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thefanficmonster · 3 years ago

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Never Satisfied [Chapter 6]

Corpse Husband x Original Female Character

Warnings: Language

A collaboration between Vy & Ashens 🖤

“I don’t wanna look like this, fuck”

Previously on Never Satisfied:

Digital Checkpoint activated. Reply to save progress. 💜 — Cora

With minimal contemplation he replies seconds later.

Corpse: save

Cora: your progress has been saved. Thank you for choosing A.S.S. - the Automated Save System. You are now free to activate the digital checkpoint at any time.

Cora: I had a nice time. Text me whenever you need to. We’ll hang out again soon, deal?

Corpse: thank you

Cora: anytime sugar ;)

Funny how a text exchange so simple and short can turn so much around for a person. Funny how a huge weight lifts off him the second he locks his phone, suddenly finding it easier to breathe, to move, to blink, to function - to live. She gives him that kick he needs to be reminded to live and not just be alive. He’s still not comfortable with how much he’s relying on her but seeing her effect on him is nothing but positive, the most and best thing he can do for himself is go with the flow and let things happen. No overthinking, no planning, no shooting guesses, just facing things as they come face-to-face with him. He may never get used to it, but he won’t know that until he tries, will he?

* * *

Corpse sighs as he looks at himself in the mirror. He’s been trying to step up a little with the dressing game since he’ll be having a special guest over - ok, truth be told, he didn’t invite her, she invited herself but he’s glad she did. Lord knows he wants her company and wants her around but he could never bring himself to invite her over or initiate a hangout. Good thing Cora doesn’t expect anything from him, not of that nature at least. It’s oddly amazing having a person like her - someone who basically reads his mind like an open book and then takes action according to what she’s read. It’s not only the fact that she accurately gauges all his wants and needs, but also how she knows exactly what to do to satisfy them. To calm him down, to relieve his anxiety, to make him feel comfortable. He feels strangely selfish for always being on the receiving end of this friendship, although he doesn’t see much he could do for her. He’s decided to let time have full control of the course of their relationship, hoping his giver time would come soon.

As of now, however, it still hasn’t and he can stomach that.

It’s been about a week and a half since their first hangout but he hasn’t missed her once. That may be due to how much they’ve been texting ever since he unlocked that checkpoint she offered him. To be more specific, it probably has something to do with the fact that her texts are always so full of life and light, sounding almost like she’s there with him, talking in her signature upbeat and bubbly way which is such a contrast to his own melancholic approach to any conversation ever.

She’s also sent him a ton of memes and selfies, plus pictures she took of clients’ pets. In return for her kindness, he’s sent her bad jokes, weird internet articles about ghosts and pictures of the current game he was playing. Needless to say, their chats have been very colorful.

Now that the scene has been set up a little better, a direct timeline of events lading up to this one would be appreciated, wouldn’t it? Ok so, it all started with an “I’m bored” text Corpse received from Cora about two hours ago. Instinctively, and partially because he didn’t have any idea what else he could possibly say in response to that he sent back an apology. An apology Cora apparently deemed a loophole she could use to invite herself over cause that’s exactly what she did, not that Corpse minds it much. In fact, he felt his heartbeat quicken with excitement when her “K then, I’ll be there in a bit :)” text came in. At first he thought it was his anxiety kicking in but when he realized the rest of his typical symptoms remained absent it took him a little while to pinpoint what that emotion could be.

The epiphany came in the form of the word ‘excitement’.

Regardless of the newfound feeling, or maybe exactly because of it, he attempted to protest. A protest she killed easily with a threatening “I know where you live” text which sent Corpse scrambling to get the apartment in some kind of order. Himself too, it’s safe to say he wasn’t looking the most presentable when he received that message.

His cleaning session consisted mostly of him shoving the strewn about items in his closet and closing it shut like a wild beast dwelled inside, placing a chair in front of the door as a sign for her not to open it and also as a way of preventing the thing from opening on its own because of how overflowing it was.

Afterwards he scrambled into the shower to scrub himself down. It’d been too much for him to tackle given he wasn’t doing too well mentally, but considering he was now suddenly expecting company he thought it’d be for the best not to subject his new friend to the three-day-unshowered Corpse stank.

Right now, his main focus is his face, his stomach sinking at the sight of himself in the mirror’s reflection.

How does she even want to see me?

His mirror is cracked along the right side, spider web-like cracks reaching towards the center of it from the impact point serving as a reminder of a particularly bad night he’d rather forget.

He sighs as he combs his hair, knowing the dark curls won’t oblige and behave no matter how much he tries. He touches his jaw, deciding to let himself off the hook by deeming that a shave wouldn’t be necessary for at least another day. And then his eyes land on his clothes - an outfit it didn’t take him long to put together since those are the only articles of clothing in his closet he’d consider presentable enough to be shown off in front of a new friend who is yet to find out how much of a slob he really is. That clothing choice consists of a black button-up shirt and jeans.

This is nice, right? It’s fine. It’s business casual but definitely leaning more towards casual, as some would say. I look...nice, decent. I’ll take it - it’s enough. Far better than my ‘usual’.

A knock at the door startles him, though it’s quickly followed by a voice he’s grown to find very endearing:

“THIS IS THE COPPAS! OPEN UP YA’ DOOR!” The voice yells out, probably loud enough for the whole complex to hear but it’s not like he gives a shit. And, as context clues show, neither does she.

Corpse exits his bathroom, heading for the front door, pulling the chain off and unlocking the deadbolt before opening it. The object of his newfound affection stands on the other side, grinning and beaming with that usual light she has surrounding her. Her hair is thrown up into a messy bun - a hairstyle she seems to love - and she’s wearing a simple red t-shirt covered in little chubby, cartoonish black cats that seem to be struggling to exist.

He smiles a little, finding it in himself to speak up but when he opens his mouth to do so, she cuts him off.

“Jesus, did you just come back from a funeral?” She asks, pulling at one of the buttons on his chest as she walks past him, letting herself in.

His eyes, completely on their own accord, wander down as she walks on by, causing him to swallow hard as he finds himself staring at a pair of tanned legs, patterned by the fishnets she’s wearing, leading up to a pair of short black shorts.

She turns on her heel about halfway down the hall, leading him to take an inevitable notice of how her well-loved boots could use a polish. Anyhow, he snaps his gaze away to hide the fact he’s been gawking, despite not really meaning to.

“No, but for real, why are you wearing that? You seem super confined and uncomfy, bud.”

Corpse blinks before swallowing and glancing down at himself, pulling at the button she touched before looking back up, his gaze traveling up the length of her legs. She has suspenders hanging over her thighs, more of an accessory than a necessary addition to her outfit. “I just...I dunno, I thought it looked nice. Does it not? I mean, I wouldn’t know, really. I don’t usually dress like this.”

“I mean, you look dapper as fuck but if you’re not comfortable then change, get your comfy game on. I’m the last person you need to impress in this world.”

God, she sees right through him. Even so, he considers protesting, trying to convince it’s all fine, that he likes this shirt and the outfit in its entirety. But her stare sets the record straight for him - she’ll know it’s all lies. And with that in mind, he lets his shoulders fall. Not a full second passes before he promptly starts undoing his buttons.

“Oh, thank fuck.” She comments as he goes to retreat into his room, stripping the shirt off as he walks, unaware of her lingering eyes on his back, unaware of her lower lip bitten between her pearly teeth. Unaware of the subtle shift in her stance as she looks him over much like he did her moments earlier.

When he returns a moment later in a simple dark grey t-shirt, she greets him with a grin and pats his chest. “Much better.”

It doesn’t take long for them to decide to crash on his couch, throw on a bad movie and just sit in comfortable silence. Comfortable silence - something that usually eats away at him and is anything but comfortable he now sees as calming, a soothe to his ever-racing mind.

Disrespecting the movie, Corpse takes to analyzing his guest instead. She has so much confidence, he can’t help but notice, like she’s been here hundreds of times, known him for so long. He hates her a little for it. Well, it’s not quite hate, it leans more toward envy. Jealousy. That human-nature characteristic of wanting what someone else has but you desperately need/wish you had. In his mind, she’s almost selfish: Why couldn’t she share some of that confidence and carefree manner with the rest of the world? It oozes out of her like a drip of honey from a beehive, sweet and warm. And all he wants yet has none of.

He instinctively tenses up as he feels her move closer before, suddenly, her head drops into his lap, legs kicked over the armrest of the couch. He holds his breath almost subconsciously, staring at her as she remains focused on the television. Unsure of what to do with his hands, he puts one across the back of the couch and the other awkwardly bent above his head. He doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea if he touches her. He doesn’t want to come off as a creep nor does he want to overstep any of her boundaries, despite the fact she’s walking a dangerous line of overstepping his. Well, that would’ve been the case if this was done by anyone but her. The way Corpse comes to this realization is when he figures out that he really doesn’t mind this proximity, as long as he doesn’t embarrass himself or creep her out in any way.

What felt like an eternity passes before she finally speaks up, still without looking away from the movie playing on the screen opposite the couch, “You know, I can feel how tense you are.”

His face flushes with embarrassment, heating up as his mind immediately goes to the worst possible outcome of this situation.

She’ll probably sit up, or leave, he thinks to himself, heart thumping in his ears as he tries to observe her face the best he can from this angle. Nevertheless, he swallows that fear as she rolls her head to look up at him with those large glittering doe eyes, grinning a bit as she seems to always do, “You can just put your hands wherever it’s comfortable for you. I don’t mind.”

He hesitates for a moment but, as always, he doesn’t get much say cause she makes the choice for him, knowing that pesky fear is keeping him immobile. She takes the hand from over his head and pulls it down to rest just next to her skull. She then drags the one resting at the back of the couch, placing it so his hand is resting dead-center on her stomach. Satisfied with how she’s rearranged his posture, she goes back to watching the movie but not before asking: “This okay?” while looking at him through her peripheral vision.

He’d have to admit it’s far more comfortable like this.

“Yeah, it’s fine. You’re okay?” He asks, feeling relieved when he feels her nod against his leg.

He moves his hand a little and swallows hard as he contemplates if he really should make the move he’s thinking of at the moment. And then he abruptly decides not to think. So, instead, he acts on it.

Without thinking of any potential negative consequences, Corpse slides his fingers to lace with hers, resting their conjoined hands on her stomach in the same spot where she left his hand a bit ago. She curls her digits around his tighter as reassurance that it’s ok. Her palm feels warm in his hand, her thumb tracing his cold metal rings.

Checkpoint...his checkpoint.

Is this what it feels like to be normal?, he wonders, Is this what it feels like to really connect with someone? He has never felt this before. He’s never met someone who has such an effect on him, understand him like this - Without even having to ask she grounded him; she knew what he needed and didn’t make him feel like an idiot about it. Instead she gave him the comfort he needed.

And suddenly he finds himself afraid - realizing that this isn’t simply a vibe of two buddies hanging out. He has that subtle ache in his chest that’s telling him he wants something…something substantial from this friendship. He wants this to last, or for it to blossom, he’s not sure yet. But for the first time, he doesn’t feel the overwhelming need to figure it out. That’s one of the many effects this girl has on him - she’s the definition of improvisation, unpredictable and alive. He’s slowly learning to let loose himself, all thanks to her. Slowly, he’s learning to trust time.

He abruptly realizes he’s glancing at her often as the movie is still running, examining her features and slowly running his gaze down the length of her fishnet-clad thighs before quickly looking away, mentally scolding himself. It’s hard, but he manages to turn his gaze elsewhere for his sake and hers. For the sake of keeping things normal, platonic and not in any way awkward for either of them. The last thing he needs is to make things weird by letting his mind wander and activate his libido and then she’d really notice how tense he is.

Cora remains oblivious to what’s going on in his head, thank God, as she continues running her thumb across his knuckles, eyes half lidded in calm content - something that’d typically seem like the complete opposite of what she is. He likes seeing her like this, tamed almost. He feels like no one else has had the privilege to see this calm side of her. Maybe that’s not the truth - it probably isn’t - but he still feels special, knowing that it’s a tight circle of people who have seen her this way.

And then he realizes the movements of her thumb on his hand have stopped.

He freezes for a moment, his fearful gaze travelling to her face where he’s relieved to find her eyes closed only seconds before he hears a light snore escape her.

She’s fallen asleep.

It’s an odd scene. She’s such a wild and free spirit, seeing her fall asleep like this is like observing an abnormality, a paranormal event. You know, like something one doesn’t usually believe exists or is capable of happening. He’d never before been able to imagine her asleep. It’s ridiculous, he’s aware - she’s human after all, but his mind has never been able to comprehend the thought and image of her captured by the power of sleep. He simply couldn’t see it happening. But now that it’s happened in front of him, he can’t look away from the sight of her relaxed, peaceful features, overcome by sudden slumber.

And then he comes to the realization that he’s now practically held hostage on his own couch, crippled by the danger of waking her up. It’s gonna be a long while, isn’t it, he thinks to himself, yet there’s still a satisfied smile on his face. A smile that’s a result of knowing he’s held hostage by her. That’s more a blessing than a curse, if he’s being honest.

@fockingwhore @vixenl @annshit @wineandionysus @wiseflamingoqueen

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gallivantingheart · 4 years ago

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the proposal pt.1

who?: jeonghan x (f)reader

word count: 1495

genre/s: fluff and a bit of fun

warnings: none!

synopsis: jeonghan has never been confused on how you feel about marriage - now it’s just a matter of how to do it.

a/n: just a fun diddy bc i love this sleepy man - no, not based off that movie with sandra bullock

note: bold italics = korean

You confuse him endlessly. More so than the likes of his cryptic self or round-about Jihoon. How you say action is your favourite genre but he catches you watching the same romance movie at least once every few weeks, singing and crying at the same parts. How your wardrobe is full of dark hoodies and you wear the same ripped jeans, but your nails are always sparkly and your draws have pastel blouses. You'll say you don't need romantic gestures, but almost always squeal when he drops flowers by your office. Or the fact you say you're bad at them but always pull the best tear-jerkers on him. Like the time you brought him dinner to the practice room - vase of flowers and all - at midnight while keeping him company, even though he knew you had a client presentation the next day. The comeback prep was gruelling, so yeah, he got a bit misty-eyed.

At least one thing he's not confused with is your opinion of marriage. Despite this comfort, even though you've been together for almost four years, you've never once brought up marriage, even casually. You cried though, when Mingyu and Chaewon got engaged at their anniversary party last year. Babbled wetly into his shoulder about how sweet love was, meant to be and the like - for the record, you were completely sober. Sobbed even longer as one of Chaewon's bridesmaids that Jeonghan had to collect you from the altar after they left the venue. And he's seen you look at apartments to share, linger on pinterest on a Saturday afternoon.

He wants it just as bad as you, but no idea how to broach it. You’ve talked about how you want a rescue cat when you move in together as well as the style of decor. Even said in passing at a park how you hope that your kids have his smile because it’s, “the most beautiful thing I get to see every day.” Jeonghan doesn’t want to overwhelm you with a grand public proposal, but he doesn’t know how to wow you like you do for him all the time. Jeonghan’s gotta be honest - he wants the whole shebang. Smiles, tears, blubbering; the lot.

He also realises that he wants it recorded for your mum when he calls her for her blessing. You moved a whole hemisphere away a year before the two of you met, to pursue a job in the entertainment industry. Something interesting and left of field found you in Korea working in concepts and marketing. So phone and video calls are a regular for the two of you. He’s also tried really hard over the years to improve his English, to bridge the gap with your family. Jeonghan thinks your mother is amazing, kind and funny - the kind of level head he expected to bring such a wonderful person like you into the world.

He’s English is nowhere near good enough for what he wants to say, so he asks for a familiar face to help out. Joshua is on the video call too, made in Shua’s clean dorm. Your mother looks a little surprised to not see you there. You both have the same texture of hair, but not much else.

“Jeonghan! How are you!” She waves.

He smiles at her enthusiasm. “Good thank you. How are you?”

“I’m really good, sweetheart. Bit of a weird time to call - everything okay? Where’s y/n?”

He sees her search the screen for her daughter, even so much as leaning side to side to try and see outside the frame. Some of her speech is still lost on him, so he looks to Joshua in question. He leans over to his ear.

“She’s wondering if everything is okay for you to be calling at this time.”

Jeonghan raises his brows and nods in understanding. Her expression changes as well, the lines around her eyes softening with the fading concern.

“It is okay. Y/N is at work. I...I have a question to ask you. Just us. It’s very important.” He twists his ring anxiously in his lap.

“Of course, what is it?”

Joshua can see the tension rising in Jeonghan’s shoulders, how quiet and hesitant he gets at the elder woman’s agreement. The way he looks at the woman, staring persistently. The American born member leans over with a smile.

“Hi y/n’s mum. It’s a bit of a speech, so I’ll be helping Jeonghan translate, okay?” He looks to his friend, nodding gently. “Jeonghan? Tell her.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a person like y/n... She’s kind and exciting and interesting and she makes me really happy. I hope I do the same for her. I can’t imagine my life now if she weren’t in it. I don’t want to lose all that. I would like your blessing in asking her to marry me.” Jeonghan says as clear as he can, without too much of his nerves or feelings getting in the way - usually an easy feat for him.

Joshua translates along the way and he picks up words here and there - happy and your name, of course. But he’s not watching his fellow member speak for once, instead analysing his potential mother-in-law’s reaction. He starts to jiggle his knee off the bed as he sees your mother’s expression roll from from a quirked brow to a warm smile, then watching her eyes go glassy and her chin wobble through said smile. Her hands go over her mouth once Joshua finishes and out of shot, his hand lies flat over Jeonghan’s on his sheets in a sign of comfort.

“I...I...yes. I would love to have you as part of the family officially. Of course you have my blessing.” Your mother pulls her hands away to murmur.

She fumbles to the side for tissues and Jeonghan looks to Joshua in shock. He heard a yes, but… Joshua is meanwhile beaming in return, laughing at his member’s expense.

“She would love to have you as part of the family. You have her blessing.”

Jeonghan grins, his chest so full and tense he feels like he might burst. Instead, he laughs, grasping shua’s shoulders to shake them

“Thank you! Thank you so much!”

She shakes her head. “Of course I would say yes. You don’t know how much she talks about you when you aren’t there - how much she raved about you when the two of you first met. It was like the stories she used to make up as a little girl, come to life. I wish I was there to see her face when you ask.”

Jisoo translates and he laughs even more, elated being an understatement.

It took a little searching and contemplating on what kind of ring to get you. Nothing too big, because you used your hands for everything. Not gold, because you didn’t like the way it looked against your skin. He settles on loopholing the gold for white gold, something silver but reflective and a singular round diamond - only two carats or else you’d throw a fit at the mystery price. He gets a thin chain as well of the same material, knowing you were more likely to wear it round your neck than on your finger for fear of losing it. Seungkwan of all people was the one to help with the final decision, insisting on its chic simplicity and pretty glow.

Jeonghan decides on a little party to pop the question. Or as little as you can get with thirteen members and their partners as well as your friends and their plus ones. Under a guise of missing your friends and a celebration of your success with a client, he even whines that he’ll organise the food and drink. Everyone invited is in on it, of course, which heightens the stakes.

The box sits hot in his pocket or bag all week. All the members know about the little surprise coming up dance between trading their resident trickster or offering a helping hand. Seungkwan has pulled up as quite the miracle worker, his entertainment ties conjuring up a caterer on such short notice and Mingyu slipping the business card of the decorator of his engagement party - it’s a little worn from being worried in Seungcheol’s initial finding but that just adds to the charm. Like a group heirloom to be passed around.

Despite the client win, you’re still snowed under with new paperwork and contracts, so you’re none the wiser to the nerves brewing in your boyfriend which proves to be the perfect mix come the weekend.

He lets you sleep in even later than the two of you usually do, and encourages you to take up that nail salon voucher you’ve been humming and harring about - you deserve a treat, he whines. And when you shut the door gently, Jeonghan breathes a sigh of relief and an inhale of stress - now the fun really begins.

#caratwritersclub #jeonghan #seventeen #seventeen jeonghan #seventeen fic #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagine #seventeen scenario #jeonghan fic #jeonghan fluff #jeonghan imagine #jeonghan scenario #written #flickficfest

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heartofsnark · 3 years ago

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Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter Six): Do I Sink or Do I Float Now?

Notes: Still posting my little backlog of chapters!~ In this one we get Maelstrom, along with some Vik and Misty interactions that were really fun to write of course heavy on our precious boy Jackie too.

Word Count: 9004

Chapter Warnings: Canon typical violence, cursing, installation of cyberware.

If you haven’t yet, you can read the previous chapter here!~

With a tightness in her chest and a heavy sigh, V answers Dex’s call. She’ll play it by ear and maybe wait until they’re in person to drop the news about Evelyn. The client really had to drag her into this bullshit, didn’t she?

“How're things lookin', Miss. V?”

“Client had a recording that helped us out, Konpeki Plaza.”

“Beautiful. T-Bug already called, said she's workin' her magic. And the Flathead?”

“On it now and quick question, how are we getting into Konpeki?”

“Through the front door, how else? I'm no leadhead. Ain't gonna leave no trace for them to follow 'cause we gonna do this clean an' on the hush-hush,” Dex confirms her beliefs, she needs cyberware, something.

“Got it, on my way to get the Flathead, now.”

“T-Bug says no chance at the chip without that bot. To work, then, Miss V.”

He hangs up and V leaves Lizzie’s bar, night air cold on her exposed skin. She’ll swing by her apartment, drop by Vik’s, and then meet up with Jackie at All Foods. V makes a beeline to her car, starting a call and patching a call to Jackie through the radio speaker.

“Jackie,” she signs one handed as she drives, “Met the client. Her name's Parker. Evelyn Parker.”

“OK. Whatcha waitin' for? Gimme the deets. Who is she? What's she like?”

“Shady as fuck. Doll, I think, fucks Yorinobu Arasaka and now she wants to fuck him over.”

“Don’t seem that odd.”

“She’s...off, Jackie. Hiding something, big, I just. Don’t trust her, don’t think she’s a bad person, just… not to be trusted.”

“Yeah, sounds like nerves talkin' to me. Makes everyone seem suspect. Stress can kill you, y'know.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you tell me.”

“What about Militech?”

“I met with the corpo.”

“V… “

“Hear me out, woman gave me hell and a spiked chip, wanted me to pay on Militech’s dime but the chip would have fried Maelstrom and left us cleaning up the mess.”

“Of course, I told you, V.”

“But, I managed to crack it. Maelstrom plays nice, I got a clean ten grand off of Maelstrom. Chrome snorters pull bullshit; we fuck them and send a middle finger to Militech while we’re at it. We can talk it out more when we meet.”

“Alright, waitin' for ya at All Foods, ya know. Not gettin' any younger.”

“Well, grab something to eat, going to be a while longer.”

“Chingada madre, V, what now?”

“Konpeki Plaza, hotel we got to get into. They have a no weapon policy and way Dex talks that the only way in, is through the front door. “

“And?”

“And, if shit goes sideways, I don’t want to be caught with my pants down, in a gunfight without a weapon. Need cyberware, something they can’t confiscate, so I’ll be ready for worst case scenario. So, I’m grabbing my savings and making a trip to see Vik.”

“Stress stress, all you do is stress, but I’m glad you’re finally spending your fucking money. What you trying to get?”

“You’ll see when we meet up, who knows, might end up using it on some Maelstrommers.”

“Hehe, see you soon, V.”

V hangs up and parks outside her megabuilding, sliding her mask off and into her bag before running in. She keeps her head down and doesn’t talk as she rushes to just get her stash of cash out from under the bed. Willing the elevator to move faster and annoyed when she presses her hand to the intercom to unlock her door and it takes a second too long for the lock to validate her SID chip. She opens the under bed compartment, finding her money stash next to her toy stash. Then it’s back out to her car and driving out to Vik’s.

She parks in the same place Jackie did that morning, keeping her head down as she wades through the crowd, trying not to stare at the strippers in the club window across from Misty’s store and avoiding eye contact with Gary; the slightly crazy homeless man who likes to yell about conspiracies. V peeks into Misty’s shop and smiles when she sees the woman at the little register and desk. Her face lit by the cyan neon sign advertising her prices for chakra readings.

“Hey, V.” Misty smiles at her, she’s the cutest little thing, granted she’s a bit taller than V. A short airy chin length bob of bleached hair, heavy black makeup, and big green eyes.

“Hey, Misty,” V signs as she walks in, her choker translator already turned on

“Heard you and Jackie have a new job.” There’s a hint of something sad to her voice, a pain to her eyes.

“You don’t seem excited.”

“Just...worried; bigger jobs, bigger risks.”

“I know, I’ll do my best to watch out for him, promise.”

“I know you will, V.”

“You’ll have to read our cards when you get the chance.” Its become a tradition, the little peek into the future easing some of Misty’s nerves.

“Please, Jackie’s heart chakra was a little out of whack and his aura needs tending. Keep him away from mean reds, if you can.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Speaking of which…”

“Oh no.”

“You need to let me adjust your chakras, V!~”

“Yeah… I don’t know about that one…”

“Your crown and throat chakras are so messy, heart chakra too actually, you’re just spiritually kind of a wreck, V.”

“You can tell that just by looking at me.”

“I could tell after my first conversation with you.”

“Funny, I’ll think about it. For now, I got to see Vik.”

“He’s in the clinic, go on in.”

V gives Misty a pat on the shoulder as she walks around and goes out the back door of the older woman’s store into the alleyway behind it. A soft meow rings out, just before the stairs that go down to Vik’s is a little sphinx cat with big golden eyes. The merc crouches down and scritches it’s back, smiling at the cutie, softly meowing back at it. Its such a cute kitty. One more little pat and she separates herself from the cat and goes down the stairs to Vik’s clinic. She’s not sure how Vik can stand to stay in the dank basement level clinic all day, but she’s thankful he’s always easy to find when she needs him. Through the little metal gateway door she can already see him at a workbench, watching a boxing match on a small TV.

“Viky! How’s my favorite ripper?” She greets him as she walks through, grinning as the older man spins his chair to look at her.

The ripper’s eyes drop down for a second seeing the box she has held to her stomach with one arm. He smiles softly, the expression forming wrinkles around his eyes. He’s an older man, dark hair just starting to thin on the back of his head. Tattooed forearms with memories of his boxing days and tinted glasses on his nose.

“Good to see you too, V. It's been a while. To what do I owe the pleasure today?”

“Got a new gig, new fixer, sure Jackie’s already talked your ear off about it.”

“Dexter Deshawn… Known quantity, from the Afterlife. No denying you're movin' up…” Vik tells her but there’s a drag in his voice, V is starting to get the distinct impression that no one is as excited for this as her and Jackie are. Hell, she’s not even as excited as Jackie, Evelyn’s offer still heavy on her mind.

“Something you’re not telling me?”

“Keep your guard up, that's all. I've heard some things about Dex. He's not as "chill" as he makes himself out to be.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she nods, Dex doesn’t seem to shady at the moment, but she trusts Vik’s opinion, “as for right now, plan is for me and Jackie to get into a hotel, pretend we’re guests. Hotel’s got a strict no guns policy, so… need a weapon they can’t take off of me.”

“That so? You finally caving and getting the projectile launcher?”

“No, I was thinking Mantis Blades, actually. Quieter, if shit goes off the rails it’d be better to have something that doesn’t tell everyone where we are.”

“And you get to add two more blades to your collection,” Vik teases, knowing her affinity for swords, knives, and daggers over firearms.

“Hey, doesn’t hurt to stick to what I know, besides with shit getting real… need better tech.”

“Well alright,” Vik stands and kicks away his wheeled seat, walking towards his work station, and getting the injector, “but lemme guess- hasn’t paid you yet.”

“No, but, I brought what I got. I know it’s not enough but, if you’re fine with me paying so much now and the rest later, I-”

Vik puts a hand up and stops her from pushing the little box of cash at him, a soft smile on his face. Jackie likes to say Vik has a soft spot for her, sometimes she doubts it but when he gives her that soft almost kind fatherly look, she can’t help but think Jackie might be right.

“Keep it.”

“No, don’t be ridiculous, I should at least give you something upfront, I-”

“We'll work something out later. Right now I'm just out to make sure you get back in one piece. Keep that back for now and we can figure it out once you get paid, alright?”

“Got no idea what I did to deserve you, Vik.”

“Who knows?” He laughs and shoots an injection into his forearm, to help steady and loosen up his organic hand, flexing the fingers on his ripper glove, “go ahead and get comfy.”

V nods and puts her cash stash in her bag before climbing up into the doctor’s chair, taking a deep breath. Even with Vik, the only doctor she trusts, she always finds herself nervous in his chair. She’s slowly grown more accustomed to the importance of cyberware and tech in Night City, but it still just feels overwhelming at times to think of carving out pieces of herself for it. V is fairly sure other than monks she’s one of the only people past the age of eighteen who doesn’t have optics, kids carving their eyes out as soon as a doc is willing to do it. This is important, she needs to be prepared for the worst case scenario, but she is about to have a significant portion of her arms removed to be replaced with swords. The gravity of that still sits heavy on her chest.

“Jack in and lay those major league arms down for me.”

Vik pulls up two tables on each side of the chair and V lays her arms down for him, trying to steady her breathing. Her eyes linger on the brand on her left wrist, the one that marked her place within her nomad clan. She wonders if that part of her arm will be taken off, skin removed with synthetic Real Skin stuff. He sits in his little wheeled stool, looking over her scans.

“Looks like you’ve actually been taking your meds.”

“Got an alarm on my phone now, nearly forgot just this morning,” she switches to spoken English, though her hands twitch to sign, she doesn’t want to move them just in case.

“Whatever helps, last thing you need is your body trying to kill itself.”

“But it's so good at that.”

“Oh I know it is,” he pushes himself to get to the other side of the table, pushing a sharp injection into her arm just below her elbow, “a bit of anesthetic.” Then he pushes her sleeve up higher, so he can reach her bicep, another shot.

“What’s that one?”

“Anti-anxiety, though judging by the wide eyed look on your face, it’s gonna take a second to kick in.”

“Oh, yeah… sorry.”

“It's okay, know this ain’t your thing. Most arm cyberware is fairly invasive, but I got some tricks up my sleeve. Do my best to give you the tech you need and leave as much ��ganic material intact as I can.”

“I know, I trust you.”

Slowly, her body numbs. The strong anesthetic spreads into her blood and impacting every inch of her. Her breathing feels more stable and her heart rate seems to slow back to normal, a sense of calm coming over her. Vik is a good man, she knows that, he’d never do anything that isn’t needed and wouldn’t ever try to hurt her. He starts to roll out the tech to carve her arms open and put blades inside.

She closes her eyes and lays her head back, because she doesn’t want to see, it will just freak her out more. Put her trust in fate and more importantly Vik to take care of it. V feels nothing, only soft whirrs of tech.

“Feel anything?”

“Never do. Ask me that every time, you know. Not as if things are gonna be any different today.”

“Sure thing, kid, I mean not like there's any risk of a stroke or paralysis. But... heh, what do I know? I'm just a doctor.”

“Okay, okay, I getcha.”

“You got your contacts with you?”

“Yeah, in my bag.”

“Once we get your blades in, I’ll take a look at them, think we can bump them up with some Kiroshi tech.”

“You’re the best, Vik.”

“So, I’ve heard.”

“Oh, nearly forgot, you’ll get a kick out of this. Coach Fred in my building wants me to do some fights.”

“Does he now?”

“Mmhmm, really tried to sell it too, he believes in me. Dude, I’m fucking five feet tall, but okay.”

“Well,” Vik chuckles, “to be fair, you may be small, but I’ve seen you take down guys twice your size.”

“That’s merc work, Vik; don’t think they’d let me stab my opponent in the ring.”

“That is usually frowned upon.”

They make small talk as he works, the chatter easing her nerves, the little traces of anxiety the medicine can’t touch. Vik tries to convince her she could hold her own in a boxing fight, though unlike Coach Fred, it feels less like a sales pitch coming from Vik. From him it feels more like a dad trying to convince their kid they’ll be good at soccer if they just get out there and try it.

“Alright, we’re done, kid. Take a look.”

V takes a deep breath and does just that, Looking down at arms that still seem to be very much her own but with silver detailing from her knuckles to her elbows. They look nice, the Mantis Blades and Projectile Launcher are the better looking arm cyberware options in her opinion. Like accents, little detailing, rather than making arms look more tech than flesh. It’s her nails still, painted her favorite bright blue, she can still see her freckles. And when she twists her forearms she finds her brand still there.

“Wow, really did save as much skin as you could.”

“Mmhmm, still you, just a few added touches. The blades act on intention and reflex, stand up and give it a try. Just don’t cut anything I need.”

V gets out of the chair, taking a few steps to the most cleared off portion of the room. Vik scoots himself back on the stool. Just what she’d need, to finally get cyberware beyond the basics and end up accidentally gutting her favorite ripper. With the thought and a tensing of her forearms, the blades extend out.

“Woah.”

She marvels at it, the way her flesh has opened up, can see the metal compartment almost where the blades were stored and hidden inside. Carefully, she retracts the blade in one arm to touch the other. Curiously she touches where the skin meets metal, nerves in the flesh still, but when she touches inside of the compartment she feels nothing. She presses down into the steel and when she does so hard enough, she can feel it start to put pressure on real organic tissue. She pulls her fingers away and retracts the blade; extending and pulling them back a few times, getting the feel for them.

“Take it you’re a fan?”

“Its so cool.”

“Still wish you got the Launcher instead?”

“Maybe a little bit,” she tests out signing, thankful the metal additions don’t interfere with her ability to do it, “I’m good with knives and katanas, so having a cannon in my arm would add a bit of variety.”

“Maybe your next job.”

“You can take them out and do that?”

“Mmhmm, now-a-days even the military grade stuff is designed to be adaptable, you can rip ‘em out and change it up whenever you see fit. So, you can have whatever new tech you want when you want it.”

“The innovations of consumerism, huh?”

“Something like that,” he laughs, “hand me your contacts and I’ll upgrade them for you.”

