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ellisgirl · 8 months

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Ellis Twilight — I Want to Know Every Inch of You Collection Event

Seperate Bodies 🔞 tw: suggestive, NSFW

I do not own any contents of Ikemen Villains. This story being uploaded in this blog belongs solely to CYBIRD. Please support them by downloading their games and buying their stories. Both English and Japanese are not my mother tongue languages, please keep in mind that there will be mistakes and added words for my own preferences. I translate for my personal entertainment and for my own practice only.

Victor asked me to take the Crown's physical measurements for the purpose of health management and research—

I visited Ellis, who was easy to ask first, and it turned out to be the right decision.

Thanks to his great cooperation, the measurements proceeded very quickly.

Kate: “Thank you for your cooperation, Ellis. This concludes the measurement of your upper body."

Ellis: "That's good. By the way, Miss Kate, there's something I was curious about......"

Ellis: "Can you lend me a hand?"

Kate: "......? Yes, sure."

I held out my hand, wondering what he was going to do, and Ellis's hand came to rest on mine—

My hand was guided and touched his chest, which was bare…..for measurement.

I feel his moist skin all over my palm.

Ellis: ".….If you're interested in my body, you can touch it."

Kate: "Eh!? Uh, how.….”

Ellis: “Because I felt like I could feel your eyes piercing through me while you were measuring for my chest. ……Was it my misunderstanding?"

Kate: "You misunderstood..., there was nothing.”

Ellis looks slender when he's dressed, but when he takes his clothes off, he has an unexpectedly masculine body.

Although the measurements are taken seriously, I couldn't help but admire his thick chest and his well-defined abdominal muscles.

(I thought I was keeping a level head, but he knew.... How embarrassing……)

Ellis: “As much as you like, Miss Kate, go ahead.”

Kate: "E-Even if you ask me to go ahead….."

Even if I'm interested in touching another person's body, especially a man's body, my reservation and embarrassment will prevail.

(I know you're saying this for me, Ellis, but....I'll say no.)

I tried to take his hand away, saying It was fine if I didn’t touch him.

However, Ellis is holding my hand tighter than I imagined, and I can't get away from him even a little.

Ellis: "You don't have to hold back on me, so feel free to check with your hands."

You noticed I tried to take my hand away, your hands are literally so strong.

(If you've told me this much, it's not right to say no.….isn't it?)

(If I reject him excessively, then it seems like I'm being weirdly conscious of Ellis.....)

Deciding to accept the kindness, I slid my hand over his skin.

Kate: "....Muscles are softer than I thought. I thought it was harder."

Ellis: “When you're relaxed, yes. When you're exerting yourself, though, it gets harder......"

Kate: "Wow, that's amazing...!”

(Still, I think people are reluctant to have their skin touched...)

(Is Ellis used to being touched by other people…..?)

Even though the fun seems to rise, my heart is in turmoil at the defencelessness of Ellis, who let me touch him without any odd hesitation.

Ellis: "What's wrong?"

Kate: “Well......I was wondering if you do this to anyone who asks you to.”

Regret comes immediately after speaking out.

I knew Ellis was kind to everyone, but I speak as if I’m blaming him.

Ellis: “…..Don't worry, I didn't do anything that you would be worried about.”

The reply was ambiguous, as if it were an answer, but it wasn't.

I also notice a strange pause before the reply.

(What are the things that worry me? Have you ever let some else touches you, if only a little?…..)

Ellis's trivial words and actions have stuck with me, and I don't feel refreshed, as if a lees has settled in my mind.

(There's no reason to feel like this, but why am I.….)

Ellis: “If it still bothers you... Do you want to try touching somewhere else?”

Ellis: "....I really haven't shown this place to anyone, I haven't let anyone touch it."

Ellis: "Only for Miss Kate, special"

Kate: “Eh….”

Ellis pulled my hand again.

The hand that was touching his chest went down through his stomach.....and stop at his waist.

Kate: “….Ellis?”

Ellis: “No one touches it from here down, so go ahead.”

What Ellis is showing is below the bottoms... his lower body.

Kate: "Ah, uh..... This is not usually a place to let people touch, is it?"

Ellis: “What would you like to do, Miss Kate?”

Ellis: "Rather than normal or common sense, I want to do what you want to do."

Ellis: "I've been thinking about how to make you happy."

Even if that feeling of Ellis is one that is poured out without division to all.

I was the only one in his eyes right now.

Kate: "I, am......"

(......If there is a place on Ellis's body where only I am allowed, I want to touch it.)

The sweet sound of "special" made me forget to reply and my throat started to throb.

Ellis: ".....You can do whatever you want."

I finally gave a small nod as my gentle forgiveness.

Ellis: “Shall we proceed slowly? Let's start with........to the first joint of your finger."

Is Ellis pulling my hand, or am I proceeding with my own will? I don't know anymore.

My fingertips slip under his bottoms without any sense of reality, as if I were in a dream.

Ellis: "Second joint........”

Kate: “Ah.”

My advanced fingertips feel the rough texture of the skin. It's hot and humid inside.

Ellis: “Hmm. …..fufu, I’ve gone all the way in to the base of your fingers, haven't I?"

Ellis smiled like a child whose prank had succeeded.

Contrary to that innocence, I felt like I was doing something I shouldn’t...., I was scared.

Kate: "Uh, I guess..."

I came to my senses and pulled out my fingertips, grazing the deep part of him.

Ellis: “Nn…gh”

(……!)

Ellis: “Sorry..... I was so ticklish, I made a weird noise."

Kate: “N-no, it’s not….”

Ellis's sweet voice, which leaked a little, remains in my ears.

(The fact that I'm the only one who can touch Ellis here...)

(And that lovely voice I just heard, is that just for me?)

The thought of it is irresistibly lovely and makes me want to touch and listen to it again.

(But, as expected, no more...)

Ellis: "....More touches if you like, Miss Kate."

Taking my hesitant hand again, Ellis let me touch it through the bottoms.

Kate: “……Uh”

I gasped as I felt something passionately insisting on the area I touched.

Ellis: "This is what happened, so...I would like you to lend me a hand."

Kate: "B-but...I already had taken your body measurements.….”

I finally remember my job and give my opinion with a voice that seems to disappear.

Ellis: "Well then..... Do you want to check here with your hands? If it's a measurement, then there's no problem."

Kate: "...............I got it."

(It's just an extra of his body measurements, just to make sure......)

Like a butterfly lured by sweet nectar, I slipped my hand there again.

Ellis: “Ah... Haa….."

As I stroke him slowly while watching him, Ellis lets out a hot exhale of aggravation.

Ellis: “Miss, Kate…..”

(.....I'm weird. I can't take my eyes off him.)

He is so lovely, so cute, so disturbed by my hand that I want to see more of him.

Driven by the impulse, I moved my fingers with a strong and weak pressure so that Ellis could feel good.

Ellis: “……Nngh”

Kate: “Here…..is it?”

Ellis: "Nnm..... There, it feels good...."

His hips swayed loosely as he rubbed against my hand.

I was happy to know that I wasn't the only one who wanted to be touched.

(.....I want you to feel even better with my hand.)

At first, it was only my fingertips, but gradually I used the whole palm of my hand to wrap it up and continued to stimulate it.

Ellis: “……Nngh!”

Kate: "I-I'm sorry. Did I push too hard...?"

Ellis: “No... I'm fine. I just felt so good I was about to lose it."

Ellis: “You can touch me however you like. ....I'll make my place exclusive to you, Miss Kate."

(I, exclusive….)

The haze in my mind that I felt when I thought Ellis might have let someone else touched him cleared up.

(I see….. I wanted to monopolise you.)

(I didn't want anyone else to touch or see Ellis...that's what I thought)

If you know your feelings, there is only one thing to do.

As time permits, I continued to touch where only I was allowed and stare at Ellis, who exhaled shallowly.

Fin.

Masterlist

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tagging+* @yonaaaahowell

#ikemen villains #ikevil #ellis twilight #ikevil ellis #ikemen series #ikemen games #ikemen villians collection event #ikevil translations

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janeofcakes · 4 days

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One Night in Palermo: Chapter 1

Hi, Everyone! I haven't done this in ages and I hope you'll all jump on board again for another story. It's 18 months after Sherlock jumped from Bart's and he's busily taking down Moriarty's web. He's also pining and worried for John, who thinks he's dead. Sherlock's trying to make his way to the Moran, the web's center, when another assassin comes on the scene. Find out what happens!

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One year to the day Sherlock leapt off Bart’s, his best friend watching in horror, found him creeping into a dank warehouse in the middle of Belgrade, Serbia. The dead detective had been all over the country in the last year, as well as those sharing its borders. Hungary and Romania, Bulgaria, North Macedonia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Montenegro; all extensively traveled in the name of destroying Moriarty’s web of terrorists and murderers. He had just come through Kosovo from an assignment in Albania and tomorrow would take him to yet another location.

James Morairty may have died on the roof of Bart’s one year ago, but his criminal organization remained intact and Sherlock could not rest until Greg Lestrade, John Watson, and the beloved Martha Hudson were safe. Then maybe he could return to his old life of London and 221B and cases and John. Sherlock missed John most of all and had not been dead long before realizing the true extent of his feelings for his flatmate. Every moment not chasing down Moriarty’s criminals was spent wondering about John and what he was doing, or how he was doing. Worse yet, he dreamt of his flatmate as well, and they were becoming increasingly explicit in nature.

Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head to clear it. This was certainly not the time to go down that route of thinking. Mycroft’s intelligence indicated ten men in this building, making Sherlock’s full attention to the matter at hand imperative. The year’s assignments marked the longest period of time the detective had ever worked with his brother and there was at least another year to go before it would end. Remarkably, it had not been utterly intolerable as Sherlock had expected. Mycroft understood how Sherlock’s mind worked and gave him only the relevant information for each assignment. They met over virtual calls on a secured platform after each assignment was finished to discuss the next. Sherlock had needed serious medical attention on only two occasions and was immediately taken to a secret facility possessing everything required to address his injuries. The same short, blonde doctor cared for him each time, no doubt hand-selected by Mycroft to ensure Sherlock’s cooperation. The elder Holmes even made an appearance in both situations to make sure his baby brother was all right. He did not make himself tiresome either, much to Sherlock’s surprise, despite spending quite a lot of time by the detective’s side the second time around.

Sherlock had been caught during his last visit to Serbia. His captors quickly determined the usefulness of keeping him alive, but had no compunction with torturing him for the six weeks before his rescue. Mycroft even deigned to perform the extraction himself, he and his team infiltrating the base and killing every man in the bunker before carrying Sherlock out. It was at least a week before the detective could hold his eyes open for more than a few blurry moments at a time. When his senses and powers of deduction had returned, Sherlock was certain Mycroft had not left his side once. Oddly, the two brothers had grown closer as they worked together, but neither spoke of nor acknowledged it.

Having found no one in the warehouse thus far, Sherlock proceeded down a long hallway that led to a large meeting room. Intelligence supplied by Mycroft’s spies had shown it was where the ten men spent most of their time. A door at the left side of the room opened into an office used by a man named Markovič, the indisputable leader of this terrorist cell. He had worked closely with Moriarty on more than one occasion and murdered countless people around the world.

Two other doors entered the meeting room; one that opened to a hallway of small rooms wherein the men slept and the one Sherlock was steadily approaching. The ideal situation for Sherlock was finding all ten men in the meeting room. Slightly less ideal, was Markovič in his office and the other men in the meeting room. Some of them having a kip in their individual rooms was the least ideal, but this time of night typically saw them all together planning the events of the following day. Regardless, Sherlock was prepared for any eventuality, or so he thought.

Sherlock slowed his step as he approached the room’s half-open door, rendering his footfalls completely silent. While each of the ten men was a very skilled killer, all were also dim-witted. Even Markovič, though intelligent, was no more than slightly above average. Sherlock knew his appearance would be surprising, but once the first few shots were fired, he would have to act quickly to avoid retaliation. A scant few feet from the door, Sherlock angled his body for the best view of its occupants and what he saw boggled his mind.

