant that most of our stuff was away from the door, and we were able to bail water fast enough that very little ended up being a total loss and nothing important was damaged. We did, however, need to take our dog and get a hotel for a week, and ended up having to find a new place to live in five days (the week before Christmas, while recovering from COVID) because the damage needed so much renovation that moving was pretty much the only option.

Our renter’s insurance covered nothing. Even without a NFIP policy, I was able to confirm with the insurance company that our claim would have been approved if we’d opted into the water backup coverage, because the rainwater was coming out of the overwhelmed drain. We could have replaced the stuff we lost, and probably a bunch of stuff we had to work really hard to salvage. That particular policy would have covered some of the moving costs too, and they would have paid for temporary accommodations for us. (once again we were extremely lucky, and the hotel costs got reimbursed as a courtesy because they took longer to make a decision than they were supposed to)

Renter’s insurance is not expensive. The tricked out policy I got for our new place with every add-on they offer runs me less than $30/month. It would have covered thousands of dollars of expenses that we’re still trying to crawl out from under more than six months later. In an ideal world you will never need to use it, but if you do, IT. WILL. SAVE. YOU.

I am by no means an expert, and can really only speak from my experience so if someone who knows more about this wants to chime in, please do! Keep in mind that all of this is going to vary significantly depending on which insurance company you use and your specific policy. Just please, for the love of god, get renter's insurance if you don't have it already, and read every page of the policy so you know what's covered and what you might need to opt into. Do it now, because shit like this

isn't going to wait.

#PSA #literally that week was one of the most stressful and awful things I've ever experienced #it didn't help that our landlord was extremely shady and didn't respond or help because she was out of the country and didn't care #our city isn't coastal and the problem areas for floods are in the neighborhoods that are on the water next to a big river #we didn't live anywhere near it #I now live on the 11th floor of a professionally managed building at the top of a hill #but my fiancée and I are traumatized to the point that she had a panic attack when our washing machine sprung a minor leak #I remember feeling sick when I saw our kitchen floor mat floating around on the water like a pool float

[dwflanagan]

Image alignment when batch scanning with SilverFast and the Reflecta RPS 10M film scanner

If you’re like me, you read the reviews of the Reflecta RPS 10M scanner and had visions of being able to feed a complete roll of film into the scanner and come back in a couple of hours with a folder full of images.

But then you started working with the SilverFast interface and reading through the documentation, searching YouTube for tutorial videos that weren’t about flatbed scanners, and being baffled by the UI.

It might be helpful, but I didn’t want to pay an additional $30 for an eBook of documentation for an already expensive piece of software. So, I’ve been doing some experimenting to learn how to use the tool.

One of the most initially frustrating challenges was getting the negatives from a film strip to line up. The scanner should be able to detect edges, but using the Overview tool and clicking on “Adjust offset” didn’t seem to do anything. The arrows under each thumbnail shown in the help pages don’t appear in the Overview window.

I finally figured out how I think frame alignment is supposed to work with the RPS 10M:

Start the software

Insert film

Software restarts to use the film feed “holder”

Click Overview and select the images you want to scan. (Blue highlight is selected, no highlight is unselected.)

When completed, click OK

Prescans the first image

When finished, click Overview again

Click Adjust Offset

The mouse pointer changes from a black to a white cursor. This indicates that it is now in Adjust Offset mode.

Click the left edge of the preview image, just inside the black frame border.

Prescans image again.

If you want to confirm the framing, click Overview again.

Click Refresh thumbnails again

Confirm the aligned images are in the thumbnails.

The RPS 10M can’t align individual frames, so SilverFast suggests aligning on an image somewhere in the middle of a filmstrip. If your camera produces variable image spacing, you might run into problems with an entire roll.

(I think a lot of confusion could be avoided with a popup dialog after clicking Adjust Offset, instructing the user to click on the image frame. There could be a “click this box to not show again” once the user understands the workflow.)

Once you have confirmed that the film frames are properly aligned, you can scan:

Set the frame size and resolution. If you want to scan all the frames at 5000 dpi, you may have to use a custom image size (e.g, not A4).

In Preferences, you can turn Perform Auto Frame Detection on, so SilverFast finds the border of the image for each individual frame.

In Preferences, you can also turn Auto frame inset off, if you want the software to try to go to the edge of each image (at the risk of incorporating some of the black frame and biasing the Auto Correction with low values).

Select all the image corrections you want to do on the prescanned image frame.

Long-click on Scan and select Batch Scan. Give it a filename and a sequence number, and SilverFast should use your Auto settings, find each frame, and save the selected frame scans to disk.

If you have SilverFast Ai Studio (which is not required for batch scanning), you can alternatively go to Overview, highlight the images you want, and click Add Selection to add them to the Job Manager, where you can edit the individual frame settings one at a time.

I hope this helps someone else, and please let me know if you think I’ve gotten any of this incorrect.

#photography #scanning #silverfast #rps 10M

[ltenvs3000f23]

Unit 6 Blog Post

“There is no peculiar merit in ancient things, but there is merit in integrity, and integrity entails the keeping together of the parts of any whole, and if these parts are scattered throughout time, then the maintenance of integrity entails a knowledge, a memory, of ancient things. …. To think, feel or act as though the past is done with, is equivalent to believing that a railway station through which our train has just passed, only existed for as long as our train was in it.”

(Edward Hyams, Chapter 7, The Gifts of Interpretation)

Unpack this quote.

Many concepts are being discussed in this quote by Edward Hyams, most notably the ideas of integrity and the importance of history. I believe he is expressing that age alone does not add value to something; however, the integrity surrounding that thing is what contributes to its value. Integrity involves many aspects as well but is mostly centralized around moral and ethical consistency and honesty. It also includes the quality of being whole and undivided, maintaining the essential elements that make up a particular society or other system. Connecting to history, these elements that make up the whole of a system can be spread over time, not just from one era. Lastly, he states that this is also an integral reason why the past is an essential part of sustaining integrity; it shapes who we are today as well as in the future. Throughout our education, there have been many events that we have learned about that have historically had effects that we’ve seen today.

Recently, there was an issue that would have affected us locally if it were pushed through, involving the Greenbelt. The Greenbelt was created in 2005 and provides many important economic and environmental benefits. Some of these include forest protection, protection for species at risk, drinking water quality, and so much more. If you want to learn more about just how important the Greenbelt is for us in Ontario, I recommend you read through their page here (about a 30 second read). Initially, Doug Ford made a promise not to touch the Greenbelt in 2018. However, in November 2022, the Ford government decided to change their mind and remove 7,400 acres from the Greenbelt to use for housing development (Callan and D’Mello, 2023). Taking protected land off of the Greenbelt would have come at the cost of jobs, species, weather management, agriculture, and so on. Lots of controversy was surrounded by this announcement, and rightfully so, as the Greenbelt is an integral part of Ontario.

It is clear that the Greenbelt was created for a reason, or many reasons, for that matter. Although it was created in 2005, expansions have been made ever since to keep the local economy thriving. Growing up in Oakville, I used to go by the creeks many times, especially when I was in elementary school. On one of my field trips in grade 3, my class went to Crawford Lake to explore the Indigenous history of the conservation area. During this trip, we ate cornbread, used snowshoes, and explored the historical area with the help of our tour guide along the way. It was a very fun trip that allowed us to connect with the past and expand our knowledge of Indigenous history and culture. 

However, the biggest reason this field trip stuck with me is how our guide interpreted some of this history. Once it got dark, we gathered around a campfire while he told us the legend of Crawford Lake. Legend has it that on one late winter day, while men were carrying lumber on a horse drawn sleigh over the frozen waters, the ice broke and the horses, sleigh, and lumber fell into the water and sank to the bottom. He then went on to say that legend has it that the horses lie undisturbed at the lake bottom until awakened at sunset, and at that time, any person standing on the shore of the lake may see the glowing red eyes of the horses at the bottom of the lake.

Once we were all a bit frightened and vulnerable, one of his co-workers decided to jump out from the back and scare us. We all found it funny, and it was a great way to talk about the history of the past and interpret it for us when we were quite young.

Overall, it is so crucial to continuously recognize our past and not dismiss it. It is an important step in preserving the integrity of our local areas, such as the Greenbelt and the Crawford Lake conservation area, which is located within it.

This was a long post, so thank you for reading it!

References

Beck, L., Cable, T.T., & Knudson, D.M. (2018). Interpreting Cultural and Natural Heritage For a Better World. Sagamore-Venture Publishing.

[orphancookie69]

Real Estate: Dreams, Dead Lines, and Continuing Education!

Real Estate runs in the blood, in the stars, and it makes life interesting. I am currently licensed and renewing my Salesperson License. Here a tune plays in my head: “let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start”. I posted this to a previous business blog, but I got into Tumblr as a way to continue marketing and marketing like activities despite the burnout from the marketing business. But enough about marketing, let’s talk Real Estate!

2017

7/2017: First attempt to learn the courses needed to get my Real Estate exam after I quit my W2 job and started to focus more on my/partners business becoming self employed.

2018

7/2018: Did not complete the courses in time and re enrolled.

7/2018-10/2018: Finished course 1 of 3

10/2018-11/2018: Finished course 2 of 3

11/2018-12/2108: Finished course 3 of 3

2019

1/2019: Enrolled in crash course

2/2019: Applied/Qualified for Examination

3/2019: Studied and Scheduled Exam

3/15/19- Realty Pro 100’s newest agent!

Stats:

9+ Months

4 Books Read

1,700+ Pages Read

63 Quizzes taken

2,990 Questions

4 Certificates

$600+ Total Costs (So Far)

= 1 Salesperson License!

This is normally where I would be like, “Look at all the free time I have and how much money I have made!” But working for yourself, especially in this capacity-means you have no check unless you finish a deal. So between that taking up more time than you would think, and working with a partner-I sadly can not tell you how much that license has paid off for. I am glad to be licensed and do work that needs a license, as I was doing it without one at one time. I also know I would not spend enough time with my partner if I did not work with them, so in that regards also worth it. 

“Life ain’t about what you do, it’s who you do it with”

Fast forward to 4 years later and we are in 2023! My license is up for renewal, or I could go for my Brokers License? If I got my Brokers license, I would be the Broker of Record for my partners property management company. But to do that, I have to prove I have been actively working the last couple of years. Most agents when they do a transaction-have their name on it. I work with my partner, so his name is on any transaction I have ever done. So I will keep my renewal simple and just renew my Salesperson license. 

Something that shocked me is the amount of...options? Videos? E Books? Books? and then....like 7 different Continuing Education options? Implicit Bias and Expanded Fair Housing were automatic inclusions, thank you soft society. I decided to go with the Property Management one, and away we go!

2023: 

2/2023: Started the continuing education with First Tuesday. 

Stats: 

45 Hours of studying (25 hours of Landlords, Tenants, and Property Management; 2 hours of implicit bias, 3 hours of office management and supervision, 3 hours of Agency, 3 hours of Fair Housing, 3 hours of Trust Funds, 3 hours of Ethics, 3 hours of Risk Management)

2 books read

580+ pages read

30 quizzes taken, 9 Exams

300+ questions

1 certificate

$59.15+ Extra Costs! (Only +$245 to renew it for another 4 years...)

= Renewed Salesperson License!

My reactions were either: (this is a law?) or (that’s how that works!) or (I give up on California). Fun fact, did you know if you have x amount of years of experience being licensed, plus turn 70 years old...after 70 you don’t have to do any more continuing education? So, assuming nothing majorly changes, I have one renewal down and about 10 more to go? 

Did you know that I am actually a 3rd Generation Real Estate Professional? My Grandmother did and does it, to this day, with the help of my sister and uncle. My mom did it, she used to be the agent while her 2nd husband was the loan guy-I was the person that helped put up signs for open houses. And then there’s me. In a business/personal relationship with an Investor who has his brother help with property management, whose momma used to do loans, whose brother’s GF does escrow, whose best friend is a contractor. I don’t know why I thought I would get away from the real estate side of things, unless of course I got into cars instead! Did I mention, we are also a car family? Vroom Vroom!

#rant #real estate #sales person #license #realty pro 100 #legacy #family #brokers associate #work #pixabay #escrow #property management #marketing #investment

[luisaborgesborges]

Photo food project #1

I have started a photo food project. No, I have not come up with a better name for it.

It's an attempt to reconnect with food, cooking, photography and also reading.

Thing is: I have many cook books. I rarely cook recipes from them. I read, find ideas, get inspired, learn techniques and then mostly I just wing it in the kitchen. I don't believe I have actually followed a recipe exactly as written or taught in a video. Ever. Still, the few times I have done something similar have granted me incredible results.

The other thing is: cooking is a form of expression - an art. And such as most art forms, it is psychological and defined by who we are as people, which includes our limitations, our fears and our beliefs.

That being said, for me at least, cooking a recipe exactly (or almost) as it was written is an act of connecting and taking risk - taking a chance. Also, seriously leaving my comfort zone. Whatever that means.

Yes, okay, it sounds ridiculous but my personality makes me stick to what's familiar sometimes. These days, this has been happening a lot. Perhaps it's because my life has been changing drastically in so many ways and sensitivity is heightened, so messing up a recipe can be disastrous for the mind.

Finally, I made up this project to try and change that. No pressure. Very few rules.

Rule number one: at least try to look for all ingredients needed and do not cast out something just because it must be hard to find or because I'll buy it, use once and never again. It's okay, everything can be frozen or given away.

Rule number two: the recipe (or recipes) must be from a book I enjoy, from a Chef I enjoy

Rule number three: I must photograph the final result.

With this in mind, I went on my quest to find recipes that caught my attention on my favorite books: Carosella, Nigella, Ramsay and Ottolenghi.

My favorite was Ottolenghi - for this week.

Yotam Ottolenghi is a nice, talented gay. I love that. He was born in Israel, and his recipes are so middle eastern, but at the same time so easy to understand - easy on the eyes. I got to know about him on YouTube, and the focus on the vegetables, the colors and the balance of taste really got me hooked. I also like that he is so professionally trained. It's worth looking up.

Later, on a different day, I decided to cook for two friends. Considering their preferences and the fact that one of them is a vegetarian, I chose two recipes from Ottolenghi's book.

Fig salad

Tagliatelle with nuts and lemon

Also, a very Brazilian pudding for dessert, but that was off the agenda for this particular project.

The scheduled date was a Monday, and I admit I haven't had much work, so I went to the Central Market at lunch. I promised I would look for the ingredients with intention, and not just order online, which was already a step forward.

The idea was wonderful, as was the execution - until I remembered something I should have done before and my mind was off the rails.

Still, it was an enjoyable experience. The talk about how much I love walking in that place will be left for another day, or else I will write fifty pages.

Details to be corrected: go buy ingredients on a free day, and take pictures at the market next time.

Amazing discoveries: it's finally fig season! My favorite fruit!

Well, technically, a fig is not a fruit, but an inflorescence (a cluster of many flowers and seeds contained inside a bulbous stem).

My favorite inflorescence! How special.

I managed to buy them cheaper and much bigger. They have much more character this time of year - I can already imagine the many recipes. Figs match with absolutely anything. The possibilities are endless.

Also, you can buy sage in smaller quantities. "You want a lot or a little?" - the man asked, thankfully.

"I need ten!" - I exclaimed, happy that I wouldn't have to throw away an unusual ingredient (no, I have never cooked with sage before) - to which he responded by ignoring me and taking at least 30 small leaves. Well, better than one hundred.

The recipe said "ten small skinny sage leaves" - success!

I also saw a man wearing a plastic bottle as a mask there. Damn, should have really brought my camera.

At home, after finishing a difficult spreadsheet on energy intensities in residential buildings in the United States, I went on to clean, keep and store the ingredients bought.

The recipes chosen weren't too time consuming - it was a Monday after all - and the mise en place was incredibly simple. I took my time, though, properly roasting my black pepper corns, smelling them, and waiting for them to cool before restocking my grinder. Everyone should experience this in life. Fresh, roasted peppercorns are the best for the senses and for inspiration.

I changed the type of pasta last minute - the tagliatelle I bought at the market was ridiculously big - Brazilians are not Italians - and I quickly realized that it wasn't appropriate for that type of sauce so I decided to use a bag of penne I had lying around.

I feel so competent when I make quick, informed decisions that end up being life savers.

I burnt the hazelnuts the first time - timing things is difficult.

For the most part, though, everything came out as planned.

Amazing discoveries: sage butter is really good! I never thought. See? This project is already working - I would have never made sage butter for pasta before this.

Ottolenghi uses lemon zest and lemon juice in most of his recipes, and seriously - good idea. Lemon elevates foods in an inexplicable way. Also something everyone should try once or twice, or all the time. Lemon brings sourness and umami, but is also very versatile. You wouldn't put balsamic vinegar in everything, but for lemon you absolutely can.

Also, parsley. I never used it before. It's good, I have to admit. It's leafy and very versatile as well. It clumped up in the sauce in a marvelous way. This man is a genius.

Another discovery: heavy cream is not bad for me as much as normal cream is. Good to know. I was happy it was used in moderate amounts in this recipe, anyway, because cream can honestly ruin many things, if not used properly.

Roasting our nuts should always be a priority - even if I did not buy my nuts completely raw as the recipe called for (I'm sorry, master).

The end result was incredible. I am usually my toughest critic but this aromatic pasta dish was executed almost to perfection - only a bit more oily than I would prefer. I had to find a flaw.

Anyway. Here it goes.

Lucious, creamy, full of peppers and so - so aromatic. Thank you, sage. Thank you, Ottolenghi. Thank you, myself.

For the salad, honestly, I should have made more sauce because I decided to use too much lettuce. Lettuce wasn't on the recipe, by the way. Oops.

Still, it came out good and one of my friends really loved it. Balsamic vinegar was involved, so perfect. I could drink balsamic from the bottle for breakfast everyday, that's how good it is. Just saying.

Lesson learned: Chefs do know what they're doing! I've always known this, but my fear stops me from finding out just how much. It's an act of respect for a Chef and a book writer to follow their recipe as best as you can. They have created those combinations and it is all an expression of who they are.

Bringing that into my own kitchen, the way it should be, is an ode to someone I admire. That's the way I see it.

Hardest thing to get right in this scenario: photography.

The photos here are actually here because of a serious mind bend on my part. They are not what I consider my best. It's an effort to let go of perfection for a project I know will be good for me.

Food photography is not all glamour - it's hard to leave food getting cold as you try to find the best angle. Also, I mostly cook at night and well, I don't have a good enough artificial light set up for the pictures to come out just right. Guess I'll have to fix that.

Food always reflects light in weird ways - and I mean always. So it's difficult by nature. When I'm hungry, it's worse.

Next time, I will think about photography before thinking about food. Leave the perfect set up ready and then cook.

Still, I should get ready for failure. This journey isn't about perfection, it's about connection.

Which means I'm happy with the results.

See you next time.

[angelsfalling16]

Signs that you're in love with the prince of England:

[This has been sitting in the notes app on my phone for over a year bc I kept forgetting to format and post it]

Reminiscent of the Signs that you’re in love your roommate post that I made a few years ago

On Page 7: the first time you talk about him, you mention him jerking off (okay, I will admit this one is a bit of a stretch, but I'm just getting started)

On Page 10: you imagine "twirling around a ballroom while [he] drones sweet nothings" in your ear (and blush about it!)

On Page 11: you liken him to Prince Charming (another stretch)

On Page 14: you spend half the page describing him in quite complimentary terms (”infuriatingly symmetrical"? Really, Alex?)

On Page 14: you get upset thinking that his dancing with your sister has something to do with you

On Page 15: you clearly remember the first time you really saw him

On Page 16: you used to sneak into your sister's room to touch his hair in a picture

On Page 16: you imagined taking said picture and keeping it in your room

On Page 16: you say he's beautiful

On Page 18: you get defensive and upset when he insinuates that you may be obsessed with him

On Page 19: you delight in the glimpse of his personality

On Page 19: in all the wreckage, you manage to see a small cut on his cheek out of the corner of your eye

On Page 30: you already know everything about him from "hate reading" his Wikipedia page

On Page 36: you describe him poetically. Or really, the way you describe him in that entire page. His hands, his eyes...

On Page 43: you say he's fresh and handsome and his hair looks soft

On Page 43: you say he is annoyingly attractive (and are so distracted you almost don't hear a question you're being asked (on television!!)

On Page 48: you enjoyed that slightly erotic fight you just had with him

On Page 50: you remember the first time you met him "down to the Union Jack on [his] anorak"

On Page 53: one of the first things you say after giving him your number is "no booty calls"

On Page 59: Luna doesn't believe that you're not into the prince

On Page 59: you stared at a photo of him for an hour

On Page 71: you have a stupid smile every time you look at your phone while texting him

On Page 73: you know he's frowning at his phone

On Page 77: you text him every day

On Page 80: you imagine him killing you sensually (yeah, I'm reaching again but this page is great)

On Page 82: you get a big smile at something he says

On Page 83: You're still smiling

On Page 91-92: You tell him about all your family drama/baggage

On Page 95: your sister compares your relationship with him to fake dating turned falling in love trope

On Page 96: you feel warm and nervous when your sister says you like him

On Page 98: you think he has a beautiful face

On Page 99: you really like him

On Page 101: you find him endearing

On Page 102: you feel a strange spark in your gut at the way he's watching you

On Page 103: you feel giddy when he gets jealous of you dancing with someone else

On Page 106: You're thinking about absorbing some of the "much" for him to help him

On Page 108: you don't mind kissing him

On Page 108: kissing him is nothing like kissing anyone you've ever kissed before

On Page 109: you can't stop thinking about the kiss

On Page 113: you think about him and something twists in your chest

On Page 113: You're so caught caught up in thinking about his body that you trip and skin your knee

On Page 114: you've wanted to kiss him this entire time

On Page 115: You're always thinking about him, no matter how hard you try to distract yourself

On Page 120: You're Draco Malfoy level obsessed with him and have been for years

On Page 120: you long-distance flirt with him every day

On Page 120: basically everything that Nora is saying on this page about you...

