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| Tweet Topic Started: Jul 16 2013, 02:02 AM (252 Views) | |
| Reece O'Callahan | Jul 16 2013, 02:02 AM Post #1 |
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If you asked the general student population of Hogwarts to describe Reece O’Callahan in a word, the answers, most likely, would range from ‘hysterical’ to ‘mental’. If you asked the female student population of Hogwarts to describe Reece O’Callahan in a word, the answers would probably include a host of colorful expletives. If you asked his best friend, however, the answer would be a simple, direct, and frankly unexpected word. Competitive. Reece O’Callahan, despite the perpetual air of nonchalance wafting about him, was a competitive little shit. Few knew this about him, largely because he wasn’t really competitive about things it made sense to be competitive about (he’d used his last report card to make himself a papier-mâché Incan fertility mask). He was competitive about abstract things. Perspectives, fundamental truths, opinions—he was seldom argued with due to his uncanny ability to infuriate someone to the point of storming off within two seconds, and as a result, he’d gotten tragically accustomed to always getting the last word. He’d also made the entirely incorrect assumption that this somehow meant he was always right. No one ever presented a counter-argument outside of ‘you are such a dick!’, so in his mind, by extension, they didn’t have one. What’s more, Reece spent an inordinate amount of time detachedly observing the behaviors of everyone around him, and it’d given him the unshakeable impression that he knew things about people that no else knew. He thought he had it all figured out. It was just a formula. An empirically-derived social formula. X + Y = Z. So when Dean had accused him of not being able to get a girl to fall for him, particularly one as formulaic as Hogwarts Barbie, his mind echoed with the click of a shifted gear. Neutral to drive. Physically, the transformation was subtle—a slight sharpening of his typically hazy gaze and a new kind of tension tightening the curl of his mouth—but for anyone that knew him well, it was enough to signal with absolute certainty that something had stricken Reece’s competitive fancy. And that pretty much meant someone was fucked. In this case, ‘someone’ was Claire Ryan, and ‘something’ was proving that social interactions were nothing more than a giant farce with standard inputs and standard outputs—a pre-determined code masquerading as a game of chance that everyone was too busy playing to figure out. It was always irritating to Reece, how everyone made such a calamitous deal out of love when it was such a standardized process, but now, thanks to Dean, he had a perfect opportunity to bust that shit wide open. “Mr. O’Callahan?” Reece’s stare, fixated on the long, wispy, elaborate French braid trailing down Claire’s back, didn’t so much as flicker at the sound of Professor Binns’ voice. “Mm?” “Any thoughts on the social motivations behind the Herglovin Revolt of 1349, or is staring at the back of Ms. Ryan’s head exhausting the full range of your brain capacity?” He saw her shoulders stiffen, scrunching the perfectly starched line of her Oxford shirt ever so slightly. The corners of his lips tipped upward: there was just something so alluring about making any aspect of Claire’s pristine little life messy. “The latter, I’m afraid, professor.” A few titters of laughter broke the otherwise silence of the room, and his eyes swept down the slope of her arm to the fingers curled around her quill. The knuckles were white. His lips flashed into quick grin, and with a satisfied air, he turned his full attention to Professor Binns. The ghost’s expression was one of mild distaste, which made sense, given Reece was likely among the most apathetic students he’d ever had. “Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. O’Callahan.” Reece’s lips pursed as he gave a loose, what-can-you-do kind of shrug, eyes lingering on Binns for only a few seconds more before flitting back to Claire’s outline. She was sitting two rows in front him, desk one space to the left of his, and ever since she’d cottoned on to the fact that he was staring at her (sometime between Potions and Transfiguration, he reckoned), she’d begun tilting her head at awkward angles to avoid meeting any part of his gaze. Presently, she was twisted clockwise in her seat with her eyes angled sharply right to catch the center of the room. He couldn’t help but smile at the futility of the move. “Give me a piece a parchment, mate,” he murmured to his left, and upon receiving a snore in return, glanced over to find Dean Bigby shamelessly passed out in a puddle of his own drool. He gave a brief roll of his eyes, turned in his seat, and