Eight men lay sprawled on the floor, face down on the table, or slumped back in chairs. All of them were covered with blood still oozing from pin-point bullet holes in chests, throats, or heads. None of these men had a chance to do more than consider reaching for their own weapons before they dropped. Sherlock analyzed the scene and deduced the events as they had happened while he moved through the room to Markovič’s office.

The door was also ajar. Sherlock pushed it open slowly, already knowing what he would find. Markovič was sat at his desk, leaning back unnaturally in the chair. His eyes were wide open and unseeing as they stared blankly at the ceiling. A hole was perfectly placed in his forehead, creating an isosceles triangle with his eyes. Blood stained his face where it ran down his nose and cheeks, over his throat to soak his shirt. Significant spatter and gray matter decorated the wall behind him in a sickly red glow.

Without delay, Sherlock went to the third door in the meeting room to check bedrooms for the final missing man. Finding him was not difficult. The first door in the hall was the only one open, so Sherlock let himself in cautiously. He found the man on the floor in a pool of blood, bedsheets twisted around one leg, and a pistol held loosely in one hand. He had obviously been only halfway out of bed when the door was kicked open and fired one shot quickly, the evidence of which marred the door frame next to Sherlock’s left shoulder. The intruder had not done more than twitch his head slightly to the side before expertly placing a bullet in the man’s forehead and watching him drop.

*****

Hours later, Sherlock sat at a desk in a safe house across the border in Hungary. He had changed into jeans and a plain t-shirt in dark green. His eyes were fixed on the screen of a laptop as he waited for his brother to accept the call. When the connection was made, it was Anthea’s face that appeared instead of Mycroft’s.

“Sherlock,” she greeted him. She looked tired. Perhaps the last year had weighed heavily on her shoulders as well. “He wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

“Nor was I,” Sherlock replied dryly. “The assignment did not go as anticipated.”

“But you’re alright? It’s done?” Anthea asked with a touch of concern in her voice. The two of them had become far better acquainted over the course of Sherlock’s assignments and now had a certain rapport.

“Unconditionally,” Sherlock answered and watched as the subtle creases at the corners of her eyes smoothed away, only for them to return when he asked, “how is John?”

Anthea opened her mouth to reply, but Mycroft entered the room before she said a word. He moved to the screen swiftly and sat, studying Sherlock’s face. He was wearing his usual three-piece suit minus the jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up. A haggard expression dominated his features, but a sense of overall relief washed over them at seeing Sherlock in one piece. Mycroft let the indifference that hid whatever modicum of emotion he had slide into place and sat ramrod straight, his typical persona fully recovered.

“You were able to complete the mission,” Mycroft said with only the hint of a question in his tone.

“In a matter of speaking, yes,” Sherlock replied vaguely.

Mycroft cocked an elegant brow and leaned in.

“What do you mean?” He asked with keen interest.

“I found the bodies of all ten men upon entering the warehouse,” Sherlock said simply.

“An opposing faction?” Mycroft speculated, sounding unconvinced.

“No,” Sherlock said flatly, “it was precise and clean. None of the torture and delay seen between these enemies. A single man walked in quietly, just as I did, and murdered them all with one shot each.

“He killed all eight men as he moved through the room, three before they could rise from the table. Markovič was in his office and posed no challenge to dispatch. The last was in a bedroom.”

Mycroft had narrowed his eyes while Sherlock spoke, considering each word carefully. When the detective finished, his brother raised his gaze to regard him in silent contemplation.

“The work of an assassin where there should only be one,” Mycroft muttered.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed, “and it had occurred within the hour.”

Mycroft caught Sherlock’s eye and considered him carefully.

“Sherlock,” his tone took on a condescending characteristic that always made the younger roll his eyes, “while the situation is unusual, it is not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock began, but Mycroft cut him off quickly.

“You have a mission that cannot be delayed by a… mystery, no matter how intriguing,” Mycroft said snidely. “Need I remind you of its particular importance to you, brother mine?”

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap and pressed his lips into a thin line. Closer though they may be, Sherlock hated his brother for consistently adopting this air of superiority at a perceived weakness.

“Fine,” Sherlock spat, “but you will find out who it was. If I’m known to this assassin, I want to know his every movement. I will not tolerate interference.”

“Of course, Sherlock,” Mycroft assured him smugly. “I will use every resource at my disposal.”

****

As confident as Mycroft had been, his channels found out nothing about the assassin in the coming weeks. No one was able to determine where the man came from or where he got his information. One thing became abundantly clear, however. He also seemed to be dismantling Moriarty’s criminal organization one piece at a time.

Sherlock completed two assignments over three weeks before encountering the assassin again. The circumstances were much the same as the first time. The target called Romania home and spent most of his time terrorizing every community within a fifty mile radius. He had assisted Moriarty several times over the last decade and had often welcomed the man into his home. If James Moriarty ever had anything even vaguely approaching a friend in his adult life, it would be this man.

Sherlock watched silently from the shadows as his target entered a small room and closed the door, leaving his guard outside in the dimly lit hall. They were inside a massage parlor not far from the man’s home. He spent four nights a week in this place, making rather dubious visits to a certain masseuse. Fortunately for Sherlock, the man’s guard made similar visits to the owner of the shop.

A quiet whistle echoed through the hall twenty minutes after Sherlock’s target entered the masseuse’s room. He watched as the guard looked right, then left, and then disappeared down the hall. Sherlock waited another five minutes to be sure the guard would not return before moving silently toward the door his target had entered. He stood next to it for a moment, his back to the wall, already knowing it was unlocked. He had spent the last seven days watching his target and tracking his movements. Sherlock knew every habit and routine in the man’s life, right down to leaving the door unlocked while he got a massage and a blow job so he could exit quickly if one of his enemies interrupted.

All Sherlock needed to do was open the door and pull the trigger. He had become quite a good markman over the last year and his gun was equipped with a silencer. He wouldn’t miss and no one would hear a thing. The only thing that made him hesitate was the masseuse. He had not yet decided what to do about her. He could kill her along with the target to prevent anyone being alerted by her screams, which were certain to follow her lover’s untimely demise. He could find some quick way to render her unconscious while she and the target were distracted. He could simply shoot his target and run, risking a successful escape. Sherlock was likely to be tortured if caught, a situation he could not afford. He scowled, the words ‘a bit not good’ echoing through his mind. The only option was knocking out the masseuse and hoping no one noticed him before he did it.

Sherlock looked up and down the hall, just as the guard had, and then moved to face the door. He twisted the knob silently with his left hand and pushed it open. The scene before him was nothing like he expected. Instead of finding the two of them fucking on the massage table, the woman was lying on the floor, unconscious and fully clothed. The target was clearly dead on the table, a bullet hole in his temple. Spatter decorated the wall next to the table and Sherlock could hear the quiet drip of blood as it fell from the headrest to the floor. Curious, he entered the room and squatted cautiously next to the woman. He might have risked touching her to find a pulse, but could see it clearly enough on her neck. The assassin had left her alive.

Sherlock’s gaze darted around the room until it came to rest on a small window near the top of the back wall, the only outside wall in the room. It opened on a hinge, a glass pane that lifted up and it was ajar. Several telltale scuffs left by opening and closing it marred the bottom of the pane. The assassin’s entrance and exit point.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stood. The guard would not return for another ten minutes, but the detective could not afford to be seen by anyone. He walked swiftly out the door and closed it behind him, looking up and down the hall again. Seeing no one, but hearing faint footsteps, he crept into the shadows to wait. Sherlock heard a faraway door open and the footsteps fade away slowly. After a few minutes of silence, he left the building and made his way to the next safe house.

A few hours later and a good two hundred miles away from the massage parlor, Sherlock stood in front of a laptop set in the small bedroom of a cozy flat. He had just relayed an account of the evening’s events to his elder brother and moved on to deductions made about the assassin. Mycroft’s less-than-enthusiastic response was quickly grating on Sherlock’s nerves.

“He has a conscience,” Sherlock argued vehemently. “He could have simply killed the woman, but chose not to.”

His brother’s unimpressed face looked back at him from the laptop screen, thoroughly unconvinced. Sherlock wished, just for a moment, that they were in the same room so he could grab Mycroft’s lapels and shake him.

“Very informative, brother mine, but I fail to see how it will help to find this mysterious assassin,” Mycroft intoned dismissively, glancing at his perfectly manicured nails.

“Finding him, no, but it goes a long way in determining what kind of man he is,” Sherlock sneered. “He is not a heartless killer and that tells us quite a bit.”

“Oh, very well,” Mycroft conceded impatiently. “He may not immediately put a bullet in your head should you meet, but will introduce himself first.”

Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled his eyes.

“I will take care of him,” Mycroft continued sternly and it rankled Sherlock. The tone was the same used to scold him as a child. “You concentrate on your assignments and put an end to this dreadful business so you can return to your precious doctor.”

“How is John?” Sherlock found himself saying. It wasn’t what he meant to say, but Mycroft’s words squeezed his chest so completely that saying anything else would have stopped his heart entirely. He hadn’t even been thinking about John and was blindsided by the rush of sentiment, though he tried to keep that hidden. Mycroft, for his part, looked very disconcerted at the slip. His frustration had gotten the better of him, something that happened far more often than he would like to admit since he and Sherlock began “this dreadful business”.

“Sherlock,” he said with a long suffering sigh.

“Don’t patronize me, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“He is…unaltered,” Mycroft replied carefully.

“Unaltered?” Sherlock repeated through clenched teeth.

“I said unwell the last time you asked,” Mycroft straightened his spine and looked down his nose at his brother. “You have not returned to Baker Street. Do you imagine he is any different?”

Sherlock glared at his brother, blood boiling, but said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew his brother wanted to infuriate him. It was a distraction. Mycroft did not want to answer questions about John. It was nothing unusual, but affected Sherlock differently this time. Sherlock suddenly felt exhausted and homesick. Every bit of energy left his body. He was sick for John and if his brother didn’t want to talk about John, Sherlock had no desire to pry. He was not prepared to hear that the doctor had teetered ever closer to a crumbling precipice that might give way at any time.

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled. He shut the laptop forcefully just as his brother closed his eyes in disdain at the vulgar choice of words.

Sherlock paced furiously. He was restless and frustrated and frightened out of his mind. Dozens of storylines played out in his mind as he took each step. The most disturbing thought ended with John’s broken body on the pavement at Bart’s, the same place they had both been just over a year ago, and it made Sherlock’s heart stutter in his chest. He gasped at the pain and stumbled into the loo to be sick. He splashed water on his face once he could stand again without retching and tried to calm himself, but his chest only felt tighter. He buried his head in his hands and prayed to whatever deity would listen that John Watson be alright.

When Sherlock raised his head again, his movements were stilted and his face remote. He cleaned his teeth and changed into pajamas mechanically, getting into bed and turning out the lights. Staring into the darkness, he parted his lips and breathed slowly. If he didn’t let his thoughts out of his mind, didn’t give them life, his brain and heart would surely burst from his body.

“Wait for me, John,” he whispered into the darkness. “Please.”

****

The next time Sherlock ran into the assassin, the circumstances were quite different. It was three assignments from the last and in Montenegro. The target had not been difficult to finish, but her brother had spotted Sherlock as he made his escape and set off after him. They ran through the compound, ducking this way and that. Every corner the detective turned should have put more distance between the two, but the man behind only grew closer. Sherlock was getting tired and he knew it. On impulse, he ducked into a stairwell and barely tripped as he flew down the steps. He quickly pushed open the heavy wooden door he found there and hurried into an open courtyard full of towering shrubs and fountains. The moon shone brightly, dazzling stars surrounding it, lighting a path of escape. Unfortunately, the man following Sherlock was too close not to make a move for him.

The man dove for the detective and caught him around the waist with his arms. They went down hard, but Sherlock rolled swiftly and struck out at his attacker. They exchanged a few blows before strong hands wrapped around the detective’s throat. Without hesitation, he slid his own arms in-between his attacker’s and wrenched them outward. The other man’s elbows bent, giving Sherlock the leverage to pull his hands away and ram their foreheads together.

