#and a damn good sedative

[fourfuckinghorsemen]

Aren't energy drinks supposed to give you energy?

[sunsburns]

good luck, babe!

pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader x patrick zweig x art donaldson

summary: patrick zwieg invites tashi duncan and art donaldson to join him at your engagement party. you think they came to celebrate you and your new chapter and put the past behind you, rebuilding lost friendships, but tashi hopes to stop you from marrying a man you never wanted.

—or: the trio crashes your engagement party

word count: 10k+ (i have a serious problem)

contains: SMUT 18+, smut with a lot of plot, post-challengers movie, fluff & comfort, angst, tashi’s pov but lowkey get's mixed up around the end, foursome, oral (fem receiving), oral (m receiving), p in v, unprotected sed (wrap it before yall tap it), homewrecking, cheating but also not cheating but also a worse third thing, three-way make out, four-way make out, dom!tashi, patrick being nasty, art being a loser, no use of y/n, situationship that lasts 13 years.

author’s note: this fic is based on this request with inspo from the greatest song on earth: good luck, babe! it was supposed to be a quick smut blurb but at this point, you all know i can’t write smut without some kind of angsty plot. everyone is super messy and there is some of the dirtiest smut i’ve written so far (it’s only going to get worse from here). this one is a roller coaster.

It didn't make sense to any of them, how you could've possibly ended up with him. 

Tashi remembered him from Stanford vividly. He came from a white-collared family, with daddy's money that bought him everything he could've ever asked for, yet he still wanted more. He played golf and polo and even dabbled with tennis but never had enough guts or skill to take it seriously. But his dad funded most of the programs and events at the school, so everyone had known him, his charm, his family, and his inability to stick to one thing even outside of sports. He clung onto a new girl every other week, a new girl wrapped around his finger only to be ultimately tossed aside like the rest of them.

"What a dick," Tashi remembered you saying once, stabbing your fork into your salad while glaring daggers at him from across the cafeteria as he bragged loudly to his fan club about how he beat you in a game of tennis. 

Which he didn't. 

You let him win. 

His parents had been paying you to coach him, paid you extra every time you let him win a set or two against you, even if it was off the record. God knows you needed the money.

"I think I'm gonna quit." You said, turning back to glance at Tashi.

"About damn time," she snickered, shaking her head. "I told you you're wasting your time with him when you could be doing something better. Like training with me."

You had rolled your eyes and poked her arm with your fork, "If I'm still trailing after him this time next week, shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery."

Almost thirteen years later, you're walking around with his ring on your finger at your engagement party. A party where your fiancé announced your upcoming retirement after a tennis career run that Tashi would’ve killed for: a six-time US Open winner; two-time gold medalist at the Olympics; and brand deals that would ensure you and the next four generations of your family lived happily under your trust fund.

Clearly, you weren't marrying him for his money.

It made Tashi anxious, because, in some way, she could see that the marriage you will have with your fiancé is far too similar to how Tashi's would have been if she and Patrick stayed together. 

Okay, maybe that was a reach.

Or maybe it's how it would've been if neither of you had gone up to Art and Patrick's hotel room that night. Or maybe it would've been Tashi's ring on your finger instead.

She couldn't shake the bitter taste in her mouth as she watched you laugh with him, your eyes lighting up in the way they always did when you were truly happy. It used to be her who made you smile like that. She remembered the late-night practices, the shared victories, and the quiet moments shared in the comfort of her dorm room. She remembered the promises you both made and dreams of dominating the tennis world together.

But she shouldn't dwell on the past, she shouldn't think about what-ifs. At least that's what Art tells her with a hand on her shoulder. Tashi glances at his hand, noting the wedding band that rests on his finger. The squeeze he gives is meant to be reassuring, but instead, it feels suffocating.

"I'll never know how he bagged her," Patrick tuts from her other side, a drink already in his hand. He holds it close to his mouth, biting the rim of the glass before taking a swig, his eyes never leaving you. His gaze is shameless, tracing the way your dress hugs your curves, how your hair shines under the chandelier lights, and the way your lips move as you speak.

"Lucky, lucky man..." Patrick shakes his head, a bitter edge to his voice.

A waiter passes by, offering hors d'oeuvres, and Patrick takes enough for the three of them for himself, setting his empty glass on the platter. As he stuffs an appetizer in his mouth, he begins to walk away, his eyes fixed on you.

"Where do you think you're going?" Art asks, his hand slipping from Tashi's shoulder.

Patrick spins around, mouth full, and shrugs. "To congratulate the future bride."

Art and Tashi stand there, watching, almost dumbfounded when they see Patrick sneak up behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle and lifting you into the air. You shriek, champagne spilling from your glass, but once you see who it is, a wide smile breaks across your face.

"Patrick!" Tashi can hear you from across the hall. Patrick lifts you again, hoisting you into the air. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he spins you around, your laughter ringing out—a sweet melody that draws the attention of everyone nearby. "You made it!"

Tashi feels a pang of surprise. 

You and Patrick had been in closer contact than she imagined. It stings, a reminder of the distance that had grown between you after her injury, much like the distance that had grown between Art and Patrick. She never knew you had turned to Patrick for comfort. Though it made sense—Patrick was the one you invited, not her, not Art. Patrick was the one who had to ask if he could bring two guests instead of the traditional plus-one. 

But surely, you must have known that if you invited Patrick, Tashi and Art would come too, right? 

Right? 

The question churns a pit of dread in her stomach as Art starts to lead her closer to you out of courtesy.

Patrick's arms are wrapped tightly around your torso, his hand resting too low to be innocent, but you seem happy nonetheless. Happier in Patrick's arms than in the arms of your future husband. You embrace him close, the ring on your finger glimmering under the chandelier lights as you hold onto the back of his neck, your laughter finally subsiding as the spinning stops.

As Tashi and Art approach, the reality of the situation hits her harder. She's watching from the outside, a spectator to your happiness, feeling the sting of what could have been. She forces a smile; your engagement to the worst person in the world can't possibly be the thing that makes her break. Not after everything she's built since she started coaching.

Art tries to catch your eye, offering a polite smile once you let go of Patrick. "Hey."

"Hi," you say breathlessly, a bright smile across your face while Patrick swings his arm over your shoulder. You seem happy, almost relieved that Tashi and Art were here as if you doubted their attendance. "Wow, it's been so long. You guys look great."

"Thanks," Tashi finally says, the words weighing on her tongue like lead.

"You look beautiful," Art tells you, and it's rushed as if he's been trying to keep it to himself but couldn't help it once he was close enough to you.

Before you can get a word out, another arm wraps around your waist, discreetly pushing Patrick away from you to slide into your side. Patrick lets out an annoyed groan, stepping aside as your fiancé squeezes you tightly and says, "She does, doesn't she? Hey, killer."

You turn to him, about to say something, maybe greet him back, maybe introduce him to everyone. But he doesn't let you, he's leaning closer until his lips lock with yours. It takes you by surprise—you flinch at first before finally letting him kiss you properly, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pushing you as close to him as humanly possible.

Art lets out a low, awkward sigh while watching it happen before him, and Patrick rolls his eyes, stepping back in search of a waiter for another drink.

He holds onto you like you're a prize he's won. Almost as if he's been competing with everyone in the world to finally hold you and show you off. As if that's all you had to offer.

You blink, clearly embarrassed, as you clear your throat to disperse the awkward tension in the air. "These are some, uh," you stumble over your words before nodding towards Art, Tashi, and Patrick, "some old friends from college. I'm sure you remember—"

He's interrupting you again, reaching out with the hand that's not on you to shake Tashi's hand. He holds it tightly, his thumb pressing against her wedding ring. "Tashi Duncan, how could I ever forget? Still beautiful as ever."

She has to force herself to smile, for your sake. "Good to see you too—"

"You know," your fiancé starts, cutting her off, "I still remember the time you told me to suck a bag of dicks 'cause I took up your court time. Best day of my life."

"Yeah," Patrick laughs. He's found another glass of champagne to sip on, and it's by his lips when he says, "who doesn't love getting cussed out by Tashi."

You wince. "Patrick—"

"No, no. He's right. It's one out of a million. I took it as a compliement," your fiancé says, glancing at Tashi again, his eyes darting up and down, lingering on her wedding ring once more before she finally pulls her hand out of his grasp. He spots the arm Tashi has been clinging to. "Art Donaldson, I'm a big fan."

Art stiffens as if taken by surprise. "Really?"

Your fiancé is nodding, and when Art glances your way for a split second, he tugs you closer. "You're incredible. Watching you play, it's like, woah! He's killin' it out there. Too bad you've retired though, would've loved to see you play longer."

There's a faint redness to Art's face when he nods. "Oh, thank you."

"I've always wondered if I'd turn out the way you did if I stuck to tennis." Then he laughs, nudging your side. "If only this one put me to work like Tashi did to you, maybe we would've competed in the US Open a few times."

You snort and shake your head, the idea of watching the two of them even standing on the court together amusing you. "You couldn't beat Art if you tried."

Your fiancé shrugs. "Maybe Patrick."

"Stop kidding yourself. You can't even beat your nephew and he's twelve."

He hums, turning so that he'll face you. He holds your waist with both hands, caressing you gently. "You sure know your way into a man's heart, baby," he says lowly before kissing you again. It's rough and messy, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth. You shriek and press your hands against his chest. He doesn't let go immediately, peeking a glance towards the trio while kissing you.

Tashi feels a knot of disgust tightening in her stomach. The audacity of him to touch you like that in front of them, as if he’s marking his territory, sets her blood boiling just a little bit. God, did no one teach this guy any kind of etiquette?

She catches Art's expression out of the corner of her eye—his jaw is clenched as he turns to look away. Patrick's lips curl in a sneer, the glass in his hand trembling slightly. He fights the urge to throw it.

Your fiancé reaches down and gropes your ass over your silky white dress before finally separating from you.

You stand there, looking flushed and embarrassed, letting him whisper something in your ear before he walks off, joining a group of men who whistle and catcall at him as he nears them. Each jeer and hoot feels like a slap to the face.

"Uh, sorry," you apologize, unable to meet their eyes as you blindly wipe at your chin to fix your lipstick. "That was... I don't know what's gotten into him. He's not usually like this. He's, uh... he's great."

Patrick scoffs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, real great."

Tashi can’t help but frown, her heart aching as she watches you fumble. "You can't possibly want to marry him," she wants to say, but the words get stuck in her throat. She can't bear to hear the answer, especially if it's the one she fears.

Art steps forward, his face a careful mask of neutrality. "If you’re happy," he says, but there's an edge to his tone, a challenge. The unspoken words hang heavily in the air: "Are you?"

You nod quickly, too quickly, as if trying to convince yourself as much as them. "Sure, sure. I mean, what’s not to be happy about? His family loves me. I'm retiring this year, and gonna spend more time with my family. Hopefully more time with some old friends?"

"Old friends?" Tashi repeats, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. The casual way you say it, as if years of distance and silence can be bridged with a few meetings, stings more than she cares to admit.

"Yeah, before I get busy with the baby."

"Baby?" Patrick's voice is sharp, almost disbelieving. "You’re pregnant?"

"What? No!" You quickly sputter, shaking your head. Then you pause, a thought crossing your mind and you lighten up a little bit, a hopeful smile gracing your face, "But I do want kids one day. I want three."

"Does he want kids?"

"We've talked about it, but he shuts it down all the time."

"You poor thing." Patrick puffs out, pinching your arm before reaching for your hand and leading you toward the bar. "Let's bring this conversation outside, ladies. I need a smoke. And you all need a drink stronger than his champagne."

The idea of fresh air and a strong drink is appealing. After grabbing a bottle of finely aged wine, the four of you make your way to the garden outside the grand hall. The shift from the stuffy indoor atmosphere to the cool night air is a relief. 

The moonlight casts a silvery glow over the meticulously maintained garden, illuminating the path with a soft, ethereal light. You glow in your pretty white dress, the fabric shimmering as you take a seat on a patch of grass near the rose bushes. The scent of roses mingles with the crisp night air, creating a tranquil yet poignant backdrop. You glance up at the three of them who stand there, watching you.

Tashi raises a brow as you take a long swig of the wine. She didn't remember you to be much of a drinker. 

"It's not that big of a deal," you say, passing her the bottle when she finally sits next to you. 

It's as if her movement had woken the two guys and then Art takes a seat on your other side while Patrick lies down on the grass a few feet away to light a cigarette. 

You pout, "If he doesn't want kids, then we won't have kids."

"But you want kids," Tashi reminds you, but it's more of a question as if she's wondering if that's truly what you want. Don't get her wrong, Tashi loves being a mother, she would kill anyone for Lily, but you wanting kids barely before confirming your retirement threw her off a little bit.

"Of course I do." You hiccup, reaching for the bottle again. "I'm not getting any younger. It's just... he'll come around."

"And if he doesn't?" Art asks, his voice gentle but probing.

"Can we not talk about that right now? I just want to get shitfaced and party."

"Now we're talkin'!" Patrick interjects, his grin wide as he takes a drag from his cigarette. The embers glow briefly in the dark.

"Come on, everybody gather." Patrick flicks his cigarette off to the rocky pathway and snags the bottle from Art's hands. He raises it, nodding at you with that same smirk he's had for years. Snarky, cocky, and yet endearing. "To celebrate new beginnings. Even if your future husband's a dick and can't make you cum nearly half as hard as I can. Good luck, babe."

The rest of you all make a noise of annoyance, rolling your eyes. "Seriously?"

"Shut the fuck up, Patrick," Art scoffs, though there's a faint smile tugging at his lips as you let a giggle slip out past your fake annoyance.

Patrick's smile only widens at the sound of his friends' protests. It reminds him of the good old years when his biggest worry was which shorts he'd wear to his next game. "Cheers!"

As the bottle is passed around, Tashi can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia mixed with bitterness. The comradery of the past clashes painfully with the reality of the present. Is this how things are going to be like now? Is this night a call for a truce, waving the white flag so that all of you could be friends again, now as adults, making plans for brunch and getting the kids together for birthday parties?

You take another sip from the bottle, your gaze drifting towards the moonlit sky. "To new beginnings," you repeat softly, though the hope in your voice is tinged with uncertainty.

Tashi leans back, her eyes lingering on you, a mix of longing and regret pooling in her heart. Art sits quietly beside her, lost in his thoughts, while Patrick’s laughter rings out, masking deeper sentiments beneath his forced cheerfulness. The chatter and music from the hall spill into the garden, the warm lights casting a golden glow over the scene. Patrick talks animatedly about the seasons he thinks he has left in him, and to Tashi's annoyance, you encourage him.

She shakes her head at the way Patrick's eyes light up, glancing at her with a knowing look. Despite her irritation, she can't deny the comfort of slipping back into their old dynamic.

Suddenly, Art hums thoughtfully. He has been mostly quiet, listening to the conversation with occasional quiet laughs. Now, as he puts down the empty bottle of wine, he looks at you, his eyes more alive than they have been in a long time. "I had a burger for the first time in years," he announces, a smile spreading across his face as if he is proud of it.

You gasp, perking up as you reach over to hold his hands. "How was it?"

"Amazing," Art says fondly, "like heaven inside a bun."

"You should've seen him," Tashi smirks, shoulder to shoulder with Patrick, playfully kicking Art. "He was drooling just looking at the menu."

He rolls his eyes, "I wasn't drooling." When you fall silent, he looks at you again, frowning. "You haven't had one in a while, have you?"

You shake your head, "No, I think the last time I had one was when we graduated."

Patrick scoffs, "Bullshit."

You laugh, "It's true! I've been very strict with my diet. And now that I've retired... I don't know..." You shrug, suddenly getting shy as Art starts tracing stars against the back of your hand. "There are so many options, I wouldn't know where to start."

"It doesn't have to be anything fancy," Tashi says.

"Pretty sure I saw an old diner on the way here," Patrick suggests. He stands, stretching and groaning before bending over to take Tashi's hand and help her up.

You sputter, watching them all start to stand before you. "Shut up, we're not driving, you're drunk."

"But sober enough to see how badly you want this," Patrick teases, waving a finger near your face and smirking. "You're drooling."

"No, I'm not!"

"Sure you are," Art joins in, pulling you up to your feet. He swipes a thumb at your chin, "Look right there, by your lip."

"Oh," Tashi grins, "I see it."

"Shut up, Tash, no you don't." The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. The old nickname fits too smoothly as if it hasn't been years since you've called her that. Tashi smiles, feeling like a teenager again, messing around with you. She starts to walk off, Art and Patrick following her while you stand there, dumbfounded and a little breathless from their teasing.

"Where are you going?"

