#the staff on kn ARE NEVER FUCKING AROUND

[bloodsbane]

Kitchen Nightmares, S5 E1

#kitchen nightmares #kn lb #do i even have to explain why i dropped everything to capture this moment #you don't understand her smile makes me fucking insane #slowly unfurling like when the fucking grinch he realized he was gonna steal christmas #the staff on kn ARE NEVER FUCKING AROUND #especially when their bosses are shitty like. oh my god #it's the best part of this show hands down lol #love when the staff get tired of being nice #also im so glad i got that EXACT last frame it really really encapsulates the energy

[anachilles]

whiskey neat, coffee black 🥃 || ch 1.

aka: firefighter!bucky x bartender!buck (chapt 1), as detailed [here]

“Well, Curt? How do I look? Do I look gorgeous tonight?” Bucky asked, popping the collar of his jacket a bit, then scrubbing his fingers through his hair. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure whether exactly he was trying to tame it into submission or zhuzh it up a little. Curt turned a discerning gaze to him, eyes narrowing as he took a draw from his cigarette, and let the smoke blow out slowly into the cool, crisp autumn air. “Well you did take a shower straight after shift, so I guess you have that goin’ for ya.” As much as it was a rib at Bucky’s expense, it was also well known amongst the firefighters based at Station 100 that those showers never ran even so much as lukewarm. So choosing to brave them, for any reason, rather than going home to wash up was actually indeed a sacrifice worthy of commendation, and that any such reason for doing so was held in very high esteem indeed. A cheeky, knowing sort of smile started to curl at Curt’s lips, the fluorescent light from the bar sign growing closer as they walked towards it illuminating his face in an appropriately devilish red tint. “Seriously though, you look good, don’t worry.”

-> read here on AO3 <-

Bringing up the rear, Hambone took the very last drag he could get from what was left of his own cigarette, before flicking the stub to the ground and promptly stamping it out. “Why the hell does it matter what you look like here?”

Curt’s smirk only widened. “It’s a Thursday night, isn’t it?” It was the sort of smile from his best friend that Bucky’s own lips couldn’t help but mimic, regardless of it being at his own expense.

Confusion lingered on Hambone’s face for a moment before realisation visibly dawned, leaving behind a teasing smirk of his own as he jogged to catch up with the other two men. “Aw, Bucky , you’re still stuck on this?” he goaded, sticking his elbow out to nudge him. “C’mon man, he’s never gonna fuck y-” He didn’t get to finish his point though, when after an extended moment of dangerous stillness, Bucky lunged, getting his arm around Howard’s neck in a light, good-natured headlock.

Some may say he had a point at this stage, but did he really , if he couldn’t even finish it?

Curt whooped with laughter, finally abandoning his own cigarette to the pavement below, running along beside the two of them like he was watching a boxing match, having to take two strides just to match one of Bucky’s own. “No, man! C’mon. Don’t talk about his husband like that! Be respectful, be respectful…”

“Some husband who’s name you don’t even goddamn kn- ” Already slightly breathless as he scrambled to fight back, the rest of his sentence was strangled from his throat as Bucky momentarily tightened his hold. His own smile only grew as Hambone struggled along beside him. With the door finally within touching distance though, he took mercy and released him.

Aptly named by whatever genius had acquired the bar last, The Firehouse had, for time immemorial, been the regular haunt for firefighters based at the local fire station a few blocks over. For all that the guys loved it, were devoted to it, the place was admittedly a bit of a dive. With sticky floors you almost felt bad subjecting the soles of your shoes to, ancient, tattered pool tables that were probably in existence before the fall of the Berlin Wall, and a mere two single-person bathrooms tucked away at the back that ensured massive lines on any busy Friday or Saturday night, it was easy to see why the clientele they did get tended to be the ol’ faithfuls that had been coming for years.

But at the same time, they offered dirt cheap drinks, specials hand-written on the wall that could only have been made so skillfully by cool, but generally part-time, staff who had much more going on in life to give a shit about than their side gig bar job, in an opportune location. There was something comforting about that kind of ambience; a little rough and ready but full of heart and soul underneath the scuff marks. So at the end of the day, it was actually Bucky’s kind of place. None of that really mattered, though, because as soon as he saw him , regardless of how badly the place probably needed a lick of paint, The Firehouse may have found a life-long patron in him.

“It’s called playing the long game, Hambone. And I got plenty of time,” Bucky said as he pushed open the front door, letting the other two men in behind him.

It was odd, the conviction with which he said that. He’d been told enough times in his life, whether by teachers at school, any number of CO’s and higher ups in the Air Force, or even his goddamn parents, that, despite his wide-ranging natural abilities, he was also an impulsively headstrong, trigger-happy son of a bitch. Any such assessments, phrased in any such language, tactful or brutally honest, he’d accepted. Understood it, even, and taken it on the chin. He was a guy who knew his own shortcomings. An inability to wait for what he genuinely, truly wanted however just wasn’t one of them.

“The only thing you’re playing the long-game with is your right hand,” Hambone chipped in once they were inside, all three now enveloped in contrasting warmth from the chill outside and the dim glow of the table-lamps. It was still relatively early and they wouldn’t have been long open, so there weren’t too many people around yet. Hambone smacked Bucky playfully on the arm then, almost in commiseration, his distinctive gold tooth glinting as he asked. “What d’ya want? It’s my round.”

Bucky wasn’t looking at him, though; hadn’t been since the second they stepped through the door. Eyes dead set on the bar, he said “I got this one, guys,” shooing them away to go find a table without even having to say it.

Behind his back, Curt and Hambone glanced at each other, exchanging a quick look of affectionate mocking, before making themselves scarce.

He assumed it would abate by now, if even just a little bit. The velocity of the swoop in his chest to just walking in and seeing him standing there, like he's in the pilot's seat again and his plane's just taken a nosedive. Approaching the otherwise empty stretch of bar, Bucky parked himself directly in front of him, leaning down on the bar top on crossed arms. Behind the bar, he was busying himself counting change from the drawer of the cash register, eyes cast downwards as long elegant fingers work quickly flipping through the crinkly bills, plump lips moving silently, counting in his head.

God, those lips are downright sinful.

He could see him, Bucky knew he could. Waiting patiently, he watched as he finished counting one stack, dropped the pile onto the counter beneath him and fixed them neatly into formation. He slotted them back in the drawer, paused… then started another stack . Bucky’s small, fledgling smile only bloomed further.

He shifted his gaze then, the movement edged with only a hint of reluctance, fixing on the dark-haired man crouched down behind the bar, restocking the fridges.

“Hey, Croz. How’s it going?” Bucky greeted him, the other man’s head snapping round at the sound of his voice. His smile was quick, easy, and he nodded in acknowledgement. The firefighters’ patronage, of which Bucky’d been a part of for just coming up to a year now, was so serious they tended to know all the bartenders by name. Mostly .

“Bucky! Hey, not too bad, actually,” He rushed a little to finish the row of Blue Moon bottles he was on, before fully turning towards him. “Another night in here, so y’know. Same old, same old.”

“How’s Joe?”

Harry, predictably, lit up a little at the mention of Joe, his boyfriend who he’d notoriously never fail to drop into nearly every conversation you had with him, no matter what it was about. From what Bucky had heard of the story, they’d been high school sweethearts and all, then followed each other to college thereafter. It was sweet, he supposed. Not only the idea of finding ‘ your person ’, a concept that had itself long been alien to him, intangible and abstract like the blurry shape of a ship out at sea on a perpetually foggy day, but find that person as young as they had. Of being so sure right off the bat, no more searching required. Sweet, but wholly unrealistic. If it was true and possible for anyone though, it’d be for people like Croz and his Joe.

Knowing the bartenders at their local was one thing, knowing about their partners, their dogs, and their personal lives was another, and wasn���t something Bucky was necessarily accustomed to. On reflection, it wasn’t unwelcome, though now that it had happened.

“He’s great! Yeah, we just found out he actually got into that masters program he applied for, so…” he beamed, before trailing off, like he was almost willing himself to shut up. Bucky was sure then that he wasn't nearly the first person he’d told, probably even today. The pride shone so clearly in his face, Bucky couldn’t help but smile too.

“That’s awesome, Croz. Congrats. Be sure to give him my best.”

Comfortable silence fell between them as Harry half-turned back to continue his work. It turned expectant, though, when it started to occur to him that he hadn’t stopped counting change to take Bucky’s order. “Buck, do you mind? I’m kinda-”

In contrast to his demeanour thus far, his head turned immediately, acknowledging his co-worker with a nod. Like everything around him had been on mute and then someone just suddenly turned up the volume. “Yep, of course.”

Bucky shook his head. ‘Buck’ wasn’t the guy’s real name, evidently, that would’ve just been divine coincidence. He liked to think the whole charade of the ‘refusing to tell Bucky his name’ thing was more a running joke at this point than anything else, but regardless, needs must. For logistical reasons, he simply couldn’t carry on being “Smokeshow Firehouse Bartender” in Bucky’s head, like a dodgy Tinder hookup's contact in his phone, for the rest of the days that they continued encountering each other. And, well, if he wasn’t going to tell him his name, then they might as well share his.

Setting his latest stack back in the register and pushing the door closed, ‘Buck’ finally looked up at Bucky for the first time that night. He wasn’t technically smiling, but his steely blue eyes were alight with a mirth that had pretty much the same effect as if he was.

“You didn’t see me, here? Or hear me?” Bucky chanced, the corner of his lip quirking, like he was laying down a challenge.

Unfortunately, Buck didn’t take the bait. “What’re you having, Bucky?”

Bucky exhaled slowly, taking a moment to once again savour the way the other man’s deep, drawling timbre stretched around the syllables of his name, powerless but to bank yet another superfluous version that’ll inevitably turn up in ongoing late-night fantasies.

“Three PBR’s and three shots of Jameson.”

Buck nodded, whistling low as he moved to set out three pint glasses beside the tap, and got to work pouring the first. “You mean business, tonight.”

“Oh, I always mean business, honey.”

Buck’s eyebrows jumped as he finished one pint, reaching for the next empty glass. “Oh, I’m your honey tonight, am I? What happened to ‘doll’?”

Bucky smirked. That had been the teasing pet name du jour last week, one he’d only had the courage to deploy after a couple of (well, maybe a few) stiff drinks leading up to it. He wasn’t sure if the way Buck’s dutifully placid expression momentarily cracked at the time was more in the realm of scandalised shock, or verging closer to much preferable affectionately exasperated surprise; the edges of his vision had been starting to blur a little by that stage too much to know for sure.

Not blurred enough, however, to miss the delightful pink hue that bled into the other man’s cheeks after he said it. It was exactly what Bucky either needed, or very much didn’t, unwitting or not. Encouragement .

“Oh, you like that one? ‘Doll'?” He paused, giving Buck a chance to jump in, but once again he didn’t bite. Shame. In the end, Bucky easily filled the gap himself, the boldness of the sentiment tempered with casualness. “You know you can be whatever of mine you want to be.”

It was a hard-won, but now easy-as-breathing rhythm they’d settled into, the mindless flirting, the teasing banter, the sort of cat-and-mouse dynamic. It was fun, and they both seemed to enjoy it. He’d even go so far as to call it a friendship of sorts.

Sighing, but visually giving nothing away, Buck flicked his tongue against the trusty, ever-present toothpick resting in the corner of his mouth, avoiding Bucky’s eye as he murmured a seemingly distracted ‘Noted.’ Because he’s a weak, weak man Bucky couldn’t help but follow the movement of his tongue, eyes flicking down and then quickly back up again.

Buck set all three filled pint glasses up onto the bar, and got to work on the shots.

Fingers closing around the neck of the Jameson bottle, he only spoke again as he tipped it up towards the glass. “Hard day, then?”

The question felt like a sharp pivot, and it succeeded in pulling Bucky out of the sort of heady state of mind he’d let himself meander into with the flirting, and the pet names, and the inability for him to look away from his goddamn lips. It somehow didn’t feel like a distraction tactic, though. He asked it quite often; nearly every time he was in, in fact. It was like he genuinely wanted to know, every time he did ask. Suppose that’s why Bucky actually tended to tell him.

He must have paused a beat too long in answering, as that was when Buck’s piercing gaze rose to meet his own. Turns out, he didn’t even really need to properly look at the shot glasses anymore to judge an accurate pour. His eyes, steely blue like a storm at sea, were searching, but his look tinged with a hint of something else uninterpretable.

Well, Bucky’s an open book, and had never been good at beating around the bush. “A whole lot of nothing for the first few hours, but then a couple of RTCs later on. The second one was pretty gnarly; involved a bit of a difficult extraction for one of the passengers. Had to do some unorthodox manoeuvring just to get her out.”

Buck’s face twitched with genuine sympathy, finally finishing up with the drinks. “I’m sorry. Is she going to be okay?”

“I think so. Last we heard she was stable, but in serious condition.” He tried to hold the words at arms length away from himself, though even from there they threatened to weigh on him as he said them. He shook his head against the drag, as if he could shake the weight of the concern off. She was only 17 years old. Physically shrugging, Bucky said, “We got her out of the pretzel the car had been turned into, though, apparently without exacerbating her injuries. So we did our part.”

It could have come off sounding callous to some, he guessed, especially with the slightly forced levity inflected in how he said it, but Buck’s face remained unchanged. Solemn in not quite understanding, but something close. Whatever it was, Bucky felt lighter for being on the receiving end of it; for even being asked about what had gone on at all, even. Which was weird, when he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto anything from earlier in the first place.

“Is it just you and those two out tonight, then?” Buck asked then, after letting them sit in a moment of easy silence, crossing his arms and resting his weight down onto the bar top. So effortlessly cool; so casual. Bucky, on the other hand, felt decidedly less so with those couple extra inches closer Buck’s face now was to his own, leant forward as he was, across the lines of demarcation the line of glasses were serving as. That fuckin’ aftershave…

Trying for somewhere between ‘cool’ and ‘casual’ himself, despite the other man’s signature scent teasingly lingering at the back of his palate, Bucky shrugged. “For now, yeah, we just got off. Douglass might join later, though, I think.”

“Ah…” Buck said, suddenly biting back a smirk. “Everett’s coming in in a couple of hours, on the closing shift.”

Ah , indeed. Because if having one firefighter pathetically lovesick over a bartender at their favourite local place wasn’t enough, their team would have to go and have two, right? The drunken fog-shrouded voice of Chick Harding echoed somewhere in the back of his head then, warning the whole lot of them to 'not shit where you eat’ , or something like that.

Honestly though, Bucky wasn’t overly sure it was definitely love between them, anyway, Dougie and Everett, more than it was flirting by proximity, reinforced by audacious horniness on Doug’s part and a bit of ‘opposites attract’, ‘Lady and the Tramp’ magnetism. See, from what Bucky had gathered, whether through gossip, or stories, or even just in the man’s eloquently rounded syllables, Everett Blakely came from the nice side of town. And, well… he loved the guy dearly, often trusted him with his life, but regardless of what side of the tracks he was from, Dougie could be a bit of a dog. Coming from Bucky , too, that’s saying something. But there was definitely something , and the more Everett gave Douglass the run around, held him off before reeling him back in again, the more obsessed he seemed to get. It was kind of fascinating to watch.

Not that Bucky could relate, or anything.

“Ah…” he mimicked Buck’s tone, eyes narrowed in knowing, pulling on the thread of the other man’s amusement, desperate to see it unravel further. “And what exactly has that got to do with anything?”

Buck shrugged, holding his hands up, as if protesting his innocence. “Just making conversation.” He smiled at him then like they were conspiring, eyes alight with a glint of mischief, and Bucky felt success warm in the pit of his stomach like a downed whiskey shot. “...but you didn’t hear it from me.”

Wrenching his attention from the man in front of him, Bucky pulled out his phone. In a rather uncharacteristic turn of events, Douglass had seemed to be on the fence about coming out to meet them in his last message to the station group chat, causing genuine worry among the ranks that he was seriously ill. Or abducted. Or both.

Bucky 🔥 : ‘We’re at FH now. Top secret intel says Everett’s working the closer’ was all Bucky had to say, not even trying to pretend he wasn’t obviously meddling, followed not 30 seconds later by a ringing chime and Douglass’s reply.   Dougie: ‘Give me 30 mins’   Benny 🐺 : ‘This is what it looks like to have 0 dignity, btw’   Hambone:  🐕🚶   Benny 🐺 : ‘I wonder who’s who’

Bucky scoffed out a laugh, turning his phone to show Buck the chat log, and the other man rolled his eyes through the remnants of a smile.

“Knew that’d get him off his ass…” Bucky trailed off, his focus stolen momentarily by the open chat as he turned his phone back around, just in the nick of time, as a new message pinged through.

Veal: ‘Isn’t Thursday supposed to be Buck’s night closing? Surprised you’re not off sulking in a corner somewhere @Bucky’

And then another.

Benny 🐺: ‘Tell me you boys have at least bought the man a drink to drown his sorrows in @Curtyyy @Hambone’

And then …

Curtyyy 😝 : ‘he’s been up at the bar for 15 minutes now and this place is a ghost town. you do the math on whether buck’s here or not’   Curtyyy 😝 : ‘we’re thiiiiirsty’

Confronted with the reminder that he had actually come here for some other purpose than to stand at the bar and flirt with Buck, the conspiratorial intimacy of the moment started to dissipate into the air around them with each jibe, remiss as Bucky was to let it go. Even more so when Curt materialised as if from nowhere by his side, summoned solely from Bucky’s acknowledgement of his text, silent and unannounced as the goddamn grim reaper. Had he always been that light-footed? 

“Don’t mind me, fellas, if I can just… take these off your hands…” Curt said, leaning impatiently around Bucky and, rather skilfully, managing to pick up two of the pints and two of the shots all in the one claw-like grip. It was actually rather impressive, clearly the result of extensive practice. Even Buck looked impressed with the manoeuvre. Not even slightly bashful, Curt smiled up at him.

“Thank you, Bucky, ‘ppreciate it. And don’t worry, I’ve been keeping your seat warm for ya, for whenever you decide to use it.”

He should’ve probably had the decency to look abashed, it pointed out just how long he was very clearly deliberately taking, but couldn’t quite manage it. With a roguish smirk, he let his eyes flick from Curt’s retreating form to Buck��s gaze, holding it steadily. 

“Suppose I should let you get back to whatever you were doing,” he acceded, a whisper of a challenge, or maybe an appeal, to give him a reason to stay. It didn’t come, though, and all he got was a nod from the other man as he pushed himself back up off the bar, just that little bit extra further away once more.

After a beat, and a sigh steeped in playful resignation, Bucky downed his shot, then picked up the remaining pint. The trail of fire the whiskey mapped out from his throat all the way down to his stomach was familiarly pleasant, and he took a moment to savour the burn. Let it give him the tailwind to convey his thanks, and turn to follow Curt back to their table.

“Hey, John,” Buck’s voice carried from behind him, probably as raised from its mellow tone as he’d ever heard it, emanating from the backdrop of some pretentious indie playlist Bucky would bet any money is Buck’s own, and the dull chatter of the sparse crop of patrons around them. His head snapped around embarrassingly quick, to find the other man with his toothpick now in hand, biting the inner corner of his lip against a smile.

“You forget something?”

Bucky’s eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“Look, I know you boys are regulars, and we trust y’all, but I do have to insist you at least open a tab.”

Fuck . He’d been jonesing so damn hard for that conversation, had let himself get so caught up in the current of it, that he’d tried to rob the place. Turning swiftly back, already his wallet half-pulled out by the time he got to the bar, now he did at least have the humility to look apologetic. Buck was trying to look stern, head tilted and his pretty features all set and serious, and the urge to giggle tickled at the bottom of Bucky’s chest.

Shit, he’d always had a bad habit of laughing when he got in trouble and was having to face the music. Whether that was staring in the faces of unimpressed school teachers, disapproving parents, or stringent superiors who maybe (definitely) either didn’t get, or just straight up didn’t appreciate his sense of humour much. He couldn’t help it, he’d always giggle, even when he actually gave a shit about what he’d done wrong.

Cheeks flushed, he handed over his card to start a tab, before dipping back into his wallet for a couple of spare bills, holding them aloft for Buck to take as a tip.

Examining them in his hand, the joviality hardened in Buck’s expression. “This is too much. Take one of these back,” he insisted, holding it out, but Bucky had already sprang back a couple of steps. Well out of reach, but nearly tripping over a nearby chair in the process.

“No! No, I tried to stiff you, so fair’s fair,” he laughed, even more so at Buck’s silently protracted, long-suffering look. Truly only he could manage to have a stick up his ass about someone trying to give him money, which he was still holding like it was going to grow sentience and take a bite out of his hand any minute.

“Anyway,” Bucky continued, “Consider it partly for that tip about Everett earlier, for helping us get Douglass out. A tip for a tip, if you will.”

"Who’s tip for what tip?”

Both of them whipped round in the direction of the voice, timed perfectly in the sudden silence between songs so it broadcasted crystal clear to everyone in the joint. Crosby wore an innocent enough look, hands full with a box of lemons ready to be sliced.

Not so innocent were those of Curt and Howard over in the corner, both with eyes like saucers, who’d overheard the whole thing.

“Who’s tip are we talkin’ about?!”

#clegan #buck x bucky #john bucky egan #gale buck cleven #masters of the air #AH I WROTE IT #and i have a lot planned so yay! #my roman empire atm #my writing #📝: firehouse!au

[barakittens517]

PT IV: The Discovering

Summary: In which Morpheus is socially clumsy and Ellis is morally gray.

PT III: The Reunion PT V: The Reckoning

Warnings: mentions of violence, brief (slightly graphic) character deaths- the end of the cereal convention

Words: 2,253

Pairing: Morpheus x gender neutral reader

Notes: A short blurb before things really pick up (:

Tag List: @ponyboys-sunsets, @i-am-not-a-raccoon-anymore

The Corinthian was perhaps your last chance to understand all of this Dreaming mess. If you truly did come from the Dreaming, and Morpheus believes you to have escaped, you will meet the same fate as the nightmare. 

The Dream Lord turns to address the crowd, and notices you standing, frankly out of breath, in the doorway. You run. 

There’s nowhere to go, but you run anyway. Forget the agony of living immortally, forget the curse of harming everyone you look at, you don’t want your existence to end as a pile of sand. You don’t want to confirm every awful thought you’ve had in passing- that you never meant anything here. 

You sprint to the parking lot and look around wildly for a way out of this damned place. You crouch behind the Corinthian’s convertible and attempt to catch your breath. Within minutes, you hear footsteps all around as a steady stream of serial killers walk slowly to their vehicles. 

There’s no way Morpheus would just let them go. Not if he knew what they were- and there’s no doubt, if he heard any of the Corinthian’s speech, that he knows what they are. 

It only takes a minute before the first gunshot is fired. You sink to the concrete as brain tissue splatters the window in front of you. 

You hear Dark Angel speaking with a 9-1-1 operator, explaining in gruesome detail the crimes she has committed. 

You cover your ears with your hands as tears stream down your face. All of this has been a fucking nightmare, and you’re awake. 

You know the cops will come soon. Dark Angel is not the only one to have called them. Whoever isn’t dead will spend their life in prison. And you cannot be one of them. 

You wipe the tears dripping off of your chin and try to collect yourself. You need to think clearly to get out of this. You left your bag in the auditorium, and you need it. You peer over the top of the car door. The lobby looks clear from here. You’re assuming Morpheus won’t stick around, not if he still needs to deal with the vortex. 

That poor girl. She didn’t ask to exist, either. Gods only know what will happen to the brother she leaves behind if Morpheus kills her. On the other hand, if she kills him… you may finally be free. 

Whatever that means. 

You walk into the lobby again, this time empty. There aren’t even hotel staff waiting at the front desk. Your backpack is sitting on a chair in the back of the auditorium, right where you left it. The place is like a ghost town now, eerie and empty. 

“You did not get very far,” Morpheus’ voice resounds from the stage. His words send a shiver of terror down your spine. 

You don’t respond, but you know there’s no use trying to get away this time. Outrunning Nimrod was one thing, but the God of Dreams?  

He’s standing next to you in an instant, and your heart jumps to your throat. He’s close enough now, you can see the galaxies whirling in the lining of his coat. You refuse to look him in the eyes. 

“You are one of my own,” he says, “but I do not know you.”

Ouch. 

“My name is Ellis,” you say quietly. You know that your name doesn’t matter. You’re just praying it all ends quickly. “That’s all I know.”

Morpheus nods, but it doesn’t change the stony expression on his face. How could he forget his own creation? “I regret there is no time to discuss… this.” He pauses. “But you belong in the Dreaming, and that is where you shall go.”

You are… crushed. You almost wish he would have just killed you then. You had thought, for a time, that your life had no meaning. And as stupid as it was, you had a glimpse of hope when the Corinthian had mentioned a Creator- someone who would know you, know your purpose. 

And now that you’ve met him face to face, you’re met with the harshest disappointment in over a century.

“I don’t know where that is,” you say. Just kill me, you want to scream. It’s not like it matters. 

Morpheus raises an eyebrow but chooses not to comment. “I will find someone to accompany you, then. I believe Matthew should be here in a moment.”

You stare down at the carpet beneath your feet, willing the tears in your eyes to go away. You have never felt this much shame, so much embarrassment just for existing the way that you do. 

