#In the first film he was like calm and cool detective | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

americxn · 3 years

Note

Can I request Smut headcanons where reader is a detective and tries to seduce JPM to get information, but she el punished for being nosy.

Marked (JPM x GN!Reader)

alternative (more exciting) fic:

these aren’t really headcanons but we move

also, @undeadcortez very recently posted a fic titled deadly consequences that I would 1000% recommend reading as a general fic rec, but I also just wanted to mention it because I feel like I kinda followed a smiliar mood so please go read it!

warnings: hickeys, spanking, not full smut but still NSFW wordcount: 2.4k

James knew your game from the moment you first set foot in his hotel, your feigned innocence providing him with endless amusement. Under the guise of a temporarily homeless student needing a place to stay whilst your downtown apartment underwent lengthy renovations, you had booked a room on the fifth floor of the Cortez for seven weeks; of course this was all fabricated: you were an established detective, having graduated from college five years earlier and having been assigned a job looking into the recent disappearances at the Hotel Cortez. The disappearances were perplexing, even to you; five people had gone missing over the span of a month, their bodies undetectable. And hotel owner, James Patrick March, was at the top of your list of suspicions.

However, one month into your secret investigation had gotten you pretty much nowhere; James, a very private man, had only granted you with two meetings in the hotel’s bar, appearing for no more than ten minutes before excusing himself, leaving you with the barmaid, Liz. This, although incredibly disheartening, was perhaps the only thing that got you to the point that you were currently at now: working up the courage to knock on the door to James’ room for the date that Liz had set you and James up on.

Your nerves were overwhelming, the mounting anxiety that you would fuck this up and lose James’ recently ignited interest in you plaguing your mind as you rapped your knuckles on the hard wood of the door, your breath catching as it swung open almost immediately. You pushed down the flutters of pleasant delight that joined the nervous butterflies filling your stomach at the sight of him, glorious in his usual finery, a smile of genuine pleasure at your appearance growing on his pale face. Leading you inside with a warm greeting, he directed you to your seat at the long dining table in the centre of the room, his personal maid, Hazel Evers, nowhere to be seen. You keep your grimace hidden as you beheld the plate of steaming food already placed before your seat, your nerves reluctant to allow you to eat.

The dim light of the candles cast soft shadows across James’ face, the pale planes of his defined facial structure falling into shadow as you dined together, your glass of wine never empty as he took it upon himself to refill it for you, again and again. He provided pleasant company, and beneath your mask of growing romantic attraction with the man, you were secretly tucking every piece of personal information he offered you, which was limited, into a back pocket of your mind.

Hours passed, your eyes growing heavy from the copious amounts of wine you had consumed; you silently cursed yourself as a light film of alcohol induced bliss settled over, fogging your mind and softening the usually blunt edges of your conscious.

You weren’t sure how it happened, but when James offered you a cigarette, you stood from your seat, seizing the opportunity and slinking over to him, plucking the one he was smoking from between his lips, pushing away his empty plate and perching on the edge of the table in front of him. His eyes glowed with a newfound hunger as you gazed down at him, taking a deep drag of his cigarette before passing it back to him. Lifting your legs up, you rested your feet on the edge of his chair at either side of his thighs, your breath hitching when his cool fingers settled around your ankles, encircling them in a light hold.

Your feigned confidence manifested in a small smirk curving your lips in response to the eager glint in his dark eyes as you leant in slightly, cocking your head before asking a potentially dangerous question: “How do you feel about all those recent disappearances in the news? Has it affected business at all?”

James surveyed you carefully, the room falling silent as you waited for his answer, heart thundering. “I was wondering when you’d ask.” Was all he said, his lithe fingers tightening their grip on your ankles, pulling you off the edge of the table with a strong tug. You fell onto his lap with a gasp, James’ hands moving from your ankles to your lower back, holding you to him. You mulled over his words, trying to sort through all the possible hidden meanings that his tone, thoughtful and dark, presented. His body heat leeched into you with your close proximity, his eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t place as he brought his face closer to yours. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

His lowly spoken words drew your heart to a sudden halt, the muscles in your thighs braced on either side of James’ legs tensing up. He seemed to track the small changes in your body, his breath soaked with the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey as his smile turned positively predatory.

“You can report me as being the culprit, but I can promise that it’ll do no good.” You drew away from him, your back arching as you tried to pull away, his hold on your back unwavering, not allowing you to move so much as an inch. “You knew?” You ventured reluctantly, a sense of dread settling over you as his tone fell utterly calm, his eyes never leaving yours as he reached up, running the knuckle of a cold finger down the side of your warm face. He offered a hum of confirmation, his finger trailing along your jaw and to your chin, forcing your head to lift slightly. “You were playing with me.” You concluded aloud, your voice unsteady as the fearful realisation settled over you. “Of course I was. I was made aware of your prying intentions from the moment that you stepped foot into my hotel.”

“I’m sorry.” You breathed in an immediate response, still trying in vain to break away from his close hold. “I’ll leave and just say that I didn’t find anything, I’m not -” you were silenced when James moved his hands to your upper thighs, pulling you roughly to him and bringing his face uncomfortably close to yours. “Are you really so bad of a detective that you resorted to attempting to seduce me for information?” His voice was close to a sneered growl, his hot breath fanning over your face as he spoke. At your injured silence, his words highlighting some unrecognised truth within you, he tutted, pushing you off his lap and abruptly standing, taking ahold of your wrists and forcing you across the room and through the open doorway into his bedroom.

James was meticulous in extracting his punishment, ripping the clothes off your body whilst you merely stood there, staring at him, transfixed and not at all reluctant to do as he ordered as he pushed your newly naked body on his bed. The smell of him clinging to the deep scarlet sheets was intoxicating and you lie there, gazing up at him. He scolded you when you tried to cover your modesty, reaching down to pry your hands away from your body, positioning them over your head and ordering you to keep them there.

“You’re sinful.” He whispered roughly and you nodded, agreeing with his comment with renewed desperation. “Keep your arms above your head.” You blinked at him, but did as he asked. Satisfied with your obedience, James took ahold of your legs, pulling you roughly to the edge of the bed, positioning your feet against the floor on either side of his body as he lowered his head to the base of your throat, his hair brushing pleasantly against your collarbones. His lips were soft and warm as he pressed several kisses to your skin, drawing a trail up the column of your throat to your chin. You followed his movements by tipping your head back slightly further with each kiss as he progressed up your neck, allowing him better access and silently inviting him to use his teeth to mark you.

As soon as his lips had completed their journey to your jaw, skimming against the bottom of your chin, he pulled away, denying you the full kiss to your lips that you craved. He kept eye contact with you as he moved down your body slightly, his lips latching onto your ribs and proceeding to give them the same treatment that he had just forced your neck to endure. This time, he allowed his teeth to graze against your skin as he travelled from one side of your torso to the other, goosebumps forming in his wake, chasing after his touch.

You couldn’t help but groan when he pressed his nose to the space just beneath your breasts, his hot tongue finally coming into contact with your skin as he kitten licked his way up to chest. From above him, your own eyes were clenched shut, your mouth slightly parted as you forced yourself to keep your hands above your head. All you wanted to do was weave your fingertips into the dark strands of his hair but you knew that in doing so, you risked upsetting James and cutting this intimate exchange short. Using his tongue, he softly traced the area of skin where your ribs sloped down to meet your torso, tracing and licking back and forth.

James continued his thorough exploration of your body, skimming his warm lips along your abdomen, past your bellybutton and to one of your hips. You hissed softly when he bit down on your skin, simultaneously latching his lips onto you and sucking harshly. He moved back and forth between your hips, painting them in turn with blotchy, deep red marks, the sensation becoming slightly more painful as his brutal onslaught on your skin continued. His bites and kisses become increasingly more intense, his teeth closing tighter around your skin with each nip, eventually becoming hard enough to draw blood, leaving you squirming and whimpering beneath him.

You were temporarily relieved when James pulled away, straightening and gazing across the marked planes of your trembling body with cruel excitement. That relief was short lived, however, when he took ahold of your torso, his strength unfathomable as he flipped you over with ease, placing his hands on your hips and pulling your ass up into the air, your knees scrambling to gain purchase on the edge of the bed, your back beginning to ache immediately with the strain of maintaining the compromising form he roughly positioned you into. The sheets were warmed by your own body heat against your cheek as you turned your head to the side, glancing behind you to see James taking in the view you presented him with, his dark eyes ravenous.

“What are you doing?” You squeaked, your trepidation growing when James rubbed a warm palm across the curve of your bare ass fully displayed to him. “What? Did you think that this would be fun for you?” He crooned, allowing his nails to drag painfully across your sensitive skin. You winced, turning your head and burying it into the sheets as you braced yourself for what was sure to come next. “You look so much prettier with my marks all over his skin.” He mused quietly, the words causing you to shiver in anticipation as you awaited the harsh impact of his palm that he was sure to land on your feverish skin. When it came, you still shrieked, the force that he used unexpectedly brutal, the crack of his hand against your skin echoing around the large room.

He gave you no time to recover, instead landing another, equally hard slap to the other side of your ass, establishing a cruel routine of alternating between cheeks, each hit more jarring as he worked to increase the sensitivity of your skin, causing a light burn to spread across the entirety of your ass, tears pricking at your clenched shut eyes, squeezing out from behind your lids and soaking into James’ sheets beneath you; he had one hand hooked under you, placed flat against your abdomen to prevent your ass from shying away from the palm of his hand, his rings a cold impact against your soft skin, only emphasising the pain and leaving you a trembling, sobbing mess before him, waves of nausea rolling through you as James inflicted his punishment on you, any arousal that his lips had built dissipating more and more with each collision of his palm on your smouldering skin, the noises he drew from you utterly satisfying to you ears.

With his brutal onslaught of your ass completed, James leant in licking a wet stripe from the top of your thigh, up your scorching skin to the plateau of your lower back, landing one final hit on one cheek whilst attaching his teeth to the other, sucking a deep purple mark onto your already brutalised skin.

You collapsed onto your side as he pulled away, admiring his handiwork, your ass glowing with welts from where his rings had hit, pulling small raised marks up onto your burning skin. You watched as he stooped, gathering up all your clothes and bundling them under one arm, making a show of tucking your underwear into his breast pocket with a flourish before stepping away from you. He reached into the pocket of your jeans, locating your key card for your room on the fifth floor and chucking it onto the bed beside you.

“You can find your own back to your room. I’ll be expecting your next visitations to collect these.” He explained wickedly, gesturing to your clothes in his hold, throwing a self-satisfied smirk your way before turning on his heel and exiting the room. You stared after him in disbelief before shooting up, calling his name as he disappeared into the other room.

By the time you had stumbled after him, every inch of your body aching following his rough assault on your body, he was gone. It took you at least twenty minutes to work up the courage to leave the room, racing through the halls to get to your floor, the cool air of the hotel soothing your minor injuries as you barrelled barefoot down hallway after hallway, deciding to take the stairs. Thankfully, the late hour meant that the corridors were blessedly empty and no one was around to worsen your humiliation, much to James’ disappointment, who silently trailed you back to your room, the echo of your hotel door slamming and the following click of the lock making him chuckle.

Taglist: @kitwalker02 @three-eyed-snail @forevercountess @kitwalkerangel @milly-louise @thecountessesglove @undeadcortez @kitwalker64 @samsassinparvismagna @xmaximoffic @divineruler @liandav @tatesweaterweather @evanmybeloved @tatelangdonsupremacist @ikkleroniekins

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dantelionwishes · 3 years

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you've activated my TRAP CARD: ACTOR AU

hikari kamino

horror genre movie actor!

has played several roles such as: the badass side character (TM), a paranormal detective's assistant, part of a main teen cast, final girl, and even a slasher! (HER HEIGHT IS INFAMOUS)

her height is very VERY real and so she gets cast as the antagonist quite often

has roles in movies similar in genre to slasher films, or stuff like psychological horror, or even plain old demon/ghost/monster movies

started out young as a child actress who was a possessed kid and she gained popularity from there

"have you tried getting a prosthetic on your face that is meant to be chopped off and bleed on-screen? have you tried walking in a heavy, hulking costume you can barely see or walk in while carrying another actor?"

she's so used to dark and broody sets that she jokes about how the bright and lively atmosphere of this series is so foreign to her

loved the wig so much she put red streaks in her hair

she's so used to being so scary and intimidating and chasing away her fellow cast members that she ends up stuttering her lines cos she literally has no idea how she ended up with this role (good thing the stuttering is in character, they end up keeping it)

actually pretty calm and scary, I'd imagine it's hard to approach her knowing she can easily pic you up or scare you half to death

makoto shiba

stand-up comedian!

bro they didn't have to audition HAHAHAHA they were selected for a role cos they were such a popular comedian

that acting? nah dude that's not acting that's just them 😭😭😭

likes doing instagram/facebook live when they get the makeup on them

DYED THEIR HAIR FOR THE ROLE COS HELL YEAH

probably does pranks on set (IM TELLING YOU ITS JUST. THE SAME)

childhood sweethearts with moa's actress and convinced the directors to make them kiss kiss fall in love

the most active one on social media for sure

just imagine john mulaney LITERALLY JUST REPLACE EVERY SCREENSHOT OF HIM WITH THEM AND THAT'S IT THATS THEM ALRIGHT

MOST OF THEIR LINES ARE JUST THEM CRACKING JOKES AND IT'S 100% OFF SCRIPT BUT ITS SO FUNNY THE DIRECTORS KEEP IT 💀💀💀💀💀

A lot of bloopers of them spouting different lines for the same scene HABSNWNEJ TOO MANY JOKES UP THEIR SLEEVE

probably really REALLY good at voice acting

osamu sato

popular romance actor!

VERY VERY VERY CHARISMATIC he's practically sparkling when he speaks and gives everyone bisexual panic

so him needing to be a scary strict teacher came outta nowhere

pretty boy who always comes out with a high ranking on most dateable/hottest bachelor

watch fans riot when they literally hide his face 24/7 with sato's mask LMAOOOOOOO

and all the piercings are fake HAHAHAHSH

closeted bisexual who had a LOT of roles starring as the main male bachelor to be paired with a female for a love team

got the role and was surprised his character was engaged with the series' all might so yes all their lovey dovey stuff was acting.......at FIRST

its revealed that toshinori actually picked sato's actor for all might's fiance cos he fancied him 😳😳😳

sato has a rule to never date co-workers from his romance movie roles but ...toshinori isn't from any of his romance movies 😏

paparazzi found them in a bar after hours once

miss me

famous idol/singer!

you know how miss me doesnt have a lot of content compared to the other three? haha HDSHGRSFG WATCH ME MAKE AN ACTOR AU EXPLANATION WHY

she's a very very very famous a-list idol/artist so the studio cant actually pay her so much for every single appearance she makes HAHJDGHJRF

imagine it like. lil nas x on a television show for a cameo every now and then or how nicki minaj was sugilite ONCE on steven universe HHGRJDGR

speaking of lil nas x she's probably popular AND infamous also because she really is trans and disabled! she fights for her rights and the haters hate her all the while she gets more and more popular from her very cool representative songs

does a lot of charity concerts

if there was an opening song and ending song, it's most likely she had performed them herself as part of her new album

#TAKE TWO #now with art because fuck you guys /lh #Osamu Sato sensei #miss me sensei #Hikari kamino #makoto shiba #bnha oc comeback #lionhe(art)#when was the last time I fucking drew im gonna cry DJHJHRJJFHHJGT #actor au

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

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Murder, He Wrote

Part 1

Co-written with @southerngracela

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween… When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela for @jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide.

