#because she’s clocked him as easy to manipulate and toy with | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lalainajanes · 3 years ago

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For klarosummerbingo, my “mango lassi” square! Did I order Indian food for dinner? Yes, yes I did.

Masks Off

When she notices the goon tailing her – shaved head, seasonally inappropriate leather jacket, neck tattoos – Caroline’s pissed off.

And exhausted.

She’d spent all day cooped up in the boardroom at Forbes Industries, listening to men twice her age complain about dividends and try to suggest that workers didn’t really need a raise subtly.

It had been a tedious and pointless exercise, one she suffers quarterly. Caroline holds 51% of the company’s shares and can easily wrangle another block of shareholders into voting with her. Her parent’s wills, read out fourteen years ago, had bequeathed a stake in FI to several loyal employees. People they’d loved, who’d stepped in to help raise Caroline after they’d passed.

The board knows she has the final say, and it kills them. They think she’s an idiot, that she’d bought her degrees and can’t comprehend the financial statements. They try to ply her with compliments and flattery, attempt unsubtle fibs – Caroline plays dumb and tolerates the bullshit because she knows she can control them. Another board might not be so easy to manipulate.

She’d had a headache by the time the meeting had wrapped, had been so grateful to see Enzo waiting at the curb. She’d practically dived into the backseat of the town car, had rolled the partition down, and enjoyed a satisfying debrief and bitch session on the drive back to her apartment. Enzo had offered to grab her dinner before he went off the clock, but Caroline knew he had a date night planned. She’d shoed him away, told him she’d order in.

Once safely tucked away in her place Caroline had gotten restless.

She’d changed out of her boring suit, pulled out the pins in her hair, and loosely braided it back. After changing into a pale blue cotton dress and pair of oversized sunglasses, then selecting a few Forbes Industries prototypes, Caroline had headed out for sustenance.

She hadn’t bothered to let her security detail know. She’s adept at sneaking away under their noses. The detail is mostly for show, to make sure no one connects Caroline Forbes, wild child heiress, to the vigilante who’s working on tidying up the city streets.

She’ll slip into the leather ensemble she’d commissioned once night falls and load up with weapons. Then she’ll head to the garage where she keeps her armored vehicles and larger toys.

There’s a new villain who’s been popping up more and more frequently on her patrols. She hasn’t caught him doing anything untoward just yet, and he’s yet to make the papers and have a ridiculous name bestowed upon him. She’s scoured papers from England, then the rest of Europe, checking to see if there was a reputation that preceded him. So far, she’s found nothing, but Caroline knows he must be working on something big.

Why else would he be so determined to attract her attention? He must have some kind of plan cooking up, wants her looking in another direction when he enacts it.

The walk to the restaurant had been uneventful. Caroline had to wait a few minutes for her order to be ready, but passing the time on a bench outside, unnoticed, her people-watching undisturbed, had been a nice change from how she’d spent the rest of the day.

It promised to be a hot evening, even though the sun would be setting shortly. Sweat had begun gathering near her hairline, forcing curls out of her braid. Caroline had added a mango lassi to her order and collected her dinner, inhaled appreciatively at the warm, spicy scent emanating from the paper bag.

She’d begun her walk home, sipping her drink contentedly, weaving through the growing number of pedestrians who were venturing out for the evening.

She’d noted the guy shadowing her about three blocks from her building, had heaved a dramatic sigh that had the guy waiting for the walk light with her edging away.

She’d just wanted to stuff herself with naan, biryani, and saag paneer and become one with her couch for a few hours before she went out to take out her frustrations on some bad guys. Was that too much to ask?

Caroline takes a turn, heading east to where there should be fewer people, reaching into her bag to slide her fingers into the modified brass knuckles (not actually brass but a proprietary FI compound) and grasping the extendable baton.

She takes another turn to check that she’s not paranoid, but the goon mirrors it.

As does another person.

Caroline pretends to adjust the strap of her dress, twisting her head to get a better look at her second pursuer. It’s an impressively muscular woman, her considerable height only enhanced by her spiked hair, dressed in skin-tight shorts and a mesh crop top.

She doesn’t seem to mind that Caroline’s spotted her, wiggling her fingers and offering a challenging smile.

There are two possibilities. Either the people following her are cocky and stupid – really the ideal scenario – or they’re cocky because they’ve got a solid plan and some big guns.

When a hand grabs her upper arm and yanks her into an alley, spilling the mango lassi and staining her dress, Caroline suspects it might be the latter. She’s thrown against a wall, just managing to get her hands up to save her face from being smashed into the brick.

She hears footsteps pounding against concrete, and the two pursuers she’s noticed join the man who’d yanked her into the alley. Regretfully, Caroline drops her takeout and her bag and backs away, hiding her weapons in the folds out of the skirt. She forces a quaver into her voice, “What do you want?”

It’s unlikely that three people who seem to have stepped right out of the goon for hire catalog have just decided to rob her. Caroline doesn’t want to assume there’s a larger plot. She’s hoping this won’t turn into a big thing, and she’s out of luck if people are planning to kidnap Caroline Forbes for ransom.

But it’ll be even messier if a bad guy’s clocked her extracurricular activities.

The spiky-haired woman takes the lead, stalking towards Caroline. She’s got a knife in her hand now, “What do I want? Twenty million dollars, to start with.”

Oh good. It’s just a kidnapping.

Honestly, kind of an insulting one. She won’t even have to liquate any assets to come up with the twenty million. Caroline stops moving, straightens her spine. “Done!” she chirps brightly. “Wire transfer, or cheque? I can do cash too, but that’s like ten briefcases. What are you going to do with them after?”

She’s been hoping to catch her attempted kidnapper off guard, but the woman doesn’t falter. She snorts, “You’re funny. I didn’t expect that.”

“Thanks, I get that a lot. I’m chock full of surprises.”

Spike lunges forward, and Caroline dodges, stepping past her and whipping her arm out, until her weapon lengthens fully. She crouches, extending her leg and spinning while slashing with her baton. Caroline lands a brutal strike on Spike’s kidneys. Spikes grunts, stumbles forward, arm banding over her stomach protectively. Caroline completes her spin and rises, catching Spike with a punch before she pauses, poised on the balls of her feet, back to a wall.

Her would-be kidnappers no longer look as confident. Spikes spits blood, expression enraged. The other two watch Caroline with calculative gazes.

“Girls gotta keep in shape, right? The tabloids are brutal. It turns out the elliptical is super boring, so I had to find something a little more fun.” Caroline leaps forward, tucking into a roll, snagging a brick from the ground and using her momentum to throw it into Leather Jacket’s face.

The brick makes contact with a gross crunch of blood, bone, tissue, and teeth. Leather Jacket howls, his hand coming up to cover his head. She jumps again, thighs locking around his neck, spinning to bring him to the ground. She digs her knee into his spine, gripping his head and slamming it into the ground for good measure until he goes limp underneath her.

Caroline stands, wiping her hand on her already ruined dress. “One down,” she says.

Only to instantly regret the proclamation. Bonnie says she needs to lay off on the monologuing, and maybe she’s got a point.

She senses movement behind her, near the mouth of the alley. Caroline turns warily, head swiveling between her two attackers and the men who are now freaking rappelling from the rooftops. Six of them. In black tactical gear, strapped with weapons and wearing black ski masks.

Well, crap.

If she’d been on patrol, with her protective suit and gadgets, she might have been able to take them. Now, in flats and a sundress, with two flimsy weapons and no backup, she doesn’t like her odds.

Caroline tosses the baton aside, pastes on the smile she uses when she has to ignore paparazzi shouting rude questions about her sex life at her. She lifts her hands slowly, palms open. “So, I’m guessing you don’t only want cash, huh?”

“Funny and smart,” Spikes says spitefully, coming up behind Caroline and yanking her hair. “What a rosy life you must lead.”

She feels a sharp sting in the side of her neck, then a flood of wooziness. Brief pain when she collapses.

She’s vaguely aware of being heaved up and over someone’s shoulder, of being alarmed by how her limbs won’t cooperate when she tries to fight back. She’s tossed in a trunk, encased in blackness.

Caroline fights it, the tiredness, her thoughts growing meandering and disorganized. When the engine rumbles to life underneath her, Caroline loses consciousness.

* * * * *

Caroline realizes she’s tied to a chair as soon as awareness returns.

She can hear voices murmuring, too soft for her to make out any words even when she strains. Caroline’s slumped over, pulling against the ropes. She’s definitely going to have some fun bruises tomorrow. Her head’s resting limply against her chest, and she stays as still as she can, barely opening her eyes while trying to get a good look at her surroundings.

Unfortunately, she seems to be in a pretty generic warehouse—grimy, smelly, cavernous, decorated with random overlapping graffiti.

She spots a tray of shiny, sharp medical instruments to her right.

Which is not ideal.

Caroline tests her bonds slowly, checking for any give or weakness. Any kind of opportunity. One of her captors has eagle eyes and notices her movements. She flinches when his voice booms out, “Sleeping beauty awakes!”

Damn it.

Caroline lifts her head, rolling her neck to work out the cramp that’s developed. “I prefer the modern Disney princesses, thank you.” She’s not the type to wait around for a handsome prince to come to her rescue.

She studies the guy who’d spoken. He’s got steel-grey hair and tanned skin, thick biceps. His face doesn’t show even a hint of emotion, and he doesn’t acknowledge she’d spoken. She’d guess he’s a pro, probably some variety of ex-military, likely expensive. Caroline hears the clomp of heavy boots and twists her head to see some familiar faces joining the party.

Moderately damaged familiar faces, but she’s not sorry about that.

“So about that ransom,” Caroline begins hopefully. “Twenty-five million, was it?”

The guy who’d taken a brick to the face grunts, “Thirty now. For our trouble.”

Caroline can admit that’s fair.

“I get it. Plastic surgery’s not cheap. Not that I’ve had any work done, despite what the tabloids might claim. I’m only twenty-seven. Of course my boobs look fantastic in a bikini.”

No one even cracks a smile.

“Okay, so you’re not interested in jokes. We could discuss the fact that it’s super gross that people follow me around the world and stalk me with long-lens cameras. Am I not entitled to take a vacation?”

No response.

Caroline sighs, shifting in her chair in an attempt to get more comfortable. “Tough crowd.”

Spike drags a second chair over, sitting down and resting a booted foot on her opposite knee. “Thirty million dollars. I have a list of six prisoners that I need to be released from the Super Max. And I want something from the Forbes Industries Vault. The subterranean one that most of your employees don’t know about.”

Caroline tips her head back, considering. Thirty million dollars, no big deal. The prisoners might be hard to arrange, but she’s got connections. She knows exactly who she’d need to bribe. She can always scoop them up later, wrap ‘em in a pretty little bow and leave them on the steps of city hall.

The Vault though? That’s not happening. She’s going to have to figure out how they even know about it, who else might have bought the info, but that’s a problem for later.

“How about fifty million dollars and a couple of extra prisoners? Maybe someone from the asylum?”

Spike leans over, her hand drifting over the tray of instruments. She plucks up one with a serrated edge, twirling it through her fingers. “I know you’re used to snapping your fingers and getting everything your little heart desires, but this isn’t a negotiation.”

She leans forward, resting the blade against the dip between Caroline’s collarbones. She taps it against Caroline’s skin with each carefully enunciated word, “Money. Prisoners. Vault.” She pulls back, gives the instrument another spin. “That’s my only offer. You can say yes, and we’ll give you a phone, so you’re servants can start arranging things. Or, we can do this the hard way.”

She doesn’t insult Caroline’s intelligence by spelling out what the hard way would entail.

Caroline swallows, straightens her spine. “No one gets in my vault.”

Spike sighs in faux disappointment, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. “The hard way it is, then.”

Caroline closes her eyes, holds her breath, waits for the first cut to come.

It doesn’t come from where she’d expected.

Glass shatters from high above, showering down, leaving dozens of tiny nicks across her bare shoulders. She feels a rush of air before a body landing in front of her, knees bent.

A familiar man, one who’s been taking up way too much of Caroline’s free time, smirks at her, “Hello, love.”

Caroline gapes at him, and he pivots, backing up until her bent knees brush the back of his calves. She sees few bright flashes, but his back obscures her view of what’s happening. Whatever he’s doing, it’s painfully loud. Popping sounds interrupt shouts and screams of pain, and heavy thuds ring out. Caroline cringes, tucking her ear against her shoulder in an attempt to muffle the cacophony.

Silence, when it comes, scant moments after the chaos began, is jarring. Caroline leans as far to the side as she can, eyes widening when she spots the pile of bodies. She watches as the man, who she doesn’t know if she can call her rescuer since at this point he might also be planning on ransoming her, yanks a handful of zip cuffs from his pocket.

He moves swiftly and with grace, seemingly very at home his body and aware of its capabilities. Caroline’s eyes narrow, mind whirling as he secures her attackers, and she tries to assimilate this new information. He pulls off his leather gloves when he’s done, returning to her side. His expression grows regretful, and his fingertips brush her shoulders, skimming over the cuts and scrapes there. “Sorry about these. The skylight was the best entry point. Make sure you clean them up, hmm?”

He steps passed her, and Caroline feels him make quick work of her handcuffs. She hears the snick of a knife unsheathing and stiffens, but he only uses it on the ropes that bind her legs and torso. Caroline shakes them off, stands hesitantly.

“Okay,” she says, crossing her arms and turning until they’re once more face to face, separated by the metal chair. “What exactly is happening here? Who are you?”

“I’m afraid I’m not yet ready for you to know my identity. In due time, I promise.”

Caroline sucks in a sharp breath, her teeth grinding together. “Um, how about no?”

He blinks, and Caroline steps a little closer. They’ve always met in the dark, and he’d purposely stuck to the shadows as he’d teased and tossed questions at her. She’s never been this close to him. His eyes are blue, his lashes annoyingly long in a way men never appropriately appreciate. He wears a black mask, covering from the top of his forehead to his upper lip. His hair is slicked back, but she thinks it might be on the lighter side, given the shade of his stubble.

He clears his throat and shifts his weight, but he doesn’t step back or shy away. “I… I beg your pardon?”

“I have had a garbage day. It was long, it was boring, I had to argue over things I know I’m right about, with people who think I’m a bimbo and spend way too much time trying to look down my tops. My dinner got tossed aside when goons r us scooped me up. I love this dress, and it’s ruined. I’m bleeding. I don’t know where my shoes are. I’m hungry, I’m tired, and I want to go home!” she’s shouting when she’s done ranting, out of breath.

“Right.” Her rescuer, she’s decided on the term now, shoves the chair aside. He steps forward until his feet bracket hers, wraps his arm around her waist. Caroline grips his biceps, too shocked to admonish this rude invasion of her space. “Hold on. Step up onto my feet.”

She throws her hands up in frustration, “Hello? Did anything I just said sink in?”

His lips, which she’s now noticing are very nice, full and soft looking, compress. She’s pretty sure he’s trying to swallow a laugh. “I heard every word. I’m trying to assist in getting you home. In service of that, if you could please step up onto my feet and hold on.”

His right arm rises, and Caroline recognizes the device in his hand. She’s about to ask him if he’s seriously rescuing her with a device he’d stolen from her but thinks better of it.

He’d stolen the grappling hook from a vigilante who rocks a rose pink leather catsuit, not from Caroline Forbes. It would have been a monster slip, a true testament to how rattled she is from the day’s events that she’d almost blurted out her secret identity to a guy with questionable motives and an unknown name.

Instead, she smiles tightly, loops her arms around his neck, and gingerly steps onto his heavy boots. “For future reference,” she says sweetly, “I generally only like following orders in the bedroom.”

The strangled choking noise he makes as they hurtle upward is immensely satisfying.

* * * * *

Two days later, Caroline’s on her couch watching news footage of a gala she’d been supposed to attend. She’d had a great dress, red and scandalous, all ready to go, but trying to cover her scabby shoulders with makeup had made her look like she’d contracted some kind of infectious skin issue.

She’d sent her regrets and a fat check, resigned herself to a solo evening in her comfy sweats. On her TV, a society reporter’s chattering away about the guest she’d just finished talking to, a lech who’s at least smart enough to hire a publicist good enough to hide his dealings with loan sharks. She trails off in the middle of a sentence, fingertips coming up to press at her earpiece.

The reporter looks right at the camera, excitement on her face. “I’ve just been given some breaking news! A surprise guest has arrived, all the way from the UK. Klaus Mikaelson has shied away from public life since his messy exit from his father’s corporation five years ago. He’s built his own tech firm from the ground up. Buzz had been building since they announced their intention to go public. Let’s see if we can get a few words.”

Bored with the fawning, Caroline’s just about to switch channels. She knows all about Klaus’ Mikaelson’s company. Blurbs about it have been showing up in the intelligence reports she has complied since he’d lured a pair of promising engineers from FI’s Paris offices.

She’s planning on investing in his IPO because he might have scummy HR policies, but his business is sound.

There haven’t been many pictures of him available; apparently, he’d hardly been a social butterfly even when he’d been welcome in the family fold. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or so in the ones Caroline’s seen, in which he’d been gangly and angular and sporting a terrible haircut.

The image changes, swinging to the red carpet before Caroline can grab the remote. She pauses, impressed because Klaus Mikaelson has grown up nicely. She might be distracted by the flawless fit of his tux, which Caroline knows can cover a world of sins, so she leans closer as the camera pans up to his face.

And promptly drops her wine class.

The blue eyes. That smile, the dimple it carves into his stubbled cheek. She’d brushed her lips over that cheek barely more than forty-eight hours ago when she’d thanked him for what he’d done for her.

Klaus Mikaelson had accompanied her home the other night, had neatly deflected her probing questions, his amusement never turning to exasperation at Caroline’s dogged persistence.

She’d seriously considered inviting him into her home. She’d told herself it was only in search of more information, but a tiny part of her, the one that was unfailingly honest and sometimes gets her in trouble, had admitted her rescuer intrigued her, even without a name.

Well. Now she has one. A plan forms rapidly, and Caroline scrambles for her phone, digging it out of her couch cushions. She taps the screen, connecting a call to Bonnie. “Bon? Sorry to bug you when you’re off the clock. But I need you to find someone for me.”

She stands, walking into her bedroom as she explains what she needs.

Bonnie’s a genius, well worth the exorbitant salary Caroline pays her. She gets the address within an hour.

* * * * *

Caroline drops a rope onto the terrace of Klaus’ apartment, slips down with barely a whisper of sound, landing lightly. She hugs the side of the building, inching over to the open French doors. She’s fully suited up, hair tightly controlled, and mask on. She eases her foot over the threshold, eyes darting around.

Ugh, of course, he has excellent taste.

Caroline likes light and airy, fun patterns and textures. But she can appreciate the sumptuousness of Klaus’ living room. It’s done up in burgundies and neutrals, hints of gold. There’s a buttery leather sofa facing a fireplace, thick carpets that muffle the sounds of her boots as she walks further in. She can imagine a pleasant night in front of a crackling fire, curled up on the couch when the weather turns cold.

But she’s getting ahead of herself.

Her nose twitches, picking up the smell of curry, cardamom, and turmeric.

She hears a door click shut, whirls to find Klaus, barefoot and still dressed up from The Gala, though he’s ditched the jacket and tie. He leans against the now-closed doors to the terrace. He smiles at her warmly, “Hello, Caroline.”

Which answers one of her most pressing questions.

Caroline yanks her mask off, tossing it aside. “I realize this is going to give you déjà vu, but what exactly is happening here?”

Klaus pushes off from the door, ambles towards her, studying her reaction carefully. Caroline doesn’t flinch away or retreat. “I have a proposition for you. And I have dinner. Takeaway from that place you visited the other day when your evening plans were… interrupted. I even got the mango lassi.”

Caroline narrows her eyes, “I have weapons, you know. Way more than you’d think, given how tight this outfit is.”

He laughs, a low husky sound that Caroline knows would be easy to get addicted to. “I’m sure you do. I’m not worried about you using them on me. I only want you to hear out my proposal. You can leave anytime you wish.”

She wonders if it’s stupid to believe him, but she does. He’d had the upper hand two days ago, had no trouble dispatching the group that had taken her. If he had nefarious intentions, he could have picked up right where they left off with the torture.

Caroline’s learned to trust her instincts. They’re telling her she’s safe.

She tugs her hair out of its elastic, loosens her collar slightly, pulling the zipper down a few inches. “Mind lending me something to wear? This totally isn’t designed for sitting for long periods.”

Klaus directs her to a guestroom, gathers a few things of his for her to wear. When she gets to the dining room, she finds he’s arranged the food on gleaming platters and lit candles. Her mango lassi, in its plastic cup, looks wildly out of place.

Caroline refuses to find it endearing.

At least until she’s confirmed that her instincts are correct.

#klaroline #klarosummerbingo #klaroline fanfiction #batman vibes #but where the author is only aware of batman because it's a ubiquitous pop culture thing #so maybe bad batman vibes idk

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mypoisonedvine · 5 years ago

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Sessions with August | August Walker x Reader -- Chapter 1

This is something I’ve been working on for a while with my bestie @nuns-and-roses! We will be posting some future chapters from her blog so give her a follow for more of this (and also lots of amazing fics).

Summary: As a CIA psychiatrist, most of your clients are aggressive, intimidating, maybe even a little threatening. But none of them are quite like August Walker. You were trained to trust your gut and remove yourself from any situation that made you uncomfortable. If you had followed that training, maybe you could’ve saved yourself from the twisted world he planned to bring you into…

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: mentions/descriptions of childhood abuse; no smut in this chapter but there will be eventual non-con/heavy dub con and lots of dark themes like manipulation, gaslighting, stalking, etc. Discretion is advised.

Session 1 - October 9th

You only had five minutes between sessions each day, and it was a very important time. As a psychiatrist seeing patients, there is limited time to oneself. Your patients become a part of you, and you assume an identity at work that often follows you home.

Reserved, kind, patient. Every single word, every movement, was an act. And it's not that you were really lying or manipulating your patients, it's just that you had to close off most of yourself to them. It was how both of you were protected.

In five minutes, you had time to step out of that persona while you sorted your files and grabbed a quick snack. You contemplated between a granola bar or clementine, eventually choosing the latter, though you had to wash your hands to get off the sticky residue of the acidic peel.

As you washed your hands, you contemplated yourself in the mirror. You had put a lot of thought into your look for this persona. To save time and energy, you wore the same thing every day: your closet was all black pencil skirts, white button-downs and black blazers, with only a little space for your off-work clothing (which never got much use). In winter you added thick stockings to keep from freezing during the walk to and from your car, but otherwise it remained the same. Even the jewelry-- freshwater pearl studs and a dainty gold tennis bracelet-- remained the same, along with your beloved pair of Italian leather heels which weren't so high that you felt overdressed, but just high enough that you felt taller, and perhaps a bit sexy though you knew that shouldn't matter.

The goal was to look neutral, to not have your appearance distract in any way. To blend in. It had actually been sort of difficult to perfect one makeup look that you could put on quickly before work, but you'd managed. Your hair was probably what you spent the most time on each morning, since it had to be pulled back pretty tight and you wanted every single hair to be in place.

Checking the clock, you saw that it was about time to call in your next appointment. It was a new patient, a somewhat recent recruit that had already garnered a bit of a reputation. From what you'd heard he was incredibly ambitious to the point of being a bit cutthroat. What the rumors had failed to mention, you realized as you opened the door to guide him in from the waiting room, was that he was hot. And not just "hey, good for you!" hot, but "how am I expected to get any work done in these conditions?!" hot. You introduced yourself with a firm handshake and tried not to think about the size of his hands or the strength of his grip.

"Mr. Walker, please, have a seat," you encouraged, motioning to the room.

"Which one?" he asked, noticing the menagerie of chairs and sofas in your office.

"Ah, yes, this may be strange if you're used to a more... clinical space," you nodded. "Sit wherever you'd like. Whatever looks most comfortable to you."

He examined his options and seemed to be putting more thought to it than most did.

"This is a test, isn't it? You want to see what kind of person I am by what I pick?"

You laughed. "No, I just want you to have options."

He settled for a high back chair which normally made people look kind of short but his body barely fit into it. He made it look like a toy chair for a child.

"Is that your final answer?" you asked with a smile.

"I knew it was a test," he frowned.

"It's really not," you laughed, "I just want you to be comfortable."

"Tell me what it says about me. What do you know because I picked this chair?" he demanded, apparently not believing you that it wasn't a test.

"What do you think it says about you?" you asked instead.