She does just that, watching him take the contacts and put them in a device. While he tinkers with those, V keeps playing with her new toys. Making sure she knows exactly what will and won’t trigger the blades. Flexing alone won’t extend them, folding and twisting her forearms. It requires the intention too, linked to she assumes her neural plants and cyberdeck. Which means she should be able to hug someone without decapitating them, a skill she does occasionally enjoy having. Even if Jackie says her hugs are half ass. Got to hug people like you’ll never see them again, because in Night City that might be the case; according to him.

“All done, test them out,” Vik hands her back the contact case and she carefully places them in. The interface lights up for a moment, adjusting to the new tech. She looks around, her vision a bit clearer.

“Image looks clearer.”

“Installed threat detection and weak spot detection tech too. Anyone who isn’t known to you, who the soft picks up as an enemy sees you, it’ll highlight them and tell you what their weak points are.”

“That’s awesome, I don’t know what to say Vik, this is incredible.”

“Figured, if you needed the blade for some hotel, you’d probably have to ditch the mask. So, it doesn't hurt to bump up the contacts.”

“Yeah...oh…guess your right, can’t play corp hotel guest in a mask, can I…”

“Just now realizing that?”

“Maybe… but more importantly. The blades, the contacts. I don’t know what to say, Vik, I…”

“Say you’ll take this and remember the dosage. Two whiffs now and another two in an hour,” he hands her a medicine inhalant, “mild stim. Should boost neurotransmission in the short term and muffle some of the side effects while the implant takes.”

“Thanks Vik, seriously, I owe you big. You sure you don’t want some cash up front? I really don’t mind, I-”

“Won’t hear it. Go on, kid. Show 'em what you're made of,” he grins at her, rolling back over to his desk, “And once you hit the big leagues, don't forget where you came from.”

A part of her wonders if it’s meant as a joke or a serious concern, knowing how much he seemed to worry about her getting a job from Dex. No matter if she hits the major leagues, Vik will always be her go to ripper. She comes up behind him where he’s gone back to watching TV and throws an arm around his neck in a sort of hug, squeezing him close. The kind of hug Jackie would mock, but full scale embraces are still...weird.

“Couldn’t if I tried, Vik, thanks again.”

“No problem, kiddo,” he pats her hand where it sits on his chest, “grab your candy and get going.”

V giggles, and pats his shoulder as she pulls away. She wonders if any of his other patients end up grabbing candy from the bowl on his desk. If Vik does the same joke with anyone else now that she kicked it off, a part of her hopes not. She grabs a handful of honeyed candies, popping one in her mouth as she leaves his clinic through the metal gate. The cat is still there when she gets back out to street level, she gives it a few more scratches, then takes the pathway back through Misty’s shop.

“Vik take care of you?” The bleached blonde greets V as she comes in.

“Sure did, I got swords in my arms.”

That gets a giggle out of her, V showing off the indentations and designs of the Mantis Blades. Misty runs her fingers along them, smiling at the merc.

“Very nice, take it you’re off to meet Jackie, now?” There’s still some worry in Misty’s eyes, a sadness to her tone.

“Yeah, got to get a combat bot. Shouldn’t take too long, Maelstrom isn’t anything we haven’t handled before. You know that.”

“I do, I do,” Misty fiddles her fingers together, “its not them I’m worried about, it’s just this whole… thing with Dex and this heist. Just got a bad feeling. The bigger your jobs get, the more risks, you know. I’m sorry...sure you don’t want to hear me whine.”

“Hey, hey,” V touches Misty’s shoulder, “its not whining. You love Jackie, it’s only natural to be worried.”

“Thanks, Jackie thinks this job will set us up for life, that he’ll finally be able to take care of me like I deserve… “

“And what do you think?”

“That is dreams are gonna get him killed one day and he doesn’t seem to care…”

“He cares, he does. He just...thinks the risk is worth it, that if he does this he can build a better future.”

“I know, just can’t shake the feeling he’s flying too close to the sun, I guess,” Misty says, wrapping her arms around herself. V knows that anxiety well and can’t say she even has the best feeling about this job. But, this is too good of an opportunity to pass up.

“Hey, want to go ahead and do that tarot reading? Might make you feel better, see what the fates got in store.”

“Yeah,” Misty smiles softly, “I’d like that.”

Misty grabs her deck, the one V and Jackie picked out for her, as the merc comes around to the other side of the table. Jackie and V will be with each other the whole time, so if V’s future comes up clean, it means he can’t be too bad off. If nothing else, it offers a little distraction from anxiety and it won’t kill Jackie to wait just another ten or so minutes.

“If my future’s clean, Jackie’s won’t be too bad. Guy’s always had better luck than me, anyway.”

“I think he’d say otherwise,” Misty laughs, shuffling the cards, “now, focus on the recent past and what you expect in the future.”

First card down, a man walking towards a cliff with a dog trotting along after him.

“The Fool, that’d be you.”

“So the cards think I’m an idiot, cool,” V rolls her eye, not missing the shadow of a smile across Misty’s lips.

“The Fool symbolizes the beginning of a journey. You brim with enthusiasm, yet remain unaware of both your capabilities and the threats you face.”

“So...the cards think I'm an idiot.”

“Just a little bit,” Misty teases, laying down the next card, “The Wheel of Fortune,. The danger is greater than you think. It will come suddenly, without warning. Conflict is unavoidable.”

“Fair enough.”

Another card down, this one upside down.

“The reversed Chariot reveals that such danger is tied to your love of risk. Do not aim too high, V.”

“I’m short, got nowhere else to aim.”

Misty looks up at V under her brow, despite the hint of a smile, the meaning is clear. This is serious and V should take it with some level of seriousness. But, if she’s honest, V’s just happy to see Misty smiling at all.

“And finally, The Magician… interesting.”

“Why’s that?”

“You may meet someone fascinating, someone charismatic. Maybe even someone you will grow to love?”

“Ew.”

Misty laughs as V makes a face at the word love and how Misty dragged the word out; the implication clear and gross. Why the fuck is fate concerned with V’s romantic life when she’s about to pull off a heist on Ara-fucking-Saka.

“You can’t ‘ew’ fate, V!” Misty scolds her between giggles, smile now wide and bright.

“I can when fate is being fucking gross.”

“Love isn’t gross, V. It's beautiful.”

“Ew.”

“Get out of my shop,” Misty laughs and rolls her eyes, putting the cards back in her deck.

“Talk to you, later.”

Misty waves her off and V leaves out, content that she lightened Misty’s mood if only for a moment. She avoids eye contact with Gary as she makes a beeline back to her car, putting her new contacts back in the case and that in her bag. As useful as they are, she’ll use her mask for the Maelstrom job. For the usual reasons; enjoying her anonymity and well, people tend to take her a bit more seriously when they can’t see her baby face.

V pulls up outside of All Foods, an abandoned food plant that Maelstrom has turned into their newest HQ. Jackie is already parked sitting on his arch, poor guy has been waiting on her for entirely too long. She puts her mask back on and hops out, walking up towards him, seeing his posture brighten up when he spots her walking down the street.

“About time, V. Mi madre always said patience pays off, but christ.”

“Sorry, a lot of shit to take care of. Most prepwork we’ve ever had to put in.”

“Well, fill me in.”

“Ran through the BD with the client and T-Bug, know where the chip is and where we’re trying to get too. But we need the bot from Maelstrom to nuke the hotel’s subnet and make sure we don’t catch lead from a turret. Dex paid them for it, but we got no idea if they’re going to honor that.”

“He paid up front, hijole.”

“Yep, I met up with the Militech rep too. Gave me the spiked chip, but I reworked it. Got a chip with clean eddies on it and a newly...adjusted… chip that will spike Maelstrom and Militech.”

“So, what’s the play?”

“Doubt they’re going to just honor the original buy, but if they play nice, figured we return the favor. Give them the clean eddies and call it done.”

“But Maelstrom don’t play nice. Gang world ain't too complicated, Might's right, the strong survive. Either you fuck others, or you get fucked.”

“Then we fuck them over right back, they want to play dirty, give them the spiked chip and take what we want. Spike chips in my left pocket, clean one in the right,” she pats her pockets, “so if you see me get the chip from the left, get ready.”

“Understood and the new chrome?”

“Mantis Blades, like I said, hotels got a no iron policy and if shit goes wrong, I want to be ready. And, hell, if Maelstrom plays dirty, I might get a little practice tonight.”

“How the hell you swing those?”

“Vik, gave me chrome on credit, again. Too nice for his own good, I swear.”

“Pff,” Jackie laughs, “only when it comes to you, chica.”

“Don’t know why.”

“Told ya, he says you got a good heart. Probably give you a second one for free just for that.”

“Enough, enough; lets get this taken care of.”

“Into the borgbeasts den, then.”

“Onward.” With that Jackie climbs off his bike, leading the way and she follows behind.

“I hate these 'borg fuckers. Just had to be them…”

“Gang like any other,” V tells him.

Night has fallen over the city, lit by streetlamps and fires in a trash can. Northside all but abandoned, one of the only places where the night isn’t colored by neon citylights. They walk past trash and shrapnel, towards the door. An intercom button on the wall.

“Take the Valentinos. They follow God and the Santa Madre. Honor means something to 'em. You know what they want, how they get it, and what pisses 'em the fuck off. With Maelstrom, you just never know.”

“Think you might be a touch bias?”

“Heh, maybe, go on, let 'em know we're here.”

With the V presses the intercom button waiting for it to ring, a few moment pass before a low growl of a voice finally responds.

“Hm, don't know you.”

“Dex sent us.” V is increasingly thankful his name is easy enough to quickly finger spell. If they keep working with him, she may have to come up with a name sign though.

“Main room. We been waiting,” the Malestom member tells her and the front doors slide open.

The first room is dark with only a fluorescent light and the red glow of active turrets within it. There’s a distinct stink of mildew, rot, and mold. The stench of it choking V as she steps in after Jackie.

“Cozy place. Could use a few plants, though,” Jackie makes a snide remark, as his heavy steps ring through the room, tech lines the walls and is stacked up on shelves, “Oh yeah. They look damn well prepared.”

“Food factory turned into a fucking armory, lovely.”

“Gear from the Jacked convoy, gotta be… Must've been all over it like maggots on dead meat.”

“Everything’s marked Militech,” she confirms as they take a corner and walk down a short flight of stairs.

“Psycho borgs chromed out with military-grade hardware worth millions... Should be fun.”

“Yeah, a real party.”

They take a turn past a cluster of steel lockers, grime coated, with old abandoned anti-contamination suits still inside. Another turn past a neon red lit elevator shaft, the old factory is a mechanical maze. No doubt a reason why the chrome gang picked it; walls covered in their graffiti. They walk up another staircase; mines on every step, deactivating before them.

“Anti-personnel mine,” V comments, “directional shrapnel spitter.”

“Subtle…”

Around a corner, through another passageway, and up another flight of stairs. Each step echoes, the entire place dark except for blips colored by red and the odd white fluorescents. Jackie stops when the steps lead to a door. Nodding his head at it, giving V the go ahead to open it. She rolls up the shutter door and is suddenly blinded with bright stark white light, chill curling around her and creeping through her thin cropped top. It makes sense, the former meat packaging plant needing a room to stay cold.

“Stay cool… They’re just tryin’ to spook us,” Jackie tells her as she steps forward.

Bright yellow forms patterns across the metal floor, spot lights, and stacks of crates marked Militech. Security cameras and she sees the first glimpse of Maelstrom members since they’ve stepped into the plant. One sitting on a crate, armed and watching with their signature red glowing optics. Another on a platform over seeing them.

“Get in the elevator, fuckin’ sheep,” the Maelstrommer barks at them.

“Thought those cabrones only swiped a couple crates, not a whole fuckin’ semi,” Jackie comments under his breath as they walk past the crates and to the end of the room. Double doors open up to a freight elevator.

“This is going to be a hoot, ain’t it?” The doors to the elevator close and it starts it’s journey upwards.

“It’s all right, keep chilled, V. Remember, we're on their turf.”

“Yeah, because I’m the one who loses their chill.”

“I’m always chill-”

The elevator comes to a stop before Jackie can finish his though, the door on the other end opening and a Maelstrom member staring at them. He has the red glowing spider like optics and little mechanical dreads on the back of his head. What’s visible of his arms and chest is a mishmash of scar tissue and metal. Over his shoulders, she can see two other gang members. One holding a shotgun and the other plugged into a netrunner chair, glowing under the light of red screens.

“What do you want?” He’s the guy who spoke to them over the intercom.

“Got a bot we need, model MT0D12, Flat Head. Our fixer already paid for it, we’re just here to pick it up.”

“Hmm, names Dum-Dum,” he points to the side with his gun and starts to move back into the room, “Now, couch. Plant it.”

She walks into the room, and it seems like this could go well. They’ve been mostly chill, gruff sure, but nothing bad. In the center of the room just before a large roll up garage door is a table and two torn up red leather couches. Another Maelstrom member sits on the table. She doesn’t hesitate, sitting down on the couch closest to her, looking at the bright vending machine the gangers have graffitied over. Dum-Dum puts one foot up on the other couch and follows his line of sight to Jackie, who moves a little slower, his arms crossed as he moves next to the other couch and only stands.

“Ahh, well, shit. Goes for you too,” Dum-Dum tells him and she expects Jackie to listen, he said himself this is their turf and they should keep try to stay chill.

“I'll stand.”

Or… he’ll let his pride get the better of him and refuse. Its hard to read the emotions on a Maelstrom member's face, so chromed you can tell what the hell is going on. But the shift in volume is telling enough.

“This so fuckin' hard? Fuckin' ass on the fuckin' couch!”

“Make me,” Jackie says, voice low as he gets into Dum-Dum’s face. As much as he can while being nearly a head taller than the Maelstrom member.

“Thought you'd never ask. Sit your ass down 'fore I plant a bullet in your skull.’

“Jackie,” she signs with one hand and pats his shoulder, catching his attention, “think it’d be best to just sit down, keep everything chill, remember?”

“This ain't gonna end well but… shit…” And with that Jackie finally sits down, sinking into graffiti covered red leather.

“Well, all right,” Dum-Dum gets a drug inhalant from his pocket, sitting down on the table in front of V and offering it to her, “Come on, gotta lighten up. Take a hit.”

The inhalant is red and purple; if she had to guess, Black Lace. An upper that’s high is said to feel reminiscent of manic Cyberpsychosis. Corps used to feed it to their troops by the gallon, cuts off pain receptors and made everyday men into unstoppable killing machines.

“Appreciate the offer, but weed’s the hardest shit I touch,” V dismisses the offer as politely as she can. She knows it’d endear her to them, maybe, but… drugs aren’t really her thing. And when it is, she prefers mellow to mania.

Dum-Dum huffs the inhalant, dipping his head back and smoke billowing from his nose. Then exhaling a steady stream of it. She can see Jackie cringing and trying not to breath in the aftermath of Dum-Dum’s high.

“Whatever you say, straight edged princess.”

The member sitting next to Dum-Dum moves as nother brings out a large Militech case, black with a yellow lock. It’s put down on the table with a heavy thud.

“Here we go. The Flathead, model MT0D12.”

“Need to see it.” She’s not going go off of good faith, assuming it’s all there and works.

“Suit yourself.”

He opens the case and she sees the spider like bot inside, it's almost cute, Dum-Dum shakes the control shard at them as he talks.

“Fuckin' tricked out this thing. Dynamic, thermo-optic camo armor.”

He puts the control shard into a slot at the base of his skull, all but the middle of his optic eyes going dim as the bot comes to life within the crate. It stands at attention, moves it’s head and shimmies it’s legs. Just a cute mechanical spider; why did they make military combat tech cute?

“Full cognitive immersion with a Raven controller.”

The bot goes invisible which is impressive, but V’s eye is drawn elsewhere. A steady creak and she sees the garage door behind Dum-Dum is starting to roll up. Screens and the back of a leather chair, a man sitting down visible. She can’t truly tell, but if she had to wager a guess, Royce.

“Pimped out, prototype actuators made of titanium-vanadium-Kevlar composite.”

Dum-Dum continues to sell them on the bot as the door fully opens behind him, the chair turning and her seeing that she was right. Royce, the newest Maelstrom leader looking into the deal with the same glowing red optics, though his set so far back in his skull he’s missing gray matter.

“'N' watch this,” Dum-Dum says he sends the bot to move around the base, “Fully integrated link, too, so when the spider starts crawlin' up walls, danglin' from ceilings…” He starts to sound sick, his stomach churning as he sees the view of the bot.

“Could lose your lunch?” V can’t help but tease, Royce is up now, one hand on the garage door. Like he’s waiting, ready to pounce the second he hears something he don’t like. Those red optic staring V down.

“So, what you think?” Dum-Dum asks as he returns the bot to its case.

“Exactly what we’re after, we’ll take it.”

“Preem, sure, yeah,” Dum-Dum puts the control shard back in the case, “let’s see your cred.”

“Brick already got paid for it.”

A metal boom rings out, those words snapping Royce into action as he punches his fist against the door. Stomping forward and Dum-Dum jumps, rushing off the table as Royce marches towards V.

“Brick got it…heh,” the red shine of metal, a gun pressed to her head, “I don't see any fuckin' Brick around here, do you?!”

“Fuck Brick then, lets cut a new deal,” she doesn’t hesitate, refuses to flinch or show fear.

He presses the gun in tighter, leaning down into her face, the red optic nearly blinding. So close she can see the scars around the tech and just deeply imbedded they truly are, He lets out a low hum as he leans in, testing her and she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t break eye contact. Then he pulls back.

“Hah! Now that's good business sense! All right, you want the Flathead? I better see some eddies.”

She reaches into her left pocket. She would have done this clean, would have paid and been on her way. But Royce wanted a fight, wanted to put iron to her head and try to shake her down. So, she’ll burn his whole goddamn operation to the ground.

“Got them right here,” she hands him the credchip.

“Just like that? Without battin' a fuckin' eye?! Hahah!”

“Need the bot, just take the cash and hand it over, no trouble needed.”

“Look at this fuckin' girl scout! You know all your knots, got all your badges?! Hahaha!”

“Hilarious, you want the money or not?”

“Y'know, ya never did say who sent you, never did say who you're workin' for?”

“Yes, yes I fucking did, Dex.”

“Dexter DeShawn… The lard ass who punching-animal-fucked half of Pacifica? Mean he ain't dead?”

“Swear to god, I’m going to blow my own brains out before you can! You want my fucking money or you want to bore me to death?”

“Fine,” he starts to grab the chip when there’s a shake in metal, a rumble and an alarm starts to blare. Walls of the factory shake, the faint sound of gunfire.

“What the…? Shit Militech!” Dum-Dum yells out, they must have known the corp was on their tail.

“Rusty fucking cunt,” Royce curses and the Maelstrom members start to rush out and V moves; grabbing the Flathead case and stuffing it into her backpack as soon as eyes aren’t on them.

“Shit, Militech got antsy” Jackie tells her over the alarm.

“Who gives a shit, we got-”

“Hey!” Dum-Dum yells back at them, from a higher platform, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to fight them for the bot, “lets get the fuck out of here, follow me.”

Her and Jackie exchange a look, V just shrugging, if he wants to help out why not. V quickly climbs up the yellow ladder up to the platform, following behind Dum-Dum, Jackie not far behind her. Dum-Dum opens a door and it opens into what a room with consoles and the stench of meat hanging in the air.

“Ay, huele feo, this meat! Ack.. I can taste it,” Jackie sounds like he’s on the verge of puking his guts up.

“Production line, besides, thought you liked meat?”

“We'll ride the line. Flip it on.”

V follows behind Dum-Dum, climbing up a set of crates and onto a scaffolding. The production line is blocked, unmoving in years she’d assume. But on a console is a large red button lined with yellow, she punches it and metal sheets moves from the way, production line whirring to life as red lights color the metal passageways. Dum-Dum jumps across the small gap and climbs down the ladder.

“Hey, Doo Dum or whatever your name is, why you even helpin' us??” Jackie asks as V jumps the little gap and platforms but skips the ladder, jumping down the short distance.

“I'm not. Helpin' myself. Soon as the shootin' starts, I got two walkin' bullet sponges with me. Sponges who'll shoot back.”

The three walk through the narrow corridor, production line billow steam at them as the pathway opens up to another raised section of scaffolding, a section of it missing and allowing them to drop through and down onto another that surrounds a large hangar, gunfire rings out. Malestrom and Militech soldiers screaming at one another.

“C’mon let’s go!”

“You say come on one more time!”

Dum-Dum rushes down the platform and into the thick of it, quick to fight alongside his fellow Maelstrommers. And god, she’s not a fan of the gang, but watching soldiers with military grade armor and equipment trying to shoot down the group of mini-borgs… Maybe she just hates corps that fucking much. They could sneak out, let Maelstrom and Militech tear each other part, run with the bot and the eddies.

“That whackjobs got no chance,” Jackie says, “maybe we give ‘em a hand.”

“Lets.”

And she jumps the banister of the platform, landing clean onto a Militech soldier’s back and extends her Mantis Blades. They slice cleanthrough his neck and he goes limp underneath her, bleeding onto the production floor. V is up the next instant, running full charge into another man’s chest, knocking him off his center of gravity, landing on his chest and stabbing her blade through his heart before he can throw her off. Back on her feet and fighting in the next moment.

There is no stealth here, no technique or strategy, just kill or be killed. She moves quick, swinging a blade up to slice a soldier navel to throat. Bringing a blade clean down into another’s shoulder. Takes another’s legs out and they slice clean off, the tactical armored clothes like butter to the Mantis Blades.

A Militech boot lands square on her chest before she can slice through them, the kick knocks the air from her lungs, staggering her backwards Her head collides with a metal door, Mantis Blades retracting as she hits the ground. The Miltech worker points his gun at her. But before his finger can pull that trigger, a machete is brought down into the junction between his shoulder and neck, ripped back out in a spurt of blood. The man goes down, Jackie behind him.

“Got you, chica.” He says, pulling her up, a layer of blood has started to stick to both of them. And as she gets to her feet, she catches a glimpse through the window in the door. Bright red lights of servers, a large computer.

She looks past Jackie into the room, a large swath of Militech agents taken down. Maelstrom still battling the few left in the area. She doesn’t know what will be waiting for her when she breaks through, Meredith’s promise of seeing her soon if V pulled anything like this.

“C’mon,” V opens the door and quickly yanks Jackie into the server room.

“The hell are you doing?”

“Want to check something, bargaining chip, just in case,”

Blood coated fingers swipe open the computer screen, pulling up the messages and files Maelstrom has saved. A message named Transports- LOA catches her eye, any Nomad worth their salt knows LOA is used by corps who intentionally “lose” their cargo. She opens it, the message from Anthony Gilchrist telling one of the gang members how to get their hands on the convoy. Meredith has her mole. V jacks into the console and downloads the fill to her neural implants.

“What’s up?”

“Militech rep wanted to find her mole. She tries to get payback, I got intel,” V jacks out of the terminal, “lets go.”

They rush out of the server room and throw themselves back into the fray, slicing through Militech soldiers, as if they were never gone. V goring a soldier with both blades as Jackie blows the brains out of the last one.

Dum-Dum leads them through the rest of the plant, turns and curves and stairways, a maze of metal. The three cutting their way through Militech soldiers one body after the other, clearing the room after room. Until they open a door at the top of a stair case, showing what may have once been a massive garage portion of the plant.

“I’ll melt your fuckin’ skin off!” Royce screams and laughs from inside a Militech armored exoskeleton, using it to fire off a massive gun that bursts flames around the feet of the soldiers. They shoot and fire at Royce along with a large automated robot

“We gotta help him!” Dum-Dum yells out, rushing into the fray to help his boss, Royce cackling as the soldier try to shoot him.

“He's fuckin' happy! That's almost contagious!” Jackie laughs, him and V jumping in to help.

Dum-Dum, Jackie, and V focus on the soldiers; trying to get their fire off of Royce, so he can focus on the heavy duty robot blasting back at him. Pure reflex as bullets fly, blades slash, and body after body falls down at their feet. Chaos, adrenaline; Royce’s manic cackling making them want to laugh too. Last bit if human soldiers down, Its all on taking down the hulking robot that, it’s armored outside burned and damaged, but not destroyed by the heavy fire Royce blasts it with. V sheaths her blades within her arms, getting her gun from it’s holster and firing round after round into the tech. Jackie and Dum-Dum do the same; five guns, it sputters and sparks, one finally piercing the core of its circuits. The heap of metal collapsing.

“Khe. The hell're you still doin' here...?” Royce scoffs when he sees Jackie and V are still there.

“Helping, apparently,” V signs in response, she doesn’t expect much in the way of gratitude. But a little acknowledgement that her and Jackie did a lot of heavy lifting here would be nice.

“Take your fuckin’ bot and go.”

She was going to anyway, not caring about nor needing his permission to steal what they need, but the fact that he’s giving it to them is not lost on V. Maybe it’s his own odd way of showing gratitude for helping tear through Militech soldiers. Or maybe he’s just too tired to give a fuck.

“I'll walk 'em out,” Dum-Dum offers.

“You here to kick our asses out”

“Huh? No. Wanted to let you know I like your style,” he points them down a hallway, a door marked exit, “here you go.”

“Can’t fucking believe that guy,” Jackie grumbles as him and V start out the towards the exit.

“What is your problem with him? First the couch and now this?”

“Don’t like the fucker’s tone,” Jackie says opening the exit door, “guy rubbed my dick the wrong way.”

“Well, maybe you should stop letting random dudes rub your dick,” V teases him for his choice of words as they finally get a breath of fresh air, well, as fresh as Night City air gets.

“Fuck- oh shit.”

“Oh fuck.”

Outside the All Foods gateway is Meredith Stout, surrounded by Militech marked vans and a handful of guards. They block the only exit, standing between the mercs and their vehicles. Meredith’s eyes land squarely on V; lips pulling back in a sneer, eyes brimming with contempt.

“That the Militech bitch?”

“Un-fucking-fortunately.”

“You.” Meredith all but snarls, glaring V down as the mercs walk closer, standing before the corpo.

“Me.”

“Hmm, bet you didn’t expect to see me here, did you? Thought you could fuck me over, kill your tail and you could just do whatever you wanted?”

“You gave me a spiked chip, were going to leave me cleaning up Militech’s mess. You tried to fuck me over first.”

“And somewhere at the start someone fucked the corp, but in the end the corp always wins. Try as hard as you want, all you’ve done is proven I got nothing to lose by getting rid of you.”

“Oh but you do,” V’s word make Meredith’s eyebrow raise, “I mean, if you want to know who your mole is.”

“You know?”

“Yeah, Maelstrom was so busy trying to fight off your men, didn’t even notice me looking through their computer. Got the file on me, could send it to you, but if you’re just going to kill me, not much point.”

“Send the file and I’ll let you go.”

“And how do I know you won’t blow my brains out the second it goes through?”

“You don’t, but you do know I’ll kill you if you don’t send it.”

V rolls her eyes and her mask interface lights up as she sends the data to Meredith; the corpo woman’s eyes glowing a bright blue light as it transfers.

“I fucking knew it,” Meredith blurts out, “Gilchrist you sack of shit.”

“We good?”

“I got what I needed… you know, this was pretty clever of you.”

“Was it?”

“Throw me off, get me to attack the plant, get Maelstrom on your side, but get the info to keep Militech happy too. Bet you’re ten thousand eddies richer and got your bot, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Mind like that, maybe a couple years down the line, you could be standing where I am.”

And V’s stomach churns, her actions being compared to corporate skullduggery and backstabbing. V did what she had to and in the end she didn’t side with the corp. She bites the inside of her lip and she glares through her mask at the corporate cunt.

“Think I’d rather ride a sandpaper dildo, actually.”

Meredith scoffs, “let them through.”

The sea of Militech soldier parts; the two mercs allowed to walk through. Jackie all but collapses, leaning against his motorcycle, there’s still blood sticking to his hands. She’s still coated in a heavy layer herself.

“Not going to lie, wasn’t sure we’d make it out of that one. But, hey; no begging, no debt, eddies in a pocket and we got the bot. That’s the way to do biz, V.”

“We make a good team, plus I’m starting to think we’re just really lucky.”

“Ain't you a ray of sunshine. But, V, it ain't a matter of luck. You decide, chica. Remember that, part of why I love this town. The city of endless opportunity. And brotherly hate. But if you got the cojones and know how to use ‘em, you can do damn near anything.”

“Or die trying.”

“Even then you go out with a bang! And the street'll talk, the street'll remember. Win-win.”

“Rather the street talk about me while I’m alive to hear it, but maybe that’s just me; so what next?”

“Call up Dex, let him know we got his bot for him.”

V does just that, pulling up Dex’s contact and calling him, patching the call into Jackie’s too. Her friend’s optics glowing as the holophone rings. Dex answering after just a moment, puffing away on a cigar in the video panel.

“How're things lookin’, Miss V?”

“Managed to grab the bot.”

“And how’d it go? Run into any trouble? And what about the Militech angle, Bug told me you hacked some sort of cred chip?”

“Course there was trouble, but ended up not even needing the chip. Was ready to spike Maelstrom, when Militech got antsy. While they were ripping each other’s throats out, we got the bot and an extra ten thousand eddies for our trouble.”

“You got some balls, Miss V.”

“So, what now?”

“Now, we get to work on doing the job I hired you for- grabbing that biochip. Get some sleep, you and Jackster. Because tomorrow, we start prepping for the real heist. Have a car picking you up in the morning.”

With that, the fixer hangs up, Jackie and V exchanging looks.

“What you think he’s got in store for us?”

“I don’t know, we’re gonna have to play corpo to get into that hotel, should be interesting.”

“Either way, I’m off for the night,” Jackie says, climbing onto his arch, “hasta luego, V.”

She waves him off, watching him drive off down the streets of Night City. Her body and mind feel tired, limbs heavy and still caked with blood. But, she’s not sure how well she’ll sleep tonight. Nerves and excitement, there’s no telling what tomorrow will hold.

#cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #silverv #johnny silverhand #female v #jackie welles #misty olszewski #viktor vector #meredith stout #aidan becker #aidan v becker

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tosikoarts · 4 years ago

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SFW Alphabet | Shiraishi Yoshitake

Long live the King! You can check tosikowrites tag for more. Warning: there’s a lot under the cut.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Relationship for Shiraishi is more about friendship with intimacy than a long tradition-based order of courtship and conventions. His affection does not manifest in standard gestures like buying flowers or singing serenades, acting all gentlemanly and saving the day pompously like a romantic novel protagonist. If he ever does anything from list above, it is his daydreaming that he doesn’t try to bring to life.

One of Shiraishi’s main goal in the relationship is to keep his partner happy, and the main sign that they are happy is their shrill laughter. It doesn’t matter if they are laughing because stray toothy animal bit his head or because the joke was funny (yay!), mission accomplished and he is satisfied. Seeing them cry is worse than being hit hundred times with a baton.

Every single soul in the one kilometer radius know whom Shiraishi loves and why he loves them and how amazing, adorable, lovely, cool they are. Sugimoto and Asirpa are making earplugs because Shiraishi can’t shut the hell up. He managed to piss off the men who kidnapped him with bragging about his loved one. Kiroranke puts maximum effort not to bury him in the nearest snowdrift. His admiration doesn’t die down through years.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

The best friend to get dumb with. Sing inappropriate songs, prank others, annoy boring elders and all this jazz. His jokes are never offensive because Shiraishi wants to have good time only but they are unpredictable and never repetitive. His instinct of self-preservation goes m.i.a. in the process so it’s literally life-saving to have a reliable person by the side.

If you need a friend to gossip with Shiraishi is you best choice. He got hot tea on everyone, I mean e v e r y o n e, from old man Hijikata to naïve Koito and he needs best friend to spill it. Damn, Shiraishi is definitely that bih with neon acrylics and golden hoops.

Probably the friend that introduce you to people and brings you into new circles. Wide range of characters, social statuses, affiliations gives a chance to meet potential partners. There is one unspoken rule though: you come here as Shiraishi’s bff, you leave this place as Shiraishi’s bff.

Speaking of which, he comes across as possessive friend. Restriction of other’s social circle and constant need in validation aren’t his behavior traits, but Shiraishi is sensitive to subtle changes in communication. Sole possibility of losing the established connection gives him extreme anxiety. To avoid it he can make concessions and sacrifice his own interests for them.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Eeh, indifferent? He doesn’t seem like a big fan of cuddling but will do it on occasions. When lights are down and they are in a private of the room, Shiraishi may spoon them to feel the comfort of another person and a little bit of safety he finds in their touch. He doesn’t have a preferred position as well: whatever his loved one wants he will do without hesitation.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

The closest home equivalent that Shiraishi knows is a dark prison cell and this is how he sees the stability in its best light. Yep, same food every day, funny inadequacies behind the adjacent wall, and a guy in not-so-sexy uniform who checks his asshole now and then. What a paradise. Seriously, he needs time to get used to concept of comfort zone. Maybe, after few years Shiraishi himself will offer to find a cozy place for both of them. Average cook. Doesn’t know how to hold a broom.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Breaking up with Shiraishi is a whole three-ring circus because he is hot and then cold, yes and then no. Get ready to prepare sad clown look for both you and him because it will be a long story: as soon as the idea settles in his head, Shiraishi will turn into giant wreck. Everybody around notices him walking in circles as well as asking Sugimoto how to properly show person that he is not interested. Of course, he ignores rational “just tell them, set a record straight”. Of course, Shiraishi plays dumb and tries to distance himself in all ways possible and impossible. The only way to end this agony is to break the relationship yourself before the mutual sympathy and respect turn into disgust and tension.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Doesn’t experience a burning passion to get married but doesn’t completely discards this possibility either. If person seems to be the only one, the meant one, Shiraishi will pop a question after 3-4 years of stable relationship. Cruel push and pull game, sudden break ups and get backs together kill his will to settle down. He may stay with them but Shiraishi will never bring up thought of marriage, wedding bells, and family.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Even the prison could not knock softness out of Shiraishi: he is utterly gentle with his partner, dreading hurting them or jeopardize their life with the hunt of tattooed skins. Choosing the right words is a little more complicated so translation of an emotional mess in his head does not always convey implied sentiment. That’s the reason why Shiraishi may be unintentionally harsh when it comes to serious conversations: he is torn between being tender and showing firm character.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Somehow, loves hugs but rarely initiate them. He is almost always cold, his skin feels cold and rough like papyrus paper, therefore, his partner frequently serves as a living heater. When they are busy with work or chores, Shiraishi catches their hand and embraces their arm, practically immobilizing it. Hints fly left and right when Shiraishi wants a hug: he really comes to the partner with puppy eyes and index finger pointing towards one another because no, he won’t go for it himself, he want his loved one to do it.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Mentally, he already did it when they met for first time but it takes at least a month for Shiraishi to say three magic words aloud. Two would be even better. He's not serious enough to wait for the friendly phase of a romantic relationship when people have already got used to each other. The longer the relationship lasts, the more serious Shiraishi gets though. You can hear it in the changing of his voice when his playful “I love you so so much” shifts to calm and earnest confession.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Easily jealoused walking disaster that will follow his partner like a poodle if they give him a reason to doubt their faithfulness. Sometimes Shiraishi overreacts, he even thought Sugimoto was looking at his loved one somehow weirdly but quickly brushed this idea off just for it to come back to him next day. Shiraishi gets extremely needy and tries to show everybody that this is HIS person. He is NOT sharing. They love ME. He gives them extra kisses, hugs, grabs their hand and squeezes it few times, smiles at them as much as he physically can.

