#I only wish I did that with my drawings instead of binning them when I decided I didn't like them :(

[luv-again]

came to the shocking revelation that I've been writing fanfic for almost 10 years

[afvall]

whumptober day 2! Trust issues

truthful Timmy the blowjob queen of Saskatoon (Wade) and Nathan have a marital spat. Who knew whumptober could be so Fluffy? Don't worry, it'll get worse.

--

God Believes in Me

--

Wade regarded his mind as a very sacred place, despite the fact half of its inane machinations would make their way out of his mouth anyways. Yet despite that, his mind was still his own, one of the few places he could exist not in a state of constant, neurotic apprehension of being perceived. He knew he appeared so unfiltered and obscene in comparison to everybody around him, he knew that his marred flesh and even more vulgar personality both weren’t things he went at length to hide, but when it came to his teammates, his friends, his f word, he could get a bit deranged about his shortcomings, and how he showed them. That's where being able to wallow in his own thoughts came in clutch. He wanted to be able to go into his own hysterics all by his lonesome about fucking up a mission, compulsively wipe down his katanas and clean his guns far longer than necessary as his cancer-ridden obsessive little mind ran itself into disorientating circles. It was one of his few comforts in this world, drugs and self pity, Vanessa used to be on the list, but Wade had let her die, so she wasn’t there anymore.

There was one problem to his perfect routines however, one interruption in the face of his fetish for his own shame, that nosey, telepathic bitch, Nathan Summers, Nathan ‘you remind me of my wife’ (while applying chapstick!) Summers. Unlike the author of this fic, Deadpool has read the comics, he knew that comic Nate was telepathic, but not this one. He’d thought that in his second movie’s two hour run, Cable’s telepathy might be brought up once, but as it wasn’t, he simply assumed that this Cable wasn’t telepathic. And wow, what a shit draw huh, 5 '8 and telepathy-less? It would be depressing if it wasn’t a little funny, as most things were in and around Wade’s life. However, of course that couldn’t be the case, because poor Wade couldn’t be afforded even a second of mercy in this hellish world, couldn’t be afforded the sanctity of his own mind, and now having escaped the constrictions that telling a 3 act story over 2 hours put upon Nate’s powers, he didn’t seem to mind using them as much as he did before.

“I'm still pissed off about how you decided to be a little shit rather than listen to the orders i gave you during our job yesterday, i don’t wanna hear the memory of it and all your shame prattling around in your mind all day, it’ll just make me angry again.” Nathan sipped boredly on a cappuccino sitting in a takeaway cup he’d brought back from a café, alongside a mocha for Wade which had already been scoffed down while burning hot and its cardboard carcass chucked into the bin. Wade didn’t get how he could slip in little kind gestures between all that dickishness and not expect Wade to have an aneurysm about it.

“If you can read my mind, how come you’re still such an asshole to me? Surely empathy is a bit easier when you can literally see inside someone’s head” Wade desperately wanted to be left alone right now, to cry about his own shortcomings to the barrels of all his handguns, instead of having every thought of his heard by Nate. The coffee was nice but he’d had enough people-time today.

“Well technically i can only read your surface thoughts and emotions, or shit that you push to the front, the cancerous wad in your cranium is harder to read than most people’s” Wade wasn’t sure what constituted as ‘surface’ or ‘pushed to the front’ as he wished he could get back to being neurotic and sad all by his lonesome. Could nate tell that he really was properly freaked out about fucking up so many missions? Would he care?

“Get out of my head if you don’t wanna see what’s in there, Nate.” Wade stated, pretty matter-of-factly. His head was his space, not Nates, and Nate didn’t even like being there.

“Its not like im trying to get in there, theres just this constant nervous aura coming off of you whenever you fuck up after a mission. Its really fucking difficult to ignore.” Nate stared smugly, telepathic bitch.

“I reckon you’re fucking lying about not being able to not read my mind.” Wade nips back, “and I think you think you can see more of what’s in my mind than what’s actually in there. Im not trying to make your day shittier Nathan, im not trying to get out of paying the penance for my fuck ups with all my guilt.” Wade thought about this pinterest poetry post he saw once while channelling his inner fourteen year old girl–’The dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn't. My guilt will not purify me.’–but decided that it was a bit too pretentious to verbally reference in a cablepool angst fic, even in whumptober. X-men angst always seemed a bit more gritty than melancholy, a bit more blood than tears.

Nathan looked at him with an expression that was undeniably just a tad bit softer. Whether it was from Wade’s inane fourth-wall related thoughts mulling over this situation or the point he’d just made, Wade was unsure.

“I'm not lying about being unable to not read your mind Wade, your thoughts are pretty difficult to block out.” Nate didn’t comment upon the second half of Wade’s little outburst. Wade wondered if Nate trusted what he said, but Wade believed Nate when he said Wade’s thoughts were difficult to block out. Honestly he’d simply used that weaker opinion as a way to segway to the truth of his paranoia. But would Nate trust Wade’s truth? Wade tried to push all his genuine nature and remorse to the forefront of his mind, but didn’t know if it worked that way.

Nate suddenly looked a bit awkward as he went quiet, looking at Wade with furrowed brows and a face more scrunched up than not.

“I'm sorry, it's been a pretty long week.” Wade was fine with receiving a half-excuse-half-apology hybrid, he just wanted to know Nate believed him. Wade paused for a moment, letting the cogs in his brain churn sluggishly as he continued peering at Nate.

“Im sorry im such a little shit sometimes, and fuck stuff up for the team.” for my f word. Nate smiled, chuckling softly, just a tad, in the way that made Wade’s heart jump in his chest.

“We’ll work on it?” Wade knew Nate was referring to both of them, working on their trust of one another, and the way they treated each other, on the battlefield and at home.

“We’ll work on it.”

[thetarttfuldickhead]

A Jamie-centric pre-OT3 Christmas story told in 25 short chapters.

Masterpost / AO3

14.

Another fucking draw. At least they’d actually scored in this one (Obisanya 26, Tartt 74), but what good was that when they let the other team net the ball just as many times? Jamie stared morosely at his Lynx collection, trying to muster the energy to change out of his kit. He was sweaty, his hair was a mess, and his side ached dully from a nasty tackle near the final whistle; taking a shower would be heaven. But he was too tired to move.

It wasn’t so much the game that left him exhausted, even though it sure took its physical toll. The past ten days had been a mad flurry of setting up surprise after surprise for Roy, and that had involved more gift hunting, eavesdropping and secret sneaking around than Jamie had ever thought he’d get up to. Between that and football and team Christmas bonding there’d barely been time for sleeping and eating.

And after all that, he still hadn’t called Mummy. He’d tried to, every single night, but he just. couldn’t. do. it. Apparently his efforts still weren’t up to scratch, which was baffling, to be honest: how fucking sad was Roy that not even the truly fanastic stuff Jamie had pulled for him had made him happy? Christmas was only days away, and Jamie was running out of both ideas and time. Could he get Sade to actually write Roy a song… ? Might be too much, though, even if he managed to figure out how to sort it. It’d give the bugger a heart attack or something, and that would make Keeley sad and probably not count as him doing a nice thing, even if it’d be dead unfair of the universe to blame him for Roy being a frail old man.

Perhaps he could invite Dani out for another brainstorming session; it had worked a treat last time. Jamie was pretty sure that Roy had appreciated his gifts and gestures, from what peeks he’d managed to sneak of the man. Just not appreciated them enough, apparently.

It also seemed like maybe Roy was getting a tiny bit suspicious. Yesterday, he’d kept turning his head every this way and that, and sometimes stopping dead in the street and whirling around, looking a little wild-eyed. At one point Jamie had had to dive behind a couple of large rubbish bins to avoid detection. That was a pair of perfectly ripped trousers he’d never wear again.

Fuck, but he wished that—

“Jamie, are you feeling well?”

Jamie turned to look at Sam, who had stopped by his cubby, already changed and with a concerned pinch to his kind face. He looked just slightly, slightly hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure if his question would yield an answer or something sharp and snide. Jamie made an effort to smile. “Yeah, bruv, I’m sound. Just, you know, tired of not winning.

“It is disappointing. But, thanks to you it was a draw instead of a loss. And it was a very nice goal too.”

At the praise, Jamie felt his smile grow easier, more sincere. It had been a very nice goal, hadn’t it? Good of Sam to notice. 

“Yeah, yeah, thanks mate. And yours were great too, you know?” he added, remembering what Dr. Sharon had said about how acknowledging other people’s accomplishments did not diminsh Jamie’s own.

The way Sam’s lips curled into a wide grin, mirroring Jamie’s own, and the way the sight of it made Jamie feel warm had him thinking she was onto something there.

“Thanks, Jamie,” Sam said simply, and gave him a friendly nod before walking back to his own cubby.

Still smiling, Jamie finally began to undress.

---

Once he was showered and changed and Ted had somehow talked them all into feeling determined and hopeful rather than dejected, Jamie hefted his bag and headed for the door. On his way out he passed by Keeley and Rebecca Welton, offering a smile to the former and a polite nod to the latter.

Keeley lit up when she saw him (and fuck, but that still did things to him, didn’t it?). “Hi, Jamie,” she said. “Listen, I was wondering if you could stop by my place tomorrow? I wanted to talk to you about some new tweaks to your brand, now that you’re playing again?”

Jamie perked right up at that. Talking to Keeley and discussing his brand? Fucking brilliant. Much better than spending another day trying to figure out what would possible make Roy Kent happy enough to appease the universe into letting Jamie call his mum.

He’d been working hard. He deserved a little break. Besides, hanging out with Keeley at her place might well yield some new Roy related ideas.

“Yeah, mint, yeah,” he said. Then a thought occurred to him and he frowned. “Or, actually, no, I can’t. The team’s doing a day trip Winchester Christmas Market after our recovery sessions. Sorry.”

He was, too. As much as he was growing to appreciate the lads and was looking forward to the trip, he’d rather spend some time with Keeley (and his brand was in sore need of some brushing up, ‘cause people were still being cunts and hung up about him walking out on City and Amy and stupid shit like that).

“Oh.” Keeley looked disappointed, which cheered him a little. “Tuesday?” she suggested.

“Sure, yeah. I mean, I’ve got training, but I could drop by after? Unless you wanna… “ He nodded towards her closed office door.

“No! I mean… No. There’s been… there’s an issue with the ventilation, yeah, it smells awful in there. Like dying animals and farts and baby vomit. Blegh. You don’t wanna go in there.”

Uh, yeah, no thank you, he sure as hell did not. Jamie made a face. “Yeah, all right,” he said. “I’ll just come by yours then?”

She nodded, looking relieved. “Great! Thank you, Jamie!”

“You’re all right.” He gave her another smile, Rebecca another nod (and noted that she for some reason seemed like she was struggling not to either roll her eyers or laugh, which was kind of rude, considering how hard Keeley worked for her and all, and she really should get Keeley’s office sorted), before heading out to his car.

So. Fun trip with the boys tomorrow – maybe he’d find something nice for Mummy and for Roy at the Christmas market – and then hanging out with Keeley the day after. So-so playing and his mummy issues aside, life wasn't so bad.

[keicordelle]

Fluffvember Day 3 : Nameday Surprise - Estinien

The scent of cinnamon and freshly baked bread suffused the air of the Borel Manor when I stepped through the door, accompanied by the lyrical sound of Aymeric's voice cursing in a stream that was as impressive as it was surprising, his usual poise extirpated by whatever "infernal thing" he was currently condemning to a life in Nophica's compost bin.

I bit my tongue against the greeting that rose to my lips, curiosity winning out as I padded as quietly as I could towards the kitchen, the source of the commotion and the smell. Peeking my head around the corner, I was glad for my circumspection, because it meant I got to witness the mess Aymeric had made of himself and his kitchen while he was utterly unaware of my presence. Flour coated every surface, as though someone had taken the bag of it and squeezed it until it burst, great plumes dusting the countertops and up the walls like smoke. Dirty dishes were stacked haphazardly wherever there was space, jars of spices and sugar and other ingredients filling what little space was not occupied by the evidence of his trials today. Pastries that had clearly been rejected for not meeting whatever standard by which he judged them were scattered throughout the mess, some blackened and burnt, others seemingly unflawed, at least on the surface.

Even Aymeric himself was not spared from the whirlwind that had destroyed his home, streaks of white scattered through his mussy hair and up his forearms, bared where he'd rolled up his sleeves. A smudge of what might have been chocolate or perhaps molasses darkened the back of one of his ears, and I stifled a laugh, trying to imagine how it could possibly have ended up there. His back was to me, but I had no doubt that his front was covered in even more mess than his rear. At least he was wearing an apron - that frilly one he'd gotten me as a joke, the pink straps smeared with cinnamon and uncooked batter. Hopefully it had protected the lilac dress shirt he wore beneath it, because I feared the poor garment would be ruined if he’d made as much a mess of it as he had of his skin.

The only clean place in the room was a two fulm long section of the kitchen island, which was miraculously clear of both dishes and exploded flour, and instead sported a tray of cinnamon rolls, meticulously placed as though they were some great relic amidst the chaos. That was where the smell was coming from, there was no doubt about that. The strong scent of sweet bread and spice smelled like home, nostalgia welling up as a long-forgotten memory surfaced of my mother in the tiny kitchen of our cottage, pulling a tray of similar treats out from the oven. She'd smiled at me and warned me not to touch them because they were for Papa's nameday, but when I'd pestered her, she'd relented and let me have one early. "Our little secret," she'd whispered with a smile and a wink.

I only realized I'd moved into the room when the quiet cursing cut off and Aymeric whirled around, surprise widening his angular eyes. "Estinien! I thought you wouldn't be home until later."

"I can see that," I said, amusement coloring my tone and drawing up the corners of my mouth. "What sort of madness have I walked into?"

He flushed, eyes dropping to the egg yolk and cocoa powder dashed against the front of the apron before flicking sheepishly back up to me. "I wanted to have them frosted and the mess dealt with before you got home. I know you don't like to celebrate, but... Happy nameday, Estinien."

I blinked at him, at the batter staining his collar and the mayhem of the kitchen with its single spot of sanctuary, and my heart swelled at the love I found in every ilm of the scene. "You did all this for me?"

"Of course," he said, so matter of factly it made my soul ache. "I should have liked to do more, but 'tis your day to spend how you wish, and if you'd rather let your nameday pass unremarked, I shall respect that. Mostly."

"Can I try one?" I asked, already reaching for one of the rolls on the counter.

"They're not frosted yet!" he protested, but he made no move to stop me as I lifted the bun from the tray, gooey sugar and cinnamon seeping from between the folds to drip onto my hand and the countertop below. "I purchased a book of recipes from a farmer out in the Western Highlands; I hoped that maybe I could offer you a taste of your childhood."

A goal he had thoroughly succeeded in, I thought as I bit into the bun. It was sweeter than the treats in my memory, the dough denser, but that didn't make it any less delicious. And the lengths Aymeric had gone through just to offer me this nameday gift... No sugar could ever be sweeter than that. "It's perfect, my heart. Thank you."

[Masterlist] | [Ao3]

[after-witch]

Act of Contrition [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Act of Contrition [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: A shimmering blue evening gown was not the last thing you expected to see draped over the sitting chair that was tucked into the corner. What you didn’t expect, however, was his suggestion for you to try it on

Word Count: 3646

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader

 A shimmering blue evening gown was not the last thing you expected to see draped over the sitting chair that was tucked into the corner. It would certainly not be the first time that Chrollo had brought back something ostentatious, something glittering and expensive; something that you (if you were to psychoanalyze him, which you did, out of anxiety first and boredom second) would guess he wanted you to admire before it disappeared into the ether like so many other things he’d pilfered over the past few months.

What you didn’t expect, however, was his suggestion for you to try it on. 

At first you thought you’d misheard, your brain still pulling itself out of a dull, listless sleep. You had argued with him the night before, and the space between you on the bed was thick and heavy with tension until you had finally slid headlong into sleep. Surely he wouldn’t try to give you a gift after you spend most of the evening reminding him that you’ll never love him, or even like him, much less feel one iota of happiness in his presence.

But then he repeated the suggestion.

“Why?” Your tone is borderline acidic, and you don’t feel the need to hide your suspicion of his intentions.

Your captor had no doubt become well-acquainted with your nastiness over the months, though he rarely reacted to it with more than a tight expression, if he even gave you that. Sometimes he simply ignored you, as if you were a child having a tantrum, not his kidnapped victim.

In some ways, it was a surprising relief. In some ways, you could consider yourself lucky. Considering his abilities, considering his past, considering what he did when he left you alone in the condo or hotel or wherever he had you situated--he might well be the type to slap the attitude off your face, gentlemanly facade be damned. He could do worse than a slap, too; far worse.

But the months had gone on with only pointed sighs and looks; and despite his rationally stated insistence that you would give in to his attentions in time, you held onto your bitterness as tightly as you could. You prized yourself on it, the way you figure that he prizes his most precious steals.

He sometimes comes back with glittering jewels worth calculable fortunes, laying them out to see the way they look when the moonlight filters in through the open curtains. He doesn’t keep them for long, doesn’t display them, just memorizes their magnificence and then whisks them off.

You can relate to the gloating. But you don’t give your greatest treasures away. You, on the other hand, wear your bitterness 24/7 like an old woman clinging to her last precious mink coat, a remnant of an era gone-by. Draped over your shoulder, haughty and visible, daring him to say something when you give him a sarcastic jab in response to perfectly-polite-inquiries about this and that. The worst (but best, you think, to you) is when you feign interest in a conversation, feign some sort of acceptance of your situation, willing your hands to get closer to his as you sit on the sofa and read; only to snap back at the last moment, baring your teeth.

You hope it hurts him, to think he’s getting an inch forward with you only to have it pulled away. He deserves it for keeping you here.

Sometimes, you almost hope he would say something, do something, only because it might be a sort of reprieve. If he gets mad or slaps you, even, maybe the solid, sticky bitterness surrounding your heart might abate just a bit.

Then again, you know this saying very well: be careful what you wish for.

“I need to see if it fits.” His expression and tone haven’t changed. Polite, cordial, matter-of-fact. You hate it.

You force yourself out of bed and give the gown a glance before heading into the bathroom. He follows, picking up his own morning routine as you wash and brush side-by-side. You think he does it to seem domestic, in his own fucked-up way. You pointed this out, once, and he’d merely given you a small smile and asked: “Do you want to this to be domestic?”

Chrollo had a habit of turning your impulsive snark around on you, so you tried to plan your barbs out more carefully in the future.

“Why do you need to see if it fits?” You finally ask, words a bit muffled by the toothbrush hanging out of your mouth. You force yourself to glance at him in the mirror. He’s finished, already drying off his face, pinning a wrap around his forehead.

He catches your gaze in the mirror, and you feel too caught to look away.

“For tonight. We’re going to the theater.”

The toothbrush drops from your mouth and lands next to the sink, splattering lathered toothpaste on the counter. You wipe your mouth with a washcloth, missing a bit and not caring, and physically turn away from the mirror so you’re face-to-face.

“Are you serious?”

For the moment, your bitterness slides off, forgotten on the floor. He’s never offered to do something like this before. Sure, he’s mentioned that you might go out--”it depends on  your behavior”--but the thought of “being good” for Chrollo made you sick to your stomach every time you were tempted. So you hadn’t been outside for months, not really--the brief gaps when he’d whisk you into a car, always by his side, then pull you into a new hotel or luxury condo didn’t really count.

He nods.

“Yes. Please do hurry and try it on, I’ll need time to find another if it isn’t suitable.”

You glance out of the bathroom door and back into the bedroom, where the gown sits, draped, shimmering softly in the morning light. It’s something you never would have been able to afford before--and the thought of wearing it now makes your skin tingle. What is his plan? Why is he doing this?

“But I haven’t been good,” you say, almost spitting out the last word. Last night, in fact, you’d been almost beastly--you recall the words “go fuck yourself” and “I hate you” being thrown out before you twisted in the knife by bringing up an ex-fling.

He laughs, quick and harsh. It seems like a real laugh, for once, and something in your chest twists. It’s been a long time since you’ve heard anything truly authentic from him. Or yourself.

“Maybe it’s a reward for me, to have you by my side.  You want to go, don’t you?”

The thought makes your stomach clench. But… you did want to go. Really. To get out of here, even for a night? To get sucked into some type of show, whatever it was? You didn’t entertain the idea of trying to escape or draw attention to yourself for help--you knew Chrollo would never suggest taking you if it was a viable option. He was just as likely to slaughter the entire theater if you whispered to an usher that you were being held captive.

No, no escape in the cards… at least not physically.

You shrug your shoulders and try to seem nonchalant about it, though you’re sure he can feel the way your skin is buzzing.

