#BLOODHOUND WHY DID YOU SNATCH EVERYTHING

[tsutsumi-kaina]

Theory: AFO Gave Tomura Decay (Part 2)

Continued from this post (link!)

Warning: This post has spoilers for both the most recent chapters of MHA (up to ch. 316) as well as spoilers for Vigilantes (up to ch. 109).

Straight to the point:

5. Tomura’s eyes and hair change color with the activation of Decay

It’s easy to write this one off as the anime making questionable choices about Tomura’s color scheme yet again (five years of baby blue hair ya’ll)— but just for giggles, let’s just assume that Horikoshi did intend for Tenko's natural eye color to be black, just like Nana and Kotaro. 

Now, there's a theory that Decay's activation destroyed all of Tomura's melanin, which is a theory I enjoy because it totally tracks (albinos lack pigmentation and they have "red eyes" because we're seeing their blood vessels rather than the actual color of their irises). I also like the “his hair went white from the trauma” and “he straight up went super saiyan” theories, because I’m a sucker that kind of specifically anime bullshit. 

But what if none of those theories are right? What if there was another reason why Tomura's hair and eyes change color? What if the change was meant to foreshadow something just a bit more... sinister?

Presented Without Comment

Through Dabi/Touya’s story we know that quirk factors do have an effect on things like hair color, and can even change a person's hair color upon activation— when Rei’s quirk factor becomes “dominant,” we see that Touya's hair gradually begins to turn white as his body changes to become more suited to an ice quirk despite his own quirk being fire-based.

That sound familiar?

So, Tomura's change to red eyes and white hair specifically  starts to look more than a little insidious if we assume that A) AFO has always  planned to turn Tenko into a new vessel, and B) Tenko actually got his first “dose” of AFO in the form of Decay + a pseudo-vestige, and his body has been gradually changing to become more hospitable for AFO's quirk factor. Exposure to AFO’s quirk factor (and it raging around inside of him like a damn virus) may be the true cause of Tomura’s palette swap.

6. Tenko is 5 when decay manifests, even though it’s been repeatedly stated that age 4 is the latest age that quirks manifest.

This point has also been discussed to death, with people arguing that Tomura simply had to amass enough hatred for Decay to fully manifest (see point 2 on why this “explanation” was most likely just AFO being a gigantic fucking troll). I’ll instead encourage folks to evaluate this point from a narrative standpoint— Hori drew attention to Tenko’s age and his quirklessness for a reason.

“Will he like me if I get my quirk!?”  Uhhh....

And Tenko likely having been born quirkless leads to the next point:

7. Tenko, The Quirkless Wonder (or: how having a quirkless vessel is an integral part of AFO’s plan to snatch OFA and not straight up fucking die in the process)

Tenko being born quirkless makes him a perfect candidate to tolerate the simultaneous burden of both OFA/AFO without his lifespan getting completely drained in the process-- the nomufication surgery was more likely just a measure that was taken to make sure Tomura's body was strong enough to make use of both quirks right away.

8. You know what? *beats the dead horse anyway*

Man, isn’t there a sale at Men’s Warehouse you’re late to???

I know I said I wouldn’t touch on this point but come the fuck on, mister twenty-four-seven biz cas isn’t even trying to hide it 

Bonus Points:

Machia's sense of smell - Machia tracks others through scent, and is somehow able to locate Tomura after the LOV has hidden themselves deep within the mountains. This is in spite the fact that they've never met before (Machia literally asks Tomura "Are you the one who succeeded AFO?"-- so we can assume he was not secretly tracking or observing Tomura from afar).  We know that if Machia's never met a person before, he obviously can't track them via scent-- we see this when he has to stop and literally ask Mina for directions during a flashback. But he still manages to track down the LOV when not even the police/heroes had any inkling of their location. So. If Machia and Tomura have never met before, how was Machia able to find him? As funny as it is to imagine AFO rubbing a pair of dirty sneakers in Machia's face like he's an overgrown bloodhound, I'll put forth the following theory-- Machia was sniffing out Decay's quirk factor rather than Tomura himself. If Decay was formerly in the possession of AFO, and/or if a part of AFO’s quirk factor already exists inside Tomura, then tracking him down is a cinch for Machia.

AFO's pasttime is villain creation - There's a whole scene in Vigilantes where AFO discusses the true nature of a "villain," then brags about being able to create villains by causing imbalances in one's quirk + giving people unsuitable quirks + stimulating quirks with a "violent will" and forcing them to go haywire. It's, uh. Fairly damning, to say the least.

AFO may have used Decay to kill Nana - This one is more conspiracy theory than actual theory, and it may seem like a huge stretch, but hear me out! In its untrained form, we see that Decay reduces people to chunks instead of dusting them-- but it leaves their hands perfectly intact. It feels far too coincidental that AFO just so happened  to leave Nana’s hand intact after killing her, and apparently decided to preserve that hand for 30 years on a total whim— and then, wouldn’tcha know it, Tenko just so happens to manifest a quirk that pulps everything but miraculously leaves the hands of those victims perfectly intact. And AFO being sick enough to give a little boy who wants to be a hero the same quirk that killed his hero grandma is a given at this point.

 - - - - - - - - -

Anyway, I get that a lot of folks dislike this theory because it takes away a lot of Tomura’s agency-- but honestly, his entire character arc has been about him trying to rediscover his true self and reclaiming his agency after a lifetime of having his identity abused out of him by pretty much everyone he’s ever met. AFO was always going to be the final boss of that character arc, which has been less about “becoming the greatest villain” (and hoo boy people on twitter are reeeeally hung up on this particular misconception about Tomura’s arc) and more about discovering his true convictions and “becoming his own person”-- Just as Izuku’s character arc is about becoming his own person and learning to actually value himself, rather than him just becoming All Might 2.0 who acts as a hero at the complete expense of his own personhood.

I don’t feel that Decay being an implant from AFO harms Tomura’s character arc in any way-- rather, confronting the lie that he was somehow “born evil” and exists as a slave to Decay’s destructive impulse feels like the next hurdle Tomura needs to overcome before he can truly reclaim his agency. 

#mha spoilers #shimura tenko #shigaraki tomura #AFO #my hero academia

[spooderboyandtincan]

You’re Gonna Miss Me

(When I’m Gone)

Read on Ao3

/ST*RKERS DNI/

~~~~~

Tony doesn’t know why he’s so nervous.

That’s a lie. Utter bullshit. He’s lying to himself. Tony knows exactly why his heart is fluttering in his chest like he’d run a marathon, why his chest struggled to rise like there was twenty pound weight rested on it. 

Though to be fair, when he made an anonymous donation of a meager 50,000 dollars to Midtown Science and Technology, he hadn’t expected Peter’s decathlon team to put in a request to the school board to travel abroad, and he definitely hadn’t expected the school to immediately approve it. He thought they’d use it to replace the sudsy water in the bathrooms they called soap with the real stuff or some shit, not whisk his kid away to Vienna for a whole week where Tony couldn’t even hug him, couldn’t protect him. 

Peter is thrilled, though. Ecstatic. When he’d broken the news to Tony and May, he’d been over the moon with excitement, his round cheeks flushed pink and his eyes gleaming. Even two weeks ago, Tony had felt a deep sense of apprehension kindling in his chest, but with the date seemingly so far away, he’d pushed it to the back of his mind. 

He wishes now that he’d done something. He should have told Peter he couldn’t bear to be without him like he was an actor in a cheesy soap opera (it was true, he couldn’t); tell Peter he needed him on a “mission” that would mysteriously be canceled. Though they’d probably end up taking a plane or a suit to Vienna anyways (despite what he liked to say to Rhodey, he was not at all immune to Peter’s puppy eyes); hell, he should have purposely tripped on the stairs and broken his leg so Peter, sweet, kind, empathetic Peter, would immediately decide to stay by his side where Tony could keep him safe.

He missed Peter when he was at his apartment in fucking Queens, thirty minutes from Stark Tower. He didn’t know how he’d handle having him 4,222 miles away. He didn’t know if he could.

“Damn,” he hisses, pushing himself from his bed with a grunt and making a beeline towards Peter’s room. He dashes in. The sight of his sleeping son (read: lump of blankets) is enough to take his breath away.

Tony had missed him. It had been four hours since he’d tucked him in and kissed him goodnight, and Tony had missed him. Peter was fifteen feet away. 

This trip is going to be the death of him. He’s going to drop dead of a goddamn heart attack before Peter even gets on the plane. 

Tony sinks carefully onto the mattress and rests his hand on the boy’s neck, some deep, parental instinct in him immediately soothed by the slow, steady beat of his pulse. Peter is curled under the thick blue blanket, only his chestnut curls visible which are tinged blue from the Iron Man nightlight on the wall, his breath puffing out in those little snuffling snores that Tony absolutely adores. 

He leans down to kiss his temple, inhales the familiar scent of his favorite strawberry shampoo and is overwhelmed by the wave of infinite love that washes over him. He loves this kid so much it sometimes hurts. 

Leaning back, he smooths his thumb over Peter’s cheekbone. He doesn’t want to leave the boy’s side. He doesn’t know if he physically can. Maybe asleep Peter has somehow sensed this, because there’s a small mewl from the bundle of blankets, and two bleary doe eyes flutter open. 

“T’ny?”

“Hey,” Tony whispers, running a hand through his curls. “Hey, jellybean. Sorry I woke you up.” Peter rolls over with heavy limbs and rubs his eyes with a fist in a childlike motion, yawning in a way that resembles all those yawning kitten videos he’s made Tony watch. 

God, he’s adorable, Tony thinks. His heart is melting. He’s so small, so young. Tony feels an instinctual, almost uncontrollable urge to protect this kid, to wrap him in his arms and keep him from harm for the rest of time. 

Peter is oblivious. “‘S… s’okay,” he mumbles. His hand sneaks out of the blankets and tugs on his arm lethargically, which the genius knows is sleepy Peter language for “cuddle with me.” Tony chuckles fondly and slides under the covers.

He props himself up on an elbow and gazes down at his beloved boy, stroking a finger down his cheek. Peter smiles sleepily up at him from his assortment of pillows. “Hi.”

His face splits into a wide grin. “Hi, Pete.” 

Peter frowns at him then, a sudden change from his drowsy, half-asleep state. “You… you ‘kay? Wha’ time’s it?” He tries to sit up, but Tony hushes him gently with a “Everything’s okay, bud, just a typical 2am visit from your friendly neighborhood Iron Man.”

He smiles, so Tony counts the joke as a win. It’s not one of his best, but hey, forgive him if he’s a little anxious about his kid going to another fucking continent. 

(He refuses to acknowledge that it’s not just being away from Peter that’s stressing him out, it’s the fact that anything could happen to him while they’re apart.)

Tony looks back to Peter, opening his mouth to talk, only to find that he’s completely conked out. He balls up the sleeve of his sweatshirt and wipes the line of drool tracing down the boy’s chin away, finding that a soft smile has formed on his face, the one that only makes its appearance around Peter.

Peter snuggles into him the second he lies down, resting his curly head just over his heart. Tony wraps a protective arm around his back and rubs small circles on his soft blanket hoodie. “G’night,” he whispers, bending to kiss the top of his head. “Sweet dreams, baby. I love you.”

He can feel Peter’s heartbeat thumping steadily against his chest- can hear his soft kitten snores. The warm weight of his body is so comforting that for a moment he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this trip isn’t going to be the end of him. That everything’s going to be okay.

~~~~~

Peter’s starting to regret eating all those waffles for breakfast. He feels shaky all over, like he could collapse or throw up any second. He’d told Tony he was going to pop in the bathroom, but he’s been in there for at least ten minutes, settled back on his heels on the cold, grimy floor of an airport bathroom, trying to breathe properly.

Speaking of Tony, he can hear the man just outside the door, typing on his phone and sipping from a cheap cup of coffee. Peter immediately experiences a hot flash of guilt, realizing that he must have grown worried while he was gone. 

Sure enough, the door swings open and there’s a soft knock. “Pete? Everything okay, bud?”

Peter stands up and unlocks the stall. “Tony,” he sniffles, taking an unsteady step forward. Tony rushes forward and gathers him in his arms

“Whoa, hey, hey, you’re okay,” he says gently, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “You’re okay, Pete. Breathe, just breathe, bud. It’s okay.”

“I don’t-” Peter whispers. “I don’t know, Tony, I-I wanna go, but I can’t, I don’t know w-what to do.” 

“Breathe, honey. It’s okay, I’m here, we’ll figure this out, okay? You just gotta take a breath, alright?” 

Peter tries- fails. Tries again, and manages to gasp a breath in. “Sorry,” he croaks, when he can properly breathe again. “Tony, I-I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” Tony murmurs, squeezing him tight. “Nothing to be sorry for, Pete.” After snatching a paper towel and soaking it in the sink, he runs the scratchy cloth over Peter’s face and kisses his forehead when he’s done. “Okay, bubba. You wanna go back out or stay in here?”

“Out,” he replies without hesitation. The flickering white lights above are starting to give him a headache, not to mention the leaky faucet and the freezing tile floors and the faulty air conditioning. Tony leads him out with an arm around his shoulder and guides him to a little nook, where they both plop down on a neon green beanbag. 

“My parents died in a plane crash,” Peter whispers. 

Tony squeezes his shoulder. “I know buddy. I’m sorry.” Unlike a lot of the “sorries” Peter has heard, this one is sincere. Sometimes he forgets that Tony is an orphan too. 

“I- I mean, logically, I know the plane won’t crash,” he continues, “But I guess it’s still hard for me to believe that. Like a- a gut feeling?”

The man nods in understanding. “I know how you feel, kiddo. I was terrified of cars after my parents died- I took the subway everywhere despite the paparazzi bloodhounds.” Tony doesn’t broach the subject of his parent’s deaths often, especially not in a crowded public airport, so Peter makes sure to pay attention. 

“Then, the fear just kinda… vanished.” He wiggles his fingers dramatically. “I started driving without even thinking, didn’t realize I was in a car ‘til I got on the highway. I had to pull over when I did, but since then, I’m perfectly fine with cruisin’ at 80 mph. But,” he says seriously, meeting Peter’s eyes. “I think you should listen to what your gut’s tellin’ you, buddy. It’s important to listen to yourself- what inner you is saying.” He pokes Peter’s belly a couple times for good measure, which makes his face scrunch up adorably. 

Peter nods, and really tries to listen to his gut. The pair both go silent in concentration, and then- his stomach grumbles. They both burst into laughter, born more from nerves than hilarity.

“Inner you wants to eat,” Tony snorts. “I think I saw a place with the biggest blueberry muffins of my life by the escalators, wanna stop there?”

Despite eating a huge stack of waffles just hours earlier, Peter wolfs down two of the gigantic blueberry poppyseed muffins, much to the amusement of Tony.

They made their way to the gate, where Peter’s teacher, Mr. Harrington was lounging, dressed in an ugly red sweater, his long legs stretched in front of him. 

“Peter!” he cried as he spotted them, scrambling to his feet. “Thank god, I was beginning to think I had the wrong date! We’re leaving today, right?”

“Oh, yeah Mr. Harrington, we’re going today!” Peter laughs. He’s used to dealing with his scatter-brained teacher. “I’m actually here early, the plane’s supposed to leave at 1:00.” He gestures vaguely to the big digital clock over his head reading 11:54 AM, EDT. 

Mr. Harrington frowns. “I thought it left at 8 am! You mean I’ve been here for hours in this awful chair when I could have been sipping a piña colada in my jacuzzi?!” He collapses back in his chair and pulls a sleeping mask over his eyes with a sigh.

“Sorry, Mr. Harrington,” Peter chuckles, then pulls Tony to a row of uncomfortable seats in the corner of the waiting area. 

They sit in comfortable silence for a bit, just watching the various travellers rush past. A little girl, around two or three, comes up and shyly asks for Tony’s autograph, but no one else recognizes the genius. (Thanks to his foolproof disguise of a baseball cap and scarf covering up his iconic beard, the genius claims.)

“So, what are we thinking?” Tony asks after about half an hour. “Do you wanna go?” He secretly hopes Peter will say no, hopes that they can go home and binge watch all of the Star Trek episodes and fill their bodies with junk. 

Peter nods hesitantly. “I think so. I-is that okay? I might change my mind, but- yes. Yeah, I think I want to go.”

 Tony squeezes his hand. “Of course it’s okay baby, that’s perfectly fine. If you change your mind, you know what? That’s great too. Whatever you want, that’s what’s important.” He kisses Peter’s forehead and lets his hand linger for a moment where it rests on the boy’s cheek. “If you change your mind at any point, I’ll come pick you up, okay?”

“Thanks, Tony,” Peter breathes, slumping heavily against his side.

“Of course, bud. Anything for my Peter.” 

They stop for lunch at a cozy little coffee shop, which is thankfully devoid of fans and paparazzi. Peter orders (or rather, makes Tony order) a small hot chocolate (with extra marshmallows and whipped cream) even though drinking a lot before a non-stop ten hour flight is probably not the best idea. (He can’t help it. He’s nervous.)

When the pair gets back to their gate, they find Ned and his family. The boy’s greet each other enthusiastically, performing their signature handshake, while Tony simply throws up a peace sign to Ned’s rather stunned parents. 

The friends pull out their phones -probably playing one of those ghastly animated games that Peter is always quoting. Tony pretends to look busy on his phone, but really, he’s just trying to distract himself from the terrifying fact that he’s not going to see Peter for a week.

Too soon, the speaker crackles, a crisp voice announcing, “Attention. We are now boarding flight 367 nonstop to Vienna, Austria. Now boarding flight 367 nonstop to Vienna, Austria.”

Tony’s heart stops. Peter freezes. 

No, they think at the same time. Not yet. 

Peter turns to Tony, panicked. “Hey,” the man says, pushing away every anxiety, every worry away so he can focus on his kid. He sees Ned approach them, but stop when his father places a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. Breathe, baby, it’s okay.” 

“Tony.” Peter wraps his skinny arms around his waist. 

“I know, baby, I know.” Tony kisses the top of his head and hugs him close. “Follow my breathing. You’re okay. We’re good.”

Around them, the members of the decathlon team are rising, but Tony and Peter sit in those unforgettable chairs, clutching each other tightly, not yet ready to let go. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” Peter whimpers. 

“I know kiddo, me too. I’m gonna miss you so much, but I’m always gonna be here, okay? If you need me, just call, or text, use morse code, doesn’t matter. I’m always here for you.”

“I’m here for you too,” Peter says. “I- I’ll call you every day.” Peter’s bottom lip is trembling, just barely, but enough for Tony to hug him a little tighter and kiss his forehead. “I love you, Tony,” he sniffs.

“I love you too, Pete. I love you so much.” Tony’s not crying. He’s not. The restaurant a few stores down is just cooking onions, that’s why his eyes are watering. 

Peter pulls away and grabs his duffel bag, taking a step toward the loading dock. Tony tries not to burst into sobs. Stay, his mind whispers. Please stay. 

Then Peter turns around, eyes full of tears, and slams straight into Tony’s chest, hugging him so tight he can barely breathe. Tony rocks them back and forth, cherishing everything about his sweet boy. When they finally break apart, Peter says, “I’ll be back before you know it,” echoing what Tony has said to him so many times before he leaves for a business trip. 

Then he smiles a watery smile and runs to catch up with his best friend. Just before he disappears into the loading dock, he turns around and waves wildly at Tony.

Tony waves back, grinning. “I love you,” he mouths.

“I love you too!” Peter mouths back, and steps into the dock.