“Boss, I know you’re not gonna believe it, but guess who I found,” a voice from just above you says. You look up to see a raven circling the room before landing on the back of the chair between you and Morpheus. 

“I’m sorry, what?” you ask- granted, a talking bird is not the weirdest thing you have witnessed in the past couple of days. 

The raven cocks its head to one side. “Who’s this?” he asks. 

Morpheus takes a moment, and you can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “One of my creations, Matthew. They belong in the Dreaming, if you’ll kindly take them back. Who have you found?” 

Matthew caws proudly. “Fiddler’s Green, sir. He was with Lucienne. He wanted to talk to you, personally.”

“Where is he now?” Morpheus asks. 

“Right here, my lord.” Fiddler’s Green appears in the doorway. The Dutch Uncle. You choose to take a seat before your legs collapse underneath you. “Hello, dear,” he says to you. 

“Hi.” 

Morpheus is visibly perplexed. “Fiddler’s Green, I do not have time for whatever this is. I need to find Rose Walker before the vortex gets any stronger.” 

“My lord, please, if you would hear me for just one moment. Take me, instead of Miss Walker. If anything, I deserve it. I left the Dreaming, lord, and I understand there are consequences. All I ask is that you spare the girl,” Fiddler’s Green says. 

Morpheus shakes his head. “It is regrettable, but that is something I cannot do. The vortex must be destroyed. You are not a vortex, Fiddler’s Green. I cannot spare the girl. But you may return to the Dreaming.”

The old man tears up, but nods. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.” 

“Take this one-” Morpheus points to you- “with you, please. Matthew, come with me.” The Dream Lord and his raven disappear in a whirlwind of sand. 

Does he not even remember your name? 

“Well, dear, we must be off, then,” Fiddler’s Green says. You follow him out without a word. 

You don’t even remember how you get to the Dreaming. One moment you’re in the parking lot, and the next, you’re standing before the ivory gates from your dream. The doors open for Fiddler’s Green easily, and you follow him on a path leading to a castle. 

He pauses before you reach the entryway. “I apologize, my dear, but I must leave you with Lucienne. I need to return to my place here. But Lucienne will be able to help you. She’s been with Lord Morpheus since the beginning. And good luck.” He pats you on the shoulder kindly before leaving.

You head into the castle alone and discover a giant, empty throne room. Parts of the walls and the staircase leading to the throne are crumbling, but you can tell even now that it was once a sight to behold. It still is. 

“And who are you?” a woman’s voice echoes from the stairs. 

“Ellis,” you answer cautiously. “I, uh… Morpheus sent me here.” 

The woman takes a moment to consider your answer. “Hello, Ellis. My name is Lucienne. I’m curious- why did the Dream Lord send you here? Are you a dream returning, then?” 

You shrug. “He said that this is where I came from, but he didn’t recognize me. Don’t really know what that means.” You try to sound light-hearted about it. More oops, what a fun mistake instead of oh my god what the fuck am I. 

Lucienne frowns. “That’s… odd. Lots of odd things going around recently, now that he’s back. I’ll, uh… I’ll have a look in the library.” She’s turned and disappeared down a corridor before you can even ask what she’s going to look for. 

You follow her to the castle library, mesmerized by the rows of books that seem to go on forever. Lucienne walks with purpose, all the way down until she turns a corner and disappears. 

You have the option to run, to chase her down before she gets too far. But you’re more intrigued by the books, with authors you’ve never heard of and titles that practically glow in gold and iridescence. 

This is not your average public library. 

You peek once more down the rows- Lucienne is nowhere to be found. You wander down the first couple of rows, stopping to inspect a few works by the classics; Shakespeare’s A Midwinter Day’s Hallucination and Jane Austen’s Shame & Neutrality confirm this is most infinitely not a normal place. 

And as much as you’d love to read the stories that never made it to the waking world, you’re drawn to the forgotten shelves in a darkened corner of the room. Judging by the amount of dust- and the cobweb you just straight up walked through- it hasn’t been visited in a very long time. 

They’re not the leather-bound, glowing titles you’ve seen. They’re black, hardcover books. No labels. The first one you open reveals a weathered stack of notes scribbled in cursive with ink blotches galore. It’s almost impossible to decipher. 

The second book is filled with sketches, rather than text. A few of the images are labeled, and some have been scratched out completely. You sift through the pages, and after a moment find a sketch that looks familiar- a face, grinning, and rows of teeth filling the space where eyes should be. 

Revelation  Corinthian..? Is scratched in cursive underneath. There are rough sketches all over the page, detailing various kinds of teeth, as well as a final draft on the next page. It looks exactly like Rin, the night you met him at the bar. 

These must be something like blueprints, then. Which means Morpheus could create the Corinthian again. A better version, one that maybe isn’t into serially killing humans. 

You flip a couple more pages and come to a detailed sketch of the most beautiful landscape you’ve ever seen. Flowers dot the grass, and trees perfect for climbing adorn the rolling hills. 

Fiddler’s Green, Morpheus has written at the bottom. Your mind flashes to The Dutch Uncle- he had manifested as human, but he was a place. You wish you knew where he had gone. Morpheus’ drawing, if accurate, makes it look like heaven.

You flip through a few more of the pages, mostly rough sketches and ideas scribbled in the columns. You have to stop, though, when you hear Lucienne speaking with someone. 

You can’t hear everything you’re saying, and you’re also distracted by the page that you’ve turned to. At one point or another, Morpheus had tried to create a companion. A soulmate. It’s obvious he didn’t get very far, but they’re beautiful. 

Morpheus had sketched what you assume are lilies in the columns- fleur de lis in cursive underneath the largest bouquet. You’re surprised the Dream Lord would want to create a companion. You’ve never seen him with anyone else, aside from the raven Matthew. 

Your ears perk up at the sound of Lucienne’s voice. “... No record of them in the Dreaming.”

“... Checked the census…?” You can barely pick out Morpheus’ question.

“Yes… If they are returning- like Fiddler’s… a record somewhere showing... I don’t understand…” Lucienne answers. 

“Rose Walker… gone... They are not… of the vortex,” Morpheus adds.

Your heart sinks. The more you learn, the more you’re convinced you really are a mistake. You can hear the Dream Lord dismiss Lucienne, and you know they’re going to be looking for you. If the vortex has been resolved, Morpheus will be coming for the rest of his wayward creations. You shudder at the thought of the Corinthian’s fate. 

On a whim, you tuck the hardcover book into your bag. You shrink down into the corner of the shelves and watch as Lucienne leaves the library. The door creaks loudly on the way out. You hold your breath, unsure of where exactly the Dream Lord ended up. Gods forbid he finds you eavesdropping, of all things.

You can hear footsteps, coming closer to your long-abandoned section of the library. You try to time your steps with his, at least enough that you can make it to the door without arousing suspicion. It still creaks as you open it agonizingly slowly, but assume Morpheus is too preoccupied to think much of it. 

And you’re right. He’s crouched down to run his fingers along the dusty, hardcover books filled with his own creations. They aren’t labeled, but he knows each of them, almost all by heart. And just as the library door creaks, and you awkwardly slide through a gap in the doorway, his eyes fall upon an empty space. 

He probably would not have noticed, perhaps if Lucienne had dusted more, or if you had let the books fall upon one another at an angle. He thinks for a moment- who would be so foolish as to steal from the Lord of Dreams? 

You.

PT V: The Reckoning

#the sandman #morpheus #dream of the endless #morpheus x reader #dream x gn! reader #the corinthian #netflix sandman

[erodasfishtacos]

#HendallReunited

prompt: request was to write broad but to write something angsty

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: language, sexual content, angst

Harry always had issues with saying ‘no’ to people. He never quite grew out of his manners even when he should have.

He said ‘yes’ to way too many things- signing autographs for rude fans and paparazzi, and agreed to way too many things Jeff suggested.

Saying yes to everything didn’t make his life any easier is the thing. Especially when it came to his wife. She was usually left with the aftermath of him being too nice.

The media painted Y/N in a negative light occasionally and so did the fans because she would stand up for Harry and not let him say ‘yes’ to every single request.

She would tell disrespectful fans he’s not signing autographs because of the way they were screaming and interrupting his work.

Harry wished he could do it himself - admired that his wife didn’t give a fuck what people thought about her. He cared entirely too much what the world would think.

The couple didn’t fight about much - no, not really. Normal couple stuff for the most part. But this was the exception, this is where Y/N found most of their turmoil.

Every few months it would rear it’s ugly head and they’d find themselves in the same position over and over again.

This time - it was really fucking bad.

The couple had been staying in their Los Angeles home for the last few months whilst the singer finalized his album and began promotion.

It was boring meeting among boring lunch outings to get all their ducks in a row. Jeff - his manager the main orchestrator.

He was a great manager and a good friend, but it was also business too which Harry didn’t always comprehend.

At the end of the day, Harry was making Jeff millions upon millions of dollars. But Harry didn’t think that way.

**

Harry was in a stuffy conference room at the The Late Late Show to work on the script and ideas for the show. Promo had been nonstop.

He was a bit tired as it was nearly just hitting eight in the morning and he had been up late with you - having some late night loving in the hot tub.

“As for guest - Kendall Jenner,” James Corden’s producer states. All the men agree but Harry is taken aback.

“Why...why would we have my ex-girlfriend as one of my guests?” Harry interrupts, confusion knitting his brows.

Kendall and him didn’t end on a bad note - not at all. They hooked up a few times after their ‘break-up’ but once he’d met Y/N she was understanding when he cut it off.

Y/N wasn’t necessarily jealous of the model, but didn’t love when they’d run into each other at events. She was still overtly flirty with Harry without much shame. 

Harry also didn’t have an desire to see her or host her as a guest on the show. She was nice but he wasn’t interested in being friends with her. They didn’t have much in common and he was head over heels for his wife.

“The media will eat it up, dude. Harry Styles and Kendall Jenner reunited on a show after four years?” Jeff smiles, the others nodding in amicable agreement.

This is one of this times where Harry needs to say “no,” that it’s disrespectful to his significant other to use an old flame for promo for his album.

He already knows ‘hendall’ will be trending within minutes and he can’t imagine how that would make his parter feel.

“I just...this doesn’t seem like a good idea?” Harry begins hesitantly, making it sound more like a question than a statement. 

“Why not?” Eric, one of the writers asks.

“Y’know, I’m married. I don’t think m’missus would appreciate if I did somethin’ like that just for promotion,” he states, scratching at his jaw uncomfortably.

“Look Styles, we’re not asking you to fuck the girl. It just a interview, c’mon,” The executive producer gruffs - wanting those guaranteed views.

Harry swallows - looking at his manager and then at everyone else at the table looking at him for an affirmative answer.

“Uh-sure,” Harry fumbles, feeling anxiety rise into his throat. Fuck, he’s such a god damn pushover.

He’s trying to find his voice to go back on his agreement but the meeting wrapping up and people are leaving with final handshakes.

**

Harry doesn’t know how to tell Y/N what is going on. He’d been keeping in stored in the back of his mind, not ready to have a blowout.

He never found the perfect time to bring it up and now it was too late. It was the morning of the show and he was due to be at the rehearsals this afternoon.

Harry had finally decided he was going to tell her this morning over coffee but forgot that she had a girl’s day planned with a few friends.

She was already out to breakfast with them when he woke up. His phone had one text from you.

Hi baby. I’m out with the girls. See you at the show tonight. I’ll meet you there around six! Love you!

He was fucked royally and he had no one to blame but himself. Maybe it’d be okay, maybe she’d roll her eyes and tell him he’s an idiot.

Realistically he knew that was just a sweet dream at this point.

—

Harry was fidgety and kept mucking up his lines during rehearsal as it got closer to the showtime and his missus arriving.

Kendall had arrived for hair and makeup without seeing her ex-boyfriend yet. He dreaded seeing the model.

Kendall and Y/N had met a few times at different events. It was always cordial. Kendall was always casual - their relationship was never more than a couple fun dates and sex.

They were kind to each other when they met but he couldn’t deny how much harder his partner kissed him on the mouth afterwards.

Before he know it, his wife is hugging him from behind as he talks to a producer about which cameras to look at.

Y/N noticed the way he tensed up at first and thought about how unusual that was for him. Normally, he’d lean back into her with his full weight causing them both to stumble and laugh.

He slowly, cautiously turns around and his face  relaxes a little bit but not completely. “Hi baby,” he hums, leaning in for a kiss.

“You look so handsome,” she replies, admiring his brown pinstriped suit and her pearl necklace that he’d snagged awhile back. She thought it looked better on him anyways.

“You look even better, s’fuckin’ pretty, love,” he gushes, coming back in for another kiss - a little too sensual for the setting.

She was donned in a cropped white shirt, showing of the smooth expanse of her tummy. An oversized blazer of Harry’s, ripped jeans, and heels. 

Harry thought fleetingly he couldn’t wait to fuck her after the show. Then remembered that mostly wouldn’t happen.

Reggie, the musical lead, slides up to you two. He smiles wide at you, saying, “Can’t believe you agreed to the guest this evening.”

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, Harry’s raise nearly to his forehead, but when she opens her mouth to ask him to explain they’re interrupted.

“Harry!” The leggy model trots over to the little group. Dressed in an interesting one-piece suit that has sewn in heels. She looked beautiful as ever, of course she was a model.

Both of them turn towards the oblivious girl, “Kendall,” Harry replies with a twinge of anxiety - eyes repeatedly looking at his significant other’s profile as multiple emotions flash.

“Hiya, you’re Y/N right?” Kendall smiles kindly, offering her manicured hand.

She accepts, “Yeah, uh-good to see you again.”

Harry knew she had connected the dots quickly in her head. The hurt, confusion, had hit her eyes before narrowing into full-blown rage at her partner.

“I promise I’ll go easy on him,” Kendall jokes before pinching at Harry’s cheek teasingly. The model was a natural flirt with everyone she got along with.

“Oh, sure,” she replies lamely, attempting to not let her feelings burst out in that moment with her husband . She knew it wasn’t Kendall’s fault.

“I’m going to go grab a bite to eat. I’m probably gonna puke when we do ‘spill or fill’. See you guys soon,” the model waves before trailing off with her assistant.

“Did you kn- of course you knew she was your guest,” Y/N seethes, turning to fully face the guilt-stricken-singer.

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact, “I did.”

“How long have you known for?” She demands to know, keeping her voice at an angry whisper to not draw attention.

Harry wasn’t going to lie to his love, “About two weeks.”

Y/N replies with a laugh, “let me guess, you let Jeffrey talk you into this bullshit, again.”

His silence is all she needs to know it’s true.

“For Christ’s sake, of course,” She huffs bitterly, “what’s even worse is you didn’t fucking tell me. What the fuck?”

Harry bites his lip, not able to rasp out anything but a pathetic, “m’sorry, love.”

He wasn’t usually good at taking responsibility during a fight. He was stubborn at best but he couldn’t deny his way out of this.

“You will be, you-“

They were cut off by the staff, the audience was trailing in and Harry needed to get mic’d up now.

“This conversation isn’t over,” she points her finger at his chest before storming off to the side of the stage where she’d watch from.

Fucking shit.

**

Harry was a performer. It’s easy for him to push things to the back of his mind so he can entertain a enamored audience.

But tonight, he was struggling. Eyes flicking over to the teleprompter more than usual, his demeanor not as vivid and carefree.

Not when his wife was glaring daggers at him from stage right. Her hand constantly at her mouth, biting at her nails - a nervous tick of hers.

“Next up, the one, the only, the beautiful model and one of my good friends, Kendall Jenner!” Harry introduces when she walks out and waves at the crowd.

They hug and when they pull apart they step over to where they were playing the game. Either answer the question or eat a nasty food picked out by the other.

They weren’t allowed to see each other’s questions before the game started- both going on blind which put Harry more on edge.

“Okay, Kendall. Rank the members of One Direction on most to least attractive or you will be eating...” Harry spins the table, “Cow tongue.”

She flinched at the disgusting plate, smirking up at Harry before considering her course of action, “I think I can answer this one.”

He wasn’t looking forward to her answer. Neither was Y/N by the way she nearly shaking her foot off her leg.

“Okay, I got this. You - the most attractive, then uh- Zayn....Louis...Niall...Liam,” she laughs, “but all of you are hot!”

Harry fake laughs and acts like he’s impressed by her answer as the crowd roars and cheers. 

When Kendall picks up her notecard - she laughs in surprise at the question before looking at him with bright eyes.

“Okay, um, bull penis!” She giggles before starting the question, “I’m dying to know this answer. So...your first album HS1 was released four years ago, correct?”

He nods, apprehensive.

“Which songs were about me? Especially was only angel?” She laughs at Harry’s pale expression before without another thought he shovels the rancid food into his mouth.

Harry looks off to the side to see that his missus is no longer sitting there. Just Jeff - who gives him a thumbs up.

**

The first thing he did when the show ended and the lights dimmed was bolt off to Jeff - ignoring Kendall who was about to say something to him.

“Where’d Y/N go?”

He thought she might have went out to get a breathe of fresh air but for the next hour and a half he hasn’t seen her once.

“She said she wasn’t feeling very good. She told me to tell you she’d meet you at home,” Jeff shrugs unbothered.

“Damnit!” Harry curses loudly, ripping out of the microphone and the little pack in his back waistband.

“Harry,” Jeff scolds at his unprofessionalism that was abnormal for him.

“No! Don’t fucking ever ask me to do shit like this again. You fucking knew what questions were on those notecards and you said it wasn’t anything about our previous relationship.”

“Harry-“

“Don’t fucking talk to me. You’re a real shit manager sometimes, you know that? Do not contact me tonight or tomorrow for that matter, you douchebag,” Harry barks before storming off towards the dressing rooms.

All the employees were standing around in shock, staring at the popstar as he ignored everyone around him.

Harry was famously known for being a kind, amicable guy. So it took everyone by surprise to hear him speak like that. Even Jeff was shaken up a little.

—

The house was pitch-black as Harry pulled up. The house’s first floor was lined with large, bay windows and not a single light was on.

He could find one room illuminated which was your bedroom. A dim side lamp must have been flicked on. He imagined her purposely turning off all the lights on the trek up the staircase.

Harry didn’t want to admit how much he was trembling with awful nerves and anticipation as he slowly turns the knob of the shared bedroom.

Y/N wasn’t laying in bed as he expected but found the bathroom door shut tightly. He noticed a little yellow bag with tissue paper off to the side by a dresser.

He knocks on the oak door, not daring to enter without permission.

“What do you want?” Y/N answers, tone flat and emotionless. 

“Can I come in, baby? Please...” He wasn’t ashamed to beg for forgiveness at this point. Hearing the emptiness in her tone scared him shitless.

“I really could care less,” She replies coldly from her spot in the scalding water decorated with bubbles.

Harry had never felt more unsure in his life as he enters the bathroom.  Y/N had gotten proper pissed at him or vice versa before - right before a concert, an award ceremony but she’d never left without him.

Her head was laying against the foam headrest and her body was covered by the soap water. She looked tired and her eyes were puffy from crying.

Harry kneels next to the tub, “look at me, please pet.”

 Y/N takes a moment before turning her head and opening her eyes. They were distant, disappointed in the man in front of her.

“I should have told you about Kendall. I should have put up more of a fight to get someone else on instead,” Harry admits, his hands desperately wanting to reach out for her.

She shakes her head with a heart-wrenching sniffle, “it’s not just tonight, Harry. We’ve had this conversation continuously for three and a half fucking years. You try to please everyone, despite them giving no fucks about you.”

“Are you that much of a pushover? You let your ex-girlfriend flirt with you in front of millions. Do you know how embarrassing and unfair that it to me?” She wipes at her eyes to stop the tears spilling over.

Harry hadn’t thought of it like that - to be honest. But he agrees, it wasn’t fair and downright cruel to do that to her.

What? All because he couldn’t say ‘no’ because he didn’t want people to be mad at him? It was pathetic and ridiculous.

“I-I won’t let it happen again, lovie. I mean it, I truly do,” Harry whimpers reaching over to cup her cheek and wants to cry when she pushes him away.

“You’re a broken record. You’ve said that a million times before but don’t change,”  Y/N points out, eyes boring furiously into his wife’s.

“I’m goi-“

She cuts him off with a sharp edge in her tone, “Just leave me alone, get out.”

The man’s face crumbles and for a second, she wants to just end the fight and makeup but then nothing would change.

“Baby-“

“Get out!” She finally bellows, tears streaming down her face steadily.

He obliges, head hung in defeat as he closes the door behind him. He stands there’s blankly for a second before going to the walk-in closet.

He’s pulling out a fresh pair of cotton underwear and a large sleepshirt for his partner, laying them neatly on the bed.

Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself while he waits so he pulls out his phone to mindlessly scroll.

He throws it against the wall when he sees #hendallreunited is trending number one on Twitter at the moment.

The singer strips down to his briefs and sits with his back against the tufted headboard, staring blankly at the wall.

His eyes catch a neon pink pair of his swimshorts tossed carelessly on the decorative vase in the corner of the room from the night before .

“Fuck, baby - no need to rush,” Harry groans into Y/N ‘s mouth as she pushes him until he’s sat on the edge of their California king.

She reaches impatiently for the tie on his neon pink swimshorts and yanks them off his slim, peach-fuzz thighs before throwing them onto the vase without a care that it was worth over twenty-thousand pounds.

After edging her in the hot tub with his fingers and mouth, she wasn’t waiting any longer before clambering onto his lap, pulling her swim bottoms to the side, and sinking onto him.

He felt guilty when his cock twitched at the thought of it. But when reality set back in, the arousal with the memory evaporated.

It isn’t much longer until the door is pulled open and  Y/N’s padding into the room with a towel secured around her.

She looks at the clothes Harry set out for her and pointedly walks past them to pick out her own nightwear. 

That really shouldn’t make his eyes tear up as he watches her slide on a similar pair of panties and an oversized shirt. Spotting a purpling bruise on her upper in thigh from his mouth.

 Y/N silently walks past the bed and to the bedroom door, looking back before bleakly stating, “I’m going to sleep in the guest room.”

He frowns, wrinkles appearing on his forehead, “You can sleep in here, love. I’ll take the guest room.”

Harry doesn’t get a reply as she just shakes her head and closes the door loudly behind her. 

It’s just - he’s never seen her this upset. She was usually fantastic at communicating her feelings and hashing things out.

She wasn’t one for the silent treatment or ignoring the topic. It had his chest rising faster than usual with anxiety. The serious of it overwhelming him.

He states at the wall for a very long time without wiping the fat tears brimming over his trembling lips.

*

He couldn’t sleep - it was half past three and he hadn’t even laid down or clicked off the lamp.

Harry accepted sleep wasn’t coming so he begins to tidy the already clean room. He picks up the shorts and tossing them in the hamper.

He refolds some joggers he’d carelessly shoved in a drawer and when he went to move the little yellow bag - curiosity got the best of him.

There was no card and he wasn’t sure who it was for or if it had been a gift already give to Y/N that she had returned home with.

Harry really shouldn’t - but he does. Gently tugging out the paper and reaching in to feel fabric.

Pulling it out, it takes him a minute to identify what it is - two baby onesie. Who was having a baby?

He lays them in front of him, eyes widening in surprise as he reads what is printed across the black cotton.

The first one was the colors and font of his upcoming tour merch with the photo he used on his tour announcement with the heeled boot and white pants.

Love on Tour - Due Date: September 2025

With Special Guest Appearance from Baby Styles

The second one was simple and read across the chest:

I’m having your baby (and it is your business) with embroidered kiwis all of over it.

He frantically reached back into the bag to pull out a bundle of pregnancy tests tied with a silk bow.

They weren’t necessarily trying for a baby but they’re weren’t not trying either. Harry wanted a baby as soon as his missus was willing to give him one.

“No, no, don’t one,” she’d whined into his mouth when he’d reached over to grab a condom off the nightstand.

“Oh sweet thing, you want me bare? Fill you up?” He croons happily, coming back to grip at his thick base and tease at her entrance.

“Ye-yeah, H. Please,” (Y/N) whimpers, bucking her hips in the hope he’d slip inside her.

Harry hums, “Might give you a baby though, y’want me to knock you up?”

“Want it, wan-“

He cuts her off with a hard, blissful kiss as he thrusts all the way inside before pulling out to do it again. 

“Gonna give it to you, whatever you want, lovie,” he promises.

The two had never used protection afterwards. It had start about seven months ago and from his knowledge she’d still been getting her periods regularly.

Occasionally, he would palm at her flat tummy and pout, “Haven’t put a baby in you yet, ‘ave I?”

He was so ecstatic but disappointed in himself for ruining everything and pleasing everyone other than who he should be.

Harry needed to fix this. He didn’t want Y/N to lose the excitement of having their baby over a dumb choice of his.

The man’s out of the room and not knocking before entering their guest room. His now pregnant love is laying on-top of the covers.

One hand subconsciously on her belly - which she removes and places next to her when her wife walks in.

The television was on but the volume was low and Y/N wasn’t watching it in the first place anyways.

Harry sits on the edge of the bed, “I opened the yellow bag.”

She looks at him with wide eyes, a little taken aback. she was going to surprise him tonight and forgot to store it away for another time after the fight.

Harry has happy tears dribbling down his cheeks, “you’re having my baby?”