He thought about that for a second. "I guess I'm probably more… structured than the guy who picks the bean bag. More formal."

You nodded. "That makes sense."

"Who picks the bean bag anyway?" he smirked.

"Almost no one picks the bean bag."

He smiled, and it looked a little rehearsed. But it was only the first day, so maybe he would open up over time.

“What are we supposed to do in here?” he asked, looking around as if he was expecting something he could see to explain therapy: did he think you were going to give him shocks or something?

“Well, that’s sort of up to you, Mr. Walker. The goal of these sessions is really just for you to have time each week that you can spend however you’d like.”

“Really? I could just come in here and read a book or whatever?”

“Yes, although I can’t promise you that would be the best use of your time.”

“Could I clean my gun?” he pressed.

You tried not to have a strong reaction. Then again, that could describe a lot of your sessions. “I personally would prefer that you didn’t, to be honest.” He smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of guns.”

“No, I’m not,” you answered honestly, “but I think it’s better for you if this time feels distinct from your work. I know that can be difficult since this is happening through your work and is being funded by your work and we work in different wings of the same building…”

“I don’t need time away from my job. I love my job.” “I’m glad to hear that. I love my job, too, but I would have to say that it is important to my health that I get some time separate from that.”

“Your job is way worse than mine,” he grinned.

“Really?” you smiled back. “A lot of people would say my job is easy.”

“Listening to these crazies bitch all day? I’d lose my mind,” he chuckled.

“Who said I hadn’t lost mine?” you smirked.

Session 2 - October 16th

“You’re wearing the same thing as last time,” he noticed instantly. It usually took a few sessions for someone to notice. Had he really spent so much time looking at you that he remembered what you’d worn?

“Yes, I am,” you agreed.

“Lucky coincidence?” he asked.

“No, I actually wear the same clothes every day,” you corrected. He gave you a confused look. “It saves me time in the morning.”

“That’s it? You wear the same outfit every single day, just to save time in the morning?”

You looked to the ground, questioning how honest you should get. But how could you expect him to be honest with you if you couldn’t open up in this one little way?

“Clothing is a form of self-expression, and these sessions aren’t about expressing my self,” you explained. “I’d hate for my clothing choices to become a distraction.”

He looked you up and down and you felt more observed than you preferred to be.

“What you’re wearing now is plenty distracting on its own,” he said darkly.

You shifted in your seat. You felt very observed, more than you preferred to be.

“I’m… sorry to hear that,” you awkwardly replied.

“Don’t be sorry,” he shrugged.

“What… what were we talking about before?” you asked awkwardly.

Session 3 - October 23rd

“Good afternoon,” you smiled, extending your hand for a handshake. Why did you feel a little awkward when he shook your hand in return? “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright, thanks for asking,” he smiled. “How about you?”

“Well, thank you,” you answered warmly, taking your seat. “So, what do you want to talk about today?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged.

“Well, it’s up to you to guide the discussion wherever you want it to go.”

“What do the superiors think we should be talking about?” he asked, sounding a little incredulous.

“Do you think I get notes from your managers on what to discuss with you?”

“I… sort of assumed,” he admitted.

“I don’t. This is your time. Use it however you’d like.”

The way he looked at you made you wonder if he was going to take that a little too seriously.

“I guess you want me to talk about my traumatic childhood or something?”

“Well, if you’d like to…”

August looked at where his shoe was propped over his other knee, bouncing it as if he was nervous.

“It’s only our second session,” you dismissed.

“Right, right,” he responded, sounding like he was deep in thought. “I don’t want to burden you…”

“Burden? August, never worry about that. It’s my job. I’m here to help you.”

He looked up at you again, something broken and hollow in his expression. “It’s… upsetting.”

“Try me.”

He took a shaky breath, rubbing his hands together. You furrowed your brow at the complete 180 in his body language.

“Well,” he began slowly, “I always knew something was wrong when I was a kid. I knew that that wasn’t how things were supposed to be, even if it was the only thing I’d ever known.”

He narrowed his eyes like he was thinking, then glanced over to the window.

“I knew there wasn’t supposed to be blood on the walls,” he recalled with a shockingly-neutral expression, “I knew there was something wrong…”

You nodded but said nothing, wanting to let him finish this train of thought before you contributed.

“My mother…” he continued, his voice getting darker, “she was troubled, I suppose. She hated me. I don’t know what I did that made her hate me so much. She was good at putting on a face for other people, hiding my cuts and bruises so people wouldn’t ask questions. But in those days, no one was really asking questions anyway. Children were property, and women were always doing right by their children no matter what they did.”

You waited for the silence to steep for a while before you commented. “That sounds… terrible,” you replied quietly, “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” he responded with a curt nod.

“Where was your father in all this?”

“Who knows?”

“He wasn’t in the picture,” you presumed.

“No, he lived with us. He just… wasn’t there. I guess he didn’t see anything wrong with it. She always had dinner ready on the table when he got home, and past that, he barely even acknowledged my existence. I guess he trusted her to raise me. I tried to tell him a few times, but he just told me to respect my mother. He just wanted me to leave him alone.”

“Do you have any memories of time alone with your father?”

“No,” he said like he was realizing it for the first time. “No, I don’t think I was ever alone with my father.”

You decided to let that one sit, hoping to let him continue without you prompting him.

“Every day was hell with her,” he finally added after a moment. “It was always something. No matter what I did, I had always done something wrong. She didn’t always beat me… sometimes she would burn spices and blow the smoke in my face. Sometimes she would make me kneel on uncooked rice. Mostly it was just beatings, though. I lost a lot of my teeth early because of it. And I’m still deaf in this ear,” he explained, motioning to his left ear.

“Wow,” you whispered. “Did no one ever stick up for you? Nobody ever questioned your injuries, like a doctor, maybe?”

“I didn’t see a doctor until I was an adult,” he laughed coldly. “She didn’t believe in that. She thought it was all part of the mind, I think-- that every health problem was just an outward reflection of all my inner faults. Thankfully, I never came down with anything too serious. She was always able to nurse me back to health, even when I got what I realize now was almost certainly pneumonia.”

“Was she more caring when you were ill?”

“Not exactly a warm-and-fuzzy type, but yes, she was gentler. She didn’t beat me until I was well again.”

“How generous,” you groaned with an eyeroll.

“I know, but you learn to appreciate the little things,” he explained. “You must have clung to any affection from adults that you could,” you offered.

“Yes, I did.”

“That seems like a reasonable response.”

“Yes…” he repeated, something darker crossing his tone, “but it can be dangerous, chasing down affection…”

You shuddered a little, but suppressed it. You wanted to explore that statement more, but a glance at the clock revealed you didn’t have even close to enough time to dig into it.

“Sounds like something we can pick up with next week,” you said lightly.

“Oh, is it already time?”

“Getting close to it,” you nodded. “I don’t want to cut you off or anything. This has been really productive. I feel like I’m getting to know you better.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “ditto.”

“And before we wrap up, I just want to say a few things, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, go ahead.”

“First, thank you for sharing this with me.”

He nodded in acknowledgement.

“Second, I want to tell you that you didn’t do anything to make your mother hurt you like that. There’s nothing you could’ve done to justify that… you were a child. You were her child. She was supposed to take care of you, and she didn’t. And it wasn’t because you did something wrong, but simply because there are awful, evil, sick people in this world who do terrible things to innocent people.”

He looked taken aback by that. “Nobody’s innocent.”

That wasn’t the response you expected. Most people hear “it’s not your fault” and brush it away, say that they know that even if they don’t, say that they’ve heard it all before. Had August not heard this before? Was this the first time someone was responding this way? Worse, was this the first time he’d told someone at all?

“August, you were a child. You were innocent.”

He nodded, but didn’t seem super convinced.

“And, lastly,” you finished with a sigh, “does this time next week work for you?”

Sometimes, you just have that itch in your brain, and you need to scratch it. On your way to your car from your office, you found yourself taking a detour to the records office, and leaning on the desk of the receptionist there.

“Good evening, Melissa,” you greeted.

“Oh, hey!” she smiled back from behind her computer. “What’s up?”

“Could you get me anything you have on August Walker?”

“You should be able to access that already--”

“No, that’s just from his time in Operations. He used to work in Support.”

“Really?”

“Um, yeah. Can you… get me that file?”

“Yeah, sure. ...Looks like he had another psychiatrist then, too. I think they had a mandated intake interview back then.”

“Makes sense.”

“I’ve got some tapes here.”

You laughed a little when she actually handed you literal cassettes. “Oh, you mean tapes. I assumed it was digital.”

“Not this far back.”

You slipped the tape into your car’s tape player on your drive home. Perks of having a shitty old car.

So, tell me, August, the calm male voice of the retired Dr. Newbury began, what inspires your interest in the CIA?

I have a talent. I want it to get some use.

What do you mean when you say ‘talent’?

I can do things other people can’t. And I don’t mean physically, although I suppose that’s true, too. What I mean is, I can tolerate things other people can’t. I can survive things other people can’t. There’s something about people that makes them… sensitive. Reactive. I don’t think I have that. I don’t feel things the way other people do.

And you don’t see that as a weakness?

I think I did, once. But I realize now that it’s my greatest strength. I have a sense of… peace, that most people can only dream of.

Peace? Is that something that’s important to you?

Isn’t it important to everyone?

That’s fair. Where do you think that sense of peace comes from?

Is it time to dig into my childhood, Doc?

You shivered at how similar it sounded to his own discussion with you, even when he was clearly so much younger.

I suppose.

Are you one of those people who thinks peace can only come from suffering?

Let’s not talk about me.

Well, I think that suffering is overrated. My childhood, since you’re dying to know, was fine. Simple. Something in me is… missing, maybe, but it wasn’t stolen. My mom was sweet-- the kind of person who would bake a pie and leave it in the windowsill to cool. Always at social functions, always showing me off.

And your father?

Quiet. Stern, never cruel. I mean, he would discipline me when I did something wrong-- but that’s not cruelty, that’s love, isn’t it?

You could say that.

Then sure, my father loved me.

Is that the only way your father loved you? Through discipline?

Is there any other way?

You stopped the tape but what you had heard echoed in your mind. There was something about this story that you hadn’t gotten out of what he had told you. That undefinable, inscrutable element that could only be described as the truth. Of course you had questioned his story at the time, but you had been told to believe people when they were confessing something so serious, even as some covert sense told you that something was wrong.

You pulled over and grabbed a paper file from the seat next to you.

“Of course,” you mumbled aloud to yourself, “of course something was wrong…”

You flipped to his physical examination results from his first intake. He was just 19 then, a few weeks before the interview you had just listened to.

Perfect hearing in both ears. 20/20 vision. Flawless dental impressions-- due mainly to 7 years of corrective braces staggered throughout his childhood.

You felt sick-- actually, physically sick. As much as you had anticipated that there was something off with his original story, you hadn’t prepared for such a significant fabrication. You still didn’t understand why he had lied to you… or what more you would learn had been simply a story.

#august walker x reader #august walker x y/n #august walker smut #august walker headcanon #august walker imagine #henry cavill smut #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill headcanons #mission impossible fanfiction #dark!henry cavill

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seijohsfairy · 4 years ago

Text

𝙱𝙸𝙶𝙶𝙴𝚁, 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁

You’re his favorite thing to figure out, and the most fun to mess with. That’s all the motivation Tooru Oikawa needs, princess.

.wordc. 4.5k+ tw stepcest, manipulation, daddy, stepfather oikawa, ddlg-ish, adultery mentions, degradation, oral (giving), age gap (no age given but tooru is ±decade older than reader)

A viper. A dried out viper skin on the side of the hiking path as you walk with laboured breath behind your mother. It still moves in the breeze, like it’s ready to strike at any moment. But the actual thing that will bite you isn’t here anymore, long moved on to better places. You stare at the skin as it rolls down the path, mouth corners instinctively pulling down in pity. The animal isn’t dead yet, as far as you know at least, but it seems equally unfortunate to leave behind something that was once as much part of you as the air filling your lungs.

It’s only when fingers wrap around your forearm and motion you back with a sharp pull that you look up with wide eyes.

“It’s still here,” he points at the bush near your feet, grip only softening a little to smooth the warm pads of his fingers over your skin, “watch out. You have to be careful, sweetheart.” His lithe voice is pointed when he leads you along his side of the path instead, away from the threat of poison. He lets go of you again, but the touch seems burned into your skin anyway, even when he passes by you and happily continues the ascent. Your mom thanks him with a soft smile, and he leans over to give her a sweet kiss. All while your feet seem cemented to the floor, and even more when he looks down at you with a tiny line between his brows.

You don’t know if that is what concern looks like on him, not yet anyway, but the way his smile drops when glancing at you is enough to tip you off to his worry. He mumbles something about keeping up, as you glance back behind you to take another look at the black viper, but clearly you don’t have an eye for snuffing them out, since it seems to have vanished into thin air. You fist your hands back in your pockets and continue up the trail behind the other two, glancing away when he turns back to you again with the same message, a bit more pointed this time. “Don’t stay behind so far.”

That is the first and maybe only time you think you understand the nature of your relationship with him. Tooru, with his tight grip, and you, glancing straight past the poisonous monster.

It’s late when you sneak back in.

Not quite late enough to get you in trouble, but past dark nevertheless. You slip your shoes off and tiptoe through the hall, peeking into the main room of the house with a heavy heart. Bright flicks of light still play on the walls, and sat on the large couch is the brunet, one leg tucked up toward his chest. Some match plays on the screen, you don’t recognize the team colours. Old habits die hard, you suppose. You only know he’s been waiting up when he sits up a bit straighter, blowing out a deep sigh. “Where have you been hanging out?” he throws the words over his shoulder without turning, though he does lower the volume of the tv. Your breathing hitches in the dip of your throat, a handbrake against your words.

Always with Tooru, it feels like he’s asking questions to trip you up. Asking questions he already knows the answer to, and so most of the time it’s not worth the struggle of lying at all. “Come here for a moment, come talk to me,” he mumbles, looking over to catch your eyes for the first time since you left for school this morning. His pretty hazels seem to soften slightly as they take your figure in.

They used to remind you of spring. Used to catch the light of pink sunsets in a way that convinced you to let them into your home and grow there, you wanted to trust him, if only for the sake of your mother. Now, three years in, they don’t remind you of spring anymore. You walk over and sit though, recognizing his tone as nothing less than an order. He’s not asking, and it’s better not to make him tell you a second time. You curl your feet under the couch and hide in on yourself, shoulders tense. The ticking of the clock is so loud.

Your heart skips a beat when you look up to see him watching you already, an eyebrow raised. God, you really don’t feel like being civil tonight, but you know that anything less would just ruin you more. So you tangle your hands in your lap and put on a little smile. “I’m sorry I’m a little late, daddy, I had a lot to talk about and lost track of time. How was your day?” You must sound as meek as you feel around him nowadays, but he still nods in understanding, like nothing is wrong. To him, there probably isn’t. You just hope he’s in a good enough mood to leave you be tonight, praying for it on repeat in your head.

Your mom won’t be home from her business trip for another few days, and he’s always careful to bruise where it can easily be covered up when she is. The thick silence between you two is tense, but you still prefer it to the spike of anxiety you feel when his mouth drops into a narrow line, like he’s debating his answer. His eyes trace all over you, going from your face to your hands and down your exposed legs quickly. Landing on your lips, as they always do. “It was alright,” he says. He watches you for another moment, before grabbing the remote to turn off the game.

Such a small motion that makes your stomach drop, feeling the familiar panic rise into the back of your throat. Because it means you’ll have his full attention, and when you do, it hardly ever ends well for you. He pats his thigh, and smiles. “Come sit here, tell me about your day.” The tight embrace your mother took you in before she left, that’s all you can see when you swallow. ‘Be good, be good.’ It rings through your head like a heavenly command, something you promised her to soothe her worries. Even when you don’t want to be good, even when you want to kick and scream, you still long for the approval. Your mind still craves for it, and the former star setter is smart enough to use it well.

You rise to your feet. As you sit down on his lap, feeling heated at the closeness, you let out a little puff of air. You don’t tell anyone. You never tell anyone about your stepfather, and that should have been the first sign that this is wrong. You tell even less of what he does to you. But it’s so much easier to believe him when he says he means well, and you’re just so exhausted of being unable to trust.

His muscular legs spread a little to let you get situated against his chest how he likes it when it’s just you and him at home. Tooru always had a thing for cracked toys, though he didn’t quite know it before he started seeing you more than twice a week. Now though, after all the times he has let his hands explore your sticky, sweat-covered skin, he does know.

He doesn’t try to fight it anymore. Your daddy makes a little noise as he taps your shoulder. “Other way ‘round.” The order freezes you, just a momentary break in your panic to consider everything you did today. It’s instant, and if he could read your mind maybe he would laugh at how honest you are. But you hate what happens when you’re not too much, you hate how turbulent and dark his eyes get when he lines up every reason why you’ve fucked up. So when you slowly maneuver around you put your legs both sides of his, and try to ignore the way his hands settle too low on your back. “Well?” he asks, leaning forward to rest his chin on your shoulder.

His breathing on your neck is soft. His honest little girl, he wants to pinch your cheeks when you pout at him. That and— some less savory things. “I went to class, and then to get something to drink with my friends— Marie and Yuri,” you add quickly, choosing to busy your hands with the collar of his shirt as you talk. You catch his eyes only for a split second, just to check. He luckily doesn’t seem mad and even if you know he’s good at hiding it, you feel yourself relax a little.

“Then we went to the library. And then I went to go see Haruto after his class.” Your voice dims toward the end of the sentence, as your heart clenches sharply. Oikawa pulls back a little to look you in the eyes. He knows. You did leave your phone on the counter for a while this morning, that’s probably it. And it should be obvious he knows, he always finds out, but he still wants to hear you say it.

“Oh?” he says, his mouth curling just a little at the corner. Your chest feels a bit tighter, just thinking about it. You didn’t expect it to end today, that’s probably what hurts the most. When your answer doesn’t come, Tooru presses. “How is Haruto doing? Good?” Your bottom lip shakes pitifully at the innocent question, and suddenly tears are welling up in your eyes as you cling a bit closer to his collar.

“I— You-” you start, looking around the room for anything that can comfort you, “you were right. He was seeing some other woman, daddy.” The fingertips on your hips drag small figures into the flesh. “Some girl he met at work. And he told me—” you hick, with teary eyes you miss the way his eyes barely waver. They narrow, but there is no surprise there at all. “Told- me that he never really liked me. That I just held him back in everything. And that he was just dating me for fun but that I couldn’t even do that right, and—”

Your voice cracks. Without a second thought he pulls your face to his neck, holding you tight and letting you sob. The scent is so full, so comforting, and his body is warmer than yours. A perfect pane to curl up against. He pets your head, with gentle whispers and even softer kisses to the shell of your ear. Tooru runs his soft palms over your back and down your sides now, and nods.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Daddy’s got you.” You hate how easy it feels to slip your hands under his shirt, and rub your fingers up and down his sides for more contact. Hate how right it has become to need his touch after months and months of branding it into your skull, and how badly you need to know that he approves of you. You know you should hate even more how he tilts his head back a little and moans at your touch, but it is all you can remember to do anymore. Give into him. So when you pull back with teary eyes and a pout, you’re not at all surprised when his lips find yours. “Stay still,” he mumbles, before kissing you again, and wrapping his hands around your throat to hold you in place for him.

He kisses and sucks until he can drag his tongue over yours without problem, your mouth held open for him just right. So obedient. “Men like that still have too much freedom,” he whispers when pulling back, laying kisses down your cheek and along your jaw. “Of course he thinks you’re holding him back, you’re just a silly girl who’s still learning to be a person. You are holding him back. Didn’t you see that for yourself, huh?”

The words trickle like rain into your bones as he mouths along your ear and down your neck, sucking sharply at the skin there. You— no, you didn’t see it for yourself, but then again, you never do. “You didn’t believe daddy when I told you, but didn’t I end up being right again?” he demands, and his hands find the edge of your shirt to shove it up as you sit in his hold. Unmoving, because of course you should have listened better.

His expression pulls your fibers apart at the seams. It’s all disappointment, you hate how it caves your chest in like a hammer would. When you open your mouth to say something, tears beaded along your lashes, he sits back more to watch you. “Daddy, I…” you try, only to crack a little further. You hick as you try to hold it, but he only strokes his thumb along the soft skin of your throat, and squeezes a little harder.

“But that those guys you like seeing don’t treat you right, that they will continue to cheat on you, that’s an unchangeable fact of life. You’ll have to get used to it if you really want to date like all your friends do.” You know that. And it hurts more than any physical pain, because you’ve been here before. Different man but same situation, always. You always end up in Tooru’s arms, like it was meant to be. Like you were meant to be his, like he always tells you.

“Besides, you can’t blame them,” he continues, running the free hand over the swell of your breasts. “They are probably right about you not being able to do anything fun with them, aren’t they?” At the tilted glance he gives you, your breaking heart only shatters more, tears smearing along your cheeks. You don’t know what to do anymore. Maybe you deserve it, deserve to be cheated on. Deserve to be cussed out and talked about. Maybe Tooru was right from the start, he has always been good at reading people after all. When he calls your name again, you nod. It won’t make the pain stop, but you don’t want to think of it anymore. If you give into Tooru, he always shreds your pain at least.

At your pitiful agreement, he sighs. The brunet kisses your lips, and then the tip of your nose. “I still think you are fun though,” he admits with a soft smile, pressing the words into your hair and holding you a bit tighter. “You’ll always be daddy’s little girl to me.” The effect is instant. Such little praise, but you start crying again, relief flooding into your lungs. You shuffle a bit closer to wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your eyes flick all over his handsome face. As much as you know he’s not your family, he feels familiar enough to cling to every word and truly believe it. He lowers his voice a little and he slips your top down your shoulder, one strap and then the other.

“And I’m already married, so it’s not like I’ll ever hurt you like that. I’ll never try to find anyone else.” You remember the guilty, almost pained expression your ex-boyfriend had this afternoon when he told you. Up until yesterday he was telling you how in love with you he was, so even now it doesn’t make sense. “Only my baby girl,” Tooru kisses your neck harder, as if sensing your distraction. The words don’t really sink in. You just feel the warmth of his lips on yours, the press of his hardening length against your center.

This is exactly what you didn’t want to do tonight. You just want to crawl into bed and fall asleep crying, but you’re too cowardly to stand up to him, even now. Tooru clicks his tongue at your silence. “Unless you don’t think I can take care of you.” His face turns vicious fast, narrowing with accusations ready on his tongue. “Would you rather I go see other women too and leave you, like your dad did?”

“No!” You find his eyes with your wide ones. “No, please don’t. Don’t leave us,” you plead, clinging so tight to his shoulders. He can’t, he can’t leave. Your mom would fall apart entirely, and maybe, so would you. He softly starts pushing you out of his lap, and panic spikes in your chest. You can only cling harder, cry and sob and lay your head against his pulse. “No, daddy, please don’t go.” He sighs at your persistence, pushing harder as your tears drip down your nose and chin, dropping to your collarbones. “No, no, you can’t go. Please don’t leave me again,” you babble, feeling his strong hands on the sides of your body. “I’m sorry, I’ll be better. I can be better, I swear.”

“How can I forgive you if you insist on defying me, huh?” Tooru asks, pulling up your face with two soft fingertips. Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave, it repeats in your head over and over until you can barely hear anything else. At your heated, tear-ridden cheeks and wobbling lip, he softens his approach a little. Like the fanged monster was never there. The frown drops from his face, but there’s still a lingering pool of black in his irises. “I need to hear you say it, baby. Are you going to be good for daddy?”

“Yes,” you immediately nod, “I’ll be your good girl.” At his raised eyebrow, you stand up to unzip and shove your pants down your thighs, kicking them off. You sit back down as quickly as you can, and place your hands at the sides of his waist, to rub your hands up and down like he taught you. “I want to be the best for daddy.” Your admission is paired with a groan, as he reaches up to pull your head back with a fistful of hair. You hiss through your tears, but still melt into him as he pushes the pink muscle into your mouth, rolling his hard-on against your barely clad, slicking pussy. You moan into the kiss when he sucks at your tongue, goosebumps on your exposed skin. Tooru is always hungry for you, you can tell by the way his hands can’t hold still.

Touching your covered cunny, your chest, brushing along your face. He claimed it all for himself many times before, and tonight won’t be any different. When he pulls back for air, you watch him tug your top to sit under your tits. Your daddy unclasps your bra with one hand, as he lets out a little breath eyeing your exposed chest. “I think I’m the only man in the world who loves you enough to treat you right.” He clicks his tongue when leaning you back a bit, rubbing his thumbs over the slowly pebbling buds. “Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, only you,” you nod, “I want to be daddy’s little girl forever. Please, daddy, can I?”

