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isitgintimeyet · 4 years

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Just A Friend

Hope you are all having a good weekend. I’m the only one awake, the sun is shining and I’m enjoying my coffee in peace and quiet. Bliss!

Thank you for the continuing support for this story. it’s lovely reading (and re-reading) all the comments.

Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta.

AO3

Previous Chapter

Chapter 3: From Relationship To Release

You know, I’m a great believer in relationships. Relationships come in all shapes and sizes — take my relationship with Geillis, for example.

I met Geillis on my first day of postgraduate training at Glasgow Royal Infirmary. I was spending three months in orthopaedic surgery and she was just finishing her training as a theatre nurse. We somehow kept bumping into each other at social gatherings and found we had many things in common — a childish sense of humour, an intolerance of pomposity and snobbishness, and a love of cheesy rom-com movies.

From there, our friendship snowballed, and for many years now, I’ve called her my best friend. Even the arrival of a fiancé and her forthcoming nuptials haven’t lessened our relationship in any way. Our careers have developed in parallel too. So when a vacancy came up for a senior theatre sister at the Children’s hospital, I didn’t hesitate to recommend her for the post. We work well together. For all her joking around and flippant comments she is damn good at her job. And I love her.

I don’t think I love many people. I’m very fond of a lot of people, mainly my friends. But love? No. And certainly not the romantic, live-our-life-together type of love.

I see how it can work. I look at Robbie’s parents, for example. The way they are there for each other, supporting through all the worries with their son, their comforting touches and reassuring glances.They are a solid unit and I admire that.

I also see the way that Geillis’ face lights up when she talks about her fiancé, Dougal, and the way he watches her when we are all together in the pub. And I think it’s great, I really do.

But it’s not something that I’m seeking out for myself. I don’t think I’m cut out for that type of relationship. I don’t think there is someone out there, my soulmate, to spend the rest of my life with. And I definitely don’t think that I need someone else to complete me, make me whole.

That doesn’t mean that I’m a hermit. Far from it, in fact. I do date and enjoy it, but try to steer clear of any where-is-this-relationship-going type discussions.

It may well be to do with my childhood. I’ll admit, I’ve not had the most normal upbringing and that could have coloured my view of happily-ever-after love.

I’ve never been part of a conventional family unit. Well, I mean, I was for the first four years of my life —until my parents died in a car accident. And, at that age, how much can you remember? I do have some vague memories — rough tweed fabric against my cheek as my father’s strong arms lift me up, the smell of ‘Miss Dior’ perfume as my mother’s soft hands caress my cheek, the sound of laughter as we dance around the living room to Michael Jackson. But these are only fleeting recollections, ephemeral, gone in an instant.

All my real childhood memories are centred around one man — my uncle, Lambert Beauchamp. He, unhesitatingly, took me in when my parents died and became my guardian, my parent, my rock. He and I were a team, and I miss him every single day.

He was a confirmed bachelor, and I don’t mean that in a euphemistic way. He lived his life by his own rules and if he had been gay, he would have seen no reason to hide it. No, he had no need for romantic entanglements, no complicated relationships, no messy sexual encounters. He had two loves in his life — me and his work. He was a professor at the University, teaching archaeology and could, quite happily, get lost for hours in the bowels of the archives, studying ancient Somarian drinking vessels.

Growing up he was my role model, my yardstick against which to measure boys.

And over time, I've come to realise that I've always found myself attracted to the type of men which have certain ‘Lambert-esque’ qualities. Which leads me, I suppose, to Frank.

Just like my uncle, he’s a professor at the university. In history — more recent than Lamb’s studies only three hundred years ago, not three thousand. He’s single minded about his research, like my uncle, and he cares deeply about me, which makes me feel bad because I don’t feel the same way. Of course, I care about him, just not enough for a serious relationship that’s going somewhere.

All of this is a long winded way of saying what I’ve actually known for a while now... I need to break up with Frank.

*************

I’m just contemplating whether to brave the canteen or grab a sandwich from the hospital shop, when there’s a knock at my office door and a hand appears brandishing a couple of distinctive Gregg’s paper bags. This hand is closely followed by the rest of Geillis, who plonks herself down on one of my visitor chairs. A wonderful aroma of freshly baked goods wafts across the desk. My stomach rumbles in anticipation.

“Steak bake or sausage roll?” she asks as she places both bags on my desk, although she knows my preference.

“Ooh, how did you know I was just thinking about lunch?” I pick up one of the bags, the oozing gravy on its surface being a clear giveaway.

“We’ve been friends fer long enough,” Geillis smiles. “I ken what ye’re thinking. In fact, ye’ve something on yer mind right now. No�� a work thing. C’mon, spill.”

I swear, it’s uncanny. In the Middle Ages Geillis would undoubtedly have been tried as a witch. Her powers of deduction are that good.

I say nothing for a moment and focus on my lunch, blowing ineffectually on the hot meat filling.

“Weel? I’m waiting and ye ken I’m no’ a patient woman, Claire. This is tae do wi’ Frank, is it no’? Are ye planning on dumping him?”

See what I mean? Witchcraft.

“You make it sound so harsh. But I can’t carry on with Frank, he’s investing more into this… this—“

“Ye can say the word, Claire. Relationship… R… E…—“

“I know, I know. But I have to do something. I know Frank wants more than I want to give in this ‘relationship’.” I enunciate clearly just to make the point to Geillis. I’m not afraid of the word… I can say it.

“Anyway,” I add casually as I dab at the pastry crumbs with my finger. “I thought you’d be pleased. I know you’ve never liked him.”

Geillis tuts. “‘Tis no’ a matter of like. We jes’ havena got anything in common. He’s awfa serious and ye dampen yer personality down when ye’re with him. I’ve seen ye, ye canna deny it.”

I try to interject, but Geillis ignores my sounds of protest and carries on talking. “But it’s no’ jes’ Frank. Ye do this all the time, Claire. Whenever anyone tries tae get serious, ye run. What is wrong wi’ wanting a relationship anyway?”

“I have my work, I have my friends. I date, I go out with men, I have a good, if sporadic, sex life… and a trusty dual speed vibrator. What’s wrong with me wanting my life the way I want it?”

Geillis crams the end of her sausage roll into her mouth and chews vigorously for a minute. I pass her a paper serviette for her greasy hands. She gathers up the flaky pastry crumbs that have settled on her chest, wraps them in the serviette and pops it neatly in the bin.

“Ok, I get it. I’ll back off. But all I’m saying is dinna close yerself off tae the possibility of a real relationship, aye?”

Knowing she's gone as far as she can with this topic, she gets up and heads for the door. “Nae rest fer the wicked. Oh, and Claire, jes’ one thing…”

She pauses dramatically. “Dinna forget… ye’ve gravy on yer chin.”

And with that she disappears, leaving me with a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach caused by more than the calorie ridden pasty.

I am just settling down to dictate some patient letters when Frank texts to suggest dinner at my favourite Italian restaurant. This isn’t good. It’s a lovely restaurant, the kind of restaurant where special occasions are celebrated— birthdays, anniversaries, declarations…

So I have to lie… no, not lie, fib. I text back pleading a heavy day in theatre — aching feet, headache and so on.

His concerned response makes me feel bad. No need for fibbing, I do feel pretty shitty now. However, it also makes me more resolved to do what I have to do. I can’t drag this out, causing him more and more hurt. So, I invite him to my flat this evening instead.

*******

I have a final glance in the mirror in my bedroom. I do actually look a bit worn out. I haven’t really put any makeup on, just a touch of mascara and a slick of lipstick, which I have already managed to chew off.

My hair is, as per usual, a bit wild and untamed. I have a bathroom shelf full of products promising smooth and manageable curls, but have yet to find one that actually delivers on their promises. I tuck my hair behind my ears, pinch my cheeks to try to look a little less pale and head to the front door.

Frank is as punctual as ever. Unlike other things in my life, he’s always delivering on his promises. Which makes me feel even worse. I have nothing to accuse him of, no unacceptable behaviour— apart from wanting more than I’m prepared to give. That old cliché, “it’s not you, it’s me”, really is appropriate here. I’m going to try not to actually say those words though. He deserves more than that.

And so I take a deep breath and open the door. He stands there expectantly with two bottles of wine, one red and one white, in his hands.

“I wasn’t sure what we would be eating, so I got both just in case,” he volunteers as he walks in and leans close to me for a kiss.

I give him my cheek and make a fuss of taking the bottles from him to deflect my lack of affection.

He follows me into the lounge. I’m sure he notices that I make no offer to pour the wine. I set the wine on the coffee table and perch on the end of the settee.

Frank takes my hands. “Claire, darling, are you ok? Has it been a rough day?”

I shake my head. “It’s not been the best. Frank… I…”

I can’t even look at him now. I take a deep breath and plunge in. “Frank, I… the thing is… I don’t know how… I think we should stop seeing each other.” The words tumble out of my mouth like a deluge.

I finally look up as Frank releases my hands and walks over to the window. He stands still, his back to me, as if just taking in the view. Then he turns to face me, staring intently at me, scrutinising my face as if looking for a glimmer of hope. The silence is unbearable.

“Frank, it’s not you—“ I try to fill the void, by resorting to stale old clichés after all.

“Spare me that platitude.” He snaps at me. “We’re not fifteen. This was… is… serious to me, Claire.”

Frank now moves to sit next to me. His hand rests on my thigh, his fingers lightly drawing circles on my jeans. I watch for a moment. Am I supposed to move it? Should I remind him he no longer can touch me like this?

His voice softens. “I lo—“

“No, please, Frank. Don’t say it. Please don’t. You are such a nice man. You don’t deserve this.” Gently, I lift his hand and place it on his leg.

“Then don’t do it. Tell me, Claire, what do I have to do? What changes do I have to make for us to move forward? I’ll do it, tell me. We can make this work, I know.”

What do I say now? Anything I say will only hurt him more. All I can do is apologise and try to explain.

“I am sorry, really. It’s just, well, you want more than I can give. You think about a future—“

“And what’s wrong with that? That’s what most people want, Claire. Planning for a future together— a home, a family… our family.” Frank’s getting angry now, raising his voice.

“Please, I’m trying to explain. You want a future life together and I can’t give you that. I’m sorry that I’m hurting you.”

“Is there someone else? Is that what this is all about?”

I’ve been trying to remain composed, to give Frank the explanation he deserves. But this question annoys me beyond belief, as if I have to be one half of a couple.

“I can’t believe you asked that. No, it’s not about another man. I can’t be what you want me to be and that’s it.”

He stands up now, right in front of me. His hands are down by his sides, so tightly clenched into fists that his knuckles are white against the slight tan of his skin. For a fleeting nanosecond, I wonder if he is going to hit me. But, of course not, he’s just trying to gain control of himself.

“That’s it, then.” The words are spat out with venom.

“You know I’m sorry.”

He shrugs dismissively. “Of course. Well, goodbye.”

He makes for the door.

“What about the wine?” I indicate the two bottles, still on the table. It’s a pointless trivial comment, I know, but for some reason I don’t want him to think I expect to keep them.

Frank doesn’t even look over his shoulder. “Consider them a parting gift.”

And with that, he's gone.

I remain sitting motionless, processing what I’ve just done. It’s not easy hearing those words, but neither is it easy to have to say them. So many emotions are coursing through my body — sorrow, guilt, regret, self-reproach, worry. And in the midst of this maelstrom, there is one thing I can clearly recognise — a glimmering spark of relief.

#outlander fanfiction #outlander fan fic #Just a Friend #Jamie Fraser #Claire Beauchamp #bit more Geillis #Chapter 3

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strangeinternetwasteland · 3 years

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Shattered Reality- Chapter 2

Word Count: 4.2K

The next morning, or early afternoon really, you awoke the sunlight slipping between the curtains. Everything was so bright. Everything was so loud. The taste in your mouth was foul. Your lips were sticky, and you weren’t sure where you ended up. The last thing you remember was Sukuna holding up Kioko, and laughter. You were not sure how you got home. This wasn’t home. This was a grand bedroom, where everything in it looked really old, or too expensive to touch. Where were you exactly?

You hissed at how bright the room was, but sat up quietly, in case there was a person who happened to be in the room. You rubbed your eyes a few times to try to adjust. You looked around but found no one, and nothing that belonged to you besides the dress you wore from last night, and your purse on the bedside table. You heard distant shouting from outside but you weren’t sure as to where it came from. Your heart was racing and you felt the urge to run. You grabbed your purse off the side table and headed for the bedroom door. Your head was aching, and you felt your stomach lurch. You knew you were hungover, but being hungover in a place you didn’t know was not like you at all. You knew you had only a few minutes to find a bathroom. Judging by the size of the room, there must’ve been a bathroom, attached to the room or inside the room.

You searched along the walls to find another door handle. With luck you spotted one and threw the door open. It was a walk- in closet that was the size of your studio apartment. ‘I could live in here and no one would ever find out’ you thought. Your stomach lurched again, but you felt the sickening burn of vomit rising. You closed the closet door and ran out of the room desperately searching for an appropriate place for you to literally spill your guts. You collided with a ficus, which in your opinion were gaudy, and never necessary as decor. You stumbled a few more feet into another door. You flung this one open with all you could muster. You eyed the contents inside this room and cheered in your brain. You ran straight to the toilet that was inside, and let all the contents of your stomach empty inside.

A deep chuckle filled the room. Whoever the laugh belonged to didn’t matter, you didn’t care enough to look at them. As you vomited, your head deep in the toilet, you felt warm hands on the back on your neck tugging your hair back gently. You were grateful for the person that was in the bathroom. You’d’ve cut your own hair if you got throw-up in it. Your throat was raw and stinging, you would’ve died for a glass of water. You heard the sink turn on and then off in an instant.

“Here, drink this.” The mysterious voice said to you, as a glass was brought to your hand. You took it and gulped it down. The cool feeling on your throat felt refreshing. You held the cup up and wordlessly asked for another refill. Again the cup was filled and handed to you. You didn’t say a word. You wanted to thank the person helping you, but was too afraid to look. You didn’t even know where you were for fuck’s sake. You finally feel your stomach settle down a bit. You move your head from the toilet bowl to stare down at the floor.

“We should get some food in your stomach, even if it’s something small. I know Kioko is awake. Honestly, she’s so combative after a night of drinking.” The voice that spoke sounded familiar.

“Here, take two of these for now. They’ll help with your head.” Two unassuming white pills were placed into your hand, along with a third cup of water to help you swallow down the pills. You closed your eyes and leaned your head against the cool ground. You didn’t feel the need to get up at all. You actually could’ve stayed on that bathroom floor all day.

“Y/N. Come on let’s go eat.” Your eyes flew open. You knew this person, well knew each other well enough for them to know your name. Panic flooded your body, what if they had kidnapped you? What if they were going to chop you pieces and send you piece by piece back to your family? Your imagination was running rampant. You really didn’t want to face the body behind the voice.“No. I am okay. Take me home.” You finally managed to say to the other body in the bathroom. Another deep chuckle. Your stomach fluttered at the sound, this caused you to furrow your eyebrows. Why would that make your stomach flutter?

“Stockholm Syndrome!” You exclaimed without realizing you were speaking aloud.

“Two things there, first, I am honored you’ve fallen in love with me after one night. Second, I am not your captor. If you must know, I tried to get your address, but you had fallen asleep the moment you got into the car. I just brought you back here. I do believe it’s not considered kidnapping if you’re willing. However, if I were forcing you to stay, we wouldn’t be staying here. We’d go anywhere in the world of your choosing.” The man explained. Hearing his comment made you laugh harder than you expected. Your nervousness eased a bit.

Feeling brave, you decided to take a peek at this kind stranger. You pushed your body off the floor and sat up. A fresh wave of nervousness washed over you. You were met with an easy smile and familiar blue eyes. In the daylight, he looked angelic somehow.

Voices from behind the door that were shouting from earlier were quickly growing closer.

“Kioko you’re irresponsible! What about your friend? Did you even make sure she got home safely? That’s a liability not only to our family, but the business.” A second male voice was yelling. Gojo’s demeanor had changed from relaxed to on guard.

“Whatever, Geto. I cannot do anything to ever please you. You’re just like dad. Impossible, unhappy, and quick to judge. For your information, I do care about her. She’s my best friend!” Kioko shot back. You gave a confused look to Gojo, trying to gage the situation. He looked at you, smiled and held his hand out signaling for you to stay where you were. He walked out of the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

“I don’t know what is going on right now with you two. Geto, Kioko’s friend, Y/N, spent the night here. Right now, she’s feeling sick in the bathroom. If you’d like to take this argument elsewhere I am sure it would probably help ease her headache. Now, I am going to try to find something quick for her to eat. Kioko, you know, Geto is just trying to make sure the family is protected.” Gojo tried reasoning with the siblings. Geto seemed to have visibly relaxed.

“Oh, uh, good work Gojo.Yes, we should feed her, at the very least. Thank you for your duty to the family.” Geto quickly turned on his heel and left. Kioko rolled her eyes and walked past Gojo into the bathroom where you were. Annoyance was splashed all over her face.

“Hey there, love.” Kioko cooed at you softly as she stroked your hair. She was always very caring. You smiled at her.

“Hey.” You replied back meekly.

“How are you feeling, sweetie?” Your best friend asked. You shrugged your shoulders in response. Hearing the argument between the siblings raised some questions inside your mind. You tried shaking them off for the moment.

“Why don’t we go downstairs to the kitchen and have the staff whip something amazing up for you to eat?” Kioko asked you while standing up to flush the mess you made in the toilet. Normally, you’d be embarrassed, if it were anyone else, but the number of times that you’d done the same for her, you decided she owed you. She grabbed some mouthwash from underneath the sink and placed it on the countertop.

“I don’t want you to have gross breath.” She told you. You willingly took this offering, rinsed your mouth thoroughly and spit it out. You made sure you left no evidence behind, and replaced the mouthwash to its home. You followed Kioko through the giant maze of an estate that she called home. After five minutes of walking you tried to remember the layout, but only were left more confused.

You finally arrived in the kitchen, where the most heavenly aroma hit your nose. The smell of sautéing onions and mushrooms made your mouth water. Taking in the grandeur of the kitchen, where everything was so clean, and shiny. The meals you imagined yourself cooking in here made you wonder if this all was a dream after all.

“Mmmm… That smells delicious.” Your stomach grumbled in agreement. Your eyes fell on Gojo’s back.

“Kioko, did you eat, or should I make some for you as well?” He asked turning his attention behind him to you two.

“You know I’d never turn down anything you make.” She replied. He nodded and continued his meal preparations.

“You’re lucky. Gojo doesn’t cook often, but when he does. It’s like sex.” Kioko told you.

“I’d like sex with that.” You replied quietly without thinking. Kioko stopped her texting and stared right at you.

“I am sorry. What did you just say? You want-” You clamped her mouth shut as quickly as possible. Your face grew red and you knew that Kioko would find a way to tease you about this.

“Hey, sorry Gojo. I am going to have to pass on this. Father wants to speak to me about something boring or college.” Kioko winked at you. “It will probably take a few hours knowing him. Y/N, you feel free to stay as long as you’d like, raid my closet for a cute outfit or the pool is open, so you can go swimming, if you’d like. Otherwise, I am sure Gojo can take care of anything you need in the meantime, he’d probably give you a lift home if you wanted, too.”

“I can take care of Y/N. Go talk your father, he’s not a very patient man.” Gojo said with an ice cold edge to his voice. You felt the temperature in the room drop a few degrees.

“Have fun being alone with Gojo.” She told you in a low voice only you could hear and walked out the door. You knew she was lying, and weren’t sure why she’d leave you alone with someone who was like an older brother to her, but you were thankful she didn’t tease you mercilessly about it.

The silence that settled over the kitchen after Kioko left was comfortable. While Gojo kept cooking, you watched his movements. Your eyes traced over his shoulders and back. Today, he was dressed more casually, with a t shirt that fitted his arms. The more you stared, the more his form was being etched into your memory. You had noticed a tattoo peeking out from the bottom of the sleeve of the shirt. It wasn’t abnormally large or intricate, but rather simple. You got out of your seat and moved closer to get a better look.

Just as you were getting closer Gojo turned around and placed a plate down on the large island next to where you stood. He gave you a knowing look, and turned back around. He grabbed a fork out of one of the many draws that were lined around the room, and placed it down. Next, he went to the fridge to get you a drink. He stuck his head out and called out to you.

“Hey, what do you want to drink? There is water; flavored, sparkling, coconut, and bottled. There are various lemonades, juices,and milks. Practically anything you could ever ask for is here in this fridge. In this fridge, he pointed to the next fridge, there is any type of alcohol you wish.”

“I’ll just have a bottle of water, please.” You said in disbelief. You didn’t notice the kitchen had five refrigerators. Gojo grabbed a bottle of water and placed it in front of you.

“Now. Eat.” He looked at you expectantly. You grabbed the fork and plunged it into the food before you and brought the bite to your mouth. The taste was exquisite. The eggs were fluffy, the mushrooms mingled with the taste of the onions. The amount of cheese was perfect. You closed your eyes to enjoy it. Gojo smiled and pushed himself off the island happy that you were satisfied with the omelette he prepared for you. He started cleaning the dishes he’d used and let you eat in peace.

With each bite you were more and more impressed. ‘A man that looks good, and can cook, what’s the catch?’ You thought to yourself. You found yourself staring at Gojo once again. You were wrapped in your thoughts.

“Gojo, I heard the word ‘family’ thrown about in a few different ways earlier. Judging Geto’s tone, and the way this house looks. I want to say you’re all part of the mafia or something.” You said jokingly. Gojo looked you dead in the eyes, and any playful nature of his had fallen away. Honestly, the abrupt change scared you more than you would’ve liked to admit.

“If I told you I’d have to kill you.” He said his voice ice cold and dead. You were unsure how to react to what he had said. He took your empty plate and put it into the sink.

“Thank you, Gojo. I appreciate the time you took to make me something to eat.” You finally decided on what to say.

“Oh, you’re welcome, I can show you to Kioko’s room if you’d like to change, or I could give you a ride home, if you’d rather.” He spoke as if he hadn’t just scared you so deeply.

“Oh. There’s no need for a ride home. I can just call an Uber or Lyft, taxi perhaps but I’d really love to change into something that isn’t this.” You told him. He smiled at you, and gestured to you to follow behind. Again you walked around the large estate, unsure of which hallway led to where, and how anyone could actually navigate this place, you ran straight into Gojo’s back because you weren’t paying attention.

“Here’s Kioko’s room. Feel free to make yourself comfortable. If you need anything just ask, I’ll be around, but in case I am not, here’s my number.” He took your hand and brought it up to his lips, placing his card in your other hand. He winked at you and walked away.

Your heart stuttered as you walked into Kioko’s room. Her room was exactly as you’d expect it to be. Clothes were strewn about in every direction, her walls were a very pale purple. The posters of pop stars were amusing to you, but the photographs she had taped to the wall stole your attention. Many of them were of things, or places she’d visited. A few from when she was little, she was a very beautiful child, and looked happy. There were a few of Geto and Kioko together where they looked miserable, and forlorn. You saw a couple of you and her together in high school, at the first dance you two ever attended. One at prom, and graduation.

“Ah, the memory wall.” You heard your friend say. “I have more, but I am not sure where they are at the moment. You’re in my room so quickly, I’d thought that you two would’ve taken your time. Rumor is that Gojo loves to go slow.” She changed the topic so quickly.

“Oh, no. I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t think we’re compatible, and I honestly didn’t mean what I said. I wasn’t thinking straight. I can’t fall for every nice guy I meet. That’s how I get my heart broken.” You said uneasily.

“Girl, I know. I was teasing you. I had to do it just once. Anyway, you wanna go hang out in the pool for a bit?” She asked you. You honestly, didn’t want to ever leave this place, it was paradise compared to the tiny little studio you lived in.

“Yeah, but I don’t have a bathing suit.” Kioko rummaged through three drawers taking out various pieces of clothing.

“Not a problem, here are seven I’ve never worn, I have about ten more around the room. I really should clean this up, but I don’t feel like it.” She admitted to you. Your eyes must’ve popped out of your head. Kioko giggled at your reaction and shoved the pile of swimsuits at you. You browsed through them, they were mostly two pieces, and very revealing. You found a white one piece that had a deep cut in the front, but looked like it would cover the most important parts of you. You stripped out of your club dress and underthings. You took the bathing suit and put it on. It unexpectedly fit you well. The sides were cut out, but you felt sexy in it. You turned to show Kioko.

“Hey, how does this look?” You asked your friend.

“Holy fuck! You look hot as hell in this!” She gushed over you. She clicked a picture of you, and showed you. You had to admit that this bathing suit looked good.

“I do know a certain someone, who won’t be able to take his eyes off you when he sees you. If he doesn’t drool over you. I’ll murder him myself.” She joked but honestly it left you feeling a little unsettled. You pushed that feeling down, knowing that Kioko wasn’t actually like that. Kioko found a very tiny black bikini that showed off a lot of skin. It wasn’t anything you’d have chosen for yourself, but she looked amazing in it.

Kioko grabbed her phone, and your wrist and dragged you down to the pool. It was huge, it looked like something out of a movie. There were chairs all around to obviously accommodate many people. It all seemed surreal. Kioko spoke to a nicely dressed attendant. She walked over to where a few lounging chairs were placed close together near a table.

“Kioko, this is all amazing. Thank you for letting me stay here for the evening, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” You told her. She just giggled that magical giggle.

“There’s nothing to worry about. You’re my best friend and you’re welcome to stay here as long as you’d like. Oh! I was thinking about this summer. I know this is our last year of school and we should celebrate. We could take the jet to go for a shopping spree in Paris! Or See the sights of Italy and drink wine!” She was very animated and excited at the prospects of a fun filled summer vacation. You wish you could’ve been excited, but you knew that you had to work for the summer just to pay for school.

“Ki, that all sounds amazing, truly, but I need to work in order to pay for school. I can barely afford that as it is. Much less the vacation you’re planning” You responded to her. She waved your words away as if they meant nothing. It made you a little upset that she didn’t take your position in life into account when planning. “There’s no need to worry about all that dear.” She told you as she waved over an attendant. You were too lost in your thoughts when Geto and Gojo had approached the two of you.

“Hello, again, Y/N. Are you finding yourself well today?” Geto asked you with curiosity. “You seem lost in your own mind. May I inquire what has your mind so twisted up that you’re frowning?” He asked you with a bit too much intensity in his gaze.

“Oh… It’s- uh..” You stammered out.

“Hey, what’s with the interrogation, Geto?” Gojo clapped Geto’s back.”Let the girl enjoy herself. You’re too intimidating sometimes.” He added with a laugh.

Geto cleared his throat. “My apologies, I forget that humans are easily frightened.” Gojo winked at you, and tugged his shirt off. His shirt revealed the tattoo you were looking for earlier, it was an ellipses(three periods). Three in a row on his bicep. The artwork on his body was a wonder. The colors and images he chose to decorate his skin with were quite intriguing. You saw a wolf, a compass, with the word family written around it, a few geometrical shapes. The most interesting ones besides the compass, were the ones on his middle fingers that read loyalty and respect in the most beautiful calligraphy you’d ever seen. Your eyes raked over every inch of exposed skin. The abs that seemed to have been carved into his skin didn’t keep you from staring at all.

Geto too removed his shirt. He too had various tattoos all over his back, arms, and shoulders. You noticed that he too had a tattoo of an ellipses on the opposite arm of Gojo. He had a raven where Gojo had a wolf, and didn’t have any one his fingers as Gojo did. ‘Wonder why I didn’t notice the tattoos earlier?’ You questioned yourself.

“How cute! You two have matching tattoos!” You blurted out loud. Geto and Gojo exchanged uneasy and knowing looks.

