#did so many google searches but just gave up and went for the first skirt wearing character who came to mind lol

[scrixels]

1023. Tina Belcher

#pixel art #pixel dailies #tina belcher #bobs burgers #skirt #was the prompt??? #the first time in ages ive been PROPERLY stumped coming up w something ooft #did so many google searches but just gave up and went for the first skirt wearing character who came to mind lol #she looks a lil awkward but she is a lil awkward so it suits her :D

[lovely-ateez]

A Plane For Two~

ꕥPosted: 8/21/20

ꕥGenre: Smut, Fluff

ꕥPairing: Fem!Reader x San

ꕥWord Count: ~1.3k

ꕥWarnings: Protected sex, fingering, language

ꕥA/N: This was requested and I hope you all like it! Requests are still open but please keep in mind that I have gone back to college so they might not get done as quickly as before. Also, in case you can’t tell, the nickname Kitten for me is just 😩👌🥵

“Are you ready, babe?” San asked with a dimpled smile.

“Absolutely! I’m so excited!”

Today was the day San and I were headed to Paris. I had never been outside my country before and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous, but San always made me feel safe and confident. There’s no one I’d rather travel with. Although we’d been dating for over a year, this was our first vacation together. I was so ecstatic when he told me that he planned the entire trip just for us. I felt like we’d reached a new place in our relationship.

I remember when we told our friends we’d be leaving. The both of us were going to be gone for two weeks so we obviously had to let them know. San gathered the seven men in our apartment living room.

I gave a wide smile, “San and I are going to Paris! We’ll be gone for two weeks so just a heads up.”

“Ughhh I’m jealous as hell. I wanna go to Paris.” Hongjoong pouted and crossed his arms.

“I’m not.” Mingi shrugged.

We all turned to him, waiting for his explanation. He gave us a timid look then laughed, “I don’t speak croissant.”

Everyone burst into laughter. It was probably the hardest I’ve laughed in a while. Overall, they were quite excited for us. Yunho insisted that we take as many pictures as possible and Yeosang gave us the ‘wise’ advice to not get into a fight with a mime. “They have no mercy,” He told us. I simply nodded, not bothering to question his reasoning.

Looking around our apartment, I double checked that we had everything we needed. When I saw we left nothing behind, we drove off. We arrived at the airport roughly two hours early but both of us were just so excited we couldn’t help it.

For the past two months we had both been learning French in preparation for our trip. Our French had become pretty good given the time frame, if I’m honest.

There were several restaurants in the airport so we decided to stop for a bite before we headed off.

“McDonalds, babe?”

“San I will kick your ass if we eat fast food. We’re going to Paris, dammit.”

He shook his head and smiled. “You have passed your first test, A plus to you.”

“Oh there’s a test? Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

“Pop quiz.”

The two of us found a cute little cafe to eat at. It was a beautiful Italian restaurant, complete with ornate decor. The golden lights lit up the room, giving it a cute aura.

We sat down and looked at the menu. I was pretty impressed given it was an airport restaurant. A woman asked us for our order and I couldn’t help but notice her eyeing up San. I grabbed his arm and put it around my shoulder. Back off, bitch. He’s mine. I didn’t have the balls to say it, but I certainly thought it. The woman saw my actions and looked down, obviously defeated. The woman quickly left after we selected our food, sparing no time in leaving us.

San turned to me with a playful look in his eyes, “Someone’s jealous.”

“Yeah actually I am. You’re mine.”

San gave me a sweet smile, “You’re cute.”

As we received our food we took our time to eat, discussing the places we’d like to visit, restaurants we were excited to eat at, and everything in between.

Bellies full, we walked over to where our plane would be boarding. And now, the waiting game began. It hit me how tired I truly was so I ended up in San’s lap telling him I’d only take a quick nap. The man smiled, not believing me.

I hated to admit that he was right but the next thing I knew, San was waking me up with a gentle voice as our plane number was called. The two of us looked at one another with an excited expression.

Holding hands, we boarded the plane and took our seats. I saw a male flight attendant eyeing me and I smiled to myself, waiting until San noticed, because I knew he would.

I felt a hand grab my chin and turn my head roughly before I felt a pair of soft lips interlocking with mine. I kissed back, knowing it was my jealous boyfriend. When I pulled back I was met with San’s tense eyes.

Smiling, I mocked his words earlier. “Someone’s jealous.”

He simply rolled his eyes and intertwined our fingers, placing his head on my shoulder. I chuckled to myself and looked back to where the flight attendant was previously. He was nowhere to be found.

We had intended to stay awake during the flight. Key word: intended. I ran my hands through San’s hair and within minutes he fell asleep. I knew he was exhausted and I didn’t have the heart to wake him. Watching him sleep so peacefully made me tired and I soon drifted off to sleep once again.

This time, I was the one to wake San up. The loud voice over the intercom startled me awake but he clearly didn’t have the same problem.

“Baby, we’ve gotta wake up.” I cooed.

He swatted at the air and pouted. “Five more minutes.” The roughness of his voice turned me on more than I’d like to admit, but I laughed it off and got the man to stand up and help me get our luggage.

-

In the blink of an eye, it seemed, we were in the heart of Paris. Some people quickly rushed here and there, some appearing relaxed at gorgeous eateries, but all were dressed in beautiful apparel. I was thankful that the both of us decided to dress up.

San in a purple sweater with the sleeves rolled up, causing his forearms to show—pinch me—and I in a light yellow dress with beautiful flowers adorning it.

“Where would you like to go babe?” San questioned.

I let out a chuckle, “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

San squinted and nodded. “I think we can make that happen.”

Although we didn’t quite go everywhere, we certainly saw as most of Paris as one can in two weeks. We hit all the classic tourist spots; the Eiffel Tower, The Louvre, Le Marais, and the Seine River. Thanks to a quick Google search we found some other fascinating places to go like Montmartre, Sacré-Coeur Basilica, and the Tuileries Garden. Every one of them had their own charm and were completely breathtaking.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end and two weeks went by in a flash. We soon arrived home, and I couldn’t help but thank San endlessly for the trip.

“This trip was...beyond amazing, San. Thank you so much for this.”

“Of course. Only the best for my girl.”

I smiled and kissed him gently. I only had innocent intentions, but San had other things in mind.

San bit my bottom lip and wrapped his arms around my waist. He held me tight against him, making me flush. The man smiled into the kiss and slowly began to raise my shirt over my head.

“This okay babe?” San asked between our heated kisses.

“Yes. I want this.”

At my words he threw my shirt off, soon ridding himself of his own shirt.

I felt myself grow wet at the his dark gaze. The lust in his eyes seemed to grow by the moment. I couldn’t help but feel submissive when he looked at me like that and I was more than willing to let him take the lead.

He lifted me up, my legs wrapping around his waist as we continued to kiss. He carried me to our shared room and dropped me on the queen sized bed. I quickly took off my skirt and tossed it to the floor. San gave me a dark gaze and ran his fingertips up and down my thighs. I shivered, growing more aroused by the second. As he continued his movements, I grew impatient.

“Please for the love of god get inside me.”

San let out a loud laugh, “You sound so desperate, baby. I love it.” He emphasized the last sentence which made my walls clench, desperate for something, anything.

My boyfriend must’ve seen the desperation on face because he gave me a sympathetic look. He decided not to lead me on for too long—thank god.

He spread my legs and lowered my panties. My breathing grew ragged just from the smallest of his touches. San really had me whipped.

Slowly, he entered a single finger in me. His pace gradually grew in response to my moans. When he added another, I let out a borderline pornographic moan. He leaned down so his mouth was beside my ear. “You’re doing wonderful, kitten.”

Kitten was a nickname San solely used when he wanted sex. I’d grown to connect the two so closely that even if he mentioned the word, I’d become wet.

I whimpered. Whether at the nickname or the three fingers now inside me, I couldn’t tell.

Just as I was approaching my orgasm, San removed his fingers and I groaned at how empty I felt.

“Patience, darling.”

San kicked off his jeans and boxers and grabbed a condom from his bag.

Opening the foil, he placed the condom on his member. My mouth watered at the sight.

“Please, San. I need you.”

He entered me at a quick enough pace to make me see stars.

“Kitten if you keep clenching around me like that I’m gonna cum already.”

“I...I’m sorry I just—can’t help it. You feel so good, baby.”

It only took several thrusts from him before the coil in my abdomen was threatening to come undone. I never knew how he did it, but he could always make me fall apart faster than any man I’d been with before. Not that they were bad, necessarily, but San was just so good.

“San, baby. Please, please, please don’t stop I’m so close.”

“Already, kitten? Do I make you feel that good?”

I could barely form sentences at that point. Between heated breaths I whispered, “Yes. You always do. Make me feel so fucking good.”

He growled in response. “Cum for me then. I expect you to cum hard, you understand kitten?”

“Fu-uck yes yes I understand.”

His hand moved down to run my clit in steady circles and I found my relase. I arched my back off the bed and moaned loud. San came a few thrusts after me, letting me watch as his face twisted in pleasure. From that sight alone I could probably cum again.

He gave a dashing smiled as he came down from his high, pulling out of me and running to grab a warm towel.

San returned to clean me up, watching me with soft eyes.

“I don’t say it enough, but you mean the world to me. No one means anything to me in comparison to you. I love you.”

I scoffed, “You tell me that all the time you big doofus. Really though, I love you too.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m awfully tired. Would you care to cuddle with me sweetheart?”

“I’d be honored.”

#ateez #ateez au #ateez smut #ateez fluff #kpop #ateez imagines #atzinc #imagines #san ateez #choi san #san au #san smut #san fluff

[httpsfelicity]

“In a black dress, she's such an actress” - Harry Styles × Model Reader AU

Summary - Harry meets a model downtown and falls for her quickly, leading the public to think that it’s a pr stunt. Unsure of what to think, the reader plays along, not knowing that Harry is unaware of the rumours. 

For @cruizmanadu! Xx

A/N - Okay, this is my first official request type thing so please tell me if it’s good or not! Ignore any mistakes, thought I think I looked over it pretty well. Also, if you’d like a part 2 / have suggestions / ect, just send a DM or ask! Here you go babes, hope you like it x

“If I don’t get coffee right now, I’m going to pass out on this sidewalk, I swear,” moaned Ella. 

“We’re almost there, calm down,” you responded as you adjusted the shopping bags in your hands quickly. You and your best friend Ella had decided to go out in NYC for the day, which of course meant loads of shopping. Hell, half of the bags you were carrying weren’t even yours - Ella had a shoot the next day, and insisted that she couldn’t carry her bags out of fear that she’d mark up her hands. So you were carrying enough bags to “Mark up your hands”, according to Ella. Which, to be fair, was quite unfair, because that girl shops a lot.

“Hey, can you take some of these, just until we get there? I’m getting kinda-”

“Oh. My. Gosh.” She lowered her voice and leaned in towards you. “Don’t look yet, keep walking, but some guy is totally checking you out.”

You sighed. “How could the paps have found us? I thought we covered our tracks nicel-”

She cut you off once again. “No, no, not a pap. This guy, he’s, well - okay, look to your left riiiight... now.”

You quickly glanced over to see a guy in his 20′s wearing a multicoloured knit sweater with messy brown hair, looking in your general direction. He quickly looked away when he saw you. You looked away, which was unfortunate, because you would’ve seen him gathering up the courage to walk over to you two.

"He's pretty fit," you whispered back quickly. "Do you think he recognizes me?" It sounds very stuck up, but often times people tried to hit on you solely because you model for the big brands, so you had to be careful. Being in the industry had a lot of pros, but a lot of cons as well. Not knowing who your real friends are were one of the cons.

"I'm not sure," Ella replied.

Just then, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned around and saw that you were face to face with the boy.

"Hello," he started nervously. He had a charming British accent, you noticed right away.

"Hi!" You replied, waiting for him to say something totally obnoxious or fan-like.

"This probably sounds weird, but I couldn't help but notice you."

"Oh, why thank you!" You laughed. "He doesn't seem too creepy or weird or stalker-ish," you thought to yourself.

"Yeah, so, um... This is weird as well, I'm sorry, but could I get your number?" He smiled weakly.

"No, absolutely not," said Ella, grabbing you by the arm and starting to drag you away. "C'mon."

She only walked a few feet until you broke away and went back over to him. "I'm sorry about that - of course you can."

His nervous expression eased away the tiniest bit. "Oh, that's great."

He handed you his phone, and you typed in you number."

***-****-****

"I'm Harry, by the way. Harry Styles."

"Oh! I'm y/n."

"Why does that sound familiar?"

"I work in the modeling industry. You might have heard of me from that?"

"I should've known you were a model - you've definitely got the looks. And I'm sure the personality as well."

You grinned.

"I'm a singer," he continued. "I used to be in a band - now I'm solo. So that's one thing we have in common, I guess. Well, not really. You know what I mean."

"You're right!" You laughed. "He's pretty easy to talk to," you thought. Even though you didn't want to, you could feel Ella staring at the back of your neck impatiently, so you decided to wrap up the conversation. "Well, I've got to go, but you'll message me later, yeah?"

"Of course," he nodded. "Well, goodbye for now, y/n."

"Goodbye, Harry Styles."

"What was that?!" Ella asked once he was out of earshot.

"What? He's polite and cute. Of course I have him my number!"

"He could be a creepy obsessive fan! Or a perv! Or a crackhead! He's just some random guy on the streets, for all we know!"

"Would you calm down? He's so nice - I just know he wouldn't do that. Plus, that sweater is awfully expensive. Almost 2k."

Ella rolled her eyes. "Okay, sure."

"Oh, and he's a singer."

Ella snapped her head to look at you, clearly very shocked by this statement. "He's what?"

"A singer, apparently."

"What's his name?"

"Harry Styles."

"Oh. My. God. My friend had a shoot with him once! He's popular, y/n. Really popular."

"God, you sound like a middle-schooler."

"I'm just sayin'! But now that I know this information, I've changed my opinion on him. GO FOR IT."

"I was already planning on it," you laugh, walking past a group of starstruck thirteen year olds quickly. "Although I'm not so sure. I didn't get his number - it's up to him to message me."

"He'd better," Ella replied as the two of you walked into a local café. You nodded in agreement, and you both walked up the the register to order.

The rest of the day was a blur - you went to a few more stores, and then eventually hailed a cab and went back to your apartment. You were so exhausted that you kicked off your shoes and flopped into your couch, too tired to even eat. As you lie there, you felt your phone vibrate in you pocket. Reluctantly, you pulled it out slowly, and clicked it on.

***-****-**** - Hello.

Your first though was, "It's Harry!" Your second thought was, "That's a very ominous introduction." Nonetheless, you typed up a response.

Y/n <3 - Who's this?

***-****-**** - Harry, from earlier hahah x

You let out a sigh of relief - he had messaged you back, and it hadn't been some rando. Things were working out nicely.

Y/n <3 - Well, hello!

While you were waiting for a response, you set his contact name up. You hadn't gotten a photo of him yet, so you decided one from Google would do. You typed up "Harry Styles", and the search results shocked you. Ella was right - he was popular. And cute (But you already knew that.) You got a notification from him, so you screenshotted the first photo to come up (Him in a very nice pink top), set it as his photo, and then went back onto messages.

Harry Styles - Hi! I'm sorry if the whole encounter earlier was creepy. Your friend seemed quite worked up over it.

Y/n <3 - She's had bad experiences like this in the past.

Harry Styles - I've had quite a few myself, honestly. Don't blame her. Anyways, how are you?

Y/n <3 - Exhausted. All that walking must've worn me out, hahaha

Harry Styles - Hahah, that's New York for ya.

Harry Styles - Would you happen to be free tomorrow?

Harry Styles - I'd love to get to know you.

