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lokilickedme · 3 years

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Somebody help me chill, this is insane.

(under the cut because long and also pretty traumatic, for me at least)

Crazy neighbor, remember her? Her son destroyed a piece of equipment we had attached to one of our trees at the fenceline last week, she denied it and called us insane liars - that’s the most recent craziness in the ongoing saga of the neighbor from hell. I was sitting here reading my dash tonight and happened to glance over at the monitor for the surveillance camera husband got me the other day to watch that exact spot (where the equipment was smashed) and guess who I see bent over looking through the fence peering very closely at that exact spot? Neighbor’s equally insane son, who we know did the actual dirty work. And I, stupid like I am, took a screenshot of him and then immediately jumped up and ran outside in the dark in my pajamas (nearly 9pm, pitch black, their porch light is off because obviously they’re doing something they don’t want to be seen doing) and I ask “Excuse me, what are you doing?”

This lunatic immediately starts SCREAMING at me - I mean top of his lungs SCREAMING abusive threats, calling me a stupid psycho whore bitch, yelling at me to get my ass back in my house and generally just acting completely off his rocker unhinged nuts - and then his mother comes out and comes over to the fence and gets in my face while I’m just standing there and tells me to mind my own business. I say I am minding my business, I saw him looking through the fence at my property right where we had vandalism happen last week so I came out to find out why he’s interested in my property. She laughed in my face and said “No he wasn’t, he was standing right here looking at his phone like this” and she does this little pantomine of someone looking at their phone, which is funny because she wasn’t out there when he was doing it and there are no windows on that side of her house at all. I ignored her and asked “What are you looking for?” He kept screaming incoherent animal noises and insults from behind her so I asked again, “What are you looking for?” And that crazy woman grinned at me and said “We’re just looking to see what kind of new devices you’ve installed!”

OMG. She didn’t even take a breath in between lying and then contradicting her own lie. And she’s grinning smugly at me the entire time, gesturing around pointing at our property cams and mosquito light (it flashes and apparently she thinks it’s watching her) and my bedroom window - which means she’s been snooping. There is a cam sitting in my windowsill, aimed at the spot where the device was smashed. Every bit of this equipment is on our property, some of it behind a privacy fence. I tell her it’s none of her business what kind of devices we’ve got on our property, but she just yammers over me, and of course numbskull is still ranting like a psycho behind her, screaming at me to mind my own business and get back in my house and leave them alone. At this point he’s pulled out his phone and shoved it over her shoulder toward my face and is recording me, which is just...fucking hilarious...because I’m literally doing nothing but standing there in shock and awe at how nuts these people are, and he’s still screaming abusive curses and names at me while he’s recording.

Anyway, for about 4.5 minutes we stood there with them shouting over me (I know the exact time because it was later discovered that our doorbell cam recorded audio of the entire event) and a little ways into it he screams “I WILL TEAR YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!!”

At this point psycho woman finally turns around and says “Addison Case!” and pushes him back. He lunges at me and she tells him to go call the police (??what?? I mean...I wish he had...my phone was in my hand frozen solid, locked up because of the glitchy surveillance app I had to install to see the camera, or else I would have called them myself - but my god they really thought I was the one the cops needed to come for??). Meanwhile I’m just standing there on my own property in the dark in my pajamas, all 5 feet and 120 lbs of me, while this rabid animal - he’s a 21 year old college boy - is lunging at me and screaming nonstop, calling me a fucking whore bitch loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear it while his phone’s camera light is in my face blinding me. Crazy lady smiles that smug shit eating grin of hers and tells me to get back in my house, leave her alone, and move the hell away so she can live in peace.

Wow. Just...holy shit.

This is the person who has allowed her dog to attack my very small 8 year old son on our property and send him to the hospital with injuries last year, then attempt to attack him again 2 weeks ago (he is now 9 at the time of the second attack) - again on our own property (in our back yard this time, in our front yard the first time), has allowed her dogs (multiple) to bark all night long and keep us awake (she leaves them outside and then goes away for the weekend and they bark the entire time she’s gone), then she had her crazy violent son destroy the BarkBox we put in our tree on our side of the fence last week (we put it up as a humane way to get the barking to stop without having to listen to her call us insane liars every time we complain about it). Yet...she kept repeating over and over and over for us to leave her alone and stop harassing her.

All I could even do was stand there shaking my head. It was surreal. And frustrating, because they wouldn’t even let me get a word out without screaming over me, and she was doing that infuriating Karen thing where they shove their hand at your face and grin smugly while they’re telling you what you better do or they’ll call someone to make you.

I actually started laughing, it was so ludicrous. She’s committed all those vile offenses against us and we’re the ones that need to leave her alone. We’ve had to file four police reports against her and we’re the ones that are making her life miserable. I just can’t stop thinking about that Liar Liar movie where the repeat offender keeps calling his lawyer to complain that the cops won’t stop arresting him and the lawyer finally yells THEN STOP BREAKING THE LAW ASSHOLE!!

It’s just like that. My god.

SO -

She tells him to call the police again, and this limp dick shoves that phone light right up to my face and says “You think she’s worth calling the cops over? Look at her, she don’t look worth it to me.” And bitch starts laughing. My god, these people are subhuman, I swear. I’ve never seen anyone act like this in my life, over a person doing literally nothing to them.

So she finally orders her rabid son (who is just about foaming at the mouth, I swear he’s making these barking animal noises at me, it’s weird as hell) into the house and they walk away, with him still ranting like a madman until the door closes behind them. I immediately go inside my own house and call my husband, who was way out at the back of our property in our camper (he self quarantines each day after work out there to protect us because there have been a lot of covid cases at his workplace) and he didn’t know anything was happening. He immediately runs up to the house and I tell him I caught neighbor’s thug son messing around at our fence and that when I went out he threatened to kill me.

Tom grabs something - I don’t even know what it was, I think it was this piece of board that was sitting by the door, we’ve done a shelving project recently and a couple of leftover pieces have been there for a few days - and he stalks outside toward neighbor’s house. I hear him yell COME OUT HERE BOY!!! and I stg you guys, if I wasn’t on the phone calling 911 I might have thought about getting naked right there and then because damn.

So anyway, let’s not go there. This is serious by god lol (look for this to show up in a fic soon though because material like this doesn’t get handed to you for free every day).

I call 911 and say the neighbor’s son just threatened my life and for them to come quick because he’s still over there but I know he’s going to leave any second (this is his mom’s M.O, the two times the police have tried to go talk to her she gets in her car and leaves before they can get from my house to hers, and I know he’ll do the same because COWARDS). Tom comes back and says the little pussywillow wouldn’t come out of the house. He’s breathing fire, you guys. Pure fucking fire. I tell 911 to get somebody out quick before the kid leaves, and just about 2 minutes after I hang up he does just that - we see him blast past our house in his truck and he’s gone, and then the police arrive about 3 minutes after. I’m so mad I can’t see straight. If they’d been able to see him in the state he was in, they’d have arrested him on sight.

Two squad cars (big SUV’s) pull up and block her driveway with full lights flashing, which makes me laugh because suddenly we’ve got neighbors coming outside to see what’s going on. I meet the officers outside, and the crazy bitch next door does the same, yelling “Hello Officer!” and waving to them as they’re coming up to my porch.

They talk to me and Tom for a long time, I tell them everything that happened, they interview Big (he and Little were inside the open door and heard it all), we fill out our statements and talk with them more until one officer goes next door to talk to neighbor. We can hear her dripping her fake sugar and spice while they’re talking on her porch and my husband loses his shit - he heads toward her house and yells “We got the entire thing on recording, don’t even try to lie! Your kid, threatening to kill my wife?!?” (he’s referring to the camera in my bedroom window, which actually only recorded about 2 minutes because I don’t have it set up correctly yet, but they don’t know that). The officer yells at him to get back, which, yeah - he shouldn’t have done that, but for god’s sake the woman’s peckerhead son just literally threatened murder on a member of his family, this is the final fucking straw and he’s mad. And as he’s coming back across the yard the officer that stayed with me points at our new doorbell camera, just freshly installed as of about two weeks ago, and asks if it’s on. We haven’t even really figured out how to use it yet, but yes, as far as we know it’s on. The incident happened around the side of the house, but the doorbell records audio.

God bless technology.

I invite the officer inside the house and Tom gets his phone, pulls up the app for the doorbell, and starts skipping through the recording looking for the right timestamp. Up till this point all they have is me saying the guy screamed a lot of abusive profanities at me and threatened to tear my head off, and they’re taking me serious but probably not that serious, you know? Neighbors fight all the time, wars start over barking dogs, things get exaggerated, we’ve all seen the TV dramas.

Until Tom finds the segment on the footage and starts playing it to them on his phone. It’s kind of quiet because we were a good distance away, but you can hear the guy screaming just like I said he was. The officer asks if we have a speaker we can play it through so he can hear the words more clearly, because he needs proof of threat and that’s entirely in the words.

You guys, I’m tellin’ ya, sometimes you get a chance to fucking SHINE. My husband is a musician and this cop is asking him if he’s got a good speaker. So within minutes Tom’s got this huge venue-style amplifier designed for broadcasting music to the back wall of a freaking stadium pulled out into the livingroom and he’s hooking his phone up to it, and then he hits play and the other officer comes back from next door to join us and I can tell by the annoyed look on his face that neighbor bitch has likely charmed him and shed a plethora of persecuted tears and spewed her lies about how we’ve been harassing her forEVER and I think for a second that it’s a total loss now, he’s made his mind up in her favor.

And then...away we go. Tom cranks the volume on the speaker and they both lean in to listen closely.

Just about a minute into the recording they have their proof - thugnuts screaming I WILL TEAR YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!!!

Both officers nod, close their notebooks, and the second officer makes a phonecall while the first one turns to me and says “That’s terroristic threatening and it’s a class C felony. You’re going to need to go to the PA’s office with all the reports you’ve filed against them so far and all your evidence from tonight including that recording and hand it all to them. They’re likely going to issue a no-contact so that he can’t interact with you ever again.”

This is a victory, but it’s just the first step, and I feel sickeningly disheartened that it’s all in my lap to do everything. I want them to go demand his whereabouts from his mother and just go get his ass and haul him in. But no, I have a ton of legwork to do now because these horrible people won’t fucking stop.

After several more minutes of me asking questions about what exactly we need to do and where we need to go, etc etc (I’m competent but I’m also fucking rattled, someone threatened to kill me tonight and I’m blanking hard on the instructions he’s giving me) they finally wrap it up and leave. They’ve been in my house for a half hour waiting for me to finish filling out the report (I had to ask for more paper because honey I’m getting ALL the details in there) and I can just imagine how freaked out neighbor is when she sees what time they finally move their cars from in front of her driveway.

And now I’m coming down from the weird calm that I had through the entire event, and my heart feels like it’s going to EXPLODE. I had heart surgery two months ago, do I need this?? The pathetic part is that I know now just how stupid those people are, and I know this won’t be the end from their side by any means. We’ll start finding more stuff broken, or he’ll start climbing over the fence back at the back of the property to steal stuff from husband’s tool shed, or my tires will get slashed. These people are that dumb and hateful, they proved it tonight. He said if we had animals he would kill them, and then he made the same threat against me. How stupid does a person have to be to stand there with his phone out recording himself ranting and making threats against a woman standing in her own yard in her pajamas? Big tough man there. And his mama grinning at me the whole time, telling me I’m crazy and she’s concerned for her own safety because of me, while her son is standing right behind her threatening my life.

I’m just...my god, I don’t even know what to think. I thought people only acted like this in TV dramas, seriously. I’ve seen some shit in my life but this particular brand of stupid has up till now evaded me, but now it’s been in my face and I’m sort of in shock.

I don’t like guns. At ALL. Tom has always had at least one hidden carefully away, safely locked up away from the house, but now there are two inside my house in immediate grabbing range. He insisted that I let him show me how to use them. Rules were laid down for the boys - never touch, never, don’t even get close to them - and now there is a box of shotgun shells on my fireplace mantel and a singleshot rifle by the door. I hate this so damn much.

Don’t pick it up unless you’re ready to use it, he told me. Without even thinking, I said back, “If I touch it it’s getting used.”

I HATE THIS SO FUCKING MUCH

My god. I told the cops that the drug lord that lived over there four years ago was a better neighbor than this woman. They didn’t even laugh.

I guess they’re right, now that I think about it...it isn’t funny.

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worldsover · 3 years

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Fermata ft. Chuu

length ✦ 5651

genres ✧ Dal Segno sequel; dirty talk; oral; makeup fetish; more subby!Chuu

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You write to keep your concentration and disconnect you from your ever-changing concerns. For all your ideas, the true crux of putting a piece together is actually making something concrete. The self-control you require to be consistent, and consistently creative, is what makes music so hard to stay focused on. This album must be finished. This year. No written promises but you have to do right by her after all you've invested. You fucked Jiwoo in the mouth yesterday. Real right of you to do.

“Coming!” Jiwoo must be far from the front door with how her holler resounds the apartment. Where do you put your hands? Pockets are natural though they don't feel like it. Many but not enough footsteps grow in loudness but you expect a stampede anyway when the door opens. Instead, only Yerim and Sooyoung manifest in the opening hallway.

“Hello, oppa! Jiwoo unnie is just… Umm. Taking care of business.” Yerim playfully elbows you when she pulls you in but you stop her to take your shoes off. Sooyoung sends a brusque wave your way and not much else as she collects assorted effects and clothing around the living room. There isn’t nearly as much noise as you expect.

Look around in confusion. “Did I miss something? Is today a holiday?”

“Jiwoo isn’t the only one who’s got schedules, PD-nim,” Sooyoung says.

Yerim turns around. She also has some nicer pants on, and a loose-fitting red top. “Unnie, you’re just visiting your family.”

“And that’s a schedule.”

“Well oppa, I have a CF to film so, ha!” Yerim raises a hand, victorious she just won the conversation. High five. She’s satisfied but Sooyoung gives no regard, clearly looking for something.

“What about the other girls?” you ask.

“I’m not a manager. Just count yourself lucky the dorm is so empty.” Yerim says.

“Damn, we can even record some demos too. Good thing I brought the mic. Hold on, before you guys go, wanna listen to some of our songs?” you say.

“Finally!” Yerim says.

“Just play it out loud, I can hear it,” Sooyoung says. You offer your help with whatever she’s searching for though she brushes you off and insists she can do it herself.

Yerim brings out a bluetooth speaker from underneath the living room couch and coughs because of whatever dust she just procured.

Pull out your Macbook from your backpack and connect it to the speaker. You think about which track to play and pick the one that shows off Jiwoo’s voice the best so far, Jiwoo - Deeper.

Yerim immediately gets into the beat, bobbing her head and dancing. However, when the chorus hits, her ears perk up and she starts cheering at the notes that Jiwoo belts. Sooyoung also turns an ear towards the speaker in curiosity.

A vacuum interrupts the music. Jiwoo swoops in with the machine, scurrying her shapely legs with no heed to their bareness. She pushes up her fake circle glasses and says over the commotion, “I knew you needed this! Oppa, hello!”

“I’m trying to listen to the music here!” Yerim covers her ears.

Sooyoung looks down and pauses at the edge of the couch. “Oh hey, there’s my bracelet! Really nice music by the way!”

“Wow, you guys are so kind.” Jiwoo says, her voice piercing the screaming vacuum without effort. She turns it off realizing she's the only one can really do so. “You still like the music now?”

“No unnie, I mean it,” Yerim says.

“Why are you wearing just that big tracksuit sweater? Do you even have shorts on?” you interrupt the gushing. Jiwoo turns around and hugs herself as if she dropped a towel, even though her immodesty comes from her lower body. Good thing no one notices her sweater ride up for a moment to reveal white panties. Sooyoung looks at you confused while Yerim smirks to match yours. She wasn't even looking at Jiwoo but she could probably tell from your face. Damn, she’s too perceptive.

“Well, it looks like that’s my cue to go,” Yerim says.

“I’m so confused,” Sooyoung looks back and forth at you and the other two girls in the room. You shrug your shoulders, pretending to take solace in her ignorance of the situation.

“Come on unnie, we’ll go together. I’ll go out to get money and you go out to get your kisses from mommy and daddy.” Somehow that didn’t sound too offensive but Sooyoung punches Yerim anyway.

“Oppa, can you finish vacuuming for me?” You’re about to make a retort about labor laws but Jiwoo runs to the bathroom and immediately you hear Jiwoo practicing melodic runs. They’re definitely not the ones you taught her, unless moaning was part of the routine.

“So she has to get her vocal cords ready too huh? I’m suuure that’s all she’s doing in there.” Yerim keeps poking at your bicep with two fingers. You turn on the vacuum to try and hide her overt naughtiness but Yerim’s devilish look tells enough. For full measure, she winks at you as she drags Sooyoung out of the dorm. Mental note to deal with that can of worms for later.

Head to the big bedroom where Jiwoo’s still doing vocal exercises. Three bunk beds line the walls while pillows, blankets and bean bags litter the floor. As the centrepiece of the room sits a simple wooden table, short enough to rest on the polystyrene filled chairs while adequately comfortable to get work done. She stands proud on top of the table as she practices the actual runs you tell her to do.

“Oh, oh, ohhhhh, oh, ohhhhppa!” She jumps down from the table and nearly tackles you when she locks her legs around you in a hug. Take a second to balance yourself while holding her as tightly as possible.

“Jiwoo, you’re eager today.”

“Of course I am, oppa. I’m soooo excited to. Record. Of course.”

“Well if you are, please get off of me.”

“Oppa! You don’t like my hugs?” she says nearly falsetto. Her aegyo throws you off, so you throw her off. Onto a bean bag. “I guess that’s a no.”

“No, not no. I mean. We have to be focused, Jiwoo. Is there any rope or anything?”

“You just said we have to be focused, oppa.”

You wave your hands in denial. “What’d I say about acoustics?”

“Ohhh, like the foam at the studio?”

“Exactly. Especially with how big this room is, we’re going to have to need all the insulation we can get. Ahhh!” Your random shout rumbles throughout the room and startles the relaxing Jiwoo.

She stands up. “I get it! Geez.”

“Oh yeah, I need a pop filter too.”

“A thin fabric right? For all the p-p-plosives.”

“Mhm.”

Inevitable. Jiwoo takes off her panties and you shake your head laughing in disapproval.

“Come on now, that’s just not sanitary,” you say.

“So you’re saying you don’t want them?”

“No, I’ll just confiscate them for your stupidity. Tsk. Find some pantyhose.“ She gets up. “Ahem. Not used.”

The panties have a tiny wet spot, and your nose takes a quick bask in its musk but Jiwoo immediately catches you.

“And I’m too horny,” Jiwoo says with characteristic sass. You put it in your pocket as she gets pantyhose from her drawer. After fashioning a stand for the pantyhose for her to sing into, you both get to work hanging up blankets from the bunk beds while clotheslines become pillow-lines. A makeshift room within a room, still centered by the table but now surrounding you with cushioning cloth instead of acoustically reflective drywall.

Barely enough space for jumping jacks but you start doing them anyway and it flummoxes Jiwoo for a moment. You don’t need to tell her to join in. Sit down to play an instrumental from the laptop and she pauses the exercise before you motion for her to continue.

“I need you with the right energy for the beat.”

“Yeah, I figured. Synthwave is really popular now, huh?” Her bouncing to the rhythm rides her hoodie up again but now her cute slit and bare legs are plain to see. Your tongue dries your lips. She catches her breath before stretching one last time. Keep it together. “So are we recording?”

You nod. Take out the microphone and two pairs of in ear monitors for listening, and connect all the devices to the computer. After setting everything up, Jiwoo gets up and you hold the microphone and filter for her.

Click. “Aaand, recording.”

Click. “One more.”

But that’s it. Two takes. You could not get a better sounding Jiwoo than that. Not a quick demo but the actual release vocal track, since even in such an imperfect recording environment, it sounds perfect to your ears. A little frustration since where was this Jiwoo in all the previous sessions? Maybe you’ll have to consider more visits for recording though you’re not sure if you could make another miracle happen to have everyone else out of the dorm at the same time.

“Jiwoo, that was a- Dammit, that was perfect,” you say.

“Of course, it was!” Not that there’s much room in the improvised recording studio but she ensures you feel even less of it when she gets closer. “Sooo. Wanna fuck my face?”

“That’s not the arrangement! You didn’t mess up.”

“You definitely sound disappointed I did a good job,” Jiwoo says.

”Of course I’m not disappointed.” You sigh. Are we doing this again? A single flitter of her brows. “I’m not going to fuck your face this time, okay? You have to be able to take that dick all the way down yourself.”

No protests. She lowers her head once in gratitude.

"Thank you for the meal!" Jiwoo says as she shows off her pearly whites in a big smile. She turns her head up to look at you lovingly as she cups your balls with her hands before she lowers her head again for a precursory smooch onto your cock. This time, she gives the same slow care to your shaft with her lips as she is to your balls with her hands. As if she wasn't going to ruin her makeup.

Restraining your panting and cries of ecstasy is arduous enough with Jiwoo engulfing you when-

“Kim Jiwoo!” Sooyoung’s voice reverberates from maybe the living room or the foyer.

Jiwoo side-eyes the study door. Her head does not stop its seesaw. Is this girl so entranced by your cock that she feels not an ounce of dread?

Sooyoung yells, “I forgot something! Just wanted to let you know I’ll be back later with dinner!”

“Okay! Thanks! We’re busy,” you choke on your words as Jiwoo does the same on your dick, “Uh, listening to the mix!”

Sooyoung, still shouting, but attempting to say lower, “Sorry! I’ll go now. Bye.”

Wait a few minutes before getting up, and of course Jiwoo’s lips are still wrapped around your cock as you walk towards the door. Dorm is empty. She must have performed magic taking off her shirt and underwear to play with herself because you can't remember if she's ever stopped sucking you off. The kinematics don't add up. More likely, you’re slightly faint from her perilous suction, making left and right difficult directions to parse from each other.

"Fuck you're already so good, Jiwoo."

Pull her up and carry her to deposit onto the bottom bunk of the bed by the window. She ends up belly diving onto the mattress’ surface and her buttcheeks recoil just the slightest bit. Jiwoo notices and starts giggling when she plays around with her perky cheeks.

"You like my ass, oppa?" Nod.

“I said I wasn’t going to fuck your face today. Fuck. Maybe I’ll fuck you there instead,” you say in a low bass.

Her eyes turn into full moons at your suggestion. You laugh.

”Naughty fucking girl. Next time, when you’re a good girl. Such a fun ass though.” Follow through with the compliment as you line up your cock to the prone girl’s mouth, arcing down to fondle her round buns. It's a miracle and also a bit embarrassing that your erection is soft after all that. Best guess is that it's had so much stimulation, but all of the masturbation after recalling your previous facefuck probably didn't help. Jiwoo takes her index and middle digits and raps them on your cock to a freeform beat.

“Aww oppa, your cock. I need to make it big and meaty again,” Jiwoo whines and her pout confesses that she's a little disheartened, however her eyes are more determined.

“Tell me all the ways you want me to use you." She raises her vivid eyebrows and lists her head a little forward. “Okay, miss ‘I won’t let go of this cock even when there’s others in the house’. Don’t worry, we have plenty of time. Just relax and go on.”

“Hmph. Fine. Well, your dick is right here, sooo after I lick it up,” which she begins doing by inspecting your shaft with intent, before finding a spot she deems scrumptious enough to lap up. “You fuck this dirty mouth pussy clean while I play myself on my tummy just like this.”

Jiwoo sounds ridiculous talking with her tongue out but at the same time, her cheeky lisp fortifies your cock. Her hands wander underneath herself and she reels back, titillated by her own words. You watch the small woman fondling herself with both hands while your erection at half-mast presses against her face in suspense.

“I could flip myself over and I’d never let go of oppa’s cock, I promise, then you could see your bulge in my fuck hole.”

How could this girl talk so filthy? Her face doesn’t even look like it should utter the word darn, yet here she is giving a study of her throat’s distension from your dick.

Jiwoo continues, one hand rubbing her clit fervently, “Then, maybe. Maybe oppa could get on top of me and pretty please eat my little pussy out while he shoves his cock into me?”

You couldn’t just stand idly by, though it wouldn’t be the worst with how her mouth vibrates your cock harder as her tone gets more gravelly and hungry. When you reach down, you see her wet slit preoccupied with two fingers from her other hand. It doesn’t stop you from slipping one in the increasingly creamy hole.

“Then oppa, if you still wanna at least?” her voice shrinks, but then returns in volume as she crescendos, “You keep your mouth on my slit as you lift up my legs and your silly slut is upside down and she’s choking on your cock and Jiwoo can’t breath and all the blood rushing to her head and you cum and Jiwoo doesn’t let any of spill out cuz Jiwoo is a good slut for oppa, and oppa, oppa, please!”

You join in stroking and rubbing her squishy soaking pussy lips and she looks up from her haze.

“Kim Jiwoo.” Your voice is stern and it seems more than any physical stimulation that your deep beckon is what sends her past the edge. Her pussy swallows whole your finger still inside her, wetness replacing all sensation that the digit once had. She accompanies her whole body’s spasms with loud visceral moans. It takes more than a mere moment to close her eyes and restore her breathing. The bedroom smells a little salty from all the fluids leaking her mouth and slit.

“How much porn have you been watching?” you say.

“As much as you oppa.”

Swallow down a bit of spit. “Huh?”

“Remember our very first recording session, you forgot your laptop and I returned it to you?”

“Fuck,” you say. Jiwoo stretches and lay spread-eagle on the bed, a gooey strand connecting between her two thighs. She licks her fingers.

“You're lucky I found it. Oppa, it’s all your fault I’m like this. Plus all those fancams of me in the same folder. I wanted to confess sooner but I needed more opportunities to be with you.” She sucks her hand more earnestly.

“I didn’t think sucking dick counted as confessing.”

“Hey, I did say I like you. Did you already forget? Tsk. Typical boy.”

“Look at this dick.” You didn’t have to say that because she’s already drilling holes into it with her eyes. “Remember how I said I was basically recording for free? Make your own inferences.” The round shape of her mouth in understanding is perfect. "Now, open wide."

"Yes! Mm..."

It’s hard to say which position is your favorite.

Fucking her face is straightforward but you pay closer attention. You’re certainly not down that deep, as you can still feel her uvula recoil on your tip and react with thick gagged out spit. Nothing like your cum but she sucks and spits the liquid in and out anyway. She definitely enjoys playing around with fluids in her mouth.

Jiwoo pulls away when she upturns herself, as she coughs with whatever throat muscles you hit. Her head hanging upside down off the mattress would be the perfect perspective to see your cock’s imprint on her neck but she still can’t manage the depth. The angle certainly makes your pistoning easier as your balls slap against your nose in more forceful pushes, playing vulgar slapping noises that mix with her gagging.

Afterwards, you lean over and move her head to get the mattress’s support instead of dangling. Hunch down to her wetness and the taste of her nectar more than makes up for the difficulty of thrusting while on top of her. Already having difficulty breathing with a cock in her airways, you don’t want to crush her under your weight. Still, you spend the most time between her thighs, taking in the muskiness of her pussy and all that it releases. It explains Jiwoo’s long drawn breath through her nose if you have a similarly alluring scent. There’s also the possibility your length steals too much air from her wet, gagging mouth but in this position, it’s her choice to hold your shaft in her throat for that much time.

Pick her up by the ass and cup the top of Jiwoo’s cheeks. Well, now they’re the bottom as she’s upside down in this piledriver sixty-nine position, both of you sucking and licking as closely as possible. She’s definitely enjoying the scents and tastes. You could drop her on her head and she'd thank you if you kept your cock in her mouth. Maybe you heard her mumble something like “yummy”, but anything resembling consonants are far past the point of physiology and linguistics. If anything, holding Jiwoo upside down makes her look more like a used sex doll than the cute girl that she is.

A whole lot of mess to clean up later. Cans of Febreeze, maybe some rags and a mop. New sheets, soaked with nearly every bodily fluid mouthfucking can provide. However, all that work pales to the pure torture you’ve put upon yourself to not cum. It helps with how often you pull out of her mouth as for all her prodigal gagging, she also looks thankful when you give her moments to rest her jaw and lips. Somehow you're in control the entire time yet you have not an ounce of it, avoiding your inevitable fate. Finally, you can rest. Now you’re thankful you jerked off many times before this to last as long as you have.

Of course, resting did mean you were on an office chair and she was on her knees, but still. It’s a break from all the exercise.

“You know oppa,” she says with a smile on her face.

“I was waiting for you to ask,” mumbling as she often does on your erection.

“Jiwoo-ah! Wear lip gloss.” How she manages to get that out so adorably with a cock in her mouth, you will never know.

“But I figured,” bobbing down, “I was sucking you off so sloppily,” and up, “It’d be such a waste of makeup.”

The girl made a point though you say, “I’d still like to see it one time. Alright? I don’t wanna have to ask either.”

“Okayyyy.” She says as she purrs on your dick. The little devil knows how weak you are when she talks with a full mouth. You still aren’t going to succumb this time. Pulling out of her mouth is as difficult as last time but you snap your head back and you snap your head away.

"Nooo." A familiar cry. What if she didn't even like the taste of cum? No time for questions as your body falls apart in the clashing brass and woodwinds. The obnoxious dissonance making you pulse and pulse. You aim below her neck to allow the cum to drip down her collarbones and petite tits. Rub her nipples, sticky with your load and she lets out a little squeal when you tweak them.

"Pwetty pwease oppa. Your cumdump Chuu-ah really wants your cum." She puts her pointer on her swollen cheek. God, she's too much for one man but that’s the situation you put yourself in.

Plop.

"Jiwoo, please. It's so sensitive," you whimper as she keeps sucking the tip.

"You get to do whatever you want oppa."

"Fuck.” Pull Jiwoo off of you. “Maybe I will."

You collect your load from her tits as an impressive volume drips down.

"Ahh," Jiwoo says but you push her down one last time with your unstained hand and your other uses a finger to penetrate her little pussy, providing it with the semen that she desperately wants.

"I hope this is good enough for now." Her squeaks in time with each finger on your sticky hand exploring her insides confirm that it is indeed.

A step closer and your rehardening cock finds her labia, small but inviting. She gasps and shudders as you tease her pussy lips in a familiar way. It’s just as sensitive for her as it is for you with how much she sweats and writhes from the shaft The friction of the pussyjob is unbearable and instead of juices dripping from within her, a heavy volume of watery liquid squirts out.

“I’m so, I’m so sorry oppa.”

“It’s okay, Jiwoo.” You put the tip in. “Doesn’t that feel so good.”

“Yes! Thank you. Awwww,” She says when you pop it out. In another world, that tip pushes past and you ravage her. But at this point, you have standards to uphold.

“Be a good girl for me and you can have more, okay?” Give her a rainbow dildo to practice with.

"Oh I already have one, oppa. This looks like it fits better though. Well I guess worse considering how much bigger it is. Just like. Yours. Fuck."

Despite all her orgasms, she looks ready to masturbate yet another time.

"We can't just cum all day Jiwoo," you say. She sighs and nods in understanding.

“Where am I gonna hide this? It really stands out.”