On Page 124: you get pissed when you see him kissing someone else, before you calm down enough to think it through logically

On Page 129: You're into his British accent

On Page 132: you feel lit up with a feeling that has probably always been there

On Page 135: you have to remind yourself that you don't have feelings for him

On Page 145: you have to remind yourself not to care too much

On Page 158: You're kind of obsessed with him

On Page 159-160: after seeing a picture of him, your heart does a weird thing (that definitely isn't a whole thing)

On Page 160: You're just as attracted to his dark moods as the rest of them

On Page 172: you open up to him about things you don't say to anyone else

On Page 183: your migraine "demands soothing images of Henry looking cozy and picturesque”

On Page 198: you've never met a challenge you didn't live, and he is a challenge

On Page 199: you know all his ticks

On Page 200: you wish you could wake up with him and watch him get ready for the day every morning

On Page 219-220: he plays "Your Song" and you have to tell yourself that you aren't there to fall in love with him

On Page 227: he's the one you want to call when you're going through a rough time

On Page 234: it wouldn't make a difference if you were told not to see him again

On Page 243: even after everything that has happened, you still feel like you want to know more of him

On Page 257: You're "so in love [you] could die"

At this point he's finally admitted it, and I could have stopped but decided to keep going:

On Page 257: you've been falling in love with him for years

On Page 263: you try to tell him you love him

On Page 266-267: for a full week, you go crazy after he ghosts you

On Page 267-270: you fly to a whole other country to confront him and won't leave until he lets you in

On Page 271: you tell him you love him. Twice.

On Page 277: you feel something about him knowing how you like your coffee

On Page 283: you've been thinking about how a relationship with him would work since that first time he kissed you

On Page 291: you refer to him as one of your homes

On Page 302-303: you make a list of things you love about him

On Page 312: you're willing to risk ruining your life for him

On Page 312: you're never gonna love anyone else like you love him

On Page 328: you feel forever about him. and you've known it all along

On Page 344: you love him on purpose

#i really want to reread this book again now #rwrb #red white and royal blue #casey mcquiston #firstprince #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #my post #snowbaz #carry on #book quotes

[songbirdstyles]

screw my brain (’till it hurts)

summary: you and harry are spies on an assignment to pretend to be a married couple in order to take down a drug trafficking ring. the only problem? you two can’t stand each other.

warnings: smut (18+), hate sex, knifeplay, breathplay (choking), slapping, fingering, phone sex (sort of); enemies to lovers, one bed, fake dating 

song inspo.: death on two legs (dedicated to ...) - queen / back chat - queen / you’re so vain - carly simon

word count: 19.5k 

You can practically feel Harry’s anger simmering beside you, and you’re tired of it.

He’s been acting like a child since you got on the plane, his eyes narrowed and venomous and steam practically blowing out of his ears as though he’s on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum, and you’re sure if looks could kill you’d be dead a million times over again from all the staredowns he’d been trying to initiate. And you’re used to this, for the most part, but it doesn’t make you feel any less annoyed as he huffs beside you, flicking through the file on his lap.

And - look. You don’t like Harry. You can hardly even tolerate him, most of the time, and the only times you manage to be near him without gagging is when you’re on missions. Usually he’s the same way, pushing aside the mutual disdain you’ve shared from day fucking one when there’s goals to be accomplished and targets to take down but he’s just sitting here like an angry log, thumbing noisily through papers as you swipe through your phone.

He’s looking for attention, Mark would tell you - your boss is the epitome of coolness, desperate for you and Harry to get along because of his tendency to force you together on missions - and that is true. You’re just as pissed as he is and you aren’t making a show of it. No, he’s an attention seeking crybaby, and you won’t give him what he craves. Won’t even look at him.

The plane dips a bit, then, and your stomach lurches, grabbing at the armrest in between you two where Harry’s elbow rests, and he jerks it into his side as though you’d burned him. You scoff, then, the pretense of faking casualness abandoned as fast as you’d stuck to it, and you can sense him rolling his eyes at the noise.

“For Fuck’s sake,” you huff, leaning to the side so you can stare at him as you roll your eyes pointedly, and he mimics the movement. “What are you so whiny about?”

“M’not whiny,” Harry insists in a tone that’s strikingly similar to the whine he claims he doesn’t have, and you sigh before reaching over, snatching the file off of his lap. “Hey - I was readin’ that!”

“Really?” you inquire, shifting so your back is to the man next to you and he can’t read the words on the page you’re squinting at. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought you were just sitting there huffing and rolling your eyes like a baby.” After a moment where he doesn’t respond, you risk a glance backwards and are met with the back of his head full of curls as he stares out the window at the passing sunset as you whiz through the sky. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, hmm? Did Mark not put enough into the budget for hair gel and dirty shoes?”

“Oh, shut up,” he says in a wildly mature way of response, and you can hardly resist the urge to smirk at it. “F’the record, m’mad that I have t’do another mission with you.”

You nod, trailing your finger along the line of words detailing aspects about the target you know you’ll have to utilize later - he has four cats. He and his wife are on the brink of divorce. He has two daughters, and he doesn’t speak to either of them. His name is Vincent Carfield, and, boy, does he sound like a real catch - you’re so focused on reading about him that you hardly register that Harry’s started speaking again.

“Wish Mark would realize m’good enough to do shit like this on my own. Don’t need you t’come around an’ pretend to be my - my girlfriend. S’stupid.”

“Well, if you were good enough, I would be at home with cucumbers on my eyes right now instead of reading about the leader of a drug trafficking ring -”

“God, you’re a bitch -”

“And you’re an asshole -”

“Fuck you - m’calling Mark.”

You snort, leaning back in your seat as Harry fumbles in his bag at his feet for his tablet, and he shakily sets it up on his lap, tapping through the screen until he gets to the FaceTime app. “Real mature, Har, going to tattle to Mark.”

“God, not everything’s about you, narcissist - half hour out, need a debrief.”

You crane your neck to lean in front of him and look out the window, and - sure enough - you can already tell that you’re getting closer, plane dipping slowly lower and it wouldn’t be perceptible to you if he hadn’t told you. Harry’s always been a tad bit more observant than you, though you wouldn’t confess that to him if your life depended on it.

Mark answers Harry’s call within mere seconds - he’s always on high alert when you guys call, especially when you’re off on missions together - part of you suspects he’s always waiting for a call that one of you killed the other. “Hello, lovebirds,” he chirps, the pure image of relaxation as he adjusts his tie, shifting in his seat - you and Harry both roll your eyes at his nickname for the pair of you. “Surprised to see you haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out.” “Wish I did,” you mutter beneath your breath, and Harry glares at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Anyway,” Mark says, and you know he heard what you said judging from the ghost of a smile on his pale face, but he brushes past it. “When you land, you’ll have around an hour to get settled into the hotel before dinner. I’ve sent you the address to the restaurant - the target is eating there with his wife, most likely to discuss their divorce, so he’ll be feeling vulnerable and insecure -” “And that’s where I come in,” you finish, trailing your nail across the fine printed page which holds the plans the three had deliberated over for two weeks prior - compared to most of your missions it was an extraordinarily short amount of time to plan but none of you could foresee this one going anything other than disgustingly easy. If you pull through, you could be home by the end of the weekend.

“And that’s where you come in,” Mark affirms, thick rimmed glasses mirroring the image of you and Harry that he’s seeing on his screen. “Find any way to touch him - pretend to trip - and plant the audio tracker on his jacket.” You nod, and Harry drops his head against the seat with a soft sigh that nearly makes you turn and throttle him but you hold back, fingers tensing as though itching for a throat to grab. “Then you guys go back to the hotel, hold back from slaughtering each other, and listen in - he’s staying at the room next to yours.”

If this situation were occurring a year ago in your first few weeks of working as a spy perhaps you’d marvel at the seeming coincidence of Mark just happening to get you a hotel room right next to your target - but your one-year anniversary working has just come up and, as it so happens, you know he can make just about anything happen by pulling the right strings. And staying in the same hotel, on the same floor, is the perfect talking point for dinner - you’re already storing it in the back of your mind to bring up in conversation when you manage to get the tracker on his jacket -

“ - and, look, guys, I know you don’t particularly like each other,” Mark is saying when your attention snaps back to him, and Harry snorts. It’s the understatement of the century - you almost want to laugh with him. “It’s just really important that you sell yourselves as a couple. I don’t care what you have to do - share a drink or hold hands - but he needs to see you as a couple. All of his mistresses have been seemingly happily married - he’ll be more inclined to get closer with ____ if he sees you’re in a good relationship. Then, Harry, of course, can explore his hotel room - snuff out anything suspicious.”

You nod but Harry seems less convinced - his brow arches as his arms cross over his chest, and you glance over at him with confusion written over your features. “M’confused,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows. “She’s gonna fu - have an affair wit’ him, then?”

God, we fucking talked about this, you want to shout at him, to shake his shoulders until he’s dizzy. If you paid attention while we planned instead of sitting there whining that you don’t go on missions by yourself because nobody goes on missions by themselves unless they’ve been here for nearly 10 years and you’ve barely scraped three -

Mark is more patient. He just shrugs, fingers tapping away at the keyboard connecting to his screen. “Maybe - maybe not. Depends how vulnerable she can get him without resorting to sexual means.”

“Don’t think I’ll have a problem with that,” you can’t resist saying, popping the ‘p’ in problem as you smugly smirk, scratching your nails against the smooth paper you’d been reading as Harry glares at you, seemingly affronted. “Only had to resort to getting down and dirty with a target once - that asshole mob boss - everyone else is just dying to tell me their juicy little secrets. Guess it’s a perk at being good at what you do, right, Har?”

“Oh, you’re such a -”

“Children, children,” Mark interrupts the beginning of Harry’s speech about what a cunt you are, holding up his age-worn palms with mock exasperation as he stares the two of you down. “Stay civil. I’ve just booked your reservation at this Italian restaurant called Fucina’s - it’s for 7, under Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson. Vincent Carfield and his wife have a reservation for 7:30 but have a tendency to arrive early. They requested seating in a more private area, as did I, so you should be able to hear their conversations -”

The conversation rolls on for another few minutes until the pilot announces that you’re landing in ten, and that’s Mark’s cue to sign off - with a fleeting inquiry about any questions the pair of you may have he’s gone, wishing you good luck and making you promise to call him after dinner once you’ve set up the tracker and begun listening to your mark. You don’t suspect you’ll forget to - you and Harry generally can’t be in an enclosed environment together for too long without having overwhelming desires to take each other out, and Mark balances you out. Eases the two of you, calms you down, even when you’re so angry at Harry you want nothing more than to stamp your feet on the ground and scream.

It’s how you feel now, a bit, as Harry shuts his tablet and shoves it back into his bag with a dramatic huff after Mark has signed off. He’s angry about something again, surely relating to you and the mission and how he constantly feels snubbed by Mark but, truthfully, as the plane dips lower and lower to the Earth, you find that you really, really, don’t care.

 ~~

 The hotel room is, for all intents and purposes, fairly large. It’s nicer than a significant portion of the ones you two inhabit on missions and you should be grateful, toeing off your boots in the entrance of the suite, that it has a functioning kitchen and a bathroom with a door that closes and an L shaped couch facing the television (based on the description of the suite Mark had sent), but your mood has been entirely soured by Harry’s sore attitude during the drive from the airport to the hotel.

He drops his suitcase against the carpeted ground of the entrance, and it slams onto the ground so close to your sock-covered toes that you jump back, glaring at him as he pointedly ignores you and descends further into the hotel room, peeking his curly head into the kitchen and the bathroom. You watch him as you rest your suitcase against the wall, nudging his closer to the wall with your foot before following him, already tugging your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check for any new texts from your boss when -

“You’ve got t’be fucking kidding me.”

You arch your eyebrows, tilting your phone into your chest as you turn the corner into the main living area. And it’s nice, eyes wandering over the couch that Mark had told you about, and the TV mounted to the wall with a Roku connected to it that you’re sure you’ll take advantage of later tonight. The carpet is soft beneath your feet even through your socks, and the bed is nicely made, pillows fluffy and looking soft -

Bed.

Shit.

What a bastard, Mark is - booking a room with only one bed? And not even telling you two about it? God, you could kill him. You really could, and you will, as soon as you get back to headquarters and see his stupid bald head in person - you’ll throttle him. Or shoot him. Hell, you’ll even stab him.

“You’re taking the couch,” you tell Harry, and before he can protest you take a running start to leap onto the bed, plopping onto your back and tucking your arms beneath your scalp. “Looks real comfy, doesn’t it? The bed - not the couch. Couch looks like it’ll kill your back.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry practically snarls, voice all venom and teeth, and he sits at the edge of the bed anyway, hands going up to loosen at the black tie wrapped tight around his neck. “So entitled - I’ll take the fucking bed. Been here longer than you, y’know - just ‘cause y’like t’act like you’re so good -”

“And yet,” you interrupt, bringing your foot up to kick at his side, and he turns around and glares at you, “I’m the one getting put on assignments with you, even though I’ve hardly been here a year. Oh, yeah, what’s that Mark told us? I was put on duty the quickest than anyone else after finishing my assignments?” You screw up your eyes as though trying to fact check yourself before nodding, smiling at the positively hateful expression on your partner’s face. “Guess I am good.”

He opens his mouth to reply and perhaps he assumes better of it - he simply rolls his eyes, pulling his tie off of his neck and dropping it on the ground beside him. For a moment you simply stare at him as he peels his jacket off, littering it on the floor in a similar fashion as his tie, until he’s merely donning a white button down and his black dress pants, hair messy and face light red. 

Sometimes you do that - you watch him - because it’s nice to see him look so peaceful and silent when you’re used to spewing hatred back and forth. You could even be into him if he kept his mouth taped shut and promised to never make a single noise, but he would never comply with it - and you’re sure you’d find a reason to get pissed off at him if he didn’t speak.

You hadn’t realized how long you’d been staring at him until he turns around, and your gazes lock, and you lift your eyebrows.

“Don’t stare at me,” Harry demands, backing up on the bed until his head rests on the pillow beside you - you turn your head to stare at him, affronted. “Told you - m’taking the bed. An’ m’gonna take a nap f’a half hour- already set the timer on m’phone - so you can either take the couch or sit here right beside me.”

You push yourself onto your elbows, glaring down at the man beside you who closes his eyes (rather smugly, you’ll add) and mimics your own previous position, arms tucked beside his head. “You dickhead.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Fine by me.”

“I’m gonna nap too -”

“Go ahead -”

“And I stretch out a lot when I sleep.”

“How ever will I handle it?”

You’ve seem to run out of responses, furrowing your eyebrows as Harry’s face settles into an expression of slight comfort and you wonder if he really has gone to bed, resting in the button down shirt and dress pants that he’s always itching to get out of at the end of the day. You’ve had to watch him undress with absolutely no shame in front of your far too many times for comfort, shoved into small hotel rooms together but at least they had two beds - you can hardly control your heart rate as you stare down at him.

(Because you’re angry, of course. Whenever he’s acting like a dumbass your heartbeat quickens to match the pace of a fucking freight train, and that’s nearly every time you’ve ever had to talk to him.)

After a moment you rest back on the bed beside him, head dangerously close to the center of the two pillows where you can feel Harry’s curls, spread upon his pillows, brushing against the sides of your temples. With every feel of his hair against your skin you feel your anger rising, and you exhale softly, pressing your palms to the top of your stomach as you listen to his steady breathing beside you.

He sounds too peaceful.

You wait nearly ten minutes before beginning your plan of attack, not nearly as meticulously planned as the ones you and Harry will employ later - you slowly begin to spread your legs out, feeling your calf brush against his foot, and your arms follow in a similar pattern. They stretch outwards, forearm thrown across his neck, and you can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing against your skin but he doesn’t take the bait - doesn’t even move a muscle, and you can feel his even breathing against your arm.

For a second you wonder if he really is asleep. You’d be surprised.

It’s uncomfortable sleeping on your back and that’s your justification for rolling over onto your stomach, body halfway on top of Harry’s, chest pressed against his and face buried into the pillow beside him so your nose presses into his hair, softly inhaling the fruity shampoo he uses. Your arm lazily throws itself across his torso, leg nudging his until they fall off the bed, and he grunts.

“What th’fuck are y’doing?” Harry questions gruffly, voice just raspy enough to make you consider the very real possibility that he truly had fallen asleep, and you don’t respond. “Get off me, dumbass - tryin’ t’sleep.”

You remain silent. You work on steadying your breathing, faking sleep in the way that you’ve mastered over the past year (and a half, if you count the six months of training you’d done before beginning work) - on one of your earliest missions you’d pretended to be passed out in the back of a work party you’d seduced your way into with a tape recorder taped to your underboob and you’d been able to get enough recording of a conversation between two sleazy old men to support your hypothesis that their paper company was a front for a sex trafficking ring. You suspect this case should be likely the same, albeit easier and likely without the work party, and you’ll breeze through it like nobody’s business if it requires fake sleeping like you’re doing now.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” he correctly deduces, lifting his arm to slam it against your back entirely too hard and you nibble on your bottom lip to keep from making any type of noise at the slight pain the motion brings. “Get off me. Go t’the couch - stop being so stubborn.”

You mumble something incoherent under your breath, digging your face further into your pillow just to hear the way he hisses as you (un)intentionally tug at his hair. You feel his hands dig into your sides and before you can pull off of him he pushes you away with as much force as he can muster, and you’re send tossed to the other end of the bed, grappling at the duvet to stop yourself from slipping over the edge of the bed onto the carpet.

“Fuck,” you hiss, pushing yourself to sit out with your legs stuck straight out in front of you. With a glare directed towards the man opposite you you pull your legs back and push them towards him sharply, kicking him directly in his thigh, and his legs tumble off the bed, forcing him to sit up to maintain his balance. “Take that, dipshit.”

“Can’t you do better than that?” Harry questions, tone so mocking and condescending that you push yourself to his knees just as he rises to stand, the top button of his shirt mercifully coming undone, and you resist the urge to glance at it every so often. “C’mon, babe - if you’re gonna be a bitch -”

You push yourself to stand on top of the covers, taking a leap towards Harry where he stands on the other side of the bed, and your legs hook around his torso, effectively catching him by surprise as his hands immediately land on your waist, tugging you off of him and throwing you onto the bed with an ease that shouldn’t surprise you after this long of knowing him but it still knocks the breath out of you. His body hovers above you, pinning your arms above your head but you won’t have that - hook your legs around the back of his thighs and force him onto his back, throwing your legs over his torso as you mimic the position he’d trapped you in.

“1…” you begin counting tauntingly as you stare down at his face, reaching down to grab his wrists and hold them above his head, watching as he wriggles beneath you, his stomach tensing against your core. “2 … not even gonna put up a fight? What an agent you are -”

He practically growls at that, jerking his hands upward until they slip out of your grasp, nearly whacking you in the chin before he pushes himself up. You’re slammed into the headboard before you can even stop to think of your counterattack, back slamming into the wood as you drop your head forward to ensure you don’t knock your head into the wall, and Harry kneels in front of you with an exasperated, smug smirk, reaching up to press his forearm over your throat.

He’s not pressing hard - not enough to constrict your breathing at all, merely to hold your head in place - and after a second he begins counting just as you had - “1 … 2 … 3.”

You struggle uselessly against him until he reaches the final number, and a satisfied smile etches itself across his face before he pulls away, resting back on his knees to watch you huff before him before he begins crawling off the bed. “An’ I think that means that you, m’lady, have t’take the couch -”

You deliver one final swift kick to the back of Harry’s needs, and he tumbles off of the bed onto the ground with a cry, knees dropping onto the carpet and hands instinctively pressing to the wall he’d nearly slammed his head into. His position becomes one similar to a prayer, dropping his head forward against the wall with a dramatic groan.

“I won,” you tell him, flopping onto your back on the bed with a satisfied hum. “Get on the couch - reckon we still have a good 10 minutes left of our nap.”

Harry pushes himself to his feet in the blink of an eye, turning around with a look on his face that’s so serious you nearly want to double over in laughter, and as he plants his knees on the edge of the bed to resume the fight you’d had earlier, a sudden noise from the wall opposite your bed causes you to hold your palm out to him, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

“Shh!” you hiss, pushing yourself onto your elbows as Harry furrows his eyebrows, craning his neck towards the wall as though it’ll help him hear better. “D’you hear that?”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, pondering the muffled noises coming from the hotel room next door. “Wha’?” Harry questions after a moment, voice hushed and soft, and you wait a moment before responding.

“The shower -” and, sure enough, just as the thought crosses your mind and the words leave your mouth you know that that’s the noise you’re hearing - the sound of water streaming onto the buff body of Vincent Carfield or perhaps his wife - “what time is it?”

“Uh -” Harry scrambles off the bed, digging through his backpack thrown on the ground until he can pull out his tablet, and the light shines on his face as he turns it on. “6:34.”

“Shit,” you hiss, rolling off the bed and practically darting out to the entrance hall where your suitcase rests against the wall, and you knock it to the ground and unzip it quickly. “Vincent’s already getting ready - we need to be at the restaurant soon. How fast can you get ready?”

“Pretty fast -” by the time Harry’s made his way into the entrance hall to dig through the suitcase he’d attempted to hit you with earlier you’ve peeled off your clothes, dropping them in a pile by your feet until you’re clad in only your bra and a pair of lace panties that leave entirely too little to the imagination, holster holding your knife firm against your thigh, and he freezes. “Christ. Can’t y’get a room f’that?”

“Oh, says the one who strips naked in the middle of the room every single night!” You shake your head, digging through your suitcase until you can find the black dress you’d packed specifically for dinner - it’s folded and mercifully wrinkle free, and you unzip the back to begin stepping into it. “Get ready. I’m going to do my makeup.”

“Make sure y’put a lot on - don’t wanna scare him off -”

“Shut up, Harry!”

 ~~

 Fucina’s is dark and fancy, with hosts dressed in all black and waitresses in a similar fashion. You would almost feel out of place, your arm hooked with Harry’s as you’re led through the main dining room towards the back where your table is, but it’s not any more elegant than any of the other expensive restaurants and galas the pair of you have infiltrated together, and with your tight dress and his suit, you look like exactly the couple to eat and afford a restaurant like this.

“The pasta’s $65,” Harry murmurs, trailing his fingertip down the laminated menu that you can hardly see in the dim light of the restaurant. You squint down at the page, bringing your head closer down to confirm that, yes, the fettuccine truly is that fucking expensive, and - not for the first time - you’re immensely grateful for the headquarters-mandated debit cards that you’ll use to pay for this. “Y’see that? The fettuccine?”

“Yeah,” you nod, though you’re not looking at the menu any longer - your eyes scan the restaurant behind Harry’s back, and of the three other tables in the private section Mark had requested for Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson to be in, none of them are occupied except yours. You and Harry had gotten there ten minutes late, much to Mark’s chagrin when you called him in the taxi, and the Carfields still hadn’t arrived. “Think I’m just gonna get a salad - not too hungry, anyway.”

“Me too.”