At first, only the other man was dazed, so Sherlock shoved him to the side and hopped to his feet. However, the after-effects caught up with him after one or two steps. Suddenly, his head swam and his sense of balance failed completely. Tumbling to his knees, Sherlock tried desperately not to fall any further. He gasped for breath and felt incredibly hot, but resisted the urge to tear the mask from his face. He preferred assignments that did not require a mask, ones where he could maintain a safe distance from targets and their associates. On this particular occasion, his passage through the compound could find him face to face with anyone and he could not be recognized.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths until his vision began to clear. Getting to his feet, he glanced around to check that his attacker had not similarly recovered. He saw nothing as rough hands grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back. A cold knife blade touched his throat before he could make any move to free himself. He was trapped. His mind raced, analyzing his options and discarding them; all the while, the blade pressed into his throat, breaking the skin ever so slightly. He nearly jolted at the sound of hoarse laughter in his ear.

“You thought you would get away?” The man holding Sherlock steady chuckled loudly. He pulled the blade more tightly and the detective winced. “You killed my sister, you son of a bitch.”

A gasp filled Sherlock’s lungs, but not for fear of his life as his attacker assumed. It was what he saw in the dark window in one of the tall buildings that lined the courtyard. A sight Sherlock never would have seen, if not for a glint of metal in the moonlight. As soon as he saw that flash of light, his eyes made out the figure of a man with a gun. Standing in the tall window was the assassin, covered in black from head to toe. His face and hair were covered with the usual balaclava. Any other details were lost to the darkness of his clothes and surroundings. His gun was aimed and ready, if the location of the reflection Sherlock had seen was anything to go by.

Sherlock stood very still, not even listening to the rants and threats from the man holding a knife to his throat. One way or another, Sherlock was going to die tonight. If the idiot behind him didn’t do it soon, he would be robbed of the pleasure by the assassin, who would certainly shoot them both. Sherlock could get away from only one of them, not both. He kept his eyes on the assassin as time ticked by and wondered why he hadn’t pulled the trigger twice already. The man couldn’t be weighing his options. It was simple: Aim and fire.

Just as Sherlock thought the word “fire”, a bright flash of light appeared from the assassin’s weapon and Sherlock felt a whoosh of air on his cheek. He expected pain or instant oblivion and got neither. The air around him was suddenly quiet and his mind registered his attacker’s hands going lax. The knife tumbled to the brick floor as the man leaned heavily against the detective’s back. Going down slowly, Sherlock maneuvered the man onto his back and looked at his face. There, between his unseeing eyes, was a perfectly placed bullet hole.

Sherlock’s head shot up to the window to see the assassin, but the man was gone. The pane held nothing but darkness. Without a second thought, the detective gathered himself and stood. It wouldn’t be long before his target’s body was discovered and the compound filled with people who would be happy to kill him. He crept through the courtyard and silently made his way out, encountering no one as he went.

Hours later, ensconced in one of Mycroft’s safe houses, Sherlock booted up the waiting laptop and entered his credentials. His mind was awash with deductions and questions and theories. If nothing else, the evening confirmed the standing deduction that the assassin had a strong moral compass. Quite a bit of additional data had been revealed as well, but Sherlock had not yet sorted through it. He needed to spend some time in his mind palace, arranging the pieces.

The laptop screen caught his eye when his brother’s face came into view. Sherlock had hoped to speak with Anthea first, but had no such luck. He leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of the keyboard, a posture he often adopted when speaking to his brother.

“The assassin was there,” Sherlock stated without preamble. “I beat him to the mark, but he was there.”

“And you know this because?” Mycroft asked with an arched brow.

“I had a knife to my throat and he shot the man holding it,” Sherlock replied without hesitation.

Mycroft’s eyes widened and he leaned in closer to his own laptop.

“He saw you?” He probed with an edge to his voice.

“Not as such. I was wearing a mask. My whole head was covered,” Sherlock answered evenly. “There was nothing to give me away. I was merely a man in distress.”

He could see his brother relax a fraction and then noticed that his eyes were locked on the small bandage Sherlock had fitted to his own neck. The detective furrowed his brow and shook his head dismissively.

“It’s fine,” he told Mycroft in a dull tone. “Superficial. I’ll be able to go without the bandage in the morning.”

“Good,” Mycroft approved, looking more at ease. “That is to say, I am glad you are safe. I must admit, however, I am somewhat troubled by the assassin’s actions. Surely killing you both would have been more to his advantage.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock replied with satisfaction. “It would’ve been easier as well; hitting my attacker with pinpoint accuracy to ensure his demise before he cut my throat requires much more skill than shooting us both. It proves my point.”

“That the assassin has a conscience,” Mycroft supplied in a long-suffering tone. He sighed. “Sherlock, you are a romantic.”

“I most certainly am not!” Sherlock objected, his good mood quashed in the blink of an eye. “I have merely analyzed the data and reached the logical conclusion, as I have in countless other situations.”

He glared at his brother, who returned the look with a smug smile on his face. Sherlock didn’t feel the need to continue the conversation because his pig-headed brother would not relent. He never had before and would not start now. Growing weary of him, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Tell me about the next assignment,” he demanded, wanting nothing more than to move the call along so he could retreat to his mind palace.

“Yes, of course. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Mycroft smirked and began debriefing Sherlock on the next target, The detective both listened and imagined how best to have revenge upon his return to London.

****

The following assignment was easily completed in as much as it was finished before Sherlock even arrived. Four days after Montenegro, the detective stealthily entered a caravan dealership that was closed for the day. His target and a small band of men in his employ had taken refuge there, believing no one would find them. After entering the dealership, Sherlock followed music lilting through the air until he reached an extra-long caravan, knowing what he would find before reaching it. While the music played loudly, the absence of all other noise led him to one inevitable conclusion: The assassin had been faster this time.

Five of the six men Sherlock expected lay dead in the caravan’s central room. It occupied more or less the entire vehicle, housing a kitchenette along one side, a narrow couch and table on the other. Two seats and the steering column filled the front of the room, windscreen before them. A small loo cut into the back of the room with closets opposite. In between the two was a narrow hallway that led to a bedroom. Judging by the positions of the men and the angles of the bullets that killed them, the assassin had come from the hallway. He must have climbed in a bedroom window and used the element of surprise.

Sherlock moved cautiously into the bedroom, expecting to find the body of the sixth man, but the room was empty. It was also a mess. A lengthy struggle had clearly taken place in the cramped room and Sherlock could read it all in the broken and overturned furniture. The upper hand had shifted a few times throughout the fight. A stray shot was fired once, twice, and then Sherlock’s eyes came to rest on a piece of bloody glass lying on the floor near a cabinet on the far side of the room. He went to it in three long strides. It was part of a broken mirror that had been affixed to the wall above a waist-height cabinet. One of the two men had grabbed hold of it and stabbed the other, but which was which? Sherlock’s eyes tracked their movements through drips and smears of blood. The injured man eventually broke free and tumbled out the room’s only open window. The other man must have followed because the caravan door would have been left open had he used it.

Gun still at the ready, Sherlock hurried out the door and around to the back of the caravan. He walked silently along the trail of blood and shoe prints. More and more of the sticky, red substance stained the concrete as he went. There wasn’t enough to indicate that the injured man was bleeding out, but was still a troubling amount. Sherlock quickened his pace, anxious to learn which man was injured. He found himself hoping it was not the assassin. It made little sense, but he felt some odd camaraderie with the man. They did seem to have the same goal and were inextricably linked by it.

Sherlock wove his way through the parking lot, around one caravan and another, until he turned a corner and stopped dead. Twenty feet ahead of him, next to a chain link fence, was the body of a man. He was on his back and was obviously dead. Sherlock’s throat went dry and he quickened his pace. He and the assassin had narrowly missed one another for almost three months. They didn’t know the other’s identity and hadn’t even been in the same room together, but had come to expect one another. At least, Sherlock had. He supposed the same might not be true of the assassin, but he liked to think it was, especially after Montenegro. The man had blatantly made the decision not only to save, but also spare Sherlock’s life and the resulting sentiment had softened his heart toward the man. The detective would have considered these feelings a weakness in the past. Now, he saw it in a completely different light. The assassin gave him something familiar to look for, to count on. He couldn’t have John or home, but could at least have something, though it paled in comparison.

Sherlock was jogging by the time he reached the dead man. He couldn’t see his head properly until he stood right next to him. Once he did, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. The man before him was not wearing a mask of any kind, nor was there one near the body. Instead, he matched the description of one of the six men Sherlock was sent to kill. The assassin had escaped.

Relief quickly turned to trepidation, however, as he got a better look at the dead man. He had no stab wounds on his body and looked to have been killed by blunt-force trauma. Sherlock’s eyes darted around the scene, picking out a heavy metal bar and more blood. He followed a trail of it with his eyes for a short distance. It led to, and passed through, an old opening in the chain link fence. Something had weakened the links and broken through long ago. The assassin must have used it to sneak inside or he would not have known to use it as an escape. Sherlock looked as far beyond the fence as he could see, but saw no body and no large pools of blood. It seemed the assassin had escaped, indeed. But how far had he gotten and how badly was he injured?

When he recounted the night’s events later for Mycroft, Sherlock left out the possible extent of the assassin’s injuries and hid his concern for the man. He knew precious little about the man. It made no sense for Sherlock to feel at all connected to him and yet, here he was. He couldn’t stop himself from viewing the connection as a separate but united force against what was left of Moriarty. As such, not knowing the assassin’s fate unsettled Sherlock in a way he couldn’t explain and he hoped their paths would cross again soon.

****

The next assignment was long and tedious. Sherlock spent nearly three weeks just garnering enough trust through various acts of theft and bullying as assigned by the target’s second in command to even be told the target’s location. He then spent another six days planning out how to neutralize successfully. His frustration grew day by day at having to waste an entire month on this one target, lengthening his time away from John. John, who he knew was struggling. His last few conversations with Anthea were vague at best, but informative enough to know that John’s grief had renewed.

The knowledge slowed Sherlock’s progress with the assignment and he knew it. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He would rather know at least something about John and be distracted than know nothing at all. He dreamt of his friend every night again; comforting him and assuring John he would be home again. He awoke each morning with renewed vigor at having spent the time with John, even if only in his mind. Part of him hoped dreams did the same for John, but they more likely only discouraged him. Sherlock had the advantage of knowing they would meet again, whereas he was dead in John’s world. Sherlock tried to ignore the regret and guilt that ate at him for it.

Motivated by the desire to end his exile and return home to John, Sherlock lost his patience and brought the assignment to an abrupt end. While in the target’s bunker for a debriefing, Sherlock broke into his office and waited. Nearly two hours later, the man and his second opened the door. Sherlock greeted them politely with one bullet each and left as fast as he could.

His work done, after the agonizingly long month, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to move on to the next assignment. He grimaced as he logged onto the secure server he and Mycroft used to communicate, knowing his brother would berate him for his slowness. Maybe Sherlock would get lucky and Anthea would debrief him. He hoped as he pushed enter and waited, then sighed when Mycroft’s smug face came into view.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured in greeting, saying nothing else. Mycroft more than made up for it.

“Good evening, Sherlock. I am glad to see you have finally finished your assignment. I was beginning to think that your target had persuaded you to stay on,” Mycroft’s snide words pushed Sherlock over the edge. The last thread tethering his frustration over the assignment snapped and he nearly swept the laptop off the table.

“Fuck off, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted. “You know this is not how I wanted it to go. Just tell me about the next assignment and go back to your cake. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your greatest pleasure.”

“Sherlock, has it really come to this?” Mycroft began with an epic eye roll.

“You started it!” Sherlock interrupted. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“In due time, brother mine,” Mycroft dismissed Sherlock’s anger out of course, “I have come into some information about your mythical assassin.”

“Oh, yes, perfect. Just what I want to know,” Sherlock snarked back, crossing his arms. “Tell me, Mycroft, how many assignments has he completed while I’ve been stuck on just one?”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft said blandly. “It seems both of you have succeeded in doing nothing. I have no indication he has made any movements during the last forty-two days.”

It was then that Sherlock remembered the trail of blood he had followed so long ago and the strange sense of loneliness he had felt. He had mentioned neither to Mycroft after that assignment.

“He was injured,” Sherlock stated almost without thinking, “in that caravan dealership in Skopje. I followed a trail of blood. He must need time to recover.”

“You failed to mention that in the debriefing,” Mycroft answered, his tone rife with skepticism.