“Just keep it inside you.” Her eyes light up. “No wait.”

Jiwoo giggles. “C’mon oppa, they should be back any time soon.”

You finish up some final touches in your recording. There’s definitely more hitches when it comes to dealing with vocal recordings in such an improvised setting but it’s certainly not as much of a problem as looking at any of the other members in the eyes as you stay for dinner.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

tYou tend to get in a rush when you procrastinate as much as you do. It’s her first album, there’s no reason to rush her first album. Besides, the strength of any artist’s work is in their sophomore album, since they’ve had forever to work on that first one and now people are expecting the second. In either case, you really have time, but you don’t let yourself feel that. Instead, mixing and recording, once a job you enjoyed doing, has turned into a series of stressors in your life.

Jiwoo’s in a rush too. Why is she in such a rush?

“Hello. Oppa. I. Uh. Heard you got into a fender bender.” Every word sounds laborious as she opens the door to the studio. You step out into the hallway then look left and right. Nothing out of place.

“Yeah, just some scratches. You okay, Jiwoo?”

Her lips tuck in when she walks forward even a step. “Yep, doing juust fine. We gonna get to recording or what?”

“I mean if you say so.”

Each step towards the booth has her hitch her breath just a little, but she looks focused as ever so you waste no time and hit record. Should you text another member and ask if anything's off about Jiwoo today? Her singing is fine, maybe a little more vocal fry in her voice than usual, but it fits the sultry ballad.

You text Chaewon as Jiwoo keeps trying out different intonations for the pre-chorus.

Chaewon: "she was all flirty and weird today"

You: "lmao aight, tell something idk"

"yeah yeah, but this is different"

"different how? she's always like that"

Jiwoo sees you typing and stops her singing to ask if anything's wrong. You shake your head and wave your free hand, gesturing for her to continue.

"i guess less wordy and more touchy today? good luck, lmk if you figure it out"

"i will. see ya later"

Curious. You set your phone down and inspect Jiwoo's eyes and her crinkled nose. Hmm.

A few hours later, you’re still recording. For how well the session at the dorm went, it feels like you’re back to square one with all of her mistakes today. She had such a good first takes too but her vocal quality is definitely receding, and in a different way than usual.

“I need to go to the restroom. I’ll be back,” you say into the microphone.

You go quickly to relieve yourself. A lot of water today. Needed it looking at Jiwoo in whatever weird state she's in. For some godforsaken reason you have an urge to take her mouth right now and completely ruin her. This album is never coming out.

Slowly creak the door to the studio open. No need for surprise anymore. Jiwoo pulls out a dildo from her sobbing vagina in the vocal booth and drags it up her body. Her eyes are closed, her focus clearly on the sensation of the dildo finally removed for her. She really went through with your suggestion. Must've been in there for a while considering Chaewon noticed something off earlier today. The dildo meets Jiwoo's lips, both wet from her desire and she shoves it in as deep as she can in the first try.

Walk towards the Macbook and notice that it's recording. Shit, how much space did you have left on it? Hopefully, not going to have to clean it up later.

Finally, her eyes open and she smiles looking at you while she touches herself with one hand and deepthroats herself with the other using the toy you gave her. She pauses her masturbation for a moment, tapping her ear. A new audio clip in Ableton, so put on your headphones.

“Come here oppa. I did a bad job today, didn’t I?”

The only words she needs for you to drop everything and walk into the booth.

“You did,” you say as you unbuckle.

In a single stroke, she swallows your cock, matching the reinsertion of the dildo into her pussy. Jiwoo makes a tight vacuum seal with her luscious lips and shows off how well she manages her breath. Air squeezes through in her nose as you rarely unfastened yourself from her suction, and as she rarely allowed you to. Her lips are a good cock ring, her mouth a fleshlight. At the very least, this gave you much patience with her recording, knowing you were allowed to use your frustrations to turn the talented young lady into an object to use.

It’s incredible how little she has to touch herself to achieve orgasm when your cock is in her mouth. To be fair, keeping the dildo as long as she has inside of her must be a feat of its own.

“Jiwoo. Did you have this in you all day? I bet you’d prefer it were the real thing, huh?”

“Mmmhm. Mmmm!" She convulses at once. The toy squeezes in and out of her while she moans and spills saliva all over your cock. “Fuck, I wanted to cum all day but I had to wait. It’s your turn now, right?”

Jiwoo pulls out the soaked dildo and with her little fingers teases the skin of your dick before maintaining a tight grip. Her hand’s perfect rhythm and all the sucking she’s done so far today gets you right there and over the edge as quickly as she did. You unload all over the colorful sex toy and Jiwoo doesn’t let you have time to think as she puts the cum-covered toy back inside her.

You suck in some air. ”Who said you could have that cum? Lie down on the couch.” No pretense. Is there love between you two? Pull down her spotted top before mounting her modest but perky tits. It’s been barely a minute yet you’re already ready and solid once again. She tries to lean her head forward to retrieve her oral punishment-

“Thank you!”

Reward. Now that you think about it, maybe this isn’t working. The supine girl beneath you flitters her lashes, curious as to why you haven’t yet thrust into her mouth.

“You know much I love to see you work for it. Go on.”

As your cock is standing upwards at attention, she struggles raising her head to match yours, gently poking her tongue out to lick the frenulum.

“Ahh. No fair! I can’t reach. Ppfh.” She spits on it in frustration. “Ppptt. Let me have it.”

Her tongue wiggles around fruitlessly. Spit on her face in retort and you both laugh looking at the mess you’ve made. Yet at last, after playing with her food for what feels like an eternity, Jiwoo manages to wrangle your head with her tongue, guiding it to her eager lips.

“Now I better not feel that barrier, okay? Track 1.” And slowly force your way into her throat. You feigned frustration with her inability to fully take you down, but this was heaven. Regardless, stopped by her cursed reflex, you say:

“Not good enough.” You’d almost feel bad about this.

“Again.” If it didn’t feel so good.

“One more.” Another submersion into her sopping mouth, the friction of her soft lips and tongue opposes all the lubricating slop from her throat.

Unsheathe. “Oppa, oppa wait. Let me get something. You’ll like it.” You concede, getting off of her, and she pulls from her purse bright red lip gloss. “Watch me stain your cock!”

In a rush, Jiwoo vandalizes her lips red. Her makeup artist would be embarrassed. Of course, that makeup artist would be outright scandalized if they could see the precious idol with her back hunched over the arm of the couch, her upside down face inviting you.

You walk up and give her a good view of your balls. Tickle her neck and she leans forward to plant a pure kiss. On your cock head. “You know we haven’t kissed once yet? You haven’t even said anything about how you feel about me!”

“Neither did you.” Move your hands from Jiwoo’s neck to her bare chest and play with her stiffening nipples.

“Well, let me show you.” She plants another smooch on your shaft. And another. Yet another, until it’s turned into a full-on makeout session with your penis. The upended Jiwoo has to twist herself to leave the entirety of your flesh marked with lipstick stains. However, her best work is her french kiss where takes your dick in and plays around with her tongue, as if the mindless beast could kiss back. She leans her head back out one more time to receive you.

A sharp push and her tiny tits respond with the subtlest jiggle.

All but an inch of your shaft covered red. “I’m so close,” she pouts.

“Well, so am I.” You keep thrusting and feel your orgasm get closer. You’re on the edge.

“Mwah.” Her lips’ release leaves your blank head even emptier. “Mwah mwah, mwah.” She fixes her top back and wipes around her lips.

She takes wet wipes then a mask from her purse while you stand dumbfounded. There are four walls in the room. Wires spill from your laptop. One, two, three, four. You are one beat away from orgasm.

Her voice snaps your focus back. “Oppa, that was a good recording session, but you know. Ha Rin unnie has to pick me up. Bye!” Jiwoo scampers away, wiping at her face.

You might actually explode next time, in more ways than one. Guess you deserve this one though.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

AFF, AO3

Just wanted to get one more thing done before the new year so I chose this since like I said, this was originally written as one part. In fact, this is actually the very first smut I wrote. However, I kept getting stuck and adding more, so a trilogy it is then. That’s right, one last one coming up!

#kpop smut #loona smut #male reader #reader insert #title tracks

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bleedingvengnce · 4 years

Text

Guns and Roses | JJ Maybank Smut

Summary: JJ’s girlfriend doesn’t enjoy him wielding a gun around, and is very vocal about it. JJ needs to show her that he knows how to handle it, and her.

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader

Warning: Smut(a lot of it), unprotected sex, gun kink, absolute filth, 18+

A/N: Haven’t written smut in ages but I knew the world just needs a JJ Maybank who has a gun kink. Enjoy;) (Not Edited)

“Okay, everyone, listen up! Get the hell off of our side of the island!” JJ howled, resentment and hated wrapping around his words.

You watched her boyfriend aim the gun towards the sky, firing off two piercing warning shots to bring terror to those around him. Shrieks and cries emanated from the dispersing crowd as you watched on with wides eyes. Your mouth hung open in shock at how psychotic JJ was acting within this moment, a crazed looking creasing on his features.

“Are you fucking crazy?” You screeched, your voice hitting new heights.

“You idiot, why would you do that?” Pope backed your words, shoving his friend roughly, narrowed eyes directed at the blonde boy.

“I’m saving his life, ok?” His tone was desperate, hands thrown in the air as he unsteadily waved the gun about.

“You’re going to jeopardize everything!” You were glowering at him, seething with irritation at the stupidity of your reckless boyfriend.

“Whatever,” He muttered.

His eyes narrowed at you, treading towards his injured friend that collapsed limply into the frothy foam.

“Oh god, John B!” The group rushed towards him, Pope and JJ hauling his lax figure from the grips of the salty sea.

Your eyes caught onto the sight of the gun shoved lazily in the waistband of JJ pants, your gaze shooting daggers at the inanimate object. You always held a hatred towards the weapon, witnessing too many lifeless bodies on the news, headlines scribed, “Twenty Kids Shot Dead During the School Day,” or “Unarmed Black Man Killed by an Officer with a Gun,” or something to that effect. You were a known activist for stricter gun laws, wanting to rid the world of the ruthless weapon that has taken so many innocent lives too soon. You loathed it even more that JJ was well aware of your beliefs and completely disregarded your feelings by continuing to wield the gun around.

The two of you dropped Kiara and Pope off, the two of them being busy with work early the next morning or their folks needed them home for the night. All that was left was the annoying JJ and his knocked out friend sprawled in the back seat. The three of you finally arrived at John B’s place, JJ shifting the raggedy and run down van into park, the engine sputtering off. Your boyfriend dragged John B from the van, lugging the boy’s weight over yours and JJ’s shoulders as you both heaved him towards the house. He was heavier than he looked. You kicked the door open, tossing his body lazily onto the couch in the living room, John B’s eyes remaining shut throughout the entire process, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths as a sign of life.

JJ sauntered into the kitchen, pulling the door to the fridge open, gazing into it at the few items placed inside which was beer, condiments, and more beer.

“You want anything?” You heard him call out to you as you checked John B over to make sure he was ok, nothing bleeding heavily or any bruises that looked as though they may lead to internal bleeding.

You didn’t respond to his question, still frustrated over his actions from tonight.

“Ok, fine,” He mumbled, pulling out a bottle of beer and twisting cap off, downing the golden liquid as though it was water.

“What’s your deal, Y/N? Seriously still pissed about the gun?” Your eyes rolled at his words, not even sparing him a glance as you sat at John B’s side, the unconscious boy being your only distraction within this moment.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.” His words were hard, vicious as he leaned against the kitchen table, burning holes in the back of your skull.

“Yeah I’m still pissed, dumbass,” You hissed, shooting him a disapproving scowl, venom twisting around your words.

“Seriously, Y/N? It’s not that big of a deal,” He huffed, shaking his head at you, as though you were some silly child he couldn’t understand.

Though, he was the child in this situation.

“Yes, it is. You could have killed someone tonight. You could have killed multiple people. It’s not a toy.” The level of your voice was steadily beginning to rise, lifting yourself into a standing position as you faced your idiotic boyfriend.

“I know it isn’t. I know what I’m doing,” He defended, stepping towards you, eyes in slits as he stared you down.

“No you don’t. You’re careless. You shouldn’t even have a gun.” You were yelling at him now, motioning your hands in exaggerated movements as you inched closer to the boy.

“Yes I do. Stop being a nagging bitch,” He spat out poisonously, infuriated with you and your words.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re literally a child.” You were beyond seething, but knew those were not the right words to say to a raging JJ in this moment.

The two of you were inches away from one another’s now, the tension hanging thick in the air as you both glowered at each other, fury igniting within your irises.

“What did you say to me?” His voice was low, rumbling deep from within his heaving chest.

Though, something shook you to the core. You watched as JJ’s piercing gaze flit between your eyes and your pursed lips. The dark glint clouding in his eyes was not solely anger, but something else entirely. He instantly reached his hand up, fingers harshly grabbing at your jaw. Your eyes instantly widened at the contact, his calloused grasp tilting your head to the side in a vice like grip.

“I said, what did you say to me?” He quirked a brow after reiterating the question, his jarring stare unrelenting as he tsked in disappointment.

“I-I said you’re a child.” You tried to maintain the spiteful tone you directed his way, but your voice unwilling wavered.

Your brain was scolding your resisting body, the way he was manhandling you causing a dripping warmth to pool between your legs, mouth running dry at the way he peered down at you with his eyes storming with arousal.

“A child, hm?” He hummed, irises smoldering behind the tendrils of his golden hair.

“I’m not a child baby, and I’m going to prove that to you.” He dove into the exposed crook of your neck, using his blunt ivories to bite down on your sensitive skin.

An unruly moan tumbled from your lips at the roughness of his kisses. Faster than you could blink, you backed you into the wall behind the two of you, your head cracking against the wall with a sickening thud. Your mind was numb due to the plethora of suckling being done on your neck. He nipped at the bare flesh of your collarbone, your jaw still locked in his clutches, the other entangling around your waist to pull you flush against his muscled figure. You felt your stomach flutter at him leaving ragged purple bruises along your throat, your hands desperately grabbing at his biceps for more stability as your legs wavered.

“JJ,” You breathed out, nails digging into his skin as his free hand groped your butt.

“Let’s take this into the bedroom,” His words weren’t a question, but an order, pulling you into John B’s room, your mind unable to fully comprehend you would be having sex on your good friend’s bed.

Though, this wouldn’t be the first time.

JJ slammed the door shut behind the two of you, turning back to focus his attention on your heated figure. He roughly pressed his lips against yours, teeth clashing in a messy makeout. Your fingers weaved their way through his thick blonde locks, tugging at them each time his tongue dipped easily between your parted lips. His hand traveled from the protruding bone of your hip up the length of your body, finding its resting place on your throat. The tips of his fingers were gentle at first, loosely gripping around your neck, before her squeezed harshly, constricting your airway briefly, before releasing his deadly grasp. A whimper escaped your throat after he let up, though, not releasing your dainty throat. Your knees trembled at the aggressive behavior he was portraying. You could feel your panties soaking from the arousal dripping from your pussy, craving his expert touch.

“Mm, baby, you like that?” He purred, pulling away from the kiss with bruised lips, left over saliva from your mouth glistening against his beautiful mouth you craved so much.

All you could do was nod, words leaving you within this passionate moment, only heaving breaths, struggling against the weight of his hand, were heard.

“Come on baby. Tell me what you like.” He urged for you to tell him your deepest desires, the fantasies buried deep within your mind that you would touch yourself to while he was away.

“I-I like when you’re rough with me.” Your voice trembled measly, looking at him with desperation as you squeezed your thighs together, desperate for any sort of friction.

“How rough, baby?” He was attempting to coax those unspoken desires from your lips, his other hand clutching at your waist, fingertips roughly pressing into your delicate skin and leaving sore marks.

“So rough with me. So rough that I can barely breathe. That marks are left on me for days. I want you to show me that you’re in charge of me. I want you to take control.” You spilled your darkest secrets to your boyfriend, never having gone much farther with your sexual experimentation than brief choking and light slaps against your ass.

“Very good, sweetheart.” He nodded in approval, a devious smirk toying at his lips as he grabbed at your shirt, instantly ripping it off of you to reveal your bare breasts, a bra being no where to be found.

He didn’t miss a beat, his pretty lips wrapping around your nipple, suckling the pebbled nub into his mouth. His teeth lightly nibbled on it, a free hand reaching at to pinch harshly at the other one, leaving it red and aching after the twists and pulls with his fingers.

“JJ, please, I need more.” You practically cried out, your pussy throbbing in desperation at the built up tension he was creating.

“Sh, baby, I’m getting there.” He shushed you, nipping at your sore nipples, before standing back up straight.

Both of his hands found your hips, lifting you in the air and carelessly tossing you on the bed behind the two of you. You squealed after you hit the bouncy mattress, looking up at the approaching boy, tossing his shirt to the floor, revealing his chiseled chest that you could admire for hours on end.

His lips found yours again as he settled his weight on top of you, putting most of it on one arm while the other grasped at your jaw again. The kiss was messy, disorganized, but delicious, enjoying the way your teeth clashed together, tongues sloppily lapping at each other as he ground his hips down onto yours, relieving some of the burning arousal. As soon as the fervent moment began, it stopped, JJ having pulled away to gaze down into your eyes, seriousness creasing along his features.

“My love, do you trust me?”

You cock an eyebrow in curiosity as the clouding lust dissipated from his eyes, wondering why he could be asking this question.

“Well, it depends.” You answered honestly, completely unsure as to what he would say next.

“Please baby. I need you to tell me you trust me.” He eyed her carefully, urging her to respond.

You don’t understand the persistence within the question he was asking, but, after a moment of consideration, you parted your lips to speak.

“Yes, I trust you.”

The serious expression set upon his face eased greatly, the glint reappearing within his eyes, this time fiercer and more prominent than before, a devious grin spreading on his lips. You watched as one of his hands disappeared behind his back, soon returning with the weapon that you so loathed. You felt your eyes widen, eyeing the gun carefully.

“JJ...” You trailed off, but all you could think about was how the question and this weapon could be connected, “What’re you doing with that?”

You pieced the clues together, before finally landing on a surprising conclusion, staring at the boy with his favored toy, hovering over you with a hunger look pooling in his irises.

“Oh,” You breathed, your body reacting to the new toy brought into the bedroom to use, for him to dominate you with.

You felt your skin buzz with excitement at just the thought, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. He was awaiting your words, not making a movement as he desperately stared down at you. But, like you stated previously, you trusted him. You lifted one of your hands, the tips of your fingers dancing along his arm as you turned your head down in an accepting nod, going against everything your brain was screaming for you to do, listening to your body’s needs instead.

He grinned down at you, thankful you accepted his unspoken proposal. You felt the cool plastic of the weapon grazing against your cheek, feeling your heart begin to patter at how close the barrel was coming towards your face. His free hand trailed down your abdomen, fingers lightly brushing along the waistband of your shorts. You exhaled a shuttered breath, never breaking eye contact with him as his hand ungracefully unbuttoned your shorts, you kicking them the rest of the way down your legs.

JJ ran a finger over your clothed clit, feeling the wetness seeping through the cotton fabric.

“Mm, baby. You’re soaking.” He hummed in approval, running the weapon down between your breasts and around your stomach.

You felt his fingers slip under the waist band of your bright pink underwear, hovering over your throbbing clit, chest heaving with anticipation of his deliciously long fingers. You needed him so bad, lifting your hips to meet his touch. He shook his head in disappointment at the action, knowing how much he loved to tease you. The hard plastic of the barrel dug into your hip bone, JJ using it to press your core back into mattress below.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Your boyfriend tsked with displeasure, a whine emitting from your throat at the feeling of the weapon making you compliant as it jabbed at your skin.

“Please touch me, JJ,” You whined, tongue swiping over your dried lips as you lay in expectation for his pleasurable touches.

“What ever you say, princess.” Without warning he dipped his fingers into your dripping slit, narrowly missing your clit.

A wanton groan tumbled past the escapes of your lips, eyes rolling into the back of your hair at his calloused finger tips dragging between your lips. He repeated the motion, this time flicking over the overly sensitive nub. Your hips jerked up at the sensation, knocking against the gun still pressed harshly into your abdomen.

“Oh yes!” You yelped as the tip of his fingers circled your clit, applying different types of pressure against the nerve endings.

The weapon he clutched onto went back to circling around your stomach, gentle touches as he rubbed mind numbing figure eights onto your clit, feeling yourself pushing closer to the edge with each motion of his finger. He knew just how to touch you, his lips easily caressing your inner thigh as he lay between your open legs. He practically disregarded the deadly weapon, pulling your panties aside to flicker his tongue across your core, the new sensation dragging you right near the edge of release. JJ’s lips effortlessly wrapped around the nub, sucking harshly while he used his free hand to plunge two fingers within your tight hole, curling the two fingers upwards. You felt him brush against the spot that makes your legs tremble, breathless moans coming from you at the pleasure he was creating from his luscious lips and long fingers.

Your fingers weaved into his golden blonde hair, watching him eagerly lap at your core, his gaze flickering up to your face.

“JJ, I’m-” Your words were halted by him humming against your clit, that being what caused you to hurl yourself directly over the edge, your orgasm consuming your mind.

Your eyes snapped shut as you arched your back into the air, your mind dropping into a world shattering orgasm. Your legs twitched as he let you rid it out, gently slipping his fingers out from inside of you, giving your clit one last lick before retracting from between your legs. A glistening liquid coated his lips as he grinned down at you, his bulge large and prominent between his legs.

“My turn, baby.” His pants were on the floor in second, his hands rushing to rip your panties off of your body.

He roughly gripped your hips, lifting them to meet his. He grasped at his now exposed cock, running his hand over it before slipping it over your still dripping pussy. You felt it bump against your overly sensitive clit before swiftly sinking the length inside of you.

“Oh fuck, Y/N,” JJ hissed, relishing in the feeling of your tight heat clenching around his dick as he bottomed out.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of him sully stretching you out, loving the way the veins of his length grazed against every deliciously sensitive part of your heat. He then pulled himself so just his tip was remaining, before slamming back into you. He found a perfect and rough rhythm, pounding into you over and over again, unrelenting. You felt the click of his gun returning, this time, digging into your temple, the barrel positioned in a dangerous spot. Just his finger twitching, and you could have a bullet in your skull. His other hand harshly grasped at your hips, bruising them with his grip. You felt adrenaline pulsing through you with your throbbing core. You were ashamed how much you loved the way the weapon was stuck again your head, his length wrecking your insides as he violently thrusted inside of you. You loved how he had complete and utter control of you and your body, holding your life in the palm of his hand as he turned you into a moaning and sweaty mess.

“Oh shit, baby, I’m close.” You gazed upon him, his face creased as his brows furrowed together, his thrusts becoming sloppy, the weapon that was previously against your skull now discarded on the table next to you.

You urged him on, meeting each snap of his hips until you felt his warmth filling you to the brim, his length pulsating within you. He let out a rumbling groan, squeezing your pelvis tightly, before collapsing on top of you in a sweaty heap.

“Holy shit, JJ,” You breathed out, unable to fully comprehend what had just occurred between the two of you.

“Holy shit is right.” He rolled off of you, gathering your petite body in his arms to comfort you, the both of you savoring your mind blowing orgasms you had.

“So, did you, did you enjoy it? With, you know?” He couldn’t fully formulate the words, but he didn’t have to, you understanding what he was referring to.

“In a way, yes. It was horrifying, scary, intense, and pleasurable all at the same time. I loved how dominant it made you, how fully in control you were.” You confessed, staring up into his beautiful blue irises.

“Maybe we can do it again.” He winked, a teasing tone threading his words, but knowing he was more than serious in wanting to partake in something like that again.

“Maybe let’s not point a loaded gun at my head again.” You stated bluntly, though, a little part of you couldn’t help the way your thighs tensed at him fucking you like that in the future.

“I hate to tell you this, but the safety was on the whole time.”

#jj maybank smut #jj outer banks smut #outer banks smut #john b smut #jj smut #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagine #john b routledge #john b #kiara carrera #pope heyward #sarah cameron #outer banks #jj

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serenasoutherlyns · 3 years

Text

Connections

a/n: part one (lmao maybe) of me writing Serena being gay into episodes of L&O. you cannot tell me that Serena Southerlyn and Kay Hartley did not have an epic, tortured (for Serena, anyway) love affair in law school; and you cannot convince me that Serena isn't nice enough to fall for her tricks again. without further ado... any notes or feedback is appreciated! i love you all more than i love chocolate covered espresso beans.

Serena’s mind is buzzing. Her fingertips are on fire. She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, hoping that the rage isn’t showing on her face beyond a clenched jaw. She can’t believe she let this happen again.

Kay Hartley’s reputation looms higher than almost anybody else’s. She’s that 1L with a look that pierces, the one who’ll do anything to get what she wants, the one who’s LSAT score may as well have been perfect. She hangs in the back of classes, but the only thing that does is raise her air of mystery, she still answers correctly when called on. Kay never shows up to parties, because she’s always already there. You could call it sulking, but she prefers to think of it as observing. Tonight, she’s watching Serena.

Serena is beautiful, but no grand assumptions follow in front of her wherever she goes. She’s a couple years older than Kay, but only one ahead. She’s probably Catholic. Just a smidge below rich— she’s skirt suits, not sweater sets. Serena seems like the kind of girl who would be proud if someone said she couldn’t hang. Kay’s seen her going off on feminist rants at guys on the quad but they’ve all seemed friendly. She doesn’t seem militant. Kay can’t decide if she pings or she doesn’t.

That question is answered. Serena’s been playing beer pong (seriously? They aren’t undergrads) with a group of guys. When she misses two in a row, instead of getting all giggly, flipping her hair around, and hanging off some guy’s arm until he lets her win; she focuses in on the ball (strike one), ties her hair up in a ponytail (strike two), and high fives the guy beside her when she scores (strike three). She pings. Kay wants her.

Kay always gets what she wants. Serena’s kicking herself for forgetting that.

“She played me, Jack,” she says, trying to maintain a work-appropriate amount of poison in her words. “I all but handed her that stupid defense.” Jack tries to say something, but Serena, once in rant mode, is not about to leave it. “She comes to me, looking all forlorn and doe-eyed, telling me all about how much she loves her poor aunt, and I believed her, like an idiot--”

“You’re not an idiot, Serena--”

“She used me, Jack! As though she could have suddenly developed real emotions--”

“Don’t beat yourself up too much, I mean, Arthur and I signed off on it too--”

“Because I convinced you to! And now, a murderer might walk because I let Kay Hartley and her ways” she says the word “ways” like they’re something criminal themselves, “convince me to work for her side.”

Serena’s more distressed than she ought to be. Kay’s new defense is flimsy at best, Jack isn’t all that worried. “Imminent” is a rather clearly defined word, at least in case law. Oh. Serena is-- crying? Nothing legal is likely to help here anymore. “How well do you two really know each other? If you don’t mind my asking? Because it seems like there’s something else here, I mean, did she do something to you in school? Spill coffee on your notes, steal your boyfriend?”

The glare she shoots his way reminds him that a) for some reason, the old McCoy charm has always been lost on Southerlyn and b) sometimes he should think about shutting up.

“No, Jack, she didn’t steal my boyfriend.” Serena has given up on keeping the poison out.

What a fucking joke, Serena thinks. Six months. Of, frankly, mind-blowing sex; soft mornings in each others’ beds, late nights studying with Kay in her lap, anxious looks across crowded rooms. Certainly she’d heard the whispers. Serena didn’t believe them. When they were confirmed to be true the first time, Serena thought she could fix her. Evidently, that would not be possible.

They’re at another house party. Serena honestly doesn’t like them very much anymore, but, and she hates this the most, social connections would likely turn out to be a blessing for her upon graduation. Hers aren’t built in like Kay’s are. Serena has a job. She makes so many expensive lattes a week that the texture of milk foam makes her gag now. She does it with a smile, and then she goes to class all day, and then she does her studying, and then she gets up at 5 AM to make more lattes. All things considered, it’s not a bad gig. At least she’s not footing the bill for school itself. Still, watching Kay catch up with kids she went to prep school, summer camp, with at every party and lecture had been hard to learn to handle.

Serena’s getting a cup of water in the kitchen when she hears a song she actually likes finally come on over the speakers. She sips quickly. Surely, she can get Kay to dance one dance with her before the night is over, despite her usual routine of hanging back.

Clearly, that won’t be happening. Because, when she gets out into the main room again, Kay is practically in Bobby Myles’ lap, laughing along to something he’s saying. Bobby Myles is a sexist pig, Kay has said about as much to her before. Serena guesses that doesn’t matter in the end.

It’s not like she has to shout it from the rooftops. Serena’s not stupid, she knows that neither of them are going to be coming out any time soon. It would be a lot easier to handle if Kay could at least pretend to respect her.

It’s the most relief she’s felt at a conviction in a long time. She gets the jury’s sympathy, she really does. But the look of, not despair, but panic on Kay’s face-- priceless. Relief might be the wrong word. Serena feels smug. It feels good to finally win one. Kay even called her to try and grovel for a sentencing recommendation. She’ll do what she can, for Mrs. Payton’s sake, though thought of Kay not getting something she asked for is tempting.

“We all deal with things in our own way, I guess,” Jack says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Serena asks him. Wherever this is going, she wants to see its conclusion.

“Just that,” Jack is off to a running start, it would appear, “there’s got to be something deeper here, right?” Serena raises her eyebrows at him, curious as to what on earth his guess is. “I mean, it’s one thing to squeeze you once, Serena, but a second time? She must know you’re not going to fall for it again.”

“You’d be surprised, Jack,” Serena says, wondering how much hinting she can get away with, “Kay can be quite,” she pauses looking for the words, “convincing.”

“How so?” Jack seems to truly not have a clue here. Serena decides to throw him a line.

“How did Kay look at you?” she asked. Jack is not going to bite, so Serena does her best desperate, seductive, emotional look. “Like that, right?” Jack laughs.

“Guess so, just about. Lots of women look at me like that,” Jack says, cutting himself before he finishes that sentence with not you, though.

“Good for you. How did Kay look at me?”

Serena has, at this point, led him to the conclusion. It dawns on him. He says all he can think to. “So she definitely didn’t steal your boyfriend, then.”

“No, no she did not.” Serena says, glad that he didn’t freak out on her. It’s impossible to avoid the rumors about Jack, and at first she’d been worried that he wouldn’t want a deputy who wasn’t interested in extra-curriculars. She wasn’t going to bring this up, but Kay had waltzed onto her turf with her ways; and Jack was not a man who could leave curiosities alone.

“Maybe keep this away from Arthur?” she asked “I’m still sussing him out.”

“Of course,” Jack says. “And I’m glad it wasn’t me all this time.”

Serena rolls her eyes at him as they step onto the elevator.

---

tags: @nocreditinthestraightworld @imaginaryoperagloves

#law and order #serena southerlyn #your honor she should've been gayer #the rarest of pairs #canned rare pairs in syrup #oh my god i'm loopy #law and order fanfiction #lesbians of law and order #law and order fanfic #kay hartley

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vanchlo · 3 years

Text

The Partner / Chapter One

Word Count: 10.4k words / Story Masterlist / Read The Assistant / Read on Wattpad / Song: Green Eyes by Coldplay

“The best love language is being irritating. I will annoy you because I love you.”