If his loved one is the one being overly flirtatious, Shiraishi feels awful. Wave of insecurity knocks him off the feet and he doesn’t know what to do. He is overthinker so without proper explanation Shiraishi comes up with the worst scenarios possible. In this case he distance himself until person reassures him in their relationship.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

In the beginning, Shiraishi seems the worst kisser in the world. He has little experience, almost no experience to be honest: yujo do not have time to teach clients the art of kissing. So, yeah, he is pretty average, goofy, sloppy and eager. Wants to kiss everywhere anyhow.

After a little bit of training his kisses become more sophisticated, and Shiraishi himself doesn’t try to jump on his partner with smooches. He is still impatient when they put their hands on him and tends to get touchy even in public places. When Shiraishi gets in the mood for kissing session, he is unstoppable.

There is a sweet spot right under the earlobe kissing which send Shiraishi on the cloud nine. One kiss and he surrounds to the will of the partner. Ask whatever you want. Besides that he doesn’t care where to be kissed. Likes to give his partner gentle pecks on the nose and cheeks.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

If you remember chart going around the Tumblr with categories like “wine aunt, great at babysitting, mediocre at babysitting” Shiraishi would fall both in “God is dead, house is on fire” and “Is a baby”. Kids absolutely love him because they are on the same level *cough cough* and he is overall funny guy unlike the most adults around. Shiraishi likes active games and never sits still. For every crying child he got a candy and few tricks in his sleeve. He would love to be a father one day so he has few more minions to annoy grumpy people.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

People who sleep in together stay together. This is the rule of Yoshitake house. No matter what time his partner wakes up Shiraishi wakes up later. Nine in the morning? He is in the bed until noon. Three in the afternoon? He is still sleeping, squeezing his partner tightly in his arms. Even after waking up Shiraishi stays under the blanket. He playfully asks the loved one if they want to keep him company and cuddle too but if they are in hurry, he will lazily crawl out of bed and cook something for them.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Prefers to spend night outside gambling or drinking, skinny-dipping, lying in the grass and telling fables with varying percentage of truth. In the cold season Shiraishi still likes to go downtown but mainly to meet old friends and have dinner with them and his loved one. Rarely he chooses to stay in the comfort of home. Shiraishi teaches his partner different board games, and soon playing turns into a competition. From time to time Shiraishi loses on purpose, gifting sweet victory in shogi/igo/karuta to the most significant person in his life.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

You don’t have to ask anything unless you want to spend next hour listening to Shiraishi’s biography. He will tell you about the relationship with parents, about childhood scar on the knee, about search of Sister Miyazawa, and what a bastards his cellmates were. The list is endless, and every day Shiraishi remembers one more story he forgot to tell. There are only two things that can stop him: firm “no, not now, Shiraishi” from the partner and lack of mutual openness on their part.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

It is impossible to piss Shiraishi off. His ability to reduce everything to a joke does not help only in advanced cases where person wanted to break his neck from the beginning. Even when his patience runs out, Shiraishi cannot explode in anger, he just grimaces, stomps, and spits sarcasm. In everyday life, he avoids conflicts as much as possible and does everything to find a convenient compromise so you won’t catch him slipping. He would rather go for a walk and leave another person to cool down than get involved in heated argument.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He doesn’t remember shit if his partner doesn’t indicate that it is important information. Worth remembering. Shiraishi, please, listen. At the same time he notices slight changes in their appearance, from new haircut to ring, and keeps in mind such details like eye color, favorite clothes, maybe, particular qualities like never buttoning shirt up completely or writing notes on the wrist. Anniversaries? Baby, he doesn’t remember what day it is today. Just give up.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

The first kiss. Not only did it happen completely by accident due to a bet, but it was so awkward and unexpected that Shiraishi forgot how kissing works. Yep, he froze feeling their warm lips on his, only eyebrows slightly raised up in disbelief. After this incident, Shiraishi could not stop thinking about them. God, he is disgrace, to embarrass yourself in front of the person you like. It could not be otherwise. To remedy the situation, Shiraishi pulled himself together, remembered the cheesiest lines in the reserve, and suggested to try again because he was astonished by their daring attitude. He has no idea what happened after that but that spontaneous kiss with a touch of childishness and innocence stayed with him forever.

Oh, one more moment! Meeting them after coming back from Karafuto. Honestly, Shiraishi didn’t believe he will make it out alive. Ogata or Kiroranke could slice his throat, hide the body, and tell Asirpa he left with his tail between his legs. Therefore, it is miracle to see their adorable face again.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Let’s be real, he is the one who needs protection. He also needs some ass-whooping for getting in troubles regularly too but that is not the point. Shiraishi rarely stands up against obviously strong opponents and chooses famous Joestar backup plan – run for his life with loved one under his arm. Another option includes involvement of threatening allies, mostly Sugimoto, to save them both. Sometimes courage overwhelms him, and Shiraishi comes up with risky but bold plan how to save them without outside help but it happens much less often.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Most of the time, Shiraishi hopes that everything will be fine by itself, every event will run like clockwork without excessive effort. Dates are unpretentious: no fancy restaurants, exquisite gifts, long intricate confessions of endless love, etc. To his credit, Shiraishi takes chores more or less seriously and does his best. For the anniversaries he transforms in person you've never seen before: dressed immaculately Shiraishi holds a small bouquet of bright moss phlox and box of sweet sakuramochis, his face glows with happiness and love, however, you can sense a nervousness behind the wide smile. On days so special, he is afraid to ruin the mood with usual tomfoolery.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Canonically, Shiraishi is not the tidiest person around. For some it may be stumbling block because constant battle with desire to throw him in hot springs and scrub ingrained dirt with the hardest sponge can be too tiresome. Also Shiraishi bites his nails until they bleed as well as pulls the hangnails until his fingers start to hurt.

A sense of proportion leaves Shiraishi as soon as a bottle of sake appears on the horizon. Even though he is funny and harmless drinker, he goes overboard with alcohol to end up throwing out behind the nearest pine.

Little lies always slip through the conversation no matter what it is about. When the truth is revealed, it is too late to blame him.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Shiraishi doesn’t care about his appearance but likes to get compliments on it. He knows bunch of tricks how to remove different stains from clothes in the wild and doesn't know how to avoid them. One look is enough for Shiraishi: he could wear his old prison uniform for life time because it is strangely comfortable and universal for any event. Except the pursuit by guards, of course.

Has mixed feelings about his tattoos. Living with them is to sit on a powder keg: you never know when the new man with the gold rush will try to scalp you alive.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Gets very, very attached to the friends and loved ones so break up feels like punch in the gut. Unlike the rest, Shiraishi basically refuses to let go. He gets clingy, keeps acting like nothing happened, like they are still the best friends, just to cover up growing emptiness inside. No matter how hard he ignores it, Shiraishi can feel how part of him fades. Sometimes even abrupt refusal doesn’t work, but it’s simply his way to deal with sadness. After few weeks, he has an insight that things will never be the same and that when it hits him. Shiraishi tries to distance himself and it takes all of his strength since by this time he becomes easily distracted, irritated, and whiny. He needs months to get over it.

If they died or were killed, Shiraishi puts effort to maintain his clown image. Only closest people can notice small detail that give away his sorrow and melancholy. Doesn't attempt to get revenge. The time to recover increases to year.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Do you think Shiraishi went to jail so often because of negligence? Partially, yes. Besides the fact Shiraishi is being hopeless fool, he finds prison cell a great place to take a break from fleeting life. If you think about it time slows down behind bars. There’s no point to worry what tomorrow will bring, how to survive and make it through another scuffle, and his impressive skills guarantee him easy escape.

Shiraishi has joint hypermobility syndrome which helps him bend joints at unusual angles and even pull bones out of the fossae. Prolonged arthralgia is a side effect that Shiraishi had to deal with from the first conscious days. There are days when the pain becomes so excruciating that he just wants to lie still and stare at the sky for 24 hours.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Continuous scolding when there is a reason and when there is not. Yes, with his behavior it is difficult to resist the urge to say a couple of strong words or raise your voice, and Shiraishi is totally okay with it until rebuke becomes daily tradition.

Shiraishi's thoughts are always in motion, usually Brownian motion, his body twitches even when he tries to sit calmly in one place so stagnation in any form would be the death of him. This includes repetitive thoughts, boring behavior, and general passivity.

Shiraishi is genuinely upset if his partner doesn't like children. This is an inexplicable feeling, he really hurts if they ignore little ones or, worse, openly express dislike for kids.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

Prepare yourself to unexpected awakening in the middle of the night, you will have a lot of them. Shiraishi keeps running from guardians of the law even in his sleep: he kicks, turns, throws his arms out to the sides for the most part of the night. Accidental elbow blow to the nose is not uncommon either. Worst of all, he does not wake up after that!

In the morning Shiraishi likes to sneak closer to his loved one and just presses him onto them. Like, completely. He throws his leg over them, hugs them, presses his cheek to their back, and if it feels just right in winter, in summer such cuddle can be a real test.

Abrupt sleep schedule changes do not bother Shiraishi at all. His organism is so adapted to the crazy lifestyle that he stays fresh even after sleepless night, after waking up at 3 a.m. and going to bed at 3 p.m.

#golden kamuy #shiraishi yoshitake #yoshitake shiraishi #golden kamuy headcanon #golden kamuy imagine #tosikowrites

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cherry3point14 · 4 years ago

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Stranger Than Fanfiction: Ch 7

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Not much except for a badly brewed cup of tea. Word count: 3,000. Chapter Summary: A quick trip to finish with your job puts you on a path to see a certain Winchester again. A/N: After the shock of the last chapter I thought we could all do with a little Dean.

Ao3 if you prefer

Margaret Hall, formerly Margaret White, was a dreamer. That is until she met her late husband. Before meeting Andy she had dreamt of being an actress, perhaps, or a dancer. Moreover, she had dreamt of the world and any career that would allow her to see every corner of it. Teenage dreams are often far-reaching and difficult to attain, not that Maggie gave up or settled in any way. She understood that dreams change and hers evolved into a romance with her high school sweetheart. His father owned a restaurant and wanted Andy to follow in the family business. Maggie wanted to follow Andy, whether that was to the furthest reaches of the Middle East or the eastern end of Peach Street. He loved her as much as she loved him, so he’d resisted and tried to send her away after her dreams. Luckily Maggie was a lick smarter than her husband and saw straight through his stupidity.

They tried to start a family but after years of failed attempts they found out it was impossible, the Hall family genetics skipped Andy’s generation. Maggie didn’t care as much as she thought she would. They could adopt or foster, or they could live renound as the local childless couple with too much disposable income. It might even be enough to travel the world one day. Not that it mattered if they did see the world she had dreamt of as a child. As long as Maggie had Andy, then she had all the family and adventure she’d ever need.

Her last memory of Andy is the ghostly shade of grey his skin held when she had to identify his body. Murdered felt like the wrong description for what happened to him, he was stolen from her.

Of course, seeing him on that cold, metal table wasn’t Maggie’s hardest day. She thought it had been at the time but since then her life had gotten so much worse, so very quickly.

You swallow thickly as you turn onto Peach Street. You have the file, again, in your bag and you hope it’s the last time you’ll ever hold that manilla nightmare. Then the voice in your head, the writer, started talking about Maggie and you almost consider going home again.

It was only one signature that you’d forgotten to get. Everything was done, claim processed, entered in the system. This was literally dotting the ‘i’, assuming that she signed her name Maggie and not Margaret.

The voice talking about Maggie is what makes you doubt being here at all. You didn’t want to be her worst day. Not that you think you are but what if you were part of it? All the preparation and niceties in the world wouldn’t make this easier. This wasn’t a loss you could compartmentalize away like you usually do with clients since you’d just heard the abridged version. You could be as sympathetic as you are with any other spouse in mourning, nothing would change the fact that your heart had broken for Maggie about twenty seconds ago.

You don’t stop, can’t. Not for your own selfish reasons, although you won’t deny you’re a little selfish; you keep going for Maggie. This thing you need her to do is a few blinks from her entire life and then it will be done. No more people coming into her home reminding her of her dead husband. Andy. She’d said Andrew when you’d visited the first time. You’d written down Andrew but he was an Andy.

You shake your head, you need to be stronger than this, focused. As much as you wanted to sympathize with Maggie Hall it may not even be Maggie that you are going to see.

No matter what the voice says there was always the possibility that you were about to meet a shifter. How you were supposed to tell the difference you had no idea since you had no silver stashed away ready to subtly hand over. That was probably a good thing. If you showed up with silver and the shifter realized you knew what they were? Well, that thought terrified you. Imminent death or not you didn’t want to go looking for danger. You were happy to leave the monster to the experts, all you needed was a signature. If you could do it on the doorstep you would, but two minutes inside would be an acceptable compromise. In and out. Done and dusted.

You’d convinced yourself this would be fine, that you didn’t need backup or support. Finding yourself on the doorstep of 75 Peach Street is a completely different matter.

Y/N knocked commandingly on the door. She heard the sound echo as if the inside was a cavernous space waiting to engulf her. A stark contrast to her previous visit when she’d found two burly men filling up the whole space and pretending to know her. She might have been convinced nobody was home, there wasn’t so much as a rustle for the longest period. Y/N began to wonder if she should walk away and make a return journey another time. That is until the lock of the door clicked slowly, fearfully, with none of the confidence of a woman who so bluntly referred to her dead husband before.

You’d noticed how slowly the door opened obviously, still, it was the voice who put a name to what you see in Maggie. Fear. The door only opens ajar, a chain across the gap stopping pushy intruders. Your own concern melts away at the sight of scared Maggie Hall peering out of the darkness of her own home.

She could comment on the time of day and question the darkness within but it would be a pointless question. That much was already explained by the closed curtains and shuttered blinds visible from every outside window. Y/N is not one to point out the obvious unless she is clarifying a fact for her records. She could also argue that the brightness in which Maggie Hall chooses to live was not her concern.

Y/N did none of these things and only endeavored to get what she needed quickly and precisely, having no idea that this meeting was another thing on a long list of things. Things such as she had no idea how important they were.

“Mrs. Hall?” you ever so slightly lean in, all the better to see her face and still failing.

You expect the correction insisting that you call her Maggie, instead, she stutters out an affirmation, “y-yes ?”

You only pause for a moment, “Mrs. Hall, do you remember me? Y/N Y/L/N from First National?”

“The insurance company?”

“Yes, the insurance company. I was missing a signature on the paperwork and I was hoping I could get you to sign it. I promise it’ll only be a second and it’s the last thing we need.”

While she waited for Maggie to make a decision Y/N was struck by a conflicting myriad of memories. The woman she had met had been not only more confident and straight forward, but she’d shown no feelings about the insurance claim at all. Mrs. Hall had been rather blase about the money she would be receiving, hardly remembering the account details it was to be paid into. Now the woman before Y/N sprung back in horror. She slammed the door closed only to throw it wide open again seconds later, no security chain and fervent horror adorning her features.

“There’s a problem with the insurance?!” She shouts at you. Almost. The emotion is there, not the volume. As if shouting has been trained out of her.

You’re quick to stop her panicking, you didn’t do well with other people panicking, “no, no. It’s fine, everything is fine, everything is processed. I just need a signature to officially close the claim but really, it’s all done.”

She inhales like it hurts her throat and exhales as violently. Although she does, at least, appear to be breathing again.

“Mrs. Hall, Maggie, are you sure you’re ok? You seem upset.”

Where you hope to calm her down enough to stop her breaking apart, instead you set her off.

“Of course I’m upset. My husband is dead!”

This was going to take longer than two minutes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hall.” You’re not stupid enough to wish her well as you leave.

Y/N fell from the step outside of Maggie Hall’s home much like a dazed and confused newborn giraffe trying to take its first steps atop uncertain legs. Maggie had kept the lights low, had led her to the lounge, and only turned on a single lamp to see the line where her John Hancock was required. She had signed her name Maggie and dotted the ‘i’ with a shaky strike, rather than a neat jab. Still, it wasn’t the shocking change from night to day that had Y/N wobbling unpredictability to the pavement. The woman seemed to have no recollection of the Winchesters, whom Y/N had completely, accidentally mentioned.

The fact that Dean himself was taking large strides across the street to meet her was merely a coincidence after she brought them up. Y/N was not aware of any hidden powers she possessed to wish for things and have them appear. However, intended or not the older Winchester was here all the same.

You’re looking back towards the door you’d just left with disbelief. Which is why Dean has to catch you with his hands wrapped around your shoulders to stop you bumping into him or consequently walking into the road. “Hey, hey. Wanna watch where you’re going, honey? Good thing I was already keeping an eye on things here, huh?”

He probably thinks he's being funny about you nearly walking into the street but you don't laugh.“She had no idea who I am.”

“What?”

When she whips her head to him it turns out to be, very unfortunately, the first time she’s seen Dean Winchester bathed in sunshine. Not under fluorescents or in darkness. Absolutely drenched in the sun's warm glow, highlighting the forest green of his eyes enough to pull a silent ‘wow’ from her lips. It’s uncontrollable then when she slips into her imagination, where his strong hands are holding her still as he leans into her. His tongue rolling over his bottom lip before he slots his mouth over hers. The pad of his thumb tracing the curve of her neck as he swallows the air from her lungs.

Crap. This again. You can’t deny it’s a very pleasant mental detour but now you feel like you might fall down if he wasn’t holding you up, and moments ago you’d had other interests.

“Sweetheart? You ok?” His voice sounds worried if you’re inclined to believe it.

“Yeah-yes. I’m fine. I’m-she didn’t remember you.”

“So? I was there for five minutes, a week ago, before you kicked us out.” His lip twitches when he mentions you kicking him out and he decides that you’re steady enough to let go of, as his arms drop.

Before you can reply he starts patting his pockets for his phone, which has coincidently started to ring. He only fleetingly scowls at the name on the screen and then his face smooths out. He holds a finger up, “give me a second.”

Dean took two steps away to speak into his phone, which seemed to be enough distance for Y/N to clear her head completely of her intoxication. He was becoming more of a constant in her life than the questionable sounds that came from her car engine. It had to be more than a simple coincidence that she once again found herself with him. This time without the distraction of Sam or the inherent urge to argue with him.

How much the voice encouraged you to think about Dean was becoming borderline embarrassing.

“You’re not understanding me.” You emphasize by tipping your head forward and raising your eyebrows when he ends his call, not wasting a second. “She didn’t know me as if we’ve never met and I spent over an hour with her last week.”

His eyes flash in recognition, although it doesn’t seem to change whatever decision he’s already made, “coffee?”

Dean seems at home in the diner that you weren’t even aware of on the other side of town. The place smells of bacon and coffee with a side of Americana. Somewhere in the deepest recesses, you recall a thousand instances in the books of Sam and Dean solving things over breakfast. You don’t mention that to him. Understandably he doesn’t seem to appreciate his claim to fame. Besides, you very recently understand what it feels like to be a subject other people are reading about.

The waitress walks over with a pad and what she thinks is a smile, “what can I getcha?”

Dean, in his natural habitat, is confident, “two coffees and a slice of pie please, sweetheart.”

Y/N huffed, only slightly. If asked she could claim it’s due to him ordering her a drink and the wrong drink at that. Dean's order was certainly not the reason for the huff or the crease between her brows. She didn’t want to admit the actual reason. She had too many other pressing matters in her life. Too many to admit that him calling the waitress 'sweetheart' had felt seven shades of uncomfortable.

She knew the other matters had to come first, not to mention she was being irrational. Logic didn't stop the absurd thought that she has to chase away. It also doesn't stop the small curve of her lips when he looks at her expectantly, waiting for her with silent eye contact to add to the order. Unfortunately for Y/N, she was coming to realize that her feelings went beyond simply not wanting to kill him anymore. Beyond a distracting physical attraction even. In another timeline, another story, she might even find herself using that elusive cure-all verb—like. She liked him.

You soften your face for the waitress, ignoring everything you’d heard and felt as best you can. You needed to ignore it. “Can you change one of those coffees for a tea please and double the pie.”

The waitress purses her lips, “tea?”

“Any tea you have will be fine.”

She taps her pen against the pad and you wouldn’t be surprised if she’s written some sort of insult on the paper. She walks away without anything said out loud, which could be considered a kindness.

“Tea?” Dean repeats but with amusement in his voice compared to the waitress's judgment.

“Tea,” you confirm smiling wider, shrugging one shoulder. “You didn’t bring me here and buy me a slice of pie to debate tea versus coffee though, did you, Dean?”

He raises his finger again, “well, you never need an excuse for pie.”

It’s funny you guess. In the Supernatural books, Dean’s love of pie was a fun quirk that showed up at inopportune moments. The boys might be stranded in a hideout or undercover and Dean would always step out for pie. It’s the punchline to a joke. Whereas sitting here with him illustrates the nuances of real-life compared to pulpy fiction. Dean talks about pie in front of you and there’s something childlike in the crinkles of his eyes, a quirk you can't get from literature.

“Sure. Still, there’s something you want to tell me?”

He sighs, it weighs him down like it could drown him. “That was Sam on the phone, leads have been drying up for a week now and we’re kinda spinning our wheels.”

She felt like she had been on the receiving end of this conversation before. Past boyfriends telling her that it wasn’t her, it was them. Even when she suspected it might indeed be her. The déjà vu was unnerving. Dean was not tied to her by the title boyfriend, unfortunately, which meant that his ‘dear John’ conversation was not his way of breaking up with her, thankfully. This only begged the question, if it wasn’t her he was leaving, what else was he trying to let her down easy over?

“Not for nothing I think you’re right too. The widow she’s not a shifter, at least not anymore.”

It all clicks into place. He’s not leaving you, he's leaving the case, which by extension still means he's leaving you.

“You think the shifter moved on?” Even you can hear the panic in your own voice, it's not panic over a shapeshifter anymore at least.

“One coffee and one tea.” Your bubbly waitress interrupts with two drinks and you find yourself looking at a sad cup of half brewed leaf water. She’s gone before you can complain.

Dean doesn’t see his coffee while he tries to calm you down. “We’ll stick around a few more days, I’m not just leaving. We gotta make sure it’s really gone.”

You’re still not fine with monsters and you’re still not looking for danger, the words come rushing out of your mouth anyway. “What if I had an idea to flush it out?”

He cocks his head like you're adorable for trying to play with the grown-ups, “you have an idea?”

“It’s about the money, right? The insurance money. So, let’s-let’s stop the money. Yeah… I can go to the bank and stop the transfer. Then it’s gotta come out of hiding?”

Dean sips his coffee. Slow and savoring. His whole hand wrapped around the small cup. The china clangs as he puts it back down. It’s an agonizing sixty seconds until he opens his mouth again.

“Solid plan, sweetheart. Ain’t no way you’re doing it.”

“It has to be me. I’ve done this before, the bank knows me and this is the sort of thing that needs approval.”

He clicks his teeth, “let me rephrase that, ain’t no way you’re doing it alone.”

Continue to Chapter 8.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewill-blog @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23 @jesseswartzwelder Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278 @bloodydaydreamer StrangerThanFiction tags: @jaylarkson @starsandmidnightblue

#dean x reader #supernatural fanfiction #spn x reader #dean winchester x reader #spn fanfiction #supernatural #spn #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfic #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #dean x you #dean x y/n #dean dean the soft lil bean

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hazelandglasz · 5 years ago

Note

AU klaine prompt inspired by the video with the window washer playing with the cat where blaine is the window washer and kurt is the cat's owner?

The aforementioned video

On AO3

Window washing was the Anderson family business. His father did it, and then, when his back didn’t allow him to climb and wash the windows himself, he started training Cooper and Blaine to follow in his footsteps.

Cooper loved the job, but he always ended up having to go back because he left traces on the windows.

Blaine, well… It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy doing it, the physicality of it, the work-out it represents, and the happiness he brings to some of his clients.

But he could definitely do without the small percentage of clients who are insufferable.

Luckily, today is a light day, mentally.

Today is Tuesday, which means that he has to clean the Plaza building. Not a lot of offices, which he prefers, and large window panels without convoluted stone carvings to clean around.

Blaine slides down from the roof and starts cleaning the window when a small black kitten appears in his line of sight.

“Hello,” he coos, applying the soap and giggling when the kitten follows the motion of his brush with his little head. Blaine is truly delighted when the kitten trots up to him when he moves to the next window on his right, the feline walking with his tail swishing from side to side.

Once the window is clean, Blaine decides that he can spare a couple of moments to play with the kitten.

He is so focused on his reactions that he misses the appearance of two socked feet behind him.

The music notes do get his attention, though, and he looks up to find a man giggling his head off as he films Blaine and his cat.

Blaine grins at him and waves, only for the kitten to bat his hand through the glass.

The man laughs harder but looks up from his screen, waving back at Blaine.

The cat seems very interested in his owner and moves away from the window, visibly meowing to be picked up.

Blaine shrugs and waves again, this time to signal his departure, before sliding down to the next floor.

That was a very nice moment.

And that man was very, very, very handsome.

---

From that day on, it becomes a sort of tradition.

Every other Tuesday, Blaine gets to meet the black kitten (who visibly grows as the weeks go by), while his owner records their encounters.

As cute and funny as the cat is, Blaine doesn’t really know if he looks forward to those Tuesdays for the animal or for his human.

They don’t speak to each other, per se, but he feels like they are having whole conversations through their eyes and gestures.

It’s been two months since Blaine met the black cat and his owner, and he still doesn’t know their names, and it’s bothering him more than he cares to admit.

So he prepared a sheet, saying, “Hi, I’m Blaine,” in the hope that it will prompt his Mystery Man to reply.

But first, entertain the Mystery Cat while doing his job.

The moment two human feet appear, Blaine reaches into his breast pocket to unfold the paper.

The man turns off the phone and comes to sit next to his cat to read it.

It’s a good thing Blaine is firmly attached with his harness, otherwise he doesn’t know how well he would be able to maintain his balance, because…

Wow.

The man looked handsome, cute even, from afar, but up close…

W. O. W.

Look at those eyes.

The man smiles as he reads Blaine’s introduction, before pointing at himself and waving his fingers in the hair.

A vertical line; two short diagonales; then a curvy one…

Oh!

Okay, Blaine can do this.

K.U.R.T.

He says it aloud. “Kurt?”

Mystery Man nods and beams at him.

“Nice to meet you.”

Kurt waves between them while nodding. Blaine interprets it as “Likewise”.

He then points at the cat, and Kurt wrinkles his nose.

It’s adorable.

And then, Kurt lights up, holding up a finger, pointing at his socks.

“Socks?”

Kurt shakes his head, twisting his upper body to show Blaine the brand.

(Blaine is absolutely not distracted from said brand by the sight of Kurt’s backside, presented to him in the same motion.)

“Ah! McQueen?”

A vigorous nod.

Blaine makes an approving gesture before tapping the glass with all of his fingers to respond to the aforementioned cat who was busy batting the window, demanding his dose of attention.

Kurt smiles at the two of them before returning his focus to Blaine, who tries really hard to fight his blush under such scrutiny.

Kurt opens and closes his mouth several times, visibly growing frustrated with each aborted attempt.

Meanwhile, Blaine moves on to finish cleaning Kurt’s windows. When he’s done, he lowers himself until his face is at ground level for the apartment and its residents, waving goodbye and planning his next move.

The next fortnight, Blaine has another piece of paper ready for Kurt.

“Here is my phone number.”

Kurt’s smile is blinding as he rushes to take his phone and save the number, rapidly typing a message as he goes.

Blaine can feel his phone vibrating in his chest pocket, but he never takes his phone out while suspended mid-air. He makes a gesture he hopes Kurt will understand to say “later”, before cooing at McQueen who is sticking his face against the glass.

When he’s back on the ground, Blaine takes his phone out and reads Kurt’s message.

“HI! I’m so glad I can finally tell you how much you’ve brightened my days with your kindness for my cat.

I hope to see you many times, but would it be possible to do so without a barrier between us?

Have a nice day and stay safe,

Kurt”

Blaine presses his forehead against his phone (and wipes it against his t-shirt because his forehead is quite sweaty after all) before typing his answer, looking up even if it’s useless once it’s sent.

“I would love that. Tomorrow is my day off, so, you tell me?

And just so you know, cleaning your windows has been the highlight of my weeks ever since I met… McQueen.”

Yes, he’s playing coy. So sue him.

Kurt’s response is immediate. “Starlight Dinner. For lunch. My treat?”

And, not even fifteen seconds later, “I’ll make sure to let him know how much you enjoy your dates.”

Oh, okay. Two can play that game.

---

“What’s the big occasion?”

Cooper lets himself into Blaine’s apartment and drops himself onto Blaine’s couch, looking at his little brother getting dressed.

And there must be an occasion behind that outfit—Blaine knows how to highlight his assets, he learned from the best after all.

“I have a date.”

Cooper straightens up, and Blaine can’t help but smile proudly at the idea of the upcoming date. “With the cute cat guy?”

“I told you his name is Kurt.”

“Right, right.” Cooper comes to stand with Blaine in front of the mirror, handing him a different belt to tie the outfit. “And you really want it to go well?”

“Duh.”

“You know what you need to do then.”

Blaine glares in their reflection. “I am not going to serenade him with a poppy lovesong in a public space.”

“Ah?”

“Not on the first date.”

“Attaboy.”

---

Naturally, Blaine gets to the restaurant early—far too early, if he’s being honest, but he was so worried of being late, and so anxious to escape Cooper’s ridiculous advice, that he left and walked to the place—but it gives him the time he needs to compose himself and let the odd ambiance of the restaurant soothe his nerves.

And then, someone enters the restaurant and makes a beeline for Blaine’s table.

Someone Blaine has been eager to see and meet and hear, wearing the most perfect sweater Blaine could ever imagine.

“Hi,” Kurt simply says, and his voice is even more perfect than the one Blaine imagined.

“Hi.”

Kurt sits down and crosses his arms over the table, slightly leaning over it to get closer to Blaine. “I almost can’t believe this is happening,” he tells Blaine, in a tone of confidence.

“Me neither,” Blaine confesses. “I had to check and recheck your text. My brother even pinched me to guarantee I wasn’t having a very detailed daydream.”

“Oh, I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

Blaine shrugs. “Anyway, here we are.”

“Here we are.”

Silence thickens between them until they both laugh, awkward all over.

“This would be easier if your matchmaker pet was here.”

“Wouldn’t it be, though?”

“A black cat named McQueen, that is quite the statement.”

Kurt smiles at Blaine, before launching into a story of how the cat got his name.

(Long story short, when Kurt first fostered him, the black kitten would always find his way to Kurt’s beloved McQueen scarves to nestle in them, and the name stuck.)

The ice definitely breaks when Blaine pushes his side of fries toward Kurt while they eat and Kurt covers Blaine’s hand with his before devouring half of the fries, in the most inelegant way possible.

Blaine finds it absolutely irresistible.

And he tells Kurt so, while Kurt has his cheeks stuffed with fries like a chipmunk.

“You’re adorable.”

Kurt freezes, before gulping as his cheeks turn bright pink. “Oh. Really?”

Blaine leans his head on his hand. “Really.”

Kurt looks away before returning his hand on top of Blaine and squeezing it. “I, um. Me too.”

“You, too, think you are adorable?”

Kurt shakes his head. “No, you jerk, I think you’re adorable too.”

“Kind of sending mixed signals, here.”

“Oh, okay. I take it back. You’re not adorable.”

“No?”

“No,” Kurt says, his smile belying his tone. “You’re insufferable. I hate you.”

“Right.”

Kurt brings Blaine’s hand closer to him, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. “But,” he continues, a darkness appearing in his eyes, “my cat loves you, so that must mean something about your character.”

“Oh, bless McQueen’s judgment call, then.”

“Indeed.”

Blaine nods, swiping the last fries for himself with his fork. “Didn’t mean to be a jerk.”

“Didn’t mean to call you a jerk.”

Blaine smiles. “This should make for an interesting second date.”

“Second date?”

“My turn to invite you.”

“Right.” Kurt cocks his head to the side. “A bit cocky of you, though, to assume there will be a second date.”

“I don’t assume,” Blaine replies. “All I know is that I would love to see you again, and not on my regular Tuesday.”

Kurt smiles, all bravado melting away. “I would love that too.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“It’s a date.”

“And I have to meet McQueen in person sometime in the future.”

Kurt laughs at that. “I’m pretty sure he will be beside himself to finally meet his favorite human.”

“Oh, second favorite, surely.”

Kurt smirks. “Surely, yeah.”

Two years later, when they get married and McQueen is the ringbearer, they are still debating who is his favorite human.

(The response is clearly a tie, but McQueen prefers to let them wonder.)