“Sure, whatever. Don’t expect me to hold your hand or anything.”

He laughs, again. It’s blatantly false this time.

***

It has been… a while since you’ve done your makeup. The pile of messy makeup wipes on the counter can attest to that--this is now your third try at a full face without messing something up. Thankfully, the third time has been the charm, and you’re satisfied with the reflection in the mirror. Chrollo had turned up your old makeup bag, and sliding on the eyeliner you used to wear to work, out with friends, in your old life felt surreal and comforting at the same time.

You’ve even done your hair, though it could be nicer. You haven’t bothered with anything but hasty brushing in the past few months, and sometimes you’re too lethargic and frustrated to even bother with that. But it’s styled, a bit elegant--if you do say so yourself.

You glance down at the trio of lipsticks he set on the counter earlier. They’re not a brand you ever wore--they’re expensive, something out of reach for anyone used to pulling cheap store lipsticks out of a bin. The center lipstick is a bold red, and your hand reaches for it. Brief memories of your mother gushing about red lipstick come to mind; she always associated red lipstick with elegance, the fanciest of events, and you’re inclined to agree. It feels smooth, impossibly so; praise be to expensive formulas.

After blotting it with toilet paper--old habits--you step back to stare at yourself in the mirror. The dress fits you beautifully. The fabric is soft, refined, showing you off in all the right places. You’ve taken your time with your hair, your makeup, and you really do look nice. You bring your wrist up to your nose and sniff--the perfume Chrollo had picked out for you was elegant, subtle. Rose petals and apples and white musk.

You feel a wave of nostalgia come over you that you push down. It’s too bad you’re going to the theater with your captor and not with your friends. Or your mom.

“Are you finished?” His voice calls from the bedroom.

The thought of Chrollo seeing you like this makes you feel uncomfortably anxious for reasons you can’t quite pinpoint. The gown is not exactly risque, but it’s designed to highlight your features--and while he has never crossed the hardest line in regards to your personal autonomy, he wasn’t beyond stealing kisses from your unwilling lips when the mood struck him. He said it was to help you adjust to the relationship, as if kissing you against your will would make you love him.

You don’t answer him and instead give your hair a final touch up before heading out the open bathroom door.

Chrollo is standing next to the vanity, wearing an elegant suit, primped and polished--and handsome. You can’t help but freeze in place when he gives you a once-over, slow and deliberate.

“You look beautiful,” he says, finally, a slight breathiness to his voice. There’s an authentic tone to his voice again, and it makes you feel queasy.

You try to ignore the way your skin feels heated and shrug, crossing your arms over your chest as you approach him.

“Are we going now?”

He gives a soft smile. “Almost. One more thing.”

You watch curiously as he pulls out a jewelry box from his pocket, then opens it to reveal two glittering sapphire earrings. You can’t hold back a little gasp, but when you reach for them, Chrollo holds the box out of reach.

“I’ll do the honors.”

You want to say no. But you’re so close to leaving, so you simply stare to the side as he steps behind you.  He touches your ear--and you flinch. He chuckles quietly and you ignore the blossoming heat across your cheeks, both from his closeness and your reaction, while he fixes the earrings into your ears.

When he’s finished, you look up. The visage in the mirror seems like a familiar stranger. The feeling you get at seeing yourself so dressed up is familiar in some way. You think back to going to shows with your friends, or going to the ballet with your mom; your little ring-clad hand gripping hers as she hurried you past alleys on the way to the theater, your sparkling white party dress shedding glitter onto the streets. You can practically feel the way the theater always hums with anticipation, the unusual heaviness of feeling alone in a crowded room as your friends left you with the tickets while they grabbed a drink or two.

The sight of Chrollo behind you in the mirror, watching you with clear intent, breaks you away.

“We’re leaving now.”

***

“I… actually really like The Sleeping Beauty ballet.”

You feel awkward. It’s certainly not the first time you’ve been in a car with Chrollo, whether your forcibly pressed against him in the back seat or in the front, blasting the radio in an attempt to prevent him from striking up a conversation as he drives you to some new destination.

But it’s the first time you’ve been in the car for reasons other than transporting you to a new ‘home.’ The first time that you’ve both been dressed up; Chrollo’s cologne wafts gently over to you, and you can’t deny that he knows how to pick a good scent.

It’s also the first time you’ve felt conversation to be a necessity, if only to find out where you were going (the opera house) and what you were seeing (a ballet).

In fact, the news of the performance makes you sit up straighter in your seat. You feel a ping of excitement, and without thinking you share it out loud.

“That’s actually the first ballet I ever saw with my mom. Do you know what company it is?”

He tells you, and you bite your lip anxiously, squaring your shoulders against the back of the seat as you start to imagine the night ahead. Then you remember the smooth red lipstick and force your mouth to relax.

You talk, instead, to keep yourself from ruining your lipstick with your nervous habit. “I’ve heard about this company’s version. Well,” you continue, “I wanted to see them perform this a few years ago, but tickets sold out so fast. I couldn’t afford the scalper prices.”

“How nice that I have tickets for this performance, then.”

“Right!” Your pitch is higher and you internally cringe. You shouldn’t sound so excited. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, but he seems focused on the road.

As the drive continues, you keep talking. Without realizing it, your voice becomes lighter, easier, and even you don’t know why you’re speaking so freely. You talk more to him on this stretch of road than you have within months, sarcastic replies and bitter responses notwithstanding. 

You talk about ballet. You talk about the history of the show. You talk about this company’s costumes--you saw them displayed in a store window and wow, were they gorgeous--and as the words come out, you feel lighter. Less bogged down by your protective anger, less heavy and hateful.

Happiness. 

It’s something that you haven’t felt in a long time. It’s a feeling that your stomach rebels against, not welcoming the sudden intrusion of lightness and lift while you’re sitting in a car next to your captor. But you push your stomach’s rebellious nature down and force yourself to remember that tonight,  you get to escape onto the stage; for a little while, you can be somewhere else.

Even being in the car tonight is doing wonders for you, you think. You must be getting close--the lights of the city are brighter and there’s throngs of nicely dressed people walking down the street towards what you realize is the theater. You see a little girl holding a woman’s hand and your stomach clenches in bitter nostalgia, but the thought is pushed aside quickly enough when Chrollo pulls into a valet circle.

You don’t have time to open the door before he opens it for you, extending his arm like a gentlemen.

“Ready?”

**

You’re buzzing on the way home. Not just from the champagne--three glasses, Chrollo having subtly waved away the usher approaching your opera box with your requested fourth. Not just from the show, which was magical and lush and everything you hoped it would be. Not just from the fact that you had a night out, away from the stuffiness of whatever luxury suite you were trapped in.

But from the thrill of feeling something, anything, other than your own deep despair and bitterness. You laughed in delight at the sillier moments, the bright-yellow Canary fairy and her trills; you cried at Aurora’s pleading vision to be set free, the first time you’ve cried at something other than your own situation in ages; you clapped and even, in the end, let yourself shout out a cheery “Brava!”

Even Chrollo seemed different during the evening. No forcible hand-holding or other niceties that had given you anxiety earlier in the evening. No unbearable condescension, only the hint of a smirk during the intermission when you--instinctively, you insisted to yourself, not because you liked his company--began an excited conversation about the events of the first Act. Did he like this part? What about the orchestra? And oh, this variation, didn’t he think it was a bit too overdone on the part of the dancer, but she more than recovered by the end?

When Chrollo helps you out of the car into the private parking garage, the air is cool and crackling; everything still feels electric, the way it always does when you come home from an event. Though as the doorman opens the private elevator leading to the condominium above, you dimly remind yourself you’re not coming home, exactly.

The swift ride up the elevator leaves you feeling dizzy. Your mind feels like it’s crashing, suddenly. From the champagne, maybe--but something else, too.

The elevator doors open into the condo suite you share with Chrollo and it hits you as you take the first step inside: you’re back to where you started the night. Trapped. The transporting, glittering events of the evening fall off your shoulders like a worn coat; you’re left once again only with yourself, with your present situation--and with Chrollo.

Your cheeks feel hot and you know the tears are coming before you feel them prickle at your eyes. The urge to wipe them away is masked only by the remembrance that you’re wearing makeup, but that doesn’t stop it from running as they begin to flow down your cheeks.

It burns, and you start for the bathroom, intent on scrubbing your face and ripping off the dress--but your entire body jerks back as Chrollo grabs your arm and prevents you from taking another step.

“Let go,” you say, voice empty of anything but the desperate need to be in the bathroom, to clean your face, to be alone with your returning misery.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you back, forcing you to stand up straight as you fruitlessly fight against his grip.

“You’re crying.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” you murmur, voice edged not with bitterness this time, but sorrow. You don’t want to look at him. He’s seen you cry countless times, but you hate the way he looks at you when you do.

“Tell me why.”

You finally force yourself to look up at him, eyes blinking away the stinging tears, and you’re not surprised by his intensive gaze. He’s studying you. Analyzing. Like you’re some sort of book he can read and discover.

Maybe the champagne has loosened your tongue; maybe the night itself has loosened the tight-lipped hold your bitterness has on you. Whatever it is, you confess.

“I was happy,” you say, voice wobbling with tears. “I was--happy on the way there. I was happy at the theater. I was happy on the way home. I--I haven’t…” you rub at your eyes, smearing eyeshadow onto your fingertips. “I haven’t felt that way in months. And now we’re back and I don’t feel it anymore.” Your voice finally cracks with your last words, and you cover your eyes with one hand as crushing feelings of sadness sweep over you.

He pulls you closer to him, and you can’t fight away from his physical strength.

“Let go,” you plead. “I just want to be alone.”

You jerk your face away when he strokes your cheek with his free hand.

“Alone? Whatever for? My hypothesis for tonight was correct.”

His words make you stop pulling. Hypothesis? You sniffle and try to get your bearings, try to brace yourself. But you’re tired, and sad, and your head is swimming.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He places his free hand on the back of your head and leans in closer. The heat of his skin and the pressure of his grip makes a flushed warmth bloom across your skin.

“You see,” he whispers, his lips ghosting against the side of your ear. “You can be happy with me, after all.”

[katsukikitten]

A harem collab in which we go to a party with our v precious hero 18+ Smut boooiiii

Sitting across from him never did get easier. As much as you told yourself it would. 

If anything it got harder and harder to share the same room as him, let alone air. 

But you were lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to join the agency when you did and to be partnered with your big time crush FatGum. Although you idolized him you were sure he didn't remember you. 

And how could he? He saved countless people a day so it should be no surprise that he had no idea who you were on your first day. Still, it stung. 

And it shouldn't still sting or come to a surprise when he sets down a flyer on your desk. A huge smile on his chubby cheeks as he taps the sheet of paper.

"Can you believe it?! The agency is throwing a new year's eve party!" He practically gushes, lingering by your desk with his intoxicating smile. He rummages in his brown bag, setting breakfast onto your desk careful to avoid getting grease stains on the flyer as if you'd hang it up one day instead of shoving it into the trash. 

"They have one every year." You shrug, thanking him for the breakfast but tossing the paper into the trash can. His smile never waivers as he pulls it from the fresh bin, returning it to the smooth wooden top. 

"Yea but not at a fancy hotel and never an open bar! We should go!" His eyes crinkle in the corners and your heart hammers in your chest. 

Little do you know he prays to the Gods you don't say no. 

"I dont know, it's such short notice. Like next week ain't it?." At least it wasn't a no. He smiles, thinking of your competative behavior. 

"Oh I see what it is." He takes the sheet from your desk, waltzing to his own, "You're scared."

"Tch, scared of what?" You hiss, snatching for the paper. 

"Scared I'll out drink you!" He laughs at your cute scowl as you size him up. His metabolism was insane, and with him being in his larger state you might not be able to win. 

But he didn't have to know that. 

"You fucking wish you could out drink me! Remember the last party we went to? You showed your age and could barely stand!"

"Oi! I was much thinner then. I think luck is on my side this time." He slaps his belly and you smile. A genuine laugh fills the room causing Taishiro's heart to clench. 

"Yea, yea." You wipe away a tear, "We'll see." 

The day drags on and on, turning into a week of you glancing his way. Making sure he wasn't gaining any extra weight as he brought you your normal breakfast daily. 

It wasn't until the day of the party did you gain the advantage, a fight almost turned wrong and Taishiro had to use majority of that stored fat for a deadly punch to stop the villain from terrorizing the city. 

Still you'd never want this type of advantage just for a stupid drinking contest. Although he was not at his largest, he still had a considerable "dad bod" going on. 

"I still can't believe they had a tux in this size so late!" Taishiro shouts into the locker room at the agency, adjusting his tie as he waits for you. Meanwhile nerves eat you alive as you stare into your reflection, wondering if this dress fit okay, smoothing the fabric over your stomach self consciously. 

"You okay in there? We're gonna be late." He calls softly, hoping you aren't having second thoughts about going with someone like him. 

"Coming!" You call back, glancing at your deep amber dress a final time before rushing into the hall. 

"I was just thinking you were going to forfeit and then I-" Words die in his throat and he drinks you in. Beautifully complimented by the shape and color of your dress as he mouth hangs agape. 

"Wow. You look…" 

"Tai, I know, I look...different." 

"Amazing, perfect, breathtaking." He gives you a pointed look, "Which is no different than how you normally look." 

Heat creeps up the back of your neck and you're thankful he misses your flustered expression. The walk to the hotel and the brisk cold air gives you time to not only cool off but think.

Really reflect on the year, this horribly rotten, all bad luck year. Reminding you of all the times you had failed but also reminding you of all the opportunities you had missed. And not opportunities in the sense of promotions or saving people but opportunities to get closer with a certain somebody. 

You glance up at him and he glances down at you, smiling in a way that sets your skin on fire and yet it makes you feel at ease. 

Slowly you were coming to hate it. 

"I'm excited that they decided to invite some smaller agencies. Means I can introduce you to some of the kids I interned. Well I guess they are adults now huh." He looks nostalgic, sad even as he stares into space. Opening the door to the large hotel and it the look sticks with him until he is just before the party doors. 

"Ready?" 

"As ready as I'll ever be." You huff as he places his hand on the small of your back, bringing you into the rented ballroom. Lights and sounds consume your sense as music dances around light conversation. You're beginning to wonder if a drinking contest was such a good idea that is before you see the CEO of your agency totally shit faced. You glanced down at your watch, it was only 8pm. 

Taishiro guides you around the room with a "starter" drink, introducing you to old and new faces. Beaming with pride as he introduces you as his partner and not his sidekick like other heroes had done in the past. You hated how much your heart raced. 

"And this is Kirishima! He was one of my best and most memorable! Kids got guts and heart in spades!" He slaps Kirishima on the back and the young man slumps forward with a sharp toothed smile. 

"Aw come on, I wasn't that great…" He scratches the back of his head. 

"I heard that's when you became 'unbreakable'! I think that's so cool!" You gush over the young hero complimenting him to no end. 

"Stop. You'll give me a big head." He smiles, blushing furiously before his eyes wander to the closeness of the two of you and then they settle on your drinks, "You're not trying to out drink the infamous FatGum are you?" 

You laugh loudly before leaning in close as if to share a secret. 

"Oh, yes and I plan to kick his ass." 

Kirishima returns your smile and stage whispers 

"Taishiro-sama has lost a good bit of weight. I believe in you!" He winks before someone across the room calls for him, "Call me when you get really started!!" 

Two hours pass and you find yourself sitting across from your partner with his sleeves rolled up. Showcasing those deadly forearms as he slams back another shot. Kirishima keeps tally on hotel stationary and announces the number of shots. 

"You'll have to take five to be in the lead! You'll have two minutes to decide to forfeit or-" But before he can finish you're grabbing for one of the prefilled shot glasses. 

"Kanpai!" You shout, slinging them down, ignoring how the room is spinning and how bright the light reflects off of the table full of empty shot glasses. 

Kirishima's eyes widen as you down an extra shot for good measure, tallying the booze count with worry.

"Fat hero." He says, almost gritting his teeth, "You'll have to take seven to be in the lead." 

The large hero leans on his forearms on the table, the alcohol he's had had mostly been processed and maybe your figured that out. That he was starting to lose his edge so he takes you up on the challenge knocking back the several shots as if they were water. You're eager to gulp down a few more praying it drowns out your feelings for the sexy man across from you, instead he lets his broad hand hover over the shot glasses. Silently giving you a reprieve and noticing just how much you're sweating, how blown your pupils are. 

"Let's give it a minute shall we?" He smiles as you drown in his golden eyes. Biting at your lower lip and with a defiant grip you swallow down a final shot.

"Your turn." You focus hard to make sure your words didn't slur, not wanting this feeling or night to end. He snorts, shaking his head wishing you acted out any other time than this. 

"I forfeit." He places his hands up and you glare at him as you wonder if he did it on purpose. Before you have the time to accuse the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer, the room lags as you try to place names with faces as they come close to congratulate you. As more and more people crowd you, the hotter the room feels. Politely you excuse yourself to an enclave balcony closing the doors tightly behind you as you gulp down air, desperate to cool off and douse the desire that burns hot in your belly seeping to your core. 

"Fuck." You rake your nails through your hair as a hit of icy air skates along your skin leaving goose flesh in its wake. A steady warmth comes from behind you, voice deep as he speaks softly. You can tell he's using the same tone he uses on victims, trying not to startle them with his size. 

Little did he know how much you loved how much bigger he was. A safe haven, protection embodied. 

"Ready to go home?"

"No I'm fine! Perfectly fine." He sucks his teeth at your stubborn reply, leaning in close with his hands in the pockets of his tux. 

"You look flushed...you seem out of it." 

"I'm totally of sound mind!" A bark to which he laughs, giving in to the liquid courage as his large hand tilts your chin towards him. Flirting with a line he swore he'd never cross. 

"Yea, if you're so sound of mind, would you let me do this?" He asks, leaning closer, lips almost brushing yours. Your breath mingles with his in little puffs of fog agaisnt the cool air and suddenly you're burning again. 

From the inside out.

His lips touch yours, gently, passive at first and if he's trying to fight against his urges. Slowly he breaks away, amber eyes glued to your mouth before he sighs. Hoping he didn't just fuck everything up. 

In an instant you're drawing him back to you, hands in his golden wheat hair and your fingers weave through the strands. Mouth opening and demanding more as his large hands grip onto your ribcage as if you'd float away. 

And maybe you would, you felt like you could. 

Frantically your hands demand more, exploring up his shirt, touching across his stomach and digging your nails down his back. His own hands follow suit, gripping at your ass and tits, memorizing every luscious curve until he is drunk off of you and you only. You moan into his mouth and with that he loses all restraint. 

Shoving you against the harsh brick building, fisting your hair to tilt your head for better access, exploring your mouth with his well skilled wet muscle. Hands trailing beneath your dress to find your dress, squeezing at your thick thighs and when you moan in approval he moves higher and higher still until his fingers brush against the damp fabric. This time it is his turn to groan as he presses his hardened cock against you, your hips move to grind against his large fingers. 

"Please Tai" It is soft, breathy, sending him into a frenzy as he gives you exactly what you want. Letting his fingers slip beneath the fabric to gather the slick between your folds, gently rubbing against your throbbing clit. You arch against his touch, exposing your neck to him, he leans over and bites. Placing kisses along your throat, making sure to be careful enough to avoid marks before his hazed brain causes him to speak. 

To confess. 

"Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?" He asks, plunging his fingers into your tight heat, stretching you as you mewl, "Ever since I first laid eyes on you. Kamisama you were perfect. And tonight. Fuck baby. Wearing my eye color for all to see. You want people to think you're mine?" 

"Yes, Taishiro. I want people to think I'm yours." You moan, fucking yourself on his fingers before he takes over. Setting a quick pace before he curls his thick fingers just right, in an instant you're creaming against his digits. Crying out as he overstimulates you before he covers your mouth with his broad hand, reminding you just how much he dwarfs you.  

It makes you cum again and again and he corners you against the wall. Cock twitching as he laps up your sinful faces with a gluttonous appetite. 

"Please Tai, pleeeasse." 

"What's wrong baby? My fingers not enough?" His cocky tone drives you mad and your hips buck against his touch before he withdraws from your heat. Panting he levels his gaze yo you. 

"Is this what you want?" Peppering you with kisses as if you could deny him and his godly hands.

"Don't make me beg Tai…" You rasp, he gives a devilish smile. 

"Then I won't." His hands slink up your dress, gathering it at your waist as on skillful finger pulls the overly damp underwear away from your soaking sex. He frees himself and you swallow, not realizing just how large he was, for a moment you worry you won't be able to take him. 