- Unknown

It smelled next to awful, and the feeling beneath my hands made me cringe. I didn’t know what I was expecting when I had wandered in here after a long day of work. Several other people seemed to have the same idea at five o’clock on a Tuesday, so I wasn’t the only one. Their drinks aren’t that great, either, I quickly found. Nevertheless, they did their job, and they were cheap, so I’m not sure what more I could ask for.

The flat screens above the bar area played nothing but American baseball and footie matches. I silently made a promise to myself that if I ever opened a pub of my own, that Rom-Coms and FRIENDS would fill the tv screens, not bloody sports.

“‘s this seat taken?” a voice hums, pulling me away from my inner monologue. My eyes begin their lull back into my head at the stranger’s question.

“Ye-,” begins on my lips when my eyes tear away from the orange colored drink before me. That is, until, they still when I look at the stranger who stands in front of me. He’s bloody gorgeous - all curls, legs, and those dimples. Hell, you own this seat already. Please, do sit down. “N-No,” my words come out rushed and therefore, sloppy. He doesn’t seem to mind as he pulls out the wooden stool to sit down beside me.

I swallow against a dry throat when my eyes nervously flit away from him. Never have I had an actually handsome bloke talk to me at the pub. I sound more than selfish, and far bitchy than I intend, but it had always been some lousy drunk who had a bit too much liquid courage. Not that I’m anything special, especially compared to him.

Listening to his slow drawl as he orders a drink, I can’t help but try to remember as many details about him as possible. First, there were the chocolatey brown curls. Then, there was the way his violet button up was opened to show ink donning his chest, a cross sitting in the middle, and the wildly attractive chest hair around it. I only saw a glimpse of his unwrinkled, black suit that looked far too good on him. That wasn’t the best part. No, not by far. That award went to the cavernous dimples that sat in his cheeks when his lips spread into that heavenly smile. One that made me wonder how it could be just for me.

“Ta, mate,” he murmurs to the bartender, the gold liquid greeting his lips. All of a sudden, I’m quite jealous of a lousy pint of beer. He doesn’t notice me watching him, the way he licks the foam from his lips, or how I admire his thick eyelashes. Most of all, I catch the long sigh that passes his lips, tugging on his drooping eyes with circles underneath them.

“Rough day?” bravery finds me a moment later, but I don’t announce

myself until I’ve looked away.

“Huh?” he hums distractedly, and not in a rude way. I wait a moment before doing anything, looking at him or even replying. It feels longer than several seconds, and stirring the ice chips around with my red straw doesn’t make it pass any quicker.

“You look like you’ve had a hard day, is all.”

“Oh,” he rasps, clearing his throat after taking another drink of the amber colored liquid. At last, I turn my head to look at him, finding that light stubble covers his cheeks in every place. I don’t know how in the hell I had missed that, because, God, does that look good on him. “Ya, reckon you could say that.”

I nod along with his words, feeling like we belong in the same boat. It only rings all the more true when he shifts in his seat, and my eyes catch something on his breast pocket.

“It must be a hard case, then.”

“What?” he asks. When I see the way his bold eyebrows near his inquisitive sage colored eyes, a laugh escapes my lips. It warms my cheeks and surely reddens them furthermore at the appearance of those dimples again. “How’d you know?” his smile is heaven and everything more than that.

My shoulders rise and fall, answering his question, before I do, “I just had a feeling.”

“Yer good,” his answer is concise, finished with a staccato like laugh. The next sip of his pint is silent, and I would know because I can’t help but watch. At last, there’s something good to watch at this pub. It only took me two drinks and far too long of waiting for it to happen. “What ‘s it now?” his question is light and affable when he finds my eyes waiting on him, holding back a laugh.

“You have something,” I begin, pointing a finger to his mouth, but he doesn’t get it. Instead of wiping the foam donning his upper lip, he brushes under his eye, and then his nose. “Here,” it’s louder than I intended it to be, but my laugh makes its way out with a soft snort, something else I didn’t intend. His upper lip is sand papery from his stubble when I wipe away the foam from his pint.

“Thanks,” he murmurs gingerly, and all I can do is nod, because my lips had begun to fall. “Y’know, I usually don’t let a bird get tha first flirt in befo’ I introduce meself.”

“I wasn’t-,” I start, but his shaking head of curls stops me, and so does the hand that he holds out. More ink marks it up in places when his sleeve rides up above his glinting watch.

“‘m Harry.”

“Becky,” I announce, once again greeting the ball that’s appeared in my throat, ever since he asked me that first question. His hand is cold at first from caressing his pint, but then it warms in my own. The rings that adorn nearly all of his fingers greet my own, lingering a few moments too long. His handshake is firm, and yet gentle. Surely, I must have set the world record for how quickly you can fall in love with a stranger.

“How’d y’know ‘m a lawyer? Really, ‘s it that obvious?”

“Yeah, Mr. Styles,” I tell him, reaching a hand out as his face contorts with confusion again. My fingertip comes under the plastic corner of the name tag against his breast pocket. “Harry Styles of Styles and Lawson law firm.”

Surprise gives away to realization on his face when he looks down his nose at the name tag that gave it all away for me, just a little.

“Oh, ‘d forgot ‘d been wearin’ that,” his answer is giggled, and it truly couldn’t be any more cuter. He slips a hand into his blazer and removes the name tag held to the fabric with two magnets. “I had this convention thing t’day, speakin’ at a uni t’ promote me law firm.”

“Ah, I’ve heard of those. I know they used to have them quite often, those job fairs, when I was at King’s.”

“You went t’ King’s College too?” the surprise rises in his voice, and it fills me when he pushes the basket of chips over that had just been dropped off. His eyes are patient as they wait on me while he feeds a hot chip between his rose colored lips.

“Yeah, I graduated last year, after taking a bit of time off and coming back to my degree,” I answer him, relenting after he nodded his head at the basket and then to me. Ignoring him in part, I reach for the heavy glass bottle of Heinz beside the napkin holder.

“What was yer focus of study?”

“Really?” now, it’s turn for my lips to rise, as if they hadn’t been stunted for the last several minutes, hiding their secrets.

His question comes out in that breathy laugh of his, in between munching on chips and licking his fingers. Good God, Mr. Styles.

“You’re a lawyer yourself and you can’t tell when you’re speaking to another one?” it doesn’t come out haughty or anywhere near cocky, but I still relish in the astonishment that comes over his face.

“You too?” Harry says, excitement loud in his voice, and which I nod at. “Where at?”

“Turner and Jones.”

The chip is perfectly salty when I take my first bite of it coated with ketchup. I echo his laugh as he shakes his head, murmuring about how stupid he is, and it takes everything in me to not tell him he’s the least bit of that.

“I see, so how’re you likin’ it there? ‘ve heard good things, but y’know, I may be a bit biased towards Styles and Lawson. They’re rather great, ‘ve heard.”

“Oh, I can only wonder why,” it’s becoming difficult to say all of my words before they’re overwhelmed with laughter, especially when his are too. “But, I like it. I did my clinicals there for my degree, and was offered a job. You couldn’t really ask for much better than that.”

His eyes are brimming with laughter as questions float between us until the basket of chips is no longer. Then, when the greasy tacos come, and the next few drinks only loosen our lips more.

“So, ya got a crush on that Ben Sanders there like ev’ry other bird?” Harry drawls, words muffled against the rim of his third Scotch Coke a little later on.

“What? No, why would I?” my response is framed with laughter, especially as I think of what to say next. “Are you worried or something, that your reputation for London’s heartthrob lawyer is being threatened?”

“‘Scuse me?” his drink is soon running down his chin. He coughs again after it had went down the wrong pipe when I stole a laugh from his lips.

“God, learn how to breathe, would you?” I tell him, slapping him hard on the back a few times as he presses a napkin to his mouth.

“No,” his chuckled reply comes a few moments later.

“No, what?” I say, taking the turn for furrowed brows when I set down my own pint.

“Don’t reckon me heartthrob status ‘s bein’ threatened,” he shrugs, plucking one of the taller billiard cues from the rack on the wall. “I seem t’ be winnin’ my way with you, afta-all.”

Now, it’s my turn to choke on my drink. Thank God, my back is turned to him so he can’t see it dribble down my chin, or more importantly, the scarlet that fills my cheeks.

“Would you shut up? You’re so cocky. Newsflash, you’re not in the courtroom anymore, mate, you don’t have anybody to win over,” I insist, grabbing a shorter cue and stepping up to him where he sets up the balls.

“I have you t’ impress, don’t I?” his greens lift for a moment to find mine. I can’t help but notice the way that they sparkle.

“You already have,” my answer is gentle and quiet enough for only me to hear. I thought wrong, because he steps towards me and keeps going. For the first time tonight, the sour pub smell has gone, and replaced by it is his cologne. What is that? Leather? Warm vanilla? His nose just brushes past mine, his lips hovering above mine until they pass and press softly to my cheek.

“Have I now, ‘s that right?” his breath is warm against my ear. The skin there sings when his teeth graze it. “Winner buys tha next round ‘o drinks?” his proposition is laced with a knowing glint on his lips when he’s facing me again.

“I thought you had agreed to cover the tab, Mr. Hotshot Lawyer? I only remember one of us being a partner and co-owning a firm.”

“Ah, givin’ me that lawyer lip o’ yers, are ya now?” Harry smirks, dusting the tip of his cue with the blue block.

“Maybe, I am. What are you going to do about it?”

His shrug is accented by his lips turned down with a thoughtful question, “‘m sure I could find somethin’,” he muses aloud, staring off into the distance. When his eyes turn back to me, a corner of his lips pops the dimple out of one cheek. It only falls deeper when he walks around me holding his cue proudly. I feel his hand pinch my ass.

“Harry Styles!” it comes out as nothing less than a giggle, all firmness absent in my voice.

“Y’know, yer not very convincin’ with that voice o’ yers. Ya sure yer a lawyer?” his shit eating grin spews another line as he leans down, readying his cue. “Yer bum ‘s rather nice, ‘ve been wantin’ t’ do that all night,” he has to shut his eyes to ride out the rest of his laugh when I walk over to him and swat him on the shoulder.

“You’re bad,” I murmur, stepping away to grab my drink again.

“And who said that’s not a good thing?”

Turning, I find him mere inches away from me, cue forgotten on the table amongst the array of billiard balls he’d just cracked.

“I dunno,” is all I can think to say, until it hits me. “Why’re we playing billiards when we could be playing Truth or Dare?”

“Truth or Dare?” he wheezes. My insides continue to melt when his large hand comes into view, dragging his fingers through my hair. “What, are we thirteen ‘gain, Becks?”

“Becks? My name is Becky,” I protest, but all he has to answer with at first is those shrugging shoulders of his.

“Don’t care, I like ‘Becks’ better. It sounds mo’ like you,” he insists with lips that haven’t stopped smiling since . . I can’t remember when. “I choose tha dare, then.”

Setting down my finished glass, the hops-y flavor remains on my lips, sending courage into my veins. I ready my question, staring back into his eyes, trying not to think so hard about his thumb nudging at my bottom lip.

“What, are you a pussy or something?”

“N’body calls me a pussy, love,” he denies softly, his quiffed curls shaking with his disagreeing head.

“Then, show me . . I dare you to kiss me.”

“Oh, d’ya now? I see you went right fer it, didn’t beat ‘round tha bush one bit.”

“Yeah, but you are, because you’re still talk-,” I have one syllable left when his lips steal it away from mine. His hair that I’d wanted to touch and caress all night is at last between my fingers. I taste Scotch and Corona on his pillowy lips, and feel the warmth of-

“Becks, wakey wakey, my love,” comes a voice, ripping the dream away from me. Grunting, I shift under the covers, feeling my tired limbs. My expression tightens when I feel lips sponge kisses across my face slowly.

When at last I open my eyes, I find my favorite face in the entire world hovering above me.

“Mornin’, bubs. Did ya have a good sleep?” Harry murmurs with a dopey grin stuck to his face. His voice is deep and slow like molasses, even more so after sleep. It only makes him all the more attractive as my eyes dance along his shirtless chest.

“Yeah, did you?” I yawn, and his mumbled reply is heard between kisses pressed to my lips.

They stir a laugh from me, especially when his own wander to the crook of my ticklish neck.

“Time t’ get up, my Mrs. Styles,” he coos, his words sending an instant tingle up my spine.

“Harry, I’m not your Mrs. Styles.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” he replies from his position underneath my chin where his lips lie. A smile doesn’t come this time though, and even if it did, it’d leak of melancholy, at best.

“What were ya dreamin’ ‘bout, li’l one? You were extra hard t’ wake up t’day.”

My answer is framed by yawns, “What’s it to you?”

“Oooo, I see somebody ‘s upset I woke her up,” his response tickles against my cheek in his warm breath tinged with the taste of mornings. I squirm away from him, tugging the covers back up my shoulders, feeling their returning warmth. “It must’ve been good, then.”

“I was having a good dream, and you ruined it.”

“Oh no, poor baby Becks,” the pout couldn’t be stronger in his answer, and my groan couldn’t be louder. His facial hair leaves zings of irritation across my cheeks and temple where his lips trail. “‘s time t’ wake up, bug. We hafta go t’ work.”

“Why can’t we ever just have a late day, like a ten to six, instead of eight to four?” I moan, taking the covers back when he pulls them down my body.

“Hey, you were tha one who wanted t’ have three rounds o’ sex last night, so don’t be gettin’ mad at me now.”

“Harry, don’t act like you didn’t want to too,” I sigh after twisting and turning until I find that perfect spot again.

“‘Kay, but doesn’t change tha fact that we hafta be at work in a li’l over an hour, my love,” my lips sputter a short laugh at his admission. “Alright well, ‘ll be in tha shower, and if yer not up by tha time ‘m out, we’re gonna be late. Again. Y’know how I feel ‘bout bein’ late, bug.”

“I miss the time when you liked being late. You being this responsible boss isn’t much fun anymore,” my words are muffled by the firm pillow. They’re ended with a yelp after he pinches my ass. “Fuck you, Styles!”

I know my regret the second his sweet laugh hits the air, “You already did last night, Becks, but . . if ya wanna have a quickie befo’ work, y’know where t’ find me.”

“Ugh,” I groan into the off white pillow case, turning my head to find his naked ass walking away from me. “You’re a tease, Harry Styles! A proper, no good tease!”

“And what’re ya gonna do ‘bout it, Rebecca Styles?”

The cold air greets my skin when I at last sit up, our duvet cover falling to my waist. Any words that had been ready to spring off of my tongue stop there, replaced by others, “Don’t call me that!”

“Why not? I thought you liked it,” he calls back, raising his voice to be heard over the hum of the shower starting.

“Just . . don’t.”

“I don’t like it when yer crabby in tha mornin’s. I can think o’ somethin’ that’ll cheer you up, tho’,” Harry comments wryly. I take the bait unknowingly, mumbling a ‘what’ when I step foot into our walk-in closet. “Dick,” his voice is right behind me. I should’ve known, is what I think to myself when I’m lifted off of the floor and soon have hot water hitting my skin.

“You’re so bad, Harry Styles,” it comes out in a giggle that grows throaty and belly deep as he pulls the shower curtain shut behind him.

“Am I, now? I rememba you sayin’ you liked that ‘bout me last night, so why ya seem all upset?”

A squeal jumps from my mouth when his teeth nip at the corner of my neck. By habit, his name leaves them next when he surrounds me with his body, and his fingernails dig into the flesh of my ass. It’s carried with a laugh as he takes the brunt of the hot water, sponging kisses to my neck that the shower washes away.

“When’re you gonna work again with me, bug? Huh? I swear, you’ve been with Rose fer months now. Simon and that intern Jilly are hoots and smart ones, but I miss workin’ cases with you,” by now, his nose has reached to my shoulder, and so have his lips.

“I dunno, Harry,” is all I say, because those are all of the words that I can find right now.

If I’m telling myself the truth, they are the only words that he can handle to hear. I had been with Rose off and on for the last six months, and my off with Harry had never been longer. We hadn’t talked about it for a while now, but it may have had something to do with him having a fit when we last worked a case together. Like, a proper fit. It was a difficult case, to say the least, and because of that, it made things outside of work hard for us too. I usually loved working with him, but I’d found out the hard way that it’s already hard enough having your boyfriend as your boss. You’re only adding more hell to the handbasket when you throw in working with him every minute of every day, leading to being with your significant other quite literally twenty-four/seven. I loved him, quite a lot, but I also get sick of him, quite a lot. Just don’t tell him that part, is all. I try not to as his lips wander my body and so do his hands, first with cloudy intentions, and then with body wash.

“Eat,” the word comes out clipped until a stubborn curl comes to my lips.

“No.”

“It’s not a question, Harold, eat your fucking breakfast. Since when did you stop liking eggs?” I insist playfully, shoving a plate towards him where he sits sipping his plain coffee.

“Since I said I don’t, Mum. Now, would ya leave me be t’ drink me cuppa and read tha paper?” he returns with a lift to his brows, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And me name’s not Harold, dunno why ya fancy callin’ me it lately. Yer not funny.”

“I am, you just don’t want to admit it,” it comes out in a sigh. A shock of cold air slaps me in the face when I open the freezer, grabbing a plastic wrapped block of chocolate ice.

“Are not.”

“Are to,” I grumble in response, scraping his plate of eggs onto mine. Shaking my head, I turn around with the plate in hand, grabbing the toast peeking out from the toaster. “Grape or strawberry today?”

“Mix ‘em, please.”

“I’ve never met somebody who likes to mix their jams,” I comment playfully, soon hearing the nostalgic sound of a butter knife against toasted bread.

“‘ve never met somebody who cared so much ‘bout eatin’ bloody breakfast.”

“What, as if I didn’t used to get you Starbucks breakfast every morning three years ago?” he tries not to smile at my wheezed words, but I see it when I set down the new plate in front of him.

“Now, eat something, Harry. We need to leave soon, since somebody is intent on being on time.”

When I turn my back, the silence is interrupted by him biting into the toast. The microwave beeps and I gingerly carry the plastic wrapped steaming muffin, plopping it onto his plate.

“Our kids better not be picky eaters like you someday. These chocolate veggie muffins are like, the only way I can get you to eat vegetables for breakfast.”

“Why not, Becks? You think ‘s cute,” he smirks, cocking his head to face me when I take a seat next to him.

“Do not.”

“Do to,” I can hear the grin in his voice as he devours the rest of his toast. Shaking my head at his stubbornness, I pick up my fork to fill it with scrambled eggs.

“What features o’ mine would you want ‘em t’ have, then?”

“Um,” I idle, unsure of why I have to, seeing as how I’ve thought this through about a hundred times, by now. It’d only made it harder before, his hand cupping my knee, but it brings me comfort, by now. “It’d be easier to say what I wouldn’t want them to have of yours.”

“God, do I even wanna know?” he scoffs, showing me his dimples sunk into his cheeks full with food. Licking the dollops of jam from his fingers, he picks up the wrapped mozzarella cheese to peel the wrapper off.

I almost choke on my eggs when a laugh finds me, but as I chew and then swallow, his hand rubs circles on my leg through my sheer black tights.

“Ya sure ya won’t consult with me on my new case startin’ t’day? I know ya jus’ finished that Doud theft case with Rose.”

“What, are you spying on me?” it comes out hearty and laced with a joke. I listen to him sip his coffee and flip the paper, scooping eggs onto my buttered toast.

“No. Did somebody fo’get who their boss ‘s now?” Harry smirks, flashing me those god awful eyes that by now he knows I can’t resist. I sometimes really hate it when he pulls that card, but at other times it’s undeniably sexy, and he knows it.

“Yeah, his name is Myles Lawson. There’s this other guy he works with, Harold something or other, he’s this rubbish lawyer who keeps hitting on me.”

“Hush, you, or no tacos t’morrow,” his words make me groan through my mouthful of food. It’d become hard for us to honor our Taco Tuesday dates when I teamed up with Rose, and we had different schedules. Eventually, they’d fell away to consist of random days here and there, until we’d started it back up again.

“Be nice,” I warn, feeling the cold wood under my feet when I get to them. The warmth from the toast and eggs is replaced by the cold wetness when I pour orange juice into two glasses, setting one before Harry.

“I am?” he laughs, holding up his glass in question before gulping half of it down. “C’mon, Becks, jus’ give this case a shot with me, please? Ya can quit after a day, and if you don’t like it, that’s fine and you can go back t’ Rose.”

“You know it doesn’t work that way, and so do I after working with you for a year and a half now.” And dating each other for the same length, just about.

“Why you bein’ so mean t’ me, bug? I jus’ wanna work a case with you, ‘s been ages,” he whines from my side once again, feeding the last chunk of mozzarella between his grumpy lips. It’s always boggled my mind why he doesn’t peel it, and instead, eats it in chunks. He really is a weirdo, but he’s mine.

That thought sticks with me as my eyes remain glued to his handsome figure. Some sleep still clings to his captivating green eyes framed with thick lashes. His hair couldn’t be more curly these days, cropped to its usual length below his ears and longer on top. He had caved, letting Skye work her magic on him, and to the surprise of both of us, he had been happy with a recent cut from her. Even if it had only been a measly trim, as well as giving him some tips to keep it styled so the top wasn’t always in his eyes. Bringing his coffee to his lips again, a question sits in his eyebrows.

“Whatcha thinkin’ so hard ‘bout?” he wonders aloud, rosebud colored lips moving under a dark brown beard claiming the outskirts of his mouth. If that wasn’t enough to get me going, that new maroon suit he dons does. It’s fitted perfectly for him, just how he likes it. Me too, since I get to see his bum in nearly all of its glory in it. His legs. His crotch. His arms, too. The dusty black button up beneath leaves little of his chest to imagination, just the way I like it.

At times, I still catch myself wondering how he was all mine. Well, almost, that is.

“Oh, here’s one. I hope that they don’t have your weird eating habits.”

“What weird eatin’ habits?” Harry wonders aloud, leaving smears of chocolate against his lips a moment later from his muffin.

Declining to answer, I finish off the rest of my eggs after checking the time. “Eat your banana and clementine.”

Sure, I’d missed working with him too, but not his micromanaging, how he’d sometimes pick the most challenging cases as if he had to prove something, or how I still couldn’t get past the added pressure I felt working with him. I’d wished for so long that it’d be the opposite, but it was wishful thinking, at best.

The hum of the air conditioner fills the silent space as I tap away on my phone, sighing at the weather forecast. The warm front that had come in a few days ago wasn’t leaving anytime soon, leaving me in dresses for work. I find Harry without his blazer once again when my eyes turn to the window, admiring his attractive backside while pumping petrol.

“What?” I murmur, lifting my head when the door opens, sending a rush of hot air inside.

“I said d’ya need anythin’ from inside? Ya want a soda or anythin’?”

“No, and don’t you get one either. I know what you’re doing, Harry,” the reply comes out giggled and with a finger pointed at him.

“Becks, I jus’ want one Coke, please.”

“No, you said you wanted to do a no soda challenge, and we’re only a week in and you’re caving.”

“Am not, but I crave it bad, bug,” his response is whined, pulling more happiness from my lips.

“I know, but don’t even go by the coolers. Just go in and pay, please, or better yet, pay at the pump.”

He mutters a defeated ‘fine’ before closing the door, walking away from the car and towards the small building.

I hope that our kids have that feature of yours, I think a few moments later after watching him pick up and return a dolly a little girl had dropped. From here, I can even see the dimples fall into his cheeks as he speaks to her. The selflessness you’ve always had, even if it took awhile for you to share that page of yours with me.

We didn’t drive separately to work very often, unless he had an early meeting or a long day. It didn’t make sense to spend money to drive two cars to the same place five days a week when we usually get there and leave at the same time. Sure, one of us sometimes had to wait around for the other, but it worked rather well, we’d found. I usually won the fight of who got to pump petrol less than half of the time, if we were together, and even less in the winter. Mr. Stubborn usually beat me to the punches, first one out of the car got to do it, and it’d become a little race of ours that we enjoyed. I hope that our kids learn from their father about how to treat others, even doing things that you dislike to show your love for them.

“I don’t care what you say, it’s never me who makes us late, it’s always you. Usually, it’s something to do with your hair or suit, and you know it,” I jest when the lift doors close in front of us.

“Sure, it ‘s,” Harry sighs, leaning his back against the furthest wall. My head soon finds his shoulder, and his arm wraps around me. “Sorry, ‘ll see if we can get done early t’day. I know you’ve been up late tha last few nights finishin’ yer last case.”

“It’s okay,” I yawn from my place in his arms, not opening my eyes until he’s standing up straight again, my forehead itchy from his kisses. “I’ll tell you what.”

“What?” he grins at me. It takes a lot in me to not roll my eyes at his dad joke once I’ve come back to full attention. Forgotten it is when his fingers dive into my hair behind my ear, and his lips press to the imperfection below my eye. “Are you gonna say you’ll reconsider me offer o’ workin’ with me on me case?” “Yes,” my sigh is everything but sad, and neither are my lips when they meet his own.

The same word flies from his lips with excitement when we part. “Missed you, bug. I think it’ll be easier t’ have sex in me office now if we’re workin’ a case t’gether.”

“Shut up,” I giggle, savoring the feeling of his lips against my forehead, and my arms laced around his middle warm underneath his blazer.

“‘m glad I don’t have t’ say goodbye t’ you this mornin.’ ‘s been a while since ‘ve gotten t’ keep you fer tha day, my love.”

“What happened to absence makes the heart grow fonder?” I titter beneath his sporadic lips covering my face happily in kisses.

“Reckon we’ve had enough o’ that rubbish, dontchu?”

Indeed, we have, Harry. Indeed, we have.

“Ooo, the salmon’s on sale,” the whisper is soft as I pour over the page, numbers and pictures jumping out at me. Switching my attention, I press the pen to the paper until I stop. “Wait, does Harry even like salmon?” Pausing for a second, I think until shaking my head.

“Okay, what else did we need? Bananas, veggie muffins, chicken bullion, garlic, quinoa, broccoli . . ,” the words dropping from my lips soon show up on the notepad held in my hand. Call me old fashioned, and Harry will, believe me. “Granola, roasted pumpkin seeds, pistach-.”

“Beep beep,” somebody chirps from behind me. A scoff leaves my lips next when a cart bumps into my behind. Whipping around in surprise, my mouth is open in astonishment. It only falls further when I find the culprit. “What, not happy t’ see me?” Harry smirks with his face squished into a question, head cocked to the side. His hair is more disheveled by now after our day, a busy day two of researching for his new case. “Meetin’ yer other boyfriend here, or somethin’?”

“No, I just . . I thought that you had a meeting after work today,” I murmur, feeling my lips oblige with a smile.

“It was cancelled, and moved t’ t’morrow. Some schedulin’ thing fer tha space, I dunno,” his lips hum against my forehead when he wraps an arm around me. My reply is measly and suffices for a verbal understanding, interrupted by his lips on mine for a second.

“How are you feeling about that?”

“Fine, things have been good lately,” I nod my head along to his response, flipping through the grocery ad, finishing up my list. “Journalin’ has helped loads, so ‘m glad I picked that up again . . ‘m jus’ sorry you can’t enjoy a glass o’ wine at home, anymo.’ I feel bad I took that away from you.”

“It’s just wine, Harry, I’ll survive. Plus, I have one every now and then at Skye’s. Your sobriety is more important . . you are.”

“Thank you, dunno what else I can say ‘sides that,” I feel his smile on my face not just from the sunshine it spills, but through his lips on my forehead.

“That makes me happy to hear that things are going well, though. I know that it’s hard to talk about together sometimes, which is okay, and how you had a tough day this past weekend,” I murmur, setting the list and ad in the front basket of the cart his hand sits on.

“Ya, me too, bug. ‘m better now . . So, what’s on our list t’night seein’ as how we ran into each other at tha supermarket, havin’ told tha other we’d get tha groceries.”

“Yeah, we didn’t communicate that too well,” I wheeze, feeling his arm come around my shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“That’s okay.”

We’re quiet except for the sound of the moving cart, and our feet amongst the chatter of the shop. I wish I felt that way.

“Are you sure you are? You’ve been quiet t’day, Becks,” his question comes at the exactly wrong place, and the wrong time. How is it that he can always read my mind? I wish you would pick up on that one thing stirring up trouble in there, Harry.

I murmur a convincing enough answer, hoping that he believes it. It only reminds me of the promise I made to myself last February to not lie to him, and it only gets worse when that memory pulls with it another. The one of how he couldn’t stop saying that communication is key, and that we’re no good without it.

“Stop it,” I scold him with a light laugh, pulling on his arm when he wanders over to the cases of soda. Turning around, his lips dip into a pout. I hook my arm with his and keep walking down the aisle, having to pull him back when he goes to reach for junk food and sweets.

I’m just not sure about how to communicate this one.

“Reckon our case ‘s comin’ along nicely so far. Dontchu think?” his murmur threads its way through my thoughts, but it doesn’t quite succeed. Instead of a reply, my silent words wander to describing the way he tugs at his briefs that ride up his legs. “Becks? Babe, can ya focus mo’ on what ‘m sayin’ and less on me gettin’ undressed?”

“Oh, s-sorry,” the words are rushed out with a shake of my head as he titters. I try to apply myself to the conversation, but my eyes hold the remote, gluing themselves to his round bum when he turns around.

“Yer doin’ it again.” My voice is small when I yawn a question in return, waiting for him to return from the closet. With a hand caught in his hair, he does, rushing over with his arms around his otherwise naked body. “Actin’ weird, ‘s what.”

“Warm me up, bug,” Harry chatters, hurrying under the covers and over to me. My spontaneous giggle only lasts until the sound of his next words, “And while yer doin’ so, would ya please tell me what’s botherin’ you lately? Y’know I can’t help unless you tell me.”

The words escape me, like they have for the last few days as I’ve thought and thought of how to say them. More than anything, I’ve debated whether or not to even put them into a sentence that I could speak to him.

“No lies. Rememba, sweetheart?”

“I remember,” my voice is small and quiet. His hairy legs feel contrasting to my smooth pair tangled under the covers.

“Ya gonna show me those pretty eyes o’ yers, love? Tha ones I love so much I hope our babies have ‘em?” his question is answered with my head, and a denial at that. “‘s it easier t’ tell me what’s wrong without lookin’ at me?” this time, my head says something else. I hear his gentle hum amongst the drowning guilt.

“‘s okay, Becks, but y’know, ya never hafta be afraid t’ tell me anythin.’ Y’know that, right?” I myself hardly hear my vocal confirmation, but it’s hard to make it out over the hammering of my heart. I can’t decide if it does or doesn’t help the way his fingers are losing themselves in my hair, his cold toes against mine. “When yer ready.”

My head goes up and down with his words until it lifts, and his eyes are patient. I don’t need to look that hard to see the sunshine waiting in them for me, and how it curls his lips into his cheeks. With each second, I doubt what I’m about to do, and my body takes the brunt of it.

“Will you marry me?”

“What? No,” Harry chuckles, his face screwed up in confusion. My own falls indefinitely, turning away to hide in my pillow. “Becks, honey. C’mere.”

