#her patron having to stick back together pieces of her like: can u stop doing this can u fucking GROW UP for a second

[vvanessaives]

violante will be as edgy as to say that "by age seventeen, i cried all the tears i had" just bc she doesn't want to let it be known that she cried for 7 days straight after killing ruven

#rena.txt #it is fair to say she probably never cried again after that but whatever #she cut off most of her hair in the ugliest style also and tried to pluck out her eyes hoping that would stop the tears #her patron having to stick back together pieces of her like: can u stop doing this can u fucking GROW UP for a second #hm actually that part of the undying pact that goes 'partially indestructible by physical means' does that mean she might not die as easily #by things like getting stabbed and all bc i can picture her stabbing herself in full grief until blood almost chokes her #if you read until here sorry. it's bc she never learned how to healthy cope with strong negative emotions #gore tw #<idk just in case i have no idea how to tag these posts she's so out of a horror movie #smth smth shadowheart's 'you can tolerate a great deal of suffering so long as it has meaning' smth smth cleansing through pain smth smth

[inkykeiji]

hope you don’t stop running to me, cause i’ll always be waiting

character: dabi | todoroki touya - raver!dabi

genre: extremely sentimental fluff + smut with a sprinkle of angst

notes: okay so essentially, this is raver!dabi, but like the piece isn't really focused around that. the piece is about this all encompassing, ravenous love the reader feels for him, and it really borders on unhealthy obsession; it's about how he's the happiest she ever sees him at raves, but it's bittersweet because he's so fucking high, and it kind of contrasts his love for raves and drugs with her love for him | title cred: cinema by benny benassi ft. skrillex and gary go

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, size difference, drugs, obsessive unhealthy relationship, extreme codependency, manipulation if u squint, minimal prep, a sprinkle of degradation

words: 6k

synopsis:

And he’s so fucking breathtaking—striking sapphires and stunning smile more spectacular than any piece of art you’ve ever seen, the combined melody of deep grunts and trembling groans rattling around behind his ribs better than any piece of music you’ve ever heard, endless words streaming from his swollen ruby lips lovelier than any piece of fine literature you’ve ever read.

He’s walking art, talking art, living, breathing, feeling art—and he’s all yours.

There’s nothing he loves more, no where he feels more at home, more at ease, more himself, than at a rave, you’re absolutely sure of it.

He sniffs them out like a hound, manages to find them no matter what city or country he’s in; loves them indiscriminately, regardless of how big or small they are; and drags you to each one he attends. Because he’s addicted to every single thing about them—irrevocably hooked on the pounding music that throbs like a beating heart, the marvelous colours that sear through the venue like vibrant flares of blood, the pretty pills and dazzling tabs and soft, soft powder—it all turns the party into a living entity, breathes life into the crowd, intoxicates him like nothing he’s ever felt before; and he’ll never be able to get enough of them, enough of how they make him feel, how they make him forget.

But he wants you there with him every time.

Sometimes, he’s hauling you into dingy basements full of wispy smoke and blaring speakers, staticky as they thrash out beats over a crowd, atmosphere saturated with sweat and the sickly sweet smell of hard candies. Others, he’s pulling you along on a lush field or cracked concrete tainted with brilliant flashes of crimson and violet, through thousands and thousands of people adorned in spiky fur and holographic latex until he finds the stage he’s looking for.

You don’t mind, though, unbothered by the pulsing music and the glistening crowds. You don’t mind, because this is your only chance to get these fleeting little glimpses of what true, pure happiness looks like on him—and you’re fucking addicted to it.

This weekend it happens to be a two-day-long EDM festival, set up far away from society in a large grassy meadow, embellished with wildflowers that dot the tangled jade strands with pops of pastel pinks and yellows and ivories—and it’s enchanting, whimsical, almost surreal in a sense. You can feel it, the atmosphere that drapes the masses of people scattered across the rolling hills, an energy unlike any other that envelops the patrons and lulls them into a state of soothing bliss.

He loves it. You love him.

And you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to accurately explain what the feeling of accompanying him to a rave is like; you don’t think the words even exist—the essence and aura, the feelings that swirl around in your chest, fuzzy and fluttery and fierce, transcending any and all languages. Because they’re something bigger, something better—they’re something higher, something stronger, something more than any word could ever describe.

No, there’s no way to define it, to portray it, nothing to encapsulate or summarize it, the genuine happiness that encompasses him, the way his pinched and stern features finally, finally relax, a special, gentle type of carefreeness seeping through the permanent mask of trepidation irrevocably sown into his strong face. It’s beautiful, mesmerizing to watch as they morph, the way his lips transform before your very eyes, from a firm, thin line into a loose, easygoing grin, sharp eyes liquefying as his lids droop a little, thin ring of sapphire outlining gaping onyx pupils, voracious in the way they observe, inhale, devour everything, blown and massive from whatever he’s high on—E or coke or acid; possibly a mixture of all three. You aren’t allowed to have any, of course, but it’s okay.

It’s okay, because as cheesy and stupid as it sounds, you’re high off of him—off his smell, spicy cinnamon and sweet campfire, laced with just a hint of Marlboros; off his taste, mint and smoke and sugar; off his touch, large hands caressing the natural curves and contours of your body, calloused fingertips rough and ragged as they drag across your soft flesh, skin pebbling with each graze.

It’s intoxicating, the way it invades your senses, overwhelms your receptors and has you yearning for more. It’s dumbfounding, the way your mind goes numb with him, infused with thoughts of DabiDabiDabi as he seeps and soaks and stitches himself into the tissues of your brain.

And you’ve never seen him more content than he is here, high out of his mind and entirely absorbed in the music, embraced in it like it’s a protective blanket, like it’s the arms of an old, treasured friend, like it’s home. Bitter acid creeps up your throat, blends with his saccharine spit ever-present and saturating your tongue, the thought that he’s only truly, genuinely, substantially happy when he’s high off his ass at a festival procuring a muted, blunt ache in the middle of your chest, dull blades that dig and burrow into your beating heart, shoved a little deeper with each bubble of laughter that escapes his lips.

Nevertheless, you can’t ever bring yourself to put an end to it, no matter how much it hurts him, hurts you both, because he looks so lovely, so elated—and you just can’t bear to take that from him, to take that from yourself.

Because he’s so fucking pretty like this, hair undone, careless and free as fluffy tufts of black bounce and sway with his movements, sticking to his temples and his neck—and he almost looks soft like this, strands of onyx hanging in his eyes and curling around his ears. Because happiness looks so good on him, so gorgeous on him, with those bright smiles that span his face, across his cheeks from ear to ear, and those stunning sapphire irises that glow with pleasure, contentment, bliss—and you wish, wish so desperately that you got to see it more often, that you had the chance to experience it without the drugs steadily coursing through his system, that they weren’t necessary, mandatory, in manufacturing these emotions.

But you’ll take what you can get. And he will, too—because you both love watching, both love feeling him this ecstatic, this relaxed, all his anguish and trauma forgotten, those chains that shackle him, that weigh him down and confine him, disintegrated by the synthetic emotions, burnt to ash just for a night or two.

And so, you aid, you help, you enable—because while you’ll take what you can get, you can’t ever get enough, either, eyes wide and unblinking as they place a pretty pink tablet stamped with a heart on his tongue, entranced by the way his lips close around your fingers and suck. And it’s so fucking hot, a rush of warmth flooding between your thighs and furling tightly in your belly. His eyes are shining as he stares at you, stuffed full of so much love it nearly hurts, and you want, you want, you want.

It isn’t long before drug induced euphoria is rushing through his veins and colliding with the constant, steady bass oozing from the speakers, vibrations travelling through the grassy earth beneath him until they reach his feet and flood his body. He tells you he can feel it in his chest, in his heart, in his very soul, seeping into his bloodstream like the sweetest poison, forcing a pleasant buzz through his limbs.

And it’s the best—it’s better than anything he’s ever felt, anything you’ve ever felt, hands roaming across bodies as music pours from the mammoth speakers, tracing soft lines and hard edges, fingers committing them to memory through touch alone; foreheads knocking together as he giggles into your mouth, as you suck his laughter from him and let it bloom in your chest, bright and buzzing and full of him, so full you feel as though you may burst; tongues dragging against one another as you both lick either side of a heart-shaped lollipop, sticky crimson candy sparkling in the waning sunlight, before he pushes his gum into your mouth, endless huffs of amusement spilling from one throat into another as you pass it back and forth—a game of sorts—smiling into the messy, slippery kisses, lips sliding and slurping and sucking.

Colourful beads embellish his arms, slender wrists and sculpted forearms peaking through the gaps, plastic droplets smacking together delicately with his movements. The brilliant colours are vibrant in contrast to his smooth skin, ivory tainted gold by the August sun, to later be painted by the lively splotches of aquamarine and lilac and lime and fuchsia as the lights dance through the night sky, spraying across the crowd.

His body glistens under the setting sun, varnished in a thin layer of sweat, gleaming droplets decorating his skin, catching in the beams and glittering like tiny diamonds. Strands of inky hair cling to his neck and white cotton hugs his torso, outlining the firm muscles of his back, the plains and contours that glide almost gracefully under scarred skin and soft fabric with each of his movements.

He’s a horrible dancer; truly, but he makes you giggle—which makes him giggle, large hands finding your waist and tugging you towards him, forehead bowed to yours again as he stares at you, cavernous pupils flitting from each of your features—your eyes, your cheeks, your mouth—with his lips slightly parted, as if he’s in awe. Tiny thumbs run over his clammy cheekbones, and his eyes close briefly with the motion, body swaying a little as he leans into you, further pressing his forehead into yours. His molars are grinding again, you can feel it, the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his jaw under soft, tender palms, and you tsk softly.

“You need another lollipop, Daddy,” you tell him, and although you’re practically shouting over the music, it feels like your whispering, wisps of your adoring voice caressing his skin, curling around him and sopping into his flesh, warming him to the core of his soul. Little fingers are pressing into the hinges of his jaw as you speak, their gentle touch instantly diffusing the tension, and he nods.

The whine that catches in his throat when you pull away is one of the sweetest, most valuable sounds you’ve ever heard, and it makes your chest flutter, eyes flicking up to look at him through your lashes with a beaming smile. He’s still leaning towards you, slowly falling forward, a magnet drawn to magnetite, and you love it, you love it, you love it.  

“You look so fucking cute in your tutu, princess,” he’s chuckling as you root through your tiny bag for more candy. And you can tell he really means it, a dopey smile decorating his face, eyes shimmering with mirth, with drugs, with love.

A giggle slips past your lips, hands smooth down the tufts of tulle adorning your waist as you shyly murmur your thanks, his own smile growing. Lidded sapphires float around your body, slow and belated as they take inventory, words unhurried and sluggish as they tumble from his mouth.

“I-I should…Uh, I should put some sunscreen on my baby, sh-shouldn’t I? Don’t want your shoulders or that pretty face of yers to burn, y’know,”

You really don’t need to—the sun’s sunk halfway below the horizon by now—but you indulge him anyway, would never be able to deny him a fucking thing.

It’s fumbling, clumsy and messy in his inebriated state, but it’s still so cute, so considerate, so caring, rough hands slathering the thick cream across your skin, rubbing in awkward, blundering circles—and it sends sizzling sparks shooting through your bloodstream, alighting your entire body with a blaze that is so specifically him.

The sky turns from coral to navy all at once, and then you’re clasping onto him tightly, hugging your body to his as hands roam, as fingers tangle and tug and tow, as lips latch and lick. Salt mixes with his usual taste, tongue tingling with it as it laps at the dips of his collarbones. The sharp smell of sugar stings your nose, and you inhale deeply, face nuzzling against his damp neck. He smells sweet, like sunshine and burning hickory wood, like a summer breeze grazing freshly washed linen, carrying with it a sprinkle of cinnamon.

And you can’t stop, powerless to your urges and void of all control as you nibble at the column of his throat, as you suck the prettiest galaxies of violet and periwinkle into his flesh, as the tip of your tongue traces the jutting bones at the base of his neck, over and over and over again until they’re saturated in thick layers of your gleaming spit.

Because he’s fucking delicious, and it’s never enough—will never be enough, regardless of if you spend hours kissing, until your lungs are burning and your jaw is aching and your mouths and chins and cheeks are coated in each other’s sticky saliva.

Because you’re fucking greedy, needy, hungry, limitless in how much you desire, more and more and more.  

Because even when he’s pounding into you, it still isn’t ever enough. You want to consume him the way he consumes those pretty little tablets, want to breathe him in and hold him in your chest, in your heart, in your soul, forever. Not all of him, you promise, you swear, you’ll settle with just a piece—just a piece you can carry around everywhere with you, always. It’s the worst addiction you’ve ever suffered, it’s the sweetest heaven you’ve ever felt, it’s the only semblance of home you’ve ever known—you’ll keep chasing that high he gives you forever, keep chasing him as he chases drugs, and he doesn’t mind one bit.

And eventually, eventually it becomes too much to bear, just as it does every single night, this seething desire that roars and rumbles within you, rattling the cage of your ribs as it demands more. Eventually, it has you yanking on his arm, both hands clasped around one of his, shrill begs and pleads beginning to claw their way up your throat.

Strong hands manhandle you against him, a thick thigh slotting between your own, and you whimper, burying your face against his neck. With such a large crowd, and such thunderous music, and so many people higher than the clouds, no one can tell what you’re doing; no one can tell how naughty you’re being.

He knows exactly what you need, exactly what’s got you so restless, pressing his muscled thigh into your core and chuckling at the instant moan it procures.

“Daddy,” you mewl loudly against his ear, curled fingers giving another tug on his t-shirt, cunt already grinding steadily against his thigh. “I need you,”

He snickers, the sound vibrating against you, head tilting curiously and lips molding into a cocky smirk. “You need what, baby?”

And the whine that breaks in your chest is absolutely pathetic, bottom lip jutted out into a deep pout, grinding against his thigh becoming more erratic, more urgent. You hate that he’s gonna make you say it, face crumpled up in adorable irritation—his favourite expression on you, you’re sure, his smirk growing into a grin as a growl rumbles in your chest.

“Your cock,” shimmering eyes, glazed with want that reflects the flashing lights in their glassiness, stare up at him, blinking twice in enticement. “Please?”

He hums in thought as he pretends to think, to consider, as if his leg isn’t pressing further and further into your core as you aimlessly hump it, as if his cock isn’t already hard and pressed up against your hip and throbbing through his jeans, as if he isn’t grinding against you in infinitesimal motions, little gyrations of his hips that almost feel subconscious instead of intentional—as if he can’t help himself.

“Daddy!” you squeal, barely audible over the heavy bass, eyebrows scrunched in the way they always do when you don’t get what you want. “Now!”

Normally, if he wasn’t higher than the full moon hanging in the sky and flickering stars scattered in uneven clusters around it, such a bratty request would’ve earned you a hefty punishment—something that would’ve left your skin raw, cunt abused, and completely unsatisfied—because bad girls don’t get to cum, now, do they?

But tonight it only makes him laugh harder, cooing about how fucking cute you get when you’re all needy like this, like it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever witnessed, cobalt eyes shining with delight and adoration as he laces his fingers through yours, pulling you along behind him as he weaves in and out of the sea of bodies.

But the car’s too far, you’re whining as you trail behind him, a deep pout carved into your face, eyebrows knitted so firmly they weave creases into your forehead. I can’t wait, Daddy, I can’t wait!

And it’s true—you can’t wait any longer, you need him inside of you this very instant or you’ll fucking combust—a deprived addict vying for their favourite vice; a raving, ravenous fire that burns bright and blistering in the pit of your tummy, constantly starved for him.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, this intense, insatiable craving; one that has your thighs clenching so tightly it’s painful, that burns through your veins and scalds the insides of your stomach, that has your blood bubbling and nerves buzzing, whole body feeling electric in his presence.

It’s a gnawing urgency, one that tears at the pit of your belly and roars in your chest, filling your ribcage until it feels like it’s about to burst, until it has you choking on botched gasps of air and his name, nails digging into his hand as you tug on his arm, pleading, begging, needing.

It’s going to devour you from the inside out if you don’t get what you want soon, if it isn’t fed with what it wants soon, expletive filth spilling from your lips in frenzied little huffs as Dabi tries in vain to drag you to the car—please, Daddy, I feel like I’m gonna die, need your cock, Daddy, need it right now, right now, right now, fill me with your cum, Daddy, I’m so empty without it; warm me with your cum, Daddy, please, please, pretty please, I can’t wait!

Such sentiments, woven together between threads of high whines and broken gasps, evoke a dark snarl ripping through his chest, his true persona cutting through the manufactured euphoria for just a moment—and then you see him, you see your Daddy, you see your home, blazing in his glassy eyes as he whirls around on you and crashes his lips to yours, large hands splayed on either side of your face, nimble fingers gripping your head so tightly it hurts.

But the pressure is welcomed, little hands pawing at his thick belt again, pathetic and desirous, and the sheer force has you stumbling backwards, feet catching on your own ankles as the two of you tumble to the ground.

“You are such a fucking brat, y’know that?” he’s nearly moaning between kisses, lips never leaving yours as he spits the words into your mouth, hips snuggling into their favourite spot between your thighs.

“You love it,”

“A spoiled little bitch,”

“Y-Your fault,” you giggle into his mouth, a large palm colliding with your ass half a second later, knocking a yelp from your throat, a pitiful little squeak that he readily swallows down.

Calloused fingers twist in the lace of your panties and he yanks, holes materializing in the delicate fabric, lithe digits hooking through them and unceremoniously jerking the ruined remains down your thighs. It’s graceless, movements inept and cumbersome in his attempt to remove them from your body, stubbornly refusing to break your kiss, hovering body supported by one hand and his knees. The material finally snaps, fingers tearing through it, like fire blazing through intricate spider webs.  A whine catches in your throat and he laughs darkly, tongue lapping at your neck, your jaw, your mouth itself, drenching you in sugar-infused saliva.

Lips part immediately, eagerly, ready to greet his tongue with your own, and he huffs another chuckle into you, breath scorching as it floods the cavern of your mouth, and God, he’s got himself such a good girl, such a good slut, doesn’t he?

The words are mumbled out, slick lips gliding against yours, a little slurred and stuffed full of sticky spit as massive, rough hands run up your thighs, grabbing healthy handfuls of your flesh and squeezing.

A sharp gasp escapes from your throat, hips instinctively bucking against his from the sudden pain, and he laughs, deep and sinister and reverberating against his ribcage.  

You can feel the dull thud of the music in the distance, bass burrowing its way into your chest, pulsating beat slithering through the pliant earth and oozing up through the dirt against your back. Magnificent glows of azure and amethyst blanket the festival in their embrace, bleeding into one another before they morph into and emerald and magenta, haloing the grounds and all of its inhabitants.

But all of those colours, the almost ethereal beauty of the party itself, is nothing compared to the sapphire gazing down at you, the ivory skin that almost glows against the grass and the pines and the night sky, the fluffy onyx tufts your fingers tangle in.

Teeth sink into his plush, scarred bottom lip and you suck harshly, taking it into your mouth, the tip of your tongue toying with it, laving over the supple flesh and dousing it in your saliva. A snarl clatters around in his mouth as he pulls his lip from between yours, teeth scraping against it in the process.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” you’re chanting, muffled by his mouth, muddled by his tongue as it aggressively pushes against yours. “Need’a, need’a,”

The words snag in your throat, evaporating into ghosts of the sentences they were supposed to be, fading into pathetically breathy moans.

And it’s hard to think, when you’re like this, when you’re ensnared in him, consumed by his touch and smell and taste, tongue shoved so far down your throat you’re choking on it, brain gone numb—dumb—from it all, incapable of knitting together words and forming a sentence. Instead, your hand snakes between your bodies to cup his cock, a loud moan hitching in his chest as he immediately grinds against your touch.