The conversation drains into a weird sort of silence - not awkward, and not malicious, either, as all of your silences usually are typically the result of one of you purposely ignoring the other. It’s harder to air out your disdain for each other when you’re supposed to be a couple that’s hopelessly in love in a high class restaurant, and you find that you don’t have much else to talk about with your partner besides discussing either the mission or whatever he’s doing that may be pissing you off at the moment -

He actually looks nice right now. Calm, collected - if you didn’t know better you’d say he looks like a pretty stand-up guy. The kind you’d take home to your mom.

“Why are y’lookin’ at me?” Harry questions, then, glancing up at you, and you internally curse at yourself - you always tend to forget how good he is at identifying someone staring at him. 

“Just thinking about how much I prefer you when you aren’t speaking,” you tell him, voice dropping lower as a host clad in black leads an older couple into the area, sitting them at a table towards the window as Harry rolls his eyes. You lift your water glass to your lips, taking a slow sip as you attempt to inconspicuously decipher if the couple is your target -

“You’re being so obvious,” Harry hisses, voice soft like a breath and yet still retaining all the venom his words always tend to hold. “Is it them?”

“No,” you decide, resting your glass back on your coaster as you slide your chair further into the table, foot accidentally kicking his ankle as you do - his face contorts in both annoyance and pain as he repeats the motion to you. “No - Carfield’s wife is young, isn’t she?”

“27.”

“Yeah.” The wife currently settling into her seat, draping her jacket over the back of her chair, is decidedly not 27 - add 50 years, or so. “Not them. They should be here soon, though.” 

“Good.”

In another moment your waitress has come to take your drink orders - you get a bottle of red wine just to hammer in the notion that you’re a young couple on a date night, even if you really prefer white wine, and you’re sure Harry would rather have a beer, but Mark always tells you to go for red when you’re out to dinner on missions. And - well - you’re not necessarily complaining. Wine is wine.

The wine arrives at your table with two tall glasses and Harry takes it to pour with a faux cheerful grin that has the waitress flushing in the dim light of the room - you tell yourself the tinge of jealousy at her clear adoration for the man currently uncorking the bottle to pour for you is simply because of how in character you are in terms of your fake marriage - and if you were someone else, perhaps you’d get angry at her for clearly flirting with Harry, though he doesn’t seem to notice.

Strange. You’d always taken him as the more observant one of the two of you, but he’s paying no mind to the waitress’s blushed face as he pours wine into your glass and she pulls out her notepad, ready to take your order.

“I’ll have the caesar salad, please, without chicken,” you tell her, giving a tight lipped grin as she scribbles it down onto her page. When Harry’s rested the bottle of wine back on the tablecloth-clad table, you reach over and rest your hand overtop of his, feeling his veins jump beneath your touch. “What about you, honey?”

If he’s confused, he doesn’t look it - just gives you a warm smile that feels entirely wrong coming from him, and the waitress looks positively affronted as he orders a large Mediterannean salad, and when she’s tucked her notebook back into the apron tied around her waist and left the private area, he furrows his eyebrows at you.

“Y’jealous?” Harry inquires, leaning his head in with a mocking grin that makes you roll your eyes, though you make no effort to move your hand from his - it looks better for appearances, anyway. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“In your dreams,” you insist, straightening your posture once a different hostess leads a couple into the room. The man is old, bald head shining in the dim light and donning a suit jacket that clearly hasn’t been tailored to his proportions, and his wife is significantly younger, pale face flushed red and wearing a black dress that looks as though she’s attending a funeral - you suppose she is, to some degree, mourning her marriage, so perhaps it’s fitting.

Harry can tell by the way you straighten up that the new couple sitting at the table behind him is the Carfields. Vincent sits with his back to your table, his wife on the opposite side, and immediately they lean their heads together, surely speaking in hushed tones about - prenuptial agreements and custody of their two girls and the like.

You need to be a couple. Mark had insisted on it, that it’s the most important part for you to get closer to Vincent and make him susceptible to your manipulation - he needs to see you as some sort of forbidden fruit - a married woman with a seemingly happy husband. It’s a control thing for him, and one you need to play into if you want to take his drug ring down.

It would sound like an ambitious goal if you weren’t as confident in yourself and Harry - because even if you hate him, he’s a damn good agent.

Your eyes meet Harry’s across the table, and he raises an eyebrow. You nod, jerking your head up and down before wrapping your manicured fingers around the stem of your wine glass, lifting it up and giving your partner a soft smile - one that he’s rarely on the receiving end of, if you’re being truthful - and you nod your chin towards his glass. Harry follows your lead, lifting his glass and raising it to clink against yours.

“Cheers,” he murmurs, and both of you sip from your glasses before resting them back down on your coasters, the rim of your glass decorated with a generous pink stain from your lipstick. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

His voice raises in volume just a bit, and from the table behind him you can see tears fill Mrs. Carfield’s eyes at the sentiment of a happy couple, and Mr. Carfield’s head tilts to the side though you don’t watch him long enough to see if he’d heard Harry - you simply smile - lift your intertwined hands in the air and to anyone else in your private area you’re sure you simply look the perfect part of a happy couple, celebrating their marriage anniversary. Two years together. Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson have been married for longer than you’ve known (and despised) Harry - surely there’s irony hidden in there, deep enough that you can’t see it.

It’s easier than you’d like to admit to fake a meaningful conversation with Harry. Mark generally gives the pair of you a list of things to talk about so people get the impression that you can tolerate each other but you typically don’t even need it - it’s easy enough to talk about your faux plans for the rest of your marriage.

It’s almost fun, even. Not in a way you’d expect - but it’s funny, talking about whatever the pair of you would imagine married couples would discuss - mortgages and trying for babies and politics - keeping your voices loud enough so the couple behind you can hear but quiet enough so it doesn’t seem intentional.

“D’you think we could turn the guest room into a nursery?” Harry inquires, lips quirking upwards as he lifts his wine to his lips, and you nibble on your bottom lip, pretending to contemplate the question.

“Of course,” you respond faux-thoughtfully, leaning forward just a bit, and his eyes flicker downwards for hardly a second before rising to meet your eyes again. “Or perhaps the office.”

“Yes, that’s a bit bigger,” he says seriously, and you nod, reaching for your glass of wine to take another small sip. It’s bitter and leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you’re determined to drink the entire thing - it’ll soothe the nerves that you’re sure will arrive when it’s time to plant the bug on Mr. Carfield. You still haven’t figured out how you’ll manage to do it smoothly. “Then perhaps we could save the guest room for the second.”

You nod, hardly able to keep the small smile off your lips, and Harry leans forward, reaching for the stem of his glass - perhaps he miscalculates the force needed to pick up a glass, or maybe he’s beginning to feel the effects of the first glass of wine he’d downed - but his hand knocks into the glass, sending it toppling forward onto your arms, sticky red liquid coating your skin. You jerk your arms back as though he’d burned you, watching him hiss as he reaches for the glass before it can spill any further onto you or the white tablecloth now stained with redness.

You swallow the urge to snap at him - that’s counterproductive, and it’ll blow your cover - so you merely inhale, willing the anger down as you reach for your napkin to begin to mop up the mess. “Should watch what you’re doing, honey -”

“My bad, darling - didn’t mean to -”

And the moment of you beginning to like Harry is gone as fast as it had begun, feeling the simmering anger that’s ever-present beneath your skin already beginning to bubble into existence. He’s looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if this is your fault that he can’t control his own glass, like you’re the nuisance, and your desire to retort snarkily is thwarted only as Vincent Carfield’s head turns just slightly to the side, and you can see him and his wife watching the pair of you in what’s clearly an attempt to be subtle.

You rest your palms on the table as Harry sets his glass back on the coaster, and you can feel the similar waves of annoyance rolling off of him that you’re sure you’re mirroring. “I’m going to go clean myself up,” you tell him. “Excuse me for a moment, sweetheart.”

“Take your time, princess.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you push your chair back with a tight lipped smile, standing up and resting your napkin on the table before your seat as you push past the table towards the bathroom you’d passed when your host had lead you to the table.

The restrooms are nicely decorated, with large mirrors and sinks and two singular stalls - entirely too fancy for the thoughts racing through your mind as you lean over the sink, turning the faucet on and shoving your sticky arms beneath the flow of warm water. You’d managed to clean most of the wine with your napkin but you still just need - perhaps just a moment to yourself, without Harry’s eyes piercing into you in a way that makes it impossible to feel like he doesn’t want to throttle you.

And you want to throttle him, too. That’s why your relationship works because it doesn’t, because you hate him as much as he hates you - and yet, while you were drinking wine and messing around and pretending to be a couple you didn’t hate him. Not even a bit -

Until he spilled the wine. It’s a forcible reminder of why you want to shave off all of his hair when he sleeps, sometimes.

The water has gone cold on your skin when you finally shut the faucet off, picking up a small stack of paper towels to dry off your arms. When you’ve chucked your trash in the wicker-basket garbage bin you take a moment to simply stare at yourself in the mirror, black dress hugging your body just enough to leave very little to the imagination - you adjust the fabric to hide the bulge where you have your knife holstered to your thigh. The cut of the dress dips low into your cleavage - and then you recall how Harry’s eyes had briefly dipped downwards when you’d been talking earlier -

A smile twitches at your lips. You’ll have to remember to use that one against him later.

Just before you turn to leave you pause - stick your hand down the front of your dress to the small audio device you’d hidden in your bra. The bug is small, barely the size of your pinky nail, one side sticky enough to hold onto Vincent Carfield’s tan suit jacket -

You hadn’t thought too much about how you’d manage to subtly get the device on him, but there’s no time like the present, is there?

You leave the bathroom, then - nearly run into your waitress as she stares down at her notepad, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining the dirty look she shoots you - and climb the two short steps it takes to get to the private area you’d been seated in. Harry’s back faces you, curls looking particularly messy and head dropped forward to surely stare at his phone, and you can see Vincent leaning in to talk to his wife with narrowed eyes and a hushed tone.

You inhale and begin your walk over to the table, heels clicking on the tiled floor, and Harry’s head tilts to the side as he hears you coming. Vincent’s eyes rise to meet yours just as your heel slides a bit on the floor and you slip forward right beside their table, and the plan falls into action just as you’d planned in the thirty second walk it had taken to get from the bathroom to here.

Vincent’s arm sticks out instinctively to catch you, wrapped around your stomach for just a moment too long as his other hand rests on your back, and you use the opportunity to reach up and grab his shoulder as a way to steady yourself. Harry jerks around in his seat to watch you, and the concern in his eyes almost makes you revive your brief moment of liking him but it’s overpowered by the pride you feel - if he can’t immediately snuff out that the fall was a fraud, then it had clearly looked realistic enough that the Carfields wouldn’t be able to tell, your hand with the bug pressing to his shoulder

Boom. Planted. Your grip presses the bug against the back of his shoulder as he helps you to your feet, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes trail up your body - his poor wife looks affronted at the clear display of attraction.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” you apologize, trailing your finger down his arm as he drops his hands back to the table. “I’m so clumsy sometimes -”

“No worries,” he assures you, and perhaps he would seem like a kind, well-adjusted man if it weren’t for the way his eyes zero in on your chest like a magnet - Harry shifts in his seat, watching the two of you, and his wife picks up her glass of wine and downs it in one sip. “Always glad to help a pretty girl in need.”

A blush works its way up your cheeks and before you can flirt back - it raises bile in the back of your throat to do it - Harry intervenes, leaning forward with a goddamn award winning smile and absolutely stomping on your chance to ensure some sort of relationship with Mr. Carfield as he says, “Did she wrinkle your suit at all? We’ll get the laundry bill, if she did.”

You grind your teeth together through a smile as Vincent shakes his bald head, sending Harry a warm smile which your partner gladly reciprocates. “It’s fine - are the two of you married?”

Didn’t he hear you two loudly celebrating your anniversary? Perhaps he just needs to confirm it - nothing wrong with it - but, God, he’s forward.

“Yes, we are,” you reply, and you step away from Vincent to walk back to your table - Harry reaches for your hand and pulls you to him, and you suspect the motion would look awkward if done by anyone else but it feels entirely too natural for you to be bothered. “It’s our two year marriage anniversary, actually. That’s why we’re here - on vacation.”

“That’s lovely,” Vincent says, and his smile stretches wider until it makes you uncomfortable to look at so you busy yourself gazing down at Harry’s head as though you’re so smitten you can hardly stand to look away. Then he holds out his hand, and you grab it, letting him shake it vigorously before he moves towards Harry. “It’s Vincent Carfield,” he tells you both, and Harry jumps in to introduce yourselves by your false names. “How long are you here?” “Just th’weekend,” Harry responds, nodding as Vincent does. “We’re staying downtown.”

“Really?” Vincent leans forward, and you lean your body back just a bit - not enough for him to notice, thankfully. “What hotel?”

And Harry gives him the name and Vincent acts as though it’s the wildest coincidence in the world that you both happen to be staying at one of the nicest, most popular hotels in London but you’re glad he overreacts, in a way. It’s important to establish some sort of relation between the two of you and maybe this’ll make Vincent feel like he’s destined to start some sort of affair with you - sure, it’s stupid, but he’s insecure and you’re ‘married’ and that should make him feel a bit more in control, knowing there’s a man waiting for you when you’re with him.

The thought could nearly make you gag. You hope beyond hope that it doesn’t have to get to it - that maybe the two of you could just sit and talk while Harry searches his hotel room - but, judging from the way he’s practically salivating as he stares up at you, you don’t think that’ll be the case.

After another moment of chatter your waitress arrives with a large plate of salad in each hand - you let go of Harry’s hand with one last departing wink to Vincent Carfield as you walk around the table to your seat, pushing your seat into the table just as your salad is placed before you.

Vincent’s wife glares at you - you’d feel bad in any other scenario. But - hey - at least they’re getting divorced already.

You pick up your fork, stabbing into a crouton and a few pieces of iceberg lettuce, and you raise it to your mouth, chewing thoughtfully on your food as Harry mirrors your actions. The two of you eat in silence for a minute or two, and you occasionally lift your wine to take a sip - he hadn’t poured himself a new glass, for which you are extremely grateful - before he leans in, curls flopping around his ears in a way that would be adorable if you didn’t have any sort of niggling annoyance for him still lingering.

“Good job, Mrs. Robinson,” murmurs Harry into a forkful of lettuce before shoving it into his mouth, and you scrunch your nose at his sloppiness.

“It’s what I’m best at,” you respond in earnest, and you relish in the way he rolls his eyes.

 ~~

 Harry takes forever in the shower.

It’s an indisputable fact at this point and one you should have gotten used to but it never fails to amaze you as your fingers type away at the headquarters-issued laptop resting on the carpet in front of you. He’s already been in the bathroom for nearly 20 minutes - you can hear his music playing, old hippie music that’s always blaring from his earbuds on plane and car rides, and steam billows out of the crack in the bottom of the door - and you’ve been picking up where he left up setting up the audio transmitter you’d attached to Vincent Carfield so you can hear what he’s saying, wired earbuds plugged into the computer preparation for when you start the audio.

Harry hadn’t done much at all to set it up - you can’t imagine what he was doing in the hotel room while you were showering if he wasn’t working on the mission, but you’d come out after your shower and hardly anything was done.

They should come up with better technology for this, you think as you drum your fingernails against your laptop, watching the small loading bar inch across the computer screen, transmitting the audio from next door to both your laptop and to Mark, back at headquarters. You’d texted him briefly to ask if he still wanted you to call him and he told you to merely connect the audio to him and there would be no issues - well, that’s fine by you, even if you’d largely counted on him coming between you and Harry when you’ll inevitably want to kill him later tonight.

The water shuts off. You roll your eyes for a good few seconds as you hear the shower curtain being shoved open from inside the bathroom, and you lean further into the computer before you, squinting at the loading bar that hasn’t progressed further since the last time you examined it. You sigh - push yourself off of the floor, arms stretched above your head and the sleeves of your t-shirt slide further down your shoulders. You’re simply donning a worn college shirt you’d gotten when you were in high school and still had dreams of attending a typical university - dreams that, evidently, you had squashed in the years to come - and a pair of sleep shorts, their waist just a tad too big on you and you’ve tugged them up further than they should rest.

It’s decidedly chilly in the hotel. The steam dissipating through the room from Harry’s shower serves as the only way to heat you up, humid air warm on your skin, and you hate the way you almost appreciate him for taking such a piping hot shower - but the thought doesn’t have to linger too long before the bathroom door opens with the force of a fucking bullet and Harry walks out, towel tied around his waist and hanging low on his hips, sopping curls brushed and resting on his shoulders, droplets from the strands rolling down his chest.

Your stomach flips. 

“Christ,” you say as a way of hiding the way your skin suddenly feels like there’s a fire lighting it from the inside out, burning your insides with it. “Don’t have any clothes to put on?”

He rolls his eyes - you swallow thickly, perching yourself on the edge of the bed as he takes a moment to stop and glance at the computer on the ground before turning back to you. “Changing in the bathroom is gross,” and - well, yeah, you have to agree with that. “Y’practically stripped naked in front f’me earlier, y’know.”

“You did it first,” you mutter, pulling your legs to cross beneath you as Harry crosses the room to the full length mirror mounted on the wall, fingers running through his wet curls, and you tear your eyes away from the water dripping onto his bare skin with only mild difficulty. “The audio is loading.”

“I saw that, believe it or not.”

Dick. You bite your tongue, though, and resist the urge to retort that he’d clearly not even started to set up the transmitter while you were showering, because the loading bar has moved nearly to the end of the screen while you’d been conversing with Harry. You climb off the bed, kneeling in front of the computer as Harry looks down at you, and you distinctly feel a drop from his hair land on the top of your head.

“S’done?” he inquires, and you glance up at him to reply but he’s already plopping down next to you, leaning over you to squint at the screen so you get a nice whiff of the hotel soap he’d used and his own distinct scent of shampoo - it’s fruity, mixed with something musky you can’t decipher - maybe tobacco? It’s hard to tell - he smells good. You wonder if he’s noticed how still you’ve gotten but then he pulls away, leaning back on his arm while you clear your throat and lean forward, tapping the mousepad on your laptop a few times in quick succession. “You’ve got it hooked to Mark?”

“‘Course,” you say, if only to regain your composure and keep your pretense of light annoyance with him. “Probably why it’s taking so long.”

“Ah.”

Then he stands, crossing to the entrance hall where his suitcase is opened, clothes folded meticulously because he’s nothing if not a freak for his clothes - out of the corner of your eye you see him pull out a pair of pajama pants and only a pair of pajama pants, and when his head turns to glance back at you, you’re quick to avert your gaze back to the computer -

Which has loaded. Hooray!

“It’s done,” you call to him, a decibel too loud and you’re quick to lower your voice with a small glance to the wall separating you and the Carfields. Earlier, you’d heard their door slam when they got home from dinner and you could make out their faint voices arguing if you focused hard enough - you don’t want them to hear you. “Get changed and we can listen.”

You pick up one of the earbuds connected to the laptop and shove it in your ear, fiddling with the volume buttons until it’s loud enough that you can hear their conversations as Harry ducks back into the bathroom. Clearly the coat with the bug has been folded in such a way that it muffles their voices but hell, it’s a strong bug, and you can still manage to hear them fine enough.

You send a text to Mark, and he confirms he can hear it too - you toss your phone to the side, letting it slide across the carpet as you lean in, adjusting the earbud in your ear.

Vincent’s voice is what you hear first - he’s talking fast, as though he’s in a rush, and your brows furrow.

“The new shipment isn’t set to come in until the first,” he says, tone hushed and soft, and you can’t hear his wife’s response after a moment of listening, and then he continues. “Think, you idiot! She’s trying to milk me for everything I’ve got - everything we’ve worked for -”

For a brief moment you wonder who she is, but after another few moments with no response you figure that he isn’t talking to his wife as you’d expected - he’s on the phone with someone, speaking of his divorce. A business partner - of course. The bathroom door opens, and your eyes shift to Harry’s figure as you hold out the available earbud for him.

Fuck. He’s gonna fucking kill you - not with his hands or with his gun but with those fucking pants, so low on his hips you can see the trail of hair leading beneath the plaid fabric, the tie done loose and casual. He’s not wearing a shirt, tattoos on full display for you to ogle if you had the time to, and you don’t, of course, but it doesn’t stop your eyes from roaming over his torso, throat feeling suddenly dry as he pads over to you on the ground, dropping to his knees beside you.

“Are you checking me out?” Harry questions, a soft smirk dancing on his lips and you roll your eyes, dangling the earbud for him to grab and he finally takes it, placing it in his left ear just as Vincent begins to speak again.

“Never,” you murmur, and if that isn’t the furthest from the truth you could get to you’re not quite sure what is. “Listen to him - I’m going to the bathroom.” And, as you push yourself to stand and walk towards the bathroom, you swear you can hear him murmur slacker beneath his breath but - well - you don’t need to respond to everything he says sometimes.

Truthfully, yes. You did have to pee. And when you’re done with that you turn on the faucet to wash your hands and you stare at the bathroom mirror that’s still damp from the steam of his shower, edges still frosted with the humidity, and it makes your reflection fuzzy as you look at yourself.

What the fuck? Seriously - what the fuck?

There’s a pressure in your lower stomach and a neediness between your thighs that you can only assign to Harry’s freshly-showered, no-shirt-low-pants appearance and it has shame bubbling under your skin mixed with some other feeling you don’t care enough to figure out. You’re feeling very strange things for Harry - things you’ve never felt for him, ever, in the entire year of knowing him - and you’re almost completely positive he doesn’t feel the same, doesn’t have the same desire to bend you over this sink -

Almost. But almost is very close to absolutely positive.

You feel embarrassed for yourself as you glance around the sink. His hairbrush sits on the counter, and there are so many assorted beauty products scattered across the surface that you can’t tell which ones are yours or his.

The lotion is his, you decide. You don’t use unscented lotion - but you reach for it anyway, squirting a dollop onto your palms and rubbing it in for a reason you’re not entirely sure of. When your hands are as soft as they’re going to get you glance at yourself in the mirror again, shirt baggy and long, the ends of your shorts peeking beneath the fabric.

You reach up, pulling the waistband of your shorts up until they aren’t visible beneath the ends of your shirt, exposing your legs until it appears you’re wearing no sleep shorts beneath the shirt. It’s more comfortable like that, anyway, you tell yourself, which isn’t quite true, before pushing the bathroom door open and walking back out to where Harry’s perched on the floor.

He turns to look at you, and you don’t miss the way his eyes crawl up your legs but he’s a bit more subtle about it than you’re sure you were - his bottom lip looks a deeper shade of red than the top and you wonder if he’d been biting it.

