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adoreyou303 · 4 years

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Sweet Creature (H.S. Fic)

Hey :) I’m a new fic writer and I’ve been holding onto this piece for a while. Let me know what you think!

(CW: sexual assault in the first chapter and brief mentions in a few chapters beyond)

Chapter 1

Her designer dress hangs in two pieces, glittering in the low lighting of her dressing room. The smell of hairspray lingers in the air long after the makeup is set and her hair is pinned. She had more time than she knew what to do with, but her legs moved with a mind of their own. Slipping on the navy fabric, the beads scraped across her skin lightly. The zipper glided up with ease. Although, she struggled to close the clasp on her own. After a few failed attempts, she huffed a frustrated sigh and left the top undone. Her long, sandy-brown hair sat expertly braided into a messy bun on the top of her head. From afar, no one could see the thousands of bobby pins in her hair. She looked effortlessly flawless.

With nerves getting the best of her, she decided surrounding herself with others would help ease her mind. Slipping on her favorite pair of baby pink Ugg slippers, she grabbed her phone before walking out of her dressing room.

Her footsteps echo down the long, empty hallway. Despite the eerie feeling of walking alone, she starts to type a text to her best friend and co-star for the evening, Harry, to tell him she’s on her way to his room.

As she’s typing, she hears another set of footsteps somewhere behind her. She stops typing momentarily, but continues walking forward. Her heart pounds in her ears as the footsteps close in on her. Everything in her body is telling her something is wrong. Before she has the chance to turn around, a cold hand grasps her shoulder as a piece of fabric is suddenly placed over her face. She tries to fight her way out of their grasp, but she’s overcome with a feeling of overwhelming weakness. Her eyes feel as though they have weights attached. She struggles to keep them open, but it’s a losing battle. She gives a last ditch attempt to escape by lifting her arm and scratching at whatever she could reach. They grip her hands at the wrist, holding her two small ones in their large one. Everything goes black.

Pain. All she could feel was pain. When she finally opened her eyes, her vision was blurry. Her body felt heavy and numb. Her eyes slowly drifted to her wrists, which were bound together tightly with frayed rope. There were layers of something underneath, but what, she couldn’t tell. The fabric of her dress was torn at the hem. Her ankles were tied together with the same rope. Her eyes drifted down to see the top piece of her dress hanging on by nothing but a few threads. Her shoulder and part of her chest was exposed, blotted in purple bruises. A scream bubbled up from her throat, it felt as though her lips were stuck together. Her tongue continuously passed over something thick, stuffed up behind her teeth. Is this what was preventing her from opening her mouth?

“Hello, gorgeous. You’re finally awake,” a male voice said from above her. Fear prickled inside her, but she couldn’t move her body. All she could do was move her eyes to look at him. As he stepped into the light of the small closet-sized room, a feeling of familiarity clouded her mind. Was he from the crew backstage? Was he from the recording studio? She couldn’t be sure where she had seen him before, but she recognized something in his voice. She keeps her eyes on him as he begins kissing down her neck. Hot tears trail down her face as every cell in her body is screaming for someone to come save her. Why wouldn’t her body move? Helpless.

To get a better angle, the man picks her up and slams her against the wall. She feels an object protruding into her back as he presses into her. Using all her strength, she waits for him to lift her again before weakly lifting her elbow and dropping it on the object. Her stomach turns with anticipation. Cool air fans across her neck. Could this be her moment of salvation? With the door no longer supporting them, they tumble into the hallway.

“What the hell?” Relief courses through her veins at the sound of his voice. “Get off o’ her!” The man quickly jumps up, pulling at his pants. He starts to run the opposite direction, with others chasing after him. She manages to muster what resembles a weak squeal, which catches Harry’s attention. As he kneels next to her, her body instinctively shrinks away from his touch.

“Easy, easy. It’s Harry. ’M not going to hurt you. I just want to help you.” Something in her wide, frightened eyes cries for help. He mumbles something over his shoulder before turning his attention back to her. “’M going to untie your wrists. Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

Harry works quickly, trying his best to remove the rope from her wrists only to reveal layers of duct tape underneath.

“’m so sorry, this is going to hurt. I’ll go as fast as I can, okay?” he warns apologetically. He tears apart the duct tape at the wrists with his teeth, ripping, he assumes, at least a few layers off her skin. He hears her whine weakly, sending a sharp pain through his chest. “I know, ’m sorry.”

He’s working to remove the bindings at her ankles when emergency personnel appear.

“Gentle, gentle… she’s scared,” Harry relays to the paramedics. Her eyes frantically search for Harry as the medic team takes over.

“She’s locked on him, let’s make sure he stays in her line of sight. It’ll keep her calm. What’s your name?” the lead medic asks, looking at him.

“Harry.”

“Harry? Alright, buddy. I want you to go up by her head and talk to…”

“Melanie, her name is Melanie,” he says quickly.

“Alright, hi Melanie. I’m Sean, this is my partner Tom. I know you’re scared, but we’re here to help you. Your friend, Harry, is going to stay by your head, there, to help you feel a little more comfortable. We’re going to get this stuff off you, okay?”

Harry watches as they work to cut the ropes and tape from her bruised, swollen skin. His fingers are the only thing holding her dress together near the top.

“Alright, hon. You’re doing great. We’re going to get the tape off your mouth now. We’ll do it as fast as we can. Do your best to stay still for us,” Sean instructs, lightly lifting the corners of the tape. Her eyes drift up to Harry, who nods encouragingly. True to their word, the tape comes off quickly. Nothing but small sobs escape from her mouth. Harry and Sean remove the gag in her mouth, allowing for her first full breath since she regained consciousness.

“Hi, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Harry tearily reassures her.

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“I… I can’t feel my body,” she whispers, her throat burning with every word. “He put something o-over my face and then I passed out.”

“Sounds like she was drugged,” Tom says quietly, looking between Harry and Sean.

“Okay, let’s get an IV going. Melanie? You’re almost done. We’re going to give you some medicine to help you. Harry is going to take your hand and when you start to feel any sensation again, I want you to squeeze his hand, okay? Can you do that for us?” Sean asks, pulling out an orange IV kit. She squeaks out a soft yes, indicating she’s ready to begin. It takes the medic a full minute to get a successful line, but once it’s placed, a counter medication is immediately administered.

It starts as pins and needles in the tips of her fingers. She slowly curls her fingers around Harry’s hand.

“There she is,” Harry encourages, squeezing her hand. “Can you feel my hand?”

Mustering all her strength, she sends all her energy to the hand that rests in his. It’s a small, but noticeable movement. A smile breaks across Harry’s face as he squeezes her hand back.

“Okay, we’re ready to get you on the stretcher now. Keep still for us, we’ll do all the work for you, alright?” Sean says, his voice calm and steady. They don’t wait for an answer. Harry stands back, giving the medics room to work. Sean gently lifts underneath her black and blue shoulders while Tom picks up her legs with ease. They begin the shift to the stretcher, but Tom makes a harrowing realization.

“Hang on, wait. There’s blood, she’s bleeding. Where is she bleeding from?”

Harry’s heart sinks when it all comes together in his head.

“She was attacked. When we found her, the guy was on top of her… with his pants around his ankles,” Harry speaks up, his throat suddenly feeling dry. All three exchange a knowing glance before immediately placing her on the stretcher.

“Are you coming with us?” Sean asks in a rushed voice, grabbing his medic bag.

Harry nods without a second thought, grabbing her hand and brushing back a few stray hairs from her face. It’s a race against time to get her to the ambulance, which has the medications the medics need to help stop the bleeding, or at least slow it down.

It takes an excruciating 10 minutes to get to the nearest hospital. The whole ride is silent with the exception of Sean reading out her latest blood pressure or giving her soft encouragement to keep hanging on. Harry holds her hand tightly and silently prays for his best friend to be okay.

When they pull into the ambulance bay, Tom races around to the back to open up the doors. Harry jumps out first, waiting for them to pull the stretcher out. They are met with a middle-aged doctor, who has already been briefed on the case.

Harry is overwhelmed by the bright fluorescent lights and the cutting hospital smell. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. Tom and Sean are speaking to the doctor in medical talk. It is a foreign language he can’t understand. He’s never felt so out of place.

The doctor suddenly turns his attention to the musician, who until then, stood invisible next to the stretcher, clutching her hand.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Rameriz. I’m the on-call resident. Is this your girlfriend?”

“She’s my best friend. We were supposed to perform together, but she was attacked,” he mutters, shocked at how small his voice suddenly feels.

“Okay. The medics here told me she is bleeding. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I was coming to find her before the show. Usually we hang out together, but she didn’t show up. I was walking down the hallway when she came flying out of this closet with this guy on top of her, uh, with his pants, uh, down. She had all these ropes and things around her wrists and ankles.” Even recounting the story, the images flashing in his mind, made Harry see red.

“Okay, so she was sexually assaulted. Did you actually see the assault occur?”

“No, I was just there for the aftermath. I should have come to get her sooner. This would have never happened,” he relays in a sad voice, looking at her with guilty eyes.

“This isn’t your fault, okay? I promise I will take the best care of your friend. For now, I need you to talk to the police officer in the waiting room and make a statement. I know that is the last thing you want to do, but it’s hospital policy,” Dr. Rameriz reiterates gently.

“What? No, I want to stay with her until I know she’s okay. Please let me stay,” he pleads.

“I know you do. Unfortunately, you have to talk to the police first and I have to obey the patient’s privacy.”

“Has she asked for me not to be here?” Harry inquires, his heart starting to race.

“She isn’t awake right now, but it’s standard procedure to wait for patients to consent for any visitors, especially in these situations.”

“That could take hours. I don’t want her to be alone. She shouldn’t have been alone in the first place,” Harry scolds, mostly at himself.

“I understand your frustration. I promise you I will make sure someone is with her at all times and the second she wakes up and allows for people to come in, you will be the first person I call. You’re Harry, right?”

“How did you know that?” he croaks, wiping away a stray tear.

“She was saying your name before she went under. I promise to get you when I can.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Harry responds dejectedly, backing out of the room, his eyes glued to her. She looks so small and alone, her figure fragile and broken on the table. He watches her eyes shoot open before he is pushed down the hall to a private, confined waiting room.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles writings #harry styles angst #harry styles imagine #harry styles fandom #harry styles fluff #harry styles series #sweet creature #chapter 1

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flwrpotts · 4 years

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Missing you writing for Reggieronnie tbh

vik, my love, anything for u. ty for ur patience, ur a dream

it’s getting harder to be someone, but it all works out/

it doesn’t matter much to me

hiram lodge dies the first real morning of summer, a june day crisp and bloody with promise. veronica walks into her father’s study, heels sharp on marble, gearing up for another round in their endless boxing match, something satisfying about the punch and effort of it. she has a manila file tucked under her elbow, her lipstick dark and immaculate, ready for a clean victory.

“i can hardly believe you’d stoop this low, daddy,” she starts as she walks in, a whiny thread of moral righteousness seeping into her voice. she’s expecting his oily, serpentine grin and pretend obliviousness, but instead her father is slumped over at his desk, neck bent at an angle that strikes veronica as deeply wrong before she can even get to the source of why. his skin is blanched, hair hanging in his face. unmistakably dead.

her father, her own personal devil, a tumbler of rum still at his side like he’s about to wake up and take a sip.

“daddy?” veronica asks, voice stripped of all bravado, frightened and small. she resents her own weakness but cannot help it. the room is strangled of all air, panic thrumming loud in her wrist. she acts on gut impulse, on rare instinct. on that starving, hungry animal that lives in her ribs named lodge.

reggie is her rock bottom guy, despite it all. they haven’t talked besides cursory hellos and polite small talk in the halls in months, and yet, it’s his doorstep she ends up on. it’s not as if they’ve ever been really close, but there’s a weird sense of belonging to one another, exclusively. their upbringings have instilled in them this need to possess without attachment, an ownership that feels better than love. they’re the same sort of monster where it really counts.

“ronnie?” he asks her, toweling off his wet hair, t-shirt sticking to him in damp patches. he smells like cheap boy shampoo and damp air, strangely appealing, tender as a bruise. his eyes flick up her, still immaculately dressed, despite it all.

“i need to leave,” she says, all in a rush. she can’t bear to explain herself further. there’s nothing in her except for this wild impulse to get the fuck out, to leave riverdale like it’s a blade pressed to her throat, threatening to break skin. a vital artery is about to be hit, is already split open, hemorrhaging wildly.

“alright,” he says, and steps out, shutting the door behind him, firm with promise. “let’s go then.”

she wakes up with her hair in her mouth, her boarding pass and passport clutched in one hand. memory flashes vaguely within her- finding her father, going to reggie’s doorstep, slinging old fashioneds at the airport bar and closing her eyes to pick a random flight. reggie is asleep next to her, young looking with his mouth a little open. she sits up from where she’s been slumped against his shoulder, looks down at her boarding pass.

well. she’s always wanted to go to amsterdam.

the city is filled with blood and money. her and reggie get off the flight with nothing except their clothes and shiny black credit cards. it’s probably too conspicuous to pick the grandest hotel she can find, but veronica doesn’t care. they settle into the luxurious suite and veronica sprawls out on the king bed, liking the crisp feeling of fresh sheets against her face. it’s not been twenty-four hours, and yet she’s already a world away. a full-bodied sprint away from the grief threatening to capsize in her chest.

“so,” reggie says, all casual, scoping out the minibar. “you want to talk about it?”

there are sixteen missed calls from archie flashing on her phone. more from her mother. guilt sickens inside her, as real as a bad tooth.

“no,” she says, and that’s that.

in amsterdam they mostly just get high. their hotel balcony has a view of the whole city, and in the late afternoon reggie rolls joints on the terrace, which are honestly bad considering how much practice he’s had, but veronica doesn’t care enough to learn better. they pass spliffs back and forth as the sun sets, and veronica goes as relaxed as she ever can, legs slung in reggie’s lap and breath high and tight in her chest. everything ceases to exist, the world funneling down to the sound of reggie’s voice, telling her about the latest in the hockey season or his stupid-brilliant idea for a start-up.

they both have nightmares so the nights are for clubbing, staggering in and out of doorways, reggie’s face abstracting out under neon lights. they make fast friends with the sorts of boys who always have baggies full of powder in their pockets, and veronica is always off her face, smudged dark and volcanic in her tiny black dresses, chain smoking on the corner as reggie gets a cab.

they keep vampire hours, crawling into bed as the sun is beginning to rise, and veronica wakes in the late afternoons with her head pillowed on reggie’s bare stomach, soft skin under firm muscle. the days begin to loop in a way that could almost become comfortable.

they’re eating in breakfast in a tiny bakery when veronica happens to glance at the television screen behind her. lodge will reading on hold as hunt for teenage heiress continues! flashes across the screen, and panic spikes hot and sour in her stomach, nausea pulsing in her throat.

reggie watches her face carefully, like a sailor watching the waves. “change of scenery?” he asks, and in a handful of hours they’re on a flight to shanghai.

shanghai is warm and unfamiliar, full of crowded street and the pulse of city lights, the skyline strange and neon and absurdly lovely. they buy beer for four cents a bottle from the convenience store and veronica washes her hair with the thin, anonymous shampoo of hotel bathrooms and feels the edges of her personhood coming apart.

for some reason they still haven’t fucked. she doesn’t quite know why- she can see the way reggie watches her in the gray dawn as she peels off her sequined dresses and skimpy black lingerie to pull on his old, soft t-shirts with holes in the collars. she knows in an objective sort of way that he wants her, the same she feels a pulse of need low in her stomach when he places a cigarette in her mouth, or gets out of the shower with a towel slung low around his waist.

maybe it’s out of some sort of respect for archie. or maybe they’re just testing one another.

they’re drinking in the second tallest building in the world, the entire continent sprawled out beneath them as the sun goes down, and veronica is drunk and blinded with her own power, drinking her third martini too fast.

one of the absurdly powerful businessmen comes up to flirt with her, charming and pushing thirty-five, wedding band winking on his finger. veronica puts on her cattiest, big little girl smile, lets her slip dress slide further up her thigh, and watches as reggie grinds his teeth beside her.

they fuck in the men’s bathroom, much too nice for such behavior, thousands of dizzying feet above ground. her head clatters back against the mirror and reggie’s fingers are rough where they cover her mouth, trying to keep her quiet, thumb dipping against her lower lip. she pops four buttons off his white button down, and he has her silky purple dress hiked up to her waist, and veronica forgets the grief that lives salty and hot in her throat, forgets riverdale, forgets who she is at all.

in london they go out to high tea and act like proper young adults, visiting the museums and having extravagant picnics in the gardens. veronica spends absurd, frivolous amounts of time assembling the menu for such outings, fizzy champagne and sponge cake and charcuterie boards. the dreams are still bad, but in the mornings she reads in bed, blankets tucked up around her face, while reggie goes for runs around the city.

these days they are settled into something nearly resembling domesticity. she is fond of the jut of reggie’s ankle and the way he takes his coffee, his tacky watch and the bottle of hair gel left on the bathroom sink. this strange boy who holds her hair back when she vomits and cries in his sleep like a little kid, who always has something in his pocket to slip under her tongue when they’re in line for the club.

it’s reggie who notices one day that they’re being followed, a man slumped inconspicuously behind them in a coffee shop near their hotel, at the table next to them that evening in the restaurant. riverdale never really leaves you, that shadow world of gangs and serial killers and a wild, cartoonish violence, smearing blood on everyone’s hands so bright it was almost orange, ketchupy.

they leave in the dead of night, sneaking out of the elevator of the hotel, and veronica is almost enjoying herself, feeling like a spy or assassin, a heroic figure. for a glittering second she misses riverdale, that cold rush of adventure, but then reggie laces their fingers together and when she wakes up she’s buoyed back to sleep by the comforts of the jet plane around her, humming and steady, dark over the pacific.

in jerusalem they stay in the heart of the old city, and veronica feeds scraps to the street cats, cooing when she wins over their affection. they float in the dead sea and reggie swipes mud across her cheek and she tugs on his ankle as he floats to make him lose his balance. they visit the western wall and watch as the holy men write their wishes down on scraps of paper, shoving them into the crevices on the side of the wall, thousands and thousands of them.

“do you ever feel the compulsive urge to pull them out and start reading other peoples’ wishes?” reggie asks, whispering in her ear, and veronica can’t decide whether she wants to laugh or cry. she has that same tug in her gut, that same steer towards wrongness. they’re made up of the exact same stuff.

reggie hands her a post-it note to write a wish, but veronica crumples it up, lets it float in the bottom of her purse with the broken cigarettes and half empty lipglosses and six types of currency. she has no more wishes.

#mine #quarantine prompts #riverdale #reggie x veronica #veronica x reggie #veggie #riverdale fic

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majoraop · 5 years

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Here you are my full fanfic for the @mothersea-zine: it’s about Doflamingo‘s backstory but it contains spoilers up to the Reverie Arc. Please also check the fanzine blog to watch/read the others contributions and to download the whole zine for free! ^^

Paradise Lost

Unseen by his family, the child wept.

He was just ten, but the enraged mob didn’t spare him or his younger brother. Years of violence and oppression had hardened their hearts: all they wanted was revenge against the Celestial Dragons that had enslaved them or their loved ones. And now, two children and their father were at their mercy: blindfolded and tied, unable to move or fight back. When an arrow pierced Doflamingo, he uttered a sharp cry. His little body was hanging over a large fire that was consuming the building. The wall pressing against his back was trembling as portions of the palace started crumbling on themselves, and only frail ropes kept him from falling into the cruel flames. The heat was unbearable and the smoke filled his lungs, but worst of all were his younger brother’s cries: Roci was babbling between the sobs that he wanted to die, his words muffled but still unmistakable as he begged in his tiny, broken voice. Rage took Doflamingo over. “I won’t die!” he screamed. “Whatever you’ll do, I’ll survive and kill you all!!!” It was then that a criminal gang, observing the lynching from the sidelines, witnessed an incredible scene: all the people in the mob collapsed as if hit by an invisible force, foam at their mouths and eyes rolling backwards. “Conqueror’s Haki,” murmured the gang’s leader, a slimly old man with malicious eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Haki was a manifestation of someone’s ambition, and only people destined to rule had the rarest variation of it. Apparently, that screaming child was destined to be a king. --- Doflamingo could barely sleep at night. While the scars on his body had faded, nightmares still haunted him even weeks after that terrible day. Sometimes, he even relived the experience while awake, memories flashing uncontrollably through his scarred mind. He often found himself trembling without any apparent reason, but tried to hide the fear gripping his heart from showing in his eyes: he had always worn shades, so that was relatively easy to do at least. What Doflamingo didn’t even try to hide, though, was his hatred for his father. It was his fault if they had left their homeland, the Holy Land Mary Geoise, renouncing the privileges granted by their blood and lineage. It was his fault if they had needed to run away from their new home and hide in a horrible shack in a smelly landfill. It was his fault he and his younger brother were forced to eat garbage from trash cans, with the constant fear of being beaten by other derelicts living in that ill-famed area of the island. It’s your fault mother has died in this lowly, hellish world! Doflamingo clenched his little fists and gritted his teeth, promising to himself he would do anything to go back to the Holy Land he had been exiled from. He would take Roci with him too, but first their father needed to pay for what he made them go through. Though still a child, Doflamingo had grown to hate that naïve and useless man more than any other person in the world. --- “I’ll give you power.” Doflamingo glanced at the leader of the gang who had saved them from the lynching, and then at the two objects he was being offered: a flintlock and a Devil Fruit. He took the first, examined it, and slipped it inside his belt. It was huge compared to his small body, and its pressure against his side made him feel safe. Next, he grabbed the pear-shaped fruit and looked at it suspiciously. He had heard of those cursed fruits, but he had never seen one before. “Its name is ‘Ito Ito no Mi,’” the old man explained. “Not a rare and powerful Logia, but a Paramecia: harder to use in an effective way, but more fitting the intelligence and wisdom of a King.” Doflamingo nodded in acknowledgement, and then took a bite of the pallid fruit. The taste was awful, but not much worse of what he had been forced to eat in that hellish world. He stoically chewed the morsel and then swallowed it. He felt a strange wave of energy running through his body, and when he focused his mind on the image of strings near-invisible threads materialized and grew from his fingers. “As expected from our future King!” The old man clapped his hands, excited. “It’s rare for a Devil Fruit user to be able to use their powers right away, but you managed to do it!” Doflamingo listened to him silently. He wasn’t sure that was such a big deal… those were just strings! How could such fragile things be useful to him? As if reading his mind, the man said, “Still, mastering it will take time. But don’t worry, Doffy: these powers will become useful to you one day.” Doflamingo nodded at him again. He did have patience, and would study and train hard if that was necessary to gain his original status and privileges back. But there may be an easier way… A dark expression on his face, Doflamingo turned on his heel and searched for an isolated area to try a few things with his new powers. --- A tall man had his knees on the ground and a pistol pointed at the back of his head. Behind him stood a child, his little body quivering with anger and his hand barely managing to hold the large weapon. “Stop, brother! Stop!!!” a younger child cried and threw himself into the man’s arms, sobbing. Doflamingo ignored him and yelled at their father, “It’s all your fault!” You killed mother… “You can’t fix what you did, but we’ll bring your head to the Holy Land in order to be accepted there again!” …It’s all been your fault!!! The child steeled himself and closed Roci’s desperate cries off, preparing to shoot. Surely, by killing that traitor of their clan he and Roci would be accepted back into the Holy Land. Surely, that would put an end to their current miserable life, to the pain, to the starving. Surely, he was doing the right thing… And yet, a small part of him maybe wished for their useless father to stop him, to act as an adult for once and take the lead. Maybe, their father would finally take his responsibility and let him be a simple child. However, Homing simple turned to look at his son with a pathetic expression on his face and whispered, “I’m sorry you’ve had a terrible father like me.” Furious, Doflamingo pulled the trigger.