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone.

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but, not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood.

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you.

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room.

The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

“Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat.

“Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall.

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne.

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize.” You bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination.

Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Alongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby.

You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath. And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his.

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes. With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet.

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system.

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness.

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand. His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you, Sweetheart? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did.

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even,

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out three vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end.

The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** Part 2

#murder he wrote #j's haunted house 2020 #dark ransom #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #reader insert #chris evans #chris evans characters

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antigoneidk · 3 years

Text

can't help falling in love|t.h.

summary: when words can't speak enough, songs will do

pairing: tom holland × reader

words: 2k

a/n: well I think we all fell in love with this Tom right? I mean who wouldn't??? Wish more of that content cause I'm a sucker for him..

"Over yours tonight?"

"Yes. Bring your guitar too."

"We're about to have fun tonight."

"As we always do!"

And when it was just the two of you, you always had a great time. The chemistry that had been developed between you and Tom was indescribable and everyone seemed jealous of what you have created. It was amazing how much two people can connect, two different souls in such a little period.

You loved your little secret "rendezvous" as you liked to call them. He'd come to your place, or you'd go to his, sip wine and talk for hours and hours about everything. From how the world was created, to how your nail broke, or the way some theories of very famous scientists may be wrong, or how his brothers crashed his car without him knowing, even analyze the way social media work, or begging him to show you videos of the set for his upcoming film. Maybe you'd complain about how early you have to wake up the next day and he'd make fun of you before he realizes that he's going to wake up as early as you. And you'd beg him to stay, or the opposite.

And after that, you'd grab your guitars and play until you fall asleep on the couch.

He looked so handsome concentrated on not losing any chord, not ruin the melody. His brown eyes focusing on the strings, his fingers following the sound in his mind, his body relaxed, and his ears longing for your voice.

How he adored listening to your angelic voice. He couldn't explain the way his heart melted with the sweet sound of yours, his stomach filling with butterflies, his mind following the heart on this chaotic, exciting, endless road. He didn't know if he was in love or not. It was confusing inside his head. He never knew what falling in love means, the symptoms are different from one person to another. But he was only looking forward to the time he'd have to spend with you, the feeling of enthusiasm getting stronger as the day went by. He knew that you were the only one that could bring the peace he searched for, it was you that brought those feelings that he wanted to see for himself. He admitted once that he wished you'd be more than just his close friend to himself. Yet, the fear of losing you was massive and your presence in his life was more important than his feelings. So the only way was to push them to the side.

You knocked on his doorbell and fixed your guitar on your shoulder while waiting for the door to open. You looked down at your shoes noticing how dirty they got but as you were about to somehow clean them with your hand, you heard the door open and your eyes met his.

"Hi," you said cheerfully leaving the guitar to your side and wrapping your hands around his shoulder. His familiar scent came to your nose, your eyes closing for a moment enjoying his smell, but also the sensation of his arms tightening around your waist.

"Hey, beautiful" he mumbled softly and let go of you. "How are you?" he asked grabbing your guitar and closing the door behind you.

"Now that I am here I'm so much better" you confessed. "Oh, you didn't wait for me to help" you complained seeing that everything was already prepared for you.

"Why would I need help?" he asked.

"Because...I am your friend and you don't have to do all of these for me"

"But what happens if I want to do all of these for you?"

You stared back at him without any answer to his question. You tried to read his face, understand if he was joking or not. If he was playing with your feelings or if he was just completely clueless. His puppy eyes nearly convincing your heart that everything was true, your mind shouting to not believe this. It was a battle happening right in front of you, however, you stood still and did nothing.

"I'm pretty sure you do not so stop saying things you don't mean and let's go drink"

____________________

"But she fell in love with him Tom. She was happier than ever. She was willing to be there for him for the rest of her life, she stood by his side through everything, his madness, his anger, his sadness, his happiness-"

"He was suffering y/n-"

"If he loved her enough-"

"Do you know how is it feel to be stuck on a chair and not move even a single finger? No matter how big your love is for someone, sometimes you're losing the fight" Tom sipped his last drop of wine and looked back at you.

"If we were in this position, would you die just like him? Even if you loved me more than anything?" you questioned.

"I seriously have no idea y/n"

"I'd live for you Tom" normally you wouldn't admit this, the wine gave you the courage though to do so. "If I was William in that stupid chair, I would want to live with you for the rest of eternity" you glanced at him meaning every word you just said. Your love for him was like no other and for sure knew that you were more than willing to move every mountain to be with him forever.

"Stop saying things you don't mean y/n" he copied your words and grabbed your guitar from the floor, unsure if he should play it cool or say something more.

"You are not romantic babe" you played it off resting your hand on the couch and placing your head at the top of it while waiting for Tom to tune the guitar. "Also I was thinking of something today while I was working"

"You were thinking again?" he asked sarcastically.

"You piece of...give me that" you laughed and took the guitar in your hands."So, as I was saying, I was thinking that maybe today you should sing with me"

"Are you drunk?" Tom asked you disagreeing already with the idea you had in mind.

"What?"

"You know that I can't sing and even if it wasn't for that I would never sing with you"

"Why?" it felt kinda offending hearing those words as you didn't know why he felt that way.

"You have the voice of an angel y/n. I'm never gonna sing with you 'cause you'll hear how bad I sound and we don't want this trust me" he pulled his guitar close to him and smiled in your direction.

"I heard you singing before and you sound incredible so cut the excuses and follow me okay?" you didn't wait for any of his complaints. You started playing the song you imagined singing with him all day. The first reason being the fact that it was an easy song to play and sing. The second reason was the lyrics of it.

"Wise men say

Only fools rush in.." you began singing.

"Come on Tom..but I can't help falling in love with you" you continued hearing only whispers.

"Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin... I can't hear you

If I can't help falling in love with you"

Tom gained some courage and started singing louder. He didn't want to be unable to hear you, it was the thing his heart desired. But your expression, your eyes wide open begging him to join you. He could resist to them ever.

And the lyrics.

"Like a river flows

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be.."

You both stared at each other as you kept going. It felt more than just a song, more than just a famous melody. Those were words that none of you had the strength to say, not even dared to try. The fear of loss, the shyness of the last minute. You were saying to yourself that his teasing was just for fun, nothing more. Tom was doing the same. It wasn't complicated at all, but both your minds trapped in this maze, wouldn't detect the way out that was right in front of your eyes.

"Take my hand,

Take my whole life too

For I can't help falling in love with you..

For I can't help falling in love with you"

You bit your lip and positioned the guitar to your legs keeping eye contact with him. The silence in the room was comforting, calming. It definitely could say more than words.

Fuck it.

"I wish I could kiss you right now" Tom whispered under his breath, loud enough for you to listen. It was shocking. You blinked quite a few times doubtfully, assured that this was only a prank. But he was there looking at you, waiting for a reply. You were confused and he saw it too. His palms started sweating and his heartbeat increased in the blink of an eye. The voice inside him would stop yelling 'you screwed it' and his feeling got hurt quickly. He was ready to listen to you making fun of him, the plan that would break his heart in two. But your silence was currently the only thing he didn't want to. He searched for any signal on your face, even your body language but you were standing still as time had stopped.

"Then do it"

He didn't hesitate for long. He was dreaming after all. Because this wasn't the reality he lived for sure.

Fireworks, fireworks, fireworks.

He swore he heard them. The moment his lips captured yours he could hear those fireworks in his heart and ears. Bells were ringing and angels singing. Damn, I'm kissing one of them he thought. His right hand touched your neck deepening the kiss he was yearning for. Your lips in sync warm against his skin. His tongue over yours exploring your taste. Your perfume fueling his nose and brain, the butterflies dancing in their music now.

It was magical. The goosebumps all over your skin making it even more real. Heart about to explode, all of the happiness hitting throughout your body. It was happening and still, it seemed like a fantasy. You slowly touched his chest and moved upwards to his shoulders making sure that you were really touching him and not any of your pillows. The sensation of his lips in yours was so much better than your imagination. Perfectly made for kissing you and only you.

You broke the kiss and the brightest smile he ever saw was on your lips. The lips HE was kissing.

"Y/n you have no idea how bad I wanted this to happen" he touched your forehead and with his thumb started to draw small circles. A tear rolled from your eye and dropped to his hand.

"Why did it take you so long?" you asked and closed your eyes feeling his breath hitting the skin of your face and hands.

"Baby don't cry. Please" he murmured.

"I'm just happy you know. It's no longer a fantasy or a dream. It's real" you admitted with your shaky breaths making your work hard. But you couldn't care less at that moment.

"I was afraid of losing you y/n. What if you didn't feel the same way? How was I supposed to know?"

"You wouldn't lose me okay? I'm feeling the same way Tom" you carefully brought your fingers at the top of his lips and touched them as you dreamed to. "I'm yours. I'll always be yours."

**the movie mentioned was me before you

**the song they were singing was can't help falling in love by Elvis Presley

Thank you for reading❤

#tom holland #tom holland imagines #tom holland x #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland imagine #tom holland one shot #tom holland blurb #tomhollandxy/n #tomholllandsoft #tom holland guitar

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monsoonblooms12 · 3 years

Text

Sirimiri (Ethan Ramsey x f!MC)

Summary: Reminisces of their first meet from Ethan's POV. Based on OH Book 1 Chapter 1

Sirimiri: (Spanish) A light drizzle, a fine rain🌧

A/N: This is like a band-aid to the hearts I hurt with the Brydia fic on Sat. This is total fluff and has rains, so I hope this nonsense brings a smile to your faces🤎

A/N 2: The flashback portions are indented

Loads of thanks to the amazing @jamespotterthefirst for pre-reading! Love you🤎

If you enjoyed the story, please like it, leave a comment or reblog. Your feedback keeps me going🤎

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey X f!MC (Dr Pooja Sharma)

Word Count: around 1.8 K

Rating: General

Category: Fluff

Triggers: A few curse words (Just 1 or 2)

Prompts: @choicesaprilchallenge2021 Day 25: Bliss

A soft breeze blew through his dark brown hair as Ethan sat next to the window, reading one of those detective novels Pooja rambled about endlessly.

And, not that he would admit it to her in any way, he liked the storytelling. Pooja had told him that the stories were originally written for teens, so he was doubtful that it would appeal to him.

But the books had been written in a way that captured the attention of the old and young alike, breaking through the barriers of age.

As the rain began the rhythm of serenity in the background, he took the bookmark and placed it on page no. 45 of Incident on the Kalka Mail.

The rain was soft, gentle and refreshing. He envisioned her, sitting on Alex's couch, watching the rain as Alex played with Comet & Jenner. She was always fascinated by the rain, staring endlessly at it, and bearing that one dimpled smile he was a fan of.

He got up, went to the balcony, and leant on the railing. Occasional water droplets fell on his forehead and cheeks, making it an enjoyable experience.

His balcony bore a multi-chromatic view with the brown of the earthen pots, the green of the plantlets, splattered with occasional whites, pinks and blues of the vivid flowers. All of them planted by Pooja when she moved in here.

She bears the love of gardening in her traits, he thought. Ethan was amazed when he went to Panchmarhi for the first time and saw the vibrant garden her father had grown all around their house, making it majestic and serene at the same time.

Pooja came into his life like an unannounced shower of rain. Just like her arrival made his balcony's melancholy monochrome full of hues of colours, her love made his life multi-hued with the colours of emotions, feelings and care. Life was a bliss for every moment she spent with him.

One after the other, doors of memories opened. Memories that no matter how much he had strived to forget, refused to leave him. And at this moment, he was grateful for them. A light chuckle escaped him as he thought,

Their memories were as stubborn as both of them were.

Like pages of an old journal, remembrances presented themselves before him and he got lost in them, in her, as the rain accelerated from a drizzle to a mild downpour. But Ethan didn't leave his spot. He was too drenched in her to care about the rain.

Slowly the last pages of the memoir of his brain took him to the first day of their meet. A distant memory, but yet crystal clear before his blue orbs. Nothing was particularly significant on that day. Just another day of handling cases and dealing with petty interns.

But there was one. One person due to whom that day still stands atop the others in his life.

It really started like any other regular day. After taking Jenner for a walk, feeding him his Purina ProPlan and becoming the recipient of his numerous licks that brightened up his day, he got ready.

Get a Vienna at the Derry Roasters was his mental note for the morning.

The smooth cinnamon-y taste enamoured his taste buds, as he internally groaned at the sudden remembrance of what day it was.

This day, every year, was the one he dreaded the most.

Why? One would ask.

Because it was the day a fresh batch of petty interns came to test his patience.

Ugh. Mental eye roll.

That's why he made sure that he got his favourite coffee from his favourite coffee shop and grab on any last moments of solace before going to face the mad troupe.

The sun dazzled overhead, glaring at everyone under its blanket. Ethan's mind kept fluctuating between the medical cases and the agony of facing new interns. Step by step, he made his pace quicker, hoping to get to his office before any "fans" started pestering him.

Even today Ethan hated interns just as much as he did 3 years ago.

Or, did he? Oh, whom was he kidding?

His mind, still could not comprehend how, a single person, waltzed into his life and had such a profound effect in every sphere of his character, slowly, tactfully carving him into a new man.

A tolerant man.

Who knew how it felt to be loved.

Who knew how to love.

The two days, today and the first of her intern year, were such a stark contrast to each other.

The blazing sun vs. the drumming rain. The coldness of him vs. his warmness today. The frown of that day vs. the smile of today.

Two different worlds, two different times and two different circumstances.

How grateful he was to become the man he was today.

He still remembers the spontaneous name he called her that day.

That one nickname stuck as a token of his feelings all through the years.

Rookie.

When he called her Rookie that day, he meant it.

She was an intern, after all.

"Hey. Rookie. Get in here."

Ethan wasn't paying attention to her. He needed an accomplice and saw her, hence called her.

She had the eyes of a diagnostician, he collected. To notice a mild bruise on the patient on the first day of your residence, that too when you have just arrived is not something many would have been able to do.

He knew from personal experience, that half of them would have been complimenting him when there was goddamn patient to save.

He hated them.

But the first day jitters did get her after all. Her hand trembled with the scalpel in it.

And without much thought, he took it in his.

It was the first and last time he did that with an intern.

How foolish he was, Ethan realizes as he makes himself a cup of hot chocolate.

Nah, not quite as delicious as Poo's, but works.

She was an exception to every one of his rules.