“Y/N! We should get BFF tattoos for your birthday! It is coming up shortly!” Kioko shouted. You couldn’t help but laugh at your friend and her easy attitude toward everything. A few hours passed by, a few cocktails were consumed by all, and a few embarrassing stories about you were shared. As the sun dipped lower in the early summer sky, the guys were showing off their skills, and competing with one another over everything. You loved how the easiness of how this afternoon had felt, a reminder of your childhood. You did long for those memories again, but you didn’t dare let that ruin this day.

“Hey,Y/N! Who do you think is the better looking one?” Gojo asked from the driving board. Honestly, you wanted to say him, but Geto wasn’t all that bad looking on the eyes either. You debated with yourself for another moment before speaking.

“It isn’t about looks, it’s about personality, and you well you’re treated.” You responded with a flirty smile. This response made Geto laugh a little. You thought for a moment that you imagined it.

“Was that a laugh, Geto?” You asked him feeling brave. “Here I thought you were this cold, emotionless, boring person who didn’t really care about anyone but himself.” You added. Everyone laughed again.

“Damn, Geto, she’s known you for less than a day and nailed you down perfectly.” Kioko said.

“Hey! Is this where you are? It’s 8pm already, we need to go.” The recongnizable voice of Sukuna said. Your eyes widened.

“8, already?!? Shit! I need to get home. I start work at 5am tomorrow.” You kept cursing under your breath.

“Oh, I can take you home if you’d like.” Geto offered. Without hesitation you accepted.

“Yeah, that would be great. Let me just change into my clothes and we can go.” You say.

“Oh no, no need, love! Keep the bathing suit, I can grab you something to wear quickly, and bring your clothes to you later!” Kioko told you as she walked away into the house. After 10 minutes, you had more clothes than you arrived with, thanks to Kioko, and were on your way back to your house. The drive with Geto was unsettling and quiet, but it didn’t last very long. As he pulled up to your tiny complex, he gave it a glance over, unbuckled himself, and walked around to your side of the car.

“Let me walk you to your door.” He offered you his arm which you took hesitantly. Luckily enough, your studio was on the first floor of the complex. You pulled out your keys to unlock your door.

“Well thank you for everything. I hope you have a great night! We’ll probably see each other soon.” You told Geto.

“Let’s hope we do, but for your sake, watch out for Gojo.” Geto pressed a kiss to your cheek. You gave him a small smile and walked into your apartment. Geto didn’t seem as scary when it was just the two of you, but it did see m a little weird for him to warn you about his best friend. The thought left your mind the moment you walked in your tiny bathroom to shower. Cleaning off the last 24 hours from your skin, you closed your eyes and felt yourself grow tired. You finished your shower quickly, set your alarm, plugged in your phone and went straight to bed. You only needed to sleep, and nothing more.

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#gojo x reader #modern au #mafia au #saturo gojo #suguro geto

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ts-unsolved · 5 years

Text

The night we met

((i got carried away imagining this scenario, so here’s the conversation that lead to dee joining aboard the Investigation Station))

Summary: On principle, Dee tries to not let his major life choices be ruled by what happens over highly-priced drinks in crummy bars, but flying too close to the sun that was his old college rival had never been part of the equation before.

Aka: Roman tries one last time to convince Dee to hunt ghosts with him, and he finally says yes. (Aka^2: can you believe Dee has been pining for two whole years? lmao get it together boi).

Content Warnings: Drinking, mentions of smoking, allusions to drug-dealing and generally shady/unsafe atmospheres, mild swearing, references to fights/stabbing/being killed, food descriptions/eating.

Word count: 2.4k – I am not the only traveler Who has not repaid his debt I’ve been searching for a trail to follow again Take me back to the night we met –

[February, 2015. Los Angeles, CA.]

With a languid roll of his wrist, Dee swirled the peach-colored liquid around his glass for what felt like the hundredth time since he had sat down at the round rickety table. Blame it on his keen intuition for arduous conversations, but he had not managed to settle his nerves since he and his companion had entered the dim and dusty bar, and something about the location they had found themselves in was only lending itself to his growing headache.

It wasn’t a secret that Roman’s family was loaded; Dee knew this for a fact, and yet out of all of the establishments in the city they could have gone to, the man had chosen such a lowkey place for them to meet. Perhaps in his mind the discrete look of the place was appropriate for a supposedly momentous conversation, although whatever grand idea Roman had of a ‘private business discussion’ definitely didn’t match the reality of what was going on in the shady establishment, all of which spoke of illegal activities with the subtlety of a glowing neon sign. From what he had already managed to discern from a quick glance, there were hands dealing under the tables, side-glances from couples locked in suspiciously hushed exchanges, not to mention the laundering scheme this place seemed to operate as a front for, barely even camouflaged under the displeasingly unkempt storefront with furniture that looked like it dated back to the 60′s and the pervasive smell of cigarette smoke to match.

Dee suppressed a grimace as he forced his attention away from surveying the landscape of the bar and back to the man sitting opposite him. By all means, this was the exact kind of place he would choose to hang out in if he were to catch up with some of his old high school friends, and yet being here with Roman Kingsley of all people somehow made him want to reevaluate the decisions that lead him to being in this clearly cursed timeline, because there had to have been a horribly wrong turn made somewhere.

As if sensing himself being at the center of Dee’s thoughts, Roman looked up from where he had been prodding at his unusually soggy plate of nachos (“…I was hungry, though I’m not so sure I am anymore.”), and shot Dee an unguarded twist of a smile. It was the kind of expression Roman clearly wasn’t used to wearing; which was to say that it was less of his usual brand of over-compensated arrogance and more hopeful uncertainty. Dee stared blankly back, being struck with a realization as he took in the figure that was bathed under the terrible lighting of the bar:

‘Ah. One way or another, this guy is going to be the death of me.’

Surprisingly, the thought didn’t perturb him as much as it should have. Sure, being mugged and/or stabbed in the alley out back because he had willingly accompanied this walking hotspot of disaster to one of the more dangerous parts of the city wasn’t exactly ideal, but in all honestly it didn’t feel like it would be much of a surprise for him to meet his end in such a dumb and grisly way. Of course, with his baby snake waiting for him back home he was hardly looking for trouble, and especially not at the expense of somebody he didn’t even send Christmas cards to. Even so, his gut told him that dead or alive, he wouldn’t be walking out of this bar without a semblance of trouble following him; a prospect he wasn’t sure if he found exhilarating or exhausting.

And so there the situation currently was, in an uneasy limbo. With a sigh, he pushed his nagging thoughts to the back of his mind for the moment and took a sip of his drink, finding brief refuge in the sugary film that coated his mouth and the back of his throat.

Roman tracked the glass with his eyes as it was set against the table and quirked his lips in that infuriatingly smug expression only the two of them could truly pull off. “I didn’t take you for a mocktail kind of guy. Lost your edge over the years?”

Dee simply raised an eyebrow in response. It wasn’t a surprise that Roman remembered his delinquent past, what was a surprise was how this was apparently not a determining factor in eliminating Dee as a potential co-worker given the goody-two-shoes friends the other loved to hang around. “What can I say? In my wise age, I’ve learned to value substance over a cheap high. I’d have assumed you’d have shared that viewpoint given our similar tastes for the unconventional, and yet...” He gestured to the very stereotypically masculine pint that sat in front of Roman, not untouched and yet not being attended to either. Roman scowled in response, more at the menu than at him.

“Normally I’d agree with you, but despite what you think, I don’t actually have the money to drop on overcharged garbage like some kind of idiot. I mean, look: the Merlot is $50 here, Dee. $50. For Merlot. That is borderline criminal!”

For a moment, the air in the bar stilled. Dee soon realized that Roman’s voice had gotten a tad too loud and wow he really did not want to get beaten up because this pipsqueak couldn’t figure out what the exchange of dirty money looked like even when it was staring him in the face. Time to move the subject along to something less contentious, because he really did not like the way the dead-eyed look the bartender was giving them.

“Please, you only have yourself to blame for your poor judgement calls. We’re not here to have a lovely evening out though, are we? Let’s just cut to the chase already.”

Roman simmered down with a click of his tongue, pausing to pick up a tortilla chip and eat it, only to look disappointed by the lack of crunch. Nevertheless, as asked, he dropped all pretenses of small talk.

“You read my text, then? Have you thought your decision though any more?”

There it was, the million dollar question. While he had been acting nonchalant about the matter ever since Roman had first approached him with his offer, the truth was that he had been weighing the pros and cons of this decision for days now, to no end. Remus, that absolute bastard that he was, was probably having a real laugh at his expense right now, knowing fully well the position he had put his old pal in by pointing Roman's attention his way. Perhaps a little payback on Remus’ end was warranted for their less-than-stellar parting conversation, although Dee couldn’t help his ire at his friend (ex-friend? frenemy?) for setting him up for this infuriating no-win scenario. Years ago he, young and foolish, had hoped that Roman would have dropped his inane obsession with the paranormal by college graduation, but given his current predicament it seemed he had underestimated the tenacity of Remus’ brother. Time to test the waters of that commitment, he supposed.

“About the wacky little ghost show you’ve been raving about since the dawn of time? Can’t say you’ve really sold me on it. I am a rather busy guy, you know; I can’t just drop everything for a show pitch I’m not even convinced on.”

This was a slight twist of the truth. He had been between jobs for months, a lack of inspiration and not being able to stand his bosses and coworkers being the reason he just can’t seem to stick to one place. He had long-since given up on his dream of going into show business, so for a long time he had settled on just doing what he could to maintain a living. It wasn’t a fulfilling way to live, but he was surviving, and that was all that mattered.

Nevertheless, Roman was not thrown by the negative response and instead puffed out his chest in a show of indignation. Clearly he would not be taking no for an answer without a fair fight, which likely spelled bad news for how this evening was going to go. “It’s not ‘wacky’, it’s a serious show for serious investigations! I’m really trying to prove the existence of ghosts here.”

“Right…” Dee squinted his eyes skeptically. “And you are aware that I don’t believe in ghosts, yes?”

“Obviously. Did you think I missed the three years of you being a dick about it?”

Ah, memories. Dee didn’t bother to hide his amusement at Roman’s grumbling. “My my, you’re still holding a grudge about that? Here I thought my depiction of Hamlet’s father was enough to wipe the slate clean. Didn’t it please you to see your greatest enemy play one of the spooky creatures you like so much?”

Rather delightfully, frustration gave way and the corners Roman’s eyes crinkled with the beginnings of mirth before he quickly hid the expression away by shoving another chip into his mouth. It was the kind of reaction Dee was still growing used to seeing from their back-and-forths, not quite being sure when their exchanges of teasing remarks had crossed the line into something more friendly. That said, it was certainly not an unpleasant development; in some senses, it felt rather rewarding to catch a glimpse of something less refined behind a curtain of perfectionism, much like seeing the behind-the-scenes of a broadway production.

“Oh don’t get me wrong, you really did give an excellent performance. I can still remember act one scene five like it was yesterday. 'Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, a serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark is by a forged process of my death’!” Roman dramatically reenacted the performance, hand pressed to his heart, and Dee preened under the praise.

“Why thank you. The dull lead was quite a letdown, though we certainly outdid ourselves in spite of the poor casting, didn’t we? Still, I can’t say that flattery will convince me to hunt ghosts with you or... whatever it is you were hoping for. The point still stands that it’s not exactly the sort of thing I’ve ever pictured putting on my resume.”

Roman’s smile faltered and he cleared his throat awkwardly. Without the comfort of dancing around their thoughts with friendly banter, things got uncomfortably serious a tad too quickly, it seemed.

“I get that it’s... not ideal to you, considering how you always had high aspirations for your career, and a webshow is probably too low on the radar for your pompous-self. Heh... To be honest, I’m not sure why Remus thought you’d be a good candidate for the job,” Wow, rude. “But he did, and I’m kind of out of options here.”

Roman paused, the buzz of bar filling the silence between them as he clearly struggled to speak what was on his mind.

“Actually, the more I think about it, I can’t come up with anyone else I’d like to join more than you. You’d be a great host! You’re good at talking to crowds when you want to, you know how to improv, you’re one of the funniest people from our class, and as much as I hate to admit it, I always enjoyed acting with you on stage-”

At some point during Roman’s rant, Dee’s brain short-circuited with the words, and even as he tried to process they just kept on coming, to his absolute befuddlement.

“-And I guess I feel like you’d co- ...Hey, phantom of the opera, are you even listening to me?! I’m pretty much singing your praises here, which let me tell you, is rare for me, and you’re staring off into space! If you’re that disinterested, you should just say so.”

“Sorry. I was paying attention, I just...”

Dee scrunched his eyes shut as he tried to work through what Roman had said. Maybe it shouldn’t be such a shock to hear the compliments coming from someone he regarded as being an equal in terms of talent, yet part of him still screamed at him that it was only empty flattery to sway his decision. Sure enough, while it may be true that his cynicism had never failed him in the past, he still yearned to ignore the knee-jerk judgment and choose the better option, the one which meant that he was considered the first choice for something and his presence was wanted. Unbelievably, even to himself, he found himself tempted, if only by the warmth that came from such a thought. Perhaps if he was without the greater knowledge that he had, he would have jumped at the opportunity in a heartbeat, however the fact still remained that he was tired and worn from years of strife. At this point in his life, self-preservation was the only thing keeping him going, and so the idea of leaving the peaceful bubble he had built up itched like nothing else. But then, his thoughts drifted back to what could happen, of letting down Remus who had obviously entrusted him in this, despite everything they had gone through.

He truly must be growing soft, if he was willingly jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

(And was that so bad, to try to feel some warmth again?)

Begrudgingly, he opened his eyes to Roman’s concerned face.

“...Alright. Perhaps flattery does get you some places. With such a compelling argument, how could I possibly say no?” He drawled, as nonchalantly as he could possibly muster.

Already flustered by his decision to agree so readily, he picked up his overly-sugary drink as a means to avoid eye-contact, though when seconds passed with no audible response, his focus still ended up being drawn to the other man for his reaction. Roman’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates and simultaneously filled with joy; despite the muddy brown of the lighting that had washed out his features into a pool of shadows, they looked as if they were sparkling.

Dee felt the wind knocked out of him at having that expression pointed towards him. It seemed like it had been so long since somebody had been brought that much happiness because of something he did. This...wasn’t a terrible feeling, he decided in that moment.

“That wasn’t sarcasm, was it? You really want to join?!” Roman just about yelled, drawing back the eyes of a few of the other patrons. Dee chuckled nervously, wondering how he could get them out of the building as swiftly as possible without causing further ruckus. If they would be working together, the last thing they needed was to get into a fist-fight, after all.

“I do. Please don’t make me regret my decision.”

In return, he was given a beaming smile, one that equally eased his uncertainties and spoke of future trouble.

“You won’t, I promise.”

#answered #Chapter 1: Settling #written responses #janus sanders #roman sanders #roceit #((or at least you have dee being Soft and Gay))#((can you tell i haven't written in many moons? ghjdhfjs))

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moodyvalentinestories · 4 years

Text

Direction – Twelve | Hunt x HWU MC (Danielle)

Summary: Thomas and Danielle talk... kind of, anyway. We finally find out what's in that bloody box, too.

Words: 2300+

Notes: Uh-huh. Yeah. Remember when I said Hollywood U levels of insanity? Mhm.

❥ Previous Chapter: Eleven ❥ Moodyvalentine’s Masterlist

Thomas woke to a pounding headache and the smell of bacon. The former made sense – he remembered drinking quite a bit before he presumably passed out – but the latter only confused him. He wondered if he’d attempted to make himself dinner, which would have been a terrible idea considering the state he must have been in, and left the stove on. It didn’t smell burnt, though.

With a sigh, Thomas got out of his bed, noting that he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his clothes – and decided to make his way to the kitchen to see what was going on. He wasn’t surprised to see it was dark out when he passed the window in the hall – he’d begun his binge some time shortly after noon if he recalled correctly – but what he was surprised by was the person standing at the stove, frying several strips of bacon and two eggs.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice sounding far too loud against his headache.

Danielle turned around, arms folded in front of her chest. “You don’t remember, do you?”

He shook his head and regretted it right away when a stab of pain shot through him.

“I’m not surprised,” she said, turning back to check on the food. “You’d had over half a bottle of Scotch before I found you.” She thought on that for a moment. “At least. It’s all I found evidence of, anyway.”

Thomas cringed. He knew it must have been more as he was quite sure he’d only moved on to the fresh bottle when the other one had been emptied. He didn’t even want to think about what state she had found him in, and so he decided he wouldn’t. If there was something he’d said or done that was of importance, she would likely make sure to tell him. “I see.” He sat down at the island counter, where a glass of water and two aspirins sat. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

“Take them,” she said, still not giving him an answer. “How do you like your eggs? And how crispy should your bacon be?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, though he knew she couldn’t see, and asked, “You’re making food for me?” He was fairly sure he knew why she was here – he’d turned everything he’d had on her over to the tabloids after all – and he found it quite suspicious that she would be kind enough to feed him and help relieve his hangover. “You wouldn’t be trying to poison me, would you?”

She turned with an exasperated sigh. “No, Hunt, I’m not trying to poison you. I’m going to make sure you’re of sound mind when I rip you a new one.”

“Ah,” he said, as if it was a perfectly normal thing for her to tell him. He supposed it wasn’t an entirely surprising reaction after what he’d done yesterday – or perhaps earlier today, he wasn’t quite sure what time it was – and it wasn’t like he was unwilling to speak to her about it. He did have a few choice words of his own for her, and he would make sure she would receive them, as well. But, first, he would eat. “Over easy and just don’t let the bacon turn into a brick.”

She nodded and went back to focusing on the frying pan. He remained silent, then, and decided to take one aspirin. He hoped it would help, and he was inclined to believe it would as his headache had already begun to fade before he’d taken it.

Not much later, Danielle put a plate with food down in front of him, and he didn’t have to be asked twice to dig in. He was hungry, after all, and he was relatively sure that he hadn’t eaten before he’d decided to drink himself into oblivion. Which had made it that much easier to achieve just that, and that much worse when he woke up just now. In any case, he thanked his lucky stars that Danielle had decided it would be appropriate to give him food in this situation, no matter her intentions.

She leaned back against the counter next to the stove, nibbling on a strip of bacon that was almost completely black as she watched him eat. He didn’t comment on how uncomfortable it made him to have her watch him so closely, and he certainly didn’t comment on the fact that his mind had – however briefly – entertained the idea of the two of them eating in his kitchen under different circumstances.

When he was done eating, Thomas wasn’t quite sure what to say. He felt he should have thanked her for the food – and, presumably, taking care of him before he passed out – but, somehow, he doubted she would appreciate it.

“You’re done?” she said, and though it was posed as a question, he knew she wasn’t asking.

He answered nonetheless. “I’m done.”

“Good,” she said with a nod, and she suddenly looked terribly sad. Thomas tried not to feel bad about it – she deserved to be sad, for heaven’s sake – but it proved harder than he thought. “Good. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

He did as she instructed, remaining just where he’d sat since he came into the kitchen, and waited for her to return. When she did, he immediately saw the cardboard box in her hands, and his heart nearly stopped. “Why do you have that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, her expression even sadder than it had been when she’d left to retrieve the box. She put it down on the counter, moving his plate to the side to make room. “Why did you do it, Thomas? Why did you want to get rid of me?”

He noted the way she’d used his given name again – not affectionately, this time, but the way she sometimes had when she’d intended to have a serious conversation with him. He’d expected a fight – screaming and yelling and insults – but it didn’t seem that that was what she’d come for. It unsettled him to no small degree.

“Because you were going to do the same to me,” he said weakly.

She narrowed her eyes at him, tilting her head to one side. After taking a moment to think, she spoke. “I wasn’t. I still won’t,” she told him, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Another lie, surely. “What changed after we talked? I thought we were on the same page.”

“I saw you. With Montmartre,” he said, and by the way her expression didn’t change, he knew that this was not news to her. So why did she ask then? If she was aware that he knew, why wouldn’t it be obvious to her?

She let out a sigh. “So, what? You’re telling me it didn’t occur to you that there’s more than one reason I might have gone with him? Hell, he could have made me go with him.”

“You were flirting with him, I heard. You two are… you are—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she exclaimed, finally displaying the anger he’d expected. “Are you trying to say you thought sending me to prison was a reasonable action because you were jealous?”

Thomas thought he ought to have been outraged at the assumption that it had been jealousy that drove him to hand the material over, but there was a much more interesting point in what she’d said that he needed to address first. “Sending you to prison? You’re being overly dramatic. If – and that’s a big if, mind you – you’d have been prosecuted at all, it would have been for negligence at worst. And you were a student at the time, you would—"

“You never even bothered to look through what’s in here, did you?” she interrupted, nudging the box closer towards him. “Go on, take a look.”

“Well, I saw the settlement agreement between the university and him, and…” He blanched. It was true, he had no idea what was in that box.

Danielle nodded knowingly. “It’s my signature on that contract.” Thomas felt like the rug was being pulled out from under him. “It’s my signature on all of it.”

It was obvious, from the look on his face, that this was new information to him, and she almost felt some of her ire lift, but he’d still done what he’d done, whether getting her behind bars had been his intention or not. Danielle could see his hand tremble as he reached for the box and lifted the lid off.

The first thing he took out was the settlement agreement with the victim, drawn up by the university’s lawyers. But the university had been kept out of it entirely, and it was only Danielle’s and the victim’s signature on it. Ethan had advised her back then not to let the university handle it, and if she’d listened to him, Thomas would have been right. She’d have got off lightly – because she knew that, technically, it hadn’t been her fault – and as she’d been little more than a student back then, it wouldn’t have impacted her career much, either.

But she hadn’t listened to Ethan, and she’d let the university pay him off – all in her name because, officially, the university took no responsibility for anything that happened on set of their students’ film productions – and she knew it made her look guiltier than she was.

Hunt’s quiet gasp when he reached the last page and saw that it was, indeed, her signature on the contract made her look up. He simply looked back at her, stunned, before he reached into the box again to take out another sheaf of papers.

The one on top she recognised as well – she’d signed off on everything being safe just the morning of the accident. She hadn’t checked it herself – hadn’t had the time because she’d stayed up all night working on an essay for Professor Singh – but she’d been stupid enough to trust that the freshman she’d tasked with checking everything would do so diligently. If only she’d taken the extra time to make sure… they would have known to wait until that beam had been properly secured, and nobody would have been hurt.

It was clear from the shock on Hunt’s face that this was another detail he hadn’t known of. “I thought it happened because you didn’t check everything that day.”

“It did,” she told him, trying not to be offended by the fact that he’d insinuated she might have known and simply not cared. “I signed off on it, anyway.”

She could tell he had a reproach on the tip of his tongue, but he kept quiet, and she was glad for it. She didn’t need anyone to tell her how careless she’d been – she felt guilty enough as it was. Instead, he put the piece of paper to the side and looked at the next one. It wasn’t any better. In fact, this one, she thought, was perhaps the worst of all. It had been her list of who would be doing what that day, and she’d assigned him to operate the camera just beneath that steel beam.

“It looks like premeditation,” he said, looking back up at her. “Danielle, if you hadn’t caught this before… if I’d… you could have been convicted with attempted murder.”

“There’s more in there.”

Hunt shook his head. “I don’t want to see it. I know it wasn’t that.”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she said, looking down at her hands. “He…” She took a deep breath. “Carson could have died, and it would have been my fault.”

Hunt shook his head again, more vehemently this time. She imagined it couldn’t have been feeling good, considering his massive hangover. “But nobody died. And you weren’t anywhere near experienced enough to know. Even if you’d checked everything, you could have missed it.”

“It was my responsibility,” she insisted. She wasn’t quite sure how the conversation had taken such a turn – she hadn’t come to talk about her guilt or any of this, really, but just to confront him and find out just why he’d done what he’d done.

She didn’t notice she’d started crying until she felt a hand on her arm, squeezing ever so slightly. She recognised the gesture as something she’d done to calm him many times before, and her tears came even harder then.

“Danielle, I’ve disagreed with this policy since I’ve started teaching at the university,” he told her. “I’ve wanted projects supervised by experts for a long time. Only putting students who don’t know their craft yet to work – and in fields they may have even less experience, at that! – has never sat right with me.”

She didn’t argue with that – he had a point, after all, though it didn’t change a thing about her feelings towards it all – but decided to go back to their original conversation. The reason she’d come here in the first place. “You were going to have me put behind bars for it, anyway.”

This statement seemed to wipe any trace of sympathy he’d had for her away and he withdrew his hand from her arm, letting it fall to his side. “I didn’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Danielle said with a shake of her head. “It doesn’t. If anything, it just makes it worse – that you didn’t even know what was in there; that your only goal was to hurt me. And for what? Because you thought I had a thing with Viktor?”

“Because I know you’re working with him!” Hunt accused, slapping one hand down on the stone counter. She could tell from the expression on his face that it had hurt him, and she couldn’t find it in her to care. He really thought she could have done that, after everything? That, more than anything he’d said to her since she’d known him, hurt somewhere deep in her chest.

She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat. Then, very quietly, she said, “But I’m not. I was just… I was just going to fix things. I was going to fix everything.”

Tags: @lilyoffandoms @trappedinfandoms @oneemofungirl @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @alj4890 @alleksa16 @flyawayboo @silversparrow02

#hwu hunt #thomas hunt #professor hunt #danielle

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Best Part of Me -Chapter 6

Warnings: none

Tagging: @innerpaperexpertcloud, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @thunderintheshadows

He’s been sober for six months, two weeks, and four days.

Completely cutting out all alcohol had been difficult. Far more than he’d thought it would be, the withdrawal both brutal and eye opening. He’d never considered himself an alcoholic, or even acknowledged that he had even the slightest bit of an addiction to booze. But the side effects of quitting had told him otherwise. Seventy-two hours of a near crippling headache, heart palpitations, extreme nausea and vomiting. Even excessive sweating and tremors in his hands. It had been a huge wakeup call. The realization that his drinking had been taking over his life and he hadn’t even been aware of it. That had he not stopped and continue down that path towards complete and utter dependency, he would have lost everything that mattered to him.

Most days and weeks he handles it well, too busy to even think about drinking, let alone indulge in it. They keep no alcohol in the house to avoid any chance of temptation, and Esme had quit right after she’d found out that they were expecting Addie and had vowed to never touch the stuff again. It was something they could do together; serving as one another’s support systems.

Yet there’s times where he does crave it. Not necessarily a need, but a want. And it’s not overwhelming; he’s not desperate enough to drop everything and run out to the store and stock up on booze. Just a lingering taste for it while spending time out in the sun or after a long and tiring day of working outside. Or when something or someone is irritating him to the point of needing an escape...even a mental one...from them.

Tonight is the latter. He’s agitated; with Ovi’s sudden interest in the job, with Chloe’s romanticizing of the life and putting it in his head that there’s something he needs to prove and that getting into it would somehow make him ‘more of a man’. As if somehow insinuating that Tyler himself is less of one because he’d walked away. It’s bad enough that there’s times he views himself that way; that he’s broken and damaged and not even half of the person that he used to be. And he tries to ignore those thoughts; to remind himself that it’s just his fucked up brain talking and that the one person in the world whose opinion matters to him, doesn’t see him that way. In her eyes, he’s even stronger for being able to recognize his issues and walk away. That he’s more of a man for choosing his own wellbeing and his family over the job.

For the most part he’s been able to ignore his growing resentment for Chloe. Everything suddenly seems to annoy him; from the way she dresses to the way she laughs, even the sound of her voice. Electing to avoid her company in favor of spending time with the kids; in and out of the water with them, helping them dig in the sand, taking them for walks to look for shells and beach glass. Listening to them chattering on about their respective days at school, offering up the appropriate comments, laughing at the right times, and asking the questions that gets them talking even more. He loves hearing those little voices; the Aussie accents that are already beginning to creep in, the sounds of their laughter, the way they tease and bicker with one another. They each have their own very distinct personalities but are so alike in other ways; appearance, mannerisms, facial expressions. And he cherishes his time with them; teaching them to surf, taking them fishing and camping, those midafternoon naps when they’re all curled up next to him on the couch, lying on the beach once the sun sets and watching the stars with them, even reading the same damn bedtime stories over and over again. Because those moments are fleeting; they’ll grow up fast and become independent and then spending time with mom and dad won’t be exciting or fun anymore.