"I'll be gentle." He coos, easing himself in an inch at a time as your stretch around his thick cock. Pussy fluttering as it adjusts to his size, he gathers your legs to his sides, squeezing your hips to keep from rutting into you roughly. He pistons his hips slowly, watching your face contort as he angles himself just right. Sensual thrusts have your legs and pussy squeezing him so deliciously tight. Still he worries he's going to hurt you.

"You okay?" Alcohol lingers on his breath and you swallow him whole with a kiss. Moaning into his mouth softly as he rocks you into one of your most intense orgasms to date. It's a slow build, undeniably intoxicating as his steady pace hits your spongy soft spot and his pelvis rubs against your clit. The coil in your stomach snaps and your body clamps onto the behemoth of a man tightly, stars dot your vision as he continues to fuck you through it. 

"God you're so beautiful ya know? So responsive to my touch. Taking me so well baby." He purrs against your ear, "Makes me want to keep this pace all night." 

He keeps true to his promise, bringing you to new heights at the steadiest of paces, causing you to lose count of how many times you've cum on his length. Pussy attempting to milk him dry as he palm swallows your screams. He looks at your features, your makeup running from delirious tears, mouth fallen opened in a propetial O as your hair clings to your skin. 

"Kamisama you're like art." He kisses your quickened pulse, "Ready for me to fill you love? You're squeezing me so tight…" 

He groans and all you can think of his him and the searing pleasure that courses through your veins to settle in your over sensitive heat. His cock twitches and you want nothing more than to be stuffed full of the Fat Hero's fat cock and his cum.  But words are lost in your hoarse throat and all you can do is nod, moaning his name as if it were a prayer. It's all the encouragement he needs, quickening his pace as the crowd inside grows louder. Counting down from 10. 

It's all lost to you and his hips snap against you, the brick scraping against your shoulders as his grip on you becomes so tight you're sure you'll bruise. Your body hyper aware of every little sensation as you drown in pleasure and warm amber sun, he groans, painting your walls in hot ropes of cum, your vision spots as your body arches to meet him as your spams a final time while his lips crash to yours. 

All the while fireworks erupt over head, bringing in the new year on a literal high note. 

He huffs, sweating as he looks at you, still buried to the hilt. Swiping his thumb over your cheek and running mascara before he breathes out so gently. 

"Happy new year baby." 

[wagner-fell]

I am still very new to this website and I don’t know how link a post but this fic is based on a post by @sandersgrey

(If someone reading this knows how to link a post please either explain it to me or link it in the comments because that post is *amazing*)

“Hmmm,” said Tessa, depositing Mina into Kit’s waiting arms and examining her buzzing phone critically. She shot a quizzical look in his direction.

Jem looked up from his novel. “What is ‘hmmm’, my love?”

Kit mimed vomiting but stopped dead in his tracks when she replied, “it’s Astrid’s mother. You remember her from parent teacher night, don’t you, my darling?” Kit swears they were being extra insufferable just to mess with him but he didn’t have the time to be annoyed when Astrid’s. Mom. Was. Calling. Tessa.

To understand why Kit was panicking as much as he was, you must know that Astrid’s mom was incredibly chill. She never got mad. The worst punishment she’d ever given her daughter was taking away her iPod for a week so she couldn’t listen to Mitski.

Was she calling about last night when Astrid, Mari and Kit threw eggs at the Shadowhunter’s that were giving Mari’s pack a hard time for no reason? No, that couldn’t be it. She’d given them the eggs.

Could the call be about the day before yesterday when Kit and Astrid got distracted doing homework and ended up snapping the coffee table clean in half while battling gladiator style with pool noodles? No, that wasn’t it. She’d just handed Astrid a twenty and told them to go to Kevin’s parents' shop and get a new one. Was she pissed because they ended up spending the money on ice cream instead? No, they ended up finding a table for free in the rubbing bin outside a fancy hotel.

Kit clutched his sister to his chest and prepared for the worst.

“Seo-yoon! What can I do for- Oh, hello Astrid!” Tessa paused briefly, presumably to listen to Astrid speak, and Kit sighed in relief.

“Kit is occupied at the moment but I can relay the message.” Another pause. “Oh don’t be frightened of me. I’m a tots rad mom. Your secret is safe with me.” Kit felt his face flush red as he heard his best friend’s laughter echo across the living room. “Okay! I’ll let him know. He has to get Mina to sleep before he can leave though. Lord knows he’s the only one who can these days.” Tessa chuckled at something Astrid said before wishing her good luck in her endeavour and ending the call.

She turned her attention back to Kit. “Astrid needs your help breaking into your teacher’s home to retrieve her cell phone.”

Kit blinked at her, dumbfounded. “You aren’t mad I’m going to go break the law?”

Because of course he was doing it. Astrid’s dad had bought it for her and he was extremely cautious about money. That was one of three things Kit knew about her dad. He was cheap, he lived in America and he loved the movie Fight Club.

Tessa ruffled Kit’s hair affectionately. “Please. I’ve raised two other Herondales. At least I know about this particular adventure beforehand.”

Mina began snoring softly and Kit handed her back to her mother. He grabbed his bag and started his journey to the door when Tessa added, “she also told me to say hi to a ‘daddy Kit’. Are you ‘daddy Kit?’”

‘Daddy Kit’ closed his eyes and wished for the sweet release of death.

“Why is Kit a daddy,” Jem asked, genuinely confused. “Aren’t I the daddy?”

Kit swung the door open so fast not even a speed rune could have aided him. But not before I heard Tessa reply, “Lily Chen certainly thinks so.”

Mrs. MacNamara clapped her hands together. “Why don’t we all go around and say a few things about ourselves?”

Kit buried his face into his hands. He’d been relieved when no other teacher had fulfilled the Disney channel stereotype of making every student introduce themselves to the new kid. But Mrs. MacNamara didn’t even seem to realize what she was doing.

All Kit’s fellow classmates groan. Expect one. Her hand shot up immediately. She was short, like smaller than Clary short. She wore a baggy pink shirt with the words ‘Queen Glimmer of Etheria’ sewed on with purple sequins and tight black jeans. Her colourful, choppy hair was in a low ponytail and she flew a few strands out of her eyes as her hand wiggled in the hair.

Mrs. MacNamara pointed at her. She stood up and smiled at Kit. “Hi. My name is Astrid. My hobbies include making my little cousin’s girl Barbies kiss, as it should be, and watching television shows where everyone is a terrible person so you can love all of them!”

“And what shows might that be?” asked Kit, already in the process of pulling out his phone and opening the Notes app.

“Grey’s Anatomy, Glee, Grey’s Anatomy again because it’s seventeen seasons as of right now. And to be fair it practically became a different show when they killed off Mark Sloan.”

“That’s enough, Miss Yang,” said Mrs. MacNamara. Astrid sat down and winked at Kit. Then she took out her phone and airdropped him a complete list of all her favorite shows, along with her number.

After Blessica’s pre-birthday birthday party, they went to Cirenworth and stayed up till four A.M. binging them.

They met outside a queer dry bar called Aries Not Welcome, the unspoken gathering place of the Merry Hoes. It was run by a poly lesbian couple in their mid-thirties. Quinn, Sydney and Aliyah may not have served alcohol but at least they were open 24/7.

“Did you bring the shit?”

Kit gave her a look. “The shit? How conclusive.”

“Shut up. You know, the shadowhunter thing.”

“The shadowhunter thing?”

“The, the, the glow stick that you draw with.”

“The glow stick that I draw wi-“ Kit closed his eyes briefly. “Do you mean a stele?”

Astrid snapped her fingers. “That’s it!” Kit shook his head in exasperation, smiling fondly. “I borrowed a torch from Quinn, let’s move.”

“Should I be worried that you know where Mr. Smith lives?” questioned Kit as he followed Astrid’s lead through the park.

“Should I be worried that your mom was fine with us breaking and entering?” she shot back playfully. Kit pushed Astrid and she fell off the path, laughing all the way.

“You called me ‘daddy’ to my mom’s face.”

She just laughed harder, slinging her arm around Kit’s shoulder. “It was over the phone, Christopher. And as I should.”

“Pffffttt. Why did you get your phone taken anyway?” She put her hands into her jumper pocket and looked at the ground. “Astrid.” She remained silent. “Astrid?”

She mumbled something under her breath. “What?” asked Kit.

“I WAS READING NINEJ FANFICTION!” she shouted.

Kit gasped. “I thought you were a die hard Kanej shipper,” he whispered.

“I’m a multishipper, okay?!” she replied, equally quiet.

“Does Blessica know?”

She shook her head. “And she will never find out.”

Kit saw the opportunity and he seized it. “She’ll never find out as long as you never call me daddy in front of either of my parents.”

She removed her arm from his shoulder and guided them out of the park, in the direction of the many apartments that lined this side of town. “I hate you.”

“Well, so does Mari. You're not special, Ast.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know Mari doesn’t actually hate you, right?! They’re just still in the enemy phase of your enemies-to-lovers romance. She only dislikes you because they feel something for you but they don’t know what so she interrupts it as loathing. In reality, her inner soul knows you’re hot and shmexie.”

Kit didn’t know how to process this so he just nodded and follow Astrid in silence to Mr. Smith’s house. (Plus, he was kinda glad that, according to his best friend, he had a little more time for Mari to ‘discover their true feelings’. If Kit screwed this up, he was out of countries to run off to.)

“Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“What,” asked Kit, turning around to face Astrid and closing the drawer he was rifling through. “Did you find your phone?”

“Yeah. But I also found Blessica’s. She was Snapping Kevin. Platonic my ass. But he took the fucking trans flag out of her phone!”

Kit snatched Blessica’s phone out of her hand to examine it for herself. She was telling the truth. Where the glitter pride flag usually rested was just a clear purple case. Kit couldn’t believe his eyes.

“It’s one thing to misgender her every day.” Blessica had forced all four of the other Merry Hoes to sign a contract saying they wouldn’t do anything to harm him because of it. “But this is the last straw. You know what we have to do.” Oops.

“Yeah, but we don’t have any spray paint.”

Kit eyed Mr. Smith’s pink sofa, blue bar stool covers and white picture frames. “I think I have something better in mind.”

It would have been easier for both parties to just zip off the sofa cushions and tape them to the wall but by ripping them off in strips, they ensured he would have to buy new ones. And judging by the car he drove and the fiji water in his fridge, Mr. Smith could definitely afford it.

That reminded him, “I’ll finish up with this. Go put all his fiji water into my bag.” Astrid saluted him and ran off. “Wait.” She stopped and looked at him. “Steal all the remotes you can find.”

“How is he not awake?,” asked Astrid as they ripped the fabric of his seating from the stool.

He shrugged. “Don’t question it.” He shoved the bundle of cloth into her arms. “Glue this above the pink. I’ll handle the frames.”

“Say the magic word,” she sang.

“Please?”

“No. Lesbian. Come on, I thought you knew me better than that.”

Kit laughed quietly. “Can you lesbian glue this above the pink?”

She grinned at Kit. “It would be my pleasure.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hello! Sorry I haven’t written anything in so long. School just restarted and it has been…a lot.

@adoravel-fenomeno @thechangeling @the-blackdale @the-wckd-powers @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @im-not-ruined-im-ruination @ithurielkeepsgettingkidnapped @noah-herondale-lightwood @arangiajoan @shelvesofgold @maxboythedog @book-dragon-not-worm @hardlymatters

Very sorry if I forgot anyone. Lmk if you want to be addEd/removEd from the tag list.

[43sparrows]

satisfied - {Five x Reader AU}

Read Part 1 & Part 2 & Part 3 / Part 3.5 & Part 4

Warning: a rollercoaster from start to end

Word Count: 4,512

Note: Here it is. The final installment. I'm also impressed I've managed to pull off my own little goal which was to make each chapter longer as we go deeper and deeper into this relationship. It was fun to write, and I hope you stick with me for my next series

You've ignored four of his calls.

Well, technically, you've only ignored one, deleting the message from the answering machine after a short but brutal internal war. The other three times he's tried to get in touch with you were on the typical ripped out notes taped to your mirror. Each one was plucked down, scanned for words you didn't really expect to find (sorry, mistake, asshole), and then tossed into the waste bin.

You know that even as fucked up as your last encounter was, he deserves more--an explanation or at least a clean break--but you can't bring yourself to give him either. And you hate that about yourself. You hate it because you know why you can't do it, and the feeling that comes from this fact is worse than any of the ways Five's ever made you feel.

So, you don't call him. Instead, you work to erase the little traces of him you find in your apartment and in your thoughts until at last you're faced with something you can't just stick in the garbage: the man himself.

He's standing at the foot of your bed, hands on his hips and brow knit together. The look stops you dead in your tracks as you enter the room.

"You're avoiding me."

You feel like you're going to throw up. The thought briefly crosses your mind that if you do, you might get out of having this conversation. But instead you take a few more steps into the room and close the door behind you. When you face him again, you find his finger tapping at his waist. Your eyes remain on the finger instead of his face and you stay silent. This isn't an admission of guilt, but he seems to take it as one.

"Why?" he demands.

Objectively, you know the words. You're proficient in more than one language, so frankly you have more than enough words to use. But you can't seem to piece them together quite right, and so, no sound comes out. Instead you turn your gaze to your right and it lands on the candle on your bookshelf. The flame flickers, dancing in a breeze you can't feel yourself. You feel like there's a metaphor somewhere in there.

"Look--"

"Why would you do that to me, Five?" Your voice is soft, but the interruption effectively cuts him off. If you were looking, you'd imagine you'd see his eyes squint at you in frustrated confusion. His mouth would be slightly open, and you'd want to kiss it closed. So you can't face him. Your gaze stays fixated on the candle.

"Do what?"

You wet your lips as if that will help get out what you need to say. It doesn't work, but it does buy you a bit of time and makes the tension in the room that much more palpable. You wonder if that's what's guiding the flame through its movements.

"You brought me to Howl's just to fuck me in front of my ex."

Five's quiet now, and you chance a look at him from the corner of your eye. He doesn't look frustrated, but he does look like he's working a math problem and each time he comes to the end he gets a different solution.

He notices you're looking and tries to catch your eye, so you turn back to watch the candle burn it's way down the wick.

"You said you wanted something to shove in his face."

You don't remember saying that, but it's true. You did want something to shove in his face. But not like this. You shake your head at him.  "Not that." Your voice is both airy and tight, and it's not a good sign. "That wasn't anything worth shoving in his face."

"What?" There's heat in Five's voice now, and you can tell that something you've said has pushed a button. "He's working two jobs so he can get married to some boring elementary school teacher, and you're having mindblowing sex with the closest thing this city has to a goddamn superhero. Who came out on top there?"

"You," you say, simply.

"Me?" he repeats, and you finally find the strength to turn and face him. His eyebrows have shot up so high, you're surprised they're not touching his hairline.

"You're the one who got what they wanted out of that show Five. Because he's still happily getting married having been proven right that I'm nothing more than a call girl dumb enough to work for free."

Five narrows his eyes at you, and there's nothing confused about the look. Instead, he looks downright mean. You realize in that look, that he's missed the point completely. He's not listening to you. He's not seeing you. And you're starting to realize that he may not even want to. The realization hurts. It fucking hurts. Like you're being ripped apart from the inside. And the worst part is that you really should have known this.

Before he can get any words out, you beat him to the punch. It's the only way this argument was ever going to end.   "I can't do this anymore, Five."

The look shifts into one of incredulousness and then disgust and then stoniness. And then, without a word, he vanishes.

You feel like you've collapsed on the inside.

Apparently, you look like it too.

Your boss had taken one look at you and tried to send you back home. You'd told her that you were fine to work and made it half the day before she insisted you looked truly terrible and needed to go home. And maybe see a doctor.

Judging by the look on your roommate's face, you look even worse now that you've made it home.

"Are you alright?" she asks, peering up at you from the couch.

"Got sent home early," you mumble. It's not exactly an answer to her question, but you hope that it gets you out of having to talk anymore. It's not that you don't love your roommate. But you'd rather crawl in bed and stay there for a month if it meant that you didn't have to socialize with any humans in the meantime.

You successfully shuffle all the way into your room and drop your things next to your desk before the TV shuts off. Your roommate's footsteps echo throughout the apartment, and then there's silence and the feeling of someone hovering in the doorway behind you.

"I'm worried," she says, and you sigh, your shoulders dropping as you turn around.

"I'm fine."

She hums a no and gestures at your room.  You've let piles of dirty clothes take over most of the floor. There's about six different cups scattered on different surfaces, all with varying levels of water in them. Only one of the candles is lit. Her eyes find yours again, and you can't help but look away. "You've been locked in here all weekend. And most of last week too. I know he hasn't been by. He hasn't even called. What's up?"

You shrug helplessly, and the same way they do any time you think of Five, your eyes betray you and start to water.

"You don't know?" she presses, and you shake your head, looking off to the side, trying to get yourself under control. She walks into the bedroom then, coming around to sit on the edge of your bed and stare up at you. "Talk to me, Y/N. Seriously, I'm worried about you, and I don't know what to do."

"I--" your voice feels too thick, and you're having a hard time keeping it even as it comes out. "It's over." Your roommate's eyebrows draw down in sympathy as do the corners of her mouth.

"He ended it."

You shake your head and swallow. "I did." The pitch is too high now.

"Why?" your roommate's voice softens in response to yours, and it's then that you break, face crumpling, tears falling, and a broken sob escaping. She doesn't say anything more, instead rising from the bed and wrapping her arms around you from the side, leaning her head against your shoulder.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time to stop crying. Then again, any time spent crying over a boy who you weren't dating and never made any promises in terms of feelings or commitments was embarrassing. But, when you do slow down, you finally find the words to tell her everything. What happened while she was away. Your trip to the bar and what you discovered. Your fight. She listens and doesn't say anything, instead doing the one thing that you need most from her: she doesn't let go.

You look less like shit.

But you still feel awful.

It's been just over a week since your fight with Five, and you feel like you should be over it by now. The disappointment, the embarrassment, the hurt. But you're not. Sure, you don't exactly feel like an open wound anymore. But you feel a bit like someone's just put a single layer of gauze on top, and that's not nearly enough.

So, you decide there's only one course of action that will make you feel better on this Saturday morning: Griddy's Doughnuts.

Just walking into the shop makes you feel lighter. The sweet smell of the different glazes and jellies wafts through the air, and kids are crammed up against the doughnut case and perched on stools with their parents. Walking into the place is like a time warp--it feels exactly the same way it did all those years ago when you were the kid tugging at her mom's hand.

And then you make accidental eye contact, and it all shatters. Because the brown eyes you're staring into belong to none other than Vanya Hargreeves.

You pull over to the side of the line to do the right thing and make brief small talk. If it hadn't been for two occasions where she'd come home sooner than planned, you wouldn't be in this situation. She wouldn't recognize you. But this girl's seen you half naked and spoken to you several times over the phone. She knows more of you than you wish she did. She probably feels the same way. Regardless of the willingness either of you have to engage in this conversation, she's coming over, bag of doughnuts and tray of coffee in hand.

"Y/N, hi," she greets, offering a nervous looking smile.

"Hi," Your own attempt at a smile is disastrous. It's too tight and it doesn't reach your eyes. It hardly even reaches your cheekbones. "Seems like we had the same idea for breakfast."

She nods, looking down at the bag in her hand. "Yeah. We have this family tradition to grab Griddy's whenever one of us--"  she stops then, seeming to remember who she's talking to and restarts with a safer question. "How are you?"

Vanya's voice sounds the way Griddy's smells--like nostalgia and comfort and it makes you ache inside. You want to know how her sentence was going to end, but you want out of this conversation more.

"I'm fine," It comes out more of an exhale than a word, and she seems to see right through it.

She nods, her smile taking on a sad quality. "You and Five both then. Guess we did get the same memo about Griddy's."

A silence seeps in between the two of you, and you hate the way this feels--like you're drowning in the middle of a swimming pool and trying not to call attention to it.

"I don't want to pry--" She must see you go rigid because she seems to decide on a different route. "I don't know what happened, but I'm sorry it didn't work out. I know you guys cared a lot about each other."

You don't know how to respond to that. You're not sure if you want to be the fool who fell in love with her friends with benefits or the slut who was just in it for phenomenal sex or the bitch who points out Vanya's brother is a heartless bastard and doesn't deserve doughnuts because he clearly never gave a damn. She must catch the crease between your eyebrows, your lips instinctively puckering into a qualification, because she saves you from responding.

"Look, I know Five can be...a lot. And I don't know what he did, but I can tell it was big and it wasn't good." She looks like she wants to reach out and touch you, but her hands--thankfully--are full. "But you should know, he checks the answering machine every day."

It stings. He still thinks you'll call.

And you almost have.