He had made her an exception before even realizing it.

"...Sharma." He scoffed, fury rising through his veins.

Tossing back her ID, he went around, muttering just a single "Arrogant interns" as he heeled back to his office.

The faint mutter of her "What an asshole" had reached him, and he scoffed.

Why are all these interns the same?

He is marking the differences, he thinks.

The differences between how it was then, and how it is now.

The fury of "What an asshole" now subdued to a normal remark she teased him with, ending up in chuckles.

One of the most fascinating incidents, for him, was the Barbara episode.

He had tried being strict, pleasant, stubborn, but nothing, at all, had made her take the meds.

That is, until Pooja came, like the flick of a magic wand, and made her take them.

"What is the blood group of an author?"

"Type-O!"

Memory brightened with the stupid joke she had made with so much enthusiasm made him chuckle.

If there's something that hasn't changed, it's Pooja's sense of humour.

Ethan thought of going out for a walk. A pluvious shower spread a scotch-mist all around, and he thought against it.

Always during monsoons, Pooja made it a point to walk around the city, splashing and dancing in the rain, especially if the rain was a heavy downpour.

It reminded her of the eternal, melodious, torrential cloudbursts that enveloped the hills of Panchmarhi throughout the year.

And Ethan? He would be standing in the very same balcony he was moving towards now, watching her enjoy and feeling her enjoyment reciprocate in himself.

The film roll of reminiscences projected on the misty atmosphere as the vinyl played a harmonious melody of her laughter, the splashes of water and the pitter-patter of the raindrops.

The image is vivid in front of his eyes. He spots the faint dimples on her wet cheeks and his heart dances.

For a moment he forgot that it was just a picture cast by the projector of his encephalon.

Just like he was drenched in the rain, he was drenched in her love.

He had never felt all alive as he does at the moment.

He lets the mist envelop him, just like her memories enveloped his senses.

Relaxing against the cool air refreshing his skin and heart.

"You remembered?", Pooja asks, surprise and curiosity evident in her musical tone.

"Just paying attention." Again that dazzling smile appeared on his face and the dimpled one on hers.

If he had paid attention to his soul that day, he would have sensed the butterflies that erupted in his stomach.

He is still not sure why, or how he remembered her name when he had never made an effort to do so with any other intern, especially on their first day.

It's as if his mind knew that this name would become the jewel of his life, the beauty of his soul, and it stored it, kept it safely between the silken folds of memory.

The thunder crackled and the storm raged. Zeus must be having a good time up there, Ethan scoffed as he hurried indoors.

The thunderstorm was playing a fortissimo orchestra and amidst it, he failed to hear the repetitive chime of his phone on the night stand. It was when he saw the lit screen of the notorious cuboid, that he understood someone phoned.

It was Pooja. With 5 missed calls.

Fuck.

He called her back. It didn't even ring once before he heard her speak from the other side.

Ethan! Oh, God, I was fucking scared. Open the goddamn door!

He mentally smacked himself as he proceeded to the main entryway.

As soon as he heard the click, Jenner pounced up and down. He leapt upon him and licked him all over as Pooja entered, chuckling without a breath.

She loved her boys more than anything.

Once Jenner calmed down, he trotted off to the kitchen in search of any buffets Ethan would have arranged for him.

Pooja locked her arms around Ethan's neck, evidently worried, "Why were you not opening the door, E?"

Ethan brought her close, wrapping his arm around her waist, touching his forehead to her, which he knew would bring an instant calm over her elegant features.

Giving the most ravishing smile Pooja had ever seen, he whispered "Drowned in a certain someone's remembrances."

She gave him a playful wink, "Drowned in love, Dr Ramsey? Oh, What a Misery! My Intern Year Dr Ramsey would never..."

And they both chuckled. Intern Year Dr Ramsey would never.

Placing the most gentle kiss on her forehead, he locked her hand in his,

Let's get something to eat?

PS: Thank you so much for reading my mess and I hope you have a great day ahead🤎

Tags (Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed!): @bbrandy2002 @whimsicallywayward15 @ohramsey @natureblooms24 @nervoussaladsludgeopera @trrfanaddict @hopelessromanticmonie @ilikemenbutonlyethanramsey @lovablegranny @bellcat2010 @gkittylove99 @kingliam2019 @starrystarrytrouble @3riche @chetachisblog @zoehanji @withbeautyandrage @drariellevalentine @mvalentine @aestheticartsx @angela8754 @schnitzelbutterfingers @ao719 @choicesstan1 @neotericthemis @nikki-2406 @anotherbeingsworld @maurine07 @sophxwithers @twinkleallnight @choicesaddict5 @gardeningourmet @mysticaurathings @jessiembruno @stygianflood @aleynareads @choicesbookclub

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

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what-is-your-plan-today · 4 years

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Co-written with @southerngracela

Part 1

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Series Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but not enough to prevent cold

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink. A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places. Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room. The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone. With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything. “Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat “Window. It’s a window.”

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize” you bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination. Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Aalongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby. You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath.

And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

And now she was all his.

*****

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand.

His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

And you knew then, you were in for it.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you Princess? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

He could make out 3 vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end. The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

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queersturbate · 3 years

Note

not a DN ask but i was wondering if you rec Alice In Borderland? I was thinking of starting it (i love spoilers for stuff so like say whatever you want)--

OH. Hello hello jello fello

YES. I absolutely recommend alice in borderland omg?? OMG!! Yes yesyesyes please watch it and tell me your thoughts and your favorite characters and if you like the cinematography?? tell me literally everything about it if you watch it. It's literally my favorite show ever in the entire world I love it so much. omg i love it so much. I love arisu and i have so many thoughts on them. First of all, they're obviously nonbinary amab AND they're autistic. these r just facts (according to me but i'm educated)

honestly im offended /j you have to even ask if i recommend it!!! do i not scream enough about it anymore? Arisu is my favorite character of all time. They're so everything to me. I was taking kinning as a joke but. but. seeing them. and everything about them. it shook me to my core i was like mesmerized by how much arisu and I are alike. BUT alice in borderland has my favorite plot ever (im not joking i know im being repetitive and it seems like a joke but I was looking for things kento yamazaki (man who played L in the live action drama) has been in that seemed interesting and i read the plot of alice in borderland and immediately turned it on because it's my favorite plot!!!) oh! right. the plot is: do puzzles and games to survive and idk bro that shit tickles my little nerd brain because im competitive and a detective (according to Lu) so i like to try to figure out the games before the characters! usually im good at it, knowing it before they even say the whole puzzles because it's been done before, BUT this one. I got them right as Arisu did, it was SUCH a rush. They did a great job building suspense im trying to recreate it in me and lu's lawlight x aib fic but its so hard! OH but the last game we see. I could not figure that game out EVEN THOUGH. it has been done before in a show i will not tell you bc that's no fun!

Oh! also fun fact about the amazing movie oscar award winning level cinematography for aib, the cgi, the actors, the set designers, EVERYTHING... So they started filming aib in mid august of 2020 and then it was released on december 10th 2020. DO YOU KNOW HOW CRAZY THAT IS?? how did they do all that, create such beautiful scenes with pretty colors and lighting and action and cgi which people make fun of but come on, you want actual real life panthers and tigers chasing these people? calm down. BUT IT TOOK LIKE 4 MONTHS??? thats bonkers. that's so. Im befuddled.

Anyway anway to make this long answer of an extreme YES i DO. even longer: i absolutely think you should. It is such a cool show and it deserves more recognition. it is better than anything ive ever watched and everything about it is beautiful. The friendships seem very real(they dont constantly mention how long they've been friends with unrealistic dialogue, you just know they've been friends for a long time because of how they act), the blood looks like its from a video game (which i think they were trying to recreate that look), you can tell the differences between the fighting styles with different characters (Aguni: fights like he's angry, calculated, knows exactly where to hit and can block effectively. Military trained fighting, Karube: Fights like he's been in more streets/bar fights than he's been to the grocery store. Hits you to make it hurt and is a little sloppy, Usagi: fights like she's doing parkour. will jump on your back and swing around on you to get a better angle, and finally Arisu: they're a sheltered kid, has probably never been in a fight, has only gotten punched, but when they're fighting someone they're only defensive, they dont know how to throw a punch and have it land correctly. They use their entire body to keep the gun pointed away from them so they dont get injured.) how did i make this even longer?? anyway. yes jello fello i urge you to watch this and im being completely serious, if you feel comfortable then tell me your thoughts on the show! unless you dont like it<3 because then ill cry!

#Aidhsudhuddh #this is so long #long post #long post tw #aib #alice in borderland #ask #arisu ryōhei

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eddiesfaerie · 4 years

Text

Mirrorball

Summary: Your first time meeting detective Flip Zimmerman is out on the dance floor. (5.2k words)

Warnings: slightly NSFW? (this takes place one year after the events depicted in the film Blackkklansman, so possible spoilers!) mentions of the KKK, mentions of police, f!reader, implied age gap, drinking, Flip is an asshole and a brat tamer and it shows but he’s also a ✧ gentleman ✧, thigh grinding(?), mentions of sexy stuff, early 80s grooviness, disco shenanigans, me making myself horny

A/N: this is very loosely based on mirrorball by taylor swift. that song just makes me think of Flip so I just literally had to get this out of my system. totally down to write more of these two if anyone would want that 👀. Flip Zimmerman is THE disco king. Pls enjoy <3

Part 2

The cool September night nipped gently at your skin as you made your way into the local disco. Dressed in your best white baby tee, the best fit flared jeans you owned, and the perfect white disco heels your blood was pumping and you were ready to dance the night away. You didn’t bother bringing your trusty denim jacket because as soon as you hit the dance floor, which would be immediately upon entrance, you knew you would have no more need for it.

No matter how excited you were for your weekly escape on the dance floor, this was the first night butterflies fluttered in your stomach without relent. You shook your head, remembering almost too vividly the conversation you had over the phone with your old college friend, Patrice. She would also be attending the disco tonight with her boyfriend and her boyfriend’s… work partner.

This is where things got tricky for both you and Patrice. Her boyfriend and her boyfriend’s work partner were cops. Not exclusively cops, (they made sure to always distinguish themselves as “detectives”) but still, cops. And you and Patrice did NOT fuck with cops.

That was until the KKK bust about a year ago. Patrice battled with her personal morals for a long time on whether she should pursue her relationship with Ron, but you had encouraged her to see where it went. She clearly had feelings for him and he cared for her as well, so for once you told her to follow her gut, no matter what his job was. And after that infamous KKK case was closed (or more so, thrown away) Ron was more of a detective than a cop and well, that was good enough for Patrice. And you were happy for her.

Now, this is where things got tricky for you. You had already planned to go dancing tonight; seeing as it was Friday night and dancing at the disco was your weekly Friday night activity. Patrice said she would be joining with Ron and now, somehow, mysteriously, suspiciously, Ron’s partner, Flip Zimmerman, who just so happened to be as single as you and quite literally the most beautiful man in Colorado Springs, was also tagging along for the ride. This would either be the most awkward, third-wheeling night of your life or… well, that was about the only outcome you could see coming from tonight.

You had never actually met Flip before, but based on what you've heard about him from either Patrice or Ron, you could not imagine a disco being this man’s idea of a fun time. He seemed old, even for his age. Sure he was older than you, but he seemed like an actual old man. Grumpy, stubborn, sassy and just plain rude to everyone and anyone. A total grouch.

You rolled your eyes as you approached the door, your last chances for bailing leaving you as you waved to the bouncer, a familiar face, entered the building and headed straight to the bar for your first drink of the night.

Ron and Patrice pulled up to the disco in their car, Flip hot on their trail in his truck, parking next to one another in the parking lot. Flip’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel from how hard he was gripping it on the way over, he felt like crashing his truck just for an excuse to not come but he felt like he may regret that decision sooner rather than later.

You’re going to be there.

Flip’s never met you, but he’s heard about you through Ron and Patrice who never seem to stop bothering him about it. He appreciates the effort but they’ve gone from endearing to straight up fucking annoying. Flip loves Ron, his brother-in-crime, so to speak, and he has a soft spot for Patrice as well, but he could not imagine you to live up to all the hype they’ve given you at this point.

No offence, of course. You were just some kid to him.

A knock at his window startled him, erasing any image of you he was trying to conjure up in his mind. What would you be wearing? What colour would your eyes be? Would you dance? Did you like to dance? Did you drink? What drink do you typically order?

“Zimmerman!” Ron said, pressing his forehead against Flip’s window causing Flip to roll his eyes and unbuckle himself from his seat which he hadn’t even done yet, so wrapped up in overthinking the night ahead of him, overthinking about you.

“Can’t open the door if you’re pressed against it like that, Rookie.”

Ron backed away, going to wrap his arm around Patrice’s waist as Flip got out of the car and slammed the door behind him a little louder than he probably should have.

“M’not even a Rookie anymore, partner.” Ron teased, pulling Patrice alongside him as the three of them made their way into the disco.

“Yeah you keep telling yourself that, Rookie.” Flip grumbled, causing Patrice to giggle and Ron to shoot her a glare. The trio made their way into the joint and loud dance music quickly flooded them.

The place was absolutely packed, even for a Friday night. Made it seem like Colorado Springs was the most happening town in the West. Sweaty bodies moving and grooving to the music like it was still the seventies. The giant dance floor took up most of the main floor, one side of it lined with a bar that was clearly stocking any drink one could think of. A short staircase near the back of the dance floor led to a slightly elevated platform filled with a large seating area lined with couches and booths for people who just wanted to enjoy the atmosphere, music, alcohol and/or drugs. Flip wondered which crowd you would be a part of.

Patrice said your name and Flip froze, “she should be around here somewhere. I know she got here before us.” Patrice said over the music.

Ron nodded and Flip felt his hands get clammy. Why the fuck did he come to this, he wondered? He loves a good disco just as much as the next person, but this weird blind date situation was not sitting right with him. The three of them made their way through the dance floor towards the staircase at the back, trying to get a bit of elevation to have a better chance at spotting you.

The song changed and the crowd erupted in a cheer, it was a popular one, Flip knew that. You would have to be living under a rock not to. As they climbed the staircase and came to rest against the banister, the crowd made a bit of room near the middle of the dance floor for a duo who started to groove together hypnotically to the beat. Patrice giggled and clapped her hands, covering her mouth to hide her wide smile.

“Oh my god, that’s her.” She laughed giddily, tugging on Ron’s arm. Flip looked to the two girls dancing, the two who once seemed so far away and swallowed up by the crowd, now seemed so much closer and clearly in his line of sight. Which one were you…

“The one in the jeans.” Ron answered, reading Flip’s mind. He gave him a knowing smile and went back to casually grooving with Patrice as all three of them watched you dance with a girl you didn’t even know.

You both laughed at each other as the song went on, your bodies moving with ease as you danced around and with one another, tugging on each other's arms to spin or saucily moving your bodies just close enough together for people to stare. You didn’t know her, the song had just come on and you both gasped at the same time. She looked at you and asked you to dance, why would you say no? She was pretty and you felt a friendly competition coming on. And it was hardly a competition at that, she clearly had you beat, but it was all in good spirits, it was just nice to lose yourself with someone else to one of the most popular songs of the last three years.