#Anonymous #sometimes i write #klaine au #cooper anderson is a good (wing)man #fluff

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smolbeandrabbles · 4 years ago

Text

Spera - Elias x Reader (Trespass)

Direct Follow Up To: Veritas GIF Credit: X

@wltz-bby @happyskywhale

Author’s Note: *Story Time* Ha-! I went on holiday in September and there were a bunch of DVDs at the holiday home and no word of a lie, this was one of them and my parents wanted to see it. So, I kinda wanted to continue things from ‘Veritas’... and watching it again got me inspired (and I got to notice a bunch more stuff!)

I was going to call this ‘What She Wants Tonight’ ... but then I decided to keep the Latin theme.

So you get Elias back-! 🎉

What She Wants Tonight - Luke Bryan (Because of course it’s Luke Bryan)

Disclaimer: Trespass & associated characters not mine / gif not mine / lyrics not mine. / Call backs to Veritas / Kyle Sullivan (Guns for Hire) gets another name drop.

Premise: You hadn’t expected him to call you, of course. But then you didn’t think you’d expected to see him again either. On this mission you must work together. But it’s clear that that’s not your only objective...

Words: 7171

Warnings: Swearing / Sexual Pre-Amble / I really can’t write action scenes.

_____ She walks up, velvet rope unhooks She snaps her fingers and a drink comes She locks you down with just one look She's got this whole club undone If she's on the rebound, you ain't gonna know it Coming off a heartbreak, she ain't gonna show it She's eyes caught, red dot, locked on me, yeah She wants my hands on her body She wants to burn like she's made of fire Said she ain't going home 'til we Drink every drop of Kentucky dry Don't even know what she'll do when she does it Palm of her hand, I'm hers in the blink of an eye She don't take no and I love She gets what she wants And I get to be what she wants tonight I get to be what she wants tonight I get to catch all her secrets Sequins bouncing off flashing lights If she wants it, then we're leaving Get me home, park the truck, cut the tires I get to be where she goes when she's lonely The last door of the night she's closing Oh, I know she could have anything, but And I don't know how I got to be The only thing she needs right now

---

To anyone who wasn’t aware, the building could have been a normal office block, the people going in and out certainly appeared to be normal office workers. A few of them were – in order to hide their organization, the first few levels of this building had been rented to businesses, but the rest of the block belonged to the Agency.

You stepped gently into the elevator and swiped your access card, pushing the elevator button for your floor you stood back against the mirrored walls and waited to ascend. Of course, by the time you were to the floor, Joel was already busy running around gathering papers and talking loudly on phones… it was clear that you wouldn’t be here long, they would have you out the door as quick as they had you in. Joel was a little like a personal assistant. Although an ‘assassin’ in his own right he was more on the level of office worker casual, than your higher ranking. He was not your partner - although you did use him as such on occasion - and you were not his mentor, he had been taught the basics by others but that’s as far as he got. He was your go between, only top clients saw you face to face (and were always surprised that you was a woman) everyone else went through Joel, he arranged your payments and sent off your confirmation… sometimes he helped on intel, or clean up detail, but he also arranged transport and set things between your Superior and yourself. He managed to offer you a quick nod as he rushed around, which you gratefully returned… you ascended a flight of steps and knocked on the door.

“Come in.” You entered. “Y/N. Quick as ever to the call I see.” “There isn’t often a time when I cannot get here. I’d like to keep my records intact.” “And they are quite some records.” Your Superior indicated to the chair in front of him, “Please sit.” You did as was asked, crossing your legs one over the other. “…It’s a wonder to me why the Master has not called you up yet.” “Because he knows that I’m good at ground work. If you pulled me up another level then, of course, I would have jurisdiction over several assassin’s as you do, but I would only get called to field work in times of dire need… and We haven’t had a real firefight in close to 100 years. I would do better out there. Plus aren’t you all men?” you managed to crack a little smile, “I’m not indicating sexism, but…” He gave a small shrug, “They all think you’re male anyway. As we all go by codenames here.” “Yes there is that.” You nodded to the window, “Joel appears to be working hard on the next big thing already,” your eyes flicked back to your Superior, “I assume I am needed right away?” “Yes…” He handed you over a file “As you’re in the area, we thought that might take your fancy. It isn’t directly your job, but it does pay well.” You opened the file and raised an eyebrow, “Nilo? Again?!” “Several of these drug lords are untouchable. As you well know.” “Eh, they give good business, some even pay well,” you flicked the page, “these just seem to be calls for several underlings…” “Several big Russians are getting too big for their boots, too…” “So there’s a lot going on?” “I would only send my best to several jobs at once.” You took the second file from the desk, they all looked to be linked, “These guys aren’t in situ yet, are they?” “No. But we have it on good ear that they will be.” “So Nilo calls for the blood of the Russians, and some” you squinted as you read the name, “…This sounds like drug wars?” It had been a while; they weren’t exactly to your taste. Nilo was a very old client indeed – back when you were just starting out on your own. “You have connections.” “Yes. Joel is useful in that respect too… Does he know?” Joel would know the when and where and exactly what you’d need. You doubted he’d be doing so much rushing if he knew what this was really for. “You can brief him.” “Hmm. Well, it’s a good thing we focus on the numbers and not the side…” You stood, collecting the folders together, “Consider it done.” “Good. Your payment for yesterday has been wired. The man himself has been reported missing. I assume no body will turn up?” “Not on my watch. Unless someone asks for it specifically.” You waved the folders, “Expect some good news within the next few days.” “I always do with you, Y/N. Good luck.” “Thank you Sir. But I won’t need it.”

As you exited the room and took the stairs you called to him: “Joel!” He fell in step as you hit the floor; “Can get the car out front, I’ve sent intel up to Marty, meet in 10?” “Sure, let me go see what our weapons tech has for me then… you ready?” “Sounds like there’s a war brewing.” “Drugs war. Hope you enjoy undercover.” “Me? Oh Geez…” Joel’s face told the story you expected “Well I’m not even supposed to be there am I? They don’t call me Ghost Shadow because they can see me, do they?” “It’s actuall-” “Don’t care, Joel, remember…” You looked to him with a smile, you’d never had much patience for whispered codenames, “Besides, you have the connections.” He scoffed, “Don’t rope me in with the drugs guys, Nilo’s just used me before.” “Yeah, but I want other side intel.” You tapped him in the chest with your folder, “Get it.” “Yes Sir.” “Funny.”

***

Your weapon’s technician looked as enamoured as ever to see you, his smile bright as you walked onto his floor: “Y/N!” “Marty.” “…Off already?” “One day I’m taking the first fight out to Cozumel and NOONE is going to stop me.” “If you ever get a break, considering what you do, I’m going to give you free range and let you clear out my weapons cache entirely.” “Oh? You’d do that for me?” You fluttered your eyelashes teasingly “Marty!” you tapped your card in, and opened the doors, “What do you have in?” “New? Since you were last in here?” “Don’t give me that tone! Because if there’s one thing I know, you are a collector and second, I haven’t been using this particular weapons store in my work recently, so, yes, new!” “Usually you carry your own pistol.” “Usually?” You gave him a wry smile, “Always. And I do, but everything else-” “What I like most about your pistol is its untraceable.” “Well. That’s how he made it.” “So it WAS his.” “Yes. It the least I could do to honour him.” “…Well, you are right, I do collect. I have several new rifles in, but you’re not such a fan. I also have a light weight sniper gun, and if you were ever interested in something smaller for close range-” “A pocket gun?” You chucked, “Bring it, a lot less messy than a knife.” “So they do work?” “Execution style. Yeah – anything will work if you want it to. I mean, sometimes us Assassins have to improvise; that said its always hoped things will never get that messy.” He slid the tiny gun across the table to you, “It’s not been road tested yet. But… I can think of no better person to try it out. Careful.” “Will be,” you patted it as you slid it into your top coat pocket, “and for Joel?” “What do you think he’ll need?” “You’ve read the file, you tell me! Don’t forget rope; the most useful thing you could give me.” “Kinda think a gun would be more useful.” “Rope saves lives, guns take lives. Get my meaning. Besides, how else do you expect me to ascend or descend a building?!” “Stairs!? A lift!? This is Nilo we’re talking about, it’s not exactly big budget. This isn’t Mission Impossible.” “Well it could be-!” You cracked a smile as Marty muttered under his breath, collecting everything up – he handed the bag to you, “Have a good trip. See you in a few days.” “Of course! Thanks!” *** Joel complained the whole way; it was to be expected - you were used to getting into the middle of gang and mafia warfare. Taking out politicians and heads of state. Drugs sometimes, on a higher level – but drugs carried its own problems… This, in particular, was way below your pay grade. “You’re too good for this.” “He’s fronting the right amount of money and he wants me.” “No, fact is you should have been off shit like this years back. You did some good jobs back then, but you’re above this now. And drugs?!? Y/N, you abhor drugs. It’s like your one thing.” “Look, if He sends me then I can’t push back.” “You have authority, surely?” “Well it’s a little late now. Next time I’ll think on it.” “Yeah well, you better.” His hard stare switched from you to the road. No doubt, Joel didn’t want to be mixed up in this any more than you. Perhaps it was about time you asked to politely be removed from anything related to them.

When you pulled into the parking lot he began grumbling even more. Of course Joel had most of the intel, maybe he’d need a little more research but, that’s what the first meeting was all about. Sometimes you thought he’d rather stay at HQ and feed you the info via a web link. “I mean, a strip club. Could this be any more degrading for you?!” Joel was about to launch into how the Agency should think before sending their best female agent to places like this, to stop the tirade you gave a smile and a joke instead. “As long as you’re not expecting me to get up and dance?” You nudged him, “Besides the girls all love you.” “Not interested.” Was his blunt reply, reaching into the back seat for his case. “Nothing will cheer you up today, huh?” “No. It’ll get worse.” You rolled your eyes, “Okay, so let’s get in, get it done, get out.”

*** To be honest when you’d left your card with Elias you never expected him to call it. Maybe hoped on it, but you’d been done with hoping after a few days; those had now bled into months - and you had plenty of kills under your belt since then (and a grovelled apology from Kyle Sullivan. He hadn’t called on you again since.) But your day got a little better as you wandered into the club and very nearly snorted, hiding your face and smirk behind Joel for a moment. “What?” “Remember when I told you about that little bit of trouble at Mr.Sullivan’s place?” “Yeah, I remember...” “Guess we just stumbled on where they came from.” If it had pleased you, Joel turned another shade of glum. “Brilliant.”

Indeed, though you looked pretty collected as you approached Nilo, Elias has turned sheet white. The others wouldn’t have noticed, you’d taken them all out before they saw your face. Well, maybe except the big guy but he was eyeing you with a certain level of curiosity, instead of what was going through Elias’ mind. Clearly not so happy to see you. You didn’t even spare him a proper glance, nodding to Nilo instead. “It’s been a minute.” “Indeed it has, Y/N. Welcome. We’ll certainly be glad to use your services once more…” “No use kicking around, I suggest we discuss the job.” You bowed your head gently, if only to say my pleasure - with a smirk. Because it would be your pleasure. Although, looking back to Elias you were sure that not everyone was glad. *** Elias didn’t really speak much during the briefing; you already counted too many people involved – and Joel was getting antsy. You’d just have to deal with it, you could do this alone but Nilo wanted to make sure everything was done to his letter – and therefore was sending a group along with you. You didn’t particularly understand this; did he think you were still a kid who’d only just started out? Reckless and a little dumb? You thought it was more likely the group he wanted to send were the ones who would mess everything up. Elias and Ty were amongst them. Elias, being the obvious one you knew – who did not like being under the weight of your stare – and Ty being the one you’d picked out as a potential problem back at Mr. Sullivan’s house. Elias’s brother, Noah, was also in on the meeting and a couple of guys who looked less tough than paper, who you would refuse to take when it came to your terms… but let Nilo think he’s in control, for now. Joel and yourself were now sitting at the bar of the club, him facing it with his laptop, grumbling like there was no tomorrow. And you facing the pole dancers, back against the bar. You’d never had the inclination to get up there and do that, but you were 99% sure you could; maybe one day you’d give someone a run for their money. Joel had ordered some cocktail that came with a lollipop and you wasted no time in stealing that. Your drink wasn’t alcohol, you didn’t drink on a job – Champagne was for afterwards. Joel was drinking to get himself through this one. “So?” “I can’t believe this.” “You’ve said that 20 times.” You removed the candy from your mouth, “I need, you know, something useful.” “I mean the complex itself is relatively easy to get into, you don’t even need the code, just fry everything. There’s multiple floors but there’s hardly anywhere that’s going to have cover…” He was staring hard at the schematic. “Why are we not going alone? The more bodies in a corridor the harder this is!” “Joel.” You warned. “Okay, you just need to get to the inner most point. It looks like one of those panic rooms.” You half turned to his screen as he tapped it, replacing the lolly with an agreeing hum. “Assured your guy, and whatever drugs or shit you gotta haul on back, is there.” He turned to you, looking more than a little disgruntled that he was having to do this, “I’ll make a couple of calls. It won’t be hard. And forgodsake, please do not drag this personal hell out for me.” “I’ll try.” You gave a gently sarcastic smile and he sighed. “And PLEASE stop doing that overtly sexual thing you do! Like, I don’t need it.” “It’s not for you.” “I think he’s a bad idea.” Joel eyes were back on his laptop, and you weren’t sure if his uncomfortable shift was just for show. You supposed he was only going to point back to his ‘degrading’ speech if you pressed further. “I didn’t ask you.” “No, and I can see why.” Of course you were playing a game here. You knew Elias was watching you – there wasn’t much out there you weren’t aware of. That was all part of your training. But you’d noticed that try as he might he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, and you could busy yourself with being a seductress whilst also being teasing and paying him absolutely no mind. What you’d also come to the dissatisfying conclusion of was that his girlfriend was also here; oh, and she was not impressed. You didn’t really care, it was fun to play them against each other, in fact maybe it was more satisfying to have her here, realising exactly what you were doing. Because she was all over him and that was not an exaggeration, but Elias was pushing her out of the way to keep on staring at you. So, if Joel really didn’t think you were going to sit on this stool with your chest pushed out and your shirt riding up, sucking on a lollipop… well he should know better. You didn’t need to show too much skin: the idea was to let his imagination do the work. From what you could tell, Elias’ imagination was working overtime. Joel left you alone to make his series of phone calls outside, convinced that he needed air anyway. Which you’d laugh at of course, considering he’d probably kill his time outside smoking. At which point you turned back to the bar and gathered your thoughts – before you would begin to clear your head of everything but the mission. That was all that would matter for the next few days; that was all that had to matter. As you were pondering this however, you were approached by someone else, and you didn’t really have to guess who had made his way across the club to you. “Well, I see you can’t even call a number on a card, how do you expect me to think that you can pull this off?” Elias slid onto the stool next to you, tipping his head, “It’s not that simple.” You turned your eyes on him, “I get it, you have a girlfriend. Don’t tell me you’re not interested. And if you’re not, don’t come over here and talk to me, keep it strictly business.” He rummaged in his jacket pocket and your calling card was placed back on the table, “I wanted to.” You couldn’t help but smile as you stared at it, “Wanting is something you can say easily, the doing is the only thing I have use for.” Your fingers brushed his as you pushed the card back towards him, “Keep it, if you ever decide to become useful to me.” “Y/N…” The bar tender placed a drink in front of him without Elias even asking and your look away from him was enough to be an eyeroll, with the way you stared straight at the back wall. He spent enough time here for that then. He took a sip, eyeing yours. “You don’t drink?” “Not on the job no.” “Y/N, what are you doing here?” “I’m an assassin, I told you that. It’s like you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said since I walked in.” “Is that any surprise?” His voice was laced with sugar, which made you a little uncomfortable as you turned to him. Those blue eyes were watching your face intently, and if you thought that a man like him was capable of melting, that might be what you’d call it. “Please, Elias. Go back to your girlfriend.” There was a pause, before he leant into your space and you sighed in obvious frustration. “Why do you need two guns?” He indicated to the one on the counter that no one was paying any mind to, and then to your hip, partially concealed by your coat. “Assassin as good as you.” “Will you do what I say, if I tell you?” His smile became a grin that was more of a smirk, “Depends what you tell me to do.” You couldn’t help but hum a laugh as you unholstered the one on your belt, “That,” you waved at the one on the counter, “that’s my own, it’s no big deal. It’s probably standard issue – due an upgrade, but it’s never let me down. Call me superstitious, but I’d quite like to keep it around. This baby…” You weighed the one in your hands up. “Belonged to my mentor.” “The one that used to spew Latin before he killed people?” You couldn’t help but smile as you nodded: he remembered. “So why do you have it?” You placed it with your own and leant into him, you became a little huddle and lowered your voice, “Because he died, Elias. It’s in honour and memory of him.” There was a moment’s pause, and Elias wondered if you’d opt to continue the conversation, “…How? I mean your line of work is dangerous but-” “The Agency killed him, made me watch.” The flicker across Elias’ face was both apologetic and a revelation; ‘that might explain a few things’ “He fell in love with a target, he couldn’t kill her. Eventually the Agency found out and executed him.” It was weird for you to just out and say it like that, it jarred you – you weren’t sure what you were thinking, saying something so personal. You were supposed to have better instincts than that. Did you trust him? There was something cold about the way you were talking that didn’t fit with the look on your face, and Elias tipped his head – “But you’re working alone now, you have no mentee of your own?” He seemed to be asking if that process would be too painful for you. Instead you gave a shake of your head, “No. I have no patience for that. I would be no good, not yet anyway. Not all of us make it through the process – hence why Joel is my assistant and not an assassin himself. He has all the skills, he didn’t pass all the tests.” You frowned momentarily, then shrugged, “I’ll probably die doing this, or see myself old enough to take my bosses job. Though, I’ve never been much of a girl for desk work.” Elias would agree with that, “How long have you been doing this?” “…That’s… a little too much of me to expose to you.” Oh, but you liked this didn’t you? Talking to him. To someone who was actually interested in you. “I never knew my parents. The Agency has a specific way of testing kids at orphanages and such. There’s no attachment, nowhere for the kids to run. Still, they take care of you better than some children get treated by their own parents so, I guess there’s a win somewhere.” Something twinged in Elias by the look on his face, making you realise you’d touched on something that was a little too much of him to expose to you. You left it alone. “I guess you have a point there.” “Uh huh.” You couldn’t help but smirk as you looked over his shoulder, this girlfriend of his had spotted the two of you talking and the livid look on her face was only making your ego swell a little. There was no way she didn’t know he was into you, and you were invested enough in the conversation to have some attachment to him. You wondered if he’d told her about your kiss, if it was obvious to her by the way Elias looked at you. But he was still watching your face, even when you turned away, the way you were smirking and clearly enjoying yourself, “What?” He was clearly amused, he hoped it was him. “Your little girlfriend is about to blow a fuse.” Elias’ face fell instantly as he looked over his shoulder, “Oh-” “She a dancer here?” He didn’t need to nod, “You walking cliché.” You nudged him off his bar stool, “Go. Go on.” “Try not to miss me.” He shot back, hands getting a little too friendly as his touch lingered on you. Instead you scoffed, picking up your cup, “Trust me, I won’t.”

** You kicked around for another day and a half, longer than you would have liked, but once Joel had his intel sorted the small group you assembled had to make the plan water tight. Which means they listened to you, no questions asked. Ty was about the only one you really trusted, he was built for this and he took an interest in you for reasons you thought were kind of unhealthy; not an assassin, you could tell he was probably going to enjoy this. You never took enjoyment from killing – it was just your job. Still, Ty was quiet and nodded along. Elias didn’t. And to be honest, if you weren’t having so much fun playing him and Petal – you’d tried not to snort – off against each other, you’d be more pissed with him than you already were. “She is NOT coming on this mission!” “She always tags along.” “You’re not running this mission Elias, I AM. And there’s only one thing I have a hard stop on, and that’s drugs.” Before he could protest the irony of what you were doing you continued, “She’ll fuck the whole thing up and I know you know that. I will not take drug dependants on this mission. Or we can take her, but I’ll put a bullet in her head the second I feel I have to and I won’t hesitate.” “---You’re…. insane!” “It’s my job. I don’t fail on my tasks; your little gang of tag-alongs are not going to change that.” “Then I won’t come.” “Well don’t. Explain to Nilo why, for all I care.” Elias sighed, faltering on the fact you would give him up so fast, a little too easily for someone who wanted to labour a point, “Okay. Okay… I’ll tell her.” “You better…” He turned away but you pulled him back by his jacket, “Woah, hey. Your brother’s not coming either.” “Oh my god-” “Because he’s the opposite problem. He’s not taking his medication and he’s erratic. You think I can’t read tells?” “No, on this I might be inclined to agree you have the right idea.” “So we’re agreed, on the same page.” Elias didn’t meet your eyes as he nodded, “Yeah.” “So we’re getting somewhere.” Your arms folded, confident little smile making him give you that same melted look. Scratch all previous thoughts, Elias was easier to play than a deck of cards. You wondered how long he’d spent looking at your calling card and desperately wishing to call the number. You wondered why Elias hadn’t already. What was his real reason? He could give you as many cocky smirks and sarcastically suggestive little quips as he wanted – you could see right through him. “I thought we already were.” *** You should have bet on how much complaining Joel was going to do, by the fact that he was muttering curses in more than one language under his breath. For the first part of the journey you thought it was funny, and responded in kind. Linguistics was a nice hobby, and Joel and yourself had a healthy competition on how many you could learn. Aside from that, it was good business practice. For the second half of the journey you settled into silence, closing your eyes and taking yourself through all your focus meditation and breathing exercises – before checking and double checking your weaponry. Then triple checking it – obviously. All with Joel still grumbling on, and Elias and Ty asking each other if this was something they ought to be doing. Joel slowed the van and parked up, the complex was in view, but you were out of sight. You had split yourself into two teams: Elias and yourself, and Joel and Ty. You would clear the first few floors together – without breaking a sweat – and then they would go on look out and you’d take out the name on your rap sheet. Obviously your assistant was as impressed with this arrangement as he was with everything else – but he was on side with you, and he understood it. He could make sure there were no screw ups. Joel also had a build like Ty did, so he wasn’t about to be taken out, or by surprise, by him. You all had communication links to each other so you could keep tabs, but you wanted radio silence unless absolutely necessary. The only good thing about this was that you didn’t really have to worry about how messy you were, Nilo didn’t have a preference for making someone disappear, he just wanted the man killed. As predicted the four of you swept the first few floors silently, splitting the building nearly in half you came to the point where you’d be leaving Joel behind, turning to him you opted to continue your language game: “You know where you’re going?” “I know what I’m looking for.” “Be careful. I don’t trust them.” “The feeling is mutual.” “Yell if you need anything.” He shot Elias a look before turning to you, “I’d say the same, but I think you can handle yourself!” You chuckled, “Thanks, Joel. Until later.” And, indicated for Elias to follow you, ascended the stairs.

***

Everything looked very different up here, but was equally as quiet. There’d be security every so often, you were sure of that, as there had been downstairs. Perhaps more, considering your target was their boss, but nothing you didn’t think yourself capable of handling. “So, I don’t get it, is this a drugs complex, or a house!?” You turned to Elias as he stared around the walls: very domestic from the bland grey concrete you’d seen downstairs. “Both.” It wasn’t a guess; you’d seen the schematic. “A safe house?” “Round about, we’re heading for a panic room.” “You have that map stored in your head?” You kept the pistol steady as you rounded the corner, it was clear and you beckoned him on, “Is that impressive?” “Vaguely.” You chuckled, “I’ll take it.” You suddenly pulled back, slamming Elias against the wall as a bullet streaked passed you, “Shit!” You weren’t worried about that, immediate with your retaliation fire. You were trained for this, it was instinct. There was more than one of them and you had to bring them down quick less they raise the alarm, you had no time to think about cover: about the only thing Elias did think of. “They’ll have heard bullets, I gotta go.” You turned back to him, “Your choice, go back to them or try to keep up!” Trying to keep up was much easier said than done, and you had sprinted out of sight by the time Elias had run around the next corner. “Ah, shit.” He ran a hand through his hair, “Well, I’ve followed her this far!” You must have been quick, because Elias made it another couple of floors up before he found any signs that you might have had difficulty, what worried him was that it was your mentors’ gun that was lying on the ground – so out of the way it’d probably been kicked or thrown there. Carelessly; you hadn’t just decided to drop it. You certainly would have retrieved it. Whoever your mentor had been, however you tried to hide it, Elias knew he’d meant a lot to you. Picking it up, the still loaded chamber and half empty magazine told a worse story to him. What the hell had happened to you?! Surely they hadn’t overpowered you? Not you! *** Elias almost started to believe it as he continued walking, as suddenly there wasn’t a body, or blood or an empty casing anywhere in sight. Everything was still quiet. Not a sound, not even on the radio. He arrived on the next floor, and again everything was clear. It occurred to him to call the other two for help very nearly a little too late, as, more concerned with finding out where you were, Elias rounded the next corner without his pistol up. In fact, without a pistol at all, and he was faced with yours. “You’re lucky that I check what I’m shooting at before I pull a trigger, Elias! Geez!” You flicked the safety on. “ME!? You just gave me a heart attack! Where the hell did you go!?” You shuffled on the spot with a little shrug, “Look, just, don’t go upstairs into the office, okay?” “Office…? What? I thought you said he had a panic room.” “He absolutely had a panic room – he wasn’t in it. It was not the cleanest kill I’ve ever made and…” You paused staring up at the ceiling, “At least it’s done.” He followed your eyeline and grimaced, leaking through the ceiling already was a patch of blood, “That’s a lot of bodies or it’s a terribly built house-!” “Bit of both…” You looked to him, “Hardly matters right now, don’t you think?” “Who the hell are you, Y/N?” Your head tipped, regarding him seriously in the eschewing silence to his question. “You really want to know that?” He nodded firmly, “Yes.” Elias wasn’t sure he liked the smile you gave back, the way it made the heart leap in his chest, and a shudder run up his spine. You grabbed him, shoving him up against a wall this time not to protect him – far from it. Your lips on his were rough, this wasn’t love… you weren’t even sure you could call it chemistry. But it was something. Elias pulled your body into his, your fingers running into his hair, he groaned into the kiss as you raked your nails across his scalp. But you continued to push his body as you made him breathless. Oh… shit. Elias could barely think properly as he ran his hands under your coat and over your ass, pulling your shirt with him, the feel of your supple skin under his calloused hands drove him crazy. Until he found himself backed up against a door, breaking the kiss in confusion. “Maybe you should try it.” You encouraged, voice at a whisper as you brought his lips back to yours, Elias wasn’t going to say no, and it swung open behind his push. This time when he broke the kiss it was only to smirk. “Oh? A bedroom?” “Uh huh.” He turned back to you, eyes raking your body as they had done before, but now significantly more hungry. You pushed a finger to his lips before he started getting clever: “…Stop talking… stop thinking… don’t make me wait any longer.” Replacing your finger with your lips, Elias pulled back to nod, “Okay.” He pulled you into his arms, relieving you of your coat immediately. It was almost like no time had passed at all, he tasted the same as you remembered, whisky and cigarette smoke. Elias pulled you closer, certainly not eager to break the kiss or let you go for even a moment. You pulled off his leather jacket, throwing it with your own; you revelled in the way that you were both so different, but you wanted the same thing so badly. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” He gave you a small smirk. You let the look on your face answer for you, to which Elias grinned, hands under your shirt he pulled it over your head, allowing you to relieve him of his own. His fingers ghosted over your skin, and he paused momentarily: every so often there was a litter of scars. You weren’t about to count the number of times you’d been in real trouble, but you always got out of it. You simply chuckled, “Yeah, no dancing on a stage in just my bra and panties for me.” “That’s not why I’m here.” You’d agree with that, kissing him gently again, your fingers grazed over his chest and Elias tensed; “What? Scared?” You smirked against his lips. “A little. It’s not like I don’t know what you’re capable of.” “I don’t sleep with my targets.” You kissed him again, winking as you undid his belt, dragging him back to your lips with his belt loops; this time he bit your lip gently, making you groan against his kiss. Elias picked you up, undoing your pants and bra clasp, pushing you down onto the bed he nipped down your jawline and neck. You pulled him back, reciprocating Elias’ trail of kisses, whispering prayers into his skin in nearly every language you knew. He slid your pants down your legs with a sigh, and he shook under your touch. You were too much for him already, but you weren’t about to show Elias mercy. You smirked wickedly, claiming his lips with your own once more. This man was about to be all yours… *** All of you were clearly sworn to silence. Elias was the more dazed of the three of you (Ty seemed none the wiser), and Joel kept throwing you dirty and disgusted looks. You couldn’t care less. You’d done your job, you were entitled to a little fun every once in a while, your assistant didn’t have to be a killjoy. Overall though, you were disappointed in yourself, somewhere along the way – probably when you were dealing with everyone who was actually occupying the panic room – you’d lost your most important possession. You weren’t about to admit that out loud, but you hadn’t been able to find it as you had made your way back downstairs. You vowed you’d get it back, but you’d rather go back with Joel and do a real sweep without the other two around. There was too much going on here – and it was obvious Joel wanted out and away from here as soon as possible. That was fine with you. You dropped Elias and Ty back at the bar, and you were wondering if this time it might really be it. Were you both satisfied now? It scared you that you might not be sure of the answer to that. Joel went to deliver the news and package, and Ty wasn’t one to kick around, leaving you and Elias outside. “Well, now you can get back to that girlfriend of yours.” “Is that really any way to say goodbye?” “I don’t want to get emotionally involved here.” Though your eyes strayed from his face a little too much for Elias to want to believe that. “Does that make everything easier for you?” “Yeah.” You folded your arms, no point in skirting around that. Elias for once looked like he was seeing right through you, “Except there’s one thing that makes you show your cards.” “What?” You narrowed your eyes at him, how dare he stand here acting like he had you all figured out. Elias rummaged in his jacket, and you nearly gasped as he presented you with your mentor’s pistol. “He must have been one hell of a guy.” “He… was.” You took it from him delicately, “You found it.” “It’s important. Right?” “…Thank you.” And there was emotion behind that, you both knew it. “You’re welcome.” Although his hand took yours, thumb running over that tattoo on your wrist, and down to your fingers, Elias was so close to entwining them. He thought better of it, instead twisting the ring so that ‘Veritas’ very clearly faced him – you just about admit to yourself you were disappointed. “My offer is still on the table, you know?” You gave a small smile, “If you ever want to be useful, you have my number.” He chuckled, “Well. I’ll… think on it.” Then added, with a smile, “That’s the truth.” “Don’t think.” You took a step back as Joel called you, walking briskly back to the car. Yes, he certainly wanted out. “I told you, the only thing worth it, is the doing!” ** Amazingly Joel did not go ballistic at you – you thought he was just glad to be out. On top of that he knew you’d seen the looks he was shooting you, and you supposed he thought that said it all. To be honest it probably did, and you would both vow silently to never talk about this again. You pulled your pistol apart to check it, as you always did and, satisfied, you pulled your mentor’s apart too. Pausing as you checked the magazine, sitting in the top was a rolled-up piece of paper. You smiled to yourself, only guessing what it said. You pieced the pistol back together and unravelled it. He’d watched you do this on the journey, so Elias could be certain that you’d check your gun pretty soon after he’d returned it. Spera - Trust. ‘Someone is a show off’. You almost laughed as you read the number before rolling it up again and pocketing it. Truth and Trust seemed almost ironic. And yet also seemed to be completely fitting. You made sure to be safely home, to ensure that Joel wasn’t physically ill. And also to wait a few days, to keep Elias hanging. Which he was, because that man wasn’t like you. You could wait on him to call like it was no big deal – but he would be checking that mobile of his every ten minutes at the very least. Predictably he picked up on the second ring: “Y/N?” “Hey, babe.” You would be directly flirty, you’d tell Elias what he wanted to hear, “I see my number must be saved in that phone of yours, you just never pressed the call button. See, even a busy girl like me can action something.” “I… I’m just glad you did.” You left a significant pause, enough to make him uncomfortable, “Are you asking me to trust you?” “The truth is important to you, isn’t it? Don’t you trust me?” Your voice became quiet, all too aware of the vulnerability of admittance: “I do. It scares me that I do.” You sighed, “But that hardly matters. I told you I like action. So, if I don’t want you to call me unless it’s for you to be useful, I figured that my calling you was only ever about offering you the opportunity to be so…” “How?” Elias’ voice was eager, you could almost see his nails digging into the bar, the tension running through him, a slight dark tint to those blue eyes of his. “You ever been to Boston?” “…No?” “Well, if you get yourself on a flight over… I can give you an address.” “You live in Boston?” “You asked me to trust you.” “I did.” There was relief and understanding in that sentence. “When?” “Whenever you want, babe. I’ll let you know if I get called anywhere though, wouldn’t want you to waste a trip.” “Considerate of you.” “Well, like for like.” You smiled, “Just one more small favour, Elias. An… assurance. Perhaps an insurance policy. Before you do come all the way out to me.” “What’s that?” Really what he was saying was anything. I’ll do anything. “I told you that my mentor died because he fell in love with a target…” “You did.” Then he quickly added, “I won’t… tell anyone!” You shook your head, Elias was jumping ahead of himself. As were you. But you weren’t sure where this was going, and yet you had to be certain. It wasn’t that you thought you were about to fall in love. You might, it wasn’t beyond you. It was that if you were asked to kill him… you weren’t your mentor. You weren’t scared that you’d be unable to pull the trigger, you were scared of the knowledge that you could. “Yes, well. Just don’t do anything to piss anyone off, okay?”