Y/N nods, running a slight hand through his curls. She still had a nasty knot of anger and uncertainty in the pit of her stomach.

It pains her, wanting to share this moment of excitement with Harry but she just couldn’t. The uncertainty of whether Harry would put everybody’s needs before his own baby.

“Come back to bed, want t’talk and celebrate. M’so bloody excited,” Harry murmurs, a large smile decorating his face as he smooths a palm over the expanse of her tummy.

His wife shakes her head and places a hand over his, feeling the cold metal of all of them. “I want to be left alone.”

The twinkle in Harry’s eye diminishes to devastation as he realizes that he’s fucked up so badly that she doesn’t even want to celebrate.

“Pet, can...we just forget about it tonight and be happy ‘bout the baby?” Harry asks selfishly, knowing it was unlikely she’d agree.

She didn’t, a firm expression on her face, “no, I have a lot to think about.”

“Like wha’?” He asks anxiously, unknowing of quite the reason she was so furious.

“Like how you say yes to everything and everyone. We talk and talk about how you need to say ‘no’ and do what’s best for you - for us. You agree to and never follow through”

She takes a shaky breath and continues, “it’s affected our relationship before when you’ve had to cancel our vacation away from all this for a charity concert you’d agree to perform at last minute, dinner reservations because you told your friend we’d be at their art showing they wanted you at.”

Harry knew she was right. He did those things. He wanted everyone to be happy with him - to a fault.

“Tonight was just icing on the cake, you allowed your manager to talk you into hosting your ex on that show. Out of all the people in the world - her. With flirty questions and jabs from her. You let that happen. You care about making everyone happy but in return you don’t care how it affects me. That’s pretty shitty.”

“I’m...I’m really fucking scared you’ll do that even when we have the baby. I need you to put them first and right now...I’m not sure if you’re going to. You can’t put the person you want to spend the rest of your life with first now, how do I know you’ll do it with the baby?”

Harry chokes out a sob as he presses his forehead against the bed, his broad shoulders shaking. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried this hard - years ago maybe. He felt like his wife didn’t have any faith in him and he was to blame.

He looks up at her with swollen eyes - at a loss for what to do or say. He loved her so much and was over the moon that they were going to have a baby.

“How do I fix this, darling? You’re right, I really fucked up. M’sorry,” Harry cries, grabbing at her hands and she allows it.

“Just saying you’re sorry won’t fix it,” Y/N replies flatly, letting Harry squeeze and kiss at the backs of her hands.

“Then what do I bloody do to fix this?” Harry raises his voice in frustration, staring in bewilderment at his wife. 

Y/N narrows her eyes at him, “Do not raise your voice at me, Harry. Actions speak louder than words.”

Harry swallows harshly, pressing one finally kiss to her hand. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She repeats.

“I love you, I’ll fix this,” he promises with conviction. He knew what he needed to do and do it tomorrow. So he and his wife could enjoy her new pregnancy.

“I need space tonight, I just...please”Y/N says quietly, rubbing at his shoulder.

It wasn’t the first time they’ve slept in separate rooms because they weren’t getting along but they normally found their way back to each other before sunrise.

Harry nods, lip still tremble with the residual anxiety of the conversation. She allows him to press a soft kiss to her mouth before leaving the room.

—-

Cafe Habana was busy - but no one was paying much attention to Harry and Jeff. It was the morning after and Harry had demanded a meeting over breakfast with his manager.

“Y/N pregnant,” Harry states bluntly after their drinks arrive.

“Oh? Congratulations, dude. That’s exciting!” Jeff leans over to pat him on the shoulder, a big smile.

“The baby is due in September. My next tour starts in next July. The baby will be about nine months. I want to be at home with them for the first year.”

Jeff doesn’t look pleased, “what are you getting at Harry?”

“Reschedule the July and August tour dates. Tack them on to the end of the tour,” Harry lays out flat. 

He hadn’t talk to his wife about this but he knew this was how he could prove that he could say ‘no’ and not be a pushover.

“No Harry. Look I get you’re excited about the baby - but that will be such a fucking hassle,” Jeff frowns, sipping his mimosa.

“I’m not asking, Jeff. I’m telling you that’s what needs to happen,” Harry replies firmly, tone strong and unwavering.

Jeff is definitely taken aback by his client’s conviction. 

“While we’re on the topic, do not ever put me in a situation like you did yesterday. It affected my wife and I. And I will choose her over this career any day.”

The manager nods in surprise, “Harry, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not asking for an apology but if you ever pull something like then I’ll be looking for a new management team. Are we clear?” 

Jeff once again nods, unsure of where this is coming from but at the thought of losing his biggest client would be disastrous so he’d do whatever to accommodate him.

“Consider it done,” he tells Harry before clearing his throat in a slight panic.

—

Y/N woke up to an empty house. She was restless, she asked Harry to prove to her that he could be what she needed. However, it was a bit unfair because she didn’t know how he could do it.

It’s just…she had a baby to think about. They both needed to be put first and if it took a gnarly fight for Harry to realize it...so be it.

“Baby? Love, where are you?” She hears Harry echo through the whole house. She was sat in the kitchen, on a stool by the island, idly sorting through mail.

“In here!”

Harry jogs in, panting like he sprinted from the garage up to the kitchen. He comes to stand in front of the love of his life.

“I might have not completely fixed everything but...I tried,” Harry tells her, cradling her face in his large palms. “ I just got back from lunch with Jeff. I told him about the baby.”

He takes a deep breath before continuing, “I rescheduled tour dates so I can be with you guys at home in London for the first year. Then...maybe you guys can join me after?”

“Harry…” she’s at a loss for words.

“And I told Jeff that if he ever puts me in a situation like that again, I’m firing him.”

Y/N stares at him, in awe and admiration of the man she chose to marry and keep forever. His face was so sincere and vulnerable.

Harry didn’t know whether it would be enough. If it wasn’t he’d keep trying but all he could do was hope. He waited with bated breath as she processed his words.

“Baby, you-for me?” She murmurs as she stands up and crowds into his space. He instantly wraps her up into a tight hug, missing her touch.

“Of course, pet. I’d do anything for you, I mean it. I’d quit this whole career if you wanted tha’,” he tells her truthfully - lips brushing her forehead.

“I love you, so so much,” Y/N murmurs, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“We’re havin’ a baby,'' Harry sighs dreamily into her mouth, tongue sliding against hers. A large hand came to palm at her belly.

“Yeah, m‘having your baby,” She giggles as he begins to trail the kisses down her jaw and neck - pressing her into the marble countertop.

“Should we name it Kiwi?” Harry rasps as he slides the tank top strap off her shoulder so his lips can meet the cap of her warm shoulder.

“We are not going to be that celebrity couple who names their baby something weird,” Y/N groans as he grounds his hips into hers with intent.

THE END

#harry styles #harry styles fic rec #fic rec #harry styles masterlist #harry styles writing #harrystylesfanfic #harry styles imagine #fanpic harry #harry styles prompt #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles drabble #harry styles blurb

[inkykeiji]

you got the world, but baby at what price?

emma said: just come sit w me and bask in the radiant glow of sugar daddy natsuo (... and so i did.)

character: todoroki natsuo

genre: sugar daddy AU! smut + angst

notes: AH sugar daddy natsuo is finally here!!!! please, please heed the warnings for this piece, it gets quite dark at the end. A VERY SPECIAL THANK YOU TO @apollosfallen​ for allowing me to take one of their brother’s traits and slap it on natsuo hehehe | title cred: million dollar man by lana del rey

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, extremely toxic relationship (possessiveness, codependency, threatening suicide, manipulation, slight yandere tendencies), touya is such a meanie, drugs, sadism, noncon, overstimulation/edging/orgasm denial as a form of punishment, physical abuse (slaps to the face, natsuo and touya can both be quite rough with the way they grab reader), face fucking, size difference/size kink, belly bulge, noncon/dubcon exhibitionism (facetiming), dysfunctional families, natsuo is quite unstable underneath it all, death threats, minimal prep, no aftercare (it ends before the aftercare could begin!), age gap, knife play, blood, hair pulling, degradation, dacryphilia

words: 12.4k

synopsis:

But Natsuo—Natsuo is not the untrained eye. Natsuo didn’t work his way into this life, Natsuo was born into it, into the lush lap of luxury; Natsuo can see it, the way the corners of this puzzle piece curl and fray from misuse, the veiny creases and cracks it bears from maltreatment, the remnants of the faded picture it had once displayed, peeking out from under the glamourous, glossy paint that now coats it, a pretty varnish that attempts to conceal those memories.

And Natsuo—Natsuo wants.

You loved this country club—he could tell. It was practically protocol at this point, to see you prancing around in your cute little outfits with a milky drink cupped precociously between your soft hands, teasing the straw between your teeth and batting your eyelashes at the attendants; or to find you sprawled out on one of the lavish lounge chairs lining the pool, designer sunglasses hiding those gorgeous eyes as fingers idly toy with the thin pages of a well-worn pulp novel, every single Saturday.

It was almost expected now; probable, predictable.

But there is one teensy, tiny, irritating little thing that’s forever constant with your presence: you always have that boy—the one with spiky onyx hair that almost gleams purple when caught in the right light—trailing after you like he was born and bred to do it, eyes glimmering and entirely engrossed, engaged, enticed as you speak, airily waving a hand.

Which translates to: Natsuo’s never been able to get close to you.

You’ve been frequenting this particular country club for just over two months now, though he’s positive he’s seen you before this, positive he’s caught fleeting glimpses of you—a periwinkle sundress, a playful giggle, a precious smile—at the other prestigious clubhouses that dot Japan, scattered among the golf courses.

It would’ve happened eventually, he knew it would’ve, waiting patiently in the shadows and watching for the day it finally transpires, the day you arrive at the clubhouse alone, staff so familiar with you that they don’t even bother asking to see your membership card as you breeze through the glistening glass doors embellished with intricate gold piping, greeting them with a polite, prized smile, just as you always do.

They must be just as enthralled, entranced, enchanted with you as he is. Not that such a fact comes as any sort of shock or surprise; Natsuo’s sure you’ve been doing this for years, working hard to perfect your posture, your tones and lilts, the gentle twitches of your features, daintily imitating whatever emotion the occasion calls for.

Because you’re a fucking pro at it. You nearly had him fooled.

Nearly.

And, really, to the untrained eye, you truly did look like you belonged, a puzzle piece that fits perfectly into the intricate landscape, filled of pines and grassy knolls that sway in the gentle breeze, of gleaming sports cars and glittering champagne flutes that delicately clink together, of sparkling diamonds and pressed designer clothes, clinging to your curves if they’ve been tailored specifically for you.

Yes, you almost fit.

But Natsuo—Natsuo is not the untrained eye. Natsuo didn’t work his way into this life, Natsuo was born into it, into the lush lap of luxury; Natsuo can see it, the way the corners of this puzzle piece curl and fray from misuse, the veiny creases and cracks it bears from maltreatment, the remnants of the faded picture it had once displayed, peeking out from under the glamourous, glossy paint that now coats it, a pretty varnish that attempts to conceal those memories.

And Natsuo—Natsuo wants.

The fated day comes one sweltering Saturday in July, his heart nearly jumping from between the ribs that cage it when he sees you alone in the pool, adorned in a little white one-piece, gentle waves of water lapping against your waist, with zero disregard for the expensive diamonds hanging from your ears, or the shimmering string of pearls around your neck.

Chin resting on your folded arms, you’re gazing up at the pool boy with glittering eyes, batting your eyelashes at the suitable times, lips molding into the cutest pout when appropriate, bottom lip jutted out just a hint as you speak through it.

“Ah, I must’ve forgotten it in the locker room,” he catches you sighing the moment he’s within hearing distance. “Oh, mister, please don’t make me get out of the pool,” your head lifts, tilting to the side as your pout deepens, perfect puppy-dog eyes glued to the guy’s face. “It’s such a beautiful day, please don’t make me get out of the water,”

And the poor kid looks like he’s struggling, entirely captivated by your stare, wide eyes never leaving yours as his tongue trips over his words. “Miss,” he begins, hoarse, strained, sounding nearly pained as he tries to deny you. “I-I—It isn’t my fault—I mean, it isn’t up to me, miss, but if it were—”

“Oh,” you frown, sounding genuinely distressed, disappointed by his answer. Infinitesimal trembles have your chin quivering, have the boy squatting to be eye-level with you, uncontrollable words spilling from his lips in haste, in urgency.

“No, no, you-you’re right! It’s gorgeous out today, you shouldn’t have to leave the pool just for some, uh, stupid protocol—not when I see you around here so often. I-I think I can let it slide, just this once,”

The melancholy is eradicated from your features in an instant, expression morphing into one of perfectly practiced joy, of gratitude and appreciation, eyes lighting up as you thank him kindly, graciously, vowing to him that this will be our little secret, promise punctuated with the prettiest giggle Natsuo’s ever heard.

“Yeah,” the young man breathes, head nodding vigorously. “O-Our little secret, yeah,”

“Shh,” you hush, a dainty finger pressed against your pursed lips, and he laughs loudly, imitating the motion before he finally takes his leave, nearly tripping over his own ankles when he looks back to capture one final glimpse of you.

You watch as he leaves, wiggling your fingers at him in the form of a wave, until he’s completely out of sight.

“You don’t have a membership card, do you,”

“Of course I don’t,” you begin, turning back to face Natsuo—now crouched in the exact same position as the pathetic pool boy was only moments ago—face decorated with a self-assured smirk and a raised eyebrow, like you knew he’d be there. “How long have you been standing in those shadows and watching me for?”

A genuine bubble of laughter barrels past his lips, and your smile stretches wider, observing him with those sparkling eyes. Alright, you’re good, he’ll give you that.

“Too long for you not to go on a date with me,”

“You’re cheesy,” your chest vibrates with an elegant giggle, a genuine giggle, a gentle breeze through shimmering wind chimes—and it’s nothing like the one you had given the boy, smothered in thick syrup and dusted with icing sugar. No, this one is real, this one is his. “And I’m taken,”

“No, you’re not,” he retorts casually, a smirk of his own etched into his lips.

Head quirking and brows knitting, you stare at him, gaze studying his features slowly. He stays still, lets you scrutinize him, allows you to attempt to read him, suppressing the triumphant smirk that pulls at the corners of his lips when your shoulders sag a little, defeated.

“No, I’m not,” you say slowly, finally, smile dropped from your face, voice almost somber, almost solemn, stitched together with notes of sadness and laced with a startling sobriety.

“Not really,”

“Not really,” you agree, swallowing thickly and glancing away from his inquisitive eyes, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth and chewing, contemplating. Turning back to him, a sudden and fierce fire glows in your eyes, eyebrows pinched and words soaked in derision, in accusation, in fear.

“So then, why are you here?” you pause, eyes searching his, frantic in their erratic movements this time, your perfect and pristine, painstakingly crafted mask melting to pieces. “Huh? Why are you talking to me if you know wh—what I am,” the word nearly strangles you, and your jaw clenches, molars grinding, chest deflating with a harsh exhale, regarding him with a glower. “Gonna rat me out?”

And he has to admit, he’s surprised by the sudden hostility, by the massive spiked walls that’ve suddenly shot up to surround you, to defend you, to protect you. It must show on his face, must bleed through his handsome features, because your expression softens, fire in your gaze dimmed to flickering embers, blinking twice.

But more than that, he’s intrigued. Because he knows girls like you, girls who use their charm, their soft curves and gentle femininity to get whatever the hell they want, to bend and twist and snap rich men to their every need and desire, beck and call. Because he’s seen girls like you, the sweet ones, the innocent ones, the ‘I didn’t do anything’ ones, little angels with sharp talons and forked tails and pretty little horns that sit daintily atop their heads.

Because despite all of this, and despite how disgustingly cliché it sounds, there’s something different about you, something off, something that paints you as a challenge, a pretty prize that he wants to break and then glue back together his way; something to create, to mold, to own.

“No,” he says softly with a short shake of his head. “I’m not gonna rat you out. I genuinely want to take you on a date,”

“Why?”

“Why not?” he pauses, waits patiently for an answer, then sighs when you refuse, instead turning away, resting your elbows on the stone lining the edges of the pool. “Why are you so suspicious?”

“Because I know who you are,” you snap, eyes darting to his for a moment before rolling back in your skull with a huff.

And oh, he’s sure you do; renowned ‘miracle’ doctor Natsuo Todoroki, with his famous tech giant daddy, screw up of an older brother and model of a baby brother always saturating the pages of the latest magazines.  

A sadistic smirk tugs at his lips. It appears you have an attitude problem. But that’s not an issue, you can work on correcting it together.

“Oh yeah?” he chuckles, though the sound is teasing, imbued with something more than just amusement, flipping his sandals off before sitting on the edge with you, muscular calves submerged in the sparkling water. “And who’s that?”

“You’re a Todoroki,” head shaking, you roll your eyes again, clicking your tongue in annoyance. “You’d have to be living under a fucking rock not to know who you are, who your stupid family is,”

“Language,” he corrects instantaneously, instinctively, voice firm and sharp as it slices through the air, a special, specific type of giddiness filling his chest at your flinching response, wide eyes flying to meet his as an apology stammers past your lips promptly. Perfect, just as you should be. Hard features relax after a moment longer, and he laughs again. “My stupid family, huh? Would’a thought a precious little princess like you’d’ve been jumping at the opportunity to join,”

“I have morals, too,” you hiss, eyes narrowing in disgust. But he can see you wavering, can see the daydreams shimmering in your eyes—of luxurious cruises and glamorous penthouses, white sand beaches and crystal clear waters—because if you know who he is, if you know who his stupid family is, then you know that he’s richer than this whole country club combined.

“So you just prey on innocent, unsuspecting 20-something year-olds entirely oblivious to your harlot ways, huh,”

“Basically,” you agree simply and he snorts. You’re so unpredictable—a challenge to tame, to be sure.

“What, are 30-something year-old Daddies like me too boring?”

Lips part, a sharp gust of air sucked between them at the drop of the word, and Natsuo just can’t help the predatory smirk that spreads across his lips. Oh, he’s got you now. You recover quickly, licking your lips and swallowing. When you speak again, your voice is high.

“N-No,” the response quivers, nose turned up just a little. “They’re just easier, and surprisingly less clingy,”

Natsuo hums in thought, a silence settling between the two of you. Sharp stone eyes watch you carefully, noting the way trembling fingers twist and tangle in the pearls decorating your neck, the way your eyes can’t help but flit back to his handsome face, the way your chest flutters as he inhales to speak.

“Then, how about an…alliance?”

“An alliance?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “A mutually beneficial agreement,”

An absurd laugh bubbles past your lips, both palms smacking over your mouth to muffle it.

“Like a—Like a sugar daddy?” you ask when you’ve recovered, residual giggles still tickling your throat.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to you calling me Daddy, sweetheart,”

Blinking rapidly, you look away again, desperately trying to collect your composure. “Y-You can’t be serious,” your gaze stays trained on the gentle waves of water lapping against your waist and Natsuo frowns. “There’s no way—This is some kind of cruel joke, isn’t it? Something to ‘teach me a lesson’ or—”

A large hand cups your jaw, chin gripped firmly between a thumb and a forefinger.

“Look at me,” he’s saying as he turns your head, somehow both stern and soft at the same time, his hand forcing your gaze to his, bright grey eyes burning into yours. “Does it look like I’m kidding? Do I look like the type of guy who has time to play juvenile games like that?”

“N-No,” the word is just a huff of breath, exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing on your chin.

“No.” he repeats. “Because I don’t. My offer is a serious one,”

“Why?”

And you hate the way your voice trembles, hate the way the word fades into a strained little whisper, hate the way it’s oozing with hurt and worry and insecurity. He can tell, can see it in the way your brow twitches in irritation, can hear it in the harsh breath exhaled through flared nostrils.

Natsuo shrugs, eyes still holding yours. “Because I’m intrigued by you,” he answers honestly. “I want to get to know you better. And, in turn, you’ll stop taking advantage of those poor rich boys, yeah?” A smile spreads across your lips at that—just a tiny one, but enough to crack the hardening trepidation coating your features, shoulders beginning to relax as some of the tension is alleviated.  

“That the only condition?”

“More or less,” he pauses for a moment, voice grave and serious when he speaks again. “If you agree to this, you’re mine and mine alone, you understand?” gunmetal eyes search your face slowly, looking for traces of apprehension, hints of dishonesty and deceit.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” At your hesitance, he persists. “Promise I’ll treat you better, spoil you better,” he leans down, plush lips suddenly against your ear, brushing the cartilage as he continues in a whisper. “Fuck you better, than they ever could—than they ever will,” A shiver skitters up your spine, and he pulls back with a smirk. “What do you say, princess? Be my baby?”

And you—Well, you’ve never been more fucking stupid in your life.

✰          ✰          ✰

It happens so rapidly, that neither of you seem to notice it until it’s already consumed you entirely.

It starts with demands that you throw everything away; every piece of jewellery and item of clothing, every shiny appliance and shimmering electronic, all of those items the other subpar men had ever bought you, Natsuo proudly vowing to replace them all with things that are newer, things that are better.

And he does.

He buys you more jewels—strings of pearls and clusters of diamonds that are bigger, prettier, glossier than anything you’ve ever owned before—that are more expensive than all the rich men you’ve ever dated combined.

He fills your closet with only the daintiest silks and softest cashmeres, linen and lace that clings to the curves and contours of your body like sleek water streaming over smooth rocks, fluid in the way it flows so gracefully with each of your movements.

He makes good on his promise, the one he boldly declared the first day you met, and fucks you better than anyone ever has, with a cock thicker and bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, felt, rode, until you’re nothing more than a stupid little mess of your own drool and tears.

And it’s easy, effortless, to fall into a routine of domesticity with him, to start spending every waking hour with him, to move in with him—to become completely and wholly dependent on him.

It’s easy to move into his ridiculous mansion when you get to fill multiple closets with dresses and sweaters and skirts and shoes and filthy expensive lingerie. It’s easy to give up every ounce of your free time when he’s taking you out for extravagant dinners and impromptu trips across the world. It’s easy to obey his every beck and call, his every request and demand—like your banking information and social security number—when he pays for—and now owns—everything.

It’s easy to get you to submit to him when he could just as easily snatch all of these things from your grasp and leave you stranded, broke and alone.

He’s only doing all he does for your own good, baby, he promises. Daddy just wants the best for his baby, that’s all, he swears: the best food, the best clothes, the best university, the best whatever-you-fucking-desire, materializing in your hands before you’re even finished asking for it.

And, oh, he’s so sweet, he puts the title of ‘sugar daddy’ to shame—that is, until he doesn’t get what he wants; until you don’t give him what he wants. It’s difficult not to be fooled by his compassionate façade, painted so skillfully across his face it almost looks permanently fused to his features; or by his sugary voice, dipped in honey and rolled in sprinkles: he won’t hesitate to take things away, or to hold things over your head—important things, things he knows you care about; like your education, for example, the education that he pays for, he never fails to remind you—when he doesn’t get what he asked for, what you agreed to.

Because that’s what this whole arrangement is after all, isn’t it? Daddy buys you pretty, shiny things, gives you a gorgeous mansion to prance around in and pays for the most prestigious schooling, and your job, little one, is to do whatever the fuck he asks, right?

Right.

And even though you’re pretty sure he’s lying, it still hurts a little, driving spikes of ice deeper and deeper into your heart, any time he gets this way, any time he reminds you that this is, indeed, a transaction and not a relationship.

Or, at least, that’s what it was. That’s what it was supposed to be.

Because the lines continue to blur, and blur, and blur, until neither of you are exactly sure what this is, too terrified to burst the bubble of ignorant security and ask.

Yes, it happens so rapidly, seamless and natural in its manifestation, the birth of this voracious, insatiable, all-encompassing thing that cloaks your bodies in its suffocating embrace and fuses itself to your skin; that sinks into your flesh and bones and soul, burrowing itself a home at the core, a sharp splinter embedded so deeply within yourselves that if either of you were to try and remove it, everything would break, crack and crumble to ruin.

But it isn’t so bad. In fact, for a while, it’s good, great, almost perfect.

Because despite all of the threats, the temper tantrums and the terrors, you still get him all to yourself—you still get to fall asleep next to him, still get to wake up to the sweetest feather-light kisses being scattered across your cheeks, still get to call him yours, just as he calls you his.

Because he’s still your Daddy in every sense of the word, still takes care of you just like a Daddy should, still whispers affirmations of affection into your hair when he thinks you’ve passed out, after stuffing you full of his cum.

Because he still carves out a little space for you—in his home, in his life, in his heart—and allows you to reside there for the low, low price of being exclusively his.

Because his beautiful, haughty mansion is grander than any structure you’ve ever witnessed, let alone lived in, made of grey stone and gold wire and surrounded by a thick forest of pine that sprawls for miles—for eternity, you think. The grounds house a magnificent garden, massive and monstrous in all its glory, with a hedge-maze that would put The Shining to shame.