--- A child was flying under the ruthless, scorching sun. That wasn’t really “flying” actually but a trick made possible by Doflamingo’s magical strings, which he attached to the dense white clouds of that windy summer afternoon. According to legends, dragons flew through the skies by creating clouds and climbing up to the heavens thanks to them; one day Doflamingo had tried to do the same with the clouds drifting across the sky, and to his surprise it had worked! He had read about the White Sea and the islands in the sky in the books his new family had provided him with, but he hadn’t imagined he could actually reach them with his strings… Even then, learning to “fly” hadn’t been an easy task: a few times he had risked falling into the sea, which would have resulted in sure death since Devil Fruit users couldn’t swim. To make things harder, right now the child was weighted down—and not just physically—by the bundle tied on his back: the fabric wrapped his father’s severed head, and even if the cloth was thick blood had still managed to resurface and had stained Doflamingo’s tattered shirt. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the damp sensation on his back as he latched onto the clouds with his strings, slowly proceeding to his destination: the Red Line. He would avoid both sides of the Red Port—the only official access to the Holy Land—and instead climb the rocky ring that divided the ocean into two separate halves. Doflamingo was sweating profusely for the exertion, but with a last twitch of his fingers and a carefully aimed swing he finally landed. It was evening already but he decided to keep going, ignoring not just the cold wind blasting against the steep rocky wall but also the hunger and the thirst—he hadn’t brought water or anything to eat with him not to further weigh himself down—as he half-climbed and half-flew to the top of the Red Line. His eyes fixed upwards, the child never looked down at the hellish world he wanted to leave behind. --- The moon was high in the night sky when the exhausted child finally climbed one of the long stairs leading to the Pangea Castle. Doflamingo intended to bring his father’s head to the Gorosei, the “Five Elder Stars,” who were the highest-ranking World Nobles. That would be proof of his loyalty to them, and he would then request to be accepted back among the Celestial Dragons together with his brother and the people who had saved them. Nobody was around at that late hour so Doflamingo managed to enter the Pangea Castle unnoticed, but he had only been there once before his family left Mary Geoise so he eventually got lost. He walked along dark and empty corridors, up and down stairs, across large rooms and luscious courtyards. After what felt like hours, the child finally ended up in what he assumed was the basement of the castle. It was cold down there, and he wondered if he should go back upstairs: it was unlikely that the Gorosei were in such place. And yet, something inside him spurred Doflamingo to explore that lonely area of the building a bit more. Not long later, the child stepped into a freezing chamber with niches on its walls. A faint glowing had drawn him there, and he took a few silent steps closer to the source of that ghostly light. When he finally reached the only illuminated niche he stared curiously at the giant straw hat inside it, which looked ancient and frozen in time. Doflamingo reached with his small hand to touch the relic, but a voice yelled from the end of the chamber, “Who is there?” Then, a figure cladded in dark clothes and wearing a peculiar headgear, tall and narrow, emerged from the shadows. Startled, the child jolted and turned his head, but he regained his composure almost immediately. “I’m Donquixote Doflamingo,” he replied, “and I want to see the Gorosei.” “Your family has been exiled, and you shouldn’t be here anyway. Guards!” the stranger called through a den den mushi. A few moments later, a group of soldiers appeared at the entrance of the chamber and asked, “What’s happening, Your Majesty?” “Take this whelp away—no, wait, it’s better if you kill him.” Doflamingo’s blood froze. “You can’t do that!” he screamed. “I’m a Celestial Dragon too—a god!!!” “No,” the tall figure with cold eyes retorted, “you’re just a mere human now.” Doflamingo gritted his teeth, rage building up inside him. A moment later he dashed towards the door, cutting down the soldiers with his strings. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, but he fought them back and kept running, enduring the lightness in his head and the pain in his feet: he hadn’t had water or food for nearly a whole day, and his body was nearing its limit. The child ran and ran, clinging to life and unwilling to give up: he didn’t understand why his plan hadn’t worked, but he wouldn’t die there. Doflamingo cursed his father, his fate—heaven itself!—but never let go of his ambitious spirit as he dodged or got ridden of the soldiers sent after him. After a while he got lost again, but this time he ended up in a large chamber with a throne towering above him: sitting on it was the same person he had met in the basement of the castle. “It’s here!” the tall figure stood up and yelled into the den-den mushi. Doflamingo didn’t have time to catch a breath as soldiers rushed into the room to murder him. With no other way out, he threw himself at the nearest stained glass window. A crashing sound was followed by colourful shards being shattered around. They cut the child’s delicate skin and he screamed. The glass had also torn the fabric wrapped around his father’s head, which rolled across the floor and stopped only when it hit Doflamingo’s feet. He looked down at those empty eyes staring at him and screamed again, tears now freely running down his face as the full weight of what he had done finally hit him. And yet Doflamingo still didn’t stop, still didn’t give up. He found an escape route out of the Pangea Castle and rushed outside: he was safe. However, his thoughts kept running in circles: killing his own father hadn’t granted him and Roci access back to Mary Geoise; they were still stuck in the lower, hellish world. It’s all been useless. --- The child had miraculously managed to leave the Red Line alive, but once back to his new family a bitter surprise awaited him: his brother had disappeared. Doflamingo secretly searched for Roci for months, but to no avail. Eventually, he gave up and focused on just surviving. Following his escape from Mary Geoise, assassins had started being sent after him. He was forced to grow fast and to become smarter, stronger, ruthless. He couldn’t go back to the Holy Land, but was determined not to succumb. And to achieve that, he accepted to become the King of this hellish world. For a long time the youth fled from island to island with his family, and when they finally found a little peace in Spider Miles he promised to himself that one day he would drag to the ground the Celestial Dragons that hadn’t accepted him back. In order to do that, though, he needed even more power, even more influence. Tirelessly, the young man studied the history of the world; he even read about myths and legends, not wanting to risk overlooking anything potentially useful to his cause. Then, one day he finally decided his next move: he would start with taking back Dressrosa. After all, that kingdom had once been his family’s—but that was before the Donquixote had joined the other nobles that had united most of the countries under the current World Government. Doflamingo laughed to himself, thinking about how easy it would be to take control of that island. Obviously, he had researched it: its current king was a naïve, foolish man who reminded him of his own father. Triggered by those memories, flashbacks of his childhood suddenly assaulted Doflamingo. The smirk on his face disappeared and he started sweating, his head spinning so much he had to sit down. He took some deep breaths to calm himself while frantically checking his surroundings, but luckily nobody from his family was around. I am their King… I can’t show weakness to them. A king couldn’t falter, couldn’t cry, couldn’t touch the ground with his knees or bow to anybody. I need to be invincible… or even better, immortal. --- At last, the plan to gain control over Dressrosa had been fully defined. At that time, Doflamingo was still living in Spider Miles with his family—and also pirate crew: a varied and eccentric group of people who had naturally accepted him as their King and had always supported him. He couldn’t really feel love anymore, but he did his best to protect them. Besides, he needed their help to invade Dressrosa in order to become its rightful King. Then, I will show you my dream: destroying this hellish world ruled by the Celestial Dragons. However, to reach his goal he had to become the king of the underground first. Doflamingo assumed the “Joker” alias, but he had another moniker too. It was only known by the few people in the world aware of his identity, who appropriately called him “Heavenly Yaksha”—a demon descended from the heavens. Doflamingo smirked: that sounded fitting for a fallen Celestial Dragon like himself… Anyway, while as the “Joker” he easily took control of the slave market, he actually aimed to become a weapons and fake Devil Fruits smuggler. He needed more men and facilities to realise that, though. First, I will gain control over Dressrosa and use it as our new operations base. Doflamingo had already started to move his pawns towards that objective, when something unexpected happened. --- One freezing winter night, just when the wind calmed down, the brother Doflamingo had thought lost forever appeared before him. …Roci? Fourteen years had passed since the last time he had seen him, but those amber eyes and thick blond hair were unmistakable. Feeling something he couldn’t really put his finger on, Doflamingo ignored his suspicions and moved automatically: he didn’t hug his brother, but put his pink feather coat over his shoulders to shield him from the snow that was falling down heavily. Rocinante didn’t move or speak, his eyes staring at the ground. “When you disappeared… what happened to you back then?” Rocinante didn’t answer and just shook his head. Doflamingo didn’t know if his brother’s inability to speak was related to him killing their father, but he didn’t care: what was done was done, but from now on he would protect his little brother. “Come with me,” he told him. His brother nodded and followed him inside the Donquixote Pirates headquarters. In the following days, Doflamingo tried to communicate with Rocinante a little more. He gave him some paper sheets and a pen, and that way they were able to share some words and simple phrases. Rocinante’s reserved personality didn’t help though, so he couldn’t learn much about what had happened to him during all those years of separation. Even then, he kept ignoring the warning voice inside him: he didn’t want to distrust his own brother. Other than having lost his voice, Rocinante had apparently become clumsier than ever while growing up. He often slipped and fell on the floor or even put himself on fire—the smoking habit he had picked up not really helping with the latter. That aside, he was surprisingly skilled when it came to investigation and sailing. Not long after Rocinante’s arrival, Doflamingo decided he would assign him missions too. But before that, his brother needed an alias like the rest of his family. Doflamingo remained pensive for a moment, and then said, “When we’ll take back Dressrosa you’ll occupy the Heart Seat, so you’ll be ‘Corazon.’” Rocinante simply nodded as he always did when he agreed with his decisions, and also accepted the black feather coat Doflamingo had had made especially for him. The next day, when his brother was about to leave for his first mission, Doflamingo stared at him and asked, “What’s that?” Rocinante touched his own face, and then wrote on a piece of paper: “Makeup—to scare enemies away.” “Fufufu… you’re so silly. But it isn’t a bad idea.” Rocinante nodded and put a pair of black glasses on. “Be careful out there,” Doflamingo told him. His brother’s lips opened as if he wanted to say something, but it was just a fleeting moment. “You don’t need to strain yourself… you’ll eventually talk again one day.” Rocinante smiled sadly, and again the voice inside Doflamingo told him that something was wrong. That he should be careful. As his brother walked away, Doflamingo shook his head and murmured, “Please don’t betray me, Roci.” --- Doflamingo couldn’t ignore the evidence anymore and simply accepted it as fact. His younger brother was a traitor: a marine—an undercover agent—sent to spy on him and stop him from taking over Dressrosa. When Rocinante pointed his pistol at him, screaming words of hate and resentment, Doflamingo took out his own flintlock—the same one he had used to kill their father—and shot him down. The fallen god cursed his fate: he had been forced to kill his own blood a second time. --- “That word on your back, ‘Corazon,’ what does it mean? And the name of your crew, ’Pirates of Heart,’ what’s its meaning?!” Doflamingo was confronting Trafalgar D Law, the man who had refused to give him the immortality he sought after. He couldn’t believe his brother had given his life to save someone as miserable as him. “You… you’ll never sit on the Heart Seat! How you dare to carry a heart on you back?!” Intentioned to dispel that curse, those memories of Corazon—of Roci—that kept haunting him, Doflamingo emptied his weapon on Law’s body. It’s over now, he thought, panting. It’s really over. On that very day, though, a different “D” still brought him ruin. The legends were true: people of that accursed clan really were the predators of the gods. --- Donquixote Doflamingo was still alive. Even in solitary confinement in a dark cell of Impel Down, the most infamous prison in the world. Even with his powers suppressed by the heavy seastone chains wrapped around his body, immobilized on the floor with his arms and legs spread open in a cruel parody of the most humiliating memory of his childhood. Even if he had nobody to talk to, his boredom growing day after day and gnawing at his sanity—or what little remained of it. Even in the bottom of hell, Doflamingo was still alive and his ambition was still intact. It had been dented when he had been dethroned and his glasses had shattered, but he had a spare pair of them back on now. And like when he was a child, those shades concealed the fear that sometimes tried to resurface in his eyes. Given his current predicament, Doflamingo wouldn’t be able to protect himself when the assassins still after him would finally strike. But despite that, he still laughed, still plotted, still waited eagerly for those damned Celestial Dragons to be dragged to the ground. Doflamingo had no doubts that, one day, those fake gods would taste some of that hell as well.

#doflamingo #donquixote doflamingo #opfanfic #opfanfiction #onepiece #one piece #majoraop #violence tw #(I kept finding typos&errors in my story until the very last moment--sorry again mods!#I hope it's ok now but if you find anything to fix/reword please let me know--any kind of feedback would be really appreciated!)

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emospritelet · 5 years

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Key to the Cell - chapter 5

[1] [2] [3] [4] [AO3 link]

Once breakfast was over, and the men had ridden out for the hunt with a cacophony of shouts and baying hounds, Belle retreated to the library to read the remaining chapters of the book. It told her nothing she didn’t already know, and squinting at the drawing of the ornamental dagger in the light of day still didn’t reveal what was written on it. She noticed that the drops of her blood had disappeared, though, sucked into the paper by the book’s own magic, no doubt. It was tempting to try the spell again, but she had nothing more to bargain with, and no desire to make any more demands on the Dark One’s time than she had already dealt for.

She put the book back on its shelf and sat back in her chair, thinking. It wasn’t the only book on the Dark One that existed, to be sure, but a search of the shelves before she sat down had yielded nothing further on the subject. Belle smiled to herself as she reached a decision. In the months that she and her father had been coming to Sir Gaston’s lands, she had made a friend of sorts. A purveyor of hard to find objects, he called himself, but he specialised in old books. If anyone would know where she could find out about the Dark One, it would be Jefferson.

Half an hour later she was taking the carriage into town, a tall, silent footman named Marcel and one of the maids, Celine, accompanying her. She knew it was for reasons of safety and propriety, but she missed the freedom of being in her own lands, with her own people. Here she was followed wherever she went, which was why she had begun sneaking down to the library at night for a brief taste of freedom. It felt as though Gaston’s servants were spying on her. As though she were a beautiful bird in a gilded cage, too valuable to be allowed to fly free, however briefly.

On this occasion, however, Marcel seemed more interested in the pretty maid than in her, the two of them sneaking glances at each other as the carriage rolled along, and a plan began to form in Belle’s mind. She kept a sharp eye out as they reached the market place, and once she spotted the shop she sought, she tapped on the roof of the carriage to stop and rummaged in her purse for some coins.

“Here,” she said, handing them to Marcel. “It’s a warm day and the road was dusty. Why don’t you both go to the tavern and have a cup of something while I visit the bookshop? It’s right across the street, you’ll be able to keep an eye on me.”

“We’re supposed to stay with you, milady,” said Celine automatically, but her eyes flicked to the footman again.

“I’ll only be ten minutes,” Belle assured her. “I want to enquire after some books I ordered. Once that’s done we’ll go to the haberdasher’s and the apothecary. You may both accompany me once you’ve quenched your thirst.”

Marcel and Celine shared a smile.

“Thank you, milady,” they said as one, and Marcel got out to hand Belle down.

She shook out her skirts, eyeing the shop she sought. The door was closed, but a bell above tinkled merrily when she pushed it open. The shelves inside lined every wall, and were filled with books, with cabinets holding ornaments and nautical navigation aids. There was a pleasing, familiar scent of parchment and leather and old paper, and Belle smiled as she glanced around, a sense of peace flowing over her.

She started as the proprietor bounced up from behind the counter, dressed in a russet-coloured coat over leather breeches and knee boots, a patterned cravat at his throat and a somewhat battered top hat on his head. Jefferson was a handsome man, with a ready grin and a glint in his eye, and from what she could tell, had a good heart and a keen sense of fun. He also had a young daughter named Grace, who liked to read as much as Belle had at her age, and Belle had given her some of her old books to borrow, much to Grace’s delight. Jefferson beamed at the sight of her.

“My Lady Belle!” he declared, sweeping a dramatic bow that was somewhat curtailed by the shop counter. “I’m delighted to see you! It’s been too long.”

“An entire week, at least,” she said, amused.

“Yes indeed.” He clasped his hands behind his back, bouncing on his toes. “Your frequent visits to my humble shop have not gone unnoticed. Why, only two days ago I had Sir Gaston’s steward come to visit me to enquire about them. Imagine my delight at such esteemed patronage.”

Belle’s blood ran cold.

“He was asking about me?” she said. “Why?”

“Oh, I’m sure your noble intended only wishes to ensure your safety,” said Jefferson cheerfully. “I’m to report back to him what you purchase from me. Romantic, no?”

Anger flared in her, and she felt her jaw protrude, as though straining against an invisible leash. She tried to relax, and smiled at Jefferson.

“It’s a good thing I seek only appropriate reading material for an innocent and fairly stupid woman, then,” she said dryly.

“It’s not as though I would sell you anything else,” he said, pressing a hand to his heart in mock horror. “This is a respectable bookshop.”

“Good,” said Belle seriously. “In that case I want to ask about the books you most definitely are not holding in this shop. In order to ensure - public decency.”

“Public decency has always been a passion of mine, my Lady,” he said gravely. “Tell me of these terrible tomes.”

She felt her lips twitch, but tried to maintain her concerned expression.

“I have heard tales of a sorcerer known as the Dark One,” she said. “No doubt there are books that cover his history, his origins. It would be dreadful if they were to fall into the wrong hands.”

“You won’t find such distasteful books on any of the shelves in this shop,” he said promptly, pointing under the desk and winking at her.

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ve also heard that there are books on magical prisons, and the breaking of curses.”

“A terrible rumour, if true,” he said. “I have no such books for sale.”

He mouthed you can borrow them behind his hand, and she wanted to giggle.

“Thank goodness,” she said. “You’ve put my mind at rest.”

“I should probably check, though,” he added. “Just to make sure. If you return in half an hour, I’ll be able to confirm it.”

“Good.” She hesitated. “While I’m at it, there may be something you could sell to me. Do you have anything on the Blue Fairy? Or on light magic in general? I’m sure there could be no objections to me reading something like that.”

“Let me see what I can dig out,” he said, tipping his hat to her.

“And I suppose I’d better add in something about proper wifely duties, as well,” she said. “That should put Sir Gaston’s mind at ease.”

Jefferson grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.

“For managing a new estate or for managing a new husband?” he asked, and she sent him a dry look.

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

His grin widened, and he lifted a finger.

“I have just the thing.”

When Belle left the shop, she took a moment to straighten her gloves, irritation with Gaston warring with satisfaction at having obtained more information on the Dark One. So. She was being spied on. No doubt to ensure she was suitable, the picture of a subservient, dutiful wife. The nerve of the man!

“Milady?”

Marcel and Celine had hurried over to her, and Belle nodded curtly, smoothing her features.

“I’ll call back for my books in half an hour, once they have been wrapped,” she said. “The apothecary next, I think.”

She walked swiftly enough that Celine had to trot to keep up, and made the rounds of the shops in less time than she had anticipated, but the exercise helped to ease her anger, and by the time they had left the haberdashery, she was calm again. She slowed the pace as they turned into the street leading back to the bookshop, and Celine sighed in relief, hefting the basket of her purchases.

“Alms for the poor, milady?”

A woman reached out to her with a pleading tone, blonde hair tied back from a face reddened by the sun, and Belle drew to a halt, biting her lip in distress. She imagined the woman had once been plump and pretty, but now looked gaunt and exhausted, her faded dress hanging from her, her hand a claw extended on a thin wrist. Two skinny, big-eyed children watched from the shadows, brother and sister, clutching at one another. The girl had a bracelet on her thin wrist, woven from brightly coloured woollen threads, no doubt scavenged from weavers' scraps. It made a strange contrast to her dirty smock and tangled hair.

“Get out of here, go on!” said Marcel roughly, aiming a kick at the woman, and she shied away. Belle rounded on him.

“Do that again and there will be consequences!” she snapped.

“I’m charged with protecting you, milady,” he said. “You don’t have to deal with these vermin.”