“I love you,” Tony whispers, hastily wiping the dampness from his eyes. “I love you, Peter.”

~~~~~

/ST*RKERS DNI/

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#chapter 1/2 #peter parker #tony stark #ned leeds #anxious thoughts #panic attacks #peter parker needs a hug #peter parker gets a hug #tony stark needs a hug #tony stark has a heart #tony stark acting as peter parkers parental figure #other tags to be added #no st*rker #st*rkers dni #my writing

[alpacaparkaseok]

Mine

2. I’m fine, don’t I look fine?

Genre: Yoongi x OC

Warnings: anxiety/panic attack 

Word Count: 2.6k

The world is closing in around me, my lungs straining as they try to work through the heavy gulps of air that I can’t quite seem to get enough of. Any thought of sleep has long checked out of my brain, my body taking over when my brain decidedly burned out. 

My phone sits where I tossed it on my bed, the light from the constant flow of notifications being the only source of illumination in the hotel room as I cling to the curtains hanging from the window. Jaw clenched, hair a mess from all the times I’ve pondered just yanking it out, nostrils flared as I devour any hint of oxygen.

Fumbling hands push against the window until I manage to find the latch, a near-silent whimper escaping me as the cool London air floods the stuffy room. It doesn’t take long until I’m down on the floor, arms and legs pulled into my core head buried along with the rest of my mental capacity. 

I can’t decide which is worse. Closing my eyes and falling into that black abyss, or rocketing back up to the window, drinking in the air even as my eyes take in the city before me, reminding me of just how small and helpless I am.  

Everything, everything I have become and worked for scooped up in the palm of some man I’ve never met. There I am, right there. Falling from his hands like sand and he doesn’t even realize all that he’s holding.

The only hope I have left is that Min Yoongi has decided to create a castle with the remnants of me in his hands, and isn’t planning to wreck my tiny fortress with a well-timed stomp of his foot like some child on a playground. He must know, right? That while this may seem like some sort of trivial recess drama, it could end me? He will survive, because he’s loved the world over.

The world doesn’t know me well enough yet to even ascertain whether or not it loves me, but depending on what this stranger says about me will surely make up the world’s mind.

Like coming out of a deep sleep I begin to hear the constant vibrations of my phone on my bed. Someone is trying to call me. I don’t want to answer.

Moreover, I’m not sure I can answer. 

Eventually the sounds fade out again. Laying there on the ground before the window, I stare up at the ceiling. Naturally my eyes drift to the smoke detector, its small blue light holding me hostage even as I cling to that unspoken beacon of reality. It’s something so starkly normal; so completely common that I find my airways begin to open up bit by bit.

 The world is still spinning. 

I am still breathing.

The sun will rise. 

And Min Yoongi will have hell to pay.

🌙

What started as a gentle tap against my door quickly turns into an attempted breakin from the sounds of it. I jump up, forgetting where I am for a moment before I finally settle back down with a groan. 

I would personally not recommend the Waldorf to anyone purely based on the quality of their floors on my back.  

“Who is it?” I manage to croak out. The state of my throat serves as a reminder of my panic attack the night before. I wince, flipping around onto my stomach so I can stretch. 

“It’s Sebastian you ungrateful little weirdo, now open up this door before I-”

 I yank the door open, coming face to face with a red in the face Sebastian Stan. If I wasn’t currently fearing for my life I would have chuckled at the picture before me: Sebastian raging while doing his best to not crush the muffin he extends to me. He isn’t completely successful; there are imprints of his fingers on the base of my muffin, but I don’t mention it. 

“Did you just call me an ‘ungrateful little weirdo’? T-that’s not very nice.” I curse myself for my stutter, but I can’t help it as the weight that dragged me down last night comes crashing into me all over again. 

Sebastian closes the door behind him, looking around my hotel room like a bloodhound on a hunt. He lets out a triumphant shout when he comes across what he was looking for.

“This is quite the contraption. It allows people to communicate with you. All you have to do is press accept and then they can talk to you at all hours of the day and night.” Snatching my phone up from where I left it abandoned on the bed he hoists it up in the air. “Did you seriously ignore my calls all night? And everyone else’s?” 

He takes a look at my lock screen, eyebrows furrowing when he sees that I haven’t even opened my phone since the night before. Slowly, he takes in the bed which is only a little wrinkled from where I laid on it. I hadn’t even had time to get beneath the covers before I shot out of my bed like a bolt of lightning. I can see the gears shifting in Sebastian’s head. It’s clear that I didn’t sleep in my bed last night. But if I didn’t sleep there then... 

“Did you go somewhere last night?” His voice is quiet now, although I find that I prefer the yelling than I do the quiet. 

“No.”

“No? Then why is your bed still made?” He looks at me, but I make myself busy by shoving the muffin into my mouth. I know my face probably is red and blotchy from the stress tears I shed the night before. Setting the muffin down on the table, I make my way to the bathroom. Maybe if I can wash my face, he won’t notice. 

Sebastian follows me wordlessly. Quickly I reach for some facial scrub, turning the faucet on. 

Sebastian turns it off. I glare, but remain with my eyes downward. I turn it back on. 

He turns it off. 

“This is fun,” I growl out, going to turn the faucet back on but finding his hand planted firmly atop it. “But I don’t quite get the point of this game.” 

“Look at me.”

Sometimes, I really hate the fact that Sebastian has gotten to know me so well. I blame the crew of “Young Rising”, they were the ones who decided to cart us off to the middle of nowhere with no one to talk to except for each other and a few other actors or crew members that popped in and out.

 Sebastian’s tone has lost its edge when he speaks again, and I can tell that he’s starting to regret his temper tantrum from earlier. “Cara, look at me.”

Too exhausted to play this little game any further, I raise my head. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, eyes still red and puffy, dried tear-tracks sticking to my cheeks. I look like a complete mess. 

When I deem enough time has passed I reach for the faucet and throw it on, ripping open my facial bar. Sebastian stands there silent, connecting the dots. 

“Happy?” I bite out, eyes shut tight against the suds. My friend doesn’t say anything. When I finally finish up, he hands me a towel. 

Peaking my eyes open I find my friend leaning up against the counter with a faraway look in his eyes. When he notices my stare he comes back to life, silently opening his arms. I finish drying my face before tossing the towel aside and inching forward until Sebastian pulls me into his embrace. 

There’s a part of me that thinks that now would probably be a good time to cry again, but I can’t find the tears. Instead I just rest my head against his chest, feeling like a crumbling husk. 

“I didn’t realize, Car. That was uncalled for, my anger. I shouldn’t have called you, I- I should have just come over here-”

I shush him before he can get too far in his head. “Don’t worry about it,” I mumble against his chest.

“But, wait.” He moves so he can see my face. “Where did you sleep?”

I bite my lip, ignoring the way his eyes drift down to watch the action with more focus than required. “I’ll tell you one thing: these floors suck.”

Sebastian’s rolling laugh manages to bring a small smile to my face, although it serves as the final nail in my coffin when it suddenly stops, something dawning on his face.

“Oh yeah, Rhea wants to meet with us. Hurry and get ready.” I nod, already sure that our director will no doubt want to discuss the current situation. It doesn’t take long for me to throw some decent clothes on, Sebastian waiting outside my room. 

“Ready?” He asks, significantly more chipper than just a few minutes ago. 

“Yeah, ready.” Sebastian looks me over, smirking. “What?”

“You don’t have your phone, do you?” 

I groan, heading back inside as Sebastian chuckles. “Do I really need it?” I already know the answer, though. Wincing as I assess the damage, that being twenty-six missed calls from several different people and double the amount of texts, I head back out. 

“Ok, now let’s go.”

🌙

The small conference room on the second floor of the Waldorf is already filled to the brim with noise by the time I enter, Sebastian close behind me. All it takes is one look at me and the worried expression I masked a heartbeat too late for it to die down. 

“How are you doing, sweetie?” Rhea, the director and evil genius behind “Young Rising” comes up to me and gives me a warm smile. I nod, trying my best to return the smile but failing greatly in the “warmth” division.

Sebastian pulls out a seat, plopping down beside me once I’ve taken my seat. The room is still too quiet, a stark construct in comparison with previous meetings where the volume level was at a near constant high. 

“Alright everyone, let’s get started!” Rhea takes the lead, looking down at one of her many binders. “We’ve successfully finished shooting ‘Young Rising’, and now we are on to the next stage. Promotions.”

A groan goes around the table, the veterans in show business knowing full well what a nightmare that can be. I remain silent, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Everyone here clearly knows what’s going on, right?

“Sebastian and Cara did a great job on the ‘Graham Norton Show’ last night, let’s give them a hand.” A scattered round of applause echoes around the room, pink blooming on my cheeks. “Last we checked, which was about fifteen minutes ago, one of your clips from the show on Youtube has already reached four million views. People are curious to know who you guys are.”

I look up at Rhea to see her already smiling at me. We both know why people are curious. 

“Which clip was it?” Sebastian asks. I refrain from punching him. Rhea sighs, looking down at her notes. 

“It was the clip where Cara was informed of her new fan.” People chuckle in the room even as I sink further down into my seat. “That’s mainly what I wanted to talk about in this meeting today. Stephen is going to talk to us a bit more about how we should handle promotions moving forward with this newfound knowledge and the possible advantages and disadvantages we’ll be facing.” 

Stephen stands up, fixing his glasses. “Right, so just like Rhea said, I think that we really need to focus on the advantages we’ve just been given. So first, shoutout to Cara for being so likeable.” If I wasn’t trying to disappear before, I definitely am now. Sebastian notices and flicks my elbow. I glare at him, sitting up again. “Now more people that originally wouldn’t have given ‘Young Rising’ the time of day are becoming interested in the film. What their intentions are is uncertain, but we do know that we can use this attention to explain from a higher platform why we think this film is worth seeing.”

Stephen chatters on, going on and on about different techniques we can use to steer interview questions away from our love lives and tie our answers into the film. At some point he passes out an outline, which I’m grateful for. There’s no way I’m going to remember this when it’s finished.

 “Now, we should address possible pitfalls as well as instructions for how we should carry ourselves during these promotions. Obviously, this is especially applicable for Cara and Sebastian.” Reaching below the table, Stephen comes up with a handful of envelopes of different shapes and sizes. “Just over the course of the past night, the hotel has delivered over twenty letters to us. They are almost all addressed to Cara. We haven’t read them, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they have something to do with Min Yoongi.” I can’t help but agree when I see one decked out with BTS themed stickers. 

“So what are we going to do about all of this?” Sebastian asks. 

“Well, there’s not a whole lot we can do except handle it with grace. People are unsure of whether or not they’re Cara’s fans now. That’s difficult to hear, but it’s true. They’re waiting to see how she reacts. While that’s entirely up to your discretion, I would advise you to talk with either me or your personal PR rep before showing your face on social media or in public. You need to be prepared for whatever comes your way. However, from a promotional standpoint, I’d say we should run with this. Use the people’s curiosity to drive them to the movie theater.”

I find myself nodding numbly along with the other people, mind finally quiet. It makes sense, and if we’re being honest, this really is a great opportunity. Yet, I can’t help but feel like nobody else sees this as I do. 

Like I’m looking at a door that either opens to another world or that just clanged shut and I’m on the wrong side, forever trapped. 

“I’m assuming you’ve heard the latest news, Cara?” Stephen shakes me from my thoughts, and I nod. Of course I have. It’s been all I can think about since that first notification popped up on my phone last night. 

“Yeah, are we actually going to do that?” Sebastian asks, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

“I see no reason not to. I think it would be worse to turn down the invitation. And Cara speaks the language, which is an added bonus. We just wanted to clear it with you two first, but we’ve already spoken with a few people from Seoul. They’re more than happy to accomodate us, if we do decide to extend our promotional route. What do you two think?”

If I close my eyes the tweet from last night is still there, glaring up at me. 

“‘Young Rising’ cast invited to film festival in Seoul - and BTS’ Suga already RSVPd”

You could hear a pin drop, it’s so quiet. Without opening my eyes I can already tell everyone is looking at me; awaiting my decision. I want to scream at them, tell them that I don’t know. I just wanted to act, I just wanted to be successful. And now that desire has twisted into some sick reality as I face the possibility that I will have to act through every social interaction for the foreseeable future. 

Taking a shaky breath I gather my thoughts, reminding myself that if all else fails I can just give Min Yoongi a piece of my mind and then move to the mountains for the rest of my life, far enough that nobody can ever find me. 

“I think we should go.”

Previous - Next

taglist is open! Lemme know! Also, these first few chapters are meant to set up who Cara is and what this entire crazy situation is. (I know that seems obvious but just if you’re wondering where the heck Yoongs is, I promise he’s coming.)

taglist: @taylorroe3​ @eusticenatalie​ @agustneeds​

#minyoongi #yoongi x oc #yoongi #yoongles #lil meow meow #bts #btsimagine #suga #sugaimagine #sugafanfic #sugafluff #yoongifluff

[paperficwriter]

Your First Date

Some sweet, fluffy batarou. Being teens in love.

Cut is for length, not for content.

“Oi, Badd. Why didn’t we go on a first date?”

“Well, ya hospitalized me, and then ya went on some kind of monster rager and ended up becomin’ some kinda gargoyle thing? With horns, I heard? And then ya ran off for a hot minute until ya showed up here ‘cause Zenko thought you were some kinda stray to bring home, and here we are.”

“...Heh, yeah, that just about covers it.”

Somehow during months of living together, this conversation didn’t even come up until they were sitting together on the couch, watching an anime one evening that depicted a boy and a girl in a very typical ‘is this a date?!’ situation. They were quiet for a little bit after that, until Badd prompted him by elbowing him in the arm. “Did ya want to? I mean, I feel like we kinda skipped that whole thing, yeah? Usually ya date before ya start livin’ with someone.”

“So what’s the difference between going on a date and dating?”

Badd paused the television and turned to him, wedging himself into the back sofa cushion on his side. “The date’s kinda...the thing itself. Datin’ is when you’re, like, ‘Let’s see how this pans out and if I wanna be your girlfriend for the long haul.’”

“Does that mean we skipped straight to making you my girlfriend?”

“Psh. I’m savin’ my girlfriend status for The One. You lose.”

Garou chuckled and pulled one of Badd’s hands over to rub between his. “Never been on a date before,” he mumbled.

“Are ya serious?” Badd winced when Garou bent one of his fingers sideways. “Ow. I didn’t mean it t’ be shitty! You’re good-lookin,’ so I figured ya woulda had to beat ‘em off with a stick!”

Holy shit, did Garou just blush?! “It’s not like I really had a chance, with the whole ‘leaving home and living at a dojo and then dishonoring said dojo and everything afterward,’ you know?”

Badd dragged his thumb against one of the long lines across Garou’s hand. Then he realized it wasn’t actually the love line, or the life line, or whatever. But rather, it was the pink, faded scar left from his hero hunting. “That means if I take ya out on a date, it’s not just our first date but your first date. Officially.”

Garou nodded. “Which means it can’t suck.”

“Hey, my dates don’t suck.”

“They better not. You don’t have an excuse like I do, since it sounds like you’ve been on a million, you hussy.”

Badd snatched his hand back so he could grab him by one of his wild ‘ears’ of hair. “I ain’t a hussy! And I haven’t been on a million dates! Just a few!”

Thin fingers jabbed at his side right into one of his ticklish pressure points, and Badd’s body buckled in on itself. “No, no, you’re clearly the dating pro, so you better wow me or I’m leaving!”

“Fine!” Badd threw himself on top of Garou, grabbing him by his shirt. He dropped his face close to his with a huge grin. “Then I’m gonna take ya on the best damn date o’ your life. So get ready, wolf boy.”

Garou snuck in a kiss onto Badd’s round nose, flashing his own teeth in a smile. “Okay. I’m holding you to that.”

—

Badd ended up borrowing a car. Although he had gotten his license, he didn’t really need one in the city, since he either walked wherever he needed to go or took public transportation. But if he was going to take Garou on a date, they were going to have to head out a little distance from his normal stomping grounds, enough that no one would immediately recognize him or, worse, ask questions about Garou.

And even as it was, Badd still didn’t sport his normal pompadour, and Garou had one of his beanies over his trademark hair. “So, where are we going?” Garou asked as he reached over to play with Badd’s loose strands where they framed his face. 

“It’s a surprise, ya goober. Also, I, uh...didn’t wanna talk about it so much in front o’ Zenko or she’d be sore we weren’t taking her.”

“Scandalous.”

“Shut up!” Badd gave him a shove, but he was smiling. The drive itself was nice; the air was cool, they listened to some music (and since it was just them, they didn’t even have to suffer through Amai Mask’s discography), and the sunset was a beautiful bleed of color across the horizon. 

Garou grinned when Badd turned into a hotel. “Oh, so it’s that kind of a date, huh?”

“It ain’t like that! Don’t be weird!” Badd’s cheeks burned up to his ears. “I got us a room so we didn’t have to rush back tonight, and so I didn’t have to find some random place to park.”

When Badd got back from checking in, Garou had his face out the window of the car, sniffing, eyes big. It was like he was looking into the distance, at nothing in particular, an invisible interest.

Badd couldn’t help ruffling the top of his head. “What is it, boy?” he asked like he was talking to a dog, “Whattaya smell, huh?” 

Garou rolled his eyes but didn’t really divert his attention, though his did close his eyes. “It’s been forever since I went to the beach. I can smell the sand and the water...and I can hear it.”

Badd turned his ear up, letting the wind hit him. He could just barely make out the salty scent, but he certainly couldn’t hear it. “Good thing that ain’t the surprise.”

Tipping his head curiously, Garou got out of the car, and they started walking down the road. 

It couldn’t be but so surprising, because they could see the boardwalk from the half-mile mark as they walked up toward it. A large road right beside piers and docks had been lined with shops, stands and various attractions on either side, and there was a huge ferris wheel lit up with sparkling lights.

Badd had insisted on going during the week, so since it was Wednesday there weren't nearly as many people as there probably would have been on the weekend. On top of that, it was also late in the season, so there weren’t visiting tourists to contend with either. “I know ya hate crowds as much as I do,” Badd commented as he took his hand. “And I wanted your first date to be a good experience, ya know.”

Garou was staring in every direction, his mouth just a little bit open. Shit, was it too much? Had Badd overdone it?

What finally came out was: “I want to eat everything.”

Badd laughed. “Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

When Garou said everything, he wasn’t kidding. Like a bloodhound, Garou made a beeline for the spots that had the best-smelling greasy food scents, and Badd found himself being dragged to stand after stand to buy long skewers of yakitori, shioyaki and ikayaki. Each one was shoved into his face to try. “Please at least keep the squid in a different hand. If I think I’m gonna get chicken and bite into the ikayaki, I’m gonna hurl.”

Garou just took a bite of each. To spite him.

Now, the noodles he could get behind: yakisoba with deliciously tender pieces of pork; hot, sour Thai noodles that warmed him up to the core; a ramen burger made with prime beef and huge pieces of near-solid noodles. Garou was about to lead them to the taiyaki parfait stand, when Badd finally put his hand on his arm.

“Babe. Ya know I think the world of ya, but can we digest for, like, five minutes?”

“I guess.” He smirked and kissed a spot of sauce off the corner of his mouth. “You weakling.”

Next, Badd took him to an arcade. It was set up to look like one of the “classic” ones, with pinball, huge games with old displays that were probably twenty years old, and racing games that made Garou have to fold his long limbs inwards to get to the gas and brake. 

When he caught Badd laughing, he glared. “I’m still going to kick your ass, even if I do dislocate my hip.”

“You are older than me, Stretch. That’s a real concern.”

“By a year!”

But they figured it was time to go when Garou laid into a test-your-strength punching dummy a bit too hard and snapped it off its support. In his defense, Badd absolutely should have been watching him closer. Garou had a tendency to get carried away.

As they explored the area even more, they came to a set of shops outside a mall connected to the boardwalk. Garou wandered over to an open stand and stopped so hard his heels screeched. “Oh my god, Badd, look at this.” At first, it just looked like they were selling little trinkets and random junk...until Badd got a closer look. “It’s fucking knock-off hero stuff like you find online!”

Badd nearly choked as he picked up a toy that he could only guess was supposed to be Genos with huge neon eyes and a perfectly rectangular mouth. One hand was on backwards, and the paint job was so abysmal it was like it was just dipped in random colors. A figurine of Atomic Samurai actually had a gun for some reason, Zombieman had been painted lime green, and then…

“You have to buy it.”

“I don’t have to do any such a damn thing.”

“Please. I need this as a memento of our first date.”

Badd sighed and paid the ridiculous amount for a Metal Bat action figure: the torso was so big his head was roughly pea-sized, he was wearing a skirt and his bat looked like it was a wooden one. “It’s literally in the name! Metal Bat! They had one job!”

Garou cackled as he pocketed his prize. “Villains beware! The amazing Wood Bat! Special move: Splinter Spirit!”

As the sky was just beginning to transition from a red-touched blue into night, Badd walked Garou out onto the pier that cut into the ocean far enough that it was actually quiet, compared to the street. A torii gate stood alone overlooking the water and the far-off sunset. Garou stared up at it as Badd explained, “There used to be a shrine on the water, but it got destroyed by a typhoon or somethin.’ They left the torii up ‘cause the sun falls right inside it, yeah? And it was still standin,’ so...yeah.”

“You know a lot about this place.”

Badd grinned, kind of lopsidedly. “Yeah…”

“Like you’ve been here before. More than once.”

“Heh, guess I’ve been caught.”

Easily hopping up onto it, Garou sat on one of the wooden rails of the dock and looked out over the easy-going waves. “That’s fine. There are only but so many places you can take dates, so obviously there’s going to be some overlap.”