He’d stayed silent through dinner –cooked over open flame on the beach- and tried not to snap at every little stupid thing Chloe said or her annoying, high pitched laugh, or the way Ovi waited on her hand and foot and looked at her as if she was the most incredible woman on the planet. Irrational of course, seeing as that's how he’s been looking at his own wife every day for the past six years. But since the job conversation with Ovi, everything Chloe related just bugs the ever-loving shit out of him. Prompting him to jump at the chance to be the one to put the kids to bed. Dragging his feet through the entire nighttime routine; baths, teeth brushing, reading stories, tucking them in. Hoping that if he stalls long enough, Chloe and Ovi will be long gone and he won’t have to worry about playing nice anymore. And he’s disappointed –and even more irritated- when he still finds them there, sitting on the back patio, Chloe on her second bottle of wine.

“Everyone asleep?” Esme asks, as Tyler drops into the chair beside her, then leans in to press a kiss to her temple.

He knows she can sense just how on edge he actually is; years ago, words had stopped being necessary and they’d become able to read one another’s facial expressions and body language. And she gives him a soft, reassuring smile and leans sideways in her seat, resting her head against him, his arm wrapping around her shoulders.

“Everyone except this one,” he says, and nods down at Addie as she lays along her mother’s arm; so tiny and so perfect. A mixture of everything that’s good about him and everything that’s amazing about his wife. He feels blessed. That he’s been given this opportunity five times; to help create another human being. And he brings his hand to the side of his wife’s head as it lays against him and kisses her temple once again.

“She’s probably waiting for you. She always falls asleep better for daddy. These kids are traitors. All of them. Can’t I be someone’s favorite?”

She’s smiling as she says it, and he takes the baby from her, settling Addie against his chest; a forearm along her back, palm supporting her head. And his free hand takes a hold of his wife’s, lacing their fingers together and placing their joined hands on his thigh. It will keep him grounded. Calm. If he can feel her.

“This was really nice,” Chloe gushes, as Ovi curls an around her shoulders and she leans into him. “Being able to spend time together like this. We should do it more often.”

Tyler wants to tell her that there’s no fucking way he wants to make it a regular occurrence. But he doesn’t. Instead he just nods and places a kiss to the side of Addie’s head and tightens his hold on Esme’s hand.

“Well things get busy,” his wife says, and then winces and directs a light kick to the side of his calf when he grips her hand a little too hard. “With the kids and their things and stuff we need to do around here. There’s not a lot of time to spare.”

“I could help out more,” Chloe offers. “With the kids.”

“It’s okay,” Tyler speaks up. A little too quickly and harshly. Earning a glare from Ovi and a clearing of the throat from Esme. “We’ve got it under control,” he adds, and then attempts a smile.

“Well I’m not far,” Chloe gives that laugh that grates on his nerves. “You know where to find me.”

“She’ll be fine.,” he says. “We’ll be fine. But thanks.”

Chloe gives a tight-lipped smile; she knows she’s being dismissed.

Silence descends on the table, uncomfortable and tense. The only sounds the rustling of the trees surrounding the property and the waves rolling onto the shore. Esme shifts uncomfortably in her seat, reaching for a now lukewarm cup of tea that sits in front of her, and Tyler loosens his grip on her hand and repeatedly his fingertips along the smooth, cool metal of her wedding band. There’d never been the need or desire for anything more; his proposal had been nothing more than a simple ‘marry me’. It simply isn’t their style; grand, elaborate gestures and expensive pieces of jewelry.

“So did Ovi tell you about his business proposition?” Chloe asks, and Tyler feels his entire body tense. This is not how he wanted Esme to find out; he’d planned on bringing it up to her when all their guests had left and the kids were asleep and he’d already given her two or three orgasms in a way to relax her and ‘lighten the mood’.

“Chloe...sweetie...” Ovi is clearly uncomfortable with the subject now at hand. “This is not the time to talk about this.”

“What do you mean? This is the perfect time! We're all here. Together. There couldn’t possibly be a better time.”

“What business proposition?” Esme asks, glancing between her husband and Ovi. “What’s going on?”

“Ovi had an amazing idea,” Chloe gushes. “About him and Tyler going into business together.”

“Okay...” Esme sounds suspicious. “...but what kind of business?”

“The job,” the other woman says it so cheerfully, as if that kind of career is so normal. That accepting money and putting your ass on the line for strangers -and even killing people- is the most natural thing in the world.

“The job?” Esme frowns. “As in what Tyler used to do? That’s what you’re talking about, right? Being a mercenary? Because that’s what I think of when someone says ‘the job’.”

“This is really isn’t a good time,” Ovi mumbles. “This could have waited. Until a different night.”

Tyler shakes his head and forces himself to look away from both of him, dragging his top teeth over his bottom lip; feeling the rage that begins to simmer inside of him. Concentrating on that little body that’s pressed tightly against him; those tiny fists that tightly grip his t-shirt, the smell that clings to her sleeper, the softness of her hair against his palm.

“What the hell is going on?” Esme asks. “Why are you two even talking about the job? Never mind that, why are you...” she stares pointedly at Tyler. “...talking about the job?”

“I wasn’t talking about it,” he replies. “I mean, I was. But I wasn’t.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. You either were or you weren’t.”

“I brought it up,” Ovi comes to his defense. “It’s not like it was his idea to talk about it. He never talks about it.”

“So why were you talking about it?” Esme inquires. “There shouldn’t be a reason to talk about the job. We came here to get away from it. We gave up that life. Why is it getting brought back up? And there better be a good goddamn reason for it, too.”

“There’s no reason to freak out,” Chloe grumbles, and Esme glares at her.

“Listen little girl, you don’t come to my house and talk to me like that. You come here...under my roof, where my children are...and you bring up the job? After everything it put us through. And you expect me not to freak out? It doesn’t work that way. This is between Ovi and I now. You can leave or you can sit there and listen.”

“Is that an option for me too?” Tyler asks. “Or...”

“You’re involved whether you want to be or not,” she replies. “So no. That’s not an option for you.”

“It was just an idea I had,” Ovi attempts to explains.

“An amazing idea,” Chloe jumps in.

“I’m not talking to you,” Esme snaps. “I don’t want to hear from you. So just sit there and be quiet and let me speak to Ovi. To my son.”

“He’s not your...”

“Don’t...” Tyler warns. “...even finish that sentence.”

Chloe throws her hands up in surrender, then leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest, angrily tapping her foot against the ground.

“Ovi...” Esme’s voice is low, calm. Almost too calm. Tyler knows that tone all too well; he’s been on the receiving end of it and knows what follows if you don’t tread lightly. He’s made the mistake –more than once- of not watching where he steps and having to face the consequences. “...what the hell is going on? Why are you talking about the job? You know we left that behind. We all agreed on that. That once we left Colorado, that was it. That once Tyler decided he had enough, we’d never mention it again. So what is going on?”

“I had this idea,” he nervously begins. “That Tyler and I could do something together. Start a business. Outside of the one we already have.”

Chloe opens her mouth to speak and Esme holds her hand up to both silence her and warn her to keep quiet.

“And this has to do with the job how?”

“Because...” he chews on his bottom lip. “...it is the job.”

“So you’re brilliant idea is to get my husband back into the job? Is that honestly what you’re trying to tell me? Despite everything he went through in Dhaka, despite nearly dying there, despite everything you saw him go through and everything you went through yourself. You thought it was a good idea to get him back into it?”

Tyler clears his throat noisily and stands up; too anxious to sit still yet needing to remain calm for his daughter’s sake. Adjusting his hold on her and laying her along his forearm, her head resting securely in the crook of his elbow, feet not even reaching his palm. Running his free hand over her hair, fingers fidgeting with the snap closures on her sleeper, then moving down to her feet; gently rubbing the soles and each of the tiny toes. Body swaying side to side, more an attempt to soothe himself than her.

“I thought it was something that we could do together,” Ovi says. “We could run things. Take on clients. Maybe even hire more people once we got things off the ground. I thought if we were together, it would be better. Easier.”

“So even knowing that he willingly walked away from things and has sworn up and down to never...ever...go back, you still tried to bring him into this? Why? Knowing everything it’s done to him. Everything it has done to us. You were there. You’ve been with us for more than five years now. You’ve seen what it’s done. How it almost ended us. More than once. And you still thought it was a good idea?”

“I thought if we both got involved that it would be okay. That he wouldn’t be going alone and...”

“No, Ovi. It’s not okay. It’s not okay in the slightest. What would make you think it was okay? He almost died once. That’s not enough for you? Because it was enough for me. More than enough. And that was back before we didn’t have any of this. This life. When we didn’t have kids to take care of. Five kids that need their father. How is it okay that you bring him back into this bullshit and leave my kids without their dad? Maybe that’s okay for the two of you. You don’t have anything to lose. But we do. We have so much to lose and I can’t believe you didn’t even care about any of that.”

“I wasn’t thinking that much into it,” he admits. “I was just thinking it would be fun to get into. Running a business like that ourselves.”

“Yeah, because it’s so much fun watching the person you love getting shot in the throat and having them bleed out all over you. Does that sound like fun to you? Or you?” she directs the last question to Chloe. “Does that sound like it was fun? Because it was fucking hell on earth for me. Twenty minutes felt like twenty hours on that bridge. And as pissed off as I am right now...no, as disgusted as I am right now...I wouldn't wish that on you. Seeing that happen. Holding someone while they’re choking on their own blood. Shoving your fingers in their throat to try to keep them alive. Does that sound like fucking fun to you?”

Both Ovi and Chloe shake their head.

“I’m done,” Esme shoves her chair away from the table and stands up, using the backs of her hands to clear away the tears that flow freely down her face. It’s been over six years and it sometimes still feels as if it were yesterday; the memory still so fresh and haunting that it is physically painful. Yet she always keeps it tightly bottled up inside, for the sake of her husband, the sake of her children. Even for the sake of her own sanity. Because dealing with it is just too damn difficult. “I’m done with you two. With this whole goddamn conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” Ovi offers a feeble apology. “I never...”

“I have to get out of there,” she says to Tyler. “I’ll take her and give her last feeding and put her to bed.”

“Esme...”

“I’m fine,” she assures him, and attempts a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

He lays the baby in her arms, then uses the bottom of his t-shirt to clear away the last of her tears.

“Can you handle all of this?” she jerks her head in the direction of the cluttered table. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

“I got it,” he assures her. “It’s fine. You gonna be okay?

She nods, and he lays a hand on the side of her face and presses a kiss to her forehead. “I just need to go.”

“It’s okay,” he pushes her hair away from her face, tucks it behind her ears. “I understand. I’ll be up in a little while. Once I handle things.”

She gives another weak smile, then rests her forehead briefly against his chest before heading into the house.

*****

“What the fuck have you two done?” Tyler keeps his voice low, but malice and contempt drip from every word.

“I’m sorry,” Ovi is quick to apologize. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I didn’t mean for it to come out at all.”

“She needed to know,” Chloe says, giving a flippant shrug. As if she didn’t just play a huge role in creating an epic shit show.

Dhaka is a sore spot. An extremely sore spot. One they didn’t like to visit often but always felt like pure and utter hell when they did. His memories aren’t that vivid or fresh; not one of those moments on the bridge after Fahrad had shot him. He only knows what he’s been told, or the little snippets that his brain has managed to piece together. For Esme it’s much worse, she can remember every second of those final twenty minutes on the bridge. Every word, every noise, every smell. Even what the blood had felt like as it streamed through her fingers. Yet she very rarely talks about it. She prefers to keep it inside and deal with it on her own. Not wanting to burden him with her issues when he’s so busy struggling with his own.

“No she didn’t,” Tyler snarls. “There was no fucking reason for her to know because I already told him I wasn’t interested. That I wasn’t going to talk about it, and he was going to forget all about it.”

“You can’t deal him what to do,” she bites back. “You’re not his father.”

“I’m the closest thing he has to one. I guess he didn’t tell you, huh? That I told he was an idiot for even considering the job and you’re an even bigger idiot for trying to talk him into it.”

Chloe leaps to her feet and clamps her hands on her hips. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but...”

“I’m the guy that nearly died saving his ass!” Tyler gestures towards Ovi. “I’m the one that gave him a home and a family because his real father is an evil prick who put his son in danger in the first place. You think he has what it takes to be a mercenary? Did he tell you how I had to give him a pair of pants because he pissed his own? I bet he didn’t tell you that part did he.”

“I know that he killed someone. To save your ass.”

“And what? It takes killing someone to make him a man in your eyes? You’re actually proud of that? That he’s done that? You’re fucked up. You have issues. You’re putting all this bullshit in his head. That he needs to prove something to you. That somehow the job is the only way for him to do that. You have no goddamn clue what that life is like. You’re just a delusional little girl. Get the fuck out of here with your bullshit.”

“Tyler...” Ovi attempts to diffuse the situation. “...if we just sit down and talk about this calmly...”

“We’re not talking about this. I said what I needed to say. I’m not getting involved in this. I left that life behind me. I’m not that guy anymore. He’s gone. I have a wife and kids. That’s my life now.”

“Pretty pathetic life,” Chloe mutters.

“You need to go. You need to get out of my face before I really say something I’ll regret. This is me being polite. If you’d rather I be a total asshole...”

“Are you just going to sit there and let him talk to me like this?!” Chloe turns her ire on Ovi, who just sighs in exasperation and puts his face in his hands. “You’re just going to sit back and let him act like this?!”

“This is my fucking house,” Tyler reminds her. “And if it wasn’t for me and my wife, you’d be stuck back in Colorado all by yourself. I’m the one who puts a roof over your head and food on your table. Yet you think you can come here and cause all this shit? You have no idea what any of us have been through. What things were like before you came along. So you need to need to know your place and just step off.”

“He’s right you know,” Ovi says. “You don’t know everything that happened before you came along. Especially what happened in Dhaka.”

“I know he fucked up,” Chloe nods in Tyler’s direction.

“That is not what happened,” Ovi argues. “He did not mess up. My father did. Tyler did what he had to do to keep me alive and get me out of there. Even when he knew there was no money. He could have just let me in the street, but he didn’t. I’m only here because he didn’t give up on me. Or himself.”

“And you’re going to pay for that for the rest of your life? Because he wants to be martyr? He gets to hold saving you over your head for the rest of your life? Expecting you to be constantly on your hands and knees, kissing his ass?”

“Jesus fuck,” Tyler gives a dry laugh and shakes his head, then begins gathering the dirty dishes and silverware from the table. “You’re really a piece of work, you know that? He should have left you behind in Colorado. I should have paid him to leave you there. And this is what you want to get yourself into?” he directs the question towards Ovi. “You want to spend the rest of your life with her? It couldn’t have just been a fuck and duck? Good like with that one, mate. You’re going to need it.”

Chloe opens her mouth to respond but stops when the sliding glass door opens and Tanner wanders out; clad in just a pair of Captain America pajama pants that are too short in the legs, his hair mussed from sleep, pressing the heels of his palms into his tired eyes.

“What are you doing up, mate?” Tyler asks. “It’s late and there’s school tomorrow.”

“I know.” he yawns loudly and wraps both arms around one of his dad’s thigh. “But I’m thirsty and mommy said to tell you.”

“She did, did she?”

Tanner nods.

“Alright, let’s go,” he sets the items in his hands down on the table, then uses one arm to effortlessly scoop his son up onto his hip. He’s long and lanky, but remarkably light. Fifteen pounds smaller than his mere minutes older brother. And he presses a kiss to the side of Tanner’s head, who in turns curls both arms around his neck and nestles his face into his shoulder. Of the twins, he’s the sensitive and affectionate one. Not as much of a momma’s boy anymore, his relationship and bond with his father much stronger since Tyler returned from Ireland. “What do you want?” he asks, as steps into the house, leaving Chloe and Ovi behind without even a farewell or ‘fuck off’. “Wine? Beer? Tequila?”

“No,” Tanner giggles into his neck. “Warm milk.”

“Warm milk? What if I don’t know how to use the stove?”

Another giggle. “Use the microwave.”

“What if I don’t know how to use that?”

“You know how to use the microwave, silly daddy. I seen you do it.”

“Well don’t tell your mum that, okay? Or she’ll expect me to do more around here.”

“I won’t tell. My lips are sealed.” Tanner mimics locking up his mouth and throwing away the key.

Tyler grins. “How are you going to drink your milk if you can’t open your mouth?”

“I can open my mouth, daddy. I was just playin’. Come on now. Get it together.”

He chuckles at that. “You’re starting to sound like your mum.”

“She’s the smart one,” Tanner concludes.

“I don’t know how smart she can be when she hangs around the likes of me.”

“She probably thinks you’re cute!”

“Yeah, that’s probably it. You want down or....”

Tanner shakes his head, expertly wriggles his way around to father’s back, once again wrapping his arms around Tyler’s neck and clamping those long, skinny legs against his torso.

“Your sister asleep?” he asks, as he fetches the milk from the fridge and a mug from the cupboard above the sink.

“Which one?”

“The nice one.”

“Yeah, Addie’s asleep. Millie too. But she’s not nice. At all.”

“Not even sometimes?” he pours some milk into the mug and holds it up for Tanner go give his approval on whether or not it’s enough.

“Maybe sometimes. Like when she beats up the bullies at school.”

“She does that a lot? Beats people up?”

“Once in a while. When they deserve it. Like when they call Teej stupid. I don’t like when they say mean things about him. He’s my brother. We were in mommy’s tummy at the same time, right daddy?”

“At the exact same time,” Tyler confirms, then lets his son push the buttons on the microwave to heat the milk.

“How’d we get in there, tho’?”

“That’s something I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“How much older?”

“A lot older.”

“How much is a lot?” Tanner presses.

“I dunno. Ten or twenty years.”

“That’s a fucking lot.”

“Hey!” Tyler scolds. “Language.”

“You say it all the time!”

“I’m allowed. I’m older than you.”

“By how much?”

“Thirty-six years.”

“Holy shit! You’re old, daddy! Sorry,” he giggles when his dad scowls at him. “Potty mouth.”

“Yeah, you have a potty mouth, alright. Just make sure when people ask where you learned it from, you say mommy.”

“That’s a lie though. You said never to lie.”

“I’ll give you ten bucks for each time you say it.”

“Okay,” Tanner happily agrees, and then once more wriggles his body around to its original position on his dad’s hip so Tyler can sink down into one of the chairs at the kitchen table; settling his son on his lap, a palm running over his the five year old’s hair, then pressing a kiss to the back to the back of his head.

“School was good today?”

Tanner shrugs and sips at his milk.

“What did you learn about?”

“Dinosaurs.”

“They were teaching you about dinosaurs?”

“I was reading about them. I dunno what everyone else was doing.”

“Look, I’m relying on you to be the smart one, mate. I need you to become a doctor or a lawyer so you that can be really rich when you’re my age and you can take care of me.”

“I don’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer, though.”

“What do you want to be?”

“I dunno. A vet. I like animals.”

“Be a big game vet. They make more money. I’m counting you. You need to be the one that steps it up at school. Because I think I’m going to be saving on college education for your brother. What was his day like? He have any problems?”

“Nope. He was good all day. No one picked on him today.”

“Is that what causes his issues?” Tyler combs his fingers through his son’s hair; Tanner had insisted on his old haircut. The one that Esme had loved so much. It has made the resemblance between them even more startling; all the kids look like him, but there’s something about Tanner that sets him apart from the others. Something stronger in those genes; the same mannerisms and facial expressions. Even the same way of saying certain words. “Someone picks on him?”

“Mostly ‘cause people pick on the other kids and he gets mad about it and wants to protect them.”

It doesn’t surprise Tyler; TJ is the one that will take on his sister if he feels Millie is being mean to Tanner or picking on Declan. And he doesn’t care if he gets the beating of a lifetime. He’s more than willing to put himself on the line if it means sticking up for the underdog.

“Millie has a boyfriend,” Tanner abruptly announces.

Tyler frowns. “Your sister what now?”

“She has a boyfriend,” he casually responds.

“What do you mean she has a boyfriend? She’s not even six yet.”

“Not like boyfriend and girlfriend like you and mommy.”

“Your mom and I are married. We haven’t been boyfriend and girlfriend in a long time.” Where they ever really? They’d never actually put a label on things. Did they just skip that stage? Just going from fucking one another to finding out about Millie to getting married? It had just seemed normal to them. Things had started out unconventionally and the trend just continued. “Who’s the boyfriend?”

“I dunno. Some kid in her class.”

“What’s his name?”

Tanner shrugs.

“What’s he look like?”

“What is this? Twenty questions?”

Tyler chuckles and kisses his son’s cheek. “You are your mother’s son.”

“He’s just some kid. I dunno his name.”

“Is he nice? To your sister?”

“He must be. She hasn’t punched him in the face yet.”

Fair point.

“I’ll give you another ten bucks if you find out what his name is,” Tyler offers.

Tanner shakes his head. “Twenty.”

“For twenty I want pictures of him and his address.”

Tanner throws a hand up in exasperation. “How am I supposed to do that? I’m five.”

“Fifteen and you get me his first and last name.”

Tanner considers it, a pensive frown on his face as he stares down at the now empty mug in his hands. “I can do that,” he eventually agrees. “But I want the money before school tomorrow. Or no deal.”

“You get half tomorrow and the other half when you get the job done and give me the information. That’s how it works. I get proof, you get the rest of the money. You can’t extort me, mate. Nice try though.”

“What’s extort?”

“We got a deal or not?”

“Fine,” Tanner sighs. “Half tomorrow and half later. You’re tough.”

“I’ve got more experience in this stuff than you do. Ready? All done?”

The five-year-old yawns loudly and nods. “I gotta pee though.”

“Go,” he tousles Tanner’s hair. “Hurry up. It’s late. And stay on the deck. Don’t pee on it. Do that in the sand. But do not go any farther than the end of the deck. Got it?”

“Got it,” he agrees, and then jumps off his father’s lap and hurries through the kitchen and out the sliding door.

Tyler stands; grimacing at the tightness in his shoulder and the pain that shoots through his knee and travels all the way down the calf. And he grabs one of the prescription bottles from the highest shelf above the sink and shakes out three of the pain pills and swallows them dry, then adds Tanner’s dirty mug to the dishwasher and turns it on.

“Done!” Tanner announces, and runs towards him, laughing hysterically when his father effortlessly catches him and turns him upside down, his legs wrapping around Tyler’s neck. “Don’t drop me daddy!” he pleads. “You got me?”

“I got you, mate,” he promises, an arm securely pressed against his son’s stomach, free hand turning off the lights to the kitchen go. “Always.”

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #best part of me #chris hemsworth character #extraction

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pernatius · 3 years

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Lost in Space Part 8: Ch 4

Summary: Syco’s insanity is explored and the mind of the unnamed Space Explorer is as well.

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Saying her name felt like I was basking in the morning light in the middle of a meadow vegetated with dandelions and other such delicate flowers as an appropriately sized butterfly fluttered to the very tip of my nose but hearing her name was painful. I heard a gurgle, almost a growl coming from deep within my ear. Touching it, and I could see my fingertips covered in blood. It’s almost black, nearly as black as the figure in front of me. They look like they’ve been burnt alive. Their skin was eaten up by the hellish flames they crawled out of. Again, they’re faceless, and yet again I’m reaching out towards them. Instead of touching it, I’m touching her face. For the second time, she giggles, and yet again I’m blushing from such an artless reaction. My fingers scrunch up like how the paper would after the author behind its fresh lettering crumples it up, frustrated and discouraged that their intelligence has become that of an angsty teenager. In my panic, I noticed the ends of my fingers had faded back to pink. It's as if there wasn’t any blood to begin with, but rather the splitting and the spilling of my mind because I can no longer separate the real world from my imagination.

“Sorry,” I apologized.

“Why are you saying sorry? Usually, I start the hand-holding and such, the whole softness business, but that doesn’t mean I’m not okay with you taking the lead. I enjoyed it even though it was short.”

I wasn’t apologizing for touching her, but I should because she didn’t give me consent. I don’t like touching people before they initiate. It makes me feel gross whenever I do. I’m apologizing because we’ve been dating for two months, almost three, and I still haven’t revealed to her that I’m wrong, sick. Almost three months ago it was only in my dreams, but now they’re appearing in real life.

Her touch is tender, but her hands are as cold as ice because we’ve been outside since midnight. It’s five minutes past three. This was all unplanned. She threw rocks at my window until I got out of bed to tell her that she’s crazy for trying to get me even more in trouble. I’ve been grounded for something I can’t quite remember. It gives me a headache whenever I try to remember. She said she missed me and wanted to see me. I told her to put on some gloves then, but she said she missed my touch, and now I’m telling her again to keep her hands in her pockets. I don’t want to be the cause of her catching a cold. Whenever she’s sick it takes her a week to get over it.

“That’s why I’m putting my hands on your face, silly. It’s as hot as the sun from all that blushing.”

I stuttered and looked away, watching my breath in the corner of my eye. She got a kick out of that, which got me to pout.

“Hey now,” she turned my face and moved it closer to hers, “if you keep making that face I’m going to have to-”

“Wait,” I yelped.

She leans in. I can smell her lip balm. It’s cherry-flavored. It’s always cherry-flavored. I squeeze my eyes shut and pucker my lips a little too tightly, causing my nose to look like an accordion with all of the new creases. We’re in the middle of the park across the school, before the moonlit pond, which is filled with sleeping ducks, geese, and turtles. Of course, it being this late into the night the park has been closed for hours now. We snuck in. Ashley climbed the fence with me following a second after. Holding this face that clearly said I am still a virgin, one of few virgins left in our class, for what was probably a minute, I hesitantly reopened my eyes. Ashley snorted.

I tell the mocking girl in front of me, “Meanie. You’re always teasing me.” Then, out comes another pout.

This time she goes through with it. Well, sort of. She gives me a little smooch on my forehead. I should be going blank and the pit of my stomach should be heating up like it always does whenever she kisses me, but this time I feel nauseous.

I must’ve gone green because she asks, “Are you alright?”

Before I could respond footsteps could be heard and a flashlight could be seen coming our way. Both are a good distance away from us. There’s no way the source of both could see us, but Ashley immediately grabs my hand and rushes us into the restroom some steps behind us. Luckily it was open and thank God it was a good hiding spot. We covered each other's mouths and noses with both hands as if the guard could somehow hear our breathing from so far away. He’s probably old. Maybe in his early thirties, which meant hard of hearing. When we could no longer hear his footsteps, we both let out a sigh of relief. I yawn, which meant I’m ready to head back outside and climb the gate again, be as far away from the possibility of going to jail for breaking in and especially be inside the comfort and warmth of my bed. She grabs my wrist and I meet with her wiggling eyebrows before I can step outside the stall.

“I’d rather not have my first time next to that.” I nudged towards the clogged toilet that’s been begging to be cleaned since this afternoon.

“But the rush. It’s so...scandalous. We could get caught at any time.”

“This place? Here? It's rancid," I stick my tongue out before my deadpan, "Public restrooms, especially park public restrooms are never clean. Let’s not do it here. I don’t think getting multiple STDs is worth the 'rush'.”

“Not here you say.” There she goes making that smug face she always does when she thinks she’s outsmarted me.

“I-," I raise a finger then retract it, "Why are you so horny right now?”

Being in theatre, she uses it to her advantage as she dramatically announces with pride, “The night is young and beautiful and I am too. I’m nearing adulthood, but I yet to know what it’s like to have my flower taken from me.“

“You’re not the virgin here. I am. You got your ‘flower’ taken away two years ago, sophomore year, right after your last show.”