“It was not relevant,” Sherlock replied haughtily.

“Wasn’t it?” Mycroft speculated. “Hm. I wonder.”

“Is there a point to this, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped, growing tired of the conversation. His brother had a certain knack for analyzing his motives at the most inconvenient times.

“Could it have been a more serious injury, brother mine?” Mycroft continued calmly, unfazed by his baby brother’s outburst. “We have no evidence of him at all in the time between today and that night. Could he have been neutralized?”

“Neutral- he’s not our enemy, Mycroft,” Sherlock countered. “He saved my life.”

“Because doing so suited his purpose,” Mycroft supplied, condescension slipping into his tone. “You are very obviously on a path similar to his own. Why would he want that assistance to end?”

Mycroft was right. It was only logical for the assassin to keep Sherlock alive so the man didn’t have to hit every target himself. The detective had allowed sentiment to color his views of the assassin and if Mycroft didn’t know before, he certainly did now. Damn him.

“No,” Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head after a moment of thought, “there wasn’t enough blood for the injury to have been life-threatening. He will appear again. Just give him time.”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line and took a deep breath through his nose. He had more to say, but obviously debated on whether to do it now or save it. Sherlock knew Mycroft had chosen not to wait the moment his lips parted.

“You will have to deal with him one day,” Mycroft said carefully. “The time will come when you are no longer useful to him.”

Sherlock fought not to roll his eyes. As if he hadn’t considered that particular inevitability already.

“I will handle that when the time comes, not before,” Sherlock said flatly.

****

As if on cue, Sherlock found his next target in a private train compartment with a bullet in his head. They were on a train in Hungary. The man’s two most trusted associates were at his side, also shot dead. The assassin was back.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled as he stood in the compartment’s doorway. He gave a subtle salute to the scene, closed the door, and casually walked back to his own compartment. As he went, he was filled with a sense of satisfaction and hope. With his own efforts coupled with those of the assassin, his timetable would change for the better and he could return home to John earlier than expected. Mycroft may have been right about an eventual confrontation between Sherlock and the assassin, but until then they would each enjoy the other’s usefulness without question.

****

Another handful of assignments came and went, Sherlock and the assassin working in tandem, but never encountering one another. Shortly after leaving another scene in which the assassin beat him to the mark, Sherlock calculated their joint progress once again and found that their current rate would see him back in London a full four months early. He was delighted.

A particularly successful month for both of them resulted in another revision of the time required. They had shaved off a few more weeks, much to Sherlock’s satisfaction. That was how, at eighteen months post-Fall, Sherlock found himself in Palermo, Sicily with only two targets remaining before he could return home to London and his life.

------

I know it was a long one, but I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you so much for reading and for all your support! I've missed you all so much! Tune in next week for chapter 2 and remember, keep your stick on the ice. We're all in this together.

Love, Jane

#johnlock #john watson #sherlockholmes #sherlock #johnlock fanfic #sherlock fanfic

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edoro · 6 days

Text

Obsessed with the fact that when given responsibility over a depressed burnt out profoundly disabled noble man who has to be looked after so he doesn't starve to death, Cithis immediately proceeded to mind control forcefem him, but got bored and stopped because he was too cooperative and it wasn't fun if he didn't fight/wasn't visibly unhappy about it

#cithis....#girl.#dunmeshi #cithis #mithrun

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ultimatedetectivequeen · 22 days

Note

Kyoko, is it true that you use that FAT ASS of yours to milk confessions out of criminals?

Lewd topics lie below!

"This shouldn't be a surprise, but I'm very well versed in the art of interrogation.” Kyoko proudly informed. “It also helps that my particular techniques are quite effective in forcing a confession out of stubborn criminals. Speaking of which…”

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

"Are you ready to tell me what I want to know? Or do I have to demonstrate to you further on how I deal with pathetic crooks like you?" The gorgeous detective kept a perfectly calm face as she bounced up and down on the lap of the crook in question, his cock sandwiched between her incredibly large ass cheeks.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

"Grr... S-stupid bitch..." The thug cursed as Kyoko expertly teased his member. When she had first come into the interrogation room and climbed into his lap, he thought he had hit the jackpot. He figured that as long as he promised to give her the information, she would do anything for him. Unfortunately, he would soon find out that he was most certainly not the one in control here.

The greatly skilled detective alternated between quickly bouncing up and down, and slowly shaking her fat ass from side to side, effectively driving the crook mad with anticipation.

“All you need to do is give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want.” Kyoko reminded him casually.

“Like hell, I’ll tell you y—?!” The criminal froze as Kyoko suddenly leaned in close and rested her hand on his chest

“There's no need to act all tough. I know you’re at your breaking point…” She spoke softly, slowly dragging her hand down his chest. He gulped as he stared into the detective's lavender eyes.

"... I'm gonna count down from five, and If you tell me where your boss is before I reach one..." Kyoko leaned in and whispered in his ear.

"... I'll let you release it all~"

And before he could give a response...

CLAP!

"Five!" The detective began to count down, as she gave a single clap of her ass cheeks.

CLAP!

"Four!" Then another.

CLAP!

"Three!" Then another...

CLAP!

"Two!" Then anoth—

"He hangs out at the Crazy Diamond gang's old hideout!"

Kyoko immediately stopped and then raised an eyebrow. "Care to be more specific?"

"T-That's all I know, I swear! I don't even know where that is. I only overheard some of the other guys talking about it!"

Kyoko narrowed her eyes at him and stared for a couple of seconds before taking out a small notebook and jotting something down.

"Hmm, and here I thought this would be my last interrogation for today. Though, I suppose it will be more like some simple persuasion, considering he isn't exactly a criminal." The detective thought aloud, already having in mind exactly who she can question to locate the hideout.

The crook just stared at her with confusion.

"The point is, I have somebody else to 'visit', so I'll just have to finish you off as fast as possible." Kyoko planted her hands firmly on his shoulders. The crook eyes widened as he tried to object. "Hey! You never said—"

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

Without warning, the detective began to bounce her backside up and down at full throttle with his cock tucked tightly between her cheeks, making him throw his head back in pleasure.

After going from being teased to this, it wasn’t long before he succumbed to her intense ass-job.

SPLUUUURSHH!!

Kyoko started to gradually slow her pace until she laid still, straddling his lap, her huge cake covered with his thick seed. She smirked as she scooped up a bit of cum with her finger and proceeded to suck it dry.

"Thank you for your cooperation..."

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sirianasims · 4 months

Text

We had decided to just let things happen naturally after the wedding, and it didn’t take long until I was pregnant.

We were both overjoyed, and our roommates were excited for us. Griffin immediately started changing our weekly meal plans around the nutritional requirements of pregnant women.

I asked if he was sure he still wanted to be a surgeon and not become a nutritionist instead, but he laughed it off.

“Freya, don’t be silly. You can do more than one thing with your life! Just look at Daria. Would you tell her to choose whether she wants to only do programming or podcasting or animal rights activism?”

“You know I’d never dare tell Daria what to do, but I honestly don’t understand how she finds the time.”

“Exactly, priorities!” Griffin looked at me like he’d just won the discussion and went back to his meal planning.

I thought about it. Sports had always taken up most of my time, and the rest I spent with friends and family. I didn’t really have any other interests, unless you counted reading a book or watching a movie. Griffin had his cooking, Daria seemed to be doing all the things, and even Jessica had a fashion blog.

At least Samuel was more like me, we both tended to focus on our careers and family. He wanted to specialise in paediatrics, he really loved working with children.

He was so excited about becoming a father. He kept flipping between ‘doctor mode’, spewing random facts about child development and asking me how I was feeling, and ‘dad mode’ where he obsessed about names and insisted on talking to my belly in silly voices.

It was pretty adorable. I couldn’t wait for us to finally meet our baby. We were going to be the best parents ever, together.

Nothing like my own parents.

I wasn’t even three years old when they split up. My father then proceeded to spend almost five years drinking and whoring his way through a pretty miserable existence.

Still, most of my memories of him back then were good. Even though he was troubled, he was always so happy to see me, and he always came to my games or picked me up from practice.

I remembered our trip to Mt. Komorebi vividly. The snowboarding had been amazing, and I loved spending time with my dad.

But then I had woken up from a nightmare in the big, dark, and unfamiliar house. I had felt very alone.

I was used to living by the harbour with my mother, used to the constant noise outside.

Here, the thick snow blanketed everything and it was eerily quiet.

I couldn’t remember how to turn on the lights, so I stumbled into the dark hallway, blinded by tears, only vaguely certain of where my dad’s bedroom was.

He wasn’t there.

It wasn’t the first time in my life that I’d gone to his bedroom to find it empty, but at home, it just meant that he was downstairs watching TV, or had fallen asleep on the couch with Cooper snuggled up next to him. Here, there was no sound of a TV or any light anywhere. The house felt completely deserted.

I knew I wasn’t really alone, my grandparents were in their bedroom somewhere downstairs, but I was afraid to go down there. I didn’t even want to go back into the dark hall.

I curled up on the big, empty bed. Surely, my dad would come. He had to sleep sooner or later.

I don’t remember crying myself to sleep, but I remember waking up.

My dad had been there, moisture still in his hair, fresh from a shower. With the smell of toothpaste and only the faintest hint of alcohol left on his breath.

I always hated that particular combination of smells.

He’d promised never to leave me again, and he hadn’t. Much later, I learned that he had started therapy as soon as we got home, and as far as I knew, he hadn’t touched alcohol for over fifteen years now. But I still remembered the smell.

I put my hands protectively on my growing belly.

“I’m going to do a better job than they did, no matter what it takes”, I whispered.

beginning / previous / next

#duchellilegacy #duchellichapters #duchelligen4 #freya duchelli #samuel ward #griffin hart #eric duchelli

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xshiny · 4 months

Text

Keegan Russ <3

Your welcome, damn dog.

My first post, let's see how horrible I did.

You're pulling up outside a bar in the middle of the night, growing more concerned by the minute. Keegan had gotten shitfaced after a rough day and couldn't drive himself home, making it your problem now. As you step through the doors his eyes find you almost immediately and he grins.

"There he is, my favorite boy." He mutters, slurring his words as he takes another swig of his beer, resting his elbows against the counter. "Cap send you?" He asked, his grin fading as quickly as it came.

"Yes, and now let's get you home" You say, grabbing his arm while taking the beer out of his hand. You pulled him towards you, his arm over your shoulder as you help him walk out the door. "The fuck you were thinking!? Getting drunk because of a rough day?" You scolded him. You're one concern was getting him back home.

Keegan laughs, leaning more of his weight on you as he stumbles forward. When you grab his beer and start scolding him, he lifts his other hand and waves it dismissively.

"Aw I was fine, stop being such a prude. I was just having a bit of a celebration...or a pity party. One of the two." Keegan is always a bit stubborn, he hates being 'taken care of'. But he doesn't really oppose you helping him, which is new.

You rolled my eyes, and dragged him to your car, dumping him in the passenger seat, and clicking in his seat belt. Shutting the door and getting in the driver's seat, you buckle yourself in. Inserting the key, you started up the engine.

"Now I need you to corporate-" you paused, suddenly caught off guard as you glance at Keegan. "...what are you doing?"

With a groan, Keegan tries to turn his head in order to look at you, but he can't quite get his body to cooperate. His eyes were half lidded, but he looked incredibly tired.

"Um...? Nothing...I dunno...what are YOU doing?" Keegan laughs quietly to himself as his eyes slip closed and he leans to the side. His head tilts up slightly as he speaks again. "...are we going home now?"

You shake your head, clicking your tongue. He's such a no brainer when he's drunk.

"Yes, we're going home" you grumbled, and pressed the gas petal, driving away.

Enjoying the peaceful drive back, you glance every once in a while to make sure that Keegan was alright. Finally arriving back at base, you stop the car and exit. Opening up the passenger side, you take the sleeping Keegan out. You grunted as you lifted his dead weight over your shoulders, and piggy back ride him. Locking the car, you trudge on towards the base. Damn, why is he so HEAVY.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Keegan is completely oblivious to the whole trip home, and stays completely asleep. As you walk into the base, you notice your squad watching you, some of their jaws hanging open in shock at the sight of you carrying a passed out Keegan. It's like they've never seen him drunk before. Dopes.