“What? Oh god, no. Garou.” Careful not to push him over, Badd got between Garou’s long legs, hands holding his waist. “I ain’t...I’ve never brought another date here. Never. You’re the first.” He sighed. “I came here when I was a kid, with my folks. And Zenko after she was born, for a couple of years but I think she was too young to really remember it. This is, uh…” He cleared his throat. “This is the first time…” God, don’t cry, don’t fucking choke up. “Since…”

“Hey.” Garou’s fingers rubbed the back of his scalp and pulled his face into his stomach. “I got it. It’s okay. I like it. A lot.”

“...yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s the best first date. I thought you were just going to drag me out to something really lame and I was going to have to be like, ‘Nooo, Baaadd, I loooove it…’”

Badd snickered and jabbed Garou in the side of the leg. “Jerk.”

Garou continued on in the mock-patronizing voice as he jumped off the ledge and back to the dock. “‘Oh my gooood...no, you put soooo much effort into it…’”

“Well now if I ever do disappoint ya, I’ll see right through you!”

“Of course you will, because I am so transparent and you are so perceptive.” Garou tugged him toward the ferris wheel. “Come on, I think this is a good time for this one.”

Badd nodded, and when they got to the ramp, there really wasn’t much of a line. They climbed into the next available car together. It was one of the new, fancier ferris wheels, with a compartment that people could sit in facing each other while looking out a window on either side, at the sea or at the glittering city skyline in the near-distance. Slowly, they started the climb, and as Badd watched the crowds below get smaller and smaller, he could feel Garou’s eyes on him. 

“So, I’m new to this, but it seems pretty obvious that this is when you’re supposed to kiss on dates, right? That’s a thing isn’t it?”

Badd turned his hand over when cool fingers rubbed his knuckles. “Yeah, I think ya kinda...play it by ear, and when it feels right, ya jus’ go for it.”

Garou leaned close, his smile reflecting the bulbs outside that lined the ride’s spokes. “I think you’re supposed to call the shots though, right?”

“Yeah...I think so.” Badd moved like he was going to close the gap between them, but then put his fingers up to block Garou’s lips. “Wait.”

“...seriously?”    

“Trust me.”

It was only about a minute until they rounded the curve and there they were, at the top of the wheel. In the grand scheme of things, it probably wasn’t that high up but...here, it was the highest point, and for them it might as well have been the top of the world. And before Garou could ruin it by saying something dumb or complaining about the hold up, Badd yanked him into the softest, deepest kiss he could give, putting every ounce of himself into it.

They didn’t actually break it until they were almost at the bottom again, and even then they stayed close, gazing into one another’s face.

“You know…” Garou gave him another little peck, smiling through it. “I think I could get into this whole dating thing.”

Badd hummed, and he kept his fingers loosely holding his shirt so he couldn’t get far away from him. “Yeah...kinda figured ya might feel that way.”

#my paperfics #one punch man #batarou #metal bat #badd #garou #so much fluff #fluffy fluff fluff #this was fun to write

[gustafsnightangel]

A Softer Side Part 3

“Why not?” Karl snapped.

“The transactions happen same day as the snatch, but it closes at 11:59pm the night of his wife’s death.” He pointed to the screen. “I think the delivery of the girl would happen after the money is in the bank.”

“Good point.”

“I’ll be on the lookout for both.” Wainwright said.

“Under any circumstances do not engage. We need it on record to nail him later when we take him down in court.” Strand added.

“Providing he lives to see court.” Steve mumbled.

“Death is too quick for this asshole.” Karl growled. “He deserves so much more.”

“Not you I’m concerned about boss. Once you nab him, the syndicate he supplies is going to declare open season in his ass.”

“Here’s hoping they do something stupid like that so we can weed them out too.” The itch between his blades told him he was so fucking close to finding her and he had a gut feeling she was in that house. “While he’s out snatching the baby, Jerry and I will be searching his house.”

“You think his girl is in there?” Steve asked.

“Counting on it. I’m certain she knows everything about the operation and can help bring it down.”

“Two words boss, Stockholm Syndrome.” Jerry said gently.

“I know, but I have to hold onto something.” Karl breathed. “Get him up to speed, I’ll be in my office making some calls. Meet in here for lunch and we can go over the op before the team gets here tonight.” He left them to it and walked to his office.

******

With his team assembled, the op in place, duties assigned, they all sat in the conference room and ate dinner, the tacos from the joint around the corner keeping the team in good spirits. Strand stood near the board, studying the information, tuned into listening to the team blow off the apprehension. They were all itching to get going.

“Boss, I’m heading out to tail our boy. He hasn’t moved or anything but I want to be there when he surfaces.” Steve said quietly.

“Let us know when he’s out of the house.” He looked at his watch. “We should get going too, we’ll park around the block until he’s out, just like we planned.” The team quietened at their conversation knowing orders were about to be given. “Let’s go to work.” He said gruffly.

“Good hunting boss.” Wainwright pulled his coat on and fished the keys out of his pocket.

“Same goes. Don’t lose him.”

“I’m part bloodhound.” He grinned and Karl couldn’t help the chuckle.

******

“Lights are on in the house boss.” Wainwright reported as team Hunt and team Strand parked a few blocks away. The waiting game was the worst, especially when you knew lives would be irreparably damaged in the process.

“What do you think we’ll find?” Jerry asked as he continued his searches, refining details, tugging every thread for answers that would give them the upper hand tonight.

“I would hazard a guess the main house will have a basement with his girl stashed away. The shed and storm shelter will have a staging ground maybe, or houses the girls ready to be transported after they’re sold.” He said flatly. “We could find everything or nothing.” He added.

“I think we’ll find something, the account username and portrait was too much of a coincidence.”

“But it’s still a coincidence until we prove otherwise.” Strand growled.

“We will.”

“So confident.” Karl joked.

“Gut feeling.” Jerry shot back. The smirk making Strand chuckle. The kid was growing some balls when he talked with him, good, he loathed people that were sniveling pussies.

“He’s on the move, stand by.” Steve’s voice crackled over the radio. They collectively held their breath as they waited for Donovan to leave. “All clear, in pursuit.”

“Let’s go.” Strand commanded.

“Wait up.” Jerry said carefully. “He has perimeter alarms. Look.” He turned the laptop around to show the invisible lasers. “The camera I installed on the fence filters laser light. Naked eye can’t see them but we can with this.”

“Can you disable?”

“That would require hacking.” Hunt said cautiously.

“Do it.” Strand was blurring the lines and knew he had to in this instance.

“On it.” He watched Jerry focus and his fingers fly across the keyboard. “I think we’re going to have similar issues inside. It’s like Fort Knox.”

“Just get me in there Hunt.” Strand growled, his inpatients getting the better of him as he ground his teeth.

“You’re clear in the yard, the house is taking a bit and the shed is on a separate system.” He said still working furiously to get them into the house.

“House first.” Karl knew the girl was in there, had to be with this level of security.

“You’re clear.” Jerry said abruptly and continued to work without even glancing up at the team.

“We’re going in. Clear the security on the shed, then take the team and check it out.” Karl instructed Jerry. “Let me know when you’re going in.”

“On it.” Hunt said as team Strand exited the van.

Strand stood at the perimeter of the property. “You still got eyes Wainwright?”

“Still en route.”

“Copy.” With two of his team stationed at either exit, the other two at his back Karl picked the lock and cracked the door, eerie silence greeted him.

The two at his back cleared the upstairs bedrooms, while Strand cleared the main level and took pictures on his phone of the portrait and other areas of interest. The place was neat freak clean, not a speck of dust or lint to be found, even the tin food in the pantry was lined up ruler straight from what he could see through the frosted glass panels. “Touch nothing.” He whispered. “Move nothing.”He secured the same tiny cameras they’d used on the fence outside strategically around the house, hoping it would give him a birds-eye view of the girl at some point after tonight if he didn’t find her downstairs.

“Security cleared for the shed.” Jerry said quietly.

“Copy.” Was Strands only reply. He pointed to one of the team and indicated to stay at the top of the basement stairs, the other to follow him down and stay at the base of the stairs in case any hostiles were guarding the girl.

It was a typical basement, he surmised once he clicked his flashlight on and searched the illuminated sections. Water heater, furnace, but no nick nacks, no discarded clothes or files, no boxes, no girl. “Too neat.” He breathed and scanned the walls systematically for imperfections. “I know you’re here sweet girl.” He whispered to himself. “Talk to me.” He ran his fingers over the concrete walls internally begging for it to jump out at him, an opening, a latch, anything, he couldn’t be wrong about this. His feet scuffed over some fine dusty type concrete powder and as he looked down saw a faint line beneath it. He took a photo before brushing the dust away to reveal a concrete trapdoor. “Fuck me!” He breathed and grinned like a kid at Christmas. “Davis, come into the basement.” He murmured through the coms to the guy on the base of the stairs. Strand pointed to the floor.

“How does he open it?” Davis asked and got on his knees with Karl to wipe away more of the dust revealing the entire opening. “Crowbar or tire iron.” He said answering his own question as his finger ran over scrape marks and an indent chipped from frequent use.

Strand stood and wandered over to the furnace and water heater, the only alcove in the room. Eyes searched, fingers darted into crevices until they hit iron. Bringing the tire iron back over they worked to lift the slab of concrete out, a steep opening into what looked like a large room greeted them, so did silence.

“We found a sub basement. Going in.”

“Were into the shed. Those keypads were a bitch.” Jerry replied.

“Stay here Davis.”

“Copy that boss.”

******

Strand dropped down into the sub basement room, the ladder more cumbersome for someone of his build, pitch black greeted him. There were no windows, no lights, nothing but a silence that clanged in his mind so loudly he flinched. Maybe he’d been wrong all along. Davis handed him his flashlight and he let the beam wander the ceiling and walls, there was a toilet in one corner and he figured the room was at least twenty feet square. The beam of light stopped in its tracks as the keening whimper echoed in the room. His heart lurched into his throat, could it be her?

“I’m not here to hurt you.” He said softly. “I’m here to help.” Flashlight searching.

Nothing prepared him for the image his light revealed. Huddled into the far corner was a naked form, manacles on her wrists and ankles, chained to the wall, to the floor. Her hand reached up gingerly, trying to cover her eyes, the light painfully bright for her. How long had she been down here he wondered?

“I’ve found her.” He said, his voice raspy with emotion at what he was seeing and the fact he’d finally laid eyes on her.

He set the flashlight on its end so the beam hit the ceiling dispersing the light and dimming it for her eyes. Crouching where he stood he watched her carefully, the full width of the room between them, and let her get used to the light and his presence, this would be slow going.

“This is a staging area boss.” Hunts voice crackled through the coms. “No girls here, but he was preparing for them, all freshly stocked and ready for three teen girls.”

“Document, install the cameras, take photos, everything, then get out and lock it up. Touch nothing, move nothing. This guys a neat freak and will know something off.”

“Copy boss. How you getting the girl out?”

“Working on it.” Was all Karl murmured, his eyes never leaving the malnourished woman in front of him. She wasn’t a girl, far beyond prime merch age, but she knew too much so he’d stashed her down here to keep his own empire safe. Karl seethed. He was resigned to the fact they may not have time to extract her tonight without alerting Arthur and it fucking burned him. The manacles were going to be a problem.

“Can you tell me your name sweet girl?” He asked gently, she didn’t respond, just stared at him with wide terrified eyes, waiting, waiting for the abuse to start. “He didn’t give you one did he?” Karl stripped off his heavy coat as she shivered violently, probably more out of fear than cold, even though it was freezing down here. Moving toward her slowly he draped his coat over her and moved back as she pressed herself into the wall trying to get away from his approach, his touch.

“Suspect has arrived at the snatch point. Surveilling and recording now.” Wainwright’s voice mixed with static confirmed.

“Copy.” Karl moved to sit against the wall roughly an arms length from her, her cowering form shrinking further and further into the wall. He couldn’t force this, she had to come to him, to want him to help her. “We’re following him, documenting the snatch. We have all his online transactions.” He said softly as he looked over at her. He saw she was listening to him, that was a start. “You know, I’ve been looking for you for about twenty years sweet girl.” He murmured. “I was handed your case fresh out of the academy, cold even then by fifteen years.” He fiddled with his phone and set it to record her, hating the thought of this being on file but needed to be. “I had superiors tell me it was a lost cause, that you were either already sold or dead. But I knew, I had this gut feeling and knew, you were still alive, knew I’d find you with him. You’re his first snatch, he kept you for himself.” He looked over at her as she moved, the chains clinking against the concrete, the weight forcing her limbs to remain stationary. “And he’s discarded you because you’re now older than his wife was when she died.” The thought just coming to him. “You’ve been down here for years haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question, he saw the evidence in her body, her lack of food causing severe malnutrition, the muscle atrophy, he’d barely kept her alive. “Davis can you send down a bottle of water from the van? Don’t use anything in the house.” Drugged probably, to keep her quiet, and Arthur would know they were here of anything was touched.

They sat in silence until he saw a bottle of water appear at the trapdoor opening. He collected it and gave Davis some instructions to collect the ration pack in the van, he’d leave her something in case they couldn’t get her out tonight. Sitting back down he cracked the seal and took a drink, mainly to show her it wasn’t drugged or poisoned. Holding it out for her, her eyes darted from it to him, back to the bottle. “It’s just water sweet girl, I promise. I’m not here to hurt you.” She could barely move her arms the chains were so heavy, the sharp clink as the links moved against the concrete. Strand shifted closer to her, slowly getting to a point where he could help get the water to her mouth. He didn’t force her, just held it near her lips, the choice to drink completely hers.

It was a huge success when she took a few tentative sips, her fingers wrapping around the plastic to pull it from his grip, the possessive nature of the movement enough to tell him she’d had to ration out her food and water to make it last.

“I have more water.” He said softly. “I’ll get you a few more ok?” She stared at him with fearful eyes.

“He’s making the snatch.” Wainwright reported.

“Copy.” He was running out of time, and he’d have to leave her here. Davis came back with the ration backpack from the van and a few bottles of water. He sat next to her and unwrapped a granola bar and took a bite before handing it to her, those sorrow filled eyes never leaving him. “They’re not much but it’ll keep you going until I can take you out for a nice juicy burger, or tacos, and maybe a milkshake.” He said gently with a smile as she nibbled on the bar. Trust, this was all about trust and he hoped she wouldn’t hate him for having to leave her here and come back for her.

“He has the kid, traveling to drop off site. Start packing it up you guys. You have about thirty minutes to get you asses out.” Steve said sternly.

Karl saw her flinch at the news, the ear piece not exactly quiet. Silent tears streaked her cheeks, she knew, she knew what it meant for the child, what it meant for the teen, what it meant for her. To his surprise she buried her face into his arm and wept, fingers clawing at him, the grief overwhelming her, a plea for him to stop it.

“Boss you need to get out of there.” Jerry said as his team locked up the shed and storm shelter.

“Working on it.” He ground out. This was where he’d planned to tell her he was leaving and would be back for her, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t do it. “I’ll be right back ok, give me a moment to talk with my team.” He had to pry her fingers from him, the separation almost as unbearable for him as it was for her.

“He’s made the drop. Teen is in the car with him. I repeat, the teen is in the vehicle.” Steve growled.

“Ok listen up and don’t argue.” He snapped over the coms unit. “I’m staying. Everyone out, back to the van.”

“All due respect boss, but the fuck you are.” Jerry spat.

“I can’t leave her Jerry. We have rations and water, you guys need to work the case and the moment the exchange for the teen is completed as in he hands her, over you fucking arrest his ass.”

“What if he comes down there?”

“Then he comes down here and we revert to plan B.”

“We don’t have a plan B.”

“We do now.” Karl growled. Plan B would be putting a bullet in Arthur’s brain and he’d be more than happy to do so. “Lock me in Davis, you saw where I got the tire iron from, make sure it goes back the exact same way. Sweep the dust over the trapdoor and get out. Don’t touch anything.”

“You sure boss?”

“I’m sure, she’s more important.”

Davis handed him his weapon and a few clips for good measure. “If they come for her you’re gonna need it.” Strand nodded and watched as the trapdoor was lowered into position and all the freedom sucked out of room.

******

“Get out of there.” Steve said a little concerned. “We’re about five miles from the house.” Strand grabbed the flashlight and secured his weapons beside him as he sat against the wall next to his Jane Doe.

“House is clear. Engage security.” Davis said, Karl could tell he wasn’t happy about leaving him under the house. Not his fucking call. He wasn’t losing her again.

“Security engaged and we have visuals on all cameras positioned. Heading around the block now.” Jerry’s voice was equally irritated, not his call either.

Wainwright drove past the house just as Donovan pulled into the drive, the vehicle rolling past his usual parking spot to pull up at the rear of the house.

“Yeah, we still see you, you fucker.” Jerry muttered as Arthur got out of the car and hauled a stunning teen out of the back seat, she’d been forced to lay down so not to be seen, drugged no doubt.

Jerry gave Strand the blow by blow account of Arthur settling the girl in, only stopping when Donovan explained in explicit detail what was going to happen to her and the way she would be used.

“Tell me you got that recorded?” Strand asked quietly as he could hear Donovan over the open channel.

“I did.”

“Good.” The team could be angry at him for staying, but they’d do the job regardless.

“12:01 and the auction has just opened up. Grabbing all her details and photo, also collecting every sick fucker that bids.” Jerry was riding on hatred now and Strand had to reel him in.

“Hunt!” He snapped. “Park the fury. We’re all fucking angry with this one, but shelve it. Methodical, collect the evidence against Arthur, then we nail the others.” He verbally whipped the boy.

“Understood sir.” Jerry contained his retort. “She’s a fucking virgin Karl.” He added.

“I know.” He breathed, settling himself down. “I know. We’ll get him, and once we have him, we get the rest of them.” He sighed out.

“He’s leaving the shed and coming into the house.” Jerry reported. “Nothing to indicate he knows we were in there.”

“Good, that’s what we want. Wainwright, take a partner and go sit on the drop off for the child that was snatched, start digging. Also, have dispatch divert the call from the parents of that child to us so we can bring them in and keep it locked down.”

“Wait, he’s going out again.” Jerry interrupted.

“Tail him Steven, then hit the drop off house. I’d say he’s going to a favorite hooker or to sample the non premium merchandise. No way he’s paying for it.”

“You want us to come get you guys out?” Davis asked.

“No, too risky for now. Work the case. I have my own work to do.” He looked at the frail woman beside him, those eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope, hope that he’d get them both out of here, fear that he wouldn’t.

******

While Donovan had settled into an early morning of sexual frivolity, Karl breathed out a heavy sigh and rested his head against the concrete, glaring at the ceiling as if it would tell him some unknown secret. He was brought out of his thoughts by Jane pressing the open water bottle against his arm gently. Sweet girl, he thought, so much kindness in you after all you’ve been through. “We have plenty.” He smiled down at her. “You drink that one ok? I’ll take the next one.” He watched her take a sip and then hand it back to him. This time he accepted it with a smile and saw a wary smile in return, progress he thought.

“Can I see them?” He asked pointing at the bindings around her wrists. She curled into herself and shrank away from him. “I’m not here to hurt you sweet girl, I just want to help, maybe I can figure out a way to remove them.” She thought over his offer, could see her squash the fear and bury it as deep down as she could, her inner strength nothing short of miraculous. She had no reason to trust him, none, with the exception of he’d smiled at her, and given her water and a granola bar. He was a male and he could only guess at what that was doing to her psyche. This tall man, sitting beside her, locked in a concrete cage together, her chained to a wall, naked.

Still huddled against the concrete she moved until her fingers were almost touching him, the weight of the chains and manacles making her movements difficult. He saw the wince of pain as the steel scrapped against already chaffed skin beneath the metal. How long had she had them on, he wondered? Slowly shuffling closer he took the weight of the steel in his hand and tried not to touch her, that seemed to make her uncomfortable, even the thought of it had made her flinch. “Can you rest it on my knee?” He asked and he tenderly placed the steel where he wanted it so he could use both hands, electronic locks. Using his phone he snapped a few photos and sent them to Jerry with a brief outline of what he was dealing with. “I have a friend, Jerry.” He explained to her and tapped his ear piece. “Good kid, a wiz with electronics. Maybe he can figure out how we get you out of them.” Soft sea green eyes looked up at him, mesmerizing, soulful. “I’m not leaving here without you ok.” He told her bluntly, even if he had to kill every one of them on his way out.

She nodded and pulled her hand back, huddling away from him again, the closeness, both verbally and physically, becoming too intimate for her to handle.

To save the batteries in the flashlight he flicked it off, the soft whimpered cry had him flicking it back on and studying her, fear rippled across her body. “I’m right here sweet girl ok? I need to save the batteries.” He flicked the light off again. “I’m right here ok, I’m not going anywhere without you.” His heart ached at the keening sound of a wounded child coming from her, it sliced him deeply. The sound lessened as she probably drifted to sleep, the absolute darkness calling for him to sleep too. “Guys I’m going to keep the coms on, but get some shut eye. Wake me when he’s on his way home, I want to be awake when he’s in the house.”

“Copy.” Came Jerry’s voice, much calmer now they’d had some time to shove the rage away.

He drifted, his brain not fully succumbing to sleep as it knew he was still on duty. During his semi slumber he heard her shift, curling up against his arm, clutching him as if he’d evaporate. She shivered from the cold, the fear that still coursed through her. Slowly and carefully he moved his arm to wrap around her, drawing her to his side and getting her naked form away from the cold concrete as much as he could. Feeling her flinch and then tense he half expected her to pull away, but she didn’t. Once she realized he wasn’t going to rape her, hurt her, she held onto him tightly. “Get some sleep sweet girl, I’ll keep you safe from him, he’ll never touch you again.”