"To get a burger?" Tashi shrugs, and she smirks at you, a mischievous smile that makes you wonder if any of you have ever grown up at all. "You coming or what?"

You try to be reasonable, "I can't just leave."

"We'll bring you back before anyone notices," Patrick bargains, jogging back to your side and taking your arm to lead you to the exit. "Lighten up, when was the last time you had some fun?"

You don't even look back.

You find yourself laughing, nodding as the four of you make your way out of the garden. The moonlight guides your steps, casting long shadows on the path.

The walk is a blur of laughter and shared stories, the kind of carefree joy that you haven't felt in years. Before long, you arrive at the diner. The neon lights buzz softly, casting a nostalgic glow over the parking lot. You can smell the greasy, comforting aroma of burgers and fries even before you step inside.

The few people in the diner stare, watching as what seems to be a runaway bride and three wedding guests stumble and giggle over each other, lips a little purple from the wine you've all had and ordering burgers to go.

Once you have your food, you all find yourselves sitting on the curb of the diner's parking lot, the warm night air wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. Patrick hands out the burgers, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light as he makes a show of presenting yours to you. "First bite in... how many years?"

"Too many," You take the burger with a chuckle, unwrapping it and taking a bite. "Oh my God," you mumble around your mouthful, "this is amazing."

Tashi watches you, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Told you."

Art takes a bite of his own burger, nodding in agreement. "There's nothing like it."

You shake your head, going in for more, "This is the greatest thing I've put in my mouth."

Patrick, already halfway through his, lets out a loud laugh, "Yeah, I bet."

The parking lot felt like a little bubble of the past, untouched by the years that had separated you. It was strange how easy it was to fall back into the rhythm of your old friendships, how natural it felt to banter and laugh as if no time had passed at all.

Tashi rolls her eyes, though you don't even seem phased by Patrick's joke. "I can't even get mad," you say, swallowing, "I feel like I'm eighteen again."

"Tell me about it," Art agrees. Then he pauses for a beat, chewing on her burger a little slower before turning to you. "You know, this reminds me of that time... when, you know."

"Oh," You snort and nod, scrunching up your face at the memory. "Yeah. It kinda does."

"What?" Patrick looks between the two of you, raising his brow in interest. "What time?"

"It was a long time ago," you tell him.

"Like back in Stanford," Art explains, and then he points between Tashi and Patrick with his burger, "when you two were still a thing."

Tashi sits up straight now, her full attention on you and Art. "Oh, really?"

"It was that time Patrick came for a surprise visit in the middle of our girls' night," you say, nodding your head at her, hoping she'd catch up with the memory. "And you kicked me out of your dorm so you and Patrick could... you know."

Tashi nods. "Have some alone time." She finishes for you.

She remembers that night well: you were both nestled in the haven of her dorm room, the soft glow of the television casting gentle shadows on the walls as the movie played on. You were curled up under her covers, your bodies intertwined, legs tangled together in a comforting knot. The world outside ceased to exist in those moments, leaving just the two of you in your little cocoon of comfort.

Tashi can still feel the sensation of your fingers running through her hair, the tender, rhythmic motion soothing her in a way nothing else could. The warmth of your touch lingered on her scalp, your fingers traced lazy patterns, and she remembered the way her body instinctively relaxed into yours.

But then came the knock on the door, and she felt her heart jump at her throat as she swung her legs out from under the covers and padded softly to the door.

When she opened the door, there stood Patrick, his presence almost surreal. He was holding a bouquet of carefully picked-out flowers, their vibrant colours contrasting sharply with the dim light of the hallway. His smirk was both nervous and charming

"You kicked her out?" Patrick gasps, and Tashi gives him a blank stare. He's acting as if he wasn't even there, as if he didn't stand by her desk while watching her scramble to clean up the mess the two of you made in her dorm and shove you out the door before locking it.

Patrick shrugs, that stupid smirk painted on his lips again before he finishes his burger. "Would've let you stay if it were up to me," he tells you, "The more, the merrier."

"No way," you poke your tongue at the inside of your cheek. "She wanted you all for herself."

"Please, I would've been too distracted with you to even give him my time of day," Tashi admits. "I did you a favor, Patrick. Saved you from blue balls."

He holds a hand to his heart. "I'm so honored."

"But anyway," you start, "while I was walking back to my dorm I bumped into Art, who got stood up on a date."

Patrick blinks, turning to Art. "You got stood up?"

"Was it that girl from marketing?" Tashi asks.

Art's cheeks start to turn red, the flush growing from his neck and up to his ears at the attention. "Yeah, she, uh, she bailed on me last minute."

"I remember you telling me the date went well," Patrick says. "That you guys went out late, bought takeout... you made out in your car," Then, to fuck with him, he adds, "You came in your pants 'cause she kissed your neck. Remember?"

"And that did happen," Art confesses begrudgingly, glaring at Patrick while Tashi laughs. "It’s just... it wasn't with her..."

"It... it was me," you admit.

Tashi wishes she could say she's surprised, but it's nearly impossible because anyone who knew you back in college knew very well about the big crush you harboured for a certain blonde. She knew the way you swooned after him, even if you never tried to admit it because it was too embarrassing.

"Wait, so," Tashi starts, poking at your side and drawing a nervous giggle from you. It makes her smile. "Is Art that guy you told me about, with the puppy eyes and pretty smile?"

"Okay," you puff out, blushing, "I did not say puppy eyes."

"You think I have puppy eyes?" Art asks you, his gaze softening.

When you take a few seconds too long to answer, Patrick claps his hands together and swings his arm over yours and Art's shoulders, pulling the two of you closer to him. "Aw," he teasingly coos at the two of you getting all flustered, "you think he has puppy eyes."

"It was so long ago," you say, running your hands over the soft fabric of your dress. "I don't even remember."

"I'm so sure you don't," Patrick hums, a knowing look in his eyes before he presses a sloppy kiss against your cheek.

You groan, shoving your hand in his face to push him off before you stumble to stand on your feet again, wiping your cheek from his spit. "You're disgusting," you huff, but there's no real bite in your words because there's a faint smile threatening to appear at the corners of your lips. 

You stand there for a beat or two, brushing off your dress and feeling the weight of the night settling in. You stare down at the three of them sitting on the curb, the neon lights of the diner buzzing behind you. You can see the hall where your engagement party is from where you stand; you almost don't want to go back.

"Okay," you tuck your lower lip between your teeth as you hesitate, "this... this has been fun."

"Don't leave yet," Tashi says while Art's smile drops, his face falling in disappointment.

"Yeah," Patrick rushes to stand, reaching for you, "the party was just getting started."

"I really have to get back," you step away. "If anyone finds out I left, I'll hear about it for days. This has been great. Like, seriously, I don't think I've ever laughed this hard since before..." You trail off, your tongue getting tied as you glance at Tashi, then at her knee, covered by the length of her dark purple dress. You clear your throat. "Well, uh, I better go. But thank you again, for the beer and the burgers and the memories. I hope you guys can make it to the wedding."

You start to walk away before they can say anything. Like, on purpose, as if you know that if they tried to make you stay and ditch your party, you would. You would cave to their defences.

The sound of your heels is deafening. Tashi watches you go, she watches how you wrap your arms around yourself, and it all feels too similar to how she watched you go all those years ago and never chased after you. 

"Don’t marry him," Tashi stands from the curb. She's shaky on her feet, taking long strides to walk past Patrick and hoping to catch up to you. She sees you freeze in your steps, barely out of the parking lot. You turn to look at her quickly, face falling in shock at her demand.

"What?" Your voice is quiet, hoping that your ears are betraying you.

Tashi slows down once she is close enough, the distance between you is almost nothing but the gap feels like miles. The red and blue lights from the neon sign blend into a deep purple against your skin, casting an ethereal glow that makes this moment feel suspended in time. She watches your face, sees the way your brows knit together, the flicker of anger and confusion in your eyes.

Her heart is pounding, the blood rushing in her ears almost drowning out her voice. But she forces herself to speak, her voice low and urgent. "Don’t marry him," she says again, each word feeling like it's being ripped from her chest. Her resolve, which had held firm all these years, finally crumbles.

Getting Patrick back into her life had been one of the most complicated, tangled pains she had ever undertaken. The late-night calls, the awkward meetings, the painstakingly slow rebuilding of trust between herself and Art. 

None of it had been easy.

Yet, even with Patrick back, there had always been something missing—a void that only you could fill.

She looks into your eyes, her gaze unwavering, despite the tears welling up. "Please," she pleads, her voice breaking. "Please, don't marry him." The words hang heavy in the air, a desperate plea that carries years of longing and regret. She knows that having you back won't make up for the lost time, and won't magically fix all the mistakes and missed opportunities. But she can at least try, can at least fight for the chance to make things right.

"Tashi, you can't possibly be asking me to—"

"It’s not worth it," she tells you anyway, her voice trembling with the weight of unspoken truths. She knows it’s a risk, a gamble she's taking by laying her heart bare, but she can’t hold back any longer. The years of resentment, of silent longing, bubble to the surface, fueled by the sight of you with someone else's ring on your finger. It's a bitter pill to swallow, the realization that she resented you not for leaving, but for never coming back. 

Why didn't you come back?

Tashi's words hang heavy in the air, a desperate plea born from years of unspoken desires and regrets. "Both of you want different things anyway. You don't love him," she continues, her voice raw with emotion, "it's not gonna last. One day you're gonna wake up in the middle of the night and realize I'm right. You'd hate to admit it, but I will be right. I am right. He doesn't deserve you. He's no good for you."

You scoff, "And you are?"

"You said it yourself," she presses on, her voice barely above a whisper, "You've never laughed the way you do with us. And you kept in touch with Patrick, so that's gotta mean something." It's a feeble attempt to grasp at straws. "Marrying him will just be another excuse, another stupid reason. I thought you were better than that."

Then she remembers that night before you left for London, back in 2012. It's like a distant memory now, a flicker of what could have been. The air was thick with anticipation, the tension palpable as you stood on the precipice of something new. She remembers the way your eyes met hers after your exchange with Art at the hotel bar, a brief greeting with an old friend, both of you at the peaks of your careers. It is a silent exchange of longing and regret. For a moment, it felt like time stood still, like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

She remembers the smell of your perfume, the bitterness of the drink you were having and how she could taste it when she kissed you; tongue running over your teeth, nails clawing at skin, hair tangled between fingers, hot breaths and unkept promises and false apologies and a night of regret.

And then the morning came, and with it, you had to leave. And she never stopped you.

"Tashi… I can't just throw this all away for you. For any of you. You were the one who told me to leave."

"I know."

"Because you know everything, right? Because you know he's not good for me, you know it all."

"I know you."

"No, you don’t," you say, your voice tinged with hurt. "Not anymore.”

Tashi huffs, shaking her head before she reaches out, cupping your cheeks gently in her hands. Her lips hover over yours for a moment, a silent plea hanging in the air between you. She waits, her heart pounding in her chest, for you to make a move—to kiss her, to push her away, anything.

You gaze into her eyes, tears glistening in the dim light, before finally closing the distance between you. The kiss is tender, and bittersweet, a culmination of years of unspoken longing and regret. It's a brief moment of solace amid chaos.

Your hands dig into the nape of her neck, where the short ends of her dyed hair tickle the skin of your wrist. The heat of your engagement ring nearly burns her, the edge of the diamond scraping against her skin.

When you pull away, breathless, Tashi fears this will be the last time she will see you. 

"Tashi, this doesn’t change anything," you say, your voice trembling.

"It changes everything," she whispers, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You know it does."

But you step back, breaking the contact, the distance between you growing with each passing moment. "I have to go," you murmur, the weight of the decision heavy on your shoulders. "I need to think."

As you walk away, Tashi watches you go, her heart heavy with uncertainty. She clings to the memory of that fleeting moment, a glimmer of hope in the darkness. 

Back in the hotel room, an uneasy silence settles among the trio. Tashi steps out of the shower, her mind a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. The press of your lips still lingers on her own, a persistent buzz that crawls under her skin. 

As she rubs lotion into her arms, she takes her time, methodically moving over each inch of her skin as if she could somehow rub away the confusion and yearning. She finishes her skincare routine, staring at herself in the mirror, almost meeting the eyes of the eighteen-year-old girl who had her whole life ahead of her. It's a constant chant in her head not to dwell in the past. 

She has to focus—she needs to find a way to pull Patrick Zweig out of the top 200 ranks and get him qualified for the US Open by the time the next season starts.

Speaking of the devil, when Tashi steps out of the bathroom, she finds Patrick lounging on the loveseat by the open window. Naturally, his shirt has found itself a home on the floor, and a cigarette dangles from his lips.

He perks up when she walks out, sitting up to greet her, "Don't beat yourself up."

Tashi rolls her eyes and climbs into the bed, letting herself sink into the soft comforter. "Shut the fuck up, Patrick. And put that shit out."

"I'm just saying," he shrugs, taking one last drag before flicking the cigarette out the window, grinning when he hears Tashi scoff. "She's a stubborn little shit," he says as the hotel door clicks open and Art walks in. Patrick hums, "Probably only marrying him to piss us off anyway. Been trying to talk her out of it for months. Never listens."

"She might listen to Tashi," Art says, turning to his wife with a hint of optimism in his voice. "Lily's asleep, by the way."

"Right, because my word is stronger than both of yours," Tashi retorts, pulling the blanket over her legs.

Art and Patrick glance at each other before nodding, "Yes."

"Well, yeah."

They all sit in silence for a while, each lost in their own little bubble. The hotel room is quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of the bedspread. 

Art joins Tashi on the bed, absently flipping through the channels on the television, the remote clicking softly in his hand. Beside him, Tashi pretends to read a book, her eyes scanning the same sentence over and over again without really absorbing the words. Meanwhile, Patrick rummages through the mini fridge, the sound of bottles clinking and wrappers crinkling breaking the stillness.

A quiet knock on the door makes the three of them freeze, their heads snapping up in unison. They exchange hesitant glances, each wondering if they imagined it. Then three raps against the wood sound again, more insistent this time. Patrick scrambles to the door, Art and Tashi close behind him, their curiosity piqued and their hearts pounding.

Patrick swings the door open, and there you are, a sight for sore eyes. You're still in the same dress, though one of the straps has fallen off your shoulder, and your makeup is smudged around your eyes. You hold your phone close, dropping it from your ear.

"I tried calling," you say, turning your phone so they can see Patrick's contact, a simple 'pat' with a cute tennis ball emoji next to his nickname. "You never answered."

"My phone died." He shrugs.

You let your hand fall to your front, where your fingers pull on each other nervously. Tashi can't help but notice the lack of a ring on your finger all of a sudden. She raises her brows at you, a knowing look flashing across her face before she tells you, "Something's changed."

You roll your eyes and step into the room, sliding between Art and Patrick easily. "A lot has changed." You walk until you reach the middle of the room. 

It's a big hotel room, not nearly as big as the ones Art and Tashi are used to staying in, but big and luxurious nonetheless. You fit in perfectly with your white gown and styled hair, a vision of elegance even in your dishevelled state.

You turn, facing the three of them again. "I hope whatever offer you guys were hinting at earlier still stands... I don't exactly have anywhere else to stay, unless I want to hear my mother telling me how she was right the entire night."

Tashi smirks. "You know I'm about to tell you the same thing too, right?" She closes the space between the two of you, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind your ear. Her nails brush against your jaw in a feather-light touch until her fingers pause below your lips.

"Yeah, I know."

You don't seem too upset about it. Instead, you're grinning, letting Tashi push her thumb between your lips. The gesture is intimate, charged with unspoken emotion. You're standing face-to-face when she says, "I told you so."

She leads you to sit on the bed, and you let her, nearly tripping over your heels before you land on the soft duvets. Tashi leans down, her nose brushing against yours, and you swallow your heart racing.

"You were right," you murmur. It's hard to maintain eye contact when your skin is buzzing with heat and when there's so much going on in the depths of her eyes that it dizzies you. "I hate it, though."

Her nose is cold against yours, a sharp contrast to the warmth of her breath. You let your eyes fall shut as she slowly traces patterns under your chin, pressing her thumb harder into your mouth before pulling it out. She catches the side of your face with it, making a mess with your spit.

She smiles, "I know you do."

Instinctively, and embarrassingly, there's a shiver rolling down your spine.

Tashi releases a small chuckle, and then, after a final moment, her lips fill in the small gap between you both. You sink into it immediately, heart rejoicing as her lips, warm and smooth, explore your own.

It's a little fumbly, nervous and making you tremble under her hands. Tashi loves every second of it. Her fingers grip your face tighter, mouth pressing to yours with more hunger as you wind your fingers into her hair and sigh. Between gasped breaths and soft sounds of enjoyment, she slips her tongue along your lower lip, and so you open your mouth a little wider.