ripped the entire top left corner off the page of notes the Ravenclaw behind him was taking. “Oi!” the freckled boy snapped, eyes jolting up in shock, but Reece had already swiveled back around. Upon realizing he needed something to write with, however, he twisted around again, plucked the quill of the same Ravenclaw’s slack hand, and returned once again to his front-facing position. “I—!” the boy began in a strident voice, though he promptly readjusted it to a furious hiss like the precious Ravenclaw he was, “I need that to write with, you—” “Shhhhh,” Reece shushed him, waving the feathered quill over his shoulder in a flippant, silencing gesture before dropping it down to the parchment. He stalled for a moment, the tip hovering a few centimeters over the scrap of paper, though after a beat, his mouth quirked into a grin and he scribbled down four quick words underneath what appeared to be the first half of an absurdly detailed timeline. It took only a few seconds for Binns to turn and gesture at one of his pointless slides, and Reece used the opportunity to levitate the note straight onto the center of Claire’s desk. She didn’t seem particularly surprised by it—a whole day of observation had shown him that her friends and her passed notes all the time—and reached a manicured hand out to open it without much thought. Upon reading it, however, she clenched her fingers into a fist, the delicate tendons of her neck straining beneath the feathery wisps of blonde escaping from her braid. He smirked, just able to make out the words from the crumpled wreck the parchment had turned into. Your hair looks nice. |
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| Claire Ryan | Aug 2 2013, 05:02 AM Post #2 |
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Going to the match this Saturday? Claire’s gaze flicked over the words smoothly, betraying not a hint of the private smile that had just begun to flirt with the corners of her mouth. It was the look of a girl much-accustomed to note-receiving—who recognized it as a game and played it as such. That is, to say, to win. Especially when her challenger happened to be of the sandy-haired, broad-shouldered, star-player-of-the-Quidditch-team variety. Now, why on Earth would I do that? she wrote back with a lilac-inked flourish, her expression artfully unaffected above the fluttering movements of a peony-pink quill. Only after he’d read it and shot another look her way did she lift one leg over the other, crossing them slowly beneath her desk. Her skirt hitched just a fraction of an inch higher. She had yet to return his glances even once. Perhaps calling it a challenge was a bit unfair. The next one arrived in five seconds flat. I can think of a few reasons. She hid another smirk. Unfair, alright. All she had to do now was lead him into it. Let him boast a bit (they loved doing that). Engage in a little playful repartee. Make it a chase. Never stay in the same place long. Show no mercy. Take no prisoners. Claire Ryan at her one-girl-army, boy-conquering, get-what-she-wants finest. Well, let me hear ’em, Tiger. She was thinking an April wedding. Tiara. Roses. Doves. Pink. Pink doves. “Mr. O’Callahan.” It had the effect of a record screech in her head. Centerpieces fell over. Bouquets erupted into flames. Westminster Abbey crumbled to ruins. Pink doves went scattering in every direction, lost forever to the wilderness where they’d probably be doomed to tragic lives of being shunned by common pigeons out of (let’s face it) understandable jealousy. All at the mere mention of his name. No. We’re not doing this. Remember, Claire? Zen rock garden. Zen. Rock. Garden. She attempted a calming breath. Now, where was she? Oh, ri— “Any thoughts on the social motivations behind the Herglovin Revolt of 1349, or is staring at the back of Ms. Ryan’s head exhausting the full range of your brain capacity?” Her quill almost ripped through the parchment. A tsunami-grade tide of angry color rushed to her cheeks. “The latter, I’m afraid, professor,” she heard a voice drawl from somewhere behind her, blatantly unrepentant. Looks sidled her way. A few titters and whispered conversations sprung up around the room. Claire began to grit her teeth so hard she could almost hear the enamel creak. And that, right then, was when she decided she didn’t so much hate Reece O’Callahan as she wanted to take him apart piece by piece before setting him on fire to make sure he never rose again. She hadn’t known she was even capable of loathing somebody so much that adrenaline surged through her system every time she so much as thought about his face. Just picturing him back there even now was enough to get her blood pounding: especially since she could practically sense from across the room how infuriatingly pleased with himself he was. Watching her with