******

They both crashed out, exhaustion claiming them hard until Jerry’s voice snapped Karl awake in an instant. “He’s heading your way boss.”

“Copy. Let me know if and when he’s headed to the basement.”

“Will do.”

Strand could feel she’d shifted more in the night, climbed into his lap and curled up against his chest, her head tucked under his chin. He flicked the flashlight on low to give off enough glow to study her. Pulling the coat up and over her shoulders he tucked her in a bit more before ensuring his weapon was close at hand and flicking the light off again. “Sit rep.” He growled softly.

“It’s about one in the afternoon and we’ve got a shit load of data flowing in. I have financials, top layer only so I don’t spook him, which I’m tracing back to our boy and a few other people I’d like to chat with later. The auction is up to 3.6 million and change for the teen in the shed, and Meekland is on the warpath, specifically for your ass. Just a heads up.” He finished in that cheery sarcastic tone that would land the kid in hot water with a woman one day.

“Good to know. Wainwright?”

“He’s staking out the drop off for the infant last night, seeing if he can get some cameras in there.”

“Plan is still the same for the transaction for the teen, soon as he hands her over and the money’s in the bank we nail these assholes.”

“Copy that boss. I’m still working on the restraints.”

“Copy that.”

She shifted in his lap, his arms instinctively wrapping around her to keep her safe and he felt her tense. “Easy now, you’re ok sweet girl.” He murmured, his voice gravelly, and felt her relax slightly, more progress. This was why he couldn’t leave her, this connection was critical to getting them both out of here alive.

The dark was oppressing, he thought as he held her. When was the last time she’d seen daylight, a sunset, another human being other than the monster that put her here? How was she still sane? Or a more valid question, was she as much of a monster as he was, conditioned to be what he’d moulded her into?

“He’s just pulled up and heading for the shed.”

“Copy.” Karl went on high alert as a thought crossed his mind. What if he came here after checking in the teen, what was his routine after a snatch? “Shit!” He swore and she flinched in his arms.

“You ok boss?”

“I didn’t think about his after snatch routine. Snatched the baby, went to blow off some steam with the hooker, comes back to check on the teen and the auction. When does he check on his girl in the basement? The woman in the basement that is his substitute wife? The woman that’s going to be blamed for dying, for killing their child, for leaving him?” Karl was so angry with himself for not making that connection sooner.

“Fuck!” Jerry swore. “He’s going to...”

“Yeah he is and I’m going to have to let him.” He ground out. “Sweet girl I need you to hop off real quick.” He said gently, willing the woman to move her ass so he could move their supplies out of sight, himself included. She looked up at him and gripped his shirt, pleading with him not to leave her. “I’ll be right here, but I need to get into a position where I can fight.” He said hastily, his tone gruff, and it made her scamper away like a wounded animal. Now, he felt like an asshole. Moving quickly he flicked the flashlight on low and relocated the supplies to the behind the pillar near the toilet, it would be perfect coverage for him to blend into the shadows if Arthur ventured down this way. He had a sick feeling she would cop the brunt of his grief and anger at his wife’s death, for not living, not allowing the child to live. Digging out his phone he set it to record.

“He’s on his way into the house.”

“Copy.” Crouching down beside her he pried her fingers from his coat. “I’m so sorry.” He choked, she’d never forgive him for this. The ground he’d made yesterday to get her to trust him would be irreparably shattered. He left her curled into the corner of the room, much like he’d found her only hours ago, and took up his position near the toilet. Flicking the flashlight off he plunged their world into a depressing darkness, her soft whimpers the only sound.

“Strand?” Meekland a voice came through the coms loud and clear.

“What?” He snapped.

“If you have the shot, take it, don’t put her through that.”

“Do you honestly think I would stand here, mere feet from her, and allow that asshole to rape her. Fuck you Sarah.” He spat and the line went oppressively silent. Strand seethed at her comment. As if he’d stand by and let that just happen as he watched, even he had lines he wouldn’t cross.

“He’s coming down to the basement boss.” Jerry’s voice was only a whisper.

“Copy.” He racked the chamber of the weapon, a bullet seemed far to easy for this guy, but it would be his end if he went to rape her.

The scrape of concrete against concrete as the trapdoor was slid open heightened his awareness. Setting his phone to record he readied himself to defend them both.

“Time for you to eat Lenore.” Arthur said cheerily as he climbed into the room. “You’ll want to clean yourself up ready for our celebration tonight. The little cherub was delivered this morning, the little teen queen beauty already fetching up to 4.1 million, a nice payday to retire on.”

The guy was delusional, Strand thought. Donovan crouched down in front of her. Don’t do it asshole, don’t make me give you the easy way out. He heard her whimper as Arthur groped her, fingers invading harshly. His smile turned nasty before standing again and collecting the bucket of water from the top of the stairs, unceremoniously dumping it on her. From the way she shivered violently, it was freezing cold.

“Scrub.” Arthur barked, tossing the soap at her.

On any other day, he would have killed Donovan six time over for that alone, but let it play out. There was much more at stake here. He watched her scrub furiously as bucket after bucket of cold water was thrown at her, over her. Placing a meager meal at her feet in the puddle of water he looked over her.

“Eat.” He growled and she sank to her knees and ate as best she could, limbs shaking from the cold, the weight of the manacles impeding her movement. “Tonight you will be punished twice over for that bitches crimes.” He sneered. “I’ll take what’s mine, what’s owed to me from the grave out of every inch of you body.” He snarled, his hands yanking her to her feet painfully by her hair and groping her some more.

Karl shuddered at what that meant. Not this time asshole, we’ll be long gone. He watched Arthur let her crumple to the floor, turn on his heel and climb out of the hatch. Strand held his breath as the trapdoor closed and the silent darkness enveloped them again.

“He’s in the kitchen boss.” Jerry’s shaken voice confirmed and he let out that breath slowly before replying.

“Copy.” He took a steadying breath and willed the adrenaline away, because now he had to mend the rift with this girl, if he could. Arthur’s visit might have shot that plan to shit, seeing as though he’d promised her he wouldn’t let that prick touch her again. He could hear her crying, the soft sobbing of a woman so destroyed, so brutalized, and he’d allowed it happen this time. “Let me know if he’s on his way down again.” His gut roiled, he felt like asshole he was.

“Will do, he’s heading out to the shed.”

“He’ll want to check the auction and torment the teen some more.” Strand spat.

“You ok boss?” Jerry said softly.

“No, Jerry I’m not. I let him touch her when I promised her I would protect her.” He sighed and switched off the camera, sending him the video to add to the file.

The soft glow of the flashlight reflected off the water on the floor, the slight slope to the far corner draining most of it away from her. How many times have you gone through that sweet girl to know where the high ground in the room is, he wondered?

“Hunt tell me you have a way to get her out of these fucking chains?” He snapped as he watched her try and move into a comfortable position out of the water, her teeth chattering violently.

“Nearly there.” Came the reply. “I’m finding his source code for them, trickier because I can’t hack into them, they’re airgapped.” Karl heard the frustration and backed off, scrubbing a hand over his scalp, the kid was busting ass on multiple tasks, none of them easy.

“Copy.” He sighed and grabbed his coat, the rations, and a bottle of water. Sitting on a dry patch of concrete he watched her watching him as he set the flashlight close, his weapon closer. “I’m so sorry.” He whispered. “I promised you and...” He stopped talking as she shuffled over timidly, her body shaking with cold, hair still dripping. “No.” He said shaking his head as she started to rest against the concrete. “Curl up in my lap like before, get warm sweet girl.” She looked at him, those sea green eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life. Gingerly she reached for him, uncertainty, terrified. It took nearly three hours before she climbed into his lap, her head resting on his chest under his chin. She shivered violently as he pulled the coat around her and tucked her in. “Sleep now, rest. You’re safe.” So trusting, he thought, so forgiving, which made him feel undeniably worse for leaving her to Arthur. Feeling the water from her hair start to seep into his shirt he gently pulled it out from between them and over the collar of the coat. “I’m going to save the batteries ok? I’m not leaving sweet girl.” He murmured and plunged them into darkness once more.

He felt her drift, her body go lax as he talked with his team, the sound of his voice probably soothing her enough to pull her under. Cradling her to him he felt something tug inside him, a soft yearning for a woman that saw through the snarling ass kicking facade that was Karl Strand, to a softer side of him. He had one, the girl in his arms was the first to pull it from deep within him.

“Hey boss?” Jerry yawned.

“What?” He growled, more through frustration of where his own thoughts had gone too than of being hailed over coms.

“Put your phone next to her cuffs, I need a way to hack in.” Karl did and could tell the rookie was tired and pushing hard.

“Through my phone?”

“You got any service in that concrete box?”

“Barely a half bar.”

“That’s enough.” Karl could hear the grin in the kids voice. “Our buddy has an alarm on these cuffs that will alert him if they’re ever unlocked. Don’t sweat it.” He said quickly. “I’m not unlocking, just... snooping.”

Strand fished out his phone and held it against the keypad of the manacle currently resting on his chest. Her tiny hand fisting in his shirt made him smile, to be wanted so completely by someone hit him squarely in the gut. And this isn’t healthy, he thought, you can’t go falling for this girl.

“Do you see any numbers ticking over on your phone like a slot machine?” Jerry asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. It’s searching for his source code. Each of the four locks has a different lock code but if I get the source code we can bypass and unlock all of them at the same time. Not right now of course.” Jerry said reassuringly. “Just snooping.”

“Snoop all you want Jerry.” He chuckled and lost his breath as those sea green eyes looked up at him. Shit, he thought, fucking shit I can’t get involved with you sweet girl. “Where is he?”

“Still in the shed with the teen.” He said disgustedly.

“What’s happening?”

“You don’t want to know.” Jerry muttered.

“I do or I wouldn’t have asked.” He growled.

“He’s showing her video of what’s going to happen to her, the really hard core shit.” Jerry went quiet for a moment. “Wainwright said to tell you that they have eyes on the kids in the drop house. Looks like an orphanage really, kids are well housed and looked after. There’s a wing for babies, young kids, and teens. No one older than 16, no boys.”

“Oh they’ll have them on a completely different syndicate.” Strand growled.

“Yeah, thought of that too so my computer is running some sniffing software. I can dive in later.”

“Websites?”

“A few, similar setup so I’m thinking same syndicate, different supplier. Donovan just does girls, I haven’t found anything to suggest boys on his merch list.” Jerry said wearily.

“That’s something I guess.”

“I guess.”

“Has he touched the teen?”

“Nope and I think that’s what got him frustrated earlier. These three are, or will be, the prime merchandise, virgins, innocent, clean, untouched. Higher profit margin. Speaking of profit margins, I’m almost into his financials. He’s got some hidden accounts I’m weeding out under the radar.”

“Good work Jerry.”

“We’re getting there boss. Davis is going to take over watch while I get some rack time. I need to be sharp tonight.”

“I’m going to do the same, because yes, we all need to be sharp tonight.” He looked at his phone to see the numbers has stopped scrolling. “You still need my phone near her cuffs?”

“Nope I got what I need. I’ll set the sniffer to do it’s thing while I’m napping.”

“Thank Jerry.” He said, sitting his phone by his weapon.

“Anytime boss.”

******

The glow of the phone screen lit the room enough for him to see her silhouette curled into him, her hand reach up to stroke his jaw, eyes always searching, calculating. He wasn’t prepared for her lips meeting his, the sudden jolt of excitement and fear to shoot through him. The way his body responded without his consent, his brain shorting out allowing him the luxury of kissing her back, deepening it before he came to his senses. Cupping her face in his hands gently he pulled her away from him.

“No.” He said softly. “That’s not what I want from you sweet girl.” He breathed, the raggedness of his voice shocking him. Watching her closely she shifted and dropped her hands to his belt buckle. “No.” He said again and took her hands in his pulling them back to rest at his chest, his cock more eager with her touch than his brain. “Sweet girl I don’t want that from you.” He said gently. Not unless it’s of your own free will, he added silently. “I just want to get you out of here, get you somewhere safe so you can be free.” He tucked the stray half dried wave of hair behind her ear and watched as she bowed her head, the tears falling silently. “Sweet girl don’t cry.” He said tenderly, his fingers brushing her cheeks softly. “If the circumstances were different I’d have no problem with letting you do whatever you wanted with me, but we can’t. Not here, not now.” Not ever he thought, because she’d never want to see him again after this. Pulling her close, he snuggled her into him, her soft sobs breaking his heart.

She was only doing what had been ingrained in her from birth, conditioned to pleasure, to give a man that had abused her all her life whatever she thought he needed, what he’d taught her.

“I won’t do what they did to you sweet girl. Force you against your will, take advantage of this situation, take advantage of you.” He held her tightly as she tried to press herself against him more. “You’re safe with me.” He whispered and felt his heart shatter at knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep that promise once they were out of this room. She would go her way, he would go his, even if a relationship was a possibility, he wasn’t good for her and deep down he knew that, he wasn’t relationship material. Her sobs eventually subsided into sniffles and then fell silent as she slept, safe for the moment and warm.

******

“Boss?” Hunts voice crackled in his ear.

“What is it Jerry?” Strand had dozed off too, the exhaustion pulling him under hard.

“It’s 11:45pm and the auction closes at 11:59pm. We’re all set ready for the transfer of funds and the hand over of the girl.”

“Good.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and stretched as much as he could, she was a waif, but heavy enough to put his ass to sleep. “Wait until the teen is in the buyers car and Donovan is clear.” He instructed. “I want to take him down in here when he comes for Jane Doe.” His growl was feral.

“We have the buyer takedown ready to rumble on your call.”

“I want both parties thinking they got away with a clean exchange before we pounce. None of this can be leaked to other buyers, we don’t want them changing habits on the website until we can bring them all down.” He thought about it a little. “Meekland?”

“What Strand?” She still sounded pissed from his outburst earlier.

“No deals for these assholes. They go away for life or I will hunt them down personally on my own time and put them away permanently, with a bullet. Are we clear?” He murmured coldly.

“Crystal.” She snapped. He’d backed her into a corner when he’d pulled in his own team, his off the record team. She should have known better than to give him free reign.

“Keep me in the loop.” He said sternly and let the coms fall silent again. Smiling into the darkness he laid a hand over hers to still the nervous fingers toying with his shirt buttons. “When I get word he’s left I need you to do as I ask you, when I ask you, ok sweet girl?” He wasn’t expecting a verbal answer but felt her head nod. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“The auction just closed and he’s on the phone with the buyer.”

“Copy.”

“Oh hello Mr. Nasty Piece of Shit!” Jerry growled. “Chinese mob. Oh this’ll be fun.” His sarcasm grating on Strand’s every nerve.

“Knock it off Jerry.” If Karl was there in person he would have cuffed the kid up the side of the head.

“7.6 mill just hit his account, handover at 1am. They’re negotiating the location.” The coms link went silent for a few minutes. “Sequoia National Forest, just outside of Lake Isabella.”

“Go.” Strand barked, and felt Jane Doe flinch at his tone.

“Going.” Hunt said as the team readied. “Davis is taking team B by air, they’ll get there first and secure the area.”

“Cast the net wide, tighten when Donovan is out.”

“Copy. He’s moving the girl. Son of a bitch dosed her.” Jerry said as the camera showed her bobbing and weaving as she walked.

“That’ll make things tricky, be careful.”

“Yeah. Ok he’s pulling out the drive, and he’s clear. I’ll call you when we’re close.”

“Copy.” Karl breathed.

******

The coms were silent for nearly forty minutes, Karl enjoying the last moments he’d have with her before all hell would break loose.

“Were in position, waiting for Donovan and the buyer.” Jerry said quietly.

“Copy.” He ran his fingers through her semi dried hair and held her close. “When the handover happens leave your com open, I want to hear it.”

“Copy that boss.”

“Team B in position.” Davis’s voice chimed in.

“Copy.” It was all falling together nicely, Strand thought, maybe a little too nicely.

“Donovan’s car just pulled up.” Jerry said. “It’s only 12:47.”

“The girl still out cold?”

“Looks like, no silhouette in the back seat, but heat signatures for two.”

“He’s done this before, she’ll come around just enough for the handover to walk but still groggy. No screams and no fight.” Strand chewed on his bottom lip, he hated sitting out a takedown.

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#Karl Strand fanfic #gustaf skarsgard #a softer side #sexy as fuck

[mikauzoran]

LuXY/Lukadrien/Lukadrienette: Welcome to La-La Land: Chapter One

@luxyweek

Welcome to La-La Land: Chapter One: Eye Contact

Going to the party had been Penny’s idea.

(“You need to get out more. I know you don’t like socializing, Luka, but networking is key in this field.”)

Luka hadn’t even gotten in the door, and he was already wanting to flee.

Reporters lined the walkway to the entrance, shouting his name, blinding him with the flashes of their cameras, yelling their questions over one another.

Luka did his best to smile and act like he was comfortable in this crazy environment. (He was not.) He drew heavily on techniques honed through years of meditation practice in order to stay calm and serene.

“Luka!” one of the reporters called. “Are the rumors about you and Adrien Agreste-Dupain-Cheng true?!”

Luka blinked, step faltering.

His heart sank.

The other bloodhounds caught the scent and took up the cry.

“Luka! Are you and Monsieur Agreste-Dupain-Cheng having an affair?”

“Is it true that you’ve been seeing one another for years behind his wife’s back?”

Two weeks prior, a paparazzo had seen Luka and Adrien meeting up at the Brasserie Lipp for dinner and gotten a shot of them saying goodbye. With Adrien’s arms around Luka’s neck and the looks on their faces as they smiled and laughed…the optics weren’t good.

Things died down a bit after Marinette made a statement that Luka was a very old and dear friend to the both of them and that her husband was in no way cheating on her.

Luka thought the whole thing had blown over. Apparently, he was wrong.

The light and the noise and the crush of the crowd was overwhelming.

With a mutter of, “no comment” to the ravenous newshounds, Luka picked up the pace, practically running for cover inside of Le Grand Paris.

It’s not like they’d understand if he tried to explain how he had been casually dating a married couple for several years now, so “cheating” and “affair” were not an accurate representation of the situation.

Luka being bi was something Paris could handle for the most part, even if they didn’t always like it. Luka being in a polyamorous, off-again-on-again relationship would break Paris’s brain. It was easier for them if Luka were a homewrecker.

He made his way to the ballroom where Bob Roth was hosting the get together for the dozens of stars currently signed to his record label as well as influential members of Parisian society.

After greeting the requisite people and being led around by Bob Roth to be introduced as the producer’s latest “find”, Luka retreated to the far side of the room where he could be a wallflower in peace.

Parties were definitely not his scene.

He eyed the open bar hard, considering.

Normally, Luka was careful with his alcohol consumption. Drowning problems in booze was, unfortunately, a bit of an issue at times in his family, and he was always mindful of not falling down that rabbit hole.

Tonight, however, social anxiety was definitely a thing on top of the dull ache in his chest dredged up by the paparazzi reminding him of his messy relationship with Marinette and Adrien, and Luka really felt like he needed a drink to take a bit of the edge off.

A server came by with a tray of champagne, and Luka decided that that was a good compromise. Enough to numb himself a little but nothing too extreme like downing vodka shots.

He sipped on his glass as he watched the antics of the other partygoers. Jagged had brought Fang, and Clara Rossignol looked like she was having the time of her life throwing a stick for him. (Though, she always looked like she was having the time of her life.)

Most everyone else was trying to stay out of the way as the crocodile bounded after his quarry.

As the night stretched on, one glass of champagne became three, and with two more hours to go on the party before it would be acceptable for Luka to escape, Luka was starting to think he wasn’t going to make it.

He felt uneasy, like people were watching him.

People were watching him. That was the whole point of the evening: to be seen. A handful of respectable members of the press had been let into the party, and Luka wouldn’t be surprised if there had been tens of hundreds of pictures taken either of him or with him in the background.

Still.

It made his whole body itch.

Suddenly, the “being watched” sensation was far more acute. Someone was behind him.

Luka turned to find Xavier-Yves Roth staring at Luka’s waist.

Several thoughts raced through Luka’s slightly alcohol-addled mind, but chief among them was that XY had been ogling Luka’s butt.

He knew it looked good in the leather pants he was wearing, but the fact that it was XY checking it out…that just made Luka uncomfortable. He was tempted to dig out the old, “my eyes are up here” line, but that sounded too coy.

“Can I help you?” Luka asked tersely.

“Nah. I’m good,” XY assured without sarcasm and continued to give Luka the once over. “Nice outfit.”

“Uh…thanks,” Luka replied awkwardly, beginning to squirm. “It’s a Marinette original. I’m a friend of the designer.”

XY frowned, cocking an eyebrow as he finally met Luka’s gaze. “The wife of the guy you’re sleeping with?”

Luka pursed his lips.

This conversation was going remarkably well. Back in the old days, it would have been the kind of evening that rated as a success if no one got akumatized. Luka kind of missed akumas. They were really useful for breaking up mortifying encounters such as this one.

“Allegedly,” Luka returned laconically. “Listen, I have to—”

“—Didn’t you used to have blue hair?” XY cut him off.

Luka frowned. Did XY remember who he was? The man had always struck Luka as completely oblivious to everything that did not immediately serve some use to the blonde, so Luka hadn’t expected to register in XY’s long-term memory.

“Uh…yeah.” Luka self-consciously reached up to touch his hair. He’d dyed it back to pure black a couple years ago.

XY nodded, a dopey grin on his face. “It’s super dope. I like it better this way.”

Luka guessed that that was supposed to be a compliment. “…Thanks? …I…I like what you’ve done with yours too.”

XY’s hair was still spiked up on top, but it was shorter and actually looked more like a normal person’s hair now instead of the half-meter cornstalk growing out of his head that it used to resemble.

“Your hair looks better short,” Luka added civilly.

Why was he making small talk with Xavier-Yves Roth? What dimension of hell had he stumbled into?