“When I marry your lord, these will be my people!” said Belle, frowning. She turned back to the woman. "What's your name?"

"Gerta, milady."

“And what has brought you to this sad state? Have you no work?”

“Not since the clearances, milady,” she said, eyeing Marcel warily.

“Clearances?”

“We had a strip of land down by the river," said Gerta. "A herd of goats and some vegetable plots. The Lord’s men drove us off two winters gone. Us and all the other smallholders. Beat our men when they protested, killed some. Killed my husband. The fields have gone to barley for the brewers, the goats slaughtered.”

Belle shook her head, and reached into her purse for some money.

“Milady, you shouldn’t—” began Marcel.

“I’ll do as I please with my own coin!” snapped Belle. She pressed some silver into Gerta’s hand, followed by a gold piece. “Here. That should feed and clothe you all for a little while, at least. Once you feel able, come to the castle and ask for me: I'll speak to the steward about finding some work for you."

"Oh thank you, thank you!" Tears pricked the woman's eyes.

"No need to thank me," said Belle. "You shouldn't be in this situation. I shall speak to Sir Gaston about what has happened to you.”

“It won’t do any good,” said Gerta wearily. “But bless your kind heart, milady.”

She clasped Belle’s hand between her own, smiling a little, and slunk away, the children following. Belle noticed that the boy was limping badly, his lower leg twisted and useless as he shuffled along, supported by his sister.

“They’ll probably just spend it on ale, milady,” said Celine.

“They look too hungry to want to bother with the tavern,” said Belle shortly. “Have many families been driven off their lands?”

The servants shrugged, and she clicked her tongue in irritation.

“What provision has been made for their welfare?” she asked. “Are there soup kitchens? Anything?”

“The brewers set up a soup kitchen,” said Celine. “They were told to take it down, because it just encouraged the beggars.”

“Well of course it encouraged them, how would they eat otherwise?” snapped Belle, and shook her head with a sigh. “Still, this is a matter for Sir Gaston, not you. I need to pick up my books, and then we’ll take the carriage home.”

She stomped off, seething with anger. What sort of lord would let his people starve?

Jefferson seemed to catch her mood when she returned, and made no quips as he handed Marcel a pile of books wrapped in paper and tied with string. Belle paid him, smiling slightly to show that her bad mood had not been caused by him. He was far more reserved in front of the servants, and she imagined it was just as well. No doubt an account of their day in town would reach Gaston before long, and she didn’t want Jefferson singled out for any special attention from the steward.

The ride home was subdued, and once the servants had carried the books and other purchases up to Belle’s room, she announced that she had a headache, and would be lying down until it passed. Celine drew the curtains and helped her off with her gown, and Belle lay down with a damp cloth over her eyes. The sound of the door closing softly made her sigh in relief, but she still waited a few minutes before tearing off the damp cloth and sitting up, reaching for the parcel of books. There had to be answers in there somewhere.

Jefferson had wrapped up five books in total, the top one being a very proper treatise on the management of estates from a noblewoman’s perspective. Belle tossed that aside with a curl of her lip, but after a moment, placed it on her nightstand. If Gaston wanted to hear about what she was reading, let him hear about that.

The second book was infamous, and made her blush fiercely and glance around before turning back to it. The Lady’s Boudoir by An Anonymous Gentlewoman of Note was rumoured to be the most complete compendium of detailed intimate relations between husband and wife. Along with illustrations. After suppressing a giggle at the look on Gaston’s face if he were to find such a book in her possession, Belle resolved to hide it somewhere safe until she could take it back to Jefferson. She had already read it, anyway.

The third book had an embossed illustration of a fairy on the cover, wand lifted high with a blue star at its tip. A Study of Fairies and Their Use of Light Magic, read the title page, and Belle pursed her lips thoughtfully and set the book aside on the nightstand before reaching for the next. It was a heavier volume, bound in battered blood-red leather with gilt letters on the spine: First Steps in Curse-Breaking.

She was almost trembling with excitement, eager to open up the book and pore over its contents, but the final book in the paper package had already drawn her eye. It was the slimmest by far, perhaps two hundred pages if that, with a plain black leather binding. Opening it up, Belle ran her eyes over the title page: The Dark One: His Origins and Powers.

Belle clutched the book to her chest, heart thumping, and sent up a prayer to the gods that the information she sought would be contained within. Then she got back onto the bed, wriggling against the pillows to get comfortable, and began to read.

#fic: key to the cell #rumbelle fic #my fic #rumbelle #dark castle rumbelle

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irlmic · 5 years

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hmmms SO I napped a little today and while I was in and out I thought about a hizashi working with nedzu to catch the traitor and the plan included making mic a plausible person to frame! so basically going out of his way to get the rest of the staff to dislike or even hate him—Some aren’t hard, they aren’t good enough friends to really have anything built up. some are more difficult, people who are too kind to think poorly of others.

and then there’s shouta— and he knows this will hurt the most, but he needs everyone to dislike and doubt his intentions—and he knows all of his buttons, so there’s no one better for the job!

(And the thing is, shouta knows that there’s something going on, that the behavior is intentional. It stung the first few times, but when it kept happening it started to come clear that it was intentional— well, shouta starts to try to figure out why he’s doing it. He watches helplessly as hizashi becomes more isolated from his peers, shunned in places he would flourish. Even Nemuri is calling him annoying, lately)

(he’s horrified when snipe suggests he’s the traitor and he’s just getting antsy.)

(read more for discord discussion of the plot with some writing tidbits)

fish: (Shouta stares helplessly from his desk as Nemuri steps and stands like a wall in front of Hizashi, blocking the door. He can see the way Hizashi responds, hands creeping up to rest on his hips and head cocked. He doesn’t need to see his face to know that there’s a sharp grin.

“Mic,” Nemuri starts, Hizashi showing no obvious flinch at his hero name or the tone, “you need to either take a vacation or quit.” A moment of silence passes, enough to attract looks from the rest of the staff.

Snipe looks pissed, his body set in a hard line. Ectoplasm’s mouth is set in a frown, eyes staring into Hizashi’s back. Even Toshinori is shuffling, rubbing his arm absently. Most are of the same.

“And why’s that, Midnight?” Hizashi finally asks, issuing a challenge in his voice. Shouta can’t remember the last time he heard it and it didn’t sound sharp and so uncharacteristic for his friend.

“You’ve been upsetting the students—“

“Well, they haven’t been doing a good job, yeah? Can’t quit and leave them with no English teacher when they’re falling this far behind.” Hizashi interrupts, jabbing his finger into her space. That’s two of Nemuri’s biggest peeves, and her face darkens in an answer.

“They certainly don’t need a dick for a teacher, either.” She says, voice carefully in line. “In fact, it just so turns out that you’re not the only one who speaks English fluently on staff.” Hizashi makes a show of scoffing.

“Right, the teacher who gets his techniques out of a book. Don’t make me laugh, it’s not April Fools!” Hizashi barely wastes time to shoulder past Nemuri, leaving the room deadly silent. Toshinori is hanging his head down, eyes squeezed shut. Nemuri’s doing breathing exercises, rubbing at a temple.

Shouta has a sinking feeling.)

@balentay : shouta watches quietly, uneasy and unsettled. He catches Hizashi's unguarded moments when his shoulders slump and he seems down. But then he catches himself and its back to his act

fish: yes— and he doesn’t know how to approach hizashi without having the man pick through him cruelly, try and cut him away from his space

he would think that maybe found out about his feelings and was disgusted but he can’t, not when hizashi is being standoffish to everyone else as well

(Hizashi knows how to hit at every one of his insecurities. It takes his breath away when he’s called emotionless, punches him in the gut when he’s called a poor friend. yet shouta knows— this is not hizashi. It is him— shouta used his quirk once when his back was turned, fearing that he’d turn into a small, sharp-eyed girl or fall away into liquid across the floor, only to find that he remained just the same— but this is not who hizashi is. He’s just got to bare through it, find the common thread behind the sudden behavior.)

@balentay : so he watches. he watches the man alienate the staff slowly but surely. he watches as slowly but surely each face closes off and hardens whenever hizashi enters the room (he swaggers now, a cruel and confident smile curling his lips that sets Shouta's teeth on edge. this is not Hizashi, he reminds himself. he has to be doing this for a reason. but what?).

how even thirteen, amiable , friendly thirteen eventually grows sick of him and leaves him alone.

he alienates the students too. this is... not okay, but shouta cant confront him without playing his hand or forcing hizashi's. not when he doesnt have all the facts

fish: (He doesn’t even realize that they weren’t communicating at all outside of UA, not even to share their patrol times with each other until two months into the charade. He recognizes the fear settling low in his stomach, a cold anticipation weighing him down.

It’s realized when a meeting at UA is called with specific instructions not to inform Hizashi in any way. When Snipe suggests that Hizashi is the traitor, he feels it in the way that he’s the only one ready to object. Even looking at Nemuri, she has a thinly veiled irritancy marking her face. When another teacher mentions that Hizashi is pushing for information he wouldn’t normally have, the room breaks out into murmurs— except for shouta, who is dead silent and afraid.

He thinks he understands now.)

@balentay : its hard to breath when he realizes what hizashis doing. its like the weight of the world is crushing down on him all while the realization hangs suspended and crystal clear.

(he still watches his friend for days afterwards, hoping against hope he's wrong. that his friend isnt being stupidly, nobly self sacrificing. but what other answer is there?

he approaches hizashi when he's absolutely certain, catching hizashi's car door when he swings it open to go home. hizashi, who's been so absorbed in his own world, startles and stares at him with wide eyes for a moment before he recovers and arranges himself against him car so he can lounge and smirk.

"eraser" he practically purrs. he lets his eyes roam up and down shouta's body in a way he knows his friend hates. shouta feels his lips press together, but he refuses to rise to his friends' taunt. "what can i do for you?"

"hizashi, we need to talk.")

(and hizashi? is still too pathetically gone on his best friend to say no. they get in his car and they drive off. shouta doesnt let him take him home. hizashi doesnt offer.

instead, they drive out of town and to the middle of nowhere. where shouta can safely demand answers.

that doesnt mean hizashi is expecting him to. later, he'll wonder why hes so surprised shouta worked out what's going on or saw right through him)

fish: (hizashi, who hates that he's hurting everyone in his immediate circle.)

(who fears that even after his intentions are revealed after the true traitor is captured that his friends will never see him the same way again.)

("Shouta," Hizashi says, his voice a stuttering mess. The talk hadn't been pleasant, pushing Hizashi to the edge of tears. He's a people pleaser at heart, and to be hurting everyone and alienating anyone he cares for-- well, it's too much. "Shouta, you've got to treat me horribly, Shouta. It's the only way this will work." He's aware that he keeps repeating Shouta's name but-- he's got to get it out of his system, clinging to what little time he has to be himself.

"Hizashi, you don't need to do this--" Hizashi cuts him off with a jerking shake of his head, grounding his hands on Shouta's shoulders. He slumps, and breaths out.

"I've got to, Shou. I'm the best candidate. Nedzu will start a private investigation and find me guilty with planted evidence. I'll go to Tartarus. It'll give you and Nedzu the time you need to catch the real traitor.")

(Shouta rapidly inhales. Hizashi, in Tartarus-- for crimes he didn't commit, to give everyone else an opportunity to catch the traitor getting cocky. Shouta can feel a tremor in his own body, and while he's not on the cusp of tears like Hizashi, he wouldn't be surprised for his eyes to leak tears. He feels stupid for not realizing sooner what Hizashi's plan was. He feels like a failure for not catching on sooner, for not having a better alternative that doesn't leave his friend caged like an animal with some of the most notorious villains of their time.)

(Shouta is not okay.)

@balentay : tbh the only way this could possibly be better is if the car scene ends in a confession and a kiss and then theyre both expected to just go about their lives pretending hizashi is the traitor and shouta hates him

fish: oh tru

@balentay : ("hizashi.... i love you." shouta says, pleads in a rare moment of desperation. hizashi's eyes well up with tears and his face twists.

"please don't do this to me shouta." he begs. the tears spill down his cheeks. "not now")

fish: (Recognition flickers in Shouta's heart and it hurts to find out his feelings are reciprocated now.

"I need to tell you--"

"No, you need to hate me, if you don't they may just kill you next time--"

Recognition flickers in his mind and now? It makes crystal clear sense.)

ANYWAYS there u go i was told to post it and posting without the context seems weird so here u go, discord angst hell time,, i may write it but if anyone is Extra inspired feel free

#erasermic #yamada hizashi #present mic #aizawa shouta #eraserhead #discord hell #that's a new tag to document all the plots my hecking discord talks about

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ezwra · 6 years

Text

A Hymn For Your Gods [NovaHD]

self indulgent torture lol ha ha yeet

quick warning for graphic broken bone description and weird kissing of the hostage idk

[Ao3 Link]

They’re fire and ice. Wild and unruly, cold and calculated. They’re strong apart, but together they are an unstoppable force. Aleksandr, the serbian glacier, an ethereal blue in the desert heat of LA; james, the wildfire, a rush of dry heat and energy, ruddy cheeks and tangled hair. They combine together almost perfectly, whether it be in the line of fire or tangled together under sheets with grasping hands and mouths against sweaty, blood stained skin. They would kill for each other, losing their weak grasp on their control and massacring anyone that dared hurt their counterpart.

Today was one of those days; however, they decided to use this to their advantage.

The latest man, average height with greying hair and an ugly scar on the side of his head, had caught aleks off guard, taking him down with a smoke bomb and a rusted crowbar. They had managed to capture him in the act, brett striking the man down before james could slaughter him where he stood, instead sending the vengeful man to aleks’ side. They dragged him back to a safehouse, off the grid in the middle of the desert, and tied him up securely in the basement, AC at full blast and the cold room only getting colder as night set in. The gas mask the man used is still around his neck, a crack in one of the lenses and a blood splatter across the front, and the crowbar is on the trolley a few feet away. The room is dark, dingy, water-stained lights not doing much to illuminate anything. The floor, previously tiled with white slabs, is covered with various shades of red and brown, the coppery stench still filling the room. The walls are still white, though, with the occasional splatter.

The door opens suddenly with a loud screech, hinges protesting and practically making the room shake with the harsh sound. James is the first to step in, face gloomy and stern, followed by aleks. He’s still in a bit of a state, face bruised dark up one side and an arm wrapped around his own body for support. James is still in his clothes from the job, a black tee with a leather jacket, patched up messily with amateur stitching, none of the threads matching the leather, and some blood stained jeans, faded at the knees and the seat, a loose thread hanging at the thigh. Aleks is now in more casual clothes; a pair of grey sweats with shallow pockets, phone poking out slightly, and a black vest, tattooed arms out in the open in all their bruised and bandaged glory. He’s barefoot, too, the padding of his feet against cold tile ringing out uncomfortably in the room, but he doesn't seem to care, the cold echoing his most comfortable space.

James steps forwards and pulls a second chair out, quickly returning to aleks’ side and guiding him over with a hand on the small of his back. It’s the calmest he’s been for a while, pressed close to aleks and doing his best to hide him from the man that tried to take him away- aleks settles a hand on his shoulder, smiling small and soothing, a look in his eye reading calm, he can't hurt me. James nods slow and settles the fire in his chest, quelling it to gentle embers, only there to keep his aleks warm. He settles in the seat, shifting to sit at an angle on the chair, before coaxing aleks into his lap, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him steady and settling his chin gently on his shoulder, glaring at the man across from them.

Aleks is careful, he settles down and settles one of his hands over james’ where it rests on his stomach and wincing very slightly at the press of a warm hand against the tender flesh. He links their fingers, sighing out and rolling his shoulders before looking to the man again, eyes dark and icy as he talks, each word a sharp noise in the tense silence, “who do you work for?” The man says nothing, staring them down quietly. He’s obviously nervous, sweat beading on his brow and lip close to bleeding with how hard he’s chewing at it, fingers clutching at the arms of the chair and causing the aged wood to creak. Aleks can't help but commend his bravery, but he knows he’ll break.

They all do, eventually.

“It would be smart if you spoke now, you know. We would kill you much faster,” aleks’ voice is airy and casual, a sweet smile spreading across his face, “maybe we’d let you say goodbye to your family, too.”

The man sneers, “either way, you’ll sic your dog on me,” he gestures his head towards james, “he’s more like your bitch, with how he follows you around, a desperate boy looking for some order. Does he wear a leash when you’re alone?”

Aleks just sighs, shaking his head slow, “you think you’re so funny, don't you? No one’s laughing. First you hurt me,” james stiffens at that, arm wrapping tighter around aleks with a low growl, “then, you insult my jamie?” he strokes feather light fingers along james’ arm, nails dragging slightly against the grain of his arm hair, fingers catching slightly on the smooth scar tissue, “we can't have that, now, can we?” aleks looks back at james, eyes soft and mouth down turned into a small frown.

James shakes his head with a slow frown, leaning up and bumping his nose against aleks’ as a small act of comfort, intimacy in such a heartless room, love overflowing from the flames and into the ice, “no, we can't, doll…” he gently stands up, helping aleks with his hands on his hips and letting them linger against the pale skin before gently sitting him down, kissing his forehead with little more than a brush of lips against the sweat slicked skin, the warmth of james’ mouth sending a shudder through aleks. James strides over to the trolley carefully, boots ringing out in the small room, and studies each of the weapons carefully. They had been cultivated from many places; from traitors with fingers too fast on the trigger, from assassins with sharp tongues and even sharper knives, from hackers who were in over their heads with household objects and sheer determination. The crew decided that they shouldn't use their own tools during interrogation, during torture. As they say - you should keep business and pleasure apart.

But james can't help the rush of bliss that comes from the way the man trembles in his seat at the sight of the crowbar, the same one he had used on aleks mere hours before. His fingers wrap carefully around the rough metal, rust coming off on the pads of his fingers in reddish brown smears and flaking off to the floor. He walks back over, dragging the curve of the metal bar against the man’s cheek and reveling in the soft whimper, looking to aleks for orders, for guidance.

Aleks smiles sweetly in return, ice cracking under the heat and letting a refreshing stream of water flow, “make him hurt, my love. Hurt him like he hurt me, like he hurt you.” james’ fingers tighten around the metal and he doesn't hesitate before swinging the metal down harshly onto the man’s chest, the cry of anguish sending a low thrum of pleasure through him, deep and bassy. Aleks watches on quietly, studying his flame and watching it turn to a violent beast, the crowbar coming down over and over against the man’s body. The final strike, shattering the man’s left forearm and causing the bone to break away cleanly, breaks the man in a similar fashion.

“Fake AH! I work for Fake AH!”

Aleks hides his noise of disgust, shaking his head and standing slow. He walks over carefully, stroking over james’ arm as he passes before settling in the man’s lap, straddling him elegantly and gently bringing his hands up to the man’s neck. He strokes along the warm flesh - not warm like james, instead warm and tacky with fear and sweat and adrenaline - and croons sweetly, leaning down and pressing their heads together. The man leans into it, sobbing softly in pain as he presses eagerly into the gentle touches, craving the sweet words and tones.

This is what aleks is good at, wearing them down mentally if james can't break them physically. The ice a formidable opponent to the strong mind. Aleks brings his hands up to hold the man’s face, smiling soft and gentle as he wipes the tears away before pressing a sweet kiss to his lips, both mouths tasting of copper, yet one lined with the indescribable and addictive taste of fear. He separates slow, thumb brushing along his bottom lip and wiping some blood away, “baby, we can't have you lying, can we? That’s not very nice…”

James watches on, the fire burning stronger as he watches the man give in to aleks’ vices. Aleks is his, always has been and always will be, no matter the situation. The pleasure that comes with the man’s blatant fear, though, makes it all worth it, “n-no, please, i- uh- i'm telling the truth! I'm not lying!”

Aleks tuts, leaning in close and pressing a comforting kiss to the man’s jaw and spreading them down along the tight chords in his neck, taking a knife offered by james and smiling a little against the man’s skin, “you see, baby, i can tell you’re lying…” he gently slides his hands up the man’s shirt, unbuttoning it smoothly as he goes and pressing his palms flat to the strong chest, too smooth for his liking, not thick and hairy like his james, “the golden boy raised me up, made me who i am today, gave me my best weapon...” the first press of the knife, just the flat side, cool against his skin, “the king pin taught me to love my crew, gave me my first tattoo and held my hand though it…” he twists the knife, the blunt end creating a white line where it causes the man’s skin to strain slightly, “the vagabond and mogar taught me to control my anger, to let it fester before unleashing it, they helped me at my worst and encouraged me at my best…” he turns the blade to the sharp side, ghosting it along the man’s ribs and tracing subtle shapes, “brown man, rimmy tim, beardo… they all lead me here, they made me who i am now, and yet…” he adjusts his grip on the knife, kissing the corner of the man’s mouth with a soft sigh, “you claim you work for them. Why should i believe you?”

The man sobs desperately, quaking in his seat and using his good hand to grip the arm of the chair, “i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i don't know who they worked for, they just hired me, it was a hit, i didn't-” he gasps and goes silent when the tip of the knife, cold and sharp, presses against his neck, the knife shifting slightly with his thrumming pulse.

“Another lie.” aleks is slowly beginning to lose his patience, twisting the knife and watching the single drop of blood rise up and travel along the knife before dripping off onto the man’s pants. The ice is beginning to crack, tremors shaking the foundations, “why can't you be good for me, baby?”

All the man can do is sob and pant a breathy i'm sorry over and over, tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. James watches quietly, studying aleks and the way his back bows slightly, the hand with the knife tight in its grip shaking gently, the other hand gripping the back of the man’s chair. He steps forwards, standing behind aleks and gently moving him to rest against his abdomen, settling a gentle hand on his chest with a soft hum. Aleks looks up at james quietly, letting his walls down for just a moment; he's tired, the painkillers are wearing off and he’s slowly growing breathless, but he uses that to his advantage. He leans into james’ warmth, grinning soft at the man, “baby, i know you’re sorry, we’re gonna make sure you are.” his innocent tone greatly contrasts the words that flow out, too sweet and sticky like grenadine.