You can't look at her open and earnest face any longer, so you look down at the ground and nod dumbly. "Thanks." She stays in front of you, and you can feel that she wants to break the silence again.  You swallow hard and force yourself to meet her gaze once more. "Well, I don't want your coffees to get cold. It was nice to run into you, though, Vanya."

She nods, her mouth settling into a line. "Take care of yourself, ok?" she asks, and you lift your lips into half a smile because it's just about as much as you can manage. She nods once more and then turns and leaves the doughnut shop. You get in line.

Your roommate decides it's time for you to leave the house.

You point out that you leave the house almost every day.

She argues that leaving for work doesn't count. It's been two weeks and you need to have fun.

You insist that if you're going to have fun, it's not going to be on a Tuesday.

She informs you that there will be dollar tacos where she's going.

That's how you end up at Don Pablo's at eight o'clock on a Tuesday night with your roommate and two other friends all crowded around a table. It's hard to say what it is, the dollar tacos, the strong margaritas, the good company or the Spanish covers of pop songs, but whatever the reason, you're feeling lighter than you have. You're even laughing as your friend, Faith, updates you on the latest antics of the passive aggressive post-it queen at her work.

"That is...one hell of a story," someone to the right of your table says, and the eyes of the group look up to a lanky man with shoulder length brown hair. He's wearing a mesh crop top that sparkles a little under the light and leather pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, a fact that's captured Sam's attention.

The man pushes off from where he's leaning against the coat rack, and it's a testament to Faith's storytelling prowess that not a single one of you noticed him lurking there until this point. He motions for Faith to budge over, and the motion is so familiar and friendly that she scoots without protest.

"So," he says, resting his chin in both of his palms. "Which one of you radiant young ladies is Y/N?"

The words are objectively skeevy, but much like his admittance to the table, this earns nothing but a few snorts and smiles. He's also smiling like he's in on the joke, and it's genuine and sparkling rather than leering. You're half tempted to tell him, but your roommate stops you.

"Why?" Nasreen asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Because she's the one person who will save us from my brother's broody pining," he says with a faux pout.

Nasreen's eyebrows lift even higher. "Isn't it a little middle school of your brother to send you over here for him?"

He chuckles and lifts his head, shaking a finger at your roommate. She grins back at him. "Yes, it would be, but he very expressly told me not to come over here. I'm here looking for Y/N of my own free will." He glances around the table and steals a chip out of your basket, dipping it into the salsa. "Technically," he says, crunching down on the chip. "I'm risking my life for this."

Sam laughs and the man grins, reaching for another chip. "It's true. He said, and this is a direct quote, 'Klaus, if you go over there, I will drive this tiny umbrella through your eyeball until it hits that thing you call a brain and puts us all out of our misery.'" He pops the chip into his mouth and gives a dramatic eye roll. "Very eloquent, my brother."

Your friends laugh at this, even Nasreen, but you grow cold. Because you know one person with a brother named Klaus.

"So," Klaus bounces his shoulders once, sitting up straighter. "Who am I sacrificing myself for?" He looks around the table pleasantly just as Sam glances at you. It's a small motion, but Klaus latches onto it. "Ah," Klaus says gesturing toward you. "I'm going to need you to come fuck my brother."

Faith spits out her margarita. Sam barks out a sudden laugh. Nasreen blinks and draws back into the booth.

"I know he's an emotionally stunted little asshole, but he's been even more insufferable than usual, and Vanya says it's because of you." He drops his hand onto the table, relaxing back into the booth. "Obviously, he's the one at fault--you seem like an angel. But it would mean the world if you would come fix our little shitheel."

It's the name Vanya that brings Nasreen up to speed.

"I'm vetoing this right now," your roommate says, shaking her head. Klaus presses his hands together and points them at her.

"Your objection has been heard and noted, but let's hear from Y/N."

All of the eyes on the table are on you, and dollar tacos isn't enough to redeem this moment. You shake your head slowly. "No."

"No," Klaus repeats. He seems surprised.

"No, I'm tired of being fucked over so Five can feel better. No." Your roommate's approval radiates over you, strengthening the feeling. Faith and Sam straighten up at the mention of Five.

Klaus heaves a sigh and leans back to rest his head on the top of the booth's cushion. "I don't blame you, but I don't want to go back over there," he says to the ceiling. "Not only is he going to publicly murder me, but he'll probably drive me up this stucco painted wall with his moodiness before he does it." He lolls his head to turn to Faith. "Can I stay here with you?"

Faith laughs a little, looking at the rest of you.

"Depends," your roommate says, leaning on the table.

"On?" Klaus raises an eyebrow.

"If the next round is on you."

When you stumble into your apartment, it's a little past 1 am, and you're not so much as drunk as you are high on a good time. Allowing Klaus to stay at your table had been the best decision you'd made in the past...month? Maybe longer. Not only had he supplied you with enough good stories to take your mind far away from Five (whose gaze you could feel once you knew it was there) but Klaus had also pulled each of you up to salsa with him despite the fact that it wasn't a dance bar at all. Still, several other couples from different tables had followed his lead, and you'd allowed yourself to be spun and turned about until your legs were ready to collapse.

It's hard to imagine that anything can bring yourself down from this feeling as you place a kiss on your roommate's cheek and thank her for dragging you out.

Then again, you hardly imagined Five would be popping into your bedroom at 1:30 in the morning.

His hair is wild, eyes are hazy, and he looks more disheveled than you've ever seen him. "You were there. You were there and Klaus came over, and what the fuck?"

You've never heard so many nonsensical words come out of his mouth.

"Are you...drunk?" you ask, dumping your clothes at the door to your closet.

"Figured that one out," he says, gesturing flailingly at you.  "I got drunk because that's what you do when the one person in this world who doesn't make your life worse won't even look across a bar at you." He says.

You, for your part, remain silent, head tilted, trying to make sense of what's going on--how much of this is him and how much of it is the alcohol. Because you can't believe he's this upset--Five doesn't seem to do emotions other than stressed, horny, and smug.

He sways a bit. "You were right there. Right there. And you didn't even look at me. Not even when fuckin' Klaus went over."

"I didn't realize you cared that much," you say quietly.

Five scoffs. "Why else would I spend five days hunting down your ex just so you could get your closure."

You blink several times at this fact, but you don't have time to formulate some sort of response before he continues. "Do you know how many Jordan Millers there are in this city?"

"You--what?" The words come out as hardly more than a disbelieving whisper.

"Five days and perfect planning to get you there and have it all work out at just the right moment, only for you to end it. No reason. You just ended it."

You swallow hard and then fix him with a stare. Because he's right--he should at least have a reason. "I didn't end it because of Howl's." You pause, and he takes it as the end of the sentence because he continues on.

"I don't even know what happened. I keep trying to work it out. It's all I can fucking think about, and I can't figure it out. You wanted just sex, so I gave you just sex. You wanted to show up your ex, so I made sure you could show up your ex." His voice takes on a hysterical quality as he starts to pace the room. "What am I missing? Please, enlighten me. Because Vanya and Allison are up my ass about trying to fix things with you, and hell if I know where to begin."

"You can't fix this," you shake your head and then wet your lips, steeling yourself up for the most embarrassing truth. "I ended it because I wanted more, and you didn't."

He pauses and then lets out a manic laugh. "So you left because you wanted to be with me?"

"I left because I thought it was just sex to you, and that's all it would ever be."

"That's all it was supposed to be," he says, not stopping his pacing.  "That's what we both wanted."

"Wanted," you repeat, quietly. "Wants change."

He lets out a manic laugh. "Oh, I know that," he says and stalks closer to you. "Why else would I be here right now, still trying to figure out what you want so I can give it to you instead of fucking any of the girls who came up to me tonight?"

You blink a few times, and this has to be an exhaustion induced delusion, because there's no way he's saying what you think he's saying.

"What are you talking about?" you ask, quietly. He doesn't answer, instead closing the remainder of the distance, pulling your body flush against yours and kissing you.

He tastes like margaritas. His kiss is as intoxicating as the alcohol itself, the sensation rushing through your body and urging you to relax into him. He's only kissed you four times before, and all of those were different. In those kisses his hands ran over your body, pushing at your clothes, his frame walking you back towards the bed. But now he's solid, and his hands are still, a vice keeping you close to him as his lips remain on yours.

It takes an extraordinary strength of will to extract yourself from his kiss. "Don't do this," you whisper, your lips brushing his since he's chased after your kiss.

"Why?" he pulls you even closer, pressing another kiss to your lips.

"Because you don't mean this," you say, bringing your hands in between your bodies to push him away. "You're drunk and you're lonely and…"

"And I want you," he says, not moving, ducking his head to kiss you again.

"No you don't."

The words make him step back angrily. "I don't know how to make it any fucking clearer," he says, raking a hand through his hair. "I want you. I want you Y/N. I wish I didn't. I wish things would go back to being just sex. Because my life was so much easier then. But they can't. Not for you and not for me. You want more. I want you. So why won't you just accept that and let me kiss you?"

As far as romantic speeches go, it's pretty shitty.

"Fine," you say.

It's an equally shitty romantic response.

But then he's kissing you again, and you let yourself lean into the hope that maybe, come morning, he'll still mean what he said.

When you wake up, Five's gone.

The other side of the bed is tucked in tightly, like he was never even there. But you know he was. Because if he wasn't, there's no reason for your whole body to ache inside and out. It's tempting to stay in bed and throw yourself a mix of pity party and roast. After all, last night you exhibited top tier dumbassery.

But you're tired of feeling like shit. So you drag yourself out from under the covers and towards your door, hoping that some coffee and a warm breakfast will help you to feel better.

You pad out the door and down the short hallway to come out to the kitchen where your roommate is pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“My head hurts like a sonofabitch,” she says, reaching into the cabinet to grab down a mug for you. “You?”

You give a rueful smile and head over to stand next to her by the coffeepot. “Surprisingly, I’m ok. Better than yesterday.”

“Good,” she says, filling your mug up.

Your toilet flushes, and both you and your roommate look at each other. The silent question is answered not long after as there, appearing in the doorway, still wearing yesterday’s clothes and looking a bit disheveled, is Five.

It’s the first time your roommate has ever seen him.

“Uh…hello?” your roommate says, and Five nods at her, moving forward to steal your mug of coffee. He lifts it to his lips and takes a long sip.

“You’re…here,” you say dumbly, and he nods, drinking some more coffee.

“It’s where I want to be.”

Your roommate looks between the two of you. “And you are…”

“Five,” he says over his coffee, and your roommate looks between the two of you wildly before finally settling you with a significant look.

“You’re going to have to make more coffee, and explain all of this to me,” she says, circling a finger at Five.

You look at him, a small twist of a smile on your lips. “Fine with me.”

[airi-p4]

Love in the sky

I wrote this for the @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers LBSC Sprint challenge - Meet cute week event and, once again, I got carried away and broke all the rules. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Prompt: Sitting next to each other on the plane.

Summary: Marinette is going to NY on an international flight for the first time. What she doesn’t know is that the one seated next to her is the popular new band Kitty Section’s guitarist: Luka Couffaine.

Thank you @livrever for checking it for me 💙

AO3

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Marinette rushed through the aisle of the plane. She couldn’t believe she almost missed it! her first international trip to the US! Stupid alarm! Of course she was tired. She was so nervous she couldn’t sleep all night… until 5AM… and the plane departed at 10AM… and obviously she had to oversleep. *sigh*

Running, tripping and spinning on her feet, she finally searched for her seat. 38B - aisle seat. Her pink polka dotted suitcase was heavy, but thanks to the cabin attendant she could finally put it inside the overhead bin, while her backpack rested under the seat in front of her. All set, she let her weight fall on the seat at last and let out a deep breath as she fastened her seatbelt.

The doors of the plane closed, and the PA message started: Welcome on board… Security instructions… Marinette wasn’t listening. Her legs were uncontrollably shaking, and her fingers were fidgeting with the laces of her hoodie.

Those nerves and stress couldn’t be healthy.

She examined her surroundings, and, next to her, someone was sleeping. Someone, who appeared to be a young man, with a sleeping eye mask and a face mask on, messy blue hair showing under a knit hat and a blanket covering his body. Overall, it didn't give much more information about her plane's seat neighbor. Not wanting to wake him up, she focused on the rest of the passengers instead. Why were all of them so quiet when she felt her heart could burst out of her chest anytime?

The plane started its runaway and Marinette closed her eyes tightly when it raised from the lane. Once in the air, she started breathing again, but her heart was still beating fast.

"First time on a plane?" a masculine voice beside her asked.

She turned to her side, and looked at the person seated next to her. His eye mask was over his head now, and she could see his blue eyes clearly, while his blue bangs partly covered his eyebrows.

“Y- yes!” she squeaked.

“You’re making me nervous too. Calm down, it’s going to be ok” he assured.

“I- I know!" She said, but her body wasn’t obeying. “I’m sorry...”

The young man sighed. “Look, I’ve been on a plane many times. It’s safe. Why don’t you try to sleep? It’s going to be a long flight.”

“I- I can’t! I’m too nervous! I’ve never traveled alone before, plus my career depends on this trip! I can’t stay calm!”

“Why don’t you try listening to some music, then? It always helps me relax” the young man offered her a sympathetic look.

“Music…?” she blinked. ‘It could work’.

She plugged the earphones and put them in her ears. Then, she scrolled through the music programs on the touch screen in front of her. Classical music? For some reason, it only made it worse. Country music? Not her style. XY? Hell, no. Her eyes stopped at the name of a fairly new band: “Kitty Section”. She played the video called: “Kitty Section's Paris Live Concert”.

“Good choice” the man next to her said when the title started showing on the screen.

Marinette had heard about the band called Kitty Section. They had featured in most of her favorite magazines after they won Eurovision several months ago, but she wasn't familiar with their music. In less than a minute, she was hooked and forgot completely about her surroundings or her nerves.

“Wow!” she mumbled, mesmerized, and the man next to her let out a snicker.

The music was amazing- the rock vibes, their stage presence, the vocalists’ cuteness and high ranged voice, the accurate and insane drums, the gorgeous purple haired bassist… all of them sounded incredible. But the guitarist… the blue haired guitarist was extraordinary- unbelievably good. Not only talented, but also powerful, charismatic and incredibly handsome.

“They’re good, huh?” The man beside her commented and she nodded. She could tell he was smiling under his face mask. She nodded in agreement.

“I had never heard them properly before but damn- they are incredible” Marinette answered, and he laughed. Her fingers tapped rhythmically, following the beat of the song.  “But…" she continued, observing. "I think they could do better. There’s a margin of improvement,” she said with judging eyes.

“Oh, really? How?” The blue-eyed man asked, curious, resting his elbow on the arm rest to get a closer look.

“The costumes,” Marinette pointed out. Then, she reached her backpack under her feet and took out a sketchbook and a pen and started drawing. “The outfits could be improved if they added this, and this” she signaled. “And this-” She kept scribbling while the blue-haired man observed and listened to her suggestions. “And ta-da! Wouldn’t they look even better if they were like this?” She proudly showed him her designs, only to realize she was being embarrassing towards a stranger. “Ah, sorry- I got carried away…” She apologized. But the man took the sketchbook in his hands.

“Let me see,” he said, and she saw how his eyes examined every detail of her drawings. She gulped nervously. It felt like her skills were being tested. But the man took his face mask off and smiled. “Wow, that’s impressive. Fresh, charismatic, unique- and perfectly according to the band's style. I love them" he returned her the sketchbook. "You’re very talented. Are you famous? Do you take commissions?” He asked, and she looked at him speechless.

“I- I’m still a no-one… Is it really impressive?” She looked at him and blushed at the compliment.

“Yes, I think so. What would you do with this outfit?” He asked, showing him a photo of the same band on his smartphone. Her inspiration overflowed as she kept drawing and explaining her ideas. They kept discussing costumes and visual aspects of the band and chatted comfortably for a long time.

"I think Rose should go with something more… daring, bolder. She looks innocent but she's fierce inside. Of course, cuteness is her main trait, so I think she should combine both" she explained, coloring her design with colored pencils. "I think something like this would be perfect for her" she showed him her sketchbook and he was impressed. “As for Juleka-” She continued, turning to a blank page. “She’s so beautiful. I wish she didn’t cover her face so much, even if the mystery look is really attractive too…" She stopped drawing for a moment to admire the bassist on the screen. "Gosh- She's so gorgeous! I wish I was that beautiful” she commented.

“I think you’re even more beautiful than her, you know?” The blue-haired man casually said, and she shyly blushed with a 'no way' frantic arms movements. “What about the guitarist?” he asked, raising an eyebrow with a smug smile.

“Luka Couffaine? OH LORD SHOW MERCY- Have you seen him? And his eyeliner? It should be ILLEGAL to be this HOT” She said, convinced.

“Hmmm… So you like him, huh?” He teased, his smile widening.

“Who doesn’t, really?” She shrugged. “He’s literally the SEXIEST man alive. His eye contact with the camera could kill! Oh, and whenever he gets shirtless on stage or photoshoots? GOD- I almost get a nosebleed EVERY FREAKING TIME! He's TOO DAMN HOT" She fanned herself at the image. "Don’t you agree?" She asked and he blinked twice. "You like him too, right? You have so many photos of them in your phone! I bet he’s making you question your sexuality too, like he does with all my friends! How could anyone resist those blue eyes and his manly features, his soft looking blue hair and- his tattoos..." She looked away from her seat neighbor's blue piercing eyes, and focused at the smartphone screen again, to a close-up photo of Kitty Section’s guitarist. "How did you get these close-up casual photos...?” she asked, and then she noticed the tattoo on his neck. She looked back and forth at the man seated next to her and the one in the picture. ‘It couldn't be, right…?’ And at that moment, when he had a knowing smile on his face- one she knew too well-, she realized who he was seated next to on the plane. Her eyes opened as big as plates and she overheated. He was smirking amusingly at her reaction. “You- You- You are-? Lu-Lu-Luk- It can’t be…”

He nodded to confirm her suspicions and her jaw fell to the floor. “Hi. I think I haven't introduced myself yet. My name is Luka. But I think you already know that. It’s nice to meet you.” He chuckled, straightening his hand for a handshake.

“Oh God, kill me now...” She mumbled, sinking on the table. Luka snickered.

“What’s your name?”

“Ma-Ma-Marinette… I mean- Marinette!” She felt his eyes on her and panicked. “Excuse me- I- I need a moment... This- This is too much- Oh My God...” She stood up and rushed to the end of the plane, not without tripping twice on her way there.

________________________

While Marinette was gone, the two ladies in front of Luka and Marinette’s seats turned to Luka. “Having fun?” They smirked, knowingly. He was chuckling, having real trouble to keep his laugh from escaping.

“Oh, God, Yes. This is so much fun." He wiped the tears that were forming on his eyes. "I think I’ve found our potential new costume designer” he continued laughing under his nose.

“Only that? I think there’s more...” Juleka smirked, and Rose giggled in agreement by her side. He couldn't deny it: his sister was totally right.

Behind Luka's seat, Kitty Section's drummer, Ivan and his girlfriend Mylene had been enjoying the show the blue-eyed pair had been giving. It was definitely more entertaining than any movie. It would have been perfect if they had popcorn to accompany their fortunate first row seats to the hilarious show. They also approved Marinette's designs.

Luka took the chance Marinette wasn't there to freely stand up, go talk to their managers and stretch his legs for a bit.

_________________________

Back at the end of the plane, Marinette drank some juice and moved to the bathroom. She was panicking in front of the mirror, talking to herself.

“OH. MY. GOD. I’m seated next to Luka Couffaine! For at least… 5 hours more!? And I just called him hot! And- And- he said I’m beautiful and talented! And- Oh my God, he asked me for commissions, right? This can’t be real- I-" her feet wiggled uncontrollably and she let out a long squeak. "Ahh… Calm down, Marinette! He’s human- A sexy human, but still human! He’s famous but very friendly, kind and nice. And fun! It’s going to be alright. Just- Avoid his eyes. That’s it. It’s dangerous. Don’t fall in love. You’re not a teenager anymore, you’re over that stage, right? Only a few hours more. You can do it. I CAN DO IT!” She convinced herself with a confident nod and returned to her seat, only to find Luka was gone.

She looked for him from her seat, at her surroundings, but he was nowhere to be found. She sighed in both relief and sadness as she seated.

For some reason, she was missing him. Which was stupid, considering they had just met! But his company was certainly enjoyable... And, moreover, it was FUN. More than she ever remembered having. And not only because she was passionate about fashion or music. It had to do with his aura, his personality, his gentle manners- just... Luka.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back in a moment” A voice said from in front of her. “My brother is stupid, but he’s a decent person. Treat him well” The purple haired lady winked, beside a petit blond lady.