“No, I can’t believe you said that you wouldn’t marry me, Harry,” the whining in my voice is mostly authentic, but I do my part to milk it, as well. My guilty regret only comes once I’m on my feet and walking into the ensuite bathroom, having forgotten to take my contacts out.

“Hey, where d’ya think yer goin’?” Harry insists. As I unscrew the caps to the case, the worry almost overwhelms his voice. “I didn’t mean it that way, bug, please believe me.”

His cheek against mine from behind brings back that tingly sensation as I remove my contacts. “Why’d it sound that way then?”

“It didn’t, I promise you that, Becks.” I give him a smile when I turn around, taking his hand to pull him back into our bedroom. “Babe,” his laugh continues, seemingly never going to end as it grows deeper and heartier. Despite my upset, it finds the crack in my armor once we’re under the covers again. “‘Course ‘ll marry you, that’s not what I meant, bug- Hey, stop ignorin’ me and come gimme a cuddle.”

After a bout of failed attempts, his strong arms hook under mine until he’s pulled me into his chest. His warm hands manipulate my slack body until my chin is lifted, “Look at me, would you?”

“No.”

“Rebecca Ann Holte, look at me, so I can talk t’ you,” he replies firmly, but laced with honey. Always. Sighing, I oblige and open them. “Hey, dontchu cry on me. You bloody well know that I want nothin’ mo’ in tha world t’ marry you and have a family with you.”

“Then, why don’t you? It’s almost been a year and a half, Harry,” all fight and joking aside, my voice drips of a melancholy type of honey. Instantly, I see the effect it has on him, pulling his lips down into a sullen line.

“Where’s this comin’ from all o’ a sudden, huh? What’s happened, baby?” his question is spoken aloud. I avoid answering it, not wanting to share. I don’t need to, because within seconds, I watch the lightbulb go off behind his eyes. “‘s this ‘cos Amelia jus’ got engaged? ‘s it, Becks?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, looking away, and he lets me. Swallowing against a dry throat, my hand ventures to one of his where I remove a ring. I slide it onto a blank finger of my left hand, two others already claiming a spot. “They haven’t even been together five months . . it’s not fair. Jennings too, the other day. It’s like everybody else is . . “

“But you, love?” his murmur is gentle, and so are the pads of his fingers on my cheeks. “E’vrybody’s different, Becks. ‘m not innna rush, I didn’t know you were, love. That’s why we hafta communicate.”

“That’s why I’m telling you . . although a few days late, and I’m sorry.”

“‘s okay. Thank you fer tellin’ me,” his lips warm my face, willing the sadness away. “‘m gonna marry you, y’know that, right? . . Right?”

“Yeah,” again, I sound like a mouse. This time, he lifts my chin so I’m looking at him again, and no longer his ring dotted with black figures.

“Ya don’t sound very convincin’ . . but maybe that’s my fault. I didn’t mean t’ say no at first like that. ‘course ‘ll marry you, my bug, but I wanna be tha one who asks,” Harry explains, catching the dwindling tears that remain on the apples of my cheeks. A softness sits in his eyes that makes me pool with sour regret.

“How come? You said we could just go and do it at the courts one day, easy as that.”

“That’s not whatchu want, nor do I, Becks,” he states. Despite my stubbornness, I know that he’s right. “Same goes fer askin’ you t’ marry me . . I know we both want it t’ be special, and I need some mo’ time t’ make sure it ‘s.”

“You’ve jokingly asked me how many times now? Called me Mrs. Styles how many times a day lately?” I muse aloud, unsure of how to stop once I had taken the plug from the drain.

His laughing lips are what I first see, and then hear, “Yes, I joke ‘bout it ‘cos I can’t wait t’ ask you . . figuratively, bug. And, I love callin’ you that, don’t think it could sound any better . . But, you and I both know that we want it t’ be special . . t’ have a grand story t’ tell our kids one day. ‘m only plannin’ on doin’ it once, so I wanna make it unfo’gettable, Becks . . ‘m sorry if I made you feel like ‘ll never do it, and that yer sad it hasn’t happened yet, but it will. I promise you that.”

“When?” my question appears in the air before I can stop it. So do the dimples in his cheeks, again. “Thank you, I mean. I’m sorry I’m being impatient and rude, I know there’s more to getting married than just a pretty ring.”

“Yer okay, li’l one, I understand. Well, that wouldn’t be very much fun if I told you, now would it? It’d take away tha surprise.” his brows do the rest of the talking for him. Letting out a long breath, I dive into his arms, and start to relax when his chin rests on my head. “Soon, ‘s that good enough fer you? . . ‘kay, good. Bloody hell, yer a funny one, thinkin’ you can get away with askin’ me like that. And thinkin’ that ‘m not over tha moon mad ‘bout you that ‘m not gonna marry you one day,” he chuckles. I feel his stomach shake with the sound, and soon, mine does too.

“I can’t believe your knee jerk reaction was to say no.”

“C’mon, Becks, I didn’t mean it that way. I jus’ meant it as in, I don’t want you t’ beat me t’ it.”

“Yeah, well, I did. Again,” I giggle, and he joins me with that lovely sound his lips make.

“Seems ya did, like always . . Would you like t’ come with me t’ look at rings t’morrow afta work?” at the sound of his words, something blossoms inside of my chest, and quickly on my lips. It’s that effervescence that I find sitting in his eyes at times, an unbelievable bubbly feeling.

“I’d love to, Harry.”

“Good, I thought that’s what you’d say,” his trademark wheeze is like music to my ears, and at last, I feel my heart start to beat normally again.

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothin’ t’ be sorry fer, bug. I feel as if I do, leavin’ you in the dark ‘bout this. I thought you knew from our talks that I was plannin’ on it soon, my love,” and the guilt train just speeds along, taking me with it.

“You’re too good to me, Harry.”

“Hush, li’l one, you deserve it and so much mo’, my Mrs. Styles. Now, let’s get some sleep, we have a big day ahead o’ us t’morrow. Interviewin’ witnesses, and engagement ring shoppin,’” he coos with an excited lilt to his voice. I can’t do any longer without seeing it in those sage abyss eyes. “Hi, Mrs. Styles. That sounds rather perfect, dontchu think?”

“Yeah,” I smile, combing stray hair away from those beautiful eyes. I don’t know, I think I want our kids to have his eyes, instead.

“Rebecca Styles. Becky Styles.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Styles.”

“Tha married lawyers,” he whispers until his lips explode with a laugh made of dreams. I taste it on his lips when he kisses me.

“I love you, Harry Styles.”

“I love you mo’ than you will ever bloody know, Rebecca Ann. Can’t wait t’ put a ring on yer finger, see you walk down tha aisle t’ me, and have so many babies t’gether,” he speaks animatedly, holding me tight and still holding my eyes with his. “Love you, Boops,” is the last thing he says before kissing my nose, and then underneath my eye.

I love you, Styles.

“He’s still alive, ‘s he? Hmm, dunno if ya have a green thumb quite yet, considerin’ you’ve killed ev’ry other plant ‘ve gotten you.”

“Hey! Plants just aren’t my forte, okay? But, succulents? Eh, they’re better . . easier. Plants are harder than they look, Harry,” my protest is weak, and we both know it. He wheezes while thumbing at a thick leaf on ‘Frankie the Succulent,’ the very plant that’s been here just as long as I’ve been a lawyer here.

“So am I,” I nudge him away when his lousy dad joke drifts over my shoulder.

“Shut up. I’m going to go and fill my water, so he can have some too. I’ll be back and then, we can have lunch.”

“Noted. I bloody well hope yer better at keepin’ kids alive than plants.” I have to roll my eyes at him this time too for the lame comment. “Hey, watch those eyes o’ yers, Rebecca Ann, or no churros fer you.”

“You never have, and you never will, Styles.”

“Oh, ya sure are temptin’ me now, woman,” he sighs with a finger wagging at me. Rolling my eyes again on accident, and from pure habit, I hurriedly leave the room, giggling after seeing the look on his face. “Yer gonna get it, Rebecca Holte!” I hear called after me, only urging my lips further.

When I return, his lips are still twitching with a smile, and part of me grows nervous. In one way, ever since we looked at rings last week, I feel on edge every time he has that glint in his eye, never knowing when he’s going to fall onto a knee. This time, I’m nervous about the way he bites at his bottom lip.

“What’s that look for, Styles?” my lips twitch with nerves. Swallowing against a dry throat, I lift my water bottle to my mouth briefly as I walk up to the succulent.

“Frankie’s jus’ lookin’ sad, ‘s all. Ya better hurry and water him befo’ he dies on ya too.”

I hear it, and the puzzle pieces all click together when I spot the long box adorned with glittery, purple wrapping paper in the middle of my desk. That definitely wasn’t there before.

“Harry-,” I begin, setting down the water bottle as my body turns to face him.

“Open it,” he interrupts softly, something I once hated him for. At times now, he’s become rather good at finding the best moments for it.

Squishing my lips together into an eager smile, I pull the box into my hands, unwrapping the violet colored bow. My body jolts when his arms come around my waist from behind, his massive height allowing his chin to rest on the top of my head. Lifting the lid of the rectangular box, I’m greeted by a surprising sight.

“Harry,” his name drops from my lips, something that had become so easy over the years, despite the times it had been the hardest word for me to say. His lips are touching the sky almost and his dimples couldn’t be deeper as he beams at me.

“Try it on, Ms. Lawyer. Figured you needed one too t’ stay organized.” Nodding to it, he licks his lips while watching me.

“This is too much, Harry, I-.”

“Happy One and a Half, bug, and congrats on yer sparklin’ review, as always. Ya deserve it. Now, try it on already. I wanna see it on you,” he wheezes with that sunshine smile spreading even more warmth across my face. The redness coating my cheeks I’m sure only reaches further when he turns me around to steal a kiss from my lips.

The lavender colored band feels buttery under my fingertips. I have to ask for Harry’s help, but within moments, an Apple watch similar to his, despite the purple band and purple hard case, sits on my wrist.

“You like?”

“Yes, I love it,” I sigh happily, exploring the small device’s possibilities. His giggle eggs me on, especially when he shows me the Walkie Talkie feature that he insists we experiment with from opposite sides of the room. “But, I didn’t really get you anything. Well, nothing as nice as this.”

“Hush, you. You didn’t need t’ get me anythin.’ ‘m mo’ than pleased with our dinner planned fer t’night. ‘m excited t’ cook with you, bug. Steaks, alfredo, honey glazed carrots, and yer famous chocolate cake. There’s nothin’ mo’ that I could want.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll just take back your present then,” I huff with sarcasm laced in my voice, plucking the present wrapped in Beatles paper from a drawer in my desk.

He too holds back an excited smile, reaching his hands out while walking towards me. “Gimme,” he nearly squeals, and I oblige. Biting on my nail, I watch as he tears the paper away, oooing and awwing at the square box that now sits in his palm. “Oooo, another wordy board game, me likey.”

Chuckling, I relish the way he turns it over in his hands, examining the front and back, “It’s called Boggle. You shake up the dice with letters and then have to make words from the touching letters before the timer is up. Then, you go through what words you have, and whoever has the most unique words wins . . My gran and I used to play it loads when . . when she was alive. I found it at my Dad’s the other weekend when I was there, so it’s not a new one, I’m sorry.”

“Becks,” he begins, having forgotten the game entirely to meet my eyes. Stepping forward, his hand comes to cradle my elbow, all smiles gone. “You shouldn’t have, bug. I can’t imagine how special this ‘s t’ you, thank you so much. ‘ll keep it safe and be careful with it. ‘ll keep it at home, then. We should play it t’night afta dinner. ‘ve been wantin' some new games.”

“I’d like that, and don’t worry, it just goes to show you how much I love you,” I smile, feeling his honesty when his lips touch mine. “But, for the record, I get it in the divorce. I’m putting it in the prenup.”

“Shut up, would you? Stop talkin’ and kiss me, honeybug,” Harry smirks, whisking all of my words away with his lips tasting of honey. “Love you.”

“I love you mostest,” it’s a titter against his lips, but it grows fuller as he shakes his head at me, gnawing at his lip.

“God, I can’t believe you did that. Ya went right fer it. What am I gonna do with you?” he tuts, clucking his tongue at me. Before I know it, his fingers are dancing along my sides, and his laugh is mingling with mine.

Who knew that it could ever be this good?

It had been information overload, and my noggin was ready for a break a few days later. Beginning it with a coffee in hand, my legs inch closer to his door. My reprieve is closer with every second as I near the door with my favorite person’s name on it. That was the last thought in my mind when that frosted glass door swung open, and two men turned around to face me with surprise. At first, I have a hard time telling them apart, until I blink a few times.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry. I should’ve knocked,” the words are automatic on my lips, and so is the apology on Harry’s face.

His parting lips are fast, but they don’t beat those of the man who stands closer to me, “You’re okay, love. I was just leaving.”

I nod along with his words, but I don’t have any of my own. Instead, my eyes veer to Harry’s pair with a question in mine. The alarm that had risen inside of me at the sight of the man only worsens once I find his pages unreadable to me. His lips curls just the slightest, but there’s something else there I see as they ready themselves to speak.

“Becks, this ‘s me Dad, and Dad, this ‘s me girlfriend, Becky,” he announces warmly, removing a hand from the pockets of his beige blazer, pointing to the tall man in a dark suit. I can’t stop my eyes from widening at my boyfriend and he nods at me. I don’t have any more time to look, because Harry’s dad is stepping towards me.

“Reckon we’ve met once before, if I remember correctly. Anyways, I’m Dez. Dez Styles, ‘s nice t’ meet me son’s girlfriend at last,” the man says in a slow drawl with an accent similar to Harry’s. A smile appears on my lips from nowhere as I take his hand in my own, shaking it. If I look hard enough, I think I can see a hint of Harry’s eyes, and more in him.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m Becky.”

“Pleasure t’ meet you, Becky, but I best be going. I have to get back to work meself. Maybe we could talk more another time. I’d love t’ hear more about you, and how the two of you met over some fish and chips, or a pint some time,” he continues, and so does my nodding.

“Ya, we’ll see,” the words are soft, but they’re from Harry as his dad nods to the both of us before leaving the room.

“Have a good day, the both of you. Talk soon.”

Suddenly, we’re joined by the silence, and Harry only feeds it when I wish he’d end it. No matter the looks I give him or the questions that shout from my eyes, he remains silent, despite the recent bombshell.

When he does speak, at last, it’s the least from what I expect, “Wanna play some Boggle? Reckon ‘s that point in tha day, I need a break.”

“Really, Harry? Boggle?” my question graces the air, long overdue, even if only for the last few minutes it’s sat inside of me being a bother.

Again, he deprives me. Instead, he plops onto the trusty old sofa, removing the playing items from the box to set them on top of it. When I find my seat, a blank notepad and pen both with the logo of Styles and Lawson await me across from him. The loud clatter of the plastic dice bouncing around inside of the container fills my ears when I wish it was something else. Somebody else.

When he removes the lid to set it aside, and tips the sand timer over, I leave it at that. For the next minute, we sit in an absence of words, concentrating on forming random ones of our own from the arrangement of random letters.

“Time’s up,” I announce when the white sand has completely filled the bottom half of the timer. His frantic scribbling comes to a stop, but my lips resume, with a laugh.

“What’re you laughin’ at over there?” Harry hums, lifting his narrowed eyes at me. Despite the number of times I’ve asked, he’s never let me near his beloved eyebrows, but of course, they’re rather perfect as it is. Big surprise, there.

“Your handwriting has gotten so bad, Harry. How do you even read it, anymore?”

“Hush, you. I can read it, that’s all that matters,” he whines, carding a hand through his hair.

“I hardly can, though! I barely could when I was your assistant, it took me forever to learn.”

“‘Kay, thanks fer tha lecture. Now, ‘ll start,” he shrugs with a laugh, pointing the tip of his pen to the first word on his list. His handwriting was a cross between cursive and chicken scratch, that’s all I could ever explain it as.

“Can we please wait, Harry? I want to talk,” my question is slow and gentle, or so, I hope. If anything, my hand is when I place it on top of his. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but it’s enough when he forgets the pen to cradle my hand in his.

“Are you mad I didn’t tell you?”

“No, of course not, Harry. I-.”

“Thanks, ‘cos I don’t wantchu t’ and ya don’t hafta be. I didn’t know it was gonna happen, either. I . . ,” a sigh steals his words away as his thumb worries away at my promise ring. “I texted him, askin’ him how he proposed t’ me mum . . and if he had me gran’s ring. His mum’s. He asked if he could stop by tha firm t’ speak ‘bout it, and I said sure, not thinkin’ ‘d actually happen. Things had been good lately, y’know. He was at Gem’s a few weekends ago when I stopped by, you were at a show with Skye, I think.”

“Yeah, I remember. How’d it go today with him?” my broaching of the question is careful, but if anything, this is a topic I know how to talk about. We both ride the parent trauma train, unfortunately.

“Good. It was brief, but it went good,” he answers, gracing me with a look of his beautiful eyes. Finally, they hold all of the pages to his books, open for me to read, as I like. “He gave me some tips, and we spoke ‘bout rings. It was actually really nice, and I think he was really tryin,’ which meant loads t’ me. He wants t’ get t’gether t’ meet you- Well, reckon he already did, once or twice, now. But, I think ‘d like that, too. ‘m not jus’ lettin’ him back into me life tho’, but I want to try with him again. I want t’ have a Dad again, Becks,” a happy wheeze accompanies his words, and so does a glassiness to his eyes.

“I’m so happy for you, honey.”

I feel his breath on my cheek, and then his beard when I surround him with my arms. Laughs dripping with hopes and dreams pass between us as I hug him back, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Thanks, babe. I jus’ hope it’ll stay this way . . that it’ll stay good.”

“I know. I’m sure it will, Harry,” trying to ignore the weight of our words, and the impending future that settles in my thoughts.

Me too, Harry. Me too.

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hournites · 4 years

Text

Blackouts (1/2)

Part two

Hournite being cute? Okay.

~.~

Beth looked down at the print out instructions of the lab, double-checking that her station had all the instruments that she’d need as she tied her apron on.

“Hey.” She turned to find Rick with his backpack slung over his shoulder. He dumped it onto the surface. “I can help you with that.”

His hands were on her skin suddenly. Beth nearly jumped. The hairs stood at the back of her neck as he finished tying the apron for her. He stepped aside when he was done and flashed her one of his half-smiles.

Somehow along the way of becoming team members for JSA, without any verbal agreement about the matter, Rick stood in as her permanent team partner for school assignments. It was as surprising as it was welcome, Beth had been accustomed to doing everything alone. Or even, everything separately next to Rick, but alone. Now they did everything together.

“Hi,” she said as he threw on clear goggles of his own. “The experiment we’re supposed to complete is to prove Charles’s Law—”

“Which states that the volume of gases equals a constant value, the pressure, multiplied by its temperature as measures by Kelvin,” he droned on after a second of a glance at the page.

“Um,” she said after an awkward pause. “Wow. You really have been studying those chemistry textbooks.”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding a bit embarrassed about it. Beth wasn’t sure why. It was impressive. She had a perfect GPA, but she had to work hard at it. With that kind of memory, Beth wondered what else Rick could easily do. Rick shifted on his feet as if he could sense her scrutiny and it was making him uncomfortable. “Hey, Beth, listen. We don’t even need to do the experiment, I know all the answers to the questions for the lab report.”

He slid the worksheet from her side over the table, borrowing her pencil to answer the questions. Her eyes widened as she watched him speed through it all without even needing a calculator to transfer the Celsius to Kelvin.

A minute later he dropped the pencil. “Done.”

Beth gaped. “Did you just—?”

The tips of his ears went red. “Yeah. Whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

“Then what are we going to do for the next fifty minutes?” Kids were still trickling into the lab. The bell hasn’t even rung yet for the class to officially start.

Rick looked around, making sure they weren’t being overheard then leaned into Beth’s space. “Do you remember the badminton birdie that Sportsmaster threw at us?”

“You mean the smoke grenade he threw at us?”

He nodded.

“What about it?”

Rick pulled three vials from the pocket of his hoodie and flashed them to her. “You’re the most vulnerable member of the JSA so if we want to keep you safe while you run away, we’re gonna need to make you some of your own.”

Beth’s voice went shrill. “You want to make a bomb?”

He shushed her, putting his hand over her mouth to stop her from catching anyone’s attention. “Not with that volume!”

He pulled his hand away super quickly, blushing and wiping it against the side of his jeans.

“Rick,” she hissed in dawning horror as she watched him pour dangerous-looking substances into a beaker. Beth tugged on his sleeve, looking back anxiously at their chemistry teacher, explaining Charles Law at the front of the room, oblivious. “Rick. Rick!”

But he wasn’t listening, focusing on whatever poison he was about to concoct as something started to bubble up in the beaker into a black foam. “Rick! This isn’t safe! Do you know what you’re even doing!?”

“Relax. I got this.”

“We could get kicked out of class,” she told him. “We could get suspended. We could catch the room on fire. We could get expelled, Rick.”

He bit his lip like he was trying to hide his amusement at her nervous ramblings, but he did pause to look at her. “You honestly think Mr. Hyacinth is paying attention to us right now?” He nodded to their teacher, who was busy engaging in some heated discussion with another student at the desk far away.

“....No,” she admitted begrudgingly. “But I don’t think this is a good idea! If we get caught—”

Rick rolled his eyes. “We’re not going to get caught.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Do you want to be protected when we’re out on a mission or not?”

She chewed on her bottom lip and stayed silent. He knew she knew that was rhetorical. Of course, she did.

“Look,” he said, nudging her side and lowered his voice again. “I was thinking since you’re Dr. Mid-Nite, we could make you some type of ball that you can throw that will make everything go dark if you’re ever cornered by ISA or alone. And then, since Chuck can give you night vision, only you’d be able to run through that.”

“...That’s pretty clever,” she allowed, not wanting to let him know it was actually genius. Or at least, it would be if they didn’t have to try to experiment that during fourth-period Chemistry. “How are you doing that?” Because she very much needed to know if he actually had any clue what he was doing or if he swiped any and every flask from under their teacher’s nose that looked potent. There were lab safety rules for a reason. They could accidentally create a lethal gas or worse, Rick could burn his hands off with acid. He wasn’t wearing any gloves. Beth liked Rick’s hands! He needed his hands to be Hourman!

“Potassium nitrate,” he said, then asked her to pass the sugar from his bag.

Beth heaved out a heavy sigh, then unzipped his bag to find a few packets of sugar she knew came from the school cafeteria as well as a firework fuse that she didn’t even want to think how he got his hands on. She passed them to him reluctantly, and sighed again, making her disapproval obviously known.

“Thank you, Beth,” he singsonged in a smug tone that made it clear he knew exactly what she thought of this, and furthermore, knew she’d help him anyway. Beth scowled because it wasn’t fair.

She watched as he poured ingredients into the mixture like they were baking a very dangerous cake, passing along different chemicals and utensils for the lab that he claimed he needed.

Beth covered her mouth and held her breath when he lit up the bunsen burner flame to heat up what he was doing. Inside of the beaker now looked like molten lava, solidifying under the flame until it turned into a sickening brown molasses colour.

It didn’t look normal. This was how they were going to die. This was how they were going to go to jail.

“I feel like we should ask Chuck for help.”

“I don’t think so. It’ll be a bigger distractor. Besides, I told you I got this. I looked it up this morning.”

Beth didn’t know what to do with that information. Had Rick really woken up today deciding he was going to make bombs for her? And why did the thought give her butterflies? That shouldn’t be so sweet!

“Rick…” she wanted to ask why he cared so much. Even if it sounded stupid. They were friends. Great friends now. And they were members of the same crime-fighting team. Of course, he’d want to make sure she’s safe. Kids have died because of the ISA and she was at risk for not being good at fighting back against people. It’s just that something told her this wouldn’t be happening if she had partnered up with Yolanda or Courtney.

And not just because they wouldn’t do something so recklessly stupid (because honestly maybe they wouldn’t do this but they all had their moments) or couldn’t come up with the same ideas. No, because Rick really cared about her, she realized. Like really, really. He went so far as to think up how these blackout bombs would be on theme for her name. Who has ever went out of their way to think about Beth like that? No one.

She tried to study his face through the blurry smudged safety goggles, but the barrier made it hard to see his eyes. He was fiddling with the firework fuse, attaching it to the clump of mass. She put her hand back on his hoodie sleeve and tugged a bit. He turned as if her tug could do that. Make him stop and listen. Which was crazy, because Rick was big and honestly, she couldn’t stop him, not as Rick or as Hourman, so why did a gentle tug steer him toward her so easily? He looked at her with his undivided attention, waiting for what she had to say.

Her mouth went inexplicably dry. Taking a breath, she started again. “Rick…”

The beaker exploded.

Beth screamed, startling into his side so bad she thought she had a heart attack. Rick held her against him, shielding her from the glass and smoke. Beth’s face was smushed against his black, old borrowed lab apron, his hand protectively against her back. Her heart jumped again, though this time it wasn’t because of the noise. It took a moment for her to realize she wasn’t the one shaking. She looked up to find his entire frame convulsing and her jaw went slack at the sight.

Rick was laughing.

Like, genuinely laughing. Beth found herself grinning, eyes growing bright at the scene. She’d never seen Rick laugh. A chuckle or a smirk here and there, yes, but he couldn’t even catch his breath now, he had tears in his eyes and he was holding his side and his face was now pressed against the tabletop to hide from the class staring at them because Rick Harris was laughing.

At the nosey eyes, Beth took a step back, waving her hands to shoo away their classmates. She craned her neck to find that their teacher wasn’t even in the room. She let out a sigh of relief. “Nothing to see here!” she said, using her go-to spiel whenever one of them did something weird. “That was totally an accident. Our bad!”

She kept shooing until they grew bored, then turned back to assess the mess they made.

“Oh my god, Rick!” she smacked at his shoulder as she tumbled into her own fit of giggles because his laugh was infectious and happy and the best thing Beth has ever heard in her life. “I told you!”

But he couldn’t care less about their dangerous chemical exploits, and— She glanced back at the dark residue along the rim of the beaker—She realized she didn’t either. They may need to make some fine-tune adjustments, and maybe look at what they were doing when holding firework fuses in school, but it worked.

Rick pulled the safety goggles up into his hair and went to find the paper towels and broom to sweep up the glass. When he returned, he stopped and narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. “What is it?”

Beth took the broom, carefully guiding the broken glass into the bio-waste bin next to the sink. “Nothing,” she lied badly.

“Beth…”

She glanced at him with her pleased grin. “You’re smiling.”

Rick’s hand dropped against the sink. “Oh.”

He avoided her eyes, ears reddening again like they did when she was marvelling over his ease with the worksheet. She grabbed his hand and he sucked in a breath, chancing a look.

“You’re smiling,” she repeated. “I love your laugh!”

“Oh my god,” he mumbled under his breath, turning away. Beth tightened her hold.

“You’re happy!” she squeezed his closed fist. His hand loosened in surrender, going flat against the table. Beth turned it over and slipped her hand in his, linking their fingers together. To her utter delight, Rick turned a whole other shade of pink.

Rick moved their hands so they weren’t on full display over the table, but he squeezed back, and that was all Beth needed to know.