You shimmered and shined from the side lines where Flip watched you. He felt dumbstruck, like a complete fool, watching you dance with another woman. The way your jeans clung to your body, yet swayed alongside your feet.

Christ, you were a fucking vision, Flip thought. Now the nerves were really going to get the best of him. Soon enough you would find the three of them and he would have to have a conversation with you about something other than that crazy fucking dancing you were doing. And he didn’t even know you, how the fuck was this an ideal situation to meet someone in? Why did he let Ron and Patrice convince him to do this? Why were you so fucking beaut-

Flip pulled out his pack of cigarettes from his flannel pocket, popping a single cig out and lighting it quickly, trying to calm his nerves before they got the best of him. He took a long, long drag and continued to watch you through the cloud of smoke he blew from his mouth.

The song abruptly ended, sending the crowd in a light cheer before the next one transitioned seamlessly into the stuffy, humid air. Some people around you and your lady-friend applauded you both and you seemed a bit embarrassed, maybe not having realized people were really, really watching. Flip thought that was cute. He watched you hug the girl goodbye as she headed off with her friends again, and you headed to the bar.

Fuuuuck, fuck.

“Anyone want a drink?” Flip asked, worrying his lip between his teeth as he kept his eyes trained on you, bringing the cigarette back up to his lips and rubbing his clammy hands together to appear more... normal?

“Oh yeah, could you get me a-”

“Great, I’ll get that.” Flip cut Ron off, just needing an excuse to get away and see you up close without out right saying: Okay time to go make a complete fucking fool of myself to our ‘mutual’ friend.

Almost a head taller than everyone else on the floor, it was easy for Flip to keep his eyes on you as he sauntered over to the bar, mentally giving himself a pep talk that he didn’t usually need. Well, he didn’t usually hit on women in bars or clubs or discos, he was fine being single, it was actually women that pursued him, making it easy for him to charm them even though it never lasted longer than a few weeks at a time. But now he was the one making the move and it scared the shit out of him. Uncharted territory.

The closer he got to you, the more he could make out of your features, and the more he was regretting his decision to come and see you all by himself. He needed encouragement, maybe liquid encouragement, which he stupidly hadn't gotten yet. It should have been the first thing he’d done when he got here. And this fucking cigarette wasn’t helping like it usually did.

A few bar stools away from you now, (the bar seeming to drag on into infinity), he realized there was some schmuck sitting next to you, who you weren’t even paying any mind to. What a perfectly good seat gone to waste.

“Beat it, pal.” Flip grunted, cigarette between his lips, tapping the man roughly on the shoulder. Either the guy recognized him as a cop or just wasn’t in the mood for any trouble, he got up and left immediately, leaving the spot next to you vacant and cold.

You heard him coming. You knew he was watching you. You saw all of them come in and watched observingly as they made their way through the joint and up the steps. You had seen them from the corner of your eye as you put on a little show with your new friend. You liked the way Flip looked when he was entranced, you like the way it felt for him to devour you with his eyes.

“Beat it, pal.” That was the first time you had heard his voice and you tried to suppress the shiver it sent up your spine. So deep and bassy. You kept your head straight ahead, occasionally looking down at your drink, fiddling with it in your hands.

It felt like the man who was sitting next to you flew off his chair and it was suddenly filled with the most radiating, warm energy you think you had ever felt emitted off another person. Cigarette smoke filled your senses and fogged your mind, you could see him blowin git out of his nose in your peripheral vision.

Flip had come to sit next to you, his thighs so wide that his knees nearly spread enough to knock into yours.

“Detective.” You greeted cooly, taking a sip from your drink and avoiding eye contact. Flip greeted you back just as cooly, throwing your name back at you. You don’t think your name sounded so good falling off of someone’s lips before. You internally groaned.

“Quite the little show you put on out there with your friend.” Flip said, taking another exaggerated drag from his cigarette, cheeks hollowing out slightly.

“Stranger.” You said, taking another sip, continuing to avoid his burning stare. You could feel his eyes on you and the temptation to look was almost overpowering, you avoided it like you would Medusa.

“What?”

“She was a stranger, I don’t know her. Didn’t know her. She gave me her number.” You giggled into your glass, taking your final sip from the now empty glass, setting it down on the countertop.

Flip bit his lip. Why were you so fucking sexy? You wouldn’t even look at him. He suppressed the urge to grab your face and turn it himself to make you look at him. Maybe you’d like that, he thought.

“Two mojitos. With ice.” Flip called to the bartender. You turned to look at him then, while his head was turned away in the opposite direction. You soaked in what you could before he turned back to look at you.

His hair practically begged for your hands to run through it. It looked soft, wavy and just stupidly perfect. He was wearing the world’s tightest red flannel with a white shirt poking from underneath the unbuttoned collar. The buttons strained against his chest, god he was probably so fit, how big did he have to be to make the buttons look like they were about to burst? Even his biceps were pulling the material taught. His thighs, which you had noticed when he sat down next to you, were equally big and covered by a lovely denim, you did love a man in jeans. You giggled to yourself, which caused him to look back at you.

Fuck, those eyes. Honey, caramel, cinnamon, chocolate, brown sugar.

“What’s so funny doll?”

“I just didn’t take you for a cocktails kind of guy.” You laughed again. You weren’t trying to make fun of him, you just couldn’t help it. It was the alcohol, not the nerves, you told yourself.

“What makes you say that?” He smirked, you could tell he was trying not to but you could see the way his lips twitched, then proceeded to curl around his cigarette seductively.

“Oh nothing.” You swatted the air with your hand, wanting desperately to change the subject before you accidentally mentioned how large he was and how funny it is to picture a tiny little cocktail glass in his enormous hands.

Your two glasses were quickly placed in front of Flip who handed the bartender a bill. He slid a glass over to you and your fingers brushed as you took it from him. He was warm. You wanted to touch him again. He put his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray.

“Thanks.” You muttered, quickly bringing the glass to your lips, needing more in your system to distract you from how distractingly mesmerizing he is. He had good taste, the drink was perfectly sweet with just enough kick to keep you buzzed. You both locked eyes as you took a sip from your respective drinks, your cheeks feeling hot from his gaze, it made you look away as you set your glass back on the countertop.

Why did you keep looking away from him? Flip began to worry that his presence was unwanted and he debated just getting up and letting you enjoy your evening with your new friend and refilled drink. Maybe he was coming on too intensely? He had definitely gotten that one before, he wasn’t sure how many rookies at the police dept had quit or been re-stationed because of his intensity alone. He just likes to think that they weren’t cut out for the job, and besides, if they couldn’t handle Flip Zimmerman, well, maybe they couldn’t handle-

“Do you want to dance?” His mouth cut his own train of thought off, like half of him was bored of hearing himself think obsessively and waste more of the night not on you. His abruptness made you giggle and you finally looked back at him, swaying gently from side to side in your barstool. Flip thinks he’d like to have you do that in his lap, swaying from side to side, swivelling carelessly...

“I didn’t take you for a dancer.” You maintain eye contact now. More confident than before, challenging him.

“That’s the second thing you’ve assumed about me tonight. And the second thing you’ve been terribly wrong about.” Flip chuckled, downing his drink in one final gulp. You watched the way he threw his head back, the way he swallowed, the way his throat bobbed. You wanted to touch his neck, press your lips across the delicate skin, bruise him.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Flip pushed. He was beginning to think you liked being difficult, that you liked making him work for it, liked him coaxing your answers out of you. Maybe he did. He hoped you liked it too, you little defiant-

“What if I told you I don’t dance with men?” There was a glimmer in your eye. Flip decided right then and there that you were evil, you fucking temptress. You were doing this on purpose.

Motherfucker.

Just how far could he push you before you gave in? Before you gave up on this stupid fucking act?

“Then I would be incredibly disappointed to hear that.” Flip frowned, teasingly. Maybe he should just get up from his seat and find Ron and Patrice, two could play at your dumb little game. He did in fact stand up, he straightened himself out and without a single glance back at you, he turned and walked away. The only thing stopping him was your hand wrapped firmly around his wrist. He looked back expectantly, trying to hide his knowing smirk.

So you did have a limit to which you were willing to play.

“What if I told you… I’d make an exception. Just this once.”

Oh, Flip liked the sound of that.

Without another word, Flip unbuttoned and shrugged off his flannel, placing it on the bar countertop, leaving him in just his white t-shirt that clung way too well to his body. Fuck, what were you getting yourself into? He really was huge, massive. You resisted the urge to just climb him and beg him to take you home. But you didn’t role that way, and you were not about to make that many exceptions for one man.

But he was one hell of a man…

“Keep an eye on this.” Flip called to the bartender, referring to his flannel, without breaking his eyes from yours. Honey, caramel, cinnamon, chocolate -

“Ready?” He held his hand out to you. The song that was playing faded and another came on. Without fail, you recognized this one as well and you couldn’t help the smile that threatened to split your face in two. Be it the alcohol or Flip, your cheeks burned and were growing numb from how hard you were trying to stop smiling. You looked down at his hand and bit your lip, looking back up at him through your lashes and nodded.

“Ready.”

Flip pulled you from your seat and whisked you onto the dance floor with more force than you were expecting, causing you to yelp and grab onto his bicep for balance. He placed a hand on the small of your back to steady you, now in the heat of the dance floor surrounded by glistening bodies. You let out a small laugh, a nervous one. Somehow, you forgot how to move your feet, forgot what it felt like to feel the rhythm of a song, lose yourself in the music and just move. You had been dancing with that girl, what? Twenty minutes ago? And now you could barely move a muscle underneath the intense gaze of detective Flip Zimmerman. He seemed to find this amusing.

“Come on, you’ve got this.” Flip mused, a devilish smirk tugging at his lips. He placed his hands on your hips, making your eyelids and limbs feel heavy. He helped you sway them in time with his, your eyes immediately going to his hips watching him as he watched you become more and more comfortable dancing around him.

Maybe you really didn’t dance with men after all, Flip thought.

Eventually you were able to shake off your nerves and tell yourself to just pretend he wasn’t there, or pretend he was that girl from earlier. You both began to sort of dance by yourselves but still in very close proximity to each other, the occasional graze of his hand along your shoulder, waist, hips, ass bringing you out of your head and back to the dance floor with the reality of the fact that you were indeed dancing with a cop and people were staring at you. Or maybe they were staring at Flip who just so happened to be a stupidly incredible dancer.

For his height and length at which his limbs protruded out from his body, he should not have that much control over them, that much coordination. But he’s a detective, you remembered. He fought in ‘Nam, he was a trained professional in the police force, of course he was coordinated, of course he was skilled with his body. He had to use it everyday. He had to be strong, tough, resilient, a wall of pure muscle.

Fuck, you were starting to understand why Patrice threw some of her cares into the wind when it came to Ron being a cop, detective, whatever. Flip was undeniably sexy and as you danced with him out on the middle of the floor, you didn’t think you could want him anymore than you did in that moment. The way his muscles rippled underneath his shirt as he moved to the music was utterly hypnotizing.

Before you could even realize what you were doing, you dropped low to the floor, reaching your hands to glide up his entire body slowly, slowly, slowly, passing over his muscular thighs, dragging dangerously close to his crotch, his hips, his waist, over his toned stomach, his hard pecs, scratching at his neck as you looped one hand around his throat, then strutting around him in a circle, letting your hand run along his neck, over his shoulders. You giggled to yourself stupidly, hugging him from behind, suddenly embarrassed at that little show you just put on, wanting desperately to disappear behind him. Flip grabbed you from behind, splitting his legs open and somehow sliding you between them, underneath him and then back to face him again.

He looked down at you with that same look from before; hunger, starvation, thirst. You were both still dancing even though the movements blurred in your mind, you felt like the two of you were moving in slow motion as your bodies grew closer, closer, closer together, the music fading out as well. The only sensation that seemed to knock you out of your trance was Flip’s hand slipping into yours, interlocking his fingers through your smaller ones. He was warm, so, so warm and you didn’t want to let go. You tugged on his hand to bring it up to your lips, to kiss, but he tugged harder. He tugged your whole arm, actually. He tugged your whole arm and your whole body followed, off the dance floor, through the crowd, through the back door, around the corner till you were against the brick wall, outside.

You were breathless, your ears ringing from the adrenaline of being so close to him, dancing with him but also from the loud music that was still pounding beyond those two doors next to you. Flip stood in front of you, he fished out his cigarette pack from his jeans and you wondered when he put it in his pants pocket, you remembered it being in his flannel pocket. Why were you thinking about that? Maybe you were tipsy, or drunk off of him.

Flip stuck the cigarette between his teeth and lit it effortlessly, like he had done it a million times. He probably has. He maintained eye contact with you up against that wall as he sucked and sucked the toxins out of his cigarette, his cheeks hollowing beautifully before blowing the smoke out through his nose, making you want to whimper and drop to your knees. If you had been any drunker you think you might have.

He took annoyingly slow steps towards you, and with each one you felt your breaths become heavier and heavier, like he was pressing a weight against your chest the closer he got to you. Another puff from his cigarette.

“Hold this for me.” He said suddenly, holding his cigarette out for you to take. You nodded silently, not trusting your own voice as you took it from him, your fingers brushing against one another; electricity, voltage, lightning.

Flip grabbed the back of your head, fisted your hair between his fingers, tipped your head back and shoved his tongue down your throat. You moaned into his open mouth, shameless as your lips wrapped around his, wet and slippery. His other hand, now free from his cigarette thanks to you, came to grab your cheeks between his thumb and index, pinching your jaw softly to pry your mouth open and keep it that way so he could devour you more easily.

He backed you up against the wall, his muscular thigh coming to rest between your legs, pressing right up against your most sensitive area, causing you to moan into his mouth again. He pulled your hair harder, groaned against your lips and you desperately ground yourself against his thigh, you couldn't help it, it was right there applying the right amount of pressure and you were beginning to seriously unravel for him. Putty in his hands. His mustache and goatee tickled your face but it only spurred you on more to kiss him with equal fervour, now wanting to devour him yourself. Your tongues massaged one anothers, over, under and back again, you had truly never been kissed like this before.

Flip suddenly pulled away, gasping for breath and you audibly whined at the loss of contact, your lips begging for his to come back. At your complaint, he gave you a few teasingly small pecks before resting his forehead against yours again.

“I bet you think you’re real cute, dancing out there like that.” Flip said, his voice the deepest you had heard it all night, you let out a satisfied hum. You decided then that you would do anything he asked you.

“Hmm, you seem to think so.” Your eyes boring into his, then back down to his lips again. So plump, swollen and red. You did that to him. You wanted to keep doing that to him.

“You sure are a fucking brat, aren’t you?” He spat at you with pure hunger in his voice, pushing your body harder against the wall, causing you to whimper and screw your eyes shut momentarily, the slight pain turning into pleasure. How was he doing this to you?