For the first cut, aleks moves the blade down to the fleshy part of his abdomen and cuts slow and shallow, then bringing the knife back across the same line in a saw motion, “sing, baby. Sing a choir song for me, nice and loud…” the man grits his teeth, determined, his chest heaving as he sucks in shallow breaths.

Aleks frowns at the silence, furrowing his brows. James lets out a low snarl at this, fire licking gently at ice as he kisses aleks’ temple before stepping behind the man, threading a hand in his greying hair and tugging harshly so he faces aleks, voice sharp and foreboding, “he said sing,” james digs his thumb into the shattered bones of his left forearm and pressing the upper half down, separating the bone further before pinching the lower half, “so you’d better sing, or i’ll make sure you never fucking talk.”

The howling wail the man lets out brings a bright smile to aleks’ face, one that assures james he would do anything to never see it wiped away from his handsome face. He grips the man’s arm tighter, skin starting to split where the bone pierces through, blood trickling out before pouring out along the arm of the chair, adding fresh crimson to the dull reds and browns on the floor. Aleks watches with a hungry look, eyes meeting james’ and, despite the pain lancing through him every few moments, aleks falls even more in love with the crazed man before him.

He laughs soft, sweet like honey and just as sticky, capturing both men in front of him in a trap of bliss, “that’s it, baby, such a pretty tune…” he takes the knife away from the messy groove in his stomach, dragging it up the man’s body before slicing the skin of his chest gently, “and as much as i love it, we need the truth from you. We’re gonna continue like this until you tell the truth,” he leans forwards, mouth brushing the shell of the man’s ear, “or until you bleed out; we’re not gonna get tired, cause hurting you makes my jamie happy, and if he's happy, i'm happy…” he moves his arms around the man’s neck, dragging the knife along and creating a deep cut trailing along his shoulder and around the back of his neck.

James hums, kissing the back of aleks’ hand with a low grumble, “i'm certainly very happy…”

Aleks nods, smiling sweet against the man’s temple and shuddering at the meek whimper, “so… who do you work for?”

The man shudders, hiccuping before whispering his answer, trying his best to move his head but unable to due to the tight grip in his hair. Aleks smiles so sweet and beautiful, sighing out happily and kissing the man’s forehead before taking his face into his hands, “thank you so much, baby, now i can go rest up…” aleks stands slow, shuffling over to the trolley and placing the knife down after cleaning it off, then turning to james and shuffling closer before pecking his lips soft, hugging his neck. This is more tender, more loving and kind than with the man, more honest, “you’re free to have your fun now, jamie, m’gonna go lay down for a bit, my chest hurts…”

James nods slow, kissing aleks’ jaw soft, mouth ghosting over the mottled bruises, “you sure you don't want me with you? He can wait until tomorrow, and i don't want you alone…”

Aleks leans into the gentle touches before wincing, sighing again and nodding, “yeah, honey. You have your fun, but don't take too long,” he grins, soft and sweet, before stepping away, turning around and walking to the door. He steps out and shuts it after himself, lingering briefly to listen to the begging and pleading for mercy, then retreating off to bed for rest.

The ice is cold and the fire is hot. The ice is melted by the fire, the fire is put out by the water. They are each other’s weakness, yet they wouldn't change it for the world.

#my writing #my fic #novahd #sfw #kinda?#violence #torture #blood #gore #fake chop #fakechop

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creepypasta-fandom-is-trash · 6 years

Note

Can I request a short fic where Jane keeps bullying and bullying E.J about his animal characteristics, about his tail/ears, that he needs a shock collar and a muzzle to keep him in line until he finally breaks? With Toby finding him in the locked basement with a gag in his mouth and tears down his face as he tries to cut off his tail. Extra points if he manages to cut through halfway. Thank you!

This is not a short fic.

"And here we see the wild mongrel," A slightly raspy feminine voice whispers, causing the ghost of a sigh to escape from Eyeless Jack's mouth "As you can tell, he's tame for now. But behind that facade is a vicious killing machine." Jane's tone mimics that of a wilderness documentary filmmaker, her voice low as she hovers by Jack. Reaching up, Jane flicks Jack's ear, causing the demon to recoil and hide the elf-like ear behind a lock of curly hair.

"If I'm careful, he won't attack," Jane chuckles "But he might attack anyway. Chernobog is known for being unnaturally aggressive." Eyeless sighs, turning a page in his book and trailing his gaze along the words, attempting to be absorbed by the text. Grimly, EJ notes that Jane's presence is spawned entirely by Jeff and Toby's absence. Jack's brow furrows under his mask, his eyelids fluttering softly to hold back the endless black ooze in his eye sockets.

"of all the days," Jack grumbles under his breath "of all the days to send those four to the Underrealm..." Jane giggles, sitting on the table next to Jack's book.

"What? did Toby forget to put your muzzle on before he left?" the female killer coos, sitting back "If you want, I'm sure I can find your leash somewhere, mutt." Eyeless sighs softly, shifting to face slightly away from Jane's masked gaze. Crossing his legs, Eyeless remains calm, his breaths coming slow and soft. Gently, Eyeless comes to the realization that he hasn't drunk anything today, a dry sensation resting uncomfortably on his tongue. Vaguely, EJ looks up at his refrigerator, wondering how fast he can get up to get a beer. "Hello?" the voice coos again "are you listening?"

"no." Jack answers unconsciously, shifting and looking back down at his book.

"Oh," Jane grins, gently patting Jack's shoulder "You're hungry. Dogs tend to stare at their food bowl too when they're hungry." Eyeless lets a long, deep sigh and turns the page, admiring the feeling of yellowed paper slipping along the pad of his finger. The feeling of rough, almost scale-like skin slips along Jack's stomach as his tail flicks against his will. Jane catches the movement, grinning as the tip of the long, black appendage pokes out from under Eyeless' jacket.

"What's this?" Jane notes, reaching down and grabbing onto the demon's tail "a tail? Eyeless darling, you can't go around calling yourself a human when you've got this rat tail." Fixing his gaze firmly onto the page, Jack furrows his brow and tries swallowing what little spit is in his mouth. Jane, sensing the perfect moment to pick on the older male, leans down to whisper.

"you should cut it off, maybe then people will like you."

CRACK

In a split-second, Eyeless slams the book down onto the table. Wood cracking and splintering under the thick spine of the book. The table itself bows inward, creaking softly. Jack stands, tucking the book under his arm as he turns to leave the room, white-hot rage flushing over his hidden features. Jane snickers softly, smirking under her own mask.

"Even rats will fight when cornered..."

Jack sighs, his fists unclenching at his sides as he slips off toward the basement.

Silence hangs heavy over the house, a silence that would typically be rather comforting to Slender as he opens the door. Quiet typically means that the monsters have abandoned the manor and have decided to terrorize another place for the time being. And the stillness can be taken advantage of. However, as Slender enters his house, the sight of a broken table in the adjacent room catches his gaze. One long, jagged crack in the wood indicating one thing.

Jack.

Walking down the hallway, Slender notes the presence of Jane, who has probably retired to her room. Which, in this case, is a fantastic thing. Slender strides calmly toward the basement, hoping to any god willing to listen that Chernobog hasn't decided to rear his ugly head. The damage caused by a demon such as him could warrant killing Jack, which given the fondness Slender has for him is not a good idea. It is likely that the table could have been broken by Seed Eater or Smiles, and the thought soothes Slender's mind. A calm feeling seeps through Slender's body as he manages to subdue his fears.

As he slips his hand around the basement door, though, Slender becomes frustrated to find that the door has been bolted shut. Another typical sign of Chernobog. And while the door is no problem for a beast like Slender, the stirring anxiety in his chest at the implied purpose of the door is almost too much to handle.

Forcing the door open, Slender rapidly descends into the dark abyss of the basement. The lights, being dim as they are, reveal the lab door to be hastily pushed shut, one slim sliver of light peeking out from the steel frame. Soft, almost nonexistent sniffling comes from within the lab, groans and pained grunts littering the periodic whimpers. Slender rushes toward the door, panic flooding his head as he opens the door to find..

Black blood coats the floor in small puddles, the gooey texture running down along the cracks and crevices in the tile. Tracing his gaze along the floor, Slender feels something drop in his chest.

"Jack?" Slender whispers, staring at the bloody form of the man he grew to call his son. A bloody gag in his mouth to hold back the crying, black oozy tears racing down his face endlessly. His jacket, for once, is off and discarded across the room, leaving his cut and bruised arms exposed to the dim white lighting of the room. Fresh bruises litter the poor demon's shoulders, having probably tried to bash his limbs in with doors and drawers. One hand is wrapped around his tail, gripping on tightly while the other presses a knife into the thick skin of his tail. Blood already pouring out of a deep cut in the appendage.

"Eyeless?" Slender states, dumbfounded as he walks closer to the curled up demon. Jack whimpers, shying away from Slender and instinctively spitting out the gag, shouting in fear.

"It's not what it looks like!" Jack yelps, dropping the knife and shuffling away toward the wall. If he had eyebrows, Slender would have furrowed them, scowling down at his friend in worry and fear.

"It looks like you're hurting yourself," Slender hums, picking up the knife and putting it out of Jack's reach "Why?..." Jack sniffles, looking away from Slender and whispering.

"Jane...."

Slender remains silent, scooping up the smaller man into his arms and cringing at the amount of blood soaking his clothes. Jack softly squirms in the larger monster's grip before tiredly settling into his arms. One blood-soaked gray hand clutches onto Slender's jacket as the demon stares blankly into space. For a moment, Slender wonders if Eyeless has passed out, but periodic sniffling reassures him that the younger male is still very much conscious. Gently, as to not disturb the young man, Slender gathers together the first aid kit and carries Jack out of the room.

Jack doesn't protest when Slender places him down on his bedroom floor. Not a word is said as Slender wipes away the black blood coating the demon’s features.

There are several cuts along Eyeless' tail, showing that the young man was attempting to saw it off in sections. Some cuts are deeper than others, and Slender holds back the urge to hiss and cringe at the sight of bone in one particular cut. Needles are threaded and Jack sits calmly as Slender sews up the deeper wounds. Silence hangs thick in the air like fog over morning hills. As he wraps Jack's various limbs Slender finds that there's something missing about the room, something that should be said.

But Slender was never that fantastic with emotion.

"Jack?" Slender hums, finishing with the bandages and packing up the kit. Eyeless hums, his eye sockets dripping steadily with 'tears'.

"Please...." Searching for words, Slender finds himself more confused than sure "Please don't do this again..." Jack sighs, bringing his knees up to his chest.

"Why? I'm just an animal..." Jack whispers "You know it too. That's why you keep me here, right? Because of of....him?" Slender stands silently for a brief moment. Gently sitting down on the floor with Eyeless.

"That was the original intent, yes," Slender begins, watching Eyeless' tail flick feebly "But over time it came to my attention...that...some particular monsters have... developed a form of affection for you...." Eyeless sighs deeply, staring at the floor.

"Like who?" Jack murmurs, wrapping his maimed tail around his body.

"Well," Slender hesitates, awkwardly clearing his throat "There's Toby.... Jeff rather enjoys having you around....me? I... see you as a family member. A...son of sorts?" Internally slapping himself, the tall faceless man observes as Jack lets the faintest of smiles cross his features before yawning. Slender, hasty to hide the "son" comment, is quick to speak.

"Sleep in my bed," He states "It's right there and frankly it's far away from sharp objects." Slender's worries clear up ever so slightly as Eyeless nods in agreement, standing feebly and walking over to the large bed. A strange warmth flows through Slender's ribs as he watches the comparatively tiny demon shuffle into the bed. Jack curls up beneath the covers, looking more like a lost cat than a bloodthirsty demon-man. Slender turns, preparing to put away the med kit when he hears Jack speak.

"Goodnight Dad."

Looking over at the now sleeping bundle of curly hair and darkness Slender feels a certain resolve stirring. An understanding of the warmth he feels.

Hate. Bitter, vile hate.

Hatred for those who have harmed what little he considers his. The same hate that spawned when he was left alone by his siblings, the hate that brought Tim and Brian into the picture. Slender understands the hate, letting it consume him as he turns.

Static fills the air, lights flickering and windows rattling as a deep, growling voice hisses out.

"Jane"

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danielcooperrp · 6 years

Text

Here Comes, the Blues You Wonder

A continuation of this thread

The van tears through the Argentinian forest, its thick wheels crunching the detritus on the ground below. Daniel sits on the floor of the van, staring wide-eyed ahead as he tries to process what just happened. Ally attacked law enforcement. They’re really criminals now.

Thighs like tree trunks crouch into his field of vision, and a not-so-gentle hand turns his face upward. He’s staring up at Cap now, whose expression is a dangerous mixture of anger and calm. “Do you understand what kind of trouble we’re in now?”

“I—”

“Do you?” Daniel nods. “Good. Because your wife just put all of our lives on the line for you, and we don’t even know if you’re actually innocent.”

“He is innocent,” Ally snaps from over his shoulder, but Cap waves her off. “What do you remember?” he asks.

“I don’t remember anything,” Daniel insists, voice breaking.

“What do you remember?” Cap insists.

Daniel’s eyes slide closed; he’s so fucking exhausted. Ally starts, “He told you he doesn’t remember, clearly something happened to him, so back off—”

“I heard gunshots.” Daniel’s voice is quiet, barely a whisper above the rumble of the van’s engine. All eyes snap to him. “I was here, in the van, and I heard gunshots. Comms were down, I...I couldn’t hear you guys, couldn’t talk to you. So when I heard gunshots I left the van with my medkit. I thought...I thought I could help.”

Ally kneels on the floor beside him and squeezes his hand. “What did you see?” she breathes.

“It was dark, in the trees. Even though it was daytime. I couldn’t...I couldn’t see where I was going. I was just following the sound of gunfire.” The memories are coming back in sharp, bright flashes; his eyes are burning from the inside-out.

“That was stupid,” Wanda mutters under her breath, and Ally shoots her a glare.

“What happened next?” Steve prompts.

Daniel’s eyes flutter open. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough, Daniel.”

“Okay.” Ally springs to her feet and grabs Steve by the arm, dragging him to the very end of the van. She crosses her arms and hisses, “You need to back the fuck off.”

“We don’t have time to coddle him, Allison,” Steve murmurs. “I hope that he’s not involved in a massacre, I really do, but until we hear his side of the story, we’ll be hiding him from Argentinian and international law enforcement until he’s dead.”

Ally starts to argue, but then she takes a deep breath and nods. “Fine. Fine.” She glances back at her husband, whose eyes have fallen closed again. “But not here. Let’s at least get him on the plane.

They’re airborne within the hour, the turbulent political situation in Argentina far behind them. The plane is big enough for a few cabins, and the team takes turns napping on the flight back to Wakanda.

Except Steve and Daniel. Steve stalks to one of the cabins as soon as he’s on the plane, holding the door open until Daniel and Ally arrive. Daniel enters first, avoiding Cap’s eye, and when Ally makes to follow, Steve steps in front of her, letting the door click shut behind him.

“What?” she asks, brow furrowing. Steve shakes his head. “What?”

“Let me handle this.”

“Handle—he’s my husband, Steve!”

Steve maintains an irritating level of calm as he says, “That’s why you need to let me handle this. I would never ask you to choose between being objective and being a good wife.”

“I can be both,” she insists, but she can feel the fight leave her body. Even though there isn’t a flicker of doubt in her mind that Daniel is innocent, she wonders if she won’t be more a hindrance than a help if she gets agitated while Daniel’s trying to recall whatever happened to him out in that jungle. She sighs. “I don’t want him to be alone.”

“C’mon, Ally. I’m going to talk to him, not committing war crimes to get him talk.”

“I don’t know that,” she says, but quirks a smile. She sighs again. “I’m scared to know what happened to him. He’s not like us, Steve. He’s...he’s...”

“He’s better.” Steve’s answer surprises her. “You and I both know the cost of war, not in our societies, but in our hearts. We’re fighters. We signed up for this. So when we see things that shock us, that terrify us, that change the way we see the world forever, we at least knew it was coming.” He jerks a finger over his shoulder. “Daniel is a scientist. He’s the one we turn to after the fact, when the dust has settled and we’ve washed the blood off our hands. He’s the one who fixes the problems we’ve left in our wake. So whatever happened out in that jungle, whatever horrors he’s seen or been complicit in...we have to give him the space to come to terms with them. And right now, that means letting me talk to him alone.”

“Fine, just...keep in the loop, yeah?”

Steve nods, and then heads into the cabin. Daniel’s waiting for him, cross-legged on the bed that’s really more of a cot. He leaned up against the wall, eyes half-closed in exhaustion. Steve grabs the only chair in the room and swings it around so he’s sitting on it backward, facing him. “Hey. Wake up.”

Daniel lets out a puff of air. “Can I just...I’m really tired.”

“Nah nah nah, no sleeping. For one, you’re probably concussed, so if you fall asleep you might not wake up again.”

“Probably con...” And just like that, the throbbing starts, first a dull ache, and then a pounding. His fingers tentatively touch the back of his head; sure enough, there’s a bump forming, roughly the size of a tennis ball. “I don’t remember that.”

“That is probably why don’t you remember much at all.” Steve nods to him. “Start from the beginning.”

“The beginning?” Daniel swallows. “Like...like I said, I heard gunshots—”

“Earlier than that.”

Daniel’s voice is edged with desperation when he says, “Earlier that what?”

“What was our mission?”

“You know what our mission was.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Daniel takes a deep breath. “There was a group of separatist rebels in northwestern Argentina. They’ve been terrorizing local communities, razing them and conscripting their young men into service. So we went to gather intel for the national guard.”

Steve nods. “Good, good. What was your duty?”

With a half-hearted shrug, Daniel answers, “What I always do? Man-in-the-van stuff. I manage the comms, keep an eye on the situation from Sam’s drones. Medical assistance when it’s needed.”

“Back on the ground you said the comms went out, that you couldn’t see anything. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Daniel insists. “That’s why I left the van. When I heard gunshots, and I could get anyone on the line, I went to see what was wrong.”

“And what did you see, Daniel?”

“I—” Daniel cuts himself off, and swallows. Voice barely above a whisper, he says, “I don’t remember.”

Steve leans forward. “Yes you do.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t. I remember leaving the van with my medkit and the next thing I know, I’m covered in blood and Sam’s staring at me in the hallway.”

“You were gone for over an hour and a half, Daniel,” Steve tells him. Daniel blinks; he had no idea so much time had passed. “Ally and Sam flew over that jungle more times than I can count; it wasn’t until Redwing picked up a heat signature that we even found that warehouse at all.” He stands up and leans against the back of the chair. “What happened while you were gone, Daniel?”

And Daniel just stares at him, utterly at a loss for words.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Steve makes his way into the little dining area of the jet. Ally and Wanda are there, the latter waiting for her turn to nap, the former halfway through her third cup of coffee of the trip. When she sees Cap approaching, she steps forward quickly. “How is he?”

Cap passes her and pours himself a cup of the brew. “Something happened out there in that jungle.” He turns to look her in the eye. “Something bad.”

“I got that much,” Ally says, barely taking the bite out of her tone. “How is he?”

Resting against the counter, he sighs. “Scared, mostly. Scared of what he doesn’t know, what he can’t remember. Scared of what he can remember.”

“Do you think—” Wanda cuts herself off abruptly, shooting a sideways glance at Ally.

Ally grits her teeth. “Ask the question.”

“No,” Steve says. “No, it’s alright. No, I don’t think Daniel had anything to do with the massacre that the Scott saw. In fact, I think we’re very, very lucky that he wasn’t a victim himself.” Ally blanches. “But the point is, we need him to remember.”

“If you think he’s innocent, can’t you just give him time to remember on his own?” Ally pleads.

“We don’t have time,” Steve tells her. “Those local police saw us. How long before they figure out that they had former Avengers in their midst? How long before they trace our tech back to Wakanda? How long before we’re in hiding again, running from international law?” Ally swallows thickly. “The more information we have, the better we can protect him, Ally.”

There’s a mini-fridge in the kitchenette, and Steve bends down and scoops a handful of ice from the freezer tray inside. As he wraps it in a dishtowel, Wanda asks, “What is it that you’re doing?”

Steve jiggles the ice. “He’s got a head injury, gonna try to get the swelling down.”

“A head injury—” Ally spins around, already stalking toward Daniel’s cabin.

Steve’s on her in a few long steps, grabbing her arm to pull her back. “I’ve got this.”

“Steve—”

“I’ve got this, Allison.” He sighs. “Go tell Scott that he needs to send a comm ahead. We’re going to need medical assistance when we land.” Ally makes a face. “Go. I’ll take care of him, I promise.”

Daniel jerks awake when the door slams shut. He looks up just as Cap extends his hand, a dishtowel hanging like a teardrop from his fist. He quirks an eyebrow in confusion. “Ice,” Steve explains, and Daniel takes the makeshift ice pack gratefully. He winces as he presses it to his bump. “Nasty hit you took.”

“Not the worst I’ve gotten,” Daniel says dryly.

Steve cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Daniel shakes his had and instantly regrets the motion. “I...it’s nothing. It’s not important.”

Deciding to let that pass, Steve says, “So. You were following the gunshots.”

His knees tucked up by his chin, Daniel stares at his jeans, now crusted with dried blood. “It was hard to breathe. I was...I was running fast, and...” He scoffs. “Look at me. I’m not...I’m not you. I don’t have the stamina to run through jungles. But I had to. I had to go, because...”

“You were worried about Ally,” Steve finishes.