Tashi ends up straddling you, making out like you're both teenagers again, putting on a show for Art and Patrick. The exhilarating butterflies twirling in your stomach match the memories, too. 

You moan softly as she pulls away from your mouth, her attention shifting to your neck. As you watch Patrick and Art make their way to sit next to you on the bed, the bed dipping, you tilt your head to the side and open up your throat to Tashi. You whimper as you feel her lips drag over your exposed skin. She nibbles and sucks until she finds the sensitive part that makes you cry out.

"Fuck," you whimper. You tug on her air-dried curls, coaxing her back up to your lips so you can enjoy the feeling of her mouth on yours. Tashi sighs, and you can feel her smiling into it while beckoning Art and Patrick to join in.

Their lips are on you in a split second, with Art pressing soft, ticklish kisses against your collarbone, and Patrick sliding his tongue from your shoulder to the back of your ear. He's moaning at the taste of you, sucking a bruise under your jaw while digging his hand into the back of your hair. 

He slowly starts to bring his sloppy kisses to your mouth, lips brushing against Tashi's and your own before she draws back. You whine, pouting as you watch her take a few steps away before making herself comfortable in the cushioned seats by a small dining table. You can't pout for too long, because now Patrick is kissing you, tugging softly at your hair until your back arches.

His tongue presses against yours, pressing as far back as he can reach, swallowing your every moan and whimper. You bring your hand up to scratch at his beard, then run your nails over his scalp. This is when Art starts to get a little bolder by running his hands up and down your thighs, pulling and pulling the long skirt of your dress until he reaches the end of it and he can touch your skin and take off your heels, tossing them aside somewhere.

Patrick traps your lower lip between his teeth, watching it bounce back into its place as he leans back just the slightest bit. You break apart with a whimper. Your half-lidded eyes meet his, then flick down to the trail of spit strung between your glistening lips. He stares at you, cheeks a little red as he smirks, "I've missed this. Missed you."

You smile, breathless as Art's hand makes its way up higher and higher and closer to your heat, his mouth is relentless with its attack at your neck. He grinds his crotch against the side of your leg and you cradle the back of his head with your other hand.

"You saw me last week, Patrick."

"Last week?" Art pulls away. His lips are parted, eyes a little dazed but focused enough to stare between you and Patrick in confusion. Tashi smirks from where she sits and shifts in her place.

"We're not all perfect, Art." You groan, rolling your eyes as Patrick laughs, reaching over you to start pulling down Art's pants who shifts in his place to let him. Once they're off, he looks at you, and it's embarrassing how fast you tangle together, melding together into a pathetic heap on the bed for Tashi and Patrick to see. 

Your lips move in tandem, his soft, pouty lips slitting against yours with ease as you lead his hands to your chest and shove them under your dress.

Art squeezes and fondles your breasts over your bra, his hips jerking against your leg again, almost desperate as his boner presses against the fabric of your dress as it has fallen down again.

Tashi startles you as she settles behind, one knee on the bed while her other long leg steadies her on the carpeted floor below. You let her tilt you backward, parting you from Art and she draws you into an upside-down kiss. The salacious kiss leaves your legs parting for the two men beside you. 

Patrick makes quick work of taking that damn dress off of you and you sputter out a pathetic moan when Art's soft hands tease your hardening nipples once Patrick gets half of it off.

Your dress eventually falls into a heap on the floor in front of the bed, you’d matched with it a white paired set underneath. 

"No fucking way," You peek one eye open slightly to see Patrick scowling while Art runs his hands everywhere he can reach, across your stomach, your thighs, under your boobs, down your back. 

Patrick tilts his head and groans, "I can't believe you wore this shit for him."

Your hand cups Tashi's jaw to deepen the kiss as you both ignore Patrick, only Art snorting out a laugh as he tugs his shirt over his head. 

Patrick slots himself between your open legs, stopping just a breath short of your aching cunt to nip teasingly at your soft inner thigh before dragging his mouth up to your neck again. He revels in the moans he's able to draw from you as he finally comes to caress your face. 

You pull away from Tashi and gasp in a breath. "Kiss me, Pat," You bite your lip, feeling your heart race as he eyes you up so openly. 

"Beg me," He counters with a quirked brow, challenging you. 

Your nose crinkles, "I'm not doing that."

"I'm not kissing you, then."

"Shut up and kiss her, Patrick," Tashi groans, attached to Art. She holds his face the same way she did with you, pulling him closer and letting the man crawl to her. But she's glaring at Patrick with venom behind it you know she can’t mean when she's trembling under Art's gentle touch as he slips off her silky nightgown.

"Come here," You beckon Patrick closer with a fiendish look in your half-lidded eyes.

"Yes, ma'am." Patrick nods, dazed as he obliges. "Anything you want, beautiful," His voice slightly slurs as the space between you diminishes once again. "I'll do anything for you," His husky voice drapes around your name like velvet as it's whispered against your plush lips.

Your hands easily find themselves tangled in Patrick's curly hair and tug him to your lips with aching want. You dive in immediately, lips meshing against and, eventually, catching against his chapped lips. 

A moan escapes from your throat and he uses it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. From there, it's another flurry of saliva, tongue and entirely too much white-hot pressure building below. 

When you break for a breath, a string of saliva stretches between each of your red, puffy lips. Patrick groans at the sight and pulls you in for a slower, raw kiss that leaves you slick and trembling for more. When you pull apart again, Patrick plants a sweet kiss on Art's mouth before focusing back solely on you, his hand slowly approaching your white thong.

When he starts to rub, you moan into his mouth and start trailing your hand to his crotch, palming his dick. Patrick reciprocates easily and tugs at your lower lip with an impish look in his eyes. 

Lips attack your neck again, pulling you higher up on the bed. You hear pants and clothes being shed from every angle around you before you're surrounded again, hands everywhere.

While Art pulls Patrick into a kiss, Tashi cups your face again and draws you into a gentle one as you settle between her legs, your back to her chest. You rest your head on Tashi's shoulder as you heave out another breath, her hands travelling from your navel to tracing shapes on your clit, over your wet panties, spreading your legs apart with her own. 

"Please, Tash," you whimper as her fingers curl around the edge of the fabric and tug so it strains against your leaking cunt perfectly. She then decides to skim a whisper of her touch against your pulsing ache. 

You gape as Patrick wraps his hand around Art's dick, stoking it, and he lets out the prettiest little whine. Patrick slowly works his way down Art's body, running his tongue between each curve of his muscles, collecting the sweat that's been building on his skin before wrapping his mouth around him, taking all of it in one insatiable bob of his head.

Tashi's nails tickle lightly up your stomach, then in the valley between your breasts and then back down again. It has you spiralling, arching your back as she presses a kiss at your neck.

"You're being so good," she coos into your ear. Your name is only a breath out of her mouth, and she's edging your clit with a gentle roughness that could only come from a woman of her calibre. Tashi pulls your panties aside and flicks and flits about your dripping cunt like she already knows how to make you come undone.

It makes you tremble. You'd sworn up and down earlier about how Tashi didn't know you anymore, and here she is, proving to you that she still does, that she knows every curve and divot of your body, that she still knows what makes you whimper and twitch.

Your hand quickly reaches behind you, between the heat of your back and her body and finds her clit and you try to emulate how she's making you weak. Each quiet gasp you earn from her has you moaning back tenfold under her saccharine trance and she quickly starts pumping two fingers into you.

One particular flick of Tashi's thumb on your clit coupled with her lips gliding against and sucking your own in a wanton kiss sends you over the edge. You moan and cum, back arching as you relentlessly force Tashi's hand against your cunt, searching for more delicious friction. 

She takes you all, and lets you ride it all out on her fingers while swallowing every moan you let out in a lewd, wet kiss. Art and Patrick moan appreciatively at the two of you, then focus back on each other.

Before you're able to come down from your high, Art's shoving his come down Patrick's greedy throat. He swallows it all, pulling off Art's red-tipped cock with a vulgar pop that creates a trail of saliva in its wake. 

Patrick smiles down at you and leans closer, and you think he's about to kiss you but then he swerves and kisses Tashi instead, who removes her hand from your cunt and slowly works it up his thigh until she cups his balls and gives them a gentle squeeze. He moans into her mouth, winking at you amid his impromptu make-out session you were tempted to join.

You shimmy back and turn on your stomach, positioning yourself between Tashi's long tanned legs. "Can I eat you out?" You ask while kissing up her leg, and you want to hear how much she needs you. You bite at your bottom lip as you nuzzle into her juicy cunt. "Tashi?" You look up at her from where your face is pressed against her. Her sweet smell makes you sigh as you tease your tongue with her hip bone. "Please, Tash, let me taste you." 

"Yeah, go for it," Comes her breathless plea.

You finally pull her lips apart, revelling in how she squirms against your hold on her hips. 

You're on your knees, trapped arching between Tashi's long legs when you hear Art clear his throat. You give one long lick up Tashi's twitching cunt before turning around with her slick dribbling down onto your chin to where Art has sidled up behind you.

Art crawls closer to you, "Can I touch you, beautiful?" He tilts your chin up as he awaits your answer. 

When you nod, he easily descends upon your lips, placing a sure hand behind your head as he deepens the kiss into something absolutely filthy. As soon as you break apart, he kisses your shoulder, then down your spine.

Tashi guides you back to her. You allow her nails to tangle in your locks as she forces your head back down against her arching hips.

"Shit," Patrick huffs, rough hands reaching for the globes of your ass while Art's smoother ones trail up your spread, inner thighs. Tashi tugs at his dick a little harder, which has him panting against her lips.

Tashi gasps as you flick at her clit then quickly move to tease her entrance with the tip of your tongue. You flatten your tongue, dragging it across her length and repeat the motion until she whines for you to stop. 

You slurp the combination of drool and slick as you pull away with a pussy-drunk smile. She meets it with a panting, dazed one and removes her hand from your hair to push her own out of her eyes while Patrick sucks at her neck.

"Ah!" You startle forward into Tashi's tits as Art finally breeches your entrance with his index finger. 

"Eat our girl out, Art," Tashi motions for Art to lie down under your spread form to get a better angle. You can't deny that the new nickname drives you a little crazy. "Show her she's ours."

Art's soft hands draw another moan out of you as they assuredly grip your hips to keep you in place while he unleashes teasing licks against your pussy.

Tashi draws you back to her. You'd know that look anywhere—she's ready to cum.

"I want you," Her breath hitches around your name while your tongue steals the rest of her coherent words until she's a withering mess under your touch. 

Her pornstar-worthy moans ring out across the room like a beautiful symphony. Tashi's wanton noises coupled with the wet whines you're unleashing against her folds until the two of you create the lewdest duet this hotel's ever heard. 

She arches against the bedframe as she tells you her near release, tugging at your hair as she draws closer and closer to the edge.

Panting, she draws you against her lips for a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss. 

"Fuck, Tashi," You groan against her plump lips, feeling your own impending orgasm drawing near. "You're so fucking hot, I-"

She cuts off your rambling with another wet kiss. Her tongue flicks out to tease yours before sucking it into her mouth with a lewd slurp. Your hand works alongside hers to leave her shaking and whimpering against your lips as she comes undone by your hand. You smack her cunt lightly, eating the groan she feeds into your open mouth as she rides it out.

Tashi eats your moans as they echo against your messy tangling of lips and tongues.

Art's fingers start to pick up a pace as Patrick, feeling left out, starts thrusting his throbbing cock in the middle of your sapphic kiss with Tashi. You eye the two with half-lidded eyes as you share Patrick's cock with her. After only a few moments in your mouth, Patrick pulls out and releases across Tashi's and your expectant tongues.

"So fucking good to me," Patrick pants as he splatters the last of his come across your faces with a shaky groan. "Best fucking orgasm ever, swear it," He says as he encases his lips around yours, swapping his cum between your mouths before moving to Tashi to do the same.

Art moves out from under you, offering your knees relief as he lays you back against Tashi's stomach to fuck into you.

It's a slow and cruel pace, only made crueller by how Patrick and Tashi touch you like they already know where you want to be touched. Each brunette takes a side, Patrick sucking your tit into his mouth while Tashi's mouth draws you in for a kiss. Her nails tickle at your other erect nipples until you're arching off of her and into Art's thrusts, making him whimper.

"Just like that," Art whines your name. "You're so fucking tight."

It's when Patrick and Tashi move their attention down to your clit that you know you're fucked. Patrick spreads your folds with two fingers, watching as intensely as Art does as his cock disappears in and out of your hole.

"He could've never made you feel like this, right?" Tashi rasps. "He has no strategy, no real game. Just a fucking waste of space. Could never make you feel this good, this loved."

You don't need her to say his name, you know what she means. You're panting, shaking your head against her shoulder. "Never."

"Told ya," Patrick laughs into your skin. "Make her cum, Art. C'mon, man." 

"Fuck- please," You whimper, nodding. "I need to come, baby-" Without warning, you arch off of Tashi. Neither she nor Patrick stops their jerks against your clit as you gasp, eyes rolling back in your head with the thrum of a second wave creeping up on you with a steady building heat. Waves of pleasure roll over you as the tantalizing sensations become too much. You come loudly, arching pathetically off the bed as you desperately reach for Art, to hold him.

You're wriggling in Tashi and Patrick's arms as Art pulls out and releases across your expanding and retracting stomach as you pant out the remnants of your orgasm. 

"Shit," He moans, and his voice sends waves of aftershock across your body while his steady hands draw you against his naked chest for a toe-curling kiss.

You'd never been happier to have invited Patrick Zweig to your engagement party.

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[tj-crochets]

Got more blood test results, and I no longer need to take B12 supplements!!! This is the first time, ever, in over a decade, that I have been told to stop taking a medication for reasons other than "take a different one instead" or "you are allergic to that"

I'm not iron deficient anymore!!! :D I just got the blood test results back and for once I had a fixable problem and it is fixed*!!!! *well okay my total iron saturation % is still a little low but the rest of my numbers are in the normal range! Even ferritin!! My ferritin levels have almost quadrupled and are now in the normal range!!! :D

[biancabi]

Dick: *Forcing a smile* Being an older brother is a wonderful and surprising thing. You can always find yourself in situations you never thought you would happen!!!

-

Dick: *Freaking out* What was the only thing I said not to do??!!

Duke: *Guilty* Create a cult for the second time.

Dick: AND WHAT WAS WHAT YOU DID???

Duke: ....Create a cult for the second time.

Duke: ....

Duke: In my defense it was completely accidental.

-

Dick: Hey Dami, have you seen-WHAT IS SO???

Damian: Grayson keep your voice down, your screams will alert everyone.

Dick: *Deep breath* Dami, babybat, my little brother. Why is there a giraffe hanging out on your balcony?

Damian: Her name is Macbeth and I think that's obvious, she's too big to come into my room.

Dick: Where did you find a giraffe in damn Gotham???No, don't answer that. Does Bruce know about this??

Damian: No Grayson, you're the first to hear about Macbeth joining the family.

Dick: Okok, This is all Bruce's fault and I refuse to deal with this now.

-

Jason: Hypothetically speaking, how bad would it be if during the patrol I dropped my bombs that explode when touched on the wrong side?

Dick: ....I'm sorry? What?

Jason: Just a hypothetical situation, it doesn't mean he dropped bombs there.

Dick: What the fuck, Jason!? Really What the fuck?!

-

Tim: *With zero hours of sleep and 5 boxes of red bull*. I HAVE DISCOVERED IT!!

Dick: I don't want to ask, god knows nothing good comes of that, but what have you discovered, Timy??

Tim: *Jumping with excitement* I have discovered the identity of the criminal mind we have been investigating.

Dick: I take back what I said, that's good news. Who is it??

Tim: IT'S BRUCE WAYNE!!

Dick: ...

Dick: Did you know?? I said nothing. What made you think it's Bruce Wayne?

Tim: *Fretically moving hands* Just think about it, whenever Bruce Wayne leaves events early there's some big crime or breakup of Arkham, plus he always reappears with suspicious injuries and attributes them to his clumsiness. One part of his money mysteriously disappears from his boxsafe, his segurity is too good to be a theft or mistake, it must be your financing at evil ends and-

Dick: Tim, Don't you forget that Bruce-

Tim: AND YOU HAVEN'T HEARD THE BEST PART.

Dick: What could-

Tim: HIS CHILDREN ARE TRAINED KILLERS AND RUN HIS CRIMINAL EMPIRE.

Dick: *Looking for the sedative and sleeping pills* Are they?? Tell me more.