XY seemed to puff up in pride at Luka’s remark. “Yeah,” he preened. “It’s super sick, yeah? The tall hair thing got old. It was time for an update, you know?”

Luka nodded agreeably, waiting for an opportunity to slip away.

“So, what are you doing lately?” The small talk continued, much to Luka’s horror. “What kind of music are you making recently?”

Luka frowned as XY hit a sore spot. “Why? Looking for something to steal—sorry. I meant inspire you?”

XY’s eyebrows slowly pinched together, and his mouth formed a duck-lipped pout. “Dude. That was, like, ten years ago, and it was only the one time. I was just doing what my dad said. He’s the expert, so I figured he knew what he was talking about. I didn’t know I was doing something wrong, and I apologized and haven’t done it again,” he informed sulkily.

Suddenly, Luka felt like a very petty person. He hadn’t spoken to XY in a decade, but he’d just gone into the interaction assuming that nothing had changed, that the man was still the dumb, spoiled brat Luka had encountered when he was sixteen.

He visibly wilted, ashamed of his rash accusation. “Sorry. That was…that was really rude of me. Could we maybe start over? I’m Luka Couffaine. It’s nice to meet you.” He held out his hand, hoping to smooth things over.

Seemingly, it worked. XY’s pout instantly transformed into a wide grin, and he took Luka’s hand, shaking it enthusiastically. “XY. Your music is really ballin’. Totes dope. I’ve been following you since you were the lead guitarist in Kitty Section, and I was really excited when you went solo.”

This was the Twilight Zone. How had Luka fallen into an alternate universe where XY not only knew who he was but actually enjoyed Luka’s music? This conversation had officially become bizarre.

“Uh…Wow. You…You like my work?” Luka replied eruditely.

XY nodded, hair bobbing along. “Yeah. Typically, I don’t like that punk stuff, but—I don’t know—your music has always been different.”

“Thank you,” Luka responded, suddenly feeling off balance not just because of the alcohol he’d consumed. He genuinely didn’t know what to do with this version of XY so different from the young man he’d met once ten years before.

“You probably haven’t heard much of my stuff, have you?” XY continued with their conversation.

“I can’t say that I have,” Luka sheepishly admitted. “Maybe snatches on the radio, but I haven’t really sat down and listened to it.”

XY waved Luka’s words away. “You’d like it. It’s really good stuff nowadays. I come up with my own beats. Yeah, Dad and the mixing department clean it up before it goes out the door, but I make my own stuff. I, like, go out and listen to other people’s stuff and sit in parks and look at trees, and I get inspired. I get ideas now,” he boasted.

Luka nodded supportively, sensing that this was important to XY, though, Luka had no idea why having ideas was such an achievement.

“My dad doesn’t call me an idiot even half as much as he used to,” XY confided proudly. “I’m not an imbecile anymore.”

Luka waited for XY to explain the joke, but the punchline never came, and Luka realized with horror that XY was serious. “Your father said that to you?”

XY nodded matter-of-factly. “Yeah. I used to be really stupid, and Dad never thought my work was good, but now I have more talent since I started going out and trying to make my own ideas.”

Suddenly XY’s expression became thoughtful. “I never got to thank you.”

Luka blinked, completely lost. “For what?”

“What you said to me at the TV studio that day after you and Kitty Section performed with me. …Out in the hallway by the dressing rooms?” XY reminded, looking at Luka expectantly.

Maybe it was because it had been a stressful day with the plagiarism and the akumatization and everything, but Luka was completely blanking.

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Yeah. Sure,” he bluffed, hoping not to get found out. What the heck had he said to XY ten years ago that the guy was now thanking him for?

XY’s face lit up in a smile. “What you said really got me thinking. It made a big difference, made me want to change, so…it’s thanks to you that my music’s so dope nowadays and that my dad’s taking me seriously as a musician. So, thanks.”

Luka could feel his cheeks heating up under XY’s intense gaze. He wished he could remember what he’d said. Obviously, the moment had been far more important to XY than it had been to Luka. That made Luka feel kind of bad.

“You’re welcome,” he replied earnestly. “I’m really glad that I could help.”

XY nodded enthusiastically. “And you keep helping. I was listening to your second solo album a year or two ago, the one with all the electric violin, and I came across this interview you did when it came out where you were talking about how you drew inspiration from all kinds of musical genres, and you were talking about Classical and Romantic music. I actually looked up some of the stuff you mentioned and found a lot of stuff I liked.”

If Luka had less control over himself, his mouth would have dropped open.

The image of pop idol XY listening to anything Luka had ever mentioned in an interview (where he regularly talked about music theory and Mahler and The Beatles and Javanese gamelan music) just seemed so farfetched.

“Like that Beaux Arts guy,” XY prattled on. “I listened to his Inclined Knot Music, and I thought the beat was really sick.”

XY proceeded to hum the theme from the first movement of Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.

“I learned that it’s not stealing if the guy you borrow from is super dead, so I took the theme and mixed it up and turned it into my own thing, and people really liked it!” XY informed excitedly. “If you want to hear my version, it’s called ‘XY’s Got Mad Ups’.”

Luka was definitely looking that up on YouTube later that night. He couldn’t help his morbid sense of curiosity. He’d clearly created a monster in inspiring XY to look into Mozart’s music, and now he felt kind of responsible for the result.

“Yeah. I’d be really interested in giving it a listen,” Luka replied honestly.

XY perked up like a puppy who had just heard his owner get out the dog food. “Really? Killer! You know, I was also really inspired by Beat-oven. You mentioned that the Fifth Symphony was your favourite?”

Luka nodded, genuinely surprised.

“Well, I found his piano concertos—”

“—concerti—” Luka’s mind automatically corrected.

“—and the first movement of his Third Piano Concerto was absolutely trippin’. I’ve got some tracks inspired by Beat-oven pieces too that did really well, so I’m super glad you got me to look into classical music.”

“You’re welcome,” Luka repeated, unsure of what else to say. This was more like interacting with a fan than an old rival, and Luka found himself getting tripped up over and over again with every new sentence out of XY’s mouth. “I’m really glad that you got so much out of it.”

XY flashed Luka some kind of hipster hand sign. “Hey, so, I know you haven’t heard much of my work, but if you do listen to it and you think it’s good, I was thinking we should collaborate sometime.”

Luka’s eyes went wide as XY fished out a business card and a pen, writing an additional phone number on the backside, opposite his official contact information.

“Here. My personal number.”

Luka took the card and stared at it for a minute before pulling out his wallet and tucking the card inside carefully.

“I really like your chord progressions, especially your use of deceptive cadence.”

Luka’s brain wrecked and caused a ten-car pileup.

Since when did XY know what a deceptive cadence was? Maybe he’d heard Luka talk about it in an interview? Penny had had Luka do a lot of interviews to get his name out. Penny had had Luka do a lot of tweeting and blogging and Instagraming. Maybe XY kept tabs on Luka’s social media?

“I was thinking we could do a mix with, like, some Berber drumming and you on electric violin? I could get a really sick beat going. I’ve got some ideas, if you’re interested.” The amount of hope shining tentatively in XY’s eyes made Luka’s stomach feel funny. The guy really, really wanted to collaborate with Luka. It seriously meant that much to him. What the hell?

“Yeah. Okay,” he agreed before he could stop to think that maybe he should listen to this guy’s music first before getting XY’s hopes up. “I’ll give your stuff a listen, and maybe we can talk to your father about doing something together sometime.”

XY gave a little hop as he punched the air in his excitement. “Sweet! Aw, man. That is so tight! Yeah. Definitely call me, and we can work something out.”

Luka opened his mouth to respond that he would, but he was cut off by Bob Roth shouting from several yards away. “Xavier-Yves!”

XY winced, turning to watch his father storm towards them.

“What are you doing, you imbecile?” the producer hissed quietly, grabbing his son’s arm and tugging him away from Luka.

All Luka could do was gape.

“Didn’t I tell you to make small talk and keep circulating? I haven’t seen you talk to the mayor yet. And make sure you flirt with his daughter. She’s a fan, and their money’s important. Talk to that pop princess girl too. Make sure people get pictures of you two together,” Roth instructed. “What’s her name. Poppenella? Pimpernel? Pumpernickel? You know who I’m talking about. We’re thinking of arranging a publicity stunt making it look like you two are dating. It should help boost your ratings.”

“Okay,” XY agreed docilely, even though he looked thoroughly put out by the prospect. “In a minute, Dad. Luka and I were just talking about doing a collab. I’ll go schmooze some more after we finish.”

Bob Roth’s eyes widened, and he looked back at Luka in surprise. “Oh! I’m sorry, Luka. I thought my son was just bothering you, but if you were discussing business, that’s all right,” he laughed, voice full of false cheer. “You see, Xavier-Yves is just such a fan of yours.”

“He’s not bothering me,” Luka assured, doing his best to keep his voice calm and neutral.

He had never liked Bob Roth. He had never gotten over the man’s cruelty and cut-throat attitude. He’d only signed with Bob Roth because Jagged had gotten him the deal. Luka liked Bob Roth even less now that he’d seen firsthand how the producer treated his son.

In the back of Luka’s mind, he wondered if he had a thing for blonde boys with daddy issues because he was getting the kind of protective feelings for XY that he normally only experienced with Adrien when Gabriel Agreste needed his face punched in.

Bob Roth nodded, letting go of his grip on XY’s arm. “All right, then. I’ll leave you boys to your business.” He looked pointedly at his son. “But then back to working the floor.”

“Yeah, Dad,” XY assured, shrugging the whole event off easily and turning back to Luka as Bob Roth sauntered off. “So…you’ll really give my music a listen and think about a collab?”

“Uh…Yeah,” Luka replied a little slowly, mind still occupied with the scene he’d just witnessed. “Yeah. I’ll definitely get back to you…. Is your Dad always like that?”

XY shrugged indifferently. “Sometimes he’s better. Sometimes he’s worse. He’s a smart man. He knows what he’s doing, how the business works, what the people want. He’s just doing his job, so don’t worry about it.”

Luka wanted to ask if that was really okay, doing one’s job at the expense of one’s child’s wellbeing and self-esteem. He wondered if XY was just numb to the abusive treatment at this point, nearly thirty years in or if he saw how other people were with their parents and wanted more from his relationship with his father.

Again, Luka couldn’t help but think of Adrien. He wondered if XY had cried alone in his room growing up too…if he still cried sometimes.

Maybe Luka was projecting. Adrien and Xavier-Yves were two vastly different people.

“Are you close with your mom?” Luka tentatively inquired.

XY shook his head. “Mom and Dad got divorced when I was little. I live with Dad most of the time and really only see Mom from time to time or on holidays, so we really haven’t gotten the chance to grow too close.”

He didn’t sound sad about this. He didn’t sound like he had any feelings at all on the matter. Maybe XY was incredibly well-adjusted and good at accepting things the way they were…. Maybe he had some serious baggage he’d been stuffing down for two decades.

“Well,” XY sighed. “I’ve got to go visit with other people, but it was nice talking to you.”

“Yeah,” Luka echoed, surprised to find that he meant it. “Thanks for coming to talk to me. I’ll get back to you about a collab soon.”

“Rad!” XY cheered, turning to go, waving over his shoulder at Luka as he did.

Luka chuckled and waved back.

XY stopped and, as if making a decision, turned back around. “You know. I really am glad you stopped dying your hair. Black is a really good color for you.”

“Oh. Yeah?” Luka self-consciously reached up to touch his hair once more.

XY nodded. “Mmhm. It really brings out the blue of your eyes. You have insanely beautiful eyes, you know?”

Luka had not known this.

“They’re kind of scary at times,” XY confessed, “but really gorgeous. Your eyes give me goosebumps. Your eyes kind of got lost in all the blue, so I like how the black hair really sets off how pretty your eyes are. See you later!”

And with double finger guns, XY was off to do his father’s bidding, leaving Luka completely gobsmacked because 1) XY was such a Luka fanboy, 2) XY had definitely been flirting with Luka, and 3) …Luka kind of liked it?

Or maybe he was slightly drunk and projecting his feelings for Adrien onto another blonde guy because things with Marinette and Adrien were not at all what Luka wanted them to be lately, and it was kind of driving Luka insane. Maybe it was just the frustration getting to him.

This party had definitely taken a turn for the bizarre.

#LuXY #luxyweek2k20 #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Luka Couffaine/XY Roth #Luka Couffaine #XY #Xavier-Yves Roth #Lukadrien #Lukadrienette #Mikau's Writings #Welcome to La-La Land

[takadasaiko]

Love Me Twice: Chapter Seventeen

FFN II AO3

Summary: Ressler and Park follow a lead to Bonn, Scottie arrives in DC, and Tom hits a wall with his memory therapy.

Chapter Seventeen

Cooper had sent Ressler in as lead to Bonn in part because he needed a seasoned agent with a deep understanding of the delicate nature of their situation, but Ressler was also the one with a contact there. He had known Mike Weiss in Quantico and the two had traded favours over the years, especially when Ressler had been abroad so often with the first Reddington Task Force. He was always good for a few beers, a collection of absurd stories, and - if Ressler was lucky - an answer or two if he could get him around to it. Weiss was the kind of guy everybody liked and he loved to be the center of attention. It didn't hurt to gather intelligence either.

He motioned for another round and Ressler heard Park's less-than-subtle sound of annoyance as she excused herself for a moment. Weiss chuckled. "That one's wound up almost as tight as you used to be."

Ressler's lips quirked you at the corners. "She's a good agent."

"Most people that tightly wound have something to hide."

"I'll vouch for her."

"I don't care. I know you. I know you're clean. So listen fast." His voice dipped a little so that it was hard to hear him over the music and the chatter. "Emilia Schmitz isn't a name you want to toss around in this town. She's a ghost that supposedly died around the time the Berlin Wall fell. She was East Berlin and vicious."

"What's she doing here?"

Weiss quirked an eyebrow. "What makes you think she's here?"

"A case I'm working. There was a man named Petrov that blackmailed a German attaché to deliver a file. We think it was being sent to Schmitz. What do you know about her?"

"I know mentioning her name can get you killed." He took a long drink from his stein. "Maybe… eight or nine years ago her name came across our radar for a case. Had these partners that were like bloodhounds. Mick and Jamie. They could find anyone with just a scrap to go on."

"Could?" Ressler echoed.

"They'd just started making progress when Mick got hit crossing the street late one night. Car drove off without stopping and left him bleeding in the street. He didn't make it to the hospital. Jamie picks up the trail, right? She's pissed, swears up and down it had to be Schmitz somehow. Three days later we found her dead in her flat. Local cops ruled it a suicide and I got word in from D.C. to drop the case."

"Did you?"

Weiss offered a small shrug. "Alan Fitch made the call himself. You don't exactly tell the Assistant Director of National Intelligence no."

Ressler made a small sound of acknowledgement. "Saying you will and doing it are two different things."

"What'd I miss?" Park asked as she returned and Ressler watched his old friend's expression close off.

"Just reminiscing about Donnie's mishap with the lap pool second week into training," Weiss answered lightly and that was that. The rest of the night was chatter and a frustrated Park, even as Ressler worked through the details of the story and the fact that a known Cabal leader had been the one to cut the case off at the knees.

As they wrapped it up for the night Weiss - a little clingy that many beers in - wrapped an arm around Ressler's shoulders, pulling him in and hanging into the front of his jacket. "You got one of the best here," he told Park and she tried not to look as irritated as she clearly felt. "Sorry I couldn't get you what you needed."

Weiss offered Ressler one more squeeze and sauntered off. Park rolled her eyes as they started for the door. "What a waste of time."

"Maybe not," Ressler mumbled as he patted at his own jacket, feeling something that felt suspiciously like a jump drive in his inside pocket. Leave it to Weiss. The bastard always had had a flare for the dramatic.

--------

Liz remembered her own memory extraction had left her feeling violated and in desperate need of solitude and a shower from the inside out. She'd been taken and drugged against her will only to find out that she'd been used as a child to traffic one of the most dangerous blackmail files that the world had seen. It still left her unsettled all these years later and the vague reference that Krilov had made after Ressler's equally twisted experience with him to the fact that he'd screwed around with her mind yet again only made it worse. Part of her wondered if, after Tom had his memories back, she should speak with Selma about trying to find out what had been altered or taken from her the second time, or if it had just been an attempt to throw her off her game. If history had taught her anything it was that the not knowing was just as dangerous as knowing in the life she led. Another part, though, didn't want to crack open yet another round of danger. Maybe when this was over she should just be done.

Not that Reddington would let her.

Thankfully Tom's experience with the memory extraction hadn't been quite as horrifying. At least it wasn't all bad. Where Liz's buried memories were filled with smoke and fire and gunshots, Tom had a mixed bag. He had been exhausted after the session, falling asleep next to her on the couch as she'd worked. It hadn't been until late that evening that the nightmares had crept in, but even as he'd come flying off the couch like he was ready for a fight he could only remember pieces of what he'd seen. It was something they would have to talk to Orchard about when they saw her later that day.

Before that, though, Liz needed to get Agnes safely dropped off at school.

The four year old had wanted nothing to do with leaving the apartment that morning. Liz wasn't sure if Tom had won all that affection through pancakes for breakfast since Agnes had re-met him or if she remembered him on some level. Their kid had always been more intuitive than Liz thought was possible and she'd loved her daddy before he had been snatched away from them. He could always get her to laugh, that giggle filling the whole apartment and he was all she'd known in the first month of her life. Even in the painfully short time that they had had in Cuba together after they'd run, Liz had seen it. Tom had changed over the years, but Agnes had taken that growth to a whole new level. Now, even at the beginning of the process that they hoped could return his memories, she saw that connection between dad and daughter, and it had been a chore to get her out the door without him.

Now she just had to get her to her classroom and they'd be doing alright.

"Grandma!" Agnes squealed, pulling Liz out of her thoughts as they crossed the parking lot.

She tugged her hand almost free, but Liz clamped down a little harder just in time. "Hey, you know not to let go of my hand with cars around," she chided softly and followed to where Agnes had tried to run.

Scottie Hargrave stood on the sidewalk, her skirt and sleeveless blouse perfectly pressed and a sharp look fixed on Liz. It softened as it shifted to Agnes, and as they reached the safety of the sidewalk, Liz let her go. Scottie showing up without warning couldn't be a good sign. Let the grandkid work her charm on her first.

Agnes flung her arms around Scottie's long legs. "Hiiiii! Mommy didn't say you were here!"

"I thought I'd surprise you," Scottie answered, her tone light.

"But I gotta go to school," Agnes pouted and looked to Liz like she hoped she'd give her another option.

"Yep. School's a must," Liz answered.

"What about this?" Scottie asked and there was something in her tone that said as much as Liz was willing to let Agnes' natural adorableness soften whatever Scottie was about to drop on her, Scottie was willing to use her granddaughter to get her foot in the door. "I'll pick you up after school and we can get ice cream?"

Oh…. Liz never stood a chance against ice cream.

"Ice cream!" Agnes cheered and hugged Scottie again. "Love you, Grandma!"

She started towards the door where her teacher was waiting. "Hey, what about me?" Liz called after her, her lips quilting up at the corners in a teasing smile.

"Love you, Mom!" Agnes shouted with a wave and was gone.

"She's just like Tom was at her age," Scottie mused softly and Liz would have bet a sizable chunk of change that she knew exactly what Scottie was doing there. Her mother-in-law turned a look on her.

Liz squared her shoulders just a little. "Why don't we get out of the pathway?"

"No, I think we should have this conversation right here." Brown eyes caught hold of blue and the older woman held her gaze. "I'm not sure what I did to offend you."

"What makes you think I'm offended?"

"I took Agnes in for months so that you would have time to process everything and grieve. I understood. I was mourning him too." Her tone was biting, the boiling rage just barely kept under control. "I kept it to myself because I thought you needed time. I suffered in silence so you could heal and that sweet little girl - my Christopher's little girl - wouldn't suffer like we did. And this is how you repay me. Why?"

Liz bit back the first snarky reply that came to mind and then crushed down the truth that she'd suspected Scottie at first. That wouldn't do either of them any good now. Instead, she stepped off the path and under a tree, waiting for Scottie to move with her. "Because I just found out he's alive."

"Is that so? When? Because there had to have been enough time for you to tell that insufferable partner of yours and for him to run a DNA test. Did you really think —"

Well, at least Liz knew how Scottie had found out. She would deal with Ressler later. "A week and a half ago," she cut her husband's mother off. Might as well fill her in at this point or she'd start digging and who knows what she would throw off balance. Liz had never wanted Scottie for an enemy. "He lost about a decade's worth of memories. He didn't remember me or Agnes. It's been…. busy."

She watched shock slowly settle if Scottie's features. "Is he…. alright?"

"Mostly. He's been working at St Regis. It was the last thing he knew when he woke up, he said."

"How did that bring him to DC?"

"A job. He was hired to…. We're still sorting it all out."

"There are people and methods that can help with that. Let me—"

"I know. I've had it done." Scottie turned to look at her a little more sharply than the statement warranted.

"Had what done?"

"Memory extraction. It's a long story and one that I'd rather not get into outside my daughter's school if you don't mind."

Scottie pursed her lips. "Do you think his memories were taken on purpose?"

"Seems to be that way. We don't know for sure by who yet. It's…. a really delicate situation."

"Yes." Liz could see the woman's clever mind spinning and brown eyes met blue. "I'd like to see him."

"Scottie…."

"I need to see my son," she pressed. There was a desperation in her voice and there were tears forming in her eyes. She was a strange woman for the CEO of a company that dealt in spycraft. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, but the more Liz had gotten to know her, the more she suspected that it was a tactic.

Even so, she knew how much Scottie loved Tom and how much Tom had come to love his mother.

"Let me talk to him. He's been…. overwhelmed, but I'll talk to him."

"I'll be in town."

"You better be you owe your granddaughter ice cream after school," Liz answered with a small smile.