You grinned at your phone screen. This could not be happening.

Y/n <3 - Nope! Free all day. I'd love to get to know you too!

Harry Styles - Does 1pm at the Beachwood Café work? :)

He sent a location along with it. It was the same café you and Ella had gone to earlier.

Y/n <3 - Sure!

Harry Styles - Alright, talk then?

Y/n <3 - Yes!

Harry Styles - Goodnight.

Y/n <3 - Goodnight!

Seen - 11:34pm.

The next day you woke up at 10 so you would have time to get ready. You got a quick shower, did you hair, makeup... By 12:30 you were dressed and ready to go. Casual, but not too casual was what you were going for. You were pretty sure you had the look down pat. You grabbed your stuff and made your way downtown, sunglasses on.

You arrived early, 12:48pm, but luckily Harry was already there, waiting at a table near the back with two menus. He waved once he saw you, and jumped up to pull out your chair.

"Hello," you smiled.

"Hi!"

"I adore your outfit," you said as you sat down. He was now wearing a white and blue striped shirt and tan jeans. Somehow he made it work.

"I love yours as well! The skirt brings out your eyes."

You tried hard not to blush. "Thank you!"

"So, I guess we should start getting to know eachother, then?" He grinned.

You nodded. "20 questions?"

"Sure. Full name?"

"Y/n."

"Harry Edward Styles."

"I like that middle name. Very sophisticated." He laughed at this. "Age?"

"26."

"23."

"Favourite movie?"

"Clueless."

"Back To The Future."

You continued asking questions until the waiter came over to your table.

"I'll have the chicken sub," he said politely.

"I'll have a medium lemonade."

"Is that it?" Harry asked.

You sighed. "And a blueberry muffin, I guess."

The waiter wrote it down and walked off.

"I'm on a diet," you explained.

"Still," Harry shrugged. "So, tell me about yourself."

"Well, I started modeling at about age 8, for this clothing bran-"

"No no no, I meant about you."

You gave him a confused look.

"Not about your job, you!"

"Okay, well, let's see... Uh..."

"I'm 26, but you already knew that. I live in New York, obviously. I used to work in a bakery, even though I just told you not to talk about your job. I like playing football, I write, and I enjoy baking bread. See? Easy."

You laughed. Why did he have to be so... Charming?

"I'm 23, but you already knew that. I've lived in New York my whole life. I read a lot, and I mean a lot. I have a ton of plants in my apartment, since I can't really have a garden here. I like Taylor Swift's music."

Harry nodded. "See? That wasn't so bad."

You laughed. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Just then the waiter placed the food on the table, and you took a sip of your lemonade while Harry dug into his sub.

"I dated Taylor for a pr stunt once."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She got a few songs, I got a new story to tell during interviews."

"Oh. Did you like her?"

"Nah."

You laughed again. "Oh, my."

"Yeah. I haven't had many actual relationships. 3."

"I haven't had any."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Not many guys are interested. Or, well, interested in me, you know?"

"I find that hard to believe."

You tried not to blush once again as you took a sip of your lemonade.

"Well, it's true."

"Personally, I think you're great."

"You are too!"

The two of you continue eating. After two minutes, Harry speaks up.

"Want to go back to my apartment and watch a movie? In a non weird way, of course."

"Okay, that sounds good. Which movie?"

"Clueless?" He winked.

You grinned. "Of course."

You get up and walk out into the streets of New York, leaving your blueberry muffin on the table.

The walk to Harry's is very short. You two talk the whole way there, mainly small talk, but it isn’t awkward at all. You feel like you can be yourself around him - whatever that means. To put it into words, you feel comfortable around him. Which is weird, because you just met him a day ago, but it feels right for some reason.

Eventually you arrived at the door to his apartment. While he was busy digging his key out of his pocket, you took a glance up and down the hallway. This place was much fancier than you had expected. It made your apartment complex look cheap. Everything seemed so... posh. Harry pushed open the door, and you stepped inside. His apartment was decorated with art; albums of artists you’ve never even heard of were hung on the walls, and potted plants were everywhere. It was messy, but in an organized way.

“I just need to run to the washroom, make yourself at home,” he said as he kicked off his shoes. 

“Alright,” you replied. You put your coat on a coat rack (Obviously) and walked over to the couch. Unsure of what to do, you decided to check twitter. After a few seconds of contemplating if checking your phone right now was rude or not, you decided to turn on your data and do it, since he was in the bathroom and you were bored. You looked over you shoulder, then hit the trending page. Politics, Ariana Grande - she must be releasing a new album - #TGIF, and... Harry Styles? Without thinking twice, you click on it. Immediately, photos of you and him pop up from when you were walking back to his place. That was only a few minutes ago... how did these photos get out so soon?

“You ready?” Harry asked as he entered the room, holding up a DVD case with an excited look on his face.

“Yep,” you said, putting down your phone. A second later, you picked it back up. “Did you see twitter?”

“No, I don’t go on social media much,” he replied as he popped the disc into his bluray player.

“You’re trending.”

“Cool.”

“No, I mean... we got papped on the way back here. Look.” You turned the phone so he could see it. 

He took a glance at the screen, then grabbed a remote and flopped onto the couch next to you. “It doesn’t really bother me. Happens far too often. I mean, unless you have a problem with it. I can get them taken down, if you’d like.” Suddenly, his usual relaxed self has replaced with a worried one.

You shook your head. “No, no, I... just letting you know. I don’t care. Besides, I didn’t see many people talking about it, just sharing the photos.”

“Oh, well, if you change your mind, just let me know,” he concluded as he turned on the TV.

You nodded, and then focused on Cher Horowitz on the screen. You didn’t watch much of the movie, because you and Harry kept on cracking jokes and telling stories, but you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Eventually, it was time for you to leave, since it was nearly 5pm. 

“Do you want me to walk you back? Or, I could call you a cab,” Harry asked as you slipped on your shoes.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“No, no, I’ll walk you back,” he insisted as he grabbed his coat.

You weren’t about to argue with him, because, let’s face it, you secretly wanted him to walk you home. So you followed him out the door and to the elevator.

You talked the whole way there, but you were distracted just a tiny bit - you wanted to keep an eye out for paps. Eventually you decided that it was difficult and pointless, so you fully engaged yourself in Harry’s conversation on how to make a mean loaf of bread.

A few minutes later, you arrived at your place.

“Well, this is it,” you grinned sadly.

Harry nodded. “I’ll message you later?”

“Of course. We have to do this again, you know.”

Harry smiled wide. “Sure. I’d love that.”

“Well... goodbye, Harry.”

He leaned in and gave you a quick kiss on the cheek. “Goodbye, y/n.” 

You stared back at him, starstruck, but he turned and started walking down the hall before you could say anything. “Love ya!” You called out quickly before you shut the door behind you, unsure if he even heard you. Oh, well. He’d message you later, anyways.

You were quite hungry by this point, so you decided to order Chinese food off of Postmates. Once that call was made, you sat down and opened Twitter again. You noticed that you had way more notifications than usual, but you decided that could wait until after you checked the trending topics once more. “Harry Styles” was still trending, but even more surprisingly, “Y/n” was right underneath it. You decided to hit Harry’s topic first - MORE pap photos came up, this time from when you were walking home. Wow. 

“We do look like a proper couple.” You thought, though you quickly shook it. You’d just met - although you know what they say, “Love at first sight” and all that crap.But no. 

You decided to scroll down even further, past all of the photos and to the actual tweets.

@Harryscherry77: Is @ yn Harry’s new girlfriend? If so, she’s soooooo lucky.

@Y/nsclouds: Why is y/n being papped with Harry Styles? She can do much better. His music isn’t even that good.

@Lightsuplouisx: I ship it, tbh {Insert photo here}

@TaylorxxxTea: Oh cute, another pr stunt :/ #HarryStyles IsOverParty

@GalacticY/N26: Ugh, Harry? Really? I’m seriously gonna unstan Y/n, I’ve been considering it but this is just the last straw for me.

@HarryIsUpAllNight: Did you guys know the girl Harry was papped with is a model? She’s absolutely gorgeous, I wouldn’t doubt it.

@Stylesfangirl49: Y/n is honestly so ugly. #RunHarryRun 

@SummertimeNewsOfficial: Has Harry Styles been spotted with yet another woman, months after his breakup with Camille? {Insert Link Here}

@Larry2020xxx: Another beard LMAOOO c’mon. PR STUNTTTT.

@Lola33smith: They haven’t even been confirmed dating yet, calm downnnnn.

“Wow,” you thought as you continued scrolling. “This is not what I was expecting.”

It seemed like the whole internet had something to say about a few lousy pictures of you and H. There was good and bad, though it felt like the bad outweighed the good. An alarming amount of people seemed to think it was a pr stunt. Wow. Your notifications weren’t much better - loads of people had followed you, dm’ed you, called you worthless, called you amazing. It was a lot to handle. Just then the doorbell rang - your Postmates. How long had you been looking through all of that? It didn’t matter now. You went to get your food, then sat back down and began to text Harry. Suddenly, you stopped. If he got so worried about the first set of photos, not to mention you walking home by yourself, how would he react to this? He had said he doesn’t go on social media much, so you figured that as long as you didn’t tell him, it would all blow over quick enough and he wouldn’t have to worry about it. You didn’t want to stress him out. Instead, to take your mind off of this chaotic day you turned on The Office and tried to regain a sense of normalcy. 

Although the more you thought about it, the less and less you wanted Harry to message you. 

“PR stunt.”

EDIT: CHAPTER TWO IS NOW OUT! CLICK HERE

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles #harry styles request #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #one direction #1d #one direction fanfiction #one direction fanfic #1d fanfiction #1d fanfic #louis tomlinson #niall horan #liam payne #zayn mailk #ot5 #ot4 #one direction fanart #larry #larry stylinson #fanfiction #harry styles smut #not really #mine #mine : fanfic

[autistic-stedebonnet]

A modern version of the ridge pole scene, but I got carried away

Avonlea springs were perfect in Anne’s eyes. Especially the oddly sunny days after a rainstorm, when the ground was damp and wildflowers were abundant. Today was one of those days, and Anne should’ve been tucked in a corner of the forest, her sleeves pulled up to her elbows and her usual jeans swapped for a flouncy skirt or brightly colored shorts.

But instead, she was sitting in the middle of a (thankfully, outdoor) roller rink for Jane Andrew’s 16th birthday party. Anne loved skating, and thought herself quite good at it. But she preferred to do it alone, and not in the company of Josie Pye. Despite being able to spend a whole day outside, Anne was just near the depths of despair over having to be civil towards Josie for a whole 3 hours.

At that moment, the teenagers were gathered at the picnic table, indulging in snacks and an entertaining game of truth or dare. Jane was returning from a failed attempt at skating a lap on one foot, when Josie Pye was dared by Moody to skate a few feet on the rim around the rink.

“Please,” Josie scoffed. “That’s the easiest thing ever.”

And much to Anne’s chagrin, the blonde devil completed the dare with relative ease.

Anne let out a mocking laugh upon Josie’s return. “That was nothing,” she said. “I once knew a girl who could skate the entire rim of a roller rink...” she paused for dramatic effect, “backwards.”

Both Diana and Gilbert stiffened as Josie’s bewildered expression turned into a sly smirk. “Alright then,” she hissed. “Do it.”

Anne’s eyes doubled in size and her freckled skin paled. “What.”

“Do. It,” Josie repeated, with an added air of malice.

Anne stood up steadily and narrowed her eyes at Josie. “Fine, I will.”

“Anne! You don’t have to!” Diana cried, leaping up and grasping her friend’s arm. “If you fall, it’s at least 4 feet down, you could really hurt yourself!”

“It’s a pretty wide space to work with, I’ll be fine.”

At that moment, Gilbert eased his way into the intervention. “Yes, but you won’t be able to see where you’re going.”

Anne shot daggers at the boy, his insistence only fueling the fire that was her pride. With a final huff, Anne glided over to the rink and stepped up to the rim tediously. It took her a moment to find her balance, but she hadn’t fallen.

Meanwhile, Diana was in a horrible state, already imagining her best friend in a bloody heap on the concrete. Josie Pye was stiff and pale. She hadn’t expected Anne to actually take the dare, and she was terribly afraid of the reputation she’d gain from being the cause of Anne Shirley breaking her neck.

Anne turned to face the group, keeping eye contact with a worried Gilbert. Halfway across, she stuck out her tongue and grinned. And then she stumbled. There had been a mere pebble that got caught in her wheel, but it was enough to send her barreling over the side and into a bush.

Diana shrieked as if she’d just been shot and skated over to her friend as fast as humanly possible. “Anne!” She cried out in dismay.

Lucky for Anne, she’d avoided a most horrible fate, by landing in a bush, but she still hadn’t moved. Her fiery hair enveloped her sheet white, unconscious face, and her ankle lay at a terribly worrying angle.

“Anne! Are you alright!? Are you dead?!” Afraid to shake the girl, Diana simply swept the hair from her eyes and caressed her freckled face. “Oh Anne, please don’t be dead!”

Unbeknownst to a distraught Diana, Gilbert was shoving past a huddle of children to reach Anne, his face white with shock and his entire body shaking.

Diana moved away, her mind just clear enough to recall Gilbert’s brief medical training. “Gilbert, please say she’s not dead!”

Gilbert pressed his hands to Anne’s neck, and then her wrist, breathing a shaky sigh of relief upon feeling her steady pulse. He felt her scalp for any injury, finding none. “She seems to have gone unconscious from shock,” he relayed. “But I don’t think she’s hit her head.” His eyes darted to Anne’s ankle and he winced. “She does seem to have broken her ankle,” he added. “But if an ambulance is called and we don’t jostle her, she should be fine.” He closed his eyes, blinking away tears he hadn’t realized had begun. Anne was okay. She was okay.

“Oh!” Diana yelled, startling the eerily silent crowd. “Someone needs to call the Cuthberts.” She reached into her skirt pocket, fumbling around for her phone and cursing her sweaty palms.

Once the information was given to a very frantic Marilla, and an ambulance called, the children were picked up by their respective guardians and taken home.

*

Anne regarded it as a downright tragedy that she’d be bedridden for the majority of and most glorious part of spring. She spent countless hours lamenting over all the wildflowers and rainstorms and breathtaking sunsets she’d miss whilst cooped up in her gable room. Despite Diana’s constant visits(and facetimes, and baked goods) she simply couldn’t bring herself to enjoy her time. I mean honestly, there’s only so many days one can spend doing nothing but reading and scrolling through tumblr.

Her horrific boredom however, was not even the biggest of her problems. She couldn’t bear the thought of Gilbert Blythe stealing her hard-earned spot as top of the 10th grade. The utter humiliation would fuel her rage for weeks to come. But she tried not to focus on that possibility, instead pouring all of her energy into assignments her teachers had emailed her and occasionally craning her neck towards the window in hopes of seeing how many flowers had grown recently.

When, 4 weeks later, Anne was able to return to school (on crutches), there was only a month left until summer break, but nonetheless, she was determined to leave that year with the prize of top student. Not that they handed out prizes, but the mere knowing that she’d beat Gilbert was enough for her.

Anne did the closet thing to leaping she was capable of to get out of bed, already having laid out her clothes the night before.

She relished the feeling of simply being able to sit at her mirror and pull her auburn locks into twin braids. She let her gaze fall onto a mass of purple lilacs, almost hiding beneath the plethora of cards and flowers on her desk, and her breath caught. She loved lilacs, more than anything. But she didn’t recall being brought them. What she did know however, is that purple lilacs symbolize ‘first love.’ She shook the ridiculous thought from her mind. Lilacs are a beautiful flower and whoever brought them was just being kind, she reminded herself. The meaning of flowers is not common knowledge.