-

Dick: Everyone should feel the joy -suffering- of being an older brother -it's all Bruce's fault, I must have been an only child-

*Voices of Tim and Damian fighting in the background with Jason cheering them on*

Dick: Above all I love my brothers.

*Sound of breaking glass and Duke's surprised scream*

Dick: *Trying to convince himself* I really, really love them.

*Gliter bomb explosion*

Dick: ....

Dick: *Whispering* I don't get paid enough for this. Damn Bruce.

[shibaraki]

OUT OF MY HEAD, HALF BURSTING ┊ MIDORIYA IZUKU

synopsis: japan’s sweetheart and saviour is in a quirk induced coma. you’re the only one that can bring him back.

tags: GN reader, post canon au, pro hero deku, quirk accidents, fluff + angst, hospitalisation, mutual pining, intimacy, technically doctor/patient but they know each other, friends to lovers, reader has quirk (‘dream walker’), memory/dream sharing, referenced depression, getting together, kissing, cheesy idc idc

wc: 5.2K

In your years wading through patients' memories, you’ve found that people have the most uncanny ability to resign themselves to their fate. You’ve wondered time and time again whether it’s instinctive to ruin things—if humans couldn’t help but stumble and make a mess of the things around them.

You recall that thought process now with a weary sigh, as your eyes skim over the patient's name for the tenth time in as many seconds. Midoriya Izuku.

“Well? Are you gonna do it or not?”

You’ve been staring at the medical file for long enough that an uncomfortable silence has dawned upon your office. Two weeks prior, a villain named Catatonic used her quirk to force Deku into a comatose state, that which he has yet to wake from. Even after the liberal use of quirk inhibitors, countless visits from Eraserhead and the administration of various stimulants, Deku would not stir. Realistically he should’ve roused from the coma naturally as soon as the quirk was cancelled. But he hadn’t, and his doctors can only assume it’s because he can’t, or refuses to.

Thus the case in your lap. A last resort.

“I’ll do it,” you intoned, thumb flicking at the corner of the manila folder. There’s already a deep crease there. The file itself is the heaviest you’ve ever had in your hands. Dense in a way that makes you ache. You and Deku are good friends—the kind of friendship that forms mainly because you frequent the same places. That place in particular being the hospital, except you were there to work, and he was often wandering the hallways listlessly to burn off the dregs of whatever sedatives he’d taken or visiting with patients.

Awkward small talk eventually blossomed into real, fulfilling conversations, and you started to like him, a lot more than you should. You kept the memory of his small, sincere smile close to your chest; nothing like that dazzling grin he wore on duty, it was softer, something private, and you relished being on the receiving end of it.

He was skilled at talking around his injuries. Sometimes if you felt especially bone-weary after a shift you’d be so relieved to see him that you forgot to ask. That sits with you. Deku is a hero. A good one, the best one. He’s brilliant at what he does—keeping people safe, protecting them from harm. In the entirety of his career, it appears he rarely, if ever, turned that care and consideration onto himself. You’re not a licensed therapist, and barely a doctor. Still you contemplate his medical history with a cold sense of regret.

“You realise there’s a large possibility I’ll end up seeing a lot of confidential stuff while I’m in there”.

“Don’t care. S’not like you can tell anyone”.

“I don’t think you understand how invasive this will be. I’ll see personal things. Private things, Bakugo. He won’t be happy”.

“Don’t care. If he doesn’t like it then maybe he should fuckin’ wake up”.

“This might not work, you know,” you finish tiredly.

Bakugo arches his brow at that. Despite the shadows under his eyes there’s no defeated slope to his shoulders, only a fierce scowl. “Either you can do it or you can’t,” he says, voice unsteady as if reeling between rationality and outright aggression. “You’re supposed to be the best at what you do”.

“I am the best at what I do, Bakugo. I can promise you I’ll find him”.

“Then what’s the damn problem?”

The file feels heavier. It feels like a foregone conclusion. You swallow, your throat dry. You don’t bother attempting a smile. You’ve lost the will to maintain your professional veneer.

“I can’t promise he’ll want to come back”.

Dream walker.

At twelve years old you thought it made your quirk sound whimsical, and gentle, and not at all the invasive thing that it actually is. After all, your reach didn’t end only at dreams. You were able to project your consciousness into another’s mind if it pleased you, parse through every memory, ambition, fantasy, trauma and fear, and manipulate them however you liked. Back when your control was non-existent you would drift into people’s heads whenever you slept like some wayward soul and saw far too much far too young.

The need to understand yourself and your quirk is what drove you to studying medicine. Neuropsychology, mainly. You carved meditative techniques into the very recesses of your own brain and learned to keep your consciousness tightly moored but had no real ambition beyond that. After the war and the complete upheaval and reform of hero society, it was difficult to find your place.

Until Okumura Yukiko.

At the small age of eight, Yukiko fell under the effects of a severe nightmare quirk, and despite the quirk being canceled she couldn’t wake up naturally. You had carefully walked through the delicate threads that made up her young mindscape—quirk-infested by formless shadows with knife-sharp teeth and worse, eerie figures that wore the appearance of her father—you found her trembling inside her mothers figmental wardrobe, took her hand, and guided her out.

When you came to she was curled up in the swaddle of your arms, trembling still, but awake. Her timid incantations ring true in your ears even now. Those tiny little thank you, thank you, thank you’s inspired the person you are today. Not quite a doctor, or a therapist. A specialist for special cases.

Something in your gut told you that traipsing into Midoriya Izuku’s mind wouldn’t be simple. That it would permanently change things. This isn’t some stranger, or a patient you’d never cross paths with again. He’s important to you in a way others aren’t.

Your hand hovers over his face, fingertips brushing his temple. You push your fingers into his thick green hair, rich in colour and soft, no knots to catch on your knuckles. His friends have been visiting in shifts, keeping him comfortable and presentable.

Bakugo had managed to keep the Hero Commission at bay for the time being, but if you came back without Midoriya tomorrow there would be far more than one scowling man looming in your office. Though the possibility left a bad taste in your mouth you can admit, in the privacy of your thoughts, that you’ve contemplated prolonging his recovery for the sake of allowing Midoriya rest. There must be something keeping him under, his genuine reluctance or worse; you’ve been reassured repeatedly of All for One’s death and the absence of the previous quirk holders but it’s best to exercise vigilance.

Midoriya does not react, not even a twitch of his nose, but there’s a flutter beneath his eyelids and a sleepy-sweet warmth to him that has you smiling, fond. Tucking your feet around the legs of your chair, you scoot it forward and bend closer, elbows resting on the edge of the hospital bed. “I’m not sure you can hear me in there. Maybe not. But I hope you won’t hate me for this,” you tell him.

Midoriya’s face remains serene as ever—more so than you can remember. It makes you wonder how much pain and discomfort he’s been hiding throughout your interactions. The tension has been sapped from his expression, lashes fanning over his cheeks. You’re close enough to count each individual freckle. Lightly, your thumb taps the space between his brows. “There are a lot of people out here that love you. They’re waiting for you to wake up, so I’ll have to have a look around your head a bit. Okay?”

Nothing. Heartbeat monitor pulsing a healthy rhythm, broad chest rising and falling, Midoriya continues to sleep. You sigh and cast a final glance around the private hospital room. The clock reads 18:22. Outside the window you see a single cloud, wispy as a dandelion, slowly disintegrate across the dusky sky. You make a cradle with your arm, head resting in the crook while you take Midoriya’s hand and try to relax. Anticipation turns in your gut. Years of experience aside, you’ve never really acclimated to the feeling of that first step into another’s subconscious.

Pressure gathers inside your skull as your quirk activates. You inhale a quick, wounded breath at the sensation. Your eyes roll back, vision swallowed by abrupt darkness, and you jerk against the distinct sensation of falling as your stomach roils. You’re overwhelmed by a cacophony of images and sounds—a determination that happiness would come, then moored to the burden of expectation, any optimism muffled under exhaustion and pain, replaced swiftly by a sense of discontent, grief and regret that swelled over time.

And then everything stops.

Your arms feel empty. Your chest feels hungry. You ache with it, the disquieting loneliness. Fog leaks into the memory, surroundings concealed beneath a thick mist. Behind you is a small pond. There’s a notebook soaking in the water. The koi are mouthing curiously at the weathered corners, faint black tendrils of ink curling off the charred pages. Scrawled boldly across the top is ‘Hero Analysis for The Future: No. 13’. Your strikingly young reflection ripples as you plunge your hand in and fish it out, holding it at arm's length as you shake the excess away.

Sufficiently less soaked, you draw the notebook to your front and carefully turn the cover to read the first page. You can feel the slight indentations on the back where a pen has been pressed hard enough to score the words through the page. Written inside, smudged but undeniable, is Midoriya Izuku’s name.

“Uh—excuse me…” a shaky, pitched voice comes from behind you, belonging to a very familiar pair of teary eyes. Midoriya is not just small, he’s scrawny. His hair is longer, unable to decide on which direction it wants to grow, and his middle school uniform is slightly ill-fitting, as though his mother bought it a size bigger for longevity. He ducks into the higher collar to hide his reddened face when you look at him.

The urge to bundle him up and hide him from the world is fierce. The situation is odd, but you offer a smile and his blush worsens. “Is this yours?” you ask, holding up the notebook. You try not to grimace at your own childlike voice. Midoriya nods frantically. His hands flex around the straps of his backpack. Smaller than the broad palms you’re familiar with, neither scarred nor crooked, trembling where they motion to clasp around the notebook. Your fingers brush and he attempts to swallow the yelp that bubbles in his throat.

“Thank you,” he stammers, pressing the notebook flat to his own chest. Midoriya swallows. His gaze never strays from you, growing brighter with each passing second as the idea in his head takes shape.

“Do you go to school here?”

“Oh,” you blink and the shadows have elongated. The pond is now hugging a school building. You recognise it despite never having seen it before. Aldera Junior High. “I don't,” you answer, sounding sorry. He predictably deflates. “I live close by, though!”

Midoriya perks up again. He shifts his weight between each foot. Red faced and unsteady, he quietly asks, “Do you think we could be friends?”

Your mouth slacks a bit, answers dying in your throat. You look down at your hands, palms upturned and unblemished. The dappled sunlight passes through your incorporeal form. Interaction with anything aside from the true patient during your work is incredibly rare though not entirely unfounded; people who daydream in vivid detail or ruminate chronically on old regrets usually had false memories in excess. Their minds seem to naturally meld around your intrusion, but they never went so far as to seamlessly incorporate you. Which can only mean one thing.

You fit because Midoriya has imagined this numerous times before—befriending you as a child.

Before you can respond you’re being dragged abruptly into a memory, the echo of a blinding flash of pain rippling through you. A reflexive gasp has your chest heaving and you curse at your lack of control. There’s barely a shard of light. Behind you is a hard, jagged surface but below is loose, uprooted. Attempts to move are futile, and agonising. You slump into the displaced rubble, silt and icy embrace, and listen. From above there is only a haunting silence but only a few feet ahead you hear muffled crying and Bakugo’s strangely tinny voice.

Your vision adjusts in increments, from pure darkness to a soft outlined blob to a comfortingly familiar silhouette. Midoriya is poised like an Atlantean statue, holding up the creaking structure and keeping it from crushing the young girl cowered in front of him.

Another wave of pain washes over you as the rubble groans. Midoriya bites back a whimper. His body is sinew and bone pulled taut, skin stretched over a drum. Everything seemed to swell dramatically around him.

“We’re almost there, kid. Two minutes,” Bakugo’s voice spills jarringly from the bulky earpiece hugging Midoriya’s ear. “Now look at Deku for me. You lookin’?” the young girl does as he commands. You see her trepidation falter at the easy smile Deku is wearing. “Bet he’s got a big dumb grin on his face right now, yeah?”

“Y—yeah,” she echoes, clutching the dirtied hem of her dress.

“You think he’d be smiling if there was anythin’ to be scared of?”

Her shoulders slant, the tension released, and she offers a tremulous smile of her own, “No”.

But you can feel, quite viscerally, how scared Deku was in that moment. The nauseating pain in his arms has dwindled into numbness and he daren’t spare himself more than the occasional shallow breath, as if the bloating of his lungs alone might disrupt his balance. Not once does his smile falter.

The surroundings warp again. You struggle against the whiplash, flung unwillingly into another memory. Breath forced from your lungs, the echo of Izuku’s pain dissipates in a blink and you land on unsteady feet, coughing and spluttering in the middle of an eclectic café covered in tinsel.

A sign written in cursive above the chalkboard menu reads ‘Mean Mug’. Melodious Christmas music plays quietly overhead, and the bell above the door is soft enough to get lost in the smooth notes. You’re cocooned by heat and met with bold patterned wallpaper. The unifying palette seems to be warm-toned colours; red, orange and brown come together amidst the mismatched decor to create a cosy atmosphere.

A half heartedly disguised Midoriya shuffles awkwardly by the counter, looking up at the door with trepidation every time the bell chimes to signal another customer. He grins once Uravity arrives in a casual disguise of her own, eyes still bright beneath the shadow of his cap.

They order and settle in a quaint alcove away from the windows and any prying eyes. Neither hero notices your presence as you seat yourself at their table and listen to their conversation. There are things you don’t understand. Code words to be used when discussing sensitive matters outside of their agencies. Inside jokes that you weren’t there for. But most curious of all is the knowing look on Uraraka’s face when Midoriya mentions that he saw you at the hospital that day.

“You’re hopeless, Deku-kun,” she says, as fond as she is amused. “What was your excuse this time?”

Midoriya clears his throat. He grips his cup, pressing until his knuckles turn white. It draws your attention to the thin cast splinting his ring and middle fingers together. “I broke my fingers sparring with Kirishima”.

You remember that, though too entrenched in his memory to attempt receding into yours for details.

“So you leapt halfway across the city to have them stuck together despite the fact that your agency has an on-site infirmary,” Uraraka’s hair falls in a gentle swoop beneath her jaw as she laughs. Midoriya shrinks into himself ever so slightly and her eyes soften. She pokes at his forearm. “C’mon Deku—why haven’t you asked yet? Do you really think you’ll get rejected?”

Glancing back and forth between them, your heart beats a tattoo across the inside of your ribs. You feel as if you’ve both missed something quite important and heard too much. You push your chair backwards and fall away from the table, and the memory, before Midoriya can respond.

With renewed determination—and heat rising to your cheeks—you reign in your quirk, steering cautiously through Midoriya’s subconscious mind as you should’ve in the first place. Images flicker in and around your periphery, each as desperate to draw you in as the last.

You see Midoriya crying, bleeding, lashing out in anger. You see him in a sterilised room, lulled by monotonous beeps, flesh stitched back together. You hear the doctor's voices coalesce into white noise. You watch as he’s handed crudely drawn thank you cards, coffee-stained police reports and thick manila envelopes marked as confidential in large red letters.

You turn away as Eraserhead approaches, a solemn expression, a quiet clink accompanying his footsteps, unnaturally heavy to one side, a young girl with silver hair following right behind him.

Your heart leaps to your throat when he screams in agony. You look down. There’s blood running down the street in rivulets, skin coming apart like wet paper.

You close your eyes. Next you risk a glance All Might is there, thinner than ever. He’s sitting in a wheelchair by a large window swaddled in a thick knitted blanket, watching over the city, smiling.

You turn away, feeling a pang of grief. Midoriya is expressionless, examining his battered body in the mirror, condensation still lingering on the glass, tendrils of heat curling upward as the shower drain gurgles.

Then he’s in a dark room bringing a stranger's hand to his mouth, kissing the centre of their palm, drawing the finger into his kiss-bitten mouth and sucking with a hazy gleam in his eyes.

It’s overwhelming. You stumble and suddenly Shouto is eating across from Izuku. He brings his chopsticks to his lips, noodles hung limp between them. “It’s obvious you like each other. You should just confess,” he says before shovelling his food.

Too private. You turn on your heel and find a patient of yours on the bed, unresponsive. Izuku is beside you, muttering under his breath, thumb pressed to the shadow beneath his lip. He reaches back to brush your wrist and offers a tentative touch of reassurance. You watch yourself lean against him for a moment and then retreat, grateful for his consideration, unneeding of it, and desperately wanting it, all at once.

The scene ripples violently. A reporter is staring up at Izuku with sparkling eyes. Her hair cycles through an array of colours as she shakes with excitement. “It’s amazing, Deku-san,” she insists. “For your spirit to be so heroic that it physically steers your body… that’s special!”

Izuku conceded with a strained laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. You feel how his stomach knots. “I used to think so too,” he says, sounding far away.