Every moment there seemed to be a new complication added. Something that made an impossible situation that much more difficult. Scottie knew. Okay. She could deal with that. She could even use that, potentially. It was the fact that Ressler hadn't trusted her enough to let her know what he was doing. He'd snagged DNA from Tom - likely from something left behind at his apartment the night he'd stayed there - and sent it out without saying a word. As soon as he got back from Germany, Liz was going to have a chat with him.

---------

For as well as the session the day before had gone - at least after Liz had gotten there - this one kept getting sidetracked. Even with Liz next to him, her voice working as a tether to better things, his mind kept trying to go a different direction. The result was fractured memories joining together like a Picasso painting. Nothing made sense and he couldn't find a way to break through and make it.

Tom loosed a frustrated breath as he felt himself being pulled out of it and then he was back in Selma Orchard's clinic, strapped back in a chair and hooked up to machinery. Liz reached out, her hand in his forearm and he tugged away, the movement making him realize he had already been unstrapped from the chair. "We're not done."

"For today we are," Orchard answered.

"You took me out too soon. I could've gotten there," he growled, his voice sounding as agitated as he felt.

The doctor offered a sympathetic smile. "This isn't something you can push, Tom. Not without substantial risks."

"And if I'm willing to take those?" he shot back.

"Then it may cost your life and that defeats the purpose, doesn't it?" Orchard asked pointedly. "I have another patient like you. She had trouble with limitations at first too. She wanted something she could fight. It took a while for her to understand that you do more damage by pushing past the limits your mind and body are clearly setting than working within them."

"What happened once she got that?" Liz asked.

"She started to improve. Little things, but better a half a step forward than two back," Orchard answered. "And you have something she doesn't."

"What's that?" Tom grumbled, not really in the mood for some life lesson about patience his second day in.

"The ability to surround yourself with what your mind has forgotten. Your wife, your daughter, your home. I know you didn't have a breakthrough today like yesterday, but that doesn't mean we didn't push at those blocks that have been put in place. Think of it like a dam holding back water. You're putting cracks in it with the work we're doing. As the dam weakes, memories could start to slip through when triggered by external forces."

"Happened with me," Liz said softly from his side and Tom felt a sudden and unfamiliar wave of guilt for pulling away from her. He reached out and she took the offered hand as Orchard continued.

"The more you surround yourself with the familiar, the more likely you are to find yourself remembering things." She glanced over at Liz. "Why don't I give you two some time to talk?"

"Thanks," Liz answered and Tom tightened his fingers around hers.

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"Pulling away. For… You've done nothing but help me."

"I love you," she said softly. "And we will get there. I promise."

He sighed heavily, letting his head drop back against the rest behind him. He could feel the ache coming on and all he could do was hope it didn't turn into a full blown migraine.

"So Scottie showed up at Agnes' school this morning."

"Remind me who that is?" Tom asked tiredly.

"Your mother."

That drew his attention. "Is that normal?"

"No. She found out you're alive. Apparently Ressler ran your DNA."

"Asshole."

Liz snorted a laugh at that. "I'll handle Ress, but with what Orchard said, this might be a good opportunity."

"What? You want me to meet this woman?"

"You guys got… well, you were getting close when everything happened." Her other hand came up to cover his, almost like she needed as much of a reminder as she could get that he was right there. "She wanted to have dinner. If you feel up for it, maybe it'll knock something loose?"

He thought about it for a long moment, trying to conjure an image of the woman Liz was talking about in his mind, but he had nothing. Not a glimpse of the woman that Liz had said - despite what Bud had told him and that Tom had believed growing up - loved him.

"Okay," he breathed at last. "Let's give it a shot."

That smile of hers could light a room, and as Liz leaned in and kissed him, he felt some of the frustration ease away.

----------

TBC

Notes: Well, Ress is busted. Good thing he walked away with a successful trip to Germany at least?

Next Time: The Keens have dinner with Scottie, Red takes a trip down to Texas, and Ressler runs into trouble.

#the blacklist #Donald Ressler #Alina Park #Tom Keen #Elizabeth Keen #Agnes Keen #Scottie Hargrave

[libraryscarf]

here’s the fic i wrote for the promare charity e-zine, spark of hope. all the proceeds went to the nsw and qld fire services.

^^^

the ignorance of lio fotia ( ao3 )

^^^

“I think you’re mistaken.”

Lio gazes sternly across the table at Gueira and Meis, who both look somewhat shell-shocked. He can’t exactly blame them. Their display of ignorance is a bit humiliating.

“Boss,” Gueira says incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Dead so.”

Lio takes a delicate sip of coffee from a mug printed with the declaration: I ♥ FIREFIGHTING

Meis settles his elbows on the table and leans his chin on his interlocked fingers: his debating posture. Lio sighs, setting his coffee down.

“Spit it out, please,” he says. “And my break is over in six minutes, so try not to wax too eloquent.”

Meis cracks a smile, mouth full of shark teeth.

“Oh, I don’t think it’ll take that long, Boss.”

Lio’s eyes narrow to slits. This really is a waste of time. He could have been drinking mediocre coffee in silence during his short break, rather than holding the world’s most pointless argument with his two erstwhile subordinates.

“Five minutes,” he bites out.

“Gueira,” Meis says quietly. Gueira produces a clicker, and a translucent screen shimmers into view above the table between Lio and the other two. Projected onto it is a familiar face grinning down at him. Lio frowns.

“Subject One,” says Meis. “Galo Thymos.” The words GALO THYMOS erupt across the projection in bright red block letters.

“Subject Two,” Meis continues. “Lio Fotia.” Lio beholds his own face next to Galo’s, his name blasted in the same bright red font.

Then, the on-screen Galo turns to look at the on-screen Lio, and his eyes explode into hearts.

“I rest my case,” Meis states, leaning back in his chair as Gueira clicks the hologram off. Lio looks between them, speechless at the shared idiocy of two of the smartest people he knows.

“That was your argument?”

Gueira, unable to contain himself any longer, slams both hands on the table and rattles all three of their coffee mugs.

“Boss, he couldn’t make it more obvious without tying himself up in a big bow and mailing himself to you,” he says, struggling to moderate his voice.

Lio, consummately unimpressed, takes another sip of coffee.

“I will say it only once more: you two are mistaken,” he says in a measured tone. “Galo Thymos is not carrying a torch for me.”

Gueira slumps facedown on the table. Meis pats his back comfortingly.

“Boss,” he says. “Please. Think about it. Think about it very hard.”

And to his credit, Lio does think about it.

He thinks Galo is one of the loudest, friendliest, most sanguine people he’s ever met.

Lio thinks that Galo is a person who shows affection through physicality. And he also thinks that Galo feels affection towards a great many people. He shows it in the way he ruffles Aina’s hair when she passes, or slaps Varys’ shoulder after a particularly heroic mission, or hoists Lucia onto his shoulders so she can reach the top shelf without climbing onto the counter. Galo has an astonishingly large heart: one that seeks others, and is indiscriminate in its efforts to warm and be warmed.

But Lio cannot afford to misappropriate any warmth Galo has directed his way. He doesn’t think his own heart—the stunted, anemic thing it is—could weather a disappointment.

“All right,” he says. “I’ve thought about it.”

“And…?” Meis leans forward. Gueira’s thick eyebrows furrow in anticipation.

“I think I’ll give you both double shifts if you have enough time to make slideshows about my love life.”

: : :

To their credit, they don’t bring Lio another visual aid. But the next time Meis and Gueira corner him, it’s with Galo himself as the test subject.

“Hey. Boss.”

Lio pointedly does not look up, his eyes scanning the claustrophobic text of the Promepolis Post’s front page. Galo is all the way over on the other side of the room, doing something loud and unnecessary to his Matoi with Lucia’s enthusiastic assistance.

“Boss!” Gueira’s whisper is urgent.

“I’m reading.”

“No,” Meis says. “You aren’t.”

Lio reluctantly folds the newspaper.

“Do you two ever actually do any work?” he demands, matching their low voices.

Meis arches a graceful eyebrow. “Deflecting already, Boss?”

“I’m not deflecting,” Lio growls. “What is it this time?”

Gueira just grins as Aina walks into the room, tossing her Burning Rescue jacket onto the couch.

“Just watch. Hey, Aina!”

She looks up, then comes over to their table. Her eyes dart between Meis and Gueira, and then to Lio, reading the silent tension.

“What’s up?” she asks, almost suspiciously.

“Why don’t you tell the big guy he did good out there today?”

Aina narrows her eyes. Gueira’s face splits into an even wider grin.

“Galo?” she asks. “Why?”

Lio snatches up the newspaper again, stuffing his nose in it.

“They’re worse than bloodhounds, Aina,” he says from deep within the pages. “Just do whatever it takes to get them off your scent.”

Aina, thoroughly baffled, turns around.

“Hey, Galo,” she calls out. “Good job out there today!”

Galo stops fiddling with his Matoi and looks up. Lio hazards a glance at his face, and nearly goes blind from the smile on it. He sinks back into the newspaper, heart crashing against his ribs like a caged animal. That smile is a public health hazard. Surely there are laws.

“Thanks, Aina!” Galo replies. “You too! You should show off your fancy flyin’ more often.”

Lucia taps his elbow, returning his attention to something Matoi-related, and Aina glances quizzically at the three former Burnish.

“Any of you feel like telling me what that was about?” she asks.

“Not really,” Gueira says. “But thanks!”

As Aina walks away, muttering under her breath, Lio’s head emerges from the newspaper.

“I can only assume that had something to do with your absurd hypothesis.”

Meis rests his chin in one palm, his eyes full of cold deliberation.

“You forced our hand, Boss.”

Meis cuts his eyes over to Galo, who seems, if Lio’s interpretation of his gestures is accurate, to be pressing Lucia to add a laser-cannon to his Matoi Tech.

“And now it’s your turn,” Gueira says.

Lio balks. “Wait, wh—”

“So Boss,” Meis’ voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the air like a scythe through wheat. “What was it you were saying earlier about that big lug’s firefighting technique?”

On the other side of the room, something metallic hits the ground with a deep clunk, like a wrench being dropped.

“Yeah!” Gueira chimes in. “How did you put it, exactly? I can’t seem to remember the specifics.”

Lio wishes he could still summon hellfire to his fingertips, because both his former generals could look a bit less delighted at the way Galo has abandoned any interest in his Matoi Tech.

“Did I mention anything of the sort?” Lio grits out. “Or are you sure you didn’t just imagine it?”

Meis and Gueira are struggling to keep their composure as Galo unsubtly maneuvers himself into better earshot.

“No, Boss, you definitely had thoughts,” Gueira says weakly.

It doesn’t take much to untangle their little scheme. They asked Aina to compliment Galo first, so Lio could see his normal response. Apparently they expect his reaction to Lio’s praise to be a bit more spectacular.

They are fools.

Lio sighs. It’s a shame, really, that his friends’ intelligence departed along with their Promare.

“Very well,” he breathes. Then, in a voice barely above a murmur, he says: “Yes, I suppose Galo did a fine job toda—”

Lio’s voice chokes off as Galo materializes next to the table, his expression rapt.

“You do?!” he cries out, overjoyed.

Gueira makes a bizarre noise, like a strangled cat, and vanishes under the table. Meis steeples his fingers and hides the lower half of his face behind them.

Lio stares up at Galo. Everything inside his head evaporates, replaced by high-pitched, keening static.

“Do I…what?” he asks numbly.

It’s so hard to think with Galo’s abs just. Right there.

“You think I did a good job!” Galo looks like someone has just offered him unlimited free pizza, and also the moon.

“Well,” Lio manages to say, “You did.”

Meis and Gueira are both making odd sounds, and in the small part of Lio’s brain that isn’t buzzing, he realizes they’re trying to suppress laughter.

“I’m so happy!” Galo proclaims, as though his blinding smile doesn’t adequately communicate that.

The wheels of Lio’s mind slowly creak back into motion.

Yes, he has to acknowledge, it does seem that Galo…greatly values his feedback. As a colleague, of course.

Because that’s really what they are: colleagues. Possibly friends, Lio admits. Friends, who have in the very recent past piloted a planet-sized mechanical monstrosity fueled by fire and human spirit, and maybe…perhaps there is a little affection there, but nothing more.

“I think you did a wonderful job too, Lio!”

And Galo grips him by the arms, lifting him bodily out of his seat and pulling him into his chest. Gueira and Meis flee the room, cackling like hyenas.

“I think you do everything wonderfully!”

“Galo,” Lio wheezes as he’s crushed against Galo’s solid pecs. “Ow—”

After some squirming, he loosens Galo’s grip on him enough to stare him dead in the face.

“Put me down.”

Galo’s eyes go wide.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

Galo gently lowers him until his feet touch the floor again. Lio straightens his clothes, then squares himself to face Galo.

“All right. What the hell was that?”

The ecstatic look on Galo’s face slides into a hesitant, kicked-puppy expression. Lio’s heart promptly rips itself in half.

“I just—” Galo says, right as Lio jumps in: “Never mind, it’s fine—”

They stare at each other, locked in silent misery on two sides of an invisible wall.

“For fuck’s sake!” Lucia explodes. Galo and Lio both jump. They’d forgotten she was still in the room. “This is a thousand times worse than watching Remi try to waltz with his alligator girlfriend.”

“Really?” replies Aina, who has been on the couch the entire time. “Because that was pretty bad.”

Before Lio can ask “what alligator girlfriend,” Galo cups his face in his (large, warm) hands.

“I’m sorry I lost my cool there, Lio,” he says earnestly. “I just thought…maybe, at last, you had…”

“Had what?” Lio asks, his voice weak and punched-out.

“I thought you were finally starting to like me.” Galo’s eyebrows scrunch together, adorably. “Back, I mean.”

In the recesses of his mind, Lio wonders if Galo accidentally choked him into unconsciousness and this is all a dream.

“Like you…back?”

“Yeah. I thought I was being too obvious about it—I mean, everyone told me I was being really aggressive, so I tried to dial it back, but I’m not good at that, and…”

Galo’s voice fades into static, because Lio’s brain has turned to water. He wouldn’t be surprised if it melted right out his ears.

Obvious. Aggressive.

“Idiot,” whispers Lio.

“Yeah,” Galo says sadly. “I guess so.”

“No. Not you.”

Galo’s eyebrows scrunch even closer together. He’s still cupping Lio’s face.

Lio doubles down.

“I’m going to do something now,” he says. “That I think will save us some time.”

He goes on tiptoe, and presses his lips to Galo’s.

It’s a peck, really: quick and chaste, but Lio still feels like he jammed a fork into an electrical socket. As they separate, the look on Galo’s face suggests he feels something similar.

“You’re right,” he says, gravelly. “That does save time.”

“Should we save some more?”

Galo, temporarily mute, nods, and pulls Lio in for a considerably longer and less chaste kiss.

Lucia cups her hands around her mouth and hollers: “Yooo, everybody, it’s finally happening!”

Aina chides: “Come on, they don’t need everyone watching.”

Lucia just guffaws. “Sore because you owe me twenty bucks now, huh?”

#scarfwrites #galolio #galolio fanfiction #promare #promare fanfiction #lio fotia voice due to personal reasons i have decided to be a dumbass

[vdwlkr]

happy as a sand boy

fill for @missscatter​‘s Miraith prompt list :) 

Summary: There are a lot of weird ways to spend early morning on New Dawn. Mirage just never thought catching Wraith baking will be among them. 

–

“What are you doing?”

She jumped, and Mirage winced at a loud metal clatter followed by a splat ringing across the empty kitchen. Wraith stood in front of the counter frozen, staring at whatever horror became of his interruption.

Part of him wanted to apologize immediately because what the heck? Did that just happen? Did he just surprise Wraith-could-avoid-sniper-bullets-from-three-hundred-meters-away? The other part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation because, well, maybe he’s still asleep? It is 4 in the morning after all, and that seemed to be the best explanation of what just happened—

Until he spotted a ladle flying towards him, instinctively making him duck and bump his head directly into the island table in front of him.

“Ow!”

“You deserved that.”

“No, I didn’t. Thought you heard me, I said your name twice coming in.”

The glare she’s giving him turned deadly at his answer, but she’d look more terrifying if she wasn’t…you know, red from her cheeks to the tip of her ears, dark sweater covered in flour and batter and smelling distinctively cocoa.

He rubbed his palm against his forehead, taking a quick survey across the assortment of used pots, pans, and trays before it clicks.

“You’re baking.”

The disbelief made her lips curl into a grimace. “What of it?”

“I—wh—uh—you’re actually baking?”

“No, Mirage, I’m mixing eggs and flour and hoping it suddenly turns edible.” She crossed her arms, stance guarded but there is apprehension in her eyes.

“Do you have a cooked batch? Can I have some?”

“No.”

“No you don’t have any, or no I can’t?”

“Look,” Exasperated she began, “I know you think you’re funny and I admit it has its moments, but I have to get this done perfectly in about—” her eyes darted at the wall clock above the kitchen door heading to the Mess Hall, “—an hour or so.”

Mirage shrugged, “So let me help.”

“What?” Her brows furrowed, apprehension giving away to suspicion. “Why?”

“This seems important.“ He dropped his palms on the table and nodded, “So I wanna help.”

She’s considering it. He can see the gears in her mind twist and turn, eyes shooting between the spilled batter on the counter and the mess she’s made on the table.

“Alright.”

Still he blinked in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes.” She turned her head away, picking up and handing him a piece of paper from the other end of the island table. “Here.”

The paper had Lifeline’s unruly handwriting all over it, mixed with what must be Wattson’s from several French words crossed over and replaced with common. It’s a list of ingredients and instructions, the margins doodled over by design.

“Mirage?”

“Yeah?” He answered automatically, looking back up and finding her holding a clean mixing bowl and a measuring cup. “Right. You need flour. A cup and three-quarters.”

–

It’s amusing to watch Wraith focus on something other than lining up her shot. Her eyes still narrow, jaw still clenching, but this time, it’s over trying to perfect adding sifted ingredients on a mixture of butter, eggs, and sugar. Cocoa follows shortly after, and he inhaled the wafting scent as she began mixing the batter with a spatula.

"Stop staring.”

“Can’t help it. I didn’t know you had hands.”

He grinned toothily at the exasperation on her face, tapping her spatula against the tip of the bowl before mixing it again. He turned back to his share of work, stirring the pot of several melting chunks of butter over low heat.

“You’re walking around thinking I had no hands?”

“How was I supposed to know whether or not you had robotic ones?” He muttered with a shrug.

Wraith raised an eyebrow, lips quirking into a smirk, “Is that you finally admitting I have a better aim?”

“Ha, no.” He turned on his heels, pointing his spatula towards her direction. “Definitely not. Did you even see the leaderboards Wraith? I had the highest damage last Game.”

“And I was the kill leader.”

“Only because you’re great at stealing kills.”

“I was securing them. Maybe we should have a spar later just to see which one is th—stop eating the chocolates!”

Wraith lunged at the bowl he raised above his head, “I only took one!”

“One plus two others.” She hopped, actually just hopped to reach the bowl he’s now standing on the tip of his toe for, and his mind went what the fuck. He let her have it because that was fucking cute, watching her pour all of it and leave the container on the table. “Don’t let it burn.”

“Aye, aye.” He does, mixing the fudge thoroughly.

“So, did you have a bad dream again?”

The suddenness of the question sent a jolt through his stomach.

“W-what? Of course nn—of course—"

Mirage sighed, his shoulders dropping.

If there is one curious thing about their relationship, it’s exactly this: she has always been good at stripping away who Mirage is. Mirage would never walk into a kitchen and offer to help anything. Mirage would quip something borderline insulting, have her rolling her eyes or telling him to leave. But as cliché as it sounded, he…never really felt the need to pretend when it’s around her. He could act as silly or as fucking stupid as he wanted, and she still looked at him the same.

“Yeah.”

She nodded, “What was it about?”

He stared at her incredulously, “You’re seriously interested?”

“Only if you want to talk about it.”

“Well, I mean, it’s not that bad of a dream.” He rubbed a finger against his cheeks, observing Wraith pour the cake batter into a square pan and slide the container into the oven. “Just an uncomf—uncomfie one.”

“Was it about being unable to find your comb?”

He shrugged a shoulder, “Couldn’t find my styling cream actually. Dreamt I had to go into the ring with my hair like a bird nest.”

She snorted. “The horror.”

“You’re saying that now but you got shot in my dream cause of laughing too hard.”

Wraith does chuckle at that, “Is that your diabolical plan on taking the Apex Predator title?”

“Maybe.” Mirage grinned back. He added milk, brown sugar, and vanilla essence to the pot as Lifeline and Wattson’s instructions dictated, transferring it into a bowl and popping it into the refrigerator. “Wraith?”

“Hm?”

“Something happened to you. In my dream.” Leaning an arm against the counter, he half turned to her, “I dreamt we were back in King’s Canyon when the Repulsor broke. Everyone had to work together to get to the Airbase. It was insane, honestly. Bangalore and Lifeline had this rivalry thing going on, Bloodhound held six prowlers with no bullets just an axe, and Caustic helped defend the drop ship.”

“Caustic helped?”

“Yeah, I know. Should’ve been a warning sign I was dreaming. But before we could leave the island….“ He exhaled evenly, "I didn’t see you but—but I heard about it. From Gibraltar and Lifeline. They said your heart stopped.”

"Oh, so I died.”

“Wow.” He drew his head back, apalled at her nonchalance. “That’s it? That’s all the fucks I get from you?”

Wraith set down the paper sack of flour, keeping her hands behind as she walked towards him. “People die all the time Mirage, it’s not a big deal.”

“Well, it’s a big deal to me.” He couldn’t help the sudden surge of irritation. “Everything felt and looked real. I thought you would underst—”

She threw a handful of flour at him.

Mirage blinked in surprise, lips slowly falling open. It took him another second before he could comprehend that yeah, Wraith just did that. A glance at the silverware to his side showed half of his face covered in white, most importantly—

“My hair!”

Wraith snickered, “Really? That’s the first thing you think about?”

He narrowed her eyes at her and she quickly grabbed the ammunition off the table, holding the sack at her side even spilling some of it off her sweater and pants. “I don’t think so.”

But Mirage has always been a resourceful man.

Instead, he reached for the sink and pulled the wash hose off its place, pointing it at her with a hand on the switch. A cheshire grin broke slowly across his face at Wraith’s look of realization.

“Don’t you dare!”

“No, no, you see this?” He gestured to the powder covering his hair. “This is a declara—dec—delcra—war. This means war.”

“Hah. I don’t know, grey hair looks good on you,” She grinned, “old man.”

“W-what did you just call—oh game on.” He sprayed on her with a jerk on the knob, but she’s expecting it, diving quickly off view.

He grabbed an empty pot and left the faucet open, just as Wraith peeked from the other side of the table throwing another handful. He dodges barely, snatching the cocoa powder from the corner of her eye.

“We can still drink that.” She called from the other side of the table.