“Marilla?” Anne sang as she precariously made her way down the steps.

Marillas face went deathly pale upon seeing Anne. “For heavens sake child!” She cried. “What are you doing? I told you to wait for Matthew to come and help you down the stairs!”

Anne scowled as Marilla placed a frantic arm around her back and assisted her down the staircase. “I’m not completely incapable, Marilla.” She muttered.

“Yes, but you have a broken ankle.” Marilla pursed her lips and pulled a chair out for Anne. “I’m still convinced that you should just do work from home for the remainder of the year.”

“And let Gil- everyone else get ahead of me?!”

“I thought you and Gilbert were friends now?”

Anne shrugged and sunk down further into her seat, grumbling a response. “I suppose we’re friendly. But that does not dissuade me from beating him... fair and square of course.”

The two sat in silence, two soon becoming three upon being joined by Matthew.

Anne was the one to finally break the quiet. She had come to absolutely despise the lack of noise after being stuck in her bed for 3 weeks. “Who left the lilacs?” She questioned. “I’m sure they weren’t there yesterday. But I’ve been brought so many flowers, I could’ve missed them.” She looked up at Marilla expectantly.

“Gilbert brought those by yesterday morning.” She replied, as if she hadn’t just delivered the most ground breaking news ever. “You were asleep, so I brought them up to your room.”

At this, Anne almost choked on her toast. “Gil-Gilbert?!” She cried. “Gilbert Blythe brought me purple lilacs?”

Marilla raised her eyebrows. “Yes, I don’t see what’s gotten you so worked up. All of your other friends brought you flowers.”

Anne’s eyes were still wider than the plate clutched in her whitening hands. Her face resembled a sheet of paper and her mouth hung open, as if she expected the words to just fall off of her tongue. “Gilbert,” she finally squeaked. “Gilbert Blythe brought me purple lilacs.”

“For goodness sake child,” Marilla sighed. “Do calm yourself. Hurry and finish your breakfast so Matthew can drive you to school. I won’t have you walking all that way in such a state.”

Anne however, did not finish her breakfast. Nor did she utter a word until she arrived in her English classroom.

“Diana, I think I am going to quite literally die on the spot,” Anne groaned, dropping her head into her arms.

“Why is that?”

“Gilbert Blythe brought me purple lilacs!” Anne spat, her tone making it seem like Diana should know the importance of purple lilacs.

“And...”

“And do you know what purple lilacs symbolize?”

“No.” Diana paused, expecting Anne to explain why she was so devastated over some flowers. Gaining no response, she encouraged the disheartened redhead. “Care to tell me?”

This earned her a terribly theatric sigh. “I couldn’t bear the humiliation. Google it.”

One google search and a whole lot of squealing-on Diana’s part-later, Gilbert Blythe walked into the classroom, seemingly oblivious to Diana’s smirking.

“Morning Gilbert!” Diana chirped. She gave an all too obvious point to a pouting Anne and grinned at Gilbert’s flushed cheeks.

“I-um, morning Diana, Anne.”

If it were even possible, Anne’s head seemed to sink farther into her folded arms, until all that was visible was less than an inch of her scarlet hair.

Diana waited impatiently for Gilbert to take his seat, before turning and whispering to Anne, “Anne, please say you’ll admit your feelings now.”

A muffled “no” escaped Anne’s tiny hideout.

Diana opened her mouth to give well-meaning, but harsh and probably embarrassing advice, but Ms. Stacy spoke first.

“Because of the many up-coming exams, we’re going to take a bit of a break today.” She paused and waited for the cheering to end. “But don’t think that means we won’t be hitting the books tomorrow. I just mean to let you all have a breather.” She clapped her hands together excitedly and pulled a stack of paper and a large jar of flowers from her desk.

Anne, who had lifted her head just enough to see her teacher’s face, went white. She didn’t even dare look over at Gilbert, but Diana’s stifled snickering told her that he was probably just as pale as herself.

“Diana.” Anne hissed once Ms. Stacy had finished a explaining the activity. “I don’t know how, but you did this.”

Diana simply smiled innocently and prompted Anne to read her poem.

“Of course.”

She’d been given a poem that was simply titled “Love”, and below it, written in Ms. Stacy’s neat and concise script: ‘First love’

Diana glanced over at her friend, and was surprised to see that she’d grown even paler. “What’s wrong? What’s your flower meaning? It should be at the bottom of the-“ She cut herself off with a sharp breath. “Oh. Oh! Anne this is so romantic!”

Anne shook her head vigorously. “It is not!” She protested. “And besides, he probably just has a daisy or something stupid like that.”

“So you admit that you considered the possibility that Gilbert might be standing on the other side of the room holding, once again, a purple lilac.”

“I did not consider it, not even once,” Anne huffed. She twirled a delicate daffodil between her thumb and forefinger and hummed lightly. “Now to find someone with a poem about ‘regard and unequalled love.’ Just peachy.”

“Of course you already know what a daffodil means.” Diana rolled her eyes and skipped away, leaving Anne to avoid Gilbert all alone.

Anne shuffled along the edges of the cramped classroom, doing the closest thing she could to turning on her injured heel anytime a certain boy made to approach her. She ignored the pounding in her heart upon seeing him clutching a thin branch sprouting dozens of delicate, lavender-hued blooms. She pushed away the tiny voice in the back of her head that told her that even if he didn’t know yesterday, he certainly knew now, what a stupid purple lilac meant. And most of all, she refused to meet his adoring, slightly pained gaze.

“Anne-“

“Uh-I think Diana needs me.” Anne limped away at an alarmingly fast speed, her heart begging to simply fly from her tightening chest.

“Anne, Diana’s in the bathroom.”

Anne winced and cursed under her breath, before clumsily turning around. “Fine, what is it?”

Gilbert looked almost hurt, but he seemed to shake off the feeling quick enough. “I just wanted to see your poem, I haven’t found one that matches my...” he pointed at the flowers in his hand and Anne nodded curtly.

“Ok.” She all but shoved the scrap of paper into his face, before dipping her head down, her eyes boring into the cheap carpet.

It seemed like several, agony-filled hours before Gilbert cleared his throat hesitantly. Anne’s gaze stayed fixated on her shabby boots, a lump rising in her throat.

“I-uh... here.”

Anne looked up to see him holding out the flowers, his hand just barely clinging onto them.

She stayed frozen, her eyes flashing up and down from the flowers to his eyes that made her stomach flip. His expression was so very hopeful and pained, it seemed that he was reaching for something he knew he’d never find. But there was something else, something else that had been there for years but Anne had been too stubborn to see it.

Just as suddenly as her thoughts had drifted off, they came back to reality. Anne jerked her head to the side momentarily, before adjusting her crutches in a futile attempt to take the flowers from Gilbert’s hands.

Realizing her struggle, Gilbert set the blooms on her desk. “Can i see your, um, your flower?”

Anne was seconds away from unknowingly crushing the yellow petals when he said this. “I, I doubt that-“

“Can I just-“

“Fine, just, take it.” Anne thrust her hand out towards Gilbert, her breath hitching in panic upon seeing the worry flit over his hazel eyes.

“Anne, you, you’ve been digging your nails into your palm,” he breathed.

Anne tore her hand from his tender grasp, hardly even realizing that he was twirling the daffodil between his calloused fingers.

“Just a bad habit,” she muttered, still determined not to meet his gaze.

“Right, well-“

“Anne, Gilbert, please sit down, everyone’s found their flowers already.”

Anne and Gilbert’s heads shot up in unison, their eyes guiltily meeting those of a thoroughly amused Ms.Stacy.

“I do believe we have enough time to recite our poems then,” she declared.

Oh no. Oh this was the worst of it all. This, this was an utter catastrophe. Anne settled into her seat, her pale cheeks burning very uncooperatively. And why, oh why on Earth was Gilbert staring at her as he spoke? Why was his gaze so unbelievably affectionate?

As he spoke, so much more eloquently than he ever had, Anne came to the same realization she had a week ago. The same realization that had caused her to call Diana sobbing and continue to do so for what felt like hours. A realization that was so powerful, so so painfully obvious, that it scared her.

It scared her 13 year old self, who was cold to one of the few people who didn’t judge her harshly, simply because she was desperate for friends.

It scared her 15 year old self, who’d warily accepted a true, real friendship, despite the voice in her head and the fluttering in her stomach.

It terrified her, because she didn’t know what to do with it. For her entire life, she’d convinced herself that she wasn’t worthy of love, especially not that kind. It had been difficult to accept that even Diana loved her, but this was something entirely new. This was like a thrashing, rolling wave, that had been chasing after her for years and had finally toppled downwards and stolen her from what she’d come to know and accept.

So, Anne did what Anne always did when she was scared. She ran. Well, metaphorically, considering her ankle. And no, she didn’t just leave the classroom, she was smart enough not to risk Marilla’s wrath. More, she waited for the moment when Ms. Stacy released her five minutes early and was out the door as fast as possible.

She managed to scrape through the day without a conversation with Gilbert, however arduous and shockingly painful it was.

And of course, right before she could step inside her house and let out a huge sigh of relief, she heard those dreaded footsteps behind her. She really hated that she knew it was him before even turning around.

“Gilbert, I’m not in the mood,” she snapped, her back still facing him. She could hear Gilbert take a shaky breath and for a moment, she almost felt bad.

“I-I know,” he said. “I just didn’t want to... not explain myself.”

“What explaining do you have to do?” Anne was facing him now, hoping he couldn’t see the panic behind her raging eyes.

“I, um, the flowers.”

“Flowers. Right.” She nodded curtly. “It was nice of you, I should’ve thanked you at school. Is that all?”

Gilbert furrowed his eyebrows and gaped at her slightly. “I- no, no it’s not all, Anne what did I do?” The last part was choked and soft, and Anne almost felt bad.

She caved.

“You didn’t do anything, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, I shouldn’t have been so rude- can we sit?”

He nodded and helped her up the wooden porch steps. They settled onto the cramped bench, knees and elbows brushing inconveniently.

“Are you alright?”

She hated how sincere, how worried he sounded. And she hated that this wasn’t new, that this was always how he spoke to her. Sincere, genuine, caring. Why was this so difficult?

Anne shut her eyes momentarily, gathering her thoughts and her courage, before speaking.

“In books, characters always know,” she paused, swallowing the lump in her throat. “They don’t have to battle the voices in their head or the anxiety in their stomach. They always know what to say, and how, when to say it.”

“Books aren’t real life.”

“I know that, I do, but I wish that it was easier to say this.”

“Easier to say...what?” His tone told her that he already knew, he just wanted to hear it.

She wiped at the tears pricking the corners of her stormy eyes. “Easier to say everything, really. In books, in my imagination as well, everyone knows their heart and is able to bear it with seemingly no trouble.”

“Anne...”

“Please, let me finish.”

He nodded and went quiet.

“They don’t have to... they don’t have to worry that the other person will be...disgusted. But, but I’m not-“ she cut herself off, her words caught in her throat. “I’m not a book character, and this isn’t easy. I’m just... I’m just Anne. I’m not pretty, or well dressed, or interesting. The only thing I have is my smarts and my imagination, and I cling to that. I suppose it’s difficult to accept the possibility of there being more for me. Things I always told myself, and was always told I’d never have.” Her last few words were almost lost to the wind, just barely tumbling out before she collapsed into a heap of sobs.

Gilbert pulled her towards him, letting her bury her head in his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, grounding her.

When she pulled away, breath evened and face red and splotchy, he took a chance.

He reached out and brushed his hand against her cheek gently, as if afraid it would shatter beneath his touch. “Anne,” he whispered. “You are the most beautiful-“

She scoffed.

“Really,” Gilbert continued. “You are so incredibly stunning, but that’s only one of the many reasons I’m so drawn to you. You’re so smart and creative, and incredibly compassionate. You always stand up for what you believe in and never back down, which is very admirable of you.”

Their faces were mere inches apart now, but there was still a wall between them. No longer the brick wall it was many years ago, or bulletproof glass from a month ago. It was a sheet of stained glass, so broken, so fragmented, that it would shatter with one small nudge.

“Anne, I love you, because you are you, and I would not have you any other way.”

That was the nudge. Anne’s walls fell down and revealed a vulnerability she didn’t even know she had. “You-you love me?”

“Of course, how could I not?”

Her bottom lip quivered slightly. “I- I never dreamed that someone would, could love me in that way.” She gazed up into his hazel eyes, trying desperately to capture every emotion, every meaning behind them.

The wall was gone, for the first time ever, there was nothing stopping them.

As equals, they moved to close the gap between them. There was a split-second of fear, but that melted away like sunlight dripping onto flower petals doused in morning dew. It seemed cheesy to say, but it was as if this was destiny, as if some part of something had been predetermined, and this was meant to be.

Anne had always dreamt of first kisses. She never thought hers would happen with her eyes still stinging from tears, her ankle broken, sitting on the Green Gables porch, and with Gilbert Blythe. But you could ask her many years from now, and she would attest to the fact that she wouldn’t have it any other way.

#ahhh this isnt my best work #but i like the plot #so.... #anne with an e #awae #anne shirley #anne shirley cuthbert #anne of green gables #awae fanfic #awae fanfiction #shirbert #shirbert fanfiction #shirbert fic #shirbert oneshot #gilbert blythe #diana barry

[krisrix]

how old were you when you transitioned?

Oof, my friend, I wish I had a simple answer for you.

The short version is: I haven’t medically transitioned, but I fully socially transitioned a bit over a year ago, at 30.

The long version is: every minute of every day of every year is an attempt at “transitioning”.

I’ve known I was trans since I was 5 or so. Not that I had the words for it or understood it or anything. All I knew was that there was something weird going on between my legs and I wanted it gone. TW self-harm: I straight-up tried to claw my junk off around 8 years old. My mom thought I had some kind of infection and took me to the gyno. I decided that repeating that experience was not worth it and left my junk alone after that.

I grew up with my mom and my sister, both of whom are very feminine. Even though my mom dressed us the same, I felt like I was a completely different species. Nothing ever made sense. I was in a constant state of discomfort.

I went to private primary school and was forced to wear a skirt. I get eczema, especially wherever I might be sweaty, so I convinced my mom that having the backs of my thighs against the chairs with so little protection was bad for me. She, in turn, convinced my doctor of this. I got a doctor’s note and was allowed to wear the slacks from the boys’ uniform.

I went to public secondary school, so no more uniforms. I mostly dressed like a boy. My friends and I joked around about it, but I was never firm with them. My mom routinely told me I had “penis envy”, and everyone just assumed (both in private and to my face) that I was a butch lesbian. When someone would say things like “you just wish you were born a boy”, I would say “yeah, that’s true”. But that was it. Everyone tried to ignore it, including me. I didn’t hold my ground.

At 16, when I met my husband, I was completely frank about it with him from the start. It was a non-issue—he’s trans, too. He told his friends and family about his own transness before we met, so it was very easy for me to do the same in his circles.

At 24, I moved to Montreal to be with my husband. Being with his friends instead of my own was the first time I had most people in my life treating me and talking about me the way I wanted.

At 30, I was crumbling under the weight of it. I had spent my whole life so far googling medical transitioning and being terrified. There’s far more info on the internet for gender confirmation surgeries for transwomen than there is for transmen, especially 20 years ago when my search began—but either way, it was really scary. It still is. But by that point, I knew I had to do something, because it was getting to be too much.

The perfect opportunity fell into my lap: a friend who works for CBC pointed Simon and me to a radio segment they were doing on gender and sexuality. The plan was to cover topics in way that gave the average listener a bit of a primer in these various things—a few 15-minute interviews with people from all walks of life that weren’t white, cismale, and heteronormative. We reached out, did a pre-interview, and talked with the producer for 2 hours.