“It doesn’t seem to be bothering you that much, the fact that I’m a brat.” You spat back at him with equal want. Flip groaned and tightened his fist in your hair even more than he previously had.

“Honey, you have no idea what it’s doing to me.”

His voice was quiet all of a sudden. The need not gone from his voice, but his voice just above a whisper. It rumbled his chest when he spoke. You reached your hand down to palm him through his jeans and you weren’t surprised to find how hard he was there, but you gasped at its size. Flip gabbed your wrist and pinned it above your head, baring his teeth at you slightly. He was holding himself back, you could tell, it was like it almost pained him.

“Flip, please,” You begged, your first time begging on the first date. “Please, I need to touch you.”

You closed your eyes and rested your head back against the brick wall in defeat. You felt Flip’s lips ghost over the skin of your neck before he sank his teeth into the skin causing you to cry out his name. He quickly pulled his teeth away from your skin and licked around the irritated flesh several times, pressing his plush lips against the quickly purpling skin.

Flip knew you were nowhere near intoxicated enough to not know what was going on, but he didn’t want to rush you into things that you might regret tomorrow. He didn’t want to risk not seeing your pretty little face again just to get his cock in your mouth tonight. No matter how badly he wanted to see you there on the ground outside the disco, bruising your knees for him, his cock deep in your throat, tears falling down your cheeks as-

Not tonight, not tonight, not tonight.

“Come by the station tomorrow. Don’t even think about covering this up.” He murmured against your skin, referring to the hickey he left, his mark on you. Breathless and at loss for words in your swimming pool of a brain, you nodded your head with fervour at his request.

Flip pulled away from your neck to look into your eyes with such intent, such meaning. Use your goddamn words, he thought.

“Tell me you’ll come.” He wanted to add a ‘please’ at the end of his request, but it wasn’t really a request. No, he needed to see you again. This was not going to be a one off thing, Flip was sure of that. Even after just one night of dancing with you. You smiled up at him and said,

“I’ll come.”

The double meaning behind your words made you feel hot and look away from him. You’d come as many times as he’d let you, you thought, your heart pounding in your chest at the mere idea of him taking you in any way he wanted, for as long as he wanted, as hard as he wanted. Flip gripped your chin again, forcing you to meet his dark, inky eyes.

“I’m gonna fix that attitude of yours one day.” You smiled up at him, a perfect shit eating grin to match his own.

“I’m counting on it, Detective.”

#flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x reader #reader insert #flip zimmerman smut #flip zimmerman imagine #flip zimmerman x you #my writing #mirrorball #blackkklansman

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years

Text

Wanderers: Orestes x reader

Summary: friends to lovers / hurt + comfort but make it Roman, I guess?

Author’s note: this will make more sense if you’ve seen the film, but it’s not essential. This is my first time writing for Orestes (or ever writing historical fiction) so please be kind! And PLEASE tell me if you liked it, loved it, or hated it so I know whether to ever put myself through this again. (This was fun but it took 1000x longer due to Googling a new question about the Romans every 30 seconds. But damn, I learned so much!) Also, I made some definite choices with Orestes’ characterisation and we may not love it, so let me know!

Word count: Why is this 9.5k? I hate myself.

Warnings: 18+only. Unrequited love, explicit smut inc. oral sex, handjob, massage, penetration, fingering, grinding, unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), cumshot. Language. One mention of period blood. Outdated notions of virginity (one reference). Romans had slaves- this isn’t a key theme. Major historical inaccuracies, probably. Typos, definitely. Slight film spoilers?

Song inspo: Oh wanderer, I've been wondering / If your brown eyes still have color, could I see? / That night, that night with those hands, those hands (Wanderers, Cat Power)

Tagging: (PLEASE ONLY READ IF YOU ARE 18+ REGARDLESS OF TAGS!) @darksideofclarke @damndamer0n @veuliee2 @yougottakeeponkeepinon @himbopoes @phoenixhalliwell @lostgirlheather @justrunamok @aellynera @damerondjarin @blushingwueen @iamthe-shadow-on-the-wall @holybatflapexpert @arabellathorne @yourbucky084 @mandoplease @mylifeliterally @arkofblake @multifandomlife22

“News of it has reached you, then?” Orestes addresses you glumly as you enter the room, looking up at you from where he languishes in the warmth of his bath, soothing away his sorrows. Bright and delicate notes from a lyre resound around the room, the dappled light streaming in from the courtyard seeming to dance and glint in response across the surface of the water. The air is balmy and the room tinged gold as the desert sun sulks towards its dormitory.

You flinch. Of course you’d heard. The whole city had heard tell of Hypatia’s scathing rebuttal of his profession of love. You had come as quickly as you could in order to console the man.

You admire Hypatia, very much, and that admiration extends to her wicked sense of humour; however, you cannot condone any act which inspires such melancholy in Orestes’ eyes as that which greets you. He is a such a gentle, lovesick soul, after all.

You smooth your face, and continue towards him neutrally and calmly, obligingly pouring the large jug of sweet-smelling oils and petals into the waters. You purposefully avoid Orestes’ gaze as he watches you, his arms stretched out along the edge of the square bath. You have prepared his most preferred concoction, and you hope Orestes does not notice the sheen on your brow, resulting from your exertions in acquiring said ingredients from the market at such short notice.

Surreptitiously, you examine Orestes for signs of distress as you dip a hand in to swill the water and circulate the perfumed mixture, steam rising to meet your flushed face. You note his eyes are puffed and bleary as if he has been crying, his curls uncharacteristically mussed.

“You look as though you might offer me counsel.” Orestes breathes, reading the set of your face with ease. He knows it is unlike you to bite your tongue. Straightforwardness is a quality Orestes admires in women; or, at least, in the few he keeps close. Further, it is a quality he more than tolerates in you, despite your mismatched positions within the household.

“One as lowly as I could not dream of it, Orestes.” You speak coolly and liltingly, in well-rehearsed tones, your voice nevertheless imbued with a bite and authority beyond your station. Your eyes glint subtly with humour as you proceed. “Indeed, I am not as endlessly wise as the esteemed company to which you are accustomed.” You hope you have masked the condescension in your tone sufficiently. As much as you admire Hypatia, occasionally you do stray too close to envy.

“And yet, your eyes are busy with thoughts enough for ten scholars,” Orestes observes, inhaling the perfumes deeply as the sweet musk begins to circulate.

You merely deliver him a wry smile, eyes cast downwards towards the motion of the swirling petals and oil droplets beneath your fingers. “And yet I bite my tongue. It is a skill you may hope to emulate, one day, pupil.”

His eyes shine gently in response to the soft fun you poke at him. “Come, girl. I will at the very least have your skilful fingers calm me. I will accept that as a form of counsel, if you would deliver it.” You finally look at him, your gaze flicking towards his umber eyes and finding them soft and cautious. It is not a command – not in the slightest, although it holds the appearance of one, as befits your position. Instead, you alone recognise it as a plea for comfort, from one friend to another. “You may continue to mock me, if you so wish. Indeed, mockery of Orestes is the favoured activity of the day, for all in Alexandria.”

You may not be a slave, but neither are you Orestes’ equal. He could command you, but the man, ever since he was a boy and you a girl, has only ever treated you with kindness. Still, though he may lapse and appear to forget that you serve him, the thought that you are here only through charity seldom escapes you. Despite that you are of noble birth, your parents had died before you could be married off, leaving a burden of bad debt and ill-repute behind. Orestes’ father had taken you in, owing to the deep, brotherly bond he shared with your own father. So, in the years following, you have worked for your keep. You know you are lucky to find yourself in such a rare and happy position, still being able to enjoy a moderate level of freedom. Plus, your duties are typically performed in service of Orestes, which favours you greatly. You carry them out not only with dedication, but with a song in your heart.

“Certainly, Orestes,” you state, obligingly. “And rather than mocking you, I shall meditate on your superior qualities. I will pray that something comes to mind before the bathwater cools.” You can’t help but chide him fondly, as is habit, and you are pleased that it tugs a hint of a smile from him, at least.

You climb the marbled steps up to the edge of the raised bath, coming to perch behind him where he luxuriates. You lean, reaching for the metal vessel to your side, and from it you drizzle some aromatic oil onto your hands, promptly beginning to massage the meat of Orestes’ shoulders with your deft and expert touch. You take considerable pride in the fact you can usually alleviate the man’s sorrows. Tonight, however, his muscles feel particularly taut, and you must knead him with greater vigour than usual in attempts to dispel the anguish from his body.

Orestes hums against your touch as you settle into your work and find the optimum pressure, though he does not collapse against you to the usual extent. Your brow furrows in concern as you detect the day’s pain and no doubt humiliation in his body. Hypatia had handed him a rag soiled with the blood of her cycle, in front of the whole Agora, unequivocally dismissing his affections. You could not imagine a harsher public rebuttal. Still, there is something to be said for clarity, you suppose.

“I can feel the words in your fingers, girl. I can hear them in your clipped breathing. What is it that you would tell me?” Orestes prompts, and it causes you to still your aggravated breath. It seems that his body is more in tune with your touch than you might expect – seemingly, he can read you as well as you can read him. “Speak plainly, I beg you. Not one of the slaves will counsel me with truth - only theatre and deflections. They will not admit I am cursed.” Orestes complains in a cracked voice, with a wave of his hand towards the slaves standing by with bowls of lye soap and strigils.

“Orestes...” you whisper, softly chiding this dramatic, lovesick fool in hushed tones. “It is a shame you have not pursued a vocation in the theatre yourself, as you oftentimes tend towards the dramatic.”

He huffs out a breath. “Perhaps there is truth in that. Though when love plays out as a tragedy and a comedy -at my expense- what other option is there except to take the stage and denounce this cruel pageant to any who will listen?”

You dig the heels of your hands more firmly into his shoulder blades, satisfied as the ministration finally earns a grunt of pleasure from him.

“Orestes,” you begin as your hands continue to work him. “I would willingly provide an audience for you. Most men think and speak, and yet feeling is like thinking to you. Indeed, whatever is in your heart becomes breath, and I always delight in hearing it.” There is no man you know with such an active heart. “However, I implore you, for a moment now be still and let your heart rest. Let me soothe you, rather than stirring the waters.”

Orestes sighs deeply and then gestures to the slaves. “A moment, please? Leave us, will you?” Orestes asks with a waft of his hand, and they pad obediently out of the room. “And get this lyre out of here, for its happy, mocking notes only ail me further. I can safely declare that music is not the antidote to love I was promised.”

“Shush, Orestes. Still your passions and let me wash your hair,” you soothe. You lift a red earthenware bowl and have Orestes tip his head back, so that you may wet and rinse his luxurious crown of curls. Your fingers weave into the inky tendrils to massage his scalp, your ministrations drawing a contented moan from him. The sound comes like honey, warm and liquid, sweet on his lips, and it undeniably stirs your hunger. You can’t help but trail your eyes over his bare form. His curls are wetted and slick, pink petals clinging to him, making him appear alike to one of the muses, albeit in his male form. His shoulders and back gleam with the glistening concoction of oil and water, the low, golden sun from the courtyard deepening the tan tones of his skin. Orestes is beautiful. Truly beautiful.

Hypatia had spurned him, and you could not understand it. If you could have a man such as Orestes dote on you the way he dotes on his teacher, you are certain you would not be so quick to dismiss his affections. You are certain that you would welcome them. You would welcome his touch. You would welcome his lips. Your thoughts race towards forbidden, carnal ends, and you clench your thighs together, as if you may be able to contain the swell of your arousal.

You sigh involuntarily, a brief whimper of melancholy escaping you as well as you consider the hopelessness of your own plight, and the sound snatches Orestes from the surrounding calm you have instilled in him. Even so, when his voice finds you it is smoothed and steady; no longer as cracked. His tone is more informal, and casual, now that you are truly alone.

“What is it you wish to say, sweet girl? You insist that I still my breath, so I beg you to speak. You need not withhold the truth from me,” he insists. “Can you tell me what I did so wrong? I have been relentless in my pursuit of music-making, so much so that the Gods cruelly visit aulos upon me in my dreams. When it is not her I am seeing, of course… Or, sometimes it is both visitations, sent entirely to mock me, I am certain.”

He still holds out some hope then, even now? Bless his dear heart. You keep your voice soft. As soft as the waning sunlight and the hazy air. As soft as his curls.

“Sweet soul,” you begin, squeezing his shoulders gently to brace him for your words. “I speak the truth out of kindness.” Your words are thick; dripping slowly from your lips. “You seek something from Hypatia which she cannot and will not give you, Orestes. There are others who would freely give what she withholds. To them you must turn.”

“That may be true,” he concedes, “but I want no-one else.” The lovesick man responds dolefully, his shoulders slouching and his voice small. No-one else. No-one at all, then?

You do not hate Hypatia. The woman is free to love or not to love as she wishes. You do, however, hate Orestes’ pain. You hate the love which spawned it. This tragically wasted, unrequited love, which is so abundant within him that he has become alike to an overflowing jug, liquid spilling forth from his eyes as his muse remains unwilling to drink his love down. You would drink from him. You would quench yourself on him as if parched, if he would allow it. You would dance in the waters of his fountain and consider yourself blessed.

“Shush, Orestes. It pains me that you are hurting so,” you soothe, your heart shattering on his behalf as you feel a gentle sob wrack his chest. Your usual balms are evidently not potent enough, and so, it seems, you will be required to concoct a more fitting remedy. “Will you lay on the massage table? Will you let me soothe your whole body? Your anguish is so that I cannot work it from your shoulders alone.”

Orestes twists in his position, turning his head towards you, tears glistening in his eyes like stars in a night sky. What if the sky is perpetually crying, as all of its planets are doomed to wander?

“Sparrow, I will gladly accept your magic fingers, and whatever form of comfort they might offer. The Gods blessed you with such skill and in turn they bless me.”

You smile softly, a guiding hand on his shoulder. “Come then, sweet man.”

“Ah, she no longer mocks me? I shall have to remember the effects of my teary supplications upon you.”

Orestes’ eyes sheen softly as he launches himself from the waters, his nude body shining and as sculpted as the marbled statues of the Agora, not a hint of self-consciousness as he parades over towards the table. You allow Orestes to prepare himself whilst you fetch fresh oils, noting that your robes suddenly feel too heavy and stifling even for the subdued evening heat. You strip off an outer layer, knowing that you will become further flustered as your hands begin their roam all over Orestes’ body. A desire twists in your stomach at the thought and you try to push it aside, focussing whole-heartedly on your pledge to soothe him.

You tug the lush red curtains closed to form a partition around the table, and when you turn back toward him, Orestes has laid himself out on the stone massage table, face down, his crown of curls quickly air-drying and crinkling. As you approach, you can’t help but take in the sight of him all stretched out, in particular his shapely legs and the curve of his buttocks, which are more than pleasing to you. Beads of oil still adorn his skin like glistening jewels, and your urge to touch him deepens.