It’s the middle of the night somewhere when your search finally comes to a halt. You find you’ve landed on an empty street, in that dense, heavy darkness that makes you feel like the only person in the world who’s awake. There’s a tall residential building hugging the pavement. Intuitively, you know this is where Izuku lives.

Your footsteps are made heavy by Izuku’s lingering hurt and exhaustion. It’s disconcerting, the way he feels about his apartment. Coming home should be effortless. People come home in the same way they draw breath. But to Izuku, it's a weary, miserable journey that he must consciously think about and do. His perennial loneliness is overwhelming, a near physical force repelling you from opening the large glass door.

One foot in the lobby and the surroundings undulate. You’re dropped in the middle of his living room. It’s vacant. There’s a large box of case files tucked under the coffee table, an old takeout box left out on the counter, a blanket strewn haphazardly over the couch cushions. You pinch the soft fabric and rub it between your fingers, bringing it to your nose as you’re overcome by the urge to smell it. Izuku’s warm scent floods your senses.

Something thuds outside, followed by a tinkling of keys on a chain. Your blood runs quicker as the front door abruptly opens. Izuku looks harried as he ducks into the genkan, quite visibly frayed. The upper half of his hero suit is unzipped, pushed down to hang over his hips, littered with debris and dry mud. You hold your breath as he kicks off his shoes and lifts his head, meeting your wide-eyed gaze. The air around you is charged. Trepidation prickles at your nape.

Then the shadows over his stormy face recede. Izuku gentles, light returning to his previously empty eyes. “I’m home,” he breathes. “I missed you”. His voice shivers down your spine—you know in your gut that this is him, the real Izuku, but that fact is hard to believe while he’s looking at you like he wants you.

“Welcome home,” you smile back, slipping the blanket around your shoulders as you move toward him. “Hard day at—?”

Your intentions are to sit him down, keep him calm so as not to be ejected, and explain what’s happening, but before you have the chance his larger body crowds you against the wall—the dull impact reverberates through your ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs and he’s kissing you as if it’s something he always does.

Though it’s more of a collision than a kiss. The sensation is indescribable. Information spills into your mouth, your quirk reflexively absorbing his every fantasy, ache and want. Your knees almost buckle. The blanket puddles at your feet. Fingers snake into his thick hair, nails dig into his roots where skin becomes earth as you try to reciprocate his fervour.

Under your tongue you feel the cut on his lip, under your palms the dark swell across his cheek. You shake off the cloud of desire. Too many lines have already been crossed. “Izuku,” you whine. His name comes naturally now; you know him deeply enough. Blunt teeth graze at your jaw, your throat. You lean away for air only to catch a glimpse of another angry ivory-red bruise peeking from beneath his loose collar. “Izuku,” you tried again. Then louder. “Izuku, that’s enough”.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” Izuku rasps as he rears up from the crook of your neck with wide, glassy eyes.

“No—I’m,” your heart beats hard in your ears. Dread sinks low in your belly. “It’s me. I’m really here, Izuku. You’ve been away for too long. I had to use my quirk. We need to wake up”.

“Wake up? You’re… oh,” his eyes grow wider, then shutter closed on a shaky exhale. The cut on his bottom lip has started bleeding again. Rivulets seeped into the cracks between his teeth and stained his gums red. You yearn for the searing heat of his hands as he releases you and staggers backwards to scrub at his face. “Oh my god”.

“Wait. Please don’t throw me out,” you say quickly, reaching to clutch at his wrist in case he panicked. Izuku tenses at the contact only to relax a beat later, his fingers spreading over his eyes so he can get a peek at you. “It took me forever to find you here. There’s a lot of stuff in your head”.

“I won’t. I wouldn’t,” he mumbles. You could collapse in relief. He’s not angry, he’s embarrassed.

“Thank you. I promise I tried not to look at anything too private”. Your mind didn’t make it easy, you think. It was almost like he wanted me to see everything.

Izuku groans and lets his hands drop to his sides in defeat, revealing an entirely pink face. You keep your fingers curled around his wrist, his pulse light and fast. “Okay. I’m okay. We should probably sit down for this,” he eventually croaks, a tremulous smile working its way across his lips. “Drink?”

You pick up the blanket and make your way to the couch while he briefly disappears into the kitchen. Around you the apartment takes on a rosy sheen. A dull clink shudders through the silence as Izuku sets a cup on the coffee table in front of you. It’s your favourite work mug down to the smallest details.

“You remembered this old thing?”

Shaped like a cat, the handle curved in and away like a feline’s tail. It’s piping hot, steam already curling up from it like a crooked finger, like the invitation he meant it to be.

Izuku nodded awkwardly, perched so far forward that it stretched credulity to say he was on the couch at all. He tracks your movements with intensity when you lean to pick up the hot drink. The initial sting to your palms quickly dwindles into numbness as you bring it closer and realise what’s inside. Hot chocolate. The surface sprinkled with those small, cube shaped marshmallows that he likes.

You swallow and feel the warmth spread through your body. A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth as the thick, saccharine flavour floods your senses, washing back the bitterness and thawing your anxiety. You can hear the tension in Izuku’s shoulders snap as he slumps forward, arms hung over his knees and head low in relief. His reaction is oddly vindicating, if not contagious.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asks. “Time is weird here”.

“You’ve been comatose for over two weeks,” you reply. “They tried everything they could before Bakugo insisted on bringing me in. You have a lot of people waiting for you”.

Izuku inhales sharply. He makes an aborted motion to scoot closer before thinking better of it. Your attention strays to the nervous wringing of his battle worn hands. Endeared, you put your mug down and close the distance yourself. Pressed thigh to thigh, you envelop his tightly curled fists, bringing them into your lap. The shaky breath he takes is loud in the otherwise quiet room.

“Honestly I’m surprised you’re still working”.

He looks at you with an unsure, watery smile, sunlight caught in glassy eyes. His voice is thick as he asks, “What do you mean?”

You smile sadly and run your thumb over his knuckles. “You’ve been on patrol. I thought you might’ve locked yourself in your head because you needed a proper break—and who could blame you, really. But you’re working yourself thin even in your dreams”.

Izuku huffed a laugh, more breath than humour. “I love being a hero. It’s what I’ve always wanted,” he says, his voice tight. You sink into his side and feel his diaphragm stutter. “But it isn’t everything. It felt like I was suffocating and I needed something more. Something to come home to for a little while…”

His red-rimmed eyes quickly return to his lap when you meet them. “I still can’t believe you’re here. Your quirk really is incredible”.

You can feel the shame swatting at you like a summer-born heatwave, reminded of just how deeply you’ve invaded his privacy, and how easily you overstepped your bounds.

“I’m so sorry,” he continues, at the same time that you tell him, “I’m sorry, Izuku”.

“Please. Let me go first,” he murmurs like a question. You nod your assent. “I’m sorry I forced myself on you. I thought you were a part of my imagination, like the rest of this place. I should have realised you weren’t. I’m sorry,” he rambles on. “I wanted to be closer to you but I got carried away and I’m sorry”.

“You couldn’t have known. I should have told you it was me as soon as you walked in,” you firmly interject. Izuku doesn’t look any less stricken in your periphery, cheek sunken where he’s gnawing at the flesh. “And you didn’t force anything. I hardly pushed you away,” your brow wrinkles and you smile despite yourself. “I got a little lost in your head, too. Not my most professional moment I admit. But I wouldn’t want to leave either, if we were cuddled up in here all day”.

“Really?” Izuku blinks. Hope colours his cheeks. He clears his throat and shifts in place as he tries very hard to appear unaffected. “You don’t think it’s creepy—me picturing all this with you?”

You think of that young boy yoked with the burden of expectation and feel your heart crack. You can still taste his desires. They’re insipid, belying their age, as though they’d lingered long enough to stale. Izuku treasured his friends and fans', their love and loyalty; yet he felt guilty for allowing them to foster such a blind faith in his goodness. He was a man with faults like any other, capable of making mistakes, of inflicting harm. More than anything Izuku longed for someone to see the darker, uglier corners of his life, and make room for all of him. And you wanted to be the one to do it.

“I’ve imagined this with you. This and more,” bolstered by everything you’ve seen, the confession spills out with startling ease. Your eyes squint above the curve of your grin. “I like you too,” you coaxed his fist open as you spoke, mapping out the carved furrows, shallows and depths on his palm. “A lot”.

“Oh,” he exhales, slowly entangling your fingers.

You give an emphatic nod.

“How mad is Kacchan?”

“Pretty mad. But when is he not?” you laugh at his grimace. “I’ll be there as a buffer when you wake up. It’s my professional opinion that you need a few more days to recuperate and take me out for crêpes. So will you come home with me?”

There’s a gleam in his eyes—a combination of warmth and weight that tugs at your chest. His gaze flickers across your face, from your lips to your eyes in askance. You lean in and he kisses you again, sipping gently at your mouth, firm and slightly sticky with congealed blood. Strange. It feels so real. You suppose it is, in all the ways that matter.

“Okay,” he whispers after one last peck to your lips. You get to your feet as he stands and gestures nervously toward the genkan. “I, uh. I don’t really know how to get out of here so… lead the way?”

You laugh and take him by the hand. “Don’t worry. The way home is always a lot faster. It’s a little disorienting—watch your step,” you warn as he follows you through the front door. Rather than the lobby, or a stairwell, both bodies are swallowed up by darkness.

Spat out just as abruptly, your senses return to you piece by piece. Breathing through the vertigo you peel your eyes open to the rapid rise and fall of Izuku’s chest as he reorients himself. A crick in your neck, a knot in your spine. The clock reads 07:12. There are already nurses bustling around the hospital bed, likely alerted by the frantic heart monitor; that which does little to hide the way Izuku’s pulse stutters when you lift your head to get a look at him.

“I’m up,” he says, throat rough from disuse. There’s a shaky smile on his face. “I’m home”.

Your hands are still entwined, albeit a little sweaty. You smile, “Welcome home”.

[dvrcos]

Aaron may not have an eidetic memory like Andrew does but he has a damn good one and he can remember anything he puts even the smallest amount of effort into remembering.

After everything that happened in Baltimore Aaron starts to note every small possibly important (and unimportant) medical fact about the foxes. And he’s not even totally conscious he’s doing it.

He consciously remembers Andrew and Nicky’s blood types. He knows Nicky’s allergic to penicillin and he knows Andrew doesn’t react well to doctors so it’s best for everyone if he can be administered some kind of sedative right away.

And then he thinks he should probably know this stuff for Kevin, and begrudgingly Neil, because they’re part of his strange little family that Andrew’s created. So he quickly and easily finds this information on them (because he’s a Minyard and he just knows how to find the things he needs to know). So he knows their blood types and he knows Kevin still feels residual pain in his left hand but doesn’t show it and try’s to ignore it. He knows Neil heals annoyingly quick from his all too common injuries but he also knows he aggravates those injuries easily by pushing himself too soon.

But it doesn’t stop there, there’s a small itch in the back of his head driving him to find out the important medical facts about the rest of the foxes. So he allows himself to remember their blood types and allergens and tells himself he needs to know incase of an emergency.

But he also notices that Matt has a high tolerance to pain medication whenever he’s being treated by Abby for an injury during practice or a game. And he notes the one type that works for him and keeps multiple bottles on him and in their room. (It’s also the only type that works for Kevin and works best for Neil so he stocks their room with it too)

And he notices that Allison is a slight germaphobe and applies hand sanitizer anytime she has to touch a public door handle or they go out to eat. So he opens as many doors for her as he can despite the confused look he gives her every time and he just glares right back at her. He keeps an extra mini bottle of hand sanitizer in his backpack for her as well and silently passes it to her when she’s forgotten hers.

He notices Dans chronic knee and lower back pain that Abby is constantly treating and how there’s always a rotating rainbow of colorful KT Tape on her. So he keeps an eye on Abby’s stock of tape and when a color is running low he casually mentions it to her to order more and then walks away.

He notices how Renee always picks at the scabs on her knuckles that result from her sparring with Andrew. He figures the wraps she has are getting old and silently leaves a new pair on the counter the next time he’s in the girls dorm, along with a box of bandaids and a tube of antiseptic ointment. He leaves a matching set of supplies in Andrew’s dorm as well just to be safe.

He doesn’t consciously realize that what he’s doing is protecting and taking care of the Foxes. But the others catch on and smile fondly at him because he’s letting himself care for them and become part of their family.

And the one time Dan mentions what he’s doing for them he looks at her like she’s crazy. He tells himself, and her, that that’s not what he’s doing, he’s just a future doctor and someone needs to take care of these injury prone idiot athletes and no one else besides him and Abby are going to do it right.

Aaron would definitely be so observant and acutely aware of the Foxes physical well beings despite him insisting he doesn’t care and hates them all. But he basically becomes Abby’s right hand man and teams second nurse because it’s good practice for his future and he knows them.

[jujutsukaisenwriting]

Okay you guys, I've come across a few Nanami in Shibuya fics and realized I NEED HEALING. For everyone in need of a happy ending Shibuya - here we go 🫶🏻😭

Nanami has been planning this trip for months and this damned mission couldn’t have happened at the worst time.

“You sure you’ll be back soon?” You sat on the bed with a worried look on your face, large suitcases half-packed on the floor.

Kento approached you and placed a soft, delicate kiss on your lips.

“I promise. Shibuya is not far from our place. As soon as I finish the mission, I’ll be back home and tomorrow, we fly to Malaysia”.

You smiled weakly, not really believing in his words. It was like that before every mission that he took: you were sick worried and he always came back home with some injury. You vividly remembered that one time Kento almost fainted in the hall, pressing hand to his chest, trying to hide a huge stain of blood on his perfectly ironed jacket. You nearly lost it that time and immediately called Satoru and Shoko for help. Kento was watching you running around frantically, a smile full of regret on his pale face, and an ocean of love in his brown eyes.

“My love, I promise”, he sat near you on the bed, pulling you in his arms. “I will be back at night. You won’t even notice me missing”.

“I always do”, you echoed, and his heart clenched. Of course you did.

“I love you”, he gave you one last kiss and stood up, picking up his blunt sword and putting on a jacket.

“Love you more”, you whispered, tears creeping to the corners of your eyes.

You never cried in front of him. But he damn well knew you would once he leaves home.

*** ***

A phone call thundered in the silence of the bedroom and you jerked up in bed, looking around groggily. You didn’t even notice how you fell asleep: exhaustion and stress finally took you down. Now, your phone was buzzing non-stop in a disturbing manner, the usual sound seeming strangely wrong.

With your hands shaking, you took the phone, seeing the “Satoru” name on the screen. “The hell…”

“Hi? Toru?”

“Goodness, you picked up! Listen, love”, Gojo was speaking in an unusually anxious manner. “Can you come to Jujutsu Tech now? To Shoko’s office?”

“What’s with Ken?!” Your fingers became icy cold and you felt your heart skipping a beat.

Gojo went silent for a moment and sighed, his tone serius and deep.

“Just…please just go there. And please be there for him. Please. I will join you as soon as I’m done here”.

He hang up abruptly, leaving you alone with the terror that started creeping in your body. You didn’t remember how you got dressed or how you caught a taxi and you didn’t remember the taxi driver asking what’s wrong. With shaky hands, you tried reaching Kento again and again but he never answered. Yuji didn’t pick up too and neither did Yuji.

“What the hell is happening in Shibuya?!” you screamed helplessly, and the driver turned but you didn’t give a damn. Nothing mattered right now. Only Kento did.

The taxi stopped in front of the gates and you rushed to Shoko’s office, involuntarily noticing how quiet the usually loud building is. It’s as if everyone just…disappeared.

“Disappeared in Shibuya”, the thought appeared out of nowhere and you shivered.

Shoko’s office greeted you with its usual bright lights, a bit blinding after dim hallways of the college. Shoko was standing with her back to the door, and by her sharp anxious movements you figured she was working on a complex case.

A complex case which happened to be…

“Ken?!”

Shoko flinched but didn’t move, as if trying to fence Nanami from your sight. At the same time, you heard him groaning:

“No baby, please… Go away…”

“The hell?!”

Before you managed to approach them, Shoko turned rapidly, still fencing Kento from your sight.

“Listen, you gotta know… He… doesn’t look exactly the same, okay?” She said with almost a challenge in her voice. “Just stay cool. If needed, I have a sedative right here”.

You didn’t understand the hell she was trying to say. She was talking about Nanami Kento, your one and only husband, the person whom you loved the most in the world. Why would you need a sedative?

“Move”, you shot an icy glare at her and Shoko hesitantly stepped away.

“I warned ya”.

You were about to ask what was that she warned you about and then… you saw it.