She decided 15 minutes wasn’t long enough to tell our story, so we were brought into the studio for an hour-long live segment, with callers and everything. It was scary and amazing.

Two days before the show, I wrote an absolutely massive (surprise, surprise) Facebook post, informing all of my family members about my transness in no uncertain terms. They were supportive! And many tuned in to the interview! I was flying high!!

I thought, “okay, I’ve done the hard part. The medical stuff is nothing, after that! I can start HRT now!”

But then I remembered that I’m a voice actor, specifically for daily videos on a YouTube channel. And if I start HRT, I will lose my job. I can’t record voice-overs with a wildly fluctuating voice. And even if I could flip a switch and have a male voice the very next day, I know that I’ll likely stop getting work in that field. I have a very effeminate way of speaking. I sound like a contestant on Drag Race. That’s not a bad thing, but there are not a lot of clients who want that type of voice over.

So... for now, I’m a bit stuck. I’m going to keep on with the voice acting gig because I have nothing else I can consistently do. But if that falls through, or if I eventually cave, then I definitely want to try HRT and get top surgery. It’s something that haunts me every day. Hopefully, I will not have to wait another 30 years until I make that next big leap.

#ama #Anonymous #krisrix replies

[aerikimi]

Just Breathe | 4

➵ min yoongi was a bad guy with expensive taste. eight months from your return to daegu, things start to get strange and dangerous again. nobody falls for the same fuckboy twice, specially if he’s your friend.

➵ pairing: yoongi x reader;

➵ genre: friendswithbenefits!au, fuckboy!au, smut, angst, a bit of fluff;

[1] [2] [3] [4] -

4 • The ‘Hosung’ Issue

Daegu, 3 years before

Hot. That gloomy art room never felt so hot your entire academic life.

With your skirt up to your hips and your back propped against the teacher’s desk, you were now hang in such a roller coaster that it was almost as if your decency had faded away just leaving behind a moaning soul in a sweat soaked body.

You were almost one hundred percent sure your moans could be heard from the corridor. You didn’t care. The boy whose fingers insistently brushed over your most sensitive spots drove you to the edge many times already, just to completely pull out abruptly and start everything over again. You couldn’t stop moaning now — you knew this time was the one.

Well, you were right.

Just when your tremble body started to recover from all that, you dimly smiled as you heard the familiar sound of his jeans dropping, you didn’t even took your eyes off of the ceiling to know he was ready in front of you. “Your turn” he happily stated. You stepped out of the desk and switched places with him, getting on your knees between his legs. “Are you sure there’s no one down this hallway though?”

“I am. Checked two times” you smirked looking up to him. He was beautiful.

“And what about him?” he calmly asked above you while you took his boxers off. But his question made you slow down, the image of the other boy now pinching your brain.

“I don’t think he’ll mind honestly” you bittersweetly murmured, trying to convince yourself more than him. But that stupid face wouldn’t get out of your mind now.

“Oh for fuck’s sake Y/N, Yoongi has been chasing you the whole week” he said annoyed, “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but it’s better to solve this out before you go to uni—”

He closed his eyes and frowned his eyebrows as you wrapped your hand on his length, but placed his own on your head. You smirked and looked up to him again before taking him into your mouth. “Taehyung… please stop talking.”

•••

Seoul, now

“Y/N, tell me, what did he do?”

His googled eyes searched your face, but you said nothing; then your eyes started to soak, and your voice became a broken whisper when you started to speak again, “Taehyung-ah…”

You felt him a second after, his warm tight arms wrapping you like a bear. In other circumstances, you would’ve punched him and screamed, “Are you crazy?”, but as much as you were shocked, you were in need of a hug. Much more than that, in need of a friend.

Taehyung was never your friend. Well, you actually hated the way he treated Aeri, and you hated the most the fact that you’ve already been under his trousers. It was a long ago, and only twice, and even if none of you gave a damn about it, it would still pinch you with disgust that that actually happened.

Things in high school were weird. You couldn’t count in how many different beds you’ve woke up in the morning — restless and confused, frightened sometimes. But that was the past, where the occasions with Taehyung belonged. He was an one night stand from a very weird period of your life, just like you were for him too.

You both stood like that for a while, until he broke apart because the dew was becoming too much on your heads. He then leaded you by your arm to a covered part of the building, and you both sat on a wall, almost three feet away from each other. You scratched your eyes a bit and saw Taehyung take a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Do you want one?” he offered and you stared at his outstretched arm.

“Didn’t knew you smoked” you said, refusing his offer silently.

“Trying to quit,” you watched him putting a cigarette between his lips, shrinking his shoulders. “Aeri has been getting on my nerves about it, so I’m trying to quit.”

“Makes sense” you laughed melancholically.

“But it’s nice to know you stopped,” he puffed the smoke out, “Yoongi hyung would die of sorrow if you didn’t.”

And your heart became cold again.

Taehyung probably felt your soreness. “Listen, Y/N. It has been difficult for him, and as much you think you’re hurt he’s hurt too.”

The building’s parking lot became silent.

“You don’t know how much he fights to wake up everyday, Y/N. It’s not like he likes who he is either.”

“But I like who he is” you were surprised to hear your own voice raising up much before you could stop it. “I like, it’s just that he’s a moron and incapable of caring about anyone but himself!” your cheeks became hot in a burning ton of red, as much as your face. “Taehyung, the things he said to me!”

“We all do. And he cares about you. It’s just that when you left… You left him for three whole years Y/N, please don’t expect him not to be hurt.”

The way those words flew from Taehyung’s mouth made all your body quiver in response, and as they echoed through your mind your heavy heart became light, but painfully tight. You suddenly remembered how his soft hair felt tangled to your fingers. And his cold pink lips the first time he kissed you under the dew, just like today. You remembered Min Yoongi from high school — cold, sore, smart. But then you remembered all his harsh words from before and you felt yourself passionless again.

“What about the girl?” you try him, “What about her? Are they a couple now?”

“He’s not going out with her.”

“He said he didn’t wanted to sleep around anymore” you stated in an almost whisper, trying not to show how opposed to that you were, but your eyes soaked again on even thinking about what Yoongi said.

Taehyung breathed heavily. “All I can say is that they aren’t going out now and that’s it, it’s all I know. Maybe he wants to stop fucking around for another reason other than a girl, right? We both know he wasn’t made for it. If they’ll go out tomorrow, then maybe, I don’t know. Fucking ask him. Does anything has ever changed since high school Y/N?” Taehyung abruptly said without even breathing once, annoyed, but in a way that somehow amused you.

But you could see where did his annoyance would came from, though. “Why don’t you ask him, Y/N?” was one of the things Taehyung would say to you the most during the school years. Where is he? Did he passed by your house today? Who was that girl with him anyways? Is he in the music room right now? And the list went by.

You sighed heavily, and felt Taehyung coming closer to your body. “I’m sorry I do the things I do, Y/N. You know, Aeri and I. I’m truly sorry.” He flicked the cigarette that mysteriously lasted until now onto the ground, and looked at you with a sad smile, “I guess the dinner’s over for us. Fancy a ride home?”

•••

You didn’t see Yoongi the next morning.

The nights in Daegu were always enjoyable. When you started working at the coffee shop — a second job you still had to maintain since you moved from your parents’ — you first felt yourself blissful that the place was so cozy and warm, specially because it was a night shift and you were frightened of feeling unsafe.

The two people who worked with you were nice. Hyerim, the girl, and William — he lived in the U.S. for five years, but came back when his parents split and now he was in need of a job.

In general, that night was nice for a monday. There wasn’t much movement there, just couple people sat on the tables chatting. You’ve already answered all the clients and now you were at the balcony, checking your email on your laptop, just when you heard the doorbell ringing again. You looked up and your throat went dry.

“You’re shitting me right?”

You looked back to see Hyerim standing on her feet behind you, her eyes wide open. “How can he be so handsome even in the monday nights?”

You ignored her but checked him once more, not believing it was really him.

Yoongi sat on a corner table. His hands were inside his coat pockets. Hyerim was right. He was more than handsome.

Before you could even stop yourself, you realized your body taking off your apron and going at his direction. When you sat in front of him, far away from everyone, not caring if he was there for the coffee or not, his eyes became full of awareness, and then of joy. He took it as a signal. So you did really were up to talk to him.

“Y/N” he said, his voice was a little husky. It was somehow weird to hear his voice soft again after that terrible discussion you had.

“Hey” you said, feeling yourself go down again.

The sight of him should’ve made you happy — much worse than that, it made you anxious. Anxious that he would scream at you again, or to tell you it was truly over. When did Yoongi started to make you feel this way? He sure didn’t meant doing this. But more than that, you just wanted him to tell you that it was okay. That everything was okay.

“So… Did you travel well with Taehyung?” he asked quietly, looking to the other side of the coffee shop.

“Yeah” you said, almost as a question. He then turned his face to you.

“Did you slept with him?” he bluntly asked and the question made you abruptly stop and frown your face in disgust and surprise.

“If you took your time to come here and insult me then fucking enjoy your coffee alone!” you said as you got up, but Yoongi’s grip around your wrist made you stop much before you could walk away.

“I didn’t” you felt his eyes on you but you were staring at the door. “Y/N”, you felt his thumb caressing the skin on your hand, his voice somehow desperate.

You knew you should leave — for everything that happened, but you sat down again. Your hands were still tangled above the table, but after a few seconds Yoongi slide his hand back to his pocket again.

“I left Seoyun home and went to your apartment. I went after you” he said after a short break. You could feel how hesitant he was. “I didn’t find you”, he added, trying to make you speak. Is he really worried I fucked Tae?

“Yeah, that’s because I slept over” you answered, annoyed. Yoongi looked at you with surprised but doubtful eyes.

“Y/N…”

“I didn’t fuck him for Christ’s sake!” you screamed, probably louder than you should. You felt your cheeks go red as you regained your control and tried to ignore the starry eyes. “I’m not Y/N from high school anymore, Aeri is my friend and I would never do such thing, how could you say it out loud? Don’t you fucking know me?”

“Y/N”, he cut you off again, “Can you please stop and listen to me?”

“No!” you abruptly said, but this time calmer. “Why did you came here anyways?” you harshly asked, “Wanna tell me a bit more about how good your girlfriend is in bed?”

It looked like things turned around, you were the one making questions now. Yoongi looked a bit surprised, but didn’t complain as you thought he would.

“I needed to talk to you. And explain why was I being a jerk” he said simply and so bluntly. It would still blow your mind how could he be so honest and sincere sometimes.

“I’m all ears.”

His tiny eyes were cold, looking at you full of something that at first you couldn’t decipher. “There’s no reason at all.”

You frowned your forehead. “Excuse me?”

“There’s nothing in this world you could do to me that would justify the way I treated you earlier” he shook his head while his eyes were closed. “It’s just that…” he opened them and his blown out pupils adjusted inside his brown irises “It’s just you Y/N.”

•••

Daegu, 4 years before

“My dress is too short, Yoongi-ah!” you gasped in search for air as you tried to keep up with his quick pace, adjusting the bar of your black dress to your thighs and all of that on your high heels. That was a really bad idea, you thought, looking at the boy in front of you.

“Yeah?” he looked back at you over his shoulder, gluping his beer while exhibing his pink lips smirking.

“Yeah!” you screamed.

Yoongi was having the best of it all. You could see by his blushed pinky cheeks and the way he now walked in front of you — confident, but yet very aware. He was really having it at your expense.

He didn’t even tried to hide it. “Are you okay?” Yoongi gluped his beer again and looked at you, scanning you from head to toe. Your cheeks became crimson.

“Yeah” you said, crossing your arms over your breasts instinctively as you gave a look to the house’s garden. The music was loud out here and some people looked boozed already; it was somehow early, though.

“Let’s get in then shall we?” Yoongi said, opening the house’s door for you to enter while the music blasted out even louder.

As you made room for yourself between people, Yoongi’s body kept your back warm, always behind you. He wasn’t as tall as your other friends, but definitely a good height and definitely taller than you. Yoongi looked above the heads to find somewhere you two could land.

At a normal party, Yoongi and you wouldn’t stick together for too long. You both had business to do — you were always telling yourself that you would act different every night, just one drink, one shot, a little dance, get home early, don’t fuck around; but that change actually never happened, despite you craving for it so much. So that was all, you both would arrive, meet the others, you would find Aeri somewhere and just lose the sigh of Yoongi between people. It was no news Yoongi had a different girl every night.

But not today. Everyone seemed to be weird today, and if not, then they were doing better things at home. You and Yoongi were the only ones from your group of friends out today, so you both just decided to get along a bit more, even though you both could easily find a partner there.

Yoongi’s grip stopped you at some point, next to the kitchen, his arm around your waist, “Here.”

There was a far greater reason for that night, though. You might have slightly commented that Wang Hosung would be at that party tonight. There was no secret about what happened between you two to Yoongi. You meant, there was no point in hiding it if all the school already knew...

How Wang Hosung took your virginity and how much of a slut you were for letting him.

“You didn’t do nothing wrong” you could still remember his husky voice while you cried into his arms when you first told him about it, three months ago, “Please next time tell me earlier so I can beat the shit out of who called you like that”, he tried to keep unnalarmed for you but you could see how affected he was.

You and Yoongi were now in the middle of the room, him with his back propped against a wall and you dancing in front of him, his hand into his pocket and the other around a can of beer. You were too focused on your surroundings, but Yoongi’s eyes were rolling up and down your body as he enjoyed your dancing. There was pretty much nothing you would be ashamed to do in front of him.

Because you were around not many girls approached him as you were there, but surely they gave you spiteful looks when seeing where Yoongi’s hand landed — the left side of your hips. You couldn’t think too much of it, as it was nothing special his touch on you sometimes or vice e versa. He was your friend Yoongi. Fuckboy Min Yoongi, yes, but the Min Yoongi who grew eating rice cakes at your house. And he was gorgeous tonight, just like always.

You once wondered how would it be to date Yoongi. Maybe if he wasn’t the way he is, or if you somehow were good enough to make him stop all the fucking around. You knew he was caring, as the many times he patched your bloody knees and elbows when you were kids; That kind of thought seemed unreal to you, but still you couldn’t stop thinking how good it felt to have him at that party — he was indeed the most handsome person at that house, and those from school knew he was also talented. But you knew who was Min Yoongi. All his ugly sides, and the pretty ones too.

He wasn’t able to patch your heart. Well, at least that’s what you thought.

When you first saw Wang Hosung that night, you remembered how you wanted to die. How he made you want to stop breathing and simply disappear. You stopped dancing, and even if you fought to death your eyes still soaked as two big round pools. You just absorbed him — his hair as perfect as before, and his big clear smile surrounded by his many friends, just like always. How can he smile after what he’ve done to me?

“Y/N, what’s wrong?” you heard Yoongi, but still couldn’t answer. You knew the exact moment his eyes landed on Wang Hosung. You could feel Yoongi’s aura changing around him. Not angrily, but devilish. Yes, devilish, that word suited him so well in so many ways...

When Wang Hosung saw you that night, his smile brighted. Him and his friends entered the dance floor and you knew he was coming after you but stopped at the sight of Yoongi. He kept a distance from you two but your gazes were still locked, him still smilling despite your destructive expression. You hated him, you hated Wang Hosung more than anything in life.

“What is that loser looking at?” Yoongi squeezed you thight and looking at his face you saw now how angry he was looking to the other side of the room, where the guy was standing with a red cup on his hand. Yoongi then effortlessly shoved you to the side and started walking at his direction, but you quickly pulled yourself together and stopped him with all your strenght.

Yoongi’s eyes locked on yours for awhile, those brown glowing eyes hovering above you; you’ve never seen them so bright before.