You decide not to repeat his retort about checking you out, even if you’re almost entirely sure he was.

“How’s it going?” you inquire, picking up your earbud to begin listening again. The wire connecting the two buds is short and you shift closer to him until the tip of your kneecap brushes his - you’d expected him to jerk away like you’d fucking stepped on him but he doesn’t, surprisingly. “Got anything juicy?”

“Jus’ vague references t’shipments and goods - they’re trying t’trace his call, see who he’s talking to.” You nod, resting your chin on your palm as Vincent drones on about exactly what Harry had said - the only substantial piece of evidence you have pointing to his business being a coverup for a drug trafficking scheme is references to obscene amounts of money he fears losing to his ex-wife that he would’ve never been able to obtain working at a privately-owned tailory. 

For ten minutes Vincent’s phone call remains as a bit of a drag and, truthfully, a rather large waste of time in your opinion - this is stuff you’d already known, including the shipment coming in a week’s time that you know headquarters will be able to intercept - and you’ve just begun to pull out your earbud to retreat to the bathroom once more to brush your teeth when Harry’s arm jerks towards you, fingers wrapping around your wrist and effectively preventing you from rising.

“Jesus hell,” you hiss, dropping back down onto the ground as you shove your earbud back in, “what -?”

But then Vincent is speaking again.

“ - look, buddy,” he says, voice suddenly dropped lower so that Harry reaches out, tapping the volume button a few times until you can hear him properly, “met this girl at dinner tonight, out with Bonnie. Real cute - body like a fuckin’ goddess.”

Your cheeks flush as a small smirk spreads across Harry’s face.

Vincent pauses, clearly awaiting his business partner’s response to this shocking bit of news, and when he speaks again he sounds more annoyed. “Fuckin’ done with Bonnie - I’m a free agent, Jules.”

You snap at Harry, but he’s already fishing for his phone, pulling up the notes app and jotting down the name Jules in a fresh page.

“Can fuck whoever I want to, now, and I swear, you’d die if you saw her.” You can practically picture the scumbag’s face as he says it, all smug and arrogant - as though you’d ever give him the time of a day if you weren’t being fucking paid for it. “Staying at the same hotel too, with her husband.”

Another pause. “Jules, do you think I give a shit about husbands? Remember Mia, in LA? The one married to that big fella? She was all over me.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile even as your stomach continues to churn in disgust, and Harry exhales softly, resting his phone on top of his knee. Clearly, Vincent’s conversation with Jules has turned from fighting for nearly fifteen minutes about shipments and payments to you and it’s entirely less important but it still piques your interest more. The gritty details of their shipping is for Mark to handle back at headquarters - you need to make sure you can distract Vincent long enough for Harry to search his room.

“ - and, man, you should’ve seen the eyes this girl was giving me - and her husband was all over her, too, checkin’ her out but she was still looking at me -”

You nearly choke at that, head whipping to the side to look at Harry, and he’s doing a sufficient job of furrowing his eyebrows and looking entirely confused at Vincent’s words but you don’t believe him for a moment. Checking you out - God, and you had the nerve to feel embarrassed for your desire for him. A month ago you may have been truly annoyed at Vincent’s observation but it only fuels the fire igniting in your core as Harry puts on his pretense of adjusting his earbuds, tips of his ears bright red as he pointedly avoids your gaze, and you bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning.

“I’ll let you go. God, don’t sound so pretentious - didn’t you hook up with that French chick who was married to the boxer? - Yeah, that’s what I thought -”

You’re much less interested in Vincent’s conversations now, pulling your earbud out and standing up, arms stretched high above your head as Harry stays, leaning against the ground with one arm. After a moment, though, Vincent must have ended his phone call - Harry shuts the laptop and pulls his earbud out, standing up, and your gazes meet for a moment.

“Vincent’s an idiot,” he tells you, flush creeping up his neck, and you nod.

“Is he?’

“Y’know he was just saying that so he seemed cool, right?”

“Said what?”

Harry rolls his eyes, then, and you can’t stop the smirk from gracing your lips once more as he crosses across the hotel room, collapsing onto his back onto the bed, and you furrow your eyebrows as you watch him. “Didn’t check you out.”

“I didn’t say you did.” He doesn’t respond, and you sit yourself on the edge of the bed, glaring down at his slumped figure. “You’re not getting the bed.”

“‘Course I am. We fought it out, remember?”

“And we didn’t finish.”

“We absolutely did,” and then he pushes himself to sit up, leaning against the headboard, and it takes more willpower than you possess to keep your eyes from roaming his body but you resist with everything in you - you’ll just about die if he calls you out for checking him out. “I beat you. I had y’against the headboard.”

“That was inconclusive.”

“Get on the couch.”

You narrow your eyes at him and he narrows his right back, staring into his fucking soul because you’ll be damned if you sleep on the couch, even if it makes logistical sense because he is taller than you - but, no. You’re the one who could possibly have to fuck Vincent Carfield in all his glory. You deserve the bed, size be damned.

In the end, you blink first, and come bedtime, you’re nestled on the couch with blankets you’d found in the hotel wardrobe.

You hate Harry.

 ~~

 The couch is extremely uncomfortable. It’s what you’d expected but your back still aches in pain when you wake up at 3 in the fucking morning, blankets dangling off the edge of the cushions you’re bundled on top of, and the pillow your head was resting on has slipped off onto the ground.

The room is pitch black as you groan, the noise purposefully loud, reaching down until your fingers graze the edge of the pillow - but your grip is slow, tired, and as you pick up the pillow to throw it back behind your head it slips from your grasp, dropping onto the ground and bouncing against the carpet until it’s resting a solid six feet from the couch.

Do you really need a pillow? You’re not sure, but you desperately don’t want to have to get up and get it because you know your sleepiness will melt away before you can even think about it, and, more than anything, you desire going back to sleep in order to try and be well rested for tomorrow. 

You reach down and pull your clump of blankets back up over yourself, pulling your knees further against your chest so the entire area of the blankets coats your body. Your head rests against the flat cushion, pillow be damned, and you shift again until your back is rested flat against the cushion as well, legs sticking straight out in front of you, the couch creaking at the movement.

The blankets don’t cover your legs - you push one of them down until they’re situated onto your feet, collectively covering your entire body even if it isn’t necessarily warm. At least they’re blanketed to some degree.

After ten minutes of trying to go back to bed, you pointedly decide that yes, you really do need a pillow, and immediately. Your neck already aches with the uncomfortable position and your ears feel chilly without being pressed into the soft pillow you’d snatched from the bed Harry is currently sleeping on - the bastard. He’d practically suffocated you with his smug gazes before he fell asleep, curled on top of the bed that he’d (rightfully) claimed as his after an arm wrestle, rock paper scissors game, and a half-hearted second attempt at a wrestling match - you’d lost all three.

Whatever. You’d been determined not to sulk at your losses before returning to the couch, trying not to let Harry see you mope but now you wish you’d made a bigger show of your disappointment - perhaps he’d have caved and taken the couch, but you’re sure he’d have stayed firm no matter what.

You slowly push yourself off of the couch, creeping across the room towards where your pillow rests on the ground, and you pick it up, clutching it tight to your chest before returning to the couch. You press it against the cushion, punching it a few times to attempt to soften it before huffing softly, lying yourself back down and tugging your blankets tight back up against you.

The next ten minutes goes by much as the night had previously - you can’t find a good position, turning onto your side and your back and your stomach until you’re hardly sure which way you’re facing, at this point, face buried tight against your pillow. You long for not much more than a soft bed for your back to rest into and you’re sure you’ll be a sore, tired disaster tomorrow when you manage to find Vincent Carfield in the hotel.

You turn to your side, the couch squeaking beneath the shift in your weight, and your body tenses when you hear a soft groan from the lump wrapped in covers on top of the bed, his silhouette illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window into the hotel room.

“How much longer are y’gonna move?” Harry grunts, voice low and raspy and you swallow when you hear it - if you close your eyes and listen to him speak, you could almost imagine him sounding like that in a very different scenario - “Keepin’ me up.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” you retort, voice soft and crackling with your yearning to sleep. “If you’d like to take the couch so I stop tossing and turning, I’d much appreciate it.”

He exhales softly, the noise sounding so deep and pornographic it makes your stomach flip. “In your dreams.”

You narrow your eyes as you stare at him, duvet pulled up to his chest and head turned to the side towards you - in the dark you can’t tell if his eyes are shut or if he’s looking at you. For a moment you decide not to say anything, hands crossed over your stomach, and then you shift loudly onto your back, couch creaking, and Harry sighs just as you’d anticipated.

“Please,” he begins, tone low and pleading, and you cut him off before he can continue.

“Not my fault the couch is loud, Har.”

“You’re doin’ it on purpose.”

“Of course I’m not,” you tell him, shifting again so another noise permeates the air of the hotel room. “The couch is just noisy - and uncomfortable.”

There’s a rather pregnant pause after that and you keep your eyes on Harry, watching the way he shifts onto his back, opening up a rather small sliver of space beside him and your heart practically leaps at the sight but you don’t say anything else - simply roll back onto your side, the couch creaking as you do, and he sighs again.

It seems like he sighs a lot.

“If I invite you into my bed,” Harry begins, and a small smile begins tugging your lips upwards even if you want to groan at his usage of the word my, “you’ll promise t’be quiet an’ go t’sleep?”

God, he sounds like your mother. “Yes,” you tell him, clutching the blankets wrapped around your torso. “I promise.”

Another pause. “Then - then y’can come. We can share.”

You try not to look too eager. Masking your emotions is, perhaps, the most important aspect of your job and yet you’re sure you look just as excited as you feel, pushing yourself to your feet with your blankets wrapped around your body, pillow stowed beneath your arm. Your feet pad across the carpet, toes sinking into the plushness of the floor before you make it to the bed, and Harry’s staring up at you, face contorted in a mixture of emotions you can’t decipher.

“Not gonna scooch over, then?” you question, resting your pillow against the bed and hitting it a few times. 

“Y’have room, don’t you?”

And the answer is that you don’t, of course. When you lie yourself down on the bed your legs knock into Harry’s, head so close to his you can feel his curls grazing your face, and the duvet you pull up your chin smells like him, distinctly. His elbow juts into your side - your cold foot rests against his warm one - you don’t think you’ve ever touched him this much outside of a mission.

You drape your clump of blankets over your body, partially resting on top of Harry, smoothing your palms over the fabric with a contented sigh. Your back is thanking you for the switch in sleeping spots and your neck sinks into the pillow and mattress, aches already beginning to alleviate themselves.

“Still need me t’move?” Harry asks, and you shut your eyes, nearly missing the way his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he rests himself back against the bed.

“No,” you murmur, and there’s another moment of silence before he mumbles his affirmation. Tomorrow you’re sure you’ll regret this - sleeping beside him, even if that’s all you do - feeling him pressed against parts of your body you’d never expected to feel his touch on.

Well, you’d rather deal with the tinge of embarrassment (and pride) than an achy back and lack of sleep - you smile slightly.

 ~~

 The next morning comes entirely too soon for your liking - sunlight peeking through the windows permeates your eyelids until you’re groaning awake, palm pressed against your eyes to block the light and face burying itself back into your pillow.

Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. If your alarm doesn’t go off, then it’s not morning. Surely you have a few more hours of rest before you need to get up - even a couple more minutes will do -

Just as the thought crosses your mind your phone blares its alarm, the loud noise jolting you up like a bucket of ice water, and, from behind you, Harry grunts into his pillow.

Behind you.

You’re quick to silence your alarm - another nine full minutes of peaceful resting, if you’re lucky, before you’re disturbed again, though you’re sure you won’t get back to bed now that you’ve remembered the events of last night. 

Harry’s arm is heavy, draped over your midsection, the soft surface of his cheek buried intently into the crevice between your neck and shoulder - you can feel his soft breathing against your skin, the air a warm and gentle sensation. One of his legs has wedged itself between yours, thigh pressed entirely too high in the crevice between your thighs, and with every moment that passes you can feel the rise and fall of his bare chest as he snores behind you.

What a fucking sight, you think, sitting up slightly to look down at him. God, if he were awake, you’d tease him until he cries about what a position the pair of you had worked yourselves into but you have the foresight to see how that would backfire on you - technically, you’re just as to blame as he is, even if he’s the bigger spoon right now.

But you’re most decidedly not to blame for the hardness pressing into your lower back, tearing a sleepy groan from Harry’s throat when you shift in your position.

The bastard. He’s hard as a fucking rock from pressing against you while you slept, and a sleepy smirk spreads across your face as you glance down at him. In any other circumstance you think you’d poke him awake just to make him aware of it but there’s a certain air of desire you’re feeling as well that makes you feel - well, not as though you’re in the appropriate position to make fun of him for his boner.

Slowly, you disentangle yourself from his body. His leg drops to the mattress when you swing your own off the edge of the bed, his arm falling until it’s resting in your lap, palm pressed against a certain area that makes your breath hitch, furrowing your eyebrows as you glance down at his hand. There are still fading, pink indents from the rings he takes off every night and before every mission, save for the fake wedding band the two of you often have to don on missions, and you scrunch your nose as you admire it.

Married. You don’t think so. The only time you think of him with anything other than hatred is when he’s asleep, like this - or shirtless.

You stand up, shaking your head to wipe those thoughts from your mind. Harry’s hand drops onto the mattress and you can tell it’s the push he needed into consciousness - you glance back at him to see his eyes cracked open, and they shut when your gazes meet.

“‘Morning,” you tell him, voice louder than you’d intended, and he winces at the noise, shifting onto his back - it’s as though you can see the exact moment he realizes his little problem mixed with the realization that you would also know about it, pressed up against him during the night - his eyes widen ever so slightly, and he pushes himself to lean against the headboard, bundling his duvet onto his lap. 

“Um - g’morning,” Harry replies, voice raspy like it had been the night prior and your stomach turns - you shift on your feet. “Y’goin’ t’the bathroom?”

“You can go first,” you say, and he nods, bringing fists up to rub at his eyes. And then - because you just can’t help pissing him off when you have such a golden opportunity - you add, “Think you might need it a bit more than I do.”

His face reddens.

 ~~

 Earpiece. Knife. Boobs.

You go through the things you need on a mental checklist as you pick up your forkful of scrambled eggs, chewing thoughtfully on the bite. The hotel restaurant is nearly completely full, couples and families packed into the small tables as they feast on their complimentary breakfasts, chatter filling the section. You’ve been sitting eating (truthfully, delicious) breakfast for the better half of an hour, bringing your plate up to the buffet to refill your platter of eggs, fruit, and toast.

Realistically, you would have eaten and left had you not been waiting for a very specific somebody to walk in and catch your eye. You and Harry had plugged back into the bug in Vincent’s room to hear him planning to go down for complimentary breakfast - the only clue you had as to how he wanted to spend his day - and it was the only opportunity you had to find him. Get him out of his room - talking, if possible - so Harry can search it.

It’s such an easy plan, you could practically do it in your sleep.

“Is he there yet?” inquires a crackling voice from your earpiece, disguised as an earring dangling from your lobes.

“No,” you murmur, voice soft as a whisper, and you’re sure he can’t hear your response until he sighs.

“Takin’ his time, isn’t he?”

“Mhm.”

You pick up your glass of orange juice, raising the cup to rouge-stained lips as you take a sip. When you rest it back down on the table, there’s a light red stain on the glass - you wipe it away with a manicured thumb, leaning back in your seat, legs crossed. Your eyes scan the restaurant again, lingering on any newcomers leaning against the wall in case you can pinpoint the man you’re searching for - wide frame, untailored suits, bald head that shines in the artificial light.

(Complimentary breakfast ends at 10, and it’s 9:48. It’s safe to say that you’re getting nervous.)

Your nerves, however, are soothed just a bit when a familiar figure makes his way into the dining hall - tall and haughty, phone pressed to his sweaty head, Vincent Carfield is the image of a stressed businessman, recently divorced and searching for a young, married woman who’d given him eyes last night. His suit is baggy, buttons of the jacket undone and his white button up has sweat stains spreading from the armpits, visible with his arm lifted up to his ear. Instinctively your back straightens, tugging down the top of your lace top so that the top of your cleavage shows - it seems to be your greatest weapon, dealing with a man like Carfield.

You lower your gaze to your phone clutched in your hand but you can still sense exactly the moment his eyes land on you. In your peripheral vision you watch him straighten up, lips moving quickly before his phone is shoved into his pocket, weaving his way between circular tables until he’s standing beside you, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes never meet yours - his gaze stays on a point eerily similar to your chest.

“Is he there?” Harry questions, and you clear your throat - it’s the symbol you’d decided on to mean yes if you can’t speak.

“Vincent,” you begin, faux smile spreading across your face, and a similar one lands on his features. He reaches for your hand and you give it to him, watching him press chapped, dry lips to the back of your palm, and the urge to scrunch your nose at the feeling is almost overwhelming. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you,” he says, and you drop your hand back to the tablecloth resting on your table. “Can I sit?”

“Of course,” you reply, and he pulls out the empty seat across from you, resting with a soft grunt. “Breakfast ends in a few minutes, though - you’re welcome to have some of mine, if you’re hungry.”

He obliges, reaching to pull your plate to him, and you watch as he picks up your buttered toast, taking a large bite and smacking his lips as he chews. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward ever so slightly. “And why is that?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Vincent tells you, and in your earpiece, Harry snorts at his words - you hope you didn’t jump too hard at his sudden noises in your ear. “I hoped I wasn’t getting the wrong idea at dinner, last night -”

“What idea were you getting?”

“That you were interested in me,” and you tilt your head to the side, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth - if Harry could see the act you’re playing right now, you’d be humiliated. At least he can only hear it. “I saw the eyes you were giving me - not even worried ‘bout your husband seeing?”

“He’s too dense to notice,” you say, a smile tilting your lips up as Harry groans - from his side of the earpiece you can hear bustling mixed with the sound of a door opening, and you assume he’s just entered Vincent’s apartment. He needs at least a half hour, Mark had told you - breakfast ends in nearly five minutes, and you need somewhere else to take Carfield. “You know, Vince - is it okay if I call you Vince?”

“I don’t think he cares what you call him,” mumbles Harry, so quiet you’re sure he’s hardly even intending for you to hear it, “as long as you have your hand down his pants in the next ten minutes.”

Your cheeks flush as Vincent smiles, leaning back in his seat as he finishes off your toast. “Call me whatever you want to,” he tells you, and you can practically hear Harry rolling his eyes through your earpiece.

“Alright, Vince - breakfast is ending in a few minutes, and I desperately hope we can keep talking.” He nods along with your words, leaning in as he pushes his plate to the center of the table - all that’s left is the fruit and the remnants of your eggs. “Do you think we could go up to my room? My husband is off visiting some family members across London - he won’t be home for hours.”

“Hours?”

“Hours,” you confirm, nodding as you take another sip of your orange juice - this time you don’t wipe the lipstick stain off of your glass, and you watch his eyes follow the mark as you lower the glass back to the table. “Can we go, Vince?”

Clearly he isn’t thinking clearly enough to question how curious it is that you’d had similar feelings for him without much trouble at all - instead, he smiles like a boy on Christmas morning. He practically knocks the table in his rush to stand up - you watch a red blush creep up his neck to his ears as he grabs it, steadying the wobbling surface, and you pretend you hadn’t noticed when he holds his hand out for you. You allow him to take your hand in his and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping a secure arm around your waist, palm stretched across your hips so his fingertips creep up the hem of your lace shirt.

“Are you going to our room?” questions Harry in your ear, and there’s a few scuffling noises on the other end that makes you internally cringe as Vincent begins weaving the pair of you between tables that are now emptying as complimentary breakfast reaches its end. “____? ‘Y’goin’ t’our room?”

You clear your throat once, and Vincent glances over at you with an amused glance on his face as the two of you make your way out of the restaurant. “Are you okay, darling?”

The pet name makes you cringe internally and you give him a soft smile as you approach the hallway full of elevators, available to take you to any of the available thirteen residential floors of the hotel - Vincent presses the button to go up, and you wait for the doors to open. “I’m great.”

“Make sure he doesn’t want to stop in his room,” Harry mutters, and you swallow, your smile not faltering. You want to tell Harry to make sure he’s completely quiet in his endeavors in Vincent’s room but you’re sure he already knows - you can’t risk Vincent hearing a strange noise while you’re attempting to distract him.

The elevator doors open, and Vincent pulls you inside with a grip on your waist like a vise. He glances at the array of buttons available to press, and looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s floor 13,” you tell him, and he smiles, pressing the button until it glows.

“Floor 13? That’s where I’m staying, too,” he says, and you nod in mock-surprise -

“What a surprise,” Harry snorts in your ear, and you can’t stop the smirk from spreading across your face.

 ~~

 There’s a thick thigh pressed between both of yours, sweaty palms slid beneath your lace top, and you don’t think you’ve ever found a man’s touch less desirable in your  life - and, for whoever may be keeping a record, this job has required you to get up close and personal with more skeevy men that you’d expected when you’d applied.

The only thing keeping a blissed out look on your face is your focus on the soft noises coming from the other end of your earpiece as Vincent lands wet, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, tongue laving over your skin - hearing Harry’s occasional quiet breathing and muffled noises as he searches the hotel room next to yours makes this entirely worth it.

Against your throat, Vincent moans, and the noise is throaty and loud - you can hear Harry stifling a laugh directly into your ear, and the noise sends a chill rolling up your spine. Clearly, Vincent thinks your involuntary movement was for him - his hands grasp on your tits entirely too hard to be pleasurable and you bite back the urge to tell him so. “Such a dirty girl,” he tells you.

You rest your head back against the wall he has you pressed against with a moan that sounds entirely fake from your throat. You can almost imagine how Harry’s going to make fun of this when he sees you next, and your stomach turns when you think about it for a reason you can’t quite decipher. “Fuck,” you say, forcing your voice to a near whine, and you swear you can hear Harry’s voice hitch through your piece but you’re not sure. “Feels - so good.”

The lie sounds natural off of your lips as Vincent’s knee jabs into your clit - the pressure is a pain rather than a pleasure and your breath hitches as you try not to cry out. He chuckles against your skin, clearly taking your soft sign of pain as an emblem of pleasure, and you shut your eyes as his teeth graze the veins in your neck.

“No way,” breathes Harry, and your ears perk up - had he found something in Vincent’s room? “S’he actually good at that?”

You want to snort at that. Of course he isn’t good but the thought of Harry listening spurs you on more than it should - you roll your hips against Vincent’s thigh with a soft moan, higher pitched than your last one, and the man on the other end of your earpiece exhales.