“That doesn't count.”

“That terrible, huh?” She does another of her infamous faces. Although, this is the cutest I’ve ever seen her puppy face. Once she starts twiddling her thumbs I can’t help but continue with, “Fine. My place if that’ll finally get us out of here.” A shiver, a bad feeling, climbs up my spine.

That was ten minutes ago, but my words have not left my mind. It was hard enough as it was to sneak her inside before dad got up for work. I don't remember what he does, something that has to do with computers, but all I know is that he gets up before the birds start chirping. That was a seven on the hardness scale. This is a ten. Maybe an eleven because I can’t bring myself to lift my shirt, only shake above its hem. Her making that face as she undresses makes it even harder. She’s just in a bra and underwear when she leans in and presses our foreheads together. I gulp when she touches my face. Speaking of hardness, I look down and accidentally eye her cleavage. I bite the inside of my mouth before I do something I'll regret when I'm wide awake. “If you don’t want to do it now that’s fine. I'm sorry for trying to force you to do something you're clearly not ready for. It’s just that sometimes,” she looks away, “Sometimes I worry that you don’t like me the way I do for you.”

“Now who’s the silly one here?” We look into each other’s eyes. I was finally confident just a second ago and now with her eyes looking into mine, I’ve once again become a gay mess. “I mean. Um. Like how can I not like you? You’re kind. You’re stunning,” I tell myself to stop looking at her chest, “You get really cute when you're practicing lines. You’re just amazing, you know?

It took me by surprise, so that’s why my eyes were wide open for a moment. I closed them when I was the one for once to deepen the kiss. She’s supposed to taste like cherry, but she didn’t. She tasted bitter almost like blood. Pushing her away, I don’t see the same girl. Her eyes are fully white. Her head is slumped forward. Blood is seen dripping down from her agape mouth. She’s groaning one moment and the next she’s asking what’s wrong.

“Ashley?” It came out as a croak as if something was blocking my vocal cords. My throat tightens as if someone is choking it. Wiping my eyes, scrubbing that nightmare out of my sight, she’s back to normal. Between her worry is a voice I should be familiar with. My body is telling me I know who he is and it’s also telling me something is wrong when blood comes out of my ears again. “This isn’t right.”

“I’m sorry? I’m sorry for kissing you.”

“No, that’s not it.” My head begins to pound. I press my hand against it. Ashley moves towards me, but I slap her hand away.

“What the hell? Okay, I get it that I shouldn’t have pushed myself onto you. I shouldn’t have tried to see that my three-month girlfriend actually likes me because she never does anything that tells me she does. Never kissing apparently. Not hugging. Not even hand-holding. I’ve been patient with you. I’ve done everything for you. My friends have been telling me to break up with you, but I don’t because you’re not like the other girls at school. That’s what I told them, but now I don’t even know anymore.”

“I’m not well. I think I’m insane.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been seeing things for months now. Horrific things.”

She scoffs before downplaying my words with, “I’ve kept you awake all night. I think you just need some rest.”

Turning away from her, I look at the clock above my dresser. I can’t read what it says. It’s not because it’s dark, it's because its hands are twisting together and its numbers are blurring together just like the numbers on the board three months ago. Moving my head away, the posters on my walls and the walls themselves begin to melt. I could now hear my heartbeats. It’s causing my head to hurt, even more, causing me to scream and cry out. I grip the blankets underneath me and shake.

“It’s not real,” the same disembodied male voice from earlier told me.

Ashley tries to ask me what’s wrong as she lays one hand on one of my own and the other on my face. It’s not as soft as before. It’s rough and hot. Not the good kind of hot. The skin beneath her hand feels as if it’s boiling. My pain doubles. By now it feels as if my head could split open at any second.

I hadn’t realized I was closing my eyes until I reopened them to see a different Ashley. She was older and had red hair. I shake my head, push her away, and get up. “You’re not her. You’re not my Ashley.”

“All I’m hearing is that you definitely need some sleep. When was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t know. No, I don’t remember a lot of things. I can’t remember anything before three months ago. I have to get out of here. Something isn’t right. This isn’t right.” As I stumble towards the door, she grabs my wrist. “Let go of me. I shouldn’t be here. You’re not Ashley. You’re not my Ashley.”

“What are you even saying? Isn’t this what you wanted? Aren't I who you want?” Again, she kisses me and yet again I cut the kiss short. I meet with her watery eyes.

“Yes, this is what I want, but it's not real.” I raise my other hand to wipe away the running blood that's spilling out of my nose. I see my hand is bigger than it was previously. It has callouses. “Children live in lies to escape from reality. I’m sorry, but I’m not a child. I’m an adult, an adult who needs to get back to reality. I need the real Ashley.”

With that, I lank my hand free from her grip and swing open the door.

#217 #lost in space #my writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr

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gellavonhamster · 4 years

Text

beneath the music from a farther room

gen || R the Duchess of Winnipeg, Beatrice Baudelaire, Lemony Snicket, Beatrice Baudelaire Jr. || R/Beatrice, mentions of R/Sally Sebald || pre-canon, missing scene, post-canon

ao3 link || originally posted in Russian

(title taken from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot)

It would not be an exaggeration to say that balls were part of her life as long as she could remember.

At first, of course, she didn’t take part in them. At first, she treaded carefully down the corridors barefoot on the shining cold parquet and soft carpet runners, trying not to make a sound, ready to flee at once to some corner as soon as any adult heaved into sight. Moving in quick, quick dashes down the stairs to the mezzanine, where the walls were lined with paintings and antique weapons and the flowerpots were crowding the space by the balustrade. She used to find a hideaway among the plants – a four-year old, she felt like a knight wandering in a fairy-tale forest among those rubber figs and palm-trees – and breathlessly observed the grownups in the hall below. One day, she would think, I won’t be sitting here anymore. I’ll go down to the hall too, in a long dress gleaming with all the colours of the rainbow and in elbow-length gloves. My face will be covered with a mask of feathers and lace but everyone will know it’s me because I’ll be the lady of the house, because they all will have come to present their compliments to me (she didn’t know such expressions back then, naturally, but she was already aware that one day she would become very, very important, and that awareness filled her with happiness and dread at the same time). Everyone will joke and have fun, and the waiters in white suit jackets will serve out champagne, and I will drink champagne too, and no one will forbid me to. And the music will be playing, and everyone will be dancing. For what’s the use dressing up and coming together if nobody’s dancing?

She could have sat like that the whole night, staring at the dancing couples, but every time her disappearance was discovered quickly – far too quickly. The nanny would come – Nelly or Ellie, or perhaps Millie, some simple and sweet name. At one point, when Ramona was already grown-up, it occurred to her that the nanny could have quite possibly had some different name, but she, being a little kid, was allowed to call her by whatever name she could pronounce. Ramona did not remember Nelly’s, or Ellie’s, face, only the way her hands used to smell of jasmine because earlier she bathed Ramona and washed her with jasmine soap. The nanny used to take an already half-asleep Ramona out of her hiding-place, also trying to move as quietly as possible so as not to draw the attention of the people who had gathered below, and carry her back to the nursery, repeating that it was not allowed, miss, you’ve already been told the previous time, your mother won’t be happy.

Ramona would put her head on the nanny’s shoulder, close her eyes, and see men in black tailcoats and women in sparkling veils, and behind her eyelids they would dance and dance and dance.

II.

Ramona was fifteen when she discovered that balls weren’t as much fun as they used to seem from the mezzanine.

She hadn’t been home for about four years and knew that she shouldn’t complain about that: she saw her family much more often than most of the other apprentices anyway. Every time she came home, she felt like the mansion had become smaller, as if after every time she left it was washed and shrunk. First and foremost, that must have been because she was growing (even at the time she was just a little shorter than her mother), but it also might have had something to do with the fact that since one evening in the garden a strange man grabbed her by her ankles and dragged her away from home, she had visited and seen a great many places. And even though hardly anywhere she encountered the same grandeur as at home, Ramona already knew that there were many old mansions in the world, many ballrooms with high ceilings and huge chandeliers, many winter gardens that looked like isles of jungle under a big crystal bowl. The air of magic that once enveloped her home had dissipated. It turned out that the lighting on the first floor was too bright, while on the second floor it was too dim, and that she didn’t even like half of the paintings hanging on the walls.

It also turned out that balls were something completely mundane, and most people did not even really have fun there, just pretended they did. Ramona wove her way between the small groups of guests, nodding cordially to some of them, curtsying a little to the other, and pondered over how all these rich people had arrived here in all their finery not because they wanted to dance or converse, but because they had to discuss one deal or another, find a good match for their children, or suck up to her mother so that she would put in a word for them here and there or agree to finance some project. They made a show of laughing at each other’s jokes but there was no laughter in their eyes. They discussed the opening nights at the theatre, croquet, and politics, but mostly did it to form an opinion of their interlocutors and see if it appeared possible to use them somehow later. The women bore themselves ramrod straight and spoke in unnaturally high-pitched voices. The men uttered each phrase as if they were the only ones in the entire hall who possessed any critical thinking skills, and cast sticky glances at the women. Occasionally Ramona noticed some of them looking at her, which made her feel disgusted and, for some reason, ashamed.

Even champagne was nasty! It was so sour, and made her stomach ache. Truth be told, the beer that she and Lemony and Beatrice sometimes bought using fake documents and drank straight from the bottle passing it around was more to her taste.

Suddenly, someone touched her arm.

“Hey,” a conspiratorial voice whispered right into her ear. “Are you all right?”

Speaking of Beatrice.

Ramona felt herself blush. Beatrice had always had a penchant for invading her friends’ personal space as long as they didn’t object, and the older they got, the more discomfort it posed to Ramona. Fair enough, the word ‘discomfort’ didn’t represent her feelings quite precisely. Part of her revelled in each embrace, each kiss on the cheek, each tangling of fingers. Part of her screamed that it was unbearable because if it kept on happening, Ramona would either fall victim to heart attack or do something that would ruin her friendship with Beatrice once and for all. Or her friendship with Lemony, who was so devotedly, stupidly, and awkwardly in love with Beatrice that it was hardly possible to surpass it.

Just about as stupidly and awkwardly as Ramona was in love with her, too.

“I’m fine,” Ramona assured her. Beatrice frowned. Her long tight dress was sequined, making fabric look like scales, and her loose dark hair was interwoven with green and silver threads. That evening, she was a mermaid. “Not the kind of mermaid to give up her voice for a prince,” she declared to Ramona while Olaf’s parents were taking off their coats and Olaf himself looked over the entrance hall, his face bored and his hands in his pockets. “I’m a proper mermaid that drives the sailors mad with her singing and drags them underwater. Like that!” At this, she leaped at Olaf from the back. He yelled, “You piece of shit!” and tried to shake her off, and his father shouted at the both of them to calm down. Ramona laughed loudly then. Now she looked at how closely the mermaid dress fit Beatrice, her figure already much more feminine than Ramona’s, realized that many of those pompous old pigs must have been ogling her too, and felt an even more helpless kind of rage than when she caught them looking at herself.

“Are you? You’ve got a long face. Are you having a headache?”

“No, it’s just that…” Ramona winced in frustration. She knew that if she tried to explain what was wrong, it would come out as some non-issue rubbish. “It’s so boring! Everyone’s pretending they’re enjoying themselves, but they actually aren’t. As a child, I used to come up there,” she gestured at the mezzanine with a nod, “every time my parents hosted a reception, used to sit there and dream of taking part in all this one day, but in practice…”

“Nothing turned out to be the way you expected it,” Beatrice finished for her.

“Well, yeah.”

The orchestra started playing The Blue Danube. A smile lit up Beatrice’s face.

“You know what,” she spoke slowly. “If they don’t know how to have fun, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t. Do you want to dance?”

“With you?” Ramona asked, confused. She was not sure if it was appropriate for two ladies to dance together when there were potential male partners galore. Not that even a single one of those partners appealed to her.

“With me! I mean…” Beatrice looked a little shy, which was unusual for her, and suddenly Ramona wondered if Beatrice ever noticed the way Ramona blushes and freezes at her touch, if Beatrice assumed that Ramona must have started to feel burdened by her friendship for some reason. “If you want to, of course.”

Ramona looked around. A number of couples went dancing, but there still were more of the guests who continued standing and discussing dull topics. A single look at them was enough to make her want to hang herself.

And here, against all that, was Beatrice. Bright and fearless Beatrice, who watched her questioningly, and the question seemed to be not only and not so much about the dance.

Ramona thought about Lemony, but the first thing to cross her mind was the following: he wasn’t there.

“I do,” she said resolutely, and held out her hand to Beatrice. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”

They began to waltz, and for a short while, the magic that once had filled that hall came back.

III.

It was curious how it went with scandals, both at the balls and in general. Scandals were not tolerated, yet at the same time they were desired. No one wanted to be caught in the middle of a scandal, but everyone enjoyed watching a scandal involving others. At the balls, scandals were a much more entertaining treat than the performances of the specially invited opera singers or the fireworks in the garden, but no one would dare to admit it out loud.

That evening, the highlight of the ball organized by the Duchess of Winnipeg became her nineteen-year-old daughter, who had a quarrel with her mother in front of everybody – not a very heated quarrel, unfortunately, but still something – and who left the ballroom almost running to disappear on the second floor.

Ramona knew her mother wouldn’t go looking for her anytime soon. She wouldn’t leave the guests for fear of losing her face to an even greater extent; at least one lady of the house ought to stay with them. Officially, Ramona was not the lady of that house yet, not at all, and she was not sure she’d be able to feel like one when the time came. Over the last few years, the ducal mansion had more than shrunk for her – it ceased to be her home. When she heard someone say ‘home’, she thought of a studio apartment she was renting in the City; it was small, but it was her own. And she barely ever thought of herself as of Ramona, the future Duchess of Winnipeg – only as of R, volunteer firefighter, part-time employee of the City Meteorological Centre, and journalist of Daily Punctilio.

The quarrel started exactly with her mother reminding R who she was. At least that was the way it could have seemed to onlookers. In truth, the tension between them emerged already two days before, when R came home – or, rather, to her mother’s residence – for back then R was sincerely happy to finally see her, and allowed herself the kind of candour that was proven to be undue.

“Father would have understood,” she thought wistfully, and pressed the handle of a heavy mahogany door. Clearly, she could not be sure about that. Father died of apoplexy when she was sixteen. Ramona had spent most of her life far from home and, frankly speaking, she knew neither of her parents well. Yet her father had always been gentler than her mother, listened more attentively, let her feel like just a girl (as far as any VFD member was able to feel like just someone) more often than her mother did, and less often – like a heiress of an old family. Moreover, Father himself was an outlier of sorts in the high society: his family was new money, which was openly disdained by many aristocrats, and the only reason they concealed their disdain for his skin colour must have been the fact that racism and xenophobia had come to be considered bad form. Ramona was certain that many of them were hoping that would not last.

With Father, it was… cosy. Calm. Ramona always used to miss him more than Mother, and she cried her eyes out when he passed away, hating herself for not being close to him at that moment. It was his study that Ramona came to when she happened to feel heavy-hearted during her rare visits to Winnipeg. Mother, in most respects practical, forbade changing anything in the study after Father’s death. Every day the help cleaned the dust off the books he would never reread, and off the paperweight and notebooks he would never use again. The telephone on the desk was not disconnected either. Ramona sat down in the armchair with her legs tucked under her, and spent some time sitting at the desk motionlessly, her face hidden in her palms. Then she moved the telephone closer to her, and dialled the number from memory.

After the third dial tone, the answer followed.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mr. Snicket,” Ramona said. She didn’t hope it was not clear from her voice that she had been crying. To be honest, she was not planning to hide that. At least there was something she didn’t have to hide, and someone she didn’t have to hide it from. “Got a minute?”

“Even more than one,” Lemony replied. “How are you?”

“Everything sucks. How are you?”

“Better than could have been, I believe. What’s the matter? If you want to talk about it, of course.”

“L, why would I call you if I didn’t want to talk about it?”

“Sometimes having other people share silence with you is enough. Though this is obviously not an option for a phone call.”

“Obviously,” Ramona agreed. At the other end of the line, her best friend was waiting for her to tell what was plaguing her. She closed her eyes. “It’s no big deal, really. I had a row with maman. Too bad it happened right at the ball, though. We surely use our best efforts to entertain our dear guests, but not to such an extent.”

“She talked to you about marriage again, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Ramona gave a pull at the phone wire, wrapped it around her finger, and released it again. It was weird talking about all that, as it was always weird talking about her problems. She was rich, young – heck, she was good-looking, too, she had a lot of friends, and her childhood had been a tiniest bit more trouble-free than that of most of her volunteer peers. Complaining about her life meant admitting her weakness, just as running away from the ball nearly in tears did. “I know I am actually lucky. Take that boy, for instance, the one Kit is keeping in touch with, what’s his name…”

“Charles?”

“Right. She loves me, L, I know she does. She loves me as much as she can. She told me: I don’t care who you’re having affairs with, that’s just your business, but be so kind as to marry and to bear an heir because that’s the business of the entire duchy. But I don’t want to, you see?” She felt a lump in her throat again. She swallowed hard. “She never cared if I want this title, if I want to become her successor, if I want to join the VFD… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to…” She stopped short, having caught herself thinking of a crazy thing yet again: what if the phones were being wiretapped? By their side of the Schism, or by the other one? “Can I do the thing I want to once in a lifetime? And could she not start this conversation in the midst of the ball? This time I wasn’t even bored! This time some of the guests even bothered to prepare full-scale fancy-dresses instead of throwing on the first mask they found and a regular evening dress!”

“When you’re back in the City, we’ll host a ball on our own,” Lemony promised. “Everyone shall be wearing fancy-dresses. There will be live music featuring all instruments we find lying around. Ernest will mix some cocktails. Someone will puke from the balcony…”

Ramona giggled.

“I would prefer to avoid the latter.”

“So would I, yet the experience shows that it is sadly impossible to guarantee the absence of this circumstance. By the way, I am totally serious. When are you coming back?”

“On Friday,” Ramona sighed. Two more days in the company of her mother awaited her.

“Excellent. Then we’ll organize a soiree on Saturday. Beatrice and I shall take care of everything.”

“Poor, poor Mr. Snicket,” Ramona said and smiled. “Forced to socialize, sing, and dance for my sake.”

“I have given no promises related to singing,” Lemony pointed out.

“But you’ll have to,” she grinned. She still wanted to cry, but she also wanted to smile. At that moment, in the study still smelling faintly of her father’s cologne, with her friend’s voice on the phone, she felt invincible. “Now tell me what’s new at the office.”

IV.

They must have really thrown a party upon her arrival then. As the years went by, all parties with other volunteers blended in her memory, making up a single endless one. Not the Groundhog Day – more like the Groundhog Night. It was not often that they could gather everyone they wanted to meet in the same place, so when such an opportunity presented itself, they went wild. They used to drink a lot back then, because every single one of them must have already had something they wanted to forget entirely. Ramona suspected that some of them didn’t stop at drinking – it would have been naïve to expect that, taking into account that some departments of their organization experimented with cultivation and use of hallucinogenic mushrooms – but she was not interested in such amusements. Alcohol was enough for her – that, and Father’s old pipe, the only thing she smoked. Besides, in a good company it seemed that even air itself was intoxicating, making one laugh and speak too loudly and do stupid yet harmless things.

And they did have a good company. God, how she loved all of them – not everyone the same, naturally, but each of them at least a bit. The ducal mansion with its jungles of rubber figs and its bad lighting receded into the past, surrendered the title of her home, and passed it not so much to her apartment in the City as to the people she used to spend time with. The balls in the hall with high ceilings paled in comparison to the parties in rented apartments, occasionally at the headquarters, at times – in some shady abandoned buildings. Oh, they were a damn good company indeed, with their shared memories and shared secrets, their diverse talents and confusing relationships. The Bloomsbury Group with daggers under their coats. The Bright Young Things with tattoos on their ankles.

There was a moment that stuck in her mind clearly: it was a very warm May, the smell of bird cherry was hanging in the air, and it was about half past two in the morning. She and Lemony were smoking on the balcony of Monty and Bertrand’s apartment. More precisely, she was smoking Father’s pipe (no matter how many years passed, she always kept thinking of it as of her father’s pipe not her own) while Lemony was standing by and looking at the few stars that were visible in the City. Back then, he didn’t smoke yet – back then, not enough had already happened to make him start smoking, although at times, when someone would mention a town called Stain’d-by-the-Sea, his face would look like he had already seen everything he could in this life, and much more than he ever wished to. The music was already muffled, replaced by conversations. R was feeling dreadfully tired and at the same time full of energy. She wanted to sleep, but she also wanted to dance some more.

“Do you realize that right now, by the way, we’re living the best years of our lives?” she asked Lemony, and he turned around to glance into the room where their friends were. One of the Denouement brothers, Gustav, and Sally were discussing something on the couch, pouring wine from the last remaining bottle into the glasses. Ike and Josephine, who was basically hanging on his neck, were talking about something with Jacques in the doorway. A group consisting of the second Denouement, Monty, and Widdershins were having some lively discussion in the other corner of the room. Olivia was doing a Tarot reading for a drowsily blinking Hector. Bertrand and Beatrice were the only ones still dancing – at the very centre of the room, very slowly, not so much actually dancing as swaying in each other’s arms. Kit, Olaf, Haruki, and Gregor were not in sight; some of them must have been in the kitchen and some in the bathroom. It has been a long time since they’d gathered in such large numbers, and suddenly R thought “And we won’t anymore”, and felt a shiver running down her spine.

“Yes,” Lemony replied pensively. Then the same thought that scared her must have crossed his mind too, because he added, “What shall we do when they’re over?”

She didn’t know the answer to that question then, and later, when those best years were left behind and their company got scattered across the country and on the opposite sides of the barricades, she didn’t know it all the more.

Some things did not change as time went by. The sun kept shining, water was wet, and there were balls being held regularly at the mansion of the Dukes of Winnipeg – the balls that all the neighbourhood elite assembled at and even guests from abroad arrived to, and if one Duchess was replaced by another, that did not mean a discontinuation of the tradition at all. The balls continued to be organized, remaining, as before, a pretty screen to cover the making of deals, hunting for future spouses, striking up an acquaintance with the right people, and, since the title of the Duchess was passed on to Ramona, some other business that half of the guests had no clue about. The other half, which made use of the cluelessness of that one, was the members of the same secret society as the hostess of the party.

The last ball organized by Ramona was marked by an arrest.

Barons and bankers, philanthropists and politicians were staring indignantly, though also with an ill-concealed curiosity, at a man dressed as a bullfighter and at the two policemen holding him down. Two more policemen were standing by. One of them was wearing large sunglasses, which looked absurd even among the people dressed in the most fanciful costumes possible. That was taken much more seriously now than during the times of the previous Duchess, when it used to be enough just to add a half-mask to a regular suit or dress. The current Duchess appreciated creativity, art, and showmanship.

The current Duchess was standing in front of the policemen, a folded fan clasped in her hands.

“Your Grace,” said the inspector, pulling the mask off the person under arrest. “Do you recognize this man?”

She wanted to say yes I do, how could I not recognize him if we first met when we were four years old and have been best friends ever since? What are you doing, let him go immediately, all the accusations against him are fabricated and we can prove it, does it matter who ‘we’ are, soon you’ll know. The real criminal might still be here in the building, he tried to kill the man you’ve captured, he tried to kill the woman this man came to see, he killed her husband, he tried to marry her underage daughter, you got the wrong guy! Let him go immediately and go catch the real one while he hadn’t disappeared into the night!

Lemony Snicket – tired, pale, with a black eye, and a dark drop of blood dried on his lip – met her gaze and shook his head subtly.

“No,” said Ramona, the Duchess of Winnipeg. She did not wince, it was only that her fingers clutched the fan more tightly – it even seemed to her that it cracked. “It’s the first time I see this man.”

“It follows that he arrived to your party without an invitation.”

“It follows that he did.”

“So you deny that this person is Lemony Snicket?”

“Lemony Snicket is dead. I went to his funeral. With all due respect, Inspector,” she let herself smile – benevolently, yet condescendingly, “I’m afraid you are on the wrong track.”

“A further investigation shall indicate whether the track was wrong or not, Your Grace,” Inspector replied. He also let himself smile – respectfully, yet without bothering to hide that he thought her in the wrong. “James, Prescott, search the building. Madison,” he told the officer in sunglasses, “take the suspect away.”

“Yes, Sir,” the officer replied. He handcuffed Lemony and escorted him to the exit. Having walked a considerable distance, the policeman suddenly turned around. He took off his glasses, and Ramona grew cold: she recognized him as one of the volunteers whose photos she was shown a while ago by poor Gustav. It was one of those who had recently defected to the fire-starting side.

Everything, all and everything was going down the tubes.

She saw Mother in her mind’s eye – impeccably looking, regal, calm and icy as ever. It was not that R had never loved her; she just couldn’t find anything in common with her. R didn’t mourn her the way she had mourned her father; she just could not sleep for many nights in a row after her death. R would have given anything for her mother to be there at that moment.

Compose yourself, Mother said in her head. You are facing a problem, so solve it. And make sure everything is proper, I beg you.

Ramona, the Duchess of Winnipeg, took a deep breath and smiled.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “Due to obvious circumstances I am bound to proclaim this evening’s party to be over…”

VI.

“And who’s that?” the girl asked, tapping with a tip of her finger on a cheery young face in a black-and-white picture. The girl’s name was Beatrice Baudelaire, and Ramona kept telling herself that one day she would get used to it. Used to the name of a dead woman that meant so much to her becoming someone else’s. No, it did not rub her the wrong way at all, there was no feeling that this Beatrice was a pretender. It is only in the days of one’s childhood and youth that the whole world seems to be your story only, yours and that of the people surrounding you. As a forty-something you see that you are just one of the multitude of equally background characters, and that there are hundreds and thousands of people sharing your name, your habits, your wounds, and your pain.

She took a closer look at the face that Beatrice was pointing at.

“Oh, that’s Monty. Dr. Montgomery. He was in some of the previous pictures, remember?”

“That’s him? I didn’t recognize him without the moustache.”

“He must be about seventeen here. He didn’t have a moustache then yet,” Ramona smiled nostalgically, looking at the photograph, and through the years young Monty returned her a smile frozen for eternity. She still missed him. There were a lot of people she still missed. “He stopped shaving it… at nineteen, probably. By the time he was twenty, he already had his legendary snake moustache. We keep meaning to put the photos in the right order but we just can’t get around to it.”

Technically, all photos in the album belonged to Sally. The only surviving pictures from R’s personal photo archive were the ones that Olaf enclosed with the letter he made her write as he was pressing her own grandfather’s hunting knife to her throat. “Snicket escaped from the cop shop,” he told her then. Beatrice – that other Beatrice, Beatrice-in-italics – died that night, really died that time, and there seemed to be tears in his eyes though he would have definitely killed Ramona if she so much as mentioned that. “So we’ll lure him over here.” His plan fell through: he underestimated both her inventiveness in terms of experimenting with VFD codes and her hand-to-hand combat skills. Still, the letter reached Lemony together with the photographs, which he gave to his niece, Beatrice the Second, years later. Ramona had already decided to give her a couple more photos that Beatrice would find the most interesting – for example, those of her mother as a child, or of her uncle Jacques, but first they had to wait for Sally to ask which photos it was all right to give away, and Sally was to be back only the day after.

“I take photographs, too,” Beatrice told her, a little shy. “Would you allow me to make a portrait of you, Your Grace?”

“Sure. And please call me Ramona. Or Aunt Ramona, if you wish,” R winked at her.

Beatrice beamed with joy.

“Okay, Aunt Ramona. I was thinking I could take a picture of you in the yard, among the trees.”