And so you felt his arm going around your waist. Yoongi pulled you to a warm, deep kiss. The one who sent flames through your whole body, something you didn’t knew you were able to feel until then, with him; You didn’t knew he would break your heart millions of times after Wang Hosung did it, but at that moment, you definitely felt like breathing.

a/n; ok you guys i speak portuguese so i feel like i made lots of grammar mistakes in this one, & if so please let me know!!! i promise i tried to post it all at once but turns out this chapter’s too long, but since everything’s already written, i won’t take too long to post again i hope!  thank you for reading, please send a message or leave a request xo

#bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts smut #suga imagines #suga scenarios #suga smut #yoongi imagines #yoongi scenarios #yoongi smut #bts #justb #bts fuckboy!au #bts angst #bts fanfic #yoongi angst #yoongi

[claitynroberts]

Captain Hook & Rapunzel

Part 3 of 3 —> Part 1 Part 2

Description: Reader insert; multi part oneshot. The reader has been a member of Team Free Will for a year now. During an unexpected lull in jobs recently, you, Sam, Dean and Cas decide to attend Jo’s themed birthday party. During the events of the night, cards are shown and things definitely take an unexpected turn.

Author’s Note: This fic was written for @eyes-of-a-disney-princess and her Rapunzel’s Tangled Up With Supernatural Challenge, and it is my first ever reader insert, as well as SPN fanfic. I’ve tried so hard to authentically portray the beautiful characters of the series, but I’m only human so please bear with me! I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Contains: angst, some language, fluff, potential bad decisions, physical fighting/violence

Warnings: physical violence, taking advantage of a drunk female (the reader) is mentioned but never acted on thanks to a big muscular hunk ;)

If you find any other triggers that may affect readers please let me know and I’ll add them here

Word Count: 7,106...sorry, it’s so long :D

*This pic isn’t mine, credit to the owners and Google Images

Dean left the two of you at the car while he ran in to grab a couple rooms, but when he came out, he did not look happy. “Well, they only had the one room so it looks like we’re sharing tonight.” He threw a pointed look at you and Cas as you walked into the dilapidated room.

There was a single bed with a nightstand on either side and a dingy comforter adorning the mattress. The sun-faded floral window curtains floated in the breeze of the window A/C unit. You sat down in a worn chair by the small kitchen table and rested your head in your hands. The alcohol had almost released its hold on you, leaving your stomach in knots and your head pounding. All that, combined with the craziness of the bar fight, left you reeling. Dean dumped the bags on the floor at the foot of the bed and sat down, absentmindedly rubbing his knuckles which were still angry looking from making contact with Derek’s face.

“Look, (y/n),” he began, “I’m...sorry...for what happened back there.”

“Dean.” You looked at him without your usual mask, allowing him to see all the emotions you were struggling with cross your face. “Just stop.”

“Stop what?” He asked, a confused look on his face.

You waited a minute and looked over to Cas, who thankfully got the hint. “I’m going to go check on Kevin,” he said awkwardly. “See what progress he has made with the demon tablet.” And with a flutter of wings, he was gone.

“Stop what,” Dean repeated, a soul crushing look hidden in the depths of his eyes.

“Stop whatever this is.” Your voice sounded tired, broken, even to your own ears, as you made a vague all encompassing gesture. “I’m so sick of you dancing along the lines, and not picking a side. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”

“I don’t know—“

“Yes you do!” You shouted cutting him off, tears forming in your eyes. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Ever since the night you and Sam saved me, you have been hiding or denying your feelings. Months, Dean, it has been months. Either make a fucking move or let me go! I can’t take this limbo hell anymore.” You were sobbing now.

He sat there quietly for a moment, your sniffling and gasping the only sounds in the room. “(Y/n), I care about you, you’re right. But this is not a life you need to live permanently. As soon as we figure out why Crowley wants you—,” he tried but you spoke over him.

“‘As soon as.’ Who the hell knows how long that will actually be. It could be years before we find out why I’m significant to Crowley. And if you expect me to remain with you guys as we figure all this out, something's gotta give.”

“Is this about that douchebag at the bar?” He asked in a dangerous tone, there was a steely edge to it you hadn’t heard often, but it was booming nonetheless.

“No,” you shouted indignantly, but his glare cut through your thin layer of bullshit. “Yes…” you acquiesced. “I don’t see the problem there.”

“Don’t…’don’t see the problem’?” He was aghast. “Really? Because I see major problems. The dude was shitfaced, you were drunk enough to slur your words; there’s no telling what could have happened!” He was standing now, shouting and pacing a path into the carpet. “He could have taken advantage of you.” His voice was deadly quiet, now.

You glared a hole into his soul—figuratively at least. “How is that any different than what you do,” you asked in a small voice, the accusation hanging in the air.

He stopped dead in his tracks and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, resting his face in his hands. After a moment he spoke. “I’m not saying I’m the best dude out there, but I do treat women better than that guy was treating you.” Tears were glistening in his eyes. “I’ve never forced myself on anyone, and I don’t keep buying them drinks so I may take advantage of them.” His voice was gruff, almost breaking.

“Dean, you don’t know he was going to take advantage of me.” You tried, but even your defense sounded thin to your own ears. The truth of the matter is, Dean was right—even if you didn’t want to admit it. More than likely Derek would have taken you back to his place, or maybe just to the parking lot, for a quick hook up. Discarding you and never calling. The idea of being a one night stand made your stomach roil.

“Really, (y/n)? If he wasn’t going to take advantage of your impaired state then I’m the Pope.” Sarcasm tended to be his defense mechanism.

“Dean, you can’t be upset and keep me from moving on with my life, keep me from trying to find love—,”

“‘Keep you from trying to find love.’ Is that what you think I’m doing?” He said angrily. “Because I think I’m trying to protect your ass.”

“Oh, so you’re protecting me, is that it?” You were yelling now. “Being territorial about who I talk to, while you’re out galavanting with any skirt who looks your way, is ‘protecting me’.” You crossed your arms across your chest, trying to hold in your emotions and keep yourself from falling apart. “Flirting with me incessantly and building all this sexual tension between us is ‘protecting me.’ I’m tired of all this bullshit, Dean!” Your emotions had busted loose and taken over now, anger, hurt, and betrayal all coursed through your veins.

You took a deep steadying breath. “It’s not fair for you to constantly put me through all this while you may do what you please,” you tried to explain patiently, fed up with his petulant attitude. “So please, truly look at yourself and decide what it is you want. When you figure it out, let me know.”

With that you grabbed your bag and entered the bathroom shutting the door behind you a bit harder than necessary. Turning on the shower, you stripped out of your costume and slid down the shower wall. The water hid your tears and muffled the sound of your quiet sobs. You sat there crying yourself out until nothing was left deep inside you, until everything that had happened to you in the last year swirled down the drain. Until the water coming out of the shower head turned cold and bracing.

You toweled off and got dressed in your pajamas, a loose pair of sweats and an oversized Bon Jovi t-shirt you stole from Dean soon after they took you in. No matter how many times you washed it, it still inexplicably smelled like him, which was a soothing balm to your aching nerves. I’m not going to force my feelings on him; if he wants to be with me he can damn well tell me, you thought in a silent prayer to whatever god was listening.

As you entered the room you saw Dean still sitting where you left him, eyes red-rimmed like your own. He must have gotten up to change into his night clothes as well because the kohl and Captain Hook costume were long gone, a worn pair of sweats and a t-shirt replaced them. Silently you walked to the other side of the bed to turn down the covers, determined to leave everything where right where you left it until he deigned to speak to you.

“You’re right, (y/n).” He said.

“Oh?”

“I do care for you. And much deeper than as a friend.” He shifted to look at you while you went about your pre-sleep ritual.

You didn’t say anything, hoping the silence would cause him to keep speaking. You looked at him with pursed lips and raised eyebrows.

“The thing is I don’t have much experience in this department. Relationships aren’t really my thing.” He glanced up at you. “I’ve had feelings for you since nearly the first day we met. I’ve just been scared to act on them because—“ his voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “Because what happens if we try this and it doesn’t work or you get taken away from me? Because everything I’ve ever cared about gets taken or destroyed.”

You stilled your actions and thought over his words. Turning each over in your mind, searching for any hidden meaning. Finally, you looked at him, “but what if it works?”

A tear escaped his eye as he bowed his head. After a moment he grinned, “ever the optimist, aren’t you?”

You gave him a half smile, “someone around here has to be.” You shrugged a shoulder, “and besides, I’m not worried about getting taken or dying. Between you, Sam, Cas, Jo, and Ellen, I’d say I’m safer than the Declaration of Independence.”

He returned the grin. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Although Nicholas Cage was able to get past all that government security to get the Declaration.”

You chuckled, “I don’t think we have to worry about Nic getting to me.”

After a moment he added, “so...where do we go from here?”

You thought for a moment. “How about we start with one day at a time,” you said a little shyly. “Besides, it’s almost morning and we should turn in. It’s been a long day and Sam will be herein a few hours,” you said as you crawled under the faded comforter.

He cleared his throat, “Right. I’ll just sleep on the floor.” When he reached for the second pillow, you grabbed his hand causing him to freeze. Your gaze traced over his muscled arm, from his wrist up to his face.

When the two of you finally made eye contact you gave him a soft smile. “You can sleep in the bed. You know, if you want to…” you trailed off shyly, waiting for his reply.

As you settled down on the mattress, you watched him war with himself; one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he blew out a deep breath. When his more tired side won the internal battle, he drew the covers back to settle into the bed beside you, careful to leave space between the two of you.

After a few tense moments you heard him clear his throat in the dark. “Well...uh...goodnight, then,” he said clasping his hands across his middle.

Geez, this man has bedded countless women, but in the face of a possible relationship he becomes a junior high boy, you thought as you chuckled to yourself. Fed up with the silence and the space between the two of you after all these months of hidden feelings, you grabbed his hand and lifted up his arm so you could curl up against his side. Your head rested on the point of his chest where is arm met his torso, your hand laid over his beating heart where you could feel it thumping hard against his chest. Your leg draping over his as if you had done this a million times. “Goodnight, Dean Winchester,” you sighed as you inhaled his scent and began to drift off into unconsciousness.

You weren’t sure if you dreamt it or not, but you could have sworn right before the tide of sleep pulled you under, Dean pulled you tighter against his body as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Fin.

Tag-list: @captainsherlockwinchester110283

#eyes-of-a-disney-princess #Rapunzel’s Tangled Up With Supernatural Challenge #deanxreader #dean winchester #insert #sam winchester #castiel #motel #birthday #theme #angst #hidden feelings #supernatural #spn #fan fiction #fanfic #oneshot #multipart

[yasbxxgie]

The Curious Case of the Black Male Escort Found Dead Inside a Wealthy Democratic Donor’s Home

On July 27, 2017, 26-year-old Gemmel Moore was found in the bathroom of a West Hollywood, Calif., apartment belonging to Ed Buck, 62. Moore was young, black and poor. Buck was white, wealthy and powerful.

That’s all we know.

Moore’s family is searching for answers. Buck has not spoken publicly about the incident. Police have not charged anyone with a crime, even though multiple reports have surfaced that Buck had a predilection for young, black men. Even after a number of young, black male sex workers have stepped forward with apparent photographic evidence that Buck was one of their clients. Even after each one of those men separately told the same story: Not only did Buck have a fetish for black men, but he was known in West Hollywood’s gay community as someone paying top dollar for the company of 20-something black escorts ...

But only after injecting them with drugs.

West Hollywood is known as the “symbolic heart” of LGBTQ Los Angeles. During the 1930s, gay men and women gathered in bars in the then-unincorporated part of the city to skirt federal and state Prohibition laws. In 1967, two years before New York City’s Greenwich Village Stonewall riots put the fight for gay and lesbian rights on the map, a protest organized by the Personal Rights in Defense and Education organization kick-started the West Coast movement in West Hollywood.

Since then, the West Hollywood area has been incorporated as a city and is known nationwide as a home for a thriving, affluent gay population. The city is a liberal enclave and has recently rebranded itself as WeHo.

Buck was born in 1954 and came out to his parents at the age of 16, according to WeHoville. In the 1980s, after living and traveling as a male model and actor, Buck began working in Arizona for a company that provided information for driver’s licenses. According to WeHoville, in a 1987 interview with the Arizona Republic, Buck said that he saw so much potential in the struggling company that he bought it out of bankruptcy for $250,000. Five years later, he sold the company for more than $1 million profit.

In 1987 Buck, described by the Arizona Republic in the same article as a “millionaire, self-acknowledged homosexual and registered Republican,” launched himself into politics by leading an effort to impeach Arizona Gov. Evan Mecham.

Even though Buck’s campaign led to the successful impeachment of the governor, Buck left the Republican Party because of its intolerant stance on LGBTQ issues. According to the profile in WeHoville, after arrests on narcotics and public indecency charges, Buck eventually left Arizona and moved to West Hollywood.

It was in West Hollywood that Buck became a major political backer. He helped Democrat John D’Amico win a seat on the West Hollywood City Council and pushed for the nation’s first ban on the sale of fur products.

Although donations to political action committees don’t have to be disclosed, Buck gave $2,700—the maximum amount possible—to the Hillary Clinton campaign, and online sources show he has donated more than $250 million to Democratic candidates. A quick Google Images search turns up pictures of Buck with some of the most powerful Democratic politicians in the country, including Clinton and California Gov. Jerry Brown.

In 2017, Gemmel Moore relocated from Texas and moved to West Hollywood. Numerous friends of Moore confirmed his struggles with drugs, which, many say, were fueled by the fetishes of one of his most frequent clients—Ed Buck.

Moore’s roommate and best friend, Samuel Lloyd, alleges that Buck had an unhealthy obsession with Moore. “He went out there searching for other men that were struggling and on the streets and had no money ... men who had never experienced drugs before,” said Lloyd at an October 21 community meeting. “This is the kind of guys Ed Buck searched for.”

Lloyd added that Moore had grown afraid of Buck in the days before his death, saying that “Gemmel was scared of this man. He came and he laid in my arms and he was scared. Scared that this man was going to hurt him.”

Lloyd said that Moore went to West Hollywood police a number of times to warn them about Buck to no avail.

Lloyd’s allegations seem to be backed up by other men who provided photographic evidence of Buck’s drug use with male escorts. Damar Love provided the WeHo Times with photographs of himself inside Buck’s home. According to the Times, the pictures appeared to have been taken at the same apartment where Moore’s body was found and show Love sitting next to a glass pipe often used to smoke crystal meth.

Love told the WeHo Times that he serviced Buck at least three times. He stated that Buck insisted that Love turn off his cellphone and demanded that he do drugs before their encounter. In an interview with the WeHo Times, Love stated:

When I get there, I always want my money up front, and that’s how it always started. Initially, when I got there I understood that he was already well under the influence because he told me he had already been up for two days and was still doing drugs as far as liquid GHB, shooting meth—crystal meth, and smoking it. When he insisted that I get high and continue to get high, that’s when I started to do my research on him ... I was like, “Why are you insisting that I be high?”

Writer Jasmyne Cannick says she met with Love along with journalists from ABC 7 and the Los Angeles Times and provided a partial transcript of the interview, in which Love says he went to the police with this information:

So I go there [West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station] and I basically let them know I’m coming from an older friend’s house—at the time I didn’t want to speak his name. But I did initially say that I feel like I was drugged. And because I was talking rapidly and constantly looking around tryin’ to watch my back to see if someone was approaching me the only thing they would say is, “You’re tweaking. You’re under the influence and if you don’t get away from here I’m going to take you to jail for being under the influence.” They didn’t care to ask who it was or where did it happen, and I said, “Well just let me write a statement down; you guys can give me a number for that I can use if I need to come back it’d be available.” He said, “OK.” He gave me a paper. I wrote it down. Sat there for about 10 minutes and because I was still rambling about the situation they did not want me standing in the front lobby of the department; they told me to leave.