He turned off the faucet and placed the bowl on the middle, discreetly returning the cocoa because yeah he does want some hot chocolate later. “Should’ve thought of that before ruining my hair, sweetheart.”

“Will saying sorry make everything better?”

“Let me think,” He hummed theatrically, “Nah.”

With a flick of his fingers he toppled the bowl over, water quickly spilling to the other side—

“Hey!” Wraith yelped, jumping away.

It’s the perfect opportunity to make a break for the flour, when all of a sudden Wraith slipped. He automatically reached out to help her and he would have laughed about it, had she not used his momentum against him and brought him with her to the floor.

They landed with a grunt from Wraith, bearing the brunt of the force.

“Shit, are you okay?”

Her lids cracked open, bright ocean eyes peeking mischievously. She suddenly ran her hands on his cheeks, hair, grinning wolfishly when his eyes widened in realization.

“You sneaky little—”

Instead of bothering to push her away, he reached for the sack she had dropped, dipping both his hands and smearing the same streak across her face, neck, hair and—and she was laughing, bright and warm and carefree, the sound of it making home in his chest. It made him stop to listen because holy shit he caused that. He’s the reason for that.

Wraith caught his wrist and pinned it to his other side, locking a leg around her own and pushed him off with her core strength until she’s the one on top, watching him mutter a soft, “Unf.”

Another chuckle escaped her lip, “Sorry.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

He chuckled at her answer, then at her appearance, dark sweater now completely smudged, “I see grey hair looks good on you too, grandma.”

Wraith slid off him and rolled her eyes half heartedly, taking the half undone bun off, letting her hair cascade down her back on soft waves.

Mirage can only stare.

She’s beautiful—he’s always known that—and while he thought she’s just as breath taking with her hair neatly pinned as it is curling wildly around her powdered face, there’s just something so intimate about her allowing him this.

He wanted to kiss her

And though he knows she returns the feelings to an extent, he has no idea if quite they’re there yet, so he mustered the urge and let it go.

“You’re staring again.” She said.

The only thing he could say in reply is, “I can’t help it.”

–

prompts finish here, but there’s a couple of more words right here :)

#apex legends #miraith #mirage #wraith #apex mirage #apex wraith #fanfic #spilled ink

[deathvalleyusa]

rust and refuse

Summary: Walter, trapped in his Otherworld with the ghosts after failing to complete the 21 Sacraments, is reminded of a clean memory in the one person he sees as the most filthy.

Characters: Walter Sullivan, Cynthia Velasquez

Word Count: 1635

A/N: Walter is a bad, bad man. No justification here for what he’s done, just a one shot in his POV. It’s been a while since I’ve written for him (or a villain in general), so it was a nice challenge. Maybe I’ll write another from Cynthia’s POV, I feel like she gets shafted a lot.

Warnings: Swearing, violence, misogny. 

In this world of piss and shit and rust, Walter has found one clean thing left.

It’s a memory, a token of his past that the Order bookends both sides. A woman, a college student who took interest in him before Pleasant River became a thing of the past. A fragment of a normal life he had stripped from him.

He’s reminded of her in grotesque ways. In corpses that resemble her a bit to much, in dreams that aren’t dreams but aren’t apart of this waking nightmare. Bloodied clothing in abandoned apartments, the views of Toluca Lake, obscured by fog.

The worst reminder is Cynthia.

His hatred for her has, for the most part, cooled. Now all that remains is a sick curiosity. Of ownership to her fate. If he was honest with himself, so does a fragment of lust. 

Temptation had been her sin, after all. 

Cynthia’s sacrifice, while not his cleanest or impersonal work, had still been necessary. He owed her gratitude for that at least. Not that she would ever accept it. 

If he was sorry, would she even accept an apology? Walter doubts it. Not that forgiveness is something he seeks. The only forgiveness he seeks is with God, with Mother, for failing once again to complete the ritual. He’s asked for Her forgiveness time and time again. There’s never any answer.

So instead, he fills his time watching. Observing. Filling boring, unending days that would let him think too much and stain his one clean thing left in the Otherworld.

One particular day, he spends hours watching Cynthia. Watching her wrythe on the ground, inky tendrils of hair moving in unnatural ways. Her blood is black and he no longer can differentiate the never-ending flow of fluid from her back from her hair.

He sees Cynthia’s shoulders seize as he shifts into the light, no longer content with looking on from the shadows.

“What do you want, you son of a bitch?” The words almost cut him. Almost.

When she finally stands, he can see the mottled skin under her wayward hair. Purple pools under her eyes in ghastly bags. Walter can’t help but hate the fact that even in death, even mutilated, her beauty has not waned.

“To talk,” he says simply. Walter is not a liar. He’s never been one. He wears honesty like armor, his truths the only thing separating himself from the blackened souls of this world.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Cynthia spits back as she turns to glare.

“Then company.” The corners of his mouth turn upwards into a lazy smile, never once reaching his eyes. 

“Go to hell.”

Go to hell? If this was not hell, what could it possibly be? The smile nearly drops, composure regained in a split second. 

“This is the closest we’ll both get to it, Cynthia.” The muddy green of his eyes soak up her reaction, a bristle as one dead black eye burns with contempt. “We may as well enjoy the comfort of others while we’re here.”

“Comfort? What do you know about comfort?” she laughs. The teeth still in her mouth are stained and chipped.

It seems in an instant, she morphs into a different woman. One that resembles something closer to her living self, but still mottled and corpse-like. She is no longer a Sacrament; just… Cynthia. The girl from the subway he had been taken with so many years ago, the girl screaming under him as he beat the last breaths from her body. 

Something deep in him is shaken. 

Cynthia is like a bloodhound, can smell it on him. Walter sees it in her eyes, the malice, but can’t seem to move a muscles as she slinks close, grasping at his hips. Slender fingers slide under the heavy blue coat, eliciting a surprised grunt from him.

“This kind of comfort, Walter?” Cynthia says, voice laced with sticky sweetness. 

She never calls him by his name. He knows she’s provoking him. Daring him to touch back, as he had desired for so many years. 

In the end, he does nothing. Cynthia pushes back from him, glee on her damaged face. 

“You’re never going to get it from me, you piece of shit!” 

And she taunts him, laughs that he has never known her touch nor will he ever. Calls him profanities, spits and screeches in such a way that Walter knows deep down he is worthy of such abuse at her hands. 

“Have you ever even kissed a woman?” Cynthia says, biting and hard. “Poor Walter Sullivan, only has touched a woman when he needs her dead.”

“You underestimate how normal my life once was, dear Cynthia.” A chuckle manages to find its way out of his throat, an attempt to find his way back to calm after the unexpected closeness.

That one clean thing, that memory, takes over his mind for a few moments. Strawberry blonde, bright honey eyes. Bright neon of the decade bathe her in their light. He can almost taste her again, feel skin under his rough fingertips. She was life, promise. A distraction from his true purpose, in the end. 

“She was a good girl,” he says. “You would have hated her.”

It’s an ugly laugh that emanates from Cynthia. Full of disdain and disbelief, but somehow amused. 

Walter notes it’s the most she’s allowed him to be in her presence in months. Usually she would slither off, find a hole and flit off to another part of the Otherworld after hurling an insult his way. Somehow, he feels less lonely around her. More present. Perhaps it’s the way her hatred burns so bright in sickly crimson and jagged lines. It’s enough to nearly penetrate the layer of grime around what remains of his soul. Make him feel utterly human.

“And I wasn’t a good girl?” she shoots back. “Why, because I dress some way that made you think otherwise? If she looked like me, would she have been bad? I’m surprised she’s even alive, knowing you.”

The smile slips off his face. 

“She’s still out there, in the living world,” Walter says slowly, eyeing up Cynthia. Her veneer is beginning to crack, the ghost taking over the woman. “Laughing, crying, loving. Unlike you. No one can have you unless they want a flimsy memory of a person.”

He’s brought that fire to the surface again, dark eyes going pitch black in the flickering light of the subway. There’s a terrible laugh again, almost mixed with a death rattle. He hates the sound more and more. Walter decides that he likes it better when Cynthia is quiet. That this olive branch will never happen again, if he has any say in it.

“If no one can have me,” Cynthia sneers, wisps of hair floating about her, “then neither can you. You’ll never have me, and you’ll never have your living good girl either.”

Suddenly, the cooled hatred warms again. His patience has worn thin, 

A hand snatches at the smooth skin of her neck, the other enveloping her wrist, gripping harder as the seconds pass. Cynthia had always used words to hurt him, or attempt to. Why had he not cut out her larynx when he had the chance? An oversight. Nonetheless, he smiles that grotesque smile, and whispers right back as she tries to fill dead lungs with gasps. 

“You are mine. My kill. A fixture in my world. Don’t you fucking forget that.”

She chokes out that rattling laugh of hers. It only makes him grip harder. If only she would stop, learn to be someone different, he wouldn’t need to punish her. 

“Did you forget? You have no power here anymore, thanks to Henry,” she manages to rasp. Her grip on his wrist tightens, jagged nails breaking into his flesh. 

Walter sees he’s bleeding. For the first time in ages, he wonders why the shadow of a person like him would need to bleed. Why his flesh and blood, like the others, seems so real. So easily hurt, but never destroyed. God knows he’s tried with Jimmy Stone, done everything he can to erase him completely from this world. 

“You don’t own me. You don’t own any of us,” Cynthia continues. He realizes that his grip on her neck has loosened. That he can feel trembling begin in his shoulders. “You’ve trapped yourself here with people who will never feel anything but hatred for you.”

Walter is not a liar; wears his honesty like armor. But with Cynthia comes harsh truths. She’s found the crack in his breastplate, shot her anger straight to his dead heart. He’s trapped in this world of piss and shit and rust and loneliness is his only companion, violence his only solace. 

He releases her completely. Her cracked lips part wide as she heaves in a big, gasping breath, hair now wild and inky once more. Walter sees her, sees this thing he’s helped create from her rage and fear, and he can’t help but think of his one clean thing. How he’s sullied it with Cynthia’s involvement, her terrible truths about who he is and who he was always meant to be.

There’s nothing he wants more than for Cynthia Velasquez to cease her existence, a wish that will never be fulfilled. Imprisoned forever with a reminder of his failure, of his brutality. Of the grief of a stolen life that he punished her with too. 

Before he’s even truly aware, rage has taken over. Broken skin smashes against broken skin in rapid succession. An attempt to take back his control, to put Temptation back in her place. A reminder that none of them will ever be whole, never see Paradise, because of his failure.

After a while, he can’t tell her grating screams from his own. 

#silent hill 4 #walter sullivan #sh4 #tw abuse #tw misogny #is anyone even in this fandom anymore?

[writingforjoy]

A Worse Fate

Sorry this is late @alexprompts, but here’s my take on the ‘Burn it all’ prompt! I thought it’d be cool to make something like a small backstory/piece of history for (Im)Mortal.

TW FOR BLOOD AND BODY HORROR (maybe, i tried it though. not gonna lie)

Tell me, young one. What is a fate worse than death?

Abandonment? Becoming bedridden? Immortality?

Well, for this 26 year old mother, whose skin was as brown as a ripe cocoa bean, watching her and her kids freedom being snatched away was worse. Watching your loved one die fighting for what was right was worse. Watching your child being sold and taken away was far worse than death. Being raped and tortured by your slave owner was worse. . And how could any self-respecting mother let their children childhood and freedom be plucked away from them, like the sweet nectar from a freshly bloomed honeysuckle that the white men thrived on.

Enslavement. That’s a fate worse than death.

Outside her small home, Ellie Mae could hear the bloodhounds in the distance, and she could smell the scent of their masters close behind. She had been found.

She knew they were coming, that’s why she had called for her grandfather Guidry to come help them escape to the North, the Freedom Land. She had spent days preparing their bags, teaching her second son Elijah about his family, how to follow directions when given, how to properly use magic when his has awakened, and if need be, how to follow the North Star. She had hoped that she’d have more time to escape and meet Guidry, but now she couldn’t.

Ellie Mae gathered what little else she owned: the family spellbook that she made her own editions too, her bible, a dress to change into, and all the money she had left. She stuffed it all in her own bag, threw it on, and scurried over to Elijah and Emmery’s room. “Elijah, Elijah wake up. We have to go.” She shook him gently before pulling the covers off him and sitting him up herself. “Boy, I said wake up.”

Elijah’s head nodded a few times before his eyes fluttered open. “Mama...is it time to eat?” He asked sleepily. The room was dark, save for the light of the moon shining through the window. Elijah looked around the room, noticing the sleeping dove in her makeshift nest on the floor, then noticed that his mother was fully dressed even though it was still night. “Mama, is everything okay?”

“We gon go visit Grandpa Guidry early, baby. Gon and get dressed. Emmie,” Ellie walked over to the dove in the middle of the floor and stroked her back “Emmie baby, wake up. Let’s go exploring baby.”

Emmery was no heavy sleeper, the small bird-witch stretched her wings as she rose and walked out of her nest, cooing softly at her brother and mother before finally shifting back into her human form. “Is Daddy here yet?” She asked.

“Is Drusus coming with us?”

Drusus, Emmery’s father, was on his way over going to spend a few days with them while his owner allowed it, and secretly help them meet up with Guidry. “No, we gon meet him out in the field. Now hurry and get dressed y’all two. We ain’t got-”

The howls from the bloodhounds were getting louder and more excited the closer they got to the house, causing the nine and six year old to cling to Ellie. “M-mama, are those wolves?” Emmery asked timidly.

“No, baby, no. Them just some dumb old dogs bein’ nosey. Now quick, Elijah, get y’all bag I done told y’all to make yesterday.”

She hurried out of their room into the kitchen where the bowl hushpuppies were waiting on the table. Outside the window, Ellie could see specks of red getting closer and the shadow of the bloodhounds jumping around in her yard, just waiting for their masters next command. She poured them all into a towel, along with other food, and tied it up tightly before putting it in her bag. She had cooked at least a good two pounds worth of hushpuppies to give to any dogs that might find them and give away their location, surely that would be enough.

“Mama?” Ellie turned to see Elijah and Emmery standing together in the doorway. Emmery was trying her best to tie their bag around, and Elijah stood watching Ellie, his golden eyes almost glowing in the dark carried a worried look. “I can smell Papa’s scent comin’ this way. Is Papa gonna get us?”

Ellie, too, could smell the stench of tobacco drawing near. She had told Elijah about Henry, his birth father, some time ago, and how she left him when Elijah and Emmery was younger because Henry was mean and abusive towards her. Then later that in some places, people that looked like him would have people like her to work for no pay. What she didn’t tell him was that Henry was one of those people, that he had dozens of people ‘working’ for him, that those people like her were slaves, and that she was one of Henry’s slaves. She didn’t tell him that Henry had another son that would’ve been the same age as his older brother Ezekiel, but had died in a horrible accident. She couldn’t tell him that he was almost the spitting image of Henry’s late Elijah. “No, no he ain’t.” She walked over to help Emmery with her bag, then tied the food bag around Elijah’s shoulder. “I ain’t gon let him take ya from me, got it?” She be damned if he took another child from her. She grabbed their hands and lead them down into the basement, locking the door behind them. They walked in silence in the basement, stopping first at the window to make sure the coast was clear, then they stopped just in front of the door leading outside. “Elijah, remember what I told ya ‘bout Drusus and Guidry scents?”

“Yessum, Drusus smells like cinnamon and Guidry smells like sugar canes.”

Suddenly, something started scratching at the door. One scratch. Silence. Two more. Silence. Then the scratched repeated. Ellie could smell cinnamon wafting through from the outside. It was Drusus saying saying he was here, but danger was nearby and he couldn’t be in his human form. “Emmie, you remember what ya Daddy bird form is, dontcha?”

“Mm, a big hawk, Mama!”

“Mhm, that’s him doin that scratchin out there now.” She said quietly. She squatted down low enough to be face to face with them. “Now listen y’all. There some bad men outside that gon try and separate us just cause me and Emmie look different from you, Elijah. So when we get out there, we have to be very, very quiet and move quickly, okay? If they get us, Emmie, I want you to change into a dove and fly away with yo Daddy, me and Elij-”

The sound of a door breaking startled them, followed by heavy footsteps stomping around above them, knocking everything over and causing destruction in their home. “Find my boy and that nigger woman and bring them to me, if ya find the nigger child then you can keep her!”

Ellie was quickly running out of time, at this rate even if they do get out, it wasn’t going to take long for them to be found and separated. The bloodhounds was soon barking at the basement door, and someone started banging on it in an attempt to break it down. Something had to give, Ellie knew it, and she was more than happy to do whatever it took to make sure her kids stayed free.

“Elijah, tell Drusus that I’m gon buy y’all some time to escape, and not to come back no matter what happens, ya hear?”

Elijah’s eyes grew wide with fear at the thought of leaving Ellie. “But Mama-”

“Boy we ain’t got time just do it!” She pushed them towards the door, then gave Elijah her bag. “Y’all stay together, take care of each other, remember my rules, and do whatever Drusus and Guidry tells ya.”

She hugged them both tightly and gave them both a kiss before shoving them out the door and locking it. She pulled a small dagger out from her apron pocket, then made a deep cut in her palm as she made her way to the middle of the basement. She knelt down and used the blood from her hand to draw a protective pentagram around her, then added the sacrificial runes. Ellie took a deep breath, placed both hands on the pentagram, and whispered the spell she made and experimented with often, hoping that it’d work like she wants it.

Use my magic

Build a wall

Trap my victims

Kill them all

The more drained Ellie began to feel, the more the pentagram began to glow an eerie red, then small embers crawled out from it, and started dancing around her, waiting to see who she wanted their target to be. She focused on every bloodhound and person that had invaded her house, this was going to be the last house they ever broke in.

“Go get’em!” The basement door swung open and the bloodhounds ran down the steps and charged towards Ellie, but the tiny embers around her sprung to life and surrounded each of the hounds in a wall of fire, caging them in. Their barks soon turned to whimpers as the embers snaked their way around the hounds body and tore into their flesh.

She looked up to see three of the men surrounding the dogs and trying to save them, and watched as the embers caged them in as well, then wormed their way up their bodies, leaving a scorched trail as they did before digging their way under their skin. Bubbles appeared on their skin as it darkened each second their blood was boiled before they fell to the floor shaking violently.

Then two more men appeared at the top of the basement where the door once was, but Ellie kept whispering her spell, making it stronger. She was too far in to stop now, and she wasn’t going to stop with them. “Quick, shoot’er!” Henry shouted.

The other guy jumped down the stairs aiming his gun at Ellie and fired, but the bullet bounced off the barrier that Ellie made, then she sent a few embers towards him. She watched as it boxed him in, then the shower of ember needles slowly fell on him. All that was left was the two of them and the house.

Henry descended the stairs, his eyes locked with Ellie. She could feel his hatred for her even from that small distance. She wasn’t going to let him leave the house alive, sure as hell wasn’t going to leave any kind of evidence either. Slowly the embers rolled away from her as she shifted her focus to the house. She was going to burn it all to the ground, with herself in it, to make sure that there’d be no way possible for anyone to find anything and try to trace her kids. A small sacrifice she was willing to make to ensure the safety of her kids. The only regrets that she’d have are not being able to see Emmery being able to control her shifting flawlessly, to see what beautiful magic Elijah would grow up to have, there was no doubt that he had some, he was her son after all. Most of all she wouldn’t be able to watch them grow. “Woman,” Henry growled “you’d rather sit here and die, than tell just give up and tell me where my boy is at? Dontcha know that I’ma find him anyway? Ima find him and that child of yours and sell her off just like yo other one! You gonna die in vain and go straight to hell where you belong!”

Ellie looked at him and laughed. She laughed long and hard. “Then darlin’,” She sent the embers after him, and watched as he squirmed about, trying to shake them off. “I’ll be sure to save ya a seat next to me.” She smiled.

Those regrets were small compared to the immense joy knowing that her kids are safe with Drusus and Guidry, knowing that they will be able to practice their magic freely and soon be able to harness it fully, that they’d be able to grow up together and live in a safer place among family. Her kids were going to be alright, they were going to be just fine.

She watched as he slumped over against the fiery wall, and she was finally free. She was a slave no more. Then she too fell over, the spell have taken its toll on her. She felt death was coming as the house started to fall in around her, the once small embers having turned to roaring flames, licking their way up and around the house, being sure to leave nothing behind. When death comes, she would welcome it’s freedom with open arms. To her, being a slave was a fate worse than death.

@orchidalienscribbler @rhikasa @morganwriteblr @wiseauthorowl

#writingforjoy #writeblr #(Im)Mortal #alexprompts #alexpromptsburnitall #history #fiction #at this point i honestly don't know what else to tag it as #but that spell #yes i was influenced by svtfoe #ending was a bit rushed #not gonna lie

[blistrysmysteries]

kyle ron: librarian edition

there was an entire kylux plot to this where hux was a sudden, wealthy, pretentious benefactor to ben’s busted-ass community library (his baby which he would kill for). the microfiche is an important part of the supporting cast. it was maximum extra.

*sucks in breath*

BUT THATS NEVER SEEING THE LIGHT OF DAY SO HERE’S JUST A SNIPPET.

“Really?” Ben sighed, passing a misplaced copy of A Cry of Players, which sat carelessly thrown, face-down, atop his much beloved microfiche machine.

He backtracked to snatch it, narrowing his dark eyes as he inspected the pages for any damage. Apparently satisfied with its condition, he added it to the top of the stack he had already been carrying. Ordinarily, he would have used his little cart for a task such as this (collecting lost books), but the Wamboldt boys had stolen it last month and put it very much out of commission doing ollies over it in the parking lot. No matter how much epoxy Ben applied, the wheels just wouldn’t stay on anymore.