a dark-eyed stare. Mouth doing that insolent, self-indulgent thing that always made her palm lust for violence. Utterly without remorse even though he was flagrantly ruining her life. And now he’d gotten everyone gossiping again. Because why wouldn’t they when the biggest headline of the week was still Resident Crackpot Reece O’Callahan Kisses Queen Bee Beauty Claire Ryan in Front of the Entire Flipping School. Maybe Reed would appear next and announce that his new life's ambition was salsa dancing rather than world domination. Ugh, no wonder she’d been forced to go on full-time damage control duty these past few days. Tens did not kiss fives. (And that was her being her usual generous, kind-hearted self. The second one of his hideous, moth-eaten grandpa sweaters got involved in the equation, the scale refused to associate him with a number at all. Really, could you blame it? Have you seen them? He looked like Macklemore, and there was nothing incre-duh-bul about it.) This was why Everett was so essential. Master of the art of reputation that she was, Claire knew that the surest way to erase a blemish on an otherwise sparkling social record was to give it a good, fresh, new polishing. Add something shiny and distracting to the mix. Preferably if said shiny, distracting something was tall, predictable as a rock, and had recently gotten all the girls aflutter by returning from summer holidays with a bod that could single-handedly render David Beckham’s underwear modeling career obsolete. Speaking of which . . . She shot another look her target’s way, noting the furrowed brow above his returned gaze and quill hovering uncertainly over what was surely the response to her last note – a problem she immediately tried to squash with a blinding, completely-not-bothered-at-all-why-WOULD-I-be smile. Reece was not going to mess this up for her. All week she’d been purposefully catching Everett Rowley’s eye, masterminding her way into a playful but subtle, back-and-forth flirtation in the hopes it would be enough to bury that whole Great Hall debacle. Of course, what she hadn’t counted on was Reece’s apparently new aspiration to turn himself into the world’s most relentless creeper. Always just . . . around, somehow. With his staring and smirking and existing. He was like a bloody cockroach. He wouldn’t die. She’d gotten rid of head colds easier. And they were more pleasant. Finally, another note dropped on her desk. Grateful for the distraction, she plucked it up as casually as she could muster under the circumstances, expecting to be greeted by Everett’s large, loopy writing and some clear-as-day innuendo to work with. Only she wasn’t. Instead, she got a smaller, angular scrawl and the one phrase that could bring her right to the suicide ledge of her snapping point. Your hair looks nice. She read it once. Twice. Her mouth narrowed to a dash, rage burning scarlet across her face. Three times. The note made a harsh crumpling sound as she crushed it to near pulp in her fist. And oh, did she want to rocket to her feet, charge on back there, and knee him right in the effing crotch again. Her blood itched with it. No. Deep breaths. No scenes. Zen, remember? WE’RE BEING ZEN, CLAIRE. You know it’s bad when the rocks in your soothing mind-garden were starting to look like perfectly good projectiles. She tried to ignore it. This was just Reece being Reece. Taking perverse satisfaction in annoying her. Probably wanting her to lose it. But she wasn’t going to. Reece O’Callahan would not break through the armored shell of indifference she’d painstakingly constructed around herself since storming out of the Great Hall that day. Reece O’Callahan, as far as Claire Ryan was concerned, did not exist. He was not even a blip on her radar. She hadn’t engaged him once so far, hadn’t so much as tossed an acrid look his way in the halls, because she was nothing if not magnanimous – a word which, in Claire’s view, meant being classy as hell, even to mentally unstable, dickhead, Ravenclaw losers. She wouldn’t even deign to respond. It was beneath her. Five seconds later: Her quill tightened like a dagger in her grip as she savagely swiped a fresh piece of paper from her pile—though not, of course, before taking a moment to answer Everett’s raised eyebrow with a forced smile of the just one second, sweetie, while I deal with the peasantry sort. Deal she did. The response practically wrote itself. Really? Personally, I prefer it when it isn’t being ogled by a pervy idiot who can’t take a hint. Just being in the same room as you is making it feel greasy. You’re like a walking dive bar. Get a new obsession, please. If you’re looking for suggestions, I’m sure Dean the Teen Queen over there would be more than happy to accommodate. xoxo That felt better. Edited by Claire Ryan, Aug 2 2013, 05:06 AM.