You spend a lot of time there, together and alone:

Playing tag—chests heaving as you chase each other through the dense shrubbery, squeals of laughter and huffed chuckles ringing out among the colossal maze, sounds of happiness getting lost in its twist and turns, tangling on its sharp edges and endless corners, bouncing off the vegetation and producing phantom echoes that stick around for much too long after;

Evening strolls just before the sun has fully sunk below the vista—when it’s in limbo, that halfway point between evening and night, where the horizon glows with the most brilliant corals and pinks, fading into a deep violet as the night bleeds into it, the first few eager stars appearing to twinkle, to tell the sun goodbye, to challenge its waning rays;

Reading—snuggled up on one of the wooden benches with a well-worn novel cradled between your palms, or a large textbook perched in your lap, pink pen tapping against the pages, studying as the birds chirp and chatter, telling each other stories and secrets that you’re none the wiser to—though you enjoy their company nonetheless.

Oh yes, this is the best place for you, he is positively sure of it, he had reasoned with himself when he decided to move you in after only a month of your arrangement. This is the safest place for you, with all of its high-tech security and hidden cameras. This is the best way he could keep an eye on you, consistently, constantly, ceaselessly—to make sure you weren’t in any trouble, and that you weren’t getting into any trouble.

And oh yes, this is where you belong, beside him, residing in a palace perfect for his princess.

And oh yes, it really was nearly perfect.

Until it wasn’t anymore. Until you met him.

  ✰          ✰          ✰

If Natsuo’s being entirely truthful, he had tried to keep you from meeting Touya for as long as he could. Not because he didn’t want you to, not because he was scared of him, of what he’d think or how he’d react—No, he had only wanted you to himself for a bit, to be his and his only; had only wanted to keep you his own little secret, something for him to cherish and treasure in private, just for a little while, Niisan, he swears, pinky promise.

But his big brother doesn’t fare well with waiting—Natsuo was utterly hopeless to hide the fact that you were now a part of his life (as if he’s ever been able to hide anything from him); Touya could fucking smell you in the air, could see you in Natsuo’s glossy eyes and glistening smile—and eventually, he shows up, unexpected, unannounced and uninvited, just like Natsuo knew he would.

It had only ever been a matter of time.  

You’ve heard of him, of course, had seen pictures in tabloids and read articles in magazines, but no amount of gossip could’ve ever prepared you for what he’s like in the flesh.

Sapphire flames swathe nearly every area of exposed skin, permanently inked into his silvery flesh, soft and puckered from the scar tissue, and nearly as bright and vibrant as his glowing eyes and everlasting smile—a sharp sardonic thing slapped across his face that whispers, promises, that it knows something you don’t; that it knows more than you ever will.

But it isn’t the tattoos, or the scars, or the chilling eyes and the unnerving smile, that shocks you to your very core when you first encounter Touya.

No.

It’s who your Daddy becomes, who your Daddy automatically and instantly transforms into when in the presence of his big brother that has an unsettling flutter wafting around in your chest and tiny spikes of ice shooting through your veins, chased by raging flares.

Because—Because with anyone else, Daddy’s a wolf, all sharp teeth and gleaming eyes and piercing claws. With anyone else, Daddy’s a leader, the alpha, always in power and in control. But with Touya, Daddy’s reduced to nothing more than a puppy, a pet, obedient and submissive to its owner—its master—and ready to jump, sit, roll on command; like it’s been taught to him, like it’s been ingrained in his brain from gruelling sessions of training.

And you fucking hate Touya for it.

You hate him. You hate the way your Daddy becomes a—a subordinate in Touya’s authority, diminished to nothing but a dog to do his brothers bidding. If Touya tells Natsuo to sit, he’s complying before the sentence is even finished leaving inked lips. It’s disgusting, disgruntling, disappointing, and you can hardly stand to see it.

And Natsuo—well, Natsuo doesn’t exactly expect you to like him—Touya’s an acquired taste for most—but he doesn’t exactly expect you to hate him, either.

Which is why it’s such a shame that you do.

He comes over often—at least once a week, usually on Thursdays, sometimes even more—does business with Daddy, talking in hushed voices, words jumbled in a code you can’t understand, in a code you’re not meant to understand. They discuss clients and shipments and numbers—amounts; of product, of buyers, of money.

Natsuo had tried to keep you away from it, to keep you from getting soiled and tarnished by the dirty business he and his brother run, to keep you from discovering his true notoriety as a doctor on the streets, in the underworld.

But he couldn’t hide it all.

He couldn’t hide the way Touya strolls in empty handed each and every time and leaves with pocketfuls of pills; pretty white circles and tiny blue ovals that clack daintily with each of his heavy footfalls, creating a sick symphony with every collision of his Balenciaga boots against pristine marble.

He couldn’t hide the shady and mysterious phone calls he receives at three and four and five in the morning, from long distance numbers and private callers discussing dates and prices and deals in foreign languages.

He couldn’t hide how even the youngest Todoroki appeared every once in a while—never with Touya, never on Thursdays, a conscious effort to avoid his eldest brother—begging in that soft and cracked voice, so beautifully broken as he breathes out, Please, niisan? Just another month—just one more month, and then I swear I’ll be done, I promise.

But you can always expect him to be back again, muttering out some variation of the same sentence, words weighted with bitter guilt and acidic shame, face screwing up and eyes squeezing shut as he forces them from his tongue, as if it physically pains him to ask for more—over and over and over. You hadn’t even known it was possible to say the same thing in so many different ways, but Shouto amazes you with his ability every time.

Still, out of all of Daddy’s siblings, Shouto was your favourite. He was only a few years younger than Natsuo, but he felt trustworthy, relatable, like he understood you, like you could spill all of your deepest secrets and darkest desires to him and he’d guard them with his life.

You got along well, had similar interests and seemed to share a particular distaste for a certain someone.

You knew there was some sort of rift between the two of them, something Natsuo refused to talk about, something you were too scared to ask Touya about and too polite to ask Shouto about. You had only ever witnessed them together once—a stroke of bad luck that had Touya uncharacteristically visiting on a Monday to clear up some sort of shipment problem while you and Shouto spoke idly in one of the sitting rooms, fingers lacing and unlacing, elbows hooking and unhooking as you talked about nothing.

And, in all honesty, you hadn’t expected them to interact at all.

But that just wasn’t Touya’s style.

“Just because they’re prescription doesn’t make you any less of a junkie than the rest of us, Shou,” Touya had called out as he was leaving, attracting both of your gazes. You spun to face him, Shouto drawing you into his arms.

A strong chest heaves under the force of a sigh, pressed firmly against your back, the arms wound around your shoulders flexing. Your arms wrap over his own, nails embedded in the flesh of his forearms, clinging tightly, protectively.

“It’s always the last time, isn’t it?” Touya continues after a beat, holding his arms out as if he’s expecting the physical manifestation of an answer. “Because, if I recall correctly, first it was only until you’re done school, but you graduated university quite a while ago, didn’t you? How many years has it been now? Four? Five?” he pauses, an eyebrow raising. “Then it was only until you get your shit together at work, dad’s a tyrant, yeah? But you’ve been working there for over a year—what’s your excuse now?”

“Fuck off,”

The curse is spit from between velvet lips, varnished in such venomous derision that you’re surprised it doesn’t scathe his tongue, held tilting to gaze up at Shouto’s face and visibly starting when you find his handsome features scrunched in fury, in hatred.

Touya’s arms drop, along with his mocking smile, a dull inferno sparking to life in his eyes, glowing sapphire flames that glimmer with his carefully chosen words. “Watch what you say,” he warns, all teasing amusement void from his voice. He turns away, shaking his head with a humourless chuckle, a caustic thing that makes both you and Shouto flinch, and throws a glance over his shoulder. “One of these days those words of yours are gonna get’cha killed, baby bro,”

And then he’s gone again, threat hanging heavy and harsh in the air, dense like a thick fog that blankets the room, pungent and choking in the way it lingers. For a moment, everything’s silent, so silent it’s nearly deafening, your ears beginning to ring from the roar of rushing blood, from the echoed thumping of your heart. Then, in a tremulous voice:

“Christ, I fucking hate him,”

“Me too,”

The words just slip from your lips, unthinking and automatic, spoken through a deep pout as your arms tighten around his, hugging them to your chest. It takes your brain a second to catch up with your tongue, a gasp spilling from your throat as you fumble to squeak out an apology.

But Shouto laughs, like it’s just the cutest thing in the whole world, and spins you in his arms so you’re pressed chest to chest, keeping them locked around your waist. “Oh? Is that so?”

You nod, brows still furrowed. “I-I mean…He’s just so—He’s—” your voice catches in your throat, words snaring as they tangle together, escaping in nonsensical patterns as worried eyes frenetically search his face.

“It’s okay,” Shouto winks. “You can hate him—Your feelings are safe with me,” coltishly nudging his nose against yours, his voice drops to a whisper. “I won’t tell Daddy, I promise,”

Warmth fills your chest, kindred and comforting in the way it languidly spreads through your limbs with the knowledge that someone else hates him just as much, dispelling the anxiety Touya’s sharp threat had evoked.

Large hands squeeze your ribs, forcing a breath from your chest. “And don’t worry,” Shouto murmurs, mirth swirling in his eyes and a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “He won’t kill me; Natsuo won’t let him,”

“He’s right,” your Daddy says, rounding a corner and dusting his hands together. “Though I do wish the two of you would at least try to act civil,” he continues dryly, shooting Shouto a scolding look.

That was the first time you had ever acknowledged it out loud, your hatred for the eldest Todoroki, the first time you had ever admitted it to another person.

It would not be the last.

  ✰          ✰          ✰

Because it comes out again, one dreary Thursday afternoon while you’re sitting on one of the overstuffed couches outside Daddy’s office, waiting for him to be finished his work so you can finally go for ice cream.

You hear him before you see him, big rubber soles of his stupid boots echoing out with each slap against Daddy’s pristine marble floor, a sound that has come to inspire an intense sickness in your stomach and an acrid bitterness on your tongue.

“Oi, where’s my baby brother?”

Your whole body flinches, his smooth voice grating on your nerves, jaw flexing as your teeth grind together, stare pointedly fixed on your bare knees.

“Huh?”

Huffing, your head shoots up, eyes narrowed. “In his office,” you respond, watching Touya through a petulant glare as he begins making his way towards the heavy oak doors. “Daddy doesn’t like it when you just barge into his office like that—it’s rude,”

A milky hand hovers above the intricate crystal doorknob, Touya turning those glowing sapphire eyes on you. He snorts, mischievous smirk growing into a sinister smile, and shakes his head. “No,” he begins slowly. “Daddy doesn’t like it when you barge into his office,” he corrects with a wink.

God, you hate him.

God, you hate that he’s right.

It’s then that Daddy emerges, all sunbeams and smiles, going on about how he thought he had heard his two favourite people squabbling.

And you’re up and bolting towards him before his office door even clicks shut, bumping against his chest and clutching his waist, face nuzzling into the cashmere of his turtleneck with a little whine of his name, seeking comforting in the face of Touya’s overwhelming presence.

Natsuo coos, glancing down at you with a small frown and wrapping a secure arm around you, holding you close to his body. A pathetic little whimper bubbles past your lips, and you cling to him tighter.

And, for a little while, he allows you to stay, allows you to hug him as he and his brother discuss business that falls encrypted and cyphered upon your ears, things you couldn’t ever have a hope of understanding anyway, you’re sure.

And, for a little while, you stay quiet and serene like a good little girl should, peeking out from your Daddy to send scathing glares Touya’s way, each and every one met with a smirk or a wink or a nod—until Touya pulls a box of cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans, tugging one from the carton with his teeth.

“Oh no,” you’re saying confidently as Touya offers the worn pack to Natsuo. “Daddy doesn’t—” But Daddy’s thick fingers are plucking a stick from the box held in his older brother’s hands, and Touya’s staring at you, grinning around the cigarette wrapped in his lips and quirking his head, as if imploring you to continue. “S-Smoke…”

And the look you give your Daddy is positively heartbreaking, face scrunched up in disbelief, lips parted and tugged down in a disappointed frown.

“Every once in a while, princess,” he tells you amicably, speaking through the cigarette artfully perched between his teeth, his stare not breaking yours as he leans towards his older brother, who is cupping the flame of his silver Zippo as if it’s precious.

“But—But Daddy—”

“It’s okay, baby, I promise,”

And it hurts, it hurts to be disregarded so easily, chest stuttering violently as something cracks deep inside, little sniffles hitching in your throat as salt water stings your vision. He’s never done this before, so why is he—

“Now, go away,” Touya commands, rancorous voice slicing through your thoughts, hands shooing you as if you’re some sort of pest. “Let us be, yeah? The adults are talking,”

Features crumpled in a pout so deep it puckers your chin and wrinkles your forehead, you look to your Daddy for some help, for some guidance, glazed eyes begging him to say something, to defend you, to let you stay.

But he’s laughing, as if it’s all so funny, amusement playing in his stone eyes and cocky smirk, nodding with his brother. “You heard Touya-nii, baby,” he says, slow and gentle and oh-so-patronizing. “Do as he says,”

“Wh-Wh—” What?

The sarcastic clicking of a tongue has your gaze snapping towards the man in question, an exaggerated pout etched into his face. “Aw, that’s precious,” he breathes. “Did I make you cry, baby?”

A fierce fury slashes through your chest, ferociously blinking the thick shield of tears from your eyes. “Not your baby,” you huff as you begin to turn away, features saturated in disgust, twisted up and contorted.

“I can make you, if you wanna be,”

You whip back towards him, eyes wide with bewilderment at such disrespectful behaviour, mouth falling open a little in appalment. His eyebrows raise, as if to say what are you gonna do about it? and then the words are barreling up your throat, uncontrollable, uncontainable as they bubble past your lips. “I—I hate you!”

A large hand slaps against the back of your head, knocking a sharp cry from your chest, Natsuo’s expression mirroring your own as apologies instantly spill from his lips. “Jesus Christ, niisan, I’m so sorry, I—she’s never—” another slap, another cry. “Apologize, damn it!”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Touya waves a hand in insouciant dismissal. “You hate me, baby?” a ridiculing frown decorates his lips, his hand held over his heart in mockery. “That hurts,”

“I don’t care,” you spit, not deterred by his act that he seems to find so hysterical, barely contained grin pulling at the corners of his lips, sapphire eyes shining with glee as he eggs you on, as he encourages you to keep going, keep going.

Daddy gasps out your name, a strong hand latching onto your shoulder and shaking you a little, nimble fingers pressing tiny splotches of violet and navy into your flesh and demanding that you apologize to his precious niisan.

“No!” you scream, ripping yourself from his grasp so viciously you nearly tumble backwards. “I hate you, too! I hate everyone!”

And then you’re gone, delicate little footfalls echoing throughout the vacant mansion, Touya’s callous laughter chasing after you.

Natsuo calls your name, hoarse and cracking, body frozen as ice coats his veins. A hand still reaches towards where you had been standing moments ago, fingers outstretched as if they yearn to run after you.

Touya’s still snickering as he turns back towards Natsuo, his delighted smirk dropping from his face immediately, the instant he observes his younger brother’s shattered expression and still body, glittering trails of tears staining his cheeks and bottom lip quivering as his voice breaks in his chest. And then he’s rushing towards Natsuo, taking his face between rough palms and murmuring to him.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he’s saying, uncharacteristically soft, cobalt eyes searching Natsuo’s face, worry written into the creases of his forehead.

And Natsuo practically melts into his big brother’s touch, whole body deflating as he sags against him, chin almost resting on his shoulder.

“Niisan,” Natsuo’s nearly choking on the honorific, bleary eyes staring past his older brother’s shoulder as lithe fingers begin to twist and tangle in Touya’s shirt, tugging him closer. “Niisan,” it’s more urgent this time, gurgled in the back of his throat with all of his spit and snot and tears, as frantic grey eyes flash to his brother’s face, disoriented and terrified, large hands pawing at his clothing. “Sh-She—”

“Shh,” Touya hushes him gently, calloused thumbs swiping across his younger brother’s cheeks, catching teardrops midstream. “It’s fine, it’s okay,”

The irregular thumping of his heart drowns everything out, Natsuo’s head shaking in jerky movements. The panic building in his chest is nearly suffocating, crushing his lungs from the weight, the horror. “She—She’s gonna leave,”

“She can’t leave,”

“She’s gonna leave!”

“Hey, look at me,” Touya forcefully redirects his brothers gaze to his own, holding his eyes. “She can’t leave, do you hear me? She literally can’t—all of the car keys are locked away in your office, and even if she were to climb the front gate, there isn’t another house for almost a hundred miles. She has nowhere to go,” Touya pauses as his words take shape, sinking into Natsuo’s brain and lulling him into a soothed state. “Alright? She can’t leave,”

“She can’t leave,” Natsuo repeats, almost in a daze, almost as if he’s trying to reassure himself of that fact, to make it known, real and tangible. “She can’t leave,”

“She can’t,” Touya confirms.

“B-But,” And the alarm is already beginning to stir again, Touya can see it, piling onto Natsuo’s gaze as fresh tears flood his eyes, chest beginning to heave and sputter as thoughts sprint through his mind. “But what if she—”

Sighing, Touya’s chest collapses under the force of reluctance and culpability, his fingers moving to comb through ivory tufts, knuckles caressing Natsuo’s cheek.

“Don’t worry—I’ll go find her and bring her back, alright?” he presses his forehead to his younger brothers, stern hand resting on the back of his neck, holding him in place. “Niisan is gonna make it all better, Natsuo-kun, okay? Don’t cry, stop crying,”

“N-Niisan is—is gonna—”

“Niisan is gonna make it all better,” Touya repeats, words slow and soft, palm rhythmically petting Natsuo’s hair. “Niisan is gonna make it all better,”

  ✰          ✰          ✰

But you run, and you run, and you keep running. You run until your chest stings, heaving under ragged breaths that attempt to fill your lungs with much-needed oxygen; until your legs ache, muscles sore and exhausted, quivering from being pushed too far past their limit; until you collapse within this labyrinth of vegetation, of flowers and bushes and trees, blood biting the back of your tongue.

It’s funny, the way your feet seem to know exactly where to take you, even when your mind is jumbled with anger and terror.

Much to your surprise, it’s Touya that finds you, idly pricking your fingers on the thorns of the nearest rose bush, eyes captivated by the tiny crimson specks they conjure.

Your gaze doesn’t lift at the sound of tiny twigs snapping under his heavy boots, harsh footfalls matting the grass and sinking into the pliable earth. It doesn’t lift when those steps halt, a few feet away, just close enough to be a blurry blotch of black in your peripheral vision, nor does it lift when he begins speaking, eyes staying trained on the motions of your fingers.

His voice vibrates in the small clearing, surrounds you like a thick, hazy gas—poisonous and suffocating, invading your throat, your lungs, your entire chest with each of your stuttered inhales. It’s sticky, toxic and bitter as it clings to the walls of your throat, layer upon layer building with each breath until it’s stifling, and your eyes burn with its presence, vision blurring with a thick coating of tears.

You aren’t really listening to what he has to say, don’t really care for what he has to say, something about how that wasn’t very polite, now, was it? and you’ve really hurt Daddy, you know, and you shouldn’t behave in such a way—not after all he’s done for you.

But you can tell he’s losing his patience, can hear the irritation laced in his voice as it begins to quiver, straining under the weight of restraint, growing heavier as each of his pauses is met with silence in response.

“It’s rude not to reply to someone when they’re speaking to you,” he spits through gritted teeth, but you still refuse to look up, pressing your lips together, body still as stone. “It’s rude not to look at someone when they’re speaking to you,” a pause, then a harsh exhale, followed by an audacious laugh. “The least you could do is spare me a fucking glance, bitch,” his words are sharp and dipped in venom as he continues, tapping a cigarette from the worn pack and huffing out under his breath, “Christ, dunno how Natsuo puts up with you. He deserves a helluva lot better, that’s for sure,”

And that, that has your head snapping up, glare seething as uncontrollable words charged with emotion tumble past your lips, too fast for your brain to catch them, too powerful for you brain to stop them. “Go away! I meant it; I really do hate you! I don’t ever wanna see you again! I hate who Daddy—”

The unlit cigarette falls through his fingers and a snarl echoes among the clearing, Touya nothing more than a flash of sapphire and ink as he lunges towards you, a large palm slapping against the back of your head as a thumb and two fingers clamp onto your jaw, squeezing hard enough that your mouth drops open, a yelp catching in your throat.

His eyes singe into yours, and it stings, an agony akin to looking directly into the sun, into a fiery orb so hot it’s turned blue, into the very depths of hell itself—and you try to look away, to find a shred of relief from the intensity. But his fingers tighten, blunt nails digging into your skin, and you cry out again, features crumpling in a wince.

“Listen here, you little brat,” he growls, grip squeezing when you try to jerk your chin from him. “You ever talk to my brother in such a disrespectful manner again and I swear to the good Lord Himself, I will cut you up into teeny tiny pieces, set fire to them, and scatter your ashes across the fucking country—and no one will ever find you,” he annunciates these last words slowly, pausing between each one and allowing them to sear into your brain, etched into the tissues by his scalding voice. “Y’understand, princess?” his stare holds yours for a beat, unblinking eyes bright and burning as they bore into your own.

Sobs stick and hitch in your throat, have you practically choking on them as he speaks, drool oozing from your lips, dribbling all over his fingers and your chin and his palms, mixing with the salty tears dripping off your jaw and making a mess. But he doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t seem to notice at all.

“You can speak to me like that, but don’t you dare speak to Natsuo like that, you hear me?”

Your head nods jerkily in his grasp, pathetic, garbled sounds of affirmation spilling from your mouth, soaked in spit and tears.

His gaze captivates yours for another moment before he sighs, eyes slipping shut and head shaking.

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles to himself, clutch on your jaw finally letting up, drenched sticky palms moving to cup your cheeks, rough thumbs—calloused and peeling and nothing like your Daddy’s—swiping across the soft flesh, running through the constant stream of tears cascading down your face.

“That boy loves you, you know,” Touya nearly seethes, gentle actions contradicting his harsh tone, while glowing sapphires search your face hastily, imploring you to understand.

And you want to point out that ‘that boy’ is a thirty-one year old man, but the sentence snags in your throat, evaporating into two simple words, brain gone numb, dumb, with his statement.

“He does?”

Touya rolls his eyes, tongue clicking like you’re stupid, but his thumb caresses your cheek again, nimble fingers moving to brush hair back from your face, strands sticking to his drool doused flesh. “Of course he does, idiot. He wouldn’t let you speak to him in such a manner if he didn’t,”

Belated guilt spills in the pit of your stomach, caustic and corroding as it eats away at your organs, as it burns up your throat and blisters the back of your tongue. You suppose that’s true, suppose you were awfully rude, suppose Touya’s right.

“So stop being such a little bitch, alright?” he slaps your face twice, the sound wet and sharp, and you jolt, blinking rapidly. His fingers are still slathered with your sticky saliva, the pad of his thumb swiping across your chin as he gathers more of it—a crude way of cleaning up the mess he’s made of your face. Pulling back, he brings his fingers close to his eyes and taps the pads together, observing with a morbid fascination as the viscous strings cling to his flesh, stretched taut and thin as he pulls them further apart.

A little chuckle sounds in his chest, wicked smirk plastered across his face as if he’s amused, and his eyes refocus on you, holding your gaze as his tongue unfurls, the tip tracing up his index finger before sucking all four into his mouth, eyes falling shut with the motion.

He hums around the mouthful, obscenely slurping as he sucks them clean, thorough in the way he slowly pulls them from his mouth, in the way his tongue curls and licks and laps around them, sure to clean every ounce of you off of him, dragging his tongue across his palm before he finally speaks.

“You really are as sweet as he always says you are,”

And he’s staring at you like he’s astonished, almost in some sort of twisted awe, smirk growing into a sadistic grin.

You only cry harder.

  ✰          ✰          ✰

The grip on your arm is bruising, slender fingers latched around your bicep digging into the soft flesh as you’re dragged along back to your Daddy, his rough grasp branding the image of his hand into your flesh, prints seared into your skin in brilliant violets and greys.

You haven’t been able to stop crying, even though Touya’s told you twice now to cut it out, to not upset his brother more.  

But it doesn’t seem to matter—not really, anyway.

Because by the time Touya finally hauls you back to him, Natsuo’s beside himself with distress, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, cheeks swollen and nose rosy, twitching with each uneven sniffle.

His head shoots up at the sound of your footsteps, glazed eyes connecting with yours, and something snaps, Touya’s words ringing loud and clear as they bounce against the walls of your skull.

That boy loves you, you know.

“Daddy!” you’re wrenching yourself from Touya’s hold the moment you’re close enough, nearly stumbling in your haste to reach him. “Daddy, Daddy,” your body collapses into his waiting arms, sobbing into his chest as he clings to you, crushes you to his form, his own frame shuddery with sobs. “I’m sorry Daddy, I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t mean it at all, not one word, I love you, I love you so much,”

And Natsuo only cries harder, only holds you tighter, steady stream of knotted words spilling from his lips, pressed against the crown of your head as they sink into your brain, into your soul, warming you from the inside out.

“Jesus fucking Christ, baby, you—you just—You can’t do that to me! I can’t lose you, princess. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I’ll go fuckin’ crazy if I lose you,” he squeezes you closer, nearly choking as the words flow so fast from his lips they trip and tumble and tangle. “I love you, you hear me? I love you, you can’t—You can’t. I’ll die without you, baby, I’ll jump off bridge, I’ll drown myself, I’ll slit my own throat, I love you,”

And, for a moment, it’s all almost perfect again, because you love him too, you love him too, you love him too, so much. But then, everything shifts, fades, clicks into place now that you’re back in his arms, now that you’re safe, and a brutal snarl rumbles against his ribs.