Clearing your throat gently to indicate your readiness you move close, and Orestes hums softly in acknowledgment. You gently position his legs with unobtrusive and swift hands, moving them slightly apart from one another, and set his arms down by his sides, his palms facing the sky. “Comfortable?” you ask, trying desperately to keep your voice even.

“Yes, sparrow,” he says, as if pre-emptively grateful for whatever relief you care to offer him.

Taking a deep, centring breath, you again pour oil into your palms and rub until it is warmed. Then, despite the stirring and chaos in the rest of your body, your hands are sure and practised as they greet his skin. Orestes is firm and smooth beneath your caress. The man is no gladiator; he is a scholar, a thinker, and his body reflects that. His skin is not marred by battle scars, nor do his arms swell with cultivated muscle. Orestes does have a pleasing natural meat to him, and his body manages somehow to be both soft and strong; alike to his heart, perhaps. You have had dealings with gladiators- many of them brutes, and Orestes’ rarer softness is perhaps what enamours him to you. He may not have cultivated muscles, yet he conscientiously cultivates his mind and his heart. Of course, he has yet to cultivate his tongue, and often speaks too soon, but you can forgive him that. You much prefer straight-talking.

Focussed on easing Orestes, you work your hands into every part of him, relieving all of the knots you can find. Your fingers and thumbs work and knead and strum the muscles beneath his flesh until blissed out sounds are all he can emit, as if you play his body like a lyre, plucking resonant tones of happiness from him.

A sense of satisfaction overcomes you with each contented noise. If Hypatia will insist upon making Orestes cry, making his overflowing jug crack, your caress will insist on moving like potter’s hands over him. Your hands will replenish him as if he were clay; will fill in all of the fissures and restore his shape. You will pledge to leave him more whole than you found him. In pursuit of this, your hands move over his shoulders, his back, his arms, his buttocks, thighs, and calves – even the palms of his hands and his fingers. The action is almost meditative, as you focus in your mind’s eye on turning him to clay. On pushing aside the fact it is Orestes you are touching in such an intimate manner.

“Hmmm,” Orestes hums in praise, once you have rubbed him into near boneless-ness. “They say the planets seek to orbit the earth in perfect circles, but I attest that it is your hands which move in perfect circles, sweet girl.”

Your heart flutters like a locust’s wings at his words of praise, even as you continue tending to him.

You do feel as if you have rubbed perfect circles into his flesh – simply because you feel no other flesh could be as perfect. Who needs Ptolemy or mathematics, when you have the path of your hands over his body? A path you could follow forever, your hands -through practice- finding their most perfect route around him. Learning him more deeply, as you so wish to. Still, to distract yourself from your wants, you focus intently upon the meditative quality of circles repeating.

Circles like orbits. Like cycles. Like a potter’s wheel. Like the circles of his eyes, as warm in colour as worked clay. Like circular breath. Like the mouth of an empty vase. Like gaping spaces wishing to be filled.

You attempt to calm your quickening breath as your thoughts wander, and before long, you wonder if Orestes -oblivious to your wheeling thoughts- has fallen asleep beneath your touch, until you hear him softly suspire. “You are too good to me, dove. I note how well you care for me,” he admits, tentatively. “Of the two of us, I at least pray to the Gods that you can find the happiness which I cannot. It is what you deserve.”

“Do you praise me merely that I might continue, Orestes?” you deflect, as coolly as possible, a thin smile on your face despite your shock at the earnestness of his words. “Turn over and I shall attend to your front now, do not fear.”

He turns over, gladly, as you set about applying more oil, your hands working over his form. You rub his shapely arms and chest, feeling his nipples pebble beneath your touch, inducing a throaty moan from him. You work down his toned stomach and the slight curve and softness of his lower abdomen. You carefully massage up his shins before dedicating greater effort and pressure to the meat of his thighs. The more that you touch him, the more acutely you become aware of the few places you neglect to touch him, until it is all you can think of.

You know he reads you well, and you fear you may be entirely transparent as Orestes reclines on his back, watching you with an intent fascination as you run your hands all over his body. The act, like this, feels a hundred times more intimate. You cannot tell yourself he is inanimate, like clay beneath your touch- now he is a finished work of art before you and his living, breathing presence causes a plague of locusts to flutter nervously in the pit of your belly.

Orestes is overwhelmingly beautiful like this. He has his arms folded behind him, his head propped-up on his interlaced hands. When you finally glance at him, it is merely for a fleeting moment. That is as long as you can bear to look into his deep, intense eyes, or see his tongue darting out keenly over his plush lower lip when your gaze snags there. A gulp trails down your throat and you quickly look down, focussing on where your touch conscientiously works Orestes’ upper thighs. This does little to ease your growing nervousness, especially as you see his exposed member begin to engorge, rising to sit proudly upon his stomach.

You suck in an involuntary gasp when you take in the size of him, half-hardened, feeling that his sword -if fully erect- would certainly be an intimidating weapon. You don’t mean to keep looking; however, once you are looking, you can’t seem to look away. Orestes is pretty there too. So pretty, and so readily responding to you. He is girthy and well-proportioned, plucked hair at the base of him giving him a smooth, clean appearance, and allowing you to see every veined, ruddy inch of him.

You gulp at the thought of him swelling to his full capabilities, and a heat overtakes your loins and you imagine what your hands might do to satisfy this very particular stiffness. As you imagine how you might oil him here too and feel him hard and slippery in your hands, hearing the obscene, wet noises of the slickness around his length as you work him.

Lost in your fantasies, the sudden absence of your touch signals to Orestes that you have concluded your efforts, and he props himself up on his elbows with a lazy, half-lidded gaze. Almost appearing drunk with relaxation, he hums contentedly and this time you swear you feel it reverberate in your core.

“How is it you are able to both soothe and arouse me? My whole body is singing obediently like a plucked string, resonating from your touch.” His breathy words curl beneath your skin and have you singing for him too, your arousal spreading through your body like the warmth of dawn over the horizon.

Orestes’ oiled figure appears like a cast of bronze in the subdued light, the contours of him gleaming and shadowed all at once. His dark eyes are blackened with lust like the mouths of caves, dark and inviting, and all you want to do is climb into him and be surrounded. He always looks so soft to you. So delicate and beautiful. But suddenly, laid out for you like this? He looks masculine and sharp. He looks virile and rough and…

Oh Gods, you think as you snatch your hands away from his body, lest you might cave to your weaknesses. You should not be having these thoughts about your master. About your friend.

You mind flails for a course of action, thinking that it would be proper to move away. To offer him some wine to further soothe him. To, at the very least, do something other than stare at him, yet you feel drunk on him too after so long with him beneath your caress. You don’t want to stop touching him. It is not enough to hold him in your hands. You want to tip him to your lips and drink him down, deep, deep into you.

“Give me your hands, dove,” Orestes asks softly, looking up at you from beneath the fan of his thick, dark lashes.

It is not often that you are lost for words, or that you lose your cool. However, at this moment, your breath is strangled in your throat as if your desire has made your very spirit wane. You can scarce muster movement. Still, you manage to offer your hands to him as he commanded, presenting them to him tentatively as if they are tied at the wrists, unsure what he wishes to do with them once he has them in his possession. Will he thrust his shaft into your hand here and now and have you pleasure him?

In fact, twisting to prop himself on a single elbow, sweet, sweet Orestes wraps his free hand around both of your wrists and brings your hands towards his lips, softly pressing a kiss to each palm in turn as he looks up at you, reverently. The gesture is so soft and so sensual that it brings tears to your eyes.

Oh, how you have longed for a kind touch from him. How you longed that he might press his hands or his lips to you. You routinely pour your comfort into him until he is full and free from cracks. If Orestes is an overflowing jug, by the Gods you are parched. You are an empty vessel and you need to be filled.

“My sweet dove and your magic healing wings,” he praises, his voice slowed and hushed. “If she is my injury, you are surely my balm.”

You huff out air at his words, looking down at the floor in an effort to control the burgeoning tears and tightness blooming in your chest.

“Orestes…” you protest, weakly.

His words are kind and sweet, yet they serve as nothing more than a reminder that you do not stir him. You are well aware you can make Orestes feel peace, yet you wish to excite him as she does. You wish you could summon a storm within him rather than calm waters.

Feeling a little raw and a little caught off guard, you continue, your frayed heart wanting desperately to assert some kind of dominion over him, however tenuous. “While I cannot rival her, I attest that I might provide you something which she cannot give to you.”

“Tell me. What?” Orestes asks, still clasping one of your wrists loosely in the grip of his warm fingers, unthinkingly tracing the pad of his thumb over your oily skin, his eyes languidly wandering previously untraversed routes over the contours of your body.

You boldly continue, a slight quaver in your voice. “Do you not wish to feel desired, Orestes? Do you not wish to feel loved, like you give but don’t receive in kind? I can make it so.”

Orestes laughs disbelievingly then – a warm, deep chuckle. The resonant rumble is jarring in the somewhat still night, evening birdsong and cicadas the only other sounds within the room. He breaks contact with you, and that jars you too. “To which God would I pray to achieve such a feat? Even the pagans do not possess numerous enough gods to make it so, no matter how I may try and appease them.”

Orestes swings his legs around and comes to a sitting position on the stone slab of a table, his hand coming to cup your chin in wonderment and concern that you still refuse to meet his gaze.

“I desire you, Orestes,” you state plainly, your words blurting from you like wine from the neck of an uncorked vessel, served by a drunken man. You can no longer contain them and you offer them indiscriminately. “To be desired - is that not tempting?” You look him right in his umber eyes, your voice faltering, your teeth worrying your lower lip. “Am I at all tempting to you?”

“Sweet girl...” Orestes deflects, caught off-guard himself, his brow furrowing in disbelief as his eyes search yours. He finds no hint of mocking behind them.

“I have seen your sword swollen with need whenever I bathe you, Orestes,” you continue, your voice husky. “While you relax beneath my hands. I know that there must be an inkling of desire within you.” Your voice is little more than breath billowing in the space between you. “Won’t you let me touch you, with my whole, willing body?”

A hard swallow bobs in Orestes’ corded neck, his tongue trailing along each of his lips in turn. The air in between you mingles and becomes charged. However, you know Orestes speaks with his heart. It will take more than a willing body for him to submit to you, you wager. As expected, you look into his eyes and find hesitation there.

Can you really not tempt him, then? Are you so unlovely that he will not take what you freely offer? The fear of such rejection flares in you, and so you offer an unthinking, last-ditch effort. “You can even close your eyes and think of her while I touch you, if you wish.”

At that, Orestes delivers you a grimace, as if he has tasted bitter fruit. “That would be wrong. You should know better than that.”

A flush creeps over you and you wring your hands together, your manner becoming uncommonly deferential, your head bowed. “I apologise. I know you would not soil Hypatia with such actions. Forgive me my insolence.”

You fear punishment. Orestes has never punished you, yet you have never gone so far in your disrespect of Hypatia. However, you are surprised when his hands travel to yours to grip them firmly in his instead.

“Dove, save your apologies. I would not soil Hypatia in such a way and nor would I soil you. You deserve more than that, beautiful, sweet thing.” Orestes’ eyes are soft and searching as he looks upon you, and you are floored again by his disarming sweetness. “By the Gods, why on earth would you offer yourself to me in such a way?”

“Surely you understand, Orestes,” you respond in a small voice. “Wouldn’t you give yourself to her, in any way she would willingly have you?”

Orestes clasps your hands a little more tightly, his thumbs smoothing over your skin in attempts to calm your evident agitation. “Yes, I would,” he admits, though not proudly. “Without doubt, yes. But I am an idiot; hopelessly, pathetically in love.” Orestes speaks plainly, in a self-deprecating manner, as if the situation is both obvious and absurd.

You tug in a breath on which to launch your confession, praying for smooth sailing as the air catches in your words. “And I too am hopelessly, pathetically in love, Orestes. Though I maintain it is only you that is an idiot.” You add insult to injury, just for good measure, hoping the teasing may lighten the burden of your confession.

Confusion then realisation dawn on Orestes’ face and you look bashfully down to the floor as you continue, an involuntary tear forming on your cheek like a glistening trail of a comet through the night sky.

“In that, at least, you and I are equal, if weighed by the measure of our unrequited loves.” you profess, solemnly. A delicate laugh at the comedy of your misfortune ekes out of you then, puncturing some of the tension. “Two of us in love but not desired by our muse. Perhaps the both of us are cursed.”

Orestes looks upon you with a melancholic smile. With sudden affinity. He knows all too well how it feels to be in your shoes. Yet, he similarly has no words of comfort to offer you. He can only counsel you with truth. You wonder, as you look upon him, whether the Gods cursed him with melancholy, yet blessed him with eyes that were beautiful enough to carry it.

“Aren’t we a lonely pair?” he asks, finally, and he leans his head into your bosom dejectedly, accompanied by a hearty exhale. Still, he allows your fingers to tangle in his hair. He does not pull away from the comfort offered as your arms wind around his shoulders. You accept his comfort, in turn, as his arms wrap firmly and pleasingly around your waist.

“We are alike to the wanderers,” you breathe, speaking of the lonely planets and their blind, unfathomable orbits through the dark. Then: “Orestes?” you venture, idly stroking the back of his neck as his hands slip further down your back, shifting to your hips, his breathing becoming more ragged. He looks up at you as you speak his name, his eyes brimming with a quiet vigour. “Tonight, instead of feeling like a wanderer, you could be the centre of the universe. Might we not allow ourselves to feel a little less lonely, if only for a moment? Don’t you want someone who orbits you?”

“Sweet girl...” Orestes breathes. “You want more than I can give you.” Still, he is tugging you closer to him, holding you more tightly.

Your eyes rove hungrily over him. You cannot help it. “I am no fool, sweet man. I know well that I do not have your heart… yet I venture there is somewhere else I might make you pump blood, is there not?”

Orestes’ tongue darts over his lower lip again, the planes of his face looking sharp and angled, half in shadow. Orestes looks at you. Really looks at you, with those glinting and dark half-moon eyes of his. You pump your eyebrows suggestively as his eyes land on you with a questioning gaze, delivering him your most seductive stare from beneath your lashes.

“You are tempting, aren’t you?” Orestes teases with the hint of a cheeky smile, his lips tipping up at the corners. His face begins to come alive with it, before his cheeky edge is blunted by reverence. “In fact,” he teases, shifting his hands even lower on your hips and gently squeezing, “you are beautiful. These hungry looks you bestow upon me? You provide a certain beauty she cannot rival. She will never look at me the way you do, with desire lighting your eyes.” You can but hope that she will seem henceforth like an unfeeling stone in comparison to the liquid desire flowing through you.

“Let me, Orestes,” you plead. “Let me look at you and beauty will prosper in my eyes with every inch of you my gaze falls upon.”

“You truly desire me?” Orestes asks, nestling his head into your bosom again.

“Yes, this is the truth of things,” you respond in earnest. “It is my desire to comfort you in all the ways I know how.”