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| Reece O'Callahan | Aug 5 2013, 04:39 AM Post #3 |
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Even the way the note landed on his desk was aggressive. It was folded over in a series of jagged lines, one side serrated from where she’d ripped it from her notebook like it was his spleen, and it’d crash-landed on his desk with such force that it’d nearly skittered off the edge in an overzealously charmed rage. He shot out a hand to intercept it, managing to sweep it up just before it slipped into a suicidal plunge. The corners of his lips twitched. Someone was shirty. Arm still hovering in the air, he shot a glittering green glance up at the note’s sender. The taut tendons in her neck had eased somewhat, lowering the line of her shoulders to something a little less suited to a bell tower in Notre Dame, and a thick, crackling coat of satisfaction hung around her like an atomic mushroom cloud post-detonation. Deft, lazy fingers began to unfurl the note, keeping mirror-like tempo with the deft, lazy smile unfurling across his mouth. If her body language was anything to go by (and wasn’t it always?), this was going to be fun. He dropped his gaze. Really? Personally, I prefer it when it isn’t being ogled by a pervy idiot who can’t take a hint. Just being in the same room as you is making it feel greasy. You’re like a walking dive bar. Get a new obsession, please. If you’re looking for suggestions, I’m sure Dean the Teen Queen over there would be more than happy to accommodate. xoxo The first, immediate, entirely thoughtless thing he did was scratch out the o’s in her complimentary close, leaving only the x’s behind. By way of explanation, he jotted a jaunty little ‘I think we’re past hugs, love’ beside it, tossing in a few extra x’s to maximize dickery per square inch. Efficiency was important in these tough economic times. Impulse satisfied, he eased back into the curve of his seat and plucked up his quill, dropping his elbow on the surface of his desk and sweeping the feather up along the sharp line of his cheek. He began tapping it there in a quick, absent movement. Claire Ryan. Ryan, Claire. Princess Claire. Claire Bear. Biting sodding thing, wasn’t she? Somehow he’d never noticed. Largely, one might suspect, because his own personal brand of What mattered was that Little Miss Bloody Sunshine seemed to be, despite his initial, sweepingly dismissive categorization of her, a lot more Bloody than Sunshine. His thoughts flickered briefly to the positively radioactive glow he’d glimpsed in her eyes before she kneed him in the bollocks. Nope. Definitely not sunshine. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. Maybe in the apocalypse-triggering solar flare sense, where people were scorched to a crisp in 0.2 seconds. And crumbled into ash. And turned into pink glitter. And became bows. He slipped the tip of the quill up to the corner of his mouth and took it between his teeth, mouth edging into a crooked grin. Annoyance at his slight miscalculation of her aside, her homicidal streak was going to make this whole process a lot more interesting. Potential for mass casualties always had a way of spicing things up. He dropped his hand down to the parchment and, after a few whimsical, hovering swirls of his quill, touched the inked tip to the page. Well, no. ‘Really’, your hair is impractical, ridiculous, and suggestive of someone who has frighteningly little else to offer. But saying that would’ve pissed you off, and that obviously isn’t my intention. Here, he took the liberty of drawing about twenty-five manic looking smiley faces. Meet me after class. I have a nasty habit of charming the faces of people who stand me up onto all my clothes and wearing said clothes all around the school, so I really hope you don’t rush off. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Reece And then, purely because he was a shithead of the highest order: P.S. You were Dean’s suggestion. Not his first, if that’s any consolation. See you in twenty, #4. His eyes crinkled in smug, hazy, anticipatory delight as he sent the note fluttering her way. He was just being honest. Noble, really. Claire Bear would appreciate that. Edited by Reece O'Callahan, Aug 7 2013, 05:59 AM.