“Jul-!” She covered her mouth with her hands to stop herself from yelling her name. “And Rose-!?” 'Oh, no! They might have heard what I said too!' She panicked again and the ladies giggled amused.

“Ignore my sister and her girlfriend” Luka returned, and her face flustered when she noticed how tall and well built he was (not that she didn't know that, but it hit differently in first person). “Can I get back to my seat?” He politely asked, pointing at the window seat.

“Ah-! Yes! Of course!” She stood up so suddenly she tripped and fell on Luka’s chest. She immediately moved away in embarrassment, falling back instead, and Luka had to hold her again to avoid her imminent fall. “I’m sorry!”

“Are you ok?” He asked in concern, and she shyly nodded. Luka reluctantly let go of her and returned to his seat and Marinette settled back to hers.

Wait- Was that a blush on his face?

“Here” Luka offered her an envelope. “I don’t know what your plans in NY are but, here’s a VIP pass to our concert next Sunday. There’s also our contact card inside. I want you to consider the idea of working for us. Your costumes are impressive. We discussed it, and we want you in our team” Marinette had no words- totally speechless. Could she be this lucky? “What do you say?” Luka asked with a hopeful tender smile that made her weak.

“I- I’ll think about it. And- Oh God- I’ll totally be there for your concert” She blushed and Luka smiled kindly at her. Suddenly, she started searching inside her backpack, and took out a business card she offered him. “This is my contact. I- I have a fashion event next Monday. I would love you to come, if you can make it. Send me an email and I’ll get you some passes”

“Wow! That's impressive. I'll try to make it. Thank you, Marinette”

Marinette could hear her heart beating faster. No looking in his eyes, dammit. They kept talking for a while, enjoying their time together until they fell asleep out of exhaustion, Marinette’s head resting on Luka’s shoulder. He woke up earlier than her, but didn’t have the heart to wake her up until lunchtime. She looked like she really needed that rest.

When he left half of his lunch untouched, Marinette scolded him. “You have to eat! You’re too thin! Those abs and arms need consistency! Proteins!” She pointed at a photo of him shirtless and flustered again in embarrassment in realization. “Ah-”

Gosh- it really was fun, Luka thought, chucking. It was hard not to laugh out loud. Everything flowed so naturally it was unbelievable.

Damn. He didn’t want the plane to ever land.

“Marinette” he called, during their coffee time, and she looked back at him, redness still on her cheeks. “The plane will land soon but- Even if you don’t accept our offer… Is it possible for us to meet again? Out of business? Like this?”

Marinette flustered at his implications. “Do- Do you mean-?”

“A date. Would you go on a date with me, Marinette? Or just as friends, if you prefer. I like you, and I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun with anyone else” He took Marinette’s pen and one of his ‘Kitty Section’ contact cards and wrote something behind it. “These are my personal telephone number and email. We'll be in NY until Friday next week. It would make me very happy if you contact me, whenever you prefer, anytime” He said, securing the card in her hands.

Marinette blushed, looked at the card with glowing eyes, and then at his honest loving stare. Was it even possible that the man everyone was gushing about was asking her out? But this had nothing to do with his stage persona. Luka was someone she more than enjoyed spending time with. Naturally, quietly, assuring… She had no doubts about her answer.  

“I want to meet you again, too” she stated, and wrote her personal number under his wristband. “I’m free on Wednesday” she shyly smiled, and his smile widened.

“Wednesday is it, then. I'll manage to find the time. Just for you." He smiled happily and only then she realized how deep she had fallen.

Ah- she hadn't wanted to fall in love. What a way to fail her own determination… But she couldn't complain, not at all.

And he felt the same way.

Luka and Marinette's hands locked together, and they lost themselves in each other’s eyes, smiling at each other.

“Why don’t you kiss her already, dumbass?” Juleka called, and Marinette blushed. “He won’t kiss you if you don’t give him proper permission, you know? He’s very considerate despite his looks. Tell him already”

“Jules… Why don’t you mind your business and make out with Rose instead?” He shushed his sister and Rose giggled, embracing Juleka. Luka returned his attention to Marinette. “Sorry about that”

“It’s ok… I-” She started, looking at his thin lips. “Will you kiss me if I want to? Because I think I do...”

“You do?” he asked, and she shyly nodded and he smiled softly, making her heart flutter.

She closed her eyes and he leaned closer to give her a sweet kiss on her cheek. She pouted a little, in disappointment, but he told her that, if she really wanted to kiss him, that would be the perfect excuse to meet him again and make it more special, like a beautiful lady like her deserved. Marinette understood his reasoning and agreed with it, despite the slight disappointment she felt she would have to wait a few days to get the chance to kiss him. Nevertheless, both of them happily smiled while their fingers remained interlaced, chatting and enjoying their time together the rest of the flight, until the plane landed and they had to unavoidably say their farewells.

“Thank you for everything, Luka. I forgot how scared I was of planes thanks to you and- I’ll see you soon?”

“I really hope so. I still owe you something, right?" He winked and she blushed happily. Luka gave her a final discreet and quick kiss on her knuckles. "Gosh- I miss you already...” He added, and Marinette felt the urge to cry. She dropped her bag to hold him in a needed embrace. He gladly reciprocated her gesture. Despite neither wanting to separate, they forced themselves to. "I hope I see you soon, Marinette"

"Me too, Luka…" she wiped her tears and waved, as the band started walking away.

When the arrivals doors opened and all the camera flashes blinded her, she understood why Kitty Section members always wore sunglasses in airports. They were more popular than she could have expected. She understood why he had refused to kiss her outside of the plane, but he still saluted her before disappearing in the multitude of fans and paparazzis.

On the other side, Sabrina, Audrey Bourgeois’ assistant, waited for her. She had almost forgotten about her own business. But now, she found the motivation she had lacked. If she was willing to be with Luka, she had to become the best. She wanted to make a name of herself, more than ever. And her meeting with Luka certainly boosted her confidence.

Unexpectedly, her trip to NY had already become one of her most memorable experiences yet. And it had just started! She couldn't wait to spend the rest of the week in the city.

[animedaddymilkers]

Kinkmas 2020: Day 20

Prompt: Size Kink w/ Kisame

Genre: Smut/18+ || Tags: Size Kink, Comfort, Tummy Bulge, Cum-Flation, Fingering, Penetrative Sex || Characters: Kisame Hoshigaki, Female Reader || read it on ao3 here

"Hi, can I help you find any…anything?" your customer service voice chimed out, only stuttering over your words when you finally looked up and up and up and met the eyes of the customer in front of you.

Said customer was a hulk of a man, though the bluish tint to his skin had you questioning even that part. You were used to being generally small and short but the height of this man made you remember that all the more. Still, you had a job to do and kept the cheerful smile plastered onto your face. The man turned around and looked down at you rather amused, though you were relieved when his face broke out in a smile.

"Why yes, I need help finding some bandages and perhaps a new shirt," his voice boomed out, nearly sending you to your knees at the pure baritone nature of it.

Only now did you notice the tatters in his shirt and the gash covering his torso, "Oh, gosh, okay! H-Here just follow me!"

Clamoring about you collected medical equipment and grabbed his hand, leading him to the back of the shop after flipping the open sign to closed. You sat him down at your simple kitchen chair, which almost looked comical under his large form. But you didn't have time to ogle over the sight of him as he was still actively bleeding. Your hands prepped the supplies quickly and you were about to start fixing him up when his hands wrapped around yours, effectively stopping you.

"You don't need to do this, little dewdrop. I can do it myself."

Besides the affectionate nickname catching you off guard, you steeled your resolve and shook your head at him, "Please, let me do this! I don't see how you can stitch yourself up with your hands shaking so!"

He raised an eyebrow and looked to his hands holding yours. Sure enough, even while clasped around yours, his hands were shaking. Damn, the injury must be affecting him more than he thought. With a defeated sigh he let your hands go and leaned back into the chair, the wood ominously creaking beneath his weight. You sat on another chair in front of him and went to work, first, discarding him of the tattered shirt barely covering him. Still, to see his chest completely bare had your cheeks heating up. Your hands pressed against his abdomen to put pressure on the wound, intent to stop the blood. As you held your hands there the man in front of you rubbed his face.

"How did you get this injury?"

"Best not for you to ask questions, little one," so much for small talk.

"Can I at least have your name?"

The man seemed to think about it for a moment before answering, "Kisame. Yours?"

You gave him your name and reveled in the small smile he offered you after hearing it. After the introduction he seemed to relax slightly, allowing just a bit of small talk between you two. He told you he was injured in a fight, though he wouldn't go into too much detail and you wouldn't ask. The blood flow finally slowed and you took the cloth away, throwing it into a nearby bin. Then you set about cleaning the wound, frowning when Kisame tensed at the antiseptic that no doubt burned. Your other hand grabbed his and held it tight to support him through the pain. Briefly, you took in the sheer size difference of your hands, your own barely as big as his palm. After cleaning, you carefully bandaged the gash, paying mind to patch it up so it hopefully wouldn't rip open again.

"Thank you."

It was a simple statement, but it conveyed a tone of finality, that he was leaving and you turned from putting the supplies away, "You still need a shirt. And please, let me make you some food. It'll help you recover better."

Kisame should have turned down the offer, but you were hospitable and altogether unassuming. So, against the better judgment, he was trained with, he accepted your offer. Thankfully, you had a meal already on cooking since the morning and you dished out two bowls for the two of you. As you ate, it felt natural and easy to sit across from each other and chat. The conversation flowed from topics of your favorite colors, to what you thought about the fate of stray dogs. There was no rhyme or reason to what you talked about and that's what made it interesting. But, as Kisame finished his fourth bowl, you realized it was once again drawing to a close. You weren't sure why, maybe it was his attractive looks, but you didn't want to say goodbye to him. He offered to help do dishes and you actually accepted his help, if only to keep him around that much longer. Again, that only lasted for a handful of minutes until you were left shifting from foot to foot as both of you stood around in silence.

"You… You could always stay the night," you offered boldly before quickly adding, "To help you heal more, of course!"

His eyebrows raised before he nodded at your second part, "Of course, of course. You're right. It would help. I'll stay. Do you have an extra bed?"

Your face dropped slightly and you laughed a bit nervously, "Uhh, well, no, but you can have my bed! There's room enough for you."

"And enough for you too? Well, 'suppose even if not, you could always sleep on top of me, dewdrop," Kisame stated plainly before laughing at your sheepish reaction.

"I-I suppose," your cheeks heated up at the image of you curled up on his chest, another reaction that Kisame didn't miss.

He leaned down until he was eye level, grinning suavely, "I still need to repay you for patching me up, so name your price, and don't be shy about it."

You thought about it for a moment, knowing he wouldn't accept 'nothing' as an answer, "Kiss me."

"Damn, that's a pretty cheap price for a wrap job. But I guess I shouldn't complain. I'll gladly kiss you a million times over," with that, Kisame lifted you from the floor so your face was level with his.

Wrapping your legs around his torso, careful to mind his wound, you rested your hands on his broad shoulders. His smile was contagious and even as he leaned in for the kiss it was all a bit surreal. The soft lips against yours tasted, unlike anything you ever kissed before. Reminiscent of salt with a spearmint kick to it, almost like taffy. It was far from bad and when he went to pull away you found yourself following his mouth, keeping the contact. He exhaled in amusement against you but obeyed your wishes, kissing you again and again. His large hands supported your bottom, one hand easily covering an entire cheek as he held you close. The sheer size of the man had you wet from the second he walked into your store and now that he was kissing you in his arms you were a bit anxious to get the show on the road if you will.

You pulled away to peel your shirt off, white eyes taking in every inch of newly revealed skin. The shirt landed somewhere in the hallway as Kisame wandered through to what he deemed your bedroom. Not like it was hard to spot anyway, it was the only room that had a bed in the middle. Gingerly, he laid you down on the bed and snickered.

"You're definitely going to have to sleep on top of me," He grinned and kissed down your jaw to your neck.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," you responded in a breath, moaning at the way he sucked on your skin.

The sharp teeth so close to your jugular had your heart beating a bit faster. Though you were almost positive Kisame wouldn't hurt you, just knowing there was a possibility turned you on even more. He nipped slightly and you gasped at the feeling before letting out a moan. The reaction was exactly what he wanted and he took it as an invitation to do more to you, a hand placing itself between your legs and rubbing you through your pants. A grin spread across his face as he felt your wetness even through the material and went about undoing them, eager to see just how soaked you were. Once completely bare he slipped twin fingers down, damn you really were soaked. He pushed the thick digits inside, slowly working you open and making a comment about how he needed to stretch you.

Foolishly, you thought that just meant fingering you for a few minutes and then the main event, but you couldn't have been more wrong. Just when you thought you were going to get fucked, Kisame instead pushed a third, thick finger inside of you. You were already a moaning mess but he still pumped his fingers in and out, working you open even more. He curled his fingers just right and before long you were having your first orgasm of the night. Finally, he pulled all of his fingers out and began kicking your juices off. His fingers then hooked into his pants and boxers, pushing them down and off, leaving you gasping at the sight of what lay underneath.

Words were unfathomable as you took in the absolute fear-invoked of a cock he had. Truly, when people wrote about a cock able to split a person in two, there was a picture of him next to it. It made sense now as to why he went to such lengths to prep you and still you thought maybe he should go back to prepping you more. Yet you didn't voice any of those fears, the feeling of lust overtaking you and you decided you needed to try and take it right then and there. Kisame seemed to notice though and asked if you had any lube, pouring a copious amount onto his length before flipping you onto all fours. Like the horny bitch you currently were, you pressed your face down and wiggled your ass in the air slightly, begging him to fuck you already.

"You look so good like this, dewdrop. I'm going to fuck you so good. You're gonna look so sexy trying to take as much of my dick as you can."

His lewd words earned a moan from you and the tip of his cock nudged against your entrance. Slowly and carefully, he pushed inside of you, listening for any cues from you for him to stop, but when none came he went as far as your pussy would allow him to. For a moment, he stayed still, the sheer size of him spearing you had you moaning and gripping at the sheets nearly losing your mind. He barely got halfway in, but that was still impressive for your first time taking him. Inch by inch he pulled out until the tip was the only thing left inside of you before pushing back in, forcing you open again. You whined and wiggled your ass slightly, needing more movement from him, no matter how much it could potentially hurt.

Kisame groaned and obliged, pulling his hips out a bit quicker before thrusting back in. His heavy balls slapped against your clit, sending shivers down your spine. Where other lovers would lean down and kiss your shoulder, Kisame easily leaned over and caught your mouth in a kiss, not having to worry about stretching to reach at all. His large hands played with your tits, tugging on your nipples like they were toys. Though even with all the rippling pectorals and sheer body size, each of his touches were soft and playful. He pounded into you and you came at the sight of your stomach protruding with each thrust. The squeeze around him as you came was honestly a bit painful for him, but hey it's a good thing he got off on that. He helped you ride out your orgasm and then continued, almost literally, rearranging your guts.

"Fuck, dewdrop, this pussy feels so good wrapped around me, I could keep you like this forever."

Somewhere, your mind knew you only met this man today, but the overwhelming majority just didn't give a shit. He could keep you forever and it'd be a happy life. As long as it meant he'd fuck you like this, you'd be content. His hips seemed to only go faster, but with the amount of thigh muscle he was working with, it made sense. You came again when his balls hit against your clit particularly rough, sending your thighs shaking and you gripped the bedsheets desperately. Kisame groaned as you came again and his hands never stopped touching you, groping at every inch of your body.

Though it was only after your third orgasm did he start to falter himself. He grunted and gripped your shoulder a bit tighter than before, hips stuttering in their rhythm. But, he wasn't done yet and flipped you onto your back before picking the pace back up, fucking into you like a crazed animal. You weren't about to complain though and not like you could either, at this point you could barely form words longer than his name and various cusses. Kisame nipped along your collarbone, muffling his groans before he growled and shoved himself deep, covering your inner walls in white. It didn't stop there, his load felt like it kept coming and coming, the sheer feeling sending you into another orgasm. By the time he was finished your stomach had a barely yet still there bulge, thanks to the massive load he gave you. You babbled incoherent whines, whimpers, and moans and now this time, it was Kisame's turn to tend to you.

As he cleaned you up and, like promised, settled you on his chest, he grinned while rubbing your back, "Guess I should get stabbed more often."

hope you enjoyed! remember likes & reblogs help me reach more people! :D

[hyperpsychomaniac]

Scrooge's New Driver

DT17 Fanfiction

Summary: With Duckworth gone, Scrooge is struggling to find a replacement chauffeur who doesn't baulk at his driving orders. Until he unexpectantly runs across (and nearly over) the answer to his prayers. Oneshot.

***

It had been six months since Duckworth had passed, and Scrooge had been through as many drivers in that time. At least Duckworth had understood the meaning of urgency. At least he had been willing to take a little risk.

Scrooge glowered at his newest driver from the backseat of his town car. "Milligan, if you don't get me to my meeting on time, you're fired."

"But Mr McDuck, the road rules! And I'll have to speed…" Scrooge was pretty sure his voice cracked. How old was this lad anyway?

"So take a shortcut. Shorter route, less speed. It's not bloomin' rocket science… Here! Take a right here! Now, Milligan!" Scrooge tapped his cane on the divider. He was going to miss the turn!

Miraculously, Milligan reacted instantly and threw a hard right. The front tyre jumped the curbing, the back end slewed out, and then came back under control.

"See? That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

Milligan slammed on the brakes just as Scrooge saw the backpacker on the crosswalk ahead. The car jerked to a halt. Scrooge was reasonably sure he'd felt no impact, but the backpacker had disappeared, maybe dived to the ground. Not that that would stop him from trying to sue him. Great. Like he needed another lawsuit.

Milligan leapt out of the driver's seat and ran around the front of the car to help pick him up. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Oh, sorry. I was just crossing the street."

Scrooge wound down the window and stuck his head out. The backpacker seemed unharmed. His duffel bag had spilled out what looked like a bunch of VHS tapes. And, most importantly, he wasn't yelling abuse and threatening to sue. "Milligan he's fine, now get back in the…"

Milligan spun around, his paws bunched into fists at his sides. "No, Mr McDuck. I'm done!"

"You wha…"

"I QUIT"

Not again. "You can't quit now! I need to get to my money bin. Do you have any idea how much money I could lose if I don’t close this deal?"

"Better than losing my life! Or taking someone else's. I quit!" Milligan flung his chauffeur's cap back in through the open car door and stormed off.

Scrooge waved his cane out the window. "Damn it, Milligan. You'll never work in this town again." How was he supposed to… his gaze fell on the backpacker.

The lad was stuffing his VHS tapes back into his bag. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and it was probably a good thing the car hadn’t struck him. The impact would have done as much damage to the vehicle as it would've done to him.

"Hey, you. The man with a death wish."

He straightened as he slung his duffel over his shoulder. "Huh? Me?"

"Yes, you. Can you drive?"

His jaw hung open, and Scrooge could almost imagine the cogs slowly turning. "Er…" he finally said, "technically, or legally?"

"I'll give you a dollar if you can get me to my office in time for my meeting. I've got to be there in five minutes, and it takes nearly ten to get across town. You make that up, you make a dollar."

The lad's face brightened. "Sure." He jumped into the driver's seat and tossed his duffel bag into the passenger's side. Then he picked up Milligan's hat and crammed it over his ruffled red hair. "Er…"

"Well, hurry up!"

"Hang on, it's one of the ones with the stick."

"You can drive a manual, right?"

"Let's find out!" He slammed the car into first. The sound of metal on metal screeched from the gearbox, and the engine spluttered. "Wait, extra pedal…" And then they roared forward.

Scrooge hadn't heard his town car make that noise since Duckworth had died. "Well, finally, someone with the right attitude."

"So, where's your office?"

"You don't know who I am?"

"Pft, no. You haven't introduced yourself! And, come to think of it, neither have I. I'm Launchpad McQuack!"

"I don't care who you are. I'm Scrooge McDuck, my money bin is the largest building dominating the skyline, and if you don't get me there in five minutes, you won't be getting a dollar."

"Come on, I said I'd do it, didn't I?"

"Not in first gear, you won't."

Launchpad wrestled with the gears to more grating, and the engine stopped revving so high as they surged forward.

"That's a bit better. I hope you're not riding that clutch."

"So, Mr McDee, what do you do?"

"McDuck. I make money. Stop talking and…"

"Five minutes, I know. Gee, you realise you're cutting this a bit fine?"

"I was on time until some idiot jumped out in front of my car!”