You catch their eye, and mouth to them that he was drunk. Proceeding to carry Keegan, you bring him to his quarters. Making it to his room, you open the door and shut it close behind you. Setting Keegan on his bed, you were finally able to relieve your fucking back. You then tucked the sleeping Keegan in, like a good little boy he is, and set a cup of water and some medicine on the nightstand table.

For a few seconds it looks as though Keegan might actually stay asleep as the alcohol takes its toll on his tired and exhausted body. But suddenly his eyes flick open and he starts groaning, trying to sit up. His eyes are unfocused, and he's definitely still drunk. As you watch, he slowly pushes himself up to a sitting position on the bed and looks around cautiously.

Startled, you glance over your shoulder as you were about to leave his room. What a fucking weirdo. Who wakes up after getting drunk...like especially after twenty minutes?? Not even I would do that.

"Where am I...?" He asks with a mumble, running his eyes across you and around the room. He blinks hard, trying to get his vision to focus. As you watch that's when the reality hits him like a ton of bricks."Wait a minute..." His voice grows louder as he recognizes the room. It only takes him a second until he's glaring at you.

The fuck you looking at? You stare back at him, confusion in your eyes as to why he's glaring at me. "Aren't you gonna thank me?" You ask, tilting your head, leaning on the wall.

"Thank you for...what? Treating me like- like a toddler?" Keegan scoffs, as though it's your fault he's wasted. He shifts so he's sitting with his legs over the side of the bed, but he still stares at you. "Besides, it's not like there are any awards being given out for doing the bare minimum." What a loser.

Okay, I helped him get in bed, and this is how he treats me?? "Oh, my bad, I guess I should have left your sorry ass back at the bar" you scoff, crossing arms and glaring at his ungratefulness. Such a derp.

Keegan rolls his eyes as he lets his feet drop to the ground and finally stands. He keeps his balance steady, but walks over to you and places his hands on the wall over your shoulders. He leans his face over to yours. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, as well as his typical cologne. "Don't act so high and mighty. If it weren't for me, you'd still be scrubbing toilets and running coffee." He scowls at you.

You gasp, offended by what he said. Is that what he thinks of me? Just some low ranked soldier who does nothing but clean? You scowl, and poke his chest angrily.

"You are supposed to be in bed, Mr. Drunk" you hiss. Without warning, you pick him up in bridal style and drop him on the bed. "And you're too drunk to even fight with me, so don't even think about it" you grumbled.

A look of pure shock spreads across Keegan's face as you scoop him up in bridal style and put him back in bed. There's silence as you lay him down. He's too caught off guard to say anything but his eyes narrow as he looks you up and down.

"Excuse me?" He asks, the alcohol slowly wearing off and his angry eyes growing clearer. He blinks and sits up in bed, glaring at you intently.

"You're excused" you scoff, and push him back down on the bed. "Get some rest, and maybe then you'll think about what you did" you scolded him, like he was a little kid.

The scolding only makes his scowl deepen and he rolls his eyes, but you push him back down on the bed and it's clear that he's no longer strong enough to put up a fight. He sinks into the pillows, looking over at the cup of water and medicine on the nightstand.

"...you know I'm going to kick your ass about this later..." He mutters, closing his eyes and leaning back on the pillows.

"Then I know you're sober and not drunk" you grumbled back, as you pull the blankets over his shoulders, tucking him in. Man, Keegan is so annoying when he's drunk. I just hope that I don't have to deal with it again.

Keegan rolls over so his back is to you and sighs, closing his eyes again. He seems much more relaxed now that he's under the covers, and he's starting to drift back off to sleep. But as you stand there ready to leave he mutters some more.

"Just for that, I'm going to make sure you have the shittiest job duties this week."

You gasp, exasperated, even more offended. "Okay, well I understand that I'm a low ranked soldier - but that doesn't mean you have to give me the worst jobs because I helped you and you don't want to admit that you needed my help!" You scoff, and hit his shoulder, not even caring it he's sleepy. You storm off, opening the bedroom door. "And I hope that both sides of your pillow is warm!" You called out over your shoulder, slamming his door shut, before your stomps could be heard down the hall.

You slam the door shut behind you and the last thing you hear before the door closes is Keegan snorting. You didn't know it, but you had hit him where it hurts. He hates warm pillows. You walk out of the room and past the group of men out front, who whisper about the whole interaction between you and Keegan. The men all try to act like they weren't eavesdropping at all, and instead focus on some random object in the hallway. Once you're in the clear, you hear some loud muttering coming from Keegan's room.

You throw a glare at the men who were pretending to be busy, and you shake my head angrily as you stormed off to your own quarters. Clocking in for bed, you grumbled about how you were gonna strangle Keegan the next time you find him drunk.

Your welcome, damn dog.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

January 12, 2024

2:09 am

A/N: this took many brain cells to put together 💀

#keegan russ x reader #keegan p russ #cod keegan #keegan russ x you #drunk #keegan x reader #keegan x you

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tyliocellier · 8 months

Text

Cont. from here. Another new post because for some reason tumblr gave the legacy notification on your last reply 🙃 @proverbialsaints

As soon as he got the green light, Tylio picked up his spoon and proceeded to feed Rosie a little bit of the mashed potatoes from his plate. She was surprisingly cooperative, he didn't even have to do the airplane thing. Maybe she was still shaken, he worried. From having strangers show up at the house, from her father's strange behavior. But...probably not. As he looked at Rosie's face and noticed her staring back at him with big, sparkling eyes, he realized she was just fine. He smiled at her, feeding her a little more while Lucy thanked him, but also shared her concerns with him.

"Lucy..." He paused, putting down the spoon for a second to look at Lucy, to which Rosie immediately put up a protest. Squealing for more potatoes, or maybe just more attention. Tylio quickly resumed feeding her. "It's not a grave injury. It's just a bruise, this will fade. But...and I don't want you to think I'm blaming you, this isn't that, I just want to know...did he ever act like that before?"

Ryan may not have ever hit her, but he had grabbed her wrist today. And it wasn't in a loving kind of way, there was something intimidating about it. If he were to be perfectly honest, Tylio was quite happy that he'd been able to redirect that intimidation towards himself, even if it meant landing a few bruises. He didn't have a relationship with Ryan. He didn't have a child with Ryan. But Lucy was tied to him in a way that was going to be difficult to break free from completely. He knew she could do it, of course, he would be there to help her. But he needed her to realize that what Ryan did to him today really wasn't even the worst of it. Ryan had been perpetually chipping away at her self esteem for years and Tylio considered that to be a much bigger offense.

#proverbialsaints #tw: toxic relationship mention

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emailsfromanactor · 5 months

Text

A small taste of Letters from an Actor by William Redfield:

Some years ago, Mr. Johnny Weissmuller, having become famous as the monosyllabic Tarzan, essayed the role of Mowgli the Wolf Boy in a play the title of which escapes me entirely. Quite possibly, it was called Mowgli the Wolf Boy. Anyway, I hope so, but I did not actually see the play. The novelty of the production proceeded from Mr. Weissmuller’s scantily clad presence at a well-furnished mansion in the city of San Francisco. Precisely why Mowgli the Wolf Boy should have been stopping over at a well-to-do San Franciscan’s I cannot imagine without considerable aid, but he was all the same and his mode of dress remained a loincloth, a pair of sandals, a band round his head, and a knife angled into his whipthong belt. At a climactic second-act moment, Mowgli and the villain of the piece struggle to the death for possession of a pistol with which the villain has attempted to shoot Mowgli. On opening night (in Los Angeles, I believe) the powerful Mr. Weissmuller wrested the weapon from his snarling but flimsy adversary and fired it at him. But the prop weapon misfired and the tell-tale clickclickclick of the trigger told a sad story: villain of play will not be shot tonight, dear friends and neighbors. Mr. Weissmuller, showing commendable presence of mind, immediately went for his knife. Unfortunately, the knife bent visibly double against the villain’s chest because it was made of rubber. This amused the audience a good deal but caused the villain to break out in a cold, trembling sweat. Actors who are supposed to be killed become frightfully nervous when things don’t go as expected - more nervous, for some reason, than fellow actors who are supposed to kill them. Weissmuller himself? Unfazed, apparently. He began to growl and grunt and stomp. He dragged the villain to the window. He then wrapped window drapes around the hapless chap’s neck and the latter, being only too happy to cooperate, commenced to expire. But the audience would have none of it. “He’s not dead,” several cried, and “Hit him again!” When Mr. Weissmuller ripped the drapes away from the villain’s throat, the audience burst into applause. “No more strangling,” a man cried derisively. “Think of something else.” Weissmuller did. He stared hard at his fellow player, who - terrified - began to sink slowly to his knees. Weissmuller then lifted his right fist threateningly. The villain mumbled and whimpered. Suddenly, Weissmuller pressed his fist against the villain’s forehead and croaked ominously, “I keel you weeth my poison ring!” The villain gasped his relief and fell over in a heap, quite theatrically dead. I believe that even the audience was satisfied. If they weren’t, they should have been. Mr. Weissmuller deserved a standing ovation that night. If he didn’t get one then, he gets mine right now.

Read the rest of the book with Emails from an Actor!

#william redfield #johnny weissmuller #emails from an actor

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beardedmrbean · 3 months

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After staying tight-lipped on his position for weeks, Mayor Adams came out in favor of modifying the city’s sanctuary status laws late Monday — lending his support to a growing chorus of mostly conservative voices who have called for abolishing the local immigration protections in the wake of several high-profile crimes involving migrants.

The sanctuary laws, which date back to the 1980s, prohibit city government workers and agencies from helping federal immigration authorities with tracking down and detaining immigrants residing in the five boroughs for deportation purposes. There are exceptions to the laws that allow the city to cooperate with the feds in some cases, including if an immigrant has been convicted of a serious or violent crime.

Existing laws do not permit the city to cooperate with the feds if a foreign national has merely been charged with a crime.

In a town hall-style event in Brooklyn on Monday night, Adams said the existing laws are too lax and that he wants to see them changed.

“The overwhelming number of migrants and asylum seekers that are here, they want to work … but those small numbers that are committing crimes, we need to modify the sanctuary city law that if you commit a felony, a violent act, we should be able to turn you over to ICE and have you deported,” Adams said, a remark that drew applause from participants at the town hall held at a public school in Canarsie. “It is a right to live in this city and you should be not committing crimes in our city in doing so. Right now, we don’t have the authority to do so.”

Before Monday, Adams largely avoided offering his view on the sanctuary issue, saying only that the question should be posed to the City Council, whose support would likely be required to tweak the laws. Council Speaker Adrienne Adams said earlier this month her chamber has “no plans” to alter the sanctuary laws.

Spokespeople for Adams didn’t immediately return requests for clarity Tuesday on how exactly the mayor would like to see the sanctuary laws changed.

Before the sanctuary laws were strengthened under former Mayor Bill de Blasio in 2014, city agencies like the NYPD and the Department of Correction were able to detain undocumented immigrants charged with crimes on behalf of ICE until they could take over custody and place them in deportation proceedings. Back then, ICE even had an outpost on Rikers Island, a reality that advocates and Democrats labeled as cruel and damaging to the city’s reputation as a safe haven for hundreds of thousands of undocumented immigrants who call the Big Apple home.

Local Republicans and some conservative Democrats started vocally pushing for rolling back the sanctuary protections last month after a group of migrants were caught on surveillance video kicking an NYPD officer outside a shelter in Manhattan. Body cam footage that was later released by the NYPD showed the assault was preceded by the officer putting his hands on one of the migrants.

Amid an influx into the city of more than 170,000 mostly Latin American nationals since spring 2022, there have been a handful of other crimes involving migrants further fueling the calls for changes to the local sanctuary laws.

The mayor’s support for modifications to the laws was hailed on social media by voices on the far-right end of the political spectrum.

“Wow! Mayor Adams is asking for a change in New York City’s sanctuary city law. Good for him,” Charlie Kirk, founder of the right-wing Turning Point USA group, wrote on X. “Now he needs to go all the way and move to abolish it.”