“Do not forget that the landscape in the photo must not be easily recognizable, Beatrice,” Lemony commented. He was sitting in an armchair facing them, with a heap of newspapers in his lap. In each paper, R had underlined the headlines and even individual sentences in some articles that she thought to be possible clues in the search for the Baudelaires. “Otherwise, if the pictures get into the wrong hands…”

“Snicket, I am begging you,” Ramona waved him aside. “This kind of trees grows all over the country.”

“No, Mr. Snicket’s right,” Beatrice joined in. “If we take the photo in the yard, then walls or windows or something might get into the frame. We could find some place nearby with no buildings.”

“We will,” Ramona promised, and gripped the girl’s shoulder briefly and lightly. ‘Listen, you stay here for a while, and your uncle and I shall go fetch something, all right? If you have any questions about any other photos, just bookmark the page, and I’ll explain everything when I’m back.”

“Okay,” the girl nodded.

“Great. Snicket, let’s go.”

“Please don’t hit me,” Lemony asked nonchalantly, putting the papers aside. Beatrice giggled, and Lemony smiled a little – faintly, with the very corner of his lips.

“Does she still call you ‘Mr. Snicket’?” Ramona asked him quietly as soon as they went out into the hallway. Lemony shrugged.

“We met relatively recently,” he remarked. “I am not going to hurry her, especially since it has no crucial significance for me how she calls me.”

Liar, Ramona thought. It was literally yesterday that Beatrice met her, and she had no difficulty switching to calling her ‘Aunt’. On the other hand, there was a difference between simply addressing a person in a less official manner and completely accepting a relative who had been evading contact purposefully and for a long time. Lemony was right not to hurry her. The important thing was that they were together.

“If you say so,” Ramona opened the door leading to her and Sally’s bedroom. Their house had nothing on the mansion of the Dukes of Winnipeg that was destroyed by the fire; it was humble, not too spacious, and they got it in such condition that they were already thinking of doing some renovation even though they had only lived in it for a little more than a month. Ramona adored it. “Come in, I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?” Lemony asked. The gift was in plain view – on a stool by the bed, so Lemony noticed it as soon as he peered into the room, and rolled his eyes as if in disapproval, yet clearly only pretending to be dissatisfied. “R, you shouldn’t have…”

“I should,” she interrupted him. “I do not have that many friends left, you know, and you had just mentioned that your favourite accordion had drowned in a swamp. By the way, how did it happen?”

“It’s a long story. I can tell you over dinner, if you’d like,” Lemony ran his fingers over the keys. When he touched musical instruments, his face always became distant and dreamy, as if he was already hearing the music that could be extracted from them. “Really, R, I am grateful to you, but I won’t be able to carry it with me all the time, and we don’t stay anywhere for long these days…”

“Then let it stay here, and you’ll play it when you visit us,” Ramona shrugged. “I am so used to having a whole room full of your stuff close at hand that I feel a little lonely without it.”

“A room for me and a room for Beatrice,” Lemony said, smiling into nowhere. “How long ago that was.”

“So long ago,” she agreed. “We have become museum pieces, Mr. Snicket.”

“Not you, Your Grace. You are alive.”

“So are you,” she reminded him. “Don’t forget it, would you? At least for me. And for her,” she nodded in the direction of the door, of the hallway leading to the room where a living Beatrice Baudelaire was looking at the photos of the people who were long gone.

He kissed her on the forehead – a chaste, brotherly kiss.

“I’ll try to,” he said softly.

They brought the accordion to the living room, and Beatrice put the album aside and ran her hand over the shining lacquered side of the instrument, enraptured.

“Once I used to have a great big house, almost a castle,” Ramona told her, “and I used to give balls there for my acquaintances and associates like my mother before me, and before her my grandmother, and so all the way down to our ancestors who moved here from France.”

Beatrice nodded.

“Mr. Snicket told me about this.”

“What do you think of giving a ball, Beatrice? A really small one, for our own circle. Tomorrow, my wife will be back,” she smiled, feeling the usual mad happiness at the possibility to say this word, ‘wife’. “It will be a surprise for her.”

The girl’s eyes lit up.

“But how do we prepare?”

“I believe we have everything we might need. There are some bottles of wine and lemonade in the cellar, and an ice cream cake in the fridge. As to the music, we have your uncle with his new accordion, and there’s also Sally’s and my record collection. Do you know how to dance, Beatrice?”

“I am not so good at it, to be honest.”

“I shall teach you,” Ramona promised, and took the girl’s hand. “Mr. Snicket, would you play something for us?”

The stately columns and the crystal chandeliers, the palm-tree pots and the carpet runners – all of that belonged to the past now. The present was hard-won, fragile, but despite that, or maybe for that very reason, it was lovely.

The future was unpredictable – save for one thing, perhaps: there would certainly be dancing.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #duchess of winnipeg #beatrice baudelaire #lemony snicket #beatrice snicket #gella talks snicketverse #talk talk talk #my fic #kinda insecure about this one but... anyway

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powerstrangerdacre · 5 years

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Summary: “I… I can’t. You’re… wild.” Is all he could say.

“So… if I wasn’t wild, if I fit the mold of what you think the perfect woman would be for you, then it would be different?”

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Warning: alcohol consumption, swearing, Luke being an astronomical asshole, angst with a fluffly ending

Word Count: 7000+

AN: Ello! I’m back!! I know I’ve been gone for so long (I’m sowwy), but I’ve had this in my ‘unedited’ pile for so long and I just couldn’t wait to post it. (It’s still unedited.. so... sorry.)

Thanks so much @theoneanna for pre-reading this for me and seeing if it made any sense haha! Love ya girly!

The moment she opened the door she was met with silence. The kind of silence that made her ears ring, her stomach drop and her head hurt. Though if she thought about it better, the pounding headache that she was experiencing might’ve been the result of one too many champagne glasses. Her bare feet skipped over the cold marble flooring, her expensive Louboutins forgotten by the door. Her dress slipped off her shoulder with one push, falling into a heap on the floor of her overly large kitchen. Soft locks of hair slowly fell on her shoulders as she pulled the last pin from her up-do. She searched the fridge for something that could soothe the harsh burning feeling that moved up and down her throat. Definitely too much champagne.

She made her way to her bedroom, where her king-sized bed waited for her. Her shoulders slumped as she opened the door to see the huge room bathed in soft light from the one lamp that she always kept on. She hated the dark, but she loved being alone. She told herself that it was times like these that made everything worth it. That those short moments where she was alone, were what made all the drama and gossip that came with being ‘Y/N Y/L/N’ worth it.

She threw herself onto the silk covers, relishing in the cold feeling. Sleep soon overtook her.

Her house smelled of money. Large and fancy, everything a normal person would ever dream of. It had everything she needed and more, and yet it somehow made her feel empty, because as much as she told herself that she liked being alone, the moment her eyes opened the next morning, she felt as though the walls were way too big, way too white. The bed was soft and warm where she laid, but shivers overtook her as soon as she moved an inch. Cold. Her room was pretty much empty, except for her bed and her night-stand. It felt foreign. It didn’t feel like her room, even though she knew she had bought the house with her own hard-earned money.

She felt just like her bed, cold and somehow lonely. She hated feeling lonely.

The only thing that made her feel at home was the picture that she still kept close to her, hidden under her pillow. It was old and faded, but it was the thing she held dearest. The only thing that she wouldn’t give up even if all hell broke loose or the sky fell down. She can see it before her eyes, the small smile on his face, the huge grin on hers, the reds and oranges as the sun set behind them. As soon as she pulls it out, she notices the wrinkles and the little ripped corner on the once glossy piece of paper. The reds and oranges aren’t as visible as they used to be. His eyes aren’t as blue as she remembers, but his smile is just as it was imprinted in her memories. Small and bashful, the corners of his lips pushing his cheeks up and making the skin next to his eyes wrinkle. His face looks younger, but not any less handsome than she knows it did last night.

She never imagined seeing him at one of those parties, the ones where all the so-called ‘youngsters’ and ‘trouble-makers’ were invited to. She would’ve never imagined that he would’ve showed up, even if he had been invited, but she could only assume that that one blond friend had dragged him to the celebration.

Of course, those kinds of junctions were her thing. She just loved the loud music and the smell of the alcohol. She just loved the feeling of letting go and not worrying. Who cared about the articles that would most likely pop up the next day? ‘Tom would.’ her mind told her.

She didn’t know how they had drifted so far apart. How they had become so different from each-other when they were literally two peas in a pod only years earlier.

They had met during college, through mutual friends, and they instantly clicked. For a while it was as if nothing could break them apart. They were friends, best friends even, always coming to each-other with joy and sorrow alike. For a while, she thought that he would never leave her. For a while, she imagined herself as an old lady on the porch of a small cottage with him by her side. And for a while, everything seemed to be alright.

They grew closer, long hugs becoming cuddles in the middle of the night while they whispered to each-other. The smiles they shared turned into small kisses at the top of her head, and she relished in the feeling of his lips on her hair. She loved the way his arms felt around her waist. She always felt warm and loved while he was around. So she never bothered to even wonder about what kind of relationship they had formed. It surely didn’t feel like they were friends, but she was sure that they weren’t exactly lovers.

She was young. She was stupid. She expected too much from someone who could give too little.

Tom had always had commitment issues. He was late to everywhere and everything. He would choose one book to read, only to switch to the next in less than a second. He would even have problems picking something to eat. How Y/N had been so blind to it for so long, she didn’t know. But she slowly figured it out when she started seeing him with another girl every week. Of course, it broke her heart to know that her feelings were only one-sided, and her mind and heart kicked into ‘self-preserve’ mode.

She couldn’t exactly pin-point the moment when they stopped talking to each-other, but if she were to try and put some kind of sense as to why, she would say that that’s when it started. She would try and see him less and less, at one point even walking away when she saw Tom on campus. Their cuddles turned into hugs, the kisses on her head to smiles. Their so-called relationship turned to friendship, and then to nothing.

Their lives took different turns as soon as they both graduated.

She loved and hated that picture of them, snuggled so close together with his head atop hers. It showed weakness, and weakness was something that she wouldn’t allow herself to feel anymore. Weakness had no place in her line of work, because if you showed even the least bit of it, the media would feed into it and cause a frenzy. And while she didn’t mind being seen as a ‘wild-child’, she did not like it when people thought she was weak.

So she kept her memories locked inside her mind and heart, just like that picture that was hidden behind the closed doors of her so-called home.

The moment Tom laid his eyes on her, he couldn’t believe it. The party Chris had dragged him to was in full swing, music blaring through the dark room and cigarette smoke wafting through the air. And there she stood, in the middle of it all, champagne glass held high as she whooped with the other half-drunk actors and actresses. He hadn’t seen her in ages, but she looked exactly how he remembered, young and full of life, nothing like his closed-off, tired self.

He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t exactly pin-point the moment he forgot about her. How he could’ve forgotten that warm smile and those kind eyes was beyond him, but he somehow managed to bury the memory of her far in the back of his mind.

His eyes moved over her and he could feel himself growing more and more disgusted with himself for some reason. He didn’t know why, but his stomach churned and turned as he watched her dance with one of her friends. He thought the guy was too close to her. He thought she was way too smiley and happy as she turned around to snake her hands around that assholes neck. He thought he would be a more appropriate dance partner for someone like Y/N.

“Tom? Hiddles!” Chris’s voice pulled Tom from his thoughts as his head whipped into his co-stars direction.

“Sorry. What did you say?” Tom asked, sipping on his glass that had been placed in front of him while he was too busy staring at her.

“It’s alright.” Chris chuckled. “What’s gotten you so entranced?” Tom’s eyes moved in Y/N’s direction unwillingly, allowing Chris to follow his gaze and land on the drunk woman. Chris’s eyes widened with recognition, before turning to look at his friend like he had just grown another head. Chris knew that Tom had a thing for girls that were known to mean trouble, but this was way over his head.

“Really? Y/N?” Chris asked, shaking his head. The girl had a reputation to her, and it wasn’t a good one. No, Y/N wasn’t the best for anyone’s image, and Chris knew that Tom had an image to upkeep.

“It’s nothing,” Tom said, taking another gulp from his glass. Chris sure hoped it was nothing, but he knew Tom way too well to believe him. He knew that look, and it didn’t mean anything good.

Tom thought there would be no way to meet her again. They had managed to stay out of each-others way for so long, why would now be any different?

He opened the door to his new home, headphones in his ears blasting whatever song came next on his Spotify playlist. He stretched his legs and arms before pushing off the ground and slowly building up his pace into a somewhat slow jog.

His eyes were unfocused, his mind racing with thoughts of her. She didn’t seem to notice him. Maybe she had forgotten all about him. Maybe she was as busy if not busier than him, so who could blame her for not remembering an old friend?

It was as if his body had a mind of its own, suddenly scoffing at the thought he planted in his head. An old friend. Yeah right. She hates your guts and you know it.

He could remember it clearly, the way she looked whenever he would show up on campus with a new girl. He knew he was breaking her heart. He knew her feelings, and he knew his feelings, but didn’t do anything about it. She was too wild for him, even back then. He was so sure that there was no way in hell that whatever she wanted to start would end well. So he did what he did best and ended it before it even started.

His mind raced on and on, and soon he was tripping and on his way to have a not-so-comfortable meeting with the ground. A hand grasped his and he was pulled in the other direction, only to have the other person fall on their ass with an ‘Oomph’.

“God, I’m so sorry! Are you alright?” Tom asked, only to be met with a pair of Y/E/C eyes.

Y/N and Tom stayed in that position, him crouching over her.

Her eyes studied his face. His eyes as wide as saucers, mouth dropped open in a small ‘o’. She couldn’t stop the giggle that fell from her lips. “Are you going to help me stand, or…?”

His face unfroze at the sound of her voice. It seemed so long since he last heard it, but it still made him feel exhilarated. His lips pulled into a smile and he offered her his hand, pulling her on her feet easily. She hissed as her left foot made contact with the floor, and worry was once again etched on his features.

“Are you okay? Should I take you to the hospital? Wait… I’ll call an ambulance.” One hand was holding her, his other already in his pocket, fishing for his phone when she once again giggled.

“Ever the worrisome one, huh Hiddleston?” Y/N shook her head, remembering all the times he had nursed her back to health after a night of college partying.

His eyes fell back on her figure, and he couldn’t help but scoff. “One of us has to be, Y/L/N,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his every word.

They both fell silent. Y/N had always imagined what she would say to him when and if they would ever meet again. But now all of those speeches were forgotten - words caught in her throat, unwilling to make their way past her lips. She just watched Tom, he watched her and all of a sudden they both fell into a chuckle. Then that chuckle turned to laughter and it all seemed to fall back to when they were in college. They both felt like those two fools who didn’t know anything about anything and just had each-other as a back-up.

“You want to go get tea?” he asked.

Her lips pulled into a tight line. Tea with none other than Tom Hiddleston meant more publicity: good for her, bad for him. And as much as she wanted to say yes, she couldn’t. “I don’t think that’s a great idea…”

Y/N expected him to nod, to understand where she was coming from – that she wasn’t good company. But Tom only watched as her eyes fell to the ground. He shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said, startling her into walking with him.

And they walked and talked about all the time they had lost. Tom could see her clearer now, clearer than how he had seen her last night. Her eyes sparkled in the morning light, just like he remembered, but they seemed tired. Tired and somehow lost. He remembers how she used to look at him, with love and adoration. Now she seemed to want to look anywhere but at him. Her eyes wandered through the café, lingering on everything and everyone but him. It annoyed him to no ends, but he knew that he was to blame.

“So I heard about the Loki series. Congratulations.” She smiled as she dared a look at him, her eyes as careful as the sip she took from her steaming cup of tea.

“Thank you, but honestly it’s nothing compared to you. I heard they’re planning another sequel to your movie,” he grinned, “How many has it been now? Three? Four?”

“Actually,” she stopped for a second, sighing tiredly, “I won’t be acting in this one.”

His eyes widened, mind unable to comprehend why she would let such an opportunity go. “I understand if you don’t want to tell me, but why not?”

She shook her head. “I just… felt trapped in that role. I’ve been wanting to try something else and this movie wouldn’t allow for that. I would be playing the same scared heroine waiting for her man to come and save her, and I…” I don’t want to wait for someone to come a swoop me off my feet. “I got bored.”

“Oh…” Tom answered, shaking his head and chuckling slightly.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s just, that’s how you’ve always been. Always so strong and… how do I put it… decided?” He winced at how wrong that sounded.

“You mean hot-headed?” She smirked.

Tom bit his lip, nodding slightly in understanding. Hot-headed suited her. Always walking head first into a situation and worrying about the consequences later. She simply didn’t care about the future, always choosing to live in the present and deal with trouble wherever it came from. “Yeah… hot-headed.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. I’m-too-careful-for-my-own-good.”

“Hey!”

“What?! It’s the truth!” She shrugged.

“Yeah…”

Thick silence enveloped them, making her feel awfully awkward as she stared down at her lap. Maybe it wasn’t her place anymore to make those jokes. Maybe she had gone one step too far, or one step too little. It felt like they were in college while they were talking, just two friends catching up and messing around, but maybe it wasn’t like that anymore. It was clear that they weren’t as comfortable with each-other as they used to be.

Tom didn’t know what to think or what to say. She was right there. She sat in front of him and he simply couldn’t find the words. Should he be sorry for what happened during college? Should he regret pushing her away? He knew he shouldn’t, it had been the right thing do to. Right?

After a week, Tom wasn’t so sure of himself anymore. He wasn’t sure about anything he did anymore. Everything seemed so fake and forced. He slowly felt like he was being, simply put, a phony.

Except when he was around her.

They both knew that it was a bit awkward when they were both in the same room, but it slowly dissipated. He didn’t have to think about what would be the proper thing to say or do when she was around, because she knew him. He knew she knew him, the real him that wasn’t always a polite gentleman. She knew the guy that liked to mess around. The guy who wasn’t always perfect. The guy who wasn’t a “celebrity”. And he knew the girl that she used to be, and still was, but as they met more and more often, she seemed to get more and more lively. She seemed to care even less about reputation and more about the guy who was her friend.

What Tom didn’t expect was how fast his heart was beating every time she hugged or just simply touched him. He didn’t expect to see her with the same eyes that his college self used to. It was like all he had worked so hard to ignore for so long just simply rushed back with a touch of her fingers and a look in his eyes.

He didn’t expect that to happen. And he sure as hell hadn’t planned for it, but now that dreaded feeling was there and he couldn’t get a grip on himself.

“Have you seen this?” Luke entered Tom’s office, throwing a magazine in front of him with a huff.

“It’s good to see you too, Luke,” Tom joked with a light chuckle, not even glancing at what he knew to be another scandal, caused most likely by his late-night drive to a bar with Y/N and Chris.

“Yeah, yeah… Good to see you yada, yada… Now, have you seen this?” Luke placed both hands on Tom’s desk, his face something between a scowl and a look of disappointment.

Tom glanced down and sure as hell, there it was in big bold letters: ‘Eligible bachelor Tom Hiddleston not as eligible as we might have thought?’ A picture of him and Y/N doing shots by the bar was plastered all over the front page. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. What’s wrong with it?” Tom asked.

“What’s wrong with it?!” Luke yelped, trying to control his anger, “Tom, they’re saying that you have an alcohol problem! They’re saying that you’re dating that… that mess, Y/N!” Tom glared up at Luke from where he was still seated, not having it when his publicist talked bad about his friend. But Luke wasn’t having it. “Do you have any idea what she could do to your reputation? She could ruin you in a matter of seconds!” Luke snapped his fingers, as if that would make everything clearer in Tom’s mind. “Like that.” Snap. “And your career and fans would be gone.”

Now, that sentence scared Tom, but not in the way that Luke had meant it. He wasn’t scared of losing acting jobs, because to him those jobs were just that, jobs. He had lost his passion for acting long ago and was doing it because… Why was he still doing it? He didn’t know. Y/N wouldn’t even bother doing something if she wasn’t passionate about it anymore. He shook his head.

Tom wasn’t scared of losing his fans either, because he knew that they were the strongest and most passionate ones out there. Maybe that’s why he was still doing this, for the fans. He was passionate about them, not wanting to disappoint or fail them. Y/N would care about that. He nodded.

Luke watched baffled as Tom was having a discussion with himself, it was clear that the man was slowly going crazy over this girl. “Look, you know I usually don’t care much about who your newest… acquisition is, as long as you keep it private,” Luke sighed, “But this,” he pointed to the magazine laid in front of Tom, “this is not good for you Tom.”

Tom stood up, already annoyed to no ends by the way Luke spoke of him. His newest acquisition? Y/N was not something that he could just… acquire, as much as he wished he could. He had burned that bridge long ago. “Okay Luke, I get it.” Tom sighed.

“No, Tom. You don’t! She’s always seen drunk! She yells at the paparazzi!” Luke said, exasperated. “She might look good, but she doesn’t care about her image.”

That’s exactly why I like her.

“She’s always seen with a new guy! Every damn week! She’s changing you Tom, and it’s not for the better!” Luke finished his monologue, chest heaving and breathing loud. He watched as Tom’s eyes slowly lifted from the magazine, the heartbreak as clear in his eyes as the color of his irises.

“Ok, Luke… I get it. She’s fucked up. She’s emotionally deranged. She’s a whore,” Tom said, eyes angry. “I’ll take care of this, but get out of here before I throw you out,” he snarled.

Luke walked out the door with a sigh, closing it, not expecting what was behind it. She stood there, eyes wild and angry. Y/N shook her head as he scoffed at her, passing by as she simply stuck a foot out, tripping him. Luke fell flat on his stomach, his hands not reacting quickly enough as his nose hit the ground. She knew it was childish. She knew it was just another scandal waiting to happen. She didn’t care.

“You fucking manipulative son of a bitch,” she snarled, shaking her head and walking away from the whole ordeal. Walking away from the building that she now knew as well as the back of her hand. Walking away from two assholes that obviously hit it off just a little too well.

Fucking jackass.

The moment she opened the door she was met with silence. The kind of silence that made her ears ring, her stomach drop and her head hurt. Though if she thought about it better, the pounding headache that she was experiencing might’ve been the result of one too many tears. Her bare feet skipped over the cold marble flooring, her Nikes forgotten by the door. His jacket slipped off her shoulders with one push, falling into a heap on the floor of her overly large kitchen. Soft locks of hair slowly fell on her face as she braced the marble countertop, eyes looking directly to her feet. Her throat itched with the dryness brought by another ridiculously heart-broken cry. She could see the small droplets of water that had made their way from her eyes to the floor. Definitely too many tears.

She made her way to door, a knock pulling her out of her misery, only to be pulled right back in as she saw who was the one knocking.

“What do you want, Hiddleston?” Y/N asked, looking anywhere but at him.

Tom watched as she rubbed the tears away from her face, his face falling instead. “Love, what happened?” He had come here with the decision of telling her that they couldn’t meet anymore, but that was all thrown out of the window as worry for the girl fogged his mind. He hadn’t seen her cry since college.

She looked up at him, lower lip trembling and eyes filling with tears once again. “You wanna know what’s wrong?” she asked and he nodded. “I fucking trusted you! I trusted you to believe in who I am and to not judge me like so many others! I trusted you to not talk behind my back!” She took a deep breath, her chest feeling as though it was being ripped apart. “You wanna know what’s wrong?” Her voice was but a whisper. “I’m fucked up. I’m emotionally deranged. And apparently a whore!”

Tom’s eyes widened. He was the reason she looked so broken. He was, once again the reason why she cried. “I… I…” He had no excuse. He had said all those things. He couldn’t blame it on Luke, it was his mouth that those words had come out of.

“You what, Tom? You’re sorry? You didn’t seem to be sorry back there!” She sniffled, walking backwards as he stepped in and closed the door. “Ever the careful one, huh Hiddleston? Are you scared that they’re gonna see me make a scene? Are you scared that you’ll end up in tomorrow’s gossip magazine? Are you scared that your good name will be tarnished?!” Her voice got louder and louder, her mind racing. “You’re such a fake! Your image is fake! The way you act towards me is fake! Is there anything even remotely true about you anymore?” She sighed. “And to think that I fucking fell for it again. I can’t fucking believe that I’m reliving college right now.”

Tom just stood and took it all in. All her anger and her spiteful words, they hurt, but what hurt most is that she thought he was being fake when he was around her, the only time when he actually felt like himself. “You… you what?” he asked, reaching a hand out to her.

She glared at his hand angrily before slapping it away with a loud smack. “You fucking heard me! I loved you back then! And now I love a fake! God… I’m in love with a phony… I fell for it just like everybody else.” Y/N shook her head, as if not believing the words that just came out of her mouth. “This is just like last time…”

Tom watched her, expression full of surprise and anger. He couldn’t believe it. “You were the one who put space between us! You’re the one who walked away!”

“And what was I supposed to do? Huh, Tom?!” She let the tears flow freely down her face this time, not bothering to stop them. “Stay and watch my heart break as you walked around with another girl?! Did you expect me to do that?! Don’t put all the blame on me, you’re just as much to blame.”

“You… you didn’t say anything…” Tom was astounded by how she put everything out there. She would never have the courage to do that, were they still in college.

“You know… back then I thought that we… I don’t know… understood each-other. I thought you needed me as much as I needed you. I thought that maybe I meant something to you…” Her voice was void of anger, her eyes just seemed sad. “I thought that maybe you would at least try to follow me when I left… But no, of course not!” She scoffed. “As soon as I stopped putting effort towards whatever it was that we had, you stopped caring…”

Tom watched as her body shuddered with every gasp of air that she took. He had broken her. This was what he was scared of… that one of them would break the other. “Of-of course I would… I thought you didn’t care about me anymore. I thought you gave up.”

Her eyes suddenly filled with rage. “Oh I cared! Don’t fucking say I didn’t! I tried and tried but you just didn’t see me!” He couldn’t look at her anymore. It was too hard. “I thought I was stupid to just leave before I said anything about… about my feelings.” A sickeningly broken laugh fell from her lips, the sound making Tom’s skin crawl. “You were stupid,” Tom whispered. He couldn’t help but think that maybe things would’ve gone differently if she had said something back then. Maybe they wouldn’t have been in this position. Or maybe he would’ve just done what he did back then, because that was for the best, right? He didn’t know anymore. His mind was all over the place.

Y/N didn’t hear his whisper, she had no reason to question herself. “But look at me now! Feelings spoken out and still in the same position as I was seven years ago. Still stupid. Still fucking in love with an asshat that won’t even dare try because he’s too afraid.”

“I… I can’t. You’re… wild.” Is all he could say.

“So… if I wasn’t wild, if I fit the mold of what you think the perfect woman would be for you, then it would be different?”

“I… I… no. I can’t return your feelings,” Tom said, his eyes stuck counting the lines in the marble flooring.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because… it would be bad for my image.”

Her breath hitched as he simply contradicted himself. He couldn’t because she was wild, but if she were different then he still didn’t return her feeling because she was bad for his image. They were going in a loop, a broken record playing on repeat again and again and again. He wouldn’t tell her anything. He wouldn’t let her in.

“Okay… I get it. I’m wild and I’m reckless and I’m stupid,” her words caught in her throat, but she forced them out. He needed to hear this. She needed to tell him this or else she would go blaming herself again. “But at least I’m not afraid to show who I really am, at least to the people who obviously care about me! At least I’m not afraid of those fake scandals or the bullshit because whatever happens, I still know who I am! The people I care about know who I am!” she sighed, trying her best to calm herself down, “I thought you knew that too. I thought you were one of those people, Tom. But you aren’t. You’d rather believe your goddamn publicist or what those damn assholes write about me. And you know what? That’s fine by me.” Her eyes cleared and she finally saw it. He looked at her like he was broken. Just as broken as she was, but that wasn’t going to stop her. She would burn this bridge, whether he wanted to or not. “Just… remember. I’m not the one who was afraid. You were.” She stabbed her finger in his chest, looking up at him. “Leave.” Don’t go. Fight. For once, fight. She could feel the burn as he turned around and walked out of the front door. He had made his choice.