“Want,” you mumble, groping at him and forcing a whimper from his chest. “Now, now, now,”

“So fucking needy,” he’s teasing, none of his usually heat to his voice, peppered with moans and the sweetest giggles as he rests his forehead against yours. Reaching down, two slender fingers prod your hole, giggles fading into groans as his eyes shut. “Soaked, huh?” he asks, voice strained, your head nodding almost ferociously in response. “Always drenched for me, aren’t you, my babygirl,”

But you’re too impatient to be properly prepped, to be thoroughly stretched out, impetuous legs kicking and squirming from underneath him, whining and pleading for him to just fuck you already!

They’re uncontainable, the words barreling past your lips, high and cracked and rapacious as you beg—beg for him to fill you up, to make you feel whole again, to stretch and shred and slash you to pieces, to put you back together, part by painstaking part, to complete you.

And he’s practically keening at the sentiments, hips rutting ungracefully against your soft palm, cock twitching through the denim of his jeans.

“Alright, baby, alright,” he’s hushing you, words slurred, heavy and unhurried despite his frantic actions. “Daddy’ll give you what’ya need,”

“Wanna ride,” you nearly wail, little fingers clawing desperately at his broad shoulders, fingertips sinking into his flesh through the thin cotton.

“Ch-Christ,” he nearly chokes on the curse, head nodding in choppy movements as he allows you to push the two of you over.

Because, well, baby gets what baby wants.

Or, at least, that’s what he’s telling you as you straddle him, lilt void of its normal derision, replaced with a kind of admiration.

Nails dig into the toned, smooth planes of his chest as you sink down on him, an involuntary hiss escaping gritted teeth, features scrunching in a cute wince. A hitched expletive escapes his throat, lidded eyes falling shut as his head lolls to the side, angular jaw on display.

The stretch is a welcome one, feels like home, so familiar it’s almost comforting, little cunt throbbing as you split yourself open on his cock.

Cool, refreshing air rushes into your lungs the moment he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snugly against your cervix, and that ache, that addiction, that animal tethered to the very core of your soul is immediately satiated, immense pressure deflating and the strain on your ribs easing up.

It feels perfect, feels right, feels whole, and suddenly, you’re alive again, intense sparks shocking your system as they sear through your veins, invigorated and revitalized.

It doesn’t last long though—it never does.

Because you’re just as famished, just as voracious, just as avid as that entity birthed from obsession and addiction inside of you, satisfied only for a moment before you need more.

It isn’t slow, isn’t sweet or soft, because neither of you can take that right now, neither of you need that right now. And the very moment he bottoms out, the minute you feel him nudging against your cervix, your hips begin to rock forward, rough hands finding their usual place on your hips, aiding you in your motions as he bucks up, falling into an instantaneous rhythm together

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he’s panting out, bleary eyes watching you as his words knot on his languid tongue. “Bounce on m’cock, princess, bounce on it,”

The earth is firm beneath your knees, but you can still feel those faint vibrations travelling though the dirt. Blades of grass tangle themselves in inky tufts as his head falls back, neck arching, jade strands in a sea of black.

He’s so much louder when he’s this high, deep guttural groans rumbling in his chest, broken whines catching in his throat, growled out curses tumbling from his saliva slicked lips. Drool leaks from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down his chin, and you long to lick it up.

“You always look so pretty, s-so perfect taking my cock,” he’s babbling, voice soaked in awe, pupils blown and shimmering as they gobble up your reactions, your expressions—every little sound emitted from your throat, ripped raw and wrecked from the column; every little twitch of your features, the way your lashes flutter and eyes roll back with each roll of his hips; every little shake and shiver and shudder, tiny jolts of electricity, of him, exploding through your veins—calloused hands sliding up and down your thighs in a clumsy caress. “F-Fuck, princess, so gorgeous,”

You should be quiet—really, you should both be quiet, fucking in an open field and committing such a heinous act of public indecency.

But you’re powerless to stop the mewls and cries from prying past your lips, and he’s hopeless to quell the steady stream of words flowing from his own, increasing in pitch and frequency with each gyrate forward, with each rut and rub and grind of your hips.

“Feel good, Da-Daddy?”

And he’ll never understand how you sound so fucking sweet, so fucking precious, as obscene words flow from those pretty lips, punched out of your chest with each rock of your hips, core of your body intimately skewered by him.

He doesn’t answer, can’t answer, words dissolving into a fractured moan as he nods vigorously.

“Want you to cum, D-Daddy—ah—fill me up, please,”

The grin that splits his face is nothing short of spectacular—it’s nothing like those sharp smiles he gives his enemies, or those smug little grins he gifts his friends, or those tiny lopsided smirks that grace his lips when he’s teasing. No, this smile—this smile is only for you; a gentle quirk of his lips, parted just enough to see those gleaming pearly teeth, fluid as it stretches and wobbles with his ragged pants and snapping hips. It’s almost overwhelming, the emotion pouring from that single, simple action alone, has your chest stuttering and eyes blurring, knowing that this is something special, that this is something that is yours and yours alone. And this smile—this smile is genuine, true happiness. This smile cuts through all of the drugs and anguish and rage, shining bright and beautiful as it beams up at you.

And he’s so fucking breathtaking—striking sapphires and stunning smile more spectacular than any piece of art you’ve ever seen, the combined melody of deep grunts and trembling groans rattling around behind his ribs better than any piece of music you’ve ever heard, endless words streaming from his swollen ruby lips lovelier than any piece of fine literature you’ve ever read.

He’s walking art, talking art, living, breathing, feeling art—and he’s all yours.

You’ll never get used to this, you swear to God. Such amazement will never cease, makes fucking him a religious experience every single time, always so astoundingly exquisite. You’ll never get used to the way those dark growls claw their way up his throat, vibrating in the column. You’ll never get used to the way your name sounds on his tongue when he’s just about to cum, all pitchy and broken and punctured by hitched breaths. You’ll never get used to the way his thick eyelashes flutter, unfocused eyes rolling in his skull just a little—never fully enough to hide that brilliant sapphire from you—right before he stuffs you full of hot sticky seed.

And you never want to.

—

This is your favourite part, has always been your favourite part, will always be your favourite part, every single time. It’s terribly selfish of you—you know it is, know it’s awful and greedy and so, so obsessive—but you love it, love it as much as he loves the drugs and the music and the ostentatious lights.

Because he clings to you when he’s coming down, nuzzles his face into your very touch, practically purrs out his admiration for you as you pat his damp face down with an old t-shirt, brushing back the stringy strands of sweat-drenched hair from his forehead.

Because you’re his protection when he’s coming down, swathing him in your love, in your gentle caresses and your tender venerations—his very own guardian angel, keeping him from plummeting into the concrete and shattering into a million pieces, cradling him in your soft wings as you ease his feet back onto this earth.

Usually it’s scary, he’s telling you that night in the backseat of his car, eyes still glazed, breathing slow and shallow. Or, it was. It was scary, coming down without you—but not anymore. Because you’re here now. You’re here with him, and you take such good care of him, and he loves you, he loves you so much, he loves you more than anything on this planet—or any others.

He used to feel nervous, he’s babbling on as tiny fingers press into tight, coiled muscles, rubbing the tension out of them in small circles. Used to have memories… he trails off then, and you don’t push, never push, just humming your acknowledgement softly, whispered affirmations falling from your lips as palms smooth over his cheeks before caressing his hair, pulling mewls from his throat as he arches into your touch.

Bleary sapphires stare up at you, glittering in the dim light flittering through his car windows from the flickering lamp posts. He’s tired, he tells you suddenly, face somber, sober, but he can’t sleep.

“I know,” you murmur, petting his hair again. “Just try to relax,”

He is trying, he promises, vigorously nodding up at you, eyes wide as if they’re imploring you to understand.

But words keep spilling from his mouth—involuntary, automatic, reflexive—unfocused eyes staring up at the roof, then darting around the car slowly, distractedly, like there’s a million other thoughts surging through his mind—you can see them, swimming in his eyes, tainted with paranoia, with fear, even though there’s a steady stream of presumably unrelated words flowing from his throat.

He talks about anything, everything, nothing—all at once. He tells you about the festival as if you weren’t there, and you let him ramble, unable to stifle the small smile that forms on your lips. Because it’s cute, and he’s still so excited. He tells you how pretty you look, tells you about how good you ride his cock, how irresistible your cunt is, how much he loves stuffing it with his cum.

And throughout it all you nod and hum and coo, just like you always do, just like you always will.

And it’s nights such as these, at four and five in the morning right before the sun begins to creep over the horizon, navy sky fading into a faint amber glow the only indication that it’s coming—that you are careless with your words, that you are more honest than ever before, because you know he won’t remember it—or, if he does, he won’t bring it up until he’s high like this again.

Because his being high provides this limbo, this purgatory for the both of you to be open and raw and vulnerable under the guise of drugs, with the knowledge that you can always backtrack, always claim not to remember or that you said no such thing, if you ever need to.

You don’t ever need to, but the option’s there nonetheless, like a buffer of sorts—a buffer for him to be raw and real, a buffer for you to be less cautious, to be more reckless and let the words stream from your lips without fear of consequence or punishment; a shield for both of you to use against such susceptibility.

It’s become an unspoken agreement between the two of you, a pass. And that’s what makes these nights the best.

And you will always consider yourself one of the lucky ones, one of the privileged few that are allowed, permitted, approved to experience him like this—to watch that well-worn mask of apathy melt from his face as drug-laced happiness bleeds and burns through it.

It hurts, sends sharp spears searing through your chest, embedding themselves in the depths of your fucking soul, because you can only imagine what true happiness would look like on him.

Maybe it would be too much, you want to trick yourself into believing, desperate to find excuses for the drugs and the artificial euphoria, to sanction this type of behaviour. Maybe he would be too beautiful, too bright, too brilliant if he were truly happy—maybe he would burn out too quickly, if he were too happy, like a shooting star that flies across the indigo sky, sparkling and sizzling and stark in it’s stunning, gorgeous and ethereal and much too short lived as it fizzles out into nothing, into darkness and emptiness, only a moment later—gone forever.

And you suppose, if that were to be the case, that you could selfishly accept this fate—if only to keep him here with you for just a little bit longer. You could help him shoulder the crushing weight of that torture, that agony, that suffering that he’s constantly carrying, spine straining under it, if it means that you get to be with him for more, for longer, for eternity. You could handle that, if it means you get to be greedy, if it means that you get to have him, on this earth, living and breathing and beside you.

Still, you hope, very much so, deep down at the bottom of your heart, that he will one day find that true, genuine, sincere happiness that he deserves—and that it will stick, not just for a moment, for a few fleeting seconds, but for a while, for forever.

He’s quiet when you tell him this. He probably won’t remember it come morning, too high to remember much of anything, but he’s so honest when he’s like this, fucked up out of his mind, and words leak from his lips without his permission as he tells you, grave and serious, that he has…in you.

And you suppose…You suppose he’s right; happiness isn’t exactly a person, or a place, or an object—happiness is a sentiment, an experience, a collection of memories, adventures, evocations.

“Happiness is...it’s when I’m with you,”

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi smut #bnha smut #todoroki touya #todoroki touya x reader #waaaAAAAAAAAH #ever so slightly nerve-wracking hahaha #this is EXTREMELY sentimental you have been WARNED #it's also supposed to feel almost suffocating or overwhelming #bcoz ur reader yk #okay ANYWAY ENJOY #tw drugs #tw toxic relationship #tw daddy kink

[keelywolfe]

FIC: A Waffle Lot of Trouble (baon)

Summary: Edge has learned many things since he began his relationship with Stretch, gone to a variety of places, done so many things. Surely he can endure this travesty. Surely he can survive...the Waffle House.

Tags:  Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Domestic Fluff

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

“Explain to me why we are doing this?”

Edge followed Stretch through the door beneath the glowing sign and the reluctant drag of his boots did not stop his husband’s determined march.

“three reasons,” Stretch said. He did not loosen his hold on Edge’s hand, as if suspicious he might flee if given a chance and Edge couldn’t say he was wrong. “one, because i’m craving horrible unhealthy eats and your cooking, while delicious, doesn’t qualify. two, you’ve never been to a waffle house and it is an experience that everyone should enjoy—”

“Endure.”

“—enjoy,” Stretch insisted stubbornly. “which brings us to the third and most important reason. you love me.”

“I do,” Edge sighed. This wouldn’t be the first occasion that his adoration would take him to strange and sometimes fascinating places for unique meals. They used to do it quite often while they were still dating and Stretch was doing his weekly restaurant reviews for his twitter. Somehow the banquet had dwindled off as he slowly ran out of places in Ebott to review. It was a shame, really, and perhaps he should speak to Stretch about starting up again. There was no reason they couldn’t travel a bit further out of the city so long as proper security measures were taken. It would be enjoyable to find another small hole-in-the-wall or old family business eager to share their signature meal.

From the looks of this place, the food would be better left unsigned.

The booths looked as if they’d been torn straight from an old sitcom, padded red vinyl with the occasional patch attempting, and occasionally failing, to hold the stuffing in. It was a match to the stools lining the long counter, separated by little islands of napkins, condiments, and straws nestled together. The overhead lights were glaringly intense with one in the corner flickering with seizure inducing intensity and in the other corner was a jukebox to complete the scene in searing neon.

If horribly unhealthy food was what Stretch was craving, then he’d found its haven.

“c’mon,” Stretch tugged at his hand to pull him along and Edge’s dragging stride had nothing to do with the cane he was leaning on. His husband led the way to one of the booths, still chattering, “i used to come here all the time before we got together. sometimes when i couldn’t sleep, i’d sneak out and take the late bus out and sit here for half the night, taking up space.”

There were so many horrible things wrong with that statement that Edge couldn’t pick one to start with; the very idea of Stretch alone on the bus after midnight, or him here and equally alone, hanging out with the sort of Human patrons who were eager for cheap, greasy food in the wee hours, or the last indignity, that he’d hidden his excursions from his brother. Anything could have happened and the fact that it didn’t only barely kept Edge’s mouth shut.

Then his teeth ground together for another reason as they halted in front of one of the booths.

The table was the sort of sticky usually reserved for movie theater floors and while Edge tolerated it beneath his shoes, having it beneath his elbows, or worse, beneath Stretch’s bare hands, was entirely unacceptable.

Before he could give voice to one of his many protests, Stretch was already rummaging through his bag, this one with the chemical formula for caffeine boldly on the side. "don't worry, babe, got you covered."

He pulled out a package of disinfecting wipes and busied himself cleaning not only the tabletop, but also the plastic bench seats and even the salt and pepper shakers. Everything on the table got a thorough wipe down and as soon as the seat dried, Edge grudgingly sat. Much as he was relieved that Stretch came prepared, the fact that he knew to be prepared did not instill much faith.

He tried very hard not to think about the state of the kitchen.

Edge picked up one of the freshly wiped down menus to frown at. “You still haven’t explained to me why we needed to come at 3am. We could have come at noon for the lunch special.”

“nah, that’s for soccer moms and octogenarians,” Stretch scoffed. “you come at 3am ‘cause that's when you go to a waffle house, babe! it's a liminal space, a place of transition, where you cross over from one space to the next and—"

“If I’d known we’d be traveling so much I would have worn better shoes.”

“always got jokes, babe,” Stretch snickered. He lowered his voice, leaning in. “but seriously, look around.”

Edge was well familiar with the subtleties involved in a careful awareness of one’s surroundings. Without lifting his head, he looked around the diner. There were only four other customers, all of them with plates already in front of them. One a group of college-age Humans who might have been fashionably dressed up for the club a few hours earlier but now their makeup was running from sweat, their hair fallen and straggly, and simply by looking at them, he had a fair assessment of their current smell. The other person, who looked as if they might have been in prison as recently as last night, was forcefully shoveling what might have been hash browns into his mouth. It was difficult to tell; whatever it was had enough ketchup poured on top to give even Sans a pause and a moment to reconsider. He could very well have been eating shredded napkins beneath that thick layer of red.

None of the Humans paid him and Stretch any mind, so Edge silently wished the man good fortune on his recent parole and returned to looking at the menu while touching it as little as possible.

The door that presumable led to the kitchen swung abruptly open and a harried waitress came through it, coffeepot in hand. She didn’t so much as give them a second glance, only thunked down a pair of heavy white coffee mugs and poured them full to the brim.

“Be back to take your order in a minute,” she said distractedly.

“take your time.” Stretch was already tearing open sugar packets to add to his cup. He took a sip, grimaced, and added several more.

Edge reached for his own cup, already braced for whatever burnt dregs ended up as the primary flavor, when the ancient jukebox suddenly came to life, blaring out a jaunty 50’s style tune about raisins in toast. Edge jerked, cursing softly as he spilled hot coffee over his hand. He hastily stripped off his glove and turned to glare at the jukebox…except there was no one by it. No one else was even looking at the blasted thing.

A light touch on his hand sent him jerking back the other way, to find Stretch holding out a fresh pair of gloves for him with one hand as he continued to peruse the menu with the other.

“Thank you,” Edge sighed out. He dried his stinging hand with a napkin before sliding on the gloves.

"no prob. that happens sometimes," Stretch said absently. "the old waitress here swore the jukebox was haunted. whatcha getting?"

The sudden u-turn from the supernatural to the mundane was nearly enough to add to his whiplash. Edge picked up the menu again with his fingertips, still trying to touch it as little as possible. He doubted if Stretch’s supply of gloves was endless. "If I had blood and flesh, a tetanus shot. Since that isn't an option, I'll settle for the ubiquitous waffles.”

Not that he had any intention of eating anything. He only hoped that pushing it around his plate and perhaps mashing pieces with his fork would suffice. He added a silent prayer that he might be able resist the urge to slap Stretch’s plate away like a poisoned entrée before he carried his husband back out to the safety of their car. It would be a enduring struggle, he was certain.

Sudden shouts rose and Edge jerked again, turning to see that a set of the college-ish humans were engaged in a combination of shrieking and hairpulling, while their companions shouted at them, in encouragement or deterrence, it was difficult to tell.

As quick as it began, it ended, and they all returned to the table, eating their fries and cheese sticks while one held a napkin to their bleeding nose and the other, a glass of ice water against her swelling eye.

“Stretch—” Edge began, low. The best waffles in the world weren’t worth putting his husband anywhere near this sort of danger and certainly not the greasy globs of fried dough that were on offer here.

“hmm?” He turned back to see his husband hadn’t even seemed to notice the brief outbreak of brawling three booths away. Stretch only flipped the menu over and frowned, “dunno, maybe i’ll get the hash brown bowl this time, what do you th—"

He broke off at the sound of shouting from the kitchen, the entire restaurant turning to watch a burly man in an apron storm out, the waitress at his heels. Whatever his complaint, it was difficult to parse around the vigorous swearing, words that might even manage to bring a hint of a blush to his brother’s face.

Might.

What couldn’t be mistaken was his last shout, two clear, concise words. “I quit!”

The gathered assembly watched as the man ripped off his apron and tossed it on the counter, stalking out the front doors and out of their lives.

A long moment of silence, then Stretch grumbled out, “aw, man, not again. why do they always quit in the middle of the night, this is the third time!”

The waitress only stood there, a helpless expression on her weary face. She turned to them, “Sorry, guys, the next cook isn’t in until six.”

“nah, it’s cool,” Stretch sighed and started to get to his feet. “we’ll have to try again another time, babe.”

The waitress began gathering their unused silverware and Edge could hear her miserable sniffle as he followed Stretch towards the door. She was very young, and as terrible as Edge was at guessing Human ages, he suspected if she’d been a Monster, she would have been barely out of stripes. “Don’t suppose either of you cook?”

Edge paused.

In front of him, Stretch also stopped when he realized Edge was no longer following him, the reluctant leash of his hand becoming a stubborn brake. “what are you…” His expression changed, his sockets narrowing. “babe. no.”

