fandomsecrets | [ SECRET POST #3762 ]

[ SECRET POST #3762 ]

⌈ Secret Post #3762 ⌋

Warning: Some secrets are NOT worksafe and may contain SPOILERS.

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Notes:

Secrets Left to Post: 03 pages, 57 secrets from Secret Submission Post #538.
Secrets Not Posted: [ 0 - broken links ], [ 0 - not!secrets ], [ 0 - not!fandom ], [ 0 - too big ], [ 0 - repeat ].
Current Secret Submissions Post: here.
Suggestions, comments, and concerns should go here.

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...of the fic or story you're working on at the moment.

sa

Or paragraphs even!

"The forest burned around them. Women swung tree to tree, trying to escape the flames with babes clutched tightly to their hairy breasts, the men divided between trying to aid the evacuation and indulging long forgotten rage and lust for revenge. Humanity, they claimed, had finally arrived on Hutan."

Is the name of your forest 'Forest'?

I'm sorry I'm not as good at names as JK Rowling is, but yes.

ayrt

Nah we all use other languages for names from time to time. Are you the anon who was writing about orangutans? In which case, it makes sense that if they think of themselves as the orang hutan, that they'd name their home Hutan. Sounds good to me.

All in all it was not an auspicious beginning to a relationship. Telling someone that a loved one had died, let alone that it was their brother and that said brother had (apparently) committed suicide? Even less auspicious.

“When will it be enough, Lord Baelish? If your dream did become a reality, and you have your throne and me beside you as your queen, what will you want then?”
“I’ll want for nothing, my love.”
“Men like you always want more.”

I approve.

Thank you! :D

After his morning report, Julian returned to the anteroom and sat down heavily behind his desk. Things could have been worse. But they could have been better too. For a moment, he held his hand over his chest, feeling the pulse of two heartbeats behind it. It was such an alien sensation, and yet it was comforting too.

Tim picks his way in the dark to his car after dinner. He’s just reached the driver’s side door when there’s a soft, “Hey, wait,” out of the darkness. Tim’s surprised -- more surprised that he didn’t reach to pull his sidearm out of instinct than anything, and not only because he left it in the car. He turns to see Jimmy looming out of the gloom, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his corduroy jacket. Jimmy stares at him anxiously for a moment, and Tim has no idea what he wants. He thinks maybe he’s forgotten something inside and Katie sent Jimmy out with it, but then Jimmy shuffles in closer to him, so close it sets off a belated warning in Tim’s brain. By then though, it’s way, way too late. Jimmy’s pressed a gentle hand to Tim’s chest, pressed his equally gentle mouth to Tim’s, and oh. Shit.

I've been fooling around with this Law & Order: Criminal Intent Goren/Eames fic for ages. For context, in season 6, Eames is kidnapped and held captive by a serial killer. She manages to rescue herself (which I love) but I thought it'd be a good reason for them to get together even though I don't see it as a longterm romance. This is how it starts.

Goren knew the call would come, though he wasn't sure when.

He'd formulated a plan: a good single malt scotch for him and a bottle of Maker's Mark for his partner, a pile of take-out menus for places near her house in Rockaway Beach, and a few precious days' leave saved up. She would do -- had done, he corrected himself-- the same for him, when necessary. It wasn't an original plan, but he thought Eames would appreciate its simplicity.

It had been nearly two months since his partner climbed, kicked and clawed her way out of a serial killer's dungeon, leaving her bloody handprints on the walls. Goren half expected his phone to ring on the one month anniversary. He'd waited up all night, drinking cup after cup of coffee, his car keys lined up on the kitchen counter next to his phone. The call hadn't come, and he'd been... relieved? Regretful? He wasn't really sure, and for once he managed to avoid the painful self-scrutiny that kept him awake at night, for fear of what he'd find.

Eight weeks to the day at a quarter after ten, the phone rang.

"Hey," Eames' voice was rough, with all the emotion wrung from it. In the background, he could hear waves lapping at the shore and the dim, sonorous boom of a ship's horn as it passed Breezy Point.

"Hey. Can't sleep?"

"Not in the cards tonight. Thought I'd take a walk and clear my head."

Getting out of the house was a good sign, he thought. He'd kept track of all her appointments, every visit to her sister's, even the occasional drop-in at work. Eames projected a nonchalant calm that might've fooled a more casual acquaintance. Five years in Vice had taught her that the best lies were the ones you told without words. Her dress was neat but casual, telling him she was out running errands and just happened to be in the neighborhood. The small talk about other cases told him her head was still in the game and that she was just biding her time until the requisite number of department mandated counseling sessions were over. Her easy posture and the way she leaned against his desk told him they were okay.

But, Goren noticed, she never stayed long. Invites to grab a drink were given a raincheck and an excuse, and the Captain's pointed suggestion of getting away from the city for a while went unheeded. Eames was there to see and be seen, her way of marking time until her leave was up. She was careful like that. Goren knew what the effort cost her and that her resources were nearly tapped out. Her call meant she knew it, too.

"I hear Rockaway Beach is nice this time of night."

Eames' snorted at this, not quite laughter but close enough. "Yeah. Think I stepped on two used condoms so far. It's like Paradise."

He chuckled softly, but his fingers tapped a nervous tattoo on the kitchen table, not quite daring to pick up his car keys just yet.

"Well, you know me. I'd rather stay home than be at the beach."

"You'd rather catch a week old DB than go to the beach," retorted his partner.

They both not-quite-laughed in companionable understanding and he decided to take a chance. "You hungry?"

Eames was silent for so long, he thought she'd hung up. Then she cleared her throat. "Yeah. Maybe."

"I could... I could pick something up. If you want. And come over, I mean." Inwardly, Goren cursed. He'd meant to be more subtle than that, meant to let her make the suggestion rather than risk being shot down for his presumption.