Daniel lets out another derisive laugh. “It’s stupid. How am I going to be of any help to her? She’s a superhero. I’m...me.”

“Hey.” Daniel looks up from his knees, and Steve is staring back at him with an unimpressed face. “She loves you, Daniel. And she needs you. I’ve been...in this life—the military, the experiments, the Avengers—for, technically, over half a century, and let me tell you, she needs someone like you.” His eyes fall. “It’s the people like who you keep us grounded.”

Daniel doesn’t know what to say to that, knows that there are losses in Cap’s long life that he can’t even begin to imagine. So he presses on. “I don’t remember how I ended up in the warehouse, Cap. I swear I don’t. There’s the woods, and then there’s—”

All of a sudden, there’s a loud, piercing noise, shooting through the belly of the plane. Daniel and Steve both slap their hands over their ears, and just as abruptly as the noise started, it stops. Steve looks up at the intercom, where a voice crackles to life. “Sorry, sorry!” Wanda sounds slightly garbled over the comm system. “That was the wrong button! My mistake!” The intercom clicks off.

Steve sighs. “That was annoying.” He looks back at Daniel, and is surprised to see him pale-faced and wide-eyed, staring at nothing. “Daniel?”

“She screamed when they caught her,” he whispers. “I could feel it in my bones. She screamed, and then they shot her. It was so loud, the screaming and the bullets and—” His eyes fall back to the dried blood on his jeans. “Her blood...it was everywhere.”

Steve leans forward, confused. “Who screamed? Who is she? Who are you talking about?”

Daniel blinks, and whatever came over him snaps. He swallows. “Sorry, I...”

Steve abandons his chair and perches on the bed beside Daniel, who curls in on himself tighter. “Daniel, did you see someone get killed?”

Daniel is still, rigid as a statue. Then, slowly, he nods. “I remember now. I remember everything.”

Ally’s waiting for Steve in the kitchen. The sky is black; it’ll be two in the morning local by the time they land in Wakanda. She’s lost count on how many cups of coffee she’s had, how many times she’s turned down her teammates’ suggestions that she get some rest. When Steve sits down across from her at the cramped table, she says, “What happened to my husband?”

And so he tells her. “Daniel witnessed what can only be described as one of humanity’s greatest evils.” The breath Ally didn’t know she was holding comes out slow and ragged. “He found a woman running through the woods, and the rebels caught her and shot her, feet away from him.” Steve’s voice is as still as an icy lake. “They dragged her body and him back into the town, where...” He falters, but presses on, “...where she was dumped inside the massive grave full of bodies.”

“Jesus Christ.” Ally pushes away from the table and paces a tight circle. “Why didn’t they kill him?”

“They argued about it, he says. From what he could translate of their Spanish. But they pegged him as an American, and my guess would be that the last thing their cause needs is a war with both the Argentinian government and the American one.” He takes a deep breath. “They knocked him out, took him to their hideout, the warehouse we found him in.”

Ally stops pacing. “This is my fault,” she breathes.

“Ally—”

“You were right earlier. He’s not like us, and I knew that, and I let him come out in the field with us anyway.”

Steve makes a face. “I think you and I both know that there’s no stopping Daniel from doing what he wants to do. And besides, he’s been helpful. Remember when Scott sprained his knee? Daniel wrapped it up so well he was able to jog all the way to the plane.”

“That’s not the point and you know it.”

Sighing, Steve stands up. “I’m going to go get some sleep. You should sit with him, keep him awake until we land.” Steve passes her on his way to another cabin, but he stops and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “The two of you are really lucky to have each other, you know that?”

Ally not-so-discreetly wipes away a tear with the pad of her thumb. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Go see your husband.” And then Steve ducks away, leaving Ally alone, staring out the tiny plane windows into an inky black sky.

#drabble #thenamesallison #v1 #hoo boy this is long

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moreracquetball · 7 years

Text

the star stuff

Dedicated to my Writing Raffle 2nd Place Winner @easeondown who requested Whizzvin with Whizzer as an astrophysicist.

Summary:

Colliding galaxies

A galactic “car wreck” in which two galaxies pass close enough to gravitationally disrupt each other’s shape. The collision rips streamers of stars from the galaxies, fuels an explosion of star birth, and can ultimately result in both galaxies merging into one.

:: - ::

Gravity

A mutual physical force of nature that causes two bodies to attract each other.

Swishing his cocktail around with the neon pink straw, Whizzer sits daintily at the bar and feigns ignorance to the other man’s trained gaze on him. The straw beats against the rim of the glass pointedly, and he hopes that even from across the room, his admirer will notice that Whizzer’s drink looks awfully empty right now.

But he isn’t expecting much to come of it, really. After all, the man—sat at the very corner of the club, bathed in shadow rather than pink strobe light, positioned rigid and alert—seems more like a watcher than a player. He’s the type that tries to remove himself from the context of his visit here, only wants to sit and watch the men and desperately pretend that he isn’t.

It’s pitiful, sure, but exasperating. And Whizzer’s time is far too valuable to waste playing into some insecure man’s fantasy.

But. Still. There’s something about him that makes Whizzer’s eyes flicker every once in awhile to that darkened corner, exasperated and annoyed but nonetheless—curious.

Whizzer has always been curious. It’s the thing that’s always made him look up at the sky, trying to pin down and assert meaning to celestial bodies that of which that seem to defy mortal understanding. It’s the thing that makes him haunt gay bars and pick up men who are searching for the same understanding, for if they could not find it in the stars or arts or words, at least they could find a scrap of it in each other’s own celestial bodies.

Yes, Whizzer is curious—about the dark, the isolated, the unexplored. And maybe that’s why he keeps looking over at the man, wasting his time, hoping against hope that he isn’t all that he appears to be. That maybe he’s the one tonight that Whizzer can find some semblance of hollow meaning within the crook of his neck or crevice of his body.

Or hell—maybe Whizzer’s just a little drunker than he gives himself credit for.

And just maybe, Whizzer muses to himself as he sees the darkened shadow of the man rise from his chair and walk into the light—heading straight for him, I’m not the only one curious and searching for meaning tonight.

The man is all lithe muscles and sharp angles, but it’s the way that he carries himself—confident, imposing, powerful—that makes him seem bigger than the entire room, that makes Whizzer glad that he looked twice.

He doesn’t bother with coyness or romanticism. He sits down in the seat next to him and asks bluntly, fishing out his wallet in an eyeroll-inducing, grandiose performance, “What’s your poison?”

But Whizzer likes the game of it all, so he gives the man a pointed, slow once-over, enunciating deliberately, “Handsome, devastating men.”

The man doesn’t pause in his motion of slapping a crisp five dollar bill on the table, but Whizzer is close enough to hear his breathing stutter and see his adam’s apple bob. And okay—maybe he is the one for tonight.

Whizzer lets the beat of silence settle and simmer before adding, “And a Manhattan.”

The man orders Whizzer a Manhattan and himself a whiskey (a generic “manly man” drink), but by the way his lips always twist each time he takes a sip, Whizzer supposes that even that choice is just part of the performance.

“I’m Marvin.” The man introduces himself finally, and his voice is only a little choked by the way that Whizzer has shamelessly laid a hand on his inner thigh.

Whizzer directs his hand to go even higher and doesn’t introduce himself until he’d made the man turn bright red, “Whizzer.” And then he asks, “Yours or mine?” He only asks to see his reaction, how Marvin immediately moves his hand away as if Whizzer hasn’t already noticed the tan line of a missing ring on one of his fingers.

Surprising no one, he says, “Yours.”

On the walk to Whizzer’s apartment (it being only a couple blocks away from the seedy, gay bar), Marvin stares unabashedly at the exposed planes of Whizzer’s skin while Whizzer tips his head up to the great beyond. He easily paints depth to the sky, tracing the celestial paths of stars and planets and anomalies. Many of his colleagues think of the sky as a window into the unattainable, but Whizzer has always thought of it as more of a map for uncharted territories not yet explored.

Marvin seems to grow agitated by the lack of attention and touches the crook of Whizzer’s elbow, bringing the man back down to Earth.

“The constellations are really beautiful tonight,” Marvin says knowingly, as if he arranged the stars there himself, “You see the Little Dipper?” He points to it, though he’s paying more attention to Whizzer’s facial expression than the stars themselves.

Because Whizzer just can’t help himself, he corrects him, “The Little Dipper isn’t a constellation.”

Marvin’s smug, eager-to-impress expression falters a little, replaced with defensiveness, “Yes, it is.”

“The Little Dipper is an asterism, which is just a group of stars.” Whizzer tells him, “That asterism is part of a constellation called Ursa Minor.”

Marvin doesn’t seem impressed by Whizzer’s knowledge. Really (and it makes Whizzer want to both laugh and sneer), he seems pathetically threatened by it.

His handsome face sours like a dry lemon, “Those are pretty big words for such a pretty face.” Whizzer debates on telling him but, for all the man’s superiority complex, he wonders if Marvin has even heard of an ‘astrophysicist.’

Instead, he plays coy, “What can I say? I’m a spaceman.”

Marvin continues to look unimpressed, even chuckles a little cruelly, “A spaceman named Whizzer, huh? Come on—Is there anything about you that’s real?”

Finally they get to Whizzer’s apartment complex, and Whizzer crowds him against the door, noticing how Marvin stiffens in fright when Whizzer leans in and kisses him right on the street corner—where anyone could see.

“Well, Baby,” Whizzer doesn’t see the harm in playing the role of dumb whore, if that’s what will help Whizzer get his rocks off quicker, “That’s what you’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

:: - ::

Nadir

A point directly underneath an object or body.

Marvin looms over Whizzer, pins his wrists against the mattress, and thrusts even deeper into him. Whizzer buckles and sighs into Marvin’s mouth, pushes down and chases after him and repeats more more more more.

When they’re finished, Marvin collapses on top of him, his ragged breathing tickling the sensitive skin on Whizzer’s neck. Marvin’s position leaves his naked shoulder vulnerable, so Whizzer bends his head down and bites down. He wildly expects to taste something new—something extraordinary. He imagines the taste of a comet’s carbon or a red giant’s gaseous flames, but all he really gets is the saltiness of sweat.

Marvin, ignorant to Whizzer’s desire for meaning, just laughs it off, pulling teasingly at Whizzer’s hair and muttering, “Dick.”

Without warning or care, Marvin dislodges and collapses beside Whizzer on the bed, messy-haired and red-cheeked and bright-eyed. It’s been months since that first meeting at the bar, but Whizzer hasn’t grown bored of this man. Still transfixed in Marvin’s orbit, Whizzer studies the way his chest moves rhythmically up and down in the dim lighting of his bedroom.

He’s beautiful and devastating, and Whizzer knows a supernova when he sees one but he can’t for the life of him break the gravitational pull of their bodies.

“I’m gonna leave her.” Marvin tells Whizzer, after he gets his breathing back.

Whizzer’s heart stutters, but he keeps casual, playing dumb and indifferent, “Who?”

Marvin glances over and gives him an unamused look, clarifying needlessly, “Trina.”

Trina. Marvin’s wife.

Whizzer knows that Marvin is gauging every twitch of his expression, so he keeps his face carefully blank as he says, “Just make sure you’re doing it for yourself.” Not for me.

“I am doing it for myself,” Marvin assures, threading their fingers together underneath the sheets, “But it’s because of you.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, trying but failing to suppress a smile, “Always gotta share the blame, don’t you?”

“Always, Spaceman.” Marvin confirms cheekily, squeezing Whizzer’s hand as he leans in and presses their lips together. The kiss is slow, easy, without purpose or means to an end. Whizzer finds the ease and tenderness of the contact addicting in a way that frightens him.

The kisses and gentle touches are over too soon as Marvin breaks away and gives him that same old apologetic look, “It’s late. I have to go.”

Whizzer doesn’t tell him goodbye as Marvin lets himself out of the apartment. Instead, Whizzer stares blankly at the ceiling, tracing mythical cosmic paths and asserting meaning into the cracks and waterstains.

:: - ::

Binary

A system of two stars that revolve around a common center of gravity.

After the routinely tense, quiet charade of a ‘family dinner,’ Marvin and Jason migrate to the den for a meek game of half-hearted chess while Whizzer hangs back in the kitchen and rolls his sleeves up. At the sink, Trina scrubs the dishes with the vigor of a sexually frustrated virgin, and Whizzer momentarily thinks of making a joke of it before he realizes that Trina probably wouldn’t laugh. Worst case, she might even cry, and Whizzer is too tipsy on cheap wine to muster up any sort of genuine empathy and comfort.

Even though he’s done this for months and months—even before the divorce, Trina always seems surprised when he joins her at the sink.

With forced casualness (because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be truly comfortable around her, given their history and shared affiliation with a certain maniac), he reminds her, “It’s my turn to wash. You can dry.” He almost thinks he sees a twitch of a smile on her exhausted face before it settles back to stone.

Their routine is one of silence with sporadic attempts at cordial conversation. It’s comforting in a mind-numbing way that soothes the oncoming headache that these tense meals usually give him.

“I have a date with the psychiatrist tomorrow night.” Trina tells him suddenly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He wonders if she’s telling him this to make Marvin jealous (when Whizzer inevitably tells him one way or another) or if she’s still searching for any semblance of approval from any man in her life.

“That’s good,” Whizzer says noncommittally, the news unaffecting him, “Are you gonna screw him?”

Trina flushes at his vulgarity, and it makes him feel a little cruel and powerful.

“Yes. Well, I mean. Probably. Maybe.” Trina busies herself with the plate in her hands, “I don’t know.” Her voice has grown curt and anxious, as if she regrets even bringing it up. And for that reason, Whizzer should let it go.

But he doesn’t. Because honestly? It’s just too fucking funny.

“So, Marvin’s psychiatrist, huh?” Whizzer says, laughing a little, “Do you normally run in such tight circles or do you just really want Marvin to notice that you’ve started dating again?”

“This has nothing to do with Marvin.”

Whizzer narrows his eyes at her, makes a skeptical, derisive noise in the back of his throat, “We both know that that’s bullshit.”

Because nowadays, it seems like everything that they do, they do for Marvin.

But strangely, Whizzer wants her denial to be true. He wants to believe that she’s finally doing something for herself and not for him.

He wants to believe that she’s found a new center of gravity, if only for the fact that it gives him hope that he’ll find a new one soon, too.

:: - ::

Chaos

A distinctive area of broken terrain.

Frustrated, Whizzer crosses out another line of calculations and rakes a hand over his face, causing his cheap, wire-framed glasses to mash against his skin. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong. He messed up somewhere, he knows, but he can’t for the life of him find and correct the error. And now he has to wait another three fucking months before the same pattern co-aligns in the sky—just for some stupid fucking paper that doesn’t even matter at all, that no one except withered up nerds even glance over.

Whizzer distantly notices Marvin hovering in the doorframe of their living room, watching him, but he ignores him. He’s already nursing a migraine from the hours upon hours that he’s worked on this wasted trash of a study; he doesn’t have the energy to suit Marvin’s need for a fight or sex.

But Marvin doesn’t get the hint (or, more likely, he just disregards it), and so he says quietly, “Hey, Spaceman.”

“Leave me alone.” Whizzer says flatly, copying down a string of random numbers so Marvin will think he’s working (as if that will dissuade him when he wants something).

“Come on, tell me,” Marvin wheedles, walking over to stand at the back of the couch and massaging Whizzer’s tense, hunched shoulders, “What’s wrong? You still haven’t discovered a new planet yet?” Whizzer notices that Marvin is being extra sweet and doting today, most certainly due to the hours-long, godawful fight that they’d had last night that left glass shattered and doorframes splintered.

It’s a maddening cycle. Marvin or Whizzer will pick a fight, and it either ends with rough, desperate, hollow sex or an icy, numbing silence that’s getting harder and harder to thaw. Used to, back when this whole thing began, their fights ended with the former, but nowadays, they’re losing everything they’ve built together to frostbite.

“You don’t get it, and I don’t want to explain it to you.” Whizzer says, though the real answer is You don’t get it, and you won’t let me explain it to you.

Because Whizzer could never be as smart or, god forbid, smarter than Marvin—oh no, of course not. Because that somehow makes Marvin less of a man, and it’s fine and dandy if Whizzer’s self-concept is shot to hell so long as Marvin feels secure and comfortable.

It used to not bother him—to play the role of dumb whore. But a lot of things get fucking old after a long while.

“What’s to get?” Marvin asks, and Whizzer hates how his words make him tense but his skilled, kneading fingers make him buckle and relax, “I know the basics—stars and planets and comets and blah blah blah. Just start talking, and I’m sure I can figure it out. Hell, maybe you need a pair of fresh eyes on it.”

Whizzer feels a sickening sense of anger and loathing, “You think you’re being cute, don’t you?”

Marvin continues to massage his shoulders and it overwhelmingly disgusts Whizzer when he doesn’t even seem to realize his own inflated arrogance, kissing the side of Whizzer’s neck and mumbling against his skin, “Yes.”

Whizzer finally shakes him off of him, saying briskly, “Well, you’re not. You’re being a condescending asshole.”

His sudden surge of ice and anger seems to surprise Marvin, and he replies after a beat, defensive and hurt, “Whizzer, I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, you can’t, okay?” Whizzer bites out, suddenly so angry and disgusted and tired—fuck, he didn’t even realize he was just so tired of it all, “You can’t fix everything, Marvin, alright? You’re not right all the time, and you don’t know everything. Jesus, you must realize that, don’t you? Or are you that fucking self-deluded?”

The hurt, astonished look fades from Marvin’s face, and Whizzer feels a faint flicker of fear lick down his spine. Whizzer is never one to forget that Marvin is composed of material of which is indicative of a cryovolcano—ice and violence.

And it’s not like Marvin has ever laid a fucking hand on him (Whizzer is gone the second after that happens, thank you very much), but that doesn’t mean shit, right? Because maybe, just maybe, Whizzer just hasn’t seen Marvin at his peak of rage, hasn’t made him angry enough to do it just yet.

But Marvin—blank-faced, dark-eyed—doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move toward him. Instead, like the coward that they both know that he is, he turns around and stalks off, slamming the door on his way out of the apartment.

Whizzer thinks that this was a victory on his part, that he should feel like a winner.

But he doesn’t. He’s frustrated and angry and sad and alone.

:: - ::

Supernova

The explosion of a star.

When Marvin thrusts that suitcase against Whizzer’s chest, the momentum knocks Whizzer off his axis, has him torn out of Marvin’s orbit, has him lost and alone and hurdling into the cold isolation of space.

:: - ::

Apastron

The point of greatest separation of two stars.

Whizzer keeps in touch with Jason. He meets the kid after school every once in awhile at Central Park, toting a baseball and two mitts.

Whizzer likes to pretend that it’s a favor to Jason, to help out his baseball playing because Marvin sure as hell isn’t even bothering to try, but really it’s a favor to Whizzer more than anything. Jason is his connection to the tight-knit family that he had wasted nearly a year of his life on, to the possibility of a family at all, to the what if’s that plague him at night. What if Whizzer had stayed? What if Whizzer had left sooner? What if Whizzer came back?

After the particularly disastrous attempt at catch, Jason offhandedly fills him in on what’s going on—Trina and Mendel are on an exercise and dieting kick, his Bar Mitzvah is imminent, Heather Levin said hi to him in the hallway in passing...

And every time, Jason makes Whizzer swallow his pride and ask, “How’s Marvin?” Because yeah, he still cares about him. It’s been two years, and most days, looking back on it, his time with Marvin just feels like a fever dream—wild and delirious and exhilarating and disorienting.

But. It doesn’t change the fact that Whizzer still cares—will always still care—about him, even if it is just in an abstract sorta way. Even during the horrible, overwhelming everything and the subsequent two years of nothing, Whizzer has always wanted Marvin to be happy. Of course, Whizzer would never exchange his own happiness for Marvin’s, but that doesn’t mean that he wants Marvin to be miserable regardless. He’s not that cruel.

“Weirdly happy, actually,” Jason says, surprising Whizzer, “This whole Bar Mitzvah thing has really excited him. It’s kinda embarrassing, if I’m being honest.”

Whizzer finds himself smiling, only a touch of melancholy and bitterness gracing his tone as he admits, “That’s good. I’m glad he’s—getting better.” Getting over me. But that’s not quite true, is it? Whizzer wouldn’t call this hollow feeling gladness.

Jason apparently sees something in the twist of Whizzer’s mouth because he says quite abruptly, “You should go to my baseball game this Sunday.”

And Whizzer thinks about all those what if’s and nearly chokes on them.

“I’ll think about it.” Whizzer says, even though he’s already made up his mind.

:: - ::

Tidal Force

The differential gravitational pull exerted on any extended body within the gravitational field of another body.

This day is going to be about Jason. This is not about seeing Marvin again for the first time in two years. This is not about looking great and fit and getting silent revenge on Marvin for kicking him out. This is not about casually dropping in and seeing if Marvin is happy, if he’s eating well, if he still misses him at all. This is not about Marvin. This is not about Marvin. Not everything has to be about Marvin.

But Whizzer forgets this mantra the second that he catches sight of the man—horribly dressed, face flushed, hiding behind an unamused woman. And fuck, it’s just like looking at the moon, a looming titan with depth and luminosity and ethereality and tangibility, as if Whizzer could just reach up and touch it—

Inside his jacket pockets, Whizzer’s hands twitch, and he’s thankful that no one notices his momentary weakness.

Whizzer tries to make this visit only about Jason, but then Marvin makes him sit in front of him and he keeps playing with his hair in a way that reminds Whizzer of better nights of soft touches and sleepy laughter. And Whizzer feels himself being pulled back into Marvin’s orbit, kicking and screaming.

Marvin asks, “Would it be possible to see you—or to kiss you—or to give you a call?” And he’s looking at Whizzer like he holds the galaxies at his fingertips, and Whizzer can’t stop staring at Marvin’s lips, wondering if he could ever find new meaning in a familiar body.