He could feel it all, the anger, the disappointment, but most of all he felt the last bridge burn. She had said all that was to be said. She didn’t want anything to do with him anymore.

He nursed the glass of whiskey in his hand, feeling foreign in the bar that had become their hang-out.

“What are you doing here?” Chris’s voice came out of nowhere, startling the half-drunk Tom to the point that he almost fell off his bar-stool.

“Nothing,” Tom said, finishing his tenth glass with a tip of his chin.

Chris noticed the bad state Tom was in, he had a feeling why it was happening.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asked.

“Gone,” Tom answered with a hiss, as though the word itself was a knife stuck in his chest.

“Why?”

“Because that’s what I wanted.”

Chris’s mouth dropped open so wide that he could’ve been mistaken for the screamer. Tom would’ve found it funny, but he wasn’t exactly in the mood for laughing.

“What?! Why?”

“She was changing me… and I…” Tom whimpered slightly at the words, “I couldn’t allow for that to happen.”

“Oh…” Chris finally took a seat next to his friend, motioning for the bartender to get him a drink. “And she just… gave up?”

“She said she loves me. She told me she was in love with me ever since college. I…” Tom shook his head, “I can’t return those feelings.”

Chris laughed. He laughed as though that was the funniest joke he had heard in years. Tom watched him, simply waiting for him to finish so he could get an explanation.

“You’re either the most idiotic guy I know, or you’re terribly blind, mate.” Tom watched Chris with a questioning gaze, eyes slightly glazed over from how much alcohol was in his system. If only Luke would see him now. “Tom, Y/N… she apparently went through a lot with you. You broke her heart once and she still tired. She’s the one girl that didn’t leave you. The only girl that tried to help you. The only girl that would never break your heart unless you asked her to… sorry mate, but you fucked everything up.”

“She changed me,” Tom stated simply.

“No… she didn’t. You were the one who let loose. You were the one who didn’t put on a face for the press. You were the one who didn’t give two shits and giggles anymore. Sure, she was around you, but you were the one who made those changes. You were the one who changed. Was it all for her?”

No. I was tired. I was tired of hiding.

“No! It was for yourself! Whenever she was around you were like a different man, and I think that that’s who the real Tom is. Not that proper, British ass that wouldn’t let anyone get too close to him.”

“I… I couldn’t tell her that…” I love her. The words just couldn’t form on his lips. “I didn’t want to hurt her. I just… it would end badly.”

“Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t, Tom?” Chris asked, taking a sip from his glass. When Tom didn’t answer, he answered for him. “It’s clear that you love the girl! She loves you! Who the hell cares about ‘if’s and ‘maybe’s? Now go do something about it! Don’t fucking mess this up a third time or I swear to God I’ll kick your ass all the way back to England.”

Tom stood up, eyes widening. Chris was right. He… He loved her. He was in fucking love with her and he just couldn’t fucking get over it. It scared him shitless but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to be scared anymore.

He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, slamming it on the bar. “I have to go. Thanks, mate!” Tom yelled to Chris as he ran towards the exit. It was quiet and far away, but he was sure that he heard Chris say “Whatever man, I expect to get an invitation to the wedding.”

Y/N was sure that she hated feeling lonely, because if she felt lonely then it meant that she was weak. She hated being weak, but as the days past she wanted nothing to do with her friends or the parties they invited her to. She never thought it would be easy, but God was it hard getting over the one guy who she had managed to fall in love with, twice.

Her closed phone laid on her nightstand, the battery long dead since she hadn’t bothered charging it. She hated herself for it, but right now she loved the feeling of loneliness. Sleep soon overtook her.

Her doorbell rang, jolting her out of her light sleep. She looked at the watch, noticing it was three in the morning. With a jolt and a rapidly beating heart, she made her way to the door. She looked at the display that showed her doorstep, seeing him. Her heart and mind stopped racing, but her hand moved on its own accord, opening the door.

Tom sighed watching as she looked at him with tired eyes. Her hair was a mess and she lacked pants, but he could only think that she looked the most gorgeous he had ever seen, one of his shirts hanging loosely from her shoulders.

“Y/N, thank God,” he slurred.

“What are you doing here, Tom?” she asked. She could pick up the light scent of whiskey drifting towards her from him, her nose wrinkled in disgust. She couldn’t even think about ever drinking another drop of alcohol, since it felt like it was the reason for him not reciprocating her feelings.

“Thank God you’re okay. I was so scared.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shifted together into a small frown. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

He watched her with happy, glossy eyes. He was just happy to see her, even though her words still made his heart heavy, even in his inebriated state. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was such an idiot. I pushed you away, thinking that it would spare us. Thinking that that way I wouldn’t lose you. Guess I was the stupid one though, since in the end I still lost you.” Once the words started running out of his mouth, he couldn’t stop. He was vomiting every last bit of his feelings, finally letting her in. “I… I love you. Fuck… I’m so in love with you that I don’t know what to do with myself.”

To say that she was taken by surprise by his words would be an understatement. She was shocked, astonished even, but happiness slowly crept its way in her heart, until “What about your “image”? Aren’t you scared that they would say that your girlfriend’s fucked up? Emotionally deranged? Wouldn’t they say that you’re dating a whore?” she asked with a hiss to the tone of her voice.

Tom squeezed his eyes together. “I’m sorry about that. I could say that Luke kind of coerced those words out of me, but I still said them. I was just… scared. I knew I had fallen for you, again, and I didn’t think you would feel the same. I guess… I was just trying to find a way to stop myself from hurting… But please believe me when I say that I never wanted to hurt you. I never meant for any of this to happen. I was an asshole, a jackass, a fucking idiot. But I love…”

Her lips caught his words as they pressed harshly against his, the kiss seven years in waiting. She didn’t care anymore. She didn’t care that he was drunk. She didn’t care about what he had said, she knew from the beginning that he didn’t mean it. She knew that he loved her just as much as she loved him.

He was caught by surprise by the force behind the kiss, lightly stumbling backwards before he steadied himself as his arms wrapped around her frame. God, this felt so right. His hands cupped her cheeks, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. She tasted like candy, mixed with the whiskey that he had drunk. There was nothing more delicious than the bitter sweetness they shared. She wrapped her hands around his shoulders, pushing herself on her toes, trying to mold herself into him. They were still on her porch, but neither of them cared. That moment was perfect, even when they pulled away and their breaths mingled.

“You’ve got bed-head,” Tom snickered.

“You’ve got whiskey-breath,” Y/N smirked.

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

“It’s laundry day.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The paparazzi might’ve gotten pictures of them, both looking like literal messes. There might be a scandal the next day, but they didn’t care. They had each-other, and once again Y/N didn’t bother asking what they were, because she knew. She was his and he was hers.

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our-smooty · 5 years

Text

You Wanna Ride My Bike Chapter 2

Fandom: Gorillaz

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: HanniStu

Tags: Flirting, HanniStu, Cuteness, a little violence, reckless driving, first kiss, first date, size kink

Summary: He was wearing a button-down shirt. That alone should have been enough to signal the anxiety and trepidation running through him.“Noodle!” he called over his shoulder and out his bedroom door. He hoped she was still around because he just couldn’t get these buttons done and he couldn’t just wear the t-shirt he had on underneath. Not for their first date.

Chapter 1

He was wearing a button-down shirt. That alone should have been enough to signal the anxiety and trepidation running through him.

“Noodle!” he called over his shoulder and out his bedroom door. He hoped she was still around because he just couldn’t get these buttons done and he couldn’t just wear the t-shirt he had on underneath. Not for their first date.

“I already told you that shirt is fine D,” the teenager sighed, her head popping around the corner. Stu spun around, his hands worrying the fabric of the button-down and wrinkling it.

“It’s not that, I can’t get th’buttons righ’,” he whimpered, looking completely pitiful. He knew Noodle would take pity on him and do them for him if he fussed enough. As expected she rolled her eyes but helped him, going the extra mile and smoothing out the wrinkles.

“Are you sure this is a good idea 2D? If Murdoc finds out…” He’d confided in her the same night Hannibal had asked him out over text. Since that initial meeting, they hadn’t seen each other but the older was surprisingly open to texting, and--much to Stu’s pleasure and embarrassment--late-night phone calls. The singer felt like he was back in high school.

“No, but I’m gonna do it anyway,” he answered with a big, dumb smile on his face. “Besides, it migh’ be kinda funny if he does. Can you imagine how pissed he’d be?”

“Yes,” Noodle said darkly. 2D didn’t let it bother him though, because for once, he thought things might be turning out his way.

“Don’t worry about, ok poppet? If he asks where I am jus’ tell him I went to my parent’s or somthin’.” Noodle nodded, a small, sad smile on her face. She straightened his collar one last time, wished him well, and left the room, leaving Stu alone in the mirror again.

“I look… good,” he tried, straightening up his back and look cockily into the mirror. Remembering back to the girls he’d met when the band was on break and how’d he’d charmed them, he smiled. “You can do this!”

He couldn’t do this.

It was a bit of a drive to Stoke, and Stu was a little rusty since Murdoc had stolen the wheels off his car for the Winne for the last three months, but it was kind of like riding a bike. Only the bike was a few tonnes of metal screaming down the highway surrounded by similarly dangerous machines on all sides. By the time he got to the house, his teeth were chattering with anxiety and his nails dug into the leather of the steering wheel.

He didn’t even get a second to himself, because as soon as he pulled up he saw Hannibal in the drive, working on his bike. With no shirt. He really couldn’t do this. But he was already putting the car into park and getting out, his feet taking him up the driveway automatically.

“H-hey!” Oh God he really should have cleared his throat in the car before trying to speak because what came out was garbled and squeaky. Colour began to gather in his cheeks and Noodle was right, this had been a bad idea.

Hannibal set down the cloth he was using to wipe the bike’s tires and stood. Somehow, 2D had forgotten just how tall he was. “Hey Stu, guess I lost track of time. Why don’t you come in while I get cleaned up and then we can go?”

2D scratched the back of his head awkwardly but nodded. “I migh’ be early, my sense of time is terrible.”

As they walked to the door Hannibal checked his watch. It was an old, tarnished thing that didn’t really suit him. “Nah, you’re right on time. I can get kinda lost in my projects.”

“It’s fine!” Was his voice always this pitchy? “I don’t mind waitin’ for a bit.”

Hannibal led them to the kitchen, which looked about the same as the last time he’d been there. “Good. Give me 20 minutes. And help yourself to anythin’.” With that Hannibal left him alone, and 2D could finally breathe.

Their entire exchange had been awkward because of the singer. He’d been so much more confident on the phone and through text. But in person, he kept getting all jittery and dumb. He hoped Hannibal wasn’t too disappointed, that he wouldn’t get mad that 2D was different in person. Though he didn’t seem like the type to get pissed, he was related to Murdoc. Just because he was charming didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

20 minutes passed slowly. 2D got a glass of water and poked around a few cabinets. No serial killer knives, or dead bodies in the fridge. He fiddled around on his phone but the signal was terrible, so he ended up faffing about with some matching game. Boredom began to set in and he began to tap his feet against the floor to the beat of some of their new songs. Then he started to hum. By the time Hannibal came back Stu was so wrapped up in humming old and new clips of songs, he was far beyond hearing the other man enter.

“You do have a nice set of pipes on you dontcha?” Hannibal said. 2D startled badly, his voice cutting off with a wheeze and his hands flailing up. It wasn’t like Stu was shy about singing but to have the guy he was supposed to be going on a date with listening to him singing like that? His face couldn’t get any redder.

“I--do you wanna go?” Stu asked after much stuttering. Luckily Hannibal didn’t seem to have Murdoc’s impatient streak, and he waited silently until the singer got the question out.

“Yeah, it’s another hour from here and we’re already late ‘cause of me. D’you wanna take your car or the bike?” He truly seemed to want 2D’s opinion, which was a little off-putting. At least he knew his answer easily.

“Uh, the bike? I’m not really much for drivin’...” Honestly, it had given him a little bit of a headache. Not the type that would have him curl up in a dark room, but it was enough to make his eyes squint. He’d deal with Hannibal’s crazy driving if it meant he didn’t have to actually drive.

“I was hoping you’d say that, actually.” Hannibal grinned, sharp and a little hungry. That smile did things to 2D, both in his chest and his trousers. He was in deep. “You think you can handle a whole hour?”

A whole hour wrapped around those muscles? Stu could think of nothing better. “I think so, uh, should I be worried?”

Hannibal shook his head and laughed, his wet hair dripping onto his grey t-shirt. “No, you’ll be fine Stu. Jus’ hold on tight yeah?”

2D tried not to combust as he followed the other back outside. Were those leather pants? He suddenly felt like he wasn’t dressed appropriately in his button-down and jeans. “Where are we goin’? You never did say.”

“The weather’s been nice,” Hannibal explained, straddling the bike, “and I thought we could go up to the South Pier in Blackpool. Hope you like carnivals.”

Stu’s face lit up. “I love carnivals! Used to work the dodge-ems at my dad's back in high school,” he gushed, clambering up on the back and wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s waist. Oof, he had abs.

“Well isn’t that lucky. Jus’ shout if you need anything.” Hannibal grinned again and they were off, tearing down the road towards the M6.

Honestly, it wasn’t so bad after the first few hair-raising turns. Hannibal didn’t weave in and out of traffic too much, and he only went kind-of over the speed limit. Going so fast, rushing around other people, it was all a little bit exciting.

After an hour and a bit, in which Stu tried to focus on the scenery and not the vibrations of the seat under him and the strong back at his front, they arrived. He hadn’t been to Blackpool in years, not since he was a teen. It was busy and crowded but none of that mattered as they were zooming down the street. Hannibal seemed to know where he was going, and quite quickly Stu could smell the ocean air and hear the seagulls. The bike slowed to a meandering pace before they parked in a spot 2D wasn’t sure was actually a parking spot but oh well.

“Well, here we are,” Hannibal said, getting off the bike with practised ease. He immediately turned around and offered a hand to 2D, probably remember what a klutz the singer was.

“T-thanks,” Stu stuttered, feeling his cheeks go warm. Hannibal was acting the perfect gentleman, but something still told him to be wary. There was a desire behind those brown eyes, something darker. It made the singer shudder.

“Don’t want you busting up your pretty face now do we?” Hannibal teased, not letting go of his hand. “I thought we could walk around, cause some havoc, you know.”

The hand holding was making Stu want to titter like a schoolboy. It had been quite some time since someone took the lead on a date with him. Being famous led people to have… certain assumptions about him a lot of the time.

“I could show you how t’cheat at the cup and ball booth,” 2D offered with a grin of his own. He knew all the tricks of the trade from the people who worked his dad’s carnival.

“Oh well, I’d love to see that. Lead on then.” Hannibal gestured forward and let 2D lead them towards the pier. It was a weird feeling, his hand being dwarfed by another but not one Stuart hated. He pulled them through the crowds--which parted easily for the two extremely tall and strange-looking men--towards the games with laser-like precision.

They spent hours mucking around and generally frustrating the carnies. Stu showed Hannibal how to cheat at quite a few of the games and net them an impressive array of colourfull necklaces, free cotton candy, and small stuffed animals. It turned out they worked quite well together as a team, what with 2D’s knowledge and Hannibal’s good aim. Not to mention, the larger man’s willingness to listen to Stu ramble about whatever came to his mind between stalls.

“--and that’s how Murdoc knocked out both of m’eyes and made me into the frontman for Gorillaz.” He’d been talking for at least 15 minutes while they searched around for some food that wasn’t meat (for Stu) and wasn’t drenched in oil (for Hannibal).

“Yeah that sounds like Doc. He really just rammed into your head with his car twice?” The taller adjusted his grip on the ugly blue teddybear 2D had won. “I mean, he didn’t learn after the first time?”

“Guess not. And to be fair the second time I went through the windscreen and it was the pavement that did the trick.” Stu shrugged. He’d told the story so many times it didn’t really affect him much despite it being one of the most important events in his life.

“Jesus,” Hannibal huffed. He gave Stu’s hand a little squeeze as he led them towards some promising food stalls. “Remind me to break his stupid nose again next time I see him yeah?”

“Russel already took care of that, but I won’t say no…” It was nice thinking Hannibal was upset for him. Most people laughed it off or chalked it up to one of Murdoc’s crazy adventures. “Hey are those pretzels?”

The lineup for the salty dough snacks was short and soon they both had another thing to balance along with their other spoils. 2D watched as Hannibal tried to figure out how to hold the plush, food, and his hand all at the same time with a small smile.

“Why don’t we go find a table?” Stu asked. Hannibal nodded, looking relieved and they wandered over to one of the nearby picnic benches to dump their stuff. Sitting down meant they had to finally let go of each other's hands, which wasn’t the worst thing as Stu was beginning to worry about his sweaty palms.

“So,” Hannibal started through a mouthful of pretzel, “tell me somethin’ about yourself that’s not all that crazy Hollywood shit.”

“Uhh, like what?”

‘What’d you wanna be when you were a kid?” Stu had to think really hard for a minute, so hard that he didn’t notice Hannibal watching him with that look again.

“I think I wanted t’be a policeman for a little while, ‘cause I liked their hats. But then I found out you had to pass a bunch of tests. So I decided I wanted to be a football star but I was complete rubbish,” he said, shoving dough in his mouth. “Don’t think I ever imagined I’d be a singer in a band.”

“Well I never imagined I’d be anythin’ but a deadbeat,” Hannibal laughed and Stu laughed with him. At least until he realized that might have been rude.

“O-oh I--” he sputtered, panic evident in the way he tensed. His hands came up to his chest and clutched at the buttons of his shirt: close to his face in case this was the thing that sent Hannibal over the edge. But again, the other man just shrugged and chuckled good-naturedly.

“Calm down, I’m not gonna freak out on you! Besides, I was a deadbeat. Did my time in prison, got out, did more time, and now I’m here,” Hannibal explained casually. “Figured out that being a total wanker wasn’t the way to get on in life, so I cut that shit out.”

“W-what do you do for work?” 2D asked. The man in front of him was a complete surprise even though they’d been talking for weeks. Most of those texts had been silly little things like stupid pictures, flirty one-liners, and random thoughts. The kind of things that help you get to know someone without really getting to know them. So the fact that Hannibal was so… level-headed was not something Stu expected from a Niccals.

“I’m a mechanic, cars and bikes mostly. Been doing that for… 10 years?” 2D tried to do that math in his head but all the vehicular trauma made that a little bit difficult. So he decided to ask.

“How old are you, I mean, you’re Murdoc’s older brother so….” Hannibal didn’t look that old but neither did Murdoc. Except when he was up really early in the morning and hadn’t had time to “put his face on”.

“47.”

“WHAT?” 2D shouted, dropping the last bite of his pretzel onto the dirty tabletop. “I-I’m only 26.”

Hannibal shrugged and balled together his own trash, flinging it towards the trash can. It didn’t make it in. “S’that a problem for you? I missed out on a lot of my 20’s, bein’ in prison and all.”

“No! S’not a problem!” 2D assured him. It might be a little unorthodox but who really gave a shit? He was famous and rich and he could do whatever he wanted. Which was to say, he thought Hannibal was really, really hot and didn’t care about the age difference. “Guess we should go do somethin’ else eh?”

“Feel like walking the pier?” Hannibal asked. He had some trouble getting off of the picnic table seat, due to his incredibly long legs. 2D stood to the side and wondered if he should offer a hand, but he was too shy.

“Yeah, that sounds nice. S’getting late anyway.” The sun wasn’t quite setting, but everything was getting that dreamy sun-down glow. The lighting actually bothered Stu’s eyes, something about the time of day and the low light made him squint. But he could live with it if it meant getting to spend more time with Hannibal on their date.

They walked side by side down the pier, occasionally bumping shoulders. Hannibal was telling a story about a man who had come into the shop with all four tyres deflated and laughing uproariously. It was a little out of 2D’s wheelhouse--mostly since he avoided driving since the accidents--but he laughed along as well, caught up in the way Hannibal laughed so loudly and without self-consciousness. He didn’t even seem to care people were staring.

“Hmm, look at that.” Hannibal pointed over the railing towards the sunset. They stopped to lean over the edge, side by side. It was beautiful, a little bright for Stu’s eyes but he could appreciate it all the same.

“It’s nice,” he said because words--outside of songwriting--weren’t really his thing. “Reminds me of that time Murdoc set the graveyard on fire. Before the fire department came out.”

“He really is a piece of work. Don’t necessarily blame him for how he turned out but…” Hannibal kept his gaze on the sunset. “He’s stuck, you know? That’s kinda what made me want to change. Saw him in an interview and jus’ thought ‘shit, I don’t wanna be like that’.”

2D tore his gaze away from the sunset to admire Hannibal’s profile. The soft light made him seem younger than he was. “You’re not like him, really. I was scared you migh’ be but you’re a really nice person, Han.”

Hannibal grinned. “Well aren’t you a sweet-talker Stu-Pot. S’that how you get all the ladies?” 2D felt his face heat up at the nickname. Of course, that was the moment the older man turned away from the horizon to look at Stu. There was no way for him to cover up the blush. “And is that flush how you get all the guys?”

“Stop it!” 2D whined, though he really didn’t mean it. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of a flirt?”

Hannibal threw his head back with a loud, surprised laugh. “Spunky. I like that.” He took a step over so they were very, very close, handing brushing. “Knew I’d like you from the first time you broke into my house and smoked in my kitchen.”

“Didn’t break in…” Stu mumbled, too busy watching the way the small wrinkles at the corners of his mouth twisted when he smiled. “You left the bloody door unlocked.”

Hannibal leaned down. “Are you complaining?” 2D took a chance--though really, they’d been dancing around it all day--and wound his fingers around the other man’s belt loops.

“M’gonna be, if you don’t kiss me soon,” he teased, flicking his eyes up briefly took catch the look of want that flit through Hannibal’s. There was a beat, then Hannibal closed the gap, kissing Stu with unexpected fervour. 2D tried to give back as good as he was getting, but he wasn’t used to being the shorter of two partners and was finding the novelty extremely exciting. It was all he could do to pull Hannibal closer, their bodies attacked from hip to chest. And that was all before Hannibal slipped his tongue past the singer’s lips.

“Oh--” Stuart moaned, parting his lips to give Hannibal more access. Behind them, the sun had completely set and the stars were starting to show through the clouds. Their kiss, while intense and very enjoyable remained relatively chaste--at least by 2D’s standards. Shyly, tentatively, the singer rolled his hips forward into his partners. Just a tiny bit, to see how Hannibal would react. He was not disappointed.

Hannibal growled. It sent shivers up Stu’s back and down his front to his prick. Unfortunately, Hannibal also pulled away, using his grip on Stu’s hips to keep him from following. “As much as I’d like to continue this I don’t think the pier is the place to have this… conversation.”

As if he’d been in a trance, 2D snapped out of it and looked around. There weren’t too many people out, but the area wasn’t empty and they were getting a few funny looks. And a few interested ones. Normally he liked the attention--he was the frontman of Gorillaz after all--but this was a little more personal than he’d usually like to share.

“O-oh, yeah. You’re righ’, do you wanna get out of here?” Stuart asked, also not stepped away. He did remove his hands from Hannibal’s trousers though.

“Don’t know about you but I’m gonna need a minute before hopping back on the bike.” He nodded down to where their hips were still pressed together. Both of them were obviously hard. 2D’s blush deepened.

“We could get a hotel room. I’m not tryin’ to brag but I’ve got the money and you paid for lunch so…”

“A whole hotel room’s a bit more than some pretzels, but I won’t say no. Not if it means I get to get into your trousers sooner.” With a move slick as oil Hannibal gave 2D’s ass a quick, covert grope before stepping back. Stu yipped in surprise and jumped back as well. “Let’s go find one, then?”

They walked back to the bike to make sure they were parked somewhere where it wouldn’t be towed, and then entered the nearest hotel. It was some fancy one with a view of the sea. Hannibal made some cursory protests about the costs but went quiet when 2D stuck out his bottom lip in a dramatic pout. The concierge also informed them that the next closest hotel was a 15-minute walk. So that settled it.

Thanks to Stuart's celebrity status they got a pretty fancy room without much fuss. The hotel even offered to send a driver to pick up Hannibal’s bike and store it in their secure garage, but the mechanic refused. Within 10 minutes of entering the hotel, they were already on their way up the lift to their room.

“That was quick,” Hannibal commented as the lift doors closed. He was standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the right-hand wall. 2D faced forward, though he was eyeing the older sneakily. His eyes did have some advantages.

“S’a perk of being famous. I don’t like to abuse it too much but it’s pretty fun once and a while.” The lift dinged at the 22nd floor and when they exited Hannibal placed a hand low on 2D’s back, urging him out the door. Stu let himself be led down the hall to their room, one of only 4. After tapping the keycard to the door they rushed inside, practically tripping over each other.

“Bed,” Hannibal said, tightening his grip on Stu’s lower back, his large hands just barely brushing the waistband of his pants. The hotel room was opulent, with a huge sitting room that branched into a multitude of other rooms they had no use for. Well, maybe the bathroom, after the bedroom. The room listing has boasted a large jacuzzi tub.

Stu walked as quickly as his shaking legs could carry him. He’d been thinking about this since the first day they’d me. Since the first time he’d gotten a good look at Hannibal’s strong arms and muscled shoulders. There had been more than one occasion on which he’d thought about those things late at night, or in the shower, or really any time he was alone. He’d thought Hannibal might be interested too, but it had been hard to know for sure. It wasn’t hard now, or it was but not in the same way.

They stumbled into the bedroom, which was equally massive and unnecessarily furnished. They made a bee-line for the bed, 2D reaching it first and plopping down ungracefully. Seated he had to crane his neck up at an uncomfortable angle to make eye contact. Luckily, he wasn’t that interested in looking up when he was now at crotch level with the other.

“D’you mind if I…?” Stu ran shaky fingers over Hannibal’s thighs and up to the button of his trousers. A glance upwards told him Hannibal was smirking, previously hidden sharp canines making their existence known.

“I’d love you to,” he purred, one hand coming to stroke 2D’s hair. Not pressuring him, but just touching, admiring. Emboldened by the express permission Stuart popped Hannibal's button and nosed at the skin he exposed there while running his hands underneath the other’s shirt. Oh God the muscles he felt on Hannibal’s stomach made his cock twitch. But that would have to wait, because Stu really, really wanted to show Hannibal how much he appreciated the excellent date he’d planned.

“I wanna suck you off…” he hummed, mouthing over his trousers and cotton briefs. Another rumble from Hannibal as he tugged his own bottoms down, not even bothering to step out of them as 2D gawked. “Holy shit! Uh--”

Hannibal looked both pleased and a little bit sheepish. “I know it’s a little big if that’s a problem…”

“No! No, s’not a problem. I uh--” How was he supposed to think when he was mere inches from the biggest, most delicious prick he'd ever seen. Immediately he was thinking about what it would feel like in his mouth, in his hand, in his arse. “I like it.”

There was a light tint of red on Hannibal’s neck and ears that 2D found extremely adorable. “Well, be my guest then, songbird.”

Instead of focusing on the nickname--because holy shit--Stu focused on getting the read of Hannibal’s cock in his mouth. It was a tight fit, but he managed it with a little effort, the head feeling heavy and warm on his tongue. Hannibal was silent but Stu could see his eyebrows drawing together in concentration. He had done that.

There was no way he was going to get the entire thing in his mouth, so he settled for as much as he could and used his hands for the rest. There was no way to stop the drool pooling under his tongue from running down his face, so he didn’t try. Hannibal went deadly still under him.

“Everything OK?” he asked, pulling back and using his fist to slick the entirely of Hannibal’s cock with his spit. He could barely get his whole hand around the thing, Jesus Christ.

“More than OK, kid. You keep doing that and we won’t make it to the main event.” Hannibal pulled him up so he was standing, then led them back to the bed. “You’re quite a catch.”