#nunyas news

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itsnotyouithink · 2 years

Text

SENSE OF HOME, BOTH SWEET AND SALTY

fem!reader x cheryl blossom x son!oc

summary; when invited to see your girlfriend cheerlead at the championship game vs stonewall prep, a hellish face gets your attention which leads to a series of events to follow. both bad and good.

part one,

warnings; fluff, angst

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

You didn’t know you could’ve gotten any luckier. Your life was seemingly perfect at the moment—too perfect. One example is your girlfriend becoming more involved with Cris and his life. She chose to pick him up from school when you couldn’t make it from all the after school activities you decided to sign up for. With Senior Year quickly coming to a close, you had to make sure your transcript for college had as much stuff in it that Cheryl did. If you wanted to have the opportunity to support your family, fully without the help of your father or Cheryl, you needed to get a good education.

Cris absolutely adored Cheryl. He adored her so much that he had already started calling her parental names. The array of Mama, and Mom flying around left and right. And every time the name is directed at her, her face immediately glows with a smile. She even cried one time.

Things had been going great—better than great. You and your girlfriend were on cloud 9 together, switching between which house to sleepover at. Cris obviously slept between the two of you and Cheryl wouldn’t have it any other way. It was a heartwarming sight to see. You finally had a family, even if it wasn’t “traditional”.

Cheryl made it her mission to make sure the boy felt safe and comfortable in her presence and around Thistlehouse. If that meant that she needed to get rid of a few paintings that were passed down through the Blossom bloodline—so be it.

“Remember when you see Cheryl, you give her a big hug.” Cris nodded his head with a smile, “I love Mamas hugs! She makes sure to squeeze the life out of me.”

You shook your head and laughed, “You should tell her that, it’ll make her smile.” Cris proceeded to pull you over towards the bleacher stairs with no struggle. The two of you found seats near the front, giving Cris enough room to jump up and down when he gets a sudden energy surge he usually got. Especially with the hype and cheering coming from students of Riverdale High and Stonewall Prep.

“Well if it isn’t Prince Cristiano and Miss Y/N.” A familiar voice came from beside you and your energetic son. Your good friends, Betty Cooper and Jughead Jones sat beside you, Cris eloping them into a warm hug. “I thought you couldn’t come to the game?”

You sighed, “Cris has been extremely hyper lately. I thought some fresh air would do the trick to tire him out. It’s a plus that everyone is here.” You flashed a small smile towards your two friends.

Jughead chuckled as Cris repeatedly gave him high-fives, “He’s like a ball of star energy.”

You laughed and shook your head, “I wish it was just that,” Betty tilted her head towards you, a supportive hand placed on your forearm. “He hit one of his classmates last week for stealing his red crayon while making a portrait of me, him and Cher.”

“His teacher suggested he should get tested for ADHD, but doctor visits are extremely expensive for a high school student that takes a shift at Pop’s. Cheryl continues to tell me she’ll happily pay for it but, I just don’t want handouts—she’s been paying for his normal check-ups since she met him.” You took a quick breath, “Whatever, I’ll find a way.”

Betty gently squeezed your arm before retracting it when a breeze hit, “Well if you need anything, we’re here for you.”

Jughead nodded from beside his girlfriend, “Even if I’m at Stonewall right now, I’ll happily take babysitting hours. It’s a good break from the Stonies.” You smiled at the couple and nodded, “Thanks guys, I appreciate it.”

A whistle was blown, the River Vixens waving their pom-poms and coming onto the field with smiles and chants—their recently hired cheerleading coach no where in sight. Cheryl scanned the crowd like she usually would, the expectation of her girlfriend and her girlfriends son wasn’t extremely high, considering the two of you talked on the phone and you told her there most likely wasn’t a possibility of making it. But the glimpse of a boy jumping up and down waving made her smile, immediately waving back.

She blew a kiss to you, who waved brightly. Cheryl winked and turned to her Vixens with clasped hands. The cheerleaders got into formation, the song ‘Cherry Bomb’ playing on the loud speakers around them. You watched as Cheryl and your best friends, Veronica and Toni dance around with smiles and sass. Cris jumping up and down and dancing freely.

The football team ran onto the field with their helmets covering their faces and heads. The game had quickly begun with the burning thought that the guy with #13 plastered on his back looked oddly familiar with the piercing brown eyes.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Cris happily jumped into the arms of your girlfriend, “Mama! You did so good!” It was the end of the game and sadly the Stonewall Prep Scallions took the win at the last moment, Riverdale High’s star player being injured at the last seconds of the game. Cheryl smiled at the parental name she was officially given. Her heart swelling immediately. “Hi, baby, I’m glad you came!” She smiled and kissed the crown of his head, swinging him back and forth with the hug.

You cleared your throat making Cheryl look towards you. “Well, hello, my love.” She let go of the raven-haired boy and brought you in for a chaste kiss. “I thought you weren’t coming?”

You sighed, “He was energetic after you left. I figured we could enjoy fresh air and see you do your thing.” Cheryl nodded with a smile and a small chuckle, Cris leaning into her side. You furrowed your eyebrows, “Where’s the new cheerleading coach?”

Cheryl smirked, “Oh, she’s been . . . disposed.”

You shook your head and brought her in for a hug. “You did good out there, Blossom. Y’know with the hands and the skirt rising? I wonder where they came from . . .” You rose a playful eyebrow. Cheryl laughed and interlocked your hands with hers. “They’ve been recently locked away, I suppose. However, I am glad you were here to see them.”

You hummed with a small laugh, “Believe me, I enjoyed it.” Cheryl pulled you in once more for a small kiss, this time lasting an ounce longer but was interrupted by a deep voice calling for your name.

“Y/N.” Someone called from behind the two of you. A small groan of interruption falling from Cheryls painted lips. “Can we talk?”

You turned around at the question with furrowed eyebrows.

David Santos in all his hell-ish glory.

His hair was pitch black and wet from a celebratory water bottle being poured in his head. A small gash through his eyebrow from being tackled by Archie Andrews himself. His brown eyes transferred exactly to his son. He was tall—so damn tall.

Cheryl looked at the man and then at her girlfriend then down to the boy who clung to her side, waiting to go home. Cris was the spitting image of you and David combined.

The boy had David’s hair color, his eyes and skin tone while you gave him your eyebrows, lips, cheekbones and jaw line.

You cleared your throat, the father of your child standing before you, “David, there’s nothing to talk about.” You turned around and grabbed ahold of Cris’s hand, Cheryl turning with you to walk the other way. A hand turning you back around by your forearm.

“David—”

“Is this him . . .” He gulped, looking down at the confused child hiding beside Cheryl and yours legs. “Is this my son?”

“Who’s else’s would it be, you imbecile.” Cheryl rolled her eyes, her arms crossed with a protective stance. David furrowed his eyebrows and looked towards you who sighed and nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You scoffed and furrowed your eyebrows, “I did tell you, David.” The image of the three pregnancy tests you took and showed him engraved in your brain. So was the thought of him telling you he wanted nothing to do with it. “You said you didn’t want anything to do with me or him. Even after that I gave you a chance.” You dryly chuckled, “I even invited you to family events with my Dad! I defended your ass even when everyone said you would be a deadbeat father who would care less about me or our son.” You angrily made your way over to him, harshly pointing a finger to his chest. “I waited for you in that hospital bed and you never came.”

“Mama, why is Ma angry?” Cris quietly asked a focused Cheryl by pulling on her Vixens skirt. The redhead looked down at the boy but before she could answer David scoffed, “So, Blossom gets to be a parent figure but the person who actually created him can’t even see him?”

“David, please.” You dragged a hand down your face, “You haven’t been present since his birth. You ran away to Stonewall Prep, for heavens sake. Cheryl has been there for him—for us—way longer than you have. And, again, you made that decision to be a bad father. I gave you plenty of opportunities to redeem yourself.”

“But—”

“David.”

“Can I at least say hi?” David sighed, glancing at the raven haired boy with spitting imagery of himself. You held stern eye contact before sighing and looking behind you at Cheryl then at your son. “Cris, baby, come here for a second.”

He walked over to you, picking him up in your arms. You pressed a small kiss on his cheek before sighing, “Cris, this is David . . . your Dad.”

Cris furrowed his eyebrows. He was young, yes. But he knew the small stories of his father and even in his young mind, David was never the person who fit the parental figure. When he thought of a parental figure it newly morphed into the image of the redhead behind them. “No you’re not.”

“Cris—”

“No, Mama is right there.” He turned in your arms and pointed to Cheryl who couldn’t help the small laugh behind her hand escape her lips. “I don’t know you.” He pointed to the football player in front of them.

“David, I’m sorry—”

“No, no.” He shook his head, sadness written on his face. “It’s, uh, it’s fine. I . . . understand, y’know. I wasn’t there and I get that.”

“Look,” You sighed, knowing you might regret the offer you were about to give him. “if you want to come around and try—”

“No,” He declined, “I’m fine.”

“David, I’m giving you a final chance here. I’m giving you a chance so you won’t go home to your cozy dorm room in tears because your own son doesn’t know who you are. Okay? So, take it.” You said sternly. “. . . You can come have dinner with us three tomorrow night. If you don’t show up then I will know your decision about where you want to stand in your sons life.”

You didn’t let him answer before turning around and headed towards the car. Cheryl quickly running towards your side with a hand slipped around your waist. Leaving a thought filled football player in the dust of Riverdale High. “Let’s go home, shall we.”

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You cozied up on the comfortable bed of Cheryl Blossom that had quickly turned into your bed as well. The covers were poured over the three of you. Cris was fast asleep between the two of you, Cheryl’s hands rubbing the boys arm in a parental manner, ushering him to fall into a deep sleep—which he quickly fell into.

You glanced towards your girlfriend in the dark lighting of the room. Your vision shifting back to your sleeping son. “On Cris’ birth certificate, where the fathers signature should be . . . it’s blank.”

The redhead glanced over at you while you tilted her head towards her. “And, the papers in my bag also just need a signature. You can obviously say no, considering it’s a big decision and bigger responsibilities. But,” You looked down at your sleeping son who was cuddled between you too. His small arm hung around Cheryls covered stomach, while his face leaned against her as well. “Cris already calls you Mama. He sees you as a parental figure and thinks about your hugs daily.”

“And, again, you obviously don’t have too—” You were quickly interrupted by the redheads lips on yours in a short, passionate kiss. The two of you being mindful of the sleeping child between the two of you.

“Where do I sign?”

So with grace—and a smile, you wrapped Cris around Cheryls figure to slowly leave the bed without waking the sleeping child. You came back with papers leaning against a school textbook you found in your book bag, a pen in hand. You watched with a smile and glossy eyes as Cheryl clicked the pen and signed her name on the adoption papers.

CHERYL BLOSSOM

“You, Cheryl Blossom, officially have a son.” You smiled, a glossy tear slipping down your cheek that the redhead wiped away. She smiled, happy tears threatening to slip down her cheeks as well.

“I love you,” She smiled, placing a short kiss on your lips. “and, you.” She kissed the crown of her sons head who was now completely on her stomach in a bear hug, sleeping.

So that night, when Cheryl was smiling up at her ceiling, with you curled into her sleeping, she glanced over to her future fiancé and son with smiles. She realized that even through all the hell they’ve been through so far, a sense of home wasn’t just a place of comfort but also people.

She realized her girlfriend and son were her home, and she would be damned if she let anyone take that away from her.

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natsukishinomiyaswife · 1 month

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hi hi sheep!!

👁️🧸 perhaps a lil domestic fluff for cathie? :0

Hello Ian! ☆

Thank you so much for your ask, and for responding to the OC x Canon ask game I reblogged!

Time for more Cathie! Yay! ♡

👁️: What exactly do they want with their future with each other? Is that something they think of often or do they just stay in the moment?