“That sounded fake,” Harry says, voice soft and light, and you want to slam your head into the wall so he knows that he’s starting to piss you off from next door. “So he’s not makin’ y’feel good?”

You practically freeze. If Vincent wasn’t tugging your shirt up to expose your tits to the cold air of your hotel room, you’re sure you would have forgotten where you were completely. Those words from Harry’s mouth mixed with an edge of venom isn’t what you’d expected him to say at all - on the contrary, you’d think he was fucking with you, trying to work you up to embarrass you if you couldn’t hear his little moans that he’s clearly trying to silence.

Is he worked up? Because you can work with that.

You drop your head back to whack against the wall with a loud moan as Vincent’s clammy lips press to the fabric of your bra. Your hand goes up to press to the back of his bald head, fingernails scratching against his sweaty scalp and you wish - not for the first time - that you were feeling thick, chocolate-toned curls beneath your fingers instead, tugging on them as his tongue lavished you. Though, in your mind, it’s more teeth and grit and anger because you’re sure you’d find a way to be angry with Harry even if his mouth were on your tits - it’s one of your special skills - in every fantasy you’ve had of your partner it’s violent and harsh.

“Fuck,” grunts a voice from your earpiece, and hardly a moment later Vincent groans a similar noise as you rock your hips against his thigh. Thankfully he seems to be getting a decent amount of pleasure just making out with your boobs like a teenage boy and - maybe, if Harry is quick enough in his search of his hotel room - you won’t have to fuck him at all. It’ll be a Christmas miracle (a month early, but a miracle nonetheless.) “Are y’fuckin’ him?”

You whimper, Harry’s voice shooting from your ear directly down to your cunt and your clit and you feel wetness soaking your knickers, pressed against Vincent’s thigh though it may as well be the arm of a couch for how it affects you - the only pleasure you get from Vincent’s hard body against yours is the urge to close your eyes and imagine it’s Harry.

“No, you’re not,” says Harry, and there’s a soft clatter in your earpiece - surely he’s dropped something from the room next door and you tense. Surely Vincent hadn’t heard it, teeth still gnashing against your bra, and he seems too distracted to pay attention to it. “M’hard as a fuckin’ rock, ____ - thinkin’ of you, gettin’ off on my voice, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you exhale, and Vincent glances up at you, thick brows furrowed in confusion. You swallow, focusing on giving yourself a satisfied expression, and he turns back to your chest, seemingly convinced of your pleasure. “Yes - making me feel so good.”

Harry groans in your ear, and you wonder, suddenly, if he’s jerking off - if he’s leaning against Vincent Carfield’s bed, hand pumping up and down his cock as he listens to you. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, or leaning against the wall like you are, his breathing picking up as sweat drips down his forehead - 

“Gonna fuck you,” Vincent mumbles against your boobs, and you scrunch your nose. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Just -” you swallow, and Harry snickers in your ear, the soft laugh breathy and groaning. “Just wait, feels so good -”

“Don’t fuck him,” says Harry, and there’s a few more jostling noises on the other end mixed with another soft moan - you have a sudden image of him, digging through Vincent Carfield’s possessions with a firm hand around his cock and you feel the result of that imagery stricken straight down to your clit like a fucking lightning bolt until you’re crying out, and your orgasm is on you so embarrassingly fast you could sob in embarrassment. “I’m almost there -”

You’re not sure if he means he’s almost about to cum or if he’s almost found something to convict Vincent - you’re not entirely sure which interpretation you’d prefer. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, the words sour on your tongue as Vincent glances up at you with a wicked smile, jolting his thigh further up into your clit, and you furrow your eyebrows at the pain the motion brings. “Fuck, H - Vincent.”

“Y’were gonna say m’name,” Harry hisses, and you squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment coursing through your veins. You almost fucked everything up. “Cum. Let Vincent think he made y’cum - go ahead - do it.”

And - fuck. Who are you to disobey? You grind your core down on Vincent’s thigh with a throaty cry, and your orgasm rushes over you with an embarrassing waterfall of pleasure and shame. Never have you cum so easily and it wasn’t even Harry’s touch - simply his voice, his groans as he listens to you come undone - and, in the end, the only thing to pull you from your high is Vincent’s eyes boring into yours, eyebrows raised and lips parted as he pulls his face from your chest with a most satisfied expression on his face.

You want to smack it off of him - if you hadn’t already cum, that look would’ve stopped you in your tracks. As it is, it slows the aftershocks of your release into dull nothingness while Harry moans in your earpiece, his noises a mere backdrop to the sudden growing sounds of scuffling and jostling, and his sharp gasp is loud enough for Vincent’s head to snap up.

“Did you hear that?” Vincent questions - Harry curses into your earpiece.

“I found something,” Harry tells you, voice dropped to a low whisper. “I found - s’under his mattress - m’calling Mark!”

A small smile spreads across your face at his words. It’s done. He’s found something worthy enough to convict Vincent Carfield, and that’s enough for you to press your palms to his chest, pushing him away from you so forcefully that he stumbles over the carpet, back slamming into the edge of your bed as he falls to the ground. His expression is so confuddled as he stares up at you that, for a moment, you marvel at his lack of self awareness - in an instant you’re reaching up the hem of your skirt to the knife in its holder strapped to your thigh, and you pull the blade out to point at Vincent Carfield, in your ear a myriad of Harry’s delighted cheers of, “I’ve found it!”

 ~~

 Wrapping up a mission isn’t nearly as speedy as you’d like - there’s debriefs and paperwork to complete once Vincent is done and arrested, phone confiscated along with the drugs found in his hotel room by your partner, and physical evaluations to determine whether you’d been hurt, and a long phone call with Mark where he congratulated the pair of you.

Not only for taking down Vincent Carfield, your boss had said, his voice booming and cheerful, but for making it out without killing each other.

If only he knew.

Your plane is set to leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, and if you were more reasonable perhaps you’d heade Mark’s advice to go straight to sleep and set an alarm for 3 AM but you’ve never been too bright in that regard. You finish your last debrief in the hotel restaurant, Harry working diligently beside you, and it’s at nearly 9 PM that the pair of you pack up your work and begin to head upstairs.

The elevator ride is silent when Harry reaches to press the button for your floor. Your room had been closed for you to visit for the better part of the afternoon until Vincent’s had been properly searched, though Harry had gladly given the authorities everything he’d found without a moment of hesitation. Tiredness creaks at your bones but here - standing beside Harry, feeling his gaze boring into the side of your face - you desire nothing less than to go to sleep.

“Good work, Mr. Robinson,” you tell him, and he raises his eyebrows when you turn your head to look at him. “Fairly easy mission, wasn’t it?”

“For you,” he says, and you arch your eyebrow, frown tugging your lips downwards as the elevator begins to move up. “Gettin’ off on Vincent’s thigh was the hardest part - I had t’search the room.”

For a moment you wonder if he’s kidding and certainly he’s only teasing you but you still roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Didn’t seem too difficult, moaning and crying ‘bout how hard you were. I bet I could’ve found the drugs in half the time it took you -”

“You couldn’t have,” Harry says, and you exhale sharply. 

“‘Course I could -”

“Wasn’t hidden in plain sight like everything you find.”

“So where were they?”

He pauses, and you smile down at your shoes - surely you’ve got him now. “Hidden in his computer,” Harry says, then, and your smile is wiped away in an instant. Shit, you wouldn’t have found them. “Not so smart now, are you?”

“Oh, you dick -”

The elevator doors open to your floor and Harry pushes himself off the wall, stalking out of the elevator and you jump to follow him, picking up the pace to walk beside him as he begins down the hall towards your hotel room. It’s entirely too easy, falling back into an arrangement of bickering with him as though nothing had happened - as though you hadn’t cum with his voice alone, and you’re nearly positive that he had, too.

He stops in front of your hotel door, digging in the pockets of his pants for the room key, and you cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t know why you’re actin’ so high and mighty,” he tells you, voice biting as he shoves the key card into the door’s slot - it beeps red, and he tries again. “As f’you didn’t cream your fucking pants jus’ listenin’ t’my voice.”

“I’m not acting high and mighty,” you retort, praying the burning sensation in your face isn’t visible to him but you doubt you’re that lucky. “You don’t have to be such a douche all the time - and, by the way, you came in your pants, too, didn’t you.”

It’s not a question, and Harry flings the door open, letting you walk in before he follows. In an instant, before you can march into the bedroom area to huff at how pissed he’s getting you - it is what he’s best at - there’s a tight grip on your wrist, turning you around so fast your head spins, and before you can object, Harry has you pressed against the door, hands caging you in on either side of your head.

His face is so close to yours you can smell the alcohol on his breath that he’d had while you two worked, mixed with the scent of his mint toothpaste and his shampoo, curls dropping into your face as he wedges his leg between both of yours, thigh pressed against your cunt. It’s just as Vincent had done but so different, so much better, and it tears a whine out of your throat right off the bat.

Your urge is to lean in, clash your lips together in a fury of tongue and teeth but you don’t want to make the first move - Harry can take the lead and you’ll follow, and that’s more than enough for you. So you simply drop your head back, breathing heavy as you stare into his eyes, nearly cross-eyed to meet his gaze. 

“Fuck you,” you tell him, and the words lack the venom you’d yearned for. It’s filled with more desperation and neediness than you’d anticipated, and you feel your stomach flip-flop at the smirk that spreads across Harry’s face. “Fuck you.”

His hands drop from against your head and for a moment you fear he’s going to pull away, that he’s doing this just to fuck with you but then his hands are on your legs, fingertips dancing up and down your outer thighs, fingering the hem of your skirt, and you jolt under him. “You’re so responsive,” he tells you, and you roll your eyes, dropping your head back against the door. “I love getting y’worked up.”

“Shut up,” you groan, feeling his fingers working your skirt up your legs, and the fabric brushes over the edge of your knife, still fastened to your thigh. 

“Like makin’ y’angry.”

“Shut up,” and finally Harry leans in, mouth slamming against yours until your teeth grind against his and your lips part with a shocked gasp. His tongue slips between your lips, your hands reaching up to bury in his curls and hold his face to yours. His palm slides up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist and your cheeks burn as the cold hotel room air assaults your skin, goosebumps popping up in their wake. You whimper into Harry’s lips and he pulls away, palms smoothing up and down your thighs before you feel his fingers hook against the top of your knife, and he tugs the blade out of your holster.

You watch with wary eyes as Harry brings the blade up to his eyes, examining it with narrowed eyes, his other hand still resting on your thigh, fingertips rubbing circles into your skin harsh enough that you’re sure you’ll find bruises tomorrow in the shape of his hands. Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch him and his eyes turn to yours, smile tugging his lip up.

“Y’look a bit excited, there,” Harry says - an acute observation, because you’re practically creaming your fucking panties. “Like seein’ me with your knife?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and Harry flips the knife in his hands until the blade is just an inch from the spot between both of your eyes, your orbs crossing to see it. “What are you -”

Before you can finish the question Harry presses the knife forward, the sharp edge of the plate pressed to your cheek, and you inhale sharply, swallowing thickly as he increases pressure against your skin. Fuck, this shouldn’t excite you - he’s not half as good as you are with blades - and you’re sure if he keeps going he’s going to slice you either by accident or on purpose, and it disturbs you how much that thought turns you on.

The blade drags down your skin, tracing along your jawline with pressure light enough to feel like a breath and hard enough to catch yours in your throat - Harry’s watching it with darkened eyes, watching as he lowers it down your throat, tracing it along your neck and the veins.

You drop your head back against the door with a thud, feeling the cool metal on your skin, sweaty from being pressed against him and the heat that encompasses your body until it’s all you can feel, and Harry’s just watching, watching the knife run across your skin.

Your eyes, fluttered shut, shoot open when a sudden burning sensation overtakes the top of your chest - you glance down to see Harry pulling the knife away from you, the tip decorated with just a smudge of dark, red liquid that’s mirrored on your collarbone.

“Did you -?”

“Oops,” Harry says as you bring your fingers to the small nick he’d given you, wiping away the drops of blood that spread on your chest. You raise your narrowed eyes to glare at him and you’re trying - trying so hard - to be furious with him, to get angry, to push him away and yell at him - but, fuck, feeling his thumb rub across the cut on your chest only increases the ball of pressure in your lower abdnomen as you look at him.

Your lips clash once more, more intense than before as you whine into his mouth - Harry’s free hand hoists your thigh around his waist, and when his lips move down to bite at your throat, the hand still clutching your knife pulls back before he slams the blade into the door next to you, surely taking a few of your stray hairs. You yelp, jolting your head back as you whip your head to the side to stare at the knife stuck in the door barely an inch from the side of your head, and Harry lifts his head with a smirk.

“You assho -”

Before you can finish Harry’s hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your ability to speak and you can’t help but moan at the pressure even if the noise is choked and gasping - Harry grins, moving his other hand down to your hips until he’s helping you to roll against his thigh, clit rubbing against the fabric of his pants. You tighten your thigh’s hold around his waist, pressing his torso closer to yours, and he, in turn, tightens his grasp on your neck.

“Y’like m’hand on your throat, hmm?” Harry questions, voice low and raspy like how it had been in the middle of the night except more, better and intense, and you whimper in affirmation. “Can’t even talk - can’t even say anything.”

When he finally loosens his hold on you, you gasp for air and bring your arm up to wrap around his neck again, fingers scraping through his scalp to tug his lips back to yours. Your other hand drops to the front of his pants, palm smoothing over his bulging erection before your shaky fingers begin tugging his zipper down.

“Can I tell you something?” says Harry, then, as you fumble to undo the button of his pants until you can shove your hand into the fabric, fingernails dragging along his cock through his boxers - his hips jolt into your hands.

“Yes,” you murmur in response, hand jerking up and down his dick and, even through a layer of fabric, he grunts into your lips.

“I didn’t cum,” he says, and you move your head from his, furrowing your eyebrows. “Didn’t cum, even when I heard y’with Vincent -”

“You -?”

“Didn’t wanna cum when I wasn’t buried in your cunt,” and you gasp sharply as his hand on your throat slides down your body until it’s shoved into your panties, cold fingertips dragging along your soaking folds that drip your ambrosia into his grasp. “Even f’you sounded so good, moanin’ for me - almost pathetic -”

You tighten your grip on his hair until he’s crying out, fingertips pinching your clit in your panties and you jerk your hips into his grasp at the sharp punishment. “Don’t call me that -” you moan, trembling hand pulling his boxers down over his cock while he smirks.

“Pathetic -”

“Fuck you, Harry -”

“Whimperin’ like a baby -”

You move your hand from his hair to his face, grip bruising as you grab his chin in your palm. Your fingertips squeeze his cheek as you force his head to stare at you - the lazy, cocky smile that adorns his features makes you want to throttle him, and your fingers flex against his face.

“What?” Harry questions, tone mocking and it fuels the anger in every crevice of your body as you glare at him. “Gonna hit me?”

Yes, you want to say - before you can even open your mouth, though, Harry leans in, teeth nibbling on your earlobe as he exhales, his words low and breathy, “Do it.”

Who are you to disobey him?

You bring your hand back and smack it down on his cheek with a satisfying slap that reverberates through your hotel room. His head is slapped to the side, exposing his side profile to you, and you smooth your palm over the red mark already blooming on his cheek in the shape of your handprint.

“You like to be hit, do you?” you inquire - for a moment, just a second, you feel some semblance of control over the situation, wrapping your fist around his cock once you’ve pulled his boxers down over his length. He hisses, dropping his head back, lips parted in a silent cry when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of his cock, precum dripping down his member. “Never would’ve guessed.”

And you do it again, bringing your hand up to slap his face and it tugs a louder grunt from his mouth, pressing his body further into yours until all you can feel is him, chests pressed together and cock rubbing against your cunt through the fabric of your lace panties. You bring your hand back to give him another slap but then his fingers are pulling your drenched knickers to the side, bulbous tip of his cock nudging through your folds for only a split second before he pushes himself inside of you, sheathing the entirety of his length until he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your skin.

You can’t help but sob out. It’s, really, not your fault - you can tell how it spurs him on, but before he can keep fucking you like how you’ve dreamt of he’s pulling out completely, taking a half a step away from you, cock tall and leaking. The emptiness you feel is overwhelming, even if you’d only had him in you for a few seconds at best, and objections immediately rise in your throat.

“What the fu -?”

Then he’s grabbing your throat, using his grip as leverage to force you around, cheek smushed against the wooden door frame and back pressed to his chest. His palms smooth up and down the globes of your ass, pulling the cheeks apart until the pressure burns and you throw your head back with a cry. Then he pulls his hand back - lands it back against your ass with a cracking slap that makes you jump against him - and he doesn’t give you a second to beg him to fucking do it again before he’s sliding his cock back into your folds.

“Fuck,” he practically shouts, the noise crackling and broken with arousal practically dripping from the syllable, and you drop your forehead against the door with a cry. “Fuck, so tight - knew y’would be -”

“Move, please,” you beg, tone sobbing and desperate, and Harry obliges without another second to spare - pulls out and thrusts back in, pace brutal and desperate right off the bat until you’re quivering, legs trembling when he’s only been going for a half a minute.

Oh my god. Holy fuck, it feels so good, better than you could’ve ever pictured it, his hand smoothing over your ass before landing periodic slaps to the plump skin - his hand landing on you hardly overpowers the sound of his hips smacking against your ass, filling you until you’re crying for it before leaving you empty and diving back in. You can’t do much else other than stand there on quivering legs that feel incapable of handling your weight and take it, pushing your hips back into his with every thrust until you’ve worked yourselves into a rhythm that makes your fucking head spin.

“Harry -” you gasp as he grabs hold of your hips, pulling them upwards until his cock is slamming into the sweet spot buried inside of your walls that makes you sob out, cheek slamming into the door over and over with the force of his pounding. “Harry - God -”

“What?” he practically hisses, the word full of desire and contempt in the most delicious way possible, and your knees would give out if not for his bruising grip on your hips, keeping you flush against him. 

“Har - choke me, please, want you to - to choke me -”

He stutters a groan at that, moving one of his hands from your hips - he delivers one hard smack to your ass before he’s trailing his hand up your back and around to the front of your throat, squeezing your neck once experimentally just to hear the way you moan at it before he tightens his grasp. Your resulting whimper is caught in your throat, pressing your palms to the door you’re leant up against as Harry just fucking laughs from behind you, thrusting himself into you like he was fucking born for it.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” Harry says, then, and he almost sounds in awe as he squeezes your throat tighter, tight enough that your vision goes fuzzy and your head feels light. “So filthy - knew y’would be - an’ so - so - fuckin’ - tight -”

With every word he punctuates his meaning with a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, and the hand on your hip slithers around your body until he’s pressing two fingertips to your clit, rubbing shaking, hard circles against the sensitive nub that has you jolting, arms shaking as you attempt to keep yourself up. “Oh my god,” you practically cry, and the voice sounds far away as he briefly releases his hold on your throat - a firm slap is delivered to the side of your face as you’d given him, the motion forcing your head to the side, and you sob out harder. “Fuck - do it again, please -”

He obeys you, bringing his palm back to slap your cheek again before he wraps his hand back around your throat. “M’gonna cum,” he tells you, words throaty and laced with neediness - you push your hips back against his, a loud, long whine bursting from your throat as his fingers never give up on their assault to your clit. “M’gonna fill y’up - y’want that?”

“Yes!”

“Want me t’fill you up?”

“Yes, Harry, please -!” You come undone around his cock just as his hips stutter to a close - there’s a ball of pleasure that bursts in your core, spreading warmth and euphoria through your body like a wildfire attacks a forest. Your forehead slams against the door with a moan that borders on a scream, nails scratching against the wood as though searching for something to hold onto, to ground yourself, because surely you’re far away - in fucking space - because there’s no way on Earth you could feel this good.

Behind you, Harry’s hand on your clit wraps around your waist, holding your body taut to his as you feel him spurt ribbons of cum inside of you, his release filling you up and it only prolongs yours, aftershocks rolling through you mixed with his warmth spreading through your body. His head drops against the back of yours, breath ruffling the hairs at the back of your neck, and when you finally regain the ability to breathe you’re fucking heaving, gasping for air, the once-simple process labored and desperate.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, and then he pulls out of you - you can feel his cum beginning to trickle down your inner thighs, and that mixed with the sudden emptiness in your cunt makes you exhale a low whine. Your pussy flutters around the sudden air invading it, the loss of a certain appendage filling you up glaringly obvious, and you slump against the door. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, and your knees are shaking when Harry unwraps his arm from around your waist, leaving you to fend for yourself as you try and steady your body. “Fuck.”

You hear, then, Harry walking away - surely stalking deeper into your room, perhaps lying on the bed, kicking off his shoes and beginning to tug off his shirt. You feel sudden embarrassment and heat coursing through your body as you tug the bottom of your skirt down over your ass and the tops of your thighs, walking on shaking legs into the bedroom area of your hotel room -

(Your knife can stay in the door until morning. It is, for all intents and purposes, the least of your priorities when you can’t even think straight.)

Harry’s eyes are on you when you make your way into the bedroom section, leaning up against the doorframe to hide the quivering in your legs, and you hope it looks decently natural but you’re sure it doesn’t, judging by the way his lips tremble upwards as he glances down at the shoe he’s focused on untying.

“I’m gonna shower first,” you tell him. Your throat burns with the energy of speaking after screaming your lungs out and your voice is crackling and raspy - you cough into your elbow, hoping it makes your voice sound a bit less fucked-out than it is, but you’re sure you’re not that lucky.

“Fine by me,” Harry says, kicking his sneakers off onto the ground, and he collapses onto his back onto the bed with a sigh. His pants are still undone and are pushed down his thighs, boxers pulled up over his cock, and you feel - decidedly strange, watching him post-coital, at the way his eyes shut, limbs spreading out over the mattress with a grunt. “M’takin’ the bed, though.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “What -?”

“Y’can hardly walk from how hard I fucked you. I think I deserve it.”

And - well - you can’t quite argue with that logic.

~~

TAGLIST (crossed out urls meant they didn’t show up)

@nineteenfiftyone​ @harryslilkat​ @galacticferns​ @ficrecrry​ @morethanamelodyy​ @hoeeforstyles​ @bunny-munchkin-luvs-music​ @mintchipstyles​ @sstarkme​ @thecitiesintheseas @harry-styles-l​

#harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles drabble #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #one direction smut #one direction writing #spyrry #holy shit #i can not believe how long this took to write i'm so glad to finally post it

[kibo-ichiro]

Why Nonna is actually La Prima

Just a heads up, this post is going to be a bit lengthy, so I’m putting the rest under a “keep reading.”