He smiles as he drops his face to your chest to suck on your cute nipple, loving how you shiver. You mewl and sigh with his hard cock rolling in between your ass and pressing up against your covered clit for him to drive you crazy. “You’ll let me use you however I want to then? Let everyone know who owns this cute girl?” You nod again, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth as you thread your fingers through his hair.

The soft, fluffy tufts of freshly washed hair that show that he’s been playing again. One time he took you and your mom to see his team, every one of them no longer carrying the title of top athlete. Muscles a little less packed then at the height of their careers and movements not as immaculate as some of the footage you had watched. Still, you could tell that each of them had an immense pride in the way you looked at them with such wide, star-struck eyes.

They had been so kind and ruffled your hair, cooing about how cute and sweet you were. How lucky Tooru was. It was only when your mother had fallen asleep that he’d come into your room to fuck you stupid. They always ask about you now, his friends. You know it always makes your daddy want you even more, so it’s no wonder that he sucks hickies into your skin, right over the fading ones your now-ex left you days ago. “Such a pretty thing, you should only be marked with my mouth and my cum.” When he slips your panties to the side they are drenched already, sticking to your skin with an uncomfortable squelch each time he pushes his tip against your hole. You take it in stride though, rocking on his clothed cock so eagerly he can’t help but chuckle.

“Gonna ride me like this, baby?” he coos, and you immediately nod. ‘Please,’ you mouth over and over. You don’t even know what you’re asking for, but the bottom line is that you’d do anything for him. You kiss all over his mouth and down his neck, greedy, open-mouthed kisses along his soft skin. “Hmm,” he tilts his head to the side, mouth seemingly tilting along as he pouts, “I think you should lick daddy’s cock first.” You whine as he pulls your head back from him, eyeing you down. “Because you let someone else fuck this cunny when it should’ve been only mine.” You don’t like doing it, because he never lets you up in time. But desperate as you are, you hum just once, and let him slide you back until you can drop to the floor.

His long fingers jerk back with your hair to focus your eyes up at him. He grunts a swear when you already wait with your pretty mouth open and tongue out, twitching in anticipation. You really are such a good girl. Letting go of you for a moment, he puts his thumb into his own mouth to wet it with his spit, then rubs it over the tip of your little tongue and lowers his pants down his thighs. The fabric bunches at his knees, you slip it down a bit further to reveal more of him. And he spreads his legs more to allow you all the access you could ever want, a smirk on his pretty lips. Hard cock curved up to his stomach, beads of precum smeared across the flushed head. You whine for him, and wrap your hands around the base of it as you look up. “Get it nice and wet, princess,” he nods. “Be good for me.”

So you start gently, suckling at the tip and down with small kitten licks. Your daddy groans as he leans back into the couch, brushing his knuckles along your cheekbone. You suck the flushed head into your cheeks, hollowing them until you watch his eyes flutter, then pulling back to leave your glaze of spit on him. You leave kisses all over it and down the shaft, before taking him back into your mouth. The wetness is smeared along your lips and chin when Tooru’s fingers find their spot in your hair again and he starts pulling you closer to him. “Suck it properly,” he grunts though, “stop teasing. Take it all inside.”

He pulls you closer and inside your mouth further as your hands find his thighs, trying to steady yourself from his strong grip. You try to push your tongue down enough to let him into the back of your mouth, but the hand on your head keeps pulling until your all the way to his waist, and you swallow desperately around him at the painful stretch. He lets you up with a laboured sigh, then pulls you back down his glistening cock again. With each move he pushes up more against the back of your throat. You whine and gag around him, and he moans your name. It makes your cunny drip even more, slicking up the inside of your thighs.

With soft hands you work on the part that you’re unable to take in, twisting your wrist up and down to match the bobbing of your head. It doesn’t matter that you’ll be soar, it doesn’t matter that it’ll start stinging soon. You want him to feel good. “Just like that, baby, fuck.” Your jaw is starting to ache, but it is all worth it when he mumbles how pretty you look and how good you feel. “Does it taste good?” You hum around him as he pushes all the way back into your throat, loving how he twitches into your mouth. You can’t even taste the precum anymore, but the heaviness on your tongue is enough to convince you that everything about him is good. Your eyes flutter against the tears and you suck as hard as you can before he’s pulling you off of him all together. “Fuck, you’re such a fucking slut for my cock, aren’t you?”

He lifts you from the floor against him and waits until you’re able to place your knees around him, before putting you back on his cock. It pushes against your fluttering hole, but he doesn’t let you sink down just yet. And you can’t help it, a whine of frustration makes it’s way out of you before you can think better of it. “Daddy, please!” You barely finish the words before you’re dropping forward with whimpers and more tears clumping your lashes together, being dropped on his fat cock so suddenly your eyes roll back in your skull.

“Happy now?” he hisses when you press your cheek against his neck, whining out louder. “Can’t even let me sit you down properly.” He grabs you by the hips so tight you know the ovals will be visible in the morning, before helping you up. Your nipples brushing up against his solid chest as he brings you back down, fucking you open. Slowly at first, until you find your rhythm again and start bouncing by yourself like you should, grabbing at the short, coarser hair at the base of his skull. He lets out the prettiest sounds when you pull, when you kiss him with so many desperate kisses you feel breathless. “You just want to be a good girl, don’t you?” he mumbles, fucking up into you so that his cock presses up against your spot with each thrust.

Your mouth drops open as you work for it, sweat rolling down between your breasts and the wet pap of your skin slapping against his filling the room. As bad as it should be, you can’t help but think this is how you’re supposed to be loved. “Yes, wanna be daddy’s baby girl,” you say, voice already giving out. His warm body against yours is enough to get you coiling so tight, but then he leans you back for a better angle to rub his thumb over your puffy clit, and your toes are curling. “Ah, aah! Daddy- f-holy fuck, daddy, love you. Love your cock, loveyourcockloveyourcock,” you mewl, shaking on him as he fucks you through your orgasm, only easing up a little when you get so tight he might hurt you. When your walls flutter around him though, he increases his pace even more, resting his forehead against your shoulder.

“Fuck, gonna cum, princess,” he breathes, and you can only nod up and down through the last tremors of your own high as you squeeze around him. He cums with a choked swear and your name, spurting thick ropes of hot white into your greedy cunt. It fills you up with warmth and makes you feel so nice and full. You collapse against him with your arms still limply around his neck, and hiccup against the tears when he laves your cheek in kisses. “Good girl, such a good fucking girl for daddy.” You hum in response, and let him kiss you again.

“Look at me,” Tooru sighs against your lips, and you use the last of your energy to oblige. “You belong to daddy. And this can be our little secret.” He hums at your little smile, and kisses your nose. But when you catch his eyes, the darkness is still there. “Don’t think of leaving me again. No one else will ever love you like I do, you understand?” He pulls you a bit closer to his chest then, and you can feel the rapid patter of his heartbeat against yours. “I’ll make sure of that.”

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rnajorarcana · 4 years ago

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❛ can’t tell if i’m really here , i think i’m leaving this body - bye - ye - ye - ye - ye !

oliver oli d’angelo . 23 . pan . he/they . angel boy . ( bullying , toxic relationships )

✧ ˖ * ° ><> ╱ ross lynch, genderfluid, he/they — look who’s fresh from the ferry, aren’t you OLIVER “ OLI " D'ANGELO ? your eroda brochure says you’re TWENTY - THREE and that you’re currently residing in MARMOTON. your favourite tourist attraction to hang around is SEA ROCK BREWERY, and the locals around these ports would describe you as SILVER TONGUED & CLEVER, RETICENT & INSECURE. your resting fish face really gives off SHADES OF BLUE REFLECTING THE SEAS & SKIES , TATTOO INK MIXED WITH GLITTER , THE MAGIC IN HIS VEINS & THE DIAMONDS IN HIS BONES and i’m a big fan of the DECK OF TAROT CARDS you seem to always be attached to. well, if you see the minister this morning; make sure you head on home as quick as possible, you never know what bad luck he could bring.

i . past

there is a saying that the amount of kind people in the world is diminishing ; and given exactly what you’ve been through , my dear boy ?? you could attest to that . kind people are forged in fire & have blood leaking from their mouths , given bruised knuckles and black eyes - yet here you are .

eroda born you grow up shy & quiet , gentle & sensitive - the type of kid that is easy to befriend if you talk to him but is equally as easy to shove into a locker . you are sketchpads & soft smiles but bruised cheeks & visits to the principal’s office and you’re told boys will be boys so there isn’t much the school boards can do about your constant harassment . you’re different than them because you don’t fit into their mold ; girls like you because you don’t pull their hair or make fun of them for being girls and that makes the other ones jealous , further worsening the treatment .

all you have is you , taking solace in the two things you know - artwork & video games . you imagine yourself as a gallant hero - like the one in the zelda games - riding alone but still kind & brave , and these drawings you make consist of both the characters from your comfort and yourself as such . you bury yourself in your nintendo ds , carrying it everywhere , and maybe one day you’ll be the link to a story where there’s a courageous hero needed and you can fill that slot . of course , your interests only contribute to the fact you’re seen as high school’s punching bag . you take it .

but things get different the one day you get pushed to the ground - because high school’s like that - and your beloved drawings get torn , your ds held from your grasp like a toy held from a jumping dog . and oli d’angelo , the ‘ angel boy ’ , with red lips & cherub cheeks & puppy eyes , decides he’s had enough and clocks his assailant back . principal’s office visit again , you’re suspended , but your darling mother ( she’s all you have ; your father strolled out the door before you could know him & the woman is a bit broken from hoping he could come back after all these years ) rubs your back , takes you out for ice cream , and tells you that you did the right thing .

doesn’t feel like it , since your limits were simply pushed .

graduation , art school , new horizons . oliver d’angelo meets trevor frost , and they instantly click , and with words exchanged across library tables and eventually kisses behind bookshelves , a budding romance is formed . he’s rich ; he even offers to pay for your tuition , but you fall in love with him because he looks at you like you are everything , but you don’t realize the wool pulled over your eyes - because you’re an angel who’s naive & innocent and he’s the monster that berates you & digs at you with even the most syrupy words , then lulls you into coming back . you spend your nights crying thinking you are to blame for things he’s done to you - finding he has more bedmates than just yourself , being accused of things that aren’t your fault or your doing . . . you are broken down , piece by piece , and once more . . . there’s a day where you can no longer take it .

screaming , hellfire , a broken angel finally breaks free of his chains and runs away , even though the monster tried to clip his wings . you pack up your things and leave , and you realize that your financial support is gone , but you need to get out .

. . . this life , it’s tested your kindness & your patience - you’ve been tossed through the wringer endlessly , and as you leave his apartment , you make a resolution that you can no longer allow yourself to be hurt . you cannot be vulnerable .

you are now oli , and oli shows up to his high school reunion with a new air of confidence . obnoxious confidence , like a party boy - but he retains his charm , words of silver leaking from his lips and charisma among a crowd enough to bring in even those who treated him unkindly in the years prior . he becomes the LIFE OF THE PARTY , but he doesn’t actually want to be there . this new persona - this arrogance , this annoying voice , this being who participates in every vice possible . . . he is nothing like the sweet & gentle boy that lies underneath . but he’s a mask , a suit of armor that you carry - so you can numb yourself over the loneliness & hurt that’s plagued you over the years .

new horizons , take two . you complete a tattoo artist apprenticeship , get your license - ship yourself off to another chapter of your life that hopefully means things will change . you’re black clothes & sunglasses & tarot cards & tattoos , silver tongues and smiles that only signal mischief . long conversations and words flying a mile a minute because your mouth is your greatest weapon . the good thing is nobody here knows you . . . even though maybe , you’d want them to - but if you do , you run the risk of getting hurt again .

oliver gets hurt , but oli is a courageous hero ( maybe ) that can go up against anything needed . . . you can be oli for now , even though that hurts just as much .

ii . present

SO OLI . . . god this is my son . this is my oc i’ve written forever and god do i love him .

so !! he’s an artist , loves to draw , paint , etc , now employed as a tattoo artist ! and . . . he’s also . got a lot of bad habits since he’s got a party boy facade to keep up and tries to make himself into someone else since , who he actually is , he’s scared to be in fear of getting hurt again .

on the inside , he’s sweet and gentle and introvereted - he doesn’t like big social gatherings and would much rather vibe on his own or with a few close friends ( if he had friends ) than anything else . but he’s afraid , again , of being himself or being vulnerable towards anyone else because he’s seen as an easy target , and his feelings are easy to manipulate . . .

so on the outside , he’s much different . he’s fucking annoying , to start - he’s a talker , always has something to say , and he’s very good at keeping a conversation . he’s a charmer , and paired with his big brown eyes and his award winning smile he can talk a snake out of its basket . but he also , again , maybe says too much and doesn’t have any fear or realization of consequences , and indulges himself in things like alcohol , sleeping around , loud parties , etc . because that’s the persona that keeps him guarded . and he’s gotten used to it , but he doesn’t like that this is what he’s known for . he wants people to get to know him for him but . . . this is his only option , since if he lets people inside , he gets hurt . so he just has to deal .

he’s that person that talks so much , you think he’s oversharing when in ACTUALITY he’s telling you nothing of importance . oli is fucking smart & intelligent and he knows how to read a room , how to pick his words - all survival techniques he’s learned from navigating the world around him . he’s . . . an expert at this social stuff , even tho tbh he much rather wouldn’t be .

some ppl want to kiss him some ppl want to kick him it be like that sometimes

he’s still nice !! he’s very nice - but maybe a bit more crass and unafraid to say shit that you wouldn’t expect anyone else to say .

but also also it’s like i said before - he is very into artwork and video games , the latter especially being his huge comfort . first is his passion , second is his comfort . oli loves games and he’s lowkey nerdy as hell , even though he’s trying to conceal some parts of himself THAT always bleeds through in some shape or form .

he’s also extremely into witchcraft , and that’s a major part of his character as well . he likes hanging at the brewery because it’s easy to get people who want tarot readings from him , and he always keeps a sigil or a crystal or something on his person . always has a water bottle of witch tea , always enchants his clothes or items , cleans his workspace at the tat parlor he works at with moonwater - that stuff . he’s known as two things - the angel boy or the magic boy .

o also he’s genderfluid so rly any titles are valid for him , comfy with anything . diagnosed bipolar ii & adhd bc i’m a bitch that loves to project .

HE’S . . . HE’S A GOOD BOY . he’s just . afraid to show that he’s a good boy . he’s got a heart of gold but he’s scared that if he shows it someone else is gonna use him again .

ANYWAYS !! like this n i , light , the bastard , will message u for plots !!

#vgs r his comfort hence the zelda influence graphique #eroda.intro #░ ★ abt . ❛ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ғɪɴᴅ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟғ sᴏᴍᴇᴅᴀʏ #bullying tw #toxic relationship tw #neglect mention #alcohol mention #i think . i got everything .#HAUSHUSHUS this is so bad im so sorry

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vendettacanons · 4 years ago

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⚔️ Characterization Hour : Vaas ⚔️

// It’s been a hot minute since I posted anything and I’m sorry for that. My motivation inexplicably tanked this week. I’m feeling a little better now so I’ll get around to my inbox and replies soon. In the meantime, I’ve been playing a lot of Far Cry 3 and analyzing the characters (both to pick up one or two more and specifically to study things for ship ideas and characterization of Vaas specifically).

// Mind the tags for trigger warnings. Far Cry 3 is dark as shit.

// I noted this the first time I watched the cutscenes, but playing through the game and actually getting the full context firsthand really hit different; Citra openly says that Vaas was not always the way he is now. He wasn’t always so crazy. (Granted, both of them are crazy but I’m chalking that up to some idea about genetic things that I’ll talk about later.) She says he wasn’t always a fucking maniac- the drugs turned him into that. The drugs and the unforgiving harshness and cruelty Hoyt and his work demanded of him. She blames Hoyt for turning Vaas into what he is, and she’s right. She mentions that Vaas used to live with her and the Rakyat, and that he had some kind of birthright he ran away from (meaning Vaas is likely supposed to be the one leading the Rakyat and that’s another thing I’ll touch on in a bit.) After Hoyt discovered the islands and began trading drugs to the settlers in exchange for bodies, Vaas was one of the unlucky ones who ended up getting hooked. Hoyt took a liking to him, and put him in a downward spiral.

// There’s more to this though. It’s never explicitly stated how long Hoyt has been in the Rook Islands but we can draw a rough timeline. Not much is known about Hoyt’s upbringing, but it is known that he likely started young, killing his father and joining a criminal consortium before eventually taking it over for himself. No exact age is given, but I’d clock him at 20 then. Our biggest hint to that is a line that we get from him during his fight with Jason. He states “he’s been doing this since before [Jason] was born”. This is likely in reference to attempts made on his life by mutinous Privateers or Pirates. Jason is 25, so his business has lived for about 25 years, which makes sense given Hoyt himself is 45. He must have discovered the Rook Islands later on (thanks to his Pirate lackeys knowing the oceans so well) given that he states he has connections all over the world. I’d say he’s been on Rook for about 10 years, considering he has a whole foothold on the place and a giant satellite dish (which would take years to build by hand, especially when his men are incredibly varied and probably not all experienced in design and building, much less any of the locals). He’s definitely been sitting on the property for a long ass time.

// This makes sense considering Vaas and Citra lived and survived on the island as orphans for a long time- theyre part of the native population. Going by this timeline, Hoyt arrived when Vaas was 17. Perfect timing for him to get hooked onto drugs, abandon his birthright before he was set to receive it, and putting him at an ideal age to be easily manipulated by Hoyt into something evil and sadistic. He was following Hoyt’s example, the drugs just amplified the effect of his cruelty.

// Again this is all speculation and largely headcanon considering Far Cry 3 didn’t give us any solid hints at an actual timeline.

// Branching away from the why, I wanna talk about some headcanons I have about Vaas himself. It is very plain to see throughout the game that Vaas is not entirely bad. I mean, he is irredeemably awful, but there are some points that I want to draw attention to. He obviously cares very deeply for Citra. He mentions it often how he loved his sister and would do anything for her at some point, even kill, and in a conversation with Hoyt he sounds legitimately heartbroken that she is tattooing Jason and giving away his birthright like that. He seems to have this sober moment of clarity where he feels like his sister is replacing him based on how far gone he is. So obviously, part of his emotional instability is chalked up to Hoyt’s conditioning and drugs. But not all of it is.

// Part of Vaas’ mental instability comes fro mugs parents, and Citra is proof of that. There is literally nothing known about their parents, they were abdanoned as children. But both Vaas and Citra carry something from them: mental illness. It’s hard pinpoint exactly what kind, but addiction might very well be in the genetics. Why would Vaas, who was basically a prince capable of having anything he wanted brought to him at the snap of his fingers, turn to drugs? Unless one of his parents was an addict themselves which, again, very possible considering the island’s were likely discovered by the Pirates— meaning prior to Hoyt’s arrival, drugs were still being trafficked. That would account for why Vaas got hooked so quickly, while Citra showed a measure of restraint. However, Citra betrays other things that only genetics could account for. Because the environments they’re in are so vastly different. Both Citra and Vaas demonstrate developign strange obsessions and compulsions. Citra develops an irrational obsession with Jason after he finds an artifact (one that is important to her people granted, but how quickly and deeply she develops it is what makes it so concerning). Vaas just develops obsessions with fools who end up on the island in general— Chris, Jason, etc. In Vaas’ case, it’s hazardously exacerbated by the drugs but hey- Citra wasn’t exactly tame about how she handled it either. It’s impossible to tell what the defined cause of them being so unhinged with their obsessions is given how little else they show, but there’s definitely some common illness they likely inherited.

// And before I go any further, I just want to put a disclaimer that mental illness does not inherently make people evil or more likely to commit crimes or atrocities. That’s not the case at all and that is not what Citra and Vaas are meant to portray in canon or in my own writings. Mental illness is not the reason why both Citra and Vaas are fucked up as characters. Special conditioning to torture, abuse, and kill people, treating them like disposable toys, and violent drug addictions in Vaas’ case, or as a threat against them until proven otherwise/ indoctrinated into their sacred culture in Citra’s case, are. The fact that they may have inherited some type of mental illness from their parents developed as a result of Hoyt before he even showed and it’s gone completely unacknowledged or treated is just a catalyst.

// Anyways, what is the point of all this? Why did I do this characterization assessment? Well, this is basically a long-winded way of describing a new facet to my portrayal of Vaas. One that I’ve been looking for for a while now. With all of my characters, I try not to let them fall flat and be defined by one particular characteristic. In Vaas’ case, this is very difficult. He’s so all over the place and unpredictable that writing him is easy, but actually capturing the essence of him is hard because he is often only portrayed as being one thing: insane. But after playing the game for hours and carefully studying him, I found it really interesting how Vaas has all these “breaks in his insanity”. They mostly happen when he’s talking about family. His quiets up, he softens, and his act vanishes only to pop back up when something seemingly random sets him off again. But the fact he has these breaks at all, and the way he acts during them, implies that part of Vaas— the man that he was supposed to be, is still there. His entire persona is driven by a work and drug motivated impulse to be as destructive and chaotic as possible. And he is. He is cruel, evil, nasty, and wicked. But he’s also still capable of being gentle and loving like he was when he was with Citra. He shows he still loves his family. He even still carries some of their traditions, like calling everyone “brother” or “sister”. There are moments, rare as they are, where he is free from the demands of his work and his addictions aren’t gnawing at him. There are small moments of calm in the storm that he has become. It doesn’t erase or justify the destruction that he inevitably brings. But it does exist. Because Vaas is still a man after all. And he knows there is something really wrong with him. He’s not only guilty, he is tormented by it. He literally gets on his knees and begs Jason to kill him. He knows he’s fucked up. He’s just not strong enough to change.

// TL;DR: Hoyt’s been fucking shit up since before Vaas was born. This is all Hoyt’s fault. He’s the reason Vaas is an orphan, he’s the reason Vaas was mentally unstable even before he gave him drugs and forced him to abandon his birthright and work for him, he’s the reason Vaas is such a wicked little brute that destroy everything he touches. But there are brief moments where his facade cracks and reveals he’s still capable of being the gentle loving brother he once was. He still loves his sister very much and he feels very guilty for abandoning her. He knows there are things wrong with him and he knows he can’t correct them or finish himself off by his own hand, hence why he begs for death in the end. Thanks, Hoyt.

// Looking at it, this will definitely impact my portrayal of Vaas. Probably not by default, but definitely in terms of pre-established relationships and ships going forward. I’ll mention ahead of time that nobody except Hoyt, Citra, and Vaas really know the extent of what has happened to him. Buck does to a certain degree but he doesn’t have the full story. I’ll also say this does not change the fact that most of Vaas’ relationships that aren’t business related are going to be unhealthy or downright abusive, if not for a large portion of it than for all of it. Vaas has proven that he is not above threatening, manipulating, emotionally toying with, and physically hurting people. Especially those he develops obsessions with. He might be infatuated with someone, but his infatuations are far from pure and wholesome. And stemming from that, he is not one of those “fixable” villain types. Lots of love and understanding are not going to cure him. He is not going to go change overnight because someone was nice to him. In general, I dont see Vaas changing for anyone. He’s just too... stubborn and set in his way to do so. But if he does, it’ll require some hardcore chemistry and a metric fuckton of plotting (and probably a dead Hoyt but that’s neither here nor there).

// Anyway if you read this far, you’re awesome and I love you, thanks for coming to my TedTalk. ❤️

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heartofsnark · 6 years ago

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Black Market Wonderland (Chapter Three): The beginning is the end.

Notes: Once again thanks so much to my friends who proof read this and to everyone who leaves feedback. I really appreciate it, it means a lot to me. I hope everyone continues to enjoy this shit show.

Word Count: 10027

Warnings: cursing, mentions of drinking, threats, that’s about all I can think of, if I missed something let me know.

Missed the last chapter? Link here!

“You know you’re literally trying to prove your worthless, right?” Kisaki’s snide comment brings her back to reality.

“I don’t usually have to work so hard to prove it,” she grumbles under her breath.

“Aww, don’t worry princess, we’ll find plenty of uses for you.” Baba winks again and she glares at him, despite the pleasant tone his meaning is clear. He doesn’t think she has a chance of winning this bet.