Whizzer nods and knowingly sets himself up to implode.

:: - ::

Active galactic nuclei

A region in the center of a galaxy that has a higher than normal brightness.

Weeks later, they’re lying in bed, and Whizzer knows that this is just an average day with the Earth spinning on its axis and the sun being the center of the galaxy, but right now—in this bed, under these sheets, with Marvin pressed against his body—it feels like they’re on another plane of existence.

It’s a lazy Wednesday evening, one that is full of good-natured teasing and soft touches and kisses without a purpose or means to an end.

Marvin’s grip around Whizzer tightens, and he breathes pleading, goading words into his hair, “Come on, Spaceman. Tell me about the star stuff again.” And he isn’t derisive, he isn’t rude. He seems genuinely—curious.

And so Whizzer does. He explains that the iron in their blood and the calcium in their teeth and the carbon in their very genes were produced billions of years ago inside a red giant of gaseous flames. He goes on a tangent about how the water in their skin is that the same of the frozen water which makes up a comet. He theorizes that everything is celestial in its own right, with its own meaning. He describes the star stuff that weaves the galaxy together, just as it threads DNA.

Kissing his neck, Whizzer runs a hand through Marvin’s curled, mussed hair, twisting the strands and listing, “These would be comet tails.” He licks a pocket of sweat from Marvin’s collarbone, continuing, “This is space dust.” He prods at a collection of freckles at Marvin’s inner thigh, naming, “Nebulas.”

Marvin smiles and kisses Whizzer, but rather than doing so just to shut him up (like he wildly expects), Marvin pulls back a little and requests softly, kind and patient, “Tell me more.”

:: - ::

Dark Matter

Matter in the universe that cannot be seen, but can be detected by its gravitational effects on other bodies

Of course he’d heard about it—before it happened to him. Even if he hadn’t been listening to Charlotte’s rants of fear and anxiety and confusion, Whizzer sure as hell noticed many of his friends—once laughing, happy, healthy—soon wither in a way that defies science, that defies humanity.

When Whizzer starts to feel more tired than usual, he blames it on his chaotic work schedule.

When Whizzer begins losing weight, he blames it on his working-too-well metabolism.

When Whizzer collapses on that racquetball court, he blames it on the only celestial body that he doesn’t even believe in anymore—not since he was a kid.

“What does it look like?” Whizzer asks Charlotte, and at her blank look, he clarifies dryly, “My murderer.”

The stone in her face shatters before she hurriedly pastes it all back together again, “We don’t know for sure, really. We just know what it makes others look like.”

“Death.” Whizzer answers, looking at his reflection of hollow eyes and hollow cheeks, “It makes us look like death.”

:: - ::

Event Horizon

The invisible boundary around a black hole past which nothing can escape the gravitational pull—not even light.

He tries to warn them all away, but they all gravitate toward him. Even though all he does is take and take and take.

Trina. Whizzer took her man and way of life away and forced her to live a life of unconvention and chaos where she now comforts the man who took everything from her.

Mendel. Whizzer took his blind optimism away as he now tries to stay up later and later in order to solve a problem that doesn’t have a solution yet.

Charlotte and Cordelia. Whizzer took their bliss and ignorance away as Charlotte now leaves the hospital with a bitter taste in her mouth and Cordelia bakes and bakes only to keep herself from screaming.

Jason. Whizzer took his moment of Becoming a Man away and made it all about him.

Marvin. Whizzer took his…Whizzer took his…Whizzer took his…

:: - ::

Accretion disks

When material is transferred from one celestial object to another.

Marvin stares at him, god-smacked, with a look of horror and despondency, “She told you?” He speaks of it like he’s been betrayed by the doctor rather than his lover.

“Charlotte didn’t have to tell me,” Whizzer says lowly, because if he raised his voice anymore, he knows that it will break, “Marvin, look at yourself.”

The loose clothes, the discoloration of skin, the rattling cough.

“I’m fine. She said that they caught it early,” Marvin says, painting on that stupid, optimistic, fake smile of his, “I’ll be alright.” But Whizzer’s face is already crumbling, and Marvin rushes to his hospital bed, tries to pull him close as Whizzer shoves him away with all the weak force he has left.

“Don’t touch me. I’ve already infected you enough.”

“Whizzer, stop it. Don’t say—“

“I ruined you, Marvin.”

“You saved me—a million times over.” Marvin threads their hands together, and the touch feels hot and explosive—like they’re holding an entire star system together, “Who would I have been without my spaceman?”

Desperate, Whizzer kisses him, and he finally finds the meaning that he’s been searching for.

:: - ::

Colliding galaxies

Marvin wheels Whizzer to the window in his hospital room, and it’s a pretty shit view but Whizzer can still make out a sparse collection of stars splattered across the night sky. Behind him, Marvin massages his bony shoulders, kisses his hairline, and requests softly, kind and patient, “Tell me about the star stuff.”

#if you couldn't tell this followed the events of the musical - bc I chose format over plot #but um yeahh??? I loved this??? A lot??? It's amazing??? thank you so much?? I hope you like it???#will probs post this to my ao3 sometime today too #also i know that i said i was going to do these in descending order but this user gave me their prompt first like an hour #after the winners were announced soooo - yeah i had already started on it #but anyways #falsettos #fanfiction #whizzvin #writing #writing raffle #yikes i am so sorry that i made this so sad #also that's my title right now (the star stuff) but if you think of a better hmu #also tell me what you think of this please - i love validation

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smilinstar · 7 years

Text

Fic: let them talk (Legends of Tomorrow; Rip/Sara)

Fandom: Legends of Tomorrow

Rating: G

Pairing: Rip Hunter/Sara Lance (Time Canary)

Summary: Period AU for Time Canary Week – Regency Era

“Leaving so soon? You didn’t even dance.”

The voice catches him unaware. Female, teasing, inappropriately familiar and decidedly not British.

Author’s Note: This was quite the challenge to write. Rip was fairly easy to slot into Regency England, but dialogue for Sara was hard. I’m not really sure how this turned out. I had half a mind to delete it, but it is, whatever it is.

Read on AO3 or under the cut

:::::

He breathes out heavy in the brief moment of quiet. The sound settling like dirt and sand sinking to the sea bed. Unseen. Unheard. The deep sigh is familiar. It is the only noise which leaves his lips these days, excepting the occasional ‘good day’ that is forced from him when out in polite society. He usually manages to excuse himself from further conversation by feigning the need to attend to some errand of grave and urgent attention. He never tarries to see if it causes offence. He does not have it in him to care. Not anymore.

In any case, his tried and tested means of avoiding unwanted small talk, have yet to fail him.

This blasted ball, however, is the first black mark against it.

He had tried. Oh, how he had tried! But his good friend Martin would not hear of it and had forced him here through guilt of his own impending departure with the fleet, and “besides,” he had said, “you’re still young yet, Captain Hunter. We may find you another bride! Any young woman would be thrilled to find themselves wedded to a young strapping, naval officer, such as yourself.”

Young, he may be. Strapping, he thinks is a rather erroneous description.

What he is, is a miserable, mourning widower, who has no interest in finding a wife. And he certainly has no time for music, and dancing, and frivolous conversation.

Nevertheless, he attends.

Though he opts to stand sulking in the corner of the ballroom, and makes no more effort than that to enjoy himself.

The modestly sized orchestra soon sets upon another piece, and the dancing begins anew with shameless vigour. There’s clapping, and stomping, laughter ringing around the room, all of which pounds mercilessly against his eardrums and he wants nothing more than for it to stop.

And then it does.

In the most surprising of ways. A moment. Barely a few seconds. And he would later look back on it in confusion and derision, a fanciful moment conjured up purely by his bored and addled imagination, surely.

Startling blue eyes meet his across the expanse of the ballroom, and time seems to stop as the ringing in his ears halts to silence.

The objectively pretty face is framed by curls of blonde hair; her eyes all the more alarming offset as they are by the dark blue of her dress, and a twinkle that surely cannot be aimed in his direction.

And then of all things, the young lady, does something entirely unexpected and rather preposterous.

She sticks out her tongue.

At him.

“Well, I never,” he mutters under his breath, eyes widening.

A nearby young member of the gentry hears him, turns in his direction, misunderstanding the words as being meant for him. The Captain raises his hand in apology, and turns quickly back in the direction of the young woman, searching again for that deep blue that had him so unwillingly mesmerised.

She is nowhere to be found.

And he wonders if he really has turned mad.

Grief, it was said, was a sure way to rob a man of his wits. And his are all but gone now as he believes himself to be seeing things that are simply not there.

He takes a breath, shakes his head and resets his mind.

He has had more than enough of this revelry now, and it would seem more than his fair share of wine. He has done his duty as a friend, and so he sees no shame in making to leave.

Winding his way through the crowds, he heads for the front door, tipping his head at the footmen stationed there as he steals away into the night.

“Shall I call for a carriage, Sir?” they call after him.

“No, gentlemen, thank you, that won’t be necessary.”

It is not a cold night despite the cloudless sky. And with his lodging not a long distance away, it feels right to walk the short route. If anything, the fresh air should help clear his mind.

“Leaving so soon? You didn’t even dance.”

The voice catches him unaware. Female, teasing, inappropriately familiar and decidedly not British.

He knows who it is instantly. He has heard of the young woman, here from the Americas, fleeing a past she does not speak of, unbecomingly bold and brash and corrupting the town girls with her ways. He doesn’t have to turn around to put a face to the voice, because who else could it be but the woman who had thought it acceptable to stick out her tongue at a man she has never met?

“Miss Lance,” he says, finally spinning to face her, watching as she grins wide, teeth unabashedly on display, leaning carelessly into one of the no doubt painstakingly maintained hedges of Stein’s estate.

“I guess my reputation precedes me, if you already know who I am, Mister. . . ?”

“Captain. Captain Hunter,” he corrects her instinctively, before realising she means to pull him into conversation, and that just won’t do. And so he tips his head in her direction, bowing slightly, before straightening up and making his customary excuses. “I apologise Miss, but I really must be on my way. Can I call for your carriage before I leave?”

Extraordinarily, the lady’s face blushes red at the question, and only with her sharp tongue does he realise he’s angered her. “Carriage? I don’t need a carriage. Ladies are just as capable of walking or riding. We are not as weak a sex as you all seem to presume us to be!”

He splutters, struck incomprehensible by the turn in the conversation and offence he has unwittingly caused. “Pardon me, I did not mean anything by it.”

She widens her eyes, twinkling bright in the moonlight, full of mischief he realises then with a sinking feeling as her lips crack open in a laugh. Her words had been nothing more than that of an actress.

“You’re not one for jokes are you, Captain?”

“Only those that are funny,” he snaps back without thinking.

But she doesn’t mind in the least. In fact, his response seems to please her, as she grins that same grin again and steps forward towards him, threading her arm through his. He drops his gaze to their interlocked limbs and back up at her face.

“Well, as you seem so determined to escape, you wouldn’t mind walking me home, would you?”

He shakes his head, and manages to reply, “I hardly think it’s proper.”

“Why?” she frowns. “Do you intend to dishonour me? Ravish me along the away? Have I got you all wrong, Captain? Are you a really a swine in uniform?”

“No, good heavens no!” he chokes on his horror, turning a bright red, he’s certain. He shakes his head once more, and tries to explain with a calm breath. “People talk, Miss Lance.”

“Do they?” she says in a manner that speaks to her knowing that she is indeed the frequent topic of town gossip, and by her expression, she cares not in the slightest.

If anything, he feels jealous. Jealous that she is not so restricted by other’s thoughts, that she does not have duty hanging around her neck. It feels much too close to a hangman’s noose these days.

“Well, let them talk. I am quite capable of looking after myself, I assure you. And in any case, you seem a good man, Captain Hunter.”

He shakes his head ever so slightly, but nothing escapes the young woman.

“You disagree?”

“Yes, no. I mean . . .” he breathes in and out, “you do not know me.”

“No,” she tips her head, watching him closely, “no, but I see a good man, one who seems chased by tragedy, and haunted by ghosts.”

And for the briefest of moments, the light in her eyes dim, and he wonders if she speaks of herself.

In any case it appears Miss Lance will not be swayed, and so he breathes out, and reluctantly agrees with a sigh, “very well. You will have to direct me.”

She presses into his shoulder and her smile is bright once again.

They fall into an easy stroll, and he keeps his mind resolutely on the path they take and not the company he keeps. Although she does endeavour to make that as difficult as she possibly can. Miss Sara Lance is chatty enough for the both of them, and despite himself, he finds himself listening to her stories, smiling in places, and not even realising.

Before he knows it, they arrive on her doorstop. She stops at the threshold and stares up at him with those eyes that had him so mesmerised the very first time he set upon them.

“That’s better,” she says.

“What’s better?”

“You should smile more Captain, it suits you better than that frown you’ve been wearing all evening, and I suspect for the whole of the year.”

He stares back at her surprised. “Is that why you sought me out, Miss Lance? You thought me a challenge?”

The smile she gives him tells him as much, but there is a kindness there amongst the teasing and once again he thinks of tragedy and ghosts, and feels an unexpected kinship. He’s beginning to suspect that’s what led her to him in the first place.

“Believe what you will, Captain,” she simply says. “Good night.”

This time she leaves him with a wink.

And this time there is no shock. No reproach. No.

No, this time, he laughs.

“Good night, Miss Lance.”

End.

#timecanaryweek #timecanary #ripsara #time canary #rip x sara #fanfiction #legends of tomorrow #lot fic #rip hunter #sara lance

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the-basement-paradox · 4 years

Text

~Boss~ Chapters 31 & 32

~Chapter 31~*Potentially triggering material ahead*

That next morning a generous breakfast of steaming scrambled eggs, warm toast, and bowl of yogurt was placed out upon the table for the middle aged couple.

A certain blue haired boss placed a cool bowl of assorted fruits on the center of the table as the soft foot steps of slipper covered feet shuffled towards him.

Ten looked up to see Mrs. Hyorin and Mr. Boseok entering the room, he smiles and bows in greeting to the pair. He pulls out two chairs for the Lees and takes a seat across from them after helping them settle into their places, similar to the seating arrangement the night before.

Mrs. Hyorin smiles gently at the obviously scatterbrained young man across from her "You're bursting at the seams to speak Chittaphon" she points out in a soothing tone.

Ten smiles ruefully at the eggs and toast on his plate before he looks up to meet Mrs. Hyorin's soft gaze guiltily. "I apologize for cutting you short last night" he responds sheepishly "I have to admit I was quite-" he hesitates "shaken, by the information you gave me"

Mr. Boseok nods in understanding "Our Taeyong's story is heavier than you would expect from simply knowing him, but that isn't what she meant boy. She meant you have so many more questions you look fit to explode"

Ten nods in understanding "I have many questions" he agrees "But it's still early in the morning so I'll limit it to two if you think that is reasonable"

"If you think only two questions will be enough to satisfy your curiosity for now then by all means, ask away" Mr. Boseok responds, his tone light so as to tease the young man before him.

Ten smiles gently in response to the teasing "After these two questions I'll be able to stall my curiosity for long enough to catalog the information and allow you and Mrs. Hyorin to wake up properly" encouraged by the lull in conversation Ten continues on with his first question "How are you related to Taeyong? It is easy to know he isn't your biological son but you seem to know too much for him to have been an adoptee you had no previous relation to"

"Our nephew." Mrs. Hyorin sighs placing down her fork on the edge of her plate "His mother was and is, my younger sister. My sister often sent him to stay with us when she and her husband went out together on business for more than 5 days, any less and he stayed in the basement alone. Eventually, when his parents had finally given up on him, they sent him to live with us permanently. They even transferred custody of him to the pair of us."

Ten gives a small nod "I'm sure you took good care of him" he says, the stern stare he fixed the couple with seemed to entertain the possibility that they had treated his Taeyong wrong. But behind the challenge there was a trust and gratefulness for the pair taking Taeyong in and caring for him.

Mrs. Hyorin and Mr. Boseok nod together, to agree and affirm how they spent their time with their nephew turned son.

"Alright, I'll ask my final question before I leave you to your breakfast" Ten presses, "This one is a bit more important, who is the other son you mentioned the other day? You said both of your sons were grown and moved away but your records show you only ever had full custody over Taeyong."

Mrs. Hyorin nods slowly, she knew this question was coming, the blue haired leader before her was too smart to have missed that slip up. "This question requires a bit more explanation." She begins, sighing softly.

"Taeyong has a biological older brother, who was being groomed to take over their 'family business' but my sister was not a patient woman and even at the early age of 3 she thought her son would never be able to handle taking over the 'business' and due to some medical complications and her impatience, she could not conceive another baby. So my sister forced me to give up my soon to be born son so she could raise him as her own."

Ten takes the opportunity to interrupt her in the lull between her words "Then how did she have Taeyong?"

"Hmm?" Mrs. Hyorin questions looking up at the boss from where she had been staring at her plate in her pause.

"You said she couldn't have another baby after her first son due to medical complications, so how did she have Taeyong?"

She nods in understanding "Taeyong was the miracle baby they never wanted." She explains shortly, the pain in her voice reflecting in her sad eyes.

"Then why did she carry him to term?" Ten asked quietly, afraid of the answer.

"She may be a bad person but my sister still loves her family, and she felt bad about taking my child from me. Or so she said. We suspect she just didn't wish to deal with going in to abort the fetus and would have rathered 'dump' the unwanted child on us. Once he was born she decided she wanted to use him as a learning opportunity for the other boys, so they could get to know the punishments for bad behavior without having to experience it for themselves."

The hardened mafia boss visibly cringed at this information .

"Please understand Chittaphon, we got him out of there as soon as we could." Mr. Boseok soothes in a gentle tone, the pain in his heart amplified seeing the hatred and sorrow reflected from the depths of Ten's.

With a curt nod Ten stood. His chair scraping loudly against the floor as he rose to his full height. "True to my word I'll let you two be to finish your breakfast, when you are ready to discuss further please come to my office at the right of the door to the rooms you've been given."

And with that Ten left the pair to dine in silence as he went off to grieve for the past.

~Chapter 32~*Potentially triggering, graphic torture ahead*

The room was well lit and dingy. The grey cinder block walls were speckled with the aftermath of past interrogations, the stained concrete floor sloping slightly down to a drain in the center of the room between the feet of a bleeding man with familiar dull red hair.

Taeyong was strapped into a wooden chair, his mouth metaphorically sewn shut and the deep gashes on his forearms being physically sewn closed as he stared ahead with blazing, watering eyes and bulging veins at the viciously grinning woman in front of him.

His mother.

The beautiful, slim, silky haired woman before him, with well proportioned features twisted up into a feral, bloodstained sneer, stood leaning against an operating table covered in varying weapons. From broken bottles to butchers knives. From suture needles with corded threads to small dental drills in pristine condition. Weapons of all sorts laid on the table, excluding the scalpel dripping Taeyong's dark lifeblood held tightly in her well manicured grip.

"I'll ask again little monster. Who. Did you. Betray momma for?" she snarls, her pristine white teeth bared as she takes a low, threatening step towards her son, her bloody scalpel raised to strike him again.

Taeyong blinks his eyes clear, if only for a moment, allowing the tears in his eyes to drift down his face and out of the way of his vision, mingling with sweat as they traveled down his damp face and neck. His eyes remain fiery and defiant, only dulled by his loss of blood.

He refuses to speak.

To emphasize this point he spits a glob of blood at his mother's feet, not breaking eye contact with her.

In a flash she was crouched in front of him. Her fist against his thigh as she jams the scalpel deep into the tissue there. Taeyong throws his head back in a silent shriek as he feels the sharp metal grating against the bone of his thigh.

There was a sick glimmer in her eye as she twisted the metal object and pulled it out, creating a deep gash only 2 inches thick but many more in depth.

Taeyong's head falls forward and he pants, his damp hair dripping salty sweat into the fresh wound, his sight swimming and mind reeling from the pain.

"I don't take pleasure in this little monster, I just want to know who it is I need to kill." his mother purrs, motioning for one of the men standing at Taeyong's side, just inside his peripherals, to come forward and stitch closed the new wound. "You see Creature, we have a big deal planned and rumor has it your little NCT leader plans to block it. So momma needs to know who to kill to ensure our deal goes through" she explains, her tone sickly sweet as she slowly drags the side of the scalpel across Taeyong's sweaty cheek, wiping the blood on his skin and adding a small cut just below his cheek bone.

"No" Taeyong rasps, his voice choked and gravely as it escapes from his sore, dry throat. He fought his body silently as it urged him to convulse with every pull of the corded thread through his thigh, he fought the urge to vomit every time he felt the suture needle stab through his sensitive, already wounded flesh.

"No?" His mother asks sweetly tilting her head in a childish way as she backs away and places the scalpel down on the table in favor of a larger, serrated knife. "Even after all of this?" she asks her tone like innocently tinkling bells, waving the knife loosely at her son's battered form. "Momma doesn't want to hurt you little monster, but I need that name"

"No" he snarls again, this time baring his bloody teeth at her, his bloodshot eyes practically glowing with his vehement hatred of the woman in front of him.

She steps towards him and pulls one of his feet up into her hand, gripping like iron around his ankle, bending his body at an awkward angle with his foot higher than his head, forcing him to sit back and sink down against the chair and his too tight bonds.

"Fine then, how about you tell momma what you do know, hmm?" she requests mercilessly, her hand with the knife hanging by her side as she stares straight into her son's eyes.

"Nothing" Taeyong spits, nothing but spite and malice in his tone.

She smiles sweetly at her son and pulls the arm with the knife up quickly to draw the serrated blade forcefully up the center of his foot, starting at the heel and ending just below his middle toe. "Wrong answer" she crows gleefully.