Edge said nothing, only looked back at Stretch and watched his growing outrage, “no! you wouldn’t let me work at the haunted house that time! that guy would’ve paid us at the end of the night, we could’ve been their best workers! bet you could’ve gotten a ton of macho men to wet their pants without breaking a sweat!”

“She needs help,” Edge said, quietly. He did not bring up the ending debacle of their haunted house trip that landed them in the parking lot after an unintentional shortcut, a prudent choice when persuading Stretch.

Stretch faltered, looking around him at the waitress. Who was near tears, fruitlessly trying to call someone on her cell phone who wasn’t picking up. He blew out a sharp breath, rolling his pale eye lights, but his faint smile was unmistakable.

“always got to be the hero, don’t you,” Stretch sighed. He jerked a thumb back into the diner. “go ahead, superman, have at it.”

Edge nodded and turned back, walking over to the young waitress determinedly. “Excuse me, miss.”

It was only five o’clock in the morning when the other cook arrived, still bleary-eyed and his hair sticking up in the back. He didn’t ask about the newly shiny cleanliness of the grill, nor the fryers. And the counters. The floor. Even the mysterious dark smudge that forever haunted the smoke hood was gone, but he had no questions. He merely grunted a greeting and took possession of the equally shiny spatula, already reaching for the eggs that were sizzling on the griddle.

Edge removed his spotless apron and hung it on the peg by the door. He gave the kitchen a last satisfied look, then went out the door.

Out in the dining area in a corner booth, his husband was curled up, asleep. His skull sagged back against the worn vinyl padding, his mouth open, and a faint snore escaping on each exhale. An oversized leather jacket was spread over him that was not Edge’s and certainly wasn’t his own, Edge reached for it with a frown, lifting it off him in a jangle of chains and zippers.

“I’ll take that off ya hands.” He turned to see last night’s possible parolee holding out a hand. Wordlessly, Edge handed over the jacket and the Man shrugged into it. “He was shiverin’, didn’t want to bother ya while you was giving Anna a hand. So I kept an eye on ‘im.”

“Thank you,” Edge told him softly. The man gave him a gap-toothed smile.

“Nah, thank you for helpin’ her out,” the man said gruffly, “She’s a good kid, couldn’t afford to the lose the paycheck for the night.”

“Ready to go, daddy?” They turned as the Anna in question, the waitress, came out of the kitchen, coat in hand. Another waitress was already speaking to the other early morning customers, coffee in hand and waffles on order.

“Ready when you are, kid.” The man turned and shuffled to the door, but Anna paused by Edge.

“Thank you,” she said. Tears were brimming in her eyes, unshed. “Thank you so much.”

“It was my pleasure,” he told her, honestly. A few hours of cooking and deep cleaning was soothing to him in its own way, body and soul, and while his leg was beginning to complain, the rest of him felt nothing but deep, almost luxurious peace.

She gave him a happy smile and went after her father.

Edge watched her go, then turned back to Stretch, who was already stirring without the protection of the jacket. “hummzat?” he mumbled out, and when Edge reached out to gently cup his cheekbone in one hand, he learned with drowsy contentment into the touch.

“We can go home now,” Edge told him softly. He did not expect that sleepy look to turn to one of dismay, his sockets going wide.

“but we didn’t get any waffles!” Stretch said, with deep layers of disappointment. It was true; he’d fallen asleep before Edge even figured out the industrial waffle iron.

Edge only shook his head and took a seat on the other side of the booth, “All right then, waffles it is. You were right, you know.”

“hm?” Stretch yawned, “’bout what?”

“I did cross over from one space to the next,” Edge said, solemnly. He kept his expression as straight as a ruler, concealing even the hint of a smile. “A transition, if you will, into a liminal space—”

“i didn’t mean from the dining room to the kitchen,” Stretch grumbled. But he reached out to give Edge’s hand a brief squeeze, his thumb brushing over the ring on his third finger.

“Nevertheless,” Edge picked up a menu, though by now he knew it by heart. “Now. What are you having?”

-finis-

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

[eponinemylove]

aftg tattoo/flower shop au

@essence-29

so it’s wymack’s parlor and he still technically runs it and everything but he’s tired most of the time and he lets kevin pretty much take over

kevin has almost no tattoos himself except one he got that he deeply regrets (in my mind it’s bc riko was his piece of shit ex boyf and pretty much made him get it, but however u want to imagine the backstory of this tattoo is up to you)

anyway he runs the shop with his dad. matt, renee, and seth all work there

andrew runs the flower shop around the corner (managed by betsy). he could not give less of a damn about the parlor tbh. he barely noticed it existed

he’s more of a piercings guy anyway but it’s not like he’s against tattoos

at least, he didn’t care about the parlor until him and renee became friends

i imagine they met at the flower shop when she came in and ordered some for allison. maybe they started seeing each other around more and more, and you know how andrew makes friends. he probably followed her to work one day and they went from there.

either way they’re besties and they work on the same block. so andrew goes in and out of the tattoo parlor fairly often to pick up renee or have lunch.

him and kevin obviously run into each other at some point, probably more often than not

at first they ignored each other’s presence but then andrew started to notice kevin

tattoo artist without (many) tattoos? interesting. he won’t talk about the tattoo he does have? very interesting. he flinched when someone dropped a glass of something and it shattered? now you have his attention

and of course kevin can’t help but notice the hot, 5-foot-nothing guy who comes in at least once a week to harass his patrons and distract his employees

both of which are definitely crimes andrew commits regularly around the parlor

andrew invites kevin out for drinks one night after they’ve been noticing each other for a while. it’s not flirtatious or romantic, but it does feel... weighted. kevin goes. renee and the others are there too, vaguely, but he still manages to end up spending most of the night alone with andrew

they talk. a lot. it’s really slow going because neither one of them particularly feels like talking, but they do. or they come to a mutual understanding at least

they have a weird relationship after that that none of kevin’s friends or andrews relatives can even pretend to understand, but you know what? whatever. they’re KevinAndAndrew

i don’t want to say they’re attached at the hip, but they totally are. anywhere kevin is, andrew follows, especially if kevin is drinking. and they’re not even nice to each other. that’s the confusing part for the others. just looking at them, you wouldn’t even think they were friends, much less maybe-kind of-dating?

so this goes on for a couple of months, and just when everyone thinks they’re getting used to it, neil comes in

literally no one was ready for him. he shows up at the tattoo parlor one day and just applies for a job. no resume, no interview. straight up walks up to the front desk and asks for a job

kevin wants to throw him on his ass but matt says the least they could do was interview the guy

(neil probably looks all kinds of a mess. not like insane or dirty, but just generally disheveled and exhausted and... neil. he looks like neil)

kevin still thinks this is a waste of time, but he lets neil show him what he’s got

no one was expecting neil, but they definitely weren’t expecting him to be so goddamn good

it’s hard to tell if he’s a natural or has actually had years of hardwork and practice, but he’s an amazing artist and he knows his way around a needle

so they hire him.

matt becomes quick friends with neil. seth and neil don’t get along, per se, but they’re almost the exact same brand of asshole so there is a sort of solidarity between them

renee obviously is nothing if not entirely pleasant to neil, but he still has issues trusting her

and kevin? well kevin kind of hates his newest hire

he complains to andrew about him nonstop. about how he’s stupidly talented and a complete bastard and gets along with people but in a chaotic sort of way that makes kevin anxious and annoyed and

kevin has a lot to say and andrew is more than inclined to listen

it’s a surprise to no one when andrew is in the parlor the next day, scoping out neil for himself

oh, and i should mention that neil has literally NO tattoos. not even one. (his mother would never allow something so easily recognizable)

neil barely notices andrew until he confronts him after his shift. i don’t know what he would say, but it would go pretty much like how their meeting went in the books, just probably without the racquet

a fight immediately breaks out that matt and kevin have to break up. renee knows better

yeah neil and andrew don’t get along

andrew is very interested though. so he does what andrew always does. he gets nosy. and personal. and mean

it takes him a surprisingly long time to find any information on neil. he thinks it might be a fake name and kevin assures him that it’s definitely likely, which helps exactly none.

eventually the only thing he manages to gather is that neil has one hell of a temper and could start a fight in an empty room. he also won’t take any shit from anyone, whether it’s from andrew or some random Karen screaming at one of his coworkers for giving her daughter a tattoo she didn’t approve of. he can and will tear someone to shreds, and as much as kevin hates it (“Neil that’s bad for business, you can’t verbally abuse the clients”), andrew is very amused

kevin secretly also really likes neil. it’s hard not to—he says everything kevin wouldn’t dream of and sees through all of kevin’s bullshit. also he’s ridiculously hot and incredibly good at his job, and there’s nothing kevin appreciates more than talent and competence

after, idk, a month? of getting nowhere to unraveling neil’s past, andrew invites him for drinks.

kevin is there of course and pre-approved the decision. matt comes along bc he doesn’t trust andrew in the slightest and he loves neil. renee is there to make sure no one actually gets murdered. seth just shows up bc he thinks something funny might happen, like another fight

not strictly relevant, but allison, dan, and nicky working at the bar/club they frequent??? a Concept.

andrew and kevin are both pretty surprised to find out that neil doesn’t drink. they try and “convince” him otherwise, but neil refuses and short of drugging him, there’s not really anything they can do

nothing really happens the first couple of hours. nicky flirts with neil a couple of times, neil doesn’t notice, the usual. things take a turn when neil spots kevin’s tattoo. other than that, the night was a bust

since this is an au, idgaf what’s in their past. reader interpretation, use ur imagination, go crazy. however, whatever kevin was involved with, neil was somehow tangled up in too. that part stays the same

he doesn’t mention it

he doesn’t mention it

he doesn’t mention it

and then, of course, he mentions it

it’s not on purpose or in anyway eloquent. they probably get into some sort of fight while closing up and it just slips out

there’s a moment of “oh shit”, the complete understanding that passes through the two of them

they don’t mention it

except they do, because andrew finds out

he and neil have a another “talk” bc yeah andrew might run the flower shop, but if neil brings trouble from kevin’s past back to him now, when he’s doing so much better, andrew can and will actually commit homicide

and that’s the start of their relationship!

well, no, not really. neil still takes a while to warm up to them, and a while longer to start feeling any sort of romantic attraction to them. and of course that’s after he realizes they’re even a couple, because trust me, with those two is always questionable whether or not they’re even friends. or acquaintances. or on speaking terms

also they have to eventually talk about everything. set boundaries, clear the air. neil gives them piece by piece looks into his past. it’s slow work, but it’s a little bit of trust given by someone who has never trusted anyone before.

yeah so anyways everyone thought KevinAndAndrew was confusing? well they don’t know what the fuck is going on with KevinAndAndrewAndNeil

what they do know is that kevin and neil do some of the best tattoos in the country. what they do know is that andrew and neil take smoke breaks together in the back alley, halfway between their two shops. what they do know is that andrew and kevin have adopted neil into their relationship and the three of them are so close-knit, it almost becomes impossible to find one away from the others at any given moment

what they do know is that at least twice a week, the short, blond, very scary flower-shop guy walks into a tattoo parlor and a 6-foot tall intimidating tattoo artist and 5’3 ginger with a sharp tongue and sharper attitude immediately stop what they’re doing and go meet him

that’s pretty much it. scary blonde who sells roses for a living falls for scary tattoo artist who doesn’t seem to believe in tattoos. both these idiots then fall for the (not at first glance) scary new guy who is obviously trouble, because this is a tatto/flower shop au, and everyone loves the broken badass with a heart of gold.

there’s something to be said here about the most intimidating and kick-ass power couple (throuple?) ever

also it’s funny bc based on appearances alone, everyone expects neil to run the flower shop, and kevin and andrew to do tattoos. boy are they in for a surprise though, because andrew knows every single flower you could ever think of sticking in a bouquet, and neil could operate a tattoo gun blindfolded

ALSO they all get matching tattoos at some point bc they’re idiots and in love and it probably has a whole crap ton of heartfelt meaning that i don’t want to explain bc i feel like i’ve rambled forever at this point and still said nothing significant

oh and neil 100% gives kevin a coverup, replacing his old tattoo with something else.

there’s all kinds of plants decorating the parlor courtesy of andrews shop, and neil and kevin design andrew’s logo

and betsy makes everyone flower crowns at some point. andrew refuses to acknowledge it i’m any way, but dutifully wears it regardless. neil wears it to work the entire day, and after hangs it in his office-thing. whatever tattoo parlors have. kevin straight up refuses to wear it but neil wears him down and he puts it on for like 20 minutes. there’s even pictures to prove it

#I'M SORRY THIS CAME OUT SO LONG #aftg #all for the game #tfc #the foxhole court #neil josten #andrew minyard #andreil #kevin day #kandreil #kevandreil #tattoo/flower shop au #flower shop & tattoo parlor au #renee walker #matt boyd #seth gordon #dan wilds #nicky hemmick #david wymack #betsy dobson #Allison Reynolds #au #aly's asks

[penwieldingdreamer]

Going out with a bang

Thanks to the anon for this request:

Hi I was curious if u could do a fic but with two Keanu characters? Like Utah and traven work together and meet the reader and they basically try to one up the other to win her and maybe it ends in a three way or ? Idk I know it’s weird but haha

I hope you will like it.

Warnings: some bump and grind, public makeout

Words: 1367

“Traven!” “Utah!” Harp and McMahon called at the same time as the FBI agent and LAPD officer argued inside the office.

“I’m not going to work with him. We’re FBI, not the police.” Johnny called, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the two officers standing across from them. 

Jack rolled his eyes, disapproving of the tone Utah was taking. “It’s your both that wanted out help, not the other way around.”

“Shut up!” the Supervisory Special Agent Ben Harp shouted, his fist hitting the top of his desk, making the clutter rattle on it. “I need you both on this. The target is known to have specialized in weapon technology, firearms and explosives. She needs to be stopped before she can do anything.”

Cocking his head, the younger agent looked at his boss. “She, sir?”

“Yes.” McMahon answered, pulling out the folders with the needed information. “Y/N Y/L/N. She was part of a group called The Bombers, but split off to work on her own. We have info that she’s going to plan an attack on civilians. The attack will be in the next few days so we need to work fast.”

Looking at the picture in the file, Utah felt his insides flutter as a smile made its way onto his lips. He was going to stop her, with or without Traven’s help - preferably without the officer.

Jack put the folder down, turning to his boss with a grin on his face. "When do we start?" 

***

"Traven!" Johnny hissed in the ear piece, as he watched his unwanted partner walking through the club, his outfit with the shirt, plaid button up, jeans and boots already screaming LAPD in the high end bar. "Would you stick to the plan? You're sticking out like a sore thumb." 

Chuckling, Jack made his way to the bar, where he could see Y/N already sitting and drinking the night away. "We need her to know we're there. How else would she get to know us." 

Growling, Utah followed him, hoping to keep him from doing something to threaten the mission. "God damn it. If Pappas were here, he'd haul your ass out of here." 

"Good thing he ain't here." Jack grinned as he saw his partner making his way through the throngs of people trying to reach him before he sat down next to their target, mentioning to the bartender to get him a drink. "Hey." 

You looked up, finished with your cocktail that one of the other patrons had sent your way and smiled. "Well, hello there." The guy next to you looked cute, his dark eyes shining in the lights of the bar and his hair in a buzz cut. "You don't usually come here, do you?" 

"Why, does my look give me away?" he grabbed the beer and turned his body towards you. 

Biting your lip, you tapped your chin. "Let's just they it's not the usual attire someone coming here wears. Which makes me question what you're doing here." 

"Oh you know, enjoying a beer after work and just hanging out at the bar." 

You were about to respond when suddenly someone sat down on your other side. "Can I buy you a drink?" the smooth, deep voice asked and you looked over your shoulder and the young man. His longer, dark strands and the blue button up giving him the typical LA vibe. He looked like the boy next door mixed with surfer dude and you could feel your insides flutter. What was going on right now? 

"I-uh-sure, why not?" you shrugged and smiled at him. 

He held out his hand, ready for you to shake. "I'm Johnny, nice to meet you." 

"Oh, and I'm Jack." the guy with the buzz cut called, sticking his hand out, nearly shoving it under your nose. You could already feel the tension building between the men and knew it was going to be a long night. 

Glaring at the LAPD officer, Utah waves at the bartender. "One Cosmopolitan, please." 

"Oh come on." Traven snorted, taking a long pull from his beer before he put it back down onto the bar. "She's not the Cosmo type, one Sex on the Beach for the lady please."

Your eyebrows shot up towards your hairline as you watched the display between the two men next to you. Biting your lip you tried to keep the giggles in, Jack and Johnny acting like kids, you didn't have time for these games.  "Actually, I like a whisky but if you excuse me now, you can enjoy your drinks and your little games, while I have to do some work stuff." Winking at them you left both at the bar, maybe they'd follow you or maybe they'll fight over you some more. 

Watching you leave the LAPD officer turned to his partner. "Great entrance, buddy, now how are we going to get to her?" 

"I thought you had everything under control." the agent grumbled, looking after you as you disappeared in the crowd of dancing bodies. "She didn't want you, Jack." 

Rolling his eyes, Traven drank the last bit of his beer and slammed the bottle down onto the bar top. "Obviously she didn't want you, too, Johnny boy." He clapped his hand on his partners shoulder and left in search for you, his plaid clad body disappearing between the patrons. 

Johnny shook his head, gave a fifty dollar bill to the guy standing behind the bar and left. He needed to find them or all of this would end in chaos. 

***

You were swaying to the music, rolling your hips around as your hands moved over your body, the beat from the song making your heart speed up. Closing your eyes, you let the rhythm control you. In your mind there was no one around you, only the music, the musk and sweat in the air and you. 

And then you could smell him, before you felt him. His manly fragrance, deep and heady. His hands on your body, letting his fingers explore your dips and curves. 

"Why did you just leave?" he asked, his hot breath fanning across your neck. 

You shivered, a delighted moan leaving your lips as you grinded against him. "I thought you boys needed some time to yourself." 

"Oh, we needed that." Jack's lips descended to your neck, suckling on your pulse point before his eyes found Johnny's. 

You saw as he made his way over to you and held your hand out for him. "Hello handsome." He linked his fingers with yours and let himself be pulled into your circle. "Do you want to play?" you asked him coyly, your free hand nestling at his button up. 

"What are we playing, babe?" Johnny groaned, the fingers of his free hand wandering underneath the skirt of your mini dress, feeling the pebbles break out on your skin. 

Moaning loudly, putting your hand behind his neck and pulling his lips to yours. Jack's hands moved to your chest, playing with your breasts and giving them a light squeeze. The agent pulled the fabric up and grabbed your ass, grinding your lower half against his, letting you feel the hardness in his jeans. Pushing back against the officer, you knew that the display had affected him the same as well. One of his hands moved south, letting his fingers brush against your panty line while his partner's tongue explored your mouth. 

"Do you like that, baby?" he whispered into your ear, his lips pulled into a grin when he felt your hips move in circles to feel both of them against you. 

Pulling away from Johnny, you let out a harsh breath. "Fuck yes. Get me out of here." you moaned turning your eyes on his dark ones as he nodded towards Jack. 

"Let's go, babe." he grinned. "You won't forget this night I swear."

Jack kissed your cheek. "You won't forget us for a while." He returned the grin and pulled your dress back down, following behind his partner who was leading you out of the club. It was going to be a long night for the three of you, ending with a bang.