"Wow, some people have no road sense. Hang on. We're going to need to take a shortcut." Launchpad wrenched them around a corner, jumped over a curb, and cut across a park. Park-goers ran every which way, but quite frankly, Scrooge thought most of them looked like they needed the exercise. Launchpad burst out through some bushes on the opposite side. The money bin loomed before them. They'd cut off a whole winding loop of road that wound its way around the city's nod to greenery, which Scrooge simply considered a waste of space.

"Huh. You've got initiative, lad."

Launchpad's face brightened. "You mean that, Mr McDee? Aw, thanks. That's… really nice."

"Eyes on the road!"

Launchpad reefed his head back around and brought them back in their lane, narrowly avoiding an oncoming truck. The town car bottomed out as they slammed down the road leading to the money bin, and then Launchpad pulled them to a stop outside its very front door.

"How'd I do? Do I get a dollar?"

Scrooge glanced at his watch. Two minutes to spare. Launchpad had potentially saved him a great deal of money, but he still felt a tinge in his gut that, yes, he did technically owe him that dollar as Launchpad had fulfilled the obligation of the bet." Er… wait for me here, alright? I still need to get back home. But, yes, you've earned your dollar."

Technically, Scrooge had changed the verbal contact on him, but Launchpad just grinned. "Sure thing, Mr McDee."

Scrooge rushed up to his meeting and hoped the miraculously crazy enough driver he'd picked up didn't figure out the town car he'd been left in charge of was worth far more than a dollar.

***

Two hours later, they screeched back to the front of McDuck Manor to the smell of burnt rubber. Launchpad hadn't nicked off with the car. And he'd still been in irritatingly good spirits when Scrooge returned. The drive to the manor had been almost as reckless, and Scrooge had considered telling him he was no longer under time constraints. But the pace was such a welcome change from his previous six drivers, and so Scrooge left him to it.

Seriously, those guys were supposed to be professionals. But, instead, they'd all been scared of their own shadow and had cared more about the road rules than doing what the man who paid their wage told them.

"Here we are, Mr McDee!" Launchpad exclaimed happily.

Scrooge winced. Still, it was better than his other drivers' whining. "I suppose you want your dollar now."

"Oh, yeah. I mean, if it's not too much trouble. To be honest, I am completed out of cash. I've only just got back into town from travelling, and, I… I thought I'd stay with… but it looks like they moved. I mean, I was away for a really long time so I guess I couldn’t really expect… Well, I need the money anyway. I need to pay for a room tonight."

Scrooge snorted. "In Duckburg? Lad, you are not going to get a room anyplace for a dollar."

Launchpad's face fell. "Oh…" Then he smiled. "Well, that's okay. Since I'm your driver now, you'll be playing me more dollars, right? Tonight, I'll just sleep in the car. If that's okay?"

"Sleep in my car?" Scrooge spluttered. "You can't… you realise this wasn't a permanent thing, right? I mean, you're not a professional driver, are you?"

Launchpad's shoulders slumped. "No. It's okay, I get it. I… I just thought I did a good job, and…"

Of course, he wasn't a professional driver. But every professional driver Scrooge had been sent had been useless. They certainly hadn't driven like Launchpad. He was the only one who'd got the job done.

"… and I know I'm not very good at these sort of things."

Launchpad's downcast look brought a faint tug to Scrooge's chest. "Lad, you did a great job," he found himself saying, and he wasn't sure why because he certainly didn't care about some backpacker off the street who probably expected to sleep on someone's sofa for free. But the lad had just helped him get a tonne of money to add to his money bin.

Launchpad chewed his lip. "Really?"

"I tell you what. Take my car back down to my garage. I'll show you where it is. You can stay there for the night. And, it'll only cost you a dollar. After that, I'll draw up a contract and…"

***

"You hired a homeless man to drive your car?!"

Scrooge rolled his eyes. "Beakly, calm down. He wasn't homeless. He was a backpacker."

"Then you left him, unattended, with your vehicle?"

"He did it for a dollar! And the best part is, I didn't even have to give it to him!"

"And… now he's sleeping in your garage." Beakly glared down at him, arms folded.

"One dollar!"

"Really?"

"Oh, fine. I felt bad for him, alright? He really wanted the job. And he can't be any worse than my previous drivers. It doesn't always pay to put your money on the professionals."

"Did you check any of his credentials?"

"Two million dollars more in my money bin, Beakly. That's credentials enough. Besides, I got my dollar back. I'm pretty sure I could tell him he could live in my garage, and he'd just work for me for free."

"You do realise, if you employ him, you are obligated to pay him minimum wage?"

Scrooge rolled his eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh. "I know."

[shesasurvivor]

May 8, 2021 (fic)

It’s here at last! I’m so sorry I’m so late this year; things really got busy for me. But I could never forget my favorite girl completely. Here’s the update for May 8 this year!

Summary: Prim surprises Katniss for her birthday one year with an unexpected gift. Set pre-Games.

Read on A03

----

I open my bleary eyes only to see nothing but darkness spread out before me. I’m used to being an early riser, but somehow this seems to be pushing it. I’m not sure what time it is, but it feels too early regardless. I feel the light pressure of a small hand pressed against my back as it gently shakes me. So I didn’t imagine it.

With a start, I sit up, wondering what’s wrong that either my mother or my sister could be stirring me awake. It would have to be an emergency because that’s the only time either of them is awake before I am. I’m already halfway out of bed, using my foot to feel around in the dark for my leather boots when I make out Prim’s small shape in the darkness. 

“Prim,” I breathe. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s okay, Katniss,” she says with a giggle, of all things. The sound is strange and catches me off guard. A giggle? That doesn’t add up. Then a dim light fills the room as my mother strikes a match, and I find Prim beaming at me.

“Happy birthday!” she sings out as soon as she can see me clearly. Our mother stands behind her, still in her nightshirt, smiling faintly at me as well. 

Oh. My birthday. I’d nearly forgotten about it. Not that there’s ever much to look forward to, other than the memory that I’m eligible to put my name in the Reaping a few more times in exchange for tesserae. Happy birthday to me. 

“We have a surprise for you,” Prim continues, pulling on my hand to encourage me to get out of bed. I’m still a little groggy and would rather catch a few extra minutes of sleep before I take off into the woods, but I follow Prim anyways and let her lead me into the next room, to our cramped kitchen. In the center of the room sits a small, unfinished wooden table that’s been worn down from years of use. And right in the middle sits a round cake that’s been decorated with white frosting and dotted with ornately shaped yellow blossoms.

My breath catches in my throat at the sight of it. I can feel Prim exuding pride and excitement beside me. I want to be happy for her sake, to show how much I appreciate this. Instead, my heart falls into my stomach. All I can think about is how much it must have cost us to buy this.

“Oh, Prim,” I murmur, and there’s no mistaking that I’m upset and not as touched as she wanted me to be. And immediately I wish I wish I could take it back, or could have forced myself to play along, or something to keep the crestfallen expression that’s falling across my sister’s face now. 

“You don’t like it?” Her voice is small, fragile. I crumble to pieces, then snap back together as I rush to reassure her that she hasn’t done something wrong. “It’s just… how much did something like this cost?” I’ve been by the bakery windows enough times with her to know that these cakes fall well outside of our pathetic budget. Not even my trades with the baker would catch us something like this. It would take a whole lot of squirrels to get something like a decorated cake from the window.

“Oh, is that all,” Prim looks amused now. “I just traded a wheel of cheese for it.”

“A wheel of cheese?” I repeat, not sure how to process the relief and confusion I’m feeling simultaneously. I’m beyond grateful that Prim didn’t spend anything more than that, but it doesn’t make sense. Prim’s goat cheese is outstanding, but it still doesn’t amount to the cost of one of the fancy cakes. “Mr. Mellark let you buy a cake for a wheel of cheese?” 

“Not Mr. Mellark,” Prim explains. “One of his sons. The youngest one. His name is Peeta. He gave me some of the supplies and even offered to decorate it himself. He put the flowers on because I wasn’t getting them. He’s really good. Katniss?”

I’m staring blankly at the cake, trying to make sense of all this. I know the son she’s talking about, though this is the first time I’ve heard his name. Peeta. Peeta Mellark. We don’t know each other, at least not directly. But this isn’t the first time I’ve been gifted with baked goods because of him. There was one other time, on a fateful rainy day, when I thought my luck had finally run out and the end had finally come. Peeta Mellark. Of course, the cake is covered in yellow flowers. 

“We’ll save it,” I say, shaking my head to clear out the memory. I smile down at my sister, looking up at me with relief at my lightened mood. “We’ll have it for dessert after dinner tonight.”

“Okay,” she agrees happily. She gives me a hug, then goes off to get ready for the day. 

Later, in the crowded hallways of the school, I glance up and find Peeta Mellark staring straight at me. He looks as though he’s been watching me for a while, and for a minute, I think he’s going to actually come over to say something to me. For some reason, the thought makes me embarrassed. Heat flooding my cheeks, I look away quickly. A moment later, I dare to look back, but he’s not looking at me anymore either. Instead, he’s turned and has started walking in the opposite direction down the hallway. But as the hall begins to clear out, I notice a crumpled piece of paper lying where he had been standing moments earlier. Unable to resist the curiosity, I edge over to the spot and pick it up. On the wrinkled paper is a rough pencil sketch of the very same blossoms that dot the cake back home. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” is written in clean, careful handwriting underneath.

I lift my eyes and stare for a long moment in the direction he disappeared in, trying to make sense of it. Was he about to give this to me for my birthday? We don’t really know each other. Though he would have to know it was my birthday after he helped Prim with my cake. But why? Why would he do any of that? He doesn’t owe me anything. I’m the one who owes him, who will never stop owing him, and I still haven’t managed to get out so much of a thank you to him for saving my life all those years ago. 

After a while, I give up trying to piece it together. The drawing can’t have been anything more than a practice run for the cake he decorated, with no other meaning. He was probably looking at me because he remembered my sister. There’s no further explanation for it. Besides, everyone loves Prim. I’m the forgettable one.  

I think about tossing the crumpled drawing into a trash bin as I pass by but somehow feel bad about doing so. Instead, I fold it carefully and put it in my pocket. I forget about it until that evening when the Hawthornes have come over to help me celebrate my birthday. As Gale hands me a slice of the cake, I remember the incident, and a hand slips into the pocket and fingers the paper sitting there. 

Briefly, I wonder if I should find Peeta Mellark at school tomorrow and return the drawing to him, but I push the thought away. He clearly didn’t care about it. Neither do I, I tell myself. But the picture sits safely in my pocket regardless. It will serve as a reminder of a particularly nice birthday I had one year, if nothing else. 

[burnedbyshoto]

a sloppily thrown together, my small take on what happens to bakugou if izuku finally listened to his bullying & ended his life:

“you shitty fucking idiot,” bakugou wants to growl but can only pitifully whimper instead.

his head is spinning, his heart an inferno, and the tears refuse to fall from his eyes in the same way the bile refuses to escape his throat. he’s feeling things he has no right to be feeling, shaking with emotions he can’t figure out why he’s feeling because he doesn’t care about midoriya izuku! he doesn’t! he hasn’t in years! fucking years, damnit! “you’ve never listened to a single damn thing i’ve ever told you, a-and now... then you decided to listen? now you fucking listen to me?! werent you supposed to be the best?! how you can be the fucking best six feet under, hah?! fucking better than all might my ass!! what the f-fuck is wrong with you, d-deku?!”

bakugou katsuki stands in front of midoriya izuku’s tomb today.

it’s been ten years since his “tragic death,” one that people only ended up caring about because it happened at school. no one cared because he was quirkless, no one even cared to ask why he had climbed up those stairs that day, no one but midoriya inko had screamed and screeched, sobbing as she collapsed on the hospital stairs.

the funeral was meek and small. inko was alone, as hisashi couldn’t break away from work, and the bakugous had only shown up because of mitsuki’s relationship with inko. katsuki had stayed in the car, he refused to see the service, refused to see izuku’s blubbering, worse for wear mother absolutely losing it, refused to see the bin that held izuku’s dead essence.

he refused to see him then, utterly consumed with emotions he couldn’t deal with.

so here he was now.

bakugou katsuki, for the past ten years, has been living a life aiming for the top that has become harder and increasingly bitter. he went to ua, was taught by all might, watched all might weather and eventually die, he watched his classmates rise above all, and he grew up. but for ten years, he also found himself unable to go home, unable to talk about his childhood, unable to fully connect with his classmates.

he woke up, got ready, worked, got home, slept.

repeat.

repeat.

repeat.

he was still angry, still meeting people head on, but there was also something clearly haunting him.

he cursed people out, but he never said to die, he never said to go to hell, never said people would rather wish they were dead.

his classmates watched as their usual stoic, angry classmate break down into a sobbing mess when he got too drunk and they dubbed a stuffed broccoli doll an official classmate of theirs.

he freezes up whenever someone mentions that they’re a deku, even if jokingly.

he gazed at freckles just a bit longer, curls just a bit more.

they watch as bakugou katsuki, the person they expect the least to be gentle with people standing on the edge of the building, become raw, emotional, almost still. no one mentions that he’s crying when he comes off the building with the trembling middle schooler who is sobbing uncontrollably.

no mentions how bakugou katsuki is a prime volunteer in suicide watch, a loud advocate in suicide prevention.

everyone just suspects it’s just something he’s really into, a rare hyperfixation he has on his way to number one.

at twenty-five, bakugou katsuki has somehow made number one. somehow despite the way a curly, green haired ghost continues to haunt him, he makes it. but there’s no joy in it, there’s no sense of relief and satisfaction to this win.

mirio had all mights quirk, but he lost it at a mission in high school. he had been lucky to get his original quirk back, honestly to be alive, but the girl with the time quirk could only give him back his original quirk.

todoroki somehow has managed with only using half of his quirk. he’s lucky to be this far up with only 50% of his quirk, and he was still so cold, he, like half of his quirk, was ice cold.

bakugou can’t even remember who else is in the top ten outside of them two, he just knows they were his heaviest contenders, and he had won. but he knew it was all wrong, that something was needed to make it right, but he wasn’t sure where exactly to fix it.

so in some attempt to make himself better, to make this complete victory real, he finally ends up back in the one place he’s avoided for years. in both mind and person.

he shows up with a small bowl of katsudon, a tiny detail about izuku he remembers clear as day. it’s been ten years since he’s seen izuku, more since he knew anything about izuku, but the moment he steps in front of the stone it feels as if he’s fifteen again.

fifteen, dumb, and with burning fear for the one person in his life he couldn’t figure out and therefore feared. he hated what he feared, he hated that if izuku had just the slight bit of luck and gotten a quirk he would be his greatest rival. he hated that izuku was quirkless. he hated himself for letting it all mean so much to him in the end. he hated that he could never officially apologize to izuku, to hear that stupid kacchan in his ears one more time, to grip that shitty bastards cheeks tight in his hands and tell him that if he decided to actually jump off that roof he was going to fucking kill him.

just the other day bakugou katsuki felt like he could barely remember midoriya izuku, but just now, everything he could ever remember comes back. the curly dark green eyes, the eyes that shone no matter what emotion he was feeling, the eight dark identical freckles on his cheeks that outshine the lighter stardust on the rest of his face. he remembers the shy dimple on izuku’s mouth, and the way his voice trembles when he spoke, tremble everyone focused and ignored the steely unbreakabke spine in his tone.

where was the unbreakable izuku he knew?!

so bakugou katsuki for the first time reads midoriya izuku’s tombstone and in a feat much similar to midoriya inko ten years ago, loses it.

he curses, spits, cries, screams.

he screams until his voice is hoarse and every last thing he has ever wanted to say to midoriya izuku has tumbled past his lips and has undoubtedly woken up izuku’s dead form.

“fuck you,” bakugou snarls, it’s a weak snarl, it’s too wet, too much of a pathetic whimper. “i got number one, just like i said i would! i got number one and your stupid shitnerd self wasn’t around to watch me! ‘kacchan sugoi’ my fucking ass!! you shitty fucking nerd thinking that you should listen to me, why the fuck would you? i bet you’re laughing at me, aren’t you? laughing because i’m like this despite you not meaning shit to me. you fucking damn coward, just you f-fucking wait.”

bakugou katsuki storms away that day and decides he will continue to be the best.

he’ll be the best knowing that shitty nerd will watch him no matter where he is.

it takes years, disasterous highs and lows, but bakugou katsuki is finally in his deathbed. he was the number one hero for years, he was famous for his work with advocating for mental health with particular emphasis on the quirkless. he was still angry, still cursing villains, screaming at civilians, and he angrily cries whenever someone does anything remotely wrecklessly self-sacrificing in front of him.

midoriya inko never truly forgave him, but he appreciated the pot of spicy curry on his work desk after he opened the midoriya izuku foundation when he turned twenty-six.

he lived, loved, and did all he could to be the best version of himself. he learned to accept that midoriya izuku somehow cared for him in spite of it all, and that there was no way izuku could ever laugh at his misery. so he lived. he was living his best so that the nerd he was so desperately hoping was watching him from wherever he was happy too.

please be happy.

and with a drawing, shaky last breath, bakugou katsuki closes his eyes for the last time.

“kacchan, hi!”

“...hey, deku.”

[ffangirlingsince2001]

Nothing Alike: V

Description: Geralt of Rivia has been tasked with taking out a fellow Witcher who has decided to settle down in a town. She has no intention of leaving and Geralt is forced to take matters into his own hands.

Geralt x Reader

Warnings: almost fluff but the reader hates it, language, angst (This chapter might make you uncomfortable and a little called out if you have intimacy issues, it definitely called me out, so beware)

MASTERLIST

He had gotten himself into trouble. That’s what he had gotten himself into when he ignored instinct and allowed a mind lower than his head make decisions.

She was beautiful of course, dangerous but beautiful, nonetheless. Not that he had ever doubted either, if he had, he might not have been stupid enough to take her with him.

They couldn’t stay in towns for long, she would anger the town people. She held raging parties in her own honor, keeping their cups filled until she could slip gold from their pockets without batting an eye. It wasn’t until the next morning when they tried to pay for the drinks, she failed to provide, that they realized they were poorer than the day they were born.

He tried to make her give it back. He ordered, and threatened, and seduced, and turned her upside down to shake out the coins, but they were never there. She always seemed poorer than the men she robbed.

That didn’t stop them from being angry.

And that didn’t stop her from being a right pain in his arse, always starting fights and taunting the innocent when he simply wanted peace. When they spent time in town it no longer than fifteen minutes for a man to be drawing his sword and Y/N to return the favor. And then they were being kicked out by the sore loser who had dared to challenge her. Finally, he gave up comforter for peace and they remained in the forest, beneath the trees and the stars.

That’s how they sat now, beneath the galaxy as it spun around them. A warm fire crackled between them as some poor animal she had caught cooked over its scorch. She was lying on her back, staring up at the diamond filled sky, or at least he assumed that’s what she was staring at. The lace of her shirt was undone, the soft linen draped over and leaving no room for the imagination. Not that he needed imagination to know what was beneath her clothing. He had witnessed the harshness firsthand.

She was a bitter dessert he could hardly bare to devour, and yet he wanted to taste her over and over again.

Despite such desire, he hadn’t touched her since that morning months ago. He wanted to, god he wanted to, but she wasn’t keen on letting him. Every time the though conjured in his mind she would slither away from him, a devilish twinkle in her eye. She never admitted to her little game, and he never asked her about it; but it seemed that not everything was for the taking as she had once promised.

“Is the food almost ready?” she asked suddenly, the harshness of her voice against the silence startling him. Geralt shrugged, stabbing at the meat with a stick. The fat sizzled as it fell into the fire, filling the air around them with the smell of tender meat and a dinner that would soon fill their bellies. He pulled it off the fire, carving out a hunk of flesh and passing it to her, before filling his own mouth.

She ate like a man, the juices running down her chin and catching on the slopes of her chest, staining the linen of her shirt. She chewed with her mouth open, and he could hear every noise of tongue, the gnash of her teeth, the smack of her lips with each bite. It was positively revolting, and he was sure she did every bit of it for him. To disgust him, to keep him far away from what he knew was sweet lips and words that could make even the harshest man melt.

“It’s delicious,” she moaned with delight, taunting him from across the fire. Her golden eyes were molten as they stared at him like a cat caught stealing from the bins. “You’re so boring,” she groaned, flopping back into the dirt, wiping away the last of her meal onto her sleeve.

“And what should I do about that?”

“Go into town, make a riot somewhere.”

“Is that all that excites you, chaos where peace should reside?”

“No. Sex excites me too.”

“And yet you choose chaos.”

“Much easier to come by these days when you won’t allow me in a town long enough to find some fool who finds me meek and malleable.”

“Is that who you want to be? Meek and malleable?”