Half of Kento’s body was burnt to almost a crisp, a hole in the place of his left eye and horrible burns and scars all over the body. His left hand was hanging limp, his remaining eye studying your face closely, tears filling it and blurring his vision.

“I’m so sorry”, he croaked. “I’m so sorry. You can go now. It’s okay. I… I will file for divorce as soon as I recover a bit. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my promise. You can go on a trip… alone…I…”

His voice broke with tears and in a heartbeat, you were there, sitting on the bed and hugging him, your face buried in his chest. He lifted his hand bumpily, placing it on your hair, his chest trembling with suppressed tears.

“Say something”, he begged. “Anything”.

“I love you so much, Ken”, you whispered, your tears burning hot against his pained skin. “And stop saying all that idiotic nonsense. I love you. I love you more than ever”. 

He tried to hug you with his right hand, his lips curved as he was fighting back all the pain and tears that were suffocating him.

“Malaysia is so happening”, you whispered quickly, as if you were scared that if you stopped talking for a moment, he’d slip back in the abyss of terror in his head. “We’ll take a suitcase full of your damn books. We will walk on the beach every day. We will rent a house on a secluded beach. Kuantan, right? All this is happening, Ken. I will never leave you”.

He just hugged you tighter, tears streaming down his face.

“Maybe we’ll take Yuji with us”.

You nodded, your own tears burning your cheeks.

“And Ino, too. Whatever you want, Ken. But I will never let you get away from me”.

And for the first time in his twenty seven years, Nanami Kento realized how tears of happiness felt, dissolving the horrors of Shibuya and the past years of watching his friends sacrifice themselves for the sake of others.

“I love you”, he said simply, and back then, the whole world wouldn’t fit in these three words that he intended to tell you for the rest of his life.

[yandereworlds]

Care to share some fun facts about Dr. Laurence? *wink wonk* he's such an interesting character and I'd like to know more about him ^^

DR. LAURENCE HEADCANONS!

Dr. Laurence - he's damn good at what he does, no two ways about it. But he's the kind of guy who's got a deck full of cards but only shows you the top two. He's all about strategy, always one step ahead. Not to mention he's got that charisma thing down pat which lets him spin any tale in his favor. 

It goes without saying that due to his medical expertise, Dr. Laurence knows the human body inside and out, including the points of vulnerability. Armed with this knowledge, he doesn't rule out using it on his S/O if situations demand it, but only as a final resort when it comes to neutralizing them. Although he's not a fan of resorting to such measures, he also doesn't hesitate if the situation calls for it.

Dr. Laurence is the type to become easily tongue-tied around his partner. Merely sharing a room with his loved one can get him all rosy-cheeked, with a whirlwind of thoughts sweeping through his mind. He manages to maintain a cool exterior, but internally, he's definitely over the moon!

One thing Dr. Laurence truly enjoys is taking care of his partner's health. While others might consider medical checkup routine, for him, it's an opportunity to share a special, intimate moment with his S/O. Holding them intimately, running checks and tests, these moments are precious to him. Needless to say, the health and well-being of his beloved always top his list of priorities.

Dr. Laurence has a bit of a peculiar habit - he likes to keep mementos of his S/O, sometimes without their knowledge. It could be anything - strands of hair, misplaced eyelashes, or even pieces of clothing. And that hospital gown you wore that one time? He found it irresistible, so he had to keep it. Of course, he stashes these items safely away in a private spot. On the off chance, someone stumbles upon his collection, he swiftly brushes it off as 'random clutter,' but never lets anyone discard it. He'd even go the extra mile figuring out better ways to keep them hidden, and might even bring them home. Is it creepy? Definitely. Does he care? Not really.

Dr. Laurence truly cares about you - so much so that he won't stand by if he sees you neglecting your well-being, even to the point of stepping in forcefully if necessary. If you're refusing to eat, he won't think twice about resorting to a feeding syringe to ensure you're nourished, he'd personally see to it that you maintain your hygiene or even go as far as drugging your food to make you rest if you're overdoing it. Right or wrong, in his eyes, it's unthinkable to watch his darling deteriorating from neglect. So, in his mind, why not step in and do the caring for them?

Dr. Laurence will ensure that your family remains oblivious to your actual situation. He'll spin a tale, something about you being afflicted with a severe illness that demands a long hospital stay and no visitors, lest you spill the truth. But that wouldn't keep your family from sending things your way - stuffed toys, heartfelt cards, fresh flowers. This would irritate him to no end. Why were they showering his darling with such tokens? As if you needed anything else when you had him, right? Despite his frustration, he won't discard these gifts. Instead, he devises a scheme to pass these presents off as his own. So, he replaces their notes with his name, playing the doting partner at every opportunity. "Look, Y/N, I thought this teddy might keep you company." He'd assure your family that their tokens are being received well, all while hijacking their efforts for his own credit.

Dr. Laurence may have good intentions (sometimes), but he's far from flawless. There are moments when his partner's words and actions can really throw him off. Despite being a master at maintaining a pleasant facade, even he has his brink. When pushed too far, his recourse could be as extreme as keeping his S/O sedated for an entire week. Each time you regain consciousness, you'd find that all too familiar syringe stuck in your arm with Dr. Laurence's regretful words, "I never wanted this, Y/N... Maybe rest is what you need." This approach takes a toll on him, too. Missing the sight of your expressive eyes and the sound of your voice? It eats him up inside. But he feels it's a necessary lesson to instill. He sees it as the only way out.

All Dr. Laurence can wish for is that someday, you'll acknowledge that all he's done stems from his profound love for you. You'll get it, won't you? Then both of you can finally find happiness. That's his ultimate wish, no matter what the repercussions might be.

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[darkdevasofdestruction]

Letters Unsung ~ Arthur Shelby x Fiancee!Reader

Summary: Since the very beginning of the First World War, Arthur’s Fiancee managed to get an unpaid job at UK’s radio station podcast so that she may daily speak a few encouraging words for the soldiers, and in turn, to her beloved Arthur Shelby.

“Must you really go, my darling?” Arthur heard the love of his life plead for him in such a sweet, mellow voice; If only he could, he would throw away his family, his country and everything to ever exist, just to find a safe place to hide with his darling Y/N. Alas, in a mondial war involving every country known to mankind, there was no place to hide. 

Fear and anxiety wasn’t a world in which he wanted Y/N to live in. She was too good for this dark, bleak world; Even as cannon fodder, if he could benefit the war and keep the country safe - Keep Y/N safe - he would gladly go.

“Mighty sorry, my love, but y’know better than I do that I gotta. Old enough to be in my damn prime - ‘Em muscles hadn’t built by ‘emselves, y’know? You always said I looked damn fine all naked - Well, Gov’s thinkin’ the same. Strong ‘nuff to carry a gun, strong ‘nuff to die for ‘em.” he rambled idly, lighting up a cigarette, puffing in the air, then squishing it in the ash tray. Y/N hated smoking. She always said she wouldn’t kiss him if his breath stank like tar. “Tommy ‘n’ John... They’re both so young. Can’t have ‘em go die without their old bro trying to protect ‘em.” he looked at his girl - She was trying so hard not to break down into sobs again. For the past days she’d been crying non-stop. She was unconsolable, and not even he could comfort her - Hell, he was terrified out of his mind, the thought of never seeing her again was killing him... “C’mon, doll, you’re too pretty to cry so much. Save ‘em tear for when i get back home, and you jump in my arms, and I twirl you around like the pretty angel you are.”

“B-But... Artie...” her words were stammered and hardly comprehensible; All she did was cuddle into his side and cry. If only she could water the plants with that wasted water, Polly said at some point, yet she was just as terrified for her children as Y/N was. John was barely 18, there was no way he’d make it through! “I can’t live without you. There is no life without you. I’ll die without you!” 

“Aww, darlin’...” she was so loving and genuine... What the hell was he supposed to do; He will be crying himself to sleep every night in the field, thinking that he left her all alone. “My sweet angel.” he held her tightly, stroking her hair and kissing her. “You’re my most precious treasure, Y/N. For you, I’ll do anything in my power to get back as fast as possible and wife you. We’ll have a pretty garden wedding - In Spring, with the pretty flowers - You always told me how you like ‘em pretty flowers. Heard there’s this place with a... A gazebo, next to this forest out of Birmingham; Ain’t no way Imma have you be a pretty bride in this grey shit hole of a city.”

“Promise you’ll come back to me?” Arthur gingerly took her hand and kissed her fingers.

“I promise on this ring that I gotchu that I’ll be back to keep my vows to you.”

The next morning, Y/N was robbed of a final goodbye, though it was more of a blessing in disguise than anything. Arthur spared her the despair she’d have had to endure, seeing him board that freaking train and leave the station, like lamb to the slaughter. By the time Y/N had woken up, Polly and Ada were around her. Polly had suggested the eldest Shelby brother that Y/N was too emotionally devastated and would be unable to go through that experience - Hence why she came up with the idea of placing a few sedatives in her sweet calming tea, which ensured a long and peaceful sleep.

Y/N was completely lost - Without Arthur, she had no idea what to do with her life; She couldn’t grieve and cry 24/7, that was unnatural, and her fiance wouldn’t want that of her, surely. She would have gladly enrolled as a nurse on the field, but not only did Arthur completely forbid her to do such a feat, she was also denied by the military - She was a certified doctress, she couldn’t be a combat doctor with no military training - Thus, she kept her work as a doctor in the Birmingham hospital.

Many months on end passed, and many more letters she sent, but received none. The radio was on, awaiting the war broadcast and praying that she wouldn’t hear the name of “Shelby” ever, until the war was over. Still, listening to the radio wasn’t enough. Anxiously awaiting for the police to come to her doorstep to tell her Arthur died, also, wasn’t good. Sure, she had Polly and Ada by her side, and she was always busy at work treating people, prepping for surgeries...

There had to be something she could do. Something that would benefit the people remaining in the country to defend the land... Something to sooth the soldiers facing the death door every second, awake and asleep.

And she had just the idea, the money, and the influence.

Y/N walked right through the doors of the radio station and explained to the chief her idea; Surely everyone knew how beneficial battlefield morale was for the troops - Hearing good words from home was sure to up their battle prowess tenfold. The old man himself had three sons send to France, of course he knew better than anyone how none of his wife’s letters reached them. Hell, he had no idea if either of them was still alive after four months out there.

And thus, the very first podcast was recorded, live, in the studio. Y/N’s voice was wavery and uncertain - She was awful at social interactions, hence why she clinged so much to Arthur and sought his comfort. Still, he was out there, bravely fighting to protect her - The least she could do was to speak a few words into a microphone.

“Good afternoon, brave soldiers. I am Y/N Shelby speaking, for the ‘Echoes of Hope’ broadcast.” what was she supposed to do now? The people were listening to her! “We have come up with this idea of creating a podcast to speak more directly to you - Only God knows if any of the thousands of letters sent have been received by you - So, a more direct approach had to be taken.” she took a deep breath to muster some strength. Think of Arthur and the soldiers. “I am speaking from the heart of Birmingham, sending warmth and courage across the airwaves, hoping it would reach at least one of you, brave men, fighting to protect your families and home.” she licked her lips, forcing herself to continue speaking. “Today, and tomorrow, and in every day that keeps us apart, as you brave the frontlines, know that we, back home, hold you in our thoughts and prayers.” a stray tear found itself caressing her soft cheek where one was held by Arthur’s rough hand. “And... To my beloved Artie... If you can hear me, know that each word I speak carries a piece of my heart. Stay strong, my love, for your strength is our beacon of hope in this colourless place.”

As she turned off the broadcast button, she took off the headset and stepped away from the microphone. The old man stepped in front of her and patted her hair, seeing the girl cry.

“Oh, I messed up big time! Forgive me, I completely ruined this thing... Oh, I am awful, awful at speaking to people! I-I thought that, without a person in front of me, it would be easier -- But I messed it up so badly!” the poor girl whined, though comforted by the man.

“I wouldn’t say you butchered it, love, I’d say the people out there fighting for our homeland just heard the voice of all of us, fighting our own battles yet staying strong to support and cheer on them also.” he patted her shoulders to straighten up. “Life is difficult with this poverty, yet we make meets end and figure things out so that we can welcome them back in a safe home that lack nothing. Lord knows, they will need all the comfort and support they can get, poor children... If only I wasn’t so old and a cripple, I would be out there to protect my boys.” the old man shed a tear. “Y/N, come back tomorrow at the same time and continue speaking to them. Only they know, your voice might just be their salvation.”

And thus became the routine of Y/N Shelby, every day in the evening after her hospital shift was over, she would pass by the radio station and begin speaking her heart out for the soldiers spread throughout Lord knows how many countries.

“Good evening once again to the brave men fighting for our home. It is Y/N Shelby again, and I bring you words of encouragement from the women of England.” this time, she was smiling; She looked at the old man next to her and felt enboldened to continue. “Each day we await your safe and hasteful return, and each night we whisper our hopes into the silence, hoping that our prays will protect you.” she really should write a script instead of free-styling it. “Arthur, my dearest, your courage inspires me. Remember, as you face the trials of war, that our love is your shield, and my voice is your guide back home. Please, never lose track of your path back into my arms.”

The old man smiled, moved by the girl’s words, and encouraged her to come the next day also; It was bound to create a routine for all the soldiers to listen to the prayers and words of courage and morale from the Angel of Birmingham.

“Hello, everyone - I assume you can recognise my voice by now.” she sounded much giddier than usual. “I am overjoyed to say that, after 11 months, I have finally received a letter from my beloved Artie!” she chimed, trying to keep composed. “He told me in the sweetest words how much he loves me - And how he wants us to have the prettiest wedding ever; In Spring, and filled with flowers, just how I love it.” she continued, overjoyed. “These words of love - All of Arthur’s feelings for me - I know each and every one of you feels the same for the loved ones waiting impatiently for you at home; So, for once, I will transmit your words to those waiting for you here, in Britain.” she cleared her throat. “For every mother, father, aunt and uncle, brother or sister... For grandparents, children, wives and husbands and friends also - For every living being here, in Britain, waiting for your beloved to return home, safe and sound - Just know that your letters have been received, and so have all of your love and good intentions. They are thinking of you, the very same way - So keep on hoping and praying, and know they are heard and working. Your loved ones need it.”

A whole year passed, and many more were going to follow; Emboldened by the fantastic idea of the podcast, more and more women, children and elderly decided to join the production, each of them passing along their message to those on the battlefield, read live by Y/N.

“As the war rages on, it becomes harder to find the right words. I have come to speak to you every day, for a year and a half - And I dearly hope none of you have gotten bored of my voice yet.” she chuckled softly. “I know that you, Arthur, and all the soldiers, need to hear that we believe in you. You are not forgotten, not for a moment.” she went on. “My dearest Arthur, hold on to our memories, for they are the thread that will guide you back to me. England’s women stand with you, every step of the way.” she took one letter in her hand. “But today it’s not only about you and how much I love you, Artie. From today on, I am going to read for you the letters that may have never been received by you.” she cleared her throat. “This letter is written by young Jimmy, a charming 5 year old lad who wants to write to his grandpa, Captain Andrew Brown. < Dear Grandpa Andy, mommy taught me how to write, and I wanted you to be the first to see me writing. I never met my daddy, but for me, you are my daddy. I hope you return home soon; I want to play horsie again - And you promised to teach me how to play football when I grow old. I’m a big boy now, I help mommy carry yucky veggies at home - And I eat everything from my plate. Mommy said you’ll come home faster if I study well and get good grades, so I’ll do my best! I love you, papi! > “

The old man was moved to tears; He was imagining his own grandson crying for him. A single mother, whose only support is an old man gone to war. Life truly was unfair.  In spite of that, the letters read on the podcast began rapidly to gain traction; Every person out there had something to say to someone on the battlefield.

“Today, the news brought a glimmer of hope. Arthur, your bravery has not gone unnoticed. I heard of your close call, and my heart ached with fear and relief. You  are my hero, and I send you all my love and strength. To all soldiers, know that each of you is a hero in someone’s heart. Hold fast, for victory is within sight.” she held a letter in her hand, ready to read it. “This time, we have a letter from Mr. Daniel Masters, wanting to share his wholesome words with his wife, Mrs. Angela Masters, who selflessly volunteered as a nurse on the battlefield, and was deployed in Verdun.” she began reading the letter. “ < My darling Angie, you are an angel on this earth. Not only did you volunteer to go out there, in the middle of the war, to save me, a useless cripple, from dying there, but you are saving other men with your fantastic knowledge and skills in medicine. I and my sister are working hard so that when you return, we can have the wedding of your dreams. And don’t worry about little Susie, she’s in perfect health and asking about her mommy every day. She started braiding her hair like you, saying she wants to be pretty like mommy - And what do you know, she found your stack of medicine books under the bed and began asking me to explain those long words - I have no idea what those words mean, I can’t even pronounce them. I hope you’ll come home soon, my angel. We miss you very much, and we love you endlessly. > “

Thus four years passed, day after day, with Y/N passing on the words of Britain, yearning for Her children to return home. At some point, even Ada sent a message for Freddy, reminding him of their childhood love - And Polly wanted to tell the brothers that they have to be strong and return back no matter what.