---

Thank you for reading! 😁💙

#Elias #Ben Mendelsohn #Trespass #Linzi Writes #Elias x Reader #Smol Bean Drabbles #So I felt like his backstory kinda went with hers and I like that solidarity #I really like the way they talk to each other #like this understanding... a very specific kind of energy #I feel like every scene in this fic either hits just right or is a pretty bad miss but... it's going like this #Once again I stole some of this from Runaway Train but why not she's the same reader character #Carla #189 #Joel - the assistant #Joel / Yoel and all variations is a long standing side character OC of mine #and I LOOOOOOVE him #Jerod for example from the /I Think He Knows/ series is a Joel...#Yoel from Maliyah's series is a Joel #But Carla's assistant is the Original(TM) Joel

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ghosthunthq · 5 years ago

Text

Not All Treasure Is Silver or Gold

By: @humanrebel

Ghost Hunt Fanworks Weekend 2020

Prompt: Ghosts at sea. Ghost ships/haunted lighthouse -Anonymous

Summary: It’s not an old location; it was built just ten years ago. The haunting was severe, though, already causing physical damage. Just an average case, like the ones theyve investigated before. The only difference? They were investigating a ship out at sea. And it unnerved her to know that help is so far away. [Post manga]

Word count: ~4.5k

She breathes in the salted air and sighs into the breeze. Sure, she’s seen the ocean – she’s basked on warm summer beaches and jumped over white-tipped waves – but it holds a different quality during the winter.

The kick of sand turns to the crunch of snow. Icicles hang from wind chimes, adding a delicate touch to the sound. And the breeze from the ocean carries a different scent – lighter, fresher, it chills her to her bones in a decidedly good way.

Yes, Mai decides. The ocean is even better in the winter.

“Are you coming, Mai?” asks Naru. “Or do you plan on staring at the water all day?”

“It’s just refreshing, that’s all,” she pouts, but follows him onto the ferry anyway. In the distance, quite a ways out, she can see their destination. She’s not sure how it became haunted — it’s a large ten-year-old yacht — but maybe that’s why the case piqued Naru’s interest. A deceptively innocent place with no exciting history to speak of.

And they had it all to themselves.

Well, mostly. While rooms were often rented out for vacation, there were no tourists here. They still had the crew — none of the SPR team could operate a ship this size — as well as the client and his family, which went against Naru’s wishes.

Because the ghost was violent. It claimed the family as its own, punished them, left them bruised and battered and begging for help. Sure, they’ve had violent cases before, but they were all, for the most part, on solid ground. The only brush they’ve had with the sea was the Yoshimi case.

Mai shivers as she remembers it. She agrees with Naru, there should have only been a skeleton crew and maybe three adults, but when you’ve got as much money as this Ando-san, you don’t listen to logic. Ghosts aren’t motivated by money. While Mai hopes for a quick, painless exorcism, she’s not about to hold their breath.

She’s grateful for the ferry, though. At least they’ll have full supplies while they’re at sea — all the cameras and microphones and screens will help to keep an eye on things. It gives her a small sense of security. (Plus the wind in her hair feels absolutely amazing after being stuck in that stuffy old van for hours.)

She’d rather they investigate while the ship was docked, but apparently the ghosts were only active away from the coast. Which, you know, is fair when you want people to disappear, which has only happened once or twice. To complete strangers. People who rented out Ando-san’s yacht for a quick vacation.

Mai suddenly doubts the client’s intentions. As far as she knows, Naru did nothing to piss him off. Still, Naru pissing someone off is a very likely happening, so she’ll just keep an eye on the Ando family. To make sure they don’t pull any funny business, that’s all.

(She’s joking, of course.)

=•=•=•=

Her mouth drops open when she sees their base. There’s nothing set up yet, but the room–the room is huge. Way bigger than their usual bases, way bigger than she thought would be on a ship this size. The ceiling sits above her, the same size as the rest of the rooms on this floor(deck? level?), but the walls! The walls are far apart, lined with tables and chairs — this is a dining hall, Ando told them. There’s a kitchen through the doors in the back, and chefs that made meals all throughout the day — though Naru dismissed them upon arrival.

She entertains the idea that, perhaps, they were meant to use the dining room as a shared bedroom — but of course Ando thought of that. They each have a room, three in a row across from base. It’s not unusual for her to have a room alone, being the only girl among the official SPR crew, but Naru and Lin often had to share one. She wonders how they feel about that — sure, they shared a hotel room before, and now share an apartment, but to be on a case and have extra rooms? It must be so odd to them.

Then again, their usual clients aren’t always as well off as the Ando family. Mai wonders, not for the first time, what they did to earn such wealth. Sure, Ando rents the yacht out for a not-so-subtle fee. He refers to it as a ‘floating hotel’, but she thinks a cruise ship is more accurate. Either way, he’d need to have some serious money to set up the whole thing. According to him, he came from a small family in a somehow smaller village until he was discovered by a foreign talent agency. That wasn’t how he ‘struck gold’ though. It was just a stepping stone, and he refused to divulge his secrets past that.

Sketchy client or no, Naru took the job. They had no choice, and since the ferry was under Ando’s command, they wouldn’t be able to escape if they wanted. Not that they were ever planning on it. Naru doesn’t run, not when ghosts are involved. He watches and he learns. He’ll figure out what this haunting is and he’ll make sure to solve it with as little damage possible.

He’s saved her life before, and she trusts he’ll save it again if need be.

So she sets down the cameras and sets up the shelves, and she helps Naru with some preliminary camerawork. She throws herself into her work, taking temperatures and running cables, and when she yawns she doesn’t notice. It’s not until her limbs feel like lead and her eyes slide closed that she checks the clock.

“Naru,” she says as she places a box on a table, “I think it’s time to call it a night.”

“We’re almost done setting up.” He digs through the box and pulls out a cable, handing it off to Lin. “You can go ahead and lay down. Lin and I can finish here.”

“You two need rest, too!”

Lin’s voice chimes in, soft and smooth. “It’s almost two in the morning, Noll.” He hooks the cable to a monitor. “This should be fine for right now. We probably won’t get much activity, considering it’s the first night.”

Naru sighs. “I just don’t want to miss anything. You never can tell.” But he scans the monitors, checking over the four that are running, and then he nods. “Very well. Mai can take the room in the middle. That way one of us is bound to hear her if she wanders off.”

“Hey! I’m not–”

He shushes her. “It’s late, remember. Don’t want to wake up the clients,” he says with a smirk.

=•=•=•=

The caffeine in her tea is severely insufficient. Her yawns follow her throughout the day, and it only reminds her of the four hours of sleep she got. Naru wanted to argue for more time, but surprise, surprise! No activity on the first night, as usual. Not a flicker, not a fluctuation, not even one of those vague feelings she sometimes has. The only thing she felt last night was sick.

The rocking of the boat wasn’t so noticeable when she was up and working, but she felt it when she laid down. As soon as her mind settled, her stomach rolled, tossing about like the waves outside her window. It took several stumbling trips to the toilet to finally calm herself enough to sleep.

A yawn breaks her concentration, the twelfth one since she woke up three hours ago. Exhaustion clings to her mind, pulls it further and further down. She rests her head against the table, watching Lin and Naru discussing something in front of the screens — the schematics of the yacht are pinned to the board beside them, dots marking cameras and mics. Deciding where to record next, then. Surely they wouldn’t mind if she took a quick nap? She wants more control over her visions anyway, and what better way than to practice?

She doesn’t even have time to shut her eyes.

“Mai, go set up a camera in dining room B.”

So much for her nap. “Okay!”

With forced cheer and false energy, she stands and collects one of the night vision cameras. A headset, a tripod, and a coil of wire later finds her one level lower. The room isn’t nearly as big as base, but is still formidable in size. Her eyes scan the walls, more decorated here than above. The biggest picture hangs from the wall beside the door and is of Ando and his family — an older, foreign blonde woman, a teenage son, and twin little girls. The other photos are guests, she presumes, though she recognizes a few faces from movies.

All the portraits are haunting, in a way. They line the wall, glaring through glass panes and hanging crooked from their nails. She hurries through the process of setting up the camera, listening to Naru’s directions as she positions it. It takes all her self control not to sigh in relief when he tells her to return. She pulls the door open and steps out–

Four eyes stare up at her, glowing in the dim light.

A small Eep! escapes her, but she reigns it back in when she realizes it’s just children — living children — watching her. She smiles down at them. “I’m sorry. You startled me.”

Two girls stand before her, seven-year-old twins if she had to guess. Their stare grows just a touch unnerving when they speak.

“You’re here with the ghost hunters?” the one on the left asks.

Mai nods, and the two girls look at each other before they look at her.

“And you’re staying up there.” The one on the right points to the floor above, to where her very room would be located if they were up the stairs.

“Yes…” Mai answers. The girls look at each other and lower their voice to a whisper. She tries to listen in, but can’t hear.

“That pretty boy,” the one on the left starts, “his room is beside yours, isn’t it?”

Her face heats up. “It sure is,” she says.

The girls burst out in a giggle. “Secret boyfriend,” they sing to themselves. “Secret boyfriend, secret boyfriend!”

“I bet he sneaks over to her room at night,” says one.

“I bet he kisses her to sleep,” says the other.

“He doesn’t do any of that!” says Mai. Her face is hot, a blush exploding across her cheeks. Seeing her face turn red only proves to excite the girls. They giggle and sing, teasing still, hopping in one place.

And then they stop. They stand still, faces solemn as they look from Mai to the corridor.

“She’s not going to like that,” whispers one.

“She’s going to take him,” whispers the other.

“What are you talking about?” Mai asks them, dread settling in her stomach.

“Naiya,” the girls answer as one. The one on the left continues with, “Naiya owns the boat.”

“I thought your father–”

“She likes to collect things. Pretty things.” The girl on the right says.

The one on the left turns to her twin. “She might want to collect her, too,” she says.

They look at each other, then run away.

“Wait!” Mai runs after them, but they’re gone when she turns the corner. Her walk back to base is full of racing thoughts — namely Naiya and her collection.

“Don’t tell me you got lost on the way back.”

“Hm?” She raises her eyes to Naru’s raised brow.

“I expected you back ten minutes ago. What took so long?

“Oh. I ran into two of the children on board. I think they know something.” He says nothing, waiting for an explanation. “They said someone called Naiya owned the yacht, and that she liked to collect pretty things.”

“I guess I’ll have to be careful, then.” Naru smirks as Mai rolls her eyes, then says, “Yasuhara-san is already investigating the history of the ship. I’ll tell him to look for this Naiya person, as well.”

Mai nods. “I wonder if Masako would be able to help.”

Naru stiffens beside her. “I believe even Matsuzaki-san would be more helpful than her right now.“

“What? Naru, don’t be rude! She’d be able to tell if there were spirits here! Besides, there aren’t any trees nearby. Ayako can’t do anything here.”

“She can make charms and at the very least drive the spirits away. She’s not useless. Hara-san only knows basic warding magic.”

“I only know basic warding magic.”

“But I’m keeping an eye on you,” Naru says, smiling as her face heats up again.

“Nope! No using PK to protect me, Oliver.” Mai smiles as his face hardens. “I’m not about to be the cause of you being hospitalized…”

Again hangs in the air, but she won’t admit it. The Yoshimi case still burns in her mind, only a few months behind them. She still blames herself. His eyes lose their edge, but his frown deepens.

“It’s always been my fault,” he whispers to her.

She shakes her head, but changes the subject. “Maybe Ayako should be here. Better to have an actual doctor, just in case. Right?”

Naru sighs. “Lin, go ahead and call the regulars, and let me know when they can arrive. We’ll need to tell Ando to have a ferry ready for them.” Lin nods. “As for now, I’d like to start interviews. Mai?”

“Yes, sir!” She grabs her notebook and pen and follows him down the hall.

=•=•=•=

When the case was brought to them, Hiroyuki Ando showcased spectacular showmanship. He was an actor, hamming it up for a captive audience, but the bruises that lined his arms were all too real. His plea was ignored at first — spending time on a ship could mess with one’s equilibrium, after all, and stumbling one day could develop bruises the next.

Naru would have dismissed this case if it hadn’t been for the grizzled old captain. He’d spent most of his life on the sea, and actually was rather shaky on land. He had bruises as well, hidden beneath the long sleeves of his jacket. He didn’t want the crew to panic, he claimed, when they saw that even their captain was subject to whatever this mysterious force was. And, well, it worked.

The crew had no idea anything was going on. None of them had experienced the bruising or the noises; in fact, they thought SPR was there as guests, not as investigators. A few of the younger ones tried to flirt with her, and a few of the older ones turned their nose up at them. They refused the interview, claiming the ghosts to be a figment of imagination, and Mai threw them a nasty look when their back was turned.

“You shouldn’t be so childish,” Naru tells her after the fifth one walks away.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just don’t act like it doesn’t bother you, too.”

“They’ll either believe or they won’t. Nothing I do will change their mind. The best we can hope for is them staying out of our way.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult. You’ve driven away worse with just a look– yeah! That’s the one!” Mai laughs as his face sours further.

“You two seem to get along well. If I had known better, I would have given you a room together.”

“A-Ando-san!” They turn to face him. “It’s not like that-” Mai starts.

“Can you tell us where the rest of your family is?” Naru asks. “We’d like to ask about their paranormal experiences.”

“Of course,” he says, leading them down the hall.

Naru ignores her as she pouts. In fact, he seems to be smirking at her. Did he want Ando thinking they were together? She’d drop it for now, she had to focus on not falling when two blurs in blue collided with her legs.

“Nee-san!” They cry, smiling up at her.

“You brought your boyfriend with you this time!”

“He’s really pretty, isn’t he?”

“He’s like a prince, I bet!”

“Nee-san, are you okay? You’re all red!”

She chokes out something that she hopes at least resembles an affirmative, and when she looks at Naru, his lips are set in a thin line. But oh, she can see the amusement in his eyes, and he’s going to pay for it.

“Keiko! Kimiko!” Ando-san calls. “That’s no way to treat a guest!”

“Keiko and Kimiko?” Naru ignores Ando, and so do the girls. He kneels down to study them. A smile tugs at his lips, but other than that his expression is unreadable. “You told Mai a little about Naiya, didn’t you? Can you tell me a little more?”

The twins look at each other, expressions flying across their faces in a language only they can decipher. Naru’s eyes soften as he watches until they nod. A decision has been made. They turn back to him.

“She’s a mermaid!” they yell as one.

“She came from far, far away!” says the one in navy blue.

“She bought this boat a long time ago!” says the one in deep purple.

Naru shoots Mai a glance, and she starts writing.

“What makes you think she’s a mermaid?” he asks.

“She lives in the water! She’s always there when we see her, and she never shows us her legs. She told us she doesn’t have any.”

“We want to join her crew, but she says we’re too young. But she does keep an eye on us, and if someone hurts us, she’ll hurt them.”

“Is that so?” Naru mumbles. He glances at Ando and back to the girls, quick enough that only Mai notices. He turns back to the girl in purple. “So you’re able to talk to Naiya, Kimiko?”

She nods. “Yes! She likes to watch us play. She taught us how to play pirates. She says we’d make fine additions to her crew, but only when we’re older. Right now, we just find coins and stuff to give her.”

He turns to Keiko, the one in blue. “How do you give it to her?”

Keiko looks to her twin. “We throw it,” she says.

“And where do you throw it?”

She looks at her father, standing behind Naru. “We, um… we throw it in the water.”

“Is that what you’ve done with your mother’s earrings?!” Ando asks– no, demands. “I’ve told you time and time again, this Naiya is just-just an imaginary friend! Don’t throw stuff away just because–”

“Ando-san!” Mai cuts him off. The girls are huddled behind her, hiding from him. Her hands hover in front of them, as though she can protect them.

Ando glares at her. “This is a family matter, Taniyama-san,” he yells. He steps forward to grab the girls, but Mai backs up with them. He waves his hands towards the stairs. “They’ve thrown tens of thousands of yen into the ocean! Because of some stupid, fake pirate!”

Mai opens her mouth, but his ranting doesn’t stop until Naru steps between them. “Ando-san,” he says, voice smooth and unbroken. “There are many cases of spirits befriending children in the form of imaginary friends. Don’t discount them just because they’re young.”

He turns around to face the children. “Thank you for your time, Keiko, Kimiko. You may leave.”

Keiko grabs Kimiko’s hand and pulls her away, running down the hall. Ando huffs, opening and closing his mouth. His face is red and drawn, eyes narrowed at Naru. He clears his throat, shivering as the temperature drops. “Excuse me,” he says, opening one of the doors in the hall, “it’s gotten rather cold, hasn’t it? Must be an open window somewhere…”

He walks away, checking each room as he goes. Mai sticks her tongue out at him.

“Let’s go back,” Naru says, “before they accuse me of being unprofessional.”

“What was that?” She ponders as they walk. “He seemed so mad about their imaginary friend.”

“He was mad because they’ve been throwing valuables into the sea.”

“He owns a yacht. It’s not like he’s going to miss ten-thousand yen. I spend about that much on groceries for a week.”

“Then he’s greedy. Don’t worry about it, Mai.”

“Well, let’s just hope he doesn’t throw that much of a fit when he sees the bill for this case.” Naru rolls his eyes, but she smirks at him. “I know you’re charging extra for the inconvenience of working on a ship. Don’t think I haven’t seen the nausea medicine you and Lin are trying to hide.”

A smirk plays at his lips. “You’re getting more observant, aren’t you?”

“I have to be when we’re fighting ghosts all the time. Oh! Can I have some, by the way? I get motion sick at night…”

=•==•=

Thunder rolls in the distance. The moon hides behind clouds, and the threat of rain pulls Oliver into bed before he’s done reviewing notes. Mai left for her room earlier, and Lin not long after with a warning for him to sleep soon.

He’s only an hour behind them, really. He can sleep at any time he wants. It’s not that hard.

Except for when the voice calls out for him.

“Noll,” it says in his own voice. “Find me, Noll.”

But he did. He found Gene, and took him home, and laid him to rest, what else could he want?

“Naru,” the voice shifts. It changes, growing higher, then frantic, morphing into Mai’s distressed tone. “Please, Naru! Hurry!”

Well that’s just playing dirty.

He still stands. The floor is cold against his feet, and it almost makes him want to crawl back in bed. But then Mai screams his name again, and he tears himself away from it.

The hall is empty — Mai’s door is shut tight, probably locked. But then, why wouldn’t it be? He knows it’s not really her calling him. It’s some phantom voice that can read him well enough to use her as bait. But her safety is not something he’s willing to risk, so he follows it anyway.

Oliver follows the voice up the slippery staircase and out onto the moonlit deck. The cold knocks the breath from his lungs. He can’t even see the way it clouds before the wind rips it away. He takes a deep, shaking breath, ice sinking to his lungs and spreading through his limbs.

Mai wouldn’t be out here. No one would. They’d freeze before they took two steps. He should just check on Mai and return to bed.

He doesn’t, though. He hears his name again. Ignoring the urge to run to it, he scans the silvery deck. Shadows dance at the edge of his vision, only to vanish as he turns his head.

The voice isn’t on the ship. It’s yelling from over the side.

He walks to the rail and studies the water. It’s the only blotch of darkness in this moonlit scene. The voice changes again. Soft, lilting, it beckons him now, no longer afraid. He circles the ship, trying to pinpoint its location.

It still sounds like Mai.

Anywhere should do, he thinks. He can swim to her. She wouldn’t hide from him. His hands grip the rail, and he jumps. He kneels on the metal, fingers going numb. He just has to find the source. That shouldn’t take long. He tips forward.

A loud bang wakes him. His shoulder explodes in burning pain. Chanting fills his ears, and he can’t sit up. He’s too disoriented, and there’s a weight on his chest holding him down. Rain pelts his face, stinging as it hits his skin.

Then the weight is gone and he’s pulled to his feet.

“Run, you idiot!” Mai yells in his ear, but she’s dragging him anyway. Her clothes cling to her body, and her fingers freeze against his. She drags him down the stairs and into base, slamming the door. She pants as she leans against it, too tired to move.

“That was too close,” she mutters between breaths. Then she glares at him. “What the hell, Naru? What was that?”

“How long has it been raining?”

“Naru!”

“I heard–”…you… “–someone calling me. I went outside to investigate and…”

“And tried to jump into the ocean!” She’s breathing heavily, still, and her shoulders shake. He can’t tell if she’s cold or crying, but if he had to wager a guess, he’d say both.

He’d been tricked. Mai’s shivering worsens as the air chills, and she wraps her arms around herself. Naru stands, offering her his hand. She takes it and lets him lead her to her room.

“Go take a shower and change,” he tells her. “You’ll freeze at this rate.”

“No thanks to you,” she mumbles.

“Meet me at base when you’re done. I’m going to get Lin. We’re going to sleep there tonight, and when Matsuzaki-san and Hara-san get here, you’re all going to share that room.”

She almost refuses — there’s no need for such precaution, she thinks. But then she remembers Naru, dragging himself through the storm, wobbling on the thin handrail. The adrenaline that surged through her, tearing him from the spirit’s grip. The emptiness in her limbs as that adrenaline fades.

“Okay,” she ends up saying, swinging the door shut. Naru stops it with a foot before it closes, and opens it as he leans forward. His lips tickle her earlobe, and when he speaks, his voice is warm.

“Oh, and Mai?” he whispers, grateful for the cold that hides his blush. “Thank you.”

#Ghost Hunt #GHW2020 #GHHQ #humanrebel #Ghosts at sea #submission

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somefantasticplace · 4 years ago

Text

THE SECRET LIFE OF BOB

On living in a homeless hostel, a year of paralysis and the Hell's Angel who stole his girlfriend

"Do you want me to tell you the truth?" asks Bob Mortimer. "It’s just that most people want me to lie and talk nonsense to them." Generally, people like to assume that he is a funny little fellow wearing a bra and clutching an oversized frying pan all year round.

More than anyone else who has spent so much time on our television screens in the last ten years, the off-duty Bob Mortimer is an impenetrable character. He has always maintained a lower public profile than his cohort Vic Reeves and, such is the fantastical nature of his on-screen persona, it is almost impossible to consider the life he leads outside it. On the telly, his every move - whether he is lowered from a ceiling impersonating Liberace or mock-scolding his comic partner - is able to reduce an audience to hysterics. There’s something about the every movement of his diminutive frame that is unfathomably amusing . It’s much the same when he’s off duty; his face is boyish and cheeky, his eyes permanently excited and his shouty laugh an almost constant accompaniment to his words.

He’s surprised but willing when he’s asked to tell the truth. And, remarkably, he maintains his affable demeanour as he begins to recount it. For the 30 years before he was famous, he occupied a world characterised by drinking, violence, anarchy, homelessness and incapacitating illness. It was out of those often dark and disturbing experiences that Mortimer grew to become the self effacing, likeable and outstandingly funny 40 year old he is today.

"We got the shit kicked out of us"

A childhood in Middlesbrough

Bob Mortimer’s home was made to breed recklessness: there were four brothers and no father. His Dad died when he was six and his Mum was left to discipline the rabble as best she could. "She tried her best to be strict. My eldest brother was a rocker and the next one down was a mod. Ours was the house that all their mates would come round to because there was no dad."

While his troublesome siblings misbehaved on the streets of Middlesbrough, the young Bob would occupy his entire time with football. "I’d play all day long," he says. "I wanted to be a footballer and I went for the apprenticeship with Middlesbrough FC. I was in their under-15 team. At the end of the season you were dragged into the office to be told if you were going to be taken on and I wasn’t. It was a shock because I was good - one of the best in my town. But you don’t realise what a big world it is and how many other good players there are."

His passion for the club was therefore confined to watching from the terraces. He started in the early Seventies, when hooliganism was approaching its golden age, and developed a strange fascination for the violence that surrounded him. He spray-painted the words "Boro Boot Boys" on the wall of Barclays bank in Middlesbrough town centre, but he became less of an enthusiastic observer after experiencing yobbery close up: "When I was 14 we were at Leeds and suddenly found ourselves surrounded - they knew we were ‘Boro. We got the shit kicked out of us. I was running away when I looked back and saw three of the Leeds fans kicking the shit out of my brother. So I ran back to try and help but this little boy held out a coke bottle at about head height and it smacked me one. I managed to jump in and had quite a good impact at first but after that we were done. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking of. My brother was in hospital for weeks."

"I was a Libertarian Anarchist"

Becoming politically aware in Brighton

Being far more cautious about avoiding trouble, Mortimer went on to follow ‘Boro to 63 league grounds. It’s a statistic he reels off with childish enthusiasm. Remarkably, he continued his devotion even after leaving his home-town. When it came to choosing a university, the young Bob headed as far away from home as he could. "Quadrophenia had just come out and I loved the album," he says. "So I went down for my interview at Sussex University, I went and stood on Brighton beach and thought to myself ‘I’ve got to fucking come here.’ "

It was a whimsical decision that was to have a distinct impression on his character: "I’d just been in Middlesbrough playing football and all of a sudden I was studying stuff about racism which really opened my eyes. Until then I probably was a racist in so far as I just thought everything was fine. In Middlesbrough we had an Asian community but I never thought of them having anything to complain about. But once my eyes were open I developed that youthful passion about certain issues. I was a Libertarian anarchist. We chained ourselves to things and disrupted exams . It’s a load of wank really but it’s worthwhile on a personal level."

The first few months at Sussex were unhappy enough to tempt him to drop out. He remembers with distinct embarrassment the occasion on which he arrived at a law society ball, dressed in his Middlesbrough shirt and Doc Martens, to be confronted by a sea of chuckling Southern-types in tuxedos.

He found solace in the football team, of which he became a member and was coached by current Leicester City manager Martin O’Neil. While his new found politics provided a further focal point he didn’t become entirely serious. Drunk, he rampaged through the streets of Brighton one fateful evening putting in the front windows of two shops. "The police turned up straight away and all I could do was shrug, admit to it and say ‘Sorry, I’m pissed.’ " Threatened with a charge, his university tutor intervened and Mortimer was let off with an enormous fine. He spent years paying it off, but keeping his criminal record clean was essential to the career he was about to embark upon.

"I lived in a homeless hostel"

Hard times in South London

"I saw an advert that said: ‘Take on the government with Southwark Council.’ So I took the job as a lawyer." The newly idealistic Mortimer had taken a masters degree in welfare law and embraced the crusade against homelessness and degradation in one of the country’s most deprived boroughs. Ironically, it was he who ended up without a home. "I had nowhere to stay in London so the Council said that I could stay in their homeless hostel until I found somewhere. I ended up staying there for four years."

He admits he was shambolic in his day-to-day approach to working, but he was relatively successful as a lawyer. " I did a very good job of playing the system," he says with pride. "I could more or less guarantee people that could re-house them, which is what they wanted. They were living in dumps and I could get them out. It really changed their lives."

His successes were largely due to dogged approach to the job. This was an attribute he was to apply to his future career. "Bob is a worrier," says the Fast Show’s Charlie Higson, a long time friend and colleague who has recently directed Mortimer in Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased). "Whereas Jim [Vic to us] has an unswerving faith in everything they do, Bob studies tapes of their shows and takes extensive notes. He’s learnt a great deal from doing that, though."

Bob’s happy memories of legal success are harshly offset by the hardship he experienced during the same period. " I woke up one morning with rheumatoid arthritis," he says. "I went to lift my head but couldn’t. Then my mouth went. I had to drink through a straw and be dressed and bathed for about nine months." His girlfriend of the time nursed him through the illness in the confines of the hostel. Although there is an obvious downturn in his usually cheery expression, Mortimer recounts his experience with surprising matter-of-factness. Eventually, he found the right combination of pills to relieve the pain and return to work but the problem has forced him to abandon his love of playing football forever. "I just can’t do it, so I don’t think about it," he asserts briskly.

"I was pissed out of my head"

Meeting Vic Reeves

Work as a solicitor was arduous and poorly paid, but Mortimer ploughed on: after moving to a private practice he got 70 per cent of his 1500 clients acquitted. "I enjoyed being a solicitor at the beginning," he says. "But after a while the appeal tails off a bit and I was such a conservative fella that I didn’t think there was anything else I could do. I just though ‘Well, this is it for the next 30 years.‘ "

It took a dramatic course of chance events to redirect him. "I was living in this hostel with my girlfriend. I came home one dinnertime and found this Hell’s Angel shagging her. I was terribly upset. I was standing there in my suit because I’d just come from court, so I looked a right c***. I just told her to get out."

That evening, he was keen to drown his sorrows but had few friends in London. In the end, he looked up a vague acquaintance from Middlesbrough. "I’d never really been in touch with him but I was desperate so I gave him a ring. He said he was going to see his mate do a comedy show and I said, ‘All right, I’ll come.’ " The mate turned out to be Jim Moir who was performing as Vic Reeves for the first time that night at the Goldsmith’s Tavern in London’s New Cross. "It was just Jim and five of his mates in the room upstairs. There wasn’t much to it - everyone got up and did something, it was just arseing about." Bob describes himself as being "painfully shy" and implies that it was only the circumstances that had brought him to the pub that night that encouraged him to get involved in the comedy. Almost every week, word of mouth would cause the size of the audience at the show to double. In the end, it moved downstairs into the pub and Bob became more and more involved.

If his recently-scorned mood had encouraged him to perform on his first night with Vic, how did he overcome his shyness in front of a packed boozer? "I was pissed out of my head," he admits. "I can’t believe I did it. But they were nice people in the audience and they would come up and talk to me afterwards. There must have been something in that that tempted me to carry on. Jim is naturally quite outgoing but I don’t know what the fuck I was doing on the stage. Getting a reaction was quite intoxicating for a man who had always been shy." Vic refutes this, claiming: "I’ve never thought of Bob as particularly shy. But there was something in both our upbringings that discouraged us from ever parading ourselves like peacocks."

Bob still describes these early shows as the funniest things he and his partner have ever produced and, as crowds of 250 people began to fill the venue, television executives began to show an interest. "The show taking off was such a gift," he reflects. "I was so conservative that, even if someone had offered me another job when I was a solicitor, I would have said no. But the one thing no-one can resist is the offer to go on telly. Even when we got the offer to do a series I made sure I still had a job to go back to. In fact, I only took twelve weeks off work." Things were suddenly changing in all aspects of his life. Just before his television debut, he returned from a break in Middlesbrough to find the hostel burned down by the man who lived in the room below: "He didn’t think anyone was in but there was and they had to jump from the top to escape," Bob remembers.

He was re-housed by the council to a flat in a Peckam tower block. He stayed throughout the first two series of Vic Reeves Big Night Out on Channel Four, and when the BBC poached him and Vic (in what must have been a lucrative deal), he still remained in the flat. In fact, he was there for two whole series of The Smell Of Reeves and Mortimer, by which time he had become one of the country’s most high profile performers. Why? "It was nothing more than deep-rooted laziness," he confesses. "Eventually I bought a place up the road. But when I was still in the flat I remember Lloyd Grossman wanted to do a Through The Keyhole with me. It would have been funny because it was a real cockroach infested place, but I resisted the temptation."

"There's always one that wants to hit you"

Growing up

Today, Bob Mortimer is slightly drunk. "I tried absinthe for the first time last night and I haven’t really recovered," he reveals. His stocky figure is unusually bedraggled as he makes himself a cup of tea and recounts the proceedings of his night out, during which Vic showed him his large collection of photographs of dog excrement. His experimentation with absinthe was the first drinking he has done in a full six months. In fact, he says, he tries to avoid pubs altogether nowadays: "There’s always one when you’re just having a drink and they say: ‘Who do you think you are?’ And they want to hit you. And we’re not fighting men. I mean, unless we’re out with [Mark] Lamarr. He’s handy - is that the word?"

Mortimer embarks on yet another change of direction in the forthcoming BBC series Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased). In it, he and Vic make their debuts as straight(ish) actors. "Bob was a bit embarrassed at first," says Reeves. "He had a couple of weeks where he was coached for straight acting, but I don’t think he needed it. He does worry about things, like what show we should do next and what direction we should take. I just let him work it out in his own mind before I talk to him about it." Behind the playful, casual exterior, there appears to be an intensity borne out of the fact that he truly treasures his career.

Last year, he announced an intention to stop working for up to three years in order to spend more time with his family. Since filming Randall & Hopkirk, Bob has immersed himself in a long spell of doing nothing. "I enjoy it because it’s like when you used to nick off school when you were a kid," he enthuses. "And I know, eventually, I’ll be going back to work." He is also occupied with his two young children. "Fatherhood is a massive turning point. But it surprises me how many people say they enjoy it from the off. I mean, my memories of the first two years with both my kids is of not sleeping - passing my girlfriend on the stairs and saying ‘We’ve got to get through this.’ " He now sees fatherhood as providing a sense of purpose in life, as well as being a bit of a laugh. "Lying kids on the bed, putting adult clothes over them and drawing ‘tasches on them is fucking hilarious!" he says. "I remember when our plumber Ken Fowler came round to fix the boiler. My boy was sitting in a highchair wearing a vest and we’d drawn a big tattoo on his arm that said ‘I love Ken Fowler’." Hysterics ensue at the memory of the plumber’s bafflement.

Indeed, Mortimer is happy to get his kicks as a family man nowadays. The fact that he was 30 by the time he embarked upon a life in showbiz meant that he had a more considered approach to the trappings of his success. "Me and Jim are quite susceptible to ‘mad for it’ areas," he says. "But I suspect that, had it all been available to us when we were 18 not 30, it would have blown our minds. I think, being older, you have the perspective so you try and be polite and helpful. You see some young comics acting line c***s, like they’re a big deal. I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have been like that myself at 18, but you do feel like telling them how lucky they are." Perhaps more than anyone in his position, Mortimer is well aware of what the alternatives are.

Later

April 2000

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winterromanov · 5 years ago

Note

Prompt idea: AU meeting Bucky on a flight back to nyc, hitting it off but neither has the guts to ask for #s and regret it, but they run into each other later

pairing: bucky x reader

You’d made it to your terminal with minutes to spare. Your chest is heaving from violently running from one part of LAX to the other, dragging your broken, three-wheeled suitcase lamely behind you. Nevertheless--you make it, passport and boarding pass between your teeth, sweat pooling in the small of your back. You don’t run, you absolutely don’t run, but you make an exception for the two hundred and fifty dollars you’d spent on this flight back to JFK. And the wages you would otherwise miss if you didn’t make it back to New York City tonight.

Relief flooding you, you quickly join the back of the queue heading out onto the plane. You manically check your passport, hoping you’d not managed to drop something on the way over. Because that would just be typical you, wouldn’t it?

“That is some impeccable timing you’ve got there.”