“Even Eisuke might have his work cut out for him, finding value in her,” Oh jumps on the chance to demean her, but he’s smirking instead of his usual stoic expression.

“How long ya think it’s gonna take him to win?” Kishi asks them, puffing on his cigarette.

“Eh, a few days if Koro’s lucky.”

“He might let it go on longer, if he’s looking to toy with her.”

“Hmm, she might get a week if he really wants to drag it out.”

“As much as I’d love to listen to the peanut gallery, I need to finish cleaning.” She rolls her eyes as the group of men start taking bets on her bet and leaves to clean the suites.

Most of the penthouse rooms aren’t that bad, basic cleaning and maintenance needed. It seems they’re all relatively capable of cleaning up after themselves, if nothing else. Then she steps into Kishi’s suite, she knows it’s his from the stubbed out cigarettes and overflowing ashtrays scattered through it. She ends up having to open as window as she cleans through it, it smells like a smoke bomb’s gone off in the damn place. There’s still a hint of cigarettes under air freshener scents by the time she’s finished. His room took up the rest of her shift and it’s time for her to clock out.

She takes the elevator down, at least she can spend the night in her dorm. The only ordeal left for the night is introducing Kiyo to Chisato and Sakiko. She puts her cleaning cart away and files into the locker room; Chisato and Sakiko are already changing.

“How did cleaning the penthouse go?” Chisato asks.

“Fine, nothing unusual,” Tsuneko gives a vague response and busies herself with changing.

They make idle chitchat as they all change, reconfirming where they plan to meet up at to hang out. Chisato and Sakiko finish changing before her, leaving her alone. She starts gathering her things from her locker. She’ll drop her clothes from yesterday and the tupperware off at her dorm before meeting them at the restaurant. The door opens, the sound and footsteps echo in the quiet locker room. Erika walks towards her locker, she’s in casual clothes, maybe she forgot something? The head maid notices Tsuneko and groans, before opening her locker.

There’s a tension between them, despite their usual animosity towards each other, this is different. Tsuneko’s stomach twists and knots, she wants to make this better, somehow.

“Matsuda,” she calls out.

“What do you want?” Erika whips her head around to glare at Tsuneko.

“Can we talk about this?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” She closes her locker with a clang and starts to rush towards the door, Tsuneko steps in front of her, invading her space.

“There very clearly is.”

“Move it, Tomori, or I’ll write you up for harassment,” Erika threatens, her face is red, Tsuneko hates seeing her this angry.

“Look, I’m sorry about this whole promotion shit. You have every right to be upset, I don’t know what they’re thinking, but I’m trying to get out of it.”

“Is that suppose to make me feel better!?”

“Uh, I was hoping, at least a little.”

“I’ve dedicated five years to this hotel!”

“I know, I know and I’m sorry. I don’t how to fix this other than trying to get out of it.” That makes Erika’s face fall, anger draining as she lets out a sigh.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I don’t disagree, but can you be more specific?”

“You’re seriously going to turn down a promotion because of me?”

“Well, uh, yeah.” There’s a lot more to it than that, but she can’t think of a decent lie.

“That’s stupid, holding yourself back for others, dumbass.” Erika is still red faced as she pushes past Tsuneko, leaving the locker room. She lets out a heavy sigh, not sure how to feel about how that ended.

It’s a quiet walk to her dorm, she drops her things off, tops off Kiyo’s bowl and gives him some belly scratches before she changes into some slightly nicer clothes. While as casual enough place, she’d rather show up in something nicer than the baggy shirt and shorts she usually wears for the less than five minute walk from the dorms to the hotel.

The night air feels nice against her skin, the city lights twinkling in the dark and people meandering around her. She looks up at the sky for a moment as she walks, no stars, the light pollution from the city making it impossible to see them. Living in the city is great in many respects, a large part of her loves Tokyo and it will always be a second home to her, but little things like that makes her miss Kyushu. She shakes her head and makes her way to the restaurant.

Sakiko and Chisato are already sat at a table; they wave Tsuneko over. The place she picked is a cozy inexpensive restaurant, simple wooden furniture and warm low lighting. She plops down in a chair and orders something to drink, nothing alcoholic. She’s slowly trying to learn her lesson about getting drunk around others. Not to mention, if she forgot about Kiyo in a drunken stupor, she’d never forgive herself.

“It feels so nice to just relax.” Sakiko grins and takes a sip from her cocktail.

“‘Cause you’re so serious during work, “ Tsuneko teases.

“I swear to god, if you invited us out just to nag me, I’m going to kill you.”

“You’re about as threatening as a cupcake.”

“Says the chubby cheeked munchkin.” Sakiko pinches and squishes Tsuneko’s cheeks from across the table.

“Wah er ya doin?” Tsuneko tries to ask and grabs Sakiko’s wrist, prying her hands off. Chisato is cracks up, laughing at the two of them.

“Hey, maybe some of your luck will rub off on me?”

“Will you stop with that luck bullshit?”

“You have The King and Kuroba after you, I can’t even get a boyfriend.” Sakiko sighs.

“Don’t forget Erika,” Chisato chimes in and sips from her beer.

“No one is after me!”

“Fine, whatever you say, we’ll stop teasing you, for now.” Chisato shows some measure of mercy.

“For now she says, speaking of love lives, how are things going with you and Itsuki?” She’s never met Chisato’s girlfriend herself, but she’s seen her in passing and has heard about her plenty.

“It’s been great,” Chisato beams, “she’s working tonight, but we’re going out on a date tomorrow.”

“Ugh,” Sakiko puts her head in her hands, “I’m gonna die alone while you two live happily ever after.”

“Nah, I plan on dying alone too,” Tsuneko offers.

“Not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

“Wanna know who my great love is right now?” Sakiko asks, her expression still grim.

“Should I be concerned?” Tsuneko raises an eyebrow, her mind immediately jumps to the gutter, a vibe and toy filled one.

“It’s a game she’s been playing,” Chisato squashes her concerns as Sakiko pulls her phone out.

“What were you thinking?”

“Nothing good,” Tsuneko admits and grins despite her flushing cheeks.

“Pervert, here look at my love.” Sakiko shows her an otome cg on her phone, a shirtless guy with what look like wolf ears, “Kazuro, he’s so gorgeous.”

“So, it’s a furry game?” Tsuneko can’t resist teasing.

“He’s a demon, it’s different,” Sakiko defends, “it’s called Monster Lovers, it’s freemium, but it doesn’t drain your wallet too much and the stories are so good.”

Their food comes and Tsuneko stuffs her face as Sakiko prattles on about the game. She’s apparently already conned Chisato into downloading it for the female love interests. And Tsuneko has to make a promise to check it out so Sakiko will take a breath, that she uses to inhale her food now that her passionate fangirling has ended.

They continue making idle conversation and eat. There’s a sense of ease to the evening, every topic is light and easy. This aspect of friendship is always easy, anything deeper makes Tsuneko squeamish, but she already knows what she needs to put some trust in these two. To maybe take the work qualifier off their roles as work friends. The two of them drink a bit through the meal, a soft flush to their cheeks, while Tsuneko sticks to sobriety. They’re not drunk, just on the verge of tipsy if she ventured to guess. Which means, she hopes, they’ll be a bit more open to accepting her fluffy noodle boy.

The meal finishes up and Tsuneko pays for them, despite being told she doesn’t have to. A part of her feels manipulative; inviting them out and being extra kind, all with the ulterior motive of making them befriend a ferret. She’s done worse things, she tries to remind herself. Kiyo is without a doubt the most worthy cause she’s ever had for doing shady things.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tsuneko tells them again, “hey, I still have some cake I got from Larme, do you guys wanna come eat some?”

“Oooh, I never turn down cake,” Sakiko agrees.

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve ever said,” Tsuneko teases.

“I could go for some sweets,” Chisato tells her as they leave the restaurant.

The two of them walk in front of Tsuneko, the sidewalk not wide enough for all three to be side by side. It’s a small thing, but watching them chat while she trails just a bit behind reinforces how much closer they are to each other than her. She knows it’s a silly feeling and she hates how sensitive she can be, but she always seems to be so disconnected. She’s heard so much about those kind of friends who confide everything in each other, those deep bonds that don’t break. Her relationships have never been like that. Whether it’s romantic or platonic, she can’t let it get deeper than surface level. It’s like a panic alarm is set off in her head any time someone tries to get closer. The closest relationship she has is Shinobu and that’s-

“You alright there Tsuneko?” Sakiko’s chirpy voice cuts off her thoughts. They’re standing outside the dorms. Tsuneko can’t even remember the walk.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I’m fine.”

“You looked kinda sad,” Chisato comments.

“Nah, I was just lost in thought, don’t worry it,” Tsuneko cuts off any further questions. She’s not about to get sappy and melancholic with them. No one needs to know every sad little thought that pops into her head.

She leads them up to her dorm and unlocks the door. Kiyo’s cage is tucked away from sight when someone first comes in. She doesn’t want someone to accidentally see him when she’s leaving or entering and in this case it allows her to ease them into seeing him. Jumping right to ‘Hey, here’s my illegal ferret’ isn’t exactly a smart move.

“Sorry, my dorm’s a little messy,” she apologizes as they enter and she shuts the door behind them.

“This is messy to you?” Chisato asks, looking at the little pile of yesterday’s clothes on the floor. She was in a bit of a hurry when she dropped everything off.

“Yeah, I was in a rush.”

“This is literally one of the cleanest places I’ve ever seen and oh my god, that’s so cute,” Sakiko’s train of thought derails as she notices some of the plushies Tsuneko has on a shelf. She picks up a Cinnamoroll one and gives it a squeeze.

“He’s one of my favorite characters,” Tsuneko admits as she gets out the cake for them all, “do you guys want anything to drink?”

They ask for some coffee and Tsuneko plays hostess, getting it all together. They sit down on her kinda small cream colored couch, more of a loveseat in all honesty, and she ends up sitting on the floor. She shoves a bite of cake in her mouth and can’t help making a noise of pleasure, the rich sweet flavor hitting her. Tsuneko is finishing up her piece when she decides it’s time to confront the elephant in the room or ferret as it may be in this case.

“Can I ask you guys something?”

“Sure, what’s up?” They look at her expectantly.

“If I theoretically, was doing something against the hotel rules, would you report me?��

“What did you do?” Chisato asks, all humor or mirth drains from her expression.

“It’s nothing dangerous or awful, I just wanted to know.”

“It would depend on what it is,” Sakiko tells her, her eyes narrowed in concern.

“I’m just gonna have to show you, aren’t you?”

“Show us?” Chisato and Sakiko share a curious look.

“Close your eyes,” Tsuneko tells them and doesn’t step away until they do. She goes to Kiyo’s cage, he blinks a few times, he must just be waking up. He makes soft dooking noises as she takes him out and brings him close to her chest, scratching over his fur. They didn’t make any promises to keep him secret and she knows she can’t expect them too. She gives him a kiss on the head, she doesn’t want to lose him.

“What’s that sound?” Sakiko asks as Tsuneko brings Kiyo into the room. If someone isn’t use to it dooking noises can sounds weird, something between a chatter and almost clucking sound. Tsuneko puts away the dessert plates before sitting down with him in front of the coffee table.

“Open your eyes.” She can’t help the waver in her voice, worry coloring her tone.

“Oh my god,” Sakiko speaks first, her brown eyes are bright and wide.

“His name is Kiyohito, Kiyo for short,” she introduces as he excitedly wriggles in her arms. Sakiko moves to sit at the table on the floor, letting her get closer.

“He’s so cute,” she reaches out then pauses, “can I pet him?”

“He sometimes nips, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. If he gets to rough just give him a boop on the nose and he’ll stop.”

Sakiko scratches the top of his head; Kiyo sniffs and licks at her fingers. Chisato mimics Sakiko’s position shift and gets closer, she still hasn’t spoken.

“When did you get him?” Sakiko asks.

“A few days after I started working here, I know pets aren’t allowed. But, he was so cute and I-” Tsuneko stops herself, ‘was lonely’ is the rest of that sentence. Those words die in her throat. Hell will freeze before anyone hears her say something so pathetic.

“It’s not hurting anyone,” Chisato speaks up, her fingers scratching over Kiyo’s back.

“I never really got the pet rule, some guests bring pets, and as long as you care for them who cares,” Sakiko grumbles.

“So, neither of you wanna tell on me?”

“Of course not,” Sakiko answers and Chisato nods in agreement.

“Thank you both so much,” Tsuneko bows her head, “I promise if anyone ever finds out about him, I won’t tell that you both knew, I won’t let it effect either of you.”

“We know you wouldn’t,” Chisato’s hand moves from Kiyo’s head to Tsuneko’s, ruffling her hair. Tsuneko’s face flushes and she has to resist the urge to lean into the touch. Why are head pats so damn nice?

“Hey, pet the ferret, not me!” Tsuneko yells and sits ups straight, batting away Chisato’s hand. She doesn’t need her weakness for head pats exposed. Her denial must not be as smooth as she was hoping, Chisato and Sakiko laugh at her. Kiyo squirms out of her hands and plops onto the table, showing his belly. Tsuneko scratches at his tummy; he loves belly scratches.

“Is this what you were all stressed about?” Sakiko asks, joining in on scratching his soft tum.

“Well, it’s not just that, I wanted to ask you both a favor,” they look at her curiously, “if I ever cant for whatever reason, would you guys mind stopping in and taking care of him?”

“I don’t mind, ferret cuddles and I get to raid your fridge, sounds good to me.” Sakiko shrugs.

“I don’t mind either, I’m not sure what to do though,” Chisato adds.

“I’ll explain all of that, thank you both. I just, after I had to go get patched up last night, I was worried that if anything happened no one would be able to care for him. This is such a relief for me, you have no idea.”

“You really care about him, don’t you?” Chisato asks.

“I do, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.”

“Don’t worry, all you need to do is ask and one of us will take care of him.”

Tsuneko thanks them over and over again, it’s like a weight lifted off her shoulders. They insist she doesn’t need to be so grateful, but that just makes her feel more indebted. She’s done nothing to deserve their kindness; Sakiko and Chisato are really good people.

After the hundreth thanks, she shows them how to take care of Kiyo when she’s away. They don’t seem bothered in the slightest and play with him the entire time. He’s bouncing and flopping around, excited to have two new friends. She even shows them how to play tag, touching him and then running off for him to chase after.

The night goes easy enough, everything winding down until it’s they decide they need to go home and get some sleep for the work day tomorrow. The door shuts behind them and Tsuneko can’t help the big smile on her face as she turns to Kiyo.

“That went a thousand times better than I expected,” she scoops him up , “you did such a good job, sweetie.”

He makes a soft noise; his eyes are drifting shut and his tongue sticking out. He’s ready for sleep. She cleans his cage out, refills his water, and puts some treats in his bowl, before tucking him in his favorite hammock. She busies herself with changing into some lazy clothes, laundry and cleaning up her dorm. Once all of that is done, she’s ready to focus on the more pressing matter.

She plops on her bed and puts her phone on charge, letting her mind wander. How likely is it that Ichinomiya is going to win this bet? That’s the question she keeps coming back to. She feels pretty confident that she’ll win. As risky a move as the bet is, it’s hard for her to think of a way he could win this. She meant every word she said. The truth of the matter is she just doesn’t have any skill that could benefit him, at least nothing special to her. She’s too cautious to say she will for sure win, but she can’t see a situation in which she loses.

Now, the next question is, what is she going to do if she wins? The idea of staying at the hotel is not at all enticing. The knowledge of how dangerous it is and what her boss is like has ruined the already limited appeal of the hotel. Not to mention, there’s no guarantee that Ichinomiya won’t just fire her if he doesn’t get his way.

She was expelled from the University of Tokyo and every attempt to repeal it has gotten her no where. She’s applied to a few other prestigious universities after, but once most find out about her expulsion they end up not wanting anything to do with her. She can’t transfer her credits either since it was an expulsion. So, not only would she have to start over, but she’d also have to downgrade to a lesser school.

At the time, the thought of that was crushing. She got so discouraged after so many rejections, being a failure, she just gave up. Her dad still doesn’t know she was expelled. She hasn’t even talked to him in over a year.

Maybe, this is a good thing? Not actually a good thing, being sold to a bunch of assholes is never a good thing, but maybe it’s the kick in the ass she needed. If she can settle for cleaning rooms for a year than she can settle for studying at a shittier university. If she went to one in Kyushu, her dad would probably let her stay with him and work at his gym to help with money. That is if he doesn’t decide he’s done with her after all her lying and not even talking to him for a year.

She starts searching around for Universities around Kyushu, taking note of application deadlines. If she wins the bet, she can quit and get her life back on track. She saves a few pages of ones that have law programs that look decent. Once she’s got a few options, she decides to go grab a shower and take some painkillers for her hand.

Her night passes by normally for her. She stays up extremely late, finding things to entertain herself and looking more into schools. It’s around three in the morning when she makes it to sleep, usual for her.

Her nightmare that night isn’t as vivid, not as haunting. When she wakes up at five in the morning, she can’t even clearly remember all the details, just the feelings. A noose and a death rattle sound are the two things she remembers most. Those kinds of dreams are easier to deal with. She can usually shake them off and move on right away, the more vivid ones leave her in a panic. Maybe the painkillers helped numb it? That might be a habit to pick up, along with the alcohol.

She goes through her morning routine; getting ready, taking care of Kiyo, and taking care of everything she needs to. Everything is status quo as she goes into the Tres Spades; changes clothes, gets her work schedule, and starts her day. It’s about an hour before her lunch break and she’s finishing up a room when her pager goes off. Tsuneko fumbles to find the answer button and a harsh masculine voice comes through it.

“Penthouse, now.” It’s Oh’s voice, a deep harsh baritone. She’s not sure what’s worse, getting a five minute time limit or just a demand to be there in an instant.

She makes the journey to the penthouse. It’s odd, in some respects the journey is becoming too familiar, but in others it still seems unreal. Her fingers find the good luck charm in her pocket, she still hasn’t turned it in. The soft feel of the worn fabric has become a comfort for her through all of this. She plays with it in her pocket as she enters the lounge.

“I was paged.”

The lounge is a mess, far more than it was yesterday. Overflowing ashtrays, playing cards tossed around, poker chips scattered, and bottles of booze knocked over. She’s dealt with worse in all honesty, but compared to how neat it seemed yesterday, she’s caught off guard. Baba, Kisaki, and Kishi are all in the lounge.

“Princess!”

“Not my name.” Tsuneko starts cleaning. She was fairly confident Oh was the one who paged her, but he’s no where to be found.

“Koro, wanna play cards with us?”

“Also, not my name.”

“Awww, you’re not gonna pretend to be a good girl today?”

“I’m still doing my job, unless you have legitimate work for me to do, we really don’t need to talk.” Her tone is cold and deadpan. She only, hopefully, has to deal with these dumbasses for two weeks. It’s best not to let them get too far under her skin, as rage inducing as they are.

“Ugh, don’t be so boring.”

“Her seriousness is part of her charm.”

“Pfft, you’ll seriously hit on anything with a pulse, even a kid like her,” Kishi decides to join in.

“Flirting with dogs is a new low, even for you.”

They’re trying to get a rise out of her and she’s biting at her lip to hold back yelling at them. Kisaki seems to have some fascination with comparing her to a dog and to an old guy like Kishi, twenty-two probably does seem really young. She busies herself cleaning up their mess, not taking the bait.

“Woman!” Oh’s voice rings out, his tone patronizing and grating.

“Man!” She spins around to face him. He’s glaring daggers and she returns the favor.

“Memorize this,” he drops a heavy stack of papers into her hands, “it’s an item list for the next auction. You’ll be helping the Hatter present them.”

“You….want me to present on stage?” Her heart jumps into her throat. Sitting in that cage and waiting helplessly as strangers bidded for the chance to hurt her. The memories come in a flash and she can’t breath. She doesn’t want to go on that stage again.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Oh’s tone makes it clear that this better not be a problem.

“Uhhh, I’m not much of a performer, I’d just ruin the auction.”

“You didn’t sign the confidentiality agreement, we need extra assurance you won’t talk.”

“Yeah, yeah, and if I work the auction I’ll be accessory to a crime. I get that, but I can just do behind the scenes stuff.”

“No, I’m not trusting you with anything that important, You have eleven days to memorize the list, speak with the Hatter in the tearoom for anything else.” With that Oh leaves the lounge and doesn’t give her another chance to weasel out of it. She glares at his retreating back

“Aww, are you shy in front of crowds, pretty lady?”

“Shut up,” she growls as she puts the stack of papers in her binder and starts to leave. The lounge is clean, she’ll take care of the suites and be done with the penthouse for the day.

“Koro,” Kisaki calls after her as she’s headed towards a suite. Him and Baba following after her, “it’s lunch time.”

“Do you need me to call room service for you?”

“No, we’re gonna take you out to eat, lovely lady.”

“I need to feed my pet, the old man is just lonely and pathetic.”

“I’m not interested,” Tsuneko brushes them off and starts to leave.

“Isn’t it almost time for your lunch break?”

“Yes and once I’m done cleaning I’ll take my lunch break in the employee cafeteria.”

“Aww, don’t worry I’d be honored to treat you, princess.” Baba slings an arm across her shoulders and starts guiding her towards the elevator. Tsuneko ducks under and jumps back just before he can get her in. He really can’t take a-

“Eep!” she yelps out as Kisaki pushes her forward into the elevator. Baba hits a button the second she’s in and the doors close with them all heading down to the ground floor. She glares at the two of them.

“Don’t be so grumpy Koro, you’re getting a treat.”

“That still not my name and all you’re doing is harassing me!”

“But you look just like the old Koro, it’s nice to finally get a new puppy,” Kisaki reaches out to pet her head and she ducks away, “you still need training though.”

“Comparing girls to dogs isn’t nice, Ota.”

“The first Koro was a good girl, new Koro should be happy.”

“Can you both just leave me alone and let me work?” Tsuneko groans as the elevator comes to a stop.

“C’mon, is lunch really going to kill you, pretty lady?”

“If I’m lucky,” despite her grumbles, she’d be lying if she said free food wasn’t enticing, “you two aren’t gonna stop until I just give in, are you?”

“Aww, she’s learning,” Kisaki teases as she follows the pair out of the elevator. She’s stuck with them for two weeks at the very least, an hour long lunch isn’t the end of the world. Painful, but tolerable. Kisaki puts on thick black framed glasses before they leave the hotel.

“What’s with the glasses?”

“It helps keep paparazzi from noticing me.”

“That sounds like bullshit, but alright.”

“Ota has to worry about being hounded by cameras all the time.”

“Gross.”

“Pfft, you’re not wrong, but it comes with the territory. They eat up the angelic artist shit.” Kisaki sneer and Tsuneko can’t help thinking how gross it must feel, pretending to be something you’re not.

“Where exactly are we going?” Tsuneko asks, she doesn’t want to start feeling bad for any of these men. It’s easier to distract herself.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take you somewhere nice, sunshine.”

“Do you just have a list of gross nicknames you run through?”

“You’re pretty face inspires me, every new nickname proof of my love.” Baba winks and her stomach churns. The word ‘love’ makes bile rise in her throat.

“I’m actually about to vomit.” She can’t stand people throwing that word around so easily and flippantly.

“I’ll just have to nurse you back to health with some tender loving care.”

“That’ll just make her sicker. Koro, come here, we can’t have you just wandering around,” Kisaki starts to reach for her hand, “you need a leash.”

“Touch my mangled excuse for a hand and I will throw you into traffic.” Tsuneko shoves her hand in her pocket. Hand holding is weird enough in a relationship and with an uninjured hand.

“I’m starting to think you need obedience school.” That comment makes her roll his eyes and they slow outside a cafe. Tsuneko goes to hold the door open, but Baba beats her to it.

She murmurs a thanks. Even if she doesn’t like him, he’s being nice. The cafe is surprisingly casual even if it is nicer than what she’d probably pick. She expected them to pick some fancy over the top place, given their status, but the cafe is relaxed and cute. Pops of pastel colors give it a soft cheery vibe that makes her want to smile despite her company. They slide into a booth, the leather a soft baby blue. The pair sits across from her and they start looking through the menu, the assortment of sweet parfaits draws her eye. She picks out what she wants, making notes of the prices before putting it down. Baba and Kisaki might have talked about treating her, but she has no intentions of letting them pay. She’s an adult and more than capable of buying her own lunch.

“Seriously?” Kisaki raises an eyebrow at her after they order their food.

“What?”