“You’re jus’ sayin’ that,” 2D mumbled as he let himself be rearranged on the bed. Hannibal loomed over him, completely covering Stu’s body with his own and wasn’t that a new sensation? 2D wriggled against the bedsheets, trying to get comfortable while Hannibal watched with a hungry look.

“I am not. I’ve been thinkin’ about this, wanted to bend you over the counter and fuck you right there in my kitchen when we met,” Hannibal groaned, burying his face in 2D’s neck and leaving sucking kisses. “When you held onto me on my bike on the way to the record store I could feel you and I wanted to take you apart right then; stuff you fuller than you’ve ever been, make you feel it.”

“Please!” Stu moaned, arching into the older man to get more contact. “I though’ about it too, please!”

Hannibal bit his neck harshly, forcing another moan out of the singer. “And the whole drive here, havin’ you pressed agains’ me was torture. I wanted to pull over and bend you over my bike, show you a really good time.”

2D whined, hearing the exact things he’d been thinking about these long weeks said back to him. Hannibal moved from his neck to his collarbone, never biting hard enough to be too much. “I wanted t’fuck you the first time I saw you too.”

“Well, better late than never, righ’?” Hannibal joked, popping the button on Stu’s trousers and reaching inside. A moment passed where 2D thought he might cum without being touched, but he held on as Hannibal rummaged about, eventually grabbing his cock. It was electric.

“A-ah!” he whined, bucking his hips against Hannibal’s grip. He didn’t get very far because Hannibal was keeping him pinned down with the weight of his body. So he was left stuck, completely at the other’s mercy as he stroked slow and steady. “Come’on, go faster!”

“Be patient, Stu. It’s gonna take a while to get you ready and I don’t like to be rushed,” Hannibal warned, giving 2D’s dick a hard squeeze, then let go. He leaned over the bedside and grabbed his discarded pants, pulling out a tube of lube from the pocket. “You’re lucky I came prepared.”

Stu rolled his eyes but kept still, not wanting to delay things any further. “You gonna undress me then?” He lifted his hands above his head, forcing his shirt to ride up and expose more of his stomach. Hannibal’s eyes narrowed in on that strip of skin, running fingers over it.

“Fine, lift those hips for me pretty boy,” Hannibal instructed, pulling his own shirt over his head and then grabbing Stu’s trousers. 2D tried to help Hannibal wiggle them down and off, but it didn’t seem like the older man needed much help. The singer’s shirt was next, and soon they were both naked in the opulent bed, sizing each other up.

“Holy fuck,” Stuart breathed, letting his hand roam over chiselled muscles and warm skin. “You’re like a dream come true, Han.”

“You’re not too bad yourself. Very handsome in fact,” Hannibal drawled, settling his body over the singer’s again and making him gasp at the close contact. “So how d’you want to do this?”

2D wiggled in pleasure. Hannibal was so good to him, so much more polite and caring than any of the groupies he usually slept with. “If you don’t fuck me this instant, I’m not gonna go on any more dates with you.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Hannibal laughed, grabbing the lube again and pouring some on his fingers. “You’ve done this before, yeah?”

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Stu rolled over onto his front and propped up his arse. “Yes, I’ve done this before. Rock star, remember?”

“Good.” Hannibal smirked, then stroked his un-lubed fingers over Stu’s arse and thighs. “Then we can get righ’ to it.” And then he was pressing a slick finger in fully. 2D yelped, then quickly cut himself off with a moan.

“More~” he begged, jutting his hips back to make Hannibal go faster. He wasn’t lying, he had done this before, more than a few times and the slow pace was extremely frustrating. The need to be filled and stretched was too strong, and he whined with the intensity of it. “Please, more!”

“Shhh,” Hannibal soothed, adding another finger. “I know you want it baby but trust me, you’re gonna want to be loosened up before you take me.”

2D huffed, glaring back over his shoulder. “M’not a virgin Han, jus’ do it!”

But Hannibal continued to stretch him, adding a third, and then a fourth all without hitting the spot 2D really wanted him to. Even so, his cock was still hard and dripping against his belly, little noises of pleasure escaping his lips with each rocking motion.

“Han, Hannibal, please--!” He was aching for it, had been for the last few weeks in between when they’d last seen each other. It has been all he could think about alone in his bed at night and now it was so close he could taste it. To have it dangled in front of him was torture.

“Are you sure baby? I know you want it but it might hurt a little…” Hannibal didn’t sound as worried as his words made him seem. When Stu nodded and whined again he removed his fingers with a lewd pop and replaced them with the tip of his dick. “Take a deep breath for me bluebird.”

It did hurt, more than expected but less than an unbearable amount. It was kind of pleasant, actually, the all-encompassing stretching and filling. Stuart had to bite back a groan of pleasure-pain as Hannibal eased in, refusing to let himself crumble and fall into the bedsheets.

“OK?” Hannibal asked, his voice strained and slightly shaky. “Fuck you feel--”

“S’good,” Stu slurred, willing his knees to hold up. “You’re big.”

Hannibal laughed and Stu could feel it inside him. “You don’t say? Do you want me to move?”

“If you don’t I’m gonna scream.”

And so Hannibal did, thrusting slowly and steadily. Never pulling out more than halfway before pushing back in with a smooth and slick precision. It didn’t matter if he aimed for Stu’s prostate, because he was so big he hit it anyway. 2D was sure that if Hannibal so much as brushed his prick he’d go off like a firework.

“Oh, oh, oh!” 2D cried, biting his own arm to suppress the embarrassing noises escaping him. Hannibal was fucking him firmly now, rocking into his body with enough force to jolt him towards the gaudy headboard. "Feels so good-- you're so good!"

Hannibal groaned himself and leaned down, his body totally covering Stu's and the singer hadn't thought it could feel better but it did. "You're taking me so well, baby. I'm gonna ruin you."

"Mmm, stretch me out, make me no good for anyone else's cock," Stu grunted, finally letting his arms give out and pressing his face into the soft pillows. "Don't want anyone else's but yours."

"I'm not gonna argue with that. Flip over babe, I wanna see what you look like while I fuck you open," Hannibal murmured, biting the singer's shoulder hard before pulling out. 2D immediately flipped over, letting his legs fall open and wanting. He took his dick in hand and stroked it, writhing on the bed and hoped he looked enticing enough to get the other to hurry up.

“I’m so close Hanni.” Hannibal’s eyes flashed and in an instant, he was over Stu again, his forearms bracketing the singer’s head, their hips flush. The slap of skin against skin picked up in speed and intensity as Hannibal began to really give it to the singer. 2D cried out at every thrust, bracing his hands against the headboard to avoid banging his head. “Fuck--fuck me--!”

“Beautiful,” Hannibal breathed. He nosed in close to the singer’s neck, right under his ear. “All for me…”

2D twisted and moaned, though Hannibal’s large hands on his waist kept him pinned. “Y-yes, yes, oh--fu-fuck!” he screamed, feeling himself reach his peak, shooting past it into a mind-numbing, pleasure-filled ecstasy. It went on and on, extended by the feeling of Hannibal’s cock swelling then releasing inside him. He barely even noticed the desperate sounds he was making or the way Hannibal’s teeth had found purchase in the soft skin of his neck.

They both wound down, hips slowing and hearts pounding. Hannibal eventually kissed the raw, red marks he’d left behind on Stu’s neck, and Stu smoothed his hands over the scratch marks on Hannibal’s back. Eventually, their breathing settled and Hannibal rolled off of 2D, landing on his back amongst the messy pillows and sheets.

“Well,” Hannibal sighed, reached over the side of the bed for his trousers and the pack of cigarettes in the pocket. He lit one to hand to 2D, then one for himself, relaxing back against the headboard while Stu continued to gather himself.

“Holy shit,” 2D breathed, sucking down smoke like it was air. “I don’t think I can move my legs.”

“Yeah, that happens sometimes.” Hannibal sounded far too pleased with himself and 2D huffed. “You’re not to sore, are you?”

Stu did a mental once over, then smiled. “Feels nice. Achey, but the good kind.” Hannibal smiled as well, turning on his side and draping an arm over 2D’s trim waist to brush his fingers along his side. The singer hummed happily as he swivelled his head, asking for a kiss. Hannibal obliged.

“So, good first date?” he asked once Stu had pulled back to take another drag. He sounded softer and more relaxed than he’d been all day. Maybe 2D hadn’t been the only one who was nervous.

“Very good,” he answered, raising an eyebrow. “So good that maybe we should go on another one tomorrow.”

Hannibal chuckled, pulling Stu closer so they were really cuddling. It was too early to go to bed, but neither of them felt like getting up. “Why wait? We could order room service and watch somethin’ on that gigantic TV we passed.”

“Oooh, d’you like zombie films?” 2D began to wiggle with excitement, thinking about getting to cuddle Hannibal on the sofa while eating fancy food. Like real chicken fingers.

“I don’t mind them, especially not if it means watchin’ them with you.” 2D wanted to roll his eyes at the sappy line, but he was too happy. It had been a long time since he’d felt this type of happiness, the kind you get when you’re warm and content and loved.

“Me too. Well, uh, I always like zombie films but I’d like to watch them with you even more. But maybe in a little while.” He glanced up at Hannibal to find the older looking down at him, listening intently. “I’d kinda like to stay like this…”

“You won’t hear me arguin’,” Hannibal rumbled, nuzzling deeper into 2D’s hair. Glad that they agreed, Stu got into a more comfortable position--one touching as much of Hannibal as possible--and closed his eyes. He was already trying to think of things they could do tomorrow, things that mostly involved not leaving the hotel room, or even the bed.

#hannistu #fanfic

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ariela-of-aedyr · 5 years

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Make a Wish

This week’s @pillarspromptsweekly prompt was Romance, and my Romantic Fluff Tropes of choice were:

Almost Kiss

Romance Under the Stars

Idiots in Love

Ended up writing a little Pre-Relationship Ari/Aloth thing which... I’m not sure if I consider canon, but like the idea of all the same.

Letting out a long sigh, Ariela leaned back against the outside wall of the tavern, taking in a deep breath of the cool night's air. Inside, she could still hear the sounds of music and dancing, friendly chatter and raucous laughter, as her friends and the other patrons of the bar let go and had the time of their lives.

It wasn't as though she didn't enjoy a more lively atmosphere- in fact, she'd been having a good time for most of the night. But as the night had worn on and she had started to grow tired, the presence of so many others around her- all of whom were being far too free with their thoughts- had only led to the beginnings of a headache. Why people couldn't be more considerate of those with the unfortunate natural ability to delve into minds, she would never know. It wasn't as though she wanted to get flashes of thoughts and memories from everyone around her, it just got... harder not to, the tireder that she got. Especially when everybody was thinking so loudly.

The door to the tavern opened again, and Ariela glanced across to see a familiar figure slipping quietly away from the revelry, and making his way towards her.

"Are you alright, Ari?" There was a concerned look on Aloth's face as he drew closer to her, coming to a stop beside her on the edge of the small veranda. "You were there one minute and gone the next."

"I just needed some air. It's very loud in there."

The frown on his face gave way to a gentle smile, and Ariela took a moment to appreciate how incredibly beautiful he was. Was it wrong of her to think that, she wondered, when she had decided so long ago that she would probably never tell him of her feelings towards him? He was a good friend- her dearest friend- and she did not want to complicate or spoil their relationship by telling him that she had begun to think of him in another way as well.

But still, he was beautiful, and it was sometimes difficult not to become distracted by that fact. Particularly when he smiled.

"It is, isn't it?" He agreed, oblivious to the internal conflict going on inside her head as he leaned back against the wall beside her. "I'll admit, I was rather glad to have the excuse to slip away."

"Glad that I could help." Ariela smiled, resisting the urge to rest her aching head against his shoulder. If he had been anyone else, she knew, she would not have hesitated, and yet when it came to Aloth... Well, she knew that he had never been entirely comfortable with her physical displays of affection, and even if that weren't the case, she suspected that if she were to allow herself to indulge in any real measure of intimacy, it would become increasingly difficult to suppress her romantic feelings towards him. Straightening up, she glanced about for anything that might distract her from this. From him. From how close he was standing to her, and how much she desperately wanted to touch him. "Would you like to take a walk with me? It looks like a nice night."

Well done, Ariela, She scolded herself. Your 'distraction' sounds suspiciously like a date.

Ariela seemed distracted. He hadn't really noticed it at first, but the longer that they walked together, the more apparent it was becoming.

It seemed very odd to Aloth that she would have invited him to walk with her if she did not actually want his company, and yet it was clear from her behaviour that she was trying to create some kind of distance between them. She looked anywhere but him, taking in their surroundings as they moved through the town with a fascination that the closed businesses and market stalls hardly warranted, and quickly moved away any time that she unconsciously swayed too closely to him. It was that part, in particular, that was starting to get to him. He didn't want there to be a distance between them. Not anymore. Not after they had finally come back into each other's lives after so much time apart.

Though he had to admit that, at first, he had found being in her company once again to be an odd experience- one that was full of complicated thoughts and worries about how much might have changed whilst they had been apart- he had very quickly fallen back into a comfortable rhythm with his dear friend, and now relished every moment that he got to spend with her, even those in which she behaved oddly.

Ariela came to a stop all of a sudden, eyes widening in wonder as she tilted her head up to look at the sky, and he mirrored her actions, his thoughts forgotten for the time being as he came to a standstill beside her, and looked up into the night in search of what had caught her attention.

"A shooting star!" Ariela remarked happily, pointing up to direct his attention appropriately. "How beautiful!"

He was sure that it probably was, and yet his eyes never made it to the sight that she was seeing, distracted instead by the way the moonlight shone onto her pale blue skin, giving her an almost ethereal glow. The smile upon her lips lit up her entire face, and, just for a moment, he found that he had forgotten to breathe. "Yes." He remarked, dimly. "Very beautiful."

"My nanny used to say that if you make a wish when you see a shooting star, the wish will come true." Ariela turned her eyes back onto him for the first time in a while, her face still a picture of unbridled joy and wonderment, and he quickly averted his gaze, suddenly very embarrassed that he had been staring at her, instead of at the stars in the sky.

Aye, but she's far prettier than any twinkling ball of light.

For once, Iselmyr's thoughts mirrored his own, and he swallowed heavily, trying to remember how to behave normally. What was it that he used to do before he had realised that he was attracted to his friend? Did they normally stand so closely together? He couldn't help but feel like she was suddenly much closer than she had ever been before, and yet somehow every fibre of his being wanted to have her closer still.

He felt his hand moving out towards hers, though he was unsure whether it was his own will or Iselmyr's that commanded it, brushing his fingertips against hers ever so lightly, afraid that if he were to do anything more he might break whatever spell had fallen over them. Ariela mimicked his movement, her feather light touch moving across his skin as she continued to hold his gaze with a strange intensity that he had not seen from her before.

Her full lips parted the tiniest fraction, and he felt himself leaning towards her, as if in a daze, as she began to close the distance between them. She smelled of saltwater, gunpowder and honey, the fragrance filling his senses as they drew closer together. Her lips were only an inch or two away, as-

"Ariela? Aloth?" The pair of them jumped back from one another, suddenly shaken from their trance as Eder's voice called out to them across the town square. "There you are! We got worried when you guys just disappeared on us!"

"Sorry, Eder. We didn't mean to worry anyone." Ariela remarked, though Aloth noted that her attention still seemed to be fixated on him, and not their friend, her gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips as though she were unsure if what had just transpired between them had really happened.

His head was still spinning too much to consider it himself, her scent still lingering on his senses, the knowledge that he had almost just kissed his friend too much to wrap his mind around. And yet he had. And somehow the only part of the experience that he was regretting was that it had only been a near miss.

Unconsciously, he found himself glancing up at the sky above them, hoping for another star on which to wish.

#pillars of eternity #aloth corfiser #aloth x watcher #watcher ariela #em-j writes

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isolavirtuosa · 6 years

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Post Traumatic Drabbles: Breaking the Habit

[fanfiction] NaruSasu

Some drabbles following Post Traumatic and Post-Post Traumatic, ranging from fluffy nonsense to horror and despair.

1-4

Track 5: Breaking the Habit, in which relationshipping is hard and making good life choices is harder.

Track 5

Breaking the Habit

I could not stop laughing.

“What is so funny?” Temari asked, coming into the room.

“We don’t remember!” Gaara and I chorused, both going back into hysterics.

She rolled her eyes and sat down, cracking open a beer. “It’s getting late, Naruto, shouldn’t you be home taking care of your brood?”

“Nah, Juugo’s home,” I said, taking another sip. Thinking about home had a sobering effect.

“Boy, that better not be alcohol that you’re drinking,” she said, suddenly going hardass mom on her son.

“Dad said I could,” Shikanori protested.

Temari glanced at Shikamaru.

He shrugged.

“Fine, but don’t come crying to me if you end up puking,” she said, downing the rest of her drink. “I’ll leave you boys to your little party,” she concluded, snagging another can of beer and making her exit.

“It is getting kind of late,” Sora hedged. He was the responsible one in our teacher-student relationship.

It was funny how that always seemed to end up being the way.

“One more for the road?” Kankurou suggested.

“One more for the road,” I agreed, clinking bottles with him.

Sora seemed appeased, going back to his own beer. He’d been hyper focused on his training lately, but even he could kick back and relax on occasion. Now that Gaara was training Shika Jr., we spent a lot of time in Suna training with them. It was good for Sora to have a younger training partner who looked up to him. It gave him a boost of confidence, which was why he’d come back to train with me in the first place.

Also because he missed me and thought I was the coolest and best teacher ever, probably.

“Hey, Sora, that rotten Uchiha still with your woman?” Kankurou asked.

Well, there was that, too.

“I don’t have a woman,” Sora muttered, drowning his sorrows.

“You could kick his ass,” Shikanori encouraged him.

“Of course I could,” Sora said, crushing his can in his hand. “But I don’t care.”

Shikamaru gave me a look.

I shrugged.

He shrugged, too, turning his attention back to our shogi match. The only reason he wasn’t completely crushing me was because Gaara, Sora, and I were playing as a team. “When is Izu coming back to train with Sasuke?”

“Hopefully never,” I said cheerfully.

Sora sniffed his disdain.

There was no love lost in this room for Uchiha Izu.

“You look like you could use something a little stronger,” Kankurou said, offering Sora an apology in the form of hard liquor.

The party was really getting started now.

I somehow managed to keep a tiny piece of me sober so I could Advanced Flying Thunder God our asses home.

“Night,” I said, waving Sora off to the guest house. I’d finished building it last summer for when Sakura and Ino and the girls came to stay, but Sora and Izu were getting the most use out of it.

“Night,” he echoed, smiling peacefully. Sometimes getting trashed was good for the soul.

I crept up the stairs, quietly easing the bedroom door open.

Sasuke’s back was to me, the curve of his shoulder illuminated in the moonlight streaming through the window.

My heart tightened.

His shoulder moved rhythmically in time with his breathing.

All I wanted was to wrap him in my arms and squeeze him until we were one being. That was probably a perfect normal urge. I just missed him. He’d done a month at the clinic, then he’d done a month with Karin and Suigetsu, which was apparently something he’d needed. Now even though he was home, it felt like he was a million miles away.

I needed to feel our bond.

I tossed off my shirt, ignoring the chill of the winter air, and slid into bed behind him, hesitating only for a moment before putting my arm around his waist and pulling him closer.

His whole body stiffened. “Don’t.”

Sasuke had two ‘don’t’s. The first went along the lines of, ‘I am a fiercely proud Uchiha who is also vulnerable and shy, so I say ‘don’t’ in order to make it reasonably seem like I am protesting your love and affections which I in reality so deeply desire.’

The other ‘don’t’ just simply meant ‘don’t’, with the added parenthetical that, ‘if you continue, I will annihilate you and everything you hold dear.’

This was clearly the latter, so I pulled away.

He didn’t turn around.

“Sasuke.”

He still didn’t turn around.

I felt annoyed at being ignored. “What’s your problem?”

He turned slowly, eyes fixed in a glare. “You are a fucking moron.”

“Excuse me?” I growled, on my way to full-on anger.

“I can smell it on your breath!” he snapped.

“What, this is about me having a couple of drinks?!” I asked incredulously.

“Oh my god, how are you so fucking clueless?” he muttered, turning away from me.

I caught his shoulder, forcing him to look at me again. “I can drink as much as I damn well want. I’m not you.”

Something shattered behind his eyes, but he was already pulling himself back together before I could figure out what was happening. “Get away from me,” he snarled, shoving me.

“It’s my damn house.”

“That I pay for.”

“After you made me quit my job.”

“That you ha- no, you know what, no. I’m tired. Just get away from me, Naruto, for fuck’s sake.”

“Why should I?” I demanded.

“Because when I smell it, I want a fucking drink you moron!”

It felt like a punch to the gut.

“Fine,” I said, feeling startled and confused. I grabbed my pillow and stumbled out of the room. I found my way to the couch and pulled the afghan off of the back, wrapping myself up and passing out.

I woke up to sunlight, a headache, and slobber on my cheek. I groaned, scrubbing at it. “Makkun, please.”

“Why are you sleeping out here?” the pug asked, waving his tail.

In the continued contentious relationship of Sasuke and Kakashi, our former teacher had somehow thought that a talking dog would be an appropriate olive branch.

And yes, of course I loved our new pet, but he chewed all our furniture and licked all our faces and basically drove Sasuke crazy.

“Coffee,” I said.

“You’re sleeping out here because of… coffee?” Makkun asked, tilting his adorable pug head to the side.

“I’m brewing some now,” Mari said from the kitchen.

“You’re a goddess,” I marveled. I scrubbed at the crust in my eyes and made a few attempts to get off of the couch before finally succeeding.

“Rough night?” Mari asked, pulling some mugs down from the cupboard. One for me, one for her, and one for… Sora?

She caught me eyeing the third cup and hastily shoved it back in the cupboard.

“It’s too early for the nonsense,” I groaned, flopping onto my chair.

“I just miscounted,” she muttered.

“Really? Miss I Can Do Quantum Physics can’t count to two?” I grumbled.

“Is this ever not going to be awkward?” she complained.

“You dumped my disciple! For Sasuke’s disciple! And we all live together!” I cried. “You’re the one who made things awkward!”

“You kind of have me there,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder before pouring the coffee.

“God, please tell me Izu isn’t coming back while Sora’s here,” I prayed to my coffee.

“How long is Sora staying?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Probably until the awkwardness wins over his desire to get stronger.”

Mari did that same frown that Sasuke did when he was worried.

Then Sora came in, pausing when he saw Mari. “Good morning,” he said, giving her the worst imitation of a smile that I’d ever seen. “Is there coffee?”

Mari nodded her head to the pot.

Sora reached up to take the coffee mug from the cupboard that Mari had previously taken out and put back, poured his coffee, and downed the entire mug in one go.

“Go a little too hard last night?” I teased.

“I don’t look as rough as you,” he replied.

Mari snickered.

They smiled at each other briefly.

Sora filled another cup and made an abrupt exit.

Mari turned her frown on me. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“What the hell?!” I protested. “Where is this coming from?!”

“It’s bad enough that you drink all the time, but why do you have to drag Sora into it?”

I stared at her. Then I rubbed my eyes before staring at her some more. “I’m too hungover for this.”

She made a disgusted face at me.

“You’re acting like I’m doing something wrong, and I’m not!” I snapped defensively. “And the main reason Sora was drinking so much was because of you, so….”

“Because nothing is ever your fault,” Mari said, rolling her eyes.

“According to you and Sasuke, everything is my goddamn fault.”

“Pretty much.”

“Mari, can we please not fight?” I groaned.

“Whatever.”

“Thank you.”

We finished our coffee in silence.

“You’re not being fair to him,” Mari finally said, putting her mug in the sink.

“To who?”

She sighed loudly. “Sometimes I understand why everyone thinks you’re dumb.” Then she smacked me in the side of my head.

I gaped at her.

“Sasuke literally just admitted that he’s an alcoholic, and you think it’s fine for you to go out drinking all the time?!” she cried, using excessive hand gestures.

“What does that have to do with my drinking?!” I protested.

“Ugh,” she said, stomping out of the room.

I was feeling offended on top of the horrible headache I had. I went outside and shuffled my hand around the gutter until I found the pack of smokes I’d hidden away. Makkun came and rested his head on my knee while I sat and smoked. I patted him absently, trying to find my center.

Sasuke came outside, squinting into the light and looking like death warmed over. He sat down on the ground next to me, reaching for the cigarette dangling from my mouth.

“Babe, come on, you quit,” I said, holding the cigarette away from him.

“So did you,” he graveled at me, still half-asleep. He took the cigarette and took a drag.

I watched him smoke the cigarette that I had bought, and the gears in my head started sluggishly moving.

“I’m going back to bed,” he said abruptly, handing me the remaining stub that barely had a drag left in it.

I watched him go back into the house.

“Want to go for a run?” Sora asked, coming over to me.

“God, no,” I groaned.

“Come on,” he said.

I dragged myself to my feet. I was actually starting to feel better, the good old kyuubi healing kicking in, but I was still sluggish.

Running on sand was the worst.

We ran, and my head started to clear.

“Sora, am I complete asshole?” I asked as we ran.

He half-smiled. “Sometimes.”

“No, really. Am I insensitive?”

He looked at me, not breaking his stride, studying my face carefully. “I’d say more obtuse than purposefully insensitive.”

“Is that better?” I asked.

He shrugged, directing his sight forward again.

We kept running.

“Thanks for last night,” he said, suddenly breaking the silence. “It’s what I needed. I’m too in my head sometimes, you know?”

“I do know,” I agreed. “It’s okay to relax sometimes, kid.”

“Yeah.”

We ran out to the training area and started sparring. Our stomachs rumbling told us when to take a break and go back to the house.

I washed up quickly before heading to the kitchen, happy to see that Mari had made lunch.

Sasuke hadn’t come back down.

I shoveled some food into my mouth before going upstairs. I knocked on the door and received a grunt of acquiescence, so I opened it and stepped inside.

He was still in bed, wrapped up in blankets.

“Mari made lunch,” I said.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I’m not really hungry.”

“I could just bring you some rice, you know, so you have something on your stomach,” I offered, eyeing the rows of pills lining our nightstand that remained unopened and untaken.

“Okay,” he agreed.

I smiled at him, and he half-smiled back. I brightened even more, going back downstairs to get the rice. I paused in my task and opened one of the cupboards, grabbing a couple of other things.

“Here,” I said, dumping the other stuff on the bed before handing him the rice and chopsticks.

He frowned at the smoking patches. “Trying to tell me something?” I shook my head. “They’re for me,” I said, opening the box and sticking one on my arm.

“So the cigarettes are for me?” he asked, his mouth twisting in amusement.

“They’re for the trash,” I said, throwing them in the wastebasket next to the bed.

“Don’t waste them,” he said with a frown.

“I shouldn’t have bought them in the first place.”

“No, you shouldn’t have, but you’re just going to buy more, so don’t throw money away when things are tight.”

I blinked. “Money’s tight?”

He sighed, looking away.

“You didn’t tell me…” I said. “I’ll pick up some ninja jobs.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said, waving it off.

“I’m happy to help,” I insisted.

“Well I need you here,” he answered sharply.

I looked at him.

He wouldn’t look me in the eye.

I waited.

“Juugo’s going to Orochimaru’s,” he said suddenly.

“WHAT?!”

“Don’t react like that, you know that Orochimaru knows more about his abilities than anyone else.”

“Which he used and manipulated to make the freaking curse seals!”

“Naruto.”

I took a breath. “Yeah, okay. I know Juugo’s been… losing it more often lately, but I dunno. He belongs with us, not creepy ass Orochimaru.”

“Orochimaru will help him, and then he will come back where he belongs.” There was a little spark in his eyes as he spoke.