Another alleged client who only goes by the name of “Brian” provided screenshots from the website Adam4Adam of conversations with Buck arranging an encounter. Yet another man named “Blake” has provided screenshots to Jasmyne Cannick from a man using the name “Bucked,” purported to be Ed Buck. Blake provided screenshots and photos from inside an apartment that appears to resemble Buck’s home.

Buck’s neighbors and associates have allegedly fallen prey to the bullying and erratic behavior of the wealthy donor. In a 2002 petition for a restraining order, therapist James E. d’Jarnette told a court that Buck harassed him for days after d’Jarnette informed the wealthy donor that he wouldn’t prescribe amphetamines, the WeHo Times reports.

Former Councilman Steve Martin said that people in the West Hollywood community often complained about Buck’s temperament. “If there was ever anybody in West Hollywood whose bed you expected a dead body to turn up in, it was Ed Buck,” Martin told the WeHo Times.

Perhaps the most damning evidence comes from a journal that Moore’s mother says belonged to Gemmel Moore discussing his fear of Buck.

“I honestly don’t know what to do,” the journal excerpt reads. “I’ve became addicted to drugs and the worst one at that. Ed Buck is the one to thank he gave me my first injection of crystal meth it was very painful but after all the troubles I became addicted to the pain and fetish/fantasy.”

In the entry, Moore goes on to say, “If it didn’t hurt so bad I’d kill myself, but for now I’ll just let Ed Buck do it.”

When police arrived at Buck’s home to investigate the death, they found drug paraphernalia, according to the Los Angeles coroner’s office. Video also shows another young black man looking for Buck showing up at Buck’s home and being turned away by police taping off the scene.

Despite this abundance of evidence and more, including cellphone records, West Hollywood authorities have not charged Buck with a crime and have indicated that Buck is not a suspect.

Moore’s family have asked the investigators to grant immunity to witnesses who come forward, but the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department said that it cannot grant immunity—only prosecutors can.

In addition to the launch of Justice 4 Gemmel, Moore’s mother has enlisted the help of human rights advocate and attorney Nana Gyamfi.

Through all of this, Ed Buck has remained silent. And free. He dispatched his attorney to a West Hollywood City Council meeting to urge citizens to stop the ongoing “character assassination.”

Meanwhile, 26-year-old Gemmel Moore is still dead.

#gemmel moore #ed buck #black lives matter #the root #racism #lgbtq #west hollywood #hollywood #california #hollywood california #video #youtube #samuel lloyd #damar love #los angeles sheriff’s department #justice 4 gemmel #michael harriot #justice4gemmel

[thefavouritechild]

WHY IS GOLF SO BORING?

INITIAL RESEARCH INTO GOLF

To begin researching golf, I wanted to counter (or prove) my own perceptions around golf, with the following search:

I’m not a sports person at all, my many forged doctors notes for PE is more than enough proof of that, but golf to me has always stood out as THE most agonisingly boring sport in the history of sports (and yes, that actually includes cricket and snooker.) - whether it’s the slow pace, or just the general underwhelming nature of the sport, it always struck me as so nauseating dull. 

So I wanted to know - is this opinion shared? Is my belief that golf has a severe allergy to ‘fun’ commonplace, or am I just that unhealthy?

Answer: I’m not alone. (Thanks Google.)

In 2018, golf was voted the most boring sport in Britain.

This is according to a survey of 1,616 adults by Yougov that concluded that 70% of the voters found golf the most boring sport. Though not an overwhelming amount of voters considering the population of Britain, it was enough of a result to have the Telegraph and the Times reporting on it.

Both articles include a chart showing the distribution of results from the survery:

The chart has three categories that measure the engagement with and opinion of the sports listed, purple demonstrating the votes for boring, beige for neutral, and the orange-y colour for exciting, with golf leaping out ahead of even American Football, which I didn’t think anyone gave a fuck about. The more you know. 

The same chart is present in the times article, but in a much prettier colour scheme, with more precise percentages to actually be useful.

Golf is ahead of American Football by 11% percent, and ahead of Cricket by 12%, whilst Football and Rugby rank in some of the highest positions with lows of 40% boring for Football (probably mostly votes from my nan sick of my granddads unyielding optimism of a West Ham supporter) and 39% and 43% boring for Rugby Union and Rugby League respectively. 

Surprisingly, Athletics ranks ahead of Football and Rugby in entertainment value, with a whopping 47% of voters finding it exciting, and only 28% finding it boring. Tennis is also surprisingly on par with Football, but maybe that’s only surprising to me because the only thing I enjoy about it is the skirts.

SO WHY DID GOLF GET THESE RESULTS? WHY IS GOLF SO DAMN BORING?

IT’S SUPER COMPLICATED - Golf is not an easy to grasp sport. I went on about 20 different guides to learn how to play the damn thing and came out actually knowing less than I did when I started. The fuck is a Birdie? Thought I was smart already knowing what a Par is, now I feel like I’ve walked onto a Maths degree proud of my pissy little C at GCSE. There’s a whole damn dictionary for this sport that sounds like I’ve been thrown into the asscrack of Australia whilst only speaking French as my first language. It’s not something you can just learn as you go - the sport relies on you understanding this terminology to play, it pretty much rules it. If you don’t know your Birdie from your Par, get off my fucking course.

One guide, that claimed to be simplifying Golf for me, recommended that beginners hire a professional coach to start learning. Talk about hassle - any kid on the street could tell you how to play football, but I gotta hire an actual coach to learn how to play golf? Fuck off. Could pay a Year 8 a fiver and be a football master in a day flat. 

GOLF IS EXPENSIVE - I mean, if needing to hire a coach just to learn the basics as a beginner didn’t hint at this, then lemme add some more salt to the wound. Clubs - both the equipment and the fancy-dancy country kind. You kind of need them. A good set of golf clubs is looking to set you back about £300, so you better know exactly what kind you need before you fork out the cash (please see above: IT’S SUPER COMPLICATED). A golf club membership is also a hefty price - about £500 a year at its cheapest. 

Information from Golf Monthly UK

This isolates a lot of potential consumers of the sport - if you ain’t got the dough, you can’t play ball. Even the cheap option of playing at a driving range instead of a course can you set you back a bit, and also limits your time. If you wanna immerse yourself in this slow paced, complicated sport, and have the time to get your bearings, you’d be looking at around £40 for four hours (Based on the Greenwich driving range, which charges £10 an hour). And then, to top it off, you gotta rent yourself some clubs. Golf ain’t cheap, so if you are, it’s not the sport for you. I happen to be very cheap and didn’t even go with my friends when they went to play golf at the Greenwich driving range x

IT’S PRETTY PRETENTIOUS - I looked at some articles about why golf ISN’T boring, and even the articles bored me. They’re so up their own ass about how smart and intelligent golf makes them, and how you actually get to be outside (as if you’re not outside for most other sports anyway), really sours your mood. Like okay Mr Trump, we get it, you’ve got an ego, so stick your £300 club back up your ass please and thank you. 

I’ve never really been a fan of trashing other things to make yourself look better - everyone enjoys what they enjoy, and is good at what they’re good at. Skills aren’t comparable because they’re relative to the individual, not the masses. So for this to list a reason why golf is different as other games not getting you to think as much really dampens the mood. It’s isolating language, especially if the person you’re trying to recruit is a sportsman from another sport. 

OLD PEOPLE DON’T UNDERSTAND WORDS

In addition to my online research, I also spoke to both my Granddad and uncle, the former who used to play golf, and the latter who is still an active golf player. My Granddad REALLY did not understand the brief or the questions I was asking him, but I chalk that up to him being nearly 80, and also kind of dim. 

The results of the interviews are as follows:

My uncles attitude towards golf and the experience of playing was a lot more relaxed than my online research made it appear - for him, it’s more the social aspect rather than the playing that really makes him go back for more. He enjoys spending that isolated block of time with his friends. What’s appealing to him is how you decide for yourself how you play golf, whether that’s going solo or pal-ing up with your mates. It’s not a high activity sport, you’re not constantly having to be on the move, so you can talk to one another, have a drink, chill out a bit more. 

He also raised the issue of golf as a boring spectator sport - it’s not engaging to watch due to the lack of high activity that makes it engaging as a social sport. In his words “With rugby and football you can enjoy the energy and the action, even if you don’t get the rules of it. With gold if you don’t know shit then it looks shit. Sitting there watching some geezer in tuity fruity trousers spend about 10 minutes debating how to hit a ball, and then he hits the ball and it disappears. Not really quality TV.”

My Granddad, as opposed to my uncle, was very defensive about golf, so most of the stuff he said was just repeating that golf’s not boring, which I didn’t even bother writing down because it’s useless information, thanks Peter. However, one thing he said was about what the hidden thrill of golf is - a hole in one. The idea of chasing after this elusive and rare phenomenon that hardly anyone ever gets the chance to experience - the high of the exclusivity of being able to say you hit a hole in one. It’s like gambling, you keep failing but you go back for more in the hopes you’ll hit the jackpot, an addiction.

#mintomaj

[hnm22705]

Amateur Hour at Baker Street

This wonderful fanfic is the brainchild of myself and my dearest @pinkpenguin763. It came about one night when we were joking about things that would be more plausible than The Final Problem, and, well, after a long collective effort, many notes on Google Docs, and a few questionable Google searches, this is what happened. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we did writing it :)

----------

Amateur Hour at Baker Street

John never did this sort of thing.

Well, he DID do this sort of thing, just not this particular KIND of this sort of thing.

But he was alone, and horny, and...did it REALLY matter what kind of porn he watched?

It's not like he could just pack up Rosie and pop over to the adult film store, rent “Internal Cumbustion” and carry on his merry way - well, at least not without getting some VERY judgemental looks, and he really didn't need any more attention brought to him. He didn't even want to imagine what the press would say if they got wind.

He also didn't really have the luxury of asking himself WHY there was a DVD labelled “Gay Porn? Research” at Baker Street (not like it belonged to Sherlock, at least for any kind of recreational use - just transport and all that) - and he also didn't really want to look too closely at how intriguing it was to him that there WAS gay porn at Baker Street either.

Before he could change his mind, he inserted the DVD and leaned back on his bed.

The screen flickered to life with a sort of static that reminded John eerily of Mary's posthumous videos. He flinched, grabbing for the remote, about to lose his nerve, when the video's subject came into focus.

The man on the screen was partially dressed, in suit slacks and wingtip shoes, with a deep blue suit shirt he was in the process of slowly unbuttoning.

Pale skin almost seemed to glow between the sides of the shirt, and John found himself, utterly against his will, envisioning Sherlock instead, wearing his deep purple dress shirt, long fingers playing over the buttons flush against his chest.

However, John could tell, even with the man's face hidden, that this was decidedly not Sherlock - he seemed a bit shorter, broader around the shoulders, and not nearly as impossibly thin.

Really, this was a good thing - he hadn't secretly been hoping it was his flat mate - that would be an invasion of privacy - and watching a questionable porno video found on a shelf at Baker Street was a completely normal thing to do, of course.

“You were serious, you're actually recording me?” The voice was muffled, the man's head still out of view, and John could just barely make out the words.

The man slipped open the bottom button of his dark blue shirt, then moved to work open the buttons at his sleeves, uncovering more of his pale chest.

John glanced at his door, ensuring once more that is was firmly closed, and began to unbutton his own shirt. Rosie had just gone down for a nap downstairs, and Sherlock was at the morgue with Molly - plenty of time to really enjoy himself.

The angle changed a bit, and the camera man’s hand came into view as he reached out and gently caressed the sparse curls that covered his lover’s chest and ran down to his navel.

John ran his hand over his own chest. It had been so long since he’d been touched like that, and even longer since he'd felt  another body under his hands - though the body he was currently imagining was smooth, almost hairless, and painfully thin.

“Come on, put on a show for me?” the cameraman said roughly as he pushed the other man’s shirt off his shoulders and stepped back.

“If that’s what you’d like.” The man slipped his shirt the rest of the way off, seeming to pause for a moment, about to fold it, before instead letting it fall to the floor. He toed off his shoes, running his hands down his sides to stop at his hips, palming his erection, which was becoming quite obvious in his well tailored trousers.

John was getting pretty hard himself, though it was much less obvious in his off the rack trousers.

The man on the screen slipped his hands into the waistband of his trousers, inching them deliberately down his hips and thighs, letting them pool at his feet before stepping out of them. He gave his growing hard on a firm stroke through his aqua Calvin Kleins.

John unzipped his trousers, gripping himself through his much less posh pants. He’d never seen a need for an intricately indexed drawer full of Hugo Boss and Giorgio Armani pants (unlike his flat mate), but was beginning to see their appeal.

The man on screen stood awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to do next. A large hand came into view from behind the camera, and ran down the chest of the other man, following the trail of hair and skirting across the prominent bulge.

“You're liking this, I can tell. You look...amazing. What are you going to do for me next?”

The camera man's voice was even rougher with need than before, and the deep timbre went straight to John's cock straining against his own pants. What he'd give to hear a deep, rough voice saying things like that (one voice in particular, of which the thought of made John that much harder). He may not be gay, but he never said he didn't appreciate a good looking man if the opportunity arose. And god, what he would do to a certain man if there was even a sliver of a chance that anything would ever happen.

“I thought that was your part in all this - taking control, telling me what you want.” The on screen man's voice was more than a little breathless, causing the camera man to groan.

“Oh, I love it when you tell me to take control - so different from usual. Come on, show me what you've got.” The cameraman’s voice had taken on urgency, almost frustrated – or maybe John was just projecting.

“Patience,” the man on screen said, a hint of a smile in his voice. He pushed his fingertips under his waistband, and John found himself following suit, reaching and slowly pulling down, inch by inch, as he watched the man on screen do the same. John’s breathing was faster now, and he found himself closing his eyes in relief as the final inch of restraining cloth was pushed down and thrown aside, freeing his aching erection at last. If he hadn’t been burning with need, he would have been embarrassed at how close he already was to climax.

Vaguely, he heard the porno still playing in the background, but his eyes remained closed as he gave himself a firm pull, lost in his head, imaging a tall, curly haired man, long elegant fingers wrapped around him. He wanted to savour the fantasy playing out in his mind, but, he knew it wouldn’t be long – he only had so much self-control.

John fumbled in his night stand, grabbing his tube of lube and squirting a generous amount in his hand, slathering it on and increasing his rhythm, the sounds of the porno fueling his desire. He was so close, so close, so –

“Oh god, Mycroft, you’re –“

John’s eyes flew open, his desire suddenly extinguished as if he’d been doused in ice water. Had he just heard –

Suddenly, the door opened. “John, Rosie seems to have –“ Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, eyes huge and getting bigger as he took in the scene before him – John, mostly naked, cock in hand, porno playing on the small television.

Neither man moved for what felt like an eternity, huge eyes locked across the room, the only sounds the amorous moaning coming from the video, until finally, Sherlock awkwardly cleared his throat and said, “So…I see you found my brother’s porno.”

That was all it took – John snapped into motion, grabbing for the closest object he could find and hurling it at Sherlock’s head and yelling, “Don’t you bloody know how to KNOCK!?”

To his further mortification, it seemed the closest object had been his pants, which, John saw, before the door slammed shut, were now draped over Sherlock’s head where they’d landed.

He grabbed for the remote, unfortunately not only turning the volume up in the process, but also causing himself to pitch face first off the bed onto the floor.