Even the men to the sides of Taeyong were beginning to look sick as rich, dark blood spit out from the fresh wound onto the woman's black blouse and jeans. She drops the foot with a discontented sigh and motions to the men to stitch up that wound as well as she pulls Taeyong's other foot up into her grip.

"Try again Creature" She goads.

This time Taeyong was too incapacitated to speak and simply shook his sweaty head no as his entire body shrieked for the pain to end.

His mother releases a quiet 'hmph' of disappointment and slices through his foot without another second of hesitation. She drops it to the ground and watches her son's body go limp in his seat, no strength left to even sit up, she crouches in front of him and takes his hand. "Just spell it if you can't say it Little monster, spell out your little Boss' name out for momma"

Taeyong's mind couldn't be louder, alternating between shrieking in pain and trying to order him to tell her Ten's name and his primal desire to spit in her face and teach her that he was in no way her son, whatever means necessary.

But his body could no longer move without his full focus, so he simply glared, his lips sealed tight and his eyes filled past the brim with the rage of an abused young man who has had enough.

His mother's patience began to grow thin and she dragged the knife across the inside of his finger joints. Slowly, painfully creating small incisions that would pain him if his fingers even so much as twitched. She waits silently for her son to answer her.

After she had completed her task of gradually cutting up both his hands she snarled in frustration as she watched Taeyong's eyes roll back into his head right after the final incision. She raised her knife as if to jam it into the socket in her rage at his defiance but instead she sighed, tossed the knife behind her onto the operating table and gave the guards orders to chain him back in his cell.

She exited the room in a flourish of blood soaked clothing.

She had another son to visit.

#nct #nct au #mafia au #fanfic #taeten #yuwin #johnil #bigbang

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anavoliselenu · 7 years

Text

This man chapter 9

A treacherous moan escapes my lips as he pushes himself against me, breathing his hot, minty breath on my lips. I’m supposed to be bloody mad here. Instead, I’m being held against my will – kind of – and wanting to strip my captor in front of all of my colleagues, who are all squashed at the office door, fighting for the best view.

‘Mouth. You stood me up.’ He presses his lips to mine before he pulls away, his sludgy eyes softening as he looks at me expectantly.

I can hardly tell him why I cancelled now. I imagine he’ll go up the wall. ‘I’m sorry.’ I sigh. Will he accept that? I need to get back into the office and sort my head out. No, I need to go home and sort my head out, preferably with a bottle of wine.

He shakes his head mildly, and then he attacks my mouth purposely, right in the middle of Bruton Street. My fingers thread through his hair as I surrender to his impossibly addictive mouth, without much thought at all. He’s unashamed and oblivious to the hustle and bustle of lunch time pedestrians passing and, quite probably, staring as he completely consumes me. He swallows me up every time. He thrusts his groin forward aggressively, coaxing a moan to escape my mouth. This is a look-what-you-missed kiss, and I’m beginning to damn Matt to Hell.

‘Don’t do it again.’ he orders, in a tone that dares me to challenge him. He releases me from his grip and my feet hit the ground, the loss of support causing me to stagger forward.

He grabs the top of my arm to steady me, causing a slight stab of pain to radiate through me, snapping me out of my spellbound state on a sharp inhale. He drops my arm and stands back from me, his soft eyes raging and focused on the scatter of bruises at the top of my arm, courtesy of Mr Baldy Jag. His jaw starts ticking, his chest puffing, as he stares at my arm.

All I can think about is how lucky Mr Baldy Jag is that these bruises weren’t present yesterday. ‘I’m fine,’ I cover my arm with my palm in the hope that concealing the offending area might snap him out of his fuming state. He looks positively homicidal. Is he mad because I have a few bruises? ‘I need to get back to work.’ My voice is small, nervous even.

He drags his stare from my arm, back to my eyes, looking at me like I’m the offending object. A flash of irritation passes over his handsome face as he reaches up to rub his temples with his fingertips. It’s an obvious sigh of stress.

He eventually shakes his head lightly and stalks off, without another word, leaving me standing on the pavement wondering what in the world just happened. I look down to the ground, my eyes darting about, like I might find the answer written in chalk on the slabs.

Is that it? Is it over? The look on his face said it is. I’m not sure how I feel about that. One second he’s thrusting his h*ps into me on a moan, the next he’s looking at me in pure irritation. What am I supposed to make of this? I really don’t know. I shake myself out of my reverie and head back into the office. The silence is awkward, everyone obviously pretending to look busy.

‘You okay?’ Tom asks, slowly passing my desk. I look up, seeing his usual nosey expression is dotted with concern.

‘I’m fine. Not a word to Patrick.’ It comes out harsher than I intended.

‘Of course, I’ll say no more.’ He holds his hands up in defense.

Fuck! All I need is Patrick to find out that I’m caught up with a client. I should have been stronger and resisted his advances. I’m really not very comfortable with how I feel right now. I think…I think it’s somewhere in the realms of…abandonment?

Chapter 16

I practically crawl through the front door in an exhausted heap. I find Kate in the kitchen, hanging out of the window having a cheeky fag.

‘You need to pack that in.’ I scorn her. She doesn’t smoke much, just a couple here and there, but it’s a bad habit, nevertheless.

She takes a last drag and throws it out of the window before hastily climbing down from the worktop. ‘It helps me think.’ She defends herself. Yes, she claims this whenever I catch her having a sneaky puff. Now, I’m supposed to ask what she’s thinking about, but I already know the answer to that question.

‘Where’s the wine?’ She grabs my bag from me, pulling it open, before looking at me in disgust. I’ve just committed a cardinal sin – I forgot the wine.

I shrug. I’ve had other things on my mind. ‘Sorry.’

‘I’ll go to the shop, you get changed. Fish and chips?’ She grabs her purse from the table as she shoves her feet in her flip flops.

‘Just chips.’ I make my way down the hall to my bedroom. I feel completely deflated.

I sit with Kate on the couch, picking at the chips on my plate. I have absolutely no appetite, and I’m only half watching the re-run of Friends. My mind is all over the place, and I’m so furious with myself for letting it be.

‘Come on then, spit it out.’ Kate demands.

I turn to face my fiery friend with a chip half way to my mouth. I was an idiot if I thought I could get away with mooding in peace. I give her a non-committal shrug, popping the chip in my mouth and chewing lazily. Talking about it will only emphasise the fact that I am actually mooding over it – “it” being a man.

‘You like him.’

Yes, I do. I don’t want to, but I do. ‘He’s bad news. You saw him today.’ I grumble.

She makes a dramatic display of rolling her eyes and throwing herself back on the sofa. ‘You stood him up for your ex-boyfriend,’ She puts her plate on the coffee table in front of the sofa. ‘Selena, what did you expect?’

I frown at her. ‘He didn’t know why I stood him up. As far as he’s concerned, I just stood him up.’

‘Well, he doesn’t like being stood up then, does he? She laughs. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m seething with you.’ She turns all serious.

What have I done? Oh, yes. She must be talking about my little Dan grenade. ‘Would you have preferred it if I hadn’t of told you?’ I ask.

‘You’ve not left me much time to leave town!’ she wails at me.

Oh, the drama! ‘You’re overreacting. You don’t have to see him.’

‘No, I don’t. And I won’t!’

‘That’s okay then, isn’t it?’ I go for subject change. ‘Sam?’ I raise my eyebrows.

‘Isn’t he yummy? Justin came back to the bar – with a face like thunder, by the way – so I left them to it. He took my number.’

‘You’re a tart Kate Matthews!’

‘I know!’ she shrieks. ‘How were things left with the Lord?’ She looks at me carefully, weighing up my reaction to her question.

‘He was still mad, he stormed off.’ I shrug.

She smiles. ‘He’s pretty intense.’

I start laughing. ‘Pretty? I lose all cognitive thought when I’m around him. When he touches me, it’s like I hand over all control of my mind and body to him. It’s frightening.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yes, it’s pretty wow.’

She turns back to the television. ‘I like him,’ she says quietly, almost like she’s afraid to admit it, like it’s wrong to like him. ‘I’m just saying.’ She shrugs but doesn’t look at me. ‘He’s rich, steaming hot and obviously well into you. A man doesn’t behave like that when he’s just f**king about, Selena.’

Well, that may be so, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s cleared off and my phone hasn’t rang since. It’s probably a good thing.

‘Do you fancy a proper night out on Saturday?’ I ask. It’s a stupid question that I already know the answer to.

The look she fires me is mischievous. I grin back at her.

The next day, I breeze into the Royal Park hotel at twelve fifteen, all set for my appointment with Mikael Van Der Haus. I’m directed into a snug sitting area with plush sofas. Gilded frames swamp the walls and a carved fire place dominates the room. It’s typically regal. I’m offered tea which I decline in favour of water. It’s bloody hot, and my black pencil dress is clinging to me.

Twenty minutes later, Mr Van Der Haus enters looking impeccable. He’s really very handsome. He smiles brightly at me, revealing a perfect row of white teeth. What is it with me and older men at the moment? I hastily bat away my wayward thoughts.

‘Selena, please accept my apologies. I never like to keep a lady waiting.’ His mild Danish accent is only just detectable but really sexy.

Stop! I rise from my seat as he approaches, putting my hand out to him with a smile. He takes my hand, but shocks me when he leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. Okay, that’s slightly inappropriate, but I’ll go with it. Maybe it’s a Danish thing. Ha! I would do well to remember what happened that last time a male client kissed me on a first meeting.

‘Mr Van Der Haus, it’s not a problem. I’ve not long arrived myself.’ I reassure him.

‘Selena, this is our second project together. I know you dealt with my partner on Lusso, but I will be involved in The Life Building a lot more, so please, call me Mikael. I hate formality.’ He takes a seat in the chair opposite me, crossing his long legs. ‘So, I’m looking forward to going through ideas with you soon.’

Huh? Isn’t that why I’m here now? ‘Yes, I haven’t really had the opportunity to research the development yet. I was hoping you would give me a brief and a week to get some ideas rolling.’

‘Of course!’ he laughs. ‘I’m being very rude dragging you here at such short notice, but I’m flying back to Denmark on Friday. I have your email. I shall send you the specific requirements. You did such a good job at Lusso. It really does lighten the pressure when you work with proficient people.’ He smiles.

Isn’t he going to give me the specifics now? That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? ‘We could have a quick chat now.’ I prompt.

He sits for a while, regarding me quietly, before leaning forward in his chair. ‘Selena, I hope you don’t think I’m being audacious, you see… well, how can I put it?’ He drums his fingers on his chin. I’m a little worried. ‘I’m afraid I’ve brought you here under false pretenses.’ He laughs nervously, shifting in his chair.

‘Oh, how so?’ I ask baffled. And then it hits me. Oh, no! Oh, no, no, no! I lean back in my chair, instantly tensing from top to toe, and mentally beg the Lord Almighty to talk some sense into him before he says what I think he’s going to say.

‘I would like to ask you to join me for dinner.’ He looks at me expectantly, and I’m sure my face must resemble that of complete horror. I’m burning up. ‘Tomorrow evening, if it’s convenient with you, of course.’ he adds.

Shit! What do I say? If I say no, he might withdraw his business from Rococo Union, and Patrick will go spare. What is it with men suddenly falling at my feet? Older men in particular? He’s way past Justin in terms of age. At least, I think he is. He’s very good looking, but good God, he’s got to be twenty years older than me. I inwardly laugh. At least he hasn’t got me locked in a suite upstairs. How do I play this?

‘Mr Van Der Haus…’

‘Mikael, please.’ he interrupts me with a smile.

‘Mikael, I’m not sure mixing business with pleasure is a good idea. It’s kind of a rule for me. I’m very flattered.’ I laugh at my own audacity. Since when has that been an issue of late? And why did I say pleasure? I’ve assumed, and suggested, that it would be pleasurable to have dinner with him. It might not be, or it very well could be. Oh God! I mentally throw myself into the lovely fireplace.

‘Oh, that is a shame, Selena.’ he sighs.

‘Yes, it is.’ I agree, re-launching myself back into the hearth when he looks up in surprise.

He leans forward. ‘I admire your professionalism.’

‘Thank you.’ I’m bloody blushing again.

‘I hope this won’t affect our business relationship, Selena. I very much look forward to working with you.’

‘I’m looking forward to working with you too, Mikael.’

He lifts himself from the couch, approaching me with his hand stretched out. Thank God! I take it, letting him gently shake it. Did he really just drag me here to ask me to dinner? He could have called me.

‘I shall endeavor to email you at my earliest opportunity. Once I return from Denmark, I would like to show you around the building. Until then, you can draft some schemes. I’ve had the drawings sent to your office, and I’ll email you the specifics.’

‘Thank you, Mikael. Enjoy your trip.’

‘Goodbye, Selena.’ His long legs take him out of the snug.

Well, that was uncomfortable. I sit and finish my water while deliberating over my current emotional turmoil. If Justin was as gracious as Mikael, then I wouldn’t be feeling so shitty right now. Never mixing business and pleasure has never been a rule because I’ve never had to make one. In the space of two weeks, I’ve had two wealthy and very handsome clients pursue me. One I’ve declined, the other I‘ve caved in on. And, as a result, I’m all over the place. Not mixing business and pleasure is now a firm rule and one I intend to stick to. Not that I need to reinforce it. Mikael took my decline rather graciously and Justin hasn’t called since abandoning me. Abandoning?

By two thirty, I’m back in the office. I don’t mention to Patrick the strangeness of my meeting with Mikael Van Der Haus, mainly because I’m concerned that, in the name of business, he’ll demand I go to dinner with him. Patrick will assume it would be a business dinner, but Mikael made it perfectly clear that there would be no business involved. Instead, I just mention emails, drawings and his intention to show me the building upon his return from Denmark. This seems to keep him happy.

I get my phone from my bag, noting no missed calls. I ignore the pang of disappointment and start making a few notes on Scandinavian design. I know I’ll be basing my design around clean, white, easy living, but I’m comforted by the fact that it will be tranquil and warm, not sparse and cold.

My phone rings and I grab it, way too hastily. It’s Kate.

‘Hi.’ I greet in an over the top, chirpy voice. I don’t know why I bother. She sees straight through it.

‘Faking detachment, are we?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘I thought so. Have you not heard from him?’

‘No.’

‘Liking monosyllables today, huh?’

‘Yes.’

She sighs heavily down the phone. ‘Whatever. Have you asked Victoria and Gayboy if they’re up for Saturday night?’

‘No. I will, though. I’ve just got back from a very strange meeting.’ I open my top drawer to grab a paperclip, noticing the calla lily squished down the side of my stapler.

‘Strange how?’ She’s intrigued.

‘I went to meet the developer of Lusso, well, one of them. He asked me to dinner. It was really uncomfortable.’ I grab the lily and chuck it in the bin quickly.

She laughs down the phone at me. ‘How old is this one?’

I bristle at her insinuation. He’s much older than Justin. How much older is unknown, but he’s definitely older. I’ll probably never know now, though. ‘Mid-forties I guess, but extremely handsome, in a Scandinavian kinda way.’ I shrug to myself while guiding my mouse aimlessly around the screen. He’s nowhere near Justin’s league, but he’s handsome, nonetheless.

‘You’re like a mature man magnet at the moment. Are you going?’

‘No!’ I screech. ‘Why would I?’

‘Why not?’ I can’t see her, but I know she has a questioning eyebrow arched.

‘No, I can’t, because I have a new rule…no mixing business with pleasure.’

‘MOVE!’ she screams, making me jump at my desk. ‘Sorry, some prat just cut me up. No mixing business with pleasure, ah?’

‘Yes. Are you driving and talking on your mobile, Miss Matthews?’ I challenge her. I know Margo doesn’t have a hands free kit.

‘Yeah, I’d better beat feet. See you at home. And don’t forget to tell Gay boy and Victoria the plans for Saturday.’

‘What are the plans?’ I blurt before she hangs up.

‘Get drunk, Baroque, eight o’clock.’

Get drunk. Yes, that’s a very good plan.

I leave the office at six with Tom and Victoria. ‘Saturday night, Guys?’

Tom stops abruptly, dramatically putting his palms out with a shocked expression on his smooth, baby face.

‘Oh my God, yes! I brought the most amazing coral shirt at lunch time. It’s divine!’

Victoria giggles, slapping his arse to push him onwards. ‘Where are we going?’ she asks.

‘Baroque at eight.’ I answer. ‘We’ll see where the night takes us.’

‘I’m in!’ Victoria sings at me. ‘But no g*y joints, Tom. It’s my turn to pull.’ she grumbles

Tom frowns. ‘What about me?’

‘You’ve had your feed. It’s my turn,’ she spits, ‘Besides, what about the scientist?’

‘You know, science is actually very boring.’ he grumbles.

We say our goodbyes at Green Park Station. I take Jubilee to Central, while Victoria and Tom hop on Piccadilly.

Chapter 17

‘Morning,’ I know I sound like a miserable cow, but I’m trying really hard not to be.

Tom looks up from his copy of Interiors Weekly and lowers his glasses to the end of his nose. ‘Darling, why the long face?’ he asks. I can’t even muster up the energy to plaster on a fake smile. I slump in my chair, and Tom’s sprawled across my desk, like mature ivy, within a second. ‘Here, this will cheer you up.’

He presents me with a feature in the magazine he’s reading and there, sat casually on the velvet chaise lounge at Lusso, is me. ‘Wonderful,’ I sigh. I don’t even bother reading it. I need to eradicate all things relating to Lusso from my mind.

‘Man trouble?’ He gives me a look of sympathy.

No, not man trouble – there’s no man to be having trouble with. I sulk. I knew it would be the last time I saw him. When he stalked off, I knew deep down that I wouldn’t see him again. I’ve not been checking my phone every ten minutes, I’ve not been mooding over it and I’m not twiddling my hair as I think this. I reluctantly admit…I really miss him. How ridiculous. He was a rebound f**k.

‘I’m fine,’ I find the strength to slap a smile on my face. ‘It’s Friday, I’m looking forward to getting plastered tomorrow night.’ I need a good night out.

‘Are we really getting plastered? Fabulous!’

My attention is turned to the office entrance when I hear the high pitched screech of Victoria.

‘Oh…my…God! You will not believe what I just saw.’ She’s on the verge of passing out.

Tom and I both look at her blankly. ‘What?’ we ask in unison.

‘So, I was in Starbucks, waiting for my double shot cappuccino with extra chocolate, and this guy walks in – I recognise him from somewhere. I’m not sure where, but he’s one hot piece of man. Anyway, he’s just stood there, minding his own, and this woman comes strutting in and tips a frappuccino all over him,’ She pauses to draw breath. ‘So, the woman starts screaming at him, calling him a lying, selfish arsehole, and then just walks out, leaving him dripping in frozen coffee and cream. It was all very dramatic.’

I sit and watch as Victoria recovers from her two breath commentary about the happenings of Starbucks on a Friday morning. Nothing like that ever happens when I’m in there.

‘It sounds like someone’s been a naughty boy,’ Tom smirks. ‘How hot was he?’

I roll my eyes. No doubt Tom would have flown to his rescue.

Victoria hands come up in front of her, palms forward. ‘We’re talking Men’s Vogue.’

‘No!’ Tom takes his glasses off. ‘Is he still there?’

She screws her pretty little face up. ‘No.’

Oh, this is ridiculous.

Patrick comes barrelling into the office. ‘Guys, have we any work to do, or is it fart around Friday?’ He passes us swiftly, heading into his office and shutting the door behind him.

‘You two, let’s get on with some work, shall we?’ I shoo them away from my desk.

‘Oh, I forgot.’ Tom swings around. ‘Van Der Haus called to say he’ll be back in London on Monday. He’ll call you upon his return. He’s emailing you the specifics and had these sent over. Is he hot?’ His eyebrows jump up suggestively as he hands me an envelope.

He’s the biggest g*y tart, but I’ll humour him. ‘Very.’ I take the drawings, widening my eyes for affect.

He screws his face up. ‘How come you get all the dishy clients?’ He walks back to his desk. ‘What I wouldn’t give to have an Adonis walk in here and throw me over his shoulder.’

I wince at Tom’s referral to Justin’s performance the last time I saw him and pull my phone out of my bag when it starts bleeping with a calendar reminder. Oh, my hairdresser’s appointment, tomorrow at noon. I forgot about that. Well, that’s improved my mood slightly. And I’ll be nicely groomed for our big night out. Perfect.

I work my way through heaps of quotations, delivery schedules and contractor requirements, before calling my live clients to check all is well. It is, apart from Mrs Peters swags and tails drama. An email lands from Mikael. I scan it quickly, deciding to look at it in more detail on Monday.

Sally comes scuttling up to my desk with a delivery. ‘Urm…I think this may be for you, Selena.’ She shifts from side to side with a box in her hand. ‘Do you want it?

What? Yes, I want it. If it’s a delivery for me, then I guess I want it. Oh, this girl is painfully anxious. I take the box from her hands.

‘Thank you, Sally. Will you make Patrick a coffee?’

‘I didn’t know he wanted one.’

Oh, the panic on her face has me wanting to make her a coffee. ‘Well, he doesn’t look right. Let’s look after him.’

‘Is he okay? He’s not ill, is he?’

‘No, but I think he could do with a coffee.’ I press, trying my hardest not to lose my patience.

‘Of course.’ She scuttles off, her brown plaid skirt swishing around her court shoes. I couldn’t even hazard a guess at her age. She looks about forty, but intuition tells me she’ll shock me and be nearer my age. I open the box and find all of the material swatches I ordered for The Life Building. I throw the box under my desk. I’ll deal with them on Monday too.

As six o’clock approaches, I pop my head around Patrick’s door. He really doesn’t look right.

‘Patrick, I’m off. Are you okay?’

He looks up from his computer and smiles, but his eyes don’t sparkle like usual. ‘I’m just feeling a little peaky, flower.’