Taglist

@meetmeinthematinee @ladyreapermc @axshadows @a-really-bi-girl @fanficsrusz @ficsnroses @toomanystoriessolittletime @fortheloveoffanfic @pinkzsugar @lunaeminxxx​ @momorix3​ @sallyp-53​ @keanureeefs​ @baphometwolf666 ​ @mrspeacem1nusone​ @random806​​ @fuck-yeah-hope​ @wholelottatiffy​ @cap-just-said-language​ @theolsdalova​ @omg-imagine​ @rabbitpajamas​ @bohemianrhapsody86​ @spookypeachx​ @omgkatinka​ @maggiemoo1892​ @iworshipkeanureeves​ @keanureeefs​

#jack traven x reader #johnny utah x reader #jack traven x reader x johnny utah #drabble #request

[fairiesherefairiesthere]

Fraxus Anastasia au #3

Fic under the cut ! Or on ao3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144866/chapters/57301969)

"Yoooo!!!!" Bickslow yells and immediately Laxus ? Yuliy ? gets snapped out of his stupour and pushes himself away from Freed, too aware of how close they had been. He can't shake the feeling of the man's breath hitting his ear like so, the ghost sensations leaving the tips of his ears burning.

"Sup fellas", Bickslow says as he strolls into the room, a woman somewhat reluctantly following him. "I brought an assortiment of snacks that could be classified as a fancy dinner if you aren't all that picky and I'm kind of counting on that." He winks at the both of them before plopping down on some couch and throwing the bag on a table. "Feast my underlings, your king has provided for you."

"I hate you", the woman spits out before turning her glare towards him. "And who is this fool?"

The fool himself would like to know too. With a lazy drawl in his voice, Freed joins the conversation. "His name is Laxus, you might've heard of him." The too large piece of chicken that Bickslow was trying to force into his mouth drops to the floor and the woman raises a single brow. "Right and my name's Evergreen Strauss." Picking the chicken leg back up from the floor, Bickslow points it at her. "I mean, it could be. It ain't that hard to add Strauss to it, all you gotta do is ask your boyfriend to become your h-u-s-b-a-n-d."

"Shut up, he isn't my boyfriend", she snaps before turning her attention back to the blond. "Laxus huh?" He shrugs. "Your friend is trying to sell it to me as well. Currently, I'm not believing him." A single smile slips past her guarded façade. "Good, you shouldn't. He's a pompous piece of shit." While Freed mildly protests her assessment of him in the background, Evergreen shoves Bickslow off the couch and seats herself on it. After extracting the couch from Bickslow, she takes the bag of snacks as well.

Patting on the empty spot next to her, she offers him to sit next to her. "Sit down and have a snack." Turning towards the other two men, she sticks out her tongue. "Bitches don't deserve anything, so don't even bother to ask." (Later on she ends up giving them more than enough.)

"I'm guessing these two have been awfully mean to you."

"No, it's mainly been Freed." The man in question makes an offended noise at this, but Laxus (he likes the name, okay? It's not like it's forbidden to use it. There are people with weirder names out there and he's an orphan so he has the right to choose) isn't done throwing him under the bus. As soon as the next opportunity arrives, he'll do it again.

Evergreen sighs at that and flicks Freed's forehead. 'You rude selfserving bitch, leave people alone." The man in question grumbles a little bit before dramatically flopping down onto the carpet. "Fine then. Oppress me even more." With a gentle smile Evergreen relays the following kind message to him. "Well, with the way you act, you deserve to be."

For a while no one says anything, but Laxus feels more than sees multiple pairs of eyes gliding all over his form. "If there's anything you guys want to say, just spit it out. You're creeping me out with the staring." Awkwardly Bickslow turns his head away as though he hadn't been staring (he's not a very convincing actor). Evergreen however isn't so inclined and continues to look at him, head a bit cocked. "Don't take it personal please, I'm merely assessing how big the chance is that you're our Laxus."

He lets her stare, opting to distract himself by fishing his necklace from shirt and twirling the dainty key attached to it between his fingers, trailing over the letters 'together in Paris' engraved in the tiny thing. The movement catches the attention of the three around him and while Bickslow is busy chocking on his chicken leg, Freed gives the other two a smug glance. "Shut up", Evergreens snaps before he can even opens his mouth, but the young man can't help but shrug cheekily. "Alright Ever dearest." At the open mockery, she decides to try suffocating him with a pillow. She doesn't succeed but the scene does draw a smile from Laxus.

After the bout of tomfoolery, Evergreen plops back unto the couch and shoos Laxus off it. "Fellas", she says addressing Bickslow and Freed more than him. "Tomorrow we'll be starting our journey to Paris. What do we do with him?" This time, she does address him, eyes boring into his soul.

"What does he want?" Freed hummed, faux-nonchalance painted across his figure. "Not that it really matters, I mean, our fourth train ticket is for prince Laxus and this young man says he isn't him. We can't take him  with us", the man says, checking his nails and refusing to even spare Laxus a glance. The way he talks over him as  though he isn't there grates on his nerves and he grits his teeth together. "I am him, that's what you said. Or are you going to take back your words now?"

"I am convinced, but are you?" The man's grin is infuriatingly patronizing and he tuts a bit at Laxus as though he's a child unable to make his own decisions. "I am the prince, alright? So my dearest subject", he smiles, spite colouring his words, "Shut the fuck up."

Holding his hands up as though Laxus' reaction wasn't perfectly reasonable, Freed sighs. "Oh prince of my heart, please do control your emotions. Such a blatant display of discontent is quite unsightly." Snorting, Evergreen gives Laxus a few pats on his shoulder. "I like you, please continue pissing him off. You're a good one Laxus."

Rolling his eyes, Freed lays down on the discoloured carpet beside the couch. "Our dearest future tsar is indeed quite lovely. I'm sure I'll dream of nothing but him", Freed taunted, eyes dragging across Laxus' entire form, a wicked grin playing along his lips. When their eyes inevitably met, Freed dragged out the words, "Nothing but my dearest prince", obnoxiously popping the 'p'. "Goodnight!" the man wished him with a wide, insincere smile before he wished Evergreen and Bickslow the same, fondness turning both his expression and voice kinder. It was a bummer that he couldn't be decent to Laxus like that. Wasn't that something akin to a capital crime?

"We'll be leaving early tomorrow morning, so you should try to catch some shut-eye as well", Bickslow explains before crashing right on top of Freed, who lets out a disgruntled little "oof". Evergreen curls up on the couch and Laxus awkwardly scans the room from his position on the floor. With a tired sigh he lays down unto the carpet as well, leaving a few feet between himself and the mass of limbs that's Freed and Bickslow. He doesn't want to get entangled with that.

Waking up, Laxus instinctively knows he's failed his resolution from the previous day. He's utterly engulfed in warmth and despite the hair in his mouth that's most definitely not his own, he decides to simmer in the heat for a while. Unused to the sensation, he draws the heatsource closer. In return his personal heater hums a little before tightening his arms around Laxus.

The little detail that throws him off though, is the insistent snickering around him. Reluctantly he opens his eyes and after blinking a few times to adjust to the light he looks at the being entrapping him.

It's Freed, because of course it is the most aggravating bastard on this unholy earth that has decided to interrupt his perfectly peaceful sleep. "Bitch", he mutters before looking up to meet the curious gazes of Bickslow and Evergreen. "Now that's a bit uncalled for baby", Bickslow judges and Laxus ignores him in favour of collecting a pillow from the couch. "It's time for him to wake up too, right?" Evergreen gives him a slight nod, but removes herself from the scene. He really should've thought harder about his following actions, especially considering that Bickslow scoots backwards too.

With an unforgiving force he brings the pillow in the direction of the greenhaired man's head. However, the two do not connect as Freed's eyes spring open and with a combination of both grace and brute force, he grabs Laxus by the arm and throws him over him, making him slam  into the corner of the nearby table.

"Ah fuck, sor-" As soon as he notices who exactly it is he attacked, he stops mid-apology. An infuriating smirk plasters itself onto his face instead. "Dear prince, as you can see I'm a jack of all trades." Leaning against his side, the man lets his fingers skips across Laxus' shoulders, whispering: "I'll protect all of this for you, everything inch from head to toe." Laxus tries to swat him away but the bastard proves to be annoyingly strong. He ends pushing against a cheek that feels surprisingly soft to distance himself from Freed.

"Boys, if you could stop fondling each other for a minute, we have to catch a train", Evergreen remarks dryly and Bickslow cuts in, "and breakfast, preferably. I'd kill for a meal."

"Then do it", Freed says, eyes wide open. "Human flesh is-" Laxus takes it upon himself to silence him by gagging him with his arm. Dragging the struggling man along, he nods at Evergreen. "Let's go", he says and sighs wearily. He's already regretting this.

Eventually he has to let go of Freed, because dragging a man along in that manner is a bit suspicious and he isn't looking to be arrested. Thanks to what probably is divine intervention, the man has decided to shut his wicked mouth for now. Instead he's letting his gaze slip over their surroundings, letting it hover at certain foodstalls. The overall expression of his face is inconspicious, innocent even with his slightly parted pink lips and youthful glow. But in the depths of his eyes swirl wayward lights and Laxus shivers. Who knows what this man is truly capable of?

Soon, he gets a demonstration of Freed's slightly shadier sides. Although he has to admit it's nothing he hasn't done himself and that Freed's probably not the only crook at work at this market. Approaching one of the vendors with a bright smile, Freed draws the man into a discussion about his wares. Are they the truly the best in town, as his sign says and other useless questions.

Provoked by the questions, the man offers Freed a sample, boasting about his quality. Freed nods along as the man explains the process of making the bread, interjecting with questions here and there. As the vendor launches into from one passionate speech into the other, Freed puts his nimble fingers to work.

It's the nonchalance of his actions that truly baffle Laxus. He doesn't even try to hide his actions, he casually swipes goods here and there and to top it all off? The vendor doesn't notice. At all. As someone who's gotten beaten quite a lot for getting caught pickpocketing, he's envious of the whole ordeal.

After purchasing a single slice of lemon cake and bidding the vendor goodbye, Freed returns to them. "I got you lot some breakfast, want it now or on the train?" Laxus' stomach rumbles at that very moment and as the tips of his ears colour slightly red, Evergreen doesn't spare him his dignity and gives a light chuckle. "Although circumstances", she glances at Laxus and he glares back, "seem to demand we have breakfast now, I'd advise to wait until we can sit down. I think it would make for a far more pleasing experience, right?"

Agreeing with her, they continue their walk. "Do you always gather your breakfast in that manner?" Laxus asks Freed and the man shrugs. "Is it of any importance dear prince? Is being fed not enough for your royal highness?"

"I'm wondering if you guys don't even have enough money to eat...How the hell are we going to get to Paris?" Freed's mouth falls open in a surprised 'o' shape and he covers it with his hand. "Oh my...there's some form of intelligence there after all", he gasps in faux-surprise.

As he moves to swipe at the guy, Freed swiftly stops him by shoving the lather large remnant of his slice of lemon cake into Laxus' mouth. Gross. That thing's been in the other man's mouth. He doesn't hesitate to voice his thoughts, but does throw in a little thank you because he had been hungry and contrary to other people, he knows what manners are.

"No problem", Freed says, voice honeyed and sweet. "The knowledge that you are enjoying your stolen goods, brings me the greatest happiness my dear prince!" Laxus swipes at him again and Freed dodges by smoothly skipping forwards. When he looks back and sees Laxus indignant face and puffed up cheeks, he lets out a laugh that sounds surprisingly close to genuine.

#fraxus #Freed Justine #Laxus Dreyar #freedxlaxus #Evergreen #Bickslow #Raijinshuu #fanfic #anastasia au #TheFairyWrites

[rootbeergoddess]

A Night at the Bar

A long overdue commission for @thekraziesreside featuring her OC Em and Dr. Drakken.

Em took out her compact mirror and looked at herself. She thought she looked cute; one of her friends who were more make-up savvy than she was had helped her with her look. She was wearing a simple yet elegant black cocktail dress and matching pumps. Still, she wasn’t 100 percent sure. Dating was not her thing. Yeah, she dated, but she would rather be at home working on her latest project.

“Well, I’m here,” She put her mirror away. “Guess I better try this mixer thing out.”

Em stepped into Dr. Brew’s Bar of Evil. The name was a bit much, or at least she thought so. It was mostly a place for henchmen and aspiring villains to hang out. There wasn’t anything really evil about their activities, though. Most people went to the bar just to relax. Or in the case of tonight, attend a singles mixer.

It was good that Em was going out; she had been in her lab all week. It wasn’t right for her. According to research, it was important for young women her age to socialize. Em did have friends, of course, but most of them didn’t understand her work, and they usually would instead go clubbing. Hell, going to a bar was rare for Em. She was only here because her friend Nicky suggested it. Both of them were single, and they were both free on Friday. Em had no good excuse, so she had agreed.

“Em, over here!”

Em felt reassured when she saw Nicky. They were polar opposites; Nicky was an artist while Em was a scientist. Nicky was wearing a bright, pink dress with lime green heels and yellow earrings. Of course, she was, and Em was happy about that. Em needed someone bright and bubbly like Nicky in her life. Nicky ran over to Em and gave her a hug.

“It’s been such a long time,” Nicky said.

“You saw me last week,” Em replied.

“Emmy, come on,” Nicky sighed. “Talking to you on the phone isn’t the same as interacting with you in real life. You know that, right?”

“True,” Em followed Nicky to a table. “But isn’t talking on the phone enough?”

“I can’t hug you over the phone,” Nicky continued. “And when I do call you, you always seem so distracted by your work. Speaking of which, did you finish that latest gadget? What was it?” “I can show you,” Em said, reaching into her purse.

“Let’s sit down first,” Nicky said, pushing Em into a seat. “I’ll order you a drink, what do you want?”

I’ll just take a water for now,” Em said, taking out a small box. “Now look.”

Nicky opened up the box. She made an ‘oh’ noise when she saw the golden bracelet lying in the box. Carefully, Em picked up the item and slipped it on Nicky’s wrist. Nicky smiled as she held it up, taking a look at it. Em leaned over, pressed a button on the side, and a dart flew out. It flew past a few patrons before sticking to the wall.

“Wow!” Nicky giggled. “So, the person who asked for this is making a store of jewelry that doubts as a weapon?”

“Basically,” Em said. “Not only does it have darts, but it also pepper spray and a mini taser.”

“Can I order one? I’d love one of these,” Nicky slipped it off her wrist. “Em, you really a genius.”

Em blushed a bit. She knew she was smart, but it was always so strange hearing it from her friends or others. She didn’t know why. The waiter brought their drinks, and to avoid saying something stupid, Em took a long sip of her water. Thankfully, Nicky continued the discussion.

“I still can’t get over how well the lock picking ring you made me works,” Nicky tapped the ruby ring on her finger. “Haven’t gotten caught once. Managed to snag a nice set of jewels this week too.”

“I saw that on the news,” Em said “You did a good job. You’re one of the best thieves in this town, probably the best.”

“Thank you, Emmy dear,” She said, looking towards the bar. “Oh, look!”

Em followed Nicky’s finger. That blue skin was hard to ignore. The one and only Dr. Draken was standing at the bar. Everyone in the villain community knew who he was. Opinions on him varied differently, but he was still respected. No one teased him about being beaten by a cheerleader; every villain in Middle had dealt with Kim. Em was somewhat surprised to see Draken at the club. She had never seen him here before. “I wonder if Shego is with him,” Nicky said. “I’m telling you Em; she looks killer in cocktail dresses.”

“Oh, not again,” Em sighed. “Nicky, you have to stop lusting after that woman.”

“When she gets less hot, maybe I’ll do it,” Nicky stuck her tongue out. “Oh, the event is starting soon.”

Internally, Em groaned. She was dreading this. Yes, she needed to get back into the dating scene, but she wasn’t sure about this. Nicky had assured her that these things were fun, and it was a great way to meet people. The problem was that Em wasn’t good at dealing with people. She could handle Nicky, but other people seemed to want more. They demanded a lot of her, wanting her to be conventionally attractive or play dumb; Em refused to do either.

“Okay, so we get to sit down for this,” Nicky said. “We have this little piece of paper, and it has the names of all the guys who come by to talk to us. We rate how we liked them, turn this in at the barn, and then they set us up with who they think our perfect match would be.”

“That sounds simple enough,” Em admitted.

Sadly, it wasn’t simple.

The first issue was all the men were so unbelievably boring. None of them wanted to talk about science or inventing, and they wanted to use bad pick-up lines. While Em found the bad pick up lines funny, Em still wished they were interested in talking about anything. If they did ask Em did and she revealed her talents, they all commented the same.

“I dig nerdy chicks.”

It took all of Em’s power not to throttle them. She was actually thankful that the men were more interested in Nicky. Nicky had done these things before, and she was good at shutting down rude remarks. Em was jealous, wishing she could do the same. She would deliver a simple ‘No,’ and that was enough to stop these men in their tracks. How did she do it?

“Alright, ladies,” Dr. Draken suddenly sat down in front of Em. “I’m here!”

“And I’m out,” Nicky rolled her eyes. “I’ll go see if Shego is around.”

“Wow, Dr. Draken,” Em was in awe. “I can’t believe it, I’ve always wanted to talk to you.”

“Who wouldn’t want to talk to me?” Dr. Draken grinned. “I am the great Dr. Draken, after all!”

“I’ve always wanted to talk to you about science and your inventions,” Em continued. “I remember that amazing buggy car you made.”

“Oh, really?” Draken looked surprised. “You---follow my work?”

“Yes! In fact, I’m an inventor myself,” Em reached into her purse.

She pulled out a lipstick tube. Draken looked unimpressed as Em took off the cap and then aimed it at a bar patron. She pressed a button, and a ball of putty flew out of the tube. It hit the man at the bar, wrapping around him. The man toppled out, shouting out in surprise.

“Amazing!” Draken exclaimed.

“Oh, really, it’s nothing,” Em blushed.

“Nothing? My dear, that invention of yours is brilliant!” Draken said. “I’ve never met someone who could challenge me intellectually, but you? You might come close! Tell me, what is your name?”

“It’s Em,”

“Well, Em, I want to know what else you have. You could possibly help me with my plans for world domination!”

Em could feel her face getting redder. She couldn’t believe that this was happening. Draken was someone she had always admired. Talking to him was something she had dreamed of. A long time ago, when he was just Drew, they had met in college. She had liked him enough, but when he became Draken, things changed. Getting to talk to him and have him praise her inventions was more than she could have hoped for. They spent the rest of the event talking, exchanging ideas, and plots for defeating Kim Possible. Em didn’t realize how much time had past until Nicky returned.

With Shego’s arm wrapped around her.

“Well, it looks like you two are getting on like a house on fire,” Nicky chuckled. “But the bar is closing up, so we should probably head out.”

“It is? Oh, how long have we been talking?” Em felt somewhat embarrassed.

“Who knows? Shego is going to walk me home,” Nicky said with a grin. “So, I’ll catch you later, Em.”

“Goodnight, Doc,” Shego waved to her boss. “If you need anything, ask someone else.”

“Bah, who needs her?” Drakken sniffed dismissively. “They can go do what girls do when they’re together. What do girls do when they’re together? Braid each other’s hair?”

Em was 100% percent sure no hair braiding would be going on, but she decided not to tell Drakken that.

“We’re people of science! We have minds that many people can’t fathom! We scare people,” Drakken continued. “So, why don’t you show me more of your inventions? Maybe we could work on something! I even have a new idea. Pigs with laser guns!”

“Um---how would they hold the lasers?”

Drakken paused and then frowned.

“Nuts,” He grumbled. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Well, they wouldn’t have to hold the guns per se,” Em said. “Maybe you could have a headband, and the lasers are automatic?”

“That’s brilliant? See?” Drakken leaned closer. “You and me? We’re genius together! Think of all the things we could do.”

Em didn’t really care about taking over the world. She didn’t want to rule, that was too much work. She was fine with working with Dr. Drakken, though. While somewhat overzealous, he was a smart man. It was also refreshing to find someone who didn’t expect her to be stupid and didn’t mind that she had a brain.

“What other ideas do you have?” Em inquired. Drakken beamed like a kid in a candy store. Em glanced at her phone. It was a text from Nicki. She smiled as she read it.