He could hear the men on the tape snogging, loud smacking kisses and grunts, as he scuttled across the floor on his hands and knees towards the DVD player, finally managing to shut the damn thing off – but not before he saw a familiar face attached to a very bare ass. Apparently, not only had he been wanking to Sherlock’s brother, but also to the DI of Scotland Yard (and John’s drinking buddy), Greg Lestrade.

John lay on the floor, pants-less, shirt hanging open, breathing hard, and thought to himself that he may never get an erection ever again.

****

Shortly after the most embarrassing moment of John’s life, he heard the front door open and slam shut – Sherlock had fled the flat. He hauled himself up off the ground, putting on a fresh pair of pants (he would probably burn the ones that had landed on Sherlock, if he ever found them) and a jumper and jeans, making his way downstairs to check on his daughter, only to find that she wasn’t there. Sherlock, even in his rush, had remembered that Mrs. Hudson was taking her for the night – her overnight bag and favorite toy were also missing, and he couldn’t imagine Sherlock had decided to take her to a murder scene (even after what he had witnessed earlier).

He told himself he was going to just grab a cup of tea and something to eat, then hide for the rest of the night. However, just as he was about to bolt back upstairs, he found himself face to face with Sherlock, who had just arrived back home – ACTUALLY face to face, as in he almost ran face first into the consulting detective, who grabbed his arms in reaction to impact, holding him steady, unfortunately giving John absolutely nothing else to do but meet the other man’s eyes.

“Shit. Sorry. I – shit,” John sputtered, kicking himself inside at his complete and utter lack of any kind of higher thought process at that point in time.

Surprisingly, Sherlock seemed just as much at a loss for words as John. The man simply stared at him with wide deer-caught-in-headlights eyes and just stood there, holding on to his arms.

“Listen, Sherlock, about earlier –“

“John, I just have to say – “

Both men stopped, having started talking at the same time. They tried once more, doing the same thing again, then Sherlock let go of John and stepped back, inclining his head to indicate John could speak first – which was disturbing in itself, as John couldn’t ever recall a time that Sherlock had let him speak first.

“Okay, ah – about earlier. Upstairs, with the…porno, and –“ John shifted, putting his hands in his pockets, then removing them again, hands opening and closing against his will.

“It’s perfectly natural for a healthy male to indulge in masturbation, John, it’s not like it’s a secret. In fact, I know you’re one to indulge quite frequently, especially in the mornings during your shower – “

“Stop. Stop!” John waved his hands, grimacing and starting to turn red. “That’s not – not what I’m trying to – I don’t need to hear your…observations about my masturbatory habits. Jesus.” He took a deep breath, about to speak again, but Sherlock continued on, almost nervously.

“I’m simply trying to let you know it’s all fine. You don’t need to be embarrassed about it – though I’d prefer it weren’t to my brother, but I suppose I should have known, what with how the two of you go on with each other…and he’s…fit? I guess? Though if you’d seen him before he started obsessively exercising, well –“

“No, Sherlock, I – Jesus Christ, no. I don’t have a hard on for your brother –“

 “Well, actually, you did. Earlier, I mean. Quite an impressive one actually – or was it for Graham? He is…ruggedly handsome, especially for his age, though I wouldn’t have pegged you for being into manly types. Though you were in the army, so maybe not so far fetched –“

 “Oh my god, stop! Stop. Just – stop. Trying to figure out who I want to…peg. The porno, it was an accident, I just saw “porn” and it’s been awhile, and dear Lord it just went…wrong. Very, very wrong. What with your brother, and GREG, and you WALKING IN –“

 “Rosie woke up and was asking for you. If I’d known you were having a wank to my brother’s amateur porn, clearly I wouldn’t have interrupted you –“

 “I didn’t know it was your brother!! I was minding my own business, having myself a fantastic fantasy about someone completely else and suddenly, mid stroke, your brother’s name comes up, and then – and then!! Then you’re suddenly there, in the room, not just in my head anymore, and –“ John stopped suddenly, realizing what he had just said.

 Sherlock was doing the deer-in-the-headlights stare again, and John cursed himself – of course, Sherlock, the great bloody genius, had realized what he had just accidentally revealed. He opened his mouth a couple times, before he finally managed, “John, I –“

 “Shit. Just – pretend I didn’t say that. Don’t…say anything,” John muttered and whirled around to hightail it back upstairs, only to feel Sherlock’s hand on his arm, stopping him in his tracks. He flinched, slowly turning back around, fearing what he would see, and met Sherlock’s eyes.

 They stood for a moment, a mirror of how they’d been upstairs when Sherlock had walked in (minus the part where he was naked and Sherlock looked like he had been hit by a bus), but then Sherlock was moving forward, pulling John in close, leaning down to meet John’s lips ever so softly, hesitant, as if asking permission.

 Now John was the one who looked like the proverbial deer - eyes wide, frozen in place. It didn’t last long, however – he found himself grabbing on to the other man, crushing the lean body to his smaller frame, deepening the kiss into something much, much less delicate – and suddenly it was over, Sherlock pulling back and meeting John’s eyes once more. John was breathing hard again, and he saw the other man’s eyes flick down and then back up to meet his once more. Sherlock smiled slyly, and said, deep voice rough, “If you need help with that – you know where to find me.” He winked, sauntering away towards his room, but paused and turned around right before he went through the door to say, “Unless you’d rather go back upstairs to finish your video instead?”

 “Oh, you bastard,” John said with a smile, and Sherlock laughed as he disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the door open in invitation.

 It took John approximately two seconds before he hustled after the other man, slipping into the room and closing the door (firmly) behind him – and locking it for good measure. Perhaps he’d been wrong about never having an erection ever again – and by god, he intended to use it.

#johnlock #sherlock #mystrade #questionable pornos #fanfiction #sherlock fanfiction #johnlock fanfiction

[elfnerdherder]

The Fault in My Code: Ch. 7

You can read chapter 7 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 7: Two Baby Blues

           Freddie Lounds was waiting outside for him when he descended the steps. He knew because a camera was shoved unceremoniously in his face, the flash blinding him for several seconds.

           “Will Graham, out of retirement in order to catch a killer,” she said, lowering her camera. In the bright light of the day, he knew she’d used the flash in order to disorient him, give herself a few moments to try and get control of the situation. She had two stunning, matching baby blues that were wide-eyed, like she'd miss something if she blinked. He pushed past her and kept walking, pawing at his pocket for his phone to call Beverly and have her look up references to a Great Red Dragon. His skin still tingled from the close proximity to Lecter, and he resisted the urge to touch fingers to his lips.

           “I won’t talk to you, Freddie,” he snapped.

           “It must be bad for Crawford to hunt you down and ask for help, huh? They even have you going after another one for insight.” She kept pace, and he lengthened his stride, glancing up to the fat, puffy clouds that witnessed his struggles with silent mockery.

           “Lounds, you’re a lying sack of shit, and your newspaper is trash,” he said, and his voice spiked, jumped.

           “Is this the first killer they’ve had you profile since-”

           “Lounds.” Will rounded on her and glared, from her paisley tights to her plaid skirt and her hideous chiffon shirt. “Get out of my face.”

           “Just one conversation,” she urged him, unheeding of the way his hands curled to fists. “Come on, let me get the first story out there, and we can tell them whatever it is you want the public to know.”

           “I want them to know you’re a two-bit hack that couldn’t cut it at a real job, so you fell into shit editorials writing bad advertising for miracle cream until they let you get a small spread on the back page because you had a penchant for lying. Then, desperate to catch a break, you snuck into the hospital I was staying at, and you took a fucking photo of me in a hospital bed while I was sleeping so that you could get the scoop on the case to up sales. You gonna tell them that, Freddie? Huh?”

           Freddie stared at him, and the wind tousled her hair, the scent of Suave Watermelon shampoo strong. Her baby blue eyes widened, then narrowed. She had a way of pursing her lips like she was a fox, nose turned to the scent. She laughed, a gentle huff of breath and she tilted her head, tucking a strand behind her ear.

           “You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, pocketing her camera. It wasn’t a compliment. “I’ll see you around.”

           “The hell you will,” he growled, and he stowed away in his car once she was gone, gripping the steering wheel tightly in an effort to ground himself and calm down.

           He hated Freddie Lounds –an understatement. After Garrett Jacob Hobbs, his stint in a psychiatric hospital had been kept quiet, respected. Not for Freddie. She’d climbed the fence, picked the lock to a side door, and found her way into his room where he slept, photos of his gaunt face and the scar along his neck in stark relief to the gloom. Tattler had boasted record sales after that spread, and Freddie Lounds went from back page, six inch column to front page work.

           That was after she’d snuck into his hospital room to get a good photo of his colostomy bag and stomach scar, courtesy of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. She had a penchant for unwanted flash photography.

           He called Jack for the distraction, and to relay news. Jack picked up on the first ring.

           “It’s not Budge, but we brought Budge in,” he said by way of greeting.

           “Freddie Lounds is –what?”

           “I went with a couple of Baltimore cops to question the bastard, and when I stepped outside to take a call, I came back to one of them dead on the floor, and the basement door open. Found the other officer dead, and Budge tried to get me with some violin wire.”

           Will chewed on his bottom lip, mouth working. Outside, he watched a man smoking on the bench, and the couple beside him resented it. Their misery and refusal to speak up ruminated in the smoke overhead. All three of them were troubled with unsaid words. So was he, but at least he had a car as a barrier.

           “I was only gone three hours,” he told Jack quietly.

           “Three is enough,” Jack replied.

           “You okay?”

           “He didn’t get me,” Jack assured him. “He’s missing an ear now, though.”

           “A true punishment for a musician.”

           “There’s human remains here, but it’s all intestines, and not just from two people. We’ve got him in custody and we’ve got fingerprints, saliva, you name it. He’s killed people, but he’s not the one. Looks like he was making strings out of human remains. Katz called it cat gut strings.”

           “Rather than kill a cat, he harvested from man,” Will said.

           “Well, we’ve got him and a whole basement full of enough to lock him up good.” Jack would have sounded triumphant if he didn’t sound so tired. Two dead cops for one living killer. A bad trade, no matter who was concerned.

           “He’s not the one,” Will echoed, and he drummed fingers on the steering wheel. “But he is one.”

           “Good eye, Will. You found a killer without even really looking.”

           “I only looked because he sounded like a killer,” Will said. “He had the knack for it, in Lecter’s notes.”

           “Either way, next stop is tracking down Francis Dolarhyde. Bastard better behave a bit better.”

           “About the dragon; can you have someone look into historical references to a red dragon? I have something that I think I can use.”

           “Lecter give you a –what’d you call it? A bone?”

           “Of a sort,” Will said distractedly. He turned the car over and pulled away, heading towards the hotel. He left behind the smoker and the unhappy couple, although he couldn’t leave behind Lounds’ words and her knowing sneer. He took those with him to wrestle with later. “He’s transforming, Jack. He’s not killing, he’s becoming.”

           “Becoming what?”

           “The Red Dragon.”

-

           He sent a message to Jack to forgo someone finding the ties to different red dragons because a quick search on google gave him exactly what he needed:

           The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun

           William Blake was the artist, and Will stared at the photos online for a long time, something funny twisting and constricting in his chest. He chewed on the pen cap he’d absconded with from the FBI. He thought of Freddie and slopped coffee all over the saucer by his laptop, flickers of angry embers occasionally lighting up at the thought of her smug, unruffled face.

           “And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars: and she being with child cried, travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered. And there appeared another wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads. And his tail drew the third part of the stars of heaven, and did cast them to the earth: and the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born,” he murmured. He blew on the coffee, took a sip, and grimaced; he’d added too many coffee grounds. Some got through the filter and stuck to his tongue.

           Soul Stealer probably didn’t like his name written like that in the news, seeing as how he saw himself as the Great Red Dragon instead. Rather, that he was Becoming the Great Red Dragon.

           He needed to see it in person. He needed to walk in Soul Stealer’s shoes, see what he first saw that made him think as he did. Another quick search showed that one of the watercolors was held at the Brooklyn Museum of Art, while two were in DC and another in Pennsylvania.

           He called Jack to make sure they’d let him in to see it privately, then paced in the room, rocking from heel to toe when he reached the wall before turning and pacing back. He considered calling Molly, but after his close brush with Lecter earlier in the day, he felt that it was best if he didn’t. She didn’t deserve that. What had he told Beverly? It was a choice to choose the soulmate? What a load of shit. That, or he was weak.

           Better yet, he was weak. If Saul left Beverly, it was because he was an ass hole. If Will kept lying to Molly, it as because he was an ass hole. Fair was fair. There was no one better at self deprecation than Will Graham.

           He lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the woman clothed in sun. He wondered if Soul Stealer thought that the women he ‘changed’ were being elevated to a place in heaven much like that, or if in his Becoming, they were being stolen away to hell.

-

           Brooklyn Museum of Art boasted a glorious fan of stairs where people liked to pose for wedding photos, homecoming photos, and apparently soulmate bonding photos. The last was made painfully obvious when just inside the doors, satin streamers lined floor to ceiling with ‘One Hundred Years of Souls’ emblazoned along their fronts. At the desk, a cheery receptionist greeted him with two baby blues, one of them two shades lighter than the other.

           “Are you here for One Hundred Years of Souls?” she asked happily. Just behind her, a tour guide was herding a small group of couples across the rich marbled floor, each one paired off with their matching eyes, and mouths wide with anticipation. He grimaced at the display, making money off of chemical pairings. It was about as sickening as Valentine’s Day to him, taking something that was, at best, a cringe-inducing attempt at romance and mass marketing it for the sake of profit.

           “I’m Dr. Will Graham,” he said, forcing himself to look away from the group, “and I’m here to see-”

           “Oh, right, right; I have a note here for you. Let me just-” she rolled about behind the desk, gathering a pamphlet and a visitor’s pass up in a neat bundle, passing it back to him. “There we are. Mr. Wessler will see you downstairs.”

           “Thank you.”

           “If you have time after, Dr. Graham, you should really see the exhibit. It just launched last week, and it’s amazing. They even study soulmate violence depicted in the art, and it’s just…wow. Wow. Donna Smith’s work from the 60’s is featured, and so is the Burning Times for soulmates in Europe. It's just...wow.”

           “Wow,” Will echoed.

           It was cooler going into the basement, and if Mr. Wessler was a fan of One Hundred Years of Souls, he said nothing about it. For that, Will was glad. When the door dinged and opened to a room of muted colors and low lights, he stepped out and looked around for the director that told Jack they’d discuss the artwork with him.

           The back of his neck prickled at the silence. Uneasily, he walked around the corner to rows upon rows of tables, but there was no director; just a measly binder laid out with a bare page.

           Will stared down at the bare page, the notation at the bottom boasting The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun, William Blake, watercolors. There was no watercolor there, though; it was a blank page with a dour light on it, and when there was the distinct sound of a body hitting the floor, he turned and ran to the elevator, pulse spasming.

           He never reached it.

           Strong, capable hands lifted Will and launched him back, sending him flying into one of the tables where he flipped and fell to the other side on his hands and knees, wheezing out a breath. He had the disorienting feeling of being lifted by the back of his jacket, and he was thrown again, slamming into the pole in the center of the room, cracking the back of his head against it. It felt much like an egg cracking against the crown of his skull –a warm pain oozed and slithered down his neck and spine, dots dancing before his eyes. When the spots cleared, the visage of a man stuttered towards him, first to one side, then another. Out of the corner of his eye, Will dazedly noted the security guard slumped to the floor.

           “Who-” he managed to slur, but the man’s hands were around his neck, squeezing. In his entire life, Will Graham had only been choked once before, much against his will. It’d been unpleasant then, and when thumbs dug into his windpipe, he decided that it was just as unpleasant now. He gasped in a short breath and swung his arms around, letting momentum slam his forearms into the man’s elbows, releasing his throat. He didn’t hesitate, rearing forward and head-butting him, a snarl of anger rippling past his lips.