“Do you really think he can help?” I asked, sitting next to him. I thought about letting our shoulders brush, then thought better of it.

“He’ll try,” Sasuke said. He handed me the half-empty rice bowl.

I put it on the nightstand.

Sasuke wrinkled his nose.

“So you need me here to take care of the kids or what?” I asked, ignoring his expression. I could take the bowl with me when I went back downstairs, no reason to make two trips.

Sasuke was quiet, still frowning at the rice bowl. “I need you,” he finally said.

“It doesn’t feel like you need me,” I said, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice and failing. “It feels like quite the opposite.”

“Naruto,” he said, voice strained.

“It’s like there’s a hole inside of me, and I keep trying to find ways to fill it, but nothing helps,” I told him, clenching my fists to try and stay calm. “So, yeah, I’ve been drinking a lot lately, and I’m starting to see why that’s not really fair to you, but I need something, some kind of escape. I can’t do this day in and day out, have you stay up in your room all the time and barely talk to me, barely touch me, barely even look at me. This is the most you’ve talked to me all month, Sasuke, and I just… Sas’, baby, love, please, I need something.”

“…I don’t have anything to give to you.”

I started to cry out of frustration and quickly composed myself. “Is this how you feel every day?” I whispered. “Like something’s missing?”

“You could say that.”

I looked at his stoic face. “I can’t imagine what you go through, you know? I really can’t. I wish I was more understanding. I wish I didn’t do stupid things like come home drunk. I’m trying to be better, but it hurts and-fuck I want a cigarette,” I growled, scratching at the patch on my arm. I tried to think about things that weren’t painful and hopeless so I didn’t become an emotional mess again.

“You don’t need to try, Naruto.”

I looked at him with thankfully dry eyes. “Why, you already gave up on me?”

He smacked me in the arm, and it actually filled me with joy. “No, dumbass.”

“Then what?” I asked, trying not to get my hopes up. No matter how much I wanted Sasuke to just shake off his depression, he had to work through it in his own way and in his own time.

“You give me what I need,” he said. “I don’t always want what you have to give, but you always give me what I need.”

“I don’t really think I get it.”

“That’s fine. But if you come into my bed reeking of alcohol one more time I will decapitate you.”

“Okay,” I agreed, because he wasn’t really going to decapitate me. Probably.

“Just stay at Gaara’s,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Even though all you want is an escape, and I’m off selfishly having one?”

“Wow, moron, you actually understood the situation for once.”

“I understand things.”

“You’re an understander?”

“How did you know I was going to say that?”

“Because I love your dumb ass.”

“I love your dumb ass, too.”

“That wasn’t as cute as you think it was,” Sasuke muttered, looking a little happier.

“I’m very cute,” I said, grinning at him.

“You’re fucking old is what you are,” he said, but there was actually humor in his voice so I didn’t get mad.

We sat quietly for a while.

“We’re not good for each other right now,” Sasuke finally said.

“You said you needed me.”

“And that was shitty of me,” he said, shaking his head. “I really just want you to sit at my beck and call while I continue to ignore you.”

“So you admit it,” I said, but there was no ‘ah-ha’ to it. We’d played this game long enough to know all of each other’s moves.

“Go somewhere with Sora. Go travel.”

“I’m not going to just take off on you when Juugo’s gone, too.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“The kids do.”

Sasuke looked down at his lap. “Mari will be here.”

“Well, let’s talk to her,” I said. “I’m not going to just assume that she’s willing to take on all that responsibility, and I don’t want her to feel obligated, either.”

“…can you do it?” The light was already starting to drain from his eyes.

I swallowed. “Yeah. I’ll go talk to her now.” I stood up to leave.

Sasuke caught my wrist.

I swallowed again, willing myself to be the strong, manly man that I always claimed to be.

“I’m going to be better when you come back,” he said. He pushed some chakra into me before letting go.

“When I come back from talking with Mari?” I teased. That little bit of chakra was sending tingles up and down my spine.

“Dummy,” he said, rolling away from me and pulling the covers up.

“That would make me really happy,” I said, watching as Sasuke and the bed slowly became the same inanimate object.

He didn’t answer.

I picked up the bowl from the nightstand and headed down the stairs.

#narusasu #fanfiction #isola post traumatic

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davyjf · 6 years

Photo

It’s all fun and games until someone checks the naughty list (tip: you made the nice list!).

For @reinlili

Alright babe, it’s our first official Christmas and all I can say is that I hope there’s many more to come for the two of us. There was so much I wanted to get you to make sure this year was as special as it gets, but I figured I’d save some for other occasions, since I intend for there to be a lot of them. Here’s what I settled on for this year though.

First, the rings. They might not be of the engagement kind, but you can consider it a promise (do people still do that?) - I know we’ve talked about jealousy a bit lately and while I don’t think it’s a problem for us, I thought this might help ease both of our minds a little bit. They’re a set, and I will wear mine always so you never have to worry if anyone is wondering - they will know my heart is spoken for even before I can tell them. Next, the flowers. Okay, I thought these were really cool and something you could take along with you when we have to be apart. Keep them in the box and (somehow, magically) they will last whole year (cool, right?!).

On to the naughty list stuff. It looks like a candle, smells like a candle, is a candle. But it also melts into a deliciously silky massage oil that I thought we could have a little bit of fun with! Next is a book of love poems by Pablo Neruda. They’re almost as beautiful as you and I wish I had the talent to tell you how I feel as elegantly as he does but I’ll borrow his words this time so you never have to wonder. I figured I’d leave this last one boxed up so we could open in private later, but you can probably guess what’s hidden in there (Don’t let your dad see this one!).

Meeting you and getting to spend the past several months falling more and more in love with you has been then absolute best thing that’s happened to me and more than I ever could have hoped for. You’re my everything and I look forward to spending the next year, and many more after, falling even more in love with you. Have a very Merry Christmas, babe.

Love, Dave.

For Zoey @zoeydevtch

Merry Christmas Zoey, I pulled in a favor from the big man and got you off the naughty list. You can thank me later! I got you a mug made without upcoming smash reality show hit - I figured it might motivate us to get things done (or just make you laugh when you see it and remember what nerds we are!). I also got you a couple snowboarding goodies - socks and gloves (don’t ask me what is with all the pink this time around, but it just happened) - stay warm and safe out there, will you?! And lastly, but perhaps most importantly, the only hangover tonic you will ever need. It’s handcrafted using a unique blend of herbs known to ease the ailments caused by the overindulgence of a good time. Can be mixed into cocktails or employed to alleviate nausea, stress headaches, anxiety, or an upset stomach. Goes great in Whiskey, Bourbon, Tea, or straight in Soda water.

Anyway, if my mom had managed to push out a girl at some point, I’m pretty sure she would have ended up a lot like you (nice, but a bit weird), so I figure you’re probably about the closest thing I’m ever going to get to a sister and now we just need to make the Dueco’s official so that next year at this time, we can share the family insanity! Have a great, one and hey, try and be good?

Dave.

For Zach @roerigz

Merry f’in Christmas man!

I just wanted to take a minute to celebrate the holidays with you and thank you for being not just a stand-up guy, but a great friend this past year-ish (not quite, but close enough, right?). We’ve had some good times but you’ve also listened to me babble on and on about just about anything and everything with patience of a fucking saint. You’re good people, brother, and I’m glad our paths crossed.

Alright, first up, some new longboarding gloves and a sneaker cleaning kit so you can look fresh as hell once all this snow goes away and we can get back out there again. I threw in some snowboarding goggles because a man has to look good all year round, right? Lastly, I came across this nifty little business card holder that not only seemed appropriate but well timed give your new adventure. I figure those new business cards are going to be in high demand, so you should have something both handsome and convenient!

I hope you and the family have an excellent Christmas and that 2018 is extra good to you all! Merry Christmas!

Dave.

For @tylerjbburn, @levittjoe, @edwardhardy, @dempjoe, @evanpxtrs, @bviewgron, @shay-bright, @roberttsemma

Merry Christmas friends,

I wanted to do something a little different this year, because we all know Santa is going to spoil you all rotten and I didn’t want to contribute to the corruption, so I figured I’d do something good! I think most of you know that I lost my best friend to cancer awhile back. While he was battling the disease and since he passed, I’ve been a huge supporter of Stand Up To Cancer, which raises money every year to accelerate the amazing and groundbreaking research happening all over the country. All the proceeds from your spiffy new hoodies and travel bottles will be a part of helping us get closer to finding a cure, once and for all!

Anyway, I hope you all have an amazing Christmas! Thanks for the laughs and the good talks. Here’s to many more in 2018!

Dave.

#gifts(to)#reinlili #zoeydevtch #roerigz #tylerjbburn #levittjoe #edwardhardy #dempjoe #evanpxtrs #bviewgron #shaybright #roberttsemma #tw: cancer #sorry if that upsets anyone :(#please don't read if it might!#he wanted to do something meaningful and this is legit a cause he supports!

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canaliculi · 7 years

Text

I’ve Been to the Mountaintop

Bioshock (Infinite!)

Rosalind Lutece/Booker DeWitt/Robert Lutece

NC-17: changing tenses, full consent, oral, handjobs

Robert calls it a 'kindness,' Rosalind calls it a 'dalliance,' and Booker's caught in the middle.

“Every possible event has already happened. Or is happening currently. Or will?”

“You’re just making excuses.”

“It’s inevitability, darling.”

“An outcome is hardly inevitable if you’re the one tweaking variables in its favor.”

“Thereby furthering its inevitability.”

Rosalind heaved a sigh and Robert knew he had won. She leveled a dreadfully serious and unimpressed expression his way. Does his own brow quirk upwards like that in annoyance? But it’s all in jest, a facetious argument he knows he would be making – had made, does make – were he the one on the other end of the conversation. His lips twisted in amusement.

“I’ve lost this argument before, haven’t I?”

“Perhaps you’re still going to,” she muses. Her eyes narrow and then in tandem they turn. It wasn’t clear when they were, but the clouds outside were fluffy and patriotic. No Elizabeth. They shared a glance – which timeline was this? But it would serve for his purposes. Their purposes, truly. “Is this the sinner or the saved?”

“The sinner, one should hope – look at the beard!”

“Or lack thereof.”

“Five o’clock shadow.”

“Closer to seven or eight.”

“Now you’re simply being contrarian.” Robert said, but he couldn’t shake her disproval. She had already bent to his whims, and as stiff as she was, he wondered how much farther she would be pushed. “Consider it a kindness.”

“I consider it a dalliance,” she responds. “One never knows just which crushed butterfly will precipitate the disaster.”

“When disaster is the default, how much worse could one endeavor to make it?” At that, finally, she laughed, and Robert felt some tension ease. Odd that a tightening of muscle fibers, tugging against ligament and bone, could so affect one’s mood.

There’s a brief static discharge and time makes its presence known. It’s another tugging, and Robert finds it almost difficult to imagine a, time, when its forward flow was all he’d known. He feels so separate from it. And so close to it. And so before it. There’s a headache on the way, or here already, and Rosalind places a hand on his shoulder. Her slim fingers grip him tight.

“Well, shall we wake the slumbering giant?”

“Allow me,” he says. Robert leans over the messy figure sprawled on the bed and taps his shoulder. Booker grouched in his sleep and rolled over, not deterred in the slightest. “This is hardly the time to be so stalwart.” He rapped his fingers against the hard bone of Booker’s scapula.

The rough cut man came to awareness slowly and, honestly, who could sleep so deeply in an unknown city, when he was here to do a job? Well, Robert supposed it was better than immediately casting Columbia into revolt and bloodshed. Booker finally opened his eyes and rolled back round, easing himself into a sitting position.

“Look, he’s been wounded,” Rosalind comments with arms crossed over her chest.

“Not a shocking development.”

“No good for our purposes.”

“We’ve made do with worse.”

“Quite.”

Booker stares at them with bleary eyes. Then his face scrunches almost comically and he rubs his eyes, as though with force he could scrub their image from his retinas. He appeared nearly disappointed when he looked at them again.

“Do you require assistance?” Robert offers. His green eyes follow Booker’s hand as it inches towards the edge of his bed, where he no doubt stashes his weapons. “I don’t think you’ve ever shot us, Mr. DeWitt.” The brunet freezes.

“No, I don’t believe he has,” Rosalind said. “I don’t believe he ever will. There is only so much wiggle room, after all.”

“Indeed.”

“You guys are giving me a headache,” Booker replies. His voice is rough from sleep and when he moves a certain way – leaning to one side or another – his otherwise symmetric features warp into a wince. “Can I help you with something?”

“You are helping us.”

“And we are helping you.”

“None of this is helpful.” Both the Luteces are smiling and it makes Booker feel on edge. There’s something off about the two of them, and he always feels like he’s following about 30 feet back when he’s talking to them.

“I’ll grant you that,” Robert said. “Although we did already offer.”

“I don’t need assistance.” So forceful, so tactless. Booker to the core, except when he is Comstock.

“Are you so certain about that?”

“Because from our perspective, it appears you may be wounded.”

“Perhaps mortally so.”

“I’m f-” cut off with a grunt. “…Fine.”

The twins shared another glance. Robert leaned back in and snaked his hand around to the side Booker had been favoring, pressed the pads of his fingers against the tender area. Taken off guard, Booker let out a hiss of pain and jerked backwards, banging his head against the wall. With an expression more smug than it probably needed to be, Robert pulled away again, holding his fingers up. They were wet and shiny with blood.

“It’s nothing,” Booker snaps. Robert looks at him expectantly and wiggles his fingers. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh come now, we are doctors,” Rosalind says.

“Physicists,” Booker argues.

“Still one more PhD than you’ve got to your name,” Robert says.

“Two if we’re counting.”

“Who says we are?” Booker seemed displeased.

“Either way,” Rosalind continues, “of the three of us in this room, two of us are experts-”

“And one of us has experienced live combat, so-”

“A point that, to be sure, would be taken under further consideration if said ‘combat expert’-” Robert made sure to emphasize this with the appropriate hand gesture, seeming immune to Booker’s pointed scowl. “-weren’t currently trying to sleep away a bullet wound.”

Quiet falls over the room. Like the proverbial sharks smelling blood, the Luteces look far too… content. The cats that got the cream. Booker can tell he’s losing. He sighs and they look between themselves.

“All right.” Booker gave in.

“Oh?”

“All right?”

“Yes!” Anything to stop this two-headed interrogation. “Whatever will get the two of you to shut it.”

Robert places his clean hand in the middle of Booker’s sternum and applies a slight, clinical pressure until Booker is leaning his weight against the wall behind him. Rosalind sidles in closer as well, peering intently at the man’s ragged shirt. The dark material is well suited for hiding all manner of cuts and bruises, but her eyes focus in on the growing wet patch that makes the fabric cling tighter to his skin.

“Well, what do you think?” Robert asked. “Your professional opinion.”

“A bullet hole with no bullet.”

“Intriguing. Where did it go?”

“Out the other side, one would imagine.”

“I told you I was fine.” Booker’s complaints are silenced once more, but this time it is Rosalind who has her fingers against his side.

“There’s no place in the examination room for backtalk from the patient,” she stated plainly. “Besides, you were most certainly not fine – you would have bled out here, in this drafty little room, were it not for our intervention.”

“And then what would Elizabeth do?” Robert adds.

“And then what would you do?” Rosalind finishes.

They’re both staring at him disapprovingly, and Booker throws his hands up, grunting in near immediate regret of his actions.

“I get it, I get it,” he mutters and begins to unbutton his shirt. At the last button, Robert moves forward in a fluid motion, slipping a hand under either side of the shirt and pushing it away from Booker’s chest, down his arms. Rosalind joins in too, her touch precise as she carefully peels the wet material off of his wound.

“There we are,” she murmurs. “One perfectly punctured entrance wound. And, judging from the angle…” With a stern hand, she guides Booker to lean forward. Robert’s splayed hands rest against his chest and provide him support. When Booker glances up, Robert meets his eyes with one side of his lips quirked upwards. Rosalind pulls the remains of his shirt down, exposing his back. “Ah ha!”

“Have you found what you were looking for?” Robert answered his sister but his gaze was fixed to Booker. The brunet struggled not to move.

“Whenever have I not?” Rosalind turns away from Booker, facing her back towards him so his view of her hands is obscured.

“A force to be reckoned with,” Robert replies. His smirk only widens and Booker finds himself transfixed somehow. The Luteces were always intense – and confusing – but this feels different somehow. The redhead flips back around and in her hands is a syringe, some liquid glossy and red filled to overflowing within.

“Hold still, this will pinch,” she says. Booker only gets out the beginning of a threat before the needle is shoved into his side, right beside his open wound. “And then burn.” She presses the plunger down and it feels like the hole carved through him has been set on fire. “Brother, be a dear and hold him steady, would you? All that thrashing is bound to interfere.”

“My pleasure.” Those hands are off his chest in a flash, iron grips around his forearms, and Rosalind’s hands cup either side of his neck and drag him upwards with gentle guidance. Weight settles across his legs, and beyond the all-encompassing searing shooting through him, Booker recognizes that Robert has climbed into his lap, using his body to keep him still.

“The things I do for you,” Rosalind comments, and Robert makes a shushing noise.

Pain stretches out seconds into minutes and hours, but eventually Booker slumps, breathing heavy, a thin layer of sweat accumulating along his skin. Slim and cool fingers card through his hair, pausing to run up and down and up at the base of his neck. He opens his eyes to find he is leaning his forehead against Robert’s shoulder, and the other man has moved his hands from his arms to his sides.

“Welcome back, Mr. DeWitt.” From his position, he could feel Robert’s chest reverberate on every word. His mouth moved against the soft fabric of the redhead’s coat.

“Is he trying to communicate?”

“Oh, give him a moment.”

“I already have – more than one. I say we call the experiment here, he is clearly-”

“’M fine,” Booker slurs. “What the hell was in that syringe?”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“You wouldn’t understand even if we told you.”

“What ever happened to bedside manner?” Robert titled Booker’s head up, and Rosalind’s fingers were still in his hair.

“Whatever indeed.” Robert closes the scant distance between them, lips brushing against Booker’s without hesitance. The gunman’s lips are chapped and windburnt but Robert hardly finds that disagreeable. Rosalind’s grip tightens and she gives a pointed tug, and Booker’s mouth slips open. The twin in his lap shifts forward and a tongue slides into his mouth.

Somehow, Booker’s hands end up resting on Robert. More than resting, fingers digging in to the small of his back and pinning the physicist in place. The kiss ends and Robert pulls away, tongue darting out to swipe along his lip. Booker’s gaze is glued to the sight until subtle pressure from Rosalind has him turning his head, and the other twin is leaning in as well, meeting his lips with the same self-assurance as the first had.

He’s pretty sure he bled out after all.

Regardless of his personal thoughts on the matter, he finds himself leaning upwards into her touch. For such a clinical and exacting mind, the way her tongue moves… Or perhaps it makes sense that she knows the precise way to dip in and withdraw, to pull him into following her lead. Robert’s hand grazes along his chest and Booker feels the man lap at the tender junction of his jaw and neck, before soft lips are brushing over his skin, before blunt teeth are dragging against him.

Booker’s eyes slip open and he isn’t entirely sure when they shut in the first place. Rosalind is pulling away from him and she looks smug in a way that would normally do nothing beyond pissing him off. But in this one moment, that look feels like a promise and with her brother nibbling and sucking at his neck, he’s, well, outside of his comfort zone, to understate things.

“Brother.” A muffled noise from Robert. “I believe I’ve come around to your way of thinking.”

“I told you so,” Robert says, straightening finally. “Hmm, that felt quite nice this time.”

“Satisfied?”

“Hardly.”

“You talk too much,” Booker growls and one of his hands darts up to wrap around Robert’s necktie, yanking him back down. His other reaches blindly around the man and fumbles at Rosalind’s skirt, twisting in the tan material and urging her closer as well. Both the twins laugh at his impatience, one against his mouth and the other untangling his fingers from her clothes.

“What a gentleman,” Rosalind says. Booker’s eyes closed again, but when he opened them it’s to Robert smirking, his own twin’s pale arms wound about his neck and shoulders from behind. She was pressed up against him, and Booker had a moment to imagine what Robert must be feeling, her soft body flush along his own. And had a moment to wonder when, exactly, they lost their clothes. Like they can hear his thoughts, they share an amused glance.

Robert lifts himself from Booker’s lap, and then an R. Lutece is sitting on either side of him, each pinning one of his hands with one of their own and running lithe fingers up and down his body, pausing to tickle and ghost over various areas. Robert seems fixated upon the bony prominences of his body, his touch lingering over his hips, up the faint bumps of his ribcage and across his collarbones. Their eyes meet and the physicist playfully taps the taunt skin at the hollow of his throat, causing Booker to swallow involuntarily.

Rosalind’s hand slides coolly back and forth across his chest, following the patterns of his muscles and scars downwards. Her eyes flicker, from his body to his face, and Booker could believe that she was cataloguing every shift of his muscles, every twitch of his face and hitch of his breath. Perhaps predictably, neither of the twins pay any attention whatsoever to his growing erection, even when Rosalind’s hand moves down and begins to squeeze along his thigh, as though she is testing his muscle tone.

Well, now he just wishes he had bled out.

“Pulse rate: 76,” Rosalind announces, and Booker scowls when he notices her fingers have wrapped around his wrist, pressing innocuously against his pulse.

“Respirations: 18,” Robert replies and when Booker meets his eyes his grin broadens. “And pupils dilated – 5mm.”

“Flushed skin, mild uncontrollable musculoskeletal spasms,” Rosalind continues. Booker’s starting to get fed up with this, and he’s just opening his mouth to call it off, shifting to throw them off. “I think we can do better, don’t you?”

“Great minds think alike.”

After a short period of bickering, the twins decided that they would first take turns.

“This better not be one of those contests you two are so fond of,” Booker said, lying back across the bed and propping himself up on his elbows.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know – heads or tails, bird or cage.”

“Rosalind or Robert?” The Luteces looked at each as though the idea had never crossed their minds. A beat. “We would never.”

“It would hardly be fair.”

“Indeed,” Robert agrees immediately. And then he seemed to take pause as well. “And just what do you mean by that, I wonder?”

“It seems to be quite clear what I mean,” she replies.

Booker sighed. Whatever weird rivalry they constantly had going with each other, he wanted no part of it. Of course, as they were so fond of pointing out, every side had its opposite, every hand its other – the pat on the back that came with the shove off the cliff. In other words, the bright side of life, as Elizabeth would say, and Jesus, he did not want to be thinking about her at the moment.

He was forcibly removed from his thoughts by a hand wrapping around his cock and he let out a breath hissed through his teeth. Robert dragged his hand carefully up and down. There were just the faintest of calluses along his finger tips and palms, no doubt from handcrafting reality-breaking machines for a living. Booker could feel a flush creeping across his skin as he was coaxed back to full hardness.

Both of the twins were glued to his reactions, and he felt like some sort of science experiment. He could feel Robert adjusting his grip with almost minuscule detail, tightening here, loosening there, twisting his wrist just so. Booker’s breathing hitched with one particular stroke. Always look on the bright side of life. The Luteces looked more excited now than they had even before.

“If you intend to waste your turn, then just let someone else have a go,” Rosalind says. She had leaned in close to her brother, her lips almost brushing against his ear. Robert turns his head towards her, just a fraction to the side.

“Feeling a bit eager, are we?” Robert’s wearing a grin now that he seems to reserve for his twin alone. Rosalind returns it, and Booker takes the moment to let his eyes wander over them, long limbs and pale skin, light patterns of freckles that are barely visible.

“I don’t know, are we?” Nonsensical, at least to Booker, but that was half of their conversations anyway.

“One of you two needs to get on-” with it, Booker finishes in his mind as aloud his sentence ends in a groan. Robert drooped down and wrapped his lips around the head of his cock, sucking lightly, and Booker’s hips twitch when a tongue slides over its tip.

He can’t do much thinking, then, as Robert begins to bob his head, the same calculating manner as before, though it carries an urgency that might divulge some of the redhead’s more personal interest in the matter. It doesn’t take long for him to find a pace that has Booker’s hand twisting in the sheets. Up and down, his tongue pressing along the underside of his dick, his hand moving faster below and slicked with his own saliva.

Booker’s entire body feels ablaze, his head thrown back against the pillows, eyes clamped shut as he tries his best to keep from squirming, writhing beneath Robert’s ministrations. The tempo Robert had built up suddenly slows, becoming languid. Now the man sucks and laves at him almost luridly, taking him deeper into his mouth on each down stroke. Booker lifts his head to watch and finds Rosalind with her fingers tangled in Robert’s red hair, guiding his movements up and down.

“Fuck,” he manages to breathe out, Rosalind’s eyes flicking up to meet his gaze with a smile as she pushes her brother down further on his cock. There’s a slight flush to both the twins’ faces, more pronounced across Robert’s high cheekbones. Booker tosses his head back again, his hips giving an aborted, mindless buck.

Heat coils tight in his stomach, Booker certain he’s about to lose it when Robert takes his cock fully in his mouth, in his throat, and he has to clench his hands to keep from fisting them in Robert’s hair himself. And then Robert is disengaging from him entirely, wringing some pathetic, whining noise from the back of his throat that has both Luteces chuckling at his display.

“Do you think he wants to call the game early?” Rosalind asks.

“That’s not very sporting of him,” Robert replies, voice breathy and rough at the edges. It makes Booker want to drag him back down onto his dick.

“Shut up,” Booker manages to groan out. The temptation is rising to wrap his own hand around his cock and finish himself off, but it’s just barely suppressed as the twins shift positions. Robert moves to his side and Rosalind sidles in between his spread legs, a cool hand on either of his thighs. Booker tries to hold still but his muscles twitch, and he fidgets when he feels a bead of precum dribble down the side of his aching cock.

“Poor thing,” Rosalind says, sounding for all the world like she’s never even heard of the concept of empathy. Even so, her soft hand encircles him and Booker gasps as she slides up and down his still slick length.

Booker’s thrusts up into her hand, meeting her on every smooth, downward stroke. The sensation is almost enough for him to miss her other hand slipping lower, fingers wet and viscous running over his skin and leaving a cool trail behind them. And one slips inside him, the slight discomfort enough to make his hips stall for a moment.

“A little faith would go a long way,” she commented. Booker kept his complaints to himself, mostly due to Robert’s mouth meeting his again. It’s enough of a distraction - Robert’s tongue, Rosalind’s hand around him - until she crooks her finger just so and presses, and Booker’s seeing stars, moaning into their kiss, hips twitching and unsure if he needs to thrust forwards or lean back.

Every rub of her finger inside him sends bolt of heat searing through his body until he’s certain he must be shaking, certain that he has never felt such straining for relief. He grows sloppy with Robert, until they part so Booker can pant and moan and writhe beneath the twins. Please, please,

“Please,” Booker mutters aloud, and is immediately rewarded with Rosalind’s mouth on his length and one more hard, firm press inside him has him coming all over her tongue. A groan escapes him when he feels her swallow around him, and his tensely wound body slumps as soon as she pulls free from him.

If the twins say anything to one another, Booker doesn’t hear it over the rushing tide of his heartbeat in his ears. It slows to a dull thump as his thought processes creak back into full function, and he looks to Robert first, who’s looking at Rosalind, who’s licking her lips and watching Booker. The gunman clears his throat and Robert turns his head to watch him as well.

“So, am I supposed to, uh, choose…?” he trails off, and any slight apprehension he may have held is quashed when both the Luteces start laughing at him.

“Oh no, not at all.”

“That’s not how this particular exercise works.”

“And besides, this is only round one.”

Booker stayed annoyed for exactly as long as it took for their words to sink in.

“Round one?” He hopes he doesn’t sound too excited.

“Yes,” Rosalind says. “And a bit of reciprocity every now and again never hurt anyone.”

“Never?” asks Robert.

“Well, perhaps not never.”

#f!tag: Bio #status!tag: complete

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