“It’s cute she has a sweet tooth.” She ordered a big parfait with honey and bananas along with her meal, apparently this is interesting to them. She can’t help pouting, she’s not cute and she’s allowed to eat whatever the hell she wants.

“Aww, make sure you don’t get any chocolate,” their drinks our brought out and Kisaki takes a drink, “this tea isn’t bad.”

“Mmm,” Tsuneko makes a soft noise as she sips on rose soda, the sweet floral taste brings a soft smile to her face.

“Ota, instead of saying ‘not bad’ you should just say it tastes good.”

“Huh? Isn’t it the same?”

“We’re in the presence of a lady,” Baba nods towards Tsuneko, “you’ll ruin the mood.”

“There’s not going to be any mood at all since we’re here with an old guy,” Kisaki comments, she knows Baba is older, especially compared to her and Kisaki. But, Kisaki’s acting like he’s pushing fifty or something, he’s not even the oldest of the penthouse guys. That’d have to be Kishi, she figures.

“Ota, I think you meant to say ‘a very young man’.” Baba puts a hand on his face and looks down. They seem to be really good friends, not quite like Oh and Ichinomiya, but still close.

“Your age a touchy subject?” She asks between sips of her soda and sits up as their food is brought to them.

“Do you think I’m old? You know I have the heart of a twenty year old!”

“Like, in a jar or something?” Tsuneko teases before focusing on her food.

“You’re too cruel, darling.”

“Yeah, I’m the cruel one.” Tsuneko rolls her eyes and starts munching.

“Oh, your hand must be bothering you, I’ll feed you,” Baba scoops up a heaping spoonful of her parfait and hold it out to her, “say ahhh!”

“What am I a fucking infant?” Tsuneko grabs the spoon from his hand and feeds herself. She’ll be damn if she’s fed like a baby. Baba’s lucky she didn’t have time to smack him away from her food. She makes another noise of contentment; the sweet parfait flavors are so good,

“Pffft, careful she might bite you next time,” Kisaki laughs and she can’t say much given she has in fact bitten people multiple times in her life.

“I wouldn’t mind a few love bites.” Baba winks at her.

“I’m starting to think you just have a problem with that eye,” she comments before cramming more food in her mouth.

“That comes with age.”

“I’m choosing to believe that you both tease me out of love.”

“His minds starting to shut down too,” Tsuneko retorts, licking yogurt from her lips.

“It’s nice getting to relax and joke with you, lovely lady,” Baba says with a beaming smile.

“Yeah, don’t get use to it, I’ll be gone in two weeks remember.”

Baba covers his smile with a hand and holds back laughs. Kisaki doesn’t hold back and starts snickering at her.

“She actually thinks she’s going to win,” she throws a hunk of banana at his face, “hey!”

“It’s okay, it’s cute that you think that,” Baba tells her as Kisaki flicks the food off his face and she sucks honey off her thumb. She pulls back her leg and kicks Baba hard in the shin, “ah, are you trying to play footsie with me, now?”

“Ugh,” she yanks her legs back up into her seat under her, “you’re gonna make me puke.”

“Really, it looks like you’re trying to give us both a peepshow.” Kisaki points at her chest and she already knows what happened. Her lacy purple bra is showing through her uniform top, the button came undone again. Then a bit of yogurt drips from her spoon; cold and wet on her cleavage.

“Between that and how you’re eating, I’m starting to think you’re trying to seduce me, princess,” Baba says as she fixes the button and wipes the white yogurt off her skin. She’s not really sure what he means by how she was eating, but Baba would call anything she does provocative. His face looks just a little red, the cafe is a little hot, she figures.

“I assure you, being a slob is not a seduction technique.”

“You know, wearing clothes that are too small ‘cause you don’t wanna size up, is just sad,” Kisaki says with a smirk.

“Ota! You don’t bother women about their size!” Baba scolds Kisaki. It’s not that she doesn’t want to size up, she knows she’s gained weight, but she keeps forgetting to order a new uniform. She flings another chunk of banana at him.

“Stop playing with your food, Koro.” Kisaki glares at her. They finish up their food and get the bill, Tsuneko gets her wallet out.

“Don’t worry about that princess, it’s my treat.”

“No,” Tsuneko says bluntly and puts down the money for her part of the bill.

“A gentleman doesn’t let a lady pay,” Baba tells her.

“A ‘gentleman’,” she rolls her eyes at the word, “would respect my decision to pay for my own meal.”

“I guess old people really are more sexist,” Kisaki teases and Baba looks conflicted, his brows furrow like he’s thinking. He might not be used to doing that.

“I’m a feminist, you know I’m not sexist, right Tsuneko?”

“You did help buy me,” she drops her voice to a whisper for this, “y’know like an object.”

“That was a different situation,” Baba defends. He’s flustered and his eyes are wide. She has to press a hand to her mouth to keep herself from laughing.

“Well, I don’t have time to watch you struggle, I’m gonna head back to work.” She stands up and heads out the cafe, the two aren’t far behind.

They walk towards the Tres Spades, the makeshift comedy duo banter the entire time. They finally free her once they reach the lobby, the pair heading to the casino while she needs to go back and clean the penthouse suites.

“Was that Kisaki Ota?” A soft voice asks from behind her. Tsuneko turns to see Mari and Chiho, two maids who work here.

“Oh, yes, he’s one of the penthouse residents.”

“You ate lunch with penthouse guests?” Chiho asks, raising an eyebrow.

“They insisted, I paid for myself, if wasn’t anything important.” The two maid share a look at her response.

“You know a lot of girls would kill for a chance to eat with the angelic artist, right?” Chiho continues and Tsuneko fidgets with the charm in her pocket, they aren’t jealous are they?

“Sakiko’s been telling everyone how Mr. Ichinomiya must have feelings for you, but maybe it’s Kisaki?” Mari twirls a blonde curl around her finger as she talks.

“Sakiko is a dumbass, no one in the penthouse likes me like that.”

“Maybe it’s that other guy? With the fedora, I don’t know his name,” Chiho suggests, looking at Mari.

“Hmm, but he’s kinda old, I think Tsuneko would prefer a cute young guy.”

“That’s true, plus I hear he’s super sweet.”

“Shouldn’t you two be working?!” Tsuneko growls out, sick of this conversation.

“We’re going, we’re going, enjoy your time in the penthouse.” Chiho waves her off and the two go off to work. She rolls her eyes at their nonsense and ventures back up to the penthouse.

She cleans Kishi’s suite first this time, knowing full well it will take the most time. Sure enough, it’s as much of a disaster area as it was the day before. It takes her twice as long to clean his suite as it does any of the other suites. She’s sweaty and frustrated by the time she gets the last ash stain out of the carpet. He’s an old guy and he should know how to clean up after himself by now, but apparently that’s asking too much.

The rest of the suites are a breeze in comparison. She finishes cleaning up the last suite, Oh’s, when her pager buzzes. Tsuneko has finally cracked the code of where the damn answer button it.

“Lounge. Five minutes,” Ichinomiya demands and she rolls her eyes. She’s already in the penthouse, she could be there in less than a minute. He told her she was late yesterday, but he didn’t do anything. She hates when people waste her time and he seems to be the same way. Ugh, the thought they have anything in common makes her stomach churn.

She takes out her phone and decides to play on some apps. Irritating Ichinomiya makes winning a plushie in her crane app game all the more satisfying. Now might be a good time to check out the otome app that Sakiko recommended. She watches it download and plays through the intro, there’s a snake demon character who catches her eye. Six minutes pass and she’s content finally making her way to the lounge.

“You’re late.” Ichinomiya doesn’t even look up from his tablet. Oh and Kishi are both here as well.

“Happens.” She shrugs and she hears Kishi snicker while Ichinomiya glares.

“Coffee, now.”

“Would either of you like anything?”

They both tell her no and she goes to make Ichinomiya his coffee. She repeats what she did last time since he didn’t complain and seemed to like it. It seems more like milk and sugar with a hint of espresso, but given her own love of sweets she can’t truly judge. She places it down in front of him and starts to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ichinomiya questions before drinking her coffee.

“I already cleaned the lounge and suites, I’m going to finish cleaning the guest rooms.”

“No, you’re coming with me.” He puts his now empty cup down and stands up before striding out of the room. She trails behind him, confused.

“Uh, where are we going?” She asks as they step into the elevator. Surely, he hasn’t already thought up a way to win the bet. Ichinomiya doesn’t acknowledge her, continuing to work on his tablet.

“Okay,” she speaks up again, “you’ve apparently become a mute in the past five seconds.”

He looks up just to glare at her and she meets his eyes, waiting for him to say something. It’s not that hard to tell her what’s going on, she isn’t expecting the world.

“You’ll be my assistant at an event tonight,” he says with an aggravated sigh and looks back to his tablet, like talking to her is a nuisance.

“Isn’t that usually Kenzaki’s job?” She asks both out of curiosity and the need to press upon him that this task is not special to her, it doesn’t win the bet.

“I’m aware it doesn’t count for the bet,” he grins at being able to see through her, “Kenzaki has enough to worry about right now.”

“If the event isn’t until tonight, why are we going somewhere now?”

“You can’t show up in your uniform.” He looks at her like she’s stupid.

“Do I need hours to change?”

“You need clothes for the event.”

“I have clothes that can work,” she tells him. Buying clothes for one event sounds like a pain. Tsuneko still has some formal clothes from when she interned at a law firm.

“Oh and I’m sure they fit you as well as your uniform,” he stares pointedly at her chest and she fixes that damn button, not even bothering to look down, “if you can’t even manage a uniform, how can I trust you to dress yourself for an event.”

She wants to argue, but those more formal outfits are from before her weight gain. They were a little lose when she first got them, so while they might work, it’d still be a gamble. It wouldn’t exactly look good for her to show up as his assistant and have her chest popping out.

“I haven’t gotten around to ordering a size up, but I see your point,” she grumbles as the elevator comes to a stop. It’s struggle to keep up with Ichinomiya, he’s easily a foot taller than her and his legs are probably twice the length of hers. She’s practically jogging to keep up with his casual steps.

There’s a sleek black limousine in front of the Tres Spades that Ichinomiya climbs into. She follows and can’t help staring. The back of the car is more like a lounge; leather chairs more like a large couch and chilled champagne. Tsuneko sits down closet to the door and far away from Ichinomiya, taking advantage of the space. It’s uncomfortable to say the least.

To an extent working at the Tres Spades and now the penthouse has gotten her a bit more accustomed to seeing over the top extravagance. But, it still annoys her and makes her uncomfortable. Even when she was striving for a better job, something that would afford her a higher standard of living, she never wanted this kind of stuff. It’s too much. No one needs a limo and chilled champagne on stand by.

The ride is filled with an awkward tension. Ichinomiya doing work on his tablet whil she makes herself as small as possible and plays on her phone. She wins a few more plushies and gets started on snake demon’s route; his name is Tatsumi and she wants to kiss his face. There’s a few others she’s interested in, but snake man is stealing her heart.

They come to a stop and she puts her monster romance on pause to look at where they are. There’s a high end boutique, she’s heard of it and it’s pricey. She tucks her phone into her pocket and follows Ichinomiya inside. There’s several racks of clothes, lighted shoe displays, and a strong perfume scent in the store. She can feel the store trying to drain her bank account already. Online shopping is her go to with clothes in particular. She can find good deals, try them on in the leisure of her own apartment, and send back what she doesn’t need. It’s so much easier. A price tag catches her eye and she can hear her wallet crying.

Ichinomiya wastes no time and starts picking out clothes, his eyes looking between the fabric and Tsuneko. An attendant is hovering beside him as he puts clothes on her arms. He may have more experience with this stuff, but why is he picking what’s going on her body?

“You know I can pick out clothes myself, right?” She raises an eyebrow at him and crosses her arms over her chest.

“You’ll wear what I say, I can’t have you embarrassing me, remember your two options?” He reminds her of his asinine ‘yes’ or ‘okay’ line.

“Remember when I told you to fuck off?” She rolls her eyes and starts looking through clothes herself, not giving him another look. Her eyes immediately go to the darker dresses, simple and sleek would probably look best for an assistant look. She picks out a few, even though the price tags make her sad. He just looks annoyed when she comes back with her own picks.

“Go try everything on.”

“Fine,” she refuses to say ‘yes’ or ‘okay’ to him.

Tsuneko goes into the dressing room, her picks in her arms and Ichinomiya’s picks in the attendants arms. She puts all her options, there’s far too many of them, in the seat. All of them are more than she’d ever spend on clothes. She can afford a few, but it’ll mean her severely cutting her budget somewhere else. Maybe she’ll buy one for the event and return it right after? Otherwise she’ll be stuck eating nothing but rice for a couple weeks.

She decides on one of the dresses she picked, if only to irk him. It’s a dark red bodycon dress with sleeves and a modest neckline. Her work ponytail doesn’t really suit it and she takes it down. It takes her longer than she’d care to admit to pull the dress up, tight over her curves as it’s meant to be. Once it’s in place, she steps outside, showing the dress to Ichinomiya. She hates this, his eyes scan over her, like he’s taking in every detail. He’s evaluating the dress and she knows that, but it still feels disgusting and objectifying.

“Absolutely not, it’s too conservative and looks frumpy, try one of the ones I picked out, now.”

She rolls her eyes and walks back in, catching sight of herself in the mirror again. He’s not wrong, not that she’d ever tell him that, but with her curvy figure the higher up neckline looks a little frumpy. She grabs one of his picks and tugs it on. It’s more classic, black with white straps and a band around the stomach. It’s slimming despite the body-con style and shows a tasteful amount of cleavage. She sighs, it looks nice on her. He has good taste and she’s angry about it. Once she’s shown him, he gives it his approval, of course.

This impromptu fashion show continues this way; him evaluating each outfit and dress, making comments, and either approving or disapproving them. He even accepts some of her picks. She sorts them into yes and no piles as they go through this entire process. They finally get done with the last outfit.

“So, do you want me to pick one out of the yes pile or what?” She asks him and he narrows his eyes, like she just said the stupidest thing, before turning to the attendant.

“Ring up all the clothes I approved, we still need to look at shoes and accessories.”

“Wait, what,” her eyes widen, “it’s just one event, I don’t need twenty outfits.”

“Be quiet,” Ichinomiya demands, busy looking through shoes.

“I can’t afford all of this.” That earns her a disgusted look from Ichinomiya, his nose wrinkling like he’s smelled something foul.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m buying them for you.” He’s apparently found the shoes and accessories because he starts making a beeline for the register, pulling out a card.

“What, no,” the number on the register display makes her head spin, “I’m not letting you spend that much on me.”

“You won’t let me,” he says the word ‘let’ like it tastes foul in his mouth and glares at her, “what makes you think the power to let me do anything?”

“Hey,” Ichinomiya reaches to hand his card to the cashier and Tsuneko throws her hand up to try to stop him, “okay, but after the event or whatever, you’ll return them and get your money back, sound good?”

“Why on earth would I return them?”

“So, you don’t waste your money.”

“Don’t waste your time by thinking about it too much, I need to make sure you don’t embarrass me,.” He hands his card over, clearly annoyed.

Tsuneko feels sick seeing the total of it all, she wishes she could pay him back, but that would take forever. Plus, if she really wanted to be a stickler about it she’d also all them all twenty-million for buying her. It is because of him that she needs these clothes, so she can excuse it away as being similar to uniforms.

Store attendants follow them out of the boutique and stack the clothes in the limo, before they leave. She plays around more in Monster Lovers until they’re back at the hotel. She’s at her first love challenge when she has to tuck her phone away and starts to get the clothes bags.

“I’ll have them taken up to the penthouse.”

“Why would you have them put in the penthouse?”

“Do you ever tire of asking ridiculous questions?”

“Do you ever tire of giving terrible answers?”

“Given your catastrophically bad taste, Ota will do your hair and makeup for the event.”

“I can do my own hair and makeup,” she groans, “can’t you let me do that much? I’m trying to compromise here.”

“I don’t compromise, go to the penthouse.”

“C’mon, I-”

“When I tell you to do something I expect you to do it within five seconds,” He cuts her off and gives her a pointed look, the staff has already started taking the clothes to the penthouse. She meets his glare and stands closer, in his personal space.

“One bunny scout,” she holds up her fingers as she counts seconds in bunny scouts, “two bunny scout, three bunny scout, four bunny scout, five bunny scout, six bunny scout.” On the sixth bunny scout she finally turns to leave. Ichinomiya scoffs from behind her and follows her up to the penthouse lounge. The entire group is there, they sit up and look up at them.

“Ota, she’s going to an event with me, do her hair and makeup.”

“Awww, I get to groom Koro,” Kisaki perks up and is already heading towards his suite, “c’mon girl.”

Tsuneko tosses her head back and groans before following him. She has a headache coming on. Kisaki is laying out clothes from the bags, there was some stuff about him being involved in the fashion industry during her search on him.

“Go take a shower, I need your face and hair clean, there’s only human products though,” Kisaki tells her without even looking up from the clothes, he looks hyper-focused. Mari is right, he really is cute, but his personality is such a train wreck, “hmm, oh do you need me to wash you, koro?”

“What!?” she jolts at his suggestion and her cheeks burn, “don’t be fucking weird!”

She scurries off to his suite bathroom, it’s huge with a large bathtub and a large shower stall. The shower stall alone is probably bigger than her dorm. And entire wall is made of window glass, showing twinkling city lights. The penthouse is too high up for anyone to be able to see up into the window, but the idea of being naked in front of it still seems strange. There’s a fluffy white bathrobe, so she guess she’ll change into that.

Tsuneko doubles check that the bathroom door is locked because she doesn’t trust Kisaki as far as she could throw him. Well, she could actually probably throw him pretty far, he doesn’t look that heavy. But, her point stands that gremlins can’t be trusted. She strips down and something just feels weird. The large open unfamiliar bathroom and having such a big clear window in front of her, she feels exposed. Her body is hot, like it’s on fire, her reflections shows how bright a pink her face is. God, she’s getting flustered and bothered by standing naked in front of a window. She needs to get laid, this is pathetic.

She hops into the shower, after removing the bandages from her hand as well, and starts to wash. Steaming hot water relaxes her to a degree, the products are nice and luxurious, but she prefers her own if only for the familiarity of the scents. Tsuneko washes up quickly, having to stop her hands from wandering to do dirtier things a few times. She can practically hear her treasure chest of toys calling her name from under her dorm bed.

Once she’s done washing up with no funny business, to the disdain of her hormones, she dries off and puts on her underwear with the robe over it. She’s not giving Kisaki a chance to see her bra and panties on the bathroom floor. She finds the first aid kit in the bathroom and starts to redo her bandages, making them less bulky and intrusive this time. The cuts are healing well despite her still using her hand and it doesn’t hurt as much to move it. She looks at her now makeup free face, the bruises has changed from more red hues to blues and purples. Kisaki will still have to cover them up.

Steam floats out of the bathroom as she steps out back into the suite. Kisaki has chosen her outfit for the event, laid out on the bed. It one of the ones she picked, she notes with some satisfaction.

“Sit,” Kisaki gestures towards the edge of one of beds and sits down, “now give me paw.” He holds out his hand with a cheeky grin and she smack it away, earning her a glare.

“Don’t push your luck, Kisaki,” she grumbles.

“Ugh, just call me Ota, we’re basically the same age,” he tells her as he starts looking through makeup palettes.

“Doesn’t matter,” she tells him as he starts carefully dabbing on foundation. His movements are more gentle when he starts to apply over her bruises.

“That’s from the night you were sold right?”

“Uh, yeah, my face got slammed against the floor,” she murmurs, not wanting to think about that night. Every memory of it makes her stomach churn.

“Maybe we should have reported them to PETA,” he says with a shit eating grin.

“Fuck off, Gremlin.”

“Hey, who are you calling a gremlin?” He glares at her.

“You’re way more gremliny than angelic, that’s for su-eep!” Kisaki pinches the non-bruised cheek and pulls causing a twinge of pain.

“Can you just shut up and be cute?”

“Nefuh maaged to do efer of thoves,” she responds, her speech distorted by her cheek being yanked.

Kisaki lets go and gets back her makeup, he might not need to use blush on that side now. There’s something oddly intimate about having her makeup put on by someone else. She thinks the last time that happened was her mom letting her play with lipstick when she was three or so. It involves a lot of face touching between application and him gently moving her head as needed. His amber eyes are trained on her face the entire time with an intense focus, she find herself having to look away because it’s too much. Kisaki applies a coat of lipstick before pulling away and giving her a final longer distance look.

“Next is your fur, he says before going to the bathroom and reappearing with a blow dryer and other tools.

“Are you ever going to stop with the dog bullshit?” She asks as Kisaki plugs in the blowdryer and gets behind her on the bed.

“You didn’t even let your fur dry completely, you should have just let me give you a bath,” he answers nothing and starts blow drying her hair.

The heat is relaxing as well as the feeling of his fingers working over her scalp and through her hair. She’s reminded of all the times she’s fallen asleep during hair washes at the salon. She leans into each touch and her eyes keep wanting to drift shut. Her cheeks are warm and she chooses to blame it on the heat from the dryer. Tsuneko will never why she’s so weak to having her hair played with.

Kisaki pulls back her hair into a bun, leaving her bangs and side locks loose. He adjusts little details, before finally leaving it be.

“There you go, you have a really fluffy coat,” he says tapping the bun on the back of her head.

“I don’t have the energy to call you out, I’m going to go change.” She sighs and takes the change of clothes to the bathroom.

She freezes when she sees herself in the mirror, she understands why Ichinomiya wanted Kisaki to do her makeup. It’s not too dramatic like part of her feared, she’s never been a fan of heavy makeup looks. Soft blush eyeshadow tones, eyeliner that’s just thick enough to bring out her eyes, foundation that can cover the bruises but not hide her freckles, contour that makes her face a little slimmer looking, and soft berry red lipstick. It’s the perfect balance of enhancing her looks without trying to change it. She could never even dream of doing a makeup job this perfect.

Tsuneko steps into the dress and pulls it up, so she won’t risk ruining her hair or makeup. She looks at it on her and pouts. It’s one she picked out and she remembers it well, but in the store she paired it with a blazer that covered up a bit more of the neckline. Kisaki hasn’t done that, or at least he only had the dress, shoes, and a necklace laid out. The top of the dress is made of white lace with a deep v neckline that goes into a black body con dress at the waist down. She has to adjust her bra a bit so it doesn’t show. She puts on the necklace, a simple gemstone on a silver chain, and the black heels.

“Can we talk about this dress, Kisaki?” She asks as she leaves the bathroom.

“Let’s go show Eisuke, he’s probably getting impatient by now.” Kisaki doesn’t wait to hear her feedback and leaves out of the suite.

She sighs and follows after him, cursing under her breath. Tsuneko hasn’t even left and she’s already eager to get this night over and done with. And entire night of waiting on Ichinomiya and being his lackey, Oh killing her starts to sound more and more like a better alternative. The hope of escaping it all in two weeks is the only thing keeping her spirits up. She has to get away from this all.

#kissed by the baddest bidder #kbtbb #eisuke ichinomiya #soryu oh #ota kisaki #mamoru kishi #mitsunari baba #kbtbb eisuke #kbtbb soryu #kbtbb ota #kbtbb mamoru #kbtbb baba #black market wonderland

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faeflowerfeline · 6 years ago

Text

young blood, stand and deliver

Fandom: Six of Crows Pairing: None; but there’s Jesper/Kaz if you like, squint Rating: T Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16209227

Kaz Brekker doesn’t know what it is, exactly, about human touch that bothers him so much. He doesn’t know why it is that he fainted back in the prison cart—well, he does: it was the contact with so many people, all squished up together like fish in a barrel; like bodies in the Reaper’s Barge—and he doesn’t know why it is that when Inej reaches out, tries to kiss him or tangle his fingers with hers, gloves be damned, he pulls away.

i. young blood, heaven need a sinner

(He knows why. He loves her, he does; but not like that. He doesn’t think he can love her like that—doesn’t think he can love anyone like that. Not enough to trust them, not enough for the kind of skin to skin contact that comes with dates and kissing and sex. Saints, sex.)

He can’t handle physical contact. He can’t handle it, and he knows it; he can’t handle it and nobody else can know it. It’s so easy to use against him, so easy to harm him with—just like relationships and people and emotions.

There are three things he knows:

He can’t handle physical contact, and it is a result of the Reaper’s Barge. It’s a result of Jordie’s death, a result of Pekka Rollins’ manipulations.