Okay, let’s start with some surface level stuff before we dig deeper.

During the prologue of KotW, Emilia asks Nonna, ”’Where is the First Witch now?…Why hasn’t she been seen?’” This is the response: “Nonna thought carefully. ‘She has her reasons. We must respect them.’” —KotW, prologue, page 6

That is the most non-answer that I have ever read. And the perfect evasion so you don’t have to tell your twin 8-year-old granddaughters that you are the First Witch. Also notice how Nonna hesitates before answering. Likely trying to decide if she should give some sort of an answer, or just deflect the question.

What really sparked this theory in my mind is that Nonna and La Prima not only survive having their throats slit, but both also perform impressive feats of magic afterwards (La Prima taking away the devil’s wings and cursing him, Nonna sending Envy back to Hell)

Yet something struck me as odd, especially when I read this line Emilia has when she thinks back on the encounter as she goes to dine with Envy in his House: “I still couldn’t believe Nonna had banished him back to the underworld using magic I was unaware she possessed.” —KotC, chapter 15, pages 201-202. At first I thought it was the spell that was strange to her, yet going through KotW again, the spell is not only in the family grimoire, but Emilia helps Nonna recite the spell.

“Notes from the di Carlos grimoire.” —KotW, chapter 19, page 138

“A key and a full moon formed at the end of two branches. I suddenly knew exactly what Nonna was doing….feeding Nonna’s spell with my own power. ‘A dagger to kill, a snake to die.’” —KotW, chapter 41, page 317

So it’s not the spell that was strange to Emilia, it was just Nonna’s magic. And when you look back at the book, this is the only time we ever see Nonna use magic. The closest we’ve gotten is seeing Nonna make different colored candles for various purposes. So why was Nonna’s magic strange to her? Because Nonna is the First Witch, the daughter of the sun goddess and a demon. Of course her magic feels different.

As for how Nonna has managed to survive for so long: “We were told [La Prima] was immortal…” —KotW, chapter 30, page 241.

That immortality would also explain why the stories about the Wicked are so wrong. She doesn’t want people to feel sympathy for them. Yes, they are demons and have been known to torture and kill people. But they are also much more complex than that; they are more human than that. And who was the one who told Emilia and Vittoria stories about the scary demon princes? You guessed it: Nonna.

“Nonna feared [Emilia and Vittoria] romanticized demons too much. It was best, she decided, to remind them why they should be wary of beautiful creatures without souls.” —KotW, prologue, page 4.

Of course Nonna would believe that the Wicked were without souls. In her eyes, two of them stole and corrupted her daughters, leading to their deaths. In reality, both her daughters saw the humanity in Pride and Wrath, and fell in love with them, even going so far as to marry one and be banished from her coven for it. And if Vittoria and Emilia really are reincarnations of Pride’s wife and Wrath’s lover respectfully, then these stories are more than your average cautionary tale a grandmother would tell her grandchildren. She is actively trying to scare the twins away from the loves of their former lives. Make the twins hateful towards them, which does work on Emilia (to an extent). Either because she doesn’t want to take any risks in regards to the curse fully breaking, or she simply does not want to lose them again. Perhaps both. Either way, it’s not up to her what the twins do in regards to their sealed memories.

Now, I believe we all know this rather infamous quote: “‘There are seven demon princes, but only four di Carlos should fear: Wrath, Greed, Envy, and Pride. One will crave your blood. One will capture your heart. One will steal your soul. And one will take your life.” —KotW, prologue, page 5.

I know that there are quite a few theories about which prince means what, yet I don’t believe that anyone has really stated why di Carlos should only fear those specific four princes. Well, because it’s not that everyone in the di Carlos family should fear them. Only the twins have to fear them because they are reincarnations.

In Wrath’s first bonus chapter, as he remembers the murder of his sister-in-law and her sister, he specifically mentions two Houses that he believes were involved with their death: the House of Envy, and the House of Greed.

“When word had reached him, the devil almost razed both houses, searching for signs of their treachery….A message to the princes of House Greed and House Envy…” —Wrath bonus chapter

So Envy and Greed are the most likely candidates for “crave your blood and take your life.” I know most people would likely assume Envy is the one who took the twins lives, but I don’t think so. He seems to actually somewhat like Emilia, and I think he might want to be friends with her (I mean, he does joke around with her a little in KotC, when he tells her she could sleep in his bed and look at his nude portrait on the ceiling. That was pretty funny). Meanwhile, Greed is a prince that we’ve met in the first book, yet there’s only one interaction with him throughout both books. Even Gluttony and Pride got more page time, and we only just met Gluttony in KotC, and got one scene with Pride in KotW. I wouldn’t disqualify Greed from having been the one to kill Emilia and Vittoria in their previous life. We simply don’t know enough about him. (Which sort of ties in to my theory that La Prima had a hand in killing her daughters because how else would she know which demon houses killed them? I highly doubt she was on speaking terms with her son in-law).

Next we have “steal your soul and capture your heart.” Quite honestly, I think Pride and Wrath fit both. When Emilia is asking Wrath about the curse on Pride, she assumes that Pride must have stolen La Prima’s daughter’s soul. Wrath immediately corrects her, saying, “‘Pride didn’t steal anything. He didn’t have to. Her daughter willingly chose to wed him. They fell in love, despite who they were.’” —KotW, chapter 30, page 242.

But if we’re going off of La Prima’s POV—someone who clearly hates demons, especially the Wicked—then it would seem to her like Pride had tricked her daughter into marrying him, stealing her soul in the process. Yet “capture your heart” sort of sounds like falling in love to me. And both of La Prima’s daughters fell in love with Pride and Wrath, which is why I’m leaning towards Pride being the one to steal the twins souls, yet could honestly see him as the one to capture their hearts.

There you have it! My complete theory on why Nonna is the First Witch. If you have any thoughts or theories of your own, I would love to read them!

#kingdom of the wicked #kingdom of the cursed #kotw #kotc #La Prima #Nonna #Wrath #Prince Wrath #emilia di carlo #vittoria di carlo #wrath x emilia #princewitch #kotw theory #kotw analysis #Pride #Envy #Greed #kerri maniscalco

[readerstories]

Body Heat - Aaron Hotchner x male!reader

Summary: Been re-watching Criminal Minds lately, and ofc reading fanfics, and I see that there are very few male readers out there so here’s at least one. Some classic bed sharing because something breaks during a snowstorm and it’s freezing, so time to share body heat ;) (AO3)

Warnings: nsfw, smut

Wordcount: 3891

A case in a small and remote part of North Dakota during the middle of the coldest winter in memory was not ideal to say the least. 

You liked snow and the cold, but even you had your fill by now. Everything is frozen, the ground, the bodies of the victims, even the snow was crunchy and no good to make snowballs with. (All of you had at one point or another almost face planted before getting wise and buying shoe spikes.)

At least the case was over and you had caught the killer alive this time, so that was good.

What was not good, was the snow storm currently raging outside the cabin door, causing the whole team to be stuck waiting for it to clear so you could take off. Because of course, this being a small town, there was no hotel, only small cabins to rent. But at least there were beds to sleep in, a small desk with a chair, a small bathroom (and a fireplace that you had yet to use), which was really all you needed.

The team had split up, since there only were two queen sized beds in each cabin. You had ended up with Hotch, which you really didn’t mind. He was always a quiet roommate, very polite and proper. Didn’t talk much, mostly went right to sleep when he got in, or stared at case files all night.

He was doing the latter right now, while you try to read a few more pages of your book before planning to go to bed for the night. You are trying your hardest to keep your eyes open, determined to at least reach the end of the chapter before sleep takes you. The only lights in the room were the one above your head, and the one on the desk Hotch was using which made it actually kind of cozy, which made your goal even harder.

That coziness disappears in seconds however, when the lights flicker, and then turn off.

Silence, then the both of you try to turn the lights back on a few times. Hotch’s cell pings with a new text, which he quickly reads, the cold light of the screen now being the only light source. 

“Seems the power is out, Morgan is going to the reception house to ask the owner about it since he’s in the cabin closest by.”

“Okay, good, at least it’s not only us.” A few beats of silence, and then another text. Hotch frowns as he reads it.

“Seems like the whole town is dark, the storm has taken out the power, but this place has generators.”

“Great!”

“But it only covers the essential stuff so no pipes will freeze, so we need to keep everything else off.” You nod, forgetting he can’t really see you in the dark.

“So only heat on in the bathroom I’m assuming.”

“Yeah.” You both eye the fireplace, and you sigh. 

“The owner told Morgan they are fully usable.”

“Well, let's see if I remember how to light one, it’s been a while.” You get out of bed, walking over to the fireplace to start trying while Hotch texts with someone, presumably Morgan again.

Stacking wood and finding some old newspaper curled up in the firewood basket, it only takes two tries and a few minutes to get a budding fire going. Proud of yourself as you watch the flames slowly catch while crouching in front of it, you feel Hotch’s eyes on you.

“Did Morgan say anything else?”

“He suggested we move to fewer cabins. I told everyone to stay in their respective cabins, we don’t need anyone risking going out in this weather when we all have good heat sources.” You nod, getting up and stretching.

“Well, I’m going to brush my teeth then try to sleep, and you should too.” Hotch opens his mouth to say something, but you interrupt him.

“You can look at those casefiles tomorrow, a fire is not the best light source when reading and making notes.” Hotch sighs, knowing that irritatingly you got a point. You smile a quick smile before going to the bathroom. While you’re in there the lights you had turned on before come back to light, but Hotch is quick to turn them off, two small clicks following right after one another. You check the oven in the bathroom, turning it down to half, knowing that should keep the temperature above freezing at least.

Neither you or Hotch speak another word to each other before going to bed, curled up almost fully clothed in your respective bed in the already colder room, even with the fire now going quite well in the fireplace.

You close your eyes, sure that sleep will come easy, as it was not that long ago you had almost fallen asleep while reading, nodding off between each sentence on the page.

But sleep doesn’t come.

Instead, you lay there, head empty of any thoughts, calm, but still you just can’t sleep.

You hear the wind blowing outside, each gust of wind making the cabin creak and groan quietly, barely there, but noticeable in the quiet of the night. The fireplace crackles, giving back at least some of that cozy feeling from earlier.

You can also hear Hotch toss and turn, which is unusual for him. The few times you had seen the man sleep or just been in the same room as him while he did so, he had been still, almost never moving other than his chest going up and down with each breath.

It takes an audible shudder coming from the other bed for you to realize why.

Hotch is cold, very much so. You can’t help the little smile that grazes your lips, almost a quiet laugh in its own right. So the cold is what does the big bad unit chief in huh?

You don’t feel good about it for long however as it’s clear that some solution to the problem is needed, as Hotch sounds no nearer to sleep than you are, and you are certain that like this neither of you will get any rest soon. So you cast a glance over at the fireplace before quickly getting out of your bed. Hotch quietly speaks your name, a question more than anything else. You drag your mattress, your pillow and duvet in front of the fireplace and put it down, turning to face Hotch, who has propped himself up on an elbow, confusion in his knitted brows.

“Come here.”

“What.” The tone is deadpan, not really a question in the word.

“I can hear your teeth clatter, I know you’re cold, so take your duvet and get in front of the fire.” Hotch slowly does as he’s told, surprisingly without asking anything. Or maybe he just sees your point. He drops his duvet next to yours, farthest from the fire, but you tut, moving it closest instead.

“You’re the coldest one, so you can sleep closest to the fire.” Hotch quirks a brow, but sits down on the floor as close to the fireplace as he can.

“Are you sure there is no ulterior motive? Maybe you just want it to be me to catch fire if things go wrong.” You grin, loving when Hotch lets his humor shine through his normally stoic facade.

“Maybe.” You get down on the floor too, laying down at the same time as Hotch. Before he can really react, you pull him close to your chest. It’s the surprise of it all that lets you drag him so he’s tucked under your chin, his hands on your chest.

“What are you doing?” You feel his whole body stiffen, even his words come out like that.

“Body heat.” You hum. Hotch stays stiff for a little while, but then there’s a big sigh as he relaxes a little. Slowly, one of his arms goes over your sides, still slightly unsure about this situation. You smile, resting huffing out a small laugh.

It’s already a lot warmer this close to the fire and though sleeping on the mattress on the floor like this isn’t the best, it’s better than being cold at least. And you’re not complaining about having an excuse to hold Hotch close like this, feeling him shift as he tries to get comfortable.

You feel your eyelids grow heavy, sleep creeping up on you as you get warmer. The last thing you hear before slipping into dreamland is the crackling of the fire, and a faint snore coming from Hotch.

----

Sadly, you wake up just a few hours later needing to pee. You somehow manage to get up without waking Hotch, so you are as quiet as you can be while doing your business. He’s still asleep when you get back, face relaxed.

You stop briefly to watch him sleep, as weird as you know it is. It’s just that you rarely see Hotch without a frown or a face made of stone, so you drink in the sight as long as you dare. Which is only a few seconds, but you stop yourself when you yawn.

With quiet steps you walk over to the mattress, slipping under the duvet and back to the shared warmth. This time it’s you that are dragged into Hotch’s arms as he mumbles something in his sleep. You try not to make any sound of surprise, as not to wake him still. You don’t mind this turn of events at all, as Hotch mumbles some words into your hair before they yet again turn to occasional soft snores. Letting out another yawn, you slip an arm over Hotch’s waist and let sleep take you.

----

It’s still dark out when you wake next, although this time of year it doesn’t say much.

This time it was Hotch moving that woke you, as your arms have made their way around his chest like he has done with his, holding him close and feeling his every move. You can tell by his breathing and movements that he’s awake, so you slowly talk, more or less asking the only question you have right into his chest.

“What time is it?” Another movement, most likely checking his phone.

“6:30 AM.” You groan, his deep and sleep laden voice doing things to your heart and brain you don’t have the awake awareness to think about right now.

“Back to sleep it is.” Hotch chuckles.

“This is past the time I would normally get up.”

“Is the storm still going on outside?” You both listen, and yes, over the low crackling of the now almost dead fire you can still hear the wind taking a hold of everything around it.

“Sounds like it.”

“Great, more sleep for us Aaron.” You can’t see the raised eyebrow, but you can almost hear it in his voice.

“Aaron?” You nod, trying to get in the perfect position to go back to sleep.

“Yeah, it feels weird using your last name when I’m cuddling with you.”

“Sharing body heat.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Aaron chuckles, and weirdly enough he ruffles your hair a bit. Your heart aches at the familiarity of the motion, but again, not awake enough for any of that.

It is then that it happens. In your effort to get comfortable, you shift your leg a little to high, and suddenly your thigh rubs against a clothed, but very obivous, erection. Aaron draws in a small sharp breath as you turn to stone for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry, I, uh-” Suddenly more awake, but still not quite there yet, you say nothing at first. You could have made some lame joke about it you suppose, but instead you are just as awkward as him.

“It, it’s uh, fine, um..” Silence for a few beats, then you come to a mutual and unspoken agreement to just ignore it.

However, you find that no matter how hard you try, you can’t.

You’re not pressed up against his crotch or anything anymore, you moved your leg way too fast out of the way for that to still be the case.

But you are still in Aaron’s arms, which makes it hard not to think about it. He’s warm, a little soft, strong, and you can smell his cologne this close. His breath is steady, but too steady, like he’s trying to will himself to sleep. Your head almost spins by the feeling of it all, and your thoughts are no help either, replaying the moment over and over again in your head.

The noise he had made had made you stiffen, perhaps from other reasons than you would like to admit.

You don’t know how long you both lay there, trying to or pretending to be asleep, but you know it feel like forever and torture of the slowest kind.

An idea slips into your mind before you can really stop it, making everything else go quiet.

What if you did it again?

You had for a long time admired Aaron, perhaps in more ways than you were willing to admit to yourself or anyone else. And in some fleeting and weak moments you had thought he might be too. A lingering glance or two during a case when he thought you wouldn’t notice, him letting small smiles slip onto his face more often when you were around, him bringing you coffee from time to time.

Taking a deep breath, you steady yourself as you move your leg again.

Another sharp breath from Aaron.

“What are you doing?” He asks as you still with your thigh pressed up against his still there erection.

“Trying something.” A beat where neither of you move.

“Stop me if you want.” Aaron says nothing and does nothing, so slowly, oh ever so slowly, you use your leg to rub against him. His breath deepens, and one of his hands moves to your hip, but doesn’t push you away, simply letting it rest there. Your own hands roam across his back, shifting, fluttering, trying to find purpose. In the end you grasp the back of his t-shirt as you slowly start to try to move him too.

Aaron groans, something that makes your own dick start to stir, and then he’s moving, and oh.

He seems in no rush, just rocking his hips ever so slightly forward, pressing himself against your thigh.

His breath is speeding up, and so is yours, almost panting in the quiet of the room.

As good as you are sure it feels, you want more, you almost need more. Removing one hand from his back, you replace your thigh with your hand, rubbing and fully feeling Aaron’s dick strain against the front of his pants. A hitch in his breath, an audible swallow, him continuing to move, now into your hand, spurs you on.

As far as you can tell through the fabric, Aaron is rather large, and certainly excited. You let your hand wander, squeeze, and rub as you please, every so often pausing to grab at his thigh instead, teasingly letting your fingers drag and dance along it.

A thought, and then your other hand is in front of you, gently touching his chest. You back away a few inches, careful to keep your touch still on him. Casting a glance upwards as you start to push his t-shirt up from his stomach, you’re met with intense eyes watching your every move. You swallow, Aaron’s eyes shift to follow the motion, then to your lips as you lick them.

He lets you push his t-shirt up under his armpits, and only then does he do any of the work himself, lifting himself up slightly so he can take it off and drop it on the floor behind you. You don’t let your eyes or hand linger on his scars, instead focusing on his chest.

He’s less hairy than you imagined, but you don’t care at all.

And you had imagined it.

But nothing could compare to the real deal. Feeling him turn to putty in your hands as you rub him through his pants, hear him groan as you let your hand brush against a nipple.

“God, fuck, you-” Aaron stops himself, letting out another groan as you you lean forward and plant a kiss on his chest.

“Ah, fuck, come here.” Before you can ask what he means, there’s a hand in your hair yanking you up, and then you’re kissing him.

You’re kissing Aaron Hotchner.

Fuck.

Fuck yes.

In less than a second you’re kissing back, mouths uncoordinated and messy as they meet. Your hand which had stopped rubbing him, starts up again while you kiss, and he moans into your mouth, which, fuck, that’s hot.

Both of his hands tangled in your hair pull you even closer as you both almost forget you need to breathe, only breaking apart to gulp down some air before diving right back in, lips moving firmly against each other.

Aaron is the first to add tongue, which makes you let out a little gasp, giving him full access.

He takes the opportunity, and not to be outdone, you move your hand from his bulge to the button on his pants. A noise of disappointment turns into a small moan as he realizes what you are doing. With all the noises he is making against your lips, it’s hard to concentrate, so you break the kiss so you can concentrate on zipping him down, and getting into his pants. Aaron moves forward so he can kiss along your throat, letting his teeth nip along the little skin that is showing from under your shirt.

“Fuck!” You groan, feeling the small smile Aaron can’t hide as he kisses your skin.

“Could get used to hearing that more often.”

“Yeah, good, fuck.” You curse whoever invented zippers as you fumble with it as if you were a fucking teenager.

Finally, a few seconds later, you are able to shove your hand into Aaron’s underwear and the smug smile you could feel against your skin turns into a moan.

“Fuck.” It’s low, but you hear it, glancing at him with a grin.

“I would like to hear that too.” You say as you start to pump his length, using his pre-cum as lubrication. Another nip to your skin makes you moan.

“At least your shirts have higher collars.” Aaron teases as he moves his hands from your hair to the hem of your t-shirt, dragging it up. You let go of him only so you can take it off fully, then your hands are right back on him. One on his dick, the other tugging slightly at a nipple.

Aaron drags you in for a kiss, and you moan into his mouth as he lets his hands wander all over you. Up your sides, over your chest, down your stomach. Your breath hitches as you think you know where he is going, but instead his hands settles on your ass, pulling you even closer, so close you can barely move your arm, but fuck, he raises his leg a little and now your hard dick is rubbing against his thigh. He rocks forward, seeking friction for you both, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth.

His cock is heavy in your hand, heat radiating from all off him were you are pressed close, still under the duvets. Your movements aren’t rushed, neither of you in a hurry to finish, but fuck, it feels good. Every rock of Aaron’s hips moves his dick in your hand, and presses him against yours, building up on the desire you feel taking over you.

One of his hands move from your ass to your hair, pulling at it as he stops kissing you briefly to moan into your throat.

“I’m close, fuck.” Your eyes flicker all over his face, greedily drinking in the look in his face. The normally stoic Aaron coming apart in your hands  is a sight to behold. Hair sticking in every possible direction, breathing heavy trough kiss-bruised lips is a sight you will carry forever.

You nod quickly, diving on for another kiss.

“Yeah, yeah, come on, don’t hold back on my part.” Aaron groans as he comes, cum seeping trough your fingers as he shakes apart in your hold. You keep gently stroking him as he comes down from is orgasm, stopping when a shiver runs trough his body.

You’re still pressed close, so you you notice quickly when one of his hands moves down your front. He squeezes your cock trough your pants, and you buck your hips into his hand. He chuckles, and then he’s unbuckling your pants, and within seconds his hand is around your cock and moving. You moan, trowing your head back, giving him ample space to lean forward and kiss along your neck.

“Fuck, ah, no marks.”

“Good for you that it is scarf season.” Like the fucking tease that he is Aaron lick a long stripe along your throat, but he does move further down, sucking and biting bruises into the skin on your chest as his hand moves up and down slowly on your cock.

You can’t help the noises the escapes you, moans and groans mixing with heavy breaths. his hands is firm on you, taking you closer and closer with every second, building up until your toes starts to curl.

“Fuck, A-Aaron.” He hums against your skin, placing a last kiss on your collarbone before moving so you’re on eye level once more, a hand in your hair tugging lightly.

“Don’t hold back on my part.” The words are said with a small grin his face, and you div in to kiss him as you cum, spilling all over his hand.

For a few minutes, neither of you move, just catching your breath together in silence. You are the first to move, twisting around so you can get your t-shirt back. Aaron frowns, but you just use it to wipe his hand off and yours. You kiss his knuckles after you clean them off, getting a single laugh as a reaction. Discarding the t-shirt once more, you tuck yourself back into your pants, Aaron doing the same.

A few beats more of silence, both of you not really knowing what to say.