Strong hands curl around your shoulders and he yanks you from the sanctuary of his chest, giving you a thorough shake, hard enough that your bones rattle.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” He bellows, and you swear you can feel the floor vibrating beneath your feet, barely able to register his words before his hand cuts through the air, knuckles striking your cheek so hard, so forceful, that you fly backwards, Touya catching you with ease. Natsuo stomps forward and Touya hands you off like you’re nothing but a rag doll, his younger brother gripping you again and giving you another shake. “Don’t you ever run away from Daddy like that again, do you hear me? Never.”

There isn’t a moment to comprehend his vindictive words, isn’t a moment to respond at all, as lithe fingers tangle in your hair and yank. “Sorry niisan,” Natsuo’s spitting as he begins to tug you along behind him, a piercing scream tearing from your throat. “But I have a brat to discipline,”

Touya laughs loudly, nodding to himself. “Not a problem, I’ll show myself out. Oh, and princess?” you turn as much as Natsuo’s grasp will allow, a deep grimace carved into your face, staring at Touya through a barrier of stands and tears. “Don’t forget our little promise,” he winks, the sharp sound of metal caressing metal slicing through the air as he flips his Zippo open, igniting the flame, a sick smirk on his face as malevolent giggles pry past his lips.

And that’s the last thing you see before Natsuo shoves you into his bedroom, the last thing you hear before you’re thrown to the ground, your body making a satisfying thud! as it hits the immaculate floor, skinning your bare knees as you skid against marble and knocking a sharp cry from your throat.

He’s on you in a second, a flash of ivory and ice, moving with all the grace of a cheetah despite his size, his bulk.

“I am going to teach you a lesson,” he’s saying as a pair of massive hands curl around your hips, yanking them up. Another hand shoves your face to the floor, pinning it against the cold ground. “You need to learn some fucking respect,” he continues, voice painfully nonchalant, as if he isn’t seething with anger, as if it isn’t boiling in his chest, melting everything around it like molten lava. “I’m going to remind you of your place,”

There’s some shuffling, the rustling of clothes, it sounds like, and a soft grunt. A gasp bubbles past your lips, eyes going wide as cool air stings your heated skin, the material of your dress now bunched around your waist. A harsh swish!, and then you feel it, blade cold and sharp as it wiggles its way between your dainty panties and your skin, leaving superficial scratches that’ll have faded by the time Natsuo cums, pushing up and slicing through the flimsy lace of your panties with ease, the ruins of the garment falling to the floor below you.

You know this knife. It’s his favourite—a Boker hunting knife that Niisan had given to him.

“And,” he continues, and you feel something blunt nudge your cunt, bumping against your little hole twice before it’s gone. “You’re going to learn exactly why you should never, ever speak to Touya-nii—or Daddy—that way again,”

“No!” the rejection escapes your throat in a choked wail, planting your palms on the floor and shoving back against him with all your might, squirming in his hold as you try in vain to wiggle your way loose. “No, Daddy, please, m’sorry,”

He laughs at your pitiful attempts, tells you how cute it is as the knife pierces the flesh of your hips, a high-pitched yelp hitching in your chest, all movement stilling.

“Aw, no,” he coos, as if he’s disappointed, dragging the blade slow and steady across your flesh and leaving thin bands of blood in its wake. “Don’t just stop; that’s no fun! Keep trying to escape, sweetheart, it’s so adorable,”

And, really, you want to, but the rhythmic splices he’s drawing into your skin—only deep enough to conjure the slimmest lines of shallow scarlet—paralyze you, mind going numb with dread, with the realization that this is about to happen and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it, while your body buzzes with the heady adrenaline surging through your veins.

You must take your punishment—there’s no other way around it.

You should’ve known better, princess, he’s murmuring through a frown, lips turning down as he inspects your little hole, not nearly wet enough to take him, and tuts his tongue. He could wet it himself, lap at your cute little cunt, dipping his tongue in and slathering thick saliva all over it, but that sounds like too much work.

“Besides,” he’s saying conversationally as the immense pressure on your body suddenly lets up, your chest heaving as you cough on wheezy breaths of air. “Little brats who don’t know how to properly and courteously address their Superiors deserve to get their mouths fucked until they’ve learned their lesson, don’t you agree?”

No, you don’t, but you aren’t afforded a moment to respond as a hand tangles in your hair and yanks, back arching as he pulls you to your knees, suddenly eyelevel with his massive leaking cock. He moves fast, too fast for you to keep up, like curling wisps of smoke through air.

You peer up at him through a glistening gaze, just the thought of trying to take that monster casting a thick shield of burning tears across your eyes, bleary vision rendering him nothing more than a large indistinct shape, a blur of alabaster and charcoal.

He doesn’t seem to care, though, doesn’t even comment on the pretty droplets of water clinging to your eyelashes, or the soft stuttered sniffles exhaled through your nose, as he grips your face between his thumb and his fingers, squeezing hard enough to force your mouth open.

And then he’s shoving it down your throat, a cruel laugh slipping from his lips as you gag, little hands immediately finding purchase on his thick, hard thighs and curling in the material of his expensive slacks. It’s an automatic reaction, an instinctual reaction, fingers tugging a little as if you’re trying, begging, to have him closer, to have him guide you. A soft moan, half-swallowed, escapes his mouth and you quickly blink the tears from your eyes, staring up at him desperately, as if you’re awaiting instruction. Good, he’s murmuring, more to himself than you, soft thumb skimming your cheek, then tracing along the line of your straining jaw. Daddy’s got himself such a perfect little girl.  

But you’re barely listening, his words hardly registering as they float through your hazy mind, already gone stupid with the combined fear and exhilaration of it all. He’s almost mesmerizing like this, almost a fucking god like this, staring down at you with wide unblinking eyes, irises nothing more than a thin ring of metal outlining gaping pupils. It feels as though you’re being sucked into them, incapable of looking away, enticed, enchanted, entranced—like a spell, a curse you’re hopeless of breaking, greedy and voracious as they gobble up your already wrecked expression.

Aw, that’s precious—he hasn’t even done anything yet.

That’s your only semblance of warning before his hips suddenly begin pumping, cockhead pushing a choked little cry back down your throat. And yet, you can’t look away, can’t break his gaze, can’t even bare to have your eyes fully shut, squinting up at him through the water that obstructs your vision.

The hand tangled in your hair flexes, keeping you steady, keeping you still, while the other cups your cheek in a way that’s almost tender, thumb brushing across a cheekbone, a stark contradiction to the sharp snap forward of his hips, forcing you to just take it.

It’s downright painful, the ache in your jaw beginning to throb, shooting little spikes of pain to your temples, as you strain to open your mouth wide, wider, in an attempt to draw more air into your lungs, hiccupped little sobs stuttering in your throat, muscles constricting, each one drawing gorgeous, quiet groans from his chest, buried deep within him.

Your body betrays you, as it normally does, always so eager to obey its master, heat seeping through the pit of your stomach, thick and sticky; sick little thrills of giddy accomplishment rushing through your veins with each sound you tug out of him.

It’s a feeling you can’t quite explain, a feeling no words exist to describe, a sudden surge of blistering heat in your chest—of desire, determination, dedication—a type of addictive power intermingling with an intense craving to please.

“Not so tough with my cock rammed down your throat, are you, now?” he taunts, a devilish smirk painted across his lips.

The involuntary whine that tears its way through your chest is nothing short of utterly pathetic, glazed eyes observing him with overwhelming neediness, a desire to serve, like he’s your Master, punctuated by a quiet whimper, sloppy and wet and full of tears, that sounds suspiciously similar to no! breaking in your throat as he pulls you off his cock.

It’s evident that he knows this, that he feels it too, oozing out of you much like the viscous threads of drool dribbling from the edges of your mouth and off your chin, thick webs of it linking your saliva slicked lips and his gleaming cock.

“Shh, don’t worry,” he reassures you, voice suddenly gentler, sounding like it’s laced with genuine concern, though his eyes glint with malice, and the corners of his lips twitch, as if suppressing a wicked grin. “Daddy will give you his cum, baby,”

He’s behind you in an instant, immediately forcing you to resume the appropriate position. This time, though, you stay put exactly as he arranges you, cheek pressed against the cold marble floor as lithe fingers spread your folds, a merciless, gleeful laugh bubbling past his lips.

“Look at that,” he’s breathing to himself, pinpricks of shame flooding your entire body, stinging as they stab your flesh. “So wet, just from Daddy fucking your face a bit?” he pauses, exhaling a breathless chuckle seeped in false disbelief. “You are a perfect little whore, aren’t you?”

Your lips press together tightly as you nod, dutifully like all good little girls should, suppressing the sob clawing its way up your throat, eyes shutting against a fresh wave of burning tears.

“You should be disgusted,” he continues, little tremors of amusement sown into his tone, as if stifling a laugh, lips suddenly at your ear as his voice drops into a whisper, massive body draping over yours. “Lying to your Daddy, acting as if you didn’t want it, when all it actually takes is your Daddy using you like the slut you are,”

Razor canines pierce the cartilage of your ear, a clean puncture right through the thin flesh, and you yelp, entire body flinching. A satisfied hum vibrates in his chest, pressed against your back, as he licks at the blood.

“I know baby, I know. Hush now,” he murmurs, nearly nuzzling his face into yours, as if pacifying a baby. “Daddy’s gonna give it to you, shh, Daddy’s gonna give you what you need,”

Your head is nodding, almost instinctual at this point, in a floaty daze, a potent fog that infuses your mushy brain with him, him, him. You want to scream, protests getting lodged in your throat, words disintegrating into nothing but pitiful little gurgles as acidic tears corrode them, greedy, traitorous hole fluttering in anticipation as the head of his cock prods it.

And the stretch is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, leaves you astonished and breathless every single time, as if each time is the first all over again, ill-prepped cunt aching as his thick cock splits you open, sensitive skin tearing from the sheer force, a dark, almost animalistic grunt leaving his lips in response to the shriek that spills from yours.

“T-Too much, too much,” you’re wailing into the floor, nails scraping against the marble and head shaking in sluggish motions. “S’too big, I can’t, Daddy, I can’t, I-I can’t,”

The blade that has Touya’s name all over it, returns, digs into the flesh of your hips—not strong enough to break the skin again, but a warning to stop struggling, and your body responds to the silent command immediately, motions stilling.

“You can take it for me,” he says, sounding breathless for the first time that night. “I know you can,” he bottoms out, hips stilling, taut and pressed tightly to your flesh. A hand caresses your spine, gentle and loving. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? A good girl for your Daddy?”

Yes, yes, of course you are; you only ever want to be good for him, quivering thighs spreading wider, muscles beginning to ache from the stretch, and pushing back weakly against him, a silent affirmation, a wordless confirmation that you can take it, that you’re ready to take it, for him.  

The pace is punishing from the start, just as it always is, the brutal slamming of his hips pressing your face further and further into the cold tile, cheek beginning to ache from being pressed up against the hard surface.

He’s just using you, really, though you can’t help the pathetic whines and pitiful little mewls that spill from your lips with each ram of his cockhead against your cervix, just enough to be teasing, to have sparks flickering to life in the pit of your stomach but never catching flame.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, princess,” he breathes out from above you, voice strained just a little. “Daddy’s cock feels good?”

You nod in his grasp. “C-Can feel you in my tummy, Daddy,”

And it’s true, you can, one of your hands pressed to your lower abdomen, feeling each and every cant and curve of his hips, each and every poke and press and prod of his cockhead as it fucks into you, burrowing into your soft flesh.

“I bet you can,” he nearly snarls, so deep and dark it rumbles throughout his entire body, shocks and tremors soaking into your own, skittering like centipedes up your spine. “But you know what this is for, don’t you, sweetheart,”

It isn’t a question, but you respond anyway, nodding again.

This isn’t your punishment—not exactly, anyway, though his skilled hips are certain to repeatedly graze that spot inside of you, the one that makes you squeal and squirm and try to fuck back on him, just to remind you how good he could make you feel, should he choose to, should you deserve it. But this isn’t for your pleasure, it’s for his—this isn’t penance, it’s prep; it’s to prime him for what comes next—to empty his balls and clear his head so he can punish you properly, so he can punish you right.

You know the real punishment is yet to come.

Though he’s fucking ruthless in it, in his assault against your cervix, in every tempting drag of his cock out of your precious little cunt, knife still secured in one of his hands, handle pressed between his palm and your waist, blade piercing your flesh with each piston of his hips.

Crimson, bright and brilliant, streaks your flesh, a sharp sting of tears flooding your eyes as your Daddy rambles about how good you are, how gorgeous you look, and God, Touya would kill to see you like this.

He’s getting close now, you can tell, breaths escaping in pants as his movements become uneven and frantic, words almost whined out—a flawless perfectionist, this is the only time he allows himself to lose control, just a bit, just a little, to be messy and needy with it all.

Finally, they still, blade driving into your flesh and you cry out in tandem with his growl, body gone stiff as his cock pulses and pumps, filling you to the brim with thick cum, sending burning shards of ice searing through your gut.

“Good, good girl,” he heaves out, neck and collarbones glistening with the prettiest dewdrops of sweat, and, God, he looks so gorgeous. “Now, get on the bed,”

  ✰          ✰          ✰

You brought this on yourself, sweetheart, he’s saying casually, almost singsong in tone, as if you haven’t been bound to the mattress by thick cuffs, the metal carving itself into the delicate skin of your wrists and ankles with every writhe and jerk and shudder, deeper and deeper with every tug and yank and pull on the restraints. His voice is almost amicable, as if he hasn’t had a vibrator intermittently pressed to your most sensitive areas for hours now. Daddy wouldn’t have to punish you if you’d just behave.

And so, it continues.

You don’t know how long you’ve been constrained to Natsuo’s massive mahogany bedframe for, lost all semblance of time, all concept of seconds and minutes and hours, of moments and instances, the only constant being seven simple words, slicing through the feverish mist your mind has evaporated into, clear and caustic, bright and burning, each and every time they fall from between your Daddy’s plush lips.

Are you ready to apologize to Touya-nii?

Even now, they drift around your skull like phantoms, branded into the tissues of your brain with the hottest iron, slithering through the flesh like the most resilient maggots and feeding off of your sanity, your stubbornness.

Are you ready to apologize to Touya-nii?

And even though you’re nearly delirious with it, the need to cum, entire body glittering under the warm hazy light of his monstrous bedroom, glazed with your sweat and his cum that glistens and gleams with every jolt, every twist and turn and tremble as those sharp electric sparks race through your veins, your lips press together in defiant refusal—No, you are not ready to apologize to Touya-nii.

The words materialize as nothing more than incoherent gurgling in the form of non-affirmatives, aided by the vicious shake of your head, and your Daddy growls, pressing that pretty pink wand back to your clit with a vengeance.

And so, it continues.

A mess of excuses and pleads are spilling from your throat in mangled knots now, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them rattling and cracking in your chest with each of your hitched sobs, though they’re deaf to your ears, drowned out by the roaring rush of blood.

Gonna cum? his voice slashes through the haze, a steaming knife through pliant butter, startling with its clarity. Don’t you dare lie to Daddy, baby. You gonna cum?

Yes-yes-yes oh god yes, yes you’re gonna—you’re gonna—and then it’s gone, pretty pink vibrator shivering in his large hand held high above your spread body, a cocky smirk adoring his lips as he stares down at you, stone eyes almost glowing.

“Are you ready to apologize to Touya-nii?”

There they are again, those seven words that sear through the thick vapour that is your brain every single time, ringing out distinct and defined; those seven words that continually evoke a sharp flash of sapphire and ink, of patronizing smiles and condescending voices, filling your chest with a blistering rage that torches and chars your insides; those seven words that have sentiments of fierce denial barreling up your throat in a way that’s nearly instinctual.

“No!”

And so, it continues.

And it continues, and it continues, and it continues; a ruthless tango of torture preformed over and over and over again—until finally, finally, finally, you break.

Tears are cascading down your face in endless streams of shimmering water, mixing with the stringy drool now oozing from your mouth, the liquids varnishing your cheeks and chin. Those strong, sharp eyes, overflowing with a paradoxical mixture of pity and mirth, fade in and out of focus as your vision begins to darken, a staticky television, fuzzy and grainy as it begins to lose signal.

Hey, his voice pierces through the haze again, echoing as it bounces against the walls of your skull. A sharp slap, backhanded across your cheek so hard it nearly gives you whiplash, brings your vision back into focus, eyes blinking rapidly to clear the bleary shield cast by the tears. Don’t tell me you’re about to tap out? Oh, princess, oh no. Not until you apologize, baby.  

You don’t know what you’re saying anymore, entire body gone dumb from shock and exhaustion, blood as heavy as sand keeping twitching limbs weighted to the mattress, throat ripped raw from the merciless sobs that have sprouted claws as they tore their way from your mouth.

“Are you going to apologize to Touya-nii now?” he speaks over your wails, calm and composed, staring down at you like you’re the most pathetic sight he’s ever witnessed, a malicious little grin carved into his face, eyes glinting with a specific kind of wickedness.

“Yes, yes,” you’re weeping so hard it barely sounds like a word at all, but the frantic nodding of your head assists the affirmative answer.

And Daddy, Daddy laughs.

And then, everything stops—the vibrating and the ringing and the laughing—everything except for the quick little beeps Daddy’s phone is emitting, and then—

“Sup, Natsuo-kun? How are you feeling now? Did you give it to the little bitch?”

“You tell me,”

The screen turns to face you, still bound taut and tight to Natsuo’s bed, the brilliant sapphire that haunts your dreams glaring down at you through the glass.

“M-M’sorry, T-Touya-nii, S-So—Sorry,” the words are so garbled he can barely understand you, stuffed full of spit and tears and snot, tongue sluggish as it tries in vain to shape the letters.

But he coos anyway, reassuring that it’s the sentiment that matters, and he can see how sincerely sorry you really are.

You are truly a sight to behold, Touya’s telling you, and you think you can hear the delicate clinking of metal on metal, rendered tinny through the phone’s speakers. You’re the most beautiful when you look like this, he says it like it’s a promise, words interspersed with what sounds like the click of a camera.

Your gaze flits to your Daddy’s face, intense sparks flaring in your chest and buzzing through your veins as he stares down at you with love, with pride, one of his large, soft hands moving to cup your cheek in the gentlest caress as he tells you that you did good, you’re so good, such a good girl for him, and—God, I love you so much.

And suddenly, it’s all okay—no matter how many times he punishes you, no matter how harsh or cruel or downright humiliating it may be—it’s all okay, because he loves you, and you’d suffer over and over—as much as you need to, as much as he deems you deserve—just to hear those sweet, precious words, infused with the most intense adoration, addiction, fall from his lips again.

I love you, too, Daddy.

#todoroki natsuo x reader #todoroki natsuo smut #todoroki natsuo #bnha smut #tw daddy kink #tw:noncon #tw drugs #tw toxic relationship #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH #I CAN'T BELIEVE HE'S FINALLY DONE HEHEHE #STAY SAFE WITH THIS ONE PLS MY FRIENDS #if u didn't catch it at the end a certain someone is unbuckling his belt lmao

[zambie-trashart]

Land of the Free and Home of the Wayne pt7

previous part

masterlist

Summary: Tim takes the students on a walk around Gotham City. Not the smartest decision.

.............................

Marinette woke up at four in the morning sweating slightly and breathing heavily. She had a nightmare about Chat being taken by Hawkmoth and beaten beyond recognition and all she could do is sit there and watch as his cane came down once, twice... she got up and roamed the halls of Wayne Manor and heard laughter from a living room.

“No, no, no, you smell like fucking maple syrup you are not fucking touching me Dick!” someone from inside the room yelled.

“Give me a hug dear brother or I might just die!” another person said and a loud thump was heard. Marinette peered around the corner to see what was going on but she was going to stay out of sight. Jason was standing above Dick with his arms crossed and Dick was on the ground with an arm over his forehead dramatically. The room reeked of sugar and two other people walked out of a clock. 

“Jon, you’ll give me a hug right?” Dick asked hopping up and extending his arms. Jon laughed but hugged the older boy. “See, Jon actually likes me.”

“He’d be the first,” Jason said sitting down.

“Oh yeah, good job putting out the fire there Jonno, your freezy breath really came in handy there,” Dick said patting Jon on the head.

“We should shower and change before breakfast but seriously I know that I’ve been saying this all night but a fucking maple syrup factory?” Jason got out and puffed out his chest. “All right, tonight I have a big assignment for you. You’re going to go put out this fire cause someone might have lit the old Gotham Maple Syrup Factory on fire,” Jason said doing a really bad Batman impression and Jon and Dick started laughing. “Yeah ok Bruce we’ll go put out the fire, look at who he sent to put out a fire, Golden Boy, Murderous Rage, Demon Brat, and Sunshine Child. Like what the fuck Bru...” Jason was walking though the door and saw the shadow of someone running away.

Jon walked over and heard the footsteps. “That’s not good.”

Everyone walked down for breakfast later, Marinette eyed Jon and Damian who were looking around at people seeing if anyone looked suspicious. Marinette was still putting the pieces together but there was only one thing that made sense: they had to be the Batfamily. She looked over to Dick who was talking to Kory both sitting on a counter top. He was looking around too.

Adrien walked down the stairs. He was excited to walk around Gotham but it sounded like a really bad idea. He sat down and across the table, Alya let out a frustrated growl at Lila. Jon looked over perking up a little. Alya stormed out of the room and Lila followed yelling something in Italian that made Damian, Jason, Jon, Dick, and Kory flinch. Tim walked into the room wincing slightly.

“Who peed in her cornflakes?” Tim asked and Jon got up and followed the girls.

“I can’t believe you stole my necklace from my secret admirer!” Alya yelled arms thrown up in the air.

“Whatever, if you don’t want to be my friend anymore then I’ll just have to tell Clark Kent not to put in a good word at the Daily Planet and you’ll never get a good job in reporting,” Lila said and Alya looked at her with fire in her eyes.

“That’s not fair, you can’t ruin my chances just cause you’re a spoiled brat who knows people,” Alya said crossing her arms.

“You’re gonna regret that, go crawl back to Marinette you useless pig, you’ve been draining me long enough,” Lila said and other students started to flood the lobby.

Tim was sipping the last of his coffee and threw the mug over his shoulder and Jon caught it and placed it carefully on a table. He made a motion for the students to follow outside.

“Hi, I’m Tim I’ll be your tour guide for today,” Tim said looking out at the students who followed him down the driveway and down a random street. There was a noticeable lack of Miss. Bustier and some of the students couldn’t help but be nervous about being placed in the care of a twenty-year-old caffeine addict. They had made their way to a nameless skyscraper and they stood awaiting further instruction.

“Tim, we stopped,” Jon said and Tim pulled Jon next to him.

“Alright kids, I have three rules, if you break any of them I can’t promise that your body won’t be found in a ditch being eaten by rats,” Tim said with a light smirk on his face as the students grimaced.

“What the hell Drake?” Damian asked from the back.

“Ok rule one, have a buddy. Rule two, don’t wander off. Rule three, don’t talk to or look at strangers.” Tim kept an arm around Jon. “Buddy up!” The students rushed to find a buddy. Sabrina grabbed Chloe, Nino climbed on Adrien, Nathaniel hugged Alix, Mylene ran into Ivan’s arms, Alya stood by Juleka angrily, Lila stood next to Rose smirking, and Max stood next to Kim quivering. That left Marinette and Damian, the two stood close but far enough away for some comfort room.

They started walking again and Tim and Jon were laughing arms linked at the front with Damian and Marinette making sure that no one wondered off or slowed down too much.

“Tim?” Jon asked smiling.

“What is it my good fellow?” Tim asked in a fake posh accent. 

“Where are we going?” Jon asked looking down the road in front of them and then quickly behind him to see the slightly less scared students.

“To get more coffee,” Tim said pulling Jon into the Starbucks next to them. It was sizable with a good amount of booths and around five employees. “Order whatever you want, it’s on Bruce,” Tim said pulling out a card and ordering a black coffee with extra espresso. Thirty minutes, an indifferent staff, and a caffeinated class later the students were walking through the city of skyscrapers and smog. Tim was spitting facts off the top of his head with had arm reattached to Jon’s who was smiling at Tim’s horrible British accent.

They had been walking for around two hours when a man jumped out at them and demanded for money. A few students started screaming and frantically taking out their wallets. The mugger grabbed Jon and held a knife to his throat making the students panic even more. Jon rolled his eyes and stepped on the mugger’s foot making him hop back and Jon spun around hitting him in the face with a fan kick knocking him out.

Adrien was near the back standing next to Damian who put a hand on his shoulder. “I know what you’re wondering and yes, he is single,” Damian said making Adrien blush before stepping back in line with Nino.

“I can’t believe it took us two whole hours to get mugged!” Jon said hooking his arm back with Tim’s after adjusting his glasses and shirt.

“Hurry up guys, we’re approaching the best part of town!” Tim yelled pointing to an arcade which was two buildings down from the police station. “I’m going to go talk to Jim, Jon you’re in charge,” Tim said handing the youngest of the group the credit card patting his head. Jon walked inside behind Damian and Marinette.