Hey babe! U alright? Dr. D better b treating you, right! Shego and I had a LOT of fun if you know what I mean. ;)

Em chuckled as she replied.

I’m fine. Dr. D and I have been up all night planning.

For hours, after leaving the bar, Em and Dr. Drakken had schemed. Dr. Drakken had taken Em to his lab, and since Shego was out, the two of them have plenty of time to themselves. All night they drew up schematics, made models, and planned for the future. Em didn’t realize how early it was until the sun had risen. She felt tired, yet awake at the same time. She could have kept going if it wasn’t for the hunger in her stomach.

Her phone pinged again.

Look @ u! I told u that mixer would be fun and I was right

Em smiled.

I’m glad I went. We’re going to have breakfast right now.

She was shocked to learn that Dr. Drakken could make pancakes. Usually, Shego did the cooking, but he could make a mean flapjack. As Em texted Nicky, she stood up and headed into the kitchen. The smell of chocolate greeted her nose. She smiled at Dr. Drakken placed his last pancake onto a plate.

“We can’t scheme on an empty stomach,” Dr. Drakken said. “Orange juice or lemonade?”

“Orange juice please,” Em said as she sat down.

“This is so much better than making breakfast for Shego,” Dr. Drakken poured a glass of orange juice for Em. “Just wait until she sees all the work we’ve done!”

Em decided not to mention that Shego and Nicky probably had their own fun. “I think I’ll use the pigs the next time Kim Possible comes and tries to foil my schemes,” Dr. Drakken handed the glass to Em. “Oh, I can’t wait to see her face!”

“Shouldn’t you plan your next idea for world domination?” Em suggested.

“Once again, you’re right!” Drakken took a bite of his pancakes. “So, got any ideas?”

Em was shocked. Dr. Drakken wanted an idea from her? She felt flattered. Not many people asked for her ideas. It had been a long time since someone wanted her input too. She sipped her juice, thinking. Did she have any ideas she could offer? What was something that hadn’t been done?

“Well, first, you’d probably want to make sure you could get rid of Kim,” Em began. “Like we could use teacup pigs. They’re cute, and girls like cute things.”

“Do they? I don’t know much about ladies,” Drakken blushed suddenly. “Don’t let Shego know I said that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Em said. “Believe it or not, I’m not that great with guys. I only went to the bar last night because Nicky pushed me to go. Nicky is always trying to get me to go out and do more things.”

Em was surprised she was telling Drakken this. It seemed easy to talk to him. That would probably shock people seeing as how Dr. Drakken had a reputation for being a bit of a jerk. Yet despite what she knew about him, she was enjoying her time with him. Maybe it was because they both enjoyed science and knew what they were talking about. Either way, for the first time in a long time, Em was happy. It was nice to talk to someone else besides Nicky.

“Bah, no wonder Shego likes her so much,” Drakken said. “She’s always going on about how I need to go outside or saying how I need to get some sunlight because it’s what normal people do.”

Em chuckled. No wonder they were getting along so well; they were really similar.

“Anyways, enough about that,” Drakken took another bite of his pancakes. “Let’s finish up these pancakes, and then it’s back to the lab!”

Em finished up her pancakes. Once she was done, Drakken took them to the sink, and then they headed back to the lab. Em was happy to spend the rest of the day in the lab, coming up with plans and planning for world domination. This was one of the few times she was happy that Nicky had dragged her out of the house. She was going to have to thank her later. But for now, she would focus on finalizing the details on the laser pigs.

#Rooty Writes #Kim Possible #Shego #Dr. Drakken

[boredsingaporean]

Chapter 26: Good Feng Shui for Offices

I was having a very bad morning. Some critical issues with a new FX fund had surfaced suddenly and its launch date was around the corner. I had been on four conference calls with the Singapore, Thailand, South Korea and China country managers respectively for the past four hours, repeating the same things over and over again. Just when I put back my headset and took a first sip on my already cold coffee, my MSN Messenger popped out. I had got a message from Nicky. “hey, ur product got prob? u sounded exasperated on ur conf calls” “yeh, got surprises at the wrong timing.” “do u think everybody has been rather unlucky lately?” “is it?” “ur product got prob, Choi’s report was handed up late” “erm… Choi’s reports are always handed up late” “ok, Dawn’s project got stuck” “Nicky, Dawn’s project is never destined to be successful” “Sally has been scolded by Ju for a few times in a row this month” “it’s their event period. It’s normal” “ok ,Rose has been falling sick” “hmm… true. She has been having migraine quite frequently these days” “and my shares has been dropping” “so wat are u trying to tell me?” “i think our office’s Feng Shui has got prob” “are u sure it’s our office’s Feng Shui?” “yeh. I tell u wat. I’ll bring my stuffs here tomoro” “wat stuffs?” “my Feng Shui tools. I need to take a look at our office’s Feng Shui and see wat’s wrong” Geez, to Nicky, all misfortunes lead to Feng Shui. But he was not being too paranoid though. It was true that all of us had been down on our luck lately. Nothing seemed to work and anything that could go wrong went wrong. Maybe it was really the Feng Shui. As promised, Nicky appeared with an ancient Chinese Feng Shui compass, a.k.a. Luo Pan, in the office on the following morning. It was a small compass embedded in a huge movable copper disc with lots of Chinese writings on it and this whole thing was then housed in a red square box. There was even a tiltmeter with a liquid bubble inside a chamber that indicated if the compass was tilted. The only time I had seen this kind of compass was in a Chinese movie about zombies and Taoists. Nicky walked to our office door, turned and tilted his compass then noted down his reading on a piece of paper. He then did the same action at the other three corners and the center of the area that belonged to our department. “Dude, I was right,” Nicky looked at me solemnly. “Our office has got bad Feng Shui.” “Then why did it only affect us at the end of the year?” I was not convinced. “Because then it was not time yet. But now, my friend, the bad luck has finally surfaced. We need to counter it or else more misfortune will be expected.” If I was not standing in front of Nicky and looking at him, I would have thought that I heard those words from a Feng Shui master who was trying to tell me that we needed to buy some thousands dollars Feng Shui cures to end our bad luck. “And what are we supposed to do, our dear Feng Shui Master?” I teased. “Our office door is facing the West, which is where the Grand Duke Jupiter is situated this year. That is very bad because all the movements at the door have created too much noise.” “Oh, so this Mr. Grand Duke Jupiter is a quiet guy like KZ, huh?” “Beng! In Feng Shui, Grand Duke Jupiter is very well respected. And misfortunes will fall upon us if we create noises at where he is seated!” “Okay, so what’s the cure?” “We need to buy a Pi Xiu,” Nicky continued. “This Pi Xiu should be placed at our door and facing West where the Grand Duke Jupiter is. It’ll then get rid of the bad luck due to the conflict.” Oh, so that guy with a horn, a face that looks like a mix between a lion and a dog, hoofs at its feet, two little wings and a tail would scare that cantankerous and sour old soul away. “Will this Pi Xiu stops people from treating me as a receptionist as well?” asked Ju who sat at the desk nearest to the door. “I’m so sick of having delivery men and guests asking me where is who seated, where is the wash room and where is the exit.” “Erm… I’m not sure about this part.” Nicky admitted. “But I know that it’s bad Feng Shui to sit facing the office door directly. It means that you’ll be out of the company soon.” “Out of the company? Does it mean that some headhunters will look for me and some companies will offer me higher pay?” “Err… I’m not sure if it can be translated to that.” “Nicky! Maybe you should look at my Feng Shui problem as well!” shouted Sally. “You’re not under any exposed overhead beam, and your facing direction seems okay. What’s wrong?” asked the puzzled Nicky. “It is bad Feng Shui to face the copier machine right?” “What?” “You know, everybody who discovers that the copier machine is out of paper will turn around and ask me whether I have any papers,” Sally complained. “There was once, this guy even told me that the copier machine was spoilt and he just stood in front of me and expected me to do something about it! What did he expect? Do I look like I can repair a copier machine?” “Erm… Sally, I’m afraid I can’t help you on this. The Feng Shui books did not mention anything about what to do when you sit facing a copier machine.” Before Sally could ask him anything, Nicky hastily walked to the back of our department area. He looked at the vertical blinds covering the windows then turned to me and said: “I’ve found another problem.” “What’s that?” “The three of us, you, me and Choi, we are seated with our backs to the windows. That’s bad Feng Shui!” “Because there’s another disagreeable guy situated there?” “No! In Feng Shui, if you are seated with you back to a door or a window, it means you won’t have the support from your bosses and colleagues in work. No wonder Rose rejected my last analysis report!” “Err… Nicky, I heard that she rejected that report because you made some mistakes in some of your charts.” “Never mind, I know how to cure this,” Nicky ignored my comments and continued. “We can place a Dragon Tortoise here to give us the support that we lack of.” “Dude, is it a dragon or a tortoise?” “A Dragon Tortoise.” “Yah, so which one? Dragon or tortoise?” “A Dragon Tortoise! A Dragon Tortoise is a Feng Shui animal with the head of a dragon and the body of a tortoise!” explained Nicky, slightly miffed with me. Nicky then turned and pushed away the vertical blinds as he opened one of the windows. He stuck his head out for a few minutes, looking up and down, left and right, then came back in and closed the window. “I don’t really see any sharp corners or protruding parts outside our office windows.” “Well, that’s great then.” “But in order to play safe, I think we’d better increase the yang chi in our office.” I had heard this from a television program before. People who believe in Feng Shui believe that our environment is consisted of yang chi, which is positive aura, and yin chi, which is negative aura. When the yang chi is weaker than the yin chi in an environment, the people staying in that environment will be very unlucky. And when the yin chi in an environment is too strong, that place could be haunted. I wondered if that was the reason for Sally’s spiritual experience. “How are you going to increase the yang chi in the office?” I asked Nicky. “There are these five-coin amulets that are made of five I-Ching coins tied together with a red string. I’ll get five of these amulets and we can hang four in the four corners and hang the fifth one in the center.” “Hey bro! Since you’re at it, is there anything you can do to the Feng Shui here to make our wealth luck stronger so that we can win some lottery?” Choi asked. “Hmm… actually there might be a way.” Nicky walked back to his table and took out several Feng Shui books from his document bag. One by one, he flipped and read through some pages. A couple of minutes later, he put down a book and walked over to Choi’s desk. “Choi, there is one way to enhance our wealth luck. But it’s a bit troublesome though.” “Well, if I can win the first price for lottery, I don’t really mind doing something that is troublesome,” Choi grinned. “We need to take a porcelain bowl, put in five I-Ching coins and fill it with water. Then we need to place this bowl of coins and water at the corner diagonally to our office door.” “That doesn’t sound too troublesome.” “We need to change the water every week.” “That’s not a problem at all. I can do it,” Choi committed. “And we can’t use normal tap water.” “Then what? Use mineral water?” Nicky took a breath, and then said: “We need water from the heaven, from the sky to be specific. We need to collect rain water to fill the bowl.” Choi raised an eyebrow and said: “Forget it. It’s really too troublesome.” During lunch time, I accompanied Nicky to the Feng Shui shop that he usually patron at The Bencoolen to get the Pi Xiu, Dragon Tortoise and five-coin amulets. After we left the shop, Nicky mentioned that we needed to bless our Feng Shui cures in the Kwan Im Tong Hood Che Temple. “How do we bless these stuffs?” I asked. “Oh, just circle the cures three times around the main joss-sticks urn in the temple and ask the Goddess of Mercy for her blessings,” Nicky explained. “Okay, I presume that you’re doing that because you’re a Buddhist. But Dawn is a Christian. Will these animals and amulets protect her as well?” “Err… I’m not sure. It’s not stated in the books.” After we returned to the office, we could not place those Feng Shui cures yet. Nicky said that the only auspicious hour for that day was at five o’clock and we could only place those cures by then. Finally at five minutes past five, Nicky placed the Pi Xiu and Dragon Tortoise at their respective places while Choi and I helped to hang the coin amulets on the lamp holders. Dawn watched in amaze as we hung the coin amulets. “Hey, what are you guys doing?” Dawn finally could not control her curiosity and asked. “We’re hanging some Feng Shui coin amulets,” I replied the obvious. “What is that amulet for? What is it supposed to do?” “Err… bring us good luck.” “Okay… these coins look pretty eerie. Will it affect me negatively? I’m pregnant, you know?” “Erm… I’m not very sure actually. Why don’t you ask Nicky? It’s his idea.” Immediately, Dawn walked over to Nicky who had just finished adjusting the Pi Xiu’s position and asked him a series of questions. Nicky frowned as he tried to answer her questions and I could see that he needed to read more Feng Shui books. Actually, maybe Nicky should find a Feng Shui cure that could stop Dawn from bothering him.

#nanowrimo

[generalkenobi22]

Fic: Bad Girls Do It Well (Uncharted) - 10,000 words

SUMMARY: Chloe has never considered herself a particularly sentimental person (perish the thought!), but certain memories, certain snapshots in time have an inconvenient way of sticking with a person. After all, only two things have remained constant in her life, amidst the chaos, the adventure, and the danger: music and photography. And...perhaps adopted family along the way? Nope, no, absolutely not. Her sentimentality must have *some* limits, surely

So after actual MONTHS, I’m thrilled to have finally finished this! Awhile ago, Sony put out playlists on Spotify for the characters of Uncharted: the Lost Legacy (they were awesome!). Chloe's was particularly inspiring, and after finishing the game, I found myself really attached to the idea that using a camera to document her adventures was something she's done since the beginning. Please enjoy Bad Girls Do It Well (title from M.I.A.’s “Bad Girls”)!

Can also be found on AO3 - Fanfiction

Oklahoma, 2002 - Nate

I said to the man, “Are you trying to tempt me Because I come from the land of plenty?” And he said, “Do you come from a land down under?”

—Men at Work “Down Under”

“Would you put that away, and give me a hand?” Nate grits out, clearly not amused by this as much as she is.

“And miss out on this view?” Chloe bites her lower lip as she watches his boxerbrief-clad backside through the lens of her camera. He audibly groans at the sound of the lens shutter, and she’s powerless against her smirk turning into a full on grin. “Unlikely.”

She imagines he would throw her an exasperated look right about now, but as it is, he’s crouched on top of a radiator, toes gripping around the edges, while his unclothed torso—along with the rest of his upper body—is dangling outside the window of their fourth story hotel room.

She watches as he contorts himself unnaturally in an attempt to retrieve one of his Para 9’s that was accidently thrown onto the fire escape during what Chloe is referring to as a particularly enthusiastic bit of foreplay. Not wanting to further encourage the suspicions of the front desk manager with patron complaints of an unregistered firearm, Nate lunged after the gun almost immediately, nary a second thought to his own livelihood.

Initially, she had protested, but after watching him writhe about, his muscles extending and contracting every time he moved, she had to admit it was far more entertaining than whatever she could pull up on the telly.

She lets him struggle a moment more before snapping a particularly gratifying shot and adds, “If you consider me your moral support—and you very well should—then I am absolutely lending a hand.”

He ignores her, focusing all of his attention on retrieving the blasted weapon, fingers splayed in the hopes of extending just a few more centimeters. “Almost…got it.”

He flashes her a huge grin once he’s back inside, twirling the Para 9 in his right hand like he’s Steve McQueen, rather than the bloke who was just hanging out of the window in his underpants. It would be absolutely embarrassing if it weren’t so endearing.

“Are you impressed, or what?” he wants to know.

Chloe considers commemorating the moment on film, but suddenly, she really likes the idea of keeping it to herself. Something she can chide herself for being overly sentimental about later. She sets the camera on the table next to her armchair, careful not to knock over the radio, which is providing ambience in the form of 104.5’s eighties at eleven.

(“Is this your guys’ national anthem?” Nate had asked last night once they had collapsed onto the bed. “Down Under” was playing then, too.

“Mmm, yes,” Chloe hums with laughter, her hand tracing aimlessly on his stomach, her head resting comfortably on his chest. “We praise the Queen and country and the musical genius of Colin Hay.”)

In response to Nate, she makes a show of fanning herself dramatically. “Whew! You certainly had me—and the residents of Tulsa who bared witness to your little show—hot and bothered.”

Much to her delight, he rolls his eyes before turning his attention to the desk next to the radiator, the same one he had just vacated. His shoulder holsters (as well as his shirt) are draped haphazardly over the accompanying chair, and he carefully places the firearm back into its holder, snapping it closed.

“You’re a piece of work, y’know that?” he says with his back to her. She can hear the amusement in his voice, but she’s more interested in the patchwork of scars stretched across the broad expanse of his back.

“I distinctly recall there being less complaints where my behavior’s concerned prior to your acrobatic performance,” she replies offhandedly. As if sensing her staring, he turns around and leans against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Back when we were…”

Nate grins. “…Preoccupied?”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Among other things.”

“Really?” asks Chloe with a raised eyebrow. “Because I was going to refer to it as ‘being-interrupted-by-a-roving-firearm-before-I-could-even-get-my-top-off.’”

His eyes darken in distraction as he takes in her appearance, and for the first time in…well, ever, she feels herself flush. It’s nothing scandalous—more coverage than a bikini, certainly, in her tank top and knickers. But it’s the harsh light of day and her hair is down, and for the life of her, she can’t recall ever sticking around long enough the morning after for firearm antics and flirtatious banter.

It’s bordering dangerously close to domestic, which should raise all sorts of red flags, but...well, she isn’t exactly running away, is she?

All red flags are blissfully swept away, however, when he closes the distance from the desk to where she’s seated and grips the arms on either side of the chair, effectively caging her in place.

“There’s at least one good thing to come out of all this,” Nate insists, not even trying to be subtle as he rakes his gaze over her from head to toe.

“Which is?” It takes every ounce of restraint she possesses to not break into an absurdly delighted smile. Instead, she brushes her fingers, feather light, over one of his lower arms, lingering far longer than necessary.

“That at least you know it wasn’t a gun in my pocket,” he clarifies, barely holding it together. “I really was happy to see you.”

Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes, which she absolutely does, with only a hint, mind you, of amusement. Nate’s arms shake along with his laughter, but his antics are effectively cut short when she sits up and pulls him into a kiss.

Nate’s jokes only get worse from there, but it doesn’t change the fact that they don’t leave the room for at least two more days.

London, 2009 - Harry

We’re hell raising And we don’t need saving ‘Cause there’s no salvation for a bad girl We’re rock bottom But there ain’t no stopping ‘Cause it’s you and me against the world

—Natalia Kills “Problem"

She comes back from Nepal with insomnia and a spare key for a flat in London that belongs to a dead man. There’s nothing particularly fanciful or noteworthy about the place, except that she spent a lot of time (a lot of nights) there researching and planning their steps from Istanbul to Borneo for Marco Polo’s fleet back when Harry…

…back when Harry was alive.

She can’t bring herself to sleep in his bed, so she sets herself up on the couch, but after two hours of listening to rain pelt against the front window and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, she can’t take it anymore. She throws on a pair of runners and an ancient gray hoodie before heading out into the night.

It doesn’t take her long to find what she’s looking for. She spots the tattoo shop just up the road and turns into the adjoining alley, bypassing a couple of bins before walking down a small set of worn concrete stairs to the building’s side entrance. She walks inside.

Dim, flickering overhead lights expose a seedy gym underneath. There’s a roped off boxing ring in the middle, a few punching bags near the back, and wooden benches with free weights and barbells off to the side. No treadmills or ellipticals to speak of, but there is faint music coming in through tinny speakers around the room.

She heads toward the back, ignoring the unsettling leers coming from some of the male patrons as she walks by. It’s a little more difficult to block out the bald guy in the ring, his swear-laden diatribe directed at the bloke being pummeled, but Chloe manages.