“That was-” Aaron breaks first, but stops himself.

“Yeah...” You can’t help but slowly break into a grin, then a little laughter. He does the same, quiet laughter and a smile making your heart warm as he pulls you back into his still shirtless chest.

You let him, content and almost ready to fall asleep again, but not before you get out some last words.

“Next time I would prefer a bed though.”

“Next time?” He questions as his hand settles against your back.

“Mhm.”

“Alright, I’ll remember that.” He ruffles your hair, placing a single kiss on top of your head. Within minutes you are asleep, back to dreamland in your arms, for once content with sleeping in.

(You don’t take your scarf off on the whole way home, but if anyone in the team notices, none of them mention it, but you can see a smirk threaten to break out on Hotch’s face every time he glances at it.)

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #hotch smut #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x male reader #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch smut #hotch imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds smut #reader insert #male!reader #male reader #readerinsert #written #3000 #lemon #smut

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Veritaserum Prompt Fic (Part 10)

(Okay- I'm not going to lie, I took a little bit of sadistic joy at everyone's outrage and devastation over the previous chapter. But only because I know what's coming. I promise we'll have a happy ending. Anyway. Start with part 1 on tumblr or jump over to AO3 to read the whole thing, if you like.)

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

Harry woke up smiling.

This was not something that had ever happened to him prior to the last week, but now the bed smelled like Draco, and the sun was slipping in through the curtains and warming his face, and Harry was free.

He'd never been this happy in his life.

Rolling over, he reached out, patting the bed and trying to find his lover's body so he could drag him over and kiss him awake.

When his searching turned up empty, Harry opened one eye to look at the empty space next to him. He frowned and cast a wandless tempus: 10:37. Harry blinked and summoned his wand and recast: 10:37.

That was strange, he never slept that late. Although, he supposed it explained why Draco was already up and out of bed, probably already out in his workshop working on whatever potion he'd been brewing the past week or so.

After a good stretch and pulling his hair up into a messy bun on top of his head, Harry made his way to the kitchen and over to the coffee pot. He frowned again when he found it empty and turned to head outside and make sure Draco was alright.

Before he'd gotten more than a few steps, his eyes caught on a piece of parchment and a familiar hawthorn wand laying on top of the island. "No," he whispered, heart freezing in his chest.

(Read more below the cut)

He picked up the letter off the island with a trembling hand and read

Dearest Harry, How can I even begin to tell you all that you mean to me? A less cowardly man than I would have found a way to say it to your face, but we both know that bravery is more your department. You've given me so much, Harry. I could never have imagined falling in love, never imagined that someone might love me in return. But that's why I had to do this, you see that don't you? Not because I don't love you but because I do. I love you with every fiber of my being, with all that I am, and you are mine, Harry. And I couldn't let you pay the price for my sins. I couldn't let you give up everything for me. Granger helped me draw up a contract with the Minister himself, you three certainly have a lot of friends in high places. In exchange for me, they're clearing you of all charges. Don't be angry with her; she just wants what is best for you, as well you must know by this point in your friendship. I know you're hurting right now, love. I know that this is breaking your big, perfect, beautiful heart; it's breaking the pathetic, shriveled excuse of a heart that I have, too. But it will pass, my darling, if you let it. So please, for me, let it go. Let me go. Be happy, be in love, live whatever life you want. Travel. Go to the States and do whatever muggle thing you wanted to do. You deserve the best life. Please know that I will spend the rest of my life grateful for you. And I will never forget the time when you were mine. You are, without exception, the best thing that has ever happened to me. Forever yours, Draco

Harry stared at the parchment in his hand, trailing trembling fingers over Draco's elegant script as his eyes blurred and his breathing came too fast. He clenched the letter to his chest, gasping against the ache of his heart expanding to accommodate the sadness and the sense of loss.

Without another thought he apparated straight into Ron and Hermione's kitchen.

"We thought you might show up at some point," Ron's voice said behind him.

Harry whipped around to see them both sitting at the table, "What the fuck did you do?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Hermione sighed, "What he asked us to."

"Why?" he asked before the enormity of this situation hit him all over, the realization that he'd never see Draco again stealing the air from his lungs. He bent forward, putting his hands on his knees, "I can't breathe," he managed, trying to suck breath into his lungs and failing.

Ron was at his side in an instant, easing him onto the floor as Hermione appeared in front of him, "let your head drop between your knees. Focus on a slow inhale, slow exhale," she said and Harry tried to sync up his breathing with hers until his heart stopped racing.

He leaned his head back against the wall and scrubbed his hands over his face. "He's gone," he whispered. Then he opened his eyes and looked at them, "How could you let this happen?"

Hermione looked down at her hands, "Draco reached out to me the day after the trial. He said he couldn't trap you, couldn't force you to live a life on the run again."

"And that he couldn't bear the thought of you getting caught," Ron added.

"We wouldn't have gotten caught," he said derisively.

Hermione shook her head, "Maybe not but what about every other person in your life, Harry? You would have spent the rest of your life separated from them."

"We miss you, mate," Ron added.

He shook his head and swiped angrily at the tears in his eyes, "Then we could have figured something out. It had only been a week!" he protested. "Just one week, we could have-" he broke off and covered his mouth. After a heart beat, he stood up, "I can't be here right now. I can't-" he shook his head, "I can't do this."

"Harry-" Hermione started.

"He asked me not to be mad at you," he said, "but I'm-" he broke off, his hands trembling as he tried to open the door. "I need-" he tried again before simply giving up and walking out the door. He needed Draco.

"Harry!" Ron called behind him but he just kept walking.

He'd come back. He'd forgive them. He knew he would, he just needed a little time.

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

However, leaving was actually a seemingly bad idea.

In the 30 minutes after he left the house, he learned that part of the "deal" that Draco had struck with Kingsley involved the Ministry being able to tell whatever lies they wanted to about Draco. Some papers claimed that it had been a love potion, some claimed it was a cursed object, some claimed he'd been imperiused.

Harry stood in front of a newsstand, seething as he read the headlines. How could they have let this happen? How could Draco have signed a contract that allowed for this?

And then he saw it: The Quibbler. Draco and Harry were on the front page, just like every other newspaper, but the article was titled, "From the Wrinkspurts: They're in Love". The world tilted, righting itself slightly as a plan started to form in the back of his mind.

He looked up at the man running the stand who'd been just staring at him, "I need one of everything," he said. "I don't have any money but I'll bring-"

"They're yours," the man interrupted, grabbing papers from all the different piles. He even tossed on one for gardening and one for cooking.

"Err," Harry, "Not those ones," he said, nudging the two irrelevant ones away. "Just the ones about me," he added, "At the risk of sounding self centered."

"Whatever you want, mate," the man said. "They're yours."

"Thanks," Harry said, grabbing the stack of them and concentrating so he could apparate through the Ministry's wards because he simply didn't give a fuck anymore.

There was a sound vaguely like glass shattering as Harry popped up in front of the secretary's desk outside of Kingsley's office. She shrieked and a coffee cup went flying, breaking when it hit the ground.

"I'm here to see Kingsley," he said simply.

A hand fluttered up to cover her heart, "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Potter, but he's in a meeting."

"Interrupt it," he said. "I guarantee what I have to say is more important."

"I can't just-"

"Look," Harry interrupted. "Just go and ask him. If he tells you to send me away, that's fine, I'll go."

She appeared to consider this for a moment, then she stood up and made her way to the door, knocking and slipping in.

A moment later she reappeared, "Would you mind waiting for just one moment?" she asked, gesturing to the chairs across from her desk. "He'll be right with you."

It was barely two minutes before three people came hurrying out of the room, avoiding Harry's gaze.

Kingsley followed, "Harry," he greeted, "Please come in."

Harry stood up and followed Kingsley in, not allowing himself to feel inferior because of the sweatpants and t-shirt he was still wearing.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Let Draco Malfoy go," he replied.

Kingsley raised an eyebrow, "You know as well as I do that we're not going to do that. It's not possible."

"I thought you might say that," he replied as he started tossing magazines one by one onto the man's desk. "But you really ought to have told them all the same story."

"What?" the man asked with a laugh, "Why? Why should that matter?"

"Because it's going to make the Ministry look even more incompetent when I tell all of them the truth."

He shrugged, "It's of little concern, it won't matter."

"See, that's where you're wrong," Harry replied. "Because I'm not just going to tell them the truth about Draco Malfoy and his heinous treatment by Ministry officials prior to his trial. I am going to tell them everything and I'm going to watch the Ministry burn."

"Harry, be reasonable," he said. "So you tell everyone your story about finding Malfoy in the Department of Mysteries, garner a little sympathy because he was a teenager and now you're in love," he continued. "But it doesn't take much to drag his name through the mud again. To remind people that he tried to kill Dumbledore, to remind them of the cabinet that let death eaters into Hogwarts, to remind people of the lives that were lost because of him."

Harry's veins burned with rage and it was all he could do to keep himself from lashing out.

Kingsley shook his head, "Do what you must, but your story will never be enough."

He let out a humorless chuckle and leaned forward, bracing his fist on the desk, "I got into the Department of Mysteries within a matter of months. Do you really believe that the only information I got was about Draco Malfoy?"

"You'll be prosecuted, if you disclose any information you obtained illegally" he replied steadily.

"I am Harry fucking Potter," he said with a growl. "If you try to prosecute me, you will have an uprising on your hands. Especially after everything I'm going to expose. So good luck with that, I'll enjoy watching this burn even faster," he said, gesturing to the space around them.

"Harry," he said, "You must know that what you're asking of me simply isn't possible," a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

The corner of Harry's mouth ticked up, "I'm going to win," he said. "And we both know it." He turned, leaving the magazines spread across his desk. "The only question is how much do you want to see burn before it happens." When he reached the door he called over his shoulder, "I'm holding a press conference tomorrow at six." He looked back at the other man, "You have until then to get him released."

On his way out he cast a patronus that he was sending to Azkaban with a simple message. I'm getting you out.

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

Okay, friends. There will be at least one more part of this fic (maybe two) but this is getting too long. <3

Part 9 | Part 11

#veritaserum prompt fic #part 10 #drarry #harry is so fed up with the ministry #drarry ficlet #100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #drarry fic #idiots in love #facing problems head on #love #forgiveness #almost to the end #happy ending coming

[vergess]

@autismserenity​ said: Your tags are the most American thing I’ve ever read, we are truly so screwed here   

May I interest you in a more complete, and more excruciating, explanation of what I spent the last 18 months doing?

It is, I need to emphasize, fucking nasty. Don’t feel obligated, especiallly if you’ve already had A Day(tm).

There’s a lot of disease, a lot of worker abuse including sexual and racial abuse, a fine portion of letting people die for not being white enough for real medical care, all leading to homelessness.

For NDA reasons, because my former employer was just as vile as any tech company has ever been, I cannot be super specific about who I worked for. However, I can say that we handled the records and patient contact for all COVID testing for several states, as well as 2 of the 5 largest metros in the US, and several dozen smaller ones ranging from the approximate population of San Francisco, down to little towns, as well as the testing for several public school systems and at least two government agencies that I am not at liberty to disclose.

I tell you this for a sense of scale. When I say shit like, “my boss was more than happy to let thousands or hundreds of thousands die” I am not exagerrating for effect. We handled hundreds of thousands of tests a week.

Again, I need to emphasize, government agencies. Ones you would know if I named them. Ones everyone in the country knows.

And we were in charge of getting their test results from the already over swamped labs back to the patients, who often were not allowed to quarantine while awaiting results.

The fastest we got our turnaround time to on any consistent basis was about 30 hours. Often it ballooned well into weeks.

There were a number of factors for this, but the big one was always understaffing.

The staff we did have were treated like trash. One of the big selling points of this company is how “trans friendly” it is to work there. That is a lie. Every trans employee on payroll had their dead name displayed to all other staff, and until I personally changed the system setup on my arrival, patient facing trans people’s dead names were displayed to patients.

Remember that thing about “hundreds of thousands of tests a week”?

I was able to change the way patient-facing names were displayed. I was not allowed or able to alter the way internal systems displayed trans people’s names. But I was assured that it’s fine, because once you get a legal name change, you’ll be given new system accounts with your new name!

Your old accounts with your dead name would still be displayed and associated with the new ones though.

This is the “trans friendly” working environment. We were allowed to be out of the closet, as long as we were willing to put up with that. And any attempts to get it altered were the result of those nasty little transgender ingrates not being thankful enough.

Meaning that by asking to use our own fucking names we were already in the disciplinary shitter.

Another big selling point is the ~racial diversity~. The CEO was a man of colour, and so were like four other people on staff!! Wow!!!!!!!

This, too, was laughable.

Once numbers started coming in about the care gap for COVID between English and Spanish speakers, and our Southwestern US service area began to have a separate and brutal backlog just of Spanish speaking patients, my employer encouraged me to interview potential hires who speak spanish.

Fair enough! We all wanted to do our part to help close the already massive mortality gap.

So, I found candidates, did interviews, hired them, trained them, etc. But I don’t speak Spanish. As a result, I appointed 2 assistant managers who do speak Spanish to assist me in managing, you know, like the job name.

So when my super contacted them directly, completely skipping me on the chain of command, and told them to stop all of our Spanish speakers from translating helpful simple messages to send to patients, and instead start translating medical and legal documents, they very reasonably assumed I was in the know and went ahead with it.

TO BE CLEAR, that could have ended my life, theirs, basically everyone involved. Everyone in the company would have been completely fucked. At that point, my subordinates, the people for whom I am wholly responsible, were doing everything from practicing medicine without licenses, to encouraging spanish speaking patients to enter contracts that no one on the fucking executive tier could even read.

The moment I found that out, I and the A.M.s immediately started trying to get actual medical translation services to do our documents. We collected them in a neat folder. We queried translation services. We got quotes. We contacted my super and the CEO, about this over and over again for months. In the late autumn, we received approval for one of the translation services.

The CEO decided at the last minute that having people with no medical or legal training draft medical and legal forms was fine and good actually, and refused to sign the contract or send the documents for translation.

The excuse I received was that the COVID emergency HIPAA relaxations would protect us.

That’s not how that works.

Throughout all of this, Spanish speaking employees were told to either keep doing medical and legal translation work, or lose their jobs.

Oh, did I mention everyone was working between 30 and 80 hours a week, and all of us were marked as “contractors” so the employer could tax evade? Don’t worry, we filed complaints with the labour bureau.

So the entire department was let go, and “rehired” as temps through a temp agency, which because it was a temp agency could keep them marked as contractors regardless of the facts.

This change was presented to all of us, myself included, as the company getting a new accountant to handle payroll.

So if you’re keeping score, we’ve covered racism, queerphobia, medical negligence, fraud, and a frankly uncountable number of deaths.

Let’s talk about the sheer negligence towards employees ourselves. If you’ve worked in near-death medical care before, or any number of emergency services really, you know that the standard benefit suite includes either a dedicated therapist for your staff, or access to peer support groups with other emergency and medical servants through your employer’s benefits program.

Do you know what our mental health benefits were for this company?

The CEO got on a fucking zoom call with us all one (1) time, and said that if we were feeling suicidal or traumatized by the work, to talk to him about it, and he would be our therapist.

Do you know how many people per fucking day we had to contact only to be told they had already died because our understaffing delays killed them? He doesn’t. He never listened when we told him.

But let me put the cherry on the “Oh baby, you can talk to me, oooh” sundae.

Anyone who “looked” or “sounded” female, regardless of actual or assigned gender, was subject to constant flirtations and slimy, overly personal compliments about our appearances. Fortunately, at 3 levels removed from the CEO (Executives > Department heads > Managers > Employees), most of the people under my management had relatively little contact with him.

I was not nearly so lucky.

The CEO of this company has a watersports (urination) fetish. I know this, because he told me so and attempted to get me to join him in it. I have no idea how many other people in the company he did this to. I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do, risk losing my job to find out? I have a fucking family to support, people.

Not that it mattered.

Eventually, all of these abuses became too much for my subordinates. Productivity fell off a cliff. Delays were getting worse and worse. In a medical emergency like this, delays=deaths.

So, like a fucking idiot, when the department heads reached out to me to ask what they could do to improve productivity, I shot down their frankly insulting suggestion of raffling a $20 amazon gift card to patient facing employees, and instead suggested a very simple, “enroll us with a peer support group, every single person in this department has PTSD from working in this pandemic.”

They were confused by my assertion of PTSD. I was asked to compile a document of complaints, concerns, and weaknesses in our patient facing services.

I and the A.M.s did so. It was roughly 40 pages long, with each page given a known problem, the reasons why it was a problem, and some potential solutions that might inspire further solutions or be able to be implemented. We submitted it. There was no response.

A week passed.

I had been working 80 hour weeks for most of a year. I hadn’t even been able to take weekends. I took my first sick day, in a company with “unlimited vacation days.”

I received a call at 3PM.

I had been fired for “differences in communitcation.” If you’ve ever seen that “Problem Women of Color in the workplace” chart? Yeah.

So had most of my department, including every transgender member of the department, and several of our extremely limited in supply Spanish speakers, who were presumed to be “on my side.”

Some of them, I barely even knew beyond the formalities of the job, and they were punished anyway.

I lost my insurance, and as a result I lost access to my medications.

But the real problem? I lost my house. And not due to lack of payment.

I lost my house, because when I got the job we waited 6 months for stability’s sake, and then readied to move out of the area. I got a mortgage on the basis of my employer’s written guarantee to the bank that I would continue to be employed for the next year at a minimum.

With the mortgage approval in hand, we entered a sales contract on our existing home.

We got and accepted an offer just days before I was fired. To keep our house meant paying a 25,000 dollar broken contract fine. We didn’t have that. We had a 10% down payment for a modest fucking place in a cheaper area, which is less than half that.

But without a job, my mortgage approval was also voided, meaning we couldn’t buy a house either.

All of a sudden, we were homeless during the plague, because my employer wrote and signed a letter to a bank guaranteeing my future employ, and then changed his mind when too many people died due to his own negligence.

Oh yeah, one last thing: the job paid less than Pandemic unemployment Assistance.

...After that, well, it’s homelessness until just last month. I... if you’ve never been homeless it’s.

It blurs. Everything is happening constantly, except for all the ways in which you are endlessly, mind breakingly bored. Bored, overloaded, and always uncomfortable.

Obviously my health would have declined regardless. Malnutrition, stress, everything.

But I was also unmedicated.

It was hell. I was in hell. I don’t know if I can recover from it, to be honest.

I bounced back from being homeless as a child. Children are as resilient as they are stupid, and the monstrosity of homelessness was little more than a vaguely remembered loathing and a panicky fear that it would ever happen again.

A child who is dying is worthy of sympathy, even if it is meaningless coos from passers by. If they have family, they may be able to rely on them too.

An adult with the indignity to die homeless and crippled, according to the average passer by, is worthy only of disgust and perhaps even punishment for being such a worthless waste.

My reward for nearly killing myself in a desperate bid to help stem the tide of COVID was the destruction of not only my life, not only my entire family’s lives, but the lives of every single family of every single employee who worked with me.

And you know what’s worse?

Each one of us still did more to limit the lethal impact of COVID than the entire united states government.

It breaks something in you, going through that.

It makes you realize that hope is a fool’s game.

But, I have ever been a fool, and so, I continue to play.

[hillbillyoracle]

September Self Care Challenge

The last few months have been hell for me y'all and there's absolutely no sign of it letting up. The astrology for this year is pretty clear that it's only looking to get more intense between now and part way through next year so I'm trying to focus on ways I can better ride this wave out. I realized other people might appreciate these challenges that I've created for myself so I decided to share them with all of you. Please take what is useful and leave the rest. Try as much of it as you can or as you want. I will say it would probably help to use a journal throughout this process or a planner. Whichever works for you!

The Routines

Given the astro weather and what's going on in the world generally, now is a really good time to reexamine routines and solidify the helpful parts. I've been doing a lot of this lately and it's been really impactful.

So one part of this challenge involves creating both a morning and evening routine that has at least one of item of maintenance self care, kindness self care, and reflection self care. Expression self care too if you can manage it.

So for instance maybe your AM routine would be:

Brush teeth + get dressed (maintenance)

Morning pages, TMS journaling, or a tarot challenge (reflection)

Make a nice cup of tea and read or listen to something (kindness)

And maybe your PM routine would be:

Brush teeth + wash face (maintenance)

Write about what happened that day (reflection)

Put on a diffuser and read of listen to something (kindness)

Try to stick to it more days than you don't and that's already a win.

I also like to anchor my routines around 123 and 321. In the morning, I like to write down 

1 way I can give back to someone 

2 things I want to get done

3 things I'm thankful for. 

In the evening, I like to write down 

3 things I accomplished

2 ways to improve

1 thing I'm proud of or thankful for

These could count as reflection if need be. I just find them really handy for starting off and finishing a day on a good note.

The Content

I've been feeling bombarded by content that stresses me out lately. I can tell it's been taking a toll on my health. As a disabled person, I've had watch so many people, including family, suddenly decide COVID wasn't worth worrying about while I remain in the same lockdown as ever because I haven't stopped being high risk. It can be really overwhelming seeing how little folks care.

But I was recently introduced to the idea that instead of trying to scroll through the news less, it was more productive to focus on what I want to do more of instead. So I've cut back to reading a news roundup around midday and then focusing on completing the following challenge.

Read 5 new books

Watch 5 new films or documentaries

Listen to 5 new podcasts

Listen to 5 new albums

Create 5 new works

When I say new, I mean new to you.  I've found that novelty helps keep my mind from wondering which is helpful in these times.

What work is is ultimately up to you. For me it will be mostly writing and embroidery this month. Maybe some knitting or crocheting. For you it could be creating a new art piece, learning a new song, taking and editing 5 new photos - whatever would really engage you in a meaningful way.

The Prompts

These are designed so that you can pull cards for these, journal through them, or both. So please do however many of these are actually helpful to you and then don't sweat the rest. I wanted to include a tarot challenge as a way to help take care of one of the reflection categories for the routines and prompts deeper thinking on the theme.