Finally, it was the fated day - The Government announced the soldiers of Birmingham arriving by train, at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. The station was a sea of anticipation and anxiety, filled to the brim, overcrowded by people of all kinds and ages. Y/N stood amidst the crowd, her heart pounding as she scanned the faces, hoping to catch a glimpse of Arthur. The air was filled with the sounds of families reuniting, joyful cries mingling with the tears of those who had waited so long for this moment.

Children clung to their mothers yelling a collective ‘Daddy’, elderly parents searched for their sons, and wives stood on tiptoes, straining to see over the throng of people. Y/N felt a mix of hope and fear, her eyes darting from one soldier to another, desperately searching for the one face she longed to see. The same uniforms everywhere, but no sign of her beloved.

As more soldiers stepped off the train, the crowd surged forward, and Y/N was jostled, her view obscured by the pressing bodies. Panic began to set in. What if Arthur wasn't on this train? What if something had happened in the final days? Her heart raced, and she felt a lump forming in her throat. She didn’t want the only keepsakes to be the letters he sent her during war; That makes for a most tragic memento.

"Artie!" she called out, her voice lost in the cacophony of the station. “Artie, angel, where are you?!” she continued shouting, but her soft voice was drowned out by the other people calling for their loved ones.

Minutes felt like hours as she stood there, her eyes scanning the thinning crowd. She felt lost, a wave of despair washing over her as the platform began to empty. Just as she was about to break down, fall on her knees and succumb to her grief, a figure appeared through the remaining haze of steam and people.

Arthur.

He was thinner than she remembered, his face gaunt and eyes hollowed by the horrors of war. His disheveled uniform hung loosely on his frame, and he moved with a weary slowness. But when his eyes met hers, a spark of recognition and relief lit up his face.

"Y/N." he breathed, his voice hoarse and tired.

At first, her mind blanked, and her legs became jelly, shaking like two flowers in the wind - It took Arthur smiling and calling her name again, to regain autonomy over her body. She ran to him, tears streaming down her face as she threw her arms around him. The world seemed to stop as they held each other, the pain of their long separation melting away in the warmth of their embrace. Arthur clung to her as if she were the lifeline that had pulled him through the darkest days - And just as promised, he twirled her around. Y/N, his angel, was back where she had to be - In his arms.

"You came back." she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “You really, really came back. You’re here, in the flesh, alive and breathing, and living -- I’m not dreaming, I’m not imagining - I’m not dead, am I?” she pulled back, cupping his face and looking him in those gorgeous doe-eyes of his. So gentle and so loving. “You are real, aren’t you? You came back to me.”

"I promised you, didn't I?" he replied, a faint smile touching his lips despite the exhaustion etched into his features. “I promised I’d come back and marry you. No man would be crazy enough not to return home to an angel like you.”

They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms, the noise and chaos of the station fading into the background. Arthur was home, and that was all that mattered. It wasn’t sure whether it was Y/N comforting Arthur after 4 years of horror experienced, or Arthur was pacifying his poor cry-baby darling; Yet one thing was sure - They were where they were supposed to be.

"I'm so proud of you." Y/N said softly, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes, before peppering him with kisses all over his face. "You made it through, Arthur. You're here. My hero. You are my hero, Artie. Our hero. You saved us."

He nodded, his gaze steady but shadowed by the memories of what he'd endured. "It's over now. No more about what happened - I don’t wanna hear about it anymore.” he shook his head, holding onto her tightly. “I am home."

As they walked away from the station, hand in hand, Y/N felt a sense of peace settling over her, yet she was still shaken - She was clinging onto her beloved like a baby koala, afraid of losing him, like an oasis mirage. They had both been through so much, but now they could face the future together. The road ahead would not be easy, but with Arthur by her side, she knew they could overcome anything.

The war had taken its toll on them, but their love had endured. The Shelby family was entirely reunited, and trying to heal from the festering wounds created by the four year massacre. Life will never be the same, but they had to learn how to live again, and adjust to a whole new world that was in constant development - A fast world that was waiting for no one, especially not for veterans and their grief.

Each member of the family was affected differently; John became rebellious, Ada was going through a desperate need for affection from Freddy, Polly became dissolute and cynical, Tommy was no longer the adventurous young man who was Y/N’s partner in crime, but a most apathetic and lethargic man, Arthur became aggressively violent and would lose his mind every time he heard a loud noise resembling guns or bombs, and Y/N had to learn how to stop her nightmares and live without worrying her husband would disappear and it would all just be a delusion.

Either way, only one thing mattered for Y/N.

Arthur was home.

[its-a-me-mango]

i dont like mr puzzy but, im really hoping that he becomes a good villain again cus hes a coward and no one likes him cus he eats diahrea from horses <33. anyway what i want him to do is that he manipulates leggy or meggy into making SMG4 also become a puppet so there is two protagonist cus i hate SMG4, bro should become a villain wheres my spooky boo baby boo. sob... AHEM i feel like he can become a protagnonist again BECAUSE HE WAS A CUTE BABY SHOW MAN CIRCUS KINDA GUY IN THE WEBSITE YKNOW?? I HAVE A FEELINGG!!! I HAVE A FEELING!!!!!!!!!!!! HSHAHAHHAHHAHHJKADHJKAGUAUAHDJQHFUGOUAHGOWRUAÖIEUHJEIORHORJGEIO, also mango you are stinky artist number dos (two) because i said so and i said the same thing to coralalöalalaalalexplode64 except shes the number uno <333 sensn

seding sed ... sending loaf <333!!!! i mean love wai-

I think my brain imploded and regenerated all at once from this, what in the god damn are you yapping about! :3

[tipsynight0]

Muddied paths

pairing - jeff x female reader ft smile

Word count - 600

Synopsis - jeff and (y/n) take smile for a bath

Authors note - ah thank you for all the love on my writing <3 I was literally inspired to write this for 2 reasons the first being I had to give my bull dog a bath today, and I always walk by a water fall at work. Enjoy <33

Slick mud clung to the ground as Jeff’s and (Y/N)’s ratty sneakers sank into the earth, following the familiar path through the woods. The storm had only passed an hour earlier, leaving behind a crisp chill in the air, and Smile, their hellhound, had howled relentlessly until they caved to his demand for a walk. It was more than just for the dog, though—Jeff needed these moments, a break from the chaos that defined his life, even if he’d never admit it.

Jeff’s hand wrapped around (Y/N)’s, their fingers hidden inside the sleeve of his sweater. The steady sound of their steps and the distant rumble of the waterfall approaching brought a rare peace to him, a fragile kind that barely lasted, but he clung to it nonetheless. The air was heavy with the dampness of rain, the smell of wet earth filling their lungs.

Lost in thought, Jeff stared down at his muddied sneakers, grateful for the quiet. This path, these mundane moments, were their escape. Smile sprinted ahead, splashing into the shallow, muddy water beneath the waterfall. A heavy sigh escaped Jeff's lips as he locked eyes with (Y/N), who gave him a knowing smile.

“He’s going to need a bath,” Jeff grumbled, watching the dog shake droplets everywhere.

(Y/N) chuckled, her laugh cutting through the quiet like sunlight after a storm. “Yeah, and that’s all on you.”

Jeff snorted but didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled her closer, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of her ear, before letting his lips graze her skin with a teasing nip. (Y/N) shivered, her grip tightening on his sweater as she turned to face him, eyes questioning. “What was that for?”

Jeff only shrugged, his lips curling slightly as Smile trotted back, victorious, a dead squirrel dangling from his jaws.

Back home, Jeff had managed to hoist Smile over his shoulder, despite the mud and the hound's squirming attempts to escape. By the time they got inside, he was covered in scratches, his sweater smeared with dirt and dog hair. (Y/N) stood waiting in the bathroom, armed with a towel and a sedative just in case. The clawfoot tub was already filled with warm water and bubbles, the soothing scent of lavender filling the room, though it did little to calm the wild energy bouncing off Smile.

"Come on, Smile. Let me wash you, and you’ll get a damn treat," Jeff muttered, his patience fraying as he lathered the dog with shampoo. Smile, unamused, growled and tried to nip at Jeff’s hands, but Jeff wasn't having it.

(Y/N) knelt beside them, her fingers combing through Smile’s wet fur, and whispered soothing words. “Good boy,” she murmured softly, earning a grumble from Jeff as he struggled to keep the dog still. But seeing her smile at the mess made the effort worth it.

Once they’d finally finished, Smile bolted out of the bathroom, leaving behind puddles and wet fur in his wake. Jeff leaned back against the counter, his chest bare and streaked with scratches. He smelled of wet dog and exhaustion, while (Y/N), drenched in fur and suds, stifled a laugh.

"I think you need a shower," (Y/N) teased, her eyes gleaming as she took in the mess he’d become.

Jeff’s lips twitched into a smirk as he tugged lightly on her tank top, pulling her closer. His voice dropped, low and easy. “I think you need to join me.”

[hold-him-down]

Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled. 

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out. 

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract.  He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though. 

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore. 

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?” 

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks. 

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies. 

Otto nods. 

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them. 

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it. 

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable. 

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away. 

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself. 

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all. 

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable. 

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring. 

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure. 

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall. 

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head. 

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually. 

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.” 

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel. 

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue. 

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?” 

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears. 

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.” 

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

@whump-cravings

@afabulousmrtake

@crystalquartzwhump

@maracujatangerine

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing

@thecyrulik

@highwaywhump

@batfacedliar-yetagain

@finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup

@skyhawkwolf

@suspicious-whumping-egg

@also-finder-of-rings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@peachy-panic

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@urban-dark

@nicolepascaline

@quietly-by-myself

@pigeonwhumps

@whump-blog 

@seasaltandcopper

@angstyaches

@i-msonotcreative

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@anonintrovert

@whump-world

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@considerablecolors

@whumpcereal

@whumperfully

@pirefyrelight

@whumpsday

@whumplr-reader

@lonesome--hunter 

@darkthingshappen 

@alexmundaythrufriday

@whumps-and-bumps

[the-bi-space-ace]

I have a migraine coming on so I present to you:

How the clones react when they have a headache:

Rex: takes so many pain pills. Refuses to let this stop him. Drinks water constantly. And yet. This man refuses to try a snack to fix his headache. Cody has had Fives and Echo hold him down so he can make Rex eat a granola bar. (The granola bar helps Rex refuses to admit it.)

Cody: refuses to admit anything is wrong. Total hypocrite. Will bully everyone else into pain relievers, snacks, and water but will never take his own advice. Quite like his above mentioned brother he will never admit to something working and has to be tricked into doing something to relieve the pain.

Fox: chews on espresso beans to make his headache a caffeinated headache. Also is just in a constant state of discomfort from not sleeping enough. His headache would go away should he drink water or nap but the man would rather down another energy drink and move on.

Wolffe: will be grumpy about it until he can nap. Is really good about finding some sort of relief and is quiet about his pain. (Likes when someone will rub his head though that helps he won’t ask for it though.)

Fives: biiiiiiig mad. Super baby about it. Immediately wants an aleve and a snack but somehow thinks drinking something with sugar will help??? Instead of water??? And he’s somehow correct every time??? Lays his head in Echo’s lap and requests a head massage and promptly falls asleep.

Echo: I think he’s good about managing pain because he doesn’t want it to impact his ability to do things. He carries snacks and water and will take a reliever if pushed (although he says he doesn’t want to take it because he doesn’t want to ‘waste’ supplies on himself. Take the damn pill Echo you’ll feel better.) Refuses to be alone when he’s in pain and would always prefer someone to just sit nearby if he’s going to nap. As long as it’s dark and calm he’s pretty quiet about it. Tries to hide it 9 times out of 10 but he’s got nosey friends and they somehow always know and bully him into taking care of himself.

Hunter: oof. Poor guy gets migraines. Can never hide it. His eyes hurt so bad. His brain feels like it’s banging against his skull. Has to take some sort of medication immediately otherwise he gets sick. He’d prefer some solitude to be in pain alone but sometimes someone will take his bandana off and play with his hair to help.

Wrecker: Hates headaches but gets them concentrated right behind his eyes. Is not quiet about the pain and will request literally anything to make it go away. Tech is excellent at playing doctor here and knows exactly the combination of things to make it go away and keep Wrecker comfortable.

Tech: if it’s bad enough he will take a sedative and pass out for twelve hours and wake up fine. Does not fuck around and will not remain uncomfortable. He gets the slightest inclination of a headache and he’s eating a mini candy bar and a piece of cheese and also drinking eight ounces of water in five minutes before trying a pill that he knows will target the root cause of the problem. Scary efficient and competent.

Crosshair: oh boy. Will make it everyone else’s problem. He hates headaches. He’ll curl into a ball in whatever dark corner he can find and snap at anyone who tries to talk to him. Best bet is to silently bring offerings of food and water and leave him be until he feels more comfortable. He will never admit it but sometimes really quiet talking or even singing can help him at least feel better.

[oneshotnewbie]

heyy!! can i request athena grant x reader where in reader is a doctor and maybe there was some emergency in the hospital that required the police to be involved?? thank u and have a good day!!

Authors note: Unfortunately, I didn't know if you wanted Athena and the reader to possibly be together because you didn't describe it further, so I just went with the idea of the two being together. I hope it's okay ♥

ᕚ---ᕘ

You stood nervously in the middle of a secluded examination room, your expression focused as you quickly put on the disposable gloves and prepared yourself for the task at hand. You were assigned an aggressive patient, tormented by pain and under the possible influence of drugs. His gaze is wide open between the gathering of nurses who are trying to hold him down on the stretcher, his pupils dilated and his movements uncontrolled while gesticulating wildly. The man seemed out of control and full of anger, sending a shiver of fear down your spine.

Various utensils were scattered on the floor, and the medical ultrasound machine lay overturned on the floor and yet you approached the patient with calm determination but caution, trying not to be intimidated by his aggression. A tense atmosphere filled the room as you struggled to take the necessary medical measures.

Drawing up a syringe with your shaky hands and keeping it ready to calm the patient down, you knew you had to proceed with caution to avoid escalating the situation as the man uttered unintelligible profanities and tries to break away. In a state of delirious rage, he vehemently resisted the touch and in a sudden rush of aggression, he reached for you and hit you with a powerful punch in the stomach. "Go away! Leave me alone!"

You stumbled back, feeling the sharp pain in your side, but despite the shock and injury, you remained calm and focused. With practiced hands you continued to try to treat the patient, still holding the syringe in your fist, while at the same time he tried to protect himself. "Please calm down, Mr. Johnson. We just want to help you." Another push from him made you fall violently into one of the standing cabinets, the needle of the syringe piercing your thigh.

“Damn,” you groaned, looking down. Luckily the sedative had not come loose due to the impact and was still completely in the syringe, so you had nothing to worry about. However, the relentless beeping of the machines near you worried you.  With a short scream, you quickly pulled the needle from your leg and threw the used syringe into the sink before standing up and looking at your colleagues. "Get the police in here. They should put the guy in chains, it is too dangerous for us.“

One of the male nurses nodded at you and let go of the guy on the lounger. He quickly ran out of the room and let the other sisters fight the man with all their might. Without further ado, he came back with two officers and surprisingly, you looked into the face of your girlfriend and her long-time partner, Officer Rodriquez. „Doctor, how can we support you?“ she asked professionally with a smile on her lips, and you breathed a sigh of relief as you pointed at the young man. A small grin appeared on your face too at the sight of her. She was wearing her uniform, the taser holster already open just in case while gloves were up to her wrists to intervene safely whenever you needed her. "He is very aggressive. We have to give him an injection, but he fights back with all his might."

It was only when you pushed yourself up from your leaning position and hobbled along to the syringes to put on a new one that she noticed that a blood stain had formed on your thigh; showing through your blue pants. "You are hurt, are you okay?" There was concern in her voice that you could clearly hear. Both Athena and her partner cautiously approached Mr. Johnson, trying to calm him down while you prepared the injection of a sedative. However, Athena's gaze was focused on you, demanding an answer. "I am okay, nothing happened."