The teen working the register looked out the the sea of bouncing toddlers and popped her gum sliding Bruce’s credit card. “Have fun,” she said in monotone looking back at her phone. All of the students split up going to different games. Jon walked up and sat on the table where Damian was standing.

“Damian?” Jon asked smiling maniacally.

“What Jon?” Damian asked looking out over the students.

“Wanna play Dance Dance Revolution?’ Jon asked before bursting out in uncontrollable laughter.

“I take it that Logan told you about his defeat?” Damian asked now understanding the joke.

“Gar was pissed,” Jon said and Damian smiled back at his friend.

“He shouldn’t have challenged me.” Damian looked over at the students again. Adrien was racking up tickets with Nino for something and Damian couldn’t help but think that he was trying to win Jon something. “How do you feel about Adrien?” Damian asked thinking of the first day the students were there and hearing Adrien’s confession.

“He really hasn’t talked to me a lot but I’d like to get to know him,” Jon said turning his attention over to the blue-haired girl. “What about you and Marinette?” Jon asked trying to set his friend up too.

“What do you mean?” Damian asked defensivly.

“There’s so much chemistry,” Jon nudged Damian and he looked out at her seeing her smile and have fun.

“I don’t kn...” Damian was cut off by a loud bang and the front door flying off it’s hinges. Two-Face walked into the arcade worming through his henchman. “DUCK!” Damian yelled and all of the students got to the ground behind games and under tables as guns went off. “The the words of Todd: fuck.”

..........................................

JPS:  @wannajointhecrabcult @loveswifi @ive-tumbled-down-a-rabbit-hole @liquid-luck-00 @mochegato@thatonecroc@mochinek0 @toodaloo-kangaroo @moonspiritwolf1

Tag list:  @abrx2002@finallyaniguana@danielslilangel@chocolateherringtacofan@animegirlweeb @fleur-de-jasmin-fdj@pawsitivelymiraculous@justcourttee@ayamestudios@greenteacz@thornalchemist23@vixen-uchiha@readeracctagmepls@tomanyfandomsinmymind @t1dwarrior-of-earth@michaelshadow7779 @i-is-mysterious

#jon x adrien #jon protection squad #tim drake and jon kent #best friends #damian wayne #marinette x damian #jon kent #jon and damian #lila salt #lila gets exposed #lila rossi #miraculous ladybug #miraculous class #marinette dupain cheng #tim drake #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #adrien agreste #gotham

[theundercovermarvelfan]

Whumptober 2020 - Day 29

Whumtober Challenge @whumptober2020

Day 29 I Think I Need A Doctor Intubation | Emergency Room | Reluctant Bedrest

Bruce waited anxiously at the bottom of the ramp to the Quinjet, continuously scanning the area for any signs of movement. They said they were on their way, they said they’d be there in just a few minutes. If it were as bad as they said it was, they were going to need every second they could get…

“Bruce!”

Bruce’s heart leapt up into his throat as the group finally came staggering into view. He scanned them all, automatically looking for injuries. Everyone seemed to have fared surprisingly well. If Steve and Tony hadn’t been supporting Clint -- whose head was hanging on his shoulder as if he couldn’t hold it up -- between them, Bruce might have been able to pretend the mission had gone off without a hitch. 

“Hurry, get him up into the jet,” Bruce urged as they approached. Tony and Steve stumbled up the ramp with Natasha behind them, Bruce falling into step beside her. “How is he?”

“There are no significant exterior injuries, but something is obviously very wrong,” Natasha reported breathlessly. “He seems like he’s barely getting enough air.”

Bruce nodded. “Get him up on the cot,” he instructed. Tony and Steve quickly did what they were told, carefully lifted Clint up and laid him out flat on the medical cot that Bruce had already set when he got the message that Clint needed medical attention. “We need to get the Kevlar off him.” 

Natasha was already working on undoing the clasps of the vest and just a moment later Steve lifted Clint slightly so that Natasha could pull it off. The movement drew a pained gasp from Clint as he wheezed in labored breaths. Bruce had a pair of medical scissors and quickly cut up the middle of Clint’s shirt in order to get access to his chest. His right side was already purpling with painful bruising. Bruce grabbed his stethoscope from around his neck and put it into his ears, carefully placing the diaphragm onto Clint's chest. Everyone was silent and still as Bruce moved the diaphragm several times, listening carefully.

“He’s likely got broken ribs and a collapsed lung,” Bruce finally said as he straightened up. “Natasha, can you get the chest tube kit?” Natasha was already rushing away before he finished the sentence. Then Bruce turned to Clint, who was deathly pale -- did his skin already have a slight blue tinge to it? -- but his eyes were open and searching. “Clint can you hear me?” Clint eyes drifted over to Bruce, and Bruce took that to as close to an acknowledgement as he was going to get. “You’ve likely got a collapsed lung due to air or fluid in the pleural space. I’m going to place a chest tube to try to relieve the pressure. It’s going to hurt for just a minute, but then hopefully you’ll be able to breathe easier. Okay?”

As he continued to heave in horribly labored breath, Clint managed a very slight nod. That was more than Bruce had been expecting. 

“Bruce,” Natasha said, directly Bruce’s attention to the small medical tray she had set up with the supplies he needed. 

Not wasting any more time, Bruce pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. He grabbed the scalpel from the tray with one hand, locating the correct spot between Clint’s ribs with the other. Natasaha had moved up to Clint’s head, putting her hands on either side of his head for support. Bruce firmly sliced a three-centimeter incision into Clint’s chest, ignoring the way that Clint’s muscles tightened and spasmed against the pain that he knew he was inflicting. Next he grabbed the Kelly clamp and pushed it into the incision with some force, not acknowledging the choking groan that accompanied the popping feeling of the clamp entering the pleural space. 

“Jesus,” Bruce could hear Tony mutter in shock as Bruce pushed his fingers into the wound to make sure there wasn’t anything to get in the way of the chest tube. 

Then, Bruce was swiftly inserting the chest tube that was already hooked up to a collection bag. As soon as the tube entered the pleural space, air and blood came gushing out into the bag at the same time that Clint finally gasped in a deep lungful of air so suddenly that his back arched off the table. 

“Thank fucking hell,” Natasha sighed as she dipped her head down to place her forehead against Clint’s. Tony and Steve also gave their own sighs of relief. 

But Bruce knew they weren’t out of the woods just yet. 

Now that Clint was able to more easily heave air into his lungs, a deep, wet hacking cough tore out of his throat. Bruce immediately had the stethoscope back in his ears and the diaphragm back on Clint’s chest, trying to listen through the noise. 

“What’s going on?” Steve asked anxiously. 

“The lung may have reflated, but there’s still obviously significant damage to his lungs and possibly some other organs around it,” Bruce said tensely. “We’ve bought him some time, but he needs a hospital as soon as possible.”

“There’s a SHIELD base not far away, they’ll have a med center,” Natasha said. 

“I’ll pilot,” Steve said, already hurrying up to the cockpit. 

“Natasha, I need you to call ahead to the base, tell them to be ready to intubate as soon as we get there,” Bruce said as he listened to Clint cough and wheeze weakly. “He’ll also need a CT scan to figure out exactly what’s going on and then he’ll likely need surgery.”

“Got it,” Natasha said as she hurried after Steve. 

“Tony, get me the Ambu bag,” Bruce said. 

“The what?” Tony asked blankly. 

“The bag valve mask, the balloon looking thing with a mask attached,” Bruce said quickly, pointing. Tony scrambled over and grabbed the device just as the Quinjet was whirring to life. When he came back, Bruce carefully placed the mask part over Clint’s nose and mouth and then motioned for Tony to take the bag portion of it. “Squeeze it at regular intervals. No, too fast, make sure the bag fully deflates and then inflates again. Okay, good, just like that, keep going.”

After his initial coughing and gasping after reinflating his lung, Clint’s breathing had waned again as he struggled to take in precious oxygen. The Ambu bag seemed to help, but Clint was starting to blink tiredly. It could be that the whole situation was finally catching up to him… or it could be his brain not getting enough oxygen. 

“I need you to hang in there, Clint,” Bruce pleaded as he grabbed a blood pressure cuff so that he could start taking vitals. He glanced up and for a moment was able to meet Clint’s gaze. “We’ve got you, but I need you to keep fighting until we can get you to the hospital. Okay?”

Bruce wasn’t sure if he imagined it or not, but he could have sworn he saw Clint nod ever so slightly. 

Almost twenty minutes later, they finally landed at the SHIELD base, where the med team was thankfully waiting for them. Bruce and Steve rushed the gurney down the ramp, with Tony still working the Ambu bag. 

“Dr. Banner, I am Dr. Scorborough,” the lead man said immediately. “What’s the situation?”

The med team took over the gurney, including the Ambu bag and as they trooped into the building Bruce quickly got Dr. Scorborough up to speed with Clint’s current condition. 

“I’m going to need you to wait here,” Dr. Scorborough told the other Avengers before they moved deeper into the hospital. 

At a glance, Bruce could see the pain felt by the other at having to leave Clint’s side. 

“It’s okay, I’ll watch over him,” Bruce assured them quickly before he followed the rest of the team. 

They had moved Clint into a private room stocked with what looked like ICU equipment. Doctor’s rushed around Clint, hooking him up to monitors and IVs and taking his vitals. Bruce managed to slip in and move to Clint’s side. Clint’s eyes were still open and darting around anxiously, clearly at least somewhat aware of what was going on. As his gaze landed on Bruce, his gaze finally relaxed somewhat. 

“We need to secure his airway,” Dr. Scorborough said. “I need an intubation kit. Run succinylcholine and ketamine into the IV.” 

Bruce knew that they were giving Clint both a paralytic and a general anesthetic in an attempt to make this process as easy as possible. But as Dr. Scorborough was already prepping the Laryngoscope because time was of the essence, Bruce also knew that they wouldn't kick in quite quickly enough to spare Clint the discomfort of this procedure. 

“It’s okay, Clint,” Bruce said, putting his hand on Clint’s arm and drawing his attention as the staff got ready to intubate. “Try to relax and don’t fight it. It’ll be over before you know it.”

Bruce had to hand it to Dr. Scorborough. He inserted the Laryngoscope into Clint’s mouth quickly and smoothly, carefully threading the tube down Clint's throat and then expertly hooking up the tube to the portable ventilator. The whole thing took less than twenty seconds… but it was still painfully obvious the way Clint’s muscles tensed and spasmed even as he blinked heavily, gently pulled into unconsciousness by the ketamine. 

“Okay,” Dr. Scorborough said with a sigh. “He’s under and we’ve secured the airway. We’ll get him to the CT so we can pinpoint exactly what’s wrong before we take him to the OR.” The doctor looked at Bruce. “Thank you for taking such good care of the patient, Dr. Banner. If you'd like to rejoin the others, we can take it from here. We’ll update you as soon as we know anything.” 

“Thank you,” Bruce said sincerely. 

He stood and watched as the team wheeled Clint away, disappearing through another set of doors. Even after they were gone, for a moment he just stood there and breathed. In his life before becoming the Hulk, Bruce Banner had never once considered becoming a physician of any sort. It wasn’t until his time in India that he started studying practical medicine. While he was hiding there, he felt like he was able to go good and also pay penance if he was able to help impoverished people with medical assistance. He had taken to it more easily than he thought he would. 

His time with the Avengers had only furthered Bruce’s medical knowledge. When the Hulk wasn’t needed, Bruce had fallen into the role of field medic. It was never what he imagined he’d want to do with his life and it was never a path he had considered traveling before the Hulk incident. 

But as he headed back out to the waiting room where the other Avengers were waiting, knowing that he had helped save Clint’s life that day, it was yet another reminder than he had ended up exactly where he needed to be. 

#whumptober2020 #no.29 #i think i need a doctor #intubation #emergency room #Avengers #MCU #fic #clint barton #hawkeye #Steve Rogers #captain america #bruce banner #hulk #natasha romanoff #Black Widow #tony stark #Iron Man #whump #fanfiction

[thepulta]

A/N: Update: Am still garbage so I wrote this backstory thing so my children could yell at each other. Extremely fluffy. Diabetus tag. Additional unnecessary cursing tag because Morgan literally was raised in a bar.

-=-

Westlie turned on the light to see a Morgan-shaped lump already in her bed. She sighed. “Hey.”

No response.

Westlie was too tired to care. Her feet felt like lead bricks. She kicked off her boots and sank into the seat at the vanity, closing her eyes as she undid her hair with quick, practiced movements. Her vest got tossed aside and she eventually pulled over her nightgown, straightening it with a quick slap. The light from the window filtered through the room, a soft irridescent orange-red, as she picked up her miscellaneous things; it had been a soot-filled day. When she was done Westlie shut the curtains tight, finally moving to her side of the bed with the suspicious lump under it.

The fuck am I going to do with you, Morgan? Westlie stood there for a minute, contemplating being nice or being a total ass and pulling her onto the floor. She settled for being a sisterly ass and flicking her finger twice on Morgan’s cheek. There was an angry growl and a shift under the covers; Morgan flipped her off. Mission accomplished.

“Move over. You’re not four anymore.”

She listened the first time, surprisingly. Westlie groaned as she finally laid down and her feet stopped screaming, faxing herself into the disappointingly warm sheets. The house was pleasantly silent now. Some crickets somewhere; the occasional creak of it settling. Westlie sighed and melted into the bed before realizing, almost half-way to sleep, she probably should do her sisterly duty. “Any reason you’re in my bed?”

No response. Morgan was out again.

Westlie kicked her. “Morgan.”

“…stars you’re such an ass.”

“It’s my bed. You have a perfectly good one two doors down.”

“’m haven’t seen you in a week. Thought I’d say hi.”

That was… surprisingly sweet. “Thanks. …It’s been busy at the shop.”

“I know, I know. It’s always busy.” Morgan rolled over to face her with a hint of grumpiness, eyes still shut as she re-huddled under the blankets. “What was it this time?”

Westlie puffed out a breath. “Blemmigans today. 150 of them.”

Morgan opened one eye. “That’s kind of cute.”

“Not when they escape and bite your customers so you have to chase said customer down the street, free them from the clutches of the traumatized blemmigan and apologize.”

Morgan snort-chuckled, closing her eyes again. “Let me guess; this customer was not at all grateful for the rescue.”

“Could not be less grateful. They actually wacked me with their parasol.” Westlie rubbed her middle, testing the ache. It wasn’t bruising yet but it would. It definitely would.

She got both eyes open at that. “They actually hit you?”

“Mmhm.”

“What a cunt.”

Had it really been a week since they’d talked? Westlie could never keep track of time. The days blurred into each other, especially around the end of the month when half her nights were spent in paperwork and the other half was grabbing sleep before fixing whatever the rest of the staff had managed to fuck up within a 12 hour period. She felt vaguely guilty. “What have you been up to?”

“No no, I want to hear more about this bitch with a parasol. Why was she there in the first place?”

Westlie had tried to erase that whole incident from her mind. There had been multiple people on the street staring. It was one of those things you woke up from the memory in a cold sweat twenty years later. “Mm…. candles and squid ink…? And calico? Something like that. Stupid shit. We don’t even have calico.”

“Was she just tall and looking for a fight? That’s so stupid. Paint me a picture of her.”

Westlie groaned. “I don’t really-”

Morgan rolled onto her elbows. “Let me guess, she had brown hair, an evil bitch face, and multiple warts.”

“Brown hair, no warts, some bitch face, yes.”

“Mm, she looked pretty but squeals like a girl when the blemmigan got her.” Westlie tried to hide a smile but Morgan caught it. “… You definitely laughed when it bit her.”

“I did not! I was very concerned for my customer!”

Morgan laughed, flopping on her back in the bed, grinning. “You did!”

Westlie broke and laughed too. “Oh she was such a bitch. I hate her. I think she said her name was… Vennedti? Something like that. She kept throwing it around. ‘How dare you insult the Vennedti name!’ ‘My father will speak to your employer about this!’ ‘A Vennedti treated in this manner!’ Oh she was so dumb.” Westlie burrowed into the blankets and smiled at her sister. Morgan smiled back. “Now what about you?”

“Oh, everyone at our bar is fine. Do you remember that rich asshole Fennigan?”

Westlie tried to remember; there was a vision of handlebar mustache and stovepipe hat, but little else. “… Two whiskeys, one gin and tonic…?”

“Close. Two whiskeys, one cider.” Morgan flopped on her back. “I finally got him banned after he insulted Three-Ciders-Two-Rum’s aunt. I suppose there’s a dramatic scandal somewhere because they - Fennigan and the aunt - were definitely going out, but the aunt rebuffed him after she found a Tackety to run away with. Just up and left! No notes. She was an old maid too; like thirty or so. But anyway.” Morgan flopped on her elbows again. “Fennigan walks in upset; nobody in the bar gives a shit because we’re not nosy assholes. He gets his whiskey and starts whining to John - you know, the barkeep.”

“Right.”

“Like, two hours of this, he’s super drunk; wants to play cards, so he goes into the corner and I’m playing with Three-Ciders-Two-Rum in the corner. Was it whist? No, I think it was loo or something; not important.” She waved the details away. “Fennigan is a little bitch and whines for us to cut him in. He dumped like idk, 50 sovereigns on the table, and obviously he’s drunk as fuck. In the beginning he was holding his cards right but eventually we could just see what he had.”

Westlie smiled a little as Morgan grew more animated, leaning on her side to listen.

“Four rounds in we’re both 25 sovereigns richer and he’s livid. Just tossing in the pot hoping for a full on win. Then I got the bad hand. His cards were basically on the table at that point because he’d had like five drinks too many; only it was better than mine, so I told Three-Ciders-Two-Rum to slip me his queen and a jack since he won the last two rounds, and Fennigan lost his mind. Apparently I look like that skanky aunt to a drunk man. I’ve never liked him anyway, so I told him to fuck off and that she left because his top hat was obviously compensating for such a tiny dick.”

Morgan paused for Westlie’s appreciative snort of laughter.

“Fennigan overturned the table and tried to deck me. Three-Ciders-Two-Rum only needed a little prodding for him to defend his aunt’s honor, and then fifteen minutes later Fennigan was out a top hat and 50 sovereigns, bruised and on the street. I cited the damages and got John to ban him.” Morgan dramatically illustrated a headline in the air. “Local Stovepipe Loses Bride and Loses Pride.” She flopped back on the mattress. “That was a great Thursday. Oh I got all 50 of those sovereigns, by the way. They’re in your drawer.”

Westlie had stopped questioning Morgan’s reasoning 6 years ago so the fact they were in her drawer not Morgan’s was more surprising than their existence. “I thought you said Three-Ciders-Two-Rum won half the rounds.”

“Eh, I made sure he broke even. He was too busy slugging; it’s his fault.”

“I feel like I need to lecture you on the vice of theft.”

Morgan poked the tip of Westlie’s nose, grinning. “Alls fair when it’s sitting on the card table.”

“They overturned the table!”

“Shhh, shh shh shh. Semantics, Wes. We were playing cards, he was very drunk, and now he’s missing 50 sovereigns. No harm in that.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“A pain in your ass,” Morgan corrected. “John appreciates me.”

“He absolutely does not. You cause a fight once a week.”

“And I help clean up after! I’m a dutiful member of my local community.”

“So many fights….” Westlie groaned, rolling over to eye her sister for half a second before grabbing her pillow and pinning it down on Morgan’s face. “Can you win this one?!”

There was a muffled ‘..Fucker!’ before Westlie got kneed right in the stomach and she keeled over. “I’ll beat your ass!”

Westlie ducked the right hook, and tackled Morgan around the stomach, pinning her back down to the bed. “I’ve still got weight on you!”

“You are such a bitch! I was feeling so sorry for you with that Venni cunt.” Morgan twisted her legs around and Westlie felt herself biting the bed with a pillow shoving her head down from behind. “Do feathers taste good? I’ve never bothered to find out.”

Westlie wriggled a shoulder free, holding her breath and betting on Morgan’s vindictive two-hand hold on the pillow to continue while she caught her sister’s wrist and yanked. Morgan tipped, thrown off balance and Westlie scrambled on top to pin her arms and legs down. “Aha!”

Morgan squirmed for a full minute, trying to toss Westlie off before she flopped back and rolled her eyes. “Alright, alright. Uncle.” Westlie grinned as she popped off, collected her pillow and flopped back under the covers. Morgan sulked as she did the same. “If I’d known you’d just lecture and be a dick the whole time I would have stayed in my room.”

Westlie poked the tip of her nose. “But you’re nice.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m mean,” Westlie agreed. For full sulking aesthetic Westlie sat up and tucked in her little sister on the other side of the bed. Morgan eyed her with the look that said she was annoyed, but equally pleased before yawning.

Westlie caught the yawn as she fell back under the covers and they laid there, sleep catching up with them. There was a long pause until Morgan shifted a little.

“When are you going to come out with me again, Wes?”

“Mm,” Westlie curled under the blankets and shrugged after mentally reviewing her list of to-dos. “Things should die down in a few more days. You know how the end of the month is. And I can handle more things now I’m 18 so there’s that too.”

Morgan sighed quietly, and just like that the house felt big and empty and lonely. “…I miss you.”

They were only two years apart, but Westlie could feel the separation and she was reminded, again, of their estrangement in some ways; and that in many respects, they were each others’ only real family. She rolled on her side and reached over, squeezing Morgan gently with one arm. “Hey, it’s ok. I’ll have a night off soon.”

“You always say that.”

Westlie didn’t know how to respond, hesitating. She finally sighed and squeezed her a little tighter. “…I miss you too.”

Morgan felt very small and Westlie remembered when they were far smaller and fit much better in the same moderately-sized bed. She would come running in during storms or if the soot from the factories nearby made scary shapes in the clouds. Westlie was not good at comforting and it didn’t help that now she couldn’t scoff at the clouds or the thunder and tell Morgan to wait an hour. There was nothing else she could do except hold her. Even that was a bit empty now since Morgan wasn’t quite a child anymore and hadn’t ever really been a child, like Westlie; affection was a poor subsitute for false promises. But she was here, and Westlie genuinely couldn’t give her a date, a tomorrow, a next week. Westlie sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“You have your own problems,” Morgan said quietly. “I know.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Morgan rolled back over and gently touched the tip of Westlie’s nose. “I might not like it, but I understand.”

Westlie sighed again and let go of her, curling up tighter in the blankets. “How does you coming in here always make me feel guilty?”

“Because you know I’m right.”

Westlie rolled her eyes. “Says the one who stole 50 sovereigns from some poor stovepipe sap.”

“Stealing and emotional intelligence are not mutually exclusive.”

“Mmph, spare me.” But Westlie couldn’t resist a smile, interrupted by yet another yawn.

She felt Morgan curl up tighter in the blankets, settling in. “Good night, Wes.”

“… If I get those letters written and the cargo done we can go out tomorrow.”

“Sure, Wes.” There was a hopeful lilt in Morgan’s voice, but it stayed tempered. Westlie knew that look and she didn’t open her eyes to check.

“Night, Morgan.”

#fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff #morgan #westlie #skyfarer #skyfarer rpg #the crew of the pyrrhus #adventures of the pyrrhus #sunless skies #I've never written a fight in dialogue before; that was entertaining. #is the ending even fluff? I feel like it's low-key tragic #now for a bar scene #I have no idea what they do in bars #especially because I only know half of morgans story #/narrows eyes #decisions.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Jigsaw // Blue: Part Two

Jabberwocky

A/N: Moving right along with Blue- Billy learned that not all of his memories can be trusted, but one powerful one strikes through. But even as he finds answers, two questions still remain: where are you, and how did this happen?

Warning: Psychological trauma, brief mention of sexual abuse, language, another angst fest.

Word Count: 4,038

Prompt from: @its-my-little-dumpster-fire

Billy’s life had always been ruled by routine. In the home, in the military, in the workforce; there was always somewhere to be or something to do and an allotted amount of time in which to do it. It was no different in the hospital. He’d wake from dreams, covered in sweat and breathing heavily, and minutes later his door would open. If it was a therapy day, Dr. Dumont would come in, her shiny dark hair twisted into a tight bun, her face twisted up by her sugar-sweet smile. She’d undo his cuffs and they’d clang against the bedrails. He’d rub at his wrists and either sit up in the bed or drag himself to the chairs by the window- wherever Dumont decided to hold the session that day. She’d ask her questions and push his buttons, then she and her smile and her hastily scribbled notes would leave the room. Like clockwork, a nurse would come in with medications rattling in a paper cup held outstretched in a shaking hand. The meathead orderly assigned to protect the medical staff from Billy did little to assuage their fears, even though he’d never done anything threatening; it seemed that his presence alone was enough to incite an involuntary reaction.

After the medication was dispensed, the frazzled nurse would leave, practically tripping over themselves to get back to the safety of the hallway, but the orderly would stay, standing guard by the door while Billy was allowed an hour or two of “physical activity”. He’d been cleared recently to do light body weight exercises; pushups, sit ups, dips. That time slot was filled with equal parts frustration and determination as he worked daily to build back the muscle that was lost to months of atrophy. He’d roll the sleeves of his hospital issued hoodie up his scrawny forearms, and drop to the floor to exert himself to the point of fatigue. His current counts were at 24 pushups, 52 sit ups, and a whopping 13 dips- a far cry from his former physique, and while it was better than the 0, 0 and 0 that he’d been capable of when he started, the bottom line was that over the last decade or two, Billy Russo had grown accustomed to power. Feeling this weak was just as detrimental to his mental state as everything else that was working against him, and improving his stamina and rebuilding that muscle was the one thing that Dr. Dumont had suggested that he wholeheartedly agreed with.