“No, but it’s dreadfully fun to surprise them when they’re sure they’ve finally cornered me.” Geralt laughed beneath his breath. A man would have to be a fool to ever think they had cornered her. The pair settled into silence once more before a question that had been floating around his mind for days finally escaped his lips.

“Have you ever killed any monsters?”

“It depends. What is your definition of a monster? To you I am a monster, so you must explain what you mean.”

“You are not a monster?”

“Is that so?” she snarled as she sat up again, crawling forward, the fire raging in her eyes. “Is that why you look at me with such disgust? Is that why you keep me out of every town we near? Is that why you hold my leash so short I am sure I will choke on my own indignation?”

“It is a leash of your own making,” he replied, voice low as he struggled against his instinct to fight. She was so close now, resting on her knees, the rivulets of grease that ran down her chest glistening in the orange light.

“God, the sacrifices I make,” she spat, rising to her feet before marching away from him, but he would not let her claim victim, not tonight.

“What sacrifices have you made? I would be willing to bet all I have earned this year that you have never made a sacrifice in your entire life. You are selfish and coarse and without feeling. They ruined you in that school. You claim to have survived their tests, but you died the moment your mother abandoned you.” She roared, drawing her sword as she faced him, fury twisting the softness of her features.

“You will not speak to me like that,” she screamed, her sword shaking in front of her.

“Do you not like the truth, Y/N? Does it upset you? Does it remind you of what you have failed to become?” he roared back, blocking the strike of her sword with ease. She was good, there was not debate about her skill, but she was nothing more than a wildfire of emotion. There was no control, no patience, just fury that could be easily parried.

“I will kill you.”

“You have tried before, and you will fail just as you did then.” She screamed again charging forward, but he slammed the flat edge of his sword against the fingers closed around the handle of her sword. She screeched in pain, dropping her sword to the ground, backing away as she flexed her fingers. Without flinching she lunged forward, abandoning her sword for her bare hands.

He caught her with just as much ease as he had disarmed her.

“Let me go, let me go,” she repeated, struggling against his arms. One of his arms slid to her throat, ending the scream in moments. Her hands found his arm, fingers tense against muscle as she struggled to remove him.

“Are you listening to me?” he asked, and she nodded angrily. “You said it yourself, no one tells you what to do. You are here on your own accord, so do not preach to me about sacrifices you have not had to make. You survived on my mercy alone, and if I truly desired it, I could snap you in half before feeding you the real monsters that wander these woods.”

“Then do it,” she choked out, self-loathing threaded through every syllable, but instead he dropped her to the ground. She didn’t move as she lay among the leaves that had begun to fall as summer ended its stay. She could have been dead; save the angry noises she was trying to contain. “You fucking coward.”

He kicked her in the side, sending her across the campsite. He hadn’t wanted to, he never would have before, but she made him so angry it was all he could do not to kill her. She was gasping for air as she glanced at him, laughing through hungry breaths.

“We’re so alike, and you hate it. You can’t stand to look at me because I am everything you wish you were. Free and arrogant and terrifying, all that you are and wish the world would know.” Now it was his turn to scream.

“We are nothing alike.” She only laughed at him, holding her side as she struggled to stand. She stumbled forward and like the fool he is, he caught her. His hands instinctively avoided the ribs he had broken moments before, tightening against her waist to steady her. “Like I said, nothing alike,” he murmured.

“You don’t think I would catch you?” she coughed.

“I know you wouldn’t.” She smiled at him with a sad laugh and looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes.

This was the first time he had touched her in so long, he wasn’t sure he could let go. Almost delicately, he lowered both of them to their knees, brushing a strand of hair from her face. In moments like this, he could imagine what she looked like before the world hardened her features. He could picture garlands of flowers strewn through her hair and the blush of a virgin on her cheeks. He could imagine a girl who would lead the boys who longed to woo her around like puppy dogs, dashing away every time they got to close. Somehow, he knew, even back then she was a coy little thing. She even dared to mock him now, batting her eyelashes towards the soil beneath them like a doe seducing its way out of the hunt.

He caught the nape of her neck as tenderly as he could bare, tilting her head up until their eyes met once more. She was beautifully exposed to him, the slow heartbeat thrumming against her throat in unspoken anticipation. He pressed his lips to the frantic pulse, teeth breaking through tenderness until she gasped in pain. When he pulled away a drop of blood joined the trail of grease.

A bruise in the shape of his bite was already forming.

“What do you want from me?” she asked breathlessly, squirming as he rubbed his finger against the wound.

“I want to hurt you,” he growled, so low he wasn’t sure she had heard it. He knew she had when she began to laugh despite the pain. He pressed harder and the laughter subsided to a whimper. She may be a Witcher, but pain still existed even if she wanted to pretend she didn’t feel it.

“Is that all?”

“I want you to cry, and I want to know that every tear is of my making.”

“Anything else?”

“I want to make you wish you were dead. I want you to beg for me to end your life. And I want to refuse.” A small emotion he could not detect flitted across her face before the smirk returned.

“Such requests, but I’m sure we can do our best.” With a quick hand, she pulled his knife from its sheath. He jumped away, prepared to defend himself but she only offered the handle to him, still smiling like only the devil herself could. He batted it out of her hands and grabbed her wrist, yanking her closer.

“You misinterpret me.”

“Oh?”

“You do not make the devil wish they were dead with violence; you show them heaven.” With a gentle but commanding force he wrapped her legs around his waist, and when he kissed her neck there was no ferocity only tenderness. He ran his tongue over the wound, tasting iron, sucking ever so softly until she was moaning into the crisp night air.

When she was sufficiently worked up, squirming for relief from Geralt and his tender lips he pulled away and kissed her softly, like no one ever had before. There was no malice, no lust, nothing that she was familiar with. It was like he was mocking her, teasing her with the possibilities that came before the mutation.

“Geralt,” she growled, slamming her knee into his side but he only persisted. His hands did not stray from her hips, they remained firm and respectful.

She didn’t want respectful, she wanted anger. She wanted him to kick her again, to pick up the knife she had offered him and use it the way he knew how. She wanted him to choke the life from her body like he had so many weeks ago. She had made him wait weeks for this, for the ability to touch her, taunting him until she was sure he could take no more. He should want to ravish her, to enter raw and without warning, but instead he was kissing her like a lover would.

“Geralt,” she managed to say again, slamming her fist into his back but he only hushed her tenderly.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, one of his hands leaving her waist and settling on her hair, softly running his fingers through the curls. When they caught on snarls, she thought he would pull, hoped he would pull, but he only unknotted them with delicate ease.

She was terrified, shaking uncontrollably like she never had before. He had wanted her to fear him, and he had succeeded. The fire was hot, his touch was warm, even his lips were a taste of excruciating fire, but she was still so very cold. Every touch ran across her skin like a feather, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. Butterflies were flittered around her rip cage, while her heart hammered with excitement. There was a time when this was all she wanted, when there was no greater desire, but not now, not ever again. There was nothing like this in the whole world, not her world anyway. Tears slipped down her cheeks, salty against her lips as she pushed against his chest.

“Geralt stop,” she managed to cry out through the dreams of yesterday, “Please, I’m begging you stop.”

Instantly, he did so. He released her and she scrambled away breathing heavily.

“All you had to do was ask,” he replied, watching her as she panted. Her fingers dug into the soft soil, a desperate attempt to ground herself after his attack. He didn’t seem phased by it at all, in fact he seemed proud of himself.

But why shouldn’t he?

He had wanted to make her cry, to hurt, to wish for death above all else, and he had succeeded. While there were no wounds on her skin, her heart seemed to have wilted, aching with every moment she looked at him. She could still feel the softness of his touch, ghosting over her like a dream. She wished she were numb, that nothing could penetrate her body and soul ever again. An emotional death she was all too greedy to obtain.

He was right, heaven did hurt.

“I hate you,” she finally managed and he laughed, leaning against a tree, hands providing a layer between his head and the rough bark.

“I’m sure you do.”

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”

“Try and I might have to hold you again.” She spat on the ground in between them, and now it was his turn to smirk. “You’re so pliable that way, I might have to do it more often.”

She said nothing, because nothing she had to say would do anything to tear him down after his success. She jumped off the ground and stalked to her own corner of the campsite. She slammed herself against the ground, still shivering from the encounter, and some foreign thought wished he would hold her, if only to keep her warm. She banished it in an instant, cutting any possibility of it down with malice. She wrapped her arms around her chest, turned away from the fire as she stared into impossibly dark forest.

“Get some sleep, we ride for the coast in the morning,” he said, and had she not been so exhausted she would have stayed awake just to spite him.

She wished she had, because the next morning it was not Geralt who kicked her awake, nor was it his voice that greeted her ears.

“Well, well, well, it seems to be our lucky day.”

 Taglist: @stuckupstucky​ @aurora-sweet​ @holyhumorliteraturelight​ @dreams-of-sunlight-and-starfire @auds24

[remmushound]

Beyond the Bay Chapter 12 - Hidden City

Summary: The turtles go off in search of a new rift in the Hidden City

Tags: @brightlotusmoon @selfindulgenz @digitl-art-monstr @ilo-artistry

Leo hated every part of this. The sun was up, so they should be down, and out of sight. He had known his counterparts long enough to know how loose they often played with the rules his family followed so diligently, but to take to the streets under the danger of daylight for something that could easily wait for the blanket of night was absurd! In his two decades of life, Leo could count the amount of daylight explorations he had taken on two hands; the risk was hardly ever worth it. Despite the prickling insecurities inside him, Leo pushed himself onward to follow Raphael’s lead. This city was so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time. So easy to get lost in. Leo found himself picking out familiar buildings to assure that this place was still New York, even in this toony world so colorful that he could almost believe a pallet of paint had been spilled over it. This was New York and New York would always be home, even if home was a whole dimension away.

Raphael’s guidance brought the group of anxious turtles to an alleyway. They dropped down from above; Leo felt a shutter go through his body, a cold chill seizing his senses and stealing away his breath as he passed through something that seemed almost… green. The sudden shock made him stutter, his balance unsteady enough to knock over a trash can upon landing. With a clutter and a clang the silver bin fell and rolled, several more loud crashes sounding off each time it hit something. The eyes of Donnie and Raph turned to the shock-stricken Leo, who could only stare with his wide, cerulean eyes. The people walking past in the streets to either side, just feet away from what they’d see as monsters, didn’t stopped. Leo let himself breathe and the three brothers, muscles still tensed and ready to hide at the slightest sign of trouble, moved back into a tight formation around their younger counterparts.

“What are we doing here?” Leo couldn’t contain it anymore and he had to ask. His voice was a low whisper. “We could be seen!”

“Relax.” Leonardo laughed, and his voice wasn’t at all soft. He was met with three sets of shhhhh from the Splintersons, but laughed each of them off, “This alleyway has a mystic shimmer. We can see them.” He cleared his throat, “BUT THEY CAN’T SEE OR HEAR US!”

True to his word, the people in the street kept on their way as if the turtles didn't even exist. So that was what Leo felt! What had made him stumble!  The cautious tension in Donnie was immediately replaced by heart-fluttering curiosity. He couldn’t resist a high-pitched whistle, striding away from the group before Leo could say a word to stop him; he went as close as he dared to the end of the alleyway, waving and laughing and calling out to the streets with, to his utter joy, no response.

“This is so cool this is so cool this is so cool!” Donnie’s voice got higher with each repeat, flapping his wrists, “W-what is it, some type of four-lensed blind spot? O-or something using metamaterials or—?”

“Noooo, it’s mystic.” Leonardo said, and with a snap of his fingers Michelangelo perked up. He removed a small item that had been hidden in the rainbow pouch around his neck, the artifact attached to him by a slim golden collar; it was almost like a keychain he hung around his neck. “And so is this.”

Leo eyed the little trinket curiously; in shape, it was similar to Donatello’s gift, except with greens and golds instead of orange and reds. He could have mistaken it for an oddly colored compass with kanji if he hadn’t seen that familiar, lop-sided M in the middle. The compass itself was pointing directly at the wall, glowing the most vibrant neon and pulsing slightly. Leo could feel the energy radiating.

With a hand as steady as a seasoned artist, Michelangelo traced the trinket across the wall using the M as a guiding map. Before the astonished eyes of the Splinterson brothers, the compass left what looked almost like a trail of paint in its wake, except it didn't drip, and when Michelangelo had completed his work it began to glow. It was green at first, then shifted into a soft baby blue, and then into white as the faux paint finally started to drip and melt into a doorway. Leo felt an immediate draw toward it, like the force that would try to lasso them into Leonardo’s rift except not as strong. Raph gave a simple hiss in response, pulling back and shaking his head while Donnie did the exact opposite, reaching for the rift as if it were the most precious treasure. 

“I thought only your Leo could make rifts…” Leo said.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Leonardo asked, dancing over to stand proud at Leo’s side, “Portals are the only way into the Hidden City!”

“Hidden City?” Raph breathed through his teeth, eyes still fixed on the rift.

“Yeah!” Raphael said unhelpfully, “You three should stay close to us; the mystic types can be pretty jarring for first timers.”

Raph started to say, “I think I can handle them” before he felt a gentle tug at his hand. Raph looked to see Michelangelo holding his hand, resting his full weight against Raphael’s arm without the older mutant so much as flinching. Michelangelo’s eyes were wide, the colors flowing in them like a warm sunset as he beamed up at his friend.

“Don’t be scared, Raphie! You can hold my hand if you want to!”

“Uh…” Looking down at this tiny, vibrant young shinobi that barely came up to his stomach in height, Raph couldn’t say anything except, “Y-yeah, sure. Thanks kid…”

Michelangelo have a happy giggle and wiggled his joy. He snatched Donnie with his other hand before the tallest box turtle could get very far.

“You can hold my hand too, Donna!”

“Donna?” Raph breathed through his nose, then laughed, “Hell yeah. Down with the patriarchy.”

Donnie, upon being grabbed by Michelangelo, had much the same reaction as Raph. He didn't know what to do, and then he fell to soft adoration as he realized he would do anything for this kid.

“Thanks Mike.”

“Can I hold your hand too?” Leo asked brightly

Michelangelo’s expression flattened. “Only got two hands, Leon.”

Donatello cleared his throat and stepped forward to motion the first group through the rift. “Please keep your hands and feet inside the mystic rift until the ride has ended, keep all personals close as we will not be liable for any limbs or items that may turn up missing. Keep your shells on, your heads low, and watch out for portal jackers as we take this small voyage to Run-Of-The-Mill pizza.”

With that, Michelangelo and the two other box turtles that had to crouch to be able to hold his hand went through the rift without fear. Leo, his mouth still hanging open, turned to look at Raphael, who could only shrug before going through the rift himself. 

“Lady’s first~” Leonardo gave what could have resembled a polite bow if not for the mocking tone, motioning Leo through first.

Leo sucked in a breath, shaking the nervous jitters like water off a duck's back before he stepped through. The pull was very much so like the rift he and his family had taken to wind up in this world to begin with, except less painful. When he opened his eyes again he was standing in… a restaurant?

The smell of cumin and Chili filled the air. The feeling of the polished floor under Leo’s feet was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Like ice, except not cold; soft, but hard at the same time if that was possible. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the building and more details were quick to come to him; wooden booths with dark brown cushions and tables clean enough to shine under the candlelight that filled the restaurant; the candles, it seemed, were held up by nothing at all! They were shaped almost like they were living; Leo thought it nothing more than a cool design before he realized they actually were living! Living candles with curves and form almost like human women, their hair the flaming candle wicks and the bottom of their shafts flowing out like a ball gown! Closer still and Leo could even begin to make out tiny, detailed faces!

“You want your normal seats I presume?” 

Leo blinked and shook his head as the familiar voice brought him back down to earth. Though he hadn’t seen Hueso in just over two years, the skeleton man had hardly changed at all. The calaca’s white pupils danced across the group with a curious hum.

“And shall I double your usual then?” Hueso queried.

“Bone man!” Leonardo explained, scooping Hueso up in a hug before the older yokai could make his escape. “Good to see ya!”

“Wish I could say the same.” Hueso grumbled, then added bitterly, “Problem child…”

“And that’s why you love me!” Leonardo blew a kiss, “Now Hueso, you remember the other us’s, right?”

“Unfortunately, it’s a pleasure to remake your acquaintance.”

Hueso was met with three half-hearted mutters of greeting; none of the Splintersons were even looking at him! Why would they when there were so many different creatures to see? In most every booth and table and barstool were mutants out of a fantasy book; beings even Donnie couldn’t single out as anything familiar! Some of them had characteristics that could have been compared to more natural animals— tentacles and fangs and frills. Creatures as big as an elephant or small as a shrew, with varying table sizes to accommodate all in between.

“Hey, listen bone man.” Leonardo tried to whisk Hueso away for a private conversation, but Hueso ducked to avoid the fate. His eyes and Leonardo’s were locked until Leonardo backed down, “We need a favor.”

“Don’t you always?” Hueso asked, “Seems every time you come to pay a visit it is for your own gain.”

“What? Noooo! Me? Noo!” Leonardo scoffed, waving a dismissive hand and laughing before quickly giving up the ruse, “It’s important this time. We need to find a yokai who sells decent rifts at an affordable price, and we need it like yesterday if we want to get these boys home.”

Hueso hummed, bringing his fingers to his mouth as he considered. “Define affordable.”

“Somewhere in the price range of… eight hundred US dollars or nine thousand Japanese yen.” Donatello said.

Hueso hissed through his teeth. “You won’t get any that cheap. Cheapest I know of would be Monroe, but quality rifters at his place run upward to three million pesos.”

Donatello took out his phone and ran some quick calculations. “Okay guess we’re not eating this month.”