The police officer was not really convinced by your answer, but would deal with you later and care for you. Officer Rodriguez spoke soothingly to the man, diverting his attention as he helped the nurses hold him on the gurney while you cautiously approached him behind Athena. With the help of the two police officers, you finally managed to calm him down and give the injection. Slowly, Mr. Johnson relaxed, twitching briefly before his anger subsided and his thrashing became weaker until he finally fell into a more peaceful sleep.

Your people exhale in relief as you continue to keep an eye on the patient, watching his heartbeat slow down. "One of you must remain here with the nurses to provide them with protection should he wake up again," you stated as you freed yourself from the utensils you had been using and successfully threw your gloves into the trash can. Before you left the room, you addressed your employees. "He needs to be monitored around the clock. Call me as soon as anything changes in his condition. Give him fluids, a liter of saline to start with."

The door closed behind you and you walked towards a free room to treat your wound. However, before you had even reached your destination, an arm sneaked around your waist as a kiss was planted on your temple. "Hey, 'thena." You whispered, giggling and leaning against her side. Supportively, she helped you into another room where she ordered you to sit down while you told her what you needed to patch yourself up. "How many times have I told you that once you get an aggressive patient, you do not do anything until you call the cops into the room?"

“Often enough,” you admitted, placing a hand over your furrowed brow before standing up and gently brushing your pants down your thigh. "But the work must be done, even under these extremely difficult circumstances." Her head shook several times as she walked towards you and placed the things you needed on the cupboard. Athena took a seat in the chair in front of you and began cleaning the wound with disinfectant.

You clenched your teeth, let out a painful hiss, and squeezed your eyes shut as the cotton pad dipped in alcohol glided over your skin. "'thena, you know that I am actually the doctor, right?" you muttered under you breath and clawed into the foam with all your strength. "Babe, but you know I do not care, right?"

[darkuselesssomebody]

𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝟛 - dark!din djarin x fem!reader

complete masterlist | kinktober 2023 masterlist

kink || sex pollen

taglist || @silversprings-mp3

fandom || star wars (the mandalorian)

a/n || this is my first real dark fic, it is genuinely quite fucked, please don't judge me

➵ warnings for specific content before the divider

➵ din is quite ooc in this, set prior to the events of the show.

➵ comment/message if you'd like to be added to the taglist

warnings || smut/dark (dddne)

➵ kidnapping

➵ use of sedatives/aphrodisiacs

➵ mild choking

➵ unprotected sex

➵ slapping/mild violence

➵ some overstimulation

➵ degradation

credits had been low that month.

din was a damn good bounty hunter - every member of the guild knew it, but the universe had been unusually peaceful these past few weeks. he'd spent most of his earnings on fixing up the razor crest, leaving him with little left. he was fiending for a bounty.

so when some backwater guy in a backwater planet told him of a thief who'd stolen a host of items from him, din had agreed in the blink of an eye. the pay was good, the target was simple enough - exactly what he needed to get back on track.

"careful." the client warned before he gave din the tracking fob, "she's feisty and slippery. doesn't put up any meaningful fight, but a pain in the ass to keep secured."

so, when din passed a shady market on his way back to the razor crest, he found a guy selling sedatives - better, for dirt cheap. knowing most sedatives go for at least twice the price, he figures it must just be a bit mild, but decent for this situation. din doesn't miss the man's leer as he walks away.

"have fun..." he says in a knowing, slimy tone, and din's confused, but doesn't question it. his mind's on the bounty.

she wasn't difficult to track, nor to find alone. she's living in some dingy abandoned hut in the edges of a black market, likely trying not to draw attention to herself. there's not even a lock on her door, and din walks in while she's sleeping. she's on her stomach, the faintest hint of a snore emitting from her half-blocked nose, and din takes out the pre-made injection with the sedative. he flips her over for better access, covering her face with his broad, gloved hand, as he pushes the needle into her skin, injecting her bloodstream with the sedative.

at the sharp pain, her eyes snap open, and she whimpers, but it's all muffled by his hand. she tries to claw at his hand, and din can commend her for at least trying to fight back. but, it's fruitless, as her eyes start fluttering, and she goes limp, passing out. he picks her up, lugging her along under the cover of darkness to his ship.

a job well done, he thinks, as he sits her limp body in the passenger seat in the cockpit, before sitting on his own. he powers on the ship, taking flight, before turning on the autopilot. knowing she's well-strapped, he's ready to go ahead and take a nap, when he starts hearing small whimpers coming from his side. he turns around curiously, to see her - though still asleep - fidgeting and moving her legs.

his eyes widen behind his visor. is she fucking grinding on the seat? he immediately sits up, pants growing uncomfortably tight at the little show of arousal. he gets up, kneeling in front of her chair, as he waves his gloved hand over her face, to see if she's awake. her mewls are sweeter up close. fuck, he's hard.

she's still in her sleepwear. the planet he picked her up off is hot - thank gods - and her legs are only clad in sleep shorts. his gloved fingers force her thighs apart slightly, morals blown to the wind in the pursuit of soothing his cock, and the leather fabric finally reaches her wet - correction: dripping - cunt, as her mouth lets out the sweetest little moan.

it morphs into a scream as she awakens, though, trying to close her thighs instinctively. his grip is harsh, squeezing the life out of her thighs, as he forces her legs open even wider - muscles stretched almost uncomfortably. her lip quivers in worry at the intimidating mandalorian in front of her.

"don't resist, and I won't hurt you." his modulated voice is cold, and rough, and she doesn't dare disobey. her eyes travel down to the blaster at his side, before running back to him. whatever he injected her with was still coursing through her veins, making her brain foggy and her cunt pulse. she can't help the moan she lets out as her fingers brush against her clit again, her entire body jolting violently. it contradicts with the tears in her eyes: stemming from her fear of the man in front of her and the fact she'd have to have sex with the strange, terrifying bounty hunter.

din pauses for a moment, to turn back to the - now empty - bottle of the sedative he'd bought earlier. it had coagulated from the oxygen it was exposed to, and had turned a deep, cherry red. an aphrodisiac, he realizes, now understanding why the sedative had been so cheap. it had been cut with an aphrodisiac, likely supposed to work as a date rape drug. he sighs, placing the bottle back. might as well make the most of it.

he stalks back towards her, and she's looking up at him with fearful doe eyes, upset at her predicament, and at her inability to disguise how badly she needed to be taken care of by her captor. she only squeaks when he harshly forces her calves up to bend her body in half. her mouth parts in soft, breathy whimpers, and it makes his cock pulse.

he forces a hand to her throat - if only to keep her still - but her eyes widen horror, making his lips curl into a smirk. he squeezes once, just for the fun of it, before reaching down with his free hand to force his pants off. his cock stands, hard and scary, and the sight of it makes her body twitch in anticipation and excitement, and a ragged breath leave her lips, eyes wide in anticipation and fear.

he forces her ankles over his shoulders, leaning down against the chair to really cage her in and force her body in half. he pulls her shorts up to her knees, not bothering to pull them off completely, as he already has access to what he wants.

"you don't have to do this..." she whimpers, though her cunt pulses for him, her blood on fire - from both his heat and the drug. he stays dead silent, before roughly stuffing two covered fingers into her, making her squeak out in pain and pleasure. he forces them in deep, wiggles around for just a second, making her eyes water, before pulling them out, and smearing the liquid over her cheek.

"but you want it so bad." it's worse because his tone doesn't sound mocking, but more observational, as if it wasn't him violating her, but rather, her own body. before she can protest further, he pushes his cock into her, and she's more than wet enough to just slide right in.

she can't help the high-pitched, needy moan that tumbles from her lips, his fingers flexing around her throat as he hisses through gritted teeth at the sensation of her tightening and pulsing walls hugging his cock. he was half-sure it was the fear that made her so tight, only amplified by the drug in her system, and fuck, did it feel good.

he doesn't wait, fucking into her roughly, unleashing his frustrations of the slow month into her needy cunt, as he saw her protests overshadowed by the increasing sounds of her moans.

he fucks through a few of small, quick orgasms which were spurred by the drug, and she'd gone fully dumb, not even bothering to protest, and just letting her eyes roll back and her moans ring out in the cockpit. he's close, and can tell something deep is building in her too, as she's unable to ground herself, leg muscles flexing as she desperately tries to survive the wave of pleasure about to overtake her.

just to see her eyes widen in worry once more, he brings his thumb down to her clit, pressing on it harshly, in a way that was only pleasurable once you got through the pain of it. as he wished, her eyes stare up at his in indignance and pleading - begging him to stop the action - as she writhed in pain, before her breath caught in her throat, and she cums so hard around him, she thinks she's passed out.

when she finally opens her eyes back up, panting and drooling, he's stilled inside her, pumping her full of his cum, making her wince as he pulls out. the effects of the drug are gone, and the reality is sinking in.

she looks at him with anger, disgust and dread, which makes him smirk under his helmet. for the fun of it, he delivers a smack - though not too hard - to her cunt, making her whimper and jolt, before getting up, and returning to the pilot's seat.

he starts landing the razor crest to deliver the bounty. maybe he'll use the credits to deep clean the chair she's creaming and crying over.

[xappetites]

one thing leads to another

Russell Adler x f!Reader (Bell) | Adler is half convinced Bell's using tenderness as a battering ram on purpose, he also needed someone to understand him more than he would ever admit, shit's fucked but that's par for the course, as always i sort of added a year between finding Bell and the rest of the game | word count: 1,672

London is a mess, but then again, all cities are. And this one has the benefit of both being friendly ground but not exactly home, in case the whole thing goes sideways. 

Besides, it’s not like Adler’s an amateur. He wouldn’t have started this game without the certainty that he’d be able to handle it, roll with all of the possible outcomes. 

No, this was calculated. 

He purposely picked the side of town where metro police drag their feet, no matter how urgent the call. And he’s carrying a trusty sedative in a hypodermic needle retrofitted into a pen, so all he really needs to worry about is Bell.

Quite frankly, Bell’s all he’s been worrying about for the past eight months, though for the most part he can justify it as just another job hazard. The rest he blames on being a sexually active human with an average libido and moderately good circulation. 

Sure, he’s seen her bleeding out, sweat drenched and bruised from several rounds of interrogation. Feverish, mumbling, staring into his soul like she could tear into him with her eyes alone. And she still slides silk soft over the ridges of his brain.

It was easy to ignore, all things considered; in that dark room with nothing but the microphone and the bell. To watch her, past whatever attraction he can’t shake, looking closely for results. But now she’s out in the world, fully convinced that she’s known him for decades; now she remembers a different Russell Adler. The one he was before the crooked line of his life proved to him that he wasn’t one for an easy ride; the man who would banter mid firefight, with the kind of gusto that makes him roll his eyes coming from Park and Lazar over comms. 

And sure, that means she’s comfortable enough to follow his instructions without much back-talk and she's amenable enough that she’ll take initiative to do what’s best for the mission on her own. She’s efficient and useful; and she claws that old playfulness out of him kicking and screaming. Even if he tries to resist, to ignore her easy jabs, the gallows humor, it’s those damn eyes and the light of affection in them that forces him to respond just to focus on something else.

It’s so obvious that even Sims commented on it, how he hadn’t heard chatter like that from him in years. So maybe that’s why Adler wanted this meeting to be private; why he asked Bell to slip away from Park when he called. Selling it as an added challenge when he dared her to find him in London with nothing to go on but the arrival time of his flight. A test of skill and loyalty.

Just as Park’s had Bell here for a week. Officially, for a briefing of the few leads MI6 has in Berlin. Off the record, offering proof of concept to the powers that be: one shining, sweet success to prove what programming can do. Work. That’s what’s behind Adler standing alone in a no name club, not the impulse to hog Bell all to himself, or the unspeakable notion that he misses her.

He’s too professional to let it show, and he knows what needs to be done, but that’s the filthy truth of him, the way his hands itch for skin on skin contact. The manufactured familiarity that allows her to touch him all the time —hands solid on his shoulders or her thigh pressed against his in the back of a cab. All the more tempting for being forbidden. More nagging in the back of his mind because he’s stealing her from the man he’s hunted for so long. 

The sensation makes Adler lay his palms flat on the bar top, check his watch. All he can do at the moment is wait. 

Two more minutes to his midnight meeting with Bell. Two minutes that are nothing in the grand scheme of his standing stakeout record of several months. Minutes that he watches tick like molasses over his wrist. Anticipation settling horrible in the pit of his stomach with the possibility that, once out of Park’s watchful eye, Bell will abscond back to Perseus. And won’t that be a fun one to explain. A betrayal he can already taste, that hurts in a way that it shouldn’t. Burning as it goes down like the whiskey that’s suddenly shoved his way over the bar. 

“I didn’t order this.”

“Your missus said you looked thirsty.”

The bartender tosses a wry smile his way too, nodding in the general direction of a very smug Bell. Who, at least, has the decency not to appear out of the smoke like this is a private eye movie, she just simply is there, close enough to touch, when she wasn’t the second before.

“You made it,” he greets her, watches her grin grow slow and tilted over her mouth. Her hips angled to squeeze in next to him, lean her weight on the bar and steal a sip off his drink. And Adler hates how proud he sounds, how his shoulders lose tension when she takes the first, poison-taster gulp of liquor like a half apology for ambushing him. 

“You doubted it?” 

“Park can be hard to sidestep.”

Bell outright giggles then, smile blinding in her satisfaction, but she doesn’t offer anything else. She won’t spoil the magician’s trick. 

“So what’s your story?” She asks instead, dipping closer still, until Adler can feel the ghostly touch of her hair against his cheek. “If this were to go tits up. Who are you tonight?”

“Well, you already told the bartender, I’m your husband.”

“Got you sore about that?”

There’s laughter in Bell’s voice, a tease of her fingertips straightening the collar of his jacket. Of course he’s fucking sore, with the way the thought goes right between his legs, aches in the pit of his stomach. Here with her lips on the rim of his glass, her body nudging insistently into his personal space like picking at a wound.

“Just wondering how believable it’d be for me to have a wife so beautiful.”

“Please, Russ, you’re the most attractive man I know.”

She moves, digging out a cigarette and flagging the bartender for an ashtray, and the extra inch of distance is such a deep relief that it takes Adler half a second to realize she’s smoking when they were supposed to have culled that out of her.

“I thought you’d quit,” he tries, as a thin, icy stream of uncertainty slides down his spine. He tries to be rational, smoking is the least dangerous of Bell’s old habits; complicated by the physiological dependence on nicotine to boot. This doesn’t have to be a sign of impending doom, he just has to keep an eye on it.

“In this line of work? It wasn’t meant to last,” she pauses, takes a drag and holds the smoke for long enough to notice she’s having his exact brand, familiar and comforting. “Besides, you give me cravings.”

The eyes, it’s always the fucking eyes. The way they catch on his scar, climbing along until she’s staring him down with nothing but open, honest desire, and a sort of sadness underneath. Like she’s given up on the magnetic pull she feels for him as soon as she admits to it.

Bell knows he’d put the job above anything, knows that’s what nuked his marriage. She knows because he told her, made her privy to things the likes of Sims only suspect. It was easy too, once he got started, to let the words get away from him; maybe not during the first session, but by the twentieth? The fiftieth? He’d find himself in the jungle of Vietnam and in the weeds of his personal hang ups all the same. 

We fought together, bled together. 

A mantra that to a degree poisoned him too. Enough to make him need this, once at the very least, to hold Bell steady by the back of the neck, tasting the smoke and the surprise on her lips. Then he has to do it again, since Bell’s crushing the cigarette out so she can pull herself closer by his lapels, run her fingers through his hair with a whisper of ‘fuck Russ’. And he is absolutely fucked in so many ways.

Fucked in the ease of walking beside her back to his hotel. And in how she sighs against his mouth when her cold hands sneak under clothes in the elevator. Adler feels his heart beating in double time as he finally works himself inside her, inch by inch so he can’t hide from this. He could regret it, he already does, as he struggles to make this last as long as he can, but he can never pretend it didn’t happen. 

He’ll always have the way she clings to him, his name stumbling out of her when he hits the angle that makes her melt, to weigh on his conscience. He’ll keep coming back to her shoulder, still slick from the shower as he rested his forehead on it, because that was the third time he’d come that night and it never lost its edge to feel her around him.

These are the things Adler knows will haunt him. Keep him up at night until he finds the next excuse to have her, in a different hotel and a different city, with the same burning desperation.

And it’s what he sees, clear as day, playing in her mind that night as he tries to drag Perseus’ location out of her. Every kiss and every single time he drew meaningless shapes over her skin while she was curled up against his side.

The way he demands the information but has not let go of her hand, the fact that they both know how this ends. And he can only fucking hope, with her brilliant eyes burning through him again, that she can forgive him for falling for her.