#hournite #stargirl #beth chapel #rick tyler #beth x rick #fluff #hournite fic #hournites fic

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wordofrecall · 4 years

Text

character playlists: ori

so. let’s do this. my playlists are long and scattered, but they make me happy, so i might as well share them and the thoughts behind song choices. so. here’s some songs for runaway knights & wannabe witches, and what have you.

something holy - childhood & riches & wonders

pearl diver - mitski - oh hunter, if you didn’t want the beautiful so badly, perhaps you would’ve found it in your spirit singing softly - look. it's on the nose, considering that her title is "the pearl hunter," but also, like, that rules. this is a song for wren, i think; ori in the present reflecting on her mother and the similarities between them.

icicles - the scary jokes - i can only be forgiven if i’m giving myself up to you on a silver serving tray / must i bare myself to the stabbing of your knife & gnashing teeth while our lovely company appears so entertained? - aaand a song for childhood. 99% of ori's socialization came from her parents having important guests over, so. uh. yeah. show off your reclusive child prodigy like a pageant whenever you have the opportunity. she probably won't grow to loathe you.

life: the cruel interlude (on god) - kilo kish - why do i dare believe in me when i bleed? - questioning was. always a big thing for ori. i don't think she ever believed that the mirzha was god, and i known that she never truster her father's patron, but. in her studies, in her passions, there's always this tiny sense of desperation for something to have faith in something. not herself.

bluejays & cardinals - the mountain goats - the stars come out of hiding for you, & i would too - there is. a lot, in ori's relationship with her brother. she was the favorite child, yeah, the one destined for great things in spite of her... troubles. but he never had those troubles! she didn't, doesn't understand how he went through life so unafraid. there's envy there. i also think that the line i quoted is terribly true, like, canonically. because. she sure did do that stupid shit.

be calm - fun. - take it from me, i’ve been there a thousand times--you hate your pulse because it thinks you’re still alive! - sometimes you have intense social phobia. and that's okay!

country death song - violent femmes - kiss your mother goodnight & remember that God saves, kiss your mother goodnight & remember that God saves - i think andrei is a much less pitiable or even sympathetic man than the narrator of this song, but. like. it's a country song about a father killing his daughter while preaching godliness. i had to.

i’m all bloody inside - liam lynch - inside me, well, it’s dark & gross as hell, i’m not a pretty sight - the family business!

the hazards of love 3 (revenge!) - the decemberists - but father, don’t you fear, your children are all here - fantasies. part of the fantasy is imagining a world where she doesn't feel terrible about the thought.

shankill butchers - sarah jarosz - they used to be just like me & you, they used to be sweet little boys - "blood hunters are ghost stories." "and also, they're fucking terrible. violent, cruel, zealous. the worst."

sparrow - st. vincent - & no eyes are on the sparrow, eyes are on the sparrow, how could that be the case? the lark keeps whistling his number, silly little number, as if he isn't prey - pity for the boy. sort of retrospective, but it's a thought that's been there since she was a child.

something burning - rituals & fire & running

starchild - ghost quartet - but i will transcend & vomit this loser out of me; i will become the next big thing, i will light myself on fire - maybe she is some kind of angel? bursting with radiance and terrifying to look upon.

arsonist’s lullabye - hozier - don’t you ever tame your demons, always keep them on a leash / when i was sixteen, my senses fooled me - oooor maybe she is a sixteen year-old who is having a panic attack and setting everything in sight on fire by accident.

blood - my chemical romance - i’m the kind of human wreckage that you love! - so she's broken.

girl anachronism - the dresden dolls - it’s not the way i’m meant to be, it’s just the way the operation made me - so she's failed and she's broken and she's sick, and there's no time to fucking think.

when the chips are down - anais mitchell - cast your eyes to heaven, you’ll get a knife in the back. - so she does what her mother did before her, and she runs from that which she has always known.

body terror song - ajj - i’m so sorry that you have to have a body / one that will hurt you, & be the subject of so much of your fear - feelings on being built Wrong; feelings on your mind's undue control upon your body.

in corolla - the mountain goats - & no one was gonna come & get me, there wasn't anybody gonna know, even though i leave a trail of burnt things in my wake every single place i go - very good as an ori song in general but this is her justification to herself in the water. under the docks, she says this to herself.

the harrowed & the haunted - the decemberists - will i be so brave? - just to get that oceanic vibe up.

luna - the mountain goats - rise through the flames & end again in flames at last - an inexplicable feeling.

unwhere - reeder - a song for leaving what you've always known.

something lonely - years & woods & dreaming

runs in the family - amanda palmer - run from their pity, from responsibility, run from the country & run from the city, i can run from the law, i can run from myself, i can run for my life, i can run into debt, i can run from it all, i can run 'till I'm gone - she is broken and all she can think to do is get as far away as possible

panic attack - liza anne - i hate that i can be seen like this

black eyes - david wirsig - my hammering heart hears the voices of spirits that tempt us, the scorn that they’ve spoken

for the departed - shayfer james - they will bury me alive, but i’m not inclined to care; i am too far gone now

hurt - johnny cash - everyone i know goes away in the end; you can have it all, my empire of dirt

my body’s made of crushed little stars - mitski - i work better under a deadline! i work better under a deadline!

blood in the cut - k. flay - guess i’m contagious; it’d be safest if you ran--fuck, that’s what they all just end up doing in the end

little pistol - mother mother - i think i might be scared of the world & the way it makes you feel afraid & how it gets in the way

villains pt. 1 - emma blackery - built to create, designed to destroy

the beer - kimya dawson - & the christians gave me comic books as if i would be scared of burning in hell while i was already there [...] i tried to scream fuck you but blood was pouring out my mouth

something safe - family & finding it & fighting together

haunted house - sir babygirl - i’m running just to hide & i’m hiding just to breathe & around every corner is the same night on repeat

your heart is a muscle the size of your fist - ramshackle glory - i love you & you make me glad to be alive; i promise that i’m gonna pay you back / you always know how funny everything is, even when i’m so serious that it’s gonna be the death of me

medicines - the taxpayers - o, but our rotting corpses lying there soon began to leak & grow these lesions that all smelled just like a rose / & all the blood & guts inside us germinated into timeless pages stained with lines of lovely prose

autoclave - the mountain goats - i am this great unstable mass of blood & foam

alligator skin boots - mccafferty - i’m cool to the touch, leap to my death, i’ll die for you all, i’ll die for my friends, it goes like this

100 years - florence + the machine - lord, don’t let me break this, let me hold it lightly, give me arms to pray with instead of ones that hold too tightly

tomorrow will be kinder - the secret sisters - but i feel warmth on my skin, the stars have all aligned

armour - rae spoon - you know i placed was to build a life for you

amy aka spent gladiator 1 - the mountain goats - play with matches if you think you need to play with matches; seek out the hidden places where the fire burns hot & bright / find where the heat’s unbearable & stay there if you have to--don’t hurt anybody on your way up to the light, and stay alive

curses - the crane wives - won’t you stay with me, my darling, when my walls start burning down?

something daring - islands & visions & loss

jane’s dream - janelle monáe

beekeeper - keaton henson - hear me, o woman that has gone astray, gone astray

fire - kimya dawson - i’m reading books about how they’re corrupt [...] as long as i’m burning, i’ll keep on yearning to save the world, not sure how, but i’m learning

cosmic hero - car seat headrest - i love you, but i can’t stand the touch, & of course i’m alright with death

turn the lights off - tally hall - everbody likes to get taken for turns to see how bright the fire inside of us burns [...] should be stronger, books abandoned

eat you alive - the oh hellos - child, i’m afraid for your soul; these things that you’re after, they can’t be controlled

cry for judas - the mountain goats - hallucinate a shady grove where judas went to die

o death - monica martin - no wealth, no land, no silver, no gold, nothing satisfies me but your soul

blood of angels - brown bird - and i would wage my soul to bet that there ain’t no one throwing lightning anyhow

the universe is going to catch you - the antlers - the arms of the universe kept you from falling [...] those arms did not come back

a burning hill - mitski - i am the fire & i am the forest & i am the witness watching it / i stand in the valley watching it

something terrifying - conversations & selfhood & divination

the lamb - dessa - but blood is blood, & what’s done is done; blood is blood, & its burden is a beast

going invisible 2 - the mountain goats - i’m gonna burn it all down today & sweep all the ashes away

the lion’s roar - first aid kit - she plays a tune for those who wish to overlook the fact that they’ve been blindly deceived by those who preach & pray & teach, but she falls short & the night explodes in laughter

the villain i appear to be - connor spiotto - even if you can’t see the good inside me, i don’t have the time to tell you why i do the things that i do, just please hold on & soon you’ll seem

up the wolves - the mountain goats - there’s bound to be a ghost at the back of closet, no matter where you live; there’ll be a few things, maybe several things that you’re gonna find really difficult to forgive

thursday girl - mitski - glory, glory, glory to the night that shows me what i am

at the bottom of everything - bright eyes - we must take all of the medicines to expensive now to sel; set fire to the preacher who is promising us hell

everybody does - julien baker - i know i’m a pile of filthy wreckage you will wish you’d never touched, but you’re gonna run when you find out who i am

tongues & teeth - the crane wives - i know that you mean so well, but i am not a vessel for your good intent

a pearl - mitski - you’re growing tired of me and all the things i don’t talk about / sorry, i don’t want your touch--it’s not that i don’t want you

#original #this is. so long. and i will probably add more. but. Daughter.#ori #playlists

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ladyseaheart1668 · 4 years

Text

Endless Summer Book 4 : Daughter of Vaanu (Chapter 49)

Description: Tahira continues to fight her way out of her own head.

Tagging: @endlesshero1122 @mysteli @feartheendlesssummer @whatmcsaid @xo-endlessmayhem-xo @tigerbryn11

Chapter 49 : A Breath of Water

Grayson

I hold Tahira's hand while the nurse slips the IV needle into her vein, even though she probably can't even feel the prick. She doesn't move at all. Not even a twitch.

The first scan they did of her brain revealed that the blood flow was normal. But there was no explanation as to why she hasn't woken up yet. I don't know whether that surprises me or not. If it really was something on the knife, some kind of poison, is that ever going to show up on a brain scan? Either way, they've decided to do another scan. One that's supposed to measure her brain activity. PET scan, I think. They say they can use it to accurately predict which coma patients are likely to wake up.

I squeeze Tahira's hand, kissing her fingers. She looks so perfect, lying in her hospital bed with her dark hair spread over the pillow, smooth and silky thanks to her mother's careful brushing thirty minutes ago. Except for the tubes and hoses, she looks like she's sleeping.

“My sleeping beauty,” I murmur, stroking her hair. “...I wish you would wake up...”

The nurse puts a hand on my shoulder. “Come on. We gotta leave her alone for awhile so the tracer can go through her system. It's better if she doesn't have any stimulation while that's happening.”

“...You think me being here actually stimulates anything?”

“In the best case scenario, it absolutely does. And since that's what we're hoping for, that's the assumption I'm acting on.”

Tahira

I'm not tired as I climb the path up the mountain, and that still startles me every time I realize it. ...Can I even be startled in this space? I reach what appears to be the top of the mountain, and I am standing on a small circle of rock barely large enough for both my feet that pokes up like an island through an ocean of soft, white clouds. The clouds look soft and fluffy, like piles of cotton balls. I want to dive into them and feel their softness against my skin—even though I know from personal experience that I'll probably just get wet. And possibly fall to my death, since I can't fly in this space. But...maybe I can't die in this space, either. And, I'm here now, standing on a tiny space on top of a mountain. What exactly am I supposed to do now?

Before I can really stop myself, I have taken the step off the edge. I plunge through fluffy, cottony sea foam into a warm ocean. I breathe saltwater and it feels as easy as breathing air. I hear a voice call my name. A sexless voice that comes through the waves and sounds like music. I swim toward it, gliding as easily as I fly through the air in the real world. Something that looks like the sun glimmers overhead, making the water around me shine. Ahead, something waits for me in the water. The rippling waves distort its shape, but the color of it is overwhelmingly red.

I think in the back of my mind, I know what's there even before I get close enough to actually see. Sure enough, as I approach, the thing takes on a human shape. Two legs, two arms, and a head—all concealed within a red spacesuit. ...I've never met the Endless before. But I know who she is.

“...Endless. Are you here to show me how I can wake up and help Alodia? Help...a version of you?”

“I am here to help. But I warn you that I cannot help the way you want me to. I am forever bound by the laws that govern the physical flow of time. If I break them, I will do more harm than good.”

“I'm in no position to turn down help.”

“Then follow me.”

Rochelle

“What exactly are you trying to tell me, doctor?”

They've called in a neurologist to assess Tahira. She's had at least two scans to determine why she isn't waking up. So far, though, the man seems to have taken a lot of words to say not very much at all.

“What I am trying to tell you, Ms. Rogers, is that there is no reason to despair. Your daughter's brain is active. Very active. In all the right ways. Coma patients with similar levels of brain activity recover consciousness within a year more than eighty percent of the time.”

I fold my arms. “...Are you saying that my daughter is in a coma?”

The doctor hesitates. “She does exhibit many symptoms consistent with a coma diagnosis. However, there are no obvious organic causes. And...” He leans over Tahira and lifts her eyelid slowly to shine his light pen at her pupil. “Her light reflexes are normal. When I lift her eyelid, she resists. And when I release it, her eye closes completely and quickly.”

“So...what does that mean?”

“My assessment is that it is most likely a psychogenic coma. That is, a temporary period of disassociation, possibly caused by psychological trauma related to the attack.”

“...'Temporary'...”

“Yes. Most of the time patients wake up fairly promptly after general anesthesia is stopped. Often when they fail to wake up, it's due to residual effects from the drugs. Sometimes, it's neurological or metabolic. And sometimes, it's psychological. Tahira is neurologically intact, and her bloodwork is all clear.”

“So...what do we do?”

“We wait. Keep assessing her regularly, wait for a change. Right now, there is little else we can do.”

Jake

“Lundgren wasn't where we left him. The prevailing theory is that one of his goons found him and got it out, but there's not much of a trail if that's the case. It's...not looking like Alodia and Diego are on the island, either. They've got the coast guard circling, though, in case anything tries to land there. The Vaanti are still lying low for the most part, but Seraxa has a few warriors combing the jungle. I don't know if they can hide themselves like they used to when Vaanu's crystals were still part of the island, but Seraxa seems to think it's an acceptable risk.”

I can't look at Sean as he talks. I stare out the window of my hospital room. The view overlooks the hospital grounds, with the Santo Domingo skyline on the horizon. He seems to be waiting for an answer, but when I don't give him one after a moment or two, he goes on.

“Zahra and Iris have been analyzing the recording from that AI. Iris was able to confirm that the voice print was Alodia's. But most of it was spliced together from recorded voice samples. Like...the time lady that you used to be able to call.”

“'Most of it'...”

“...Huh?”

I keep my eyes on a not-particularly-interesting office building in the distance. “You said 'most of it' was spliced. ...I have a guess where it wasn't.”

Sean hesitates just long enough to confirm that I'm right even before he says, “...Yeah.”

“So where did that part come from?”

“Zahra says she doesn't know that yet. The parts where...Galatea...broke character...those were whole samples, not splices. Iris can figure out that much. But where and when they were recorded? That's gonna take longer to figure out.”

Now I turn to look at him. “What kinda time do you think we have, Sean? She could give birth any day. If Rourke gets his hands on our kid...”

“I know, buddy. I know.”

“...I wanna be there. I wanna be there when my daughter is born.”

He doesn't say anything. What the hell can he say to that? Everyone I know is gonna do everything in their power to get my wife back to me ASAP. Doesn't mean I can rest easy. Not until she's back in my arms.

“...Do you know when you're getting out of here?”

“A day or two. They want to keep me for observation awhile. ...Then I guess I oughta go back to California. ...Or stay here and look after Mike. Don't wanna leave him alone here. ...Don't suppose you two are continuing the honeymoon where you left off.”

“With Alodia and Diego still missing? Of course not. Michelle wants to go back to work early.”

I snort, a rueful, mirthless laugh. “Tell her it's outta the question. She just went through a kidnapping for fuck's sake.”

“You're suggesting I try to tell Michelle what to do?”

“Okay, yeah. I see how that's a bad idea.”

“...She needs to feel useful. And...truthfully right now, it may be that the best way she can help us get Alodia and Diego back is by being at work.”

I feel the frown settle onto my mouth and forehead as I stare at him. “...You don't just say a thing like that without having something to back it up.”

“Tahira was attacked. About the same time as all of us were abducted. She had emergency surgery, but she hasn't woken up yet. ...Before she went under, she managed to get across that the one who attacked her was a Vaanti.”

Caleb

It's probably stupid as hell for me to keep coming back to the compound where Tahira and I were once prisoners. The cops are probably still looking for me, and the compound being the site of a stabbing, they probably aren't far off. Though, truth be told, I'm not sure if they've actually managed to figure out where she was actually stabbed.

Thing is, I find myself wanting answers. I want to know who decided to stick a maybe-poisoned knife in Tahira. I got a nagging feeling whoever it was knows her identity. In the dark, with a flame dancing on my fingertips to light my way, I follow the spotty trail of dried blood from inside the compound to the alley where the initial splatter seems to be and stare at the stain on the filthy concrete.

Avanti...who the hell is Avanti? Sounds like some pop diva wannabe. I'd say a pop diva wasn't capable of leaving this kind of mess in an alley, but I'm old enough to remember Haley Rose.

“You're not going to be able to hide forever.” The taunting purr is unmistakably Gigi. I grit my teeth, but I don't turn to face her right away. “You have to realize that sooner or later, the cops are going to find you.”

Don't ask me why this is the straw that breaks the camel's back. But whatever the reason, I can't take it anymore. I whip around and lunge at Gigi, grabbing her by the throat and shoving her against the wall, a fireball in my free hand poised threateningly over her. The dancing orange light reflects genuine fear in her eyes as she grasps my wrist in both hands. At the moment, I'm too pissed to enjoy it.

“I've had e-fucking-nough of your bullshit, Gi,” I snarl. “You can threaten me with your child army or the cops all you fucking want, because right now, all your underworld power and influence, all your loyal followers all mean jackshit compared to my hand on your throat and this fireball over your head, so start fucking talking, bitch!”

Her eyes flick from my face to the flames licking my hand and back again. I feel her squirm, but I've got her pushed high enough that her toes barely touch the concrete.

“What—should I talk—about?” she finally gasps. I pull back just enough to give her a little more air.

“What do you know about what happened here?!”

She smirks, even as I feel her hands trembling on my wrist. “I know Dragonness can bleed.”

So she does know Tahira's identity. I tighten my grip again, bringing the flames a little closer to her skin. They lick upward enough that I am not worried about causing any damage I don't intend, but I see the sweat blooming on her forehead. I press my face in closer.

“...Who's Avanti?”

Her eyes widen. “...What?”

“Avanti. Is she one of yours? Someone new?”

“...Where...did you...hear that?”

“Tahira said it was Avanti who stabbed her! Who is that?!”

“...So. …The plot...thickens...”

I shake her, hard enough that she lets out a strangled yelp. “I told you to talk, bitch!”

“Avanti isn't a name!” she shrieks breathlessly, struggling against my grip. “It's...not...coincidence!”

“What's not?!”

“Any of it! Same day Dragonness is attacked, Alodia Chandler is abducted, and Silas Prescott escapes!”

“Yeah, that doesn't seem like coincidence. So what do you know about it?”

“Barely more than you, I would wager,” she croaks against another increase in pressure from my hand. “...But I know that Avanti is not a name. It's a thing. A creature. From La Huerta.”

“...What kind of creature?”

I feel a hand come down on my shoulder, gently but firmly. I spare a glance, and the hand on my shoulder shines golden brown in the light from my flame.

“That's enough, Caleb,” Talos murmurs. “Let her go.”

“Fuck that! Not until she tells me what she knows!”

“There's nothing she could tell you right now that I couldn't also tell you.”

I sneer, tightening my grip. “What about her plot to steal the Prism Crystal?”

“It clearly hasn't been set in motion yet, since the Prism Crystal is secure. And trying to get the plan out of her is likely going to prove an exercise in futility. There are more important things to worry about at the moment.”

I want to argue, how the fuck is the Prism Crystal not important? ...But it's not. Not when compared to finding Tahira's attacker. I slowly release Gigi and let the flame on my hand go out. Gigi staggers back from me, coughing and rubbing her throat. I can see I've left marks. She's not gonna forgive me for that. But right at this moment, she's looking at me with genuine fear and I can finally feel a twinge of satisfaction for it. Of course, she does her best to disguise it as quick as she can.

“Looks like I've got my own knight in shining armor,” she sneers, her voice hoarse. “Too bad he appears to be running with a traitor.”

“You should be the one running, Gi,” I snarl. “Before I change my mind about letting you go.” As I summon flames to my palms for emphasis, her eyes widen. She closes her mouth and slinks into the shadows without another word. I let the flames die and lower my hands, turning to glare at Talos. He sighs.

“Don't give me that look. Interrogating her would have cost us time we don't have.”

“You can't know that she isn't involved!” I growl.

“Of course she's involved. Even if it's indirectly. She was on La Huerta at the same time as Alodia. But look me in the eye and tell me that you think she would give up any information in a timely manner?”

“I could have burned it out of her,” I mutter.

“Torture is unreliable,” he replies simply. “...The Prism Crystal is secure. You can take my word on that.”

“Why should I?” I'm just being stubborn at this point. I don't know why the hell Talos would lie about that.

“...Because if it's lost, I lose my source of liquid prism. And liquid prism is what's going to save me if you ever decide to stick a flaming sword through my gut again.”

“...Fine. Fair point. ...So what now, huh? How do we find this Avanti thing?”

“First of all, it's not Avanti. It's a...Vaanti. Two words. ...Let's go somewhere private, Caleb. I think it's time to explain.”

Jake

Rebecca and my folks show up in the small hours of the morning. They have Varyyn with them, his hologram disguise in place. They try to sneak into my hospital room to avoid disturbing me, but it's not like I can sleep anyway. Varyyn hangs back while my parents tearfully embrace me, but I watch him through the space between their heads, and I can see his tepid expression.

“Hey, Varyyn,” I murmur after my parents and sister have given me a moment to breathe. “...How are you holding up?”

Varyyn twitches slightly, and I see a guilty flush creep into his cheeks. “...I am glad to see you are safe, Jake...” He trails off, looking away.

“...But I ain't your spouse, am I.” I offer him a sympathetic smile. “...I ain't mine, either.”

His mouth twists miserably, his eyes shimmering. “...They are together,” he whispers. “They must be together.”

“God, I fucking hope so...” I look desperately at my sister. “Tell me the cops got something, Bex. Anything...”

“There is something. ...One of Alodia's students came forward. Said she had been waiting to be picked up after class and Alodia was waiting with her to go to lunch with a friend. ...She gave a description of the woman Alodia left with. Said Alodia called her 'Jeanine,' and that she didn't seem happy to see her.”

I try not to show disappointment. Three people in this room were already aware of this information, but as far as my folks know, this should be a new development. I hope I can blame my lukewarm reaction on the concussion. The odds are probably better if I can manage to say something to convince them I didn't know the kidnapper's identity already.

“...The only Jeanine I can think of that we know is someone I used to serve with. She was there on La Huerta, and she was definitely hostile to Alodia, but...” What did we all agree happened to her? What did Mike and I say at Lundgren's trial all those years ago. “...We thought she was dead.”

“Varyyn told them that the name was familiar,” Rebecca says, giving me a meaningful look behind our parents' backs. “That you had mentioned her as someone from your Navy days you had fallen out with. But since he wasn't there on La Huerta, he doesn't know the whole story.”

Oh, is that the story we're going with? Seems fucking weird to think of Varyyn being from anywhere but La Huerta, but I guess now that he has a fake ID and he can mingle in the real world, he's got to have another backstory.

“...There is one other thing,” Rebecca continues. “Whoever took Diego and Alodia, they were prepared. For the most part, they managed to stay off the security cameras both at the college and the dance school. ...But not entirely.”

That does make me snap to attention. Well, as much as I can in a hospital bed. “So there's footage?”

“There's footage of what the police believe is the ambulance they drove. Enough frames between the two sets of security footage to get a license plate. The vehicle hasn't been found yet, but...”

“...But it's something.”

It's enough to keep hope alive, even if it feels like fear is suffocating it. Fear can't really smother hope, though. As long as I am afraid, I still have hope. It's when fear starts to turn to despair that I'll have really lost hope. When I start grieving Alodia and Diego instead of being afraid that I will have to grieve them in the future.

“...When you're discharged,” my mother speaks up, covering my hand with hers, “would you like us to take you back to California? Or would you rather come stay with us until there's more information?”

I shake my head. “...The moment there's a real credible lead, I'll be wherever my wife most needs me to be. ...But for now, I can't leave Mike. Not until I know he's okay.”

“It's up to you, of course. We can get a hotel room for awhile. But they did tell us that his family has been informed.”

I hum noncommittally. Of course I trust Mike's family to look after him when they get here. But I still don't want to leave without word of Alodia. ...How can I think about going anywhere until I know where she is? Without her, I'm adrift. I'm spinning my wheels in a blizzard, and I can't even see the road ahead, even if I could get myself unstuck.

Tahira

“So...are you actually the Endless? Or are you just a manifestation of...some aspect of me that's taken on the form of the Endless?”

The red-clad old woman does not look back at me as we slog together through what has become a mucky swamp, thick with vines, water plants, and algae.

“A little bit of both. Vaanu is communicating with you mentally. I am an alternate version of Alodia, who is essentially a manifestation of some aspect of Vaanu. Unlike the Alodia you know, however, I never lived as a human in this world. I am the Alodia who was born of Vaanu's energy and my Catalysts' needs. But I never gave myself back to Vaanu, so I never merged the timelines, and thus I was never reborn on earth as the child of human parents. I am the Alodia who never lived in California. Who never attended Hartfeld. ...I am the Alodia who rejected Vaanu, and yet I am now the Alodia who is joined with him.”

“...That was...a long-winded answer. But surprisingly straightforward. That's not to say that I totally understand, but I was expecting you to be more...cryptic.”

“Unfortunately, this straightforwardness cannot last. ...I do not know where Alodia is, and neither does Vaanu. All we have is scattered knowledge to impart to you that may or may not help you find her. In fact, my main purpose here is to help you purge the poison from your body.”

“What kind of poison is it?”

“An ancient kind. Something toxic to those from the Crystal Dimension.” She pauses, turning toward me. “Have you ever been baptized, Tahira?”

“Baptized? No. My mom was never religious, and I never got into it either. ...I did see a friend of mine get baptized once...”

We were teenagers, I remember, and she invited most of the girls in our class, and I went mostly because it meant something to someone I considered a friend. Her church had a baptismal pool, and she and the other baptismal candidates waded in one by one to speak their vows, dressed in loose white robes. Then their pastor covered their face with a towel, took them in his arms, and rocked them back into the water while speaking the ritual words before drawing them up again. The ceremony meant nothing to me, but it was interesting to watch. Before I can ask the Endless why she wanted to know, I get my answer when she takes me in her arms and gets my legs out from under me to immerse me in the water around us. But I don't have the benefit of a cloth over my face, and the Endless doesn't seem to be drawing me up again. I try to find my footing, to get my head above the water, but she isn't letting me. Or something else isn't letting me. Either way, I start to panic. But then I remember my experience earlier, and I slowly still. Cautiously, I take a breath. Water flows smoothly into my lungs, and out again, easy as air.

“Good,” the Endless says soothingly. “Just breathe. Relax. Listen. Watch.”

I try to do as I'm told. In one of my middle school art classes, we made an optical illusion toy out of a circle of cardboard and two pieces of string. On one side of the cardboard was a picture of a bird, and on the other was a birdcage. The strings attached to opposite edges of the cardboard circle, and when you wound up the string and spun the toy, the images flipped so quickly that the bird seemed to appear inside the cage. Watching the images flashing in front of me on the surface of the water feels like watching that little bird hop into the cage. Or maybe like thumbing clumsily through a flip book where some of the pages are out of order.

I see the Endless with her helmet down, flames dancing above the skeletal claw that is her bionic right hand. I see Caleb superimposed over her, and they both close their right fists to extinguish the flames. I see Minuet holding out her hand to extend a slow-motion field over an unseen opponent. Then she morphs into Alodia, wearing a haunted expression as she holds out her hand and the wind that was stirring her yellow hair stills. I see a massive tree that I think must be Elyys'tel pulsing with light. And then the light fades and the tree withers as the sky turns gray, but lights are flashing in wild neon colors behind it. The images start coming faster. I can't keep track of them. But some do get through. Vaanti. Blue-skinned males and verdant females, dressed in masks and leafy garments, with tattoos decorating their powerful, glistening bodies. Then they're gone. Replaced by a steampunk-looking tribe who hunker around a fire in a post-apocalyptic desert, their pointed teeth tearing into the raw flesh of some unfortunate animal, blood sluicing down their chins.

...Anachronists...those are Anachronists! I mean, Alodia never told me they had fangs and ate raw animals, but...the steampunk outfits give them away. I open my mouth to say as much to the Endless. But now there's a problem.

...Suddenly, I can't breathe.

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greenninjagal-blog · 5 years

Text

Wishing On Stars

So, fun story! Remember that quick one shot I made [Idle Threats] that was not quick at all and featured Deceit punching a guy in the face? Guess who made a sequel!

Word Count: 4958

Pairings: Brotherly Thomas and Deceit

Summary: Dee’s world is shifting and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Quick Taglist: @chelsvans @felicianoromano @jemthebookworm @holliberries @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @treasureofpriam

Read on AO3 || Masterlist

Dante Ethan Ekans has never thought of himself as dumb. It’s simply not something he’s ever allowed himself to consider the possibility of. So what if his grades sucked and he couldn’t even buy a candy bar at the market with his unweighted GPA? So what if he wasn’t in any honors clubs or wearing nerd glasses or correcting his teachers in class? So what if he had never found a grammar error in his textbooks or maxed out his library card (can those be maxed out?)?

Dante Ethan Ekans—ugh just call him Dee—was not, is not, and never will be “dumb”. He’s fought for his grades and lost, he doesn’t have time to waste on honor clubs, and its not like he needs to give his teachers anymore reasons to hate him. Since when has anyone actually read the textbooks? And he’s never really found a good book that keeps his attention past the third chapter.

But that’s never meant that he was dumb.

And fuck Dr. Logan Ackroyd for making him question that about himself.

Dee leans forward on the rickety structure, pressing his head into his arms into the cool metal bars as he does. He wants to stare up at the stars, wants to bury his head in his arms and sleep, he wants to tear the the packet of papers in his right hand to shreds and then feed it to Dr. Ackroyd with a sneer.

The stars over head twinkle, because that’s all the stars do. Dee had learned at the lovely age of six, no amount of wishing on the stars was going to change how reality had panned out. Stars were just lights in the sky with no ability to bring his dad back or obscure the burn marks on his face.

The papers crinkle in his hand, like a campfire, like a car crash that once again ruined his life. Or is ruining. Or, perhaps, is in the process of ruining? It feels like it, like everything good and great that Dr. Ackroyd had promised was collapsing on him and suffocating him all over again.

“I know you can do it,” The teacher had said.

And Dee really hates him for it. Really hates Mr. Walker for that car accident he was in and for not coming back, hates Dr. Ackroyd for showing up with his gaze of steel and his stupid ties and his “equality under the law” reign that’s dragged Dee from the cave everyone had exiled him too and let him enjoy a bit of light.

Sure, Dee can do it. He can also throw himself from the top of this old playground set and fracture his arm or something so he doesn’t have to go back to that stupid room and see that stupid teacher ever again.

The stars blink down at him, and maybe they take pity on the boy who aced Dr. Logan Ackroyd’s midterm test last week, because Dee thinks they look a little less distant than before.

He knows he’s not dumb. He knows that the formal red pen on the test, the long line, the circle and the next long line mean something great and amazing is on the brink of happening. He knows that Dr. Logan Ackroyd is to blame for it, because the man has no time for jokes and no time for nonsense and no time to waste leading Dee astray.

He knows the man means well.

He knows that he hates him for it.

Since when did anyone look at Dee and “mean well”? Since when did any teacher look at him and see something worth believing in? Since when had Dee wanted them to?

Dee knows when: since at exactly nine hours and nineteen minutes ago when Dr. Ackroyd had called him to "please, wait a moment, Mr. Ekans! Its imperative I talk with you." And Dee like a fool (which is completely different from being dumb, thank you very much. Dee very much was a fool), had paused just short of fleeing the classroom.

(Kyle Phillips had shoulder checked his way by him, the healing purples of his black eye just visible under the layer of concealer his mother had applied that morning and he had worn away through the day.)

Dr. Ackroyd had taught up to the bell, or at least he had talked up to the bell. Dee and the rest of the class had stopped paying attention after 2:15. For a terrifying second Dee had felt a cold hand clench his heart and the voices in his head whispered that this was it, the end, Dr. Ackroyd was finished pretending to be nice to him.

"I hope you don't mind if we walk while we talk," Dr. Ackroyd had said (and it most certainly was "Doctor" because the man had snarled something about several PHDs the last time a student had mistakenly called him Mister Ackroyd. To be honest it had been a little hard to make out while the man was foaming at the mouth). Dr. Ackroyd had gathered all of his teaching notes, several stacks of worksheets that needed grading, and his laptop into a bag and pulled it over his shoulder.

"You have a younger sibling to pick up at Mind Elementary, correct?" The teacher had asked, "I happen to have a colleague I am meeting there as well. To prioritize our time, it would be efficient to talk while we walk.”

And Dee hadn’t had a reason not to agree so instead he nodded and let the teacher lead the way.

On their way out of the building, they had run into Mr. Hart who had wished them “a wonderful rest of the day, and oh, Logan, text me when you’re both at the restaurant!” Dr. Ackroyd had waved him off with a soft smile and two seperate promises. Dee hadn’t seen any sign of Resource Officer Roman Prince anywhere, and he was silently grateful he didn’t have to watch the adult man sulk because Mr. Hart showered Dr. Ackroyd in love the second he entered any room. Dee had made sure to avoid that growing drama like the plague. It was a soap opera in the making.

They had carefully trekked out of the school building and down the walking path that lead to the student parking lot and then branched off to the sports fields and to the Elementary school. Dee normally tried to procrastinate the walk for a good fifteen minutes to avoid the drivers that like to play chicken with the kid walking on the sidewalk while they waited for the traffic to ease up. But no one would dare try to run him over with the new substitute teacher by his side.

(The rumor was that Dr. Logan Ackroyd could stop a truck moving at 100 miles per hour with just a look, and Dee wasn't immune to propaganda.)

Dee had focused on how nice of a day it had been outside, how the sun was shining so it wasn’t too cold, how the grass peaking out of the cracks in the sidewalk were rather resilient and how many breaths he was taking and was that too many? Was he annoying Dr. Ackroyd? Should he take less? Could he? How important was it for him to breathe?

"Mr. Ekans," the teacher had said, "I'm not exactly one for beating around the bush with these types of things. Patton often tells me I am too blunt, while Roman criticizes my delivery. However, I believe the best way to approach any subject is straight on to avoid deluding you with false pretenses."