He loves Inej. He loves Inej and Jesper, Nina and Matthias and Wylan. He loves them, trusts them with his life and knows they trust him with theirs.

No one else can know this. No one else can know that he’s touch-adverse, that skin to skin contact makes him flinch and cringe and suffer. It’s so, so easy to use against him, and the only way he can ensure that it never is, is to ensure that no one ever finds out.

ii. you can’t raise hell with a saint

There is a threatening kind of silence that hangs over Ketterdam when Kaz Brekker is out hunting. He knows it, revels in it; glances to where Inej crouches high above him, very carefully doesn’t look to where Jesper perches, watching over them all with eagle eyes and a perfect aim.

It’s comforting, having him watch over them. Kaz knows that with Jesper up on the balustrades, perched on flat rooves or in balconies, there is nothing that can harm them. There is no one with a faster draw than Jesper, no one with sharper eyesight, no one who could even try to contest his dominance in the gunslinging game.

He makes Kaz feel safe, investment or not, and it’s entirely because he trusts Jesper. Trusts Jesper not to put a bullet in his head, trusts Jesper toput a bullet in those who wish the Dregs harm. Trust. It’s a thing he’s both used to and not—people only trust him when they have no other choice, but they trust him nonetheless. He only trusts people when he’s in such a tight spot he’s practically broken under the weight of all he cannot handle.

But with Jesper, it’s different. With Jesper, he doesn’t tell him things, yes; but when has Kaz told anyone anything emotional? When has he told anyone his plans?

Okay, so, maybe that doesn’t illustrate his point very well. Anyway, his point is that he feels like he can tell Jesper things. That doesn’t make him tell Jesper things.

It does, however, for some absurd reason, make Jesper try to talk to him about things.

The heist goes off without a hitch, and he arrives back at the Crow’s Club with his team entirely intact and Jesper walking silently—which is weird—by his side.

“Hey, Kaz,” Jesper says, eventually; quiet and calm and gentle in a way that Kaz isn’t used to associating with people who are talking to him. It doesn’t make sense for him to be talking to Kaz like that, honestly—the heist went off without a hitch, Kaz hasn’t had anything go wrong in weeks,and they’re actually doing more jobs than they were before.

(Though with their reputation—breaking into the Ice Court—that’s unsurprising.)

“Don’t you think you’re working… too much?” Jesper says, and he’s carefully put enough room between him and Kaz that even with his cane, Jesper isn’t within his reach.

“No,” Kaz says shortly, and that’s the end of that. (Or, at least, it would be—but Jesper is Jesper and Jesper is stubborn, kind, a terrible gambler; everything that a barrel rat shouldn’t be; everything that will get a barrel rat killed. But Jesper is also brave, loyal, the best gunslinger in the Barrel and, most of all, under the protection of Kaz Brekker, which makes up for all that in the end.)

“Kaz,” Jesper says, because Jesper’s always bet against the odds, always lost; a terrible gambler in a city where terrible gamblers are eaten alive. “I think you’re working too much.” Jesper doesn’t do anything stupid, like try to rest his hand over Kaz’s on his cane—something Inej would do; something comforting and terrifying all at once (although far, far more of the latter). Instead, he just stands there. He’s carefully out of reach, but close enough to get to Kaz if anything were to happen, and Kaz loves and hates that in equal measure.

“Your cut,” Kaz says, in lieu of replying properly, “is 10,000 kruge.”

Jesper pauses, and Kaz knows he’s won. In a game where greed is key, Kaz will always win, because greed bows to no one but him.

iii. don’t care what your old man say

Wylan is, surprisingly, far more than Kaz thought he’d ever be. He’s loyal, unsurprisingly. Well-spoken, good at functions and good with pyrotechnics—most of which Kaz could have called as soon as he learnt Wylan’s upbringing—but he’s also illiterate (a problem, but not a major one) and more attached to the six of them than Kaz ever thought he would be.

He is also, just like Jesper, far too kind to be a barrel rat. Far too kind to be bound to Kaz; to be bound to a seventeen-year-old focused on revenge and not much more; bound to a teenager with issues he’s turned into weapons.

As such, Kaz really should have expected this—Wylan’s nervous stance in front of him, hands wringing, etc etc, as he asks if they can talk—even if he didn’t expect the topic of conversation.

“You know,” Wylan says, “I overheard a mercher’s wife and her friends once.” Kaz perks up at this—of course he does, mercher’s wives, when gossiping with friends, often give them the opening they need to crack a mercher’s security system. But then Wylan continues. “She said that her husband asked her to pick between him and her cat. Said that he told her he would not marry her, unless she got rid of the cat.”

Kaz thinks he knows where this is going—maybe—and where it’s going scares him, just a bit. It scares him because Wylan knowing about Inej’s ultimatum scares him, because anyone knowing about his weakness scares him. He’s not ready for that—not yet. “Wylan-“ he says, but Wylan ploughs on regardless.

“She said that her husband beats her, and that she wishes she never got rid of her cat. She told her friends that if anyone asked them to pick between anything and the relationship, they should leave him.” Wylan takes a breath and offers a small, odd, smile. Kaz sits, frozen, his mind whirling a mile a minute. Does Wylan mean— “Of course, the court ladies don’t really have a choice, and I don’t mean that this will happen to you, but it seemed like something you needed to hear.” Wylan waves and walks out the door, leaving Kaz at his desk with a lot to think about.

iv. no need for a queen affair

Kaz, of course, goes to Nina. She’s probably the best equipped to deal with something like this—the prostitute who’s never spread her legs for a man; the most desired whore in Ketterdam—and she’s a part of his crew. A trustworthy part of his crew, which makes all the difference. The trustworthy part is, in the end, what makes him go to her.

He finds her as he always does; her back room in the White Rose, tending to client after client before she goes home to Matthias at their room above the Crow’s Club.

“Nina,” he says, tastes glass in his mouth and desperation in his voice. He hates it; hates that he was rubbed so raw by a simple story about a court lady and her cat, by Wylan and his quiet, careful sympathy. He doesn’t seem to have to say anything more—she gestures to the settee in her room, concern writ across her face.

“Kaz,” she says, and saints but there’s concern in her voice, too. He’d apologise to Inej for the blasphemy, but he’s never done that before anyway; even without Wylan’s words ringing in his ears like particularly vicious clock chimes. “What did you need me for?”

“I don’t,” he says, knows that she knows he’s lying. Knows because it’s his job to know; knows because it’s his nature to lie, and she knows that.

“Company?” she asks, watches him as he flinches, just slightly; still rubbed raw and open, his discomfort with the situation bleeding into the air. He’s usually better at hiding it that this; wrapping himself in layers of leather and fabric, ensuring that this weakness can’t be used against him. He’s usually better at this, but this is an open wound being poked at and prodded until it’s red and puffy and bleeding. “Not that kind,” she says, smiles the smile she reserves for the crew. “Just as a friend.”

“Okay,” he hears himself saying; Kaz Rietveld making a surprise reappearance. Vulnerable, kind, trusting, idiotic Kaz Rietveld, the boy from before the bastard of the Barrel. The boy who loved card tricks and wind up toys and his brother, Jordie. The boy who died with Kaz’s kindness when he used his brother’s bloated body as a life raft.

Nina smiles, lets Kaz sit on the opposite couch—as far away from Nina as he can get—and she just talks. She talks through Kaz’s silence, talks about Matthias and her time in the Second Army. She talks passionately, in such a way that means Kaz has nothing to do but listen.

That suits him just fine.

v. young blood, run like a river

With Matthias, it’s not about trust. With Matthias, it’s mutual distrust, an agreement born of necessity and common acquaintances, and not much more.

(Kaz carefully does not think of Matthias, desperate, pumping water from Kaz’s lungs with muttered swears falling from his lips.)

With Matthias, it’s everyone else but them; nothing but sarcastic quips and uncomfortably careful silences, in which Kaz is all too aware that Matthias is ex-military, and Matthias, in turn, is all too aware of the rather immoral stance Kaz has on all things.

(Kaz carefully, carefully, doesn’t think of a father general betrayed, carefully doesn’t think of Matthias branded a traitor, branded worthless, branded as the lowest a drüskelle can be—one who fraternises with grisha, with drüsje—for them.)

“Kaz,” Matthias says, curt, simple. Kaz nods back, makes to keep walking, but then Matthias clears his throat. “I don’t know what it is you suffer,” he says, unbearably kindly, “but know that you are not alone.”

Kaz nods again, throat tight, once again feeling flayed open and raw; like he’s bleeding out onto the muck-coated cobblestones of the Barrel.

All it takes are a few words.

He walks on.

vi. young blood, heaven hate a sinner

Inej is the last person he wants to see right now, but here she is. Perched in his office window, feeding seeds to the crows. When he walks in, her eyes drop straight to his gloves.

Wylan’s words ring through Kaz’s head again—she told her friends that if anyone asked them to pick between anything and the relationship, they should leave him—and he tilts his chin up, challenges her. It feels odd to do so; odd to feel off balance, out of control. It feels odd to be the one challenging again, instead of the one being challenged and putting the challengers down hard.

“Please?” she says, careful and kind, pleading, but not pushing. Not really. Not yet. “Trust me, Kaz.”

He does trust her. He really does, but he can’t trust her with this. Kaz doesn’t think he can trust anyone than this.

“It’s nothing personal,” he says, keeps himself cool, professional, detached. “Don’t take it as such.”

“Kaz,” Inej says, and there’s desperation in there; the same kind of broken-glass desperation he’d heard in his own voice when he went to Nina earlier. He just sits at his desk, leans his cane up against it, folds his hands on top of it, one on top of the other. Still gloved.

“Did you need something?” he asks. Inej’s face twists at that, pulls on the strings of a heart he’d long thought dead.

Then she leaves. Vanishes back out the window, the same way she’d come in. Kaz lets himself relax, lets himself drop his head onto his desk with a heavy thunk and sigh, tired and sad and just a little heartbroken.

vii. young blood, gotta pull the trigger

It’s interesting. Whenever Kaz gets kidnapped—which is rare, in as of itself—they never take his gloves off. No one with the power to take him on is actually all that interested in what the bastard of the Barrel hides under his gloves, rumours be damned.

But this time—this time, when Kaz wakes up from whatever they’d used to drug them, he wakes up with his hands uncomfortably cold and brushing together, skin to skin. That, more than anything, is what makes him raise his head, look around through the fog that still clouds his brain just slightly.

“Looking for these?” someone asks, dangling his gloves in front of him. He barely restrains his flinch, hoping that the slight twitch either goes unnoticed or is interpreted as something else. Kaz is, of course, not that lucky. “Aw,” the man speaks again, mocking, “does Dirtyhands want his gloves back?”

Kaz raises an eyebrow in an entirely unimpressed manner, and says, “You’re a bit childish for a gang member, aren’t you?”

The man cackles a laugh, grabs Kaz’s chin to tilt his face up. It takes everything within him to not flinch away; everything within him to contain that movement into an easily written off movement. “Ain’t you a little young to be a gang leader?” He replies, and Kaz would incline his head in acknowledgement if he had any range of movement.

“Age doesn’t mean anything in the Barrel,” Kaz says, quiet. He’s carefully, silently working at his ropes now that his mind is working again, less clouded by drugs and panic.

“I always wondered why you wear gloves,” the man says in lieu of responding. “I wonder even more now—your hands aren’t anything special.” He tilts his head to the side, a scrutinisation that is wholly uncomfortable. “Now, I wonder: is Kaz Brekker—Dirtyhands, the bastard of the Barrel—scared or something?”

It’s a hit uncomfortably close to home, and Kaz can’t quite restrain his flinch in time. He’s almost free of his ropes though, just a little bit longer—

The man laughs again, cruel and mocking and delighted all at once. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re scared of something. What is it, I wonder?” He muses, leaning in close again, grabbing onto Kaz’s chin and dragging a thumb across his jaw. He flinches again, more violently this time, and the man’s laughter somehow gets more delighted. “Skin to skin contact?” He demands, smile bright and blinding and terrifying.

“Oh, Brekker,” he breathes, leaning in so close that Kaz can feel the man’s breath on his lips. “That’s pathetic.” He smiles again, eyes glinting in a way that’s utterly terrifying with the knowledge that this man now has; holds over him. He leans in, closer, until his lips are brushing Kaz’s ear, until panic is rising hot and heavy and crushing in Kaz’s chest, and he whispers, “I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

Then there’s a gunshot. A single shot, and the mans body is a deadweight resting on top of Kaz. He can feel panic clawing its way into his throat; can see the corners of his vision slowly darkening as he gasps for air; but then there’s suddenly fresh air again. There’s suddenly a freeing openness; the man’s weight gone from his body—tossed to the side.

“Kaz?” Jesper’s voice says, even as Kaz registers that no one’s touching him, no one’s too close or crowding him. He looks up, works his hands out of the last of the knots, to see his team crouched around him. They’re all careful, an arm’s length away and making sure they don’t touch him. “It’s okay,” he hears Jesper say as he briskly pieces himself back together.

“Oh, good,” he says, “you found me.” He holds his hand out for his gloves, and Nina drops them into his waiting palm, careful not to touch him. Pulling them on feels like becoming himself again, and he stands, shrugs his shoulders slightly to get rid of the slight twinge that comes with being tied up.

“Of course we did!” Wylan says, almost angry at the idea that they wouldn’t. “You’re our friend!”

“There are no friends in the Barrel,” Kaz replies, but he doesn’t think he believes it anymore.

#six of crows #soc #kaz brekker #jesper fahey #inej ghafa #wylan van eck #nina zenik #matthias helvar #fanfiction #my writing #first thing posted in a while but like!!!!! hey!!!!! im alive and posting things to this blog!!#im probably gonna do nano too #& i have two other things written but im not allowed to post bc #school work #anyway @ soc fandom u can yell at me about inej if u want im happy 2 explain my reasoning

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mostlysignssomeportents · 6 years ago

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Beyond the Coming Age of Networked MatterBy Bruce Sterling

I wasn’t too chuffed about the weird changes I saw in my favorite start-up guy. Crawferd was a techie I knew from my circuit: GE Industrial Internet, IBM Smart Cities, the Internet-of-Things in Hackney hackathons. The kind of guy I thought I understood.

I relied on Crawferd to deliver an out-there networked-matter pitch to my potential investors. He was great at this, since he was imaginative, inventive, fearless, tireless, and he had no formal education. Crawferd wore unlaced Converse shoes and a lot of Armani. He had all the bumbling sincerity of a Twitter Arab Spring.

Crawferd could see no difference between physics and metaphysics. The way he had it figured, all matter was code. If you suggested that his trippy hacker mysticism was not entirely plausible—that rocks were rocks and trees were trees, they weren’t “networks”— he’d brood at length, then chase you from the hackerspace, slam the door, and blog compulsively.

Given his deep unworldliness and his intense interior life, Crawferd was a pretty easy guy for me to manage. We got along okay, while Sophia and Fatima totally loved Crawferd. S&F were my two wealthy oil widows from Dubai. Their Gulf State pin money had to go somewhere that wasn’t Cyprus or Bitcoins.

So for a while things were cozy. I’d arrange funding brunches in Gstaad, where Fatima and Sophia went skiing. I’d wheel in Mr. California Ideology while they had their mint tea and shared the hookah. The sparks would fly.

Crawferd was cool about Sophia and Fatima. He never asked them for much, and he always brought them nifty digital fitness toys. All tech chicks kind of dug Crawferd. He had this spooky geek tenderness, a possibly sensual, my bits-might-turn-to-atoms thing going on.

So S&F hung on his every word, but the truth was, the guy simply didn’t know how to cash in. He was all sci-fi and no megacorp.

Then he missed a couple of gigs and he stopped updating on LinkedIn. I was busy helping Microsoft waste some Kinect money, so I didn’t bother him.

Then I breezed through Palo Alto and he spotted me on Foursquare. He shot me a mysterious, incoherent SMS full of sick Tweet orthographics. “W3 sh4ll overl4p time, space, and dimensions,

and with0ut bodily motion, peer to the .”

I got rid of that thing pronto. I always erase after reading, my lawyer taught me that. But seeing his freaked message, I took good care to meet him F2F.

Crawferd was lurking and had gone very downside-scenario. He had tinfoiled all the windows inside a nameless AirBnB, which he’d rented from some shivering TumblrGoth who was way into, like, black candles, inverted pentagrams, and big plastic 3Dprinted gargoyles.

Fancy LED lights in Shapeways Nervous-System lamps were segueing through every color in the spectrum, while Soundcloud was streaming the shriekiest works of Grimes.

This was not his customary scene, and I further perceived that my man Crawferd had shed several kilos, dyed his hair pastel, and failed to shave. He kept compulsively stroking the filthy screen of his Chinese-knockoff fondleslab.

“Buzz, old buddy,” he croaked at me, “it used to upset me, because I couldn’t deliver a massive breakthrough in the networked- matter space. I talked a great game sometimes. But I couldn’t execute. But now I’m so freaked out! Yes! Freaky from success! I have networked matter!”

Crawferd had this thousand-mile killer-drone stare now, and also that rigid, pedantic, coder tone of voice, that grammar-nazi thing you see mostly on Ayn Rand websites.

My deliverable seemed clear to me: reduce fever, resume chill, and restore functionality.

“Crawferd, pal, listen up. You’ve been way overdoing it in an overheated tech scene. I’ve got your back, and I’m thinking Oahu. There’s this cool yoga-hula ashram out there, no Internet connectivity, no cell-phone bars, nothing. Some exercise, brown rice, and vitamin B, and you’ll be the old Crawferd in no time.”

“Buzz, this matter is about matter. We see matter because we’re constructed from matter. We imagine we’re made from matter because all we can measure with our network sensors is a narrowly materialistic set of inputs. But that is not the cosmic truth, Buzz. A new science underlies ‘matter.’ It’s about a cellular- automata framework in which all material manifestations are computationally equivalent.”

I’d seen these sad symptoms in other guys like him. My fave Californian tech boy had gone straight off the ledge into full Erik Davis techgnosis. “Oahu’s just hours away. Beaches, blue sky, maybe a sweet, understanding hippie lady with some pakalolo.”

“I have found the grail for the coming age of networked matter, Buzz. I have seized its Philosopher’s Stone. I have found a way to transform all matter into network.”

“Why?” I said.

He got that look on his face. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“Where is my user benefit? Where is the business model? You can’t get VC backers for that scheme! That is pure Tim Leary mystic woo-woo! You’re a coder, Crawferd. I can hear crap like that from L.A. screenwriters.”

“Do I look like I’m handwaving at you? I have built a freaking demo! I can run it for you, right here, off my phablet.”

Crawferd was a proud and touchy fanatic, but then again, so was Steve Jobs. You can take one fatal step too far into the Reality Distortion Field, and all the typewriters will vanish. They don’t come back, either. “So, what does your demo, uh, demo?”

“You remember those two Maker kids? The ones I had hacking those beehives for me?”

I remembered his interns, all right. Two cute Millennial designer kids. Their names escaped me, but she was, like, very Kevin Kelly techno-emergence, while he was very Jussi Parikka insect media. They were Crawferd’s start-up slaves. Being Makers, they worked around the clock without a salary, just like bees did.

“Your beehive kids,” I said.

“Great design research team! They went deep into the bee ‘umwelt,’ that sensory world of bees that only bees can perceive. Bees are intensely illustrative of matter-networking principles. Bees scarcely have brains, yet they still assemble and congeal all the nectar and pollen within a given area.”

“So that’s your demo? It’s bees? Cut to the chase! Where’s the humming and stinging?”

“That’s not my demo yet . . . but here, look what they did on

Kickstarter. You’ll appreciate this.”

Crawferd caressed his cruddy little “phablet”—man, I really hate that word—and there they were, Crawferd’s two favorite Maker kids. Nicely dressed up in black and yellow bee-themed cosplay duds, with that embedded video that crowdfunding projects always do.

“Hi there, people of the Internet! I’m Adrienne, a graphic interface designer from Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design, and this is Julio, my coder and Significant Other!”

There followed ninety seconds of jerky handheld from Adrienne’s iPhone. Her pitch was all about the graphic interfaces through which bees perceive and manipulate matter. Bee sensors, mostly, their compound eyes, antennae, and their big tonguey mandibles.

Then Julio horned in, to vlog about the bee-code running on their tiny bee brains.

Bee brains lacked much processing power. Just enough hardware in there to run a high-level bee-dance language where the bees could clue each other in about tasty matter resources. Adrienne had mocked this system up on a whiteboard with boxes and arrows. Julio had coded it with open-source modules.

Then they’d created these 3Dprinted plastic “bee puppets.” Their fake plastic Maker bees were, like, awesomely effective at bee dancing. Their robot bees, set dancing by Arduino, were basically Trojan Bees. They had gotten root in the hive. They had powned the hive colony superorganism. Those bees would do whatever the hackers wanted.

“Their bee-swarm pitch is out of this world!” I told Crawferd. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen this idea before!”

The Maker kids ramped up to their triumphant climax. Being new to California, they’d noticed all the window-box marijuana plants. They’d hacked their bees to go out to forage for dope pollen.

They showed the camera their existence proof: a double fistful of honey-drenched Silicon Valley hashish.

Then little Adrienne and Julio modestly asked the public for twenty grand to go 3Dprint some beehives, so they could issue some royal-jelly marijuana prescriptions. A business-model screwup that was total facepalm. Of course their Kickstarter had exploded. Just gone ballistic. It had blown past twelve million USD in capital and was heading north at high speed.

“You have created a monster,” I told Crawferd. “I can see why you’re so upset now. This is not even funny. Where are those crazy kids? They’re gonna need to lawyer up.”

“They’re no longer with me,” muttered Crawferd. “That’s the bad part. That’s why I’m hiding in here.”

“So where’d they run off to?”

Read the rest:

https://boingboing.net/2013/07/16/bruce-sterling-from-beyond.html

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darkling-er · 6 years ago

Text

Hope’s Savior ( John Seed x OC ) | Part 6

Summary: Trinity-Hope Johnson finds herself in the middle of a holy war, leading the Resistance, while having a complicated relationship with one of the cult’s herald. And she thought her first case would be easy. Oh how wrong she was!

Pairings: John Seed/Fem!Deputy, John Seed/OC, Earl Whitehorse & OC ( uncle&niece ), Joseph Seed/Fem!Deputy ( kind of ), might add more later

Warnings: mild language, violence, eventually smut, use of drugs ( bliss and other, thanks to Sharky ), fluff ( does that even need a warning? ), manipulation, angst, mention of mental illness ( insomnia, depression ), mention of child abuse ( from John’s side ), torture, I think that’s it? I swear it’s not so bad!

Word Counter: 2282

Notes: I’m making up for all the chapters without John, so yay! John interactions!

Hope sits up on the roof and looks down at her radio. Okay, this guy needs to chill down, we literally just met today. She considers not answering. That would be the wise choice, right? But she has a tendency to acting before thinking and facing the consequences later. John’s voice still in her head, the way he says ‘Dep-you-tee’ sending chills down her spine. And he thinks they need to talk, let’s talk then.

She picks up the radio and pushes down the button.

“I don’t think we need to do anything, Johnny boy. After all, you did try to drown me tonight.”

She’s poking the snake and she knows that. When he started the call he didn’t sound too happy. Well, why would he be? Big bro Joseph wanted him to get her to atone and now she was free, out of his grasp.

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end of the radio, before John talks. His voice is sweet and melodic like in the commercial and his sermons at the outposts. But Hope can feel the anger hiding behind the lines.

“Let’s not dwell on the past, shall we, Deputy?”

He says it again. ‘Dep-you-tee’ and it’s getting on her nerves. He must do it on purpose, making the word sound longer then it supposed to be. Her reaction is immediate and it’s filled with venom, with a fake laugh at the end:

“It happened, literally an hour ago... What, you miss me already? Are you angry that I didn’t join you in your weird torture dungeon?”

What is she even doing right now? Why is she talking to her? He’s an annoying ass, that’s for sure. And even if she’s trying to pull on his strings he always fights back somehow, making her angry.

John chuckles at the other end of the call:

“Oh, and here I thought you are the one missing me. You were the one holding my arm and not letting go, if I remember it correctly...” Hope’s glad the man can’t see her right now, because she can feel her cheeks are getting flushed. “Although I can’t lie, I was disappointed that my men couldn’t bring you to my bunker.”

She scoffs and interrupts him, before he could continue.

“First of all: I was drugged, remember? Thanks to your buddies with the bliss bullets. So fuck you! And second: You have to up your game, because your men are weak as hell. I even put down one of your Chosen, remember? And you what? Send me in a truck with two peggies? Come on, I am disappointed, Johnny boy. You’re not even trying.”