I think they both are in it for the long run, and each of them imagine what their future together would be like! Ruthie is definitely the type to daydream about her future with Cater, especially about getting married! She could be working on a wedding cake order at the bakery she works at part time, or see wedding pictures online, and immediately start picturing what it would be like if the cake was her wedding cake, or the people in the picture getting married were her and Cater. Like the idea of them breaking up never crosses her mind, whenever she thinks about the future Cater is always included. There's no one she wants to be with but him, there's no one she wants to spend the rest of her life with but him. She writes Ruthie Diamond with little hearts around it whenever she's in the middle of writing something and starts daydreaming. (Half the time she does it without thinking) Trey borrowed a recipe from her one time and immediately saw all her little doodles on the margins of the paper and had to show Cater. He practically had a heart attack when he saw it, heart pounding in his chest as he took dozens of pictures. (He adds it to the special album he has on his phone that's just pictures of Ruthie, ones he took in secret or ones he wanted to keep for himself and didn't wanna post. Whenever he's sad or feeling lonely, he'll look through the album to help him feel better, or help him fall asleep if it's late at night) I think in the beginning Cater was very "stay in the moment", but gradually started having thoughts about the future and over time got to a point where he couldn't picture a future without Ruthie in it. Like he could be scrolling on his phone when suddenly a picture of a bride pops up on his feed, and suddenly the thought of Ruthie wearing that dress and being the bride in the photo invades his mind. Or maybe he sees a video of a really nice reception area, and imagines him and Ruthie using it for their wedding, and bookmarks the video before he even realizes it. (He would start referring to Ruthie as his wife/future wife jokingly, but the first time he did it he 100% meant it and proceeded to flush in embarrassment when he realized what he said. Ace still brings it up sometimes)

🧸: Would they want to have kids together? If so what are their kid(s) like? How are they as parents?

They do have kids in the future! They have two boys! (One of them biological, one of them adopted!) I know I talked about this briefly on my old side blog, but one of their kids is named Tate (Tay, Tater tot)! He's a fox beastman, and is twisted from Tod from The Fox and the Hound! They adopted him when he was around one years old, the same age as their biological son! (I don't have a name for him yet, so if anyone has any suggestions, I would appreciate it!) The boys are best friends, always hanging out and playing together. They don't like the other being left out, so if one of them is invited somewhere (by friends, family, etc) they'll always ask if their brother can come too, refusing to go if they can't. (When they grow up, one of them goes to NRC while the other goes to RSA, in a nod to how Tod and Cooper separated as they got older in The Fox and the Hound) Cater and Ruthie are very sweet parents, wanting their children to be happy but also knowing when to put their foot down. So many family pictures and home videos! The boys love their father's unique magic, Cater using his clones when they're playing tag or hide and seek. Ruthie helps the boys get away from him during tag, or has them hide with her during hide and seek. Though they usually end up making a mess, the boys love to help their mom in the kitchen, whenever Ruthie is baking or cooking dinner. Cater helps too, and turns cooking into a family activity for them.

Thank you so much for your ask, Ian! I really appreciate it! ♡

If anyone else would like to ask about Cathie, either with the questions from the OC x Canon ask game or just in general, please feel free to do so!

I would absolutely love it if you did! ♡♡♡

Thank you! ♡

#♡.sheep answers #♡.twst oc #♡.ruthie #♡.cathie #oc x canon #ask game

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deedeemactir · 1 year

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(pulling up a chair) so talk to us about hawke/cullen…….

Oh I’m so glad you asked!

I play a blue rogue Hawke who initially pretends to support the Templars in an effort to keep Bethany safe. Headcanon time: Cullen recognizes that Bethany is a mage immediately, but because they saved his life that day on the Wounded Coast and then proceeded to aid the Templars and even rescue Keran, Cullen doesn’t immediately take Bethany in — though privately he makes it clear to Hawke that they’re on borrowed time.

It doesn’t matter though, because Bethany becomes a Grey Warden. Had she not went into the Deep Roads, Cullen would’ve taken her to the Circle. What Hawke later finds out from Cullen is that he and Bethany already had an arrangement in place. After the Deep Roads, she was going to turn herself in to him. Her cooperation would mean that the family could be spared the charges of harboring an apostate, and Bethany would finally get to stop running. Hawke doesn’t know what to make of this.

Leandra in many ways blames Hawke for Carver’s death and Bethany’s absence. Late one night, they have a huge fight, which sends Hawke to the Wounded Coast, where Cullen finds her alone and freezing at daybreak. They talk. And, long story short, they end up back at her house. They quickly become very close, while keeping the time they spend together a secret from everyone, but their relationship remains platonic until the night of the Qunari attack.

Hawke supports the mages. Cullen thinks most mages are a threat. But after Leandra’s death at the hands of a blood mage, Hawke turns to Meredith, of all people — which means Hawke begins to support Meredith just as Cullen finally begins to pull away from her. Over the course of Act 3, they effectively flip-flop on their beliefs, and it isn’t until Anders blows up the Chantry and Hawke is confronted with the madness of dooming every mage in Kirkwall for the actions of one man that she realizes just how brainwashed she’s let herself become — as a parallel to Meredith’s encouragement of Cullen’s trauma from Kinloch. In the end, Hawke protects the mages while Cullen tries to get a handle on the situation from his side (if you’ve ever seen the Templar ending where Cullen asks for the mages to be spared, you know what I mean). And when all is said and done, Hawke and Cullen decide to give their relationship a break until the two of them are in a better place. If they’re both single by that time, they’ll try again, and if not, they give each other permission to move on.

Of course, that means Varric isn’t the only one hiding the full truth from Cassandra, but I have a separate fic planned for that ;) ;)

Don’t worry, Hawke and Cullen do end up together in the end. Kirkwall nearly killed them both. Returning to the Fereldan countryside to start a Templar hospice sounds like a good retirement for them both.

#cullen rutherford #hawke x cullen #cullen x hawke #dragon age headcanon #oc lore #hawke dragon age

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totowlff · 2 years

Text

chapter twenty — deja vu

➝ mercedes’ second championship win brings back some old feelings, but things between elisabeth and toto feel brand-new.

➝ word count: 3,9k

➝ warnings: none

OCTOBER, 2015

The mood in the garage was one of pure ecstasy.

Mechanics were running around, wide smiles on their faces and bottles of champagne in their hands. The engineers thumped each other on the back as they passed, in a gesture of cooperation. On the television screens mounted to the walls, images switched between replays of the silver car with the number 44 taking its lap of honor around the Sochi circuit, and the podium ceremony that had just taken place, with Lewis, Sebastian and Sergio dousing Andy Cowell with champagne.

Watching the proceedings with a smile, Elisabeth had the strange sensation that she’d been here before. The smiles, the tears, the fuss to get everyone assembled for the victory photo — it was all too familiar to her. But, there was something else in the air, too.

Apprehension.

On the last lap, after Valtteri Bottas and Kimi Räikkönen overtook Sérgio Perez, there was a fierce fight by both Finns for third place. However, the 2007 champion collided with the Williams driver. While Valtteri had to retire from the race due to the damage from the collision, Kimi managed to get his Ferrari to the checkered flag, taking fifth place.

The combination of results between the Finn and his teammate, Sebastian Vettel, together with Nico's early retirement, prevented her team from celebrating its second Constructors' World title in Russia. However, Elisabeth’s father pointed out Kimi’s reckless move almost immediately.

— He did it on purpose — Niki said, his voice flat.

She quirked an eyebrow as she looked at him.

— What are you talking about, dad?

— Räikkönen. He tagged his wheel against Bottas. He should be getting a penalty.

— But what penalty? — Elisabeth asked, as Lewis passed the checkered flag on the screen in front of her.

— A time penalty, added at the end of the race — he muttered, watching Sebastian and Sergio cross the finish line.

— A time penalty could mean our Constructors' title — Toto said, snatching his cell phone from the engineering station as he jumped out of his chair. Even before Lewis had even pulled into parc fermè, he was walking out of the back of the garage. She was confused as she watched the team principal leave, her father on his heels.

“Why haven’t they come back yet?”, she thought, after a few minutes. Elisabeth pursed her lips as she observed the anxious throng of mechanics and engineers, who were already holding giant silver Mercedes stars and champagne bottles in their hands. They were just waiting to find out which victories they’d be celebrating that day.

— Elisabeth — one of the interns from the marketing team stopped in front of her with a pile of aqua-green t-shirts, still wrapped in clear plastic. — Do you want a t-shirt?

She looked down at her white blouse, and memories from the year before came to her, when she was soaked with champagne and felt half-naked in the midst of the title celebrations, in front of dozens of photographers.

“If it wasn't for Toto”, she thought, smiling.

— Yes, I do.

She pressed one of the shirts into her hands, and Elisabeth gave her a thankful smile to the girl, who went on with her mission to outfit the rest of the team. She opened the package and quickly glanced at the white screen printing, which featured the words “Race Winners”, “F1 W05 Hybrid” and “2015” highlighted. She slipped the t-shirt over her white blouse.

— They're coming! — someone yelled. There was a sudden commotion in the garage, and she started to make her way through the assembled crowd, moving to get to the area where everyone was gathering.

First, Lewis appeared alongside Andy, both of them completely drenched in champagne and holding the first-place and constructors trophies. Behind them, Toto appeared next to Nico, the two of them talking quietly before they came face to face with the crowd.

— We'll talk about this later — Elisabeth heard the team principal say to his driver. Then, he looked up at the crowd that had gathered. The tension in the air was almost palpable.

Toto’s eyes met hers, and then, his face cracked into a wide smile.

— We are the two-time Constructor’s champions — he said in a low voice.

Before Elisabeth could realize it, her feet were already in a clumsy run towards Toto, her arms looping around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. Just as it had been in Monaco two years ago, she felt his arms wrap around her waist and lift her off the ground.

He smelled the same.

The emotions she felt were the same.

However, they were not.

Both of them had changed considerably since that day in Monte Carlo. They both had matured. They had both learned, not just about motorsport, but about leadership, business, companionship, and partnership, but above all, they’d both learned about love.

The second title was sweeter than the first.

— You did it, honey — she whispered into his ear as she planted a discreet kiss on the crook of his neck.

— We did it, Liesl — Toto whispered back.

She looked into his brown eyes and saw them gleaming with satisfaction. Of happiness. Of desire.

— I'm so proud of you — she whispered, a wide smile on her face. Toto didn't answer, just leaning his forehead against hers, closing his eyes slightly. Elisabeth also closed her eyes for a few seconds, absorbing that moment and using all her self-control not to kiss him right there.

Seconds later, she felt her feet touch the ground again. Around her, the team exchanged hugs and congratulations, laughter and pats on the back. The atmosphere in the garage was electric. It was joy in its purest form.

However, Elisabeth and Toto were inside their own bubble, staring at each other in silence, trying to say with their eyes everything that they couldn't speak with their lips at that moment. Amid so many unspoken words, she had to walk away quickly. She'd finally realized what she'd done.

“That wasn’t discreet at all, Elisabeth”, she thought, looking to the side and seeing Nico, who was shaking hands with his race engineer, Tony Ross.

Without hesitation, she threw her arms around the driver, trying to reproduce the same joy with which she had hugged Toto earlier.

— Congratulations, Nico! — she exclaimed, looking at him with a wide smile on her face — We did it again!

The German looked a little taken aback by her effusiveness. After all, the race had been a real disgrace for him, as he had to retire at the end of the seventh lap. However, Nico returned her smile.

— Yes, we did it — he replied — I wish it would have been easier, but we did it.

— Are you happy?

— As happy as I can be, Elisabeth — Nico said, his smile fading — I'm still frustrated with the retirement, but there wasn't much I could do.

Elisabeth pursed her lips, feeling a little guilty for having chosen Nico to be her cover.

— Did you find out what the problem was, yet?

— The accelerator pedal stuck.

— Shit — she muttered, putting a hand on his shoulder — But you're still in the fray, anything can happen.

— It's going to be hard, you know, Elisabeth…

— Hard, but not impossible. And you know it.

Nico laughed.

— Your optimism is impressive.

— Well, someone needs to be optimistic! — she replied, smiling, before giving the driver another hug, this time, to encourage him.

— Mauslein? — she heard a familiar voice amid the cacophony. Elisabeth turned away from Nico and saw her father standing at the entrance to the garage, a smile on his face. As soon as she looked at him, Elisabeth felt an avalanche of happiness wash over her. She couldn’t keep the grin off of her face if she’d tried.

— Dad — she exclaimed, as she walked toward him and wrapped him in a tight hug — You've done it again!

She felt Niki's hands rest on her back, but he was hesitant. She pulled back slightly, meeting her father's face with a somewhat confused expression.

— Done what?