Dee had wanted to state the hypocrisy: the teacher rambling on about how he should just say something instead of talking around it. But his heart rate had increased with every word which in turn caused his mouth to dry and his tongue to stick to the roof of his mouth.

“I finished grading the midterm you took,” Dr. Ackroyd had said.

It had been so much worse than any of the thoughts had been swimming through his mind. His chest tightened, his breath silently disappearing and his lungs refusing to work the way they were supposed to. He had wanted to apologize, had wanted to melt into a puddle on the sidewalk right then and there and safe himself from the embarrassment. He had wanted to avoid the part where Dr. Ackroyd tells him so plainly that he never should have risked his reputation for someone as worthless as Dante Ethan Ekans.

But Dee was only human, only a child, only normal. He stared hard down at the sidewalk at the patches of squashed gum that students had spit out in the past while waiting in traffic, at the tuffs of grass peeking up through the grass, at the loose rocks that his scuffed yellowed shoes tapped against.

“Speaking quite frankly,” the teacher had continued, “I was impressed--”

And Dee had really stopped breathing. His chest had heaved, the gasping word billowed past his lips before he could think to keep it back. “What?”

Dr. Ackroyd had reached up and tentatively adjusted his glasses. “I was relating how impressed I was with your test. As I predicted you are far ahead of your class-- far enough that I put in the request to have you moved up to my higher level class.”

“Wait what--”

“Additionally, your performance exceeded my expectations. You exemplify more dedication to learning than any other student I have seen in a good three years, Mr. Ekans. I entered your missing work last night and you far exceed the requirement for the Science Honor Society. I took the liberty of reaching out to Mrs. Hydrus on your account--”

“Stop!” Dee had blurted out. His mouth tasted like ash, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his head was still ringing from being completely blindsided by the information he had just been given.

Dr. Ackroyd had paused, taking span of three steps to adjust his glassed once again and peer down at Dee. “Pardon? Is there something the matter?”

It was horribly pretentious when he said it like that. In retrospect, Dee groans into his arms and wishes he could invent time travel solely to go back and stop the two of them from ever meeting, from ever having that conversation, from ever existing. Logically, what the teacher had been saying was amazing news, the news of a lifetime: he had gone out of his way to do things for Dee that no other teacher had done and it honestly hadn’t ever occurred to the doctor that he hadn’t needed to do it at all.

“I can’t,” Dee had told him kicking a rock on the sidewalk. He didn’t elaborate, because it hurt so much to get two words out, he couldn’t imagine getting anymore out. He had wondered absently when he had allowed the rose bush to grow around his own neck, allowed to prickly, pesky thorns to embed themselves in his throat, when those blood red petals that had matched the flushed color of his face.

Dr. Ackroyd had let him walk another ten paces in silence-- as silent as it could get with pop music blasting from the cars stuck in the afterschool traffic and the game of honking that was going on distantly from the parking lot (that Dee was pretty sure Kyle was a part of).

“You can’t,” The teacher repeated, but he hadn’t sounded angry or offended. It had taken a moment for Dee to place the tone: somewhere between confused and curious. “I’m afraid I do not understand. As your teacher, I have assessed your ability and professed that you are certainly capable of keeping up in my honors class, and Vice Principal Joan has already confirmed that your school schedule can be amended around the new class with very little impact on your current learning courses. Additionally, the honors club for science has very few requirements: no more than three unexcused absences-- which you have none of--, at least an eighty-five average in the class-- which you now have a ninety seven--, and--”

“--and a grade point average of 3.0.” Dee had finished for him.

Because it wasn’t like at one point Dee hadn’t been looking into honors clubs. He knew collages looked into club activities, and that most honor clubs had scholarships that came with admittance to said honor clubs.

“Also, Kyle Phillips,” Dee had said lowly, “is president. He gets the power to veto any applications he doesn’t like.”

It had gone without saying that Kyle and him weren’t on the best of terms. The black eye incident hadn’t even blown over yet and it had been a whole week. When Kyle had found out that Dee hadn’t really been punished for punching him, he had whined to his mom, who in turn showed up at the school and demanded that Dee be expelled.

VP Joan had refused on some grounds or other, and it ended with her threatening to sue the entire school system. VP Joan had calmly told her that she was welcome to take them to court, just let them know the date. She had stormed out of the school.

And so far it looked like she wasn’t really going to push it, but VP Joan had pulled Dee into their office and asked him to lay low for a little bit.

Dee had dragged a hand through his unruly hair, “I guess it doesn’t help that Mrs. Hydrus doesn’t like me much either.”

It had gone without saying, again, that it wasn’t just Mrs. Hydrus. All the teachers didn’t like Dee much. The “why” was still something Dee was trying to figure out.

He had offered Dr. Ackroyd a parody of a smile. “Sorry that you wasted your time.”

And that should have been the end of it. That was usually the end of it. One of Dee’s apologies, a short tense silence, a backhanded comment that always, always, felt like a slap in the face and Dee left standing alone once again. When had Dee stopped expecting something better from people?

And why did Dr. Ackroyd keep upsetting these expectations of his?

The teacher had hummed to himself, staring at the distant elementary school. The brick building had a faded look to it: something that had stood for a thousand years and would stand for a thousand more, something that had seen hundreds of kids grow up and move on, something that should have been remembered fondly.

All Dee remembered was the fact his scars matched the pattern of the brick by the southern entrance from the number of times his cheek was grounded into it, and the way a deflated kickball felt slamming into his face repeatedly. He remembered the look on the nurses face when she told him to stop crying over the blood on his face, the annoyed expression from one teacher or other when he came in late covered in bandages. He remembered the librarian who always brought up the car accident when he saw her, always saying what a shame it had been, always ripping the scab off the wound before it could heal over and ten year old Dee trying not to scream at her for it.

“Mr. Ekans,” Dr. Ackroyd had said suddenly. “I have never once wasted my time on anything. I do not plan to start now.” He had picked at the packet of papers in his hand before hands before handing over it to Dee. Dee had taken it without really knowing what was happening.

“What?”

“I’m going to get you into the Science Honor Society Club.” The teacher had told him as if it were really just that easy.

Who knows. Maybe he really thought it was.

“I’m going to do all I can, Mr. Ekans, so I expect you to do as much as well. Bring your grades up.”

“What?!” Dee had stopped in his walk, blinked, and then repeated, “What?!”

“Surely you heard me the first time--”

“I did!” Dee had said hotly, “What do you think I’ve been trying to do this whole time! Bringing my grades up is not-- it’s not that--” He had spit the word between his teeth, “--easy!”

And Dr. Ackroyd had raised an eyebrow at him, in that way of his, “I know you can do it.”

Dee squeezed the test packet in his hand leaning forward on the old playground structure again. There it was. That voice, that absolute conviction in the teacher’s tone. At the moment it had filled Dee with a horrible fiery anger that send him storming away from the teacher and leaving him behind on that sidewalk.

He had picked up his brother. He had gotten home and did the dishes and made dinner and done everything that wasn’t open his backpack and look at his homework. Then when he had finally caved and pulled the four pages worth of good marks from his bag, he had immediately thrown that stupid test in the trash, taken it back out, flipped through it, ripped several of the pages, crumpled them into a ball, thrown it out again--

And at half past the Little Dipper, Dee was in his backyard on a playset that should have succumbed to the natural selection a decade ago, with the test in his hand and his ears ringing from a teacher who had such absolute faith in Dee’s ability he had managed to make Dee doubt the very law of his life.

(Like Newton’s law of Gravitation, or Murphy’s law of Perversity: Dee’s law of Loneliness.)

((It has a ring to it, didn’t it?)

Dee had been alone for all of his life, alone in his corner of the boxing ring there to be beaten again and again as others used him as a stepping stone to something greater. There had never been anyone cheering for him in the stands, any coach hollering advice at him, any water boy reminding him to drink in between rounds of the fight. It had been him and him alone.

All at once Dee becomes aware of the noise behind him, the dramatic shift in the balance of the playset he had been sitting on that causes the rusted metal screws to whine and the floor to shake. Dee yanks his feet up onto the platform and hugs the metal bar he had been leaning on and tries to remind himself that a four foot fall was not going to kill him.

Then the shaking stops and Dee chances a look behind him to see exactly what idiot chose to come outside and play on the goddamn kids play castle that Dee had already claimed brooding rights on for the night--

“Thomas?”

The eleven-year-old totters on the platform, less than a foot away, on his hands and knees and in socks that have several chucks of the playground mulch stuck to them. The kid looks at him with those wide eyes, a sheepish smile, and he unapologetically shifts so he’s sitting across from Dee.

“Hi, Dee!”

“What are you doing out here?” Dee asks, “Do you know what time it is? What about mom--”

Thomas picks a piece of mulch off his socks, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Dee had known Thomas since he was eight and Thomas was just a year old. He knows all the kids ticks, the way he picks at his fingers when he’s nervous and lying, and how he hates the cowlick in the back of his hair and how he hates when Dee leaves him alone with their mother, but never says anything because he feels guilty.

He knows that when Thomas says he can’t sleep its a lie, and he still can’t bring himself to be even a little upset.

“Go back inside, Tom,” Dee tells him.

“Why aren’t you coming in?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Go to sleep.”

“Fine!”

And because Thomas has known Dee since he was one and Dee was eight, he leans forward until his head hits Dee’s shoulder.

There’s a pause between the two of them, where Dee goes as still as he can, feeling the pressure of his little brother’s head right there on his shoulder, feeling the weight of the absolute trust, feeling the frustration fade right out of his bones.

“What…” Dee says, impossibly soft, “are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” Thomas answers equally soft.

The test papers in his hand crumple again, when he squeezes his fingers into his fist to wake himself from the dream he’s been living for the past week since Dr. Logan Ackroyd walked into his life. The reality doesn’t shatter around him; its distressing, worrying, and stupid, because Dee doesn’t think he’s known what to do in this upside down world.

If he accepts it, he’s going to lose it. If he fights it, it will destroy him. In the boxing ring of his life, Dee’s alone, lonely, abandoned and losing. The past week has just been setting him up to knock him back out of the fight and is it wrong for Dee just want to want the final blow to land, already?

“Whats that?” Thomas says.

And because Dee doesn’t lie to his brother, he flattens the front page out and spreads it for the moon to read. “My test.”

“Did you do good?”

“I did.”

“Then why are you sad?”

Dee doesn’t lie to his brother.

He’s not like his mom when she says “it won’t happen again” or like Thomas’s dad who says he’ll “be back in a little bit” and just to “tough it out” until he shows up like he isn’t gonna leave again in a week, a day, a few hours. He isn’t like Thomas’s friends who say they’re not scared of his brother, and he’s not like his own teachers who tell him that they “don’t give out grades, kids earn them”.

So instead he drives his chin into his chest and tries to speak around the lump in his throat. “I’m not sad.”

“Why are you angry then?”

“I’m NOT ANGRY!” Dee snarls, maybe a little more angry than he means, and he doesn’t regret it for a good one, two nanoseconds.

Three nanoseconds and Thomas flinches. “I’m sorry!”

And then Dee recoils, because fuck, he raised his voice, and this was Thomas and He raised his voice at Thomas.

The playset shifts dramatically underneath the two of them, wobbling like Thomas’s last loose tooth seconds before it fell out. Dee’s hand flings to the metal bar, and Thomas grabs the wall opposite of him. There’s a squeak of fear from them both, something shrill enough that Dee’s sure a light at the house across the street flicks on and off and a call to the police is probably being debated (and ultimately discarded, because no one called the cops for Dee’s broken arm three years ago or someone took a metal bat to their mailbox or the rock to the window, or, or, or.)

The playset wobbles, and they both cling to their respective parts, and they both stare at each other. Dee and Thomas.

At some point it stops shaking.

At some point, both their breathing evens out again.

At some point, Thomas says, “oh,” and they’re both quiet.

Dee can hear the crickets sing, the too-early morning breeze dancing through the wind chimes on someone’s porch, the soft even breaths of his little brother. The test scatters on the ground a few feet below them, picked up by the little wind and tossed across the little yard. Somehow it makes the whole world feel confined to this little bubble where it was him and Thomas and this stupid space that Dee had forced between them.

“I’m sorry,” Dee says and its different from the times he’s said it before, all the times his teachers dragged it out of him and all the times the other kids had claimed one as a person victory. This time he means it, because it’s Thomas.

“It’s stupid,” Dee says because he doesn’t lie to his brother, “It stupid and I hate it.”

Thomas, sweet, wide-eyed, little Thomas, waits for him so say more.

“It’s stupid that I’ve made it this far and I can’t go any farther. I hate it. They said that everyone had a chance and then they drew the line right in front of me, like “oh not you”. I hate that everyone has always ignored who I am and what I can do, what I’ve done-- and Thomas? It sucks. I’m so tired of it. I’ve tried so… so very hard to do the right thing every single time. They tell me to apologize, and I do. They tell me to try harder and I do. They tell me that I’m not going anywhere--”

Dee savors a breath, and forces it out just as quickly, possibly a little hysterically, “I don’t wanna be here for the rest of my life, Thomas. I can’t be here forever. It will kill me.”

Thomas at eleven years old is too wise for his age. Because he doesn’t tell Dee that he’s not going to die, he doesn’t tell Dee that its going to be alright, he doesn’t say anything at all.

Dee feverishly wipes at his eyes, because heaven forbid the stars see him cry.

(They’ve seen him do that enough already.)

“Dr. Ackroyd made it seem so easy,” He says barely more than a whisper in the silence of the night. “I’m really scared it might be.”

The metal feels warm to his touch, burning hot and he clings to it like a lifeline that will light his entire body on fire and turn the rest of his skin to match his face and shoulder and arm and, and, and.

“I’m really scared that it’s gonna be that easy after all, and that I’m going to make it out of here and that I’m going to get to college and that it will be the same exact thing all over again.”

“It won’t.” Thomas says, loud enough that Dee has no choice but too focus back in on him. The moonlight is playing with his pale skin and making his eyes shine. Or maybe those are tears. Is he crying? Or is Dee?

Thomas, wise beyond his years, too wise for his eleven years. Thomas says it won’t be like this out there. Thomas says he’s going to have a chance. Thomas agrees with Dr. Ackroyd.

“It won’t be like that, Dee, I promise.” Thomas says. “You won’t let it be.”

Unwavering faith.

“I know you can do it.”

He brings a hand to his face again rubbing those tricky, telling tears off his face. He sniffs, his ears prick, and his throat stings just a bit. How ridiculous is it, crying at half past too-late, and with his little brother watching him. He thinks of how Dr. Ackroyd must be somewhere probably asleep because that’s what normal fucking people were supposed to be doing--

And stupidly Dee thinks of that boxing ring of his life and thinks of Thomas standing in his corner smiling at him like he is right now, watching him take hit after hit and watching him get back up each time. And he thinks of that Science Teacher watching him with those calculating eyes, pen in hand and analyzing his opponent’s every move and crafting the plan of retaliation---

Just asking Dee to make it to the next round, to the break where he can get to the moment where he remembers why he’s fighting in the first place.

Thomas lets go of the wall, and carefully leans forward again. The playset squeaks slightly. Thomas stops just an inch away from Dee. When he calms down he reaches the last bit forward and hugs him. Dee can feel him shaking, can feel them both shaking.

And then the playset comes toppling down.

They both let loose twin yells of panic-- Dee blindly grabs to his side and pulls Thomas forward, covering him with his arms. The metal screeches, something wooden cracks and Dee feels absolutely, terrifyingly weightless for a full second.

They hit the ground heavily: Dee, landing on the platform base at an odd angle and Thomas landing on him at an odder angle. Dee loses his grip on his brother he rolls to the side. The air, what little bit of it was left ejected from Dee’s chest, and several part of his back and his arms and his legs are left whimpering with promised bruises.

And they’re left lying there, trying to catch their breaths in the wooden and metal wreckage, staring up at the stars.

And they’re left there, alive even after everything around them had come down around them.

“You okay?” Dee asks the second he’s sure he’s not dead.

“Yeah,” Thomas says equally out of breath. Dee watches him raise his head, slightly, a stupid shiny grin on his face and flushed cheek in the moonlight, “You?”

It’s not that easy, bringing his grades up. It’s not like flicking a switch, or knocking over a domino, or starting a car engine, or, or or. But he’s got a couple people (Dr. Ackroyd, Thomas) in his corner, and something that he wants (Science Honor Society).

And the stars twinkle overhead the same way they’ve always done

“It’s so... fucking late.” Dee chokes out a sopping wet laugh. It tastes like salt and despair and something completely awful that he absolutely hates: hope.

Dante Ethan Ekans has never thought of himself as dumb.

He’s not.

#Idle Threats sequel #Friends on the Other Side (Your Side) au #sympathetic deceit #Student!Dee #Teacher!Logan #burns #bullying #grades #au #series man #much shorter than I thought it was

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scarletta-ec · 4 years

Text

Original Sin Story: Re_Crime

CHAPTER FIVE: THE ESCAPE OF THE WITCH SALMHOFER

Scene 1

Meta dreams of running away from orange flames, and an endlessly black, warped figure standing among them, shining, dead eyes. She has to keep running— for she is a fugitive.

Scene 2

Meta is in a bad mood that morning— not just because of the dream, but because she’s being woken early by a pounding at her door and angry shouting. It’s Raisa Netsuma. She ends up busting in the door before Meta can get up.

Raisa has burn scars all over her body including her face, from Eve’s lightning strike earlier. She and her people are refugees from Jakoku, and she leads the White Army in the southwest of Levianta. She is also one of Apocalypse’s top brass. Meta worries deeply about her— she thinks she’s too passionate and too wild in battle for her own good. In person, Raisa spoke little, but in a fight she had earned the title of a fiend. It was Pale’s idea she join, hearing of her prowess, and Meta originally agreed because it added the entire White Army and the Second Regiment to their forces, coming to know her better as they lived together in Merrigod.

Meta is distracted from Raisa's upset ranting by staring at her mouth scars, which are not covered with a mask like they usually are.

Raisa is visibly in pain since a lot of her facial muscles are stiff, and her skin sensitive, but is too upset to stop yelling. She hadn't even waited for Meta to get out of bed, having climbed onto it. Meta thinks her hair looks even whiter against her reddened skin.

Raisa says that their base in the north has fallen.

The security forces have become the Royal Capital Army, and are cracking down on Apocalypse— an organization which seeks to disrupt as much of the world’s order as it can, just because they think that’s how things should be, thinking things like laws and such are foolish. Meta is one such person.

She has tried hard to forget her past. She was an orphan, grew up alone, and hated everything in the world. Her life only gained meaning in her eyes after she turned twenty.

She wandered the streets of Levianta, living off of what she stole from vendors and unlocked homes. Whenever she was caught, she would always manage to charm them and be let off with a warning. She didn’t know it at the time, thinking it was because she was a pitiful child, but this had been a result of her Gilles Inheritor powers, which she had no idea how to use, manifesting without her direct control.

She was sometimes allowed into homes and invited to stay as long as she liked, though she never did stay long. Watching the family dynamic around her somehow only made her even lonelier. So when people came to her with their arms open, she always chose to run.

One day, Meta found herself in the midst of chaos, with lots of bodies and fire and destruction around, but she did not run. Not even when she was surrounded by armed men, and one of them (Pale) approaches her with a knife in one hand and a person by the hair in the other. Recognizing her as a Ghoul Child and fellow HER, he offers her the knife, which she accepts.

With his encouragement, she kills the hostage with the knife.

This was her first murder. And she finally felt at home.

She and Pale have committed a great many crimes together at this point. Gammon is the new head of the senate, and is the reason why the royal capital army is pursuing them so fiercely. They’re having trouble fighting them off— in addition to their skill, neither Meta nor Raisa’s powers or magic can breach their bulky armor. They have to come up with a battle plan for here on out.

Meta zones back in and embraces Raisa in bed. When Raisa stops speaking, she lets go and orders Raisa to go retake the northern base, or at least stymie the soldiers there. She’ll send the rest of the former White Army and half of her Red Devotees to give her aid. Raisa, still teary, points out this’ll leave them short-handed to the west, but Meta says they should leave that to the “baron”, Yegor.

Raisa awkwardly runs off the bed. Meta gets dressed, and then thinks she’ll head over to see Pale, her “darling”.

Scene 3

Meta changes into her favorite clothes, and then goes to Pale’s room. She can hear him talking with a woman in there, and then sees a scantily clad Milky laying on the bedsheets, next to Pale who is under them, when she opens the door. Milky greets her politely, and then leaves to go to her own room. Meta goes inside to see Pale is smoking in bed.

He asks if she’s okay, and she shakes her head at the notion that she has anything against "that girl". No matter who Pale sleeps with or loves, she’ll love him still. And she believes he will always come back to her— her powers don’t work on him, so she is certain that they really do love each other.

She wryly asks if he's okay with Raisa, to which he says it's not his business.

Pale has a unique physiology. He has to absorb magical power from another person periodically, or else he’ll lose his youthfulness. His preferred way of doing this is by sleeping with them, with women, specifically. Meta’s magic is not enough alone to sustain him, great though it is. The other person’s magic replenishes once he's done, though the initial drain exhausts the person being fed on.

Meta notices a black box on the nightstand. It is a music box with a winding key that Pale is taking apart. Apparently he’s not very good at reassembling it, though he's disassembling it for the practice.

Meta tells Pale about their base falling, the two speculating that they might have a traitor in their ranks.

Meta worries about Raisa— she's been rampaging worse than ever before. Meta thinks she may be taking out her anger on everyone, including the Royal Army, as the woman who might have been queen that she was trying to get revenge on (Eve) for her injuries is missing.

Pale asks if Meta is implying Raisa is the traitor, or a liability. Meta flusteredly jumps to her defense, insisting it must be someone else.

Pale decides to head north. His “older brother” told him to lay low, but Seth hasn’t contacted him in a long time— thus, they think he might be dead, in which case, there's no need to hide anymore. He tells Meta to go west, to enlist Yegor’s aid in suppressing the forest of Held.

Meta would like to go with him, but knows he wouldn’t like her to go against his wishes. They kiss and part ways.

Scene 4

Yegor is the baron, as suspected. He is cruel and brutal despite having once been the head of a religious temple, having already crushed the villages living in the forest’s eastern half by the time Meta arrives there. Though curiously enough, despite the buildings being in ruins, she can’t see any corpses around. She figures he must have cleaned up the corpses, wondering why for a moment. The place has a fog rolling over it.

Yegor is the “Black Baron”, his army is called “The Black Army”.

One of Meta’s devotees tells her they found some survivors. He takes her to an area before a trauben field to the west of the village. It’s a green haired woman, covered in blood and crouched down, cradling a half-conscious man with blue hair, surrounded by devotees. She’s crying about her missing children— Cecil and Vell.

Meta thinks she’s stupid, figuring that the woman should be grateful she’s alive, and that she can just make more children, that is, if Meta allows her to live. She’s about to order her men to kill the woman when she realizes her men have collapsed, foaming at the mouth. She realizes that the fog is actually poison.

Meta is almost as bewildered to find both she and the woman seem unaffected, noting she can't tell with the man in her arms as he was already out of it.

Meta hears Raisa's hoarse shrieking as the fog grows too thick to see anything. The couple seems to have vanished.

Meta is confused because Raisa shouldn't be here, meanwhile Raisa can only scream about "treason".

Raisa's words are slurring, indicating she may not be immune, protected from complete incapacitation only by her mask to cover her scars.

By the light of the moon, Meta sees figures approaching her from the fog, all wearing masks. They clasp one of her wrists in chains.

The meaningless shrieking crescendos as a sudden impact around her waist brings Meta to ground as a bright red flash explodes, and everything turns black.

Scene 5

Meta is in a dark, inhumane, cold jail cell. She tells the girl in front of the window that she wants a jacket or hot food or something, but no dice. It’s not mealtime yet and they have nothing else for her to put on. There are no men in this jail, so she can’t use her powers to escape.

Upon being asked, the girl introduces herself as Elluka Chirclatia (Zellana’s younger sister). She is a young looking teen. Meta threatens her, expecting her to cry, but Elluka calmly states that she’s more powerful than Meta is, and, in fact, now that her sister is gone, Elluka is the strongest person there.

She reveals Meta is not in an actual prison— she is in Lighwatch temple. Elluka is a virgin priestess there. This is a very special jail cell in the temple designed for someone of Meta’s magical talents. The walls and the ceiling are covered in anti-magic runes— meant to weaken and negate magical power or spells.

They hear footsteps, and Elluka declares it must be the head of the temple— in other words, Yegor Asayev, who has long black hair and thin, black facial hair. Meta accuses him of being the traitor— he claims that Apocalypse merely disappointed him. He abandoned his post believing them to be patriotic warriors, but defected when he realized they were just thugs. Meta accuses him of merely wanting to satisfy his cruel urges. Yegor doesn’t deny or confirm this— merely saying that unlike them, he wants to live a long life.

He tells her (and Yegor really does give the impression that he might enjoy making people suffer) that Pale has been captured, and is in Welvya prison. Raisa wasn't captured— but she was killed immediately after her attempt to protect Meta. That means that Apocalypse has essentially been beheaded.

Yegor isn't sure how Raisa managed to catch wind of his betrayal soon enough to arrive there at that time, and wonders if he may have a traitor of his own.

Yegor mocks Meta and Raisa a little more and tells her to wait for her execution like an adult. He claims to have been divinely pardoned for his crimes— Meta thinks it’s a mix of his family connections and his reward for selling out Apocalypse. He leaves.

Meta is nearly in tears, of both grief and rage. She's shaking in her seat, which rattles the chains.

Meanwhile poor Elluka has been watching this whole thing from the sidelines. She notes that while Meta is a bad person, so too is Yegor. Meta advises Elluka to leave this place as soon as she is able to. Elluka says she’ll think on it, and then leaves the room.

Scene 6

Meta is moved to a new room, similar to the old one except that there is a smooth white chair in the middle. The legs are affixed to the floor, and it has several leather straps on it. Meta figures this is the execution chair.

The executioner (who has his face covered) tells her to sit down, and she does. She tries to think of a way out of this, but the executioner tells her that her Gilles power won’t work on him— she quickly recognizes his voice as sounding like Pale. And when he takes off the cloth covering his face, she quickly realizes that it’s Seth (he was thinking of messing with her by pretending to be Pale, but decided not to at the last second).

Seth remarks that they haven’t seen each other since she tried to kill him at Merrigod (which he thinks Pale ordered her to do, though she denies it). Not that he holds any ill will for that. Pale has apparently been growing more and more rebellious towards Seth. He insists that he is not their enemy, even if he isn’t really on their side.

He says that he came here to help her. His plan is to have her “killed” to get her out of the capital— Gammon decided that all criminal corpses are to be taken to an installation outside of the city. Meta jokes that he’ll revive her as a zombie, to which Seth nods— seemingly to freak her out, as when she objects he goes into his real plan.

It skips their discussion of that. Seth reminds her that the condition for him saving her is that she participate in his experiments at his research facility, and hands her a glass bottle. There is a map to the facility rolled inside.

He starts affixing the straps to her arms, legs, stomach, and head. She asks if this’ll hurt— Seth says he wouldn’t know, as he’s never been executed before.

He throws the switch. She’s electrocuted, and then falls unconscious.

Scene 7

After the execution, Meta’s body is taken inside a casket to the installation as planned. Right after it leaves the temple, Yegor and the priestesses all say a prayer for her. A tearful Elluka is the only one who notices Yegor smiling a little as he makes his prayer.

Meta awakes in the coffin in the installation. She gets the lid open and climbs out, amazed that she’s alive. Seth regulated the electricity so that it would only temporarily disrupt her heart. She takes out the map, though of course has no intention of keeping her promise. She’s about to tear up the map when she sees a message in there from Seth.

He has Pale. And if she doesn’t show up, he’ll kill him. She runs across the cold stone to the institute.

Scene 8

Ever since Gammon’s coup, the twelve capitals have been in an uneasy governmental state. The 12 senators are supposed to be the heads of each family that governs the 12 cities— but Gammon has shuffled them all out, including his father. Fearing too much backlash, Gammon selected sons of the same families instead of getting new family lines altogether. Making the new senate SIGNIFICANTLY younger, in their twenties.

Gammon also made public the matter of Gavriil brainwashing the queen, promising to bring the senate back to something that serves the queen rather than using her. The prophecy of destruction also becomes common knowledge, and to help ease the unrest, Gammon appoints Seth in charge of a new Project Ma.

Seth is explaining this to Meta in the royal research institute. He has since hired on a great deal more researchers, though they are actually political informants, there to make sure she doesn’t run away. This is several months in— she’s already pregnant, and showing.

Meta asks if she’ll be made queen, but Seth says not this time (though she will get a higher status and various rewards). Apparently he had to do it this way because otherwise the Senate wouldn’t have given him permission to have her birth the Twins of God. They talk a bit about the politics of this a little. As a note, Seth marks the time of destruction as being “ten-odd” years away, so probably no more than a year has passed since Adam and Eve disappeared.

Seth says that Gammon isn’t like the other politicians, though— he faced the queen and came into contact with the “truth” though Seth doesn’t know what that was exactly, and as such he is legitimately desperate to avert the country’s destruction. This is part of why he accepted a criminal as the potential mother.

Since becoming pregnant Meta has been living hidden away in the institute. They don’t want the public to know that she’s the mother. She considers her situation a little, like that they might just kill her when they don’t need her anymore. She can reasonably assess that the government isn’t a monolith— Seth, whether ordered by Gammon or acting on his own, wouldn’t have had to go to such measures to break her out of jail if Yegor was in on the plan. So while Seth may promise to keep her safe, there’s no guarantee the others will. She also just doesn’t trust him.

She asks (as she has many times without being told yes) if she can see Pale. Today, Seth agrees. He explains that Pale had not been able to sustain himself without taking magic from people, and as such he wasn’t likely to live much longer— so he had him swap into a more sustainable body. He calls someone into the room, a boy. This is Pale.

Meta is really confused, so Pale explains. He is a Ghoul Child— an artificially created being, comparing it to Meta’s children, saying that they are different only in that his mother was a glass vessel instead of a human being. Meta has to agree with that, she was not impregnated by sex but by a procedure, after all. Ghoul Children were the fruits of Seth’s research on the Next Queen Project as Horus.

Pale notes that he started having the issue with needing magic once he became an adult, though he’s better off than the other Ghoul Child made alongside him, who was little more than an empty shell. They ended up transferring his soul from his degrading body into the empty shell to save him. However, it took some time, which is why Seth couldn’t have them meet until now.

Pale knew this from the beginning, and it is why he ordered Meta to try to kill Seth— he wanted to become the “true” one by killing the original. Meta is moved by sympathy for Pale and goes to hug him. Pale asks Seth if they can be alone for a little bit, and Seth agrees because he’s not a monster, come on.

After hugging a little while, Pale tells her they should escape together— he can live as he is now, so there’s no need for Seth to keep him alive. They can’t flee while Meta is pregnant, so he figures he’ll do something after the babies are born. He wants to restart Apocalypse with her, and Milky if they can afford to find her.