You look up from your frantic scanning of essential documents and see a man--also travelling alone, by the looks of it, the space between him and the couple in front too wide to be friends or relatives--his grin teasing and light. If you weren’t sweating enough already, the gaze of this man would probably do it. Blue eyes, tired from travel, maybe. Dark hair. Very pretty. Extremely pretty.

You attempt to pull yourself together, throwing him a slightly flustered smile back. The queue moves gradually forwards and you tug your unwieldy suitcase forward, grimacing as it squeaks loudly linoleum. “Let’s say that punctuality is not one of my strong suites.”

The man rubs his eyes in exhaustion. “And let’s say that I’m the exact opposite.”

“You’re one of those people who arrives at departures like seven hours early, huh?”

“Eight.” He smiles, and you notice his hand luggage is a neat little backpack, unlike your ten-year-old faithful monster half-broken at your feet. “Need to leave plenty of time for duty free, you know?”

He’s not holding any paper bags from the expensive cosmetics counters, no cut price bottles of wine, not even any snacks. Not a shopaholic, just anxious. You’re flustered, late, but not unobservant, even of strangers. “I mean, I wouldn’t. As much as the bargain Chanel was calling my name, I did literally just sprint here. I think my sister thinks I’m insane.”

His expression is tongue-in-cheek. “Not just your sister.”

“That’s a brave statement from someone I’ve just met.” You run a hand through your mussed-up hair in an attempt to tame it, not helped by the humid LA heat. Attractive man is talking to you, after all. That doesn’t happen so often. “You always like that?”

“Not always,” he says, but his sentence is cut short as he reaches the front of the queue and hands one of the stewardesses his boarding pass and passport. You jerk your bag off to the side to the second open desk, letting another go through your documents, but by the time you’re finished (as always, the lady seems to scrutinise every pixel in your photograph--your misjudged bangs from three years ago don’t make you look that different, surely) the gentle, teasing man has gone.

The air hostess directs you to your seat at the back of the plane and you find you’re in one of the sections to the right, not really looking at the other passengers as you try to find row F. When you eventually find where you’re supposed to remain for the duration of the flight, you blink in surprise.

“Mad girl,” To his credit, the man looks just as surprised at the coincidence as you do, looking away from the phone in his hand. “You sitting here too?”

“Yeah.” You half smile, struggling to stuff your bag in the overhead locker. He clambers out to help but you manage to squeeze it, wedge it in between his backpack and the lady in front’s briefcase. “And for the record, my punctuality aside, I’m not actually insane. Probably more verging along the lines of ridiculously ordinary.”

“I happen to think that ordinary is a myth,” he replies, subtly scanning your figure as you slide into the seat beside him. He has a copy of McEwan’s Atonement on his open tray, dog-eared and yellowed, perhaps borrowed from a friend. “Never met anyone ordinary in my life.”

“You might have to take that back after spending five and a half hours in my company.”

His glance is bemused as he shifts the headphones looped round his neck--you can hear faint conversation, listening to an audiobook or podcast of some sort. “I’m Bucky, by the way. Well. James. But everyone calls me Bucky.”

“(Y/N),” you offer in return, “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

It’s funny, because not once in the many years you’ve been old and responsible enough to travel alone has anyone engaged in as much conversation with you. For someone clearly so anxious about flying Bucky is open and friendly and funny and you think, maybe this is his coping mechanism. Then again--you can feel something lingering below the surface, something that makes you feel that you’re actually getting on, that you could have met in any place in any town and felt exactly the same. He asks about your family and you ask about his. Apparently he was in LA because his little sister is at film school and crippled by homesickness, so his body in her apartment for a few days made her feel a little less alone, a little less far away. He knows you’re a photographer, spending the last six days taking pictures for a client’s wedding on Venice Beach.

A couple of hours into the flight you begin to scroll through movies on the screens in the back of the seat, discussing the ones you both have or haven’t seen. He likes everything other than films about space--they give him existential horror--and you’re a bit wary around anything scary, so his finger hovers over Paddington 2.

“Surely a film about a well-mannered bear with a British accent can’t cause any problems,” he says, offering one of the headphones he’s plugged in between the seats. He wants you to watch a movie with him. Literally with him.

Well. You’re not going to say no. You take the ear-bud and pop it in, easing back into your chair, the film entertaining but his bright facial expressions even more so.

He tenses as the plane lands, his knuckles white round the arms of his seat. You wonder if it would be cool to splay your hand over his own, squeezing it in an attempt to calm his nerves. But you don’t know him, really. You don’t know him well enough to do that. And you wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

So you lay back, close your eyes, feeling just a bit ridiculous as a vacuum opens in your stomach.

You’re tempted to ask him for his number as you make your way to the luggage carousel, walking in step with him. Instead you’re both enveloped in silence. Instead of actually, you know, fucking saying anything, you spend so much time trying to consider the words rather than biting the bullet and just doing it. Your lack of punctuality doesn’t just extend to your inability to make it anywhere until the last minute.

You often don’t say things until it’s too late, too.

“Have you got anyone waiting for you at arrivals?” he asks, pulling a cap from inside his bag over his head. The airport is packed, as usual, and you keep getting thrown around by tourists in sunhats and rushing businessmen. His hands grip round your shoulders to steady you immediately, towering above you.

You like him. You like him you like him you like him.

“Nope,” you reply, and a curious look passes over his face. The luggage carousel is in view and yours comes by but Bucky reaches out first, placing it down next to you. His doesn’t come long after. “What about you?”

“Nah. We could share a cab, if you want?” You usher out in the main entrance where you can see the black 11pm sky, hazy with the artificial orange from the lights in the city. “I never asked. Which part of the city are you from?”

“Queens.”

“Ah,” he grimaces, “I’m Brooklyn. That’s quite the distance.”

“In opposite directions.” You wonder if you visibly sink, melting between the tiles on the floor. “It’s cool, I was going to get the subway anyway.”

“We could go Queens first, I don’t mind--”

There looks to be hundreds of cabs lined up outside along the entrances, people piling in and out and journeying back into the city. You’re stood opposite each other and he’s looking down at you, face conflicted, but you know it’s stupid for him to share a car with you all the way to Queens only to have to spend even longer to get back to his own place.

Just ask him for his number, you fucking moron. This doesn’t have to be the end.

Your mouth opens, the vowels and the consonants on the edge of your tongue but again. Again your words fail to come, trailing behind you like your dumbass suitcase with its missing wheel. “No, it’s okay. I’ll get the train.”

“I...” Bucky starts, and for a moment you think he’s going to be the one who asks. The one who says he doesn’t want this to be the first and only time you meet. But it’s just your luck you meet someone almost as useless about these things as you are. “I guess I’ll see you?”

“Yeah.” You swallow hard. “See you.”

He looks over you desperately for a second, wondering if he might touch you. A goodbye squeeze of the shoulder, maybe a hug, but instead he rests his arms at his sides and gives you one last sweet smile before heading into a cab. You wait until his cab disappears before you decide to move. You can’t bring yourself to do so until then.

As soon as you get back to your apartment you face plant your pillow and scream into the fabric for at least five minutes.

The months pass quickly as they always seem to do and while Bucky stays in the back of your mind--mainly because every other man you meet is nowhere near as attractive as him, physically or otherwise--you don’t let it weigh you down. You know the possibility of ever meeting him again are next-to-nothing, and who the fuck spends their time pining after a man they met once on a plane? You’re often quite pathetic, but not that pathetic.

It’s July when you’re contacted to photograph the wedding of Tony Stark and Pepper Potts out in the country, the weather warm and the sky faultless blue. An old, crumbling manor house serves as the perfect backdrop for the big day, the ceremony itself held in the grassy, wildflower-adorned grounds in front of the porch. You follow around the staff as they prepare in a dusty pink summer dress, snapping some photographs of the exterior before the guests arrive for the vows. Eventually, you trail into the kitchen, hoping to get some pictures of the cake before it is cut and distributed out.

It’s then--it’s then you hear a familiar voice, shouting for the head caterer.

“Hey, I was just checking that--”

He pauses when his eyes settle on you. You almost drop your incredibly expensive camera into a bowl of flan.

“(Y/N)?” James says, mouth swinging open like a door on a loose hinge, “Jesus. I didn’t...”

“I’m the photographer,” you reply, like it isn’t obvious. You’re just surprised. “I’m Tony and Pepper’s photographer.”

He blinks. “I’m a friend of Tony’s. My God. Fate was really smiling on me today, huh?”

You grin is borderline ridiculous. “I think maybe she was.”

He writes his number on his reservation card with Natasha Romanoff’s lipstick. The night is in full swing. Everyone is either drunk or dancing. Mostly both.

“Not letting you go this time, mad girl,” he says, his body coming closer and closer to yours until your barely centimetres apart, your breathes hanging heavy. His number is pressed into your palm. “I think I’ve been hitting my head against my bedroom wall every single day since I got into that darn cab. My landlord is going to be suing me for damages.”

You bite your lip, clutching your camera. “And I’m being a really bad photographer right now.”

“Oh, come on, no-one will notice. I know for a fact Tony’s finished almost a whole bottle of Scotch.” His smile is almost shy. “Why can’t I stop thinking about you?”

“No idea.” You shrug, but your eyes remain focused on his. “I think I mentioned there is absolutely nothing remarkable about me, Bucky.”

“And I think I mentioned that I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t remarkable.” His hand finds yours and you let your fingers relax in his grip, curl round them. “Dance?”

You should be taking pictures. You should be doing your job. But there is a handsome man in front of you with a smile that could make the sun rise and put the whole fucking night sky to shame. There is a man in front of you who you watched leave once already. There is a man in front of you who wants to dance, who wrote down his number in Chanel Rouge Allure, who has spent the last six months with you hidden in his dreams and a dent in his wall as a receipt.

You can’t not dance with him.

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mypassionfortrash · 5 years ago

Text

Nothing Serious (Part Ten)

SUMMARY: Roger’s divorce comes through, but he can’t seem to figure out why he isn’t more happy about it. Until he realises exactly what his life’s been missing.

Roger Taylor x Reader; Modern AU; Strictly 18+

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NOTES: One more part to go! Thank for reading, and if you’ve enjoyed this fic, please share!

Roger was a great mood.

The sun swam in the brilliant blue mid-morning sky. He had just left the love of his life in bed, still in a post-orgasmic mess. And today was the day he had been waiting for.

Today, Queen would head into their recording studio to record their twelfth album.

Nothing could get to him or throw him off kilter as he skipped down the stairs, taking three at a time like he was a man in his twenties. And then he got to the lobby.

Something caught his eye as he sauntered past the mailboxes. A flash of crimson.

Someone had mail. And he had a funny idea of who it was. Every other apartment in the building was leased out to holidaymakers and businessmen whenever they were in town. Every apartment except Roger’s. He owned his and when he visited Montreux, he always had his mail rerouted. With a pang of dread, he gave the mailboxes a double take. That little red flag stood loud and proud next to his apartment number.

Roger groaned and shuffled over, slipping his key into the lock. There was one letter; he grabbed it and instantly recognised the emblem on the envelope. His solicitor.

His heart raced as he slipped his fingers underneath the seal. He walked and read, eyes batting over the page at a rate of naughts. His whole body tensed with every word until he reached the one, all-important paragraph. The outcome.

‘Ms. Beyrand has agreed to settle the divorce at no further inconvenience to Mr Taylor and requires no alimony in return. Therefore, my client, Mr R. M. Taylor, and his former spouse, Ms Beyrand, should be considered legally divorced.’

‘Legally divorced,’ Roger mumbled with an awe-struck smile on his lips. He was – finally – legally divorced.

He felt a strange mix of optimism and relief as he walked along the promenade towards the casino-slash-recording studio. But those emotions collided with the realisation that he had wasted a whole decade of his life married to the wrong person.

Truth be told, it played all day.

“You’re looking awfully spaced out, Rog. You alright?” Brian fussed.

Roger didn’t take it in the kind and caring way Brian meant it. Instead, he just took offence. He squared off his shoulders and furrowed his brows. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked.

“You just seem distracted. It’s not that girlfriend of yours is it?”

“Mate, just focus on your fucking solos alright? Maybe cut them down a bit,” Roger snarked.

“Oh, he’s just being menstrual, Brian!” Freddie exclaimed over the intercom; he was sitting behind the controls with their producer, Dave.

Dave grimaced at Freddie’s comment. He was a good friend of Roger’s, and knew how to talk him down in this kind of environment. “Why don’t we do one more take, Roger, and then you can head off for the day?” Or so Dave thought.

That only incensed Roger more, earning a barrage of drumsticks being lobbed at the plexiglass that divided the two rooms in the poky upstairs studio. “Fuck off,” Roger spat. “Get that on tape? Did you?”

Everyone in the studio, right down to the engineer’s assistant, rolled their eyes. It wasn’t uncommon for Roger to become hysterical in the studio, but this was completely out of the blue. There were no precursory arguments, or ‘constructive criticism’ to pre-warn everyone of Roger’s impending outburst. It just came.

“Roger?” Freddie implored.

“Oh fucking hell, what is it now, Fred?”

“I just want this album to be ok,” Freddie said solemnly.

Roger’s expression softened, picking up the sad nuance in Freddie’s tone. “And it will be. We’ve got good songs.”

“But I need us to be a family, Rog.”

“We are a family Fred.”

“This isn’t going to last forever and I just want us to have a good fucking time, do you understand? We won’t be doing this forever,” Freddie continued, seemingly trying to psyche himself up to deal with the next few weeks.

Freddie wasn’t exactly the leader in Queen; he wouldn’t accept that mantle. But when Freddie threw down the gauntlet like this, it was right and normal for everyone else in the band to fall in line.

Roger wandered around the live room, gathering up his projectile drumsticks, then settled back behind his kit. “Right. Understood, Fred. Let’s go for another take.”

“Go for it,” Dave said.

Try as he might, Roger just couldn’t shake the feelings that flooded his brain that morning. Every time he tried to make progress in the studio, or even in terms of shifting his thoughts away from the divorce, something seeped its way back into the forefront of his mind like a rapidly advancing disease. And so, unlike anything Roger had ever done before, he missed a beat. And then another. And soon enough, the entire song ran away from him in spectacular fashion, causing the volcano of emotions inside him to bubble over. Not in his usual fiery brand of blonde-haired, blue-eyed rage, but in a watery tirade of tears and expletives. Tears rolled thick and fast down Roger’s rosy cheeks. He was proud; he darted towards the bathroom and holed himself up in the grotty cubicle.

He threw his head down between his knees, letting the tears splatter on to the floor, trying to make sense of it all. Trying to make sense of why, after getting rid of the worst mistake of his life, he felt like his life was so uncertain and unfulfilled. Try as he might, the answer didn’t pop right out at him. And he just grew more and more annoyed with himself because of it.

Roger lost track of how much time he spent inside the filthy, shabby little cubicle with blood-red walls, until there was a gentle knock at the door.

“Go away!” he sulked.

“Roger,” Brian began, “I’m sorry I upset you. I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, but we’re here for you, ok?”

Roger groaned. The family talk was the last thing he needed right now. So he stayed quiet, hoping that his bandmates would soon lose interest and work on their album without him. But no. Another voice muffled through the layer of wood separating Roger from the rest of the studio. This time it was Deacy.

“Yeah, you might want to come out. We can’t really make an album if we don’t have a drummer.”

“I’m prepared to fill in though!” Freddie piped up.

In unison, for once in their careers, Brian and Deacy who were always at loggerheads with each other exclaimed a booming, “NO!”

This gleaned a hollow laugh from Roger as he realised how lucky he was to have friends and bandmates like them. He leaned forward and unbolted the door, opening it, to reveal his three bandmates sitting on the floor in the hallway outside the door. “I just need a minute,” Roger said, wiping his eyes.

“You can talk to us, you know,” Brian urged. “We’ll understand.”

“Fuck, we’ve been through everything together,” Freddie laughed. “What is it, dear?”

Roger sighed and wondered where to begin. How to describe what he was feeling. Everything he was feeling. “The divorce came through today.”

“You should be celebrating then!” Freddie said, bursting with impatience at the prospect of a party. The man could smell hilarity a mile out.

“That’s the thing,” Roger began, “I’m happy about it. But at the same time…” he trailed off with a shrug.

“You did spend ten years with Dom, though. That’s a long time,” Deacy said.

“Yeah, but I’m not even unhappy about that. It’s just that I’ve got nothing to show for it.”

Brian narrowed his eyes, clicking on to what Roger meant, before even Roger understood. “Kids? Rog, that’s not the be and end all.”

“But Dom didn’t want kids, and I did,” he mused in a small voice. “And now, my girlfriend’s… twenty-four. I don’t even know if that’s what she wants. What if when she’s ready, I’ll be an old man?” Roger’s eyes grew glassy again at the prospect. “What if I never have that?” he repeated, looking around at his bandmates.

“Have you told her this?” Freddie asked.

Deacy waved his hands to halt the conversation right there for him to interject. “You’ve known this girl how long now? And you’re just going to go back to the flat and be like, ‘hey do you want to have my babies, push me around in a wheelchair and eventually scatter my ashes?’ Are you being serious here?”

“Well, they need to have that conversation; it’s healthy. And it saves any misunderstanding in the long run,” Brian reasoned, but somehow condescended.

“It’s a good way to spook her right out of her skin, that’s what it bloody well is,” Freddie said.

Roger sat on the toilet and watched his bandmates bicker over how Roger should broach the subject with his girlfriend, his mouth hanging open in a way that made him resemble a dead fish. All while the plan in his head took shape. “That’s it,” he smiled. “I’ve got it.”

His bandmates hushed their bickering as soon as it started and looked at the drummer. “What have you got?” Deacy asked.

“I know how to tell her,” he said, getting to his feet. He power walked away from the trio, calling back, “Just finish the bloody song alright?! I’ve got work to do!”

Roger’s heart pounded twice as fast as his feet hit the pavement, walking at the speed of light down the promenade. Every so often, he’d break out into a run, but quickly slowed down as he didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention. He was going back to the flat.

From the street, he could look up and spy you, sitting out in the late afternoon sun, with a glass of wine in your hand. The sight made his insides flutter. He couldn’t wait for the lift. Not when the love of his life had been sighted and she was within touching distance. He could practically smell your perfume hanging in the winding stairwell up. He breathed deep. He broke a sweat. And then he finally arrived at the flat.

“Darling?” Roger called, announcing himself in the hallway. He waited nervously at the door, rubbing his hands together like it was a chilly winter’s day. This was anything but; the sweat beading down his forehead said that much.

“What are you doing back?” you asked from the balcony. “I thought you were at the studio?”

“I was,” Roger shrugged realising that you weren’t coming through to greet him. Instead, he followed your voice. “But I needed to see you.”

Your glass of chardonnay had barely touched your lips, but that sentence stopped you right in your tracks. You narrowed your eyes and glanced up at Roger who was lingering at the door frame. “Why? You could see me tonight. I could wait up.”

Roger sighed and sat down at the table, opposite you.

This filled you with dread; the stomach-dropping kind of dread that threaten to have you hunched over the toilet in seconds.

Then he flashed those baby blues of his at you. “My divorce came through today,” he said.

“That’s it?” you shrugged. “I thought something was wrong. Let me get you a glass and we can celebrate,” you rambled, rising to your feet. Less than a foot from the door, Roger seized your hand and pulled you back.

“We do need to talk, though,” Roger said.

Only now did you notice how glassy Roger’s eyes looked beneath his sunglasses. You turned to him and slipped them to the top of his head, exposing the sparkling, red eyes that gave away how he really felt about the situation. And it caught you off guard. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Roger admitted. “That’s the worst part.”

“You look like you need a drink for other reasons now,” you commented.

He nodded in response and twirled the bottle of chardonnay in his hand, studying the label; gauging how wrecked he’d get if he guzzled the remainder. “Something a bit stronger, too.”

“I’m on it.”

Safely out of Roger’s view, you braced yourself against the counter top.

It worried you – Roger being so cryptic. It also worried you how much you had given up to be here with him. Your job. Your friends. Your life. All just to be with him.

More fool you, though.

You had only just met the bloke and you were carrying on like he was the love of your life.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you bowed your head. This felt like a familiar theme in your relationship with Roger and you couldn’t be sure whether or not it was a bad thing. In any other relationship, this was bound to be a massive raging red flag; the amount of times one can drag the other to the brink of heartbreak, just with a few words and a little bit of miscommunication. All you wanted was to be happy. Your brain repeated that like a mantra that didn’t improve anything. It just made you shake as wave after wave of sorrow tugged at your body.

“You still with me, darling?” Roger called through.

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t let him see the tears. But it was too late.

You took so long to respond that Roger appeared at the door. When he saw you, his entire figure sank. “Oh my darling,” he sighed, taking you in his arms. “What are these for?”

“Because you made me think we were done, there,” you whimpered into Roger’s shirt, letting your mascara fray outwards in dark, inky pools. “And I’ve given up so much to be with you and I didn’t know if this was because of me or something I’d done. You should be happy that it’s over – your marriage.” You looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Why aren’t you happy?”

Roger rubbed his hands up and down your arms and spoke wistfully. “Because, darling, I’ve wasted an entire fucking decade of my life on someone who never ever loved me. And I’m not even sure I’ve grown as a person because it. I’ve almost certainly missed out on everything I wanted in terms of relationships and settling down. I’m old now. And I’m going to be even older when we finally decide to start a family or settle down. If we decide to do that.” By the time Roger had finished that portion of his monologue, his fingers had laced with yours. “I don’t want to be an old dad,” he laughed.

You swept Roger’s hair back, exposing his aged, furrowed brow. He looked completely serious, unlike his usual self. “Is that why you’re so unhappy?” you asked.

Roger nodded, tugging his lower lip between his teeth.

You rolled your eyes and wrapped your arms around his torso, drinking in his scent. You propped your chin on his chest and gazed at him like he was the most precious thing in the world. “I love you, Roger Taylor,” you reassured. “I’ve given up everything for you.” You chewed the inside of your cheek, gathering the rest of your thoughts. “Maybe not marriage though, because… that didn’t work the first time. But I’m in this for life, just so you know. Whatever you want.”

Roger softened. A look of pure love made him younger in an instant. “Do you mean that?”

“Always.”

“And you want kids?”

“Yeah. But don’t let me become one of those annoying yummy mummy Facebook cretins. I want them to have normal lives, ok? No weird names. No nannies. No private schools. Understand?”

The lines at the edges of Roger’s eyes extended outwards as he beamed: “Understood!”

“How soon can we do this?” you asked, snaking your hands up over Roger’s chest and draping them around his shoulders.

You and Roger had decided to go out for dinner to celebrate his divorce. Somewhere fancy by the lakeside, under a canopy of twinkling golden stars.

Just you and him and no one else.

You sat, not on opposite sides of the table, but beside each other so you could stare out at the lake as you planned your future.

“How long do you think Queen will go on for?” you asked, leaning your head on Roger’s shoulder.

“As long as we can darling,” he said. “Why?”

“Nothing. I’m just wondering when I get to go out on tour with you,” you said, trying to avoid the point you itched to make. “Must be nice to travel the world.”

Roger moved away from you, narrowing his eyes and draining his glass. “Well, you’ll be coming out next year, surely?”

“Where do you think we’ll be off to?”

“Fred’s completely against going to America for obvious reasons. I don’t think they’re as accepting over there as they used to be. So probably not America.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“We might have too, thought. That’s the thing. It’s a case of convincing Fred.”

You gave a quiet laugh; you didn’t know Freddie very well, but you had a feeling he could be just as stubborn as Roger. Meaning that no one and nothing could convince him of anything when his mind was made up about something.

“I reckon we’ll go all over Europe; that’s a dead cert,” Roger rambled. He looked beautiful, leaning back in his chair and scratching his neck, groaning like an exhausted lion. Just a sliver of his soft tummy peeked out from underneath his shirt and you couldn’t resist leaning into him to scratch it. Then he continued. “Ever been to Paris?”

You shook your head. “I’ve been to the usual. Spain,” you groaned. “Tenerife.”

“You’ve been to Ibiza, too,” he reminded, a warm smile on his lips.

“Oh yeah!” you giggled. “Tell me more about Paris, Roggie.”

Roger laughed to himself, closing his eyes. “It’s a surprise.”

You whined. “Well, tell me where else we’re going then. So I know what to pack!”

“It’s a year away, darling.”

“Just give me a tiny clue,” you pressed, holding up your thumb and forefinger to illustrate the size of the clue you desired.

But then, interrupting the tranquil scene, a gaggle of loud voices burst into the pop-up restaurant. They were all too familiar, much to Roger’s disappointment. “Shit,” he spat. He shot you an apologetic look and stood up, stretching out his arms to welcome his bandmates and their partners.

Freddie and Jim, Brian and Anita, and Deacy and Veronica all dragged seats up around your table, and began chatting to Roger. They congratulated him on his divorce and asked him what was next. All the while, Roger looked utterly bashful as he grasped your hand and gave it a series of reassuring squeezes.

You wondered whether he was trying to communicate with you in morse code. You laughed to yourself at the thought. You didn’t know morse code; but Roger was smart, he probably did. You squeezed back.

Thankfully, the attention turned away from him. He was free to talk to you again; getting his undivided attention against the backdrop of mindless, half-drunk chatter. He turned to face you. “When are we heading home, Kitten?” Roger half-whispered, stroking your hair.

“Getting impatient or is it past your bedtime?” you quipped.

Roger smiled and shook his head. Then looked back at you with a lustful glint in his eye. “I can’t wait to get you out of that bloody dress,” he teased, his hand finding its way to your thigh underneath the tablecloth. “And this is boring.”

“It really is, isn’t it?” you whispered moving closer to his neck. “I think we should try and get home now, Daddy.”

“What’s our strategy, Kitten?” Roger asked mischievously.

“Well, I had the seafood. I could pretend to be sick. And then…” you trailed off, jerking your head in the direction of the flat.

“That might work,” Roger said, kissing your jaw.

Just as the moment escalated in heat, the sound of someone obnoxiously clearing their throat cut through your moment, forcing you and Roger to turn your heads towards the group that had so rudely decided to crash your date.

“What?” Roger asked, annoyance cutting through his tone.

Deacy piped up. “It’s Veronica and I’s anniversary tomorrow evening. We were hoping we could do some celebrating. But we need a babysitter.”

Roger narrowed his eyes, pointing vaguely around the table to his friends and their partners. “Why can’t any of you?”

“I don’t want little Robert keeping us up with his crying and everything,” Freddie said. “You know how scratchy my voice gets when I don’t get enough sleep.”

Brian was next to offer up an excuse. “Anita and I were going to go out to the vineyard over there for a couple of nights.”

Roger straightened up in his seat as he considered offering his babysitting services. Just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, you were quick to interrupt.

“What about tonight’s babysitter, Deacy?” you asked. “Can’t you get them to babysit tomorrow?”

“She says she can’t,” Veronica explained. “She has exams at uni and she needs to be at all her lectures on weekdays. We tried.”

You and Roger gave a simultaneous sigh and looked at each other. “Guess we’re gonna have to do it,” you shrugged.

“Guess we do,” Roger agreed.

“Alright, we’ll do it,” you conceded, driving daggers through Deacy and Veronica in your mind. You didn’t want to but they didn’t leave you with much of a choice.

“He can sleep in the spare room,” Roger continued.

“And we’ll be on our best behaviour,” you added.

“Yeah, we’re gonna need to call everyone up and cancel the orgy we had planned. Shame, really. I was looking forward to it,” Roger remarked.

The joke didn’t land well. But it wasn’t far from the truth. Every night since you arrived in Montreux, you and Roger would spend your evenings in bed together, figuring out all the new and debauched tricks he could teach you. And figuring out what you liked and what he could do to please you. He loved to please.

But the night after your ruined dinner date, you and Roger flitted around the flat in a frantic attempt to baby proof the place. Barricading the doors to all the balconies, locking away your restraints and sex toys, and removing all alcohol from your lower cupboards in the kitchen. Roger looked out of breath, standing in the middle of the living room with his hands on his hips, trying to find even the slightest thing that baby Robert might get hold of and hurt himself with. “Do you reckon we got everything?” he asked, squinting at you.

You shrugged. “I’m more concerned with how we keep him occupied all night.”

“Fuck. Do you know, I’ve never had to look after a baby before?” Roger said. “How do we do that?”

“I think you start by taking the word fuck out of your vocabulary, darling,” you said wandering through to the living room and wrapping your arms around him.

“And what do we feed them?”

“Something soft? I don’t know. Does he have teeth yet?” you asked. “When do they get teeth?”

“I’ll tell you, I don’t even know. I think he does. Last time I saw him he bit me.”

“Ah, right. Great. He’s a biter.”

“He’s weird. He looks like Deacy,” Roger said, flopping down on the couch.

You followed suit, straddling his lap. “Do you think we’ll be good at this?” you asked, running your hands up and down Roger’s chest. “Looking after a kid? I don’t even think either of us are grown up enough if I’m honest.”

“We probably aren’t, darling,” Roger sighed, giving your thighs a squeeze. “But we didn’t really have much choice did we?”

You laughed quietly. “I mean, for real, Roger. A baby of our own.”

Roger closed his eyes and allowed his imagination to run away with him, wondering what that might be like. He wasn’t going to lie, he loved the idea of being a dad. And if he was going to do it, it would have to be with you. “It’d be different if it was ours,” Roger sighed.

You let your own imagination delve into that thought, conjuring up images of Roger playing with a squad of blonde, feral kids that were undoubtedly his own. He’d be fantastic. Warm and wise, fun and fearless. You wanted that. But you couldn’t help but feel like your relationship was on shaky ground for the foreseeable. You’d have to see what next year’s tour meant for you.

“When do you reckon you’d want to…” Roger trailed off.

“When we’re ready. After the tour next year?”

Roger’s eyes flicked open. “That sounds good.”

“There’s a lot we need to figure out when you’re on tour.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

He nodded. He already knew the answer to that, but sometimes he needed to hear it for himself. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“You’re gonna do the hard part,” Roger laughed. “Can’t be easy pushing a watermelon out of a small hole.”

“Roger!” you squealed, whacking his chest. “That’s disgusting!”

“That’s exactly what it is!” Roger retorted.

Interrupting your argument, the buzzer on the intercom sounded, notifying you that your tiny guest had arrived. Roger sprang to his feet and turned to you. “I’ll get it! You just see if there’s anything else Robert might hurt himself on while he’s on his way up.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine, Roger,” you called as he left the room.

Out in the hall, Roger answered the intercom and buzzed Deacy and Veronica up to the flat.

You stayed put, wandering around the open space inside the living room, looking out at the early evening sunshine. You folded your arms and found yourself drawn to the window. The sun looked glorious. Deacy and Veronica had picked a fantastic night to celebrate their anniversary. You wondered where they planned on going. If you and Roger hadn’t been imposed upon, you knew you’d be sitting out on the street at Funky Claude’s – the pair of you quaffing overpriced cocktails and watching the people flit down the street in a midsummer daze. Bliss, you thought; far away from having to look after a pair of strangers’ child. Maybe you weren’t cut out for being a mother? You knew deep down that you wanted it, but you were still trying to figure out what was an acceptable age to stop giving your friends a bottle of whisky and a wire coat hanger as a congratulatory gift for getting themselves knocked up. You also balked at baby updates from them and couldn’t fathom why the vast majority of your friends ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ over babies. Maybe you’d be a crap mother after all? That worried you. Especially after the weighty commitment you made to Roger.

So lost in your own woes, you hadn’t noticed Deacy, Veronica and their tiny terror entering your home. You had your back to the door, travelling away at a hundred miles an hour on the stress express.

“Darling?” Roger sang. “The Deacons are here.”

You glanced over your shoulder and, realising that the family had indeed arrived in all their finery, you turned to them.

They were a humble pair. You would never have known that Deacy was a millionaire. He looked like the stereotypical industrious tightwad, you thought as you hugged and kissed the couple politely on the cheek and wished them well on their life sentence together. And when the niceties were over, your eyes searched the room for little Robert. “Where is he?” you cooed in a fake tone. “Where is the little guy?” You did your best to plaster on a wide, manic smile, that didn’t exactly sit right with you, but clearly hit the spot with the anxious parents.

“Here I am!” the three-year-old called, blustering into the room, clutching a large dinosaur toy. “I’m here! I’m here!” He continued, finding his way to your leg and clinging to it for dear life.

You patted his head, and beamed down at him. “Well, we’re going to have lots of fun, aren’t we?”

“Yeah!”

Roger began to usher the couple from the flat, fearing that they might miss their dinner reservation. “He’s in good hands,” he reassured. “We’ll feed him at six and he’ll be in bed by seven.”

“And you’ll make sure you tire him out? He gets a bit restless in the hour leading up to bedtime. He sometimes won’t want to have his bath. Just make sure he’s tired when you do,” Veronica wittered.

Roger laughed, “He’ll be fine! You’ve left enough for him to be getting on with. Now, both of you, go, before you miss your reservation!”

“Fine, fine!” Veronica caved, pulling Deacy away by his arm. “We’ll pick him up in the morning. Hopefully we won’t be too hungover when we get him and we’ll try not to be late!”

The door finally closed leaving you and Roger solely in charge of Robert. In truth, you didn’t think he was going to be a problem. He sat on the sofa with his dinosaur and sent it zooming through their air while you and Roger watched him like he was a wild animal, and you were too afraid to spook him. Every now and then, you and Roger would lock eyes from opposite sides of the room. Soft looks that made you desperate to have each other. Suddenly all of those doubts about settling down together melted away.

“Robert, dear?” you began, sitting down beside the small boy. “Do you want a little drink of juice and a snack?”

Robert didn’t take his eyes off the dinosaur. Mumbling a quiet, “yeah.”

You looked up at Roger, exchanging confused looks; little Robert might prove to be hard work, still.

“How about we watch a film?” you suggested.

“Sounds nice,” he squeaked.

“What do you wanna watch, buddy?” Roger asked, giving the small boy his snacks and sitting down next to him. “Hm?”

“Don’t know.”

You and Roger looked at each other again, worried about how to keep him preoccupied.