Orestes becomes bolder with your revelation, his fingers skimming lower, ghosting over your buttocks and splaying over your upper thighs, squeezing you there. “Your legs are quaking, sweet. Is this all for me?”

Both of your breaths are coming quickly, heaving in your chests. You tip your head back and moan silently into the air as his fingers dig into the meat of you, expelling affirmatives from your lips.

“Then tell me exactly. How do you imagine I may achieve such comfort?”

“When you take yourself in your hand, how does it feel?” you question in sultry tones, your hands pawing at any inch of him you can reach, skimming down his back.

“It feels pleasurable.” Orestes responds obediently, a quiver in his voice.

“Now, imagine how my skilful fingers might instead relieve your stiffness. Won’t you allow me to soothe you?”

“Yes. Yes, I will allow it. Come then and soothe me, sweet thing.” A playful, tempting smile blooms on his face, and, sitting on the edge of the slab of the table, Orestes leans back on to his hands, creating space between your bodies. It causes you to double take at the sight of him all over again, nude and oiled and his sword brandished. His eyes flick down to his proud length and you follow his gaze there.

“My sword blazes for you, dove. I am on fire as I keenly await your touch, if you would give it.”

You swallow thickly and keenly oil your palms, again warming the lubricant before you touch him. Your heart thrums in your chest now like the wings of a songbird taking flight. Then, you touch him everywhere except there, brushing against his length with only your thumbs and fingertips, until he pleads that he can take no more teasing. Finally, and with disbelieving relish, you take his fully engorged member into your hands. Starting at the tip and wrapping your hand, you slide one hand and then the other down his shaft, all the way to the base of him, making him slick. Orestes’ hips stutter into your hand from this simple motion alone.

“Your hands are as magic as ever, sweet girl,” Orestes chokes, as if he might spill his seed for you in mere moments. He emits a deep rumble from his chest as you massage him there, both hands on his shaft. There are wet sounds as you coat him until he is gleaming, and as you circle your thumb over the head of him whilst you pump and tug him in the grip of your palms, as if you intend to milk him dry. You squeeze him firmly and add a slight twist to your wrists as you work him, fascinated by the size and hardness and contours of him. Orestes throws his head back, a strangled moan emanating from his slack mouth as his eyes flutter closed from the sensations. He looks as though he might collapse from them, his arms shaking and barely supporting him.

“My dove, the things you are making me feel are surely sent from Elysium.” His voice is like warm desert sand slipping through your fingers, rough and soft all at once.

“You deserve it, Orestes,” you gush. “I want to make all of you feel good. I want to give you everything,” you admit, your voice filled with veneration.

When Orestes tips his head back down from the skies his eyes are hungry. He’s never looked at you like this before. Like a wolf emerging from a cave. Just for a moment, he looks at you as he looks at her, and you feel as bright as the midday desert sun.

“Tell me. What might I give you? My head under your skirts? My fingers buried in you?”

“I am not finished giving to you yet,” you purr. With relish, you sink to your knees, placing your hands flat on Orestes thighs, dipping your lips towards his shaft.

Orestes moans in anticipation, yet tugs lightly on your hair to prevent you from sinking down on him, momentarily. “Your most sacred body part?”

“The Christians believe that. You’re a pagan, Orestes. Let me suck you?”

Orestes nods affirmatively and throws his head back in another open-mouthed moan as your wet mouth finds the tip of him, your tongue winding around his head and the contours of him. He feels warm and fleshy, and his girth strains and swells against your mouth, ridges and veins slipping past your tongue as you flatten it to dip you head all the way down the shaft of him. Sucking on him is divine, the uncharacteristically gruff and desperate noises coming from his mouth spurring you on.

Orestes flails and tugs helplessly at your hair after your continued efforts. “Ungg. Stop, my bird, else I will reach my peak. Your mouth is even more magic than your hands.”

You slide your mouth from his shaft slowly and with a pop, looking up at him deviously with cock-swollen lips. “Now you are trembling, Orestes. Is this all for me?” you purr, tone dark with lust. He moans again, merely from the sight of how carnal and delectable you look like this.

“I want to touch you,” he pleads, desperately. “I need to look upon you. Will you undress for me?”

Touching Orestes and giving him pleasure is one thing, though you don’t know if you can bear him touching you without becoming vapour. Without erupting. A gulp trails down your throat yet you nod keenly. You unfasten clasps and ties and slip the diaphanous fabric away from your body, your robes cascading to the floor in a gathered heap like a despondent cloud.

“Fuck.” Orestes intones gruffly as his eyes trail over you, and he appears to have stalled as he is met with the sight of you. Crude words from his lips are rare, in comparison to his profanity-loving brethren. That the curse is delivered with a voice full of grit and hooded eyes, that you inspired it, has your core clenching around nothing as he looks over every inch of your body in awe and obvious approval.

You move slowly and fluidly towards him, your movements sultry, and Orestes regains his faculties as the need to touch you rather than merely stare at you overtakes him. He takes the jug of oil and tips some into his own hands, rising to stand close enough to you that the tip of his erection presses enthusiastically against your hip. Then, after awaiting a nod from you, he reaches his hands up to rub oil over your breasts, seemingly fascinated by the way your nipples harden beneath his meticulous fingers. He pinches and rolls them and his touch has your core positively molten.

You moan for him, extending your arms out to his shoulders to steady yourself as he puts his hands on you. No-one has touched you like this. Not once in your life have you been touched with such softness.

“You swoon for me, sweetness?”

“I cannot fathom such a divine touch. I think that I must be within a dream for I have your hands upon me.”

Orestes spins you, so that you may steady yourself against the edge of the stone slab, moving to press his hot body against you, burying his head into the crook of your neck.

“Do not place yourself below me, sweet thing. I intend for us to be equals in our pursuit of pleasure.” He speaks into your neck as his lips drag along your skin, his sprouting stubble grazing you there- the only rough part of him. “Tell me that you desire me, dove.”

“I desire you,” you offer the words to him freely.

“And I you.” he says earnestly, laden with need, his admission sending a shudder all the way down to your core.

Your faces are close now, your fractured breath mingling in the tight space between you, and this heat, oh gods this heat growing between your legs. You cannot help but dip your head as if to kiss him, your forehead resting against his and noses brushing as you whimper and whine with need.

“I cannot exchange breath with you. We must not.” Orestes protests weakly as your lips skim his. Now you understand this regard for your mouth is not simply some Christian notion. You understand that Orestes wishes to save his own breath for Hypatia. Even now.

“She will not love you like this,” you reason, your bluntness a product of your furious need.

Orestes groans and looks perplexed by indecision, even as his hands trail wantonly over your buttocks.

“And yet, I orbit her all the same,” he says resignedly.

“The planets travel the most perfect path possible,” you bargain into his neck. “Yet you insist on travelling the path with most opposition.”

“My heart may be foolish, yet my hands might travel the smoothest path, hmm?”

At that, Orestes’ hands move between your legs, his oiled fingers skimming your clit and your drenched folds. You practically sob into the air. It feels too good. It feels divinely good.

“Will this do, then?” his cheeky smile resurfaces as you buck against his touch, your heat already so sensitive and responsive to him.

“Don’t stop, Orestes. Don’t stop,” you plead and moan, body lurching against him, as you become a trembling mess. You can scarce believe that Orestes’ naked body is held warm against yours, the promise of his erection still pressing against you - still rock hard for you.

“I think there is a way we can both be comforted, dove,” Orestes speaks, his voice overflowing with need. If you wish it, I would have you on top of me as you grind this delicious mess on my sword.”

“Yes. Oh Gods, yes.” Your request is breathy, as if your throat is parched.

Orestes shifts to lay himself out on the table again, taking your hand and guiding you to straddle him. You settle your core over the top of his shaft, your folds pressing up against the length of him. You glide yourself all along the straining mass of him, coating him in your juices; massaging him with your heat alone and shifting your hips in whatever pattern allows you to best caress and engulf him in your warmth and friction. Even without penetration, the sensations are blissful, and you writhe together as each stroke heightens your shared pleasure. Each time you dip your folds wantonly over the head of him, his cock twitches to meet you, as if in attempt to be swallowed entirely by your heat.

Orestes tips his hips up into you, pinning your own hips with his hands, increasing his pressure against your slick as his hardened length slips and slides against you. The way his head skims rhythmically against your clit, the way your folds swallow and caress the tip of him, and the blunt pressure against your entrance have you whimpering for him. You think the pleasure between your thighs must be at the centre of all creation, and you are enthralled by its force as you orbit it.

You loll forward, almost completely limp and unravelled by bliss already. Your hands fall to either side of Orestes’ torso to steady yourself, boxing him in and creating an intimate circle with your arms, your faces close, moans billowing right into each other’s ears, cheeks, necks. Lips hovering close.

“You make me feel so good,” you moan. “Kiss me, Orestes. Please. I beg you. Kiss me just once as if you love me.” your words are breathy and hurried and needy, your coolness entirely undone.

Orestes groans as he continues to grind against you. “I cannot do that, my dove.”

“Then please… please just kiss me?” you beg as you writhe your wetness all over him with increasing pace.

He folds his knees to the rear of you so that he may plant his feet and press himself even more firmly to you. The motion adjusts his angle and he strikes your clit just right, causing you to shiver and deliver a throaty, brazen “fuck” into the air.

At that, Orestes looks at your lips with a growl, and finally caves to his desire. First, he presses a chaste prayer to your lips. It’s as if he tries his utmost to kiss you like he loves you. Perhaps as if he attempts to will it so. However, the truth of it is, he desires you, and as soon as his lips taste yours his mouth returns even hungrier than he began. With his next kiss, your tongues mingle softly, like dissolving honey, before the kiss grows in intensity. With his next, his mouth is opening to devour yours, his tongue probing and tasting the cave of you, your moans stifled as his soft lips crush against you.

“I wish I could hold you inside of me,” you say longingly into his kiss as you approach your peak.

“I wish it could be so, my sweet. Alas, I cannot release my seed inside you, and nor can I take your innocence. That gift is yours to give to whomever you may marry.”

“Orestes, you sweet fool. I am not innocent. And there is no other I would marry. You may not love me, Orestes, but I orbit you all the same.”

As the sensations intensify, you enjoy the slick, solid mass of him beneath you. You relish edging him closer and closer towards his end. Lost in the throes of pleasure, Orestes clasps you to him so tightly, his arms surrounding you in a perfect circle. You writhe and moan and whimper for each other, your crushing embrace at once both melancholic and urgent, his lips meeting yours again and again in desperation, as if famished. You taste salt and you know not whether it is he who is crying or you, or some combination, but it doesn’t matter in this moment. You would drink his tears down. Drink all of him down.

“I will find my peak in only moments,” you warn. “I will reach it soon.”

“And I too. Come, get beneath me,” Orestes suggests, his typically smooth voice ragged.

He flips you urgently and you settle beneath him, legs spread open, more than ready for him to nestle between them.

“You truly wish to have me inside of you?” he asks, examining your face for any hint of hesitation.

“Yes, Orestes. Yes. Please.”

He rubs your clit skilfully until you are evidently on the edge of bliss, maintaining a blunt pressure against your entrance with the tip of him. Finally, he dips to plant kisses on your lips, your neck, your chest as he drives his whole length forward, sheathing himself in your warm, surrounding depths. One thrust is all it takes and you are clenching around him, writhing in a display of pleasure, moans directed at the sky in praise of the Gods as your release bursts through you like the birth of a flaming sun.

Orestes mutters strings of soft praise and crude profanities into the air. His breaths become laboured gusts of air as he attempts to stave off his end whilst you tighten so deliciously around him, his eyes screwing shut as he brings himself under control, his body trembling.

“Where, sweet? Where?” he manages to choke out.

“Let me taste you,” you invite, and he thrusts deeply into you once more before pulling out and coming to his knees, taking his shaft delicately in his hand, his needy cock twitching for some contact, some release. The head of him is ruddy and swollen and he looks fit to burst as he gleams with a concoction of oils and your juices.

“Unnggg. I need to find my end. Oh Gods,” Orestes begs, and you transfer your position as quickly as possible to all fours to oblige him, bringing your mouth to his shaft.

The first hot rope of cum spills over your lips and chin at the mere suggestion of filling up your pretty, eager mouth, and the remainder of his seed pumps into you, salty and sweet as your lips and tongue surround him. He moans and stutters as he fills you up with each pulse from his aching balls, grabbing your head as he sinks the length of him down into your throat as deeply as you can take him. Groans and praises tumble from his lips as you suck him dry, his relieved shaft throbbing in your mouth.

You tease Orestes with further kitten licks to his sensitive head, easing him gently down from his high. You hold him there until you are sure you have drained every drop from him; even until he has softened, feeling entirely unwilling to relinquish his delicious cock from your mouth. Once he is freed, you lick the stray salty release from your plump lips as he regains himself, looking down at you with something resembling awe.

“You are beautiful,” he praises, in disbelief.

“As are you,” you respond with a blissed-out smile, your tongue flicking to savour the residual tang of him on your teeth.

You collapse on to the stone slab together whilst you regain your breath, ending up top-to-toe. Orestes insists on tasting you too, nuzzling his head in between your hot thighs to lap at your own sweet release, sending shuddering aftershocks through your body as you feel his eager lips and tongue nestle over your core. When your clit becomes too sensitive you giggle in protest and shift on the slab until you are each stretched out on your side, using your elbows as pillows and looking into one another’s eyes.

You are happy. You are. And yet, a single disobedient tear rolls down your cheek, causing Orestes’ brow to furrow in concern.

“Sweet girl, I am sorry for your pain. How I wish that I could give my love to you, sparrow.”

“Shush, sweet soul. Don’t stir the waters. Simply let them still for a moment,” you counsel softly, an even smile on your face even as your eyes shine with sadness. He returns your smile and reaches out to brush your tears away with the pad of his thumb.

“I will try, though you have riled all the waters within me to a frenzy, my peak washing over me like a great wave.”

A broader smile blooms on your face then. You have stirred him after all. You snuggle close to him as he lazily traces nonsense shapes on your arms and back with his fingers, and you lie there together in comfortable, quiet contemplation, wanting to savour whatever this had meant to each of you. You remain there, until your heart calls you to fracture the silence.

“I must go,” you whisper reluctantly, shrinking from him as you withdraw, alike to a flower withdrawing its petals from a waning sun.

You push yourself up to a seated position on the stone table, yet Orestes’ hand flicks out to wrap around one of your wrists. “Don’t. Don’t go,” he pleads.

You look at him softly, with infinite fondness. “You and I both know that this afterglow you are feeling is not love. I wished to bask in this false sun for as long as possible, yet I do not wish to be here when it fades, Orestes.”

You look into his eyes and his admiration blazes so brightly for a false sun that you could almost be convinced of it.

“First, tell me- did it comfort you too?”

“It did,” you reassure, truthfully, hopping down from the table and beginning to gather your strewn garments. “Though, it is both a comfort and a torture to know that not only are you sweet as honey, beautiful as a muse, sharp as a scythe, and funny as a curse tablet... you are also skilled at swordsmanship. The Gods truly excelled themselves with you.”