He’s living at Seth’s house right now, under the guise of being his nephew. Figuring the conversation is over, Seth enters to fetch Pale, taking him away. Meta sees Pale as nothing more than arms and legs connected to Seth’s fingers by thin strings.

Scene 9

Several months pass, and the babies are born. They are immediately put into a life support system. The “baby room” is in the institute, with the twins inside two large glass tubes, that run from halfway up the tower to the ground floor, full of fluid. Gammon is looking at them with Seth.

Like normal premature babies, Meta's babies weren’t able to breath well after being born, but they’ve recovered now, the tubes are a precaution. Gammon wants to have them taken to Alicegrad soon, so they can be made into the receptacles for Levia and Behemo’s souls.

Gammon explains that Alice herself will do this using the “Swap Technique”. He claims she is the only person in Levianta who knows how to do it, and that supposedly all of the queens through Levianta’s history have had this power. Their ability to receive revelations is, according to him, a result of temporarily allowing the gods’ spirits into their bodies.

Seth doesn’t let on that he already knows all about it, because he can do something similar.

Gammon has been wearing his hair differently, setting his ponytail low instead of high. He's been smiling more often, too.

Seth also thinks that this is all quite unlike Gammon, being much more knowledgeable than he would have thought. He thinks maybe someone has swapped their soul into his body. Whether Gammon is still in there or not is something Seth can't tell.

The day after next, Hansel and Gretel’s birth is told to the public, and the new Evillious calendar is made to mark their birth date.

Scene 10

Four days later, at night, Meta is looking at the babies and thinking to herself how cute they are, despite the fact that she never had an interest in kids before now. She’s not happy though that they aren’t her and Pale’s kids, she can’t even hold them, and that they’re going to be taken away to be used as vessels for gods tomorrow.

Looking upon them, it triggers memories of her past. Gretel’s eyes are open, and she is reaching for her mother inside the glass. Meta puts her hand over hers on the glass, and then has a flashback.

Scene 11

It’s her dream from the beginning of the chapter, running from orange flames with a figure in the middle. She has to keep running. When she glances back, she sees Seth Twiright.

Scene 12

Meta's reminiscing is interrupted. She can hear screaming, shouting, and gunshots. Realizing it’s Pale at work, she dives inside the tanks, taking the babies with her as she shatters the tubes. The remnants of Apocalypse are wreaking havoc. Pale calls to her from a window in the hallway, bidding her to leave the building through it.

He objects to her taking the children along, saying they’ll only get in the way, but she refuses to leave them behind. She realizes his current body is too small to run with babies in his arms, so she carries them both herself.

She thinks about her birth, her early childhood, that time she hated so much. Seth declared her a failure, and, fearing being put in refrigeration like her “brother”, escaped from him during the same attack Adam disappeared in. She knows it’s selfish, but she doesn’t want the babies to suffer as she has. She doesn’t want them to be the toys of gods.

Scene 13

Meta and Pale are running through a foggy new moon night. They think that they’re safe— but Pale suddenly trips and falls, starting to lose consciousness. Meta remembers what happened in the forest, and realizes the fog is the same poison as before.

Seth approaches (wearing a full-face mask), wondering why it’s not affecting her babies. He says the fog was a sort of byproduct of producing Venom— it won’t kill anyone, but they’ll be put to sleep for a few days. Seth already knew the fog likely wouldn't affect Meta, but he's certain the babies wouldn't be inheritors like her. He wonders if a god could be interfering.

Pale urges Meta to leave him behind and run south to escape the country— he knows Seth won’t kill him; Seth confirms, saying basically he’s too good at being evil to kill. Meta says she’ll wait for Pale in the forest, and runs off. Seth tries to follow her, but Pale grabs his leg and she gets away.

Seth kicks him to get him to let go. He won’t kill Pale, but he does plan to “reset” him.

Scene 14

Meta is running away, referencing the last part of the song.

Meta’s part ends in her declaring that she’s a fugitive.

#infoedit #ec #evillious chronicles #meta salmhofer #original sin story #story #fanfic #seth twiright #Pale Noel #Raisa Netsuma #yegor asayev #elluka chirclatia

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lovemesomerafael · 5 years

Text

Under The Influence

Peter Stone one-shot (NSFW)

This is a writing exercise I did to try to write in present tense, because @mforpaul does that and I really like it. It’s also Smutty McSmutface, which @mforpaul also does really well, but I am responsible for my own smut. (I’m so ashamed.) It’s long AF, sorry about that, but did I mention smut?

Shout out to @peter-stone and @thomas1340 because Peter Stone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter Stone can’t believe his Monday morning is going to start with a garden-variety drunk driving arrest. He thought he’d graduated from these ten years ago. But when the suspect owns a major international oil conglomerate, D.A. Jack McCoy doesn’t want the news showing pictures of a junior-level A.D.A. handling the case. So Peter finds himself trying to drink his tall, double-shot, caramel macchiato with extra foam and run at the same time, because he’s late.

Alyson Sanders’ heels were not made for walking the long, tiled halls of a police station. Truth be told, they weren’t made for walking at all. And Alyson has no business being in a police station. Her last exposure to criminal law was as a first-year law student, and it was the last time she’d wanted to think about it. But Chester Palerisian had called her at an ungodly hour this morning, drunk as a skunk and demanding that she get him out of jail. So here she is. She should have had an associate handle this, and she would have, except that it’s Palerisian himself, and she just knows what she’ll have to listen to if he isn’t represented by someone whose name is on the door of the firm. Of course, having her name on the door of a firm that doesn’t do criminal law should mean that she doesn’t have to deal with the drunken fuckery of an overbred clown like Chester Palerisian. But his ownership of CTP Oil, and its status as one of her firm’s most lucrative clients, means that she does.

Alyson walks up to the Desk Sergeant she’s been directed to, and asks to meet with her client. Then she waits, taking the opportunity to look around at the diverse and fascinating group of people waiting with her. She listens to the conversations she can overhear, trying to identify languages and intrigued by the dramas going on around her. She is almost sorry when the Desk Sergeant calls her and escorts her to an interview room.

The room has the standard one-way mirror, which shows that today’s wet fog has done Alyson’s hair no favors. She congratulates herself on going wavy and messy with her long blonde bob today, because that was how it was going to end up, anyway. There is also the standard long, metal table with scratches, dents, and metal loops for handcuffing suspects who threaten to get out of control. The room reeks of alcohol. To be precise, her client, sitting on one of the mismatched and battered chairs haphazardly surrounding the table in a suit that had cost several thousand dollars and was probably now beyond repair, reeks of alcohol. The minute he opens his mouth, it is clear he is still very, very drunk.

“Aly! Thank God. Get me the fuck out of here,” he says, standing as though she is just going to lead him out this minute.

“That’s why I’m here, Chet. Are you all right?”

“Does this look all right to you? I’m in fucking handcuffs, for fuck’s sake! What am I, a criminal?”

Alyson is just annoyed enough to consider answering that question, but she hasn’t gotten to where she is by giving in to impulses. “All right, I just wanted to check on you before we talk to the cops. If you’re ready, I’ll let them in. And you are not going to say one word, all right? Let me do all the talking.”

“Fine, fine. I’m not stupid.”

On that wildly debatable note, Alyson suddenly realizes she has no idea how to summon whoever they need to meet with, presumably the cops and maybe an ADA. She puts her briefcase and purse down on the table to stall for time. Fortunately, very quickly thereafter, the door opens and tall, pretty man walks in, his very well-cut suit outlining what appears to be an insane body underneath.

Peter will later thank God for muscle memory, because the minute he comes through the door and sees the defendant’s attorney, time stops. “I’m ADA Peter Stone,” he says automatically, holding out a hand, because that’s what he always does when he walks into this room. If Peter had to think his way through this moment, the beautiful blonde would be standing there holding his hand while he had feverish sexual fantasies about her for a very long time. His vision is actually fuzzy, which tells him that, in addition to the things happening lower down in his body, his eyes are already dilating with lust. He has never seen a better-looking woman in real life.

Her hair looks as though it is doing exactly what she intended, although what it’s doing is making him picture himself doing things to her to get it gorgeously tousled like that. Her beautiful suit is tailored by a master, and her hand feels warm and soft and feminine and holy shit the dirty thoughts going through Peter’s head right this minute. She is wearing very small gold earrings, and he wants to nibble on them, for some reason.

Peter is fortunate enough that the woman’s moronic client begins to speak at that moment, stirring the alcohol reek in the room and reminding him why he is here.

“Well, this is my lawyer, Alyson Sanders. Of Ogilvie, Sanders and… somebody else.”

Alyson’s contemplation of the way the ADA is looking at her is interrupted, and she’s not happy about it. The man looks like he’s about to take a bite out of her, and she’s down with that plan.

“Fishbach,” Alyson says, still holding Peter Stone’s hand and looking into his eyes. The voice that comes out is not her usual “meeting opposing counsel” voice.

“Hmmm?” Peter asks, not letting go of her hand, either.

“Fishbach. My other partner’s name. Jared Fishbach.” The blush of shame at such a stupid statement begins very low on Alyson’s chest and blooms, rapidly and hotly, up her body.

“Right,” Peter says, realizing with a minute shake of his head that he needs to release her hand. “And your name is…”

“Aly. Alyson Sanders.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sanders,” Peter says, and shakes her hand again. Both notice at the same time that this is a bit redundant, but they still shake. They just laugh nervously as they do it, and drop their hands quickly. “Ogilvie, Sanders… I wasn’t aware your firm does criminal defense.”

“We don’t,” Alyson responds, grateful she knows this one. Her neurons are not working correctly. She notes, however, that her autonomic nervous system is humming along nicely, increasing her heart and respiratory rate and hardening her nipples, as well as dilating capillaries and stimulating lubrication. Because damn. The way this Peter Stone has just the very slightest lisp when he says her name should be at least a Class C Felony. Don’t think about punishment, Aly. Don’t think about punishment. Client. Opposing counsel. Not spanking. Work mode.

“I guess I should explain,” she tries to fake coherence. “My firm represents Mr. Palerisian’s business interests. When he was arrested, he called me. I’ll be representing him for the time being, but I’m likely to be replaced at some point.”

“I see,” Peter answers, moving to sit down at the table in hopes she won’t notice that his legs are actually shaking. Also in hopes she won’t notice other things in the neighborhood of his legs that he is helpless to control now that he’s had a whiff of her perfume. He can’t remember the last time he had an involuntary hard on. “Well, I just need to ask your client some questions.”

“Right. I thought you might want to do that, but I’m afraid we’re not going to be answering any questions this morning. He’s been arrested, correct?”

“He has.”

“What are you charging him with?”

“Second offense aggravated DUI, felony assault, resisting arrest, disorderly conduct, and misdemeanor possession of marijuana.”

“What do we need to do to get him released?”

“He’s charged with 2 felonies and 3 misdemeanors. He can’t be released until he’s been arraigned, and even then he’ll only be released pending trial if the judge allows it.”

“That is bullshit!” Palerisian shouts, standing abruptly and basically falling onto the table, which fortunately is bolted to the floor.

“Chet, I got this,” Alyson says, giving him a steadying hand to sit back down.

“Fuck that! I’m not staying here one more minute. I demand to see this guy’s supervisor!”

“Chet, ‘this guy’s supervisor’ is the District Attorney. He’s got better things to do. And you’re not in a position to demand anything. Let me do my job.”

“I want out of here!”

Alyson wants out of here, too, but she doesn’t yell it and kick her feet into the table leg like a three-year-old. Instead, she asks whether it would be possible for her and Mr. Stone to meet privately. She immediately regrets her choice of words, because it sounds very much like she’s asking for the other thing she really wants right this minute.

“Of course,” Peter responds, standing up. He ignores Palerisian, who is making toddler noises and asking what’s happening, opens the door for Alyson and waves her into the hallway.

He escorts her across the hall to a small meeting room. As she passes him, she purposely moves too close. She has to see if he smells as good as she thinks he will. Oh, holy fuck. He smells better. Without her consent, Alyson’s hypothalamus sends a signal to divert additional blood and energy to her autonomic nervous system. She really doesn’t need to be this turned on right now. She is a bit lightheaded – there’s only so much blood to go around, after all – so she sets her briefcase and purse on a chair and sits down at the battered little wooden table that dominates the tiny room.

“My client is…” She begins, faltering almost immediately.

Peter raises an eyebrow.

She smiles then, tilting her head with a twisted, wry grin. “A petulant, entitled asshat.”

“So stipulated,” he grins despite himself.

“Unfortunately, that’s not illegal. Prisons are overcrowded enough already. So let’s talk about his actual crime. Bail?”

“I can live with releasing him to you, but he surrenders his drivers’ license.”

Her face clouds over, just a little. Just enough that he knows she is letting him see it. “Yeah…”

“That’s a gift, Ms. Sanders.”

“Oh, I fully recognize that. You’re clearly a man willing to make deals. But I think that, in this case, maybe not as much of a gift as you’d think.”

“I won’t go ROR.”

“No. And I wouldn’t ask you to. I’m thinking more in the neighborhood of a reasonable bail.”

Peter looks at her with surprise. “Ms. Sanders, I was offering to release him to your recognizance. No bail.”

“Mr. Stone… Peter. May I call you Peter?”

“Of course.” Call me Daddy. Call me anything the fuck you want.

“I understand your offer. I just don’t accept it.”

“You understand that, if he has to bond out, it’ll cost him money. That’s not as good as the deal I’m offering.”

“Mr. Palerisian wouldn’t need a bail bond. He has the cash.” Her face holds an expectancy that tells him she is sending a message she’s not willing to put into words. Peter gets the message anyway.

“And you don’t want to be responsible for him. Maybe you also think he should have to go to the hassle of putting up his own money.”

“This is DUI number two, and he’s been well above .18 both times. Besides which, he’s an asshat whether he’s drunk or not. Frankly, if it didn’t mean having to deal with my partners’ whining, I’d fire him. Maybe if I can’t get him ROR’ed, I’ll get lucky and he’ll fire us, instead.” Then, as if a switch has been flipped, Alyson sits a bit straighter and says mechanically, in a tone almost – but not quite – imitating robotic quoting of a statement that is not her own, “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re suggesting I’m not advocating for the best deal for my client. That would be unethical.”

With a wide smile, Peter says, “Ms. Sanders – Alyson – you’re a tough negotiator. I don’t feel good about half a million dollars’ bail-“

“Don’t push it, Peter,” she tilts her head with a playful scowl.

“As I said, I don’t feel good about two hundred fifty thousand dollars bail…” He waits for her smile of agreement, then proceeds. “But you’ve twisted my arm.”

He reaches out his hand. She stands and shakes it firmly for the third time in under ten minutes.

“I’m sorry I had to be so rough on you.”

“Let me call, see if I can still get us on the arraignment calendar this morning.”

Alyson looks up at Peter from under her long eyelashes, muttering, “Don’t push too hard. A night in jail might do him good.”

He stops with his phone in his hand, just about to touch the screen. “It’s usually fairly difficult to get a last-minute addition to the arraignment calendar.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“I’m sorry,” he says with an obviously faux chagrin, and puts his phone back into his inside jacket pocket. “I did everything I could.”

“I appreciate the professional courtesy.” They stand there, grinning conspiratorially at one another. “Once he sobers up, I’ll talk to my client and see if he’s open to a plea deal.”

“Who says I’m offering one?”

“Well, I’ve heard you are sort of a hardass. You might not. I’ll make sure he knows that. But, just in case, I’ll see what he’d be willing to accept.”

“I’ll see you at the arraignment tomorrow morning.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Peter can’t concentrate on the scumbags today. He needs to, and he needs to ride herd on all the Junior ADAs he’s responsible for, but for the life of him he can’t clear his mind of the picture of Alyson Sanders walking away from him down the hallway at the police station. He wants to find the person who tailored that skirt to fit her bum like that and shake their hand. Or perhaps punch them in the throat, because that picture is not helping him get shit done today. He wonders what she’ll wear to the arraignment tomorrow morning, and hopes like hell she won’t be replaced by then. Peter had no desire to see Randolph Dworkin in a tight, ass-hugging skirt.

*****************

The gods smile on Peter Stone and he sees Alyson Sanders sashay into the courthouse wearing another beautiful suit. He gets one look at the skirt and knows this will be the second day in a row shot to hell. She has an eager young man walking beside her, legs twice as long as hers but still running to keep up with her in her heels, and she is listening attentively to what he has to say. Peter recognizes him now; he worked for Peter until about six months ago, when he quit to go where the money is. Alyson’s eyes light up when she sees Peter and the smile she gives him wakes his cock up for the day.

After another handshake that goes on a beat too long, Alyson asks Peter whether he remembers whatever the kid’s name is. Peter remembers him, and instantly forgets his name again. The kid is there to give Alyson a crash course in arraignments, which aren’t rocket science, and she and Peter already have a deal. Still, Peter admires her preparation. He imagines she doesn’t like being out of her depth any more than Peter himself does.

“I’m going to need to get in there in a moment, and I don’t know when they’ll call Palerisian’s case. So I may not have a chance to talk to you again this morning,” Peter explains to Alyson. “I also have a crowded day, but we need to talk about what we’re going to do with your client. Are you, by any chance, available to have dinner with me tonight?” He hopes he got the inflection and expression just right, like he couldn’t give a shit, even though if she says no and he doesn’t get to peel off that skirt, he might just cry through the entire arraignment docket.

“I can probably do drinks, but dinner would be tough.”

“I see. You have another engagement.”

“No, I…” What Aly means is that she can probably keep her hands off of Peter Stone for the time it would take to have a drink, but knows herself to be entirely unequal to the task of behaving appropriately through a whole dinner. But that’s probably too much information at this point, especially in front of her young associate. “I meant that I had to reschedule some things to be here today, which means I have some catching up to do.”

Alyson actually has a dinner engagement with a potential new client, which she would be insane to miss. They’re a major retail chain just beginning to move into the online marketplace about five years after they should have. There is serious money to be made here, and quickly. But the dinner is small, the only guests being the owner, the Chairman of the Board, and the CEO, which means she has options. The weather has been unseasonably warm for fall, and the firm has a lovely boat for exactly this purpose. She’ll spend several thousand extra dollars this way, but Peter Stone would be worth it if she had to add an extra zero to that. Maybe two. She’d decide when she got his shirt off. In the meantime, she tells herself the first call she makes after the arraignment needs to be to her assistant, to get the dinner moved to later in the week, with the excuse that she thought her guests might like to take advantage of the lovely weather with a dinner cruise around Manhattan on the boat. Self-important business types eat that shit up. It’ll be fine. And she doesn’t give fuck one even if it isn’t.

“I’ll tell you what, Peter.” She likes the taste of his name on her tongue, and he can see that. “Let’s plan on drinks, and I’ll see if I can make dinner work. Let me know when and where.”

Peter nods as though she’s just agreed to do nothing more interesting than rotate the tires on his car. “I’ll see you in there,” he says, turning and entering the courtroom.

Stone doesn’t want to be meeting Alyson Sanders for drinks tonight. Oh, he does, heaven knows he does, but he also doesn’t. He’s done with women. After the hideous demise of his long-term relationship with Angelica, he has stuck to men. Women are just too … Well, they’re too everything. Absolutely not worth the trouble. He prefers women, if he had to choose, but lucky for him, no one is asking him to. Men are so much easier – the most they ask is that he buy them dinner first, and even that doesn’t happen much. Mostly they just want what he wants – a few laughs over drinks, a good fuck, and that’s it.

Which is why it’s kind of a step backward to have drinks with Alyson Sanders. Maybe she’ll turn out to be the rare woman who will just have sex with him and then leave him alone – which is very much all he wants from her. He’s going to run for the nearest hot guy if things start to go any differently with her. True, he wants her more than he’s wanted anyone in a very long time, but she is still a woman, after all, and therefore almost certain to annoy and frustrate him in the end. But he’s stuck now, he made the date himself, and his dick has been looking forward to it ever since. Peter does his dick’s bidding much more often than he wishes he did.

The arraignment is a snooze, as expected, except for the part where Alyson stands a few feet away from him. Judge Smithson, a woman of a certain age, insists on keeping her courtroom at a balmy sixty degrees in all seasons, and apparently Alyson finds that a bit chilly. Or at least her nipples do. Peter finds himself in the unenviable position of standing in front of a full courtroom trying to ignore the turmoil happening in his boxers. He’s had dreams like this. They were not good dreams.

He texts Alyson Sanders sometime in the early afternoon. Actually, he texts Alyson Sanders at precisely one in the afternoon on the dot, because that is the time he has decided will be early enough, but not so early that it looks like he’s eager.

Peter meets Alyson at Geraldo’s, where meets all his first dates. It’s small enough so they can hear each other talk, the bartenders know him and will send him an emergency text to get him out of a bad situation if he signals them, and it’s just around the corner from a fairly cheap parking garage for quick getaways. He’s early so that he can choose where they will sit. He chooses a small booth with room for only two people, one on each side of the table. It’s a good strategic first-date choice, for many reasons, not least of which is that he can sit forward and get close to his date, especially if it’s a guy with long legs, or he can sit back and put distance between them.

When Alyson breezes in, he notes that she waves to one of the bartenders. He is annoyed at her knowing the bartenders like he does, because he likes to be one up on everyone in all situations. His annoyance only lasts long enough for Alyson to slide into the booth across from him and announce that he’s chosen the bar well. Her firm has an account here, and since she and Peter are working on Palerisian’s criminal case together, drinks are on Palerisian tonight. He can’t help liking that Alyson Sanders has a bit of an edge to her. And he is struck anew by how beautiful she is. It’s not a conventional, fashion-model sort of beauty, exactly, although she certainly has that. What gets to Peter is a certain swagger and sass she has that are evident even when she is standing still, and a look in her eye as though she’s up for anything. Sassy women who are up for anything are Peter’s kryptonite, and he knows it.

“I’m a little surprised you’re so willing to piss off an important client,” he notes.

“I’ve been really fortunate,” she says sincerely. “I had some success early on, which allowed me to start my own firm fairly young, and we’ve worked really hard. These days, we’re blessed with a number of important clients and it lets me worry less about losing one. Not my partners, however, who act like we’re all going to be homeless anytime we lose a motion. It’s a good balance, actually. They keep my baser instincts in line, and I keep them from getting trampled by bully clients.”

“Sounds like a good partnership,” he says. She’s being modest. He’s done his research. Her firm bills eight figures annually, and it’s primarily because Alyson Sanders is a giant-killer. She’s won a number of huge cases, including several against the feds. She personally does less litigation now that she heads a team of over forty corporate and tax lawyers. She bills four figures an hour and still her firm has clients begging her to take them on. She’s also been very wise in her choice of partners, both of whom are as gifted as she is.

“It’s a very good partnership, as much as we bitch about each other.”

The waitress comes over with a cocktail for Alyson and asks whether Peter is ready for another. He says no. Drinking less than the other person is another way he likes to keep the upper hand.

“Your appetizers will be out very shortly,” the waitress says, deferential to Peter, but even more so to Alyson.

Alyson gives Peter a smile that he is unable to avoid returning. “Calamari, oysters on the half-shell, fried zucchini, and some more stuff I can’t remember. The appetizers here are great, and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Now Peter’s even more conflicted. On top of being seriously attractive, this woman is also an eater. Peter likes a woman with an appetite. Shit. This new development is good from his dick’s point of view (also his stomach’s – he’s hungry), but from a “not dating women anymore” perspective, it’s kind of a problem. He pushes the thought aside. It’s very, very early. She’ll say or do something to cool the attraction anytime now.

Alyson wonders whether they oysters were a bit much. They come with the platter she ordered, and it’s the one she always orders, but he doesn’t know that. And damn it, she wants to make a good impression. Not nearly as much as she wants to tear his clothes off and see if the raunchy fantasies that have plagued her all day match the reality, but still, she was very impressed by him in court and she’s done a little research. Peter Stone is one hell of a prosecutor. Well on his way to becoming District Attorney someday. Not that she’s particularly impressed by titles, but she is very impressed by talent. And he has it.

He can see that she is thinking about him, and if the glow under her skin is any indication, her thoughts are good ones. In no time, Peter is back to the level of arousal he was at this morning, only now there’s alcohol and opportunities. He leans forward to clink glasses with her. “To new acquaintances.”

Alyson toasts with him and takes a drink. When she’s done, she sits forward and takes off her suit jacket. It’s a fitted, tweedy suit with leather accents that is lovely, but she’s suddenly feeling warm. She seems to recall feeling a bit of a hot flash this morning when she saw Peter Stone, too, before entering the arctic chill of the courtroom. He smiles, mutters something about removing jackets being a good idea, then removes his, as well. There’s a hook for their jackets on the outside of their booth and Peter graciously hangs Alyson’s jacket up for her, along with his own. This gives her the opportunity to check out his body under the shirt, and suddenly she realizes removing their jackets is not going to be anywhere near enough. Her libido ratchets up several notches and she begins to think she doesn’t have the patience to be social. She wonders what he would do if she just straight-up propositioned him. She empties her glass at the same time he does.

A few minutes and a bit of superficial conversation later, the appetizers arrive and they order their second drinks. Peter’s leg makes contact with Alyson’s. He doesn’t move it. She grins and he doesn’t know whether it’s because of what he’s just said, or because their legs are touching. The way she eats oysters borders on obscene. He’s mesmerized. He thinks about trying to do it, but is certain he’ll end up with a red face and a dry-cleaning bill. She’s interested in him. She leans in and asks questions about what he’s telling her. She also laughs at his jokes, which always seems to inspire him. Even he thinks he’s being fairly witty. This is good. He’s definitely going to invite her back to his place and do all the things he’s been imagining, and he has no doubt she will accept, especially since there is some fairly intimate leg-pressing going on now. He’s hard, and he’s not alone; her blouse is giving him his second glimpse of her nipples today and holy crap he wants to rip that thin fabric off and just get to it. By the time the appetizers are worked over and their drinks about gone, Peter is feeling a very nice glow that is part bourbon, part lust. It’s a good combination, and it affects the risk/benefit calculations going on in his head about how to approach making a pass.

Alyson has imbibed two cocktails, and she drank them a little more quickly than she normally would, because Peter’s hazel green eyes and that little lisp are really getting to her. Since she met him about thirty-six hours ago, she’s been horny for him - sometimes more, sometimes less, but never not – and at this moment, she hits the limit of her ability to resist him. She makes a motion to the waitress across the bar and holds her glass out to Peter. There is one swallow left in the bottom. His is about the same.

“What are we drinking to?” He asks, very successfully trying to smolder.

“Elevators.”

“Really. Why elevators?”

“Because my apartment is at the top of this building, which means all that’s standing between us and my bed is an elevator.” Her grin is almost as lascivious as the way she eats oysters.

Peter clinks her glass and turns up the smolder. “To elevators, then. Sláinte.”

Shit. He likes women who make the first move, too. Especially when they’re that straightforward about it. He wonders how obvious it will be when he carries his jacket in front of his crotch. Maybe she will be lousy in bed. Not that he wants her to be lousy in bed, he just needs her to give him something to work with so that he can keep his usual distance. So far, she’s not been cooperating. The waitress brings a bill, Alyson signs it, and they scoot out from the booth. Peter would love to hold Alyson’s jacket for her to put it on, but he fears that, if he does, he’s going to make the 6 O’clock news. Or at least YouTube. Alyson notices what he’s hiding and she slides a hand down his chest, winking.

“Me, too,” she whispers. She is shaking. Shaking, she’s so hot for him.

Peter thinks he might have to pull the emergency button on the elevator. He knows he could come from a stray breeze right now, so he’s sure he can get off and think of a good story before the fire department arrives to rescue them. Besides, any male firefighters are going to take one look at Alyson and be completely on his side.

No such luck. Peter hadn’t thought about it, all he cared about was the bar, but this is a primarily residential building. So he and Alyson are sharing the elevator with an elderly Chinese woman with approximately seventeen shopping bags, along with two teenagers who are theoretically speaking English, although Peter has no earthly idea what they’re saying. There is also a young woman pushing a basset hound in a stroller. The basset hound needs a bath. It helps Peter regain a touch of his composure as they ride up.

Alyson’s apartment is one of three on the top floor. Peter’s a little humbled by the elegance and size of the space. The view is impressive, even for a life-long New Yorker like Peter. Peter has a great job, but working for the County of New York, he’s never going to make this kind of money no matter how high he rises. She gives him a few moments to look around, apparently used to this. When he turns from the wall of windows, she’s just sitting on the arm of a couch, waiting. She smiles at him.

“I know you get this all the time, but you are fucking gorgeous,” she says. While he’s been admiring her view, she’s been admiring his.

It’s the first F-bomb she’s dropped, and he’s delighted. “So here’s my dilemma,” he says, walking toward her in what he hopes is a measured way rather than running to her like the basset hound on the elevator, which is what he’s doing in his mind. “If I tell you how beautiful I think you are, it’s going to sound like I’m just returning the compliment.”

Her smile brightens as she gives just the hint of a giggle. “Well, you’ve had a bit of luck there,” she says, palming his crotch as he reaches her and she stands to meet him. “I believe this is what we in the law call ‘evidence’.”

Their first kiss is like most first kisses: awkward, not quite right, with imperfect aim and a little bit of nose mashing. But they’re experienced and they get better fast. Alyson is quickly all hands. Peter’s trying to kiss with some finesse, and she seems to really like what he’s doing judging by her breathing, but she’s touching and stroking and squeezing him everywhere at once. Something about that makes Peter feel very good. Well, sure, it feels good, but it also feeds his ego and lets him know he hasn’t been imagining the appraising looks she’s been giving him.

He tastes like bourbon, with a slight hint of the appetizers they’d shared. He’s delicious, but that’s no surprise. The surprise is just how thoroughly he’s kissing her. Firm, in control, the exact right amount of wetness, so far just the slightest tease of tongue… Oh, this guy can kiss.

He slides her jacket off her shoulders, trying to be careful but also trying to slow himself down. It’s not easy. He’s had a raging hard on for the last half hour, and she’s starting to make noises. Peter is aroused by the sounds his lovers make, letting him know they’re enjoying what he’s doing. Alyson pulls her arms quickly out of the jacket and starts on his tie. She loosens the knot only enough to slide it over his head, then tosses it onto the couch behind her. Their kisses get messy as she divides her attention between his mouth and his buttons, and when she thinks she has enough buttons undone, she just pushes his shirt up his chest.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, getting her first look at his bare torso. The beauty she expected is nothing to the reality. This man is a work of art. She’s not looking for love at this point, but damn, if she was, this chest would be a good place to start. She regrets skipping Pilates on Tuesday. Not that one class with Gunther would make her look like this; pretty much anyone is going to look soft and flabby next to this man. She cannot wait to see his ass.

She gives a frustrated grunt as she realizes she has forgotten the buttons on his sleeves, but together they fumble through that and he is finally, blessedly, shirtless. Kissing is forgotten for the moment. The look in her eyes has Peter pulling at her blouse now, but she’s not helping. She’s not resisting by any stretch, but she’s very busy feasting her eyes on the dirty dream of a man undressing her in her living room, and she’s preoccupied.