“The Bliss only makes you reveal your true nature, Deputy... It doesn’t make you do things, that you don’t want to do...” He speaks through his teeth next. “And yes... I do remember, but be careful. Our actions reveal our sins...”

Hope rolls her eyes.

“You know what? This was a mistake, next time you want to talk to somebody, just call a therapist. I’m sure you need all the help you can get.”

John laughs out loud at that and her stomach sends a weird sensation through her body.

“Oh, but Deputy... Here I thought we were starting to bond. It’s you that needs my help. I can set you free from your sins, but you keep insulting me... And you didn’t even ask about our dear Deputy Hudson, yet.”

Hope clenches the radio in her hands, so hard she fears she might break it. She speaks through her teeth. She knows John mentioned Hudson so he could get a reaction from her. If it’s a reaction what he wants, a reaction is what he’ll get.

“You listen to me, you motherfucker! If you even think about hurting her, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” He asks, clearly satisfied with her reaction, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Sleep tight, my dear.”

And with that the call is cut off. She takes some deep breaths and swears out loud. Fuck the Seeds... Why did she even answer? And how come he knew her personal channel? He didn’t use the open one like before. Fuck...

She hears the door to the cabin open and Adam’s voice can be heard:

“Hey, Dep, you okay?”

She speaks low but makes sure the man can hear her answer:

“Yeah, I’m fine.” But in reality, she is far from fine.

All she can see is ash and fire. The sky has turned into a dark red, the clouds are black and instead of snow, ash falls from the sky. Hope can hear screams from everywhere. She’s panicking as she can’t move her leg. She’s in a car. Who’s car? She has no idea, but it seems like she is the driver.

There’s someone outside and the song that is echoing in the air, mixed with the screams she feels like this had happened before. She sees a silhouette walking by the car, but she can’t quite make it out, who it is. Though the next words she hears can’t be anyone else’s than Joseph Seed:

“Was blind, but now I see”

Hope weaks up, sweat covering her body. She is shaking with fear as she can still smell the smoke and ash in the air. She takes a few deep breaths and looks around. It’s calm and quiet, a clock ticking next to her head. She’s still in Adam’s cabin and the sky isn’t red. She can’t hear any screams and most of all Joseph Seed is not there.

She looks at Adam’s bed, he’s still asleep. Maybe it’s for the better, she couldn’t talk about her nightmare if asked. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She gets up from the bed and changes into a set of new clothes Adam got her from Fall’s End.

“You kidding me?” She whispers as she looks down at herself. A ‘trouble maker’ crop top and a jeans with her thigh holsters. One for her pistol and one for the throwing knives. I guess my whole stomach is free, ready to take bullets.

“Asshole, get up” She throws her used clothes on the sleeping Adam. He groans at her but gets up eventually.

Hope considers telling her conversation with John to Adam, but changes her mind as they drive to the Pig Farm.

“Deputy, it’s Pastore Jerome. If you’re getting close to Woodson’s Pig Farm be careful. Cultists will kil hostages if they lay eyes on you. You gotta attack quietly. It’s their best chance of survival.”

“That’s my speciality.” Hope replies. “Feed Boomer, while I’m away, will you?”

After fighting through the peggies, killing most of them with a bullet through the head with a sniper before getting spotted. They free all of the hostages and Hope is pretty satisfied with the work she had done.

“You’ve done it again, Deputy. Actions like these are sparking the Resistance. Those people are stronger today because of you. Just like the story of David and Goliath. You’re inspiring real courage. Keep it up.”

She smiles to herself and almost gets a heart attack as her radio crackles again.

“Pastor Jerome is selfish and misguided.” She hears the annoyed voice of John Seed. “And if he were a true man of God, his people wouldn’t have left him in the first place.”

Hope laughs out loud, gaining a weird look from Adam. This guy sounds like he’s a kid. Pouting and calling names, like the Pastor took away his favourite toy.

“You, Deputy, will still confess your sins. Because this is the will of the Father.”

He actually sounds like he got a scolding from a teacher and now he has to do his homework. She can’t stop herself as she pushes down the talk button.

“Oh, Johnny boy, what happened? Did you get a scolding from Broseph?” She mocks him with a smirk that he can’t see. “How do you instantly know what I’m up to, anyway? You’re following me, hiding behind a bush, waiting for me to do something that’ll piss you off?”

There’s a moment of silence and she expects that the younger Seed won’t answer, when he replies:

“I have cameras everywhere, Deputy...”

Hope looks around the place but sees nothing. She holds up her middle fingers and takes a 360 turn.

“Kinky...” She laughs. “You see what I’m doing now?”

The answer doesn’t exactly pleases her, because John’s cold voice turns into his teasing one. He’s totally smirking, I can tell.

“Why, yes! Although I’m warning you again. Keep up this attitude and Deputy Hudson will suffer for your actions.” She lowers her arm, all of her playful mood gone. “She even told me things about you, Deputy... Interesting things, really.”

She scoffs and now she’s the one annoyed by this exchange:

“Oh, really?”

The man on the other end chuckles:

“Of course I’m not much for gossip. I would rather have you here, with me. Then you can tell me all about yourself.”

She scoffs and starts walking to Adam’s truck, the gun for hire totally shocked that the deputy is talking to that sadistic asshole.

“How about you find a new hobbie, John?” She uses his real name, not in the mood for teasing nicknames. “Or are you that pathetic that you have to kidnap and torture people talk to you?”

She shuts the car door behind her with a little bit too much force than she wanted to. Another chuckles and a ‘tsk’ sound comes from him:

“And here you are. Talking, to me. When nobody is making you.”

She rolls her eyes and gestures to Adam to start the truck.

“Well yeah, I’m an idiot. And I’m gonna hang up now. So screw you!”

She shuts off her radio entirely, only now realizing she was talking to the open station. Which means everybody who was listening to this channel heard that exchange. Fucking great.

“Why did you answer to him? And why in the hell did you flirt with him?” Adam asks as they drive to the Henbane River. Maybe some time away from the Valley is a good idea.

“I wasn’t flirting.” She says annoyed by even the idea.

“Ugh? Duh? You were. And HE was too. You two were totally flirting. In a sick way, but totally a boner way.”

She slaps his arm and looks offended:

“No, we didn’t. This is called enemy exchange.”

He scoffs with a laugh:

“You mean enemies-to-lovers exchange.”

She hits him now, hard on the bicep. He grunts but laughs and she can’t help but laugh too. Jesus, we were kind of flirting, weren’t we?

They step over the bridge to the Henbane the radio crackles and she’s glad it’s not the Seed’s voice that greets her:

“Deputy, you’ve crossed into the Henbane. Don’t trust anything you see and sure shit don’t believe a word that Faith says. Also steer clear of those white flowers. They seem harmless, but they will fuck your shit up... if you don’t believe me, just wait until you come across some of those shamblin’ junkies... Cult calls them ‘Angels’, but they’ll tear through you like shit through a goose.”

“Alright, thanks for the heads up, Dutch.” Hope replies.

Adam turns on the radio as the peggie channel blazes with music:

“Help me Faith, help me Faith, shield me from sorrow from fea...” The music is quickly cut by Adam changing the radio channel.

“Stupid thing, always ends up on that channel.” He murmurs under his breath and Hope chuckles as she leans back in her seat and looks out the window.

“You said the distress call came from the prison?”

She humms and nods:

“Yup, some guy names Virgil made it. Dutch told me to check out that place first before doing anything in Tinkerbell’s region.”

Adam scoffs and smiles at that:

“Tinkerbell? Johnny boy? Broseph? Are you trying to annoy them or make them your pets?”

She hits his arm, but not with force.

“I’m just asking, darlin’.” He says defending himself with a laugh.

“Yeah, sure. Will keep them on a leash too. Only Jacob left, to get a name.”

He shakes his head, disgust in his voice:

“Don’t call that one anything, he’s the worst.”

She laughs and looks at him with a smile in her eyes as well:

“He didn’t do me wrong... Yet... So on my list, he’s on top. My fave Seed at the moment.”

“I thought that was John.” She gives him a disapproving look as they turn on the road, only a couple of meters away from the Hope County Jail. She takes her AR-C into her hands as gunshots can be heard and she spots a couple of peggies outside of the building.

“First time I see someone trying to get inside the prison” She jokes and jumpes out of the car, when it slows down enough and marches on, taking out peggies as she goes.

“Let’s get these thugs, don’t give ‘em an inch!”

Hope almost gets shot by the voice she hears. Is that...? Adam takes out the peggie coming at her, while she’s shocked for a moment. That’s the last of them.

They open the gate and there he is. Hope’s eyes tear up as she runs up to the man:

“Holy shit... Hope?” She hugs him closely and doesn’t want to let go.

“You’re here... you’re here.” She says shakingly. Thank God, he’s here!

Adam comes up behind her, and asks:

“You guys know each other, I guess?”

Earl looks down at her niece, with pride in his eyes:

“She’s my niece.”

A/N: Okay, so no cliffhanger, and more is to come soon, but I wanted to finish and post this chapter! Thanks for reading! *-*

Tags: @onl-you

#hope's savior #trinity-hope johnson #my deputy #john seed x deputy #john seed x female deputy #john seed x oc #fanfiction #far cry 5 fanfiction #fanfic #far cry fanfiction #far cry 5

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academicgangster · 2 years ago

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I do want to clarify I don't think 24 is a literal baby. 24 is an adult fully capable of consent and firm decisions, but 24 is fucking young, fucking stupid, and really fucking easy to take advantage of.

TG1 Mav is particularly so, because he's so visibly sincere and has so many vulnerable spots right out in the open. He clearly does not clock that Charlie's world is so much bigger than him, that he's essentially just a toy to her, because his world is small. It's service, flying, flirting, and her. She changes his world; he's only a blip on her radar. He clearly is not going to understand this for a few years yet.

The gap between 24 and 28-30 is enormous. I have no reason to believe it was any less so back in the 80s. It's not a significant age difference in terms of consent, and it's certainly not an inherently unhealthy age difference, but if the older partner has intention to manipulate, it works much more to the younger one's disfavour than it would if it were say, a 28-year-old and a 35-year-old in the same situation.

As I always say on Mav/Charlie posts, Cole/Claire in Days of Thunder did the hotshot younger idiot man/older academic professional lady pairing with a lot of mutual love and respect - a demonstration of how such dynamics can actually be healthy, with just a touch of mentorship, rather than the absolute mess that Mav and Charlie had going on.

goose asking maverick for one more volleyball game like “please for me?? for ME???” but he’s like not today bro and leaves

#top gun #meta

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rinnysega · 7 years ago

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“Mr. Smiles’ Circus”

I totally fell behind on a lot of my writings this month because I’ve been picking up extra shifts at work before my trip. But, I did manage to finish this one even though it was going on longer than what I’d originally planned. And what’s funny is I’d even planned to make it longer than it is, but due to time I had to trim it down. I’m just glad I’m posting something before I leave!

This is a gift fic for @clairjohnson because Mr. Smiles is one of my favorite clown ocs in the fandom, and I wanted to write something for him for a while now. Consider this though a warm up since I’m still nailing down his character, but I would like to explore more with him in the future. Enjoy!

Late, late, late…

What was it about humanity that made it so slow and trepid as the years passed? It used to be his victims would flock to his traps with a sense of curiosity and adventure, but lately they seemed so cautious and immune to his tricks. It left him starving. He’d already set the bait for his next meal in what felt like ages ago—a carefully woven dream left in the mind of one of the locals, and yet here he was, weeks later, without so much as an appetizer. How despicable.

It was late evening in 1985, and the twilight was hidden away, far beyond the forest. Mr. Smiles blew into a dirty old kazoo as he reclined back on a rusted metal beam, high above in the rafters his old circus tent. The center ring was barren, just several yards down below. A dull, monotonous sound that kazoo made. What a perfect score to how he felt: so bored and so hungry.

His leg hung idly over the side and swung slowly to and fro like a pendulum, highlighting just how long he waited.

He’d happened upon a young, sleepwalking child out late one night behind his house close to the outskirts of town. Watching him creep slowly about like a sick kitten, Mr. S had the idea to try setting up something new—something to entertain himself with while getting a fresh meal and cheap kicks. That night, he manipulated the boy’s mind and senses to dream of his circus. In his dreams, the boy could smell the dirt, the candy, the concessions, and the animals. He could hear the elephants, the laughter, the applause, and the music. He’d see his tent, the ring, and the ringmaster before him, and he’d have that dream again and again until that adventurous spirit would lead him right to his death.

Every day on the walk home after school, the boy would hear those familiar sounds, and smell those alluring aromas leftover from his mind’s eye. But as the days and weeks passed, he never went to explore and see the abandoned circus that awaited him, and as the clock ticked away, so did Mr. S’s patience.

He sat up and held the toy instrument between his fingers, fiddling with it as if it were a cigar. His teeth ached so badly, wanting nothing more than to sharpen and sink into a delectable morsel and appease his sickness. Perhaps time for experimentation was over and he’d rely once again on being an active predator and not resting until he got what he wanted. His stomach was surely on that side of reason.

With a grunt, he flicked the plastic toy from his hand and watched it clink and clang along the way down before landing with an echo on the floor below. Just then, he heard voices and shuffling feet.

“I heard something in the tent!”

Mr. Smiles sat up and looked down over his shoulder to the opening—where the curtains pulled in and wooden stakes nailed it to the earth. Darkness outside already covered his park like a sheet, but just there, at the lip of the folds, were several beams of lights, illuminating the way inside.

There were three of them, all children, holding lanterns and flashlights, and one of them was that boy he’d targeted.

His interest was peaked as he reclined forward to get a better look at them. Well, well, if this boy was going to keep him waiting for this long, it really was only polite to bring seconds and thirds, Mr. S supposed. He could forgive him for that.

“Are you sure you heard something?” said the lone girl in their group. “I’m already feeling kinda sick being here. You said we’d only look around a bit.”

“It’s only been five minutes.”

“Five minutes is “a bit”.”

“Are you serious right now? We find an old amusement park and you want to bail? You said you’d come with me to look for it.”

“No offense, Dylan, but I didn’t think there’d actually be one.”

“Then why’d you say yes?”

“Cause I didn’t think there’d be one!”

Amidst their bickering, another, softer voice spoke up, and a third child pointed his light further inside. “Hey, guys? What’s that?”

The others shone their flashlights on the center ring, and all three went over to investigate what they’d found, Dylan leading the way. As the children stepped up onto the platform, their lights all shone on the abandoned kazoo.

“It’s not as dusty looking as everything else,” Dylan noted. “Is this what fell...?”

Before he could finish his sentence or even crane his head to look up, the bottom end of a walking cane sliced through the air and planted itself between them. The girl stepped back, fearful.

Their lights combined once more and followed up the long cane to see it reach all the way up to the rafters. At the top, holding the hooked end of the handle was a clown. He smiled down at them, seemingly amused by them as he stepped off the metal beam and glided with ease—hardly holding onto the thing at all.

“Spotlights? Oh, please, how kind of you. I’m flattered.”

He descended rather quickly and stepped down to join them before he flicked the cane, ever so slightly, to have it retract back to the small size of a wand. He tucked it away in his vest, hardly flinching at the brightness that now shone directly at his face. “It’s been so long since I’ve had an audience.”

“That’s the guy!” Dylan yelled to the others, as if unaffected by the sight of the man. “He’s the guy I was telling you about from my dream! It’s just like I said. I end up in this tent, and this guy’s here.”

“Yes, I’ve made dreams come true for many people, my boy, but so generous for you to take notice and come find me here. You can call me Mr. Smiles though, or Mr. S for short. After all, it’s been so long since I’ve put a smile on someone’s face, and that alone just makes me, mmm, frown.” The edges of his lips pulled down into an exaggerated look of despair.

“What’s wrong?” Dylan asked. “Are you in trouble?”

“Dylan…” The young boy tugged at his sleeve. “Mom said don’t talk to strangers…”

“He’s not a stranger, Kevin. He’s the guy in those dreams I’m having. I just told you.”

“He’s still a stranger.”

“No he’s not. It makes him a…a…”

“Premonition?” Mr. Smiles suggested, his mood lifted and playful.

“Huh?” Dylan turned his attention back to the clown before him. “I-I guess, but why am I having those dreams? Who are you?”

“Don’t you see how old my poor circus has become?” He stepped back and showcased his point with a wave of his hand. They held their flashlights in different directions, but each one only illuminated one broken down relic after another. “I haven’t seen a happy face in here in years. I’ve been long forgotten by everyone in town.”

“But don’t you live in Derry?” The girl asked. “You could just put an article in the paper.”

“He’s magic, April. Magic people are lonely and mysterious and don’t like other people and live by themselves. Is that right?” Dylan faced him again.

Mr. S simply shrugged. Who was he to argue with that logic?

“So that’s it then? You’re really magic?”

A long, painted smile gave him his answer.

“I knew you were the right one to hear my pleas,” Mr. S said. “Yes, both I and my circus are magic, sweet, sweet Dylan, and you have the power to bring that magic back.”

“I do? But in my dreams, I’m just enjoying the rides. What am I supposed to do to bring it back?” He spoke with the air of an army general—someone who knew his involvement was of the utmost importance, and Mr. S. couldn’t help but feel pity for the poor nobody who was delusional to think he was a somebody. But it made his job that much easier.

“The thing about magic is, you’d be surprised at what limitations you can break when given the opportunity.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means to enjoy my show. Let your imaginations run free while I entertain you. After all, a child’s happiness is what keeps an old man like me going. The more smiles and laughter I get, the more vibrant my circus will be, and in no time at all, the magic will be back and you three will be who I’m most grateful for.”

April pulled on Dylan’s sleeve to whisper in his ear. “This is like a fairy tale…” Her worry was starting to dissipate and Mr. S. could tell she was slowly getting on board with the little charade he’d set up for the three of them. And he really had to hand it to those modern movies that romanticized such things. Children who meet a whimsical, magical adult and after a short adventure, have a happy ending? What a perfect ploy to get easy food.

“Come now, children, let me see a smile.” He twisted his wrists and pointed at his own large smile in order to make them copy, and once their faces lit up with enjoyment, the circus dimmed to life and the ambiance was beginning to come to life.

“That’s it, now!” He took a step back and took his cane from his vest pocket again to hold up as confetti boomed and trickled down from the ceiling. Faint accordion music began to play as their smiles widened and hearts swelled. They were doing this? Just by smiling, they were seeing magic performed just before their eyes?

“I told you, this is real!” Dylan shouted in excitement, just as the jolly music went into full swing and lights danced around the show floor in colorful patterns.

“I don’t believe it.” April looked at the lights at her feet. “This is real. This is really real!”

“Have a seat and relax, and as a token of my sincerest gratitude, enjoy the first ever extravagant cavalcade of spectacular wonder, by yours truly himself, in over thirty years!”

Mr. Smiles tapped the cane on the floor and instantaneously, the circus erupted to an operation of show-stopping features the likes that no one’s ever seen. Right before their eyes, the arena lit up with more dazzling and vibrant colors that spread along the tattered curtains now patched and threaded as if brand new. The dust swept into the air and sparkled like glitter as shadows emerged to dance before them, followed by the real people themselves, as girls, clowns, and performers of all kinds greeted them throughout the entire floor with smiles and waves and choreography that would put anything on television to shame.

Dylan’s mouth hung open as he took in all the developing sights and sounds. A hand curved over his shoulder as Mr. S knelt beside him and hugged him close to admire his work with him. The pride swelling in his chest was a premonition in and of itself in what delicious fortune was in his near future. “Breathtaking, isn’t it?” he said.

“And you’re saying I did this? Just by me being happy?”

“With a lot of work done by myself of course, but yes, Dylan. It’s all because of you my circus is as alive as it was so many years ago, and I couldn’t thank you enough for that.”

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t believe you chose me out of anyone you could have picked.”

“Because why wouldn’t I choose someone with such a...noble heart such as yours?”

“Noble?”

“Or honest, loving…trustworthy,” the last word tasted good on his lips. “Take your pick of character, kid, but you are one special young man who came to my rescue. You’re really a lifesaver.”

Dylan immediately pivoted his feet toward him and hugged him around the neck, pulling him down into a tight embrace. He rubbed his face against his tufts of dark hair and whispered in his ear so the others couldn’t hear him in his small moment of vulnerability.

“You’re amazing...”

A soft patch of goosebumps ran along his arms as Mr. Smiles curved them around the child to return his hug, and Dylan pulled away from him just as firecrackers were set off, introducing the clown car now zooming out from behind a curtain with a cannon twice its sized hitched to the back.

“Oh, man!” Dylan shouted and pushed away from him to join the other two at the edge of the ring. They were in such awe of the spectacle unfolding now before them that they were unaware of a malicious grin forming on the ringmaster as he stepped back into the shadows and out of their sight…

“Look, fire breathers!” Kevin ran on one direction as April ran in another to look at the acrobats about to fly through the air.

A dozen dancers filled the room and crowded it like a ballroom with music and ribbon twirling underscoring the shouts of those about to swing into action. All three looked up in wonderment as those acrobats sprung to life up in the air, flipping and spinning and diving and catching one another as if effortless and second nature.

Lions and elephants stampeded into the rings by their masters, and just as their hearts raced with danger of being so close to such animals, three large muscular men carried them with ease to the bleacher seats to give them a front row view of the show. They lifted barbells as the clowns wheeled in on unicycles. They made balloon animals that seemed to float in the air without helium, and as they watched with laughs and joy, they were delivered in their laps hotdogs, popcorn, pretzels, and root beer floats.

“This is crazy…” April said to herself, but loud enough for the others to hear over the noise of the show now running on all cylinders.

“I know! I can’t believe it’s real either!”

“I thought you were crazy when you told us about your dreams, but it was a vision, Dylan! You had visions!”

“You know what this means?” He said. “I’m gonna tell everybody! Everyone’s gonna come here, and I’m gonna be a hero!”

“Cheers to that!”

The three of them held their root beer floats up to cheer together as the fire breathers dispersed from the rings and took positions at the exits...

“I can’t wait to show this to Dad, Kev.”

“I bet he’d like this place.”

“Me too.”

“Hmm…I wonder where that guy went,” Kevin said as he filled his mouth with another handful of popcorn. “I bet he’s real happy to see his circus like this again.”

“Are all these people even real?” April wondered. “They couldn’t be if it was just him here.”

“Weren’t you listening?” Dylan finished his hotdog in one more bite. “We did this. We made them all come to life. None of them would be here without us. They’re all illusions.”

“That’s amazing…” April’s smile fell after a few moments more. “But how could this place be forgotten in the first place?”

“I bet the Russians had something to do with it,” Kevin said. “Dad says they hate anything fun and American.”

April turned her attention to the acrobats and went into deep thought. “What if we stopped smiling?”

“Huh?” Kevin looked at her.

“If our happiness keeps it going, what happens if we just stop?”

Both boys stopped their smiling when the question plagued their minds as well.

“I don’t know…” Dylan trailed off. “Um…” He looked frantically around for the man from his dream—remembering that even then, that man was always with him. But here, in the real world, he was gone. He felt worried. “Hey...honestly though, where’s Mr. S?”

At the question, the music went into sharp and flat tones and made all three children hold their ears in pain. They looked up to see what was happening to the band, only to discover a field of horror being set into motion before their eyes.

The men holding the weights were suddenly crushed to death beneath them. The balloon animals had wrapped around the throats of their makers and strangled them to death. The clowns were death on the show floor, those painted smiles morphing into painted frowns.

Screams slashed through the broken music notes as the acrobats all fell to their deaths.

Stampeding elephants trampled the dancers.

Carnage exploded from the human canon and coated the dead bodies in the arena in chunks of blood and gore.

Lions were mangling whatever person so happened to be in their way, and the food that remained on their laps turned to ash.

“Guys!” April screamed as the three got to their feet.

The bleachers shook and fell apart beneath them, and Dylan, April, and Kevin pulled each other up to escape the collapse just as the fire breathers took their cues and all torched the exits to the tent.

They were trapped as the arena went up in flames.

As everything fell to shambles around them, the screams and flames overwhelming their senses, the children climbed back on top of the center ring to look all around them for a way out.

“Mr. S!” they all cried. “Mr. Smiles!”

Creeping hands of the nearly dying were grabbing at the ring to claw at their ankles, and lions and elephants were surrounding them and giving them no way out on either side.