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| Claire Ryan | Jan 3 2014, 09:41 PM Post #4 |
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As Binns droned on and Claire valiantly tried to return to her happy place (namely one that was spotlessly, sparklingly Reece O’Callahan-free and bore quite a large resemblance to her apartment-sized walk-in closet back at home), there was the small but distinct and promising possibility that her hostility-ridden note had put an end to the day’s horrors. Maybe even the entire rest of the year’s. In anticipatory celebration of this fact, her shoulders began to loosen, the hard line of her jaw began to ease, and instead of rabidly fantasizing about drowning a certain intolerable, relentless gnat of a Ravenclaw in the Black Lake, her mind calmed to the point where he was hardly a thought at all. Which was, of course, the very moment the second note landed on her desk. Lightly. Innocently. Comfortably. Like it had been sent by a dear friend, and not the embodified plague who was apparently completely immune to insults and utter, blatant loathing. All of Claire’s relief vanished in an instant at the sight of it. Again, she went rigid, gaze snapping onto the piece of parchment as a tidal onrush of renewed animosity colored the crests of her cheeks an angry vermilion. Somehow, she doubted its contents involved a groveling, heartfelt apology and an unbreakable vow to never look at, think about, or speak to her ever again for as long as they both shall live (which, by the way, would have been the only acceptable reason he was soiling her desk again.) As usual, she was right. Her eyes darted rapidly over the smugly-written, apology-barren words, knuckles whitening with every line, each sentence more infuriating than the last. To say it made her angry would have been like saying Pompeii had a little bit of a volcano problem. The x’s alone were enough to make her go blonde ballistic missile. But the hair digs? The blackmail? Dean’s suggestion? FOUR? She didn’t know what charming little detail to burst a totally rational and not-overeactive-at-all gasket over first. He actually had the nerve to—he was honestly going—this was—he was— UGH! Not even mentally going all-out Norman Bates on her zen rock garden with a rake was going to calm her down this time. She was practically vibrating. A fact the ginger-haired girl with the upturned nose in the seat beside her picked up on immediately. “Claire? What’s wrong?” she leaned in with a concerned whisper. Petula Proudfoot. One of Claire's closer friends in the generously sized social circle she associated with at Hogwarts. Because of this, only one word needed to be given in reply. “Reece,” she sneered, as if it were some vile insect crawled recently out of the primordial soup. Petula’s eyes widened. “O’Callahan? Still?” She shot a look over her shoulder at the deviant in question. “God, Claire, he’s completely obsessed with you! You should get a restraining order.” Not that the notion wasn’t appealing, but Claire gave a short shake of her head at the suggestion. A glint of determination settled in her stare instead. Besides, Reynolds had made it clear he wasn’t authorized to hand those out, and that five times a month was maybe a bit excessive, especially when the reasonings included things like ‘acne’ and ‘crocs.’ Whatever. If you want things done… “I’ll take care of it myself,” she muttered beneath her breath, eyes fixed with a lethal, focused intensity ahead of her. The rest of class passed by with impressive rapidity (two words which had probably never been associated with History of Magic in… well… the history of magic)—thanks, no doubt, to the anger-induced adrenaline that left Claire utterly unaware of anything that wasn’t highly indulgent and incredibly satisfying revenge fantasies. Even when the bell signaling the period’s end finally rang, she paid little note to the scraping of chairs and bustling about of her fellow students (and that included one very put-out looking Everett, who sort of hovered nearby for a bit looking confused until Petula – recognizing a brewing BFF crisis when she saw one – took the lead like a pro and intercepted him with some low, off-the-cuff explanation as she gently steered him out the door). Claire hardly noticed. Although, she did have the presence of mind to wait pointedly for the room to empty before even thinking of getting up herself. a.) She made everyone wait, on principal, but Reece especially deserved to know exactly where he stood with her, i.e. somewhere between House Elves and gutter slime, and b.) There was no way in hell she’d take the chance of being seen meeting up with him. Not after that Great Hall fiasco. The rumors were getting hard enough to squash as it was, and she was a bloody maestro at those. Which meant she had to end this. Now. Of course, the prolonged wait did mean that every word of Reece’s blackmail-riddled note had even more of a chance to turn her vision red at the edges. Which meant that by the time she finally threw her bag over her shoulder and stalked out of the empty room, she was about as unstoppable as the wrath of God. Say what you will about the impracticality of heels, Claire could get some pretty frightening traction with those things when she needed to. She didn’t even slow as she hauled a sharp left on her way out the door. This was Claire with a Vengeance. This was Claire vs. Alien vs. Predator. She wasn’t a girl; she was a storm with skin. And that storm – absolutely bloody intent on not being seen in