The rest of the day was just as regimented: shower, back in the cuffs, meals, back in the cuffs, out of the bed to take a goddamn piss, back in the cuffs until morning. Lather, rinse repeat. There wasn’t a lot of wiggle room in the routine, but there was a lot of time to think. Normally he’d dissect every detail of his dreams, searching for something he recognized, something that would bring the shadows to light. Usually he’d rack his brain, pick through the shards and try to find anything that could solve the riddle of the skull. But that had taken a backseat ever since you started stumbling through his nightly visions; ever since he realized that he couldn’t trust his own memories, even the ones he felt sure of. You threw a wrench right into that routine.

It took him a full week to finally come to terms with the fact that he hadn’t taken you to the Marine Ball; to believe Dr. Dumont’s insistence that he hadn’t come back from deployment until well after the ball had come and gone. If it hadn’t been for the flash of a memory that caused him to fall out of a pushup- an incident that happened that had actually delayed his unit on that deployment rather than getting them home ahead of schedule- he’d probably still swear to himself that he could remember the way his white gloves slid over your blue dress, or the way your lips tasted like your tears. But when he relayed that vision in a session, Krista had confirmed it, showing him military records that backed it up. “So you see, Billy?” She tilted her head, that sinuous smile twisting her features, “You see? The ball...it was a dream.”

“Yeah.” He’d answered monotonously. “Yeah, doc I see.”

She nodded with what he assumed she meant to be encouragement, but just came off as condescension. “Good. I know it’s hard, but sifting through and recognizing reality is what’s going to bring all your real memories back.”

Billy’s left leg bounced erratically as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “She is a real memory,” he snarled, ignoring an itch on the bridge of his nose. “She’s real she’s...she’s somewhere and…” his nostrils flared and the sound of his breathing was amplified by the mask. He pounded his fist against his knee to stop the shaking and to prove his point. “Look I know I didn’t take her dancin’, but don’t you sit there and, and, and tell me that she’s some fuckin’...some figment of my fucked imagination, okay doc? ‘Cause…’cause I know…” his fist pounded the center of his chest. “I feel it...I know….”

“Billy,” she held one up palm facing him. “Billy, please stop that…” she tilted her head and pumped her hand in a cautious gesture, the way one might approach a rabid stray, a beast on a broken leash, something that should be put down. “Billy, I’m sorry. You’re right, she is real. She’s a real person.” He froze on her words, fist falling to his lap. “She’s real, Billy. There are photos of the two of you…”

“Lemme see.”

She shook her head slightly, not a single hair falling out of place. A flash cut through his mind, so potent that it made him wince- a clear, cloudless sky, a soft blue scarf, and your hair glinting in the sun, falling in your face. “I don’t have them with me, Billy, they’re...I have some of them in a file in my office, but-”

“Go get them.” He nodded toward the door before both hands landed on the top of his head. “Go get them. Go I wanna...I want to see them.” I want to see her.

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea, Billy, she… she seems to be a … a trigger for you, for your-”

He stood with such force that his chair fell backwards and for the first time since these little sessions started, he thought he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. Good. “I said,” he spoke through tight teeth. “Go get the fucking pictures, Krista.”

Her hands were both up now, and she rose slowly. “Alright. Okay.” That little flicker was back under control as she raised her chin. Billy paced a few steps back and forth impatiently. “Billy?” He turned in her direction, blinking at her from behind the dark black paint he’d splattered around the eye holes in his mask. “I need you to sit back down, okay? Sit down, please, and I’ll go grab the file and the pictures, and I’ll come right back.” He watched her swallow, a lump moving down her throat. The fear might be gone from her eyes, but he could still smell it on her and it filled him with satisfaction. She’s always makin’ me talk about fear and nightmares and shit… He was glad to give her a dose of her own prescription.

He adjusted his neck and shoulders, a slight pop coming from the tension as he bent to right his chair, sitting back down in it like he had nothing but respect for proper decorum. Cracking his knuckles and working his jaw, he kept his eyes on her. “I’ll be waiting.”

She hurried to the door before regaining her composure, yanking at her skirt and running her fingers over her hair despite the fact that it was still perfectly in place. Her heels clicked down the hall until he could no longer hear them, and as soon as there was silence it was replaced by a whooshing sound as blood rushed in his ears. I knew it. I knew she...I knew it. He felt his pulse quicken at the thought of getting to see you, see your face with his eyes and not just in his head. Another flash tore through his brain, and somehow he knew what pictures Krista was about to come back with. A statue, some gibberish, your laugh as his arms came around your waist and his lips found the spot on your throat that made you gasp his name.

“Billy,” your voice hit his ear like a chime on the breeze as you twisted in his grasp to face him. The sky was clear but the early spring air was still crisp and your breath puffed out from your lips, a pink tint coloring your cheeks. You placed your hands on either side of his face and smiled at him. “Billy, there’s kids all over the place, you gotta keep it together, lieutenant.” The flicker in your eyes told him that was the last thing that you wanted- him to keep it together- that what you wanted more than anything was for him to ravish you right there in the park, take you right there in the grass to the right of the sidewalk where your feet were planted.

He shrugged. “Not my kids, not my problem.” His fingers combed your hair back from your face as he waited for your reaction.

You snorted and shook your head, reaching for his hand. “Come on, we’re not even there yet. You said I could show you my favorite part of the park. We’re almost there,” you tugged on his hand and he let you. “And then later, you can do all the things you’re thinking right now, Russo.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He answered, trying to keep his tone even and professional.

You led him a few more yards down the winding path until it opened up and a large bronze statue came into view- toadstools and a rabbit with a pocket watch, Alice holding court atop the largest mushroom, and the Mad Hatter leaning on the one directly next to her. You spread your arms wide, hand still holding his. “Ta-da!” Your grin pulled your pink cheeks up, your scarf coming untied at your dramatic gesture. “My favorite place.” Pulling him closer, you wrapped your arm around his waist. “With my favorite person.”

Billy looked over his shoulder playfully. “Someone else here I don’t know about?” When he turned back to you, you were shaking your head, a wistful look in your eyes. “What? What are you lookin’ at me like that for?”

“You know damn well what, Billy.”

The door handle turning and the click of Krista’s heels re-entering the room yanked Billy back to the present. He fought the urge to stand again, but he brought one hand up to his face and peeled the mask back, staring at the manilla folder in her hands. He tapped his thumb anxiously against his pointer finger. “I still don’t know if this is the best idea, Billy,” Dr. Dumont crossed the room slowly, fingers slipping inside the folder’s opening to rifle through the charts and notes and whatever other information she was hoarding on him. “But,” she sighed. “Maybe it will help.” She regained her position across from Billy and he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, so that there were only inches between them.

Krista opened the folder fully, flipping through the first few layers until she got to a smaller envelope. She pulled that out, shutting the folder and sticking it under her notepad. Billy watched her unwind the string that kept the envelope shut, heart pounding against his ribs. He sucked in a breath as she extracted a stack of three photos from the paper sleeve. Billy’s throat went dry and he nearly choked on a breath. Thumb and finger of his left hand still tapping together, he reached silently with his right hand, eyes trained on the photos. “Can I…” suddenly all the rage he’d felt before drained from him and it was replaced with desperation, with need. “Please…” He felt a furrow form in his scarred forehead as his mouth twitched downward.

Krista looked down at the images in her hand and then back up at Billy before handing them over carefully. “Here,” she whispered, folding her hands over the items in her lap and eyeing him quietly as he gaped at the photos in his shaking fingers.

The world spun and the air was punched from his lungs as he tried and failed to keep his eyes from watering. It’s...it’s her… she… An anguished sob fell from his lips as a sledgehammer hit his heart. His thumb brushed over the glossy print out, tracing over your face as though he could feel your skin through the photo. You were smiling, a big one, the kind that would nearly shut your eyes. Your soft lips were stained a muted pink, and one hand was raised to try to keep a breeze-blown strand of hair from getting in your mouth. You were tucked tightly against Billy’s chest, your other arm wound around his back, the pose seeming as natural, as right as anything in the world. He panned over and up a few inches to take in the image of himself- of the man he used to be. His thumb came up to block himself out, focusing only on you. He flipped to the next one- same pose, but his own fingers reached up to keep the hair from your face, closing around yours and causing your smile to change just enough to scrunch your nose a bit. He felt that hammer hit his heart again, little fissures bursting open. She’s always smilin’... He squeezed his eyes shut and felt a tear fight its way through his lashes. She’s...fuck I miss her… “Where is she?” he mumbled quietly, flipping to the next one.

“I don’t know anything damn well,” He responded, smirking down at you.

You rolled your eyes and raised on your toes to leave a quick kiss to the corner of his grin. “You got that right.” You turned toward the statue and took a few steps closer, Billy following you, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I used to come here a lot when I was younger, you know?” You sniffed against the cold.

“Yeah?” he stepped next to you, looking down to watch your face as you told him about a piece of your past.

You nodded, reaching out to run your hands over the smooth patina of the closest toadstool. “Yeah. When I got old enough to leave home on my own? I’d come here to get away from…” Your smile became sad then, and you shook your head slightly.

Billy understood. You’d told him about your step-father; about the way he treated your mother, and the things he’d say to you as his eyes lingered a little too long on parts of you that he shouldn’t be concerned with. His arm came around you wordlessly and he tugged you closer to himself. He couldn’t protect you then, but he could now, and he vowed to himself that he would. You leaned into him, your arm going around his back, hand finding its way into his pocket, and he was struck by how good it felt to know that you trusted him, even with things like this.

You cleared your throat. “Alice had Wonderland, and I had Central Park. I had this statue. I’d come here and just...daydream. Sometimes I’d bring my sketch pad and draw.” You gave a light squeeze around his midsection before disentangling yourself from him. He dropped his arm, letting you go so that you could take another few steps before bending down to the concrete circle that ran around the edges of the whimsical sculpture. Billy kept his eyes on you, following you closely. You ran your fingers through the words that were engraved into the sidewalk and a grin came back to light your eyes. “The Jabberwocky,” you said fondly before looking up at him.

“The what?” he looked down at the ground as you sat cross-legged, and joined you after brushing some dirt away from the spot. You continued to trace the letters and he followed your fingers.

You laughed to yourself. “The Jabberwocky.” You indicated the engraved text. “It’s a poem...it’s a nonsense poem, about a monster that Alice fought on one of her adventures. All made up words...Bandersnatches and vorpal swords…” you laughed again and looked up at him. “But I loved it. I figured if Alice could slay a monster, so could I.”

Somewhere in the distance the shrieking sounds of childish delight echoed through the fields. Blue and red balloons bobbed on strings in tightly closed fists. Happy families strolled the pathways as blossoms and buds started opening on trees and shrubs. But all he could see was you. “You could. I believe it. Viper sword or not.”

“Vorpal sword,” you corrected, scooting closer.

“Whatever,” he grinned at you before standing, extending a hand to help you up. “Hey, it’s chilly, you wanna get movin’?”

“What do you remember, Billy?” Krista’s voice cut through the clear sky and pulled him back to the overwhelmingly white room.

“She, she, she took me to the statue...in,” his free hand ran over the top of his head before he dragged it down his face, fingers running through the ridges of the scars on his cheeks. “In the park. It was…” He flipped to the last photo and a weight dropped into his stomach. “It was right before I left...she wanted...wanted to show me her favorite place.”

You pulled back on his hand to get his attention. “Wait, Billy.” He turned back to you, raising one eyebrow. “Wait, I-” you dug in your pocket for your phone, unlocking the screen and opening the camera. “I want a picture of us. Here.” You waved your hand towards the sculpture, and let it fall to your side. “I… you’re leaving, Billy. In a few days and…” you bit your bottom lip. “And I want a picture, before you go.” You looked up at him pleadingly. “Okay?”

Billy felt something swim through his chest then, something he’d never felt before, and suddenly he hated the fact that he was shipping out. “Yeah. Anything you want, here…” he held his hand out for your phone, the other arm slipping around you to pull you close, more swiftly that either of you anticipated and it drew a laugh from your lips. He smiled and snapped two photos in quick succession, the sound of your laughter mixing with that new feeling in his chest. He snapped a third one, but he hadn’t noticed that you’d turned to look up at him, still looking at the camera.

“Billy,” you whispered, and he handed you back your phone, turning to face you. You took it and stuck it back in your pocket without looking at the pictures, and he noted the way your eyes swept over his face- as though you were trying to memorize every curve, every angle. “Billy, I...can you do something else for me?”

“Yeah,” he answered, tilting his head. “Yeah, I told you, anything you want.”

“This is something I need, Billy...I…” you rarely stumbled over your words, hardly ever hesitated, so he knew that this was serious. “Billy, I need you to promise you’re coming back, okay? I...I care about you, Russo. I...I need you.”

He recognized that new feeling then at your words. It was need. He needed you, too. Needed this, needed this feeling, this trust this… “I promise.” Everything else faded as he reached for you then, as his hand conformed to the back of your head, lips crashing to yours to validate the promise, to show you that he needed you just as much. You responded immediately, grabbing fistfuls of his thick hair, bending your body closer to his, pressing your chest against his own until he swore he could feel your heart beneath your scarf and your coat. He kissed you hard, but not aggressively, with urgency, but without rushing, taking his time to let his tongue explore your mouth while his lips parted to allow yours to do the same; taking his time to kiss you so thoroughly that you couldn’t possibly question how he felt and how seriously he took his promise.

As he pulled away, you gasped to catch your breath, and your tongue flicked out to wet your lips, like you were still chasing the taste of his kiss. “Wow,” you breathed, falling into him.

His arm tightened around you has his hand rubbed a small circle on your back. He dropped another kiss to the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair. “Yeah, wow.”

“I...I...I promised her I’d...she needs me and...I…” He stood then, but slowly this time, his chair staying put. “I told her I’d come back to her but then...I didn’t...I didn’t, did I?” He looked to Dr. Dumont for answers, eyes falling to the folder she still held. He pointed to it. “What else is in there? What else? Did I...is she...where is she?”

Krista shook her head. “These were the last photos of the two of you that she shared on her old social media accounts, Billy. It…” she shrugged. “It seems like you two broke it off while you were away. Does that...do you remember that?”

Billy sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “No.” He said it angrily, though he didn’t know who he was angry with. “No, I wouldn’t have…” He shook his head quickly in agitation. I...why would I? No. No I wouldn’t have… “No. I didn’t...I...I love her I wouldn’t… I didn’t.”

Krista sighed. “I don’t know what happened, Billy. These are the last pictures you took together.”

He pointed to the folder again, taking a step closer. “What else is in there, huh? What else does it say?” The hand he pointed with came to his head, gripping the top. Come on, fucking think...what did I...“Emails! I...I...I remember she sent me emails, while I was over there. And, and, and I...we talked on Skype sometimes. There’s...in there... you have phone records? What else is in the fucking folder, Krista?” His cheeks were wet and his bottom lip was quivering and he hated how every time a piece fell into place three more questions sprang up. “What aren’t you fucking telling me?” He caught his reflection in the window and froze. He looked crazed, like an animal. Like a monster. Like a jabberwocky.

She stood, tucking the folder and the notepad under her arm. “Billy, I think that’s enough for today.” She held her hand up again. “You’re doing really well, Billy. You’re remembering things more clearly.” A small shake of her head made his top lip curl. “I don’t want to interfere with that.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re almost there, Billy, can’t you feel that? You’ve almost solved it.” She reached for his arm and placed her hand there. He yanked it away as though she’d touched him with a hot poker, but it didn’t seem to phase her, that stubborn fearlessness back now that he was drowning in questions again; now that she had him on the ropes once more. “Hold on to those pictures if you want, if you think it will help.” Of course I want them...of course it helps… “I’ll see you in two days, Billy.”

With that she was gone and he was left with the photos in his hand and his reflection in the window. He walked over to it, looking down at the world 18 stories below; at the streets he used to walk through with you. What fuckling happened...how...how did this happen to me?

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @thebbtongue @thesumofmychoices @gollyderek @zaffrenotes @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @lysawayne @audreychaz @roses-in-your-country-house @traeumerinwitzhelden @luminex3 @songtoyou @songforhema @ymariejp @belladonnarey @breanime @stories-you-wont-hear

#billy russo #Blue #blue part two #jabberwocky #billy russo x you #billy russo x reader #the punisher fanfiction #billy russo fic #jigsaw #fuck off krista #alice in wonderland #central park #billy smooches #a kiss on the sidewalk #ugh i hate this

[racingtoaredlight]

Beans & Toast: Back to Business

“Ribs, I gotta hand it to you, baby...that was the best damn omelet I’ve ever had,” Eric Roberts compliments as he lights up a cigarette.  Ribs didn’t intend on joining the Army to become a decorated part of Delta Force, instead enlisting to be a cook so he could save up to study at Le Cordon Bleu.  Not that he needed much instruction, that is.

“EYYY LOOK WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN!”

***

She honestly didn’t mind going on these covert missions, most of which was spent reading alone in a hotel room.  She preferred her own company, and it was hard to find that kind of space in the continual flow of the business’ operations.  These trips were typically a relief.

The one part she absolutely hates is packing.  Her staff has her necessary luggage ready to go en route, but when she’s on her own, it’s up to her.  The idea of spending time folding and organizing something as trivial as a suitcase is beneath her, so she thinks.

Still wearing the Standford sweatshirt, pressing her weight against the top of the suitcase so she can zip it shut, when she hears the door knock, the contents of the suitcase unzip her progress and leave a few scattered articles on the bed.  UGH.

She looks out the peephole, becoming instantly deflated.

“Davita, it’s Nigel!  Listen, I just want to talk!”

***

Preston still couldn’t believe it.  Cream!  Fucking Derek and the Dominoes!

Tommy didn’t understand any of it.  He was devastated when Eric Clapton got gunned down in Cape Town, and then further filled with conflicting emotions when they found the blond man’s gun unfired.  The blond man got what he deserved, but both he and his sister didn’t believe that the man they tortured was responsible for Clapton’s death.

“Listen son, you gotta think about where all this shit came from.  We didn’t have those fancy guitars you got today, Clapton had to make the magic with his hands.  Sure, his 70′s stuff was hit or miss, but Slowhand in the 90′s?  Underrated.”

“Dad, I was at Crossroads at Dallas in ‘04.  He was good, but I still kinda think he was overrated.”

***

“WHO THE FUCK GOES ON A MONTH LONG ROAD TRIP IN THE MIDDLE OF A GODDAMNED COVERT OPERATION?!?!”

Beans simmered while Toast chuckled with every new line, digging into Goose and Donkey Kong.  Even Oi don’t have the bollocks to pull summat loike this off, he thought to himself.  Beans’ inner monologue was more concerned.  Who posts a bunch of pictures of themselves on Instagram getting chased by the Italian police and stealing wine from a vineyard?  All while on a majorly illegal covert vigilante mission?

Goose, he could understand doing something like this.  He’s the living definition of a Wild Card.  But Kong?  This was so unlike him.  Beans had worked with Donkey Kong all through Africa.  He was as professional as it gets, but here he was galivanting around like a sailor on shore leave.

In a room full of seasoned mercenaries, Connie was the most terrifying presence.  Her anger kept ratcheting upwards, but she never lost control.  Her point was obviously clear.

This past month, everyone had been working their asses off to get ready.  Well, everyone except Eric Roberts that is, who’s only role seemed to be that of smoking cigarettes and providing running commentary.  The only thing keeping her lid from blowing completely off was knowing that everyone was going into something that near-guaranteed certain death.  If that’s how they want to spend their final days, she got it.

But she was going down fighting.

***

Abeo Chukwu-Ojhogar, now in Cape Town, read a 2019 issue of Golf Digest in the lobby of a modestly priced hotel.  You wouldn’t have been able to tell him from one of the other guests here, ranging from Japanese salarymen to Emerati recruiters to small sliver of the South African middle class striving upwards.

He watches as a man turns the corner by the elevators, clearly wiping a tear from his cheek, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.  The magazine snaps down, he’s seen this before.

Abeo briskly walks past the elevator lobby to the stairs, knowing the room he’s heading towards to is on the third floor, and the stairs would be far quicker.  He opens the door to the third floor cautiously while moving one hand to the pistol holstered on his hip.  Left.  Right.  Clear.

Knock. Knock-Knock-Knock. Kn-Knock.

“Abe...” an American accent can barely get out before being interrupted.

***

“Davita, do you know who that man was?”

“How...did...yes, I knew who he was Abeo.”

“Then you also know he’s second in command of the covert team that just killed our asset, and an active member of MI-6.”

She did not know that.  The momentary tremor of adrenaline and fear excited her more than she would admit, before her instincts kicked in.  Abeo Chukwu-Ojhogar was one of the few people she respected, coming from nothing in West Africa to becoming a trusted intelligence liason in the criminal underworld.

It was through one intelligence gathering operation in 2016 that brought her uncle into contact with the then 20 year old.  Ceding control of the piracy operation to his uncle, Abeo was destined for bigger things.  He had a calmness about it him that was equal parts reassuring and unnerving.

Extremely unassuming, an oxymoron for the ages, is the best description for Abeo Chukwu-Ojhogar.  Unassuming to an extreme degree.  The man you didn’t notice reading a Golf Digest in the lobby of the South African version of a Holiday Inn controls a shipping lane longer and wider than the eastern United States.

***

“Put that...” Abeo protests as she starts punching a number in her phone.

Davita silences the man she very much respects, focusing on the dialing tone so that she would be ready when he picks...Nigel, hi, it’s me.  Listen, I don’t know what I was thinking, can we talk?

The normally stoic Abeo mouths WHATHTEFUCKAREYOUDOING with his eyes bulging out of his head.  She knew what she was doing.  She was going to Honeypot the Honeypot.  The blond man never would have been able to get the access that she’d be able to.

Her uncle will be proud.

***

TO BE CONTINUED

[howdy-nyalll]

Tari ==> School another nerd.

The character Otaria isn’t on the bog yet but this rp with @in-fin-ite-seadwellers was sooo much fun tbh.

[12:08] -- recalcitranMusician [RM] began trolling complacentlyEquitable [CE] at 00:08 --

[12:08] RM: HEY Y⦿U!

[12:10] CE: He||o you

[12:10] RM: what's up nerd

[12:12] CE: must you ca|| me names?

[12:12] RM: it's h⦿w i sh⦿w affecti⦿n!!

[12:12] RM: i d⦿n't think y⦿u're THAT lame tbh.

[12:13] CE: we||, I won't |et that one go to my head

[12:13] RM: it w⦿uld take f⦿rever t⦿ get there anyways >:/

[12:15] RM: s⦿ did y⦿u get gr⦿unded t⦿⦿?

[12:16] RM: can a king GET gr⦿unded??

[12:17] CE: As much as they can ground an emperor. It wou|d seem the guards have been instructed to fo||ow me when I |eave the premises

[12:17] CE: It's a si||y thing to do

[12:17] RM: d⦿ they g⦿ t⦿ the bathr⦿⦿m with y⦿u?

[12:17] CE: No, of course not!

[12:18] RM: s⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿ y⦿u c⦿uld sneak ⦿ut again!

[12:19] CE: I think they wou|d notice when I've been in the bathroom for too |ong

[12:19] RM: tell them y⦿u had a bad burrit⦿

[12:20] CE: I'm not going to do that

[12:20] CE: It's not worth the troub|e rea||y

[12:20] RM: didn't y⦿u have fun?? :(

[12:21] CE: I did. But not enough to justifiy sneaking out again. The entire staff is on my case about it

[12:22] RM: y⦿u have needs t⦿⦿

[12:23] CE: I simp|y can't. There's too much work to do

[12:23] RM: willw we never get t⦿ hang ⦿ut again??

[12:24] RM: y⦿u g⦿tta have a balance ⦿f w⦿rk and play dude.

[12:24] CE: I want to! trust me, I rea||y do! I just don't care much for getting in troub|e

[12:25] CE: As for the ba|ance... I just don't know how to go about it

[12:25] RM: we'll figure s⦿mething ⦿ut. i can't leave y⦿u all being a sad sack f⦿rever!! what kind ⦿f friend w⦿uld i be.

[12:26] CE: I'|| take a |ook at what things can be moved around to make some time. I promise nothing, but I'|| try

[12:27] CE: I appreciate the effort, by the way

[12:27] RM: well n⦿ pressure anytime s⦿⦿n.....she's been ⦿n my ass f⦿r a week n⦿w.

[12:27] RM: haha n⦿ pr⦿blem ;)

[12:28] CE: Perith has you on a short |eash? I suspect she's not too p|eased

[12:29] RM: y⦿u have n⦿ idea!! i'm n⦿t all⦿wed t⦿ g⦿ anywhere basically!!

[12:29] CE: Annoying

[12:30] RM: y⦿u're telling me. s⦿metimes having a m⦿irail can be huge pain in the ass.

[12:31] CE: I woud|n't know. My friend seems to enjoy her's though

[12:31] RM: i w⦿uld think y⦿u'd have miles ⦿f lines ⦿f saps lining up tp get y⦿ut sweet r⦿yal pap tbh.