“How about the Lion King?” you suggested.

“Yeah.”

Roger puffed out his cheeks and grabbed the remote, putting the film on. By his estimation, it would take you up to dinner time. And then bath time. And then bed. And you were free after that – an easy run at this parenting malarky, or so he thought.

You and Roger enjoyed the first hour of the film before Robert piped up. “I have to pee.”

Half-asleep, Roger propped himself up. “Right, pal, come on. I’ll show you where the toilet is.”

“I’ll get dinner on,” you suggested. “How about chicken nuggets and chips?”

“Pee first!” Robert squeaked, tugging at Roger’s jeans.

“Fair enough,” you sighed as Roger and Robert disappeared down the hall.

Getting to your feet, you wandered over to the freezer. This was a staple when you were a kid.

You dumped the chips and the chicken nuggets onto a tray and then stuck the oven on.

Robert was sure to like this; it had to be a winner to get the Deacon boy on side. But he was so like his dad that you could never tell if you were coming or going with him. Three years old and he already had that trait down to pat.

You bunged the tray into the oven and glanced towards the cupboard full of wine glasses.

Roger and Robert sauntered back into the room and threw themselves back on to the sofa. There was only half an hour left of the film. Enough time to cook dinner. An hour, tops, and he’d be in bed.

You could do this.

“Did you find the toilet, okay?” you asked Robert.

He nodded.

“I’ve just put the dinner on. Chicken nuggets and chips? I even got the dinosaur chicken nuggets. Your daddy told me you liked those the best.”

“They’re my favourite animal!” Robert said, perking up. “I love velociraptors.”

Roger pondered for a moment, playing along. “I think I like t-rexes better. They’re bigger and they have funny little arms.”

“I always feel bad for them. Think of all the things they can’t do,” you said.

“Have you ever seen Jurassic Park?” Roger asked Robert with a fun look in his eye. “I think you’d love it. There are lots and lots of dinosaurs in it.”

Robert smiled and shook his head. “Can we watch that?” he asked, turning around and deferring to you.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you began, wracking your brain for all of the non-child-friendly things in the film. You weren’t about to let a child in your care go to bed straight after having seen a film that gave you nightmares when you saw it as a child. “It’s a bit scary for you, Robert.”

“I’m a big boy. I can handle it,” Robert smiled, looking at Roger for back up.

“I mean, it’s not that bad is it, really?” Roger said. “He can eat his dinner and watch it. And then bath time should give him a little bit to calm down if it gets too scary.”

“Please!” Robert pleaded, clasping his hands together and begging you with his wide hazel eyes. “I won’t tell mummy and daddy, I swear.”

Sure, it scuppered your plans for wine, but maybe you could sneak some if he was so engrossed in the film. You’d have to look after him for longer before he went to bed. Then there was the possibility of nightmares while you were busy getting drunk and doing god knows what with Roger in the middle of the night. Is this what parenting entailed? If so, you could safely count yourself out of the game for the foreseeable future.

But the little boy looked adorable, presenting his dinosaur to Roger.

“Is there any of these in the film, uncle Roger?” he asked.

“Well, if Auntie Grump lets us watch it, we can find out for ourselves, can’t we, pal?” he said, taking the dinosaur and jumping it along the coffee table.

You dropped your arms down by your sides and gave a dramatic sigh. “Oh, alright! But you need to eat all your dinner, and be in bed on time, ok? No excuses!” you said, wagging your finger at Robert and Roger. You shot Roger an especially stern look.

Roger put the film on while you kept an eye on dinner. He had no problem connecting with the boy; of course. He was Roger. Everyone and everything gravitated towards his warm and inviting nature.

They huddled together on the sofa, with Robert’s dinosaur, and watched in amazement at how real all the dinosaurs on screen seemed.

“Do you think they used real dinosaurs for this?” Robert asked in awe.

“I think getting real dinosaurs might have been a bit expensive,” Roger explained.

Truth be told, Roger was going to make a fantastic father and that, in itself drove you insane. You almost felt guilty for still having reservations about this, seeing how much Roger enjoyed looking after Robert. The soft look on his face as he carried Robert through to the spare room when he fell asleep during the film made you want to jump on Roger there and then.

But he looked exhausted as he wandered back into the living room. He hadn’t done anything except chat to the small boy for a few hours. But it was enough to make him collapse back on to the couch and breathe a sigh of relief as he closed his eyes.

“You’re really good with him,” you said, taking your place beside him.

“I tried as well as I could,” he said, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you even closer to him.

You patted his chest, congratulating him for getting through the evening. “Kind of makes me think we should get some practice in,” you laughed.

“Yeah?” Roger asked, widening his eyes.

You nodded and sat up breaking away from his embrace. “But first, I think we need some wine.”

“Wine would be lovely.”

Roger watched you over the back of the sofa as you opened the fridge and plucked out a perfectly-chilled bottle of prosecco. Even though his lids hung heavy over his eyes, you knew he felt exactly the same way as you. He couldn’t focus on the bottle or the wine; his eyes were glued to you and the way that your body moved as you sashayed back over to him, swaying your hips as you carried two glasses of golden bubbly goodness back to the sofa.

He took his glass and held it up. “Well, cheers to baby making I guess,” he smiled.

“To baby making,” you agreed, clinking your glass against his and knocking it back. Your body relaxed in an instant.

“That dress looks nice on you, by the way,” Roger commented, thumbing at the material over your thighs. “Really shows off those lovely hips of yours. I love it.”

Blood rushed to your cheeks, feeling like he had you under a microscope. “Thanks. You look… like the perfect dad?” you responded, squinting one eye, unsure of the point or the tone you were trying to go for by giving him that compliment.

“That supposed to be a compliment?” Roger asked, swallowing the last of his wine.

“I like my men old and refined, so yes,” you smiled.

Roger grinned and glanced over to the fridge. “Why don’t we take the bottle to bed?”

You sat up straight; heart pounding, stomach fluttering. “Won’t Robert notice?”

“He’s out cold.”

“But what if he has nightmares and walks in?”

“We just tell him it’s a special grown up cuddle. My mum told me that all the time.”

“Yeah, so did mine but it didn’t stop it traumatising me,” you giggled. “We’ll need to be really quick.”

Roger drew his calloused fingertips underneath your jaw. “What’s the point in being quick, Kitten?” he purred. “It takes time to do things properly. Don’t you want to enjoy it?” He was dangerously close to your lips. So close you could practically taste the wine on his.

You froze feeling a surge of adrenaline course through your veins. Your voice shook. But you gave in. “Yes.”

Roger’s hand skirted underneath the hemline on your dress, caressing your thigh as he spoke to you. “So should we take the wine through to the bedroom and get started, Kitten?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you sighed, leaning in to plant a firm, lingering kiss on Roger’s lips. “You get the wine.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, springing to his feet. But he had to play catch up with you. You were already in the centre of the bedroom, shrugging out of your dress, letting it pool around your feet. When he caught a glimpse of you standing there in just a set of skimpy lingerie, he stopped in his tracks, clutching the wine and glasses in a shaking grip. “Thought we were going slow, Kitten?”

You glanced over your shoulder, purring, “Is this too much for you, Daddy?”

This left Roger at a loss for words. All he could do was watch as you slunk over to the edge of the bed and sat down, patting the space beside you. Beckoning him over.

He complied, handing you a glass and filling it. Then filling his own. You could hear his breath wavering in his chest and he almost spilled some wine as his hands trembled.

“Drink up, Daddy,” you reassured.

Roger downed his glass and hastily sat it down on the floor.

“Do you need something to help you relax?” you asked, trailing your fingers down his chest. “Because I can help with that.”

“No, no, Kitten. Let me do all the work, please,” he gasped, slinking down on to the floor and settling on the carpet between your legs. His hands worked their way up your shins as he peppered quick, eager kisses along the insides of your thighs. “You just sit there, drink your wine and look pretty,” he instructed, before moving on to the opposite thigh to lavish it with the same care and attention. “Let Daddy take care of you…”

Roger’s mouth was something akin to a religious experience. You relished the opportunity to have him planted squarely between your legs any chance you could get. You loved how hungry – ravenous – he became. He could never resist. It didn’t take him long before his fingers looped underneath the waistband of your underwear and yanked them down.

Finishing the rest of your wine, the glass drooped out of your hands and dampened the sheets with the dregs as you eased back.

Roger’s tongue worked at your folds, lapping away at them and gathering all the sweet, heady wetness he could find, groaning enthusiastically as he savoured every drop. He tugged and nipped at them, pulling them between his lips, sucking at the sensitive pink flesh until it swelled and tingled. He knew how to amp up the need you felt. His hands gripped at your bottom, adding another layer of delicious sensation to the mix and forcing you further on to his mouth, getting as close as he possibly could to make you writhe against his tongue as he dipped it inside you.

You knew exactly what Roger was trying to do. He was trying to get you to cry out in pleasure, rippling his tongue inside you. Curling it in on itself. Fucking you. A precursor to the onslaught his cock was poised and ready to deliver when it came down to it.

But you were so aware of the sleeping child in the next room. You clamped your hand over your mouth in a desperate bid to avoid giving Roger the rapturous praise he desired for stringing you out to the point of orgasm in minutes flat. Instead, you quietly quivered.

Roger’s tongue was dangerously close to your clit.

If he couldn’t get you to scream his name, he had to try a different tactic.

Pursing his lips together and sucking on that little bundle of nerves, he flicked his tongue wildly over it at the same time.

This was electric.

That move had the intensity of a thousand wildfires being set ablaze all over your body, racing towards your cunt. It had you clawing at the sheets in no time.

But the kicker came when his fingers replaced his tongue, burying themselves inside you. One, two, three, four. Stretching you out close to your limit and pumping away in rapid, damp motions that would’ve completely given you away had you had adult company. Your body rocked in time to every single thrust, your cunt tightening around his hand more and more.

But you still couldn’t let go of your inhibitions.

It was too dangerous.

“Tell me how much you like it, Kitten,” Roger hummed.

“I fucking love it, Daddy,” you sighed in desperation. He just kept you in a mind numbing trance of being right at the very edge. And you wished with your entire being that you could just step off already. “I need to come so badly,” you whined.

“What’s wrong, Kitten?”

“I just can’t let go.”

Roger looked concerned as he shuffled up the bed towards you; so close that you caught your scent on him. “Are you ok?” he asked.

“I’m fine, I just can’t do this with the boy in the next room,” you sighed.

“That’s ok,” Roger whispered, nestling his face against your neck. “Slowly.”

“Slowly,” you agreed, wrapping your thighs around him and grabbing a fistful of his hair to kiss him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips.

His hips stirred against yours as the moment grew in intensity, your tongues lapping away at each other’s. Arms tangled and fingers raking through each other’s hair. Two bodies glued together, and moving as one. “I want you so much,” he murmured as he broke the kiss.

“Have me,” you smiled, kissing his nose. You tugged at one of the belt loops on his jeans. “But you’re gonna need to lose the clothes first.”

“Right, yes,” he said, stumbling backwards on to his feet. “Good idea.”

For some reason, Roger seemed nervous too. You his hands still shook as he fought to undo the buttons on his shirt and tug down the fly on his jeans. There was something arousing about watching him shed his clothes for you; soon enough, your own hand returned to that spot between your legs to try and finish the job Roger started.

He settled between your thighs again and looked down. Your hand was still working overtime – he loved to watch but only for so long.

The tip of his cock pressed deliciously up against your entrance. So inviting, given how swollen Roger’s cock was, leaking precum over your already dripping slit. You manoeuvred your hips, trying to grasp it, to suck it in, to coax him, but Roger wasn’t playing ball.

Instead, he pumped his hand around his length, reminding you of just how much he could fill you.

Your pleasure-addled brain needed to have it.

But he wasn’t giving you it.

You let out a needy whine, coupled with a desperate, “Please.”

Roger laughed to himself, moving on to phase two of his teasing.

Your hips might have been trembling wildly, but he still managed to slide his cock up and down over the length of your cunt, making his cock slick and glistening with your juices.

You repeated another feeble plea. “Please, Roger fill me.”

“I will, Kitten, don’t worry,” he said softly, still teasing you in the most horrific and torturous way. “But first you need to tell me what exactly you want. What’s making you so desperate, Kitten?”

Your mind drew a blank and your hips clearly had no consideration for Roger’s line of questioning. All they wanted to do was seek his cock out and have him fuck you mercilessly, like an animal in heat.

“What’s got you all riled up?” He repeated. “Use your words, Kitten.”

Your fingers still circled your clit, by now making you a complete and utter mess.

He wasn’t going to get any sense out of you, that much was clear.

But it didn’t stop him from trying. He slapped your hand away. Then, when you recoiled, he slapped your cunt. “Use your words, Kitten. You’re not getting my cock if you don’t.”

“Oh but Daddy…” you protested, rolling your hips. “I just want…” you couldn’t verbalise it. The urge inside you. The reason you were so frantic.

“You want me to pump a baby into you, Kitten, don’t you?” he said, replacing your fingers with his own.

God those words sent a shiver right through you in the best way. A growl rumbled in your chest as you arched your back against his efforts. “Mmm, please knock me up!”

“That wasn’t so hard,” he soothed.

But nothing could prepare you for the savage way that his hips snapped into you, forcing a yelp from your lips.

“You want me to knock you up? Hm, Kitten?” he asked, pressing his lips on to your neck to mark it up and claim you.

“Oh god, yes.”

“Say it, for me, Kitten,” he scolded. “Tell me what you fucking want. I want you to beg for it,” he continued, pounding you into the mattress with his weight on top of you. “Just so I know you’re sure.”

Your brain was so fogged, but now that Roger had reminded you of why you were in this position, the words came more easily. “Knock me up, Daddy,” you whined. “I’m ready. I want it.”

“Good girl,” he whispered, kissing your jawline, a trail all the way up to your mouth. “You’re gonna be such a good mummy. So fucking sexy too. I can’t wait to see you grow and for everyone to know what I did to you.”

The way he talked was exactly what you needed to send you over the edge and you didn’t care who heard. Clutching at the sheets, you thought your entire soul was shaking as you hurtled through powerful convulsions and contractions that milked every single drop of come Roger could muster right into you.

You and Roger collapsed in a sweaty breathless heap together, with him still on top of you. Your brain tried to fathom what had just happened.

It all became clear when Roger rolled off of you, and looked your way with the biggest, softest grin you had ever seen.

“Think that did the trick?” he asked, reaching sideways to pat your belly.

In between trying to catch your breath, you still had enough reserve to crack a joke. “You know, for someone who claims to have a biology degree, you have a shocking lack of understanding about human reproduction.”

Roger laughed, batting his hand through the air. “I’ve watched the Discovery Channel. It’ll be fine.”

“Better throw the rest of my pills out if we’re serious,” you said.

“Only if you really want to. I’m in no way wedded to the idea.”

“Yes you are.”

His rosy cheeks puffed out into a grin akin to a chubby cherub that you just couldn’t resist: “Maybe I am.”

#roger taylor #roger taylor x reader

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plutoswrath · 5 years ago

Text

horror for each sign

(Warning: explict description of violence and disturbing scenes.)

Aries: Gruesome:

I sit in the living room. The TV is turned on but there is no sound but the endless noise of the static. Black and white orbs mix into my vision and the walls are painted red. It mixes beautifully with the minty wallpaper, now adorened with red roses. Mother was so annoying. Always telling me to move aside from the TV (’Stop watching TV!’). So I took the hammer Mother usues to tender the meat with. She sat in front of the TV. And I smash the hammer towards her head. Tendering her head like a fine filet. (Splatter. Splatter. Splatter. Crimson colored splatters everywhere). Mother is quiet and in my head everything is very loud. But then my favorite TV show comes on and I sit in front of the big, static scene. I forget Mothers now very well tendered head behind me. I am not bothered, being just by myself.

Taurus: Tragic:

This appartement is a nightmare to sell. I’ve had some tough cases and some tough clients, but this is...nothing I was prepared for. Nothing about appartement 26 seems off at frst. It’s rather small, I could even say it has the potential to be cozy and warm, but there is something eerie clawing on your back, as soon as you enter it. Not to mention the figures I see in the corner of my eye and in the mirrors sometimes. The carpet is old and smells like somebody desperately tried to clean it over and over again in order to cover something up (murder maybe?). The bed always looks as someone just sat on it, even though I made it minutes ago. I learned not to put my keys on the shelf because they will go missing and reapear on strange places (behind the shower curtains). I am doomed because I am bound to this appartement. There has been a number that keeps calling me and asks if it’s still avaible, we made an appointment for a visit, but no one appeared. I can’t call them back, the number isn’t avaible (that’s what the voice of the Lady at the other side of the receiver whispers). But this number keeps calling me, every Friday at 12pm. I know something happened there, but at this point I don’t dare to search for answers.

Gemini: Disastrous:

Once there was a man, with a house big enough for him to live, too small for a family to grow. The man drew a picture of his family every day - 4 people. Happy and smiling, eating dinner at the kitchen table. The man brushed his teeth every night before lying down to sleep and combed his 4 puppets hair. Humming, humming. He loved his puppets, dear companionship they were always there for him where did my family go? No need for a family I told her to stop shouting at me as his house is too small to grow one. Because he is alone and forever and will be and will not seek out for a real life company what do you mean they aren’t my children? Ding dong. I open the door and see a child a child that is not mine. I will refuse to accept that they aren’t mine I am alone and will keep me company, yes come in, I will buy some cookies, sit down on the couch, you want to look at my puppets?

Once there was a man, with a house big enough for him to live, too small for a family to grow. But enough space for a small family of puppets, now combing 5 heads every night before lying down to sleep.

Cancer: Cruel:

It is 08:30 pm. in the deepest of winter. The sun has set a long time ago and the world outside is warpped in a thick blanet of glistening snow. Four children brush their teeth before lying down to sleep, as they hear someone climbing down the stairs and opening the door.

“Children, lie down, will you? Uncle Vitja will tell you a nice story before you go to sleep, okay? Since your mother and father are still in that restaurant they mentioned earlier they told me to help you fall asleep. Of course I prepared a nice story from Russia, what kind of question - oh, just hear what I have to tell, okay? Have you ever heard of Baba Yaga? No? Ha! I thought so, now, listen closely..never, never go alone into the forest and be disrespectful to nature, you hear me? Baba Yaga has her eyes and ears everywhere and somewhere she will watch you when you try to pick all the flowers from the fields or demolish the trees with a knife; yes I am looking at all of you! You are closeby teh forest, so pay attention! Her hut can’t be found since it stands on chicken legs and wanders around. Also you can’t enter even when you find it, because it turns around when sensing intrudors. But you’ll notice if its her shack even when it looks normal because the garden is adorned with human skulls since she likes eating us. Huh? What are you looking at me? I only tell the truth! She is one with the earth and one with life and death; she decides who needs to die and who doesn’t but this all...makes her hungry at times, it’s exhausting you know and the flesh of humans is so tender....”

Uncle Vitjas eyes run across the room as he turns to the opened window.

“Rule number one: never leave your windows open when your parents aren’t home. Yaga smells the bad spirit of mean children!”

And his eyes turn red and his nose long. His back shrinks and his skin turns to bark. The teeth long and metallic. The children are in shock and fear grips them tightly as the old womans long finger hover over to them. They can only hope for their parents to come home soon.

Leo: Mad:

“Manot? Dear, is that you? (.....) Dear, don’t be mistaken, I am sorry for troubling you with my calls lately, but I am so far away and I needed to hear you voice (.....) Oh silly, have you forgotten how to speak? I called your mom yesterday because I read that you couldn’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes after stealing the money she put aside for your fathers surgery (...) Oh- so sorry, I know you told me not to read your diary, but please, put those dangerous pills aside and come to me - no rehab needed, just my ever lasting love that heals you (............) Manot...now, don’t be mean. I wouldn’t break into your home if you would just give me the keys like I asked you to in my last love letter!! Pay attention to my words and you wouldn’t be so troubled all the time!! Stupid bitch, igoring me and my love as always, why do you think you’re higher than me? (.................) Can’t say something? (...............) Hello? (.......crrk.........) Hello? Are you recording this? Just wait till I come home! Hope you don’t fall asleep without me, hehe, mind it if you could put on those sweet mint colored panties you wore back than as you graduated? I loved these...ha..... (....). Well then, I need to go to work now. See you soon love. Bye.”

Virgo: Cold:

Our Grandmother used to tell us stories about her old school. Stories I like to tell my friends when we sit together for a drink after work. She has always been a funny woman, she’s been a clever kid that liked to trick her teachers at times and told me she never got into trouble because of the ‘funny’ old man (a monk to be specific) that apparently no one saw except her. The school (having been a monestary in the past) was old and full of history. And the kids gave the dead walls new life. And so did my Grandmother to this dead man who never talked but stood in the corner, pointing to opened windows she snook out when her teachers turned away. Or directing her to the funny old photobooks of former students in the big library. He never left the grounds of the school though. She was young - 8 years old maybe - and felt special to have made such an ‘unique and special friend’, that she never thought about the fact that it could’ve been a ghost. So I asked her if he was nice. Her smile turned crooked and she looked out of the window as she answered: “I think he was once, but he was lonely for too long. One day I walked down the hallway and he pointed to staircase to the cellar or our school - something we were forbidden to go to under any circumstances because of the gigantic oven that stood there. Well, as idiotic as I was I followed him, but right in front of the doorway I stopped. His smile was off and he pointed into the black room where the giants red and orange mouth of the oven smiled at me. I felt the chance in the air and left, shaking my head. He looked angry and sad at the same time. Later that day one of our students went missing. And they found him. 2 days later, his ashes and bones in the oven. I am glad I was smart enough not to walk into the room that day and I never saw that monk again.”

Libra: Erroneous:

‘I love you, I love you’, I whisper as I turn the knife in your chest and stab into you heart for more than a thousand times. All the times I told you I loved you, I revisit those memories and breath heavily as I remember our first kiss. ‘Ah, your eyes are beautiful..’ So I plunge them out and put them in a jar, I place them on the top of my bookshelf so I can look at them and you can look at me when I lie down to sleep. I f e e l t h e w a r m t h o f y o u r b l o o d o n m y b o d y G o d y o u f e e l s o g o o d. I love the way you looked at me and you loved my smile so I engrave it into my skin, on my face - forever. I place my hand on your chest and the open wound allows me to toucg your heart. I smell you and feel you.

I l o v e y o u.

Scorpio: Demonic:

‘It is him who writes the names behind our wallpaper, when our little daughter tells me to look behind it. He is the nightmare that keeps her up at night, the monster underneath her bed, the long black hair that is tickling me in the shower. There is a shadow I feel standing behind me, someone breathing in my neck; the wind that is closing and opeing our doors and the force that drags me from the couch every time I try to sleep there. The feeling of someone standing behind me and watching how the blood begins to pump under the constant pressure in our own precious four walls. There are eyes inside of the dark- A pair of two red eyes accompanying me everywhere. They are placed in every little black corner in our house. I see them in the reflection of the TV and the computer screen. They are bloody and since weeks our sleeping room smells foul. And it is I who brought him here in order to bring you back, my dear, and I brought sin over our love, over our home, over the one I swore to protect. And I will continue protecting her - in heaven.’

Love, Helena

(To whoever finds this: leave the ruins of this home and never come back.He will follow.)

Sagittarius: Bloody:

I once visited this town on one of my trips. It was small and far away from the next bigger city, but people from all around it swooned over the restaurants that has been there for several generations - apparently it served the finest meat in town. So naturally, I ordered a table for one the following day and tried a steak myself. Indeed, it was fine - very fine, tender and beautifully pink colored in the middle. I am confused though: I haven’t seen any fields with cattles or any farms on my way to this city. Nor do they have many tourists here; so how does this restaurant survive over the years? Then again, my uncle is an ivestigator and told me that near the next biggest city that is two hours away have been reported people that went missing over the past 50 years. And seemingly, they never reappeared. But they cases went cold since there were almost no hints or tracks.

Oh god .

What am I eating?

Capricorn: Sinnful:

Day after day he cared for the old cathedral, being the only Pastor to talk to for the old village, in the dark times of WW1 being the voice of sanity that bring clarification for the desperate citizens. “God”, he asked one day, knees on the ground, “why does his happen to us? What did we do, our small village, to deserve being conflicted in this war?” God - knowing that the higher sense of the things happening aren’t for this man to understand, the pastor knowing for sure that it is evi, tempted people creating chaos on earth - kept quiet and knew this was an inner war he had to fight for himself. The devil - listening as well - being sneaky and answering the man instead: “You want to know?”, he asked alluring. The pastor cried. “Yes..all this blood and murder..” Content the devil whispered into the ear of the Pastor, telling him all the sins of the people in town, showing him that there is no such thing as innocence. No, every time someone dared to go to the confessional, it was not the Pastors voice answering him. Something dark devoured his soul that night, letting him lose hope in good and moral. And he shamed them. And he pushed their souls to the cliff in times of gruesomeness. And no one dared to put a foot into the church, even after the war. Because an old, bald man with bloodstained eyes wrote hieroglyphics on the wall at night, talked in gibberish and dared to haunt everyone who stepped into this holy place with their sinfull souls.

Aquarius: Immoral:

24.11.2017. Day 23. I didn’t leave the labor for almost a month now. I am not interested in eating. I don’t want to sleep. I just...can’t stop hearing those screams of this...abstrusity the doctor shot two days ago. I think he lost his mind. He thinks creating live is like cooking: grabbing some ingredients that seem to get along together and putting it all into one mixing bowl - hoping for the best. But that’s not it. That’s against nature, that is...disgusting. He is whispering names to those dead mutated baby animals. (Sophie, wasn’t it?) He hopes for them to live, but how are they supposed to live if they can’t even move their limbs? I wonder now, how far will he go? I am afraid he will test on me. I am a female, perfect to give birth to whatever he wants me to. I need to find a way out of here, before I become one of his subjects. He looks at me always a little too long at times. And he complimented my wide hips once. I will hide this letter somewhere safe, so he won’t find it, but please, if someone’s gonna find this and me, nurse ▇▇ ▇▇▇ is no more, please, stop this madness. He has a cellar I am not allowed to go in, God knows what he is keeping in there, since I already know where he is keeping the animals. To whoever reads this, stay safe, don’t be fooled by easy money making like me.

Pisces: Otherworldly :

Mom doesn’t believe me.

She doesn’t believe that there is a Boogeyman in the closet, with yellow eyes and long, long fingers that tries to grab little children in their sleep. She doesn’t believe that when I close the door behind me, I can hear someone scratching at the other side of it. She doesn’t believe that there is someone standing in front of the window at night, that’s why I close the curtains always for her and force her to look away when the dark figures in the mirrors try to scare her. Mom hates the footsteps at night, but I just try to catch those bats that get into our attic every night. He sends them and tries to scare her so much so that she falls down the stairs and breaks her neck.

Mom didn’t believe me back then and years later after I died in this house she still tries do deny the evil in it. But I am here to protect her. Even tho she is afraid of me, I love her and will forever be by her side.

#wanted to do that for a year #sorry if its not for everyone #i like.....writing stuff like that especially when its a bit more abstract like aries gemini or libra #astrology #zodiac #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #sagittarius #capricorn #aquarius #pisces #own #mine

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girlanachronsim · 5 years ago

Text

Inhumed

Pairing: Jonathan Teatime/Ofc

Word count: 9,353

Read it on AO3 instead!

Summary: In which Jonathan Teatime discovers that if a hit doesn’t align with his particular interests, he can find ways to make it go away.

"I need to have her inhumed."

"Yes sir."

"You do understand the task, don't you?"

"Yes sir."

"Inhuming a woman. A young one, at that."

"Yes sir."

Lord Downey paused, pressing his fingers to his temples. His best men had refused his orders on ‘moral’ grounds. Moral, he grumbled to himself, when has the assassination business ever been ‘moral’. Which meant that he was now sitting across from this lunatic, the one member of the Guild depraved enough to take on such a task. He never put himself in Teatime's company willingly, and wanted to be rid of him as soon as possible.

"The price will be fair, of course."

"I trust you, sir."

"Well. On with it, then." Downey grumbled, handing him over a few sheets of yellowed parchment detailing her name, age and address. Among those sheets was a small pencil sketch of her face to ensure that he inhumed the right woman.

The young woman on the page didn't seem to faze Teatime and he stared at the sketch for a few moments as if lost in thought.

"Why does someone want her dead?" He asked abruptly.

"The client didn't specify." Downey grunted. "Can I entrust you with this, Teatime?"

"Of course, sir."

Teatime stood suddenly, his head still buried in the papers as he left the room. Downey shook his head, slumping back into his chair. Meeting with Teatime always left a sour taste in his mouth and this instance wasn't any different. At least he could trust him to do the job.

Violet Talbot stood over the boiling kettle, the piercing whistle sending her sailing back into reality. She had been feeling particularly vague recently; her parents had gone out for the day, but she struggled to think clearly even when they were around. So, she was making tea in an attempt to centre herself.

She settled with her tea on the kitchen table, picking up the pages of her newest manuscript. It was finished but there was something wrong with it, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She didn't want to send it off to her publisher until she discovered what wasn't right about it. She scanned the pages, trying to pick up on anything absent, but halfway through the second page a wave of dizziness shot through her. Violet held her fingertips to her temple, trying to keep her focus on her words.

Tipping back the last dregs of her tea, her head hurt again, the sharp stab in her brain more acute this time. She scolded herself for not sleeping enough that night and rose from the table to make her way towards her bedroom. This was just a stint of nausea, she told herself, a product of an overworked and tired brain. She'd seen plenty of women suffer from it before, collapsing in ballrooms and dinner tables because of it. But on the way to the bedroom she stumbled, hardly able to walk in a straight line thanks to the splitting headache. She gripped onto the nearest surface, her knuckles going white as the room span around her and she felt her consciousness slipping away. She fell to the floor and heard her head crack against the wood as her vision swam and blurred. The last thing she saw before she passed out were a pair of black, polished shoes. Then everything went black.

Violet came to slowly, her head still pounding and limbs especially heavy. Her back was propped against a wall and she pulled at her wrists, only to find that they were tied firmly behind her. She couldn't tell quite how secure her bonds were, it had taken all of her energy just to move her hands. Despite the throbbing in the forefront of her brain, she cracked her eyes open and her heart stuttered.

Opposite her was a man mirroring the way she was sitting, his back to the wall and feet splayed out in front of him, staring directly at her. Upon seeing her wake, the man heaved himself forward and began making his way towards her on his hands and knees. Her vision swam and blurred and she struggled to tell whether his eyes were blue or black as his face came closer to her. The only thing she was sure of was that he was only wearing black. Assassin.

"Who're you?" She slurred, her voice barely loud enough to be heard.

"Shhhh, Miss Talbot." The man urged her in a light, childish voice.

Very slowly and very carefully, he lifted the knife in his hand to her neck. Violet could feel panic bubbling in the back of her throat but she couldn't express it, the drug had addled her brain and she barely flinched as she felt the cool metal against her skin. Another sharp stab of pain and her vision faded.

The man watched her head loll to her shoulder and sat back onto his feet. He fiddled with the knife absently, staring at the limp woman, a pout forming on his lips. Well, that hadn't been fun at all. Watching her bleed out, unconscious, was going to be a severe let-down after the fuss the Guild had made about her and her inhuming. He debated what to do with her, repeatedly lifting the blade to her neck and down again until he made his decision. He had a spotless record so far, he argued with himself as he lugged the unconscious woman over his shoulder. Plus, she'd be dead soon enough anyway. He just needed to have a little fun with her first.

When Violet came to again her head still hurt, but she felt that it was more due to a lack of fluids than the narcotic still working its way through her system. Her eyes fluttered open as she adjusted to the light of the room. She didn't recognise her surroundings.

She looked down to see she was firmly and carefully tied to a rickety old chair. Rope bound her hands to the backrest and crossed over her lap, tying her securely to the seat of the chair and, when she tested, she found that her ankles were tied together too. Her eyes scanned the small, dingy room; single bed, small chest of drawers and a man staring at her. She froze, letting out a pathetic whimper.

The strange man approached her, his arms crossed behind his back as he tipped his head to the side curiously. Now she understood why she had such trouble focusing on his eyes when she was drugged. They were two different colours, but not in the usual way of heterochromia where one can hardly tell. These were very obviously disparate, one eye the colour of an ocean storm, the pupil so small it had almost disappeared while the other was dark brown, so dark it was almost black and threatened to devour what remained of the white of his eye. His lips twisted into what could be called a smile and she looked away from him in disgust.

"Who sent you?" Violet asked through gritted teeth, her voice rough with disuse.

She looked up at him again and he merely shrugged, shoulders lifting and dropping carelessly.

"You should know." She said tightly.

She may have been brought up among the wealthy elite of Ankh-Morpork, but she knew how the Assassins Guild worked. Her mother had made sure of that.

"Not if they don't want you to know, Miss Talbot." He assured her in his high-pitched, childish voice.

"Then you have to tell me who you are, at least." She demanded.

She let her gaze drift back to him, taking in his blonde curls framing his face and the perfectly tailored black jacket he wore, buttoned all the way up to his neck. He must be good, she thought to herself, for he must be the most conspicuous member of the whole Guild.

"I'm Teh-ah-tim-eh." He pronounced slowly. "Jonathan Teh-ah-tim-eh, Miss Talbot."

He bowed slightly. She bit her tongue, brain scanning through every person she'd ever met to try and remember a 'Teatime'. His reputation didn't precede him, she'd never even heard of him.

"I'm presuming it was you who drugged me?" She asked him, despite the nagging voice in her brain, he's going to kill me, he's going to kill me, he's going to kill me.

"Yes. The Guild insisted that I try their new drugs, Miss Talbot. It wasn't my choice." He informed her, anger clouding his eyes. "They told me it was to make killing people easier, but it just made you act funny. You didn't react the way you should have."

He stepped closer to her, retrieving the knife he kept hidden in his sleeve. Using slow and deliberate movements, he held the blade to her neck. Her whole body tensed and she leaned away from the blade, her pale neck extending in an effort to get further away. Her breathing was short and harsh and she clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles went white.