There’s no one else by the bags, which suits her plenty. She wraps her hands, but before she can start, she feels her burner phone vibrate. It’s two messages—one from Nate and one from Sully. R u ok? Nate wants to know. Damn it Frazer pick up, is Sully’s less subtle text of choice. Chloe doesn’t have the closure or emotional maturity to deal with either of them at the moment. Not until she hits something, anyway.

She thinks about Nate’s stupid face, how he traded in death and bloodshed for picket fences and HOAs, while she was left to deal with the fallout of a dead partner, a-a turncoat. She cracks her neck, left to right, before slamming her fist into the bag. A jolt reverberates back through her arm, and it’s enough to light an unseen spark, to set her off.

Sure, Chloe thinks as she unleashes a series of jabs and hooks, Harry could be an absolute tosser, but she’s not entirely sure he deserved the way he went out. Hell, she’s not entirely sure anyone deserves to go out like that. Except maybe Lazaravec. He brought his demise on himself.

But, a small, resolute voice suggests, so did Harry.

She sinks a roundhouse kick, grunting when it lands. The arsehole didn’t even think—just pursued his own ambition, not caring what or, in her case, who became collateral damage.

She blinks as a drop of sweat lands in her eye, swiping at it before landing another uppercut. It wasn’t like she was in love with him (perish the thought!), but he could be charming and sarcastic when it was just the two of them. Admittedly, being with him didn’t require much acting on her part.

She punctuates her next flurry of hits with a muttered swear, and tries to gulp down air. It’s only then that she notices how her chest feels like it’s going to burst open. With an anguished cry, she lands an axe kick that somehow manages to break the punching bag from its chains and send it flying back a few feet. It takes her a moment to calm down, for her shoulders to stop heaving and her heart to stop racing, before she realizes just what has transpired.

“Oi, watch it!” The bald guy from the boxing ring vaults over the ropes and approaches, taking in the broken heavy bag and her disheveled appearance, soaked through hoodie and all. Up close, she notices the cleft in his chin and the scars across his nose and eyebrow.

She brushes the sweat-plastered hair out of her eyes. “Sorry, I—”

“Got swept up in the moment? Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I dunno if you’ve taken the time to assess what type of establishment this is, but it certainly doesn’t have enough funds to cover property damage every time some lady’s off her nut.”

Chloe bristles at that and reaches into her pocket, too exhausted to call him out on his overt sexism. “Here.” She hands him 50 quid. “Apologies to the establishment from the knackered lady.”

He pockets the money, mouth lifting into a slight smirk, but he doesn’t apologize. “Y’know,” he says instead, “we run an amateur boxing match every week. If your affinity for property destruction can be equally applied to people, you should consider signing up.”

He hands her his card (his name is Charlie, apparently) before he hops back into the ring, presumably to continue his coaching efforts. The tension in her shoulders dissipates, and she shoves his card into her front pocket. Breathing steady once again, she wipes a hand over her brow and snaps a picture of the downed punching bag. She sends it to Nate and Sully.

I’m processing, she writes back.

Sydney, 2010 - Sully

The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent, now To pay our share

—Midnight Oil “Beds are Burning”

“This easily could have been discussed over the telephone, Victor.”

Sully swivels in his bar stool and looks at her over his glass of scotch. His smile is visible beneath his mustache. “Would you believe me if I said I missed the hell out of ya?”

“No,” she responds emphatically, but her laughter betrays the hardened exterior she has worked so hard to uphold over the years. She absentmindedly stirs her own drink. “I don’t buy it. What I would believe more is if you said you were here on behalf of one Nathan Drake.”

She knows she’s spot on when his cheeks go slightly pink.

“Can’t it be both?” he asks sheepishly, which says a lot about their relationship and his sincerity because Victor’s not sheepish about anything.

She laughs. “I knew it! So what is it this time, hmm? The latest treasure hunt’s gone belly up, and Nate needs a couple hundred quid to bounce back? Or perhaps his latest adventure brings him down under, and he and Fisher need a place to crash? Is that it?”

Sully remains silent and pointedly avoids her gaze. It’s so uncharacteristic, Chloe becomes concerned that Nate and Elena may be in serious danger. “Victor,” she presses, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Just tell me what’s going on. Are they—?”

“Nate and Elena are getting married.”

Chloe nearly chokes on her spritzer. “Married?”

“Don’t act all surprised, Frazer. This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Or perhaps,” she offers, “not at all?”

Sully clicks his tongue at that in an annoyingly condescending way. He pauses, shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “Don’t tell me you’re still sweet on him after all this time?”

‘Him’ meaning Nate. She doesn’t even have to convince herself anymore. She scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Good. Because for a second there…” He lets out a nervous breath, and slams back the rest of his scotch.

“Wait just a minute, I’m not supposed to be comforting you in all this,” Chloe insists. She motions for the bartender to come over. Before she proceeds any further, she’s going to need a much stiffer drink. “You’re supposed to be offering me false platitudes like, ‘she can’t possibly compare to you, Chloe.’”

“Oh.” Sully takes that information in. He scratches the back of his neck, and then lifts his gaze to hers. “…Do you need me to?”

“Of course not!” Chloe blurts. Mercifully, the bartender returns with her whiskey sour. She pouts, then: “But the gesture would have been appreciated.”

Sully smirks at that. “Forgive an old man his impertinence then, will you?”

They sit in companionable silence for a moment as Chloe nurses her drink. Sully’s turned around, his elbows resting on the bar top as he takes in the view of the beach behind them. When the bartender returns to settle their tab, Sully brushes her off and says he’ll take care of it. Unable to muster any energy to protest, she closes her eyes and relishes the feel of the sun on the bare skin of her back.

“Well, mazel tov to the happy couple, but why would this warrant an in-person rendezvous?” she finally asks when her curiosity becomes nearly insufferable. “Not that I’m complaining about the exceptional company by any means,” she amends.

Sully doesn’t answer right away, but when he finally does, it sounds like he’s tiptoeing across a minefield. “They need another witness, and when I suggested you as a potential candidate...well, Nate and Elena thought it was a great idea.”

Chloe lets that marinate a moment before she asks, “Who, if I may ask, is the other witness?”

Sully beams. “You’re lookin’ at him, sweetheart.”

“Should have guessed.” She sighs dramatically, letting her head loll back. I’m going to regret this, she thinks before she squeezes her eyes shut and blurts, “Fine. But I’m bringing a plus one. This bloke, Charlie, we’re working a job together."

Sully raises an eyebrow at that, but mercifully doesn’t say anything. He claps a hand on her shoulder and pulls his phone out. “I’ll let them know.”

“Wait.” She grabs the phone out of his hands, flips it open, and holds the phone out. “Here, move in closer.”

Sully puts his arm around her shoulder while she gives a thumbs-up with one hand and snaps their picture with the other. They’re both in frame when she looks at the phone screen (of course they are—what is she, an amateur?), so she hands it back to Sully.

“There. Send that over to Nate with the message that I’m in, but he owes me one.”

“From you?” Sully hits send and flashes her a smile of solidarity. “I would expect nothing less.”

London, 2011 - Charlie

So slide over here And give me a moment I’ve got to let you know You’re one of my kind

—INXS “Need You Tonight”

“Do you need any help?” Chloe hollers again, hoping her voice is loud enough to carry to the loft on the second floor. Selfishly, she hopes the answer is ‘no,’ as she has finally settled into the end of his worn, leather couch with a hot mug of tea.

“You’re incorrigible,” Charlie calls back, his voice muffled. She thinks he may have rolled his eyes, which, rude. “I’m fine. I broke my leg, not my executive function.”

She shrugs, causing her oversized jumper to slip off her shoulder. “Have it your way, then. Just don’t come crying to me when you fall and break your neck.”

The warmth from her mug radiates past her fingertips all the way down to her sock-covered feet. She closes her eyes, sinks further into the couch, and pulls her jumper back over her shoulder.

It’s good to be back on solid ground again, she thinks.

They were lucky to be alive after what happened in Syria. Once they were certain none of Marlowe’s agents had successfully tailed them, all three of them (excluding Charlie, of course, who kept groaning and swearing under his breath each time they hit a particularly rough patch of road) took turns driving until they were able to reach a small airstrip some distance from the main road and far away from the ruins they vacated.

(“An old work acquaintance. He owes me one,” was all Sully would say once they parked the tour bus, and he began leading them toward a dilapidated hangar.

“Which leads me to believe,” Charlie chimes in, hobbling and leaning on both Nate and Chloe to remain upright, “that no one we’re about to meet is licensed to operate a bloody tin opener, let alone an aircraft.”)

It was there that they parted ways. Nate and Sully boarded a relatively stable looking plane headed for Yemen, while both she and Charlie were stowed in the back of a run down cargo plane headed for southwest England, surrounded by caged chickens and other small livestock.

As it turns out, Charlie is exceedingly allergic to feathers.

It’s suspiciously silent before Chloe hears the labored sounds of someone trying to hobble down a spiral staircase. When she finally does open her eyes, she’s greeted by Charlie—red faced and wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of white boxer shorts with hearts on them. She has to stifle a disbelieving snort when he proceeds to sling his Danelectro guitar over his shoulders, allowing it to hang low on his hips.

“What are you—?”

Charlie turns his back to her and flips on his stereo, effectively drowning out the rest of her question. When he turns around—nearly losing his balance with his broken leg in the process—he pulls his hat down low and moves his hips in time to the music.

It’s a lot to taken in, but Chloe doesn’t fully dissolve into actual giggles until he lifts his gaze back to her, his brow raised and a wink at the ready. So slide over here, he mouths, hopping across the space in front of the couch with his only good foot, and give me a moment. Things enter into truly mental territory when he mimes playing his guitar.

“Are you insane?” Chloe demands. “The doctor said not to put any direct weight on it for at least a few more days.”

She tries to sound stern, but the smile that keeps breaking out on her face betrays her true feelings. She grabs one of the throw pillows to cover her face when some of his dance moves become slightly more…inappropriate. However, it does nothing to hide her laughter or the flush she feels up around her ears.

He pries the pillow from her grasp and tosses it to the side. “What can I say?” He gives her a come hither gesture. “There’s just something about you, girl, that makes me sweat.”

“Absolutely not,” Chloe says, shaking her head emphatically. She sets her mug on the nearest end table, right next to her mobile phone. Seeing it gives her an idea, so she grabs it, easily switching it to camera mode.

“Sorry, love.” She grins wickedly, not sounding even the least bit apologetic.

Before Charlie knows what’s happening, she snaps the picture. It’s a perfect still of him mid-hop, mid-lip sync, and mid-guitar solo. It takes Chloe breaking into fresh peals of laughter before Charlie realizes what has happened.

“Oi,” he cries, pulling his guitar up and over his head. He props it against the stereo. “This was meant to be a private showing.”

“And it will be,” Chloe assures him. A beat, then, “Right after I send this to Nate, Elena, and Victor.”

Charlie does his best impression of crossing the small distance between them in an intimidating manner. “Chloe,” he says warningly.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, alright, fine.” She sets the phone aside and crosses her arms, pouting. “You’re no fun.”

“Oh, I’m plenty fun, darling,” he retorts, slowly lowering himself down onto the couch. He nearly loses his balance again, but Chloe crawls over to help, holding his arm to guide him. Once Charlie’s settled (“Bloody hell,” he grumbles under his breath.), Chloe reminds herself that she’s still holding on to his arm.

She makes an effort to pull her hands back, but Charlie snatches her right one, his grip sure. He turns to her, and one glance at his face tells her he has sobered, all mirth quickly gone. She swallows and tries to steady her heart, which begins beating absurdly fast.

Run, her mind tells her, but before she can obey or even protest, Charlie brushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear. His hand lingers, thumb brushing over her cheek.

“Sully would have killed me, back in Syria, if you hadn’t been there to stop me,” he finally says, voice barely above a choked whisper. She can hear the rawness, the slight waver in his voice, and it, frankly, terrifies her.

“Charlie, that’s not—”

He cuts her off. “No, it is. I was a downright mad man, and if it weren’t for you, Nate—“

“—is alive,” she finishes. With her free hand, she scratches her thumb against his stubble. He closes his eyes, pain evident on his face. “There’s no use in dwelling on what could have been. I was there, you weren’t yourself, and that’s that.” She pauses before adding, “In any event, I would have easily bested Victor. He’s incredibly old.”

Charlie lets out an abrupt bark of laughter before he forces himself to look at her again. It’s a new sensation for Chloe, being looked at with such adoration, that is. She’s not sure how she feels about it, only to say that the desperate commands to flee have simmered.

“Thank you,” he says. He searches her eyes for permission, and she nods imperceptibly before he captures her lips with his.

Run, her mind tells her once again, but she throws her arm around his neck, disobeying the command entirely.

One week later, during his follow up appointment, Charlie’s doctor gives both he and Chloe a long lecture about the need to avoid any direct weight on his broken leg. Chloe doesn’t even wait until the doctor is out of earshot.

“I told you so,” she tells Charlie proudly. His eye roll is nearly audible.

Glasgow, 2013 - Sam

I don’t want to go to school I just want to break the rules

—Charli XCX “Break the Rules”

There’s no reason Chloe should even be contemplating this. No reason she should even be here in the first place. It’s like salt and vinegar crisps: absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever, and yet...

…there’s no use in denying the insufferable do-gooder she has become.

A sea of writhing people, colorful, epileptic seizure-inducing lights, and pulsating bass: immediately, Chloe’s senses are assaulted as soon as she enters the club.

This has to be some kind of fire code violation, she thinks to herself sourly as she pushes her way toward the bar, serpentining through throngs of gyrating bodies and one particularly grotesque snogging couple. (“Excuse me!” she practically bellows at them, but they either can’t hear her or simply outright refuse to move out of the way.)

Finally, she reaches the bar. The bartender gestures to the glass in his hands, then back at her, but she waves him off. She wants to have clear reflexes and a sound mind for this particular meet up. Although she had insisted on a public meeting space, there’s still every chance for danger, never mind that she has no idea what her mark looks like. She imagines something like his brother, but that’s certainly not much to go on, is it?

“Now there’s a lovely lass,” she hears over her shoulder. “Curious that she’s all alone though, innit?”

Chloe turns just in time to see the stranger at the bar drag his gaze over the entirety of her person. He’s stocky with a bristly black beard and a terribly unfortunate complexion. She crosses her arms over her chest, doing her best not to shudder, and challenges him with a surly glare of her own.

“Perhaps,” she grits out, her restraint nearly in tatters, “it’s because she prefers solitude over the company that a man, such as yourself, is able to offer.”

In a magnificent feat, the stranger’s face grows even redder. When he makes an attempt to lunge after her, she can feel her heart pound in tune with whatever eurotrash music—noise, really—the DJ keeps churning out. Before the man can embarrass himself or do any lasting damage, another man enters the fray—his back to her—and keeps the other man from moving any closer by placing an outstretched hand square in the middle of his chest.

“Beat it,” the new guy says. He nods in her direction. “She’s with me.”

Chloe doesn’t even have time to enjoy the first guy’s harried retreat (she thinks he may have mumbled an apology, but it’s difficult to be certain with the heavy bass of the music bludgeoning her eardrums) before she rounds in on the new guy.

“I beg your pardon,” she blanches, her hand on her hip. “I am with no…one…”

Her speech falters once the new guy turns around, and she’s suddenly staring into a pair of hazel eyes (though, admittedly, it’s difficult to tell precisely with the uneven lighting). Everything, from the small bump on the bridge of his nose to the slight slope of his shoulders, overwhelms her with a sense of familiarity. She narrows her gaze at him suspiciously.

“Are you trying to tempt me because I come from the land of plenty?” Her tone is airy, but she chooses her words carefully, testing the waters.

“Do you come from a land down under?” he shoots back hopefully, eyebrow raised. In response to her visible relief, the tension in his own shoulders gives way, and he smirks, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Men at Work, huh? Do you do this for all your meet ups, or…?”

Apparently, all the good looks skipped right on down to Nate, she thinks idly. Not that Sam is horribly disfigured, by any means, of course. It’s just with his slightly receding hairline and his two-decades-too-old-to-be-fashionable jeans jacket, he’s not traditionally handsome like his brother.

“No,” she answers, hating herself slightly for her train of thought. “Only for known affiliates of Nate’s. Hazard insurance and all that, you know?”

He continues smirking. “Oh, I know.” A scantily clad woman stumbles past them both, brushing his shoulder as she steadies herself by grabbing onto the bar top. For what it’s worth, Sam’s eyes stay trained on her. He shoots his hand out. “Sam,” he says.

“Chloe.”

As they shake hands, she notices a couple of brutes dressed in oversized parkas just behind Sam. This isn’t her scene by any means, but even she knows that’s too much clothing for this kind of environment. They’re ideal for expertly concealing firearms, though. “Not that it isn’t a pleasure putting a face to a name after all these years, but why am I here, precisely?”

He starts to answer, but she’s barely listening, eyes still trained on the two overdressed men behind him. She watches as they push past the sea of people separating she and Sam from the two of them. It’s likely that they’re tailing them, but Chloe doesn’t want to stick around long enough to be certain.

She promptly grabs hold of Sam’s hand. “Let’s walk and talk, shall we?”

It’s less of a suggestion when she begins pulling him forward. “I—yeah, okay,” he relents.

It grows brighter and louder the closer they get to the center of the dance floor. She can feel a bead of sweat roll down her neck as they continue fighting through people, who are essentially packed in like sardines. Thankfully, the two thugs seem to be unable to bypass a particularly rowdy group of dancers when she glances behind her. It will give them enough time to regroup, at least.

“We’re being tailed!” she yells to Sam once they come to a halt. She has to avoid being hit by the elbow of a nearby dancer jumping up and down.

“What?”

“Followed,” she tries again, this time accompanying it by walking her fingers over the palm of her other hand meaningfully.

He follows her line of sight, and she can see the understanding hit him almost immediately when he turns back around. “That’s what I was saying earlier,” he yells back. “I’m in a lot of trouble.”

“Well, yes, I was able to deduce that on my own, but whatever for?”

A nearby group of girls nearly knocks Sam over, but he steadies himself by holding on to her hips. Almost immediately, he recognizes his error (it doesn’t actually require a reproachful look from her, but she tosses one in anyway) and lets go, holding his hands up for good measure. Sorry, he mouths, looking fully repentant.

“It’s a long story,” he hollers, narrowly dodging a wayward arm, “but I got roped into working for Rafe Adler—”

“Who?”

“Rafe,” he repeats, holding his head in a haughty manner and running his thumb over his index and middle fingers.

Money, she immediately thinks before making the connection between obscene wealth and heightened levels of tossery.

Ah.

“Adler,” she spits out distastefully.

Sam nods. “Exactly, and he’s got us searching for Avery’s—” He covers one of his eyes with his hands, curves the other hand into a hook shape, and mouths arghhh. “—treasure, which is why we’re in Scotland. The trail led us here.”

“Here, as in this horrible den of iniquity in Glasgow?” Chloe yells. They both have been forced into moving along to the music to avoid being hit by any number of the people dancing near them.

“No,” he yells back, barely holding back an eye roll. “St. Dismas Cathedral. We’re not supposed to leave the site, but I had to let someone know in case—” He swallows, the thin sheen of sweat on his Adam’s apple glistening. “—in case something happens. Which is why we’re here, here.” He gestures to the ground meaningfully. “Far away from Rafe’s goons.”

“Have you at least told Nate?” she hollers.

His whole expression falls. “I can’t,” he insists. “He—He already thinks I’m dead—”

Chloe lets out a frustrated groan, her head lolling back. “Of course he does.”

“—which is why I came to you,” he finishes.

“Well, you’ve done some abysmal covert work,” she yells back, her eyes focused just over Sam’s shoulders. He goes to check for himself, but she holds his face in place with both hands. “Our friends are heading toward us. We need to blend, pretend like we’re not dead as soon as they reach us. Follow my lead?”