Ben sometimes wished for the Wamboldt boys to be kidnapped by one of those terrifying European folklore monsters. No specific one because they are pretty much all sufficiently nightmarish. At the very least, someone could summon a Krampus to slap their shit around with some birch branches.

Of course, daydreams wouldn’t bring back his cart so, for now, he carried the books.   

It was the coldest part of the year in his small town, Ben the librarian was never seen without his signature, very-comfy, knit sweaters. He preferred calm earth tones, naturally, for his cozy attire. It was just about the only soft thing about him.

Speaking of being a prickly bastard.

“Barbara. Look at me, Barbara.”

Ben stopped his brisk pace to address an elderly woman copying recipes from a cookbook onto index cards at a glacial pace. Everything - especially her hands - seemed to rattle and shake with her age, like there was an extremely lively skeleton trying to escape from inside of her.

“Jesus, Ben.” She adjusted her tiny bifocals. “Scared me,” she said, mumbling even more curses in a tone most crotchety.

“If I find that cookbook in the Travel section again, Barbara, I’m going to go to your house and set your shed on fire,” his perpetually intense gaze didn’t relent. He could hear the flutter of her floral print muumuu and the shuffling of her slippered feet beneath the table.

Clearly unphased, Babs didn’t take her eyes off her book and only dryly replied: “You need therapy, kid.”

For a rare moment, Ben smiled, just barely showing his crooked teeth but it was gone in a flash. He reached into the pocket of his warm, pumpkin colored corduroys.

“More cards,” he said plainly, showing her the index cards before setting them down next to her.

“Good lookin’ out,” she murmured. And that was just about as sweet as Barbara could be. Maybe that's why they got along so famously.

Satisfied, he stalked off, winding through the tight, dusty corridors of shelves. He’d already checked the reference section, of course, but sometimes he did a second tour just for the smell.

The smell of paper was his anti-drug. Useful, as life in a town as small as his could drive anyone to the hard stuff.

His curiosity got the best of him as he finally approached the main counter. With a heave, he set the sizable stack of misplaced books onto the counter and reached for A Cry of Players. Who could possibly have selected this for reading recently? Maybe there was a stamp on the card with a date from this decade.

Ben flipped it open to reveal the yellowing inner cover and scowled with a glare fit to set fire to the book.

The Dick Doodler struck again. This classic play had been utterly defaced with a crudely drawn phallus. How undignified a state for such a piece of drama to be in. It was one thing when they victimized the Dan Brown novels, but this- this was just sick.

He wanted to roar and raise hell but he was in a library- his library, for heaven’s sake - so he settled for breathing deeply through his rapidly flaring nostrils and making gnarled claws out of his own hands like he was strangling those damn Wamboldt brats (his main suspects) himself. His mouth twisted into an unspeakably hideous expression of pure hatred and his eyes opened a little too wide.

“Pardon,” came a hesitant voice. “I was just looking for the, uh, proprietor.” The last word was enunciated with clear undertones of doubt.

Ben’s eye twitched. Once. Twice.

He took a deep breath and turned to fully face the visitor. The towering librarian attempted to do away with his terrible visage but it probably wasn’t working wonders for him.

Before him stood a crisply dressed man with an icy air. He raised an arch and starkly strawberry blonde eyebrow at the display, disgust playing ever so faintly on the down-turned corners of his mouth. One didn’t need to be a bloodhound to smell the old money on this guy.

Tourist, thought he in a manner most uncharitable.

“Yes,” the scary book procurer confirmed slowly and through gritted teeth which he couldn’t seem to loosen. “I. Am. He.”

This was Ben Solo playing it cool.

“I see,” replied the man indifferently, becoming momentarily distracted with a spot of dust on the counter, which he swiped at with delicately prodding fingers, swathed in obnoxiously expensive looking leather gloves. No doubt they were lined with some equally pretentious fur for warmth.

Baby seal, perhaps? Endangered Peruvian Tree Skunk?

“Well,” he began, blonde lashes fluttering as he resolved to turning his attention back to a deranged looking Ben, “I was looking for a little diversion on my visit here. I was told I could trust your recommendation by the concierge- I’m staying at the Old Mill, you see. Do you know of it?”

“Do I know of the only hotel in town?” Ben asked, laying the sarcasm on thick. Yup. Tourist alright. As if he needed any more confirmation. His accent stuck out like a drunk nun at a christening.

Although, big ups to Roger at the Mill for complimenting Ben on his book-selection skills. Who knew he had any taste considering his choice to make his hotel bar clown themed. It almost made big Solo blush.

The fancy-pants ginger sniffed, pressing his lips into a thin line and raising his eyebrows.

“Right, well, I’m partial to Medieval philosophy lately-”

“Follow me,” Ben replied gruffly, turning on his heel before Tourist could get another word in.

If he wore a cape, he would have flourished it to great dramatic effect.

#kylux #kylux au #kylo ren #general hux #armitage hux #star wars #extremely original #library au #sorry bout it #fanfic

[deepfriedtwinkie]

Kingsman: A Trainee’s Mission (Pt. III)

PREQUEL FIC, this section ~1,800w

pt. I  | pt. II

.

.

At six a.m. sharp, Harry has already been awake for precisely a quarter hour. He’s done a full stretch routine, made up his bunk, and by the time the piped-in sound of Big Ben’s gong resonates to wake the others, he’s on his way back from the sinks, swinging his toothbrush in a plastic sandwich bag.

“Fucking Christ.” Punctuating himself with a yawn to rival any zoo lion, Hamish leaps directly to the floor, apparently no fan of the concept of ladders. “I love waking up like I slept under a bridge in fucking Westminster.”

“Could be worse,” Harry poses. “I was anticipating a bugle, myself.”

“Oh, no, you’re right, that’d definitely be worse.”

“See? Perspective will get you everywhere.”

Then Hamish scrutinizes him. “How long’ve you been up and about, anyway?”

“Oh, only a bit.” Experience has taught him specifics can be obnoxious; he’s got to save something for later. “Habit, honestly.”

“I see. Can I ask a question?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“You’re one of those irritatingly-overprepared types, aren’t you?”

“Quite, yes.”

Hamish’s brow does a hop. “Fair enough. At least you’re forward about it.”

He takes that as a compliment. “Thank you.”

They seem to notice the parcels at the same time. There are two of them stacked at the foot of every lower bunk, each one a thick square of material resembling Burberry, folded crisply, bundled up with twine.

Hamish cuts the strings with a scouts’ knife from his pocket—Did you sleep the whole night with that there?—and each of them take possession of the article with their initials on the tag, holding them out. They fall away into jumpsuits. That’s what they are. Collared, belted jumpsuits. Harry’s in a khaki color, and Hamish’s in some sort of teal.

“We must be meant to put these on.” Logic quickly replaces his momentary pang of disappointment. Surely it’d be impossible to train properly in a full Kingsman Tailors’ bespoke suit. They must get those later. These will more than do for the time being.

He retreats to the corner to change while Hamish is still inspecting both sides of his garment. “Fetching. I’m just looking for the nappies that go with it.”

“Oh, come on, now, it’s not all that bad.”

“More perspective?”

Harry expertly buttons his way up the row, grinning in advance at his own wit. “Enticement, actually. The sooner you’ve got it on, the sooner I can procure blackmail photos.”

“Over my dead body.”

“How convenient; you’ve already got somewhere to put it.”

Hamish chucks the twine at him.

In minutes, everyone is dressed, and the sixteen of them file their way outdoors. Harry strives to take in everything in sight. It’s his first time seeing the grounds in their entirety, or at all, for that matter, given he’d arrived last night via underground shuttle from the tailor shop. He presumes the same must be true for the others. 

The compound, on first impression, is absolutely sprawling, encompassing what could pass for a sea of open field, manicured precisely enough to be ready for a sporting match of any kind. The estate itself stands steadfastly in the middle of it all like a nineteenth-century castle, or at the very least, a fine manor of nobility. More striking than anything, the center of the lawn is marked with the same emblem as the weaponry, the technology, and the jumpsuits they wear now: a white circle bearing the mark of a horizontal K. Four men could camp on it, easily.

It’s the last he notices of the scenery. Up ahead, over a queue of shoulders, he sees his immediate new favorite thing in the world. A wall of sixteen metal cages, each one containing the sweetest, most precious little puppy.

“Oh God, would you look at that!” Rather unprofessionally, he’s slapping Hamish’s arm. It’s a miracle he remembers himself and doesn’t bolt off to tell them all they’re beautiful. Because they are. “Do you think it’s possible they’re for us?”

“I think it’s possible you’re something else,” Hamish says affably.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” projects Arthur from the balcony, the moment they’re assembled in line. “I’m quite pleased with your punctuality.”

Yes, yes, get on with it, for God’s sake, get to the dogs. Already, there’s a little fuzzy one looking straight at him. Oh gosh, he wagged his tail.

“As most of you came within a childlike shriek of failing your first task, the emphasis imparted by your next assignment will be especially vital. Teamwork in all things is no less than utterly tantamount to your success—and your survival—in the Kingsman line of work. Precisely why, in a moment, you will all come forward and select one of these puppies for yourselves.”

Harry’s resting pulse replicates a hyperactive ten-year-old’s. Yes! Let us at them, then; I’ll break the wanker’s arm who beats me to the little one–

“Your puppies will shadow you twenty-four hours a day. You will be wholly responsible for their care and keeping. You will train them as Kingsman trains you. Ideally, by the end of the program, both you and your dog will have reached your peak potential. If not, well. At least you’ll have done something worthwhile with your time.”

Are you quite through!? Fall out, fall out, say it!

“Everyone choose your puppy.”

Bloody good enough! Harry barges forward, the first to reach the cages. Frankly he’d have no problem lying on the ground and letting all sixteen of the milk-bellied things scuttle all over him, but this is the one he wants. This scruffy little terrier, quite obviously a runt, whose pleading eyes alone could melt the polar ice caps.

He lifts the latch and draws open the cage, first coaxing the tiny fellow forward for an introductory sniff, then gently clasping him between his hands. “Oh, hello, sweetheart,” he whispers, scooping the puppy into his arms. He’s a lump of warm fluff against his chest, warm fluff with the softest ears in the entire world. “Hello there! Oh, it’s absolutely wonderful to meet you. Yes, it is. Oh, yes.”

The pup’s going about the business of sniffing his jumpsuit when Hamish reappears, leash in hand. Harry’s eyes trace it down to a puddled little dog who’s just tripped belly-up on her own lead. By this point, whatever torture their training entails, he’s confident he’ll sail right the hell through it, high on these mental images alone.

“What’s that one?” Hamish asks.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s a terrier of some kind. I don’t care. He likes me.” His face hasn’t unscrewed from borderline certifiable joy since they first fell in. “Yours?”

“Bloodhound.” He sounds chuffed with himself, giving a shrug. “I figure it’s right there in the name. Best dog for the job.”

“May I?”

“Certainly.”

Harry crouches, very careful with his own new friend, freeing a hand to stroke the baby bloodhound’s tummy. He has to laugh at the floppy little jowls; she’s almost more roll than dog. “Isn’t she a droopy girl?”

A recruit behind him snorts. “If that isn’t the last thing you want to hear at the disco.”

“Fuck off, Winston.” The prat’s deserved it since turndown last night, when he’d bragged to the room about his father’s yacht in the Aegean. It’s rather satisfying, honestly. Just as quickly as he spat his venom, he’s back to making friends. “Hello, princess! Aren’t we a gorgeous little dog? Oh, yes we are. Yes, we are.”

It’s his proximity to the ground that does it. For a split second, lavishing Hamish’s pup with affection, his hold on his own is too loose. Just long enough for the miniscule mutt to squirm free, barreling across the grounds like a pistol shot. Harry stands and whirls in time to see Winston’s dog take off after him, yanking the lead from his hand.

Oh, fuck.

Both of them burst into a sprint.

“Just fuckin’ perfect, isn’t it! Fuck you and your fucking dog, Oxford!” Winston shouts.

“Oh, you know damned well we’re both out of your league!”

“Oi, you get back here, dog! Bad dog!”

“Here boy! Heel!”

The puppies are headed straight for a picnic blanket in the distance. The unsuspecting victim is a man lounged at its center, reading from a manila folder in one hand, eating a sandwich with the other—and more to the point, wearing a bespoke suit, which officially classifies this as Very, Very Bad.

“Fucking hell—excuse me, Sir? Pardon me!”

The agent turns around just in time for Winston’s Doberman to snatch the sandwich from his hand. Harry’s terrier makes off with the only food left on the blanket: a spear of pickle.

The chase ends as quickly as it began. Both puppies brake under a tree, sprawling out to munch their spoils. Harry and Winston stagger to a stop in front of the displeased agent, arms now crossed, looking like he’d love to serve both of their hides at high tea with a bit of Marmite.

“What in the devil is the meaning of this?” the agent demands. “Two minutes into the goddamned task and you idiots can’t manage to keep hold of a fucking puppy?”

It’s only the third agent he’s met, and already his first impression success ratio is horribly imbalanced. Luckily there’s always a way to recover. Harry stands crisp at attention, hands folded behind his back, and he covers all signs of exertion with his most winning smile.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir…”

“Sir Tristan, that’s all the likes of you need to know.”

Head hung, Winston mumbles, “Sorry, Chester.”

The sigh and eye-roll from Chester-Alias-Tristan are monumentous. He points toward the tree with a rigid arm. “Just go and get the dog, you fucking imbecile.” As Winston trudges off, Chester mutters something else under his breath, something about having better luck had he proposed a grapefruit, but Harry decides it would be found too ungentlemanly to mention that.

“Can I replace your meal for you, sir? I’d be quite happy to.”

“No, thank you. I’m just in from a sixteen-hour flight, and quite frankly, I have already had enough of you infants’ bollocks for one day. Now I suggest you collect your rat and piss off, before I report you to Arthur for incompetence.”

Tugging his lapels, Chester takes leave in a huff, whisking up his blanket. Winston is already gone. With a deep exhale, Harry approaches the shade of the tree, smiling fondly at his puppy, who’s successfully gnawed the pickle down to half.

As he picks him up, he makes sure to bring the hard-won prize along, cradling both thief and snack, starting back toward the group. “Good boy,” he whispers, and presses a kiss to his fur.

.

pt. IV | pt. V  | pt. VI  | pt. VII  | pt. VIII  | pt. IX

#Kingsman #Harry Hart #Agent Merlin #Kingsman: The Secret Service #Kingsman: The Golden Circle #fanfic #oh look Aud did a thing

[sakurablossomstorm-blog]

59. "Did you enjoy yourself last night?," 77. "Why are you covered in mud?," 130. "The way you flirt is just shameful," 188. "I'm not leaving here without you," and/or 253. "You're so drunk." 😊

Here you go! I combined them all into one.

~~

“There she is,” Ben said as Sonia came trudging down the stairs. “I was beginning to wonder what happened to you guys.”

“Oh, you know, just super tired from the party,” Sonia mumbled, taking a seat at the breakfast bar and grabbing her Gryzzl tablet.

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” Leslie asked, sitting opposite her daughter, a fresh cup of coffee in her hands.

“Uh…yeah it was good fun. Y’know, usual party stuff. Mmhmm, nothing happened out of the ordinary. Just dancing and responsible fun.” Sonia babbled.

Leslie raised an eyebrow and looked at Ben, who was mimicking her expression.

The thing about Sonia was that she was a terrible liar, a trait she inherited from both of her parents. Leslie and Ben were able to sniff out a lie in an instant, leaving Sonia unable to get away with anything.

And the fact that their three children went out to a party last night made them nervous.

“Is everything okay, Sonny?” Ben asked, standing by Leslie’s side.

Sonia frantically nodded. “Yep. Everything’s A-OK, coolio beans.”

Ben frowned and leaned down on the table. “Sonia, what are you hiding. What’s happened?”

Sonia looked down at her hands, desperately trying not to make eye contact with her parents.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Sonia,” Leslie said with a warning tone.

“Fine! Okay, alright you wormed it out of me!” Sonia snapped, blonde hair whipping around her face as she spoke. She let out a weary sigh and set her tablet back down on the table.

“I’ve been sent down as a distraction.”

“A distraction?” Leslie questioned. “From what?”

Sonia sighed. “Stephen got super drunk last night. He’s upstairs throwing up.”

Ben and Leslie exchanged horrified glances, and then Ben hurried up the stairs to check on their sons, while Leslie got up to Sonia’s side.

“Did you drink?” Leslie asked sternly.

“A little yeah,” her sixteen year old daughter responded. “But I didn’t want to get sloppy, neither did Wes… and we kind of dropped the ball on Stephen.”

Leslie sighed, placing a hand over her forehead. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. All three of her children were out drinking last night, and now one of them was throwing their guts up.

“Oh my god, Sonia. What were you thinking?” Leslie asked, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, opening it and practically forcing it down Sonia’s throat.

“Mm!! Mom stop!” Sonia choked, snatching the bottle from Leslie and putting it on the countertop. “I’m fine. I had like a couple vodkas. Stephen’s the one you should be worried about.”

“Your Dad has that covered. What we need are cold compresses and greasy food and water, so much water,” Leslie babbled to herself.

“Oh. And you are grounded. Don’t forget that.”

Sonia groaned and flopped over on the counter.

~~

“Boys. Open up,” Ben called, hammering on the locked bathroom door.

“No. I’m pooping!”

“Wesley!”

“Urgh fine,” Wesley groaned through the door, and Ben heard the door unlock, and he soon came face to face with an embarrassed Wesley.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” he asked, leaning against the door frame.

Ben looked past Wesley and saw his eldest son, slumped on the floor over the toilet seat, looking miserable.

“Good lord, Stephen,” Ben sighed. “What the hell did you do?”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Stephen wailed and dry heaved into the toilet. “I thought it would be fun.”

“Yeah?” Ben snapped, folding his arms. “How much fun are you having right now?”

“None,” Stephen whimpered, hanging his head back into the toilet and spewing more of his guts out.

Ben groaned, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Great. What the hell were you thinking? All of you?”

“Someone at the party had a fake ID so hit up a load of stores and just got a load of alcohol. I was being careful, because you and Mom can sniff out alcohol like bloodhounds, but Stephen…” Wesley just gestured at Stephen, who was still sprawled out on the floor.

“Fantastic,” Ben hissed sarcastically. He got down onto the floor and rubbed Stephen’s back until he had finished. “You need water and to sleep this off.”

Stephen nodded pathetically, and with the help of Wesley, they dragged Stephen back into his room. Soon, a bottle of water was placed by his bedside, a bucket by his side.

As Ben and Wesley left Stephen in peace, he finally took in his son’s appearance. Wesley was covered from head to toe in mud.

“Wesley, why are you covered in mud?”

Wesley blushed and rubbed at his dirt covered cheeks. “It’s a long story. Can you just ground me and be over with it?”

Ben just sighed. “Fine. All of you are ground for a month-”

“A month?”

“For underage drinking without our consent,” Ben continued. “No Gryzzl gadgets, weekends you’ll spend helping us around the house, and certainly no parties.”

Wesley sighed as his father walked past him. The night before a regret that the Knope-Wyatt triplets would have all the way during the next painful month.

~~

8 hours earlier.

Wesley finished his drink and placed it on the side. He was fading in and out of a conversation, until Sonia caught his eye.

His sister was giggling eccentrically and stroking a boy’s arm. Wesley recognised it as George from his biology class, and Sonia was flirting with him.

Oh, he didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was gay. And they had made out before.

He looked at his watch and swallowed. Shit. They should have been home three hours ago. He really hoped that their parents had fallen asleep in front of the TV again, and they would be able to sneak back undetected.

Wesley quickly excused himself from his friends and went to retrieve his siblings. He crossed the room and tugged on Sonia’s arm.

“Soso, we have to go, it’s way past curfew,” Wesley hissed in her ear. Sonia’s eyes travelled to the clock in the darkened room, and gasped.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Where’s Stephen?” Sonia asked, then she remember George. “Oh George, I’m so sorry but we have to go. But don’t forget me, okay?”

“I can’t forget you,” George replied. “I mean we sit next to each other in History.”

Sonia threw her head back again and laughed loudly. “Oh, George! You’re so funny.”

“And you’re an embarrassment!” Wesley hissed at her, dragging her away. “Jesus, Sonia. The way you flirt is shameful.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that he was digging me,” Sonia retaliated.

“He wasn’t. Because he’s very, very gay.”

“What?” Sonia cried out in shock. “No, he’s not! Are you sure? How do you know?”

“Because we’ve made out,” Wesley explained. “A lot.”

Sonia looked horrified. “Oh my god. My gaydar must be way off course. Why didn’t your stupid bi self stop me sooner?”

“I only just noticed,” Wesley said, trying to look over a crowd to find Stephen. “I can’t see him anywhere, can you?”

Sonia scanned the room and froze. She nervously tapped Wesley on the shoulder so that he turned around. “I found him.”

Sure enough, there was Stephen. Standing upside down and a funnel in his mouth, while their classmates poured beer into his mouth while cheering raucously. The beer was soon emptied, and Stephen was helped back onto his feet, yelling proudly at the top of his throat.

“Jesus Christ, Stephen!” Sonia cried out, hurrying over once Stephen had finished. “We weren’t supposed to get wasted tonight!”

“Soniaaaa,” Stephen slurred. “Whass going on big sis?”

Sonia rolled her eyes and staggered forward to support Stephen. “We have to go,” she told him, and beckoned at Wesley to help her.

“Wha? No we can’t go, we’re having fun!” Stephen cried out, earning another loud cry from his friends.

“Come on, Stephen!” Sonia snapped. “We’re going. And I’m not leaving here without you.”

Soon, they had managed to drag Stephen outside and into the fresh air. That’s when Stephen started rebelling and shrieking angrily about how he didn’t want to go home.

“Jesus, Stephen. You’re so drunk,” Wesley hissed, trying to keep a grip on his twin.

“And your fucking annoying! Get off me!” Stephen cried, managing to give Wesley a shove. Wesley tumbled backwards, right into a dirty puddle on the side of the road.

“You moron!” Sonia screeched, letting go of Stephen and helping Wesley up. “Can we just get you home without any more instances, please?”

Wesley grabbed hold of Stephen again, his clothes dripping with muddy water, and Sonia manned his other side. Soon, the triplets were walking home down the dark street, an inebriated Stephen between them.

“I’m sorry I pushed you, Wes,” Stephen choked out after a few minutes.

Wesley sighed. “I’m sorry you’re an ass.”

Stephen then promptly burst into tears, wrapping his arms around Wesley’s neck and kissing his cheek. “I love you, baby brother. I love you so much.”

Wesley sent Sonia a look of distress, but still patted his back. “Oh, buddy. Let it out, I guess?”

Sonia rolled her eyes. “Come on you two. Let’s get out of here.”

And the triplets trudged back down the road, hoping that their parents would be asleep by the time they got home.

#parks and rec fic #supervanillabear31