Orestes’ eyes gleam, happy to see your playful nature shining through once more. He swings his own legs to retake his seated position, facing you as you redress. “Hmm. High praise from one usually so mocking. Though you evidently forget that I can now play the aulos. Another superior quality for your ever-lengthening list.” He grins broadly at you, and you find him disarming all over again.

Orestes grabs your wrist and tugs you into him in a swift motion, wrapping a single arm around your waist and looking up at you with new eyes as your laughter lilts down toward him.

“Though, in truth, dove,” he smiles fondly, “I think you brandish a sword better than I. You are all that I am and more, I venture.”

You settle your arms around him again, fingers twisting in the curls at the nape of his neck. “We are more alike than I realised, then,” you say pridefully.

“Yes,” he agrees, “It is so. After all, we were both stupid enough to fall for the wrong person.”

His eyes spark with humour as he delivers his words, but there is a sadness buried beneath which you are determined not to unearth. “And tonight, Orestes, we were smart enough to make the best of it, for once.”

You smooth your face again, trying not dwell on his insistence that you each fell for the wrong person. Hypatia may not be a match for him, but you still cannot accept the notion that he is in any way wrong for you.

Instead, you concentrate on the way Orestes’ eyes glow in admiration as he gazes up at you, a smile lingering still on his lips. He reaches up to your cheek to caress you there, but you snatch his hand playfully in yours before he can fulfil his intention.

“Careful, Orestes, do not fall for me,” you caution chidingly. “I have been told you are cursed. I, for one, want nothing of it.” You flash him a sad yet cheeky smile, before reaching out to caress him on the cheek instead, tenderly flattening your palm to his face.

You are reluctant to end your encounter on a sombre note, and yet there are things which must not remain unspoken.

“If you need me Orestes, I am here. And, it must be said… I love you. You are loved, and you are more than worthy of it, sweet soul. Some with the cheek to call themselves scholars of the stars evidently neglect some of the sky’s greatest wonders. That is their loss. What a dark night, I think, without the brightest star in the sky.” As a final gesture, you smile softly and dip your face to press a shy, chaste kiss to his cheek. Orestes’ eyes flutter closed as your lips brush against him, and he watches you with shining, grateful eyes as you pad out of the room.

You leave him, you hope, a little less overflowing. A little less cracked. He leaves you a little less empty. A little less parched.

Maybe Orestes will resolve to pray to the Gods that he can love you in return. Maybe one day soon he can. If it is your fate, then so be it.

Though you dare not invite hope in yet, perhaps you need not wander so alone along your path, now that you have spoken your truth. Maybe when the paths of wanderers do not run in perfect circles, all that remains is to create a new model of the planetary system.

For now, you glance back at him as you ready to leave and he is still looking at you in that rare way, even as tears pool on his cheeks. He is looking at you as he looks at her. As the sun sinks towards its dormitory, you feel momentarily like your star is rising.

For now, that will have to be enough, because he has nothing more to give you.

#oscar isaac #orestes x reader #orestes #historical fiction #agora

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jovialyouthmusic · 3 years

Text

Who Wants to Rule the World?

A Lovelink fanfic

Okay, so you never choose who makes your heart beat faster or your knees go weak, and very unexpectedly, yet another fictional character has given me the wobbles. Dr Vile from Ludia’s Lovelink App is the virtual man in question, and I had had a TON of fun writing this. As always, this is an adult blog, so it will get hot and steamy and it is NOT SUITABLE FOR UNDER 18s

Word Count 2350

A/N Please note that Dr Vile, whom I have given the first name James, has no henchmen. Instead he has an army of drones to do his every bidding. Dr Vile is not my creation, he belongs to Ludia.

I have an almost non existent tag list here, so if you like, reblog or comment I will add you.

1 Secret Base

Dr Vile’s face drifts into view, blurred and wavering but most definitely there as he stands over you. You blink in an attempt to clear your eyes. You’re lying on a firm surface, and the room is dimly lit. You hear the hum of a drone.

‘Hello Lucy’ You know his voice – he tries to sound intimidating but you detect a hint of warmth – a little doubt perhaps, as if he’s unsure of himself. Impossible. Unless – does he really have feelings for you?

‘How – how did I get here?’ your voice is weak. You try to sit up, but your head hurts and something stops you. Your wrists are secured by your sides, your ankles also immovable.

‘I rescued you’ You look around, and recognise your surroundings. His base – the one he brought you to only a week ago.

‘Rescued? From what?’

‘From whom…’

‘Oh’ a memory tickles the back of your mind. ‘It was F’

‘It was. They were questioning you, trying to get information on my base’ He chuckles ‘They walked right into my trap’

‘Your trap?’

‘I planted a device on you when we last met. You led me right to their den’ You try to move again.

‘This is your interrogation table’ As always, his face is half in shadow.

‘It is, Lucy. I have to be sure.’

‘Sure of what? That I’m loyal to you? How could you doubt me?’ He draws a deep breath and squares his jaw.

‘Tell me what you remember, Lucy’

‘Do you have to do it like this – on the table? My head hurts’ He looks away.

‘If you answer my questions correctly I’ll let you go. It’s base protocol. The drones demand it.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘The drones will take care of you. They’re programmed to neutralise threats. I have to protect my interests.’

‘I’m not a threat – James, please’ you struggle against your bonds, then gasp. ‘They – you’ve lined the restraints in silk, haven’t you? Stainless steel lined with silk’ He squares his jaw.

‘It’s the least I can do’ You relax against the cuffs and close your eyes, trying to remember. He cares. Just a little, but he cares about your comfort. Even if his drones will most probably dispose of you if you don’t tell him what he - or they – need to hear. You take a deep breath past the pain in your head and gather your thoughts.

‘It’s all fuzzy. They – I wanted to tell them I wouldn’t betray you. We met at a bar. We had a drink, they said they quite understood and that there were no hard feelings. Then I felt dizzy. I passed out’

‘They drugged you.’ Vile says. ‘My drones found traces in your blood. They drugged you and took you to their den, and interrogated you. Or they tried to. Tell me more’

‘I don’t know. Was it a dream? I can’t remember’ He leans over you as a drone hums just out of sight, keeping watch. You know those drones are efficient and ruthless, no matter what Dr Vile may feel.

‘I need more details, Lucy, or the drones will take action’ Tears spring to your eyes as you struggle to recall what happened.

‘I – I think I woke up. I couldn’t move, and they asked me – they asked me where your base was. I don’t know exactly where it is, of course, you saw to that, so I couldn’t tell them, even if I wanted. But I didn’t’

‘Did you give them any clues?’

‘No’ you screw up your eyes ‘I told them – I told them…’ it comes to you at last ‘I told them I would never betray you, because I love you’ He leans on the table, his head dropping. The drone next to him whisks away and the cuffs snap open, freeing you at last. You struggle to get up, but Vile scoops you into his arms and lifts you bodily off the table as if you were light as a feather. You steady yourself by grasping his arm as he puts you on your feet beside the table.

‘That was the right answer’ he says softly. You test the strength of your legs, which just support you, but you lean back on the table. You cross your arms and wait for him to speak, holding your breath in anticipation.

‘I’m not sure I know what love is’ he says ‘But I think – I love you too, Lucy’ You step toward him, encircle his waist with your arms and turn your cheek to his shoulder against his armour. His body is solid against you, his arms warm and reassuring as he returns the embrace, hesitantly and softly as if you might break. You feel so safe. How could you not? He’s so powerful, so self assured and confident. It’s like an aphrodisiac.

‘What happened to F?’ you ask. He laughs, and you feel it in his broad chest.

‘They won’t be troubling us again’ You gasp as you pull away from him.

‘Are they – dead?’ After all, he is a super villain and wouldn’t scruple to kill, surely.

‘No, but they have a terminal case of amnesia, they’ve forgotten all about me – and you’

‘How..?’

‘I have a very nifty little device that wipes memory like wiping a hard drive. The drones would have applied it to you if you’d failed my interrogation.’

‘Oh – I thought you might have..’

‘Killed you?’ he laughs sardonically ‘That would have been a waste. I may want to rule the world, but I’m not totally evil. The safety protocols on the drones are very strict.’ You realise you still feel groggy, presumably from the drugs and most probably from dehydration. You slump in his arms and he supports you without hesitation.

‘I’m sorry, you’ve been through a taxing ordeal.’ You nod weakly, and he leads you to a padded recliner. Unfortunately its obvious purpose is torture, not comfort, and your eyes widen in alarm. He tuts in irritation. ‘How stupid of me.’ he berates himself, and scoops you up in his arms again. Once more you feel safe. You fight a wave of dizziness and close your eyes, aware that he’s taking you somewhere else but too sick to register your route. After a while you feel him lower you down, and you open your eyes.

You recline in a full length padded leather seat, the décor around you strongly masculine but designed for comfort rather than torture or world domination. It rather resembles the lounge of a gentleman’s club, panelled wood and brass and leather everywhere. He snaps an instruction.

‘Base, change command protocols. Upgrade Lucy to level two. Confirm’

‘Confirmed. Lucy Valois upgraded to level two.’ the calm dispassionate voice chimes. ‘Base and drone records amended’ He turns to you, eyes glittering in the half shadow of his handsome features.

‘Choose a gesture that the drones will recognise’ he says ‘Some movement you wouldn’t normally make.’ You grope through the fog in your brain, and raise your hand, bending your wrist and pressing your thumb to your fingers like a glove puppet, opening and closing them three times. He grins ‘Excellent. Again, to my prompt’ He straightens and addresses the computer again.

‘Computer, record Lucy’s command prompt’ he nods to you, and you make the gesture.

‘Prompt recorded’ He pulls up a stool and sits close to you.

‘Try it out. Ask for something’ Once again I make the gesture, and a drone that had been waiting discretely in the corner of the room scoots over and hovers in front of me, red light blinking under the rotors.

‘Water’ The red light blinks.

‘You need to be more specific’

‘Bring me a glass of water. Cold mineral water, still’ The light blinks green then steadies and the drone whisks off. Within seconds it comes back with three other drones carrying a tray with a glass and a sealed bottle. Dr Vile gestures to the table next to me and they put it down.

‘Allow me’ He picks up the bottle, opens and pours, handing it over to me. I take it, but he puts his hand to mine as I raise it to my lips ‘Just sip. Slowly’ he advises ‘I’d have put you on a drip, but I thought you would find these surroundings more comfortable.’ I sip and sigh with satisfaction, my dry throat soothed.

‘I thought you didn’t do down time. Too busy with your projects’ I continue to take small mouthfuls, feeling it soaking into my parched mouth and tongue, lubricating my throat.

‘I had this made when you so rightly pointed out that I’m a workaholic. I sometimes sit in here and contemplate my plans.’

‘I’m impressed’ A faint smile plays across his lips.

‘So, what would you like to do now? Are you hungry?’

‘A little, but I’m more tired than anything else – but can I ask you something?’

‘Of course, Lucy. You should know by now that your happiness is important to me’

‘Can I stay with you? Just for a little while. I feel a bit shaken up after all that. What if the Organization comes after me?’ He reaches across and runs his gloved fingertip along your jaw. A delicious shiver runs down your spine.

‘You’re safe here, Lucy. You can stay for as long as you want, my dear.’

‘Really?’

‘You can rule the world by my side’ His smile is triumphant.

‘Figuratively speaking’ He nods and inclines his head

‘You’ll have to wait and see. You know I have objectives.’ You smile back at him.

‘I believe in you, James’ you feel a wave of weariness sweep through you, and you lie back, closing your eyes. ‘I just need to rest’ are the last words that leave your lips before you drift off into an exhausted sleep.

You wake with a start. Your surroundings are different. The light is dim, the room about you in shadow. You feel cool cotton sheets draping your body, a firm mattress beneath you. You hear the whirr of a drone whisking away, the swish of a door straight from a science fiction film opening and closing. You struggle to sit up, your belly rumbling and your mouth dry again. You look to the bedside table, where a glass of water sits waiting for you, so you take it and sip. You remember what happened to you the day before and gasp as you realise you are naked beneath the sheets. The door swishes open again and the light levels slowly increase as Dr Vile enters.

The room is dominated by the huge bed you lie on. The décor is monochrome with red accents and chrome or steel fittings. The bed linen is a crisp white and the coverlet a pale grey, the carpet a darker shade. You look up to see a mirror mounted above the bed, a bar at the opposite side of the room. Somehow you had expected a picture window, but there is none, the lighting soft but artificial. As Dr Vile approaches you clutch the sheets to you, your face flushing.

‘Don’t be afraid my dear, nothing improper happened’ he assures you, standing by the bedside. He no longer wears body armour, but the soft fabrics he wears resemble his usual garb, minus the cloak. You get the impression of cashmere and silk, expensive and well fitted to flatter his figure. ‘You were very tired and I brought you where you’d be more comfortable’ He gestures around the room ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s – very masculine’ you remark, and he sits beside you on the bed.

‘It is my usual night refuge. You may choose another if you wish, or have one designed to your own specification’ You stomach rumbles, and he smiles ‘Breakfast in bed?’ he offers. You hold the sheet to you.

‘I – did you undress me?’

‘I would not pass such a delicate task onto my drones, so yes.’ His eyes glitter ‘It was done with the utmost respect, I promise you’ He gets up and disappears behind a sliding door for a moment, returning with a dressing gown. He hands it to you - it is soft and silky to the touch, and you shrug your way into it, instantly feeling more modest and comfortable. You turn to readjust the pillows.

‘Allow me, Lucy’ with a few gestures the pillows are perfect to lean up against. ‘What would you like to eat? He asks ‘Name it. Unless it’s very exotic I most likely have it although as you know I have only myself to please.’ You think for a moment, and remembering, you make the command gesture and wait for a drone to whip to your side, waiting.

‘Eggs benedict on a wholemeal roll and black coffee’ The lights blink green and it leaves the room. Dr Vile smiles and nods.

‘Well remembered, Lucy. Making commands suits you. And a good choice, it won’t take long.’ There is silence, but he breaks it before it becomes awkward. ‘I believe you had a fantasy about the interrogation table. I hope I didn’t spoil it by using it as it was intended’ He cocks an eyebrow at you. You sigh.

‘I’ve been drugged, kidnapped, rescued and interrogated twice - all in one day. I think need to gather my strength before I try anything like that’ You look up at his rugged half shaded profile; if you weren’t hungry and dying for a shower and a bath you’d drag him into bed with you right now.

‘Whatever you wish, Lucy. The drones will serve you too now, though I am still their master’ You shiver again.

‘Are you my master?’

‘If you want me to be, my dear’ He puts his hand on your thigh, which sends shocks of electricity to your core. ‘But I may consider other roleplays, as you suggested’

‘You’re seriously testing my resolve’ you murmur.

‘I have an excellent walk in shower with power jets’

‘Is it big enough for two?’

‘After you’ve eaten, I’ll show you’

@zodiacsign1

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