“Mr. S!” they screamed louder. “Mr. S! Help! Make it stop! Make it stop!”

“What do we do? What do we do!” Kevin cried.

“Do we smile? I can’t smile! I can’t laugh! I can’t do anything” April screamed.

“This isn’t how my dream ended!” Dylan shouted to them. “This isn’t the ending to what was supposed to happen! Mr. S! Mr. S!”

“No, it’s not, is it?”

Mr. Smiles emerged from the floor before them, eyes yellow and burning with the light of the fire. He rose out of the smoke, and seemed to rise with the licking flames as he grew taller and loomed over them—his body curving above them like a bridge to protect them from the falling debris of his tent, but not from the saliva that dripped from large, protruding fangs.

Dylan fell back at the sight of him and his heart pounded, his muscles going numb.

“But this is my ending, children.”

When Kevin tried to run, Mr. Smiles’ large hand fell over him like a cat trapping a mouse, crushing him where he fell. When April cried and did the same, his other hand was there to meet her and end her with a squish to the floor.

And now alone was terrified little Dylan, still fallen over on his back as that devious grin descended upon him. In one last attempt to survive, he put his hands over his tearful eyes, and with heaving weeps, prayed that his friend from his dreams, this man he admired so much, was not this monster, and none of this was real, and how any moment he’d wake up again...

But he, nor any of them, ever would again.

#mr. smiles #clown oc #clairjohnson #apologies in advance for any spelling errors or mistakes I missed in my editing

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vieuxnoyesrp · 7 years ago

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Nadia Petrova ⚜ Vampire ⚜ 30 (522) ⚜ The Bounty-Huntress ⚜ INTP

If you expect nothing from anybody …

Nadia was born in a tiny village in Bulgaria, in 1490. Her father’s identity was never revealed, and she didn’t had the chance to meet her mother; shamed and exiled as she was for having a child out of wedlock. She was raised by her grandparents until the age of 8, when they were killed in a freak attack by a wild animal that killed her grandparents. She grieved for their loss, and from that pain, feared growing close to the distant great aunt she had been left with. The old woman made it easy, wizened and cold as she was. Life wasn’t kind to women in their time, and women were rarely kind to each other. Thus, the girl grew up spirited, headstrong, a little lonely - but also independent and incredibly resourceful. Shunning the pastimes considered appropriate for women, Nadia spent much of her time trailing after the boys and learning how to ride, track, and hunt wild animals, anything to teach her to fend for herself. She thrived on legends of monsters to vanquish, lived on the vengeful thrill of the hunt. Where her family had been weak, she would be strong. As strong as she could possibly be. As strong as the monsters she pretended to fight, stronger.

There’d always been rumours about her mother, rumours painting her mother in a mysterious, dangerous air. The townspeople rarely spoke her name, believing the Petrova name to be cursed, how else could they have been so ruthlessly slaughtered? For they knew what Nadia didn’t; it had been no animal attack, but that of a horrifying creature of the darkness. To speak its name was to invite the devil inside your door.

As long back as she could remember, Nadia nurtured a secret desire to find Katerina Petrova and meet the woman for herself, to find this woman who inspired such fear and awe in the small people of her village. But of all the the labels she heard, ‘vampire’ was not one she’d been prepared to believe. Yet it came out of the mouth of someone she trusted; a renowned hunter - and one of the few people in the village who respected her boyish interests. He taught her, trained her, and soon, she came face-to-face with a vampire herself; one who terrorized her village and left many dead. She was stunned at first - but as the weeks wore on, Nadia’s horror turned to intrigue. Was her mother really such a creature? Why had she turned? Were they really immortal?... She wasn’t the only one with such questions. A new branch of hunters arose in the years that followed; specializing in hunting these creatures of darkness, as more and more stories of such massacres arose. Nadia followed the mercenaries, determined to learn from them, use them, but she came no closer to finding leads on her mother. She’d come as far as she could with the means she had at hand; it was time to change her means.

It wasn’t a difficult decision to make. As a vampire, she’d become almost invincible; a useful quality for a woman who’d already managed to amass more than her fair-share of adversaries. She’d get to travel the world beyond Eastern Europe, without a clock hanging over her head, reminding her that her days were numbered. And as for biological clocks, she’d never had much of an interest for children, marriage, or enduring the dowdy life of a nameless woman in the 1500s either. Not having had much of a real mother meant that Nadia felt too ill-equipped to even consider becoming one herself. She hadn’t been interested in a mate either; not at a time when the only avenue for that was marriage - a ball and chain for the free-spirited young woman. In retrospect, Nadia thinks she was something of a revolutionary woman for her time—a label which brought much alienation and danger over the years, but she has no regrets.

{Did you ever consider that the devil doesn’t enjoy being so cruel? Or that she regrets what she’s done? Did you ever think, just for one second, that maybe she looks up towards the sky and just wants to come home?}

So, unwilling to settle for any of the options being offered to her, Nadia spent the next nine years seeking out the vampires. It wasn’t supposed to take so long; but the nightmarish creatures weren’t as pervasive as folklore would have her believe. Most she encountered over that time span weren’t exactly a sane bunch. And then there was the added difficulty of trying to contact one in secret; without the Hunter’s Guild growing suspicious of her motives, or suspecting a possible traitor in their midst. That alone, would have been a death sentence. It was 1520 by the time opportunity struck. Nadia was well into her thirtieth year of life; an old-maid by the standards of the time. In more ways than one, vampirism was her saving grace.

So began her life on the run, a legacy she would come to find she shared with her mother. She had to leave Bulgaria; well-aware that the Guild would show her no mercy if they discovered what she’d done. It was difficult—but not impossible—to remain one step ahead of all the hunters she encountered, however. After all, she’d spent many years learning the tricks of their trade. Her travels took her out from under the thumb of the Ottoman Empire, freeing her from the bonds of tyranny her people were forced to endure for another 300 years. Instead, Nadia traveled far and wide; letting rumours of the - eventually infamous - Katherine Pierce determine her course. She couldn’t help but look for similarities between herself and her mother in every story along the way. She wanted, so badly, to know the woman; a desire that persisted even as Katherine’s fame took an increasingly sinister turn. Liar, murderer... A woman who manipulated, betrayed and would do anything to survive. Gone were the naive, little-girl dreams of a reunion with a mother who loved her; one who might be looking for her as well. She still wanted answers - was even more determined to get them - but she’d grown tough skin too. Thus, Nadia prepared herself for any version of her mother that might be true.

… You’re never disappointed.

Centuries passed and she made her living as a formidable bounty-huntress. One that specialized, ironically, in hunting vampires. She’d always hoped it would eventually lead to Katherine, and one day, it did just that. Nadia received a tip from an old friend that sent her to the United States. She traveled South, tracking the lead to New Orleans, where, after so many lifetimes, she came face to face with her mother... Only her mother doesn’t know it yet. Because Nadia is biding her time; trying to learn as much about Katherine as she can from the locals, as well as this new, seemingly quiet life she’s settled into. First she’ll learn, and then she’ll strike. Nadia’s been waiting for this encounter for so many decades; what’s a few more weeks to an immortal vampire when it comes to mommy dearest?..

WEB OF CONNECTIONS

Matthew Donovan: Bearing a striking resemblance to her first real love, Gregor, the blond-haired boy has definitely caught her attention. She used the resemblance as an excuse to find out more about him, and has since discovered that Matt has a heart of gold to match his hair. She feels a certain fondness for him that seems to deepen with each one of their encounters. Nadia’s heard through the grapevine that he’s been getting cozy with a young werewolf, but she doesn’t let that bother her. If she so chooses, Nadia knows she can tempt the do-gooder with a bat of her eyelashes and a killer smile. She’s her mother’s daughter, after-all. For now though, she’s content with their friendly little run-ins and has been toying with the idea of teaching Matt, whom she knows is on vervain, all about vampires.

Elena Gilbert: This might be another case of like mother, like daughter because she can’t stand the sanctimonious doppelganger. It has nothing to do with jealousy on her part; after-all, Nadia has little interest in Stefan or Damon and thinks her mother was too good for either of them. Instead, her dislike of Elena comes purely through tracking and observation. And what she’s observed, she doesn’t like; finding the young woman to be sullen, spoiled and weak. She doesn’t understand how people are so quick to confuse them; in her eyes, Elena and Katherine are nothing alike. And if it means earning her mother’s approval, she’d gladly kill off the girl and make it look like an accident.

Tajim Kloeckler-Kuyavar: Tajim knows things, and for all her abilities to track and hunt, Nadia feels like she never really knows all there is to know about her targets. While that isn’t normally necessary, it’s of the utmost importance when it comes to learning about her mother. There are so many rumours surrounding Katherine; so many myths and legends. What’s fact and what’s fiction? Nadia feels overwhelmed at the prospect of wading through five hundred years of opinions herself and she doesn’t know what to believe. So she’s befriended the psychic in the hopes that one day, she can bring him in touch with her mom and get right down to the truth. She’s trying to get to know Tajim in the meantime, until that day comes. So far, they get along. Nadia appreciates his tact and his discretion. Tajim is a scientist through and through, and she relates to his analytical and problem-solving skills. She doesn’t feel the same way about his husband Vic, however. She avoids the professor as much as possible without causing offense; finding his penchant for questions and conversation irritating and a waste of her time.

Tyler Lockwood: When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Since she’s arrived in New Orleans, Nadia has done her best to blend in with the other vampires in town. Unfortunately for the werewolves, that means following Marcel’s austere measures. To place herself above reproach, she’s even physically tackled a werewolf she spotted in the Quarter whilst some of Marcel’s lackeys were nearby. It just so happens that the victim in question was Tyler; a werewolf that hasn’t missed any opportunity to make himself a pain in the ass since then. Their subsequent encounters have been tense since then, and because of his ability to hold a grudge, Nadia’s feeling less and less guilty for her actions during that first run-in. The bounty-huntress doubts they’ll be getting along any time soon and it doesn’t bother her much.

Cora Hale: She had an ugly encounter with the teen in the Bayou. Not long after, Nadia learned that the girl had lost her older brother - and every other family member to her name. Her initial contempt for the werewolf has begun softening into something resembling the beginnings of sympathy, because Nadia knows all too well what it’s like to be alone. Still, that doesn’t mean she’ll hesitate to call Cora Hale out on all her crap. So next time they meet, she intends to do just that, and maybe teach the teen how to be a lot more shrewd, calculating, and underhanded in her goal to seek revenge on those who’ve caused her pain. After-all, the best weapon is one your enemies don’t see coming.

She has also been mentioned in the following bios: TBD

PLOT TEASERS:

Nadia might think she’s got the wool pulled over Tajim’s eyes, but she’s not the only one playing a game. The Arcane Society has their eye on Ms. Petrova for reasons they’ve yet to disclose to Tajim.

Nadia had never had any intentions of mothering any children, and technically speaking, she hasn’t. That’s what she tells herself when the nights get long and her heart yearns for family. She’s never known how to be a mother.

ON THE SOUNDTRACK OF HER LIFE: Coming Down - Dum Dum Girls (X)

FC: Olga Fonda, semi-negotiable.

FORTUNATELY FOR YOU, NADIA IS O P E N!!

#nadia petrova #nadia petrova rp #rpg #olga fonda #olga fonda fc #s: tvd #t: vampire #open #openf #cast

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gguksgalaxy · 7 years ago

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IV. Anger | Horror!Au

<< Previous | Masterpost | Next >>

›› Au: Horror / Gore (non canon) ›› Genre: Angst ›› Rating: 18+ explicit (sexual content + violence) ›› Characters: BTS + Reader x PJM ›› Word Count: 2.7k Warnings Include: Psychological distress and manipulation, character death, mild and severe injuries, member/member violence, blood, explicit language, degradation. Mentions of; sex, cheating, threesome, voyeurism, toys, exhibitionism, blowjob, fingering, spitroasting.

You looked up, everyone looked up, at the door, then to Jin. “You have 70 seconds to enter the next room.”

Then there was the sound of the clock, ticking, ticking. 70 seconds, you had 70 seconds. “UP, EVERYONE GO!” you called, stumbling up, Jimin following you as you pulled at Jungkook’s arm. He looked up at you, his face stained with tears, makeup smeared everywhere. “Kook come on.” You pulled at him wrist, and he looked at the door, where Jin was standing, waiting for the two of you. His skin was pale, and he looked out of it, but he was waiting.

The youngest followed you, standing up and coming after you as you all ran towards the door. Everyone passed through, one by one, more smoothly than last time. Jimin immediately reached for you in the bright room, arms wrapping around your waist to hold you close. He was trembling, with adrenaline and fear probably.

“Seokjin?” Hosoek spoke up from beside Namjoon.

“Hmm?”

“Are you alright?”

Everyone waited for the answer, that came after a few heartbeats. “I feel a little dizzy and tired but I think it’s down now. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

Everyone was mumbling a little after that, Jimin was holding on to you as Jin took care of Jungkook, who seemed distressed and upset. You couldn’t blame him. He’d just put a bullet through his best friend’s brain, even if you all got out, he’d never be the same. None of you would be the same. After seeing Taehyung die like that. A shiver ran up your spine at the thought, the sight of it still clear in your mind. His eyes closed, lips parted, blood seeping from his skull onto the concrete floor. Tears welled up in your eyes, at the thought of your ever so happy friend. Taehyung was always one to lift up the mood, even if it was by constantly hugging you until you had to push him off. He was clingy, but in a good way, everyone loved him.

You let the tears fall, not caring anymore by this point, as you looked around the room.

Namjoon and Yoongi were inspecting the locker that was of the same identical green colour. There was no chair in this room, the locker sitting in one of the corners, no windows, no nothing again. The temperature was weird thought, not too cold, not to warm. There had to be central heating at this time of year.

“Do you think he’s watching us?” Jimin mumbled.

“I think so.” You said. “Probably live, on his own stupid camera. All the timings are too perfect for that.”

Each and every one of you looked around, but couldn’t find any obvious cameras. But you didn’t doubt the fact that this was live, or maybe you didn’t want to doubt it. In the sheer hope that someone would call the police.

“This bastard, he’s all kinds of messed up.” Namjoon said, leaning his head back against the wall. He took another sip of the bottle, holding it out to Hoseok who took it from him. Jin was still holding his own bottle, and saw your gaze, so he held it up.

You shook your head. “You keep that one, in case you need it.”

The intercom cut in, and you all looked up silently, to the source of the sound in one of the corners. “Welcome! Did you enjoy your dinner? I made it myself!”

This guy, or girl, but you were sure it was a guy as to what Jungkook and Taehyung said. For all you knew it was multiple people working on this. It almost had to be right?

“Welcome to the room of Ira. This is a sin committed by those who chose to ignore love and opt for fury. Sometimes you’re just born that way, others…have to be spurred on. It depends really, but it’s a disgusting sin. It doesn’t only hurt others, but sometimes yourself. You don’t always have to be angry at someone else you know!

“In hell, sinners of Ira are punished by dismemberment. But I want you all to have a chance to survive, so I’ll go fairly easy on you. To atone for this sin I want the player who choses or is chosen to participate to experience the anger and what it can do to others. Meaning, all you simply have to do is get really angry! Easy right? Now the other players may assist in any way except physical harassment. You’re allowed to touch them, but harming them is out of the question! Verbally, you can do whatever you need.” How the hell, in this situation, were you going to anger anyone. You’d just get upset,

“This task is completed as soon as the door opens, you have a 70 minute time limit! This player has atoned as soon as they leave the room, there are no further tasks or consequences. However, he may not be deceived.

You looked around at the others, knowing Yoongi seemed to be easily irritable. Namjoon didn’t have much of a short fuse, but you’d heard Jin was easily to go off. Jin however, had already completed the previous task.

“The code Ira is 112! Your seven minutes decision time starts now! Stay calm guys!”

The static cut out and you looked around.

“I say randomise.” Yoongi spoke up, shrugging. “This doesn’t seem too hard.”

You swallowed thickly. “I could never do it.”

He turned to face you, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“I said, I could never to it. Get angry, like really really angry? I don’t think I can.” You really didn’t. Sure you had been angry, with your parents, or even Jimin over little things. But this was a life or death situation and you had no idea how angry you actually had to get. “I’m sorry.”

Hoseok was the first one to answer. “Me neither.”

“I’ll do it.” Jimin suddenly said. And you looked at him. “I think I can do this.”

You frowned, thinking of the times you’d seen Jimin really angry. The occasion was rare but you knew he had the ability to really blow off over certain things. “Are you sure babe?” You asked him, taking his hand.

“Yeah.” He nodded, then looked at his friends. “Is everyone okay with that?”

Jungkook frowned for a second, looking at Jimin, but then nodding. Nobody seemed to be against the idea, and you were glad you’d all lost the slightly vindictive state you’d started with.

That’s when suddenly, a beeping sound appeared. “Jimin, go!” Namjoon ushered your boyfriend towards the locker, who stumbled over and tried to put in the code with shaky hands. “Come on Jiminnie.” He spurred him on, and you knew it’d only make him more shaky. But he got it, 1, 1, 2, right before the timer ended.

Everyone let out a relieved sigh, which was strange you suddenly realised. Because what if it was all a hoax and nobody would really die if you didn’t do anything. What if you killed Taehyung for nothing?

Jimin took a deep breath, and looked around at everyone, his eyes big and afraid. “What now?”

“Get angry.” Yoongi said, sitting down against the wall. Jungkook followed him, and so did Hoseok. You looked at your boyfriend and nodded, giving him a soft smile in the hope it gave him courage. You let yourself sit next to Jungkook, who comfortably leant into you, he was warm.

The room was silent, everyone looked at Jimin, but nobody said a word. How to anger him? How to do this, you had 70 minutes. To what extent would it have to go even? Nobody knew.

Jungkook spoke up first. “Remember that vest Jimin, the one you saved up to buy for like a year? The one you lost?”

“Hmm?”

“When I was at your place, I accidentally dropped coffee on it.” He mumbled, looking down into his lap. “I … didn’t know what to do so I took it home. I couldn’t get the stains out so I never returned it.” You knew that jacket, it was over 500 bucks, the brand slipped your mind right now, but Jimin loved it. It was an army green jacket that fit him perfectly, he’d been really upset over loosing it.

But it didn’t work. He looked at Jungkook with remorse in his eyes. “Jungkook I really can’t get angry over a stupid jacket right now.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and you only now noticed the new red colour of his bracelet. You still had his jacket in your lap, playing with the fabric of the sleeves.

Nobody spoke again, and Jimin sat down in the centre of the room with his hands in his hair. “I’m sorry guys.”

You looked at him, wishing that there was anything you could do, that you could just hold him and make everything go away.

“You know.” Yoongi suddenly said. “I wasn’t going to do this, ever. But if it’s what’s necessary I might as well right.” He looked around Jungkook, at you, and pointed a finger. “You see your girlfriend right here?” you held your breath. “Your cute little girlfriend, you love her right? I heard from Tae that the sex is apparently good.” You weren’t catching on, what the hell was he going to do?

Jimin looked at his friend with big eyes, lips parted.

“Well guess what, she lied.”

You were about to open your mouth, when Jungkook’s fingers wrapped around your thigh. He looked at you, and that’s when you knew, Yoongi was going to lie his way out of this room. Jimin’s eyes were turned to you and you tried to calmly cock an eyebrow at him.

“She lied you know, to your face, every single time. I mean how I know? Because I dicked her right when you couldn’t.”

Jimin stood up, facing Yoonig. “Excuse me?”

Yoongi chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Your little girlfriend? A few months ago, we met up for dinner, I asked her, she said she was left unsatisfied, had to fake it too often with you. So I offered, she took it. Fucked her little cunt right, face pushed into the mattress. And God she was loud, I can still remember how she felt around my dick.”

Your cheeks were turning an abhorrent colour red and your hands were shaking. This was going to possibly ruin your relationship with Jimin, for good, you weren’t sure if he’d ever believe that this was a lie. He was insecure, unsure of himself, he needed validation sometimes and you never had trouble giving it. But this, you didn’t think you could fix this. It was necessary though, to survive.

Jimin walked over to Yoongi, jaw clenched, eyes narrow. Then he looked at you. “Is this true y/n?”

With a deep breath you said; “Yes, I can’t even be sorry about it. First of all,” yo paused, swallowing thickly, hoping he didn’t notice it too much. “He’s much bigger than you, and second of all, he knows how to use it properly.”

Yoongi laughed, running a hand through his raven hair. “I mean, she was tight all right, tightest I’ve ever had. God, she felt so good, to be honest I struggled trying to get her there first. But it was so worth it.”

Jimin pushed him, a single shove. “Cut it out man.”

But he wasn’t going to stop that easily. “I mean she loved it so much that she came back to me. Few weeks later, at my doorstep, pushed me right inside against a wall. Ravishing, I’d never expect something so forward from her. But when she went on her knees right in my hallway and swallowed me down in one go. I knew I had a right one on my hands. Don’t think I ever came that quickly.”

Jimin wheezed through his nose, stepping away, fisting his hair. You’d noted the tears in his eyes. It was working, and you wanted to cry, you wanted to run over to him, to hug him, whisper in his ear how much you loved him and that it was all a lie.

However, you spoke up, adding fuel to the fire. “Tell him about the third time Yoongi, I mean, it was the best one after all.”

“Oh, I remember. You came to my place right, and you had to leave early because you and Jimin were going out for dinner. You know Jimin, what she let me do to her?” Your boyfriend turned around to face him with tear stained cheeks. “I put one of those little vibrating eggs deep up inside of her and she went to dinner like that, with you. Said you didn’t even notice her squirming in her seat. Don’t you know to see when your girlfriend is horny Jimin. You need to know when you have to satisfy her. Then fifth time, at the group dinner.”

“What?” Namjoon suddenly spoke. “At the dinner table?”

“Yes.” You answered, not looking at him. “Underneath the table, fingers past my skirt, inside of me till the knuckle. One of the best orgasms I’ve ever had.”

Yoongi laughed again, and he looked at you with a smirk. “She’s a little slut, you know? Sixth time she came to me and she said, tell him what you said to me honey?”

You licked your lips, placing a hand on Jungkook’s thigh, squeezing. “I told him, that you’d never wanted a threesome, but it’d been a fantasy of mine for years. But you were too insecure to share me, so I asked Yoongi. He asked who with, I said Jungkook. Luckily, out Kookie here was easy to convince.”

Jimin looked at his best friend. “Kook?”

Jungkook looked down. “I regret it man, but it’s no lie, she is a little slut. Fucking tight at that, barely fit inside. She let me fuck her right when she sucked of Yoongi, best sight I’ve ever seen. I never thought I’d be able to get a hand on her ass. Let alone get to fuck her.” He chuckled, kicking his head back. “I regret it, but if she comes to me asking for more I don’t think I can say no.”

Yoongi grabbed Jimin’s shoulder. “Look at that, your precious little girlfriend, isn’t so innocent as you thought she was. Who knows who she’s had in this group. Hoseok maybe? Or Taehyung? He slept over a lot right? I’ve caught onto her little kinks, and getting caught is definitely high up on that list. Imagine what dirty things she did with Tae while you we-“

Jimin launched for him, fist swinging strong and connecting with Yoongi’s jaw with a loud crack. The elder staggered back, and you felt that Jungkook wanted to jump in, but you held onto him.

Your boyfriend tackled Yoongi to the ground, easily, the elder let it happen. He closed his eyes, as Jimin’s fists connected with his face, his shoulders, chest. Yoongi spat out blood on the floor, curling in on himself with each repeated blow he received to his body. You heard cracking, of what was probably his ribs. Jimin lifted his shirt, dragging the other up and slamming him against the wall. His head made a sickening sound.

Yoongi smiled, showing bloodied and broken teeth. Then he spat in Jimin’s face. “She’s better of with me.”

Jimin threw him onto the floor, and Yoongi collapsed like a rag doll, you swore he might’ve been unconscious. Your boyfriend knelt down by him, grabbing his collar to lift his head.

Then the door clicked open, you saw it in the corner of his eyes. And Jimin was about to smash Yoongi’s head against the concrete floor. If it wasn’t for Jungkook jumping up and pulling the blonde up and away.

He stood Jimin down, forcefully grabbing his shoulders as he yelled. “Listen, we have to keep moving.”

Then he swung at Jungkook, fist connecting with the younger’s already bruised eye socket. He staggered back, holding his face with a scream. “You piece of shit!” Jimin yelled. “I trusted you!” Then you realised, you weren’t allowed to deceive him.

“You have 70 seconds to enter the next room.”

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