‘You should go home.’ I’m worried.

‘I think I will.’ He heaves his big body up from behind his desk and turns his computer off. ‘Bloody woman’s fed me something dodgy.’ he mutters as he picks up his briefcase.

‘Everything’s been turned off. You just need to set the alarm.’

‘That’s good. Have a good weekend, flower. I’ll see you on Monday.’ He wipes the back of his hand over his sweating brow. There’s definitely something wrong.

‘Okay, see you on Monday.’

***

I stand in my bedroom ready to go. My hair is behaving – happy that it’s been blow dried into tumbling waves, courtesy of Philippe, my hairdresser – and the new dress I picked up from Selfridges was a panic buy to make me feel better but fits perfectly. It’s black, short and very tight. With dramatic, smudged eyes and nude lips, I’m looking pretty sultry.

I walk into the kitchen, finding Kate hanging out of the window having a sneaky fag. What’s she thinking about now? She looks her usual lovely self, in a cream backless dress.

‘Wow!’ she blurts. ‘Someone’s out to impress tonight.’ She jumps down from the worktop, slipping her feet into her gold heels. ‘Short enough?’

I arch an eyebrow at her, running my eyes down her dress. ‘Pot…’

She laughs her carefree laugh that never fails to bring a smile to my own face. ‘Here.’ She hands me a glass of wine. I take it gratefully, pretty much necking it. It’s very welcome. ‘The taxi’s here.’

I dump my empty on the side and follow Kate out to the taxi. I’m looking forward to my recovery night, but ignoring the fact that my recovery night is to recover from a few steamy encounters with a steamy male, and not to recover from the breakdown of my four year relationship with Matt. It’s ironic. I never felt the need to go out and get steaming drunk after my break up with Matt.

We walk into Baroque, spotting Tom and Victoria at the bar immediately.

‘What the hell?’ Tom exclaims, running his eyes up and down my black clad body on a grin. ‘Selena, you look lethal!’

‘Really good, Selena.’ Victoria adds.

It’s just a dress. ‘Thanks,’ I shrug, pulling the hem down.

‘What are you having?’ Kate asks.

Well, I’ve already had a glass of wine, so I guess I should stick. I did say I was going to have a good drink. ‘Rose, but make sure it’s Zinfandel, please.’

Kate orders the drinks, and we make our way to a tall table near the DJ. Tom’s wearing his new coral shirt and too tight jeans – he may as well have g*y tattooed on his forehead, and Victoria looks as pretty as always. Everyone’s really made an effort tonight, me included. Why is that?

As the wine flows down, my troubled thoughts flow away. We’re laughing and chatting, and I’m beginning to feel normal again. I feel foot loose and fancy free. I like it. My Mum has always said “Alcohol makes for loose lips and loose lips sink ships”. This, I have just discovered, is most certainly true because I’m totally lit up, and I’ve filled everyone in on recent events. Considering I wanted to forget about it, I’m doing a bloody good job of hanging on to the memories.

Tom is thrilled about all of the rebound sex I’ve had. ‘So, he just stalked off and you haven’t seen him since?’ he asks critically.

Victoria pipes up. ‘That’s really un-cool.’

Kate rolls her eyes, looking at the pair like they’re a sandwich short of a picnic. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she huffs. Tom and Victoria look at each other, then to me. I shrug. Is what obvious? Kate shakes her head. ‘You lot are dense. It’s simple…he wants her. No man behaves like that over a quick screw. I’ve told you this, Selena.’

‘Why would he disappear then?’ Victoria leans in, truly captivated by Kate’s explanation for Justin’s behaviour.

‘I don’t know! I’m just saying. I’ve witnessed the chemistry. It’s way off the scales.’ Kate flops back on her tall chair in complete exasperation.

I laugh. I’m not sure if it’s too much wine, but that’s just…funny. ‘It doesn’t matter. He was a rebound f**k and that’s it.’ My explanation doesn’t seem to satisfy because they all carry on studying me with doubtful looks on their faces. I don’t even think I’m satisfied with my explanation, but it’s been four days and I’ve resisted the overwhelming temptation to call him. Besides, he hasn’t called me or made any further appointments, so that pretty much says it all. I’m moving on. I’m just massively pissed off with myself for relenting to his persistence, putting him in the position to drop me – and he has.

‘Oh, can we change the subject, please?’ I snap. ‘I’m out to enjoy myself, not to analyse the details of my rebound f**k.’

Tom stirs his pina colada. ‘You know, everything happens for a reason.’

‘Oh, don’t start with all that airy fairy crap!’ Kate chides him.

‘It does. I’m a firm believer in it. Your rebound f**k is a stepping stone to the love of your life.’ He winks at me.

‘And Matt was a four year stepping stone.’ Kate points out.

‘To stepping stones,’ Tom sings.

Kate joins the toast. ‘And shots!’

I finish my wine and raise my glass in agreement.

‘Yes, shots!’ Tom shouts, dancing off to the bar.

We sway down the road to our next destination, The Blue Bar. We make it past the doormen, although one does eye Tom’s shirt suspiciously. Tom and Victoria charge for the dance floor when they hear Flo Rida and Sia singing about Wild Ones, leaving Kate and I to get the drinks.

I order a round and take Tom and Victoria’s over, putting them on a ledge nearby under their instruction. The dancing is that serious; they could be some time. When I join Kate back at the bar, she’s talking to a man. She doesn’t know him. I can tell because she’s notched up her flirting by a few gears.

As I approach, she raises her voice over the music. ‘Selena, this is Greg.’

I smile, putting my hand out politely. He looks normal enough. ‘Hi, nice to meet you,’

‘Yeah, and you. This is my mate, Alex.’ He signals to a cute, dark haired guy next to him.

‘Hi,’ I shout.

He smiles confidently. ‘You wanna drink?’

‘No, thanks, I’ve just got one.’ Rule number one: Never accept drinks from strangers. Dan’s drilled it into me since I started going out.

‘Nah problem,’ He shrugs.

Kate and Greg move away from us, leaving me and Alex to make conversation. I didn’t really want this. I came out to be rid of men in general. Now I’ve been lumbered with one.

‘What do ya do?’ Alex asks me.

‘Interior design, you?’

‘Estate agent,’

I inwardly groan. I have an aversion to estate agents – cocky, over confident, gold plated salesmen. Alex is all of these, with the added bonus of a dodgy cockney accent.

‘Nice.’ I say, because he’s just lost all of my interest, not that there was any in the first place.

‘Yeah, got myself a few grand bonus taday. Give me a shit pit and I’ll sell it, nah problem. I’m living it large in Landon and laving it.’ Oh God, slime ball! ‘Ya fancy going out samtime?’

NO! ‘Thanks, but I’m in a relationship.’ It’s a good job Cockney doesn’t know me and my bad habit. I’m twiddling my hair frantically.

‘Ya sure?’ he asks, inching closer and stroking my arm.

I pull away, planning my escape. ‘Positive.’ I smile sweetly, looking around for Kate.

Within the space of time it takes me to raise my glass to my lips, Cockney quickly disappears from my line of vision. It takes me a few seconds to piece together the events that are unfolding before my eyes, but when I do, I’m appalled.

Justin has Cockney in a firm grip around his neck and pinned up against a pillar.

Chapter 18

‘Keep your f**king hands to yourself.’ Justin snarls at a poor, startled Cockney. He doesn’t know what’s hit him. I feel bad; he was only trying his luck. I would have dealt with it. Where did he come from? This is all I need on my night out, supposedly free from arrogant men. Or not so, it would appear. He’s left me for four days wondering what happened, and now he’s turned up, out of the blue, raging like a wild bull. Has he even calmed down from Tuesday?

‘I’m sorry mate. I didn’t mean any offence. Your girlfriend and I were just chatting about shit, ya know.’ Cockney explains, completely panicked.

Girlfriend? Oh! I want to advise poor cockney that I’m not even the girlfriend of the maniac pinning him up by his throat, but judging by Justin’s obvious mood, I’ll decline at the risk of pissing him off further.

‘Justin, let go of him, he wasn’t doing anything.’

Cockney looks at me gratefully. He knows I’m stretching the truth. A few more seconds, and I’m pretty sure I would have been throwing a drink over him. I gently stroke Justin’s arm in an attempt to calm him down, ignoring his warm firmness. He looks like he could explode with anger. I’m pissed. How dare he turn up and trample all over my recovery night.

‘What’s going on?’ Kate arrives next to me.

‘Nothing,’ I snap. ‘Justin, let him go.’

He doesn’t appear to be listening. What am I supposed to do with this? I don’t want to see him. I’m feeling derailed already, and he hasn’t even looked at me yet. I can hardly walk away and leave poor Cockney to bear the brunt of Justin’s unjustified rage. Where the bloody hell has he been for four days?

I’m beyond relieved when Sam turns up on the scene. ‘Sam, please sort your twat of a friend out,’ I turn towards Kate. ‘Come on.’

Kate’s eyes light up like The Blackpool Illuminations at Sam’s unexpected arrival. I hear Sam calmly coaxing Justin from Cockneys throat as I drag Kate away, heading for the dance floor.

‘What was all that about?’ she asks.

‘Don’t. What happened to Greg?’

‘He was a total dick. Come on, let’s dance.’

Tom and Victoria welcome us with waving arms as we join them on the dance floor. I’ve been thrown off guard by Justin turning up. Is this a coincidence, or did he know I would be here? How could he know? I was having a great night, not having thought about him for at least an hour. That’s a record for the last four days. Damn it!

I push Justin out of my mind and soon let The Source & Candi Staton take me to a better place. I love this track.

After half an hour and a string of some great tracks, I haven’t seen or heard from Justin. Sam must have ejected him, or maybe the doormen did. Either way, I’m free to resume the great night it had been up until Justin crashed in. I signal to Kate that I’m going to the toilet, smiling when she acknowledges with a shimmy and a laugh.

As I exit the cubicle, I fish my nude lipstick out of my bag to re-apply, and check my phone to find ten missed calls from Justin. What? Oh, he’s angry all right. But what on earth has he got to be mad about? Any pangs of Justin withdrawal have been extinguished by his unreasonable behaviour. Who does he think he is? I don’t dwell on it, though. I clear the missed calls, making my way back to the dance floor, only to find the others making their way to the bar.

‘Drink!’ Tom clenches his throat in an exaggerated signal of thirst.

It’s Victoria’s round. As I wait for her to get served, a wave of unease washes over me. He’s still here. I know it.

She hands me my drink, her mouth gaping open. ‘Oh…my…God!’

I take my wine. ‘What?’

‘That guy, the one in Starbucks I was telling you about,’ she explains, nodding over my shoulder. ‘There he is. I told you he was yummy.’

I turn in the direction of Victoria’s stare and find her looking at Sam. But that’s not what catches my attention. Every fine air on the back of my neck prickles when I see Justin leaning against the very pillar he had poor Cockney pinned up against, not an hour ago. His severe stare is piercing me, while Sam and the other guy from The Manor, Drew, are busy chatting and drinking. Justin’s not engaging in the conversation, though. No, he’s stood there looking as angry as he did earlier, drilling holes right into me. Victoria’s information suddenly filters into my brain.

I turn back to her. ‘What happened?’

She looks vague as she hands drinks to Kate and Tom. They accept, swiftly returning to the floor. ‘What happened where?’ she asks on a frown.

I roll my eyes. She’s so dim sometimes. ‘Starbucks, what happened?’

‘Oh.’ She’s back in the game. ‘She just walked in, started screaming and shouting, and lobbed a coffee over the poor bloke.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Oh, I can’t remember. She called him a selfish, cheating something or other.’ she flips casually. Sam has a girlfriend? I’ll have to warn Kate, she seems to like him. ‘Hey, he’s with the guy who hoofed you out of the office.’

‘Yeah, listen, keep that to yourself, okay?’

She frowns at me. ‘What?’

‘I mean the flying coffee. And while we’re at it, not a word to Patrick about the hoofing either.’

She shrugs. ‘Whatever. Oh, I love this song. Selena, come on.’

I watch as Victoria dances her way back through the crowd, but I can’t move. I can feel his eyes burning into my back. I know I should just walk away, but the magnet affect he has on me sets me turning towards him instead. He has his phone in his hand, and he waves it in the air in a kind of look gesture. I don’t know why I do, but I do. I get my phone from my bag, and not so much to my surprise, Justin’s name is illuminating my screen. I glance back up, seeing him put his phone to his ear. He wants me to answer it.

The loud music around me fades out into a dull base, pulsing in my ears, and the hum of laughing and chatting diminishes into a low mumble of sound around me. I’m being swallowed up by his eyes. I’m completely immobilised. My senses are assaulted by the presence of Justin Ward, the sight of him triggering all the memories of his voice, his smell, his touch. The unforgiving power he holds over me is playing the Devil’s advocate with my intelligence, and my heart is hammering a wild, uneven beat in my ears.

I watch as he lowers his phone from his ear, shaking his head. He starts towards me. I see Sam look in my direction as Justin leaves their group, Drew flipping his eyes up too. They both look uneasy at Justin’s obvious target.

I momentarily recapture my senses when Sam grabs Justin’s arm to pull him back, but gets shoved out of the way. The music and activity crashes back into my brain. I plead with my legs to listen to the sensible side of my brain and take me away from here before my stupid side allows me to fall victim to his physical magnetism again. I abandon my drink on the bar and kick my legs into action, bolting through the crowd, knocking people out of the way, as my retreat becomes fraught with the need to make it to the safety of the toilets. No contact and no derailment. Hazardous doesn’t quite cover it. He’s proved tonight exactly why I need to avoid him like the plague.

I throw the cubicle door shut, fighting to secure the latch as he pushes against the other side, hindering my attempts to keep him away. My adrenalin is pumping. For the briefest of moments, I think I’ve managed to block his access because the resistance on the other side eases, but not enough to for me to get the lock engaged.

‘Selena, I’m coming in or you’re coming out. I don’t want to hurt you, but if you don’t stop fighting me, I’ll break the f**king door down.’ His breathing is heavy.

Resting my back against the door, I try to get some air into my lungs. I look up around me. I’m cornered. You would think I would be safe in the ladies. I can’t look at him, I’ll cave if he gets is hands on me. I need not to be in this f**king position! How did I get myself in the situation? I jump when the bang of a fist on the door resonates through me.

‘God damn it, Selena!’ Bang! ‘Selena, please.’

I repeatedly jolt forward under the thumps of Justin’s fist. I’m screwed. ‘Go away, please!’ I shout.

His fist collides with the door again. ‘No, f**k. Selena!’

I just have to leave. He won’t restrain me in such a public place. I need to walk away. Block it out…block him out. There’s silence. I hold my breath. Has he gone? I stand quietly for a few minutes, my eyes darting around the small cubicle, constantly looking up to check he’s not coming over the top. He’s gone. I stupidly relax against the door.

Within in two seconds flat, I’m thrust forward and he’s in. When I turn around, there’s less than a foot between us, and the first thing I notice is his rapid breathing, his black shirt lifting with the rise and fall of his chest. I stare at his jeans. If I look up at his handsome face, I’m at an instant disadvantage.

‘Selena, look at me.’ he demands harshly. I clap my hands over my ears, lowering myself to the toilet seat. I need to block it all out. ‘Selena, why are you doing this?’ he asks.

Oh, how long have I got to sit here and block it all out? I start humming in my head as I stare down at the floor. I feel his hands clap around my wrists, pulling my hands away from my ears. His touch heats my skin. Why does he think I’m doing this?

‘I don’t want to do this in the toilets of a bar, Selena.’

‘Then don’t.’ I try to regain possession of my hands but, as usual, he overpowers me. ‘Please, just let me walk away.’

He slowly crouches down in front of me, still holding my wrists. ‘Never.’ he whispers.

The tears in my eyes spill over, splashing the top of my bare knees. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

He clenches my jaw, pulling it up so I have no choice but to look at him. His eyes are glazed. ‘Doing what?’

Oh, the arsehole. His impudence knows no bounds. I use my free hand to roughly brush the dampness away from my cheeks, suddenly horrified that I am, yet again, crying all over him.

‘You persistently pursued me, bombarded me with calls and texts, f**ked me into oblivion and threw a wobbly when I re-arranged our meeting. You stormed off four days ago, and I’ve not heard from you since!’ I pull my other hand from his grasp. ‘Now, you turn up, trampling all over my recovery night.’

He’s the one to look away now, he’s ashamed. ‘Watch your mouth.’ he murmurs.

Watch my mouth? After all that, he tells me to watch my mouth? He’s impossible!

‘Fuck off, Justin.’ I spit.

His head snaps up. ‘Mouth!’

I look at him in shock, and he scowls at me, his frown line deep on his forehead. I can’t cope with this. I’ve had four days to put my encounters with this man down to experience and rebound f**king. I was well on my way to forgetting him – kind of. Why is he here refreshing it all for me? I knew I should’ve stayed away. I could kick myself.

I stand up in front of him, leaving him crouching, but he reaches up and clasps behind my bare legs. The fear of his evocative touch is completely warranted. I’m immediately on guard. The heat emanating from his palms is spreading like wild fire through my blood stream, and there is no way to free myself from it. The toilet is behind me and he’s blocking the door.

‘Let me go, Justin.’ I grate, with all the firmness my quivering vocal cords will allow.

He looks up at me. ‘No.’

‘You seemed to manage just fine on Tuesday.’

He pushes himself up to his feet, sliding his palms up the backs of my legs as he does. It sparks a vicious bang between my legs. ‘I was mad.’ he says quietly as he looms over me.

‘You’re still mad. Did you know I would be here?’ I ask. He stares down at me, but he doesn’t answer. ‘You knew I would be here, didn’t you?’ I push.

‘Sam.’ he offers, completely unashamed.

‘Sam?’

His face is poker straight. ‘He rang Kate.’

‘She never said!’ I cry in despair. The devious cow! I can’t believe she’s done this to me. There will be some seriously strong words exchanged when I get my hands on her.

‘I’m going to kiss you now.’ It’s that tone, and I know I’m doomed. ‘You’re lucky, because if I had you anywhere else, you would be getting a reminder...right...about... now.’

I gasp as he takes the one step forward that’s needed to close the gap between us. With the toilet behind me, there’s no retreating space.

‘I like your dress,’ he murmurs, stroking my bare arm with his finger tip. ‘It’s too short, but I like it.’ He leans down, nuzzling my neck on a groan. My knees buckle. Damn him. And damn me too.

My eyes close without command, my head turning into his hot breath on my neck, my willpower scattered to the wind, just like that. It’s impossible. He’s impossible.

I feel him crouch slightly, his arm creeping under my backside, and with one effortless pull, he straightens his legs and lifts me from the floor. I’m secure against his chest and looking down into his eyes.

Game over. In a tiny toilet cubicle, I’ve absolutely no hope.

‘Do you have any idea what you do to me?’ His husky voice breaks as he looks up at me. ‘I’m a f**king mess.’

He’s a mess? That’s rich! He releases his grip on me slightly, causing me to slide down his body until our lips meet. He swings me around, pinning me up against the back of the door. I don’t have time to be concerned by our location; I’m too busy searching for the willpower to stop this. His tongue brushes across the seam of my closed lips, tempting them open, and I’m furious with myself for responding. But I should know by now…it’s unavoidable. I open to him like I always do, meeting his tongue with mine, clamping my hands in his hair.

Groaning deep and low in his throat, he locks his free hand around the base of my neck to hold me in place as he pushes his body further into mine. Our mouths are fused and our tongues colliding, rolling and stabbing together. This is a possessive, demanding kiss, and I’m back to square one. With just one kiss, I’ve surrendered. I’m weak and desperate.

He breaks away, leaving me panting and feeling the violent rise of his chest pressing against my breast bone. His forehead meets mine and my nostrils are instantly invaded with his minty breath.

‘There she is.’ he pants surely.

‘Yes, you got me again.’

He smiles slightly, circling his nose with mine. ‘I missed you, baby.’

‘Why did you go then?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ He plants a lingering kiss on my lips and lets me slide down his body.

I feel the undeniable hard ridge of an arousal as I slip past his groin. He’s being very reasonable, especially considering his current hard condition. I look up at him, finding a dark smile playing at the corners of his lips.

‘I should force you to sort this out.’ He places his hand over his crotch and my eyes widen in shock. Fuck, I probably would as well. He bashes down all of my defences and tramples my rational thinking. He has a frightening effect on me. ‘But I’m not having you on your knees in here. We’ll make friends properly later.’

I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved. He opens the door, manoeuvring so I can leave. I walk out to be immediately confronted by two wide eyed women. They start talking about anything and everything, looking anywhere and everywhere, except at me. But then Justin makes an appearance and they can’t hide their blatant interest. They both stand with their lipsticks half way to their lips, gawking in the reflection of the mirror at the magnificent male who has emerged from the cubicle behind me.

I turn to Justin. ‘I need to sort my face out. I’ll see you out there.’

‘You face is perfect as it is.’ he reassures me softly.

I can’t help but smile. ‘I won’t be long.’

With no regard for the women still gawping at him, he walks over and kisses my forehead, looking at the dumbstruck women in the mirror. ‘Ladies,’ He nods, they swoon, and then he’s gone.

I shuffle over to the mirror to sort my face out, the silence painful as I re-apply face powder, eye liner and lipstick. In other words, I basically re-do my whole face; it’s a tear stained mess. I do all of this in an uncomfortable silence, as the two women shoot each other questioning glances every so often.

When I’m done, I wash my hands, smile sweetly and leave, hearing them coo and melt all over the ladies bathroom. I escape and find Justin waiting for me outside. He holds his hand out on a smile. Of course, I take it, letting him lead me to the bar. I scan the dance floor as he pushes his way through the crowd, making a clear path by holding his spare arm out. I see Kate, Tom and Victoria, all still busting their moves.

s: norm�6�

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