           At the sound and the assault, the man stumbled back, surprised. He had short, cropped blonde hair, and two dazed brown eyes blinked wildly, panicked. Cornered. An animal that didn’t know where to go. When Will’s watering eyes fell to the barely noticeable cleft pallet, blood trickling at the corner of his lip, the man bolted, racing towards the elevator. When the ringing in Will’s ears faded, he followed, elbows pumping and breath ripping from him. He had the dragon.

           He slammed into the elevator as it closed, and he rolled with the force of his momentum, making his way to the stairs and climbing them, every inch of him screaming to go, go, go, that there wasn’t time to pause, wasn’t time to think, because Soul Stealer was right there and he’d taken the fucking painting with him.

           When he reached the top, he kicked the door open and raced towards the elevator. His heart stopped, stuttered, then started again. The elevator sat wide open, and the man was nowhere in sight.

           “Sir? Is everything okay?” The front desk woman hurried over to him, concerned, and she reached to his collar, wiping at it. Fingers came away red, and he stared down at her hand, stained with his failure.

           “Call the police,” he demanded hoarsely, fat fingers fumbling for his phone. “Tell them the Soul Stealer was here.”

-

           One Hundred Years of Souls was closed for the day, and Jack Crawford had the place on lockdown. The receptionist hadn’t recalled the man running from the elevators, but enough cameras were there to give them a good shot of just how he’d gotten away. He’d come out of the elevator, calm, then booked through the crowd the moment he was outside, using shoulders as ways to propel himself far ahead of Will. He’d had the unfortunate advantage of not having his head knocked in with a dizzying effect. They did get his spit, though; they also got his blood.

           Will sat at the back of an ambulance, letting them get a good look at his head for the umpteenth time. It was a flesh wound, but it was tender to the touch, and he resisted the urge to snap and grumble as they cleaned the blood out of his hair.

           “I really urge you to go and get a scan,” the paramedic said.

           “It’s fine,” Will retorted.

           “He was here,” Jack ground out, ignoring the exasperated glance the paramedic sent his way. “He was here, and he got away.”

           His pacing made Will want to pace. His toe tapped in time with Jack’s about-faces as he said, “He ate the picture.”

           “He ate it?”

           “Wessler was only out for a minute, but he got the footage pulled up before you got here. He knocked out the director, Mrs. Stunpike, and he ate the painting.”

           “I wonder how much that dinner cost?” Beverly asked. She hovered in front of Will, dabbing at the place on his head that’d made contact with the killer’s mouth. When he realized that it was wet from spit and a bit of blood, having gotten a good crack at him, he left it well enough alone until she could get her hands on it. Once they confirmed the DNA match, the only thing left would be to catch the bastard.

           “Enough that he didn’t leave a tip,” Zeller quipped.

           “The tip was not to get in his way when he’s trying to make a getaway,” Price said brightly. A pause. “Sorry, Graham.”

           “Did you look up Dolarhyde?” Will asked, ignoring Price.

           “See, now that’s the problem,” Beverly began, and Jack swore under his breath. He walked back over to Will and planted his hands on his hips. Will peeked up at his subtly mismatched eyes expectantly, then focused on the grey by his temple.

           “He was dead,” Jack said curtly.

           “Dead.” Will rolled his bottom lip in, wet it, and shook his head. The words didn’t sit right. Dead was too easy a failure. People like Soul Stealer didn’t just die. Dying was easy. Dying was the easy way out. He resisted the urge to rub the aching scar tissue to the side of his neck.

           “Dead, deceased in a fire a year or so ago. We found his wife, Reba, and she said he had some kind of psychotic break, shot himself in the head, and burnt the house down with her in it.”

           “No,” Will said, and he shook his head.

           “Well, yes, then we looked up his photo to confirm, and you know what we saw, Will?”

           Ah, there it was. When the paramedic left him with a pain killer and a bandaged head, he rolled the plastic bottle about in his hands and nodded, already knowing.

           “You saw the man that ate the painting.”

           “We saw the man that ate the painting,” Jack affirmed. His lips sucked in tight, like he’d tasted a bad lemon. “He faked his death.”

           “The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun is a revelations reference,” Beverly said, and Will bobbed his head, agreeing with that too.

           “He should have referenced Lazarus instead,” Price joked.

           “I wonder why he didn’t take her eyes,” said Will thoughtfully. After a thought, it dawned on him. “A one-sided soulmate?”

           “She’s blind, so we’d have to run tests to tell,” Beverly said. “Even with a soulmate connection, a blind eye doesn’t change color.”

           “She’d have known he was alive if it was a full connection. We should test it to see if she’s helping him at all.” Even saying it, though, it didn’t sit right with Will. He took a long gulp of water, crushing the plastic in his hand as he did. He capped it and let it keep a distorted, crumpled shape and sloshed the water around idly. “He loves her.”

           “Bad way of showing it,” Jack snapped.

           “Good way of showing it,” Will disagreed. “He thought they were meant to be, but he didn’t feel her. He connected to her, but his tasteless thoughts didn’t resonate in her. He knew she was too good, so he left to save her from him. That’s why he longed for a soulmate, even though he was listed as having a soulmate.”

           “You know that just by getting smacked around by him?” Zeller wondered.

           “He went to Lecter for therapy for a short while. He wanted a connection, and he wondered what it’d take for someone to see him the way he wanted to be seen. Great. Powerful. Capable.” Will cast Zeller a dark look. His head hurt too damn bad for him to have to explain himself. “He’s got a cleft pallet and he’s been presumed dead for a few years.”

           “So he’s going to be hard to find,” Jack mused. “He knows how to hide. Why’d he eat the painting?”

           “Maybe to take its power?” Beverly suggested. “Some people believe ingesting something you long for will bring it to you. Power, intelligence, perseverance…”

           “He’s pumping himself up for the next attack,” Will said. “I don’t know if he’s going to last the month until he strikes again.” As an afterthought, “He’ll look me up to see who he was throwing around down there. He’ll know we’re close.”

           “I want to know how you were able to time that so well, Will,” Jack said. “I’m trying to keep you out of the frontlines, and somehow you find your way back in all over again. You’re a psychiatrist, not an FBI agent.”

           “It’s a flesh wound,” Will assured him. The throbbing in his skull disagreed, but he didn’t want to worry anyone. He thought about Molly fussing over it, cotton swab mopping up the worst of it. She’d try and ice it, and he’d complain about the cold.

           Reba would have probably done the same for Francis Dolarhyde. In the end, he left because he loved her. Maybe he was a better man than Will. Dolarhyde would leave for love, Beverly would stay for love, and Will wasn’t quite sure what the hell he was going to do.

           “He’s not Francis Dolarhyde anymore,” Will realized after a moment, drumming fingers on the water bottle. “He killed him in the house as it burned down. In his head, he’s the Red Dragon now.”

           “If this is giving you flashbacks to-”

           “It’s fine,” he snapped, and he stood up from the ambulance, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He’d let the paramedic recycle the bottle rather than he waste it in a rubbish bin. In his guts, a kernel of concern flickered distractingly, and he gritted his teeth. Hannibal had felt his wound as it happened, felt the pain as though it were his own. Good. “I’m going to drive back to Baltimore. Now that we know who it is, I think Lecter will open up a bit more.”

           “I think you should take the rest of the day off,” Jack said, and Will brushed past him, shaking his head.

           “Red Dragon doesn’t sleep, neither do I,” he said.

-

          "You feeling okay, Dr. Graham?" Matthew asked when he arrived at the BSHCI. Will nodded, fumbling with his keys and stuffing them into his jacket. Another round of painkillers and water left his head a minor nuisance rather than a true pain.

           "Peachy."

           Matthew Brown nodded, leading him down the steps towards maximum, his eyes shifting to the side every now and again to note the bandage on his head. Will felt his concern like a bristle brush on a sunburn. "You look like you should be in a hospital."

           "After this, I'll probably head to one," Will lied. He'd probably go to the hotel, in truth. Rage a little. Try not to drink. Maybe call Molly. Maybe not.

           "You do that," Matthew urged, and he waved the security guard to open the doors. "We wouldn't want anything to happen to you, if you don't mind my saying so."

           Will minded him saying so, but he wouldn't say that. Matthew was only speaking out of concern, and a polite concern as that.

           Lecter was pretending to nap when Will sat down in the chair, and he took that time to take a breath. The pain killers took most of the throbbing ache away, but standing left him feeling dizzy, woozy. He hadn’t been handled like that in a long time, and he didn’t like how slow he’d been to react. The last time he’d gotten physical with a psychopath, he’d been far more limber.

           “You should have your brain scanned to ensure that everything is alright,” Lecter drawled, eyes closed. His hands were clasped behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. It was a casual, comfortable state, and the suddenness of his voice made Will jump slightly, looking up from the table leg that he’d been focusing on rather than the feeling of Red Dragon throwing him across a table.

           “It’s fine.”

           “Who handled you so roughly, Will?”

           “You know exactly who,” he snapped, rubbing his eye. He looked from Lecter’s elegant repose to the drawings on the wall.

           “The Great Red Dragon,” Lecter murmured, and he sat up, turning on the cot to face the wall rather than look at Will. Will watched his hands grip the edge of the bed, tight. “You saw him, then.”

           “He saw me first.”

           “Do you know what he’s referencing when he calls himself that?” Lecter looked at him, the edges of his lips curled ever-so-slightly.

           “It was a three hour drive there, and a three hour drive back from Blake’s artwork” Will said, ignoring the expression of subtle delight. “Three hours back, and I thought to myself, ‘that timing was too good. Somehow, he knew I’d be there, and Soul Stealer tried to be there first, before me. To size me up. To eat me.’”

           “Does it still hurt?” Lecter wondered.

           “Then I thought, ‘I bet Dr. Lecter found a way to warn him, and he wanted to see what I’d do when I saw him face-to-face.’”

           “And what did you do?”

           “I thought, ‘he set me up to potentially get killed.’”

           “Did you look into his eyes and see your own reflected back?” Lecter stood and crossed to the bars, head cocked to the side.

           “I wondered, ‘why in the hell would he do that?’” Will ignored him, biting his thumb idly as he stared at the hip of his jumpsuit. “Then I thought, ‘because he wanted to see what would happen. He was curious.’”

           “Are you very angry with me, Will?” Hannibal asked kindly.

           “…No,” Will admitted. “But I’d been wondering about us before; I thought about Molly, and I thought about her forgiving me for being connected to you. She would because she’s better than me.”

           “That lends itself the thought that perhaps that’s why you’re not soulmates,” said Hannibal gravely.

           “Yeah,” Will agreed, nodding. He looked to the slip-on shoes Hannibal wore because no one was stupid enough to give him Velcro, what with the plastic tabs. “Yeah, she’s better than me. But I thought, maybe I can make the soulmate connection work because separation is cruel and unusual punishment in some states, and I didn’t want to give you a leg up in the justice system. I visit regularly, and it keeps things calm. I thought, maybe this will work.

           “I don’t think I care much about that anymore. Baltimore doesn’t have the Cruel and Unusual Punishment Clause that most other states have for soulmates whose partner refuses to visit them in prison. It was overturned four years ago.”

           Will spoke with a flat, toneless voice, like he’d recited the words several times until the sting fell out of them. Somehow, the lack of emotion was more fitting, since he saw the subtle ways that it took effect on Hannibal’s face. His lips thinned, compressed tightly. The fine lines near his eyes deepened, the expression stiffening. It wasn’t Jack Crawford’s puckered face at the thought of Soul Stealer getting away, but it was the exact reaction Will had been hoping for as he drove back from Brooklyn, white-knuckled as he gripped the steering wheel and took deep, calming breaths.

           “You plan on catching your killer and returning to your Molly as a white knight?” Hannibal asked, a dark expression crossing his face.

           “I plan on going back to Molly and leaving you behind,” Will said amiably.

           “A dangerous threat, Will,” Hannibal warned him.

           “See, I was thinking about you, and you’re right, Hannibal. We have a lot in common.” Clearly. Will gritted his teeth. “The difference between you and me is our willingness to commit violence.”

           “Do you think you’re above that curiosity, dear Will?” Hannibal asked lightly. The tone didn’t match the expression on his face. When Will shifted in his chair, his predatory eyes tracked the movement.

           “No, not at all. I’m curious to see just how my absence affects you. I’m curious what you’ll do.”

           “Don’t you fear how I’ll find a way to hurt you again?”

           “No.” Will shrugged. “You knew I’d come here. You knew, so you endured feeling my pain because you’d see me and be reassured. Soulmate connections receive emotional comfort in a variety of ways: auditory, visually, and tactilely mainly. Any of these have the capacity to release endorphins, and that’s how you could handle the feeling of the back of your head cracking against concrete.

           “What happens when I don’t come back, though? As wonderful as the feeling of endorphins released can be, there are other chemicals released when the feeling of pain is not eased through any of those three senses. Just like endorphins can cause pleasure, the chemical imbalance of serotonin, dopamine, and epinephrine are just as potent.”

           “You think you’re going to give me anxiety if I hurt you at a distance?” Hannibal’s lip curled derisively.

           “No, I know that. Simple science.” Will shrugged, drumming his fingers along his leg. “You think, ‘I’ll get used to it’. But unlike endorphins, which create a rush that you crave as it abates, the imbalance that causes the anxiety doesn’t abate. Time doesn’t take away the sting. If anything, it grows.”

           “Then what is our difference in our willingness to commit violence, dear Will?”

           “I’ve had to reconcile myself with the feeling I get in hurting people, my ability to understand and commit violence,” Will said, standing up. He walked over to the bars, just far enough away that if Lecter reached, he couldn’t get a hold of him. “I know the dark parts of myself, which is why I don’t want anyone else digging around in my mind.”

           “And?”

           “I’ve come to the understanding that doing something bad to bad people feels really, really good,” Will whispered to him. “While you see the world as a slaughterhouse, I see people like you, and I relish in just how good it’d be to hurt you.”

           Silence. In the distance between them, something curled and twisted, unpleasant but wonderful in of itself. Will looked up to Lecter’s mismatched eyes, and he grinned, a snarling, nasty expression that made his eyes narrow wolfishly. Hannibal looked a breath away from throwing himself against the bars to haul Will close. He looked a breath away from eating him. He looked a breath away from fucking him.

           Will moved, and he was right against the bars, hand reaching to grasp Hannibal’s chin tightly, tugging him closer. Hannibal didn’t fight the motion, and there was a small thread of surprise when he instead took a deliberate step to Will, allowing him to grip his face so roughly, so unkindly. His eyes flashed with something akin to pleasure.

           “You’re so sly, but so am I,” Will murmured, taunting. “Don't mistake my kindness up to this point as weakness. Don’t ever fuck with me like that again, Hannibal.” His thumb dragged against Hannibal’s bottom lip roughly, fingers curling along the stubble of his jaw. “Like I said before: I’d kill myself if it meant you suffered.”

           “In this moment, I find you at your most beautiful,” Hannibal murmured, and he nipped the tip of his finger, almost hard enough to break skin. If Will didn’t know any better, he’d have called it flirtatious, playful. “I wonder how Molly would see you.”

           Will didn’t answer, leaving the statement suspended in the air like the clouds of smoke he’d watched the man puff away at the day before, the discontent ruminating and spreading. The difference was, when the heavy door slammed shut behind him, the poison stayed on the other side of the door.

           More or less.

#LiaS scribbles #the fault in my code #hannibal fanfic #hannigram #hannibal au #soulmate au #hannibal soulmates #will graham x hannibal #someone help will graham #will graham is just not having a good day today #hannibal thinks it's funny