— Kimi got a thirty-second time penalty — Elisabeth heard Toto say, as he appeared next to her — It dropped him to P8. We’re champions, Niki.

— Two-time champions — she added, with a smile.

Her father's eyes shone with joy.

— So we are! We really are! — he laughed, pulling her into another hug and kissing her cheek — We did it again!

— But, I didn't do anything, dad — she said, turning away from her father — You did. You and Toto did.

Her father sighed, running a hand through her hair.

— You've done a lot, Mauslein. Much more than last year. And I'm proud of you — Niki said, touching her cheek gently with his fingers. Hearing him say that he was proud of her sent a tsunami of emotions through Elisabeth. She felt so many things in a matter of seconds. First, it was the satisfaction of having made her father proud, after all, that was always her goal. Then, it was followed by an overwhelming wave of guilt, sadness in its wake when she should have been overjoyed for the achievement.

In her mind, Elisabeth heard Mathias' words over and over again.

“You already let him down”.

The next thing she knew, her dad was shaking his head, running his thumb over one of the tears that had started to run down her cheek.

— How many times do I need to tell you not to cry so that I don't start crying too? — he muttered.

— Crying isn't bad, dad — she said, forcing a smile — I'm just happy.

— But there's no need to cry about it, especially if you're happy — Niki laughed, wiping another tear of hers — In fact, we should enjoy this moment and take some pictures. What do you think?

— Great idea, dad — she replied, sniffling.

In a few minutes, everyone was positioned outside the garage, in front a pool of photographers and their lenses, jockeying for the best angles of the team that had just won the 2015 Constructors' Championship. Elisabeth tried to sneak into a corner with the reporters, but she felt a hand land on her shoulder.

— Where are you going? — she turned around to see Nico smiling.

— To… Watch the celebration?

— Nope! You're coming with me — he said, dragging Elisabeth toward the group, umoved by her protests.

He led her to crouch next to him in front of the pit board, which contained the words “Lewis” and “P1”. It was put together before the mechanics knew about Räikkönen’s time penalty. She realized that she was positioned right in between the two drivers. Looking to the left, she noticed that Lewis was arranging the trophies in front of the group, lining them up perfectly.

— It looks great, Lewis — she said with a smile.

— I don't know, it looks crooked to me — he laughed, fiddling with the champagne bottle that was between the two trophies. Conversations stopped when Bradley stood in front of the group, next to the lens, and started directing the poses the group was supposed to make. Clenched fists, champion shouts, laughter. Then, Elisabeth looked to the side and noticed that her father was moving away from the group, towards the press pool.

Then someone behind her started counting.

— Three!

She knew what was about to happen.

— Two!

She made a move to run away, only to feel a pair of hands hold her in place, preventing her from escaping.

— One!

She looked to her side and saw Nico’s mischievous smile.

The sound of champagne bottles popping was accompanied by laughter and a spray of champagne straight in her face. Elisabeth squealed as she tried to fend off the booze shower. She tried to stand up again, to no avail. Nico seemed to hold her even more firmly in the same place, determined to prevent her from fleeing.

— Nico! — she yelled, putting her hands in front of her face in an attempt to defend herself. Somewhere in front of her, she could hear Lewis chuckling — Leave me alone, Nico!

— No — he said, laughing.

Suddenly, the spray stopped hitting her face, allowing her to wipe the liquid out of her eyes. However, Elisabeth hadn’t even regained her vision before she felt an icy stream fall on her head, rolling down her neck and the back of her t-shirt. Someone had upended an entire bottle on her without any mercy. She was completely soaked with champagne.

— Fuck — Elisabeth laughed, trying to wipe her eyes dry again. As she looked for the culprit, she spotted Lewis with an empty bottle in his hands, running from a mechanic who was trying to douse him.

— You are now officially baptized, Elisabeth — Nico said, laughing.

— Just you wait, Rosberg. Both you and Hamilton — she snarled, brushing a lock of her wet hair away from her face. She lifted herself off the ground and headed for the garage, wondering how she was going to get back to the hotel like this.

— You're dripping all over the place, Liesl — Toto said. He was standing in a corner. She looked back at the floor and noticed that she’d left a trail of champagne drops along the way. She looked back at him. He was staring at her with a serious expression as he rubbed a towel through his hair.

— Sorry — Elisabeth gave an apologetic smile — I'm looking for a towel.

— There must be one in Nico's driver room — he said, his tone a little nonchalant. She wasn't expecting him to sound so somber, and she approached him.

— Are you all right, dear? — she whispered.

He smiled at her.

— Yes, I’m fine.

Elisabeth wasn't convinced.

A few hours later, they were walking down the eighth floor corridor of the Delta Sirius hotel in absolute silence. She pulled the entry card out of her bag, and opened the door, motioning for Toto to enter the room ahead of her. She quickly glanced up and down the hallway, ensuring that there weren't any familiar faces that might have seen them enter the suite before she closed the door.

As she released the door handle, Elisabeth took a deep breath, bracing herself for what was to come.

She traipsed through the short entryway and found Toto sitting in the bedroom armchair, removing his damp shoes and socks in silence.

His face was an indecipherable mask, which made her even more anxious.

After a day like today, with such an important achievement, it should have been impossible for him to be so indifferent, as if everything was just another day at the office.

“Something's wrong”, she thought to herself, sitting on the bed.

— Darling — Elisabeth said, after a few seconds of hesitation.

— Yes? — he replied.

— Is everything alright?

He sighed. He looked up at her.

— Yeah, I’m okay, Elisabeth — Toto replied. The way he answered confirmed what she already knew.

— Are you sure? — she insisted.

— Yeah, Elisabeth, I'm just tired.

She got up from the bed and approached him slowly. Then, she stopped in front of him, sitting on the floor, resting on her heels, not taking her eyes off of him. She rested a hand on his leg, her thumb drawing circles in the fabric of his pants. They were still wet with champagne.

— Toto — Elisabeth said, softly — I can tell when you're just tired and when something's really wrong. Right now there's something’s wrong.

— Liesl — he said, bringing a hand to her face. She leaned her head into his palm.

— First of all, we're best friends, aren't we? Better yet, partners in crime — she said, a smile appearing on her face — And partners in crime count on each other in both good times and bad.

Toto looked away from her, as if he was wondering whether or not he should speak.

— Tell me what happened. Please.

— I was thinking, Elisabeth — he said.

— About what?

— I think you're wasting your time with me.

She blinked in disbelief.

— What do you mean by that?

— Elisabeth, I'm not the man for you — Toto stated, looking up at her. She looked into his brown eyes, and she could see pain. Her head was spinning, with thousands of questions overlapping one another.

“It can't be, it can't be”, she thought, feeling a lump forming in her throat.

— Are you… Are you breaking up with me, Toto? — she asked, voice shaky.

He blinked.

— No, no, never, that's not it, Liesl — Toto answered, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear.

— So what is it?

— It's just… I was watching you talk to Nico and I felt bad.

— Are you jealous?

— Not jealous, Liesl. Guilty.

— But why do you feel… Guilty?

— I feel guilty for tying you to a life with me. I feel guilty for making you live your life with an older, divorced, father of two, whose job is traveling the world to see cars running in circles.

She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

— Do you think I'd have freedom if I were with Nico?

He hesitated for a few seconds.

— Well, maybe…

— You know Nico is married, right? Married, and very much in love with his wife.

— Elisabeth, Nico isn't the problem.

— So, what is?

— It's the… Idea of Nico.

— I'm sorry, Toto, but I don’t understand.

The team principal buried his face in his hands, clearly frustrated. She took a deep breath. Elisabeth definitely hadn’t expected to be having this conversation with Toto on a day that was supposed to be so happy for them. He looked up at her again.

— What I'm trying to say… Is that everything could be better if you were with a man like him. A man your age, who might share the same ambitions as you, the same desires for the future. You don't have that with me. You never will.

— And… Where did you draw this conclusion from?

— You looked happy when you were talking to him.

— Toto — she said with a sigh — You know there's no handcuffs on my wrists tying me to you, right?

— Yes, but…

— Now it’s your turn to listen, honey — she interrupted him, getting up on her knees, taking his face in her hands — I didn't choose to fall in love with you. But, I chose to fight my feelings. I also chose the moment to surrender to this passion I felt for you because I was tired of lying to you and to myself about what I felt.

He gazed at you in silence.

— That night, right here, in this very hotel, when you said that two words were enough for you to be mine, I saw you reach out your hand to me so we could jump off a cliff together — she recalled — The fall would be long, uncertain, and could most likely end up with both of us injured. But I took your hand anyway. I jumped off the cliff with you. Do you know why?

— Why?

— Because, even though I knew it wouldn't be easy, even though I knew I would have to face everyone's judgment, I trusted you. I do trust you, Torger Christian Wolff. I like you. I — she caught mid-sentence for a few seconds. Elisabeth always hesitated in saying those three little words — I'm with you.

— With me?

— Yes. With you. With you, and everything that comes with you. With your quirks, your flaws, your qualities. With your work, and with your children. I'm with you.

Toto smiled at Elisabeth. It was a wide, genuine smile.

— I don't know why you think we don't have the same ambitions — she continued — I want to make this team win as much as you do. I want to make people see Mercedes for the greatness it has. My biggest ambition is to do it all by your side.

— We will, Liesl — he whispered — We will.

— And about my wishes for the future… I have no doubt we share those too, Toto. I wish as much as you do to see Ben and Rosi grow up happy, in an environment full of love, because they deserve it. Again, we're in this together, honey.

— Don’t you have… Other desires?

— What do you mean?

— Don't you want children?

Elisabeth felt her heart jump in her chest. They’d never talked specifically about children.

Well, children that were theirs, at least. Like any girl raised in a traditional family, Elisabeth had dreamed of having a house full of kids. As the youngest of three children, she had never lived without company, let alone love. Lennon's birth had made her desire to start a family grow.

However, getting to know Ben and Rosi, she felt like that wish had come true. At least that's what she thought.

— I do want that, Toto — she said softly — And you gave it to me. You gave me Ben and Rosi, and I love them as if they were my own children.

— I mean… Children that are ours.

Ever since the event in Monaco where Toto had told her she would make a great mother, the thought of having a child with him had never left Elisabeth's mind. Every day, when she took her birth control, she thought about what it would be like if, by some chance, she got pregnant.

The thought always took her into a spiral, imagining what it would be like to see her belly grow, how birth would be like, how Ben and Rosi would be with the baby, what his face would look like. In Elisabeth's mind, he would have blue eyes like Lennon's, untamed dark hair like Toto's and the chin so characteristic of her father. A beautiful baby.

— I have dreamed of it, but I understand that today is not our focus. But, that’s okay. We have time.

— You have time, Elisabeth. You are 29. I do not.

She blinked.

— Toto, you sound like you're 83 and not just 43.

— 43 is old.

— Only in your head. My father wasn't young when I was born. He was 37 and it didn't stop him doing anything with me. I had as amazing of a childhood as I would have had if he was younger.

— What if I can't give our child an amazing childhood?

Elisabeth laughed.

— Toto, you're thinking too much about someone who doesn't even exist yet.

— But he will — he said, his voice steady — And I don't want to do anything wrong. I don't want him to go through what I went through. Anything.

Taking his face between her hands, she looked at him with a tender expression.

— And he won't. Because you're going to be his father, and you will never do wrong by him.

The shadow of a smile appeared on Toto's lips as his eyes filled with tears. She wrapped him in a tight hug, placing a kiss on his temple as he nestled his face into the crook of her neck. Elisabeth remained there in silence for a while, her fingers stroking his hair.

It was in those moments of vulnerability that she realized how much she wanted to be there, with him, no matter if he was smiling or crying. It was those moments that made Elisabeth sure she loved him.

Suddenly, Toto looked up at her.

— Liesl — he said in a whisper.

— Yeah?

— I love you.

Now, it was her turn to start crying.

— You love me? — she mumbled softly.

— Very much.

She had never felt so happy in your life. Her eyes were wet again, and she looked at him with a silly smile on her face. Elisabeth felt as if she was dreaming and at any moment she would be awakened by the alarm clock on her nightstand.

— I love you too, Toto — she replied, before pulling his face against hers into a kiss that tasted slightly of the salt of their tears.

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