Sam nods, rather than answering verbally. He follows her as she pushes forward, a little closer to the DJ’s table. When they come to a stop, she drapes her arm over his shoulders, and pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket.

“Hey! Everybody!” she shouts, switching her phone to camera mode. A few of the nearby patrons stop to stare at them. “This lad—” She gestures wildly at Sam. He sheepishly waves. “—just found out he’s going to be a father!”

Sam makes a choking sound just before everyone around them erupts into cheers and excitement. She has to pound on his back a few times for him to stop. When he can breathe again, she holds out her phone until the two of them are in frame, as well as a number of strangers wanting to wish the new dad well.

“’Baby’ on three, everyone!” she instructs. “One…two…three—baby!”

A chorus of ‘baby’ can be heard when she takes the picture. The cheers transform into an overwhelming roar as the patrons around them begin dancing wildly, slapping Sam on the back, and splashing drinks everywhere. It’s the precise level of pandemonium needed to make the brutes lose them. At least, for now, anyway.

Sam flinches as a particularly muscular guy claps him on the back in congratulations. When he moves away, Sam fixes her with an aggravated look. “Thanks for that,” he yells, his dour expression particularly hilarious in light of the glitter and champagne raining down on the two of them.

Chloe sighs dramatically, an infectious grin breaking out on her face.

“I live to serve. C’mon, mate,” she adds, brushing some of the glitter off of his face.

Just as she finishes, another bottle of…something douses both of them, and at its conclusion, Sam—hair soaked through over his eyes, mouth in a hardened line—spits out a mouthful like a tiny fountain. Chloe absolutely loses it as she grabs his hand and starts navigating both of them through the crowd.

“Let’s get out of here before your tail notices,” she barely gets out in between laughter.

Brussels, 2015 - Elena

We bury it, bury it, bury it And rise above

—CHVRCHES “Bury It”

It’s incredibly late—or really early, more accurately—when she gets the call.

The initial ring doesn’t even rouse her. Rather, she groans and turns over, pulling the covers over her head to block out the sound of snoring. But when it grows louder and more persistent, she grudgingly cracks an eye open, only to be blinded by the blue light filtering out from under her mobile as the vibrations cause it to skitter across the end table.

She takes a moment to reorient herself with her surroundings before carefully extracting herself from Charlie’s arm, which is draped across her waist, and wrapping a nearby blanket around her. Sufficiently cocooned, she grabs her phone and pads across the carpet over to the balcony off their hotel room, careful to close the sliding glass door behind her quietly.

She doesn’t recognize the number on the screen, but this is a new phone (the last one not only ran out of minutes, but also plummeted to the bottom of the Thames), and there’s every chance this could be a known affiliate.

She swipes up. “Hello?”

There’s silence on the other end, then, “…Chloe? It’s me, Elena.”

Well…shit, Chloe thinks rather unceremoniously, sinking on to the cheap plastic chaise lounge, pulling her blanket more tightly around her.

“Elena.” She hopes her voice doesn’t betray the sudden onset of fear sparked by this unexpected phone call. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It’s not that the two of them don’t communicate—quite the contrary, actually. There’s the occasional e-mail and a handful of texts containing memes about their circle of acquaintances (the last one Elena sent was Chrissy Teigan’s cry face with the text: when he scales the building to enter through the 8th floor window but you could have picked the lock on the front door). They even follow each other on Instagram (in fact, she had just given a like to Elena’s last uploaded photo, the one of her new camera). However, they rarely speak over the phone. The last time had been—

…Well, the last time had been the night she and Nate separated.

There’s some shuffling on the other end before Elena responds. “Nate mentioned you were traveling, so I tried to time it correctly. Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Chloe insists, clearly stifling a yawn, “nothing less than bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on this end.” She hesitates before quickly adding, “Charlie, on the other hand, is still asleep.”

Chloe can practically hear Elena’s knowing smile on the other end. “How isCharlie anyway?”

They’re not even in the same time zone, yet she can still feel her ears grow hot. “He’s fine, if you must know,” Chloe relents, unable to stop the small smile that stretches across her face. “But now you’re clearly trying to distract me. Is…?” She hesitates, uncertain whether she will be able to stomach whatever Elena throws at her. “…Is everything all right?”

She hears Elena sigh. “Eventually, you’re going to have to give me some more details, you know that, right?”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Obviously. But out with it, Sunshine: is everything okay? Are you and Nate—?”

“We’re fine,” Elena cuts her off, more hurriedly than defensively, which seems to bode well, in Chloe’s opinion, “or at least, we will be. We’ve decided to…leave the life.”

“Leave the life?” Chloe repeats, her voice hollow. She’s heard this one before.

“More like continue the life, but do it in a strictly legal sense,” Elena clarifies, “including permits, dig crews, no firearms, et cetera.”

Chloe snorts. “So…all things I’ve no patience for?”

Elena laughs at that. “More or less.”

“But this is something you want?”

Elena nods, or at least, Chloe assumes she does. “I suggested it, including funds for a really expensive camera and a small crew, so I can reboot Uncharted, my old show."

“And Nate’s on board with all this…gentrification of sorts?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fascinating. I wonder what’s got him so generous all of a sudden.” Realizing how that comes across, she hastens to add, “Other than him being irrevocably in love with you, I mean.”

It sounds as though Elena has a retort for that, but instead she simply blurts, “Nate has a brother.”

The silence that falls between them is deafening. “Oh,” is all Chloe can manage—guilt slowly coiling in the pit of her stomach—before Elena launches into the story of what has occurred over the last couple months.

On the street below, there’s some kind of festival still carrying on from earlier in the evening. Colorful string lights dot the perimeter, while the sound of excited chatter and electronic music, as well as the smell of deep-fried smoutebollen, waft up to where she is on the fourth floor. Her stomach growls in response, but she ignores it, focusing only on Elena’s retelling of the events at King’s Bay, how she met Sam, and later, how they barely escaped from New Devon with their lives in tact.

“That’s actually why I’m calling,” Elena says, after she recalls the circumstances that led to she and Nate buying Jameson’s business for their new Stepford—rather than crime—inspired lives. “The last time we talked, you mentioned going back to India to…follow your father’s trail and track down the Tusk. Have you—is that still your plan?”

Chloe makes a choking sound, the question catching her completely off guard. “I—“ she sputters, shocked that Elena remembers any of that conversation at all. “Yes.”

“Since I’m basically retired, and since there’s no chance you would ask Charlie to come along…?”

Chloe glances through the window behind her, the outline of Charlie’s sleeping form visible. “Absolutely not,” she says emphatically.

Elena snorts. “I thought as much,” she admits, “but I think I have another option. The way Nate tells it, Rafe’s right hand man—Nadine Ross—abandoned them right as Avery’s ship caught fire. Questionable alliance aside, Nadine seems like a competent partner to have in the field.”

Chloe pulls her blanket closer around her, eyes narrowing, as a sharp breeze passes by. “And you know this because…?”

Elena lets out an unexpected bark of laughter. “Chloe, she kicked Nate’s ass. Not once, but twice over the course of our trip.” She pauses and then quietly admits, “There’s something especially cathartic about it happening on two completely different continents.”

Chloe wipes the tears from her eyes—a combination of laughter and the relentless wind. “Say no more,” she insists breathlessly. As soon as her teeth begin chattering, she decides it’s time to head back inside. “Do you have a way to get in touch?” she asks quietly, gently closing the sliding door behind her. She makes a beeline to the bed, sighing when the covers come up and over her frozen feet.

There’s a slight hesitation on Elena’s end before she suggests, “Call Sam. He probably knows how.”

It takes a moment for the unspoken meaning in her words to settle in, but once it does, Chloe’s face falls and her stomach plummets to the ground.

She knows.

“Elena,” Chloe breathes, her knuckles white and hands frozen in place as they clutch onto the covers. “I’m so—”

“I know,” Elena interrupts. Her tone isn’t angry, but it’s not exactly warm either.

“I wanted to tell you about him, truly,” she confesses, flinching at how desperate her voice sounds, “but I didn’t feel it was my place. I thought it should come from Nate, and—”

“I know,” Elena says again. “Listen—” she continues, trying to stifle a yawn in the process, “—I don’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep any longer than I already have, so…just keep me posted on your plans for India, okay? Oh, and tell Charlie I said hi.”

That makes Chloe chuckle. “Of course. And, Elena?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you,” she tells her, hoping her emphasis is enough to cover all multitude of her own sins.

“Of course,” Elena echoes.

The line goes dead, and Chloe is nowhere near satisfied with the residual guilt and accompanying broken record playing over in her mind, especially because she can’t seem to fall back to sleep. So she snaps a quick photo of Charlie (he’s sprawled out on his stomach, boxers riding low on his hips, and a small stream of drool seeping from his lax, open mouth onto his pillow), and texts it to Elena with the caption six minutes into Jet Lag & Chill.

She wakens the next morning to a three-crying laughing emoji response from Elena.

It’s a start.

Maharashtra, 2017 - Nadine

And I don’t really care if nobody else believes ‘Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me

—Rachel Platten “Fight Song”

It figures that her hero’s journey doesn’t play by the rules in the least bit. Sure, she stopped the villain, survived all sorts of danger, and even walked away with the treasure. But rather than riding off into the sunset while the credits roll, as is tradition, she finds herself...pushing her ride off into sunset.

Because it bloody well figures that the battery would go dead here, three-quarters of the way up a hill, at the end of their journey.

“Do I have to do all the work over here?” Chloe huffs out. She sets her feet into the dry dirt and throws her whole body into her next push, powered by a second wind. “Or do you plan on stepping up in front of the wicket?”

Sam tears his gaze away Nadine (…which, Chloe doesn’t even begin to have enough emotional, physical, mental—etc.— wherewithal to address any part of whatever that whole situation may be), and shoots her a bewildered look. “Wicket?”

Americans, she thinks irritably before making it her top priority to reach the top of this God forsaken hill, if only to sink a fist into Sam’s incredibly punchable face. Up front, she can hear Nadine—who, in addition to pushing, is also gripping the steering wheel to guide the jeep forward—snicker.

“You mean, like, baseball?” Sam wants to know. “As in ‘step up to the plate?’ Because that—” He grunts, pushing into the vehicle, trying not to loose his footing. “—I understand. That I can—shit—that I can work with.”

His stumbling and flailing cause Nadine to burst into outright laughter. She tosses a rare grin behind her in Chloe’s direction. “I follow you, Frazer.”

“Thank you!” she cries. “At least someone is sensible in this group.”

“Yeah, okay, have your fun,” he mumbles petulantly, “but who do you know that collects cricket cards, huh? I’m feelin’ pretty confident that number’s a big ol’ zero.”

Chloe doesn’t trust herself to say anything further, so she sinks all of her physical and mental efforts into pushing the jeep to the top. Her back and legs are killing her, but the thought of a bath and dry clothes in Mumbai once they get this monstrosity up and running is enough to motivate her to keep going, keep pushing.

“Easy, easy!” Nadine calls back. “Just a little more, and we’re over the precipice.”

By some small miracle, they’re on flat land again, and instead of dirt and rubble in her line of sight, Chloe can see the cerulean sky above and a sea of lush green and brown vegetation below. With few clouds for cover, the sun beats down on them relentlessly, doing absolutely nothing whatsoever for the pool of sweat collecting at the small of her back and her chest. At this point, the dark sweat stains on her shirt resemble some kind of beginner’s abstract expressionist painting.

The vehicle settles into place absent the momentum, creaking to a halt. Exhausted, Chloe and Nadine lean against the jeep, trying to catch their breath. For his part, Sam circles around to the front and pops the bonnet. He coughs and wheezes as a plume of smoke unfurls from the engine compartment. Thankfully, it’s white, not black, which—according to Chloe’s very limited motor vehicle knowledge—is the better of the two kinds of smoke.

“I’ll take a look at this battery, see if I can’t get this thing up and running again,” Sam says. He disappears behind the bonnet, and it’s all very gallant until he adds, “You girls just stay there and look pretty.”

Nadine and Chloe exchange looks before they both break into disbelieving smiles. Pretty is certainly the last word Chloe would use to describe her current appearance. Perhaps artfully disheveled instead? Nadine gestures for her to follow her into the front of the jeep, which she does, and the two of them collapse into the driver and passenger seats.

“Are we certain we can entrust this vehicle and our livelihoods to this uncultured American?” Chloe directs to Nadine, but says loud enough for Sam to hear.

“You’ve already said ‘American,’” Nadine adds as an aside, “the ‘uncultured’ bit is understood.”

Sure enough, Sam chimes in with a protest. “Hey! I’ll have you know that I used to have a completely cherried out, 1962 Indian motorcycle back when I was in Boston, so I know a little something about cars. Just…let me have this one area of expertise, huh?”

“Okay, okay,” Chloe sighs as if it’s taking a lot out of her to grant him this request, “let’s allow this strapping man’s man to fix our ride home.”

She can’t tell for certain, but she thinks Sam might be frowning. “Thank you,” he deadpans from behind the canopy of the engine compartment, which only serves to make both Nadine and Chloe snicker quietly.

Silence falls over them (with the exception of the clink clank of whatever Sam’s doing to the jeep) as Chloe leans back against the headrest and closes her eyes to the overhead sun. It’s short lived, however, when Nadine speaks up.

“Sam—” He pops his head out to look at her. “—what on earth possessed you to get this ridiculous thing?” she asks, gesturing to the side of her neck that mirrors his, the one with the bird tattoos.

Chloe pops an eye open to witness his response. He ignores Nadine’s insult and instead clears his throat. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll show you my other tattoo.”

Chloe shouldn’t find his concluding wink so…visceral. And yet… “More than one?” she interjects, while Nadine mimes heaving up the contents of her stomach, accompanied by some over the top retching sounds.

He shrugs. “My cellmate was doing a buy one, get one sort of thing.”

Against her better judgment, Chloe laughs at that. His returning smile does absolutely nothing to her. “I can appreciate a man who recognizes a good bargain when he sees it.”

Sam returns to his work, but Nadine clearly has more thoughts on the matter. She turns to Chloe and jabs a thumb in his direction. “If that’s the case,” she says, referring to Chloe’s earlier comment, “I wonder what kind of bargain resulted in that floral shirt.”

The sound of the engine sputtering to life cuts off any protests Sam may have (and Chloe is quite confident he has more than a few). It doesn’t stop the sound of raucous laughter from she and Nadine, but it certainly drowns out a lot of it.

“See?” he says smugly, slamming the bonnet shut and approaching the passenger seat. “Told you I could do it.”

He goes to grab the door handle, but Nadine holds it resolutely shut. “Back,” is all she says, jabbing her thumb behind her.

Dejected, Sam hoists himself up and over the backside of the jeep and settles onto one of the wheel hubs with one arm draped over his knee. “What a show of appreciation,” he mumbles, somewhat bitterly.

“Now, now,” Chloe begins, shifting into first gear, but her knuckles hit a button on the dash, and she’s interrupted by the sound of the radio. And not just any radio, either: pop radio.

In English.

Sam’s the first to recover. “What the hell is this?” he demands, a look of pure disgust hilariously present on his face.

Chloe turns the dial tuner to other stations, but only finds static in response. “I have no idea,” she admits, perplexed. “Surely, out this far, you would expect something in Marathi, not this. It’s—”

“—it’s noise,” Nadine interjects sourly.

She goes to turn it off completely, but Chloe bats her hand away as soon as she recognizes the song. “No, listen,” she admonishes, the smile spreading on her face almost painful. “This is actually the perfect song to close out our adventure.”

“How? Is this—is this an American torture device?” Nadine tries again.

“No, this is a ballad of empowerment,” Chloe explains between laughter. Sam leans forward and reaches across to turn the radio off, but Nadine elbows him for his efforts. He falls back, coughing and wheezing. “I’m listening,” she says skeptically, a questioning brow lifted.

“Ow,” Sam hisses, rubbing the spot on his chest Nadine hit.

Chloe ignores him as she transfers the weight from the clutch to the gas pedal to begin their ride home. The resulting breeze, though warm, is wonderful. “Our journey has been one of growth and realizing untapped potential,” she explains. “Between Rafe for you, and Nate for me—”

“—eww, what?” Sam blanches, suddenly no longer interested in his chest pain.

“—we haven’t let anything come between us and our success,” Chloe continues as if he didn’t speak. “So this isn’t just our fight song, it’s our ‘prove we’re alright song.’”

“Our…‘take back our lives’ song?” Nadine asks tentatively.

Chloe beams. “Exactly! Elbows,” she says as she goes in for the high five, and their hands collide with a resounding smack. They both smile as Chloe digs her phone out from her back pocket. Using voice command, she switches it camera mode.

“Alright, everyone. Say ‘Tusk of Ganesh!’” she implores.

Sam sinks back onto his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “I hate both of you,” he’s sure to add.

The picture takes, and they don’t stop singing American pop songs until they cross over into Mumbai.

Florida, 2033 - Cassie

You ask yourself When will my time come? Has it all been said and done?

—Missing Persons “Destination Unknown”

“Is it here yet?”

Elena looks up from the stack of mail she’s leafing through on the kitchen table to see Cassie bounding into the living room, bouncing on the balls of her feet when she comes to a stop. She gives a small smile as she looks at one of the return addresses through her reading glasses. “I don’t know yet,” she tells her daughter. She offers the stack to her. “Do you want to look through?”

Cassie takes the proffered stack with a quick thanks and begins her own search.

“Is what here yet?” Nate asks, heading for the refrigerator with the intention of grabbing a beer. When he doesn’t see any, he grunts and grabs a vitamin water instead.

Cassie rolls her eyes at her dad (a behavior that has become increasingly common, Elena notes with a mild level of concern) before she explains, without tearing her gaze from the mail, “Aunt Chloe. She promised she would send something for my birthday.”

Elena frowns, placing her reading glasses on the table. “Cass, that’s not for another week.”

“Yeah, I know,” she agrees, “but Aunt Chloe always plans ahead—”

Elena and Nate share a knowing glance (his raised eyebrow makes her chuckle).

“—plus you have to account for international shipping rates and time differences, and—here it is!” she exclaims, holding up an abnormally shaped package wrapped in brown packing paper. Rather than tape, it’s held together with strategically tied twine.

“Hey!” Nate calls as she practically runs toward the stairs that lead up to her room. “I thought we were supposed to go fishing out on the boat today?”

“We are, Dad. Let me just look at this a second,” she calls back, her voice muffled by the floor of house between them.

Once she’s in the privacy of her own room, Cassie closes the door and flops down onto her bed. She examines the package a minute (her name and mailing address are written in Chloe’s scrawl, the purple ink a nice little addition) before pulling apart the twine ties. The contents of the package spill out once she finishes unfolding the packing paper. She reaches for the folded letter first before the enclosed CD case catches her eye. The cover is bright—there’s a blonde woman on the cover with wild hair, bright pink lips, and a swipe of blue over her eyes—and she flips it over to the track list.

“Cool,” she exhales quietly before placing it aside and picking up the letter again.

When she unfolds it, something falls on her comforter, but she ignores it temporarily as she reads the contents of the letter:

Cassie—

I hope this finds you in time for your birthday. I’ve been in Argentina with Sully and your Uncle Sam for the last few weeks. We’re supposed to meet up with Nadine and Charlie your Uncle Charlie Charlie in Morocco for a job, so apologies in advance if I time this incorrectly.

I pride myself in being the ‘cool’ aunt; however, I’d be remiss if I didn’t express some disbelief over the fact that you will be 16 this year. How time flies! I could launch into stories of you still in nappies, but I do not wish to embarrass you further (we’ll leave that to your father, surely?).

I don’t dawdle in sentimentality. In fact, I loathe it for the most part. However, a sixteenth birthday certainly calls for some level of sentimentality, even if we simply dip our feet in for a short while.