“Wish I could be of more help pepino.” Hueso said, turning to leave while he was still talking, “I’ll go get you directions to Monroe.”

~~~

“This looks like the place…” Donatello said, and he indicated a small sliver of alleyway squeezed between two tall buildings.

“Doesn’t look like much.” Raph huffed; Michelangelo still had a tight hold on his and Donnie’s hands for support.

“But it is discrete though.” Donnie pointed out; his mind was still wandering, trying its best to soak up the tangled stimuli from the buildings and the mutants that looked almost like something out of a cartoon! Like a child had drawn these characters and these structures and planted them together in a bright, yet disorienting, array of flashing colors. “I’d hate to be an epileptic in this place…”

“Are we… gonna be able to fit through there?” Leo asked, his question directed toward Leonardo.

Leonardo flashed Leo a warning glare before saying, “Raph, are you and the guys gonna be able to fit?”

Raphael gave a low whine. His beak crinkled in concentration as his first idea was to simply walk forward, which proved him too wide. Then he huffed and turned sideways, but was still too bulky. It seemed Raphael ran out of ideas, so Donatello cleared his throat.

“If I could direct everyone’s attention slightly upwaaaard~”

Following his motion, they found what could have resembled a bell hanging above the alleyway. It looked as if it were made of slime with little chunks of something floating inside. Raph cringed at the sight of it, but Raphael gave a far too curious ooo and reached to touch it. Leonardo quickly stepped between Raphael and the slime-bell.

“No no no no, no no. No.” Leonardo said, forcing Raphael back, “Bad Raph.”

“I wasn’t gonna eat it.” Raphael pouted.

Leonardo narrowed his eyes. Raphael stuck out his bottom lip and tapped his fingers. 

“Okay I was gonna eat it. You can ring it.”

“Eh… not sure if I want to…” Despite his words, Leonardo reached up and took the slimy rope of the bell, a texture not unlike a worm, and yanked on it. Instead of ringing, it gave off a sound like a foghorn blowing that made every turtle cover their ears, though Leonardo removed his hands from his head just as quickly when he realized it was still covered in slime. “Ew ew ew ew—“

There was a pop and they were swallowed by a slimy, green bubble. What followed was mixed reactions of terror and disgust as they moved into a tighter group, shell to shell with the bigger ones surrounding the smaller. The bubble lifted then off their feet and through the wall like they had no matter at all, carried past the narrow door and lowered to the ground on the other side before the slime bubble popped and left them confused and disgruntled.

“What is this place?” Donnie was the first to separate from the group to look around. The space around them was not unlike an auction house, filled with all sorts of items on display. They filled shelf after shelf after shelf, placed around with no true order. Looking up would reveal several more floors, all just as filled with artifacts and creatures for purchase, with a convenient opening through the middle of each floor.

“Looks like some sort of witchy auction place…” Raph commented. Not to be outdone by his younger brother, Raph separated and started to investigate the place for himself, “How does a grimy grifter get a place like this?”

“Wait a minute…” Leonardo frowned as he looked around, “Wait— I know this place.”

Raph picked up a gem-encrusted chalice, turning it around curiously. “Huh. Fancy.”

“Raph, don’t touch anything.” Leo groaned.

“What?” Raph scoffed, “Guess you don’t want me to do this either, huh?”

He began to juggle the chalice with surprising style.

“Raph, stop that!” Leo tried to intervene, but that only seemed to egg Raph on. He danced out of Leo’s reach, laughing as he pretended to drop the decor before catching it at the last second, “I’m serious!”

Raph only laughed. At least, he was laughing until he actually did drop it— right on the head of a small, purple yokai who had been observing the scene, as still as one of his statues. Raph swore, trying to recover the drop but it was too late. It sank into the yokai’s head as if he were made of pure gelatin, and they could still see the gold through the flesh and skin. The purple yokai blinked, and Raph screamed.

The purple yokai’s skin shifted into flowing rings of yellow and orange that forced the chalice up and out of his head, into his hand. He didn't look like much— something akin to a slug if anything— with a soft beak and a snaggle tooth like Raphael’s only smaller. He breathed onto the chalice and wiped it off with his sleeve before placing it back on the shelf.

“Please don’t touch.”

“YOU!” Leonardo pointed accusingly, “You’re that slug guy who sold me wallet-stealing hair! You’re Monroe?!”

“That’s a talking slug—” Raph withdrew back into the crowd of his brothers, eyes wide. 

Donnie gasped, pulling his goggles down over his eyes and advancing as quickly as Raph had retreated. The slug drew into himself, his entire body constricting like a squeezed stress ball. Leo visibly cringed, while Raphael and his brothers didn't seem all that bothered beyond a few yawns or comforting pats for Raph.

“This is incredible— there’s compounds in him that fail to be isolated or traced!” Donnie picked up one of the slugs arms to investigate every inch of him. “He doesn’t even seem to be carbon based at all; there’s elements I can’t even identify— what…?” Donnie pulled up his goggles as the astonishment gave way to a confused frown, “Is— is he a mutant?”

“No.” Donatello scoffed.

That was met with three very confused box turtles casting side glances. 

“Are… are any of them mutants?” Leo asked.

Leonardo laughed, “What? You though every yokai in the Hidden City was mutated by Draxum and his army of mutant mosquitoes? Ha! W-what dumb idiots would think that?” Leonardo was visibly sweating.

“Not these dumb idiots, that’s for sure.” Donatello tried to brush past, scratching his neck.

“W-wait, so none’a them guys we passed were mutants?” Raph asked, pointing back at the door.

“Well, some of them might have been, but the majority? No; they’re yokai and cryptids.”

“Yokai…” Donnie breathed, and that astonished look returned to his face as he continued to circle Monroe, “They exist in your world? Oh my kama this just keeps getting better—“

“Don.” Raph whistled as if Donnie was a dog, “Buy first, geek later.”

Monroe’s eyes lit up at that and he pulled himself away from Donnie to give a polite bow to the rest of the group. “If sales you wants, sales I’s gots! I gots artifacts from all around the world, from the tombs of Giza to the ancient Amazons. If you needs it, I gots it!”

“Great!” Raphael clapped. “Cause we need a high quality rifter.”

Monroe sank into himself. “Not that’s I don’t gots…”

A visible vein twitched in Leo. “What?”

“I solds out…” He frowned, tapping his nubby hands together.

“WHEN?”

“Like ten minutes ago, don’t yell at me.” The slug quivered, his eyes like saucers.

Leonardo sucked in a slow, deep breath, “Who bought them, Monroe?”

“Oh, an andoroido with a nice voice ands such manners. He’s having buying all my rifters. He’s very rich.”

“All of them?” Raphael whimpered, “Y-you don’t even got a… a small busted one in the back?”

Monroe shook his head. “Not one! He was be very insistent he gets alls of them. But I do has a very special hover pod with your name witten all over it if you—“

“Not interested.” Leonardo quickly dismissed, pulling on his face in his frustration, “Great. We— we’ll find somewhere else to look.”

“But I is to be assuring you that no other shop has rifters worth your while…” Monroe said.

“That's what every illegal rifter peddler would say!”

“Not this illegal rifter peddler, I swearing it to you!”

“And I swear I’ll bust your teeth in if you’re lying…” Leonardo seized Monroe by the collar and lifted him up.

“Leo.” Raphael was quick to correct. His eyes met Leonardo’s for just a moment. That was all it took for Leonardo to relent and release the Yokai. Raphael made a quick point to help Monroe fix his shirt. “Sorry ‘bout that. If you happen to find a rifter you missed, could you give us a call?”

Without having to be asked, Donatello had already written up his phone number and placed it in Monroe’s hand.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any more contacts, do you Don?”

Donatello took a long, slow breath. “I’ll see what I can find.”

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Feverish and Teary & How Long Has it Been Since You’ve Eaten- Prompt Fill

@thatonekidellis​ Jon, Tim, and Martin have a rough time after the Unknowing. Especially Jon.  I hope this is kind of what you were asking for?  

@janekfan​ you get a ping because this is your au!

CWs: nausea, vomiting, fainting, fever, food mention, alcohol mention, canon typical mentions of Tim's pre-unknowing mindset, canon typical Jon not taking care of himself.

I am still accepting bingo prompts, so let me know which character, which prompt, and if you want a drawing of a fic!  Bingo card by the wonderful @celosiaa​!  This one is twice my usual length because it is two prompts and I did not want to cheat!

The Unknowing blows up.  

As simple as that.  

All according to plan.  

It really is as simple as that.  

Jon, Tim, Daisy, Basira.  Piled back in Daisy's car.  Ears ringing.  Soot slowly settling.  Trying to drive away before the actually police get there.  

It hasn't been Jon's problem how to avoid arrest.  

He is even more glad it isn't his problem now, as he slides down the beat up seat in the back of Daisy's car.  Ash streaks the window, mixing with the light rains that is starting to fall.  

Jon tries not to vomit the nothing he's eaten in the last couple days.  Nothing in him but frayed nerves and statements.  Hadn't even managed to stomach dramamine before their trip.  

Jon just wants to sleep.  

They still have their hotel reservation for another couple hours, so Daisy drives them back there to clean up before heading back to London.  Yes they have to go back today, it's less suspicious.  Jon isn't sure if that is actually true, but he doesn't have the energy to argue.  

Tim showers.  Jon sends a text to Martin.  'Alive.'  

He doesn't answer Martin's near-immediate call because just then he's dry-heaving into the small bin in the corner.  Stiff and shaking and sweaty and miserable.    

Jon showers.  Too dizzy to stand, he sits on the shower floor.  He hates that.  The tub feels filthy.  He feels filthy.  He scrubs his skin raw.  He stands.  He throws up more nothing.  He scrubs himself again, leaning heavily on the wall.  

He wants to talk to Tim.  He wants to tuck himself into Tim's arms and never move again.  Christ, he's running an impressive fever.  Probably.  It's hard to tell.  And his brain is swimming too much to even think about asking the Eye.  

He's cold.  He shivers in his threadbare joggers and stolen jumper (Martin's).  

He wants to join Tim on the bed by the window, but Tim ...looks too deep in a melancholy thought to even notice.  Somewhere between losing his drive for anything, adrenaline crash, and losing the last hope of a last glimpse of Danny, if Jon were to guess.  

Jon could say something.  He knows he could.  But, hasn't he caused enough of a fuss?  Made Tim and Martin trail after him after the ...the.... with Daisy and... that.  If he'd have just stayed quiet and stayed still... well Tim would still hate him... and might not be alive... but ....but he's caused so much worry with that.  And then with... his other kidnapping No.  He can't think about what that... what... not without puking again which... the point is not to worry Tim.  Which means he should try some medicine again.... if he can keep it in him half an hour he'll survive the drive back.  Probably.  

Christ, when is the last time he bothered to drink anything?  

He lays there in a daze until Daisy bangs on the door telling them it's time to leave.  

Tim sleeps on the drive back.  Finally giving into the last few sleepless nights.  Jon is jealous.  

Last night had been spent tangled together, shaking, awake, and silent.  Anxiety too thick to slice with words.  Not even nothing to turn off the lights, because the fear is a little easier to manage in the light.  Jon couldn't stop thinking about Nikola.  He couldn't stop thinking about plastic hands on him.  Couldn't stop thinking about how many things could go wrong and how he could lose Tim and Martin when he only just got Tim back.  

Jon was pretty sure Tim hadn't been sleeping the last few nights.  Jon knows he hasn't.  Not that he has slept well in a long time.    

In any case, Tim sleeps.  Jon doesn't.  

Daisy glares at him through the review mirror.  Jon isn't sure if she is still waiting for him to prove himself monstrous so she can attack, or if she is making sure he isn't ill in her car... again.  (He really wishes he could forget his first ride in her car.  Really really really wishes.  It was not a pleasant experience for anyone, and Daisy had made him pay the cleaning bill.)  

It doesn't matter, he slides down further in his seat and closes his eyes tightly.  

His head hurts.  

Thankfully the medicine knocks him out soon enough.  

Martin greets them at the institute door.  Melanie by his side.  

Jon hazily wakes up to Martin gently touching his shoulder.  

"You actually made it!  I'm so glad you're safe... I was so worried, Jon why didn't you answer your phone, I've been so worried, I mean I know you would have said something if something had happened, but Christ I've been so worried about you, come here."  

Jon starts mumbling some apologies, but is interrupted by Martin gently gathering him in a hug.  Jon sinks into it, fervently hoping Martin doesn't notice the heat rolling off of him.  

Thankfully Martin is too distracted, gathering Tim in a crushing embrace.  Likely very relieved that Tim didn't die, and knowing Tim is harder to break than Jon with his delicate bones and fragility following many incidents.  

Jon... doesn't really know what he's trying to accomplish.  Just... get out?  Or go in?  Or get to the cot?  Or just curl up on the cold tile of the basement toilets?  Get away from people he will inevitably worry?  

Just go somewhere where he can fall apart without taking anyone else down with him.  

It looks like Martin has been crying.  Jon hopes it isn't over him.  

Tim needs to recover from the emotional toll of the last few days without having to pick up the pieces after Jon Again.  

Jon slowly backs away.  

His head is swimming, but that's okay.  If he can just reach the Archives.  The cot.  Anywhere.  Anywhere away from this moment.  This breath.  

His vision swims violently, and there is no doubt in his mind that he is going to be very well acquainted with the pavement in a matter of seconds.  Either that or he's going to be ill?  No.  Sidewalk.  He's going to eat the sidewalk.  Heh... first thing he'll have eaten in days.  

He isn't sure if he loses consciousness or not.  It's hard to tell in the blur of motion and sounds and his spinning head.  Sound is almost gooey in this state of almost unconsciousness, but he thinks someone might be shouting.  Or several someones.  He should maybe worry about this?  But in actuality, he is praying he properly passes out to save himself any more embarrassment and save himself from his unsteady insides.  

His face hurts.  

Someone is holding him.  

Jon fights to open his eyes.  They don't seem to want to look in the same direction, rolling in their sockets instead of doing what he wants them to.  He blinks hard a few times, failing to bring things into focus.  Glasses?  Does he still have those?  Did they break?  No... still there.  Skewed on his face.  Just... too dizzy to see, then.  

Daisy and Basira are glaring at him.  Melanie is walking away.  Possibly.  Hard to tell when the world is tilting with unsteady regularity.  

Jon closes his eyes again, pressing a groan against the nausea that threatens to overcome him, despite the medicine.  

"Jon?"  

"Burning up."

He's too hazy to put a name to a voice.  The words dripping in the air around him, tightening around his chest, silly string sitting on his skin in fibrous heaps that jiggle uncomfortably, cold and clammy.  

Shit, thinking in gibberish.  That can't be good.  

“Does anyone know how long he’s been ill?”  

Someone grunts.  

Footsteps.  Two sets?  I’m asking away.  Leaving him.   

“I.... I don’t know.  I don’t think he was feverish last night?  But... I haven’t exactly been... It’s.  It’s been hard.”

“Jon?”

He’s being jostled.   He whines.  Stomach flopping dangerously.   

"Jon?  Are you awake?  Can you open your eyes for me?"  

"Oh shit, he's gonna puke."  

He's being lifted, shifted on his side, bin shoved in his hands.  Where he throws up more nothing.  

He's crying now, feeling like utter shit, and unfortunately more awake.  

He isn't sure if eyes swimming with tears is better or worse than the unsteady world tipping around him and making him feel worse.  

"Christ, Jon!"  

He finally pries his eyes open.  Martin and Tim solidify above him.  More or less.  Still fuzzing in and out of focus.  

Now that he's crying, he just... can't stop.  Fistfuls of Martin's sweater.  

"Oh Jon..."  Martin's arms circle him, carefully.  Gentle not to jostle him more.  

"Buddy.  Think we can get you off the sidewalk?"  Tim.  Cupping his face.  Smoothing back sweat and tear soaked hair, long since escaped his bun, still not dried from his earlier shower.  "My flat isn't far, you know?  Didn't bring my car here, though.  Still... wasn't..."

Tim cuts himself off, but even addled as he is, Jon can fill in the rest of the sentence.  

So can Martin apparently, because Martin frowns.  It's never been more apparent that he's been crying quite recently.  "Still weren't sure you were coming home...  Tim..."  And his eyes start looking damp.  

Tim is tearing up now.  "Martin... let's not in the street...  I can carry Jon back to mine, it isn't far.  You can come too.  We'll get some take out.  Drink some whiskey.  Get Mr. Smoking hot cooled off.  We can talk then.  It's.... it's been a rough week."  

"Jon?  Can I carry you?  I think that might be less rough than a cab ride?  Do you need a few minutes?"  

Martin's voice is soft, and Jon thinks he could sleep right there.  In fact, he might.  So he nods.  

Martin lifts him carefully.  His head swims again.  This all is feeling rather familiar.  Jon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.  He tries to relax despite the lingering anxieties about heights.  Martin feels safe.  Tim is also safe now.  He lets himself drift.  

He wakes briefly on the trip.

"Hey bud, how are you feeling?"  Tim.  Tim seems off.  Too many things crossing his face to parse out, probably even for someone with a better sense than Jon of what those subtle face changes mean.  But Jon is too hazy to think.    

Jon's mouth feels gummed up.  His eyes feel gummed up.  

He's thankful his mouth doesn't taste like something died in it, though.  Although he is very aware how unhealthy it was that he's spent a good portion of the day with his body trying to turn itself inside out, and he couldn't so much as produce bile.  

Jon feels sick thinking about it, so stops.  He drifts again.  

He wakes to a damp rag on his forehead, no memory of anything past the explosion. 

How did he get here? 

"Sorry, that looked like a nice sleep, but you'll feel better with some medicine in you, and some water.  We can try some tea later, once the meds work.  And some food hopefully."  

Martin helping him sit up.  Just enough to get a few sips and some pills into Jon.  Which, Jon thought was probably optimistic, but he'd try it for Martin.  

"When was the last time you ate?" Martin again.  

Jon blinks at him in confusion.  "Is it over?"  

"Is what over?"  Still Martin.  

Where's Tim?  Where's Daisy?  Where's Basira?  Where's Melanie?

His breathing picks up, and that makes his head spin again, and makes him wonder just how long he can keep the medicine down.  

"Is it over, what happened?"  He's panting now, halfway to a panic attack.  

"Jon?  Jon!  Calm down.  Can you take a breath for me?"  

How did he get here?  Where is he?  This looks like Tim's flat, but there is Tim?  Did he survive.  

Jon reaches for anything.  But comes up blank.  

"Where's Tim?  What happened?"  He gasps out.  It feels like his ribcage is shrinking, being laced up the front. fighter than the corset he had worn in acting class in uni.  

"Tim's... taking a moment.  As soon as we got you here... he.... it's been rough on him, you know?  He did all this for... and I know he said he wanted to live.  He wants to live... but he's... not been in a good place and it's helped that you two are talking again... and that he's had company more... but he saw an old picture with.... with his brother.... and that polaroid with ... with Sasha.  Well, he keeps going between you know tearful and sorry and cackling about how everything blew up.  It's... probably a lot to have three revenge schemes going at once for the same.... not a person really... but ... Her.  And then... having it sorted.  But...  Listen Jon I don't know.  What don't you remember... or what's the last thing you remember?"  Martin edges on histerical near the middle, but takes a turn for the sad near the end.  

"I remember the... the world was all wrong.  Then... then it blew up.  Is it over?  Martin are you real.  Is everyone alive?  What happened to you?"  He's desperate.  Desperate breaths too shallow.  Words interrupted by jagged pulling of too thin oxygen.  He's going to pass out.  

He does.  

He wakes feeling... clearer.  The last period of wakefulness a distant and flighty thing, dancing just out of his reach.  The rest of the embarrassing day back in vivid detail.  Tim's sitting over him.  Or rather, curled around him.  Jon's hair is being played with.  A stray curl looped around Tim's finger as he laughs softly to himself.  Muttering that he's alive.  That Jon's alive.  That Martin is alive.  he didn't lose anyone else.  That that clown is finally dead.  Finally.  

Gentle and warm hand on his face, refreshing the cloth.  Checking his temperature.  

"I..."  Tim chokes on a sob.  And Jon tries to remember how his arms work so he can let Tim know he's there.  

"Tim?"  

"Hey bud... sorry."  Tim wipes his eyes on his sleeve.  "It's been a hell of a week.  I... don't know how to feel about it.  Fuck I need a drink....  And to check in with Martin.  I... he hasn't told me what happened, but he's upset.  And.  Fuck I should have noticed you were ill, why didn't you say anything?"  Tim's voice starts to rise, and Jon tenses.  All the times Tim yelled at him still too fresh in his mind.  He trusts Tim.  he does... but Christ he is still afraid.  Afraid that it can't last, that it isn't real.  Where it be a trick of his mind, or some manipulation tactic to an end Jon can't see, he doesn't know.  

"Hey.  Hey.  Buddy... Jon.  I'm sorry.  didn't mean to yell.  It's just... been a day.  I'm not mad at you.  I just... I'm worried about you and Martin and I...I don't know how to feel about everything that happened.  I'm sorry you feel like shit."

Jon feels... like shit.  Marginally less nauseous, however.  A little less like he's going to pass out again.  Probably been given plenty of pills by Martin.  

"Sorry."  He croaks.  Voice probably shredded with smoke.  And fever.  

"He, bud, don't apologize.  I'm sorry I didn't notice you weren't well.  I... I thought I knew better than to be that preoccupied.  I mean... I guess I didn't make it worse this time, but..."  Tim sighs.  "I'm disappointed in myself because I don't want to fuck this up again.  And no don't apologize again part of that was on me and yes part of that was on you and we've done apologies to death.  All we can do now is keep going.  I just wanted to protect you and I couldn't see you were fading in front of my eyes.  Again.  I know you haven't been eating or sleeping, but I haven't been either so I didn't want to call you on it, and I didn't want you to call me on it, but I should have noticed.  I know I couldn't have done much, but I didn't do anything but shut you out again.  I could have told someone to stop to get you medicine, or food or even a bit more rest.  I know that would have done fuck-all, but I still could have offered you a little comfort and warmth and had us brought straight back here."  

Tim's crying properly now.  Jon is too.  Not sure if it is the fever, or just... everything.  There is so much to feel and think and worry about and yes they saved the world but that the fuck comes next.  

What comes next is that Martin enters with tea for Jon and a bottle of whiskey.  

Jon scrubs at his eyes.  "Martin what happened?"  Jon can see he's been crying again.  That is starting to scare him.  It's a goddamn miracle he hasn't pulled an answer out of anyone yet today.  

"It's... well it isn't fine.  I... well our plan worked here too.  Just... you know... Elias.  He can.... He can do things.  It's fine.  It's worth it."  Martin swipes at his eyes furiously.  

Jon pushes himself up, ignoring the room tilting around him, and hugs Martin.  Jon's still crying.  Martin sniffling.  Tim also crying.  It's... a very damp hug.  And Jon knows he's too warm to be comfortable to hold, and he's shivering hard enough to rattle Tim and Martin.  

"I'm... I'm so sorry Martin."  Jon chokes out.  

"It's alright.  It was worth it.  And you both.  Christ I am so glad to see you again... I thought... I thought.... I didn't..."  Martin is fully sobbing now.  Tea set down on Tim's bedside table, the whiskey being pried from his hands by TIm.  

Late that night the bottle is empty (and so are a couple more), Tim and Martin have killer headaches, and Jon is still feverish, but less so.  A lot of tears have been shed.  And Jon has been plied with enough liquids that he feels a little less like a crumbling husk.  

By the time that Tim and Martin are ready to think about food, Jon is finally feeling like he can maybe stomach something.  They order takeout.  Jon... has some broth. 

By morning Jon manages a few bites of leftovers.  

By afternoon, Elias Bushard is arrested.