More silence.

"Hey, Eames? I didn't--"

She cut him off. "Yeah. Why don't you do that."

He hadn't fooled her at all, her sardonic tone told him as much.

"It's my turn to get dinner, anyway," he offered.

"Mmm," Her response was nearly lost amidst the sound of the water. Then in that eerily prescient way of hers: "Empire Wok. I always get extra shrimp toast."

Relief flooded Goren. "Got it."

He replaced the phone in its cradle slowly, so it barely clicked. Rubbing his jaw, he decided against a shower. It'd look suspicious; Eames had an eye for detail that people underestimated, especially in his presence. If he took especial care with his appearance, she'd notice, and then she'd wonder why. Ditto his clothing. Jeans would do, and a beat up pair of sneakers instead of the Italian leather he favored for work. He pulled on an old shirt that'd been ruined by an untimely splash of bleach across the sleeve.

Five minutes later, Goren was out the door, shopping bag in one hand and car keys in the other.

Obi-wan did not relax against him, watching him closely. Rex didn't like it and strove for something to ease the General's worries. The first thing to pop into his head was, "Just so we're clear, if we come upon any pirates, I'm dropping you." Rex winced in the privacy of his helmet.

"Understood," Obi-wan said, a hint of his usual wry amusement in his tone. Rex was so glad to hear it, and even happier when the Jedi finally settled into his arms.

"Well, while she was at it, why didn't she just strip us naked and cover us with oil?!" Asric said, and then looked away.

Jadaar folded his arms. "Such a thing would interest you?"

Morning came. Interview time. Not enough coffee to get them through this. What was it, even? The exhaustion, the brain fog, not just jet lag but something deeper, what was it? It was in the white walls of the hotel rooms and the down pillows and the covers and the complementary chocolates. It was in the air conditioning and the flashbulbs and the questions and the phone calls. It was in the water and the food and the television broadcasts. It was in the streets, rising off the pavement in the morning. It was in their clothes and their hair, like arsenic.

“You wanna know what I’m afraid of, Spidey? It’s not dying. It’s never being able to. I’ve been offed every way you can imagine. I’ve fallen off thirty storey buildings, I’ve been decapitated, hanged, had my throat slit, my brains blown out, drowned, electrocuted, suffocated, burned, had more bullets in me than you’ve had hot meals. And yet I always come back. I’m like herpes, man. What if I never die, Spidey? And I mean, never. What if I’m still here in a hundred years, or a thousand, or ten thousand? What if I’m the last human left on the planet? Do you know how fucked up that would be? Where am I gonna buy my chimichangas then?”

Clem clutched her backpack tight to her chest, biting her lip and all but vibrating with glee as she stood and looked up at the bright blue banner that read “Greene County Summer Faer” in blocky white letters. She’d missed last year because Ms. Stick-Up-Her-Ass the parole officer had refused to reschedule.

City types just didn’t get it. Missing the fair was like missing Easter Vigil. No one let you forget that you weren’t seen there, even if they knew you weren’t the sort who went to Easter Vigil. Even the Hindu family town over went to Easter Vigil. It just wasn’t worth the trouble. If you didn’t go to Summer Faer you weren’t doing your part as a member of the community.

“Pardon, miss,” came a voice from somewhere around her thigh.

Clem looked down and saw a redcap, hat wet and dripping down the back of his neck, trying to lead a small flock of blue chickens by her, each tethered to its own belled leash. “Oh, sorry ‘bout that,” she said and stepped aside.

I sent this fic to my friend via text messages yesterday. It's only 250 words long.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10694697

A knot of Quo, that had been in a loose circle near the center of the room, suddenly began to move, shuffling in their waddling gait toward Obaasan and the Diaboli. Their consoles drifted along with them, and the fireflies surrounding them dove and darted, some zipping away to other Quo, some seeming to settle on a Quo's shoulders or neck or skull, like droplets of mobile, glowing water.

I'm writing a fantasy AU and wanted to include a fantasy starbucks so I:

“If- If you want, Sir, me and Qiu Tong go and get drinks at this tea house in the village on Wednesdays. The Mermaid’s Legs. You can come too if you'd like.”

If she had to say one good thing about him, it was that he never tried to manipulate her.

Ultra Magnus chuckled, pulling out his own Rodimus Star. "Neatest handwriting. You?"

Megatron sighed, steam coming from his intake vent. "For abandoning my evil ways. Forestock?"

Forestock himself perked up, waving his. "For being 'so damn cute'. Rodimus word. Not mine." He had an eager and bright look.

Perceptor sighed hard, burying his face into his hand. Of all the reasons to give a Rodimus Star. Ultra Magnus himself couldn't help but bury his face in both hands. Of course Rodimus would use that exact terminology. Megatron facepalmed, soon starting to laugh in gales.

"What? What funny?" Forestock protested. He then huffed, chattering what could only be presumed to be obscenities in Primal Vernacular.

Megatron snickered. "Rodimus' reasons to give out stars."

The premise is a gritty noir take on a merc living in the Mass Effect universe, and he's telling this story about a very NSFW encounter with a sweet girl at the club Purgatory. Yeah, I'm writing straight porn. wtf am I doing

---NSFW m/f sex---

She's sitting sideways on my thigh, legs twisted out while her chest is twisted half back towards me. I've got one hand on her back, rubbing her and supporting her, and the other one I'm switching between fondling her tits and then skimming it down her stomach to rub just above her pussy. Can't quite get all the way with her skirt in the way but I want to ease her into this anyway.

I reach both arms out around her to unsnap my gloves. Her tits press into my arm and I can feel it through the fabric and the armor plates. Feels real damn good. Just like her hair tickling my face as I suck on her neck feels damn good.

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