He gets her blouse off somehow, a little concerned that a couple of buttons may have been lost in the process, but she doesn’t seem to care so he certainly doesn’t. Besides, she’s begun to work on his belt and he doesn’t want to distract her. He strokes her shoulders and arms and closes his eyes while she starts running her face all over his chest. It couldn’t really be called kissing, because although there’s a lot of kissing involved, there’s also a lot of tasting and smelling and nuzzling. And appreciative noises.

Belt undone, Alyson takes a little longer to undo Peter’s slacks, but only because she’s distracted by his abs. She is going to run her tongue along them, but that will have to wait until after she gets him inside her because she is on fire and she could come just from looking at him. She hopes he doesn’t mind the artlessness with which she yanks his pants, socks, and shoes off.

Holy flying balls of shit his cock is gorgeous. Cocks are not, as a rule, particularly aesthetically pleasing appendages, but Alyson has just discovered that Peter Stone’s penis is as beautiful as the rest of his body. It’s perfect. It fits him; large and strong and hard and stunningly attractive. She’s mesmerized. Just as a few moments ago, she was distracted by his beautiful chest, and then his abs, now it’s his penis. She runs her hands along its length, awed, trying to find words to describe how well-shaped it is, with the exact right amount of veining, and a hot rosy pink color rather than the angry red some guys are, that she tries to ignore when she sees it. Can you compliment a man on his lovely penis?

She doesn’t get the chance, because suddenly he’s all over her skirt and it’s off before she really has time to drag her mind back from his cock. He makes the most wonderful noise – a gasp with a moan behind it – when he sees the lingerie and thigh-high stockings she purposely chose this morning in hopes he’d see them tonight. He doesn’t so much lay her down on the couch as throw her there. Fine by her. She would’ve jumped if he’d asked her to. She keeps her heels on.

He kneels next to the couch and suddenly, it’s him who is all hands and mouth, gliding his hands up her thighs and mouthing her breasts through the soft, satiny and barely functional bra designed for pretty much exactly that. She’s lost the ability to monitor or control the sounds she’s making. His huge hands have her entire attention, or at least the part that isn’t laser focused on his soft biting at her nipples through the slippery cups of her bra.

Peter kisses his way to the top of Alyson’s breasts so that he can flick his tongue under the cups. He wants to hear the noise she’ll make, and he isn’t disappointed. He hopes the hot drops rubbing from his cock onto her couch won’t be a problem – the couch is white. But he has much more important concerns at the moment, like whether to slide his fingers underneath the satin of her barely pink panties, or tease her through them first. He decides that the latter is the way to go, and at last touches her where he’s wanted to since the second he saw her the previous morning. The panties are soaked. Drenched. He can feel moistness on the inside of her thighs, even. Oh, this is good. Very, very good.

As soon as he touches her through the thin, wet fabric, she moans and begins to lift into his touch. She moves against his fingers, one hand splayed in his hair as he licks her nipples under her bra, and the other firmly grasping his ass. She knows she’s being selfish, but she’s beyond caring about anything but the way he is making her feel. It’s starting to drive her crazy that he won’t take her lingerie off. She wants him to touch her everywhere. Of course, he knows that and he’s doing this on purpose, the bastard. She tries to make a mental note to do it back to him, but her entire blood supply is shunted far away from her brain.

“Tell me when you’re close,” he says, looking into her eyes, pupils huge and lids heavy. “I’ll decide when to make you come.” He’s smiling evilly, and it is an absolutely outstanding look on him.

She can only moan and nod vaguely. He rewards her by slipping a finger under her panties and beginning to stroke the wet folds there.

“Oh, Peter, that feels so good, you’re so…” She slides her hand around from his buttock to grasp his pretty cock. “I want you…”

“Tell me.”

“I want you to tear my panties off and fuck me. Now.”

He smiles and mercifully slides a finger inside her. She arches her back and cries out, immediately beginning to rock into it. He leans over and begins to kiss her again, slowly and deeply, with a great deal of tongue, while he slides his finger in and out of her, enjoying her wanton, increasingly desperate response.

“More,” she begs.

She’s surprised – in a very good way – when he grants her request and slides another finger inside her and softly touches her clit with his thumb, coating her with her own moisture and rubbing lightly. She still has his cock in her hand, but her stroking is haphazard because she has too many sensations to focus on.

“Peter!” She cries. “Oh, fuck!”

“Don’t come,” he murmurs.

“I don’t– I can’t-“

He continues to use his fingers, allowing her to fuck herself on them and increasing his thrust slightly, but stops rubbing her clit with his thumb. Soon, his fingers slow.

“No…”_

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asks with just the hint of a smirk.

“Yes! Oh, yes, I want you.” Her breathlessness makes it hard to speak.

“Then sit up.”

She does. He somehow manages to be aggressive and gentle at the same time as he unclasps and pulls her pretty bra from her. He sits next to her on the couch, then pulls her up so that she is standing before him. She’s fairly dizzy with lust, and he keeps an eye on her as he pulls her panties quickly down and off, leaving her thigh-high stockings where they are. He reaches behind her to the floor where his pants are, and fumbles his wallet out of a pocket.

She stands naked but for her heels and the stockings while he pulls a condom from his wallet. She takes it from him and knees down between his knees, tearing the packet with her teeth. There is a lot of eye contact. There is a lot of smiling. She leans in and takes him in her mouth for a moment, holding the condom between her fingers. She nearly loses her concentration when she begins to taste and feel that beautiful penis between her lips, but she is too desperate for release, and so is he.

“Put it on,” he groans between gritted teeth. She does, stroking him and kissing the insides of his thighs.

He immediately pulls her up, guiding her onto his lap until she is straddling him, on her knees. With his hands on her hips, both of them watching what she is doing, she takes his cock into her hand and guides him to her entrance, then pushes roughly down on him. Both of them cry out with pleasure, Peter’s cry a series of curse words Alyson hasn’t heard in that particular order before.

Her arms naturally encircle his neck and shoulders, and she begins to kiss him as though she’s missed him. His lips, the way he moves his mouth on hers, could easily become… Well, this is about sex. She refocuses, which isn’t hard because she is very, very close.

“Peter, you’re going to make me come…”

“Now, Aly. Come now.” He puts a hand on her backside and rolls his hips into her. On her knees, she can move her pelvis against him, and his pretty cock is about as much as she can take, so within the next several thrusts, she begins to feel the inevitable wave of pleasure start to roll through her, from somewhere deep inside, gaining momentum as it makes its way toward the surface. She pulls away from his lips and throws her head back, her groans almost grunts as she explodes, grinding against him and rolling her hips.

He watches her face, her flushed chest, her breasts bouncing lightly with her movements. This is a woman who knows how to ride an orgasm. And she looks like a fucking goddess doing it. So good, in fact, that he is already coming before he really realizes it. Soon he is lost to himself, jutting his hips into her and shouting.

It takes a very long time to come down for both of them. They’re gasping for breath. She needs to get off of him so he can remove the condom, but damn she doesn’t want to. Eventually, however, she resigns herself and lifts herself off of his lap. She stretches and arches her back while he goes into the powder room.

Alyson looks around. There are clothes in a wide semicircle around the couch. It’s kind of fabulous, actually, like a modern art piece. Peter catches his face in the mirror of the powder room. He looks fucked out. He is fucked out.

But Alyson is not done with Peter Stone. Oh, hell, no. When he saunters back into the room – he usually struts, and he does it very, very well, but apparently post-coitally, he saunters – she takes his hand and leads him into her bedroom. He makes no comment or protest as she yanks the covers down and climbs in, holding her arms out to him.

Post-sex cuddling with Peter Stone could cure cancer, bring about world peace and end famine. Alyson is sure of it. Nothing could possibly be wrong in life when this gloriously handsome male sprawled naked in your bed and put his powerful, sturdy arms around you. Actually, she realizes, this is not post-sex cuddling, but intra-sex cuddling, because Alyson plans to have Peter at least twice more before she lets him out of her apartment. It’s time to do that ab licking she’d planned earlier, so Alyson begins lazily stroking Peter’s chest.

Peter is fairly hormone-muddled at the moment, but he realizes that this is an extraordinarily comfortable bed. He also realizes that Alyson has not turned out to be lousy in bed – or on the couch, as the case may be – so he is going to have to find something else to dislike about her. But right now, she is worshiping his body, which he kind of can’t dislike, so he’ll have to think about that tomorrow. Or the next day.

#law & order svu #law & order: special victims unit #peter stone #philip winchester #Smutty McSmutface

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istheresomebodywhocanimagine · 5 years

Text

For Your Troubles

anonymous said: Can I please request some fluff where Roger comes home drunk and reader gives him a bath (or the other way round) and it’s all just very fluffy and cute❤️

(a/n: here’s a cute lil fluffy rog imagine for yall!!! i’ll probably close my requests again in a couple days, the response to it being opened was overwhelming skskksk. i also just started my job again so i’ll be tired af most times so the turnover on these might be a tad slower for these next two weeks - just gotta get this semester over with and then i should have a bit more time to work on these. but yall seriously have the cutest ideas what the fuck i could never come up with these cute lil requests)

“Roger fucking Taylor... I cannot believe you!”

“That,” Roger slurred, pressing a finger to the tip of your nose and smiling drunkenly as he stepped inside, tracking all of the mud that was covering his left side in with him, “Is not my middle name, lovie.”

“Are you serious?” you whined as you saw the tracks he was leaving on the hardwood, knowing you’d have to clean them before the moisture warped the wood.

“My middle name is not a curse word,” he reiterated, pulling his shoes off and leaning against the wall with his clean side so he wouldn’t stumble and fall. Though he swayed, he stayed mostly upright as he removed his Converse, throwing them to the side and starting to tromp towards the kitchen. “M’hungry.”

As he disappeared in a drunken stupor around the corner, you stared hopelessly at the mess he had left in his wake, cursing Brian for his ability to get Roger so out of his mind that he came home muddy without an explanation. Grumbling, you went and grabbed a wet washcloth from the bathroom, wringing it out before returning to the entryway. With a sigh, you got down on your hands and knees, then started scrubbing. You truly wondered why you put up with his antics, but then a few seconds later, he gave you a painfully adorable reminder.

Shuffling back out around the corner in his socked feet, he gave you a childish grin that could only be described as captivating. His eyes twinkled with a mischievousness that came out in full force whenever he was drunk, and the mud that coated half of him was so caked on there that an exasperated laugh bubbled up to your lips.

Sitting back on your heels, you pressed a hand to your forehead as you shook your head slowly at the state of him. Despite being the messiest you’d ever seen him, he was still as gorgeous as ever. That smile, that devilish gaze, and that confident stance even when he was piss drunk? Should have been against the law, truly.

“My little maid,” he mused, laughing to himself as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Taking a bite out of his sandwich he’d made, he stood there with his free hand in his pocket and wiggled his eyebrows as he spoke through the food in his mouth. “My sexy little maid.”

“Get out of here, you pervert!” you laughed, throwing the washcloth at him weakly, and he dodged it with a laugh before he took another bite of his sandwich.

“So mean to meee. Do we have any gin?” he asked, turning on his heels before tromping back into the kitchen, finishing off his sandwich. Scrambling to your feet, you intercepted him before he got to the liquor cupboard and pressed a hand against the door, barring him from opening it.

“You’ve had enough, Rog,” you warned gently, giving him a knowing smile, and he frowned for a moment before wrapping his arms around your waist, ignoring your protests as the mud smeared all over your shirt and pajama shorts. “Let me go, you nasty little mud ball!”

“That’s Mr. Nasty Mud Ball to you,” he countered, grinning dopily before he pressed a series of short, playful kisses to your lips. “And I can’t keep my hands to myself, y’know that.”

You did know that. You knew that all too well, and the glint in his eyes showed that he was just as aware of his touchy-feely nature with you as you were. In fact, Roger was touchy-feely with about anyone – John, Peter, Freddie, Brian if they weren’t fighting – the list could go on and on, especially if he was this drunk.

Scowling gently, you wrapped your arms around his neck and wrinkled your nose slightly at the feeling of the mud transferring to your arm. “Please just tell me how you ended up this disgusting right now.”

“I suppose,” he sighed overdramatically, reaching up to brush your hair behind your ear with his dirty hand purposefully. When you shot him a nasty look, he only grinned and shrugged. “When the sun heats the ocean, the ocean water turns into water vapors that rise into the air, and-“

“I understand the water cycle, smartass – stick to the important parts of your story.”

“Oh! You just wanted the one part, my bad,” he replied sweetly, making you roll your eyes as you tried not to laugh at his antics. “Brian paid me 5 pounds to jump into a mud pit by the river. Come to think of it, where did that wanker put that 5 pounds?” Reaching into his back pocket, he searched around for a moment before he retrieved a horribly dirty 5 pound note, holding it out to you. “There you go, sweetheart. For your troubles,” he added, nodding to the entryway.

Rolling your eyes again, you took the 5 pound note and tossed it on the counter, giggling to yourself as you retreated from his grasp and started heading for the bath. “I’m going to wash off. If you want to join me, feel free.”

“An excuse to see you naked? All in!” he joked loudly, making a mock sad face when you shushed him over your shoulder. Even if your walls were a bit more soundproof than the last flat you’d shared, you still didn’t feel like the neighbors would enjoy hearing about you naked at 2 am. “What? Is it a crime to see my girlfriend buck-naked?”

“It should be a crime to use the term buck-naked,” you groaned, grabbing two towels out of the linen closet before you made your way into the bathroom, Roger close behind and attempting to multitask as he started stripping out of his shirt. That led him to running straight into the doorframe, which made you bust out laughing as you turned the shower on.

“Not funny,” he grumbled, rubbing his shoulder as he tugged his shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it into the hamper. You just giggled some more and stripped out of your clothes, Roger ridding himself of the rest of his. When you nodded towards the shower, he whined before stepping in and letting you rinse the mud off of him with the shower head. “Babe, I feel like a 5 year old with you washing my hair like this.”

“Remind me who literally jumped into a mud puddle because he got a few pounds to do so?” you teased, Roger whining some more but leaning into your touch as you scrubbed at his hair, shaking your head and grinning. “We can take a bath after this.”

“Oh my God, a bath sounds so good right now,” he groaned, closing his eyes as the water ran over his face. “Can we take a bubble bath? I’d like a bubble bath.”

“We can take a bubble bath,” you confirmed, Roger cheering for a moment but quickly stopping when he felt his foot slip a little bit. But of course, he overacted it and flailed his arms, wrapping them around your waist and pressing against you. Pretending to be scared, he started taking deep breaths, but failed miserably at hiding a stupid, drunken grin that made you want to kiss him a million times over. “You trying out acting now too?”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, pecking your forehead before letting go of you to let you finish rinsing him off.

“Don’t quit your day job,” you joked, making him grumble in response as you rinsed the last of the mud out of his hair before turning the shower head on yourself and handing it to him. In retaliation, he sprayed the water directly in your face for just a second, making you gasp and blindly smack his hand away as you tried to wipe the water out of your eyes. “I should have expected that,” you sputtered as Roger laughed gleefully at himself, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

“I love you,” he reminded you as he began to rinse out the little bit of mud that had gotten in your hair. As he focused, he pulled his tongue in between his teeth and furrowed his eyebrows just a bit, a little tic he’d picked up over the years that you thoroughly enjoyed. It made him look not quite so serious when he tried to do something – as much as you loved seeing him look all serious and smart, goofy Roger was by far the most entertaining of his personalities, and goofy Roger was in full effect tonight.

“Love you too, Roggie.” He grinned at the use of Roggie, then handed the showerhead back to you to signal he was done. Putting the showerhead back up, you switched the water over to the faucet, grabbing the bubble bath from the cupboard next to the shower before sinking to sit with Roger, who was stopping the drain. “Your bubble bath, sir.”

He eagerly received the bottle from you, popping the cap open and grinning like a madman as he proceeded to pour almost half of the entire bottle out under the running water. You had to stop him, grabbing the bottle back from him and laughing as he tried to defend himself. “I said I wanted a bubble bath!” he cried out, making you alternate between laughing and shushing him as you put the bottle back outside the bath before leaning against the other side of the tub, resting your arms on the edges and looking across at him with a fake playful glare. “You’re so far away,” he whined when he finally switched focus away from the bubbles, giving you the saddest puppy dog eyes he could manage as bubbles quickly began to fill the tub.

“Then come ‘ere,” you replied, patting the slowly rising water between your legs, and he obliged, sliding over so he was resting between your legs and laying back against your chest. Both of you just sat in silence for a while, letting the water rise until it was foaming at your chests – then, you stopped the water before wrapping your arms around Roger’s neck from behind, just resting there lazily with him.

“God, I’m tired,” he murmured, resting his head back on your shoulder as he closed his eyes, relaxing more. “You’re such a good pillow.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me now, blondie, I can’t carry you back to the bed,” you laughed softly, kissing his temple as he groaned softly, not wanting to move because of how warm it was. And you knew the feeling – the warmth of the water enveloping the two of you was lulling you off into drowsiness, the bubbles only adding to the sensation as you watched them rise and fall against Roger’s chest with every movement of yours, the action causing a few bubbles to gather on his skin and making him glisten.

“Can you wash my hair again? It felt nice,” he mumbled, pressing a quick, lazy kiss to your jawline as he waited for your confirmation. When you affirmed the question, he slowly sat up a bit and hummed in appreciation as you grabbed his shampoo from the edge of the tub, putting some in your hands before methodically lathering it into his golden tresses.

“You like that, sleepyhead?” you asked, smiling when he nodded and sunk down into the water to rinse his head off. Popping back up after a few moments, you’d already retrieved his conditioner and you squirted an appropriate amount into your hand before starting to massage that into his hair, gaining another appreciative grunt from him. He leaned into your touch as you ran your fingers through his hair, gently pulling through knots and making sure you’d distributed the product to his liking. You knew he was partial about his hair, so you took extra care to make sure it was in there right before you patted his shoulder, letting him sink down to rinse it out again while you shampooed and rinsed your own hair.

“You’re a saint,” he said after resurfacing, turning around so he was cross-legged and facing you. When he saw that you were conditioning your hair already, he pouted a bit and reached out to help you, pushing your hands out of the way. “I could have returned the favor.”

“S’okay, Rog, I don’t love you any less for it,” you giggled softly, watching him smile sleepily a bit as he helped work the last of the product into your hair before you dipped it below the water again, rinsing it off and wringing it out when you returned to a sitting position.

Roger was still watching you when you opened your eyes, albeit sleepily, and the dreamy glazed look in his baby blues made you blush lightly as you grabbed a small handful of bubbles, pressing it to his nose. He chuckled, doing the same for you, then leaned in for a quick, messy kiss before he was resting between your legs again, just leaning forward against you this time and resting his face in the crook of your neck.

“You’re not mad at me for making the floor dirty, are you?” he mumbled into your neck as you pulled the drain stopper string up with your feet, letting the water start to drain.

“I mean, I’ll probably be mad tomorrow, but right now? No,” you murmured, nuzzling his hair and rubbing his back as you closed your eyes, relishing in the last few moments of peace before you had to get him dressed and to bed while ignoring his drunk flirting. You’d been with Roger for several years now and it never failed – every time he came home drunk, he’d always flirt with you like it was the first time he’d ever met you. It was a cute quirk, a bit annoying sometimes when he’d had too much to drink, but you hadn’t gotten tired of it yet.

When the water had finally drained, you stopped rubbing his back and gently squeezed his side to indicate that it was time to get up, which was met with a series of whines and protests from him as he crawled to his feet, climbing out of the tub with you and grabbing a towel to dry himself off. You did the same, moving out of reach of where he could towel snap you as you made your way back to the bedroom.

And of course, he followed, wolf whistling when you opened the closet and pulled out a baggy shirt of his to wear. “Look at you,” he said in a sing-song tone, resting his hands on your hips from behind and trying to make you sway with him as you only rolled your eyes playfully, handing him a pair of boxers and gently nudging him away.

“I’ve got a boyfriend, thank you,” you replied, pulling on the baggy shirt before retrieving a pair of underwear and tugging those on as well. He took the hint, moving over to dry his hair as he only looked at you from afar with a sly smile, watching you braid your hair in the mirror as his unbelievably loud hair dryer probably woke up the whole complex.

“I’ll be your boyfriend, baby,” he said after he’d gotten his hair dried, trying to saunter over to you seductively but only getting an eye roll and a nod towards the bed. “Oh, straight to the bed? You’re naughty.”

“Roger, shut up,” you laughed, climbing under the covers and pulling them back for him as he slunk in next to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close. Both of you smelled heavenly, Roger taking a deep inhale as he smiled pleasantly, burying his face in your neck again and snuggling close. You pulled the covers over the both of you, wrapping an arm around him lazily as you felt sleep quickly overtaking the both of you.

As if on cue, Roger yawned to confirm the heavy weight already pressing on him, but just as you were dozing off, you could hear Roger murmur softly. “Do you love me?”

“Yes, Rog.”

Silence. “Okay, good. G’night.”

“Goodnight, Rog.”

More silence, then another murmur. “Oh, I love you too.”

“That’s wonderful, babe.”

An immediate reaction from him this time. “That didn’t sound very sincere. Say it back.”

“I just said it.”

“Say it!”

“Oh my god, Roger, I love you, go to sleep!”

A final silence. “Love you too.”

“Jesus Christ.”

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underthewingsofthblackeagle · 5 years

Text

The Murderess of the Grunewald (26): Preparing for War (2)

“Victory column Berlin” by LoboStudioHamburg

Notice: With this chapter, we return to the preparations Jamie makes for Claire's defense while she stays in the Women’s Detention Center in Berlin-Moabit, waiting for her trial. Chronologically this chapter follows directly after chapter 18.

Six months ago. The evening after Jamie’s fourth Attorney’s visit to Claire in prison.

Previous Chapter

Previously

“Tessa reminded Jamie that the next day at 10:30 am, the telephone conference with Prof. Dr. Nerz was scheduled and that she had reserved for him and David de Koning a table at the Ferenc’s for that evening. He had three hours left by that time. However, he should plan at least half an hour of driving time because the traffic news had predicted a traffic jam for the inner city. Just another visit of just another foreign head of state in Berlin. Nothing new. Jamie thanked her and sat down at his desk. He looked out of the large panoramic window towards the Great Star. Twilight had already set in and soon the illumination of the Victory Column would start. Anyone who knew the history of the monument knew that it was not just a monument of victory after a war. It was a constant reminder of the wrestling of this nation for its liberty and its unity. First in the Liberation Wars against Napoleon from 1813 - 1815, then in the Wars of Unification between 1864 - 1871. For Jamie, it was also a synonym for the resilience with which this country had fought for its reunification the 40 years after World War II. He loved the view from his office because there was something encouraging about the monument. And that encouragement he needed very much. Right now, when he had to prepare a ‘war’ - when it was necessary to ‘muster’ his weapons and his troops.”

“Kaffeehaus” by jpeter2

A few minutes after 6:00 pm, Jamie arrived at the "Ferenc's". He gave his name to the receptionist and said he had reserved a table. The waiter led him into the side room and up the stairs that led to the gallery, called the “Belle Etage”. When David de Koning saw him, he rose from the table and greeted him. The waiter took a step back. As Jamie and David sat down, then he pointed to the menus on the table and to the little button that was attached to the parapet of the gallery beside the table by which they could ring the waiter. Jamie thanked the man. Then he and de Koning exchanged a few words and delved into the menus. Jamie chose the South Tyrolean spinach dumplings with leek and white wine sauce and sparkling water.

"No Wiener Schnitzel?" de Koning asked, frowning.

"No, but if you like to ... you know, the bill is on me."

The guest did not think twice. When the waiter returned, he ordered Lamb‘s lettuce with pumpkin seed oil as an appetizer, a Wiener Schnitzel (of course of the full-cream calf) with potato-cucumber salad as the main course and as a dessert Apricot dumplings in walnut butter with raspberry foam. He would have liked to have chosen a glass of wine from the top list of Austrian winemakers offered by Ferenc’s, but unfortunately, he had to drive home by car. So de Koning ordered table water.

"Well, what's up, Jamie?" de Koning asked in a whisper as the waiter left.

"The prosecution has ..." began Jamie in a normal volume.

"Psst! Jamie! Not so loud! "

De Koning looked at him in dismay before carefully looking around in all directions.

"What? Do you mean we are being monitored?" Fraser asked, slightly amused. Then he plucked at the tablecloth, picked it up and looked under the table.

"Well, I don’t see any eavesdropping devices here. Do you?"

"Jamie!"

De Koning looked around carefully again.

"Ah, maybe there's a bug here in the flower vase!"

Jamie plucked the dried flower bouquet from the small white porcelain vase that stood on the table between him and de Koning.

"Oh no! Also empty!"

With a big grin, Fraser showed de Koning the empty vase.

"No one there who wants to overhear us!"

"Jamie!"

"David! We are in Berlin-Mitte, not in Chicago or the Bronx! So, do you want to know something about the case or not?"

De Koning looked a little frustrated, but then unpacked his little black notebook and nodded.

"Why do you think I’m here?"

"Because of the good and above all free food ..."

Jamie grinned and earned another sour look from de Koning.

"The prosecution has filed an indictment, my client is in custody. I doubt that the accusations will stand the test. Some of them are built on very, very shaky ground - but you will not write that!"

"I'm not stupid, Fraser!"

Instead of answering, Jamie looked meaningfully at the small white porcelain vase.

David de Koning pretended that he did not understand the allusion.

"Does your client deny the charge?"

"100 percent. She is innocent, completely innocent and we will prove that."

"But if she didn’t kill her husband, who did it? Her husband is dead and he was obviously murdered. He has hardly inflicted the numerous, severely bleeding wounds ion himself."

"We don’t know who killed Professor Randall. But one thing is sure: it was not his widow."

"But …."

Before de Koning could ask another question, two waiters came and served the food. The journalist pocketed his notebook.

“Marillenknödel” by RitaE

The two men started to eat.

"Ah, this Schnitzel is truly delicious. You don’t know what you're missing, Jamie."

"Thanks, I'm very happy with the dumplings. I don’t like to eat heavy dishes in the evening."

They teased each other back and forth about the food for some more minutes, then Jamie redirected the conversation back to the subject.

"My client doesn’t know who did this to her deceased husband. She certainly had no reason for it."

"Really? It is rumored that her husband had a girlfriend?"

"Even if that had been so, wouldn’t it be more obvious that my client had killed this woman and not her husband?"

"Well, there are voices that say, that the husband had a not inconsiderable fortune and perhaps, your client didn't want to miss such an inheritance?"

"My client has her own assets. Her uncle was a very well known British archaeologist, and Egyptologist, who taught at Oxford for many years. She was his only heir. In no case was she ever dependent on her husband's money,”

"Then maybe it was pure revenge? She just wanted to get rid of that old jerk?"

“Chirurg” by marionbrun

"My client is a doctor. She has sworn an oath to save lives, to heal lives, not to take life."

"Well, just because she is a doctor, even a surgeon, means nothing, but she would have the know-how ... You have certainly read newspaper reports in which she is credited with the act just because ..."

"I can assure you that my client is not capable of such low emotions."

"Uhhh, big words, Mr. Lawyer!" said de Koning. "One could think, you're married to the lady, or at least dating her!"

Then he stuffed his last apricot dumpling in his mouth. He rubbed his stomach with relish and, addressing Jamie, said:

"Who knows what other colleagues from the rest of the press are digging up ... Are you really sure that not someday something will come up from somewhere? Couldn’t somebody show up in court and get talking? Maybe a neighbor, a friend, a hotel clerk witnessed a fight or something else?"

"Whoever should crawl out of whatever hole, to throw dirt on my innocent client, he or she must know that we will prosecute every slander, every false statement, and every incumbent claim under criminal and civil law."

"You will claim for damages?"

"Of course! My client is a graduate of irreproachable reputation. Every slanderer must know that slander is expensive. She's a respected surgeon, and if she loses her reputation or job because of such slander, someone will pay for it. You can count on it."

"What does it mean that you will let those allegations persecute? Don't you do that yourself?"

"No. In this case, we have appointed a distinguished lawyer whose law firm specializes in media law. I intend to concentrate entirely on the defense of my client. "

"Surely I can write that?" asked de Koning, knowing what Jamie's answer would be.

"Of course."

Two waiters came, cleared the dishes and asked if they could bring anything else. Jamie ordered water for himself and de Koning and asked for the bill.

"And what about the ... exclusive interview?" asked de Koning. He deliberately kept this question until the end. If Jamie had to tell him that his client would refuse, then at least this news would not spoil his meal.

"What exclusive interview?" Jamie asked, frowning.

"You know exactly what exclusive interview, you pettifogger!"

"Oh, the ... exclusive interview with the magazine U-Turn ... Hmmm, let me think."

"Fraser"

“Notizbuch” by tookapic

De Koning pounded nervously on the table with his black notebook.

"This is the decision of my client ... she decided to do this interview, unfortunately ..."

De Koning's eyes widened.

"What has your client decided unfortunately?”

"Unfortunately she has decided ... to give this completely new and unknown online magazine in Berlin ... this exclusive interview."

"Yeah!"

De Koning beamed and thumped his fist on the table.

"David!" Jamie said in a whisper and pointed wide-eyed at the small white porcelain vase: "Pull yourself together! The Stasi officer who monitors us gets eardrum twitching! They will sue you for bodily harm and I have to bail you out again!"

Both started laughing loudly and it was obvious that David de Koning's laughter was a liberating laugh.

"How did you do that? How did you convince her?" the journalist asked.

"That, my good friend, falls under the lawyer's duty of secrecy. But seriously. I will work out an agreement in the next few days that my client and you will sign. Then all’ is wrapped up. You know, I expect U-Turn to be neutral."

De Koning nodded.

"For sure. We will do that ... I promised you. Just ..."

"Just?"

"Jamie, don’t misunderstand me ... you're pretty sure she's innocent, but who tells you that there aren’t any skeletons in her closet, coming out someday?"

"David, trust me, I know you have a reputation to lose, but I assure you - she is innocent, and I promise you that I will pay for anything if U-Turn suffers any financial harm because you help me."

"It's ... it's not that I don’t trust you, Fraser. We've been working together for too long, but ... such a big thing ..."

"We've never worked on such a big thing together before, I know, but that will not change anything, it will not be easy, we'll have some tough months ahead of us, but believe me, I'll do anything to make this whole thing a success - for my client, for me and you."

"When do we meet to sign the agreement - and especially where?"

"In a week? I call you. I'll call you as soon as I've finalized the agreement and discussed it with my client. "

"But she will not ... but still, jump off?"

"No, no. That deal is sealed."

"Ok, I trust you, Jamie."

"And I trust you, David. You send me the first article as a pdf on my phone?"

"Yeah, we'll release only if you agree."

He nodded in agreement. They got up, went downstairs and Jamie paid the bill. They said goodbye at the entrance, then they went to their cars.

“Parkplatz” by kaboompics

When Jamie wanted to go to bed three hours later, his smartphone made a beep. He tapped the display and saw that David de Koning had sent an email with an attachment. He opened the attachment and read:

#TheMurderessfromtheGrunewald #Outlander #Outlander Fan Fiction #Claire Beauchamp #Claire Randall #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Adso the cat #Bismarck the dachshund #Germany #Berlin #Grunewald #Crime AU #Modern AU

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