[12:32] CE: I think we've estab|ished I'm not terrib|y popu|ar

[12:32] RM: plus y⦿u're really chilled and n⦿n-vi⦿lent!! y⦿u'd be a great m⦿irail.

[12:33] RM: i guess it d⦿esn't matter t⦿ us, we're under her rule.

[12:34] CE: So it wou|d seem

[12:35] RM: i d⦿n't see why y⦿u w⦿uldn't be p⦿pular?? perith has a shitl⦿ad ⦿f w⦿rk friends.

[12:35] CE: My work is fi||ed with boring adu|ts. Adu|ts don't want to be friends with chi|dren

[12:36] CE: And no one my age is boring enough to think I'm any fun

[12:36] RM: ew. adults suck.

[12:36] RM: i think y⦿u're fun!! :)

[12:36] CE: Most of them, yeah

[12:36] CE: Thank you, I think that's a first

[12:36] CE: You're |oads of fun though!

[12:37] RM: i kn⦿w ;D

[12:37] CE: So humb|e too

[12:38] RM: the humblest!

[12:38] RM: it's barely even w⦿rth menti⦿ning h⦿w humble i am.

[12:38] RM: thats h⦿w humble i am.

[12:39] CE: You shou|d be awarded sainthood for your humb|ness

[12:39] RM: ew, sainth⦿⦿d is b⦿ring.

[12:40] CE: You'd be praised by the masses

[12:40] RM: hmmmm

[12:40] RM: i mean i kinda already have that

[12:40] RM: but its tempting

[12:41] RM: maybe if i was a c⦿⦿l saint wh⦿ still kisses h⦿es and d⦿es sick raves ⦿n the side.

[12:41] RM: saint ⦿nly 9-5 ⦿n weekdays.

[12:41] CE: I suppose if you're a saint, you can pretty much do what you want, within the bounds of the |aw

[12:42] RM: if i'm a hgiher being h⦿w c⦿me i g⦿tta d⦿ laws!! fuck laws. laws can kiss my ass.

[12:42] RM: emper⦿r/empress < saint.

[12:42] CE: You're a saint, not a god!

[12:42] RM: maybe i g⦿t pr⦿m⦿ted fr⦿m being s⦿ g⦿⦿d at sainting.

[12:43] CE: You'|| have to take that up with the church on that one

[12:43] RM: yeah there's g⦿nna be a ref⦿rmati⦿n i think. heads up.

[12:44] CE: So |ong as I can keep my head

[12:44] RM: as y⦿ur g⦿d my first c⦿mmandment is f⦿r y⦿u t⦿ hang ⦿ut with me asap ;D

[12:44] RM: yeah im n⦿t a lame g⦿d dude dw.

[12:45] CE: We||, I can't possib|y argue with that |ogc

[12:45] CE: |ogic

[12:45] RM: (im like the free plasma tvs and sweet p⦿pc⦿rn g⦿d tbh)

[12:46] CE: Very nic

[12:46] CE: nice

[12:46] RM: s⦿me⦿ne getting tired?? ⦿r drunk L⦿L?

[12:47] CE: Thinking faster then my fingers, I suppose. Certain|y not drunk!

[12:48] RM: haha im jk br⦿. i kn⦿w y⦿u w⦿uldn't be partying w/⦿ me.

[12:48] -- recalcitranMusician [RM] changed their mood to DISCONTENT --

[12:48] -- recalcitranMusician [RM] changed their mood to RANCOROUS --

[12:48] -- recalcitranMusician [RM] changed their mood to ECSTATIC --

[12:49] RM: s⦿rry her dumb cat is here.

[12:49] CE: I was wondering what that was

[12:49] RM: ugh i think i hear per c⦿ming. im n⦿t supp⦿sed t⦿ be ⦿n her w⦿rk c⦿mputer l⦿l.

[12:49] RM: i changed the wallpaper t⦿ a butt ;D

[12:50] CE: Natura||y. I expect nothing |ess

[12:50] CE: But you rea||y shou|dn't be on her work computer

[12:50] RM: well i als⦿ sh⦿uldnt be gr⦿unded!! life isnt fair.

[12:51] RM: anywh⦿ i h⦿pe i get t⦿ see y⦿u again s⦿⦿n??

[12:51] CE: I'|| do my best! I miss you

[12:51] RM: nerd

[12:51] RM: see y⦿u s⦿⦿n ;D

[12:52] -- recalcitranMusician [RM] gave up trolling complacentlyEquitable [CE] at 00:52 --

#trollian rps #random dancing #random dancing rp

[thorndale-industries]

Meeting of Knights

(Repost because Tumblr fucked up badly. I am sorry :( )

The yellow cab stopped right at the entrance to the building. It was raining heavily outside and everyone was in a rush. Gillian looked out the window, craning to see the top of the towering hotel, but it was concealed by the gray clouds. She paid the driver and grabbed the hoodie attached to her jacket to pull it over her head, quickly leaving the car and reaching the entrance. Even though she didn’t need more than a few seconds, the cold air embraced and welcomed her to the city. She isn’t here often -- only when she has to.When she took of the hoodie, her whole body shivered, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling crawling on her shoulders. 

A well dressed receptionist stood stiffly behind the counter and simply nodded when she glanced at him, telling her that her host was already expecting her. Silently, without exchanging any words, she went to the elevator and chose one of the highest levels the building could offer. Calm jazz music accompanied her in her ascent and she suppressed the urge to smoke.

A gentle ping notified that she reached her destination and the old, decorated wooden doors opened, unveiling a view to a restaurant that could be straight out of the 1920s. It nearly felt like stepping through a time portal when leaving the elevator; the whole pace felt surreal. Gillian inspected the decorations around of her, trying to determine if they were really that old or simply well replicated, but concluded she was unable to do so. The expanse of the room in front of her was very open but  barely lit, heavy rain drops were hammering against the large windows. The Welsh woman cautiously walked further in, warily looking around. She noticed that the place appeared disturbingly deserted: all tables were empty and not a waiter in sight. Only a distant noise that seemed to come from the kitchen told her that she wasn’t alone.

“I am glad you came,” a deep and calm voice interrupted Gillian’s thoughts. It was only then that she noticed the man that invited her to this hypnagogic place, sitting at a table in front of the windows.

“Well, thanks for inviting me, Stanton,” responded the tall woman as she approached him. Dowd said nothing, only making a gesture to invite her to take a seat. He was wearing a white, well-fitted shirt, a very tight black vest, and a red tie. Gillian took off her cold jacket, draped it over the red wooden chair and sat down. Red and black, she thought, of course.

“A truly interesting place, my friend,” she interrupted the short silence between them, looking around again, “worthy to be owned by the Order.”

Her host nodded silently and took a sip of the expensive red wine in his glass.

“Do you want something too? Something to drink? Or to eat? You came straight to me, you must be hungry after the flight. I hope it won’t bother you that I ordered something for myself already,” the middle aged man smiled at her.

“No, it’s alright. Maybe some tea, but nothing to eat, thank you. I assume you own the place yourself?”

“Yes, so we are saved from any unwanted listeners here. I replaced the regular staff with my own for today.”

Dowd clapped loudly and within seconds a waiter arrived, expressionless and with puppet-like obedience. “Sir?”

“The lady would like to have some tea.”

The young man nodded then disappeared again.

Gillian examined her counterpart thoroughly, noticing all the subtle Templar symbols he brandished all over him. She chuckled, amused and thinking how she always thought her ring would give too much away. But Dowd was the leader of the Order, so it must be obligatory to appear like that.

He smiled calmly. “You are also allowed to smoke here, my friend.”

“Thanks for the offer.” , she instantly pulled out the little leather case out of her jacket pocket, put a cigarette between her red lips and ignited a match. Slowly the smoke started to dance around her.

“I assume you want a personal update on the Palisade Situation?”, she inquired after taking her fist puff.

“Indeed. Any progress on extracting the data we need?”

“Besides telling you all the time that Oshiro and Talwar are nothing but a scam?”

A annoyed expression flashed on his face before he took another sip of the wine.

“Yes, besides that.”

“Oh yes, I have”. Gillian leaned in, a crooked smile resting on the pale face.

“Turns out the great security mastermind isn't that great after all. Breaking into his systems was surprisingly easy and I didn't have to bribe an employee in Prague to create a secured channel for me. In fact, Oshiro uses his own bloody name as the security password. So much about narcissism.”

The young waiter appeared again and placed a beautifully decorated porcelain kettle and a place with a well cooked steak on the table. Gillian took another puff and watched Staton eating is meal.

“So, to continue: My suspicions were right. Oshiro and his wife have secret backdoors installed to access every single vault. Doesn't matter who it is.”

“And why exactly do they need them?”

“A massive inside trader scheme, industrial espionage on the biggest scale I have seen yet. They killed off an employee who was about to find out and I can prove it.”

The Grand Knight silently chewed on his steak, visibly processing the information. The white haired woman used the little break to purr some tea into a little white mug, enjoying the smell that seduced her senses. “Stanton, we could use that to our advantage.”

“How so?”

“You can blackmail them, forcing them to work for and with us. Having access to so much data would be an enormous gain. Nearly everyone has something stored there.”

“But you don't.”

“I don't trust a system I haven't rigged myself.”

Stanton laughed out loud, gabbing the silk napkin on the table and cleaning his mouth. “Finally paranoia got you, Gillian. What about your husband?”.

She smiled back at him and squeezing out her cigarette.

“Possibly, and it's all your fault, old friend. Robert knows about the backdoor, but not the trading. It's not my job to babysit his data. Anyway, consider this chance. It would be a great way to please and deceive Lucius as well.” Gillian could see how Dowd was deeply thinking about her suggestion, biting his lips.

“It is a good chance, indeed. I will arrange everything and come back to you as soon as it's done. Talking about Lucius, any news on him?”

The CEO sighed loudly, putting her head into her neck and inspected the ceiling for a while.

“Yes. His meetings with Beth are getting more regular, probably why they wanted you to pay off that TF29 pilot. I can confirm that Project Black Light exists and that one of their agents is about to go Prague. A psychologist.”

Dowd's expression turned from friendly to concerned within seconds and he leaned closer to her.

“Do you think they kn...”

“No, “ she interrupted him. “Lucius still thinks that you never leaving New York makes you weak and unable to strike at him”

“Good....good. The Order is getting stronger by the day and Lucius is too fed up with his..ambitions. I am positive he will tell me to bribe the delegates for the vote.”

“He probably will.”

The Grand Knight leaned back again and seemed satisfied with the information Gillian provided him. His whole body language turned from tensed to relax.

“Today is truly a good day. Thank you very much Gillian. You have no idea how delighted I am to have you among the Templar.” He raised a toast to her. “To us!”

Thorndale raised her mug as well and grinning contently.

#//TI archives [Writing/Drabbles]

[itsmekatiecassidy]

Space and Time||Amellidy

Where: Margot & Jai’s New Years Eve Party

Who: Katie Cassidy and Stephen Amell @s-amellywood

Summary: Things are still somewhat weird between them. He follows her into a back room. They talk. They argue. Maybe a little bit of crying, maybe some laughter--pretty much the usual with them. There might even be a part of their conversation where they contemplate going to Karaoke to sing a duet together of “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston man, I don’t know.

Katie: Excusing herself from the party, Katie made her way into one of the spare rooms in the back. She took out her lip gloss and made it look like she was in here to freshen up, when really, she just wanted a minute to herself. But that wasn’t looking like that was going to last long. She noticed in the mirror she was currently looking in, the door behind her was opening, but she smiled at the familiar face. “Hey, what if two people had been hooking up or something back here? Would serve you right for not knocking,” she tried to joke. Jokes were what seemed to keep her in check when trying to act around him. Putting her stuff in her bag quickly, she spun around, “I’m done here anyways--you can have the room to yourself.”

Stephen: Stephen hadn't been at the party long - just long enough to have a half a drink and ditch it on the bar before he was finished with it. He'd managed to keep to himself primarily. The only people he'd even spoken to were Margot and a few of the staff serving at the party and the conversation with everyone was light. From a distance he'd kept his eye on his ex-almost-wife in a way that was distinctly not creepy. Finally, she'd stepped away and Stephen wasn't too far behind her as she slipped into one of the empty rooms. "Nothing I haven't seen before," he half-joked with a small smile on his face as he closed the door behind him. "No. Its fine. I'm actually here to talk to you." The man's hand ran over his hair nervously as he walked further in and took a seat on the edge of the bed. This was probably the first time they'd have a civil face-to-face conversation since the day they should have been married and the whole thing was a little unnerving. "I um - I want you to know that we're good. From here on out I'm not holding anything against you - we're 100% fine.."

Katie: Katie's eyebrows shot up a bit, as if instinctively when he'd said he was there to talk to her. She wasn't used to it--not now--not with the way things had been ever since their almost wedding--a day and event the blonde still tried to block out as best she could. But, at the same time, she would take what she could get with him. "Oh," she said, still somewhat surprised as she turned from the mirror to face him, "Okay. What's up?" she asked before he went on. Even though he'd basically all but said this the other day, Katie was still a bit surprised. She never could seem to get the echo out of her head of him saying she was nothing to him. Sure, she didn't think things could go on as normal after the non wedding, but hearing him say that to her that day, in the house they shared, stuck with her and still hurt her deep down. "Okay," she said nodding her head gently, trying to actually let it sink in. Tucking a piece of hair behind her head, the girl cleared her throat and continued, "Thank you. It actually means a lot because I can't say I could blame you if you held it against me for forever--but like I've always said-- I think it's best if we can get to a good spot for the girls. I don't want them to have to go through some of the things I did with my parents, just because I fucked up..." she said, shaking her head trying to get back on track, "And I'm sorry for giving you so much shit about certain people lately..." she said, even if she still was happy she'd said something, since it all seemed to out of character to her. "It's not that I don't want you to move on...alright, well maybe deep down all things considered it's hard for me to think about you moving on--because hey, big surprise, I'm selfish like that--but I do want you to be happy. And to be able to find someone who can give you the things you want in life because I couldn't...I'll try to be nicer about the next girl you wanna bring around, alright?"

Stephen: Stephen nodded as he listened to her speak. It wasn't hard to tell that she was apprehensive about what he was saying and he completely understood why. She may have been the one to go all run away bride on their wedding but he was the one who remained spiteful over the whole thing. He was the one who had said things with the sole intention of cutting her as deep as she had cut him. "They'll never have to deal with any of that, I promise that much. And thanks for all that..about me moving on." There was a silence that hung in the air a little too long. One that usually would have signaled that the conversation was over but Stephen spoke again before Katie had a chance to leave the room. "I didn't mean it. You know that right? When I said you mean nothing to me? I didn't mean that. At all. I was just trying to make you feel what I felt but the words weren't true."

Katie: "Good, because they deserve more then that, and I'm glad we can both agree on that. No problem--feels kind of good to get it all out there like this. Besides, it's literally the very least I can offer, especially since if anyone deserves it, it's you," she said with a small shrug. She was being nothing but truthful, she never once could find it in her to bad mouth the man sitting in front of her. Sure, she could say he was acting unreasonable, or an ass--but she'd always admit that deep down he was one of the best people she knew, and she was the one that had caused him to act the way he had, she had no problem owning up to it. Sensing that they'd said all they had, the actress turned to gather her things as he'd began to speak again. She froze. She didn't know what else to do. If his words before had shocked her, she didn't know what the hell these ones were doing to her now. "It's fine, Steve." she said, figuring out how to move her arms again as she grabbed her bag and phone and turned back around to give him a passible smile, "You don't have to say anything else... like you said, we're good."

Stephen: Stephen shook his head in disagreement as she stated that he didn't need to say anything else. She was right, he probably didn't need to but it didn't change the fact that he had to, even if it was selfishly for him. "You mean everything. You always have." He wasn't looking at her now, he honestly couldn't bare to. "I love you. Just like I did before. I'm not asking you to leave Zach and give us another shot or anything like that, I just needed to tell you that. I guess I need you to understand that nothings ever gonna change that for me." This was the first time he'd actually said any of that out loud and it felt like a weight off his chest. "Honestly, I just want you to be happy."

Katie: And boom goes the dynamite. Katie simultaneously felt like one weight had been lifted off her chest, only to be almost knocked out by another, heavier weight. "Just stop, please." she mumbled as he went on. She felt like her head was spinning. She'd basically gone from thinking that things would never be okay with them, that he'd always have resentment for her, to him telling her this. She needed to sit. She made her way to sit on the opposite end from him as she brought her hands up to the side of her head, as if doing so would cut off everything he was saying from reaching her brain. "Why are you telling me all of this right now, then? What's the point?"

Katie: she asked, finally looking over at him, her eyes searching his as if they'd lead her to an explanation. Was he fucking with her again? Trying to play some mind game to get back to her for the things she'd put him through? He didn't seem like the type, but for the life of her she didn't understand where this was coming from, and why he'd decided to say all of it now. "Don't do this to yourself--or to me. Just...don't. It's not worth it. It's not worth it for us to sit here and tell each other things like this..."

Stephen: "The point is that I don't want there to be any misconception here. We're never gonna be /just/ friends." Somehow he was managing to keep his voice even and steady despite how this whole conversation was making him feel. This wasn't easy for her either and it wasn't had to tell, especially when he knew her as well as he did. "Look, I'm not trying to do anything to either of us. It might be selfish but I just needed to get all this out there in the open. I need things with you and me to be 100% transparent. Everything between me and you has always been complicated and I'm trying to uncomplicate it as much as possible. All my cards are on the table now," he told her truthfully, his eyes finally back on her again. "I love you. I always have and I probably always will. Its just a part of who I am now. Stephen Amell - Son, Father, Brother, Friend, In love with Katie Cassidy, Cousin, Actor.. Its just a part of my DNA I think."

Katie: "You don't get to do this," she said angrily. It was like it had all bottled up inside of her, her feelings for him, about them, everything that had happened. She'd wanted to hear him say these things after it had happened--wanted nothing more for him to understand why she got scared, and did what she did. Not because she didn't love him, but because she was scared--and because she just couldn't seem to change her mind and fears about marriage. To forgive her and for them to move on. But it didn't happen like that. He'd made it clear she was all but dead to him--and now his story was changing, and damn right she was pissed. "I wanted to fix what I did to us. I didn't do it because I stopped loving you--and you turned your back on me because you were hurt. Which is fine--I get that. But you can't wait until I try and move on from you...AGAIN... and then lay this on me, what the fuck? I don't know if you're just trying to hurt me right now--if this is some fucked up mind game you're trying to play or if it's the truth, but honestly? I don't want to know." she said in a huff, feeling her heart racing, as it always did. He had a way of getting her like this, he always had. She wasn;t sure if she wanted to scream or cry or do both, but she knew she couldn't deal with this right now. " Just get up and go back into the party--please."

Stephen: Anger. He should have expected that but he didn't. He should have known that springing this on her wouldn't just automatically sit well with her but he was hoping it would. Instead of matching her emotion, he actively made himself stay calm. "There no mind games. I'm not trying to hurt you. Katie - I'm not," he reassured her. "And I'm not trying to get us back together, I know thats over. Like I said, I just needed to put all my cards on the table and I'm sorry if that inconvenient for you but I have a feeling theres never gonna be a time where it would be convenient." It was true. No one would ever be prepared for this - especially not Katie. They would be like that couple that swore they'd have a baby when the time was right - but the time was never right. He could tell from the look on her face that she didn't exactly want to continue the conversation but honestly, he didn't want it to end. This may be the last time he'd be able to talk to her like this and he wanted it to last an eternity. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't the best place to do this but if I didn't say all this now I'm not sure I ever could have...But if you wanna go then you can, I'm not gonna stop you. Just remember that I'm here if you ever need anything, ok?"

Katie: Sighing, Katie shook her head as she ran her fingers through her hair. Part of her would have rather believed this was some fucked up mind game he was playing...but she knew him. Even now, they probably still knew each other better then most people. "Fine," she said--giving up her anger over the whole thing. What was the point? It was there, it was out--as much as she wanted to go back--there was no going back. Might as well just get it all out--because what they'd been doing wasn't working, and as she always said, they had no choice but to keep being in each others lives. There was a long silence in the air as Katie tried to get her thoughts together--pick her course of action--but finally she spoke up again, once she'd had a bit to settle down, "Goes both ways, ya know?" she said, looking down and spinning one of the rings on her finger. "All of it. You don't just...have what we had and then fall out of love with a person," she said, shrugging a little. "And I am sorry. I know..." she paused trying to choose the right words, "I know you didn't want to hear it before--but I really am...I never wanted us to sit here like this--or how we have been for the last few months..."

Stephen: The last thing he had expected was her to say that his words were mutual. He had to remind himself that nothing she was saying meant that they were giving thing whole thing another chance. She was with Zach now and it was time for him to make an attempt at moving on, too. "Yea, I guess you're right," he shrugged. It seemed cliche to even think it but the two of them were like one of those doomed romances that people wrote novels about. As much as both of them wanted it to work it just didn't seem like it was meant to. "I know. I think I've known that since it happened, I just wasn't ready to accept it ya know?" he asked rhetorically. Deep down he had always known that her absence at the wedding wasn't meant directly to hurt him but it just wasn't something he could get over.

Katie: It was now seeming to all sink in for Katie. Again. The girl had mourned the relationship for more then a while--in various forms of very typical Katie Cassidy dealing methods. She cried to herself. She drank. She got depressed. Drank some more. Had a few one night stands. More drinking, more crying, then she woke up one day and decided she had to be over it--so she was. She wasn't sure she'd have to go through all of that again this time--but the fact that things were actually, really over seemed to be sinking in all over again right now. "Yeah, I know, I didn't really deserve it at the time, anyways," she said, bringing two fingers up to the corner of her eyes, telling herself she for sure wasn't going to be a typical dumb girl and fucking cry right now--that there was nothing to cry about. It had been over for a while. "I feel like a Whitney Houston impersonator is about to bust that door down right now and start belting out 'I Will Always Love You' to us or something," she joked, trying to break the tension.

Stephen: That was probably the fasted Katie had ever calm down after being angry in a conversation with Stephen and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't happy about it. For once, it seemed like everything was good between them. Or, well, as good as it was gonna get. "You didn't deserve me saying all that shit either, though," he reasoned. Stephen's eyes closed for a moment, not wanting to see her cry let alone be the reason for her tears. By the time he was opening his eyes, he was chuckling at her successful attempt to cut the tension. "That is kinda the theme of this whole conversation, isn't it?" he smiled, enjoying the lightness between them after such a loaded talk.

Katie: "Yeah well, you didn't deserve a lot of the shit I did--so..."she trailed off with a shrug of her shoulders. The fact was, neither of them were perfect. They both had their flaws, and both could have handled things better or differently. But there was no going back, no changing things. And they both seemed to know that by now. "It is," she said, laughing slightly as she nudged his arm with her elbow, "I'll never be able to listen to that song the same now," she joked again before looking over at him curiously, "So now what?" she asked, wondering what his take was on where they went from here.

Stephen: Stephen nodded in agreement, the amused smile still showing on his face. "Same here. Thanks for that," he teased. The feeling in the air between theme seemed to be more easy..more natural and that was something he was thankful for. Hell, it was what he hoped would eventually happen after he put everything out there in the open. "Now we just go back to our lives, I guess. Everything stays the same except the fact that we're not holding anything against one another." That was the plan, at least. God know how well it would work in actuality but it was something he was willing to try if nothing else. "I mean unless you wanna mess around one last time," he said seriously, letting the comment linger between them before he cracked a smile to show he was only joking.

Katie: "Hey no problem. I'm not Whitney but I could probably start belting it out right now if you want. Or we could go out there, track down a karaoke machine and turn it into a duet--but I don't know if the world's ready for that," She replied still grinning. Talk about a whirlwind conversation, but if she thought about it--she could really expect nothing less when it came to the pair. Getting serious once more, the blonde nodded her head slowly, knowing what he was saying was right and a good plan...on paper at least. Actually following it through might be a different story. She also wasn't sure what the fuck she was going to tell Zac--where she was or even about this whole conversation. Whatever, at least that was something she could put off. She was about to agree and tell him that seemed like the best thing to try, when her head shot over to look at him, her mouth hanging open--literally shocked at what he'd just said. Let's be real, he did look good--but he always did. Maybe one last--no. She stopped the thought from forming because she knew her mind liked to be a bad influence, and she knew the champagne she'd been drinking all night was just catching up to her. Besides, he was smiling and clearly joking--and she was at least a little more then half way relieved by that. "Stephen Adam Amell!" she said, hitting him for every syllable in his name, before shaking her head and laughing, "You're an asshole. And I don't appreciate your humor anymore. BUT--for the other stuff...sounds like a plan. Maybe we can be friends after all..."

Stephen: "A Katie and Stephen duet? We might cause a disruption in the space time continuum," he laughed, enjoying the lightness between them. Maybe this whole thing could be a fresh start for the two of them...a next chapter in their relationship, maybe even a better one in some ways. He wasn't sure if his little joking comment had gone too far and the suspense was sustained as she sat there slack jawed for a few moments. It only broke when she finally said his name, and hit him right along with it. "Yea, you love my humor and you know it," he laughed, rubbing the spot she had hit him as if it had actually hurt. "I think it'll work. I think we can at least give it a try. We owe the kids that much, at least."

#para #amellidy