Cassie, you have grown into a remarkable young woman, and I very much look forward to whatever accomplishments you pursue in your future. You are incredibly fortunate to have the parents you do, even though I am sure their own accomplishments may lord over you, somewhat intimidatingly.

Here’s the shared wisdom bit: I’ve been the bad guy, I’ve been the hero, and I’m here to inform you that regardless which direction your path turns, there is always a chance for second chances. Always a chance for growth into something different, something better. If you don’t follow your parents already tread path exactly, there is still hope for you yet. You command your own way forward, and in the event that you make a wrong decision here or there, you are fortunate to have parents who truly love you and will help you get back on track. And for the truly bad decisions, you can always come to your Aunt Chloe. She knows a guy.

Or gal, in the case of Nadine.

Annnd…sentimentality over. Whew. Have the happiest of birthdays, love. Your Uncle Charlie and I plan to be back stateside close to the Christmas holiday next month. Until that time, when you must update me on that cute boy in science lab situation (the one with the neck tattoo, I believe? Which, please don’t take cues from your Uncle Sam), don’t do anything I wouldn’t do ;)

With love, Chloe

P.S.: I’ve enclosed a CD, which is an ancient form of technology that was used to play music in the late 20th, early 21st centuries. Do young people listen to CDs anymore? (Bloody hell, do young people even have to ask, “Do young people, etc.?” Please don’t actually answer that.) Regardless, this is a fantastic album by the Missing Persons (track 4 is a personal favorite), and I thought you might enjoy it as well.

Cassie sets the letter down and directs her attention to whatever fell out of the letter earlier. It’s a photograph of both she and Chloe from nearly a decade ago, Cassie thinks. Chloe’s crouched beside Cassie with her arm around Cassie’s shoulders. They’re both decked out in fedoras and bull whips—Cassie’s even wearing a tiny leather jacket. Cassie remembers the night pretty clearly, including when Sully secretly dumped some extra candy into her trick or treat bag. And then Charlie tried to kiss Chloe on the cheek, but she thought he was a stranger and ended up having to drive him to the ER later for a broken nose.

The memory is enough to make her smile. She flips the photo over and reads the caption:

Keeping up with the Joneses —2023

Her dad interrupts her thoughts as he calls out her name (pretty impatiently, actually). She quickly tacks the newly acquired photo next to some other family pictures—there’s one of her on Sully’s shoulder after a soccer victory in elementary school; one of she and Sam in sunglasses, trying to look effortlessly cool; one of she and Vicky in life preserver vests on the boat; one of Charlie teaching her how to play the Martin guitar he bought her in middle school; one of Nadine showing her how to properly land a punch; and one of she and her parents at Disney World (her dad looks so dorky in mouse ears and a Hawaiian print shirt).

“Coming!” she calls back, grabbing her fishing rod, and racing down the stairs to meet him.

#uncharted #uncharted fic #fanfic #chloe frazer #the lost legacy spoilers #my fic #My writing #nathan drake #charlie cutter 2kalways #sam drake #victor sullivan #elena fisher #nadine ross #cassie drake #(because that is the person I've become: the one who reflects A LOT on vidya games) #vidya games

[awriterinthedark]

For @yawpkatsi....thank you for drawing Bucky Barnes with a service dog...As someone who has had a service dog, (my doggo is now retired and is currently asleep at my feet.) I love it more than words could ever describe. Thank you so so much. In an effort to show my appreciation, here is a little thing.

It had been a good day. Up until the point when his brain decided to stop being a properly functioning brain and instead try an impression of fried and scrambled eggs.

 He and Steve had gotten breakfast at a little diner that was nice and quiet, Steve made sure that Bucky got a corner seat so he could watch the room.  FUBAR had laid underneath the table, his head resting heavily on Bucky's feet. Bucky had made sure to ask their waiter for a couple extra pieces of sausage that he put into a doggy bag so that he could give them to FUBAR once they were home and he was “off duty”.

Technically speaking, FUBAR was always on duty in some form or manner. His training meant that he had to be ready to help Bucky at any time. Even in the middle of the night, like after Bucky had had a bad nightmare. That didn't mean he didn't get to be a regular dog and get to enjoy regular dog things, it just meant that people would askance at Bucky if he started to feed his service dog table scraps while they were in a restaurant.

 After breakfast they'd gone on a long walk and then Bucky had spent a little while sparring with Natasha, whenever they were able to spar together it automatically became a good day in Bucky's book. Then he and Sam had gone for coffee at a tiny little cafe that Sam loved. Bucky was fine with cheap bitter black coffee that resembled tar more than something that was supposed be consumed by human beings. But he had to admit that the caramel, Irish cream and white chocolate monstrosity that Sam had gotten was really nice. Especially because he got to tease Sam about the whip cream on his nose.

 Sam laughed, and moved to swipe Bucky's handkerchief out of his pocket when FUBAR emerged from under the table and placed a large paw on Bucky's lap, whining and nudging him gently with his nose.

 “What? Now?” Bucky asked, recognizing the trained signal that FUBAR used to alert him when he was about to have a seizure. He felt a yawning pit of icy fear open up inside his stomach at the familiar gesture from the dog.

 He hated this moment so much, when he felt fine, but FUBAR was alerting him to a seizure. Sometimes he hated knowing that he was about to have a seizure even more than he hated actually having a seizure. And he really, really hated having a seizure.

 He hated the loss of control and the way people would stare at him afterwards. Speaking of people, his gaze darted around the little coffee shop, body tensing when he noticed the few patrons at the counter staring at him and FUBAR. He could hear them whispering about the giant dog and how cute he was but he wanted them to go away. His head was starting to spin and he was feeling a bit nauseous and he just wanted to be left alone for the embarrassing thing he knew his body was about to go through.

 “James, hey, Bucky, look at me alright?” Bucky wrenched his gaze away from the teenagers when FUBAR nudged him with a cold nose again. “Why don't we go to the bathroom, alright? You can have some privacy in there.” Sam suggested.

 Bucky's gaze flicked towards the counter again, when he saw who was working the register he let out a sigh of relief.

 “We can go to the employees lounge. Dylan's working today so it should be okay. She knows about my seizures, she has a deaf and epileptic little sister.” Bucky said nodding towards the back of the employee who happened to glance over. Bucky raised a hand and quickly signed that he wasn't feeling well, she nodded and signed back that Bucky should go lay down.

 “Alright, if you're sure.” Sam said, noticing the exchange and rising to his feet, watching closely as Bucky did the same, his hand placed behind FUBAR's shoulders for balance as he stood.

 “Yeah, they try and keep the bathroom floors clean but I still don't want to do this in a bathroom. Gross.” He muttered as they walked through the door, the employees lounge was pretty cramped, but it was brightly lit and the floor was thickly carpeted. There was a couch with thick cushions, as well as a small table that was already pushed off to one side of the room, so it was small but almost in a cozy sort of way.

 “You did good buddy. Such a good boy.” Bucky whispered to FUBAR as he laid himself down on the floor, the ovcharka positioned himself so that he was laying curled protectively around Bucky's head.

 “You got anything other than your psychic puppy there to say what's going on?”

 “Sam, he ain't psychic and you know it. It's like neurochemistry or something. I don't know my scent changes, I think.  And yeah my tongue feels weird.” Bucky said sticking his tongue out of his mouth and scraping it against his teeth in an effort to dispel the weird feeling.

 Recognizing one of Bucky's more familiar auras, Sam double checked that the area was clear of anything that he might hit if this turned out to be a bad seizure. Then he grabbed a cushion off the couch and moved to put it under Bucky's head, only to realize that FUBAR had already taken up the job of being a cushion for Bucky.

 “Alright, you're doing great buddy. You're in a safe place.” Sam murmured when he noticed Bucky looking around confused, he startled at Sam's voice and started moving as if he was going to sit up, only to be stopped by FUBAR laying his head down on his shoulder and pinning him to the floor. “Me and FUBAR will look after you. You just relax alright. We gotcha.”

 Bucky's eyes started to flutter open and closed rapidly and Sam gently rubbed a hand up and down his arm, calling his name softly. When Bucky didn't respond, Sam took this to mean that the seizure had started, so he glanced at his watch and noted the time so he could keep track of how long the seizure lasted. FUBAR had medications that they could use to help stop a seizure in a small pocked of his vest, but they were only to be used if a seizure lasted more than five minutes. After that, the medicine would have to administered and an ambulance would have to be called.

 Bucky's head jerked back and his throat spasmed, making several painful sounding clicks. His right arm was practically vibrating with how hard it was shaking and every muscle seemed to be pulled tight, his back arching off the floor.

 FUBAR licked Bucky's face and mouth through the whole seizure, whining softly because his handler was hurt and there wasn't any way that he could help him.

 Sam knew that FUBAR hated it when Bucky had a seizure more than any of the other things that happened to him because it was the one time that the dog really couldn't do much. If Bucky was having trouble talking, FUBAR knew over fifty different hand signals. If Bucky had a panic attack or was in the middle of a flashback, FUBAR was able to help him get to a safe place and calm down. Before a seizure he could lead him somewhere safe and make sure he didn't hurt himself or others if he got confused. He could even help Bucky after a seizure, but during one, the only thing he could do was cushion Bucky's head and it seemed that in the dogs opinion this was not nearly enough to be able to help.

 Sam continued to talk to Bucky gently reassuring him that he and FUBAR were there and that they would keep him safe, all while keeping careful track of the time as well as Buckys pallor and breathing.

 Three minutes after the seizure started, Bucky relaxed with a long sigh and went still. Sam waited a moment, carefully  watching to make sure that the seizure was over before he gently rolled Bucky into the recovery position.

 Almost immediately after he'd gotten Bucky moved into what he hoped was a comfortable position Bucky's hand shot out and snagged Sam's wrist, squeezing hard enough to make him wince. FUBAR boofed, both happy to see Bucky moving and also warning him not to try and attack Sam.

 Bucky's eyes flickered open briefly then slid closed, “FU-BAR?” He murmured weakly, releasing Sam's sleeve to try and clumsily wipe drool off his cheek from where FUBAR had been licking him. The move was made redundant when FUBAR licked him again, delighted to hear Bucky saying his name he wiggled a little closer and then settled down beside him with his head on Bucky's side, sighing loudly.

 “Yeah, your boy's okay.” Sam said, the statement addressed to both of the figures lying on the floor. “You just had a seizure James. So just lay still for a little bit me and FUBAR will watch out for you.”

 Bucky nodded and relaxed with a quiet sigh, burying his face in FUBAR's fur to the point where Sam worried about whether or not he could breathe before he heard Bucky snore quietly.

 At that moment, Dylan opened the door, smiling nervously.

 “Is he okay?” She asked, keeping her voice soft so as not to disturb Bucky.

 “Yeah, he's sleeping now. As seizures go, at least for him and the fact that it was a tonic clonic, this was pretty mild.” Sam said smiling in reassurance.

 “Would you like me to call a cab?”

“Yeah, that would be great.” Dylan noddded and slipped out of the room. Sam waited until she poked her head back into the room before he even tried to wake Bucky.

 “Whhhyyy?” Bucky moaned shoving his face further into FUBAR's fur.

 “Because if you get up, you can go home and get some sleep in a bed that's comfortable instead of sleeping on the floor.” Sam suggested. This seemed to be the right thing to say because Bucky started struggling to his feet. He wound up having to stand braced against FUBAR waiting for a dizzy spell to pass for a couple minutes before they were able to head out to the cab. On the ride home, Bucky dozed and FUBAR sat on his lap and turned so he could pant into Sam's face.

 “Gross.” Sam muttered, trying to pull away from the caucasian ovcharka, which was practically impossible with how much space he took up in the cab.

 When they finally pulled up the curb Sam practically flew out of the car so he could get away from the dog's breath.

 “Hey James, get up we're home.” Sam called as bent down to pay the driver.

 “I know.” Bucky said, from right behind him, causing him to startle.

 “Don't do that!” Sam gasped, whirling around to glare at him.

 “Do what?” Bucky asked, yawning widely as he twined FUBAR's leash around his fingers.

 “Never mind. It's not even worth it. Let's get you inside.” Sam grumbled, moving to open doors for the pair. Once they made it upstairs to their apartment Bucky made a beeline for the bed, not even bothering to greet Steve and Natasha who were hanging out in the kitchen, FUBAR trailing along behind him.

 “Hey, is he okay?”  Steve asked sotto voce.

 “Yeah, he's fine, probably really tired though so let him rest. He had a seizure while we were out. Three minutes, tonic clonic, he came out of it pretty fast though and didn't lose control of his bladder either. He did get a little confused for a second there and tried to grab me but FUBAR got his attention. Hey, did you guys make cookies while we were out?” Sam asked eyeing a tray of chocolate chip cookies that were on a plate. Natasha snickered softly.

 “Make cookies? Sam you know Steve can't cook to save his life, and none of you appreciate my cooking skills. That job falls to you and Bucky. We got these out of a package and we were going to sit down and watch a movie and enjoy them but now...” She glanced at the bedroom. “Now I think they can keep for little bit. We should go make sure he's doing okay.”

 They all crept into the room and smiled down at Bucky and FUBAR who were twined around each other in the middle of the bed. Bucky's head was resting on FUBAR's side and FUBAR's head was resting on Bucky's side.

 “Pretzles.” Steve muttered, kicking his shoes off and sliding into bed next to Bucky. “Don't know about you two, but a nap sounds great right about now.” Sam and Natasha glanced at each other and shrugged before they too sidled into the giant bed.

 Bucky peeked through his lashes at the group around him and smiled.

 Later they would eat cookies and watch a movie together. They would argue about what pizza to get for supper, “Pineapple does not belong on pizza!” Sam would grumble for the thousandth time, and they'd fight over whose turn it was to wash the dishes “Not me!” Bucky would declare, pressing a finger to his nose, the move quickly followed by Sam and Nat, and when they finally settled into bed again for the night, Bucky would think to himself, that it hadn't been bad day, even if his brain had turned to fried eggs there for a little bit. He'd press his face a little deeper into FUBAR's fur and decided that it had actually been a pretty fantastic day.

But for now, he closed his eyes and let the peace and the knowledge of being surrounded by people who cared about him wash over him and lull him into sleep.

#i continue to be incapable of writing something short #holy cow this is a lot longer than i inteded #bucky barnes #bucky and fubar #ugh i love them so much

[mischiefmakingmuses]

Trouble Magnet Gambit Ch4

~Chapter 4: Fallin’ Love~

When the Yokai returned home, they ate dinner and watched a movie. It was then that Smile decided to turn in early, leaving the other three Yokai to their own devices. The sun had already set, and they decided to watch another movie. What movie? They had yet to decide.

A knock came at the door.

“Who would even be here this late, rina?” Netalina asked, confused. She slowly approached the door and opened it...only to see a familiar Ittangomen outside in the cold. “...what are you doing, rina?”

“Who is it, Nettles?” Urien inquired, peeking over the back of the couch. She opened the door wider to let the visitor in. It was Gambit. “What the hell? Gambit, how’d you get here? You know we’re literally in a whole ‘nother dimension here, right?”

“Um! I followed you here...kind of. I saw you guys go through a door, and you left it open. Sorry, so sorry! Was it supposed to be a secret? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. Please forgive me. I...I won’t tell a soul! Honest! I’m really sorry!”

“Stop,” Urien groaned. “Smile is sleeping. Please lower your voice.”

“O-oh...sorry, so sorry...”

“You forgot to close the Anywhere Door, rina,” Netalina glared at Urien. “It was your turn this time, remember, rina?”

“Sorry, I was tired!” Urien whined.

“Um...if it’s alright...I closed the door. That’s OK, right?” Gambit interrupted, pressing his index fingers together. The three Yokai looked at him.

“I suppose, kyuu...but...I don’t think you should stick around, kyuu...” Jizo uttered quietly, remembering what happened earlier between the two Ittangomen. Gambit’s face fell and his lower lip began to quiver. Jizo got nervous. “N-no! P-please don’t cry, kyuu! Please...please don’t cry...”

Netalina turned to Jizo while Urien looked over at Gambit. He was looking over at Netalina. Urien began to think when he finally pieced it together.

“Gambit wants to spend time with you, Nettles,” he said softly. “We didn’t have any time left to play when he finally got to see you, so now he just wants to be you.”

“Oh, right,” Netalina answered blankly. Gambit’s face flushed once more. Though it was barely noticeable, Urien’s smile grew bigger.

“How about this,” he started, “you go spend time with Gambit, and Jizo and I’ll watch a movie. I mean, we were going to anyway! Is that OK with you, Nettles?”

Netalina mulled it over as Jizo became nervous once more. With all the movies they’d watched, he was expecting something bad that he wouldn’t be able to make sense of.

“I guess so, rina. What movie are you going to watch, rina?” Since she was still facing Urien and Jizo, she didn’t see Gambit practically celebrate behind her. Urien gave another smile.

“Um, maybe some Studio Ghibli. Like...how about...” He got off the couch and began to rummage through their movies before pulling out and showing it to Netalina. “This one. Kiki’s Delivery Service. Yeah, that sounds like a nice, simple movie that Jizo can understand and enjoy, right? Besides, I really love Studio Ghibli.”

Jizo gave an audible sigh and gave Urien a small, nervous smile. He was relieved either way.

“I take that as a yes!” Urien piped up. “So, go on, you two! Go have fun, you nutty kids!”

With that, Gambit happily took Netalina by the hand and they were off to the moonlit streets of Springdale, as Urien and Jizo enjoyed their movie.

Netalina carefully walked down the streets of Downtown, thinking of going to Frostia’s Place to catch a karaoke show or two from the patrons. Gambit hovered close to her the entire way, looking over at her and smiling brightly. Suddenly, Netalina stopped walking.

“You haven’t said a word since we got here, rina,” she spoke up, turning to Gambit. The Ittangomen drew back and blushed heavily, looking quite embarrassed.

“Oh, no! I’m sorry, so sorry! U-um, what did you want to talk about? The weather? The lights? The fact it’s almost Christmas? I’m so sorry, did you think I was ignoring you? I’m sorry, please forgive me!!”

“Gambit, calm down, rina!” Netalina cried out in response, holding her hands up in defense. This actually made the Ittangomen even more nervous than before.

“I’m sorry! I can’t help it! I’ve been ignoring you, that’s no good at all! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” He had actually begun to tear up.

“Shhshhshh!” Netalina gently placed a finger on his lips and touched the side of his face. Despite his blush deepening, Gambit had quieted down a bit. “I meant...there’s no need to worry, rina. You can talk about what you want, rina. You don’t have to wait for me to start a conversation, rina.”

“O-oh...” Gambit looked a bit embarrassed, but remained quiet. Netalina gave him a warm, reassuring smile, melting his heart once more.

“However...I do think that you should try to be a bit more quiet, rina. You panic too easily, rina. You need to learn to control yourself.”

“I’m sorry...” Gambit muttered quietly, looking down at the ground. Netalina took one of his hands and smiled again. He silently gazed into her eyes, his blush still very much present.

“It’s alright, rina~” Gambit averted his gaze, causing Netalina to frown. “Are you OK, rina?”

“Um...” He squeezed his eyes shut and blushed again. “I-I’m not the best at talking to others. Especially girls. Everyone thinks I’m annoying...I...I don’t have any friends...”

“Oh, Gambit...we’re your friends, rina! Everything’s OK, rina. If you need help learning how to talk to others, I’ll help you out, rina!” The Ittangomen met her eyes once again, still looking sad, but he gave her a little smile anyway. Deep inside, however, he wasn’t feeling very reassured. If anything, her words left him a tad disappointed, as he yearned for something deeper than friendship...he wouldn’t give up just yet, but she had sowed a seed of doubt inside him, and his heart was starting to break.

#trouble magnet gambit #THIS WAS SO LONG THAT I HAD TO CUT IT OFF AND MAKE A NEW CHAPTER #this is getting super long