1 T - What's been getting in your way lately? How can you get it out of your way or adapt to it?

2 W - What spell work would improve your life? What do you need to perform it?

3 T - What have you been wanting to learn more about? Where could you start?

4 F - What's would make you feel more confident in your body? How could you do that?

5 S - What's your biggest limitation you're facing? What can you learn from it?

6 S - What talent could you share with others more? Where could you start?

7 M - What's been bothering you around the house lately? What would lessen it?

8 T - What way to move your body would bring joy? What do you need to start?

9 W - What friend or community have you not reached out to in a while? How can you?

10 T - What spiritual practice brings you peace? What would you need to do it more?

11 F - What small change would feel luxurious? How can you implement it in your life?

12 S - What structures do you need to set up? How would they benefit you?

13 S - What way could you brag on yourself a little? Who would be proud to hear about it?

14 M - What food would make you feel more cozy? What do you need to be able to make it?

15 T - What is the biggest drain on your energy? How can you lessen or get rid of it?

16 W - What really needs said? Who needs to hear it?

17 T - What could you give someone to cheer them up? Who should you give it to?

18 F - How could you spend more time with beauty? Where should you look?

19 S - What should you cut back on? How would it benefit you?

20 S - What would make you more sovereign? How can you implement it?

21 M - What intuition have you not been listening to? What does it say?

22 T - What's a better way to deal with anger? Where can you learn more?

23 W - What charm could use refreshed or recast? What needs to be different?

24 T - What opportunity is presenting itself? How can you take it?

25 F - What could you revel in more? How can you make it happen?

26 S - What needs to be gotten rid of? Where's the place to dispose of it?

27 S - What's the dark side of your ego? How can you manage it better?

28 M - What would make your home more calming? How can you bring that in?

29 T - How are you when you're aggressive? What's a better way to get what you want?

30 W - What connection needs extra energy? How can you add to it?

Conclusion

I hope this helps folks. I know it's been helping me since I started doing it and I thought it would be nice to make it more of a community wide thing. So do that parts that speak to you and leave the parts you don't. But please tag me in your reflections, use hashtag #SeptemberSelfCareChallenge, and share your experiences. We're all going through some rough shit these days. Let's take care of ourselves at least a little each day.

#witchblr #witch #tarot #tarot challenge #september tarot challenge #self care

[touyasdoll]

Complicated - Chapter Two

Chapter One: Here

Pairing: Dabi/Touya Todoroki x reader

Warnings: self-degradation/self-doubt

Word count: 2.2k

A/n: Gonna rework this and ditch the first person POV, jsyk.

A/n pt. 2: This story does contain spoilers for the show/manga. The dates/ages of characters are going to be shifted around a bit.

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

It's been two days. Is he gonna call? Text? Completely forget I exist?

I sigh, trying to expel the anxiety balled up in the pit of my stomach.

Why would he call? We talked for, what, five minutes? He seemed older too. You were in your damn school uniform, idiot. He's obviously got more important shit to do than chat up a schoolgirl who can't mind her own fucking business.

"Ugh," I groan to no one but myself in my apartment. "I'm really just the biggest fucking jackass, aren't I?"

Flopping down on my bed, I let out another weighty sigh and bury my face in the plethora of pillows piled beneath me.

Relax. Maybe he'll text. Maybe he won't. And if he doesn't he's just sparing you the embarrassment that you would inevitably bring upon yourself.

A yawn escapes my lips as I feel a wave of drowsiness wash over me. Glancing at the clock, I could see it was hardly 5 PM.

Fucked up sleep schedule, here I come.

The familiar comfort of my bed allows me to quiet my thoughts enough to fall into a shallow sleep, until I'm startled awake by a vibrating sensation coming from underneath my chin.

I blink against the harsh light emitting from my phone, squinting to see who was disturbing me.

What the--oh shit!

It was an unknown number. Recognizing that it could be him, I sit up faster than I have ever managed to after a nap and fumble the phone into my palm, eagerly sliding my thumb across the screen to accept the call.

"Hello?"

My breath hitches and I bite my lip in anticipation as I wait, eager to hear his deep, silky voice on the other end.

But the pause on the other side of the line seems just a little too long. Something is off.

Is this him? Is it..just some creep? A prank? What the hell?

"We've been trying to reach you about your car's extended warranty."

My eyes slam shut, a shake reverberating through my spine as a cocktail of anger and embarrassment wash over me.

That's it. Hope is off limits from now on.

"Fucking great."

I tap the end button, half ready to throw my phone out the window.

Instead, I decide to check and see if I missed anything else while I was out.

Hope is off limits.

I shake my head, trying to erase the little embers of hope that persist, praying that maybe he did reach out.

To my surprise, there's a text from an unrecognized number.

Unknown: You free tonight, doll?

Holy shit.

Looking above the message, I see: Today 6:58 PM. I wince as I dare to look at the clock, which mercifully reads 7:26 PM.

Tapping the text box, I don't give myself the chance to overthink this opportunity.

Me: For you? Sure thing.

Tossing my phone onto the bed, I nod my head, processing the sudden burst of confidence I seem to have found.

I'm not like this. What is it about this guy? He's just that--a guy. One that I don't know. And now I'm just gonna meet up with him?

He's literally a stranger. Who the hell do I think I am?? Is my vagina just running things now? Gonna run out and meet up with some strange dude, because he's pretty and charming?

You know who else was pretty and charming?? Ted Bundy.

That's right, you said it. This is dumb, logically. This is everything everyone’s ever warned you about.

My phone buzzes and my heart rate spikes in response, tearing me from my spiraling doubts.

Unknown: Our spot. 30 minutes. See you there.

A noise that I've certainly never made before eeks past my lips as I process his instructions.

Fuck it. The possibility of this guy being a serial killer has been assessed. I'm going, risks be damned.

You're an idiot. You're an idiot. You're an idiot.

I sigh for the umpteenth time today, waging war in my own mind.

I don't know what it is about him, but I have to see him again. Nothing bad is going to happen. It'll be fine.

That's what I tell myself as I exhale, until I catch my reflection.

My hair is disheveled, my mascara askew. I didn't even bother to take off my uniform before I passed out.

As if I weren't flustered enough, now I gotta make myself looking somewhere near presentable and get down there in time.

Here goes nothing.

Fifteen minutes fly by and I think I've managed it as I step back to look myself over in the mirror once more.

The shortest pair of high-waisted shorts I own, paired with a low-cut black crop top and my favorite slip-ons. My make-up doesn't look perfect and there's not much of it, but it's touched up, and my hair is at least brushed.

Okay, no turning back now.

Grabbing my keys, I tuck my phone in my back pocket and make my way to the meeting place.

+++++++++++++++

Our spot. The man is smooth and I think that he knows it.

I re-read the last message he sent for probably the thirteenth time in the past five minutes.

The clock in the corner of the screen reads 8:02.

Maybe he won’t show. Maybe this is a joke. He and his buddies with come around a corner and laugh as they speed off.

Damn, can I chill? No. He’s going to be here. And I’m going to act like a human fucking being. A normal girl. Someone he could like; I’m capable of that.

Aren’t I?

Scanning my surroundings yet again, I take in the scenery. I never really get out at night, but the city looks so pretty this way. There’s not too much traffic, especially considering that it’s a Friday night, but there are some people milling about up and down the sidewalk. Some look like they’re on their way home. Some look like they’re on their way out for a night on the town.

“Hey there.”

My eyes are quick to follow the sound of his voice. I look up and he’s strolling up to the bench where I’m seated, the same one where I bandaged his arm the other day.

His hands are shoved in his front pockets, thumbs pushed through the belt loops of the tight, black jeans he’s sporting. His white t-shirt dangles off of his frame in a way that suits him, offering a glimpse of his muscular chest. A black coat completes his ensemble and he certainly looks the part of the typical bad boy.

But, damn, does it look so good on him.

“Hey, there. How’s the arm?”

I scoot over a bit, allowing for ample space between us if he were to take a seat. To my surprise, he sits towards the middle of the bench, so that his thigh brushes against mine as he settles.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, glancing down and covering the noise I want to make with a quiet clearing of my throat.

“It’s good. You do make a pretty decent nurse, sweetheart.”

He grins and pulls his coat sleeve back, revealing the still bandaged wound.

“Wait, have you changed that?”

You’re such a mom. You better hope he’s into MILFs, because otherwise this ain’t gonna get you where you wanna go, girl.

His brow furrows in an expression that tells me all I need to know before he even speaks.

“What do you mean? Changed what?”

A quiet sigh leaves my lungs as I hold out my hand.

“May I?”

His puzzled expression doesn’t falter, but he shrugs and offers his forearm up for inspection.

Carefully, I pull back the tape holding the bandages together and slowly begin to unwrap them.

That is, until the smell hits me. I barely catch of glimpse of the reddened skin before my nostrils detect the scent of burned flesh and excess viscera.

“Oh, dear. Have you even unwrapped this thing?”

Trying not to agitate anything further, I delicately wrap the bandages back around his arm, taping them down once again.

“No, should I have?”

I look up and my gaze meets his, a sense of true ignorance evident in his expression; I try not to laugh. I really try, but a soft giggle escapes nonetheless.

“Yes! I mean, if it doesn’t hurt, I’m sure it’s not that bad right now, but you should be cleaning and redressing a wound like that once every 12 hours at the very least. It’s been what, like, at least 50 at this point?”

His good arm reaches for the back of his neck, scratching at it as he dons an apologetic half smile.

“Sorry, I’m not exactly nurturing by nature, doll. I don’t know the first fucking thing about this kind shit.”

I cock a sympathetic smile as I look at him, sitting there looking almost helpless. I guess he is, in a sense. It’s actually kinda cute how he doesn’t seem to have an inkling of how to properly care for himself.

Because that’s absolutely what you want in a potential relationship. Someone to fix, how fun! Why not open up a shop for broken boys? Girl, when will you learnnn??

“Well, I don’t have anything on me right now, but if you don’t mind coming back to my place, I could clean it up there? And I’ll teach you how to keep up with it this time.”

I guess not today, motherfucker.

“Coming to my rescue again. You must be in a hero course, huh, doll?”

His smile is so naturally disarming as he stands and offers his hand out before me.

“I don’t mind, if you’re sure you don’t. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable and I don’t wanna be a burden. I didn’t ask you out tonight for you to have to play doctor on me again.”

He seems so sweet, so genuine. Maybe he is broken, but everyone deserves kindness. He looks like he hasn’t seen much of that. And as cliché as it is, maybe I can help him. Maybe he can help me.

I slip my hand in his, smiling as flirtatiously as I can manage as he pulls me to my feet.

“I don’t mind. I was kind of hoping I might get to play doctor on you again anyway. Maybe you could even return the favor.”

I brush my fingers against his as our hands disconnect, taking a page from his own book and watching his expression as my skin glides against his.

Or maybe we could just do this. This works too. No muss, no fuss. But oh my goodness what if what I just did was weird and he’s not even interested??

His eyebrows rise for just a moment as he chuckles and glances down, still grinning as he puts his hands in his coat pockets.

“Well, sweetheart, I don’t know much about medicine, but I do know how to give a pretty thorough physical exam.”

Something twitched deep inside my belly as my breath caught in my throat and I damn near tripped over my own two feet as we started walking.

Thankfully, his reflexes were quicker than my inate ability to fuck things up and his good arm reached out to steady my frame as he stepped in front of me.

The delicious scent of his cologne mingling with remnant cigarette smoke nearly made me dizzy as my hands connected with his chest, now completely unable to ignore the muscles just beneath his thin shirt.

“You all right there, doll?”

Long, slender fingers find their way under my chin. His thumb just barely brushing the edge of my bottom lip as he strokes it over my chin.

His eyes are practically piercing mine as he carefully lifts my face to his. Who knew being in such close proximity to someone so beautiful could be this paralyzing.

Holy fuck. Forget fixing me. He can break me and I’ll probably thank him for it.

The strong hand on the small of my back threatens to rob me of my breath all over again and I have to fight to keep any semblance of composure in his arms.

“Yeah.” I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear and will myself to break eye contact. “You always have girls falling for you this quickly?”

I pity laugh at my own joke, wishing my quirk was something that would allow me to disappear.

But then he’s chuckling too. It’s melodious at first, but then it morphs into a deep reverberation that sends all the right chills down my spine as I level my eyes with his again.

He looks like an enigma personified. His eyes look so gentle and warm, but his smile reads so sad. The words that leave his lips sound like both a warning and an invitation to my flushe red ears.

“Trust me, princess. You don’t wanna fall for me. I’m no good for you.”

Oh, but it’s too late for that.

#dabi #dabi imagine #dabi fanfic #touya #touya imagine #touya fanfic #touya x reader #dabi fluff #touya fluff #touya todoroki #touya todoroki x reader #bnha x reader #mha dabi #my hero x reader #boku no hero #my hero academia #quirk ideas #todoroki #mha spoilers #bnha spoilers #dabi x reader

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Don’t Look! [Part 3]

<- Part 2 | Part 4 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader

Once again, transformation AU by @we-are-all-just-a-bit-crazy, I’m just making a fic with it! (Going to try to wrap this series tomorrow; we’ll see if I can keep up the pace). Mutual pining + Chilton having trust issues. 

2,160 words

The door opened a crack, and Dr. Chilton’s eyes appeared, searching up and down the hallway. Your pulse quickened. Finally, you were going to get answers—some logical explanation for what you’d seen last night. At least you could show him support this time instead of leaving him trembling in the dark.

He seemed to be human again. You found yourself checking and rechecking the texture of his skin for lingering signs of spikes and swirling darkness. A chill ran down your spine at his proximity, like it did when you saw a spider. You wished it wouldn’t. You didn’t want to be afraid of spiders. You didn’t want to be afraid of him.

Finding the coast clear, Chilton opened the door another few inches and stepped out wearing your grey hoodie and sweatpants. His hair was a mess, the hood pulled down to hide it.

“I cannot be seen this way. If you need me, I shall be at home. You have my personal number. Please call Nightengale Restorations and have them fix the office. Tell them I will pay a fifteen percent bonus for having it done this week,” he prattled in his professional tone as if this were just another workplace matter. He walked away, a slight hitch to his swift gait, but turned after three steps and met your eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

***

There was no confrontation after that. Dr. Chilton resumed work the next day, and things simply went back to normal. That is to say: awkward silences, reading novels into every word, and the simmering tension of pretending everything was normal when, in fact, nothing had been resolved.

Questions burned in your eyes, but fear restrained your tongue. The answers would only make you more afraid, and so Chilton did not volunteer them.

You didn’t run away, but you didn’t ask, either. Chilton was satisfied that you were just as in denial as he was.

The daily routine went on exactly as it used to: you would arrive at 7:30 am, knock at his office door, hand him a coffee, and take the file of paperwork he wanted done that day. Only there was hesitation in your knock, and you waited for him to say, “Enter,” instead of sauntering in like you owned the place. He had you put the coffee down on his desk so you would not risk brushing his fingertips as you sometimes did. When you took the file, you stared at him like he might bite.

“That will be all,” he said, dismissing you before your stoic mask faltered and you showed your true disgust.

***

Chilton’s skin crawled beneath his suit from his arms to his feet, and his scar throbbed for the first time in weeks. Having Abel Gideon back under his care was disconcerting, but a necessary part of Will Graham’s therapy—or rather, another clue in the case Graham was building against Hannibal Lecter.

He was skeptical at first. Graham was a lunatic—a sociopathic manipulator. Delusional. Yet, even a sociopath could not fabricate such elaborate lies with that much sodium amytal running through his veins.

The nightmares would be worth it when he was the man famous for bringing down the Chesapeake Ripper.

“Hey.”

Chilton looked up, eyes rimmed with red from hours of staring at a computer screen, working late yet again. You held up a bag of takeout, a weak smile on your lips.

“Need a break?” you offered, moving to sit across from him at his desk. Everything in the office was tidied up—you had cleaned most of it yourself the day Chilton went home in your sweatpants. The damage wasn’t as bad as it looked. Most of the furniture was simply overturned, not broken. Only the antique in-wall shelving waited for professional repair.

“No. Thank you,” he said, waving away the food. His lips thinned wanly. “You may help yourself if you like.”

He was equally surprised and suspicious when you stayed, unpacking the container of vegetarian pesto tortellini. He watched hungrily as you lanced one with a plastic fork and brought it to your lips. His stomach growled.

“Are you alright?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, straightening defensively in his seat.

“With Gideon here. That must be difficult.”

“I manage.”

You chewed another pasta in silence. Finally, he couldn’t help it and grabbed the second fork, stealing a tortellini off your platter. It was rich and flavorful—a bit heavy on the salt, but obviously from a fine restaurant. He held the bite in his mouth. No strange aftertastes. He did not feel woozy after swallowing. There was always a chance you were willing to drug yourself to get to him if you had an accomplice waiting to spirit him away to some secret facility.

“All right,” he snapped, chair shooting back toward the wall as he stood. “What are you after?”

You gave a startled “Mmph?” around a mouthful of pesto.

“What is the catch? A price for your silence? Why are you here, bribing me with dinner?”

“I… I’m not—what? I was worried about you.”

“Unlikely, considering the circumstances. Tell me what you want.” His eyes locked onto you, cold and piercing.

“Fine!” you broke. “I want you to forgive me!”

“For what?” he sneered, half believing your words were a veiled threat.

“I’m sorry, OK? Please—what can I do to make up for it? I tried giving you space, but now you look at me like I’m going to kick you, or”—your eyes widened at the plate of food he only touched after you ate some—“poison you! I swear I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” he asked in an entirely softer tone. He sat back down, hunching forward across the desk to search your face.

Your head hung low, and you murmured quietly, “I know I didn’t handle it well. I should have left when you asked. Now I understand… you didn’t want anybody to see that. I invaded your privacy. And then I freaked out!” Your voice broke. “And I’ve been trying to… to make up for it. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but—dammit, I’m pushing you again! Sorry.”

The urge to hug you overwhelmed him. If there wasn’t a deliberately massive table in between you—meant to keep others at a distance—he would have hugged you.

“Are you not afraid?” For once, the broadness of his desk seemed obtrusive.

“I could never be afraid of you.”

Your arm crossed the divide, reaching for his hand. It touched, warm and easy, and gave a sympathetic squeeze that set his blood racing. Then it retracted, and his skin ached for the lost contact.

“I just got scared because I didn’t understand what was happening. I still don’t. Maybe I am still afraid, a little. But not because—! Please, just… tell me what that was. What happened to you?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. Eyes narrowing, he answered cagily, “First, what do you think you saw? Light can play tricks on the eye, especially after long hours in a morbid environment, possible exposure to hypnotic drugs… Let us be sure we are on the same page.”

“Are you seriously going to gaslight me now that we’re finally talking? I’m not an idiot. You still owe me those pants back!”

While he floundered for words, your eyes squeezed shut, and a hissing laugh burst from your nose. A red flush crept up his neck, under his shirt collar. It was inappropriate to laugh in this situation, but perhaps that was why it was so contagious—it had been too long since he’d seen you laugh, and even longer since he’d done so himself.

“Those cheap, scratchy, torture devices? Consider it a favor that I tossed them,” he quipped. (Forget the fact that he had been sleeping with his face buried in them for the past week and simply did not wish to return them before wringing them for every drop of your scent.)

“And yet you wore them, which means I saved your ass. Checkmate, doctor.”

“Please. It is barely a Vienna Gambit.”

Laughter felt foreign in his throat. It was soft, and only lasted a brief second, but it was cleansing. You smiled at him, rolling your eyes, and his soul lifted.

“Very well,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Ask your questions.”

Your eyes darted to the windows. Another late night. Stars appeared (the handful not blotted out by Baltimore’s light pollution). You chewed your bottom lip.

“Are you going to transform again?”

“Only on the night of the new moon, when twilight gives way to the black of night. No need to worry.”

“Just once a month, then? Werewolf rules?”

He shot an offended glare, though you weren’t wrong. “Sometimes two, near the aphelion. And during an eclipse. It… hates sunlight. Even the reflection of the sun. It wants to be in darkness.” The thought disturbed him—the way the beast called him to the shadows. He always fought it to stay indoors, locking himself away from any nocturnal roving. It frightened him what might happen if he gave in. The coppery taste of blood haunted his dreams.

“Then… would you transform if you went spelunking? You know, in a cave? Or a submarine?”

“I have not tried. A darkened room is not enough. I would not tempt it.”

You swallowed and thought. Your lips twitched, building to the important question: “Is it still you in there?”

“Yes. More impulsive—I would never have smashed the decor—but I am still there.” It brings my true self to the surface, he thought, but withheld this. A slimy, dangerous, unlovable wretch. He looked at you, sitting across from him in front of a container of food you brought to share, and wondered what you were doing there after seeing it. How could you bear to be near him?

“But you’re not going to… eat me or something?” You were embarrassed to ask, and he gave you a fittingly scathing glare.

“No. I would not eat you.” He stabbed a tortellini and popped it in his mouth.

“Then I want to see it.”

He choked.

“I want to get a better look. To wrap my head around it. Besides, it seemed painful—next time I could bring you a hot towel, or… a cold pack, or… I don’t know, some tea? An ibuprofen?”

“There is no next time. You were never supposed to see that in the first place.”

“Please? If it’s going to happen again in two weeks, I want to be there. Prepared this time.”

“This is not a zoo. I am not some freak show to be gawked at! What happened to you being sorry?”

“I just want to get to know you,” you answered, and your voice sounded so small his heart reeled. You snapped your head up, “I mean—I want to be there for you. You shouldn’t be alone.”

He scoffed, defensive again. “Why? Because I might do something dangerous? I am more than capable of controlling myself.”

“Because you deserve to be comforted when you’re in pain.”

Your words struck him like a nuclear bomb of basic human decency. Deserved? Comfort?

“Does anyone else know? Does anyone… take care of you when you change?”

Only his family knew, and they certainly did not take care of him. Bringing him that bag of clothing in the morning was the first time anyone had done something thoughtful for him—helped him with his condition. Even if you had run away at first, you wanted to be supportive. To know his dark side.

Why?

Was it possible? Did you feel the same way about him as he did about you? His hand still felt warm from where you had briefly touched it.

He had to admit, it was nice having someone be there for him. Even a small gesture like old, loose-fitting sweatpants in a bag made a world of difference. Or dinner at his desk. He imagined you pressing a steamed towel to his forehead, and he did not hate the idea—doting on him like a spa therapist, taking the edge off the pain as his hair fell out and skin split open. Or watching him become hideous. Vomiting at the sight of him. Losing all interest you might have had. Realizing it was a mistake to be there.

“Thank you for dinner,” he announced in curt, clipped syllables. “That will be all.”

“Frederick…” Your voice was low, personal. Pleading. He did not like how personal it was. How you were giving him everything he wanted, like you were baiting a trap.

“Fascinating as this must be for you, I still have work to do. Your shift ended an hour ago. Go home.”

“OK. Right. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You didn’t see him trembling as you left, clutching his hand over his fluttering heart.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

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#Frederick Chilton x reader #Frederick Chilton #Hannibal AU #my writing