He studied her face, his expression neutral as he brandished the weapon. He watched her pulse race beneath his blade, the rhythm frantic as he threatened her life. He had always enjoyed those last few moments, the dizzying high he got just seconds before he inhumed someone. Now with a woman was on the other end of his blade he realised just how much that excited him. He had never inhumed a woman before (not for a contract, at least) and as he felt that rush flood through him he found his heart rate elevating too, the adrenaline coursing through his body before eventually settling into an uncomfortable heat at the pit of his stomach.

Reluctantly, he lowered the knife and Violet exhaled heavily, her breaths shaky.

"You see?" He spoke eventually, lowering himself to kneel at her side. "That's the way you should react when you're being threatened, Miss Talbot."

She eyed him warily out of the corner of her eye, disgust lining her features.

"Please. Just kill me. Don't tease me in this way, I don't deserve it, I assure you." She urged him, nerves straining her voice.

He furrowed his eyebrows.

"I'm not teasing you." He responded innocently.

"Someone's paid you to drag this out. Well, ask your questions and be done with it. There is no just reason for torturing me, sir."

His jaw shifted and he looked to the ground. He'd never had someone beg him to kill them before, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"You're very odd, do you know that?"

She let out a burst of laugher that turned more into a sob, her eyes brimming with tears that she refused to let fall.

"Perhaps I should drug you again." He spoke to himself.

"Perhaps you should." She said dully, her expression vacant.

He got up and disappeared from her view for a few moments before returning, mixing something into a glass of water. When it was sufficiently dissolved, he lowered the glass to her lips. She eyed him warily before parting her lips, swallowing back the water which she relished despite knowing it was laced with something. When she had finished, he lowered himself to kneel at her side again and placed the cup gently on the floor. A small drop of water trickled from the corner of her mouth and he reached forward to swipe it away with his thumb. Her eyes softened, the drug already beginning to affect her and her head drooped slightly.

"Thank you, Jonathan." She slurred, her words inane babble. "Not all assassins dress for the occasion. It's very considerate of you."

She trailed off, her vision fading and she passed out again.

When Violet regained consciousness, her eyes flung open and she sat bolt upright. She was lying on a bed, and her surroundings were vaguely familiar from the night before. The same bed, same chest of drawers, same dingy room. Was she dead? Had she been killed and now she was doomed to haunt the same room she had died in? Having to share a room with that strange assassin for the rest of eternity... the thought made her shudder.

She still felt alive. She couldn't float and when she looked down she didn't appear to be transparent. Pale, yes, but not transparent. She pinched herself and the pain brought her back to reality. Fairly certain that she was alive, and one-hundred percent certain that she had to get out, she shuffled off of the bed and made her way towards the window. It looked to be about midday and below her she could see the bustling streets of Ankh-Morpork, if maybe a poorer section than she was used to. She yanked at the window pane only to find it locked. Leaning down, she checked the lock; something she wouldn't be able to pick, but maybe she could smash it if desperate enough.

Having inspected the window, she moved onto the door. Locked. Unsurprisingly. She pressed her ear to the door and heard nothing, silence. Looking over the whole room she couldn't see anything that would immediately help her and so investigated the chest of drawers. Nothing of note, black clothing, weapons, odd bits and pieces that didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the stuff at all. She sighed, closing the drawers and turned towards a small desk hidden in the corner of the room.

The chair that she had been tied to now sat harmlessly in front of the desk and she ran her hand over it absently. The desk had been hidden behind her when she had been tied up; on it were a few pieces of scattered paper and a large glass of water.

She picked up the glass, holding it to the light to try and tell whether there was anything concealed in it. There didn't appear to be anything, but then again, his drugs had been dissolvable. Her thirst was clawing at her throat, however, so decided it was worth the risk and took a sip. She sat down on the chair, trying to feel that tell-tale headache that was all too familiar to her now. She sat for a while but when no hint of nausea washed over her she downed the rest of the glass. While she was drinking, her eye caught on one of the papers.

Violet set the now-empty glass down, instead picking up the yellowed pages scattered over the desk. One had her name printed across the top, her address and even the hand-scrawled note to Teatime to use drugs on her. Her eyes flicked back to how 'Teatime' was spelt; it wasn't in the way he had pronounced it at all. Another paper had his fees, the money he'd get from fulfilling the contract. She raised her eyebrows at the price, then noticed the 'young' and 'woman' stipulations highlighted in the margins. That explained the ridiculous amount of money.

The third was a small pencil sketch that took up a corner of the page and she did a double-take at how perfectly it had captured her likeness. Her stomach flipped and she felt slightly ill; she had been kidnapped and almost killed by an assassin, and for some reason this made her feel more uneasy than any of that. She had never posed for a pencil sketch.

Confused and thoroughly sickened, she stood up from the desk, only to hear the lock turn in the door. A rush of adrenaline shot through her and she sprinted back to the other end of the room, as far away from it as possible. The strange man entered the room and locked the door discreetly behind him. Her throat dried as soon as his strange eyes fixed on her.

"Why aren't I dead?" She choked out, pressing herself as far against the wall as she could.

"I find you very intriguing, Miss Talbot."

She couldn't tell whether he offered that as an explanation or as an unrelated topic.

He noticed his displaced papers and swiveled his head to look at her. She kept up the eye-contact despite her heart pounding against her chest. He made his way towards her, every step slow and deliberate until he was inches from her face, his off-kilter eyes searching her expression as her lower lip trembled.

"Pay close attention to me, Miss Talbot. Just do as I say and I won't hurt you." He assured her, cocking his head to one side. "Deal?"

"Deal." Violet agreed reflexively.

It felt as though she had just agreed to a particularly bad exchange on the playground. Only this time there were consequences. He lifted her chin with his fingertip, as if appraising her features, and as he did so she glanced at the door out of the corner of her eye. If she could knock him out of the way, just for a second, she might be able to-

She swung her hand towards his face but he grabbed her wrist before she had a chance to even touch him. She stumbled, quickly righting herself as he kept his hand on her wrist, fingers digging into her skin. She winced, her heart pounding in her ears as the adrenaline rushed through her anew. He grimaced at her, not letting go of her wrists as a blush spread over her face.

"What did I. Just. Say?" He asked slowly, every word sharp enough to cut into her.

She kept her eyes trained on the floor, her jaw clenching and unclenching. At her lack of response, he dragged her into the centre of the room, using her wrist as leverage. He let go of it suddenly, and she saw thin red lines streaked across her skin from where he'd been holding her in his tight grip.

"Kneel." He spoke abruptly and her eyes flicked immediately back to his.

"Are you going to disobey me again, Miss Talbot?" He dragged his sentence out, pulling a blade from the inside of his jacket. She blanched at the sight of another knife, paling considerably.

"Kneel." He repeated, holding the blade to her neck.

She lifted her chin slightly, trying to escape from the cool metal as she reluctantly carried out his orders. He followed her movements with his hand, as she lowered herself onto one knee and then the other. She kept her eyes looking dead ahead, she didn't want to have to look up at the vile man like some sort of beggar. She noticed he was wearing the same coat from before and her eyes were level with the last button. Despite it being well-fitted, she couldn't tell where his legs began and hoped desperately that she wasn't staring directly at his crotch right now. She almost shuddered; she couldn't even think of it.

He leered over her, using his free hand to lace through her hair and yank her head back. She hissed in protest, but stubbornly avoided his gaze.

"Look at me, Miss Talbot." He ordered her in a low voice, and her gaze slipped back to his.

The corners of his lips twitched and he started to lift the blade from her neck up to her mouth, resting the cool metal against her bottom lip. She willed herself not to move; one flinch and the knife would slice through her skin with ease.

"Open wide." He instructed her.

Her lips had barely parted when he began sliding the blade inside her mouth, and she had to open her mouth at a much faster rate than anticipated. She blinked rapidly at the sudden invasion, keeping as still as possible as she could feel the knife's edge pressing against her tongue, enough to hurt her but not enough to draw blood. Yet.

He enjoyed watching her squirm beneath him. He didn't intend to hurt her, but he liked making her panic nonetheless. He pushed his blade further into her mouth and it suddenly turned into something phallic in his mind. He quickly removed it, stepping back from her with his eyebrows drawn together. She looked up at him, fear still shining in her eyes as he took his leave, rapidly unlocking the door before leaving the room.

Violet stared after him in confusion, hearing the lock twist in the door again once he'd left. She couldn't explain his sudden departure. She clicked her tongue against her mouth, trying to get the feeling back into it after her adrenaline had numbed it. She looked out of the window to see dusk falling and her heart leapt; already nightfall. She could attempt another daring escape. She waited an hour or so to make sure that Teatime didn't return and watched as the streets grew dark and lifeless, almost everyone retired to their homes to live and eat and sleep, as normal people do. Opening up the drawer to extract a weapon she picked up a weighty knife, balancing out in her hand before deciding to take a smaller, more manageable one. She pressed her ear against the door, checking for any footsteps on stairs before she started. Silence.

She padded back over to the window, brandishing the knife in her hand. With relative ease she jammed it under the window frame, just below the lock. She pushed it through until it came across resistance, and when it did she pulled back slightly before violently slamming it into the obstacle. It merely made a loud noise, her knife bouncing harmlessly off of it. She winced at the noise, and waited a few seconds in silence to make sure that no-one had heard it.

Unperturbed, she tried again, only this time she felt the obstacle buckle slightly. She repeated this several times, now not giving a damn about the noise it made, until the lock shattered under her knife. Punching the air silently, she opened the window as wide as it could go, feeling the night air against her skin. She was about to drop the knife when she reconsidered. She may need it, if circumstances turned again.

Violet made sure that there were no walkers below as she climbed up and over the window sill. The cool night air hit her as she dangled herself from the sill, her legs not quite long enough to reach the porch roof below her. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she let go and felt the porch roof solid under her feet. She slid down the side of the porch, the fall now a lot easier as she only had to jump one story and onto solid ground. Without a second thought, she leapt off the roof, jarring her knees as she landed and started running as soon as her feet hit the floor.

She ran until her lungs were burning and thirst was clawing at her throat, which is when she allowed herself to slow down, first glancing behind her before taking a sip from a nearby barrel collecting rainwater. She allowed herself to pause only briefly before moving on, her pace steadier now and she kept glancing over her shoulder just to check she wasn't being followed.

Gradually, the houses began thinning out, being replaced by large trees and other foliage. She could feel unease creeping up inside of her; she had never been this far out of Ankh-Morpork before. Stifling her hesitancy, she forced her legs to keep going. Just keep walking, she told herself. You can find your way home in the morning. It was only when her calves started to ache in protest that she stopped, halting amongst the dense greenery to look up at the moon. The sight calmed her, but only for a fraction of a second before the unmistakable feeling of being watched crept up her spine. She fumbled with the blade in her hand, ready to attack any predator that she may come across.

"Show yourself." She muttered in the barest undertone.

Then, a halo of blonde hair emerged from the darkness; his arms were up in mock surrender, his footsteps muffled by the soft dirt underneath them. One eye gleamed in the moonlight, the other was still hidden in shadow. Instantly, she held the knife up in a defensive pose, even though she knew there was no way she would win if there were a scuffle. But be damned if she wasn't going to put up a fight.

"Are you going to use that?" He asked her patronisingly, tipping his head to the side.

She felt anger flare in the pit of her stomach and she pursed her lips, her blood boiling.

"You wait and see." She threatened him, holding the knife firm.

He slowly lowered his arms and she jabbed at the air, warning him not to try anything. He didn't pay any attention to her, he merely crossed his arms behind his back and stared at her evenly. She had trouble staring back at him; he disturbed her, but in the way that it's disturbing to see open wounds when you're not expecting to. They're horrific and gross and put you off your dinner, and yet you can't look away. And sometimes, they're strangely beautiful.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" She asked, her voice sharp.

"Oh, I can't do that Miss Talbot. You're supposed to be dead."

"Just kill me then." She spat. "I can't spend another day- no, another hour in that room of yours, just waiting to be inhumed. I'll have a proper life, or none at all."

At her little tirade, his eyebrows knitted together and he looked to the ground.

"You should be grateful. People are usually grateful when I don't kill them." He glanced up and it was as if his eyes were boring straight through her. "People are weird like that."

He took a step towards her and she lifted the blade higher. He raised his hands as if he were trying to approach a wild animal and by slightly lifting his hands, somehow he'd be able to calm it.

"I could stop this." He suggested in a measured voice. "Take that price off of your head. You'd have to hide for another night, but I could do it."

"You could?" She asked, letting her hand lower marginally.

"Yes." He took another step and she immediately lifted the blade back up to it's original position. "I could... deal with the person who put out the contract. You wouldn't have to die."

She looked almost hopeful before realisation dawned on her, and her features crumpled again.

"What do you want in return?" She asked despondently, expecting the usual fees; money, property and the like.

"Kiss me."

She almost dropped the knife in her hand. She could feel the colour draining from her face as she stood across from the madman, her heart pounding in her ears and she could it very hard to focus on one particular thing. She had only just started to think of him as oddly beautiful, and didn't particularly want to explore those feelings just yet. It would mean confronting a deamon far larger than herself, and she worried it would consume her.

"No." She sputtered reflexively.

"No? You'd rather die?" He took another step and she flustered.

"No I- Is there nothing else I can give you?" She stammered.

"No." He shook his head slowly, his tone decisive.

Her hand holding the knife started shaking and she gripped it tighter in an effort to hide it. It was either this or death. She decided she may as well face the task with dignity, so she squared her jaw and lifted her chin.

"Alright. But only so long as you promise to let me go." She affirmed.

"One more night, Miss Talbot." He reminded her. "Then you're free. I give my word."

Hesitatingly, she lowered the blade, expecting him to close the gap between them immediately. When he didn't move, she eyed him warily before approaching him with caution. She walked until a pair of black polished shoes entered her vision and she stopped, reluctant to move any closer or direct her gaze anywhere else. Digging her nails into her palms, she forced herself to look up into his eyes. She was going to kiss him, she told herself, she may as well get used to looking at his face. There was that odd, unhinged beauty again. Her stomach leapt into her throat.

His mouth twisted into a wry smile at her hesitant movements. She ignored his smug look as she lifted herself up onto her tip-toes and closed her eyes. She exhaled a tiny, shaking breath onto his lips before pressing hers against them.

She had barely pushed her lips against his when she recoiled, expecting that to be enough for him. It clearly wasn't, however, as he grabbed her and led her back up onto her tip-toes, crushing his lips against hers with far more vigour than she gave him. His hand circled her neck posessively, the other wrapped tightly around her shoulder blades, pressing the whole of her body against his lean frame. His tongue slipped into her mouth and her eyes snapped open but she shut them again quickly, focusing on these new, delicious feelings culminating in the pit of her stomach.

As he kissed her, she toyed with the blade still in the palm of her hand. All it would take would be a little jab; the damned thing was so sharp, she'd probably kill him with ease. Or at least leave him sprawled on the floor, bleeding out in the middle of the forest. But then they'd just send another assassin, and he was offering her a way out. She opened her palm and let her knife drop harmlessly to the muddy floor.

He slowly loosened the arm around her back and their mouths separated as she lowered herself back onto her feet. He looked down at her, his lips parted and eyes gleaming while she turned acutely red and stared at the floor. In actions faster than her own, he grabbed her wrist and led it upright between them. She inhaled through her teeth, her face petrified as he let her wait, her arm a barrier between them. Then he abruptly turned on the spot and started leading her back to where she'd come from by her wrist.

As they walked, she felt the lateness of the hour creeping up on her and she stifled her yawns. When her pace slackened, he gripped her wrist tighter and she tried to focus on the pain instead of her drooping eyelids. She hadn't realised quite how far she'd walked until they had already been walking for what felt like an hour and she still didn't recognise any of her surroundings. Her feet were dragging and she stumbled several times in an attempt to keep up with the assassin. He stopped in the middle of the empty street and she bumped into his back, not expecting the sudden halt. He turned back to her, frustration playing in his eyes as she struggled to keep her own eyes open.

"You're tired." He commented.

"I'm sorry." She apologized quickly, despite there being nothing for her to apologize for.

He leant down towards her, his arm knocking the back of her knees so she fell back into his other arm and picked her up into an effortless bridal carry. Her arms automatically wrapped around his neck as she was lifted from the safety of the floor, and found herself in far too close proximity to the man she wanted to avoid. She hated having her arms around him, but felt too unsafe when she removed them so she settled for an uneasy compromise; one arm wrapped uncomfortably around his neck while she curled the other into her own chest. Her hips were pressed to his stomach and his arm clung to her shoulder as he resumed walking.

She was now wide-awake and the gentle rocking of his steps was making her feel sick more than anything else. Her head was pounding and she was so tired, but her mind refused to give up as it plunged her into insane thoughts of love and murder.

As he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead she allowed herself to study his face from below. She noted the strong shape of his jaw, the pale skin that betrayed how much time he spent outside. Perhaps he always went out under the cover of moonlight, she thought. Being this close to him she could see the veins in his neck, blue and spidery against his porcelain skin, the sculpted lips that she'd had against her own only moments before.

"You don't spell your name the way you say it." She slurred drowsily in an attempt to distract her brain.

"What?" He asked, glancing down at her from the corner of his eye.

"It's spelt like about four o'clock in the afternoon."

He gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead, his hands tensing around her.

"You don't like it?" She asked, picking up on his defensive body language. "I should rather like to be named after four o'clock. It's a pleasant time, at least."

"I shouldn't mind it either, if it were meant to be said like that." He said through his teeth.

"So your parents were Teatime- sorry, Teh-ah-tim-eh too?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't they be?" He asked curiously, looking down at her and she shyed away.

"Oh. I don't know." She mumbled.

Clearly, her brain was starting to slow and no matter how determined she was that she couldn't possibly fall asleep, it must have happened as one moment she was outside, on the rougher streets of Ankh-Morpork, and the next she was being carried up a flight of stairs into a very familiar room. He dumped her unceremoniously onto the bed and she tried to shake the sluggishness from her brain as she bounced on the soft mattress.

"Sleep." He commanded, setting himself down heavily at the chair by the desk.

"You expect me to sleep?" She asked him incredulously despite her weary bones and heavy head.

"I'll deal with your contractor in the morning. There's nothing I can do until then." He informed her, wide eyed.

"What are you going to do all night then?" She asked him warily.

"Well, as you broke my window-" he looked pointedly to the window standing open, the lock smashed, "-I'll have to watch over you."

The thought of the sinister man staring at her while she slept churned her insides and she looked to the floor.

"You're offering me a way out. Do you truly expect me to try and escape again?" She mumbled to the floor.

"You can never be too careful." He answered innocently. "You're supposed to be dead. I can't have anyone see you."

"You're that concerned about your reputation?" She asked, reluctantly crawling up the bed.

His lack of an answer gave her his response. Tentatively, she lifted the covers and eased her body underneath them, trying to ignore the fact that this could very well be his own bed when she wasn't around. She lay on her side, furtively glancing between the man and the wall. Though resolute that she'd never be able to sleep with him watching her, she felt her eyelids begin to grow heavy. Within a matter of minutes, she was out-cold.

He watched her as she fell asleep, her breathing evening out and the muscles of her face relaxing so that she almost looked contented. He stood up from his chair and routinely undid the buttons on his heavy coat, slipping it from his shoulders and draped it across the back of the chair. He had a sudden chill and looked back to see the broken window still standing open, letting in the cool night air. He crossed the room on silent feet and closed the window.

Resolving to come up with a plan before she woke up, he set himself back down behind the desk and idly stared at the wall. The next time he moved was several hours later, though he wasn't aware that any time had passed at all. His hand twitched and his eyes were suddenly sharp and furtive. He had assembled a decent plan to deal with the person who had contracted the young woman's murder.

Upon thinking of her, he turned back to the bed. While he had been thinking, she had kicked off the covers, exposing her legs, pale thighs disappearing into the bunched up fabric of her skirt. She was breathing deeply and her hair was streaked carelessly across her face. Without thinking, he swallowed and his fist clenched by his side. She'd be so easy to take. Such skinny limbs, such a lack of will. But he didn't feel like fighting her, and although the kiss earlier had awoken something deep set within him he still held suspicions that she didn't feel the same way.

He stood up, leering over the unconscious woman. He pursed his lips, his head tilting from side to side. Then, very tentatively, he reached out his hand and traced it over her shoulder only to flinch back from her cold skin. He reached down and pulled the sheet back up her body, making sure that the back of his hand ran up her body as he did so. As a second thought, he held his hand to her forehead. She wasn't ill, but he did notice how pale she was in comparison to his own skin. And while paleness suited him, it did not become her.

She didn't deserve to be a bird in a cage, pacing the same room endlessly, otherwise he wouldn't be inhuming another person and breaking the Guild's rules again. He had entertained the idea of having her around, keeping the little bird and hiding her away until he grew bored of her and eventually fulfilled the contract. But her eyes were too bright, her mind full of untapped potential, not to mention the body that he had become keenly interested in over the last few hours. So, he had to carry out his latest plan in order to win her freedom.

He turned on his heel abruptly and left the room, so determined that he forgot his coat, and forgot to lock the door behind him.

Violet woke to sunlight glaring onto her face and she moaned, tossing her arm over her eyes. She rolled onto one side and felt the unfamiliar weight of the pillow, the difference in her mattress. Startled, she sat upright, only to remember where she was and what she was doing there.

It came flooding back in waves; the kidnapping, being drugged multiple times, her failed escape attempt. Despite his threat to watch over her all night, the sinister man was no longer in the room and she made sure of it; she got up and checked under the desk pointedly. Then she crawled back onto the bed, only to get up again when unease washed over her and she checked the drawers, one at a time. Although she felt absurd doing it, she did find herself feeling more comfortable when she yet again got back onto the bed.

Her eyes passed over the unfamiliar room; it was a lot less threatening in daylight. Ratty furniture, a tiny room. Even the assassins papers still scattered on the desk didn't disturb her, so long as she didn't look at that pencil sketch again. She grew impatient with her captor quickly, hating the way the threat of his arrival kept her on tenterhooks. Perhaps he was out fulfilling his contract, she mused, and the next time he saw her would be to release her. But it was all hopeful thinking, of course, as he seemed as changeable as the wind and she wasn't about to place any amount of trust in him whatsoever.

She very carefully and quietly got out of the bed, padding over to the window and pushed at it gently. It opened with ease and she discovered that the lock was still broken and he had made no attempt to seal her in the room. That could be one escape plan, but it would be very different to leap down into bustling streets, full of people. She would most definitely alert people to her presence, and if it didn't cause a massive commotion to have a young woman climbing down the side of the building, a ruffian most certainly would spot her fine dress and take her hostage for himself. While she didn't exactly admire her captor, better the devil you know.

As he hadn't made any effort to seal the window, she turned to the door with a vague hope bubbling in her chest. She approached the door, placing her hand on the handle and found it gave way very easily beneath her. The door opened onto a dim corridor, deprived of windows and therefore light and she squinted into the darkness.

"Are you planning to run away again?" Came a lilting voice from behind her.

She jumped, spinning around and shoving the door closed as quickly as she possibly could, backing herself into the doorknob. Teatime was standing in the room with her. She hadn't heard him arrive and she had been caught in a compromising position, so her heart was pounding and her brain was muddled. She barely noticed the window standing open behind him.

"No, I- uh-" She trailed off, her throat tightening.

He seemed barely interested though, turning from her and he furrowed his brow at his discarded coat. Once he got past the confusion, he removed the blade from his sleeve and picked up the assassins papers instead. She was only just getting over her shock, and watched his movements while staying frozen in place. She too had only just noticed he wasn't wearing his heavy coat, and she could actually see his long legs clad in black and a loose-fitting ruffled shirt. She had never seen a man look so good in such a ruffled shirt, let alone a black one.

He turned back to her and she briefly averted her eyes to make it look as though she hadn't been staring. A light flared up in the corner of her eye and she looked back up at him to see he'd struck a match and was holding it to the papers. The paper caught easily, flames licking at the paper and crumbling it into ash that fluttered to the floor. She enjoyed watching the pencil sketch going up in flames.

"You're no longer wanted by the Assassin's Guild." He spoke as the last few remnants of the papers caught fire and crumbled in his hand.

Her eyes wandered to the discarded blade. He had clearly made an attempt to clean it, but there were still spots of blood on the hilt. She shuddered, looking to the floor.

"You're free to go." He gestured towards the door with a crisp hand movement.

She looked between him and the floor, hesitating.

"What are you waiting for?" He asked in a low voice, leaning incrementally towards her.

Embarrassed, she forced herself to turn and open the door. She could feel his stare boring into her back as she closed the door behind herself. She made her way down the dank staircase, clinging to the shadows when she emerged outside and walked until she recognized her surroundings and could make her way home again.

"I didn't tell you the name of the contractor, did I Teatime?"

Downey rocked back in his chair, eyeing up the young assassin. He hadn't anticipated to have Teatime back in his office so soon. He expected him to do the job, collect the payment and he wouldn't have to see him until the next deranged client came around. But now he had to question him, ask him about something Downey knew he had orchestrated, though Teatime would never admit it.

"No sir." Teatime answered him shortly.

"So you had nothing to do with the contractors death?"

"The contractor's dead?" Teatime asked him innocently.

Downey sighed, looked to the ceiling.

"As they're dead, there's no need to inhume the woman. If you haven't already?" Downey asked, lifting one eyebrow.

"No sir. I was still on my planning stage."

Downey wasn't aware that Teatime had a 'planning stage'. He knew that Teatime had killed them, but there was no way of proving it and he couldn't chuck him out of the Guild again. He did prove useful, occasionally.

"Go." Downey waved at the door dismissively.

Teatime stood gracefully and made his way to the door, his hand on the handle when Downey spoke again.

"I'm disappointed in you." Downey murmured, looking over his paperwork.

Teatime turned back to him, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"It's not like you to get involved with your contracts." Downey continued, not looking up from his work.

Teatime's jaw clenched, and he turned back towards the door, firmly opening it and slamming it behind him.

Back at home, Violet lit a candle and retrieved her manuscript. She made her way to the empty dining room, tucking her feet under herself and hunched over her words. It was still missing something, and it didn't help that her mind kept straying back to the experiences of the last few days and her mysterious captor. Her parents had fussed over her, of course. She wasn't allowed outside for at least the next two weeks. She was alright with that presently, she wasn't sure that she wanted to see anyone other than relatives for at least two weeks. She was very happy sitting with her writing and-

A knock. Violet started, her head jerking towards the door. She couldn't hear her parents getting up to answer it, so she assumed they hadn't heard. On soft feet, she got up and made her way to the door, going against her better judgement as she cracked it open. Standing on the other side of it was a far too familiar face, a halo of blonde hair and two mis-matched eyes, staring at her intently. Her whole body froze; she knew she should slam the door closed immediately and call her parents, but the other half of her wanted to know what he wanted to say. Or do.

She remained frozen in place, until he took matters into his own hands and pushed past her through the door. This seemed to wake her up as she followed after him in a trot to keep up with his long strides. He made a move to go into the living room where her parents were settled but she abruptly intercepted him to go into the dining room that she had claimed for herself that night. He paused as he entered the room, his eyes scanning the flickering candles dotted around the room and the pieces of scribbled on paper lying carelessly on the table.

"What are you doing here?" She asked from behind him.

He inclined his head towards her, as if remembering that she was there, and smiled imperceptibly.

"I came to see you, Miss Talbot."

"You're not here to kill me?"

He laughed, a high-pitched jarring laugh that gave her goose bumps.

"I didn't kill you before when I was being payed for it, Miss Talbot, why would I kill you now?"

"Forgive me for speaking my mind, but you don't seem like the most level-headed man I've met." She tried to phrase it as delicately as possible, but he still turned to her with hurt playing on his features.

In one swift movement, he had his hand to her neck and her back up against the table, her hands scrabbling for purchase on a surface full of papers that clearly didn't want her to stay upright and the hard edge of the table digging into her back.

"Level-headed?" He repeated softly, and she winced.

He tightened his grip on her neck and she lifted her hand to his own, a pathetic attempt to get him to remove it. Yet, as her skin ghosted his, he looked down at her and noticed a fire in her eyes that matched his own. He let go of her briefly, confused by what he saw. She couldn't possibly be gaining as much pleasure from this as he was.... could she?

"I suppose I'm proving your point." He admitted through gritted teeth, folding his arms firmly behind his back.

"If you aren't here to kill me, then why are you here?" She spoke in a shaking voice, her own hand going to where he'd touched her neck.

He looked to the ground and appeared deep in thought while she eyed him warily. Then he stepped closer to her again, pressing his hips against hers and she leaned her torso away from him, but she was unable to shift underneath the pressure of his hips. He reached forward and placed his hands on her jaw, angling her head upwards towards him. He pulled them together, forcing his lips against hers even as her eyes widened and she reflexively pulled away, in vain.

Once her lips were secured his hands wandered from her jaw, his long fingers wrapping around the back of her neck while the other hand caressed her shoulder blades. He pressed the whole length of her body against his, his tongue slipping into her mouth and she whimpered in the back of her throat. She lifted her hands to his hips and closed her eyes, focusing on the delicious and unfamiliar feelings of his mouth on her own.

He pulled back and their lips parted, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features as he drew back. He kept his face close, however, so they were sharing the same heady air as his nose and forehead brushed against her own. They were still pressed close to one another, their chests knocking together as they breathed heavily. Then his head jerked to the side, as if he heard someone and in the next second the door to the dining room opened.

She froze, her eyes widening and jaw dropping in shock as her mother peered through the door. Though she stayed silent, she screamed internally. She couldn't be seen with a stranger, not after the kidnapping. She'd never be left alone again. They would think that she was having an illicit affair as it would be the only logical explanation for her disappearance. Her whole social standing would be ruined. It was only once she cycled through all of these thoughts that she actually became aware of her surroundings; Teatime was nowhere to be seen. It was only her, uncomfortably perched against the table, her cheeks flushed and lips swollen.

"Are you alright?" Her mother asked, though it was clearly more out of decorum than actual concern.

She thanked the gods that it was dark, the only thing illuminating her the dim candlelight, otherwise she would have definitely known that something was wrong.

"Yes, thank you mother." She exhaled.

"Are you sure? Me and your father heard voices."

"Voices?" She flustered, trying to act nonchalantly.

"Yes. A male voice, at that."

Her mother started to suspect something, going further into the room. She inclined her head away from her mother, making sure that she couldn't see her pink cheeks. While her head was turned, her eyes caught on her manuscript and her eyes lit up.

"I'm sorry, I was just... going through." She said vaguely.

"Going through?" Her mother asked.

"Yes. Going through my script. It's easier to visualize it if I say it out loud." She spoke to the floor as if she were embarrassed at having been caught.

"Oh. And the man's voice..."

"Mine." She said quickly, trying to inject some amusement into her voice. "Did it really sound like a man's voice from the living room?"

"I suppose not." Her mother started to second-guess herself as she moved back towards the door.

"Finish your book." Her mother pointed at her, her hand on the door. "You're taking too long and I want to read it."

She nodded, smiling lightly as her mother went through the door. Violet trotted up to the door, pressing her ear against it to ensure that her mother wasn't lingering behind it. When Violet was sure she had left, she turned back into the room to see Teatime standing on the other side of the table from her, his arms behind his back.

"Where did you go?" She asked in wonder, her voice barely loud enough to be heard.

"I have my ways." Teatime shrugged.

"Is that how you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Kill people."

The air became tense, her staring at him evenly while he returned that look, impassive and impossible to read.

"Sometimes." He spoke, his voice tight. "It depends how discreet I want to be."

"You murder people. For money." She said, sounding less accusatory and more inquisitive as she started slowly walking towards him from the other side of the table.

"Are you a sadist?" She blurted out.

He cocked his head, wide-eyed innocence playing in his eyes.

"Do you get off on other people's pain?" She went on, seeing that he didn't understand.

"Get off where?"

She rolled her eyes, not believing him to be as naïve as he let on. She was now halfway down the table towards him and he hadn't moved.

"I mean... do you get excited by hurting other people?" Her brain struggled to come up with something that his child-like brain could comprehend.

"Yes." The corners of his lips quirked up, a mad look in his eyes.

She stopped herself in front of him, looking up at the assassin that had threatened her life.

"Would you gain pleasure from hurting me?" She bit her lip, shifting from foot to foot.

His fingers twitched and he was very clearly trying to restrain himself.

"Oh yes, Miss Talbot." He hummed.

With shaking hands, she reached up and gripped his collar, abruptly pulling him down to meet her eye-level. He seemed unfazed by this man-handling and allowed himself to be pulled in such a way. He seemed almost to be expecting it.

"Then hurt me."

Now it was his turn to overpower her, whipping her around and pressing her lower back to the table, one palm slamming firmly on the surface of the table while the other grabbed her arm and pulled it behind her back. She whimpered but her eyes lit up as he jerked her arm into such an unnatural position.

"Are you a masochist, Miss Talbot?" He asked in a low voice, his body pressing against hers.

"I don't know." She answered quickly before thinking on it. "Or, at least, I didn't know until very recently."

He captured her lips on his in a smooth motion and she didn't back away, or even flinch. He still pulled at her arm and she winced into the kiss, pressing her body even harder against his.

"Violet!" Her mother called from the other room, and they parted, still staring at one another's lips.

"Coming mother!"

He let go of her arm and she exhaled heavily, propping herself up against the table with it. He backed away, making a move towards the door when she stopped him with a hand gesture. She stepped towards him as he watched her evenly.

"Visit me again." She urged him in a low voice. "Only, visit when they're not around."

The corner of her lips quirked into a smile. He merely stared at her, eyes bright with excitement and he licked his lips.

"Yes Miss Talbot." He murmured, before turning and leaving the room.

The moment he left the room, she sat herself back down in front of the bits of paper that had been scattered with her clumsy movements, and attempted to piece them back together. She knew what the manuscript needed now. It was more violence.

As she lifted her pen, she grinned to herself; perhaps the story wasn't fit for her mother's consumption after all.

#fanfic #jonathan teatime #hogfather #terry pratchett

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