the much-too vulnerable corridor – grabbed one fistful of the front of Reece’s robes as she thundered past his patiently waiting form, hauled him to the first unlocked door she came across, barreled them both inside it without bothering to see what it actually led to, and shoved him hard against the back of it when she slammed it purposely behind them. (Somewhere in the far corners of her mind, buried deep beneath all the righteous fury, Claire did realize how out-of-character this all was. She was a pretty pink and gold package of bouncy, bubbly, brassy fun, not a seething, walking act of violence perpetually one Reece grin away from snapping. Her face wasn’t meant for scowls. At this rate, she’d have to get botox the second she graduated, and she wanted to be at least in her late forties/early fifties before that was necessary, given her nigh-on religious skin regimen.) This never would have happened if he’d just left her hair out of it. But it wasn’t the slighting of her most valued possession that prompted what came out of her mouth when they’d finally reached a standstill. It wasn’t even a demand to know why he wouldn’t leave her alone, or what gave him the right to smirk at her in the hallways or send her unwanted notes or kiss her in the most showy, public, completely bloody infuriating manner possible. She tightened her grip on the fabric covering his chest, hazel eyes taking on a dangerous glint, like a lioness provoked, and blurted out, instead, something that was probably perfectly, spot-on Claire-like after all. “Four?” she hissed through gritted teeth. |
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| Reece O'Callahan | Feb 1 2014, 03:56 AM Post #5 |
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“Bye, Jillian.” “Toodles, Samantha.” “See you in Potions, Candice.” The lazy greetings slid over the tensed shoulders of their intended targets like the hands of a dirty old man, and Reece’s lips twisted a bit further with every unsettled reaction he drew. This was great. He should do this every day. “Nancy!” he said, eyes lighting up with a suspicious amount of enthusiasm, “I haven’t seen you in Dean’s bed since last week. Trouble in paradise?” The girl next to Nancy, whom Reece knew (from a few particularly awkward bathroom encounters) was more of a recent guest at Dean’s Bed and Sexfast, paled significantly, and he sent her a pleasant smile. “Morning, Katherine. Sorry for hogging all the hot water this morning.” Nancy’s stare followed his over to Katherine, and her eyes began to narrow with kindling confusion. “Wait, what? What’s that supposed to mean?” Katherine, cheeks reddening an entirely suspicious amount, merely waved an agitated hand in the air. “How am I supposed to know? It’s Reece. Why the hell’s he calling you Nancy?” “Why’s he calling you Katherine?” “Exactly my point.” She ushered her lingering friend down the hallway in a pointed hurry, though not before shooting him a withering glare over her shoulder. He shot her a peppy little finger wave in response. He and Katherine went way back. A blurry inferno of blonde hair suddenly blazed past him, and his lips only got halfway through a knowing smirk before a sharp yank had him stumbling to the left. The momentum shift threw him for a moment, causing his lazy grace to crack a bit as he gathered his bearings, though the second his balance was regained, body trailing hers in loose, easy strides, the corners of his mouth flicked inevitably upward. Dear, dear. Claire Bear was mad. This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all. “Clai—” A door was thrown open. He was thrown into a room. A crackling, festering, pending hydrogen bomb of a glare was thrown his way. And then, in the ringing wake of a door slammed shut and a back slammed backward, a tight, piercing, stalagmite of a question cut through. Her eyes glinted like twin blades. Her fingers dug into his uniform. Her voice hissed like a steam engine. “Four?” He decided to take this precise moment to slow everything down. Fast and jerky wasn’t his style. He liked to assess, analyze, observe—and so it was with a slow, viscous languor that he eased his shoulder blades back into the wall and lapsed into a subtle recline. His eyes, entirely too drawn to the dazzle of short-circuiting wires that was the girl in front of him to look anywhere else, opted to skim down the line of her arm to the strangled fistful of fabric she seemed to be confusing with his neck. It was a jumble of robes, Oxford shirt, and tie. It’d also caused a literal handful of buttons to come undone—or, in the top one’s case, unsewn entirely. The bright sheen of her nails glinted from within the tangle of of white, blue, and black, but it also reflected with a slightly more unexpected color: beige. A few stray knuckles of her fingers were pressed against his skin. She hadn’t seemed to notice this yet, so he made a rather elaborate show of pointedly staring at her hand before dragging his shadowed gaze back to hers. A dark brow lifted. “I’m reasonably certain,” he began in a low, pleasant rumble, “that if Bigby knew about your propensity for shoving perfectly innocent blokes into broom closets and ripping their shirts open, you’d at least have made top three.” He smiled then—a light, carefree, barely discernable little thing that lopsided the corners of his mouth just a fraction—and flicked an insouciant stare to the faint ring of light outlining the doorway. “Two if you chose an outside-locking door on purpose.” |
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